blind love by wilkie collins (completed by walter besant) contents preface first period i the sour french wine ii the man she refused iii the registered packet iv the game: mountjoy loses v the game: mountjoy plays a new card vi the game: mountjoy wins vii doctoring the doctor viii her father's message ix mr. vimpany on intoxication x the mockery of deceit xi mrs. vimpany's farewell xii lord harry's defence the second period xiii iris at home xiv the lady's maid xv mr. henley's temper xvi the doctor in full dress xvii on hampstead heath xviii professional assistance xix mr. henley at home xx first suspicions of iris xxi the parting scene xxii the fatal words the third period xxiii news of iris xxiv lord harry's honeymoon xxv the doctor in difficulties xxvi london and paris xxvii the bride at home xxviii the maid and the keyhole xxix the conquest of mr. vimpany xxx saxon and celt xxxi the school for husbands xxxii good-bye to iris xxxiii the decree of fate xxxiv my lord's mind xxxv my lady's mind xxxvi the doctor means mischief xxxvii the first quarrel xxxviii ici on parle francais xxxix the mystery of the hospital xl dire necessity xli the man is found. xlii the mettlesome maid xliii fiction: attempted by my lord xliv fiction: improved by the doctor xlv fact: related by fanny xlvi man and wife xlvii the patient and my lord xlviii "the mistress and the maid" xlix the nurse is sent away l in the alcove li what next? lii the dead man's photograph liii the wife's return liv another step lv the adventures of a faithful maid lvi fanny's narrative lvii at louvain lviii of course they will pay lix the consequences of an advertisement lx on the eve of a change lxi the last discovery lxii the board of directors lxiii a refuge lxiv the invincibles preface in the month of august , and in the middle of the seaside holiday, a message came to me from wilkie collins, then, though we hoped otherwise, on his death-bed. it was conveyed to me by mr. a. p. watt. he told me that his son had just come from wilkie collins: that they had been speaking of his novel, "blind love," then running in the _illustrated london news_: that the novel was, unfortunately, unfinished: that he himself could not possibly finish it: and that he would be very glad, if i would finish it if i could find the time. and that if i could undertake this work he would send me his notes of the remainder. wilkie collins added these words: "if he has the time i think he will do it: we are both old hands at this work, and understand it, and he knows that i would do the same for him if he were in my place." under the circumstances of the case, it was impossible to decline this request. i wrote to say that time should be made, and the notes were forwarded to me at robin hood's bay. i began by reading carefully and twice over, so as to get a grip of the story and the novelist's intention, the part that had already appeared, and the proofs so far as the author had gone. i then turned to the notes. i found that these were not merely notes such as i expected--simple indications of the plot and the development of events, but an actual detailed scenario, in which every incident, however trivial, was carefully laid down: there were also fragments of dialogue inserted at those places where dialogue was wanted to emphasise the situation and make it real. i was much struck with the writer's perception of the vast importance of dialogue in making the reader seize the scene. description requires attention: dialogue rivets attention. it is not an easy task, nor is it pleasant, to carry on another man's work: but the possession of this scenario lightened the work enormously. i have been careful to adhere faithfully and exactly to the plot, scene by scene, down to the smallest detail as it was laid down by the author in this book. i have altered nothing. i have preserved and incorporated every fragment of dialogue. i have used the very language wherever that was written so carefully as to show that it was meant to be used. i think that there is only one trivial detail where i had to choose because it was not clear from the notes what the author had intended. the plot of the novel, every scene, every situation, from beginning to end, is the work of wilkie collins. the actual writing is entirely his up to a certain point: from that point to the end it is partly his, but mainly mine. where his writing ends and mine begins, i need not point out. the practised critic will, no doubt, at once lay his finger on the spot. i have therefore carried out the author's wishes to the best of my ability. i would that he were living still, if only to regret that he had not been allowed to finish his last work with his own hand! walter besant. blind love the prologue i soon after sunrise, on a cloudy morning in the year , a special messenger disturbed the repose of dennis howmore, at his place of residence in the pleasant irish town of ardoon. well acquainted apparently with the way upstairs, the man thumped on a bed-room door, and shouted his message through it: "the master wants you, and mind you don't keep him waiting." the person sending this peremptory message was sir giles mountjoy of ardoon, knight and banker. the person receiving the message was sir giles's head clerk. as a matter of course, dennis howmore dressed himself at full speed, and hastened to his employer's private house on the outskirts of the town. he found sir giles in an irritable and anxious state of mind. a letter lay open on the banker's bed, his night-cap was crumpled crookedly on his head, he was in too great a hurry to remember the claims of politeness, when the clerk said "good morning." "dennis, i have got something for you to do. it must be kept a secret, and it allows of no delay." "is it anything connected with business, sir?" the banker lost his temper. "how can you be such an infernal fool as to suppose that anything connected with business could happen at this time in the morning? do you know the first milestone on the road to garvan?" "yes, sir." "very well. go to the milestone, and take care that nobody sees you when you get there. look at the back of the stone. if you discover an object which appears to have been left in that situation on the ground, bring it to me; and don't forget that the most impatient man in all ireland is waiting for you." not a word of explanation followed these extraordinary instructions. the head clerk set forth on his errand, with his mind dwelling on the national tendencies to conspiracy and assassination. his employer was not a popular person. sir giles had paid rent when he owed it; and, worse still, was disposed to remember in a friendly spirit what england had done for ireland, in the course of the last fifty years. if anything appeared to justify distrust of the mysterious object of which he was in search, dennis resolved to be vigilantly on the look-out for a gun-barrel, whenever he passed a hedge on his return journey to the town. arrived at the milestone, he discovered on the ground behind it one object only--a fragment of a broken tea-cup. naturally enough, dennis hesitated. it seemed to be impossible that the earnest and careful instructions which he had received could relate to such a trifle as this. at the same time, he was acting under orders which were as positive as tone, manner, and language could make them. passive obedience appeared to be the one safe course to take--at the risk of a reception, irritating to any man's self-respect, when he returned to his employer with a broken teacup in his hand. the event entirely failed to justify his misgivings. there could be no doubt that sir giles attached serious importance to the contemptible discovery made at the milestone. after having examined and re-examined the fragment, he announced his intention of sending the clerk on a second errand--still without troubling himself to explain what his incomprehensible instructions meant. "if i am not mistaken," he began, "the reading rooms, in our town, open as early as nine. very well. go to the rooms this morning, on the stroke of the clock." he stopped, and consulted the letter which lay open on his bed. "ask the librarian," he continued, "for the third volume of gibbon's 'decline and fall of the roman empire.' open the book at pages seventy-eight and seventy-nine. if you find a piece of paper between those two leaves, take possession of it when nobody is looking at you, and bring it to me. that's all, dennis. and bear in mind that i shall not recover the use of my patience till i see you again." on ordinary occasions, the head clerk was not a man accustomed to insist on what was due to his dignity. at the same time he was a sensible human being, conscious of the consideration to which his responsible place in the office entitled him. sir giles's irritating reserve, not even excused by a word of apology, reached the limits of his endurance. he respectfully protested. "i regret to find, sir," he said, "that i have lost my place in my employer's estimation. the man to whom you confide the superintendence of your clerks and the transaction of your business has, i venture to think, some claim (under the present circumstances) to be trusted." the banker was now offended on his side. "i readily admit your claim," he answered, "when you are sitting at your desk in my office. but, even in these days of strikes, co-operations, and bank holidays, an employer has one privilege left--he has not ceased to be a man, and he has not forfeited a man's right to keep his own secrets. i fail to see anything in my conduct which has given you just reason to complain." dennis, rebuked, made his bow in silence, and withdrew. did these acts of humility mean that he submitted? they meant exactly the contrary. he had made up his mind that sir giles mountjoy's motives should, sooner or later, cease to be mysteries to sir giles mountjoy's clerk. ii carefully following his instructions, he consulted the third volume of gibbon's great history, and found, between the seventy-eighth and seventy-ninth pages, something remarkable this time. it was a sheet of delicately-made paper, pierced with a number of little holes, infinitely varied in size, and cut with the smoothest precision. having secured this curious object, while the librarian's back was turned, dennis howmore reflected. a page of paper, unintelligibly perforated for some purpose unknown, was in itself a suspicious thing. and what did suspicion suggest to the inquiring mind in south-western ireland, before the suppression of the land league? unquestionably---police! on the way back to his employer, the banker's clerk paid a visit to an old friend--a journalist by profession, and a man of varied learning and experience as well. invited to inspect the remarkable morsel of paper, and to discover the object with which the perforations had been made, the authority consulted proved to be worthy of the trust reposed in him. dennis left the newspaper office an enlightened man--with information at the disposal of sir giles, and with a sense of relief which expressed itself irreverently in these words: "now i have got him!" the bewildered banker looked backwards and forwards from the paper to the clerk, and from the clerk to the paper. "i don't understand it," he said. "do you?" still preserving the appearance of humility, dennis asked leave to venture on a guess. the perforated paper looked, as he thought, like a puzzle. "if we wait for a day or two," he suggested, "the key to it may possibly reach us." on the next day, nothing happened. on the day after, a second letter made another audacious demand on the fast failing patience of sir giles mountjoy. even the envelope proved to be a puzzle on this occasion; the postmark was "ardoon." in other words, the writer had used the postman as a messenger, while he or his accomplice was actually in the town, posting the letter within half-a-minute's walk of the bank! the contents presented an impenetrable mystery, the writing looked worthy of a madman. sentences appeared in the wildest state of confusion, and words were so mutilated as to be unintelligible. this time the force of circumstances was more than sir giles could resist. he took the clerk into his confidence at last. "let us begin at the beginning," he said. "there is the letter you saw on my bed, when i first sent for you. i found it waiting on my table when i woke; and i don't know who put it there. read it." dennis read as follows: "sir giles mountjoy,--i have a disclosure to make, in which one of the members of your family is seriously interested. before i can venture to explain myself, i must be assured that i can trust to your good faith. as a test of this, i require you to fulfil the two conditions that follow--and to do it without the slightest loss of time. i dare not trust you yet with my address, or my signature. any act of carelessness, on my part, might end fatally for the true friend who writes these lines. if you neglect this warning, you will regret it to the end of your life." to the conditions on which the letter insisted there is no need to allude. they had been complied with when the discoveries were made at the back of the milestone, and between the pages of gibson's history. sir giles had already arrived at the conclusion that a conspiracy was in progress to assassinate him, and perhaps to rob the bank. the wiser head clerk pointed to the perforated paper and the incomprehensible writing received that morning. "if we can find out what these mean," he said, "you may be better able, sir, to form a correct opinion." "and who is to do that?" the banker asked. "i can but try, sir," was the modest reply, "if you see no objection to my making the attempt." sir giles approved of the proposed experiment, silently and satirically, by a bend of his head. too discreet a man to make a suspiciously ready use of the information which he had privately obtained, dennis took care that his first attempt should not be successful. after modestly asking permission to try again, he ventured on the second occasion to arrive at a happy discovery. lifting the perforated paper, he placed it delicately over the page which contained the unintelligible writing. words and sentences now appeared (through the holes in the paper) in their right spelling and arrangement, and addressed sir giles in these terms: "i beg to thank you, sir, for complying with my conditions. you have satisfied me of your good faith. at the same time, it is possible that you may hesitate to trust a man who is not yet able to admit you to his confidence. the perilous position in which i stand obliges me to ask for two or three days more of delay, before i can safely make an appointment with you. pray be patient--and on no account apply for advice or protection to the police." "those last words," sir giles declared, "are conclusive! the sooner i am under the care of the law the better. take my card to the police-office." "may i say a word first, sir?" "do you mean that you don't agree with me?" "i mean that." "you were always an obstinate man dennis; and it grows on you as you get older. never mind! let's have it out. who do _you_ say is the person pointed at in these rascally letters?" the head clerk took up the first letter of the two and pointed to the opening sentence: "sir giles mountjoy, i have a disclosure to make in which one of the members of your family is seriously interested." dennis emphatically repeated the words: "one of the members of your family." his employer regarded him with a broad stare of astonishment. "one of the members of my family?" sir giles repeated, on his side. "why, man alive, what are you thinking of? i'm an old bachelor, and i haven't got a family." "there is your brother, sir." "my brother is in france--out of the way of the wretches who are threatening me. i wish i was with him!" "there are your brother's two sons, sir giles." "well? and what is there to be afraid of? my nephew, hugh, is in london--and, mind! not on a political errand. i hope, before long, to hear that he is going to be married--if the strangest and nicest girl in england will have him. what's wrong now?" dennis explained. "i only wished to say, sir, that i was thinking of your other nephew." sir giles laughed. "arthur in danger!" he exclaimed. "as harmless a young man as ever lived. the worst one can say of him is that he is throwing away his money--farming in kerry." "excuse me, sir giles; there's not much chance of his throwing away his money, where he is now. nobody will venture to take his money. i met with one of mr. arthur's neighbours at the market yesterday. your nephew is boycotted." "so much the better," the obstinate banker declared. "he will be cured of his craze for farming; and he will come back to the place i am keeping for him in the office." "god grant it!" the clerk said fervently. for the moment, sir giles was staggered. "have you heard something that you haven't told me yet?" he asked. "no, sir. i am only bearing in mind something which--with all respect--i think you have forgotten. the last tenant on that bit of land in kerry refused to pay his rent. mr. arthur has taken what they call an evicted farm. it's my firm belief," said the head clerk, rising and speaking earnestly, "that the person who has addressed those letters to you knows mr. arthur, and knows he is in danger--and is trying to save your nephew (by means of your influence), at the risk of his own life." sir giles shook his head. "i call that a far-fetched interpretation, dennis. if what you say is true, why didn't the writer of those anonymous letters address himself to arthur, instead of to me?" "i gave it as my opinion just now, sir, that the writer of the letter knew mr. arthur." "so you did. and what of that?" dennis stood to his guns. "anybody who is acquainted with mr. arthur," he persisted, "knows that (with all sorts of good qualities) the young gentleman is headstrong and rash. if a friend told him he was in danger on the farm, that would be enough of itself to make him stop where he is, and brave it out. whereas you, sir, are known to be cautious and careful, and farseeing and discreet." he might have added: and cowardly and obstinate, and narrow-minded and inflated by stupid self-esteem. but respect for his employer had blindfolded the clerk's observation for many a long year past. if one man may be born with the heart of a lion, another man may be born with the mind of a mule. dennis's master was one of the other men. "very well put," sir giles answered indulgently. "time will show, if such an entirely unimportant person as my nephew arthur is likely to be assassinated. that allusion to one of the members of my family is a mere equivocation, designed to throw me off my guard. rank, money, social influence, unswerving principles, mark me out as a public character. go to the police-office, and let the best man who happens to be off duty come here directly." good dennis howmore approached the door very unwillingly. it was opened, from the outer side, before he had reached that end of the room. one of the bank porters announced a visitor. "miss henley wishes to know, sir, if you can see her." sir giles looked agreeably surprised. he rose with alacrity to receive the lady. iii when iris henley dies there will, in all probability, be friends left who remember her and talk of her--and there may be strangers present at the time (women for the most part), whose curiosity will put questions relating to her personal appearance. no replies will reward them with trustworthy information. miss henley's chief claim to admiration lay in a remarkable mobility of expression, which reflected every change of feeling peculiar to the nature of a sweet and sensitive woman. for this reason, probably, no descriptions of her will agree with each other. no existing likenesses will represent her. the one portrait that was painted of iris is only recognisable by partial friends of the artist. in and out of london, photographic likenesses were taken of her. they have the honour of resembling the portraits of shakespeare in this respect--compared with one another, it is not possible to discover that they present the same person. as for the evidence offered by the loving memory of her friends, it is sure to be contradictory in the last degree. she had a charming face, a commonplace face, an intelligent face--a poor complexion, a delicate complexion, no complexion at all--eyes that were expressive of a hot temper, of a bright intellect, of a firm character, of an affectionate disposition, of a truthful nature, of hysterical sensibility, of inveterate obstinacy--a figure too short; no, just the right height; no, neither one thing nor the other; elegant, if you like--dress shabby: oh, surely not; dress quiet and simple; no, something more than that; ostentatiously quiet, theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other people. in one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally popular, in the time when it was a living creature? yes--among the men. no--not invariably. the man of all others who ought to have been fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to iris--her own father. and, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you attended the wedding? not one of us! and when she died, how many of you were sorry for her? all of us! what? no difference of opinion in that one particular? on the contrary, perfect concord, thank god. let the years roll back, and let iris speak for herself, at the memorable time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy career was before her. iv being miss henley's godfather, sir giles was a privileged person. he laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek. after that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. what extraordinary combination of events had led iris to leave london, and had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at ardoon? "i wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody to go to but my godfather, i thought i should like to see you." "alone!" cried sir giles. "no--with my maid to keep me company." "only your maid, iris? surely you have acquaintances among young ladies like yourself?" "acquaintances--yes. no friends." "does your father approve of what you have done?" "will you grant me a favour, godpapa?" "yes--if i can." "don't insist on my answering your last question." the faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room, left it. at the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. the lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which is founded on a keen sense of wrong. she looked older than her age: what she might be ten years hence, she was now. sir giles understood her. he got up, and took a turn in the room. an old habit, of which he had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a knight, showed itself again. he put his hands in his pockets. "you and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping opposite iris. "i don't deny it," she replied. "who is to blame?" she smiled bitterly. "the woman is always to blame." "did your father tell you that?" "my father reminded me that i was twenty-one years old, last birthday--and told me that i could do as i liked. i understood him, and i left the house." "you will go back again, i suppose?" "i don't know." sir giles began pacing the room once more. his rugged face, telling its story of disaster and struggle in early life, showed signs of disappointment and distress. "hugh promised to write to me," he said, "and he has not written. i know what that means; i know what you have done to offend your father. my nephew has asked you to marry him for the second time. and for the second time you have refused." her face softened; its better and younger aspect revived. "yes," she said, sadly and submissively; "i have refused him again." sir giles lost his temper. "what the devil is your objection to hugh?" he burst out. "my father said the same thing to me," she replied, "almost in the same words. i made him angry when i tried to give my reason. i don't want to make you angry, too." he took no notice of this. "isn't hugh a good fellow?" he went on. "isn't he affectionate? and kindhearted? and honourable?--aye, and a handsome man too, if you come to that." "hugh is all that you say. i like him; i admire him; i owe to his kindness some of the happiest days of my sad life, and i am grateful--oh, with all my heart, i am grateful to hugh!" "if that's true, iris----" "every word of it is true." "i say, if that's true--there's no excuse for you. i hate perversity in a young woman! why don't you marry him?" "try to feel for me," she said gently; "i can't love him." her tone said more to the banker than her words had expressed. the secret sorrow of her life, which was known to her father, was known also to sir giles. "now we have come to it at last!" he said. "you can't love my nephew hugh. and you won't tell me the reason why, because your sweet temper shrinks from making me angry. shall i mention the reason for you, my dear? i can do it in two words--lord harry." she made no reply; she showed no sign of feeling at what he had just said. her head sank a little; her hands clasped themselves on her lap; the obstinate resignation which can submit to anything hardened her face, stiffened her figure--and that was all. the banker was determined not to spare her. "it's easy to see," he resumed, "that you have not got over your infatuation for that vagabond yet. go where he may, into the vilest places and among the lowest people, he carries your heart along with him. i wonder you are not ashamed of such an attachment as that." he had stung her at last. she roused herself, and answered him. "harry has led a wild life," she said; "he has committed serious faults, and he may live to do worse than he has done yet. to what degradation, bad company, and a bad bringing-up may yet lead him, i leave his enemies to foresee. but i tell you this, he has redeeming qualities which you, and people like you, are not good christians enough to discover. he has friends who can still appreciate him--your nephew, arthur mountjoy, is one of them. oh, i know it by arthur's letters to me! blame lord harry as you may, i tell you he has the capacity for repentance in him, and one day--when it is too late, i dare say--he will show it. i can never be his wife. we are parted, never in all likelihood to meet again. well, he is the only man whom i have ever loved; and he is the only man whom i ever shall love. if you think this state of mind proves that i am as bad as he is, i won't contradict you. do we any of us know how bad we are----? have you heard of harry lately?" the sudden transition, from an earnest and devoted defence of the man, to an easy and familiar inquiry about him, startled sir giles. for the moment, he had nothing to say; iris had made him think. she had shown a capacity for mastering her strongest feelings, at the moment when they threatened to overcome her, which is very rarely found in a young woman. how to manage her was a problem for patient resolution to solve. the banker's obstinacy, rather than his conviction, had encouraged him to hold to the hope of hugh's marriage, even after his nephew had been refused for the second time. his headstrong goddaughter had come to visit him of her own accord. she had not forgotten the days of her childhood, when he had some influence over her--when she had found him kinder to her than her father had ever been. sir giles saw that he had taken the wrong tone with iris. his anger had not alarmed her; his opinion had not influenced her. in hugh's interests, he determined to try what consideration and indulgence would do towards cultivating the growth of her regard for him. finding that she had left her maid and her luggage at the hotel, he hospitably insisted on their removal to his own house. "while you are in ardoon, iris, you are my guest," he said. she pleased him by readily accepting the invitation--and then annoyed him by asking again if he had heard anything of lord harry. he answered shortly and sharply: "i have heard nothing. what is _your_ last news of him?" "news," she said, "which i sincerely hope is not true. an irish paper has been sent to me, which reports that he has joined the secret society--nothing better than a society of assassins, i am afraid--which is known by the name of the invincibles." as she mentioned that formidable brotherhood, dennis howmore returned from the police-office. he announced that a sergeant was then waiting to receive instructions from sir giles. v iris rose to go. her godfather courteously stopped her. "wait here," he said, "until i have spoken to the sergeant, and i will escort you to my house. my clerk will do what is necessary at the hotel. you don't look quite satisfied. is the arrangement that i have proposed not agreeable to you?" iris assured him that she gratefully acceded to the arrangement. at the same time, she confessed to having been a little startled, on discovering that he was in consultation with the police. "i remember that we are in ireland," she explained, "and i am foolish enough to fear that you may be in some danger. may i hope that it is only a trifle?" only a trifle! among ether deficient sensibilities in the strange nature of iris, sir giles had observed an imperfect appreciation of the dignity of his social position. here was a new proof of it! the temptation to inspire sentiments of alarm--not unmingled with admiration--in the mind of his insensible goddaughter, by exhibiting himself as a public character threatened by a conspiracy, was more than the banker's vanity could resist. before he left the room, he instructed dennis to tell miss henley what had happened, and to let her judge for herself whether he had been needlessly alarmed by, what she was pleased to call, "a mere trifle." dennis howmore must have been more than mortal, if he could have related his narrative of events without being influenced by his own point of view. on the first occasion when he mentioned arthur mountjoy's name, iris showed a sudden interest in his strange story which took him by surprise. "you know mr. arthur?" he said. "knew him!" iris repeated. "he was my playfellow when we were both children. he is as dear to me as if he was my brother. tell me at once--is he really in danger?" dennis honestly repeated what he had already said, on that subject, to his master. miss henley, entirely agreeing with him, was eager to warn arthur of his position. there was no telegraphic communication with the village which was near his farm. she could only write to him, and she did write to him, by that day's post--having reasons of her own for anxiety, which forbade her to show her letter to dennis. well aware of the devoted friendship which united lord harry and arthur mountjoy--and bearing in mind the newspaper report of the irish lord's rash association with the invincibles--her fears now identified the noble vagabond as the writer of the anonymous letters, which had so seriously excited her godfather's doubts of his own safety. when sir giles returned, and took her with him to his house, he spoke of his consultation with the sergeant in terms which increased her dread of what might happen in the future. she was a dull and silent guest, during the interval that elapsed before it would be possible to receive arthur's reply. the day arrived--and the post brought no relief to her anxieties. the next day passed without a letter. on the morning of the fourth day, sir giles rose later than usual. his correspondence was sent to him from the office, at breakfast-time. after opening one of the letters, he dispatched a messenger in hot haste to the police. "look at that," he said, handing the letter to iris. "does the assassin take me for a fool?" she read the lines that follow: "unforeseen events force me, sir giles, to run a serious risk. i must speak to you, and it must not be by daylight. my one hope of safety is in darkness. meet me at the first milestone, on the road to garvan, when the moon sets at ten o'clock to-night. no need to mention your name. the password is: _fidelity."_ "do you mean to go?" iris asked. "do i mean to be murdered!" sir giles broke out. "my dear child, do pray try to think before you speak. the sergeant will represent me, of course." "and take the man prisoner?" iris added. "certainly!" with that startling reply, the banker hurried away to receive the police in another room. iris dropped into the nearest chair. the turn that the affair had now taken filled her with unutterable dismay. sir giles came back, after no very long absence, composed and smiling. the course of proceeding had been settled to his complete satisfaction. dressed in private clothes, the sergeant was to go to the milestone at the appointed time, representing the banker in the darkness, and giving the password. he was to be followed by two of his men who would wait in concealment, within hearing of his whistle, if their services were required. "i want to see the ruffian when he is safely handcuffed," sir giles explained; "and i have arranged to wait for the police, to-night, at my office." there was but one desperate way that iris could now discern of saving the man who had confided in her godfather's honour, and whose trust had already been betrayed. never had she loved the outlawed irish lord--the man whom she was forbidden, and rightly forbidden, to marry--as she loved him at that moment. let the risk be what it might, this resolute woman had determined that the sergeant should not be the only person who arrived at the milestone, and gave the password. there was one devoted friend to lord harry, whom she could always trust--and that friend was herself. sir giles withdrew, to look after his business at the bank. she waited until the clock had struck the servants' dinner hour, and then ascended the stairs to her godfather's dressing-room. opening his wardrobe, she discovered in one part of it a large spanish cloak, and, in another part, a high-crowned felt hat which he wore on his country excursions. in the dark, here was disguise enough for her purpose. as she left the dressing-room, a measure of precaution occurred to her, which she put in action at once. telling her maid that she had some purchases to make in the town, she went out, and asked her way to garvan of the first respectable stranger whom she met in the street. her object was to walk as far as the first milestone, in daylight, so as to be sure of finding it again by night. she had made herself familiar with the different objects on the road, when she returned to the banker's house. as the time for the arrest drew nearer, sir giles became too restless to wait patiently at home. he went away to the police-office, eager to hear if any new counter-conspiracy had occurred to the authorities. it was dark soon after eight o'clock, at that time of the year. at nine the servants assembled at the supper-table. they were all downstairs together, talking, and waiting for their meal. feeling the necessity of arriving at the place of meeting, in time to keep out of the sergeant's way, iris assumed her disguise as the clock struck nine. she left the house without a living creature to notice her, indoors or out. clouds were gathering over the sky. the waning moon was only to be seen at intervals, as she set forth on her way to the milestone. vi the wind rose a little, and the rifts in the clouds began to grow broader as iris gained the high road. for a while, the glimmer of the misty moonlight lit the way before her. as well as she could guess, she had passed over more than half of the distance between the town and the milestone before the sky darkened again. objects by the wayside grew shadowy and dim. a few drops of rain began to fall. the milestone, as she knew--thanks to the discovery of it made by daylight--was on the right-hand side of the road. but the dull-grey colour of the stone was not easy to see in the dark. a doubt troubled her whether she might not have passed the milestone. she stopped and looked at the sky. the threatening of rain had passed away: signs showed themselves which seemed to promise another break in the clouds. she waited. low and faint, the sinking moonlight looked its last at the dull earth. in front of her, there was nothing to be seen but the road. she looked back--and discovered the milestone. a rough stone wall protected the land on either side of the road. nearly behind the milestone there was a gap in this fence, partially closed by a hurdle. a half-ruined culvert, arching a ditch that had run dry, formed a bridge leading from the road to the field. had the field been already chosen as a place of concealment by the police? nothing was to be seen but a footpath, and the dusky line of a plantation beyond it. as she made these discoveries, the rain began to fall again; the clouds gathered once more; the moonlight vanished. at the same moment an obstacle presented itself to her mind, which iris had thus far failed to foresee. lord harry might approach the milestone by three different ways: that is to say--by the road from the town, or by the road from the open country, or by way of the field and the culvert. how could she so place herself as to be sure of warning him, before he fell into the hands of the police? to watch the three means of approach in the obscurity of the night, and at one and the same time, was impossible. a man in this position, guided by reason, would in all probability have wasted precious time in trying to arrive at the right decision. a woman, aided by love, conquered the difficulty that confronted her in a moment. iris decided on returning to the milestone, and on waiting there to be discovered and taken prisoner by the police. supposing lord harry to be punctual to his appointment, he would hear voices and movements, as a necessary consequence of the arrest, in time to make his escape. supposing him on the other hand to be late, the police would be on the way back to the town with their prisoner: he would find no one at the milestone, and would leave it again in safety. she was on the point of turning, to get back to the road, when something on the dark surface of the field, which looked like a darker shadow, became dimly visible. in another moment it seemed to be a shadow that moved. she ran towards it. it looked like a man as she drew nearer. the man stopped. "the password," he said, in tones cautiously lowered. "fidelity," she answered in a whisper. it was too dark for a recognition of his features; but iris knew him by his tall stature--knew him by the accent in which he had asked for the password. erroneously judging of her, on his side, as a man, he drew back again. sir giles mountjoy was above the middle height; the stranger in a cloak, who had whispered to him, was below it. "you are not the person i expected to meet," he said. "who are you?" her faithful heart was longing to tell him the truth. the temptation to reveal herself, and to make the sweet confession of her happiness at having saved him, would have overpowered her discretion, but for a sound that was audible on the road behind them. in the deep silence of the time and place mistake was impossible. it was the sound of footsteps. there was just time to whisper to him: "sir giles has betrayed you. save yourself." "thank you, whoever you are!" with that reply, he suddenly and swiftly disappeared. iris remembered the culvert, and turned towards it. there was a hiding-place under the arch, if she could only get down into the dry ditch in time. she was feeling her way to the slope of it with her feet, when a heavy hand seized her by the arm; and a resolute voice said: "you are my prisoner." she was led back into the road. the man who had got her blew a whistle. two other men joined him. "show a light," he said; "and let's see who the fellow is." the shade was slipped aside from a lantern: the light fell full on the prisoner's face. amazement petrified the two attendant policemen. the pious catholic sergeant burst into speech: "holy mary! it's a woman!" did the secret societies of ireland enrol women? was this a modern judith, expressing herself by anonymous letters, and bent on assassinating a financial holofernes who kept a bank? what account had she to give of herself? how came she to be alone in a desolate field on a rainy night? instead of answering these questions, the inscrutable stranger preferred a bold and brief request. "take me to sir giles"--was all she said to the police. the sergeant had the handcuffs ready. after looking at the prisoner's delicate wrists by the lantern-light, he put his fetters back in his pocket. "a lady--and no doubt about it," he said to one of his assistants. the two men waited, with a mischievous interest in seeing what he would do next. the list of their pious officer's virtues included a constitutional partiality for women, which exhibited the merciful side of justice when a criminal wore a petticoat. "we will take you to sir giles, miss," he said--and offered his arm, instead of offering his handcuffs. iris understood him, and took his arm. she was silent--unaccountably silent as the men thought--on the way to the town. they heard her sigh: and, once, the sigh sounded more like a sob; little did they suspect what was in that silent woman's mind at the time. the one object which had absorbed the attention of iris had been the saving of lord harry. this accomplished, the free exercise of her memory had now reminded her of arthur mountjoy. it was impossible to doubt that the object of the proposed meeting at the milestone had been to take measures for the preservation of the young man's life. a coward is always more or less cruel. the proceedings (equally treacherous and merciless) by which sir giles had provided for his own safety, had delayed--perhaps actually prevented--the execution of lord harry's humane design. it was possible, horribly possible, that a prompt employment of time might have been necessary to the rescue of arthur from impending death by murder. in the agitation that overpowered her, iris actually hurried the police on their return to the town. sir giles had arranged to wait for news in his private room at the office--and there he was, with dennis howmore in attendance to receive visitors. the sergeant went into the banker's room alone, to make his report. he left the door ajar; iris could hear what passed. "have you got your prisoner?" sir giles began. "yes, your honour." "is the wretch securely handcuffed?" "i beg your pardon, sir, it isn't a man." "nonsense, sergeant; it can't be a boy." the sergeant confessed that it was not a boy. "it's a woman," he said. "what!!!" "a woman," the patient officer repeated--"and a young one. she asked for you." "bring her in." iris was not the sort of person who waits to be brought in. she walked in, of her own accord. vii "good heavens!" cried sir giles. "iris! with my cloak on!! with my hat in her hand!!! sergeant, there has been some dreadful mistake. this is my god-daughter--miss henley." "we found her at the milestone, your honour. the young lady and nobody else." sir giles appealed helplessly to his god-daughter. "what does this mean?" instead of answering, she looked at the sergeant. the sergeant, conscious of responsibility, stood his ground and looked at sir giles. his face confessed that the irish sense of humour was tickled: but he showed no intention of leaving the room. sir giles saw that iris would enter into no explanation in the man's presence. "you needn't wait any longer," he said. "what am i to do, if you please, with the prisoner?" the sergeant inquired. sir giles waived that unnecessary question away with his hand. he was trebly responsible--as knight, banker, and magistrate into the bargain. "i will be answerable," he replied, "for producing miss henley, if called upon. good night." the sergeant's sense of duty was satisfied. he made the military salute. his gallantry added homage to the young lady under the form of a bow. then, and then only, he walked with dignity out of the room. "now," sir giles resumed, "i presume i may expect to receive an explanation. what does this impropriety mean? what were you doing at the milestone?" "i was saving the person who made the appointment with you," iris said; "the poor fellow had no ill-will towards you--who had risked everything to save your nephew's life. oh, sir, you committed a terrible mistake when you refused to trust that man!" sir giles had anticipated the appearance of fear, and the reality of humble apologies. she had answered him indignantly, with a heightened colour, and with tears in her eyes. his sense of his own social importance was wounded to the quick. "who is the man you are speaking of?" he asked loftily. "and what is your excuse for having gone to the milestone to save him--hidden under my cloak, disguised in my hat?" "don't waste precious time in asking questions!" was the desperate reply. "undo the harm that you have done already. your help--oh, i mean what i say!--may yet preserve arthur's life. go to the farm, and save him." sir giles's anger assumed a new form, it indulged in an elaborate mockery of respect. he took his watch from his pocket, and consulted it satirically. "must i make an excuse?" he asked with a clumsy assumption of humility. "no! you must go." "permit me to inform you, miss henley, that the last train started more than two hours since." "what does that matter? you are rich enough to hire a train." sir giles, the actor, could endure it no longer; he dropped the mask, and revealed sir giles, the man. his clerk was summoned by a peremptory ring of the bell. "attend miss henley to the house," he said. "you may come to your senses after a night's rest," he continued, turning sternly to iris. "i will receive your excuses in the morning." in the morning, the breakfast was ready as usual at nine o'clock. sir giles found himself alone at the table. he sent an order to one of the women-servants to knock at miss henley's door. there was a long delay. the housekeeper presented herself in a state of alarm; she had gone upstairs to make the necessary investigation in her own person. miss henley was not in her room; the maid was not in her room; the beds had not been slept in; the heavy luggage was labelled--"to be called for from the hotel." and there was an end of the evidence which the absent iris had left behind her. inquiries were made at the hotel. the young lady had called there, with her maid, early on that morning. they had their travelling-bags with them; and miss henley had left directions that the luggage was to be placed under care of the landlord until her return. to what destination she had betaken herself nobody knew. sir giles was too angry to remember what she had said to him on the previous night, or he might have guessed at the motive which had led to her departure. "her father has done with her already," he said; "and i have done with her now." the servants received orders not to admit miss henley, if her audacity contemplated a return to her godfather's house. viii on the afternoon of the same day, iris arrived at the village situated in the near neighbourhood of arthur mountjoy's farm. the infection of political excitement (otherwise the hatred of england) had spread even to this remote place. on the steps of his little chapel, the priest, a peasant himself, was haranguing his brethren of the soil. an irishman who paid his landlord was a traitor to his country; an irishman who asserted his free birthright in the land that he walked on was an enlightened patriot. such was the new law which the reverend gentleman expounded to his attentive audience. if his brethren there would like him to tell them how they might apply the law, this exemplary christian would point to the faithless irishman, arthur mountjoy. "buy not of him, sell not to him; avoid him if he approaches you; starve him out of the place. i might say more, boys--you know what i mean." to hear the latter part of this effort of oratory, without uttering a word of protest, was a trial of endurance under which iris trembled. the secondary effect of the priest's address was to root the conviction of arthur's danger with tenfold tenacity in her mind. after what she had just heard, even the slightest delay in securing his safety might be productive of deplorable results. she astonished a barefooted boy, on the outskirts of the crowd, by a gift of sixpence, and asked her way to the farm. the little irishman ran on before her, eager to show the generous lady how useful he could be. in less than half an hour, iris and her maid were at the door of the farm-house. no such civilised inventions appeared as a knocker or a bell. the boy used his knuckles instead--and ran away when he heard the lock of the door turned on the inner side. he was afraid to be seen speaking to any living creature who inhabited the "evicted farm." a decent old woman appeared, and inquired suspiciously "what the ladies wanted." the accent in which she spoke was unmistakably english. when iris asked for mr. arthur mountjoy the reply was: "not at home." the housekeeper inhospitably attempted to close the door. "wait one moment," iris said. "years have changed you; but there is something in your face which is not quite strange to me. are you mrs. lewson?" the woman admitted that this was her name. "but how is it that you are a stranger to me?" she asked distrustfully. "if you have been long in mr. mountjoy's service," iris replied, "you may perhaps have heard him speak of miss henley?" mrs. lewson's face brightened in an instant; she threw the door wide open with a glad cry of recognition. "come in, miss, come in! who would have thought of seeing you in this horrible place? yes; i was the nurse who looked after you all three--when you and mr. arthur and mr. hugh were playfellows together." her eyes rested longingly on her favourite of bygone days. the sensitive sympathies of iris interpreted that look. she prettily touched her cheek, inviting the nurse to kiss her. at this act of kindness the poor old woman broke down; she apologised quaintly for her tears: "think, miss, how _i_ must remember that happy time--when _you_ have not forgotten it." shown into the parlour, the first object which the visitor noticed was the letter that she had written to arthur lying unopened on the table. "then he is really out of the house?" she said with a feeling of relief. he had been away from the farm for a week or more. had he received a warning from some other quarter? and had he wisely sought refuge in flight? the amazement in the housekeeper's face, when she heard these questions, pleaded for a word of explanation. iris acknowledged without reserve the motives which had suggested her journey, and asked eagerly if she had been mistaken in assuming that arthur was in danger of assassination. mrs. lewson shook her head. beyond all doubt the young master was in danger. but miss iris ought to have known his nature better than to suppose that he would beat a retreat, if all the land-leaguers in ireland threatened him together. no! it was his bold way to laugh at danger. he had left his farm to visit a friend in the next county; and it was shrewdly guessed that a young lady who was staying in the house was the attraction which had kept him so long away. "anyhow, he means to come back to-morrow," mrs. lewson said. "i wish he would think better of it, and make his escape to england while he has the chance. if the savages in these parts must shoot somebody, i'm here--an old woman that can't last much longer. let them shoot me." iris asked if arthur's safety was assured in the next county, and in the house of his friend. "i can't say, miss; i have never been to the house. he is in danger if he persists in coming back to the farm. there are chances of shooting him all along his road home. oh, yes; he knows it, poor dear, as well as i do. but, there!--men like him are such perverse creatures. he takes his rides just as usual. no; he won't listen to an old woman like me; and, as for friends to advise him, the only one of them that has darkened our doors is a scamp who had better have kept away. you may have heard tell of him. the old earl, his wicked father, used to be called by a bad name. and the wild young lord is his father's true son." "not lord harry?" iris exclaimed. the outbreak of agitation in her tone and manner was silently noticed by her maid. the housekeeper did not attempt to conceal the impression that had been produced upon her. "i hope you don't know such a vagabond as that?" she said very seriously. "perhaps you are thinking of his brother--the eldest son--a respectable man, as i have been told?" miss henley passed over these questions without notice. urged by the interest in her lover, which was now more than ever an interest beyond her control, she said: "is lord harry in danger, on account of his friend?" "he has nothing to fear from the wretches who infest our part of the country," mrs. lewson replied. "report says he's one of themselves. the police--there's what his young lordship has to be afraid of, if all's true that is said about him. anyhow, when he paid his visit to my master, he came secretly like a thief in the night. and i heard mr. arthur, while they were together here in the parlour, loud in blaming him for something that he had done. no more, miss, of lord harry! i have something particular to say to you. suppose i promise to make you comfortable--will you please wait here till to-morrow, and see mr. arthur and speak to him? if there's a person living who can persuade him to take better care of himself, i do believe it will be you." iris readily consented to wait for arthur mountjoy's return. left together, while mrs. lewson was attending to her domestic duties, the mistress noticed an appearance of pre-occupation in the maid's face. "are you beginning to wish, rhoda," she said, "that i had not brought you to this strange place, among these wild people?" the maid was a quiet amiable girl, evidently in delicate health. she smiled faintly. "i was thinking, miss, of another nobleman besides the one mrs. lewson mentioned just now, who seems to have led a reckless life. it was printed in a newspaper that i read before we left london." "was his name mentioned?" iris asked. "no, miss; i suppose they were afraid of giving offence. he tried so many strange ways of getting a living--it was almost like reading a story-book." the suppression of the name suggested a suspicion from which iris recoiled. was it possible that her maid could be ignorantly alluding to lord harry? "do you remember this hero's adventures?" she said. "i can try, miss, if you wish to hear about him." the newspaper narrative appeared to have produced a vivid impression on rhoda's mind. making allowance for natural hesitations and mistakes, and difficulties in expressing herself correctly, she repeated with a singularly clear recollection the substance of what she had read. ix the principal characters in the story were an old irish nobleman, who was called the earl, and the youngest of his two sons, mysteriously distinguished as "the wild lord." it was said of the earl that he had not been a good father; he had cruelly neglected both his sons. the younger one, badly treated at school, and left to himself in the holidays, began his adventurous career by running away. he got employment (under an assumed name) as a ship's boy. at the outset, he did well; learning his work, and being liked by the captain and the crew. but the chief mate was a brutal man, and the young runaway's quick temper resented the disgraceful infliction of blows. he made up his mind to try his luck on shore, and attached himself to a company of strolling players. being a handsome lad, with a good figure and a fine clear voice, he did very well for a while on the country stage. hard times came; salaries were reduced; the adventurer wearied of the society of actors and actresses. his next change of life presented him in north britain as a journalist, employed on a scotch newspaper. an unfortunate love affair was the means of depriving him of this new occupation. he was recognised, soon afterwards, serving as assistant steward in one of the passenger steamers voyaging between liverpool and new york. arrived in this last city, he obtained notoriety, of no very respectable kind, as a "medium" claiming powers of supernatural communication with the world of spirits. when the imposture was ultimately discovered, he had gained money by his unworthy appeal to the meanly prosaic superstition of modern times. a long interval had then elapsed, and nothing had been heard of him, when a starving man was discovered by a traveller, lost on a western prairie. the ill-fated irish lord had associated himself with an indian tribe--had committed some offence against their laws--and had been deliberately deserted and left to die. on his recovery, he wrote to his elder brother (who had inherited the title and estates on the death of the old earl) to say that he was ashamed of the life that he had led, and eager to make amendment by accepting any honest employment that could be offered to him. the traveller who had saved his life, and whose opinion was to be trusted, declared that the letter represented a sincerely penitent state of mind. there were good qualities in the vagabond, which only wanted a little merciful encouragement to assert themselves. the reply that he received from england came from the lawyers employed by the new earl. they had arranged with their agents in new york to pay to the younger brother a legacy of a thousand pounds, which represented all that had been left to him by his father's will. if he wrote again his letters would not be answered; his brother had done with him. treated in this inhuman manner, the wild lord became once more worthy of his name. he tried a new life as a betting man at races and trotting-matches. fortune favoured him at the outset, and he considerably increased his legacy. with the customary infatuation of men who gain money by risking the loss of it, he presumed on his good luck. one pecuniary disaster followed another, and left him literally penniless. he was found again, in england, exhibiting an open boat in which he and a companion had made one of those foolhardy voyages across the atlantic, which have now happily ceased to interest the public. to a friend who remonstrated with him, he answered that he reckoned on being lost at sea, and on so committing a suicide worthy of the desperate life that he had led. the last accounts of him, after this, were too vague and too contradictory to be depended on. at one time it was reported that he had returned to the united states. not long afterwards unaccountable paragraphs appeared in newspapers declaring, at one and the same time, that he was living among bad company in paris, and that he was hiding disreputably in an ill famed quarter of the city of dublin, called "the liberties." in any case there was good reason to fear that irish-american desperadoes had entangled the wild lord in the network of political conspiracy. the maid noticed a change in the mistress which surprised her, when she had reached the end of the newspaper story. of miss henley's customary good spirits not a trace remained. "few people, rhoda, remember what they read as well as you do." she said it kindly and sadly--and she said no more. there was a reason for this. now at one time, and now at another, iris had heard of lord harry's faults and failings in fragments of family history. the complete record of his degraded life, presented in an uninterrupted succession of events, had now forced itself on her attention for the first time. it naturally shocked her. she felt, as she had never felt before, how entirely right her father had been in insisting on her resistance to an attachment which was unworthy of her. so far, but no farther, her conscience yielded to its own conviction of what was just. but the one unassailable vital force in this world is the force of love. it may submit to the hard necessities of life; it may acknowledge the imperative claims of duty; it may be silent under reproach, and submissive to privation--but, suffer what it may, it is the master-passion still; subject to no artificial influences, owning no supremacy but the law of its own being. iris was above the reach of self-reproach, when her memory recalled the daring action which had saved lord harry at the milestone. her better sense acknowledged hugh mountjoy's superiority over the other man--but her heart, her perverse heart, remained true to its first choice in spite of her. she made an impatient excuse and went out alone to recover her composure in the farm-house garden. the hours of the evening passed slowly. there was a pack of cards in the house; the women tried to amuse themselves, and failed. anxiety about arthur preyed on the spirits of miss henley and mrs. lewson. even the maid, who had only seen him during his last visit to london, said she wished to-morrow had come and gone. his sweet temper, his handsome face, his lively talk had made arthur a favourite everywhere. mrs. lewson had left her comfortable english home to be his housekeeper, when he tried his rash experiment of farming in ireland. and, more wonderful still, even wearisome sir giles became an agreeable person in his nephew's company. iris set the example of retiring at an early hour to her room. there was something terrible in the pastoral silence of the place. it associated itself mysteriously with her fears for arthur; it suggested armed treachery on tiptoe, taking its murderous stand in hiding; the whistling passage of bullets through the air; the piercing cry of a man mortally wounded, and that man, perhaps----? iris shrank from her own horrid thought. a momentary faintness overcame her; she opened the window. as she put her head out to breathe the cool night-air, a man on horseback rode up to the house. was it arthur? no: the light-coloured groom's livery that he wore was just visible. before he could dismount to knock at the door, a tall man walked up to him out of the darkness. "is that miles?" the tall man asked. the groom knew the voice. iris was even better acquainted with it. she, too, recognised lord harry. x there was the irish lord at the very time when iris was most patiently resigned never to see him more, never to think of him as her husband again--reminding her of the first days of their love, and of their mutual confession of it! fear of herself kept her behind the curtain; while interest in lord harry detained her at the window in hiding. "all well at rathco?" he asked--mentioning the name of the house in which arthur was one of the guests. "yes, my lord. mr. mountjoy leaves us to-morrow." "does he mean to return to the farm?" "sorry i am to say it; he does mean that." "has he fixed any time, miles, for starting on his journey?" miles instituted a search through his pockets, and accompanied it by an explanation. yes, indeed, master arthur had fixed a time; he had written a note to say so to mistress lewson, the housekeeper; he had said, "drop the note at the farm, on your way to the village." and what might miles want at the village, in the dark? medicine, in a hurry, for one of his master's horses that was sick and sinking. and, speaking of that, here, thank god, was the note! iris, listening and watching alternately, saw to her surprise the note intended for mrs. lewson handed to lord harry. "am i expected," he asked jocosely, "to read writing without a light?" miles produced a small lantern which was strapped to his groom's belt. "there's parts of the road not over safe in the dark," he said as he raised the shade which guarded the light. the wild lord coolly opened the letter, and read the few careless words which it contained. "to mrs. lewson:--dear old girl, expect me back to-morrow to dinner at three o'clock. yours, arthur." there was a pause. "are there any strangers at rathco?" lord harry asked. "two new men," miles replied, "at work in the grounds." there was another pause. "how can i protect him?" the young lord said, partly to himself, partly to miles. he suspected the two new men---spies probably who knew of arthur's proposed journey home, and who had already reported to their employers the hour at which he would set out. miles ventured to say a word: "i hope you won't be angry with me, my lord"---- "stuff and nonsense! was i ever angry with you, when i was rich enough to keep a servant, and when you were the man?" the irish groom answered in a voice that trembled with strong feeling. "you were the best and kindest master that ever lived on this earth. i can't see you putting your precious life in peril"---- "my precious life?" lord harry repeated lightly. "you're thinking of mr. mountjoy, when you say that. _his_ life is worth saving. as for my life"---- he ended the sentence by a whistle, as the best way he could hit on of expressing his contempt for his own existence. "my lord! my lord!" miles persisted; "the invincibles are beginning to doubt you. if any of them find you hanging about mr. mountjoy's farm, they'll try a shot at you first, and ask afterwards whether it was right to kill you or not." to hear this said--and said seriously--after the saving of him at the milestone, was a trial of her firmness which iris was unable to resist. love got the better of prudence. she drew back the window-curtain. in another moment, she would have added her persuasion to the servant's warning, if lord harry himself had not accidentally checked her by a proceeding, on his part, for which she was not prepared. "show the light," he said; "i'll write a line to mr. mountjoy." he tore off the blank page from the note to the housekeeper, and wrote to arthur, entreating him to change the time of his departure from rathco, and to tell no creature in the house, or out of the house, at what new hour he had arranged to go. "saddle your horse yourself," the letter concluded. it was written in a feigned hand, without a signature. "give that to mr. mountjoy," lord harry said. "if he asks who wrote it, don't frighten him about me by telling the truth. lie, miles! say you don't know." he next returned the note for mrs. lewson. "if she notices that it has been opened," he resumed, "and asks who has done it, lie again. good-night, miles--and mind those dangerous places on your road home." the groom darkened his lantern; and the wild lord was lost to view, round the side of the house. left by himself, miles rapped at the door with the handle of his whip. "a letter from mr. arthur," he called out. mrs. lewson at once took the note, and examined it by the light of the candle on the hall-table. "somebody has been reading this!" she exclaimed, stepping out to the groom, and showing him the torn envelope. miles, promptly obeying his instructions, declared that he knew nothing about it, and rode away. iris descended the stairs, and joined mrs. lewson in the hall before she had closed the door. the housekeeper at once produced arthur's letter. "it's on my mind, miss," she said, "to write an answer, and say something to mr. arthur which will persuade him to take care of himself, on his way back to the farm. the difficulty is, how am i to express it? you would be doing a kind thing if you would give me a word of advice." iris willingly complied. a second note, from the anxious housekeeper, might help the effect of the few lines which lord harry had written. arthur's letter informed iris that he had arranged to return at three o'clock. lord harry's question to the groom, and the man's reply, instantly recurred to her memory: "are there any strangers at rathco?"--"two new men at work in the grounds." arriving at the same conclusion which had already occurred to lord harry, iris advised the housekeeper, in writing to arthur, to entreat him to change the hour, secretly, at which he left his friend's house on the next day. warmly approving of this idea, mrs. lewson hurried into the parlour to write her letter. "don't go to bed yet, miss," she said; "i want you to read it before i send it away the first thing to-morrow morning." left alone in the hall, with the door open before her, iris looked out on the night, thinking. the lives of the two men in whom she was interested--in widely different ways--were now both threatened; and the imminent danger, at that moment, was the danger of lord harry. he was an outlaw whose character would not bear investigation; but, to give him his due, there was no risk which he was not ready to confront for arthur's sake. if he was still recklessly lingering, on the watch for assassins in the dangerous neighbourhood of the farm, who but herself possessed the influence which would prevail on him to leave the place? she had joined mrs. lewson at the door with that conviction in her mind. in another instant, she was out of the house, and beginning her search in the dark. iris made the round of the building; sometimes feeling her way in obscure places; sometimes calling to lord harry cautiously by his name. no living creature appeared; no sound of a movement disturbed the stillness of the night. the discovery of his absence, which she had not dared to hope for, was the cheering discovery which she had now made. on her way back to the house, she became conscious of the rashness of the act into which her own generous impulse had betrayed her. if she and lord harry had met, could she have denied the tender interest in him which her own conduct would then have revealed? would he not have been justified in concluding that she had pardoned the errors and the vices of his life, and that he might without impropriety remind her of their engagement, and claim her hand in marriage? she trembled as she thought of the concessions which he might have wrung from her. "never more," she determined, "shall my own folly be answerable for it, if he and i meet again." she had returned to mrs. lewson, and had read over the letter to arthur, when the farm clock, striking the hour, reminded them that it was time to retire. they slept badly that night. at six in the morning, one of the two labourers who had remained faithful to arthur was sent away on horseback with the housekeeper's reply, and with orders to wait for an answer. allowing time for giving the horse a rest, the man might be expected to return before noon. ix it was a fine sunshiny day; mrs. lewson's spirits began to improve. "i have always held the belief," the worthy old woman confessed, "that bright weather brings good luck--of course provided the day is not a friday. this is wednesday. cheer up, miss." the messenger returned with good news. mr. arthur had been as merry as usual. he had made fun of another letter of good advice, received without a signature. "but mrs. lewson must have her way," he said. "my love to the old dear--i'll start two hours later, and be back to dinner at five." "where did mr. arthur give you that message?" iris inquired. "at the stables, miss, while i was putting up the horse. the men about were all on the broad grin when they heard mr. arthur's message." still in a morbid state of mind, iris silently regretted that the message had not been written, instead of being delivered by word of mouth. here, again, she (like the wild lord) had been afraid of listeners. the hours wore slowly on until it was past four o'clock. iris could endure the suspense no longer. "it's a lovely afternoon," she said to mrs. lewson. "let us take a walk along the road, and meet arthur." to this proposal the housekeeper readily agreed. it was nearly five o'clock when they reached a place at which a by-road branched off, through a wood, from the highway which they had hitherto followed. mrs. lewson found a seat on a felled tree. "we had better not go any farther," she said. iris asked if there was any reason for this. there was an excellent reason. a few yards farther on, the high road had been diverted from the straight line (in the interest of a large agricultural village), and was then directed again into its former course. the by-road through the wood served as a short cut, for horsemen and pedestrians, from one divergent point to the other. it was next to a certainty that arthur would return by the short cut. but if accident or caprice led to his preferring the highway, it was clearly necessary to wait for him within view of both the roads. too restless to submit to a state of passive expectation, iris proposed to follow the bridle path through the wood for a little way, and to return if she failed to see anything of arthur. "you are tired," she said kindly to her companion: "pray don't move." mrs. lewson looked needlessly uneasy: "you might lose yourself, miss. mind you keep to the path!" iris followed the pleasant windings of the woodland track. in the hope of meeting arthur she considerably extended the length of her walk. the white line of the high road, as it passed the farther end of the wood, showed itself through the trees. she turned at once to rejoin mrs. lewson. on her way back she made a discovery. a ruin which she had not previously noticed showed itself among the trees on her left hand. her curiosity was excited; she strayed aside to examine it more closely. the crumbling walls, as she approached them, looked like the remains of an ordinary dwelling-house. age is essential to the picturesque effect of decay: a modern ruin is an unnatural and depressing object--and here the horrid thing was. as she turned to retrace her steps to the road, a man walked out of the inner space enclosed by all that was left of the dismantled house. a cry of alarm escaped her. was she the victim of destiny, or the sport of chance? there was the wild lord whom she had vowed never to see again: the master of her heart--perhaps the master of her fate! any other man would have been amazed to see her, and would have asked how it had happened that the english lady presented herself to him in an irish wood. this man enjoyed the delight of seeing her, and accepted it as a blessing that was not to be questioned. "my angel has dropped from heaven," he said. "may heaven be praised!" he approached her; his arms closed round her. she struggled to free herself from his embrace. at that moment they both heard the crackle of breaking underwood among the trees behind them. lord harry looked round. "this is a dangerous place," he whispered; "i'm waiting to see arthur pass safely. submit to be kissed, or i am a dead man." his eyes told her that he was truly and fearfully in earnest. her head sank on his bosom. as he bent down and kissed her, three men approached from their hiding-place among the trees. they had no doubt been watching him, under orders from the murderous brotherhood to which they belonged. their pistols were ready in their hands--and what discovery had they made? there was the brother who had been denounced as having betrayed them, guilty of no worse treason than meeting his sweetheart in a wood! "we beg your pardon, my lord," they cried, with a thoroughly irish enjoyment of their own discomfiture--and burst into a roar of laughter--and left the lovers together. for the second time, iris had saved lord harry at a crisis in his life. "let me go!" she pleaded faintly, trembling with superstitious fear for the first time in her experience of herself. he held her to him as if he would never let her go again. "oh, my sweet, give me a last chance. help me to be a better man! you have only to will it, iris, and to make me worthy of you." his arms suddenly trembled round her, and dropped. the silence was broken by a distant sound, like the report of a shot. he looked towards the farther end of the wood. in a minute more, the thump of a horse's hoofs at a gallop was audible, where the bridlepath was hidden among the trees. it came nearer--nearer---the creature burst into view, wild with fright, and carrying an empty saddle. lord harry rushed into the path and seized the horse as it swerved at the sight of him. there was a leather pocket attached to the front of the saddle. "search it!" he cried to iris, forcing the terrified animal back on its haunches. she drew out a silver travelling-flask. one glance at the name engraved on it told him the terrible truth. his trembling hands lost their hold. the horse escaped; the words burst from his lips: "oh, god, they've killed him!" the end of the prologue the story first period chapter i the sour french wine while the line to be taken by the new railway between culm and everill was still under discussion, the engineer caused some difference of opinion among the moneyed men who were the first directors of the company, by asking if they proposed to include among their stations the little old town of honeybuzzard. for years past, commerce had declined, and population had decreased in this ancient and curious place. painters knew it well, and prized its mediaeval houses as a mine of valuable material for their art. persons of cultivated tastes, who were interested in church architecture of the fourteenth century, sometimes pleased and flattered the rector by subscribing to his fund for the restoration of the tower, and the removal of the accumulated rubbish of hundreds of years from the crypt. small speculators, not otherwise in a state of insanity, settled themselves in the town, and tried the desperate experiment of opening a shop; spent their little capital, put up the shutters, and disappeared. the old market-place still showed its list of market-law's, issued by the mayor and corporation in the prosperous bygone times; and every week there were fewer and fewer people to obey the laws. the great empty enclosure looked more cheerful, when there was no market held, and when the boys of the town played in the deserted place. in the last warehouse left in a state of repair, the crane was generally idle; the windows were mostly shut up; and a solitary man represented languishing trade, idling at a half-opened door. the muddy river rose and fell with the distant tide. at rare intervals a collier discharged its cargo on the mouldering quay, or an empty barge took in a load of hay. one bold house advertised, in a dirty window, apartments to let. there was a lawyer in the town, who had no occasion to keep a clerk; and there was a doctor who hoped to sell his practice for anything that it would fetch. the directors of the new railway, after a stormy meeting, decided on offering (by means of a station) a last chance of revival to the dying town. the town had not vitality enough left to be grateful; the railway stimulant produced no effect. of all his colleagues in great britain and ireland, the station-master at honeybuzzard was the idlest man--and this, as he said to the unemployed porter, through no want of energy on his own part. late on a rainy autumn afternoon, the slow train left one traveller at the station. he got out of a first-class carriage; he carried an umbrella and a travelling-bag; and he asked his way to the best inn. the station-master and the porter compared notes. one of them said: "evidently a gentleman." the other added: "what can he possibly want here?" the stranger twice lost his way in the tortuous old streets of the town before he reached the inn. on giving his orders, it appeared that he wanted three things: a private room, something to eat, and, while the dinner was being cooked, materials for writing a letter. answering her daughter's questions downstairs, the landlady described her guest as a nice-looking man dressed in deep mourning. "young, my dear, with beautiful dark brown hair, and a grand beard, and a sweet sorrowful look. ah, his eyes would tell anybody that his black clothes are not a mere sham. whether married or single, of course i can't say. but i noticed the name on his travelling-bag. a distinguished name in my opinion--hugh mountjoy. i wonder what he'll order to drink when he has his dinner? what a mercy it will be if we can get rid of another bottle of the sour french wine!" the bell in the private room rang at that moment; and the landlady's daughter, it is needless to say, took the opportunity of forming her own opinion of mr. hugh mountjoy. she returned with a letter in her hand, consumed by a vain longing for the advantages of gentle birth. "ah, mother, if i was a young lady of the higher classes, i know whose wife i should like to be!" not particularly interested in sentimental aspirations, the landlady asked to see mr. mountjoy's letter. the messenger who delivered it was to wait for an answer. it was addressed to: "miss henley, care of clarence vimpany, esquire, honeybuzzard." urged by an excited imagination, the daughter longed to see miss henley. the mother was at a loss to understand why mr. mountjoy should have troubled himself to write the letter at all. "if he knows the young lady who is staying at the doctor's house," she said, "why doesn't he call on miss henley?" she handed the letter back to her daughter. "there! let the ostler take it; he's got nothing to do." "no, mother. the ostler's dirty hands mustn't touch it--i'll take the letter myself. perhaps i may see miss henley." such was the impression which mr. hugh mountjoy had innocently produced on a sensitive young person, condemned by destiny to the barren sphere of action afforded by a country inn! the landlady herself took the dinner upstairs--a first course of mutton chops and potatoes, cooked to a degree of imperfection only attained in an english kitchen. the sour french wine was still on the good woman's mind. "what would you choose to drink, sir?" she asked. mr. mountjoy seemed to feel no interest in what he might have to drink. "we have some french wine, sir." "thank you, ma'am; that will do." when the bell rang again, and the time came to produce the second course of cheese and celery, the landlady allowed the waiter to take her place. her experience of the farmers who frequented the inn, and who had in some few cases been induced to taste the wine, warned her to anticipate an outbreak of just anger from mr. mountjoy. he, like the others, would probably ask what she "meant by poisoning him with such stuff as that." on the return of the waiter, she put the question: "did the gentleman complain of the french wine?" "he wants to see you about it, ma'am." the landlady turned pale. the expression of mr. mountjoy's indignation was evidently reserved for the mistress of the house. "did he swear," she asked, "when he tasted it?" "lord bless you, ma'am, no! drank it out of a tumbler, and--if you will believe me--actually seemed to like it." the landlady recovered her colour. gratitude to providence for having sent a customer to the inn, who could drink sour wine without discovering it, was the uppermost feeling in her ample bosom as she entered the private room. mr. mountjoy justified her anticipations. he was simple enough--with his tumbler before him, and the wine as it were under his nose--to begin with an apology. "i am sorry to trouble you, ma'am. may i ask where you got this wine?" "the wine, sir, was one of my late husband's bad debts. it was all he could get from a frenchman who owed him money." "it's worth money, ma'am." "indeed, sir?" "yes, indeed. this is some of the finest and purest claret that i have tasted for many a long day past." an alarming suspicion disturbed the serenity of the landlady's mind. was his extraordinary opinion of the wine sincere? or was it mr. mountjoy's wicked design to entrap her into praising her claret and then to imply that she was a cheat by declaring what he really thought of it? she took refuge in a cautious reply: "you are the first gentleman, sir, who has not found fault with it." "in that case, perhaps you would like to get rid of the wine?" mr. mountjoy suggested. the landlady was still cautious. "who will buy it of me, sir?" "i will. how much do you charge for it by the bottle?" it was, by this time, clear that he was not mischievous--only a little crazy. the worldly-wise hostess took advantage of that circumstance to double the price. without hesitation, she said: "five shillings a bottle, sir." often, too often, the irony of circumstances brings together, on this earthly scene, the opposite types of vice and virtue. a lying landlady and a guest incapable of deceit were looking at each other across a narrow table; equally unconscious of the immeasurable moral gulf that lay between them, influenced by honourable feeling, innocent hugh mountjoy lashed the landlady's greed for money to the full-gallop of human cupidity. "i don't think you are aware of the value of your wine," he said. "i have claret in my cellar which is not so good as this, and which costs more than you have asked. it is only fair to offer you seven-and-sixpence a bottle." when an eccentric traveller is asked to pay a price, and deliberately raises that price against himself, where is the sensible woman--especially if she happens to be a widow conducting an unprofitable business--who would hesitate to improve the opportunity? the greedy landlady raised her terms. "on reflection, sir, i think i ought to have ten shillings a bottle, if you please." "the wine may be worth it," mountjoy answered quietly; "but it is more than i can afford to pay. no, ma'am; i will leave you to find some lover of good claret with a longer purse than mine." it was in this man's character, when he said no, to mean no. mr. mountjoy's hostess perceived that her crazy customer was not to be trifled with. she lowered her terms again with the headlong hurry of terror. "you shall have it, sir, at your own price," said this entirely shameless and perfectly respectable woman. the bargain having been closed under these circumstances, the landlady's daughter knocked at the door. "i took your letter myself, sir," she said modestly; "and here is the answer." (she had seen miss henley, and did not think much of her.) mountjoy offered the expression of his thanks, in words never to be forgotten by a sensitive young person, and opened his letter. it was short enough to be read in a moment; but it was evidently a favourable reply. he took his hat in a hurry, and asked to be shown the way to mr. vimpany's house. chapter ii the man she refused mountjoy had decided on travelling to honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard that miss henley was staying with strangers in that town. having had no earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself unexpectedly at the doctor's house. how would she receive the devoted friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time, when they had last met in london? the doctor's place of residence, situated in a solitary by-street, commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. the door was opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger. without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. mountjoy mentioned his name, and asked for miss henley. the servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. some poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. the few books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "who reads these plays?" mountjoy asked himself. "and how did iris find her way into this house?" while he was thinking of her, miss henley entered the room. her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when mountjoy advanced to meet her. in his presence, the horror of his brother's death by assassination shook iris as it had not shaken her yet. impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "oh, hugh, i know how you and arthur loved each other! no words of mine can say how i feel for you." "no words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "your sympathy speaks for itself." he led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "your father has shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from dublin and your second letter from this place. i know what you have so nobly risked and suffered in poor arthur's interests. it will be some consolation to me if i can make a return--a very poor return, iris--for all that arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had. no," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude. "your father has not sent me here--but he knows that i have left london for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. you have written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for pardon and reconciliation, when he is to blame. shall i venture to tell you how he answered me, when i asked if he had no faith left in his own child? 'hugh,' he said, 'you are wasting words on a man whose mind is made up. i will trust my daughter when that irish lord is laid in his grave--not before.' that is a reflection on you, iris, which i cannot permit, even when your father casts it. he is hard, he is unforgiving; but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. i mean to make him do you justice; i have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in view. may i speak to you of lord harry?" "how can you doubt it!" "my dear, this is a delicate subject for me to enter on." "and a shameful subject for me!" iris broke out bitterly. "hugh! you are an angel, by comparison with that man--how debased i must be to love him--how unworthy of your good opinion! ask me anything you like; have no mercy on me. oh," she cried, with reckless contempt for herself, "why don't you beat me? i deserve it!" mountjoy was well enough acquainted with the natures of women to pass over that passionate outbreak, instead of fanning the flame in her by reasoning and remonstrance. "your father will not listen to the expression of feeling," he continued; "but it is possible to rouse his sense of justice by the expression of facts. help me to speak to him more plainly of lord harry than you could speak in your letters. i want to know what has happened, from the time when events at ardoon brought you and the young lord together again, to the time when you left him in ireland after my brother's death. if i seem to expect too much of you, iris, pray remember that i am speaking with a true regard for your interests." in those words, he made his generous appeal to her. she proved herself to be worthy of it. stated briefly, the retrospect began with the mysterious anonymous letters which had been addressed to sir giles. lord harry's explanation had been offered to iris gratefully, but with some reserve, after she had told him who the stranger at the milestone really was. "i entreat you to pardon me, if i shrink from entering into particulars," he had said. "circumstances, at the time, amply justified me in the attempt to use the banker's political influence as a means of securing arthur's safety. i knew enough of sir giles's mean nature to be careful in trusting him; but i did hope to try what my personal influence might do. if he had possessed a tenth part of your courage, arthur might have been alive, and safe in england, at this moment. i can't say any more; i daren't say any more; it maddens me when i think of it!" he abruptly changed the subject, and interested iris by speaking of other and later events. his association with the invincibles--inexcusably rash and wicked as he himself confessed it to be--had enabled him to penetrate, and for a time to defeat secretly, the murderous designs of the brotherhood. his appearances, first at the farmhouse and afterwards at the ruin in the wood were referable to changes in the plans of the assassins which had come to his knowledge. when iris had met with him he was on the watch, believing that his friend would take the short way back through the wood, and well aware that his own life might pay the penalty if he succeeded in warning arthur. after the terrible discovery of the murder (committed on the high road), and the escape of the miscreant who had been guilty of the crime, the parting of lord harry and miss henley had been the next event. she had left him, on her return to england, and had refused to consent to any of the future meetings between them which he besought her to grant. at this stage in the narrative, mountjoy felt compelled to ask questions more searching than he had put to iris yet. it was possible that she might be trusting her own impressions of lord harry, with the ill-placed confidence of a woman innocently self-deceived. "did he submit willingly to your leaving him?" mountjoy said. "not at first," she replied. "has he released you from that rash engagement, of some years since, which pledged you to marry him?" "no." "did he allude to the engagement, on this occasion?" "he said he held to it as the one hope of his life." "and what did you say?" "i implored him not to distress me." "did you say nothing more positive than that?" "i couldn't help thinking, hugh, of all that he had tried to do to save arthur. but i insisted on leaving him--and i have left him." "do you remember what he said at parting?" "he said, 'while i live, i love you.'" as she repeated the words, there was an involuntary change to tenderness in her voice which was not lost on mountjoy. "i must be sure," he said to her gravely, "of what i tell your father when i go back to him. can i declare, with a safe conscience, that you will never see lord harry again?" "my mind is made up never to see him again." she had answered firmly so far. her next words were spoken with hesitation, in tones that faltered. "but i am sometimes afraid," she said, "that the decision may not rest with me." "what do you mean?" "i would rather not tell you." "that is a strange answer, iris." "i value your good opinion, hugh, and i am afraid of losing it." "nothing has ever altered my opinion of you," he replied, "and nothing ever will." she looked at him anxiously, with the closest attention. little by little, the expression of doubt in her face disappeared; she knew how he loved her--she resolved to trust him. "my friend," she began abruptly, "education has done nothing for me. since i left ireland, i have sunk (i don't know how or why) into a state of superstitious fear. yes! i believe in a fatality which is leading me back to lord harry, in spite of myself. twice already, since i left home, i have met with him; and each time i have been the means of saving him--once at the milestone, and once at the ruin in the wood. if my father still accuses me of being in love with an adventurer, you can say with perfect truth that i am afraid of him. i _am_ afraid of the third meeting. i have done my best to escape from that man; and, step by step, as i think i am getting away, destiny is taking me back to him. i may be on my way to him here, hidden in this wretched little town. oh, don't despise me! don't be ashamed of me!" "my dear, i am interested--deeply interested in you. that there may be some such influence as destiny in our poor mortal lives, i dare not deny. but i don't agree with your conclusion. what destiny has to do with you and with me, neither you nor i can pretend to know beforehand. in the presence of that great mystery, humanity must submit to be ignorant. wait, iris--wait!" she answered him with the simplicity of a docile child: "i will do anything you tell me." mountjoy was too fond of her to say more of lord harry, for that day. he was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to provoke no agitating thoughts. finding iris to all appearance established in the doctor's house, he was naturally anxious to know something of the person who must have invited her--the doctor's wife. chapter iii the registered packet mountjoy began by alluding to the second of miss henley's letters to her father, and to a passage in it which mentioned mrs. vimpany with expressions of the sincerest gratitude. "i should like to know more," he said, "of a lady whose hospitality at home seems to equal her kindness as a fellow-traveller. did you first meet with her on the railway?" "she travelled by the same train to dublin, with me and my maid, but not in the same carriage," iris answered; "i was so fortunate as to meet with her on the voyage from dublin to holyhead. we had a rough crossing; and rhoda suffered so dreadfully from sea-sickness that she frightened me. the stewardess was attending to ladies who were calling for her in all directions; i really don't know what misfortune might not have happened, if mrs. vimpany had not come forward in the kindest manner, and offered help. she knew so wonderfully well what was to be done, that she astonished me. 'i am the wife of a doctor,' she said; 'and i am only imitating what i have seen my husband do, when his assistance has been required, at sea, in weather like this.' in her poor state of health, rhoda was too much exhausted to go on by the train, when we got to holyhead. she is the best of good girls, and i am fond of her, as you know. if i had been by myself, i daresay i should have sent for medical help. what do you think dear mrs. vimpany offered to do? 'your maid is only faint,' she said. 'give her rest and some iced wine, and she will be well enough to go on by the slow train. don't be frightened about her; i will wait with you.' and she did wait. are there many strangers, hugh, who are as unselfishly good to others as my chance-acquaintance in the steamboat?" "very few, i am afraid." mountjoy made that reply with some little embarrassment; conscious of a doubt of mrs. vimpany's disinterested kindness, which seemed to be unworthy of a just man. iris went on. "rhoda was sufficiently recovered," she said, "to travel by the next train, and there seemed to be no reason for feeling any more anxiety. but, after a time, the fatigue of the journey proved to be too much for her. the poor girl turned pale--and fainted. mrs. vimpany revived her, but as it turned out, only for a while. she fell into another fainting fit; and my travelling-companion began to look anxious. there was some difficulty in restoring rhoda to her senses. in dread of another attack, i determined to stop at the next station. it looked such a poor place, when we got to it, that i hesitated. mrs. vimpany persuaded me to go on. the next station, she said, was _her_ station. 'stop there,' she suggested, 'and let my husband look at the girl. i ought not perhaps to say it, but you will find no better medical man out of london.' i took the good creature's advice gratefully. what else could i do?" "what would you have done," mountjoy inquired, "if rhoda had been strong enough to get to the end of the journey?" "i should have gone on to london, and taken refuge in a lodging--you were in town, as i believed, and my father might relent in time. as it was, i felt my lonely position keenly. to meet with kind people, like mr. vimpany and his wife, was a real blessing to such a friendless creature as i am--to say nothing of the advantage to rhoda, who is getting better every day. i should like you to see mrs. vimpany, if she is at home. she is a little formal and old fashioned in her manner--but i am sure you will be pleased with her. ah! you look round the room! they are poor, miserably poor for persons in their position, these worthy friends of mine. i have had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to let me contribute my share towards the household expenses. they only yielded when i threatened to go to the inn. you are looking very serious, hugh. is it possible that you see some objection to my staying in this house?" the drawing-room door was softly opened, at the moment when iris put that question. a lady appeared on the threshold. seeing the stranger, she turned to iris. "i didn't know, dear miss henley, that you had a visitor. pray pardon my intrusion." the voice was deep; the articulation was clear; the smile presented a certain modest dignity which gave it a value of its own. this was a woman who could make such a commonplace thing as an apology worth listening to. iris stopped her as she was about to leave the room. "i was just wishing for you," she said. "let me introduce my old friend, mr. mountjoy. hugh, this is the lady who has been so kind to me--mrs. vimpany." hugh's impulse, under the circumstances, was to dispense with the formality of a bow, and to shake hands. mrs. vimpany met this friendly advance with a suavity of action, not often seen in these days of movement without ceremony. she was a tall slim woman, of a certain age. art had so cleverly improved her complexion that it almost looked like nature. her cheeks had lost the plumpness of youth, but her hair (thanks again perhaps to art) showed no signs of turning grey. the expression of her large dark eyes--placed perhaps a little too near her high aquiline nose--claimed admiration from any person who was so fortunate as to come within their range of view. her hands, long, yellow, and pitiably thin, were used with a grace which checked to some extent their cruel betrayal of her age. her dress had seen better days, but it was worn with an air which forbade it to look actually shabby. the faded lace that encircled her neck fell in scanty folds over her bosom. she sank into a chair by hugh's side. "it was a great pleasure to me, mr. mountjoy, to offer my poor services to miss henley; i can't tell you how happy her presence makes me in our little house." the compliment was addressed to iris with every advantage that smiles and tones could offer. oddly artificial as it undoubtedly was, mrs. vimpany's manner produced nevertheless an agreeable impression. disposed to doubt her at first, mountjoy found that she was winning her way to a favourable change in his opinion. she so far interested him, that he began to wonder what her early life might have been, when she was young and handsome. he looked again at the portraits of actresses on the walls, and the plays on the bookshelf--and then (when she was speaking to iris) he stole a sly glance at the doctor's wife. was it possible that this remarkable woman had once been an actress? he attempted to put the value of that guess to the test by means of a complimentary allusion to the prints. "my memory as a playgoer doesn't extend over many years," he began; "but i can appreciate the historical interest of your beautiful prints." mrs. vimpany bowed gracefully--and dumbly. mountjoy tried again. "one doesn't often see the famous actresses of past days," he proceeded, "so well represented on the walls of an english house." this time, he had spoken to better purpose. mrs. vimpany answered him in words. "i have many pleasant associations with the theatre," she said, "first formed in the time of my girlhood." mountjoy waited to hear something more. nothing more was said. perhaps this reticent lady disliked looking back through a long interval of years, or perhaps she had her reasons for leaving mountjoy's guess at the truth still lost in doubt. in either case, she deliberately dropped the subject. iris took it up. sitting by the only table in the room, she was in a position which placed her exactly opposite to one of the prints--the magnificent portrait of mrs. siddons as the tragic muse. "i wonder if mrs. siddons was really as beautiful as that?" she said, pointing to the print. "sir joshua reynolds is reported to have sometimes flattered his sitters." mrs. vimpany's solemn self-possessed eyes suddenly brightened; the name of the great actress seemed to interest her. on the point, apparently, of speaking, she dropped the subject of mrs. siddons as she had dropped the subject of the theatre. mountjoy was left to answer iris. "we are none of us old enough," he reminded her, "to decide whether sir joshua's brush has been guilty of flattery or not." he turned to mrs. vimpany, and attempted to look into her life from a new point of view. "when miss henley was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance," he said, "you were travelling in ireland. was it your first visit to that unhappy country?" "i have been more than once in ireland." having again deliberately disappointed mountjoy, she was assisted in keeping clear of the subject of ireland by a fortunate interruption. it was the hour of delivery by the afternoon-post. the servant came in with a small sealed packet, and a slip of printed paper in her hand. "it's registered, ma'am," the woman announced. "the postman says you are to please sign this. and he seems to be in a hurry." she placed the packet and the slip of paper on the table, near the inkstand. having signed the receipt, mrs. vimpany took up the packet, and examined the address. she instantly looked at iris, and looked away again. "will you excuse me for a moment?" saying this she left the room, without opening the packet. the moment the door closed on her, iris started up, and hurried to mountjoy. "oh, hugh," she said, "i saw the address on that packet when the servant put it on the table!" "my dear, what is there to excite you in the address?" "don't speak so loud! she may be listening outside the door." not only the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, amazed mountjoy. "your friend, mrs. vimpany!" he exclaimed. "mrs. vimpany was afraid to open the packet in our presence," iris went on: "you must have seen that. the handwriting is familiar to me; i am certain of the person who wrote the address." "well? and who is the person?" she whispered in his ear: "lord harry." chapter iv the game: mountjoy loses surprise silenced hugh for the moment. iris understood the look that he fixed on her, and answered it. "i am quite sure," she told him, "of what i say." mountjoy's well-balanced mind hesitated at rushing to a conclusion. "i am sure you are convinced of what you tell me," he said. "but mistakes do sometimes happen in forming a judgment of handwriting." in the state of excitement that now possessed her, iris was easily irritated; she was angry with hugh for only supposing that she might have made a mistake. he had himself, as she reminded him, seen lord harry's handwriting in past days. was it possible to be mistaken in those bold thickly-written characters, with some of the letters so quaintly formed? "oh, hugh, i am miserable enough as it is," she broke out; "don't distract me by disputing what i know! think of a woman so kind, so disinterested, so charming--the very opposite of a false creature--think of mrs. vimpany having deceived me!" there was not the slightest reason, thus far, for placing that interpretation on what had happened. mountjoy gently, very gently, remonstrated. "my dear, we really don't know yet that mrs. vimpany has been acting under lord harry's instructions. wait a little before you suspect your fellow-traveller of offering her services for the purpose of deceiving you." iris was angry with him again: "why did mrs. vimpany never tell me she knew lord harry? isn't that suspicious?" mountjoy smiled. "let me put a question on my side," he said. "did _you_ tell mrs. vimpany you knew lord harry?" iris made no reply; her face spoke for her. "well, then," he urged, "is _your_ silence suspicious? i am far, mind, from saying that this may not be a very unpleasant discovery. only let us be sure first that we are right." with most of a woman's merits, miss henley had many of a woman's faults. still holding to her own conclusion, she asked how they could expect to be sure of anything if they addressed their inquiries to a person who had already deceived them. mountjoy's inexhaustible indulgence still made allowances for her. "when mrs. vimpany comes back," he said, "i will find an opportunity of mentioning lord harry's name. if she tells us that she knows him, there will be good reason in that one circumstance, as it seems to me, for continuing to trust her." "suppose she shams ignorance," iris persisted, "and looks as if she had never heard of his name before?" "in that case, i shall own that i was wrong, and shall ask you to forgive me." the finer and better nature of iris recovered its influence at these words. "it is i who ought to beg pardon," she said. "oh, i wish i could think before i speak: how insolent and ill-tempered i have been! but suppose i turn out to be right, hugh, what will you do then?" "then, my dear, it will be my duty to take you and your maid away from this house, and to tell your father what serious reasons there are"---- he abruptly checked himself. mrs. vimpany had returned; she was in perfect possession of her lofty courtesy, sweetened by the modest dignity of her smile. "i have left you, miss henley, in such good company," she said, with a gracious inclination of her head in the direction of mountjoy, "that i need hardly repeat my apologies--unless, indeed, i am interrupting a confidential conversation." it was possible that iris might have betrayed herself, when the doctor's wife had looked at her after examining the address on the packet. in this case mrs. vimpany's allusion to "a confidential conversation" would have operated as a warning to a person of experience in the by-ways of deceit. mountjoy's utmost exertion of cunning was not capable of protecting him on such conditions as these. the opportunity of trying his proposed experiment with lord harry's name seemed to have presented itself already. he rashly seized on it. "you have interrupted nothing that was confidential," he hastened to assure mrs. vimpany. "we have been speaking of a reckless young gentleman, who is an acquaintance of ours. if what i hear is true, he has already become public property; his adventures have found their way into some of the newspapers." here, if mrs. vimpany had answered hugh's expectations, she ought to have asked who the young gentleman was. she merely listened in polite silence. with a woman's quickness of perception, iris saw that mountjoy had not only pounced on his opportunity prematurely, but had spoken with a downright directness of allusion which must at once have put such a ready-witted person as mrs. vimpany on her guard. in trying to prevent him from pursuing his unfortunate experiment in social diplomacy, iris innocently repeated mountjoy's own mistake. she, too, seized her opportunity prematurely. that is to say, she was rash enough to change the subject. "you were talking just now, hugh, of our friend's adventures," she said; "i am afraid you will find yourself involved in an adventure of no very agreeable kind, if you engage a bed at the inn. i never saw a more wretched-looking place." it was one of mrs. vimpany's many merits that she seldom neglected an opportunity of setting her friends at their ease. "no, no, dear miss henley," she hastened to say; "the inn is really a more clean and comfortable place than you suppose. a hard bed and a scarcity of furniture are the worst evils which your friend has to fear. do you know," she continued, addressing herself to mountjoy, "that i was reminded of a friend of mine, when you spoke just now of the young gentleman whose adventures are in the newspapers. is it possible that you referred to the brother of the present earl of norland? a handsome young irishman--with whom i first became acquainted many years since. am i right in supposing that you and miss henley know lord harry?" she asked. what more than this could an unprejudiced mind require? mrs. vimpany had set herself right with a simplicity that defied suspicion. iris looked at mountjoy. he appeared to know when he was beaten. having acknowledged that lord harry was the young gentleman of whom he and miss henley had been speaking, he rose to take leave. after what had passed, iris felt the necessity of speaking privately to hugh. the necessary excuse presented itself in the remote situation of the inn. "you will never find your way back," she said, "through the labyrinth of crooked streets in this old town. wait for me a minute, and i will be your guide." mrs. vimpany protested. "my dear! let the servant show the way." iris held gaily to her resolution, and ran away to her room. mrs. vimpany yielded with her best grace. miss henley's motive could hardly have been plainer to her, if miss henley had confessed it herself. "what a charming girl!" the doctor's amiable wife said to mountjoy, when they were alone. "if i were a man, miss iris is just the young lady that i should fall in love with." she looked significantly at mountjoy. nothing came of it. she went on: "miss henley must have had many opportunities of being married; but the right man has, i fear, not yet presented himself." once more her eloquent eyes consulted mountjoy, and once more nothing came of it. some women are easily discouraged. impenetrable mrs. vimpany was one of the other women; she had not done with mountjoy yet--she invited him to dinner on the next day. "our early hour is three o'clock," she said modestly. "pray join us. i hope to have the pleasure of introducing my husband." mountjoy had his reasons for wishing to see the husband. as he accepted the invitation, miss henley returned to accompany him to the inn. iris put the inevitable question to hugh as soon as they were out of the doctor's house--"what do you say of mrs. vimpany now?" "i say that she must have been once an actress," mountjoy answered; "and that she carries her experience of the stage into private life." "what do you propose to do next?" "i propose to wait, and see mrs. vimpany's husband to-morrow." "why?" "mrs. vimpany, my dear, is too clever for me. if--observe, please, that i do her the justice of putting it in that way--if she is really lord harry's creature, employed to keep watch on you, and to inform him of your next place of residence in england, i own that she has completely deceived me. in that case, it is just possible that the husband is not such a finished and perfect humbug as the wife. i may be able to see through him. i can but try." iris sighed. "i almost hope you may not succeed," she said. mountjoy was puzzled, and made no attempt to conceal it. "i thought you only wanted to get at the truth," he answered. "my mind might be easier, perhaps, if i was left in doubt," she suggested. "a perverse way of thinking has set up my poor opinion against yours. but i am getting back to my better sense. i believe you were entirely right when you tried to prevent me from rushing to conclusions; it is more than likely that i have done mrs. vimpany an injustice. oh, hugh, i ought to keep a friend--i who have so few friends--when i have got one! and there is another feeling in me which i must not conceal from you. when i remember lord harry's noble conduct in trying to save poor arthur, i cannot believe him capable of such hateful deceit as consenting to our separation, and then having me secretly watched by a spy. what monstrous inconsistency! can anybody believe it? can anybody account for it?" "i think i can account for it, iris, if you will let me make the attempt. you are mistaken to begin with." "how am i mistaken?" "you shall see. there is no such creature as a perfectly consistent human being on the face of the earth--and, strange as it may seem to you, the human beings themselves are not aware of it. the reason for this curious state of things is not far to seek. how can people who are ignorant--as we see every day--of their own characters be capable of correctly estimating the characters of others? even the influence of their religion fails to open their eyes to the truth. in the prayer which is the most precious possession of christendom, their lips repeat the entreaty that they may not be led into temptation--but their minds fail to draw the inference. if that pathetic petition means anything, it means that virtuous men and women are capable of becoming vicious men and women, if a powerful temptation puts them to the test. every sunday, devout members of the congregation in church--models of excellence in their own estimation, and in the estimation of their neighbours--declare that they have done those things which they ought not to have done, and that there is no health in them. will you believe that they are encouraged by their prayer-books to present this sad exposure of the frailty of their own admirable characters? how inconsistent--and yet how entirely true! lord harry, as you rightly say, behaved nobly in trying to save my dear lost brother. he ought, as you think, and as other people think, to be consistently noble, after that, in all his thoughts and actions, to the end of his life. suppose that temptation does try him--such temptation, iris, as you innocently present--why doesn't he offer a superhuman resistance? you might as well ask, why is he a mortal man? how inconsistent, how improbable, that he should have tendencies to evil in him, as well as tendencies to good! ah, i see you don't like this. it would be infinitely more agreeable (wouldn't it?) if lord harry was one of the entirely consistent characters which are sometimes presented in works of fiction. our good english readers are charmed with the man, the woman, or the child, who is introduced to them by the kind novelist as a being without faults. do they stop to consider whether this is a true picture of humanity? it would be a terrible day for the book if they ever did that. but the book is in no danger. the readers would even fail to discover the falseness of the picture, if they were presented to themselves as perfect characters. 'we mustn't say so, but how wonderfully like us!' there would be the only impression produced. i am not trying to dishearten you; i want to encourage you to look at humanity from a wider and truer point of view. do not be too readily depressed, if you find your faith shaken in a person whom you have hitherto believed to be good. that person has been led into temptation. wait till time shows you that the evil influence is not everlasting, and that the good influence will inconsistently renew your faith out of the very depths of your despair. humanity, in general, is neither perfectly good nor perfectly wicked: take it as you find it. is this a hard lesson to learn? well! it's easy to do what other people do, under similar circumstances. listen to the unwelcome truth to-day, my dear; and forget it to-morrow." they parted at the door of the inn. chapter v the game: mountjoy plays a new card mr. vimpany (of the college of surgeons) was a burly man, heavily built from head to foot. his bold round eyes looked straight at his fellow-creatures with an expression of impudent good humour; his whiskers were bushy, his hands were big, his lips were thick, his legs were solid. add to this a broad sunburnt face, and a grey coat with wide tails, a waistcoat with a check pattern, and leather riding-gaiters--and no stranger could have failed to mistake mr. vimpany for a farmer of the old school. he was proud of the false impression that he created. "nature built me to be a farmer," he used to say. "but my poor foolish old mother was a lady by birth, and she insisted on her son being a professional man. i hadn't brains for the law, or money for the army, or morals for the church. and here i am a country doctor--the one representative of slavery left in the nineteenth century. you may not believe me, but i never see a labourer at the plough that i don't envy him." this was the husband of the elegant lady with the elaborate manners. this was the man who received mountjoy with a "glad to see you, sir," and a shake of the hand that hurt him. "coarse fare," said mr. vimpany, carving a big joint of beef; "but i can't afford anything better. only a pudding to follow, and a glass of glorious old sherry. miss henley is good enough to excuse it--and my wife's used to it--and you will put up with it, mr. mountjoy, if you are half as amiable as you look. i'm an old-fashioned man. the pleasure of a glass of wine with you, sir." hugh's first experience of the "glorious old sherry" led him to a discovery, which proved to be more important than he was disposed to consider it at the moment. he merely observed, with some amusement, that mr. vimpany smacked his lips in hearty approval of the worst sherry that his guest had ever tasted. here, plainly self-betrayed, was a medical man who was an exception to a general rule in the profession--here was a doctor ignorant of the difference between good wine and bad! both the ladies were anxious to know how mountjoy had passed the night at the inn. he had only time to say that there was nothing to complain of, when mr. vimpany burst into an explosion of laughter. "oh, but you must have had something to complain of!" said the big doctor. "i would bet a hundred, if i could afford it, that the landlady tried to poison you with her sour french wine." "do you speak of the claret at the inn, after having tasted it?" mountjoy asked. "what do you take me for?" cried mr. vimpany. "after all i have heard of that claret, i am not fool enough to try it myself, i can tell you." mountjoy received this answer in silence. the doctor's ignorance and the doctor's prejudice, in the matter of wine, had started a new train of thought in hugh's mind, which threatened serious consequences to mr. vimpany himself. there was a pause at the table; nobody spoke. the doctor saw condemnation of his rudeness expressed in his wife's face. he made a rough apology to mountjoy, who was still preoccupied. "no offence, i hope? it's in the nature of me, sir, to speak my mind. if i could fawn and flatter, i should have got on better in my profession. i'm what they call a rough diamond. no, offence, i say?" "none whatever, mr. vimpany." "that's right! try another glass of sherry." mountjoy took the sherry. iris looked at him, lost in surprise. it was unlike hugh to be interested in a stranger's opinion of wine. it was unlike him to drink wine which was evidently not to his taste. and it was especially unlike his customary courtesy to let himself fall into thought at dinner-time, when there were other persons at the table. was he ill? impossible to look at him, and not see that he was in perfect health. what did it mean? finding mountjoy inattentive, mr. vimpany addressed himself to iris. "i had to ride hard, miss henley, to get home in time for dinner. there are patients, i must tell you, who send for the doctor, and then seem to think they know more about it than the very man whom they have called in to cure them. it isn't he who tells them what their illness is; it's they who tell him. they dispute about the medical treatment that's best for them, and the one thing they are never tired of doing is talking about their symptoms. it was an old man's gabble that kept me late to-day. however, the squire, as they call him in these parts, is a patient with a long purse; i am obliged to submit." "a gentleman of the old school, dear miss henley," mrs. vimpany explained. "immensely rich. is he better?" she asked, turning to her husband. "better?" cried the outspoken doctor. "pooh! there's nothing the matter with him but gluttony. he went to london, and consulted a great man, a humbug with a handle to his name. the famous physician got rid of him in no time--sent him abroad to boil himself in foreign baths. he came home again worse than ever, and consulted poor me. i found him at dinner--a perfect feast, i give you my word of honour!--and the old fool gorging himself till he was black in the face. his wine, i should have said, was not up to the mark; wanted body and flavour, you know. ah, mr. mountjoy, this seems to interest you; reminds you of the landlady's wine--eh? well, sir, how do you think i treated the squire? emptied his infirm old inside with an emetic--and there he was on his legs again. whenever he overeats himself he sends for me; and pays liberally. i ought to be grateful to him, and i am. upon my soul, i believe i should be in the bankruptcy court but for the squire's stomach. look at my wife! she's shocked at me. we ought to keep up appearances, my dear? not i! when i am poor, i say i am poor. when i cure a patient, i make no mystery of it; everybody's welcome to know how it's done. don't be down-hearted, arabella; nature never meant your husband for a doctor, and there's the long and the short of it. another glass of sherry, mr. mountjoy?" all social ceremonies--including the curious english custom which sends the ladies upstairs, after dinner, and leaves the gentlemen at the table--found a devoted adherent in mrs. vimpany. she rose as if she had been presiding at a banquet, and led miss henley affectionately to the drawing-room. iris glanced at hugh. no; his mind was not at ease yet; the preoccupied look had not left his face. jovial mr. vimpany pushed the bottle across the table to his guest, and held out a handful of big black cigars. "now for the juice of the grape," he cried, "and the best cigar in all england!" he had just filled his glass, and struck a light for his cigar, when the servant came in with a note. some men relieve their sense of indignation in one way, and some in another. the doctor's form of relief was an oath. "talk about slavery!" he shouted. "find me such a slave in all africa as a man in my profession. there isn't an hour of the day or night that he can call his own. here's a stupid old woman with an asthma, who has got another spasmodic attack--and i must leave my dinner-table and my friend, just as we are enjoying ourselves. i have half a mind not to go." the inattentive guest suddenly set himself right in his host's estimation. hugh remonstrated with an appearance of interest in the case, which the doctor interpreted as a compliment to himself: "oh, mr. vimpany, humanity! humanity!" "oh, mr. mountjoy, money! money!" the facetious doctor answered. "the old lady is our mayor's mother, sir. you don't seem to be quick at taking a joke. make your mind easy; i shall pocket my fee." as soon as he had closed the door, hugh mountjoy uttered a devout ejaculation. "thank god!" he said--and walked up and down the room, free to think without interruption at last. the subject of his meditations was the influence of intoxication in disclosing the hidden weaknesses and vices of a man's character by exhibiting them just as they are, released from the restraint which he exercises over himself when he is sober. that there was a weak side, and probably a vicious side, in mr. vimpany's nature it was hardly possible to doubt. his blustering good humour, his audacious self-conceit, the tones of his voice, the expression in his eyes, all revealed him (to use one expressive word) as a humbug. let drink subtly deprive him of his capacity for self-concealment! and the true nature of his wife's association with lord harry might sooner or later show itself--say, in after-dinner talk, under skilful management. the right method of entrapping him into a state of intoxication (which might have presented serious difficulties under other circumstances) was suggested, partly by his ignorance of the difference between good wine and bad, and partly by mountjoy's knowledge of the excellent quality of the landlady's claret. he had recognised, as soon as he tasted it, that finest vintage of bordeaux, which conceals its true strength--to a gross and ignorant taste--under the exquisite delicacy of its flavour. encourage mr. vimpany by means of a dinner at the inn, to give his opinion as a man whose judgment in claret was to be seriously consulted--and permit him also to discover that hugh was rich enough to have been able to buy the wine--and the attainment of the end in view would be simply a question of time. there was certainly the chance to be reckoned with, that his thick head might prove to be too strong for the success of the experiment. mountjoy determined to try it, and did try it nevertheless. mr. vimpany returned from his medical errand, thoroughly well satisfied with himself. "the mayor's mother has reason to thank you, sir," he announced. "if you hadn't hurried me away, the wretched old creature would have been choked. a regular stand-up fight, by jupiter, between death and the doctor!--and the doctor has won! give me the reward of merit. pass the bottle." he took up the decanter, and looked at it. "why, what have you been about?" he asked. "i made up my mind that i should want the key of the cellar when i came back, and i don't believe you have drunk a drop in my absence. what does it mean?" "it means that i am not worthy of your sherry," mountjoy answered. "the spanish wines are too strong for my weak digestion." mr. vimpany burst into one of his explosions of laughter. "you miss the landlady's vinegar--eh?" "yes, i do! wait a minute, doctor; i have a word to say on my side--and, like you, i mean what i say. the landlady's vinegar is some of the finest chateau margaux i have ever met with--thrown away on ignorant people who are quite unworthy of it." the doctor's natural insolence showed itself. "you have bought this wonderful wine, of course?" he said satirically. "that," mountjoy answered, "is just what i have done." for once in his life, mr. vimpany's self-sufficient readiness of speech failed him. he stared at his guest in dumb amazement. on this occasion, mountjoy improved the opportunity to good purpose. mr. vimpany accepted with the utmost readiness an invitation to dine on the next day at the inn. but he made a condition. "in case i don't agree with you about that chateau--what-you-call-it," he said, "you won't mind my sending home for a bottle of sherry?" the next event of the day was a visit to the most interesting monument of antiquity in the town. in the absence of the doctor, caused by professional engagements, miss henley took mountjoy to see the old church--and mrs. vimpany accompanied them, as a mark of respect to miss henley's friend. when there was a chance of being able to speak confidentially, iris was eager in praising the doctor's wife. "you can't imagine, hugh, how agreeable she has been, and how entirely she has convinced me that i was wrong, shamefully wrong, in thinking of her as i did. she sees that you dislike her, and yet she speaks so nicely of you. 'your clever friend enjoys your society,' she said; 'pray accompany me when i take him to see the church.' how unselfish!" mountjoy kept his own counsel. the generous impulses which sometimes led iris astray were, as he well knew, beyond the reach of remonstrance. his own opinion of mrs. vimpany still pronounced steadily against her. prepared for discoveries, on the next day, which might prove too serious to be trifled with, he now did his best to provide for future emergencies. after first satisfying himself that there was nothing in the present state of the maid's health which need detain her mistress at honeybuzzard, he next completed his preparations by returning to the inn, and writing to mr. henley. with strict regard to truth, his letter presented the daughter's claim on the father under a new point of view. whatever the end of it might be, mr. henley was requested to communicate his intentions by telegraph. will you receive iris? was the question submitted. the answer expected was: yes or no. chapter vi the game: mountjoy wins mr. henley's telegram arrived at the inn the next morning. he was willing to receive his daughter, but not unreservedly. the message was characteristic of the man: "yes--on trial." mountjoy was not shocked, was not even surprised. he knew that the successful speculations, by means of which mr. henley had accumulated his wealth, had raised against him enemies, who had spread scandalous reports which had never been completely refuted. the silent secession of friends, in whose fidelity he trusted, had hardened the man's heart and embittered his nature. strangers in distress, who appealed to the rich retired merchant for help, found in their excellent references to character the worst form of persuasion that they could have adopted. paupers without a rag of reputation left to cover them, were the objects of charity whom mr. henley relieved. when he was asked to justify his conduct, he said: "i have a sympathy with bad characters---i am one of them myself." with the arrival of the dinner hour the doctor appeared, in no very amiable humour, at the inn. "another hard day's work," he said; "i should sink under it, if i hadn't a prospect of getting rid of my practice here. london--or the neighbourhood of london--there's the right place for a man like me. well? where's the wonderful wine? mind! i'm tom-tell-truth; if i don't like your french tipple, i shall say so." the inn possessed no claret glasses; they drank the grand wine in tumblers as if it had been vin ordinaire. mr. vimpany showed that he was acquainted with the formalities proper to the ceremony of tasting. he filled his makeshift glass, he held it up to the light, and looked at the wine severely; he moved the tumbler to and fro under his nose, and smelt at it again and again; he paused and reflected; he tasted the claret as cautiously as if he feared it might be poisoned; he smacked his lips, and emptied his glass at a draught; lastly, he showed some consideration for his host's anxiety, and pronounced sentence on the wine. "not so good as you think it, sir. but nice light claret; clean and wholesome. i hope you haven't given too much for it?" thus far, hugh had played a losing game patiently. his reward had come at last. after what the doctor had just said to him, he saw the winning card safe in his own hand. the bad dinner was soon over. no soup, of course; fish, in the state of preservation usually presented by a decayed country town; steak that rivalled the toughness of india-rubber; potatoes whose aspect said, "stranger, don't eat us"; pudding that would have produced a sense of discouragement, even in the mind of a child; and the famous english cheese which comes to us, oddly enough, from the united states, and stings us vindictively when we put it into our mouths. but the wine, the glorious wine, would have made amends to anybody but mr. vimpany for the woeful deficiencies of the food. tumbler-full after tumbler-full of that noble vintage poured down his thirsty and ignorant throat; and still he persisted in declaring that it was nice light stuff, and still he unforgivingly bore in mind the badness of the dinner. "the feeding here," said this candid man, "is worse if possible than the feeding at sea, when i served as doctor on board a passenger-steamer. shall i tell you how i lost my place? oh, say so plainly, if you don't think my little anecdote worth listening to!" "my dear sir, i am waiting to hear it." "very good. no offence, i hope? that's right! well, sir, the captain of the ship complained of me to the owners; i wouldn't go round, every morning, and knock at the ladies' cabin-doors, and ask how they felt after a sea-sick night. who doesn't know what they feel, without knocking at their doors? let them send for the doctor when they want him. that was how i understood my duty; and there was the line of conduct that lost me my place. pass the wine. talking of ladies, what do you think of my wife? did you ever see such distinguished manners before? my dear fellow, i have taken a fancy to you. shake hands. i'll tell you another little anecdote. where do you think my wife picked up her fashionable airs and graces? ho! ho! on the stage! the highest branch of the profession, sir--a tragic actress. if you had seen her in lady macbeth, mrs. vimpany would have made your flesh creep. look at me, and feast your eyes on a man who is above hypocritical objections to the theatre. haven't i proved it by marrying an actress? but we don't mention it here. the savages in this beastly place wouldn't employ me, if they knew i had married a stage-player. hullo! the bottle's empty again. ha! here's another bottle, full. i love a man who has always got a full bottle to offer his friend. shake hands. i say, mountjoy, tell me on your sacred word of honour, can you keep a secret? my wife's secret, sir! stop! let me look at you again. i thought i saw you smile. if a man smiles at me, when i am opening my whole heart to him, by the living jingo, i would knock that man down at his own table! what? you didn't smile? i apologise. your hand again; i drink your health in your own good wine. where was i? what was i talking about?" mountjoy carefully humoured his interesting guest. "you were about to honour me," he said, "by taking me into your confidence." mr. vimpany stared in tipsy bewilderment. mountjoy tried again in plainer language: "you were going to tell me a secret." this time, the doctor grasped the idea. he looked round cunningly to the door. "any eavesdroppers?" he asked. "hush! whisper--this is serious--whisper! what was it i was going to tell you? what was the secret, old boy?" mountjoy answered a little too readily: "i think it related to mrs. vimpany." mrs. vimpany's husband threw himself back in his chair, snatched a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, and began to cry. "here's a false friend!" the creature whimpered. "asks me to dinner, and takes advantage of my dependent situation to insult my wife. the loveliest of women, the sweetest of women, the innocentest of women. oh, my wife! my wife!" he suddenly threw his handkerchief to the other end of the room, and burst out laughing. "ho! ho! mountjoy, what an infernal fool you must be to take me seriously. i can act, too. do you think i care about my wife? she was a fine woman once: she's a bundle of old rags now. but she has her merits. hush! i want to know something. have you got a lord among your circle of acquaintance?" experience made mountjoy more careful; perhaps a little too careful. he only said "yes." the doctor's dignity asserted itself. "that's a short answer, sir, to a man in my position. if you want me to believe you, mention your friend's name." here was a chance at last! "his name;" mountjoy began, "is lord harry--" mr. vimpany lost his dignity in an instant. he struck his heavy fist on the table, with a blow that made the tumblers jump. "coincidence!" he cried. "how wonderful--no; that's not the word--providential is the word--how providential are coincidences! i mean, of course, to a rightly constituted mind. let nobody contradict me! when i say a rightly constituted mind i speak seriously; and a young man like you will be all the better for it. mountjoy! dear mountjoy! jolly mountjoy! my wife's lord is your lord--lord harry. no; none of your nonsense--i won't have any more wine. yes, i will; it might hurt your feelings if i didn't drink with you. pass the bottle. ha! that's a nice ring you've got on your finger. perhaps you think it valuable? it's nothing, sir; it's dross, it's dirt, compared to my wife's diamond pin! there's a jewel, if you like! it will be worth a fortune to us when we sell it. a gift, dear sir! i'm afraid i've been too familiar with you. speaking as a born gentleman, i beg to present my respects, and i call you 'dear sir.' did i tell you the diamond pin was a gift? it's nothing of the sort; we are under no obligation; my wife, my admirable wife, has earned that diamond pin. by registered post; and what i call a manly letter from lord harry. he is deeply obliged (i give you the sense of it) by what my wife has done for him; ready money is scarce with my lord; he sends a family jewel, with his love. oh, i'm not jealous. he's welcome to love mrs. vimpany, in her old age, if he likes. did you say that, sir? did you say that lord harry, or any man, was welcome to love mrs. vimpany? i have a great mind to throw this bottle at your head. no, i won't; it's wasting good wine! how kind of you to give me good wine. who are you? i don't like dining with a stranger. do you know any friend of mine? do you know a man named mountjoy? do you know two men named mountjoy? no: you don't. one of them is dead: killed by those murdering scoundrels what do you call them? eh, what?" the doctor's voice began to falter, his head dropped; he slumbered suddenly and woke suddenly, and began talking again suddenly. "would you like to be made acquainted with lord harry? i'll give you a sketch of his character before i introduce him. between ourselves, he's a desperate wretch. do you know why he employed my wife, my admirable wife? you will agree with me; he ought to have looked after his young woman himself. we've got his young woman safe in our house. a nice girl. not my style; my medical knowledge certifies she's cold-blooded. lord harry has only to come over here and find her. why the devil doesn't he come? what is it keeps him in ireland? do you know? i seem to have forgotten. my own belief is i've got softening of the brain. what's good for softening of the brain? there isn't a doctor living who won't tell you the right remedy--wine. pass the wine. if this claret is worth a farthing, it's worth a guinea a bottle. i ask you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wife's lord? his name escapes me. no matter; he stops in ireland--hunting. hunting what? the fox? nothing so noble; hunting assassins. he's got some grudge against one of them. means to kill one of them. a word in your ear; they'll kill him. do you ever bet? five to one, he's a dead man before the end of the week. when is the end of the week? tuesday, wednesday--no, saturday--that's the beginning of the week--no, it isn't--the beginning of the week isn't the sabbath--sunday, of course--we are not christians, we are jews--i mean we are jews, we are not christians--i mean--" the claret got the better of his tongue, at last. he mumbled and muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell asleep. all and more than all that mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. in a state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are always ready to lie. in a state of intoxication the utterances of his drunken delirium might unconsciously betray the truth. the reason which he had given for lord harry's continued absence in ireland, could not be wisely rejected as unworthy of belief. it was in the reckless nature of the wild lord to put his own life in peril, in the hope of revenging arthur mountjoy on the wretch who had killed him. taking this bad news for granted, was there any need to distress iris by communicating the motive which detained lord harry in his own country? surely not! and, again, was there any immediate advantage to be gained by revealing the true character of mrs. vimpany, as a spy, and, worse still, a spy who was paid? in her present state of feeling, iris would, in all probability, refuse to believe it. arriving at these conclusions, hugh looked at the doctor snoring and choking in an easy-chair. he had not wasted the time and patience devoted to the stratagem which had now successfully reached its end. after what he had just heard--thanks to the claret--he could not hesitate to accomplish the speedy removal of iris from mr. vimpany's house; using her father's telegram as the only means of persuasion on which it was possible to rely. mountjoy left the inn without ceremony, and hurried away to iris in the hope of inducing her to return to london with him that night. chapter vii doctoring the doctor asking for miss henley at the doctor's door, hugh was informed that she had gone out, with her invalid maid, for a walk. she had left word, if mr. mountjoy called in her absence, to beg that he would kindly wait for her return. on his way up to the drawing-room, mountjoy heard mrs. vimpany's sonorous voice occupied, as he supposed, in reading aloud. the door being opened for him, he surprised her, striding up and down the room with a book in her hand; grandly declaiming without anybody to applaud her. after what hugh had already heard, he could only conclude that reminiscences of her theatrical career had tempted the solitary actress to make a private appearance, for her own pleasure, in one of those tragic characters to which her husband had alluded. she recovered her self-possession on mountjoy's appearance, with the ease of a mistress of her art. "pardon me," she said, holding up her book with one hand, and tapping it indicatively with the other: "shakespeare carries me out of myself. a spark of the poet's fire burns in the poet's humble servant. may i hope that i have made myself understood? you look as if you had a fellow-feeling for me." mountjoy did his best to fill the sympathetic part assigned to him, and only succeeded in showing what a bad actor he would have been, if he had gone on the stage. under the sedative influence thus administered, mrs. vimpany put away her book, and descended at once from the highest poetry to the lowest prose. "let us return to domestic events," she said indulgently. "have the people at the inn given you a good dinner?" "the people did their best," mountjoy answered cautiously. "has my husband returned with you?" mrs. vimpany went on. mountjoy began to regret that he had not waited for iris in the street. he was obliged to acknowledge that the doctor had not returned with him. "where is mr. vimpany?" "at the inn." "what is he doing there?" mountjoy hesitated. mrs. vimpany rose again into the regions of tragic poetry. she stepped up to him, as if he had been macbeth, and she was ready to use the daggers. "i understand but too well," she declared in terrible tones. "my wretched husband's vices are known to me. mr. vimpany is intoxicated." hugh tried to make the best of it. "only asleep," he said. mrs. vimpany looked at him once more. this time, it was queen katharine looking at cardinal wolsey. she bowed with lofty courtesy, and opened the door. "i have occasion," she said, "to go out"----and made an exit. five minutes later, mountjoy (standing at the window, impatiently on the watch for the return of iris) saw mrs. vimpany in the street. she entered a chemist's shop, on the opposite side of the way, and came out again with a bottle in her hand. it was enclosed in the customary medical wrapping of white paper. majestically, she passed out of sight. if hugh had followed her he would have traced the doctor's wife to the door of the inn. the unemployed waiter was on the house-steps, looking about him--with nothing to see. he made his bow to mrs. vimpany, and informed her that the landlady had gone out. "you will do as well," was the reply. "is mr. vimpany here?" the waiter smiled, and led the way through the passage to the foot of the stairs. "you can hear him, ma'am." it was quite true; mr. vimpany's snoring answered for mr. vimpany. his wife ascended the first two or three stairs, and stopped to speak again to the waiter. she asked what the two gentlemen had taken to drink with their dinner. they had taken "the french wine." "and nothing else?" the waiter ventured on a little joke. "nothing else," he said--"and more than enough of it, too." "not more than enough, i suppose, for the good of the house," mrs. vimpany remarked. "i beg your pardon, ma'am; the claret the two gentlemen drank is not charged for in the bill." "what do you mean?" the waiter explained that mr. mountjoy had purchased the whole stock of the wine. suspicion, as well as surprise, appeared in mrs. vimpany's face. she had hitherto thought it likely that miss henley's gentleman-like friend might be secretly in love with the young lady. her doubts of him, now, took a wider range of distrust. she went on up the stairs by herself, and banged the door of the private room as the easiest means of waking the sleeping man. to the utmost noise that she could make in this way, he was perfectly impenetrable. for a while she waited, looking at him across the table with unutterable contempt. there was the man to whom the religion of the land and the law of the land, acting together in perfect harmony, had fettered her for life! some women, in her position, might have wasted time in useless self-reproach. mrs. vimpany reviewed her miserable married life with the finest mockery of her own misfortune. "virtue," she said to herself, "is its own reward." glancing with careless curiosity at the disorder of the dinner-table, she noticed some wine still left in the bottom of her husband's glass. had artificial means been used to reduce him to his present condition? she tasted the claret. no; there was nothing in the flavour of it which betrayed that he had been drugged. if the waiter was to be believed, he had only drunk claret--and there he was, in a state of helpless stupefaction, nevertheless. she looked again at the dinner-table, and discovered one, among the many empty bottles, with some wine still left in it. after a moment of reflection, she took a clean tumbler from the sideboard. here was the wine which had been an object of derision to mr. vimpany and his friends. they were gross feeders and drinkers; and it might not be amiss to put their opinions to the test. she was not searching for the taste of a drug now; her present experiment proposed to try the wine on its own merits. at the time of her triumphs on the country stage--before the date of her unlucky marriage--rich admirers had entertained the handsome actress at suppers, which offered every luxury that the most perfect table could supply. experience had made her acquainted with the flavour of the finest claret--and that experience was renewed by the claret which she was now tasting. it was easy to understand why mr. mountjoy had purchased the wine; and, after a little thinking, his motive for inviting mr. vimpany to dinner seemed to be equally plain. foiled in their first attempt at discovery by her own prudence and tact, his suspicions had set their trap. her gross husband had been tempted to drink, and to talk at random (for mr. mountjoy's benefit) in a state of intoxication! what secrets might the helpless wretch not have betrayed before the wine had completely stupefied him? urged by rage and fear, she shook him furiously. he woke; he glared at her with bloodshot eyes; he threatened her with his clenched fist. there was but one way of lifting his purblind stupidity to the light. she appealed to his experience of himself, on many a former occasion: "you fool, you have been drinking again--and there's a patient waiting for you." to that dilemma he was accustomed; the statement of it partially roused him. mrs. vimpany tore off the paper wrapping, and opened the medicine-bottle which she had brought with her. he stared at it; he muttered to himself: "is she going to poison me?" she seized his head with one hand, and held the open bottle to his nose. "your own prescription," she cried, "for yourself and your hateful friends." his nose told him what words might have tried vainly to say: he swallowed the mixture. "if i lose the patient," he muttered oracularly, "i lose the money." his resolute wife dragged him out of his chair. the second door in the dining-room led into an empty bed-chamber. with her help, he got into the room, and dropped on the bed. mrs. vimpany consulted her watch. on many a former occasion she had learnt what interval of repose was required, before the sobering influence of the mixture could successfully assert itself. for the present, she had only to return to the other room. the waiter presented himself, asking if there was anything he could do for her. familiar with the defective side of her husband's character, he understood what it meant when she pointed to the bedroom door. "the old story, ma'am," he said, with an air of respectful sympathy. "can i get you a cup of tea?" mrs. vimpany accepted the tea, and enjoyed it thoughtfully. she had two objects in view--to be revenged on mountjoy, and to find a way of forcing him to leave the town before he could communicate his discoveries to iris. how to reach these separate ends, by one and the same means, was still the problem which she was trying to solve, when the doctor's coarse voice was audible, calling for somebody to come to him. if his head was only clear enough, by this time, to understand the questions which she meant to put, his answers might suggest the idea of which she was in search. rising with alacrity, mrs. vimpany returned to the bed-chamber. "you miserable creature," she began, "are you sober now?" "i'm as sober as you are." "do you know," she went on, "why mr. mountjoy asked you to dine with him?" "because he's my friend." "he is your worst enemy. hold your tongue! i'll explain what i mean directly. rouse your memory, if you have got a memory left. i want to know what you and mr. mountjoy talked about after dinner." he stared at her helplessly. she tried to find her way to his recollection by making suggestive inquiries. it was useless; he only complained of being thirsty. his wife lost her self-control. she was too furiously angry with him to be able to remain in the room. recovering her composure when she was alone, she sent for soda-water and brandy. her one chance of making him useful was to humour his vile temper; she waited on him herself. in some degree, the drink cleared his muddled head. mrs. vimpany tried his memory once more. had he said this? had he said that? yes: he thought it likely. had he, or had mr. mountjoy, mentioned lord harry's name? a glimmer of intelligence showed itself in his stupid eyes. yes--and they had quarrelled about it: he rather thought he had thrown a bottle at mr. mountjoy's head. had they, either of them, said anything about miss henley? oh, of course! what was it? he was unable to remember. had his wife done bothering him, now? "not quite," she replied. "try to understand what i am going to say to you. if lord harry comes to us while miss henley is in our house--" he interrupted her: "that's your business." "wait a little. it's my business, if i hear beforehand that his lordship is coming. but he is quite reckless enough to take us by surprise. in that case, i want you to make yourself useful. if you happen to be at home, keep him from seeing miss henley until i have seen her first." "why?" "i want an opportunity, my dear, of telling miss henley that i have been wicked enough to deceive her, before she finds it out for herself. i may hope she will forgive me, if i confess everything." the doctor laughed: "what the devil does it matter whether she forgives you or not?" "it matters a great deal." "why, you talk as if you were fond of her!" "i am." the doctor's clouded intelligence was beginning to clear; he made a smart reply: "fond of her, and deceiving her--aha!" "yes," she said quietly, "that's just what it is. it has grown on me, little by little; i can't help liking miss henley." "well," mr. vimpany remarked, "you _are_ a fool!" he looked at her cunningly. "suppose i do make myself useful, what am i to gain by it?" "let us get back," she suggested, "to the gentleman who invited you to dinner, and made you tipsy for his own purposes." "i'll break every bone in his skin!" "don't talk nonsense! leave mr. mountjoy to me." "do _you_ take his part? i can tell you this. if i drank too much of that poisonous french stuff, mountjoy set me the example. he was tipsy--as you call it--shamefully tipsy, i give you my word of honour. what's the matter now?" his wife (so impenetrably cool, thus far) had suddenly become excited. there was not the smallest fragment of truth in what he had just said of hugh, and mrs. vimpany was not for a moment deceived by it. but the lie had, accidentally, one merit--it suggested to her the idea which she had vainly tried to find over her cup of tea. "suppose i show you how you may be revenged on mr. mountjoy," she said. "well?" "will you remember what i asked you to do for me, if lord harry takes us by surprise?" he produced his pocket-diary, and told her to make a memorandum of it. she wrote as briefly as if she had been writing a telegram: "keep lord harry from seeing miss henley, till i have seen her first." "now," she said, taking a chair by the bedside, "you shall know what a clever wife you have got. listen to me." chapter viii her father's message looking out of the drawing-room window, for the tenth time at least, mountjoy at last saw iris in the street, returning to the house. she brought the maid with her into the drawing-room, in the gayest of good spirits, and presented rhoda to mountjoy. "what a blessing a good long walk is, if we only knew it!" she exclaimed. "look at my little maid's colour! who would suppose that she came here with heavy eyes and pale cheeks? except that she loses her way in the town, whenever she goes out alone, we have every reason to congratulate ourselves on our residence at honeybuzzard. the doctor is rhoda's good genius, and the doctor's wife is her fairy godmother." mountjoy's courtesy having offered the customary congratulations, the maid was permitted to retire; and iris was free to express her astonishment at the friendly relations established (by means of the dinner-table) between the two most dissimilar men on the face of creation. "there is something overwhelming," she declared, "in the bare idea of your having asked him to dine with you--on such a short acquaintance, and being such a man! i should like to have peeped in, and seen you entertaining your guest with the luxuries of the hotel larder. seriously, hugh, your social sympathies have taken a range for which i was not prepared. after the example that you have set me, i feel ashamed of having doubted whether mr. vimpany was worthy of his charming wife. don't suppose that i am ungrateful to the doctor! he has found his way to my regard, after what he has done for rhoda. i only fail to understand how he has possessed himself of _your_ sympathies." so she ran on, enjoying the exercise of her own sense of humour in innocent ignorance of the serious interests which she was deriding. mountjoy tried to stop her, and tried in vain. "no, no," she persisted as mischievously as ever, "the subject is too interesting to be dismissed. i am dying to know how you and your guest got through the dinner. did he take more wine than was good for him? and, when he forgot his good manners, did he set it all right again by saying, 'no offence,' and passing the bottle?" hugh could endure it no longer. "pray control your high spirits for a moment," he said. "i have news for you from home." those words put an end to her outbreak of gaiety, in an instant. "news from my father?" she asked. "yes." "is he coming here?" "no; i have heard from him." "a letter?" "a telegram," mountjoy explained, "in answer to a letter from me. i did my best to press your claims on him, and i am glad to say i have not failed." "hugh, dear hugh! have you succeeded in reconciling us?" mountjoy produced the telegram. "i asked mr. henley," he said, "to let me know at once whether he would receive you, and to answer plainly yes or no. the message might have been more kindly expressed--but, at any rate, it is a favourable reply." iris read the telegram. "is there another father in the world," she said sadly, "who would tell his daughter, when she asks to come home, that he will receive her on trial?" "surely, you are not offended with him, iris?" she shook her head. "i am like you," she said. "i know him too well to be offended. he shall find me dutiful, he shall find me patient. i am afraid i must not expect you to wait for me in honeybuzzard. will you tell my father that i hope to return to him in a week's time?" "pardon me, iris, i see no reason why you should waste a week in this town. on the contrary, the more eager you show yourself to return to your father, the more likely you are to recover your place in his estimation. i had planned to take you home by the next train." iris looked at him in astonishment. "is it possible that you mean what you say?" she asked. "my dear, i do most assuredly mean what i say. why should you hesitate? what possible reason can there be for staying here any longer?" "oh, hugh, how you disappoint me! what has become of your kind feeling, your sense of justice, your consideration for others? poor mrs. vimpany!" "what has mrs. vimpany to do with it?" iris was indignant. "what has mrs. vimpany to do with it?" she repeated. "after all that i owe to that good creature's kindness; after i have promised to accompany her--she has so few happy days, poor soul!--on excursions to places of interest in the neighbourhood, do you expect me to leave her--no! it's worse than that--do you expect me to throw her aside like an old dress that i have worn out? and this after i have so unjustly, so ungratefully suspected her in my own thoughts? shameful! shameful!" with some difficulty, mountjoy controlled himself. after what she had just said, his lips were sealed on the subject of mrs. vimpany's true character. he could only persist in appealing to her duty to her father. "you are allowing your quick temper to carry you to strange extremities," he answered. "if i think it of more importance to hasten a reconciliation with your father than to encourage you to make excursions with a lady whom you have only known for a week or two, what have i done to deserve such an outbreak of anger? hush! not a word more now! here is the lady herself." as he spoke, mrs. vimpany joined them; returning from her interview with her husband at the inn. she looked first at iris, and at once perceived signs of disturbance in the young lady's face. concealing her anxiety under that wonderful stage smile, which affords a refuge to so many secrets, mrs. vimpany said a few words excusing her absence. miss henley answered, without the slightest change in her friendly manner to the doctor's wife. the signs of disturbance were evidently attributable to some entirely unimportant cause, from mrs. vimpany's point of view. mr. mountjoy's discoveries had not been communicated yet. in hugh's state of mind, there was some irritating influence in the presence of the mistress of the house, which applied the spur to his wits. he mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in dispute between iris and himself. "it is a very simple matter," he said to mrs. vimpany. "miss henley's father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement between them which is happily at an end. do you think she ought to allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at once? if she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she any reason to anticipate a refusal?" mrs. vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at the dirty ceiling--and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve the injury implied by a doubt. "mr. mountjoy," she said sternly, "you insult me by asking the question."--"dear miss henley," she continued, turning to iris, _"you_ will do me justice, i am sure. am i capable of allowing my own feelings to stand in the way, when your filial duty is concerned? leave me, my sweet friend. go! i entreat you, go home!" she retired up the stage--no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the room--and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical tears. impulsive iris hastened to comfort the personification of self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female submission. "for shame! for shame!" she whispered, as she passed mountjoy. beaten again by mrs. vimpany--with no ties of relationship to justify resistance to miss henley; with two women against him, entrenched behind the privileges of their sex--the one last sacrifice of his own feelings, in the interests of iris, that hugh could make was to control the impulse which naturally urged him to leave the house. in the helpless position in which he had now placed himself, he could only wait to see what course mrs. vimpany might think it desirable to take. would she request him, in her most politely malicious way, to bring his visit to an end? no: she looked at him--hesitated--directed a furtive glance towards the view of the street from the window--smiled mysteriously--and completed the sacrifice of her own feelings in these words: "dear miss henley, let me help you to pack up." iris positively refused. "no," she said, "i don't agree with mr. mountjoy. my father leaves it to me to name the day when we meet. i hold you, my dear, to our engagement--i don't leave an affectionate friend as i might leave a stranger." even if mr. mountjoy communicated his discoveries to miss henley, on the way home, there would be no danger now of her believing him. mrs. vimpany put her powerful arm round the generous iris, and, with infinite grace, thanked her by a kiss. "your kindness will make my lonely lot in life harder than ever to bear," she murmured, "when you are gone." "but we may hope to meet in london," iris reminded her; "unless mr. vimpany alters his mind about leaving this place." "my husband will not do that, dear. he is determined to try his luck, as he says, in london. in the meantime you will give me your address, won't you? perhaps you will even promise to write to me?" iris instantly gave her promise, and wrote down her address in london. mountjoy made no attempt to interfere: it was needless. if the maid had not fallen ill on the journey, and if mrs. vimpany had followed miss henley to london, there would have been little to fear in the discovery of her address--and there was little to fear now. the danger to iris was not in what might happen while she was living under her father's roof, but in what might happen if she was detained (by plans for excursions) in mr. vimpany's house, until lord harry might join her there. rather than permit this to happen, hugh (in sheer desperation) meditated charging mrs. vimpany, to her face, with being the irish lord's spy, and proving the accusation by challenging her to produce the registered letter and the diamond pin. while he was still struggling with his own reluctance to inflict this degrading exposure on a woman, the talk between the two ladies came to an end. mrs. vimpany returned again to the window. on this occasion, she looked out into the street--with her handkerchief (was it used as a signal?) exhibited in her hand. iris, on her side, advanced to mountjoy. easily moved to anger, her nature was incapable of sullen perseverance in a state of enmity. to see hugh still patiently waiting--still risking the chances of insult--devoted to her, and forgiving her--was at once a reproach that punished iris, and a mute appeal that no true woman's heart could resist. with tears in her eyes she said to him: "there must be no coolness between you and me. i lost my temper, and spoke shamefully to you. my dear, i am indeed sorry for it. you are never hard on me--you won't be hard on me now?" she offered her hand to him. he had just raised it to his lips--when the drawing-room door was roughly opened. they both looked round. the man of all others whom hugh least desired to see was the man who now entered the room. the victim of "light claret"--privately directed to lurk in the street, until he saw a handkerchief fluttering at the window--had returned to the house; primed with his clever wife's instructions; ready and eager to be even with mountjoy for the dinner at the inn. chapter ix mr. vimpany on intoxication there was no unsteadiness in the doctor's walk, and no flush on his face. he certainly did strut when he entered the room; and he held up his head with dignity, when he discovered mountjoy. but he seemed to preserve his self-control. was the man sober again already? his wife approached him with her set smile; the appearance of her lord and master filled mrs. vimpany with perfectly-assumed emotions of agreeable surprise. "this is an unexpected pleasure," she said. "you seldom favour us with your company, my dear, so early in the evening! are there fewer patients in want of your advice than usual?" "you are mistaken, arabella. i am here in the performance of a painful duty." the doctor's language, and the doctor's manner, presented him to iris in a character that was new to her. what effect had he produced on mrs. vimpany? that excellent friend to travellers in distress lowered her eyes to the floor, and modestly preserved silence. mr. vimpany proceeded to the performance of his duty; his painful responsibility seemed to strike him at first from a medical point of view. "if there is a poison which undermines the sources of life," he remarked, "it is alcohol. if there is a vice that degrades humanity, it is intoxication. mr. mountjoy, are you aware that i am looking at you?" "impossible not to be aware of that," hugh answered. "may i ask why you are looking at me?" it was not easy to listen gravely to mr. vimpany's denunciation of intemperance, after what had taken place at the dinner of that day. hugh smiled. the moral majesty of the doctor entered its protest. "this is really shameful," he said. "the least you can do is to take it seriously." "what is it?" mountjoy asked. "and why am i to take it seriously?" mr. vimpany's reply was, to say the least of it, indirect. if such an expression may be permitted, it smelt of the stage. viewed in connection with mrs. vimpany's persistent assumption of silent humility, it suggested to mountjoy a secret understanding, of some kind, between husband and wife. "what has become of your conscience, sir?" mr. vimpany demanded. "is that silent monitor dead within you? after giving me a bad dinner, do you demand an explanation? ha! you shall have it." having delivered himself to this effect, he added action to words. walking grandly to the door, he threw it open, and saluted mountjoy with an ironical bow. iris observed that act of insolence; her colour rose, her eyes glittered. "do you see what he has just done?" she said to mrs. vimpany. the doctor's wife answered softly: "i don't understand it." after a glance at her husband, she took iris by the hand: "dear miss henley, shall we retire to my room?" iris drew her hand away. "not unless mr. mountjoy wishes it," she said. "certainly not!" hugh declared. "pray remain here; your presence will help me to keep my temper." he stepped up to mr. vimpany. "have you any particular reason for opening that door?" he asked. the doctor was a rascal; but, to do him justice, he was no coward. "yes," he said, "i have a reason." "what is it, if you please?" "christian forbearance," mr. vimpany answered. "forbearance towards me?" mountjoy continued. the doctor's dignity suddenly deserted him. "aha, my boy, you have got it at last!" he cried. "it's pleasant to understand each other, isn't it? you see, i'm a plain-spoken fellow; i don't wish to give offence. if there's one thing more than another i pride myself on, it's my indulgence for human frailty. but, in my position here, i'm obliged to be careful. upon my soul, i can't continue my acquaintance with a man who--oh, come! come! don't look as if you didn't understand me. the circumstances are against you, sir. you have treated me infamously." "under what circumstances have i treated you infamously?" hugh asked. "under pretence of giving me a dinner," mr. vimpany shouted--"the worst dinner i ever sat down to!" his wife signed to him to be silent. he took no notice of her. she insisted on being understood. "say no more!" she warned him, in a tone of command. the brute side of his nature, roused by mountjoy's contemptuous composure, was forcing its way outwards; he set his wife at defiance. "then don't let him look at me as if he thought i was in a state of intoxication!" cried the furious doctor. "there's the man, miss, who tried to make me tipsy," he went on, actually addressing himself to iris. "thanks to my habits of sobriety, he has been caught in his own trap. _he's_ intoxicated. ha, friend mountjoy, have you got the right explanation at last? there's the door, sir!" mrs. vimpany felt that this outrage was beyond endurance. if something was not done to atone for it, miss henley would be capable--her face, at that moment, answered for her--of leaving the house with mr. mountjoy. mrs. vimpany seized her husband indignantly by the arm. "you brute, you have spoilt everything!" she said to him. "apologise directly to mr. mountjoy. you won't?" "i won't!" experience had taught his wife how to break him to her will. "do you remember my diamond pin?" she whispered. he looked startled. perhaps he thought she had lost the pin. "where is it?" he asked eagerly. "gone to london to be valued. beg mr. mountjoy's pardon, or i will put the money in the bank--and not one shilling of it do you get." in the meanwhile, iris had justified mrs. vimpany's apprehensions. her indignation noticed nothing but the insult offered to hugh. she was too seriously agitated to be able to speak to him. still admirably calm, his one anxiety was to compose her. "don't be afraid," he said; "it is impossible that i can degrade myself by quarrelling with mr. vimpany. i only wait here to know what you propose to do. you have mrs. vimpany to think of." "i have nobody to think of but you," iris replied. "but for me, you would never have been in this house. after the insult that has been offered to you--oh, hugh, i feel it too!--let us return to london together. i have only to tell rhoda we are going away, and to make my preparations for travelling. send for me from the inn, and i will be ready in time for the next train." mrs. vimpany approached mountjoy, leading her husband. "sorry i have offended you," the doctor said. "beg your pardon. it's only a joke. no offence, i hope?" his servility was less endurable than his insolence. telling him that he need say no more, mountjoy bowed to mrs. vimpany, and left the room. she returned his bow mechanically, in silence. mr. vimpany followed hugh out--thinking of the diamond pin, and eager to open the house door, as another act of submission which might satisfy his wife. even a clever woman will occasionally make mistakes; especially when her temper happens to have been roused. mrs. vimpany found herself in a false position, due entirely to her own imprudence. she had been guilty of three serious errors. in the first place she had taken it for granted that mr. vimpany's restorative mixture would completely revive the sober state of his brains. in the second place, she had trusted him with her vengeance on the man who had found his way to her secrets through her husband's intemperance. in the third place, she had rashly assumed that the doctor, in carrying out her instructions for insulting mountjoy, would keep within the limits which she had prescribed to him, when she hit on the audacious idea of attributing his disgraceful conduct to the temptation offered by his host's example. as a consequence of these acts of imprudence, she had exposed herself to a misfortune that she honestly dreaded--the loss of the place which she had carefully maintained in miss henley's estimation. in the contradictory confusion of feelings, so often found in women, this deceitful and dangerous creature had been conquered--little by little, as she had herself described it--by that charm of sweetness and simplicity in iris, of which her own depraved nature presented no trace. she now spoke with hesitation, almost with timidity, in addressing the woman whom she had so cleverly deceived, at the time when they first met. "must i give up all, miss henley, that i most value?" she asked. "i hardly understand you, mrs. vimpany." "i will try to make it plainer. do you really mean to leave me this evening?" "i do." "may i own that i am grieved to hear it? your departure will deprive me of some happy hours, in your company." "your husband's conduct leaves me no alternative," iris replied. "pray do not humiliate me by speaking of my husband! i only want to know if there is a harder trial of my fortitude still to come. must i lose the privilege of being your friend?" "i hope i am not capable of such injustice as that," iris declared. "it would be hard indeed to lay the blame of mr. vimpany's shameful behaviour on you. i don't forget that you made him offer an apology. some women, married to such a man as that, might have been afraid of him. no, no; you have been a good friend to me--and i mean to remember it." mrs. vimpany's gratitude was too sincerely felt to be expressed with her customary readiness. she only said what the stupidest woman in existence could have said: "thank you." in the silence that followed, the rapid movement of carriage wheels became audible in the street. the sound stopped at the door of the doctor's house. chapter x the mockery of deceit had mountjoy arrived to take iris away, before her preparations for travelling were complete? both the ladies hurried to the window, but they were too late. the rapid visitor, already hidden from them under the portico, was knocking smartly at the door. in another minute, a man's voice in the hall asked for "miss henley." the tones--clear, mellow, and pleasantly varied here and there by the irish accent--were not to be mistaken by any one who had already hear them. the man in the hall was lord harry. in that serious emergency, mrs. vimpany recovered her presence of mind. she made for the door, with the object of speaking to lord harry before he could present himself in the drawing-room. but iris had heard him ask for her in the hall; and that one circumstance instantly stripped of its concealments the character of the woman in whose integrity she had believed. her first impression of mrs. vimpany--so sincerely repented, so eagerly atoned for--had been the right impression after all! younger, lighter, and quicker than the doctor's wife, iris reached the door first, and laid her hand on the lock. "wait a minute," she said. mrs. vimpany hesitated. for the first time in her life at a loss what to say, she could only sign to iris to stand back. iris refused to move. she put her terrible question in the plainest words: "how does lord harry know that i am in this house?" the wretched woman (listening intently for the sound of a step on the stairs) refused to submit to a shameful exposure, even now. to her perverted moral sense, any falsehood was acceptable, as a means of hiding herself from discovery by iris. in the very face of detection, the skilled deceiver kept up the mockery of deceit. "my dear," she said, "what has come to you? why won't you let me go to my room?" iris eyed her with a look of scornful surprise. "what next?" she said. "are you impudent enough to pretend that i have not found you out, yet?" sheer desperation still sustained mrs. vimpany's courage. she played her assumed character against the contemptuous incredulity of iris, as she had sometimes played her theatrical characters against the hissing and hooting of a brutal audience. "miss henley," she said, "you forget yourself!" "do you think i didn't see in your face," iris rejoined, "that you heard him, too? answer my question." "what question?" "you have just heard it." "no!" "you false woman!" "don't forget, miss henley, that you are speaking to a lady." "i am speaking to lord harry's spy!" their voices rose loud; the excitement on either side had reached its climax; neither the one nor the other was composed enough to notice the sound of the carriage-wheels, leaving the house again. in the meanwhile, nobody came to the drawing-room door. mrs. vimpany was too well acquainted with the hot-headed irish lord not to conclude that he would have made himself heard, and would have found his way to iris, but for some obstacle, below stairs, for which he was not prepared. the doctor's wife did justice to the doctor at last. another person had, in all probability, heard lord harry's voice--and that person might have been her husband. was it possible that he remembered the service which she had asked of him; and, even if he had succeeded in calling it to mind, was his discretion to be trusted? as those questions occurred to her, the desire to obtain some positive information was more than she was able to resist. mrs. vimpany attempted to leave the drawing-room for the second time. but the same motive had already urged miss henley to action. again, the younger woman outstripped the older. iris descended the stairs, resolved to discover the cause of the sudden suspension of events in the lower part of the house. chapter xi mrs. vimpany's farewell the doctor's wife followed miss henley out of the room, as far as the landing--and waited there. she had her reasons for placing this restraint on herself. the position of the landing concealed her from the view of a person in the hall. if she only listened for the sound of voices she might safely discover whether lord harry was, or was not, still in the house. in the first event, it would be easy to interrupt his interview with iris, before the talk could lead to disclosures which mrs. vimpany had every reason to dread. in the second event, there would be no need to show herself. meanwhile, iris opened the dining-room door and looked in. nobody was there. the one other room on the ground floor, situated at the back of the building, was the doctor's consulting-room. she knocked at the door. mr. vimpany's voice answered: "come in." there he was alone, drinking brandy and water, and smoking his big black cigar. "where is lord harry?" she said. "in ireland, i suppose," mr. vimpany answered quietly. iris wasted no time in making useless inquiries. she closed the door again, and left him. he, too, was undoubtedly in the conspiracy to keep her deceived. how had it been done? where was the wild lord, at that moment? whilst she was pursuing these reflections in the hall, rhoda came up from the servants' tea-table in the kitchen. her mistress gave her the necessary instructions for packing, and promised to help her before long. mrs. vimpany's audacious resolution to dispute the evidence of her own senses, still dwelt on miss henley's mind. too angry to think of the embarrassment which an interview with lord harry would produce, after they had said their farewell words in ireland, she was determined to prevent the doctor's wife from speaking to him first, and claiming him as an accomplice in her impudent denial of the truth. if he had been, by any chance, deluded into leaving the house, he would sooner or later discover the trick that had been played on him, and would certainly return. iris took a chair in the hall. * * * * * * * it is due to the doctor to relate that he had indeed justified his wife's confidence in him. the diamond pin, undergoing valuation in london, still represented a present terror in his mind. the money, the money--he was the most attentive husband in england when he thought of the money! at the time when lord harry's carriage stopped at his house-door, he was in the dining-room, taking a bottle of brandy from the cellaret in the sideboard. looking instantly out of the window, he discovered who the visitor was, and decided on consulting his instructions in the pocket-diary. the attempt was rendered useless, as soon as he had opened the book, by the unlucky activity of the servant in answering the door. her master stopped her in the hall. he was pleasantly conscious of the recovery of his cunning. but his memory (far from active under the most favourable circumstances) was slower than ever at helping him now. on the spur of the moment he could only call to mind that he had been ordered to prevent a meeting between lord harry and iris. "show the gentleman into my consulting-room," he said. lord harry found the doctor enthroned on his professional chair, surprised and delighted to see his distinguished friend. the impetuous irishman at once asked for miss henley. "gone," mr. vimpany answered "gone--where?" the wild lord wanted to know next. "to london." "by herself?" "no; with mr. hugh mountjoy." lord harry seized the doctor by the shoulders, and shook him: "you don't mean to tell me mountjoy is going to marry her?" mr. vimpany feared nothing but the loss of money. the weaker and the older man of the two, he nevertheless followed the young lord's example, and shook him with right good-will. "let's see how you like it in your turn," he said. "as for mountjoy, i don't know whether he is married or single--and don't care." "the devil take your obstinacy! when did they start?" "the devil take your questions! they started not long since." "might i catch them at the station?" "yes; if you go at once." so the desperate doctor carried out his wife's instructions--without remembering the conditions which had accompanied them. the way to the station took lord harry past the inn. he saw hugh mountjoy through the open house door paying his bill at the bar. in an instant the carriage was stopped, and the two men (never on friendly terms) were formally bowing to each other. "i was told i should find you," lord harry said, "with miss henley, at the station." "who gave you your information?" "vimpany--the doctor." "he ought to know that the train isn't due at the station for an hour yet." "has the blackguard deceived me? one word more, mr. mountjoy. is miss henley at the inn?" "no." "are you going with her to london?" "i must leave miss henley to answer that." "where is she, sir?" "there is an end to everything, my lord, in the world we live in. you have reached the end of my readiness to answer questions." the englishman and the irishman looked at each other: the anglo-saxon was impenetrably cool; the celt was flushed and angry. they might have been on the brink of a quarrel, but for lord harry's native quickness of perception, and his exercise of it at that moment. when he had called at mr. vimpany's house, and had asked for iris, the doctor had got rid of him by means of a lie. after this discovery, at what conclusion could he arrive? the doctor was certainly keeping iris out of his way. reasoning in this rapid manner, lord harry let one offence pass, in his headlong eagerness to resent another. he instantly left mountjoy. again the carriage rattled back along the street; but it was stopped before it reached mr. vimpany's door. lord harry knew the people whom he had to deal with, and took measures to approach the house silently, on foot. the coachman received orders to look out for a signal, which should tell him when he was wanted again. mr. vimpany's ears, vigilantly on the watch for suspicious events, detected no sound of carriage wheels and no noisy use of the knocker. still on his guard, however, a ring at the house-bell disturbed him in his consulting-room. peeping into the hall, he saw iris opening the door, and stole back to his room. "the devil take her!" he said, alluding to miss henley, and thinking of the enviable proprietor of the diamond pin. at the unexpected appearance of iris, lord harry forgot every consideration which ought to have been present to his mind, at that critical moment. he advanced to her with both hands held out in cordial greeting. she signed to him contemptuously to stand back--and spoke in tones cautiously lowered, after a glance at the door of the consulting-room. "my only reason for consenting to see you," she said, "is to protect myself from further deception. your disgraceful conduct is known to me. go now," she continued, pointing to the stairs, "and consult with your spy, as soon as you like." the irish lord listened--guiltily conscious of having deserved what she had said to him--without attempting to utter a word in excuse. still posted at the head of the stairs, the doctor's wife heard iris speaking; but the tone was not loud enough to make the words intelligible at that distance; neither was any other voice audible in reply. vaguely suspicions of some act of domestic treachery, mrs. vimpany began to descend the stairs. at the turning which gave her a view of the hall, she stopped; thunderstruck by the discovery of lord harry and miss henley, together. the presence of a third person seemed, in some degree, to relieve lord harry. he ran upstairs to salute mrs. vimpany, and was met again by a cold reception and a hostile look. strongly and strangely contrasted, the two confronted each other on the stairs. the faded woman, wan and ghastly under cruel stress of mental suffering, stood face to face with a fine, tall, lithe man, in the prime of his health and strength. here were the bright blue eyes, the winning smile, and the natural grace of movement, which find their own way to favour in the estimation of the gentler sex. this irreclaimable wanderer among the perilous by-ways of the earth--christened "irish blackguard," among respectable members of society, when they spoke of him behind his back--attracted attention, even among the men. looking at his daring, finely-formed face, they noticed (as an exception to a general rule, in these days) the total suppression, by the razor, of whiskers, moustache, and beard. strangers wondered whether lord harry was an actor or a roman catholic priest. among chance acquaintances, those few favourites of nature who are possessed of active brains, guessed that his life of adventure might well have rendered disguise necessary to his safety, in more than one part of the world. sometimes they boldly put the question to him. the hot temper of an irishman, in moments of excitement, is not infrequently a sweet temper in moments of calm. what they called lord harry's good-nature owned readily that he had been indebted, on certain occasions, to the protection of a false beard, and perhaps a colouring of his face and hair to match. the same easy disposition now asserted itself, under the merciless enmity of mrs. vimpany's eyes. "if i have done anything to offend you," he said, with an air of puzzled humility, "i'm sure i am sorry for it. don't be angry, arabella, with an old friend. why won't you shake hands?" "i have kept your secret, and done your dirty work," mrs. vimpany replied. "and what is my reward? miss henley can tell you how your irish blundering has ruined me in a lady's estimation. shake hands, indeed! you will never shake hands with me again as long as you live!" she said those words without looking at him; her eyes were resting on iris now. from the moment when she had seen the two together, she knew that it was all over; further denial in the face of plain proofs would be useless indeed! submission was the one alternative left. "miss henley," she said, "if you can feel pity for another woman's sorrow and shame, let me have a last word with you--out of this man's hearing." there was nothing artificial in her tones or her looks; no acting could have imitated the sad sincerity with which she spoke. touched by that change, iris accompanied her as she ascended the stairs. after a little hesitation, lord harry followed them. mrs. vimpany turned on him when they reached the drawing-room landing. "must i shut the door in your face?" she asked. he was as pleasantly patient as ever: "you needn't take the trouble to do that, my dear; i'll only ask your leave to sit down and wait on the stairs. when you have done with miss henley, just call me in. and, by the way, don't be alarmed in case of a little noise--say a heavy man tumbling downstairs. if the blackguard it's your misfortune to be married to happens to show himself, i shall be under the necessity of kicking him. that's all." mrs. vimpany closed the door. she spoke to iris respectfully, as she might have addressed a stranger occupying a higher rank in life than herself. "there is an end, madam, to one short acquaintance; and, as we both know, an end to it for ever. when we first met--let me tell the truth at last!--i felt a malicious pleasure in deceiving you. after that time, i was surprised to find that you grew on my liking, can you understand the wickedness that tried to resist you? it was useless; your good influence has been too strong for me. strange, isn't it? i have lived a life of deceit, among bad people. what could you expect of me, after that? i heaped lies on lies--i would have denied that the sun was in the heavens--rather than find myself degraded in your opinion. well! that is all over--useless, quite useless now. pray don't mistake me. i am not attempting to excuse myself; a confession was due to you; the confession is made. it is too late to hope that you will forgive me. if you will permit it, i have only one favour to ask. forget me." she turned away with a last hopeless look, who said as plainly as if in words: "i am not worth a reply." generous iris insisted on speaking to her. "i believe you are truly sorry for what you have done," she said; "i can never forget that--i can never forget you." she held out her pitying hand. mrs. vimpany was too bitterly conscious of the past to touch it. even a spy is not beneath the universal reach of the heartache. there were tears in the miserable woman's eyes when she had looked her last at iris henley. chapter xii lord harry's defence after a short interval, the drawing-room door was opened again. waiting on the threshold, the irish lord asked if he might come in. iris replied coldly. "this is not my house," she said; "i must leave you to decide for yourself." lord harry crossed the room to speak to her and stopped. there was no sign of relenting towards him in that dearly-loved face. "i wonder whether it would be a relief to you," he suggested with piteous humility, "if i went away?" if she had been true to herself, she would have said, yes. where is the woman to be found, in her place, with a heart hard enough to have set her that example? she pointed to a chair. he felt her indulgence gratefully. following the impulse of the moment, he attempted to excuse his conduct. "there is only one thing i can say for myself," he confessed, "i didn't begin by deceiving you. while you had your eye on me, iris, i was an honourable man." this extraordinary defence reduced her to silence. was there another man in the world who would have pleaded for pardon in that way? "i'm afraid i have not made myself understood," he said. "may i try again?" "if you please." the vagabond nobleman made a resolute effort to explain himself intelligibly, this time: "see now! we said good-bye, over there, in the poor old island. well, indeed i meant it, when i owned that i was unworthy of you. _i_ didn't contradict you, when you said you could never be my wife, after such a life as i have led. and, do remember, i submitted to your returning to england, without presuming to make a complaint. ah, my sweet girl, it was easy to submit, while i could look at you, and hear the sound of your voice, and beg for that last kiss--and get it. reverend gentlemen talk about the fall of adam. what was that to the fall of harry, when he was back in his own little cottage, without the hope of ever seeing you again? to the best of my recollection, the serpent that tempted eve was up a tree. i found the serpent that tempted me, sitting waiting in my own armchair, and bent on nothing worse than borrowing a trifle of money. need i say who she was? i don't doubt that you think her a wicked woman." never ready in speaking of acts of kindness, on her own part, iris answered with some little reserve: "i have learnt to think better of mrs. vimpany than you suppose." lord harry began to look like a happy man, for the first time since he had entered the room. "i ought to have known it!" he burst out. "yours is the well-balanced mind, dear, that tempers justice with mercy. mother vimpany has had a hard life of it. just change places with her for a minute or so--and you'll understand what she has had to go through. find yourself, for instance, in ireland, without the means to take you back to england. add to that, a husband who sends you away to make money for him at the theatre, and a manager (not an irishman, thank god!) who refuses to engage you--after your acting has filled his dirty pockets in past days--because your beauty has faded with time. doesn't your bright imagination see it all now? my old friend arabella, ready and anxious to serve me--and a sinking at this poor fellow's heart when he knew, if he once lost the trace of you, he might lose it for ever--there's the situation, as they call it on the stage. i wish i could say for myself what i may say for mrs. vimpany. it's such a pleasure to a clever woman to engage in a little deceit--we can't blame her, can we?" iris protested gently against a code of morality which included the right of deceit among the privileges of the sex. lord harry slipped through her fingers with the admirable irish readiness; he agreed with miss henley that he was entirely wrong. "and don't spare me while you're about it," he suggested. "lay all the blame of that shameful stratagem on my shoulders. it was a despicable thing to do. when i had you watched, i acted in a manner--i won't say unworthy of a gentleman; have i been a gentleman since i first ran away from home? why, it's even been said my way of speaking is no longer the way of a gentleman; and small wonder, too, after the company i've kept. ah, well! i'm off again, darling, on a sea voyage. will you forgive me now? or will you wait till i come back, if i do come back? god knows!" he dropped on his knees, and kissed her hand. "anyway," he said, "whether i live or whether i die, it will be some consolation to remember that i asked your pardon--and perhaps got it." "take it, harry; i can't help forgiving you!" she had done her best to resist him, and she had answered in those merciful words. the effect was visible, perilously visible, as he rose from his knees. her one chance of keeping the distance between them, on which she had been too weak to insist, was not to encourage him by silence. abruptly, desperately, she made a commonplace inquiry about his proposed voyage. "tell me," she resumed, "where are you going when you leave england?" "oh, to find money, dear, if i can--to pick up diamonds, or to hit on a mine of gold, and so forth." the fine observation of iris detected something not quite easy in his manner, as he made that reply. he tried to change the subject: she deliberately returned to it. "your account of your travelling plans is rather vague," she told him. "do you know when you are likely to return?" he took her hand. one of the rings on her fingers happened to be turned the wrong way. he set it in the right position, and discovered an opal. "ah! the unlucky stone!" he cried, and turned it back again out of sight. she drew away her hand. "i asked you," she persisted, "when you expect to return?" he laughed--not so gaily as usual. "how do i know i shall ever get back?" he answered. "sometimes the seas turn traitor, and sometimes the savages. i have had so many narrow escapes of my life, i can't expect my luck to last for ever." he made a second attempt to change the subject. "i wonder whether you're likely to pay another visit to ireland? my cottage is entirely at your disposal, iris dear. oh, when i'm out of the way, of course! the place seemed to please your fancy, when you saw it. you will find it well taken care of, i answer for that." iris asked who was taking care of his cottage. the wild lord's face saddened. he hesitated; rose from his chair restlessly, and walked away to the window; returned, and made up his mind to reply. "my dear, you know her. she was the old housekeeper at--" his voice failed him. he was unable, or unwilling, to pronounce the name of arthur's farm. knowing, it is needless to say, that he had alluded to mrs. lewson, iris warmly commended him for taking care of her old nurse. at the same time, she remembered the unfriendly terms in which the housekeeper had alluded to lord harry, when they had talked of him. "did you find no difficulty," she asked, "in persuading mrs. lewson to enter your service?" "oh, yes, plenty of difficulty; i found my bad character in my way, as usual." it was a relief to him, at that moment, to talk of mrs. lewson; the irish humour and the irish accent both asserted themselves in his reply. "the curious old creature told me to my face i was a scamp. i took leave to remind her that it was the duty of a respectable person, like herself, to reform scamps; i also mentioned that i was going away, and she would be master and mistress too on my small property. that softened her heart towards me. you will mostly find old women amenable, if you get at them by way of their dignity. besides, there was another lucky circumstance that helped me. the neighbourhood of my cottage has some attraction for mrs. lewson. she didn't say particularly what it was--and i never asked her to tell me." "surely you might have guessed it, without being told," iris reminded him. "mrs. lewson's faithful heart loves poor arthur's memory--and arthur's grave is not far from your cottage." "don't speak of him!" it was said loudly, peremptorily, passionately. he looked at her with angry astonishment in his face. "you loved him too!" he said. "can you speak of him quietly? the noblest, truest, sweetest man that ever the heavens looked on, foully assassinated. and the wretch who murdered him still living, free--oh, what is god's providence about?--is there no retribution that will follow him? no just hand that will revenge arthur's death?" as those fierce words escaped him, he was no longer the easy, gentle, joyous creature whom iris had known and loved. the furious passions of the celtic race glittered savagely in his eyes, and changed to a grey horrid pallor the healthy colour that was natural to his face. "oh, my temper, my temper!" he cried, as iris shrank from him. "she hates me now, and no wonder." he staggered away from her, and burst into a convulsive fit of crying, dreadful to hear. compassion, divine compassion, mastered the earthlier emotion of terror in the great heart of the woman who loved him. she followed him, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. "i don't hate you, my dear," she said. "i am sorry for arthur--and, oh, so sorry for you!" he caught her in his arms. his gratitude, his repentance, his silent farewell were all expressed in a last kiss. it was a moment, never to be forgotten to the end of their lives. before she could speak, before she could think, he had left her. she called him back, through the open door. he never returned; he never even replied. she ran to the window, and threw it up--and was just in time to see him signal to the carriage and leap into it. her horror of the fatal purpose that was but too plainly rooted in him--her conviction that he was on the track of the assassin, self devoted to exact the terrible penalty of blood for blood--emboldened her to insist on being heard. "come back," she cried. "i must, i will, speak with you." he waved his hand to her with a gesture of despair. "start your horses," he shouted to the coachman. alarmed by his voice and his look, the man asked where he should drive to. lord harry pointed furiously to the onward road. "drive," he answered, "to the devil!" the end of the first period the second period chapter xiii iris at home a little more than four months had passed, since the return of iris to her father's house. among other events which occurred, during the earlier part of that interval, the course adopted by hugh mountjoy, when miss henley's suspicions of the irish lord were first communicated to him, claims a foremost place. it was impossible that the devoted friend of iris could look at her, when they met again on their way to the station, without perceiving the signs of serious agitation. only waiting until they were alone in the railway-carriage, she opened her heart unreservedly to the man in whose clear intellect and true sympathy she could repose implicit trust. he listened to what she could repeat of lord harry's language with but little appearance of surprise. iris had only reminded him of one, among the disclosures which had escaped mr. vimpany at the inn. under the irresistible influence of good wine, the doctor had revealed the irish lord's motive for remaining in his own country, after the assassination of arthur mountjoy. hugh met the only difficulty in his way, without shrinking from it. he resolved to clear his mind of its natural prejudice against the rival who had been preferred to him, before he assumed the responsibility of guiding iris by his advice. when he had in some degree recovered confidence in his own unbiased judgment, he entered on the question of lord harry's purpose in leaving england. without attempting to dispute the conclusion at which iris had arrived, he did his best to alleviate her distress. in his opinion, he was careful to tell her, a discovery of the destination to which lord harry proposed to betake himself, might be achieved. the irish lord's allusion to a new adventure, which would occupy him in searching for diamonds or gold, might indicate a contemplated pursuit of the assassin, as well as a plausible excuse to satisfy iris. it was at least possible that the murderer might have been warned of his danger if he remained in england, and that he might have contemplated directing his flight to a distant country, which would not only offer a safe refuge, but also hold out (in its mineral treasures) a hope of gain. assuming that these circumstances had really happened, it was in lord harry's character to make sure of his revenge, by embarking in the steamship by which the assassin of arthur mountjoy was a passenger. wild as this guess at the truth undoubtedly was, it had one merit: it might easily be put to the test. hugh had bought the day's newspaper at the station. he proposed to consult the shipping advertisements relating, in the first place, to communication with the diamond-mines and the goldfields of south africa. this course of proceeding at once informed him that the first steamer, bound for that destination, would sail from london in two days' time. the obvious precaution to take was to have the dock watched; and mountjoy's steady old servant, who knew lord harry by sight, was the man to employ. iris naturally inquired what good end could be attained, if the anticipated discovery actually took place. to this mountjoy answered, that the one hope--a faint hope, he must needs confess--of inducing lord harry to reconsider his desperate purpose, lay in the influence of iris herself. she must address a letter to him, announcing that his secret had been betrayed by his own language and conduct, and declaring that she would never again see him, or hold any communication with him, if he persisted in his savage resolution of revenge. such was the desperate experiment which mountjoy's generous and unselfish devotion to iris now proposed to try. the servant (duly entrusted with miss henley's letter) was placed on the watch--and the event which had been regarded as little better than a forlorn hope, proved to be the event that really took place. lord harry was a passenger by the steamship. mountjoy's man presented the letter entrusted to him, and asked respectfully if there was any answer. the wild lord read it--looked (to use the messenger's own words) like a man cut to the heart--seemed at a loss what to say or do--and only gave a verbal answer: "i sincerely thank miss henley, and i promise to write when the ship touches at madeira." the servant continued to watch him when he went on board the steamer; saw him cast a look backwards, as if suspecting that he might have been followed; and then lost sight of him in the cabin. the vessel sailed after a long interval of delay, but he never reappeared on the deck. the ambiguous message sent to her aroused the resentment of iris; she thought it cruel. for some weeks perhaps to come, she was condemned to remain in doubt, and was left to endure the trial of her patience, without having mountjoy at hand to encourage and console her. he had been called away to the south of france by the illness of his father. but the fortunes of miss henley, at this period of her life, had their brighter side. she found reason to congratulate herself on the reconciliation which had brought her back to her father. mr. henley had received her, not perhaps with affection, but certainly with kindness. "if we don't get in each other's way, we shall do very well; i am glad to see you again." that was all he had said to her, but it meant much from a soured and selfish man. her only domestic anxiety was caused by another failure in the health of her maid. the doctor declared that medical help would be of no avail, while rhoda bennet remained in london. in the country she had been born and bred, and to the country she must return. mr. henley's large landed property, on the north of london, happened to include a farm in the neighbourhood of muswell hill. wisely waiting for a favourable opportunity, iris alluded to the good qualities which had made rhoda almost as much her friend as her servant, and asked leave to remove the invalid to the healthy air of the farm. her anxiety about the recovery of a servant so astonished mr. henley, that he was hurried (as he afterwards declared) into granting his daughter's request. after this concession, the necessary arrangements were easily made. the influence of iris won the goodwill of the farmer and his wife; rhoda, as an expert and willing needlewoman, being sure of a welcome, for her own sake, in a family which included a number of young children. miss henley had only to order her carriage, and to be within reach of the farm. a week seldom passed without a meeting between the mistress and the maid. in the meantime, mountjoy (absent in france) did not forget to write to iris. his letters offered little hope of a speedy return. the doctors had not concealed from him that his father's illness would end fatally; but there were reserves of vital power still left, which might prolong the struggle. under these melancholy circumstances, he begged that iris would write to him. the oftener she could tell him of the little events of her life at home, the more kindly she would brighten the days of a dreary life. eager to show, even in a trifling matter, how gratefully she appreciated mountjoy's past kindness, iris related the simple story of her life at home, in weekly letters addressed to her good friend. after telling hugh (among other things) of rhoda's establishment at the farm, she had some unexpected results to relate, which had followed the attempt to provide herself with a new maid. two young women had been successively engaged--each recommended, by the lady whom she had last served, with that utter disregard of moral obligation which appears to be shamelessly on the increase in the england of our day. the first of the two maids, described as "rather excitable," revealed infirmities of temper which suggested a lunatic asylum as the only fit place for her. the second young woman, detected in stealing eau-de-cologne, and using it (mixed with water) as an intoxicating drink, claimed merciful construction of her misconduct, on the ground that she had been misled by the example of her last mistress. at the third attempt to provide herself with a servant, iris was able to report the discovery of a responsible person who told the truth--an unmarried lady of middle age. in this case, the young woman was described as a servant thoroughly trained in the performance of her duties, honest, sober, industrious, of an even temper, and unprovided with a "follower" in the shape of a sweetheart. even her name sounded favourably in the ear of a stranger--it was fanny mere. iris asked how a servant, apparently possessed of a faultless character, came to be in want of a situation. at this question the lady sighed, and acknowledged that she had "made a dreadful discovery," relating to the past life of her maid. it proved to be the old, the miserably old, story of a broken promise of marriage, and of the penalty paid as usual by the unhappy woman. "i will say nothing of my own feelings," the maiden lady explained. "in justice to the other female servants, it was impossible for me to keep such a person in my house; and, in justice to you, i must most unwillingly stand in the way of fanny mere's prospects by mentioning my reason for parting with her." "if i could see the young woman and speak to her," iris said, "i should like to decide the question of engaging her, for myself." the lady knew the address of her discharged servant, and--with some appearance of wonder--communicated it. miss henley wrote at once, telling fanny mere to come to her on the following day. when she woke on the next morning, later than usual, an event occurred which iris had been impatiently expecting for some time past. she found a letter waiting on her bedside table, side by side with her cup of tea. lord harry had written to her at last. whether he used his pen or his tongue, the irish lord's conduct was always more or less in need of an apology. here were the guilty one's new excuses, expressed in his customary medley of frank confession and flowery language: "i am fearing, my angel, that i have offended you. you have too surely said to yourself, this miserable harry might have made me happy by writing two lines--and what does he do? he sends a message in words which tell me nothing. "my sweet girl, the reason why is that i was in two minds when your man stopped me on my way to the ship. "whether it was best for you--i was not thinking of myself--to confess the plain truth, or to take refuge in affectionate equivocation, was more than i could decide at the time. when minutes are enough for your intelligence, my stupidity wants days. well! i saw it at last. a man owes the truth to a true woman; and you are a true woman. there you find a process of reasoning--i have been five days getting hold of it. "but tell me one thing first. brutus killed a man; charlotte corday killed a man. one of the two victims was a fine tyrant, and the other a mean tyrant. nobody blames those two historical assassins. why then blame me for wishing to make a third? is a mere modern murderer beneath my vengeance, by comparison with two classical tyrants who did _their_ murders by deputy? the man who killed arthur mountjoy is (next to cain alone) the most atrocious homicide that ever trod the miry ways of this earth. there is my reply! i call it a crusher. "so now my mind is easy. darling, let me make your mind easy next. "when i left you at the window of vimpany's house, i was off to the other railroad to find the murderer in his hiding-place by the seaside. he had left it; but i got a trace, and went back to london--to the docks. some villain in ireland, who knows my purpose, must have turned traitor. anyhow, the wretch has escaped me. "yes; i searched the ship in every corner. he was not on board. has he gone on before me, by an earlier vessel? or has he directed his flight to some other part of the world? i shall find out in time. his day of reckoning will come, and he, too, shall know a violent death! amen. so be it. amen. "have i done now? bear with me, gentle iris--there is a word more to come. "you will wonder why i went on by the steamship--all the way to south africa--when i had failed to find the man i wanted, on board. what was my motive? you, you alone, are always my motive. lucky men have found gold, lucky men have found diamonds. why should i not be one of them? my sweet, let us suppose two possible things; my own elastic convictions would call them two likely things, but never mind that. say, i come back a reformed character; there is your only objection to me, at once removed! and take it for granted that i return with a fortune of my own finding. in that case, what becomes of mr. henley's objection to me? it melts (as shakespeare says somewhere) into thin air. now do take my advice, for once. show this part of my letter to your excellent father, with my love. i answer beforehand for the consequences. be happy, my lady harry--as happy as i am--and look for my return on an earlier day than you may anticipate. yours till death, and after. "harry." like the irish lord, miss henley was "in two minds," while she rose, and dressed herself. there were parts of the letter for which she loved the writer, and parts of it for which she hated him. what a prospect was before that reckless man--what misery, what horror, might not be lying in wait in the dreadful future! if he failed in the act of vengeance, that violent death of which he had written so heedlessly might overtake him from another hand. if he succeeded, the law might discover his crime, and the infamy of expiation on the scaffold might be his dreadful end. she turned, shuddering, from the contemplation of those hideous possibilities, and took refuge in the hope of his safe, his guiltless return. even if his visions of success, even if his purposes of reform (how hopeless at his age!) were actually realised, could she consent to marry the man who had led his life, had written this letter, had contemplated (and still cherished) his merciless resolution of revenge? no woman in her senses could let the bare idea of being his wife enter her mind. iris opened her writing-desk, to hide the letter from all eyes but her own. as she secured it with the key, her heart sank under the return of a terror remembered but too well. once more, the superstitious belief in a destiny that was urging lord harry and herself nearer and nearer to each other, even when they seemed to be most widely and most surely separated, thrilled her under the chilling mystery of its presence. she dropped helplessly into a chair. oh, for a friend who could feel for her, who could strengthen her, whose wise words could restore her to her better and calmer self! hugh was far away; and iris was left to suffer and to struggle alone. heartfelt aspirations for help and sympathy! oh, irony of circumstances, how were they answered? the housemaid entered the room, to announce the arrival of a discharged servant, with a lost character. "let the young woman come in," iris said. was fanny mere the friend whom she had been longing for? she looked at her troubled face in the glass--and laughed bitterly. chapter xiv the lady's maid it was not easy to form a positive opinion of the young woman who now presented herself in miss henley's room. if the turkish taste is truly reported as valuing beauty in the female figure more than beauty in the female face, fanny mere's personal appearance might have found, in constantinople, the approval which she failed to receive in london. slim and well balanced, firmly and neatly made, she interested men who met her by accident (and sometimes even women), if they happened to be walking behind her. when they quickened their steps, and, passing on, looked back at her face, they lost all interest in fanny from that moment. painters would have described the defect in her face as "want of colour." she was one of the whitest of fair female human beings. light flaxen hair, faint blue eyes with no expression in them, and a complexion which looked as if it had never been stirred by a circulation of blood, produced an effect on her fellow-creatures in general which made them insensible to the beauty of her figure, and the grace of her movements. there was no betrayal of bad health in her strange pallor: on the contrary, she suggested the idea of rare physical strength. her quietly respectful manner was, so to say, emphasised by an underlying self-possession, which looked capable of acting promptly and fearlessly in the critical emergencies of life. otherwise, the expression of character in her face was essentially passive. here was a steady, resolute young woman, possessed of qualities which failed to show themselves on the surface--whether good qualities or bad qualities experience alone could determine. finding it impossible, judging by a first impression, to arrive at any immediate decision favourable or adverse to the stranger, iris opened the interview with her customary frankness; leaving the consequences to follow as they might. "take a seat, fanny," she said, "and let us try if we can understand each other. i think you will agree with me that there must be no concealments between us. you ought to know that your mistress has told me why she parted with you. it was her duty to tell me the truth, and it is my duty not to be unjustly prejudiced against you after what i have heard. pray believe me when i say that i don't know, and don't wish to know, what your temptation may have been--" "i beg your pardon, miss, for interrupting you. my temptation was vanity." whether she did or did not suffer in making that confession, it was impossible to discover. her tones were quiet; her manner was unobtrusively respectful; the pallor of her face was not disturbed by the slightest change of colour. was the new maid an insensible person? iris began to fear already that she might have made a mistake. "i don't expect you to enter into particulars," she said; "i don't ask you here to humiliate yourself." "when i got your letter, miss, i tried to consider how i might show myself worthy of your kindness," fanny answered. "the one way i could see was not to let you think better of me than i deserve. when a person, like me, is told, for the first time, that her figure makes amends for her face, she is flattered by the only compliment that has been paid to her in all her life. my excuse, miss (if i have an excuse) is a mean one---i couldn't resist a compliment. that is all i have to say." iris began to alter her opinion. this was not a young woman of the ordinary type. it began to look possible, and more than possible, that she was worthy of a helping hand. the truth seemed to be in her. "i understand you, and feel for you." having replied in those words, iris wisely and delicately changed the subject. "let me hear how you are situated at the present time," she continued. "are your parents living?" "my father and mother are dead, miss." "have you any other relatives?" "they are too poor to be able to do anything for me. i have lost my character--and i am left to help myself." "suppose you fail to find another situation?" iris suggested. "yes, miss?" "how can you help yourself?" "i can do what other girls have done." "what do you mean?" "some of us starve on needlework. some take to the streets. some end it in the river. if there is no other chance for me, i think i shall try that way," said the poor creature, as quietly as if she was speaking of some customary prospect that was open to her. "there will be nobody to be sorry for me--and, as i have read, drowning is not a very painful death." "you shock me, fanny! i, for one, should be sorry for you." "thank you, miss." "and try to remember," iris continued, "that there may be chances in the future which you don't see yet. you speak of what you have read, and i have already noticed how clearly and correctly you express yourself. you must have been educated. was it at home? or at school? "i was once sent to school," fanny replied, not quite willingly. "was it a private school?" "yes." that short answer warned iris to be careful. "recollections of school," she said good-humouredly, "are not the pleasantest recollections in some of our lives. perhaps i have touched on a subject which is disagreeable to you?" "you have touched on one of my disappointments, miss. while my mother lived, she was my teacher. after her death, my father sent me to school. when he failed in business, i was obliged to leave, just as i had begun to learn and like it. besides, the girls found out that i was going away, because there was no money at home to pay the fees--and that mortified me. there is more that i might tell you. i have a reason for hating my recollections of the school--but i mustn't mention that time in my life which your goodness to me tries to forget." all that appealed to her, so simply and so modestly, in that reply, was not lost on iris. after an interval of silence, she said: "can you guess what i am thinking of, fanny?" "no, miss." "i am asking myself a question. if i try you in my service shall i never regret it?" for the first time, strong emotion shook fanny mere. her voice failed her, in the effort to speak. iris considerately went on. "you will take the place," she said, "of a maid who has been with me for years--a good dear creature who has only left me through ill-health. i must not expect too much of you; i cannot hope that you will be to me what rhoda bennet has been." fanny succeeded in controlling herself. "is there any hope," she asked, "of my seeing rhoda bennet?" "why do you wish to see her?" "you are fond of her, miss---that is one reason." "and the other?" "rhoda bennet might help me to serve you as i want to serve you; she might perhaps encourage me to try if i could follow her example." fanny paused, and clasped her hands fervently. the thought that was in her forced its way to expression. "it's so easy to feel grateful," she said--"and, oh, so hard to show it!" "come to me," her new mistress answered, "and show it to-morrow." moved by that compassionate impulse, iris said the words which restored to an unfortunate creature a lost character and a forfeited place in the world. chapter xv mr. henley's temper provided by nature with ironclad constitutional defences against illness, mr. henley was now and then troubled with groundless doubts of his own state of health. acting under a delusion of this kind, he imagined symptoms which rendered a change of residence necessary from his town house to his country house, a few days only after his daughter had decided on the engagement of her new maid. iris gladly, even eagerly, adapted her own wishes to the furtherance of her father's plans. sorely tried by anxiety and suspense, she needed all that rest and tranquillity could do for her. the first week in the country produced an improvement in her health. enjoying the serene beauty of woodland and field, breathing the delicious purity of the air--sometimes cultivating her own corner in the garden, and sometimes helping the women in the lighter labours of the dairy--her nerves recovered their tone, and her spirits rose again to their higher level. in the performance of her duties the new maid justified miss henley's confidence in her, during the residence of the household in the country. she showed, in her own undemonstrative way, a grateful sense of her mistress's kindness. her various occupations were intelligently and attentively pursued; her even temper never seemed to vary; she gave the servants no opportunities of complaining of her. but one peculiarity in her behaviour excited hostile remark, below-stairs. on the occasions when she was free to go out for the day, she always found some excuse for not joining any of the other female servants, who might happen to be similarly favoured. the one use she made of her holiday was to travel by railway to some place unknown; always returning at the right time in the evening. iris knew enough of the sad circumstances to be able to respect her motives, and to appreciate the necessity for keeping the object of these solitary journeys a secret from her fellow-servants. the pleasant life in the country house had lasted for nearly a month, when the announcement of hugh's approaching return to england reached iris. the fatal end of his father's long and lingering illness had arrived, and the funeral had taken place. business, connected with his succession to the property, would detain him in london for a few days. submitting to this necessity, he earnestly expressed the hope of seeing iris again, the moment he was at liberty. hearing the good news, mr. henley obstinately returned to his plans--already twice thwarted--for promoting the marriage of mountjoy and iris. he wrote to invite hugh to his house in a tone of cordiality which astonished his daughter; and when the guest arrived, the genial welcome of the host had but one defect--mr. henley overacted his part. he gave the two young people perpetual opportunities of speaking to each other privately; and, on the principle that none are so blind as those who won't see, he failed to discover that the relations between them continued to be relations of friendship, do what he might. hugh's long attendance on his dying father had left him depressed in spirits; iris understood him, and felt for him. he was not ready with his opinion of the new maid, after he had seen fanny mere. "my inclination," he said, "is to trust the girl. and yet, i hesitate to follow my inclination--and i don't know why." when hugh's visit came to an end, he continued his journey in a northerly direction. the property left to him by his father included a cottage, standing in its own grounds, on the scotch shore of the solway firth. the place had been neglected during the long residence of the elder mr. mountjoy on the continent. hugh's present object was to judge, by his own investigation, of the necessity for repairs. on the departure of his guest, mr. henley (still obstinately hopeful of the marriage on which he had set his mind) assumed a jocular manner towards iris, and asked if the scotch cottage was to be put in order for the honeymoon. her reply, gently as it was expressed, threw him into a state of fury. his vindictive temper revelled, not only in harsh words, but in spiteful actions. he sold one of his dogs which had specially attached itself to iris; and, seeing that she still enjoyed the country, he decided on returning to london. she submitted in silence. but the events of that past time, when her father's merciless conduct had driven her out of his house, returned ominously to her memory. she said to herself: "is a day coming when i shall leave him again?" it was coming--and she little knew how. chapter xvi the doctor in full dress mr. henley's household had been again established in london, when a servant appeared one morning with a visiting card, and announced that a gentleman had called who wished to see miss henley. she looked at the card. the gentleman was mr. vimpany. on the point of directing the man to say that she was engaged, iris checked herself. mrs. vimpany's farewell words had produced a strong impression on her. there had been moments of doubt and gloom in her later life, when the remembrance of that unhappy woman was associated with a feeling (perhaps a morbid feeling) of self-reproach. it seemed to be hard on the poor penitent wretch not to have written to her. was she still leading the same dreary life in the mouldering old town? or had she made another attempt to return to the ungrateful stage? the gross husband, impudently presenting himself with his card and his message, could answer those questions if he could do nothing else. for that reason only iris decided that she would receive mr. vimpany. on entering the room, she found two discoveries awaiting her, for which she was entirely unprepared. the doctor's personal appearance exhibited a striking change; he was dressed, in accordance with the strictest notions of professional propriety, entirely in black. more remarkable still, there happened to be a french novel among the books on the table--and that novel mr. vimpany, barbarous mr. vimpany, was actually reading with an appearance of understanding it! "i seem to surprise you," said the doctor. "is it this?" he held up the french novel as he put the question. "i must own that i was not aware of the range of your accomplishments," iris answered. "oh, don't talk of accomplishments! i learnt my profession in paris. for nigh on three years i lived among the french medical students. noticing this book on the table, i thought i would try whether i had forgotten the language--in the time that has passed (you know) since those days. well, my memory isn't a good one in most things, but strange to say (force of habit, i suppose), some of my french sticks by me still. i hope i see you well, miss henley. might i ask if you noticed the new address, when i sent up my card?" "i only noticed your name." the doctor produced his pocket-book, and took out a second card. with pride he pointed to the address: " redburn road, hampstead heath." with pride he looked at his black clothes. "strictly professional, isn't it?" he said. "i have bought a new practice; and i have become a new man. it isn't easy at first. no, by jingo--i beg your pardon--i was about to say, my own respectability rather bothers me; i shall get used to it in time. if you will allow me, i'll take a liberty. no offence, i hope?" he produced a handful of his cards, and laid them out in a neat little semicircle on the table. "a word of recommendation, when you have the chance, would be a friendly act on your part," he explained. "capital air in redburn road, and a fine view of the heath out of the garret windows--but it's rather an out-of-the-way situation. not that i complain; beggars mustn't be choosers. i should have preferred a practice in a fashionable part of london; but our little windfall of money--" he came to a full stop in the middle of a sentence. the sale of the superb diamond pin, by means of which lord harry had repaid mrs. vimpany's services, was, of all domestic events, the last which it might be wise to mention in the presence of miss henley. he was awkwardly silent. taking advantage of that circumstance, iris introduced the subject in which she felt interested. "how is mrs. vimpany?" she asked. "oh, she's all right!" "does she like your new house?" the doctor made a strange reply. "i really can't tell you," he said. "do you mean that mrs. vimpany declines to express an opinion?" he laughed. "in all my experience," he said, "i never met with a woman who did that! no, no; the fact is, my wife and i have parted company. there's no need to look so serious about it! incompatibility of temper, as the saying is, has led us to a friendly separation. equally a relief on both sides. she goes her way, i go mine." his tone disgusted iris--and she let him see it. "is it of any use to ask you for mrs. vimpany's address?" she inquired. his atrocious good-humour kept its balance as steadily as ever: "sorry to disappoint you. mrs. vimpany hasn't given me her address. curious, isn't it? the fact is, she moped a good deal, after you left us; talked of her duty, and the care of her soul, and that sort of thing. when i hear where she is, i'll let you know with pleasure. to the best of my belief, she's doing nurse's work somewhere." "nurse's work? what do you mean?" "oh, the right thing--all in the fashion. she belongs to what they call a sisterhood; goes about, you know, in a shabby black gown, with a poke bonnet. at least, so lord harry told me the other day." in spite of herself, iris betrayed the agitation which those words instantly roused in her. "lord harry!" she exclaimed. "where is he? in london?" "yes--at parker's hotel." "when did he return?" "oh, a few days ago; and--what do you think?--he's come back from the goldfields a lucky man. damn it, i've let the cat out of the bag! i was to keep the thing a secret from everybody, and from you most particularly. he's got some surprise in store for you. don't tell him what i've done! we had a little misunderstanding, in past days, at honeybuzzard--and, now we are friends again, i don't want to lose his lordship's interest." iris promised to be silent. but to know that the wild lord was in england again, and to remain in ignorance whether he had, or had not, returned with the stain of bloodshed on him, was more than she could endure. "there is one question i must ask you," she said. "i have reason to fear that lord harry left this country, with a purpose of revenge--" mr. vimpany wanted no further explanation. "yes, yes; i know. you may be easy about that. there's been no mischief done, either one way or the other. the man he was after, when he landed in south africa (he told me so himself) has escaped him." with that reply, the doctor got up in a hurry to bring his visit to an end. he proposed to take to flight, he remarked facetiously, before miss henley wheedled him into saying anything more. after opening the door, however, he suddenly returned to iris, and added a last word in the strictest confidence. "if you won't forget to recommend me to your friends," he said, "i'll trust you with another secret. you will see his lordship in a day or two, when he returns from the races. good-bye." the races! what was lord harry doing at the races? chapter xvii on hampstead heath iris had only to remember the manner in which she and mountjoy had disappointed her father, to perceive the serious necessity of preventing mountjoy's rival from paying a visit at mr. henley's house. she wrote at once to lord harry, at the hotel which mr. vimpany had mentioned, entreating him not to think of calling on her. being well aware that he would insist on a meeting, she engaged to write again and propose an appointment. in making this concession, iris might have found it easier to persuade herself that she was yielding to sheer necessity, if she had not been guiltily conscious of a feeling of pleasure at the prospect of seeing lord harry again, returning to her an innocent man. there was some influence, in this train of thought, which led her mind back to hugh. she regretted his absence--wondered whether he would have proposed throwing her letter to the irish lord into the fire--sighed, closed the envelope, and sent the letter to the post. on the next day, she had arranged to drive to muswell hill, and to pay the customary visit to rhoda. heavy rain obliged her to wait for a fitter opportunity. it was only on the third day that the sky cleared, and the weather was favourable again. on a sunshiny autumn morning, with a fine keen air blowing, she ordered the open carriage. noticing, while fanny mere was helping her to dress, that the girl looked even paler than usual, she said, with her customary kindness to persons dependent on her, "you look as if a drive in the fresh air would do you good--you shall go with me to the farm, and see rhoda bennet." when they stopped at the house, the farmer's wife appeared, attending a gentleman to the door. iris at once recognised the local medical man. "you're not in attendance, i hope, on rhoda bennet?" she said. the doctor acknowledged that there had been some return of the nervous derangement from which the girl suffered. he depended mainly (he said) on the weather allowing her to be out as much as possible in the fresh air, and on keeping her free from all agitation. rhoda was so far on the way to recovery, that she was now walking in the garden by his advice. he had no fear of her, provided she was not too readily encouraged, in her present state, to receive visitors. her mistress would be, of course, an exception to this rule. but even miss henley would perhaps do well not to excite the girl by prolonging her visit. there was one other suggestion which he would venture to make, while he had the opportunity. rhoda was not, as he thought, warmly enough clothed for the time of year; and a bad cold might be easily caught by a person in her condition. iris entered the farm-house; leaving fanny mere, after what the doctor had said on the subject of visitors, to wait for her in the carriage. after an absence of barely ten minutes miss henley returned; personally changed, not at all to her own advantage, by the introduction of a novelty in her dress. she had gone into the farmhouse, wearing a handsome mantle of sealskin. when she came out again, the mantle had vanished, and there appeared in its place a common cloak of drab-coloured cloth. noticing the expression of blank amazement in the maid's face, iris burst out laughing. "how do you think i look in my new cloak?" she asked. fanny saw nothing to laugh at in the sacrifice of a sealskin mantle. "i must not presume, miss, to give an opinion," she said gravely. "at any rate," iris continued, "you must be more than mortal if my change of costume doesn't excite your curiosity. i found rhoda bennet in the garden, exposed to the cold wind in this ugly flimsy thing. after what the doctor had told me, it was high time to assert my authority. i insisted on changing cloaks with rhoda. she made an attempt, poor dear, to resist; but she knows me of old--and i had my way. i am sorry you have been prevented from seeing her; you shall not miss the opportunity when she is well again. do you admire a fine view? very well; we will vary the drive on our return. go back," she said to the coachman, "by highgate and hampstead." fanny's eyes rested on the shabby cloak with a well-founded distrust of it as a protection against the autumn weather. she ventured to suggest that her mistress might feel the loss (in an open carriage) of the warm mantle which she had left on rhoda's shoulders. iris made light of the doubt expressed by her maid. but by the time they had passed highgate, and had approached the beginning of the straight road which crosses the high ridge of hampstead heath, she was obliged to acknowledge that she did indeed feel the cold. "you ought to be a good walker," she said, looking at her maid's firm well-knit figure. "exercise is all i want to warm me. what do you say to going home on foot?" fanny was ready and willing to accompany her mistress. the carriage was dismissed, and they set forth on their walk. as they passed the inn called "the spaniards," two women who were standing at the garden gate stared at iris, and smiled. a few paces further on, they were met by an errand-boy. he too looked at the young lady, and put his hand derisively to his head, with a shrill whistle expressive of malicious enjoyment. "i appear to amuse these people," iris said. "what do they see in me?" fanny answered with an effort to preserve her gravity, which was not quite successfully disguised: "i beg your pardon, miss; i think they notice the curious contrast between your beautiful bonnet and your shabby cloak." persons of excitable temperament have a sense of ridicule, and a dread of it, unintelligible to their fellow-creatures who are made of coarser material. for the moment, iris was angry. "why didn't you tell me of it," she asked sharply, "before i sent away the carriage? how can i walk back, with everybody laughing at me?" she paused--reflected a little--and led the way off the high road, on the right, to the fine clump of fir-trees which commands the famous view in that part of the heath. "there's but one thing to be done," she said, recovering her good temper; "we must make my grand bonnet suit itself to my miserable cloak. you will pull out the feather and rip off the lace (and keep them for yourself, if you like), and then i ought to look shabby enough from head to foot, i am sure! no; not here; they may notice us from the road--and what may the fools not do when they see you tearing the ornaments off my bonnet! come down below the trees, where the ground will hide us." they had nearly descended the steep slope which leads to the valley, below the clump of firs, when they were stopped by a terrible discovery. close at their feet, in a hollow of the ground, was stretched the insensible body of a man. he lay on his side, with his face turned away from them. an open razor had dropped close by him. iris stooped over the prostate man, to examine his face. blood flowing from a frightful wound in his throat, was the first thing that she saw. her eyes closed instinctively, recoiling from that ghastly sight. the next instant she opened them again, and saw his face. dying or dead, it was the face of lord harry. the shriek that burst from her, on making that horrible discovery, was heard by two men who were crossing the lower heath at some distance. they saw the women, and ran to them. one of the men was a labourer; the other, better dressed, looked like a foreman of works. he was the first who arrived on the spot. "enough to frighten you out of your senses, ladies," he said civilly. "it's a case of suicide, i should say, by the look of it." "for god's sake, let us do something to help him!" iris burst out. "i know him! i know him!" fanny, equal to the emergency, asked miss henley for her handkerchief, joined her own handkerchief to it, and began to bandage the wound. "try if his pulse is beating," she said quietly to her mistress. the foreman made himself useful by examining the suicide's pockets. iris thought she could detect a faint fluttering in the pulse. "is there no doctor living near?" she cried. "is there no carriage to be found in this horrible place?" the foreman had discovered two letters. iris read her own name on one of them. the other was addressed "to the person who may find my body." she tore the envelope open. it contained one of mr. vimpany's cards, with these desperate words written on it in pencil: "take me to the doctor's address, and let him bury me, or dissect me, whichever he pleases." iris showed the card to the foreman. "is it near here?" she asked. "yes, miss; we might get him to that place in no time, if there was a conveyance of any kind to be found." still preserving her presence of mind, fanny pointed in the direction of "the spaniards" inn. "we might get what we want there," she said. "shall i go?" iris signed to her to attend to the wounded man, and ascended the sloping ground. she ran on towards the road. the men, directed by fanny, raised the body and slowly followed her, diverging to an easier ascent. as iris reached the road, a four-wheel cab passed her. without an instant's hesitation, she called to the driver to stop. he pulled up his horse. she confronted a solitary gentleman, staring out of the window of the cab, and looking as if he thought that a lady had taken a liberty with him. iris allowed the outraged stranger no opportunity of expressing his sentiments. breathless as she was, she spoke first. "pray forgive me--you are alone in the cab--there is room for a gentleman, dangerously wounded--he will bleed to death if we don't find help for him--the place is close by--oh, don't refuse me!" she looked back, holding fast by the cab door, and saw fanny and the men slowly approaching. "bring him here!" she cried. "do nothing of the sort!" shouted the gentleman in possession of the cab. but fanny obeyed her mistress; and the men obeyed fanny. iris turned indignantly to the merciless stranger. "i ask you to do an act of christian kindness," she said. "how can you, how dare you, hesitate?" "drive on!" cried the stranger. "drive on, at your peril," iris added, on her side. the cabman sat, silent and stolid, on the box, waiting for events. slowly the men came in view, bearing lord harry, still insensible. the handkerchiefs on his throat were saturated with blood. at that sight, the cowardly instincts of the stranger completely mastered him. "let me out!" he clamoured; "let me out!" finding the cab left at her disposal, iris actually thanked him! he looked at her with an evil eye. "i have my suspicions, i can tell you," he muttered. "if this comes to a trial in a court of law, i'm not going to be mixed up with it. innocent people have been hanged before now, when appearances were against them." he walked off; and, by way of completing the revelation of his own meanness, forgot to pay his fare. on the point of starting the horse to pursue him, the cabman was effectually stopped. iris showed him a sovereign. upon this hint (like othello) he spoke. "all right, miss. i see your poor gentleman is a-bleeding. you'll take care--won't you?--that he doesn't spoil my cushions." the driver was not a ill-conditioned man; he put the case of his property indulgently, with a persuasive smile. iris turned to the two worthy fellows, who had so readily given her their help, and bade them good-bye, with a solid expression of her gratitude which they both remembered for many a long day to come. fanny was already in the cab supporting lord harry's body. iris joined her. the cabman drove carefully to mr. vimpany's new house. chapter xviii professional assistance number five was near the centre of the row of little suburban houses called redburn road. when the cab drew up at the door mr. vimpany himself was visible, looking out of the window on the ground floor--and yawning as he looked. iris beckoned to him impatiently. "anything wrong?" he asked, as he approached the door of the cab. she drew back, and silently showed him what was wrong. the doctor received the shock with composure. when he happened to be sober and sad, looking for patients and failing to find them, mr. vimpany's capacity for feeling sympathy began and ended with himself. "this is a new scrape, even for lord harry," he remarked. "let's get him into the house." the insensible man was carried into the nearest room on the ground floor. pale and trembling, iris related what had happened, and asked if there was no hope of saving him. "patience!" mr. vimpany answered; "i'll tell you directly." he removed the bandages, and examined the wound. "there's been a deal of blood lost," he said; "i'll try and pull him through. while i am about it, miss, go upstairs, if you please, and find your way to the drawing-room." iris hesitated. the doctor opened a neat mahogany box. "the tools of my trade," he continued; "i'm going to sew up his lordship's throat." shuddering as she heard those words, iris hurried out of the room. fanny followed her mistress up the stairs. in her own very different way, the maid was as impenetrably composed as mr. vimpany himself. "there was a second letter found in the gentleman's pocket, miss," she said. "will you excuse my reminding you that you have not read it yet." iris read the lines that follow: "forgive me, my dear, for the last time. my letter is to say that i shall trouble you no more in this world--and, as for the other world, who knows? i brought some money back with me, from the goldfields. it was not enough to be called a fortune--i mean the sort of fortune which might persuade your father to let you marry me. well! here in england, i had an opportunity of making ten times more of it on the turf; and, let me add, with private information of the horses which i might certainly count on to win. i don't stop to ask by what cruel roguery i was tempted to my ruin. my money is lost; and, with it, my last hope of a happy and harmless life with you comes to an end. i die, iris dear, with the death of that hope. something in me seems to shrink from suicide in the ugly gloom of great overgrown london. i prefer to make away with myself among the fields, where the green will remind me of dear old ireland. when you think of me sometimes, say to yourself the poor wretch loved me--and perhaps the earth will lie lighter on harry for those kind words, and the flowers (if you favour me by planting a few) may grow prettier on my grave." there it ended. the heart of iris sank as she read that melancholy farewell, expressed in language at once wild and childish. if he survived his desperate attempt at self-destruction, to what end would it lead? in silence, the woman who loved him put his letter back in her bosom. watching her attentively--affected, it was impossible to say how, by that mute distress--fanny mere proposed to go downstairs, and ask once more what hope there might be for the wounded man. iris knew the doctor too well to let the maid leave her on a useless errand. "some men might be kindly ready to relieve my suspense," she said; "the man downstairs is not one of them. i must wait till he comes to me, or sends for me. but there is something i wish to say to you, while we are alone. you have been but a short time in my service, fanny. is it too soon to ask if you feel some interest in me?" "if i can comfort you or help you, miss, be pleased to tell me how." she made that reply respectfully, in her usual quiet manner; her pale cheeks showing no change of colour, her faint blue eyes resting steadily on her mistress's face. iris went on: "if i ask you to keep what has happened, on this dreadful day, a secret from everybody, may i trust you--little as you know of me--as i might have trusted rhoda bennet?" "i promise it, miss." in saying those few words, the undemonstrative woman seemed to think that she had said enough. iris had no alternative but to ask another favour. "and whatever curiosity you may feel, will you be content to do me a kindness--without wanting an explanation?" "it is my duty to respect my mistress's secrets; i will do my duty." no sentiment, no offer of respectful sympathy; a positive declaration of fidelity, left impenetrably to speak for itself. was the girl's heart hardened by the disaster which had darkened her life? or was she the submissive victim of that inbred reserve, which shrinks from the frank expression of feeling, and lives and dies self-imprisoned in its own secrecy? a third explanation, founded probably on a steadier basis, was suggested by miss henley's remembrance of their first interview. fanny's nature had revealed a sensitive side, when she was first encouraged to hope for a refuge from ruin followed perhaps by starvation and death. judging so far from experience, a sound conclusion seemed to follow. when circumstances strongly excited the girl, there was a dormant vitality in her that revived. at other times when events failed to agitate her by a direct appeal to personal interests, her constitutional reserve held the rule. she could be impenetrably honest, steadily industrious, truly grateful--but the intuitive expression of feeling, on ordinary occasions, was beyond her reach. after an interval of nearly half an hour, mr. vimpany made his appearance. pausing in the doorway, he consulted his watch, and entered on a calculation which presented him favourably from a professional point of view. "allow for time lost in reviving my lord when he fainted, and stringing him up with a drop of brandy, and washing my hands (look how clean they are!), i haven't been more than twenty minutes in mending his throat. not bad surgery, miss henley." "is his life safe, mr. vimpany?" "thanks to his luck--yes." "his luck?" "to be sure! in the first place, he owes his life to your finding him when you did; a little later, and it would have been all over with lord harry. second piece of luck: catching the doctor at home, just when he was most wanted. third piece of luck: our friend didn't know how to cut his own throat properly. you needn't look black at me, miss; i'm not joking. a suicide with a razor in his hand has generally one chance in his favour--he is ignorant of anatomy. that is my lord's case. he has only cut through the upper fleshy part of his throat, and has missed the larger blood vessels. take my word for it, he will do well enough now; thanks to you, thanks to me, and thanks to his own ignorance. what do you say to that way of putting it? ha! my brains are in good working order to-day; i haven't been drinking any of mr. mountjoy's claret--do you take the joke, miss henley?" chuckling over the recollection of his own drunken audacity, he happened to notice fanny mere. "hullo! is this another injured person in want of me? you're as white as a sheet, miss. if you're going to faint, do me a favour--wait till i can get the brandy-bottle. oh! it's natural to you, is it? i see. a thick skin and a slow circulation; you will live to be an old woman. a friend of yours, miss henley?" fanny answered composedly for herself: "i am miss henley's maid, sir." "what's become of the other one?" mr. vimpany asked. "aye? aye? staying at a farm-house for the benefit of her health, is she? if i had been allowed time enough, i would have made a cure of rhoda bennet. there isn't a medical man in england who knows more than i do of the nervous maladies of women--and what is my reward? is my waiting-room crammed with rich people coming to consult me? do i live in a fashionable square? have i even been made a baronet? damn it--i beg your pardon, miss henley--but it is irritating, to a man of my capacity, to be completely neglected. for the last three days not a creature has darkened the doors of this house. could i say a word to you?" he led iris mysteriously into a corner of the room. "about our friend downstairs?" he began. "when may we hope that he will be well again, mr. vimpany?" "maybe in three weeks. in a month at most. i have nobody here but a stupid servant girl. we ought to have a competent nurse. i can get a thoroughly trained person from the hospital; but there's a little difficulty. i am an outspoken man. when i am poor, i own i am poor. my lord must be well fed; the nurse must be well fed. would you mind advancing a small loan, to provide beforehand for the payment of expenses?" iris handed her purse to him, sick of the sight of mr. vimpany. "is that all?" she asked, making for the door. "much obliged. that's all." as they approached the room on the ground floor, iris stopped: her eyes rested on the doctor. even to that coarse creature, the eloquent look spoke for her. fanny noticed it, and suddenly turned her head aside. over the maid's white face there passed darkly an expression of unutterable contempt. her mistress's weakness had revealed itself--weakness for one of the betrayers of women; weakness for a man! in the meantime, mr. vimpany (having got the money) was ready to humour the enviable young lady with a well-filled purse. "do you want to see my lord before you go?" he asked, amused at the idea. "mind! you mustn't disturb him! no talking, and no crying. ready? now look at him." there he lay on a shabby little sofa, in an ugly little room; his eyes closed; one helpless hand hanging down; a stillness on his ghastly face, horribly suggestive of the stillness of death--there he lay, the reckless victim of his love for the woman who had desperately renounced him again and again, who had now saved him for the third time. ah, how her treacherous heart pleaded for him! can you drive him away from you after this? you, who love him, what does your cold-blooded prudence say, when you look at him now? she felt herself drawn, roughly and suddenly, back into the passage. the door was closed; the doctor was whispering to her. "hold up, miss! i expected better things of you. come! come!--no fainting. you'll find him a different man to-morrow. pay us a visit, and judge for yourself." after what she had suffered, iris hungered for sympathy. "isn't it pitiable?" she said to her maid as they left the house. "i don't know, miss." "you don't know? good heavens, are you made of stone? have you no such thing as a heart in you?" "not for the men," fanny answered. "i keep my pity for the women." iris knew what bitter remembrances made their confession in those words. how she missed rhoda bennet at that moment! chapter xix mr. henley at home for a month, mountjoy remained in his cottage on the shores of the solway firth, superintending the repairs. his correspondence with iris was regularly continued; and, for the first time in his experience of her, was a cause of disappointment to him. her replies revealed an incomprehensible change in her manner of writing, which became more and more marked in each succeeding instance. notice it as he might in his own letters, no explanation followed on the part of his correspondent. she, who had so frankly confided her joys and sorrows to him in past days, now wrote with a reserve which seemed only to permit the most vague and guarded allusion to herself. the changes in the weather; the alternation of public news that was dull, and public news that was interesting; the absence of her father abroad, occasioned by doubt of the soundness of his investments in foreign securities; vague questions relating to hugh's new place of abode, which could only have proceeded from a preoccupied mind--these were the topics on which iris dwelt, in writing to her faithful old friend. it was hardly possible to doubt that something must have happened, which she had reasons--serious reasons, as it seemed only too natural to infer--for keeping concealed from mountjoy. try as he might to disguise it from himself, he now knew how dear, how hopelessly dear, she was to him by the anxiety that he suffered, and by the jealous sense of injury which defied his self-command. his immediate superintendence of the workmen at the cottage was no longer necessary. leaving there a representative whom he could trust, he resolved to answer his last letter, received from iris, in person. the next day he was in london. calling at the house, he was informed that miss henley was not at home, and that it was impossible to say with certainty when she might return. while he was addressing his inquiries to the servant, mr. henley opened the library door. "is that you, mountjoy?" he asked. "come in: i want to speak to you." short and thick-set, with a thin-lipped mouth, a coarsely-florid complexion, and furtive greenish eyes; hard in his manner, and harsh in his voice; mr. henley was one of the few heartless men, who are innocent of deception on the surface: he was externally a person who inspired, at first sight, feelings of doubt and dislike. his manner failed to show even a pretence of being glad to see hugh. what he had to say, he said walking up and down the room, and scratching his bristly iron-gray hair from time to time. those signs of restlessness indicated, to those who knew him well, that he had a selfish use to make of a fellow-creature, and failed to see immediately how to reach the end in view. "i say, mountjoy," he began, "have you any idea of what my daughter is about?" "i don't even understand what you mean," hugh replied. "for the last month i have been in scotland." "you and she write to each other, don't you?" "yes." "hasn't she told you--" "excuse me for interrupting you, mr. henley; she has told me nothing." mr. henley stared absently at the superbly-bound books on his library-shelves (never degraded by the familiar act of reading), and scratched his head more restlessly than ever. "look here, young man. when you were staying with me in the country, i rather hoped it might end in a marriage engagement. you and iris disappointed me--not for the first time. but women do change their minds. suppose she had changed her mind, after having twice refused you? suppose she had given you an opportunity--" hugh interrupted him again. "it's needless to suppose anything of the sort, sir; she would not have given me an opportunity." "don't fence with me, mountjoy! i'll put it in a milder way, if you prefer being humbugged. do you feel any interest in that perverse girl of mine?" hugh answered readily and warmly: "the truest interest!" even mr. henley was human; his ugly face looked uglier still. it assumed the self-satisfied expression of a man who had carried his point. "now i can go on, my friend, with what i had to say to you. i have been abroad on business, and only came back the other day. the moment i saw iris i noticed something wrong about her. if i had been a stranger, i should have said: that young woman is not easy in her mind. perfectly useless to speak to her about it. quite happy and quite well--there was her own account of herself. i tried her maid next, a white-livered sulky creature, one of the steadiest liars i have ever met with. 'i know of nothing amiss with my mistress, sir.' there was the maid's way of keeping the secret, whatever it may be! i don't know whether you may have noticed it, in the course of your acquaintance with me--i hate to be beaten." "no, mr. henley, i have not noticed it." "then you are informed of it now. have you seen my housekeeper?" "once or twice, sir." "come! you're improving; we shall make something of you in course of time. well, the housekeeper was the next person i spoke to about my daughter. had she seen anything strange in miss iris, while i was away from home? there's a dash of malice in my housekeeper's composition; i don't object to a dash of malice. when the old woman is pleased, she shows her yellow fangs. she had something to tell me: 'the servants have been talking, sir, about miss iris.' 'out with it, ma'am! what do they say?' 'they notice, sir, that their young lady has taken to going out in the forenoon, regularly every day: always by herself, and always in the same direction. i don't encourage the servants, mr. henley: there was something insolent in the tone of suspicion that they adopted. i told them that miss iris was merely taking her walk. they reminded me that it must be a cruelly long walk; miss iris being away regularly for four or five hours together, before she came back to the house. after that' (says the housekeeper) 'i thought it best to drop the subject.' what do you think of it yourself, mountjoy? do you call my daughter's conduct suspicious?" "i see nothing suspicious, mr. henley. when iris goes out, she visits a friend." "and always goes in the same direction, and always visits the same friend," mr. henley added. "i felt a curiosity to know who that friend might be; and i made the discovery yesterday. when you were staying in my house in the country, do you remember the man who waited on you?" mountjoy began to feel alarmed for iris; he answered as briefly as possible. "your valet," he said. "that's it! well, i took my valet into my confidence--not for the first time, i can tell you: an invaluable fellow. when iris went out yesterday, he tracked her to a wretched little suburban place near hampstead heath, called redburn road. she rang the bell at number five, and was at once let in--evidently well known there. my clever man made inquiries in the neighbourhood. the house belongs to a doctor, who has lately taken it. name of vimpany." mountjoy was not only startled, but showed it plainly. mr. henley, still pacing backwards and forwards, happened by good fortune to have his back turned towards his visitor, at that moment. "now i ask you, as a man of the world," mr. henley resumed, "what does this mean? if you're too cautious to speak out--and i must say it looks like it--shall i set you the example?" "just as you please, sir." "very well, then; i'll tell you what i suspect. when iris is at home, and when there's something amiss in my family, i believe that scoundrel lord harry to be at the bottom of it. there's my experience, and there's my explanation. i was on the point of ordering my carriage, to go to the doctor myself, and insist on knowing what the attraction is that takes my daughter to his house, when i heard your voice in the hall. you tell me you are interested in iris. very well; you are just the man to help me." "may i ask how, mr. henley?" "of course you may. you can find your way to her confidence, if you choose to try; she will trust you, when she won't trust her father. i don't care two straws about her other secrets; but i do want to know whether she is, or is not, plotting to marry the irish blackguard. satisfy me about that, and you needn't tell me anything more. may i count on you to find out how the land lies?" mountjoy listened, hardly able to credit the evidence of his own senses; he was actually expected to insinuate himself into the confidence of iris, and then to betray her to her father! he rose, and took his hat--and, without even the formality of a bow, opened the door. "does that mean no?" mr. henley called after him. "most assuredly," mountjoy answered--and closed the door behind him. chapter xx first suspicions of iris from the last memorable day, on which iris had declared to him that he might always count on her as his friend, but never as his wife, hugh had resolved to subject his feelings to a rigorous control. as to conquering his hopeless love, he knew but too well that it would conquer him, on any future occasion when he and iris happened to meet. he had been true to his resolution, at what cost of suffering he, and he alone knew. sincerely, unaffectedly, he had tried to remain her friend. but the nature of the truest and the firmest man has its weak place, where the subtle influence of a woman is concerned. deeply latent, beyond the reach of his own power of sounding, there was jealousy of the irish lord lurking in mountjoy, and secretly leading his mind when he hesitated in those emergencies of his life which were connected with iris. ignorant of the influence which was really directing him, he viewed with contempt mr. henley's suspicions of a secret understanding between his daughter and the man who was, by her own acknowledgment, unworthy of the love with which it had been her misfortune to regard him. at the same time, hugh's mind was reluctantly in search of an explanation, which might account (without degrading iris) for her having been traced to the doctor's house. in his recollection of events at the old country town, he found a motive for her renewal of intercourse with such a man as mr. vimpany, in the compassionate feeling with which she regarded the doctor's unhappy wife. there might well be some humiliating circumstance, recently added to the other trials of mrs. vimpany's married life, which had appealed to all that was generous and forgiving in the nature of iris. knowing nothing of the resolution to live apart which had latterly separated the doctor and his wife, mountjoy decided on putting his idea to the test by applying for information to mrs. vimpany at her husband's house. in the nature of a sensitive man the bare idea of delay, under these circumstances, was unendurable. hugh called the first cab that passed him, and drove to hampstead. careful--morbidly careful, perhaps--not to attract attention needlessly to himself, he stopped the cab at the entrance to redburn road, and approached number five on foot. a servant-girl answered the door. mountjoy asked if mrs. vimpany was at home. the girl made no immediate reply. she seemed to be puzzled by mountjoy's simple question. her familiar manner, with its vulgar assumption of equality in the presence of a stranger, revealed the london-bred maid-servant of modern times. "did you say _mrs._ vimpany?" she inquired sharply. "yes." "there's no such person here." it was mountjoy's turn to be puzzled. "is this mr. vimpany's house?" he said. "yes, to be sure it is." "and yet mrs. vimpany doesn't live here?" "no mrs. vimpany has darkened these doors," the girl declared positively. "are you sure you are not making a mistake?" "quite sure. i have been in the doctor's service since he first took the house." determined to solve the mystery, if it could be done, mountjoy asked if he could see the doctor. no: mr. vimpany had gone out. "there's a young person comes to us," the servant continued. "i wonder whether you mean her, when you ask for mrs. vimpany? the name _she_ gives is henley." "is miss henley here, now?" "you can't see her--she's engaged." she was not engaged with mrs. vimpany, for no such person was known in the house. she was not engaged with the doctor, for the doctor had gone out. mountjoy looked at the hat-stand in the passage, and discovered a man's hat and a man's greatcoat. to whom did they belong? certainly not to mr. vimpany, who had gone out. repellent as it was, mr. henley's idea that the explanation of his daughter's conduct was to be found in the renewed influence over her of the irish lord, now presented itself to hugh's mind under a new point of view. he tried in vain to resist the impression that had been produced on him. a sense of injury, which he was unable to justify to himself, took possession of him. come what might of it, he determined to set at rest the doubts of which he was ashamed, by communicating with iris. his card-case proved to be empty when he opened it; but there were letters in his pocket, addressed to him at his hotel in london. removing the envelope from one of these, he handed it to the servant: "take that to miss henley, and ask when i can see her." the girl left him in the passage, and went upstairs to the drawing-room. in the flimsily-built little house, he could hear the heavy step of a man, crossing the room above, and then the resonant tones of a man's voice raised as if in anger. had she given him already the right to be angry with her? he thought of the time, when the betrayal of lord harry's vindictive purpose in leaving england had frightened her--when he had set aside his own sense of what was due to him, for her sake--and had helped her to communicate, by letter, with the man whose fatal ascendency over iris had saddened his life. was what he heard, now, the return that he had deserved? after a short absence, the servant came back with a message. "miss henley begs you will excuse her. she will write to you." would this promised letter be like the other letters which he had received from her in scotland? mountjoy's gentler nature reminded him that he owed it to his remembrance of happier days, and truer friendship, to wait and see. he was just getting into the cab, on his return to london, when a closed carriage, with one person in it, passed him on its way to redburn road. in that person he recognised mr. henley. as the cab-driver mounted to his seat, hugh saw the carriage stop at number five. chapter xxi the parting scene the evening had advanced, and the candles had just been lit in mountjoy's sitting-room at the hotel. his anxiety to hear from iris had been doubled and trebled, since he had made the discovery of her father's visit to the doctor's house, at a time when it was impossible to doubt that lord harry was with her. hugh's jealous sense of wrong was now mastered by the nobler emotions which filled him with pity and alarm, when he thought of iris placed between the contending claims of two such men as the heartless mr. henley and the reckless irish lord. he had remained at the hotel, through the long afternoon, on the chance that she might write to him speedily by the hand of a messenger--and no letter had arrived. he was still in expectation of news which might reach him by the evening post, when the waiter knocked at the door. "a letter?" mountjoy asked. "no, sir," the man answered; "a lady." before she could raise her veil, hugh had recognised iris. her manner was subdued; her face was haggard; her hand lay cold and passive in his hand, when he advanced to bid her welcome. he placed a chair for her by the fire. she thanked him and declined to take it. with the air of a woman conscious of committing an intrusion, she seated herself apart in a corner of the room. "i have tried to write to you, and i have not been able to do it." she said that with a dogged resignation of tone and manner, so unlike herself that mountjoy looked at her in dismay. "my friend," she went on, "your pity is all i may hope for; i am no longer worthy of the interest you once felt in me." hugh saw that it would be useless to remonstrate. he asked if it had been his misfortune to offend her. "no," she said, "you have not offended me." "then what in heaven's name does this change in you mean?" "it means," she said, as coldly as ever, "that i have lost my self-respect; it means that my father has renounced me, and that you will do well to follow his example. have i not led you to believe that i could never be the wife of lord harry? well, i have deceived you---i am going to marry him." "i can't believe it, iris! i won't believe it!" she handed him the letter, in which the irishman had declared his resolution to destroy himself. hugh read it with contempt. "did my lord's heart fail him?" he asked scornfully. "he would have died by his own hand, mr. mountjoy----" "oh, iris--_'mr.!'"_ "i will say 'hugh,' if you prefer it--but the days of our familiar friendship are none the less at an end. i found lord harry bleeding to death from a wound in his throat. it was in a lonely place on hampstead heath; i was the one person who happened to pass by it. for the third time, you see, it has been my destiny to save him. how can i forget that? my mind will dwell on it. i try to find happiness--oh, only happiness enough for me--in cheering my poor irishman, on his way back to the life that i have preserved. there is my motive, if i have a motive. day after day i have helped to nurse him. day after day i have heard him say things to me--what is the use of repeating them? after years of resistance i have given way; let that be enough. my one act of discretion has been to prevent a quarrel between my father and harry. i beg your pardon, i ought to have said lord harry. when my father came to the house, i insisted on speaking with him alone. i told him what i have just told you. he said: 'think again before you make your choice between that man and me. if you decide to marry him, you will live and die without one farthing of my money to help you.' he put his watch on the table between us, and gave me five minutes to make up my mind. it was a long five minutes, but it ended at last. he asked me which he was to do--leave his will as it was, or go to his lawyer and make another. i said, 'you will do as you please, sir.' no; it was not a hasty reply--you can't make that excuse for me. i knew what i was saying; and i saw the future i was preparing for myself, as plainly as you see it--" hugh could endure no longer the reckless expression of her despair. "no!" he cried, "you don't see your future as i see it. will you hear what i have to say, before it is too late?" "it is too late already. but i will listen to you if you wish it." "and, while you listen," mountjoy added, "you will acquit me of being influenced by a selfish motive. i have loved you dearly. perhaps, in secret, i love you still. but, this i know: if you were to remain a single woman for the rest of your life, there would be no hope for me. do you believe that i am speaking the truth?" "you always speak the truth." "i speak in your interest, at least. you think you see your future life plainly--you are blind to your future life. you talk as if you were resigned to suffer. are you resigned to lose your sense of right and wrong? are you resigned to lead the life of an outlaw, and--worse still--not to feel the disgrace of it?" "go on, hugh." "you won't answer me?" "i won't shock you." "you don't discourage me, my dear; i am still obstinate in the hope of restoring you to your calmer and truer self. let me do every justice to lord harry. i believe, sincerely believe, that his miserable life has not utterly destroyed in him the virtues which distinguish an honourable man. but he has one terrible defect. in his nature, there is the fatal pliability which finds companionable qualities in bad friends. in this aspect of his character, he is a dangerous man--and he may be (forgive me!) a bad husband. it is a thankless task to warn you to any good purpose. a wife--and a loving wife more than another--feels the deteriorating influence of a husband who is not worthy of her. his ways of thinking are apt to become, little by little, her ways of thinking. she makes allowances for him, which he does not deserve; her sense of right and wrong becomes confused; and before she is aware of it herself, she has sunk to his level. are you angry with me?" "how can i be angry with you? perhaps you are right." "do you really mean that?" "oh, yes." "then, for god's sake, reconsider your decision! let me go to your father." "mere waste of time," iris answered. "nothing that you can say will have the least effect on him." "at any rate," mountjoy persisted, "i mean to try." had he touched her? she smiled--how bitterly hugh failed to perceive. "shall i tell you what happened to me when i went home to-day?" she said. "i found my maid waiting in the hall--with everything that belongs to me, packed up for my departure. the girl explained that she had been forced to obey my father's positive orders. i knew what that meant--i had to leave the house, and find a place to live in." "not by yourself, iris?" "no--with my maid. she is a strange creature; if she feels sympathy, she never expresses it. 'i am your grateful servant, miss. where you go, i go.' that was all she said; i was not disappointed--i am getting used to fanny mere already. mine is a lonely lot--isn't it? i have acquaintances among the few ladies who sometimes visit at my father's house, but no friends. my mother's family, as i have always been told, cast her off when she married a man in trade, with a doubtful reputation. i don't even know where my relations live. isn't lord harry good enough for me, as i am now? when i look at my prospects, is it wonderful if i talk like a desperate woman? there is but one encouraging circumstance that i can see. this misplaced love of mine that everybody condemns has, oddly enough, a virtue that everybody must admire. it offers a refuge to a woman who is alone in the world." mountjoy denied indignantly that she was alone in the world. "is there any protection that a man can offer to a woman," he asked, "which i am not ready and eager to offer to you? oh, iris, what have i done to deserve that you should speak of yourself as friendless in my hearing!" he had touched her at last. their tender charm showed itself once more in her eyes and in her smile. she rose and approached him. "what exquisite kindness it must be," she said, "that blinds a clever man like you to obstacles which anyone else can see! remember, dear hugh, what the world would say to that protection which your true heart offers to me. are you my near relation? are you my guardian? are you even an old man? ah me! you are only an angel of goodness whom i must submit to lose. i shall still count on your kindness when we see each other no more. you will pity me, when you hear that i have fallen lower and lower; you will be sorry for me, when i end in disgracing myself." "even then, iris, we shall not be separated. the loving friend who is near you now, will be your loving friend still." for the first time in her life, she threw her arms round him. in the agony of that farewell, she held him to her bosom. "goodbye, dear," she said faintly--and kissed him. the next moment, a deadly pallor overspread her face. she staggered as she drew back, and dropped into the chair that she had just left. in the fear that she might faint, mountjoy hurried out in search of a restorative. his bed-chamber was close by, at the end of the corridor; and there were smelling-salts in his dressing-case. as he raised the lid, he heard the door behind him, the one door in the room, locked from the outer side. he rushed to the door, and called to her. from the farther end of the corridor, her voice reached him for the last time, repeating the last melancholy word: "good-bye." no renewal of the miserable parting scene: no more of the heartache--iris had ended it! chapter xxii the fatal words when mountjoy had rung for the servant, and the bedroom door had been unlocked, it was too late to follow the fugitive. her cab was waiting for her outside; and the attention of the porter had been distracted, at the same time, by a new arrival of travellers at the hotel. it is more or less in the nature of all men who are worthy of the name, to take refuge from distress in action. hugh decided on writing to iris, and on making his appeal to her father, that evening. he abstained from alluding, in his letter, to the manner in which she had left him; it was her right, it was even her duty to spare herself. all that he asked was to be informed of her present place of residence, so that he might communicate the result--in writing only if she preferred it--of his contemplated interview with her father. he addressed his letter to the care of mr. vimpany, to be forwarded, and posted it himself. this done, he went on at once to mr. henley's house. the servant who opened the door had evidently received his orders. mr. henley was "not at home." mountjoy was in no humour to be trifled with. he pushed the man out of his way, and made straight for the dining-room. there, as his previous experience of the habits of the household had led him to anticipate, was the man whom he was determined to see. the table was laid for mr. henley's late dinner. hugh's well-meant attempt to plead the daughter's cause with the father ended as iris had said it would end. after hotly resenting the intrusion on him that had been committed, mr. henley declared that a codicil to his will, depriving his daughter absolutely of all interest in his property, had been legally executed that day. for a time, mountjoy's self-control had resisted the most merciless provocation. all that it was possible to effect, by patient entreaty and respectful remonstrance, he had tried again and again, and invariably in vain. at last, mr. henley's unbridled insolence triumphed. hugh lost his temper--and, in leaving the heartless old man, used language which he afterwards remembered with regret. to feel that he had attempted to assert the interests of iris, and that he had failed, was, in hugh's heated state of mind, an irresistible stimulant to further exertion. it was perhaps not too late yet to make another attempt to delay (if not to prevent) the marriage. in sheer desperation, mountjoy resolved to inform lord harry that his union with miss henley would be followed by the utter ruin of her expectations from her father. whether the wild lord only considered his own interests, or whether he was loyally devoted to the interests of the woman whom he loved, in either case the penalty to be paid for the marriage was formidable enough to make him hesitate. the lights in the lower window, and in the passage, told hugh that he had arrived in good time at redburn road. he found mr. vimpany and the young irishman sitting together, in the friendliest manner, under the composing influence of tobacco. primed, as he would have said himself, with only a third glass of grog, the hospitable side of the doctor's character was displayed to view. he at once accepted mountjoy's visit as offering a renewal of friendly relations between them. "forgive and forget," he said, "there's the way to settle that little misunderstanding, after our dinner at the inn. you know mr. mountjoy, my lord? that's right. draw in your chair, mountjoy. my professional prospects threaten me with ruin--but while i have a roof over my head, there's always a welcome for a friend. my dear fellow, i have every reason to believe that the doctor who sold me this practice was a swindler. the money is gone, and the patients don't come. well! i am not quite bankrupt yet; i can offer you a glass of grog. mix for yourself--we'll make a night of it." hugh explained (with the necessary excuses) that his object was to say a few words to lord harry in private. the change visible in the doctor's manner, when he had been made acquainted with this circumstance, was not amiably expressed; he had the air of a man who suspected that an unfair advantage had been taken of him. lord harry, on his side, appeared to feel some hesitation in granting a private interview to mr. mountjoy. "is it about miss henley?" he asked. hugh admitted that it was. lord harry thereupon suggested that they might be acting wisely if they avoided the subject. mountjoy answered that there were, on the contrary, reasons for approaching the subject sufficiently important to have induced him to leave london for hampstead at a late hour of the night. hearing this, lord harry rose to lead the way to another room. excluded from his visitor's confidence, mr. vimpany could at least remind mountjoy that he exercised authority as master of the house. "oh, take him upstairs, my lord," said the doctor; "you are at home under my humble roof!" the two young men faced each other in the barely-furnished drawing-room; both sufficiently doubtful of the friendly result of the conference to abstain from seating themselves. hugh came to the point, without wasting time in preparatory words. admitting that he had heard of miss henley's engagement, he asked if lord harry was aware of the disastrous consequences to the young lady which would follow her marriage. the reply to this was frankly expressed. the irish lord knew nothing of the consequences to which mr. mountjoy had alluded. hugh at once enlightened him, and evidently took him completely by surprise. "may i ask, sir," he said, "if you are speaking from your own personal knowledge?" "i have just come, my lord, from mr. henley's house; and what i have told you, i heard from his own lips." there was a pause. hugh was already inclined to think that he had raised an obstacle to the immediate celebration of the marriage. a speedy disappointment was in store for him. lord harry was too fond of iris to be influenced, in his relations with her, by mercenary considerations. "you put it strongly," he said. "but let me tell you, miss henley is far from being so dependent on her father--he ought to be ashamed of himself, but that's neither here nor there--i say, she is far from being so dependent on her father as you seem to think. i am not, i beg to inform you, without resources which i shall offer to her with all my heart and soul. perhaps you wish me to descend to particulars? oh, it's easily done; i have sold my cottage in ireland." "for a large sum--in these times?" hugh inquired. "never mind the sum, mr. mountjoy--let the fact be enough for you. and, while we are on the question of money (a disgusting question, with which i refuse to associate the most charming woman in existence), don't forget that miss henley has an income of her own; derived, as i understand, from her mother's fortune, you will do me the justice, sir, to believe that i shall not touch a farthing of it." "certainly! but her mother's fortune," mountjoy continued, obstinately presenting the subject on its darkest side, "consists of shares in a company. shares rise and fall--and companies some times fail." "and a friend's anxiety about miss henley's affairs sometimes takes a mighty disagreeable form," the irishman added, his temper beginning to show itself without disguise. "let's suppose the worst that can happen, and get all the sooner to the end of a conversation which is far from being agreeable to me. we'll say, if you like, that miss henley's shares are waste paper, and her pockets (god bless her!) as empty as pockets can be, does she run any other risk that occurs to your ingenuity in becoming my wife?" "yes, she does!" hugh was provoked into saying. "in the case you have just supposed, she runs the risk of being left a destitute widow--if you die." he was prepared for an angry reply--for another quarrel added, on that disastrous night, to the quarrel with mr. henley. to his astonishment, lord harry's brightly-expressive eyes rested on him with a look of mingled distress and alarm. "god forgive me!" he said to himself, "i never thought of that! what am i to do? what am i to do?" mountjoy observed that deep discouragement, and failed to understand it. here was a desperate adventurer, whose wanderings had over and over again placed his life in jeopardy, now apparently overcome by merely having his thoughts directed to the subject of death! to place on the circumstances such a construction as this was impossible, after a moment's reflection. the other alternative was to assume that there must be some anxiety burdening lord harry's mind, which he had motives for keeping concealed--and here indeed the true explanation had been found. the irish lord had reasons, known only to himself, for recoiling from the contemplation of his own future. after the murder of arthur mountjoy, he had severed his connection with the assassinating brotherhood of the invincibles; and he had then been warned that he took this step at the peril of his life, if he remained in great britain after he had made himself an object of distrust to his colleagues. the discovery, by the secret tribunal, of his return from south africa would be followed inevitably by the sentence of death. such was the terrible position which mountjoy's reply had ignorantly forced him to confront. his fate depended on the doubtful security of his refuge in the doctor's house. while hugh was still looking at him, in grave doubt, a new idea seemed to spring to life in lord harry's mind. he threw off the oppression that had weighed on his spirits in an instant. his manner towards mountjoy changed, with the suddenness of a flash of light, from the extreme of coldness to the extreme of cordiality. "i have got it at last!" he exclaimed. "let's shake hands. my dear sir, you're the best friend i have ever had!" the cool englishman asked: "in what way?" "in this way, to be sure! you have reminded me that i can provide for miss henley--and the sooner the better. there's our friend the doctor down-stairs, ready to be my reference. don't you see it?" obstacles that might prevent the marriage mountjoy was ready enough to see. facilities that might hasten the marriage found his mind hard of access to new impressions. "are you speaking seriously?" he said. the irishman's irritable temper began to show itself again. "why do you doubt it?" he asked. "i fail to understand you," mountjoy replied. never--as events were yet to prove--had words of such serious import fallen from lord harry's lips as the words that he spoke next. "clear your mind of jealousy," he said, "and you will understand me well enough. i agree with you that i am bound to provide for my widow--and i mean to do it by insuring my life." the end of the second period third period chapter xxiii news of iris after his interview with the irish lord, mountjoy waited for two days, in the expectation of hearing from iris. no reply arrived. had mr. vimpany failed to forward the letter that had been entrusted to him? on the third day, hugh wrote to make inquiries. the doctor returned the letter that had been confided to his care, and complained in his reply of the ungrateful manner in which he had been treated. miss henley had not trusted him with her new address in london; and lord harry had suddenly left redburn road; bidding his host goodbye in a few lines of commonplace apology, and nothing more. mr. vimpany did not deny that he had been paid for his medical services; but, he would ask, was nothing due to friendship? was one man justified in enjoying another man's hospitality, and then treating him like a stranger? "i have done with them both--and i recommend you, my dear sir, to follow my example." in those terms the angry (and sober) doctor expressed his sentiments, and offered his advice. mountjoy laid down the letter in despair. his last poor chance of preventing the marriage depended on his being still able to communicate with iris--and she was as completely lost to him as if she had taken flight to the other end of the world. it might have been possible to discover her by following the movements of lord harry, but he too had disappeared without leaving a trace behind him. the precious hours and days were passing--and hugh was absolutely helpless. tortured by anxiety and suspense, he still lingered at the hotel in london. more than once, he decided on giving up the struggle, and returning to his pretty cottage in scotland. more than once, he deferred taking the journey. at one time, he dreaded to hear that iris was married, if she wrote to him. at another time, he felt mortified and disappointed by the neglect which her silence implied. was she near him, or far from him? in england, or out of england? who could say! after more weary days of waiting and suffering a letter arrived, addressed to mountjoy in a strange handwriting, and bearing the post-mark of paris. the signature revealed that his correspondent was lord harry. his first impulse was to throw the letter into the fire, unread. there could be little doubt, after the time that had passed, of the information that it would contain. could he endure to be told of the marriage of iris, by the man who was her husband? never! there was something humiliating in the very idea of it. he arrived at that conclusion--and what did he do in spite of it? he read the letter. lord harry wrote with scrupulous politeness of expression. he regretted that circumstances had prevented him from calling on mr. mountjoy, before he left england. after the conversation that had taken place at mr. vimpany's house, he felt it his duty to inform mr. mountjoy that he had insured his life--and, he would add, for a sum of money amply, and more than amply, sufficient to provide for his wife in the event of her surviving him. lady harry desired her kind regards, and would write immediately to her old and valued friend. in the meantime, he would conclude by repeating the expression of his sense of obligation to mr. mountjoy. hugh looked back at the first page of the letter, in search of the writer's address. it was simply, "paris." the intention to prevent any further correspondence, or any personal communication, could hardly have been more plainly implied. in another moment, the letter was in the fire. in two days more, hugh heard from iris. she, too, wrote regretfully of the sudden departure from england; adding, however, that it was her own doing. a slip of the tongue, on lord harry's part, in the course of conversation, had led her to fear that he was still in danger from political conspirators with whom he had imprudently connected himself. she had accordingly persuaded him to tell her the whole truth, and had thereupon insisted on an immediate departure for the continent. she and her husband were now living in paris; lord harry having friends in that city whose influence might prove to be of great importance to his pecuniary prospects. some sentences followed, expressing the writer's grateful remembrance of all that she had owed to hugh in past days, and her earnest desire that they might still hear of each other, from time to time, by correspondence. she could not venture to anticipate the pleasure of receiving a visit from him, under present circumstances. but, she hoped that he would not object to write to her, addressing his letters, for the present, to post-restante. in a postscript a few words were added, alluding to mr. vimpany. hugh was requested not to answer any inquiries which that bad man might venture to make, relating to her husband or to herself. in the bygone days, she had been thankful to the doctor for the care which he had taken, medically speaking, of rhoda bonnet. but, since that time, his behaviour to his wife, and the opinions which he had expressed in familiar conversation with lord harry, had convinced her that he was an unprincipled person. all further communication with him (if her influence could prevent it) must come to an end. still as far as ever from feeling reconciled to the marriage, mountjoy read this letter with a feeling of resentment which disinclined him to answer it. he believed (quite erroneously) that iris had written to him under the superintendence of her husband. there were certain phrases which had been, as he chose to suspect, dictated by lord harry's distrust--jealous distrust, perhaps--of his wife's friend. mountjoy would wait to reply, until, as he bitterly expressed it, iris was able to write to him without the assistance of her master. again he thought of returning to scotland--and, again, he hesitated. on this occasion, he discovered objections to the cottage which had not occurred to him while iris was a single woman. the situation was solitary; his nearest neighbours were fishermen. here and there, at some little distance, there were only a few scattered houses inhabited by retired tradesmen. further away yet, there was the country-seat of an absent person of distinction, whose health suffered in the climate of scotland. the lonely life in prospect, on the shores of the solway, now daunted mountjoy for the first time. he decided on trying what society in london would do to divert his mind from the burdens and anxieties that weighed on it. acquaintances whom he had neglected were pleasantly surprised by visits from their rich and agreeable young friend. he attended dinner parties; he roused hope in mothers and daughters by accepting invitations to balls; he reappeared at his club. was there any relief to his mind in this? was there even amusement? no; he was acting a part, and he found it a hard task to keep up appearances. after a brief and brilliant interval, society knew him no more. left by himself again, he enjoyed one happy evening in london. it was the evening on which he relented, in spite of himself, and wrote to iris. chapter xxiv lord harry's honeymoon the next day, hugh received a visit from the last person in the little world of his acquaintance whom he expected to see. the lost mrs. vimpany presented herself at the hotel. she looked unnaturally older since mountjoy had last seen her. her artificial complexion was gone. the discarded rouge that had once overlaid her cheeks, through a long succession of years, had left the texture of the skin coarse, and had turned the colour of it to a dull yellowish tinge. her hair, once so skilfully darkened, was now permitted to tell the truth, and revealed the sober colouring of age, in gray. the lower face had fallen away in substance; and even the penetrating brightness of her large dark eyes was a little dimmed. all that had been left in her of the attractions of past days, owed its vital preservation to her stage training. her suave grace of movement, and the deep elocutionary melody of her voice, still identified mrs. vimpany--disguised as she was in a dress of dull brown, shorn without mercy of the milliner's hideous improvements to the figure. "will you shake hands with me, mr. mountjoy?" those were the first words she said to him, in a sad subdued manner, on entering the room. "why not?" hugh asked, giving her his hand. "you can have no very favourable remembrance of me," she answered. "but i hope to produce a better impression--if you can spare me a little of your time. you may, or may not, have heard of my separation from my husband. anyway, it is needless to trouble you on the subject; you know mr. vimpany; you can guess what i have suffered, and why i have left him. if he comes to you, i hope you will not tell him where lady harry is."-- hugh interposed: "pray don't speak of her by that name! call her 'iris,' as i do." a faint reflection of the old stage-smile trembled on mrs. vimpany's worn and weary face. "ah, mr. mountjoy, i know whom she ought to have married! the worst enemy of women is their ignorance of men--and they only learn to know better, when it is too late. i try to be hopeful for iris, in the time to come, but my fears conquer me." she paused, sighed, and pressed her open hand on her bosom; unconsciously betraying in that action some of the ineradicable training of the theatre. "i am almost afraid to say that i love iris," she resumed; "but this i know; if i am not so bad as i once was, i owe it to that dearest and sweetest of women! but for the days that i passed in her company, i might never have tried to atone for my past life by works of mercy. when other people take the way of amendment, i wonder whether they find it as hard to follow, at first, as i did?" "there is no doubt of it, mrs. vimpany--if people are sincere. beware of the sinners who talk of sudden conversion and perfect happiness. may i ask how you began your new life?" "i began unhappily, mr. mountjoy--i joined a nursing sisterhood. before long, a dispute broke out among them. think of women who call themselves christians, quarrelling about churches and church services--priest's vestments and attitudes, and candles and incense! i left them, and went to a hospital, and found the doctors better christians than the sisters. i am not talking about my own poor self (as you will soon see) without a reason. my experience in the hospital led to other things. i nursed a lady through a tedious illness, and was trusted to take her to some friends in the south of france. on my return, i thought of staying for a few days in paris--it was an opportunity of seeing how the nurses did their work in the french hospitals. and, oh, it was far more than that! in paris, i found iris again." "by accident?" hugh asked. "i am not sure," mrs. vimpany answered, "that there are such things as meetings by accident. she and her husband were among the crowds of people on the boulevards, who sit taking their coffee in view of the other crowds, passing along the street. i went by, without noticing them. _she_ saw me, and sent lord harry to bring me back. i have been with them every day, at her invitation, from that time to this; and i have seen their life." she stopped, noticing that hugh grew restless. "i am in doubt," she said, "whether you wish to hear more of their life in paris." mountjoy at once controlled himself. "go on," he said quietly. "even if i tell you that iris is perfectly happy?" "go on," hugh repeated. "may i confess," she resumed, "that her husband is irresistible--not only to his wife, but even to an old woman like me? after having known him for years at his worst, as well as at his best, i am still foolish enough to feel the charm of his high spirits and his delightful good-humour. sober english people, if they saw him now, would almost think him a fit subject to be placed under restraint. one of his wild irish ideas of expressing devotion to his wife is, that they shall forget they are married, and live the life of lovers. when they dine at a restaurant, he insists on having a private room. he takes her to public balls, and engages her to dance with him for the whole evening. when she stays at home and is a little fatigued, he sends me to the piano, and whirls her round the room in a waltz. 'nothing revives a woman,' he says, 'like dancing with the man she loves.' when she is out of breath, and i shut up the piano, do you know what he does? he actually kisses me--and says he is expressing his wife's feeling for me when she is not able to do it herself! he sometimes dines out with men, and comes back all on fire with the good wine, and more amiable than ever. on these occasions his pockets are full of sweetmeats, stolen for 'his angel' from the dessert. 'am i a little tipsy?' he asks. 'oh, don't be angry; it's all for love of you. i have been in the highest society, my darling; proposing your health over and over and over again, and drinking to you deeper than all the rest of the company. you don't blame me? ah, but i blame myself. i was wrong to leave you, and dine with men. what do i want with the society of men, when i have your society? drinking your health is a lame excuse. i will refuse all invitations for the future that don't include my wife.' and--mind!--he really means it, at the time. two or three days later, he forgets his good resolutions, and dines with the men again, and comes home with more charming excuses, and stolen sweetmeats, and good resolutions. i am afraid i weary you, mr. mountjoy?" "you surprise me," hugh replied. "why do i hear all this of lord harry?" mrs. vimpany left her chair. the stage directions of other days had accustomed her to rise, when the character she played had anything serious to say. her own character still felt the animating influence of dramatic habit: she rose now, and laid her hand impressively on mountjoy's shoulder. "i have not thoughtlessly tried your patience," she said. "now that i am away from the influence of lord harry, i can recall my former experience of him: and i am afraid i can see the end that is coming. he will drift into bad company; he will listen to bad advice; and he will do things in the future which he might shrink from doing now. when that time comes, i fear him! i fear him!" "when that time comes," hugh repeated, "if i have any influence left over his wife, he shall find her capable of protecting herself. will you give me her address in paris? "willingly--if you will promise not to go to her till she really needs you?" "who is to decide when she needs me?" "i am to decide," mrs. vimpany answered; "iris writes to me confidentially. if anything happens which she may be unwilling to trust to a letter, i believe i shall hear of it from her maid." "are you sure the maid is to be relied on?" mountjoy interposed. "she is a silent creature, so far as i know anything of her," mrs. vimpany admitted; "and her manner doesn't invite confidence. but i have spoken with fanny mere; i am satisfied that she is true to her mistress and grateful to her mistress in her own strange way. if iris is in any danger, i shall not be left in ignorance of it. does this incline you to consult with me, before you decide on going to paris? don't stand on ceremony; say honestly, yes or no." honestly, hugh said yes. he was at once trusted with the address of iris. at the same time, mrs. vimpany undertook that he should know what news she received from paris as soon as she knew it herself. on that understanding they parted, for the time being. chapter xxv the doctor in difficulties slowly the weeks passed. strictly mrs. vimpany kept her promise. when she heard from iris the letter was always sent to hugh, to be returned after he had read it. events in the lives of the newly-married pair, many of which pointed to the end that mrs. vimpany saw and dreaded, were lightly, sometimes jestingly, related by the young wife. her blind belief in her husband, sincerely asserted in the earlier part of the correspondence, began to betray, in her later letters, signs of self delusion. it was sad indeed to see that bright intelligence rendered incapable of conceiving suspicions, which might have occurred to the mind of a child. when the latest news from paris followed, in due course, mountjoy was informed of it by a note from mrs. vimpany expressed in these terms: "my last letter from iris is really no letter at all. it simply encloses a circular, with her love, and asks me to send it on to you. if it is in your power to make inquiries in the right quarter, i am sure you will not hesitate to take the trouble. there can be little doubt, as i think, that lord harry is engaged in a hazardous speculation, more deeply than his wife is willing to acknowledge." the circular announced the contemplated publication of a weekly newspaper, printed partly in english, and partly in french, having its chief office in paris, and being intended to dispute the advantages of a european circulation with the well-known continental journal called "galignani's messenger." a first list of contributors included names of some notoriety in the literature of england and the literature of france. speculators who wished to know, in the first place, on what security they might reckon, were referred to the managing committee, represented by persons of importance in the financial worlds of london and paris. being in a position to make the inquiries which mrs. vimpany had suggested, hugh received information which verified the statements contained in the circular, and vouched for the good faith of those persons who were concerned in directing the speculation. so far, so good. but, when the question of success was next discussed, the authorities consulted shook their wise heads. it was impossible to say what losses might not be suffered, and what sums of money might not be required, before the circulation of the new journal would justify the hope of success. this opinion hugh communicated to mrs. vimpany; iris was informed of it by that day's post. a longer time than usual elapsed before any further news of lord harry and his wife was received by mountjoy. when he did at last hear again from mrs. vimpany, she forwarded a letter from iris dated from a new address, in the suburb of paris called passy. from motives of economy (iris wrote) her husband had decided on a change of residence. they were just established in their new abode, with the advantages of a saving in rent, a pretty little garden to cultivate, and purer air to breathe than the air of paris. there the letter ended, without the slightest allusion to the forthcoming newspaper, or to the opinion that had been pronounced on the prospects of success. in forwarding this letter, mrs. vimpany wrote on the blank page as follows: "i am sorry to add that some disquieting news of my husband has reached me. for the present, i will say no more. it is at least possible that the report may not be worthy of belief." a few days later the report was confirmed, under circumstances which had certainly not been foreseen. mr. vimpany himself arrived at the hotel, on a visit to mountjoy. always more or less superior to the amiable weakness of modesty, the doctor seemed to have risen higher than ever in his own estimation, since hugh had last seen him. he strutted; he stared confidently at persons and things; authority was in his voice when he spoke, and lofty indulgence distinguished his manner when he listened. "how are you?" he cried with a grand gaiety, as he entered the room. "fine weather, isn't it, for the time of year? you don't look well. i wonder whether you notice any change in me? "you seem to be in good spirits," hugh replied, not very cordially. "do i carry my head high?" mr. vimpany went on. "when calamity strikes at a man, don't let him cringe and cry for pity--let him hit back again! those are my principles. look at me. now do look at me. here i am, a cultivated person, a member of an honourable profession, a man of art and accomplishment--stripped of every blessed thing belonging to me but the clothes i stand up in. give me your hand, mountjoy. it's the hand, sir, of a bankrupt." "you don't seem to mind it much," mountjoy remarked. "why should i mind it?" asked the doctor. "there isn't a medical man in england who has less reason to reproach himself than i have. have i wasted money in rash speculations? not a farthing. have i been fool enough to bet at horse races? my worst enemy daren't say it of me. what have i done then? i have toiled after virtue--that's what i have done. oh, there's nothing to laugh at! when a doctor tries to be the medical friend of humanity; when he only asks leave to cure disease, to soothe pain, to preserve life--isn't that virtue? and what is my reward? i sit at home, waiting for my suffering fellow-creatures; and the only fellow-creatures who come to me are too poor to pay. i have gone my rounds, calling on the rich patients whom i bought when i bought the practice. not one of them wanted me. men, women, and children, were all inexcusably healthy--devil take them! is it wonderful if a man becomes bankrupt, in such a situation as mine? by jupiter, i go farther than that! i say, a man owes it to himself (as a protest against undeserved neglect) to become a bankrupt. if you will allow me, i'll take a chair." he sat down with an air of impudent independence and looked round the room. a little cabinet, containing liqueurs, stood open on the sideboard. mr. vimpany got up again. "may i take a friendly liberty?" he said--and helped himself, without waiting for permission. hugh bore with this, mindful of the mistake that he had committed in consenting to receive the doctor. at the same time, he was sufficiently irritated to take a friendly liberty on his side. he crossed the room to the sideboard, and locked up the liqueurs. mr. vimpany's brazen face flushed deeply (not with shame); he opened his lips to say something worthy of himself, controlled the impulse, and burst into a boisterous laugh. he had evidently some favour still to ask. "devilish good!" he broke out cheerfully. "do you remember the landlady's claret? ha! you don't want to tempt me this time. well! well! to return to my bankruptcy." hugh had heard enough of his visitor's bankruptcy. "i am not one of your creditors," he said. mr. vimpany made a smart reply: "don't you be too sure of that. wait a little." "do you mean," mountjoy asked, "that you have come here to borrow money of me?" "time---give me time," the doctor pleaded: "this is not a matter to be dispatched in a hurry; this is a matter of business. you will hardly believe it," he resumed, "but i have actually been in my present position, once before." he looked towards the cabinet of liqueurs. "if i had the key," he said, "i should like to try a drop more of your good curacoa. you don't see it?" "i am waiting to hear what your business is," hugh replied. mr. vimpany's pliable temper submitted with perfect amiability. "quite right," he said; "let us return to business. i am a man who possesses great fertility of resource. on the last occasion when my creditors pounced on my property, do you think i was discouraged? nothing of the sort! my regular medical practice had broken down under me. very well--i tried my luck as a quack. in plain english, i invented a patent medicine. the one thing wanting was money enough to advertise it. false friends buttoned up their pockets. you see?" "oh, yes; i see." "in that case," mr. vimpany continued, "you will not be surprised to hear that i draw on my resources again. you have no doubt noticed that we live in an age of amateurs. amateurs write, paint, compose music, perform on the stage. i, too, am one of the accomplished persons who have taken possession of the field of art. did you observe the photographic portraits on the walls of my dining-room? they are of my doing, sir--whether you observed them or not i am one of the handy medical men, who can use the photograph. not that i mention it generally; the public have got a narrow-minded notion that a doctor ought to be nothing but a doctor. my name won't appear in a new work that i am contemplating. of course, you want to know what my new work is. i'll tell you, in the strictest confidence. imagine (if you can) a series of superb photographs of the most eminent doctors in england, with memoirs of their lives written by themselves; published once a month, price half-a-crown. if there isn't money in that idea, there is no money in anything. exert yourself, my good friend. tell me what you think of it?" "i don't understand the subject," mountjoy replied. "may i ask why you take _me_ into your confidence?" "because i look upon you as my best friend." "you are very good. but surely, mr. vimpany, you have older friends in your circle of acquaintance than i am." "not one," the doctor answered promptly, "whom i trust as i trust you. let me give you a proof of it." "is the proof in any way connected with money?" hugh inquired. "i call that hard on me," mr. vimpany protested. "no unfriendly interruptions, mountjoy! i offer a proof of kindly feeling. do you mean to hurt me?" "certainly not. go on." "thank you; a little encouragement goes a long way with me. i have found a bookseller, who will publish my contemplated work, on commission. not a soul has yet seen the estimate of expenses. i propose to show it to you." "quite needless, mr. vimpany." "why quite needless?" "because i decline lending you the money." "no, no, mountjoy! you can't really mean that?" "i do mean it." "no!" "yes!" the doctor's face showed a sudden change of expression---a sinister and threatening change. "don't drive me into a corner," he said. "think of it again." hugh's capacity for controlling himself gave way at last. "do you presume to threaten me?" he said. "understand, if you please, that my mind is made up, and that nothing you can say or do will alter it." with that declaration he rose from his chair, and waited for mr. vimpany's departure. the doctor put on his hat. his eyes rested on hugh, with a look of diabolical malice: "the time is not far off, mr. mountjoy, when you may be sorry you refused me." he said those words deliberately--and took his leave. released from the man's presence, hugh found himself strangely associating the interests of iris with the language--otherwise beneath notice--which mr. vimpany had used on leaving the room. in desperate straits for want of money, how would the audacious bankrupt next attempt to fill his empty purse? if he had, by any chance, renewed his relations with his irish friend--and such an event was at least possible--his next experiment in the art of raising a loan might take him to paris. lord harry had already ventured on a speculation which called for an immediate outlay of money, and which was only expected to put a profit into his pocket at some future period. in the meanwhile, his resources in money had their limits; and his current expenses would make imperative demands on an ill-filled purse. if the temptation to fail in his resolution to respect his wife's fortune was already trying his fortitude, what better excuse could be offered for yielding than the necessities of an old friend in a state of pecuniary distress? looking at the position of iris, and at the complications which threatened it, from this point of view, mountjoy left the hotel to consult with mrs. vimpany. it rested with her to decide whether the circumstances justified his departure for paris. chapter xxvi london and paris informed of all that hugh could tell her relating to his interview with her husband, mrs. vimpany understood and appreciated his fears for the future. she failed, however, to agree with him that he would do well to take the journey to france, under present circumstances. "wait a little longer in london," she said. "if iris doesn't write to me in the next few days there will be a reason for her silence; and in that case (as i have already told you) i shall hear from fanny mere. you shall see me when i get a letter from paris." on the last morning in the week, mrs. vimpany was announced. the letter that she brought with her had been written by fanny mere. with the pen in her hand, the maid's remarkable character expressed itself as strongly as ever:-- "madam,--i said i would let you know what goes on here, when i thought there was need of it. there seems to be need now. mr. vimpany came to us yesterday. he has the spare bedroom. my mistress says nothing, and writes nothing. for that reason, i send you the present writing.--your humble servant, f." mountjoy was perplexed by this letter, plain as it was. "it seems strange," he said, "that iris herself has not written to you. she has never hitherto concealed her opinion of mr. vimpany." "she is concealing it now," mr. vimpany's wife replied gravely. "do you know why?" "i am afraid i do. iris will not hesitate at any sacrifice of herself to please lord harry. she will give him her money when he wants it. if he tells her to alter her opinion of my husband, she will obey him. he can shake her confidence in me, whenever he pleases; and he has very likely done it already." "surely it is time for me to go to her now?" hugh said. "full time," mrs. vimpany admitted--"if you can feel sure of yourself. in the interests of iris, can you undertake to be cool and careful?" "in the interests of iris, i can undertake anything." "one word more," mrs. vimpany continued, "before you take your departure. no matter whether appearances are for him, or against him, be always on your guard with my husband. let me hear from you while you are away; and don't forget that there is an obstacle between you and iris, which will put even your patience and devotion to a hard trial." "you mean her husband?" "i do." there was no more to be said, hugh set forth on his journey to paris. * * * * * * * on the morning after his arrival in the french capital, mountjoy had two alternatives to consider. he might either write to iris, and ask when it would be convenient to her to receive him--or he might present himself unexpectedly in the cottage at passy. reflection convinced him that his best chance of placing an obstacle in the way of deception would be to adopt the second alternative, and to take lord harry and the doctor by surprise. he went to passy. the lively french taste had brightened the cottage with colour: the fair white window curtains were tied with rose-coloured ribbons, the blinds were gaily painted, the chimneys were ornamental, the small garden was a paradise of flowers. when mountjoy rang the bell, the gate was opened by fanny mere. she looked at him in grave astonishment. "do they expect you?" she asked. "never mind that," hugh answered. "are they at home?" "they have just finished breakfast, sir." "do you remember my name?" "yes, sir." "then show me in." fanny opened the door of a room on the ground floor, and announced: "mr. mountjoy." the two men were smoking; iris was watering some flowers in the window. her colour instantly faded when hugh entered the room. in doubt and alarm, her eyes questioned lord harry. he was in his sweetest state of good-humour. urged by the genial impulse of the moment, he set the example of a cordial reception. "this is an agreeable surprise, indeed," he said, shaking hands with mountjoy in his easy amiable way. "it's kind of you to come and see us." relieved of anxiety (evidently when she had not expected it), iris eagerly followed her husband's example: her face recovered its colour, and brightened with its prettiest smile. mr. vimpany stood in a corner; his cigar went out: his own wife would hardly have known him again--he actually presented an appearance of embarrassment! lord harry burst out laughing: "look at him iris! the doctor is shy for the first time in his life." the irish good-humour was irresistible. the young wife merrily echoed her husband's laugh. mr. vimpany, observing the friendly reception offered to hugh, felt the necessity of adapting himself to circumstances. he came out of his corner with an apology: "sorry i misbehaved myself, mr. mountjoy, when i called on you in london. shake hands. no offence--eh?" iris, in feverish high spirits, mimicked the doctor's coarse tones when he repeated his favourite form of excuse. lord harry clapped his hands, delighted with his wife's clever raillery: "ha! mr. mountjoy, you don't find that her married life has affected her spirits! may i hope that you have come here to breakfast? the table is ready as you see"---- "and i have been taking lessons, hugh, in french ways of cooking eggs," iris added; "pray let me show you what i can do." the doctor chimed in facetiously: "i'm lady harry's medical referee; you'll find her french delicacies half digested for you, sir, before you can open your mouth: signed, clarence vimpany, member of the college of surgeons." remembering mrs. vimpany's caution, hugh concealed his distrust of this outbreak of hospitable gaiety, and made his excuses. lord harry followed, with more excuses, on his part. he deplored it--but he was obliged to go out. had mr. mountjoy met with the new paper which was to beat "galiguani" out of the field? the "continental herald "--there was the title. "forty thousand copies of the first number have just flown all over europe; we have our agencies in every town of importance, at every point of the compass; and, one of the great proprietors, my dear sir, is the humble individual who now addresses you." his bright eyes sparkled with boyish pleasure, as he made that announcement of his own importance. if mr. mountjoy would kindly excuse him, he had an appointment at the office that morning. "get your hat, vimpany. the fact is our friend here carries a case of consumption in his pocket; consumption of the purse, you understand. i am going to enrol him among the contributors to the newspaper. a series of articles (between ourselves) exposing the humbug of physicians, and asserting with fine satirical emphasis the overstocked state of the medical profession. ah, well! you'll be glad (won't you?) to talk over old times with iris. my angel, show our good friend the 'continental herald,' and mind you keep him here till we get back. doctor, look alive! mr. mountjoy, au revoir." they shook hands again heartily. as mrs. vimpany had confessed, there was no resisting the irish lord. but hugh's strange experience of that morning was not at an end, yet. chapter xxvii the bride at home left alone with the woman whose charm still held him to her, cruelly as she had tried his devotion by her marriage, mountjoy found the fluent amiability of the husband imitated by the wife. she, too, when the door had hardly closed on lord harry, was bent on persuading hugh that her marriage had been the happiest event of her life. "will you think the worse of me," she began, "if i own that i had little expectation of seeing you again?" "certainly not, iris." "consider my situation," she went on. "when i remember how you tried (oh, conscientiously tried!) to prevent my marriage--how you predicted the miserable results that would follow, if harry's life and my life became one--could i venture to hope that you would come here, and judge for yourself? dear and good friend, i have nothing to fear from the result; your presence was never more welcome to me than it is now!" whether it was attributable to prejudice on mountjoy's part, or to keen and just observation, he detected something artificial in the ring of her enthusiasm; there was not the steady light of truth in her eyes, which he remembered in the past and better days of their companionship. he was a little--just a little--irritated. the temptation to remind her that his distrust of lord harry had once been her distrust too, proved to be more than his frailty could resist. "your memory is generally exact," he said; "but it hardly serves you now as well as usual." "what have i forgotten?" "you have forgotten the time, my dear, when your opinion was almost as strongly against a marriage with lord harry as mine." her answer was ready on the instant: "ah, i didn't know him then as well as i know him now!" some men, in mountjoy's position, might have been provoked into hinting that there were sides to her husband's character which she had probably not discovered yet. but hugh's gentle temper--ruffled for a moment only--had recovered its serenity. her friend was her true friend still; he said no more on the subject of her marriage. "old habits are not easily set aside," he reminded her. "i have been so long accustomed to advise you and help you, that i find myself hoping there may be some need for my services still. is there no way in which i might relieve you of the hateful presence of mr. vimpany?" "my dear hugh, i wish you had not mentioned mr. vimpany." mountjoy concluded that the subject was disagreeable to her. "after the opinion of him which you expressed in your letter to me," he said, "i ought not to have spoken of the doctor. pray forgive me." iris looked distressed. "oh, you are quite mistaken! the poor doctor has been sadly misjudged; and i"--she shook her head, and sighed penitently--"and, i," she resumed, "am one among other people who have ignorantly wronged him. pray consult my husband. hear what he can tell you--and you will pity mr. vimpany. the newspaper makes such large demands on our means that we can do little to help him. with your recommendation he might find some employment." "he has already asked me to assist him, iris; and i have refused. i can't agree with your change of opinion about mr. vimpany." "why not? is it because he has separated from his wife?" "that is one reason, among many others," mountjoy replied. "indeed, indeed you are wrong! lord harry has known mrs. vimpany for years, and he says--i am truly sorry to hear it--that the separation is her fault." hugh changed the subject again. the purpose which had mainly induced him to leave england had not been mentioned yet. alluding to the newspaper, and to the heavy pecuniary demands made by the preliminary expenses of the new journal, he reminded iris that their long and intimate friendship permitted him to feel some interest in her affairs. "i won't venture to express an opinion," he added; "let me only ask if lord harry's investments in this speculation have compelled him to make some use of your little fortune?" "my husband refused to touch my fortune," iris answered. "but"--she paused, there. "do you know how honourably, how nobly, he has behaved?" she abruptly resumed. "he has insured his life: he has burdened himself with the payment of a large sum of money every year. and all for me, if i am so unfortunate (which god forbid!) as to survive him. when a large share in the newspaper was for sale, do you think i could be ungrateful enough to let him lose the chance of making our fortune, when the profits begin to come in? i insisted on advancing the money--we almost quarrelled about it--but, you know how sweet he is. i said: 'don't distress me'; and the dearest of men let me have my own way." mountjoy listened in silence. to have expressed what he felt would have been only to mortify and offend iris. old habit (as he had said) had made the idea of devoting himself to her interests the uppermost idea in his mind. he asked if the money had all been spent. hearing that some of it was still left, he resolved on making the attempt to secure the remains of her fortune to herself. "tell me," he said, "have you ever heard of such a thing as buying an annuity?" she knew nothing about it. he carefully explained the method by which a moderate sum of money might be made to purchase a sufficient income for life. she offered no objection, when he proposed to write to his lawyer in london for the necessary particulars. but when he asked her to tell him what the sum was of which she might be still able to dispose, iris hesitated, and made no reply. this time, hugh arrived at the right conclusion. it was only too plain to him that what remained of her money represented an amount so trifling that she was ashamed to mention it. of the need for helping her, there could be no doubt now; and, as for the means, no difficulties presented themselves to mountjoy--always excepting the one obstacle likely to be offered by the woman herself. experience warned him to approach her delicately, by the indirect way. "you know me well enough," he said, "to feel sure that i am incapable of saying anything which can embarrass you, or cause a moment's misunderstanding between two old friends. won't you look at me, iris, when i am speaking to you?" she still looked away from him. "i am afraid of what you are going to say to me," she answered coldly. "then let me say it at once. in one of your letters, written long since--i don't suppose you remember it--you told me that i was an obstinate man when i once took a thing into my head. you were quite right. my dear, i have taken it into my head that you will be as ready as ever to accept my advice, and will leave me (as your man of business) to buy the annuity"-- she stopped him. "no," she cried, "i won't hear a word more! do you think i am insensible to years of kindness that i have never deserved? do you think i forget how nobly you have forgiven me for those cruel refusals which have saddened your life? is it possible that you expect me to borrow money of you?" she started wildly to her feet. "i declare, as god hears me, i would rather die than take that base, that shameful advantage of all your goodness to me. the woman never lived who owed so much to a man, as i owe to you--but not money! oh, my dear, not money! not money!" he was too deeply touched to be able to speak to her--and she saw it. "what a wretch i am," she said to herself; "i have made his heart ache!" he heard those words. still feeling for her--never, never for himself!--he tried to soothe her. in the passion of her self-reproach, she refused to hear him. pacing the room from end to end, she fanned the fiery emotion that was consuming her. now, she reviled herself in language that broke through the restraints by which good breeding sets its seal on a woman's social rank. and now, again, she lost herself more miserably still, and yielded with hysteric recklessness to a bitter outburst of gaiety. "if you wish to be married happily," she cried, "never be as fond of any other woman as you have been of me. we are none of us worth it. laugh at us, hugh--do anything but believe in us. we all lie, my friend. and i have been lying--shamelessly! shamelessly!" he tried to check her. "don't talk in that way, iris," he said sternly. she laughed at him. "talk?" she repeated. "it isn't that; it's a confession." "i don't desire to hear your confession." "you must hear it--you have drawn it out of me. come! we'll enjoy my humiliation together. contradict every word i said to you about that brute and blackguard, the doctor--and you will have the truth. what horrid inconsistency, isn't it? i can't help myself; i am a wretched, unreasonable creature; i don't know my own mind for two days together, and all through my husband--i am so fond of him; harry is delightfully innocent; he's like a nice boy; he never seemed to think of mr. vimpany, till it was settled between them that the doctor was to come and stay here----and then he persuaded me--oh, i don't know how!--to see his friend in quite a new light. i believed him--and i believe him still--i mean i _would_ believe him, but for you. will you do me a favour? i wish you wouldn't look at me with those eyes that won't lie; i wish you wouldn't speak to me with that voice which finds things out. oh, good heavens, do you suppose i would let you think that my husband is a bad man, and my marriage an unhappy one? never! if it turns my blood to sit and eat at the same table with mr. vimpany, i'm not cruel enough to blame the dear doctor. it's my wickedness that's to blame. we shall quarrel, if you tell me that harry is capable of letting a rascal be his friend. i'm happy; i'm happy; i'm happy!--do you understand that? oh, hugh, i wish you had never come to see me!" she burst into a passionate fit of weeping, broken down at last under the terrible strain laid on her. "let me hide myself!" was all that iris could say to her old friend--before she ran out of the room, and left him. chapter xxviii the maid and the keyhole deeply as she had grieved him, keenly as he felt that his worst fears for her threatened already to be realised, it was characteristic of mountjoy that he still refused to despair of iris--even with the husband's influence against him. the moral deterioration of her, revealed in the false words that she had spoken, and in the deceptions that she had attempted, would have justified the saddest misgivings, but for the voluntary confession which had followed, and the signs which it had shown of the better nature still struggling to assert itself. how could hugh hope to encourage that effort of resistance to the evil influences that were threatening her--first and foremost, among them, being the arrival of vimpany at the cottage? his presence kept her in a state of perpetual contention, between her own wise instincts which distrusted him, and her husband's authoritative assertions which recommended him to her confidence. no greater service could be rendered to iris than the removal of this man--but how could it be accomplished, without giving offence to her husband? mountjoy's mind was still in search of a means of overcoming the obstacle thus presented, when he heard the door open. had iris recovered herself? or had lord harry and his friend returned? the person who now entered the room was the strange and silent maid, fanny mere. "can i speak to you, sir?" "certainly. what is it?" "please give me your address." "for your mistress?" "yes." "does she wish to write to me?" "yes." hugh gave the strange creature the address of his hotel in paris. for a moment, her eyes rested on him with an expression of steady scrutiny. she opened the door to go out---stopped--considered--came back again. "i want to speak for myself," she said. "do you care to hear what a servant has to say?" mountjoy replied that he was ready to hear what she had to say. she at once stepped up to him, and addressed him in these words: "i think you are fond of my mistress?" an ordinary man might have resented the familiar manner in which she had expressed herself. mountjoy waited for what was still to come. fanny mere abruptly went on, with a nearer approach to agitation in her manner than she had shown yet: "my mistress took me into her service; she trusted me when other ladies would have shown me the door. when she sent for me to see her, my character was lost; i had nobody to feel for me, nobody to help me. she is the one friend who held out a hand to me. i hate the men; i don't care for the women. except one. being a servant i mustn't say i love that one. if i was a lady, i don't know that i should say it. love is cant; love is rubbish. tell me one thing. is the doctor a friend of yours?" "the doctor is nothing of the kind." "perhaps he is your enemy?" "i can hardly say that." she looked at hugh discontentedly. "i want to get at it," she said. "why can't we understand each other? will you laugh at me, if i say the first thing that comes into my head? are you a good swimmer?" an extraordinary question, even from fanny mere. it was put seriously--and seriously mountjoy answered it. he said that he was considered to be a good swimmer. "perhaps," she continued, "you have saved people's lives." "i have twice been so fortunate as to save lives," he replied. "if you saw the doctor drowning, would you save him? _i_ wouldn't!" "do you hate him as bitterly as that?" hugh asked. she passed the question over without notice. "i wish you would help me to get at it," she persisted. "suppose you could rid my mistress of that man by giving him a kick, would you up with your foot and do it?" "yes--with pleasure." "thank you, sir. now i've got it. mr. mountjoy, the doctor is the curse of my mistress's life. i can't bear to see it. if we are not relieved of him somehow, i shall do something wrong. when i wait at table, and see him using his knife, i want to snatch it out of his hand, and stick it into him. i had a hope that my lord might turn him out of the house when they quarrelled. my lord is too wicked himself to do it. for the love of god, sir, help my mistress--or show me the way how!" mountjoy began to be interested. "how do you know," he asked, "that lord harry and the doctor have quarrelled?" without the slightest appearance of embarrassment, fanny mere informed him that she had listened at the door, while her master and his friend were talking of their secrets. she had also taken an opportunity of looking through the keyhole. "i suppose, sir," said this curious woman, still speaking quite respectfully, "you have never tried that way yourself?" "certainly not!" "wouldn't you do it to serve my mistress?" "no." "and yet, you're fond of her! you are a merciful one--the only merciful one, so far as i know--among men. perhaps, if you were frightened about her, you might be more ready with your help. i wonder whether i can frighten you? will you let me try?" the woman's faithful attachment to iris pleaded for her with hugh. "try, if you like," he said kindly. speaking as seriously as ever, fanny proceeded to describe her experience at the keyhole. what she had seen was not worth relating. what she had heard proved to be more important. the talk between my lord and the doctor had been about raising money. they had different notions of how to do that. my lord's plan was to borrow what was wanted, on his life-insurance. the doctor told him he couldn't do that, till his insurance had been going on for three or four years at least. "i have something better and bolder to propose," says mr. vimpany. it must have been also something wicked--for he whispered it in the master's ear. my lord didn't take to it kindly. "how do you think i could face my wife," he says, "if she discovered me?" the doctor says: "don't be afraid of your wife; lady harry will get used to many things which she little thought of before she married you." says my lord to that: "i have done my best, vimpany, to improve my wife's opinion of you. if you say much more, i shall come round to her way of thinking. drop it!"--"all right," says the doctor, "i'll drop it now, and wait to pick it up again till you come to your last bank note." there the talk ended for that day---and fanny would be glad to know what mr. mountjoy thought of it. "i think you have done me a service," hugh replied. "tell me how, sir." "i can only tell you this, fanny. you have shown me how to relieve your mistress of the doctor." for the first time, the maid's impenetrable composure completely failed her. the smouldering fire in fanny mere flamed up. she impulsively kissed mountjoy's hand. the moment her lips touched it she shrank back: the natural pallor of her face became whiter than ever. startled by the sudden change, hugh asked if she was ill. she shook her head. "it isn't that. yours is the first man's hand i have kissed, since--" she checked herself. "i beg you won't ask me about it. i only meant to thank you, sir; i do thank you with all my heart--i mustn't stay here any longer." as she spoke the sound of a key was heard, opening the lock of the cottage-door. lord harry had returned. chapter xxix the conquest of mr. vimpany the irish lord came in--with his medical friend sulkily in attendance on him. he looked at fanny, and asked where her mistress was. "my lady is in her room, sir." hearing this, he turned sharply to mountjoy. on the point of speaking, he seemed to think better of it, and went to his wife's room. the maid followed. "get rid of him now," she whispered to hugh, glancing at the doctor. mr. vimpany was in no very approachable humour--standing at the window, with his hands in his empty pockets, gloomily looking out. but hugh was not disposed to neglect the opportunity; he ventured to say: "you don't seem to be in such good spirits as usual." the doctor gruffly expressed his opinion that mr. mountjoy would not be particularly cheerful, in his place. my lord had taken him to the office, on the distinct understanding that he was to earn a little pocket-money by becoming one of the contributors to the newspaper. and how had it ended? the editor had declared that his list of writers was full, and begged leave to suggest that mr. vimpany should wait for the next vacancy. a most impertinent proposal! had lord harry--a proprietor, remember--exerted his authority? not he! his lordship had dropped the doctor "like a hot potato," and had meanly submitted to his own servant. what did mr. mountjoy think of such conduct as that? hugh answered the question, with his own end in view. paving the way for mr. vimpany's departure from the cottage at passy, he made a polite offer of his services. "can't i help you out of your difficulty?" he said. "you!" cried the doctor. "have you forgotten how you received me, sir, when i asked for a loan at your hotel in london?" hugh admitted that he might have spoken hastily. "you took me by surprise," he said, "and (perhaps i was mistaken, on my side) i thought you were, to say the least of it, not particularly civil. you did certainly use threatening language when you left me. no man likes to be treated in that way." mr. vimpany's big bold eyes stared at mountjoy in a state of bewilderment. "are you trying to make a fool of me?" he asked. "i am incapable, mr. vimpany, of an act of rudeness towards anybody." "if you come to that," the doctor stoutly declared, "i am incapable too. it's plain to me that we have been misunderstanding each other. wait a bit; i want to go back for a moment to that threatening language which you complained of just now. i was sorry for what i had said as soon as your door was shut on me. on my way downstairs i did think of turning back and making a friendly apology before i gave you up. suppose i had done that?" mr. vimpany asked, wondering internally whether mountjoy was foolish enough to believe him. hugh advanced a little nearer to the design that he had in view. "you might have found me more kindly disposed towards you," he said, "than you had anticipated." this encouraging reply cost him an effort. he had stooped to the unworthy practice of perverting what he had said and done on a former occasion, to serve a present interest. remind himself as he might of the end which, in the interests of iris, did really appear to justify the means, he still sank to a place in his own estimation which he was honestly ashamed to occupy. under other circumstances his hesitation, slight as it was, might have excited suspicion. as things were, mr. vimpany could only discover golden possibilities that dazzled his eyes. "i wonder whether you're in the humour," he said, "to be kindly disposed towards me now?" it was needless to be careful of the feelings of such man as this. "suppose you had the money you want in your pocket," hugh suggested, "what would you do with it?" "go back to london, to be sure, and publish the first number of that work of mine i told you of." "and leave your friend, lord harry?" "what good is my friend to me? he's nearly as poor as i am--he sent for me to advise him--i put him up to a way of filling both our pockets, and he wouldn't hear of it. what sort of a friend do you call that?" pay him and get rid of him. there was the course of proceeding suggested by the private counsellor in mountjoy's bosom. "have you got the publisher's estimate of expenses?" he asked. the doctor instantly produced the document. to a rich man the sum required was, after all, trifling enough. mountjoy sat down at the writing-table. as he took up a pen, mr. vimpany's protuberant eyes looked as if they would fly out of his head. "if i lend you the money--" hugh began. "yes? yes?" cried the doctor. "i do so on condition that nobody is to know of the loan but ourselves." "oh, sir, on my sacred word of honour--" an order on mountjoy's bankers in paris for the necessary amount, with something added for travelling expenses, checked mr. vimpany in full career of protestation. he tried to begin again: "my friend! my benefactor--" he was stopped once more. his friend and benefactor pointed to the clock. "if you want the money to-day, you have just time to get to paris before the bank closes." mr. vimpany did want the money--always wanted the money; his gratitude burst out for the third time: "god bless you!" the object of that highly original form of benediction pointed through the window in the direction of the railway station. mr. vimpany struggled no longer to express his feelings--he had made his last sacrifice to appearances--he caught the train. the door of the room had been left open. a voice outside said: "has he gone?" "come in, fanny," said mountjoy. "he will return to london either to-night or to-morrow morning." the strange maid put her head in at the door. "i'll be at the terminus," she said, "and make sure of him." her head suddenly disappeared, before it was possible to speak to her again. "was there some other person outside? the other person entered the room; it was lord harry. he spoke without his customary smile. "i want a word with you, mr. mountjoy." "about what, my lord?" that direct question seemed to confuse the irishman. he hesitated. "about you," he said, and stopped to consider. "and another person," he added mysteriously. hugh was constitutionally a hater of mysteries. he felt the need of a more definite reply, and asked for it plainly: "does your lordship associate that other person with me?" "yes, i do." "who is the person?" "my wife." chapter xxx saxon and celt when amicable relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy, there is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse has been of artificial growth, on either side. in this case, the promptings of self-interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating influences throughout; acting under conditions which assist the effort of self-control. and for this reason: the man who has never really taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest weapons of provocation, which make unendurable demands on human fortitude. in a true attachment, on the other hand, there is an innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind to consequences. the affectionate freedom which can speak kindly without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without restraint. when the friend who wounds us has once been associated with the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no considerations of propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of rage and pain. the enemies who have once loved each other are the bitterest enemies of all. thus, the curt exchange of question and answer, which had taken place in the cottage at passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to one another, led to no regrettable result. lord harry had been too readily angry: he remembered what was due to mr. mountjoy. mr. mountjoy had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to lord harry. the courteous irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. the well-bred englishman returned the polite salute, and sat down. my lord broke the silence that followed. "may i hope that you will excuse me," he began, "if i walk about the room? movement seems to help me when i am puzzled how to put things nicely. sometimes i go round and round the subject, before i get at it. i'm afraid i'm going round and round, now. have you arranged to make a long stay in paris?" circumstances, mountjoy answered, would probably decide him. "you have no doubt been many times in paris before this," lord harry continued. "do you find it at all dull, now?" wondering what he could possibly mean, hugh said he never found paris dull--and waited for further enlightenment. the irish lord persisted: "people mostly think paris isn't as gay as it used to be. not such good plays and such good actors as they had at one time. the restaurants inferior, and society very much mixed. people don't stay there as long as they used. i'm told that americans are getting disappointed, and are trying london for a change." could he have any serious motive for this irrelevant way of talking? or was he, to judge by his own account of himself, going round and round the subject of his wife and his guest, before he could get at it? suspecting him of jealousy from the first, hugh failed--naturally perhaps in his position--to understand the regard for iris, and the fear of offending her, by which her jealous husband was restrained. lord harry was attempting (awkwardly indeed!) to break off the relations between his wife and her friend, by means which might keep the true state of his feelings concealed from both of them. ignorant of this claim on his forbearance, it was mountjoy's impression that he was being trifled with. once more, he waited for enlightenment, and waited in silence. "you don't find my conversation interesting?" lord harry remarked, still with perfect good-humour. "i fail to see the connection," mountjoy acknowledged, "between what you have said so far, and the subject on which you expressed your intention of speaking to me. pray forgive me if i appear to hurry you--or if you have any reasons for hesitation." far from being offended, this incomprehensible man really appeared to be pleased. "you read me like a book!" he exclaimed. "it's hesitation that's the matter with me. i'm a variable man. if there's something disagreeable to say, there are times when i dash at it, and times when i hang back. can i offer you any refreshment?" he asked, getting away from the subject again, without so much as an attempt at concealment. hugh thanked him, and declined. "not even a glass of wine? such white burgundy, my dear sir, as you seldom taste." hugh's british obstinacy was roused; he repeated his reply. lord harry looked at him gravely, and made a nearer approach to an open confession of feeling than he had ventured on yet. "with regard now to my wife. when i went away this morning with vimpany--he's not such good company as he used to be; soured by misfortune, poor devil; i wish he would go back to london. as i was saying--i mean as i was about to say--i left you and lady harry together this morning; two old friends, glad (as i supposed) to have a gossip about old times. when i come back, i find you left here alone, and i am told that lady harry is in her room. what do i see when i get there? i see the finest pair of eyes in the world; and the tale they tell me is, we have been crying. when i ask what may have happened to account for this--'nothing, dear,' is all the answer i get. what's the impression naturally produced on my mind? there has been a quarrel perhaps between you and my wife." "i fail entirely, lord harry, to see it in that light." "ah, likely enough! mine's the irish point of view. as an englishman you fail to understand it. let that be. one thing; mr. mountjoy, i'll take the freedom of saying at once. i'll thank you, next time, to quarrel with me." "you force me to tell you, my lord, that you are under a complete delusion, if you suppose that there has been any quarrel, or approach to a quarrel, between lady harry and myself." "you tell me that, on your word of honour as a gentleman?" "most assuredly!" "sir! i deeply regret to hear it." "which does your lordship deeply regret? that i have spoken to you on my word of honour, or that i have not quarrelled with lady harry?" "both, sir! by the piper that played before moses, both!" hugh got up, and took his hat: "we may have a better chance of understanding each other," he suggested, "if you will be so good as to write to me." "put your hat down again, mr. mountjoy, and pray have a moment's patience. i've tried to like you, sir--and i'm bound in candour to own that i've failed to find a bond of union between us. maybe, this frank confession annoys you." "far from it! you are going straight to your subject at last, if i may venture to say so." the irish lord's good-humour had completely disappeared by this time. his handsome face hardened, and his voice rose. the outbreak of jealous feeling, which motives honourable to himself had hitherto controlled, now seized on its freedom of expression. his language betrayed (as on some former occasions) that association with unworthy companions, which had been one of the evil results of his adventurous life. "maybe i'll go straighter than you bargain for," he replied; "i'm in two humours about you. my common-sense tells me that you're my wife's friend. and the best of friends do sometimes quarrel, don't they? well, sir, you deny it, on your own account. i find myself forced back on my other humour--and it's a black humour, i can tell you. you may be my wife's friend, my fine fellow, but you're something more than that. you have always been in love with her--and you're in love with her now. thank you for your visit, but don't repeat it. say! do we understand each other at last?" "i have too sincere a respect for lady harry to answer you," mountjoy said. "at the same time, let me acknowledge my obligations to your lordship. you have reminded me that i did a foolish thing when i called here without an invitation. i agree with you that the sooner my mistake is set right the better." he replied in those words, and left the cottage. on the way back to his hotel, hugh thought of what mrs. vimpany had said to him when they had last seen each other: "don't forget that there is an obstacle between you and iris which will put even your patience and your devotion to a hard trial." the obstacle of the husband had set itself up, and had stopped him already. his own act (a necessary act after the language that had been addressed to him) had closed the doors of the cottage, and had put an end to future meetings between iris and himself. if they attempted to communicate by letter, lord harry would have opportunities of discovering their correspondence, of which his jealousy would certainly avail itself. through the wakeful night, hugh's helpless situation was perpetually in his thoughts. there seemed to be no present alternative before him but resignation, and a return to england. chapter xxxi the school for husbands on the next day mountjoy heard news of iris, which was not of a nature to relieve his anxieties. he received a visit from fanny mere. the leave-taking of mr. vimpany, on the previous evening, was the first event which the maid had to relate. she had been present when the doctor said good-bye to the master and mistress. business in london was the reason he gave for going away. the master had taken the excuse as if he really believed in it, and seemed to be glad to get rid of his friend. the mistress expressed her opinion that mr. vimpany's return to london must have been brought about by an act of liberality on the part of the most generous of living men. _"your_ friend has, as i believe, got some money from _my_ friend," she said to her husband. my lord had looked at her very strangely when she spoke of mr. mountjoy in that way, and had walked out of the room. as soon as his back was turned, fanny had obtained leave of absence. she had carried out her intention of watching the terminus, and had seen mr. vimpany take his place among the passengers to london by the mail train. returning to the cottage, it was fanny's duty to ascertain if her services were required in her mistress's room. on reaching the door, she had heard the voices of my lord and my lady, and (as mr. mountjoy would perhaps be pleased to know) had been too honourable to listen outside, on this occasion. she had at once gone away, and had waited until she should be sent for. after a long interval, the bell that summoned her had been rung. she had found the mistress in a state of agitation, partly angry, and partly distressed; and had ventured to ask if anything unpleasant had happened. no reply was made to that inquiry. fanny had silently performed the customary duties of the night-toilet, in getting my lady ready for bed; they had said good-night to each other and had said no more. in the morning (that present morning), being again in attendance as usual, the maid had found lady harry in a more indulgent frame of mind; still troubled by anxieties, but willing to speak of them now. she had begun by talking of mr. mountjoy: "i think you like him, fanny: everybody likes him. you will be sorry to hear that we have no prospect of seeing him again at the cottage." there she had stopped; something that she had not said, yet, seemed to be in her mind, and to trouble her. she was near to crying, poor soul, but struggled against it. "i have no sister," she said, "and no friend who might be like a sister to me. it isn't perhaps quite right to speak of my sorrow to my maid. still, there is something hard to bear in having no kind heart near one--i mean, no other woman to speak to who knows what women feel. it is so lonely here--oh, so lonely! i wonder whether you understand me and pity me?" never forgetting all that she owed to her mistress--if she might say so without seeming to praise herself--fanny was truly sorry. it would have been a relief to her, if she could have freely expressed her opinion that my lord must be to blame, when my lady was in trouble. being a man, he was by nature cruel to women; the wisest thing his poor wife could do would be to expect nothing from him. the maid was sorely tempted to offer a little good advice to this effect; but she was afraid of her own remembrances, if she encouraged them by speaking out boldly. it would be better to wait for what the mistress might say next. lord harry's conduct was the first subject that presented itself when the conversation was resumed. my lady mentioned that she had noticed how he looked, and how he left the room, when she had spoken in praise of mr. mountjoy. she had pressed him to explain himself---and she had made a discovery which proved to be the bitterest disappointment of her life. her husband suspected her! her husband was jealous of her! it was too cruel; it was an insult beyond endurance, an insult to mr. mountjoy as well as to herself. if that best and dearest of good friends was to be forbidden the house, if he was to go away and never to see her or speak to her again, of one thing she was determined--he should not leave her without a kind word of farewell; he should hear how truly she valued him; yes, and how she admired and felt for him! would fanny not do the same thing, in her place? and fanny had remembered the time when she might have done it for such a man as mr. mountjoy. "mind you stay indoors this evening, sir," the maid continued, looking and speaking so excitedly that hugh hardly knew her again. "my mistress is coming to see you, and i shall come with her." such an act of imprudence was incredible. "you must be out of your senses!" mountjoy exclaimed. "i'm out of myself sir, if that's what you mean," fanny answered. "i do so enjoy treating a man in that way! the master's going out to dinner--he'll know nothing about it--and," cried the cool cold woman of other times, "he richly deserves it." hugh reasoned and remonstrated, and failed to produce the slightest effect. his next effort was to write a few lines to lady harry, entreating her to remember that a jealous man is sometimes capable of acts of the meanest duplicity, and that she might be watched. when he gave the note to fanny to deliver, she informed him respectfully that he had better not trust her. a person sometimes meant to do right (she reminded him), and sometimes ended in doing wrong. rather than disappoint her mistress, she was quite capable of tearing up the letter, on her way home, and saying nothing about it. hugh tried a threat next: "your mistress will not find me, if she comes here; i shall go out to-night." the impenetrable maid looked at him with a pitying smile, and answered: "not you!" it was a humiliating reflection--but fanny mere understood him better than he understood himself. all that mountjoy had said and done in the way of protest, had been really dictated by consideration for the young wife. if he questioned his conscience, selfish delight in the happy prospect of seeing iris again asserted itself, as the only view with which he looked forward to the end of the day. when the evening approached, he took the precaution of having his own discreet and faithful servant in attendance, to receive lady harry at the door of the hotel, before the ringing of the bell could summon the porter from his lodge. on calm consideration, the chances seemed to be in favour of her escaping detection by lord harry. the jealous husband of the stage, who sooner (or later) discovers the innocent (or guilty) couple, as the case may be, is not always the husband of the world outside the theatre. with this fragment of experience present in his mind, hugh saw the door of his sitting-room cautiously opened, at an earlier hour than he had anticipated. his trustworthy representative introduced a lady, closely veiled--and that lady was iris. chapter xxxii good-bye to iris lady harry lifted her veil, and looked at mountjoy with sad entreaty in her eyes. "are you angry with me?" she asked. "i ought to be angry with you," he said. "this is a very imprudent, iris." "it's worse than that," she confessed. "it's reckless and desperate. don't say i ought to have controlled myself. i can't control the shame i feel when i think of what has happened. can i let you go--oh, what a return for your kindness!--without taking your hand at parting? come and sit by me on the sofa. after my poor husband's conduct, you and i are not likely to meet again. i don't expect you to lament it as i do. even your sweetness and your patience--so often tried--must be weary of me now." "if you thought that possible, my dear, you would not have come here to-night," hugh reminded her. "while we live, we have the hope of meeting again. nothing in this world lasts, iris--not even jealousy. lord harry himself told me that he was a variable man. sooner or later he will come to his senses." those words seemed to startle iris. "i hope you don't think that my husband is brutal to me!" she exclaimed, still resenting even the appearance of a reflection on her marriage, and still forgetting what she herself had said which justified a doubt of her happiness. "have you formed a wrong impression?" she went on. "has fanny mere innocently--?" mountjoy noticed, for the first time, the absence of the maid. it was a circumstance which justified him in interrupting iris--for it might seriously affect her if her visit to the hotel happened to be discovered. "i understood," he said, "that fanny was to come here with you." "yes! yes! she is waiting in the carriage. we are careful not to excite attention at the door of the hotel; the coachman will drive up and down the street till i want him again. never mind that! i have something to say to you about fanny. she thinks of her own troubles, poor soul, when she talks to me, and exaggerates a little without meaning it. i hope she has not misled you in speaking of her master. it is base and bad of him, unworthy of a gentleman, to be jealous--and he has wounded me deeply. but dear hugh, his jealousy is a gentle jealousy. i have heard of other men who watch their wives--who have lost all confidence in them--who would even have taken away from me such a trifle as this." she smiled, and showed to mountjoy her duplicate key of the cottage door. "ah, harry is above such degrading distrust as that! there are times when he is as heartily ashamed of his own weakness as i could wish him to be. i have seen him on his knees before me, shocked at his conduct. he is no hypocrite. indeed, his repentance is sincere, while it lasts--only it doesn't last! his jealousy rises and falls, like the wind. he said last night (when the wind was high): 'if you wish to make me the happiest creature on the face of the earth, don't encourage mr. mountjoy to remain in paris!' try to make allowances for him!" "i would rather make allowances, iris, for you. do _you,_ too wish me to leave paris?" sitting very near to him--nearer than her husband might have liked to see--iris drew away a little. "did you mean to be cruel in saying that?" she asked. "i don't deserve it." "it was kindly meant," hugh assured her. "if i can make your position more endurable by going away, i will leave paris to-morrow." iris moved back again to the place which she had already occupied. she was eager to thank him (for a reason not yet mentioned) as she had never thanked him yet. silently and softly she offered her gratitude to hugh, by offering her cheek. the irritating influence of lord harry's jealousy was felt by both of them at that moment. he kissed her cheek--and lingered over it. she was the first to recover herself. "when you spoke just now of my position with my husband," she said, "you reminded me of anxieties, hugh, in which you once shared, and of services which i can never forget." preparing him in those words for the disclosure which she had now to make, iris alluded to the vagabond life of adventure which lord harry had led. the restlessness in his nature which that life implied, had latterly shown itself again; and his wife had traced the cause to a letter from ireland, communicating a report that the assassin of arthur mountjoy had been seen in london, and was supposed to be passing under the name of carrigeen. hugh would understand that the desperate resolution to revenge the murder of his friend, with which lord harry had left england in the past time, had been urged into action once more. he had not concealed from iris that she must be resigned to his leaving her for awhile, if the report which had reached him from ireland proved to be true. it would be useless, and worse than useless, to remind this reckless man of the danger that threatened him from the invincibles, if he returned to england. in using her power of influencing the husband who still loved her, iris could only hope to exercise a salutary restraint in her own domestic interests, appealing to him for indulgence by careful submission to any exactions on which his capricious jealousy might insist. would sad necessity excuse her, if she accepted mountjoy's offer to leave paris, for the one reason that her husband had asked it of her as a favour? hugh at once understood her motive, and assured her of his sympathy. "you may depend upon my returning to london to-morrow," he said. "in the meantime, is there no better way in which i can be of use to you? if your influence fails, do you see any other chance of keeping lord harry's desperate purpose under control?" it had only that day occurred to iris that there might be some prospect of an encouraging result, if she could obtain the assistance of mrs. vimpany. the doctor's wife was well acquainted with lord harry's past life, when he happened to be in ireland; and she had met many of his countrymen with whom he had associated. if one of those friends happened to be the officious person who had written to him, it was at least possible that mrs. vimpany's discreet interference might prevent his mischievous correspondent from writing again. lord harry, waiting for more news, would in this event wait in vain. he would not know where to go, or what to do next--and, with such a nature as his, the end of his patience and the end of his resolution were likely to come together. hugh handed his pocket-book to iris. of the poor chances in her favour, the last was to his mind the least hopeless of the two. "if you have discovered the name of your husband's correspondent," he said, "write it down for me, and i will ask mrs. vimpany if she knows him. i will make your excuses for not having written to her lately; and, in any case, i answer for her being ready to help you." as iris thanked him and wrote the name, the clock on the chimneypiece struck the hour. she rose to say farewell. with a restless hand she half-lowered her veil, and raised it again. "you won't mind my crying," she said faintly, trying to smile through her tears. "this is the saddest parting i have ever known. dear, dear hugh--good-bye!" great is the law of duty; but the elder law of love claims its higher right. never, in all the years of their friendship, had they forgotten themselves as they forgot themselves now. for the first time her lips met his lips, in their farewell kiss. in a moment more, they remembered the restraints which honour imposed on them; they were only friends again. silently she lowered her veil. silently he took her arm and led her down to the carriage. it was moving away from them at a slow pace, towards the other end of the street. instead of waiting for its return, they followed and overtook it. "we shall meet again," he whispered. she answered sadly: "don't forget me." mountjoy turned back. as he approached the hotel he noticed a tall man crossing from the opposite side of the street. not two minutes after iris was on her way home, her jealous husband and her old friend met at the hotel door. lord harry spoke first. "i have been dining out," he said, "and i came here to have a word with you, mr. mountjoy, on my road home." hugh answered with formal politeness: "let me show your lordship the way to my rooms." "oh, it's needless to trouble you," lord harry declared. "i have so little to say--do you mind walking on with me for a few minutes?" mountjoy silently complied. he was thinking of what might have happened if iris had delayed her departure--or if the movement of the carriage had been towards, instead of away from the hotel. in either case it had been a narrow escape for the wife, from a dramatic discovery by the husband. "we irishmen," lord harry resumed, "are not famous for always obeying the laws; but it is in our natures to respect the law of hospitality. when you were at the cottage yesterday i was inhospitable to my guest. my rude behaviour has weighed on my mind since--and for that reason i have come here to speak to you. it was ill-bred on my part to reproach you with your visit, and to forbid you (oh, quite needlessly, i don't doubt!) to call on me again. if i own that i have no desire to propose a renewal of friendly intercourse between us, you will understand me, i am sure; with my way of thinking, the less we see of each other for the future, the better it may be. but, for what i said when my temper ran away with me, i ask you to accept my excuses, and the sincere expression of my regret." "your excuses are accepted, my lord, as sincerely as you have offered them," mountjoy answered. "so far as i am concerned, the incident is forgotten from this moment." lord harry expressed his courteous acknowledgments. "spoken as becomes a gentleman," he said. "i thank you." there it ended. they saluted each other; they wished each other good-night. "a mere formality!" hugh thought, when they had parted. he had wronged the irish lord in arriving at that conclusion. but time was to pass before events helped him to discover his error. chapter xxxiii the decree of fate on his arrival in london, mountjoy went to the nurses' institute to inquire for mrs. vimpany. she was again absent, in attendance on another patient. the address of the house (known only to the matron) was, on this occasion, not to be communicated to any friend who might make inquiries. a bad case of scarlet fever had been placed under the nurse's care, and the danger of contagion was too serious to be trifled with. the events which had led to mrs. vimpany's present employment had not occurred in the customary course. a nurse who had recently joined the institute had been first engaged to undertake the case, at the express request of the suffering person--who was said to be distantly related to the young woman. on the morning when she was about to proceed to the scene of her labours, news had reached her of the dangerous illness of her mother. mrs. vimpany, who was free at the time, and who felt a friendly interest in her young colleague, volunteered to take her place. upon this, a strange request had been addressed to the matron, on behalf of the sick man. he desired to be "informed of it, if the new nurse was an irishwoman." hearing that she was an englishwoman, he at once accepted her services, being himself (as an additional element of mystery in the matter) an irishman! the matron's english prejudices at once assumed that there had been some discreditable event in the man's life, which might be made a subject of scandalous exposure if he was attended by one of his own countrypeople. she advised mrs. vimpany to have nothing to do with the afflicted stranger. the nurse answered that she had promised to attend on him--and she kept her promise. mountjoy left the institute, after vainly attempting to obtain mrs. vimpany's address. the one concession which the matron offered to make was to direct his letter, and send it to the post, if he would be content with that form of communication. on reflection, he decided to write the letter. prompt employment of time might be of importance, if it was possible to prevent any further communication with lord larry on the part of his irish correspondent. using the name with which iris had provided him, hugh wrote to inquire if it was familiar to mrs. vimpany, as the name of a person with whom she had been, at any time, acquainted. in this event, he assured her that an immediate consultation between them was absolutely necessary in the interests of iris. he added, in a postscript, that he was in perfect health, and that he had no fear of infection--and sent his letter to the matron to be forwarded. the reply reached him late in the evening. it was in the handwriting of a stranger, and was to this effect: "dear mr. mountjoy,--it is impossible that i can allow you to run the risk of seeing me while i am in my present situation. so serious is the danger of contagion in scarlet fever, that i dare not even write to you with my own hand on note-paper which has been used in the sick room. this is no mere fancy of mine; the doctor in attendance here knows of a case in which a small piece of infected flannel communicated the disease after an interval of no less than a year. i must trust to your own good sense to see the necessity of waiting, until i can receive you without any fear of consequences to yourself. in the meantime, i may answer your inquiry relating to the name communicated in your letter. i first knew the gentleman you mention some years since; we were introduced to each other by lord harry; and i saw him afterwards on more than one occasion." mountjoy read this wise and considerate reply to his letter with indignation. here was the good fortune for which he had not dared to hope, declaring itself in favour of iris. here (if mrs. vimpany could be persuaded to write to her friend) was the opportunity offered of keeping the hot-tempered irish husband passive and harmless, by keeping him without further news of the assassin of arthur mountjoy. under these encouraging circumstances the proposed consultation which might have produced such excellent results had been rejected; thanks to a contemptible fear of infection, excited by a story of a trumpery piece of flannel! hugh snatched up the unfortunate letter (cast away on the floor) to tear it in pieces and throw it into the waste-paper basket--and checked himself. his angry hand had seized on it with the blank leaf of the note-paper uppermost. on that leaf he discovered two little lines of print, presenting, in the customary form, the address of the house at which the letter had been written! the writer, in taking the sheet of paper from the case, must have accidentally turned it wrong side uppermost on the desk, and had not cared to re-copy the letter, or had not discovered the mistake. restored to his best good-humour, hugh resolved to surprise mrs. vimpany by a visit, on the next day, which would set the theory of contagion at defiance, and render valuable service to iris at a crisis in her life. having time before him for reflection, in the course of the evening, he was at no loss to discover a formidable obstacle in the way of his design. whether he gave his name or concealed his name, when he asked for mrs. vimpany at the house-door, she would in either case refuse to see him. the one accessible person whom he could consult in this difficulty was his faithful old servant. that experienced man--formerly employed, at various times, in the army, in the police, and in service at a public school--obtained leave to make some preliminary investigations on the next morning. he achieved two important discoveries. in the first place, mrs. vimpany was living in the house in which the letter to his master had been written. in the second place, there was a page attached to the domestic establishment (already under notice to leave his situation), who was accessible to corruption by means of a bribe. the boy would be on the watch for mr. mountjoy at two o'clock on that day, and would show him where to find mrs. vimpany, in the room near the sick man, in which she was accustomed to take her meals. hugh acted on his instructions, and found the page waiting to admit him secretly to the house. leading the way upstairs, the boy pointed with one hand to a door on the second floor, and held out the other hand to receive his money. while he pocketed the bribe, and disappeared, mountjoy opened the door. mrs. vimpany was seated at a table waiting for her dinner. when hugh showed himself she started to her feet with a cry of alarm. "are you mad?" she exclaimed. "how did you get here? what do you want here? don't come near me!" she attempted to pass hugh on her way out of the room. he caught her by the arm, led her back to her chair, and forced her to seat herself again. "iris is in trouble," he pleaded, "and you can help her." "the fever!" she cried, heedless of what he had said. "keep back from me--the fever!" for the second time she tried to get out of the room. for the second time hugh stopped her. "fever or no fever," he persisted, "i have something to say to you. in two minutes i shall have said it, and i will go." in the fewest possible words he described the situation of iris with her jealous husband. mrs. vimpany indignantly interrupted him. "are you running this dreadful risk," she asked, "with nothing to say to me that i don't know already? her husband jealous of her? of course he is jealous of her! leave me--or i will ring for the servant." "ring, if you like," hugh answered; "but hear this first. my letter to you alluded to a consultation between us, which might be necessary in the interests of iris. imagine her situation if you can! the assassin of arthur mountjoy is reported to be in london; and lord harry has heard of it." mrs. vimpany looked at him with horror in her eyes. "gracious god!" she cried, "the man is here--under my care. oh, i am not in the conspiracy to hide the wretch! i knew no more of him than you do when i offered to nurse him. the names that have escaped him, in his delirium, have told me the truth." as she spoke, a second door in the room was opened. an old woman showed herself for a moment, trembling with terror. "he's breaking out again, nurse! help me to hold him!" mrs. vimpany instantly followed the woman into the bed-room. "wait and listen," she said to mountjoy--and left the door open. the quick, fierce, muttering tones of a man in delirium were now fearfully audible. his maddened memory was travelling back over his own horrible life. he put questions to himself; he answered himself: "who drew the lot to kill the traitor? i did! i did! who shot him on the road, before he could get to the wood? i did! i did! arthur mountjoy, traitor to ireland. set that on his tombstone, and disgrace him for ever. listen, boys--listen! there is a patriot among you. i am the patriot--preserved by a merciful providence. ha, my lord harry, search the earth and search the sea, the patriot is out of your reach! nurse! what's that the doctor said of me? the fever will kill him? well, what does that matter, as long as lord harry doesn't kill me? open the doors, and let everybody hear of it. i die the death of a saint--the greatest of all saints--the saint who shot arthur mountjoy. oh, the heat, the heat, the burning raging heat!" the tortured creature burst into a dreadful cry of rage and pain. it was more than hugh's resolution could support. he hurried out of the house. * * * * * * * * ten days passed. a letter, in a strange handwriting, reached iris at passy. the first part of the letter was devoted to the irish desperado, whom mrs. vimpany had attended in his illness. when she only knew him as a suffering fellow-creature she had promised to be his nurse. did the discovery that he was an assassin justify desertion, or even excuse neglect? no! the nursing art, like the healing art, is an act of mercy--in itself too essentially noble to inquire whether the misery that it relieves merits help. all that experience, all that intelligence, all that care could offer, the nurse gave to the man whose hand she would have shrunk from touching in friendship, after she had saved his life. a time had come when the fever threatened to take lord harry's vengeance out of his hands. the crisis of the disease declared itself. with the shadow of death on him, the wretch lived through it--saved by his strong constitution, and by the skilled and fearless woman who attended on him. at the period of his convalescence, friends from ireland (accompanied by a medical man of their own choosing) presented themselves at the house, and asked for him by the name under which he passed--carrigeen. with every possible care, he was removed; to what destination had never been discovered. from that time, all trace of him had been lost. terrible news followed on the next page. the subtle power of infection had asserted itself against the poor mortal who had defied it. hugh mountjoy, stricken by the man who had murdered his brother, lay burning under the scarlet fire of the fever. but the nurse watched by him, night and day. chapter xxxiv my lord's mind here, my old-vagabond-vimpany, is an interesting case for you--the cry of a patient with a sick mind. look over it, and prescribe for your wild irish friend, if you can. you will perhaps remember that i have never thoroughly trusted you, in all the years since we have known each other. at this later date in our lives, when i ought to see more clearly than ever what an unfathomable man you are, am i rash enough to be capable of taking you into my confidence? i don't know what i am going to do; i feel like a man who has been stunned. to be told that the murderer of arthur mountjoy had been seen in london--to be prepared to trace him by his paltry assumed name of carrigeen--to wait vainly for the next discovery which might bring him within reach of retribution at my hands--and then to be overwhelmed by the news of his illness, his recovery, and his disappearance: these are the blows which have stupefied me. only think of it! he has escaped me for the second time. fever that kills thousands of harmless creatures has spared the assassin. he may yet die in his bed, and be buried, with the guiltless dead around him, in a quiet churchyard. i can't get over it; i shall never get over it. add to this, anxieties about my wife, and maddening letters from creditors--and don't expect me to write reasonably. what i want to know is whether your art (or whatever you call it) can get at my diseased mind, through my healthy body. you have more than once told me that medicine can do this. the time has come for doing it. i am in a bad way, and a bad end may follow. my only medical friend, deliver me from myself. in any case, let me beg you to keep your temper while you read what follows. i have to confess that the devil whose name is jealousy has entered into me, and is threatening the tranquillity of my married life. you dislike iris, i know--and she returns your hostile feeling towards her. try to do my wife justice, nevertheless, as i do. i don't believe my distrust of her has any excuse--and yet, i am jealous. more unreasonable still, i am as fond of her as i was in the first days of the honeymoon. is she as fond as ever of me? you were a married man when i was a boy. let me give you the means of forming an opinion by a narrative of her conduct, under (what i admit to have been) very trying circumstances. when the first information reached iris of hugh mountjoy's dangerous illness, we were at breakfast. it struck her dumb. she handed the letter to me, and left the table. i hate a man who doesn't know what it is to want money; i hate a man who keeps his temper; i hate a man who pretends to be my wife's friend, and who is secretly in love with her all the time. what difference did it make to me whether hugh mountjoy ended in living or dying? if i had any interest in the matter, it ought by rights (seeing that i am jealous of him) to be an interest in his death. well! i declare positively that the alarming news from london spoilt my breakfast. there is something about that friend of my wife--that smug, prosperous, well-behaved englishman--which seems to plead for him (god knows how!) when my mind is least inclined in his favour. while i was reading about his illness, i found myself hoping that he would recover--and, i give you my sacred word of honour, i hated him all the time. my irish friend is mad--you will say. your irish friend, my dear follow, does not dispute it. let us get back to my wife. she showed herself again after a long absence, having something (at last) to say to her husband. "i am innocently to blame," she began, "for the dreadful misfortune that has fallen on mr. mountjoy. if i had not given him a message to mrs. vimpany, he would never have insisted on seeing her, and would never have caught the fever. it may help me to bear my misery of self-reproach and suspense, if i am kept informed of his illness. there is no fear of infection by my receiving letters. i am to write to a friend of mrs. vimpany, who lives in another house, and who will answer my inquiries. do you object, dear harry, to my getting news of hugh mountjoy every day, while he is in danger?" i was perfectly willing that she should get that news, and she ought to have known it. it seemed to me to be also a bad sign that she made her request with dry eyes. she must have cried, when she first heard that he was likely to sink under an attack of fever. why were her tears kept hidden in her own room? when she came back to me, her face was pale and hard and tearless. don't you think she might have forgotten my jealousy, when i was so careful myself not to show it? my own belief is that she was longing to go to london, and help your wife to nurse the poor man, and catch the fever, and die with him if _he_ died. is this bitter? perhaps it is. tear it off, and light your pipe with it. well, the correspondence relating to the sick man continued every day; and every day--oh, vimpany, another concession to my jealousy!--she handed the letters to me to read. i made excuses (we irish are good at that, if we are good at nothing else), and declined to read the medical reports. one morning, when she opened the letter of that day, there passed over her a change which is likely to remain in my memory as long as i live. never have i seen such an ecstasy of happiness in any woman's face, as i saw when she read the lines which informed her that the fever was mastered. iris is sweet and delicate and bright--essentially fascinating, in a word. but she was never a beautiful woman, until she knew that mountjoy's life was safe; and she will never be a beautiful woman again, unless the time comes when my death leaves her free to marry him. on her wedding-day, he will see the transformation that i saw--and he will be dazzled as i was. she looked at me, as if she expected me to speak. "i am glad indeed," i said, "that he is out of danger." she ran to me--she kissed me; i wouldn't have believed it was in her to give such kisses. "now i have your sympathy," she said, "my happiness is complete!" do you think i was indebted for these kisses to myself or to that other man? no, no--here is an unworthy doubt. i discard it. vile suspicion shall not wrong iris this time. and yet---- shall i go on, and write the rest of it? poor, dear arthur mountjoy once told me of a foreign author, who was in great doubt of the right answer to some tough question that troubled him. he went into his garden and threw a stone at a tree. if he hit the tree, the answer would be--yes. if he missed the tree, the answer would be--no. i am going into the garden to imitate the foreign author. you shall hear how it ends. i have hit the tree. as a necessary consequence, i must go on and write the rest of it. there is a growing estrangement between iris and myself--and my jealousy doesn't altogether account for it. sometimes, it occurs to me that we are thinking of what our future relations with mountjoy are likely to be, and are ashamed to confess it to each other. sometimes--and perhaps this second, and easiest, guess may be the right one--i am apt to conclude that we are only anxious about money matters. i am waiting for her to touch on the subject, and she is waiting for me; and there we are at a deadlock. i wish i had some reason for going to some other place. i wish i was lost among strangers. i should like to find myself in a state of danger, meeting the risks that i used to run in my vagabond days. now i think of it, i might enjoy this last excitement by going back to england, and giving the invincibles a chance of shooting me as a traitor to the cause. but my wife would object to that. suppose we change the subject. you will be glad to hear that you knew something of law, as well as of medicine. i sent instructions to my solicitor in london to raise a loan on my life-insurance. what you said to me turns out to be right. i can't raise a farthing, for three years to come, out of all the thousands of pounds which i shall leave behind me when i die. are my prospects from the newspaper likely to cheer me after such a disappointment as this? the new journal, i have the pleasure of informing you, is much admired. when i inquire for my profits, i hear that the expenses are heavy, and i am told that i must wait for a rise in our circulation. how long? nobody knows. i shall keep these pages open for a few days more, on the chance of something happening which may alter my present position for the better. my position has altered for the worse. i have been obliged to fill my empty purse, for a little while, by means of a bit of stamped paper. and how shall i meet my liabilities when the note falls due? let time answer the question; for the present the evil day is put off. in the meanwhile, if that literary speculation of yours is answering no better than my newspaper, i can lend you a few pounds to get on with. what do you say (on second thoughts) to coming back to your old quarters at passy, and giving me your valuable advice by word of mouth instead of by letter? come, and feel my pulse, and look at my tongue--and tell me how these various anxieties of mine are going to end, before we are any of us a year older. shall i, like you, be separated from my wife--at her request; oh, not at mine! or shall i be locked up in prison? and what will become of you? do you take the hint, doctor? chapter xxxv my lady's mind "entreat lady harry not to write to me. she will be tempted to do so, when she hears that there is good hope of mr. mountjoy's recovery. but, even from that loving and generous heart, i must not accept expressions of gratitude which would only embarrass me. all that i have done, as a nurse, and all that i may yet hope to do, is no more than an effort to make amends for my past life. iris has my heart's truest wishes for her happiness. until i can myself write to her without danger, let this be enough." in those terms, dearest of women, your friend has sent your message to me. my love respects as well as admires you; your wishes are commands to me. at the same time, i may find some relief from the fears of the future that oppress me, if i can confide them to friendly ears. may i not harmlessly write to you, if i only write of my own poor self? try, dear, to remember those pleasant days when you were staying with us, in our honeymoon time, at paris. you warned me, one evening when we were alone, to be on my guard against any circumstances which might excite my husband's jealousy. since then, the trouble that you foresaw has fallen on me; mainly, i am afraid, through my own want of self-control. it is so hard for a woman, when she really loves a man, to understand a state of mind which can make him doubt her. i have discovered that jealousy varies. let me tell you what i mean. lord harry was silent and sullen (ah, how well i knew what that meant!) while the life of our poor hugh was in jeopardy. when i read the good news which told me that he was no longer in danger, i don't know whether there was any change worth remarking in myself--but, there was a change in my husband, delightful to see. his face showed such sweet sympathy when he looked at me, he spoke so kindly and nicely of hugh, that i could only express my pleasure by kissing him. you will hardly believe me, when i tell you that his hateful jealousy appeared again, at that moment. he looked surprised, he looked suspicious--he looked, i declare, as if he doubted whether i meant it with all my heart when i kissed him! what incomprehensible creatures men are! we read in novels of women who are able to manage their masters. i wish i knew how to manage mine. we have been getting into debt. for some weeks past, this sad state of things has been a burden on my mind. day after day i have been expecting him to speak of our situation, and have found him obstinately silent. is his mind entirely occupied with other things? or is he unwilling to speak of our anxieties because the subject humiliates him? yesterday, i could bear it no longer. "our debts are increasing," i said. "have you thought of any way of paying them?" i had feared that my question might irritate him. to my relief, he seemed to be diverted by it. "the payment of debts," he replied, "is a problem that i am too poor to solve. perhaps i got near to it the other day." i asked how. "well," he said, "i found myself wishing i had some rich friends. by-the-bye, how is _your_ rich friend? what have you heard lately of mr. mountjoy?" "i have heard that he is steadily advancing towards recovery." "likely, i dare say, to return to france when he feels equal to it," my husband remarked. "he is a good-natured creature. if he finds himself in paris again, i wonder whether he will pay us another visit?" he said this quite seriously. on my side, i was too much as astonished to utter a word. my bewilderment seemed to amuse him. in his own pleasant way he explained himself: "i ought to have told you, my dear, that i was in mr. mountjoy's company the night before he returned to england. we had said some disagreeable things to each other here in the cottage, while you were away in your room. my tongue got the better of my judgment. in short, i spoke rudely to our guest. thinking over it afterwards, i felt that i ought to make an apology. he received my sincere excuses with an amiability of manner, and a grace of language, which raised him greatly in my estimation." there you have lord harry's own words! who would suppose that he had ever been jealous of the man whom he spoke of in this way? i explain it to myself, partly by the charm in hugh's look and manner, which everybody feels; partly by the readiness with which my husband's variable nature receives new impressions. i hope you agree with me. in any case, pray let hugh see what i have written to you in this place, and ask him what he thinks of it.* *_note by mrs. vimpany._--i shall certainly not be foolish enough to show what she has written to mr. mountjoy. poor deluded iris! miserable fatal marriage! encouraged, as you will easily understand, by the delightful prospect of a reconciliation between them, i was eager to take my first opportunity of speaking freely of hugh. up to that time, it had been a hard trial to keep to myself so much that was deeply interesting in my thoughts and hopes. but my hours of disappointment were not at an end yet. we were interrupted. a letter was brought to us--one of many, already received!--insisting on immediate payment of a debt that had been too long unsettled. the detestable subject of our poverty insisted on claiming attention when there was a messenger outside, waiting for my poor harry's last french bank note. "what is to be done?" i said, when we were left by ourselves again. my husband's composure was something wonderful. he laughed and lit a cigar. "we have got to the crisis," he said. "the question of money has driven us into a corner at last. my darling, have you ever heard of such a thing as a promissory note?" i was not quite so ignorant as he supposed me to be; i said i had heard my father speak of promissory notes. this seemed to fail in convincing him. "your father," he remarked, "used to pay his notes when they fell due." i betrayed my ignorance, after all. "doesn't everybody do the same?" i asked. he burst out laughing. "we will send the maid to get a bit of stamped paper," he said; "i'll write the message for her, this time." those last words alluded to fanny's ignorance of the french language, which made it necessary to provide her with written instructions, when she was sent on an errand. in our domestic affairs, i was able to do this; but, in the present case, i only handed the message to her. when she returned with a slip of stamped paper, harry called to me to come to the writing-table. "now, my sweet," he said, "see how easily money is to be got with a scratch of the pen." i looked, over his shoulder. in less than a minute it was done; and he had produced ten thousand francs on paper--in english money (as he told me), four hundred pounds. this seemed to be a large loan; i asked how he proposed to pay it back. he kindly reminded me that he was a newspaper proprietor, and, as such, possessed of the means of inspiring confidence in persons with money to spare. they could afford, it seems, to give him three months in which to arrange for repayment. in that time, as he thought, the profits of the new journal might come pouring in. he knew best, of course. we took the next train to paris, and turned our bit of paper into notes and gold. never was there such a delightful companion as my husband, when he has got money in his pocket. after so much sorrow and anxiety, for weeks past, that memorable afternoon was like a glimpse of paradise. on the next morning, there was an end to my short-lived enjoyment of no more than the latter half of a day. watching her opportunity, fanny mere came to me while i was alone, carrying a thick letter in her hand. she held it before me with the address uppermost. "please to look at that," she said. the letter was directed (in harry's handwriting) to mr. vimpany, at a publishing office in london. fanny next turned the envelope the other way. "look at this side," she resumed. the envelope was specially protected by a seal; bearing a device of my husband's own invention; that is to say, the initials of his name (harry norland) surmounted by a star--his lucky star, as he paid me the compliment of calling it, on the day when he married me. i was thinking of that day now. fanny saw me looking, with a sad heart, at the impression on the wax. she completely misinterpreted the direction taken by my thoughts. "tell me to do it, my lady," she proceeded; "and i'll open the letter." i looked at her. she showed no confusion. "i can seal it up again," she coolly explained, "with a bit of fresh wax and my thimble. perhaps mr. vimpany won't be sober enough to notice it." "do you know, fanny, that you are making a dishonourable proposal to me?" i said. "i know there's nothing i can do to help you that i won't do," she answered; "and you know why. i have made a dishonourable proposal--have i? that comes quite naturally to a lost woman like me. shall i tell you what honour means? it means sticking at nothing, in your service. please tell me to open the letter." "how did you come by the letter, fanny?" "my master gave it to me to put in the post." "then, post it." the strange creature, so full of contraries--so sensitive at one time, so impenetrable at another--pointed again to the address. "when the master writes to that man," she went on--"a long letter (if you will notice), and a sealed letter--your ladyship ought to see what is inside it. i haven't a doubt myself that there's writing under this seal which bodes trouble to you. the spare bedroom is empty. do you want to have the doctor for your visitor again? don't tell me to post the letter, till i've opened it first." "i do tell you to post the letter." fanny submitted, so far. but she had a new form of persuasion to try, before her reserves of resistance were exhausted. "if the doctor comes back," she continued, "will your ladyship give me leave to go out, whenever i ask for it?" this was surely presuming on my indulgence. "are you not expecting a little too much?" i suggested--not unkindly. "if you say that, my lady," she answered, "i shall be obliged to ask you to suit yourself with another maid." there was a tone of dictation in this, which i found beyond endurance. in my anger, i said: "leave me whenever you like." "i shall leave you when i'm dead--not before," was the reply that i received. "but if you won't let me have my liberty without going away from you, for a time, i must go--for your sake." (for my sake! pray observe that.) she went on: "try to see it, my lady, as i do! if we have the doctor with us again, i must be able to watch him." "why?" "because he is your enemy, as i believe." "how can he hurt me, fanny?" "through your husband, my lady, if he can do it in no other way. mr. vimpany shall have a spy at his heels. dishonourable! oh, dishonourable again! never mind. i don't pretend to know what that villain means to do, if he and my lord get together again. but this i can tell you, if it's in woman's wit to circumvent him, here i am with my mind made up. with my mind, made up!" she repeated fiercely--and recovered on a sudden her customary character as a quiet well-trained servant, devoted to her duties. "i'll take my master's letter to the post now," she said. "is there anything your ladyship wants in the town?" what do you think of fanny mere? ought i to have treated this last offer of her services, as i treated her proposal to open the letter? i was not able to do it. the truth is, i was so touched by her devotion to me, that i could not prevail on myself to mortify her by a refusal. i believe there may be a good reason for the distrust of the doctor which possesses her so strongly; and i feel the importance of having this faithful and determined woman for an ally. let me hope that mr. vimpany's return (if it is to take place) may be delayed until you can safely write, with your own hand, such a letter of wise advice as i sadly need. in the meantime, give my love to hugh, and say to this dear friend all that i might have said for myself, if i had been near him. but take care that his recovery is not retarded by anxiety for me. pray keep him in ignorance of the doubts and fears with which i am now looking at the future. if i was not so fond of my husband, i should be easier in my mind. this sounds contradictory, but i believe you will understand it. for a while, my dear, good-bye. chapter xxxvi the doctor means mischief on the day after lord harry's description of the state of his mind reached london, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office of messrs. boldside brothers, and asked for the senior partner, mr. peter boldside. when he sent in his card, it bore the name of "mr. vimpany." "to what fortunate circumstance am i indebted, sir, for the honour of your visit?" the senior partner inquired. his ingratiating manners, his genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of which he made a merciless use. the literary customer who entered the office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered mr. peter boldside. "i want to inquire about the sale of my work," mr. vimpany replied. "ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. you must go to my brother." mr. vimpany protested. "you mentioned the terms when i first applied to you," he said, "and you signed the agreement." "that is in _my_ department," the senior partner gently explained. "and i shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits shall fall due. but our sales of works are in the department of my brother, mr. paul boldside." he rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and received his instructions: "mr. paul. good-morning, doctor." mr. paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated--without the deep voice, and without the genial smile. conducted to the office of the junior partner, mr. vimpany found himself in the presence of a stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. when his name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to the doctor. "this is a coincidence," he said. "i was looking, sir, for your name in the pages which i have just put into your hand. surely the editor can't have refused to publish your letter?" mr. vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to be trifled with by a mystifying reception. "i don't understand you," he answered gruffly. "what do you mean?" "is it possible that you have not seen last week's number of the paper?" mr. paul asked. "and you a literary man!" he forthwith produced the last week's number, and opened it at the right place. "read that, sir," he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous indignation. mr. vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the editor. it was signed by an eminent physician, whose portrait had appeared in the first serial part of the new work--accompanied by a brief memoir of his life, which purported to be written by himself. not one line of the autobiography (this celebrated person declared) had proceeded from his pen. mr. vimpany had impudently published an imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions--and this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the necessary particulars. stating these facts, the indignant physician cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public. "if you can answer that letter, sir," mr. paul boldside resumed, "the better it will be, i can tell you, for the sale of your publication." mr. vimpany made a reckless reply: "i want to know how the thing sells. never mind the letter." "never mind the letter?" the junior partner repeated. "a positive charge of fraud is advanced by a man at the head of his profession against a work which _we_ have published--and you say, never mind the letter." the rough customer of the boldsides struck his fist on the table. "bother the letter! i insist on knowing what the sale is." still preserving his dignity, mr. paul (like mr. peter) rang for the clerk, and briefly gave an order. "mr. vimpany's account," he said--and proceeded to admonish mr. vimpany himself. "you appear, sir, to have no defence of your conduct to offer. our firm has a reputation to preserve. when i have consulted with my brother, we shall be under the disagreeable necessity--" here (as he afterwards told his brother) the publisher was brutally interrupted by the author: "if you will have it," said this rude man, "here it is in two words. the doctor's portrait is the likeness of an ass. as he couldn't do it himself, i wanted materials for writing his life. he referred me to the year of his birth, the year of his marriage, the year of this, that, and the other. who cares about dates? the public likes to be tickled by personal statements. very well--i tickled the public. there you have it in a nutshell." the clerk appeared at that auspicious moment, with the author's account neatly exhibited under two sides: a debtor side, which represented the expenditure of hugh mountjoy's money; and a creditor side, which represented (so far) mr. vimpany's profits. amount of these last: _l._ _s._ _d._ mr. vimpany tore up the account, threw the pieces in the face of mr. paul, and expressed his sentiments in one opprobrious word: "swindlers!" the publisher said: "you shall hear of us, sir, through our lawyer." and the author answered: "go to the devil!" once out in the streets again, the first open door at which mr. vimpany stopped was the door of a tavern. he ordered a glass of brandy and water, and a cigar. it was then the hour of the afternoon, between the time of luncheon and the time of dinner, when the business of a tavern is generally in a state of suspense. the dining-room was empty when mr. vimpany entered it: and the waiter's unoccupied attention was in want of an object. having nothing else to notice, he looked at the person who had just come in. the deluded stranger was drinking fiery potato-brandy, and smoking (at the foreign price) an english cigar. would his taste tell him the melancholy truth? no: it seemed to matter nothing to him what he was drinking or what he was smoking. now he looked angry, and now he looked puzzled; and now he took a long letter from his pocket, and read it in places, and marked the places with a pencil. "up to some mischief," was the waiter's interpretation of these signs. the stranger ordered a second glass of grog, and drank it in gulps, and fell into such deep thought that he let his cigar go out. evidently, a man in search of an idea. and, to all appearance, he found what he wanted on a sudden. in a hurry he paid his reckoning, and left his small change and his unfinished cigar on the table, and was off before the waiter could say, "thank you." the next place at which he stopped was a fine house in a spacious square. a carriage was waiting at the door. the servant who opened the door knew him. "sir james is going out again, sir, in two minutes," the man said. mr. vimpany answered: "i won't keep him two minutes." a bell rang from the room on the ground floor; and a gentleman came out, as mr. vimpany was shown in. sir james's stethoscope was still in his hand; his latest medical fee lay on the table. "some other day, vimpany," the great surgeon said; "i have no time to give you now." "will you give me a minute?" the humble doctor asked. "very well. what is it?" "i am down in the world now, sir james, as you know--and i am trying to pick myself up again." "very creditable, my good fellow. how can i help you? come, come--out with it. you want something?" "i want your great name to do me a great service. i am going to france. a letter of introduction, from you, will open doors which might be closed to an unknown man like myself." "what doors do you mean?" sir james asked. "the doors of the hospitals in paris." "wait a minute, vimpany. have you any particular object in view?" "a professional object, of course," the ready doctor answered. "i have got an idea for a new treatment of diseases of the lungs; and i want to see if the french have made any recent discoveries in that direction." sir james took up his pen--and hesitated. his ill-starred medical colleague had been his fellow-student and his friend, in the days when they were both young men. they had seen but little of each other since they had gone their different ways--one of them, on the high road which leads to success, the other down the byways which end in failure. the famous surgeon felt a passing doubt of the use which his needy and vagabond inferior might make of his name. for a moment his pen was held suspended over the paper. but the man of great reputation was also a man of great heart. old associations pleaded with him, and won their cause. his companion of former times left the house provided with a letter of introduction to the chief surgeon at the hotel dieu, in paris. mr. vimpany's next, and last, proceeding for that day, was to stop at a telegraph-office, and to communicate economically with lord harry in three words: "expect me to-morrow." chapter xxxvii the first quarrel early in the morning of the next day, lord harry received the doctor's telegram. iris not having risen at the time, he sent for fanny mere, and ordered her to get the spare room ready for a guest. the maid's busy suspicion tempted her to put a venturesome question. she asked if the person expected was a lady or a gentleman. "what business is it of yours who the visitor is?" her master asked sharply. always easy and good-humoured with his inferiors in general, lord harry had taken a dislike to his wife's maid, from the moment when he had first seen her. his irish feeling for beauty and brightness was especially offended by the unhealthy pallor of the woman's complexion, and the sullen self-suppression of her manner. all that his native ingenuity had been able to do was to make her a means of paying a compliment to his wife. "your maid has one merit in my eyes," he said; "she is a living proof of the sweetness of your temper." iris joined her husband at the breakfast-table with an appearance of disturbance in her face, seldom seen, during the dull days of her life at passy. "i hear of somebody coming to stay with us," she said. "not mr. vimpany again, i hope and trust?" lord harry was careful to give his customary morning kiss, before he replied. "why shouldn't my faithful old friend come and see me again?" he asked, with his winning smile. "pray don't speak of that hateful man," she answered, "as your faithful old friend! he is nothing of the kind. what did you tell me when he took leave of us after his last visit, and i owned i was glad that he had gone? you said: 'faith, my dear, i'm as glad as you are.'" her good-natured husband laughed at this little picture of himself. "ah, my darling, how many more times am i to make the same confession to my pretty priest? try to remember, without more telling, that it's one of my misfortunes to be a man of many tempers. there are times when i get tired to death of mr. vimpany; and there are times when the cheery old devil exercises fascinations over me. i declare you're spoiling the eyebrows that i admire by letting them twist themselves into a frown! after the trouble i have taken to clear your mind of prejudice against an unfortunate man, it's disheartening to find you so hard on the poor fellow's faults and so blind to his virtues." the time had been when this remonstrance might have influenced his wife's opinion. she passed it over without notice now. "does he come here by your invitation?" she asked. "how else should he come here, my dear?" she looked at her husband with doubt too plainly visible in her eyes. "i wonder what your motive is for sending for him," she said. he was just lifting his teacup to his lips--he put it down again when he heard those words. "are you ill this morning?" he asked. "no." "have i said anything that has offended you?" "certainly not." "then i must tell you this, iris; i don't approve of what you have just said. it sounds, to my mind, unpleasantly like suspicion of me and suspicion of my friend. i see your face confessing it, my lady, at this moment." "you are half right, harry, and no more. what you see in my face is suspicion of your friend." "founded on what, if you please?" "founded on what i have seen of him, and on what i know of him. when you tried to alter my opinion of mr. vimpany some time since, i did my best to make my view your view. i deceived myself, for your sake; i put the best construction on what he said and did, when he was staying here. it was well meant, but it was of no use. in a thousand different ways, while he was doing his best to win my favour, his true self was telling tales of him under the fair surface. mr. vimpany is a bad man. he is the very worst friend you could have about you at any time--and especially at a time when your patience is tried by needy circumstances." "one word, iris. the more eloquent you are, the more i admire you. only, don't mention my needy circumstances again." she passed over the interruption as she had already passed over the remonstrance, without taking notice of it. "dearest, you are always good to me," she continued gently. "am i wrong in thinking that love gives me some little influence over you still? women are vain--are they not?--and i am no better than the rest of them. flatter your wife's vanity, harry, by attaching some importance to her opinion. is there time enough, yet, to telegraph to mr. vimpany? quite out of the question, is it? well, then, if he must come here, do--pray, pray do consider me. don't let him stay in the house! i'll find a good excuse, and take a bedroom for him in the neighbourhood. anywhere else, so long as he is not here. he turns me cold when i think of him, sleeping under the same roof with ourselves. not with us! oh, harry, not with us!" her eyes eagerly searched her husband's face; she looked there for indulgence, she looked for conviction. no! he was still admiring her. "on my word of honour," he burst out, "you fascinate me. what an imagination you have got! one of these days, iris, i shall be prouder of you than ever; i shall find you a famous literary character. i don't mean writing a novel; women who can't even hem a handkerchief can write a novel. it's poetry i'm thinking of. irish melodies by lady harry that beat tom moore. what a gift! and there are fortunes made, as i have heard, by people who spoil fair white paper to some purpose. i wish i was one of them." "have you no more to say to me?" she asked. "what more should there be? you wouldn't have me take you seriously, in what you have just said of vimpany?" "why not?" "oh, come, come, my darling! just consider. with a bedroom empty and waiting, upstairs, is my old vimpany to be sent to quarters for the night among strangers? i wouldn't speak harshly to you, iris, for the whole world; and i don't deny that the convivial doctor may be sometimes a little too fond of his drop of grog. you will tell me, maybe, that he hasn't got on nicely with his wife; and i grant it. there are not many people who set such a pretty example of matrimony as we do. poor humanity--there's all that's to be said about it. but when you tell me that vimpany is a bad man, and the worst friend i could possibly have, and so forth--what better can i do than set it down to your imagination? i've a pretty fancy, myself; and i think i see my angel inventing poetical characters, up among congenial clouds. what's the matter? surely, you haven't done breakfast yet?" "yes." "are you going to leave me?" "i am going to my room." "you're in a mighty hurry to get away. i never meant to vex you, iris. ah, well, if you must leave the table, i'll have the honour of opening the door for you, at any rate. i wonder what you're going to do?" "to cultivate my imagination," she answered, with the first outbreak of bitterness that had escaped her yet. his face hardened. "there seems to be something like bearing malice in this," he said. "are you treating me, for the first time, to an exhibition of enmity? what am i to call it, if it's not that?" "call it disappointment," she suggested quietly, and left him. lord harry went back to his breakfast. his jealousy was up in arms again. "she's comparing me with her absent friend," he said to himself, "and wishing she had married the amiable mountjoy instead of me." so the first quarrel ended--and mr. vimpany had been the cause of it. chapter xxxviii ici on parle francais the doctor arrived in good time for dinner, and shook hands with the irish lord in excellent spirits. he looked round the room, and asked where my lady was. lord harry's reply suggested the presence of a cloud on the domestic horizon. he had been taking a long ride, and had only returned a few minutes since; iris would (as he supposed) join them immediately. the maid put the soup on the table, and delivered a message. her mistress was suffering from a headache, and was not well enough to dine with the gentlemen. as an old married man, mr. vimpany knew what this meant; he begged leave to send a comforting message to the suffering lady of the house. would fanny be good enough to say that he had made inquiries on the subject of mr. mountjoy's health, before he left london. the report was still favourable; there was nothing to complain of but the after-weakness which had followed the fever. on that account only, the attendance of the nurse was still a matter of necessity. "with my respects to lady harry," he called after fanny, as she went out in dogged silence. "i have begun by making myself agreeable to your wife," the doctor remarked with a self-approving grin. "perhaps she will dine with us to-morrow. pass the sherry." the remembrance of what had happened at the breakfast-table, that morning, seemed to be dwelling disagreeably on lord harry's mind. he said but little--and that little related to the subject on which he had already written, at full length, to his medical friend. in an interval, when the service of the table required the attendance of fanny in the kitchen, mr. vimpany took the opportunity of saying a few cheering words. he had come (he remarked) prepared with the right sort of remedy for an ailing state of mind, and he would explain himself at a fitter opportunity. lord harry impatiently asked why the explanation was deferred. if the presence of the maid was the obstacle which caused delay, it would be easy to tell her that she was not wanted to wait. the wary doctor positively forbade this. he had observed fanny, during his previous visit, and had discovered that she seemed to distrust him. the woman was sly and suspicious. since they had sat down to dinner, it was easy to see that she was lingering in the room to listen to the conversation, on one pretence or another. if she was told not to wait, there could be no doubt of her next proceeding: she would listen outside the door. "take my word for it," the doctor concluded, "there are all the materials for a spy in fanny mere." but lord harry was obstinate. chafing under the sense of his helpless pecuniary position, he was determined to hear, at once, what remedy for it vimpany had discovered. "we can set that woman's curiosity at defiance," he said. "how?" "when you were learning your profession, you lived in paris for some years, didn't you? "all right!" "well, then, you can't have entirely forgotten your french?" the doctor at once understood what this meant, and answered significantly by a wink. he had found an opportunity (he said) of testing his memory, not very long since. time had undoubtedly deprived him of his early mastery over the french language; but he could still (allowing for a few mistakes) make a shift to understand it and speak it. there was one thing, however, that he wanted to know first. could they be sure that my lady's maid had not picked up french enough to use her ears to some purpose? lord harry easily disposed of this doubt. so entirely ignorant was the maid of the language of the place in which she was living, that she was not able to ask the tradespeople for the simplest article of household use, unless it was written for her in french before she was sent on an errand. this was conclusive. when fanny returned to the dining-room, she found a surprise waiting for her. the two gentlemen had taken leave of their nationality, and were talking the language of foreigners. an hour later, when the dinner-table had been cleared, the maid's domestic duties took her to lady harry's room to make tea. she noticed the sad careworn look on her mistress's face, and spoke of it at once in her own downright way. "i thought it was only an excuse," she said, "when you gave me that message to the gentlemen, at dinner-time. are you really ill, my lady?" "i am a little out of spirits," iris replied. fanny made the tea. "i can understand that," she said to herself, as she moved away to leave the room; "i'm out of spirits myself." iris called her back: "i heard you say just now, fanny, that you were out of spirits yourself. if you were speaking of some troubles of your own, i am sorry for you, and i won't say any more. but if you know what my anxieties are, and share them--" "mine is the biggest share of the two," fanny broke out abruptly. "it goes against the grain with me to distress you, my lady; but we are beginning badly, and you ought to know it. the doctor has beaten me already." "beaten you already?" iris repeated. "tell me plainly what you mean?" "here it is, if you please, as plainly as words can say it. mr. vimpany has something--something wicked, of course--to say to my master; and he won't let it pass his lips here, in the cottage." "why not?" "because he suspects me of listening at the door, and looking through the keyhole. i don't know, my lady, that he doesn't even suspect you. 'i've learnt something in the course of my life,' he says to my master; 'and it's a rule with me to be careful of what i talk about indoors, when there are women in the house. what are you going to do to-morrow?' he says. my lord told him there was to be a meeting at the newspaper office. the doctor says: 'i'll go to paris with you. the newspaper office isn't far from the luxembourg gardens. when you have done your business, you will find me waiting at the gate. what i have to tell you, you shall hear out of doors in the gardens--and in an open part of them, too, where there are no lurking-places among the trees.' my master seemed to get angry at being put off in this way. 'what is it you have got to tell me?' he says. 'is it anything like the proposal you made, when you were on your last visit here?' the doctor laughed. 'to-morrow won't be long in coming,' he says. 'patience, my lord--patience.' there was no getting him to say a word more. now, what am i to do? how am i to get a chance of listening to him, out in an open garden, without being seen? there's what i mean when i say he has beaten me. it's you, my lady--it's you who will suffer in the end." "you don't _know_ that, fanny." "no, my lady--but i'm certain of it. and here i am, as helpless as yourself! my temper has been quiet, since my misfortune; it would be quiet still, but for this." the one animating motive, the one exasperating influence, in that sad and secret life was still the mistress's welfare--still the safety of the generous woman who had befriended and forgiven her. she turned aside from the table, to hide her ghastly face. "pray try to control yourself." as iris spoke, she pointed kindly to a chair. "there is something that i want to say when you are composed again. i won't hurry you; i won't look at you. sit down, fanny." she appeared to shrink from being seated in her mistress's presence. "please to let me go to the window," she said; "the air will help me." to the window she went, and struggled with the passionate self so steadily kept under at other times; so obstinately conquered now. "what did you wish to say to me?" she asked. "you have surprised--you have perplexed me," iris said. "i am at a loss to understand how you discovered what seems to have passed between your master and mr. vimpany. you don't surely mean to tell me that they talked of their private affairs while you were waiting at table?" "i don't tell lies, my lady," fanny declared impulsively. "they talked of nothing else all through the dinner." "before _you!"_ iris exclaimed. there was a pause. fear and shame confessed themselves furtively on the maid's colourless face. silently, swiftly, she turned to the door. had a slip of the tongue hurried her into the betrayal of something which it was her interest to conceal? "don't be alarmed," iris said compassionately; "i have no wish to intrude on your secrets." with her hand on the door, fanny mere closed it again, and came back. "i am not so ungrateful," she said, "as to have any secrets from you. it's hard to confess what may lower me in your good opinion, but it must be done. i have deceived your ladyship--and i am ashamed of it. i have deceived the doctor--and i glory in it. my master and mr. vimpany thought they were safe in speaking french, while i was waiting on them. i know french as well as they do." iris could hardly believe what she heard. "do you really mean what you say?" she asked. "there's that much good in me," fanny replied; "i always mean what i say." "why did you deceive me? why have you been acting the part of an ignorant woman?" "the deceit has been useful in your service," the obstinate maid declared. "perhaps it may be useful again." "was that what you were thinking of," iris said, "when you allowed me to translate english into french for you, and never told me the truth?" "at any rate, i will tell you the truth, now. no: i was not thinking of you, when you wrote my errands for me in french--i was thinking again of some advice that was once given to me." "was it advice given by a friend?" "given by a man, my lady, who was the worst enemy i have ever had." her considerate mistress understood the allusion, and forbade her to distress herself by saying more. but fanny felt that atonement, as well as explanation, was due to her benefactress. slowly, painfully she described the person to whom she had referred. he was a frenchman, who had been her music-master during the brief period at which she had attended a school: he had promised her marriage; he had persuaded her to elope with him. the little money that they had to live on was earned by her needle, and by his wages as accompanist at a music-hall. while she was still able to attract him, and to hope for the performance of his promise, he amused himself by teaching her his own language. when he deserted her, his letter of farewell contained, among other things the advice to which she had alluded. "in your station of life," this man had written, "knowledge of french is still a rare accomplishment. keep your knowledge to yourself. english people of rank have a way of talking french to each other, when they don't wish to be understood by their inferiors. in the course of your career, you may surprise secrets which will prove to be a little fortune, if you play your cards properly. anyhow, it is the only fortune i have to leave to you." such had been the villain's parting gift to the woman whom he had betrayed. she had hated him too bitterly to be depraved by his advice. on the contrary, when the kindness of a friend (now no longer in england) had helped her to obtain her first employment as a domestic servant, she had thought it might be to her interest to mention that she could read, write, and speak french. the result proved to be not only a disappointment, but a warning to her for the future. such an accomplishment as a knowledge of a foreign language possessed by an englishwoman, in her humble rank of life, was considered by her mistress to justify suspicion. questions were asked, which it was impossible for her to answer truthfully. small scandal drew its own conclusions--her life with the other servants became unendurable--she left her situation. from that time, until the happy day when she met with iris, concealment of her knowledge of french became a proceeding forced on her by her own poor interests. her present mistress would undoubtedly have been taken into her confidence, if the opportunity had offered itself. but iris had never encouraged her to speak of the one darkest scene in her life; and for that reason, she had kept her own counsel until the date of her mistress's marriage. distrusting the husband, and the husband's confidential friend--for were they not both men?--she had thought of the vile frenchman's advice, and had resolved to give it a trial; not with the degrading motive which he had suggested, but with the vague presentiment of making a discovery of wickedness, threatening mischief under a french disguise, which might be of service to her benefactress at some future time. "and i may still turn it to your advantage, my lady," fanny ventured to add, "if you will consent to say nothing to anybody of your having a servant who has learnt french." iris looked at her coldly and gravely. "must i remind you," she said, "that you are asking my help in practicing a deception on my husband?" "i shall be sent away," fanny answered, "if you tell my master what i have told you." this was indisputably true. iris hesitated. in her present situation, the maid was the one friend on whom she could rely. before her marriage, she would have recoiled from availing herself, under any circumstances, of such services as fanny's reckless gratitude had offered to her. but the moral atmosphere in which she was living had begun, as mrs. vimpany had foreseen, to exert its baneful influence. the mistress descended to bargaining with the servant. "deceive the doctor," she said, "and i well remember that it may be for my good." she stopped, and considered for a moment. her noble nature rallied its forces, and prompted her next words: "but respect your master, if you wish me to keep your secret. i forbid you to listen to what my lord may say, when he speaks with mr. vimpany to-morrow." "i have already told your ladyship that i shall have no chance of listening to what they say to each other, out of doors," fanny rejoined. "but i can watch the doctor at any rate. we don't know what he may not do when he is left by himself, while my master is at the meeting. i want to try if i can follow that rogue through the streets, without his finding me out. please to send me on an errand to paris to-morrow." "you will be running a terrible risk," her mistress reminded her, "if mr. vimpany discovers you." "i'll take my chance of that," was the reckless reply. iris consented. chapter xxxix the mystery of the hospital on the next morning lord harry left the cottage, accompanied by the doctor. after a long absence, he returned alone. his wife's worst apprehensions, roused by what fanny had told her, were more than justified, by the change which she now perceived in him. his eyes were bloodshot, his face was haggard, his movements were feeble and slow. he looked like a man exhausted by some internal conflict, which had vibrated between the extremes of anger and alarm. "i'm tired to death," he said; "get me a glass of wine." she waited on him with eager obedience, and watched anxiously for the reviving effect of the stimulant. the little irritabilities which degrade humanity only prolong their mischievous existence, while the surface of life stagnates in calm. their annihilation follows when strong emotion stirs in the depths, and raises the storm. the estrangement of the day before passed as completely from the minds of the husband and wife--both strongly agitated--as if it had never existed. all-mastering fear was busy at their hearts; fear, in the woman, of the unknown temptation which had tried the man; fear, in the man, of the tell-tale disturbance in him, which might excite the woman's suspicion. without venturing to look at him, iris said: "i am afraid you have heard bad news?" without venturing to look at her, lord harry answered: "yes, at the newspaper office." she knew that he was deceiving her; and he felt that she knew it. for awhile, they were both silent. from time to time, she anxiously stole a look at him. his mind remained absorbed in thought. there they were, in the same room--seated near each other; united by the most intimate of human relationships--and yet how far, how cruelly far, apart! the slowest of all laggard minutes, the minutes which are reckoned by suspense, followed each other tardily and more tardily, before there appeared the first sign of a change. he lifted his drooping head. sadly, longingly, he looked at her. the unerring instinct of true love encouraged his wife to speak to him. "i wish i could relieve your anxieties," she said simply. "is there nothing i can do to help you?" "come here, iris." she rose and approached him. in the past days of the honeymoon and its sweet familiarities, he had sometimes taken her on his knee. he took her on his knee now, and put his arm round her. "kiss me," he said. with all her heart she kissed him. he sighed heavily; his eyes rested on her with a trustful appealing look which she had never observed in them before. "why do you hesitate to confide in me?" she asked. "dear harry, do you think i don't see that something troubles you?" "yes," he said, "there is something that i regret." "what is it?" "iris," he answered, "i am sorry i asked vimpany to come back to us." at that unexpected confession, a bright flush of joy and pride overspread his wife's face. again, the unerring instinct of love guided her to discovery of the truth. the opinion of his wicked friend must have been accidentally justified, at the secret interview of that day, by the friend himself! in tempting her husband, vimpany had said something which must have shocked and offended him. the result, as she could hardly doubt, had been the restoration of her domestic influence to its helpful freedom of control--whether for the time only it was not in her nature, at that moment of happiness, to inquire. "after what you have just told me," she ventured to say, "i may own that i am glad to see you come home, alone." in that indirect manner, she confessed the hope that friendly intercourse between the two men had come to an end. his reply disappointed her. "vimpany only remains in paris," he said, "to present a letter of introduction. he will follow me home." "soon?" she asked, piteously. "in time for dinner, i suppose." she was still sitting on his knee. his arm pressed her gently when he said his next words, "i hope you will dine with us to-day, iris?" "yes--if you wish it." "i wish it very much. something in me recoils from being alone with vimpany. besides, a dinner at home without you is no dinner at all." she thanked him for that little compliment by a look. at the same time, her grateful sense of her husband's kindness was embittered by the prospect of the doctor's return. "is he likely to dine with us often, now?" she was bold enough to say. "i hope not." perhaps he was conscious that he might have made a more positive reply. he certainly took refuge in another subject--more agreeable to himself. "my dear, you have expressed the wish to relieve my anxieties," he said; "and you can help me, i think, in that way. i have a letter to write--of some importance, iris, to your interests as well as to mine--which must go to ireland by to-day's post. you shall read it, and say if you approve of what i have done. don't let me be disturbed. this letter, i can tell you, will make a hard demand on my poor brains--i must go and write in my own room." left alone with the thoughts that now crowded on her mind, iris found her attention claimed once more by passing events. fanny mere arrived, to report herself on her return from paris. she had so managed her departure from passy as to precede lord harry and mr. vimpany, and to watch for their arrival in paris by a later train. they had driven from the railway to the newspaper office---with the maid in attendance on them in another cab. when they separated, the doctor proceeded on foot to the luxembourg gardens. wearing a plain black dress, and protected from close observation by her veil, fanny followed him, cautiously keeping at a sufficient distance, now on one side of the street and now on the other. when my lord joined his friend, she just held them in view, and no more, as they walked up and down in the barest and loneliest part of the gardens that they could find. their talk having come to an end, they parted. her master was the first who came out into the street; walking at a great rate, and looking most desperately upset. mr. vimpany next appeared, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, grinning as if his own villainous thoughts were thoroughly amusing him. fanny was now more careful than ever not to lose sight of the doctor. the course which he pursued led them to the famous hospital called the hotel dieu. at the entrance she saw him take a letter out of his pocket, and give it to the porter. soon afterwards, a person appeared who greeted him politely, and conducted him into the building. for more than an hour, fanny waited to see mr. vimpany come out again, and waited in vain. what could he possibly want in a french hospital? and why had he remained in that foreign institution for so long a time? baffled by these mysteries, and weary after much walking, fanny made the best of her way home, and consulted her mistress. even if iris had been capable of enlightening her, the opportunity was wanting. lord harry entered the room, with the letter which he had just written, open in his hand, as a matter of course, the maid retired. chapter xl dire necessity the irish lord had a word to say to his wife, before he submitted to her the letter which he had just written. he had been summoned to a meeting of proprietors at the office of the newspaper, convened to settle the terms of a new subscription rendered necessary by unforeseen expenses incurred in the interests of the speculation. the vote that followed, after careful preliminary consultation, authorised a claim on the purses of subscribing proprietors, which sadly reduced the sum obtained by lord harry's promissory note. nor was this inconvenience the only trial of endurance to which the irish lord was compelled to submit. the hope which he had entertained of assistance from the profits of the new journal, when repayment of the loan that he had raised became due, was now plainly revealed as a delusion. ruin stared him in the face, unless he could command the means of waiting for the pecuniary success of the newspaper, during an interval variously estimated at six months, or even at a year to come. "our case is desperate enough," he said, "to call for a desperate remedy. keep up your spirits, iris--i have written to my brother." iris looked at him in dismay. "surely," she said, "you once told me you had written to your brother, and he answered you in the cruellest manner through his lawyers." "quite true, my dear. but, this time, there is one circumstance in our favour--my brother is going to be married. the lady is said to be an heiress; a charming creature, admired and beloved wherever she goes. there must surely be something to soften the hardest heart in that happy prospect. read what i have written, and tell me what you think of it." the opinion of the devoted wife encouraged the desperate husband: the letter was dispatched by the post of that day. if boisterous good spirits can make a man agreeable at the dinner-table, then indeed mr. vimpany, on his return to the cottage, played the part of a welcome guest. he was inexhaustible in gallant attentions to his friend's wife; he told his most amusing stories in his happiest way; he gaily drank his host's fine white burgundy, and praised with thorough knowledge of the subject the succulent french dishes; he tried lord harry with talk on politics, talk on sport, and (wonderful to relate in these days) talk on literature. the preoccupied irishman was equally inaccessible on all three subjects. when the dessert was placed on the table--still bent on making himself agreeable to lady harry--mr. vimpany led the conversation to the subject of floriculture. in the interests of her ladyship's pretty little garden, he advocated a complete change in the system of cultivation, and justified his revolutionary views by misquoting the published work of a great authority on gardening with such polite obstinacy that iris (eager to confute him) went away to fetch the book. the moment he had entrapped her into leaving the room, the doctor turned to lord harry with a sudden change to the imperative mood in look and manner. "what have you been about," he asked, "since we had that talk in the gardens to-day? have you looked at your empty purse, and are you wise enough to take my way of filling it?" "as long as there's the ghost of a chance left to me," lord harry replied, "i'll take any way of filling my purse but yours." "does that mean you have found a way?" "do me a favour, vimpany. defer all questions till the end of the week." "and then i shall have your answer?" "without fail, i promise it. hush!" iris returned to the dining-room with her book; and polite mr. vimpany owned in the readiest manner that he had been mistaken. the remaining days of the week followed each other wearily. during the interval, lord harry's friend carefully preserved the character of a model guest--he gave as little trouble as possible. every morning after breakfast the doctor went away by the train. every morning (with similar regularity) he was followed by the resolute fanny mere. pursuing his way through widely different quarters of paris, he invariably stopped at a public building, invariably presented a letter at the door, and was invariably asked to walk in. inquiries, patiently persisted in by the english maid, led in each case to the same result. the different public buildings were devoted to the same benevolent purpose. like the hotel dieu, they were all hospitals; and mr. vimpany's object in visiting them remained as profound a mystery as ever. early on the last morning of the week the answer from lord harry's brother arrived. hearing of it, iris ran eagerly into her husband's room. the letter was already scattered in fragments on the floor. what the tone of the earl's inhuman answer had been in the past time, that it was again now. iris put her arms round her husband's neck. "oh, my poor love, what is to be done?" he answered in one reckless word: "nothing!" "is there nobody else who can help us?" she asked. "ah, well, darling, there's perhaps one other person still left," "who is the person?" "who should it be but your own dear self?" she looked at him in undisguised bewilderment: "only tell me, harry, what i can do?" "write to mountjoy, and ask him to lend me the money." he said it. in those shameless words, he said it. she, who had sacrificed mountjoy to the man whom she had married, was now asked by that man to use mountjoy's devotion to her, as a means of paying his debts! iris drew back from him with a cry of disgust. "you refuse?" he said. "do you insult me by doubting it?" she answered. he rang the bell furiously, and dashed out of the room. she heard him, on the stairs, ask where mr. vimpany was. the servant replied: "in the garden, my lord." smoking a cigar luxuriously in the fine morning air, the doctor saw his excitable irish friend hastening out to meet him. "don't hurry," he said, in full possession of his impudent good-humour; "and don't lose your temper. will you take my way out of your difficulties, or will you not? which is it--yes or no?" "you infernal scoundrel--yes!" "my dear lord, i congratulate you." "on what, sir?" "on being as great a scoundrel as i am." chapter xli the man is found. the unworthy scheme, by means of which lord harry had proposed to extricate himself from his pecuniary responsibilities, had led to serious consequences. it had produced a state of deliberate estrangement between man and wife. iris secluded herself in her own room. her husband passed the hours of every day away from the cottage; sometimes in the company of the doctor, sometimes among his friends in paris. his wife suffered acutely under the self-imposed state of separation, to which wounded pride and keenly felt resentment compelled her to submit. no friend was near her, in whose compassionate advice she might have token refuge. not even the sympathy of her maid was offered to the lonely wife. with the welfare of iris as her one end in view, fanny mere honestly believed that it would be better and safer for lady harry if she and her husband finally decided on living separate lives. the longer my lord persisted in keeping the doctor with him as his guest, the more perilously he was associated with a merciless wretch, who would be capable of plotting the ruin of anyone--man or woman, high person or low person--who might happen to be an obstacle in his way. so far as a person in her situation could venture on taking the liberty, the maid did her best to widen the breach between her master and her mistress. while fanny was making the attempt to influence lady harry, and only producing irritation as the result, vimpany was exerting stronger powers of persuasion in the effort to prejudice the irish lord against any proposal for reconciliation which might reach him through his wife. "i find an unforgiving temper in your charming lady," the doctor declared. "it doesn't show itself on the surface, my dear fellow, but there it is. take a wise advantage of circumstances--say you will raise no inconvenient objections, if she wants a separation by mutual consent. now don't misunderstand me. i only recommend the sort of separation which will suit our convenience. you know as well as i do that you can whistle your wife back again--" mr. vimpany's friend was rude enough to interrupt him, there. "i call that a coarse way of putting it," lord harry interposed. "put it how you like for yourself," the doctor rejoined. "lady harry may be persuaded to come back to you, when we want her for our grand project. in the meantime (for i am always a considerate man where women are concerned) we act delicately towards my lady, in sparing her the discovery of--what shall i call our coming enterprise?--venturesome villainy, which might ruin you in your wife's estimation. do you see our situation now, as it really is? very well. pass the bottle, and drop the subject for the present." the next morning brought with it an event, which demolished the doctor's ingenious arrangement for the dismissal of iris from the scene of action. lord and lady harry encountered each other accidentally on the stairs. distrusting herself if she ventured to look at him, iris turned her eyes away from her husband. he misinterpreted the action as an expression of contempt. anger at once inclined him to follow mr. vimpany's advice. he opened the door of the dining-room, empty at that moment, and told iris that he wished to speak with her. what his villainous friend had suggested that he should say, on the subject of a separation, he now repeated with a repellent firmness which he was far from really feeling. the acting was bad, but the effect was produced. for the first time, his wife spoke to him. "do you really mean it?" she asked, the tone in which she said those words, sadly and regretfully telling its tale of uncontrollable surprise; the tender remembrance of past happy days in her eyes; the quivering pain, expressive of wounded love, that parted her lips in the effort to breathe freely, touched his heart, try as he might in the wretched pride of the moment to conceal it. he was silent. "if you are weary of our married life," she continued, "say so, and let us part. i will go away, without entreaties and without reproaches. whatever pain i may feel, you shall not see it!" a passing flush crossed her face, and left it pale again. she trembled under the consciousness of returning love--the blind love that had so cruelly misled her! at a moment when she most needed firmness, her heart was sinking; she resisted, struggled, recovered herself. quietly, and even firmly, she claimed his decision. "does your silence mean," she asked, "that you wish me to leave you?" no man who had loved her as tenderly as her husband had loved her, could have resisted that touching self-control. he answered his wife without uttering a word--he held out his arms to her. the fatal reconciliation was accomplished in silence. at dinner on that day mr. vimpany's bold eyes saw a new sight, and mr. vimpany's rascally lips indulged in an impudent smile. my lady appeared again in her place at the dinner-table. at the customary time, the two men were left alone over their wine. the reckless irish lord, rejoicing in the recovery of his wife's tender regard, drank freely. understanding and despising him, the doctor's devilish gaiety indulged in facetious reminiscences of his own married life. "if i could claim a sovereign," he said, "for every quarrel between mrs. vimpany and myself, i put it at a low average when i declare that i should be worth a thousand pounds. how does your lordship stand in that matter? shall we say a dozen breaches of the marriage agreement up to the present time?" "say two--and no more to come!" his friend answered cheerfully. "no more to come!" the doctor repeated. "my experience says plenty more to come; i never saw two people less likely to submit to a peaceable married life than you and my lady. ha! you laugh at that? it's a habit of mine to back my opinion. i'll bet you a dozen of champagne there will be a quarrel which parts you two, for good and all, before the year is out. do you take the bet?" "done!" cried lord harry. "i propose my wife's good health, vimpany, in a bumper. she shall drink confusion to all false prophets in the first glass of your champagne!" the post of the next morning brought with it two letters. one of them bore the postmark of london, and was addressed to lady harry norland. it was written by mrs. vimpany, and it contained a few lines added by hugh mountjoy. "my strength is slow in returning to me" (he wrote); "but my kind and devoted nurse says that all danger of infection is at an end. you may write again to your old friend if lord harry sees no objection, as harmlessly as in the happy past time. my weak hand begins to tremble already. how glad i shall be to hear from you, it is, happily for me, quite needless to add." in her delight at receiving this good news iris impulsively assumed that her husband would give it a kindly welcome on his side; she insisted on reading the letter to him. he said coldly, "i am glad to hear of mr. mountjoy's recovery"--and took up the newspaper. was this unworthy jealousy still strong enough to master him, even at that moment? his wife had forgotten it. why had he not forgotten it too? on the same day iris replied to hugh, with the confidence and affection of the bygone time before her marriage. after closing and addressing the envelope, she found that her small store of postage stamps was exhausted, and sent for her maid. mr. vimpany happened to pass the open door of her room, while she was asking for a stamp; he heard fanny say that she was not able to accommodate her mistress. "allow me to make myself useful," the polite doctor suggested. he produced a stamp, and fixed it himself on the envelope. when he had proceeded on his way downstairs, fanny's distrust of him insisted on expressing itself. "he wanted to find out what person you have written to," she said. "let me make your letter safe in the post." in five minutes more it was in the box at the office. while these trifling events were in course of progress, mr. vimpany had gone into the garden to read the second of the two letters, delivered that morning, addressed to himself. on her return from the post-office, fanny had opportunities of observing him while she was in the greenhouse, trying to revive the perishing flowers--neglected in the past days of domestic trouble. noticing her, after he had read his letter over for the second time, mr. vimpany sent the maid into the cottage to say that he wished to speak with her master. lord harry joined him in the garden--looked at the letter--and, handing it back, turned away. the doctor followed him, and said something which seemed to be received with objection. mr. vimpany persisted nevertheless, and apparently carried his point. the two gentlemen consulted the railway time-table, and hurried away together, to catch the train to paris. fanny mere returned to the conservatory, and absently resumed her employment among the flowers. on what evil errand had the doctor left the cottage? and, why, on this occasion, had he taken the master with him? the time had been when fanny might have tried to set these questions at rest by boldly following the two gentlemen to paris; trusting to her veil, to her luck, and to the choice of a separate carriage in the train, to escape notice. but, although her ill-judged interference with the domestic affairs of lady harry had been forgiven, she had not been received again into favour unreservedly. conditions were imposed, which forbade her to express any opinion on her master's conduct, and which imperatively ordered her to leave the protection of her mistress--if protection was really needed--in his lordship's competent hands. "i gratefully appreciate your kind intentions," iris had said, with her customary tenderness of regard for the feelings of others; "but i never wish to hear again of mr. vimpany, or of the strange suspicions which he seems to excite in your mind." still as gratefully devoted to iris as ever, fanny viewed the change in my lady's way of thinking as one of the deplorable results of her return to her husband, and waited resignedly for the coming time when her wise distrust of two unscrupulous men would be justified. condemned to inaction for the present, lady harry's maid walked irritably up and down the conservatory, forgetting the flowers. through the open back door of the cottage the cheap clock in the hall poured its harsh little volume of sound, striking the hour. "i wonder," she said to herself, "if those two wicked ones have found their way to a hospital yet?" that guess happened to have hit the mark. the two wicked ones were really approaching a hospital, well known to the doctor by more previous visits than one. at the door they were met by a french physician, attached to the institution--the writer of the letter which had reached mr. vimpany in the morning. this gentleman led the way to the official department of the hospital, and introduced the two foreigners to the french authorities assembled for the transaction of business. as a medical man, mr. vimpany's claims to general respect and confidence were carefully presented. he was a member of the english college of surgeons; he was the friend, as well as the colleague of the famous president of that college, who had introduced him to the chief surgeon of the hotel dieu. other introductions to illustrious medical persons in paris had naturally followed. presented under these advantages, mr. vimpany announced his discovery of a new system of treatment in diseases of the lungs. having received his medical education in paris, he felt bound in gratitude to place himself under the protection of "the princes of science," resident in the brilliant capital of france. in that hospital, after much fruitless investigation in similar institutions, he had found a patient suffering from the form of lung disease, which offered to him the opportunity that he wanted. it was impossible that he could do justice to his new system, unless the circumstances were especially favourable. air more pure than the air of a great city, and bed-room accommodation not shared by other sick persons, were among the conditions absolutely necessary to the success of the experiment. these, and other advantages, were freely offered to him by his noble friend, who would enter into any explanations which the authorities then present might think it necessary to demand. the explanations having been offered and approved, there was a general move to the bed occupied by the invalid who was an object of professional interest to the english doctor. the patient's name was oxbye. he was a native of denmark, and had followed in his own country the vocation of a schoolmaster. his knowledge of the english language and the french had offered him the opportunity of migrating to paris, where he had obtained employment as translator and copyist. earning his bread, poorly enough in this way, he had been prostrated by the malady which had obliged him to take refuge in the hospital. the french physician, under whose medical care he had been placed, having announced that he had communicated his notes enclosed in a letter to his english colleague, and having frankly acknowledged that the result of the treatment had not as yet sufficiently justified expectation, the officers of the institution spoke next. the dane was informed of the nature of mr. vimpany's interest in him, and of the hospitable assistance offered by mr. vimpany's benevolent friend; and the question was then put, whether he preferred to remain where he was, or whether he desired to be removed under the conditions which had just been stated? tempted by the prospect of a change, which offered to him a bed-chamber of his own in the house of a person of distinction--with a garden to walk about in, and flowers to gladden his eyes, when he got better--oxbye eagerly adopted the alternative of leaving the hospital. "pray let me go," the poor fellow said: "i am sure i shall be the better for it." without opposing this decision, the responsible directors reminded him that it had been adopted on impulse, and decided that it was their duty to give him a little time for consideration. in the meanwhile, some of the gentlemen assembled at the bedside, looking at oxbye and then looking at lord harry, had observed a certain accidental likeness between the patient and "milord, the philanthropist," who was willing to receive him. the restraints of politeness had only permitted them to speak of this curious discovery among themselves. at the later time, however, when the gentlemen had taken leave of each other, mr. vimpany--finding himself alone with lord harry--had no hesitation in introducing the subject, on which delicacy had prevented the frenchmen from entering. "did you look at the dane?" he began abruptly. "of course i did!" "and you noticed the likeness?" "not i!" the doctor's uproarious laughter startled the people who were walking near them in the street. "here's another proof," he burst out, "of the true saying that no man knows himself. you don't deny the likeness, i suppose?" "do you yourself see it?" lord harry asked. mr. vimpany answered the question scornfully: "is it likely that i should have submitted to all the trouble i have taken to get possession of that man, if i had not seen a likeness between his face and yours?" the irish lord said no more. when his friend asked why he was silent, he gave his reason sharply enough: "i don't like the subject." chapter xlii the mettlesome maid on the evening of that day fanny mere, entering the dining-room with the coffee, found lord harry and mr. vimpany alone, and discovered (as soon as she opened the door) that they changed the language in which they were talking from english to french. she continued to linger in the room, apparently occupied in setting the various objects on the sideboard in order. her master was speaking at the time; he asked if the doctor had succeeded in finding a bed-room for himself in the neighbourhood. to this mr. vimpany replied that he had got the bed-room. also, that he had provided himself with something else, which it was equally important to have at his disposal. "i mean," he proceeded, in his bad french, "that i have found a photographic apparatus on hire. we are ready now for the appearance of our interesting danish guest." "and when the man comes," lord harry added, "what am i to say to my wife? how am i to find an excuse, when she hears of a hospital patient who has taken possession of your bed-room at the cottage--and has done it with my permission, and with you to attend on him?" the doctor sipped his coffee. "we have told a story that has satisfied the authorities," he said coolly. "repeat the story to your wife." "she won't believe it," lord harry replied. mr. vimpany waited until he had lit another cigar, and had quite satisfied himself that it was worth smoking. "you have yourself to thank for that obstacle," he resumed. "if you had taken my advice, your wife would have been out of our way by this time. i suppose i must manage it. if you fail, leave her ladyship to me. in the meanwhile, there's a matter of more importance to settle first. we shall want a nurse for our poor dear invalid. where are we to find her?" as he stated that difficulty, he finished his coffee, and looked about him for the bottle of brandy which always stood on the dinner-table. in doing this, he happened to notice fanny. convinced that her mistress was in danger, after what she had already heard, the maid's anxiety and alarm had so completely absorbed her that she had forgotten to play her part. instead of still busying herself at the sideboard, she stood with her back to it, palpably listening. cunning mr. vimpany, possessing himself of the brandy, made a request too entirely appropriate to excite suspicion. "some fresh cold water, if you please," was all that he said. the moment that fanny left the room, the doctor addressed his friend in english, with his eye on the door: "news for you, my boy! we are in a pretty pickle--lady harry's maid understands french." "quite impossible," lord harry declared. "we will put that to the test," mr. vimpany answered. "watch her when she comes in again." "what are you going to do." "i am going to insult her in french. observe the result." in another minute fanny returned with the fresh water. as she placed the glass jug before mr. vimpany he suddenly laid his hand on her arm and looked her straight in the face. "vous nous avez mis dedans, drolesse!"* he said. *in english: "you have taken us in, you jade!" an uncontrollable look of mingled rage and fear made its plain confession in fanny's face. she had been discovered; she had heard herself called "drolesse;" she stood before the two men self-condemned. her angry master threatened her with instant dismissal from the house. the doctor interfered. "no, no," he said; "you mustn't deprive lady harry, at a moment's notice, of her maid. such a clever maid, too," he added with his rascally smile. "an accomplished person, who understands french, and is too modest to own it!" the doctor had led fanny through many a weary and unrewarded walk when she had followed him to the hospitals; he had now inflicted a deliberate insult by calling her "drolesse" and he had completed the sum of his offences by talking contemptuously of her modesty and her mastery of the french language. the woman's detestation of him, which under ordinary circumstances she might have attempted to conceal, was urged into audaciously asserting itself by the strong excitement that now possessed her. driven to bay, fanny had made up her mind to discover the conspiracy of which mr. vimpany was the animating spirit, by a method daring enough to be worthy of the doctor himself. "my knowledge of french has told me something," she said. "i have just heard, mr. vimpany, that you want a nurse for your invalid gentleman. with my lord's permission, suppose you try me?" fanny's audacity was more than her master's patience could endure. he ordered her to leave the room. the peace-making doctor interfered again: "my dear lord, let me beg you will not be too hard on the young woman." he turned to fanny, with an effort to look indulgent, which ended in the reappearance of his rascally smile. "thank you, my dear, for your proposal," he said; "i will let you know if we accept it, to-morrow." fanny's unforgiving master pointed to the door; she thanked mr. vimpany, and went out. lord harry eyed his friend in angry amazement. "are you mad?" he asked. "tell me something first," the doctor rejoined. "is there any english blood in your family?" lord harry answered with a burst of patriotic feeling: "i regret to say my family is adulterated in that manner. my grandmother was an englishwoman." mr. vimpany received this extract from the page of family history with a coolness all his own. "it's a relief to hear that," he said. "you may be capable (by the grandmother's side) of swallowing a dose of sound english sense. i can but try, at any rate. that woman is too bold and too clever to be treated like an ordinary servant--i incline to believe that she is a spy in the employment of your wife. whether i am right or wrong in this latter case, the one way i can see of paring the cat's claws is to turn her into a nurse. do you find me mad now?" "madder than ever!" "ah, you don't take after your grandmother! now listen to me. do we run the smallest risk, if fanny finds it her interest to betray us? suppose we ask ourselves what she has really found out. she knows we have got a sick man from a hospital coming here--does she know what we want him for? not she! neither you nor i said a word on that subject. but she also heard us agree that your wife was in our way. what does that matter? did she hear us say what it is that we don't want your wife to discover? not she, i tell you again! very well, then--if fanny acts as oxbye's nurse, shy as the young woman may be, she innocently associates herself with the end that we have to gain by the danish gentleman's death! oh, you needn't look alarmed! i mean his natural death by lung disease--no crime, my noble friend! no crime!" the irish lord, sitting near the doctor, drew his chair back in a hurry. "if there's english blood in my family," he declared, "i'll tell you what, vimpany, there's devil's blood in yours!" "anything you like but irish blood," the cool scoundrel rejoined. as he made that insolent reply, fanny came in again, with a sufficient excuse for her reappearance. she announced that a person from the hospital wished to speak to the english doctor. the messenger proved to be a young man employed in the secretary's office. oxbye still persisting in his desire to be placed under mr. vimpany's care; one last responsibility rested on the official gentlemen now in charge of him. they could implicitly trust the medical assistance and the gracious hospitality offered to the poor danish patient; but, before he left them, they must also be satisfied that he would be attended by a competent nurse. if the person whom mr. vimpany proposed to employ in this capacity could be brought to the hospital, it would be esteemed a favour; and, if her account of herself satisfied the physician in charge of oxbye's case, the dane might be removed to his new quarters on the same day. the next morning witnessed the first in a series of domestic incidents at the cottage, which no prophetic ingenuity could have foreseen. mr. vimpany and fanny mere actually left passy together, on their way to paris! chapter xliii fiction: attempted by my lord the day on which the doctor took his newly-appointed nurse with him to the hospital became an occasion associated with distressing recollections in the memory of iris. in the morning, fanny mere had asked for leave to go out. for some time past this request had been so frequently granted, with such poor results so far as the maid's own designs were concerned, that lady harry decided on administering a tacit reproof, by means of a refusal. fanny made no attempt at remonstrance; she left the room in silence. half an hour later, iris had occasion to ring for her attendant. the bell was answered by the cook--who announced, in explanation of her appearance, that fanny mere had gone out. more distressed than displeased by this reckless disregard of her authority, on the part of a woman who had hitherto expressed the most grateful sense of her kindness, iris only said: "send fanny to me as soon as she comes back." two hours passed before the truant maid returned. "i refused to let you go out this morning," lady harry said; "and you have taken the liberty of leaving the house for two hours. you might have made me understand, in a more becoming manner, that you intended to leave my service." steadily respectful, fanny answered: "i don't wish to leave your ladyship's service." "then what does your conduct mean?" "it means, if you please, that i had a duty to do--and did it." "a duty to yourself?" iris asked. "no, my lady; a duty to you." as she made that strange reply the door was opened, and lord harry entered the room. when he saw fanny mere he turned away again, in a hurry, to go out. "i didn't know your maid was with you," he said. "another time will do." his permitting a servant to be an obstacle in his way, when he wished to speak to his wife, was a concession so entirely unbecoming in the master of the house, and so strangely contrary to his customary sense of what was due to himself, that iris called him back in astonishment. she looked at her maid, who at once understood her, and withdrew. "what can you possibly be thinking of?" she said to her husband, when they were alone. putting that question, she noticed an embarrassment in his manner, and an appearance of confusion in his face, which alarmed her. "has something happened?" she asked; "and is it so serious that you hesitate to mention it to me?" he sat down by her and took her hand. the loving look in his eyes, which she knew so well, was not in them now; they expressed doubt, and something with it which suggested an effort at conciliation. "i am fearing i shall surprise you," he said. "don't keep me in suspense!" she returned. "what is it?" he smiled uneasily: "it's something about vimpany." having got as far as that, he stopped. she drew her hand away from him. "i understand now," she said; "i must endeavour to control myself--you have something to tell me which will try my temper." he held up his hands in humorous protest: "ah, my darling, here's your vivid imagination again, making mountains out of molehills, as they say! it's nothing half so serious as you seem to think; i have only to tell you of a little change." "a little change?" she repeated. "what change?" "well, my dear, you see--" he hesitated and recovered himself. "i mean, you must know that vimpany's plans are altered. he won't any longer occupy his bedroom in the cottage here." iris looked inexpressibly relieved. "going away, at last!" she exclaimed. "oh, harry, if you have been mystifying me, i hope you will never do it again. it isn't like you; it's cruel to alarm me about nothing. mr. vimpany's empty bedroom will be the most interesting room in the house, when i look into it to-night." lord harry got up, and walked to the window. as a sign of trouble in his mind, and of an instinctive effort to relieve it, the object of this movement was well-known to iris. she followed him and stood by his side. it was now plain to her that there was something more to be told--and that he was hesitating how to confide it to his wife. "go on," she said resignedly. he had expected her to take his arm, or perhaps to caress him, or at least to encourage him by her gentlest words and her prettiest smiles. the steady self-restraint which she now manifested was a sign, as he interpreted it, of suppressed resentment. shrinking, honestly shrinking, from the bare possibility of another quarrel, he confronted the hard necessities of further confession. "well, now," he said, "it's only this--you mustn't look into the empty bedroom to-night." "why not?" "ah, for the best of all good reasons! because you might find somebody in there." this reply excited her curiosity: her eyes rested on him eagerly. "some friend of yours?" she asked. he persisted in an assumption of good-humour, which betrayed itself as mere artifice in the clumsiest manner: "i declare i feel as if i were in a court of justice, being cross-examined by a lawyer of skill and dexterity! well, my sweet counsellor, no--not exactly a friend of mine." she reflected for a moment. "you don't surely mean one of mr. vimpany's friends?" she said. he pretended not to have heard her, and pointed to the view of the garden from the window. "isn't it a lovely day? let's go and look at the flowers," he suggested. "did you not hear what i said to you just now?" she persisted. "i beg your pardon, dear; i was thinking of something else. suppose we go into the garden?" when women have a point to gain in which they are interested, how many of them are capable of deferring it to a better opportunity? one in a thousand, perhaps. iris kept her place at the window, resolved on getting an answer. "i asked you, harry, whether the person who is to occupy our spare bedroom, to-night, was one of mr. vimpany's friends?" "say one of mr. vimpany's patients--and you will be nearer the truth," he answered, with an outburst of impatience. she could hardly believe him. "do you mean a person who is really ill?" she said. "of course i mean it," he said; irritated into speaking out, at last. "a man? or a woman?" "a man." "may i ask if he comes from england?" "he comes from one of the french hospitals. anything more?" iris left her husband to recover his good-humour, and went back to her chair. the extraordinary disclosure which she had extracted from him had produced a stupefying effect on her mind. her customary sympathy with him, her subtle womanly observation of his character, her intimate knowledge of his merits and his defects, failed to find the rational motive which might have explained his conduct. she looked round at him with mingled feelings of perplexity and distrust. he was still at the window, but he had turned his back on the view of the garden; his eyes were fixed, in furtive expectation, on his wife. was he waiting to hear her say something more? she ran the risk and said it. "i don't quite understand the sacrifice you seem to be making to mr. vimpany," she confessed. "will you tell me, dear, what it means?" here was the opportunity offered of following the doctor's advice, and putting his wife's credulity to the test. with her knowledge of vimpany, would she really believe the story which had imposed on the strangers who managed the hospital? lord harry made up his mind, to try the experiment. no matter what the result might be, it would bring the responsibilities that were crushing him to an end. he need say no more, if the deception succeeded. he could do no more, if it failed. under the influence of this cheering reflection, he recovered his temper; his handsome face brightened again with its genial boyish smile. "what a wonderful woman you are!" he cried. "isn't it just the thing that i am here for, to tell you what i mean--and my clever wife sees through and through me, and reminds me of what i must do! pay my fee beforehand, iris! give me a kiss--and my poor meaning shall be offered in return. it will help me if you remember one thing. vimpany and i are old friends, and there's nothing we won't do to accommodate each other. mind that!" tried fairly on its own merits, the stupid fiction invented by the doctor produced an effect for which lord harry was not prepared. the longer iris listened, the more strangely iris looked at him. not a word fell from her lips when he had done. he noticed that she had turned pale: it seemed to be almost possible that he had frightened her! if his bird-witted brains could have coupled cause and effect, this was exactly the result which he might have anticipated. she was asked to believe that a new system of medical practice had been invented by such a person as mr. vimpany. she was asked to believe that an invalid from a foreign hospital, who was a perfect stranger to lord harry, had been willingly made welcome to a bedroom at the cottage. she was asked to believe that this astounding concession had been offered to the doctor as a tribute of friendship, after her husband had himself told her that he regretted having invited vimpany, for the second time, to become his guest. here was one improbable circumstance accumulated on another, and a clever woman was expected to accept the monstrous excuses, thus produced, as a trustworthy statement of facts. irresistibly, the dread of some evil deed in secret contemplation cast its darkening presence on the wife's mind. lord harry's observation had not misled him, when he saw iris turn pale, and when the doubt was forced on him whether he might not have frightened her. "if my explanation of this little matter has satisfied you," he ventured to resume, "we need say no more about it." "i agree with you," she answered, "let us say no more about it." conscious, in spite of the effort to resist it, of a feeling of oppression while she was in the same room with a man who had deliberately lied to her, and that man her husband, she reminded lord harry that he had proposed to take a walk in the garden. out in the pure air, under the bright sky, she might breathe more freely. "come to the flowers," she said. they went to the garden together--the wife fearing the deceitful husband, the husband fearing the quick-witted wife. watching each other like two strangers, they walked silently side by side, and looked now and then at the collection of flowers and plants. iris noticed a delicate fern which had fallen away from the support to which it had been attached. she stopped, and occupied herself in restoring it to its place. when she looked round again, after attending to the plant, her husband had disappeared, and mr. vimpany was waiting in his place. chapter xliv fiction: improved by the doctor "where is lord harry?" iris asked. the reply startled her: "lord harry leaves me to say to your ladyship, what he has not had resolution enough to say for himself." "i don't understand you, mr. vimpany." the doctor pointed to the fern which had just been the object of lady harry's care. "you have been helping that sickly plant there to live and thrive," he said, "and i have felt some curiosity in watching you. there is another sickly plant, which i have undertaken to rear if the thing can be done. my gardening is of the medical kind--i can only carry it on indoors--and whatever else it may be, i tell you plainly, like the outspoken sort of fellow i am, it's not likely to prove agreeable to a lady. no offence, i hope? your humble servant is only trying to produce the right sort of impression--and takes leave to doubt his lordship in one particular." "in what particular, sir?" "i'll put it in the form of a question, ma'am. has my friend persuaded you to make arrangements for leaving the cottage?" iris looked at lord harry's friend without attempting to conceal her opinion of him. "i call that an impertinent question," she said. "by what right do you presume to inquire into what my husband and i may, or may not, have said to each other?" "will you do me a favour, my lady? or, if that is asking too much, perhaps you will not object to do justice to yourself. suppose you try to exercise the virtue of self-control? "quite needless, mr. vimpany. pray understand that you are not capable of making me angry." "many thanks, lady harry: you encourage me to go on. when i was bold enough to speak of your leaving the cottage, my motive was to prevent you from being needlessly alarmed." did this mean that he was about to take her into his confidence? all her experience of him forbade her to believe it possible. but the doubts and fears occasioned by her interview with her husband had mastered her better sense; and the effort to conceal from the doctor the anxiety under which she suffered was steadily weakening the influence of her self-respect. "why should i be alarmed?" she asked, in the vain hope of encouraging him to tell the truth. the doctor arrived at a hasty conclusion, on his side. believing that he had shaken her resolution, he no longer troubled himself to assume the forms of politeness which he had hitherto, with some difficulty, contrived to observe. "in this curious little world of ours," he resumed, "we enjoy our lives on infernally hard terms. we live on condition that we die. the man i want to cure may die, in spite of the best i can do for him---he may sink slowly, by what we medical men call a hard death. for example, it wouldn't much surprise me if i found some difficulty in keeping him in his bed. he might roam all over your cottage when my back was turned. or he might pay the debt of nature--as somebody calls it--with screaming and swearing. if you were within hearing of him, i'm afraid you might be terrified, and, with the best wish to be useful, i couldn't guarantee (if the worst happened) to keep him quiet. in your place, if you will allow me to advise you--" iris interrupted him. instead of confessing the truth, he was impudently attempting to frighten her. "i don't allow a person in whom i have no confidence to advise me," she said; "i wish to hear no more." mr. vimpany found it desirable to resume the forms of politeness. either he had failed to shake her resolution, or she was sufficiently in possession of herself to conceal what she felt. "one last word!" he said. "i won't presume to advise your ladyship; i will merely offer a suggestion. my lord tells me that hugh mountjoy is on the way to recovery. you are in communication with him by letter, as i happened to notice when i did you that trifling service of providing a postage-stamp. why not go to london and cheer your convalescent friend? harry won't mind it--i beg your pardon, i ought to have said lord harry. come! come! my dear lady; i am a rough fellow, but i mean well. take a holiday, and come back to us when my lord writes to say that he can have the pleasure of receiving you again." he waited for a moment. "am i not to be favoured with an answer?" he asked. "my husband shall answer you." with those parting words, iris turned her back on him. she entered the cottage. now in one room, and now in another, she searched for lord harry; he was nowhere to be found. had he purposely gone out to avoid her? her own remembrance of vimpany's language and vimpany's manner told her that so it must be--the two men were in league together. of all dangers, unknown danger is the most terrible to contemplate. lady harry's last resources of resolution failed her. she dropped helplessly into a chair. after an interval--whether it was a long or a short lapse of time she was unable to decide--someone gently opened the door. had her husband felt for her? had he returned? "come in! she cried eagerly--" come in! chapter xlv fact: related by fanny the person who now entered the room was fanny mere. but one interest was stirring in the mind of iris now. "do you know where your master is?" she asked. "i saw him go out," the maid replied. "which way i didn't particularly notice--" she was on the point of adding, "and i didn't particularly care," when she checked herself. "yesterday and to-day, my lady, things have come to my knowledge which i must not keep to myself," the resolute woman continued. "if a servant may say such a thing without offence, i have never been so truly my mistress's friend as i am now. i beg you to forgive my boldness; there is a reason for it." so she spoke, with no presumption in her looks, with no familiarity in her manner. the eyes of her friendless mistress filled with tears, the offered hand of her friendless mistress answered in silence. fanny took that kind hand, and pressed it respectfully--a more demonstrative woman than herself might perhaps have kissed it. she only said, "thank you, my lady," and went on with what she felt it her duty to relate. as carefully as usual, as quietly as usual, she repeated the conversation, at lord harry's table; describing also the manner in which mr. vimpany had discovered her as a person who understood the french language, and who had cunningly kept it a secret. in this serious state of things, the doctor--yes, the doctor himself!--had interfered to protect her from the anger of her master, and, more wonderful still, for a reason which it seemed impossible to dispute. he wanted a nurse for the foreigner whose arrival was expected on that evening, and he had offered the place to fanny. "your ladyship will, i hope, excuse me; i have taken the place." this amazing end to the strange events which had just been narrated proved to be more than iris was immediately capable of understanding. "i am in the dark," she confessed. "is mr. vimpany a bolder villain even than i have supposed him to be?" "that he most certainly is!" fanny said with strong conviction. "as to what he really had in his wicked head when he engaged me, i shall find that out in time. anyway, i am the nurse who is to help him. when i disobeyed you this morning, my lady, it was to go to the hospital with mr. vimpany. i was taken to see the person whose nurse i am to be. a poor, feeble, polite creature, who looked as if he couldn't hurt a fly---and yet i promise you he startled me! i saw a likeness, the moment i looked at him." "a likeness to anybody whom i know?" iris asked. "to the person in all the world, my lady, whom you know most nearly--a likeness to my master." "what!" "oh, it's no fancy; i am sure of what i say. to my mind, that danish man's likeness to my lord is (if you will excuse my language) a nasty circumstance. i don't know why or wherefore--all i can say is, i don't like it; and i shan't rest until i have found out what it means. besides this, my lady, i must know the reason why they want to get you out of their way. please to keep up your heart; i shall warn you in time, when i am sure of the danger." iris refused to sanction the risk involved in this desperate design. "it's _you_ who will be in danger!" she exclaimed. in her coolest state of obstinacy, fanny answered: "that's in your ladyship's service--and that doesn't reckon." feeling gratefully this simple and sincere expression of attachment, iris held to her own opinion, nevertheless. "you are in my service," she said; "i won't let you go to mr. vimpany. give it up, fanny! give it up!" "i'll give it up, my lady, when i know what the doctor means to do--not before." the assertion of authority having failed, iris tried persuasion next. "as your mistress, it is my duty to set you an example," she resumed. "one of us must be considerate and gentle in a dispute--let me try to be that one. there can be no harm, and there may be some good, in consulting the opinion of a friend; some person in whose discretion we can trust." "am i acquainted with the person your ladyship is thinking of?" fanny inquired. "in that case, a friend will know what we want of her by to-morrow morning. i have written to mrs. vimpany." "the very person i had in my mind, fanny! when may we expect to hear from her?" "if mrs. vimpany can put what she has to say to us into few words," fanny replied, "we shall hear from her to-morrow by telegraph." as she answered her mistress in those cheering words, they were startled by a heavy knock at the door of the room. under similar circumstances, lord harry's delicate hand would have been just loud enough to be heard, and no more. iris called out suspiciously: "who's there?" the doctor's gross voice answered: "can i say a word, if you please, to fanny mere?" the maid opened the door. mr. vimpany's heavy hand laid bold of her arm, pulled her over the threshold, and closed the door behind her. after a brief absence, fanny returned with news of my lord. a commissioner had arrived with a message for the doctor; and fanny was charged to repeat it or not, just as she thought right under the circumstances. lord harry was in paris. he had been invited to go to the theatre with some friends, and to return with them to supper. if he was late in getting home, he was anxious that my lady should not be made uneasy. after having authorised mr. vimpany's interference in the garden, the husband evidently had his motives for avoiding another interview with the wife. iris was left alone, to think over that discovery. fanny had received orders to prepare the bedroom for the doctor's patient. chapter xlvi man and wife towards evening, the dane was brought to the cottage. a feeling of pride which forbade any display of curiosity, strengthened perhaps by an irresistible horror of vimpany, kept iris in her room. nothing but the sound of footsteps, outside, told her when the suffering man was taken to his bed-chamber on the same floor. she was, afterwards informed by fanny that the doctor turned down the lamp in the corridor, before the patient was helped to ascend the stairs, as a means of preventing the mistress of the house from plainly seeing the stranger's face, and recognising the living likeness of her husband. the hours advanced--the bustle of domestic life sank into silence--everybody but iris rested quietly in bed. through the wakeful night the sense of her situation oppressed her sinking spirits. mysteries that vaguely threatened danger made their presence felt, and took their dark way through her thoughts. the cottage, in which the first happy days of her marriage had been passed, might ere long be the scene of some evil deed, provoking the lifelong separation of her husband and herself! were these the exaggerated fears of a woman in a state of hysterical suspicion? it was enough for iris to remember that lord harry and mr. vimpany had been alike incapable of telling her the truth. the first had tried to deceive her; the second had done his best to frighten her. why? if there was really nothing to be afraid of--why? the hours of the early morning came; and still she listened in vain for the sound of my lord's footstep on the stairs; still she failed to hear the cautious opening of his dressing-room door. leaving her chair, iris rested on the bed. as time advanced, exhaustion mastered her; she slept. awakening at a late hour, she rang for fanny mere. the master had just returned. he had missed the latest night-train to passy; and, rather than waste money on hiring a carriage at that hour, he had accepted the offer of a bed at the house of his friends. he was then below stairs, hoping to see lady harry at breakfast. his wife joined him. not even at the time of the honeymoon had the irish lord been a more irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. his apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little masterpieces of grace and gaiety. the next best thing to having been present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors. the time had been when iris would have resented such merciless trifling with serious interests as this. in these earlier and better days, she would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal fellowship which was leading him to his ruin. but iris henley was lady harry now. she was sinking--as mrs. vimpany had feared, as mountjoy had foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level. with a false appearance of interest in what he was saying she waited for her chance of matching him with his own weapons of audacious deceit. he ignorantly offered her the opportunity--setting the same snare to catch his wife, which she herself had it in contemplation to use for entrapping her husband into a confession of the truth. "ah, well--i have said more than enough of my last night's amusement," he confessed. "it's your turn now, my dear. have you had a look at the poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?" he asked abruptly; eager to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between oxbye and himself. her eyes rested on him attentively. "i have not yet seen the person you allude to," she answered. "is mr. vimpany hopeful of his recovery?" he took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. in the course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which he had experienced when circumstances rendered it necessary to keep his face in a state of discipline. "oh, there's no reason for anxiety!" he said, with an over-acted interest in examining his cigar. "mr. oxbye is in good hands." "people do sometimes sink under an illness," she quietly remarked. without making any reply he took out his matchbox. his hand trembled a little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light. "and doctors sometimes make mistakes," iris went on. he was still silent. at the second attempt, he succeeded with the match, and lit his cigar. "suppose mr. vimpany made a mistake," she persisted. "in the case of this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results." lord harry lost his temper, and with it his colour. "what the devil do you mean?" he cried. "i might ask, in my turn," she said, "what have i done to provoke an outbreak of temper? i only made a remark." at that critical moment, fanny mere entered the room with a telegram in her hand. "for you, my lady." iris opened the telegram. the message was signed by mrs. vimpany, and was expressed in these words: "you may feel it your duty to go to your father. he is dangerously ill." lord harry saw a sudden change in his wife's face that roused his guilty suspicions. "is it anything about me?" he asked. iris handed the telegram to him in silence. having looked at it, he desired to hear what her wishes were. "the telegram expresses my wishes," she said. "have you any objection to my leaving you?" "none whatever," he answered eagerly. "go, by all means." if it had still been possible for her to hesitate, that reply would have put an end to all further doubt. she turned away to leave the room. he followed her to the door. "i hope you don't think there is any want of sympathy on my part," he said. "you are quite right to go to your father. that was all i meant." he was agitated, honestly agitated, while he spoke. iris saw it, and felt it gratefully. she was on the point of making a last appeal to his confidence, when he opened the door for her. "don't let me detain you," he said. his voice faltered; he suddenly turned aside before she could look at him. fanny was waiting in the hall, eager to see the telegram. she read it twice and reflected for a moment. "how often do things fit themselves to one's wishes in this convenient way?" she asked herself. "it's lucky," she privately decided--"almost too lucky. let me pack up your things," she continued, addressing her mistress, "while i have some time to myself. mr. oxbye is asleep." as the day wore on, the noble influences in the nature of iris, failing fast, yet still at rare intervals struggling to assert themselves, inspired her with the resolution to make a last attempt to give her husband an opportunity of trusting her. he was not in his room, not in any other part of the house, not in the garden. the hours passed--she was left to eat her dinner in solitude. for the second time, he was avoiding her. for the second time, he distrusted the influence of his wife. with a heavy heart she prepared for her departure by the night-mail. the duties of the new nurse kept her in the cottage. filled with alarm for the faithful creature whom she was leaving--to what fate, who could say?--iris kissed her at parting. fanny's faint blue eyes filled with tears. she dashed them away, and held her mistress for an instant in her arms. "i know whom you are thinking of," she whispered. "he is not here to bid you good-bye. let me see what i can find in his room." iris had already looked round the room, in the vain hope of finding a letter. fanny rushed up the stairs, determined on a last search--and ran down again with a folded morsel of flimsy foreign notepaper in her hand. "my ugly eyes are quicker than yours," she said. "the air must have come in at the window and blown it off the table." iris eagerly read the letter: "i dare not deny that you will be better away from us, but only for a while. forgive me, dearest; i cannot find the courage to say good-bye." those few words spoke for him--and no more. briefly on her side, but not unkindly, his wife answered him: "you have spared me a bitter moment. may i hope to find the man whom i have trusted and honoured, when i come back? good-bye." when were they to meet again? and how? chapter xlvii the patient and my lord there now remained but one other person in lord harry's household whose presence on the scene was an obstacle to be removed. this person was the cook. on condition of her immediate departure (excused by alleged motives of economy), she received a month's wages from her master, in advance of the sum due to her, and a written character which did ample justice to her many good qualities. the poor woman left her employment with the heartiest expressions of gratitude. to the end of her days, she declared the irish lord to be a nobleman by nature. republican principles, inherited from her excellent parents, disinclined her to recognise him as a nobleman by birth. but another sweet and simple creature was still left to brighten the sinister gloom in the cottage. the good dane sorely tried the patience of fanny mere. this countryman of hamlet, as he liked to call himself, was a living protest against the sentiments of inveterate contempt and hatred, with which his nurse was accustomed to regard the men. when pain spared him at intervals, mr. oxbye presented the bright blue eyes and the winning smile which suggested the resemblance to the irish lord. his beardless face, thin towards the lower extremities, completed the likeness in some degree only. the daring expression of lord harry, in certain emergencies, never appeared. nursing him carefully, on the severest principles of duty as distinguished from inclination, fanny found herself in the presence of a male human being, who in the painless intervals of his malady, wrote little poems in her praise; asked for a few flowers from the garden, and made prettily arranged nosegays of them devoted to herself; cried, when she told him he was a fool, and kissed her hand five minutes afterwards, when she administered his medicine, and gave him no pleasant sweet thing to take the disagreeable taste out of his mouth. this gentle patient loved lord harry, loved mr. vimpany, loved the furious fanny, resist it as she might. on her obstinate refusal to confide to him the story of her life--after he had himself set her the example at great length--he persisted in discovering for himself that "this interesting woman was a victim of sorrows of the heart." in another state of existence, he was offensively certain that she would be living with _him._ "you are frightfully pale, you will soon die; i shall break a blood-vessel, and follow you; we shall sit side by side on clouds, and sing together everlastingly to accompaniment of celestial harps. oh, what a treat!" like a child, he screamed when he was in pain; and, like a child, he laughed when the pain had gone away. when she was angry enough with him to say, "if i had known what sort of man you were, i would never have undertaken to nurse you," he only answered, "my dear, let us thank god together that you did not know." there was no temper in him to be roused; and, worse still, on buoyant days, when his spirits were lively, there was no persuading him that he might not live long enough to marry his nurse, if he only put the question to her often enough. what was to be done with such a man as this? fanny believed that she despised her feeble patient. at the same time, the food that nourished him was prepared by her own hands--while the other inhabitants of the cottage were left (in the absence of the cook) to the tough mercies of a neighbouring restaurant. first and foremost among the many good deeds by which the conduct of women claims the gratitude of the other sex, is surely the manner in which they let an unfortunate man master them, without an unworthy suspicion of that circumstance to trouble the charitable serenity of their minds. carefully on the look-out for any discoveries which might enlighten her, fanny noticed with ever-increasing interest the effect which the harmless dane seemed to produce on my lord and the doctor. every morning, after breakfast, lord harry presented himself in the bedroom. every morning, his courteous interest in his guest expressed itself mechanically in the same form of words: "mr. oxbye, how do you find yourself to-day?" sometimes the answer would be: "gracious lord, i am suffering pain." sometimes it was: "dear and admirable patron, i feel as if i might get well again." on either occasion, lord harry listened without looking at mr. oxbye--said he was sorry to hear a bad account or glad to hear a good account, without looking at mr. oxbye--made a remark on the weather, and took his leave, without looking at mr. oxbye. nothing could be more plain than that his polite inquiries (once a day) were unwillingly made, and that it was always a relief to him to get out of the room. so strongly was fanny's curiosity excited by this strange behaviour, that she ventured one day to speak to her master. "i am afraid, my lord, you are not hopeful of mr. oxbye's recovering?" "mind your own business," was the savage answer that she received. fanny never again took the liberty of speaking to him; but she watched him more closely than ever. he was perpetually restless. now he wandered from one room to another, and walked round and round the garden, smoking incessantly. now he went out riding, or took the railway to paris and disappeared for the day. on the rare occasions when he was in a state of repose, he always appeared to have taken refuge in his wife's room; fanny's keyhole-observation discovered him, thinking miserably, seated in his wife's chair. it seemed to be possible that he was fretting after lady harry. but what did his conduct to mr. oxbye mean? what was the motive which made him persist, without an attempt at concealment, in keeping out of mr. vimpany's way? and, treated in this rude manner, how was it that his wicked friend seemed to be always amused, never offended? as for the doctor's behaviour to his patient, it was, in fanny's estimation, worthy of a savage. he appeared to feel no sort of interest in the man who had been sent to him from the hospital at his own request, and whose malady it was supposed to be the height of his ambition to cure. when mr. oxbye described his symptoms, mr. vimpany hardly even made a pretence at listening. with a frowning face he applied the stethoscope, felt the pulse, looked at the tongue--and drew his own conclusions in sullen silence. if the nurse had a favourable report to make, he brutally turned his back on her. if discouraging results of the medical treatment made their appearance at night, and she felt it a duty to mention them, he sneered as if he doubted whether she was speaking the truth. mr. oxbye's inexhaustible patience and amiability made endless allowances for his medical advisor. "it is my misfortune to keep my devoted doctor in a state of perpetual anxiety," he used to say; "and we all know what a trial to the temper is the consequence of unrelieved suspense. i believe in mr. vimpany." fanny was careful not to betray her own opinion by making any reply; her doubts of the doctor had, by this time, become terrifying doubts even to herself. whenever an opportunity favoured her, she vigilantly watched him. one of his ways of finding amusement, in his leisure hours, was in the use of a photographic apparatus. he took little pictures of the rooms in the cottage, which were followed by views in the garden. those having come to an end, he completed the mystification of the nurse by producing a portrait of the dane, while he lay asleep one day after he had been improving in health for some little time past. fanny asked leave to look at the likeness when it had been "printed" from the negative, in the garden. he first examined it himself--and then deliberately tore it up and let the fragments fly away in the wind. "i am not satisfied with it," was all the explanation he offered. one of the garden chairs happened to be near him; he sat down, and looked like a man in a state of torment under his own angry thoughts. if the patient's health had altered for the worse, and if the tendency to relapse had proved to be noticeable after medicine had been administered, fanny's first suspicions might have taken a very serious turn. but the change in oxbye--sleeping in purer air and sustained by better food than he could obtain at the hospital--pointed more and more visibly to a decided gain of vital strength. his hollow checks were filling out, and colour was beginning to appear again on the pallor of his skin. strange as the conduct of lord harry and mr. vimpany might be, there was no possibility, thus far, of connecting it with the position occupied by the danish guest. nobody who had seen his face, when he was first brought to the cottage, could have looked at him again, after the lapse of a fortnight, and have failed to discover the signs which promise recovery of health. chapter xlviii "the mistress and the maid" in the correspondence secretly carried on between the mistress in london and the maid at passy, it was fanny mere's turn to write next. she decided on delaying her reply until she had once more given careful consideration to the first letter received from lady harry, announcing her arrival in england, and a strange discovery that had attended it. before leaving paris, iris had telegraphed instructions to mrs. vimpany to meet her at the terminus in london. her first inquiries were for her father. the answer given, with an appearance of confusion and even of shame, was that there was no need to feel anxiety on the subject of mr. henley's illness. relieved on hearing this good news, iris naturally expressed some surprise at her father's rapid recovery. she asked if the doctors had misunderstood his malady when they believed him to be in danger. to this question mrs. vimpany had replied by making an unexpected confession. she owned that mr. henley's illness had been at no time of any serious importance. a paragraph in a newspaper had informed her that he was suffering from nothing worse than an attack of gout. it was a wicked act to have exaggerated this report, and to have alarmed lady harry on the subject of her father's health. mrs. vimpany had but one excuse to offer. fanny's letter had filled her with such unendurable doubts and forebodings that she had taken the one way of inducing lady harry to secure her own safety by at once leaving passy--the way by a false alarm. deceit, so sincerely repented, so resolutely resisted, had tried its power of temptation again, and had prevailed. "when i thought of you at the mercy of my vile husband," mrs. vimpany said, "with your husband but too surely gained as an accomplice, my good resolutions failed me. is it only in books that a true repentance never stumbles again? or am i the one fallible mortal creature in the world? i am ashamed of myself. but, oh, lady harry, i was so frightened for you! try to forgive me; i am so fond of you, and so glad to see you here in safety. don't go back! for god's sake, don't go back!" iris had no intention of returning, while the doctor and his patient were still at passy; and she found in mrs. vimpany's compassion good reason to forgive an offence committed through devotion to herself, and atoned for by sincere regret. fanny looked carefully over the next page of the letter, which described lady harry's first interview with mr. mountjoy since his illness. the expressions of happiness on renewing her relations with her old and dear friend confirmed the maid in her first impression that there was no fear of a premature return to passy, with the wish to see lord harry again as the motive. she looked over the later letters next--and still the good influence of mr. mountjoy seemed to be in time ascendant. there was anxiety felt for fanny's safety, and curiosity expressed to hear what discoveries she might have made; but the only allusions to my lord contained ordinary inquiries relating to the state of his health, and, on one occasion, there was a wish expressed to know whether he was still on friendly terms with mr. vimpany. there seemed to be no fear of tempting her mistress to undervalue the danger of returning to the cottage, if she mentioned the cheering improvement now visible in mr. oxbye. and yet fanny still hesitated to trust her first impressions, even after they had been confirmed. her own sad experience reminded her of the fatal influence which an unscrupulous man can exercise over the woman who loves him. it was always possible that lady harry might not choose to confide the state of her feelings towards her husband to a person who, after all, only occupied the position of her maid. the absence, in her letters, of any expressions of affectionate regret was no proof that she was not thinking of my lord. so far as he was personally concerned, the dane's prospects of recovery would appear to justify the action of the doctor and his accomplice. distrusting them both as resolutely as ever, and determined to keep lady harry as long as possible at the safe distance of london, fanny mere, in writing her reply, preserved a discreet silence on the subject of mr. oxbye's health. [at this point wilkie collins' health prevented his finishing the novel.] chapter xlix the nurse is sent away "you have repented and changed your mind, vimpany?" said lord harry. "i repented?" the doctor repeated, with a laugh. "you think me capable of that, do you?" "the man is growing stronger and better every day. you are going to make him recover, after all. i was afraid"--he corrected himself--"i thought"--the word was the truer--"that you were going to poison him." "you thought i was going--we were going, my lord--to commit a stupid and a useless crime. and, with our clever nurse present, all the time watching with the suspicions of a cat, and noting every change in the symptoms? no--i confess his case has puzzled me because i did not anticipate this favourable change. well--it is all for the best. fanny sees him grow stronger every day--whatever happens she can testify to the care with which the man has been treated. so far she thought she would have us in her power, and we have her." "you are mighty clever, vimpany; but sometimes you are too clever for me, and, perhaps, too clever for yourself." "let me make myself clearer"--conscious of the nurse's suspicions, he leaned forward and whispered: "fanny must go. now is the time. the man is recovering. the man must go: the next patient will be your lordship himself. now do you understand?" "partly." "enough. if i am to act it is sufficient for you to understand step by step. our suspicious nurse is to go. that is the next step. leave me to act." lord harry walked away. he left the thing to the doctor. it hardly seemed to concern him. a dying man; a conspiracy; a fraud:--yet the guilty knowledge of all this gave him small uneasiness. he carried with him his wife's last note: "may i hope to find on my return the man whom i have trusted and honoured?" his conscience, callous as regards the doctor's scheme, filled him with remorse whenever--which was fifty times a day--he took this little rag of a note from his pocket-book and read it again. yes: she would always find the man, on her return--the man whom she had trusted and honoured--the latter clause he passed over--it would be, of course the same man: whether she would still be able to trust and honour him--that question he did not put to himself. after all, the doctor was acting--not he, himself. and he remembered hugh mountjoy. iris would be with him--the man whose affection was only brought out in the stronger light by his respect, his devotion, and his delicacy. she would be in his society: she would understand the true meaning of this respect and delicacy: she would appreciate the depth of his devotion: she would contrast hugh, the man she might have married, with himself, the man she did marry. and the house was wretched without her; and he hated the sight of the doctor--desperate and reckless. he resolved to write to iris: he sat down and poured out his heart, but not his conscience, to her. "as for our separation," he said, "i, and only i, am to blame. it is my own abominable conduct that has caused it. give me your pardon, dearest iris. if i have made it impossible for you to live with me, it is also impossible for me to live without you. so am i punished. the house is dull and lonely; the hours crawl, i know not how to kill the time; my life is a misery and a burden because you are not with me. yet i have no right to complain; i ought to rejoice in thinking that you are happy in being relieved of my presence. my dear, i do not ask you to come at present"--he remembered, indeed, that her arrival at this juncture might be seriously awkward--"i cannot ask you to come back yet, but let me have a little hope--let me feel that in the sweetness of your nature you will believe in my repentance, and let me look forward to a speedy reunion in the future." when he had written this letter, which he would have done better to keep in his own hands for awhile, he directed it in a feigned hand to lady harry norland, care of hugh mountjoy, at the latter's london hotel. mountjoy would not know iris's correspondent, and would certainly forward the letter. he calculated--with the knowledge of her affectionate and impulsive nature--that iris would meet him half-way, and would return whenever he should be able to call her back. he did not calculate, as will be seen, on the step which she actually took. the letter despatched, he came back to the cottage happier--he would get his wife again. he looked in at the sick-room. the patient was sitting up, chatting pleasantly; it was the best day he had known; the doctor was sitting in a chair placed beside the bed, and the nurse stood quiet, self-composed, but none the less watchful and suspicious. "you are going on so well, my man," doctor vimpany was saying, "that we shall have you out and about again in a day or two. not quite yet, though--not quite yet," he pulled out his stethoscope and made an examination with an immense show of professional interest. "my treatment has succeeded, you see"--he made a note or two in his pocket-book--"has succeeded," he repeated. "they will have to acknowledge that." "gracious sir, i am grateful. i have given a great deal too much trouble." "a medical case can never give too much trouble--that is impossible. remember, oxbye, it is science which watches at your bedside. you are not oxbye; you are a case; it is not a man, it is a piece of machinery that is out of order. science watches: she sees you through and through. though you are made of solid flesh and bones, and clothed, to science you are transparent. her business is not only to read your symptoms, but to set the machinery right again." the dane, overwhelmed, could only renew his thanks. "can he stand, do you think, nurse?" the doctor went on. "let us try--not to walk about much to-day, but to get out of bed, if only to prove to himself that he is so much better; to make him understand that he is really nearly well. come, nurse, let us give him a hand." in the most paternal manner possible the doctor assisted his patient, weak, after so long a confinement to his bed, to get out of bed, and supported him while he walked to the open window, and looked out into the garden. "there," he said, "that is enough. not too much at first. to-morrow he will have to get up by himself. well, fanny, you agree at last, i suppose, that i have brought this poor man round? at last, eh?" his look and his words showed what he meant. "you thought that some devilry was intended." that was what the look meant. "you proposed to nurse this man in order to watch for and to discover this devilry. very well, what have you got to say?" all that fanny had to say was, submissively, that the man was clearly much better; and, she added, he had been steadily improving ever since he came to the cottage. that is what she said; but she said it without the light of confidence in her eyes--she was still doubtful and suspicious. whatever power the doctor had of seeing the condition of lungs and hidden machinery, he certainly had the power of reading this woman's thoughts. he saw, as clearly as if upon a printed page, the bewilderment of her mind. she knew that something was intended---something not for her to know. that the man had been brought to the cottage to be made the subject of a scientific experiment she did not believe. she had looked to see him die, but he did not die. he was mending fast; in a little while he would be as well as ever he had been in his life. what had the doctor done it for? was it really possible that nothing was ever intended beyond a scientific experiment, which had succeeded? in the case of any other man, the woman's doubts would have been entirely removed; in the case of dr. vimpany these doubts remained. there are some men of whom nothing good can be believed, whether of motive or of action; for if their acts seem good, their motive must be bad. many women know, or fancy they know, such a man--one who seems to them wholly and hopelessly bad. besides, what was the meaning of the secret conversation and the widespread colloquies of the doctor and my lord? and why, at first, was the doctor so careless about his patient? "the time has come at last," said the doctor that evening, when the two men were alone, "for this woman to go. the man is getting well rapidly, he no longer wants a nurse; there is no reason for keeping her. if she has suspicions there is no longer the least foundation for them; she has assisted at the healing of a man desperately sick by a skilful physician. what more? nothing--positively nothing." "can she tell my wife so much and no more?" asked lord harry. "will there be no more?" "she can tell her ladyship no more, because she will have no more to tell," the doctor replied quietly. "she would like to learn more; she is horribly disappointed that there is no more to tell; but she shall hear no more. she hates me: but she hates your lordship more." "why?" "because her mistress loves you still. such a woman as this would like to absorb the whole affection of her mistress in herself. you laugh. she is a servant, and a common person. how can such a person conceive an affection so strong as to become a passion for one so superior? but it is true. it is perfectly well known, and there have been many recorded instances of such a woman, say a servant, greatly inferior in station, conceiving a desperate affection for her mistress, accompanied by the fiercest jealousy. fanny mere is jealous--and of you. she hates you; she wants your wife to hate you. she would like nothing better than to go back to her mistress with the proofs in her hand of such acts on your part--such acts, i say," he chose his next words carefully, "as would keep her from you for ever." "she's a devil, i dare say," said lord harry, carelessly. "what do i care? what does it matter to me whether a lady's maid, more or less, hates me or loves me?" "there spoke the aristocrat. my lord, remember that a lady's maid is a woman. you have been brought up to believe, perhaps, that people in service are not men and women. that is a mistake--a great mistake. fanny mere is a woman--that is to say, an inferior form of man; and there is no man in the world so low or so base as not to be able to do mischief. the power of mischief is given to every one of us. it is the true, the only equality of man--we can all destroy. what? a shot in the dark; the striking of a lucifer match; the false accusation; the false witness; the defamation of character;--upon my word, it is far more dangerous to be hated by a woman than by a man. and this excellent and faithful fanny, devoted to her mistress, hates you, my lord, even more"--he paused and laughed--"even more than the charming mrs. vimpany hates her husband. never mind. to-morrow we see the last of fanny mere. she goes; she leaves her patient rapidly recovering. that is the fact that she carries away--not the fact she hoped and expected to carry away. she goes to-morrow and she will never come back again." the next morning the doctor paid a visit to his patient rather earlier than usual. he found the man going on admirably: fresh in colour, lively and cheerful, chatting pleasantly with his nurse. "so," said dr. vimpany, after the usual examination and questions, "this is better than i expected. you are now able to get up. you can do so by-and-by, after breakfast; you can dress yourself, you want no more help. nurse," he turned to fanny, "i think that we have done with you. i am satisfied with the careful watch you have kept over my patient. if ever you think of becoming a nurse by profession, rely on my recommendation. the experiment," he added, thoughtfully, "has fully succeeded. i cannot deny that it has been owing partly to the intelligence and patience with which you have carried out my instructions. but i think that your services may now be relinquished." "when am i to go, sir?" she asked, impassively. "in any other case i should have said, 'stay a little longer, if you please. use your own convenience.' in your case i must say, 'go to your mistress.' her ladyship was reluctant to leave you behind. she will be glad to have you back again. how long will you take to get ready?" "i could be ready in ten minutes, if it were necessary." "that is not necessary. you can take the night mail _via_ dieppe and newhaven. it leaves paris at . . give yourself an hour to get from station to station. any time, therefore, this evening before seven o'clock will do perfectly well. you will ask his lordship for any letters or messages he may have." "yes, sir," fanny replied. "with your permission, sir, i will go at once, so as to get a whole day in paris." "as you please, as you please," said the doctor, wondering why she wanted a day in paris; but it could have nothing to do with his sick man. he left the room, promising to see the dane again in an hour or two, and took up a position at the garden gate through which the nurse must pass. in about half an hour she walked down the path carrying her box. the doctor opened the gate for her. "good-bye, fanny," he said. "again, many thanks for your care and your watchfulness--especially the latter. i am very glad," he said, with what he meant for the sweetest smile, but it looked like a grin, "that it has been rewarded in such a way as you hardly perhaps expected." "thank you, sir," said the girl. "the man is nearly well now, and can do without me very well indeed." "the box is too heavy for you, fanny. nay, i insist upon it: i shall carry it to the station for you." it was not far to the station, and the box was not too heavy, but fanny yielded it. "he wants to see me safe out of the station," she thought. "i will see her safe out of the place," he thought. ten minutes later the doors of the _salle d'attente_ were thrown open, the train rolled in, and fanny was carried away. the doctor returned thoughtfully to the house. the time was come for the execution of his project. everybody was out of the way. "she is gone," he said, when lord harry returned for breakfast at eleven. "i saw her safely out of the station." "gone!" his confederate echoed: "and i am alone in the house with you and--and----" "the sick man--henceforth, yourself, my lord, yourself." chapter l in the alcove the doctor was wrong. fanny mere did return, though he did not discover the fact. she went away in a state of mind which is dangerous when it possesses a woman of determination. the feminine mind loves to understand motives and intentions; it hates to be puzzled. fanny was puzzled. fanny could not understand what had been intended and what was now meant. for, first, a man, apparently dying, had been brought into the house--why? then the man began slowly to recover, and the doctor, whose attentions had always been of the most slender character, grew more morose every day. then he suddenly, on the very day when he sent her away, became cheerful, congratulated the patient on his prospect of recovery, and assisted in getting him out of bed for a change. the cook having been sent away, there was now no one in the house but the dane, the doctor, and lord harry. man hunts wild creatures; woman hunts man. fanny was impelled by the hunting instinct. she was sent out of the house to prevent her hunting; she began to consider next, how, without discovery, she could return and carry on the hunt. everything conspired to drive her back: the mystery of the thing; the desire to baffle, or at least to discover, a dark design; the wish to be of service to her mistress; and the hope of finding out something which would keep iris from going back to her husband. fanny was unable to comprehend the depth of her mistress's affection for lord harry; but that she was foolishly, weakly in love with him, and that she would certainly return to him unless plain proofs of real villainy were prepared--so much fanny understood very well. when the omnibus set her down, she found a quiet hotel near the terminus for dieppe. she spent the day walking about--to see the shops and streets, she would have explained; to consider the situation, she should have explained. she bought a new dress, a new hat, and a thick veil, so as to be disguised at a distance. as for escaping the doctor's acuteness by any disguise should he meet her face to face, that was impossible. but her mind was made up--she would run any risk, meet any danger, in order to discover the meaning of all this. next morning she returned by an omnibus service which would allow her to reach the cottage at about a quarter-past eleven. she chose this time for two reasons: first, because breakfast was sent in from the restaurant at eleven, and the two gentlemen would certainly be in the _salle 'a manger_ over that meal; and, next, because the doctor always visited his patient after breakfast. she could, therefore, hope to get in unseen, which was the first thing. the spare bedroom--that assigned to the patient--was on the ground-floor next to the dining-room; it communicated with the garden by french windows, and by a small flight of steps. fanny walked cautiously along the road past the garden-gate; a rapid glance assured her that no one was there; she hastily opened the gate and slipped in. she knew that the windows of the sick-room were closed on the inner side, and the blinds were still down. the patient, therefore, had not yet been disturbed or visited. the windows of the dining-room were on the other side of the house. the woman therefore slipped round to the back, where she found, as she expected, the door wide open. in the hall she heard the voices of the doctor and lord harry and the clicking of knives and forks. they were at breakfast. one thing more--what should she say to oxbye? what excuse should she make for coming back? how should she persuade him to keep silence about her presence? his passion suggested a plan and a reason. she had come back, she would tell him, for love of him, to watch over him, unseen by the doctor, to go away with him when he was strong enough to travel. he was a simple and a candid soul, and he would fall into such a little innocent conspiracy. meantime, it would be quite easy for her to remain in the house perfectly undisturbed and unknown to either of the gentlemen. she opened the door and looked in. so far, no reason would be wanted. the patient was sleeping peacefully. but not in the bed. he was lying, partly dressed and covered with a blanket, on the sofa. with the restlessness of convalescence he had changed his couch in the morning after a wakeful night, and was now sleeping far into the morning. the bed, as is common in french houses, stood in an alcove. a heavy curtain hung over a rod, also in the french manner. part of this curtain lay over the head of the bed. the woman perceived the possibility of using the curtain as a means of concealment. there was a space of a foot between the bed and the wall. she placed herself, therefore, behind the bed, in this space, at the head, where the curtain entirely concealed her. nothing was more unlikely than that the doctor should look behind the bed in that corner. then with her scissors she pierced a hole in the curtain large enough for her to see perfectly without the least danger of being seen, and she waited to see what would happen. she waited for half an hour, during which the sleeping man slept on without movement, and the voices of the two men in the _salle 'a manger_ rose and fell in conversation. presently there was silence, broken only by an occasional remark. "they have lit their cigars," fanny murmured; "they will take their coffee, and in a few minutes they will be here." when they came in a few minutes later, they had their cigars, and lord harry's face was slightly flushed, perhaps with the wine he had taken at breakfast--perhaps with the glass of brandy after his coffee. the doctor threw himself into a chair and crossed his legs, looking thoughtfully at his patient. lord harry stood over him. "every day," he said, "the man gets better." "he has got better every day, so far," said the doctor. "every day his face gets fatter, and he grows less like me." "it is true," said the doctor. "then--what the devil are we to do?" "wait a little longer," said the doctor. the woman in her hiding-place hardly dared to breathe. "what?" asked lord harry. "you mean that the man, after all--" "wait a little longer," the doctor repeated quietly. "tell me"--lord harry bent over the sick man eagerly--"you think----" "look here," the doctor said. "which of us two has had a medical education--you, or i?" "you, of course." "yes; i, of course. then i tell you, as a medical man, that appearances are sometimes deceptive. this man, for instance--he looks better; he thinks he is recovering; he feels stronger. you observe that he is fatter in the face. his nurse, fanny mere, went away with the knowledge that he was much better, and the conviction that he was about to leave the house as much recovered as such a patient with such a disorder can expect." "well?" "well, my lord, allow me to confide in you. medical men mostly keep their knowledge in such matters to themselves. we know and recognise symptoms which to you are invisible. by these symptoms--by those symptoms," he repeated slowly and looking hard at the other man, "i know that this man--no longer oxbye, my patient, but--another--is in a highly dangerous condition. i have noted the symptoms in my book"--he tapped his pocket--"for future use." "and when--when----" lord harry was frightfully pale. his lips moved, but he could not finish the sentence. the thing he had agreed to was terribly near, and it looked uglier than he had expected. "oh! when?" the doctor replied carelessly. "perhaps to-day--perhaps in a week. here, you see, science is sometimes baffled. i cannot say." lord harry breathed deeply. "if the man is in so serious a condition," he said, "is it safe or prudent for us to be alone in the house without a servant and without a nurse?" "i was not born yesterday, my lord, i assure you," said the doctor in his jocular way. "they have found me a nurse. she will come to-day. my patient's life is, humanly speaking"--lord harry shuddered--"perfectly safe until her arrival." "well--but she is a stranger. she must know whom she is nursing." "certainly. she will be told--i have already told her--that she is going to nurse lord harry norland, a young irish gentleman. she is a stranger. that is the most valuable quality she possesses. she is a complete stranger. as for you, what are you? anything you please. an english gentleman staying with me under the melancholy circumstances of his lordship's illness. what more natural? the english doctor is staying with his patient, and the english friend is staying with the doctor. when the insurance officer makes inquiries, as he is very likely to do, the nurse will be invaluable for the evidence she will give." he rose, pulled up the blinds noiselessly, and opened the windows. neither the fresh air nor the light awoke the sleeping man. vimpany looked at his watch. "time for the medicine," he said. "wake him up while i get it ready." "would you not--at least---suffer him to have his sleep out?" asked lord harry, again turning pale. "wake him up. shake him by the shoulder. do as i tell you," said the doctor, roughly. "he will go to sleep again. it is one of the finer qualities of my medicine that it sends people to sleep. it is a most soothing medicine. it causes a deep--a profound sleep. wake him up, i say." he went to the cupboard in which the medicines were kept. lord harry with some difficulty roused the sick man, who awoke dull and heavy, asking why he was disturbed. "time for your medicine, my good fellow," said the doctor. "take it, and you shall not be disturbed again--i promise you that." the door of the cupboard prevented the spy from seeing what the doctor was doing; but he took longer than usual in filling the glass. lord harry seemed to observe this, for he left the dane and looked over the doctor's shoulder. "what are you doing?" he asked in a whisper. "better not inquire, my lord," said the doctor. "what do you know about the mysteries of medicine?" "why must i not inquire?" vimpany turned, closing the cupboard behind him. in his hand was a glass full of the stuff he was about to administer. "if you look in the glass," he said, "you will understand why." lord harry obeyed. he saw a face ghastly in pallor: he shrank back and fell into a chair, saying no more. "now, my good friend," said the doctor, "drink this and you'll be better--ever so much better, ever so much better. why--that is brave----" he looked at him strangely, "how do you like the medicine?" oxbye shook his head as a man who has taken something nauseous. "i don't like it at all," he said. "it doesn't taste like the other physic." "no i have been changing it--improving it." the dane shook his head again. "there's a pain in my throat," he said; "it stings--it burns!" "patience--patience. it will pass away directly, and you will lie down again and fall asleep comfortably." oxbye sank back upon the sofa. his eyes closed. then he opened them again, looking about him strangely, as one who is suffering some new experience. again he shook his head, again he closed his eyes, and he opened them no more. he was asleep. the doctor stood at his head watching gravely. lord harry, in his chair, leaned forward, also watching, but with white face and trembling hands. as they watched, the man's head rolled a little to the side, turning his face more towards the room. then a curious and terrifying thing happened. his mouth began slowly to fall open. "is he--is he--is he fainting?" lord harry whispered. "no; he is asleep. did you never see a man sleep with his mouth wide open?" they were silent for a space. the doctor broke the silence. "there's a good light this morning," he said carelessly. "i think i will try a photograph. stop! let me tie up his mouth with a handkerchief--so." the patient was not disturbed by the operation, though the doctor tied up the handkerchief with vigour enough to awaken a sound sleeper. "now--we'll see if he looks like a post-mortem portrait." he went into the next room, and returned with his camera. in a few minutes he had taken the picture, and was holding the glass negative against the dark sleeve of his coat, so as to make it visible. "we shall see how it looks," he said, "when it is printed. at present i don't think it is good enough as an imitation of you to be sent to the insurance offices. nobody, i am afraid, who knew you, would ever take this for a post-mortem portrait of lord harry. well, we shall see. perhaps by-and-by--to-morrow--we may be able to take a better photograph. eh?" lord harry followed his movements, watching him closely, but said nothing. his face remained pale and his fingers still trembled. there was now no doubt at all in his mind, not only as to vimpany's intentions, but as to the crime itself. he dared not speak or move. a ring at the door pealed through the house. lord harry started in his chair with a cry of terror. "that," said the doctor, quietly, "is the nurse--the new nurse---the stranger." he took off the handkerchief from oxbye's face, looked about the room as if careful that everything should be in its right place, and went out to admit the woman. lord harry sprang to his feet and passed his hand over the sick man's face. "is it done?" he whispered. "can the man be poisoned? is he already dead?--already? before my eyes?" he laid his finger on the sick man's pulse. but the doctor's step and voice stopped him. then the nurse came in, following vimpany. she was an elderly, quiet-looking french woman. lord harry remained standing at the side of the sofa, hoping to see the man revive. "now," said vimpany, cheerfully, "here is your patient, nurse. he is asleep now. let him have his sleep out--he has taken his medicine and will want nothing more yet awhile. if you want anything let me know. we shall be in the next room or in the garden--somewhere about the house. come, my friend." he drew away lord harry gently by the arm, and they left the room. behind the curtain fanny mere began to wonder how she was to get off unseen. the nurse, left alone, looked at her patient, who lay with his head turned partly round, his eyes closed, his mouth open. "a strange sleep," she murmured; "but the doctor knows, i suppose. he is to have his sleep out." "a strange sleep, indeed!" thought the watcher. she was tempted at this moment to disclose herself and to reveal what she had seen; but the thought of lord harry's complicity stopped her. with what face could she return to her mistress and tell her that she herself was the means of her husband being charged with murder? she stayed herself, therefore, and waited. chance helped her, at last, to escape. the nurse took off her bonnet and shawl and began to look about the room. she stepped to the bed and examined the sheets and pillow-case as a good french housewife should. would she throw back the curtain? if so--what would happen next? then it would become necessary to take the new nurse into confidence, otherwise----fanny did not put the remainder of this sentence into words. it remained a terror: it meant that if vimpany found out where she had been and what she had seen and heard, there would be two, instead of one, cast into a deep slumber. the nurse turned from the bed, however, attracted by the half-open door of the cupboard. here were the medicine bottles. she took them out one by one, looked at them with professional curiosity, pulled out the corks, smelt the contents, replaced the bottles. then she went to the window, which stood open; she stepped out upon the stone steps which led into the garden, looking about her, to breathe the soft air of noon among the flowers. she came back, and it again seemed as if she would examine the bed, but her attention was attracted by a small book-case. she began to pull down the books one after the other and to turn them over, as a half-educated person does, in the hope of finding something amusing. she found a book with pictures. then she sat down in the armchair beside the sofa and began to turn over the leaves slowly. how long was this going to last? it lasted about half an hour. the nurse laid down the volume with a yawn, stretched herself, yawned again, crossed her hands, and closed her eyes. she was going to sleep. if she would only fall so fast asleep that the woman behind the curtain could creep away! but sometimes at the sleepiest moment sleep is driven away by an accident. the accident in this case was that the nurse before finally dropping off remembered that she was nursing a sick man, and sat up to look at him before she allowed herself to drop off. stung with sudden inspiration she sprang to her feet and bent over the man. "does he breathe?" she asked. she bent lower. "his pulse! does it beat?" she caught his wrist. "doctor!" she shrieked, running into the garden. "doctor! come--come quick! he is dead!" fanny mere stepped from her hiding-place and ran out of the back door, and by the garden gate into the road. she had escaped. she had seen the crime committed. she knew now at least what was intended and why she was sent away. the motive for the crime she could not guess. chapter li what next? what should she do with the terrible secret? she ought to inform the police. but there were two objections. first, the nurse may have been mistaken in supposing her patient to be dead. she herself had no choice but to escape as she did. next, the dreadful thought occurred to her that she herself until the previous day had been the man's nurse--his only nurse, day and night. what was to prevent the doctor from fixing the guilt of poisoning upon herself? nay; it would be his most obvious line of action. the man was left alone all the morning; the day before he had shown every sign of returning strength; she would have to confess that she was in hiding. how long had she been there? why was she in hiding? was it not after she had poisoned the man and when she heard the doctor's footstep? naturally ignorant of poisons and their symptoms, it seemed to her as if these facts so put together would be conclusive against her. therefore, she determined to keep quiet in paris that day and to cross over by the night boat from dieppe in the evening. she would at first disclose everything to mrs. vimpany and to mountjoy. as to what she would tell her mistress she would be guided by the advice of the others. she got to london in safety and drove straight to mr. mountjoy's hotel, proposing first to communicate the whole business to him. but she found in his sitting-room mrs. vimpany herself. "we must not awake him," she said, "whatever news you bring. his perfect recovery depends entirely on rest and quiet. there"--she pointed to the chimneypiece--"is a letter in my lady's handwriting. i am afraid i know only too well what it tells him." "what does it tell?" "this very morning," mrs. vimpany went on, "i called at her lodging. she has gone away." "gone away? my lady gone away? where is she gone?" "where do you think she is most likely to have gone?" "not?--oh!--not to her husband? not to him!--oh! this is more terrible--far more terrible--than you can imagine." "you will tell me why it is now so much more terrible. meantime, i find that the cabman was told to drive to victoria. that is all i know. i have no doubt, however, but that she has gone back to her husband. she has been in a disturbed, despondent condition ever since she arrived in london. mr. mountjoy has been as kind as usual: but he has not been able to chase away her sadness. whether she was fretting after her husband, or whether--but this i hardly think--she was comparing the man she had lost with the man she had taken--but i do not know. all i do know is that she has been uneasy ever since she came from france, and what i believe is that she has been reproaching herself with leaving her husband without good cause." "good cause!" echoed fanny. "oh! good gracious! if she only knew, there's cause enough to leave a hundred husbands." "nothing seemed to rouse her," mrs. vimpany continued, without regarding the interruption. "i went with her to the farm to see her former maid, rhoda. the girl's health is re-established; she is engaged to marry the farmer's brother. lady harry was kind, and said the most pleasant things; she even pulled off one of her prettiest rings and gave it to the girl. but i could see that it was an effort for her to appear interested--her thoughts were with her husband all the time. i was sure it would end in this way, and i am not in the least surprised. but what will mr. mountjoy say when he opens the letter?" "back to her husband!" fanny repeated. "oh! what shall we do?" "tell me what you mean. what has happened?" "i must tell you. i thought i would tell mr. mountjoy first: but i must tell you, although--" she stopped. "although it concerns my husband. never mind that consideration--go on." fanny told the story from the beginning. when she had finished, mrs. vimpany looked towards the bedroom door. "thank god!" she said, "that you told this story to me instead of to mr. mountjoy. at all events, it gives me time to warn you not to tell him what you have told me. we can do nothing. meantime, there is one thing you must do--go away. do not let mr. mountjoy find you here. he must not learn your story. if he hears what has happened and reads her letter, nothing will keep him from following her to passy. he will see that there is every prospect of her being entangled in this vile conspiracy, and he will run any risk in the useless attempt to save her. he is too weak to bear the journey--far too weak for the violent emotions that will follow; and, oh! how much too weak to cope with my husband--as strong and as crafty as he is unprincipled! "then, what, in heaven's name, are we to do?" "anything--anything--rather than suffer mr. mountjoy, in his weak state, to interfere between man and wife." "yes--yes--but such a man! mrs. vimpany, he was present when the dane was poisoned. he _knew_ that the man was poisoned. he sat in the chair, his face white, and he said nothing. oh! it was as much as i could do not to rush out and dash the glass from his hands. lord harry said nothing." "my dear, do you not understand what you have got to do?" fanny made no reply. "consider--my husband---lord harry--neither of them knows that you were present. you can return with the greatest safety; and then whatever happens, you will be at hand to protect my lady. consider, again, as her maid, you can be with her always--in her own room; at night; everywhere and at all times; while mr. mountjoy could only be with her now and then, and at the price of not quarrelling with her husband." "yes," said fanny. "and you are strong, and mr. mountjoy is weak and ill." "you think that i should go back to passy?" "at once, without the delay of an hour. lady harry started last night. do you start this evening. she will thus have you with her twenty-four hours after her arrival." fanny rose. "i will go," she said. "it terrifies me even to think of going back to that awful cottage with that dreadful man. yet i will go. mrs. vimpany, i know that it will be of no use. whatever is going to happen now will happen without any power of mine to advance or to prevent. i am certain that my journey will prove useless. but i will go. yes, i will go this evening." then, with a final promise to write as soon as possible--as soon as there should be anything to communicate--fanny went away. mrs. vimpany, alone, listened. from the bedroom came no sound at all. mr. mountjoy slept still. when he should be strong enough it would be time to let him know what had been done. but she sat thinking--thinking--even when one has the worst husband in the world, and very well knows his character, it is disagreeable to hear such a story as fanny had told that wife this morning. chapter lii the dead man's photograph "he is quite dead," said the doctor, with one finger on the man's pulse and another lifting his eyelid. "he is dead. i did not look for so speedy an end. it is not half an hour since i left him breathing peacefully. did he show signs of consciousness?" "no, sir; i found him dead." "this morning he was cheerful. it is not unusual in these complaints. i have observed it in many cases of my own experience. on the last morning of life, at the very moment when death is standing on the threshold with uplifted dart, the patient is cheerful and even joyous: he is more hopeful than he has felt for many months: he thinks--nay, he is sure--that he is recovering: he says he shall be up and about before long: he has not felt so strong since the beginning of his illness. then death strikes him, and he falls." he made this remark in a most impressive manner. "nothing remains," he said, "but to certify the cause of death and to satisfy the proper forms and authorities. i charge myself with this duty. the unfortunate young man belonged to a highly distinguished family. i will communicate with his friends and forward his papers. one last office i can do for him. for the sake of his family, nurse, i will take a last photograph of him as he lies upon his death-bed." lord harry stood in the doorway, listening with an aching and a fearful heart. he dared not enter the chamber. it was the chamber of death. what was his own part in calling the destroying angel who is at the beck and summons of every man--even the meanest? call him and he comes. order him to strike--and he obeys. but under penalties. the doctor's prophecy, then, had come true. but in what way and by what agency? the man was dead. what was his own share in the man's death? he knew when the dane was brought into the house that he was brought there to die. as the man did not die, but began to recover fast, he had seen in the doctor's face that the man would have to die. he had heard the doctor prophesy out of his medical knowledge that the man would surely die; and then, after the nurse had been sent away because her patient required her services no longer, he had seen the doctor give the medicine which burned the patient's throat. what was that medicine? not only had it burned his throat, but it caused him to fall into a deep sleep, in which his heart ceased to beat and his blood ceased to flow. he turned away and walked out of the cottage. for an hour he walked along the road. then he stopped and walked back. ropes drew him; he could no longer keep away. he felt as if something must have happened. possibly he would find the doctor arrested and the police waiting for himself, to be charged as an accomplice or a principal. he found no such thing. the doctor was in the salon, with letters and official forms before him. he looked up cheerfully. "my english friend," he said, "the unexpected end of this young irish gentleman is a very melancholy affair. i have ascertained the name of the family solicitors and have written to them. i have also written to his brother as the head of the house. i find also, by examination of his papers, that his life is insured--the amount is not stated, but i have communicated the fact of the death. the authorities--they are, very properly, careful in such matters--have received the necessary notices and forms: to-morrow, all legal forms having been gone through, we bury the deceased." "so soon?" "so soon? in these eases of advanced pulmonary disease the sooner the better. the french custom of speedy interment may be defended as more wholesome than our own. on the other hand, i admit that it has its weak points. cremation is, perhaps, the best and only method of removing the dead which is open to no objections except one. i mean, of course, the chance that the deceased may have met with his death by means of poison. but such cases are rare, and, in most instances, would be detected by the medical man in attendance before or at the time of death. i think we need not----my dear friend, you look ill. are you upset by such a simple thing as the death of a sick man? let me prescribe for you. a glass of brandy neat. so," he went into the _salle 'a manger_ and returned with his medicine. "take that. now let us talk." the doctor continued his conversation in a cheerfully scientific strain, never alluding to the conspiracy or to the consequences which might follow. he told hospital stories bearing on deaths sudden and unexpected; some of them he treated in a jocular vein. the dead man in the next room was a case: he knew of many similar and equally interesting cases. when one has arrived at looking upon a dead man as a case, there is little fear of the ordinary human weakness which makes us tremble in the awful presence of death. presently steps were heard outside. the doctor rose and left the room--but returned in a few minutes. "the _croque-morts_ have come," he said. "they are with the nurse engaged upon their business. it seems revolting to the outside world. to them it is nothing but the daily routine of work. by-the-way, i took a photograph of his lordship in the presence of the nurse. unfortunately--but look at it----" "it is the face of the dead man"--lord harry turned away. "i don't want to see it. i cannot bear to see it. you forget--i was actually present when--" "not when he died. come, don't be a fool. what i was going to say was this: the face is no longer in the least like you. nobody who ever saw you once even would believe that this is your face. the creature--he has given us an unconscionable quantity of trouble--was a little like you when he first came. i was wrong in supposing that this likeness was permanent. now he is dead, he is not in the least like you. i ought to have remembered that the resemblance would fade away and disappear in death. come and look at him." "no, no." "weakness! death restores to every man his individuality. no two men are like in death, though they may be like in life. well. it comes to this. we are going to bury lord harry norland to-morrow, and we must have a photograph of him as he lay on his deathbed." "well?" "well, my friend, go upstairs to your own room, and i will follow with the camera." in a quarter of an hour he was holding the glass against his sleeve. "admirable!" he said. "the cheek a little sunken--that was the effect of the chalk and the adjustment of the shadows--the eyes closed, the face white, the hands composed. it is admirable! who says that we cannot make the sun tell lies?" as soon as he could get a print of the portrait, he gave it to lord harry. "there," he said, "we shall get a better print to-morrow. this is the first copy." he had mounted it on a frame of card, and had written under it the name once borne by the dead man, with the date of his death. the picture seemed indeed that of a dead man. lord harry shuddered. "there," he said, "everything else has been of no use to us--the presence of the sick man--the suspicions of the nurse--his death--even his death--has been of no use to us. we might have been spared the memory--the awful memory--of this death!" "you forget, my english friend, that a dead body was necessary for us. we had to bury somebody. why not the man oxbye?" chapter liii the wife's return of course mrs. vimpany was quite right. iris had gone back to her husband. she arrived, in fact, at the cottage in the evening just before dark--in the falling day, when some people are more than commonly sensitive to sights and sounds, and when the eyes are more apt than at other times to be deceived by strange appearances. iris walked into the garden, finding no one there. she opened the door with her own key and let herself in. the house struck her as strangely empty and silent. she opened the dining-room door: no one was there. like all french dining-rooms, it was used for no other purpose than for eating, and furnished with little more than the barest necessaries. she closed the door and opened that of the salon: that also was empty. she called her husband: there was no answer. she called the name of the cook: there was no answer. it was fortunate that she did not open the door of the spare room, for there lay the body of the dead man. she went upstairs to her husband's room. that too was empty. but there was something lying on the table--a photograph. she took it up. her face became white suddenly and swiftly. she shrieked aloud, then drooped the picture and fell fainting to the ground. for the photograph was nothing less than that of her husband, dead in his white graveclothes, his hands composed, his eyes closed, his cheek waxen. the cry fell upon the ears of lord harry, who was in the garden below. he rushed into the house and lifted his wife upon the bed. the photograph showed him plainly what had happened. she came to her senses again, but seeing her husband alive before her, and remembering what she had seen, she shrieked again, and fell into another swoon. "what is to be done now?" asked the husband. "what shall i tell her? how shall i make her understand? what can i do for her?" as for help, there was none: the nurse was gone on some errand; the doctor was arranging for the funeral of oxbye under the name of lord harry norland; the cottage was empty. such a fainting fit does not last for ever. iris came round, and sat up, looking wildly around. "what is it?" she cried. "what does it mean?" "it means, my love, that you have returned to your husband." he laid an arm round her, and kissed her again and again. "you are my harry!--living!--my own harry?" "your own harry, my darling. what else should i be?" "tell me then, what does it mean--that picture--that horrid photograph?" "that means nothing--nothing--a freak--a joke of the doctor's. what could it mean?" he took it up. "why, my dear, i am living--living and well. what should this mean but a joke?" he laid it on the table again, face downwards. but her eyes showed that she was not satisfied. men do not make jokes on death; it is a sorry jest indeed to dress up a man in grave-clothes, and make a photograph of him as of one dead. "but you--you, my iris; you are here--tell me how and why--and when, and everything? never mind that stupid picture: tell me." "i got your letter, harry," she replied. "my letter?" he repeated. "oh! my dear, you got my letter, and you saw that your husband loved you still." "i could not keep away from you, harry, whatever had happened. i stayed as long as i could. i thought about you day and night. and at last i--i--i came back. are you angry with me, harry?" "angry? good god! my dearest, angry?" he kissed her passionately--not the less passionately that she had returned at a time so terrible. what was he to say to her? how was he to tell her? while he showered kisses on her he was asking himself these questions. when she found out--when he should confess to her the whole truth--she would leave him again. yet he did not understand the nature of the woman who loves. he held her in his arms; his kisses pleaded for him; they mastered her--she was ready to believe, to accept, to surrender even her truth and honesty; and she was ready, though she knew it not, to become the accomplice of a crime. rather than leave her husband again, she would do everything. yet, lord harry felt there was one reservation: he might confess everything, except the murder of the dane. no word of confession had passed the doctor's lips, yet he knew too well that the man had been murdered; and, so far as the man had been chosen for his resemblance to himself, that was perfectly useless, because the resemblance, though striking at the first, had been gradually disappearing as the man oxbye grew better; and was now, as we have seen, wholly lost after death. "i have a great deal--a great deal--to tell you, dear," said the husband, holding both her hands tenderly. "you will have to be very patient with me. you must make up your mind to be shocked at first, though i shall be able to convince you that there was really nothing else to be done--nothing else at all." "oh! go on, harry. tell me all. hide nothing." "i will tell you all," he replied. "first, where is that poor man whom the doctor brought here and fanny nursed? and where is fanny?" "the poor man," he replied carelessly, "made so rapid a recovery that he has got on his legs and gone away--i believe, to report himself to the hospital whence he came. it is a great triumph for the doctor, whose new treatment is now proved to be successful. he will make a grand flourish of trumpets about it. i dare say, if all he claims for it is true, he has taken a great step in the treatment of lung diseases." iris had no disease of the lungs, and consequently cared very little for the scientific aspect of the question. "where is my maid, then?" "fanny? she went away--let me see: to-day is friday--on wednesday morning. it was no use keeping her here. the man was well, and she was anxious to get back to you. so she started on wednesday morning, proposing to take the night boat from dieppe. she must have stopped somewhere on the way." "i suppose she will go to see mrs. vimpany. i will send her a line there." "certainly. that will be sure to find her." "well, harry, is there anything else to tell me? "a great deal," he repeated. "that photograph, iris, which frightened you so much, has been very carefully taken by vimpany for a certain reason." "what reason?" "there are occasions," he replied, "when the very best thing that can happen to a man is the belief that he is dead. such a juncture of affairs has happened to myself--and to you--at this moment. it is convenient--even necessary--for me that the world should believe me dead. in point of fact, i must be dead henceforth. not for anything that i have done, or that i am afraid of--don't think that. no; it is for the simple reason that i have no longer any money or any resources whatever. that is why i must be dead. had you not returned in this unexpected manner, my dear, you would have heard of my death from the doctor, and he would have left it to chance to find a convenient opportunity of letting you know the truth. i am, however, deeply grieved that i was so careless as to leave that photograph upon the table." "i do not understand," she said. "you pretend to be dead?" "yes. i _must_ have money. i have some left--a very little. i _must_ have money; and, in order to get it, i must be dead." "how will that help?" "why, my dear, i am insured, and my insurances will be paid after my death; but not before." "oh! must you get money--even by a----" she hesitated. "call it a conspiracy, my dear, if you please. as there is no other way whatever left, i must get money that way." "oh, this is dreadful! a conspiracy, harry? a--a--fraud?" "if you please. that is the name which lawyers give to it." "but oh, harry!--it is a crime. it is a thing for which men are tried and found guilty and sentenced." "certainly; if they are found out. meantime, it is only the poor, ignorant, clumsy fool who gets found out. in the city these things are done every day. quite as a matter of course," he added carelessly. "it is not usual for men to take their wives into confidence, but in this case i must take you into confidence: i have no choice, as you will understand directly." "tell me, harry, who first thought of this way?" "vimpany, of course. oh! give him the credit where real cleverness is concerned. vimpany suggested the thing. he found me well-nigh as desperately hard up as he is himself. he suggested it. at first, i confess, i did not like it. i refused to listen to any more talk about it. but, you see, when one meets destitution face to face, one will do anything--everything. besides, as i will show you, this is not really a fraud. it is only an anticipation of a few years. however, there was another reason." "was it to find the money to meet the promissory note?" "my dear, you may forget--you may resolve never to throw the thing in my teeth; but my love for you will never suffer me to forget that i have lost your little fortune in a doubtful speculation. it is all gone, never to be recovered again; and this after i had sworn never to touch a farthing of it. iris!"--he started to his feet and walked about the room as one who is agitated by emotion--"iris! i could face imprisonment for debt, i could submit to pecuniary ruin, for that matter; the loss of money would not cause me the least trouble, but i cannot endure to have ruined you." "oh! harry, as if i mind. everything that i have is yours. when i gave you myself i gave all. take--use--lose it all. as you think, i should never _feel_ reproach, far less utter a word of blame. dearest harry, if that is all--" "no; it is the knowledge that you will not even feel reproach that is my constant accuser. at my death you will get all back again. but i am not old; i may live for many, many years to come. how can i wait for my own death when i can repair this wickedness by a single stroke?" "but by another wickedness--and worse." "no--not another crime. remember that this money is mine. it will come to my heirs some day, as surely as to-morrow's sun will rise. sooner or later it will be mine; i will make it sooner, that is all. the insurance company will lose nothing but the paltry interest for the remainder of my life. my dear, if it is disgraceful to do this i will endure disgrace. it is easier to bear that than constant self-reproach which i feel when i think of you and the losses i have inflicted upon you." again he folded her in his arms; he knelt before her; he wept over her. carried out of herself by this passion, iris made no more resistance. "is it--is it," she asked timidly, "too late to draw back?" "it is too late," he replied, thinking of the dead man below. "it is too late. all is completed." "my poor harry! what shall we do? how shall we live? how shall we contrive never to be found out?" she would not leave him, then. she accepted the situation. he was amazed at the readiness with which she fell; but he did not understand how she was ready to cling to him, for better for worse, through worse evils than this; nor could he understand how things formerly impossible to her had been rendered possible by the subtle deterioration of the moral nature, when a woman of lofty mind at the beginning loves and is united to a man of lower nature and coarser fibre than herself. only a few months before, iris would have swept aside these sophistrics with swift and resolute hand. now she accepted them. "you have fallen into the doctor's hands, dear," she said. "pray heaven it brings us not into worse evils! what can i say? it is through love of your wife--through love of your wife--oh! husband!" she threw herself into his arms, and forgave everything and accepted everything. henceforth she would be--though this she knew not--the willing instrument of the two conspirators. chapter liv another step "i have left this terrible thing about once too often already," and lord harry took it from the table. "let me put it in a place of safety." he unlocked a drawer and opened it. "i will put it here," he said. "why"--as if suddenly recollecting something--"here is my will. i shall be leaving that about on the table next. iris, my dear, i have left everything to you. all will be yours." he took out the document. "keep it for me, iris. it is yours. you may as well have it now, and then i know, in your careful hands, it will be quite safe. not only is everything left to you, but you are the sole executrix." iris took the will without a word. she understood, now, what it meant. if she was the sole executrix she would have to act. if everything was left to her she would have to receive the money. thus, at a single step, she became not only cognisant of the conspiracy, but the chief agent and instrument to carry it out. this done, her husband had only to tell her what had to be done at once, in consequence of her premature arrival. he had planned, he told her, not to send for her--not to let her know or suspect anything of the truth until the money had been paid to the widow by the insurance company. as things had turned out, it would be best for both of them to leave passy at once--that very evening--before her arrival was known by anybody, and to let vimpany carry out the rest of the business. he was quite to be trusted--he would do everything that was wanted. "already," he said, "the office will have received from the doctor a notification of my death. yesterday evening he wrote to everybody--to my brother--confound him!--and to the family solicitor. every moment that i stay here increases the danger of my being seen and recognised--after the office has been informed that i am dead." "where are we to go?" "i have thought of that. there is a little quiet town in belgium where no english people ever come at all. we will go there, then we will take another name; we will be buried to the outer world, and will live, for the rest of our lives, for ourselves alone. do you agree?" "i will do, harry, whatever you think best." "it will be for a time only. when all is ready, you will have to step to the front--the will in your hand to be proved--to receive what is due to you as the widow of lord harry norland. you will go back to belgium, after awhile, so as to disarm suspicion, to become once more the wife of william linville." iris sighed heavily, then she caught her husband's eyes gathering with doubt, and she smiled again. "in everything, harry," she said, "i am your servant. when shall we start?" "immediately. i have only to write a letter to the doctor. where is your bag? is this all? let me go first to see that no one is about. have you got the will? oh! it is here--yes--in the bag. i will bring along the bag." he ran downstairs, and came up quickly. "the nurse has returned," he said. "she is in the spare room." "what nurse?" "the nurse who came after fanny left. the man was better, but the doctor thought it wisest to have a nurse to the end," he explained hurriedly, and she suspected nothing till afterwards. "come down quietly--go out by the back-door--she will not see you." so iris obeyed. she went out of her own house like a thief, or like her own maid fanny, had she known. she passed through the garden, and out of the garden into the road. there she waited for her husband. lord harry sat down and wrote a letter. "dear doctor," he said, "while you are arranging things outside an unexpected event has happened inside. nothing happens but the unexpected. my wife has come back. it is the most unexpected event of any. anything else might have happened. most fortunately she has not seen the spare bedroom, and has no idea of its contents. "at this point reassure yourself. "my wife has gone. "she found on the table your first print of the negative. the sight of this before she saw me threw her into some kind of swoon, from which, however, she recovered. "i have explained things to a certain point. she understands that lord harry norland is deceased. she does not understand that it was necessary to have a funeral; there is no necessity to tell her of that. i think she understands that she must not seem to have been here. therefore she goes away immediately. "the nurse has not seen her. no one has seen her. "she understands, further, that as the widow, heir, and executrix of lord harry she will have to prove his will, and to receive the money due to him by the insurance company. she will do this out of love for her husband. i think that the persuasive powers of a certain person have never yet been estimated at their true value. "considering the vital importance of getting her out of the place before she can learn anything of the spare bedroom, and of getting me out of the place before any messenger can arrive from the london office, i think you will agree with me that i am right in leaving passy--and paris--with lady harry this very afternoon. "you may write to william linville, poste-restante, louvain, belgium. i am sure i can trust you to destroy this letter. "louvain is a quiet, out-of-the-way place, where one can live quite separated from all old friends, and very cheaply. "considering the small amount of money that i have left, i rely upon you to exercise the greatest economy. i do not know how long it may be before just claims are paid up--perhaps in two months--perhaps in six--but until things are settled there will be tightness. "at the same time it will not be difficult, as soon as lady harry goes to london, to obtain some kind of advance from the family solicitor on the strength of the insurance due to her from her late husband. "i am sorry, dear doctor, to leave you alone over the obsequies of this unfortunate gentleman. you will also have, i hear, a good deal of correspondence with his family. you may, possibly, have to see them in england. all this you will do, and do very well. your bill for medical attendance you will do well to send in to the widow. "one word more. fanny mere, the maid, has gone to london; but she has not seen lady harry. as soon as she hears that her mistress has left london she will be back to passy. she may come at any moment. i think if i were you i would meet her at the garden gate and send her on. it would be inconvenient if she were to arrive before the funeral. "my dear doctor, i rely on your sense, your prudence, and your capability.--yours very sincerely, "your english friend." he read this letter very carefully. nothing in it he thought the least dangerous, and yet something suggested danger. however, he left it; he was obliged to caution and warn the doctor, and he was obliged to get his wife away as quietly as possible. this done, he packed up his things and hurried off to the station, and passy saw him no more. the next day the mortal remains of lord harry norland were lowered into the grave. chapter lv the adventures of a faithful maid it was about five o'clock on saturday afternoon. the funeral was over. the unfortunate young irish gentleman was now lying in the cemetery of auteuil in a grave purchased in perpetuity. his name, age, and rank were duly inscribed in the registers, and the cause of his death was vouched for by the english physician who had attended him at the request of his family. he was accompanied, in going through the formalities, by the respectable woman who had nursed the sick man during his last seizure. everything was perfectly in order. the physician was the only mourner at the funeral. no one was curious about the little procession. a funeral, more or less, excites no attention. the funeral completed, the doctor gave orders for a single monument to be put in memory of lord harry norland, thus prematurely cut off. he then returned to the cottage, paid and dismissed the nurse, taking her address in case he should find an opportunity, as he hoped, to recommend her among his numerous and distinguished clientele, and proceeded to occupy himself in setting everything in order before giving over the key to the landlord. first of all he removed the medicine bottles from the cupboard with great care, leaving nothing. most of the bottles he threw outside into the dust-hole; one or two he placed in a fire which he made for the purpose in the kitchen: they were shortly reduced to two or three lumps of molten glass. these contained, no doubt, the mysteries and secrets of science. then he went into every room and searched in every possible place for any letters or papers which might have been left about. letters left about are always indiscreet, and the consequences of an indiscretion may be far-reaching and incalculable. satisfied at last that the place was perfectly cleared, he sat down in the salon and continued his business correspondence with the noble family and the solicitors. thus engaged, he heard footsteps outside, footsteps on the gravel, footsteps on the doorstop. he got up, not without the slightest show of nervousness, and opened the door. lord harry was right. there stood the woman who had been his first nurse--the woman who overheard and watched--the woman who suspected. the suspicion and the intention of watching were legible in her eyes still. she had come back to renew her watch. in her hand she carried her box, which she had lugged along from the place where the omnibus had deposited her. she made as if she were stepping in; but the big form of the doctor barred the way. "oh!" he said carelessly, "it is you. who told you to come back?" "is my mistress at home?" "no; she is not." he made no movement to let her pass. "i will come in, please, and wait for her." he still stood in the way. "what time will she return?" "have you heard from her?" "no." "did she leave orders that you were to follow her?" "no; none that i received. i thought--" "servants should never think. they should obey." "i know my duty, dr. vimpany, without learning it from you. will you let me pass?" he withdrew, and she entered. "come in, by all means," he said, "if you desire my society for a short time. but you will not find your mistress here." "not here! where is she, then?" "had you waited in london for a day or two you would, i dare say, have been informed. as it is, you have had your journey for nothing." "has she not been here?" "she has not been here." "dr. vimpany," said the woman, driven to desperation, "i don't believe you! i am certain she has been here. what have you done with her?" "don't you believe me? that is sad, indeed. but one cannot always help these wanderings. you do not believe me? melancholy, truly!" "you may mock as much as you like. where is she?" "where, indeed?" "she left london to join his lordship. where is he? "i do not know. he who would answer that question would be a wise man indeed." "can i see him?" "certainly not. he has gone away. on a long journey. by himself." "then i shall wait for him. here!" she added with decision. "in this house!" "by all means." she hesitated. there was an easy look about the doctor which she did not like. "i believe," she said, "that my mistress is in the house. she must be in the house. what are you going to do with her? i believe you have put her somewhere." "indeed!" "you would do anything! i will go to the police." "if you please." "oh! doctor, tell me where she is!" "you are a faithful servant: it is good, in these days, to find a woman so zealous on account of her mistress. come in, good and faithful. search the house all over. come in--what are you afraid of? put down your box, and go and look for your mistress." fanny obeyed. she ran into the house, opened the doors of the salon and the dining-room one after the other: no one was there. she ran up the stairs and looked into her mistress's room: nothing was there, not even a ribbon or a hair-pin, to show the recent presence of a woman. she looked into lord harry's room. nothing was there. if a woman leaves hairpins about, a man leaves his toothbrush: nothing at all was there. then she threw open the armoire in each room: nothing behind the doors. she came downstairs slowly, wondering what it all meant. "may i look in the spare room?" she asked, expecting to be roughly refused. "by all means--by all means," said the doctor, blandly. "you know your way about. if there is anything left belonging to your mistress or to you, pray take it." she tried one more question. "how is my patient? how is mr. oxbye?" "he is gone." "gone? where has he gone to? gone?" "he went away yesterday--friday. he was a grateful creature. i wish we had more such grateful creatures as well as more such faithful servants. he said something about finding his way to london in order to thank you properly. a good soul, indeed!" "gone?" she repeated. "why, on thursday morning i saw him--" she checked herself in time. "it was on wednesday morning that you saw him, and he was then recovering rapidly." "but he was far too weak to travel." "you may be quite certain that i should not have allowed him to go away unless he was strong enough." fanny made no reply. she had seen with her own eyes the man lying still and white, as if in death; she had seen the new nurse rushing off, crying that he was dead. now she was told that he was quite well, and that he had gone away! but it was no time for thought. she was on the point of asking where the new nurse was, but she remembered in time that it was best for her to know nothing, and to awaken no suspicions. she opened the door of the spare room and looked in. yes; the man was gone--dead or alive--and there were no traces left of his presence. the place was cleared up; the cupboard stood with open doors, empty; the bed was made; the curtain pushed back; the sofa was in its place against the wall; the window stood open. nothing in the room at all to show that there had been an occupant only two days before. she stared blankly. the dead man was gone, then. had her senses altogether deceived her? was he not dead, but only sleeping? was her horror only a thing of imagination? behind her, in the hall, stood the doctor, smiling, cheerful. she remembered that her first business was to find her mistress. she was not connected with the dane. she closed the door and returned to the hall. "well," asked the doctor, "have you made any discoveries? you see that the house is deserted. you will perhaps learn before long why. now what will you do? will you go back to london?" "i must find her ladyship." the doctor smiled. "had you come here in a different spirit," he said, "i would have spared you all this trouble. you come, however, with suspicion written on your face. you have always been suspecting and watching. it may be in a spirit of fidelity to your mistress; but such a spirit is not pleasing to other people, especially when there is not a single person who bears any resentment towards that mistress. therefore, i have allowed you to run over the empty house, and to satisfy your suspicious soul. lady harry is not hidden here. as for lord harry--but you will hear in due time no doubt. and now i don't mind telling you that i have her ladyship's present address." "oh! what is it?" "she appears to have passed through paris on her way to switzerland two days ago, and has sent here her address for the next fortnight. she has now, i suppose, arrived there. the place is berne; the hotel ----. but how do i know that she wants you?" "of course she wants me." "or of course you want her? very good. yours is the responsibility, not mine. her address is the hotel d'angleterre. shall i write it down for you? there it is. 'hotel d'angleterre, berne.' now you will not forget. she will remain there for one fortnight only. after that, i cannot say whither she may go. and, as all her things have been sent away, and as i am going away, i am not likely to hear." "oh i must go to her. i must find her!" cried the woman earnestly; "if it is only to make sure that no evil is intended for her." "that is your business. for my own part, i know of no one who can wish her ladyship any evil." "is my lord with her?" "i don't know whether that is your business. i have already told you that he is gone. if you join your mistress in berne, you will very soon find out if he is there as well." something in his tone made fanny look up quickly. but his face revealed nothing. "what shall you do then?" asked the doctor. "you must make up your mind quickly whether you will go back to england or whether you will go on to switzerland. you cannot stay here, because i am putting together the last things, and i shall give the landlord the key of the house this evening. all the bills are paid, and i am going to leave the place." "i do not understand. there is the patient," she murmured vaguely. "what does it mean? i cannot understand." "my good creature," he replied roughly, "what the devil does it matter to me whether you understand or whether you do not understand? her ladyship is, as i have told you, at berne. if you please to follow her there, do so. it is your own affair, not mine. if you prefer to go back to london, do so. still--your own affair. is there anything else to say?" nothing. fanny took up her box--this time the doctor did not offer to carry it for her. "where are you going?" he asked. "what have you decided?" "i can get round by the chemin de fer de ceinture to the lyons station. i shall take the first cheap train which will take me to berne." "bon voyage!" said the doctor, cheerfully, and shut the door. it is a long journey from paris to berne even for those who can travel first class and express--that is, if sixteen hours can be called a long journey. for those who have to jog along by third class, stopping at all the little country stations, it is a long and tedious journey indeed. the longest journey ends at last. the train rolled slowly into the station of berne, and fanny descended with her box. her wanderings were over for the present. she would find her mistress and be at rest. she asked to be directed to the hotel d'angleterre. the swiss guardian of the peace with the cocked hat stared at her. she repeated the question. "hotel d'angleterre?" he echoed. "there is no hotel d'angleterre in berne." "yes, yes; there is. i am the maid of a lady who is staying at that hotel." "no; there is no hotel d'angleterre," he reported. "there is the hotel bernehof." "no." she took out the paper and showed it to him--"lady harry norland, hotel d'angleterre, berne." "there is the hotel de belle vue, the hotel du faucon, the hotel victoria, the hotel schweizerhof. there is the hotel schrodel, the hotel schneider, the pension simkin." fanny as yet had no other suspicion than that the doctor had accidentally written a wrong name. her mistress was at berne: she would be in one of the hotels. berne is not a large place. very good; she would go round to the hotels and inquire. she did so. there are not, in fact, more than half a dozen hotels in berne where an english lady could possibly stay. fanny went to every one of these. no one had heard of any such lady: they showed her the lists of their visitors. she inquired at the post-office. no lady of that name had asked for letters. she asked if there were any pensions, and went round them all--uselessly. no other conclusion was possible. the doctor had deceived her wilfully. to get her out of the way he sent her to berne. he would have sent her to jericho if her purse had been long enough to pay the fare. she was tricked. she counted her money. there was exactly twenty-eight shillings and tenpence in her purse. she went back to the cheapest (and dirtiest) of the pensions she had visited. she stated her case--she had missed milady her mistress--she must stay until she should receive orders to go on, and money--would they take her in until one or the other arrived? certainly. they would take her in, at five francs a day, payable every morning in advance. she made a little calculation--she had twenty-eight and tenpence; exactly thirty-five francs--enough for seven days. if she wrote to mrs. vimpany at once she could get an answer in five days. she accepted the offer, paid her five shillings, was shown into a room, and was informed that the dinner was served at six o'clock. very good. here she could rest, at any rate, and think what was to be done. and first she wrote two letters--one to mrs. vimpany and one to mr. mountjoy. in both of these letters she told exactly what she had found: neither lord harry nor his wife at the cottage, the place vacated, and the doctor on the point of going away. in both letters she told how she had been sent all the way into switzerland on a fool's errand, and now found herself planted there without the means of getting home. in the letter to mrs. vimpany she added the remarkable detail that the man whom she had seen on the thursday morning apparently dead, whose actual poisoning she thought she had witnessed, was reported on the saturday to have walked out of the cottage, carrying his things, if he had any, and proposing to make his way to london in order to find out his old nurse. "make what you can out of that," she said. "for my own part, i understand nothing." in the letter which she wrote to mr. mountjoy she added a petition that he would send her money to bring her home. this, she said, her mistress she knew would willingly defray. she posted these letters on tuesday, and waited for the answers. mrs. vimpany wrote back by return post. "my dear fanny," she said, "i have read your letter with the greatest interest. i am not only afraid that some villainy is afloat, but i am perfectly sure of it. one can only hope and pray that her ladyship may be kept out of its influence. you will be pleased to hear that mr. mountjoy is better. as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to stand the shock of violent emotion, i put lady harry's letter into his hands. it was well that i had kept it from him, for he fell into such a violence of grief and indignation that i thought he would have had a serious relapse. 'can any woman,' he cried, 'be justified in going back to an utterly unworthy husband until he has proved a complete change? what if she had received a thousand letters of penitence? penitence should be shown by acts, not words: she should have waited.' he wrote her a letter, which he showed me. 'is there,' he asked, 'anything in the letter which could justly offend her?' i could find nothing. he told her, but i fear too late, that she risks degradation--perhaps worse, if there is anything worse--if she persists in returning to her unworthy husband. if she refuses to be guided by his advice, on the last occasion on which he would presume to offer any device, he begged that she would not answer. let her silence say--no. that was the substance of his letter. up to the present moment no answer has been received from lady harry. nor has he received so much as an acknowledgment of the letter. what can be understood by this silence? clearly, refusal. "you must return by way of paris, though it is longer than by basle and laon. mr. mountjoy, i know, will send you the money you want. he has told me as much. 'i have done with lady harry,' he said. 'her movements no longer concern me, though i can never want interest in what she does. but since the girl is right to stick to her mistress, i will send her the money--not as a loan to be paid back by iris, but as a gift from myself.' "therefore, my dear fanny, stop in paris for one night at least, and learn what has been done if you can. find out the nurse, and ask her what really happened. with the knowledge that you already possess, it will be hard, indeed, if we cannot arrive at the truth. there must be people who supplied things to the cottage--the restaurant, the _pharmacien,_ the laundress. see them all--you know them already, and we will put the facts together. as for finding her ladyship, that will depend entirely upon herself. i shall expect you back in about a week. if anything happens here i shall be able to tell you when you arrive. "yours affectionately, l. vimpany." this letter exactly coincided with fanny's own views. the doctor was now gone. she was pretty certain that he was not going to remain alone in the cottage; and the suburb of passy, though charming in many ways, is not exactly the place for a man of dr. vimpany's temperament. she would stay a day, or even two days or more, if necessary, at passy. she would make those inquiries. the second letter, which reached her the same day, was from mr. mountjoy. he told her what he had told mrs. vimpany: he would give her the money, because he recognised the spirit of fidelity which caused fanny to go first to paris and then to berne. but he could not pretend to any right to interference in the affairs of lord and lady harry norland. he enclosed a _mandat postal_ for a hundred and twenty-five francs, which he hoped would be sufficient for her immediate wants. she started on her return-journey on the same day--namely, saturday. on sunday evening she was in a pension at passy, ready to make those inquiries. the first person whom she sought out was the _rentier_--the landlord of the cottage. he was a retired tradesman--one who had made his modest fortune in a _charcuterie_ and had invested it in house property. fanny told him that she had been lady's-maid to lady harry norland, in the recent occupancy of the cottage, and that she was anxious to know her present address. "merci, mon dieu! que sais-je? what do i know about it?" he replied. "the wife of the english milord is so much attached to her husband that she leaves him in his long illness--" "his long illness?" "certainly--mademoiselle is not, perhaps, acquainted with the circumstances--his long illness; and does not come even to see his dead body after he is dead. there is a wife for you--a wife of the english fashion!" fanny gasped. "after he is dead! is lord harry dead? when did he die?" "but, assuredly, mademoiselle has not heard? the english milord died on thursday morning, a week and more ago, of consumption, and was buried in the cemetery of auteuil last saturday. mademoiselle appears astonished." "en effet, monsieur, i am astonished." "already the tombstone is erected to the memory of the unhappy young man, who is said to belong to a most distinguished family of ireland. mademoiselle can see it with her own eyes in the cemetery." "one word more, monsieur. if monsieur would have the kindness to tell her who was the nurse of milord in his last seizure?" "but certainly. all the world knows the widow la chaise. it was the widow la chaise who was called in by the doctor. ah! there is a man--what a man! what a miracle of science! what devotion to his friend! what admirable sentiments! truly, the english are great in sentiments when their insular coldness allows them to speak. this widow can be found--easily found." he gave fanny, in fact, the nurse's address. armed with this, and having got out of the landlord the cardinal fact of lord harry's alleged death, the lady's-maid went in search of this respectable widow. she found her, in her own apartments, a respectable woman indeed, perfectly ready to tell everything that she knew, and evidently quite unsuspicious of anything wrong. she was invited to take charge of a sick man on the morning of thursday: she was told that he was a young irish lord, dangerously ill of a pulmonary disorder; the doctor, in fact, informed her that his life hung by a thread, and might drop at any moment, though on the other hand he had known such cases linger on for many months. she arrived as she had been ordered, at midday: she was taken into the sick-room by the doctor, who showed her the patient placidly sleeping on a sofa: the bed had been slept in, and was not yet made. after explaining the medicines which she was to administer, and the times when they were to be given, and telling her something about his diet, the doctor left her alone with the patient. "he was still sleeping profoundly," said the nurse. "you are sure that he was sleeping, and not dead?" asked fanny, sharply. "mademoiselle, i have been a nurse for many years. i know my duties. the moment the doctor left me i verified his statements. i proved that the patient was sleeping by feeling his pulse and observing his breath." fanny made no reply. she could hardly remind this respectable person that after the doctor left her she employed herself first in examining the cupboards, drawers, _armoire,_ and other things; that she then found a book with pictures, in which she read for a quarter of an hour or so; that she then grew sleepy and dropped the book-- "i then," continued the widow, "made arrangements against his waking--that is to say, i drew back the curtains and turned over the sheet to air the bed"--o madame! madame! surely this was needless!--"shook up the pillows, and occupied myself in the cares of a conscientious nurse until the time came to administer the first dose of medicine. then i proceeded to awaken my patient. figure to yourself! he whom i had left tranquilly breathing, with the regularity of a convalescent rather than a dying man, was dead! he was dead!" "you are sure he was dead?" "as if i had never seen a dead body before! i called the doctor, but it was for duty only, for i knew that he was dead." "and then?" "then the doctor--who must also have known that he was dead--felt his pulse and his heart, and looked at his eyes, and declared that he was dead." "and then?" "what then? if a man is dead he is dead. you cannot restore him to life. yet one thing the doctor did. he brought a camera and took a photograph of the dead man for the sake of his friends." "oh! he took a photograph of--of lord harry norland. what did he do that for?" "i tell you: for the sake of his friends." fanny was more bewildered than ever. why on earth should the doctor want a photograph of the dane oxbye to show the friends of lord harry? could he have made a blunder as stupid as it was uncalled for? no one could possibly mistake the dead face of that poor dane for the dead face of lord harry. she had got all the information she wanted--all, in fact, that was of any use to her. one thing remained. she would see the grave. the cemetery of auteuil is not so large as that of pere-la-chaise, nor does it contain so many celebrated persons as the latter--perhaps the greatest cemetery, as regards its illustrious dead, in the whole world. it is the cemetery of the better class. the tombs are not those of immortals but of respectables. among them fanny easily found, following the directions given to her, the tomb she was searching after. on it was written in english, "sacred to the memory of lord harry norland, second son of the marquis of malven." then followed the date and the age, and nothing more. fanny sat down on a bench and contemplated this mendacious stone. "the dane oxbye," she said, "was growing better fast when i went away. that was the reason why i was sent away. the very next day the doctor, thinking me far away, poisoned him. i saw him do it. the nurse was told that he was asleep, and being left alone presently discovered that he was dead. she has been told that the sick man is a young irish gentleman. he is buried under the name of lord harry. that is the reason i found the doctor alone. and my lady? where is she?" chapter lvi fanny's narrative fanny returned to london. partly, the slenderness of her resources gave her no choice; partly, she had learned all there was to learn, and would do no good by staying longer at passy. she arrived with thirty shillings left out of mr. mountjoy's timely gift. she sought a cheap lodging, and found a room, among people who seemed respectable, which she could have for four-and-sixpence a week, with board at a shilling a day. this settled, she hastened to mr. mountjoy's hotel brimful of her news for mrs. vimpany. everyone knows the disappointment when the one person in the world whom you want at the moment to see and to talk with proves to be out. then the news has to be suppressed; the conclusions, the suspicions, the guesses have to be postponed; the active brain falls back upon itself. this disappointment--almost as great as that at berne--was experienced by fanny mere at the hotel. mr. mountjoy was no longer there. the landlady of the hotel, who knew fanny, came out herself and told her what had happened. "he was better," she said, "but still weak. they sent him down to scotland in mrs. vimpany's care. he was to travel by quick or slow stages, just as he felt able. and i've got the address for you. here it is. oh! and mrs. vimpany left a message. will you, she says, when you write, send the letter to her and not to him? she says, you know why." fanny returned to her lodging profoundly discouraged. she was filled with this terrible secret that she had discovered. the only man who could advise at this juncture was mr. mountjoy, and he was gone. and she knew not what had become of her mistress. what could she do? the responsibility was more than she could bear. the conversation with the french nurse firmly established one thing in her mind. the man who was buried in the cemetery of auteuil with the name of lord harry norland on a headstone, the man who had lingered so long with pulmonary disease, was the man whose death she had witnessed. it was oxbye the dane. of that there could be no doubt. equally there was no doubt in her own mind that he had been poisoned by the doctor--by mrs. vimpany's husband--in the presence and, to all appearance, with the consent and full knowledge of lord harry himself. then her mistress was in the power of these two men--villains who had now added murder to their other crimes. as for herself, she was alone, almost friendless; in a week or two she would be penniless. if she told her tale, what mischief might she not do? if she was silent, what mischief might not follow? she sat down to write to the only friend she had. but her trouble froze her brain. she had not been able to put the case plainly. words failed her. she was not at any time fluent with her pen. she now found herself really unable to convey any intelligible account of what had happened. to state clearly all that she knew so that the conclusion should be obvious and patent to the reader would have been at all times difficult, and was now impossible. she could only confine herself to a simple vague statement. "i can only say that from all i have seen and heard i have reasons for believing that lord harry is not dead at all." she felt that this was a feeble way of summing up, but she was not at the moment equal to more. "when i write again, after i have heard from you, i will tell you more. to-day i cannot. i am too much weighed down. i am afraid of saying too much. besides, i have no money, and must look for work. i am not anxious, however, about my own future, because my lady will not forsake me. i am sure of that. it is my anxiety about her and the dreadful secrets i have learned which give me no rest." several days passed before the answer came. and then it was an answer which gave her little help. "i have no good news for you," she said. "mr. mountjoy continues weak. whatever your secret, i cannot ask you to communicate it to him in his present condition. he has been grieved and angry beyond all belief by lady harry's decision to rejoin her husband. it is hard to understand that a man should be so true a friend and so constant a lover. yet he has brought himself to declare that he has broken off all friendly relations with her. he could no longer endure london. it was associated with thoughts and memories of her. in spite of his weak condition, he insisted on coming down here to his scotch villa. ill as he was, he would brook no delay. we came down by very easy stages, stopping at peterborough, york, durham, newcastle, and berwick--at some places for one night, and others for more. in spite of all my precautions, when we arrived at the villa he was dangerously exhausted. i sent for the local doctor, who seems to know something. at all events, he is wise enough to understand that this is not a case for drugs. complete rest and absence from all agitating thoughts must be aimed at. above all, he is not to see the newspapers. that is fortunate, because, i suppose, lord harry's death has been announced in them, and the thought that his former mistress is a widow might excite him very dangerously. you will now understand why i left that message at the hotel for you, and why i have not shown him your letter. i told him, it is true, that you had returned without finding your mistress. 'speak no more to me of lady harry,' he replied irritably. so i have said no more. as for money, i have a few pounds by me, which are at your service. you can repay me at some future time. i have thought of one thing--that new continental paper started by lord harry. wherever she may be, lady harry is almost sure to see that. put an advertisement in it addressed to her, stating that you have not heard of her address, but that you yourself will receive any letter sent to some post-office which you can find. i think that such an advertisement will draw a reply from her, unless she desires to remain in seclusion." fanny thought the suggestion worth adopting. after careful consideration, she drew up an advertisement:-- "fanny h. to l--h--. i have not been able to ascertain your address. please write to me, at the post office, hunter street, london, w.c." she paid for the insertion of this advertisement three times on alternate saturdays. they told her that this would be a more likely way than to take three successive saturdays. then, encouraged by the feeling that something, however little, had been done, she resolved to sit down to write out a narrative in which she would set down in order everything that had happened--exactly as it had happened. her intense hatred and suspicion of dr. vimpany aided her, strange to say, to keep to the strictest fidelity as regards the facts. for it was not her desire to make up charges and accusations. she wanted to find out the exact truth, and so to set it down that anybody who read her statement would arrive at the same conclusion as she herself had done. in the case of an eye-witness there are thousands of things which cannot be produced in evidence which yet are most important in directing and confirming suspicions. the attitude, the voice, the look of a speaker, the things which he conceals as well as the things which he reveals--all these are evidence. but these fanny was unable to set down. therefore it behoved her to be strictly careful. first, she stated how she became aware that there was some secret scheme under consideration between lord harry and the doctor. next, she set down the fact that they began to talk french to each other, thinking that she could not understand them; that they spoke of deceiving lady harry by some statement which had already deceived the authorities; that the doctor undertook to get the lady out of the house; that they engaged herself as nurse to a sick man; that she suspected from the beginning that their design was to profit in some way by the death of this sick than, who bore a slight resemblance to lord harry himself. and so on, following the story as closely as she could remember, to the death of the dane and her own subsequent conversation with the nurse. she was careful to put in the dates, day after day. when she had done all this--it took a good deal of time--she bought a manuscript book and copied it all out. this enabled her to remember two or three facts which had escaped her at the beginning. then she made another copy this time without names of people or place. the second copy she forwarded as a registered letter to mrs. vimpany, with a letter of which this was the conclusion: "considering, therefore, that on wednesday morning i left lord harry in perfect health; considering that on the thursday morning i saw the man who had been ill so long actually die--how, i have told you in the packet enclosed; considering that the nurse was called in purposely to attend a patient who was stated to have long been ill--there can be no doubt whatever that the body in the cemetery is that of the unfortunate dane, oxbye; and that, somewhere or other, lord harry is alive and well. "what have they done it for? first of all, i suppose, to get money. if it were not for the purpose of getting money the doctor would have had nothing to do with the conspiracy, which was his own invention. that is very certain. your idea was they would try to get money out of the insurance offices. i suppose that is their design. but lord harry may have many other secret reasons of his own for wishing to be thought dead. they say his life has been full of wicked things, and he may well wish to be considered dead and gone. lots of wicked men would like above all things, i should think, to be considered dead and buried. but the money matter is at the bottom of all, i am convinced. what are we to do?" what could they do? these two women had got hold of a terrible secret. neither of them could move. it was too big a thing. one cannot expect a woman to bring her own husband--however wicked a husband he may be--to the awful shame and horror of the gallows if murder should be proved--or to a lifelong imprisonment if the conspiracy alone should be brought home to him. therefore mrs. vimpany could do nothing. as for fanny, the mere thought of the pain she would inflict upon her mistress, were lord harry, through her interference, to be brought to justice and an infamous sentence, kept her quiet. meantime, the announcement of lord harry's death had been made. those who knew the family history spoke cheerfully of the event. "best timing he had ever done. very good thing for his people. one more bad lot out of the way. dead, sir, and a very good thing, too. married, i believe. one of the men who have done everything. pity they can't write a life of him." these were the comments made upon the decease of this young gentleman. such is fame. next day he was clean forgotten; just as if he had never existed. such is life. chapter lvii at louvain not many english tourists go out of their way to visit louvain, even though it has a hotel de ville surpassing even that of brussels itself, and though one can get there in an hour from that city of youth and pleasure. and there are no english residents at all in the place--at least, none in evidence, though perhaps there may be some who have gone there for the same reasons which led mr. william linville and his wife to choose this spot--in order to be private and secluded. there are many more people than we know of who desire, above all things, seclusion and retirement, and dread nothing so much as a chance meeting with an old friend. mr. william linville took a small house, furnished, like the cottage at passy, and, also like that little villa, standing in its own garden. here, with a cook and a maid, iris set up her modest _menage._ to ask whether she was happy would be absurd. at no time since her marriage had she been happy; to live under the condition of perpetual concealment is not in itself likely to make a woman any the happier. fortunately she had no time to experience the full bitterness of the plan proposed by her husband. consider. had their scheme actually been carried out quite successfully, this pair, still young, would have found themselves condemned to transportation for life. that was the first thing. next, they could never make any friends among their own countrymen or countrywomen for fear of discovery. iris could never again speak to an english lady. if they had children the risk would appear ten times more terrible, the consequences ten times more awful. the children themselves would have to grow up without family and without friends. the husband, cut off from intercourse with other men, would be thrown back upon himself. husband and wife, with this horrible load laid upon them, would inevitably grow to loathe and hate the sight of each other. the man would almost certainly take to drink: the woman--but we must not follow this line any further. the situation lasted only so long as to give the wife a glimpse of what it might become in the future. they took their house, and sat down in it. they were very silent. lord harry, his great _coup_ successfully carried so far, sat taciturn and glum. he stayed indoors all day, only venturing out after dark. for a man whose whole idea of life was motion, society, and action, this promised ill. the monotony was first broken by the arrival of hugh's letter, which was sent in with other documents from passy. iris read it; she read it again, trying to understand exactly what it meant. then she tore it up. "if he only knew," she said, "he would not have taken the trouble even to write this letter. there is no answer, hugh. there can be none--now. act by your advice? henceforth, i must act by order. i am a conspirator." two days afterwards came a letter from the doctor. he did not think it necessary to say anything about fanny's appearance or her journey to borne. "everything," he wrote, "has so far gone well. the world knows, through the papers, that lord harry is dead. there will be now only the business of claiming the money. for this purpose, as his widow is the sole heiress and executrix, it will be necessary for her to place the will and the policies of insurance in the hands of her husband's lawyers, so that the will may be proved and the claims duly made. forms will have to be signed. the medical certificate of death and the forms attesting the burial are already in the lawyers' hands. the sooner the widow goes to london the better. she should write to announce her arrival, and she should write from paris as if she had been staying there after her husband's death. "i have only to remind you, my dear linville, that you are indebted to me in a good round sum. of course, i shall be very pleased to receive a cheque for this sum in full as soon as you have touched the amount due to you. i shall be in paris, at the hotel continental, where you may address me. naturally, there is no desire for concealment, and if the insurance companies desire any information from me i am always ready and willing to afford it." lord harry gave this letter to his wife. she read it, and laid it open in her lap. "must it be, harry? oh! must it be?" "there is no other way possible, dear. but really, it is nothing. you were not at passy when your husband died. you had been in london--you were in brussels--anywhere; when you arrived it was all over; you have seen his headstone. dr. vimpany had him in his care; you knew he was ill, but you thought it was a trifling matter which time would cure; you go to the lawyers and present the will. they have the policies, and will do everything else; you will not even have to sign anything. the only thing that you must do is to get a complete rig-out of widow's weeds. mind--there will not be the slightest doubt or question raised. considering everything, you will be more than justified in seeing no one and going nowhere." hugh's letter breaking in upon her fool's paradise had awakened the poor woman to her better self; she had gone so far with the fraud as to acquiesce in it; but she recoiled with horror and shame when this active part was forced upon her. "oh, harry!"--she burst into tears. "i cannot--i cannot. you ask me to be a liar and a thief--oh! heavens!--a vile thief! "it is too late, iris! we are all vile thieves. it is too late to begin crying now." "harry"--she threw herself upon her knees--"spare me! let some other woman go, and call herself your widow. then i will go away and hide myself." "don't talk nonsense, iris," he replied roughly. "i tell you it is far too late. you should have thought of this before. it is now all arranged." "i cannot go," she said. "you must go; otherwise, all our trouble may prove useless." "then i will not go!" she declared, springing to her feet. "i will not degrade myself any further. i will not go!" harry rose too. he faced her for a moment. his eyes dropped. even he remembered, at that moment, how great must be the fall of a woman who would consent to play such a part. "you shall not go," he said, "unless you like. you can leave me to the consequences of my own acts--to my own degradation. go back to england. in one thing only spare me. do not tell what you know. as for me, i will forge a letter from you--" "forge a letter!" "it is the only way left open, giving the lawyers authority to act, and inclosing the will. what will happen next? by whose hands the money is to reach me i know not yet. but you can leave me, iris. better that you should leave me--i shall only drag you lower." "why must you forge the letter? why not come with me somewhere--the world is large!--to some place where you are not known, and there let us begin a new life? we have not much money, but i can sell my watches and chains and rings, and we shall have enough. o harry! for once be guided--listen to me! we shall find some humble manner of living, and we may be happy yet. there is no harm done if you have only pretended to be dead; nobody has been injured or defrauded--" "iris, you talk wildly! do you imagine, for one moment, that the doctor will release me from my bargain?" "what bargain?" "why--of course he was to be paid for the part he has taken in the business. without him it could never have been done at all." "yes--yes--it was in the letter that you gave me," she said, conscious that such agreements belonged to works of fiction and to police courts. "certainly i have to pay him a good large slice out of the money." "it is fifteen thousand pounds, is it not? how much is to be paid to the--to the doctor?" "we agreed that he was to have the half," said lord harry, laughing lightly. "but as i thought that seven thousand five hundred pounds was a sum of money which would probably turn his head and bring him to starvation in a year or two, i told him that the whole amount was four thousand pounds. therefore he is to have two thousand pounds for his share. and quite enough too." "treachery on treachery!" said his wife. "fraud on fraud! would to god," she added with a sigh, "that you had never met this man!" "i dare say it would have been better for me, on the whole," he replied. "but then, my dear, a man like myself is always meeting people whom it would have been better not to have met. like will to like, i suppose. given the active villain and the passive consenter, and they are sure to meet. not that i throw stones at the worthy doctor. not at all." "we cannot, harry," said his wife. "we cannot, my dear. _bien entendu!_ well, iris, there is no more to be said. you know the situation completely. you can back out of it if you please, and leave me. then i shall have to begin all over again a new conspiracy far more dangerous than the last. well, i shall not drag you down with me. that is my resolution. if it comes to public degradation--but it shall not. iris, i promise you one thing." for once he looked as if he meant it. "death before dishonour. death without your name being mixed up at all, save with pity for being the wife of such a man." again he conquered her. "harry," she said, "i will go." chapter lviii of course they will pay three days afterwards a hansom cab drove to the offices of the very respectable firm of solicitors who managed the affairs of the norland family. they had one or two other families as well, and in spite of agricultural depression, they made a very good thing indeed out of a very comfortable business. the cab contained a lady in deep widow's weeds. lady harry norland expected to be received with coldness and suspicion. her husband, she knew, had not led the life expected in these days of a younger son. nor had his record been such as to endear him to his elder brother. then, as may be imagined, there were other tremors, caused by a guilty knowledge of certain facts which might by some accident "come out." everybody has tremors for whom something may come out. also, iris had had no experience of solicitors, and was afraid of them. instead of being received, however, by a gentleman as solemn as the court of chancery and as terrible as the court of assize, she found an elderly gentleman, of quiet, paternal manners, who held both her hands, and looked as if he was weeping over her bereavement. by long practice this worthy person could always, at a moment's notice, assume the appearance of one who was weeping with his client. "my dear lady!" he murmured. "my dear lady! this is a terrible time for you." she started. she feared that something had come out. "in the moment of bereavement, too, to think of business." "i have brought you," she replied curtly, "my husband's--my late husband's--will." "thank you. with your permission--though it may detain your ladyship--i will read it. humph! it is short and to the point. this will certainly give us little trouble. i fear, however, that, besides the insurances, your ladyship will not receive much." "nothing. my husband was always a poor man, as you know. at the time of his death he left a small sum of money only. i am, as a matter of fact, greatly inconvenienced." "your ladyship shall be inconvenienced no longer. you must draw upon us. as regards lord harry's death, we are informed by dr. vimpany, who seems to have been his friend as well as his medical adviser--" "dr. vimpany had been living with him for some time." --"that he had a somewhat protracted illness?" "i was away from my husband. i was staying here in london--on business--for some time before his death. i was not even aware that he was in any danger. when i hurried back to passy i was too late. my husband was--was already buried." "it was most unfortunate. and the fact that his lordship was not on speaking terms with the members of his own family--pray understand that i am not expressing any opinion on the case--but this fact seems to render his end more unhappy." "he had dr. vimpany," said iris, in a tone which suggested to the lawyer jealousy or dislike of the doctor. "well," he said, "it remains to prove the will and to make our claims against the insurance office. i have the policy here. his lordship was insured in the royal unicorn life insurance company for the sum of , pounds. we must not expect to have this large claim satisfied quite immediately. perhaps the office will take three months to settle. but, as i said before, your ladyship can draw upon us." "you are certain that the company will pay?" "assuredly. why not? they must pay." "oh! i thought that perhaps so large a sum--" "my dear madam"--the man who administered so much real and personal property smiled--"fifteen thousand pounds is not what we call a very large sum. why, if an insurance company refused to pay a lawful claim it would cut its own throat--absolutely. its very existence depends upon its meeting all just and lawful claims. the death being proved it remains for the company to pay the insurance into the hands of the person entitled to receive it. that is, in this case, to me, acting for you." "yes--i see--but i thought that, perhaps, my husband having died abroad there might be difficulty--" "there might, if he had died in central africa. but he died in a suburb of paris, under french law, which, in such matters, is even more careful and exacting than our own. we have the official papers, and the doctor's certificate. we have, besides, a photograph of the unfortunate gentleman lying on his death-bed--this was well thought of: it is an admirable likeness--the sun cannot lie--we have also a photograph of the newly erected tombstone. doubt? dear me, madam, they could no more raise a doubt as to your husband's death than if he were buried in the family vault. if anything should remove any ground for doubt, it is the fact that the only person who benefits by his death is yourself. if, on the other hand, he had been in the hands of persons who had reason to wish for his death, there might have been suspicions of foul play, which would have been matter for the police--but not for an insurance company." "oh! i am glad to learn, at least, that there will be no trouble. i have no knowledge of business, and i thought that--" "no--no--your ladyship need have no such ideas. in fact, i have already anticipated your arrival, and have sent to the manager of the company. he certainly went so far as to express a doubt as to the cause of death. consumption in any form was not supposed to be in your husband's family. but lord harry--ahem!--tried his constitution--tried his constitition, as i put it." he had put it a little differently. what he said was to the following effect--"lord harry norland, sir, was a devil. there was nothing he did not do. i only wonder that he has lived so long. had i been told that he died of everything all together, i should not have been surprised. ordinary rapid consumption was too simple for such a man." iris gave the lawyer her london address, obeyed him by drawing a hundred pounds, half of which she sent to mr. william linville, at louvain, and went home to wait. she must now stay in london until the claim was discharged. she waited six weeks. at the end of that time she learned from her solicitors that the company had settled, and that they, the lawyers, had paid to her bankers the sum of , pounds being the whole of the insurance. acting, then, on her husband's instructions, she sought another bank and opened an account for one william linville, gentleman, residing abroad. she gave herself as a reference, left the usual signature of william linville, and paid to his account a cheque for , pounds. she saw the manager of her own bank, explained that this large cheque was for an investment, and asked him to let her have , pounds in bank notes. this sum, she added, was for a special purpose. the manager imagined that she was about to perform some act of charity, perhaps an expiatory work on behalf of her late husband. she then wrote to dr. vimpany, who was in paris, making an appointment with him. her work of fraud and falsehood was complete. "there has been no trouble at all," she wrote to her husband; "and there will not be any. the insurance company has already settled the claim. i have paid , pounds to the account of william linville. my own banker--who knows my father--believes that the money is an investment. my dear harry, i believe that, unless the doctor begins to worry us--which he will do as soon as his money is all gone--a clear course lies before us. let us, as i have already begged you to do, go straight away to some part of america, where you are certain not to be known. you can dye your hair and grow a beard to make sure. let us go away from every place and person that may remind us of time past. perhaps, in time, we may recover something of the old peace and--can it ever be?--the old self-respect." there was going to be trouble, however, and that of a kind little expected, impossible to be guarded against. and it would be trouble caused by her own act and deed. chapter lix the consequences of an advertisement the trouble was made by iris herself. in this way-- she saw fanny's advertisement. her first impulse was to take her back into her service. but she remembered the necessity for concealment. she must not place herself--she realised already the fact that she had done a thing which would draw upon her the vengeance of the law--and her husband in the power of this woman, whose fidelity might not stand the shock of some fit of jealousy, rage, or revenge for fancied slight. she must henceforth be cut off altogether from all her old friends. she therefore answered the letter by one which contained no address, and which she posted with her own hand at the general post office. she considered her words carefully. she must not say too much or too little. "i enclose," she said, "a bank note for ten pounds to assist you. i am about to travel abroad, but must, under existing circumstances, dispense with the services of a maid. in the course of my travels i expect to be in brussels. if, therefore, you have anything to tell me or to ask of me, write to me at the poste restante of that city, and in the course of six mouths or so i am tolerably sure to send for the letter. in fact, i shall expect to find a letter from you. do not think that i have forgotten you or your faithful services, though for a moment i am not able to call you to my side. be patient." there was no address given in the letter. this alone was mysterious. if lady harry was in london and the letter was posted at the general post office--why should she not give her address? if she was abroad, why should she hide her address? in any case, why should she do without a maid--she who had never been without a maid--to whom a maid was as necessary as one of her hands? oh! she could never get along at all without a maid. as for iris's business in london and her part in the conspiracy, of course fanny neither knew nor suspected. she had recourse again to her only friend--mrs. vimpany--to whom she sent lady harry's letter, and imploring her to lay the whole before mr. mountjoy. "he is getting so much stronger," mrs. vimpany wrote back, "that i shall be able to tell him every thing before long. do not be in a hurry. let us do nothing that may bring trouble upon her. but i am sure that something is going on--something wicked. i have read your account of what has happened over and over again. i am as convinced as you could possibly be that my husband and lord harry are trading on the supposed death of the letter. we can do nothing. let us wait." three days afterwards she wrote again. "the opportunity for which i have been waiting has come at last. mr. mountjoy is, i believe, fully recovered. this morning, seeing him so well and strong, i asked him if i might venture to place in his hands a paper containing a narrative. "'is it concerning iris?' he asked. "'it has to do with lady harry--indirectly.' "for a while he made no reply. then he asked me if it had also to do with her husband. "'with her husband and with mine,' i told him. "again he was silent. "after a bit he looked up and said, 'i had promised myself never again to interfere in lady harry norland's affairs. you wish me to read this document, mrs. vimpany?" "'certainly; i am most anxious that you should read it and should advise upon it.' "'who wrote it?' "'fanny mere, lady harry's maid.' "'if it is only to tell me that her husband is a villain,' he said, 'i will not read it.' "'if you were enabled by reading it to keep lady harry from a dreadful misfortune?' i suggested. "'give me the document,' he said. "before i gave it to him--it was in my pocket--i showed him a newspaper containing a certain announcement. "'lord harry dead?' he cried. 'impossible! then iris is free.' "'perhaps you will first read the document.' i drew it out of my pocket, gave it to him, and retired. he should be alone while he read it. "half an hour afterwards i returned. i found him in a state of the most violent agitation, without, however, any of the weakness which he betrayed on previous occasions. "'mrs. vimpany,' he cried, 'this is terrible! there is no doubt--not the least doubt--in my mind that the man oxbye is the man buried under the name of lord harry, and that he was murdered--murdered in cold blood--by that worst of villains----' "'my husband,' i said. "'your husband--most unfortunate of wives! as for lord harry's share in the murder, it is equally plain that he knew of it, even if he did not consent to it. good heavens! do you understand? do you realise what they have done? your husband and iris's husband may be tried--actually tried--for murder and put to a shameful death. think of it!' "'i do think of it, heaven knows! i think of it every day--i think of it all day long. but, remember, i will say nothing that will bring this fate upon them. and fanny will say nothing. without fanny's evidence there cannot be even a suspicion of the truth.' "'what does iris know about it?' "'i think that she cannot know anything of the murder. consider the dates. on wednesday fanny was dismissed; on thursday she returned secretly and witnessed the murder. it was on thursday morning that lady harry drove to victoria on her return to passy, as we all supposed, and as i still suppose. on saturday funny was back again. the cottage was deserted. she was told that the man oxbye had got up and walked away; that her mistress had not been at the house at all, but was travelling in switzerland; and that lord harry was gone on a long journey. and she was sent into switzerland to get her out of the way. i gather from all this that lady harry was taken away by her husband directly she arrived--most likely by night--and that of the murder she knew nothing.' "'no--no--she could know nothing! that, at least, they dared not tell her. but about the rest? how much does she know? how far has she lent herself to the conspiracy? mrs. vimpany, i shall go back to london to-night. we will travel by the night train. i feel quite strong enough.' "i began this letter in scotland; i finish it in london. "we are back again in town. come to the hotel at once, and see us." so, there was now a man to advise. for once, fanny was thankful for the creation of man. to the most misanthropic female there sometimes comes a time when she must own that man has his uses. these two women had now got a man with whom to take counsel. "i do not ask you," said mr. mountjoy, with grave face, "how far this statement of yours is true: i can see plainly that it is true in every particular." "it is quite true, sir; every word of it is true. i have been tempted to make out a worse case against the doctor, but i have kept myself to the bare truth." "you could not make out a worse case against any man. it is the blackest case that i ever heard of or read. it is the foulest murder. i do not understand the exact presence of lord harry when the medicine was given. did he see the doctor administer it? did he say anything?" "he turned white when the doctor told him that the man was going to die--that day, perhaps, or next day. when the doctor was pouring out the medicine he turned pale again and trembled. while the doctor was taking the photograph he trembled again. i think, sir--i really think--that he knew all along that the man was going to die, but when it came to the moment, he was afraid. if it had depended on him, oxbye would be alive still." "he was a consenting party. well; for the moment both of you keep perfect silence. don't discuss the timing with each other lest you should be overheard: bury the thing. i am going to make some inquiries." the first thing was to find out what steps had been taken, if any, with insurance companies. for iris's sake his inquiry had to be conducted quite openly. his object must seem none other than the discovery of lady harry norland's present address. when bankers, insurance companies, and solicitors altogether have to conduct a piece of business it is not difficult to ascertain such a simple matter. he found out the name of the family solicitor, he went to the office, sent in his card, and stated his object. as a very old friend of lady harry's, he wanted to learn her address. he had just come up from scotland, where he had been ill, and had only just learned her terrible bereavement. the lawyer made no difficulty at all. there was no reason why he should. lady harry had been in london; she was kept in town for nearly two months by business connected with the unfortunate event; but she had now gone--she was travelling switzerland or elsewhere. as for her address, a letter addressed to his care should be forwarded on hearing from her ladyship. "her business, i take it, was the proving of the will and the arrangement of the property." "that was the business which kept her in town." "lady harry," mr. mountjoy went on, "had a little property of her own apart from what she may ultimately get from her father. about five thousand pounds--not more." "indeed? she did not ask my assistance in respect of her own property." "i suppose it is invested and in the hands of trustees. but, indeed, i do not know. lord harry himself, i have heard, was generally in a penniless condition. were there any insurances?" "yes; happily there was insurance paid for him by the family. otherwise there would have been nothing for the widow." "and this has been paid up, i suppose?" "yes; it has been paid into her private account." "thank you," said mr. mountjoy. "with your permission, i will address a letter to lady harry here. will you kindly order it to be forwarded at the very earliest opportunity?" "iris," he thought, "will not come to london any more. she has been persuaded by her husband to join in the plot. good heavens! she has become a swindler--a conspirator---a fraudulent woman! iris!--it is incredible--it is horrible! what shall we do?" he first wrote a letter, to the care of the lawyers. he informed her that he had made a discovery of the highest importance to herself--he refrained from anything that might give rise to suspicion; he implored her to give him an interview anywhere, in any part of the world--alone, he told her that the consequences of refusal might be fatal--absolutely fatal--to her future happiness: he conjured her to believe that he was anxious for nothing but her happiness: that he was still, as always, her most faithful friend. well; he could do no more. he had not the least expectation that his letter would do any good; he did not even believe that it would reach iris. the money was received and paid over to her own account. there was really no reason at all why she should place herself again in communication with these lawyers. what would she do, then? one thing only remained. with her guilty husband, this guilty woman must remain in concealment for the rest of their days, or until death released her of the man who was pretending to be dead. at the best, they might find some place where there would be no chance of anybody ever finding them who knew either of them before this wicked thing was done. but could she know of the murder? he remembered the instruction given to fanny. she was to write to brussels. let her therefore write at once. he would arrange what she was to say. under his dictation, therefore, fanny wrote as follows:-- "my lady,--i have received your ladyship's letter, and your kind gift of ten pounds. i note your directions to write to you at brussels, and i obey them. "mr. mountjoy, who has been ill and in scotland, has come back to london. he begs me to tell you that he has had an interview with your lawyers, and has learned that you have been in town on business, the nature of which he has also learned. he has left an important letter for you at their office. they will forward it as soon as they learn your address. "since i came back from passy i have thought it prudent to set down in writing an exact account of everything that happened there under my own observation. mr. mountjoy has read my story, and thinks that i ought without delay to send a copy of it to you. i therefore send you one, in which i have left out all the names, and put in a, b, and c instead, by his directions. he says that you will have no difficulty in filling up the names. "i remain, my dear lady, "your ladyship's most obedient and humble servant, "fanny mere." this letter, with the document, was dispatched to brussels that night. and this is the trouble which iris brought upon herself by answering fanny's advertisement. chapter lx on the eve of a change iris returned to louvain by way of paris. she had to settle up with the doctor. he obeyed her summons and called upon her at the hotel. "well, my lady," he began in his gross voice, rubbing his hands and laughing, "it has come off, after all; hasn't it?" "i do not desire, dr. vimpany, to discuss anything with you. we will proceed to settle what business we have together." "to think that your ladyship should actually fall in!" he replied. "now i confess that this was to me the really difficult part of the job. it is quite easy to pretend that a man is dead, but not so easy to touch his money. i really do not see how we could have managed at all without your co-operation. well, you've had no difficulty, of course?" "none at all." "i am to have half." "i am instructed to give you two thousand pounds. i have the money here for you." "i hope you consider that i deserve this share?" "i think, dr. vimpany, that whatever you get in the future or the present you will richly deserve. you have dragged a man down to your own level--" "and a woman too." "a woman too. your reward will come, i doubt not." "if it always takes the form of bank-notes i care not how great the reward may be. you will doubtless, as a good christian, expect your own reward--for him and for you?" "i have mine already," she replied sadly. "now, dr. vimpany, let me pay you, and get rid of your company." he counted the money carefully and put it in the banker's bag in his coat-pocket. "thank you, my lady. we have exchanged compliments enough over this job." "i hope--i pray--that we may never set eyes on you again." "i cannot say. people run up against each other in the strangest manner, especially people who've done shady things and have got to keep in the background." "enough!--enough!" "the background of the world is a very odd place, i assure you. it is full of interesting people. the society has a piquancy which you will find, i hope, quite charming. you will be known by another name, of course?" "i shall not tell you by what name--" "tut--tut! i shall soon find out. the background gets narrower when you fall into misery." "what do you mean?" "i mean, lady harry, that your husband has no idea whatever as to the value of money. the two thousand that you are taking him will vanish in a year or two. what will you do then? as for myself, i know the value of money so well that i am always buying the most precious and delightful things with it. i enjoy them immensely. never any man enjoyed good things so much as i do. but the delightful things cost money. let us be under no illusions. your ladyship and your noble husband and i all belong to the background; and in a year or two we shall belong to the needy background. i daresay that very soon after that the world will learn that we all belong to the criminal background. i wish your ladyship a joyful reunion with your husband!" he withdrew, and iris set eyes on him no more. but the prophecy with which he departed remained with her, and it was with a heart foreboding fresh sorrows that she left paris and started for louvain. here began the new life--that of concealment and false pretence. iris put off her weeds, but she never ventured abroad without a thick veil. her husband, discovering that english visitors sometimes ran over from brussels to see the hotel de ville, never ventured out at all till evening. they had no friends and no society of any kind. the house, which stood secluded behind a high wall in its garden, was in the quietest part of this quiet old city; no sound of life and work reached it; the pair who lived there seldom spoke to each other. except at the midday breakfast and the dinner they did not meet. iris sat in her own room, silent; lord harry sat in his, or paced the garden walks for hours. thus the days went on monotonously. the clock ticked; the hours struck; they took meals; they slept; they rose and dressed; they took meals again--this was all their life. this was all that they could expect for the future. the weeks went on. for three months iris endured this life. no news came to her from the outer world; her husband had even forgotten the first necessary of modern life--the newspaper. it was not the ideal life of love, apart from the world, where the two make for themselves a garden of eden; it was a prison, in which two were confined together who were kept apart by their guilty secret. they ceased altogether to speak; their very meals were taken in silence. the husband saw continual reproach in his wife's eyes; her sad and heavy look spoke more plainly than any words, "it is to this that you have brought me." one morning iris was idly turning over the papers in her desk. there were old letters, old photographs, all kinds of trifling treasures that reminded her of the past--a woman keeps everything; the little mementoes of her childhood, her first governess, her first school, her school friendships--everything. as iris turned over these things her mind wandered back to the old days. she became again a young girl--innocent, fancy free; she grew up--she was a woman innocent still. then her mind jumped at one leap to the present, and she saw herself as she was--innocent no longer, degraded and guilty, the vile accomplice of a vile conspiracy. then, as one who has been wearing coloured glasses puts them off and sees things in their own true colours, she saw how she had been pulled down by a blind infatuation to the level of the man who had held her in his fascination; she saw him as he was--reckless, unstable, careless of name and honour. then for the first time she realised the depths into which she was plunged and the life which she was henceforth doomed to lead. the blind love fell from her--it was dead at last; but it left her bound to the man by a chain which nothing could break; she was in her right senses; she saw things as they were; but the knowledge came too late. her husband made no attempt to bridge over the estrangement which had thus grown up between them: it became wider every day; he lived apart and alone; he sat in his own room, smoking more cigars, drinking more brandy-and-water than was good for him; sometimes he paced the gravel walks in the garden; in the evening, after dinner, he went out and walked about the empty streets of the quiet city. once or twice he ventured into a cafe, sitting in a corner, his hat drawn over his eyes; but that was dangerous. for the most part he kept in the streets, and he spoke to no one. meantime the autumn had given place to winter, which began in wet and dreary fashion. day and night the rain fell, making the gravel walks too wet and the streets impossible. then lord harry sat in his room and smoked all day long. and still the melancholy of the one increased, and the boredom of the other. he spoke at last. it was after breakfast. "iris," he said, "how long is this to continue?" "this--what?" "this life--this miserable solitude and silence." "till we die," she replied. "what else do you expect? you have sold our freedom, and we must pay the price." "no; it shall end. i will end it. i can endure it no longer." "you are still young. you will perhaps have forty years more to live--all like this--as dull and empty. it is the price we must pay." "no," he repeated, "it shall end. i swear that i will go on like this no longer." "you had better go to london and walk in piccadilly to get a little society." "what do you care what i do or where i go?" "we will not reproach each other, harry." "why--what else do you do all day long but reproach me with your gloomy looks and your silence?" "well--end it if you can. find some change in the life." "be gracious for a little, and listen to my plan. i have made a plan. listen, iris. i can no longer endure this life. it drives me mad." "and me too. that is one reason why we should not desire to change it. mad people forget. they think they are somewhere else. for us to believe that we were somewhere else would be in itself happiness." "i am resolved to change it--to change it, i say--at any risk. we will leave louvain." "we can, i dare say," iris replied coldly, "find another town, french or belgian, where we can get another cottage, behind high walls in a garden, and hide there." "no. i will hide no longer. i am sick of hiding." "go on. what is your plan? am i to pretend to be some one else's widow?" "we will go to america. there are heaps of places in the states where no english people ever go---neither tourists nor settlers--places where they have certainly never heard of us. we will find some quiet village, buy a small farm, and settle among the people. i know something about farming. we need not trouble to make the thing pay. and we will go back to mankind again. perhaps, iris--when we have gone back to the world--you will--" he hesitated--"you will be able to forgive me, and to regard me again with your old thoughts. it was done for your sake." "it was not done for my sake. do not repeat that falsehood. the old thoughts will never come back, harry. they are dead and gone. i have ceased to respect you or myself. love cannot survive the loss of self-respect. who am i that i should give love to anybody? who are you that you should expect love?" "will you go with me to america--love or no love? i cannot stay here--i will not stay here." "i will go with you wherever you please. i should like not to run risks. there are still people whom it would pain to see iris henley tried and found guilty with two others on a charge of fraudulent conspiracy." "i wouldn't accustom myself, if i were you, iris, to speak of things too plainly. leave the thing to me and i will arrange it. see now, we will travel by a night train from brussels to calais. we will take the cross-country line from amiens to havre; there we will take boat for new york--no english people ever travel by the havre line. once in america we will push up country--to kentucky or somewhere--and find that quiet country place: after that i ask no more. i will settle down for the rest of my life, and have no more adventures. do you agree, iris?" "i will do anything that you wish," she replied coldly. "very well. let us lose no time. i feel choked here. will you go into brussels and buy a continental bradshaw or a baedeker, or something that will tell us the times of sailing, the cost of passage, and all the rest of it? we will take with us money to start us with: you will have to write to your bankers. we can easily arrange to have the money sent to new york, and it can be invested there--except your own fortune--in my new name. we shall want no outfit for a fortnight at sea. i have arranged it all beautifully. child, look like your old self." he took an unresisting hand. "i want to see you smile and look happy again." "you never will." "yes--when we have got ourselves out of this damnable, unwholesome way of life; when we are with our fellow-creatures again. you will forget this--this little business--which was, you know, after all, an unhappy necessity." "oh! how can i ever forget?" "new interests will arise; new friendships will be formed--" "harry, it is myself that i cannot forgive. teach me to forgive myself, and i will forget everything." he pressed her no longer. "well, then," he said, "go to brussels and get this information. if you will not try to conquer this absurd moral sensitiveness--which comes too late--you will at least enable me to place you in a healthier atmosphere." "i will go at once," she said, "i will go by the next train." "there is a train at a quarter to two. you can do all you have to do and catch the train at five. iris"--the chance of a change made him impatient--"let us go to-morrow. let us go by the night express. there will be english travellers, but they shall not recognise me. we shall be in calais at one in the morning. we will go on by an early train before the english steamer comes in. will you be ready?" "yes; there is nothing to delay me. i suppose we can leave the house by paying the rent? i will go and do what you want." "let us go this very night." "if you please; i am always ready." "no: there will be no time; it will look like running away. we will go to-morrow night. besides, you would be too tired after going to brussels and back. iris, we are going to be happy again--i am sure we are." he, for one, looked as if there was nothing to prevent a return of happiness. he laughed and waved his hands. "a new sky---new scenes--new work--you will be happy again, iris. you shall go, dear. get me the things i want." she put on her thick veil and started on her short journey. the husband's sudden return to his former good spirits gave her a gleam of hope. the change would be welcome indeed if it permitted him to go about among other men, and to her if it gave her occupation. as to forgetting--how could she forget the past, so long as they were reaping the fruit of their wickedness in the shape of solid dividends? she easily found what she wanted. the steamer of the compagnie generale transatlantique left havre every eighth day. they would go by that line. the more she considered the plan the more it recommended itself. they would at any rate go out of prison. there would be a change in their life. miserable condition! to have no other choice of life but that of banishment and concealment: no other prospect than that of continual fraud renewed by every post that brought them money. when she had got all the information that was wanted she had still an hour or two before her. she thought she would spend the time wandering about the streets of brussels. the animation and life of the cheerful city--where all the people except the market-women are young--pleased her. it was long since she had seen any of the cheerfulness that belongs to a busy street. she walked slowly along, up one street and down another, looking into the shops. she made two or three little purchases. she looked into a place filled with tauchnitz editions, and bought two or three books. she was beginning to think that she was tired and had better make her way back to the station, when suddenly she remembered the post-office and her instructions to fanny mere. "i wonder," she said, "if fanny has written to me." she asked the way to the post-office. there was time if she walked quickly. at the poste restante there was a letter for her--more than a letter, a parcel, apparently a book. she received it and hurried back to the station. in the train she amused herself with looking through the leaves of her new books. fanny mere's letter she would read after dinner. at dinner they actually talked. lord harry was excited with the prospect of going back to the world. he had enjoyed his hermitage, he said, quite long enough. give him the society of his fellow-creatures. "put me among cannibals," he said, "and i should make friends with them. but to live alone--it is the devil! to-morrow we begin our new flight." after dinner he lit his cigar, and went on chattering about the future. iris remembered the packet she had got at the post-office, and opened it. it contained a small manuscript book filled with writing and a brief letter. she read the letter, laid it down, and opened the book. chapter lxi the last discovery "i shall like to turn farmer," lord harry went on talking while iris opened and began to read fanny's manuscript. "after all my adventures, to settle down in a quiet place and cultivate the soil. on market-day we will drive into town together"--he talked as if kentucky were warwickshire--"side by side in a spring cart. i shall have samples of grain in bags, and you will have a basket of butter and cream. it will be an ideal life. we shall dine at the ordinary, and, after dinner, over a pipe and a glass of grog, i shall discuss the weather and the crops. and while we live in this retreat of ours, over here the very name of harry norland will have been forgotten. queer, that! we shall go on living long after we are dead and buried and forgotten. in the novels the man turns up after he is supposed to be cast away--wrecked--drowned--dead long ago. but he never turns up when he is forgotten--unless he is rip van winkle. by gad, iris! when we are old people we will go home and see the old places together. it will be something to look forward to--something to live for--eh?" "i feel quite happy this evening, iris; happier than i have been for months. the fact is, this infernal place has hipped us both confoundedly. i didn't like to grumble, but i've felt the monotony more than a bit. and so have you. it's made you brood over things. now, for my part, i like to look at the bright side. here we are comfortably cut off from the past. that's all done with. nothing in the world can revive the memory of disagreeable things if we are only true to ourselves and agree to forget them. what has been done can never be discovered. not a soul knows except the doctor, and between him and ourselves we are going to put a few thousand--what's the matter, iris? what the devil is the matter?" for iris, who had been steadily reading while her husband chattered on, suddenly dropped the book, and turned upon him a white face and eyes struck with horror. "what is it?" lord harry repeated. "oh! is this true?" "what?" "i cannot say it. oh, my god! can this be true?" "what? speak, iris." he sprang to his feet. "is it--is it discovered?" "discovered? yes, all--all--all--is discovered!" "where? how? give me the thing, iris. quick! who knows? what is known?" he snatched the book from her hands. she shrank from his touch, and pushed back her chair, standing in an attitude of self-defence--watching him as one would watch a dangerous creature. he swiftly read page after page, eager to know the worst. then he threw the book upon the table. "well?" he said, not lifting his eyes. "the man was murdered--murdered!" she whispered. he made no reply. "you looked on while he was murdered! you looked on consenting! you are a murderer!" "i had no share or part in it. i did not know he was being poisoned." "you knew when i was with you. oh! the dead man--the murdered man--was in the house at the very moment! your hands were red with blood when you took me away--to get me out of the way--so that i should not know--" she stopped, she could not go on. "i did not know, iris--not with certainty. i thought he was dying when he came into the house. he did not die; he began to recover. when the doctor gave him his medicine--after that woman went away--i suspected. when he died, my suspicions were stronger. i challenged him. he did not deny it. believe me, iris, i neither counselled it nor knew of it." "you acquiesced in it. you consented. you should have warned the--the other murderer that you would denounce him if the man died. you took advantage of it. his death enabled you to carry out your fraud with me as your accomplice. with me! i am an accomplice in a murder!" "no, no, iris; you knew nothing of it. no one can ever accuse you--" "you do not understand. it is part of the accusation which i make against myself." "as for what this woman writes," her husband went on, "it is true. i suppose it is useless to deny a single word of it. she was hidden behind the curtain, then! she heard and saw all! if vimpany had found her! he was right. no one so dangerous as a woman. yes; she has told you exactly what happened. she suspected all along. we should have sent her away and changed our plans. this comes of being too clever. nothing would do for the doctor but the man's death. i hoped--we both hoped--that he would die a natural death. he did not. without a dead man we were powerless. we had to get a dead man, iris, i will hide nothing more from you, whatever happens. i confess everything. i knew that he was going to die. when he began to get well i was filled with forebodings, because i knew that he would never be allowed to go away. how else could we find a dead body? you can't steal a body; you can't make one up. you must have one for proof of death. i say"--his voice was harsh and hoarse--"i say that i knew he must die. i saw his death in the doctor's face. and there was no more money left for a new experiment if oxbye should get well and go away. when it came to the point i was seized with mortal terror. i would have given up everything--everything--to see the man get up from his bed and go away. but it was too late. i saw the doctor prepare the final dose, and when he had it to his lips i saw by his eyes that it was the drink of death. i have told you all," he concluded. "you have told me all," she repeated. "all! good heavens! all!" "i have hidden nothing from you. now there is nothing more to tell." she stood perfectly still--her hands clasped, her eyes set, her face white and stern. "what i have to do now," she said, "lies plain before me." "iris! i implore you, make no change in our plans. let us go away as we proposed. let the past be forgotten. come with me--" "go with you? with you? with you? oh!" she shuddered. "iris! i have told you all. let us go on as if you had heard nothing. we cannot be more separated than we have been for the last three months. let us remain as we are until the time when you will be able to feel for me--to pity my weakness--and to forgive me." "you do not understand. forgive you? it is no longer a question of forgiveness. who am i that my forgiveness should be of the least value to you--or to any?" "what is the question, then?" "i don't know. a horrible crime has been committed--a horrible, ghastly, dreadful crime--such a thing as one reads of in the papers and wonders, reading it, what manner of wild beasts must be those who do such things. perhaps one wonders, besides, what manner of women must be those who associate with those wild beasts. my husband is one of those wild beasts!--my husband!--my husband!--and--i--i am one of the women who are the fit companions of these wild creatures." "you can say what you please, iris; what you please." "i have known--only since i came here have i really known and understood--that i have wrecked my life in a blind passion. i have loved you, harry; it has been my curse. i followed you against the warnings of everybody: i have been rewarded--by this. we are in hiding. if we are found we shall be sent to a convict prison for conspiracy. we shall be lucky if we are not tried for murder and hanged by the neck until we are dead. this is my reward!" "i have never played the hypocrite with you, iris. i have never pretended to virtues which i do not possess. so far--" "hush! do not speak to me. i have something more to say, and then i shall never speak to you any more. hush! let me collect my thoughts. i cannot find the words. i cannot. . . wait--wait! oh!" she sat down and burst into sobbings and moanings. but only for a minute. then she sprang to her feet again and dashed back the tears. "time for crying," she said, "when all is done. harry, listen carefully; these are my last words. you will never hear from me any more. you must manage your own life in your own way, to save it or to spoil it; i will never more bear any part in it. i am going back to england--alone. i shall give up your name, and i shall take my maiden name again--or some other. i shall live somewhere quietly where you will not discover me. but perhaps you will not look for me?" "i will not," he said. "i owe you so much. i will not look for you." "as regards the money which i have obtained for you under false pretences, out of the fifteen thousand pounds for which you were insured, five thousand have been paid to my private account. i shall restore to the company all that money." "good heavens! iris, you will be prosecuted on a criminal charge." "shall i? that will matter little, provided i make reparation. alas! who shall make reparation--who shall atone--for the blood-spilling? for all things else in this world we may make what we call atonement; but not for the spilling of blood." "you mean this? you will deliberately do this?" "i mean every word. i will do nothing and say nothing that will betray you. but the money that i can restore, i will restore--so help me, god!" with streaming eyes she raised her hand and pointed upwards. her husband bowed his head. "you have said all you wished to say?" he asked humbly. "i have said all." "let me look in your face once more---so--full--with the light upon it. yes; i have loved you, iris--i have always loved you. better, far better, for you had you fallen dead at my feet on the day when you became my wife. then i should have been spared--i should have been spared a great deal. you are right, iris. your duty lies plainly before you. as for me, i must think of mine. farewell! the lips of a murderer are not fit to touch even the hem of your garments. farewell!" he left her. she heard the hall door open and shut. she would see her husband no more. she went to her own room and packed a single box with necessary things. then she called the housemaid and informed her that she had been summoned to return suddenly to england; she must reach brussels at least that evening. the woman brought a porter who carried her box to the station; and iris left louvain--and her husband--for ever. chapter lxii the board of directors at a board meeting of the royal unicorn life insurance company, specially convened, the chairman had to make a communication of a very remarkable character. "gentlemen," he said, "i call upon the secretary, without further introduction, to read a letter, to consider which you are called together this day." "the letter," the secretary began, "is simply headed 'paris,' dated two days ago." "only two days ago," said the chairman, mysteriously. "but, of course, that means nothing. there has been plenty of time for him to change his residence. i dare say he may be in london at our very elbow. go on, if you please." "gentlemen"--the secretary proceeded to read the letter. "it is now three months since a claim was sent in to you by the firm of erskine, mansfield, denham & co., solicitors of lincoln's inn fields, for the sum of , pounds due to the heirs of lord harry norland in respect of an insurance effected upon his life." "the claim, gentlemen," said the chairman, "was duly acknowledged and paid some weeks later. it was a heavy loss; but these things will occur, and there seemed no reason to doubt the facts alleged, or to dispute the claim." "i write this letter," the secretary continued reading, "in order to inform you that the claim was fraudulent, inasmuch as lord harry norland was at the time, and is still, actually living." fraudulent! the man still living! at this point there was a sudden awakening. everybody sat up and listened with all their ears. "i may tell you, gentlemen," the chairman explained, "that the writer of this remarkable letter is none other than lord harry norland himself. we will now proceed without further interruption." "in conjunction with another person, i devised and carried out successfully a plan by which i was enabled to touch at once, and without the disagreeable necessity of previously expiring and being buried, the whole of the money for which i was insured. other people have attempted the same design, i believe, but the thing has hitherto been managed clumsily. in my own case, it has been managed with great dexterity and artistic skill. as you will naturally be curious on a subject which interests you so closely i have no objection to reveal the method. it is not enough to write to your office and state that a certain person is dead. one must be prepared with proofs of the death should any doubt arise. no proof of death is quite satisfactory without evidence as to the disposal of the dead body. with that object, we procured from the hotel dieu a patient apparently in an advanced state of consumption. my accomplice, being a medical man, highly recommended, was able to do this without suspicion. we nursed him ostentatiously. during the latter part of the illness he was nursed under the name of lord harry norland. he died. his name was entered in the official register as lord harry norland. he was buried in the cemetery at auteuil, near paris, as lord harry norland. a headstone marks his grave, which is purchased in perpetuity. the doctor certified the cause of his death, and communicated the fact to the deceased's brother, lord malven, and to the deceased's solicitors. the death was also announced to the papers. the difficulties attendant on the successful conduct of the business are so great that you need not fear a repetition. nobody, in order to assist a fraud, will consent to die and lend his own body. it is seldom, indeed, that a sick man can be found--a foreigner and friendless--whose death will cause no curiosity and raise no questions. add to this, it is extremely difficult, as i have now experienced, to find the necessary assistance without encountering the objections of conscience." "upon my word!" cried one of the directors, "this is a most wonderful letter. i beg your pardon. pray go on." "we began very well. we buried our man under the name of lord harry norland, as i have said. the difficulty then arose as to the presentation of the claim. it was most desirable that the claim should be made by the person who would most naturally be the deceased's heir and after proving his will and by his own solicitor. "i am married. i have no children. i have not lived on good terms with my family. it was, therefore, quite reasonable to expect that i should leave my wife sole heir and executrix. it was also natural that she should go to my solicitors--the family solicitors--and ask them to manage her affairs. "with this object i confessed to my wife as much of the conspiracy as was necessary. like many women, she possesses, in addition to every virtue, a blessed devotion to her husband. where he is concerned she is easily led even from the paths of honour. i practised on that devotion; i used all the arguments and persuasions based on that devotion necessary to convert a woman of honour into the accomplice of a conspiracy. in brief, i made my wife join in the fraud. she consented to act for me, persuaded that if she did not the conspiracy would be discovered. the business has, therefore been carried through with the greatest success. you have paid the claim in full without question. for me there was left the very comfortable provision of , pounds, with the consciousness of a daring and successful swindle. unfortunately, my wife has now discovered that her conscience will give her no peace or rest until full restitution of the money has been made. she has informed me of her intention to send back without delay that part of it which lies at her bank in her own name--that is to say, five thousand pounds. "i do not suppose that, as gentlemen, you would be disposed to subject a woman who thus desires to repair a wrong to the degradation of a public prosecution. no useful end, in fact, will be served in so doing. it is, in fact, in the conviction that you will take no proceedings that i write this letter. "further, as i wish my wife's scruples of conscience to be completely set at rest, i am prepared, on an assurance that the matter will be allowed to drop, to forward to you the remainder of the money, less two thousand pounds, which i have reason to believe will be sent to you in course of time. i am also prepared to instruct my wife, as my heir, in the event of my death to make no claim on the company; and i have requested my solicitor to cease paying the annual premium. the company will, therefore, be the gainers of the whole premiums which have been paid--namely, pounds a year for ten years: that is to say, , pounds. "as for myself, i will take the necessary steps as soon as you have given me that letter of assurance. as regards the other principal in the conspiracy, it is hardly worth your while to search after him. i shall be obliged if you will be so good as to acknowledge this letter without delay, with any assurance which you may be able to make as regards the person whom i have dragged into the affair. i send you an address where a letter will find me. you may wish to watch the house. i assure you beforehand that it is useless. i shall not go there.--i remain, gentlemen, "your obedient servant, "harry norland." "perhaps," said the secretary, "it is in connection with this letter that i have this day received a packet of bank-notes amounting in all to the sum of five thousand pounds. the packet is endorsed 'restitution money.'" "bank-notes, gentlemen," said the chairman significantly, "may be traced if necessary." the directors looked at each other. this was, indeed, a very remarkable story, and one never before brought to the notice of any board. "gentlemen," said the chairman, "you have heard the letter; you now have the case before you. i should like to hear your views." "we are likely to get most of our money back," said one of the directors, "it seems to me, by holding our tongues. that is the main thing." "if we could get lord harry himself," said another, "i should say: go for him, but not for his wife. i wonder we ever took his life at all. if all stories are true about him he is as bad as they make 'em. he ran away when he was a boy, and went to sea: he was a strolling actor after that: he went out to the states and was reported to have been seen in the west: he has been a ship's steward: he has been on the turf. what has he not been?" "we have got the money," said another; "that is the great thing. we must remember that we should never have found out the thing unless--" "the company must not compound a felony," said the chairman. "certainly not. by no means. at the same time, would any good purpose be served by public scandal in connection with a noble house?" "the noble house," said another director, who was radical, "may very well take care of itself. question is, would it do any good to anybody if we ran in the wife?" "who is she?" "you would expect a ruffian like lord harry to marry a woman like himself. not at all. he married a most charming creature named henley--iris henley--father very well known in the city. i heard of it at the time. she would have him---infatuated about him--sad business. mr. chairman, i submit that it is quite impossible for us to take proceedings against this unfortunate lady, who is doing her utmost to make restitution." "the company must not compound a felony," the chairman repeated. "even if we do not get back that two thousand pounds," said the secretary, "the company will lose nothing. the surrender value must be considered." then another of the directors spoke. "we do not know where this lady is to be found. she is probably passing under another name. it is not our business to hunt her down." "and if we found her we should have to prove the case, and her guilty knowledge of the conspiracy," said another. "how would this precious letter be taken as evidence? why, we do not even know that it is true. we might exhume the body: what would that prove after three months? we might open up the case, and spend a heap of money, and create a great scandal, and be none the better for it afterwards. my advice is, let the thing drop." "well, but," objected another, "suppose we admit that the man is still living. he may die, and then there would be another claim upon us." "of that," said the chairman, "i think there need be no apprehension whatever. you have heard his letter. but, i repeat, we must not compound a felony!" "i submit, mr. chairman," said one who had not spoken--and he was a barrister--"that the company knows nothing at all about lady harry norland. we have had to deal with the firm of erskine, mansfield, denham & co., of lincoln's inn fields: and a most respectable firm too. on their representations we paid the money. if it can be ascertained that we have been defrauded we must look to them. if we have to prosecute anybody it must be that respectable firm." "good," said the chairman. "i propose, therefore, that the secretary write to lord harry norland, informing him that the company have had nothing at all to do with his wife, and do not recognise her action in any way. we shall then see what happens, and can proceed in accordance." at this moment a card was brought in. it was that of mr. erskine himself, senior partner in the very firm. he came in, old, eminently respectable, but shaken. he was greatly shaken. "gentlemen," he said nervously, "i hasten to bring you a communication, a most extraordinary communication, which i have just received. it is nothing less than a confession--a full confession--from a person whom i had every reason to believe was dead. it is from lord harry norland." "we know already," said the chairman, superior, "the main facts which you are going to lay before us. we are met to-day in order to discuss our action in view of these facts. there has been a conspiracy of a very artful and ingenious character. it has been successful so far through the action of a woman. by the action of the same woman it is sought to make restitution. the hand of justice, however--" "perhaps," said the lawyer, "you will oblige me by allowing me to read the letter." "pray read it"--the chairman bowed--"though i do not suppose it will add to the information we already possess." "gentlemen"--the lawyer read--"you will be surprised and pained to learn that i am not--as you were given to understand--dead; but on the other hand, living and in the enjoyment of rude health. i see no reason why my life should not be prolonged to threescore years and ten. "the claim, therefore, which you sent in to the royal unicorn life insurance company was fraudulent. it was the result of a deep-laid conspiracy. you have been made the innocent accomplice of a great crime. "my wife, who now knows the whole truth, is most anxious for restitution to be made. she is about to restore that portion of the money which lies in her name. most of the rest will be sent back by myself, on certain conditions. "in communicating the fact of my being still alive to the head of my family you will please also to inform him that i authorise the discontinuance of the premium. this will save the family pounds a year. this will be a solatium to him for the fact that his brother still lives to disgrace the name. if i should die before the next premium is due i order my heirs not to claim the money.--i remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, "harry norland." "the premium which should have been paid under ordinary circumstances," said the secretary, "was due six weeks ago. the policy has therefore expired." "it is a characteristic letter," said the lawyer. "lord harry was born to be a trouble to his family. there has never been a time, so far as i remember, when he was not a trouble and a disgrace. hitherto, however, he has avoided actual crime--at least, actual detection. now, i suppose, the game is up. yet, gentlemen, the letter is not that of an utter villain." "he will not be caught," observed the chairman. "the letter is from too cool a hand. he has prepared a retreat. i dare say by this time he is in some safe and convenient disguise. we are only concerned--are we not?--for the moment with the lady. she has received the money from you. we paid it to you on your representations." "observe," said the lawyer, "that the moment she learns the truth she hastens to make restitution." "humph!" said the director, turning over lord harry's letter so that the lawyer should not be able to read the contents. "have you seen her?" "i have not. i expect to do so before long. she will certainly call upon me." "she will be ill-advised," said the chairman, "if she calls upon anybody just at present. well, sir, i confess that i should be sorry--every member of this board would be sorry--to see that lady placed in the dock beside her husband." "in the interests of the noble family concerned, i hope that neither of them will be placed in the dock." "do you know who is the other man--the second principal?" "i can guess. i do not know, however, where he is. all i know is what i have communicated to you--the contents of this letter." "one would like to get hold of the other man," said the chairman. "presumably he does not belong to a noble family. well, sir, i don't know what may be done; but this company cannot, i repeat, compound a felony." "certainly not. most certainly not. at present, however, you have got very little to go upon. and unless evidence is forthcoming--" "we will not discuss that part of the business," said the chairman. "a conspiracy has been undoubtedly entered into. we may be compelled to bring an action of some kind against your firm, mr. erskine. as regards the lady, if she is guilty--" "no--no," said the lawyer, "upon my life! sinned against--not guilty." the chairman folded up lord harry's letter and gave it to the secretary. "we are much obliged to you, sir, for your prompt action. it is, of course, only what we should have expected of your firm. meantime, remember that the claim was made by you, that you received the money, and--but we will communicate with you in a few days." the secretary wrote such a letter as was suggested. by return of post a cheque was sent, signed by one william linville, for the sum of eight thousand pounds. the company had, therefore, recovered thirteen out of fifteen thousand pounds. the secretary had another interview with mr. erskine, the result of which was that the company recovered the remaining two thousand pounds. every firm of solicitors contains its own secrets and keeps them. therefore, we need not inquire whether it was intended that this money should be paid by the firm or by the noble family to which lord harry norland belonged. it is, however, certain that a few days afterwards mr. hugh mountjoy called at the office and had a long conversation with the senior partner, and that he left behind him a very big cheque. the subject has never been brought before the directors again. it was, indeed, privately discussed, and that frequently. perhaps the story was whispered about outside the board-room. these things do get about. there has been, however, a feeling that the thing, which would have been perfectly successful but for the conscience of a woman concerned, might be repeated with less tender consciences, and so the companies be defrauded. now the wickedness of the world is already so great that it needs no more teaching to make it worse. on the whole, the less said the better. besides, the tragic event which happened a day or two later effectively prevented any further step. that in itself was sufficient to wipe out the whole business. chapter lxiii a refuge it was all over. iris had sent in her money. she was in a small lodging found for her by fanny mere, who called her cousin. she stayed indoors all day long, afraid of stirring abroad; afraid to read the papers; afraid that her husband was arrested on the charge of conspiracy and fraud; afraid that some kind of hue and cry might be out after her. therefore, when she heard a manly step on the stair, she started and turned pale, expecting nothing short of an armed messenger of the law. she never was in this danger for a single minute, but conscience made a coward of her. the step was that of hugh mountjoy. "i found you out," he said, "by means of fanny. the girl knew that she was safe in letting me know your secret. why are you in concealment?" "you cannot know all, or you would not ask me that." "i do know all; and again i ask, why are you in concealment?" "because--oh, hugh--spare me!" "i know all, which is the reason why i cannot choose but come to see you. come out of this poor place; resume your own name. there is no reason why you should not. you were not present at passy when this conspiracy was hatched; you got there after the funeral. you, naturally, went to see the family solicitors. iris, what has the conspiracy to do with you?" it will be observed that hugh had not read the letter written to the directors of the company. "do you know about the money?" "certainly. you sent back all that you could--five thousand pounds. that showed your own innocence--" "hugh, you know that i am guilty." "the world will think that you are innocent. at any rate, you can come out and go about without fear. tell me, what are your plans?" "i have no plans. i only want to hide my head--somewhere." "yes; we will talk about that presently. meantime, i have some news for you." "news? what news?" "really good news. i have to tell you a thing which will surprise you." "good news? what good news is there for me?" "your husband has sent back the whole of the money." "sent back? to the insurance office?" "all has been sent back. he wrote two letters--one to the solicitors and the other to the insurance company. it is not likely now that anything can be said, because the directors have accepted the money. moreover, it appears that they might have proceeded against the lawyers for the recovery of the money, but that they have nothing to do either with you or with lord harry norland. that is a difficult point, however. somebody, it seems, has compounded--or is going to compound--a felony. i do not understand exactly what this means, or what dreadful consequences might follow; but i am assured by the lawyers that we need apprehend nothing more. all is over." iris heaved a profound sigh. "then he is safe?" she said. "you think of him first," said hugh, jealously. "yes: he is safe; and, i do hope, gone away, out of the country, never to come back any more. the more important thing is that you should be safe from him. as for the doctor--but i cannot speak of the doctor with common patience. let him be left to the end which always awaits such men. it is to be hoped that he will never, wherever he goes, feel himself in safety." "i am safe," said iris, "not only from my husband, but from what else beside? you know what i mean. you mean that i, as well as my husband, am safe from that. oh! the fear of it has never left me--never for one moment. you tell me that i am safe from public disgrace, and i rejoice--when i ought to sink into the earth with shame!" she covered her face with her hands. "iris, we know what you have done. we also know why you did it. what need we say more? the thing is finished and done with. let us never again allude to it. the question now is--what will you do next? where will you live?" "i do not know. i have got fanny mere with me. mrs. vimpany is also anxious to live with me. i am rich, indeed, since i have two faithful dependants and one friend." "in such wealth, iris, you will always be rich. now listen seriously. i have a villa in the country. it is far away from london, in the scottish lowlands--quite out of the way--remote even from tourists and travellers. it is a very lonely place, but there is a pretty house, with a great garden behind and a stretch of sand and seashore in front. there one may live completely isolated. i offer you that villa for your residence. take it; live in it as long as you please." "no, no. i must not accept such a gift." "you must, iris--you shall. i ask it of you as a proof of friendship, and nothing more. only, i fear that you will get tired of the loneliness." "no--no," she said. "i cannot get tired of loneliness it is all i want." "there is no society at all." "society? society for me?" "i go to the neighbourhood sometimes for fishing. you will let me call upon you?" "who else has such a right?" "then you will accept my offer?" "i feel that i must. yes, hugh; yes, with deepest gratitude." the next day she went down by the night-mail to scotland. with her travelled mrs. vimpany and fanny mere. chapter lxiv the invincibles the proceedings of lord harry after he had sent off that cheque were most remarkable. if he had invited--actually courted--what followed--he could not have acted differently. he left london and crossed over to dublin. arrived there, he went to a small hotel entirely frequented by irish americans and their friends. it was suspected of being the principal place of resort of the invincibles. it was known to be a house entirely given up to the nationalists. he made no attempt to conceal his name. he entered the hotel, greeted the landlord cheerfully, saluted the head waiter, ordered his dinner, and took no notice of the sullen looks with which he was received or the scowls which followed him about the coffee-room, where half a dozen men were sitting and talking, for the most part in whispers. he slept there that night. the next day, still openly and as if there was nothing to fear, either from england or from ireland, he walked to the station and took his ticket, paying no attention to what all the world might have seen and understood--that he was watched. when he had taken his ticket two men immediately afterwards took tickets to the same place. the place where he was going was that part of kerry where the invincibles had formerly assassinated arthur mountjoy. the two men who followed him--who took their tickets for the same place--who got into the same carriage with him--were two members of that same fraternity. it is well known that he who joins that body and afterwards leaves it, or disobeys its order, or is supposed to betray its secrets, incurs the penalty of death. on the unexpected arrival of lord harry at this hotel, there had been hurriedly called together a meeting of those members then in dublin. it was resolved that the traitor must be removed. lots were cast, and the lot fell upon one who remembered past acts of kindness done by lord harry to his own people. he would fain have been spared this business, but the rules of the society are imperative. he must obey. it is the practice of the society when a murder has been resolved upon to appoint a second man, whose duty it is to accompany the murderer and to see that he executes his task. in the afternoon, about an hour before sunset, the train arrived at the station where lord harry was to get down. the station-master recognised him, and touched his hat. then he saw the two other men got down after him, and he turned pale. "i will leave my portmanteau," said lord harry, "in the cloak-room. it will be called for." afterwards the station-master remembered those words. lord harry did not say "i will call for it," but "it will be called for." ominous words. the weather was cold; a drizzling rain fell; the day was drawing in. lord harry left the station, and started with quick step along the road, which stretched across a dreary desolate piece of country. the two men walked after him. one presently quickened his step, leaving the second man twenty yards behind. the station-master looked after them till he could see them no longer. then he shook his head and returned to his office. lord harry walking along the road knew that the two men were following him. presently he became aware that one of them was quickening his pace. he walked on. perhaps his cheeks paled and his lips were set close, because he knew that he was walking to his death. the steps behind him approached faster--faster. lord harry never even turned his head. the man was close behind him. the man was beside him. "mickey o'flynn it is," said lord harry. "'tis a ---- traitor, you are," said the man. "your friends the invincibles told you that, mickey. why, do you think i don't know, man, what are you here for? well?" he stopped. "i am unarmed. you have got a revolver in your hand--the hand behind your back. what are you stopping for?" "i cannot," said the man. "you must, mickey o'flynn--you must; or it's murdered you'll be yourself," said lord harry, coolly. "why, man, 'tis but to lift your hand. and then you'll be a murderer for life. i am another--we shall both be murderers then. why don't you fire, man." "by ---- i cannot!" said mickey. he held the revolver behind him, but he did not lift his arm. his eyes started: his mouth was open; the horror of the murderer was upon him before the murder was committed. then he started. "look!" he cried. "look behind you, my lord!" lord harry turned. the second man was upon him. he bent forward and peered in his face. "arthur mountjoy's murderer!" he cried, and sprang at his throat. one, two, three shots rang out in the evening air. those who heard them in the roadside cabin, at the railway-station on the road, shuddered. they knew the meaning of those shots. one more murder to load the soul of ireland. but lord harry lay dead in the middle of the road. the second man got up and felt at his throat. "faith!" he said, "i thought i was murdered outright. come, mick, let us drag him to the roadside." they did so, and then with bent heads and slouched hats, they made their way across country to another station where they would not be recognised as the two who had followed lord harry down the road. two mounted men of the constabulary rode along an hour later and found the body lying where it had been left. they searched the pockets. they found a purse with a few sovereigns; the portrait of a lady---the murdered man's wife--a sealed envelope addressed to hugh mountjoy, esq, care of his london hotel; and a card-case: nothing of any importance. "it is lord harry norland," said one. "the wild lord--he has met his end at last." the letter to iris was brief. it said: "farewell! i am going to meet the death of one who is called a traitor to the cause. i am the traitor of a cause far higher. may the end that is already plotted for me be accepted as an atonement! forgive me, iris! think of me as kindly as you can. but i charge you--it is my latest word--mourn not for one who has done his best to poison your life and to ruin your soul." in the other letter he said: "i know the affection you have always entertained for iris. she will tell you what she pleases about the past. if she tells you nothing about her late husband, think the worst and you will not be wrong. remember that whatever she has done was done for me and at my instigation. she ought to have married you instead of me. "i am in the presence of death. the men who are going to kill me are under this very roof. they will kill me, perhaps to-night. perhaps they will wait for a quieter and a safer place. but they will kill me. "in the presence of death, i rise superior to the pitiful jealousy with which i have always regarded you. i now despise it. i ask your pardon for it. help iris to forget the action of her life of which she has most reason to be ashamed. show that you forgive me--when you have forgiven her--and when you have helped her in the warmth and strength of your love to drive me out of your thoughts for ever. "h. n." epilogue it is two years after the murder of lord harry norland, the last event connected with this history. iris, when she accepted hugh mountjoy's offer of his scotch villa, went there resolved to hide herself from the world. too many people, she thought, knew her history, and what she had done. it was not likely that the directors of the insurance company would all hold their tongues about a scandal so very unusual. even if they did not charge her with complicity, as they could, they would certainly tell the story--all the more readily since lord harry's murder--of the conspiracy and its success. she could never again, she told herself, be seen in the world. she was accompanied by her friend and maid--the woman whose fidelity to her had been so abundantly proved--and by mrs. vimpany, who acted as housekeeper. after a decent interval, hugh mountjoy joined her. she was now a widow. she understood very well what he wished to say, and she anticipated him. she informed him that nothing would ever induce her to become the wife of any other man after her degradation. hugh received this intimation without a remark. he remained in the neighbourhood, however, calling upon her frequently and offering no word of love. but he became necessary to her. the frequent visits became daily; the afternoon visits were paid in the morning: the visitor stayed all day. when the time came for iris to yield, and he left the house no more, there seemed to be no change. but still they continued their retired life, and now i do not think they will ever change it again. their villa was situated on the north shore of the solway firth, close to the outfall of the annan river, but on the west bank, opposite to the little town of annan. at the back was a large garden, the front looked out upon the stretch of sand at low tide and the water at high tide. the house was provided with a good library. iris attended to her garden, walked on the sands, read, or worked. they were a quiet household. husband and wife talked little. they walked about in the garden, his arm about her waist, or hand in hand. the past, if not forgotten, was ceasing to trouble them; it seemed a dreadful, terrible dream. it left its mark in a gentle melancholy which had never belonged to iris in the old days. and then happened the last event which the chronicler of this history has to relate. it began in the morning with a letter. mrs. vimpany received it. she knew the handwriting, started, and hid it quickly in her bosom. as soon as she could get away to her own room she opened and read it. "good and tender creature,--i ascertained, a good while ago, thinking that probably i might have to make this kind of application to you, where you were living and with whom. it was not difficult; i only had to connect you with mr. hugh mountjoy and to find out where he lived. i congratulate you on being so well able to take care of yourself. you are probably settled for life in a comfortable home. i feel as happy about it as if i had myself contributed to thus satisfactory result. "i have no intention of making myself more disagreeable than i am obliged to do. necessity, however, knows no law. you will understand me when i tell you that i have spent all my money. i do not regret the manner in which the money has been spent, but the fact that it has all gone. this it is which cuts me to the heart. "i have also discovered that the late lamented lord harry, whose death i myself have the greatest reasons to deplore, played me a scurvy trick in regard to certain sums of money. the amount for which he was insured was not less than , pounds. the amount as he stated it to me was only , pounds. in return for certain services rendered at a particular juncture i was to receive the half of the insurance money. i only received , pounds, consequently there is still due to me the sum of , pounds. this is a large lump of money. but mr. mountjoy is, i believe, a wealthy man. he will, doubtless, see the necessity of paying this money to me without further question or delay. "you will, therefore, seek his presence--he is now, i hear, at home. you may read to him any part of this letter that you please, and you will let him know that i am in earnest. a man with empty pockets cannot choose but be in earnest. "he may very possibly object. "very good. in that case you will tell him that a fraud has been committed in connection with which i am prepared to make a full confession. i consented, on the death of my patient, and at the earnest entreaty of lord harry norland, to represent the dead man as his lordship. i then went away, resolving to have nothing more to do with the further villainy which i believe was carried on to the obtaining of the whole amount for which he was insured. "the murder of lord harry immediately afterwards caused the company to drop their intended prosecution. i shall reveal to them the present residence of his widow, and shall place my evidence at their disposition. whatever happens i shall make the facts of the case public. this done, nothing can hurt me; while, whether the public prosecutor intervenes or not, neither mr. hugh mountjoy nor his wife can ever show face to the world again. "tell mr. mountjoy, i say, whatever you please, except that i am joking. you must not tell him that. i shall call to-morrow morning, and shall expect to find the business as good as done. "a. v." mrs. vimpany dropped the letter in dismay. her husband had vanished out of her life for more than two years. she hoped that she was effectually hidden; she hoped that he had gone away to some far-off country where he would never more return. alas! this world of ours has no far-off country left, and, even if the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness so far as to go to the rocky mountains, an express train and a swift boat will bring him back to his wickedness whenever he desires a little more enjoyment and the society of his old friends. mr. vimpany was back again. what should she do? what would iris do? what would mr. mountjoy do? she read the letter again. two things were obvious: first, that he had no clue of the restitution; and, next, that he had no idea of the evidence against him for the murder of the dane. she resolved to communicate the latter fact only. she was braver now than she had been formerly. she saw more clearly that the way of the wicked man is not always so easy for him. if he knew that his crime could be brought home to him; that he would certainly be charged with murder if he dared to show himself, or if he asked for money, he would desist. before such a danger the most hardened villain would shrink. she also understood that it was desirable to hide from him the nature of the evidence and the name of the only witness against him. she would calmly tell him what would happen, and bid him begone, or take the consequences. yet even if he were driven off he would return. she would live henceforth in continual apprehension of his return. her tranquillity was gone. heavens! that a man should have such power over the lives of others! she passed the most wretched day of her whole life. she saw in anticipation the happiness of that household broken up. she pictured his coming, but she could not picture his departure. for she had never seen him baffled and defeated. he would come in, big, burly, with his farmer-like manner confident, bullying, masterful. he would ask her what she had done; he would swear at her when he learned that she had done nothing; he would throw himself into the most comfortable chair, stretch out his legs, and order her to go and fetch mr. mountjoy. would she be subdued by him as of old? would she find the courage to stand up to him? for the sake of iris--yes. for the sake of the man who had been so kind to her--yes. in the evening, the two women--mrs. vimpany and fanny--were seated in the housekeeper's room. both had work in their laps: neither was doing any work. the autumnal day had been boisterous; the wind was getting higher. "what are you thinking of?" asked fanny. "i was thinking of my husband. if he were to come back, fanny--if he were to threaten--" "you would loose my tongue--you would let me speak?" "yes; for her sake. i would have shielded him once---if i could. but not now. i know, at last, that there is no single good thing left in him." "you have heard from him. i saw the letter this morning, in the box. i knew the handwriting. i have been waiting for you to speak." "hush! yes, fanny; i have heard from him. he wants money. he will come here to-morrow morning, and will threaten mr. mountjoy. keep your mistress in her own room. persuade her to lie in bed--anything." "he does not know what i have seen. charge him with the murder of the dane. tell him," said fanny, her lips stiffening, "that if he dares to come again--if he does not go away--he shall be arrested for murder. i will keep silence no longer!" "i will--i am resolved! oh! who will rid us of this monster?" outside, the gale rose higher--higher still. they heard it howling, grinding branches together; they heard the roaring and the rushing of the waters as the rising tide was driven over the shallow sands, like a mountain reservoir at loose among the valleys below. in the midst of the tempest there came a sudden lull. wind and water alike seemed hushed. and out of the lull, as if in answer to the woman's question, there came a loud cry--the shriek of a man in deadly peril. the two women caught each other by the hand and rushed to the window. they threw it open; the tempest began again; a fresh gust drove them back; the waters roared: the wind howled; they heard the voice no more. they closed the window and put up the shutters. it was long past midnight when they dared to go to bed. one of them lay awake the whole night long. in the roaring tempest she had seen an omen of the wrath of heaven about to fall once more upon her mistress. she was wrong. the wrath of heaven fell upon one far more guilty. in the morning, with the ebbing tide, a dead body was found lashed to the posts of one of the standing nets in the solway. it was recognised by hugh, who went out to look at it, and found it the body of vimpany. whether he was on his way back to annan, or whether he intended to call at the villa that evening instead of next morning, no one can tell. his wife shed tears, but they were tears of relief. the man was buried as a stranger. hugh kept his counsel. mrs. vimpany put the letter in the fire. neither of them thought it wise to disturb the mind of iris by any mention of the man. some days later, however, mrs. vimpany came downstairs in a widow's cap. to iris's look of interrogation she replied calmly, "yes, i heard the other day. he is dead. is it not better--even for him, perhaps--that he should be dead? he can do no more wickedness; he can bring misery into no more households. he is dead." iris made no reply. better--better far--that he was dead. but how she had been delivered from the man, to what new dangers she had been exposed, she knew not, and will never know. she has one secret--and only one--which she keeps from her husband. in her desk she preserves a lock of lord harry's hair. why? i know not. blind love doth never wholly die. the end transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. several words were spelled in two different ways and not corrected; they are listed at the end of this book. a few obvious typographical errors have been corrected, and they are also listed at the end. "_to love_" "_to love is the great amulet which makes the world a garden._" _r. l. stevenson_ "_to love_" _by margaret peterson : author of_ "_the lure of the little drum," "tony bellew," etc._ _london: hurst and blackett, ltd. paternoster house, e.c. :: :: _ "to love" chapter i "oh, but the door that waits a friend swings open to the day. there stood no warder at my gate to bid love stand or stay." "you don't believe in marriage, and i can't afford to marry"--gilbert stanning laughed, but the sound was not very mirthful and his eyes, as he glanced at his companion, were uneasy and not quite honest. "we are the right sort of people to drift together, aren't we, joan?" his hands as he spoke were restless, fidgeting with a piece of string which he tied and untied repeatedly. joan rutherford sat very straight in her chair, her eyes looking out in front of her. his words had called just the faintest tinge of colour to her cheeks. it was not exactly a beautiful face, but it was above everything else lovable and appealing. joan was twenty-three, yet she looked still a child; the lines of her face were all a little indefinite, except the obstinacy of her chin and the frankness of her eyes. her one claim to beauty, indeed, lay in those eyes; wide, innocent, unfathomable, sometimes green, sometimes brown flecked with gold. they seemed to hint at tragedy, yet they were far more often laughter-filled than anything else. for the rest, joan was an ordinary independent young lady of the twentieth century who had lived in london "on her own" for six months. how her independence had come about is a complicated story. it had not been with the approval of her people; the only people she possessed being an old uncle and aunt who lived in the country. all joan's nearer relations were dead; had died when she was still a child; uncle john and aunt janet had seen to her bringing up. but at twenty-two and a-half joan had suddenly rebelled against the quiet monotony of their home life. she had broken it to them gently at first, with an obstinate resolve to get her own way at the back of her mind; in the end, as is usually the case when youth pits itself against age, she had won the day. uncle john had agreed to a small but adequate allowance, aunt janet had wept a few rather bitter tears in private, and joan had come to london to train as a secretary, according to herself. they had taken rooms for her in the house of a lady aunt janet had known in girlhood, and there joan had dutifully remained. it was not very lively, but she had a sense of gratitude in her heart towards aunt janet which prevented her from moving. joan was not thinking of all this as she sat there, nor was she exactly seeing the sweep of grass that spread out in front of them, nor the flowering shrubs on every side. hyde park was ablaze with flowers on this hot summer's day and in addition a whole bed of heliotrope was in bloom just behind their chairs. the faint sweet scent of the flowers mixed with joan's thoughts and brought a quick vision of aunt janet. but more deeply still her mind was struggling with a desire to know what exactly it was that swayed her when gilbert stanning spoke to her, or when--as more often than not--he in some way or other contrived to touch her. she had met him first at a dance that she had been taken to by another girl and she had known him now about four months. it was strange and a little disturbing the tumult his eyes waked in her heart. the first time he had kissed her, one evening when they had been driving home from the theatre in a taxi, she had turned and clung to him, because suddenly it had seemed as if the whole world was sweeping away from her. gilbert had taken the action to mean that she loved him; he had never wavered from that belief since. he possessed every spare minute of her days, he kissed her whenever he could, and joan never objected. only oddly, at moments such as this, her mind would suddenly push forward the terse argument: "do you love him, or is it just the little animal in you that likes all he has to give?" joan was often greatly disturbed about what she called the beast side of her. during her year in london, under the guidance of another girl far older and wiser than herself, she had plunged recklessly into all sorts of knowledge, gleaned mostly from books such as aunt janet and even uncle john had never heard of, far less read. so joan knew that there is a beast side to all human nature, and she was for ever pausing to probe this or that sensation down to its root. her books had taught her other theories too, and very young, very impetuous by nature, joan rushed to a full acceptance of the facts over which older women were debating. the sanctity of marriage, for instance, was a myth invented by man because he wished to keep women enslaved. free love was the only beautiful relationship that could exist between the sexes. frankness and free speech between men and women was another rule joan asserted, in pursuance of which she had long since threshed out the complicated question of marriage with gilbert. it was all rather childish and silly, yet pathetic beyond the scope of tears, if you looked into joan's sunlit eyes and caught the play of dimples round her mouth. rather as if you were to come suddenly upon a child playing with a live shell. what gilbert stanning thought of it all is another matter; joan with all her book-learned wisdom had not fathomed his character. he was a man about thirty-two, good-looking, indolent and selfish. he had just enough money to be intensely comfortable, provided he spent it all on himself, and gilbert certainly succeeded in being comfortable. there had been a good many women in gilbert's life of one kind and another, but he had never known anyone like joan before. at times her startling mixture of knowledge and innocence amazed him, and she had fascinated him from the first. he was a man easily fascinated by the little feminine things in a woman. the way joan's hair grew in curls at the nape of her neck fascinated him, the soft red of her mouth, the way the lashes lay like a spread-out fan on her cheeks and the quick changing lights and colours in those eyes themselves. with gilbert, when he wanted a thing he generally got it, by fair means or foul; for the moment he wanted joan passionately, almost insanely. but the way in which she made the path easy for his desire sometimes startled him; he could not make up his mind whether she was playing some very deep game at his expense or whether she really loved him to the exclusion of all caution. it was this problem which he had been more or less trying to solve this afternoon. at joan's continued silence he leaned forward and put his hand over hers where they lay on her lap. "what are you dreaming of, little girl?" he asked. the odd flutter which his touch always caused was shaking joan's heart; she tried, however, to face him indifferently, summoning up a smile. "i was thinking," she corrected, "not dreaming." "well, the thoughts, then," asked the man, his fingers moved caressingly up and down her hand, "what were they?" "i was thinking," began joan slowly; her eyes fell from his and she stirred restlessly. "what did you mean just now when you spoke about drifting together?" she asked. "little miss pretence," he whispered, "as if you didn't know what i meant. if i were well off," he said suddenly (perhaps for the moment he really meant it), "i would make you marry me whether you had new ideas about it or not." "being well off wouldn't have anything to do with it," joan answered, "it is more degrading to marry for money than anything else." "sometimes i believe you think that we are degrading altogether," the man said; he watched the colour creep into her face, "god knows we are not much to boast of, and that is the truth." joan struggled with the problem in her mind. "there ought not to be anything degrading about love," she said finally, and this time it was his eyes that fell away from hers. for a little they sat silent, joan, for some reason known only to herself, fighting against a strong inclination to cry. gilbert had taken away his hands, he sat back in his chair, his feet thrust out, head down, eyes glooming at the dust. joan stole a glance at him and felt a sudden intense admiration for the beauty of his clean-cut profile, his sleek, well-groomed head. instinctively she put out a timid hand and touched him. "are you angry with me about something?" she asked. it may have been that during that pause gilbert had been forming a good resolution with all that was best in him to keep from spoiling this girl's life. her eyes perhaps had touched on some slumbering chord of conscience. her movement though, the little whispered words, drove all thoughts except the ones which centred round his desire from his mind. "joan," he said quickly, his hands caught at hers again, "let us stop playing this game of make-believe. let us face the future one way or another. i love you, i want you. if you love me, come to me, dear, as you say there can be nothing degrading in love. let us live our lives together in the new best way." it was all clap-trap nonsense and he did not believe a word of it, but the force of his passion was unmistakable. it frightened and held joan. "you mean----" she whispered. "i mean that i want you to come and live at my place," he answered. "i have a decent little flat, as you know. that is not living on my money, o proud and haughty one"--he was so sure of his victory that he could afford to laugh--"you shall buy your own food if you like. and you shall be free, as free as you are now, and--i, joan," his voice thrilled through her, "i shall love you and love you and love you till you waken to see the world in quite a new light. joan!" his face was very close against hers, the scent of the heliotrope had grown on the sudden stronger and more piercingly sweet, perhaps because the sun had vanished behind the distant line of trees and a little breeze from the oncoming night was blowing across the flower-beds towards them. the quick-gathering twilight seemed to be shutting them in; people passed along the path, young sweethearting couples too happy in each other to notice anyone else. the tumult in joan's mind died down and grew very still, a sense of well-being and content invaded her heart. "yes"--she spoke the word so softly he hardly heard--"i'll come, gilbert." then she threw back her head a little and laughed, gay, confident laughter. "it will be rather fun, won't it?" she said. chapter ii "oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, and the great price we pay for it full worth. we have it only when we are half earth, little avails that coinage to the old." george meredith. it was not quite so much "rather fun" as joan had expected. it had, she discovered, its serious and unpleasant side. serious, because of the strange undreamt-of woman that it awoke within her, and unpleasant because of the deceit and the telling of lies which gilbert insisted it must involve. joan hated deceit, she had one of those natures that can never be really happy with an unconfessed lie on their mind. gilbert won her to do as he thought necessary, first by persuasion and then by using the power which he had discovered he could wield over her by his touch. "for my sake, darling," he argued, "it is all right for us because we understand each other, but the world would certainly describe me as a cad." so for his sake joan told mrs. thomas, with whom she had been living, that she had accepted a residential post as private secretary; packed up her boxes and took her departure amidst a shower of good wishes and warnings as to how she was to hold her own and not be put upon. to aunt janet, with a painful twinge of regret, joan wrote the same lie. she wanted to tell the truth to aunt janet more even than she wanted to live it out aloud to herself. the memory of aunt janet's face with its kindly deep-set eyes kept her miserable and uncomfortable, and the home letters brought no more a feeling of pleasure, only a sense of shame and distaste. how silly it was to connect shame with what she and gilbert had chosen as life! yet, unfortunately for her peace of mind, the word was constantly reverting to her thoughts. "it is the telling lies that i am ashamed of," she would argue hotly to herself, and she would shut her heart to the still small voice and throw herself because of it with more zest than ever into their life together. gilbert's flat was high up in one of the top stories of a block of buildings which fronts on to knightsbridge, bright, airy and cheerful. not too big, "just room for the two of us and we shut the world outside," as gilbert took pleasure in saying. it only consisted of four rooms, their bedroom and dressing-room, the sitting-room and gilbert's smoking-room, a place that he talked vaguely of working in and where he could entertain his men friends, without bothering joan, when they called to see him. the windows of their bedroom opened out over the green of the park. sometimes the scent of the heliotrope crept up even as far as that; whenever it did joan would have to hold her breath and stand quite still because the fragrance brought--not aunt janet now--but gilbert before her. it had blown in just like that the first night she had been in the room; the memories it could rouse were bewildering, intoxicating, and yet ... joan would have to push the disturbing thoughts from her and run to find gilbert if he were anywhere in their tiny domain, to perch on the arm of his chair and rub her face against his coat. his presence could drive away the vague feeling of uneasiness, his hands could win her back to placid contentment or wake in her the restless passionate desire which she judged to be love. it had been on one of these occasions that, running to find gilbert, she had flung open the door of his smoking-room and got well inside before she discovered that he had some men with him. gilbert lifted his head with a frown, that she noticed, while the guests struggled to their feet. there was a little silence while they all looked at her, then, with a muttered excuse, she retreated, closing the door behind her. but before it quite shut she heard one of the men laugh and say: "hulloa, stanning, so that is the secret of our bachelor flat is it? thought you had been lying very low this last two months." she did not catch gilbert's reply, she only knew that the sense of shame which had been but a fleeting vision before had suddenly taken sharp, strong hold of her. she stood almost as it were battling against tears. that evening across their small dining-table, after the waiter from the restaurant downstairs had served the coffee and left them, she spoke to gilbert, crumbling her bread with nervous fingers, finding it difficult to meet his eyes. "those men," she said, "who were here this afternoon, what do they think of me? i mean," she flushed quickly, "what do they think i am?" "think you are," gilbert repeated, "my dear girl, i suppose they could see you were a woman." "i mean, had you told them, did they know about us?" "silly kid," he smiled at her indulgently, "the world is not so fearfully interested in our doings." "no, but they are your friends," the hazel eyes meeting his held some wistful question. "wouldn't they wonder, doesn't it seem funny that they shouldn't be my friends too?" gilbert rose, conscious of a little impatience. the strange thing was that since the very commencement of their life together his conscience had not been as easy as he would have liked to have had it. joan's ideas had been so ridiculously simple and straightforward, she was almost a child, he had discovered, in her knowledge and thoughts. not that he was a person to pay much attention to principles when they came in contact with his desires, only it annoyed and irritated him to find she could waken an undreamt of conscience in this way. he shook off the feeling, however, with a little laugh, and, rising from the table, crossed over to her, standing behind her, drawing her head back against his heart. "not satisfied with our solitude," he teased; "find it dull?" "no, it's not that," she answered; she had to fight against the temptation to let things go, to lift up her lips for his kiss. "it's because--well, you didn't introduce me, they must have thought it queer." "oh, hang it all, dear," he remonstrated, "i could not pass you off as my wife or sister, they would know it was not true. what do you want to know them for anyhow? sclater works at the office with me and the other man is a pal of his, i have never met him before." "i see," she agreed; he had not at all understood her, but she doubted if she could quite explain herself. "it doesn't matter, gilbert." she sat a little away from him, sweeping the crumbs together with her fingers. behind her back gilbert shrugged his shoulders and allowed the frown to show for a second on his face. then he turned aside and lit a cigarette. "let's do a theatre to-night, joan," he suggested, "i am just in the mood for it." she was not just in the mood for it, but she went; and after the theatre they had supper at the monico and gilbert ordered a bottle of champagne to cheer them up; with the lights and music all round them and gilbert's face opposite her, his lips smiling at her, his eyes caressing her, joan forgot her mood of uneasiness. in the taxi going home she crept close up against him, liking to feel the strong hold of his arms. "you love me, and i love you, don't i, gilbert?" she whispered; "that is all that really counts." "it counts more than all the world," he answered, and stooped to kiss her upturned lips. she made no new friends in her life with him, the old ones naturally fell rather into the background; it was impossible to keep up girl friendships when she was never able to ask any of them home with her. once she went back to see mrs. thomas, but the torrent of questions, none of which could be answered truthfully, had paralysed her. she had sat dumb and apparently sulky. mrs. thomas had written afterwards to aunt janet: "i do not think joan can be really happy in her new post. she is quite changed, no longer her bright, cheery self." and that had called forth a long letter from aunt janet to joan. if she was not happy and did not feel well she was to leave at once. it had been her own wish to go to london, they had never liked the idea. "you would not believe, joan, how dull the house is with only john and me in it, we miss your singing and laughter about the place. come back home, dear; even if it is only for a holiday, we shall be delighted." there was a hint behind the letter that unless she had a satisfactory reply at once she or uncle john would come up to london to see joan for themselves! joan could imagine the agitation and yet firm purpose which would preface the journey. she wrote hastily. she was perfectly happy and ridiculously underworked. everyone was so good to her, one day soon she would take a day off and run down and see them, they should see how well she was looking. but the writing of the letter brought tears to her eyes, and when it was sealed up and pushed safely out of harm's way she sat and cried and cried. once or twice lately she had had these storms of tears, she was so unused to crying that she could not account for them in any way except that she hated having to tell lies. that was it, she hated having to tell lies. it was about a fortnight later that gilbert at breakfast one morning looked up from a letter which the early post had brought him with a frown of intense annoyance on his face. also he said "damn!" very clearly and distinctly. joan pushed aside the paper and looked at him. "anything wrong?" she asked; "is it business, or money, or----" "no, it is only the mater," he answered quickly; "she writes to say she is coming to pay me a little visit, that i am to see if i can get her a room somewhere in the building, she is going to spend two or three days shopping in town and hopes to see a lot of me." "oh," said joan rather blankly. gilbert never talked very much of his people; once he had shown her a photograph of his mother because she had teased him till he produced it. "don't you like the idea? gilbert, was that what you said 'damn' about?" "not exactly," his eyes travelled round the room; "you'll have to clear out, you know," he said abruptly. "you mean you want her to have our room and take another one in the building for yourself?" asked joan. "i daresay mrs. thomas would give me a bed for a night or two." "yes, that is it," he agreed; "and you will have to hide away all traces of yourself, mustn't leave anything suspicious lying about. the old lady might have given me a day or two's notice;" he had returned to his letter, "hang it all, she says she will be here to-morrow." joan had pushed her chair back and stood up, her breakfast unfinished. she was staring at his down-bent head, struggling with a wild desire to scream, to cry out against the curtain of shame he was so wilfully sweeping across their life together. she fought down the impulse though and moved over to the window. "you want me to go away and hide?" she asked from there, her voice dangerously quiet. he glanced up at her. "keep out of the mater's way," he acknowledged, "she would have seven fits." "why?" asked joan. "why," he repeated, "good lord, you don't know the mater. she----" joan interrupted. "you are ashamed of me," she spoke quickly, her face had flushed. "you have always been a little ashamed of me. you have never really looked at it as i did. i thought----" she broke off and turned away from him, stupid hot tears were blinding her eyes, she did not want to cry, it was so useless and childish. gilbert stuffed his mother's letter into his pocket and rose to his feet, stretching a little as he moved. "don't be ridiculous, kiddie," he said, "you must see it would not do for you to meet the mater. she is old-fashioned and--well, she would not understand." "we could make her understand," joan whispered, "if she saw we both really meant it." "well, i don't want you to try," he answered bluntly. "don't you feel the same about me as if i were your wife?" she knew he was close beside her, but she did not turn to look at him. gilbert put an arm round her and drew her close. "of course i do," he said, "but mother wouldn't. one does not exactly introduce one's mother to one's mistress." the inclination to tears had left joan, a very set calm had taken its place. suddenly she knew, as she stood there stiff held within the circle of his arms, that it was all ended. the dream, if it had been a dream, was finished, she could not live in it any longer. "very well," she agreed listlessly. "i will see about going away, the place shall be all ready for her to-morrow." she moved away from him, he did not notice how purposely she shook the touch of his hands from off her. chapter iii "out of my dreams, i fashioned a flower; nursed it within my heart, thought it my dower. what wind is this that creeps within and blows roughly away the petals of my rose?" m. p. "that is the end of lying," whispered joan. she threw down her cloak to keep the corner seat in the carriage and stepped out on to the platform to see if she could catch sight of a paper boy. she had not seen gilbert since the morning. he had had an appointment in the city, he had left it to her to get the flat ready for his mother. and she had done everything, there was nothing that she could reproach herself with. she had engaged an extra room for gilbert on the next floor, she had bought fresh flowers, she had made the place look as pretty as possible. it had not taken her long to do her own packing, there was nothing of hers left anywhere about. and all morning she had kept the window overlooking the park tight shut. the scent of flowers should bring no disturbing memories to weaken her resolve. then when everything had been quite settled she had sat down to write just a short note to gilbert. "i have tried to make you understand a little of all i felt this morning, but it was not any use. you cannot understand. it is just that we have always looked at things differently. i cannot live with you any more, gilbert; what is the use of trying to explain. it is better just to say--as we agreed that either of us should be free to say--it is all finished, and good-bye." she had propped the letter up for him to find, where she knew he would look first of all, by his pipe and matches on the mantelpiece. now she had taken her ticket to wrotham and wired aunt janet to say she was coming. but as she stood waiting for the train to start it occurred to her that she was really watching to see gilbert's slim, well-built figure push its way through the crowd towards her. the thought made her uneasy, she hoped he would have been late getting home; she doubted her strength of will to stand against him should he appear in person to persuade her. he did not come, however, and presently with a great deal of noise and excitement, whistles blowing and doors slamming, the train was off and she could sit back in her corner seat with a strange sense of pleasurable excitement at having so far achieved her purpose. uncle john was at the station to meet her. a straight-held old figure--in his young days he had been in the army and very good-looking--now the bristling moustache was white and the hair grew in little tufts either side of an otherwise bald head. ever since joan could first remember him uncle john had moved in a world separate from the rest of the household and entirely his own. it was not that he took no interest in them, it was just that he appeared to forget them for long intervals, talking very seldom, and when he did always about the days that were past. he had never married, but there had been one great love in his life. aunt janet had told joan all about it, a girl who had died many years ago; after her death uncle john had lived for nothing but his regiment. then he had had to leave it because old age had called for retirement, and he had sent for aunt janet to come and keep house for him and together they had settled down in the old home at wrotham--both unmarried, both very quiet and content to live in the past. then joan had descended on them, a riotous, long-legged, long-haired girl of eight, the child of a very much younger, little known brother. with the coming of joan, new life and new surprising interest had awakened in aunt janet's heart, but uncle john had remained impervious to the influence. he was very fond of joan in his way, but he scarcely ever noticed and he certainly knew nothing about her. he had realized her less and less as she grew up; when he spoke or thought of her now it was always as still a child. "you are a nice young lady," he greeted her good-humouredly, stooping to kiss joan at the station; "your aunt janet was sure this sudden return meant a breakdown. she is all of a twitter, so to speak, and would have been here to meet you herself only we have got a miss abercrombie staying with us. where's the luggage?" "i have only brought my small things with me," joan explained, "the rest are coming on. i am sorry aunt janet is worried, and who is miss abercrombie?" "friend of your aunt's," he answered; he took her bag from her. "i have brought the trap, janet thought you might be too delicate to walk." he chuckled to himself at the thought and picking up the reins climbed into the cart beside her. "don't think sally has been out twice since you left, see how fat she has got." the little brown pony certainly answered to the implication. her sides bulged against the shafts and bald patches were manifesting themselves, caused by the friction. "what have you been doing then?" asked joan; "why haven't you been out?" "nothing to go for," he answered, "and i have been too busy in the garden. extended that bit down through the wood." the garden was his one great hobby. "and aunt janet," joan questioned, "she always used to like taking sally out." "i suppose that was when you were here;" he looked down at her sideways, "she missed you, i think, but she potters about the village sometimes." he relapsed into silence, and joan could see that his thoughts were once more far away. several of the villagers came out as they passed through the little village street to bob greetings to the young lady of the manor, as they had always called joan. wrotham did not boast many county families; there was no squire, for instance. the rutherfords occupied the old manor house and filled the position to a great extent, but they owned none of the land in the neighbourhood, and the villagers were not really their tenants. and beyond the rutherfords there was no one in the village who could undertake parochial work except the vicar, a hard-working, conscientiously mild gentleman, with a small income and a large family. he could give plenty of spiritual advice and assistance, but little else; the old people and the invalids of the parish looked to aunt janet for soups and warm clothes and kindly interest. wrotham boasted a doctor too. as joan remembered him he had been a gentleman of very rubicund complexion and rough manners. village gossip had held that he was too fond of the bottle, but when sober he was kindly and efficient enough for their small needs. he had been unmarried and had lived under the charge of a slovenly housekeeper. as the rutherfords drove past his house, a square brick building with a front door that opened on to the village street, joan noticed an unfamiliar air of spruce cleanliness about the front door and the window blinds. "dr. simpson has had a spring cleaning," she said, pointing out the transformation to colonel rutherford. he came out of his reverie, whatever it was, and glanced at the house. "no," he said, "simpson has left. there are new people in there. grant is their name, i think. young chap and his sister and their old mother. came to call the other day; nice people, but very ignorant about gardens. your aunt has taken a great fancy to the young man." with that the trap turned into the wide open gates of the manor, and joan, seeing the old house, was conscious of a quick rush of contentment. she had come home; how good it was to be home. the house, a beautiful grey building of the tudor days, stood snug and warm amid a perfect bower of giant trees. ivy and creepers of all sorts clung to its stones and crept up its walls, long tendrils of vivid green. the drive swept round a beautifully kept lawn and vanished through a stone gateway leading into the stable-yard. it was only a pretence at a garden in front. uncle john always held that the open space which lay at the back of the house and on to which the drawing-room windows opened was the real thing. there, was more green grass, which centuries of care and weeding and rolling had transformed into a veritable soft velvet carpet of exquisite colour that stretched out and down till it met the wood of tall trees that fringed the garden. flowers were encouraged to grow wild under those trees; in spring it was a paradise of wild daffodils and tulips. that was aunt janet's arrangement; uncle john liked his gardens to be orderly. he was responsible for the straight, tidy flower-beds, for the rose gardens, for the lavender clumps that grew down at the foot of the vegetable garden. for lavender is not really an ornamental flower and uncle john only tolerated it because of aunt janet's scent-sachets. beautiful and old and infinitely peaceful, the sight and colour of it could bring back childhood and a sense of safety to joan, a sense that uncle john's figure and face--dear and familiar as they were--had been quite unable to do. london, her life with gilbert, the rack and tumult of her thoughts during the past six months appeared almost as a dream when seen against this dear old background. aunt janet was waiting their arrival in the hall, and joan, clambering down out of the trap, ran straight into those outstretched arms. "oh, aunt janet, it is good to be back," she gasped. then she drew away a little to take in the tall, trim figure dressed all in black save for a touch of white at neck and wrists; the face stern and narrow, lit by a pair of very dark eyes, the firm, thin-cut mouth, the dark hair, showing grey in places, brushed back so smooth and straight and wound in little plaits round and round the neat head. "you are just the same as ever," joan said. "oh, aunt janet, it is good to get back." the dark eyes, softened for the moment by something like tears, smiled at her. "of course i am just the same, child. what did you expect? and you?" "oh, i am i," joan answered; her laughter sounded unreal even to herself. "you have been ill," contradicted miss rutherford, "it is plain to see all over your face. thank god, i have got you back." she brushed aside the sentiment, since it was a thing she did not always approve of. "come away in and have your tea. john, leave mary to carry up joan's boxes; she will get dick to help her; they are too heavy for you. your uncle is getting old," she went on, talking brusquely as she helped joan off with her coat, "he feels things these days." "i haven't been away more than a year, aunt janet," laughed joan; "you talk as if it had been centuries." "it has seemed long," the other woman answered; her eyes were hungry on the girl's face as if she sought for something that kept eluding her. "a year is a long time to people of our age." "dear, silly, old aunt janet." joan hugged her. "you are not a second older nor the tiniest fragment different to what you used to be. i know you don't like being hugged; it makes you untidy; but you have simply got to be just once more." "you always were harum-scarum," remonstrated aunt janet, under this outburst. she did not, however, offer any real objection and they went into the drawing-room hand-in-hand. a small, thin lady rose to greet them at their entrance and joan was introduced to miss abercrombie. everything about miss abercrombie, except her size, seemed to denote strength--strength of purpose, strength of will, strength of love and hate. she gave joan the impression--and hers was a face that demanded study, joan found herself looking at it again and again--of having come through great battles against fate. and if she had not won--the tell-tale lines of discontent that hung about her mouth did not betoken victory--at least she had not been absolutely defeated. she had carried the banner of her convictions through thick and thin. joan was roused to a sudden curiosity to know what those convictions were and a desire to have the same courage granted to herself. it gave her a thrill of pleasure to hear that miss abercrombie would be staying on for some time. she was a schoolmistress, it appeared, only just lately health had interfered with her duties and it was then that aunt janet had persuaded her, after many attempts, to take a real holiday and spend it at wrotham. "sheer vice on my part, agreeing," miss abercrombie told joan with a laugh; "but everyone argued with me all at once and i succumbed." "just in time," aunt janet reminded her; "i was going to have given up asking you; even friendship has its limits." they had tea in the drawing-room with the windows open on to the garden and a small, bright fire burning in the grate. aunt janet said she had discovered a nip in the air that morning and was sure joan would feel cold after london. uncle john wandered in and drank a cup of tea and wandered out again without paying much attention to anyone. aunt janet sat and watched joan, and the girl, conscious of the scrutiny and restless under those brown eyes as she had always been restless in the old days with a childish, unconfessed sin on her conscience, talked as lightly and as quickly as she could upon every topic under the sun to miss abercrombie. and miss abercrombie rose like a sportswoman to the need. she was too clever a reader of character not to feel the strain which rested between her two companions. she knew aunt janet through and through, the stern loyalty, the unbending precision of a nature slow to anger, full of love, but more inclined to justice than mercy where wrongdoing was concerned. and joan--well, she had only known joan half an hour, but aunt janet had been talking of nothing else for the last fortnight. they kept the subject of joan's life in london very well at bay for some time, but presently aunt janet, breaking a silence that had held her, leaned forward and interrupted their discussion. "you have not told us why you left, joan," she said, "or what has been settled about your plans. are you on leave, or have you come away for good?" miss abercrombie watched the faint pink rise up over the girl's face and die away again, leaving a rather unnatural pallor. "i have left," joan was answering. "i----" suddenly she looked up and for a moment she and miss abercrombie stared at each other. it was as if joan was asking for help and the other woman trying to give it by the very steadiness of her eyes. then joan turned. "aunt janet," she said, hurrying a little over the words, "i want to ask you to let us not talk of my time in london. it--it was not what i meant it to be, perhaps because of my own fault, but----" "you were not happy," said aunt janet; her love rose to meet the appeal. "i never really thought you were. i am content to have you back, joan; we will let the rest slip away into the past." "thank you," whispered joan; the burden of lying, it seemed, had followed her, even into this safe retreat; "perhaps some day, later on, i will try and tell you about it, aunt janet." "just as you like, dear." aunt janet pressed the hand in hers and at that moment mary, the servant-girl, appeared in the doorway with a somewhat perturbed countenance. "please, mum, there is that bridget girl from the village and her mother; will you see them a minute?" the charity and sweetness left miss rutherford's face as if an artist had drawn a sponge across some painting. "i'll come directly," she said stiffly; "make them wait in my little room, mary." "the village scandal," miss abercrombie remarked, as the door closed behind the servant; "how are you working it out, janet? don't be too hard on the unrighteous; it is your one little failing." "i hardly think it is a subject which can be discussed before joan," miss rutherford answered. she rose and moved to the door. "i have always kept her very much a child, ann; will you remember that in talking to her." miss abercrombie waited till the door shut, then her eyes came back to joan. the child had grown into a woman, she realized; what would that knowledge cost her old friend? then she laughed, but not unkindly. "i know someone else who has kept herself a child," she said, "and it makes the outlook of her mind a little narrow. oh, well! you won't like me to speak disrespectfully of that very dear creature, your aunt. will you come for a stroll down to the woods or are you longing to unpack?" joan chose the latter, because, for a second, despite her instantaneous liking for miss abercrombie, she was a little afraid. she wanted to set her thoughts in order too, to try and win back to the glad joy which she had first felt at being home, and which had been dispelled by aunt janet's questions and her own evasive replies. "i will do my unpacking, i think," she said, "and put my room straight." she met the blue eyes again, kindly yet keen in their scrutiny. "i understand what you mean about aunt janet," she added; "i have felt it too, and, miss abercrombie, i am not quite such a child as she thinks; i could not help growing up." "i know that, my dear," the other answered, "and god gave us our eyes to see both good and evil with; that is a thing your aunt janet is apt to forget. well, run away and do your unpacking; we will meet later on at dinner." chapter iv "i have forgotten you! wherefore my days run gladly, as in those white hours gone by before i learnt to love you. now have i returned to that old freedom, where the rays of your strange wonder no more shall amaze my spirit." anon. if you see trouble in the back of a girl's eyes look always for a man in the case. that was miss abercrombie's philosophy of life. girls do not as a rule get into trouble over money, for debts or gambling. she had spent the whole of her practical life in studying girls; she knew fairly well the ins and outs of their complicated natures. joan was in trouble of sorts; what then had become of the man? until the time came when the girl would be driven to speak--and miss abercrombie was sure the time would come sooner or later--she was content to stay silent and observant in the background of events. often joan felt as though the shrewd eyes were drawing the unwilling truth from behind her mask of indifference, and she was, in a way, afraid of the little, alert woman who seemed to be taking such an intense though silent interest in her. for the first fortnight gilbert wrote every day. to begin with, his letters were cheerful. he was inclined, indeed, to chaff her for losing her temper over his mother's visit. "the old lady is gone," he wrote on the third day. "you can come back with perfect safety. she never smelt a rat, but tried to talk to me very seriously about taking unto myself a wife. it was on the tip of my tongue once or twice to tell her that i was already as good as married. don't keep on being stuffy, joan, hurry up and come back. you can't think what a lot i miss you, little girl, or how much i want you." it was the first of his letters that she made any attempt to answer and her reply was not easy to write. she had come very suddenly to her decision as she had stood within the circle of gilbert's arms that morning and answered his arguments about his mother. now she was realizing that for weeks before that her allegiance had been wavering. she had no wish to go back to him. she could not understand herself, but the fact was self-evident, even though the scent of heliotrope haunted her days and crept into the land of her dreams. her letter, when it was finished, struck her as cold and stupid, yet she let it go; she could not somehow make her meaning any clearer. "dear gilbert," she wrote, "i am sorry you do not seem to be understanding that what i wrote in my first letter is really true. it is all finished between us and i am not coming back. there is not anything else to say, except that i should be happier if you did not go on writing. nothing can change me, and it only keeps open old thoughts." he wrote in answer to that a furiously angry, altogether unpleasant letter. joan read it with shrinking horror, it seemed to lay bare all that she had been only half aware of before, the ugliness, the smallness of what she had at first thought was love. "if you try to marry anyone else," the letter ended on a cruelly ugly note, "remember i can spoil your little game for you, joan. there is no man who will marry you when they learn the truth." she tore up his other letters after that; the very sight of his handwriting brought hot shame to her heart. how much the people of the house noticed she hardly knew. aunt janet had fallen into the habit of watching her covertly, pathetically; she was trying in her own way to read the secret hidden away behind a changed joan. but she did her best to keep her curiosity out of sight; she was very gentle, very anxious to divert joan's thoughts and keep her happy. uncle john, of course, noticed nothing. joan helped him to potter about in the garden--they were building a rookery down by the woods--or sometimes she would take him for long walks and he would stump along beside her wrapped in indifferent silence, or else, carried away by some reminiscence of the old days, would start talking about the regiment and the places where he had been stationed. it was only miss abercrombie that joan was really uneasy with, and the end of miss abercrombie's visit was in sight. one afternoon, on a day which had seen one of gilbert's unopened letters destroyed, joan and miss abercrombie started out together soon after tea to take a basin of jelly to one of aunt janet's pet invalids who lived in a cottage away out at what was called the four cross roads. it was one of those very fine blue days common to september. just a nip of cold in the air, the forerunner of winter, and overhead the leaves on the trees turning all their various reds and golds for autumn. "the sky gives one a great sense of distance this afternoon," miss abercrombie said presently. "you never see a sky like this in towns; that is why you get into the habit of thinking things out of proportion." "what makes you say that?" asked joan; "i mean, how does the distance of the sky affect it?" "oh, well, it makes one feel small," the other answered, "unimportant; as if the affairs that worry our hearts out are, after all, of very little consequence in the scheme of existence." "they are our life," joan argued, "one has to worry and work things out for oneself." "you are a browningite," laughed miss abercrombie; she glanced up sideways at her companion. "'as it were better youth should strive through acts uncouth towards making, than repose on aught found made.' he is right in a way, though, mind you, i don't know that it pays women to do much in the struggling line." "i do wonder why you say that," said joan; "you have always struck me as being, above everything else, a fighter." "probably why my advice lies along other directions," admitted miss abercrombie; "it is extremely uncomfortable to be a pioneer." "but in the end, even if you have won nothing, it brings you the courage of having stuck to your convictions." "yes," miss abercrombie answered dryly, "it certainly brings you that." they walked in silence again for a while, turning into a short cut to their destination across the fields. "your aunt has got convictions too." miss abercrombie reopened the conversation, evidently her thoughts had been working along the same lines. "they are uncomfortable things; witness the judgment she metes out to that unfortunate girl in the village." "you mean bridget?" joan's voice had suddenly a touch of fear in it; miss abercrombie stole a quick look at her. "i was asking mary about her the other day." "immorality, your aunt calls it," sniffed miss abercrombie, "and for that she would quite willingly, good, kind woman as she is, make this child--bridget is seventeen, you know--an outcast for the rest of her life. immorality!" "what would you call it?" questioned joan; she spoke stiffly, for she was singularly uneasy under the discussion, yet she had always wanted to argue the matter out with miss abercrombie. "i hate the word 'immoral' to begin with," the little woman went on; "not that i am exactly out against regulations. laws and customs have come into being, there is little doubt about that, to protect the weak against the strong. the peculiar thing about them is that they always wreak their punishments on the weak. poor bridget, even without your aunt's judgment, she pays the penalty, doesn't she?" "i suppose aunt janet is a little hard about these things," joan admitted. "you see, the idea of going against laws and things has never occurred to her. she has always obeyed, she has never wanted to do anything else." "quite so," agreed miss abercrombie; "my dear, don't let us talk about it any more. i always lose my temper, and i hate losing my temper with someone whom i love as much as i do your aunt janet." "but i am interested in what you think," joan went on slowly; the red crept into her cheeks. "i don't believe in marriage myself; i think people ought to live together if and when they want to, and leave each other when they like." miss abercrombie stared with dismay at the flushed face. "my dear," she said, and her tone had fallen upon far greater seriousness than the former discussion had evoked, "both of those are very rash statements. the problem of life is unfortunately not quite so easily settled." "but marriage," joan argued, "marriage, which tries to tie down in hard bonds something which ought only to be of the spirit--i think it is hideous, hideous! i could never marry." "no," agreed miss abercrombie, "a great many of us feel like that when we are young and hot-headed. i nearly said empty-headed. then we read fat books about the divine right of motherhood, free love and state maternity. all very well in the abstract and fine theories to argue about, but they do not work in real life. believe me, the older you get the more and more you realize how far away they all are from the ideal. marriage may be sometimes a mistaken solution, but at present it is the only one we have." "why do you say that?" asked joan; for the first time she turned and looked at her companion. "do you really believe it is true?" "yes," nodded miss abercrombie. "my dear," she put a hand on joan's arm, "we women have got to remember that our actions never stand by themselves alone. someone else has always to foot the bill for what we do. i said just now that laws had been evolved to protect the weak; well, marriage protects the child." "but if two people love each other," joan tried to argue, but her words were bringing a cold chill of fear to her heart even as she spoke, "what other protection can be needed?" "love is something that no one can define," stated miss abercrombie; "but centuries have gone to prove that it is not as binding as marriage, and for the sake of the children the man and woman must be bound. that is the long and short of all the arguments." "if there is no child?" joan's fear prompted her to the question; she spoke it almost in a whisper. miss abercrombie paused in her act of unlatching the gate, for they had arrived at the cottage by now, to look up at her. "ah, there you open wider fields," she assented, "only childless people are and must be the exceptions. one cannot lay down laws for the exceptions." mrs. starkey, the invalid old lady, was garrulous, and delighted to see them. so anxious to tell them all her ailments and scraps of gossip that by the time they got away it was quite late and already the sun was sinking behind the range of hills at the back of the village. "we will have to hurry," joan said. "aunt janet gets so fussed if one is out after dark." hurrying precluded any reopening of the subject they had been discussing, but joan's mind was busy with all the thoughts it had roused as they walked. the faint hint of fear that had stirred to life in her when miss abercrombie had spoken of bridget was fast waking to very definite panic. she could feel it tugging at her heart and making her breathing fast and difficult. supposing that the vaguely-dreamed-of possibility had crystallized into fact in her case? how would aunt janet think of it; what changes would it bring into her life? as they turned into the little village street they came straight into a crowd of people standing round an open cottage door. the crowd was strangely quiet, talking amongst themselves in whispers, but from within the cottage came the sound of wailing, the hysterical crying of old age. miss abercrombie, with joan following, pushed her way to the front, and with awed faces the villagers drew back to let them pass. at the open door sam jones, the village constable, an old man who had known joan in her very young days, put out his hand. "don't you go in now, miss," he said, "it is not for the likes of you to see, and you can do no good. besides which, your aunt is there already." but joan paid no attention to him and, pushing past his outstretched hand, followed miss abercrombie. the inside of the cottage was dimly lit, and scattered with a profuse collection of what appeared to be kitchen utensils, dishes and clothes, all flung about in confusion. the only light in the place glinted on the long deal table and the stiff dead figure stretched out on it, still and quiet, with white, vacant face and lifeless arms that hung down on either side. water was oozing out of the clothes and dripping from the unbound hair; it had gathered already into little pools on the floor. in the darkest corner of the room a crouched-up form sat sobbing hopelessly, and by the figure on the table aunt janet stood, her face in shadow, since she was above the shade of the lamp, but her hands singularly white and gentle-looking as they moved about drying the dead girl's face, pushing the wet, clogged hair from eyes and mouth. joan paused just within the door, the terror of that figure on the table holding her spellbound, but miss abercrombie moved brusquely forward so that she stood in the lamplight confronting aunt janet. "so," she said, quick and sharp, yet not over loud, the people outside could not have heard, "bridget has found this way out. a kinder way than your stern judgment, janet. poor little girl." "i did not judge," miss rutherford answered stiffly, "'the wages of sin is death.'" "yet you can be kind to her now," snorted miss abercrombie; "it would not have been wasted had you been a little kinder before. forgive me, janet, i speak quickly, without thinking. you live up to your precepts; everyone has to do that." the old woman in the corner lifted her face to look at them; perhaps she thought that in some way or other they were reviling the dead, for she staggered to her feet and crossed over to the table. "it was fear made her do it," she wailed; "fear, and because we spoke her harsh. i hated the shame of it all. yet, god knows, i would have stood by her in the end. my little girl, my little bridget!" sobs choked her, she fell to her knees, pressing her lips to one of the cold, stiff hands. joan saw aunt janet stoop and lay a gentle hand on the heaving shoulders, she heard, too, a movement of the crowd outside and saw the vicar's good-natured, perturbed face appear in the doorway. behind him again was a younger man, stern-faced, with quiet, very steady blue eyes and a firm-lined mouth. all this she noticed, why she could not have explained, for the man was a perfect stranger to her; then the fear and giddiness which all this time she had been fighting against gained the upper hand and, swaying a little, she moved forward with the intention of getting outside, only to fall in a dead faint across the doorway of the cottage. chapter v "love wakes men, once a lifetime each they lift their heavy heads and look. * * * * * and some give thanks, and some blaspheme, and most forget, but either way that, and the child's unheeded dream is all the light of all their day." the grants were sitting at breakfast in their small, red-walled dining-room. richard, commonly called dick, at the end of the table, mabel at the one side and mrs. grant in the seat of honour at the top. wherever mrs. grant sat was the seat of honour; she was that kind of old lady. marvellously handsome still, despite her age, with a commanding presence and a nature which had sublime contempt for everyone and everything except herself, she sailed through life exacting service from all and obedience from her children. why they obeyed her they could not have themselves explained; perhaps it was an inheritance from the dead mr. grant, who had worshipped his wife as if she had been some divinity. in her own way mrs. grant had always been gracious and kindly to her husband, but he had been altogether a nonentity in her life. before the children were old enough to see why, they realized that daddy was only the man who made the money in their house. mother spent it, buying the luxuries with which they were surrounded, the magnificent toys which they disregarded, as is the way of children, the splendidly expensive clothes, which were a perfect burden to them. then, just when dick was beginning to understand, mr. grant died. * * * * * he had sent for his son--dick was about eighteen then--and spoken to him just before the end came. "you will have to look after your mother, dick," he had said, clutching at the young, strong hands; "she has always been looked after. she has never had to rough things in her life. and you won't be any too well off. promise me, promise me, you will always give her of your best." "of course, i promise, dad," he had answered. further conversation between then had ceased because mrs. grant swept into the room, regal even in the face of death. dick remembered the incident afterwards with a little twitch of his lips because it was so typical of his mother and it was just at this period that he had begun to criticize her. the sick-room had been in shadowed gloom until her entry; the lights hurt the fast-failing eyes. "i cannot sit in the dark," stated mrs. grant, as she settled herself, with a delightful rustle of silk and a wave of perfume, beside the bed. "you know that, harry. it always has depressed me, hasn't it?" "turn up the lights, dick," whispered the man, his hand had closed on one of hers; happiness flooded his heart at her presence. "but you know they hurt your eyes," dick expostulated; he was new to death, yet he could read the signs well enough to know his father was dying. "harry can lie with his eyes shut," answered mrs. grant calmly. there was no disagreeableness in her tone: her selfishness was on too gigantic a scale for her ever to be disagreeable. and dick had turned up the lights and gone fuming from the room, conscious for the time being of a sense of dislike for his mother's perfection! it soon faded though; he had been trained too thoroughly in his youth. once he said to mabel hotly: "why does mother cry for dad? she did not really love him, and she just delighted in buying all that expensive and becoming mourning." and mabel had surprised him by replying: "mother does not really love anyone but herself." the remark sounded odd from mabel, who spent her life slaving with apparent devotion in her mother's service. she was a tall, rather colourless girl, with big grey eyes and a quaint-shaped mouth that was always very silent. she moved through the background of their lives doing things for mother. she had always done that; dick wondered sometimes whether the soul within her would ever flame into open rebellion, but it never did. by the time dick had passed his various exams, and was ready to take up a practice somewhere, mrs. grant and mabel had been practically everywhere on the continent. "money is running short," mabel wrote crisply to dick; "cannot you do anything in the way of taking a house and settling down, so as to make a home for mother and me?" dick's ambitions lay in the direction of bachelor's diggings and work in london. he thrust them aside and bought what was supposed to be a very good and flourishing practice at birmingham. unfortunately mrs. grant took a violent dislike to birmingham. their house was gloomy and got on her nerves; the air, she said, was laden with smoke which irritated her throat. she developed a cough, quite the most annoying sound that dick had ever imagined, and he was not easy to irritate. mother coughed from the time she woke till the time she went to sleep--coughed and remembered old times and wept for harry, who would at least have taken care not to expose her to such overwhelming discomfort. at the end of six months dick threw up the practice in despair and placed himself at her disposal. they put in a year in london, but what dick earned was quite insufficient to cope with what mrs. grant spent and things went from bad to worse. mabel never offered any advice until she was asked but when dick spoke to her finally she was quite definite. "you have got to take mother in hand," she said. "father never did. he spent his life making money for her to spend, but there is no reason why you should. get a small practice somewhere in the country where there are no shops and just tell mother you are going to settle there for five years at least." "she will get another cough," argued dick. "you must let her cough, it won't hurt her," answered mabel. undoubtedly mrs. grant did not approve of wrotham to begin with, but it had its advantages, even for her. she settled very quickly into the role of lady bountiful; the villagers gazing upon her with such unmixed admiration that she was moved to remark to mabel that it was really pleasant doing things for such grateful people. dick provided her with a victoria and horse in place of the usual doctor's trap, and she could drive abroad to visit this or that protégé in truly regal style. it meant that dick had to pay all his visits, and some of them very far off and at all sorts of unseasonable hours, on a bicycle, but he never grudged making sacrifices of that kind for her. no one admired his mother in the abstract more than dick did. mabel perhaps resented the extra work it entailed on him, for she loved dick with the whole force of her self-restrained heart. but, as usual, she kept silent. the villagers could see that she drove out in attendance on mrs. grant, but to them she was only an uninteresting shadow that waited on the other's splendour. they often wondered among themselves how mrs. grant could have a daughter as drab and uninteresting as miss grant; they did not realize how, like a vampire, the older woman lived upon the younger one's vitality. people like mrs. grant exist at the expense of those they come in contact with. you either have to live for them or away from them. on this particular morning dick finished his breakfast before either his mother or sister, and pushing back his chair, asked, as he had always asked since the days of his childhood, if he might rise. "before i am finished, dick?" remonstrated mrs. grant; "it is not very polite, dear." "i know," dick apologized, "but the truth is i have an early call to pay this morning. the people of the manor house have sent for me; miss rutherford the younger is not awfully well, or something." "miss rutherford the younger?" repeated his mother; "i did not know there was a younger; i have never seen her, have i, mabel?" "i don't suppose so," dick answered for his sister; "she has been away in london." "what is the matter with her?" asked mrs. grant. "why do they want you to see her?" "i can't know that till i have seen her, can i? last night she happened to come into the rendle cottage just after they had brought that poor girl home, and the sight must have upset her; anyway she fainted. i expect that is what miss rutherford is worried about." "it is hardly polite of her not to have brought her niece to call on me," said mrs. grant. "still, if you are going there, dear, and the girl doesn't seem well, tell them i shall be only too happy to come and fetch her for a drive some afternoon. i daresay my carriage is more comfortable than that ramshackle old trap of theirs." "you are a dear to think of it," he said, stooping to kiss her good-bye. "if you can spare mabel this afternoon, mother, i thought perhaps she might come into sevenoaks with me. i have got to attend a meeting there, and it will be an outing for her." "if mabel would like to go, of course she must," mrs. grant agreed. "i shall be a little lonely, and to-day is the day i am supposed to have my hair shampooed. not that it really matters." "i could not go any way," mabel put in for herself. "mr. jarvis is coming to tea, dick; he asked himself last week." she followed her brother out to the front door. "the day is going to be full of disagreeables for you," he said, as they stood waiting for his bicycle to be brought round. "mother's shampoo, i know what that involves, and mr. jarvis. nuisance the fellow is; why can't he see that you dislike him?" "oh, i don't exactly," she answered, without meeting his eyes. she hated him like poison, dick knew. he wondered rather vaguely why mabel had lied to him, generally speaking they were too good friends for that to be necessary. then he dismissed the subject, and his thoughts turned again to the girl he was on his way to see. he had been thinking a great deal of joan since he had first seen her. the startled, child-like face, the wide frightened eyes, had impressed themselves on his mind the night before. he had lifted her in his arms and carried her outside; the poise of her thrown-back head against his arm stayed in his mind, a very warm memory. poor little girl, it must have been horrible for her to have come in from the gay placidness of her own life and thoughts to the stark tragedy of bridget rendle's death. he was very ignorant and very reverent in his thoughts about women. he could imagine joan's sweet, well-ordered life, the fragrance of youth hung about his idea of her. bridget rendle had been a girl too, younger perhaps than the other one; but bridget had dipped into the waters of life, and sorrow and sin had closed over her. the two girls were as far apart as the poles, it seemed almost irreverent to think of them in the same breath. aunt janet met him in the hall when she heard of his arrival. "i have not told my niece about sending for you," she said; "it might only make her nervous. i am very alarmed about her, dr. grant. she has been home now three weeks and she is really not at all like herself. then that faint last night. i am afraid of fainting-fits; my mother, i may as well tell you, died very suddenly from a heart-attack." "it is not likely to be anything of that sort," he told her. "yesterday's tragedy was quite sufficient to upset very strong nerves." "i hope not," aunt janet agreed; "anyway, i shall feel happier once you have seen her. will you come this way?" she led him through the house to a room on the other side of the drawing-room which had been fitted up as a special sanctum for joan since her return from london. "i am nervous," she admitted to the doctor with her hand on the door-knob, "she will perhaps be annoyed at my having sent for you." then she opened the door and they passed in. joan was sitting in the far corner near the open window, a book on her lap. but she was not pretending to read; dick could have sworn that she had been crying as they came in. as she saw her aunt was not alone she stood up quickly and the book fell unheeded to the floor. "this is the doctor, dear," aunt janet began nervously. "i asked him to call and see you. you need a tonic, i am sure you do." "you sent for him," whispered joan. dick felt horribly uncomfortable; it was impossible not to sense the tragedy which hung heavy in the air. "why, oh why, have you done that, aunt janet?" "i was afraid," the other began; "last night you----" rather waveringly she came to a full stop, staring at joan. the girl had drawn herself up to her full height. she faced them as someone brought suddenly to bay, her hands clenched at her sides, two flags of colour flaming in her cheeks. "i was going to have told you," she said, addressing herself solely to aunt janet, "now you have brought him in he must know it too. but i do not need him to tell me what is the matter with me; i found it out for myself last night. i am not ashamed, i do not even hold that i have done anything wrong; i would have told you before only i did not know it was going to come to this, and for the rest it was like a shut book in my life that i did not want to have to open or look at again. i am like bridget rendle," she said, head held very high. "i am going to have a baby. bridget was afraid and ashamed, but i am neither. i have done nothing to be ashamed of." the telling of it sapped at her much boasted courage, and left her whiter than the white wall-paper; dick could see that she had some ado to keep back her tears. aunt janet seemed to have been paralysed; she stayed where she was, stiff, stricken, and dick, glancing at her, thought he had never seen such anguish and terror combined on a human face. he felt himself completely forgotten in this crisis. the two women stared at each other. twice aunt janet moistened her lips and tried to speak, but the words died in her throat. when she succeeded at last her voice was scarce recognizable. "you said--like bridget rendle," she whispered; "did you mean what you said?" "yes," answered joan. the older woman turned towards the door. she walked as if blind, her hands groping before her. "god!" dick heard her say under her breath, "dear god, what have i done that this should come upon me?" as she reached the door joan called to her, her voice sharp with fear. "aunt janet, aunt janet, aren't you going to say anything to me?" "i must hold my tongue," the other answered stiffly, "or i shall curse that which i have loved." suddenly the anguish in her flamed to white beat. "i would rather have known you dead," she said, and passed swiftly from the room. joan took a step forward, and her foot touched on the book she had let fall. mechanically she stooped to pick it up, then, because her knees were in reality giving way under her, she stumbled to the chair and sat down again. she seemed to have forgotten the man standing by the door, she just sat there, hands folded in her lap, with her white face and great brown eyes looking unseeingly at the garden. dick moved uneasily. he had not the slightest idea what he ought to do; he felt horribly like an intruder. and he was intensely sorry for the girl, even though behind this sorrow lay the shock of a half-formed ideal which she had shattered in his mind. finally he submerged the man in the doctor and moved towards her. "i am most awfully sorry for you," he said, "will you let me help you if i can? there may be some mistake, and anyway i could give you something to help with those fainting-fits." joan brought her eyes away from the garden and looked at him. "no," she said, "there is no mistake and i do not make a habit of fainting. yesterday it was different, perhaps i realized definitely and for the first time what it would all mean. i saw aunt janet's face as she spoke of the dead girl, and ... i do not know why i am telling you all this," she broke off, "it cannot be very interesting, but i do not want you to think that i feel as bridget rendle felt." "no," he agreed, "you are facing it with more courage than she had been taught to have." "it is not a question of courage," joan answered. he was not understanding her, she realized, and for some stupid reason it hurt that he should not, but she must not stoop to further explanations. she stood up, making a stern effort at absolute calmness. "good-bye," she said, "i am sorry you should have been troubled to come and that you should have had to go through this sort of scene." "good-bye," was all he could answer. at the door he turned to look back at her. "if you should need help of any sort at any time," he said, "will you send for me? i should like to feel you were going to do that." "i cannot promise," she answered, "you see, i shall probably be leaving here quite soon." and with that he had to be content to leave her. chapter vi "and bending down beside the glowing bars murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains overhead, and hid his face amid a crowd of stars." mabel had shampooed her mother's hair, following out with unending patience the minute instructions which the process always involved. she had rinsed it in four relays of hot water, two of lukewarm and one of cold; she had dried it with the hard towel for the scalp and the soft towel for the hair. she had rubbed brilliantine in to give it the approved gloss. the whole proceeding had lasted fully two hours; now she stood and brushed out the long fine threads of grey turning to silver with just the steady gentle pressure which was necessary and which, according to mrs. grant, no one but mabel was capable of producing. mrs. grant liked to have her hair brushed for half an hour after a shampoo, it soothed the irritated nerves. from behind her mother's back mabel could see her own face in the glass, the sallow cheeks flushed from her exertions, the grey, black-lashed eyes tired and a little angry. once, long ago, during one of their journeys on the continent, there had been a young naval officer who had loved mabel for those grey eyes of hers. he had raved about the way the lashes lay like a fringe of shadow round them. he had called them "dream eyes," and once he had kissed the lids close shut over them with hard, passionate kisses. whenever mabel looked at her eyes in the glass she thought of jack donald. she had loved him and she had sent him away because of mother. he had only been able to offer her his love and the pay of a lieutenant in the navy; he had not even shown that he liked mother, he had resented the way mabel slaved for her. of course the outlook had been absurd, and mrs. grant had said so very plainly. if mabel married it would have to be someone wealthy someone elderly enough to understand that mother must live with them. but when he went he took with him all the dreams of mabel's life; she never looked out into the future to make plans now, she could only look back into the past that held her memories. "i hope," said mrs. grant suddenly breaking in on her thoughts, "that dick does not fall in love with this young lady at the manor." "why not?" asked mabel, "he must fall in love sooner or later." "well, then, it must be later and with someone who has a great deal of money. we are quite badly enough off as it is." "you and i could go away again on our own," suggested mabel, "you know you said the other day that wrotham was getting on your nerves." "don't be ridiculous," snapped mrs. grant, "i should like to know what you think we should live on once dick has a wife. you say you won't marry mr. jarvis or anyone else." "no," mabel admitted, "but because i won't marry it hardly seems fair that we should stand in the way of dick's doing so." "what do you intend to imply by 'standing in the way'? really mabel, sometimes i wonder if you have any love for me, you so habitually and wilfully misconstrue my sentences. surely it is permissible" (mrs. grant's sigh was a model of motherly affection) "for a mother to wish to keep her son, her eldest born, to herself for a little longer. one loses them so once they marry." mabel concealed a swift, rather bitter, smile. "i did not mean to misconstrue anything," she said, "only just the other day i was thinking that perhaps we did rather hamper dick. he is twenty-seven, you know; it is funny he has never wanted to marry." "he is waiting for the right girl," mrs. grant sighed again. "and if he happens to find her," thought mabel to herself, there was no use saying the words aloud, "we are to do our best to prevent him having her. poor old dick." her eyes waked to sudden, vivid affection as she thought of him. she ran downstairs presently, mrs. grant having retired to rest after exertions, to meet dick just coming in. he had done a round of visits after his call at the manor house. visits which had included one to the rendles' cottage, where he had seen the principal figure of last night's tragedy laid out, as her mother said, for decent burial, "even though it baint a going to be christian." the girl had been dressed in something white; white flowers, great beautiful-headed chrysanthemums, lay between her folded hands and against her face. she had been a handsome girl, death had robbed her of her vivid colouring, but it had given her in its stead something dignified and withdrawn, a look of suffering and yet great peace. mrs. rendle was more resigned too this morning; she had cried her heart quiet through the night. "bridget is better so," she could confide to dick as he stood looking down at the girl, "the shame is done away with, sir, and god will look to the sin. i hold there ain't much to fear there, even though they won't bury her in the churchyard." "no, i don't think there is much to fear," he agreed. "i am sorry about the burial, mrs. rendle, i have tried to argue the matter out with the vicar." "oh, that is not to be helped," she answered. "god will rest her soul wherever she be. miss rutherford sent those flowers," she added, "she was rare set agin bridget to begin with, but she be softened down." that brought the other tragedy which he had witnessed this morning back to his mind. not that he had really forgotten it. the picture of joan, her head high, her cheeks flushed, was one that had imprinted itself very strongly upon his memory. he had given up trying to understand how such a thing could have happened, his own vague happy thoughts of her stirred wistfully behind the new knowledge. and he could not dismiss her altogether from the throne he had designed for her to occupy. there must be some explanation; if only he had not been such an absolute stranger perhaps she would have told him a little more, have given him a chance to understand. "well," asked mabel, "is she nice, dick, did you like her?" her eyes were quick to notice the new shadow of trouble on his face. "very nice, i think," he answered, hoping his voice sounded as indifferent as he meant it to, "but i really did not see much of her and she is going back to london almost at once." he went past her on into the dining-room. "is lunch nearly ready," he asked, "i have got to catch that . , you know." "i'll see about it," mabel said, "mother is having hers upstairs." she turned away to comply, but all the time she was hurrying up the maidservant, and later, while she and dick sat opposite each other, rather silent, through lunch, her eyes and mind were busy trying to read the secret of dick's manner. the girl had impressed him strongly, that was evident, but why should she have occasioned this gloom in dick who so very rarely allowed anything or anybody to ruffle his cheery good humour? he rode off without letting her glean any explanation, and mabel wandered into the drawing-room to get it ready for mrs. grant's descent. had dick really fallen in love? she remembered once before when he had been about eighteen or nineteen, how there had been a girl whom he had rather shyly confessed himself enamoured of. but since the damsel had been quite five years his senior the romance, to mabel's relief, had faded away. yet if dick were ever really to fall in love it would be a deep and unshakable tie; he would be as his father had been, all faithful to the one woman in his life. it was remembering her father that suddenly brought mabel's thoughts back to her mother whose absorbing personality had stood so like a giant shadow across all their lives. would dick's love be strong enough to fight against his sense of duty and mother's selfishness, for most certainly mother would not help him to achieve his desire unless it ran along the same lines as her own. and if mother prevailed what would life mean for dick? the same dry empty dreariness that her own days contained, the restless hopes that died too hard, the unsatisfied, cruel dreams? no, no! she had not fought to save her own happiness, but she would fight to the last inch to save dick's. almost as if in answer to her heart's wild outcry the front-door bell rang, and looking up she saw the short stout figure which of late had taken to haunting her thoughts on the door-step. mr. jarvis was an elderly man inclined to be fat, with round, heavy face, very thick about the jaws and unpleasantly small eyes. yet the expression of the man's face was not altogether disagreeable and a certain shrewd humour showed in the lines of his mouth. he had lived for forty-two years in wrotham, travelling twice a year to london in connection with his business, but never venturing further afield. his house, a magnificent farm building, lay about twelve miles away on the other side of wrotham station. it had come down to him through generations of jarvises, he was reputed to be marvellously wealthy, and he had no shyness about admitting the fact. his favourite topics of conversation were money and horses. he had never married, village gossip could have given you lurid details as to the why and the wherefore had you been willing to listen. mr. jarvis himself would have put it more plainly. the only woman he had ever had the least affection for had neither expected nor desired matrimony; she had been content to live with him as his housekeeper. this woman had been dead three years when jarvis first met mabel. quite apart from the fact that of late he had been feeling that it was time he got married, jarvis had been attracted to mabel from the first. she was such a contrast to the other women he had known; he admired enormously her slim delicacy, her faintly coloured face, her grey eyes. he liked her way of talking, too, and the long silences which held her; her quiet dignity, the way she moved. he placed her on a pedestal in his thoughts, which was a thing he had never dreamt of doing for any other woman, and before long his admiration melted into love. then being forty-two the disease took rapid and tense possession. he was only happy when he was with her, able to talk to her now and again, to watch her always. dick's impression was that mabel hated the man. he disliked him himself, which perhaps coloured his view, for hate was not quite what mabel felt. had mr. jarvis been content to just like her she would have tolerated and more or less liked him. she had thought him, to begin with, a funny, in a way rather pathetic, little man. ugly, and mabel had such an instinctive sympathy for anything ugly or unloved. so, to begin with, she had been kind to him; then one day mrs. grant had opened her eyes to the evident admiration of the man, mentioning at the same time that from the money point of view he would be a good match, and suddenly mabel had known that she was afraid. afraid, without exactly knowing why, very much as is the hapless sheep on his way to the slaughter-house. as the maid ushered in mr. jarvis a minute or two later this feeling of fear caught at mabel's heart, and in answer to its summons the warm blood flushed to face and neck as she stood up to receive him. "i am early," stammered the man, his eyes on her new-wakened beauty, for it was only in her lack of colour that mabel's want of prettiness lay, "but i came on purpose, i wanted to catch you alone." mabel took what was almost a despairing look at the clock. "mother won't be down for quite half an hour," she said, "so you have succeeded. shall we stay here or will you come down to the garden? i want to show you my black prince rose, it is not doing at all well." she moved to the window which opened doorways on to the garden, but mr. jarvis made no attempt to follow her. "let us stay here," he said, "what i have got to say won't take long and we can do the roses afterwards when mrs. grant is about. i guess you could help me a bit if you only chose to," he went on, his voice curiously gruff and unready, "but you won't, you won't even look at me. i suppose those great grey eyes of yours hate the sight of me, and i am a damned fool to put my heart into words. but i have got to," she heard him move close to her and how quickly he was breathing, "i love you, you pale, thin slip of a girl, i want you as a wife, will you marry me?" the silence when he had finished speaking lay heavy between them. mabel let him take her hand, though the moist warmth of his gave her a little shudder of aversion, but by no strength of will could she lift her eyes to look at him. she stood as immovable as a statue and the man, watching her from out of his small shrewd eyes, smiled a little bitterly. "you hate the thought like poison," he said, "yet you don't throw off my hand or yell out your 'no.' something is in the balance then. well, marry me for my money, mabel. i had rather it were love, but if there is anything about me that can win you, i am not going to give you up." that flicked at her pride and the honesty of it appealed to her. she lifted her eyes and for the first time she became aware of the real kindness that lay in his. "i have never hated you," she said slowly, "but i don't and can't love you. will you take that as your answer?" the man shook his head. "i was not fool enough to ask--'do you love me?'" he reminded her; "what i want to know is, 'will you marry me?'" "without love?"--her eyes besought him--"marriage must be hideous." "i will risk it if you will," he answered. "sit down, let us talk it out." he had won back his self-possession, though his eyes were still eager in their demand. mabel sat down on the window-seat and he pulled up a chair at a little distance from her. "look here," he began, "it is like this. i am not a young man, probably i am twelve to fourteen years older than you. if you have heard what the village scandal says about me you can take it from me that it is true; it is better that you should know the worst at once. but until i met you, this i can swear before god, i have never really loved. it is not a question of money this time; i would give my soul to win you. and i don't want you as i have wanted the other women in my life; i want you as my wife." "yet you can buy me just as you could them," mabel whispered. "no"--again he shook his head. "i am not making that mistake either. i know just why i can buy you. anyway, let us put that aside. this is the case as i see it. i have money, heaps of it; i have a good large house and servants eating their heads off. i will make mrs. grant comfortable; she will live with us, of course, and she is welcome to everything i have got; and i love you. that is the one great drawback, isn't it? the question is. will you be able to put up with it?" away in the back of mabel's mind another voice whispered, "i love you." she had to shut her lids over the "dream eyes," to hold back the tears. "even if things were different," she said, "i could not love you; i have always loved someone else." mr. jarvis sat back in his chair with a quick frown. "any chance of his marrying you?" he asked. "no," she had to admit, "there has never been any chance of that." "i see"--he looked up at her and down again at his podgy, fat hands, clenched together. "my offer still holds good," he said abruptly. "oh, i don't know what to say or what to do." mabel's calm broke, she stood up nervously. it almost seemed as if the walls of the room were closing in on her. "there are so many things to think of; mother and dick and----" perhaps he understood the softening of her voice as she spoke of dick, for he looked up at her quickly. "yes, there is your brother," he agreed. "i guess he is pretty tired having to look after you two, and he is a clever lad; there ought to be a future before him if he has his chance. put the weight on to my shoulders, mabel; they are better able to bear it." she turned to him breathlessly; it was quite true what he was saying about dick. dick had his own life to make. "i have told you the truth," she said. "i don't love you, probably there will be times when i shall hate you. if you are not afraid of that, if you are ready to take mother and me and let us spend your money in return for that, then--i will marry you." mr. jarvis got quickly to his feet. "you mean it?" he gasped; his face was almost purple, he came to her, catching her hands in his. "you mean it? mind you, mabel, you have got to put up with my loving you. i am not pretending that i am the kind of man who will leave you alone." "i mean it," she answered, very cold and quiet, because it seemed as if all the tears in her heart had suddenly hardened into a lump of stone. chapter vii "i ride to a tourney with sordid things, they grant no quarter, but what care i? * * * * * i have bartered and begged, i have cheated and lied, but now, however the battle betide, uncowed by the clamour, i ride ride, ride!" victor starbuck. joan did not see aunt janet again. miss abercrombie carried messages backwards and forwards between the two, but even miss abercrombie's level-headed arguments could not move aunt janet from the position she had taken up. and miss abercrombie was quite able to realize how much her old friend was suffering. "i never knew a broken heart could bring so much pain," she told joan; "but every time i look at your aunt i realize that physical suffering is as nothing compared to the torture of her thoughts." "why cannot she try to understand. let me go to her," joan pleaded. "if only i can speak to her i shall make her understand." but miss abercrombie shook her head. "no, child," she said, "it would be quite useless and under the circumstances you must respect her wishes. i am fearfully sorry for both of you; i know that it is hurting you, too, but when you have wilfully or inadvertently killed a person's belief in you the only thing you can do is to keep out of their way. time is the one healer for such wounds." the tears smarted in joan's eyes, yet up till now she had not cried once. hurt pride, hurt love, struggled for expression, but words seemed so useless. "i had better hurry up and get away," she said; "i suppose aunt janet hates the thought of my being near her even." miss abercrombie watched her with kindly eyes. the tragedy she had suspected on the first night was worse even than she had imagined. it stared at her out of the old, fierce face upstairs, it slipped into her thoughts of what this girl's future was going to be. "have you made any plans?" she asked; "do you know at all where to go?" "does it matter very much?" joan answered bitterly. "my dear," miss abercrombie spoke gently, "i am making no attempt to criticize, and i certainly have no right to judge, but you have a very hard fight before you and you will not win through if you go into it in that spirit. i do not want to ask questions, you would probably resent them, but will you tell me one thing. does the man know about what is going to happen?" "no," answered joan. "it wouldn't make any difference if he did. it is not even as if he had persuaded me to go and live with him; i want you to understand that i went of my own free will because i thought it was right." "you will write and tell him," suggested miss abercrombie. "that is only fair to him and yourself." "no," joan said again, "it was the one thing he was most afraid of; i would not stoop to ask him to share it with me." miss abercrombie put out a quick hand. "you are forgetting that now there is someone else who is dependent on how you fight and whether you win through. you may say, 'i stand alone in this,' yet there is someone else who will have to share in paying the cost." the colour swept from joan's cheek; she choked back the hard lump in her throat. "we will have to pay it together," she said. "i cannot ask anyone else to help." the tears, long held back, came then and she turned away quickly. miss abercrombie watched her in silence for a minute or two. at last she spoke. "you poor thing," she said slowly and quietly; "you poor, foolish child." joan turned to her quickly. "you are thinking that i am a coward," she said, "that i am making but a poor beginnings to my fight. but it isn't that, not exactly. i shall have courage enough when it comes to the time. but just now it is hurting me so to hurt aunt janet; i had not reckoned on that, i did not know that you could kill love so quickly." "you can't," miss abercrombie answered. "if her love were dead all this would not be hurting her any more." so joan packed up her trunks again, fighting all the time against the impulse which prompted her to do nothing but cry and cry and cry. the chill of aunt janet's attitude seemed to have descended on the whole household. they could have no idea of the real trouble, but they felt the shadow and moved about limply, talking to each other in whispers. miss janet was reputed to be ill, anyway, she was keeping her room, and miss joan was packing up to go away; two facts which did not work in well together. no wonder the servants were restless and unhappy. uncle john met joan on her way upstairs late that evening. his usually grave, uninterested face wore an expression of absolute amazement, it almost amounted to fear. "will you come into my room for a minute," he said, holding the door open for her to pass. once inside, he turned and stared at her; she had never imagined his face could have worn such an expression. she saw him trying to speak, groping for words, as it were, and she stayed tongue-tied before him. her day had been so tumultuous that now she was tired out, indifferent as to what might happen next. "your aunt has told me," he said at last. "i find it almost impossible to believe, and in a way i blame myself. we should never have allowed you to go away as we did." he paused to breathe heavily. "i am an old man, but not too old to make a fight for our honour. will you give me this man's name and address, joan?" she had not paused to think that they would look on it as their honour which she had played with. his rather pitiful dignity hurt her more than anything that had gone before. "i cannot do that," she answered; "there is nothing exactly that you could blame him for. i did what i did out of my own free will and because i thought it was right." he still stared at her. "right," he repeated; "you use the word in a strange sense, surely; and as for blaming him"--she saw how suddenly his hands clenched, the knuckles standing out white--"if you will let me know where to find him, i will settle that between us." joan moved towards the door. "i cannot," she said; "please, uncle john, don't ask me any more. i have hurt your honour; it must be me that you punish. i am going away to-morrow, let me go out of your life altogether. i shall not make any attempt to come back." "you are going to him?" he questioned. "before god, if you do that i will find you out and----" "no," she interrupted, "you need not be afraid; i am not going back to him." with her hand on the door she heard him order her to come back as he had not finished what he had to say, and she stayed where she was, not turning again to look at him. "you are being stubborn in your sin." how strange the words sounded from uncle john, who had never said a cross word to her in his life. "very well, then, there is nothing for us to do except, as you say, to try and forget that we have ever loved you. when you go out of our house to-morrow it shall be the end. your aunt is with me in this. but you shall have money; it shall be paid to you regularly through my solicitor, and to-night i am writing to him to tell him to render you every assistance he can. you can go there whenever you are in need of help. miss abercrombie has also promised your aunt, i believe, to do what she can for you." "i would rather not take any money from you," whispered joan; "i will be able to earn enough to keep myself." "when you are doing that," he answered grimly, "you may communicate with the solicitor and he will put the money aside for such time as you may need it. but until then you owe it to us to use our money in preference to what could only be given to you in charity or disgrace." she waited in silence for some minutes after his last words. if she could have run to him then and cried out her fear and dismay and regret, perhaps some peace might have been achieved between them which would have helped to smooth out the tangle of their lives. but joan was hopelessly dumb. she had gone into her escapade with light laughter on her lips, now she was paying the cost. one cannot take the world and readjust it to one's own beliefs. that was the lesson she was to learn through loneliness and tears. this breaking of home ties was only the first step in the lesson. she stole out of his presence at last and up to her own room. her packing was all finished, she had dismantled the walls of her pictures, the tables of her books. everything she possessed had been given to her by either uncle john or aunt janet. christmas presents, easter presents, birthday presents, presents for no particular excuse except that she was their little girl and they loved her. it seemed to joan as if into the black box which contained all these treasures she had laid away also their love for her. it took on almost the appearance of a coffin and she hated it. miss abercrombie saw her off at the station next morning. she had given joan several addresses where she could look for rooms and was coming up to london in about a month herself, and would take joan back with her into the country. "i want you to remember, though," she added, "that you can always come to me any time before that if you feel inclined. you need not even write; just turn up; you have my address; i shall always be glad to have you. i want to help you through what i know is going to be a very bitter time." "thank you," joan answered; but even at the time she had a ridiculous feeling that miss abercrombie was very glad to be seeing the last of her. after the train had slid out of the station and the small, purposeful figure had vanished from sight she sat back and tried to collect her thoughts to review the situation. she was feeling tired and desperately unhappy. they had let her see, even these dear people whom of all others in the world she loved, that she had gone outside their pale. she was in their eyes an outcast, a leper. she was afraid to see in other people's eyes the look of horror and agony which she had read in aunt janet's. of what use was her book-learned wisdom in the face of this, it vanished into thin air. hopeless, ashamed, yet a little defiant, joan sat and stared at the opposite wall of the railway carriage. at victoria station she put her luggage into the cloak-room, deciding to see what could be done in the way of rooms, without the expense of going from place to place in a cab. the places miss abercrombie had recommended her to struck her as being expensive, and it seemed to her tortured nerves as if the landladies viewed her with distrustful eyes. she finally decided to take a bus down to chelsea; she remembered having heard from someone that chelsea was a cheap and frankly bohemian place to live in. london was not looking its very best on this particular morning. a green-grey fog enshrouded shops and houses, the park was an invisible blur and the atmosphere smarted in people's eyes and irritated their throats. despite the contrariness of the weather, joan clambered on to the top of the bus, she felt she could not face the inside stuffiness. she was tired and, had she but owned to it, hungry. it was already late afternoon and she had only had a cup of coffee and a bun since her arrival. as the bus jolted and bumped down park lane and then along knightsbridge, she sat huddled up and miserable on the back seat, the day being well in accord with her mood. she was only dimly aware that they were passing the flat where she and gilbert had lived, she was more acutely conscious of the couple who sat just in front of her--the man's arm flung round the girl's shoulders, her head very close to his. waves of misery closed round joan. a memory, which had not troubled her for some time, of gilbert's hands about her and the scent of heliotrope, stirred across her mind. she could feel the hot tears splashing on her ungloved hands, a fit of sobbing gulped at her throat. lest she should altogether lose control of herself she rose quickly and fumbled her way down the steps. the bus had just reached the corner of sloane street. she would go across the park, she decided, and have her cry out. it was no use going to look for rooms in her present state, no landlady would dream of having her. half blinded by her tears and the fog combined, she turned and started to cross the road. voices yelled at her from either side, a motor car with enormous headlights came straight at her out of the fog. joan hesitated, if she had stayed quite still the danger would have flashed past her, but she was already too unnerved to judge of what her action should be. as if fascinated by the lights she shut her eyes and moved blindly towards them. there were more sharp shouts, a great grinding noise of brakes and rushing wheels brought to a sudden pause, then the darkness of black, absolute night surged over and beyond the pain which for a moment had held joan. she floated out, so it seemed, on to a sea of nothingness, and a great peace settled about her heart. chapter viii "with heart made empty of delight and hands that held no more fair things; i questioned her;--'what shall requite the savour of my offerings?'" e. nesbit. "you have got your back against the wall, you have got to fight, you have got to fight, to fight!" the words pounded across joan's mind over and over again. she struggled in obedience to their message against the waves of sleep that lapped her round. struggled and fought, till at last, after what seemed like centuries of darkness, she won back to light and opened her eyes. she was lying in a long narrow bed, one of many, ranged on both sides down the hospital walls. large windows, set very high up, opened on to grey skies and a flood of rather cold sunshine. at the foot of her bed, watching her with impartial eyes, stood a man, and beside him two nurses, their neat pink dresses and starched aprons rustling a little as they moved. joan's eyes, wide and bewildered, met the doctor's, and he leant forward and smiled. "that's better," he said, "you have got to make an effort towards living yourself, young lady." he nodded and turned to the nurse at his right hand. "how long has she been in now, nurse?" "ten days to-morrow," the woman answered, "and except for the first day, when she moaned a good deal and talked about having to fight, she has scarce seemed to be conscious." joan's lips, prompted by the insistent voice within her, repeated, "i have got to fight," stiffly. the doctor came a little nearer and stooped to hear the words, "yes," he agreed, "that is right, you have got to fight. see if you can get her to talk now and again, nurse," he added; "she wants rousing, otherwise there is nothing radically to keep her back." joan's face, however, seemed to linger in his mind, for, as he was about to leave the ward after his tour of inspection, he turned again to the elder nurse in charge. "have you been able to find out anything about bed ?" he asked. "no, sir. we have had no inquiries and there was nothing in any of her pockets except a cloak-room ticket for victoria station." "humph," he commented, "yet she must have relations. she does not look the friendless waif type." nurse taylor pursed up her lips. she had her own opinion as to the patient in bed . "there was the unfortunate circumstance of her condition," she mentioned; "the girl may very well have been desperate and lonely." "anyway, she hasn't any right to be left like this," the doctor retorted. "if you can get her to talk about relations, find out where they are and send for them. that is my advice." nurse taylor owned a great many excellent qualities; tact and compassion were not among them. long years spent in a profession which brought her daily into contact with human sin and human suffering had done nothing to soften her outlook or smooth down the hard, straight lines which she had laid down for her own and everyone else's guidance. she disapproved of joan, but obedience to the doctor's orders was a religion to her; even where she disapproved she always implicitly carried them out. next day, therefore, she stopped for quite a long time at joan's bed, talking in her toneless, high voice. had joan any people who could be written to, what was her home address, would they not be worried at hearing nothing from her? joan could only shake her head to all the questions. very vaguely and in detached fragments she was beginning to remember the time that had preceded her accident. the memory of aunt janet's face and uncle john's parting words was like an open wound, it bled at every touch and she shrank from nurse taylor's pointed questions. she remembered how she had sat on the top of the bus with the black weight of misery on her heart and of how the tears had come. she had been looking for rooms; that recollection followed hard on the heels of the other. when she was well enough to get about she would have to start looking for rooms again, for she had quite definitely made up her mind not to be a burden to miss abercrombie. it was her own fight; when she had gathered her strength about her, she would fight it out alone and make a success of it. half wistfully she looked into the future and dreamt about the baby that was coming into her life. she would have to learn to live down this feeling of shame that burnt at her heart as she thought of him. he would be all hers, a small life to make of it what she pleased. well, she would have to see that she made it fine and gay and brave. shame should not enter into their lives, not if she fought hard enough. nurse taylor described her to the junior afterwards as a most stubborn and hardened type of girl. "the poor thing has hardly got her wits about her yet," the other answered; "she is very little trouble in the wards, we have had worse." "well, the doctor can question her himself next time," nurse taylor snorted. "i am not here to be snubbed by her sort." she did not, however, let the matter drop entirely. at the end of her third week joan was promoted to an armchair in the verandah and there one afternoon, after the teas had been handed round, nurse taylor brought her a visitor. a tall, sad-faced, elderly woman, who walked with a curiously deprecating movement, seeming to apologize for every step she took. yet kindliness and a certain strength shone at joan from behind the large, round-rimmed glasses she wore, and her mouth was clean cut and sharp. "this is mrs. westwood." nurse taylor introduced them briefly. "she wants to have a little talk with you, miss rutherford. if i were you i should tell her about things," she added pointedly. "i do not know if you have any plans made, but you are up for discharge next week." she bustled off and mrs. westwood drew up a chair and sat down close to joan, staring at the girl with short-sighted, pink-lidded eyes. "you will wonder who i am," she said at last. "perhaps you have never noticed me before, but i am a very frequent visitor. we run a mission in the south-west of london, with the object of helping young girls. i want you to talk to me about yourself, to be quite frank with me and to remember, if i seem to usurp on your privacy, that i am an older woman and that my only wish is to help you." "it is very kind of you," began joan, "but----" "you may not need material help," the woman put in hastily; "but, spiritually, who is not in need of help from god." joan could think of no suitable reply for this and they sat in silence, the woman studying her face intently. then presently, flushing with the earnestness of her purpose, she put out a cold hand and took joan's. "i think they have left it to me to tell you," she said. "the little life that was within you has been killed by your accident." the colour flamed to joan's face. a sense of awe and a feeling of intense relief surged up in her. "oh, what a good thing!" she gasped, almost before she realized what she said. mrs. westwood sat back in her chair, her eyes no longer looked at joan. "the child which god had given you even in your sin," she said stiffly. joan leaned forward quickly. "i did not mean just that," she said, "and yet i did. you do not know, you can't guess, how afraid i was getting. everyone's hand against me, and even the people who had most loved me seeming to hate me because of this." her voice trailed into silence before the stern disapproval of the other woman's face. yet once having started, she was driven on to speak all the jumble of thoughts that had lain in her mind these last two months. "i was not ashamed or afraid, to begin with," she hurried the words out. "it had not seemed to me wrong. i lived with him because i thought i loved him and we did not want to get married. then one day he let me see--oh, no, i am not being quite truthful, for i had seen it before--that he was in reality ashamed of our life together. he was acting against his convictions because it amused him. i could not bear that, it seemed to drag our life together through the mud, and i left him." she could see that mrs. westwood was not making the slightest attempt to understand her; still she went wildly on: "i went home and it seemed all right. my life with him faded away; i suppose i had never really loved him. then, then they found out about what was going to happen and they turned against me, even aunt janet;" her voice broke on the words, she buried her face in her arms, crying like a child. "aunt janet, aunt janet," she whispered again and again through her tears. mrs. westwood waited till the storm had spent itself, there was no sign of softening upon her face. remorse and regret she could understand and condone, but this excusing of self, as she called joan's explanation, struck her as being inexcusably bad. "and do you now congratulate yourself that by this accident," she laid special stress on the word, "you are to escape the punishment of your sin?" joan raised tear-drowned eyes. "haven't i been punished enough," she asked, "for something that i did not think was a sin?" "we cannot make or unmake god's laws in our thoughts," the other answered; "you were wilfully blind to the knowledge that was in your heart." "oh, no," joan began. mrs. westwood swept the remark aside and stood up. "we will not argue about it," she said; "i realize that you are not yet looking for the comfort or promise of pardon which i could lead you to. but, my child, do not delude yourself into the belief that thus easily have you set aside the consequences of your evil. god is not mocked, neither does he sleep. if you should ever be in any real need of help," she ended abruptly, "help which would serve to make you strong in the face of temptation, come to us, our doors are always open." she dropped a card bearing the address of the mission on joan's lap and turned to go. joan saw her call nurse taylor and say a few words to her on the way out. for herself she sat on in the dusk. outside the lamps had been lit, they shone on wet pavements and huge, lurching omnibuses, on fast-driven taxis and a policeman standing alone in the middle of the road. to-morrow she would have to write to miss abercrombie and tell her there was no further need for her very kindly assistance; then she would have to make new plans and arrangements for herself in the future. she would try for a room in one of the girls' clubs that miss abercrombie had given her a letter to. she had been shy of going there before, but it would be different now. she could slip back into life and take up her share, forgetting, since the fear was past, the nightmare of terror which had held her heart before. for she had been afraid, what was the use of trying to blind her eyes to the truth? she had not had the courage of her convictions, she had not even wanted to carry her banner through the fight. she was glad, to the very bottom of her heart she was glad, that there was no more need for fighting. chapter ix "let this be said between us here, one's love grows green when one turns grey; this year knows nothing of last year, to-morrow has no more to say to yesterday." a. swinburne. dick could not bring himself to approve of his sister's marriage. he made no attempt to conceal his real opinion on the subject. in one very heated interview with mabel herself he labelled it as disgusting to marry a man whom you disliked for his money, or for the things his money can give you. "but i do not dislike him," mabel answered, as once before. she was sitting in a low armchair by the window, a piece of sewing in her hands. she laid her work down to look up at him. "he is very fond of me and he will be very good to mother and myself. there are worse reasons than that for marrying, surely." "it is mother, then," stormed dick. "you are doing it because of mother." mabel shook her head. "no," she said; "i am doing it because to me it seems right and as if it would bring most happiness to all of us. i am not even quite sure that mother approves." she need not have had any misgivings on that point. mrs. grant was absolutely in her element arranging for the marriage. mabel had never been quite the beautiful daughter that mrs. grant would have liked, that she should marry a mr. jarvis was to be expected; he had at least got money, which was always something to be thankful for. she took over the refurnishing and redecorating of his house with eager hands. "mabel has always been accustomed to luxury, tom," she told mr. jarvis; "until harry died she never wanted for a thing which money could give her." "and she shall not want now," he answered gravely. only once he remarked to mabel afterwards, showing perhaps the trend of his thoughts: "we appear to be furnishing our house to please your mother, mabel; seems a pity i cannot save you the trouble of marrying me by asking her instead." mabel stirred a little uneasily. "in pleasing her you are pleasing me," she answered, and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned away from the subject. mrs. grant had her own rooms papered with white satin paper and very delicately outlined in gold; she ransacked the jarvis heirlooms to find appropriate furniture for such a setting, and succeeded very well. the bills for her various suggested improvements passed through mr. jarvis' hands, and he commented on them to mabel with a grim smile. "she knows how to spend money," he said. "dick must certainly have found the responsibility heavy." "she has never learned how not to spend," mabel explained; "but you must not pass what you think unnecessary." "my dear, it is part of our bargain," he answered; "i shall not shrink from my share any more than you will." mrs. grant fought very strenuously for a wedding in london, but here for once mabel opposed her firmly, and the idea had to be abandoned. "it means, of course, that most of my dearest friends will not be able to come, but i suppose i need not expect that to weigh against your determination," was one of the many arguments she tried, and: "i never dreamed that a daughter of mine would insist upon this hole-and-corner way of getting married" another. "it almost looks as if you were ashamed of the man," she said somewhat spitefully to mabel, the day the wedding-dress was tried on. "when your father and i were married the church was simply packed. i had a lovely gown"--her thoughts wandered into kindlier channels--"and harry was very much in love. i remember his hand shaking as he tried to slip the ring on to my finger. i suppose you love mr. jarvis?" the abrupt question coming after the vague memories startled mabel into sudden rigidness. "i suppose i do," she answered, her white-clad figure mocked her from the glass. "one does love one's husband, doesn't one?" "mabel"--mrs. grant's voice sounded righteous indignation--"you do say such extraordinary things sometimes and about such solemn subjects. but if you do really love him, then why this desire for secrecy?" "dear mother, being married in the parish church instead of in st. paul's is not exactly secrecy or a wild desire to hide something on my part. i have always hated big fashionable weddings." she slipped out of the dress and laid it down on the bed. mrs. grant viewed her with discontented eyes. "i cannot pretend to understand you," she grumbled, "and i don't know why you talk of st. paul's. i never suggested such a place; harry and i were married at st. mary's, kensington." dick, when consulted on the matter, proved even less amenable. "i dislike the whole affair," he answered gruffly; "please don't ask me where it should take place." he ran up to london himself the week before the wedding. a vague and rather incoherent wish to meet joan again had kept him restless ever since her abrupt departure. he did not attempt to define his thoughts in any way. the girl had interested him, and startled him out of the even tenor of his beliefs. he hated to think of her turned adrift and left, as the possibility was she had been left, to fend for herself. he had not seen the elder miss rutherford since his visit, but rumour in the village ran that miss joan had got into disgrace of sorts and been sent away. the servants from the manor spoke with bated breath of the change which had come over the household; of how miss joan's rooms had been locked and her pictures taken down. the world is horribly hard to women when they leave the beaten paths of respectability; he could not bear to think of what she might be suffering, of where it might lead her. he walked about somewhat aimlessly for his few days in town, but the chance of meeting anyone in this way is very remote, and of course he did not succeed. he could not, however, shake away the depression which the thought of her brought him. mabel came to sit in his smoking-room the night before her wedding, mrs. grant having gone early to bed. "did you see anyone up in town?" she asked. dick shook his head, puffing at his pipe. "not a soul i knew," he commented, "except mathews about my job. wish i hadn't gone; london is a depressing place." "you rather hoped to meet someone, didn't you?" asked mabel. dick glanced up at her and away again quickly. "what makes you ask that?" he said. mabel let the curtain fall back into place; she had been peering out into the street, and turned to face him. "you have shut me outside things, dick," she spoke slowly, "this last month, ever since my engagement; but shutting me out can't keep me from knowing. you only saw that girl over at the manor once, but she has been in your thoughts ever since." she came forward, perching herself on the arm of his chair as had been her habit in the old days, one arm thrown round his shoulders to support herself. "little brother," she asked, "did you think i should not know when you fell in love?" fell in love! how completely the thought startled him. of course mabel was utterly mistaken in her wild conjectures. to throw aside the doubt he turned quickly, and put a hand over hers where it lay near him. "why do you say i have shut you out?" he parried her question. "because i lost my temper over your engagement?" "no." mabel shook her head. "it was not exactly because of that. i know you have not understood, dick; i am not even sure that i want you to; and i know that that helped to build a wall between us, but that was not what began it. never mind"--she bent and kissed the top of his head--"if your secret is not ready to share you shall keep it a little longer to yourself. you will go up to london, won't you, dick, after tom and i have come back and mother has settled down?" "i suppose so," he agreed; "but i want to get away for a bit first, if i can. spoke to mathews when i was in town and he has promised to keep his eyes open for a job on one of those p. and o. liners for me." "i see," she said; "but when you come back you will settle in town and sometimes you will spare us week-ends from your very strenuous career, won't you?" "of course," he answered; his hand tightened on hers. "mabel," he said suddenly, "you are happy, aren't you; it isn't because of me or anyone else that you are getting married, is it?" he was not looking at her, therefore she did not have to lie with her eyes. "i am quite happy," she answered softly. "dear, stupid dick, how you have fretted your heart out about my happiness." "i know," he admitted, "i could not bear to think--i mean, love somehow stands for such a lot in people's lives, i----" he broke off, and stood up abruptly. "you will think i am a sentimental ass, but i have always wanted you to have the best of things, mabel, and i have been horribly afraid that fate, or mother, or perhaps even i, were shoving you into taking the second best." "you have wanted the best for me, dick," she answered, "that counts for a lot." then one of those dull silences fell between them that come sometimes to two people who love with their whole hearts and who have been trying to speak some of their thoughts to each other--a silence that stood between them almost as it were with a drawn sword, while dick puffed at his pipe and mabel stared at her white hands, showing up against the darkness of her dress. then finally she moved, standing up, and just for a second their eyes met. "good-night," she said across the silence, "it is late, dick, i meant to be in bed ages ago." "good-night," he answered, and she turned quickly and went from the room. mrs. grant kept everyone, including herself, in a state of unexplained fuss from the moment when early morning light woke her on the day of mabel's marriage till the moment when, much to dick's embarrassment, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing bitterly, in the vestry where they had all gone to sign their names. at the reception she slightly recovered her spirits, but broke down again when the time came for the couple to depart. they were going to paris for a fortnight's honey-moon; mabel had stipulated that they should not be away for longer than that. jarvis hall was ready for their return; already mrs. grant was using one of the motors and ordering crested paper with the address on it for her own letters. but dick, mabel knew, was simply aching to be quit of it all, and away on his own. he had arranged to hand over the practice and proposed to take a two years' trip abroad. it was only in the complete freedom of dick that she would know that part of her plan was being fulfilled. when she drew back her head after the final farewells had been waved and the house was out of sight it was to meet jarvis' intent, short-sighted stare. his glasses magnified the pupils of his eyes to an unusual extent when he was looking straight at anyone. "well," he said, "that's done. till the last moment, mabel, i rather wondered if you would go through with it. but i might have known," he went on quickly, "you are not the sort to shrink from a bargain once it is made." her hand lay passive in his, she did not even stir when he leaned forward to kiss her. what he had said was perfectly true, the bargain had been made, she was not one of those who shirk payment. chapter x "and you shall learn how salt his food who fares upon another's bread; how steep his path, who treadeth up and down another's stairs." d. g. rossetti. there are some natures which cannot live with any happiness in drab surroundings. atmosphere affects everyone more or less; but whereas there are a few fortunate ones who can rise triumphant to a certain contentment through squalor and ugliness, there are a great many more who find even cheerfulness very hard to attain to under like circumstances. the shut-in dinginess of digby street, the gloomy aspect of shamrock house, cast such a chill across joan's spirits that, as she stood hesitating with her hand on the bell, the instinct came to her to scramble back into the cab and tell the man to drive her anywhere away from such a neighbourhood. of course it was absurd, and the cabman did not look as if he would be in the least willing to comply. he had treated her with a supercilious disbelief in there being any tip for him as soon as he had heard of her destination. joan had gone to victoria station to collect her luggage, and it had been both late and dark before the need for a cab had arisen. she had elected not to leave the hospital till after tea; somehow, when it had come near to going, her courage, which she had been bolstering up with hope and promises of what she should do in her new life, had vanished into thin air. perhaps more than anything else she lacked the physical strength which would have enabled her to look cheerfully into the future. the hospital had been a place of refuge, she hated to leave it. this feeling grew upon her more and more as she sat back in a corner of the cab while it rumbled along the vauxhall bridge road. there seemed always to be a tram passing, huge giant vehicles that shook the earth and made a great deal of noise in their going. the houses on either side were dingy, singularly unattractive-looking buildings, and the further the cab crawled away from victoria street the deeper the shade of poverty and dirt that descended on the surroundings. digby street and shamrock house were the culminating stroke to joan's depression. miss abercrombie had written recommending it to her as a girls' club where she would probably get companionship and advice on the question of work. "you won't like it," she had added, "but it is very conveniently situated and ridiculously cheap." so joan had described her destination to the cabman as a ladies' club, somewhere in digby street. he had answered with a sniff, for it was here that he had lost sight of his tip, that he supposed she meant the home for working girls that lay in those parts. looking up at the large, red-fronted building, with its countless uncurtained windows, joan realized that the man's description was probably nearer the truth than her own. she was to learn later that on this particular occasion she saw digby street at its very worst, for it was saturday night, and barrows of fish, meat and vegetables stood along the pavements, illuminated by flares of light so that all the ugliness was only too apparent. little children played in and out, under the barrows and along the gutters; a public-house stood at the corner near shamrock house, and exactly opposite the salvation army added its brass band and shrill voices to the general tumult. joan's first timid attempt at the bell produced no answer, nor her second. by this time the cabman had dismounted her box and stood staring at her in sullen disapproval, while a couple of very drunk but cheerful costers argued with each other as to whether they ought not to help the young lady to get in. her third effort was perhaps more violent, for, to her relief, she could see the dim light in the hall being turned up and the door was opened on the chain and very slightly ajar. a couple of bright eyes peered at her through this opening, then, having apparently satisfied their owner that joan was neither dangerous nor drunk, the door was further opened, and joan could see into the red-tiled hall and passage with its numbered, white-painted doors. "what do you want?" asked the lady of the eyes; a small, plump person with grey hair brushed back very straight from an apple-red face. "i want a room," joan explained. "i have been recommended to come here. i do hope you have one to spare." the little lady moved aside and beckoned to the cabman. "you can come in," she said, "and the man had better fetch in your box. i thought it was one of those troublesome children when you first rang, it was so very violent, and they make a point of trying to break the bells." "i am so sorry," joan murmured meekly, an apology she realized was expected from her. "i was so dreadfully tired and no one seemed to be going to answer." "we do not keep a staff of servants to answer the bell day and night," the woman answered. "still, i am sorry you were kept waiting. will you come in here"--she opened a door a little way down the passage--"this is my office. i must see your letter of recommendation before i let you talk about the rooms, that is one of our rules." joan paid the cabman and followed her inquisitor into the office. miss nigel let down the front of the desk, opened a large ledger and donned a pair of spectacles. "now," she said, "who are you, what are your references, and who recommended you?" fortunately miss abercrombie had remembered to send a letter of introduction. joan produced it and handed it to miss nigel. "my name is joan rutherford," she added; "i did not know about having to have references." miss nigel peered at her over the tops of her glasses; she only used them for reading and could not see out of them for other purposes. "we have to make a point of it in most cases," she answered, "but also i judge by appearances. in your case this letter from miss abercrombie--her name is in our books although i do not know her personally--will be quite sufficient. now, how much do you want to pay?" "as little as possible," joan confessed, "only i would like to have a room to myself." "quite so," the other agreed, "and in any case, all our cubicles are taken. they are, of course, cheaper than anything else." she ran her finger down the lines of the ledger. "i can let you have a room on the top floor which will work out to fifteen and six a week. that includes breakfast, late dinner, lights and baths. there is a certain amount of attendance, but we expect the girls to make their own beds and keep the rooms tidy." fifteen and six a week. joan attempted to make a rapid calculation in her head, but gave up the idea. it sounded at least quite absurdly cheap, she would not have to spend very much of uncle john's allowance before she got some work to do for herself. the future seemed suddenly to shut her in to a life enclosed by the brick walls of shamrock house with its attendant neighbourhood of digby street. "that will do," she answered, "it sounds very nice." "yes," agreed miss nigel; she closed the desk and stood up, "for the price, we offer exceptional advantages. if you will carry up what you need for to-night, i will show you to your rooms." it occurred to joan as she followed her guide up flights of carpetless stone stairs that her new abode resembled a prison more than anything else. the long bare passages were broken up by countless doors all numbered and painted white in contrast to the brick-coloured walls. the sound of their footsteps echoed mournfully through the bareness and seeming desolation of the place. from one of the landing windows she caught a blurred picture of the streets outside, the lit-up barrows, the crowd just emerging from the public-house. she was to get very used and very hardened to the life in digby street, but on this, her first evening, it caught at her senses with a cold touch of fear. on the top floor of all miss nigel opened the first door along the passage and ushered joan into the room that was to be hers. it was so small that its one window occupied practically the whole space of the front wall. a narrow bed stood along one side, and between this and the opposite wall there was scarce room for a chair. at the foot of the bed stood the wash-stand and the chest of drawers facing each other, with a very narrow space in between them. but it was all scrupulously clean, with white-washed walls and well-scrubbed furniture, and the windows opened over the roofs of the neighbouring houses. very far up in the darkness of the sky outside a star twinkled and danced. miss nigel looked round at the room with evident satisfaction. "you will be comfortable here, i think," she said; "we do our best to make the girls happy. we expect them, however, to conform to our rules; you will find them explained in this book." she placed a little blue pamphlet on the dressing-table. "lights are put out at ten, and if you are later than that, you have to pay a small fine for being let in, a threepenny door fee, we call it. everyone is requested to make as little noise as possible in their rooms or along the passages, and to be punctual for dinner." with one more look round she turned to go. half-way out, however, a kindly thought struck her, and she looked back at joan. "dinner is at seven-thirty," she said. "i expect you will be glad to have it and get to bed. you look very tired." joan would have liked to ask if she could have dinner upstairs, but one glance at the book of rules and regulations decided her against the idea. shamrock house evidently admitted of no such luxury, and on second thoughts, how ridiculous it was to suppose that dinner could be carried up five flights of stairs for the benefit of someone paying fifteen and six a week all told. she was too tired and too depressed to face the prospect of a meal downstairs, she would just have to go to bed without dinner, she concluded. the house woke to life as she lay there, evidently the inhabitants returned about this time. joan remembered the cabman's somewhat blunt description and smiled at the memory. a home for working girls. that was why it had seemed so silent and deserted before, shops and offices do not shut till after six. but now the workers were coming home, she could hear their feet along the passages, the slamming of doors, voices and laughter from the room next hers. home! this narrow, cold room, those endless stairs and passages outside, they were to be home for the future. the hot tears pricked in her eyes, but she fought against tears. after all, she had been very lucky to find it, it was cheap, it was clean; other girls lived here and were happy, someone had laughed next door. "i have got to take you firmly in hand," joan argued with her depression. "it is no use making a fuss about things that are all my own fault. i tried to play with life and i did not succeed. it is too big and hard. if i had wanted to work it out differently i ought to have been very strong. but i am not strong, i am only just ordinary. this is my chance again, and in the plain, straight way i must win through." she spoke the words almost aloud, as if challenging fate: "i will win through." chapter xi "will my strength last me? did not someone say the way was ever easier all the way?" h. c. beeching. youth can nearly always rely upon sleep to build up new strength, new hope, new courage. if you have got to a stage in your life when sleep fails you, if night means merely a long tortured pause from the noises of the world, in which the beating of your heart seems unbearably loud, then indeed you have reached to the uttermost edge of despair. joan slept, heavily and dreamlessly, save that there was some vague hint of happiness in her mind, till she was wakened in the morning by a most violent bell ringing. the dressing-bell at shamrock house, which went at seven o'clock, was carried by a maid up and down every passage, so that there was not the slightest chance of anyone oversleeping themselves. joan dressed quickly; the faint aroma of happiness which her sleep had brought her, and which amounted to cheerfulness, stayed with her. she remembered how miss abercrombie had once said to her: "oh, you are a browningite," and smiled at the phrase, repeating to herself another verse of the same poem: "and i shall thereupon take rest ere i be gone, once more on my adventure brave and new." she felt almost confident of success this morning; her mind was busy with plans of the work she would find. she was glad to feel herself one in a giant hive of workers, all girls like herself, cutting out their lives for themselves, earning their own living. breakfast brought with it a slight disillusionment. the dining-room in shamrock house is in the basement; chill and dreary of aspect, its windows always dirty and unopenable, because at the slightest excuse of an open window the small boys of the neighbourhood will make it their target for all kinds of filth. rotting vegetables, apple-cores, scrapings of mud; there is quite sufficient of all that outside the windows without encouraging it to come in. six long deal tables occupy the space of the room, and it is one of the few amusements which the children of digby street possess to gather at the railings and watch the inhabitants of shamrock house being fed. it was the last flight of stairs into the basement which damped joan's enthusiasm for her new home. as she stood hesitating in the doorway, for there were a great many people in the room, and the tables seemed crowded, she caught miss nigel's eye. "you will find a seat over there," the lady called out to her, waving a hand in the direction of the furthest table. "help yourself to bacon, which is on the hot case near the fire, and come here for your tea or coffee. by the way, which do you like?" joan asked for tea, and having secured her cup and a small piece of unappetizing bacon, she found her way over to the indicated table. a girl sat at the head of it, and since she was ensconced behind a newspaper and apparently paying no attention to anybody, joan chose the chair next her. she felt on the sudden shy and unwilling to make friends with anyone, the chill of the room was striking into her heart. she had presently to rouse her neighbour, however, to ask her to pass the salt, and at that the girl lifted a pair of penetrating eyes and fixed joan with an intent stare. "new arrival?" she asked. "yes," joan admitted. "i came last night." "humph!" the girl commented. "well, don't touch the jam this morning. it is peculiar to shamrock house--plum-stones, raspberry-pips and glue." she swept the information at joan and returned to her paper. she was a big girl with rather a heavy face and strong, capable-looking hands. despite her manners, which were undeniably bad, joan would almost have described her as distinguished but for the fact that the word sounded ridiculous amid such surroundings. "looking for work?" the girl asked presently. "yes," joan answered again, "only i am not sure what sort of work to look for, or what i should like to do." the girl lifted her eyes to stare at her once again. "it isn't generally a case of 'like,'" she said, "more often it is necessity. in that case"--she reached out a long arm for the bread--"fate does not as a rule give you much time in which to make up your mind; she pushes you into something which you hate like hell for the rest of your life." "you aren't very cheerful," remonstrated joan. "oh, well, i never am that," agreed the other, "nor polite. you ask miss nigel if you want a true estimate of my manners. but i have lived here ten years now and i have seen girls like you drift in and out by the score. the feeding or the general atmosphere doesn't agree with them, and our ranks are maintained by beings of a coarser make, as you may see for yourself." she rose, crumpling her paper into a ball and throwing it under the table. "my name is rose brent," she said. "what is yours?" "rutherford," joan answered, "joan rutherford. i hope i shan't drift quite as quickly as you foretell," she added. secretarial work was what she had really made up her mind to try for, though she had not had the courage to confess as much to her breakfast companion. she had, after all, had a certain amount of training in that and hoped not to find it so very impossible to get a post as a beginner somewhere. her first visit to the nearest registry office, however, served to show her that her very slight experience was going to be of little use to her. the registry lady was kind, sufficiently interested to appear amiable, but not at all reassuring in her views as to joan's prospects. "i am afraid i cannot hold out very much hope," she said, after five minutes' crisp questioning of joan. "you have, you see, so very few qualifications, and the market is rather over-stocked with girls who can do just a little. my strong advice to you is to continue your shorthand; when you are a little more experienced in that we ought to have no difficulty in placing you. good morning; please see that the hall door shuts properly, the latch is very weak." her business-like manner, the absolute efficiency which shone around her, and the crowded aspect of the waiting-room--all girls who could do just a little, joan presumed--caused her heart to sink. finding work was not going to be as easy as she had first supposed. she roamed from office to office after that for several days, to be met everywhere with the same slight encouragement and frail promises to help. finally, thoroughly discouraged, she bought papers instead, and turned to a strict perusal of their various advertisements. one in particular caught her eye. "wanted a pupil shorthand typist. tuition in return for services.--apply miss bacon, , baker street, w." it was late in the afternoon of the day before joan found her way to baker street, for she had had several other places to call at and she was in addition very tired. going from place to place in search of work had reduced her to a painful knowledge of her own absolute incompetency and the general uselessness of life. a brass plate on the door of no. conveyed the information: "miss bacon. fourth floor. shorthand and typing. please ring and walk up." joan rang and followed the instructions. on the very top landing a girl stood, holding a candle in her hand, for up here there was no light of any sort. the grease dripped down her skirt and on to the floor. "do you want miss bacon?" she asked. joan nodded, too breathless to say anything. the girl turned into the dim interior and threw open a door, snuffing the candle at the same time. "if you will wait here," she said, "miss bacon will be with you in a minute." joan looked round on a moderately large, dust-smothered room. dust, that is to say, was the first thing to strike the eye of the beholder. the windows were thick in dust, it lay on tables and chairs and on the two typewriters standing unused in a corner of the room. the room gave one the impression of being singularly uninhabited. then the door opened and shut again, and joan turned to face the owner. miss bacon's figure, like her furniture, seemed to have taken on a coating of dust. timid eyes looked out at joan from behind pince-nez set rather crookedly on a thin nose. one side of her face, from eye to chin, was disfigured by an unsightly bruise. miss bacon dabbed a handkerchief to it continually and started explaining its presence at once. "you may be surprised at my face"--her voice, like her eyes, was timid--"but i am short-sighted and last night stumbled on the stairs, hitting my face against the top step. it was exceedingly painful, but it is better now. what can i do for you?" joan murmured something sympathetic about the top step, and explained that she had come in answer to the advertisement. miss bacon's face fell. "i had hoped you were a client," she owned. then she pulled forward a chair for herself and asked joan to be seated. it appeared that joan would receive excellent tuition in shorthand and free use of the typewriters. if any typing work came in she would be expected to help with it, but for the rest she could devote the whole of her time to studying and practising on the machines. miss bacon was a little vague as to the other pupils, but joan gathered that there was a shorthand class and two other typewriters in another room. "my other pupils are, of course, on a different footing," miss bacon told her. "generally i require a fee of at least ten guineas, but in your case, as i shall require you to do a little work for me, i shall be content to take less. that is to say, four guineas, everything included." "there is nothing about paying in the advertisement," joan ventured. "i am afraid it is quite impossible for me to pay that." miss bacon took off her glasses and polished them with nervous hands. "i do not want to seem unreasonable," she said; "after you have worked for me you will certainly be able to obtain a well-paid post elsewhere; my pupils invariably move on in that way. i guarantee, of course, to find situations. if i could meet you in any way--supposing you paid me two guineas now and two guineas when you moved on?" "it is awfully kind of you"--joan hesitated on the words--"but i am afraid i can't really afford it, not even that." miss bacon relinquished the idea with a heartfelt sigh. "my dear," she confided suddenly, "i know what poverty is. shall we say one pound to begin with?--you must remember that these are very exceptional terms." joan thought a moment. it seemed almost certain, from what she had gleaned from the various agencies, that getting a post without training was an impossibility, and most of the training centres asked for at least twenty-five guineas. perhaps in refusing this offer she was letting a good chance slip by her, and, though she hated to make free use of it, there was always uncle john's money, to fall back on. "i think i will come if you will let me do it in that way," she decided finally; "when would you like me to start?--to-morrow?" "the sooner the better." miss bacon rose with a smile of almost intense relief. "i have had no one for the last fortnight and the place is getting very untidy. you will pay the first pound in advance," she added; "i hope you will bring it with you to-morrow." she seemed painfully anxious for the money; if joan had not been so tired she might have thought the fact suspicious. as it was she went back to shamrock house with a lightened heart. it was not a very attractive or promising post; if she were to judge by outside appearances and by miss bacon's last remark her chief duties were to include those of general cleaning up and dusting. but that would be all in the day's work. some little confidence and hope were beginning to creep back into her heart. she had secured her first post; miss bacon held out vague visions of the triumphs to which it might lead. surely in time she would get away from the nightmare of the last two months; in time even aunt janet would forgive her, and meanwhile her foot was on the lowest rung of the ladder; work should be her world in future. she would work and fight and win. there was still, as miss abercrombie would have said, a banner to be carried. she would carry it now to the end. chapter xii "our life is spent in little things, in little cares our hearts are drowned; we move with heavy laden wings in the same narrow round." for the first week in her new post joan was kept very busy putting things--as miss bacon described it--to rights. she had also, she discovered, to run errands for miss bacon several times during the course of a day; to buy paper for the typewriters, to fetch miss bacon's lunch, on one occasion to buy some cooling lotion for miss bacon's bruise. of the other pupils she saw no sign, and even the girl who had admitted her on the first night did not put in an appearance, but this miss bacon explained by saying that edith was delicate and often forced to stay away through ill health. joan refrained from asking questions; she realized herself that she had stumbled on to something that was nearly a tragedy. the hunted look in miss bacon's face, the signs of poverty, the absolute lack of work told their own tale. as a running business , baker street, was an evident failure, but there was no reason why, with a little application, she should not make it serve her purpose as a school. the lack of tuition was its one great drawback; there seemed no signs whatsoever of the promised shorthand lessons. finally joan plucked up her courage one morning in the second week, and invaded miss bacon's private office. "what about my shorthand?" she inquired from just within the doorway; "when shall i begin?" miss bacon had changed her shoes for a pair of bedroom slippers and was occupying the arm-chair, immersed in the newspaper. she started at joan's abrupt question, the movement jerking the glasses from off her nose. she picked them up nervously and blinked at joan. "what did you say?--shorthand? oh, yes, of course! it is really edith's duty to take you in that; still, as she is not here, i propose to dictate to you myself after lunch. my first duty in the mornings is to master the newspaper; there might be some openings advertised." she turned again to her news-sheet. "why not employ yourself practising on the typewriter?" she suggested. joan would have liked to reply that she was tired of practising sentences on the typewriter and hungry for some real work to do, but she had not the heart to be unkind to the poor little woman. she spent a disconsolate morning and stayed out for lunch longer than usual. on her return miss bacon was waiting for her on the top of the stairs. "my dear," she said in an excited voice, "some work has come in. a man has just brought it, and he must have it by to-morrow morning. i hope you will be able to get it done, for i have promised, and a lot may depend on it." so much depended on it that she herself decided to help joan with the work. she was not, it appeared, even as experienced as joan, and by . the two of them had only completed about half the typing. joan's back ached and her fingers tingled, but miss bacon's eyes behind the glasses were strained to the verge of tears, two hectic spots of colour burned in her cheeks and her fingers stumbled and faltered over the keys. as the clock struck seven joan straightened herself with a sigh of relief. "it is no use," she said, "we cannot get it done; he will have to wait for his silly old papers." the blood died suddenly out of miss bacon's face, her mouth trembled. "it must be done," she answered; "you do not understand. it is the first work that has been brought to us for weeks. the man is a stranger; if it is well done and up to time he will give us some more; besides he will pay"--for a second she lifted her eyes and looked at joan--"i must have the money," she said. her face, working under the stress of some strong emotion, was painful to see. she was so weak, so useless, so driven. joan looked away hastily and went on with her work. from time to time, though, she stole a glance at miss bacon. it was dreadful to know that the poor old woman was crying; quietly, hopelessly, great drops that splashed on to her fingers as they stumbled over the keys. at last joan could bear it no longer, she rose quickly and crossed over to miss bacon, putting her hands over the useless fingers. "don't you bother with it any more, miss bacon," she said. "i am nearly through with my share now and i can come early to-morrow and get it all done before breakfast. it is silly to work away at it now when we are both tired out." miss bacon gulped down her tears and looked up nervously. "you think you can," she asked; "you have realized how important it is?" "yes," joan told her, "and i know i can. i won't disappoint you, really i won't. let us go across the road and get some tea before we go home," she suggested. miss bacon looked away again hastily. "you go," she muttered, "i don't need tea, i----" "you are going to come and have tea with me," joan interrupted. it had flashed on her that miss bacon had not even the money for that. over the hot buttered toast and the tea miss bacon poured out her troubles to joan. they came, once she had started, in an unquenchable flood of reminiscences. the little woman had reached the last inch of endurance; the kindly sympathy, the touch of joan's hands broke down all barriers of reserve or caution. she had been a governess, it appeared, and during all her years of service she had laid by enough money to buy the business at baker street. "i got it cheap," she owned. "i can see now that the other people must have failed too, and i have no head for business. i am absolutely at the end of things now; if i died to-morrow it would be a pauper's funeral. i often think of that when i see a gorgeous hearse and procession passing through the street." her words were ridiculous, but real tragedy looked out of her eyes. "ruin stares me in the face," she went on, "from every paper i read, from every person i meet. i have no money, not even enough to buy food, as you have guessed. ruin! and i have not the courage to get out of it all. i have never been very brave." "but i think you have been brave," joan tried to reassure her. "you have held on for so long alone. and i expect we have turned a corner now, things will be better to-morrow." miss bacon stared at her teacup with hopeless eyes. "that is what i used to think at first," she said, "to-morrow will be better than to-day--it never has been yet." she rose to go, and joan, prompted by a sudden quick desire to help, leant forward and caught hold of her coat. the tragedy of the withered figure, the stupid, aimless face, struck her as the cruellest thing she had yet seen in life. what were her own troubles compared to this other's dull facing of loneliness, failure and death. "you must cheer up, you really must," she begged; "and as for the money part, let me pay down the rest of my fee now. i have got three pounds out with me; do take it, please do, you see it really is yours." taking the money seemed to add an extra gloom to miss bacon's outlook; none the less she did not require very much persuading, and joan, pressing it into her hand, piloted her across the road and saw her into the underground station. it was the last glimpse she was to have of the quaint figure which had crossed her life for so short a time, but that she did not realize. she only knew that her heart ached because she had been able to do so little to help, and because miss bacon's story had brought suddenly to her mind a knowledge of how terribly hard life can be to those who are not strong enough to stand against it. true to her word, she arrived at baker street very early the next morning and the momentous piece of typewriting was finished before miss bacon's usual hour of arrival. joan put it on the table with the old lady's paper and went out to get some breakfast, as she had had to leave shamrock house before seven. she was greeted on her return by the girl who had let her in on the first night. there was a man with her who had taken possession of miss bacon's chair and who was reading the paper morosely, both elbows on the table. he glanced up at joan as she entered. "is this miss bacon, by any chance?" he asked, bringing out the words with a certain grim defiance. edith interrupted joan's disclaimer by a shrill laugh. "lor' bless you, no, she is one of the pupils, same as me." she turned to joan. "did you pay anything to join?" she asked. joan resented the familiarity of her tone. "would have liked to have warned you the other night, but bacon was too nippy." joan flushed slightly. disregarding the interruption she spoke quickly, answering the man's question: "miss bacon must be ill, i am afraid," she said; "it is so very late for her, she is nearly always here by ten. she will probably be here to-morrow if you care to come again." again edith giggled and the man frowned heavily. "well, she probably won't," he answered. "she has done a bunk, that's the long and short of it, and there is not a blasted penny of what she owes me paid. damn the woman with her whining, wheezing letters, 'do give me time--i'll pay in time.' might have known it would end in her bunking." "i don't think you ought to speak of her like that," joan attempted; "after all, it is only that she does not happen to be here this morning. she would have let me know if she had not been coming back." "oh, would she?" growled the man; "well, i don't care a blasted hell what you think. i don't need to be taught my business by the likes of you." from the passage to which she had retired edith attracted joan's attention by violent signs. "there is no use arguing with him," she announced in an audible whisper, "he's fair mad; this is about the tenth time he's missed her. come out here a minute, i want to talk to you." joan went reluctantly. she disliked the girl instinctively, she disliked the dirty white blouse from which the red neck rose, ornamented by a string of cheap pearls, and the greasy black ribbon which bound up edith's head of curls. "are you being a fool?" the girl asked, "or are you trying to kid that man? haven't you cottoned to old bacon's game yet?" "i am sorry for miss bacon, if that is what you mean," joan answered stiffly. "sorry!" edith's face was expressive of vast contempt. "that won't save you from much in this world. i tell you one thing, if you lent the old hag any money yesterday you won't see her again this side of the grave, so there isn't any use your hanging about here waiting for that." joan favoured her with a little collected stare. "thank you," she said, "it is very thoughtful of you to think of warning me." she left her and walked back deliberately into the room where the man was sitting. "there were some typed sheets lying on the top of the paper," she said; "do you mind letting me have them back." "yes i do," he answered briefly; "man called in for them a little while back and that is five shillings towards what the old hag owes me, anyhow." it was in its way rather humorous that she should have worked so hard to put five shillings into such an objectionable pocket. joan felt strongly tempted to argue the matter with him, but discretion proving wiser than valour, she left him to his spoils and retired into the other room. she would not leave the place, she decided, in case miss bacon did turn up; it would be very disagreeable for her to have to face such a man by herself. by lunch time the man stalked away full of threats as to what he would do, and edith went with him. joan stayed on till six, and there was still no sign of miss bacon. it was strange that she should neither have telephoned nor written. over dinner at shamrock house that night she told rose brent the story of her fortnight's adventure, ending up with the rash impulse which had led her to pay up the four guineas because miss bacon had seemed in such bitter need. the girl met her tale with abrupt laughter. "i am afraid what your unpleasant acquaintance of this morning told you is probably true," she said. "after all, if you went and handed out four guineas it was a direct temptation to the poor old woman to get away on." "i don't believe she would take it just for that," joan tried to argue. "i know she wanted it awfully badly, but it was to help her pull through and things were going to run better afterwards. i don't believe she would just take it and slip away without saying a word to me." "faith in human nature is all very well," the other answered, "but it is awfully apt to let you down, especially in the working world." "i shall go on believing for a bit," joan said; "she was looking so awfully ill yesterday, it may just be that she could not come up to office to-day." "may be," rose agreed. "when you are tired of waiting for the return of the prodigal let me know and i will see if i cannot get you in somewhere. i ought to be able to help. and look here, my child, never you pay another penny for tuition on those lines; you could get all the learning you need at the county council night schools, and it is a good deal cheaper." joan put in two days at no. , baker street, waiting for the return of miss bacon or for some message which might explain her absence, but nothing and no one came. on the morning of the third day she found that the stout and bad-tempered man had carried out his vague threats. the place had been taken possession of, already they were removing the typewriters and tables under the direction of a bailiff. even the plate bearing miss bacon's name had vanished, and boards announcing the top flat to let flaunted themselves from the area railings. after that joan gave up the hope. sometimes she wondered if after all miss bacon had found the necessary courage to be done with it all, and if her silence betokened death. it was more likely though that the poor old lady had merely sunk one rung lower on the ladder of self-esteem and was dragging out a miserable existence somewhere in the outside purlieus of london. chapter xiii "ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" r. browning. following rose's suggestion, and because for the time being there really seemed nothing for her to do, unless she could show herself a little better trained, joan joined the county council night schools in the neighbourhood. she would go there five evenings in the week; three for shorthand and two for typing. her fellow scholars were drawn from all ages and all ranks--clerks, office boys, and grey-headed men; girls with their hair still in pig-tails, and elderly women with patient, strained faces, who would sit at their desks plodding through the intricacies of shorthand and paying very little attention to what went on all round them. the boy and girl section of the community indulged in a little rough and tumble love-making. even long office hours and the deadly monotony of standing behind desk or counter all day could not quite do away with the riotous spirit of youth. they giggled and chattered among themselves, and passed surreptitious notes from one form to the other when mr. phillips was not looking. mr. phillips, the shorthand master, was a red-faced, extremely irascible little man. he came to these classes from some other school in the city where he had been teaching all day, and naturally, by the time evening arrived, his none too placid temper had been stretched to breaking-point. he was extremely impatient with any non-comprehension of his complicated method of instruction; and he would pass from row to row, after his dictation had been finished, snatching away the papers from his paralysed pupils and tearing them into fragments had the exercise been badly done. joan noticed the man who sat next her on the first and every night. he was quite the worst person she had ever seen at learning anything. he was not by any means young, grey already showed in the hair above his ears, and his forehead wrinkled with innumerable lines. he had, she thought, the most pathetic eyes, large and honest, but quite irredeemably stupid. "i can't make head or tale of it," he confessed to her on the second night. "and mr. phillips gets so annoyed with me, it only muddles me more." "why do you bother to learn?" she asked. it seemed rather strange that a man of his age should have to struggle with so elementary a subject. "i have worked in an office for the last ten years," he explained. "the new boss has suddenly decided that shorthand is necessary. i don't know," he spoke rather vaguely, his eyes wandering round the room, "but it is just possible he might ask me to go if i did not master it. i have been there so long i hardly like to have to look for another place." "it seems such a shame," joan told rose afterwards, "that these people can never get a place where they feel really safe. they live always expecting to be turned off at a moment's notice, or to have somebody put in on top of them. everybody seems to be fighting against everybody else; doesn't anyone ever stop to help?" the older girl laughed. "why, yes," she said. "the world, or at least the people in it, are not so bad as all that. only life is a case of push and struggle, and it is only natural that people should want to get the best they can for their money. also it wouldn't be fair if the ones who worked best were not preferred to the others." mr. simpson, joan's perplexed friend of the shorthand class, was certainly one of the stupidest people she had ever met, yet she was terribly sorry for him. he was the butt of the class, which did not add to the hilarity of his position, because of the torrent of abuse which he always drew from mr. phillips at some stage in the evening. "now," mr. phillips would call out, starting the lesson by a blackboard demonstration, "silence and attention, please." he would draw a series of strokes and dashes on the blackboard, calling out their various meanings, and the class would set itself to copy them. the lesson would proceed for some time in silence, save for mr. phillips' voice, but presently the bewilderment caused by so many new outlines would terrify mr. simpson and he would lean forward to interrupt, stammering, as he always did when nervous. "why is 'm' made like that?" he would say. "wouldn't it be much better if it were made the other way?" "why, why?" mr. phillips would thunder. "if you would just learn what you are taught, sir, and not try to think, it would be a great deal pleasanter for the rest of us." mr. simpson would get a little red under the onslaught, but his eyes always retained their patient, perplexed expression. he seemed impervious to the impression he created in the back row. "laughing-stock of the whole class," mr. phillips called him in a moment of extreme irritation, and the expression caught on. "i am so silly," he said to joan. "i really am not surprised that they think me funny." she was the one person who was ever nice to him or who did attempt to explain things to him. sometimes they would get there a little early and she would go over his exercises with him. he might be thick-skinned to the want of tolerance which the rest of the class meted out to him; he was undoubtedly grateful to joan for the kindness she showed him. one evening on his way to class he plucked up courage to purchase a small buttonhole for her, and blushed a very warm red when joan took his offering with a smile and pinned it into her coat. "how nice of you," she said. "i love violets, and these smell so sweet." "they are not half sweet enough for you," he managed to say, stuttering furiously. joan had a moment's uneasiness. surely the wretched little man was not going to fall in love with her? she glanced sideways at him during the class and what she saw reassured her. his clothes, his dirty hands, his whole appearance, put him in a different world to herself. however kind she might be to him, he surely could not fail to recognize that it was only the same kindness which would prompt her to cross the road to give a penny to a beggar? unfortunately mr. simpson belonged to a class which is very slow to recognize any difference in rank save that of wealth. he was a humble little man before joan, but that was because he was by nature humble, and also because he was in love. he thought her very wonderful and beautiful beyond his range of words, but he imagined her as coming from much the same kind of home as his own, and she seemed to exist in the same strata of life. a night or two after the flower episode he fixed adoring eyes on her and asked if he might be allowed to see her home. "well, it is rather out of your way," joan remonstrated, she had so often seen him trudge off in the opposite direction. "that is of no consequence," he replied, with his usual stutter. the streets were dark, quiet, and deserted. now and then as they hurried along, for joan walked as fast as she could to ward off conversation, they passed a solitary policeman doing his beat, and dim, scarce seen lovers emerged out of the shadows holding each other's hands. "will you not take my arm?" mr. simpson ventured presently. he was slightly out of breath in his effort to keep up with her. "no, thank you," joan answered. the whole occurrence was too ridiculous, yet for once in her life her sense of humour was failing her. "and i wish you would not bother to come any further, it is quite unnecessary." her tone was more than chilly. mr. simpson, however remained undaunted. his slow and ponderous mind had settled on a certain course; it would need more than a little chilliness to turn it from its purpose. "i was going to ask you," he went on, "whether you would do me the honour of coming to the theatre one evening? if you have a mind that turns that way sometimes." "no, thank you," answered joan once more. "i never go to theatres, and i shouldn't go with you in any case," she added desperately, as a final resource. "i meant no offence," the man answered, humble as ever. "i should always act straight by a girl, and for you----" "oh, don't, please don't," joan interrupted. she stopped in her walk and faced round on him. "can't you see how impossible it would be for me----" she broke off abruptly, rather ashamed of her outburst. "i am going to be a snob in a minute, if i am not careful," she finished to herself. "i know i am not amusing, or anything," the man went on; "but you have always seemed so kind and considerate. if i have offended in any way, i am more than sorry." joan felt that he was frowning as he always frowned in hopeless perplexity over his shorthand. "i am not offended," she tried to explain more gently. "only, please do not ask me to go out with you again, or offer to walk home with me. here we are anyway, this is where i live." she turned at the bottom of shamrock house steps and held out her hand to him. "good-night," she said. simpson did not take her hand, instead he stared up at her; she could see how shiny and red his face was under the lamp. "you are not angry with me?" he stuttered. "why, no, of course not," joan prevaricated. then she ran up the steps and let herself into the hall without looking back at him. for two or three days she attempted to ignore the man's presence in class next her, and simpson himself in no way intruded. he had taken her snubbing like a man; from the height of his dreams he had fallen into an apathetic despair; the only effect it had on him was to make him stupider than ever at his work. then one evening, with a face working rather painfully, he told her that he did not intend to come any more. "i am going to another centre," he said, gathering his books together and not looking at her. "has mr. phillips been too much for you?" she asked, wilfully ignoring the deeper meaning behind his words. "no," he answered, "it is not that. it may seem quite absurd," he went on laboriously, "but i want to ask you to let me have your note-book. i have got a new one to give you in its place." he produced a packet from his pocket and held it out to her. later on, when she thought over the thing, she smiled. a note-book seemed so singularly unromantic, but at the time she felt nearer tears. the look in his eyes haunted her for many days. she had been the one glimpse of romance in his dreary existence, and she had had to kill the dream so ruthlessly. chapter xiv "it seems her heart was not washed clean of tinted dreams of 'might have been.'" ruth young. there followed a weary time for joan. the poem she had repeated on her first morning at shamrock house had to be recalled again and again and fell away finally from its glad meaning in the bitter disillusionment which looking for work entailed. wherein lay the value of cheerfulness when day after day saw her weary and dispirited from a fruitless search, from hope-chilling visits to registry offices, from unsuccessful applications in answer to the advertisements which thronged the morning papers? she went at it at first eagerly, hopefully. "to-day i shall succeed," was her waking motto. but every evening brought its tale of disappointment. "there is no one in the world as useless as i am," she thought finally. "it is only just a bad season," rose brent tried to cheer her up; "there is lots of unemployment about; we will find something for you soon." but to joan it seemed as if the iron of being absolutely unwanted was entering into her soul. there was only one shred of comfort in all this dreariness. life at shamrock house was so cheap that she was eating up but very little of uncle john's allowance. she wondered sometimes if the old people at home ever asked at the bank as to how her money matters stood, or had they shut her so completely out of their lives that even that was of no interest to them? miss abercrombie wrote fairly regularly, but though she could give joan news of the home people she had to admit that aunt janet never mentioned or alluded to her niece in any way. "she is harder than i thought she could be," wrote miss abercrombie; "or is it perhaps that you have killed her heart?" once joan's pride fell so low that she found herself writing aunt janet a pathetic, vague appeal to be allowed to creep back into the shelter of the old life. but she tore the letter up in the morning and scattered its little pieces along the gutter of digby street. digby street was sucking into its undercurrents her youth, her cheerfulness, her hope; only pride was left, she must make a little struggle to hold on to pride, and then news came from miss abercrombie that aunt janet had been ill and that the rutherfords had gone abroad. apart from her fruitless journeys in search of work, her days held nothing. she so dreaded the atmosphere of shamrock house that very often she would have to walk herself tired out of all feeling before she could go back there; sometimes she cried night after night, weak, stupid tears, shut up in the dreariness of her little room, and very often her thoughts turned back to gilbert--the comfort of their little flat, the theatres, the suppers, the dances and the passion-held nights when he had loved her. more and more she thought of gilbert as the dreariness of digby street closed round her days. if her baby had lived, would life have been easier for her, or would it only have meant--as she had first believed in her days of panic that it would mean--an added hardship, a haunting shame? it was the lack of love in her life that left so aching a void, the fact that apparently no one cared or heeded what became of her. the baby would at least have brought love to her, in its little hands, in its weak strength that looked to her for shelter. "i should be happier," she said once stormily to rose, "if i could have a cat to keep. i think i shall buy a kitten." the other girl had looked at her, smiling dryly. "pets are strictly against the rules in shamrock house," she reminded her. it was in one of her very despondent moods that joan first met the young man with blue eyes. she never knew him by any name, and their acquaintance, or whatever it could be called, came to an abrupt end on the first occasion when he ventured to speak to her. womanlike, she had been longing for him to do so for some time, but resented it bitterly when he did. perhaps something faintly contemptuous, a shadowed hint that he had noticed her interest in him, flamed up the desire to snub him in her heart, or perhaps it was a feeling of self-shame to find herself so poor a beggar at friendship's gate. for a week he had met her at the same place and followed her on her way down victoria street. then one night, just as they came under the lights of vauxhall clock tower, he spoke to her. "doing anything to-night?" he said. "shall we dine together?" she turned from him in a white heat of anger, more with herself than with him, though that, of course, it was not given him to know. but he caught a glimpse of her face and read his answer, and since he was in reality a nice boy, and insult had been the last thought in his mind, he took off his hat quickly and apologized. "i am sure i beg your pardon," he said; "i can see that i have made a mistake." joan did not answer him, she had moved quickly away in the direction of digby street, but as she passed by the dingy houses she knew that he was not following any more, and she felt the hot, hard lump in her throat which is so difficult to swallow. she had wanted to go to dinner with him, she had wanted to, that was the thought that mocked at her all night. it was one evening about a fortnight after that episode that rose called joan into her room on their way upstairs. "i want to talk to you," she said, closing the door behind them. "has miss nigel spoken yet?" "to me?" asked joan; "what about?" "i see, then, she hasn't," rose answered, "but she will soon. did you notice that the night before last miss wembly, who sits at the next table to ours, had a guest to dinner?" "no," joan admitted; "but why? what has it got to do with me?" "i am coming to that," the other answered; she stood with her head averted, looking for a cigarette. "i am always a damned silent person myself," she went on, "and i do not think anyone can accuse me of being curious about their pasts. i do not want to know a blessed thing about yours, for instance, but that guest of miss wembly's was a nurse from st. george's hospital." "oh," said joan blankly; she was standing just within the door, her back against the clothes that hung on it. "well," rose hurried on, "it has gone all round the place like lightning. they aren't fond of you because they hate me and we are friends. yesterday one of them took the story to miss nigel and she is going to ask you to leave." "what story?" asked joan; she had not followed the other's swift deduction. rose lit a cigarette and held out the case to joan. "have one," she said, "and come and sit down. as i said before, i am not asking for personal history, i am telling you the facts as they affect this place. they say you were to have had a baby, and you are not married." she shrugged her shoulders and sank into a chair. "you mean," whispered joan, "that the nurse told them that?" "i suppose so," rose admitted; "anyway, miss nigel spoke of it to me to-day. she is not a bad sort, miss nigel, she was very kind to me once, but she is going to tell you to go." "what have you thought of it?" asked joan. "i don't think about other people's affairs," rose answered. "come and sit down, i have got some jam for you after the powder, for i believe i have found a job for you. but first you must move into diggings, these clubs are all in a league, every one of them will be shut to you." "you are not bothering to ask if it is true," said joan. she moved forward and sat down, her hands clenched on her lap. "i suppose----" rose interrupted, putting a swift hand on hers. "don't," she said, "don't deny it or tell me the truth, whichever you were thinking of doing. it does not matter to me. because i like you i have interfered as much as i have so that you may be prepared for miss nigel's attack." she smiled. "it will be an attack too--having a baby and no husband to people like miss nigel is worse than any criminal offence." "yes," joan admitted. a vision of aunt janet's horror-stricken face came across her mind. "when i heard that it had been killed in the accident, i was glad, glad. i had not got the courage to go on and brave it out. i was glad to think that i could start life again, that no one would know or look at me like the people at home had looked at me when they knew. and now----" "and now?" rose repeated; she was studying joan's face with her eyes half closed, a peculiar trick she had when her thoughts were unpleasant. "and now it doesn't seem worth while going on any longer," joan burst forth. "there must be other lives that are better worth living than this. do you know that for the last ten days i have made fifteen shillings addressing envelopes from nine till six. it would be better, surely it would be better, to be what people call bad!" rose watched the flushed face. "if a life of that sort would give you any pleasure," she spoke slowly, "i should say live it by all means. the trouble is, it would not please you. if you care to listen, i will tell you a bit of my own story. it is not altogether pleasant, but in your present frame of mind it will not do you any harm to hear it." she paused a moment, head thrown back, blowing smoke-rings to the ceiling. "i came to london ten years ago," she began presently, "and i was twenty-one at the time. i had been keeping house for a brother in india, and i had had a good time, but a spirit of restlessness had come upon me and i would not leave him alone till he let me come home and start on my own. i had, of course, no people. poor brother, he gave way after many arguments, knowing as little as i did about the life here, and i came. he died the year afterwards of enteric. i had been on an allowance from him before, but when he died that stopped and i was left absolutely penniless. you have had a bad time in that way, but i had a worse one. still i was young and strong, and, above all, i was a fighter, so i won through. i got a post as typist in a city office and i drifted to shamrock house. my working hours were lengthy, sometimes it was after half-past seven before i came out of office. then i would hurry through the crowded streets, as you do now, and always that walk, through gaily lighted pleasure-seeking crowds, would end for me in the dark dreariness where great smith street turns away from victoria street, a ten-minute walk through one of london's poorest neighbourhoods, and--shamrock house! those were the days in which i did my hardest kicking against fate; it was so unjust, so unfair, and all the while youth and power to enjoy, which is the heritage of youth, were slipping past me. that is how you feel, isn't it?" she asked suddenly. "yes," joan said. "i know," rose answered softly; "well, wait and hear. i was in this mood, and feeling more than usually desperate, when i met the woman. i need not give her a name, not even to you; i doubt if i ever knew her real one. i had seen her several times, perhaps she had noticed me, though she had quaint, unseeing eyes that appeared to gaze through you blankly. she was a beautiful woman with an arresting beauty hard to define, and she used, as far as i could see, neither paint nor powder. one evening, just as i was turning into great smith street, i found her at my elbow. "'you live down there,' she asked in a curious, expressionless way as if she hardly expected an answer. "i was startled at her talking to me and at the same time interested. "'yes,' i said. "'it is dark and very dreary,' she went on, talking almost to herself, 'why do you choose such a life?' "i think the bitterness of my mood must have sounded in my answer, for suddenly she turned to me and laid a hand on my arm. "'leave it then,' she whispered, her face close up against mine, 'leave it, come home with me.' "'home with you,' i repeated, thoroughly astonished, and at that moment a policeman, tall and stolid, strolled across the road towards us. "'don't let him hear what we are saying,' whispered the extraordinary woman; 'just turn back with me a little way and i will explain to you.' "well, i went. perhaps you can realize why, and i saw for a little into the outside edge of life as lived by these women. i wonder how i can best convey to you the horror and pity of it, for we--despite the greyness of our lives--have something within ourselves to which we can turn, but they have weighed even hopes and dreams with the weights of shame, and found their poor value in pounds, shillings and pence. that is why their eyes as they pass you in the streets are so blank and expressionless. each new day brings them nothing, they have learnt all things, and the groundwork of their knowledge is--sin." she rose abruptly and moved across to the window, pulling aside the blue-tinted curtains, staring out over miles and miles of roof-covered london. from far in the distance big ben shone down on her, a round, dim face in the darkness. "you are wondering why i stayed with the woman," she went on presently. "the answer is easy and may make you smile. i met a man, one of the many she brought to the house, and fell in love with him. i was stupid enough to forget my surroundings and the circumstances under which he had met me, or i dreamt that to him also they were only the outside wrappers of fate, easy to fling aside. does it sound like a thrilling romance, and am i making myself out to be the heroine of one crowded hour of glorious life? because my hour was never glorious." she repeated the last word with a wry laugh and turned to face joan. "i don't know why i have raked up all this," she said. "i thought it had lost its power to hurt; but i was mistaken. i have liked you, perhaps that is the reason, and i have wanted to save you from making the same mistake as myself. for before you plunge out of monotony you must see that there is nothing in your heart that can be hurt, as these women have to be hurt every hour of their lives." joan could find nothing to say; the other girl's confidence had been so overpowering, it left her tongue-tied and stupid. rose came back after a little silence and sat down opposite her again. "i am sorry," she said, "i have talked you into a mood of black depression; never mind, perhaps you will have learnt something from it none the less. and meanwhile, things are going to be better for you; it is no loss having to leave shamrock house, otherwise you might grow into the house as i have. you will have to see about getting a room to-morrow, and then if you can meet me in the afternoon, i will take you and introduce you to your job. it is quite a nice one, i hope you will like it." joan stood up. "i don't know what to say," she began; "you--oh, if only we could wipe out the past," she flamed into sudden rebellion, "and start afresh." rose laughed. "i don't know about that," she said--the inevitable cigarette was in her mouth again--"_i_ for one would be very unwilling to lose a wisdom which has been so dearly bought." chapter xv "no one has any more right to go about unhappy than he has to go about ill bred." r. l. stevenson. joan was not to start her new work till the following monday. she was to be typist--her first real post filled her with some degree of self-conscious pride--to the editor of the _evening herald_. rose had herself worked on the paper some years ago and was a friend of the editor's. "i want you to give a girl i know a chance, mr. strangman," she had pleaded; "she is clever and well-educated, but she needs experience. take her, there is a good man, while your slack time is on, and she will be game for anything when you get busy again." mr. strangman twisted long nervous fingers into strange positions. "i don't know about this girl," he said; "we are never slack at the office." it was a pet fallacy of his that he was the hardest-worked man in london. rose smiled. "but her typing is quite good," she argued, "and you are such an easy dictator, i am sure she will get on all right." she had been exceptionally pleased when mr. strangman reluctantly gave way. joan would, she hoped, take kindly to newspaper work, and it might open up new roads to her. meanwhile joan had been out on her own and taken a room for herself in a house standing in a quiet, withdrawn square in the neighbourhood of king's road, chelsea. to call it a room was to dignify it by a title to which it could lay no real claim. it was an attic, up the last rickety flight of stairs, with roofs that sloped down within two feet of the ground, and a diminutive window from which one could get but the barest glimpse of the skies. still it had possibilities, its aspect was not so terribly common-place as had been that of the other rooms which joan had seen that morning. the sloping roofs, the small pane of glass which looked out higher than the neighbouring chimney-tops, were in their way attractive. she would take it, she told a somewhat surprised landlady, and would pay--everything included--ten shillings a week for the noble apartment. the "everything included" swept in breakfast--"such as a young lady like yourself would eat, miss"--the woman told her, and attendance. suppers and fires she would have to provide for herself, though mrs. carew was prepared to cook for her; lunch, of course, fell in office hours. on saturday, therefore, and having forestalled miss nigel's request by announcing that she was leaving for good, joan moved her luggage over to her new home and took possession. "i am going to like it better than i liked being at shamrock house," she told rose, who had come to assist in the moving. "it is more my own, i can do just as i like here." rose was craning her neck to see out of the window's limited compass. "just as you like," she repeated, laughing as she spoke, "on twenty-five shillings a week and an attic. you are not ambitious, my child." she turned round to face the room; even in mid afternoon, with the sun shining outside, it was dim--the corners in positive darkness. "i don't think i should have chosen it," she said; "there is no sun, and"--she shook the thought off--"who else is in the house, did you ask?" "there was not any need to," joan answered. "mrs. carew, that is my landlady, you know, told me all their family histories while i was making up my mind whether i would come or not. wait a minute," she paused in her unpacking to tick them off on her fingers. "there is the ground floor lady, who is an artist's model. no need to work just now though, for the last gentleman that painted her took a fancy to her and is paying for her at present. drawing-room floor, old foreign lady who never seems to get out of bed. second floor, retired army officer, 'fond of drink, more's the pity,'" she mimicked mrs. carew's voice, "and second floor back, young lady actress, who is not perhaps as good as she might be, 'but there, you can't always be blaming people'; and third floor, me! doesn't sound respectable does it? but after miss nigel i am afraid of respectability." rose watched her with narrowed eyes. "it sounds anything but respectable," she agreed; "do not make a fool of yourself, kid, it won't be worth it, it never is." "i am not likely to," joan answered her. "my one real regret in leaving shamrock house is that i shall not have you to talk to, oh, and the baths. mrs. carew does not hold with carrying too much water up these stairs." "i am glad i rank before the baths," rose laughed. she extricated herself from behind the luggage. "i will come and look you up sometimes," she announced, "though it probably won't be often; i am a bad hand at stirring myself out to see anyone in the evenings. good-night, and i hope you will get on all right with strangman, he is a kind little man really." she went. joan sat listening to her feet echoing down the stairs; a mouse could set the whole house creaking. she felt very much alone; shamrock house, full as it had been of uncongenial companions, had yet been able to offer some distraction from one's own society. the new office, to which she wended her way on the monday morning, lay in a side alley opening off fleet street, a rickety old building, busy as a hive of bees in swarming time. the steep, wooden stairs, after she had been asked her business by the janitor in the box office and put in charge of a very small, very dirty boy, led her up and up into the heart of the building--past wide-open doors where numerous men sat at desks, the floor round them strewn with papers; up again, past rooms where the engines throbbed and panted, shaking the building with their noisy vibrations; up still further, till they landed her at that withdrawn and sacred sanctum, the editor's room. here worked mr. strangman and his satellites; spiders, in fact, in the centre of their cleverly-constructed web, throwing out feelers in search of news to all quarters of the globe. anything less like a spider than mr. strangman it would have been difficult to imagine. he was an alert, nervous man, with bright, kind eyes, a flexible mouth and very restless hands. his whole nature hung on wires, as if--which was indeed the case--his mental capacity was too big and overpowering for his physical strength. his manners under the strain of work were jerky and abrupt, but otherwise he was a very kindly and genial man. to joan he was excessively polite, and so afraid that her capabilities might not come up to his expectations that for the first few days he left her practically with no work to do. she sat in a large, well-lit--if draughty--room, opposite mr. strangman at his table. it was one of her duties, she discovered, to keep the aforesaid table tidy, and in time she learned that here more than anywhere else she could be of service to the man. he had an awe-inspiring way of piling up his desk with scraps of paper, cuttings, and slips, and stray manuscripts, and it was always under the most appalling muddle that the one small, indispensable news-slip would hide itself. the magazine page-faker and the news-gleaner sat in the same room, the latter at a table next joan. he was a stout man with a beaming smile and an inexhaustible supply of good temper. he would sit over his work, which as far as she could see consisted solely of running his eye over the day's papers and cutting out what appeared to be workable news, making a great deal of noise with his feet on the floor, a gigantic cutting-out scissors in his hand and a whistle which never varied its tune from early morning till late in the evening--a soft, subdued, under-his-breath whistle, joan never even discovered what the tune was. he was, despite this disadvantage, an indefatigable worker and an ever-ready helper, always willing to do other people's work for them if necessary. of the other people on the staff joan saw very little; the reporters came early in the morning to take their orders for the day, and threw in their copy downstairs in the evening. sometimes they would come upstairs to discuss some feature of their day's work with mr. strangman, or to put in an article to the literary editor, but, as a whole, she hardly learned to know them, even by name. then there were the office boys, a moving, fluctuating crowd; always in mischief, always dirty, always irrepressibly cheerful. for the rest, her work--one might almost say her life--lay between the four walls of the office room, with the shaking vibrations of the engines under her feet and the musty, curious smell of papers in the making and pile upon pile of papers that had been made all round her. she arrived at . and left about p.m., and by then she was too numbed--for the working of a typewriter is monotonous work--to do anything save walk with the hurrying crowds as far as charing cross and take a bus from there to montague square. but since work filled her days she had less time for discontent or depression. sometimes she would be tempted to wander off the direct route on her way home and she would walk up to piccadilly and past the region of brightly-lighted shops, watching the faces in the crowd round her, envying those who met friends and stopped to talk to them, following with rather wistful eyes the couples who passed, hand clasped in hand; but generally speaking she was too tired in the evenings to do anything save go straight home, eat a hasty supper and tumble into bed. of rose she saw, as the other had prophesied, very little. joan realized that friendship, if their brief companionship could have been called such, counted for very little in rose's life. the girl seemed entirely to ignore her once she was from constant sight, and since joan could not herself call at shamrock house and rose habitually forgot to pay her promised visits, the friendship, such as it had been, faded away into the past. the other inhabitants of , montague square, she saw very rarely. occasionally she would encounter miss drummond, the downstairs tenant, paying off her taxi at the door--a tall, handsome girl, rather overblown in her beauty, who invariably stared at joan with haughty defiance and stalked into her own room, calling loudly for mrs. carew. once joan had stumbled over the retired military gentleman from the second floor, sound asleep, in a very undignified position, half way up her own little stairs. the incident had brought with it a shudder of fear, and from that day onwards joan was always careful to lock her door at night. miss fanny bellairs, the erring damsel on the second floor back, kept such strange hours that she was never visible; but mrs. carew had a large stock of not very savoury anecdotes about her which she would recount to joan during the process of laying supper. as not even an earthquake would have stopped mrs. carew's desire to impart information, joan gave up the attempt to silence her. indeed, she sometimes listened with a certain amount of curiosity, and fanny bellairs assumed a marvellous personality and appearance in her mind's eye. that the original did not in the least come up to her expectations was something of a surprise. about three months after her first arrival at montague square joan reached home rather late one evening to find her room already occupied. a girl sat, her feet tucked underneath her, on the principal chair under the lamplight; she had been crying, for a tight, damp ball of a handkerchief lay on the floor, and at the sound of joan's entry she turned a tear-stained face to greet her. "i thought you were never coming"--the voice held a plaintive sob in it--"and i am that down-hearted and miserable." joan put down her things hastily and came across. "i am so sorry," she said, groping through her mind to discover who her visitor might be; "did mrs. carew tell you i was in?--how stupid of her." the girl in the chair gulped back her tears and laughed. "no, she didn't," she contradicted; "she told me that you wouldn't want to see me if you were in; that the likes of you did not know the likes of me, and that i was not to come up. but i came"--she held out impulsive hands. "i guess you aren't angry," she said; "when i get the silly hump, which isn't often, i go mad if i have to stay by myself. i'll be as good as"--she glanced round the room--"as good as you," she finished, "if you will let me stay." "why, of course," said joan. "i don't know what mrs. carew can have been talking about. i don't know you, so i can't see how she can have thought i would not want to see you." "i can though." the girl shook forward a sudden halo of curls and laughed in a way which it was impossible to resist. "i am fanny, from downstairs, and mrs. carew is a silly old woman who talks a lot, but she is not stupid enough not to know the difference between a girl like you and a fly-by-night like me. now i have shocked you," she went on breathlessly, seeing joan's flush, "just when i was setting out to be good. i'll bite my tongue out and start again." she coughed once with alarming intensity. joan moved slowly away and took off her hat and coat. so this was fanny bellairs, the girl whose doings provided such a purple background for her own dull existence. she looked again at the little figure, lying back now, eyes closed, lips tremulous from the struggle for breath which her fit of coughing had brought her. it was a perfectly-fashioned face, though when joan had time to study it, she could see that the colouring was just a little crudely put on and that it had smudged in the shadows under her eyes where the tears had lain. she was such a thin, small slip of a girl, too, little dimpled hands and a baby face under the gold curls. fanny opened her eyes at that moment, wide and innocent, and answered joan's glance with a wistful smile. "thinking of all mrs. carew ever said about me?" she asked. "i am not as bad as she sometimes paints me. still"--she stood up--"i'll go, if you would rather i did. hate to make a nuisance of myself." she moved slowly--it was, in reality, reluctantly--towards the door, and joan came out of her reverie with a start. "please don't go," she said quickly. "you must think i am awfully rude, but really i was not thinking about mrs. carew or anything so disagreeable. i was thinking how pretty you were, and wondering how old you could be." the girl at the door stopped and turned back. laughter filled her eyes, yet there was a little hint of mockery behind the mirth. "go on!" she said, "you and your thoughts! i know just what they were, my dear; but it doesn't matter to me, i am used to it. twenty-two, at your service, mum"--she came a little away from the door and swept joan a curtsey--"and everything my own, even my hair, though you mayn't believe it." chapter xvi "pale dreams arise, swift heart-beats yearn, up, up, some ecstasy to learn! the spirit dares not speak, afar youth lures its fellow, like a star." anon. fanny was a real daughter of joy. the name is given to many who in no sense of the word near its meaning. to fanny, to be alive was to laugh; she had a nature which shook aside the degradation of her profession much as a small london sparrow will shake the filthy water of the gutters from off his sky-plumed wings. she brought such an atmosphere of sunshine and laughter into joan's life that the other girl grew to lean on it. the friendship between them ripened very quickly; on fanny's side it amounted almost to love. who knows what starvation of the heart side of her went to build up all that she felt for joan? through the dreary days that followed, and they sapped in passing at joan's health and courage, fanny was nearly always at hand, with fresh flowers for the attic, with tempting fruit for joan to eat in place of the supper which night after night she rejected. fanny would sometimes be away for weeks at a time. she still followed her profession as an actress, mrs. carew would tell joan, and on those occasions joan missed her intolerably. but fanny herself never spoke about her life, and joan never questioned her. autumn faded into winter; winter blew itself out in a cold and boisterous march, and spring crept back to london. nowhere else in the world does she come so suddenly, or catch at your heart with the same sense of soft joy. you meet her, she catches you unawares, so to say, with your winter clothes on. "what is this?" she whispers, blowing against your cheeks. "surely you have forgotten my birthday, or you would never have come out in those drab old clothes." then with a little shake of her skirts she is gone, and your eyes are opened to the fact that the trees have put forth brave green buds, and that yellow crocuses and white snowdrops are dancing and curtseying to you from odd corners of the park. joan's life at the _evening herald_ office, once the first novelty had worn off, and because it was spring outside, became very monotonous and very tiring. she nearly always ended the days conscious of a ridiculous desire to cry at everything. because the buses were crowded, because the supper was greasy and unappetizing, or because fanny was not at home to welcome her. there was one afternoon in particular, on a hot, airless day in june, when joan reached the last point of her endurance. everything had combined to make the office unendurable. one of mr. strangman's most agitated moods held him. early in the morning he had indulged in a wordy argument with chester, the literary page editor, on the question of whether or not the telephone was to be used by the office boys to 'phone telegrams through to the post office. it was a custom just founded by strangman and it saved a certain amount of time, but chester--a thin, over-worked, intellectual-ridden gentleman, was driven nearly mad by occult messages, such as the following: "hulloa, hulloa, is that telegrams? take a message please for the _evening herald_. what, can't hear? that's your fault, i am shouting and my mouth is near the tube. look alive, miss. listening? well: to davids. d for daddy, a for apples, v for varnish, i for i. i said i for i! got it now? d for daddy again," and so on. "the truth of it is," said mr. chester, during a pause in one of these wordy tussles, "i, or that telephone, will have to go, strangman. i cannot work with it going on." "my dear fellow"--strangman was all agitation at once--"what is to be done? the messages must go and i must hear them sent or the boys would put in wrong words. i am sure it is not any pleasanter for me than it is for you; i have also got to work." "t for tommy, i keep telling you--tommy, tommy," the lad at the 'phone shrieked triumphantly. mr. chester threw down his papers, pushed back his chair, and rose, tragic purpose on his face. "it is not to be borne," he ejaculated. "oh, very well," stuttered mr. strangman, "that means, i suppose, that i shall have to do the 'phoning myself. here, boy, get out, give me that." and thereupon the message started over again, but this time breathed in mr. strangman's powerful whisper. he certainly seemed to be able to manipulate it with less noise, only he soon wearied of the effort, and future wires were deputed to joan. so, in addition to her other tasks, she had had the peculiarly irritating one of trying to induce attention into post office telephone girls. then, too, mr. strangman had not felt in the mood to dictate letters, with the result that at a quarter to six seven of them had to be altered and retyped. joan was still sitting at her machine in a corner of the hot, noisy office, beating out: "dear sir, in answer to yours, etc.," when the clock struck six. her back ached, her eyes throbbed, she was conscious of a feeling of intense hatred against mild, inoffensive mr. strangman. that gentleman, having discovered the lateness of the hour by chance, kept her another quarter of an hour apologizing before he signed the letters. then he looked up at her suddenly. "do you think," he said, "that you could report on the dresses for us to-morrow night at the artists' ball?" "i report?" joan looked at him in astonishment; women reporters were disapproved of on the _evening herald_. "i know it is unusual," mr. strangman admitted. "but jones is ill, and our other men will all be busy on important turns. i just thought of you in passing; it is a pity to waste the ticket." "i could try." joan made an effort to keep the eagerness out of her voice. "yes, that is it, you could try. we should not want much," he added; "and it is not part of your duties as a secretary; still, you might enjoy it, eh?" "why, i should love it," she assented; hate was fast merging back into liking. strangman cackled his customary nervous laugh. "then that is settled," he said, "and here is the ticket. you will have to have a fancy dress, hire it, i suppose, since the time is so short. that, and a taxi there and back, will come out of the paper. hope it is a good show, for your sake." afterwards, when she looked back at that evening, at the artists' ball, joan was ashamed to remember the eager heat of excitement which took possession of her from the moment when she stepped out of the _evening herald_ taxi and ran along the passage to the ladies' cloak-room. she had, it seemed to her, no excuse; she was not young enough to have made it pardonable and she had long ago decided that the intoxication of life could be no longer hers. its loss was to be part of the bitter lesson fate had taught her. yet as she saw herself in the glass, a ridiculous figure in black flounces with just one scarlet rose pinned at her waist and another nodding on the brim of her hat, she could not keep the excitement from sparkling in her eyes and the colour of youth was certainly flaming in her cheeks. fanny had fitted her out with clever fingers as a black pierrette. a pierrette, taken from the leaves of some old french book, with her hair done in little dropping curls just faintly powdered, as if a mist of snow lay over the brown. she was young, after all, and the music called to her with insistent voice. "i am looking nice," joan confided to her reflection, "and i will have a good time just for to-night." then she turned and went quickly, walking with light feet and eager eyes that sought for adventure into the crowded room. it gave her first of all an immense sense of space. the whole opera house had been converted into a ballroom. there were hundreds of people present, and every imaginable fancy dress under the sun. brilliant colours, bright lights and the constant movement of the crowd made up a scene of kaleidoscopic splendour. there was a waltz in progress and joan stood for a little with her back to a pillar of one of the boxes, bewildered by the noise and moving colours. standing opposite her, in the shadow of the other looped-up curtain, was a man. a pierrot to her pierrette, only his costume was carried out in white, and on his head, instead of the orthodox hat, he wore a tight-bound black handkerchief. his eyes, for some reason, made her restless. it was not that he stared exactly, the man's whole figure was too blatantly bored for that, but there was something in their expression which made her look and look again. at their sixth exchange of glances the man smiled, or so it seemed to joan, but the next moment his face was sombre again. none the less there had been something in her idea, for before the next couple of dancers swung past her the man had moved from the shadow of his curtain and was standing near her. "don't think it is awful impudence on my part," he said, "but are you here all alone?" now there was just something in his voice that, as far as most women were concerned would sweep away all barriers. he spoke, in short, like a gentleman. joan looked up at him. "yes," she admitted; she caught her breath on a little laugh. "i am here as a reporter, you know; it is business and pleasure combined." once more his eyes made her uncomfortable and she dropped hers quickly. "that is strange," said the man gravely, "for i am a reporter too." he was certainly not speaking the truth. joan was not inclined to believe that fleet street had ever produced reporters the least like her companion. still, what did it matter? just for this evening she would throw aside convention and have a good time. "how awfully fortunate," she answered, "because you will be able to help me. i am new to the game." "well then," he suggested, "let us dance to the finish of this waltz and i will point out a few of the celebrities as we pass them." just for a second joan hesitated, but her feet were tingling to be dancing. "couldn't we do it better standing here?" she parried. "no," he assured her, "we could not do it at all unless we dance; movement helps my memory." he was a most perfect dancer. no one, so numberless women would have told joan, could hold you just as robert landon did, steer you untouched through the most crowded ballroom as he did, make himself and you, for the time being, seem part and parcel of the swaying tune, the strange enchantment of a waltz. joan was flushed and a little breathless at the close; they had danced until the last notes died on the air, and she had forgotten her mission, the celebrities, everything, indeed, except the dance and its bewildering melody. the man looked down at her as she stood beside him, an eager light awake in his eyes. his voice, however, was cool and friendly. "you dance much too well to be a reporter," he said. "what a ridiculous remark!" joan retorted; "one cannot dance all day, can one? besides, i am not even a real reporter. i am only a typist." "that is worse, to think of you as that is impossible," he said. "let us go outside and find somewhere to sit." "but what about our reporting," joan remonstrated; "i thought you were going to point out celebrities?" "time enough for that," he answered. "i am going to take you out on to a balcony meanwhile. there will only be the stars to look at us, and i am going to pretend you are a fairy and that you live in the heart of a rose, not a typist or any such awful thing." joan laughed. "i wish you could see my attic," she said. "it is such a funny rose for any fairy to live in." they sat out four dances, or was it more? joan lost count. out here on the balcony, with only the stars as chaperon and a pulse of music calling to them from the ballroom, time sped past on silver wings. for joan the evening was a dream; to-morrow morning she would wake, put on her old blue coat and skirt, catch her bus at the corner of the square and spend the day in sorting and arranging mr. strangman's papers. to-night she was content to watch the bubble held before her by this man's soft words, his strange, intent eyes; she made no attempt to investigate it too closely. but for landon the evening was one step along an impulse he intended to follow to the end. he was busy laying sure foundations, learning all there was to know of joan's life and surroundings, of the difficulties that might lie in the way of his desire, of the barriers he might have to pull down. "things are not going to end here," he told joan, as, the last dance finished, they stood among the crowd waiting for a taxi. he had helped her on with her cloak and the feel of his strong warm hands on her shoulder had sent the blood rushing to joan's heart. "i don't see how it is not going to end," she answered; "you must remember i am not even a reporter." "no, and i am," he smiled; "i had forgotten." he moved to face her, and putting his hands over hers, fastened up her cloak for her. it seemed his hands lingered over the task, and finally stayed just holding hers lightly. "i am going to see it does not end, none the less," he said. "i shall come and fetch you at your office this day next week and you shall dine with me somewhere and go on to a theatre. what time do you get out of office?" "at about six," joan answered; "but how can you? why, we do not even know each other's names!" "no more we do, and i don't want to, do you?" he smiled down at her undecided eyes. "i would rather think of you as pierrette than miss anything, and i shall be pierrot. it is a romance, pierrette; will you play it?" "yes," she answered slowly, but her eyes fell away from his. chapter xvii "aye, thought and brain were there, some kind of faculty that men mistake for talent, when their wits are blind,-- an aptitude to mar and break what others diligently make." a. l. gordon. impulse had always been a guiding factor in robert landon's life. if he saw a thing and wanted it, impulse would prompt him to reach out his hand and snatch it; if the thing were beyond his reach, he would climb--if necessary--over the heart of his best friend to obtain it; should it prove of very fragile substance and break in his hands, he would throw it away, but its loss, or the possible harm he had inflicted in his efforts to obtain it, brought no regrets. he made love deliriously, on fire himself for the moment, but never once had he so far forgot himself as to come from the flame in any way singed. many tragedies lay behind the man, for impulse is hardly a safe guide through life; but he himself was essentially too level-headed, too selfish, to be the one who suffered. he had spoken and danced and made love to joan on an impulse. beyond that, he set himself down seriously and painstakingly to win her. most women, he knew, like to be carried forward on the wings of a swift-rushing desire, but there was some strange force of reserve behind this girl's constant disregard of his real meaning in the game they played. she was willing, almost anxious to be friends; it did not take him long to find out how lonely and dreary had been the life she was leading. she went out with him daily; it became a recognized thing for him to fetch her in his small car every evening at office. sometimes they would dine together at one of the many little french restaurants in soho, and go to a theatre afterwards; sometimes they would just drive about the crowded lighted streets, or slip into the park for a stroll, leaving the car in charge of some urchin for a couple of pennies. since he was out on the trail, as his friends would have said, every other interest in his life was given up to his impulse to beat down this girl's reserve, but all his attempts at passionate love-making left her unresponsive. she would draw back, as it were, into her shell, and for days she would avoid meeting him. going out some back way at the office and never being at home when he called at montague square. then he would write little notes to her and bribe the office-boy to deliver them, begging her pardon most humbly--he played his cards, it may be noticed, very seriously--imploring her to be friends again. and joan would forgive him and for a little they would be the best of companions. but through it all, and though she shut her eyes more or less to the trend of events, joan's mind refused to be satisfied. she was restless and at times unhappy; she had her hours of wondering where it would all end, her spells of imagination when she saw landon asking her to marry him. when she thought about it at all it always ended like that, for she could not blind her eyes to the fact of the man's love for her. then she would shun his society, and endeavour to build up a wall of reserve between them, for it was her answer to his question that she could not bring herself to face. it was on one of these occasions that she made up her mind definitely to break with him altogether. she wrote him a short note, saying that she was going to be dreadfully busy at office and that as she had another girl coming to stay with her--both statements equally untrue--she was afraid it would be no use his calling to fetch her. landon accepted this attitude in silence, though one may believe it did something to fan the flame of his passion, and for ten whole days he left her entirely alone. then he wrote. joan found the letter waiting for her on the hall table when she came home one evening after a peculiarly dull and colourless day. it had been delivered by hand and was addressed simply to "pierrette, in the attic." mrs. carew must have been a little surprised at such a designation. joan took it upstairs to read, lingering over the opening of it with a pleasurable thrill. the days had been very grey lacking his companionship. "dear pierrette," landon had written, "is our romance finished, and why? the only thing i have left to comfort me is a crushed red rose. you wore it the first evening we ever met. pierrette, you are forgetting that it is summer. how can you wake each morning to blue skies and be conventional? summer is nearly over, and you do not know what you are missing. come out and play with me, pierrette; i will not kiss even your hands if you object. i can take you down next sunday to a garden that i know of on the river, and you shall pick red roses. will you not come, pierrette?" joan sat on in the dark of her little attic (for if the lamp was not required before supper mrs. carew had a way of not bringing it up until it was quite dark) with the letter on her lap. she was making up her mind to tell landon about gilbert, about her principles which had been rather roughly shaken, about her ideas, which still held obstinate root in her mind. if he loved her enough not to mind what was past, why should she not marry him? she had proved once how bitter it was to stand against the convictions of the world alone. his fortnight's absence had shown her how unbearable the dullness of her days had become; she could not struggle on much longer. her mind played with the prospect of consenting, of how it would open up new worlds to her, of what a change it would bring into her life. it was with a conviction anyway that great things might be in the balance that she stepped into landon's car on sunday afternoon and settled herself back against the cushions. they disregarded the fortnight's lapse in their friendship; neither referred to it in any way, and landon was exceptionally cheerful and full of conversation on the drive out. joan was content to sit quiet and listen and to let her eyes, tired of dusty files and hours of typewriting, feast on the country as they flashed past. the garden that he had promised her proved all that his descriptions had claimed. it lay at the back of an old stone house, off the high road and away from the haunts of the ordinary holiday makers. landon had chanced on it once and the place had taken a great hold on his imagination. one could be so alone at the foot of the garden, where it sloped down to the water's edge, that one could fancy oneself in a world of one's own. the house itself was a quaint, old-fashioned building with small rooms and tiny windows, but the walled-in garden where the roses grew, and the river garden, which stretched right down to the brim of the river with its fruit trees and tall scented grasses, were both beautiful. they had tea out there, and they picnicked on the grass, watching the sun's reflections playing hide and seek in the river. after tea, landon insisted on strolling round and collecting all the roses he could lay his hands on for joan. he threw them finally, a heavy heap of scented blossoms, on to her lap. he said their colour was reflected in her cheeks, their beauty in her eyes. "it is a shame to have picked them so early," joan remonstrated; "they will die now before we get home." "let them," he answered, "at least they have had their day and done well in it." he threw himself down on the grass beside her. "aren't they glorious, pierrette?" he said; but his eyes were not on the flowers. joan stirred uneasily. the great moment was drawing closer and closer, she was growing afraid, as are all women when the sound of love's wings comes too near them. "i wish you wouldn't call me by that name any more," she said, "because----" "well, why because?" landon asked as she hesitated. "one of the things that do not seem quite right to you, like kissing, or holding hands?" he took up one of the roses from her lap and pulled it to pieces with ruthless hands. "what a puritan you are!" he went on abruptly. "do you know we can only love once, isn't your heart hungry for life, pierrette? sometimes your eyes are." "don't!" said joan quickly, "that is another thing i wish you would not do, make personal remarks; it makes me feel uncomfortable." "why don't you tell the truth?" he asked fiercely. "why don't you say afraid?" "because it does not," she answered; her eyes, however, would not meet his. "i think uncomfortable describes it better." landon stared at her with sombre eyes. he was beginning to tire of their pretty game of make believe; perhaps impulse was waning within him. anyway he felt he had wasted enough time on the chase. but to-day joan seemed very charming, and her fear, for he could see plainly enough that she was afraid, was fanning the flame of his desire into a new spurt of life. "i am going to make love to you, pierrette," he said; "i am going to wake up that cold heart of yours. does the thought frighten you, pierrette? because even that won't prevent me doing it." he had drawn her close to him, she could feel his arms round her like strong bands of iron. joan lifted a face from which all the colour had fled to his. "don't, please don't!" her bewildered mind struggled with all the carefully thought-out things she was going to have said to him. but the crisis was too overwhelming for her; she could only remember the one final thought that had been with her. "you may not want to marry me when you know about me," she whispered, and ended her words with a sob. the man laughed triumphantly. "i don't want to marry you," he answered, "i want to love you and make you for a little love me, and this is how i begin the lesson." he bent his face to hers quickly, kissing her passionately, fiercely, on the lips. for a second such a tumult of passionate amazement shook joan that she stayed quiet in his arms. then everything that was strong, all the inherited purity in her nature, came to her aid and summoned her fighting forces to resist. she struggled in his arms furiously, she had not known she held such stores of strength; then she wrenched herself free and stood up. fear, if fear had been the cause of her early discomfort, had certainly left her; it was blind, passionate rage that held her silent before him. the man rose to his feet and essayed a laugh, but it was rather a strained effort. "that was a most undignified proceeding, pierrette," he said; "what on earth made you do it?" "how dared you?" flamed joan. "how dared you speak to me, touch me like that?" "dared?" the man answered; he was watching her with mocking eyes and something evil had come to life on his face. cold anger that she should have made a fool of him and a baulked passion which could very easily turn to hate. "this outburst is surely a little ridiculous. what did you think i wanted out of the game? did it really occur to you that i was going to ask you to marry me? my dear girl!" he shrugged his shoulders, conveying by that movement a vast amount of contempt for her dreams. "and as for the rest, i have never yet met a woman who objected to being kissed, though some of them may pretend they do." joan stared at him; he had stooped and was gathering up the roses that lay between them. rage was creeping away from her and leaving her with a dull sense of undignified defeat. once again she had pitted the ideal of a dream against a man's harsh reality, and lost. love! she had dreamed that this man loved her, she had held herself unworthy of the honour he paid her. this was what his honour amounted to--"i have never yet met a woman who objected to being kissed." she turned away and walked blindly towards the house. landon caught her up before she reached the gate of the garden. his arms were full of the roses and apparently he had won back to his usual good nature. "having made ourselves thoroughly disagreeable to each other," he said, "let us make it up again for the time being. it is all rather absurd, and you have got to get back to town somehow or other." he helped her into the car with just his usual solicitude, tucking the rug round her and laying the pile of roses on her lap; but on the way home he was very silent and from the moment they started till the time came for saying good-bye he did not speak a word to her. as they stood together, while joan was opening the door with her latch key, he put his hand for a moment over hers. "good-bye, pierrette," he said, "i am sorry you won't have anything to do with me. i should have made you happy and given you a good time. sometimes it is a pity to aim too high; you are apt to miss things altogether." fanny was waiting in joan's room when she got back, tucked up in her favourite position in the arm-chair. she had been away for the last ten days on one of her periodical trips. "my!" she gasped, disentangling herself to greet the other; "what roses, honey! straight from the country, aren't they, and a car--i can hear it buzzing outside. is it your young man?" she paused on the thought tip-toe with excitement, her eyes studying joan across the flowers she had seized. "and is he straight? the other sort won't do for you; you would hate yourself in a week." joan subsided on to the bed, taking off her hat with hands that shook over the task. "no," she answered, "he is not straight, fanny; but it doesn't matter, because i have finished with him. take away the flowers with you, will you? they seem to have given me a headache." fanny dropped the roses in a shower and trod them under foot as she ran to joan. "he has hurt you;" she spoke fiercely, flinging her arms round the other girl. "god, how i hate men at times! he has hurt you, honey." "only my pride," joan admitted; but the tears so long held back came in a flood now; she laid her head down on fanny's shoulder and sobbed and sobbed. the other girl waited till the storm had passed; then she rose to her feet and bundling the roses together with an aggressive movement opened the door and flung them out into the passage. "i have got an idea," she said; "you have been about fed up with office for months past. well, why not chuck it? come with me. i have got a job in a show that is going on tour next week. there is room in the chorus, i know; come with me, won't you?" her earnestness made joan laugh. "what shall i come as, fanny? i cannot sing, and i have never acted in my life." "that is nothing," fanny went on impatiently. "you are young, you are pretty; you can dance, i suppose, and look nice. i can get you taken on to-morrow, for old daddy brown, that is the manager, is a friend of mine, and while he is a friend he will do anything for me. oh, come, do come." she caught hold of joan's hands. "it will be great, we shall be together, and i will show you that there is fun in life; fun, and love, and laughter." she was laughing herself hysterically, her figure seemed poised as if for an instant outbreak into the dance she spoke of. joan watched her with envious eyes. fanny's philosophy in life was so plain to see. she took things that came her way with eager hands; she seemed to pass unscathed, unsullied, through the dregs of life and find mirth in the dreariest surroundings. and to-day landon had broken down one more barrier of the pride which kept joan's feet upon the pathway of self-respect. of what use were her ideals since they could not bring her even one half hour's happiness? the road stretched out in front of her empty and sunless. these thoughts swept through her mind almost in the space of a second. then she rose quickly to her feet. "i'll come, fanny," she said; "it really amounts to turning my back on a battle; still i will come." chapter xviii "to fill the hour--that is happiness: to fill the hour and leave no crevice for repentance." anon. "daddy brown, this is the girl i spoke to you about; will she do?" that had been joan's introduction to the manager of the brown travelling company. he was a large man, with his neck set in such rolls of fat that quick movement was an impossibility. his eyes, small and surrounded by a multitude of wrinkles, were bloodshot, but for all that excessively keen. joan felt as they swept over her that she was being appraised, classed, and put aside under her correct value in the man's brain. his hair, which in youth must have grown thick and curly, had fallen off almost entirely from the top of his head, leaving a small island sprouting alone in the midst of the baldness. this was known among the company as "the danger mark," for when the skin round it flushed red a fearful storm was brewing for somebody. he sat in front of a table littered with papers, in a small, rather dirty office, the windows of which opened on to bedford street. with the window open, as he kept it, the noise of the strand traffic was plainly audible. he eyed joan slowly and methodically; then his glance turned back to fanny. "what can she do?" he asked heavily. "oh, everything," fanny answered with a little gasp; "and she can share my dressing-room and all that." "humph!" grunted the man; once more his small, shrewd eyes travelled all over joan. "well, perhaps, she will do." he agreed finally, "mind you are in time at the station to-morrow. cut along now, girls, i am busy." fanny was jubilant all the way home. "i thought i should be able to work it," she bubbled; "it will be fun, honey, to-morrow we are due at tonbridge and the tour ends at sevenoaks. all little places this time. but mind you, it is the first rung of the ladder for you. brown's is a good company to start with. _country girl_, _merry widow_, _waltz dream_." she ticked them all off on her fingers one by one. "you are glad about it, aren't you?" she broke off suddenly to ask. "of course i am glad," joan answered quickly, "and it is sweet of you to have got it for me. perhaps i am a little nervous; it strikes me one might get very frightened of mr. brown." "what, daddy? he is all right if you know how to manage him, and he won't bother you." fanny took a quick look at her. "you aren't his sort." was she really glad? joan pondered the matter over when fanny had at last betaken herself to her own room. at any rate she had, as it were, burnt her boats. she had left the _evening herald_, she had told mrs. carew to sublet her rooms. at least it would be good to get away from london for a bit. mrs. carew had been quite frank and decided in her views on the subject. "for a young lady like you to go off with the likes of 'er," this referred to fanny, "it hardly seems seemly to me, miss. not that miss bellairs ain't all right in her own way, but it is not your way. mark my words, miss, you will regret it." "and if i do," joan had answered, "i can always leave and come back here, can't i, mrs. carew? i am sure you will always do your best to put me up even if this room is let." "if i have a corner; miss, you shall 'ave it and welcome. nice and quiet young lady you have always been, and i know something of young ladies, i do." it was evident, even in her efforts to be polite, that she considered joan's present line of action to be one of deterioration. was it, after all, a wise move, joan wondered rather vaguely, as she packed away her few possessions. there was a great deal in fanny's nature that she disapproved of, that could at times even fill her with disgust. in itself, that would merely hold her from ever coming to look at life from fanny's standpoint. and perhaps she would find in the existence, which fanny claimed to be full of love and laughter, something to satisfy the dull aching discontent which had wrenched at her heart all this last summer. aunt janet, uncle john, the old home-life, the atmosphere of love and admiration, these had been torn from her, she needed something to take their place. they met the rest of the company next day at the station. fanny introduced them all to joan, rather breathlessly. "mr. strachan, who plays our hero, and who is the idol of the stalls. mr. o'malley, our comic man. mr. whistler, who does heavy father parts, wig and all. mr. jimmy rolls, who dances on light toes and who prompts when nothing else is doing. the ladies, honey, take their names on trust, you will find them out sooner or later." there were, joan discovered, eight other ladies in the company. she never knew more than four of them. mrs. o'malley, grace binning, a small soft-voiced girl, rhoda tompkins, and rose weyland--a very golden-haired, dark-eyebrowed lady, who had been in some far back period, so fanny contrived to whisper, a flame of brown's. of the men, joan liked mr. strachan best; he was an ugly man with very pleasant eyes and a rare smile that lit up the whole of his face. he seemed quiet, she thought, and rather apart from the others. the journey down to tonbridge proved slightly disastrous. to begin with, thanks to daddy brown himself, the company missed the best train of the day and had to travel by one that meant two changes. on arrival at tonbridge at four o'clock in the afternoon they found that one of the stage property boxes had gone astray. considering that they were billed to appear that evening at eight and the next train did not arrive till ten-thirty, the prospect was not a promising one. "always merry and bright," as jimmie, the stage prompter, remarked in an aside to strachan. "by the way, is it the _arcadians_ that we are doing to-night?" "how the hell can we do anything," growled daddy brown, the patch of skin round his danger-mark showed alarmingly red, "if that box does not appear. who was the blasted idiot who was supposed to be looking after it?" "well, it was and it was not me, sir," jimmie acknowledged; "the truth is that i saw it labelled all right and left it with the rest of the luggage to look after itself. i suppose----" "oh, what is the use of talking," brown broke in impatiently; he had thrust his hat back on his fiery head, the lines of fat above his collar shone with perspiration. "you had better go on, all of you, and see about getting rooms; the first rehearsal is in an hour, box or no box, and don't you forget it." "i don't see," wailed mrs. o'malley, almost as soon as his back was turned, "how we are to live through this sort of thing. what is the use of a rehearsal if none of our things are going to turn up?" "i guess there will be a performance whether or no," fanny told her. "come along, honey," this to joan, "seize up your bag and follow me; we have got to find diggings of sorts before the hour is up." joan found, as they trudged from lodging-house to lodging-house, that the theatrical profession was apparently very unpopular in tonbridge. as fanny remarked, it was always as well to tell the old ladies what to expect, but the very mention of the word theatre caused a chill to descend on the prospective landladies' faces. they found rooms finally in one of the smaller side streets; a fair-sized double bedroom, and a tiny little sitting-room. the house had the added advantage of being very near the theatre, which was just as well, for they had barely time to settle with the woman before they had to hurry off for the rehearsal. "it won't do to be late," fanny confided to joan. "daddy is in an awful temper; we shan't get any champagne to-night unless some of us soothe him down." at the small tin-roofed theatre supreme chaos reigned upon the stage and behind it. daddy brown, his hat thrown off, his coat discarded, stormed and raged at everyone within hearing. _the country girl_ had replaced _the arcadians_ on the bill; it was an old favourite and less troublesome to stage. fanny was to play _molly_; it was a part that she might have been born for. daddy brown won back to his good humour as he watched her; her voice, clear and sweet, carried with it a certain untouched charm of youth, for fanny put her whole heart into her work. joan felt herself infected by the other's spirit, she joined in the singing, laughing with real merriment at her chorus partner. the stage boards cracked and creaked, the man at the piano watched the performers with admiring eyes--the music was so familiar that it was quite unnecessary for him to follow the notes. daddy brown and the box office man, sole occupants of the stalls, saw fit to applaud as the chorus swung to a breathless pause. "that's good, that's good," brown shouted. "just once more again please, ladies, then we'll call a rest. don't want to tire you out before to-night." the dance flourished to its second end and fanny flung herself exhausted against the wings. her cough was troubling her again, shaking her thin body, fighting its way through her tightened throat. "it's worth it though," she laughed in answer to joan's remonstrance; "it is the only time i really live when i am dancing, you see." the rehearsal dragged out its weary length, but not until brown had reduced all the company to such a state of exhaustion that they could raise no quiver of protest to any of his orders. a man of iron himself, he extracted and expected from the people under him the same powers of endurance which he himself possessed. since fanny and joan could not go home to their lodgings, the time being too short, strachan escorted them out to obtain a meal of sorts before the evening's performance. short of daddy brown's hotel, which stood close to the theatre and which they were all reluctant to try, there did not appear to be any restaurants in the neighbourhood and they ended up by having a kind of high tea at a little baker's. "eggs are splendid things to act on," strachan told joan. the girls, however, on their return found a bottle of champagne and two glasses waiting for them in fanny's dressing-room. it had been sent with mr. brown's compliments to miss bellairs. the sight of it sent up fanny's spirits with a bound. "i did not know how i was going to get through the evening," she confessed, "but this will put new life into us." she insisted upon joan having a glass, and the latter, conscious that in her present state of tiredness she could hardly stand, far less dance, sipped a little of the clear, bubbling liquid--sipped till the small room grew large, till her feet seemed to tread on air, and her eyes shone and sparkled like the brightest of stars on a dark night. the theatre after that, the crowded rows of faces, the music and the thunder of applause--the audience were good-tempered and inclined to be amused at anything--passed before her like some gorgeous light-flecked dream. when the soldiers in the back row took up the words of fanny's song and shouted the refrain she felt swept along on the wings of success. at the fall of the curtain daddy brown patted her on the back. he was by this time radiant with cheerfulness once more. "you will do, young lady," he said. "we'll have to see if we can't work in a special dance for you;" and fanny flung her arms round joan in wild joy. "you're made, honey," she whispered, "if brown has noticed you, you're made. i always said you could dance." it was very thrilling and exciting, but the champagne was beginning to lose its effect. the world was growing grey again. joan's head throbbed, and she felt self-consciously inclined to make a fool of herself. she sat very silent through the supper to which brown treated the company at his hotel. there were about twenty people present, nearly all men; joan wondered where they had been collected from, and she did not quite like the look of any of them. fanny was making a great deal of noise, and how funny and tawdry their faces looked under the bright light. after supper there was a dance, the table was pushed aside, and someone--joan saw with surprise that it was daddy brown--pounded away at a one-step on the piano. everyone danced, the men, since there were not enough ladies to go around, with each other. fanny, wilder, gayer than ever, skirts held very high, showed off a new cake-walk in the centre of the room. her companion, a young, weak-looking youth, was evidently far from sober, and the more intricate the step, the more hopelessly did he become entangled with his own feet, amidst shouts of amusement from the onlookers. joan turned presently--she had narrowly escaped being dragged into the dance by a noisily cheerful gentleman--to find strachan standing beside her. he was watching her with some shade of curiosity. "why don't you go home?" he suggested; "it isn't amusing you and i can see you are tired. we get used to these kind of shows after a time." "i think i will," joan agreed; "no one will mind if i do, will they?" "not they, most of them are incapable of noticing anything." a cynical smile stirred on his face. "it is no wonder," he commented, "that we are known as a danger to provincial towns. you see the state of confusion we reduce the young bloods to." his eyes passed round the room and came back to joan with a shade of apology in them. "a bad night, for your first experience," he said; "we are not always as noisy as this. come along though, i'll see you home, if i may, my rooms are somewhere down your street." joan lay awake long after she had got into bed, and when she did at last drop off to sleep it was to dream strange, noise-haunted dreams, that brought her little rest. it was morning, for a faint golden light was invading the room, when she woke to find fanny standing at the foot of the bed. a different fanny to any joan had ever seen before, tired and blowsy-looking, her hair pulled about her face, the colour rubbed in patches from her cheeks and lips. "my word, it has been a night;" she stood swaying and peering at joan. "it's life though, isn't it, honey?" then a wild fit of coughing seized her and joan had to scramble out of bed and give what help she could. there was no hope of sleep after that, and when fanny had been helped to bed joan took up a chair to the window and drew aside the curtain. her mind was a tumult of angry thoughts, but her heart ached miserably. if this was what fanny called life and laughter, she had no wish to live it. chapter xix "i did not choose thee, dearest. it was love that made the choice, not i." w. s. blunt. all the way up the river from the nore after they had picked up the pilot the ship moved through a dense fog. a huge p. & o. liner, heavily laden with passengers and mails, she had to proceed cautiously, like some blind giant, emitting every two minutes a dolorous wail from her foghorns. "clear the way, i am coming," was the substance of the weird sound, and in answer to it shrill whistles sounded on all sides, from small fleets of fishing-boats, coal hulks, and cargo boats bound from far-off lands. "we are here too," they panted in answer; "don't run us down, please." it was eerie work, even for the passengers, who remained in blissful ignorance of the danger of their situation. by rights the ship should have been in dock before breakfast; they had planned the night before that an early dawn should see them awake and preparing to land; yet here was eleven o'clock, and from what the more hardy of them could learn by direct questioning of those in authority, they had not as yet passed canvey island. dick grant, ship's doctor and therefore free of access to inquirers, underwent a searching examination from all and sundry. the p. & o. regulations are, that the officers shall not talk or in any way become friendly with any of the passengers; the ship's doctor and the purser share the responsibility of looking after their clients' comfort, well-being, and amusement. on occasions such as a fog, when the hearts of passengers are naturally full of questions as to where they are, how long will the fog last, is there any danger, and ought we to have on our life-belts, these two afore-mentioned officials have a busy time. dick felt that barton, the purser in question, had played him rather a shabby trick, for barton had asserted that the work of sorting out passengers' luggage and seeing to their valuables would confine him to his office till the ship docked, which excuse left dick alone to cope with the fog-produced situation. dick had been at sea now for close on two years. he had shifted from ship to ship, had visited most of the ports in the near and far east. this was his last voyage; he was going to go back and take up life in london. from marseilles he had written to mabel telling her to expect him the week-end after they got in. his journeyings had given him many and varied experiences. the blue eyes had taken unto themselves some of that unwavering facing of life which seems to come almost always into the eyes of people who spend their lives upon the sea. he had learned to be patient and long-suffering with the oddities of his patients, passengers who passed through his hands on their brief journeyings; he had seen the pathos of the sick who were shipped with the full knowledge that they would die ere the first port was reached, simply because the wistful ache of home-sickness would not allow them to rest. home-sickness! dick had known it keep a man alive till the grey cliffs of dover grew out of the sea and he could fall back dead and satisfied. board ship throws people together into appalling intimacy; love springs full-winged into being in the course of an afternoon; passion burns at red-heat through drowsy, moon-filled nights. almost wilfully, to begin with, dick had flung himself into romance after romance; perhaps unknown to himself, he sought to satisfy the hunger of heart which could throb in answer to a dream, but which all reality left untouched. he played at love lightly; he had an ingrained reverence for women that even intercourse with anglo-indian grass-widows and the girl who revels in a board-ship flirtation was unable altogether to eradicate. he made love, that is to say, only to those women who first and openly made love to him; but it is to be doubted whether even the most ardent of them could boast that dicky grant had ever been in love with them. they slipped out of his ken when they disembarked at their various ports, and the photographs with which they dowered him hardly served to keep him in mind of their names. and a certain weariness had grown up in his heart; he felt glad that this was to be his last voyage. he had put in two good crowded years, but he was no nearer realizing his dream than he had been on the day when mabel had said to him: "did you think i should not know when you fell in love?" dick was thinking of this remark of mabel's as he stood by himself for the time being, right up by the front of the ship peering into the fog, and with the thought came a memory of the girl with the brown eyes who had stood to face him, her hands clenched at her sides, as she told her piteous tale. piteous, because of its very bravado. "i am not afraid or ashamed," she had claimed, while fear stared out of her eyes and shame flung the colour to her face. what had the past two years brought her? had she stood with her back to the wall of public opinion and fought her fight, or had the forces of contempt and blame been too strong for her? a very light hand on his arm brought him out of his thoughts with a start, and he turned to find a small, daintily-clad lady standing beside him. "how much longer shall we be?" she asked; "and when am i going to see you again, dicky, once we land?" she had called him dicky from the second day of their acquaintance. mrs. hayter always called men by their christian names, or by nicknames invented by herself. dick let his eyes linger over her before he answered--immaculately dressed as ever--the wildest storm saw mrs. hayter with her hair waved, the other ladies claimed--small, piquante face, blue eyes and a marvellous complexion despite her many seasons spent in the east. she was the wife of an indian civilian, a tall, grey-headed man, who had come on board to see her off at bombay. dick had been rather struck with the tragedy of the man's face, that once he had seen it; he connected it always for some unexplainable reason with mrs. hayter's small, soft hands and the slumberous fire in her blue eyes. not that dick was not friendly with mrs. hayter; he had had on the contrary rather a fierce-tempered flirtation with her. once, under the spell of a night all purple sea and sky and dim set stars, he had caught her to him and kissed her. kissed the eager, laughing mouth, the warm, soft neck, just where the little pulse beat in the hollow of her throat. she had practically asked him to kiss her, yet that, he reflected in his cooler mood the next morning, was no excuse for his conduct, and, rather ashamed of himself, he had succeeded in avoiding her fairly well until this moment. he had not the slightest desire to kiss her again; that was always the sad end to all his venturings into the kingdom of romance. "where are you going to?" he answered her last question first; "if it is anywhere near london, i shall hope to look you up." mrs. hayter laughed, a little caught-in laugh. "look me up, dicky, between you and me! never mind, you funny, shy, big boy, you shall put it that way if you like. as a matter of fact, i am going to stay at the knightsbridge hotel for a week or so on my way through to my husband's people. why don't you come there too?" the invitation in her voice was unmistakable and set his teeth on edge. "it's too expensive for me," he answered shortly; "but i will come and call one day if i may." "of course," she agreed, "let's make it dinner the day after to-morrow. dicky," she moved a little closer to him, "is it me or yourself you are angry with about the other night?" "myself," dick said dryly, and had no time for more, for on the second a shiver shook the ship, throwing mrs. hayter forcibly against him, and the air was suddenly clamorous with shrill whistles, cries, and the quick throb of engines reversed. through the fog, which with a seeming malignity was lifting, veil upon thick veil, now that the mischief was accomplished, dick could see the faint outlines of land; gaunt trees and a house, quite near at hand, certainly within call. mrs. hayter was in a paroxysm of terror, murmuring her fright and strange endearing terms all jumbled together, and the deck had waked to life; they seemed in the centre of a curious, nerve-ridden crowd. it was all very embarrassing; dick had to hold on to mrs. hayter because he knew she would fall if he let her go, and she clung to him, arms thrown round his neck, golden hair brushing against his chin. "there's not a particle of danger," a strong voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. dick could recognize it as the captain's. "please don't get alarmed, ladies, it is quite unnecessary, with any luck we will be off almost immediately." in that he proved incorrect, for, heavily weighted as the _india_ was, she stayed firmly fixed in thames mud. by slow degrees the fog lifted and showed the long lines of the shore, and the solitary house standing out like a sentinel in the surrounding flatness. dick had succeeded in disentangling mrs. hayter's arms and had escorted her to a seat. "i am afraid i have given myself away hopelessly," she whispered, clutching him with rather a shaky hand. "did anybody see us?" "everybody, i should think," he told her gravely, "but, after all, most things are excusable in a possible wreck." "yes," she agreed, "only mrs. sandeman is all eyes to my doings, and on one occasion she even wrote robert. cat!" the last expression was full of vindictiveness. dick was seized with a disgust for his own share in the proceedings; he hoped devoutly that mrs. sandeman, a rather austere-faced, tight-lipped woman, would not write and disturb robert's peace of mind for any doings of his. also he took a mental resolve to see no more of mrs. hayter. by four o'clock all the passengers, with a mild proportion of their luggage, had been transferred to small tugs for transport to tilbury; for on a further examination into the state of affairs it had been found that the _india_ would probably remain where she was until a certain lightening of her freight should make it easier for her to refloat. it was three days later, in fact, before dick reached london. he found two letters waiting for him at his club; one from mabel, telling him how glad they would be to see him, could he not make it earlier than the week-end; and one from mrs. hayter. would he come and dine with her that evening? he need not trouble to answer, she was dining all alone and would not wait for him after half-past seven. "if you can't come to dinner," she had added, "look in afterwards; there is something i rather particularly want to say to you." he dressed for the evening meal in a vague state of discontent. he had not the slightest intention of going to mrs. hayter's, still the thought of her, waiting for him and expecting him, made him uneasy. at one moment he meditated telephoning to her to tell her he was unavoidably prevented from coming, but dismissed the excuse as being too palpably a lie. he was restless, too, and at a loss as to how to spend his evening, the loneliness of being by himself in london after a two years' absence was beginning to oppress him. none of his old pals seemed to be in town--anyway they did not turn up at the club. finally he decided to look in at the empire, or one of the neighbouring music-halls, and strolled forth in that direction. london certainly seemed no emptier than usual. streams of motor-cars, taxis, and buses hurried along piccadilly, the streets were busy with people coming and going. out of the shadows just by the burlington arcade a woman spoke to him--little whispered words that he could pass on without noticing; but she had brushed against him as she spoke, the heavy scent she used seemed to cling to him, and he had been conscious in the one brief glance he had given her, that she was young, pretty, brown-eyed. the incident touched on his mind like the flick of a whip. he stared at the other women as they passed him, meeting always the same bold yet weary invitation of their eyes, the smile which betokened nothing of mirth. and as he stared and passed and stared again it grew on him that he was in reality searching for someone, searching those street faces in the same way as once before he had sought among the passers-by for one girl's face. the thought was no sooner matured than he hated it--and now he tried to keep his eyes off these women passing by, loathing the thought of their nightly pilgrimage, of their shame-haunted trade. the empire performance hardly served to distract his thoughts. he was out in the streets again before the ballet turn came on even. it had started to rain, a slight, indefinite drizzle; leicester square presented a drab and dingy appearance. the blaze of lights from the surrounding theatres shone on wet streets and slippery pavements. a drunken woman who had been ejected from the public-house at the corner stood leaning against a neighbouring lamp-post; her hat had fallen askew, stray, ragged wisps of hair hung about her face, from time to time she lifted up her voice and shouted at the children who had gathered in a ring to watch her antics. life was horribly, hurtfully ugly at times. dick would have liked to have shaken his shoulders free of it all and known himself back once more on the wind-swept deck of an outgoing steamer. he strode off in the direction of trafalgar square, and still dim, draggled shapes haunted his footsteps, leered at him from the shadows, brushed against him as he passed. as he turned into the lighted purlieus of the strand he paused for a moment, undecided which course to take next, and it was then that he saw joan again. she was standing a little in front of him on the edge of the pavement, evidently waiting for a bus. another girl stood near her, talking in quick, childish excitement, recounting some conversation, for she acted the parts as she spoke. joan seemed to pay very little attention to her companion, though occasionally she smiled in answer to the other's laughter. he had recognized her at once! now he stood with his eyes glued on her, taking in every detail of her appearance--the wide-brimmed hat, the little lace collar showing outside her jacket, the neat shoes. even as she talked fanny's bird-like eyes darted here and there among the crowd and lit presently on the young man, so palpably staring at her companion. she edged nearer to joan and nudged her. "you have got off, honey," she whispered. "turn your eyes slowly and you will catch such a look of devotion as will keep you in comfort for the rest of your life." joan flushed: fanny could always succeed in bringing the hot blush to her face, even though she had been on tour with the company now for two months. also she still resented being stared at, though fanny was doing her best to break her in to that most necessary adjunct of their profession. rather haughtily, therefore, she turned, and for a second his eyes met hers, bringing a quick, disturbing memory which she could in no way place. at any other time dick would have taken off his hat and claimed acquaintance; just for the present moment, though, something held him spellbound, staring. fanny giggled, and joan, having had time to raise her feelings to a proper pitch of anger, let her eyes pass very coldly and calmly from the top of the young man's hat to the tip of his boots and back again. contempt and dislike were in the glance, what fanny called her "kill the worm" expression. then no. motor-bus plunged alongside, and "here we are at last!" called fanny, dragging at joan's arm. with a sense of victory in her heart, since the young man had obviously been quelled by her anger, joan climbed up to the top of the bus and sat down in a seat out of sight. fanny, however, turned to have a final look at the enemy from the top step. as the bus moved, she saw him shake himself out of his trance and start forward. "good-night," she called in cheerfully affectionate tones; the conductor turned to stare up at her. "some other day; can't be done to-night, sonny." then she subsided, almost weak with laughter at her own joke, beside a righteously irritated joan. "nearly had the cheek to follow us, mind you," she told her, amid gasps; "properly smitten, he was." "i wish you had not called out to him," said joan stiffly. "it is so--so undignified." fanny quelled her laughter and looked up at joan. "undignified," she repeated; "it stopped him from coming, anyway. you don't look at things the right way, honey. one must not be disagreeable or rude to men in our trade, but one can often choke them off by laughing at them." chapter xx "love lent is mortal, lavished, is divine. not by its intake is love's fount supplied, but by the ceaseless outrush of its tide." "and there is little dickie," mabel said; she stood, one hand on the cot, her grey eyes lowered--"he has brought such happiness into my life that sometimes i am afraid." the baby. some women were like that, dick knew. a child could build anew their world for them and make it radiant with a heaven-sent wonder. he had never thought of mabel as a mother. he had been almost afraid to meet her after two years away--her letters had given him no clue to her feelings; but then she rarely wrote of herself and she had never been the sort of person to complain. so he had come down to sevenoaks rather wondering what he would find, remembering their last talk together the day before her wedding. mabel had met him at the station and driven him back to the house in their car. she had talked chiefly about himself; was he glad to be back?--had he enjoyed the years away?--what plans had he made for the future? but her face, her quiet grey eyes had spoken for her. he knew she was happy, only the reason, the foundation of this happiness, had been a mystery to him until this moment. "little dickie," he repeated, leaning forward to peer at the small atom of humanity who lay fast asleep. "you have called it after me, then?" mabel nodded. "of course; and don't call him 'it,' dick; he is a boy." a sudden intuition came to her, she lifted her eyes to dick's. "tom wanted him called that, too," she said, speaking a little quickly; "but that is not wonderful, because tom always wants just exactly what he thinks i do. we will go downstairs now, shall we, dick? you know mother insisted upon a dinner-party in your honour this evening, and we are going on to some awful theatre in sevenoaks afterwards." "good lord!" groaned dick; "why did you let her?" "i thought you wouldn't be too pleased," mabel admitted; "but surely you must remember that it is no use arguing with mother about what she calls--amusing us. she took the tickets as a pleasant surprise yesterday when she was in sevenoaks. as tom says, 'let's be amused with a good grace.' dick"--she paused on the lowest step to look up at him--"you haven't the slightest idea of how good tom is; he spoils mother almost as much as father did, and yet he manages her." "and you," said dick, "are absolutely and entirely happy, mabel?" "absolutely and entirely," she answered; he could see the truth of her words shining in her eyes. mrs. grant loved dinner-parties and going-on to the theatre. it is to be believed that she imagined that the younger people enjoyed them too, because, for herself, she invariably went to sleep half-way through the most brilliant performance--earlier, were the show not quite so good. dick remembered many unpleasant entertainments in his youth which could be traced to this passion of mrs. grant's. she would drill them into amusement, becoming excessively annoyed with them did they not show immediate appreciation, and pleasure is too fragile a dream for such treatment; it can be very easily destroyed. dick and mabel found her downstairs, giving the final orders as to the setting out of the table to a harassed and sulky-looking maid. everything had always to be done in mrs. grant's own particular way, even down to the placing of the salt-spoons. she was the bane of the servants' lives when they were new-comers; if they lived through the persecution they learned how best to avoid her gimlet eyes and could get a certain amount of amusement out of hoodwinking her. dick contrived to display the correct amount of pleasure at the festivity in prospect for him. he wondered at the back of his mind how glad his mother really was to see him, and strolled away upstairs presently to his own room to unpack and change. the first had already been accomplished for him by tom's valet, and the man apparently proposed to stay and help him change, murmuring something about a hot bath being ready. "thanks," answered dick, "then i will manage for myself; you need not wait." he stood for some time, the man having slipped discreetly away, staring out of the wide-open window. it was still late summer, and the days stayed very hot. beyond the well-kept lawn at the back of the house the fields stretched away till they reached the fringe of the forest, and above the trees again rose the chalk hills that lay, he knew, just behind wrotham. he was thinking vaguely of many things as he stood there; first of mabel and the new happiness shining in her eyes. mabel and her small son; thank heaven, she had won through to such content, for if anyone deserved to be happy it was mabel. then little moments from the past two years strayed into his mind. hot, sun-blazing ports, with their crowds of noisy, gesticulating natives; the very brazen blue of an indian sky over an indian sea; the moonlit night that had made him kiss mrs. hayter; he could almost feel for one second the throb of her heart against his. then, like a flash, as if all his other thoughts had been but a shifting background for this, the principal one, joan's face swung up before him. where had she been going to that night? who had her companion been? why had not he had the courage to speak to her, to follow her at least, and find out where she lived? she was in london, anyway; he would have, even at the risk of hurting mabel's feelings, to get back to london as soon as possible. it was a huge place, certainly, to look for just one person in, but fate would bring them together again; he had learned to be a believer in fate. there was truth, then, behind all the strange stories one heard about love. a girl's voice, some face in the crowd, and a man's heart was all on flame. the waters of common-sense could do nothing to quench that fire. he would search, ridiculous and absurd as it seemed, till he found her--and then.... his thoughts broke off abruptly; there was a sound from downstairs which might be the dinner-bell, and he had not even had his bath yet. the dinner-party, specially arranged by mrs. grant for dick's benefit, consisted of a mr. and mrs. bevis, who lived in a large new house on the other side of the park, their two daughters, dr. english, who had taken dick's place at wrotham, and a young man from sevenoaks itself. "someone in a bank," as mrs. grant described him. dick's health was drunk and his mother insisted on "just a little speech, dear boy," which thoroughly upset his temper for the rest of the evening, so that he found it difficult to be even decently polite to the eldest miss bevis, whom he had taken in to dinner. the talk turned, after the speech-making episode, to the theatre they were bound for, mr. jarvis asking young swetenham if he knew anything of the company and what it was like. "rather," the youth answered, "been twice myself this time already. they are real good for travellers. some jolly pretty girls among them." "musical comedy, isn't it?" mrs. bevis asked. "dorothy has always so wanted to see _the merry widow_." "well, that is what they are playing to-night," swetenham assured her, "and i hear it is miss bellairs' best part. she is good, mind you, in most things, and there is a girl who dances top-hole." "i don't know why we have never heard of it before," mrs. bevis meandered gently on; "it is so clever of you, mrs. grant, to have found that there was a theatre in sevenoaks at all. i am sure we never dreamed of there being one." "they use the town hall," dr. english put in. "if we can guarantee a large enough audience, i expect they will favour us at wrotham." "oh, what a splendid idea," cried the youngest miss bevis; "fancy a real live theatrical company in wrotham." "i hope it will stay at 'fancy,'" grunted mr. bevis. "from what i remember of travelling companies, wrotham is better without them." despite all swetenham's praise and the miss bevis' enthusiastic anticipation dick settled into his seat in the fourth row of the so-called stalls with the firm conviction that he was going to be thoroughly bored. "the one consolation," he whispered to mabel on their way in, "is that mother will not be able to sleep comfortably. i don't want to appear vicious, but really that is a consolation." mrs. grant had apparently come to the same conclusion herself, for she was expressing great dissatisfaction in a queenly manner to the timid programme seller. "are these the best seats in the house?" they could hear her say. "it is quite absurd to expect anyone to sit in them for a whole evening." mabel had to laugh at dick's remark, then she went forward to soothe her troubled parent as much as possible. "it isn't like a london theatre, mother, and tom has ordered one of the cars to stay just outside. the minute you get tired he will take you straight home. he says he does not mind, as he has so often seen _the merry widow_ before." "oh, well," mrs. grant sighed, and settled her weighty body into one of the creaking, straight-backed wooden chairs of which the stalls were composed. "so long as you young people enjoy yourselves i do not really mind." swetenham had purchased a stack of programmes and was pointing out the stars on the list to the youngest miss bevis. the back of the hall was rapidly filling, and one or two other parties strolled into the stalls. the orchestra had already commenced to play the overture rather shakily. "music, and bad music at that," groaned dick inwardly. he took a despairing glance round him and wondered if it would be possible to go and lose himself after the first act. then the lights went out abruptly and the curtain went up. the beginning chorus dragged distinctly; dick heard swetenham whispering to his companions that it would be better when the principals came on. in this he proved correct, for the _merry widow_ girl could sing, and she could also act. fanny's prettiness, her quick, light way of moving, shone out in contrast to her surroundings. high and sweet above the uncertain accompaniment her voice rose triumphant. the back of the house thundered with applause at the end of her song. "now wait," announced swetenham, "the girl who dances comes on here. she hasn't any business to, it is not in the play, but old brown finds it a good draw." mechanically the stage had been cleared, the characters sitting rather stiffly round the ball-room scene while the orchestra was making quite a good effort at "the merry widow waltz." there was a second's pause, then down from the steps at the back of the stage came a girl; slim, straight-held, her eyes looking out over the audience as if they saw some vision beyond. it had taken daddy brown three very heated lessons to teach joan this exact entrance. she was to move forward to the centre of the stage as if in a dream, almost sleep-walking, fanny had suggested, the music was calling her. she was to begin her dance languidly, unwillingly, till note by note the melody crept into her veins and set all her blood tingling. "now for abandon," daddy brown would exclaim, thumping the top of the piano with his baton. "that is right, my girl, fling yourself into it." and joan had learned her lesson well, daddy brown and fanny between them had wakened a talent to life in her which she had not known she possessed. dance, yes, she could dance. the music seemed to give her wings. if she had seen her own performance she would probably have been a little shocked; she did not in the least realize how vividly she answered the call. when she had finished she stood, flushed and breathless, listening to the shouted and clapped applause. "do it again, miss," a man's voice sounded from back in the hall. she tried to find him, to smile at him--that was more of fanny's teaching. but daddy brown allowed no encores, it was only for a minute that she stood there, bowing and smiling, in her ridiculously short, flounced skirt and baby bodice, then the rest of the chorus moved out to take their places, and she vanished into the side wings again. from the moment of her entry till the last flutter of her skirts as she ran off, dick sat as if mesmerized, leaning slightly forward, his hands clenched. every movement of her body had stabbed, as it were, at his heart. he had not heard the call of the music, he could not guess at the spirit that was awake in her, he only saw the abandon--of which daddy brown was so proud--the painted face, the smiles which came and went so gaily at the shouted applause. common-sense might not kill love, but this! the knowledge that even this could not kill love was what clenched his hands. at the end of the first act swetenham leant across and asked if he was coming out for a drink. it may have been that the younger man had noticed dick's intense interest in the dancer, or perhaps it was merely because he wished to air a familiarity which struck him as delightfully bold, anyway, as they strolled about outside he put a suggestion to dick. "if you can arrange to stay on after the show," he said, "and would care to, i could take you round and introduce you to those two girls, the one who dances and miss bellairs." "miss bellairs," dick repeated stupidly, his mind was grappling with a far bigger problem than young swetenham could guess at. "yes," the other answered, "i met her last time she was down here, and the other is a great pal of hers." he looked sideways at his companion as they went in under the lights; it occurred to him that grant was either in a bad temper or had a headache, he looked anyway not in the least jovial. swetenham almost regretted his rash invitation. "thank you," dick was saying, speaking almost mechanically, "i should like to come very much. it doesn't in the least matter about getting home." swetenham glanced at him again. "if it comes to that," he said, "i have a motor-bike i could run you in on." the fellow, it suddenly dawned on him, had gone clean off his head about one of the girls. swetenham could understand and sympathize with him in that. dick managed to convey the information that he was staying on to mabel during the third act. she looked a little astonished; dick, in the old days, had been so scornful about young men's stage amusements. anyway, it did not affect the party very much, for mrs. grant and mr. jarvis had already gone home, and mabel was giving dr. english a lift. "shall i send the motor back for you?" she asked, just as they moved away. dick shook his head. "swetenham is going to give me a lift out," he answered her, and dr. english chuckled an explanation as they rolled away. "what it is to be young, eh, mrs. jarvis? one can find beauty even in the chorus of a travelling company." but was that the explanation? mabel wondered. dick's face had not looked as if he had found anything beautiful in the performance. swetenham and dick made their way round to the side entrance of the town hall which acted as stage door on these occasions, after they had seen the rest of the party off, and swetenham found someone to take his card up to miss bellairs. "we might take them out to supper at the 'grand,'" he suggested, as they waited about for the answer. "i don't know about the new girl, but miss bellairs is always good fun." "yes," agreed dick half-heartedly. he was already regretting the impulse which had made him come. what should he do, or how feel or act, when he really met joan face to face? his throat seemed ridiculously dry, and he was conscious of a hot sense of nervousness all over him which made the atmosphere of the night very oppressive. the boy who had run up with swetenham's card came back presently with a message. "would the gentlemen come upstairs, miss bellairs was just taking off her make-up." "come on," swetenham whispered to dick; "fanny is a caution, she doesn't mind a bit what sort of state you see her in." the boy led them up the stairs, through a small door and across what was evidently the back of the stage. at the foot of some steps on the further side he came to pause outside a door on which he knocked violently. "come in," fanny's voice shrilled from inside; "don't mind us." the boy with a grin threw the door open and indicated with his thumb that swetenham and dick might advance. he winked at them as they passed him, a fund of malignant impudence in his eyes. the room inside was small and scattered with a profusion of clothes. fanny, attired in a long silk dressing wrap, sat on a low chair by the only table, very busy with a grease-pot and a soft rag removing the paint from her face. she turned to smile at swetenham and held out her hand to dick when he was introduced with a disarming air of absolute frankness. "you catch me not looking my best," she acknowledged; "just take a seat, dears; i'll be as beautiful as ever in a jiffy." joan--dick's eyes found her at once--was standing in a corner of the room behind the door. she had changed into a blouse and skirt, but the change had evidently only just been completed. the fluffy flounces of her dancing skirt lay on the ground beside her and the make-up was still on her face. at this close range it gave her eyes a curiously beautiful appearance--the heavy lashes, the dark-smudged shadows, adding to their size and brilliancy. she did not come forward to greet the two men, but she lifted those strange eyes and returned dick's glance with a stare in which defiance and a rather hurt self-consciousness were oddly mixed. the tumult of anger and regret which had surged up in his heart as he had watched her dance died away as he looked at her; pity, and an intense desire to shield her, took its place. he moved forward impulsively, and fanny, noticing the movement, turned with a little laugh. "i had forgotten," she said; "my manners are perfectly scandalous. joan, come out of your corner and be introduced. mr. swetenham is going to take us to supper at the 'grand,' so he has just confided into my shell-like ear. i can do with a bit of supper, can't you?" joan dragged her eyes away from dick. the painted lashes lay like stiff threads of black against her cheeks. "i don't think i will come," she answered. "i am tired to-night, fanny, and i shan't be amusing." she turned away and reached up for her hat, which hung on a peg just above her head. "i think i would rather go straight home," she added. fanny sprang to her feet and caught at her companion with impulsive hands, dragging her into the centre of the room. "nonsense," she said, "you want cheering up far more than i do. here, gentlemen," she went on, "you perceive a young lady suffering from an attack of the blues. if you will wait two minutes i'll make her face respectable--doesn't do to shock sevenoaks--and we will all go to supper. meanwhile let me introduce you--miss rutherford, known in the company as sylvia leicester, the some dancer of the brown show." "if miss rutherford does not feel up to supper," dick suggested--he wanted, if possible, to help the girl out of her difficulty; he realized that she did not want to come--"let us make it another night, or perhaps you could all come to lunch with me to-morrow?" again joan had lifted her eyes and was watching him, but now the defiance was uppermost in her mind. his face, to begin with, had worried her; the faint hint of having seen him somewhere before had been perplexing. she always disliked the way fanny would welcome the most promiscuous acquaintances in their joint dressing-room at all times. she thought now that it must have been contempt which she had read in this man's eyes, and apart from their attraction--for in an indefinite way they had attracted her--the idea spurred her to instant rebellion. "no, let's go to supper," she exclaimed; "fanny is quite right, i do want to be cheered up. let's eat, drink, and be merry." she turned rather feverishly and started rubbing the make-up off her face with fanny's rag. the other girl, meanwhile, slipped behind a curtain which hung across one side of the room and finished her dressing, carrying on an animated conversation with swetenham all the time. dick drew a little closer to joan. "why do you come?" he asked. "you know you hate it and us." under the vanishing paint the colour flamed to joan's face and died away-again. "because i want to," she said; "and as for hating--you are wrong there; i don't hate anything or anyone, except, perhaps, myself." the last words were so low he hardly heard them. they strolled across to the grand hotel; it was fanny's suggestion that they should not bother with a cab. she walked between the two men, a hand on each of them. joan walked the further side of swetenham, and dick had no chance of seeing her even, but he knew that she was very silent, and, he could gather, depressed. at supper, which they had served in a little private room, and over the champagne, she won back to a certain hilarity of spirit. swetenham was entirely immersed in amusing and being amused by fanny, and joan set herself--dick fancied it was deliberately--to talk and laugh. it was almost as if she were afraid of any silence that might fall between them. he did not help her very much; he was content to watch her. absurd as it may seem, he knew himself to be almost happy because she was so near him, because the fancied dream of the last two years had come to sudden reality. the other feelings, the disgust and disappointment which had lain behind their first meeting, were for the time being forgotten. now and again he met her eyes and felt, from the odd pulse of happiness that leapt in his heart, that his long search was over. so triumphantly does love rise over the obstacles of common sense and worldly knowledge--love, which takes no count of time, degrees, or place. he had her to himself on the way home, for fanny had elected to go for a spin in swetenham's side-car, suggesting that dick and joan should go home and wait up for them. "we shan't be long," swetenham assured dick, remembering too late his promise to take the other man home, "and it is all right waiting there, they have got a sitting-room." so joan and dick walked home through the silent streets and all pretence of gaiety fell away from joan. she walked without speaking, head held very high, moving beside him, her face scarce discernible under the shadow of her hat. it was not to be believed that she was quite conscious of all she meant to this man; but she could not fail to know that he was attracted to her, she could not help feeling the warmth with which his thoughts surrounded her. and how does love come to a woman? not on the same quick-rushing wings which carry men's desires forward. love creeps in more assiduously to a woman's thoughts. he brings with him first a sense of shyness, a rather wistful longing to be more worthy of his homage. unconsciously joan struggled with this intrusion into her life. the man had nice eyes, but she resented the tumult they roused in her. why was he not content to find in her just a momentary amusement, why did his eyes wake this vague, uncomfortable feeling of shame in her heart; shame against herself and her surroundings? at the door of the lodgings she turned to him; for the first time he could see her face, lit up by a neighbouring lamp. "do you want to come in?" she asked, her voice hesitated on the words. "i do not want to ask you," her eyes said as plainly as possible. "no," he answered, "i would much rather you did not ask me to." then suddenly he smiled at her. "we are going to be friends," he said. "i have a feeling that i have been looking for you for years; i am not going to let you go, once found." he said the words so very earnestly, there was no hint of mockery in them, it could not seem that he was laughing at her. she put her hand into the one he held out. "well, friends," she said; an odd note of hesitation sounded in her voice. chapter xxi "love can tell, and love alone, whence the million stars were strewn; why each atom knows its own; how, in spite of woe and death, gay is life, and sweet is breath." r. bridges. dick walked home. it was a good long tramp, but he was glad of the exercise and the opportunity it gave him to arrange his thoughts into some sort of order. he had spoken to joan, carried away by the moment, as they stood to say good-night, impelled to frankness by the appeal of her eyes. now, slowly, reason gathered all its forces together to argue against his inclination. it would be wiser to break his half-made promise to the girl, and stay out of her life altogether. immeasurable difficulties lay in the way of his marrying her. there was the child, her present position, his people's feelings and his own dismay as he had watched her dancing on the stage and seen her smiling and radiant from the applause it awoke. he had built his dreams on a five minutes' memory and for two years the girl's eyes had haunted him, but none the less it was surely rather absurd. even love, strong, mysterious power as it is, can be suppressed and killed if a man really puts his mind to it. at this moment, though of course dick was not aware of the psychological happening, love raised a defiant head amid the whirl of his thoughts and laughed at him--laughed deliberately, the sound echoing with all the old joy of the world, and dick fell to thinking about joan again. her eyes, the way she walked, the undercurrent of sadness that had lain behind her gaiety. how good it would be to take her away from all the drabness of her present life and to bring real laughter, real happiness to her lips and eyes! "i will marry her," he decided stormily, as he turned in to the drive of the house. "why have i been arguing about it all this time? it is what i had made up my mind to do two years ago. i will marry her." and again love laughed, filling his heart with an indefinable glow of gladness. his night mood stayed with him the next morning and started him singing most riotously in his bath. mabel heard him and smiled to herself. it was good to listen, to him and know him so cheerful; whatever it was that had disturbed him the night before had evidently vanished this morning. after breakfast, as was always her custom in summer, she took little dickie out on to the lawn to sit under the big wide trees that threw so grateful a shade across the green. big dick joined them there with his pipe and he sat beside them in silence. it was very pleasant in the garden with the bluest of blue skies overhead and the baby chuckling and crowing in the very first rapture of life on the grass at their feet. presently, however, a stern nurse descended on the scene and laughter was changed to tears for one short minute before the young gentleman, protesting but half-heartedly, was removed. then dick turned to mabel. "i am going in to sevenoaks again," he announced, "and shall probably spend the day there. would you like me to explain myself, mabel?" "why, yes, if you care to," she answered, "and if there is anything to explain." dick nodded in apparent triumph. "yes," he said, "there is something to explain all right, mabel." he smiled at her with his eyes. "i have got a secret, i'll give you three guesses to reach it." "no," mabel spoke quickly, "i would rather you told me, dick. do you remember how once before i tried to dash in on your secret and how you shut me out. when it is ready to tell, i thought then, he will tell it me." "well, it is ready now," dick said. "in a way it is the same old secret. i was shy of it in those days, mabel, but last night it dawned on me that it was the only thing worth having in the world. i am in love, insanely and ridiculously. do you know, if you asked me, i should tell you with the most prompt conceit that to-day is a beautiful, gorgeously fine day just because i woke up to it knowing that i was in love." a spasm of half-formed jealousy snatched at mabel's heart. she had always wanted dick to fall in love and marry some nice girl, yet the reality was a little disturbing. "dick," she exclaimed, "and you never told me, you never said a word about it in your letters." "i could not," he answered, "because in a way it only happened last night. wait," he put his hand on her knee because she seemed to be going to say something. "let me explain it first and then do your bit of arguing, for i know you are going to argue. you spoke just now about that other talk we once had before your marriage; do you remember what you said to me then? 'did you think i should not know when you fell in love?' you had guessed the secret in my heart, mabel, almost before i knew it myself." he leant forward, she noticed that suddenly his face flushed a very warm red. "last night i saw her again; she was the dancer, you may have noticed her yourself. that was why i stayed behind. i wanted to put myself to the test, i wanted to meet her again." he sat up straight and looked at her; she could see that some strong emotion was making it very difficult for him to speak. "it is not any use trying to explain love, is it?" he asked. "i only know that i have always loved her, that i shall love her to the end." mabel sat stiffly silent. she could not meet his eyes. she was thinking of all the scandal which had leapt to life round joan's name once the rutherfords had left the village. she was remembering how last night tom had said: "that little dancer girl is hot stuff." "dick," she forced herself to speak presently, "i have got to tell you, though it hurts and you will hate me for doing it, but this girl is not the kind of person you can ever marry, dick. it is a kind of infatuation"--she struggled to make her meaning clear without using cruel words--"if you knew the truth about her, if----" he stopped her quickly. "i know," he answered, "i have always known." she turned to face him. "you knew," she gasped, "about the child?" "yes," he nodded, his eyes were very steady as they met hers. "that day when i was called in to see her, do you remember, she spoke out before her aunt and myself. she told us she was like bridget rendle. 'i am going to have a baby,' she said, 'but i am not ashamed or afraid. i have done nothing to be ashamed of.' do you know how sometimes," he went on slowly, "you can see straight into a person's soul through their eyes. well, i saw into hers that day and, before god, mabel, it was white and innocent as a child's. i did not understand at the time, i have not understood since, what brought her to that cross way in her life, but nothing will alter my opinion. some day i hope she will explain things, i am content to wait for that." what could she find to say to him? her mind groped through a nightmare of horror. dick's happiness meant so much to her, she had planned and thought of it ever since she could remember. "love is sometimes blind," she whispered at last. "oh, my dear, don't throw away your life on a dream." "my love has wide-open eyes," he answered, "and nothing weighs in the balance against it." "don't tell the others, dick," she pleaded on their way back to the house; "leave it a little longer, think it out more carefully." "very well," he agreed, "and for that matter, mabel, there is as yet nothing to tell. i only let you into my secret because, well, you are you, and i want you to meet her. you will be able to judge then for yourself better than you can from all my ravings." she did not answer his suggestion then, but later on, as he was getting into the car to drive to sevenoaks, she ran down the steps to him. "dick," she said quickly, "ask her to come out to tea some day and bring one of the other girls if she likes. tom is never in to tea; there will just be mother and me." "bless you," he answered; his eyes beamed at her. "what a brick you are, mabel, i knew you would turn up trumps about it." it took him some time to persuade joan to accept the proffered invitation. it took her, for one thing, too near her old home, and for another she was more than a little disturbed by all fanny's remarks on the subject. fanny had come back from her drive with swetenham full of exciting information to give joan about "the new victim," as she would call dick. "do you know, honey," she confided, waking joan out of a well simulated slumber, "i believe he is the same young man as was so taken with you that evening in the strand. you remember the day we spent in town? it is love at first sight, that is what it is. young sockie"--that was her name for swetenham, invented because of his gorgeous socks--"tells me he has never seen a chap so bowled over as the new victim was by your dancing, and he asked to be brought round and introduced. did you catch him staring at you all through the dinner, and, honey, did he try to kiss you when he brought you home?" "of course not," joan remonstrated; "i wish you would stop talking nonsense and get into bed. it is awfully late and i was asleep." "that is only another sign then," fanny went on, quite impervious to the other's requests. "you take it from me, honey, if a man falls really in love he is shy of kissing you. thinks it is kind of irreverent to begin with. you mark my words, he will be round again to-morrow. honey," she had a final shot at joan's peace of mind just before she fell asleep, "if you play your cards well, that man will marry you, he is just the kind that does." joan lay thinking of fanny's remarks long after the other had fallen asleep. she was a little annoyed to find how much impression the man had made on her; the idea was alarming to one who fancied herself as immune as she did from any such attraction. but until fanny had burst in she had been pleased enough with the vague thoughts which his eyes had waked to life. if you took the dream down and analysed it as fanny had rather ruthlessly done, it became untenable. probably this man only thought of her as landon had thought of her; she was not content to burn her fingers in the same fire. short of being extremely disagreeable, however, she could not avoid going out to lunch with him the next day, as fanny had already accepted the invitation, and once with him, it was impossible not to be friends with dick, he set himself so assiduously to please her. he did not make love to her; fanny would have said he just loved her. there is delicate distinction between the two, and instinctively joan grew to feel at her ease with him; when they laughed, which they did very often, their laughter had won back to the glad mirth of children. fanny watched over the romance with motherly eyes. she had, in fact, set her heart upon joan marrying the young man. he came to the theatre every evening, but it was not until the sixth day of their acquaintance that fanny was able to arrange for him to spend the afternoon alone with joan. she had tried often enough before, but joan had been too wary. on this particular afternoon, half way through lunch and after the three of them had just arranged to go out into the country for tea, fanny suddenly discovered that she had most faithfully promised to go for a drive that afternoon in young swetenham's side-car. "i am so awfully sorry," she smiled at them sweetly, "but it doesn't really matter; you two will be just as happy without me." "we could put it off and go to-morrow," suggested joan quickly. "we can go to-morrow too," dick argued, and fanny laughed at him. "don't disappoint him, honey, it's a shame," she said with unblushing effrontery, "and if it is a chaperon you are wanting, why, sockie and i will meet you out there." so it was arranged, and dick and joan started off alone. they were to drive out to a farmhouse that swetenham knew of, where you got the most delicious jam for tea. joan was a little shy of dick to begin with, sitting beside him tongue-tied, and never letting her eyes meet his. from time to time, when he was busy with the steering, she would steal a glance at him from under her lashes. his face gave her a great sense of security and trust, but at times her memory still struggled with the thought that she had met him somewhere before. dick, turning suddenly, caught her looking at him, and for a second his eyes spoke a message which caused both their hearts to stand still. "were you really afraid of coming out with me alone?" he asked abruptly; he had perhaps been a little hurt by the suggestion. "no, of course not," joan answered; she hoped he did not notice how curiously shaken the moment had left her. "only i thought it would probably be more lively if we waited till we could take fanny with us. i am sometimes smitten with such awful blanks in my conversation." "one does not always need to talk," he said; "it is supposed to be one of the tests of friendship when you can stay silent and not be bored. well, we are friends, aren't we?" "i suppose so," joan agreed; "at least you have been very kind to us and we do all the things you ask us to." "doesn't it amount to more than that?" dick asked; his eyes were busy with the road in front of him. "i had hoped you would let me give you advice and talk to you like a father and all that sort of thing." his face was perfectly serious and she could hear the earnestness behind his chaff. "what were you going to advise me about?" she asked. "well, it is this theatre game." dick plunged in boldly once the subject had been started. "you don't like it, you know, and you aren't a bit suited to it. sometimes when i see you dance and hear the people clapping you i could go out and say things--really nasty things." "you don't like it?" she said. "i have tried to do other things too," she went on quickly, "but you know i am not awfully much good at anything. when i first started in london, it is two years ago now, i used to boast about having put my hand to the plough. i used to say i wouldn't turn back from my own particular furrow, however dull and ugly it was. but i haven't been very much use at it, i have failed over and over again." "there are failures and failures," he answered. "there was a book i read once, i don't remember its name or much about it, but there was a sentence in it that stuck in my mind: 'real courage, means courage to stand up against the shocks of life--sorrow and pain and separation, and still have the force left to make of the remainder something fine and gay and brave.' i think you have still got that sort of courage left." "no," whispered joan. she looked away from him, for her eyes were miserably full of tears. "i haven't even got that left." they had tea, the four of them, for strange to tell fanny did deem it expedient to keep her promise, and it was after tea that dick first mooted the idea of their coming out to tea with his people the next day. fanny was prompt in her acceptance. "of course we'll come, won't we, honey," she said. "my new muslin will just come in for it." "it won't be a party," dick explained, his eyes were on joan, "just the mother and my sister. not very lively i am afraid, still it is a pretty place and i'll drive you both ways." he came to the theatre again that night. fanny pointed him out to joan in a little aside as she stood beside her in the wings, but joan had already seen him for herself. she could put no heart into her dancing that night, and she ran off the stage quickly when the music ceased, not waiting to take her applause. "feeling ill to-night?" daddy brown asked her. he eyed her at the same time somewhat sternly; he disapproved of signs of weakness in any of the company. "i suppose i am tired," joan answered. only her own heart knew that it was because a certain couple of blue eyes had shown her that they wished she would not dance. "i am getting into a ridiculous state," she argued to herself; "why should it matter to me what he thinks? it must not, it must not." "you did not dance at all well to-night, honey," fanny added her meed of blame as the two of them were undressing for the night. "but there, i know what is wrong with you. you are in love, bless your heart, and so is he. never took his eyes off you while you were dancing, my dear--i watched him." the rather hurt feeling in joan's heart burst into sudden fire. "i am not in love," she said, "and neither is he. men do not fall in love with girls like us, and if you say another word about it, fanny, i won't go out to tea to-morrow; i won't, i won't!" fanny could only shrug her shoulders. the words "girls like us" rather flicked at her pride. later on, however, when they were both in bed and the room in darkness save for the light thrown across the shadows by the street lamp outside, she called softly across to joan: "you are wrong, honey," she said, "about men and love. they do fall in love with us, sometimes, bless them, even though we aren't worth it. and anyway, you are different, why shouldn't he love you?" joan made no answer, only when she fell asleep at last it was against a little damp patch of pillow and the lashes that lay along her cheeks were weighed down by tears. chapter xxii "a man who has faith must be prepared not only to be a martyr, but to be a fool." c. chesterton. it did not need much intuition on mrs. grant's part to know herself suspicious of dick's behaviour. she listened to mabel's information about the two young ladies he was bringing to tea with her eyes lowered. mabel had not volunteered the information till mrs. grant had noticed that there were two extra cups provided for tea. they always had tea out under the trees if it was fine enough, so there had been nothing surprising in that, but mrs. grant's eyes had spotted the extra cups even while they stayed piled up one within the other in the shade of the silver tea-pot. "two girls to tea," she commented; "who are they, mabel?" "well, i really don't know," mabel admitted, nobly untruthful, out of a desire not to prejudice mrs. grant from the beginning. "i fancy dick met them at sevenoaks, anyway, he was having lunch with them yesterday." "and dinner every day this week," supplemented mrs. grant. "did he meet them on his travels?" "he did not say so," mabel answered, "only just that he was seeing a good deal of them at sevenoaks, and i thought it would be nice to ask them out here." "mabel," said mrs. grant, with intense seriousness; she lifted her eyes from her work and fixed them on her daughter, "do you not think it is very probable that dick has become entangled? i have even wondered lately whether he may not be secretly married to some awful woman." "dear mother," laughed mabel--though the first part of the sentence rather hurt her, it was the truth--"why secretly married? what has dick done to deserve such a suspicion?" "his manner has been peculiar ever since the first night he came home," mrs. grant explained, "and he has an uneasy way of trying not to be left with me alone. the other day i thought of going to see him very early in the morning when i happened to be unable to sleep, and, mabel, his door was locked!" "if you had knocked he would probably have opened it," mabel suggested. "it is hardly likely that he keeps his wife concealed upstairs, is it?" "you may laugh," mrs. grant spoke with an expression of hurt pride on her countenance, "but surely a mother can see things in her son which other people miss. dick is in love, and not nicely in love, or he would not be so shy about it." further discussion was prevented, for at this point the motor, bringing dick and his guests, came round the sweep of the drive and drew up at the front door. mabel went across the lawn to meet them. she had schooled herself to this meeting for dick's sake, and to please him; she could not, however, pretend to any pleasure in the prospect. it was only natural that she should view joan with distrust. dick had allowed himself to become entangled; all unknowingly mother had expressed the matter in a nutshell. she picked out joan as being the girl at once; her eyes sped past fanny's muslin-clad figure even as she was greeting her, and rested on the other girl's face. pale, for joan was very nervous of this afternoon, wide-eyed, the soft brown hair tucked away under the small, round-shaped hat. she was pretty and very young-looking. mabel, seeing her, and remembering all the old stories in connection with her, was suddenly sorry for her very childishness. then she hardened her heart; the innocence must at least be assumed, and the girl--mabel had made up her mind as to that--should not win dick as a husband without some effort being made to prevent her. because of this sense of antagonism between them, for joan had not missed the swift glance, the cold hardening of her hostess' face, it was a relief to have fanny between them. fanny was talking very hard and fast, it was quite unnecessary for anyone else to say anything. "my," she gasped, standing and staring round her with frank approval, "you have a beautiful place here. dr. grant has been telling us about it till we were mad to see it. joan and i live in london; there is not much in the way of trees round our place, nothing but houses, and dirty pavements and motor-buses. i always say"--she took mabel into her confidence with perfect friendliness--"that there is nothing so disagreeable in this world as a dirty pavement; don't you agree with me?" "the country is nicer than town, certainly," mabel answered. "we are having tea over there under the trees; will you come straight across, or would you like to go in and take off your motor-veils?" "we will do nicely as we are," fanny did all the talking for the two of them; joan so far had not opened her lips. "it is such a little drive from sevenoaks, and i am just dying for tea." mabel led the way across the lawn, with fanny chattering volubly beside her, and dick followed with joan. "the sister is a dear," he tried to tell her on the way across, for in some way he suddenly felt the tension which had fallen between the two women; "only she is most awfully shy. she is one of those people who take a lot of knowing." "and i am one of the people that she doesn't want to know," joan answered. she was angry with herself for having come. a feeling of having lost caste, of being a stranger within these other people's friendship, possessed her. it set dick's kindliness, his evident attraction on a plane of patronage, and brought her to a sullen mood of despair. why had she ventured back on to the borderline of this life that had once been hers? mabel's cold, extreme politeness seemed to push her further and further beyond the pale. tea under these circumstances would have been a trying meal if it had not been for fanny. fanny had dressed with great care for this party, and she had also made many mental resolutions to "mind what she was saying." her harshest critic could not have said that she had not made herself look pretty; it was only joan's hurt eyes that could discover the jarring note everywhere in the carefully-thought-out costume. and fanny realized that joan, for some reason or other, was suffering from an attack of the sulks. she plunged because of it more and more recklessly into conversation. fanny always felt that silence was a thing to be avoided at all costs. "the war will make a lot of difference to us," she attempted finally, all preceding efforts having fallen a little flat. "daddy brown says, if there is war between germany and england, there won't be any spring tours." "but of course there will not be war," mrs. grant put in with great precision; "the idea is impossible nowadays. and may i ask what a spring tour is?"? "tom says the city is getting very uneasy," mabel plunged into the breach. "it does seem an absurd idea, but of course germany has been aching to fight us for years." "horrors, the germans, don't you think?" chipped in fanny; "they do eat so nastily." "no doubt you meet a great many foreigners, travelling about as you do," mrs. grant agreed politely. "do you know this part of the country at all?"? mabel questioned joan, then flushed herself at the absurdity of the question; "i suppose not, if you live most of your time in london." joan lifted hard eyes. "i lived down here as a child," she said stiffly. "and in london"--mabel was doing her best to be friendly--"have you nice rooms? dick tells me you live all alone; i mean that your home is not there." "i live in an attic," joan answered again, "and i have no home." "your son is ever so much too fond of the theatre," fanny's voice broke across their monosyllabic conversation. "he is there every night, mrs. grant." "and do you also go to the theatre every night?" joan heard the petrified astonishment in mrs. grant's tone and caught the agitated glance which mabel directed to dick. the misery in her woke to sharp temper. "fanny has let the cat out of the bag," she said, leaning forward and speaking directly to mrs. grant. "but i am afraid it is unpleasantly true. we are on the stage, you know; dr. grant ought to have warned you; it was hardly fair to let you meet us without telling you." a pained silence fell on the party; mrs. grant's face was a perfect study; dick's had flushed dull red. mabel stirred uneasily and made an attempt to gather her diplomacy about her. "it was not a case of warning us," she began; "you forget that we saw you ourselves the other night when you played _the merry widow_. won't you have some more tea, miss leicester?"--joan had been introduced to them under that name. a great nervousness had descended upon fanny. she had talked a great deal too much, she knew, and probably joan was furiously angry with her. but beyond that was the knowledge that she had--as she would have expressed it herself--upset joan's apple-cart. real contrition shone in the nervous smile she directed at mrs. grant. "i'm that sorry," she said, "if i have said anything that annoyed you; but you mustn't mix me up with joan; she is quite different. i----" "fanny!" joan interrupted the jumbled explanation. "you have nothing to apologize for. we eat and look very much like ordinary people, don't we?"--she stared at mabel as she spoke--"it is only just our manners, and morals that are a trifle peculiar. if you are ready, fanny, i think we had better be getting back." dick stood up abruptly; he did not meet mabel's eyes, but she could see that his face was very white and angry. "i am driving you back," he said, "if you do not mind waiting here i will fetch the motor round." he took the girl's side straight away without hesitation. mabel caught her breath on the bitter words that rose to her lips. joan's outburst had been an extraordinary breach of good manners; nothing that had happened could in any way excuse or condone it. yet it was not joan that dick was angry with, but herself. "i very much regret you should feel as you do," she said to joan, after dick had gone off to fetch the motor; "your friend and yourself were my guests; we none of us had the slightest desire to be rude to you." "oh, no," flamed joan in answer; "you did not want to be rude, you just wanted to make us understand quite plainly the difference that lay between us. and you have made us realize it, and it is i that have been rude. come along, fanny"--the motor could be seen coming along the drive; she swept to her feet--"let us go without talking any more about it." she turned, saying no good-byes, and walked away from them. fanny hesitated a moment, her eyes held a pathetic appeal and there were tears near the surface. she felt she had ruined joan's chances of a suitable marriage. "i am sorry," she whispered; "it all began beautifully, and--joan isn't like me," she hurried out again, "she is proud and--well, you would understand"--she appealed to mabel--"for you are proud, too--if you had to earn your money as she has to." then she turned and hurried after her retreating companion. something that she had said stayed, however, like a little pin-prick, in mabel's thoughts. it brought her to a sudden realization of joan's feelings and regret that she had not succeeded in being nicer to the girl. "if dick is married to either of those two young ladies," said mrs. grant heavily, "he is ruined already." she rose majestically and gathered up her work. "i have been thoroughly upset," she announced, "and must go and lie down. perhaps when dick comes back you will point out to him that some explanation is necessary to me for the extraordinary scene i have just been through. i shall be ready to see him in an hour." fanny wept a few tears on the drive home. it had all been her fault, she explained between sniffs to joan. "and i promised not to talk too much," she gulped. "oh, honey, don't let it stand between him and you"--she nodded at dick's back, for he was occupying the front seat alone--"i shall never forgive myself if you do." "don't fuss, fanny," joan answered; she was beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of her ill-mannered outburst. "and for goodness' sake don't cry. you have not brought anything more between us than has always been there." "oh, i wish we hadn't gone," wailed fanny. "he wants to marry you, joan; they always do if they introduce their mothers to you." for no reason whatsoever, for she had not thought of him for months, a memory of gilbert flashed into joan's mind. her eyes were fixed on the back of dick's head, and it was strange--the feeling that surged over her as she brought these, the two men in her life, before her mind's eye. perhaps it was only at that very moment that she realized her love for dick; realized it and fought against it in the same breath. she had known him so short a time; he had been kind to her; but what, after all, did that amount to? when the company left sevenoaks he would probably never see her or think of her again. does one build love from so fleeting a fancy? none the less the thought brought her to a mood of gentleness and she could not bear to let him go away thinking her still hurt and angry. as he helped her out of the car she smiled at him. "i am sorry that i lost my temper and was rude," she said. fanny had fled indoors and left them tactfully alone. "i don't know what you must think of me." her eyes fell away from his, he saw the slow red creeping into her cheeks. "don't," he spoke quickly, he was for the moment feeling very vindictive against mabel. "when you apologize you make it ten times worse. it was not your fault the least little bit in the world." "but it was," she answered; she looked up at him. "if you must have the honest truth, i was jealous from the moment i got out there. and jealousy hurts sometimes, you know, especially when it is mixed up with memories of something you once had and have lost for ever." "that is nonsense," dick said. it was in his heart to propose there and then, but he held it back. "i meant you to enjoy yourself, i hoped you would like mabel, and you did not--thanks to her own amiability. am i forgiven?" "we forgive each other," she answered; she put her hand into his, "and good-night, if not good-bye. to-morrow is our last performance, you know, we leave the next day." "and even with that it is not good-bye," he told her. "i shall be at the theatre to-morrow night." mrs. grant and dick had one very stormy and decided interview. that is to say, mrs. grant stormed and wept, dick merely stated quite quietly and very definitely that he intended to follow joan to london and that he was going to do his best to make her marry him. "you do not mind how much you break my heart," mrs. grant sobbed, "your mother is of no consequence to you. my years of love and devotion to you when you were a baby count for nothing. you throw them all aside for this impossible, outrageous girl." "nothing is to be gained by calling her names," dick answered, "and there is no reason why your heart should break, mother. when you see her again----" "never," interrupted mrs. grant dramatically, "never. even as your wife i shall always refuse to meet her." "you must do as you please about that," dick answered, and turned and went from the room. upstairs he met mabel just coming out of the nursery and would have passed her without speaking, but that she put out a hand to stop him. "dick," she said, "you are awfully angry with me, i know, and i realize that more or less it was my fault. but i wanted and i still want to be friends with her. you know how sometimes, even against one's will, one stiffens up and cannot talk." "i know you never were any use at dissembling," he answered. "i had hoped you might like her, but you evidently did not do that." "i do not think i gave myself a chance," mabel spoke slowly. "i had been arguing against her in my own mind ever since you told me about her. you see i am being truthful, dick. it was just because one half of me wanted to like her and the other half did not, that the result was so disastrous." dick laughed. "disastrous just about describes it," he admitted. "i am going to marry her, mabel, though mother does threaten to break her heart." "i know," mabel nodded. "i knew from the very first moment i saw your eyes when they looked at her. perhaps that was what made the unpleasant side of me so frigid. will you give me her address, dick, in london? next week, when i am up there with tom, i will call and make it up with her. if i go all alone i shall be able to explain things." "and what about mother's broken heart?" dick questioned. mabel shook her head. "it won't break," she said. "as soon as you are married she will start thinking that she arranged the match and saying what a good one it is." again dick laughed, but there was more lightness in the sound now. he put his two hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. "you are a good sort, mabel," he said; "this afternoon i thought you were the most horrible sister a man could have, and that just shows how little even i know you." "no," she answered; her eyes held a shadow of pain in them. "it is not that, it is just that a man in love is sometimes blind to everything and everybody excepting the woman he is in love with. she is a lucky girl, dick, i nope she realizes how lucky." chapter xxiii "but through all the joy i knew--i only-- how the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, silent of its music, and how lonely! never, though you crown me with your gold. shall i find that little chamber as of old!" f. bannerman. brown called an early rehearsal next morning. they were to play _the waltz dream_ as their last performance, for on leaving sevenoaks the company was to break up, and just at the very last moment, before the curtain had come down on the previous night's performance, grace binning--the girl who usually played the part of franzi--had fallen down and sprained her ankle. who was to play her part? fanny proposed joan for the vacant place, but brown was dubious, and joan herself not at all anxious for the honour. she had more or less understudied the part, every member of the chorus took it in turn to understudy; but the question was whether it would not be better if fanny's understudy took the part of the princess and fanny played franzi. it was a character which she had often scored it. against this had to be set the fact that fanny's voice was needed for songs which the princess had to sing, and that franzi had very little singing to do. what she did have could be very largely cut. anyway the whole company assembled at . , and brown put them through their paces. finally he decided on joan; she had already achieved popularity by her dancing, the audience would be kind to her. if she saved up her voice for her duet with strachan and her one little solo at the fall of the curtain, brown thought she might be heard beyond the footlights. "now look slippy," he ordered, "only the principals need stay. we will just run through the thing, miss leicester, and see if you know what to do." joan found herself living out the part of franzi as she rehearsed. it seemed somehow to fit into her own feelings. "now love has come to me, i pray, that while i have the chance to, i still may have the heart to play a tune that you can dance to." franzi's one brief night of love which shone out, showing all the world golden, and then the little singer creeping back into the shadows with a broken heart but gay words on her lips. "i still may have the heart to play a tune that you can dance to." brown thought as he watched her that she showed promise as an actress. why had he not noticed it before. he meditated a proposal by which she should be persuaded to join the company again when it started out on its spring tour. fanny had told him that joan was tired of the life and meant to go back to office work, but if she had talent, that was of course absurd. perhaps he had not done enough to encourage her. to-morrow he would have a good long talk with her and point out to her just how things stood. fanny, too, was impressed by joan's powers. "you act as if you really meant it, honey," she said. "you make me want to cry in that last bit where franzi goes off and leaves me, a bloated aristocrat on the throne, with my erring husband beside me. you make me think you feel it." "perhaps i do," joan answered; "perhaps i am going back alone." "but why," fanny cried out; she ran to joan and threw her arms round the other girl, they were in the dressing-room making up for the evening performance. "why, honey? he is ready to go with you." "and the prince was ready to go with franzi," joan answered, "but she would not take him, not back into her land of shadows. oh, fanny, you are a dear, romantic soul, but you don't understand. once, long ago when i was young, doesn't that sound romantic, there were two paths open to me and i chose the one which has to be travelled alone. if i dragged him on to it now it would only hurt him. you would not want to hurt something you loved," her voice dropped to a whisper, "would you?" "no," fanny admitted. she had drawn a little back and was watching joan with wide eyes. "but----" she broke off abruptly. "i haven't any right to ask," she said, "but do you mean that there is something which you have done that you would be ashamed to tell him." "not exactly ashamed," joan answered, "it would hurt him to know, that is all. i came to london two years ago because i was going to have a baby. it was never born, because i was in an accident a few months before it should have come." "but why tell him, why tell him?" fanny clamoured. "men have lots of secrets in their lives which they don't tell to good women, why must they want to know all about our pasts. i have always thought i should tell a man just exactly as much as i wanted to and not a whisper more. honey," she drew close again and caught hold of joan's hands, "it doesn't pay to tell them, the better they are the more they bring it up against you. if they don't say anything you can see it in their eyes. 'she has been bad once,' they say, 'she may always be bad again.'" "yes," agreed joan. "it does not pay to tell them, as you say. that is why i am going to go back to my own shadows alone, because if you love a person you cannot keep a secret from him." "but it wouldn't exactly be a secret," fanny pleaded, "it would just be something that it was no business of his to know." joan laughed. "your philosophy of life, fanny, is delightful. but if you don't hurry up with your dressing you will be late when the call boy comes." she had the dressing-room to herself presently, for she did not have to appear until the second act, and as she sat there, reading over her part, the call boy put in his head with an impish grin. "a gentleman left these for you, miss," he held out a large bunch of violets, "most particular you should get them before you went on, he was, and he will be round again after the show. same gentleman," he winked at her, "as has been here most regular like since the third night." "all right, tommy, thank you," joan answered. she held out her hands for the violets. they were very sweet-scented and heavy; she let them fall on the dressing-table, but after tommy had vanished, whistling shrilly along the passage, she bent forward and buried her cheeks and lips in their fragrance. her tears smarted in her eyes. this man had grown so suddenly dear to her that it hurt her almost more than she could bear to shut him out of her life. when fanny danced into the room presently it was to find her standing before the looking-glass, and against the soft blue of her waistbelt the violets showed up almost like a stain. "he's there," fanny told her, "third from centre in the second row. young swetenham is with him, but none of the women folk, praise be to heaven. have you asked him to the supper afterwards?" "no," joan admitted, "and, fanny, if it could possibly be arranged and brown would not be very hurt, would it matter if i did not come myself? i feel so much more like going home to bed." "doesn't do to mope," fanny remonstrated. "why not bring him along and have one good evening to finish?" she studied the other's face. "there," she added impulsively, "if you don't feel like it you shan't be made to do it. bother daddy brown and his feelings. you stay here quiet and let us all get away; we will be walking over to the 'queen's,' you see, then you can slip out after we have gone and cut home on your own. i will tell brown you are over-wrought after the show, it is quite natural you should be." "yes," admitted joan; she hesitated on her way out, for the call boy had just run down the passage shouting her name, "and, fanny, if he is there"--she met the other girl's eyes just for a moment--"take him along with you, will you? i--i am afraid of meeting him to-night." joan caught dick's eyes just for a second before she began her first song, but she was careful not to look his way again. for the rest she moved and acted in a dream, not conscious of the theatre or the audience. yet she knew she must be playing her part passably well, for strachan whispered to her at the end of the duet: "you are doing splendidly." and brown himself was waiting to greet her with congratulations when she ran into the wings for a moment. the heat of the theatre killed her violets; they were crushed and dead at the end of the second act, yet when she changed for the third she picked them up and pinned them in again. franzi's part in the third act is very brief. she is called in to give evidence of the prince's infidelity, and instead she persuades the princess that her husband has always loved her. then, as the happy pair kiss one another at the back of the stage, franzi turns to the audience, taking them, as it were, into her confidence: "now love has come to me, i pray, that while i have the chance to, i still may have the heart to play a tune that you can dance to." joan's voice broke on the last line, the little sob on which she caught her breath was more effective than any carefully-thought-out tragedy. with her eyes held by those other eyes in the audience she took the violets from her belt and held them, just for a second, to her lips. then they fell from her hands and she stood, her last farewell said, straight and silent, while the house shouted over what they considered to be a very fine piece of acting. they would have liked to have had her back to bow to them after the fall of the curtain, but joan would not go, and fanny brought brown to realize that if the girl were worried in any way she would probably wax hysterical. "fine acting," brown kept repeating over and over again. joan heard him vaguely. he was so impressed by it, however, that he sent for some champagne and insisted on their all drinking her health on the spot. there, however, he was content to leave it, and presently the company slipped away, one after the other, and joan and fanny were left alone. "you really think you won't come on, honey?" fanny tried a final argument before she followed the others. "he has sent up his card, you know; he is waiting downstairs for you." "i simply can't, fanny," joan answered. "you go, like a dear, tell him anything you like; that i have gone on with brown, or that i am coming later; only just persuade him to go away with you, that's all i ask." fanny looked at her reflectively, but she did not say anything further, gathering her cloak round her and going from the room. joan waited till the place seemed silent and deserted save for the call boy's shrill whistle as he strolled round, locking up the various dressing-rooms. she did not want him to see her as she groped her way back to the front of the stage and stooped to feel in the dark for her bunch of violets. it was quite ridiculous, but she could not leave them to lie there all night and be swept into the rubbish-basket in the morning. it took her a minute or two, but at last her hands closed on them and she stood up and moved into the light just as he came dashing along the passage. "hulloa," he called out to her, "you still here, miss? everyone else has gone. you might have got shut in." "i am just going myself," she answered; "and i knew you were here, tommy; i heard you." he followed her to the door and stood watching her along the street with curious eyes. to his mind it seemed strange that she should have stayed on after the others had gone. it betokened something that she wished to hide from prying eyes, and his were not satisfied till he saw a man's figure come forward out of the darkness and meet her. "thought as much," commented tommy, the worldly-wise. "gent of the violets, i suppose. not likely they would be going to a crowded supper-party." "i thought you were never coming," dick was saying quickly to joan. "miss bellairs told me you weren't feeling very well and were going straight home. i was just screwing up my courage to come upstairs and find out for myself what had happened to you." so fanny had failed her. joan, guessing the other's purpose, smiled ruthfully. "i had a headache," she admitted, "and i could not face a supper-party. i am so sorry you should have waited about, though; i had hoped you would go on with fanny." "hoped!" said dick. "did you think i would?" they had turned in the direction of the girls' lodgings and were walking very fast. joan set the pace, also she was rather obstinately silent. dick walked in silence, too, but for another reason. clamorous words were in his heart; he did not wish to say them. not yet, not here. up in london, in her own place, when she would be free from the surroundings and trappings of theatrical life, he was going to ask her to marry him. till then, and since his heart would carry on in this ridiculous way because she was near him, there was nothing for it but silence. at the door of the house, though, he found his tongue out of a desire to keep her with him a little longer. "you played splendidly to-night," he said, holding her hand. "were those my violets you kissed at the end?" "yes," she answered; the words were almost a whisper, she stood before him, eyes lowered, breathing a little fast as if afraid. the spell of the night, the force of his own emotion shook dick out of his self-control. the street was empty and dimly lit, the houses on either side shuttered and dark. the two of them were alone, and suddenly all his carefully thought-out plans went to the wind. "joan," he whispered. she was all desirable with her little fluttered breath, her eyes that fell from his, her soft, warm hand. "joan!" joan lifted shut eyes and trembling lips to his; she made no protest as he drew her into his arms, his kiss lifted her for the time being into a heaven of great content. so they clung together for a breathing-space, then joan woke out of her dream and shuddered away from him, hiding her face in her hands. "oh, don't," she begged, "please, please don't!" her words, the very piteousness of her appeal, remembering all her circumstances, hurt dick. "my dear," he said, "don't you understand; have i made you afraid? i love you; i have always loved you. i was going to have waited to ask you to marry me until next week when i came to you in town. but to-night, because i love you, because you are going away to-morrow, i couldn't keep sensible any longer. and anyway, joan, what does it matter?--to-day or to-morrow, the question will always be the same. i love you, will you marry me, dear? no, wait." he saw her movement to answer. "i don't really want you to say anything now, i would rather wait till we meet in town next week. you are not angry with me, are you, joan? you are not afraid of my love?" but joan could make no answer, only she turned from him and ran up the steps; the bunch of violets lay where she had dropped them when he caught her hands, but neither of them noticed it. he saw her face for a second against the lighted hall and a little to his dismay he could see that she was crying. then she had gone and the door shut to behind her quickly. dick waited about for a little, but she made no sign, and finally he turned rather disconsolately away. one thought, however, was left to comfort him through the night, the memory of her soft, yielding hands, the glad surrender of her lips. chapter xxiv "ah, sweet, and we too, can we bring one sigh back, bid one smile revive? can god restore one ruined thing, or he who slays our souls alive make dead things thrive?" a. c. swinburne. early morning brought joan a letter from dick. she had hardly slept all night. once she had got up, determined to write him; the truth would look more cold and formal in a letter, but her courage had failed her, and instead she had sat crouched over the table, her body shaken with a storm of tears. then fanny had come in, an after-supper fanny, noisy and sentimental, and she had had to be helped to bed, coughing and explaining that "life was good if you only knew how to live it." joan had crept back to her own bed once the other girl had fallen asleep, and she had lain with wide eyes watching the night turn from blackness to soft grey, from grey to clear, bright yellow. there were dark shadows round her eyes in the morning, and her face was white and strained-looking. "dear heart," dick had written: "is it cheek to begin a letter like that to you? only after last night i seem to know that you love me and that is all that really matters. i am coming to , montague square, on tuesday afternoon at five o'clock to get my answer. doesn't that sound precise? i would like to come to-day, but i won't because i don't want to hurry you. oh, dear heart, i love you!--i have loved you for longer than you know of just at present. that is one of the things i am going to explain to you on tuesday, "yours ever, "dick grant." fanny was much perturbed by joan's appearance when she was sufficiently awake to notice it. "my, honey, you do look bad," she gasped. "daddy brown will see i was talking the truth last night, which is a good thing in one way. he was most particularly anxious to see you last night, was very fussed when he found you hadn't come." she paused and studied joan's face from under her lashes. "did you meet him?" she inquired finally. "yes," joan admitted; she turned away from the other's inquisitive eyes. "he walked home with me." "i told him you had a headache and were not coming to supper with us," fanny confessed. "it is no use being annoyed with me, honey. i thought it over and it seemed to me that by saying 'no' to him because of something that happened before he knew you, you were cutting off your nose to spite your face. not that i personally should tell him," she added reflectively; "he is too straight himself to understand a woman doing wrong; but that is for you to decide. one thing i do know: it won't make a pin's worth of difference to his wanting to marry you; he is too much in love for that." she was saying aloud the fear which had knocked at joan's heart all night. it might be true that dick was too much in love to let what she had to tell him stand between them. but afterwards, when love had had time to cool, when trust and good-fellowship would be called on to take the place of passion, when he saw her, perhaps, with his child in her arms, how would he look at her then? would he not remember and regret, would not a shadow stand between them, a shadow from the one sin which no man can forgive in a woman? she was like a creature brought to bay; he had guessed that she loved him; what arguments could she use, how stand firm in her denial against that knowledge? for a little she had thought of the possibility of his taking her just as gilbert had done. she was not worthy to be his wife, but she would be content, she knew, to follow him to the end of the world. not because she viewed the matter now in the same light as she had done in those days. she had never loved gilbert; if she had, shame and disgrace would have been powerless to drive her from his side, and she would have wanted him to marry her, just as now she wanted marriage with dick. it seemed to her that, despite pioneers and rebels and the need for greater freedom, which she and girls like her had been fighting for, the initial fact remained and would always remain the same. when you loved you wanted to belong to the man absolutely and entirely; freedom counted for very little, you wanted to give him your life, you wanted to have the right to bear his children. that was what it all came down to in the end; love was bigger and stronger than any ideas, and marriage had been built upon the law of love. * * * * * daddy brown came round in the course of the morning to talk over his new idea for joan's future. it appeared that if she was willing to think it over, he would pay for her to have singing and dancing lessons during the winter. that was, of course, provided the war did not come off. if it did, as he had said once before to fanny, there would not be any spring tours for the brown company. "but war isn't likely," he spoke heavily. "england has too much to lose to go running into it if she can steer clear, and there's my offer, my girl. i think, from what i saw last night, that if you like to put your heart into it you ought to make something of an actress. you have distinct ability, and you have charm, which is on the good side too." joan was hardly in the mood to pay much attention to her future prospects; the present loomed too forbiddingly ahead of her. she would let him know, she told him finally; she was most awfully grateful to him for his suggestion, but she must have at least a fortnight to think things out and decide what she was going to do. "very well," brown agreed, he rose to take his leave; "but mind you, it is worth considering, young lady; you don't get such an offer every day." fanny was staying behind for another day; she had some amusement in store with swetenham which she did not want to miss, but the rest of the company, joan included, caught the three o'clock train back to town. joan could not refuse to go with them, but the journey was one long torture to her; she wanted to get right away by herself; there was only one day left in which to plan and make ready for dick's visit. some of brown's ponderous remarks as to the probable effect of a war on the theatrical profession had filtered down to the junior members of the company. they talked together rather mournfully as to what the winter might be going to mean for them. "if it knocks pantomimes, we are done," grace binning summed up the situation. but grace binning was inclined to be mournful; as mrs. o'malley said, her sprained ankle would keep her out of work in any case for six weeks. at victoria station strachan ferreted out joan's luggage and hailed a taxi for her. "good-bye," he said to her at the last--they had always been very good friends, with a little encouragement he might have considered himself in love with her--"and good luck. also, if you will excuse me saying so, miss rutherford, i should marry that faithful young man. you are not a bit suited or happy in our life." then he drew back his head quickly and smiled at her as the taxi started off. joan had written to mrs. carew, asking her to see about a room, and found to her relief that her old attic was still at her disposal. "thought you would find it homelike," mrs. carew panted up the stairs in front of her, "and for that matter it has been shut up since you left. bad year for letting this has been." obviously the room had been shut up since she left. joan struggled with the fast-closed window and threw it open, but even so the place retained an atmosphere of overpowering stuffiness, and presently, not staying to unpack or open the letter which had been waiting for her on the hall table, she sallied out again in search of fresh air. she would walk to knightsbridge, she decided, and so on through the park. if she tired herself out perhaps she would be able to sleep when she went to bed, and sleep was what she needed almost more than anything else. the park was deserted and sun-swept; it had been an exceptionally hot summer, the trees and bushes seemed smothered under a weight of dust. joan found a seat in sight of one of the stretches of water and opened her letter. it was from miss abercrombie, that she had known from the envelope, and written from the rutherford home at wrotham. "dear joan," the letter ran: "your people are home, they have just come back from abroad and had a very tiresome journey over because of the mobilization on the continent. janet wrote, or rather your uncle wrote for her, asking me to be here to meet them. janet is very ill, she will never be able to walk or stand up again in her life. they have tried all sorts of things for her abroad, now it has come to the last. all day, and most of the night, for she sleeps very badly, she lies flat on her back, and all the time her eyes seem to be watching for something. she speaks very little, everything seems to be shut away in her heart, but yesterday--after having first talked the matter over with your uncle--i went up to her room and asked her point blank: 'janet, aren't you eating out your heart for joan?' and she nodded stiffly, the tears in her eyes. so i sat right down and told her all about you: about your accident, about the hard (child, i know it has been hard) fight you have had, and at the end i said: 'shall i send for her, janet?' this time when she nodded the tears were streaming down her face. so i am sending for you. don't let pride or anger stand between you, enough anguish has been caused already on both sides, and she is practically dying. come, child, show a charity which your struggle will have taught you, and help to make her going a little easier, for she has always loved you, and her heart breaks for the need of you." it was a very sentimental letter for miss abercrombie to have written. and aunt janet was dying; quite long ago joan had forgiven the hardness from her, there was no bitterness in her heart now, only a great sense of pity. she would go, of course she would go. like a flash it came to her that she might just slip away and leave no address, no message to dick. but even with the thought came the knowledge that she would only be shelving the difficulty for a little; he would wait, he would search till he found her. she did not think he would be very easy to put off. with miss abercrombie's letter open on her lap, she sat and watched the people passing by her. she was thinking of all her life since she had first come to london; gilbert, their time together--strange how that memory had no more power to hurt--the black days that had followed, rose and fanny. of them all perhaps she had loved fanny the best; fanny's philosophy of life was so delightfully simple, she was like some little animal that followed every fresh impulse. and she never seemed to regret or pay for her misdeeds. apparently when you sinned calmly in the full knowledge that it was sin, you paid no penalty; it was only when you sinned attempting to make new laws for yourself and calling it no sin that the burden of retribution was so heavy to bear. a man was coming down the path towards her; she did not notice him, although he was staring at her rather intently. opposite to her he came to a pause and took off his hat. "hallo," he said, "i am not mistaken, am i, it is pierrette." she lifted startled eyes to his and landon laughed at her. he had forgotten all about her till this moment, but just for the time being he was at a loose end in london when all his friends were out of town, and with no new passion on to entertain him. pierrette, were she willing, would fill in the gap pleasantly; they had not parted the best of friends, but he had forgotten just enough for that memory not to rankle. he sat down on the chair beside her and took one of her hands in his. "where have you been, pierrette? and what have you been doing? also, are you not glad to see me, and whose love letter were you reading?" "it is not a love letter." joan took her hand away and folding up miss abercrombie's letter, slipped it into her purse. "it is from my people, asking me to come home, and i am going." "going, when i have only just found you again!" his tone, his whole manner was unbearably familiar. joan turned with quick words of resentment on her lips, but they were never said. a sudden thought came across her brain. here was something with which she could fight down and kill dick's purpose. better, far better than any confession of hers, better than any stating of the truth, however bluntly put, would be this man's easy familiarity, his almost air of ownership. she found herself staring at landon. what had she ever seen in him that was either pleasant or attractive? she hated his eyes, and the way they looked at her, the too evident care which had been expended on his appearance, his long, shapely hands. "well, pierrette, when you have finished studying my personal appearance," landon broke in, "perhaps you will explain yourself more explicitly. why are you flying from me just when i have found you? and, pierrette, what about supper to-night at les gobelins?" "i can't do that," joan spoke quickly. she had clenched her hands in her lap; he did not notice that, but he could see that the colour had fled from her face. "and i have got to go away the day after to-morrow. but couldn't you come and have tea with me to-morrow at , montague square? do, please do." what was she driving at? landon caught his breath on a laugh. was it the last final flutter before she had to go back to home life and having her wings cut? or was she throwing herself into his arms after having fought so furiously--he remembered that she had fought the last time, perhaps she had learned her lesson; perhaps the poor little devil had really fallen in love with him, and had been eating her heart out all this time. that was almost amusing. she had never, even in their days of greatest friendship, asked him into her room before, though he had often suggested coming. "why, pierrette, of course," he said. then he laughed out loud. "and i'll bring some red roses, afterwards we will go out to supper, and it shall be like old times." "afterwards," joan repeated. the excitement had left her, she sounded on the instant very tired, "i don't know about afterwards, but bring the red roses and come at half-past four, will you?" she stood up, "i must go home," she said, "i have got to pack and get everything ready before to-morrow." he could not understand her mood in the least, but he could draw his own conclusions from her invitation. it set him whistling softly on his way home. the tune he selected was one that was being played everywhere in london at the time. it fitted into his thoughts excellently: "just a little love, a little kiss, i will give my life for this." poor, silly little pierrette! why had she fought with him before and wasted so much precious time? as a matter of fact, he broke off his whistle as the startling truth flashed on him, he might quite easily have forgotten all about her in the interval, and then where would she have been? chapter xxv "i have left you behind in the path of the past; with the white breath of flowers, with the best of god's hours, i have left you at last." dora sigerson. mrs. carew was in a state of discontent which amounted almost to anger. "i knew such kind of things were bound to happen," she grumbled fiercely, "if she joined in with a girl like that miss bellairs. i have never held and i never will hold with young ladies having men to tea in their bedrooms." "why don't you just tell her so?" suggested her helpmate from his customary entrenched position in an armchair behind the newspaper. "it would be a good deal cheaper than breaking the kitchen china, maria." "tell her!" snorted mrs. carew. "she don't give me a chance. cool as a cucumber she turns to me this morning, she says: 'oh, i've two gentlemen to tea this afternoon, mrs. carew, just show them up when they come.' then she 'ops it out of the front door like a rabbit. 'gentlemen,' indeed, and she with not so much as a screen round her bed." "perhaps they are her brothers," ventured mr. carew. mrs. carew came to a pause beside him and swept aside his paper. "brothers!" she repeated, "now, arthur, you know better than to say that. what i say and what i always shall say is: let 'em do what they like outside, poor motherless girls that they are, but in my house things have got to be run straight. i won't have them bringing men in here." "well, hang it all, maria, what do you want me to do? go upstairs and turn the gents out?" "we'll see," said mrs. carew darkly. she grabbed up the tea-tray and made for the door. "to-morrow i shall tell her it is not to happen again." "all right, you tell her," her husband muttered behind her retreating back. "can't think, though, why you don't leave the girls alone. however they start it always ends that way. you and i have seen quite a number take to the streets, and you don't do much to prevent them short of grumbling at them." "they shan't do it in my house," reiterated mrs. carew; she stumped in dignified protest from the room, and upstairs to the offender's attic. the first guest had already arrived, so mrs. carew could not voice her disapproval; she expressed it, however, in a glare which she directed towards him, and the noise with which she dumped down the tea-tray. the room was full of flowers, which did not add to her approval; she detected in them a sure sign of immorality. great, beautiful red roses, nodding from every vase, filling the air with their rather heavy scent. the visitor also inspired her with a sense of distrust. he looked what mrs. carew described as "a man about town." she had been fond of joan; behind her anger lay a small hurt sense of pity; she was too nice a young lady to go the way of the others. she opened the door to dick a little later with a sour face, and she did not even trouble to take him upstairs. "miss rutherford is high up as you can get"--she jerked her thumb upwards--"it's the only door on the landing, you can't mistake it." with that she left him, and dick found his own way upstairs. he had stayed away all day till the exact hour he had named, with some difficulty, but with a punctilious sense of doing right. joan had not answered his letter and he looked upon her silence as an admission that she loved him, but there were a great many things between them that would have to be talked over first coldly and sensibly. he had thought the matter out and he had decided that he would not leave it all to her, to tell or not to tell as she thought best, which had been his first idea. he would help her by telling her that he had always known, and that it made no difference. he wanted to make her confession as easy as possible. it was not until after he had knocked that he realized with a shock of disappointment that joan was not alone. he could hear her talking to somebody, then she moved across the room and pulled the door open. he saw only her first of all, his eyes sought hers and stayed there. he could notice that she seemed very pale, and almost frightened looking, and that she had dressed for the afternoon in black. some long clinging stuff, and up near where the blouse opened at the neck she had pinned in one red rose, its warm and velvety petals lying against the white of her neck. the room seemed full of the scent of the roses too, and a little oppressive. dick held his breath as he looked at her; to him she seemed so beautiful as to be almost amazing; then he came a little further into the room and his eyes took in the other occupant. a man sat, or rather lounged, on the sofa, pulled up under the window. he was watching the meeting with curious eyes, and in his hands he held another rose, the same sort as the one joan wore. when dick's eyes met his, he smiled, and laying the rose aside, stood up. "did not know it was to be a tea-party, pierrette," he said, "you ought to have warned me." joan had shut the door and moved forward into the centre of the room. she was evidently very nervous over something; landon was more than a little amused, though also inclined to be annoyed. "oh, it isn't a tea-party," she was saying. "it's just us three. doctor grant, this is mr. landon. will you have this chair?--it is really the only one which is quite safe to sit on." dick took the proffered chair stiffly; he was conscious of a bitter sense of disappointment, tinged with disapproval. it was, of course, different for himself, but he loathed to see the other man so much at home in this quaint little dust-laden attic where joan lived. her bed stood against the wall, a black counterpane of sorts thrown across it; her brush and comb, the little silver things for her dressing-table were scattered about on the top of the chest of drawers standing near. the place would have been sacred to him; but how did this other man look at it? and why had joan asked him? was it a deliberate attempt to shield herself from something she dreaded? or did it mean that, after all, she had only been playing with him--that the fluttered surrender of her lips had been but a flirt's last fling in the game of passion? if a man is really very much in love, as was dick, and something occurs to make him lose his temper, it is sure to end in rapid and sometimes lasting disaster. after the first five minutes dick made no attempt even to be polite to landon. rage, blind, merciless rage, and a sense of having made a damned fool of himself, throbbed in his mind as he watched joan talking to the other man, and saw the evident familiarity which lay between them. yet he could not get up and go away; he would not leave her, not till he had hurt her as much as she was now hurting him. for landon, the amusement of baiting the other man's evident misery soon palled. he was a little annoyed himself that joan should have seen fit to drag him in as such a cat's-paw, for a very few minutes of their threesome had shown him what his part was intended to be. it meant in addition that the girl had fooled him, and that he had wasted his background of red roses. it was all very annoying and a very stupid way of spending the afternoon, for no one could imagine that there was any amusement to be got out of a bad tea in squalid surroundings--thus mercilessly but almost truthfully did he dismiss the atmosphere of joan's attic--with a girl palpably in love with someone else. landon rose presently with his most languid air of boredom. "sorry, pierrette," he said; "must fly, but i leave my roses behind me as a memory. they are not what i should call my lucky flower." he turned to dick, who stood up with a grim face and stern-set mouth. "good-bye, doctor grant; delighted to have met you: if pierrette feels like it, get her to tell you about our last venture into the rose world. romantic tale, isn't it, pierrette?" he laughed, lifting her hand to his heart very impressively. "but ours has always been a romance, hasn't it? that is why we christened each other pierrot and pierrette." he let go her hand and bowed gravely. joan followed him to the door. "i'll come and see you out," she said; she had not realized until the moment came how horribly afraid she was of dick. "you might lose your way." "oh no," landon assured her; he shot one last slightly vindictive glance at dick; "i know it by heart." then he laughed and went from the room, shutting the door behind him. joan stayed where she was, a seeming weight on her lids, which prevented her lifting her eyes to look at dick. but she was intensely conscious of him, and round her heart something had closed like a band of iron. at last, since he said nothing and made no sign, she moved forward blindly and sat down in the nearest chair. "aren't you ever going to speak again?" she whispered. her words shook dick out of his silent self-restraint. hot anger, passionate reproaches, fought for speech in his throat; he drove them back. "is this your answer to my question?" he said finally. "it would have been simpler to have put it some other way. but you may at least congratulate yourself on having succeeded. you have killed something that i had thought to be almost eternal." he drew in his breath sharply, but passion was shaking him now, it had to have its say. "i have loved you," he went on hoarsely, "ever since i first saw you. common sense has argued against you; pride has fought to throw you out of my life; but against everything your face has lived triumphant. i don't know why god makes us feel like that for women of your stamp, why we should bring such great ideals to so poor a shrine. i am talking arrant nonsense, just raving at you, you think, and i sound rather absurd even to myself. only--my god! you don't know what you have done--you have broken my faith in you; it was the strongest, the best thing in my life." joan crouched down in the chair; she seemed to be trying to get as far away from his voice as possible; she sat with her head buried in her arms. "i built up a dream about you two years ago," dick went on. "you don't remember anything about me; but our meeting, your face as you stood that day with your back to the wall, were stamped on my heart as with a branding-iron. of all the foolish things that a man could do perhaps i chose the worst; for ever as i stood and watched you the shadow of shame grew up beside you, and other people turned away from you. but i thought i saw further than the rest; i imagined that i had seen through your eyes, because already i loved them, into your soul. there is some mistake here, i argued, some mystery which she herself shall one day make clear to me." joan had lifted her head and was staring at him. "from that day i started building my dream. i went abroad, but the memory of your face went with me; i used to make love to other women, but it was because i looked for you in their eyes. then i came home and i saw you again. suddenly my dream crystallized into clear, unshakable fact; i loved, i had always loved you; nothing that other people could say against you would have any effect. it lay just with you, and to-day you have given me your answer and broken with your own hand the dream." he turned towards the door; joan staggered to her feet and ran to him. the vague memory in her mind had leapt to life; his eyes had often reminded her of someone. she remembered now that he was the young doctor that aunt janet had sent for. she remembered her own defiance as she had faced him and the pity in his eyes. "dick," she whispered, "dick, i didn't know, i didn't understand. i thought--oh, don't go away and leave me just like this, i might explain." her torrent of words broke down before the look on his face; she fell to her knees, clutching at his hands. "won't you listen? it was because i was afraid to tell you; i was afraid, afraid." her position, the paroxysm of tears which, once they came, she could in no way stop, disquieted him. he shook her hands from him. "and because you were afraid," he said stiffly, "i suppose you had the other man here to protect you." then his mood changed. "whatever you have done," he said, "it isn't any business of mine. please forgive me for ranting like a schoolmaster, and please don't cry like that. while i sat there watching that other man and feeling that everything my heart had been set on was falling to pieces all round me, i wanted to hurt you back again. it's a pugnacious sensation that one gets sometimes, but it's gone now; i don't want you to be hurt. it was not your fault that i lifted you up in my heart like that; it is not altogether your fault that you have fallen. perhaps you did not know how cruel you were being when you had that other man here to make clear to me something you did not wish to put into words yourself. i have said some beastly things to you, and i am sorry for them. please don't let them worry you for long." then he had gone, before she had time to speak or lift her hands to hold him. gone, and as she crouched against the door the sound of his feet trod into her heart, each step a throb of agony. mrs. carew was holding forth to fanny in the hall as dick swung past them. he did not glance at them even, and fanny did not have a chance to call out to him, he went so rapidly, slamming the door behind him. "not as how they haven't left at seasonable hours," mrs. carew went rambling on; "but i 'as always said and always will say, i don't hold with such doings in my house." "what doings?" fanny expostulated. "for goodness, old carew, do try and make yourself more clear; who has been carrying on and how?" "miss rutherford," mrs. carew announced. she was viewing fanny with unfriendly suspicion. "only came back from this 'ere theatrical show yesterday, and to-day she has two men to tea with her in her bedroom." "two men?" repeated fanny. "did you know they were coming?" "ask them," snorted mrs. carew. "and what i said is----" "oh, run away, carew," fanny broke in, "with your nasty suspicion. it's all my bad example, you'll be saying next. bring up some tea for me, there's an old dear; i'm fairly parched for a drink." but before she went into her own room fanny ran upstairs and knocked softly oh joan's door. there was no answer and no sound from within the room; yet when she tried turning the handle, and pushing her foot against the door, it was to find it locked. what did it all mean? two men to tea, dick's face as he had passed through the hall, and joan's locked door? that was a problem which fanny set herself to disentangle in her own particular way. chapter xxvi "of all strange things in this strange new world most strange is this; ever my lips must speak and smile without your kiss. ever mine eyes must see, despite those eyes they miss." f. heaslip lee. how joan lived through the hours that followed she never knew. heart and brain seemed paralysed; things had lost their power to hurt. when fanny crept upstairs in the early morning and knocked timidly at the door, joan opened it to her. she had no wish to see fanny; she did not want to talk about yesterday, or explain what had happened; but vaguely through her absolute misery she realized that life had still to be gone on with, and that fanny was one of the items of life which it was no use trying to disregard. as a matter of fact, until she opened the door and caught fanny's look of dismay, she did not remember that she was still in her black afternoon frock, nor the fact that she had spent most of the night crouched against the door as dick had left her. "oh, my dear, my dear!" fanny whispered; she came quickly into the room and threw warm, loving arms round joan. "you haven't been to bed at all; why didn't you let me in last night? i'd have helped you somehow or other." joan stood limply in the embrace, but she did not turn and cling to fanny, or weep as the other girl rather wished she would. "how ridiculous of me," she answered. "i must look a strange sight this morning." fanny became practical on the moment, since sympathy was evidently not desired. "well, you'll start right away now," she stated, "and get out of your things. it's early yet, only about seven; i will brush your hair for you, and you will slip into bed. you needn't get up until late to-day, you know." "i haven't the slightest desire to sleep," joan told her; none the less she was obeying the other's commands. "and i have got to catch an early train." "you are going away?" gasped fanny. "back home," joan answered. "they have sent for me; my aunt has been ill. oh, it's not for good, fanny"--she almost laughed at the other's amazed face--"i shall be back here before long." "i hope not;" fanny spoke, for her, fiercely. "i shall hate to lose you, honey, but after all i don't stand for much, and you aren't meant for this kind of world. you can't get the fun out of it i can, it only hurts you." she was brushing out the soft brown hair. "what happened yesterday?" she asked suddenly, her head on one side. joan moved from under the deft hands and stood up. "you want to know why i am looking like a tragedy queen this morning," she said. "it isn't strange you should be curious; i must seem quite mad. yesterday"--she caught her hands to her throat--"was what might be called a disastrous failure. i tried to be very clever, and i was nothing but a most awful fool. he knew, he had known all the time, the thing which i had been so afraid to tell him. it had not made any difference to his loving me, but yesterday i had that other man here, you remember him, don't you? you might almost recognize his roses." her eyes wandered round the room, her hands came away slowly from her throat; she had seemed to be near tears, but suddenly the outburst passed. "that's all," she said dryly, "dick drew his own conclusions from the man being here. i tried to explain, at least i think i tried to explain. i know i wanted to hold him back, but he threw aside my hands and went from the room. i shan't ever see him again, fanny, and the funny thing is that it doesn't really seem to matter this morning." "oh, you poor thing," fanny whispered again. she did not say much else, because for the present words were useless. otherwise her own mind was full of consoling reflections. a man, after all, is not so easily turned aside from what must have been a very big purpose in his life. already fanny could look into the future and say "bless you, my children," in her heart. she had been afraid, drawing her conclusions from dick's face and joan's silence, that things were very much worse. joan might, for instance, have told the truth, and dick, man-like, might have resented it. she ran downstairs presently and came up again with the breakfast, fussing round joan till the other made an attempt to eat something, pouring out her tea for her, buttering her toast. "i should very much like to see you have a jolly good cry, honey," she confessed when the pretence at breakfast had finished. "it would do you a world of good. but since you don't seem able to, i shall pull the curtains and you must try and sleep. i'll come and call you again at ten." joan lay quite still in the dim and curtained room, but she did not either sleep or cry. she did not even think very much. she could just see the pattern of the wall-paper, and her mind occupied itself in counting the roses and in working out how the line in between made squares or diamonds. it was like that all day; little things came to her assistance and interested her enormously. the collection of flowers which fanny had got on her new hat; the map on the wall of the railway carriage; the fact that the station master at wrotham seemed to have grown very thin, and was brushing his hair a new way. uncle john met her as once before at the station, and almost without thinking joan lifted her face. he stooped very gravely to kiss it. "you are welcome home, joan," he said. "we have been lonely without you." the sound of his voice brought back to her mind the last time he had spoken to her, and she was suddenly nervous and tongue-tied. a fat sally still rubbed her sides against the shafts, nothing had been changed. it was just about this time she had come home two years ago, only now nervousness and a confused sense of memories that hurt intolerably swept aside all thoughts of pleasure and relief. uncle john made no further remark after his greeting until they were driving down the village street. then he turned to her suddenly. "there is going to be war between england and germany," he said. "did you see any signs of excitement in london this morning?" war! joan realized on the instant that for the past four days she had not even looked at a paper. daddy brown had mentioned some such possibility in connection with his spring tour, and the members of the company had discussed the prospect with varying shades of excitement on their way up to london. but for herself, her own interests, her own griefs had so swamped her that she had not even noticed the greater tragedy which loomed ahead. yet what a curious thrill lay in the word; it could rouse her to sudden interest as nothing else had been able to do all day; she could feel the nerves in her body tighten, and she sat a little more erect. "war, with germany!" she repeated. "i haven't read the papers, uncle john. has it come as near as that?" "they have invaded belgium," he answered, "on their way through into france. we couldn't stand aside now if we wanted to. to-night, i expect war will be declared. that was why i asked you if you had seen any signs of excitement in the streets; the papers say that the crowds have been clamouring for war for the last three days." she could not tell him that she had sat in the cab counting the daisies in fanny's hat. "what will it mean?" she asked. "something bigger than we have ever tackled before," he answered. "it will mean millions of money and millions of men. i don't see much down here, grubbing about among my plants and weeds, but i have kept an eye on germany." a most unusual excitement was shaking him. "in my young days it was a myth, 'one day germany will declare war on us.' it has come true too late for me. i'd give everything i possess to get back into the regiment, but they wouldn't have me. this will be a world-shaking war, and i am too old to take part in it." the excitement left his voice as they turned in at the gate. "your aunt is very ill," he said. "i meant to have warned you before, but somehow i can't think of anything but the one thing these days. you must not be shocked at her appearance." miss abercrombie was waiting to receive them where aunt janet had waited for their other home-coming. "did you bring any news from london?" she asked quickly; the same light shone in her eyes as in uncle john's. "has anything been settled yet?" joan shook her head. "i have been living this last week with my eyes shut," she confessed; "till uncle john told me, i did not even know that anything was going to happen." miss abercrombie looked beyond her; the blue eyes had narrowed, a strange expression of intentness showed in her face. "i have always tried not to," she said, "and yet i have always hated the germans. i wish i was a man." she turned abruptly. "but come upstairs, child, your aunt had her couch moved close to the window this morning, she has lain watching the drive all day. you will find her very changed," she added. "try not to show any signs of fear. she is very sensitive as to the impression she creates. every week it creeps a little higher, now she cannot even move her hand. from the neck downwards she is like a log of wood." "and she is dying?" whispered joan. "mercifully," the other answered. "my dear, we could not pray for anything else." she opened the door and motioned to joan to go in. "i have brought her to you, janet," she said. "now is your heart satisfied?" joan waited for a moment in the doorway. a long, low couch stood by the window, the curtains were drawn back and the head of the couch had been raised up, so that a full stream of light fell upon the figure lying on it. but aunt janet's face itself was a little in the shadow, and for the moment it looked very much like joan's old memories. the straight, braided hair, the little touch of white at the throat, the dark, searching eyes. a nurse, a trim upheld figure in blue, stood a little behind the couch out of sight of aunt janet's eyes, so that she could frown and beckon to joan to come forward unseen by the woman on the couch. but aunt janet had noticed the slight hesitation, her face broke into the most wistful smile that joan had ever seen. "i can't hold out my arms to you, joan," she said; "but my heart aches for you, all the same." joan took a little step forward; "aunt janet," she whispered. then all that had been bitter between them vanished, and much as she had used to do, when as a child she sought the shelter of those dear arms, she ran forward, and, kneeling by the couch, pressed her warm cheek against the lifelessness of the other's hand. "i have come home, aunt janet," she said, "i have come home." the nurse with one glance at her patient's face tiptoed from the room, leaving them alone together, and for a little they stayed silent just close touching like that. presently aunt janet spoke, little whispered words. "i hardened my heart," she said, "i would not let you creep back; even when god argued with me i would not listen. my life finished when i sent you from me, joan, but so long as i could hold myself upright and get about, i would not listen. i am a hard, grim old woman, and i took it upon myself to judge, which is after all a thing we should leave to god. this is my punishment--you are so near to me, yet i cannot lift a hand to touch you. i shall never feel your fingers clinging to mine again." "oh, hush, hush, aunt janet," joan pleaded. "why should you talk of punishment?" "when you were a child," the old voice went on again, "you would run to me at the end of your day's playing. 'read me a story,' you would say, and then we would sit hand in hand while i read aloud to you something you knew almost by heart. when i dream now i feel your little warm hands in mine, but i can't feel your lips, joan, not even when you lay them against my hand as you do now. nor your tears, dear, silly child, i have made you cry with my grumbling. joan, look up and see the happiness in my eyes to have you back." and joan looked. "i never meant to hurt you as i did, aunt janet," she said; "do you believe that?" just for a second the lids closed down over the dark eyes. "i hurt myself," aunt janet answered, "far more than you hurt me. put your face down close, so that i can kiss you just once, and then you shall draw up a chair and we will talk sensibly. nurse will be severe to-night if i excite myself." miss abercrombie put her head in at the door presently and suggested taking joan downstairs to tea. "nurse is just bringing up yours," she said. "i know from the expression of her face that she thinks it is time that you had a little rest." "very well," aunt janet agreed, "take her away, ann, but bring her back again before i go to bed. has any news come through yet?" miss abercrombie shook her head. "colonel rutherford has just gone over to the station to find out," she added. uncle john came back with no further information. he was evidently in a strong state of agitation, he confessed that the question which the government was settling was like a weight on his own conscience. "it is a question of honour," he kept repeating, "england cannot stand aside." "'know we not well how seventy times seven wronging our mighty arms with rust, we dared not do the will of heaven, lest heaven should hurl us in the dust.'" miss abercrombie quoted to him. he stared at her with puzzled old eyes. "i don't think that can apply to england," he said. "and in this case the people won't let them. we must have war." a curious, restless spirit seemed to have invaded the household. joan sat with aunt janet for a little after dinner till the nurse said it was time for bed, after that she and miss abercrombie, talking only in fits and starts, waited up for colonel rutherford, who had once more tramped down to the station in search of news. "nothing has come through," he had to admit on his return; "but i have arranged with the people of the telegraph office to send on a message should it come. we had better get off to bed meanwhile." tired as she was, joan fell asleep almost at once, to dream of dick--dick attired, through some connection of her thoughts, in shining armour with a sword in his hand. the ringing of a bell woke her, and then the sound of people whispering in the hall. she was out of bed in a second, and with a dressing-gown half pulled about her, she ran to the top of the stairs. the hall was lit up, the front door open. uncle john was at it, talking to a man outside; miss abercrombie stood a little behind him, a telegram form in her hand. she looked up at the sound of joan's feet. "it's war," she called softly. "we declared war to-night." from somewhere further along the passage there was the abrupt sound of a door being thrown open. "miss abercrombie, colonel rutherford," the nurse's voice called, "quick, quick! i am afraid miss rutherford is dying! someone must run for the doctor at once, please." chapter xxvii "life is good, joy runs high, between english earth and sky; death is death, but we shall die to the song on your bugles blown--england, to the stars on your bugles blown." w. e. henley. dick went out into the still night air from the close atmosphere of joan's room, his mind a seething battleground of emotions--anger, and hurt pride, and a still small sense of pain, which as time passed grew so greatly in proportion that it exceeded both the other sensations. he had said very bitterly to joan that she had broken his dream, but, because it had been broken, it none the less had the power to hurt intolerably. each fragment throbbed with a hot sense of injustice and self-pity. he had not the slightest idea what to do with himself: every prospect seemed equally distasteful. he walked, to begin with, furiously and rather aimlessly down in the direction of the embankment. the exercise, such as it was, dulled his senses and quieted a little the tumult of his mind. he found himself thinking of other things. the men to-day in his club had been discussing the possibility of war, they had been planning what they would do; instinctively, since the thought of joan and the scene he had just left were too tender for much probing, his mind turned to that. as he stamped along he resolved, without thinking very deeply about it, that he would volunteer for active service, and speculated on the possibility of his getting taken on at once. "doctors will be very needful in this war," one man had said at the club. "yes, by gad," another had answered. "we have got some devilish contrivances these days for killing our brother men." looked at from that point of view, the idea seemed strange, and dick caught his breath on the thought. what would war mean? hundreds of men would be killed--hundreds, why it would be more like thousands. he had read descriptions of the south african war, he had talked with men who had been all through it. "we doctors see the awful side of war, i can tell you," an old doctor had once told him. "to the others it may seem flags flying, drums beating, and a fine uplifting spectacle; but we see the horrors, the shattered bodies, the eyes that pray for death. it's a ghastly affair." and yet there was something in the thought which flamed at dick's heart and made him throw his head up. it was the beating of drums, the call of the bugles that he heard as he thought of it; the blood tingled in his veins, he forgot that other pain which had driven him forth so restless a short hour ago. the great dark waters of the river had some special message to give him this evening. he stood for a little watching them; lights flamed along the embankment, the bridges lay across the intervening darkness like coloured lanterns fastened on a string. over on the other side he could see the trees of battersea park, and beyond that again the huddled pile of houses and wharfs and warehouses that crowded down to the water's edge. he was suddenly aware, as he stood there, of a passionate love for this old, grey city, this slow-moving mass of dark waters. it symbolized something which the thought of war had stirred awake in his heart. he had a hot sense of love and pride and pity all mingled, he felt somehow as if the city were his, and as if an enemy's hand had been stretched out to spoil it. the drumming, the flag-waving, and the noise of bugles were still astir in his imagination, but the river had called something else to life behind their glamour. it did not occur to him to call it love of country, yet that was what it was. his walk brought him out in the end by the houses of parliament, and he found himself in the midst of a large crowd. it swayed and surged now this way and now that, as is the way of crowds. the outskirts of it reached right up to and around trafalgar square. when dick had fought his way up parliament street he could see a mass of people moving about the national gallery, and right above them nelson's statue stood out black against the sky. "if they want war, these bally germans," someone in the crowd suddenly shouted in a very hoarse and beery voice, "let's give it them." "yes, by god!" another answered. "good old england, let's stand by our word." "we have got men behind the guns," declaimed a third. but such words were only as the foam thrown up by a great sea; the multitude did no real shouting, the spirit that moved them was too earnest for that. there were women among the crowd, their eager, excited faces caught dick's attention. some were crying hysterically, but most of them faced the matter in the same way that their menkind did. dick could find no words to describe the curious feeling which gripped him, but he knew himself one of this vast multitude, all thinking the same thoughts, all answering to the same heart-beats. it was as if the meaning of the word citizen had suddenly been made clear to his heart. he moved with the shifting of the crowd as far as trafalgar square, and here some of the intense seriousness of the strain was broken, for round and about the stately lions of nelson's statue a noisy battle was raging. several peace parties, decked with banners inscribed "no war" and "let us have peace," were coming in for a very rough five minutes at the hands of the crowd. rather to his own surprise dick found himself partaking in the battle, with a sense of jubilant pride in his prowess to hit out. he had a german as his opponent, which was a stroke of luck in itself, but in a calmer moment which followed on the arrival of the police, he thought to himself that even that was hardly an excuse for hitting a man who was desirous of keeping the world's peace. still the incident had exhilarated him, he was more than ever a part of the crowd, and he went with them as far as buckingham palace. some impulse to see the king had come upon the people; they gathered in the square in front of the palace, and waited in confident patience for him to appear. dick was standing at the far end of the square, pressed up against the railings. in front of him stood two women, they were evidently strangers to each other, yet their excitement had made them friends, and they stood holding hands. one was a tall, eager-faced girl; dick could not see the other woman's face, but from her voice he imagined her to be a good deal older and rather superior in class to the girl. it was the younger one's spirit, however, that was infectious. "isn't it fine?" she was saying. "aren't you proud to be english? i feel as if my heart was going to jump out of my mouth. they are our men," she went on breathlessly; "it is a most wonderful thought, and of course they will win through, but a lot of them will die first. oh, i do hate the germans!" her whole face flushed with passionate resentment. "one need not hate a nation because one goes to war with it," the other woman answered. dick thought her voice sounded very tired. "yes, one need," the girl flamed. "we women can't fight, but we can hate. perhaps we shouldn't hate so much if we could fight," she added as a concession. "i am married to a german," dick heard the other woman say bitterly. "i can't hate him." he saw the girl's quick face of horror and the way she stood away from her companion, but just at that moment some impulse surged the crowd forward and he lost sight of them. yet the memory of the woman's voice and the words she had said haunted him. war would mean that, then, the tearing apart of families, the wrecking of home life. "the king, the king!" the crowd yelled and shouted in a million voices. "god save the king." dick looked up to the palace windows; a slight, small figure had come out on to one of the balconies and stood looking down on the faces of the people. cheer upon cheer rose to greet him, the multitude rocked and swayed with their acclamation, then above the general noise came the sound of measured music, not a band, but just the people singing in unison: "god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king." the notes rose and swelled and filled the air, the cry of a nation's heart, the loyalty of a people towards their king. the sheer emotion of it shook dick out of the sense of revelry which had come upon him during his fight. he pushed his way through the crowd, and climbed over the railings into the darkness of st. james's park. it was officially closed for the night, but dick had no doubt that a small bribe at the other side would let him out. the queen and the little princes had joined the king on the balcony. looking back he could see them very faintly, the prince was standing to the salute, the queen was waving her handkerchief. his club was crowded with men, all equally excited, all talking very fast. someone had just come back from the house. war was a dead certainty now, mobilization had been ordered, the fleet was ready. "our army is the problem, there will have to be conscription," was the general vote. dick stayed and talked with the rest of them till long after twelve. morning should see him offering his services to the war office; if they would not have him as a doctor he could always enlist. one thing was certain, he must by hook or by crook be amongst the first to go. "we will have to send an expeditionary force right now," the general opinion had been, "if we are to do any good." dick thought vaguely of what it would all mean: the excitement, the thrill, an army on the march, camp life, military discipline, and his share of work in hospital. "roll up your sleeves and get at them," his south african friend had described it to him. "i can tell you, you don't have much time to think when they are bringing in the wounded by the hundred." not till just as he was turning into bed did he think again of joan. such is the place which love takes in a man's thoughts when war is in the balance. the knowledge of her deceit and his broken dream hurt him less in proportion, for the time he had forgotten it. he had been brutal to her, he realized; he had left her crouched up on the floor crying her heart out. why had she cried?--she had achieved her purpose, for she could only have had one reason in asking the other man to meet him. he could only suppose that he had frightened her by his evident bad temper, and for that he was sorry. he was not angry with her any longer. she had looked very beautiful in her clinging black dress, with the red rose pinned in at her throat. and even the rose had been a gift from the other man. well, it was all ended; for two years he had dreamed about love, for one hour he had known its bitterness. he would shut it absolutely outside of his life now, he would never, he need never, thanks to the new interests which were crowding in, think of joan again. he opened his window before getting into bed and leaned out. the streets were deserted and quiet, the people had shouted themselves hoarse and gone home. under the nearest lamp-post a policeman stood, a solid, magnificent figure of law and order, and overhead in a very dark sky countless little stars shone and twinkled. on the verge of war! what would the next still slumbering months bring to the world, and could he forget joan? is not love rather a thing which nothing can kill, which no grave can cover, no time ignore? chapter xxviii "errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; he who would search for pearls must dive below." anon. the wave of enthusiasm caused by the war swept even fanny into its whirlpool of emotion. for several days she haunted the streets, following now this crowd, now that; buying innumerable papers, singing patriotic songs, cheering the soldiers as they passed. she wanted to dash out into the road, to throw her arms round the young soldiers and to kiss them, she was for the time being passionately in love with them. it was her one pathetic and rather mistaken method of expressing the patriotism which surged up in her. she could not have explained this sensation, she only knew that something was so stirred within her that she wanted to give--to give of her very best to these men who symbolized the spirit of the country to her. poor, hot-hearted little fanny; she and a great many like her came in for a good deal of blame during the days that followed, yet the instinct which drove them was the same that prompted the boys to enlist. if fanny had been a man she would have been one of the first at the recruiting station. so submerged was she in her new excitement that joan and dick in their trouble slipped entirely out of her mind, only to come back, with the knowledge that she had failed to do anything to help, when, on coming back one afternoon to montague square, she saw mabel standing on the steps of no. . to be correct, mabel had just finished talking to mrs. carew and was turning away. fanny hastened her walk to a run and caught the other up just as she left the step. "you were asking to see joan, miss rutherford," she panted. "won't you come in and let me tell you about her?" mabel had hardly recognized her. fanny, dressed up in her best to meet joan's possible future relations, and fanny in her london garments, which consisted of a very tight dress slit up to well within sight of her knee, and a rakish little hat, were two very different people. and whereas the fanny of sevenoaks had been a little vulgar but most undeniably pretty, this fanny was absolutely impossible--the kind of person one hardly liked to be seen talking to. yet there was something in the girl's face, the frank appeal of her eyes, perhaps, that held mabel against her will. "the woman tells me that miss rutherford has left," she spoke stiffly. "i was really only going to call upon her." "yes, i know she's gone," fanny nodded, "back to her people. but there is something between her and your brother that awfully badly wants to be explained. won't you come in and let me tell you? oh, do, please do." she had caught hold of the other's sleeve and was practically leading her back up the steps. mabel had not seen dick since he had left sevenoaks. he had written a note to their hotel saying he was most awfully busy, his application for service had been accepted, but pending his being attached to any unit he was putting in the time examining recruits. he had not mentioned joan, mabel had noticed that; still she had promised to call and make it up with the girl, and mabel was a person who always religiously kept her promises. but if there had been any disagreement, as fanny's anxiety to explain showed, then surely it was so much the better. here and now she would wash her hands of the affair and start hoping once again for something better for dick. fanny had opened the door by this time and had led the way inside. "my room is three flights up," she said. "will you mind that? also it is probably dreadfully untidy. it generally is." this was where mabel, following the wise guidance of her head, ought to have said: "i am not coming, i really haven't time," or some excuse of that sort. instead she stepped meekly inside and followed the girl upstairs. perhaps some memory of dick's face as he had spoken of joan prompted her, or perhaps it was just because she felt that in some small way she owed joan a reparation. fanny's room was certainly untidy. every chair was occupied by an assortment of clothes, for before she had gone out that morning fanny had had a rummage for a special pair of silk stockings that were the pride of her heart. she bundled most of the garments on to the bed and wheeled forward the armchair for mabel to sit in. "i never can keep tidy," she acknowledged. "it used to make joan fair sick when we shared rooms on tour. joan is so different from me." suddenly she threw aside pretence and dropped down on her knees before the armchair, squatting back on her heels to look at mabel. "that is what i do want you to understand," she said, earnestly. "joan is as different to me as soap to dirt. she is a lady, you probably saw that; i am not. she is good; i don't suppose i ever have been. she is clean all through, and she loves your brother so much that she wanted to break her heart to keep him happy." she looked down at her hands for a second, then up again quickly. "i'll tell you, it won't do any harm. mind you, usually, i say a secret is a secret though i mayn't look the sort that can keep one. joan told me about it at the beginning when i chaffed her about his loving her; and he does, you know he does. it seems that when she first came to london she had funny ideas in her head--innocent, i should call it, and sort of inclined to trust men--anyway, she lived with some man and there was to have been a baby," she brought the information out with a sort of gasp. "i knew that," mabel answered, "and because of it i tried to persuade my brother not to marry her." "i suppose it is only natural you should," fanny admitted, "though to me it seems that when a woman has a baby like that, she pays for all the fun that went before." she threw back her head a little and laughed. "oh, i'm not moral, i know that, but joan is, that's what i want you to understand. anyway, joan left the man, or he left her, which is more likely, and the baby was never born. joan was run over in the street one day and was ill in hospital for a month. that was what joan came up against," she went on, "when she fell in love with your brother. tell him, i said, it won't make a pin's worth of difference to his love--and it wouldn't. but joan did not believe me, she had learned to be afraid of good people, some of them had been real nasty to her, and she was afraid." "she need not have been," mabel said. the girl was so earnest in the defence of her friend that one could not help liking her. "dick knew about it all the time." fanny nodded. "yes, joan told me that on the day after he had been here. it would have been fairer if he had said so from the beginning. you see," she leant forward, most intense in her explanation, "joan thought, and thought and thought, till she was really silly with thinking. he had told her he was coming here on monday to ask her to marry him, and she loved him. i should have held my tongue about things, or whispered them to him as i lay in his arms, holding on to him so that he could not push me away, but joan isn't my sort. she just couldn't bear to tell him, i guess she was afraid to see his face alter and grow hard. do you blame her because she was afraid? i don't really know the rest of the story," she finished, "because i was away, but i think joan got hold of the silly notion that the best thing to do was to have another man hanging about here when dr. grant called. she thought it would make him angry, and that he would change his mind about wanting to marry her on the spot. and she pretty well succeeded. i had just got back and was standing in the hall, when dr. grant got back from her room and went out. he did not notice me, his face was set white and stern like people's faces are when they have just had to shoot a dog they loved. the other man meant nothing to her, nothing; why she hasn't even seen him for months, and she never liked him. oh, can't you explain to your brother, he would listen to you." she put her hand on mabel's knee in her earnestness and pulled herself a little nearer. "it's breaking both their hearts, and it's all such a silly mistake." "are you not asking rather a lot from me?" mabel said quietly; she met the other's eyes frankly. "putting aside all ideas, moral or immoral, don't you understand that it is only natural that i should want my brother to marry some girl who had not been through all that miss rutherford has?" the quick tears sprang to fanny's eyes. "if he loves her," she claimed, "is not that all that matters?" "he may love again," mabel reminded her. fanny withdrew her hand and stayed quiet, looking down at the ground, blinking back her tears. "you won't help," she said presently. "i see what you mean, it doesn't matter to you what happens to her." she lifted her head defiantly and sprang to her feet. "well, it doesn't matter, not very much. i believe in love more than you do, it seems, for i do not believe that your brother will love again, and sooner or later he will come back to her." she paused in her declamation and glanced at mabel. "is he going to the war?" she asked quickly. "yes," mabel assented; she had stood up too and was drawing on her gloves. "he may go at any moment, as soon as they need him. you think i am awfully hard," she went on; "perhaps i am. dick means a lot to me; if i find that this is breaking his heart i will tell him, will you believe that? but if he can find happiness elsewhere i shall be glad, that is all." fanny huddled herself up in the armchair and did a good cry after she had gone. joan's thread of happiness seemed more tangled than ever; her efforts to undo the knots had not been very successful. there was only her belief in the strength of dick's love to fall back on, and love--as fanny knew from her own experience--is sometimes only a weathercock in disguise, blown this way and that by the winds of fate. the night post brought a letter from joan. it was written on black-edged notepaper: "dear fanny, "aunt janet is dead. she died the night after i got here. the nurse says it was the joy of seeing me again that killed her. she was glad to have me back, i read that in her eyes, and it is the one fact that helps me to face things. death stands between us now, yet we are closer to each other than we have been these last two years. and she loved me all the time, fanny; sometimes it seems as if love could be very unforgiving. i must stay on down here for the time being; uncle john needs someone, and he is content that it should be me. the war overhangs and overshadows everything, and it is going to be a hard winter for us all. i suppose he hasn't been back" (fanny knew who was meant by "he") "to see me. it's stupid of me to ask, but hope is so horribly hard to kill. "yours ever, "joan." fanny wrote in answer that evening, but she made no mention of mabel's visit. "dr. grant has joined, i hear," she put rather vaguely. "but of course one knew he would. all the decent men are going. london is just too wonderful, honey, i can't keep out of the streets. all day there are soldiers going past; i love them all, with a sort of love that makes you feel you want to be good, and gives you a lump in your throat. they say we have already sent thousands of men to belgium, though there has not been a word about it in the papers, but i met a poor woman in the crowd to-day who had just said good-bye to her son. i wish i had got a son, only, of course, he would not be old enough to fight, would he? write me sometimes, honey, and don't lose heart. things will come all right for you in the end, i sort of know they will." to joan her letter brought very little comfort despite its last sentence. dick had joined; it did not matter how fanny had come by the news, joan never doubted its truth. he would be among the first to go, that she had always known, but would he make no sign, hold out no hand, before he left? the war was shaking down barriers, bringing together families who perhaps had not been on speaking terms for years, knitting up old friendships. would he not give her some chance to explain, to set herself right in his eyes? that was all she asked for; not that he should love her again, but just that they should be friends, before he went out into the darkness of a war to which so many were to go and so few return. chapter xxix "who dies, if england lives?" rudyard kipling. the black days of september lay like a cloud over the whole country. news came of the fall of namur; the retreat from mons; the german army before the gates of paris. there was one sunday evening when the newspaper boys ran almost gleefully up and down the london streets, shouting in shrill voices: "the whole of the british expeditionary force cut to pieces." the nation's heart stood still to hear; the faces of the men and women going about their ordinary work took on a strained, set expression. the beating of drums, the blowing of trumpets, the cheering of crowds died away; a new stern feeling entered into the meaning of war. dick felt sometimes as if all were expressed in the one word england. the name was written across all their minds as they stared into the future waiting for the news, real news of that handful of men standing with their backs to the walls of paris, facing the mighty strength of the german army. england! what did it matter if some hearts called it scotland, some ireland, some the greater far-off land of the dominions? the meaning was the same. it was the country that was threatened, the country that stood in danger; as one man the people rallied to the cry of motherland. and over in france, with their backs to the walls of paris, the soldiers fought well! "who dies, if england lives?" kipling wrote in those early days of the war, putting into words the meaning which throbbed in the hearts of the people. statesmen might say that they fought for the scrap of paper, for an outraged belgium, because of an agreement binding great britain to france; the people knew that they fought for england! and to stay at home and wait with your eyes staring into the darkness was harder perhaps than to stand with your back to the wall and fight. they were black days for the watchers, those early days of the war. the one thought affected everyone in a different way. the look in their eyes was the same, but they used a different method of expressing it. dick threw himself heart and soul into his work; he could not talk about the war or discuss how things were going on, and he was kept fairly busy, he had little time for talking. all day he examined men; boys, lying frankly about their age in order to get in; old men, well beyond the limit, telling their untruths with wistful, anxious eyes. men who tried so hard to hide this or that infirmity, who argued if they were not considered fit, who whitened under the blow of refusal, and went from the room with bitten lips. from early morning till late at evening, dick sat there, and all day the stream of old men, young men, and boys passed before him. fanny took it in quite a different way. silence was torture to her; she had to talk. she was afraid and desperately in earnest. the love in her heart was poured out at the foot of this new ideal, and to fanny, england was typified in the soldiers. the night on which the paper boys ran abroad shrieking their first casualty list fanny lay face downwards on her bed and sobbed her heart out. she visualized the troops she had watched marching through london, their straight-held figures, their merry faces, their laughing eyes, the songs they had shouted and whistled haunted her mind. they had not seemed to be marching to death; people had stood on the edge of the pavement to cheer them, and now--"cut to pieces"--that was how the papers put it. it made her more passionately attached to the ones that were left. it is no exaggeration to say that quite gladly and freely fanny would have given her life for any--not one particular--soldier. something of the spirit of mother-love woke in her attitude towards them. down in quiet, sleepy little wrotham the tide of war beat less furiously. uncle john would sometimes lose his temper completely because the place as a whole remained so apathetic. the villagers did not do much reading of the papers; the fact that the parson had a new prayer introduced into the service impressed them with a sense of war more than anything else. but even wrotham felt the outside fringe of london's anxiety during the days of that autumn. one by one, rather sheepishly, the young men came forward. they would like to be soldiers, they would like to have a whack at them there germans. no thought of treaties or broken pledges stirred them, but england was written across their minds just the same. uncle john woke to new life; he had been eating out his heart, knowing himself useless and on the shelf, when every nerve in his body was straining to be up and doing. he instituted himself as recruiter-in-chief to the district. he would walk for miles if he heard there was a likely young man to be found at the end of his tramp; his face would glow with pride did he but catch one fine, healthy-looking specimen. he inaugurated little meetings, too, at which the vicar presided, and uncle john held forth. bluntly and plainly he showed the people their duty, speaking to them as he had used to speak in the old days to his soldiers. and over their beer in the neighbouring public-house the men would repeat his remarks, weigh up his arguments, agree or disagree with his sentiments. they had a very strong respect for him, that at least was certain; before christmas he had persuaded every available unmarried man to enlist. the married men were a problem; joan felt that perhaps more than uncle john did. winter was coming on; there were the children to clothe and feed; the women were beginning to be afraid. sometimes joan would accompany uncle john on his tramps abroad, and she would watch the wife's face as uncle john brought all his persuasion to bear on the man; she would see it wake first to fear, and then to resentment. she was sorry for them; how could one altogether blame them if they cried, "let the unmarried men go first." yet once their man had gone, they fell back on odd reserves of pride and acquiescence. there was very little wailing done in the hundreds of small homes scattered all over england; with brave faces the women turned to their extra burden of work. just as much as in the great ones of the land, "for england" burned across their hearts. joan's life had settled down, but for the outside clamour of events, into very quiet routine. her two years' life in london was melting away into a dream; only dick and her love for dick stood out with any intensity, and since dick made no sign to her, held out no hand, she tried as much as possible to shut him from her thoughts. aunt janet had died in her sleep the night war was declared; she had never waked to consciousness. when the doctor, hastily fetched by uncle john, had reached her room, she had been already dead--smiling a little, as if the last dream which had come to haunt her sleep had been a pleasant one. "joy killed her," the nurse declared. certainly she lay as if very content and untroubled. "i believe," miss abercrombie told joan, "that she was only staying alive to see you. my dear, you must not blame yourself in any way; she is so much better out of it all." "no, i don't blame myself," joan answered. "we had made friends before she died; there isn't a wall between us any longer." the villagers ransacked their gardens to send flowers to the funeral. aunt janet's grave was heaped up with them, but in a day or two they withered, and old jim carried them away on his leaf heap. after that every week joan took down just a handful and laid them where she thought the closed hands would be, and, because in so doing she seemed to draw a little closer to aunt janet, and through aunt janet to the great god beyond, her thoughts would turn into prayer as she stood by the grave. "dear god, keep him always safe," she would whisper. then like a formless flash of light the word "england" would steal across her prayer; she did not need to put the feeling into words; just like an offering she laid it before her thought of god and knew its meaning would be understood. so thousands of men and women pray, brought by a sense of their own helplessness in this great struggle near to the throne of god. and always the name of england whispers across their prayers. just when the battle of the marne was at its turning-point dick got his orders to go. he was given under a week to get ready in, the unit, a field hospital, was to start on saturday and the order came on monday. one more day had to be put in at the recruiting depot; he could not leave them in the lurch; tuesday he spent getting his kit together, wednesday evening saw him down at sevenoaks. as once before, mabel was at the station to meet him. "it's come, then," she said. "tom is wild with envy. age, you know, limits him to a volunteer home defence league." "bad luck," answered dick. "of course i am very bucked to be really going, mabel. it is not enlivening to sit and pass recruits all day long." "no," she agreed. "one wants to be up and doing. i hope i am not awfully disloyal or dreadfully selfish, but i cannot help being glad that my baby is a baby. mother has knitted countless woollies for you"--she changed the subject abruptly; "it has added to poor tom's discontent. he has to try on innumerable sleeping-helmets and wind-mufflers round his neck to see if they are long enough. yesterday he talked rather dramatically of enlisting as a stretcher-bearer and going, out with you, but they wouldn't have him, would they?" dick laughed, but he could realize the bitterness of the other man's position when tom spoke to him that night over their port wine. "mabel is so pleased at keeping both her men under her wing," he confided, "that she doesn't at all realize how galling it is to be out of things. i would give most things, except mabel and the boy, to be ten years younger." "still, you have mabel and the boy," dick reminded him. "it comes awfully hard on the women having to give up their men." "that's beyond the point," tom answered. "and bless you, don't you know the women are proud to do it?" "but pride doesn't mend a broken life," dick tried to argue against his own conviction. tom shook his head. "it helps somehow," he said. "mabel was talking to some woman in the village yesterday, who has sent three sons to the war, and whose eldest, who is a married man and did not go, died last week. 'i am almost ashamed of him, mum,' the woman told mabel; 'it is not as if he had been killed at the war.' oh, well, what's the use of grousing; here i am, and here i stick; but if the germans come over, i'll have a shot at them whatever regulations a grandmotherly government may take for our protection. and you're all right, my lad, you are not leaving a woman behind you." that night, after he had gone up to his own room, the thought of joan came to haunt dick. for two months he had not let himself think of her; work and other interests had more or less crowded her out of his heart. but the sudden, though long expected, call to action brought him, so to speak, to the verge of his own feeling. other things fell away; he was face to face once again with the knowledge that he loved her, and that one cannot even starve love to death. he wanted her, he needed her; what did other things, such as anger and hurt pride, count against that. he had only kissed her once in his life, and the sudden, passionate hunger for the touch of her lips shook his heart to a prompt knowledge of the truth. he must see her again before he left, for it might be that death would find him out there. war had seemed more of a game to begin with; that first evening when he had shouted with the others round trafalgar square he had not connected war with death, but now it seemed as if they walked hand in hand. he could not die without first seeing joan again. he thought of writing her a short note asking her to be in when he called, but the post from jarvis hall did not go out till after twelve; he could get to london quicker himself. after breakfast he told mabel that he found he had to go away for the day. "something you have forgotten--couldn't you write for it, dick?" she asked. "it seems such a shame, because we shall only have one more day of you." "no," he answered; he did not lift his eyes to look at her. "as a matter of fact it is somebody that i must see." he had not written about or mentioned joan since he had gone away from sevenoaks last; mabel had hoped the episode was forgotten. it came to her suddenly that it was joan he was speaking of, and she remembered fanny's long, breathless explanation and the girl's rather pathetic belief that she would do something to help. she could not, however, say anything to him before the others. "will the eleven-thirty do for you?" tom was asking. "because i have got to take the car in then." "it seems a little unreasonable, dick," mrs. grant put in. she had not been the best of friends with him since their violent scene together; her voice took on a querulous tone when she spoke to him. "who can there be in london, that you suddenly find you must see?" she, too, for the moment, was thinking of the outrageous girl. "i am sorry," dick answered. "it is my own fault for not having gone before. i'll try and get back to-morrow." mabel caught him afterwards alone on his way out to the garden to smoke a pipe. she slipped a hand through his arm and went with him. "mother is upset," she confided. "i don't think she can be awfully well; just lately she cries very easily." "she always used to"--dick's voice was not very sympathetic. "do you remember how angry i was at the way she cried when father died?" "yes," mabel nodded. "all the same, she does love you, dick; it is a funny sort of love, perhaps, but as she gets older it seems to me that she gets softer, less selfish. and, dick, i think she feels--as indeed i do, too--that you have grown away from us. it is not the war, though that takes men from us women, too; it is more just as if we were out of sympathy with one another. are we?" "what a funny thought." dick smiled down at her. "there has never been, as you know, much sympathy between mother and myself. but for you, mabel, things will always be the same between us. i trust you with everything i have." "and yet you aren't quite trusting me now," she answered. "you are going up to london to see this girl, aren't you, dick?--and all this time you have never written or spoken to me about her." "i have been trying to forget," he confessed. "i thought, because of something she did to me, that i was strong enough to shut her outside my life. but last night the old battle began again in my mind, and i know that i must see her before i go out. it is more than probable, mabel, that i shall not come back. i can't go out into the darkness without seeing her again." mabel's hand tightened on his arm. "you mustn't say that, dick," she whispered. "you have got to come back." they walked in silence and still mabel debated the question in her mind. should she stand out of events, and let them, shape themselves? if dick went to london and found joan gone, what would he do then? perhaps he would not see fanny and the landlady would not be able to tell him where joan was. wrotham would be the last place in which he would look for her, and on saturday he was leaving for the front. it was only just for a second that her mind wavered; she had initially too straight a nature for deceit. "dick," she said, coming to a standstill and looking up at him, "you needn't go to london. miss rutherford"--she hesitated on the word--"joan, is back at wrotham." "at wrotham?" he repeated, staring at her. "yes," she answered, "old miss rutherford died two months ago. they had sent for joan; i believe she arrived the day her aunt died, and she has stayed there ever since. once or twice i have met her out with colonel rutherford. no, wait"--she hurried on, once she had begun. "there is something else i must tell you. i went, you know, to see her in london, but i found that she had left. as i was coming away i met the other girl--i cannot remember her name, but she came here to tea--she insisted on my going back with her; she had something she wanted to tell me about joan. it was a long, rather jumbled story, dick; only two facts stand out of it. one was that the baby was never born; joan was in some sort of accident when she first went back to london; and the other thing was that this girl wanted me to use my influence to persuade you that joan really loved you; that what had angered you that night was all a mistake." she broke off short, and began again quickly. "i did not promise, dick; in fact i told the girl i would do nothing to interfere. 'if he can find his happiness anywhere else i shall be glad,' i said. and that is what i felt. i don't try and excuse myself; i never wanted you to marry her if you could forget her, and, dick, i almost hoped you had--i was not going to remind you." "i see," said dick. his pipe had gone out. he lit it again slowly and methodically. "mabel," he said suddenly, "if i can persuade joan to marry me before i go out, will you be nice to her as my wife?" "you can't marry her, dick," mabel remonstrated, "there isn't time. but if you will trust me again beyond this, i promise to be as nice to her as you would like me to be." "but i can, and what's more, i will," dick answered. "i've shilly-shallied long enough. if she'll have me, and it would serve me jolly well right if she turned me down--it shall be a special licence at a registry office on saturday morning. my train doesn't leave till two-thirty." he stood up very tall and straight. mabel thought she had never seen him look so glad to be alive. "and now," he added, "i am going straight across to ask her. wish me luck, mabel." she stood up, too, and put both her hands on his. "you aren't angry with me?" she whispered. "dick, from the bottom of my heart, i do wish you luck, as you call it." "angry? lord bless you, no!" he said, and suddenly he bent and kissed her. "you've argued about it, mabel, but then i always knew you would argue. i trust you to be good to her after i'm gone; what more can i say?" chapter xxx "but love is the great amulet which makes the world a garden." robert louis stevenson. colonel rutherford and joan had had breakfast early that morning, for uncle john was going to london to attend some big meeting, at which, much to his own secret gratification, he had been asked to speak. he rehearsed the greater part of what he was going to say to joan during breakfast, and on their way down to the station. he had long ago forgiven, or forgotten, which was more probable still, joan's exile from his good graces. after aunt janet's funeral, when joan had spoken to him rather nervously, suggesting her return to london, he had stared at her with unfeigned astonishment. "back to london," he had said, "whatever for?" "to get some more work to do," joan suggested. his shaggy eyebrows drew together in a frown. "preposterous notion," he answered. "i never did agree with it. so long as a girl has a home, what does she want to work for? besides, now your aunt is not here, who is going to look after the house and things?" the question seemed unanswerable, and since he had apparently forgiven the past, why should she remind him? she realized, too, that he needed her. she wrote asking fanny to send on her things, and settled down to try and fill her mind and heart, as much as possible, with the daily round of small duties which are involved in the keeping of a house. this morning on her way back from the station, having seen uncle john into his train for london, she let fat sally walk a lot of the way. the country seemed to be asleep; for miles all round she could see across field after field, not a creature moving, not a soul in sight, only a little dust round a bend of the road showed where a motor-car had just passed. it occurred to her that her life had been just like that; the quiet, seeming, non-existence of the country; a flashing past of life which left its cloud of dust behind, and then the quiet closing round her again. "the daily round, the common task, shall furnish all we need to ask." she hummed it under her breath. "room to deny ourselves--" perhaps that was the lesson that she had needed to learn, for in the old days her watchword had been: "room to fulfil myself." if it was not for uncle john now she would have liked to have gone back to london and thrown herself into some sort of work. women would be needed before long, the papers said, to do the work of the men who must be sent to the firing-line. but uncle john was surely the work to her hand; she would do it with what heart she had, even though the long hours of sewing or knitting gave her too much time to think. sally having been handed over to the stable-boy, joan betook herself into the dining-room. thursday was the day on which the flowers were done; mary had already spread the table with newspaper, and collected the vases from all over the house. they had been cleaned and fresh water put in them; she was allowed to do as little work as possible, but the empty flower-basket and the scissors stood waiting at her hand. the gardener would really have preferred to have done the flower-cutting himself, but aunt janet had always insisted upon doing it, and joan carried on the custom. there were only a few late roses left, but she gathered an armful of big white daisies. as she came back from the hall joan saw dick waiting for her. the maid had let him in and gone to find "miss joan." strangely enough the first thought that came into her mind was not a memory of the last time that they had met or a wonder as to why he was here; she could see that he was in khaki, and to her it meant only one thing. he was going to the front, he had come to say good-bye to her before he went. all the colour left her face, she stared at him, the basket swinging on her arm, the daisies clutched against her black dress. "joan," dick said quickly; he came towards her. "joan, didn't the maid find you, didn't they tell you i was here? what's the matter, dear; why are you frightened?" he took the flowers and the basket from her and laid them down on the hall table. mary coming back at the moment, saw them standing hand in hand, and ran to the kitchen to tell the others that miss joan's young man had come at last. "isn't there somewhere you can take me where we can talk?" dick was saying. "i have such an awful lot to say to you." "you have come to say good-bye," joan answered. she looked up at him, her lips quivered a little. "you are going out there." then he knew why she had been afraid, and behind his pity he was glad. "joan," he whispered again, and quite simply she drew closer to him and laid her cheek against his coat, "does it really matter to you, dear?" his arms were round her, yet they did not hold her as tightly as she clung to him. "must you go?" she said breathlessly. "there are such hundreds of others; must you go?" dick could not find any words to put the great beating of his heart into, so he just held her close and laid his lips, against her hair. "take me into that little room where i first saw you," he said presently. "i have remembered it often, joan; i have always wanted to come back to it, and have you explain things to me there." she drew a little away and looked up at him. "what you thought of me the other night"--she spoke of it is yesterday, the months in between had slipped awry--"wasn't true, dick. i----" he drew her to him quickly again, and this time he kissed her lips. "let's forget it," he said softly. "i have only got to-day and to-morrow, i don't want to remember what a self-satisfied prig i was." "is it to be as soon as that?" she asked. "and i shall only have had you for so short a time." "it is a short time," dick assented. "but i am going to make the best of it; you wait till you have heard my plans." he laughed at her because she pointed out that the flowers could not be left to die, but he helped her to arrange them in the tall, clean vases. they won back to a brief, almost childish, happiness over the work, but when the last vase had been finished and carried back to its proper place, he caught hold of her hands again. "now," he said, "let's talk real hard, honest sense; but first, where's my room?" she led him silently to the little room behind the drawing-room. she had taken it over again since her return; the pictures she liked best were on the walls, her books lay about on the table. the same armchair stood by the window; he could almost see her as he had seen her that first morning, her great brown eyes, wakened to newfound fear, staring into the garden. "you shall sit here," he said, leading her to the chair. it rather worried him to see the dumb misery in her eyes. "and i shall sit down on the floor at your feet. i can hold your hands and i can see your face, and your whole adorable self is near to me, that's what my heart has been hungering for. now--will you marry me the day after to-morrow, before i go?" "dick," she said quickly; she was speaking out of the pain in her heart, "why do you ask me? why have you come back? haven't you been fighting against it all this time because you knew that i--because some part of you doesn't want to marry me?" his eyes never wavered from hers, but he lifted the hands he held to his lips and kissed them. "when i saw you again in that theatre in sevenoaks," he said, "it is perfectly true, one side of me argued with the other. when i came to your rooms and found that other man there, green jealousy just made me blind, and pride--which was distinctly jarred, joan"--he tried to wake an answering smile in her eyes--"kept me away all this time." "then why have you come back?" she repeated. "because i love you," he answered. "it is a very hackneyed word, dear, but it means a lot." "but it doesn't always stay--love," she said. "supposing if afterwards those thoughts came back to worry you. what would it mean to me if i saw them in your eyes?" "there isn't any reason why they should. listen, dear"--he let go her hands and sat up very straight. "let's go over it carefully and sensibly, and lay this bugbear of pain once and for all. before you knew me or i knew you, you loved somebody else. perhaps you only thought you loved him; anyway, i hope so; i am jealous enough of him as it is. dear, i don't ask you to explain why you gave yourself to this man, whether it was impulse, or ignorance, or curiosity. so many things go to make up our lives; it is only to ourselves that we are really accountable. after to-day we won't dig over the past again. at the time it did not prevent me falling in love with you; for two years i thought about you sometimes, dreamed of you often. i made love to a good many other women in between; don't think that i show up radiantly white in comparison to you; but i loved just you all the time. i saw you in london once, the day after i landed, and i made up my mind then to find out where you lived, and to try and persuade you to marry me." he waited a minute or two; his eyes had gone out to the garden; he could see the tall daisies of which joan had carried an armful waving against the dark wall behind them. then he looked back at her very frankly. "it is no use trying to pretend," he said, "that i was not shocked when i first saw you dancing. you see, we men have got into a habit of dividing women into two classes, and you had suddenly, so it seemed to me, got into the wrong one. dear little girl, i don't want to hurt you"--he put his hand on her knee and drew a little closer, so that she could feel him leaning against her. "i am just telling you all the stupid thoughts that were in me, so that you can at last understand that i love you. it only took me half a night to realize the mistake i had made, and then i set about--you may have noticed it--to make you love me. when i came up to london i had made up my mind that you did love me; i was walking as it were on air. it was a very nasty shock that afternoon in your room, joan; i went away from it feeling as if the end of the world had come." "oh, i know, i know," she said quickly. "and i had meant it to hurt you. i wanted to shake you out of what i thought was only a dream. i had not the courage to tell you, and yet, that is not quite true. i was afraid if i told you, and if you saw that i loved you at the same time, you would not let it make any difference. i did not want you to spoil your life, dick." "you dear girl!" he answered. "on monday," he went on slowly, "i got my orders for france. they are what i had been wanting and hoping for ever since the war started, and yet, till they came, funnily enough, i never realized what they meant. it seems strange to talk of death, or even to think of it, when one is young and so horribly full of life as i am--yet somehow this brings it near to me. it is not a question of facing it with the courage of which the papers write such a lot; the truth is, that one looks at it just for a moment, and then ordinary things push it aside. next to death, joan, there is only one big thing in the world, and that is love. i had to see you again before i went; i had to find out if you loved me. i wanted to hold you, so that the feel of you should go with me in my dreams; to kiss you, so that the touch of your lips should stay on mine, even if death did put a cold hand across them. he is not going to"--he laughed suddenly and stood up, drawing her into his arms--"your face shall go before me, dear, and in the end i shall come home to you." "what can i say?" joan whispered, "you know i love you. take me then, dick, and do as you wish with me." they talked over the problem of his people and her people after they had won back to a certain degree of sense, and dick told joan of how mabel had wished him luck just as he started out. "you are going to be great friends," he said, "and mother will come round too, she always does." "i am less afraid of your mother than i am of mabel," joan confessed. "i don't believe mabel will ever like me." dick stayed to lunch and waited on afterwards to see colonel rutherford. he had extracted a promise from joan to marry him on saturday by special licence. he would have to go up to town to see about it himself the next day; he wanted to leave everything arranged and settled for her first. he and joan walked down to the woods after lunch, and joan tried to tell him of her first year in london, and of some of the motives that had driven her. he listened in silence; he was conscious more of jealousy than anything else; he was glad when she passed on to talk of her later struggles in london; of shamrock house, of rose brent and fanny. "and that man i met at your place," he asked. "you did not even think you loved him, did you, joan?" "no," she answered quickly, "never, dick, and he had never been to my room before. he just pretended he had been to annoy you because i suppose he saw it would hurt me." colonel rutherford arrived for tea very tired, but jubilant at the success of the meeting, which had brought in a hundred recruits. he did not remember anything about dick, but was delighted to see him because he was in uniform. the news of the other's early departure to the front filled colonel rutherford with envy. "what wouldn't i give to be your age, young man," he grunted. joan slipped away and left them after tea, and it was then that dick broached the subject of their marriage. "i have loved her for two years," he said simply, "and i have persuaded her to marry me before i leave on saturday. there is no reason why i should not marry, and if i die she will get my small amount of money, and a pension." colonel rutherford went rather an uncomfortable shade of red. "you said just now," he said, "that you were the doctor here two years ago. did you know my niece in those days?" "i only saw her once," dick admitted. "i was called in professionally, but i loved her from the moment i saw her, sir." "god bless my soul!" murmured colonel rutherford. a faint fragrance from his own romance seemed to come to him from out the past. "then you know all about what i was considering it would be my painful duty to tell you." "yes," dick answered, "i know." the other man came suddenly to him and held out his hand. "i don't know you," he said, "but i like you. we were very hard on joan two years ago; i have often thought of it since; i should like to see a little happiness come into her life and i believe you will be able to give it her. i am glad." "thank you," dick said. they shook hands quite gravely as men will. "then i may marry her on saturday?" "why, certainly, boy," the other answered; "and she shall live with me till you come back." "you are very lucky, joan," he said to his niece after dick had gone away. "he is an extremely nice chap, that. i hope you realize how lucky you are." joan did not answer him in so many words. she just kissed him good-night and ran out of the room. to-night of all nights she needed aunt janet; she threw a shawl round her shoulders presently and stole out. the cemetery lay just across the road, she could slip into it without attracting any attention. this time she brought no gift of flowers, only she knelt by the grave, and whispered her happiness in the prayer she prayed. "god keep him always, and bring him back to me." chapter xxxi "god gave us grace to love you men whom our hearts hold dear; we too have faced the battle striving to hide our fear. "god gave us strength to send you, courage to let you go; all that it meant to lose you only our sad hearts know. "yet by your very manhood hold we your honour fast. god shall give joy to england when you come home at last." not till she felt mabel's soft warm lips on her cheek and knew herself held in the other's arms, did joan wake to the fact that the marriage was finished and that she was dick's wife. all the morning she had moved and answered questions and smiled, when other people smiled, in a sort of trance, out of which she was afraid to waken. the only fact that stood out very clear was that dick was going away in the afternoon; every time she saw a clock it showed that the afternoon was so many minutes nearer. "you have got to help me to be brave," she had said to dick the night before. "other women let their men go, and make no outward fuss. i don't want to be different to them." "and you won't be," he had answered, kissing her. "if you feel like crying, just look at me, and as your lord and master, i'll frown at you to show that i don't approve." he himself was in the wildest, most hilarious of spirits. as he had said to joan, the thought of death had only touched upon his mind for a second; now the mere idea of it seemed ridiculous. he was going out to help in a great fight, and he was going to marry joan. she would be waiting for him when he came back; what could a man want more? the rutherfords came up on friday to spend the night before the wedding in town, and in the evening joan and dick went to a theatre. it was, needless to say, his idea, but he did it with a notion that it would cheer joan up. if you want to know real misery, sit through a musical comedy with someone you love more than the whole world next to you, and with the knowledge that he is going to the war the next day in your heart. joan thought of it every moment. when the curtain was up and the audience in darkness, dick would slip his hand into hers and hold it, but his eyes followed the events on the stage, and he could laugh quite cheerfully at the funny man's antics. joan never even looked at them; she sat with her eyes on dick, just watching him all the time. when they had driven back to the hotel at which the rutherfords were staying, and in the taxi dick had taken her into his arms and rather fiercely made her swear that she loved him, that she was glad to be marrying him, some shadow from her anguish had touched on him, it seemed he could not let her go. "damn to-morrow!" he said hoarsely, and held her so close that the pressure hurt, yet she was glad of the pain as it came from him. she could not ask him into the hotel, for they had no private sitting-room, so they said good-night to each other on the steps, with the taxi driver and the hotel porter watching them. "to-morrow, then, at twelve," dick had whispered. "but i am going to bring mabel round before then; she gets up at about eleven, i think." "to-morrow," joan answered; her eyes would not let him go. they stood staring at each other for a minute or two while the taxi-cab driver busied himself with the engine of his car, and the hall porter walked discreetly out of sight. then dick lifted his hand quickly to the salute and turned away. "drive like hell!" he said to the man. "anywhere you please, but end me up at the junior conservative club." "couldn't even kiss her," communed the man to himself. "that's the worst of being a toff. can't kiss your girl if anyone else happens to be about." mabel had been very nice to joan the next morning. she had buried all thoughts of jealousy and dismay, and when she looked into the other girl's eyes she forgave her everything and was only intensely sorry for her. mrs. grant had, very fortunately, as dick said, stuck to her opinion and refused to have anything to do with the wedding. she had said good-bye to dick on friday morning with a wild outburst of tears, but he could not really feel that it meant very much to her. "mother will have forgotten in a week that she disapproved," mabel told joan. "you must very often come and spend the day with us." then they had driven down to the registry office, all four of them, and in a dark, rather dingy little room, a man with a curiously irritating voice had read aloud something to them from a book. now they stood outside in the sunshine again, mabel had kissed joan, and uncle john was blinking at her out of old eyes that showed a suspicion of tears in them. a big clock opposite told her the time was a quarter to one; in an hour and three-quarters dick would be gone. they had lunch in a little private room at a restaurant close to victoria station. joan tried to eat, and tried to laugh and talk with the others, because mabel had whispered to her on the way in: "you've got to help dick through the next hour, it isn't going to be easy for him." and that had made joan look at him with new eyes, and she could see that his face was very white, and that he seemed almost afraid to look at her. after lunch mabel and colonel rutherford went on ahead and left the two young people to say their good-bye alone. when they had gone dick pushed the things in front of him on the table aside, and laid his head down on his hands. "my god!" she heard him say, "i wish i had not got to go." he had been so pleased before, so excited over his different preparations, so wildly keen to be really on the move at last. joan ran to him quickly; kneeling on the floor by his side, throwing her arms around him. her own fears were forgotten in her desire to make him brave again. "it won't be for long, dick," she whispered. "i know something right inside my heart tells me that you will come back. it is only like putting aside our happiness for a little. dear, you would be wretched if you could not go. just having me would not make up to you for that." he turned and caught her to him quickly. "if i had had you," he said harshly, "it would be different. it would make going so much easier." "you will come back," she answered softly. her eyes held his, their hearts beat close and fast against each other. "it seems," he said a minute or two later, "that it is you who are helping me not to make a fuss, and not the other way about as we arranged." he stood up, slowly lifting her with him. "it is time we were off, joan," he said. "and upon my soul, i need some courage, little girl. what can you do for me?" "well, if i cry," suggested joan, her head a little on one side--she must be cheerful, she realized; it was funny, but in this she could be stronger than he, and she must be for his sake--"i am sure you would get so annoyed that the rest would be forgotten." "if i see you cry," he threatened, "i shall get out even after the train has started, and that will mean all sorts of slurs on my reputation." they walked across to victoria station and came in at once to a scene of indescribable noise and confusion. besides dick's unit there was a regiment going. the men stood lined up in the big square yard of the station. some had women with them, wives and mothers and sweethearts; children clung to the women's skirts, unnoticed and frightened into quietness by the sight and sound of their mothers' grief. railway officials, looking very important and frightfully overworked, ran in and out of the crowd. the train was standing at the platform, part of it already full, nearly every window had its little group of anxious-faced women, trying to say good-bye to their respective relatives in the carriage. dick and joan walked the length of the train, and found that dick's man had stowed away his things and reserved a place for his master in one of the front carriages. then colonel rutherford and mabel joined them and they all talked, trying to keep up an animated conversation as to the weather; would the channel crossing be very rough; what chance was there of his going to boulogne instead of to havre; joan stood close to dick, just touching him; there was something rather pathetic in the way she did not attempt to close her hand upon the roughness of his coat, but was content to feel it brushing against her. the regimental band had struck up "tipperary"; the men were being marshalled to take their places in the train. joan wondered if the band played so loud and so persistently to drown the noise of the women's crying. one young wife had hysterics, and had to be carried away screaming. they saw the husband, he had fallen out of the ranks to try and hold the girl when the crying first began, now he stood and stared after her as they carried her away. quite a boy, very white about the face, and with misery in his eyes. joan felt a wave of resentment against the woman; she had no right, because she loved him, to make his going so much the harder to bear. a porter ran along the platform calling out, "take your seats, please, take your seats." uncle john was shaking hands and saying good-bye to dick, "i'll look after her for you," joan heard him say. then mabel moved between them for a second, and pulling down dick's head, kissed him. after that, it seemed, she was left alone with dick; colonel rutherford and mabel had gone away. how desperately her hand for the second clutched on to the piece of his coat that was near to her! she could not let him go, could not, could not. the engine whistle emitted a long thin squeak, the soldiers at the back of the train had started singing the refrain of "tipperary." just for a second his arms were round her, his lips had brushed against hers. that was all it amounted to, but she had looked up at him and she had seen the need in his eyes. "good-bye," she whispered. there was not a vestige of tears or fright in her voice. "you will be back soon, dick. it is never good-bye." "no," he agreed. "never good-bye." then he had gone; not a minute too soon, for the train had already started. she could not even see his face at the window, a great blackness had come over her eyes, but she stood very straight held, waving and smiling. a crowd of the soldiers' wives ran past her up the platform, trying to catch on to the hands held out to them from the windows. the men cheered and sang and sang again. it could only have been one or two seconds that she stood there, then slowly the blackness lifted from her eyes. a word had risen in her heart, she said it almost aloud; the sound of it pushed aside her tears and brought her a strange comfort. "england." it was the name that had floated at the back of her prayers always when she prayed for dick. she was glad that he had gone, even the misery in her heart could not flood out that gladness: "who dies, if england lives?" mabel was standing near her and slipped her hand into hers. "come away, dear," she heard mabel say; "colonel rutherford has got a taxi for us." joan was grateful to mabel. she realized suddenly that the other woman, who had also loved dick, had been content to stand aside at the last and leave them alone. she turned to her like a child turns for comfort to someone whom instinctively it knows it can trust. "i have been good," she said, "haven't i? i haven't shed a tear. dick said i wasn't to, and, mabel, you know, i am glad that he has gone. there are some things that matter more than just loving a person, aren't there?" "honour, and duty, and the soul of man," mabel answered. she laughed, a little strange sound that held tears within it. "oh, yes, joan, you are right to be glad that he has gone. it will make the future so much more worth having." "yes," joan whispered. her eyes looked out over the crowded station; the little groups of weeping women; the sadder faces of those who did not weep and yet were hopeless. her own eyes were full of great faith and a radiant promise. "he will come back, i know he will come back," she said. outside the band played ceaselessly and untiringly to drown the sound of the women's tears: "it's a long way to tipperary, it's a long way to go; it's a long way to tipperary to the dearest girl i know. "farewell, piccadilly, farewell, leicester square, it's a long, long way to tipperary but my heart's right there." * * * * * the end _printed at the chapel river press, kingston, surrey._ * * * * * transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. the following words were spelled in two different ways and were not changed: arm-chair, armchair ball-room, ballroom over-worked, overworked a few obvious typographical errors have been corrected and are listed below. page : "older women were belating" changed to "older women were debating". page : "settled the had sat" changed to "settled she had sat". page : "at firs thought was love" changed to "at first thought was love". page : "must be ome explanation" changed to "must be some explanation". page : "ushered in m jarr.vis" changed to "ushered in mr. jarvis". page : "talking to each other in whsipers" changed to "talking to each other in whispers" page : "half-olay out," changed to "half-way out,". page : "the crowded steeets" changed to "the crowded streets". page : "ladies to go ground" changed to "ladies to go around". page : "found her downstars" changed to "found her downstairs". page : "s not to be believed" changed to "was not to be believed". [transcriber's note: extensive research found no evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] bandit love by juanita savage author of "the city of desire," "passion island," "don lorenzo's bride," "the spaniard," etc. a. l. burt company _publishers_ new york chicago published by arrangement with the dial press printed in u. s. a. copyright, , by dial press, inc. bandit love chapter i rotten row on a brilliant june morning, and hyde park at its loveliest. the london "season" at its height, and throngs of fashionably-dressed men and women "taking the air," strolling idly to and fro, lounging on little green-painted chairs, or leaning on the rails watching the riders of all nationalities. a sight well worth watching. it is the week of the international horse show, and there are many foreign officers in gaily-coloured uniforms, mounted on sleek and beautiful thoroughbreds, cantering along amidst a throng of more soberly clad riders of both sexes. the "liver brigade" is at full strength. these red-faced, white-moustached, elderly men, with "retired colonel, indian army," stamped all over them, as it were, are probably telling each other, as they try to urge their hacks to a gallop, that "the row is becoming demnably overcrowded, sir, and the place is going to the dogs. those confounded foreigner fellows look like circus performers, and that sort of young woman wouldn't have been tolerated in my young days.... gad! just look at that girl!" the girl in question is mounted on a high-spirited bay which is resenting her mastery and is fighting to get the bit between his teeth. the horse rears, jerking his fine head from side to side, then bucks with a whinny of rage, and the "liver brigade" scatters. a mounted policeman, on the alert to render assistance and prevent accidents, brings along his well-trained steed at a hand-gallop, recognises the rider of the bucking thoroughbred, and reins up with a grin on his bronzed face. he knows that miss myra rostrevor, although she looks a mere slip of a girl, is quite capable of riding and handling almost any horse that ever was saddled, and is no more likely to be thrown than any of the italian officers who have been competing for championships at the olympia. he remembers, too, that when another woman's horse bolted with her a few weeks previously, miss rostrevor easily outdistanced him in pursuit of the runaway, brought the startled animal to a standstill, and rode off without waiting for a word of thanks from the scared rider. idlers lining the rails, however, ignorant of the identity and capabilities of miss myra rostrevor, watch her struggle with her spirited steed apprehensively if they are ignorant of horsemanship, and with admiration if they are experienced. "ride him, missie, ride him!" ejaculates a lean, bronzed american involuntarily. "gee! some girl! she's sure got you beat, horse, and you know it. sits you as surely as an arizona cowboy, and must have wrists like steel although she's got hands like a baby. attaboy! ... yep, she'll give you your head now, but i'll gamble she'll bring you back quiet as mary's little lamb." he was right. myra rostrevor gave her mount his head for a time and went the length of the row, then reined him in, turned, and trotted him back at a pace that would scarce have shaken up the most liverish of the indian colonels. she eventually brought her horse to a standstill close to the rails, and patted his neck as she bent forward to chat smilingly to a tall, fair young man of aristocratic appearance and languid air. "i said it! some good-looker, too," resumed the american, and turned to a well-groomed stranger next to him, after eyeing the graceful horsewoman admiringly. "say, sir, do you happen to know who that young lady is?" he inquired. "yes, i happen to know the young lady," responded the other, politely willing to satisfy the american's curiosity. "she is a miss rostrevor, daughter of a very old irish family, and as wild a madcap as ever came out of the emerald isle." "she looks it," the american commented. "there's a spice of devil in her expression, and i see she has red hair. i guess the man who marries her will sure need a bearing rein and a special bit and snaffle to keep that young beauty in order. but i'll bet she's not short of admirers, and lots of fellers'd jump at the chance of marrying her, and risk her kicking over the traces?" "you are perfectly right, sir," answered the englishman, with an amused laugh. "miss rostrevor has a host of admirers, which is hardly surprising, considering her remarkable beauty. several young men have lost their heads about her, and she is credited--or should it be debited?--with having broken several hearts. incidentally, the man to whom she is talking might be interested in your remark about the necessity for a special bit and snaffle. he and miss rostrevor are engaged to be married." "is that so?" drawled the american, gazing at the engaged couple with undisguised curiosity. "what is he? a lord, or duke, or something of the sort?" "no, he hasn't any title, but he is well-connected, and is one of the wealthiest and most eligible young men in england. his name is antony standish, and his income is reputed to be something like a hundred thousand pounds a year. his father was sir mark standish, a great iron-master and coal magnate." "you don't say! lemme see. one hundred thousand pounds. that's round about five hundred thousand dollars. some income! what does mr. antony standish do?" "nothing, if you are referring to work. he does the usual society rounds, takes an interest in racing, and roams the world occasionally in a palatial steam yacht. one does not have to worry about work if one has an income of one hundred thousand pounds a year." "no, i guess i'd somehow manage to struggle along on half a million dollars a year myself and kiss work good-bye," said the american, with a broad grin. "the little lady sure seems to have made a catch, sir, judging from what you've told me, and yet mr. antony standish somehow don't look to me to be her style. by the look of miss rostrevor, and the way she handled that horse, i should have guessed her fancy would have run to something more of the big, he-man type, instead of to a society dandy. but one can never tell where women are concerned. and five hundred thousand dollars a year will make any kind of guy almost any kind of girl's ideal." antony standish was not a "guy," in the colloquial english sense of the word, but he was hardly the type of man one would have imagined as likely to capture the heart of the high-spirited irish beauty. he was good-looking, with a fair complexion and a little sandy moustache, and he carried himself with the air of a patrician, but his face lacked character, and he had rather a weak chin. he had earned the reputation of being one of the best-dressed men in london, had a host of friends, most of whom called him "tony," and he was talked of as "a good sport." "sure, and i wasn't showing off at all, at all, tony," myra rostrevor was saying to him in her soft, musical voice with a delightfully attractive touch of the brogue. "it was tiger here that was trying to show off and make himself out to be my master.... weren't ye, tiger?" she patted the sleek neck of her horse again as she spoke, and he pricked his ears and tossed his head as if he understood. "there isn't any horse or man who is going to master myra rostrevor," she added. "that sounds like a challenge, myra," drawled tony standish smilingly. "how do you know but what i may adopt cave-man tactics after we are married, and attempt to beat you into submission?" myra tossed her red-gold head much in the same way as her spirited mount had tossed his, and trilled out a laugh. "i think, tony, you'd be even less successful than tiger, and more sorry for yourself than he is after your very first attempt," she responded. "so perhaps i'd better not make a first attempt, even in the hope of getting a pat on the neck afterwards," laughed tony. there was pride and admiration in his pale blue eyes as he looked up at the girl who had promised to marry him. he was the owner of many priceless art treasures, none of which, however, was half as beautiful in his eyes as myra rostrevor. her beauty was unique, and even in an assembly of lovely women she would have attracted attention. yet her features were not classically perfect, her small nose had the faintest suspicion of tip-tilt, and there was nothing stately or majestic about her. no one had ever compared her to a greek goddess, but even artists raved about her beauty and charm, and competed for the privilege of painting her portrait. she was slim but shapely. her hair was the auburn that titian loved to paint, with a golden gleam in it, as if a sunbeam had become entangled and failed to escape. her complexion, innocent of powder or cosmetics, was clear and delicate as a rose-leaf but with the faintest tinge of healthy tan. her eyes, blue as summer seas, were fringed with long, dark lashes, and she had an aggravatingly seductive dimple in each cheek, and another in the centre of her daintily-rounded chin. a lovely, fascinating and bewitching girl, whom the fates and the fairies had endowed with that undefinable gift we call "charm." and myra had charmed the hearts out of many men, while remaining herself heart-whole. she was still heart-whole although she was engaged to be married to tony standish, and she had left her fiancé no illusions on that point. "yes, i'll marry you, tony, but i don't love you," she had told him, when he proposed a second time after having been rejected on the first occasion. "i'm going to marry you because aunt clarissa insists i must marry a rich man, and you happen to be the least objectionable rich man who wants me. i like you, tony, and think you are rather a dear, but i want you to understand i'm not in love, and you will be buying me. i'm selling myself simply because i love all the good things of life, because you can pay for them, and because aunt clarissa keeps badgering me to marry and i am dependent on her for practically everything." "you have turned down other fellows as rich as i am who were crazy about you, and other men much more attractive, so you must love me a little, myra dear," tony had responded. "i am going to make you love me a lot." antony standish had a good conceit of himself, which was hardly surprising, for he was the only child of a very rich man, had been pampered and made much of in his childhood, and later had been toadied to and sought after by women as well as men, first as heir to, and subsequently as the actual possessor of, a vast fortune. many girls with an eye on the main chance had set their caps at him, angled for him, and made no secret of their willingness to become mrs. antony standish, and tony was not unaware of the fact. perhaps it was because myra rostrevor had always seemed to be totally indifferent to him that he had lost his heart to her, and made up his mind to win her and make her his wife at all costs. it had not been easy, but tony had found a very willing ally in the person of myra's aunt, clarissa, lady fermanagh. for lady fermanagh was only too anxious to get her orphan niece off her hands, not only because myra was an expense, but because her madcap exploits occasionally drove her almost to distraction, while her heartbreaking flirtations were the cause of gossip. like her fiancé, myra was an only child, who had been allowed to do everything she liked practically since infancy, and had come to expect, and accept, homage, almost as a right. her father, sir dennis rostrevor, had at one time been wealthy, but had lost practically everything in the rebellion, when the great house that had been the home of the rostrevors for generations was burned to the ground. the loss broke his heart and killed him, and his death almost broke myra's heart and left her for a time distraught and inconsolable, for she had loved and adored her handsome and indulgent father. time, however, speedily heals grief's wounds when one is in the early twenties, and in the social whirl of english society myra had all but forgotten her loss and the dark days of tragedy in ireland. "will you be at home if i call round in an hour or so?" inquired tony, as myra was about to move off, her horse becoming restive again. "i've got something important to discuss." "let me see," answered myra. "i've got a luncheon appointment, then i'm going on to hurlingham, dining with the fitzpatricks, and going on later to lady trencrom's dance. have to see my hairdresser and manicurist at eleven this morning, but i expect i shall be free by noon. call about twelve, tony, and don't forget to bring some chocolate and cigarettes with you." "righto, old thing!" said tony smilingly, and his eyes followed myra as she cantered away, the cynosure of many admiring glances. tony liked her to be admired. it seemed a compliment to his own good taste and discrimination. he liked to think that other men envied him his position as myra's accepted lover. it pleased him to be pointed out as the lucky man who had won the heart and hand of the beautiful miss rostrevor, and he was not unconscious of the fact that he was being pointed out as he strolled along the row after watching myra out of sight. "i remembered your instructions, darling," he announced, when he called on his betrothed at her aunt's house in mayfair a couple of hours later. "here we are! chocs, your favourite brand of cigarettes, a few roses, and--er--just a little thing here that caught my eyes in asprey's window, which i thought you might like." the "little thing" he produced from his pocket was a platinum bracelet set with diamonds, and myra uttered an involuntary exclamation of admiration as she opened the case containing it. "how lovely! sure, but you're an extravagant darlint, tony! you deserve a kiss for this." she just brushed tony's cheek with her lips, and evaded him when he tried to enfold her in his arms. "myra, darling, i want to fix a date for our wedding," said tony. "let's get married before the season is over, or early in the autumn, and spend a long honeymoon in the east or in the south seas. i want to make you all mine as soon as possible, dear. let's arrange to get married next month." myra's smile faded, and she shook her red-gold head. "tony, darlint, i don't want to marry you just yet," she answered gently. "i told you when we became engaged that you must give me time to get accustomed to the idea of becoming your wife, time to try to fall in love with you first." "why not reverse the usual procedure, marry me first and fall in love with me after?" suggested tony, and again myra shook her head. "i love taking risks, tony, but that would be too great a risk," she responded. "it would be ghastly for us both if i married you and found myself incapable of loving you, and tragic if i fell in love with somebody else later. please be patient, tony. i am really and truly trying to fall in love with you." "and you know i am tremendously in love with you, myra, and want to make you all my own," said tony, capturing her hands. "i know i can make you love me, and we will be enormously happy after we are married. do be a darling and let me fix a date for our wedding." "be a dear, tony, and don't press me," pleaded myra. "we are happy enough as we are, and since we became engaged and aunt clarissa ceased to badger me, i've been having a gorgeous time. let's postpone fixing a date for our marriage until next spring, by which time i may be sure of my own heart. perhaps it's an old-fashioned idea, but i'd like to be in love with the man i marry." "i say, myra!" exclaimed tony, as if struck by a sudden idea, after a few moments of silence. "i say! a promise is a promise, you know. you won't throw me over and make me look and feel an ass, will you, if you should happen to meet someone you think you like better than me? you've promised to be my wife, you know." "yes, i know, tony, but i also know you are too much of a sportsman to hold me to my promise if i should happen to fall in love with another man," myra responded. "that isn't in the least likely to happen, tony dear, and i am truly trying to love you in the way a girl should love the man she has promised to marry, as i have already told you. let me have my freedom and my fling for a few months longer." "well, i suppose it isn't any use my trying to bully you into marrying me at once," said tony, with a shrug, a sigh, and a wry smile. "but you know i'm tremendously in love with you, darling, and i can't help feeling jealous of the fellows who still go on dancing attendance on you although you are engaged to me. i'm haunted by the fear of someone stealing you from me." "tony, darlint, you've no need to be jealous," myra smilingly assured him, and patted his cheek. "there isn't anyone else. dozens of men profess to be in love with me, but there isn't a single man--or a married man either--that i'm the slightest little bit in love with. so don't worry! i promise you that if ever i do meet a man whom i'd rather marry than you, i'll tell you." and with that tony had, perforce, to be content. chapter ii a few hours later myra was one of a fashionable and interested crowd watching the polo at hurlingham. an exciting match was in progress, and myra cried out enthusiastically as one of the players, after a thrilling mêlée, made a splendid shot, followed up, beat the defence, and scored a magnificent goal. "oh, well played, sir, well played!" myra exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping her hands. "who is he, jimmy?" she added, turning to her escort, who was also applauding. "do you know him?" "i was introduced to him at a dinner at the spanish legation the other evening," her friend answered. "he's governor of a province, or something of the sort, in spain, and a most interesting chap. told me he spends most of his time out there hunting brigands and outlaws. speaks english perfectly, and is good-looking enough to be a film star. mentioned that he played polo and hoped to get a game to-day, but didn't hint that he was a star performer. i've got a rotten memory for names, but he's called don carlos de something-or-other." he consulted his programme. "ah! here we are! don carlos de ruiz.... look! he's on the ball again. well hit indeed, sir!" at the end of the game myra, at her own request, was introduced to don carlos de ruiz, who was smilingly receiving the congratulations of english friends on his splendid play. at close quarters she found him to be a man of about thirty-five, very handsome, with clean-cut features, pale complexion, jet-black hair with a natural crinkle in it, and dark, inscrutable eyes that gleamed like black diamonds. "delighted to meet you, señor," said myra, deciding at first glance he was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. "congratulations on the win. you played wonderfully." "i am flattered and honoured, miss rostrevor," said don carlos, bowing low over her hand. "praise from the most beautiful woman in england is praise indeed!" he kissed her finger-tips, and myra was conscious of an unusual thrill as she involuntarily jerked her hand away. "obviously you have the equivalent of a blarney stone in spain, don carlos," she commented with a laugh, looking up into the bold dark eyes that were regarding her with undisguised admiration. "do you play much polo in your own country, señor?" "alas, no!" don carlos answered. "my home is in the wilds of the sierra morena, miss rostrevor, and one has few opportunities for playing polo there. but we have good sport, nevertheless. we spend much of our time hunting a notorious brigand known as el diablo cojuelo, who plays hide-and-seek with us and defies capture. he kidnaps all the most beautiful of our girls, robs our rich men, and gives most of the proceeds of his robberies to the poor. the rascal even had the audacity to capture me and hold me to ransom. i had no alternative but to pay the price he demanded. subsequently i led troops into the mountains in search of him, but he had vanished into thin air and has not since been seen. however, his disappearance and the cessation of his activities have enabled me to take a holiday, and i hope to spend some months in england. i fervently trust, miss rostrevor, that i shall have the pleasure of meeting you often." "thank you," said myra, greatly interested. "i thought brigands were a thing of the past, and what you have told me makes me long to visit spain. it would be tremendously thrilling to be captured and held to ransom by a spanish brigand." "dear lady, if you were captured by el diablo cojuelo, all the riches of the indies would not ransom you," don carlos responded, with a smile that showed a double row of gleaming white teeth. "cojuelo is a connoisseur of feminine beauty, and were he fortunate enough to capture you, i feel certain nothing would induce him to part with you." "there must certainly be the equivalent of a blarney stone in spain," laughed myra, nodding good-bye and turning away to rejoin her friends. she met don carlos de ruiz again that night at lady trencrom's dance, looking handsome and distinguished in full evening kit, with medals and orders in miniature glinting on his left lapel and a jewelled decoration on his breast. he recognised her instantly, and made his way masterfully through the crowd that surrounded her at the first interval. "i shall have the pleasure of the next dance with you, miss rostrevor?" he said, and it struck myra that his words were more by way of being an assertion than a question or a request. "indeed, señor, and you won't," she retorted in her soft irish voice. "i'm dancing the next with my fiancé, mr. tony standish. here he is coming now... tony, my dear, this is don carlos de ruiz, who plays polo like an angel." "didn't know that angels played polo, but i'm pleased to meet you, don carlos," drawled standish. "frightful crush, isn't it?" "miss rostrevor was going to dance the next number with me, mr. standish, but suddenly remembered she had promised to dance with you," said don carlos, with smiling sang-froid, as he shook hands. "if you would be so good as to resign your right in my favour--" he paused with a questioning glance at tony, who looked a trifle bewildered. "why--er--of course, if miss rostrevor so wishes," tony said, just as the band struck up; and before myra quite realised what was happening she found herself gliding round the room in the arms of don carlos. "you certainly are not lacking in nerve, señor, and you apparently have no regard for the truth," she commented, recovering from her astonishment. "i never said i was going to dance with you." "sweet lady, i would perjure my soul for the privilege and pleasure of dancing with you," don carlos responded, smiling down into her blue eyes. "it is an honour and a delight to have for partner the most beautiful and charming girl in england. you dance divinely, señorita, and are light as thistledown in my arms. my soul is enchanted, enraptured!" "away with your blarney!" exclaimed myra, half-laughingly, half-impatiently, but conscious of a queer little thrill as she met his smiling glance. "do you pay every woman you meet such fulsome and extravagant compliments, señor?" "no, señorita, i am a connoisseur," answered don carlos, his tone quite serious but his black eyes twinkling. "and no compliment could be extravagant if applied to you, dear lady. one would have to be a great poet to find words to do justice to your beauty and charm." he had a deep, musical voice which was infinitely attractive, and myra found herself more than a little fascinated, and felt that she could listen to him all evening. but she tossed her red-gold head and laughed lightly. "should i respond by telling you in honeyed words that you dance as well as you play polo, and congratulate you on being a most delightful conversationalist?" she inquired in bantering tones. "please don't be absurd!" "absurd?" repeated don carlos. "sweet señorita, i am but speaking what is in my heart. never have i seen any woman to compare with you. you are wonderful--my ideal! do you believe in love at first sight?" "it's surely daft the man is!" remarked myra to the ceiling, before looking again into the bright eyes of her partner. "pardon me, don carlos, but you are carrying your extravagant nonsense too far," she added. don carlos raised his dark eyebrows in mock-surprise and sighed heavily. "how have i offended, señorita? i have but asked a question which you have not answered. let me explain that i have known women to fall in love with me at first sight, but never before have i myself been a victim." "sure, and it's a good conceit of himself the don has, and he needs taking down a peg or two," said myra to herself. "i am afraid i don't believe in love at first sight, don carlos, and the idea of any woman falling in love with you at first sight only makes me feel inclined to laugh," she said aloud. "of course, the english conception of what love is and means may be totally different from the spanish." "but you are not of the cold-blooded english," don carlos objected, skilfully guiding her through the maze of dancers. "i have heard that the irish are as warm-blooded as the latins, and can love and hate with the same passionate intensity. you, i feel sure, dear lady, would be capable of loving wonderfully were your heart really awakened. and some instinct tells me it is i who will awaken your heart and kindle the fires of passion dormant within you." the words, spoken in a low, caressing tone, thrilled myra anew, but she made pretence of being shocked and offended. "you flatter yourself, señor," she said, with a disdainful glance and a note of contempt in her sweet voice. "unless you are entirely ignorant of english conventionalities, your remarks are unpardonable. would you care to repeat to mr. standish, to whom i am engaged to be married, what you have just said?" "yes, if you so desire," responded don carlos calmly. "conventionalities--english or otherwise--do not concern me. i follow the dictates of my heart in all things, and i am master of my own destiny. shall i tell your mr. standish that i fell in love with you the first moment i saw you, and that i mean to take you from him by hook or by crook?" "i think you must be crazy!" exclaimed myra, at heart just a little scared, but more than a little fascinated. "surely even in the wilds of spain it is considered dishonourable to attempt to make love to a girl who is betrothed to another man? "not if one is prepared to fight the other man," don carlos replied, with a sudden smile. "i am quite prepared to fight for you, believe me. as for making love, dear lady, i have not even yet begun to make love to you in earnest. my love is a raging torrent which will overwhelm you and sweep you off your feet, a raging fire which will set your heart aflame in sympathy." "i'm thinking, don carlos, that you must be a bit irish yourself to mix up torrents and flames, and the sooner you let the torrent put your fires out the better i'll be pleased," said myra, with forced lightness, after a pause, during which she decided it would be best to treat the whole matter as a joke. "incidentally, you are carrying your jest too far, and i shall be seriously annoyed if you persist in this nonsense." "even if i have mixed my metaphors, señorita, i assure you i have never been more serious in my life," don carlos retorted. "may i call on you to-morrow to convince you of that fact?" "no, thank you, señor," answered myra. "and if you are really in earnest, i shall instruct the servants that i am never at home to don carlos de ruiz." "you are cruel, dear lady, but i warn you i am not to be rebuffed," said don carlos. "love will surely find a way." the music ceased as he spoke, and myra disengaged herself from his encircling arm and darted away from him, glad to escape. she could not have analysed her own feelings, and found herself at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. to complain to tony standish seemed futile. tony, if she told him what had happened, would, of course, be indignant and demand an explanation, and myra felt sure in her own mind he would come off second best if there was a scene and a personal encounter. "sure, and is it frightened you are of the conceited spaniard?" she asked herself. "you've prided yourself on being a match for any man, and being able to keep any ardent suitor at arm's length, and here you are in a funk! it's ashamed of you i am, myra rostrevor!" she did actually feel ashamed of herself for being so disturbed by don carlos's extravagant words, and mentally decided she would snub him severely at the first opportunity. the opportunity presented itself sooner than she anticipated. next afternoon she strolled into her aunt's drawing room, and her heart gave a queer little convulsive jump when she found lady fermanagh engaged in animated conversation with don carlos. "myra, dear, i'm so glad you have come in," exclaimed her aunt. "allow me to introduce don carlos de ruiz. don carlos, my niece, miss myra rostrevor." don carlos was en his feet, and he bowed low smilingly. "miss rostrevor and i have already been introduced, dear lady, but i did not know the señorita was your niece," he said. "what a delightful surprise! i had the honour of dancing with miss rostrevor last night at lady trencrom's ball." as on the previous night, myra found herself somewhat at a loss. she gave him her hand, and he bowed over it, holding it a moment longer than necessary. at that moment a footman appeared at the drawing room door. "pardon, your ladyship," he said. "the countess of carbis wishes to speak to you on the telephone." "good! i particularly want to speak to her," said lady fermanagh, rising. "excuse me, don carlos. myra, my dear, give don carlos some tea." don carlos laughed softly as the door closed behind her ladyship, and his dark eyes were sparkling wickedly as he looked at myra. "did i not warn you, sweet lady, that love would find a way?" he said. "we have a proverb in spain that the way to make sure of winning a girl is to make love to her mother. as you have no mother, i made love last night to lady fermanagh, who, i was told, is your guardian, and she invited me to call. hence my presence here. the fates are kind, and now i can make love to you in earnest. myra, darling, my heart is all afire with love for you, and all my being is crying out for you." myra drew herself up to her full height, regarding him disdainfully and endeavouring to put all the hauteur she could summon up into her manner and expression. "here in england, don carlos, we call a man a cad who persists in attempting to force his unwanted attentions on a girl," she remarked icily. "i do not know if there is a spanish equivalent for the word cad." "'cad'? let me think," drawled don carlos, seemingly not a whit rebuffed, his dark eyes still twinkling mischievously. "in spanish, 'cad' would be 'mozo' or 'caballerizo.' 'caballerear' means to set up for a gentleman. you must let me teach you spanish, myra. it is an ideal language in which to make love. let me tell you in spanish that i love you, that you are the most beautiful, adorable, fascinating and seductive girl i have ever met, the loveliest and most enticing creature ever created, the woman of my dreams, my ideal, and my predestined mate." "let me tell you in plain english that you are the most impudent, offensive and exasperating man i have ever met!" exclaimed myra, shaken by a gust of angry resentment. "i don't want to talk to you, señor, and i repeat that you are behaving like a cad!" don carlos sighed lugubriously and turned up his eyes to the ceiling. "i am spurned!" he lamented, as if soliloquising. "i am desolated! the most wonderfully beautiful girl in the world rebuffs me and calls me a cad when i offer her my heart and the love for which many another woman would barter her very soul! my myra thinks i am the most exasperating and impudent man in the world! condenacion! still, i must be unique in one respect!" he lowered his eyes to look at myra again. "so this is english hospitality, señorita!" he resumed, after a pause. "the lady fermanagh, your charming aunt, told you to offer me tea, but not even a spoonful have you proffered me." he assumed such an absurdly pathetic expression that myra laughed in spite of herself, and quite forgot to continue to be angry and offended. "you are an utterly impossible person, don carlos," she commented, dimpling into smiles. "sit down and let me give you tea and anything else you want." "ten thousand thanks, myra!" cried don carlos. "how wonderful! anything else i want! the tea does not matter, but i want ten thousand kisses from the woman who has entranced and enraptured my heart. i want to hold you in my arms, myra mine, clasped close to my breast, to set your darling heart afire with burning kisses, to kiss the heart out of you then kiss it back again all aflame with love and longing. myra, darling, i love you as i have never loved before, and i want you for my wife." he stretched out his arms as if to enfold myra in them, but she evaded him adroitly. she had been listening half-fascinated, conscious of the spell of his personality, thrilled by the passionate tones of his deep, musical voice, but she broke the spell and recovered herself in an instant. "quite an effective piece of play-acting!" she remarked, forcing a laugh. "you really should be on the stage, don carlos, or acting for the movies. i feel sure you would be a success as a film actor, and all the flappers would lose their hearts to you. will you have some tea?" "myra, i am not acting," don carlos protested, at last showing signs of chagrin. "i am in deadly earnest. i love you and want you, and the devil himself will not prevent me from making you my own." "his satanic majesty need not concern himself with the affair at all, at all," retorted myra, regarding him coldly. "let me save him the trouble by assuring you that your eloquent and melodramatic protestations of love leave me cold, and your boast that no woman has ever been able to resist you inspired me only with contempt for your conceit. let me remind you again, also, that i am engaged to be married to mr. antony standish, and assure you i have not the slightest intention of transferring my affections from an english gentleman to a spaniard who evidently prides himself on being a sort of modern don juan." don carlos's face went white beneath the tan as he listened to the scathing words, and a gleam of anger flashed into his dark eyes. "you do me an injustice, and i think you are doing your own heart an injustice, myra," he said, in a curiously quiet voice, after a momentary pause. "if----" "i object to your calling me by my christian name," myra interposed abruptly, intent on snubbing him. "may i remind you we met for the first time yesterday. i can hardly imagine that in your own country you would dare to call a girl 'myra' a few hours after meeting her for the first time." "my dear miss rostrevor, i can lay my hand on my heart and assure you on my word of honour that never in spain have i ever called a girl 'myra,' either within a few hours or a few years of our first meeting," said don carlos, his eyes beginning to twinkle again. "that may be explained by the fact that i have never heard the name before. but i think it is a charming name, which somehow fits you. incidentally, señorita, may i venture to point out that you have been addressing me as 'don carlos,' instead of as 'señor de ruiz'? you have been calling me by my christian name." "that was only because i thought 'don' was a sort of spanish equivalent of 'sir' in english," myra responded, somewhat taken aback. "here i should address a knight or a baronet as 'sir charles' without the slightest idea of being familiar, but i should not expect him to respond by addressing me as 'myra.' do i make myself plain?" "dear lady, you could never make yourself plain, you who are so beautiful, but you are explicit," answered don carlos with a radiant smile that made him look quite boyish. "i stand rebuked, myra, but i am impenitent. surely one is not committing a crime by calling the girl one loves by her christian name? i would prefer to call you cara mia or querida, which are the spanish equivalents for my beloved and sweetheart, but, of course, as you seem to think i----" "señor de ruiz, i have had enough of this nonsense!" myra interrupted, impatiently. "your attempts at love-making are utterly distasteful, and if you imagine you are going to add me to your list of conquests you are a case for a mental specialist." "alas!" exclaimed don carlos, and again sighed heavily. "you seem to think i am a sort of mountebank who makes a hobby of paying court to women. you misjudge me, myra. true, i have made love to women before, true, many have fallen in love with me and thrown themselves at my head--as you say in english. true----" "you are boasting again," interposed myra once more. "i have no desire or inclination to listen to an account of your amorous conquests." "but you must listen, myra," said don carlos earnestly. "you misjudge me. true, there have been many women in my life, but not one who inspired love, not one to whom i offered my heart, not one whom i had any wish to marry. long ago it was foretold by a gipsy gifted with second sight that i should meet my fate in my thirty-fifth year in a foreign land, meet my ideal, the woman of my dreams. that prophecy has come true. the moment our eyes first met yesterday i knew you were the woman for whom i had been seeking and waiting. it is useless to fight against destiny, myra. i shall win you by hook or by crook, and make you all mine." "that sounds like a challenge, don carlos," retorted myra with forced lightness. "as you believe in gipsy forecasts, however, let me tell you that a gipsy woman 'read my hand' a few years ago, warned me to beware of a tall, dark man, and foretold that i should marry a tall, fair man. if she was right, you are obviously the tall, dark man of whom i am to beware, just as tony standish is the man i am destined to marry." "pouf! i pay no heed to the foolish prattle of so-called gipsy fortune-tellers," said don carlos, smiling again. "the seer who foretold that i should meet and win you was king of the spanish gypsies, and his every prophecy comes true." "well, to make his prophecy come true as far as you are concerned, don carlos, you will have to fall in love with someone other than me," responded myra. "hadn't you better have some tea, señor?" chapter iii to myra's relief, lady fermanagh returned just then, full of apologies for having been detained so long at the telephone. "i hope myra has been keeping you entertained, señor," she inquired, and don carlos nodded smilingly. "more than entertained, lady fermanagh," he answered. "miss rostrevor and i have been discussing predestination. i have been telling her it was foretold by the king of the gypsies that in this, my thirty-fifth year, i should meet my ideal, the woman predestined to be my wife. i have met her. the prophecy has come true." "i'm afraid it is another case of mistaken identity, aunt clarissa," interposed myra. "señor de ruiz has made the amazing and amusing suggestion that i am the woman! did you ever hear anything more absurd?" she thought to cover don carlos with confusion, but he did not turn a hair. "alas, lady fermanagh, your charming niece refuses to take me seriously!" he smilingly lamented. "it seems she was warned as a child to beware of a tall, dark, handsome man, and to put no faith in his honeyed words. i am desolated--but only temporarily!" "from what i can make of it, you appear to have been engaged in a 'leg-pulling' contest," commented lady fermanagh, darting a quick glance from one to the other, and deciding that myra was probably evolving some mischievous joke. "you don't mean to tell me seriously, don carlos, that you have any faith in the predictions of a gipsy?" "dear lady, since the king of the gypsies predicted i should get my heart's desire, surely it would be almost heresy to doubt?" don carlos replied, with a side-glance at myra. "in my own country i have the reputation always of gaining anything on which i set my heart, and here i intend to live up to my reputation. assuredly the gypsy king's prediction will come true, your ladyship." he took his leave a few minutes later, pleasing lady fermanagh greatly by bowing low over her hand and raising her fingers to his lips. "one of the most charming men i have met for years," the old lady remarked, when the door closed behind him. "he is a true spanish grandee, with all the grace of a born courtier. i think it was exceedingly rude of you, myra, to snatch your hand away as you did when don carlos was going to kiss your fingertips." "personally, aunt, i think he is the most arrogant, ill-mannered and insufferably conceited man i have ever met," myra responded warmly. "he openly boasts that no woman can resist him, prides himself on his conquests, and while you were out of the room he was making passionate love to me, and only made fun of my attempts to snub him. i hope you won't invite the horrible creature here again." lady fermanagh regarded her in amazement for a few moments, then dissolved into laughter. "oh, you modern girls!" she exclaimed. "you think you know such a lot and are so advanced, yet you are as easily scared or fooled as any country maiden in victorian times." "my dear aunt, don carlos de ruiz can neither scare nor fool me," protested myra; "but surely i have a right to object to his attempting to make love to me when he knows i am engaged to tony standish." "remember he is a spaniard, my dear," said her aunt, with a tolerant smile. "the greatest compliment a latin can pay a woman is to make love to her--and the majority make love merely by way of being complimentary. don carlos de ruiz probably makes love to every woman he meets, which very likely explains why he is so popular. why, my dear, he almost made love to me!" "but he didn't tell you he wanted to marry you, did he, aunt clarissa, swear he would win you by hook or by crook, and vow that old nick himself would not prevent him from making you his own?" inquired myra, beginning to smile again. lady fermanagh laughed heartily. "no, my dear, he certainly did not go as far as that," she answered. "you don't mean to tell me he actually said something to that effect to you?" "yes, both last night at the dance, and again a few minutes ago--and he said it as if he meant it. i have half a mind to ask tony to tell the arrogantly conceited spaniard not to pester me with his attentions again." "my dear child, don't make yourself ridiculous by doing anything so foolish. you need not take don carlos too seriously. he is very much a man of the world, probably something of a don juan, and likely makes love as a pastime. i met many of his type when your uncle was in the diplomatic service--wealthy bachelors who made love to almost every pretty woman they met, provided always, however, that the woman was married or engaged, and there was no danger of being caught in the matrimonial net. i should say, my dear, judging from my experience, that don carlos probably would only have paid you compliments instead of making love to you, if he had not known you were engaged." "that sort of philanderer deserves to be kicked or horsewhipped, aunt clarissa, for making a mockery of love." "oh, i don't know about that, my dear myra. after all, as i have told you, men of the latin races make love almost indiscriminately by way of paying a compliment, and pretty women in spain, italy, or france, would feel quite insulted if the men to whom they were introduced did not profess to be hopelessly in love with them. if you had lived abroad, myra, you would feel flattered rather than annoyed." "maybe--and maybe not," said myra, with a toss of her red-gold head. "if you are right, then don carlos is merely trying to amuse himself at my expense. i have no use for a professional philanderer who imagines that no woman can resist him. him and his king of the gypsies prophecy! pouf!" yet as she dressed for dinner a little later she found herself recalling the passionate words of don carlos, remembering the ardent light in his dark eyes, the vibrant note in his deep, musical voice, found herself wondering, wondering, and wishing with all her heart that tony standish was a little more like don carlos de ruiz. "i'm not scared of him, and i am certainly not going to lose my heart to him," myra whispered to her reflection in the mirror. "if aunt clarissa is right, he is only making love to me for his own amusement, and would sheer off if i took him seriously and expected him to marry me. a pretty fool i should look if i fell in love with him, broke off my engagement to tony, and then don carlos levanted! but i'm not going to fall in love with him.... he certainly is fascinating, and he would be a wonderful lover if he were in earnest, but he can't make a fool of myra rostrevor. i'll show the conceited creature that there is one girl at least who does not find him irresistible, and i'll give him the cold shoulder again at the first opportunity." yet again she had the opportunity sooner than she had expected. almost it seemed as if the fates were playing into the hands of don carlos. that very evening myra discovered, to her inward consternation, that don carlos de ruiz was the guest of honour at the dinner-dance to which she had been invited, and her hostess, finding they had met before, placed them together at the dinner table. "truly, the gods are good, fair lady!" exclaimed don carlos, his dark eyes sparkling. "i am the most fortunate of men to have so lovely and charming a partner. and i think i have reason to congratulate myself on contriving to surprise you twice within a few hours." "a very unpleasant surprise," commented myra coldly. "after what happened an hour or two ago, i should have begged to be excused from this party if i had known you would be present." "alas! señorita, it is sad to find you still rebelling against destiny," said don carlos. "yet i am flattered, for your desire to avoid me does but prove you are afraid of losing your heart to me, and you know that only by avoiding me can you delay the day of surrender." "sure, señor, if conceit were a disease you would have died of it long since," retorted myra, and turned to talk to the man on her other side. she ignored don carlos completely for some time, but she found herself listening to his deep, musical voice as he chatted to his hostess and modestly acknowledged compliments fired at him across the table by a polo enthusiast. when common politeness at last compelled her to turn to speak to him again, it was to find his eyes still twinkling mischievously. "a thousand thanks, señorita, for giving me the opportunity of admiring your beautiful back for so long," he said in a low voice. "it is flawless. your skin is smooth as polished marble, yet soft and sweet as the petals of a rose." "your compliments are becoming tedious, señor," myra remarked, assuming an air of boredom. "am i expected to endure this kind of talk all evening?" "all the days of your life, i hope, señorita," don carlos answered calmly. "in the intervals of making love to you, myra, i shall sing the praises of your beauty even after you are all mine." "don carlos, you are quite impossible!" exclaimed myra. "i warn you again i shall take precautions to avoid you in future if you persist in this folly." "that will necessitate your cancelling all your engagements, or nearly all of them, for the rest of the season," responded don carlos. "already i have contrived to obtain an invitation to practically every function at which you are likely to be present. your aunt was good enough to show me your engagement book this afternoon. dear lady, i assure you that you will find it difficult to avoid me." myra fancied he was boasting again, but he was stating facts, as she subsequently discovered. at practically every society function she attended during the next few weeks, save for a few private parties, don carlos de ruiz was a fellow guest, and invariably he contrived to talk to her and make love, even when tony standish was also present, and ignored the snubs and rebuffs she administered. "sure, and i'm beginning to feel something like the fox must feel when the hounds are in full cry after him," soliloquised myra, as she drove home one night after another vain attempt to rebuff don carlos. "no wonder he is able to boast of so many conquests if he has pursued every other woman who took his fancy as relentlessly as he is pursuing me! what can i do?" what made myra's position the more embarrassing was that de ruiz and standish had become very friendly, don carlos having exercised his personal magnetism to the utmost to win tony's regard. one hobby they actually had in common was collecting old jade, and on discovering this don carlos sent to spain for two of the choicest and rarest of his pieces--ancient chinese sword ornaments of jade set with gold. these he presented to tony, who was delighted, but protested that he could not accept so valuable a gift without making some return. "later, i promise you, my dear standish, i shall take one of your treasures," said don carlos in his charming way. "meanwhile accept these trifles as a token of my esteem. it is a joy to give to a fellow collector something which money cannot buy, and it will be a delight to take from you something you prize. by the way, let me remind you again of your promise to come to my place in spain this winter to see my collection. i shall be pleased and honoured to entertain you and any of your friends at el castillo de ruiz." "thanks. frightfully good of you, don carlos," said tony. "if i make my usual cruise in my yacht this year i shall certainly make a point of visiting you. i say, if you are not already booked, what about doing me the honour of being one of my guests at auchinleven in august for the shooting, and then being one of the yachting party later on if i arrange a cruise. i shall be charmed if you will." "my dear mr. standish, you are too good," exclaimed don carlos, with unaffected delight. "ten thousand thanks! nothing will give me greater pleasure. i gladly and gratefully accept your invitation, but you must promise to allow me to attempt to return your hospitality in spain. i cannot promise you much in the way of sport, except, perhaps, a little brigand shooting, but i can promise you some novel experiences." "thanks awfully," said tony. "i must tell myra, and show her your beautiful present." myra gazed at her fiancé in wide-eyed amazement and consternation when she heard the news. "tony standish, you must be blind and crazy!" she burst out tempestuously. "i won't come to auchinleven if don carlos is to be one of your house party. i won't! surely you must have seen for yourself that don carlos has been making love to me on every possible occasion for weeks? yes, right in front of your very nose, tony. he said he would see to it that we were fellow-guests for the shooting--and now you have invited him to auchinleven!" "i--er--i say, myra, this is news to me," exclaimed tony, flabbergasted. "you--er--you don't actually mean to say that don carlos has been making love to you in earnest? i can't imagine his doing such a thing. i mean to say he--er--he seems an awfully good sort, although he is a foreigner, and he and i have become quite pally. he seems quite a good sport, and he does not strike me as being the sort of chap who would poach on another fellow's preserves. really, myra, this is quite a shock!" "if you are referring to me as your 'preserves,' tony, don carlos has certainly been poaching--or trying to poach," said myra. "he persists in making love to me and refuses to be rebuffed, and he has repeatedly sworn that he will take me from you and make me his own at all costs." "the deuce he has!" ejaculated tony, surprised, indignant, and flustered. "i say, myra dear, i--er--i wish--er--i wish you'd told me this before--i mean before he and i became pally, i had no idea he was really making love to you. no idea, i assure you. if i'd known, i certainly wouldn't have invited him to auchinleven or accepted his presents. now i don't know what the deuce to do. i'm in a frightfully awkward position. frightfully awkward!" "frightfully awkward!" myra mimicked. "oh, tony, don't be such a duffer! unless you want to lose me, you've got to tell don carlos de ruiz--and tell him very, very plainly--that his attempts to make love to me and win me away from you have got to stop. you've got to warn him off." "why, of course i will, darling," said tony, in flustered haste. "confound the fellow! i should not have believed it of him. never heard of such outrageous conduct. i'll go and see him at once, myra, and warn him that if he dares to attempt to make love to you again i'll--er--i'll show him! yes, by jove!" he rushed off, full of righteous indignation but still feeling he was in a "frightfully awkward position," to interview don carlos, whom he found wearing a silken dressing gown and stretched out luxuriously among cushions on a settee in his suite at the ritz. "my dear standish, how good of you to return my call so soon!" cried don carlos, rising with a welcoming smile as tony was shown in. "i am truly delighted to see you. you know what a pleasure is an unexpected visit from a friend when one is feeling bored. sit down and make yourself comfortable, my dear standish, and let me mix you a drink." "er--no, thank you," said standish, disarmed to some extent at the outset, for he felt it would be boorish and "bad form" to have a row with a man who seemed to hold him in high regard. "no, i won't have a drink. as a matter of fact, don carlos, i have called to see you in connection with--er--with a delicate personal matter." "my dear mr. standish, i am flattered that you should make me your confidant, and i shall be only too pleased if i can assist you." "assist me! hang it all, sir, you--er--you don't seem to understand!" spluttered tony, taken aback again, but determined, nevertheless, to "have it out" with the spaniard. "i--er--i haven't called to take you into my confidence or anything of the sort. i have come to demand an explanation." "an explanation?" don carlos raised his black eyebrows in seeming bewilderment. "an explanation? concerning what, mr. standish?" "concerning your outrageous conduct, sir," blurted out tony, trying to look fierce, but succeeding only in looking hot and embarrassed. "concerning myra--miss rostrevor. she tells me you have persistently been attempting to make love to her ever since you first met her, and have even gone so far as to ask her to throw me over and elope with you! what the deuce do you mean by it, sir? miss rostrevor, as you are well aware, is engaged to be married to me. how dare you make love to my fiancée?" chapter iv don carlos's eyebrows rose still higher, his lips twitched, and tony standish got the impression that it was only with difficulty he was refraining from laughing outright. that angered him, and his ruddy face became still redder. "well, what have you to say for yourself?" he demanded, after a pause. "this is no laughing matter." "my dear mr. standish, what can i say for myself?" don carlos retorted, quietly and gravely. "your demand for an explanation places me in a most embarrassing position. how should one answer in the circumstances. if miss rostrevor has told you i have been making love to her, i cannot deny the accusation without casting doubt on the word of the most charming and beautiful girl in the world. yet if i admit that miss rostrevor is justified in her accusation, you may decide i have been acting dishonourably, and i shall lose your friendship. condenacion! was ever man placed in such an awkward position!" "look here, you will certainly make matters worse if you dare to insinuate that myra was not telling the truth," exclaimed standish hotly. "i quite appreciate that, my dear mr. standish, and i realise, also, that miss rostrevor would be justified in hating me if i dared to cast doubt on her assertions," said don carlos more gravely than ever, with a sigh and a shrug. "so i must, perforce, confess that i have been making persistent love to miss rostrevor ever since i first met her, and--well, i am quite prepared to take the consequences. how do you deal with such a situation in england? in my country we would fight a duel, and the lady would marry the survivor. should you think of fighting a duel, however, mr. standish, it is only fair to warn you that i am an expert swordsman and a dead shot. how shall we deal with the matter?" baffled, and at a loss to know how to deal with the situation, tony standish glowered at him, with the uncomfortable sensation that he was making a fool of himself, and that don carlos was inwardly laughing at him. "it isn't a matter to jest about," he said stiffly. "that sort of thing isn't done in england, and i must ask you to refrain from approaching miss rostrevor again." "i am desolated, señor!" exclaimed don carlos, with a despairing gesture. "i find it difficult to understand the english conventionalities in the matter of love-making. if you were spanish, my dear standish, you would not complain of my making love to your betrothed unless you were unsure of her and were afraid of my winning her away from you. if you regard me as a dangerous rival, and the adorable miss rostrevor takes me seriously, and you are afraid----" "that isn't the point, don carlos," hastily interposed tony, beginning to regret having made so much fuss. "i--er--i am willing to believe that you have not seriously been trying to steal myra's affections away from me, or that possibly myra may have taken you too seriously." "how can a mere man hope to read what is in the heart of a woman?" responded don carlos, helping himself to a cigarette. "our spanish girls, if they think an accepted lover is not sufficiently devoted and attentive, will complain that another man is making passionate love--thus arousing the lover's jealousy and re-firing him with ardour; and a married woman will invent a lover and complain of his attentions for the same reason, if her husband's love seems to be cooling." "i say, don carlos, are you suggesting that myra complained for that reason--because she thinks i'm not keen enough?" "my dear standish, i am not suggesting anything. i am merely trying to explain the psychology of the women of my own country as i understand it. yet i doubt if englishwomen differ very greatly, after all, from their latin sisters where affairs of the heart are concerned. won't you have a cigarette?" tony accepted a cigarette from the silver-and-cedar-wood box that was slid across the table to him, and he lit it with thoughtful deliberation. had myra complained about don carlos making love to her just to keep him "up to scratch," he was wondering, and found himself more puzzled than ever. he knew that lots of men had been, and probably still were, in love with myra, and that fact made him the more proud to be her accepted lover. he recalled myra's boast that there was no horse or man she could not master, and he found it a little difficult to believe she was really scared of don carlos. "in my country, mr. standish, a man betrothed to a girl as beautiful as miss rostrevor would feel almost insulted if his friends did not openly envy him and protest themselves hopelessly in love with the young lady he had won," resumed don carlos. "the lady herself would feel slighted if the friends of her betrothed did not continue to attempt to make love to her. to profess to be heartbroken because she belongs to another, and to make love to a betrothed girl or a married woman, is surely paying an indirect compliment to the accepted lover or husband, as well as a direct compliment to the lady." "humph! i hadn't thought of it that way," commented tony drily. "it would never have occurred to me for a moment that in making love to myra you were paying me any sort of compliment. here in england, don carlos, any man who persists in making love to an engaged girl or a married woman is asking for trouble. of course, i can appreciate the fact that most women would feel flattered by the thought that a man like you had fallen in love with them, even if you were only pretending out of a desire to be polite, but--er--well, obviously myra appears to be more annoyed than flattered. perhaps, as i said before, she has taken you too seriously." "or possibly not seriously enough," responded don carlos, his grave face crinkling into a smile. "i am hopelessly in love with her, my dear standish, and mean to make her fall in love with me. what are we going to do in the circumstances?" "really, i don't know, don carlos," answered standish, deciding that the other was jesting. "it's frightfully awkward. frightfully! er--you see, old chap, myra says she won't come to auchinleven for the shooting if you are going to be one of the party, and--er--well, as you can understand, that places me in a frightfully awkward position." "i fully realise that, mr. standish," said don carlos very gravely, after a long pause which increased tony's embarrassment. "i, also, am now placed in an awkward position. i have told many of my friends and acquaintances to-day that i have been invited to auchinleven for the shooting by my friend mr. antony standish, and now i shall have to explain to everyone that the invitation is cancelled because my friend fears i shall continue to make love to his fiancée, and miss rostrevor fears i may abduct her, persuade her to elope with me, or something of the sort. yes, decidedly a difficult situation!" "here, i say, don carlos, you'll make me and myra the laughing-stock of london if you tell people that!" tony protested, looking quite distressed. "myra will be furious with me and with you, and--er--i--i suppose you are thinking i am a mean sort of skunk. i'm frightfully sorry! i say, old chap, can't you suggest some way out of the difficulty?" "well, possibly if i were permitted to have a talk with miss rostrevor, and explain why i have been making love to her, she might understand matters better and raise no objection to my figuring as a guest at auchinleven," said don carlos, after another thoughtful pause. "jolly good idea!" tony exclaimed. "i'm quite sure if you explained matters tactfully to myra she would understand you have really only been trying to pay her compliments. myra's a good sort, and i feel sure she will accept your explanation." don carlos made no immediate response. he dropped his cigarette into an ash-tray, rose to his feet with a sigh, and strolled to the window of his sitting room to gaze out absently across the green park. "'there be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which i know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid,'" he said at length, as if to himself. "so it is written in the book of proverbs." "er--i say, old chap, i--i hope you are not going to take this too much to heart," remarked tony, again feeling puzzled and uncomfortable. "if only myra understands and appreciates what your love-making meant----" "i shall be happy--provided she responds in the way i desire," broke in don carlos, swinging round suddenly from the window, his face lighting up into a smile again. "of course, if miss rostrevor is afraid of me, or if you are afraid i shall take her from you and desire to cancel your invitation on that account, i----" "there isn't any question of that, don carlos," tony interrupted in turn. "at least, i--er--i don't think myra is afraid of you. i fancy she has merely misunderstood your intentions." "i should not have imagined that to be possible," said don carlos. "however, when i have discussed the situation with the charming lady, perhaps she will decide to allow me to be a guest at auchinleven. i warn you, my dear standish, that i shall not promise to refrain from making love to her, and will continue to try to win her heart. i think i can take the risk of your challenging me to mortal combat." he looked with a challenging smile at tony, who laughed, imagining that he was making a jest of the whole affair. "i hardly fancy it will be a case of 'pistols for two; coffee for one,'" tony said; "and i feel sure you will be able to make peace with myra. as a matter of fact, don carlos, i am beginning to wonder now if myra has been pulling my leg. she has played jokes on me more than once before and made me feel rather an ass." "perhaps on this occasion the charming lady is playing a joke on both of us," suggested don carlos lightly. "let us drink a toast to her together, although we are such deadly rivals." he slid the decanter across the table invitingly, and tony helped himself to a drink, still imagining that don carlos was jesting, and deciding that myra had again made him feel "rather an ass." "cheerio!" he drawled, raising his glass after don carlos had poured himself a drink. "all the best!" "the toast is miss myra rostrevor, the loveliest and most adorable girl in the world, and may her lover get his heart's desire," cried don carlos gaily, and drained his glass. "thanks awfully!" said tony. "it's frightfully good of you, my dear chap, not to take offence, and i feel sure you will be able to win myra over." "it is my most ardent desire to win myra over, my dear standish," said don carlos, as tony rose to go. "pray convey to her my most respectful salutations, and beg her to receive me this afternoon." it was with mingled amusement and exasperation that myra listened to tony's account of the interview. she could not help feeling that don carlos had turned the tables on tony, and now had it in his power to make her look ridiculous. "i think he is the most conceited and impudent man in the world," she commented. "and he's clever! if i refuse to go to auchinleven, he will tell the world it is because i am afraid of falling in love with him. if you withdraw your invitation to him, he will explain it is because you are afraid he might persuade me to elope with him. he will flatter himself we are both afraid of him, and the affair will become the joke of the season." "yes, i realise that, myra," drawled tony. "he's got that laugh on us, so to speak, and i think it would be best to save our faces by pretending the whole affair was a sort of practical joke on your part. i don't suppose he'll try to make love to you again, and even if he does you will know he is not in earnest." "tony, you duffer, let me assure you he is very much in earnest, and he means to take me from you," said myra. "and i warn you, my dear, that i should probably have fallen for him and jilted you if he wasn't so inordinately proud of himself and hadn't boasted that he would compel me to love him. as it is, i am not sure that i am not in love with him." "i say, myra, you're not pulling my leg again, are you?" asked tony, tugging at his little sandy moustache and looking worried. "i'm in a frightfully awkward position, as i said before. i like the chap immensely, and i think he's too much of a gentleman to poach--although, of course, foreigners have a different code of morals from us, and aren't to be trusted where women are concerned. i--er--i don't quite know what to do, but, of course, i'll do anything rather than risk losing you." there flashed into his mind as he spoke don carlos's remark concerning women complaining of another man's attentions in order to bring a husband or a lover "up to scratch," and he had what he would have described as a "brain wave." "i say, i've got a bright idea, darling," he continued, before myra could speak. "let's solve the difficulty by getting married at once. i'll get a special licence, and we'll set a new fashion by entertaining a house party in the highlands during our honeymoon. even the boldest man would surely hesitate to make love to another man's wife during her honeymoon. what do you say?" myra pursed her red lips and wrinkled her brows in thought, and tony took her indecision to be a good sign. "say 'yes,' darling," he urged. "you know i'm most tremendously in love with you and frightfully keen, and you will have no further reason to feel afraid of don carlos when you are my wife." "i'm not afraid of don carlos," snapped myra. "oh, tony, don't be so dense and exasperating! almost i wish now i had never told you about the tiresome and conceited creature's love-making... besides," she added, inconsequentially, "i don't want to get married yet, and if i did marry you before we go to scotland don carlos would pride himself it was to protect myself from him, and it would be worse and more dangerous if he made love to me as a married woman. oh, tony, my dear, i'm getting mixed, but maybe you understand what i mean. i'm not afraid of don carlos, but i don't want to give him any chance of going about boasting that i am in love with him." "i don't think he would do that, myra," said tony. "he seems an awfully decent sort of chap. if you'd heard his explanation, you would understand that he was really only paying us both a compliment by pretending to make love to you. i do hope you'll see him, my dear, and let him explain and apologise. i don't understand why you're so cross with me, darling." he looked so absurdly pathetic that myra's irritation gave way to amusement, and her lovely face dimpled into smiles. "i'm not really cross with you, tony, my dear, although i do think you have made rather a mess of things," she exclaimed, and gave tony an affectionate pat on both cheeks. "it will be interesting and amusing to listen to don carlos's explanations and apologies--if any... oh, yes, tony, i'll see him, and i think i shall manage to take some of the conceit out of him." as it happened, lady fermanagh had an engagement that afternoon, and myra was alone when don carlos de ruiz was announced. myra had been doing some hard thinking, and she was feeling sure of herself as she rose to greet her visitor, who bowed low before smiling into her eyes. "i have called to offer my congratulations, dear lady," he said, in his deep, caressing voice. "congratulations? on what, pray?" inquired myra very coldly. "i understood from mr. standish that you were calling to offer apologies for having annoyed me." "i have come to proffer both apologies and congratulations," said don carlos slowly, twin imps of mischief dancing in his laughing eyes. "i have come to tender my most humble apologies for having so far, apparently, failed to melt your icy heart and fire it with the love that burns within me; to congratulate you on being the first woman who has ever taken exception to my making love to her. and to congratulate you, also, on being such an excellent actress." "actress? what do you mean?" "your pretence of annoyance, dear lady, is such a fine piece of acting that almost i am persuaded you are not in love with me and have steeled your heart against me." "please go on being persuaded." myra's tone was intended to be sardonic. "so far it seems to me you have called to pay yourself compliments instead of to offer apologies. apparently you explained to mr. standish that your love-making was intended as a compliment. let me tell you, don carlos, if that is so i want no more of your compliments." "if i believed that, sweet lady, life would lose its savour and become but a bleak existence," responded don carlos. "i prefer to believe that you love, yet refrain, and that your complaint to your fiancé is an indication that your resistance is weakening, that you fear unless you are able to avoid me you will inevitably surrender to the call of love." "your overweening conceit would be laughable if it were not so irritating," myra retorted curtly. "i want to tell you bluntly that unless you give me your word of honour not to attempt to make love to me i shall refuse to go to auchinleven if you are to be one of the party, and that will leave mr. standish no alternative but to cancel his invite to you--and explain to his friends that his reason is my objection to you." the smile died out of don carlos's eyes, and he regarded myra gravely and silently for a few moments. "i promise you i shall not make love to you while we are in scotland," he said at last. "it will be desperately hard to resist the temptation, but i promise to refrain. and i never go back on a promise." "good! in that case we can let bygones be bygones and be friends," exclaimed myra, and impulsively held out her hand. don carlos raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, and the boyish smile came back to his face. "let me warn you, however, my dear myra, that although i speak no word of love, my heart and my eyes will be making love to you all the time, and every fibre of my being will be loving you and longing for you," he said. "i shall be planning new ways of overcoming your resistance and inducing you to confess that you love me. always my heart will be calling and calling to you." "as long as you do not badger me with your attentions, as you have been doing, it will not concern me what is happening to your heart," remarked myra, forcing a laugh. "you can even pretend to be heartbroken, if you think the role will suit you." "no, the role of broken-hearted, rejected suitor would not please me," laughed don carlos. "i shall be the strong, silent man, biding his time, confident of eventually gaining his heart's desire. meanwhile i am congratulating myself on having made it possible to fulfil my boast that i should be your fellow-guest in scotland for the shooting." "you have my leave to congratulate yourself as much as you like, don carlos, and to hand yourself as many bouquets as you like," said myra smilingly, "but i shall hold you to your promise not to attempt to make love to me." "i promise you, myra, i shall be as silent as a trappist monk, so far as talking love to you is concerned," don carlos assured her. "my promise, however, only holds good for the duration of our stay in the highlands. after that----" "tony and i are going to be married in the spring," interrupted myra. "i think not," said don carlos with great earnestness. "you will be mine, dear heart, before the spring flowers have finished blooming." "oh, please don't start being absurd again, just after promising to be sensible!" protested myra. "you will be mine, dear heart, before the spring flowers have finished blooming," repeated don carlos. "sweet lady, you may take that as another promise made in all seriousness. i love you, and i have sworn----" "let's change the subject, don carlos," interrupted myra again. "oblige me by making your promise not to make love to me date from this minute." "as you will, beloved," said don carlos, with an exaggerated sigh; and myra could not decide whether or not he was laughing. chapter v his demeanour as her fellow guest at tony standish's shooting lodge at auchinleven, where he arrived about the middle of august, piqued and perplexed myra. not only did don carlos keep his promise to refrain from making love to her, but he seemed to avoid her as much as possible, and was only formally polite when they happened to be thrown together. yet he made love to practically all the other ladies of the party, and obviously set the hearts of several of the younger ones fluttering. myra tried to persuade herself she was thankful to be relieved of his ardent attentions, but at heart she was annoyed to find herself ignored. "i suppose he is proving that he was only amusing himself and that his fervent love-making was mere pretence," reflected myra. "he is making my complaint about him seem absurd. bother the man! i have half a mind to try to make him fall in love with me in earnest, and then take the conceit out of him by telling him i have only been amusing myself at his expense." what added to her inward vexation was the fact that don carlos appeared to have won the good opinion of all the other men of the party, and had completely ingratiated himself with tony standish, who constantly talked about him with enthusiasm and spent much time in his company. "have you offended don carlos in some way, myra?" lady fermanagh inquired one night. "i notice he seems to avoid you as much as possible, and yet he and tony have become great friends." "i think don carlos is the most exasperating man in the world, aunt, and it is most annoying that tony should make such a fuss of him after what happened," responded myra, half-petulantly. "it would serve tony right if i threw him over. it is exasperating that he is so sure of me that he isn't a bit jealous of don carlos, and probably thinks i made a fuss about nothing. why didn't he half-kill the conceited spaniard for daring to make love to me? i should have loved him if he had done that--yes, even if he got the worst of it, i should have loved him for trying to give don carlos a hiding." "don't be absurd, my dear myra!" protested lady fermanagh, laughingly. "i told you that the love-making of men like don carlos should not be taken seriously, and it was foolish of you to take offence." "and now, i suppose, he is laughing up his sleeve at me for having taken him seriously, and thinks he is punishing me by ignoring me for being such a little prude!" said myra. "perhaps i did make rather a fool of myself, but i intend to get even with him. yes, i'll get even with the conceited creature! do you know what i have decided to do, aunt? i am going to make love to don carlos and make him fall in love with me in earnest, just to have the satisfaction of turning him down afterwards and making him feel, and look, a fool." "for goodness sake don't try to do anything of the sort, myra," counselled lady fermanagh. "don carlos is very much a man of the world, and you would be playing with fire. i should judge that he knows women better than most men. and in any case, my dear, it isn't safe to trifle with a spaniard." "and it isn't safe to trifle with a rostrevor don carlos de ruiz will find to his cost," retorted myra, with a sudden laugh. "my mind is made up, and i shall start on my conquest to-night." she took special pains over her toilette that evening, and her maid found her unusually exacting. she chose a very decollété evening frock of jade green shot with blue that matched the blue of her eyes but contrasted beautifully with her red-gold hair, and with it she wore a necklace of emeralds and turquoises. "by jove! myra, dear, you are looking lovelier than ever to-night!" exclaimed tony standish, admiringly and adoringly, when she went down into the great hall of auchinleven lodge before dinner. "you look simply wonderful, darling. wonderful!" "thank you for these few kind words, good sir," myra answered smilingly, in bantering tones, and dropped a mock curtsey. "i hope don carlos will be equally complimentary. you see, tony, i am afraid he is rather vexed with me for complaining to you about him and snubbing him, so i have decided to let him fall in love with me again and make you furiously jealous." "righto!" laughed tony. "but don't overdo it, old thing, or i may do a bit of the othello business, don't you know. i believe i could be as fiercely passionate as any spaniard if i tried." "why not try?" responded myra lightly. "incidentally, i fancy othello was a moor, and not a spaniard." "well, the moors had something to do with spain, so it amounts to the same thing. talking of spain, myra, reminds me that don carlos has consented to be one of my yachting party for our mediterranean trip in the winter, and has invited all of us to spend a week or so with him at his place, el castillo de ruiz, somewhere in the sierra morena." "really! that will give me plenty of time to complete my conquest," commented myra, her blue eyes sparkling mischievously. "i suppose it isn't good form to make a fool of one's host, but don carlos will deserve anything he may get." "i say, darling, i hope you're not in earnest," tony remarked. "you seem to be in a dangerous mood to-night, and you look adorably lovely--yes, simply scrumptious! you would fascinate any man, my dear, and i am sure even don carlos will be clay in your hands. don't be too hard on him, myra. he's an awfully good chap, and i feel sure he didn't mean any harm." "to-night, my dear tony, i am a 'vamp,'" laughed myra. "just look at aunt clarissa over there flirting with don carlos, who is probably telling her she is the most accomplished and beautiful woman in the world. watch me go and cut her out!" conscious that she was looking her best (a feeling that gives any woman a sense of power), myra strolled across the hall to where don carlos was chatting to lady fermanagh. "forgive me if i am interrupting," she said sweetly, smiling into the dark eyes of the spaniard. "i want to tell you i am so glad to hear from tony that you are coming with us on the yachting cruise this winter, and i want to thank you for your invitation to el castillo de ruiz. i was so afraid you had not forgiven me for being so rude to you, and dreaded lest you had decided to have nothing further to do with such an ungracious person as myra rostrevor." "sweet lady, i should dismiss such a thought as treason, not to say blasphemy," don carlos responded gallantly. "even when you are ungracious, if ever, you are always the most adorable and beautiful woman in the world." myra trilled out a laugh, her blue eyes still smiling at him. "thank you, señor, for these few kind words," she said. "i expect you have been saying something of the same sort to my aunt?" "yes, myra, don carlos has been telling me that mine is the type of beauty he has always most admired, and that i seem to have discovered not only the secret of perpetual youth, but the art of growing old gracefully," lady fermanagh told her smilingly. "i begin to suspect him of being irish instead of spanish--for how can one grow old with perpetual youth, i ask you? still, i confess i like his blarney, and i think it a pity that most englishmen seem to have lost the knack of paying a compliment, and saying flattering things as if they meant them." "dear lady, you do both me and yourself an injustice," exclaimed don carlos, his tone very grave but his dark eyes dancing. "the greatest of courtiers, even if he had kissed your famous blarney stone, would surely be at a loss for words which would even do justice to your charm, let alone flattering you." lady fermanagh wagged a finger at him. "my spanish is getting rusty, señor," she said, "but i think i remember one of the proverbs of your country: '_haceos miel y comeras han moscas_', which means, 'make yourself honey and the flies will eat you.' am i right?" "always you are right, dear lady," responded don carlos smilingly; "but you leave me undetermined as to whether i am your fly or your honey. incidentally, we have another proverb, '_en casa del moro no hables algaravia._' can your ladyship translate that?" "yes, señor," lady fermanagh answered, after a moment of thought. "it means, '_do not speak arabic in the house of a moor_,' but i don't know what the application is where we are concerned, unless you are suggesting i have misinterpreted your perfect english, or else you are subtly criticising my imperfect spanish. you are too deep for me, don carlos, and i will leave myra to try and fathom you. beware of him, myra!" she added smilingly, as she moved away. "i assure you i am absolutely sincere when i tell you, sweet lady, that i am more than charmed to know that you are coming to spain as my guest, and i promise you i shall do everything that lies in my power to make your visit interesting," said don carlos to myra. "but let me warn you that if el diablo cojuelo learns that the most beautiful, adorable, and wholly desirable girl in the world is going to visit el castillo de ruiz, he will assuredly make an attempt to kidnap you." "is the most beautiful, adorable, and wholly desirable girl in the world going to be one of the party?" inquired myra, assuming an innocent expression. "how interesting and exciting! who is she? a film star?" "she is _you_, señorita," don carlos responded, "and let me remind you that el diablo cojuelo almost makes a hobby of kidnapping beautiful women. so you will be in danger all the time you are in spain." "i refuse to be dismayed--and i don't believe a word of it!" responded myra, with a silvery laugh. "i don't believe you keep a pet brigand and outlaw on your estate, but even if you do, the prospect of being kidnapped does not dismay me. the risk, if any, will add a spice of adventure to the visit. but i can't believe you would let any brigand steal me from your castle, don carlos, although you have threatened to steal me yourself. would you?" "i promise you that el diablo cojuelo shall not steal you away from me even if he captures you, señorita," don carlos replied. "i am glad you are undismayed, and again i assure you i am honoured and flattered that you have accepted my invitation to----" "i regarded it more as a challenge than an invitation," interposed myra. "really! then i am more than honoured by your acceptance of the challenge," resumed don carlos, his face crinkling into a smile. "i wonder why you are condescending to be so gracious to me to-night, myra. do i understand i am forgiven?" "perhaps i have really nothing to forgive, carlos, and it was folly on my part to take offence," myra answered, with an alluring glance. "incidentally, it is nice of you to keep your promise not to make love to me, but--but----" she broke off as if at a loss. for once in a way myra rostrevor was deliberately playing the part of coquette, and she saw don carlos's eyes flame suddenly with ardour and expectation. "you mean that you no longer hold me to my promise, myra?" he asked, scarcely above a whisper. "no, i--i don't mean that, carlos," murmured myra, with eyes downcast; "but--but you have only been coldly polite to me ever since you arrived here, yet i have seen you making love to other girls. if you are in love with me, and were not merely pretending----" "i was not pretending, myra," interrupted don carlos. "i love you with every fibre of my being. it was only pretence where the other women are--and were--concerned. i confess i tried to make you feel jealous, and i trust i succeeded?" "i am not going to tell you," said myra, raising her eyelids to flash another alluring and provocative glance at him. "unless there is love, there can hardly be jealousy. if i were desperately in love with a man who did not care for me, or pretended he did not, i should not have the heart to try to make any other man fall in love with me. how can you expect me to believe you are really in love with me, carlos, when i see you constantly making love to other women?" "darling, give me but a chance to prove my love," don carlos breathed; then quick-wittedly began to talk about salmon fishing as two or three other guests approached. myra did not give him another opportunity to talk to her alone during the rest of the evening, but she contrived to tantalise and puzzle him further, nevertheless. she pleaded tiredness when he asked her to dance after dinner, but danced with other men, and she was unusually affectionate in her manner towards tony when she thought don carlos was watching her, which was often. "i say, myra, darlinest, you're looking lovelier and more adorable than ever, and i feel bewitched and enraptured," tony whispered to her as she took his arm and gave it an affectionate little squeeze after a dance. "i am trying to make up for being horrid about don carlos, tony dear," explained myra. "now i have come to my senses, i am going to let the delightful man make love to me as much as he likes, and play him at his own game... let's sit the next dance out in the conservatory, tony." she had seen don carlos wander into the conservatory, and the imp of mischief that possessed her was prompting her to find new ways of teasing and testing him. the conservatory was in semi-darkness, but as myra entered with tony she located don carlos, for he happened to strike a match at that moment to light a cigarette, before seating himself in a dark corner. "let's find a dark corner, tony," said myra, and guided her fiancé close to where don carlos was sitting--close enough to be sure that the spaniard would be able to overhear anything she said. "the man who loves me doesn't seem to realise that i want to be kissed," she resumed. "you may kiss me, tony." "darling!" exclaimed the delighted tony, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "i have been longing to kiss you all evening, sweetheart, but thought you might object even if i got a chance." "you silly men don't seem to understand that a girl isn't necessarily in earnest if she says she doesn't want to be kissed, or pretends she doesn't want to be made love to," responded myra, with a little gurgling laugh. "kiss me again, tony, but this time kiss me in the way i should love to be kissed by the man who loves me, and not just like a cold-blooded englishman." tony kissed her again, straining her closer, but myra broke from him as if in sudden alarm. "there's someone in the corner, tony," she whispered. "i saw the glow of a cigarette-end. let's slip out quickly. i hope they didn't see us or hear us, and that they won't rag us later on." little guessing that myra had intended part of what she said should be overheard, tony, a little bewildered, allowed himself to be rushed out of the conservatory, protesting in an undertone that it didn't matter about being heard or seen, as they were engaged. for the rest of the evening myra continued to avoid don carlos as much as possible, but she smiled at him in tantalisingly alluring fashion every time their eyes met, wondering as she did so what was in his mind and what effect her coquetry had had upon him. and she went to bed feeling that she had, at least, done something towards justifying her boast that she would make don carlos fall in love with her in earnest. at dead of night she woke suddenly, with the feeling strong upon her that someone, or something, had touched her, but when she sat up in bed and switched on the lights she could see nothing to give her any cause for alarm. deciding she must have been dreaming, myra was about to switch off the lights and compose herself to sleep again, when her eyes fell on a folded sheet of notepaper on her pillow. with a sudden intake of breath, she picked up the note, unfolded it, and read: "_the man who loves you will kiss you in the way you would love to be kissed as soon as he is relieved of his promise. relieve him of his promise, and leave the door of your bedroom unlocked again to-morrow night._" myra read the note again and again, her mind in something of a tumult, her heart throbbing fast. she knew it must have been written by don carlos, and she was dismayed by the thought that he had been in her room. "there seems to be no limit to the man's daring and impudence," she reflected, and was annoyed to find that she was blushing. "what cheek to suggest that i should relieve him of his promise not to make love to me--and leave my bedroom door unlocked! what infernal, stupendous, insulting cheek! ... yet i suppose he accepted what i said to tony as an invitation and a challenge--as i intended. heavens! if anyone should have seen him leaving my room at this time of the morning, i shouldn't have a rag of reputation left. i should be hopelessly compromised, and it wouldn't be much use producing this letter in the hope of clearing myself. still, i don't suppose anyone else was prowling about at this time of the night or morning... i wonder if he touched me or kissed me? i wonder if he is really in love with me? i wonder..." myra did quite a lot of wondering before she eventually drifted into slumber again, and when she was reawakened by her maid bringing her morning tea, it was to find that she had been sleeping with don carlos's note clasped against her breast. "i suppose the wisest and safest course will be to make no reference whatever to the letter, and to pretend i don't know what he is talking about if don carlos has the cheek to refer to it," myra soliloquised, as she dressed. "after all, i deliberately provoked him, and i should have been disappointed if he had taken no notice. i shall keep the letter and challenge him about it later. meanwhile i shall hold him to his promise not to make love to me, yet do my utmost to make him break his word. i wonder what will happen if i do make him fall in love with me in earnest. life is becoming quite an adventure!" so she made no reference to the letter when by chance she found herself alone with don carlos for a time during the course of the afternoon, but continued to exert herself to be "nice" to him. and when myra rostrevor set herself out to fascinate, she was an exceedingly alluring and seductive creature. her sweetness, graciousness, and the inviting and enticing glances of her blue eyes obviously had a strong effect on don carlos, and fired his ardour. "myra, why are you torturing and tantalising me in this fashion?" he burst out suddenly. "confess that you love me, darling, and release me from my promise not to make love to you." "why, you dear, conceited man, don't you understand it is only because you pledged your word not to make love to me that i am being nice to you?" myra replied, with her bewitching smile. "if you break your promise, i shall immediately freeze up again and keep you at a distance." "you are cruel, señorita," commented don carlos, with a shrug and a sigh. "you are the most tantalising, puzzling and exasperating girl i have ever met, as well as the loveliest and the most adorable." "really!" laughed myra. "i wonder you consort with such an annoying person!" "consort? consort? i like that word, myra," he responded. "i intend to be your consort for the rest of my life, and you shall be my queen and the empress of my heart." "what a horrible threat!" exclaimed myra. "and i am afraid, incidentally, it is camouflaged love-making. you must keep to the spirit as well as the letter of your promise, don carlos, if you wish to continue on our present footing." "i am but human, sweet lady, and you are torturing me," said don carlos. "i am like unto a man dying of thirst, and you hold a cup of water to my lips, only to snatch it away when i try to drink. but i promise you i shall yet drink my fill from your fountain of love." "another dreadful threat--and aren't your metaphors getting mixed again?" "myra, darling, i love-- "remember your promise!" interrupted myra. "if, as you say, i torture you so horribly, perhaps you would prefer me to avoid you?" "no, no, a thousand times, no!" don carlos cried. "i was desolated when you refused to dance with me last night, and you put me to the torture later in the conservatory. i wanted to murder the other man, the one in particular on whom you bestowed your favours." "dear me! what a bloodthirsty creature! incidentally, are you not still attempting to make love indirectly? i suppose making love has become a sort of second nature, and you do not know you are breaking your promise?" "i stand rebuked, sweet lady, and crave your pardon," said don carlos. "never yet have i consciously broken a promise. and let me remind you that i have made you several promises." "several?" repeated myra, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. "yes, you may remember that the first time we danced together i promised to awaken your heart and fire it with the passion which now consumes me," replied don carlos quietly. "i have promised several times since to make you my own, to make you surrender to the call of love and confess yourself conquered." "those, i presume, were promises made to yourself," myra retorted lightly. "we all promise ourselves things, and hope for things, we know at heart we shall never get." "i have told you it was prophesied that i should get my heart's desire, and also that i have won the reputation of getting anything on which i set my heart." "as far as i am concerned, you have won the reputation of being the most conceited and audacious man in europe," commented myra, turning away from him with a careless laugh. chapter vi it was tony standish who found himself practically ignored by myra after dinner that evening, and almost for the first time he began to feel jealous, really jealous, of don carlos de ruiz. myra danced three times with the spaniard, and "sat out" two more with him in the conservatory, flagrantly flirting with him, exercising all her powers of attraction and fascination, continually tempting don carlos to break his promise. his dark eyes told her that she had fired his heart and set his pulses throbbing with desire, but no word of love crossed his lips. when they were dancing together, however, more than once he crushed her close to his breast, but myra did not rebuke him, and several times she squeezed his hand and deliberately brushed his cheek with her hair during a tango. "i rather fancy i am going to justify my boast and take my revenge, and don carlos de ruiz will learn to his cost that it isn't safe to trifle with myra rostrevor," she reflected. "i suppose i am taking an unfair advantage, but it serves don carlos right." she was careful to lock and bolt her bedroom door that night before retiring, and she left a light burning and sat up in bed waiting and watching expectantly. two o'clock chimed, and myra was beginning to nod drowsily, when a faint sound brought her to sudden wakefulness and alertness. someone was trying the door of her bedroom! she saw the door-handle turn, and she held her breath and listened intently... the handle turned again ... turned back to its original position.... and that was all. listening with thudding heart, myra could hear no sound from the other side of her locked and bolted door, and the handle did not move again. slipping out of bed after a few minutes, she stole noiselessly across the room and, dropping on one knee, put her ear to the keyhole and listened, but heard no sound save the throbbing of her own heart. she could not have explained what she expected, hoped, or dreaded to hear as she crouched there, straining her ears, but it was characteristic of her that suddenly she laughed aloud. "so he was conceited enough to think that i would leave my bedroom door unlocked!" she whispered, as she went back to bed and switched off the light. "what sort of girl does he take me for? i don't know whether to feel insulted or amused... but i'm glad i didn't forget to lock and bolt the door. i wonder..." myra snuggled her head down in her pillow, but scarcely had she closed her eyes when there was a crash against her bedroom door, a shout, and then a shot, and the sound of more shouting. she sprang up convulsively, her hands pressed to her breast, screamed involuntarily, then, recovering herself, switched on the lights, sprung out of bed, unbolted and unlocked the door, and flung it open--to find don carlos de ruiz, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, engaged in a desperate struggle with a burly, fully-dressed stranger on the floor of the corridor outside her room. in one swift glance myra saw that the stranger had a pistol clutched in his right hand, but that don carlos had a grip on the man's right wrist and was desperately struggling to prevent his antagonist from using the weapon against him. she screamed again, and even as she did so don carlos, by some dexterous twist, got the armed man's elbow across his knee, there was a howl of pain, and the pistol dropped from the fellow's hand. quick as lightning don carlos released his grip, made a dive for the pistol and got it, then leapt to his feet. "now lie where you are, you swine, or i'll kill you," he snarled breathlessly. "blast you! you've broken my arm," the man on the floor snarled back at him, writhing in agony. "blast you! don't shoot. i surrender... oh, gawd! my arm! i wish i'd killed you, damn you!" while this was happening, doors had been flung open, lights had been switched on, and scared women and startled men had appeared in the corridors from their bedrooms, excitedly demanding to know the cause of the uproar. tony, in a suit of purple pyjamas, and with his sandy hair on end, was almost the first on the scene. "what's up? what's happened? who's this fellow?" he asked breathlessly. "a burglar? have you shot him, carlos?" "no, i think i have merely dislocated his elbow," don carlos answered, without taking his eye off the brawny burglar, who was now sitting up nursing his damaged elbow and muttering curses through his clenched teeth. "he tried to shoot me when i surprised him as he was trying to force the door of miss rostrevor's room. you'd better 'phone for the police and have the house searched in case he has accomplices." "you can save yourself the trouble," growled the burglar. "i'm on my own. when you 'phone for the police, ask 'em to fetch a doctor with 'em. you've broken my ruddy arm, damn you!" "considering that you did your best to murder me, you dog, you can think yourself lucky that i did not kill you as soon as i got possession of your pistol," retorted don carlos, who had recovered his breath. there was little sleep for anyone at auchinleven that night. the local police inspector and a constable arrived after a long interval and took the burglar away, after making a search of the house, assisted by the servants, without finding any accomplices of the man in custody. next morning, of course, don carlos was the hero of the hour, and everyone was lavishing compliments and congratulations on him for having tackled an armed burglar single-handed and getting the better of the desperado. "i thought i heard someone prowling about in the corridor and got up to investigate," don carlos explained. "the fellow seemed to be trying to force the door of miss rostrevor's room, and when i challenged him he whipped out a pistol and fired at me. fortunately for me, he missed, and before he could fire again i grappled with him, managed to get a grip on his arm, and dislocated his elbow by a trick taught me years ago by an old wrestler." "i wonder why he was trying to force my door, which was locked and bolted, instead of discovering if some of the other doors had been left unlocked," said myra. "oddly enough, i fancied i heard someone trying my door some time before i heard the shot. and i still think there was more than one burglar concerned," she added, with a direct and challenging glance at don carlos. "the police inspector tells me the man asserts he had no accomplices or confederates," said don carlos, his face expressionless. "it is strange, nevertheless, that he should have attempted to force his way into your room in preference to any other." "very strange!" agreed myra. "and how fortunate for me that i should have happened to take the precaution of locking and bolting my door. oddly enough, i had a sort of presentiment that if i did not bolt my door something dreadfully unpleasant might happen. normally, you see, i don't bolt the door or lock it. it i do, it means that i have to get up when my maid brings my morning tea. but the night before last i seemed to have a warning, so last night i took precautions against any unwanted visitor. i shall always lock and bolt my door in future." "isn't there an old saying that love laughs at locksmiths?" inquired don carlos, his expression still sphinx-like, but his eyes twinkling. "you looked delicious in your nightie and boudoir cap, myra." "i shall remember to put on my dressing gown next time i am expecting burglars," responded myra, flushing slightly. "thank you for saving me, gallant sir." she was wondering whether it was don carlos or the burglar who had tried her door, and she could hazard a guess as to why carlos had happened to be in the corridor at two o'clock in the morning. "i am thinking of becoming a burglar myself, dear lady, but please do not wear your dressing gown on that account," laughed don carlos. "i am wondering what might have happened if i had left my door unlocked," said myra, assuming a thoughtful expression, but avoiding don carlos's eyes. "i feel half-inclined to leave it unlocked and unbolted to-night and risk the consequences." again, however, she was careful to bolt and lock her bedroom door when she retired that night, but again she sat up in bed, as on the previous night, waiting and watching. and again, in the early hours of the morning, she saw the door handle turn, and she trilled out a laugh, hoping that the would-be "burglar" would hear it. she continued to exercise her impish arts of tantalisation and her wiles of fascination on don carlos during the remainder of her stay at auchinleven. sometimes she would seem, metaphorically, to throw herself at his head and appear to be eager to surrender herself, at other times she would completely ignore him, and make open love to tony in his presence. as time went on she realised that she was driving the don almost to distraction, and she gloried in her powers. "i feel certain that i have made him fall in love with me in earnest," myra reflected triumphantly. "he boasted that no woman could resist him. women have been his playthings, and he must have fooled many. now he is being fooled himself. i think he is desperately in love with me now." she was right in her surmise. don carlos's love for her had become a burning, consuming passion. it needed the exercise of all his will power to keep it under control, and continually he had to curb his ardent passion and remind himself of his promise not to make love. but he was biding his time and had made a vow that he would make myra pay in full for her coquetry. the house party broke up at length and the guests dispersed, myra and her aunt returning to london for the "little season" and to equip themselves for the winter cruise in tony's yacht, which was being refitted at southampton. don carlos had begged to be allowed to call, and both lady fermanagh and myra had said graciously that they would be delighted to see him at any time. "my thanks to you for having succeeded in keeping your promise," said myra, as they parted. "accept my congratulations." "one reaches heaven by way of purgatory," responded don carlos cryptically. "i am looking forward eagerly to our next meeting, when i shall be free to express myself." expectant, and a trifle apprehensive, myra awaited events. nothing happened. a week elapsed without her seeing, or hearing from, don carlos, and when she made inquiries about him she learned from tony that he had returned to spain. "said he had some business matters to attend to, and wanted to arrange for our entertainment at his place out there," explained tony. "he promised to be back in time to join the yacht at southampton." myra was piqued. it hurt her pride to think she had not made a conquest after all, and had merely been flattering herself in imagining she had made don carlos fall in love with her. "what a fool i feel!" soliloquised myra. "i was confident he was in desperate earnest and was crazy about me, and i have been wondering how to resist and repel him. he shows how little he cares by going off to spain without even calling to say good-bye, and with never a farewell note. oh, what an exasperating creature!" another ten days passed uneventfully, and myra found herself oddly discontented with life and things in general. it was a dismal november afternoon, she had no engagements, and was feeling utterly bored as she took tea alone in the drawing room of her aunt's house in mayfair, when, to her astonishment, don carlos de ruiz was announced. her heart gave a convulsive leap at the mere mention of his name, and it was throbbing faster than its wont as she rose to greet him, although she assumed an attitude of cool indifference. "sure, and it's seriously annoyed with you, i am, don carlos, and you needn't expect me to say i'm glad to see you," she said in her musical irish voice as she gave him her hand. "how very rude of you to disappear without even a word of farewell. rude, did i say? perhaps crude would be a better word. how rude and crude to dash back to spain to attend to some matter of business when you had been trying to pretend to be hopelessly in love." "not 'hopelessly,' myra," don carlos responded quietly, raising her fingers to his lips. "never have i been 'hopelessly' in love, for always i have been sure at heart that i should win.... so you have missed me, darling, and now your heart is throbbing because i have come back to you? i am glad. i went away without a word in the hope that by so doing i should punish you for your cruelty in tempting and tantalising me as you did at auchinleven." "tempting and tantalising you!" exclaimed myra, and trilled out a laugh. "and you think, you conceited man, that you were punishing me by going to spain for a fortnight or so without even having the politeness to say au revoir! how very amusing! and how very crude and rude! didn't you understand i was paying you back in your own coin at auchinleven by pretending to be in love? so you went away with the idea of punishing me!" "i found it necessary to return to my home in order to take precautionary measures against the bandit, el diablo cojuelo, who is evidently planning fresh mischief," don carlos explained. "now i have come back to you to redeem my promise." "your promise?" queried myra, forcing herself to meet his ardent glance. "i don't understand. what promise?" "my promise to kiss you in the way you wanted to be kissed by the man who loves you," said don carlos quickly; and before myra realised what was happening she was crushed close to his breast and he was kissing her as she had never been kissed before, hungrily, fiercely, passionately, ardently. for a few minutes she found herself, in some mysterious way, robbed of all powers of resistance. don carlos's lips were crushed on her own, and his burning kisses seemed to be drugging her brain and drawing the very heart out of her. then suddenly she struggled and broke from him, her lovely face aflame, her bosom heaving tempestuously, her breath coming and going in sobbing gasps. "how dare you! oh, how dare you!" she panted. "you brute! you brute! i could kill you!" she dropped limply into a chair and covered her burning face with her hands. she was trembling, her heart was throbbing as if it would burst, and her brain was in a turmoil. don carlos stood silent for a few moments, his dark eyes still aflame with ardour as he looked down at myra. he, too, was trembling slightly, and a spot of hectic colour glowed on each cheek-bone. "why blame or reproach me, myra darling?" he said at last, his deep voice vibrant. "remember that you tempted me, challenged me. it was to me that you spoke, and not to standish, when you said you wanted to be kissed by the man who loved you, and not by a cold-blooded englishman. i promised you that night i would kiss you in the way you longed to be kissed, in the way i longed to kiss you, and i have fulfilled my promise--in part. myra, belovedest, the nectar of your lips has increased my longing a thousandfold. tell me, darling, that my kisses have fired your heart with the love for which i crave, and----" "i hate you, hate you, and i shall never forgive you for this!" burst out myra passionately, starting to her feet. "go away at once, and don't dare to come near me again. how dare you, how dare you kiss me like that! if i were to tell tony----" she broke off with a sharp intake of breath, for at that moment the butler tapped at the drawing room door and opened it. "mr. standish," he announced; and tony walked in, as if he were an actor taking his "cue." antony standish could (but didn't) boast of a 'varsity education, and he prided himself on his smartness, but he was far from being "gleg at the uptak'," as the scots say, and his powers of observation and deduction assuredly would not have qualified him for a position as a scotland yard "sleuth." seemingly he was quite unconscious of the electrical atmosphere as he entered, and quite failed to notice myra's agitation. "hullo, don carlos! what a surprise!" he cried breezily. "how are you, old fellow? ... hello, myra, my dear. thought i'd blow in on the chance of finding you at home this beastly afternoon and cadge a cup of tea.... where did you spring from, don carlos? thought you were still in spain. tremendously glad to see you again, old man. when did you get back? you're looking tremendously fit." "thank you," said don carlos, forcing a smile as he shook hands. "i got back to london less than an hour ago, and hastened to call on miss rostrevor to assure her of my undying regard--and to redeem a promise." he darted a side glance at myra, who was nervously biting her lips and trying to compose herself. "awfully nice of you, old chap. glad you're back," drawled the unobservant tony. "i say, myra, dear, aren't you going to offer me a cup of tea? i suppose i may smoke as lady fermanagh isn't here?" myra found herself at a loss to know how to deal with the situation. to tell tony what had happened would inevitably lead to a painful scene, perhaps even to violence; to refrain from telling him would seem like condoning don carlos's conduct. she was torn by conflicting emotions and could not make up her mind how to act. act, however, she did, in a literal sense, for although her heart was still throbbing wildly and her mind was in a whirl, she managed somehow to assume an almost casual air. "why, of course you may smoke, tony," she said, after ringing the bell and ordering more tea. "i'll have a cigarette myself to soothe my nerves." "never noticed any signs of nerves about you, old thing," laughed tony, as he proffered his case and struck a match to light the cigarette myra accepted. "nerves! the risks you have been taking of late in the hunting field have made my blood run cold. the way you took that hedge last week during the run with the quorn made my heart stand still. honestly, myra, i shall be glad when i have you safely aboard the _killarney_, and we are on our way to spain." "i am not going to spain," said myra, very abruptly. "not going to spain?" repeated tony, in surprise. "no, tony, i am not going to spain. don carlos has offended me beyond pardon." "i say, myra, you're ragging, aren't you?" asked tony. "i thought you had made it up with don carlos. don't tell me the villain has been making love to you again!" "why, of course i have," exclaimed don carlos. "i am madly in love with myra, and it is because she is afraid of falling as desperately in love with me as i am with her, and being forced, in consequence, to jilt you, that she has again decided not to go to spain. she is afraid of me--and of love." "what a pair of leg-pullers you are!" chuckled tony, assuming the whole thing was a jest. "half the men one meets are in love with myra, but i refuse to believe she is afraid of any of them." "ah, but she is afraid of me, my dear standish, and you should realise i am your most dangerous rival," don carlos said gravely, and again tony chuckled amusedly. "perhaps it is not only of me but of herself, and for herself, that myra is afraid," carlos continued, with a challenging glance at myra, who felt she would like to box his ears and also to shake tony for being so dense. "the lovely señorita is also afraid of being captured by el diablo cojuelo, who would make her an ideal husband." "i say, that's hardly complimentary, old fellow!" tony commented. "sort of _faux pas_, isn't it, to suggest that a brigand would be a better husband for myra than yours truly, and that myra is a suitable wife for a brigand?" "that, of course, depends on the brigand," answered don carlos, with a smile. "of course, if myra is really scared, and is genuinely afraid to come to spain lest she should lose her heart----" "i am afraid of nothing!" interrupted myra, exasperated beyond measure; and immediately she regretted the impulsive words. "so you will prove the fact by keeping your promise to come to spain as my guest?" queried don carlos quickly. "that will depend on whether you know your duty to a guest and your obligations as a host," retorted myra curtly, and tony raised his eyebrows, surprised by her unusual rudeness. "i flatter myself, dear lady, that i have a reputation as a host whose hospitality is boundless," said don carlos gravely. a footman entering with the tea-tray relieved the tension, and tony began to question don carlos about his trip, and to tell him what sport he had been enjoying. chapter vii don carlos took his leave a few minutes later, leaving myra and tony alone together, and again myra could not make up her mind whether or not to tell her fiancé what had happened. it happened that tony, as soon as they were alone, became particularly sentimental and wanted to kiss her--a fact which somehow seemed to make the situation still more difficult and complicated. "i don't want to be kissed, tony," myra objected, when her lover tried to embrace her. "i feel as if i never want to be kissed again, and i don't want any love-making. leave me alone!" "you certainly are in a queer mood to-day, myra," tony commented. "what has upset you, darling? you were quite rude to poor old don carlos, and now you are snubbing me. what's the matter, old thing?" "oh, tony, my dear, i--i don't know just what is the matter with me, and i don't know what to do," exclaimed myra, laughing tremulously and feeling inclined to give way to tears. "i don't understand myself. oh, why are you so stupid? why don't you make love to me and force me to kiss you? why don't you kiss and kiss me against my will?" "why, hang it all, myra, i've just been trying to make love to you and asking you to give me a kiss, and you wouldn't. now--oh, dash it all, i don't know what to make of you, my dear. you are a most puzzling girl!" "and you are the most exasperatingly dull man," myra retorted, still half-laughing, half-crying. "oh, tony, my dear, take care of me and love me terribly if you want to keep me. hold me fast and grapple me to you with hooks of steel, or you will lose me." she almost hurled herself into tony's arms, buried her face in his shoulder, and burst into tears. tony did not know what to make of it at all, and he felt utterly helpless. agitatedly he patted her on the back and stroked her hair. "myra, for heaven's sake don't cry," he said, in what was intended to be a soothing tone. "you make me feel so bally awful. i've never seen you crying before, and i can't make out what is the matter. what on earth has upset you, darling? you're quite hysterical. hadn't i better ring for your maid, dear?" poor tony did not realise how sadly he was blundering, how sorely he was failing in an emergency. "oh, why can't you understand!" burst out myra passionately. "why can't you love in the right way? don't pat my head and my back as if i were a pet dog, you ninny! tony, i--i--oh, i can't bear it!" she broke from him and rushed from the room, banging the door behind her. "well i'm sunk!" muttered tony, distractedly running his fingers through his sandy hair. "what on earth is a fellow to do in these circumstances? i hope to goodness myra won't carry on like this after we are married, or i shall never know where i am. i wonder what upset her?" troubled in mind, he took his departure, and on his way to his club he was fortunate enough to meet lady fermanagh. "my dear tony, all women are more or less creatures of impulse, liable to do the most unexpected and quixotic things," her worldly-wise ladyship told him, when he had explained what had happened and asked her to advise him what to do. "that is what makes us so interesting. we do not understand ourselves, and if men understood us we should cease to interest or attract them." "yes, i suppose so, lady fermanagh," agreed tony, with a disconsolate shake of his head. "but it would be rather awful to marry a woman who puzzled one all the time. i couldn't make myra out at all to-day, and can't think what can have upset her." "remember, dear boy, that myra is irish and has the celtic temperament," said lady fermanagh. "probably someone, or something, had upset her before you called, and you had to suffer for it." "it wasn't only i who had to suffer," remarked tony. "poor old carlos was there when i blew in, and myra was snubbing him unmercifully. between ourselves, lady fermanagh, myra was positively insulting. don carlos took it rather well, but i fancy he was upset all the same." "h'm! so don carlos is back?" commented her ladyship, with an inscrutable smile. "that may explain matters. perhaps it was he who was responsible for myra's tantrums. but don't worry, tony. myra will probably be particularly nice to you if you see her to-night." "i'm not exactly worried, lady fermanagh, but i'm very puzzled," said standish. "i don't suppose don carlos had anything to do with the matter, really, although he did say chaffingly that he had been making love to myra again and said she was afraid of him. but after he had gone myra seemed uncommonly annoyed with me for some reason or other, and--er--well, a fellow doesn't know exactly what to do in the circumstances, and i thought you'd be able to give me advice." "my advice to you, tony, is to make ardent love to myra, to woo her as if she had not already promised to marry you," lady fermanagh responded. "it is just possible, my dear tony, if you will forgive my suggesting it, that you have not been playing the part of devoted lover wholeheartedly enough." "perhaps so," said tony, rather ruefully. "er--the difficulty is that when i try to talk and make love like the chaps do in novels and plays, myra laughs at me and tells me not to be sloppy. i say, lady fermanagh, don't tell myra i've been talking to you about her. she might be angry. but if you can size things up and give me a hint later as to why she was vexed with me this afternoon i'll be tremendously obliged." lady fermanagh had a very shrewd idea that she could have told him there and then who was the cause of the trouble, remembering well myra's boast that she would make don carlos fall in love with her, and her resentment at his lack of courtesy in going off to spain without a word of farewell. "yes, tony, i'll do my best to 'size things up,' as you so gracefully put it, and may be able to drop you a hint later," she said. she did some hard thinking as she drove home, where she arrived to find myra seated listlessly in an armchair by the fire, an unlighted cigarette between her fingers, and a brooding expression in her blue eyes. "no, there's nothing really the matter, auntie, and i'm quite well," myra said, in answer to her ladyship's questions; "but--oh, i can't explain, but i feel fed up with everything. i don't think i shall go to the cavendish's dance to-night." "what, or who, has made you suddenly feel 'fed up with everything,' as you put it?" inquired lady fermanagh. "you seemed in quite good spirits at lunch-time. i noticed don carlos de ruiz's card in the salver in the hall as i came in. was it he, by any chance, who upset you, myra?" myra's fair face blushed hotly, and she hesitated before replying. then, impulsively, she decided to tell her aunt everything, and did so. lady fermanagh listened in grave--almost grim--silence, and with a troubled look in her fine eyes. "my dear, do you realise that you have brought this on yourself?" she asked quietly, when she had heard myra out. "i warned you at auchinleven that you would be playing with fire, and that it was extremely dangerous to trifle with a spaniard. you deliberately set yourself out to play the part of siren, to make don carlos fall in love with you, and----" "he had deliberately laid himself out before that to make me fall in love with him, and pleaded that he was only amusing himself when he was challenged," interrupted myra. "that was an insult, and i wanted my revenge. if he did not expect me to take him seriously, he had no right to take me seriously, no right to take advantage and to kiss me as he did this afternoon. now you are throwing the blame on me, just as he did himself! why should there be one law for the man and another for the woman? it isn't fair!" "my dear myra, do try to preserve some sense of proportion," said lady fermanagh gently. "admittedly it was quite wrong of don carlos to make passionate love to you, knowing you were betrothed to tony, but, as i have told you repeatedly, he was probably only following the custom of his race and did not expect to be taken seriously in the first instance." "and is it an unheard-of thing in spain for a betrothed girl to play the part of coquette, and to flirt with the men who make love to her?" interposed myra again. "no, no, not at all, but i need hardly remind you, myra, that in england that sort of thing simply 'isn't done.' besides, yours was no mere flirtation. you set out to fascinate and captivate don carlos, to make him fall madly in love with you, and you seem to have succeeded. you admit you challenged him to kiss you----" "he had no right to take what i said to tony as a challenge, although i confess i said it to tantalise him." "humph! if i were your age, as beautiful and attractive as you, and i had dared a man to kiss me, i should feel slighted, to say the least of it, and regard him as a poltroon, if he failed to take up my challenge," commented lady fermanagh drily. "you can't mean to say you did not expect don carlos to carry out the threat or promise he made in his note, particularly as you made no protest against his having entered your bedroom?" "i--er--i don't know what i expected," answered myra, rather weakly. "i mean, i did not intend to give him the opportunity to carry out his threat. and i thought it best to say nothing about the note, because i was afraid to risk a scandal, and i was somehow afraid that don carlos would turn the tables on me. now i have a good mind to tell tony, and to tell him what happened to-day, and leave him to deal with don carlos." "do, by all means, my dear--if you want to make shipwreck of your life," retorted lady fermanagh, sardonically. "tony will be flattered to find you were playing him off against don carlos at auchinleven. and perhaps not! he may decide, on reflection, that a girl who makes love to another man, or, if you prefer it, encourages another man to make love to her, during her engagement and in the house of her fiancé, might do something of the same sort after marriage in the house of her husband." "tony wouldn't be such a beast," exclaimed myra. "if he dared to blame me, i'd break off my engagement and marry don carlos, if only to spite him." "humph! and supposing, after breaking off your engagement, you found that don carlos did not want to marry you, what a fool you'd look and feel!" responded her aunt. "my dear myra, don't you realise that if the facts were known the world would condemn you for attempting to play fast and loose with both tony standish and don carlos de ruiz, and the general verdict would be that it served you right to be left in the lurch. tony would be quite justified in throwing you over, and by the time the gossips had finished your reputation would be--well, rather the worse for wear." "aunt clarissa, you don't really think tony would throw me over if he knew?" asked myra anxiously, after a thoughtful pause. "why, i told tony at auchinleven that i intended to flirt with don carlos and make him fall in love with me, but he would not take me seriously. i told him i meant it and was in earnest, but he only laughed. it is really all his fault. and he was so obtuse this afternoon. surely he might have guessed what had happened." lady fermanagh sat silent for a full minute, then suddenly she rose and laid her hands on myra's shoulders. "myra rostrevor, answer me truthfully," she commanded, with a searching glance. "are you, or are you not, in love with don carlos?" "i--i don't know," myra answered, shaking her head distractedly. "i think i hate him, but if i could believe he was really sincere and in earnest i think i should love him. if i had been tempting, teasing, and tantalising him to-day, as i did when we were at auchinleven, i could excuse him for losing his head and kissing me. to-day i didn't give him the slightest encouragement. he had shown his indifference by going away without even a word of farewell, and i suppose he kissed me in cold blood merely to fulfil his threat and his boast that he always keeps a promise." "cold-blooded kisses can hardly be very shocking, i should imagine," remarked lady fermanagh drily. "they were not cold-blooded. he kissed me ravenously, passionately, and almost stifled me. i felt as if he were drinking the heart out of me," said myra. "if i was sure he is as frantically in love with me as he professes to be, i could excuse him, and i might find myself falling in love with him. it is the thought that he may still only be amusing himself, gratifying his vanity and trying to make good his boast that no woman can resist him, that galls me. if i confessed myself in love with him, and he then told me he had merely been amusing himself and proving his power, i should die of shame." "why take the risk, myra? you have been playing with fire, and the dice are loaded against you. that is an irishism and a mixed metaphor, i suppose, but you know what i mean. if you lose your heart to don carlos de ruiz, you lose antony standish, and if you subsequently discover don carlos is not in earnest you will be left broken-hearted, humiliated, and with your matrimonial prospects ruined." "i have no intention of breaking my heart about don carlos, and don't intend to make a fool of myself, if that is what you mean," said myra, with a sudden change of manner. "i said i'd fool don carlos to pay him out for asserting he had only been amusing himself with me, and i'll do it yet--if i have not already done it. if he is actually in love with me, i have the laugh on him now, in spite of what has happened." "myra, for goodness sake be sensible!" counselled lady fermanagh. "if don carlos is actually in love with you and you make mock of him, his love may turn to hate. and i warn you that the hatred of a spaniard is even more dangerous than his love." "pooh! i'm not afraid of him, and i don't understand why i have been upsetting myself so much," exclaimed myra, impulsively starting to her feet. "i'll get even with him. i'll go to the cavendish's dance after all. don carlos is almost sure to be there, and i may get an opportunity to punish him for his impertinence." "myra, i do wish you would drop this folly," said her aunt. "you must realise you are running grave risks and imperilling your own happiness. it seems to me, my dear, that as well as trifling with don carlos, you are trifling with your own heart, and you are not playing fair with tony." "i mean to get even with don carlos," myra responded, stubbornly, with an impatient toss of her red-gold head. "it will be amusing to see the man who boasted that no woman could resist him chagrined and broken-hearted because myra rostrevor has laughed at him and made his boasts seem foolish." "you have had your warning," exclaimed lady fermanagh abruptly. "don't expect any sympathy from me if you get burnt as a result of playing with fire." she swept out of the room, and as the door closed myra made a moue, flung herself down in the armchair again, and lit her cigarette. "damn him!" she said fervently. chapter viii so many people had been invited to the cavendish ball that there was scarce room to dance. myra caught sight of don carlos several times, and her heart beat a trifle fast when at last she saw him making his way through the crowd towards her during an interval. "may i have the pleasure and honour of dancing the next with you, miss rostrevor?" he inquired, with his usual courtly bow. "the floor is becoming less crowded now the news has gone round that supper is being served." myra's first impulse was to snub him, but she refrained, rose without a word as the music re-started, and they glided round together to the lilting refrain of the band. both were extremely graceful and accomplished dancers, and several other couples ceased dancing to watch them, giving them the centre of the floor. "are you afraid to look at me, cara mia?" whispered don carlos, after a few minutes. "i want to look deep into your dear blue eyes and try to read what is in your heart." "i am afraid the result would be a shock to your overweening vanity, don carlos," responded myra coldly, still avoiding his eyes. "i am very angry with you, and i am surprised you should have had the audacity to ask me to dance with you before even attempting to offer any apology for your outrageous behaviour of this afternoon." "dear, darling, delicious, delectable lady, why should i apologise for taking up your challenge and redeeming my promise?" don carlos asked. "why profess to be offended with the man who loves you so passionately for taking a few of the kisses for which he was craving and hungering? what is it your great shakespeare wrote that fits our case? ... ah! i have it! ..." he sang the words softly, fitting them to the rhythm of the air the dance-band was playing: "_'a thousand kisses buys my heart from me; and pay them at your leisure, one by one. what are ten hundred touches unto thee? are they not quickly told and quickly gone? say for non-payment that the debt should double; is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?'_" "oh, you are an utterly outrageous and impossible man!" exclaimed myra, half-annoyed, half-amused, and at heart a little fascinated withal. "even if i did flirt with you at auchinleven to amuse myself, you had no right to take my teasing seriously--you, who are such an experienced flirt and philanderer, and who do not expect women to take your love-making seriously and laugh at them if they do." "i expect you to take my love-making seriously, myra," he answered. "your expectations will not be realised, don carlos, and if you attempt to repeat your conduct of to-day there will be trouble," said myra, forcing herself to meet his ardent eyes unflinchingly. "it is unsportsmanlike to try to excuse yourself by throwing the blame on me, pleading, like adam, 'the woman tempted me.' you might at least express regret for your conduct." "i have no regrets, myra," murmured don carlos. "i have tasted the nectar of your lips, and now i hunger for a banquet of love." "in that case you will surely die of starvation," said myra, with a light laugh. "dios! how you torture me, myra!" muttered don carlos frowningly. "i hoped you would tell me you had found your heart, that my kisses had at last awakened it. i love you, love you with every fibre of my being, and you--you love, yet you refrain." "quoting henley, aren't you, don carlos, and trying the effect of pathos by way of a change?" retorted myra. "how amusing! as far as i am concerned, you can 'break your heart on my hard unfaith and break your heart in vain...' don't grip my hand so tightly. you are hurting me." "i will hurt you if you are trifling with me and making mock of my love," said don carlos quickly, through clenched teeth. "don't try me too far, myra. beware lest my love turns to hate!" "beware lest my love turns to hate!" mimicked myra, and trilled out a laugh. "you are talking like a character in an old-fashioned melodrama. should i play up to you by crying, 'unhand me, villain,' turning deathly pale, and screaming for help. don't be absurd! ... we won't dance the encore. but if you will promise to be sensible and refrain from talking extravagant nonsense, you may take me in to supper." she felt certain that she had both hurt and puzzled don carlos, and she gloried in the thought, flattering herself that she was really taking her revenge. she was completely mistress of herself again, sure of her own powers, and during supper she laid herself out to be "nice," with almost devastating effect, playing on the emotions of the spaniard like a skilled musician on a sensitive instrument. deliberately she encouraged him, only to rebuff him when she had inflamed his ardour, deliberately she set herself to excite his passions, only to reward him with a cold douche of ridicule. "i believe the man is actually in love with me," myra soliloquised, smiling in self-satisfied fashion at her reflection in the mirror as she undressed that night. "he was grinding his teeth in sheer mortification and looking quite murderous when i told him he was boring me, and i went off with tony. yes, i think i am taking my revenge. what a triumph if i find myself able to twist round my little finger, so to speak, the man who boasted no woman could resist him!" yet when she fell asleep she dreamed that she was again in the arms of don carlos with his lips crushed on her own, and that she was returning his passionate kisses with fervour and straining the spaniard close to her heart although tony (in her dream) was looking on, feebly begging her to desist and to kiss him instead, and lady fermanagh was standing by protesting in solemn tones that she was "playing with fire." "what an utterly absurd dream!" myra reflected, when she woke with her heart thrilling queerly. "i wonder what particular and peculiar kink in my mental outfit made me enjoy kisses in my dreams which i hated while i was awake? how flattered don carlos would be if he knew!" an hour or so later she chanced to encounter don carlos while she was taking her morning gallop in the row, and he brought his horse abreast of hers, saluting in his usual gallant manner. "you tortured me last night, myra, but in my dreams i got full recompense," he said, after formal greetings. "really! how fortunate for you!" drawled myra, with well-feigned lack of interest. "do you flatter yourself even when you are asleep?" "it was an extremely vivid dream, myra," continued don carlos, ignoring the jocular question. "i dreamed you were in my arms, straining me close to your breast, and returning my hungry kisses with passionate ardour. we were drinking love's cup of rapture together, my beloved and i, giving and taking all." with her own dream still vivid in her memory; myra was startled. her heart seemed to miss a beat, she felt the hot colour rush to her face, and she bent forward to stroke her horse's neck lest her expression might betray her if she met don carlos's eyes. "how utterly preposterous!" she commented. "however, it is said that dreams are contrary. incidentally, i meant what i said when i told you i should refuse to talk to you if you persisted in being sentimental. good morning!" being irish, myra rostrevor was by nature more than a little superstitious and inclined to attach some importance to dreams and omens, and she rode away feeling just a tiny bit scared at heart, and wondering uneasily if perchance don carlos de ruiz was a thought-reader. "sure, and i don't know what to make of you, myra," she whispered to her own reflection in the mirror, as she changed from her riding costume into a morning frock. "i don't know what to make of you at all, at all! and i don't know what to make of don carlos, either. i don't know if you are in love with him or not, and i'm not sure but what if he kissed you again you might make a fool of yourself and give up the idea of making a fool of him.... oh, if only i knew whether he is in earnest or not!" myra was almost afraid to attempt to analyse her own feelings and emotions, and could come to no decision concerning either herself or don carlos. she continued to "blow hot, blow cold" every time they met, sometimes treating him with studied coldness, at other times flirting with him beguilingly, but always taking precautions against giving him any opportunity to kiss her again. meanwhile tony standish had taken lady fermanagh's advice, and he was wooing myra with all the fervour and passion of which his somewhat phlegmatic nature was capable, wooing her as if their betrothal was yet to be, instead of an accomplished fact. hardly a day passed but he brought or sent some expensive trifle, together with flowers, chocolates, or cigarettes, with assurances of his undying affection. his tributes of devotion made myra feel just a trifle guilty, made her wonder, too, if tony had decided that the love-making of don carlos was something more than make-believe, and he was trying to make sure of her. "oh, tony, dear, you make me feel as if you were buying me!" she exclaimed one afternoon, when her lover presented her with a diamond pendant. "why have you given me such lots of presents lately, you extravagant old thing?" "well, darling, i want to show you how much in love with you i am," answered tony, looking quite bashful. "i am tremendously in love with you, myra, honour bright, and i'd do anything to prove it. i'd--i'd give my life for you, sweetheart. honestly, it would break my heart if i lost you." "tony, what makes you talk of losing me?" myra asked quickly. "oh--er--nothing, really, but--er--well, you're so beautiful, and fascinating, and attractive, and all the rest of it, and i know there are several men who are in love with you and would like to cut me out if they could," explained tony. "i say, dear, i don't mean that i think you'd let me down and go back on your promise to marry me. er--you weren't in earnest, were you, darling, when you talked about letting don carlos fall in love with you at auchinleven, and making me jealous? please don't mind my asking, but i'm rather worried, to tell the truth." "worried because you think i may be in love with don carlos?" "no, myra, not exactly, but because i know he is in love with you. he told me so himself last night." "he told you so himself!" exclaimed myra, startled. "yes. placed me in a rather difficult position. i suppose it was really rather sporty of him. i don't know if i should tell you. he called on me and said he was afraid he'd have to ask me to release him from his promise to be my guest on the yachting tour. naturally i asked him why, and he told me frankly that he had fallen in love with you." myra's heart beat a trifle faster as she listened. "said he thought it was only right i should know, and that he supposed it wouldn't be playing the game according to english ideas if he made love to you and tried to win you from me while he was my guest," continued tony. "i didn't know quite what to say, except that i was sorry." he looked at myra expectantly and a little anxiously as he paused, and myra laughed involuntarily. but her heart was still behaving rather oddly and she felt her face flushing. "how absurd, tony!" she exclaimed. "do you think he was in earnest?" "oh, yes, he seemed to be in deadly earnest," replied tony. "er--i didn't quite know what to do about it, as i said before, but it suddenly occurred to me that if i let don carlos withdraw his acceptance of my invitation it might seem like an admission that i had not complete faith in you and was afraid of losing you. you see what i mean, myra?" "more or less," said myra, rather bewildered. "but surely you don't mean that you pressed him to come, knowing he would go on making love to me?" "i didn't exactly press him, but i told him that if he felt he must decline my invitation because he was in love with you, we should naturally have to decline his invitation to spain for the same reason," responded tony. "i told him he ought to have known you were only amusing yourself to pay him out, and that he should have known better than lose his heart after you had objected to his attempting to make love to you. so eventually he laughed and said if i wasn't afraid of him as a rival he would come. i hope you don't mind, darling. i told him he hadn't an earthly hope." "it is nice to know you are so sure of me that you have no fear of a rival," commented myra drily, after a momentary pause. "i say, myra, do you mean that, or are you being sarcastic?" asked tony. "what could i do in the circumstances? perhaps i shouldn't have mentioned the matter to you at all, but--er--i thought you might feel rather flattered to know that you have made another conquest, and you know you said you weren't in the least afraid of don carlos. i thought, too, that you'd take it rather as a compliment if i showed i had complete faith in you. you didn't really want me to display jealousy, did you?" "i don't know, tony," replied myra evasively. "if the positions were reversed and i were engaged to don carlos and you had been making love to me, i expect he would have killed you by now, and perhaps strangled me into the bargain." "englishmen don't do that sort of thing," remarked tony, looking hurt. "if you mean you would prefer me to behave like an emotional foreigner----" "oh, tony, dear, don't be absurd!" interrupted myra, her mood changing. "i see how you looked at the matter, and i know i should be glad you have such faith in me. but don't you think don carlos may regard your indifference to his rivalry as being almost in the nature of a challenge?" "i hadn't thought of it that way, myra, but in any case i know you'll be able to keep don carlos at a distance if he should try to make love to you again," answered tony. "sure you're not vexed with me, dear?" "i don't know whether i'm vexed or pleased, amused or scared, but i am certainly thrilled," said myra. "to think that don carlos, who boasted that no woman could resist him, should confess to you, that he has lost his heart to me!" "i couldn't help feeling rather sorry for the poor chap," remarked tony. "i should feel ghastly if i had fallen in love with you after you had become engaged to another man, and knew there was no hope." "don't be too sure there is no hope for don carlos," said myra provocatively; but tony's look of piteous dismay caused her to relent almost instantly, and she kissed him. long after tony had gone, myra sat lost in thought, her heart still thrilling. don carlos's confession was, of course, a compliment and tribute to her powers of fascination, and naturally myra was flattered; but she was also more than a little puzzled. she could not quite fathom don carlos's motive for telling tony standish he was in love with her, and she realised that tony had been cleverer than he knew. by telling her of don carlos's confession and assuring her that he had complete faith in her he had, as it were, placed her on her honour not to forsake him. "i wonder what wise aunt clarissa would advise?" mused myra. "i must tell her that although she said i was playing with fire it is don carlos, apparently, who has got burnt." "you certainly appear to have reason to flatter yourself on your success as a coquette, myra," commented lady fermanagh drily, after listening attentively to myra's story of don carlos's confession to tony, and, incidentally, without making any mention of the fact that she had already heard the story from tony himself over the telephone. "you have the laugh on don carlos de ruiz now, my dear, but don't forget the old proverb that he who laughs last laughs best. actually, it is not a laughing matter at all, but a crime to break a man's heart in jest." "you don't really suppose that don carlos is heart-broken, do you, aunt?" asked myra. "frankly, i do not," responded lady fermanagh. "i don't quite know what to make of it. my idea is that don carlos probably guessed you had boasted you would make him fall in love with you, and he may either be pandering to your vanity by leading you to believe you have succeeded in your object, or else trying to make a fool of you. be careful, my dear! it isn't safe to trifle with men of the type of don carlos de ruiz, as i have told you before." "pouf! if he has actually fallen in love with me, he is more likely to make a fool of himself than of me," myra exclaimed. "one never knows," lady fermanagh responded. "i believe you are half in love with him as it is, myra, and if he cared to exercise all his powers he might be able to induce you to break with tony." myra shook her red-gold head, but at heart she knew her aunt might be right. "your idea, as you have admitted, was to make don carlos fall in love with you in earnest, because he had made love to you in jest," continued lady fermanagh. "you wanted to have the satisfaction of 'turning him down'--to use the ultra-modern expression--and laughing at him for losing his heart. take care, my dear myra, that he does not turn the tables on you again." "how could he?" asked myra, feeling somewhat piqued. "well, it might amuse him to protest that he is heart-broken, to persuade you to take pity on him and forsake tony, to confess yourself in love with him, and then in the end to remind you of his boast that no woman could resist him, and explain that he did not want you, had merely been testing his powers and taking revenge for your coquetry." "surely, he wouldn't be such a beast!" "he might--and more particularly if he is in earnest," said lady fermanagh gravely. "no man likes being laughed at, except when he is appearing on the stage as a comedian. a man in love is particularly sensitive to ridicule. i wonder how many murders have been committed in spain as a result of girls inducing men to make fools of themselves?" "oh, aunt, don't be absurd!" interposed myra. "are you suggesting that don carlos may murder me? do you anticipate his plunging a stiletto or some sort of spanish dagger into my heart, or committing suicide on our nice clean doorstep, because i do not reciprocate his passion?" she trilled out a laugh and her aunt had, perforce, to smile. "one never knows," she said again. "my advice to you is not to take any further risks, and not to attempt to gloat over don carlos. and i think you should fix the date for your marriage to tony standish and make a good resolution to break no more hearts." "and join a dorcas society, and wear flannel next the skin, and woollen stockings and flat-heeled shoes!" myra added frivolously. "thank you _so_ much, aunt clarissa!" chapter ix sure of her own powers, but uncertain of her own heart, myra could not make up her mind in advance what attitude to adopt towards don carlos at their next meeting, and wondered what his attitude would be towards her. would he profess to be heart-broken, or continue to make passionate love to her at every opportunity? she was left wondering, for don carlos left london that very day, after explaining to tony that he had been called to paris on important business. "said he might be away for a week or two, but promised he would make a point of getting back in time to join our yachting party," tony informed myra. "just as well, perhaps, what? give him time to get over having fallen in love with you, darling. asked me to give you his humble and dutiful regards--i believe that was his expression--and to assure you he never broke a promise. i suppose he meant his promise to be back in time to join us at southhampton." "i suppose so," myra equivocated. "i don't believe he is in love with me, tony." "i don't see how anyone could help being in love with you, darling," responded tony gallantly. "my idea is that poor old carlos is hard hit, and has probably gone to paris to pull himself together, so to speak, and to avoid meeting you for a bit." "paris is so consoling!" commented myra satirically. "just the sort of quiet, soothing place where a heart-broken lover can find solace! i shall waste no sympathy on don carlos." she was piqued and puzzled, and a little exasperated by the thought that don carlos was playing a joke on her. "he probably thinks i am deeply in love with him, and flatters himself i shall be hurt and grieved by his sudden departure," reflected myra. "perhaps he thinks he is paying me back in my own coin, and he will find me ready to fall into his arms, so to speak, on his return. if so, i can promise him a disappointment." she tried to put don carlos out of her mind, but she found herself thinking of him continually. often in her dreams she was again enfolded in his arms with his lips crushed on her own, and she would wake with her heart throbbing wildly. tony never managed to set her heart throbbing in the same way. myra wished he could and would. perhaps it was her dreams of don carlos that caused her to be particularly nice to tony during the next week or two, and to try to persuade herself that she was really in love with him. no word came from don carlos, but he duly presented himself aboard the _killarney_, tony standish's yacht, on the appointed day. and he looked as little like a heart-broken, forlorn lover as anyone could imagine. indeed, he seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits, talked gaily of the enjoyable time he had had in paris, explaining that he had combined business with pleasure. he made no attempt to speak to myra alone on the first night aboard, and joined a party of men playing poker in the smoking-room, in preference to dancing. "he is really the most baffling and exasperating creature," myra told herself. "i expect he thinks he is vexing me by being so casual, the conceited fellow. i am annoyed with myself for feeling annoyed." she encountered don carlos next morning, when she went up on deck from her state room to take a stroll before breakfast, and he greeted her smilingly. "buenos dias, señorita," he said, with a gallant bow. "i start the day well by meeting you, my myra. has absence made your heart grow fonder, my heart's desire?" "yes, i am fonder of tony than ever," answered myra lightly. "i think i really ought to thank you, don carlos, for pretending to tony that you had fallen in love with me. i was vastly amused, but tony actually took you seriously, and he has been the most adorably devoted lover ever since. i am half inclined to suspect that you must have given tony some lessons in love-making!" don carlos flashed a searching glance at her, and his smile faded. "if i thought that standish would hold you to your promise to marry him, knowing that you love me, i should kill him," he said, quietly, calmly and deliberately. "in that case, tony is a doomed man," commented myra, with a mocking laugh. "but perhaps the fact that i do not love you will induce you to spare his life," she added hastily. "don't you find it rather difficult to be melodramatic and to talk farcical nonsense before breakfast, don carlos?" "i am debating with myself how best to get rid of standish," responded don carlos unsmilingly. "an opportunity may present itself during this cruise. i do not wish to kill him, and would much prefer him to surrender you to me voluntarily. but if he is obstinate, and if you persist in refusing to obey the dictates of your heart to break with him, he, as you have said, is a doomed man." so earnest was his tone, so serious his manner, that myra felt her heart contract, but she forced herself to treat his speech as a joke. "don carlos, you are an impossible person!" she exclaimed. "do you want me to rush away and warn tony that his life is in danger? shall i ask the captain to order two of the crew to play the part of scotland yard detectives, shadow your every movement and keep guard over tony? you don't really expect me to take you seriously, do you?" before don carlos could answer, tony, together with two or three other members of the party, came up the companion-way. "hallo, people, what are you looking so solemn about?" cried tony cheerily. "not feeling sea-sick, are you, what?" "good morning, darling, so glad you've come," said myra, and tilted up her face for a kiss. she seldom greeted her betrothed with a kiss if there were others present, but she guessed the display of affection might annoy don carlos. "this dreadful man has been trying to make my blood run cold," she added smilingly, with a challenging glance at don carlos. "i think he must have spent most of his time in paris at the grand guignol, and it has turned his brain. i'm afraid he is suffering from some sort of homicidal mania, poor fellow." "i warn you, good people, and you, mine host in particular, that i am in a murderous mood," said don carlos gaily. "miss rostrevor has driven me insane, and i may go berserker at any moment." "splendid, old chap!" laughed tony. "what about attacking the breakfast with savage fury? there goes the gong...." it was a beautifully calm day, and after breakfast most of the company assembled on the promenade deck, some to lounge and smoke and chat or read, others to play quoits or deck billiards. for once in a way myra did not feel particularly energetic, and she sat down on a comfortable deck chair beside her aunt and several other women and girls seated in a group gossiping and exchanging badinage with two or three men of the party standing by their chairs or lounging against the rail. tony standish and don carlos were standing together, both leaning against the rail, and myra lay back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head, studying and comparing them through half-closed but keenly-observant eyes. she noticed that as don carlos talked and laughed he was fingering a bolt under the rail behind him, saw him slide the bolt back, and she was in the act of sitting up and calling out to him to be careful, to point out that the part of the rail against which he and tony were leaning was that which is swung open to make way for a gangway, when don carlos straightened himself and took a pace forward. the rail swung loose at the same instant, and tony, who had been leaning heavily against it with his arms folded, was precipitated backwards into the sea! screams of horror and consternation broke from all the women, and myra sprang to her feet and made a dash towards the side of the yacht. whether or not she intended to fling herself into the sea in the hope of rescuing tony, she could not afterwards have told. as it was, don carlos seized her, hurled her aside, and flung off his coat. "man overboard!" he yelled at the top of his powerful voice, and as he did so he dived overside. his cry was heard and repeated instantly by several of the crew. there was a clang of bells in the engine room as the chief officer on the bridge shot over the indicator, signalling "full speed astern," at the same time shouting orders that sent men racing to swing out a boat from the davits, while others ran with life-buoys to the stern of the vessel, ready to fling them to the men in the water if the opportunity presented itself. the _killarney_ had been going full speed ahead when standish went overboard, and at first myra, when she began to recover her scattered wits, could see no trace of either tony or don carlos. then she glimpsed a black head, and saw don carlos swimming strongly towards a fair head, which she knew was tony. a pair of hands shot up and the fair head disappeared just when don carlos had almost reached it, and a sob of anguish broke from myra's white lips. "he's gone down! he's drowning!" she gasped, and as the words passed her lips don carlos also disappeared--to reappear, however, a minute later, swimming on his back and supporting tony. he seemed to be having difficulty in keeping afloat, and it seemed to all those anxiously watching that he might go under before help could reach him. again the engine-room bells clanged, and this time the signal from the bridge was "stop"; the boat, fully-manned, was lowered with a run, and at the same time one of the sailors at the stern of the yacht slung a lifebuoy overside with such force and accuracy that it hit the water with a splash within ten yards of don carlos, who propelled himself towards it, and with its aid succeeded in supporting himself and tony until the boat reached him and he and tony were safely hauled aboard. orders were shouted from the bridge, sailors scurried to let down the accommodation ladder and stood by with ropes, awaiting the return of the boat, which was being rapidly rowed back to the _killarney_. the boat came alongside at last, and tony, who appeared to be exhausted and almost unconscious, was with difficulty hoisted up the ladder to the deck, where the ship's doctor was already waiting with restoratives. someone started a cheer as don carlos, dripping wet but smiling, came up the ladder, and the cheer was taken up by practically everyone around, save myra, who was standing tense and white, her brain in a turmoil. "bravo, don carlos, bravo!" shouted an excited and enthusiastic youngster, rushing forward and trying to shake don carlos's hand; but don carlos waved him off with an impatient frown and bent over tony, who had opened his eyes and was making an effort to sit up. "is he all right, doctor?" he asked. "yes, i think he is only suffering from shock, sir," the doctor answered, unfastening tony's collar, which seemed to be choking him. "thanks," gasped tony faintly and painfully. "i--i'll be all right presently. think i must have hit my head on something. give me a drink, will you?" the doctor gave him brandy, had him carried to his cabin, where he examined him carefully and discovered that he was not injured. he surmised that tony had probably been partly stunned by falling flat on the water when he toppled overboard, and "knocked silly"--to use tony's own expression--and he was able to tell the passengers that their host would probably be all right again within an hour or two. "thank heaven for that!" exclaimed lady fermanagh fervently. "myra, darling, you look ghastly. doctor, please give miss rostrevor something to pull her together." "i'm quite all right, thanks," said myra--and promptly disproved her own statement by dropping limply into a deck-chair, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears. she speedily recovered herself, however, after she had been helped to her state-room and persuaded to swallow some sal volatile, but she still felt shaken and unnerved. "better lie down and rest for a little while until you have quite recovered from the shock, myra dear," advised lady fermanagh. "don't worry. you heard the doctor say that tony will be quite all right and isn't hurt." "i don't understand it," said myra, more to herself than to her aunt. "don carlos meant to kill tony, and yet he saved him. does he want to make himself out to be a hero simply to flatter still further his own vanity, or is he trying to frighten me?" "my dear myra, what on earth are you talking about?" inquired lady fermanagh in concern. "don carlos undid the bolt of the rail against which tony was leaning," explained myra. "i saw him do it, but had no time to warn tony. he threatened this morning that he would murder tony rather than let me marry him. what can i do, aunt?" lady fermanagh shook her grey head, looking greatly concerned. "i heard don carlos say something about being in a murderous mood, and perhaps the accident to tony was only an unfortunate coincidence," she said. "it was not an accident, aunt," insisted myra. "i tell you i saw him slip back the bolt that holds the rail." "but that may have been accidental, myra," suggested her aunt. "don carlos was talking at the time, and he may not have realised what he was doing. you know how often one fiddles with something while one is talking or thinking. why, you are twiddling your necklace now, myra, without knowing you are doing it, and a minute ago you were twisting your engagement ring round and round your finger. if don carlos had been in earnest about murdering tony is it likely he would have gone to his rescue immediately the accident happened and risked his own life as he did? why, he could easily have let tony drown?" "yes, that's true," agreed myra, with a despairing gesture. "i don't know what to make of it. i don't know what i should do. i feel now that tony's life is actually in danger. should i warn him, tell him of don carlos's threat?" "no, i think not, myra, unless he says something more which leads you to believe he meant the threat seriously," said lady fermanagh, after a thoughtful pause. "oh, my dear, i do wish you had taken my warning not to play with fire, and i do hope don carlos was not in earnest!" chapter x when myra, having recovered herself, went from her state-room into the saloon a little later, it was to find that don carlos had, so to speak, "spiked her guns," had she intended to denounce him as being responsible for the "accident" to tony. the captain of the _killarney_, it appeared, had held an inquiry as to who was responsible for having left the rail unfastened and charged two members of the crew with neglect. on learning this, don carlos had at once interviewed the captain and taken the blame upon himself, explaining that he remembered fingering the bolt while he was talking, and doubtless unfastened it. he had told his fellow guests the same thing when they praised and complimented him for his gallant rescue. "don carlos is a true sportsman," said one of the men of the party to myra. "my own opinion is that he has made up the yarn about unfastening the bolt, just to prevent us making too much of a hero of him and to save any of the crew from getting into trouble. he has been in to see tony, i hear, told him it was all his fault and asked him to accept his apologies. of course, his idea is to try to prevent tony from thanking him. but i guess you will thank him, miss rostrevor!" "perhaps it would please him better if i reproached him," responded myra, whereat her companion laughed. don carlos was seated opposite her at lunch, but myra did not attempt either to thank or blame him, deciding to wait until he himself referred to the "accident," and discover, if possible, what was in his mind. after lunch, most of the other members of the party settled down to spend the afternoon playing bridge, but myra went on deck and ensconced herself in a comfortable chair in a sheltered spot to read and think. she had not been there more than a few minutes when don carlos appeared beside her chair with a cushion in his hand. without a word he tossed the cushion down on the boat-deck at myra's feet, sat down on it, and rested his dark head against myra's knees. he did it all so deliberately and with such calm assurance that myra was somehow amused in spite of herself and laughed involuntarily. "evidently the poor man is so overcome by sea-sickness that he doesn't know what he is doing and needs a nurse!" she exclaimed. "shall i call for a steward?" she slewed her chair round as she spoke, and laughed again as don carlos, suddenly deprived of the support of her knees, fell backward. he did not seem in the least disconcerted, however, and merely rolled over on his side, supported his head on one hand, and gazed up at myra quizzically. "that was rather the equivalent of unfastening the bolt of the rail, was it not, myra?" he drawled. "i hope you will now proceed to rescue me from the slough of despond by telling me that you love me and will marry me?" "you said once that i would be a suitable mate for el--er--what's his name?--el cojuelo diablo, isn't it?--your pet brigand, i mean," retorted myra. "now you are presumably suggesting that i am a fit mate for a man guilty of attempted murder!" don carlos smiled enigmatically. "el diablo cojuelo is the correct name, myra," he said in the same lazy, unmoved tone. "if i fail to conquer you and teach you the meaning of love, perhaps el diablo cojuelo will. beloved, i should love to rest my head against your knees and feel your fingers caressing my hair." "don't be so utterly ridiculous!" exclaimed myra. "in novels, as you know," went on don carlos, paying no heed to her protest, "the fair heroine usually marries the gallant who rescues her, or her half-witted brother, or her aged parent, from drowning. you can give the plot a new turn by marrying me for saving your lover from drowning. mr. standish was good enough to say that it was 'demmed sporty of me' to rescue him and that he owes me his life. why not suggest to him, myra, that he can best show his gratitude by surrendering to me his greatest pride and treasure--you?" "your audacity is only equalled by your conceit," myra commented. "let me warn you----" "let me warn you, you siren, that i shall go to any lengths to win you," interrupted don carlos with sudden passion. "this morning's incident was a warning to prove to you i am in earnest. dios! why do you torture me so? at times you make me hate you almost as much as i love you!" he sprang to his feet, picked up the cushion on which he had been reclining and hurled it overboard, then strode away without another word, leaving myra thrilled and more than a little scared. "it rather looks as if i shall have to take him seriously after all!" she soliloquised. "i wonder what i should do?" she was left wondering and sorely perplexed, for within an hour she found don carlos obviously carrying on a violent flirtation with another girl, and at dinner, at which tony standish appeared looking little the worse for his adventure, he was the life and soul of the party. after dinner he delighted the company by singing some spanish songs, accompanying himself on the guitar, and he was enthusiastically applauded. "why, old chap, you ought to be the star baritone in grand opera!" cried tony. "sing us another, please." "sorry, but i promised to sing to the crew in the fo'c'sle--and i always keep my promises," responded don carlos, and flashed a smiling glance at myra as he went out. he became as popular with the crew as with his fellow-guests during the days that followed, and seemed to enjoy himself hugely, a fact which somehow piqued myra, who felt he had been, and was still, making mock of her. she was forced to the conclusion that his passionate outburst had been merely a clever piece of acting, for he made no further attempt to make love to her during the cruise, and at times seemed to shun her. * * * "now that we are in spain, dear people, you must permit me to try to repay you in some small measure for the wonderful hospitality extended to me in england," he said to tony and his guests, when at last they disembarked at cadiz. "you are my guests from now onward." that evening he entertained the whole party royally at the premier hotel of the city, and next morning they found a fleet of luxurious hispano cars waiting to convey them through some of the most picturesque parts of spain to el castillo de ruiz, his ancestral home, situated in a fertile valley amid the heights of the sierra morena. it was a mediaeval-looking place, part of which had been built by the moors, and used as a fortress. "it is still, to some extent, a fortress," don carlos had told his guests in advance, "for always i have to be on the alert lest that rascal el diablo cojuelo should raid the place again, and i employ an armed guard. let me warn you, dear people, that if el diablo learns i am entertaining a party of wealthy english people he may attempt another raid." the others had laughed, assuming that he was jesting. most of them had decided that don carlos had "invented" el diablo cojuelo and his brigand gang, with the object of adding a spice of adventure to their visit. el castillo de ruiz was a place of surprises. it looked massive and strong enough to resist an artillery siege, let alone the attack of a few bandits, and its outward appearance immediately gave the impression that a guest would have to expect to endure at least some of the discomforts of the middle ages. several of the party exchanged glances of dismay as they alighted from their cars in the great cobbled courtyard or patio, to find themselves stared at by a motley crew of men, women and children, and to see pigs, dogs, asses and fowls wandering about. "looks as if we'll have to rough it!" whispered tony to myra. "i didn't expect this sort of thing--what?" myra made a moue, but did not answer. she was wondering if don carlos's invitation had been by way of an elaborate practical joke, wondering if he intended to subject her to intense discomfort under the guise of hospitality, or if he had some surprise in store. the first surprise came when she followed don carlos into the great hall of the castle to find a retinue of servants in livery, headed by a gorgeously-attired major-domo carrying a silver wand of office, waiting to greet their master and his guests. the hall itself was panelled with polished spanish mahogany, black with age, and softly illuminated by cunningly-concealed electric lights around the painted roof. there were beautiful persian and moorish rugs on the floor, and here and there along the walls there hung paintings by old masters between stands of ancient armour. "magnificent!" cried myra in her impulsive way, after a gasp of amazement. "magnificent! this is the sort of hall one can imagine velasquez delighting to paint, the fit setting and background for a spanish grandee in all his glory." "i thank you, señorita," said don carlos, with a low bow. "el castillo de ruiz is but a poor background for the most beautiful of women, but you honour it by your presence, and all it contains is yours and at your service. i give you welcome!" he gave quick orders to the major-domo, who in turn issued orders to the small army of servants--men in livery and comely maids in neat black dresses with perky caps and wisps of aprons--to escort the guests to their various apartments. the magnificence of the hall might have prepared myra for something equally luxurious in other parts of the castle, yet she gasped again in astonishment when she found herself ushered into a bedroom beautifully decorated in dove grey and rose pink, a room in which everything harmonised delightfully. the small casement window, set in a wall three or four feet thick, admitted little light, but that fault was remedied by the fact that the room, like the great hall below, was softly lighted by electricity. "the señorita would like a bath?" inquired the trim maid in english, opening another door, to reveal a beautifully-appointed little bathroom. "why, this is wonderful!" exclaimed myra, with an involuntary laugh. "i never expected such luxuries in such a grim-looking, old-world place. tell me, are all the rooms like this?" "this, señorita, is the most beautiful of all, but all the guests' rooms are lovely," the maid answered. "the master himself designed and planned them all. he is wonderful." "he certainly is, and i must congratulate him," said myra. "is it true, by the way, that there is a daring brigand lurking about in the mountains around here?" "you mean el diablo cojuelo, señorita?" the maid responded, and instinctively crossed herself. "he has not been seen for months, but his very name still terrifies. he is daring beyond belief, señorita, and no woman is safe from him. the saints forbid that el diablo cojuelo should come back while you are here!" myra had mentally discounted don carlos's tales about the bandit, just as she had discounted his passionate avowals of love, and she began to feel that she had been doing him an injustice--at least as far as el diablo cojuelo was concerned. "well, he promised me romance, and he certainly seems to have provided the right setting," she reflected, as she leisurely bathed and changed. "a sort of aladdin's palace among the hills of spain, but fitted up in a way more wonderful than any genii could have contrived. pigs and fowls and people who look like barbarians outside; all the luxuries of civilisation inside, including an english-speaking maid. and a real live daring brigand apparently lurking about in the mountains. i feel that anything might happen at any minute. this is more like a romantic novel than real life." myra went down to the great hall to find the rest of the guests as enthusiastic as herself about the appointments of the castle. "you should see my room, my dear," exclaimed lady fermanagh. "it is an exquisite harmony in primrose and pale green that gives one the impression of sunlight and spring." "mine is decorated in japanese style," chimed in tony. "there are some priceless lacquers on the walls, some exquisite old japanese prints, and some of the fittings of the dressing-table are of old jade. actually, i believe don carlos must have had the place specially fitted up for me, knowing how keen i am on japanese things." congratulations were showered on don carlos, who shrugged his shoulders and smilingly tried to make light of the whole matter. "one must have comforts even in the wilds," he said. "i had the whole place modernised inside as far as possible, without altering its grim exterior, and it amused me to plan the furnishings and colour schemes to suit the tastes of the guests i might be likely to have the honour of entertaining." a gong sounded, and the magnificent major-domo appeared to announce that dinner was served, and to lead the guests to the dining-table, the very sight of which evoked rapturous expressions of admiration. the table was of highly-polished black mahogany, and instead of a fillet of lace there was a slab of pure crystal at every place set for a guest. all the appointments of the table were of crystal and silver, and in its centre there was a great crystal bowl filled with spring flowers. the effect was strikingly artistic and wholly delightful. the overhead lights reflected the table appointments and the flowers in the surface of the table itself, much in the way that sunlight and shadow reflect the surrounding trees in a dark pool. "don carlos, you are an artist!" exclaimed myra, who loved beauty. "your castle is full of surprises." "and who knows, dear lady, that i may not have still more surprises in store for you," responded don carlos, with a cryptic smile. "remember that i always keep my promises." chapter xi after what they had seen, it came as no great surprise to the guests of don carlos to find themselves served with a dinner which would have done credit to the ritz or the savoy, and with rare wines of the choicest vintages. "would you care to dance after dinner, or merely to listen to a wireless programme?" their host inquired during the meal. "concealed in the big antique cabinet in the hall there is a powerful wireless set with which i can pick up any european station, and possibly you noticed that the floor of the hall is really a spring dance-floor, stained to make it seem as ancient as the panelling." "our host is a magician!" cried lady fermanagh. "you certainly seem to be something of a magician, don carlos, and your castle is something like aladdin's cave," myra remarked to her host as she was dancing with him later in the evening in the great hall. "myra, darling, have i found the magic to make your heart respond to the call of love?" asked don carlos in a low voice. "my castle lacks nothing save a mistress, and all my heart is craving for you, its ideal mate. i love you, love you, love you, mia cara, with all the strength and passion of my being. confess that you love me, darling, and say you will be mine." myra found herself compelled to look into his glittering dark eyes, felt as if she were being hypnotised, and it was only by an effort of will that she broke the spell he seemed to be casting on her. "it isn't fair to take advantage of your position as host to make love to me again," she protested, annoyed to find her heart throbbing tumultuously and her cheeks burning. "you are quite a wonderful person, but i do not intend to give you the opportunity to justify your boasts." "who knows but what i may make the opportunity, myra, and take you in spite of yourself?" don carlos responded. "here i am a king, and none dares dispute my authority, save el diablo cojuelo." "if you persist in talking like that, i shall not feel safe in your house," said myra. "that sounded like a veiled threat, don carlos, and you are not playing the game." "there are no set rules to the game of love, dear lady, and i am playing to win," retorted don carlos, scarcely above a whisper. "listen for your lover at midnight." at heart myra was a little scared, although her pride would not permit her to acknowledge the fact. she remembered how she had been awakened at dead of night at auchinleven, with the impression strong upon her that someone had touched her, and had found don carlos's note on her pillow. she remembered his threats or promises to take her in spite of everything... most of the guests were tired after their long journey, and the party broke up about eleven o'clock. myra went to her own grey and rose bedroom, declined the services of the waiting maid and carefully bolted the door after bidding the girl good-night. "what did he mean by telling me to listen for my lover at midnight?" she wondered. "what am i scared about? he surely wouldn't be so dastardly as to force his way into my room... oh, i wish i hadn't come!" myra was tired, yet she was reluctant to undress and go to bed, flung herself down in a chair by the fire, and lit a cigarette. presently the room seemed to her oppressively hot and she rose and opened the casement. as she did so she saw lights moving about in the dark courtyard below, and again she felt unreasoningly apprehensive until common sense told her the lights were probably lanterns carried by outdoor servants attending to their duties. at last she heard a clock in one of the corridors strike twelve, and as the last stroke died away a mellow voice, which she recognised as that of don carlos, rang out in song in the courtyard beneath her window. he sang in spanish, accompanying himself on a guitar, and although myra could understand but few of the words she knew he was singing a passionate love song, serenading her, and she was conscious of a heart thrill. she rose and moved involuntarily towards the open window, where she stood listening, the prey of mingled emotions. it did not occur to her for some minutes that her figure would be silhouetted against the light, and when the thought did flash across her mind she moved back quickly and switched off the lights, but crept back again to the casement to listen again to the thrilling song until the last notes died away. "adios, mia cara!" said the voice below, and there was silence. strangely stirred, myra undressed in the dark and crept into bed, but, tired though she was, it was a long time before she could compose herself to sleep. "am i falling in love with him?" she asked herself, and did not answer her own question. she was inclined to laugh at herself next morning, and to chide herself for being sentimental, and the opportunity to administer another reproof speedily presented itself. "did you hear someone singing a serenade in the courtyard last night, myra, after we went to bed?" one of the guests inquired in don carlos's hearing. "yes, i thought of throwing him a few coppers in the hope he would stop and let me get to sleep," drawled myra, and had the satisfaction of seeing don carlos's lips tighten and his black brows draw together in a frown. "if you are prepared to run the risk of being waylaid by el diablo cojuelo, i suggest that you go riding and allow me to show you the neighbourhood," don carlos said. "i have half a dozen good horses in my stables." myra, tony, and several others who were keen on horse exercise welcomed the proposal with enthusiasm, and went to change into riding kit. their ride was quite uneventful. they saw some fine mountain scenery, but no sign of any brigands. they did, however, meet a squad of mounted carabineros, who saluted them respectfully, and with the leader of whom don carlos paused to chat. "you will be relieved to learn that the officer reports that everything seems quiet, and he has no news of el diablo cojuelo having been seen in the neighbourhood for many weeks," he reported when he rejoined his guests. "but i doubt if he has taken fright, as the captain suggests. he isn't easily scared." he made no attempt to make love to myra that day, but often she caught him looking at her with an expression that baffled her and made her feel vaguely uneasy. he looked, somehow, like a schoolboy with a sphinx-like expression, planning mischief and inwardly enjoying some private joke. "he is quite the most exasperating man i have ever met--and the most interesting," myra reflected, as she dressed for dinner that evening. "i wonder if he really has a heart, or if he is acting all the time?" dinner was served in the great hall that night, and once again it was a triumph for the chef and the host. during the meal an orchestra, composed of some of the servants on the estate, clad in picturesque national costumes, discoursed sweet, haunting, heart-stirring music. outside, the courtyard was festooned with coloured lights and around lighted braziers groups of men, women and children, in multi-coloured garments, were gathered, feasting, singing, playing and dancing. "to-night, if it pleases you, we will mingle with my people, who are holding festival in your honour," said don carlos when dinner was over. "i would advise you all to put on your warmest wraps, for the night winds here in the sierra morena are treacherous." the night seemed quite mild, but myra took her host's advice and put on her fur coat before going out into the courtyard to watch the performance. don carlos and his english guests were greeted with cheers when they appeared in the patio. a bearded patriarch, who looked as if he had stepped out of a picture by velasquez, stepped forward and delivered a flowery speech of welcome, then comely maidens and dark-visaged youths performed a picturesque dance to the accompaniment of stringed instruments. the set dance over, groups of men sang old spanish and basque folk songs, after which don carlos's own orchestra, which had played in the great hall during dinner, took up a position in the centre of the patio and dancing became general. "come, let's mingle with the throng and take part in the fun," cried don carlos gaily. "come, myra, let me teach you the spanish dance the boys and girls are dancing so merrily." he did not wait for an answer, and before myra quite realised what was happening she found herself being whirled round in his arms in the midst of the motley crowd. "don't hold me so tightly, don carlos, and don't dance so fast," she protested breathlessly, after a few minutes. "i am nearly suffocated in this fur coat, and the cobbles are hurting my feet. one can't dance on cobble-stones in satin shoes." "myra, darling, the delight of holding you in my arms made me forget all else," don carlos responded, slackening his pace. "i'll guide you out of the crowd, and make love to you instead of dancing." "i don't want you to make love to me," said myra, "but i shall be glad to get out of this crush, for i hate being elbowed about." "make way, good people, make way for the señorita who will soon be your mistress!" cried don carlos in spanish, and those around stopped dancing to cheer. just as the couple were free of the crowd, all the electric lights, both in the castle and the courtyard, were suddenly extinguished, and at the same moment uproar broke out at the courtyard gates and shots were fired. "the bandits! el diablo cojuelo and his men!" a voice screamed. instantly all was confusion. women shrieked and ran in all directions in the darkness. "i am here! rally to your master, don carlos!" shouted don carlos. "rally to don carlos!" almost immediately he was surrounded, not by his own servants, but by a body of masked and armed men. myra clung to his arm, but was snatched away from him, someone enveloped her head in a cloak, she was picked up in strong arms as if she were a baby and carried quickly for some distance. she struggled fiercely, but the cloak that enveloped her, to say nothing of her own fur coat, hampered her movements, and she was almost as helpless as an infant in the arms of its nurse. her captor halted for a moment, growled out some orders breathlessly in spanish, and myra found herself dumped down on the seat of a motor car, which immediately started off at a rapid rate. half stifled, she tore the cloak from her face, and as she did so an arm encircled her. "el diablo cojuelo has captured the prize of his lifetime!" said a deep voice triumphantly. myra's heart seemed to miss a beat as she felt the outlaw's arm tighten around her, panic seized her, and she had to fight the inclination to scream, and scream and scream. "you are trembling, little lady," said the muffled voice of her captor. "do not be so sore afraid. i am not the fiend people make el diablo cojuelo out to be, and will take care of so precious a treasure. don carlos will ransom you, but perhaps when you have seen me and my mountain nest you will not want to be ransomed." myra's natural courage began to reassert itself, and she was ashamed of having displayed any signs of fear. "displayed" is hardly the word, for the inside of the car, which was hurtling along at great speed, was so dark that she could not even see the shape of the man whose arm encircled her, and she knew he could not see her. somehow, the brigand's voice, muffled though it was--as if he were speaking with something over his face--struck her as vaguely familiar, and as myra collected her scattered wits it occurred to her that el diablo cojuelo had spoken in english. "a spanish brigand who speaks english!" she exclaimed aloud, and cojuelo laughed. "si, señorita!" he answered. "so we shall be able to understand each other. don carlos de ruiz taught me english, and i imitate his voice and accent when i am speaking your language. we are really very good friends, don carlos and i, and he bears me no ill-will. i provide him with amusement, and he would be sorry to see me captured." "he will certainly bear you ill-will for having kidnapped me, and make every effort to kill you," retorted myra, recognising that cojuelo's muffled voice did resemble that of don carlos. "because he loves you?" queried cojuelo, with a chuckle. "you think he will be mad because i have robbed him of his heart's desire?" "how do you know that he loves me?" asked myra in amazement. she was no longer terrified, and had recovered her nerve, but she still found it difficult to believe she was not dreaming. it seemed more like a nightmare than actuality that she should be sitting in a pitch-dark car, talking of love and don carlos to a spanish outlaw who had captured her, and whose arm encircled her waist. she was not conscious of fear now, but cojuelo's reply to her question scared her more than a little. "sweet señorita, what man with a heart and eyesight could resist falling in love with so beautiful a woman?" he responded. "perhaps i shall fall in love with you myself and refuse to surrender you, no matter how great a ransom is offered. for years i have been seeking my ideal, but not one of the many women i have captured in my time pleased me enough to make me wish to keep her. you may be different." before myra could find words to reply, the car came to a sudden stop, the door was flung open and a gruff voice growled out a question in spanish which cojuelo answered in the same language. "we will alight now, señorita, and take a little riding exercise," he said to myra. "i know you are an expert horsewoman, for i was near you this morning when you were riding with don carlos, and i know you will have no difficulty in sitting a mule although you are not in riding dress. only mules can negotiate the paths that lead to my mountain nest. come!" chapter xii without a word, myra stepped out, to see by the headlights of the car that she was apparently in a mountain gorge, and to see a group of masked and armed men standing beside some mules. she turned to look at her captor as she reached the front of the car, and found that cojuelo was wearing what looked like a monk's cowl which completely covered his face, and which accounted for his muffled voice. she saw that he was tall, but that was all. cojuelo snapped out some orders, and a soberly-dressed, elderly man, wearing no mask and carrying in his arms a number of parcels, appeared out of the darkness and got into the car, which turned and sped away. "bien!" exclaimed cojuelo, as the motor disappeared. "everything is working according to plan. in the unlikely event of the car being stopped, it is found to contain garcilaso, don carlos's steward, returning from doing some marketing in the city. and who would guess that the fair señorita had been spirited away in one of don carlos's own cars?" "so some of don carlos's servants are in your pay?" exclaimed myra. "they are all in my pay, sweet lady, and every man knows it is as much as his life is worth to betray me," cojuelo answered, with a triumphant laugh. "but we waste time, and must not take the risk, remote as it is, of being seen. let me assist you to mount." he picked myra up in his arms and swung her up without any apparent effort on to the saddle of a mule which one of the men had led forward, mounted another mule himself, and gave some rapid orders. "follow me and ride carefully, señorita, for there are some steep and dangerous paths to negotiate," he called to myra. "mendoza will lead your mule at the most perilous places. _avanzar!_" to anyone less accustomed to riding and to taking risks than myra, that night ride through the mountains of the sierra morena would have been a blood-curdling and nerve-shattering experience. often she had to guide her mule along a rough path barely a couple of yards wide, with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet on one side, a path where a stumble or a false step on the part of the animal would have meant certain death. yet myra was conscious of no sense of fear now, and the dangers only made her pulse beat faster and stirred her blood. but it was no easy task riding a mule along precipitous paths and keeping her seat while slithering down slopes, clad as she was in only a filmy evening frock and a fur coat, and she cried out in protest at last: "how much further, señor cojuelo? i cannot sit this ungainly brute much longer in these clothes." "courage, sweet lady, we have but a little further to go," cojuelo called back to her over his shoulder. he spoke truly. a few minutes later the party halted in a narrow, pitch-dark ravine, and myra was lifted from her mule. "take my arm, señorita, lest you stumble in the darkness on the rough ground," said the muffled voice of el diablo cojuelo. "the entrance to my mountain eyrie is narrow and unprepossessing, but i promise you that you shall find comfort within." he pressed the switch of an electric torch as he spoke, and guided myra over rocky ground to what seemed a mere cleft in a wall of rock. "you will notice that this entrance to my lair is only wide enough to allow of the passage of one person at a time," he resumed. "here a handful of men could defy an army corps, and there are other means of entry--and other ways of escape. i give you welcome, sweet lady, to the fortress of el diablo cojuelo." myra, again with the sensation that the whole affair was a sort of fantastic dream, squeezed through the cleft revealed by the light of the electric torch, advanced two or three yards, passed through another cleft at right-angles to the first, and stopped at cojuelo's bidding. "you perceive, señorita, that we seem to have come to a dead end," said the bandit, flashing the light about. "what appears to be a solid wall of rock confronts us. it is actually a cunningly-contrived door giving entrance to a series of caves which nature must surely have constructed for my use. and el diablo cojuelo has improved on nature. _he aqui!_" with his foot he pressed some hidden spring or lever on the ground, and a massive door swung open, revealing to the astonished eyes of myra a big, irregularly-shaped room that looked as if it had been hewn out of the solid rock, a room furnished with roughly-constructed chairs and a settee on which there were many cushions, and with many rugs on the rocky floor. most amazing feature of all, the place was lighted with electricity and warmed by an electric radiator. "i suppose i am awake and not dreaming!" exclaimed myra, moving forward and gazing round with wondering eyes. "this is more amazing than the castle of don carlos. are you a magician as well as a brigand?" "both, señorita," cojuelo answered, as he closed the secret door, "but there is nothing magical about it, after all. it was a simple matter to have an electric light plant smuggled up here in sections. it was an equally simple matter to obtain rugs and cushions from the castillo de ruiz, since all the servants of don carlos, as i have told you, are in my pay." he strode forward to the table and touched a bell, and almost immediately an ancient woman with a wrinkled monkey-like, nut-brown face, tanned by wind and weather, appeared through an opening concealed by a curtain in the further wall. she was obviously of great age, but her eyes were bright and sparkling with intelligence, and she was active in her movements. "this is mother dolores, who will attend you," cojuelo explained, after giving the woman some instructions in her native tongue. "she has a change of clothing and refreshments in readiness for you. i will leave you in her charge while i attend to the disposal of my other captives." he disappeared through the aperture in the wall, and mother dolores, after inspecting myra appraisingly and admiringly, gabbling away in spanish idioma meanwhile, indicated to the fair prisoner that she wished her to accompany her. she led the way through a regular maze of crooked passages, and myra saw that cojuelo's mountain lair was a strange freak of nature, probably the result of a volcanic upheaval or an earthquake in some prehistoric age. it was a series of caves connected with fissures, a sort of irregular honeycomb of rock. "apartiamento--dormitorio," were the only words myra understood of the flood dolores let loose as she ushered her into one of the cave-rooms, and by pantomime indicated that she wished myra to undress. the rocky walls of the cave-bedroom were hidden beneath hangings of moire silk, the floor was thickly carpeted, and the place was equipped with an oak bedstead and some small pieces of roughly-constructed furniture. but what made myra gasp in amazement was to see her own silk dressing-gown and the nightie she had worn the night before lying on the eiderdown bedspread, together with other garments, while on the primitive dressing-table stood her dressing-case. "incredible!" she exclaimed. "these things were in my bed-room at the castillo de ruiz only an hour or two ago!" "si, si, señorita, el castillo de ruiz," said dolores, nodding her head and showing her toothless gums in a grin. "maravilloso! etra vez el bueno maestro cojuelo." "cojuelo boasted that all the servants of don carlos are in his pay, and it must be true," thought myra. "these things must have been taken from my room before the raid, and the servants probably knew el diablo cojuelo was going to kidnap me.... surely i have nothing to fear from a man who takes such trouble to ensure that i shall be comfortable? and yet..." dolores scuffled out, still gabbling unintelligibly in spanish, but reappeared almost at once with a jug of hot water. she stood watching myra with mingled curiosity and admiration as her fair charge washed after leisurely undressing, then put on her chic night-dress and dressing-gown, and a filmy, attractive boudoir cap. "señor cojuelo said something about refreshments," said myra, hoping she would make mother dolores understand, and trying to remember some of the spanish words she had learned. "i should like a cup of coffee--café--or a glass of vino, and a cigarette--cigarillo. entender?" "si, si, señorita," answered dolores. "café, vino, aguardiene, cigarillo, todo pronto." she opened the door and made signals to myra that she wished her to return with her to the outer apartment, at the same time letting loose another torrent of words. "perhaps meals in bed-rooms are charged extra!" myra remarked, and laughed at the idea. she was conscious of no sensation of actual fear, but she was curious and apprehensive as to how el diablo cojuelo would behave, remembering his reputation and his hint that he might fall in love with her and refuse to surrender her no matter how great the ransom offered. still smiling, myra slid her bare feet into her bedroom slippers and accompanied mother dolores back through the maze of crooked, rocky passages to the outer apartment. "comer e heber e fumar, señorita," said dolores, indicating a tray set on a stool close by the electric heater. on the tray stood a steaming jug of coffee, a flagon of cognac, a plate of biscuits, a cup and saucer, and a silver cigarette-box. "more magic!" commented myra, as dolores set a chair for her and poured out a glass of cognac which she insisted upon myra drinking at once. then she poured out coffee, gabbled something about the "bueno maestro," and withdrew. left alone, myra sipped the fragrant coffee and looked about her with interest. "this is certainly brigandage up to date!" she reflected. "i wonder what manner of man el diablo cojuelo is?" a minute or two later she heard a movement behind her and glanced over her shoulder expecting to see mother dolores, but saw instead the hooded figure of el diablo cojuelo. instinctively, she drew her silken dressing-gown closer around her and started to her feet. "i am sorry if i startled you, señorita," said cojuelo. "it is a delightful surprise to find you like this." "dolores seemed to be insisting that i must come here for my coffee," explained myra, recovering her composure. "i instructed madre dolores to ask you to do me the honour of returning here to have a talk with me before you retired, señorita, forgetting that you do not understand much spanish," responded cojuelo. "i hardly hoped to find you in négligé. you are a vision of beauty to ravish the heart of any man, sweet lady." "thanks for the compliment, señor," said myra coldly. "if i had understood you wished to talk to me, i should not have prepared to retire. surely anything you have to say will keep until to-morrow. meanwhile, i shall be thankful for a cigarette." "pardon!" exclaimed cojuelo, turning quickly to pick up the silver cigarette-box from the table, and proffering it. "your favourite brand, you perceive. you will give el diablo cojuelo credit, i hope, for making provision for your comfort." "you certainly seem to be something of a magician," commented myra, as she helped herself to a cigarette and accepted a light. "perhaps you are in league with the devil, and that is why you are known as el diablo cojuelo! i should be interested to know how you managed to get some of my clothes here, together with my toilet requisites." "that was not the work of the devil, señorita," the hooded figure answered, with a muffled laugh, "el diablo cojuelo thinks of everything, and had made his preparations in advance. did i not tell you all the servants of el castillo de ruiz were in my pay? it was a simple matter, therefore, to have some of your things smuggled out of the castle before the raid. pray be seated, señorita." he waved his hand invitingly towards the couch which was drawn up close to the electric heater, and myra, reflecting that it was in keeping with the rest of the fantastic, dream-like adventure that she, clad only in a nightdress and dressing-gown, should be talking to a hooded bandit in an electrically-lighted room in the heart of a mountain, seated herself. "i suppose i should thank you for being so thoughtful," she remarked, with a tinge of irony in her sweet voice. "am i to understand that even the english-speaking maid at the castillo de ruiz is in your pay?" "even she, señorita, and i reproach myself--i who have boasted that i think of everything--for not having kidnapped her at the same time as you, so that we should have had no language difficulty such as has occurred with madre dolores. if you wish it, i will kidnap her to-morrow." "please don't trouble, señor. i can't believe she is in your pay. she seemed afraid and crossed herself when she mentioned your name. you might frighten her to death. incidentally, do you wear your disguise all the time, even when you are safe here in your mountain lair? do you look so much like a devil that you are afraid to show your face?" she looked challengingly at the hooded figure of her captor as she asked the questions. his cowl had two holes cut for the eyes and a slit at the mouth, and she was wondering what manner of face it concealed. "the señorita pays me the compliment of wishing to see me without disguise!" exclaimed cojuelo. "sweet lady, are you not afraid you may fall in love with your captor?" "i think i can take the risk," retorted myra drily. "it is more than a risk," rejoined cojuelo, "but i will discard my disguise with pleasure. behold el diablo cojuelo!" he flung off his cowl and robe, and myra sprang to her feet with a cry of amazement and her hands went convulsively to her breast. for she found herself looking into the smiling and triumphant eyes of don carlos de ruiz. chapter xiii "don carlos!" she gasped. "you! but i don't understand." "i am el diablo cojuelo, dear myra," explained don carlos, obviously enjoying the sensation he had created. "i feared you had guessed my secret." "so the whole affair, i take it, is an elaborate practical joke?" myra queried after a pause, dropping back into her seat and forcing a laugh. "el diablo cojuelo, the outlaw, is merely a creature of your own imagination?" "i am el diablo cojuelo," repeated don carlos. "i am a dual personality. at my castle and at court i am don carlos de ruiz, governor of a province and an administrator of the laws. here in my mountain eyrie i am cojuelo, the outlaw, acknowledging no laws save those i make myself." "i still do not understand," remarked myra, with perplexity in her blue eyes. "do you mean to say you lead a double life and occasionally masquerade as a brigand, without anyone knowing that don carlos and cojuelo are one and the same? is there no one aware of your identity?" "many of my people are aware of my identity, but none would betray me, even if put to the torture," replied don carlos. "those who are in the secret vastly enjoy the way in which i hoodwink the authorities. they enjoy the joke of my offer of a reward for the capture of el diablo cojuelo, dead or alive, and my periodical 'searches' for the outlaw." "but what is the idea of it all?" inquired myra. "it seems foolishness to me, but perhaps it flatters your vanity to be able to go about scaring women and kidnapping girls." there was scorn instead of bewilderment in her voice and eyes now, and don carlos's pale face flushed slightly. "before the coming of el diablo cojuelo there were men in this province who had enriched themselves at the cost of the peasants, cheated farmers out of their land, and made them little better than serfs," he explained quietly and deliberately. "the law could not touch these vampires, parasites, money-lenders and profiteers. cojuelo came upon the scene, bled these rogues as they had bled the peasants, plundered their houses, spirited them away, and held them to ransom." "really! quite a profitable hobby, i suppose!" myra remarked. "quite--and useful, to boot," responded don carlos, his face now expressionless. "with the money which i have wrung from the spoilers i have been able to restore their lands to many of the people without much cost to myself, to pay their debts and aid them to escape from the thraldom of blood-sucking money-lenders and tyrannical masters. i have also made it possible for men to marry the girls of their choice, in cases where the parents objected. a threat from el diablo cojuelo to carry off a girl if she is not allowed to marry the man she loves, is usually enough to bring her parents to their senses." "so, if i understand you aright, you are a sort of benevolent brigand, doing good without much risk or expense to yourself?" remarked myra. "a sort of modern claude duval--although he was a highway-man and not a kidnapper." "it pleases you to be ironic, myra," responded don carlos. "expense does not concern me, for i am very wealthy, but it pleases me to deprive the blood-suckers of their ill-gotten gains. as for the risk, i suggest you underestimate it. there is a price on the head of el diablo cojuelo, as i have mentioned, and the military have orders to shoot at sight. apart from that, however, if my identity were betrayed, my wealth and position would not save me from being cast into prison. i might even be condemned to death." "how amusing!" commented myra, still inclined to be scornful. "what you say may be true, but it does not explain or excuse your conduct in bringing me here as your captive. i was your guest, and therefore you were responsible for my safety." "i warned you that el diablo cojuelo might carry you off and teach you how to love," answered don carlos, his grave face illuminated by a boyish, impish smile. "oh, don't talk nonsense!" exclaimed myra impatiently. "you cannot excuse your conduct. i haven't been robbing the poor or anything of the sort, and if you attempt to keep me here there will be trouble. tony will move heaven and earth to find me." "i could excuse myself, if excuses were necessary, by explaining that i have captured girls before to save them from marrying men they did not love," said don carlos. "el diablo cojuelo fell in love with you at first sight, and will prevent you from marrying the man to whom you are betrothed but do not love." "don carlos, please be sensible," pleaded myra, at heart a little fearful now. "don't you realise that this escapade may have serious consequences for you? tony is sure to communicate with the british ambassador, and the affair may become one of international importance. the best thing you can do is to take me back to-morrow morning, and explain that the whole affair was an elaborately-planned practical joke." "i am quite agreeable to do that, myra, provided you promise to marry me and confess that you love me," said don carlos. "we can explain that we succeeded in escaping from the clutches of el diablo cojuelo, or, if you prefer it, you can tell mr. antony standish that i rescued you, and you have fallen in love with your rescuer." "i shall do nothing of the sort," exclaimed myra with spirit. "in that case, myra, you will remain here as the captive of el diablo cojuelo, and the outlaw will try to teach you the meaning of love and passion, teach you to respond to the call of your heart--if you have a heart. you shall have your first lesson now, my sweet captive." he sat down beside myra on the couch as he spoke, flung his arms around her and drew her into a close embrace in spite of her frantic struggles, crushing her close to his breast and kissing her lips, her cheeks, and her breast. myra screamed breathlessly, but he only laughed at her. "why waste your breath, sweet lady?" he laughed. "no one can hear your cries, except, perhaps, mother dolores; but if all my band were within hearing not one man would even think of daring to attempt to intervene, no, not even if you were his own daughter. you are completely at my mercy." "let me go. oh, please, please, let me go!" gasped myra, still vainly striving to break from his embrace. "surely you won't be coward enough to take advantage of my helplessness!" "only confess that you love me, myra darling, and i will do anything you ask," don carlos replied, his deep voice vibrant with passion, his dark eyes aglow with ardour. "only confess yourself conquered." "i won't! i won't! i'd rather die! i hate you, hate you!" stormed myra gaspingly, still struggling. "let me go, you brute. you are hurting me." don carlos relaxed his hold, but restrained myra when she would have risen from the couch. "myra, darling, why do you persist in resisting me and refusing to listen to the call of love?" he asked gently. "do you realise that your resistance is but adding fuel to the fires of my passion? you drove me almost mad when you coquetted with me aboard the yacht, made me crazy with desire, then laughed at me. i am but human, and my longing for you is not to be denied. i vowed i would make you mine if i had to break every law of god and man. you are mine now, my lovely, adorable myra, my heart's delight, mine to do with as i will, to take or break." the quietly spoken words struck dread into myra's heart. it seemed to her that a remorseless gleam had crept into the bright eyes of don carlos. intuitively she knew that he was determined to impose his will upon her, and mingled with her dread there was resentment. "is it useless to appeal to your better nature, to your chivalry?" she asked quickly, her voice tremulous. "is it useless to appeal to you again to surrender to the call of love?" countered don carlos. "myra, mia cara, every fibre of my being is pulsing with love for you, and my heart is craving for the joy and rapture that you alone can give. look into my eyes, mia cara, and whisper that you love me." he laid his hands on myra's shoulders as he spoke, compelling her to meet his burning glance, and myra felt as if she were being hypnotised. "you love me, myra darling, and it is only pride that prevents you from confessing yourself conquered," went on the caressing voice. "when you are mine, you will whisper you are glad that i conquered you. you are lovely, my dear, seductive, adorable prisoner, and the beauty of you sets me aching with longing." his hands slid caressingly from myra's shoulders down her arms to her hands, which he raised to his lips and then drew round his neck. myra was trembling, and her breath was coming and going unsteadily, and she felt as if she had lost all powers of resistance, felt as if she had been drugged. she closed her eyes, and a gasping sigh broke from her lips as don carlos strained her close to his breast again, murmuring endearments. "let me set your heart afire with burning kisses," he murmured. "i will kiss the heart out of you, sweet one, and kiss it back again white hot with my own love and ardour. give me back kiss for kiss, beloved." again he was kissing her, hungrily, passionately, yet tenderly withal. myra's senses were reeling. he did seem to be drawing the very heart out of her with his lips, and drugging her senses. she felt as if she were suffocating, and again she began to struggle involuntarily after a few minutes as he drew her down with him on to the couch. "you are stifling me," she panted. "let me go." don carlos released her at once, and she rose to her feet, pressing her hands instinctively to her heaving bosom, as if to try to still the wild throbbing of her heart. her lovely face was flushed, her breath was coming and going in sobbing gasps, her eyes, dark with emotion, were feverishly bright, and her whole body seemed afire. "let me go now, please," she added gaspingly. "i can bear no more. i--i think i am going to faint." she swayed as she spoke, and don carlos was on his feet in an instant, and had thrown his arm around her lest she should collapse. "lie down again for a few minutes, beloved, until you recover," he said quickly. he settled myra back again among the cushions on the couch, and insisted upon her drinking a glass of aguardiente, which made her feel more feverish than ever but revived her and dispelled the faintness. "did i kiss you too hungrily, darling, and feast myself too long on your sweet lips without pausing for breath?" asked don carlos, after a pause, when he saw that myra was recovering. he, too, was flushed and rather breathless, and his long, sinewy hands were trembling slightly. "myra, beloved, have my kisses fired your heart?" "you have hurt me," equivocated myra, avoiding his glowing eyes. "i feel faint and exhausted. oh, surely i have suffered enough to-night! my strength is spent. oh, surely you won't be so cruel as to take further advantage of my helplessness?" don carlos sighed heavily, and ran his fingers through his hair. "i did not mean to hurt you, and had forgotten that you must be weary," he said, after a moment of hesitation. "i will put you to bed, beloved, and to-morrow you will tell me that you love me." he bent down and picked myra up as if she were a baby, cradling her in his arms and smiling down into her startled blue eyes. "always, since our first meeting, i have longed to hold you in my arms like this and to feel that you were wholly and completely mine," he murmured, as he caressed myra's cheek with his lips. "you are very beautiful, my sweet love. the sweetness and loveliness of you entrances and enraptures my heart. i shall spend my life admiring and adoring and worshipping, exploring and delighting in the loveliness of you, my heart's delight. do you not feel, myra mia, that here in your lover's arms and on my breast you have found the home of your heart?" yet again myra felt he was sapping her powers of resistance, casting a spell over her, and she lay passive in his strong arms, breathing gaspingly. "let me go," she pleaded brokenly. "please let me go!" "as you wish," said don carlos. "i shall put my sweet baby to bed." he carried myra through the winding, rocky passages to her room, at the door of which madre dolores was waiting. the old woman cackled with laughter at sight of them, and rubbed her skinny hands together delightedly. "io! i see i shall not be wanted, master!" she chuckled, and scuffled away, her skinny shoulders shaking a half-suppressed merriment which betrayed her thoughts more than words could have done. dread gripped myra's heart as don carlos carried her into the bedroom and set her down gently on the side of the bed. every vestige of colour had drained out of her lovely face and she was trembling violently. "do not be afraid, myra darling," don carlos murmured caressingly. "i can be gentle as any woman, and would not harm my precious treasure. are you afraid that the sight of you will be so enticing to your lover when he takes off your dressing-gown that he will not be able to tear himself away from you?" "don carlos, it isn't fair!" burst out myra tremulously. "please go!" "not until i have put my sweet baby to bed, tucked her in, and kissed her good-night," said don carlos, and myra knew that further protest would be useless. so she had, perforce, to submit to his taking off her dressing-gown, and the glowing ardour and admiration in his dark eyes when she stood before him clad only in her filmy, sleeveless "nightie" brought the hot colour flooding back to her fair face again. "once before, myra mia, i have seen you like this--on that night in scotland when i put my letter on your pillow," breathed don carlos. "surely you are the loveliest and most seductive woman in the world!" he swept myra into his arms again and kissed her repeatedly before at last laying her down on the bed. in a sort of panic myra slid herself under the bedclothes and begged him breathlessly to leave her, but he paid no heed. he bent over her, his dark eyes glowing like twin flames, and laid his cheek against her own. "bid me stay, beloved," he whispered. "give me the love for which my whole being is craving. bid me stay." chapter xiv drowsily, myra opened her eyes, awakened by the clatter made by madre dolores as she set down a tray on which was a breakfast of coffee and rolls by her bedside. "buenos dias, señorita," said dolores, as myra, unable to realise for a few moments where she was, blinked at her sleepily and dazedly. "buenos dias," repeated myra mechanically. "let me see, that is spanish for 'good morning,'" she added to herself, stretching luxuriously and yawning. "i wonder where the maid is who speaks english?" and then the mists of sleep lifted suddenly as she sat up in bed and she remembered everything vividly. dolores, eyeing her curiously, wondered why the english señorita blushed furiously, wondered what she could have said to cause the fair señorita such obvious embarrassment. "possibly it is not anything i have said which caused her to blush," reflected the old woman. "maybe she is thinking of last night, remembering that i saw the master carrying her to bed, or perhaps she is thinking of something that happened afterwards." dolores was not so wide of the mark. it was recollection of the events of the preceding night that had brought the burning blush to myra's cheeks, and the thought of the interpretation the old woman might have put on what she had seen and heard. "just as well, perhaps, that she does not understand english, as she was probably eavesdropping all the time," thought myra. she was amazed that she should have been able to sleep soundly after her emotional ordeal, until she remembered that when at last don carlos had desisted in his attempt to make her surrender herself voluntarily and had left her, madre dolores had reappeared and insisted upon her drinking something out of a glass. the "something" was a sweet and pungent cordial, which probably contained some soporific drug. when the mists of sleep cleared away completely from her mind, myra found it difficult to analyse her feelings, but her predominant emotion was resentment against the man who had made love to her so lawlessly and had almost imposed his will on her. mingled with her resentment was something akin to fear, the haunting dread that her ordeal of the previous night might be a prelude to something worse. the hot flush of shame stained her fair face again as she realised she had been on the very verge of surrendering herself. "i hate him! i hate him!" myra told herself as she dressed. "i'll kill myself rather than confess i love him, and let him gloat over his conquest.... what should i do? should i promise to marry him on condition that he takes me back to-day, and then denounce him to the authorities when we reach the castle? that would be something like treachery, but it was treachery on his part to kidnap me while i was his guest.... i shall wait and see how he behaves before deciding." she had to wait longer than she anticipated, for she found that "el diablo cojuelo" had left his stronghold. failing to make herself understood, dolores fetched an old man who looked like a comic opera pirate and who could speak a little english. "el bueno maestro--the boss--he go away sun-up but will come back pretty-dam-quick, yes, i think," the man explained, with many bows and smiles. actually it was not english he spoke but a queer mixture of spanish and american. "the boss cojuelo, he makka the business with the ingles at el castillo de ruiz. you no need to have the fear, señorita. you alla right, yes, sure aqui. i spik the ingles all right--yes? vos comprender? bein! the boss, the maestro, he come back all right, señorita. yes, allaright, tank you ver' much, please!" left alone in the outer room, myra walked up and down restlessly, wondering why he had gone back to the castillo de ruiz. the idea of attempting to escape occurred to her, and, after satisfying herself she was not being watched, she went to the cunningly-contrived door which seemed to be part of the wall of rock. it was difficult enough to determine which part of the wall was the door, and when she did discover the seam that indicated it, myra could find no lock, lever or spring to open the portal. baffled, she wandered through the maze of rocky passages, and encountered madre dolores, who, realising that she was on a sort of tour of exploration, showed her various cell-like apartments, gabbling away volubly but unintelligibly all the while, before conducting her to a great cave at the end of the labyrinth, a cave in which there were mules and asses tethered to rings fixed into the walls, and men of all ages and in all sorts of garb were taking their ease, smoking, drinking and playing cards or throwing dice. at sight of myra all the men who were awake rose and bowed respectfully, and the old brigand who could speak some english-american lingo stepped forward. "salve, señorita!" he exclaimed. "we give the welcomes and salutations to our reina, the consort of our boss el diablo cojuelo." myra turned and fled in confusion, blushing hotly, and found her way back to the other big apartment. she had no watch and no means of judging the passage of time, since no daylight could be seen, but she guessed it must be evening when madre dolores served a third meal. she was toying with the food that had been set before her when she heard a sharp click, the secret door swung open, and a hooded figure stepped into the room. "i have brought you your betrothed, myra," said don carlos, after quickly closing the door behind him and throwing off his disguise. "i have brought mr. antony standish here, and i propose to test the strength of his love for you and your love for him." "how interesting!" drawled myra, with forced calmness. "where is tony, and how did you manage to capture him? i should have thought the whole district by now would be full of police and soldiers hunting for el diablo cojuelo." "mr. standish has been conveyed to a cell through the entrance used by my men," answered don carlos. "unfortunately the messages summoning the police and the military, and reporting that the beautiful señorita rostrevor and don carlos de ruiz have been kidnapped, do not appear to have been delivered. possibly the servants of don carlos, sent to summon aid, were intercepted by the followers of el diablo cojuelo." "quite possibly!" agreed myra, satirically, meeting the challenging glance of his twinkling eyes unflinchingly. "but how did you manage to capture tony? didn't he make a fight of it?" "a masked and armed emissary of el diablo cojuelo by some mysterious means found his way into el castillo de ruiz, surprised mr. standish in his own room and demanded that he should accompany him to arrange terms for your ransom. needless to say, i was the masked emissary. mr. standish demanded that his own safety be guaranteed, and it was not until i sardonically suggested he was more concerned about himself than about his fiancée, and was probably content to leave the beautiful señorita rostrevor to the tender mercies of el diablo cojuelo rather than endure any personal hardship, that i persuaded him to accompany me." "well, the fact that he accompanied you, without any guarantee of his personal safety, shows how much he loves me," commented myra. "h'm! that remains to be proved, but i promise you he shall be put to the test," retorted don carlos. "you, of course, can simplify the situation by telling him you have fallen in love with your captor and do not wish to be ransomed." "i can further simplify the situation by telling tony that el diablo cojuelo is don carlos de ruiz," said myra. "no, myra, that would complicate matters, since it might necessitate my keeping standish a prisoner here indefinitely in order to prevent him from denouncing me to the authorities. give me your word of honour not to reveal my identity to standish, and i will have him brought in here to strike a bargain for you in your presence. you should be interested to know what value your english lover places on you." "i don't think you are playing fair," said myra, after much hesitation. "however, i promise, if you wish, not to reveal your identity to tony to-night, but i shall not promise not to denounce you as soon as i regain my freedom." "thank you, myra mia, that is sufficient promise," said don carlos, and laughed as he resumed his disguise. "i think i can promise you some amusement and enlightenment." he looked again a mysterious and forbidding figure as he took a seat at the table and rang a bell and gave orders, after laying an automatic pistol in front of him. seated on the couch some distance away, myra had the sensation of watching and taking part in a play or a game of make-believe when, after a few minutes, tony standish, guarded by two villainous-looking but picturesquely-attired brigands, was marched into the apartment. tony's face was pale and he looked ruffled. at sight of myra he gave a gasp of relief. "thank heaven you are safe, darling!" he exclaimed. "i have been crazy with anxiety about you. how have these bally ruffians been treating you?" "i have had a ghastly time, tony," answered myra. "i haven't actually been ill-treated, but this man"--she nodded towards the hooded figure at the table--"has been making love to me and trying to take advantage of my helplessness." "are you the fellow who calls himself el diablo cojuelo?" demanded tony, addressing the hooded figure. "do you speak any english?" "i am he who is known as el diablo cojuelo, señor, and i promise you that you will find me a veritable devil if you do not agree to my terms," answered don carlos. "oh, yes, i speak english. how else could i have made love to the señorita rostrevor?" "how dare you make love to miss rostrevor?" blustered tony. "i warn you you shall suffer for this outrage. we are british subjects, and the british government will make your confounded spanish authorities pay the penalty. take off that hood thing and let's have a look at you." it was a futile sort of speech, but tony was conscious that he was at a disadvantage and he was trying to bluff. "i am afraid the shock of seeing my face might be too much for you, señor," retorted don carlos, with a muffled laugh. "but i am willing to face you as man to man, if the idea is acceptable to you, and to fight you with such weapons as you may select, or without weapons. i flatter myself i am fairly proficient in your english sport of boxing, if you would prefer a fist fight rather than a duel with swords or pistols. i rather fancy we can settle this matter without calling for the intervention of the british government!" "what are you blathering about?" asked the astonished tony. "why do you want to fight me?" "i am making you what an englishman would surely call a sporting offer, señor," explained don carlos. "i will fight you for miss myra rostrevor. if i beat you, you surrender her to me. if you beat me, i surrender her to you, set you both at liberty, and promise you safe conduct back to el castillo de ruiz without any question of payment of ransom, provided you give me your word of honour not to betray my identity, which i shall reveal to you. is it a bargain?" "but--but--hang it all!--the whole thing's fantastic!" stammered tony, more bewildered than ever. "why should i take the risk of having to surrender miss rostrevor to you? it is an absurd proposal, although you may think it is a sporty offer. i'm not afraid to fight you, but i've got to consider miss rostrevor." "does this proposal appeal to miss rostrevor?" inquired don carlos, turning his hooded head in myra's direction. "it is possible that the risk of becoming the property of el diablo cojuelo is not altogether distasteful to her!" myra did not know how to answer. she felt inclined to bid tony accept the offer, yet she knew it would be an unwomanly thing to do. instinctively she felt, moreover, that in a fight don carlos would prove the victor. "the risk is distasteful to me," she equivocated, after a pause. "you seem to forget that you are completely at my mercy," remarked don carlos drily. "it is an act of grace on my part to offer señor standish the opportunity of fighting for you." "here, cut out this nonsensical talk and drop your pose of being a sportsman," interposed standish. "what's the idea, anyhow? it's heads you win and tails i lose, i suppose, if it comes to fighting you. if i beat you, one of your gang of cut-throat ruffians would probably knife me. i see through your bluff, my man. you are pretending that you want to keep miss rostrevor with the idea of extorting a bigger ransom." "you insult me!" thundered don carlos, springing up from his chair and bringing his clenched fist down on the table with a crash. "el diablo cojuelo has never broken his word and has kept his every promise, yet you dare to suggest he would not fight fair. let me insult you in return, señor standish, by suggesting you are too much of a coward to fight for the girl you profess to love, and would surrender her rather than suffer pain." "confound you, you ruffian! how dare you talk to me in that fashion!" burst out tony, forgetting his position, and taking an impulsive step forward--only to be seized roughly by his guards, one of whom jabbed the point of a knife against his breast. tony flinched, then he shrugged his shoulders and faced the hooded figure disdainfully. "easy to take the high hand and to fling insults at a man when you have a lot of armed ruffians to protect you!" he said sarcastically. "what's the idea, anyhow? why not get down to business instead of spouting a lot of balderdash?" "i can dispense with the protection of the guards," don carlos remarked. "garcilaso and riafio, you will withdraw and leave me to deal with the señor. wait outside," he added in spanish. he resumed his seat as the guards left the room, and myra could see his eyes gleaming like black diamonds through the slits in his mask. "well, how much will you take to set miss rostrevor at liberty?" inquired tony impatiently, after a pause. "i am sick of all this bluff and nonsense, being brought here blind-folded, and all that sort of thing, by another fellow dressed like you. the whole thing seems to me a fake, and it seems to me you must be in league with the authorities, else how could you have a place like this--electric light and all the rest of it--without being spotted?" "strange, is it not, señor standish?" responded don carlos, and his muffled voice had laughter in it. "yet i assure you i am not in league with the authorities, and even don carlos, who prides himself on knowing practically every foot of the mountain range, failed to find my stronghold. even a division of your wonderful british army and all your scotland yard would not discover the nest of el diablo cojuelo. you and miss rostrevor are as completely lost to the world here, and as helpless as you would be if the earth had swallowed you up." "oh, i quite realise you are in a position to dictate terms at present, if that's what you are getting at?" tony exclaimed. "why not get down to business without all this palaver? look here, i'll pay you , pesetas to set miss rostrevor at liberty and give her safe conduct back to the castle de ruiz." "ten thousand pesetas," repeated don carlos. "dios! ten thousand pesetas! miss rostrevor, i congratulate you! ten thousand pesetas are the spanish equivalent of about sixty pounds, in english money. you see what a fabulous value your lover places on you. sixty pounds! you must indeed feel flattered!" tony standish's face crimsoned in annoyance, and a vicious expression flashed into his pale blue eyes. "how much do you want?" he snapped. don carlos did not answer. he rose from the table and walked to and fro, reiterating: "ten thousand pesetas--sixty pounds!" tony cursed under his breath, then his glance fell on the automatic pistol lying on the table, and he snatched it up and levelled it at his captor. "hands up, or i'll put a bullet through you!" he cried excitedly. "ten thousand pesetas--sixty pounds!" sneered don carlos again, paying no heed to the pistol levelled at him. "so that is the value you place on the woman you profess to love!" stung to fury and scarcely realising what he was doing, tony standish fired, but the shot did not seem to take effect, and before he could fire a second time myra sprang at him and snatched the pistol from his hand. as she did so, the two guards dashed into the room, grappled with tony and bore him to the floor. one of them put a knife to the englishman's throat, and twisted round his head to call out something to his master. "no, not now," said don carlos shortly, in spanish. "take him away, manacle him, and guard him closely." the men dragged standish to his feet and hustled him out of the room, and as they did so don carlos reeled, a gasping cry broke from him, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. chapter xv trembling with excitement and agitation, dazed by the suddenness of the seeming tragedy, myra stood rigid for a few moments, then threw aside the pistol she had snatched from tony and ran to don carlos, flinging herself down on her knees beside him, and tearing off his cowl with shaking hands. "are you badly hurt?" she cried breathlessly, horrified to see that don carlos's pale face was contorted in pain and his eyes were closed. "where are you wounded, don carlos? shall i call for mother dolores?" there was no response save a low moan, don carlos's limbs stretched out as if they were stiffening into the rigour of death, and his head sagged back as myra tried to raise it. temporarily, myra completely lost her head. "speak to me, don carlos," she gasped brokenly. "open your eyes and look at me, darling. oh, surely, surely you can't be going to die! what can i do? oh, my dear, my dear--" her voice failed her, she tried to cry out for help but sobs choked her utterance. don carlos's eyes fluttered open for a moment then closed again. "kiss me, myra darling," he moaned faintly. "kiss me, my sweet love." quivering with emotion, myra bent down and pressed her trembling lips to his--and immediately found herself encircled by two strong arms, found the eyes of the "dying" man open and glowing with life and ardour, found herself crushed in a close embrace, and being kissed, and kissed, and kissed. she struggled, broke free, and scrambled to her feet, her brain in a turmoil, and almost instantly don carlos also was on his feet, laughing exultantly. "myra, darling, surely you can no longer persist in pretending you do not love me," he exclaimed breathlessly. "if you hated me, as you professed, you would have let standish try to fire a second time. i have put you to the test and proved that you love me." myra, agitated, bewildered, torn by conflicting emotions, gazed at him wide-eyed. "but--but aren't you wounded?" she stammered. "have you only been pretending?" "only pretending, myra, but i blame myself for not acting my part for a little longer," answered don carlos. "if only i had waited, pretending for a few minutes longer that i was dying, you would have confessed your love. but your kiss so fired my heart that i forgot my part." he laughed again exultantly and made a movement as if to sweep myra into his arms, but she recoiled from him hastily. anger and resentment at having been fooled swiftly succeeded her bewilderment, and her blue eyes flashed her indignation. "so you have only been making mock of me, playing a part as usual, to flatter your own vanity!" she exclaimed. "i am sorry now that tony's aim was not truer, and that i prevented him from firing a second time." "the result would have been just the same, myra," don carlos responded. "the pistol was loaded with blank cartridges. i deliberately left it within the reach of standish, to see if he would have the nerve to use it, and to see how you would behave if he fired at me. you must admit, myra darling, that you showed more concern for me than for standish, thereby proving that you love me best. dear heart, i shall treasure the memory of the first kiss you gave voluntarily." "i would kiss any ruffian who begged me to do so if i thought he was dying," said myra. "you have no reason to flatter yourself on the success of your play-acting trickery." "myra, don't you think you have resisted me and the call of your heart long enough?" countered don carlos. "must i take still stronger measures to induce you to surrender yourself voluntarily? what if i tell you that i propose to have antony standish branded with hot irons and scourged as a punishment for attempting to kill me, unless you give yourself to me?" "you are talking melodramatic nonsense again," myra protested. "you would surely not be guilty of such devilish cruelty!" "el diablo cojuelo is capable of any devilry," don carlos retorted grimly. "would you sacrifice yourself to save standish if he were willing to accept your sacrifice?" "i suppose i should have no alternative," replied myra, after a pause. "but tony would not accept my sacrifice. he is an englishman, and will never be scared into surrendering me to one whom he believes to be a spanish brigand and outlaw. he loves me." "unless i am much mistaken, he has not even begun to know the meaning of love," said don carlos. "tell me, myra, if my threat to have him flogged and branded makes him offer to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo in order to save himself, will you marry me?" "if i thought he'd sacrifice me to an outlaw to save his own skin, i'd marry you in his presence," exclaimed myra impulsively. "that is a promise," said don carlos quickly. "you shall marry me in his presence if he proves himself a craven. i will see him again now and discover what is in his heart and mind--and i shall have a priest in readiness." "tony will not fail me," said myra bravely, but her heart misgave her, and already she was repenting of her impulsive promise. don carlos rang the bell, and gave some rapid orders to garcilaso, who appeared in answer to the summons. the man at first apparently did not grasp what was required of him, but presently nodded understanding, withdrew and returned in a few minutes, accompanied by riafio, who was carrying a pair of handcuffs and a coil of rope. "what are the handcuffs for?" asked myra apprehensively. "they are for me, dear lady," explained don carlos, with a ghost of a smile. "it would not do to let mr. standish think that even el diablo cojuelo could manage to keep don carlos a prisoner without fettering him. incidentally, i must give myself the appearance of having been roughly handled or standish may smell a rat." he flung off his coat as he spoke, tore off his collar and rumpled his hair, then ordered riafio to handcuff him. "garcilaso and riafio will now thrust me into the cell in which mr. standish is imprisoned, and he and i will have a little confidential talk about you and el diablo cojuelo," he resumed. "standish naturally imagines that don carlos was captured at the same time as your charming self, and he will doubtless give me his confidence. it may be that he will be the more ready to surrender you when he learns that don carlos will be prepared to ransom you when cojuelo has tired of you." "more play-acting--and you are taking an unfair advantage again," commented myra. "you should thank me rather than blame me for putting standish's love for you to the test," responded don carlos, with a shrug. "pray make yourself comfortable until i return to call on you to redeem your promise. adios!" he gave more orders to his men, sternly bidding them restrain their mirth, for they were treating the affair as a huge joke, and both tried to assume an expression of ferocity as they marched him out. left alone, myra flung herself down on the couch and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. "oh, surely, surely he won't succeed in fooling or intimidating tony into surrendering me," she whispered, feeling shaken to the depths. "i feel confident tony won't give me up, and yet--oh, i wish i hadn't made that promise. i don't want to marry don carlos unless--oh, this is driving me crazy! what did he mean by saying don carlos might ransom me when cojuelo had tired of me?" it was fully an hour before don carlos reappeared, and myra found the time of waiting and the suspense almost unbearable. she started convulsively to her feet as don carlos entered, and her heart seemed to miss a beat when she saw that he was smiling triumphantly. "you are mine, myra, mine!" he exclaimed exultantly, his dark eyes gleaming. "as i expected, standish values himself and his own safety more than he values you, and he is ready to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo as the price of his freedom." "i don't believe it! it can't be true!" protested myra breathlessly. "tony wouldn't be such a knave and coward. you have tricked him, i suppose, into saying something which you distort into an offer to surrender me." "i repeat that standish is now willing to leave you here at the mercy of cojuelo, on condition that he is allowed to go scot free," said don carlos. "i don't believe it! it can't be true!" myra reiterated. "take me to tony and let me question him." "presently you shall have your wish, but first let me give you an account of my interview with mr. standish, so that you will know what questions to put to him," said don carlos. "pray be seated, myra, and calm yourself. does the prospect of surrendering yourself to me so dismay your heart?" myra merely nodded, as she seated herself in the furthermost corner of the couch. she did not know what to say or what to believe, and her blue eyes were dark with dread as she watched don carlos, who had assumed a nonchalant attitude. he put on the coat he had discarded before going to interview standish, helped himself to a drink from a side table, and lit a cigarette before taking a seat facing myra. "why, i wonder, do you persist in doubting me?" he said, slowly and deliberately. "what i have told you is true. i had myself thrust as a prisoner into the cell in which your dear tony standish is at present imprisoned. he welcomed me like a long-lost brother, told me what had happened, and asked me if i could help to arrange terms with cojuelo." he broke off with a laugh, flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, and finished his drink. myra, waiting almost breathlessly for him to continue, felt that she wanted to shake him for being so tantalisingly deliberate. "i told him that i had had a conversation with cojuelo, and that the brigand had told me he meant to kill him by inches and make him die a hundred deaths for having attempted to murder him," resumed don carlos at length. "i told him i could ransom him and get him away scot free, but only if he agreed to hand you over to cojuelo as part of his ransom." again he paused, and myra could not restrain her impatience. "well? go on. do you mean to tell me tony agreed?" she asked. "or have you to pause every now and again to invent a story?" "to do him justice, i must tell you that standish did not at once agree," answered don carlos, tossing away the butt of his cigarette. "his idea was that cojuelo had only been bluffing, and that it was merely a question of offering him enough money. incidentally, you were right in your estimate, myra. he said he would pay anything up to ten thousand pounds as a ransom for you. when i told him cojuelo would not part with you for one hundred thousand pounds, he said he'd see him damned first before he'd pay it. so now you know your market value, as rated by mr. antony standish, who has an income, i understand, of something like a hundred thousand pounds a year!" "so because tony wasn't idiot enough to agree to pay more than ten thousand pounds as ransom, you are trying to make out he agreed to resign me and leave me to the tender mercies of cojuelo?" don carlos shook his head and lit another cigarette with exasperating deliberation. "dear myra, it may wound your pride, but he has resigned you," he said. "his love did not stand the acid test. i told him it was not a question of money, that cojuelo had fallen madly in love with you and was afire with desire to make you his own, but thought it might bring him bad luck to take a girl who was betrothed to another man, unless the other man agreed to surrender her to him, or, at least, give her her freedom. mr. standish protested that nothing would persuade him to surrender you to cojuelo." "and yet you have said he offered to give me up?" "hear me out, myra. i did not say he offered to give you up. i said he was willing to surrender you--which is a distinction with a difference. when he protested that nothing would persuade him to surrender you to cojuelo, i reminded him that the bandit had threatened to have him scourged and branded with hot irons, that he was absolutely at the devil's mercy, and i played on his fears. i warned him that cojuelo was a man of his word and would surely torture him unless he renounced you. he quailed at that, and after some hesitation agreed that he had no alternative but to accept his freedom and leave you here." "but that does not mean that he renounced me," objected myra, as don carlos paused again. "what else does it mean, myra?" asked don carlos. "i told him cojuelo is madly in love with you, as i have said, and that if he accepted his freedom the outlaw would take it as an indication he had given you up. yet he is going. true, he talked about organizing a rescue party, swore he would kill cojuelo if any harm came to you, and all that sort of thing, but that was mere empty talk. the whole point is, as i said in the first place, that he is prepared, in effect, to surrender you to el diablo cojuelo as the price of his own freedom and safety." "i cannot--i will not--believe it," said myra firmly, rising to her feet. "not until i hear tony say himself that he is prepared to renounce me will i believe it. let me see him." "as you will," said don carlos, rising and putting on his disguise. "i will take you to him. let me remind you, however, of your promise not to reveal the fact that don carlos and el diablo cojuelo are one and the same. i hold you to both of your promises--and i have a priest waiting to marry us. come!" chapter xvi he led the way through rocky, winding passages to the great cave, in which his motley band were enjoying their evening meal with much loud talk and laughter. at sight of the cloaked and hooded figure of their master and his fair captive there was a sudden hush, however, and practically all the men sprang to their feet at once. "mendoza, the keys of the prisoner's cell, please," said don carlos. "the señorita wishes to speak to the englishman." an elderly man with some keys on a chain attached to his belt hurried forward at once, and unlocked a massive door giving access to a small apartment that looked as if it had been hewn out of the solid rock. it was unfurnished save for a straw mattress with a brown blanket for covering, and a rough wooden bench, on which, when the door was flung open, antony standish was seated dejectedly with his head between his hands. he sprang up with a sharp intake of breath, looking pale, startled and dishevelled, at sight of myra and the hooded figure he assumed to be el diablo cojuelo. "hullo! what's the idea now?" he asked quickly. "why have you brought miss rostrevor here?" "the señorita wishes to assure herself that what she has been told by don carlos de ruiz is correct," explained el diablo cojuelo, in his disguised and muffled voice. "i, also, wish to hear you say that you are prepared to accept your freedom and go back with don carlos to his castle, leaving the señorita with me, resigning her to me as your ransom." myra found herself strangely calm, felt as if she had run through the whole gamut of emotions and exhausted them all. "tony, is it true you told don carlos that you were willing to go and leave me here at the mercy of this outlaw, who professes to be passionately in love with me?" she asked, scarcely recognising her own voice. "is it true?" "true? er--er--why, of course not," answered standish, nervously fingering his little sandy moustache. "i mean to say--er--what exactly did don carlos tell you?" "that you are prepared to leave me here, knowing that el diablo cojuelo will force me to become his wife, and accept your own freedom rather than run the risk of punishment," said myra. "you are prepared to renounce me, tony?" "no, no, nothing of the sort!" exclaimed tony, his face flushing duskily. "nothing of the sort! i distinctly told don carlos that nothing would induce me to surrender you to cojuelo. myra, darling, you know i would never think of doing such a thing." "so you assert that don carlos lied?" demanded cojuelo sternly. "you did not tell him you would accept your freedom and leave the señorita to me if i refrained from flogging you and branding you? will you swear that on oath--on your sacred word of honour as an english gentleman?" "don carlos must have misunderstood me," standish responded, nervously licking his dry lips. "look here, cojuelo, drop this fooling and be sensible. i realise you've got the whip hand, so to speak, and can dictate your own terms. how much do you want? i told don carlos i am willing to pay you ten thousand pounds--that's something like a million pesetas in your money--to set miss rostrevor and me free. think of it, man--a million, and----" "you have not answered my question, señor standish," interrupted cojuelo curtly. "do you assert that don carlos de ruiz lied when he said you were willing to accept your freedom and leave the señorita rostrevor to me? will you meet don carlos face to face and denounce him as a liar?" "don carlos must have misunderstood me," repeated tony. "it--er--it isn't a question of calling him a liar. look here, cojuelo, what's the use of all this bluff and bluster? why don't you come down to brass tacks and state your terms?" "don carlos did not misunderstand you, and you are lying," cojuelo rasped at him. "confess now to the señorita rostrevor that you have renounced her." "i shall do nothing of the sort, confound you!" standish exclaimed angrily. "why the deuce don't you state your terms and have done with it?" "my terms were clearly dictated to you through the medium of don carlos," said cojuelo. "i give you your freedom on condition that you renounce the señorita rostrevor and surrender her to me. incidentally, the señorita has promised she will marry me if you renounce her." "i made the promise, tony, because don car--er--i mean el diablo cojuelo--boasted that you would surrender me to save yourself," interposed myra hastily. "i knew nothing would induce you to give me up, tony. it isn't true, is it, that you agreed to go away with don carlos and leave me here?" "no, of course i didn't mean that, myra," answered tony, gulping as if he had a lump in his throat. "didn't i come here to ransom you?" "if don carlos lied, and you still refuse to renounce the señorita after you have been flogged and put to the torture, then i will set her free and you also," cojuelo said grimly. "that is a promise, and cojuelo never breaks a promise. meanwhile i say again that you are lying, and that don carlos told the señorita rostrevor the truth." "here, i say, cojuelo, cut out this bluff about torture and all that sort of nonsense," exclaimed standish, with just a suspicion of unsteadiness in his voice. "i tell you i am prepared to pay any sum within reason as a ransom, and you won't get any more by threatening me with physical violence. look here, i'm willing to apologise for having tried to shoot you, but you know you exasperated me by taunting me about not valuing miss rostrevor." "what a charming piece of condescension on your part!" sneered cojuelo. "if don carlos de ruiz lied to the señorita rostrevor, i shall shoot him. that is another promise, señorita. as for you, perhaps the lash and the red hot iron on your flesh will induce you to speak truth as well as test your courage!" he turned to the door, outside which the man with the keys was standing. "mendoza, order perez, riafio and garcilaso to get ready the whipping post and make hot the branding irons at once," he commanded in spanish, then repeated the order in english for the benefit of standish, whose face went livid. "oh, surely you won't be so fiendishly cruel!" burst out myra passionately. "if you dare to harm tony----" "we will withdraw, señorita, and leave señor standish to nerve himself for the ordeal that awaits him," interrupted cojuelo, and hustled her out of the cell before she could say more. "i swear i did not lie to you, myra," he resumed, as he clanged the door shut on the prisoner. "i am bluffing now, and have no intention of flogging or branding standish, but only of scaring him into confessing that he is willing to give you to me to save himself." "and if he stands the test, if he refuses to give me up even when threatened with flogging and burning, you will keep your promise and set us both free?" asked myra, after a breathless pause. "yes, assuredly--and i shall also keep my promise to shoot don carlos," was the grim reply. "look, is it not a picturesque scene?" he added, with a change of tone. the great cave, lighted by electricity, was certainly a remarkable sight, filled as it was with a picturesque crowd of men, some of them in what looked like stage costumes, nearly all chattering like excited children anticipating a treat as they watched some of their fellows erecting a whipping-post in the centre of the place, while another was busy working the bellows of what looked like a blacksmith's furnace and making irons red-hot. a scene a great artist might have loved to paint, yet the atmosphere was so sinister that myra shivered involuntarily. "you are frightened, señorita?" queried don carlos, and it seemed to myra there was something mocking and sardonic in his tone. "in england, i remember, you were renowned for your courage and your love of adventure. surely this is a great adventure?" the remark stung myra's pride, and her fair face flushed hotly. "it disgusts and revolts me that you should try to terrorise a defenceless man to gratify your own vanity and humiliate me," she answered angrily. "as for being afraid, the remote prospect of having to marry you certainly frightens me." don carlos made no answer, but strode across and talked rapidly to the men gathered round the whipping post and the furnace, evidently explaining to them at length what he wished them to do. myra, of course, could not understand what was said, but she saw that some of the men laughed while others looked disappointed, and she concluded that don carlos was telling them that the preparations for the torture of the englishman were all bluff. "god grant that tony's courage does not fail him, and that he stands the test," she whispered under her breath. "it will be necessary for you to remain and witness the performance, señorita," said don carlos coldly, returning to her. "if i spared you the ordeal, you might again refuse to believe me when i reported the result." "i wish to stay," myra answered, and her red-gold head went up proudly. "my presence will give the man i love courage." "it is a great gamble, and you, fair lady, are the stake," said don carlos. "the stage is set and our fate will be decided within a few minutes." he nodded his cowled head, shouted some orders in spanish to his men, and took up a position beside the whipping-post, which somewhat resembled an ancient pillory. four men hurried to the cell in which standish was confined, to reappear after the lapse of a few minutes with the prisoner between them. they had stripped standish to the waist, and he walked forward with firm step and head erect, but at the sight of the whipping-post and the furnace, and the sinister figure beside them with a cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, he halted suddenly with an involuntary gasp, and his face went ashen. "cojuelo, you--you can't mean that you are going to be such a fiend as to torture me!" he burst out breathlessly. "i haven't done you any harm. look here, i'll--i'll double the ransom if you'll let me off. i'll make it twenty thousand pounds." "not for fifty thousand pounds would i forego my vengeance," rasped the hooded figure. "yet you have but to confess that you did agree to go away and leave the señorita rostrevor here, well knowing what would happen to her, you have only to tell her now that you renounce her to me, and i will let you go unharmed." "don't, tony, don't!" cried myra. "be brave, dear!" standish, who had not previously noticed her, jerked round his head at the sound of her voice. "myra, for god's sake intercede for me," he screamed, and began to struggle violently as his guards seized him and began to drag him towards the pillory. "beg him to spare me!" "oh, tony, don't fail me!" cried myra, shamed by his display of terror. "don't be a coward! be brave! be british!" struggling, shouting, protesting and appealing frantically, his face livid and the sweat of fear pouring down it, standish was dragged towards the stake. "the burning irons first, i think," snarled cojuelo. "the burns will make the lash more effective afterwards." the man beside the furnace drew from the fire a branding iron, the end of which was red-hot, and made a threatening movement. standish squealed like a rabbit caught in a trap. "don't! don't!" he shrieked in a frenzy of terror. "oh, spare me, spare me! i'll give her up. i--i can't face it. you can have her!" "do you still accuse don carlos of having lied?" demanded cojuelo remorselessly. "is it not true that you were willing to escape with him, or by his aid, and leave the señorita?" "yes, yes, it is true," gasped standish. "i lied to myra to try to--to save my face. don carlos said he would look after her. let me go! let me go!" "you hear, señorita?" exclaimed don carlos, his voice ringing out triumphantly. "to save his own skin, your lover has renounced you.... release the brave englishman, my friends. the farce is over." nauseated by tony's piteous exhibition of craven terror, myra turned away from him in loathing and contempt as the men released him. "oh, you coward!" she burst out passionately. "i was so sure you would stand the test and would not fail me that i promised i would marry this devil in your presence if you were dastard enough to offer to give me to him to save your own skin. all these preparations for torture were only bluff to test your courage and your love. you have failed me, tony, in my hour of greatest need, and i hate and despise you. i would give myself to any bandit now rather than marry you!" "i hold you to your promise, señorita," cried cojuelo. "you will marry me here and now in the presence of señor standish.... come hither, padre sancho, and perform the marriage service." a fat little bald-headed man, dressed in a greasy black cassock and carpet slippers, shuffled forward and addressed some questions to myra in a wheezy voice. "he is asking if you are willing to marry me," cojuelo interpreted. "yes, i will keep my promise and marry you in the presence of the man who has failed me," said myra, and flashed a glance at standish that made him quail. "here, i say! i--i didn't realise it was bluff," faltered standish. "i'll do anything... cojuelo, i'll pay you fifty thousand if only you'll----" "proceed with the ceremony, padre sancho," interrupted cojuelo; and the monk opened his book and began to gabble unintelligibly in his wheezy voice. presently he paused and addressed a question to the hooded figure. "i will," said cojuelo, and took myra's listless hand in his own. "you myra, will also answer 'i will,' when the padre asks you. this ring, which i took from the finger of don carlos de ruiz, will serve for the present." "myra, for heaven's sake----" broke in tony standish, but myra paid no heed to him. "i will," she answered firmly, in response to the priest's unintelligible question. it struck her suddenly that the priest did not appear to be treating the ceremony seriously, and the thought flashed into her mind that possibly "padre sancho" was only one of the brigands deputed by don carlos to play a part, and the whole proceeding was as much bluff as had been the preparations to torture tony standish. "is he fooling me again?" wondered myra, as padre sancho gabbled through the rest of the service, closed his book and raised his right hand as if bestowing a blessing, whereupon some of the brigands behind and around him began to cheer. they cheered more lustily still when their hooded chief put his arm round myra's shoulders with an air of possession. "mother dolores will escort you to your room, myra," said don carlos. "forgive your bridegroom for not accompanying you. i have to arrange for the release of señor standish." chapter xvii myra was infinitely glad to escape, and she flung herself down in a chair with a sigh that was half a sob when she reached her bedroom. "you may go, dolores," she said, and motioned away the old woman, who had been murmuring congratulations. "si, maestra, buena maestra," said dolores smilingly, as she withdrew. "'maestra?'--that means 'mistress,'" ruminated myra. "in what sense is it used? he used the word when he addressed his men after the mock-marriage. 'nueva maestra,' i think he called me. that must mean 'new mistress.' his new mistress! how many mistresses have there been--and what is going to happen to me? ... oh, why didn't tony play the man!" time passed and the suspense was becoming almost unbearable when the sound of heavy footsteps in the rocky corridor made myra's heart jump convulsively. she started to her feet as the door opened to reveal don carlos, still wearing his cowl. behind him were garcilaso and mendoza with standish, now fully dressed and with a bandage round his eyes, between them. "does the señora cojuelo wish to say farewell to the lover who renounced her?" inquired don carlos, with a note of mockery in his voice. "i am now about to redeem my promise and have him escorted back unharmed to the castillo de ruiz." "why are his eyes bandaged?" asked myra sharply. "what has happened to him?" "nothing has happened," don carlos assured her. "the bandage is merely a precautionary measure. he was brought here blindfolded, so that he might have no idea as to the location of my mountain nest. he leaves blindfolded for the same reason. don carlos de ruiz will follow him when i so choose. have you anything to say to señor standish?" "nothing," answered myra, after a moment of hesitation. "myra, if only----" said standish hoarsely, and paused, gulping as if he were choking. "i suppose it isn't any use attempting to say anything," he added weakly. "except farewell," remarked don carlos ironically, and laid his hand on myra's arm. "permit me to escort you to the door, señora mia, to witness the departure of señor standish." in the wake of standish and his escort, he led myra along the corridor to the outer hall, and myra, her senses acute, watched him closely as he manipulated knobs which looked like part of the rocky wall and the great door that looked like rock itself swung open. "lead the english señor forward carefully, and remember i have pledged my word that he shall be returned safely to the castle of don carlos de ruiz," said don carlos in spanish. "farewell, señor," he added in english. "you will have great stories to tell on your return to england of your encounter with el diablo cojuelo and how you escaped from him!" standish's face contorted in momentary passion, then with a sigh and a gesture of utter despair he submitted himself to be led away by mendoza and garcilaso. myra, her face tense and white, took an involuntary step forward, and instantly don carlos's hand closed on her arm. "you forget, dear lady, that you are the price of his freedom, and your place is with your husband," he said, as he drew her back into the hall and touched a lever which released the door. to myra the clang of the door as it shut seemed like a death-knell. don carlos took off his cowl and flung it aside, smoothed his jet-black hair with his hands, and drew a long breath. his eyes and expression were inscrutable as he gazed fixedly at myra. "exit mr. antony standish," he said slowly, after a pause. "one chapter of your life is closed, myra. now another opens, the most wonderful chapter of all, in which you will fulfil your destiny." myra suddenly found herself cold and trembling, and to gain time and avoid don carlos's eyes she crossed the room to the radiator and held out her shaking hands to its warmth. "are you frightened, myra mine?" asked don carlos gently crossing to her side. "are you still afraid of love?" "if this is your idea of love, i hate it!" responded myra with sudden passion. "you have humiliated me until i feel that i am less than the dust. what greater humiliation could you inflict on any woman than to prove to her that the man who professed to love her would surrender her to a bandit? you have humiliated me as much as tony standish, and perhaps you have further humiliations in store." "if you have a sense of proportion, you should thank me instead of reproaching me for proving standish to be at heart a knave," don carlos retorted, the hard note creeping into his voice again. "if you tell me you still love him, and prefer him to me, i will send you back to him at once. can you truthfully say that you still love him and would marry him if you were free?" myra shook her red-gold head despairingly, and sank down into a corner of the couch with a sigh. "if he were the only man on earth, i would not marry him now," she answered. "but that does not alter the case or excuse your conduct." "i do not understand, myra," said don carlos. "it was only because you had promised to marry standish that you hardened your heart against love and me. you have surrendered to love now, at last, and----" "i have not," interrupted myra. "i hate you for what has happened." "yet, hating me, you have become my wife," don carlos commented, with an air of perplexity. "i am not your wife," protested myra. "you have fooled me before, but you cannot fool me into believing that the farcical service, gabbled in a language i do not understand by one of your men masquerading as a monk, constitutes a marriage." "padre sancho is an ordained priest. the ceremony was not a farce. you are now my wife--the wife of el diablo cojuelo, the outlaw. later on, when you marry don carlos--if don carlos still desires you--you shall have a more elaborate ceremony, if you wish it, and you will be doubly married without being a bigamist." there came an interruption at that moment. madre dolores appeared, murmuring apologies, with a tall glass of wine in her skinny hand, and seemingly made some appeal to don carlos. "myra, some of my men are holding festival to celebrate our marriage, and they have sent mother dolores to ask us to do them the honour of taking wine with them and allowing them to toast us," don carlos explained. "it would be a gracious act, which will endear you to all my men, to consent." "but i have told you i cannot believe the marriage ceremony was other than a farce," objected myra. "is this another trick to humiliate me and make it appear i have surrendered?" "again you misjudge me," replied don carlos abruptly. "it is a compliment, and should be proof to you that my men know the marriage ceremony was no farce. they will take it as an affront if you refuse their invitation." "what does that matter to me?" exclaimed myra rebelliously. don carlos's brows drew together and he looked chagrined. "tell the men, mother dolores, that the señora is either as lacking in courage as the englishman, or considers them such a gang of cut-throat ruffians, that she cannot be persuaded to nerve herself to face them," he said, addressing the old woman. "tell them she is aware she is affronting them and----" "how dare you suggest i am a coward?" interrupted myra, starting to her feet. "tell them nothing of the sort, dolores. i am not afraid to face them----" "so we will be graciously pleased to accept the invitation," added don carlos as she paused. "yes," said myra. "otherwise, i suppose, you will taunt me with being a coward." "i think i managed that rather cleverly, myra," don carlos said, his face crinkling into a mischievous smile. "i thought you would not notice that i was giving my instructions to mother dolores in english, of which she scarcely understands a word!" myra crimsoned in annoyance, but she made no retort, nor did she offer any protest when don carlos, after a few words of thanks to the puzzled dolores, who scurried away, drew her hand through his arm and led her through the corridors to the great cave. dolores had spread the news of their coming, and every man was on his feet, glass or flagon in hand. myra and don carlos were each handed a tall glass of wine, and the band drank their health with enthusiasm, shouting all sorts of good wishes. don carlos toasted them in turn, drained his glass, and called to myra to follow his example. "drink to me and to love, myra mine," he cried. myra was so confused by the shouting and by the men pressing around with uplifted glasses and flagons that she scarcely knew what she was doing and hurriedly swallowed the wine. "thank you, beloved," said don carlos, drawing her hand into the crook of his arm again. "we will go now." through the corridors they went again, and myra's heart seemed to miss a beat as he paused at her bedroom and opened the door. she looked up at him with dread and appeal in her dilated blue eyes, to see him smiling exultantly. "mine! mine at last, myra!" he said in a low, vibrant voice, as he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her into the room. "the hour for which i have waited and craved." "don carlos, is it useless to appeal to you to let me go?" gasped myra. "surely i have suffered enough without--without--this----?" "darling, why should you fear love now?" responded don carlos tenderly, enfolding her in his arms. "let me fire your heart with the burning ardour of my passion. i have won you, and i swore i would, and i claim my reward. myra, mia, i want you--want you!" his dark eyes were ablaze with ardour, his lean face was flushed, and his breath was coming and going pantingly as he crushed myra to him and kissed her until his kisses seemed to be burning her very soul and her senses were reeling. all power of resistance had gone from her. she felt dazedly as if she were encompassed by flames and no hope of escape. she was conquered.... * * * languidly myra opened her eyes--and sat up with an involuntary cry of consternation, for she could see nothing, and the terrifying thought flashed through her mind that she had gone blind. then she remembered that the rocky apartment was dark as a tomb when the electric lights were not burning, and she groped for the switch. as the lights sprang to life, realisation of what had happened burned its way into her horrified consciousness, and a burning blush stained her pale, lovely face. she was alone in the bedroom, but she knew instinctively that she had not been alone for long. her hands went convulsively to her breast, and she shuddered violently and moaned in anguish. then followed anger--fierce, passionate fury against the man who had imposed his will on her, and with clenched fists she beat the pillow on which she knew his head had rested. the fury of rage speedily exhausted itself, and myra buried her face in her hands and sobbed fearlessly. "he will come back," she thought distractedly. "he will come back to make mock of me, to gloat over me. oh, if only i could get away! if only i could die!" she sprang out of bed and began to dress in frantic haste, starting at every sound. she could not have explained what she intended to do or the reason for her haste. all she knew was that she must get out of the bedroom before don carlos returned. her hurried toilet completed, myra with trembling fingers cautiously opened the bedroom door and peeped out. the rocky corridor was deserted, no sound came from the great cave, and the whole place seemed almost uncannily silent. with an effort of will myra mastered her panic and tiptoed silently along the corridor towards the outer hall. the corridor was lighted, but she found the hall, when she reached it, in darkness, save for one tiny light above the electric switch on the wall near the entrance. myra pressed the switch and at once the apartment was flooded with light. "oh, god, help me to remember!" breathed myra, after a swift glance around, to assure herself the place was untenanted. "help me to get away--if only it is to die among the mountains." she had watched don carlos closely a few hours previously as he manipulated the levers which opened the secret door when giving standish his freedom, and the thought had flashed into her mind that she could manipulate the levers as he had done, and escape into the outer world. her first attempt was a failure, and she bit her lips in chagrin and hurt her delicate hands tugging vainly at various knobs and slides. but again and again she tried, and at last, when she was about to give up in despair, she heard a sudden click and the great door swung open! chapter xviii with a gasp of relief, myra darted out, negotiated the narrow crevice which hid the door from view, and found herself in the open--and in brilliant sunshine. she paused for a moment, to collect herself, fancied she heard a noise behind her, and sped away like a startled doe. there appeared to be no path, and she ran aimlessly and without the slightest sense of direction, clambering over rocks and slithering down slopes, several times narrowly escaping disaster, and once only escaping from plunging headlong over a precipice by clinging frantically to a boulder on the very verge. and the boulder, which must have been balanced like a logan stone, went crashing over the side of the precipice the moment she had released her hold on it and recovered her equilibrium. although she had, as it were, been courting death, myra was so terrified that she could not proceed for several minutes, and she had to muster up all her courage to negotiate the perilous path. after that, she advanced with greater caution, and at last reached a little grassy plateau, a sort of oasis amid the bleak rocks, commanding a magnificent view of the mountain range and the country. far below her, myra could see a twisted white ribbon--so it looked from a distance--which she knew must be a road, and on the white ribbon were ant-like moving objects which she knew must be horses and men--the civil guard and the military, in all probability, seeking for her and for "el diablo cojuelo." "if only i can get to them, i shall be safe," said myra aloud. "oh, if only i knew the easiest and quickest way down! i think i can see other men climbing up as if they had seen me... i wonder if they have seen me? i wonder if they could hear me if i called?" she had lost some of her sense of proportion, forgotten how far away the men must be, and she gathered her breath and shouted as loud as she could: "help! help!" almost instantly there came an answering shout, but to myra's consternation the shout came from somewhere above her, and not from below. she looked round and upwards, but at first could see no one, then she heard the shout again, heard the voice of don carlos cry: "myra, where are you?" saw a head appear over the side of a rocky ledge about fifty feet above her, and panic seized her again. from the little plateau there ran for a distance a sort of natural path, and down this myra fled as fast as her feet would carry her--which was not fast, for already her thin shoes were almost in ribbons, and one foot had been badly cut by a sharp stone. but she was scarcely conscious of the pain in her anxiety to escape. she could hear don carlos shouting to her to stop, and fancied she could hear him in close pursuit as she sped down the steep path. again she came to the edge of a ravine, and she had to creep cautiously along the edge of a rough and treacherous path. glancing over her shoulder after she had crossed the most perilous part, myra saw that don carlos was now close behind her, and that she must inevitably be overtaken. almost she succumbed to a mad impulse to hurl herself to destruction into the ravine, but in the moment of hesitation before taking the fatal plunge she heard the sound of many voices ascending. a great boulder blocked her view of the mountainside immediately below her, but on rounding the rock she saw, within a hundred yards of her, a company of men in uniform advancing in straggling order up the mountain. myra cried out breathlessly, some of the men saw her and shouted excitedly and one who seemed to be an officer came running towards her and reached her side just as don carlos appeared behind her. "myra, myra!" shouted don carlos. "do not----" myra did not hear the rest of his shout. excitedly she clutched the arm of the officer of the guardia civil. "save me! save me!" she gasped. "that man is el diablo cojuelo! don carlos is el diablo cojuelo! do you understand? don't let him take me back." "yes, señorita," said the officer quickly in english. "i understand. you alla right now from el diablo cojuelo." "you do not understand," gasped myra half-frantically, pointing at don carlos, now only a few yards away from her. "that man is el diablo cojuelo. don carlos de ruiz is el diablo cojuelo. arrest him!" it seemed to her that as she spoke the words denouncing don carlos the whole world went suddenly pitch dark, and she felt herself falling, falling through space. what actually happened was that she fainted, and the officer of the civil guard was just in time to catch her ere she fell. she recovered consciousness to find a swarthy, weather-beaten man supporting her head and holding a water-bottle to her lips, and to see many dark eyes regarding her with sympathetic curiosity. until her brain cleared she could not realise where she was and what had been happening, and she felt horribly scared. then she heard the voice of don carlos and she remembered everything. "don't let him take me back!" she cried, sitting up. "i tell you, he is el diablo cojuelo!" "alla right, señorita, you secure from el diablo cojuelo now," said the officer. "yes, you are safe from el diablo cojuelo now, myra," said don carlos, moving nearer, "and explanations can wait until we get to the castle." myra realised that it would be rather absurd to continue to try to make the officer, who had but an imperfect knowledge of english, understand that don carlos and el diablo cojuelo were one man. still feeling faint and shaken, myra was assisted down the mountain-side after a little while, and was eventually lifted on to a mule. the journey to the high road that ran through the heart of the sierras was accomplished without untoward incident, and by great good fortune a motor car, carrying two high officials of the guardia civil, drove up just as the party reached the road. into the car myra and don carlos were invited, after some voluble explanations on the part of their escort, and were speedily conveyed to el castillo de ruiz. "welcome home, myra, my wife," whispered don carlos, as he stepped out of the car and proffered his hand. "when you have recovered, we will discuss the question of taking vengeance on el diablo cojuelo," he added. "he is now entirely at your mercy." "and i shall not spare him!" responded myra. * * * "i am simply aching with curiosity, myra," said lady fermanagh a few hours later. "do, please, tell me everything. tony has been talking strangely, and don carlos is reticent about what happened at the bandit's lair, but i suppose it was he who rescued you." "has he said so?" asked myra. she had collapsed on reaching the castillo de ruiz, but was now feeling better after a long rest, a warm bath, and a dainty meal. "not in so many words," answered lady fermanagh. "he seems desperately worried, and so does tony, who says he will have to return to england to-morrow. i can't make out what has been happening, myra. do tell me." "it is difficult to explain, aunt," said myra slowly, after much hesitation. "el diablo cojuelo professed to have fallen in love with me at first sight, and i was crazy enough to promise to become his wife if tony offered to renounce me. tony did renounce me when he was threatened with torture, and i was married to el diablo cojuelo in his presence last night. tony failed me, and now i hate and despise him." "myra!" gasped lady fermanagh in horrified amazement. "married to the brigand! you--you don't mean actually married?" "i don't believe it could have been a proper marriage, although don--er--cojuelo swore the man who performed the service was an ordained priest," said myra, avoiding her aunt's eyes. "i don't suppose it matters much now whether i am cojuelo's wife--or only his mistress." "his mistress!" lady fermanagh was white to the lips as she repeated the words. "you mean that he----?" the hot colour stained myra's pale face as she met her aunt's eyes, and nodded her red-gold head in shamed assent. "myra, you are ruined!" lady fermanagh almost wailed, wringing her be-ringed hands. "what madness possessed you to offer to marry the brigand?" "he taunted me--and tony failed me," myra answered, oddly reluctant to explain everything. "i wish i were dead." "does don carlos know?" asked her aunt, and again myra flushed as she nodded assent. "yes, he alone knows, aunt," she said, "and he alone knows whether the marriage service was a mockery or not." lady fermanagh, still wringing her hands, rose and paced agitatedly up and down the room, her nimble brain busy trying to think of some way of saving the situation. "i will see don carlos, myra, beg him to keep your secret, beg him to assert that the so-called marriage was a farce and a mockery," she announced suddenly, after a long pause. "he is a chivalrous gentleman, and i know he will lie if necessary, to save your honour.... why do you sneer, child? ... don't you realise that everything depends on don carlos, and how you behave towards tony?" "i have nothing but contempt for tony now. i despise him." "don't be a little fool," snapped lady fermanagh. "your only hope of saving yourself is to forgive tony for his cowardice and marry him. he will be grateful to you all his life. don carlos can tell him that the marriage ceremony was only a farce, and that he arranged with the bandit for your liberation immediately afterwards, or else explain that he helped you to escape. how did you escape, by the way? you have not told me. did don carlos help?" "don carlos showed me the way to open the secret door," answered myra. "aunt clarissa, nothing will induce me to marry tony standish now." "but you must, you must!" insisted her aunt passionately. "it is the only way of saving yourself. think how you are placed, and what a ghastly tragedy it would be if it became known that you had surrendered yourself to a brigand. i will see don carlos at once, beg him, for your sake----" "no! no!" interrupted myra, springing to her feet. "i will not permit it, aunt. on no account must you appeal to don carlos. i will see him myself. you do not understand." "no, i certainly do not understand, and i think you must be crazy," responded her aunt, with an impatient sigh. "oh, myra, don't you realise in what a terrible position you have placed yourself? you lay the blame on tony standish, but now only he can save you." "tony standish has nothing to do with the matter now," retorted myra. "only don carlos can save me. i beg you, aunt clarissa, not to make any appeal to him. leave me to settle the matter myself with him and to decide my own fate, work out my own destiny. shall i see him now or wait till morning?" "i think you had better wait till morning, and take time to consider how you are placed," said lady fermanagh, after a thoughtful pause, regarding myra searchingly. "i fancy your mind must be temporarily deranged. myra, are you keeping something back from me?" "everything depends on don carlos--and cojuelo," myra responded, evading the question. "please say nothing to him, aunt, until i have spoken to him alone." "oh, the whole affair seems a crazy nightmare, and i don't know what to make of it all," said her aunt, with another sigh. "i wish we had never come to this wretched, lawless place. you must have had a premonition of trouble when you at first refused don carlos's invitation for no particular reason. myra, my dear, i am sorry for you!" her feelings got the better of her, and with tears in her eyes she flung her arms around myra and hugged her close to her breast. and myra suddenly broke down, buried her face in her aunt's shoulder, and cried like a hurt child. "better go to bed, dear," said lady fermanagh recovering herself after a few minutes. "we are all suffering from the strain and are not normal.... go to bed, myra, and try to make up your mind to go back to england with tony to-morrow...." chapter xix myra went to bed, but it was a long time before she could compose herself to woo sleep, so full was her mind of disturbing thoughts, so many problems did she find herself called on to solve. "does he love me?" that was the question that she put to herself time and again, and could not answer. "do i love him?" was another. and at heart she knew that if she were certain that the answer to the first question was in the affirmative, she could answer the second in a like manner. "what will it profit me if i denounce him?" she soliloquised. "he says he is at my mercy, but he can claim me, and boast that i offered to marry him, even if i do revenge myself by denouncing him. always he seems to have the advantage of me. to save my 'honour' now, and satisfy aunt clarissa, i shall either have to humble myself to ask him to marry me publicly, or else forgive tony. either course is repugnant." she fell asleep at last, but was wrestling with her problem even in her jumbled dreams. she woke with a start, and with the impression strong upon her that someone or something had touched her face and her breast. scared, she groped for the electric switch and flashed on the light above the bed, and as she did so she remembered having awakened months previously at auchinleven just in the same sort of fright, to find don carlos's note on her pillow. some odd instinct or intuition told her that history had repeated itself, and it came hardly as a surprise to find a half-sheet of notepaper tucked into her nightdress close to her heart. with fingers that trembled slightly, myra unfolded the note and read: "give me your heart and love, my wife, and i will devote my life to you. if you have no love, show no mercy." myra read the words again and again, sorely puzzled to decide what exactly they meant, wondering, incidentally, why don carlos had not awakened her to whisper what he had to say instead of leaving a note on her breast. "is he ashamed or afraid?" she asked herself--and could not answer her own question, nor a score of other questions which she put to herself as she tossed about restlessly for the remainder of the night, unable to sleep. her aunt, in dressing-gown and slippers, came to her room while she was sipping her early morning cup of tea. "i hope you slept well, myra dear, and are feeling better," she said. "i have hardly slept at all, and feel a wreck. have you made up your mind what to do?" "not quite," myra answered. "i must see don carlos first. but i think i have decided to show no mercy to el diablo cojuelo." "i don't know what you mean," commented her aunt. "for heaven's sake be sensible, myra. it isn't a question of showing mercy to the brigand, but of saving yourself and your reputation. i shall be in agonies of anxiety until you have made a decision." "i shall be in agonies myself until i have decided--and perhaps afterwards," replied myra enigmatically. "i shall get up now and get the ordeal over as quickly as possible." she wasted no time over her toilet, and save that she was very pale, she looked her usual lovely self as she left her room and walked towards the staircase. she halted for a moment in indecision as she saw antony standish on the landing, evidently waiting for her, then went on. "i say, myra, don't cut me," exclaimed standish appealingly, nervously fingering his tie. "i've been waiting for you. i--i don't want to try to excuse myself for what happened up in that cursed brigand's den. my nerve deserted me completely." "and you deserted me," interjected myra coldly. "you see, there was don carlos to be thought of as well as you, and--and i thought the only hope of being any help was to get away," standish went on lamely. "myra, i beg of you not to expose me to the world as a coward, and to forgive me. there are officials down below waiting to question you about what happened. they've been questioning me, and i'm afraid i didn't tell them the truth. now they're questioning don carlos. from what i can make of it, someone has suggested that don carlos is in league with the brigand cojuelo." "who suggested that?" asked myra, with a convulsive start. "i don't know, but the officials wanted to know if i saw don carlos at cojuelo's place, and how i got away," standish answered. "i told a lot of lies, and said that cojuelo let me go when i promised to pay a ransom of fifty thousand pounds. myra, you won't give me away and show me up? i'll shoot myself if you do. myra, if you say nothing about my funking things, i'll swear never to breathe a word about your marrying the brigand fellow." "that is indeed kind!" commented myra ironically. "i do not propose to make public what happened if i can avoid it, but possibly el diablo cojuelo may tell." standish drew a breath of relief and wiped his moist brow. "thank you," he said. "i'll come down with you, if i may, and perhaps i may be able to help you through with the officials." "i hardly think i shall need your help," responded myra coldly. for all her outward appearance of self-possession, she was trembling inwardly, and her heart was beating unsteadily as she went down to the hall, to find don carlos and three officers in somewhat elaborate uniforms engaged in earnest conversation around a table, beside which was also seated another officer whom myra recognised as the one who had led the guardia civil who had rescued her. all rose immediately she appeared, and bowed courteously, and the junior officer hastened to place a chair for her. "you will pardon us for troubling you so soon after your ordeal, miss rostrevor, but it is necessary that we ask you some questions in regard to el diablo cojuelo," said one of the officers in excellent english. myra merely inclined her head and seated herself, darting a glance at don carlos. his face was pale and his expression was as impassive and inscrutable as a sphinx. "this officer, who led the company which found you in the mountains yesterday, states that you were then apparently running away from don carlos de ruiz," continued the superior official. "he also states that he understood you to assert positively that don carlos is el diablo cojuelo. is that so, señorita?" "if you have no love, show no mercy." the words of the note she had found on her breast flashed back into myra's mind in the fraction of a second that she hesitated before answering the question on which the fate of don carlos depended. and in that fraction of a second she found the answer to many questions she had put to herself. "what an absurd suggestion!" she exclaimed with scarce a tremor in her voice. "the officer is quite mistaken, but the fault is probably mine. i was so agitated that i did not know what i was saying, and was obsessed with the idea that el diablo cojuelo was close behind me." don carlos sprang to his feet with an exultant laugh. "you hear, señors!" he exclaimed. "i thought it would be more convincing if i left it to miss rostrevor to assure you the fantastic suggestion is without foundation. now i am willing to answer any questions and tell you everything. are you satisfied now? the señor standish has told you that i was flung into the cell in which he was imprisoned after he had tried to kill cojuelo, and that cojuelo afterwards threatened to torture him and shoot me unless we agreed to his terms." "pardon, don carlos, but i am merely carrying out my duty," said the commandante, and turned to myra again. "did you see don carlos as well as cojuelo, señorita, while you were in the outlaw's den?" he inquired. "yes, i saw them both together several times," answered myra. "i heard cojuelo threaten to shoot don carlos. it was don carlos who enabled me to make my escape, but i thought in my panic that it was cojuelo who was trying to overtake me when i cried out to the officer of the civil guards." "is there, then, some resemblance between don carlos and the brigand cojuelo?" asked the commandante. momentarily nonplussed, myra shook her head. "i cannot tell," she answered. "el diablo cojuelo always wore a cowl which disguised him." "yes, that's right, sir," broke in tony standish from the background. "we never saw the blighter without his cowl. i challenged him to be a man and meet me face to face, but he would not remove his disguise. you can take it from me, sir, that the idea that there was any connection between cojuelo and don carlos is all moonshine." "thank you, mr. standish," said don carlos gravely, and glanced round at the faces of the officers. "may i take it, señors, that you are satisfied?" the commandante nodded, tugging at his grey moustache. "certainly, don carlos," he said. "you will understand that it was necessary for us to investigate the report that the english señorita had asserted that you were el diablo cojuelo, and that your refusal to deny the fact or to supply any explanation made this examination necessary. i understand that you may have considered the implication an insult, and now i can only apologise for troubling you and devote my energies to hunting down el diablo cojuelo. can you offer us any assistance in locating his lair in the mountains?" "you need trouble yourself no longer about el diablo cojuelo, señor," replied don carlos. "he is dead." "dead?" "yes, he is dead. señor standish, as he told you, fired at him and thought he had missed, but he had sorely wounded the brigand, and when i tackled cojuelo afterwards, when he was endeavouring to prevent miss rostrevor from escaping, he collapsed and died at my feet. he will trouble us no more, señors, and i intend to claim his greatest treasure as my reward for having made an end to him." "don carlos, but this is news indeed!" cried the commandante excitedly. "el diablo cojuelo dead! ten thousand congratulations, my dear don carlos! congratulations to you, also, señor standish, on ridding my country of such a dangerous pest. to shoot a brigand in his own den was indeed conduct worthy of a gallant englishman!" "oh--er--thanks," stammered tony, avoiding looking at myra. "why the deuce didn't you tell us this before, don carlos?" conclusion the officers had taken their leave after much handshaking and bowing. left alone with don carlos, standish, and with lady fermanagh, who had been a silent and puzzled witness of the proceedings, myra suddenly felt her self-possession deserting her, and fled back to her own room. "why did i lie to save him?" she breathed, as she flung herself down on her knees by the bedside and buried her face. "why?" she did not need to ask the question. her heart had given her the answer. she knew she had lied to save the man she loved. there came a knock at the door, and she started up, hastily dabbing her eyes and trying to control herself. "come in," she called faintly, after a pause, as the knock was repeated. the door opened, and don carlos entered. he was pale, but his dark eyes were shining with happiness. "myra, darling," he said huskily, and stopped, overcome by emotion. he held out his arms.... deep was calling unto deep. love was calling. and myra rostrevor answered the call. she was in the arms of her lover, her conqueror, returning his passionate kisses with a fervour equal to his own. "i love you, carlos, i love you," she whispered between kisses. "i love you although you have been such a brute. if i had denounced you as el diablo cojuelo, what would have happened?" "i should have confessed, then killed myself," carlos answered. "without you, beloved, life meant nothing to me. i staked all in the hope that you would prove you loved me, and i won! i feared that although i had made you mine i had failed to win your heart. say again that you love me, dear heart, and will love me always." "i love you, darling, i love you with all of me," myra murmured, kissing him passionately. "i realise now that i have loved you for a long time, and was only afraid to confess myself conquered because i feared you only wanted to win me to gratify your pride.... am i really your wife, dear?" she added, breathless and blushing, as she disengaged herself at last from his embrace. "you are the wife of cojuelo, or, rather the widow of cojuelo, sweetheart," carlos answered. "but now that poor cojuelo is dead, you are going to marry don carlos de ruiz, who has decided to give up playing at being an outlaw and devote his life to loving the most beautiful, delicious, adorable woman in the world. kiss me again, beloved...." "i don't know how to explain things, carlos, to lady fermanagh, and don't know what she will think of us," said myra, a little later. "and although it was nice of you to give credit to tony for killing el diablo cojuelo, i shall feel dreadful when i have to tell him i am going to marry you." "don't worry, darling," said don carlos. "i have already told lady fermanagh and mr. standish that you promised to marry me if i saved you from el diablo cojuelo. mr. standish is leaving for home immediately, but lady fermanagh will remain for our wedding." "you seem to have taken a great deal for granted, you wretch!" exclaimed myra, dimpling into smiles. "as i know i am the wife of cojuelo, i shall feel i am committing bigamy when i marry you, carlos." "and i shall have the satisfaction of marrying a second time the loveliest girl in the world," laughed don carlos happily, as he drew her unresisting into his arms again. "i don't know what to make of it all, myra, but i suppose it will be best not to ask too many questions," said lady fermanagh. "rather odd, isn't it, that the brigand cojuelo should have married you when he was mortally wounded, and that you should have promised to marry don carlos, yet married the brigand although you were engaged to tony?" "yes, perhaps it does seem rather odd, aunt," admitted myra, her eyes twinkling. "decidedly odd!" her aunt commented, with a wry smile. "i don't think the matter will bear very close investigation, and i suppose it concerns only don carlos and you. incidentally, i don't know how tony will explain matters in england, but i suppose that does not matter much either. have you no regrets, myra?" "yes," answered myra, after a pause. "i think i rather regret losing my first husband. but i feel quite sure carlos will prove a good substitute." the end bandit love by juanita savage juanita savage needs no introduction to american readers; hundreds of thousands have already thrilled to her vigorous romances of love and adventure. in "bandit love" there is the same sultry throb and barbaric drive that characterize all her work. here is the love story of a beautiful irish girl who rode horses like an arizona cowboy, whose hair was red as flame, and whose lover was an english gentleman. but then, there was the spaniard, too! hot-headed, he was, passionate and lawless as a tartar. needless to say the story takes some startling turns. the end is surprising. and the satisfying conclusion it all comes to is this, that the eternal feminine still responds to courage in the male. by the author of the city of desire don lorenzo's bride passion island the spaniard the best of recent fiction adventures of jimmie dale. frank l. packard. adventures of sherlock holmes. a. conan doyle. adventures of the d. c. i. major c. e. russell. affair in duplex b, the. william johnston. affair at the chateau, the. mrs. baillie reynolds. affinities and other stories. mary roberts rinehart. after house, the. mary roberts rinehart. after noon. susan ertz. ah, the delicate passion. elizabeth hall yates. ailsa page. robert w. chambers. alcatraz. max brand. all at sea. carolyn wells. all the way by water. elizabeth stancy payne. altar of friendship, the. blanche upright. amateur gentleman. jeffery farnol. amateur inn, the. albert payson terhune. anabel at sea. samuel merwin. an accidental accomplice. william johnston. ancestor jorico. william j. locke. and they lived happily ever after. meredith nicholson. angel esquire. edgar wallace. angel of terror. edgar wallace. anne of the island. l. m. montgomery. anne's house of dreams. l. m. montgomery. annihilation. isabel ostrander. ann's crime. r. t. m. scott. an ordeal of honor. anthony pryde. anything but the truth. carolyn wells. april and sally june. margaret piper chalmers. are all men alike, and the lost titan. arthur stringer. aristocratic miss brewster, the. joseph c. lincoln. around old chester. margaret deland. arrant rover, the. berta ruck. as a thief in the night. r. austin freeman. a self-made thief. hulbert footner. astounding crime on torrington road, the. william gillette. at sight of gold. cynthia lombard. at the foot of the rainbow. james b. hendryx. at the mercy of tiberius. augusta evans wilson. at the south gate. grace s. richmond. auction block, the. rex beach. aunt jane of kentucky. eliza c. hall. aurelius smith--detective. r. t. m. scott. autocrat, the. pearl doles bell. aw hell! clarke venable. bab: a sub-deb. mary roberts rinehart. babe ruth's own book of baseball. george herman ruth. backwoods princess, a. hulbert footner. bad one, the. john farrow. "barabbas." marie corelli. barberry bush. kathleen norris. barrier, the. rex beach. bars of iron, the. ethel m. dell. bartenstein mystery, the. j. s. fletcher. bar- . clarence e. mulford. bar- days. clarence e. mulford. bar- rides again, the. clarence e. mulford. bar- three. clarence e. mulford. bat wing. sax rohmer. beauty and the beast. kathleen norris. beauty mask, the. h. m. clamp. beginners, the. henry kitchell webster. beg pardon sir! reginald wright kauffman. bella donna. robert hichens. bellamy trial, the. frances noyes hart. belonging. olive wadsley. beloved pawn, the. harold titus. beloved rajah, the. a. e. r. craig. beloved traitor, the. frank l. packard. beloved vagabond, the. william j. locke. beloved woman, the. kathleen norris. beltane the smith. jeffery farnol. benson murder case, the. s. s. van dine. best ghost stories, the. edited by bohun lynch. beyond the frontier. randall parrish. bigamist, the. john jay chichester. big brother. rex beach. big mogul, the. joseph c. lincoln. big shot, the. frank l. packard. big timber. bertrand w. sinclair. bill the conqueror. p. q. wodehouse. bill--the sheik. a. m. williamson. bird of freedom. hugh pendexter. black abbot, the. edgar wallace. black bartlemy's treasure. jeffery farnol. black bull, the. h. bedford-jones. black buttes. clarence e. mulford. black company, the. w. b. m. ferguson. black flemings, the. kathleen norris. black butterflies. elizabeth jordan. black glove, the. j. g. sarasin. black ivory. polan banks. black magician, the. r. t. m. scott. black oxen. gertrude atherton. black stamp, the. will scott. black turret, the. patrick wynnton. blades. george barr mccutcheon. blair's attic. joseph c. lincoln and freeman lincoln, blatchington tangle, the. g. d. h. and margaret cole. bleston mystery, the. robert milward kennedy. bloody ground. oscar j. friend. blue blood. owen johnson. blue car mystery, the. natalie sumner lincoln. blue castle, the. l. m. montgomery. blue hand. edgar wallace. blue jay, the. max brand. bob, son of battle. alfred ollivant. bondwoman, the. g. u. ellis. born rich. hughes cornell. borrowed shield, the. richard e. enright. boss of eagle's nest, the. william west winter. boss of the diamond a. robert ames bennet. boss of the tumbling h. frank c. robertson. box with broken seals. e. phillips oppenheim. branded. robert ames bennet. brass. charles g. norris. brass bowl, louis joseph vance. bravo jim. w. d. hoffman. bread. charles g. norris. bread and jam. nalbro bartley. break-up, the. esther birdsall darling. breaking point, the. mary roberts rinehart. bride's progress, the. harold weston. bright shawl, the. joseph hergesheimer. bring me his ears. clarence e. mulford. broad highway, the. jeffery farnol. broken barriers. meredith nicholson. broken waters. frank l. packard. bronze hand, the. carolyn wells. brood of the witch queen. sax rohmer. brook evans. susan glaspell. brown study, the. grace s. richmond. buck peters, ranchman. clarence e. mulford bullet eater. oscar j. friend. burned evidence. mrs. wilson woodrow. bush rancher, the. harold bindloss. bush that burned, a. marjorie barclay mcclure. buster, the. william patterson white. butterfly. kathleen norris. cabbages and kings. o. henry. cabin at the trail's end. sheba hargreaves callahans and the murphys. kathleen norris. calling of dan matthews. harold bell wright. can women forget? florence riddell. cape cod stories. joseph c. lincoln. captain brand of the schooner "centipede." lieut. henry a. wise. cap'n dan's daughter. joseph c. lincoln. cap'n eri. joseph c. lincoln. cap'n jonah's fortune. james a. cooper. captains of souls. edgar wallace. cap'n sue. hulbert footner. cap'n warren's wards. joseph c. lincoln. cardigan. robert w. chambers. carib gold. ellery h. clark. carnac's folly. sir gilbert parker. carry on, jeeves! p. g. wodehouse. case and the girl. randall parrish. case book of sherlock holmes, the. a. conan doyle. cask, the. freeman wills crofts. cat-o'mountain. arthur o. friel. cat's eye, the. r. austin freeman. catspaw, the. terry shannon. cattle. winifred eaton reeve. cattle baron, the. robert ames bennet. cavalier of tennessee. meredith nicholson. celestial city, the. baroness orczy. certain dr. thorndyke. a. r. austin freeman. certain people of importance. kathleen norris. chaffee of roaring horse. ernest haycox. chance--and the woman. ellis middleton. charteris mystery. a. fielding. cherry square. grace s. richmond. cheyne mystery, the. freeman wills crofts. child of the north. ridgwell cullum. child of the wild. edison marshall. children of divorce. owen johnson. chronicles of avonlea. l. m. montgomery. cinema murder, the. e. phillips oppenheim. city of lilies, the. anthony pryde and r. k. weeks. city of peril, the. arthur stringer. city of the sun, the. edwin l. sabin. clair de lune. anthony pryde. clever one, the. edgar wallace. click of triangle t. oscar j. friend. clifford affair, the. a. fielding. clock strikes two, the. henry kitchell webster. clouded pearl, the. berta ruck. cloudy in the west. william patterson white. club of masks, the. allen upward. clue of the new pin, the. edgar wallace. clue of the twisted candle. edgar wallace. coast of enchantment. burton e. stevenson. cock's feather. katherine newlin burt. cold harbour. francis brett young. colorado jim. george goodchild. come home. stella g. s. perry. coming of cassidy, the. clarence e. mulford. coming of cosgrove, the. laurie y. erskine. coming of the law, the. charles a. selzer. communicating door, the. wadsworth camp. concerning him. introduced by the writer of "to m. i. g." confidence man, the. laurie y. erskine. conquest of canaan, the. booth tarkington. conquering lover, the. pamela wynne. conqueror passes, a. larry barretto. constant nymph, the. margaret kennedy. contraband. clarence budington kelland. copper moon. edwin bateman morris. corbin necklace, the. henry kitchell webster. corsican justice. j. g. sarasin. corson of the j. c. clarence e. mulford. cottonwood gulch. clarence e. mulford. court of inquiry, a. grace s. richmond. cow woman, the. george gilbert. crime at red towers. chester k. steele. crime in the crypt, the. carolyn wells. crimson circle, the. edgar wallace. crooked. maximilian foster. crooked cross, the. charles j. dutton. crook's shadow, the. j. jefferson farjeon. cross trails. harold bindloss. cruel fellowship. cyril hume. cryder of the big woods. george c. shedd. cry in the wilderness, a. mary e. waller. crystal cup, the. gertrude atherton. cup of fury, the. rupert hughes. curious quest, the. e. phillips oppenheim, cursed be the treasure. h. b. drake. cytherea. joseph hergesheimer. cy whittaker's place. joseph c. lincoln. daffodil murder, the. edgar wallace. dagger, the. anthony wynne. dalehouse murder, the. francis everton. damsel in distress, a. pelham g. wodehouse. dan barry's daughter. max brand. dance magic. clarence budington kelland. dancers in the dark. dorothy speare. dancing silhouette, the. natalie sumner lincoln. dancing star. berta ruck. danger. ernest poole. danger and other stories. a. conan doyle. dangerous business. edwin balmer. dark duel. marguerite steen. darkest spot, the. lee thayer. dark eyes of london, the. edgar wallace. david strange. nelia gardner white. daughter of the house. carolyn wells. daughter of the sands, a. frances everard. daughter pays, the. mrs. baillie reynolds. david copperfield. charles dickens. deadfall, the. edison marshall. dead men's shoes. lee thayer. dead ride hard, the. louis joseph vance. dear pretender, the. alice ross colver. death maker, the. austin j. small. deeper scar, the. sinclair gluck. deep in the hearts of men. mary e. waller. deep lake mystery. carolyn wells. deep seam, the. jack bethea. defenders, the. stella g. s. perry. delight. mazo de la roche. demon caravan, the. georges surdez. depot master, the. joseph c. lincoln. desert dust. edwin l. sabin. desert healer. e. m. hull. desire. gladys johnson. desire of his life, and other stories. ethel m. dell. destiny. rupert hughes. devil of pei-ling, the. herbert asbury. devil's mantle, the. frank l. packard. devil's paw, the. e. phillips oppenheim. devonshers, the. honore willsie morrow. diamond murders, the. j. s. fletcher. diamond thieves, the. arthur stringer. diana at the bath. elizabeth hall yates. diana of kara-kara. edgar wallace. diane's adventure. ann sumner. dimmest dream, the. alice ross colver. divine event. will n. harben. divots. p. g. wodehouse. dixiana, a novelization. winnie brandon. dr. glazebrook's revenge. andrew cassels brown. dr. nye. joseph c. lincoln. doctor s. o. s. lee thayer. doctor who held hands, the. hulbert footner. don careless. rex beach. door of dread, the. arthur stringer. doors of the night. frank l. packard. door with seven locks. edgar wallace. dope. sax rohmer. double chance, the. j. s. fletcher. double house, the. elizabeth dejeans. double thirteen, the. anthony wynne. double traitor, the. e. phillips oppenheim. downey of the mounted. james b. hendryx. draycott murder mystery. molly thynne. dream detective. sax rohmer. dream kiss. ann sumner. drums of aulone, the. robert w. chambers. drums of doom. robert welles ritchie. duke steps out, the. lucian cary. dust. armine von tempski. dust of the desert. robert welles ritchie. dust to dust. isabel ostrander. eames-erskine case. a. fielding. easy. nina wilcox putnam. eddy and edouard. baroness von hutten. eight panes of glass. robert simpson. ellerby case, the. john rhode. emerald tiger. edgar jepson. emily climbs. l. m. montgomery. emily of new moon. l. m. montgomery. emily's quest. l. m. montgomery. emperor of america, the. sax rohmer. empty hands. arthur stringer. [transcriber's note: this is where the book catalog ended.] transcriber's note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. _love story_ by irving e. cox, jr. _illustrated by paul orban_ _everything was aimed at satisfying the whims of women. the popular cliches, the pretty romances, the catchwords of advertising became realities; and the compound kept the men enslaved. george knew what he had to do...._ * * * * * the duty bell rang and obediently george clattered down the steps from his confinement cubicle over the garage. his mother's chartreuse-colored cadillac convertible purred to a stop in the drive. "it's so sweet of you to come, georgie," his mother said when george opened the door for her. "whenever you need me, mummy." it was no effort at all to keep the sneer out of his voice. deception had become a part of his character. his mother squeezed his arm. "i can always count on my little boy to do the right thing." "yes, mummy." they were mouthing a formula of words. they were both very much aware that if george hadn't snapped to attention as soon as the duty bell rang, he risked being sentenced, at least temporarily, to the national hero's corps. still in the customary, martyr's whisper, george's mother said, "this has been such a tiring day. a man can never understand what a woman has to endure, georgie; my life is such an ordeal." her tone turned at once coldly practical. "i've two packages in the trunk; carry them to the house for me." george picked up the cardboard boxes and followed her along the brick walk in the direction of the white, colonial mansion where his mother and her two daughters and her current husband lived. george, being a boy, was allowed in the house only when his mother invited him, or when he was being shown off to a prospective bride. george was nineteen, the most acceptable marriage age; because he had a magnificent build and the reputation for being a good boy, his mother was rumored to be asking twenty thousand shares for him. as they passed the rose arbor, his mother dropped on the wooden seat and drew george down beside her. "i've a surprise for you, george--a new bidder. mrs. harper is thinking about you for her daughter." "jenny harper?" suddenly his throat was dust dry with excitement. "you'd like that, wouldn't you, georgie?" "whatever arrangement you make, mummy." jenny harper was one of the few outsiders george had occasionally seen as he grew up. she was approximately his age, a stunning, dark-eyed brunette. "jenny and her mother are coming to dinner to talk over a marriage settlement." speculatively she ran her hand over the tanned, muscle-hard curve of his upper arm. "you're anxious to have your own woman, aren't you, george?" "so i can begin to work for her, mummy." that, at least, was the correct answer, if not an honest one. "and begin taking the compound every day." his mother smiled. "oh, i know you wicked boys! put on your dress trunks tonight. we want jenny to see you at your best." she got up and strode toward the house again. george followed respectfully two paces behind her. as they passed beyond the garden hedge, she saw the old business coupe parked in the delivery court. her body stiffened in anger. "why is your father home so early, may i ask?" it was an accusation, rather than a question. "i don't know, mother. i heard my sisters talking in the yard; i think he was taken sick at work." "sick! some men never stop pampering themselves." "they said it was a heart attack or--" "ridiculous; he isn't dead, is he? georgie, this is the last straw. i intend to trade your father in today on a younger man." she snatched the two packages from him and stormed into the house. since his mother hadn't asked him in, george returned to his confinement cubicle in the garage. he felt sorry, in an impersonal way, for the husband his mother was about to dispose of, but otherwise the fate of the old man was quite normal. he had outlived his economic usefulness; george had seen it happen before. his real father had died a natural death--from strain and overwork--when george was four. his mother had since then bought four other husbands; but, because boys were brought up in rigid isolation, george had known none of them well. for the same reason, he had no personal friends. he climbed the narrow stairway to his cubicle. it was already late afternoon, almost time for dinner. he showered and oiled his body carefully, before he put on his dress trunks, briefs made of black silk studded with seed pearls and small diamonds. he was permitted to wear the jewels because his mother's stockholdings were large enough to make her an associate director. his family status gave george a high marriage value and his adonis physique kicked the asking price still higher. at nineteen he stood more than six feet tall, even without his formal, high-heeled boots. he weighed one hundred and eighty-five, not an ounce of it superfluous fat. his skin was deeply bronzed by the sunlamps in the gym; his eyes were sapphire blue; his crewcut was a platinum blond--thanks to the peroxide wash his mother made him use. observing himself critically in the full-length mirror, george knew his mother was justified in asking twenty thousand shares for him. marriage was an essential part of his own plans; without it revenge was out of his reach. he desperately hoped the deal would be made with jenny harper. a young woman would be far less difficult for him to handle. when the oil on his skin was dry, he lay down on his bunk to catch up on his required viewing until the duty bell called him to the house. the automatic circuit snapped on the television screen above his bunk; wearily george fixed his eyes on the unreeling love story. for as long as he could remember, television had been a fundamental part of his education. a federal law required every male to watch the tv romances three hours a day. failure to do so--and that was determined by monthly form tests mailed out by the directorate--meant a three month sentence to the national hero's corps. if the statistics periodically published by the directorate were true, george was a relatively rare case, having survived adolescence without serving a single tour of duty as a national hero. for that he indirectly thanked his immunity to the compound. fear and guilt kept him so much on his toes, he grew up an amazingly well-disciplined child. george was aware that the television romances were designed to shape his attitudes and his emotional reactions. the stories endlessly repeated his mother's philosophy. all men were pictured as beasts crudely dominated by lust. women, on the other hand, were always sensitive, delicate, modest, and intelligent; their martyrdom to the men in their lives was called love. to pay for their animal lusts, men were expected to slave away their lives earning things--kitchen gadgets, household appliances, fancy cars, luxuries and stockholdings--for their patient, long-suffering wives. _and it's all a fake!_ george thought. he had seen his mother drive two men to their graves and trade off two others because they hadn't produced luxuries as fast as she demanded. his mother and his pinch-faced sisters were pampered, selfish, rock-hard amazons; by no conceivable twist of imagination could they be called martyrs to anything. that seemed self-evident, but george had no way of knowing if any other man had ever reasoned out the same conclusion. maybe he was unique because of his immunity to the compound. he was sure that very few men--possibly none--had reached marriage age with their immunity still undiscovered. * * * * * george was lucky, in a way: he knew the truth about himself when he was seven, and he had time to adjust to it--to plan the role he had been acting for the past twelve years. his early childhood had been a livid nightmare, primarily because of the precocious cruelty of his two sisters. shortly before his seventh birthday they forced him to take part in a game they called cocktail party. the game involved only one activity: the two little girls filled a glass with an unidentified liquid, and ordered george to drink. afterward, dancing up and down in girlish glee, they said they had given him the compound. george had seen the love stories on television; he knew how he was expected to act. he gave a good performance--better than his sisters realized, for inside his mind george was in turmoil. they had given him the compound (true, years before he should have taken it), and nothing had happened. he had felt absolutely nothing; he was immune! if anyone had ever found out, george would have been given a life sentence to the national hero's corps; or, more probably, the morals squad would have disposed of him altogether. from that day on, george lived with guilt and fear. as the years passed, he several times stole capsules of the compound from his mother's love-cabinet and gulped them down. sometimes he felt a little giddy, and once he was sick. but he experienced no reaction which could possibly be defined as love. not that he had any idea what that reaction should have been, but he knew he was supposed to feel very wicked and he never did. each failure increased the agony of guilt; george drove himself to be far better behaved than he was required to be. he dreaded making one mistake. if his mother or a director examined it too closely, they might find out his real secret. george's basic education began when he was assigned to his confinement room above the garage after his tenth birthday. thereafter his time was thoroughly regulated by law. three hours a day he watched television; three hours he spent in his gym, building a magnificent--and salable--body; for four hours he listened to the educational tapes. arithmetic, economics, salesmanship, business techniques, accounting, mechanics, practical science: the things he had to know in order to earn a satisfactory living for the woman who bought him in marriage. he learned nothing else and as he grew older he became very conscious of the gaps in his education. for instance, what of the past? had the world always been this sham he lived in? that question he had the good sense not to ask. but george had learned enough from his lessons in practical science to guess what the compound really was, what it had to be: a mixture of aphrodisiacs and a habit-forming drug. the compound was calculated to stir up a man's desire to the point where he would give up anything in order to satisfy it. boys were given increased doses during their adolescence; by the time they married, they were addicts, unable to leave the compound alone. george couldn't prove his conclusion. he had no idea how many other men had followed the same line of reasoning and come up with the same answer. but why was george immune? there was only one way he could figure it: it must have happened because his sisters gave him the first draft when he was seven. but logically that didn't make much sense. bachelors were another sort of enemy: men who shirked their duty and deserted their wives. it seemed unreasonable to believe a man could desert his wife, when first he had to break himself of addiction to the compound. george had always supposed that bachelor was a boogy word contrived to frighten growing children. as a consequence, he was very surprised when the house next door was raided. through the window of his confinement cubicle, he actually saw the five gray-haired men who were rounded up by the morals squad. the squad--heavily armed, six-foot amazons--tried to question their captives. they used injections of a truth serum. two of the old men died at once. the others went berserk, frothing at the mouth and screaming animal profanity until the squad captain ordered them shot. george overheard one of the women say, "it's always like this. they take something so our serum can't be effective." later that afternoon george found a scrap of paper in his mother's garden. it had blown out of the bonfire which the morals squad made of the papers they took out of the house next door. the burned page had apparently been part of an informational bulletin, compiled by the bachelors for distribution among themselves. "... data compiled from old publications," the fragment began, "and interpreted by our most reliable authorities." at that point a part of the page was burned away. "... and perhaps less than ninety years ago men and women lived in equality. the evidence on that point is entirely conclusive. the present matriarchy evolved by accident, not design. ninety years ago entertainment and advertising were exclusively directed at satisfying a woman's whim. no product was sold without some sort of tie-in with women. fiction, drama, television, motion pictures--all glorified a romantic thing called love. in that same period business was in the process of taking over government from statesmen and politicians. women, of course, were the stockholders who owned big business, although the directors and managers at that time were still men--operating under the illusion that they were the executives who represented ownership. in effect, however, women owned the country and women governed it; suddenly the matriarchy existed. there is no evidence that it was imposed; there is no suggestion of civil strife or...." more words burned away. "however, the women were not unwilling to consolidate their gains. consequently the popular cliches, the pretty romances, and the catchwords of advertising became a substitute for reality. as for the compound...." there the fragment ended. much of it george did not understand. but it gave him a great deal of courage simply to know the bachelors actually existed. he began to plan his own escape to a bachelor hideout. he would have no opportunity, no freedom of any sort, until he married. every boy was rigidly isolated in his confinement cubicle, under the watchful eye of his mother's spy-cameras, until he was bought in his first marriage. then, as he thought more about it, george realized there was a better way for him to use his immunity. he couldn't be sure of finding a bachelor hideout before the morals squad tracked him down. but george could force his bride to tell him where the compound was made, since he was not an addict and she could not use the compound to enslave him. once he knew the location of the factory, he would destroy it. how, he wasn't sure; he didn't plan that far ahead. if the supply of the drug could be interrupted, many hundreds of men might be goaded into making a break for the hills. * * * * * the duty bell rang. george snapped to attention on the edge of his bunk. he saw his mother waving from the back door of her house. "i'll be down right away, mummy." his mother was waiting for him in the pantry. under the glaring overhead light he stopped for her last minute inspection. she used a pocket-stick to touch up a spot on his chest where the oil gleam had faded a little. and she gave him a glass of the compound to drink. "jenny really wants to marry you, george," she confided. "i know the symptoms; half our battle's won for us. and my former husband won't be around to worry us with his aches and pains. i made the trade this afternoon." he followed her into the dining room where the cocktails were being served. aside from the harpers, george's mother had rented two handsome, muscular escorts for his sisters. in the confusion, george saw jenny harper's mother stealthily lace his water glass with a dose of the compound. he suppressed a grin. apparently she was anxious to complete the deal, too. george found it almost impossible to hold back hilarious laughter when jenny herself shyly pressed a capsule of the compound into his hand and asked him to use it. three full-size slugs of the drug! george wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been immune. fortunately, he knew how to act the lusty, eager, drooling male which each of the women expected. the negotiations moved along without a hitch. george's mother held out for twenty-eight thousand shares, and got it. the only problem left was the date for the wedding, and jenny settled that very quickly. "i want my man, mom," she said, "and i want him now." jenny always got what she wanted. when she and her mother left that evening, she held george's hand in hers and whispered earnestly, "so they were married and lived happily ever after. that's the way it's going to be with us, isn't it, george?" "it's up to you, jenny; for as long as you want me." that was the conventional answer which he was expected to make, but he saw unmasked disappointment in her face. she wanted something more genuine, with more of himself in it. he felt suddenly sorry for her, for the way he was going to use her. she was a pretty girl, even sweet and innocent--if those words still had any real meaning left after what his mother's world had done to them. under other circumstances, george would have looked forward with keen pleasure to marrying jenny. as it was, jenny harper was first a symbol of the fakery he intended to destroy, and after that a woman. * * * * * five days later they were married. in spite of the short engagement, mrs. harper and george's mother managed to put on a splendid show in the church. george received a business sedan from his mother, the traditional gift given every bridegroom; and from mrs. harper he received a good job in a company where she was the majority stockholder. and so, in the customary pageantry and ceremony, george became mr. harper. "think of it--mr. harper," jenny sighed, clinging to his arm. "now you're really mine, george." on the church steps the newlyweds posed for photographs--george in the plain, white trunks which symbolized a first marriage; jenny in a dazzling cloud of fluff, suggestively nearly transparent. then mrs. harper drew jenny aside and whispered in her daughter's ear: the traditional telling of the secret. now jenny knew where the compound was manufactured; and for george revenge was within his grasp. george's mother had arranged for their honeymoon at memory lodge, a resort not far from the directorate capital in hollywood. it was the national capital as well, though everyone conscientiously maintained the pretense that washington, with an all-male congress, still governed the country. george considered himself lucky that his mother had chosen memory lodge. he had already planned to desert jenny in the mountains. george knew how to drive; his mother had wanted him to do a great deal of chauffeuring for her. but he had never driven beyond town, and he had never driven anywhere alone. his mother gave him a map on which his route to the lodge was indicated in bright red. in the foothills george left the marked highway on a paved side road. he gambled that jenny wouldn't immediately realize what he had done, and the gamble paid off. still wearing her nearly transparent wedding gown, she pressed close to him and ran her hands constantly over his naked chest, thoroughly satisfied with the man she had bought. in the church george had been given a tall glass of the compound; he acted the part jenny expected. but it was far less a role he played than george wanted to admit. his body sang with excitement. he found it very difficult to hold the excitement in check. if he had been addicted to the compound, it would have been out of the question. more than ever before he sympathized with the men who were enslaved by love. in spite of his own immunity, he nearly yielded to the sensuous appeal of her caress. he held the wheel so hard his knuckles went white; he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. all afternoon george drove aimless mountain roads, moving deeper into the uninhabited canyons. carefully judging his distances with an eye on the map, he saw to it that he remained relatively close to the city; after he forced jenny to give him the information he wanted, he wanted to be able to get out fast. by dusk the roads he drove were no longer paved. ruts carved deep by spring rains suggested long disuse. the swaying of the car and the constant grinding of gears eventually jolted jenny out of her romantic dreams. she moved away from george and sat looking at the pines which met above the road. "we're lost, aren't we?" she asked. "what's that?" he shouted to be heard above the roar of the motor. "lost!" for a minute or two longer he continued to drive until he saw an open space under the trees. he pulled the car into the clearing and snapped off the ignition. then he looked jenny full in the face and answered her. "no, jenny, we aren't lost; i know exactly what i'm doing." "oh." he was sure she had understood him, but she said, "we can spend the night here and find the lodge in the morning. it's a pity we didn't bring something to eat." she smiled ingenuously. "but i brought the compound; and we have each other." they got out of the car. jenny looked up at the sunset, dull red above the trees, and shivered; she asked george to build a fire. he tucked the ignition key into the band of his white trunks and began to gather dry boughs and pine needles from the floor of the forest. he found several large branches and carried them back to the clearing. there was enough wood to last until morning--whether he stayed that long or not. jenny had lugged the seats and a blanket out of the car and improvised a lean-to close to the fire. he piled on two of the larger branches and the bright glow of flame lit their faces. she beckoned to him and gave him a bottle of the compound, watching bright-eyed as he emptied it. with her lips parted, she waited. he did nothing. slowly the light died in her eyes. like a savage she flung herself into his arms. he steeled himself to show absolutely no reaction and finally she drew away. trembling and with tears in her eyes, she whispered, "the compound doesn't--" the look of pain in her eyes turned to terror. "you're immune!" "now you know." "but who told you--" she searched his face, shaking her head. "you don't know, do you--not really?" "know what?" instead of replying, she asked, "you brought me here deliberately, didn't you?" "so we wouldn't be interrupted. you see, jenny, you're going to tell me where the compound's made." "it wouldn't do you any good. don't you see--" he closed his hands on her wrists and jerked her rudely to her feet. he saw her face go white. and no wonder: that magnificent, granite hard body, which she had bought in good faith for her own pleasure, was suddenly out of her control. he grinned. he crushed her mouth against his and kissed her. limp in his arms, she clung to him and said in a choked, husky whisper, "i love you, george." "and you'll make any sacrifice for love," he replied, mocking the dialogue of the television love stories. "yes, anything!" "then tell me where the compound's manufactured." "hold me close, george; never let me go." how many times had he heard that particular line! it sickened him, hearing it now from jenny; he had expected something better of her. he pushed her from him. by accident his fist raked her face. she fell back blood trickling from her mouth. in her eyes he saw shock and a vague sense of pain; but both were overridden by adoration. she was like a whipped puppy, ready to lick his hand. "i'll tell you, george," she whispered. "but don't leave me." she pulled herself to her feet and stood beside him, reaching for his hand. "we make it in hollywood, in the directorate building, the part that used to be a sound stage." "thanks, jenny." he picked up one of the car seats and walked back to the sedan. she stood motionless watching him. he fitted the seat in place and put the key in the lock. the starter ground away, but the motor did not turn over. he glanced back at jenny. she was smiling inscrutably, "you see, george, you have to stay with me." he got out of the car and moved toward her. "i was afraid you were planning to desert me," she went on, "so i took out the distributor cap while you were getting the firewood." he stood in front of her. coldly he demanded, "where did you put it, jenny?" she tilted her lips toward his. "kiss and tell--maybe." "i haven't time for games. where is it?" his fist shot out. jenny sprawled on the ground at his feet. again he saw the pain and the adoration in her face. but that couldn't be right. she would hate him by this time. he yanked her to her feet. her lips were still bleeding and blood came now from a wound in her cheek. yet she managed to smile again. "i don't want to hurt you, jenny," he told her. "but i have to have--" "i love you, george. i never thought i'd want to give myself to a man. all the buying doesn't make any difference, does it? not really. and i never knew that before!" with an unconscious movement, she kicked her train aside and he saw the distributor cap lying beneath it. he picked it up. she flung herself at him screaming. he felt the hammer beat of her heart; her fingers dug into his back like cat claws. now it didn't matter. he had the secret; he could go whenever he wanted to. nonetheless he pushed her away--tenderly, and with regret. to surrender like this was no better than a capitulation to the compound. it was instinctively important to make her understand that. he knew that much, but his emotions were churned too close to fever pitch for him to reason out what else that implied. he clipped her neatly on the jaw and put her unconscious body on the ground by the fire. he left the map with her so she could find her way out in the morning; he knew it was really a very short hike to a highway, where she would be picked up by a passing car or truck. * * * * * he drove out the way he had come in--at least he tried to remember. four times he took a wrong turn and had to backtrack. it was, therefore, dawn before he reached the outskirts of hollywood. in any other city he would not have been conspicuous--simply a man on his way to work; only women slept late. however, hollywood was off-limits to every male. the city was not only the seat of the directorate, but the manufacturing center for the cosmetics industry. and since that gave women her charm, it was a business no man worked at. george had to have a disguise. he stopped on a residential street, where the people were still likely to be in their beds. he read names on mail boxes until he found a house where an unmarried woman lived. he had no way of knowing if she had a husband on approval with her, but the box was marked "miss." with any luck he might have got what he wanted without disturbing her, but the woman was a light sleeper and she caught him as he was putting on the dress. he was sorry he had to slug her, but she gave him no resistance. a spark of hope, a spark of long-forgotten youth glowed in her eyes; before she slid into unconsciousness. wearing the stolen dress, which fit him like a tent, and an enormous hat to hide his face, george parked his sedan near the directorate and entered the building when it opened at eight. in room after room automatons demonstrated how to dress correctly; robot faces displayed the uses of cosmetics. there were displays of kitchen gadgets, appliances, and other heavy machinery for the home; recorded lectures on stock management and market control. here women came from every part of the country for advice, help and guidance. here the top directors met to plan business policy, to govern the nation, and to supervise the production of the compound. for only the top directors--less than a dozen women--actually knew the formula. like their stockholdings, the secret was hereditary, passed from mother to daughter. george searched every floor of the building, but found nothing except exhibit rooms. time passed, and still he did not find what he had come for. more and more women crowded in to see the exhibits. several times he found new-comers examining him oddly; he found he had to avoid the crowds. eventually he went down steps into the basement, though a door marked "keep out." the door was neither locked nor guarded, but there was a remote chance it might lead to the production center for the compound. in the basement george found a mechanical operation underway; at first he took it for another cosmetic exhibit. conveyor belts delivered barrels of flavoring syrup, alcohol and a widely advertised liquid vitamin compound. machines sliced open the containers, dumping the contents into huge vats, from which pipes emptied the mixture into passing rows of bottles. the bottles: suddenly george recognized them and the truth dawned on him, sickeningly. here was the manufacturing center for the compound--but it might just as well have been a barn in connecticut or a store window in manhattan. no man was enslaved by the compound, for the compound did not exist. he was imprisoned by his own sense of guilt, his own fear of being different. george remembered his own fear and guilt: he knew how much a man could be driven to make himself conform to what he thought other men were like. his revenge was as foolish as the sham he wanted to destroy. he should have reasoned that out long ago; he should have realized it was impossible to have immunity to an addictive drug. but, no, george believed what he saw on the television programs. he was victimized as much as any man had ever been. he turned blindly toward the stairway, and from the shadows in the hall the morals squad closed in around him. with a final gesture of defiance, he ripped off the stolen dress and the absurd hat, and stood waiting for the blast from their guns. an old woman, wearing the shoulder insignia of a top director, pushed through the squad and faced him, a revolver in her hand. she was neither angry nor disturbed. her voice, when she spoke, was filled with pity. pity! that was the final indignity. "now you know the truth," she said. "a few men always have to try it; and we usually let them see this room and find out for themselves before--before we close the case." tensely he demanded, "just how much longer do you think--" "we can get away with this? as long as men are human beings. it's easier to make yourself believe a lie if you think everyone else believes it, than to believe a truth you've found out on your own. all of us want more than anything else to be like other people. women have created a world for you with television programs; you grow up observing nothing else; you make yourself fit into the pattern. only a few independent-minded characters have the courage to accept their own immunity; most of them end up here, trying to do something noble for the rest of mankind. but you have one satisfaction, for what it's worth: you've been true to yourself." _true to yourself._ george found a strange comfort in the words, and his fear was gone. he squared his shoulders and faced the mouth of her gun. _true to yourself_: that was something worth dying for. he saw a flicker of emotion in the old woman's eyes. admiration? he couldn't be sure. for at the moment a shot rang out from the end of the corridor; and the top director fell back, nursing a hand suddenly bright with blood. "let him go." it was jenny's voice. she was sheltered by a partly open door at the foot of the stairway. "don't be a fool," the old woman replied. "he's seen too much." "it doesn't matter. who would believe him?" "you're upset. you don't realize--" "he's mine and i want him." "the directorate will give you a refund of the purchase price." "you didn't understand me. i don't want one of your pretty automatons; anybody can buy them for a few shares of stock. i want a man--a real man; i want to belong to him." "he belongs to you; you bought him." "and that's what's wrong. we really belong to each other." the old woman glanced at george and he saw the same flicker of feeling in her eyes. and tears, tears of regret. why? "we have you outnumbered," the old woman said quietly to jenny. "i don't care. i have a gun; i'll use it as long as i'm able." the morals squad raised their weapons. the director shook her head imperiously and they snapped to attention again. "if you take him from us," she called out to jenny, "you'll be outlawed. we'll hunt you down, if we can." "i want him," jenny persisted. "i don't care about the rest of it." the old woman nodded to george. he couldn't believe that she meant it. the director was on her home ground, in her headquarters building, backed by an armed squad of stone-faced amazons. she had no reason to let him go. she walked beside him as he moved down the hall. when they were twenty feet from the guard, she closed her thin hand on his arm; her eyes swam with tears and she whispered, "there truly is a love potion. not this nonsense we bottle here, but something real and very worthwhile. you and this girl have found it. i know that, from the way she talks. she doesn't say anything about ownership, and that's as it should be. as it has to be, for any of us to be happy. hold tight to that all the rest of your life. don't ever believe in words; don't fall for any more love stories; believe what you feel deep inside--what you know yourself to be true. "you men who learn how to break away are our only hope, too. most of us don't see that yet. i do; i know what it used to be like. someday there may be enough men with the stamina to take back the place of dominance that we stole from them. we thought we wanted it; for decades before we had been screaming about women's rights." her thin lips twisted in a sneer and she spat her disgust. "finally we took what we wanted, and it turned to ashes in our hands. we made our men playthings; we made them slaves. and after that they weren't men any more. but what we stole isn't the sort of thing you can hand back on a silver platter; you men have to get enough courage to take it away from us." her grip tightened on his arm. "there's a fire door at the end of the hall; if you push the emergency button, you'll close it. that will give you a five or ten minute start. i can't help you any more...." they were abreast of jenny. she seized jenny's hand and thrust it into his. "beat it, kids; there's a bachelor camp on the north ridge. you can make it. "and from here on in, what he says goes," the old woman added. "don't forget that." "she won't," george answered, supremely self-assured. he took jenny's arm and, turning abruptly, they made their break for freedom. the director managed to remain standing in the middle of the corridor, making a dangerous target of herself so that none of the morals squad could risk a shot at the fugitives. as the fire door clanged shut george looked back. he saw the old woman's lips moving in silent prayer. * * * * * love eternal by h. rider haggard to the rev. philip t. bainbridge vicar of st. thomas' regent street, london you, whose privilege it is by instruction and example to strengthen the weak hands and confirm the feeble knees of many, may perhaps care to read of one whose human love led her from darkness into light and on to the gates of the love eternal. contents i honest john ii isobel kisses godfrey iii the plantagenet lady iv the garden in the square v madame riennes vi experiences vii mr. knight and duty viii the pasteur takes the field ix the pasteur conquers x godfrey becomes a hero xi juliette's farewell xii home xiii the intervening years xiv together xv for ever xvi love and loss xvii india xviii france--and after xix marriage xx orders xxi love eternal love eternal chapter i honest john more than thirty years ago two atoms of the eternal energy sped forth from the heart of it which we call god, and incarnated themselves in the human shapes that were destined to hold them for a while, as vases hold perfumes, or goblets wine, or as sparks of everlasting radium inhabit the bowels of the rock. perhaps these two atoms, or essences, or monads indestructible, did but repeat an adventure, or many, many adventures. perhaps again and again they had proceeded from that home august and imperishable on certain mornings of the days of time, to return thither at noon or nightfall, laden with the fruits of gained experience. so at least one of them seemed to tell the other before all was done and that other came to believe. if so, over what fields did they roam throughout the æons, they who having no end, could have no beginning? not those of this world only, we may be sure. it is so small and there are so many others, millions upon millions of them, and such an infinite variety of knowledge is needed to shape the soul of man, even though it remain as yet imperfect and but a shadow of what it shall be. godfrey knight was born the first, six months later she followed (her name was isobel blake), as though to search for him, or because whither he went, thither she must come, that being her doom and his. their circumstances, or rather those of their parents, were very different but, as it chanced, the houses in which they dwelt stood scarcely three hundred yards apart. between the rivers blackwater and crouch in essex, is a great stretch of land, flat for the most part and rather dreary, which, however, to judge from what they have left us, our ancestors thought of much importance because of its situation, its trade and the corn it grew. so it came about that they built great houses there and reared beautiful abbeys and churches for the welfare of their souls. amongst these, not very far from the coast, is that of monk's acre, still a beautiful fane though they be but few that worship there to-day. the old abbey house adjacent is now the rectory. it has been greatly altered, and the outbuildings are shut up or used as granaries and so forth by arrangement with a neighbouring farmer. still its grey walls contain some fine but rather unfurnished chambers, reputed by the vulgar to be haunted. it was for this reason, so says tradition, that the son of the original grantee of monk's acre abbey, who bought it for a small sum from henry viii at the dissolution of the monasteries, turned the abbey house into a rectory and went himself to dwell in another known as hawk's hall, situate on the bank of the little stream of that name, hawk's creek it is called, which finds its way to the blackwater. parsons, he said, were better fitted to deal with ghosts than laymen, especially if the said laymen had dispossessed the originals of the ghosts of their earthly heritage. the ancient hawk's hall, a timber building of the sort common in essex as some of its premises still show, has long since disappeared. about the beginning of the victorian era a fish-merchant of the name of brown, erected on its site a commodious, comfortable, but particularly hideous mansion of white brick, where he dwelt in affluence in the midst of the large estate that had once belonged to the monks. an attempt to corner herrings, or something of the sort, brought this worthy, or unworthy tradesman to disaster, and the hall was leased to a harwich smack-owner of the name of blake, a shrewd person, whose origin was humble. he had one son named john, of whom he was determined to "make a gentleman." with this view john was sent to a good public school, and to college. but of him nothing could make a gentleman, because true gentility and his nature were far apart. he remained, notwithstanding all his advantages, a cunning, and in his way an able man of business, like his father before him. for the rest, he was big, florid and presentable, with the bluff and hearty manner which sometimes distinguishes a _faux bonhomme_. "honest john" they called him in the neighbourhood, a soubriquet which was of service to him in many ways. suddenly honest john's father died, leaving him well off, though not so rich as he would have liked to be. at first he thought of leaving hawk's hall and going to live at harwich, where most of his business interests were. but, remembering that the occupation of it gave him a certain standing in the county, whereas in harwich he would have been only a superior tradesman, he gave up the idea. it was replaced by another--to marry well. now john blake was not an idealist, nor in any sense romantic; therefore, from marriage he expected little. he did not even ask that his wife should be good-looking, knowing that any aspirations which he had towards beauty could be satisfied otherwise. nor did he seek money, being well aware that he could make this for himself. what he desired were birth and associations. after a little waiting he found exactly what he wanted. a certain lord lynfield from the south of england, who lived in london, and was a director of many boards, took a pheasant-shooting in the neighbourhood of hawk's hall, and with it a house. here he lived more or less during the winter months, going up to town when necessary, to attend his boards. lord lynfield was cursed with several extravagant sons, with whom john blake, who was a good shot, soon became friendly. also he made himself useful by lending one of them a considerable sum of money. when this came to lord lynfield's ears, as honest john was careful that it should, he was disturbed and offered repayment, though as a matter of fact he did not know where to turn for the cash. in his bluffest and heartiest way blake refused to hear of such a thing. "no, no, my lord, let it stand. your son will repay me one day, and if he doesn't, what will a trifle like that matter?" "he certainly shall repay you. but all the same, mr. blake, you have behaved very well and i thank you much," replied his lordship courteously. thus did john blake become an intimate of that aristocratic family. now lord lynfield, who was a widower, had one unmarried daughter. she was an odd and timid little person, with strong religious views, who adored secretly a high-church curate in london. this, indeed, was the reason why she had been brought to essex when her infatuation was discovered by one of her married sisters, who, like the rest of the family, was extremely "low." lady jane was small in body and shrinking and delicate in character, somewhat mouselike indeed. even her eyes were large and timid as are those of a mouse. in her john blake perceived the exact _parti_ whom he desired for a wife. it is not necessary to follow the pitiful story to its inevitable end, one, happily, more common at that time than it is to-day. mr. blake played the earnest, ardent lover, and on all occasions proclaimed his own unworthiness at the top of his loud voice. also he hinted at large settlements to the married sisters, who put the matter before jane very plainly indeed. in the end, after a few words with her father, who pointed out that the provision which could be made for her was but small, and that he would die more happily if he knew her to be comfortably settled in life with a really trustworthy and generous man such as mr. blake had proved himself to be, she gave way, and in due course they were married. in fact, the tragedy was complete, since jane loathed her husband, whose real nature she had read from the beginning, as much as she adored the high-church curate from whom in some terrible hour she parted with broken words. even when he died a few years later, she continued to adore him, so much that her one hope was that she might meet him again in the land where there is no marrying or giving in marriage. but all of this she kept locked in her poor little heart, and meanwhile did her duty by her husband with an untroubled brow, though those mouse-like eyes of hers grew ever more piteous. he, for his part, did not do his duty by her. of one side of his conduct she was careless, being totally indifferent as to whom he admired. others she found it hard to bear. the man was by nature a bully, one who found pleasure in oppressing the helpless, and who loved, in the privacy of his home, to wreak the ill-temper which he was forced to conceal abroad. in company, and especially before any of her people, he treated her with the greatest deference, and would even make loud laudatory remarks concerning her; when they were alone there was a different tale to tell, particularly if she had in any way failed in promoting that social advancement for which he had married her. "what do you suppose i give you all those jewels and fine clothes for, to say nothing of the money you waste in keeping up the house?" he would ask brutally. jane made no answer; silence was her only shield, but her heart burned within her. it is probable, notwithstanding her somewhat exaggerated ideas of duty and wifely obedience, that she would have plucked up her courage and left him, even if she must earn her own living as a sempstress, had it not been for one circumstance. that circumstance was the arrival in the world of her daughter, isobel. in some ways this event did not add to her happiness, if that can be added to which does not exist, for the reason that her husband never forgave her because this child, her only one, was not a boy. nor did he lose any opportunity of telling her this to her face, as though the matter were one over which she had control. in others, however, for the first time in her battered little life, she drank deep of the cup of joy. she loved that infant, and from the first it loved her and her only, while to the father it was indifferent, and at times antagonistic. from the cradle isobel showed herself to be an individual of character. even as a little girl she knew what she wanted and formed her own opinions quite independently of those of others. moreover, in a certain way she was a good-looking child, but of a stamp totally different from that of either of her parents. her eyes were not restless and prominent, like her father's, or dark and plaintive, like her mother's, but large, grey and steady, with long curved lashes. in fact, they were fine, but it was her only beauty, since the brow above them was almost too pronounced for that of a woman, the mouth was a little large, and the nose somewhat irregular. her hair, too, though long and thick, was straight and rather light-coloured. for the rest she was well-ground and vigorous, with a strong, full voice, and as she approached maturity she developed a fine figure. when she was not much more than ten isobel had her first trouble with her father. something had gone wrong with one of his shipping speculations, and as usual, he vented it upon his wife. so cruelly did he speak to her on a household matter for which she was not the least to blame, that the poor woman at last rose and left the room to hide her tears. isobel, however, remained behind, and walking up to her father, who stood with his back to the fire, asked him why he treated her mother thus. "mind your own business, you impertinent brat," he answered. "mummy is my business, and you are--a brute," she exclaimed, clenching her little fists. he lifted his hand as though to strike her, then changed his mind and went away. she had conquered. thenceforward mr. blake was careful not to maltreat his wife in isobel's presence. he complained to her, however, of the child's conduct, which, he said, was due to her bringing up and encouragement, and lady jane in turn, scolded her in her gentle fashion for her "wicked words." isobel listened, then asked, without attempting to defend herself, "were not father's words to you wicked also, mummy? it was not your fault if james forgot to bring round the dog-cart and made him miss the train to london. ought you to be sworn at for that?" "no, dear, but you see, he is my husband, and husbands can say what they wish to their wives." "then i will never have a husband; at least, not one like father," isobel announced with decision. there the matter ended. or rather it did not end, since from that moment isobel began to reflect much on matrimony and other civilized institutions, as to which at last she formed views that were not common among girls of her generation. in short, she took the first step towards radicalism, and entered on the road of rebellion against the existing and acknowledged. during the governess era which followed this scene isobel travelled far and fast along that road. the lady, or rather the ladies, hired by her father, for his wife was allowed no voice in their selection, were of the other known as "determined"; disciplinarians of the first water. for one reason or another they did not stay. isobel, though a quick and able child, very fond of reading moreover, proved unamenable under discipline as understood by those formidable females, and owing to her possession of a curious tenacity of purpose, ended by wearing them down. also they did not care for the atmosphere of the house, which was depressing. one of them once tried to strike isobel. this was when she was nearly thirteen. isobel replied with the schoolroom inkpot. she was an adept at stone-throwing, and other athletic arts. it caught her instructress fair upon her gentle bosom, spoiled her dress, filled her mouth and eyes with ink, and nearly knocked her down. "i shall tell your father to flog you," gasped the lady when she recovered her breath. "i should advise you not," said isobel. "and what is more," she added after reflection, "if you do i shall advise him not to listen to you." then the governess thought better of it and gave notice instead. to be just to john blake he never attempted to resort to violence against his daughter. this may have been because he knew by instinct that it would not be safe to do so or tend to his own comfort. or perhaps, it was for the reason that in his way he was fond of her, looking on her with pride not quite untouched by fear. like all bullies he was a coward at heart, and respected anyone who dared to stand up to him, even although she were but a girl, and his own daughter. after the victim of the inkpot incident departed, threatening actions at law and proclaiming that her pupil would come to a bad end, questions arose as to isobel's future education. evidently the governess experiment had broken down and was not worth repeating. although she trembled at the idea of parting with her only joy and consolation in life, lady jane suggested that she should be sent to school. it was fortunate for her that she did so, since as the idea came from his wife, mr. blake negatived it at once firmly and finally, a decision which she accepted with an outward sigh of resignation, having learned the necessity of guile, and inward delight. indeed, for it that evening she thanked god upon her knees. it may be also that her father did not wish that isobel should go away. lady jane bored him to distraction, since kicking a cushion soon becomes poor sport. so much did she bore him indeed that for this and other reasons he passed most of his time in london or at harwich, in both of which places he had offices where he transacted his shipping business, only spending the week-ends at hawk's hall. it was his custom to bring with him parties of friends, business men as a rule, to whom, for sundry purposes, he wished to appear in the character of a family man and local magnate. isobel, who was quick and vivacious even while she was still a child, helped to make these parties pass off well, whereas without her he felt that they would have been a failure. also she was useful during the shooting season. so it came about that she was kept at home. it was at this juncture that an idea came to mr. blake. a few years before, at the very depth of the terrible agricultural depression of the period, he had purchased at a forced sale by the mortgagees, the entire monk's acre estate, at about £ the acre, which was less than the cost of the buildings that stood upon the land. this, as he explained to all and sundry, he had done at great personal loss in the interest of the tenants and labourers, but as a matter of fact, even at the existing rents, the investment paid him a fair rate of interest, and was one which, as a business man he knew must increase in value when times changed. with the property went the advowson of monk's acre, and it chanced that a year later the living fell vacant through the resignation of the incumbent. mr. blake, now as always seeking popularity, consulted the bishop, consulted the church-wardens, consulted the parishioners, and in the end consulted his own interests by nominating the nephew of a wealthy baronet of his acquaintance whom he was anxious to secure as a director upon the board of a certain company in which he had large holdings. "i have never seen this clerical gentleman and know nothing of his views, or anything about him. but if you recommend him, my dear sir samuel, it is enough for me, since i always judge of a man by his friends. perhaps you will furnish me, or rather my lawyers, with the necessary particulars, and i will see that the matter is put through. now, to come to more important business, as to this board of which i am chairman," &c. the end of it was that sir samuel, flattered by such deference, became a member of the board and sir samuel's nephew became rector of monk's acre. such appointments, like marriages, are made in heaven--at least that seems to be the doctrine of the english church, which is content to act thereon. in this particular instance the results were quite good. the rev. mr. knight, the nephew of the opulent sir samuel, proved to be an excellent and hard-working clergyman. he was low-church, and narrow almost to the point of calvinism, but intensely earnest and conscientious; one who looked upon the world as a place of sin and woe through which we must labour and pass on, a difficult path beset with rocks and thorns, leading to the unmeasured plains of heaven. also he was an educated man who had taken high degrees at college, and really learned in his way. while he was a curate, working very hard in a great seaport town, he had married the daughter of another clergyman of the city, who died in a sudden fashion as the result of an accident, leaving the girl an orphan. she was not pure english as her mother had been a dane, but on both sides her descent was high, as indeed was that of mr. knight himself. this union, contracted on the husband's part largely from motives that might be called charitable, since he had promised his deceased colleague on his death bed to befriend the daughter, was but moderately successful. the wife had the characteristics of her race; largeness and liberality of view, high aspirations for humanity, considerable intelligence, and a certain tendency towards mysticism of the swedenborgian type, qualities that her husband neither shared nor could appreciate. it was perhaps as well, therefore that she died at the birth of her only son, godfrey, three years after her marriage. mr. knight never married again. matrimony was not a state which appealed to his somewhat shrunken nature. although he admitted its necessity to the human race, of it in his heart he did not approve, nor would he ever have undertaken it at all had it not been for a sense of obligation. this attitude, because it made for virtue as he understood it, he set down to virtue, as we are all apt to do, a sacrifice of the things of earth and of the flesh to the things of heaven, and of the spirit. in fact, it was nothing of the sort, but only the outcome of individual physical and mental conditions. towards female society, however hallowed and approved its form, he had no leanings. also the child was a difficulty, so great indeed that at times almost he regretted that a wise providence had not thought fit to take it straight to the joys of heaven with its mother, though afterwards, as the boy's intelligence unfolded, he developed interest in him. this, however, he was careful to keep in check, lest he should fall into the sin of inordinate affection, denounced by st. paul in common with other errors. finally, he found an elderly widow, named parsons, who acted as his housekeeper, and took charge of his son. fortunately for godfrey her sense of parenthood was more pronounced than that of his father, and she, who had lost two children of her own, played the part of mother to him with a warm and loyal heart. from the first she loved him, and he loved her; it was an affection that continued throughout their lives. when godfrey was about nine his father's health broke down. he was still a curate in his seaport town, for good, as goodness is understood, and hard-working as he was, no promotion had come his way. perhaps this was because the bishop and his other superiors, recognising his lack of sympathy and his narrowness of outlook, did not think him a suitable man to put in charge of a parish. at any rate, so it happened. thus arose his appeal to his wealthy and powerful relative, sir samuel, and his final nomination to a country benefice, for in the country the doctor said that he must live--unless he wished to die. convinced though he was of the enormous advantages of heaven over an earth which he knew to be extremely sinful, the rev. mr. knight, like the rest of the world, shrank from the second alternative, which, as he stated in a letter of thanks to sir samuel, however much it might benefit him personally, would cut short his period of terrestrial usefulness to others. so he accepted the rectorship of monk's acre with gratitude. in one way there was not much for which to be grateful, seeing that in those days of depreciated tithes the living was not worth more than £ a year and his own resources, which came from his wife's small fortune, were very limited. it should have been valuable, but the great tithes were alienated with the landed property of the abbey by henry viii, and now belonged to the lay rector, mr. blake, who showed no signs of using them to increase the incumbent's stipend. still there was a good house with an excellent garden, too good indeed, with its beautiful and ancient rooms which a former rector of archæological knowledge and means had in part restored to their pristine state, while for the rest his tastes were simple and his needs few, for, of course, he neither drank wine nor smoked. therefore, as has been said, he took the living with thankfulness and determined to make the best of it on a total income of about £ a year. chapter ii isobel kisses godfrey on the whole monk's acre suited mr. knight fairly well. it is true that he did not like the abbey, as it was still called, of which the associations and architectural beauty made no appeal to him, and thought often with affection of the lodging-house-like abode in which he had dwelt in his southern seaport town amid the victorian surroundings that were suited to his victorian nature. the glorious church, too, irritated him, partly because it was so glorious, and notwithstanding all that the reformation had done to mar it, so suggestive of papistical practice and errors, and partly because the congregation was so scanty in that great expanse of nave and aisle, to say nothing of the chancel and sundry chapels, that they looked like a few wandering sheep left by themselves in a vast and almost emptied fold. nor was this strange, seeing that the total population of the parish was but one hundred and forty-seven souls. of his squire and patron he saw but little. occasionally mr. blake attended church and as lay-rector was accommodated in an ugly oak box in the chancel, where his big body and florid countenance reminded godfrey of farmer johnson's prize polled ox in its stall. these state visits were not however very frequent and depended largely upon the guests who were staying for the week-end at the hall. if mr. blake discovered that these gentlemen were religiously inclined, he went to church. if otherwise, and this was more common, acting on his principle of being all things to all men, he stopped away. personally he did not bother his head about the matter which, in secret, he looked upon as one of the ramifications of the great edifice of british cant. the vast majority of people in his view went to church, not because they believed in anything or wished for instruction or spiritual consolation, but because it looked respectable, which was exactly why he did so himself. even then nearly always he sat alone in the oak box, his visitors generally preferring to occupy the pew in the nave which was frequented by lady jane and isobel. nor did the two often meet socially since their natures were antipathetic. in the bosom of his family mr. blake would refer to mr. knight as the "little parson rat," while in his bosom mr. knight would think of mr. blake as "that bull of bashan." further, after some troubles had arisen about a question of tithe, also about the upkeep of the chancel, blake discovered that beneath his meek exterior the clergyman had a strong will and very clear ideas of the difference between right and wrong, in short, that he was not a man to be trifled with, and less still one of whom he could make a tool. having ascertained these things he left him alone as much as possible. mr. knight very soon became aware first that his income was insufficient to his needs, and secondly, especially now when his health was much improved, that after a busy and hard-working life, time at monk's acre hung heavily upon his hands. the latter trouble to some extent he palliated by beginning the great work that he had planned ever since he became a deacon, for which his undoubted scholarship gave him certain qualifications. its provisional title was, "babylon unveiled" (he would have liked to substitute "the scarlet woman" for babylon) and its apparent object an elaborate attack upon the roman church, which in fact was but a cover for the real onslaught. with the romans, although perhaps he did not know it himself, he had certain sympathies, for instance, in the matter of celibacy. nor did he entirely disapprove of the monastic orders. then he found nothing shocking in the tenets and methods of the jesuits working for what they conceived to be a good end. the real targets of his animosity were his high-church brethren of the church of england, wretches who, whilst retaining all the privileges of the anglican establishment, such as marriage, did not hesitate to adopt almost every error of rome and to make use of her secret power over the souls of men by the practice of confession and otherwise. as this monumental treatise began in the times of the early fathers and was planned to fill ten volumes of at least a hundred thousand words apiece, no one will be surprised to learn that it never reached the stage of publication, or indeed, to be accurate, that it came to final stop somewhere about the time of athanasius. realizing that the work was likely to equal that of gibbon both in length and the years necessary to its completion; also that from it could be expected no immediate pecuniary profits, mr. knight looked round to find some other way of occupying his leisure, and adding to his income. although a reserved person, on a certain sunday when he went to lunch at the hall, in the absence of mr. blake who was spending the week-end somewhere else, he confided his difficulties to lady jane whom he felt to be sympathetic. "the house is so big," he complained. "mrs. parsons" (godfrey's old nurse and his housekeeper) "and one girl cannot even keep it clean. it was most foolish of my predecessor in the living to restore that old refectory and all the southern dormitories upon which i am told he spent no less than £ , of his own money, never reflecting on the expense which his successors must incur merely to keep them in order, since being once there they are liable for charges for dilapidations. it would have been better, after permission obtained, to let them go to ruin." "no doubt, but they are very beautiful, are they not?" remarked lady jane feebly. "beauty is a luxury and, i may add, a snare. it is a mistaken love of beauty and pomp, baits that the evil one well knows how to use, which have led so large a section of our church astray," he replied sipping at his tumbler of water. a silence followed, for lady jane, who from early and tender associations loved high-church practices, did not know what to answer. it was broken by isobel who had been listening to the conversation in her acute way, and now said in her clear, strong voice: "why don't you keep a school, mr. knight? there's lots of room for it in the abbey." "a school!" he said. "a school! i never thought of that. no, it is ridiculous. still, pupils perhaps. out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, &c. well, it is time for me to be going. i will think the matter over after church." mr. knight did think the matter over and after consultation with his housekeeper, mrs. parsons, an advertisement appeared in _the times_ and _the spectator_ inviting parents and guardians to entrust two or three lads to the advertiser's care to receive preliminary education, together with his own son. it proved fruitful, and after an exchange of the "highest references," two little boys appeared at monk's acre, both of them rather delicate in health. this was shortly before the crisis arose as to the future teaching of isobel, when the last governess, wishing her "a better spirit," had bidden her a frigid farewell and shaken the dust of hawk's hall off her feet. one day isobel was sent with a note to the abbey house. she rang the bell but no one came, for mr. knight was out walking with his pupils and mrs. parsons and the parlour-maid were elsewhere. tired of waiting, she wandered round the grey old building in the hope of finding someone to whom she could deliver the letter, and came to the refectory which had a separate entrance. the door was open and she peeped in. at first, after the brilliant sunlight without, she saw nothing except the great emptiness of the place with its splendid oak roof on the repair of which the late incumbent had spent so much, since as is common in monkish buildings, the windows were high and narrow. presently, however, she perceived a little figure seated in the shadow at the end of the long oaken refectory table, that at which the monks had eaten, which still remained where it had stood for hundreds of years, one of the fixtures of the house, and knew it for that of godfrey, mr. knight's son. gliding towards him quietly she saw that he was asleep and stopped to study him. he was a beautiful boy, pale just now for he had recovered but recently from some childish illness. his hair was dark and curling, dark, too, were his eyes, though these she could not see, and the lashes over them, while his hands were long and fine. he looked most lonely and pathetic, there in the big oak chair that had so often accommodated the portly forms of departed abbots, and her warm heart went out towards him. of course isobel knew him, but not very well, for he was a shy lad and her father had never encouraged intimacy between the abbey house and the hall. somehow she had the idea that he was unhappy, for indeed he looked so even in his sleep, though perhaps this was to be accounted for by a paper of unfinished sums before him. sympathy welled up in isobel, who remembered the oppressions of the last governess--her of the inkpot. sympathy, yes, and more than sympathy, for of a sudden she felt as she had never felt before. she loved the little lad as though he were her brother. a strange affinity for him came home to her, although she did not define it thus; it was as if she knew that her spirit was intimate with his, yes, and always had been and always would be intimate. this subtle knowledge went through isobel like fire and shook her. she turned pale, her nostrils expanded, her large eyes opened and she sighed. she did more indeed. drawn by some over-mastering impulse she drew near to godfrey and kissed him gently on the forehead, then glided back again frightened and ashamed at her own act. now he woke up; she felt his dark eyes looking at her. then he spoke in a slow, puzzled voice, saying: "i have had such a funny dream. i dreamed that a spirit came and kissed me. i did not see it, but i think it must have been my mother's." "why?" asked isobel. "because no one else ever cared enough for me to kiss me, except mrs. parsons, and she has given it up now that the other boys are here." "does not your father kiss you?" she asked. "yes, once a week, on sunday evening when i go to bed. because i don't count that." "no, i understand," said isobel, thinking of her own father, then added hastily, "it must be sad not to have a mother." "it is," he answered, "especially when one is ill as i have been, and must lie so long in bed with pains in the head. you know i had an abscess in the ear and it hurt very much." "i didn't know. we heard you were ill and mother wanted to come to see you. father wouldn't let her. he thought it might be measles and he is afraid of catching things." "yes," replied godfrey without surprise. "it wasn't measles, but if it had been you might have caught them, so of course he was right to be careful." "oh! he wasn't thinking of me or mummy, he was thinking of himself," blurted out isobel with the candour of youth. "big, strong men don't catch measles," said godfrey in mild astonishment. "he says they do, and that they are very dangerous when you are grown up. why are you alone here, and what are you working at?" "my father has kept me in as a punishment because i did my sums wrong. the other boys have gone out bird-nesting, but i have to stop here until i get them right. i don't know when that will be," he added with a sigh, "as i hate rule of three and can't do it." "rule of three," said isobel, "i'm quite good at it. you see i like figures. my father says it is the family business instinct. here, let me try. move to the other side of that big chair, there's plenty of room for two, and show it to me." he obeyed with alacrity and soon the brown head and the fair one were bent together over the scrawled sheet. isobel, who had really a budding talent for mathematics, worked out the sum, or rather the sums, without difficulty and then, with guile acquired under the governess régime, made him copy them and destroyed all traces of her own handiwork. "are you as stupid at everything as you are at sums?" she asked when he had finished, rising from the chair and seating herself on the edge of the table. "what a rude thing to ask! of course not," he replied indignantly. "i am very good at latin and history, which i like. but you see father doesn't care much for them. he was a wrangler, you know." "a wrangler! how dreadful. i suppose that is why he argues so much in his sermons. i hate history. it's full of dates and the names of kings who were all bad. i can't make out why people put up with kings," she added reflectively. "because they ought to, 'god bless our gracious queen,' you know." "well, god may bless her but i don't see why i should as she never did anything for me, though father does hope she will make him something one day. i'd like to be a republican with a president as they have in america." "you must be what father calls a wicked radical," said godfrey staring at her, "one of those people who want to disestablish the church." "i daresay," she replied, nodding her head. "that is if you mean making clergymen work like other people, instead of spying and gossiping and playing games as they do about here." godfrey did not pursue the argument, but remarked immorally: "it's a pity you don't come to our class, for then i could do your history papers and you could do my sums." she started, but all she said was: "this would be a good place to learn history. now i must be going. don't forget to give the note. i shall have to say that i waited a long while before i found anyone. goodbye, godfrey." "goodbye, isobel," he answered, but she was gone. "i hope he did dream that it was his mother who kissed him," isobel reflected to herself, for now the full enormity of her performance came home to her. young as she was, a mere child with no knowledge of the great animating forces of life and of the mysteries behind them, she wondered why she had done this thing; what it was that forced her to do it. for she knew well that something had forced her, something outside of herself, as she understood herself. it was as though another entity that was in her and yet not herself had taken possession of her and made her act as uninfluenced, she never would have acted. thus she pondered in her calm fashion, then, being able to make nothing of the business, shrugged her shoulders and let it go by. after all it mattered nothing since godfrey had dreamed that the ghost of his mother had visited him and would not suspect her of being that ghost, and she was certain that never would she do such a thing again. the trouble was that she had done it once and that the deed signified some change in her which her childish mind could not understand. on reaching the hall, or rather shortly afterwards, she saw her father who was waiting for the carriage in which to go to the station to meet some particularly important week-end guest. he asked if she had brought any answer to his note to mr. knight, and she told him that she had left it in the schoolroom, as she called the refectory, because he was out. "i hope he will get it," grumbled mr. blake. "one of my friends who is coming down to-night thinks he understands architecture and i want the parson to show him over the abbey house. indeed that's why he has come, for you see he is an american who thinks a lot of such old things." "well, it is beautiful, isn't it, father?" she said. "even i felt that it would be easy to learn in that big old room with a roof like that of a church." an idea struck him. "would you like to go to school there, isobel?" "i think so, father, as i must go to school somewhere and i hate those horrible governesses." "well," he replied, "you couldn't throw inkpots at the holy knight, as you did at miss hook. lord! what a rage she was in," he added with a chuckle. "i had to pay her £ for a new dress. but it was better to do that than to risk a county court action." then the carriage came and he departed. the upshot of it all was that isobel became another of mr. knight's pupils. when mr. blake suggested the arrangement to his wife, she raised certain objections, among them that associating with these little lads might make a tomboy of the girl, adding that she had been taught with children of her own sex. he retorted in his rough marital fashion, that if it made something different of isobel to what she, the mother, was, he would be glad. indeed, as usual, lady jane's opposition settled the matter. now for the next few years of isobel's life there is little to be told. mr. knight was an able man and a good teacher, and being a clever girl she learned a great deal from him, especially in the way of mathematics, for which, as has been said, she had a natural leaning. indeed very soon she outstripped godfrey and the other lads in this and sundry other branches of study, sitting at a table by herself on what once had been the dais of the old hall. in the intervals of lessons, however, it was their custom to take walks together and then it was that she always found herself at the side of godfrey. indeed they became inseparable, at any rate in mind. a strange and most uncommon intimacy existed between these young creatures, almost might it have been called a friendship of the spirit. yet, and this was the curious part of it, they were dissimilar in almost everything that goes to make up a human being. even in childhood there was scarcely a subject on which they thought alike, scarcely a point upon which they would not argue. godfrey was fond of poetry; it bored isobel. his tendencies were towards religion though of a very different type from that preached and practised by his father; hers were anti-religious. in fact she would have been inclined to endorse the saying of that other schoolgirl who defined faith as "the art of believing those things which we know to be untrue," while to him on the other hand they were profoundly true, though often enough not in the way that they are generally accepted. had he possessed any powers of definition at that age, probably he would have described our accepted beliefs as shadows of the truth, distorted and fantastically shaped, like those thrown by changeful, ragged clouds behind which the eternal sun is shining, shadows that vary in length and character according to the hour and weather of the mortal day. isobel for her part took little heed of shadows. her clear, scientific stamp of mind searched for ascertainable facts, and on these she built up her philosophy of life and of the death that ends it. of course all such contradictions may often be found in a single mind which believes at one time and rejects at another and sees two, or twenty sides of everything with a painful and bewildering clearness. such a character is apt to end in profound dissatisfaction with the self from which it cannot be free. much more then would one have imagined that these two must have been dissatisfied with each other and sought the opportunities of escape which were open to them. but it was not so in the least. they argued and contradicted until they had nothing more to say, and then lapsed into long periods of weary but good-natured silence. in a sense each completed each by the addition of its opposite, as the darkness completes the light, thus making the round of the perfect day. as yet this deep affection and remarkable oneness showed no signs of the end to which obviously it was drifting. that kiss which the girl had given to the boy was pure sisterly, or one might almost say, motherly, and indeed this quality inspired their relationship for much longer than might have been expected. so much was this so that no one connected with them on either side ever had the slightest suspicion that they cared for each other in any way except as friends and fellow pupils. so the years went by till the pair were seventeen, young man and young woman, though still called boy and girl. they were good-looking in their respective ways though yet unformed; tall and straight, too, both of them, but singularly dissimilar in appearance as well as in mind. godfrey was dark, pale and thoughtful-faced. isobel was fair, vivacious, open-natured, amusing, and given to saying the first thing that came to her tongue. she had few reservations; her thoughts might be read in her large grey eyes before they were heard from her lips, which generally was not long afterwards. also she was very able. she read and understood the papers and followed all the movements of the day with a lively interest, especially if these had to do with national affairs or with women and their status. business, too, came naturally to her, so much so that her father would consult her about his undertakings, that is, about those of them which were absolutely above board and beyond suspicion of sharp dealing. the others he was far too wise to bring within her ken, knowing exactly what he would have heard from her upon the subject. and yet notwithstanding all his care she suspected him, by instinct, not by knowledge. for his part he was proud of her and would listen with pleasure when, still a mere child, she engaged his guests boldly in argument, for instance a bishop or a dean on theology, or a statesman on current politics. already he had formed great plans for her future; she was to marry a peer who took an active part in things, or at any rate a leading politician, and to become a power in the land. but of this, too, wisely he said nothing to isobel, for the time had not yet come. during these years things had prospered exceedingly with john blake who was now a very rich man with ships owned, or partly owned by him on every sea. on several occasions he had been asked to stand for parliament and declined the honour. he knew himself to be no speaker, and was sure also that he could not attend both to the affairs of the country and to those of his ever-spreading business. so he took another course and began to support the conservative party, which he selected as the safest, by means of large subscriptions. he did more, he bought a baronetcy, for only thus can the transaction be described. when a general election was drawing near, one evening after dinner at hawk's hall he had a purely business conversation with a political whip who, perhaps not without motive, had been complaining to him of the depleted state of the party chest. "well," said mr. blake, "you know that my principles are yours and that i should like to help your, or rather our cause. money is tight with me just now and the outlook is very bad in my trade, but i'm a man who always backs his fancy; in short, would £ , be of use?" the whip intimated that it would be of the greatest use. "of course," continued mr. blake, "i presume that the usual acknowledgment would follow?" "what acknowledgment?" asked the whip sipping his port wearily, for such negotiations were no new thing to him. "i mean, how do you spell it?" "with a p," said mr. blake boldly, acting on his usual principle of asking for more than he hoped to get. the whip contemplated him through his eyeglass with a mild and interested stare. "out of the question, my dear fellow," he said. "that box is full and locked, and there's a long outside list waiting as well. perhaps you mean with a k. you know money isn't everything, as some of you gentlemen seem to think, and if it were, you would have said fifty instead of fifteen." "k be damned!" replied mr. blake. "i'm not a mayor or an actor-manager. let's say b, that stands for beginning as well as baronet; also it comes before p, doesn't it?" "well, let's see. you haven't a son, have you? then perhaps it might be managed," replied the whip with gentle but pointed insolence, for mr. blake annoyed him. "i'll make inquiries, and now, shall we join the ladies? i want to continue my conversation with your daughter about the corruption which some enemy, taking advantage of her innocence, has persuaded her exists in the conservative party. she is a clever young lady and makes out a good case against us, though i am sure i do not know whence she got her information. not from you, i suppose, sir john--i beg your pardon, mr. blake." so the matter was settled, as both of them knew it would be when they left the room. the cash found its way into some nebulous account that nobody could have identified with any party, and in the dissolution honours, john blake, esq., j.p., was transformed into sir john blake, bart.; information that left tens of thousands of the students of the list mildly marvelling why. as the same wonder struck them regarding the vast majority of the names which appeared therein, this, however, did not matter. they presumed, good, easy souls, that john blake, esq., j.p., and the rest were patriots who for long years had been working for the good of their country, and that what they had done in secret had been discovered in high places and was now proclaimed from the housetops. lady jane was inclined to share this view. she knew that a great deal of her husband's money went into mysterious channels of which she was unable to trace the ends, and concluded in her victorian-wife kind of fashion, or at any rate hoped, that it was spent in alleviating the distress of the "submerged tenth" which at that time was much in evidence. hence no doubt the gracious recognition that had come to him. john blake himself, who paid over the cash, naturally had no such delusions, and unfortunately in that moment of exultation, when he contemplated his own name adorning the lists in every newspaper, let out the truth at breakfast at which isobel was his sole companion. for by this time lady jane had grown too delicate to come down early. "well, you've got a baronet for a father now, my girl"--to be accurate he called it a "bart."--he said puffing himself out like a great toad before the fire, as he threw down the _daily news_ in which his name was icily ignored in a spiteful leaderette about the honours list, upon the top of _the times_, _the standard_, and _the morning post_. "oh!" said isobel in an interested voice and paused. "it's wonderful what money can do," went on her father, who was inclined for a discussion, and saw no other way of opening up the subject. "certain qualifications of which it does not become me to speak, and a good subscription to the party funds, and there you are with bart. instead of esq. after your name and sir before it. i wonder when i shall get the patent? you know baronets do not receive the accolade." "don't they?" commented isobel. "well, that saves the queen some trouble of which she must be glad as she does not get the subscription. i know all about the accolade," she added; "for godfrey has told me. only the other day he was showing me in the abbey church where the warriors who were to receive it, knelt all night before the altar. but they didn't give subscriptions, they prayed and afterwards took a cold bath." "times are changed," he answered. "yes, of course. i can't see _you_ kneeling all night with a white robe on, father, in prayer before an altar. but tell me, would they have made you a baronet if you hadn't given the subscription?" sir john chuckled till his great form shook--he had grown very stout of late years. "i think you are sharp enough to answer that question for yourself. i have observed, isobel, that you know as much of the world as most young girls of your age." "so you bought the thing," she exclaimed with a flash of her grey eyes. "i thought that honours were given because they were earned." "did you?" said sir john, chuckling again. "well, now you know better. look here, isobel, don't be a fool. honours, or most of them, like other things, are for those who can pay for them in this way or that. nobody bothers how they come so long as they _do_ come. now, listen. unfortunately, as a girl, you can't inherit this title. but it doesn't matter much, since it will be easy for you to get one for yourself." isobel turned red and uttered an exclamation, but enjoining silence on her with a wave of his fat hand, her father went on: "i haven't done so badly, my dear, considering my chances. i don't mind telling you that i am a rich man now, indeed a very rich man as things go, and i shall be much richer, for nothing pays like ships, especially if you man them with foreign crews. also i am a bart," and he pointed to the pile of newspapers on the floor, "and if my party gets in again, before long i shall be a lord, which would make you an honourable. anyway, my girl, although you ain't exactly a beauty," here he considered her with a critical eye, "you'll make a fine figure of a woman and with your money, you should be able to get any husband you like. what's more," and he banged his fist upon the table, "i expect you to do it; that's your part of the family business. do you understand?" "i understand, father, that you expect me to get any husband i like. well, i'll promise that." "i think you ought to come into the office, you are so smart," replied sir john with sarcasm. "but don't you try it on me, for i'm smarter. you know very well that i mean any husband _i_ like, when i say 'any husband you like.' now do you understand?" "yes," replied isobel icily. "i understand that you want to buy me a husband as you have bought a title. well, titles and husbands are alike in one thing; once taken you can never be rid of them day or night. so i'll say at once, to save trouble afterwards, that i would rather earn my living as a farm girl, and as for your money, father, you can do what you wish with it." then looking him straight in the eyes, she turned and left the room. "an odd child!" thought sir john to himself as he stared after her. "anyway, she has got spirit and no doubt will come all right in time when she learns what's what." chapter iii the plantagenet lady in the course of these years of adolescence, godfrey knight had developed into a rather unusual stamp of youth. in some ways he was clever, for instance at the classics and history which he had always liked; in others and especially where figures were concerned, he was stupid, or as his father called him, idle. in company he was apt to be shy and dull, unless some subject interested him, when to the astonishment of those present, he would hold forth and show knowledge and powers of reflection beyond his years. by nature he was intensely proud; the one thing he never forgot was a rebuff, or forgave, was an insult. sir john blake soon found this out, and not liking the lad, whose character was antagonistic to his own in every way, never lost an opportunity of what he called "putting him in his place," perhaps because something warned him that this awkward, handsome boy would become a stumbling-block to his successful feet. godfrey and isobel were both great readers. nor did they lack for books, for as it chanced there was a good library at hawk's hall, which had been formed by the previous owner and taken over like the pictures, when mr. blake bought the house. also it was added to constantly, as an order was given to a large london bookseller to supply all the important new works that came out. although he never opened a book himself, sir john liked to appear intellectual by displaying them about the rooms for the benefit of his visitors. these publications isobel read and lent to godfrey; indeed they perused a great deal which young people generally are supposed to leave alone, and this in various schools of thought, including those that are known as "free." it was seldom that such studies led to unanimity between them, but to argument, which sharpened their intellects, they did lead, followed invariably by a charitable agreement to differ. about the time of the addition of the name of john blake to the roll of british chivalry, a book on mars came their way--it was one by a speculative astronomer which suggests that the red planet is the home of reasoning beings akin to humanity. isobel read it and was not impressed. indeed, in the vigorous language of youth, she opined that it was all "made-up rot." godfrey read it also and came to quite a different conclusion. the idea fired him and opened a wide door in his imagination, a quality with which he was well provided. he stared at mars through the large hall telescope, and saw, or imagined that he saw the canals, also the snow-caps and the red herbage. isobel stared too and saw, or swore that she saw--nothing at all--after which they argued until their throats were dry. "it's all nonsense," said isobel. "if only you'll study the rocks and biology, and darwin's 'origin of species,' and lots of other things, you will see how man came to develop on this planet. he is just an accident of nature, that's all." "and why shouldn't there be an accident of nature on mars and elsewhere?" queried godfrey. "perhaps, but if so, it is quite another accident and has nothing to do with us." "i don't know," he answered. "sometimes," here his voice became dreamy as it had a way of doing, "i think that we pass on, all of us, from star to star. at least i know i often feel as if i had done so." "you mean from planet to planet, godfrey; stars are hot places, you know. you should not swallow all that theosophical bosh which is based on nothing." "there's the bible," went on godfrey, "which tells us the same thing, that we live eternally----" "then we must always have lived, since eternity is a circle." "why not, isobel? that is what i was trying to say. well, if we live eternally, we must live somewhere, perhaps in those planets, or others, which it would be a waste to keep empty." "i daresay--though nature does not mind waste, or what seems to be waste. but why should you think of living eternally at all? many people live a great deal too long as it is, and it is horrible to believe that they go on for ever." "you see they might grow to something splendid in the end, isobel. you must not judge them by what they are now." "oh! i know, the caterpillar and the butterfly, and all the rest of it." "the bible"--continued godfrey imperturbably--when she cut him short. "well, what of the bible? how do you know that it is true?" "because i do know it, though the truth in it may be different for everyone. what is more, i know that one day you will agree with me." she looked at him curiously in the flashing way that was peculiar to her, for something in his tone and manner impressed her. "perhaps. i hope so, godfrey, but at present i often feel as though i believed in nothing, except that i am i and you are you, and my father is--there he's calling me. goodbye," and she was gone. this particular conversation, one of many, had, as it happened, important results on the lives of these two young creatures. isobel, in whom the love of truth, however ugly it might be and however destructive of hope, faith, charity and all the virtues, was a burning, inbred passion, took to the secret study of theology in order to find out why godfrey was so convinced as to the teachings of the bible. she was not old or mellowed enough to understand that the real reason must be discovered, not in the letter but in the spirit, that is in the esoteric meaning of the sayings as to receiving the kingdom of heaven like a child and the necessity of being born again. therefore with a fierce intensity, thrusting aside the spirit and its promptings which perhaps are shadows of the only real truths, she wrestled with the letter. she read the divines, also much of the higher criticism, the lives of saints, the sacred books themselves and many other things, only to arise bewildered, and to a great extent unbelieving. "why should i believe what i cannot prove?" she cried in her heart, and once with her lips to godfrey. he made her a very wise answer, although at the moment it did not strike either of them in that light. "when you tell me of anything that you can really prove, i will show you why," he said. to this he added a suggestion that was most unwise, namely, that she should consult his father. now mr. knight was, it is true, a skilled theologian of a certain, narrow school and learned in his way. it is probable, however, that in all the wide world it would have been difficult to find any man less sympathetic to a mind like isobel's or more likely to antagonize her eager and budding intelligence. every doubt he met with intolerant denial; every argument with offensive contradiction; every query with references to texts. finally, he lost his temper, for be it acknowledged, that this girl was persistent, far from humble, and in a way as dogmatic as himself. he told her that she was not a christian, and in her wrath she agreed with him. he said that she had no right to be in church. she replied that if this were so she would not come and, her father being indifferent upon the point (lady jane did not count in such matters), ceased her attendance. it was the old story of a strait-minded bigot forcing a large-minded doubter out of the fold that ought to have been wide enough for both of them. moreover, this difference of opinion on matters of public and spiritual interest ended in a private and mundane animosity. mr. knight could never forgive a pupil of his own, whose ability he recognized, who dared to question his pontifical announcements. to him the matter was personal rather than one of religious truth, for there are certain minds in whose crucibles everything is resolved individually, and his was one of them. he was the largest matters through his own special and highly-magnifying spectacles. so, to be brief, they quarrelled once and for all, and thenceforward never attempted to conceal their cordial dislike of each other. such was one result of this unlucky discussion as to the exact conditions of the planet mars, god of war. another was that godfrey developed a strong interest in the study of the heavenly bodies and when some domestic debate arose as to his future career, announced with mild firmness that he intended to be an astronomer. his father, to whom the heavenly bodies were less than the dust beneath his human feet and who believed in his heart that they had been created, every one of them, to give a certain amount of light to the inhabitants of this world when there was no moon, was furious in his arctic fashion, especially as he was aware that with a few distinguished exceptions, these hosts of heaven did not reward their votaries with either wealth or honour. "i intend you for my own profession, the church," he said bluntly. "if you choose to star-gaze in the intervals of your religious duties, it is no affair of mine. but please understand, godfrey, that either you enter the church or i wash my hands of you. in that event you may seek your living in any way you like." godfrey remonstrated meekly to the effect that he had not made up his mind as to his fitness for holy orders or his wish to undertake them. "you mean," replied his father, "that you have been infected by that pernicious girl, isobel. well, at any rate, i will remove you from her evil influence. i am glad to say that owing to the fact that my little school here has prospered, i am in a position to do this. i will send you for a year to a worthy swiss pastor whom i met as a delegate to the recent evangelical congress, to learn french. he told me he desired an english pupil to be instructed in that tongue and general knowledge. i will write to him at once. i hope that in new surroundings you will forget all these wild ideas and, after your course at college, settle down to be a good and useful man in the walk of life to which you are so clearly called." godfrey, who on such occasions knew how to be silent, made no answer, although the attack upon isobel provoked him sorely. in his heart indeed he reflected that a year's separation from his parent would not be difficult to bear, especially beneath the shadow of the swiss mountains which secretly he longed to climb. also he really wished to acquire french, being a lad with some desire for knowledge and appreciation of its advantages. so he looked humble merely and took the first opportunity to slip from the presence of the fierce little man with small eyes, straight, sandy hair and a slit where his lips should be, through whose agency, although it was hard to believe it, he had appeared in this disagreeable and yet most interesting world. in point of fact he had an assignation, of an innocent sort. of course it was with the "pernicious" isobel and the place appointed was the beautiful old abbey church. here they knew that they would be undisturbed, as mr. knight was to sleep at a county town twenty miles away, where on the following morning he had business as the examiner of a local grammar school, and must leave at once to catch his train. so, when watching from an upper window, he had seen the gig well on the road, godfrey departed to his tryst. arriving in the dim and beauteous old fane, the first thing he saw was isobel standing alone in the chancel, right in the heart of a shaft of light that fell on her through the rich-coloured glass of the great west window, for now it was late in the afternoon. she wore a very unusual white garment that became her well, but had no hat on her head. perhaps this was because she had taken the fancy to do her plentiful fair hair in the old plantagenet fashion, that is in two horns, which, with much ingenuity she had copied more or less correctly from the brass of an ancient, noble lady, whereof the two intended to take an impression. also she had imitated some of the other peculiarities of that picturesque costume, including the long, hanging sleeves. in short, she wore a fancy dress which she proposed to use afterwards at a dance, and one of the objects of the rubbing they were about to make, was that she might study the details more carefully. at least, that was her object. godfrey's was to obtain an impression of the crabbed inscription at the foot of the effigy. there she stood, tall and imposing, her arms folded on her young breast, the painted lights striking full on her broad, intellectual forehead and large grey eyes, shining too in a patch of crimson above her heart. lost in thought and perfectly still, she looked strange thus, almost unearthly, so much so that the impressionable and imaginative godfrey, seeing her suddenly from the shadow, halted, startled and almost frightened. what did she resemble? what might she not be? he queried to himself. his quick mind suggested an answer. the ghost of some lady dead ages since, killed, for there was the patch of blood upon her bosom, standing above the tomb wherein her bones crumbled, and dreaming of someone from whom she had been divorced by doom and violence. he sickened a little at the thought; some dread fell upon him like a shadow of fate's uplifted and pointed finger, stopping his breath and causing his knees to loosen. in a moment it was gone, to be replaced by another that was nearer and more natural. he was to be sent away for a year, and this meant that he would not see isobel for a year. it would be a very long year in which he did not see isobel. he had forgotten that when his father told him that he was to go to switzerland. now the fact was painfully present. he came on up the long nave and isobel, awakening, saw him. "you are late," she said in a softer voice than was usual to her. "well, i don't mind, for i have been dreaming. i think i went to sleep upon my feet. i dreamed," she added, pointing to the brass, "that i was that lady and--oh! all sorts of things. well, she had her day no doubt, and i mean to have mine before i am as dead and forgotten as she is. only i would like to be buried here. i'll be cremated and have my ashes put under that stone; they won't hurt her." "don't talk like that," he said with a little shiver, for her words jarred upon him. "why not? it is as well to face things. look at all these monuments about us, and inscriptions, a lot of them to young people, though now it doesn't matter if they were old or young. gone, every one of them and quite forgotten, though some were great folk in their time. gone utterly and for always, nothing left, except perhaps descendants in a labourer's cottage here and there who never even heard of them." "i don't believe it," he said almost passionately, i believe that they are living for ever and ever, perhaps as you and i, perhaps elsewhere." "i wish i could," she answered, smiling, "for then my dream might have been true, and you might have been that knight whose brass is lost," and she pointed to an empty matrix alongside that of the great plantagenet lady. godfrey glanced at the inscription which was left when the cromwellians tore up the brass. "he was her husband," he said, translating, "who died on the field of crecy in ." "oh!" exclaimed isobel, and was silent. meanwhile godfrey, quite undisturbed, was spelling out the inscription beneath the figure of the knight's wife, and remarked presently: "she seems to have died a year before him. yes, just after marriage, the monkish latin says, and--what is it? oh! i see, '_in sanguine_,' that is, in blood, whatever that may mean. perhaps she was murdered. i say, isobel, i wish you would copy someone else's dress for your party." "nonsense," she answered. "i think its awfully interesting. i wonder what happened to her." "i don't know. i can't remember anything in the old history, and it would be almost impossible to find out. there are no coats of arms, and what is more, no surname is given in either inscription. the one says, 'pray for the soul of edmundus, knight, husband of phillippa, and the other, 'pray for the soul of phillippa, dame, wife of edmundus.' it looks as though the surnames had been left out on purpose, perhaps because of some queer story about the pair which their relations wished to be forgotten." "then why do they say that one died in blood and the other on the field of crecy?" godfrey shook his head because he did not know. nor indeed was he ever able to find out. that secret was lost hundreds of years ago. then the conversation died away and they got to their work. at length the rubbing, as it is termed technically, was finished and the two prepared to depart out of the gloom of the great church which had gathered about them as the evening closed in. solitary and small they looked in it surrounded by all those mementoes of the dead, enveloped as it were in the very atmosphere of death. who has not felt that atmosphere standing alone at nightfall in one of our ancient english churches that embody in baptism, marriage and burial the hopes, the desires, and the fears of unnumbered generations? for remember, that in a majority of instances, long before the cross rose above these sites, they had been the sacred places of faith after faith. sun-worshippers, nature-worshippers, druids, votaries of jove and venus, servants of odin, thor and friga, early christians who were half one thing and half another, all have here bowed their brows to earth in adoration of god as they understood him, and in these hallowed spots lies mingled the dust of every one of them. so godfrey felt in that hour and the same influences impinged upon and affected even the girl's bold, denying soul. she acknowledged them to herself, and after a woman's way, turned and almost fiercely laid the blame upon her companion. "you have infected me with your silly superstitions," she said, stamping her foot as they shut and locked the door of the church. "i feel afraid of something, i don't know what, and i was never afraid of anything before." "what superstitions?" he asked, apologetically. "i don't remember mentioning any." "there is no need for you to mention them, they ooze out of you. as though i could not read your mind! there's no need for you to talk to tell me what you are thinking of, death--and separations which are as bad, and unknown things to come, and all sorts of horrors." "that's odd," he remarked, still without emotion, for he was used to these attacks from isobel which, as he knew, when she was upset, always meant anything but what she said, "for as a matter of fact i was thinking of a separation. i am going away, isobel, or rather, my father is sending me away." he turned, and pointing to the stormy western sky where the day died in splendour, added simply in the poetic imagery that so often springs to the lips of youth: "there sets our sun; at least it is the last we shall look upon together for a whole year. you go to london to-morrow, don't you? before you come back i shall be gone." "gone! why? where? oh! what's the use of asking? i knew something of the sort was coming. i felt it in that horrible old church. and after all, why should i mind? what does it matter if you go away for a year or ten years--except that you are the only friend i have--especially as no doubt you are glad to get out of this dreadful hole? don't stand there looking at me like a moon-calf, whatever that may be, but tell me what you mean, or i'll, i'll----" and she stopped. then he told her--well, not quite everything, for he omitted his father's disparaging remarks about herself. she listened in her intent fashion, and filled in the gaps without difficulty. "i see," she said. "your father thinks that i am corrupting you about religion, as though anybody could corrupt you when you have got an idea into your stupid head; at least, on those subjects. oh! i hate him, worse even than i do my own, worse than you do yourself." godfrey, thinking aloud, began to quote the fourth commandment. she cut him short: "honour my father!" she said. "why should we honour our fathers unless they are worthy of honour? what have we to thank them for?" "life," suggested godfrey. "why? you believe that life comes from god, and so do i in a way. if so, what has a father to do with it who is just a father and no more? with mothers perhaps it is different, but you see i love my mother and he treats her like--like a dog, or worse," and her grey eyes filled with tears. "however, it is your father we are talking of, and there is no commandment telling me to honour _him_. i say i hate him and he hates me, and that's why he is sending you away. well, i hope you won't find anyone to contaminate you in switzerland." "oh! isobel, isobel," he broke out, "don't be so bitter, especially as it is of no use. besides after all you have got everything that a girl can have--money and position and looks----" "looks!" she exclaimed, seizing on the last word, "when you know i am as ugly as a toad." he stared at her. "i don't know it; i think you beautiful." "wait till you see someone else and you will change your mind," she snapped, flushing. "and you are going to come out," he went on hastily. "yes, at a fancy ball in this plantagenet lady's dress, but i almost wish i was--to go out instead--like her." "and i daresay you will soon be married," he blurted, losing his head for she bewildered him. "married! oh! you idiot. do you know what marriage means--to a woman? married! i can bear no more of this. goodbye," and turning she walked, or rather ran into the darkness, leaving him amazed and alone. this was the last time that godfrey spoke with isobel for a long while. next morning he received a note addressed in her clear and peculiar writing, which from the angular formation of the letters and their regularity, at a distance looked not unlike a sheet of figures. it was short and ran:-- dear old godfrey,--don't be vexed with me because i was so cross this evening. something in that old church upset me, and you know i have a dreadful temper. i didn't mean anything i said. i daresay it is a good thing you should go away and see the world instead of sticking in this horrid place. leave your address with mother parsons, and i will write to you; but mind you answer my letters or i shan't write any more. good-bye, old boy. your affectionate isobel. who is always thinking of you. p.s.--i'll get this to the abbey with your milk. can't leave it myself, as we are starting for town at half-past seven to-morrow morning to catch the early train. chapter iv the garden in the square as it chanced godfrey did see isobel once more before he left england. it was arranged that he was to leave charing cross for switzerland early on a certain wednesday morning. late on the tuesday afternoon, mr. knight brought the lad to the charing cross hotel. there, having taken his ticket and made all other necessary arrangements, he left him, returning himself to essex by the evening train. their farewell was somewhat disconcerting, at any rate to the mind of the youth. his father retired with him to his room at the top of the hotel, and there administered a carefully prepared lecture which touched upon every point of the earnest christian's duty, ending up with admonitions on the dangers of the world, the flesh, and the devil, and a strong caution against frivolous, unbelieving and evil-disposed persons, especially such as were young, good-looking and wore petticoats. "woman," said mr. knight, "is the great danger of man. she is the devil's favourite bait, at least to some natures of which i fear yours is one, though that is strange, as i may say that on the whole i have always disliked the sex, and i married for other reasons than those which are supposed to be common. woman," he went on, warming to his topic, "although allowed upon the world as a necessary evil, is a painted snare, full of [he meant baited with] guile. you will remember that the first woman, in her wicked desire to make him as bad as herself, tempted adam until he ate the apple, no doubt under threats of estranging herself from him if he did not, and all the results that came from her iniquity, one of which is that men have had to work hard ever since." here godfrey reflected that there was someone behind who tempted the woman, also that it is better to work than to sit in a garden in eternal idleness, and lastly, that a desire for knowledge is natural and praiseworthy. had isobel been in his place she would have advanced these arguments, probably in vigorous and pointed language, but, having learnt something of adam's lesson, he was wiser and held his tongue. "there is this peculiarity about women," continued his parent, "which i beg you always to remember. it is that when you think she is doing what you want and that she loves you, you are doing what she wants and really she only loves herself. therefore you must never pay attention to her soft words, and especially beware of her tears which are her strongest weapon given to her by the father of deceit to enable her to make fools of men. do you understand?" "yes," said godfrey, with hesitation, "but----" this burst from him involuntarily, "but, father, if you have always avoided women, as you say, how do you know all this about them?" for a moment mr. knight was staggered. then he rose to the occasion. "i know it, godfrey, by observing the effect of their arts on others, as i have done frequently." a picture rose in godfrey's mind of his father with his eye to keyholes, or peering through fences with wide-open ears, but wisely he did not pursue the subject. "my son," continued and ended mr. knight, "i have watched you closely and i am sure that your weakness lies this way. woman is and always will be the sin that doth so easily beset you. even as a child you loved mrs. parsons much more than you did me, because, although old and unsightly, she is still female. when you left your home this morning for the first time, who was it that you grieved to part from? not your companions, the other boys, but mrs. parsons again, whom i found you embracing in that foolish fashion, yes, and mingling your tears with hers, of which at your age you should be ashamed. indeed i believe that you feel being separated from that garrulous person, who is but a servant, more than you do from me, your father." here he waited for godfrey's contradiction, but as none came, went on with added acerbity: "of that _anguis in herba_, that viper, isobel, who turns the pure milk of the word to poison and bites the hand that fed her, i will say nothing, nothing," (here godfrey reflected that isobel would have been better described as a lion in the path rather than as a snake in the grass) "except that i rejoice that you are to be separated from her, and i strictly forbid any communication between you and her, bold, godless and revolutionary as she is. i had rather see any man for whose welfare i cared, married to a virtuous and pious-minded housemaid, than to this young lady, as she is called, with all her wealth and position, who would eat out his soul with her acid unbelief and turn the world upside down to satisfy her fancy. now i must go or i shall miss my train. here is a present for you, of which i direct you to read a chapter every day," and he produced out of a brown paper parcel a large french bible. "it will both do you good and improve your knowledge of the french tongue. i especially commend your attention to certain verses in proverbs dealing with the dangers on which i have touched, that i have marked with a blue pencil. do you hear?" "yes, father. solomon wrote proverbs, didn't he?" "it is believed so and his wide--experience--gives a special value to his counsel. you will write to me once a week, and when you have had your dinner get to bed at once. on no account are you to go out into the streets. goodbye." then he planted a frosty kiss upon godfrey's brow and departed, leaving that youth full of reflections, but to tell the truth, somewhat relieved. shortly afterwards godfrey descended to the coffee-room and ate his dinner. here it was that the universal temptress against whom he had been warned so urgently, put in a first appearance in the person of a pleasant and elderly lady who was seated alongside of him. noting this good-looking and lonely lad, she began to talk to him, and being a woman of the world, soon knew all about him, his name, who he was, whither he was going, etc. when she found out that it was to lucerne, or rather its immediate neighbourhood, she grew quite interested, since, as it happened, she--her name was miss ogilvy--had a house there where she was accustomed to spend most of the year. indeed, she was returning by the same train that godfrey was to take on the following morning. "we shall be travelling companions," she said when she had explained all this. "i am afraid not," he answered, glancing at the many evidences of wealth upon her person. "you see," he added colouring, "i am going second and have to spend as little as possible. indeed i have brought some food with me in a basket so that i shall not need to buy any meals at the stations." miss ogilvy was touched, but laughed the matter off in her charming way, saying that he would have to be careful that the custom-house officers did not think he was smuggling something in his basket, and as she knew them all must look to her to help him if he got into difficulties on the journey. then she went on chatting and drawing him out, and what is more, made him take several glasses of some delicious white wine she was drinking. it was not very strong wine, but except for a little small beer, practically godfrey had been brought up as a teetotaller for economy's sake, and it went to his head. he became rather effusive; he told her of sir john blake about whom she seemed to know everything already, and something of his friendship with isobel, who, he added, was coming out that very night at a fancy dress ball in london. "i know," said miss ogilvy, "at the de lisles' in grosvenor square. i was asked to it, but could not go as i am starting to-morrow." then she rose and said "good-night," bidding him be sure not to be late for the train, as she would want him to help her with her luggage. so off she went looking very charming and gracious, although she was over forty, and leaving godfrey quite flattered by her attention. not knowing what to do he put on his hat and, walking across the station yard, took his stand by a gateway pillar and watched the tide of london life roll by. there he remained for nearly an hour, since the strange sight fascinated him who had never been in town before, the object of some attention from a policeman, although of this he was unaware. also some rather odd ladies spoke to him from time to time which he thought kind of them, although they smelt so peculiar and seemed to have paint upon their faces. in answer to the inquiries of two of them as to his health he told them that he was very well. also he agreed cordially with a third as to the extreme fineness of the night, and assured a fourth that he had no wish to take a walk as he was shortly going to bed, a statement which caused her to break into uncalled-for laughter. it was at this point that the doubting policeman suggested that he should move on. "where to?" asked godfrey of that officer of the law. "to 'ell if you like," he replied. then struck with curiosity, he inquired, "where do you want to go to? this pillar ain't a leaning post." godfrey considered the matter and said with the verve of slight intoxication: "only two places appeal to me at present, heaven (not hell as you suggested), and grosvenor square. perhaps, however, they are the same; at any rate, there is an angel in both of them." the policeman stared at him but could find no fault with the perfect sobriety of his appearance. "young luny, i suspect," he muttered to himself, then said aloud: "well, the strand doesn't lead to 'eaven so far as i have noticed, rather t'other way indeed. but if you want grosvenor square, it's over there," and he waved his hand vaguely towards the west. "thank you," said godfrey, taking off his hat with much politeness. "if that is so, i will leave heaven to itself for the present and content myself with grosvenor square." off he started in the direction indicated, and, as it seemed to him, walked for many miles through a long and bewildering series of brilliant streets, continually seeking new information as to his goal. the end of it was that at about a quarter to eleven he found himself somewhere in the neighbourhood of the edgware road, utterly stranded as it were, since his mind seemed incapable of appreciating further indications of locality. "look here, young man," said a breezy costermonger to whom he had appealed, "i think you had better take a 'ansom for the 'orse will know more about london than you seem to do. there's one 'andy." "that is an idea," said godfrey, and entered the cab, giving the address of grosvenor square. "what number?" asked the driver. "i don't know," replied godfrey, "the ball, grosvenor square." off they went, and in due course, reaching the square, drove round it until they came to a great house where there were signs of festivity in the shape of an awning above the entrance and a carpet on the pavement. the cab stopped with a jerk and a voice from above--never having been in a hansom before, at first godfrey could not locate it--exclaimed: "here's your ball, young gent. now you'd better hop out and dance." his fare began to explain the situation through the little trap in the roof, demonstrating to the jehu that his object was to observe the ball from without, not to dance at it within, and that it was necessary for him to drive on a little further. that worthy grew indignant. "blowed if i don't believe you're a bilk," he shouted through the hole. "here, you pay me my fare and hook it, young codger." godfrey descended and commenced a search for money, only to remember that he had left his purse in his bag at the hotel. this also he explained with many apologies to the infuriated cabby, two gorgeous flunkeys who by now had arrived to escort him into the house, and a group of idlers who had collected round the door. "i told yer he was a bilk. you look after your spoons, thomas; i expect that's wot he's come for. now you find that bob, sonny, or i fetches the perlice." then an inspiration flashed on godfrey's bewildered mind. suddenly he recollected that, by the direction of heaven, mrs. parsons had sewn a ten shilling piece into the lining of his waistcoat, "in case he should ever want any money sudden-like." he undid that garment and heedless of the mockery of the audience, began to feel wildly at its interior calico. joy! there it was in the lefthand corner. "i have money here if only i can get it out," he gasped. a woman in the gathering crowd, perhaps from pity, or curiosity, in the most unexpected way produced a pair of scissors from her pocket with which he began to hack at the waistcoat, gashing it sadly. at length the job was done and the half-sovereign appeared wrapped in a piece of cotton wool. "take it," said godfrey, "and go away. let it teach you to have more trust in your fellow creatures, mr. cabman." the man seized the coin, examined it by the light of his lamp, tasted it, bit it, threw it on the top of the cab to see that it rang true, then with a "well, i'm blowed!" whipped up his horse and went off. godfrey followed his example, as the flunkeys and the audience supposed to recover his change, though the last thing he was thinking of at that moment was change--except of locality. he ran a hundred yards or more to a part of the square where there was no lamp, then paused to consider. "i have made a fool of myself," he reflected, "as isobel always says i do when i get the chance. i have come all this way and been abused and laughed at for nothing." then his native determination began to assert itself. why should it be for nothing? there was the house, and in it was isobel, and oh! he wanted to see her. he crossed to the square-garden side and walked down in the shadow of the trees which grew there. under one of these he took his stand, squeezing himself against the railings, and watched the glowing house that was opposite, from which came the sounds of music, of dancing feet, of laughter and the tinkling of glasses. it had balconies, and on these appeared people dressed in all sorts of costumes. among them he tried to recognise isobel, but could not. either she did not come or he was too far off to see her. a dance was ending, the music grew faster and faster, then ceased with a flourish. more people appeared on the balconies. others crowded into the hall, which he could see, for the door was open. presently a pair came onto the steps. one of them was dressed as a knight in shining armour. he was a fine, tall young man, and his face was handsome, as the watcher could perceive, for he had taken off his plumed helm and carried it in his hand. the other was isobel in her plantagenet costume, to which were added one rose and a necklet of pink pearls. they stood on the steps a little while laughing and talking. then he heard her say: "let us go into the square. it will be cooler. the key is hanging on the nail." she vanished for a moment, doubtless to fetch the key. then they walked down the steps, over the spread carpet, and across the roadway. within three paces of where godfrey stood there was a gate. she gave the key to the knight, and after one or two attempts the gate swung open. whilst he was fumbling at the lock she stood looking about her, and presently caught sight of godfrey's slim figure crouched against the railings in the deepest of the shadows. "there is someone there, lord charles," she said. "is there?" he answered, indifferently. "a cab-tout or a beggar, i expect. they always hang about parties. come on, it is open at last." they passed into the garden and vanished. a wild jealousy seized godfrey, and he slipped after them with the intention of revealing himself to isobel. inside the railings was a broad belt of shrubs bordered by a gravel path. the pair walked along the path, godfrey following at a distance, till they came to a recessed seat on which they sat down. he halted behind a lilac bush ten paces or so away, not that he wanted to listen, but because he was ashamed to show himself. indeed, he stopped his ears with his fingers that he might not overhear their talk. but he did not shut his eyes, and as the path curved here and the moon shone on them, he could see them well. they seemed very merry and to be playing some game. at any rate, first with her finger she counted the air-holes in the knight's helmet which he held up to her. then with his finger he counted the pearls upon her neck. when he had finished she clapped her hands as though she had won a bet. after this they began to whisper to each other, at least he whispered and she smiled and shook her head. finally, she seemed to give way, for she unfastened the flower which she wore in the breast of her dress, and presented to him. godfrey started at the sight which caused him to take his fingers from his ears and clutch the bush. a dry twig broke with a loud crack. "what's that?" said isobel. "don't know," answered lord charles. "what a funny girl you are, always seeing and hearing things. a stray cat, i expect; london squares are full of them. now i have won my lady's favour and she must fasten it to my helm after the ancient fashion." "can't," said isobel. "there are no pins in plantagenet dresses." "then i must do it for myself. kiss it first, that was the rule, you know." "very well," said isobel. "we must keep up the game, and there are worse things to kiss than roses." he held the flower to her and she bent forward to touch it with her lips. suddenly he did the same, and their lips came very close together on either side of the rose. this was too much for godfrey. he glided forward, as the stray cat might have done, of which the fine knight had spoken, meaning to interrupt them. then he remembered suddenly that he had no right to interfere; that it was no affair of his with whom isobel chose to kiss roses in a garden, and that he was doing a mean thing in spying upon her. so he halted behind another bush, but not without noise. his handsome young face was thrust forward, and on it were written grief, surprise and shame. the moonlight caught it, but nothing else of him. isobel looked up and saw. he knew that she had seen and turning, slipped away into the darkness back to the gate. as he went he heard the knight called lord charles, exclaim: "what's the matter with you?" and isobel answer, "nothing. i have seen a ghost, that's all. it's this horrible dress!" he glanced back and saw her rise, snatch the rose from the knight's hand, throw it down and stamp upon it. then he saw and heard no more for he was through the gate and running down the square. at its end, as he turned into some street, he was surprised to hear a gruff voice calling to him to stop. on looking up he saw that it came from his enemy, the hansom-cab man, who was apparently keeping a lookout on the square from his lofty perch. "hi! young sir," he said, "i've been watching for you and thinking of wot you said to me. you gave me half a quid, you did. jump in and i'll drive you wherever you want to go, for my fare was only a bob." "i have no more money," replied godfrey, "for you kept the change." "i wasn't asking for none," said the cabby. "hop in and name where it is to be." godfrey told him and presently was being rattled back to the charing cross hotel, which they reached a little later. he got out of the cab to go into the hotel when once again the man addressed him. "i owe you something," he said, and tendered the half-sovereign. "i have no change," said godfrey. "nor 'ain't i," said the cabman, "and if i had i wouldn't give it you. i played a dirty trick on you and a dirtier one still when i took your half sov, i did, seeing that i ought to have known that you ere just an obfusticated youngster and no bilk as i called you to them flunkeys. what you said made me ashamed, though i wouldn't own it before the flunkeys. so i determined to pay you back if i could, since otherwise i shouldn't have slept well to-night. now we're quits, and goodbye, and do you always think kindly of thomas sims, though i don't suppose i shall drive you no more in this world." "goodbye, mr. sims," said godfrey, who was touched. moreover mr. sims seemed to be familiar to him, at the moment he could not remember how, or why. the man wheeled his cab round, whipping the horse which was a spirited animal, and started at a fast pace. godfrey, looking after him, heard a crash as he emerged from the gates, and ran to see what was the matter. he found the cab overturned and the horse with a 'bus pole driven deep into its side, kicking on the pavement. thomas sims lay beneath the cab. when the police and others dragged him clear, he was quite dead! godfrey went to bed that night a very weary and chastened youth, for never before had he experienced so many emotions in a few short hours. moreover, he could not sleep well. nightmares haunted him in which he was being hunted and mocked by a jeering crowd, until sims arrived and rescued him in the cab. only it was the dead sims that drove with staring eyes and fallen jaw, and the side of the horse was torn open. next he saw isobel and the knight in armour, who kept pace on either side of the ghostly cab and mocked at him, tossing roses to each other as they sped along, until finally his father appeared, called isobel a young serpent, at which she laughed loudly, and bore off sims to be buried in the vault with the plantagenet lady at monk's acre. godfrey woke up shaking with fear, wet with perspiration, and reflected earnestly on his latter end, which seemed to be at hand. if that great, burly, raucous-voiced sims had died so suddenly, why should not he, godfrey? he wondered where sims had gone to, and what he was doing now. explaining the matter of the half-sovereign to st. peter, perhaps, and hoping humbly that it and others would be overlooked, "since after all he had done the right thing by the young gent." poor sims, he was sorry for him, but it might have been worse. _he_ might have been in the cab himself and now be offering explanations of his own as to a wild desire to kill that knight in armour, and isobel as well. oh! what a fool he had been. what business was it of his if isobel chose to give roses to some friend of hers at a dance? she was not his property, but only a girl with whom he chanced to have been brought up, and who found him a pleasant companion when there was no one else at hand. by nature, as has been recorded, godfrey was intensely proud, and then and there he made a resolution that he would have nothing more to do with isobel. never again would he hang about the skirts of that fine and rich young lady, who on the night that he was going away could give roses to another man, just because he was a lord and good-looking--yes, and kiss them too. his father was quite right about women, and he would take his advice to the letter, and begin to study proverbs forthwith, especially the marked passages. having come to this conclusion, and thus eased his troubled mind, he went to sleep in good earnest, for he was very tired. the next thing of which he became aware was that someone was hammering at the door, and calling out that a lady downstairs said he must get up at once if he meant to be in time. he looked at his watch, a seven-and-sixpenny article that he had been given off a christmas tree at hawk's hall, and observed, with horror, that he had just ten minutes in which to dress, pack, and catch the train. somehow he did it, for fortunately his bill had been paid. always in after days a tumultuous vision remained in his mind of himself, a long, lank youth with unbrushed hair and unbuttoned waistcoat, carrying a bag and a coat, followed by an hotel porter with his luggage, rushing wildly down an interminable platform with his ticket in his teeth towards an already moving train. at an open carriage door stood a lady in whom he recognized miss ogilvy, who was imploring the guard to hold the train. "can't do it, ma'am, any longer," said the guard, between blasts of his whistle and wavings of his green flag. "it's all my place is worth to delay the continental express for more than a minute. thank you kindly, ma'am. here he comes," and the flag paused for a few seconds. "in you go, young gentleman." a heave, a struggle, an avalanche of baggage, and godfrey found himself in the arms of miss ogilvy in a reserved first-class carriage. from those kind supporting arms he slid gently and slowly to the floor. "well," said that lady, contemplating him with his back resting against a portmanteau, "you cut things rather fine." still seated on the floor, godfrey pulled out his watch and looked at it, then remarked that eleven minutes before he was fast asleep in bed. "i thought as much," she said severely, "and that's why i told the maid to see if you had been called, which i daresay you forgot to arrange for yourself." "i did," admitted godfrey, rising and buttoning his waistcoat. "i have had a very troubled night; all sorts of things happened to me." "what have you been doing?" asked miss ogilvy, whose interest was excited. then godfrey, whose bosom was bursting, told her all, and the story lasted most of the way to dover. "you poor boy," she said, when he had finished, "you poor boy!" "i left the basket with the food behind, and i am so hungry," remarked godfrey presently. "there's a restaurant car on the train, come and have some breakfast," said miss ogilvy, "for on the boat you may not wish to eat. i shall at any rate." this was untrue for she had breakfasted already, but that did not matter. "my father said i was not to take meals on the trains," explained godfrey, awkwardly, "because of the expense." "oh! i'm your father, or rather your mother, now. besides, i have a table," she added in a nebulous manner. so godfrey followed her to the dining car, where he made an excellent meal. "you don't seem to eat much," he said at length. "you have only had a cup of tea and half a bit of toast." "i never can when i am going on the sea," she explained. "i expect i shall be very ill, and you will have to look after me, and you know the less you eat, well--the less you can be ill." "why did you not tell me that before?" he remarked, contemplating his empty plate with a gloomy eye. "besides i expect we shall be in different parts of the ship." "oh! i daresay it can be arranged," she answered. and as a matter of fact, it was "arranged," all the way to lucerne. at dover station miss ogilvy had a hurried interview at the ticket office. godfrey did not in the least understand what she was doing, but as a result he was her companion throughout the long journey. the crossing was very rough, and it was godfrey who was ill, excessively ill, not miss ogilvy who, with the assistance of her maid and the steward, attended assiduously to him in his agonies. "and to think," he moaned faintly as they moored alongside of the french pier, "that once i wished to be a sailor." "nelson was always sick," said miss ogilvy, wiping his damp brow with a scented pocket-handkerchief, while the maid held the smelling-salts to his nose. "then he must have been a fool to go to sea," muttered godfrey, and relapsed into a torpor, from which he awoke only to find himself stretched at length on the cushions of a first-class carriage. later on, the journey became very agreeable. godfrey was interested in everything, being of a quick and receptive mind, and miss ogilvy proved a fund of information. when they had exhausted the scenery they conversed on other topics. soon she knew everything there was to know about him and isobel, whom it was evident she could not understand. "tell me," she said, looking at his dark and rather unusual eyes, "do you ever have dreams, godfrey?" for now she called him by his christian name. "not at night, when i sleep very soundly, except after that poor cabman was killed. i have seen lots of dead people, because my father always takes me to look at them in the parish, to remind me of my own latter end, as he says, but they never made me dream before." "then do you have them at all?" he hesitated a little. "sometimes, at least visions of a sort, when i am walking alone, especially in the evening, or wondering about things. but always when i am alone." "what are they?" she asked eagerly. "i can't quite explain," he replied in a slow voice. "they come and they go, and i forget them, because they fade out, just like a dream does, you know." "you must remember something; try to tell me about them." "well, i seem to be among a great many people whom i have never met. yet i know them and they know me, and talk to me about all sorts of things. for instance, if i am puzzling over anything they will explain it quite clearly, but afterwards i always forget the explanation and am no wiser than i was before. a hand holding a cloth seems to wipe it out of my mind, just as one cleans a slate." "is that all?" "not quite. occasionally i meet the people afterwards. for instance, thomas sims, the cabman, was one of them, and," he added colouring, "forgive me for saying so, but you are another. i knew it at once, the moment i saw you, and that is what made me feel so friendly." "how very odd!" she exclaimed, "and how delightful. because, you see--well never mind----" he looked at her expectantly, but as she said no more, went on. "then now and again i see places before i really do see them. for example, i think that presently we shall pass along a hillside with great mountain slopes above and below us covered with dark trees. opposite to us also, running up to three peaks with a patch of snow on the centre peak, but not quite at the top." he closed his eyes, and added, "yes, and there is a village at the bottom of the valley by a swift-running stream, and in it a small white church with a spire and a gilt weathercock with a bird on it. then," he continued rapidly, "i can see the house where i am going to live, with the pasteur boiset, an old white house with woods above and all about it, and the beautiful lake beneath, and beyond, a great mountain. there is a tree in the garden opposite the front door, like a big cherry tree, only the fruit looks larger than cherries," he added with confidence. "i suppose that no one showed you a photograph of the place?" she asked doubtfully, "for as it happens i know it. it is only about two miles from lucerne by the short way through the woods. what is more, there is a tree with a delicious fruit, either a big cherry or a small plum, for i have eaten some of it several years ago." "no," he answered, "no one. my father only told me that the name of the little village is kleindorf. he wrote it on the label for my bag." just then the line went round a bend. "look," he said, "there is the place i told you we were coming to, with the dark trees, the three peaks, and the stream, and the white church with the cock on top of the spire." she let down the carriage window, and stared at the scene. "yes," she exclaimed, "it is just as you described. oh! at last i have found what i have been seeking for years. godfrey, i believe that you have the true gift." "what gift, miss ogilvy?" "clairvoyance, of course, and perhaps clairaudience as well." the lad burst out laughing, and said that he wished it were something more useful. from all of which it will be guessed that ethel ogilvy was a mystic of the first water. chapter v madame riennes about o'clock on the day following this conversation, godfrey found himself standing on the platform in the big station of lucerne. "how are you going to get to kleindorf?" miss ogilvy asked of him. "it's five miles away by the road. i think you had better come to my house and have some _déjeuner_. afterwards i will send you there in the carriage." as she spoke a tall gaunt man in ultra-clerical attire, with a very large hooked nose and wearing a pair of blue spectacles, came shuffling towards them. "madame is engleesh?" he said, peering at her through the blue glasses. "oh! it is easy to know it, though i am so blind. has madame by chance seen a leetle, leetle engleesh boy, who should arrive out of this train? i look everywhere and i cannot find him, and the conducteur, he says he not there. no leetle boy in the second class. his name it is godfrey, the son of an english pasteur, a man who fear god in the right way." there was something so absurd in the old gentleman's appearance and method of address, that miss ogilvy, who had a sense of humour, was obliged to turn away to hide her mirth. recovering, she answered: "i think this is your little boy, monsieur le pasteur," and she indicated the tall and handsome godfrey, who stood gazing at his future instructor open-mouthed. whoever he had met in his visions, the pasteur boiset was not one of them. never, asleep or waking, had he seen anyone in the least like him. the clergyman peered at godfrey, studying him from head to foot. "mon dieu!" he exclaimed, "i understood he was quite, quite leetle, not a big young man who will eat much and want many things. well, he will be _bon compagnon_ for juliette, and madame too, she like the big better than the leetle. _il est beau et il a l'air intelligent, n'est ce pas, madame?_" he added confidentially. "_bien beau et très intelligent_," she replied, observing that godfrey was engaged in retrieving his overcoat which he had left in the carriage. then she explained that she had become friendly with this young gentleman, and hoped that he would be allowed to visit her whenever he wished. also she gave her name and address. "oh! yes, mademoiselle ogilvee, the rich english lady who live in the fine house. i have heard of her. _mais voyons!_ mademoiselle is not catholic, is she, for i promise to protect this lad from that red wolf?" "no, monsieur, fear nothing. whatever i am, i am not catholic," (though, perhaps, if you knew all, you would think me something much more dangerous, she added to herself.) then they said goodbye. "i say, miss ogilvy," exclaimed godfrey, blushing, "you've been awfully kind to me. if it hadn't been for you i should have missed that train and never heard the last of it. also, i should have had to go hungry from london here, since i promised my father not to buy anything on the journey, and you know i forgot the basket." (by the way, being addressed, it arrived three days afterwards, a mass of corruption, with six francs to pay on it, and many papers to be signed.) "not at all, godfrey, it was delightful to have you as a companion--and a friend," she added meaningly. "you will come and see me, won't you?" "yes, of course, if i can. but meanwhile, please wait a minute," and he pulled out his purse. "what on earth are you going to do, godfrey? i don't want your card." "card! i haven't got a card. i am going to make you a present." "make me a present?" gasped miss ogilvy, a vague vision of half-crowns flashing before her mind. "yes, it is rather a curious thing. it was found round the neck-bone of an old knight, whose remains they threw out of the abbey church when they put in the heating apparatus. i saw it there, and the sexton gave it to me when he discovered that it was only stone. you will see it has a hole in it, so he must have worn it as an ornament. the grave he lay in was that of a crusader, for the legs are crossed upon his brass, although his name has gone. oh! here it is," and he produced an oblong piece of black graphite or some such stone, covered with mystical engravings. she seized the object, and examined it eagerly. "why, it is a talisman," she said, "gnostic, i should think, for there is the cock upon it, and a lot that i can't read, probably a magic formula. no doubt the old crusader got it in the east, perhaps as a gift from some saracen in whose family it had descended. oh! my dear boy, i do thank you. you could not have made me a present that i should value more." "i am so glad," said godfrey. "yes, but i am ashamed to take it from you. well, i'll leave it back to you one day." "leave it back! then you must die before me, and why should you do that? you are quite young." "because i shall," she answered with a sad little smile. "i look stronger than i am. meanwhile you will come and tell me all about this talisman." "i have told you all i know, miss ogilvy." "do you think so? i don't. but look, your old pasteur is calling that the diligence is coming. good-bye. i'll send the carriage for you next sunday in time for _déjeuner_." a few minutes later godfrey found himself packed in a rumbling old diligence amidst a number of peasant women with baskets. also there was a roman catholic priest who sat opposite to the pasteur. for a while these two eyed each other with evident animosity, just like a pair of rival dogs, godfrey thought to himself. at the outskirts of the town they passed a shrine, in which was the image of some saint. the priest crossed himself and bowed so low that he struck the knee of the pasteur, who remonstrated in an elaborate and sarcastic fashion. then the fight began, and those two holy men belaboured each other, with words, not fists, for the rest of the journey. godfrey's french was sadly to seek, still before it was done, he did wonder whether all their language was strictly christian, for such words as _sapristi_, and _nom de dieu_, accompanied by snapping of the fingers, and angry stares, struck him as showing a contentious and even a hostile spirit. moreover, that was not the end of it, since of the occupants of the diligence, about one half seemed to belong to the party of the priest, and the other half to the party of the pasteur. by degrees all of these were drawn into the conflict. they shouted and screamed at each other, they waved their arms, and incidentally their baskets, one of which struck godfrey on the nose, and indeed nearly came to actual fisticuffs. apparently the driver was accustomed to such scenes, for after a glance through his little window he took no further notice. so it went on until at last he pulled up and shouted: "_voyageurs pour kleindorf, descendez. vite, s'il vous plait._" "here we do get down, young monsieur," said the pasteur, suddenly relapsing into a kind of unnatural calm. indeed, at the door he turned and bowed politely to his adversary, wishing him _bon voyage_, to which the priest replied with a solemn benediction in the most catholic form. "he is not bad of heart, that priest," said the pasteur, as he led the way to the gate of a little shrubbery, "but he do try to steal my sheep, and i protect them from him, the blood-toothed wolf. jean, jean!" a brawny swiss appeared and seized the baggage. then they advanced across the belt of shrubbery to a lawn, through which ran a path. lo! in the centre of that lawn grew such a fruit-tree, covered with large cherries or small plums, as godfrey had described to miss ogilvy, and beyond it stood the long white house, old, and big, and peaceful looking. what he had not described, because of them his subliminal sense had given him no inkling, were the two ladies, who sat expectant on the verandah, that commanded a beautiful view of the lake and the mountains beyond. by a kind of instinct distilled from his experience of clergymen's belongings, godfrey had expected to see a dowdy female, with a red, fat face, and watery eyes, perhaps wearing an apron and a black dress hooked awry, accompanied by a snub-nosed little girl with straight hair, and a cold in the head. in place of these he saw a fashionably-dressed, parisian-looking lady, who still seemed quite young, very pleasant to behold, with her dark eyes and graceful movements, and a girl, apparently about his own age, who was equally attractive. she was brown-eyed, with a quick, mobile face, and a lithe and shapely, if as yet somewhat unformed figure. the long thick plait in which her chestnut hair was arranged could not hide its plenitude and beauty, while the smallness of her hands and feet showed breeding, as did her manners and presence. the observant godfrey, at his first sight of juliette, for such was her name, marvelled how it was possible that she should be the daughter of that plain and ungainly old pasteur. on this point it is enough to say that others had experienced the same wonder, and remained with their curiosity unsatisfied. but then he might as well have inquired how he, godfrey, came to be his father's son, since in the whole universe no two creatures could have been more diverse. monsieur boiset waddled forward, with a gait like to that of a superannuated duck, followed at some distance by godfrey and the stalwart jean with the luggage. "my dears," he called out in his high voice, "i have found our new little friend; the train brought him safely. here he is." madame and juliette looked about them. "i see him not," said madame. "where is he?" asked juliette, in a pleasant girlish voice. "still at the gate? and say then, my father," this in low tones meant not to be overheard, "who is this monsieur?" "he is the little boy," exclaimed the pasteur, chuckling at his joke, "but you see he has grown in the train." "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed madame, "i wonder if his bed will be long enough?" "it is very amusing," remarked juliette. then they both descended from the verandah, to greet him with foreign cordiality which, as they spoke rapidly in french, was somewhat lost on godfrey. recognizing their kind intentions, however, he took off his hat and bowed to each in turn, remarking as he did so: "_bonjour, oui. oui, bonjour_," the only words in the gallic tongue that occurred to him at the moment. "i speek engleesh," said juliette, with solemn grandeur. "i'm jolly glad to hear it," replied godfrey, "and i _parle français_, or soon shall, i hope." such was godfrey's introduction to his new home at kleindorf, where very soon he was happy enough. notwithstanding his strange appearance and his awkwardness, monsieur boiset proved himself to be what is called "a dear old gentleman"; moreover, really learned, and this in sundry different directions. thus, he was an excellent astronomer, and the possessor of a first-rate telescope, mounted in a little observatory, on a rocky peak of ground which rose up a hundred feet or more in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, that itself stood high. this instrument, which its owner had acquired secondhand at some sale, of course was not of the largest size. still, it was powerful enough for all ordinary observations, and to show many hundreds of the heavenly bodies that are invisible to the naked eye, even in the clear air of switzerland. to godfrey, who had, it will be remembered, a strong liking for astronomy, it was a source of constant delight. what is more, it provided a link of common interest that soon ripened into friendship between himself and his odd old tutor, who had been obliged hitherto to pursue his astral researches in solitude, since to madame and to juliette these did not appeal. night by night, especially after the winter snows began to fall, they would sit by the stove in the little observatory, gazing at the stars, making calculations, in which, notwithstanding his dislike of mathematics, godfrey soon became expert, and setting down the results of what they learned. in was in course of these studies that the whole wonder of the universe came home to him for the first time. he looked upon the marvel of the heavens, the mighty procession of the planets, the rising and setting of the vast suns that burn beyond them in the depths of space, weighing their bulk and measuring their differences, and trembled with mingled joy and awe. were these the heritage of man? would he ever visit them in some unknown state and age? or must they remain eternally far and alien? this is what he longed to learn, and to him astronomy was a gateway to knowledge, if only he could discover how to pass the gate. godfrey had not the true scientific spirit, or a yearning for information, even about the stars, for its own sake. he wanted to ascertain how these affected _him_ and the human race of which he was a member. in short, he sought an answer to the old question: are we merely the spawn of our little earth, destined to perish, as the earth itself must do one day, or, through whatever changes we must pass, are we as immortal as the universe and the might that made it, whatever that may be? that was his problem, the same which perplexes every high and thinking soul, and at this impressionable period of his life it scarcely ever left him. there he would sit with brooding eyes and bent brow seeking the answer, but as yet finding none. once juliette discovered him thus, having come to the observatory to tell him that his dinner had been waiting for half an hour, and for a while watched him unnoted with the little shaded lamp shining on his face. instantly, in her quick fashion, she christened him, _hibou_, and _hibou_ or owl, became his nickname in that establishment. indeed, with his dark eyes and strongly marked features, wrapped in a contemplative calm such as the study of the stars engenders, in that gloom he did look something like an owl, however different may have been his appearance on other occasions. "what are you thinking of, monsieur godfrey?" she asked. he came back to earth with a start. "the stars and man," he answered, colouring. "_mon dieu!_" she exclaimed, "i think man is enough to study without the stars, which we shall never visit." "how do you know that, mademoiselle?" "i know it because we are here and they are there, far, far away. also we die and they go on for ever." "what is space, and what are death and time?" queried godfrey, with solemnity. "_mon dieu!_" said juliette again. "come to dinner, the chicken it grows cold," but to herself she added, "he is an odd bird, this english _hibou_, but attractive--when he is not so grave." meanwhile godfrey continued to ponder his mighty problem. when he had mastered enough french in which madame and juliette proved efficient instructors, he propounded it to the old pasteur, who clapped his hand upon a bible, and said: "_there_ is the answer, young friend." "i know," replied godfrey, "but it does not quite satisfy; i feel that i must find that answer for myself." monsieur boiset removed his blue spectacles and looked at him. "such searches are dangerous," he said. "believe me, godfrey, it is better to accept." "then why do you find fault with the roman catholics, monsieur?" the question was like a match applied to a haystack. at once the pasteur took fire: "because they accept error, not truth," he began. "what foundation have they for much of their belief? it is not here," and again he slapped the bible. then followed a long tirade, for the one thing this good and tolerant old man could not endure was the roman catholic branch of the christian faith. godfrey listened with patience, till at last the pasteur, having burnt himself out, asked him if he were not convinced. "i do not know," he replied. "these quarrels of the churches and of the different faiths puzzle and tire me. i, too, monsieur, believe in god and a future life, but i do not think it matters much by what road one travels to them, i mean so long as it is a road." the pasteur looked at him alarmed, and exclaimed: "surely you will not be a fish caught in the net which already i have observed that cunning and plausible curé trying to throw about you! oh! what then should i answer to your father?" "do not be frightened, monsieur. i shall never become a roman catholic. but all the same i think the roman catholics very good people, and that their faith is as well as another, at any rate for those who believe it." then he made an excuse to slip away, leaving the pasteur puzzled. "he is wrong," he said to himself, "most wrong, but all the same, let it be admitted that the boy has a big mind, and intelligent--yes, intelligent." it is certain that those who search with sufficient earnestness end in finding something, though the discovered path may run in the wrong direction, or prove impassable, or wind through caverns, or along the edge of precipices, down which sooner or later the traveller falls, or lead at length to some _cul-de-sac_. the axiom was not varied in godfrey's case, and the path he found was named--miss ogilvy. on the first sunday after his arrival at kleindorf a fine carriage and pair drew up at the shrubbery gate, just as the family were returning from the morning service in the little church where the pasteur ministered. madame sighed when she saw it, for she would have loved dearly to possess such an equipage, as indeed, she had done at one period in her career, before an obscure series of circumstances led to her strange union with monsieur boiset. "what beautiful horses," exclaimed juliette, her hazel eyes sparkling. "oh! that tenth commandment, who can keep it? and why should some people have fine horses and others not even a pony? _ma mère_, why were you not able to keep that carriage of which you have spoken to me so often?" madame bit her lip, and with a whispered "hold your tongue," plunged into conversation about miss ogilvy. then godfrey entered the carriage and was whirled away in style, looking like the prince in a fairy book, as juliette remarked, while the pasteur tried to explain to her how much happier she was without the temptation of such earthly vanities. miss ogilvy's house was a beautiful dwelling of its sort, standing in gardens of its own that ran down to the lake, and commanding fine views of all the glorious scenery which surrounds lucerne. the rooms were large and lofty, with parquet floors, and in some of them were really good pictures that their owner had inherited, also collections of beautiful old french furniture. in short, it was a stately and refined abode, such as is sometimes to be found abroad in the possession of americans or english people of wealth, who for their health's sake or other reasons, make their homes upon the continent. on hearing the carriage arrive, miss ogilvy, who was dressed in a simple, but charming grey gown and, as godfrey noticed at once, wore round her neck the old gnostic talisman which he had given her, came from a saloon to meet him in the large, square hall. "i _am_ glad to see you, godfrey," she said in her soft, cultivated voice. "so am i, miss ogilvy," he answered, with heartiness, "i mean to see you. but," he added, studying her, "you do not look very well." she smiled rather pathetically, and said in a quick voice: "no, i took a cold on that journey. you see i am rather an invalid, which is why i live here--while i do live--what they call _poitrinaire_." godfrey shook his head, the word was beyond him. "_anglicé_ consumptive," she explained. "there are lots of us in switzerland, you know, and on the whole, we are a merry set. it is characteristic of our complaint. but never mind about me. there are two or three people here. i daresay you will think them odd, but they are clever in their way, and you ought to have something in common. come in." he followed her into the beautiful cool saloon, with its large, double french windows designed to keep out the bitter winds of winter, but opened now upon the brilliant garden. never before had he been in so lovely a room, that is of a modern house, and it impressed him with sensations that at the moment he did not try to analyse. all he knew was that they were mingled with some spiritual quality, such as once or twice he had felt in ancient churches, something which suggested both the past and the future, and a brooding influence that he could not define. yet the place was all light and charm, gay with flowers and landscape pictures, in short, lacking any sombre note. gathered at its far end where the bow window overlooked the sparkling lake, were three or four people, all elderly. instantly one of these riveted his attention. she was stout, having her grey hair drawn back from a massive forehead, beneath which shone piercing black eyes. her rather ungainly figure was clothed in what he thought an ugly green dress, and she wore a necklet of emeralds in an old-fashioned setting, which he also thought ugly but striking. from the moment that he entered the doorway at the far end of that long saloon, he felt those black eyes fixed upon him, and was painfully aware of their owner's presence, so much so, that in a whisper, he asked her name of miss ogilvy. "oh!" she answered, "that is madame riennes, the noted mesmerist and medium." "indeed," said godfrey in a vague voice, for he did not quite understand what was meant by this description. also there was a thin, elderly american gentleman to whom godfrey was introduced, named colonel josiah smith, and a big, blond dane, who talked english with a german accent, called professor petersen. all of these studied godfrey with the most unusual interest as, overwhelmed with shyness, he was led by miss ogilvy to make their acquaintance. he felt that their demeanour portended he knew not what, more at any rate than hope of deriving pleasure from his society; in fact, that they expected to get something out of him. suddenly he recollected a picture that once he had seen in a pious work which he was given to read on sundays. it represented a missionary being led by the hand by a smiling woman into the presence of some savages in a south sea island, who were about to cook and eat him. in the picture a large pot was already boiling over a fire in the background. instinctively godfrey looked for the pot, but saw none, except one of the flowers which stood on a little table in a recess, and round it half a dozen chairs, one of them large, with arms. had he but known it, that chair was the pot. no sooner had he made his somewhat awkward bow than luncheon was announced, and they all went into another large and beautiful room, where they were served with a perfect meal. the conversation at table was general, and in english, but presently it drifted into a debate which godfrey did not understand, on the increase of spirituality among the "initiated" of the earth. colonel josiah smith, who appeared to associate with remarkable persons whom he called "masters," who dwelt in the remote places of the world, alleged that such increase was great, which professor petersen, who dwelt much among german intellectuals, denied. it appeared that these "intellectuals" were busy in turning their backs on every form of spirituality. "ah!" said miss ogilvy, with a sigh, "they seek the company of their kindred 'elementals,' although they do not know it, and soon those elementals will have the mastery of them and break them to pieces, as the lions did the maligners of daniel." in after years godfrey always remembered this as a very remarkable prophecy, but at the time, not knowing what an elemental might be, he only marvelled. at length madame riennes, who, it seemed, was half french and half russian, intervened in a slow, heavy voice: "what does it matter, friends of my soul?" she asked. then having paused to drink off a full glass of sparkling moselle, she went on: "soon we shall be where the spirituality, or otherwise, of this little world matters nothing to us. who will be the first to learn the truths, i wonder?" and she stared in turn at the faces of every one of them, a process which seemed to cause general alarm, bearing, as it did, a strong resemblance to the smelling-out of savage witch-doctors. indeed, they all began to talk of this or that at hazard, but she was not to be put off by such interruptions. having investigated godfrey till he felt cold down the back, madame turned her searchlight eyes upon miss ogilvy, who shrank beneath them. then of a sudden she exclaimed with a kind of convulsive shudder: "the power possesses and guides me. it tells me that _you_ will be the first, sister helen. i see you among the immortal lilies with the wine of life flowing through your veins." on receipt of this information the wine of life seemed to cease to flow in poor miss ogilvy's face. at any rate, she went deadly pale and rested her hand upon godfrey's shoulder as if she were about to faint. recovering a little, she murmured to herself: "i thought it! well, what does it matter though the gulf is great and terrible?" then with an effort she rose and suggested that they should return to the drawing-room. they did so, and were served with turkish coffee and cigarettes, which madame riennes smoked one after the other very rapidly. presently miss ogilvy rang the bell, and when the butler appeared to remove the cups, whispered something in french, at which he bowed and departed. godfrey thought he heard him lock the door behind him, but was not sure. chapter vi experiences "let us sit round the table and talk," said madame riennes. thereon the whole party moved into the recess where was the flower-pot that has been mentioned, which miss ogilvy took away. they seated themselves round the little table upon which it had stood. godfrey, lingering behind, found, whether by design or accident, that the only place left for him was the arm-chair which he hesitated to occupy. "be seated, young monsieur," said the formidable madame in bell-like tones, whereon he collapsed into the chair. "sister helen," she went on, "draw the curtain, it is more private so; yes, and the blind that there may be no unholy glare." miss ogilvy, who seemed to be entirely under madame's thumb, obeyed. now to all intents and purposes they were in a tiny, shadowed room cut off from the main apartment. "take that talisman from your neck and give it to young monsieur knight," commanded madame. "but i gave it to her, and do not want it back," ventured godfrey, who was growing alarmed. "do what i say," she said sternly, and he found himself holding the relic. "now, young monsieur, look me in the eyes a little and listen. i request of you that holding that black, engraved stone in your hand, you will be so good as to throw your soul, do you understand, your soul, back, back, _back_ and tell us where it come from, who have it, what part it play in their life, and everything about it." "how am i to know?" asked godfrey, with indignation. then suddenly everything before him faded, and he saw himself standing in a desert by a lump of black rock, at which a brown man clad only in a waist cloth and a kind of peaked straw hat, was striking with an instrument that seemed to be half chisel and half hammer, fashioned apparently from bronze, or perhaps of greenish-coloured flint. presently the brown man, who had a squint in one eye and a hurt toe that was bound round with something, picked up a piece of the black rock that he had knocked off, and surveyed it with evident satisfaction. then the scene vanished. godfrey told it with interest to the audience who were apparently also interested. "the finding of the stone," said madame. "continue, young monsieur." another vision rose before godfrey's mind. he beheld a low room having a kind of verandah, roofed with reeds, and beyond it a little courtyard enclosed by a wall of grey-coloured mud bricks, out of some of which stuck pieces of straw. this courtyard opened onto a narrow street where many oddly-clothed people walked up and down, some of whom wore peaked caps. a little man, old and grey, sat with the fragment of black rock on a low table before him, which godfrey knew to be the same stone that he had already seen. by him lay graving tools, and he was engaged in polishing the stone, now covered with figures and writing, by help of a stick, a piece of rough cloth and oil. a young man with a curly beard walked into the little courtyard, and to him the old fellow delivered the engraved stone with obeisances, receiving payment in some curious currency. then followed picture upon picture in all of which the talisman appeared in the hands of sundry of its owners. some of these pictures had to do with love, some with religious ceremonies, and some with war. one, too, with its sale, perhaps in a time of siege or scarcity, for a small loaf of black-looking bread, by an aged woman who wept at parting with it. after this he saw an arab-looking man finding the stone amongst the crumbling remains of a brick wall that showed signs of having been burnt, which wall he was knocking down with a pick-axe to allow water to flow down an irrigation channel on his garden. presently a person who wore a turban and was girt about with a large scimitar, rode by, and to him the man showed, and finally presented the stone, which the saracen placed in the folds of his turban. the next scene was of this man engaged in battle with a knight clad in mail. the battle was a very fine one, which godfrey described with much gusto. it ended in the knight killing the eastern man and hacking off his head with a sword. this violent proceeding disarranged the turban out of which fell the black stone. the knight picked it up and hid it about him. next godfrey saw this same knight, grown into an old man and being borne on a bier to burial, clad in the same armour that he had worn in the battle. upon his breast hung the black stone which had now a hole bored through the top of it. lastly there came a picture of the old sexton finding the talisman among the bones of the knight, and giving it to himself, godfrey, then a small boy, after which everything passed away. "i guess that either our young friend here has got the vision, or that he will make a first-class novelist," said colonel josiah smith. "any way, if you care to part with that talisman, miss ogilvy, i will be glad to give you five hundred dollars for it on the chance of his integrity." she smiled and shook her head, stretching out her hand to recover the gnostic charm. "be silent, brother josiah smith," exclaimed madame riennes, angrily. "if this were imposture, should i not have discovered it? it is good vision--psychometry is the right term--though of a humbler order such as might be expected from a beginner. still, there is hope, there is hope. let us see, now. young gentleman, be so good as to look me in the eye." much against his will godfrey found himself bound to obey, and looked her "in the eye." a few moments later he felt dizzy, and after that he remembered no more. when godfrey awoke again the curtain was drawn, the blinds were pulled up and the butler was bringing in tea. miss ogilvy sat by his side, looking at him rather anxiously, while the others were conversing together in a somewhat excited fashion. "it is splendid, splendid!" madame was saying. "we have discovered a pearl beyond price, a great treasure. hush! he awakes." godfrey, who experienced a curious feeling of exhaustion and of emptiness of brain, yawned and apologized for having fallen asleep, whereon the professor and the colonel both assured him that it was quite natural on so warm a day. only madame riennes smiled like a sphinx, and asked him if his dreams were pleasant. to this he replied that he remembered none. miss ogilvy, however, who looked rather anxious and guilty, did not speak at all, but busied herself with the tea which godfrey thought very strong when he drank it. however, it refreshed him wonderfully, which, as it contained some invigorating essence, was not strange. so did the walk in the beautiful garden which he took afterwards, just before the carriage came to drive him back to kleindorf. re-entering the drawing-room to say goodbye, he found the party engaged listening to the contents of a number of sheets of paper closely written in pencil, which were being read to them by colonel josiah smith, who made corrections from time to time. "_au revoir_, my young brother," said madame riennes, making some mysterious sign before she took his hand in her fat, cold fingers, "you will come again next sunday, will you not?" "i don't know," he answered awkwardly, for he felt afraid of this lady, and did not wish to see her next sunday. "oh! but i do, young brother. you will come, because it gives me so much pleasure to see you," she replied, staring at him with her strange eyes. then godfrey knew that he would come because he must. "why does that lady call me 'young brother'?" he asked miss ogilvy, who accompanied him to the hall. "oh! because it is a way she has. you may have noticed that she called me 'sister'." "i don't think that i shall call _her_ sister," he remarked with decision. "she is too alarming." "not really when you come to know her, for she has the kindest heart and is wonderfully gifted." "gifts which make people tell others that they are going to die are not pleasant, miss ogilvy." she shivered a little. "if her spirit--i mean the truth--comes to her, she must speak it, i suppose. by the way, godfrey, don't say anything about this talisman and the story you told of it, at kleindorf, or in writing home." "why not?" "oh! because people like your dear old pasteur, and clergymen generally, are so apt to misunderstand. they think that there is only one way of learning things beyond, and that every other must be wrong. also i am sure that your friend, isobel blake, would laugh at you." "i don't write to isobel," he exclaimed setting his lips. "but you may later," she said smiling. "at any rate you will promise, won't you?" "yes, if you wish it, miss ogilvy, though i can't see what it matters. that kind of nonsense often comes into my head when i touch old things. isobel says that it is because i have too much imagination." "imagination! ah! what is imagination? well, goodbye, godfrey, the carriage will come for you at the same time next sunday. perhaps, too, i shall see you before then, as i am going to call upon madame boiset." then he went, feeling rather uncomfortable, and yet interested, though what it was that interested him he did not quite know. that night he dreamed that madame riennes stood by his bed watching him with her burning eyes. it was an unpleasant dream. he kept his word. when the boiset family, especially madame, cross-examined him as to the details of his visit to miss ogilvy, he merely described the splendours of that opulent establishment and the intellectual character of its guests. of their mystic attributes he said nothing at all, only adding that miss ogilvy proposed to do herself the honour of calling at the maison blanche, as the boisets' house was called. about the middle of the week miss ogilvy arrived and, as madame had taken care to be at home in expectation of her visit, was entertained to tea. afterwards she visited the observatory, which interested her much, and had a long talk with the curious old pasteur, who also interested her in his way, for as she afterwards remarked to godfrey, one does not often meet an embodiment of human goodness and charity. when he replied that the latter quality was lacking to the pasteur where roman catholics were concerned, she only smiled and said that every jewel had its flaw; nothing was quite perfect in the world. in the end she asked madame and juliette to come to lunch with her, leaving out godfrey, because, as she said, she knew that he would be engaged at his studies with the pasteur. she explained also that she did not ask them to come with him on sunday because they would be taken up with their religious duties, a remark at which juliette made what the french call a "mouth," and madame smiled faintly. in due course she and her daughter went to lunch and returned delighted, having found themselves fellow-guests of some of the most notable people in lucerne, though not those whom miss ogilvy entertained on sundays. needless to say from that time forward godfrey's intimacy with this charming and wealthy hostess was in every way encouraged by the boiset family. the course of this intimacy does not need any very long description. every sunday after church the well-appointed carriage and pair appeared and bore godfrey away to luncheon at the villa ogilvy. here he always met madame riennes, colonel josiah smith, and professor petersen; also occasionally one or two others with whom these seemed to be sufficiently intimate to admit of their addressing them as "brother" or "sister." soon godfrey came to understand that they were all members of some kind of semi-secret society, though what this might be he could not quite ascertain. all he made sure of was that it had to do with matters which were not of this world. nothing concerning mundane affairs, however important or interesting, seemed to appeal to them; all their conversation was directed towards what might be called spiritual problems, reincarnations, karmas (it took him a long time to understand what a karma is), astral shapes, mediumship, telepathic influences, celestial guides, and the rest. at first this talk with its jargon of words which he did not comprehend, bored him considerably, but by degrees he felt that he was being drawn into a vortex, and began to understand its drift. even while it was enigmatic it acquired a kind of unholy attraction for him, and he began to seek out its secret meaning in which he found that company ready instructors. "young brother," said madame riennes, "we deal with the things not of the body, but of the soul. the body, what is it? in a few years it will be dust and ashes, but the soul--it is eternal--and all those stars you study are its inheritance, and you and i, if we cultivate our spiritual parts, shall rule in them." then she would roll her big eyes and become in a way magnificent, so that godfrey forgot her ugliness and the repulsion with which she inspired him. in the end his outlook on life and the world became different, and this not so much because of what he learned from his esoteric teachers, as through some change in his internal self. he grew to appreciate the vastness of things and the infinite possibilities of existence. indeed, his spiritual education was a fitting pendant to his physical study of the heavens, peopled with unnumbered worlds, each of them the home, doubtless, of an infinite variety of life, and each of them keeping its awful secrets locked in its floating orb. he trembled in presence of the stupendous whole, of which thus by degrees he became aware, and though it frightened him, thought with pity of the busy millions of mankind to whom such mysteries are nothing at all; who are lost in their business or idleness, in their eating, drinking, sleeping, love-making, and general satisfaction of the instincts which they possess in common with every other animal. the yearning for wisdom, the desire to know, entered his young heart and possessed it, as once these did that of solomon, to such a degree indeed, that standing on the threshold of his days, he would have paid them all away, and with them his share in this warm and breathing world, could he have been assured that in exchange he would receive the key of the treasure-house of the infinite. such an attitude was neither healthy nor natural to a normal, vigorous lad just entering upon manhood, and, as will be seen, it did not endure. like everything else, it had its causes. his astronomical studies were one of these, but a deeper reason was to be found in those sunday séances at the villa ogilvy. for a long while godfrey did not know what happened to him on these occasions. the party sat round the little table, talking of wonderful things; madame riennes looked at him and sometimes took his hand, which he did not like, and then he remembered no more until he woke up, feeling tired, and yet in a way exhilarated, for with the mysteries of hypnotic sleep he was not yet acquainted. nor did it occur to him that he was being used a medium by certain of the most advanced spiritualists in the world. by degrees, however, inklings of the truth began to come. thus, one day his consciousness awoke while his body seemed still to be wrapt in trance, and he saw that there was a person present who had not been of the party when he went to sleep. a young woman, clad in a white robe, with lovely hair flowing down her back, stood by his side and held his supine fingers in her hand. she was beautiful, and yet unearthly, she wore ornaments also, but as he watched, to his amazement these seemed to change. what had been a fillet of white stones, like diamonds, which bound her hair, turned to one of red stones, like rubies, and as it did so the colour of her eyes, which were large and very tranquil, altered. she was speaking in a low, rich voice to miss ogilvy, who answered, addressing her as sister eleanor, but what she said godfrey could not understand. something of his inner shock and fear must have reflected itself upon his trance-bound features, for suddenly he heard madame riennes exclaim: "have done! the medium awakes, and i tell you it is dangerous while our guide is here. back to his breast, eleanor! thence to your place!" the tall figure changed; it became misty, shapeless. it seemed to fall on him like a cloud of icy vapour, chilling him to the heart, and through that vapour he could see the ormolu clock which stood on a bracket in the recess, and even note the time, which was thirteen minutes past four. after this he became unconscious, and in due course woke up as usual. the first thing his eyes fell on was the clock, of which the hands now pointed to a quarter to five, and the sight of it brought everything back to him. then he observed that all the circle seemed much agitated, and distinctly heard madame riennes say to professor petersen in english:-- "the thing was very near. had it not been for that medicine of yours----! it was because that speerit do take his hand. she grow fond of him; it happen sometimes if the medium be of the other sex and attractive. she want to carry him away with her, that control, and i expect she never quite leave him all his life, because, you see, she materialize out of him, and therefore belong to him. next time she come, i give her my mind. hush! our wonderful little brother wake up--quite right this time." then godfrey really opened his eyes; hitherto he had been feigning to be still in trance, but thought it wisest to say nothing. at this moment miss ogilvy turned very pale and went into a kind of light faint. the professor produced some kind of smelling-bottle from his pocket, which he held to her nostrils. she came to at once, and began to laugh at her own silliness, but begged them all to go away and leave her quiet, which they did. godfrey was going too, but she stopped him, saying that the carriage would not be ready till after tea, and that it was too wet for him to walk in the garden, for now autumn had come in earnest. the tea arrived, a substantial tea, with poached eggs, of which she made him eat two, as she did always after these sittings. then suddenly she asked him if he had seen anything. he told her all, adding: "i am frightened. i do not like this business, miss ogilvy. who and what was that lady in white, who stood by me and held my hand? my fingers are still tingling, and a cold wind seems to blow upon me." "it was a spirit, godfrey, but there is no need to be afraid, she will not do you any harm." "i don't know, and i don't think that you have any right to bring spirits to me, or out of me, as i heard that dreadful madame say had happened. it is a great liberty." "oh! don't be angry with me," she said piteously. "if only you understood. you are a wonderful medium, the most wonderful that any of us has ever known, and through you we have learned things; holy, marvellous things, which till now have not been heard of in the world. your fame is already great among leading spiritualists of the earth, though of course they do not know who you are." "that does not better matters," said godfrey, "you know it is not right." "perhaps not, but my dear boy, if only you guessed all it means to me! listen; i will tell you; you will not betray me, will you? once i was very fond of someone; he was all my life, and he died, and my heart broke. i only hope and pray that such a thing may never happen to you. well, from that hour to this i have been trying to find him and failed, always failed, though once or twice i thought----. and now through you i have found him. yes, he has spoken to me telling me much which proves to me that he still lives elsewhere and awaits me. and oh! i am happy, and do not care how soon i go to join him. and it is all through you. so you will forgive me, will you not?" "yes, i suppose so," said godfrey, "but all the same i don't want to have anything more to do with that white lady who is called eleanor and changes her jewels so often; especially as madame said she was growing fond of me and would never leave me. so please don't ask me here again on sundays." miss ogilvy tried to soothe him. "you shouldn't be frightened of her," she said. "she is really a delightful spirit, and declares that she knew you very intimately indeed, when you were an early egyptian, also much before that on the lost continent, which is called atlantis, to say nothing of deep friendships which have existed between you in other planets." "i say!" exclaimed godfrey, "do you believe all this?" "well, if you ask me, i must say that i do. i am sure that we have all of us lived many lives, here and elsewhere, and if this is so, it is obvious that in the course of them we must have met an enormous number of people, with certain of whom we have been closely associated in the various relationships of life. some of these, no doubt, come round with us again, but others do not, though we can get into touch with them under exceptional circumstances. that is your case and eleanor's. at present you are upon different spheres, but in the future, no doubt, you will find yourselves side by side again, as you have often been, in due course to be driven apart once more by the winds of destiny, and perhaps, after ages, finally to be united. meanwhile she plays the part of one of your guardian angels." "then i wish she wouldn't," said godfrey, with vigour. "i don't care for a guardian angel of whom i have no memory, and who seems to fall on you like snow upon a hot day. if anybody does that kind of thing i should prefer a living woman." "which doubtless she has been, and will be again. for you see, where she is, she has memory and foreknowledge, which are lacking to the incarnated. meanwhile, through you, and because of you, she can tell us much. you are the wire which connects us to her in the unseen." "then i hope you will find another wire; i really do, for it upsets me and makes me feel ill. i know that i shall be afraid to go to bed to-night, and even for you, miss ogilvy, i won't come next sunday." then, as the carriage was now at the door, he jumped into it and departed without waiting for an answer. moreover, on the next sunday, when, as usual, it arrived to fetch him at kleindorf, godfrey kept his word, so that it went back empty. by the coachman he sent an awkwardly worded note to miss ogilvy, saying that he was suffering from toothache which had prevented him from sleeping for several nights, and was not well enough to come out. this note she answered by post, telling him that she had been disappointed not to see him as she was also ill. she added that she would send the carriage on the following sunday on the chance of his toothache being better, but that if it was not, she would understand and trouble him no more. during all that week godfrey fought with himself. he did not wish to have anything more to do with the white and ghostly eleanor, who changed her gems so constantly, and said that she had known him millenniums ago. indeed, he felt already as though she were much too near him, especially at night, when he seemed to become aware of her bending over his bed, and generally making her presence known in other uncomfortable ways that caused his hair to stand up and frightened him. at the same time he was really fond of miss ogilvy, and what she said about being ill touched him. also there was something that drew him; it might be eleanor, or it might be madame riennes. at any rate he felt a great longing to go. putting everything else aside, these investigations had their delights. what other young fellow of his age could boast an eleanor, who said she had been fond of him tens of thousands of years before? moreover, here was one of the gates to that knowledge which he desired so earnestly, and how could he find the strength to shut it in his own face? of course the end of the matter was that by the following sunday, his toothache had departed, and the carriage did not return empty to the villa ogilvy. he found his hostess looking white and ethereal, an appearance that she had acquired increasingly ever since their first meeting. her delight at seeing him was obvious, as was that of the others. for this he soon discovered the reason. it appeared that the sitting on the previous sunday, when he was overcome by toothache, had been an almost total failure. professor petersen had tried to fill his place as medium, with the result that when he fell under the influence, the only spirit that broke through his lips was one which discoursed interminably about lager beer and liqueurs of some celestial brew, which, as madame riennes, a lady not given to mince her words, told him to his face afterwards, was because he drank too much. hence the joy of these enthusiasts at the re-appearance of godfrey. with considerable reluctance that youth consented to play his usual rôle, and to be put into a charmed sleep by madame. this time he saw no eleanor, and knew nothing of what happened until he awoke to be greeted by the horrific spectacle of miss ogilvy lying back in her chair bathed in blood. general confusion reigned in the midst of which madame riennes alone was calm. "it is hæmorrhage from the lungs," she said, "which is common among _poitrinaires_. brother petersen, do what you can, and you, brother smith, fly for mademoiselle's doctor, and if he is not at home, bring another." later godfrey heard what had chanced. it seemed that the wraith, or emanation, or the sprite, good or evil, or whatever it may have been, which called itself eleanor, materialized in a very ugly temper. it complained that it had not been allowed to appear upon the previous sunday and had been kept away from its brother, i.e. godfrey. then it proceeded to threaten all the circle, except godfrey, who was the real culprit, with divers misfortunes, especially directing its wrath against miss ogilvy. "you will die soon," it said, "and in the spirit world i will pay you back." thrice it repeated this: "you will die," to which miss ogilvy answered with calm dignity: "i am not afraid to die, nor am i at all afraid of you, eleanor, who, as i now see, are not good but evil." while she spoke a torrent of blood burst from her lips, eleanor disappeared, and almost immediately godfrey awoke. in due course the doctor came and announced that the hæmorrhage had ceased, and that the patient was in no imminent danger. as to the future, he could say nothing, except that having been miss ogilvy's medical attendant for some years, he had expected something of this sort to happen, and known that her life could not be very long. then godfrey went home very terrified and chastened, blaming himself also for this dreadful event, although in truth no one could have been more innocent. he had grown very fond of miss ogilvy, and shuddered to think that she must soon leave the world to seek a dim unknown, where there were bad spirits as well as good. he shuddered, too, at the thought of this eleanor, who made use of him to appear in human form, and on his knees prayed god to protect him from her. this indeed happened, if she had any real existence and was not some mere creation of the brain of madame riennes, made visible by the working of laws whereof we have no knowledge. never again, during all his life, did he actually see any more of eleanor, and the probability is that he never will, either here or elsewhere. three days later godfrey received a letter from the doctor, saying that miss ogilvy wished to see him, and that he recommended him not to delay his visit. having obtained the permission of the pasteur, he went in at once by the diligence, and on arrival at the villa, where evidently he was expected, was shown up to a bedroom which commanded a beautiful view of the lake and mount pilatus. here a nurse met him and told him that he must not stay long; a quarter of an hour at the outside. he asked how mademoiselle was, whereon she answered with an expressive shrug: "soon she will be further from the earth than the top of that mountain." then she took him to another smaller room, and there upon the bed, looking whiter than the sheets, lay his friend. she smiled very sweetly when she caught sight of him. "dear godfrey," she said, "it is kind of you to come. i wanted to see you very much, for three reasons. first, i wish to beg your pardon for having drawn you into this spiritualism without your knowing that i was doing so. i have told you what my motive was, and therefore i will not repeat it, as my strength is small. secondly, i wish you to promise me that you will never go to another séance, since now i am quite sure that it is dangerous for the young. to me spiritualism has brought much good and joy, but with others it may be different, especially as among spirits, as on the earth, there are evil beings. do you promise?" "yes, yes," answered godfrey, "only i am afraid of madame riennes." "you must stand up against her if she troubles you, and seek the help of religion; if necessary consult your old pasteur, for he is a good man. there is no danger in the world that cannot be escaped if only one is bold enough, or so i think, though, alas! myself i have lacked courage," she added with a gentle sigh. "now, dear boy," she went on after pausing to recover strength, "i have a third thing to say to you. i have left you some money, as i know that you will have little. it is not every much, but enough, allowing for accidents and the lessening of capital values, to give you £ a year clear. i might have given you more, but did not, for two reasons. the first is, that i have observed that young men who have what is called a competence, say £ or £ a year, very often are content to try and live on it, and to do nothing for themselves, so that in the end it becomes, not a blessing, but a curse. the second is, that to do so i should be obliged to take away from certain charities and institutions which i wish to benefit. that is all i have to say about money. oh! no, there is one more thing. i have also left you the talisman you gave me, and with it this house and grounds. perhaps one day you might like to live here. i have a sort of feeling that it will be useful to you at some great crisis of your fate, and at least it will remind you of me, who have loved and tried to beautify the place. in any case it will always let, and if it becomes a white elephant, you can sell it and the furniture, which is worth something." godfrey began to stammer his thanks, but she cut him short with a wave of her hand, murmuring: "don't let us waste more time on such things, for soon you must go away. already i see that nurse looking at me from the doorway of the other room, and i have something more to say to you. you will come to think that all this spiritualism, as it is called, is nothing but a dangerous folly. well, it is dangerous, like climbing the alps, but one gets a great view from the top. and, oh! from there how small men look and how near are the heavens. i mean, my dear boy, that although i have asked you to abjure séances and so forth, i do pray of you to cultivate the spiritual. the physical, of course, is always with us, for that is nature's law, without which it could not continue. but around and beyond it broods the spirit, as once it did upon the face of the waters, encircling all things; the beginning of all things, and the end. only, as wine cannot be poured into a covered cup, so the spirit cannot flow into a world-sealed heart, and what is the cup without the wine? open your heart, godfrey, and receive the spirit, so that when the mortal perishes the immortal may remain and everlastingly increase. for you know, if we choose death we shall die, and if we choose life we shall live; we, and all that is dear to us." miss ogilvy paused a little to get her breath, then went on: "now, my boy, kiss me and go. but first--one word more. i have taken a strange affection for you, perhaps because we were associated in other existences, i do not know. well, i want to say that from the land whither i am about to be borne, it shall be my great endeavour, if it is so allowed, to watch over you, to help you if there be need, and in the end to be among the first to greet you there, you, or any whom you may love in this journey of yours through life. look, the sun is sinking. now, goodbye till the dawn." he bent down and kissed her and she kissed him back, throwing her thin and feeble arm about his neck, after which the nurse came and hurried him away weeping. at the door he turned back and saw her smile at him, and, oh! on her wasted face were peace and beauty. next day she died. forty-eight hours later godfrey attended her funeral, to which the pasteur boiset was also bidden, and after it was over they were both summoned to the office of a notary where her will was read. she was a rich woman, who left behind her property to the value of quite £ , , most of it in england. indeed, this swiss notary was only concerned with her possessions in lucerne, namely the villa ogilvy, its grounds and furniture, and certain moneys that she had in local securities or at the bank. the house, its appurtenances and contents, were left absolutely to godfrey, the pasteur boiset being appointed trustee of the property until the heir came of age, with a legacy of £ , and an annual allowance of £ for his trouble. moreover, with tender care, except for certain bequests to servants, the testatrix devoted all her swiss moneys to be applied to the upkeep of the place, with the proviso that if it were sold these capital sums should revert to her other heirs in certain proportions. the total of such moneys as would pass with the property, was estimated by the notary to amount to about £ , sterling, after the payment of all state charges and legal expenses. the value of the property itself, with the fine old french furniture and pictures which it contained, was also considerable, but unascertained. for the rest it would appear that godfrey inherited about £ , in england, together with a possible further sum of which the amount was not known, as residuary legatee. this bequest was vested in the english trustees of the testatrix who were instructed to apply the interest for his benefit until he reached the age of twenty-five, after which the capital was to be handed over to him absolutely. godfrey, whose knowledge of the french tongue was still limited, and who was overcome with grief moreover after the sad scene through which he had just passed, listened to all these details with bewilderment. he was not even elated when the grave notary shook his hand and congratulated him with the respect that is accorded to an heir, at the same time expressing a hope that he would be allowed to remain his legal representative in switzerland. indeed, the lad only muttered something and slipped away behind the servants whose sorrow was distracted by the exercise of mental arithmetic as to the amount of their legacies. after his first stupefaction, however, the pasteur could not conceal his innocent joy. a legacy of £ , a trusteeship "of the most important," as he called it, and an allowance of £ for years to come, were to him wonderful wealth and honour. "truly, dear young friend," he said to godfrey, as they left the office, "it was a fortunate hour for me, and for you also, when you entered my humble house. now i am not only your instructor, but the guardian of your magnificent lucerne property. i assure you that i will care for it well. to-morrow i will interview those domestics and dismiss at least half of them, for there are far too many." chapter vii mr. knight and duty the pair returned to kleindorf by the evening diligence, and among the passengers was that same priest who had been their companion on the day of godfrey's arrival. as usual he was prepared to be bellicose, and figuratively, trailed the tails of his coat before his ancient enemy. but the pasteur would not tread on them. indeed, so mild and conciliatory were his answers that at last the priest, who was a good soul at bottom, grew anxious and inquired if he were ill. "no, no," said a voice from the recesses of the dark coach, "monsieur le pasteur has come into money. oh, i have heard!" "is it so? now i understand," remarked the priest with a sniff, "i feared that he had lost his health." then they arrived at kleindorf, and the conversation ended with mutual bows. great was the excitement of madame and juliette at the news which they brought with them. to their ears godfrey's inheritance sounded a tale of untold wealth, nearly , francs! why, they did not know anyone in the neighbourhood of kleindorf who owned so much. and then that fine house, with its gardens and lovely furniture, which was the talk of lucerne. and the pasteur with his , francs clear to be paid immediately, plus an income of , for the next eight years. here were riches indeed. it was wonderful, and all after an acquaintance of only a few months. they looked at godfrey with admiration. truly he must be a remarkable youth who was thus able to attract the love of the wealthy. an idea occurred to madame. why should he not marry juliette? she was vivacious and pretty, fit in every way to become a great lady, even perhaps to adorn the lovely villa ogilvy in future years. she would have a word with juliette, and show her where fortune lay. if the girl had any wit it should be as good as assured, for with her opportunities---- and so, doubtless, it might have chanced had it not been for a certain determined and unconventional young woman far away in england, of whom the persistent memory, however much he might flirt, quite prevented godfrey from falling in love, as otherwise he ought to, and indeed, probably must have done at his age and in his circumstances. perhaps miss juliette, who although young was no fool, also had ideas upon the subject, at any rate at this time, especially as she had found _l'hibou_ always attractive, notwithstanding his star-gazing ways, and the shower of wealth that had descended on him as though direct from the _bon dieu_, did not lessen his charms. if so, who could blame her? when one has been obliged always to look at both sides of a sou and really pretty frocks, such as ladies wear, are almost as unobtainable as godfrey's stars, money becomes important, especially to a girl with an instinct for dress and a love of life. thenceforward, at least, as may be imagined, monsieur godfrey became a very prominent person indeed in the boiset establishment. all his little tastes were consulted; madame moved him into the best spare bedroom, on the ground that the one he occupied would be cold in winter, which, when he was out, juliette made a point of adorning with flowers if these were forthcoming, or failing them with graceful sprays of winter berries. also she worked him some slippers covered with little devils in black silk, which she said he must learn to tread under foot, though whether this might be a covert allusion to his spiritualistic experiences or merely a flight of fancy on her part, godfrey did not know. on the evening of the reading of the will, prompted thereto by the pasteur, that young gentleman wrote a letter to his father, a task which he always thought difficult, to tell him what had happened. as he found explanations impossible, it was brief, though the time occupied in composing drafts, was long. finally it took the following form:-- "my dear father,--i think i told you that i travelled out here with a lady named miss ogilvy, whom i have often seen since. she has just died and left me, as i understand, about £ , , which i am to get when i am twenty-five. meanwhile i am to have the income, so i am glad to say i shall not cost you any more. also she has left me a large house in lucerne with a beautiful garden and a lot of fine furniture, and some money to keep it up. as i can't live there, i suppose it will have to be let. "i hope you are very well. please give my love to mrs. parsons and tell her about this. it is growing very cold here, and the mountains are covered with snow, but there has been little frost. i am getting on well with my french, which i talk with mademoiselle juliette, who knows no english, although she thinks she does. she is a pretty girl and sings nicely. madame, too, is very charming. i work at the other things with the pasteur, who is kind to me. he will write to you also and i will enclose his letter. "your affectionate son, "godfrey." the receipt of this epistle caused astonishment in mr. knight, not unmixed with irritation. why could not the boy be more explicit? who was miss ogilvy, whose name, so far as he could recollect, he now heard for the first time, and how did she come to leave godfrey so much money? the story was so strange that he began to wonder whether it were a joke, or perhaps, an hallucination. if not, there must be a great deal unrevealed. the letter which godfrey said the pasteur would write was not enclosed, and if it had been, probably would not have helped him much as he did not understand french, and could scarcely decipher his cramped calligraphy. lastly, he had heard nothing from any lawyers or trustees. in his bewilderment he went straight to hawk's hall, taking the letter with him, with a view to borrowing books of reference which might enable him to identify miss ogilvy. the butler said that he thought sir john was in and showed him to the morning room, where he found isobel, who informed him that her father had just gone out. their meeting was not affectionate, for as has been told, isobel detested mr. knight, and he detested isobel. moreover, there was a reason, which shall be explained, which just then made him feel uncomfortable in her presence. being there, however, he thought it necessary to explain the object of his visit. "i have had a very strange letter from that odd boy, godfrey," he said, "which makes me want to borrow a book. here it is, perhaps you will read it, as it will save time and explanation." "i don't want to read godfrey's letters," said isobel, stiffly. "it will save time," repeated mr. knight, thrusting it towards her. then, being overcome by curiosity, she read it. the money part did not greatly interest her; money was such a common thing of which she heard so much. what interested her were, first, miss ogilvy and the unexplained reasons of her bequest, and secondly, in a more acute fashion, mademoiselle boiset, who was pretty and sang so nicely. miss ogilvy, whoever she might have been, at any rate, was dead, but juliette clearly was much alive, with her prettiness and good voice. no wonder, then, that she had not heard from godfrey. he was too occupied with the late miss ogilvy and the very present mademoiselle juliette, in whose father's house he was living as one of the family. isobel's face, however, showed none of her wonderings. she read the letter quite composedly, but with such care that afterwards she could have repeated it by heart. then she handed it back, saying: "well, godfrey seems to have been fortunate." "yes, but why? i find no explanation of this bequest--if there is a bequest." "no doubt there is, mr. knight. godfrey was always most truthful and above-board," she answered, looking at him. mr. knight flinched and coloured at her words, and the steady gaze of those grey eyes. she wondered why though she was not to learn for a long while. "i thought perhaps you could lend me some book, or books, which would enable me to find out about miss ogilvy. i have never heard of her before, though i think that in one of his brief communications godfrey did mention a lady who was kind to him in the train." "certainly, there are lots of them. 'who's who'--only she would not be there unless she was very rich, but you might look. peerages; they're no good as she was miss ogilvy, though, of course, she might be the daughter of a baron. 'county families,' red books, etc. let's try some of them." so they did try. various ogilvys there were, but none who gave them any clue. this was not strange, as both miss ogilvy's parents had died in australia, when she was young, leaving her to be brought up by an aunt of another name in england, who was also long dead. so mr. knight retreated baffled. next morning, however, a letter arrived addressed "godfrey knight, esq.," which after his pleasing fashion he opened promptly. it proved to be a communication from a well-known firm of lawyers, which enclosed a copy of miss ogilvy's will, called special attention to the codicil affecting himself, duly executed before the british consul and his clerk in lucerne, gave the names of the english trustees, solicited information as to where the interest on the sum bequeathed was to be paid, and so forth. to this inquiry mr. knight at once replied that the moneys might be paid to him as the father of the legatee, and was furious when all sorts of objections were raised to that course, unless every kind of guarantee were given that they would be used solely and strictly for the benefit of his son. finally, an account had to be opened on which cheques could be drawn signed by one of the trustees and mr. knight. this proviso made the latter even more indignant than before, especially as it was accompanied by an intimation that the trustees would require his son's consent, either by letter or in a personal interview, to any arrangements as to his career, etc., which involved expenditure of the trust moneys. when a somewhat rude and lengthy letter to them to that effect was met with a curt acknowledgment of its receipt and a reference to their previous decision, mr. knight's annoyance hardened into a permanent grievance against his son, whom he seemed to hold responsible for what he called an "affront" to himself. he was a man with large ideas of paternal rights, of which an example may be given that was not without its effect upon the vital interests of others. when isobel returned from london, after the fancy-dress ball, at which she thought she had seen a ghost whilst sitting in the square with her young admirer who was dressed as a knight, she waited for a long while expecting to receive a letter from godfrey. as none came, although she knew from mrs. parsons that he had written home several times, she began to wonder as to the cause of his silence. then an idea occurred to her. supposing that what she had seen was no fancy of her mind, but godfrey himself, who in some mysterious fashion had found his way into that square, perhaps in the hope of seeing her at the ball in order to say goodbye? this was possible, since she had ascertained from some casual remark by his father that he did not leave london until the following morning. if this had happened, if he had seen her "playing the fool," as she expressed it to herself with that good-looking man in the square, what would he have thought of her? she never paused to remember that he had no right to think anything. somehow from childhood she acknowledged in her heart that he had every right, though when she said this to herself, she did not in the least understand all that the admission conveyed. although she bullied and maltreated him at times, yet to herself she always confessed him to be her lord and master. he was the one male creature for whom she cared in the whole world, indeed, putting her mother out of the question, she cared for no other man or woman, and would never learn to do so. for hers was a singular and very rare instance of almost undivided affection centred on a single object. so far as his sex was concerned godfrey was her all, a position of which any man might well be proud in the case of any woman, and especially of one who had many opportunities of devoting herself to others. in her example, however, she was not to be thanked, for the reason that she only followed her nature, or perhaps the dictates of that fate which inspires and rules very great love, whether it be between man and woman, between parent and child, between brother and brother, or between friend and friend. such feelings do not arise, or grow. they simply _are_; the blossoms of a plant that has its secret roots far away in the soil of circumstance beyond our ken, and that, mayhap, has pushed its branches through existences without number, and in the climates of many worlds. so at least it was with isobel, and so it had always been since she kissed the sleeping child in the old refectory of the abbey. she was his, and in a way, however much she might doubt or mistrust, her inner sense and instinct told her that he was always hers, that so he had always been and so always would remain. with the advent of womanhood these truths came home to her with an increased force because she knew--again by instinct--that this fact of womanhood multiplied the chances of attainment to the unity which she desired, however partial that might still prove to be. yet she knew also that this great mutual attraction did not depend on sex, though by the influence of sex it might be quickened and accentuated. it was something much more deep and wide, something which she did not and perhaps never would understand. the sex element was accidental, so much so that the passage of a few earthly years would rob it of its power to attract and make it as though it had never been, but the perfect friendship between their souls was permanent and without shadow of change. she knew, oh!, she knew, although no word of it had ever been spoken between them, that theirs was the love eternal. the quick perception of her woman's mind told her these things, of which godfrey's in its slower growth was not yet aware. animated by this new idea that she had really seen godfrey, and what was much worse, that godfrey had really seen her upon an occasion when she would have much preferred to remain invisible to him, she was filled with remorse, and determined to write him a letter. like that of the young man himself to his father, its composition took her a good deal of time. here it is as copied from her third and final draft:-- "my dear old godfrey,--i have an idea that you were in the square on the night of the fancy ball when i came out, and wore that horrid plantagenet dress which, after all, did not fit. (i sent it to a jumble-sale where no one would buy it, so i gave it to mrs. smilie, who has nine children, to cut into frocks for her little girls.) if you _were_ there, instead of resting before your long journey as you ought to have done, and saw me with a man in armour and a rose--and the rest, of course you will have understood that this was all part of the game. you see, we had to pretend that we were knights and ladies who, when they were not cutting throats or being carried off with their hair down, seem to have wasted their time in giving each other favours, and all that sort of bosh. (we did not know what a favour was, so we used a rose.) the truth is that the young man and his armour, especially his spurs which tore my dress, and everything about him bored me, the more so because all the while i was thinking of--well, other things--how you would get through your journey, and like those french people and the rest. so now, if you _were_ there, you won't be cross, and if you were _not_, and don't understand what i am saying, it isn't worth bothering about. in any case, you had no right to--i mean, be cross. it is i who should be cross with you for poking about in a london square so late and not coming forward to say how do you do and be introduced to the knight. that is all i have to say about the business, so don't write and ask me any questions. "there is no news here--there never is--except that i haven't been into that church since you left, and don't mean to, which makes your father look at me as sourly as though he had eaten a whole hatful of crab-apples. he hates me, you know, and i rather like him for showing it, as it saves me the trouble of trying to keep up appearances. do tell me, when you write, how to explain his ever having been _your_ father. if he still wants you to go into the church i advise you to study the thirty-nine articles. i read them all through yesterday, and how anybody can swear to them in this year of grace i'm sure i don't know. they must shut their eyes and open their mouths, like we used to do when we took powders. by the way, did you ever read anything about buddhism? i've got a book on it which i think rather fine. at any rate, it is a great idea, though i think i should find it difficult to follow 'the way.' "i am sorry to say that mother is not well at all. she coughs a great deal now that essex is getting so damp, and grows thinner and thinner. the doctor says she ought to go to egypt, only father won't hear of it. but i won't write about that or we should have another argument on the fourth commandment. good-bye, dear old boy.--your affectionate isobel. "p.s.--when you write don't tell me all about switzerland and snow-covered mountains and blue, bottomless lakes, etc., which i can read in books. tell me about yourself and what you are doing and thinking--especially what you are thinking. "p.p.s.--that man in armour isn't really good-looking; he has a squint. also he puts scent upon his hair and can't spell. i know because he tried to write a bit of poetry on my programme and got it all wrong." when she had finished this somewhat laboured epistle isobel remembered that she had forgotten to ask godfrey to write down his address. bethinking her that it would be known to mrs. parsons, she took it round to the abbey house, proposing to add it there. as it happened mrs. parsons was out, so she left it with the housemaid, who promised faithfully to give it to her when she returned, with isobel's message as to writing the address on the sealed envelope. in order that she might not forget, the maid placed it on a table by the back door. by ill luck, however, presently through that door, came, not mrs. parsons, but the rev. mr. knight. he saw the letter addressed to godfrey knight, esq., and, though he half pretended to himself that he did not, at once recognized isobel's large, upright hand. taking it from the table he carried it with him into his study and there contemplated it for a while. "that pernicious girl is communicating with godfrey," he said to himself, "which i particularly wish to prevent." a desire came upon him to know what was in the letter, and he began to argue with himself as to his "duty"--that was the word he used. finally he concluded that as godfrey was still so young and so open to bad influences from that quarter, this duty clearly indicated that he should read the letter before it was forwarded. in obedience to this high impulse he opened and read it, with the result that by the time it was finished there was perhaps no more angry clergyman in the british empire. the description of himself looking as though he had eaten a hatful of crab-apples; the impious remarks about the thirty-nine articles; the suggestion that godfrey, instead of going to bed as he had ordered him to do that evening, was wandering about london at midnight; the boldly announced intention of the writer of not going to church--indeed, every word of it irritated him beyond bearing. "well," he said aloud, "i do not think that i am called upon to spend twopence-halfpenny" (for isobel had forgotten the stamp) "in forwarding such poisonous trash to a son whom i should guard from evil. hateful girl! at any rate she shall have no answer to this effusion." then he put the letter into a drawer which he locked. as a consequence, naturally, isobel did receive "no answer," a fact from which she drew her own conclusions. indeed, it would not be too much to say that these seared her soul. she had written to godfrey, she had humbled herself before godfrey, and he sent her--no answer. it never occurred to her to make inquiries as to the fate of that letter, except once when she asked the housemaid whom she chanced to meet, whether she had given it to mrs. parsons. the girl, whose brain, or whatever represented that organ, was entirely fixed upon a young man in the village of whom she was jealous, answered, yes. perhaps she had entirely forgotten the incident, or perhaps she considered the throwing of the letter upon a table as equivalent to delivery. at any rate, isobel, who thought, like most other young people, that when they once have written something, it is conveyed by a magical agency to the addressee, even if left between the leaves of a blotter, accepted the assurance as conclusive. without doubt the letter had gone and duly arrived, only godfrey did not choose to answer it, that was all. perhaps this might be because he was still angry on account of the knight in armour--oh! how she hoped that this was the reason, but, as her cold, common sense, of which she had an unusual share, convinced her, much more probably the explanation was that he was engaged otherwise, and did not think it worth while to take the trouble to write. later on, it is true, she did mean to ask mrs. parsons whether she had forwarded the letter. but as it chanced, before she did so, that good woman burst into a flood of conversation about godfrey, saying how happy he seemed to be in his new home with such nice ladies around, who it was plain, thought so much of him, and so forth. this garrulity isobel took as an intended hint and ceased from her contemplated queries. when some months later mr. knight brought her godfrey's epistle which announced his inheritance, needless to say, everything became plain as a pikestaff to her experienced intelligence. so it came about that two young people, who adored each other, were estranged for a considerable length of time. for isobel wrote no more letters, and the proud and outraged godfrey would rather have died than attempt to open a correspondence--after what he had seen in that london square. it is true that in his brief epistles home, which were all addressed to his father, since mrs. parsons was what is called "a poor scholar," he did try in a roundabout way to learn something about isobel, but these inquiries, for reasons of his own, his parent completely ignored. in short, she might have been dead for all that godfrey heard of her, as he believed that she was dead--to him. meanwhile, isobel had other things to occupy her. her mother, as she had said in the letter which mr. knight's sense of duty compelled him to steal, became very ill with lung trouble. the doctors announced that she ought to be taken to egypt or some other warm climate, such as algeria, for the winter months. sir john would hear nothing of the sort. for years past he had chosen to consider that his wife was hypochondriacal, and all the medical opinions in london would not have induced him to change that view. the fact was, as may be guessed, that it did not suit him to leave england, and that for sundry reasons which need not be detailed, he did not wish that isobel should accompany her mother to what he called "foreign parts." in his secret heart he reflected that if lady jane died, well, she died, and while heaven gained a saint, earth, or at any rate, sir john blake, would be no loser. she had played her part in his life, there was nothing more to be made of her either as a woman as a social asset. what would it matter if one more pale, uninteresting lady of title joined the majority? isobel had one of her stormy interviews with sir john upon this matter of her mother's health. "she ought to go abroad," she said. "who told you that?" asked her father. "the doctors. i waited for them and asked them." "then you had no business to do so. you are an impertinent and interfering chit." "is it impertinent and interfering to be anxious about one's mother's health, even if one is a chit?" inquired isobel, looking him straight in the eyes. then he broke out in his coarse way, saying things to his daughter of which he should have been ashamed. she waited until he ceased, red-faced, and gasping, and replied: "were it not for my mother, whom you abuse, although she is such an angel and has always been so kind to you, i would leave you, father, and earn my own living, or go with my uncle edgar to mexico, where he is to be appointed minister, as he and aunt margaret asked me to. as it is i shall stop here, though if anything happens to mother, because you will not send her abroad, i shall go if i have to run away. why won't you let her go?" she added with a change of voice. "you need not come; i could look after her. if you think that egypt or the other place is too far, you know the doctors say that perhaps switzerland would do her good, and that is quite near." he caught hold of this suggestion, and exclaimed, with a sneer: "i know why you want to go to switzerland, miss. to run after that whipper-snapper of a parson's son, eh? well, you shan't. and as for why i won't let her go, it's because i don't believe those doctors, who say one minute that she should go to egypt, which is hot, and the next to switzerland, which is cold. moreover, i mean you to stop in england, and not go fooling about with a lot of strange men in these foreign places. you are grown up now and out, and i have my own plans for your future, which can't come off if you are away. we stop here till christmas, and then go to london. there, that's all, so have done." at these insults, especially that which had to do with godfrey, isobel turned perfectly scarlet and bit her lip till the blood ran. then without another word she went away, leaving him, if the truth were known, a little frightened. still, he would not alter his decision, partly because to do so must interfere with his plans, and he was a very obstinate man, and partly because he refused to be beaten by isobel. this was, he felt, a trial of strength between them, and if he gave way now, she would be master. his wife's welfare did not enter into his calculations. so they stopped in essex, where matters went as the doctors had foretold, only more quickly than they expected. lady jane's complaint grew rapidly worse, so rapidly that soon there was no question of her going abroad. at the last moment sir john grew frightened, as bullies are apt to do, and on receipt of an indignant letter from lord lynfield, now an old man, who had been informed of the facts by his grand-daughter, offered to send his wife to egypt, or anywhere else. again the doctors were called in to report, and told him with brutal frankness that if their advice had been taken when it was first given, probably she would have lived for some years. as it was, it was impossible for her to travel, since the exertion might cause her death upon the journey, especially if she became seasick. this verdict came to isobel's knowledge as the first had done. indeed, in his confusion, emphasized by several glasses of port, her father blurted it out himself. "i wonder whether you will ever be sorry," was her sole comment. then she sat down to watch her mother die, and to think. could there be any good god, she wondered, if he allowed such things to happen. poor girl! it was her first experience of the sort, and as yet she did not know what things are allowed to happen in this world in obedience to the workings of unalterable laws by whoever and for whatever purpose these may be decreed. being ignorant, however, and still very young and untaught of life, she could not be expected to take these large views, or to guess at the hand of mercy which holds the cup of human woes. she saw her mother fading away because of her father's obstinacy and self-seeking, and it was inconceivable to her that such an unnecessary thing could be allowed by a gentle and loving providence. therefore, she turned her back on providence, as many a strong soul has done before her, rejecting it for the reason that she could not understand. had she but guessed, this attitude of hers, which could not be concealed entirely in the case of a nature so frank, was the bitterest drop in her mother's draught of death. she, poor gentle creature, made no complaints, but only excuses for her husband's conduct. nor, save for isobel's sake did she desire to live. her simple faith upbore her through the fears of departure, and assured her of forgiveness for all errors, and of happiness beyond in a land where there was one at least whom she wished to meet. "i won't try to argue with you, because i am not wise enough to understand such things," she said to isobel, "but i wish, dearest, that you would not be so certain as to matters which are too high for us." "i can't help it, mother," she answered. lady jane looked at her and smiled, and then said: "no, darling, you can't help it now, but i am sure that a time must come when you will think differently. i say this because something tells me that it is so, and the knowledge makes me very happy. you see we must all of us go through darkness and storms in life; that is if we are worth anything, for, of course, there are people who do not feel. yet at the end there is light, and love, and peace, for you as well as for me, isobel; yes, and for all of us who have tried to trust and to repent of what we have done wrong." "as you believe it i hope that it is true; indeed, i think that it must be true, mother dear," said isobel with a little sob. the subject was never discussed between them again, but although isobel showed no outward change of attitude, from that time forward till the end, her mother seemed much easier in her mind about her and her views. "it will all come right. we shall meet again. i know it. i know it," were her last words. she died quite suddenly on the th of december, the day upon which sir john had announced that they were to move to london. as a matter of fact, one of the survivors of this trio was to move much further than to london, namely, isobel herself. it happened thus. the funeral was over; the relatives and the few friends who attended it had departed to their rooms if they were stopping in the house, or elsewhere; isobel and her father were left alone. she confronted him, a tall, slim figure, whose thick blonde hair and pale face contrasted strikingly with her black dress. enormous in shape, for so sir john had grown, carmine-coloured shading to purle about the shaved chin and lips (which were also of rather a curious hue), bald-headed, bold yet shifty-eyed, also clad in black, with a band of crape like to that of a victorian mute, about his shining tall hat, he leaned against the florid, marble mantelpiece, a huge obese blot upon its whiteness. they were a queer contrast, as dissimilar perhaps as two human beings well could be. for a while there was silence between them, which he, whose nerves were not so young or strong as his daughter's, was the first to break. "well, she's dead, poor dear," he said. "yes," answered isobel, her pent-up indignation bursting forth, "and you killed her." then he too burst forth. "damn you, what do you mean, you little minx?" he asked. "why do you say i killed her, because i did what i thought the best for all of us? no woman had a better husband, as i am sure she acknowledges in heaven to-day." "i don't know what mother thinks in heaven, if there is one for her, as there ought to be. but i do know what i think on earth," remarked the burning isobel. "and i know what i think also," shouted her enraged parent, dashing the new, crape-covered hat on to the table in front of him, "and it is that the further you and i are apart from each other, the better we are likely to get on." "i agree with you, father." "look here, isobel, you said that your uncle edgar, who has been appointed minister to mexico, offered to take you with him to be a companion to his daughter, your cousin emily. well, you can go if you like. i'll pay the shot and shut up this house for a while. i'm sick of the cursed place, and can get to harwich just as well from london. write and make the arrangements, for one year, no more. by that time your temper may have improved," he added with an ugly sneer. "thank you, father, i will." he stared at her for a little while. she met his gaze unflinchingly, and in the end it was not her eyes that dropped. then with a smothered exclamation he stamped out of the room, kicking isobel's little terrier out of the path with his elephantine foot. the poor beast, of which she was very fond, limped to her whining, for it was much hurt. she took it in her arms and kissed it, weeping tears of wrath and pity. "i wonder what godfrey would say about the fifth commandment if he had been here this afternoon, you poor thing," she whispered to the whimpering dog, which was licking its hanging leg. "there is no god. if there had been he would not have given me such a father, or my mother such a husband." then still carrying the injured terrier, she went out and glided through the darkness to her mother's grave in the neighbouring churchyard. the sextons had done their work, and the raw, brown earth of the grave, mixed with bits of decayed coffins and fragments of perished human bones, was covered with hot-house flowers. among these lay a gorgeous wreath of white and purple orchids, to which was tied a card whereon was written: "to my darling wife, from her bereaved husband, john blake." isobel lifted the wreath from its place of honour and threw it over the the churchyard wall. then she wept and wept as though her heart would break. chapter viii the pasteur takes the field in due course godfrey received an epistle of frigid congratulation from his father upon his accession to wealth which, he remarked, would be of assistance to him in his future clerical career. the rest of the letter was full of complaints against the indignities that had been heaped upon him by miss ogilvy's executors and trustees, and also against godfrey himself for not having furnished him with more information concerning the circumstances surrounding his inheritance. lastly, mr. knight enclosed a paper which he requested godfrey to sign and return, authorizing him to deal with the income of the legacy. this godfrey did obediently, only a week or two later to receive a formal notification from the lawyers, sent to him direct this time as his address had been filled in on the authority, informing him that he had no power to sign such documents, he being in fact under age, and suggesting that he should refrain from doing so in the future. enclosed were copies of their first letter to him, and of the other documents which mr. knight had not thought it worth while to forward because, as he said, they were heavy and foreign postage was so expensive. further the trustees announced that they proposed to allow him £ a year out of the income for his personal needs, which would be paid half-yearly, and enclosed a draft for £ , which was more money than ever godfrey had possessed before. this draft he was desired to acknowledge, and generally to keep himself in touch with the trustees, and to consult them before taking any step of importance, also as to his future career. all this, with the sense of independence which it gave him, was agreeable enough to godfrey, as it would have been to any youth. he acknowledged the draft under the guidance of the pasteur, saying that he would write again when he had anything to communicate, but that as yet he had not made up his mind as to his future, and proposed to stay where he was, continuing his studies, if his father would allow him to do so. next he took an opportunity to go to lucerne with the pasteur, who wished to inspect the villa ogilvy and consult the notary as to an inventory of its contents and arrangements for its upkeep. godfrey, who was received by the servants with many bows, and requests that they might be allowed to continue in their employment, wandered through the big rooms which looked so desolate now, and stared until he was tired at examples of beautiful french furniture, of which he understood nothing. then, oppressed by memories of his kind friend into whose death chamber he had blundered, and, as it seemed to him, by a sense of her presence which he imagined was warning him of something, he left the house, telling the pasteur, who was peering about him through his blue spectacles in an innocent and interested way, that he would meet him at the five o'clock diligence. indeed, he had business of his own to do, which seemed to him more important than all this stock-taking and legal discussion. having plenty of money in his pocket godfrey wished to spend some of it in presents. first, he bought a large meerschaum pipe with a flexible stem as a gift to the pasteur, whom he had heard admire this very pipe in the shop window and express regrets that it was too expensive for his means. having paid down thirty francs like a man for this treasure, he proceeded to a jeweller's near by. there he acquired a necklace of amethysts set with great taste in local silver work, for madame to wear, and a charming silver watch of the best swiss make for juliette. when he found that these objects involved an expenditure of fourteen sovereigns, he was a little staggered, but again smiled and paid up. there was also a lovely little ring of gold with two turquoise hearts that he bought for £ to send to isobel _when_ she wrote to him. but, as isobel had posted her letter in mr. knight's drawer, that ring never reached her finger for many a day. these gifts safely in his pocket, he began to stroll towards the railway station, whence the diligence started, slowly, as he had plenty of time. as he went he saw, in a shop window, a beautiful stick of olive wood, with an ebony crook. it was marked ten francs, and he coveted it greatly, but reflected with a sigh that having spent so much on others he could afford nothing for himself, for godfrey was an unselfish soul. instead he bought a collar of swiss lace for mrs. parsons. immediately after he left the lace shop he became aware that he was being shadowed. he heard no footfall, and he saw no one, but he _knew_ that this was so; he could feel it down his back, and in a cold wind which blew across his hands, as it had done always at the villa ogilvy séances. the road that he was following led across some public gardens beneath an avenue of trees, which, of course, at this time of the year, were leafless. this avenue was lighted here and there, and beneath one of the gas lamps godfrey wheeled round to see madame riennes advancing on him out of the gloom. her stout form padded forward noiselessly, except for the occasional crackle of a dead and frosted leaf beneath her foot. she wore a thick cloak of some sort with a black hood that framed her large, white face, making her look like a monk of the inquisition as depicted in various old prints. beneath the blackness of this hood and above the rigid line of the set mouth, stared two prominent and glowing eyes, in which the gaslight was reflected. they reminded godfrey of those of a stalking cat in a dark room. indeed, from the moment that he caught sight of them he felt like the mouse cowering in a corner, or like a bird in a tree fascinated by the snake that writhes towards it along the bough. "ah, _mon petit_," said madame, in her thick, creamy voice, that seemed to emerge from her lower regions, "so i have found you. i was walking through the town and a notion came to me that you were here, a--what you call it?--instinct like that which make the dog find its master. only i master and you dog, eh?" godfrey tried to pull himself together, feeling that it would not be wise to show fear of this woman, and greeted her as politely as he could, taking off his hat with a flourish in the foreign fashion. "put that hat back on your head, _mon petit_, or you will catch cold and be ill, you who are much too precious to be ill. listen, now: i have something to say to you. you have great luck, have you not? ah! sweet sister helen, she go to join the spirits, quite quick, as i tell her a little while ago she will do, and she leaves you much money, though to me, her old friend, her sister in the speerit, she give not one sou, although she know i want it. well, i think there some mistake, and i wish to talk to sister helen about this money business. i think she leave me something, somehow, if i can find out where. and you, dear _petit_, can help me. next sunday you will come to my rooms of which i give you address," and she thrust a card into his hand, "and we will talk with sister helen, or at least with eleanor, your little friend." godfrey shook his head vigorously, but she took no notice. "what have you been buying," she went on, "with sister helen's money? presents, i think. yes, yes, i see them in your pocket," and she fixed her eyes upon the unhappy godfrey's pocket, at least that is where he felt them. "oh! very pretty presents. necklace for the fine madame, of whom i can tell you some stories. watch for pretty mees, with the red, pouting lips, so nice to kiss. pipe for good old pasteur, to smoke while he think of heaven, where one time he sit all day and do nothing for ever; lace for someone else, i know not who, and i think a charming ring for one who will not wear it just yet; a big girl with a pale face and eyes that flash, but can grow soft. one who would know how to love, eh! yes, not a doll, but one who would know how to love like a woman should. am i right?" the confused godfrey babbled something about a shop, and was silent. "well, never mind the shop, my leetle friend. you come to my shop next sunday, eh?" "no," said godfrey, "i have had enough of spirits." "yes, perhaps, though the speerits have been your good friends, taking sister helen, who has left something behind her. but those dear speerits, they have not had enough of you; they very faithful souls, especially that pretty eleanor. i tell you, mr. godfrey, you will come to see me next sunday, and if you not come, i'll fetch you." "fetch me! how?" "look at my eyes, that's how. i put you to sleep many times now, and i have power to make you come where i want and do what i wish. you do not believe me, eh? well, now i show you. come, _mon petit_, and give your dear godmamma a kiss," and she smiled at him like an ogress. now the last thing in the whole world that godfrey wished to do was to embrace madame riennes, whom he loathed so that every fibre of his body shrank from her. yet, oh horror! a wild impulse to kiss her took possession of him. in vain he struggled; he tried to step backwards, and instead went forwards, he tried to turn his head away, but those glowing eyes held and drew him as a magnet draws a needle. and as the needle rolls across the table ever more quickly towards the magnet, so did the unwilling godfrey gravitate towards madame riennes. and now, oh! now her stout arm was about his neck, and now--he was impressing a fervent embrace upon her dome-like brow. "there! what did i tell you, you nice, kind, little godfrey," she gurgled with a hollow laugh. "your dear godmamma thanks you, and you must run to catch that diligence. _au revoir_ till sunday afternoon. do not trouble about the hour, you will know exactly when to start. now go." she made a movement of her big, white hand, with the result that godfrey felt like a spring which had been suddenly released. next instant, still pursued by that gurgling laughter, he was running hard towards the diligence. fortunately the pasteur was so full of talk about the house and his business with the notary, that there was no need for godfrey to speak in the coach, or indeed at dinner. then after the meal was finished he produced his presents, and with blushes and stammers offered them to the various members of the family. what rapture there was! madame was delighted with her necklace, which she said and truly, was in the best of taste. juliette kissed the watch, and looked as though she would like to kiss the donor, as indeed was her case. the pasteur examined the fine pipe through his blue spectacles, saying that never had he expected to own one so beautiful, then at once filled it and began to smoke. after this they all scolded him for his extravagance. "you did not buy anything for yourself," said juliette, reproachfully. "oh! yes, i see you did," and she pretended to perceive for the first time the little red case containing the ring, which inadvertently he had pulled out of his pocket with the other articles, although in truth she had observed it from the beginning. "let us learn what it is," she went on, possessing herself of and opening the case. "oh! a ring, what a pretty ring, with two hearts. for whom is the ring, monsieur godfrey? someone in england?" then godfrey, overcome, told a lie. "no, for myself," he said. juliette looked at him and exclaimed: "then you should have told the jeweller to make it big enough. try and you will see." he turned red as a boiled lobster. mademoiselle stood opposite to him, shaking her pretty head, and murmuring: "_quel mensonge! quel bête mensonge!_" while madame broke into a low and melodious laughter, and as she laughed, looked first at the ring and then at juliette's shapely hand. "make not a mock of our young friend," said the pasteur, suddenly lifting his glance, or rather his spectacles from a long contemplation of that noble pipe and becoming aware of what was passing. "we all have our presents, which are magnificent. what then is our affair with the ring? pardon them, and put it in your pocket, godfrey, and come, let us go to the observatory, for the night is fine, and by now the stove will be warm." so they went, and soon were engaged in contemplation of the stars, an occupation which absorbed godfrey so much that for a while he forgot all his troubles. when the door had shut behind them madame looked at juliette, who with her new watch held to her ear, observed her out of the corners of her eyes. "i find him charming," said madame presently. "yes, mamma," replied juliette, "so bright and even the tick is musical." "stupid!" exclaimed madame. "when i was your age--well." "pardon!" said juliette, opening her eyes innocently. "child, i meant our young english friend. i repeat that i find him charming." "of course, mamma--after that necklace." "and you--after that watch?" "oh! well enough, though too grave perhaps, and fond of what is far off--i mean stars," she added hurriedly. "stars! pish! it is but because there is nothing nearer. at his age--stars!--well of a sort, perhaps." she paused while juliette still looked provokingly innocent. so her mother took a long step forward, for in truth she grew impatient with all this obtuseness in which, for reasons of her own, she did not believe. "if i were a girl of your age," mused madame as though to herself, "i do not think that ring would go to england." "how, mamma, would you steal it?" "no, but i would make sure that it was given to me." now juliette could no longer feign not to understand. she said nothing, but turned as red as godfrey had done a little while before and stood waiting. "i find him charming," repeated madame, "though he is so young, which is a fault that will mend," and she fixed her eyes upon her daughter's face with a look of interrogation. then juliette gave a little sigh and answered: "good. if you will make me say it, so do i also, at least, sometimes i think so, when he is not dull," and turning she fled from the room. madame smiled as the door closed behind her. "that goes well, and should go better," she said to herself. "only, for whom is the ring? there must be some girl in england, although of her he says nothing. _peste!_ there are so many girls. still, she is far away, and this one is near. but it could be wished that she were more experienced, for then, since she likes him well enough, all would be sure. what does a man count in such a case--especially when he is so young? pish! nothing at all," and madame snapped her fingers at the empty air. "it is the woman who holds the cards, if only she knows how to play them." now all these things happened on a wednesday. when godfrey went to bed that night uncomfortable memories of madame riennes, and of the chaste embrace which she had forced him to impress upon her expansive forehead, haunted him for a while, also fears for the future. however, sunday was still a long way off, so he went to sleep and dreamed that he was buying presents at every shop in lucerne and giving them all to madame riennes. on thursday he was quite happy. on friday he began to suffer from uneasiness, which on saturday became very pronounced. it seemed to him that already waves of influence were creeping towards him like the fringes of some miasmic mist. doubtless it was imagination, but he could feel their first frail tentacles wrapping themselves around his will, and drawing him towards lucerne. as the day went on the tentacles grew stronger, till by evening there might have been a very octopus behind them. if this were so that night, he wondered what would happen on the following day, when the octopus began to pull. on one point he was determined. he would not go; never would he allow madame riennes to put him to sleep again, and what was much worse to make him kiss her. at any rate that spirit, eleanor, was beautiful and attractive--but madame riennes! rather than forgather with her again in this affectionate manner, much as he dreaded it--or her--he would have compounded with the ghost called eleanor. now, although like most young people, godfrey was indolent and evasive of difficulties, fearful of facing troubles also, he had a bedrock of character. there were points beyond which he would not go, even for the sake of peace. but here a trouble came in; he was well aware that although he would not go--to madame riennes to wit--there was something stronger than himself which would make him go. it was the old story over again set out by st. paul once and for ever, that of the two laws which make a shuttlecock of man so that he must do what he wills not. having once given way to madame riennes, who was to him a kind of sin incarnate, he had become her servant, and if she wished to put him to sleep, or to do anything else with him, well, however much he hated it, he must obey. the thought terrified him. what could he do? he had tried prayers, never before had he prayed so hard in all his life; but they did not seem to be of the slightest use. no guardian angel, not even eleanor, appeared to protect him from madame riennes, and meanwhile, the fog was creeping on, and the octopus tentacles were gripping tighter. in his emergency there rose the countenance of miss ogilvy's dying counsel, welcome and unexpected as light of the moon to a lost traveller on a cloud-clothed night. what had she told him to do? to resist madame riennes. he had tried that with lamentable results. to invoke the help of religion. he had tried that with strictly negative results; the powers above did not seem inclined to intervene in this private affair. to appeal to the pasteur. that he had not tried but, unpromising as the venture seemed to be, by jove! he would. in his imminent peril there was nothing to which he would have appealed, even mumbo-jumbo itself if it gave him the slightest hope of protection from madame riennes. accordingly, when they went to the observatory that night, instead of applying his eye to the telescope in the accustomed fashion, godfrey rushed at the business like a bull at a gate. at first the pasteur was entirely confused, especially as godfrey spoke in english, which the preceptor must translate into french in his own mind. by degrees, however, he became extraordinarily interested, so much so that he let the new pipe go out, and what was very rare with him, except in the most moving passages of his own sermons, pushed the blue spectacles from his high nose upwards, till they caught upon the patch of grizzled hair which remained upon his bald head. "ah!" he said, answering in french, which by now godfrey understood fairly well, "this is truly exciting; at last i come in touch with the thing. know, godfrey, that you furnish me with a great occasion. long have i studied this, what you call it--demonology. of it i know much, though not from actual touch therewith." then he began to talk of gnosticism, and witchcraft, and _incubi_, and _succubi_, and the developments of modern spiritualism, till godfrey was quite bewildered. at length he paused, relit the new pipe, and said: "these matters we will study afterwards; they are, i assure you, most entertaining. meanwhile, we have to deal with your madame riennes. all right, oh! quite all right. i will be her match. she will not make _me_ kiss her, no, not at all, not at all! be tranquil, young friend, if to-morrow you feel the impulse to go, go you shall, but i will go with you. then we will see. now to bed and sleep well. for me, i must study; i have many books on this subject, and there are points whereon i would refresh myself. be not afraid. i know much of madame riennes and i will leave her flat as that," and with surprising alacrity he jumped on a large black beetle which, unhappily for itself, just then ran across the observatory floor to enjoy the warmth of the stove. "wait," he added, as godfrey was leaving. "first kneel down, i have memory of the ancient prayer, or if i forget bits, i can fill in the holes." godfrey obeyed in a rather abject fashion, whereon the old pasteur, waving the pipe above his head, from which emerged lines of blue smoke such as might have been accessory to an incantation, repeated over him something in latin, that, owing to the foreign accent, he could not in the least understand. it ended, however, with the sign of the cross made with the bowl of the pipe, which the pasteur forgot still remained in his hand. fortified by the accession of this new ally, godfrey slept fairly well, till within a little while of dawn, when he was awakened by a sound of rapping. at first he thought that these raps, which seemed very loud and distinct, were made by someone knocking on the door, perhaps to tell him there was a fire, and faintly murmured "_entrez_." then to his horror he became aware that they proceeded, not from the door, but from the back of his wooden bedstead, immediately above him, and at the same time recollected that he had heard similar noises while sitting at the little table in the villa ogilvy, which the mystics gathered there declared were produced by spirits. his hair rose upon his head, a cold perspiration trickled down him; he shook in every limb. he thought of lighting a candle, but reflected that it was on the chest of drawers at the other side of the room, also that he did not know where he had put the matches. he thought of flying to the pasteur, but remembered that to do so, first he must get out of bed, and perhaps expose his bare legs to the assault of ghostly hands, and next that, to reach the chamber of monsieur and madame boiset, he must pass through the sanctuary of the room occupied by juliette. so he compromised by retiring under the clothes, much as a tortoise draws its head into its shell. this expedient proved quite useless, for there beneath the blankets the raps sounded louder than ever. moreover, of a sudden the bed seemed to be filled with a cold and unnatural air, which blew all about him, especially upon his hands, though he tried to protect these by placing them under his back. now godfrey knew something of the inadequate and clumsy methods affected by alleged communicating spirits, and half automatically began to repeat the alphabet. when he got to the letter i, there was a loud rap. he began again, and at a came another rap. once more he tried, for something seemed to make him do so, and was stopped at m. "i am," he murmured, and recommenced until the word "here" was spelt out, after which came three rapid raps to signify a full stop. "who is here?" he asked in his own mind, at the same time determining that he would leave it at that. it was of no use at all, for the other party evidently intended to go on. there was a perfect rain of raps, on the bed, off the bed, on the floor, even on the jug by the washstand; indeed, he thought that this and other articles were being moved about the room. to stop this multiform assault once more he took refuge in the alphabet, with the result that the raps unmistakably spelt the word "eleanor." "great heavens!" he thought to himself, "that dreadful spirit girl here, in my bedroom! how can she? it is most improper, but i don't suppose she cares a sou for that." in his despair and alarm he tucked the clothes tightly round him, and thrusting out his head, said in trembling accents: "please go away. you know i never asked you to come, and really it isn't right," remarks which he thought, though, like all the rest, this may have been fancy, were followed by a sound of ghostly laughter. what was more, the bedclothes suddenly slipped off him, or--oh horror! perhaps they were pulled off. at any rate, they went, and when next he saw them they were lying in a heap by the side of the bed. then it would seem that he fainted, overcome by these terrors, real or imaginary. at any rate, when he opened his eyes again it was to see the daylight creeping into the room (never before had he appreciated so thoroughly the beauties of the dawn) and to find himself lying half frozen on the bed with the pillow, which he was clasping affectionately, for his sole covering. at breakfast that morning he looked so peculiar and dilapidated, that madame and juliette made tender inquiries as to his health, to which he replied that his bedclothes had come off in the night and the cold had given him a chill "in the middle." they were very sympathetic, and dosed him with hot _café-au-lait_, but the pasteur, studying him through the blue spectacles, said, "ah, is it so?" in a kind of triumphant tone which madame designated as "_bête_." indeed, to those unacquainted with what was passing in m. boiset's mind, it must have seemed particularly stupid. when breakfast was over he possessed himself of godfrey, and led him to the observatory, where the stove was already lit, though this was not usual in the daytime, especially on sundays. "now, my boy, tell me all about it," he said, and godfrey told him, feebly suggesting that it might have been a nightmare. "nightmare! nonsense. the witch riennes has sent her demon to torment you, that is all. i thought she would. it is quite according to rule, a most clear and excellent case. indeed, i _am_ a lucky student." "i don't believe in witches," said godfrey, "i always heard they were rubbish." "ah! i don't know. here in the mountains these swiss people believe in them, and tell strange stories, some of which i have heard as their pasteur, especially when i held office among the high alps. also the bible speaks of them often, does it not, and what was, is, and shall be, as solomon says. oh! why hesitate? without doubt this woman is a witch who poses as an innocent modern spiritualist. but she shall not send her pretty female devil after you again, for i will make that room impossible to her." "please do," said godfrey. "and as for madame riennes, it is certainly strange that she should have known about the things i had in my pocket the other day, although of course, she may have followed me into the shops." "yes, yes, she followed you into the shops, she or her demon, though perhaps you would not see her there. what did you tell me? that in the villa you thought that the dead mademoiselle was warning you against something? well, perhaps she was, for she was a good woman, though weak and foolish to trust to spiritualism, and now, without doubt, she sees all, and would protect you of whom she is fond." "then i wish she had done it a little better," said godfrey. "oh! listen, there's a rap!" a rap there was certainly, on the hot iron of the stove, a resonant, ringing rap. the pasteur advanced and made an examination, and while he was doing so there came another. what is more, in a most inexplicable fashion his blue spectacles flew from his nose. very solemnly he found and replaced them and then, with the utmost dignity, addressing himself to the stove, he cursed and exorcised that article of domestic furniture in his best mediæval latin. apparently the effort was successful, for there were no more manifestations. "listen, my boy. you do not part from me this day. presently we go to church, and you sit under me where i can keep my eye on you. if you make one movement towards the door, i descend from the desk or the pulpit, and take you back there with me." "i don't want to move," said godfrey. "no, but there are others who may want to move you. then after church we dine, and after dinner we take a nice walk through the woods arm in arm. yes, perhaps we go as far as lucerne and pay a little visit there, since this afternoon i have arranged that there is no service." so godfrey went to church and sat under the cold, blue glare of the pasteur's spectacles, listening to a really eloquent sermon, for his preaching was excellent. he took his text from the story of saul and the witch of endor, and after dwelling on it and its moral, opened up the whole problem of the hidden influences which may, and probably do, affect the human soul. he gave a short but learned account of the history of demonology throughout the ages, which evidently he had at his fingers' ends. he distinguished between good and evil spirits, and while not denying the lawfulness of such research, pointed out the peril that the seeker ran, since in his quest for the good he might find the evil. finally, he demonstrated that there was a sure refuge from all such demoniacal attacks, which those who suffered from them had but to seek. madame dozed during this sermon. juliette wondered what had sent her father down that road, and the little congregation, those of them who understood, thought it a pleasant change from his usual discourse upon their sins, since they at least had never practised demonology. but to godfrey, to whom, indeed, it was addressed, it brought much comfort, for in the pasteur and his pure and beautiful doctrine, he saw a rock on which he might stand secure, defying madame riennes and eleanor, and all the hosts of hell behind them. then came dinner. it was towards the middle of this meal that godfrey began to feel very ill at ease. he fidgeted, he looked towards the door, he half rose and sat down again. "do you perchance wish to go out?" asked the pasteur, who was keeping him under constant observation. "what of it if he does?" interrupted madame. "did not monsieur godfrey inform us that he was unwell? go then, monsieur godfrey." "no, not so," said the pasteur. "remain seated. in one minute i will be ready to accompany you." "_mon dieu!_ what for?" exclaimed madame. "never did i hear of such a thing," while even juliette looked amazed. meanwhile godfrey had risen and was making for the door, with a fixed and sickly smile upon his face. the pasteur swallowed down his _vin ordinaire_ and rushed after him. "he is ill," said juliette, with sympathy, "all day he has looked strange." "perhaps," said madame. "that sermon of your father's was enough to turn anybody's stomach, with his talk about devils and witches. but why cannot he leave him alone? a doctor in such a case perhaps, but a clergyman----! _mon dieu!_ there they go, the two of them walking towards the woods. what a strange idea! and your father has monsieur godfrey by the arm, although assuredly he is not faint for he pulls ahead as though in a great hurry. they must be mad, both of them. i have half a mind----" "no, no, mother," said juliette. "leave them alone. doubtless in time they will return. perhaps it has something to do with the stars." "silly girl! stars at midday!" "well, mamma, you know they are always there even if one cannot see them." "nonsense, child. they only come at night. the question is--where are those two going?" juliette shook her head and gave it up, and so perforce did her mother. chapter ix the pasteur conquers meanwhile, following a short cut through the snowy woods that ran over the shoulder of the intervening hill, the pair were wending their way towards lucerne. godfrey, a fixed and vacant look upon his face, went first; the pasteur clinging to his arm like a limpet to a rock, puffed along beside him. "heaven!" he gasped, "but this attraction of yours must be strong that it makes you walk so fast immediately after dinner." "it is, it is!" said godfrey, in a kind of agony. "i feel as though my inside were being drawn out, and i must follow it. please hold my arm tight or i shall run." "ah! the witch. the great witch!" puffed the pasteur, "and up this hill too, over snow. well, it will be better on the down grade. give me your hand, my boy, for your coat is slipping, and if once you got away how should i catch you?" they accomplished the walk into lucerne in absolutely record time. fortunately, at this after-dinner hour few people were about, but some of those whom they met stared at them, and one called: "do you take him to the police-station? shall i summon the _gens-d'arme_?" "no, no," replied the pasteur, "he goes to keep an assignation, and is in a hurry." "then why does he take you with him? surely a clergyman will make a bad third at such an affair?" ejaculated an outspoken lady who was standing at her house door. "where is the street? i do not know it," asked the pasteur. "nor do i," answered godfrey, "but we shall come there all right. to the left now." "oh! the influence! the strong influence!" muttered monsieur boiset. "behold! it leads him." truly it did lead him. round corners and across squares they went into an old part of the town with which neither of them was acquainted, till at length godfrey, diving beneath an archway, pulled up in front of an antique doorway, saying: "i think this is the place." "look at the writing and make sure," said the pasteur, "for it seems ridiculous----" at that moment the door opened mysteriously, and godfrey disappeared into the passage beyond. scarcely had the pasteur time to follow him when it shut again, although he could see no _concierge_. "doubtless it is one of those that works with a wire," he thought to himself, but he had no time to stop to look, for already godfrey was climbing the stairs. up he went, three floors, and up after him scrambled the pasteur. suddenly godfrey stopped at a door and not waiting to ring the bell, knocked with his hand. immediately it opened and godfrey, with his companion, passed into a very dark hall round which were several other doors. here in the gloom the pasteur lost him. godfrey had gone through one of the doors, but which he could not see. he stood still, listening, and presently heard a deep peculiar voice speaking english with a very foreign accent, say: "so you have come to see your godmamma, my dear little clever boy. well, i thought you would, and last night i sent you a pretty messenger to give you remembrance." then the pasteur found the handle of the door and entered the room. it was a curious place draped, not without taste of a bizarre kind, in vivid colours, wherein purple dominated, and it gave an idea of mingled magnificence and squalor. some of the furniture was very good, as were one or two of the pictures, though all of it was of an odd and unusual make. thus, the sideboard was shaped like a sarcophagus, and supported on solid sphinxes with gilded faces. in a corner of the room also stood an unwrapped mummy in a glass case. in the midst of all this stood a common deal table, whereon were a black bottle, and the remains of madame's meal, which seemed to have consisted of large supplies of underdone meat. in front of the fire was a large, well-worn couch, and by it a small stout table such as spiritualists use, on which gleamed a ball of glass or crystal. on this couch was seated madame clad in a kind of black dressing-gown and a wide gold scarf tied about her ample waist. her fat, massive face was painted and powdered; on her head she wore a kind of mantilla also gold-coloured, and about her neck a string of old egyptian amulets. anything more unwholesome or uncanny than were her general appearance and surroundings as the bright flames of the fire showed them in this stuffy, shadowed room, it would be impossible to imagine. "sit down here by my side, my little son in the speerit, where i have made a place ready for you, and let me hold your hand while you tell me all that you have been doing and if you have been thinking much of me and that beautiful eleanor whom i sent to see you last night," went on madame riennes in her ogreish, purring voice, patting the sofa. just then she looked up and caught sight of the pasteur standing in the shadow. staring at him with her fierce, prominent eyes, she started violently as though at last she had seen something of which she was afraid. "say, my godfrey," she exclaimed in a rather doubtful voice, "what is this that you have brought with you? is it a scarecrow from the fields? or is it a speerit of your own? if so, i should have thought that a young man would have liked better the lovely eleanor than this old devil." "yes, madame jezebel," said the pasteur striding forward, speaking in a loud, high voice and waving a large umbrella, which had come partly unfolded in his hurried walk. "it is a scarecrow--one that scares the crows of hell who seek to pick out the souls of the innocent, like _you_, madame jezebel." madame uttered a voluminous oath in some strange tongue, and sprang to her feet with an agility surprising in one so stout. "say, who are you?" she ejaculated in french, confronting him. "i am the pasteur boiset who accompany my ward to pay this little call, madame." "oh! indeed. that thief of a clergyman, who got his finger into the pie of dead mademoiselle, eh? well, there are no more pickings here, pasteur, but perhaps you come to have your fortune told. shall i look in the crystal for you and tell you nice things about--what shall we say? about the past of that handsome madame of yours, for instance? oh! i will do it for love, yes, for love. or shall i make that mummy speak for you? i can, for once i lived in that body of hers--it was a gay life," and she stopped, gasping. "hearken, woman," said the pasteur, "and do not think to frighten me. i know all about my wife, and, if once she was foolish, what of it in a world where none are altogether wise? if you do not wish to visit the police cell, you will do well to leave her alone. as for your tricks of chicanery, i want none of them. what i want is that you take off the spell which you have laid upon this poor boy, as satan your master has given you the power to do. now, obey me--or----" "or? or what, you old paid advocate of god?" "that is a good term. if i am an advocate, i know my employer's mind, i, who have taken his fee, and am therefore in honour bound to serve him faithfully. now i will tell you his mind about you. it is that unless you change your ways and repent, soon you will go to hell. yes, quite soon, i think, for one so fat cannot be very strong in the heart. do what i bid you, madame, or i, the advocate of god, having his authority, will curse you in the name of god, and in the ancient form of which you may have heard." "bah! would you frighten me, the great madame riennes who have spirits at my command and who, as you admit, can lay on spells and take them off. a flea for you and your god!" "spirits at your command! yes, some of them in there, i think," and he pointed to the black bottle on the table, "and others too, perhaps; i will not deny it. well, let them advance, and we will see who is on the top of the mountain, i, the old paid advocate of god, or you and your spirits, madame," and hooking the handle of the big umbrella over his wrist, he folded his arms and stared at her through the blue spectacles. madame riennes gibbered some invocation, but nothing happened. "i await your spirits. they cannot have gone to bed so early," remarked the pasteur like a new elijah. then, also like elijah, to use a vulgarism, he "sailed in" after a way which even the terrified godfrey, who was crouching against one of the purple curtains, felt to be really magnificent with such artistic sense as remained to him. in his mediæval latin which, spoken with a foreign accent, godfrey, although a good scholar, could scarcely follow save for certain holy names, he cursed madame riennes in some archaic but most effective fashion. he consigned, this much godfrey made out, her soul to hell and her body to a number of the most uncomfortable experiences. he trailed her in the dust at the rear of his theological chariot; he descended from the chariot, so to speak, and jumped upon her as he had done upon the beetle; he tossed up her mangled remains as the holy bull, apis of the egyptians, might have done with those of a greek blasphemer. then, like a triumphant pugilist, metaphorically he stood over her and asked her if she wanted any more. for a little while madame riennes was crushed, also very evidently frightened, for those who deal in the supernatural are afraid of the supernatural. indeed, none of us welcome the curse even of a malignant and disappointed beggar, or of the venomous gipsy angered by this or that, and much less that of a righteous man inspired by just and holy indignation. madame riennes, an expert in the trade, a dealer in maledictions, was not exempt from this common prejudice. as she would have expressed it, she felt that he had the power on his side. but madame was no common charlatan; she had strength of a sort, though where it came from who could say? moreover, for all kinds of secret reasons of her own, she desired to keep in her grip this boy godfrey, who had shown himself to be so wonderful a medium or clairvoyant. to her he meant strength and fortune; also for him she had conceived some kind of unholy liking in the recesses of her dark soul. therefore, she was not prepared to give him up without a struggle. presently madame seemed to cast off the influences with which the pasteur had overwhelmed her. while his maledictions were in full flow she sank in a huddled heap upon the couch. of a sudden she revived; she sprang up; notwithstanding her bulk she leapt into the air like a ballet-dancer. she tore the golden mantilla from her head, letting down a flood of raven hair, streaked with grey, and waved it round her. she called upon the names of spirits or demons, long, resounding names with an eastern ring about them, to come to her aid. then she pranced into the centre of the room, crying: "dog of a clergyman, i defy you and will overcome you. that boy's soul is mine, not yours. i am the greatest mesmerist in the world and he is in my net. i will show you!" she turned towards the shrivelled, almost naked mummy in the case, and addressed it: "o nofri," she said, "priestess of set, great seeress and magician of the old world in whom once my spirit dwelt, send forth your ka, your everlasting emanation, to help me. crush this black hound. come forth, come forth!" as she spoke the fearful godfrey in his corner saw the door of the glass case fly open, also as he thought, probably erroneously, that he saw the mummy move, lifting its stiff legs and champing its iron jaws so that the yellow, ancient teeth caught the light as they moved. then he heard and saw something else. suddenly the pasteur in tones that rang like a trumpet, cried out: "she seems to hesitate, this mummy of yours, madame. let me be polite and help her." with a single bound he was in front of the case. with the hook of his big umbrella he caught the shrivelled thing round the neck; with his long thin arm he gripped it about the middle, just like somebody leading a lady to the dance, thought godfrey. then he bent himself and pulled. out flew the age-withered corpse. the head came off, the body broke above the hips and fell upon the floor, leaving the legs standing in the case, a ghastly spectacle. on to this severed trunk the pasteur leapt, again as he had done upon the black beetle. it crunched and crumbled, filling the air with a pungent, resinous dust. then he stood amidst the débris, and placing his right foot upon what had been the mummy's nose, said mildly: "now, madame, what next? this lady is finished?" madame riennes uttered a stifled scream, more she could not do for rage choked her. her big eyes rolled, she clenched and unclenched her hands, and bent forward as though she were about to fly at the pasteur like a wild cat. still poised upon the fragments of the mummy he lifted the point of the umbrella to receive the charge as it came, and taking advantage of madame's temporary paralysis of speech, went on: "hearken! daughter of beelzebub. you have the curse and it shall work upon your soul, but, yes, it shall work well. still your body remains, and of that too i would say something. know that i have heard much of you--oh! the quiet old pasteur hears many things, especially if he has members of the secret police among his flock. i think that yonder in an office there is a _dossier_, yes, an official record concerning you and your doings both in this country and in other lands. it has been allowed to sleep, but it can wake again; if it wakes--well, there is the penitentiary for such as you." madame gasped and turned green. if monsieur had drawn a bow at a venture, evidently that chance arrow had found the bull's-eye, for now she truly was frightened. "what would you have me do?" she asked in a choking voice. "free this youth from your influence, as you can if you will." "my influence! if i had any with him would not that bald skull of yours by now have been shattered like an egg, seeing that he is strong and holds a stick?" "i have no time to waste, madame. the police office closes early on sundays." then she gave in. "come here," she said sullenly to godfrey, still speaking in french. he came and stood before her sneezing, for the pungent dust of the smashed mummy, which the pasteur still ground beneath his large boots, had floated up his nose. "cease that noise, little fool, and look at me." godfrey obeyed, but did not stop sneezing, because the mixture of spices and organic matter would not allow him to do so. she stared at him very evilly, muttered some more words, and made mystic upward passes with her hands. "there now," she said, "you are free, so far as i am concerned. but i do not think that you are done with spirits, since they are guests which once entertained to breakfast, stop to luncheon and to dinner; yes, and pass the night when they are merriest. i think you will see many spirits before you die, and afterwards--ah! who knows, little pig? put your string about his leg and take your little pig home, pasteur. he will not be drawn to come here again." "good, madame, for remember, if he does i shall be drawn to call at the police office. if madame will take my advice she will try change of air. lucerne is cold in the winter, especially for those whose hearts are not too strong. is it finished?" "quite, for my part, but for you, interfering humbug, i do not know. get out of my room, both of you." the pasteur bowed with an old-fashioned politeness, and herding godfrey in front of him, turned to go. as he passed through the door something hard hit him violently in the back, so that he nearly fell. it was the head of the mummy, which madame had hurled at him. it fell to the floor, and striking against a chair leg, recoiled through the doorway. godfrey saw it, and an impulse seized him. lifting that head, he turned. madame was standing in the middle of the room with her back to the deal table, uttering short little howls of fury. godfrey advanced very politely and saying, "i believe this is your property, madame," placed the battered remnant of humanity upon the table beside the black bottle. as he did so, he glanced at the mesmerist, then turned and fled, for her face was like to that of a devil. "monsieur boiset," he said, when they reached the street, "something has happened to me. i am quite changed. not for all the world would i go near madame riennes again. indeed, now i feel as though i wished to run away from her." "that is good!" said the pasteur. "oh! i thought it would be so, for i know how to deal with such witches. but not too fast, not too fast, my godfrey. i wonder what the old egyptians put into the heads of their mummies to make them so heavy." "bitumen," answered godfrey, and proceeded in a cheerful voice to give an account of the egyptian process of mummification to his tutor, which isobel and he had acquired in the course of their miscellaneous reading at monk's acre. indeed, as he had said, whatever the reason, he was changed and prepared to talk cheerfully about anything. a great burden was lifted from his soul. from that day forward godfrey became what a youth of his years and race should be, a high-spirited, athletic, and active young man. madame riennes and her visions passed from him like a bad dream. thoughtful he remained always, for that was his nature; sometimes sad also, when he thought of isobel, who seemed to have disappeared quite out of his life. but as was natural at his age, this mood weakened by degrees. she was always there in the background, but she ceased to obscure the landscape as she had done before, and was to do in his after life. had she been a girl of the common type, attractive only because she was a young and vivacious woman, doubtless the eclipse would have been complete. occasionally, indeed, men do love fools in an enduring fashion, which is perhaps the most evil fate that can be laid upon them. for what can be worse than to waste what is deep and real upon a thing of flesh without a soul, an empty, painted bubble, which evades the hand, or bursts if it is grasped? those are the real unfortunates, who have sold themselves for a mess of potage, that for the most part they are never even allowed to eat, since before the bell rings it has probably been deposited by heaven knows what hand of circumstance in someone else's plate, or gone stale and been thrown away. godfrey was not one of these, because the hand of circumstance had managed his affairs otherwise. isobel was no mess of potage, but with all her faults and failings, a fair and great inheritance for him who could take seisin of her. still, as he believed, she had first treated him badly, then utterly neglected him whose pride she had outraged, by not even taking the trouble to write him a letter, and finally, had vanished away. and he was young, with manhood advancing in his veins, like the pulse of spring, and women are many in the world, some of whom have pretty faces and proper figures. also, although the fact is overlooked by convention, it has pleased nature to make man polygamous in his instincts, though where those instincts end and what is called love begins, is a thing almost impossible to define. probably in truth the limit lies beyond the borders of sex. so isobel's grey eyes faded into the background of godfrey's mental vision, while the violet eyes of juliette drew ever nearer to his physical perceptions. and here, to save trouble, it may be said at once, that he never cared in the least for juliette, except as a male creature cares for a pretty female creature, and that juliette never cared in the least for him, except as a young woman cares in general for a handsome and attractive young man--with prospects. indeed, she found him too serious for her taste. she did not understand him, as, for his part, in her he found nothing to understand. after all, ruling out the primary impulses which would make a scullery maid congenial to a genius upon a desert isle, what was there in a juliette to appeal to a godfrey? and, with the same qualification, what was there in a godfrey to appeal to a juliette? as once, with an accidental touch of poetry, she said to her mother, when at his side she felt as though she were walking over a snow-covered crevasse in the surrounding alps. all seemed firm beneath her feet, but she never knew when the crust would break, and he would vanish into unfathomed depths, perchance dragging her with him. or, feeling her danger she might run from him on to safer ground, where she knew herself to be on good, common rock or soil, and no strange, hollow echoes struck her ears, leaving him to pursue his perilous journey alone. her mother laughed, and falling into her humour, answered, that beyond the crevasse and at the foot of the further slope lay the warm and merry human town, the best house of which--not unlike the villa ogilvy--could be reached in no other way, and that with such a home waiting to receive her, it was worth while to take a little risk. thereon juliette shrugged her white shoulders, and in the intervals of one of the french _chansonettes_ which she was very fond of warbling in her gay voice, remarked that she preferred to make journeys, safe or perilous, in the company of a singing-bird in the sunlight, rather than in that of an owl in the dusk, who always reminded her of the advancing darkness. at least, that was the substance of what she said, although she did not put it quite so neatly. then, as though by an afterthought, she asked when her cousin jules, a young notary of berne, was coming to stay with them. the winter wore away, the spring came, and after spring, summer, with its greenery and flowers. godfrey was happy enough during this time. to begin with, the place suited him. he was very well now, and grew enormously in that pure and trenchant air, broadening as well as lengthening, till, notwithstanding his slimness, he gave promise of becoming a large, athletic man. madame riennes too and her unholy terrors had faded into the background. he no longer thought of spirits, although, it is true that a sense of the immanence and reality of the unseen was always with him; indeed, as time went on, it increased rather than lessened. partly, this was owing to the character and natural tendencies of his mind, partly also, without doubt, to the fact that his recent experiences had, as it were, opened a door to him between the seen and the hidden, or rather burst a breach in the dividing wall that never was built up again. also his astronomical studies certainly gave an impetus to thoughts and speculations such as were always present with him. only now these were of a wholesome and reverent nature, tending towards those ends which are advanced by religion in its truest sense. he worked hard, too, under the gentle guidance of the learned pasteur, at the classics, literature, and other subjects, while in french he could not fail to become proficient in the company of the talkative madame and the sprightly juliette. nor did he want for relaxation. there were great woods on the hills behind the maison blanche, and in these he obtained leave to shoot rabbits, and, horrible to say, foxes. juliette and he would set out together towards evening, accompanied by a clever cur which belonged to jean, the factotum of the house. they would post themselves at some convenient spot, while the instructed hound ranged the woods above. then would appear perhaps a rabbit, perhaps a hare, though these in that land of poaching were not common, or occasionally a great, red, stealthy fox. at first, with his english traditions, godfrey shrank from shooting the last, which he had been taught ought to die in one way only, namely, by being torn to pieces in the jaws of the hounds. juliette, however, mocked at him, volubly reciting reynard's many misdeeds--how he stole chickens; how he tore out the throats of lambs, and, according to local report, was not even above killing a baby if he found that innocent alone. so it came about next time the excited yapping of the cur-dog was heard on the slopes above them, followed by stealthy movements among the fallen pine needles, and at length by the appearance of the beautiful red creature slyly slinking away to shelter, not twenty yards from where they stood behind a tree-trunk, that juliette whispered: "_tirez_! _tirez_!" and he lifted the gun, an old-fashioned, single-barrelled piece, aimed and fired. then followed a horrid scene. the big shot with which he had loaded, mortally wounded but did not kill the fox, that with its forepaws broken, rolled, and bit, and made dreadful noises in its agony, its beautiful fur all stained with blood. godfrey did not know what to do; it was too big and strong to kill with juliette's little stick, so he tried to batter it to death with the stock of the gun, but without success, and at last withdrew, looking at it horrified. "what shall i do?" he asked faintly of juliette. "load the gun and shoot it again," replied that practical young woman. so with some mistakes, for the emergency made him nervous, such as the dropping of the cap among the pine needles, he obeyed. at last the poor beast lay dead, a very disagreeable spectacle, with the cur-dog that had arrived, biting joyously at its quivering form. godfrey put down the gun and retired behind a tree, whence presently he emerged, looking very pale, for to tell the truth, he had been ill. "i do not think i like shooting foxes," he said. "how strange you are," answered juliette. "quite unlike other men. now my cousin jules, there is nothing that he loves better. go now and cut off his tail, to hang upon the wall. it is beautiful." "i can't," said godfrey still more faintly. "then give me the knife, for i can." and she did! had madame but known it, that fox did not die unavenged upon her family, for with it departed from the world all hopes of the alliance which she desired so earnestly. chapter x godfrey becomes a hero the truth is that godfrey was no true sportsman, really he did not enjoy exterminating other and kindred life to promote his own amusement. like most young men, he was delighted if he made a good shot; moreover, he had some aptitude for shooting, but unlike most young men, to him afterwards came reflections. who gave him the right to kill creatures as sentient, and much more beautiful in their way then himself, just because it was "great fun"? of course, he was familiar with the common answer, that day by day his body was nourished upon the flesh of other animals destroyed for that purpose. but then this was a matter of necessity, so arranged by a law, that personally, he thought dreadful, but over which he had no manner of control. it was part of the hellish system of a world built upon the foundation stone of death. nature told him that he must live, and that to live, not being a vegetarian, which for most of us is difficult in a cold climate, he must kill, or allow others to kill for him. but to his fancy, perhaps meticulous, between such needful slaughter and that carried out for his own amusement, and not really for the purposes of obtaining food, there seemed to be a great gulf fixed. to get food he would have killed anything, and indeed, often did in later days, as he would and also often did in after days, have destroyed noxious animals, such as tigers. but to inflict death merely to show his own skill or to gratify man's innate passion for hunting, which descends to him from a more primitive period, well, that was another matter. it is true, that he was not logical, since always he remained an ardent fisherman, partly because he had convinced himself from various observations, that fish feel very little, and partly for the reason that there is high authority for fishing, although, be it admitted, with a single exception, always in connection with the obtaining of needful food. in these conclusions godfrey was strengthened by two circumstances; first, his reading, especially of buddhistic literature, that enjoins them so strongly, and in which he found a great deal to admire, and secondly, by the entire concurrence of the pasteur boiset, whom he admired even more than he did buddhistic literature. "i am delighted, my young friend," said the pasteur, beaming at him through the blue spectacles, "to find someone who agrees with me. personally, although you might not believe it, i love the chase with ardour; when i was young i have shot as many as twenty-five--no--twenty-seven blackbirds and thrushes in one day, to say nothing of thirty-one larks, and some other small game. also, once i wounded a chamois, which a bold hunter with me killed. it was a glorious moment. but now, for the reasons that you mention, i have given up all this sport, which formerly to me was so great an excitement and relaxation. yet i admit that i still fish. only last year i caught a large hatful of perch and dace, of which i persuaded madame to cook some that juliette would not eat and gave to the cat. once, too, there was a big trout in the lake lucerne. he broke my line, but, my boy, we will go to fish for that trout. no doubt he is still there, for though i was then young, these fishy creatures live for many years, and to catch him would be a glory." after godfrey had given up his fox-shooting, not because in itself is a terrible crime, like fishing for salmon with herring roe, but for reasons which most of his countrymen would consider effeminate and absurd, he took to making expeditions, still in company with juliette, for madame stretched continental conventions in his case, in search of certain rare flowers which grew upon the lower slopes of these alps. in connection with one of these flowers an incident occurred, rather absurd in itself, but which was not without effect upon his fortunes. the search for a certain floral treasure was long and arduous. "if only i could find that lovely white bloom," exclaimed juliette in exasperation at the close of a weary hour of climbing, "why, i would kiss it." "so would i," said godfrey, mopping himself with a pocket handkerchief, for the sun was hot, "and with pleasure." "hidden flower," invoked juliette with appropriate heroic gestures, "white, secret, maiden flower, hear us! discover thyself, o shrinking flower, and thou shalt be kissed by the one that first finds thee." "i don't know that the flower would care for that," remarked godfrey, as they renewed their quest. at length behind a jutting mass of rock, in a miniature valley, not more than a few yards wide that was backed by other rocks, this flower was found. godfrey and juliette, passing round either side of the black, projecting mass to the opening of the toy vale beyond, discovered it simultaneously. there it stood, one lovely, lily-like bloom growing alone, virginal, perfect. with a cry of delight they sprang at it, and plucked it from its root, both of them grasping the tall stem. "i saw it first, and i will kiss it!" cried juliette, "in token of possession." "no," said godfrey, "i did, and i will. i want that flower for my collection." "so do i, for mine," answered juliette. then they both tried to set this seal of possession upon that lily bloom, with the strange result that their young lips met through its fragile substance and with so much energy that it was crushed and ruined. "oh!" said godfrey with a start, "look what you have done to the flower." "i! i, wicked one! well, for the matter of that, look what you have done to my lips. they feel quite bruised." then first she laughed, and next looked as though she were going to cry. "don't be sad," said godfrey remorsefully. "no doubt we shall find another, now that we know where they are." "perhaps," she answered, "but it is always the first that one remembers, and it is finished," and she threw down the stalk and stamped on it. just then they heard a sound of laughter, and looking up, to their horror perceived that they were not alone. for there, seated upon stones at the end of the tiny valley, in composed and comfortable attitudes, which suggested that they had not arrived that moment, were two gentlemen, who appeared to be highly amused. godfrey knew them at once, although he had not seen them since the previous autumn. they were brother josiah smith, the spiritualist, and professor petersen, the investigating dane, whom he used to meet at the séances in the villa ogilvy. "i guess, young brother knight," said the former, his eyes sparkling with sarcastic merriment, "that there is no paint on you. when you find a flower, you know how to turn it to the best possible use." "the substance of flowers is fragile, especially if of the lily tribe, and impedes nothing," remarked the learned dane in considered tones, though what he meant godfrey did not understand at the moment. on consideration he understood well enough. "our mutual friend, madame riennes, who is absent in italy, will be greatly amused when she hears of this episode," said brother smith. "she is indeed a remarkable woman, for only this morning i received a letter in which she informed me that very soon i should meet you, young man, under peculiar circumstances, how peculiar she did not add. well, i congratulate you and the young lady. i assure you, you made quite a pretty picture with nothing but that flower between you, though, i admit, it was rough on the flower. if i remember right you are fond of the classics, as i am, and will recall to mind a greek poet named theocritus. i think, had he been wandering here in the alps to-day, he would have liked to write one of his idylls about you two and that flower." "because of the interruption give pardon, for it is owed an apology," said the solemn professor, adding, "i think it must have been the emanation of madame riennes herself which led us to this place, where we did not at all mean to come, for she is very anxious to know how you progress and what you are doing." "yes, young friend," broke in brother smith, not without a touch of malice, for like the rest he was resentful of godfrey's desertion of their "circle," "and now we shall be able to tell her." "say then," said juliette, "who are these gentlemen, and of what do they talk?" "they--are--friends of mine," godfrey began to explain with awkward hesitation, but she cut him short with: "i like not your friends. they make a mock of me, and i will never forgive you." "but juliette, i----" he began, and got no further, for she turned and ran away. anxious to explain, he ran after her, pursued by the loud hilarity of the intruding pair. in vain, for juliette was singularly swift of foot, and he might as well have pursued atalanta. she reached the maison blanche, which fortunately was empty, a clear ten yards ahead of him, and shut herself in her room, whence, declaring that she had a headache, she did not emerge till the following morning. godfrey departed to the observatory where he often worked in summer, feeling very sore and full of reflections. he had not really meant to kiss juliette, at least he thought not, and it was unthinkable that she meant to kiss him, since, so far as he was aware, no young woman ever wanted to do such a thing, being, every one of them, doubtless, as unapproachable and frigid as the topmost, snowy peak of the alps. (such was, and always remained his attitude, where the other sex was concerned, one not without inconvenience in a practical world of disillusions.) no, it was that confounded flower which brought about this pure accident--as though nature, which designs such accidents, had not always a flower, or something equally serviceable, up her sleeve. moreover, had it not been for that accursed pair, sent, doubtless, to spy on him by madame riennes, the accident would never have mattered; at least not much. he could have apologized suitably to juliette, that is, if she wanted an apology, which she showed no signs of doing until she saw the two men. indeed, at the moment, he thought that she seemed rather amused. he thought of searching out brother smith and professor petersen, and explaining to them exactly what had happened in full detail, and should they still continue their ribald jests, of punching their heads, which as a manly young fellow, he was quite capable of doing. reflection showed him, however, that this course might not be wise, since such adventures are apt to end in the police-court, where the flower, and its fruit, would obtain undue publicity. no, he must leave the business alone, and trust that juliette would be merciful. supposing that she were to tell madame that he had tried to kiss her, though probably she would _not_ mention that he had actually succeeded! the mere idea made him feel cold down the back. he felt sure that madame would believe the worst of him; to judge from their conversations, ladies, good as they all were, invariably did seem to believe the worst in such affairs. should he throw himself upon the mercy of the pasteur? again, no. it would be so hard to make him comprehend. also, if he did, he might suggest that the altar was the only possible expiation. and--and, oh! he must confess it, she was very nice and sweet, but he did _not_ wish to marry juliette and live with her all his life. no, there was but one thing to be done: keep the burden of his secret locked in his own breast, though, unfortunately, it was locked as well in those of juliette and of two uninvited observers, and probably would soon also be locked in the capacious bosom of madame riennes. for the rest, towards juliette in the future, he would observe an attitude of strictest propriety; never more should she have occasion to complain of his conduct, which henceforth would be immaculate. alas! how easy it is for the most innocent to be misjudged, and apparently, not without reason. this reflection brought something to godfrey's mind which had escaped it in his first disturbance, also connected with a flower. there came before him the vision of a london square, and of a tall, pale girl, in an antique dress, giving a rose to a man in knight's armour, which rose both of them kissed simultaneously. of course, when he saw it he had ruled out the rose and only thought of the kisses, although, now that he came to think of it, a rose is of a much thicker texture than a lily. as he had witnessed that little scene, and drawn his own conclusions, so others had witnessed another little scene that afternoon, and made therefrom deductions which, in his innocent soul, he knew to be totally false. suppose, then, that _his_ deductions were also false. oh! it was not possible. besides, a barrier built of rose leaves was not sufficient, which again, with perfect justice, he remembered was exactly what brother smith and professor petersen had thought of one composed of lily petals. there for the time the matter ended. juliette reappeared on the morrow quite cured of her headache, and as gay and charming as ever. possibly she had confided in her mamma, who had told her that after all things were not so terrible, even if they _had_ been seen. at any rate, the equilibrium was restored. godfrey acted on his solemn resolutions of haughtiness and detachment for quite an hour, after which juliette threw a kitten at him and asked what was the matter, and then sang him one of her pretty _chansonettes_ to the accompaniment of a guitar with three strings, which closed the incident. still there were no more flower hunts and no new adventures. tacitly, but completely, everything of the sort was dropped out of their relationship. they remained excellent friends, on affectionate terms indeed, but that was all. meanwhile, owing to his doubts arising out of a singular coincidence concerned with flowers and kisses, godfrey gradually made up his mind to write to isobel. indeed, he had half composed the epistle when at the end of one of his brief letters his father informed him that she had gone to mexico with her uncle. so it came about that it was never posted, since it is a kind of superstition with young people that letters can only be delivered at the place where the addressee last resided. it rarely occurs to them that these may be forwarded, and ultimately arrive. nor, indeed, did it occur to godfrey that as isobel's uncle was the british minister to a certain country, an envelope addressed to her in his care in that country probably would have reached her. she was gone and there was an end; it was of no use to think more of the matter. still, he was sorry, because in that same letter his father had alluded casually to the death of lady jane, which had caused hawk's hall to be shut up for a while, and he would have liked to condole with isobel on her loss. he knew that she loved her mother dearly, and of this gentle lady he himself had very affectionate remembrances, since she had always been most kind to him. yet for the reasons stated, he never did so. about a fortnight after the flower episode a chance came godfrey's way of making an alp-climbing expedition in the company of some mountaineers. they were friends of the pasteur who joined the party himself, but stayed in a village at the foot of the mountains they were to climb, since for such exercise he had lost the taste. the first two expeditions went off very successfully, godfrey showing himself most agile at the sport which suited his adventurous spirit and delighted him. by nature, notwithstanding his dreamy characteristics, he was fearless, at any rate where his personal safety was concerned, and having a good head, it gave him pleasure to creep along the edge of precipices, or up slippery ice slopes, cutting niches with an axe for his feet. then came the third attempt, up a really difficult peak which had not yet been conquered that year. the details of the expedition do not matter, but the end of it was that at a particularly perilous place one of the party lost his head or his breath and rolled from the path. there he lay half senseless, on the brink of a gulf, with a drop of a thousand feet or more beneath him. as it happened, they were climbing in lots of three, each of which lots was roped together, but at some distance between the parties, that with the guide being a good way ahead. godfrey was leading his party along the track made by the other, but their progress was not very rapid owing to the weakness of the man who had fallen who, as it afterwards transpired, suffered from his heart, and was affected by the altitude. the climber behind godfrey was strong and bold; also, as it chanced at the moment of the fall, this man's feet were planted upon a lump of projecting rock, so firmly that by throwing himself forward against the snow slope, grasping another lump of rock with his left hand and bearing on to the alpenstock with his right, he was able to sustain the weight of their companion. but the rope which bound them together, though strong, was thin; moreover, at the point where most of the strain came it rested on a knife-like edge of ice, so sharp that there was momentarily danger of its fraying through as the movements of the weight beneath rubbed it against the edge. when a shout and the stoppage warned godfrey of what had happened, he turned round and studied the position. even to his inexperienced eye it was obvious that a catastrophe was imminent. now there were two things which might be done; one was to stay in his place and help to bear the strain of the swinging body, for almost immediately the fainting man slipped from the ledge, and hung above the gulf. the other was to trust to number two to hold his weight, and go to his assistance in the hope of being able to support him until the guide could return to the first party. as by a flash-like working of the mind godfrey weighed these alternatives, his quick eye saw what looked like a little bit of fluff appear from the underside of the rope, which told him that one at least of the strands must have severed upon the edge of ice. then almost instinctively he made his choice. "can you hold him?" he said swiftly to number two, who answered, "yes, i think so," in a muffled voice. "then i go to help him." "if you slip, i cannot bear you both," said the muffled voice. "no," answered godfrey, and drawing the sheath knife he wore, deliberately cut the rope which joined him to number two. then he scrambled down to the ledge without much difficulty, reaching it, but just in time, for now the razor blade of the ice had cut half through the rope, and very soon the swinging of the senseless weight beneath must complete its work. this ledge, being broad, though sloping, was not a particularly bad place; moreover, on it were little hummocks of ice, resulting from snow that had melted and frozen again, against one of which godfrey was able to rest his left shoulder, and even to pass his arm round it. but here came the rub. he could not get sufficient grip of the thin rope with his right hand beyond the point where it was cut, to enable him to support even half the weight that hung below. should it sever, as it must do very shortly, it would be torn from his grasp. what then could be done? godfrey peered over the edge. the man was swinging not more than two feet below its brink, that is to say, the updrawn loop of his stout leather belt, to which the rope was fastened, was about that distance from the brink, and on either side of it he hung down like a sack tied round the middle, quite motionless in his swoon, his head to one side and his feet to the other. could he reach and grasp that leather belt without falling himself, and if so, could he bear the man's weight and not be dragged over? godfrey shrank from the attempt; his blood curdled. then he pictured, again in a mind-flash, his poor companion whirling down through space to be dashed to pulp at the bottom, and the agony of his wife and children whom he knew, and who had wished to prevent him from climbing that day. oh! he would try. but still a paralysing fear overcame him, making him weak and nervous. then it was in godfrey's extremity that his imagination produced a very curious illusion. quite distinctly he seemed to hear a voice, that of miss ogilvy, say to him: "do it, godfrey, at once, or it will be too late. we will help you." this phantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to give him back his nerve and courage. coolly he tightened the grip of his left arm about the knob of ice, and drawing himself forward a little, so that his neck and part of his chest were over the edge, reached his right hand downwards. his fingers touched the belt; to grasp it he must have another inch and a half, or two inches. he let himself down that distance. oh! how easy it seemed to do so--and thrust his fingers beneath the belt. as he closed them round it, the rope parted and all the weight that it had borne came upon godfrey's arm! how long did he support it, he often wondered afterwards. for ages it seemed. he felt as though his right arm was being torn from the socket, while the ice cut into the muscles of his left like active torture. he filled himself with air, blowing out his lower part so that its muscles might enable him to get some extra hold of the rough ground; he dug his toes deep into the icy snow. his hat fell from his head, rested for a moment in a ridiculous fashion upon the swinging body beneath, then floated off composedly into space, the tall feather in it sticking upwards and fluttering a little. he heard voices approaching, and above them the shouts of the guide, though what these said conveyed no meaning to him. he must loose his hold and go too. no, he would not. he would not, although now he felt as though his shoulder-joint were dislocated, also that his left arm was slipping. he would die like a brave man--like a brave man. surely this was death! he was gone--everything passed away. godfrey woke again to find himself lying upon a flat piece of snow. recollection came back to him with a pang, and he thought that he must have fallen. then he heard voices, and saw faces looking at him as through a mist, also he felt something in his mouth and throat, which seemed to burn them. one of the voices, it was that of the guide, said: "good, good! he finds himself, this young english hero. see, his eyes open; more cognac, it will make him happy, and prevent the shock. never mind the other one; he is all right, the stupid." godfrey sat up and tried to lift his arm to thrust away the flask which he saw approaching him, but he could not. "take that burning stuff away, karl, confound you," he said. then karl, a good honest fellow, who was on his knees beside him, threw his arms about him, and embraced him in a way that godfrey thought theatrical and unpleasant, while all the others, except the rescued man, who lay semi-comatose, set up a kind of pæan of praise, like a greek chorus. "oh! shut up!" said godfrey, "if we waste so much time we shall never get to the top," a remark at which they all burst out laughing. "they talk of providence on the alps," shouted karl in stentorian tones, while he performed a kind of war-dance, "but that's the kind of providence for me," and he pointed to godfrey. "many things have i seen in my trade as guide, but never one like this. what? to cut the rope for the sake of monsieur there," and he pointed to number two, whose share in the great adventure was being overlooked, "before giving himself to almost certain death for the sake of monsieur with the weak heart, who had no business on a mountain; to stretch over the precipice as the line parted, and hold monsieur with the weak heart for all that while, till i could get a noose round him--yes, to go on holding him after he himself was almost dead--without a mind! good god! never has there been such a story in my lifetime on these alps, or in that of my father before me." then came the descent, godfrey supported on the shoulder of the stalwart karl, who, full of delight at this great escape from tragedy, and at having a tale to tell which would last him for the rest of his life, "jodelled" spontaneously at intervals in his best "large-tip" voice, and occasionally skipped about like a young camel, while "monsieur with the weak heart" was carried in a chair provided to bear elderly ladies up the lower slopes of the alps. some swift-footed mountaineer had sped down to the village ahead of them and told all the story, with the result that when they reached the outskirts of the place, an excited crowd was waiting to greet them, including two local reporters for swiss journals. one of these, who contributed items of interest to the english press also, either by mistake, or in order to make his narrative more interesting, added to a fairly correct description of the incident, a statement that the person rescued by godfrey was a young lady. at least, so the story appeared in the london papers next morning, under the heading of "heroic rescue on the alps," or in some instances of, "a young english hero." among the crowd was the pasteur, who beamed at godfrey through his blue spectacles, but took no part in these excited demonstrations. when they were back at their hotel, and the doctor who examined godfrey, had announced that he was suffering from nothing except exhaustion and badly sprained muscles, he said simply: "i do not compliment you, my dear boy, like those others, because you acted only as i should have expected of you in the conditions. still, i am glad that in this case another was not added to my long list of disappointments." "_i_ didn't act at all, pasteur," blurted out godfrey. "a voice, i thought it was miss ogilvy's, told me what to do, and i obeyed." the old gentleman smiled and shook his head, as he answered: "it is ever thus, young friend. when we wish to do good we hear a voice prompting us, which we think that of an angel, and when we wish to do evil, another voice, which we think that of a devil, but believe me, the lips that utter both of them are in our own hearts. the rest comes only from the excitement of the instant. there in our hearts the angel and the devil dwell, side by side, like the two figures in a village weather-clock, ready to appear, now one and now the other, as the breath of our nature blows them." "but i heard her," said godfrey stubbornly. "the excitement of the instant!" repeated the pasteur blandly. "had i been so situated i am quite certain that i should have heard all the deceased whom i have ever known," and he patted godfrey's dark hair with his long, thin hand, thanking god in his heart for the brave spirit which he had been pleased to give to this young man, who had grown so dear to one who lacked a son. only this he did in silence, nor did he ever allude to the subject afterwards, except as a commonplace matter-of-course event. notwithstanding the "jodellings" which continued outside his window to a late hour, and the bouquet of flowers which was sent to him by the wife of the mayor, who felt that a distinction had been conferred upon their village that would bring them many visitors in future seasons, and ought to be suitably acknowledged, godfrey soon dropped into a deep sleep. but in the middle of the night it passed from him, and he awoke full of terrors. now, for the first time, he understood what he had escaped, and how near he had been to lying, not in a comfortable bed, but a heap of splintered bones and mangled flesh at the foot of a precipice, whence, perhaps, it would have been impossible ever to recover his remains. in short, his nerves re-acted, and he felt anything but a hero, rather indeed, a coward among cowards. nor did he wish ever to climb another alp; the taste had quite departed from him. to tell the truth, a full month went by before he was himself again, and during that month he was as timid as a kitten, and as careful of his personal safety as a well-to-do old lady unaccustomed to travel. chapter xi juliette's farewell when godfrey returned to the maison blanche, wearing a handsome gold watch, which had been presented to him with an effusive letter of thanks by the gentleman whom he had rescued and his relatives, he found himself quite a celebrity. most of the pasteur's congregation met him when he descended from the diligence, and waved their hats, but as he thanked heaven, did not "jodel." leaving the pasteur to make some acknowledgment, he fled to the house, only to find madame, juliette, a number of friends, to say nothing of jean, the cook and the servant girl, awaiting him there. madame beamed, and looked as though she were about to kiss him; the fresh and charming juliette shook his hand, and murmured into his ear that she had no idea he was so brave, also that every night she thanked the _bon dieu_ for his escape; while the others said something appropriate--or the reverse. once more he fled, this time to his bedroom. there upon his dressing-table lay two letters, one from his father and one addressed in a curious pointed hand-writing, which he did not know. this he opened at once. it was in french, and ran, as translated: "ah! little brother,--i know all that has happened to you, nor did your godmother need to wait to read about it in the journals. indeed, i saw it in my crystal before it happened; you with the man hanging to your arm and the rest. but then a cloud came over the crystal, and i could not see the end. i hoped that he would pull you over the edge, so that in one short minute you became nothing but a red plum-pudding at the bottom of the gulf. for you know that the sweetest-tempered fairy godmother can be made cross by wicked ingratitude and evil treatment. do not think, little brother, that i have forgiven you for bringing that old pasteur-fool to insult and threaten me. not so. i pray the speerits night and day to pay you back in your own coin, you who have insulted them also. indeed, it was they who arranged this little incident, but they tell me that some other speerit interfered at the last moment and saved you. if so, better luck next time, for do not think you shall escape me and them. had you been true to us you should have had great good fortune and everything you desire in life, including, perhaps, something that you desire most of all. as it is, you shall have much trouble and lose what you desire most of all. have you been kissing that pretty mademoiselle again and trying to make her as bad as her mother? well, i hope you will, because it will hurt that old fool-pasteur. wherever you go, remember that eyes follow you, mine and those of the speerits. hate and bad luck to you, my little brother, from your dear godmamma, whose good heart you have so outraged. so fare ill till you hear from me again, yes and always. now you will guess my name, so i need not sign it. "p.s.--eleanor also sends you her hate from another sphere." this precious epistle, filled with malignity, reaching him in the midst of so many congratulations, struck upon godfrey like a blast of icy wind at the zenith of a summer day. to tell the truth also, it frightened him. he had tried to forget all about madame riennes and now here she was stabbing him from afar, for the letter bore a venice postmark. it may be foolish, but few of us care to be the object of a concentrated, personal hate. perhaps this is due to the inherited superstitions of our race, not long emerged from the blackness of barbarism, but at least we still feel as our forefathers did; as though the will to work evil had the power to bring about the evil desired. it is nonsense, since were it true, none could escape the direst misfortune, as every one of us is at some time or another the object of the hate or jealousy of other human beings. moreover, as most of us believe, there is a being, not human, that hates us individually and collectively, and certainly would compass our destruction, had he the power, which happily he has not, unless we ourselves give it to him. godfrey comforted himself with this reflection, also, with another; that in this instance the issue of his peril had been far different from what his enemy desired. yet, with his nerves still shaken both by his spiritualistic experiences, and by those of the danger which he had passed, the letter undoubtedly did affect him in the way that it was meant to do, and the worst of it was that he could not consult his friend and guide, the pasteur, because of the allusion to the scene with juliette. throwing it down as though it were a venomous snake, which indeed, it was, he opened that from his father, which was brief. it congratulated him coldly on his escape, whereof mr. knight said he had heard, not in the way that he would have expected, from himself, but through the papers. this, it may be explained, was not strange, since the account was telegraphed long before godfrey had time to write. as a matter of fact, however, he had not written, for who cares to indite epistles to an unsympathetic and critical recipient? most people only compose letters for the benefit of those who like to receive them and, by intuition, read in them a great deal more than the sender records in black and white. for letter-writing, at its best, is an allusive art, something that suggests rather than describes. it was because godfrey appreciated this truth in a half unconscious fashion, that he did not care to undertake an active correspondence with his father. it is the exception also, for young men to care to correspond with their fathers; the respective outlooks, and often, the respective interests, are too diverse. with mothers it is different, at any rate, sometimes, for in their case the relationship is more intimate. in the instance of the male parent, throughout the realm of nature, it is apt to have an accidental aspect or to acquire one as time goes by. the letter went on to request that he would climb no more alps, since he had been sent to switzerland, to scale not mountains, but the peaks of knowledge. it added, with that naive selfishness from which sometimes even the most pious are not exempt, "had you been killed, in addition to losing your own life, which would not so much have mattered, since i trust that you would have passed to a better, you would have done a wrong to your family. in that event, as you are not yet of age, i believe the money which your friend left to you recently, would have returned to her estate instead of going to benefit your natural heirs." godfrey pondered over the words "natural heirs," wondering who these might be. coming finally to the conclusion that he had but one, namely his father, which accounted for the solicitude expressed so earnestly in the letter, he uttered an expletive, which should not have passed his youthful lips, and threw it down upon the top of that of madame riennes. after this he left the room much depressed, and watching his opportunity, for the merry party in the _salon_ who had gathered to greet him were still there drinking heavy white wine, he slipped through the back door to walk in the woods. these woods were lonely, but then they suited his mood. in truth, never had he felt more alone in his life. his father and he were utterly different, and estranged, and he had no other relatives. in friends he was equally lacking. miss ogilvy, whom he had begun to love, was dead, and a friend in heaven is some way off, although he did think he had heard her voice when he was so near to joining her. there remained no one save the pasteur, of whom he was growing truly fond, so much so, that he wished that the old gentleman had been appointed to be his father according to the flesh. the rest of the world was a blank to him, except for isobel, who had deserted him. besides, some new sentiment had entered into his relations with isobel, whereby these were half spoiled. of course, although he did not altogether understand it, this was the eternal complication of sex which curses more than it blesses in the world; of sex, the eating fire that is so beautiful but burns. for when that fire has passed over the flowers of friendship, they are changed into some new growth, that however gorgeous it may be, yet always smells of flame. sex being the origin of life is necessarily also the origin of trouble, since life and trouble are inseparable, and devours the gentle joys of friendship, as a kite devours little singing birds. these go to its sustenance, it is true, and both are birds, but the kite is a very different creature from the nightingale or the lark. one of the great advantages of matrimony, if it endures long enough, is that when the sex attraction, which was its cause, has faded, or practically died, once more it makes friendship possible. perhaps the best thing of the little we have been told about heaven, is that in it there will be no sex. if there were, it is doubtful whether it could remain heaven, as we define that state, since then must come desires, and jealousies, and selfishness, and disappointment; also births and deaths, since we cannot conceive sex-love without an object, or a beginning without an end. from all of which troubles we learn that the angels are relieved. now this wondrous, burning mantle of sex had fallen on godfrey and isobel, as he had learned when he saw her with the knight in armour in the garden, and everything was changed beneath its fiery, smothering folds, and for him there was no isobel. his friend had gone, and he was left wandering alone. his distress was deep, and since he was too young to mask his feelings, as people must learn to do in life, it showed itself upon his face. at supper that night, all of the little party observed it, for he who should have been gay, was sad and spoke little. afterwards, when the pasteur and godfrey went to the observatory to resume their astronomical studies, the former looked at him a while, and said: "what is the matter, godfrey? tell me." "i cannot," he replied, colouring. "is it so bad as that then? i thought that perhaps you had only received a letter, or letters." "i received two of them. one was from my father, who scolds me because i was nearly killed." "indeed. he seems fond of scolding, your father. but that is no new thing, and one to which you should be used. how about the other letter? was it, perchance, from madame riennes?" "it is not signed, but i think so." "really. it is odd, but, i too, have had a letter from madame riennes, also unsigned, and i think, after reading it, that you may safely show me yours, and then tell me the truth of all these accusations she makes concerning you and juliette." now godfrey turned crimson. "how can i?" he murmured. "for myself i do not care, but it seems like betraying--someone else." "it is difficult, my boy, to betray that which is already well known, to me, among others. had this letter, perchance, something to do with an expedition which you two young people made to search for flowers, and nothing else? ah! i see it is so. then you may safely show it to me, since i know all about that expedition." so godfrey produced the epistle, for at the moment he forgot that it contained allusions to madame also, and holding it gingerly between his thumb and finger, handed it to him. the pasteur read it through without showing the slightest emotion. "ah!" he said, when he had finished, "in her way she is quite magnificent, that old witch. but, surely, one day, unless she repents, she will be accommodated with some particular hell of her own, since there are few worthy to share it with her. you see, my boy, what she says about madame. well, as i think i told her, that dear wife of mine may have had her foolish moments, like most others, if all the truth were known. but note this--there is a great difference between those who have foolish moments, of whatever sort, and those who make it their business to seek such moments; further, between those who repent of their errors and those who glory in, and try to continue them. if you have any doubt of that study the bible, and read amongst others, of david, who lived to write the psalms, and of mary magdalene, who became a saint. also, although this did not occur to that tiger of a woman, i may have known of those moments, and even done my best to help my wife out of them, and been well rewarded"--here his kind old face beamed like the sun--"oh! yes, most gloriously rewarded. so a fig for the old witch and her tales of madame! and now tell me the truth about yourself and juliette, with a mind at ease, for juliette has told it to me already, and i wish to compare the stories." so godfrey told him everything, and a ridiculous little tale it was. when he had finished the pasteur burst out laughing. "you are indeed sinners, you two," he said, "so great, that surely you should stand dressed in white sheets, one on either side of the altar, with the crushed flower in the middle. ah! that is what i regret, this flower, for it is very rare. only once have i found it in all my life, and then, as there was no lady present, i left it where it grew. hearken, all this is a pack of nonsense. "hearken again, godfrey. everybody things me an old fool. how can it be helped with such a face as mine, and these blue spectacles, which i must wear? but even an old fool sees things sometimes. thus, i have seen that madame, who had once plenty of money to play with, and longs, poor dear, for the fine things of life, is very anxious that her juliette should make a good marriage. i have seen, too, that she has thought of you, whom she thinks much richer than you are, as a good match for juliette, and has done her best to make juliette think as she does, all of which is quite natural in her, and indeed, praiseworthy, especially if she likes and respects the young man. but, my boy, it is the greatest nonsense. to begin with, you do not, and never will, care for juliette, and she does not, and never will, care for you. your natures, ah! they are quite different. you have something big in the you, and juliette--well, she has not. marriage with her would be for you a misery, and for juliette a misery also, since what have you in common? besides, even if it were otherwise, do you think i would allow such a thing, with you so young and in my charge? bah! be good friends with that pretty girl, and go hunt for flowers with her as much as you like, for nothing will ever come of it. only, bet no more in kisses, for they are dangerous, and sparks sometimes set fire to haystacks." "indeed, i will not," exclaimed godfrey with fervour. "there, then, that trouble is finished." (here, although he did not know it, the pasteur was mistaken.) "and now, as to the rest of this letter. it is malignant, malignant, and its writer will always seek to do you ill, and perhaps, sometimes succeed. it is the price which you must pay for having mixed with such a person who mixes with the devil, though that was no fault of yours, my boy. still, always, always in the world we are suffering from the faults of others. it is a law, the law of vicarious sacrifice, which runs through everything, why, we do not know. still, be not afraid, for it is you who will win at the last, not she. for the rest, soon you will go away from here, since the year for which you came is almost finished, and you must turn your mind to the bigger life. i pray you when you do, not to forget me, for, my boy, i, who have no son, have learned to love you like a son, better perhaps, than had you been one, since often i have observed that it is not always fathers and sons that love each other most, frequently the other way, indeed. "also i pray another thing of you--that if you think i have any wisdom, or any little light in the lamp of this ugly, old body of mine, you will always take me for a counsellor, and write to me concerning your troubles, (as indeed, you must do, for remember i am your trustee of this property,) and perhaps pay attention to the advice i may give. and now let us get to our stars; they are much more amusing than madame riennes. it is strange to think that the same god who made the stars also made madame riennes. truly he is a charitable and tolerant god!" "perhaps the devil made her," suggested godfrey. "it may be so, it may be so, but is it not said in the book of proverbs, i believe, that he makes both good and evil for his own infinite ends, though what these may be, i, worm that i am, cannot pretend to understand. and now to our stars that are far away and pure, though who knows but that if one were near to them, they would prove as full of foulness as the earth?" the pasteur was right when he said that madame riennes would not cease from attempts to do evil to godfrey, and therefore wrong when he added that the trouble she had caused was finished. of this, that young man was made painfully aware, when a fortnight or so later another letter from his father reached him. it informed him that mr. knight had received an anonymous communication which stated that he, godfrey, was leading an evil life in lucerne, also that he was being entrapped into a marriage with mademoiselle boiset, whom he had been seen embracing behind some rocks. the letter ended: "lacking proof, i do not accept these stories as facts, although, as there is no smoke without fire, i think it probable that there is something in them and that you are drifting into undesirable companionships. at any rate i am sure that the time has come for you to return home and to commence your studies for the church. i have to request, therefore, that you will do this at once as i am entering your name at my own college for the next term and have so informed the trustees under miss ogilvy's will, who will no doubt meet the expense and give you a suitable allowance. i am writing to the pasteur boiset to the same effect. looking forward to seeing you, when we can discuss all these matters in more detail, --i am, your affectionate father, "richard knight." in dismay godfrey took this letter to the pasteur. for the last thing godfrey wished to do was to leave kleindorf and the house in which he was so welcome and so well treated, in order to return to the stony bosom of monk's acre abbey. "i have also received a letter," said monsieur boiset; "it seems that you and i always receive disagreeable letters together. the last were from the witch-woman riennes, and these are from your father. he has an unpleasant way of writing, this father of yours, although he is a good man, for here he suggests that i am trying to trap you for a son-in-law, wherein i see the fat finger of that witch riennes, who has so great a passion for the anonymous epistle. well, if he had said that i wished to trap you for a son, he would have shot nearer to the bulls'-eye, but for a son-in-law, as you know, it is not so. still, you must go; indeed, it is time that you went, now that you talk french so well, and have, i hope, learnt other things also, you to whom the big world opens. but see, your father talks of your entering the church. tell me, is this so? if so, of course, i shall be happy." "no," said godfrey, shaking his head. "then," replied the pasteur, "i may say that i am equally happy. it is not everyone that has a call for this vocation, and there are more ways of doing good in the world than from the floor of a pulpit. myself, i have wondered sometimes--but let that be; it is the lot of certain of us, who think in our vanity that we could have done great things, to be obliged to do the small things, because god has so decreed. to one he gives the ten talents, to the other only one talent, or even but a franc. whatever it be, of it we must make the best, and so long as we do not bury it, we have done well. i can only say that i have tried to use my franc, or my fifty centimes, to such advantage as i could, and hope that in some other place and time i may be entrusted with a larger sum. oh! my boy, we are all of us drawn by the horses of circumstance, but, as i believe, those horses have a driver who knows whither he is guiding us." a few days later godfrey went. his last midday meal at the maison blanche, before he departed to catch the night train for paris, was rather a melancholy function. madame, who had grown fond of him in her somewhat frivolous way, openly dropped tears into her soup. juliette looked sad and _distraite_, though inwardly supported by the knowledge that her distant cousin, the notary jules, was arriving on the morrow to spend his vacation at the maison blanche, so that godfrey's room would not be without an occupant. indeed, in her pretty little head she was already planning certain alterations in the arrangement of the furniture, to make it more comfortable to the very different tastes of the new comer. still, she was truly sorry to lose her friend the _hibou_, although she had not been able to fulfil her mother's wish, and make him fall in love with her, or even to fall in love with him herself. as she explained to madame boiset, it was of no use to try, since between their natures there were fixed not only a great gulf, but several whole ranges of the alps, and whereas the _hibou_ sat gazing at the stars from their topmost peak, she was picking flowers in the plain and singing as she picked them. the pasteur did not make matters better by the extremely forced gaiety of his demeanour. he told stories and cracked bad jokes in the intervals of congratulating godfrey at his release from so dull a place as kleindorf. godfrey said little or nothing, but reflected to himself that the pasteur did not know monk's acre. at last the moment came, and he departed with a heavy heart, for he had learned to love these simple, kindly folk, especially the pasteur. how glad he was when it was over and he had lost sight of the handkerchiefs that were being waved at him from the gate as the hired vehicle rolled away. not that it was quite over, for the pasteur accompanied him to the station, in order, as he said, to take his last instructions about the villa ogilvy, although, in truth, godfrey had none to give. "please do what you think best," was all that he could say. also, when several miles further on, they came to a turn in the road, there, panting on a rock, stood juliette, who had reached the place, running at full speed, by a short cut through the woods. they had no time to stop, because the pasteur thought that they were late for the train, which, as a matter of fact, did not leave for half-an-hour after they reached the station. so they could only make mutual signals of recognition and farewell. juliette, who looked as though she were crying, kissed her hand to him, calling out: "adieu, adieu! _cher ami_," while he sought refuge in the englishman's usual expedient of taking off his hat. "it is nothing, nothing," said the pasteur, who had also noted juliette's tear-swollen eyes, "to-morrow she will have jules to console her, a most worthy young man, though me he bores." here, it may be added, that jules consoled her so well, that within a year they were married, and most happily. yet godfrey was destined never to see that graceful figure and gay little face again, since long before he revisited lucerne juliette died on the birth of her third child. and soon, who thought of juliette except perhaps godfrey, for her husband married again very shortly, as a worthy and domestic person of the sort would do. her children were too young to remember her, and her mother, not long afterwards, was carried off by a sudden illness, pneumonia, to join her in the shades. except the pasteur himself none was left. well, such is the way of this sad world of change and death. but godfrey never forgot the picture of her standing breathless on the rock and kissing her slim hand to him. it was one of those incidents which, when they happen to a man in his youth, remain indelibly impressed upon his mind. at the station there were more farewells, for here was the notary, who had managed miss ogilvy's swiss affairs and now, under the direction of monsieur boiset, attended to those of godfrey. also such of the servants were present as had been kept on at the villa, while among those walking about the platform he saw brother josiah smith and professor petersen, who had come evidently to see the last of him, and make report to a certain quarter. the pasteur talked continually, in his high, thin voice, to cover up his agitation, but what it was all about godfrey could never remember. all he recollected of the parting was being taken into those long arms, embraced upon the forehead, and most fervently blessed. then the train steamed off, and he felt glad that all was over. chapter xii home about forty-eight hours later godfrey arrived duly at the little essex station three miles from monk's acre. there was nobody to meet him, which was not strange, as the hour of his coming was unknown. still, unreasonable as it might be, the contrast between the warmth and affection that had distinguished his departure, and the cold vacuum that greeted his arrival, chilled him. he said a few words to the grumpy old porter who was the sole occupant of the platform, but that worthy, although he knew him well enough, did not seem to realise that he had ever been away. during the year in which so many things had happened to godfrey nothing at all had happened to the porter, and therefore he did not appreciate the lapse of time. leaving his baggage to be brought by the carrier's cart, godfrey took the alpenstock that, in a moment of enthusiasm, the guide had given him as a souvenir of his great adventure, and started for home. it was a very famous alpenstock, which this guide and his father before him had used all their lives, one that had been planted in the topmost snows of every peak in switzerland. indeed the names of the most unclimbable of these, together with the dates of their conquest by its owners, sometimes followed by crosses to show that on such or such an expedition life had been lost, were burnt into the tough wood with a hot iron. as the first of these dates was as far back as , godfrey valued this staff highly, and did not like to leave it to the chances of the carrier's cart. his road through the fields ran past hawk's hall, of which he observed with a thrill of dismay, that the blinds were drawn as though in it someone lay dead. there was no reason why he should have been dismayed, since he had heard that isobel had gone away to somewhere in "ameriky," as mrs. parsons had expressed it in a brief and illspelt letter, and that sir john was living in town. yet the sight depressed him still further with its suggestion of death, or of separation, which is almost as bad, for, be it remembered, he was at an age when such impressions come home. after leaving the hall with its blinded and shuttered windows, his quickest road to the abbey house ran through the churchyard. here the first thing that confronted him was a gigantic monument, of which the new marble glittered in the afternoon sun. it was a confused affair, and all he made out of it, without close examination, was a life-sized angel with an early-victorian countenance, leaning against the broken stump of an oak tree and scattering from a basket, of the kind that is used to collect nuts or windfall apples, on to a sarcophagus beneath a profusion of marble roses, some of which seemed to have been arrested and frozen in mid-air. he glanced at the inscription in gold letters. it was "to the beloved memory of lady jane blake, wife of sir john blake, bart., j.p., and daughter of the right hon. the earl of lynfield, whose bereaved husband erected this monument--'her husband ... praiseth her.'" godfrey looked, and remembering the gentle little woman whose crumbling flesh lay beneath, shivered at the awful and crushing erection above. in life, as he knew, she had been unhappy, but what had she done to deserve such a memorial in death? still, she was dead, of that there was no doubt, and oh! the sadness of it all. he went on to the abbey, resisting a queer temptation to enter the church and look at the tomb of the plantagenet lady and her unknown knight, who slept there so quietly from year to year, through spring, summer, autumn and winter, for ever and for ever. the front door was locked, so he rang the bell. it was answered by a new servant, rather a forbidding, middle-aged woman with a limp, who informed him that mr. knight was out, and notwithstanding his explanations, declined to admit him into the house. doubtless she thought that a young man, wearing a foreign-looking hat and carrying such a strange long stick, must be a thief, or worse. the end of it was that she slammed the door in his face and shot the old-fashioned bolts. then godfrey bethought him of the other door, that which led into the ancient refectory, which was now used as a schoolroom. this was open, so he went in and, being tired after his long journey, sat himself down in the chair at the end of the old oak table, that same chair in which isobel had kissed him when he was a little boy. he looked about him vaguely; the place, of course, was much the same as it had been for the last five hundred years, but, as he could see from the names on the copybooks that lay about, the pupils who inhabited it had changed. of the whole six not one was the same. then, perhaps for the first time, he began to understand how variable is the world, a mere passing show in which nothing remains the same, except the houses and the trees. even these depart, for a cottage with which he had been familiar from his earliest infancy, as he could see through the open door, was pulled down to make room for "improvements," and the great old elm, where the rooks used to build, had been torn up in a gale. only its ugly stump and projecting roots were left. so he sat musing there, very depressed at heart, till at length mrs. parsons came and discovered him in a half-doze. she, too, was somewhat changed, for of a sudden age had begun to take a hold of her. her hair was white now, and her plump, round face had withered like a spring apple. still, she greeted him with the old affection, for which he felt grateful, seeing that it was the first touch of kindness he had known since he set foot on english ground. "dear me, master godfrey!" she said, "hadn't i heard that you were coming, i could never have been sure that it was you. why, you've grown into a regular young gentleman in those foreign parts, and handsome, too, though i sez it. who could have guessed that you are your father's son? why, you'd make two of him. but there, they say that your mother was a good-looking lady and large built, though, as i never set eyes on her, i can't say for sure. well, you must be tired after all this travelling in steamships and trains, so come into the dining-room and have some tea, for i have got the key to the sideboard." he went, and, passing through the hall, left his alpenstock in the umbrella-stand. in due course the tea was produced, though for it he seemed to have little appetite. while he made pretence to eat the thick bread and butter, mrs. parsons told him the news, such as it was. sir john was living in town and "flinging the money about, so it was said, not but what he had got lots to fling and plenty to catch it," she added meaningly. his poor, dear lady was dead, and "happy for her on the whole." miss isobel had "gone foreign," having, it was told, quarrelled with her father, and nothing had been heard of her since she went. she, too, had grown into a fine young lady. that was all he gathered before mrs. parsons was obliged to depart to see to her business--except that she was exceedingly glad to see him. godfrey went up to his bedroom, which he found unprepared, for somebody else seemed to be sleeping there. while he was surveying it and wondering who this occupant might be, he heard his father in the hall asking the parlour-maid which of the young gentlemen had left that "ridiculous stick" in the stand. she replied that she did not know, whereupon the hard voice of his parent told her to take it away. afterwards godfrey found it thrown into the wood-house to be chopped up for firewood, though luckily before this happened. by this time a kind of anger had seized him. it was true that he had not said by what train he was coming, for the reason that until he reached london he could not tell, but he had written that he was to arrive that afternoon, and surely some note might have been taken of the fact. he went downstairs and confronted his father, who alone amid so much change seemed to be exactly the same. mr. knight shook him by the hand without any particular cordiality, and at once attacked him for not having intimated the hour of his arrival, saying that it was too late to advise the carrier to call at the station for his baggage and that a trap would have to be sent, which cost money. "very well, father, i will pay for it myself," answered godfrey. "oh, yes, i forgot!" exclaimed mr. knight, with a sneer, "you have come into money somehow, have you not, and doubtless consider yourself independent?" "yes, and i am glad of it, father, as now i hope i shall not be any more expense to you." "as you have begun to talk business, godfrey," replied his father in an acid manner, "we may as well go into things and get it over. you have, i presume, made up your mind to go into the church in accordance with my wish?" "no, father; i do not intend to become a clergyman." "indeed. you seem to me to have fallen under very bad influences in switzerland. however, it does not much matter, as i intend that you shall." "i am sorry, but i cannot, father." then, within such limits as his piety permitted, which were sufficiently wide, mr. knight lost his temper very badly indeed. he attacked his son, suggesting that he had been leading an evil life in lucerne, as he had learned "from outside sources," and declared that either he should obey him or be cast off. godfrey, whose temper by this time was also rising, intimated that he preferred the latter alternative. "what, then, do you intend to do, young man?" asked mr. knight. "i do not know yet, father." then an inspiration came to him, and he added, "i shall go to london to-morrow to consult my trustees under miss ogilvy's will." "really," said mr. knight in a rage. "you are after that ill-gotten money, are you? well, as we seem to agree so badly, why not go to-night instead of to-morrow; there is a late train? perhaps it would be pleasanter for both of us, and then i need not send for your luggage. also it would save my shifting the new boy from your room." "do you really mean that, father?" "i am not in the habit of saying what i do not mean. only please understand that if you reject my plans for your career, which have been formed after much thought, and, i may add, prayer, i wash my hands of you who are now too old to be argued with in any other way." godfrey looked at his father and considered the iron mouth cut straight like a slit across the face, the hard, insignificant countenance and the small, cold, grey eyes. he realised the intensity of the petty anger based, for the most part, on jealousy because he was now independent and could not be ordered about and bullied like the rest of the little boys, and knew that behind it there was not affection, but dislike. summing up all this in his quick mind, he became aware that father or not, he regarded this man with great aversion. their natures, their outlook, all about them were antagonistic, and, in fact, had been so from the beginning. the less that they saw of each other the better it would be for both. although still so young, he had ripened early, and was now almost a man who knew that these things were so without possibility of doubt. "very well, father," he said, "i will go. it is better than stopping here to quarrel." "i thought you would, now that your friend, isobel, who did you so much harm with her bad influence, has departed to mexico, where, i have no doubt, she has forgotten all about you. you won't be able to run after her money as you did after miss ogilvy's," replied mr. knight with another sneer. "you insult me," said godfrey. "it is a lie that i ran after miss ogilvy's money, and i will never forgive you for saying such a thing of me in connection with isobel," and turning he left the room. so did his father, for godfrey heard him go to his study and lock the door, doubtless as a sign and a token. then godfrey sought out mrs. parsons and told her everything. the old woman was much disturbed, and wept. "i have been thinking of late, master godfrey," she said, "that your father's heart is made of that kind of stone which hell is paved with, only with the good intentions left out--it's that hard. here you are come back as fine a young man as a body can wish to see, of whom his begetter might well be proud, though, for the matter of that, there is precious little of him in you--and he shuts the door in your face just because you won't be a parson and have come into fortune--that's what rankles. i say that your mother, if she was a fool when she married him, was a wise woman when she died. parson or not, he will never go where she is. well, it's sad, but you'll be well out of this cold house, where there's so much praying but not a spark of love." "i think so," said godfrey with a sigh. "i think so, too, for myself, i mean. but, look here, my boy, i only stopped on looking after this dratted pack of young gentlemen because you were coming home again. but, as you ain't, i'm out of it; yes, when the door shuts on you i give my month's notice, which perhaps will mean that i leave to-morrow, for he won't be able to abide the sight of me after that." "but how will you live, nurse, till i can help you?" "lord bless you, dear, that's all right. i've been a careful woman all my life, and have hard on £ put away in the savings bank, to say nothing of a bit of stock. also, my old brother, who was a builder, died last year and left me with a nice little house down in hampstead, which he built to live in himself, but never did, poor man, bit by bit when he was short of business, very comfortable and in a good neighbourhood, with first-rate furniture and real silver plate, to say nothing of some more stock, yes, for £ , or more. i let it furnished by the month, but the tenant is going away, so i shall just move into it myself, and perhaps take in a lodger or two to keep me from being idle." "that's capital!" said godfrey, delighted. "yes, and i tell you what would be capitaller. mayhap you will have to live in london for a bit, and, if so, you are just the kind of lodger i should like, and i don't think we should quarrel about terms. i'll write you down the address of that house, the grove as it is called, though why, i don't know, seeing there isn't a tree within half a mile, which i don't mind, as there are too many about here, making so much damp. and you'll write and let me know what you are going to do, won't you?" "of course i will." "and now, look here. likely you will want a little money till you square up things with your trustee people that the master hates so much." "well, i had forgotten it, but, as a matter of fact, i have only ten shillings left, and that isn't much when one is going to london," confessed godfrey. "i thought so; you never were one to think much of such things, and so it's probable that you'll get plenty of them, for it's what we care about we are starved in, just to make it hot for us poor humans. take your father, for instance; he loves power, he does; he'd like to be a bishop of the old roman sort what could torture people who didn't agree with them. and what is he? the parson of a potty parish of a couple of hundred people, counting the babies and the softies, and half of them dissenters or salvation army. moreover, they can't be bullied, because if they were they'd just walk into the next chapel door. of course, there's the young gentlemen, and he takes it out of them, but, lord bless us! that's like kicking a wool sack, of which any man of spirit soon gets tired. so, you see, he is sick-hearted, and will be more so now that you have stood up to him; and, in this way or that, it's the same with everyone, none of us gets what we want, while of what we don't want there's always plenty." while the old lady held forth thus in her little room which, although she did not know it, had once been the penitential cell of the abbey, wherein for hundreds of years many unhappy ones had reflected in a very similar vein, she was engaged in trying key after key upon a stout oak chest. it was part of the ancient furniture of the place, that indeed in former days had served as the receptacle for hair shirts, scourges and other physical inducements to repentance and piety. now it had a different purpose and held mrs. parsons' best dresses, also, in a bandbox, an ornament preserved from her wedding-cake, for once in the far past she was married to a sailor, a very great black-guard, who came to his end by tumbling from a gangway when he was drunk. among these articles was a tin tea-canister which, when opened, proved to be full of money; gold, silver and even humble copper, to say nothing of several banknotes. "now, there you are, my dear, take what you like," she said, "and pay it back if you wish, but if you don't, it might have been worse spent." and she pushed the receptacle, labelled "imperial pekoe," towards him across the table, adding, "drat those moths! there's another on my best silk." godfrey burst out laughing and enjoyed that laugh, for it was his first happy moment since his return to england. "give me what you like," he said. so she extracted from the tea-tin a five-pound note, four sovereigns and a pound's worth of silver and copper. "there," she said, "that will do to begin with, for too much money in the pocket is a temptation in a wicked place like london, where there's always someone waiting to share it. if it's wanted there's more where that came from, and you've only to write and say so. and now you have got the address and you've got the cash, and if you want to catch that last train it's time you were off. if i took the same to-morrow night, why, it wouldn't surprise me, especially as i want to hear all you've been a-doing in those foreign parts, tumbling over precipices and the rest. so good-bye, my dear, and god bless you. lord! it seems only the other day that i was giving you your bottle." then they kissed each other and, having retrieved his alpenstock from the stick-house, godfrey trudged back to the station, where he picked up his luggage and departed for london. arriving at liverpool street rather late, he went to the great eastern hotel, and after a good meal, which he needed, slept like a top. his reception in england had been bitter, but the young soon shake off their troubles, from which, indeed, the loving kindness of his dear old nurse already had extracted the sting. on the following morning, while breakfasting at a little table by one of the pillars of the big dining-room, he began to wonder what he should do next. in his pocket he had a notebook, in which, at the suggestion of the pasteur, he had set down the address of the lawyers who had written to him about his legacy. it was in a place called the poultry, which, on inquiry from the hall-porter, he discovered was quite close by the mansion house. so a while later, for the porter told him that it was no use to go to see lawyers too early, he sallied forth, and after much search discovered the queer spot called the poultry, also the offices of messrs. ranson, richards and son. here he gave his name to a clerk, who thrust a very oily head out of a kind of mahogany box, and was told that mr. ranson was engaged, but that, if he cared to wait, perhaps he would see him later on. he said he would wait, and was shown into a stuffy little room, furnished with ancient deed-boxes and a very large, old leather-covered sofa that took up half the place. here he sat for a while, staring at a square of dirty glass which gave what light was available, and reflecting upon things in general. while he was thus engaged he heard a kind of tumult outside, in which he recognised the treble of the oily-headed clerk coming in a bad second to a deep, bass voice. then the door opened and a big, burly man, with a red face and a jovial, rolling eye, appeared with startling suddenness and ejaculated: "damn ranson, damn richards, or damn them both, with the son thrown in! i ask you, young man"--here he addressed godfrey seated on the corner of the sofa--"what is the use of a firm of lawyers whom you can never see? you pay the brutes, but three times out of four they are not visible, or, as i suspect, pretend not to be, in order to enhance their own importance. and i sent them a telegram, too, having a train to catch. what do you think?" "i don't know, sir," godfrey answered. "i never came to a lawyer's office before, and i hope i shan't again if this is the kind of room they put one into." "room!" ejaculated the irate gentleman, "call it a dog kennel, call it a cesspool, for, by heaven, it smells like one, but in the interests of truth, young man, don't call it a room." "now that you mention it, there is a queer odour. perhaps a dead rat under the floor," suggested godfrey. "twenty dead rats, probably, since i imagine that this hole has not been cleaned since the time of george ii. we are martyrs in this world, sir. i come here to attend to the affairs of some whippersnapper whom i never saw and never want to see, just because helen ogilvy, who was my first cousin, chooses to make me a trustee of her confounded will, in which she leaves money to the confounded whippersnapper, god knows why. this whippersnapper has a father, a parson, who can write the most offensive letters imaginable. i received one of them this morning, accusing the whippersnapper of all sorts of vague things, and me and my fellow trustee, who is at present enjoying himself travelling, of abetting him. i repeat, damn ranson, richards and son; damn the parson, damn helen--no, i won't say that, for she is dead--and especially damn the whippersnapper. don't you agree with me?" "not quite, sir," said godfrey. "i don't mind about ranson, richards and son, or anybody else, but i don't quite see why you should damn me, who, i am sure, never wished to give you any trouble." "you! and who the hades may you be?" "i am godfrey knight, and i suppose that you are my trustee, or one of them." "godfrey knight, the young man whose father gives us so much trouble, all at our own expense, i may remark. well, after hearing so much of you on paper, i'm deuced glad to meet you in the flesh. come into the light, if you can call it light, and let me have a look at you." godfrey stepped beneath the dirty pane and was contemplated through an eyeglass by this breezy old gentleman, who exclaimed presently: "you're all right, i think; a fine figure of a young man, not bad looking, either, but you want drilling. why the devil don't you go into the army?" "i don't know," answered godfrey, "never thought of it. are you in the army, sir?" "no, not now, though i was. commanded my regiment for five years, and then kicked out with the courtesy title of major-general. cubitte is my name, spelt with two 't's' and an 'e,' please, and don't you forget that, since that 'e' has been a point of honour with our family for a hundred years, the lord knows why. well, there we are. do you smoke?" "only a pipe," said godfrey. "that's right; i hate those accursed cigarettes, still they are better than nothing. now sit down and tell me all about yourself." godfrey obeyed, and somehow feeling at ease with this choleric old general, in the course of the next twenty minutes explained many things to him, including the cause of his appearance in that office. "so you don't want to be a parson," said the general, "and with your father's example before your eyes, i am sure i don't wonder. however, you are independent of him more or less, and had better cut out a line for yourself. we will back you. what do you say to the army?" "i think i should rather like that," answered godfrey. "only, only, i want to get out of england as soon as possible." "and quite right, too--accursed hole, full of fog and politicians. but that's not difficult with india waiting for you. i'm an indian cavalry officer myself, and could put you up to the ropes and give you a hand afterwards, perhaps, if you show yourself of the right stuff, as i think you will. but, of course, you will have to go to sandhurst, pass an entrance examination, and so forth. can you manage that?" "yes, sir, i think so, with a little preparation. i know a good deal of one sort or another, including french." "all right, three months' cramming at scoones' or wren's, will do the trick. and now i suppose you want some money?" godfrey explained that he did, having only £ which he had borrowed from his old nurse. just then the oily-headed clerk announced that mr. ranson was at liberty. so they both went in to see him, and the rest may be imagined. the trustees undertook to pay his expenses, even if they had to stretch a point to do so, and gave him £ to go on with, also a letter of introduction to scoones, whom he was instructed to see and arrange to join their classes. then general cubitte hustled off, telling him to come to dine at an address in kensington two nights later and "report himself." so within less than an hour godfrey's future career was settled. he came out of the office feeling rather dazed but happier than when he went in, and inquired his way to garrick street, where he was informed that mr. scoones had his establishment. he found the place and, by good luck, found mr. scoones also, a kindly, keen, white-haired man, who read the letter, made a few inquiries and put him through a brief examination. "your information is varied and peculiar," he said, "and not of the sort that generally appeals to her majesty's examiners. still, i see that you have intelligence and, of course, the french is an asset; also the literature to some extent, and the latin, though these would have counted more had you been going up for the indian civil. i think we can get you through in three months if you will work; it all depends on that. you will find a lot of young men here of whom quite seventy per cent. do nothing, except see life. very nice fellows in their way, but if you want to get into sandhurst, keep clear of them. now, my term opens next monday. i will write to general cubitte and tell him what i think of you, also that the fees are payable in advance. good-bye, glad you happened to catch me, which you would not have done half an hour later, as i am going out of town. at ten o'clock next monday, please." after this, not knowing what to do, godfrey returned to the great eastern hotel and wrote a letter to his father, in which, baldly enough, he explained what had happened. having posted it in the box in the hall, he bethought him that he must find some place to live in, as the hotel was too expensive for a permanence, and was making inquiries of the porter as to how he should set about the matter when a telegram was handed to him. it ran: "all up as i expected. meet me liverpool street . .--nurse." so godfrey postponed his search for lodgings, and at the appointed hour kept the assignation on the platform. the train arrived, and out of it, looking much more like her old self than she had on the previous day, emerged mrs. parsons with the most extraordinary collection of bundles, he counted nine of them, to say nothing of a jackdaw in a cage. she embraced him with enthusiasm, dropping the heaviest of the parcels, which seemed to contain bricks, upon his toe, and in a flood of language told him of the peculiar awfulness of the row between his father and herself which had ensued upon his departure. "yes," she ended, "he flung my money at my head and i flung it back at his, though afterwards i picked it up again, for it is no use wasting good gold and silver. and so here i am, beginning life again, like you, and feeling thirty years younger for it. now, tell me what you are going to do?" then they went and had tea in the refreshment room, leaving the jackdaw and the other impediments in charge of a porter, and he told her. "that's first-rate," she said. "i always hated the idea of seeing you with a black coat on your back. the queen's uniform looks much better, and i want you to be a man. now you help me into a cab and by dinner time to-morrow i'll be ready for you at my house at hampstead, if i have to work all night to do it. terms--drat the terms. well, if you must have them, master godfrey, ten shillings a week will be more than you will cost me, and i ought to give you five back for your company. now i'll make a start, for there will be a lot to do before the place is fit for a young gentleman. i've never seen it but twice, you know." so she departed, packed into a four-wheeled cab, with the jackdaw on her lap, and godfrey went to madame tussaud's, where he studied the guillotine and the chamber of horrors. on the following morning, having further improved his mind at the tower, he took a cab also, and in due course arrived at hampstead with his belongings. the place took some finding, for it was on the top of a hill in an old-fashioned, out of the way part of the suburb, but when found proved to be delightful. it was a little square house, built of stone, on which the old builder had lavished all his skill and care, so that in it everything was perfect, with a garden both in front and behind. the floors were laid in oak, the little hall was oak-panelled, there were hot and cold water in every room, and so forth. moreover, an odd man was waiting to carry in his things, and in one of the front sitting-rooms, which was excellently furnished, sat mrs. parsons knitting as though she had been there for years. "here you are," she said, "just as i was beginning to get tired of having nothing to do. lord! what a fuss we make about things before we face 'em. after all they ain't nothing but bubbles. blow them and they burst. look here, master godfrey," and she waved her hand about the sitting-room. "pretty neat, ain't it? well, i thought it would be all of a hugger-mugger. but what did i find? that those tenants had been jewels and left everything like a new pin, to say nothing of improvements, such as an eagle range. moreover, the caretaker is a policeman's wife and a very nice woman always ready to help for a trifle, and that man that brought in your boxes is a relative of hers who does gardening jobs and such-like. now, come and see your rooms," and she led him with pride into a capital back apartment with a large window, in fact an old tudor one which the builder had produced somewhere, together with the panelling on the walls. "that's your study," she said, "bookshelves and all complete. now, follow me," and she took him upstairs to a really charming bedroom. "but," said godfrey, surveying these splendours, "this must be the best room in the house. where do you sleep?" "oh! at the back there, my dear. you see, i am accustomed to a small chamber and shouldn't be happy in this big one. besides, you are going to pay me rent and must be accommodated. and now come down to your dinner." a very good dinner it was, cooked by the policeman's wife, which mrs. parsons insisted on serving, as she would not sit at the table with him. in short, godfrey found himself in clover, a circumstance that filled him with some sadness. why, he wondered, should he always be made so miserable at home and so happy when he was away? then he remembered that famous line about the man who throughout life ever found his warmest welcome at an inn, and perceived that it hid much philosophy. frequently enough homes are not what fond fancy paints them, while in the bosom of strangers there is much kindliness. chapter xiii the intervening years now we may omit a great deal from godfrey's youthful career. within a few days he received a letter from his father forwarded to him from the hotel, that was even more unpleasant than the majority of the paternal epistles to which he was accustomed. mr. knight, probably from honest conviction and a misreading of the facts of life, was one of those persons who are called pacifists. although he never carried out the doctrine in his own small affairs, he believed that nations were enjoined by divine decree to turn the other cheek and indeed every portion of their corporate frame to the smiter, and that by so doing, in some mysterious way, they would attain to profound peace and felicity. consequently he hated armies, especially as these involved taxation, and loathed the trade of soldiering, which he considered one of licensed murder. the decision of his son to adopt this career was therefore a bitter blow to him, concerning which he expressed his feelings in the plainest language, ending his epistle by intimating his strong conviction that godfrey, having taken the sword, was destined to perish by the sword. also he pointed out to him that he had turned his back upon god who would certainly remember the affront, being, he remarked, "a jealous god," and lastly that the less they saw of each other in future--here he was referring to himself, not to the divinity as the context would seem to imply--the better it would be for both of them. further there was a postscript about the disgraceful conduct of the woman, mrs. parsons, who, after receiving the shelter of his house for many years, had made a scene and departed, leaving him in the lurch. his injunction was that under no circumstances should he, godfrey, have anything more to do with this violent and treacherous female who had made him a pretext of quarrel, and, having learned that he had money, doubtless wished to get something out of him. godfrey did not answer this letter, nor did his father write to him again for quite a long while. for the rest, on the appointed monday he presented himself at garrick street, and began his course of tuition under the general direction of the wise mr. scoones, "cramming" as it was called. this, indeed, exactly describes the process, for all knowledge was rejected except that which was likely to obtain marks in the course of an examination by hide-bound persons appointed to ascertain who were the individuals best fitted to be appointed to various branches of the public service. anything less calculated to secure the selection of suitable men than such a system cannot well be imagined. however, it was that which certain nebulous authorities had decreed should prevail, and there was an end of it, although in effect it involved, and still involves, the frequent sacrifice of those qualities and characteristics which are essential to a public servant, to others that are quite the reverse. for instance, to a parrot-like memory and the power of acquiring a superficial acquaintance with much miscellaneous information and remembering the same for, say, six months. although he hated the business and thought with longing of his studies, stellar and other, in the kleindorf observatory, godfrey was quite clever enough to collect what was needed. in fact, some three months later he passed his examination with ease about half-way up the list, and duly entered sandhurst. he found the establishment at garrick street just such a place as its owner had described. in it were many charming but idle young men, often with a certain amount of means, who were going up for the diplomatic service, the foreign office, the indian civil, or various branches of the army. of these a large proportion enjoyed life but did little else, and in due course failed in their competitive encounters with the examiners. others were too stupid to succeed, or perhaps their natural talents had another bent, while the remainder, by no means the most brilliant, but with a faculty for passing examinations and without any disturbing originality, worked hard and sailed into their desired haven with considerable facility, being of the stuff of which most successful men are made. for the rest, there was the opportunity, and if they did not avail themselves of it scoones' was not to blame. it was, and perhaps still remains, a most admirable institution of its sort, one, indeed, of which the present chronicler has very grateful recollections. among the pupils studying there was a young man named arthur thorburn, an orphan, with considerable expectations, who lived with an aunt in a fine old house at queen anne's gate. he was a brilliant young man, witty and original, but rash and without perseverance, whom his guardians wished to enter the diplomatic service, a career in which, without doubt, had he ever attained to it, he would have achieved a considerable failure. in appearance he was of medium height, round-faced, light-haired, blue-eyed, with a constant and most charming smile, in every way a complete contrast to godfrey. perhaps this was the reason of the curious attachment that the two formed for each other, unless, indeed, such strong and strange affinities have their roots in past individual history, which is veiled from mortal eyes. at any rate, it happened that on godfrey's first day at scoones' he sat next to arthur thorburn in two classes which he attended. godfrey listened intently and made notes; arthur caricatured the lecturer, an art for which he had a native gift, and passed the results round the class. godfrey saw the caricature and sniggered, then when the lectures were over gravely reproved the author, saying that he should not do such things. "why not?" asked arthur, opening his blue eyes. "heaven intended that stuffy old parrot" (he had drawn this learned man as a dilapidated fowl of that species) "to be caricatured. observe that his nose is already half a beak. or perhaps it is a beak developing into a nose; it depends whether he is on the downward or upward path of evolution." "because you made me laugh," replied godfrey, "whereby i lost at least eighteenpennyworth of information." "a laugh is worth eighteenpence," suggested arthur. "that depends upon how many eighteenpences one possesses. you may have lots, some people are short of them." "quite true. i never looked at it in that way before. i am obliged to you for putting it so plainly," said arthur with his charming smile. such was the beginning of the acquaintance of these two, and in some cases might have been its end. but with them it was not so. arthur conceived a sincere admiration for godfrey who could speak like this to a stranger, and at scoones' and as much as possible outside, haunted him like a shadow. soon it was a regular thing for godfrey to go to dine at the old georgian house in queen anne's gate upon sunday evenings, where he became popular with the rather magnificent early-victorian aunt who thought that he exercised a good influence upon her nephew. sometimes, too, arthur would accompany godfrey to hampstead and sit smoking and making furtive caricatures of him and mrs. parsons, while he worked and she beamed admiration. the occupation sounds dull, but somehow arthur did not find it so; he said that it rested his overwrought brain. "look here, old fellow," said godfrey at length, "have you any intention of passing that examination of yours?" "in the interests of the diplomatic service and of the country i think not," replied arthur reflectively. "i feel that it is a case where true altruism becomes a duty." "then what do you mean to do with yourself?" "don't know. live on my money, i suppose, and on that of my respected aunt after her lamented decease which, although i see no signs of it, she tells me she considers imminent." "i don't wonder, arthur, with you hanging about the house. you ought to be ashamed of yourself. a man is made to work his way through the world, not to idle." "like a beetle boring through wood, not like a butterfly flitting over flowers; that's what you mean, isn't it? well, butterflies are nicer than beetles, and some of us like flowers better than dead wood. but, i say, old chap, do you mean it?" "i do, and so does your aunt." "let us waive my aunt. like the poor she is always with us, and i, alas! am well acquainted with her views, which are those of a past epoch. but i am not obstinate; tell me what to do and i'll do it--anything except enter the diplomatic service, to lie abroad for the benefit of my country, in the words of the ancient saying." "there is no fear of that, for you would never pass the examination," said the practical godfrey. "you see, you are too clever," he added by way of explanation, "and too much occupied with a dozen things of which examiners take no account, the merits of the various religious systems, for instance." "so are you," interrupted arthur. "i know i am; i love them. i'd like to talk to you about reincarnation and astronomy, of which i know something, and even astrology and the survival of the dead and lots of other things. but i have got to make my way in the world, and i've no time. you think me a heavy bore and an old fogey because i won't go to parties to which lots of those nice fellows ask me. do you suppose i shouldn't like the parties and all the larks afterwards and the jolly actresses and the rest? of course i should, for i'm a man like others. but i tell you i haven't time. i've flouted my father, and i'm on my honour, so to speak, to justify myself and get on. so i mean to pass that tomfool examination and to cram down a lot of stuff in order to do so, which is of no more use to me than though i had swallowed so much brown paper. fool-stuff, pulped by fools to be the food of fools--that's what it is. and now i'm going to shove some spoonfuls of it down my throat, so light your pipe, and please be quiet." "one moment more of your precious time," interrupted arthur. "what is the exact career that you propose to adorn? something foreign, i think--indian civil service?" "no, as i have told you a dozen times, indian army." "the army has points--possibly in the future it might give a man an opportunity of departing from the world in a fashion that is generally, if in error, considered to be decent. india, too, has still more points, for there anyone with intelligence might study the beginnings of civilisation, which, perhaps, are also its end. my friend, i, too, will enter the indian army, that is if i can pass the examination. provide me at once with the necessary books and, mrs. parsons, be good-hearted enough to bring some of your excellent coffee, brewed double strong. do not imagine, young man, who ought, by the way, to have been born fifty years earlier and married my aunt, that you are the only one who can face and conquer facts, even those advanced by that most accursed of empty-headed bores, the man or the maniac called euclid." so the pair of them studied together, and by dint of private tuition in the evening, for at scoones' where his talent for caricature was too much for him, arthur would do little or nothing, godfrey dragged his friend through the examination, the last but one in the list. even then a miracle intervened to save him. arthur's euclid was hopeless. he hated the whole business of squares and angles and parallelograms with such intensity that it made him mentally and morally sick. to his, as to some other minds, it was utter nonsense devised by a semi-lunatic for the bewilderment of mankind, and adopted by other lunatics as an appropriate form of torture of the young. at length, in despair, godfrey, knowing that arthur had an excellent memory, only the night before the examination, made him learn a couple of propositions selected out of the books which were to be studied, quite at hazard, with injunctions that no matter what other propositions were set he should write out these two, pretending that he had mistaken the question. this arthur did with perfect accuracy, and by the greatest of good luck one of the two propositions was actually that which he was asked to set down, while the other was allowed to pass as an error. so he bumped through somehow, and in the end the indian army gained a most excellent officer. it is true that there were difficulties when he explained to his aunt and his trustees that in some inexplicable manner he had passed for sandhurst instead of into the diplomatic service. but when he demonstrated to them that this was his great and final effort and that nothing on earth would induce him to face another examination, even to be made a king, they thought it best to accept the accomplished fact. "after all, you have passed something," said his aunt, "which is more than anyone ever expected you would do, and the army is respectable, for, as i have told you, my grandfather was killed at waterloo." "yes," replied arthur, "you have told me, my dear aunt, very often. he broke his neck by jumping off his horse when riding towards or from the battlefield, did he not? and now i propose to follow his honoured example, on the battlefield, if possible, or if not, in steeplechasing." so the pair of them went to sandhurst together, and together in due course were gazetted to a certain regiment of indian cavalry, the only difference being that godfrey passed out top and arthur passed out bottom, although, in fact, he was much the cleverer of the two. of the interval between these two examinations there is nothing that need be reported, for their lives and the things that happened to them were as those of hundreds of other young men. only through all they remained the fastest of friends, so much so that by the influence of general cubitte, as has been said, they managed to be gazetted to the same regiment. during those two years godfrey never saw his father, and communicated with him but rarely. his winter vacations were spent at mrs. parsons' house in hampstead, working for the most part, since he was absolutely determined to justify himself and get on in the profession which he had chosen. in the summer he and arthur went walking tours, and once, with some other young men, visited the continent to study various battlefields, and improve their minds. at least godfrey studied the battlefields, while arthur gave most of his attention to the younger part of the female population of france and italy. at easter again they went to scotland, where arthur had some property settled on him--for he was a young man well supplied with this world's goods--and fished for salmon and trout. altogether, for godfrey, it was a profitable and happy two years. at sandhurst and elsewhere everyone thought well of him, while old general cubitte became his devoted friend and could not say enough in his praise. "damn it! sir," he exclaimed once, "do you mean to tell me that you never overdraw your allowance? it is not natural; almost wrong indeed. i wonder what your secret vices are? well, so long as you keep them secret, you ought to be a big man one day and end up in a very different position to george cubitte--called a general--who never saw a shot fired in his life. there'll be lots of them flying about before you're old, my boy, and doubtless you'll get your share of gunpowder--or nitro-glycerine--if you go on as you have begun. if i weren't afraid of making you cocky, i'd tell you what they say about you down at that sandhurst shop, where i have an old pal or two." shortly after this came the final examination, through which, as has been said, godfrey sailed out top, an easy first indeed--a position to which his thorough knowledge of french and general aptitude for foreign languages, together with his powers of work and application, really entitled him. all his friends were delighted, especially arthur, who looked on him as a kind of _lusus naturæ_, and from his humble position at the bottom of the tree, gazed admiringly at godfrey perched upon its topmost bough. the old pasteur, too, with whom godfrey kept up an almost weekly correspondence, continuing his astronomical studies by letter, was enraptured and covered him with compliments, as did his instructors at the college. all of this would have been enough to turn the heads of many young men, but as it happened godfrey was by nature modest, with enough intelligence to appreciate the abysmal depths of his own ignorance by the light of the little lamp of knowledge with which he had furnished himself on his journey into their blackness. this intense modesty always remained a leading characteristic of his, which endeared him to many, although it was not one that helped him forward in life. it is the bold, self-confident man, who knows how to make the most of his small gifts, who travels fastest and farthest in this world of ours. when, however, actually he received quite an affectionate and pleased letter from his father, he did, for a while, feel a little proud. the letter enclosed a cutting from the local paper recording his success, and digging up for the benefit of its readers an account of his adventure on the alps. also, it mentioned prominently that he was the son of the rev. mr. knight, the incumbent of monk's abbey, and had received his education in that gentleman's establishment; so prominently, indeed, that even the unsuspicious godfrey could not help wondering if his father had ever seen that paragraph before it appeared in print. the letter ended with this passage: "we have not met for a long while, owing to causes to which i will not allude, and i suppose that shortly you will be going to india. if you care to come here i should like to see you before you leave england. this is natural, as after all you are my only child and i am growing old. once you have departed to that far country who knows whether we shall ever meet again in this world?" godfrey, a generous-hearted and forgiving person, was much touched when he read these words, and wrote at once to say that if it were convenient, he would come down to monk's abbey at the beginning of the following week and spend some of his leave there. so, in due course, he went. as it happened, at about the same time destiny had arranged that another character in this history was returning to that quiet essex village, namely isobel blake. isobel went to mexico with her uncle and there had a most interesting time. she studied aztec history with her usual thoroughness; so well, indeed, that she became a recognised authority on the subject. she climbed popocatepetl, the mysterious "sleeping woman" that overhands the ancient town, and looked into its crater. greatly daring, she even visited yucatan and saw some of the pre-aztec remains. for this adventure she paid with an attack of fever which never quite left her system. indeed, that fever had a peculiar effect upon her, which may have been physical or something else. isobel's fault, or rather characteristic, as the reader may have gathered, was that she built too much upon the material side of things. what she saw, what she knew, what her body told her, what the recorded experience of the world taught--these were real; all the rest, to her, was phantasy or imagination. she kept her feet upon the solid ground of fact, and left all else to dreamers; or, as she would have expressed it, to the victims of superstition inherited or acquired. well, something happened to her at the crisis of that fever, which was sharp, and took her on her return from yucatan, at a horrible port called frontera, where there were palm trees and _zopilotes_--a kind of vile american vulture--which sat silently on the verandah outside her door in the dreadful little hotel built upon piles in the mud of the great river, and mosquitoes by the ten million, and sleepy-eyed, crushed-looking indians, and horrible halfbreeds, and everything else which suggests an earthly hell, except the glorious sunshine. of a sudden, when she was at her worst, all the materiality--if there be such a word--which circumstances and innate tendency had woven about her as a garment, seemed to melt away, and she became aware of something vast in which she floated like an insect in the atmosphere--some surrounding sea which she could neither measure nor travel. she knew that she was not merely isobel blake, but a part of the universe in its largest sense, and that the universe expressed itself in miniature within her soul. she knew that ever since it had been, she was, and that while it existed she would endure. this imagination or inspiration, whichever it may have been, went no further than that, and afterwards she set it down to delirium, or to the exaltation that often accompanies fever. still, it left a mark upon her, opening a new door in her heart, so to speak. for the rest, the life in mexico city was gay, especially in the position which she filled as the niece of the british minister, who was often called upon to act as hostess, as her aunt was delicate and her cousin was younger than herself and not apt at the business. there were diaz and the foreign diplomatic ministers; also the leading mexicans to be entertained, for which purpose she learned spanish. then there were english travellers, distinguished, some of them, and german nobles, generally in the diplomatic service of their country, whom by some peculiar feminine instinct of her own, she suspected of being spies and generally persons of evil intentions. also there was the british colony, among whom were some very nice people that she made her friends, the strange, adventurous pioneers of our empire who are to be bound in every part of the world, and in a sense its cream. lastly, there were the american tourists and business men, many of whom she thought amusing. one of these, a millionaire who had to do with a "beef trust," though what that might be she never quite understood, proposed to her. he was a nice young fellow enough, of a real old american family whose ancestors were supposed to have come over in the _mayflower_, and possessed of a remarkable vein of original humour; also he was much in love. but isobel would have none of it, and said so in such plain, unmistakable language that the millionaire straightway left mexico city in his private railway car, disconsolately to pursue his beef speculations in other lands. on the day that he departed isobel received a note from him which ran: "i have lost you, and since i am too sore-hearted to stay in this antique country and conclude the business that brought me here, i reckon that i have also lost , dollars. that sum, however, i would gladly have given for the honour and joy of your friendship, and as much more added. so i think it well spent, especially as it never figured in my accounts. good-bye. god bless you and whoever it may be with whom you are in love, for that there is someone i am quite sure, also that he must be a good fellow." from which it will be seen that this millionaire was a very nice young man. so, at least, thought isobel, though he did write about her being in love with someone, which was the rankest nonsense. in love, indeed! why, she had never met a man for whom she could possibly entertain any feelings of that sort, no, not even if he had been able to make a queen of her, or to endow her with all the cash resources of all the beef trusts in the world. men in that aspect were repellent and hateful to her; the possibility of such a union with any one of them was poisonous, even unnatural to her, soul and body. once, it is true, there had been a certain boy--but he had passed out of her life--oh! years ago, and, what is more, had affronted her by refusing to answer a letter which she had written to him, just, as she imagined--though of course this was only a guess--because of his ridiculous and unwarrantable jealousy and the atrocious pride that was his failing. also she had read in the papers of a very brave act which he had done on the alps, one which filled her with a pride that was not atrocious, but quite natural where an old playmate was concerned, and had noticed that it was a young lady whom he had rescued. that, of course, explained everything, and if her first supposition should be incorrect, would quite account for her having received no answer to her letter. it was true, however, that she had heard no more of this young lady, though scraps of gossip concerning godfrey did occasionally reach her. for instance, she knew that he had quarrelled with his father because he would not enter the church and was going into the army, a career which she much preferred, especially as she did not believe in the church and could not imagine what godfrey would look like in a black coat and a white tie. by the way, she wondered what he did look like now. she had an old faded photograph of him as a lanky youth, but after all this time he could not in the least resemble that. well, probably he had grown as plain and uninteresting--as she was herself. it was wonderful that the american young man could have seen anything in her, but then, no doubt he went on in the same kind of way with half the girls he met. thus reflected isobel, and a little while later paid a last visit to the museum, which interested her more than any place in mexico, perhaps because its exhibits strengthened her theories as to comparative religion, and shook off her feet the dust of what her american admirer had called that "antique land." it was with a positive pang that from the deck of the steamship outside vera cruz she looked her last on the snows of the glorious peak of orizaba, but soon these faded away into the skyline and with them her life in mexico. returning to england _via_ the west indies in the company of her uncle who was coming home on leave before taking up an appointment as minister to one of the south american republics, she was greeted on the platform at waterloo by her father. sir john blake had by this time forgotten their previous disagreements, or, at any rate, determined to ignore them, and isobel, who was now in her way a finished woman of the world, though she did not forget, had come to a like conclusion. so their meeting was cordial enough, and for a while, not a very long while, they continued to live together in outward amity, with a tacit understanding that they should follow their respective paths, unmolested by each other. chapter xiv together on the afternoon of the first day after his arrival at the abbey, some spirit in his feet moved godfrey to go into the church. as though by instinct, he went to the chancel, and stood there contemplating the brass of the nameless plantagenet lady. how long it was since he had looked upon her graven face and form draped in the stately habiliments of a bygone age! then, he remembered with a pang, isobel was with him, and they had seemed to be very near together. now there was no isobel, and they were very far apart, both in the spirit and in the flesh. for he had not heard of her return to england and imagined that she was still in mexico, whence no tidings of her came to him. there he stood among the dead, reflecting that we do not need to pass out of the body to know the meaning of death, since, as once isobel had said herself, some separations are as bad, or worse. the story of the dead is, at any rate, completed; there is nothing more to be learned about them, and of them we imagine, perhaps quite erroneously, that we have no need to be jealous, since we cannot conceive that they may form new interests in another sphere. but with the living it is otherwise. somewhere their life is continued; somewhere they are getting themselves friends or lovers and carrying on the daily round of being, and we have no share in them or in aught that they may do. and probably they have forgotten us. and, if we still happen to be attached to them, oh! it hurts. thus mused godfrey, trying to picture to himself what isobel looked like when she had stood by his side on that long-past autumn eve, and only succeeded in remembering exactly what she looked like when she was kissing a rose with a certain knight in armour in a square garden, since for some perverse reason it was this picture that remained so painfully clear to his mind. then he drifted off into speculations upon the general mystery of things of a sort that were common with him, and in these became oblivious of all else. he did not even hear or see a tall young woman enter the church, clad in summer white, no, not when she was within five pace and, becoming suddenly aware of his presence, had stopped to study him with the acutest interest. in a flash isobel knew who he was. of course he was much changed, for godfrey, who had matured early, as those of his generation were apt to do, especially if they had led a varied life, was now a handsome and well-built young man with a fine, thoughtful face and a quite respectable moustache. "how he has changed, oh! how he has changed," she thought to herself. the raw boy had become a man, and as she knew at once by her woman's instinct, a man with a great deal in him. isobel was a sensible member of her sex; one, too, who had seen something of the world by now, and she did not expect or wish for a hero or a saint built upon the mid-victorian pattern, as portrayed in the books of the lady novelists of that period. she wanted a man to be a man, by preference with the faults pertaining to the male nature, since she had observed that those who lacked these, possessed others, which to her robust womanhood seemed far worse, such as meanness and avarice and backbiting, and all the other qualities of the pharisee. well, in godfrey, whether she were right or wrong, with that swift glance of hers, she seemed to recognise a man as she wished a man to be. if that standard of hers meant that very possibly he had admired other women, the lady whom he had pulled up a precipice, for instance, she did not mind particularly, so long as he admired her, isobel, most of all. that was her one _sine qua non_, that he should admire her most of all, or rather be fondest of her in his innermost self. what was she thinking about? what was there to show that he cared one brass farthing about her? nothing at all. and yet, why was he here where she had parted from him so long ago? surely not to stare at the grave of a dead woman with whom he could have had nothing to do, since she left the world some five centuries before. and another question. what had brought her here, she who hated churches and all the mummery that they signified? would he never wake up? would he never realise her presence? oh! then he could care nothing about her. probably he was thinking of the girl he had pulled up a cliff in the alps. but why did he come to this place to think of _her_? isobel stood quite still there and waited in the shadow of a georgian tomb, till presently godfrey did seem to grow aware that he was no longer alone. something or somebody had impinged upon his intelligence. he began to look about him, though always in the wrong direction. then, convinced that he was the victim of fancy, he spoke aloud as he had a bad habit of doing when by himself. "it's very curious," he said, "but i could have sworn that isobel was here, as near me as when we parted. i suppose that is what comes of thinking so much about her. or do people leave something of themselves behind in places where they have experienced emotion? if so, churches ought to be very full of ghosts. i dare say that they are, only then no one could know it except those who had shared the emotion, and therefore they remain intangible. still, i could have sworn that isobel was here. indeed, i seem to feel her now, and i hope that the dream will go on." listening there in the shadow, she heard, and flushed in her flesh and rejoiced in her innermost being. so he had _not_ forgotten her, which is the true and real infidelity that never can be forgiven, at any rate, by a woman. so she was still something in his life, although he had not answered her letter years ago. then she grew angry with herself. what did it matter to her what he was, or thought, or did? it was absurd that she could be dependent morally upon anyone, who must rely in life or death upon herself alone and on the strong soul within her. she was wroth with godfrey for exciting such disturbance in--what was it--her spirit or her body? nonsense, she had no spirit. that was a phantasy. therefore it must be in her body which was her own particular property that should remain uninfluenced by any other body. so it came about that the first words she spoke to him were somewhat rough in their texture. she stepped forward out of the shadow of the georgian tomb and confronted him with a defiant air, her head thrown back, looking, to tell the truth, rather stately. "i hoped that by this time you had given up talking to yourself, godfrey, which, as i always told you, is a bad habit. i did not hear much of what you were mumbling, but i understood you to say that you thought i was here. well, why shouldn't i be here?" he stared at her blankly and answered: "god knows, i don't! but since you ask the question, _why_ are you here, isobel? it is isobel, isn't it, or am i still dreaming? let me touch you and i shall know." she drew back a little way, quite three inches. "of course it is isobel, don't your senses tell you that without wanting to touch me? why, i knew it was you from the end of the church. but you ask me why i am here. i wish you would tell me. i was passing, and something drew me into this place. i suppose it was you, and if so, i say at once that i resent it; you have no right----" "no, no, certainly not, but do let me touch you to make sure that you are isobel." "very well," she said, and stretched out a hand towards him. he caught it with his left which was nearest, and then with his right hand reached forward and seized her other hand. with a masterful movement he draw her towards him, and though she was a strong woman she seemed to have no power to resist. she thought that he was going to kiss her and did not care greatly if he did. but he checked himself in time, and instead of pressing his lips upon hers, only kissed her hands, first one and then the other, for quite a long while: nor did she attempt to deny him, perhaps because a wild impulse took possession of her to kiss his in answer. yes, his hands, or his lips, or even his coat or anything about him. oh! it made her very angry, but there it was, for something rushed up in her which she had never felt before, something mad and wild and sweet. she wrenched herself away at last and began to scold him again. "what have you been doing all these years? why did you never write to me?" "because i was too proud, as you never wrote to me." "too proud! pride will be your ruin; it goes before every sort of fall. besides, i did write to you. i can show you a copy of the letter, if i haven't torn it up." "i never got it; did you post it yourself?" "yes, that is i took it to the abbey house and left it to be addressed there." "oh! then perhaps it is there still," and he looked at her. "nonsense, no one could have been so mean, not even----" he shrugged his shoulders, a trick he had learned abroad, then said: "well, it doesn't matter now, does it, isobel?" "yes, it matters a lot. years of misunderstanding and doubt and loss, when life is so short. i might have married or all sorts of things." "what has my not receiving your letter got to do with that?" he asked, astonished. "nothing at all. why do you ask such silly questions? i only meant that if i had married i should not have been here, and we should never have met again." "well, you are here and we have met in this church, where we parted." "yes, it's odd, isn't it? i wish it had been somewhere else. i don't like this gloomy old place with its atmosphere of death. come outside." they went, and when they were through the churchyard gates walked at hazard towards the stream which ran through the grounds of hawk's hall. here they sat down upon a fallen willow, watching the swallows skim over the surface of the placid waters, and for a while were silent. they had so much to say to each other that it seemed as though scarcely they knew where to commence. "tell me," she said at length, "were you in the square garden on the night of that dance at which i came out? oh! i see by your look that you were. then why did you not speak to me instead of standing behind a bush, watching in that mean fashion?" "i wasn't properly dressed for parties, and--and--you seemed to be--very much engaged--with a rose and a knight in armour." "engaged! it was only part of a game. i wrote and told you all about it in the letter you did not get. did you never kiss a flower for a joke and give it to someone, not knowing that you were being watched?" godfrey coloured and shifted uneasily on his log. "well, as a matter of fact," he said, "it is odd that you should have guessed--for something of the sort did once happen quite by accident. also i _was_ watched." "i!--you mean _we_. one doesn't kiss flowers by oneself and give them to the air. it would be more ridiculous even than the other thing." "i will tell you all about it if you like," he stammered confusedly. she looked at him with her large, steady grey eyes, and answered in a cold voice: "no, thank you, i don't like. nothing bores me so much as other people's silly love affairs." baffled in defence, godfrey resorted to attack. "what has become of the knight in armour?" he asked. "he is married and has twins. i saw the announcement of their birth in the paper yesterday. and what has become of the lady with the flower? for since there was a flower, there must have been a lady; i suppose the same whom you pulled up the precipice." "she is married also, to her cousin, but i don't know that she has any children yet, and i never pulled her up any precipice. it was a man i pulled, a very heavy one. my arm isn't quite right yet." "oh!" said isobel. then with another sudden change of voice she went on. "now tell me all about yourself, godfrey. there must be such lots to say, and i long to hear." so he told her, and she told him of herself, and they talked and talked till the shadows of advancing night began to close around them. suddenly godfrey looked at his watch, of which he could only just see the hands. "my goodness!" he said, "it is half-past seven." "well, what about it? it doesn't matter when i dine, for i have come down alone here for a few days, a week perhaps, to get the house ready for my father and his friends." "yes, but my father dines at seven, and if there is one thing he hates it is being kept waiting for dinner." she looked as though she thought that it did not much matter whether or no mr. knight waited for his dinner, then said: "well, you can come up to the hall and dine with me." "i think i had better not," he answered. "you see, we are getting on so well together--i mean my father and i, and i don't want to begin a row again. he would hate it." "you mean, godfrey, that he would hate your dining with me. well, that is true, for he always loathed me like poison, and i don't think he is a man to change his mind. so perhaps you had better go. do you think we shall be allowed to see each other again?" she added with sarcasm. "of course. let's meet here to-morrow at eleven. my father is going to a diocesan meeting and won't be back till the evening. so we might spend the day together if you have nothing better to do." "let me see. no, i have no engagement. you see, i only came down half an hour before we met in the church." then they rose from their willow log and stood looking at each other, a very proper pair. something welled up in him and burst from his lips. "how beautiful you have grown," he said. she laughed a little, very softly, and said: "beautiful! _i_? those alpine snows affect the sight, don't they? i felt like that on popocatepetl. or is it the twilight that i have to thank? oh! you silly old godfrey, you must have been living among very plain people." "you _are_ beautiful," he replied stubbornly, "the most beautiful woman i ever saw. you always were, and you always will be." again she laughed, for who of her sex is there that does not like to be called beautiful, especially when she knows that it is meant, and that whatever her personal shortcomings, to the speaker she is beautiful? but this time the only answer she attempted was: "you said you were late, and you are getting later. run home, there's a good little boy." "why do you laugh at me?" he asked. "because i am laughing at myself," she answered, "and you should have your share." then very nearly he kissed her, only he was in such a hurry, also the willow log, a large one, was between them; possibly she had arranged that this should be so. so he could only press her hand and depart, muttering something indistinguishable. she watched him vanish, after which she sat down again on the log and really did laugh. still, it was a queer kind of merriment, for by degrees it turned into little sobs and tears. "you little fool, what has happened to you?" she asked herself. "are you--are you--and if so, is he--? oh! nonsense, and yet, something has happened, for i never felt like this before. i thought it was all rubbish, mere natural attraction, part of nature's scheme and so on, as they write in the clever books. but it's more than that--at least it would be if i were---- besides, i'm ages older than he is, although i was born six months later. i'm a woman full-grown, and he is only a boy. if he hadn't been a boy he would have taken his advantage when he must have known that i was weak as water, just for the joy of seeing him again. now he has lost his chance, if he wanted one, for by to-morrow i shall be strong again, and there shall be no more----" then she looked at the backs of her hands which she could not see because of the gathering darkness, and as they were invisible, kissed them instead, just as though they belonged to someone else. after this she sat a while brooding and listening to the pulsing of her heart, which was beating with unusual strength this night. as she did so in that mysterious hour which sometimes comes to us in english summers, a great change fell upon her. when she sat down upon that fallen tree she was still a girl and virginal; when she rose from it she was a developed, loving woman. it was as though a spirit had visited her and whispered in her ear. she could almost hear the words. they were: "fulfil your fate. love and be loved with body and with spirit, with heart and soul and strength." at length she rose, and as she did so said aloud: "i do not know who or what i have to thank for life and all that makes me, me. but i am glad to have been born, now, who have often wished that i had never been born. even if i knew that i must pass away to-night, i should still be glad, since i have learned that there is something in me which cannot die. it came when that man kissed my hands, and it will endure for ever." godfrey was late for dinner, very late, and what was worse, his father _had_ waited for him. "i suppose you forgot that i dined at seven, not at eight," was his cold greeting, for mr. knight, a large eater like many teetotallers, was one of those people who make a fetish of punctuality at meals, and always grow cross when they are hungry. godfrey, whose mind had not been steadied by the events of the afternoon, became confused and replied that he was extremely sorry, but the fact was he had met isobel and, in talking to her, had not noticed the time. "isobel!" exclaimed his father, whose voice was now icy. "what isobel?" "i never knew but one, father." "oh! i suppose you mean miss blake. i had no idea she was here; indeed, i thought she was still in mexico. but doubtless you were better informed." "no, father, i met her accidentally. she has returned to england." "that is obvious, godfrey----" "she has come down," he continued in a hurry, "to get the house ready for sir john, who arrives shortly." "oh! has she? what a strange coincidence! all the years of our separation while you were way she was away, but within two days of your return she returns." "yes, it does seem odd," agreed the flustered godfrey, "but it's lucky, isn't it, for, of course, i am glad to see her again." mr. knight finished carving himself a helping of beef, and let the knife fall with a clatter into the dish. then he said in carefully chosen words: "you may think it lucky--or well arranged--but i must differ. i tell you at once that i consider miss blake a most pernicious young woman, and as your father i can only express the hope that you do not intend to allow her to re-assert her evil influence over you." godfrey was about to answer with wrath, but changed his mind and remained silent. so the topic dropped, but that it stood very straight upon its feet in mr. knight's mind was clear from the compression of his thin lips and the ill-humour of his remarks about the coldness and overdone character of the beef and sundry other household matters. as soon as the meal was concluded and he had washed it down with a last glass of water and with a very wry face thanked providence for all that he had received, he retired into his study and was seen no more till prayer-time. nor was he seen then by godfrey, who had gone out to smoke his pipe since his father could not bear the smell of tobacco in the house, and wandered unconsciously towards the hall. there he stood, gazing at a light which he knew came from isobel's window, and lost in this unfruitful contemplation, once more forgot the time. when he arrived home it was to find the house in darkness and a note in his father's handwriting on the hall table requesting him to be careful to lock the door, as everyone had gone to bed. he went, too, but could not sleep, for, strangely enough, that disturbance of body and spirit which had afflicted isobel possessed him also. it seemed wonderful to him that he should have found her again, whom he thought to be so utterly lost, and grown so sweet and dear. how could he have lived all this while without her, he wondered, and, another thought, how could he bear to part with her once more? oh! she was his life, and--why should they part? she had not minded when he kissed her hands, at which, of course, she might have been angry; indeed, she left them to be kissed for quite a long while, though not half long enough. perhaps she did not wish that they should part either, or perhaps she only desired that they should be just friends as before. it seemed almost impossible that they could become more than friends, even if she cared to do so, which he could scarcely hope. what was he? a young fellow, twenty, with only a little money and all his way to make in the world. and what was she? a grand young lady, rather younger than himself, it was true, but seeming years older, who was a great heiress, they said, and expected to marry a lord, someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth, whose fortune had been made for him by other people. moreover, his father hated her because their religious views were different, and her father hated him, or used to, for other reasons. yes, it was quite impossible--and yet nature seemed to take no account of that: nature seemed to tell him that it was absolutely possible, and indeed right, and what she, nature, wished. also this same persistent nature seemed to suggest to him that isobel was her most willing and obedient pupil, and that perhaps if he could look into her heart he would find that she did care, and very much more than for the wealth and the hypothetical lord. nature seemed to suggest, too, that isobel's thoughts were with him at that moment; that she was uncommonly near to him in soul if not in body; that she was thinking about him as he was thinking about her, and saying much the same things to herself as he was saying to himself. indeed, he even began a whispered conversation with her, of a sort he would not have ventured upon had she been there, pausing between the sentences for her answers, which, as he imagined them, were very satisfactory indeed. by degrees, however, question and answer grew less frequent and further apart as he dozed off and finally sank into a deep sleep. so deep was it, indeed, that he was awakened only by the clamour of the breakfast bell, and when he arrived downstairs, to be confronted by some cold bacon on an uncovered dish, his father had departed to the diocesan conference. well, this fact had its consolations, and bacon, however cold, with contentment is better than bacon hot where contention is. so he ate it and anything else he could find with appetite, and then went upstairs to shave and do his hair nicely and to put on a new suit of clothes, which he considered became him. also, as he had still three-quarters of an hour to spare, he began to write a little poem about isobel, which was a dismal failure, to tell the truth, since he could think of no satisfactory rhyme to her name, except "o well!" which, however he put it, sounded silly. at last, rather too early, he threw the sheet of paper into the fireplace and started, only to find that although it still lacked a quarter of an hour to eleven, isobel was already seated on that tree. "what have you been doing to yourself?" she asked, "putting on those smart london clothes? i like the old grey things you had on last night ever so much better, and i wanted you to climb a tree to get me some young jackdaws. and--good gracious! godfrey, your head smells like a whole hairdresser's shop. please come to the other side, to leeward of me." he murmured something about liking to look tidy, and then remarked that she seemed rather finely dressed herself. "it's only my mexican hat," she answered, touching the big sombrero, woven from the finest panama grass, which she was wearing, "and the necklace is made of little gold aztec idols that were found in a grave. they are very rare; a gentleman gave them to me, and afterwards i was horrified to find that he had paid an awful lot for them, £ , i believe. do you understand about the aztec gods? if not i will explain them all to you. this big one in the middle is huitzilcoatl, the god of----" "no, no," interrupted godfrey, "i don't and i don't want to. i think them very ugly, and i always understood that ladies did not accept such expensive presents from gentlemen. who was he?" "an american millionaire who didn't wear armour," she answered blandly. then she changed the subject with the original remark that the swallows were flying higher than they had done on the previous evening, when they looked as though one could almost catch them with one's hand. godfrey reflected to himself that other things which had seemed quite close on the previous night were now like the swallows, far out of reach. only he took comfort in the remembrance that swallows, however near, are evasive birds, not easy to seize unless you can find them sleeping. next she began to tell him all about the mexican gods, whether he wanted to listen or not, and he sat there in the glory of his new clothes and brilliantined hair, and gazed at her till she asked him to desist as she felt as though she were being mesmerised. this led him to his spiritualistic experiences of which he told her all the story, and by the time it was finished, behold! it was the luncheon hour. "it is very interesting," she said as they entered the hall, "and i can't laugh at it all as i should have done once, i don't quite know why. but i hope, godfrey, that you will have no more to do with spirits." "no, not while----" and he looked at her. "while what?" "while--there are such nice bodies in the world," he stammered, colouring. she coloured also, tossed her head, and went to wash her hands. the afternoon they spent in hunting for imaginary young jackdaws in a totally nebulous tree. isobel grew rather cross over its non-discovery, swearing that she remembered it well years ago, and that there were always young jackdaws there. "perhaps it has been cut down," suggested godfrey. "i am told that your father has been improving the place a great deal in that kind of way, so as to make it up to date and scientific and profitable, and all the rest of it. also if it hasn't, there would have been no young jackdaws, since they must have flown quite six weeks ago." "then why couldn't you say that at once, instead of making us waste all this time?" asked isobel with indignation. "i don't know," replied godfrey in a somewhat vacuous fashion. "it was all the same to me if we were hunting for young jackdaws or the man in the moon, as long as we were together." "godfrey, it is evident that you have been overworking and are growing foolish. i make excuses for you, since anybody who passed first out of sandhurst must have overworked, but it does not alter the fact. now i must go home and see about that house, for as yet i have arranged nothing at all, and the place is in an awful state. remember that my father is coming down presently with either six or eight terrible people, i forget which. all i know about them is that they are extremely rich and expect to be what is called 'done well.'" "must you?" remarked godfrey, looking disappointed. "yes, i must. and so must you. _your_ father is coming back by the five o'clock train, and i advise you to be there to meet him. perhaps i shall see you to-morrow some time." "i can't," exclaimed godfrey in a kind of wail. "i am to be taken off to a school in some town or other, i forget which, that my father has been examining. i suppose it is the speech day, and he proposes to introduce me as a kind of object lesson because i have passed first in an examination." "yes, as a shining example and--an advertisement. well, perhaps we shall meet later," and without giving him an opportunity of saying more she vanished away. chapter xv for ever godfrey managed to be late again, and only reached home five minutes after his father, who had bicycled instead of walking from the station as he supposed that he would do. "i forgot to give orders about your lunch," said mr. knight tentatively. "i hope that you managed to get some." "oh, yes, father; that is, i lunched out, at the hall." "indeed! i did not know that sir john had arrived." "no, he hasn't; at least i have not seen him. i lunched with isobel." "indeed!" remarked mr. knight again, and the subject dropped. next day, godfrey, once more arrayed in his best clothes, attended the prize-giving and duly was made to look foolish, only getting home just in time for dinner, after which his father requested him to check certain examination papers. then came sunday and church at which isobel did not appear; two churches in fact, and after these a tea party to the churchwardens and their wives, to whom godfrey was expected to explain the wonders of the alps. before it was over, if he could have managed it, these stolid farmers with their families would have lain at the bottom of the deepest moraine that exists amid those famous mountains. but there they were, swallowing tea and munching cake while they gazed on him with ox-like eyes, and he plunged into wild explanations as to the movements of glaciers. "something like one of them new-fangled machines what carry hay up on to the top of stacks," said churchwarden no. at length. "did you ever sit on a glacier while it slided from the top to the bottom of a mountain, master godfrey, and if so, however did you get up again?" asked churchwarden no. . "is a glacier so called after the tradesman what cuts glass, because glass and ice are both clear-like?" inquired churchwarden no. , filled with sudden inspiration. then godfrey, in despair, said that he thought it was and fled away, only to be reproached afterwards by his father for having tried to puzzle those excellent and pious men. on monday his luck was better, since mr. knight was called away immediately after lunch to take a funeral in a distant parish of which the incumbent was absent at the seaside. godfrey, by a kind of instinct, sped at once to the willow log by the stream, where, through an outreaching of the long arm of coincidence, he found isobel seated. after casually remarking that the swallows were flying neither high nor low that day, but as it were in mid-air, she added that she had not seen him for a long while. "no, you haven't--say for three years," he answered, and detailed his tribulations. "ah!" said isobel, "that's always the way; one is never left at leisure to follow one's own fancies in this world. to-morrow, for instance, my father and all his horrible friends--i don't know any of them, except one, but from past experience i presume them to be horrible--are coming down to lunch, and are going to stop for three days' partridge shooting. their female belongings are going to stop also, or some of them are, which means that i shall have to look after them." "it's all bad news to-day," remarked godfrey, shaking his head. "i've just had a telegram saying that i must report myself on wednesday, goodness knows why, for i expected to get a month's leave." "oh!" said isobel, looking a little dismayed. "then let us make the best of to-day, for who knows what to-morrow may bring forth?" who indeed? certainly not either of these young people. they talked awhile seated by the river; then began to walk through certain ancient grazing grounds where the monks used to run their cattle. their conversation, fluent enough at first, grew somewhat constrained and artificial, since both of them were thinking of matters different from those that they were trying to dress out in words; intimate, pressing, burning matters that seemed to devour their intelligences of everyday with a kind of eating fire. they grew almost silent, talking only at random and listening to the beating of their own hearts rather than to the words that fell from each other's lips. the sky clouded over, and some heavy drops of rain began to fall. "i suppose that we must go in," said isobel, "we shall be soaked presently," and she glanced at her light summer attire. "where?" exclaimed godfrey. "the abbey? no, my father will be back by now; it must be the hall." "very well, but i dare say _my_ father is there by now, for i understand that he is coming down this afternoon to arrange about the shooting." "great heavens!" groaned godfrey, "and i wanted to--tell you a story which i thought perhaps might interest you, and i don't know when i shall get another chance--now." "then why did you not tell your story before?" she inquired with some irritation. "oh! because i have only just thought of it," he replied rather wildly. at this moment they were passing the church, and the rain began to fall in earnest. by some mutual impulse they entered through the chancel door which was always unlocked, and by some mutual folly, left it open. advancing instinctively to the tombs of the unknown plantagenet lady and her knight which were so intimately connected with the little events of their little lives, they listened for a while to the rush of the rain upon the leaden roof, saying nothing, till the silence grew irksome indeed. each waited for the other to break it, but with a woman's infinite patience isobel waited the longer. there she stood, staring at the brass of the plantagenet lady, still as the bones of that lady which lay beneath. "my story," said godfrey at last with a gasp, and stopped. "yes," said isobel. "what is it?" "oh!" he exclaimed in an agony, "a very short one. i love you, that's all." a little quiver ran through her, causing her dress to shake and the gold mexican gods on her necklace to tinkle against each other. then she grew still as a stone, and raising those large and steady eyes of hers, looked him up and down, finally fixing them upon his own. "is that true?" she asked. "true! it is as true as life and death, or as heaven and hell." "i don't know anything about heaven and hell; they are hypothetical, are they not? life and death are enough for me," and she stopped. "then by life and death, for life and death, and for ever, i love you, isobel." "thank you," she said, and stopped once more. "you don't help one much. have you nothing to say?" "what is there to say? you made a statement for which i thanked you. you asked no question." "it is a question," he exclaimed indignantly. "if i love you, of course i want to know if you love me." "then why did you not say so? but," she added very deliberately, "since you want to know, i do and always have and always shall, in life or death--and for ever--if that means anything." he stared at her, tried to utter something and failed. then he fell back upon another very primitive and ancient expedient. flinging his arms about her, he pressed her to his heart and kissed her again and again and again; nor, in her moment of complete surrender, did she scruple to kiss him back. it was while they were thus engaged, offering a wonderful spectacle of love triumphant and rejoicing in its triumph, that another person who was passing the church bethought him of its shelter as a refuge from the pouring rain. seeing the open door, mr. knight, for it was he, slipped into the great building in his quiet, rather cat-like fashion, but on its threshold saw, and stopped. notwithstanding the shadows, he recognised them in a moment. more, the sight of this pair, the son whom he disliked and the woman whom he hated, thus embraced, thus lost in a sea of passion, moved him to white fury, so that he lifted his clenched hands above his head and shook them, muttering: "and in my church, _my_ church!" then unable to bear more of this spectacle, he slipped away again, heedless of the pouring skies. by nature, although in obedience to a rash promise once he had married, mr. knight was a true woman-hater. that sex and everything to do with it were repellent to him. even the most harmless manifestations of natural affection between male and female he considered disgusting, indeed indecent, and if these were carried any further he held it to be among the greatest of crimes. he was one of those who, if he had the power, would have hounded any poor girl who, in the country phrase, "had got into trouble," to the river brink and over it, as a creature not fit to live; or if she escaped destruction, would have, and indeed often had, pursued her with unceasing malignity, thinking that thereby he did god service. his attitude towards such a person was that of an inquisitor towards a fallen nun. moreover, he could do this with a clear conscience, since he could truly say that he was qualified to throw the first stone, being of those who mistake personal aversion for personal virtue. because his cold-hearted nature rejected it, he loathed this kind of human failing and felt good in the loathing. nor did it ever occur to him to reflect that others, such as secret malice, jealousy and all uncharitableness on which his heart fed, might be much worse than the outrush of human passion in obedience to the almighty decree of nature that is determined not to die. these being his views, the feelings that the sight awoke in him of this pair declaring their holy love in the accustomed, human fashion, can scarcely be measured and are certainly beyond description. had he been another sort of man who had found some devil flogging a child to death, the rage and indignation aroused in his breast could not have been greater, even if it were his own child. the one thing that mr. knight had feared for years was that godfrey, who, as he knew, was fonder of isobel than of any other living creature, should come to love her in a fuller fashion: isobel, a girl who had laughed at and flouted him and once told him to his face that a study of his character and treatment of others had done more to turn her from the christian religion than anything else. in a sense he was unselfish in this matter, or rather his hate mastered his selfishness. he knew very well that isobel would be a great match for godfrey, and he was by no means a man who underrated money and position and their power. he guessed, too, that she really loved him and would have made him the best of wives; that with her at his side he might do almost anything in the world. but these considerations did not in the least soften his loathing of the very thought of such a marriage. incredible as it may seem, he would rather have seen godfrey dead than the happy husband of isobel. mr. knight, drunk with rage, reeled rather than walked away from the church door, wondering what he might do to baulk and shame that living, loving pair who could kiss and cling even among the tombs. a thought came to him, a very evil thought which he welcomed as an inspiration sent straight from an offended heaven. sir john blake had come home; he knew it, for he had passed him on the road seated alone in a fine motor-car, and they had waved their hands to each other not ten minutes before. he would go and tell him all; in the character of an upright man who does not like to see his rich neighbour harmed by the entanglement of that neighbour's daughter in an undesirable relationship. that sir john would consider himself to be harmed, he was sure enough, being by no means ignorant of his plans and aspirations for the future of that daughter, who was expected to make a great alliance in return for the fortune which she would bring to her husband. no sooner said than done. in three minutes he was at the hall and, as it chanced, met sir john by the front door. "hullo, reverend! how are you? you look very wet and miserable; taking refuge from the rain, i suppose, though it is clearing off now. have a brandy and soda, or a glass of port?" "thank you, sir john, i am an abstainer, but a cup of hot tea would be welcome." "tea--ah! yes, but that takes time to make, so i should have to leave you to drink it by yourself. fact is i want to find my daughter. some of those blessed guests of mine, including mounteroy, the young earl, you know, whom i wish her to meet particularly, are coming down to-night by the last train and not to-morrow, so i must get everything arranged in a hurry. can't make out where the girl has gone." "i think i can tell you, sir john," said mr. knight with a sickly smile; "at least i saw her a little while ago rather peculiarly engaged." "where, and how was she engaged?" without asking permission mr. knight entered the house and stepped into a cloak-room that opened out of the hall. being curious, sir john followed him. mr. knight shut the door and, supporting himself against the frame of a marble wash-basin with gilded taps, said: "i saw her in the chancel of the abbey church and she was kissing my son, godfrey; at least he was kissing her, and she seemed to be responding to his infamous advances, for her arms were round his neck and i heard sounds which suggested that this was so." "holy moses!" ejaculated sir john, "what in the name of hell are they after?" "your question, stripped of its unnecessary and profane expletives, seems easy to answer. i imagine that my immoral son has just proposed to your daughter, and been accepted with--well, unusual emphasis." "perhaps you are right. but if he had i don't see anything particularly immoral about it. if i had never done anything worse than that i shouldn't feel myself called to go upon my knees and cry _peccavi_. however, that ain't the point. the point is that a game of this sort don't at all suit my book, but," here he looked at the clergyman shrewdly, "why do _you_ come to tell about it? i should have thought that under all the circumstances _you_ should have been glad. isobel isn't likely to be exactly a beggar, you know, so it seems devilish queer that you should object, as i gather you do; unless it is to the kissing, which has been heard of before." "i do object most strongly, sir john," replied mr. knight in his iciest tones. "i disapprove entirely of your daughter, whose lack of any christian feeling is notorious, and whose corrupting influence will, i fear, make my son as bad as herself." "damn her lack of christian feeling, and damn yours and your impudence too, you half-drowned church rat! why don't you call her jezebel at once, and have done with it? one of the things i like about her is that she has the pluck to snap her fingers at such as you and all your ignorant superstitions. what are you getting at? that is what i want to know." "i put aside your insults to which as a clergyman it is my duty to turn the other cheek," replied mr. knight, with a furious gasp. "as to the rest i am trying to get at the pure and sacred truth." "you look as though you would do better to get at the pure and sacred brandy," remarked sir john, surveying him critically, "but that's your affair. now, what is the truth?" "alas! that i must say it. i believe my son to be that basest of creatures, a fortune-hunter. how did he get that money left to him by another woman?" "don't know, i'm sure. perhaps the old girl found the young chap attractive, and wished to acknowledge favours received. such things have been known. you don't suppose he forged her will, do you?" "you are ribald, sir, ribald." "am i? well, and you are jolly offensive. thank god you weren't my father. now, from what i remember of that boy of yours, i shouldn't have thought that he was a fortune-hunter. i should have thought that he was a young beggar who wished to get hold of the girl he fancies, and that's all. still, you know him best, and i dare say you are right. anyway, for your own peculiar and crack-brained reasons, you don't want this business, and i say at once you can't want it less than i do. do you suppose that i wish to see my only child, who will have half a million of money and might be a countess, or half a dozen countesses, to-morrow, married to the son of a beggarly sniveller like you, for as you are so fond of the pure and sacred truth, i'll give it you--a fellow who can come and peach upon your own boy and his girl." "my conscience and my duty----" began mr. knight. "oh! drat your conscience and blow your duty. you're a spy and a backbiting tell-tale, that's what you are. did you never kiss a girl yourself?" "never until after i was married, when we are specially enjoined by the great apostle----" "then i'm sorry for your wife, for she must have had a lot to teach you. but let's stop slanging, we have our own opinions of each other and there's an end. now we have both the same object, you because you are a pious crank and no more human than a dried eel, and i because i am a man of the world who want to see my daughter where she ought to be, wearing a coronet in the house of lords. the question is: how is the job to be done? you don't understand isobel, but i do. if her back is put up, wild horses won't move her. she'd snap her fingers in my face, and tell me to go to a place that you are better acquainted with than i am, or will be, and take my money with me. of course, i could hold her for a few months, till she is of age perhaps, but after that, no. so it seems that the only chance is your son. now, what's his weak point? can he be bought off?" "certainly not," said mr. knight. "oh! that's odd in one who, you say, is a fortune-hunter. well, what is it? everyone has a weak point, and another girl won't do just now." "his weakest point is his fondness for that treacherous and abominable sex of which i have just had so painful an example; and in the church too, yes, in my church." "and a jolly good place to get to in such a rain, for of course they didn't know that you were hiding under the pews. but i've told you that cock won't fight at present. what's the next?" at these accumulated insults mr. knight turned perfectly livid with suppressed rage. but he did suppress it, for he had an object to gain which, to his perverted mind, was the most important in the whole world--namely, the final separation of his son and isobel. "his next bad point," he went on, "is his pride, which is abnormal, although from childhood i have done my best to inculcate humility of spirit into his heart. he cannot bear any affront, or even neglect. for instance, he left me for some years just because he did not consider that he was received properly on his return from switzerland; also because he went into a rage, for he has a very evil temper if roused, when i suggested that he wanted to run after your daughter's money." "well, it wasn't a very nice thing to say, was it? but i think i see light. he's proud, is he, and don't like allusions to fortune-hunting. all right; i'll rub his nose in the dirt and make him good. i'm just the boy for a job of that sort, as perhaps you will agree, my reverend friend; and if he shows his airs to me, i'll kick him off the premises. come on! i dare say we shall find them still in the church, where they think themselves so snug, although the rain has stopped." so this precious pair started, each of them bent, though for different reasons, upon as evil a mission as the mind of man can conceive. for what is there more wicked than to wish to bring about the separation and subsequent misery of two young people who, as they guessed well enough, loved each other body and soul, and thereby to spoil their lives? yet, so strange is human nature, that neither of them thought that they were committing any sin. mr. knight, now and afterwards, justified himself with the reflection that he was parting his son from a "pernicious" young woman of strong character, who would probably lead him away from religion as it was understood by him. one also whom he looked upon as the worst of outcasts, who deserved and doubtless was destined to inhabit hell, because hastily she had rejected his form of faith, as the young are apt to do, for reasons, however hollow, that seemed to her sufficient. he took no account of his bitter, secret jealousy of this girl, who, as he thought, had estranged his son from him, and prevented him from carrying out his cherished plans of making of him a clergyman like himself, or of his innate physical hatred of women which caused him to desire that godfrey should remain celibate. these motives, although he was well aware of them, he set down as naught, being quite sure, in view of the goodness of his aims, that they would be overlooked or even commended by the power above whom he pictured in his mind's eye as a furious old man, animated chiefly by jealousy and a desire to wreak vengeance on and torture the helpless. for it is the lessons of the old testament that sink most deeply into the souls of mr. knight and his kind. sir john's ends were quite different. he was the very vulgarest of self-made men, coarse and brutal by nature, a sensualist of the type that is untouched by imagination; a man who would crush anyone who stood in his path without compunction, just because that person did stand in his path. but he was extremely shrewd--witness the way he saw through mr. knight--and in his own fashion very able--witness his success in life. moreover, since a man of his type has generally some object beyond the mere acquiring of money, particularly after it has been acquired, he had his, to rise high, for he was very ambitious. his natural discernment set all his own failings before him in the clearest light; also their consequences. he knew that he was vulgar and brutal, and that as a result all persons of real gentility looked down upon him, however much they might seem to cringe before his money and power, yes, though they chanced to be but labouring men. for instance, his wife had done so, which was one of the reasons why he hated her, as indeed had all her distinguished relatives, after they came to know him, although he lent them money. he knew that even if he became a peer, as he fully expected to do, it would be the same story; outward deference and lip service, but inward dislike and contempt. in short, there were limits which he could never hope to pass, and therefore so far as he was concerned, his ambitious thirst must remain unslaked. but he had a daughter whom nature, perhaps because of her mother's blood, had set in quite a different class. she had his ability, but she was gentle-born, which he was not, one who could mix with and be welcomed by the highest in the world, and this without the slightest question. if not beautiful, she was very distinguished; she had presence and what the french call "the air." further, she would be one of the richest women in england. considered from his point of view, therefore, it was but natural that he should desire her to make a brilliant marriage and found a great family, which he would thus have originated--at any rate, to some extent. night and day he longed that this should come about, and it was the reason why the young lord mounteroy was visiting hawk's hall. mounteroy had met isobel at a dinner-party in london the other day and admired her. he had told an old lady--a kind of society tout--who had repeated it to sir john, that he wished to get married, and that isobel blake was the sort of girl he would like to marry. he was a clever man, also ambitious, one who had hopes of some day ruling the country, but to do this he needed behind him great and assured fortune in addition to his ancient but somewhat impoverished rank. in short, she suited his book, and he suited that of sir john. now, the thing to do was to bring it about that he should also suit isobel's book. and just at the critical moment this accursed accident had happened. oh! it was too much. no wonder that sir john was filled with righteous wrath and a stern determination to "make things hot" for the cause of the "accident" as, led to the attack by the active but dripping mr. knight whom he designated in his heart as that "little cur of a parson," much as an overfed and bloated bloodhound might be by some black and vicious mongrel, he tramped heavily towards the church. indeed they made a queer contrast, this small, active but fierce-faced man in his sombre, shiny garments and dingy white tie, and the huge, ample-paunched baronet with his red, flat face, heavy lips and projecting but intelligent eyes, clothed in a new suit, wearing an enormous black pearl in his necktie and a diamond ring on his finger; the very ideal of mammon in every detail of his person and of his carefully advertised opulence. isobel, whose humour had its sardonic side, and who was the first to catch sight of them when they reached the church, mr. knight tripping ahead, and sir john hot with the exercise in the close, moist air, lumbering after him with his mouth open, compared them in her mind to a fierce little pilot fish conducting an overfed shark to some helpless prey which it had discovered battling with the waters of circumstance; that after all, was only another version of the mongrel and the bloodhound. also she compared them to other things, even less complimentary. yet none of these, perhaps, was really adequate, either to the evil intentions or the repellent appearance of this pair as they advanced upon their wicked mission of jealousy and hate. chapter xvi love and loss all unaware that they had been seen and by no friendly eyes, godfrey and isobel remained embracing each other for quite a long while. at length she wrenched herself away and, sinking on to a chancel bench, motioned to him to seat himself beside her. "let us talk," she said in a new voice, a strange voice that was low and rich, such as he had never heard her use, "let us talk, my dear." "what of?" he asked almost in a whisper as he took his place, and her hand, which he held against his beating heart. "my soul has been talking to yours for the last five minutes, or is it five seconds or five years? it does not seem to have anything more to say." "yet i think there is plenty to be said, godfrey. do you know that while we were kissing each other there some very queer ideas got hold of me, not only of the sort which might be expected in our case? you remember that plantagenet lady who lies buried beneath where we were standing, she whose dress i once copied to wear at the ball when i came out." "don't speak of that," he interrupted, "for then you were kissing someone else." "it is not true. i never kissed anyone else in that way, and i do not think i ever shall. i kissed a rose, that's all, and i gather that you have done as much and very likely a great deal more. but it is of the lady i am speaking, not of the ball. she seemed to come up from her grave and enter into me, and say something." "well, what did she say, isobel?" he asked dreamily. "that's it, i don't know, although she talked to me as one might to oneself. all i know is that it was of trouble and patience and great joy, and war and tragedy in which i must be intimately concerned, and--after the tragedy--of a most infinite rest and bliss." "i expect she was telling you her own story, which seems to have ended well," he replied in the same dreamy fashion. "yes, i think so, but also that she meant that her story would be my story, copied you know, as i copied her dress. of course it is all nonsense, just the influence of the place taking hold of me when overcome by other things, but at the time it seemed very real." "so does a bad dream," said godfrey, "but for all that it isn't real. still it is odd that everything important seems to happen to us within a few feet of that lady's dust, and i can't quite disbelieve in spirits and their power of impressing themselves upon us; i wish i could. the strange thing is that _you_ should put any faith in them." "i don't, though i admit that my views about such matters are changing. you know i used to be sure that when we die everything is over with us. now i think differently, why i cannot say." then the subject dropped, because really they were both wrapped in the great joy of a glorious hour and disinclined to dwell upon fancies about a woman who had died five hundred years ago, or on metaphysical speculations. also the fear of what might follow upon that hour haunted them more vividly than any hovering ghost, if such there were. "my dear," said isobel, "i am sorry, but i must say it; i am sure that there will be trouble about this business." "no doubt, isobel; there always is trouble, at least where i am concerned; also one can't be happy without paying. but what does it matter so long as we stick to each other? soon we shall both be of age and can do what we like." "one always thinks that, godfrey, and yet, somehow, one never can. free will is a fraud in that sense as in every other." "i have something, as you know, enough with my pay to enable us to get on, even if you were disinherited, dear, though, of course, you could not live as you have been accustomed to do." "oh! don't talk to me of money," she said impatiently, "though for the matter of that, i have something, too, a little that comes to me from my mother. money won't divide us, godfrey." "then what will, isobel?" "nothing in the long run," she answered with conviction, "not even death itself, since in a way we are one and part of each other and therefore cannot be separated for always, whatever happens for a while, as i am sure that something will happen which will make you leave me." "i swear that i will never leave you, i will die with you first," he exclaimed, springing up. "such oaths have been made often and broken--before the dawn," she answered, smiling and shaking her head. "i swear that i will always love you," he went on. "ah! now i believe you, dear!" she broke in again. "however badly you may behave, you will always love me because you must." "well, and will you always love me however badly i behave?" "of course," she answered simply, "because i must. oh! whatever we may hear about each other, we may be quite certain that we still love each other--because we must--and all your heaven and hell cannot make any difference, no, not if they were both to join forces and try their best. but that does not mean that necessarily we shall marry each other, for i think that people who love like that rarely do marry, because, you see, they would be too happy, which something is always trying to prevent. it may mean, however," she added reflectively, "that we shall not marry anybody else, though even that might happen in your case--not in mine. always remember, godfrey, that i shall never marry anybody else, not even if you took three wives one after the other." "three wives!" gasped godfrey. "yes, why not? it would be quite natural, wouldn't it, if you wouldn't marry me, and even proper. only i should never take one--husband, i mean--not from any particular virtue, but just because i couldn't. you see, it would make me ill. and if i tried i should only run away." "oh! stop talking nonsense," said godfrey, "when so soon you will have to go to see about those people," and he held out his arms. she sank into them, and for a little while they forgot their doubts and fears. the rain had ceased, and the triumphant sun shining gloriously through the west window of stained glass, poured its rays upon them, dyeing them all the colours of an angel's wings. also incidentally it made them extremely conspicuous in that dusky church, of which they had all this while forgotten to shut the door. "my word!" said sir john to mr. knight in tones of savage sarcasm as they surveyed the two through this door. "we've got here just at the right time. don't they look pretty, and don't you wish that you were his age and that was someone else's daughter? i tell you, i do." mr. knight gurgled something in his inarticulate wrath, for at that moment he hated isobel's father as much as he did isobel, which was saying a great deal. "well, my pretty pair of cooing turtle-doves," went on sir john in a sort of shout, addressing himself to them, "be so good as to stop that, or i think i shall wring both your necks, damn you." "not in this holy house, which these infamous and shameless persons have desecrated with their profane embraces," interrupted mr. knight. "yes, according to your ideas it will be almost a case of re-consecration. you'll have to write to the bishop about it, mr. parson. oh! confound you. don't stand there like a couple of stuck pigs, but come out of that and let us have a little chat in the churchyard." now, at the first words that reached their ears godfrey and isobel had drawn back from each other and stood side by side quite still before the altar, as a pair about to be married might do. they were dumbfounded, and no wonder. as might be expected isobel was the first to recover herself. "come, my dear," she said in a clear voice to godfrey, "my father and yours wish to speak to us. i am glad we have a chance of explaining matters so soon." "yes," said godfrey, but in a wrathful voice, for he felt anger stirring in him. perhaps it was excited by that ancient instinct which causes the male animal to resent the spying upon him when he is courting his female as the deadliest of all possible insults, or perhaps by some prescience of affronts which were about to be offered to him and isobel by these two whom he knew to be bitterly hostile. at least his temper was rising, and like most rather gentle-natured men when really provoked and cornered, he could be dangerous. "yes," he repeated, "let us go out and see this matter through." so they went, sir john and mr. knight drawing back a little before them, till they were brought to a halt by the horrible memorial which the former had erected over his wife's grave. here they stood, prepared for the encounter. sir john was the first to take the lists, saying: "perhaps you will explain, isobel, why i found you, as i thought, kissing this young fellow--like any village slut beneath a hedge." isobel's big eyes grew steely as she answered: "for the same reason, father. like your village slut, i kissed this man because he is my lover whom i mean to marry. if, as i gather, you are not certain as to what you saw, i will kiss him again, here in front of you." "i have no doubt you will; just like your cheek!" ejaculated sir john, taken a little aback. then mr. knight took up the ball, addressing himself to his son: "could you find no other place for your immoral performances except the church, godfrey, and my chancel too?" "no," answered godfrey, "because it was raining and we sheltered there. and what do you mean by your talk about immorality? is it not lawful for a man to love a woman? i should have thought that the bible, which you are always quoting, would have taught you otherwise. also, once you were married yourself else i should not be here, for which i am not sure that i thank you; at least, i shouldn't were it not for isobel." for a moment mr. knight could think of no answer to these arguments, but sir john having recovered his breath, attacked again: "look here, young fellow, i have no time to listen to jaw about the bible and moral and immoral and all that bosh, which you can have out with your reverend parent afterwards. i am a plain man, i am, and want a plain answer to a plain question. do you think that you are going to marry my daughter, isobel?" "such is my desire and intention," replied godfrey, with vague recollections of the baptismal service, though of these at the moment he was not aware. "oh, is it? then you are jolly well mistaken in your desire and intention. let's make things clear. you are a beggarly youngster who propose to enter the army at some future date, which you may or may not do. and you have the impudence to wish to marry one of the biggest heiresses in england against my will." "and against mine," burst in mr. knight, "who consider her a most pernicious young woman, one who rejects the christian faith and will lead you to perdition. that is why, when i chanced to espy you in such a compromising position, i hastened to inform the lady's father." "oh! you did that, did you?" interposed isobel, contemplating him steadily. "well, i am glad to know who could have been so cowardly," she added with withering contempt. "now i begin to wonder whether a letter which some years ago, i brought to the abbey house to be forwarded to godfrey, was ever posted to him who did not receive it, or whether, perhaps, it fell into the hands of--someone like you." "it did," said mr. knight. "i read it and have it to this day. in my discretion as a father i did not consider it desirable that my young son should receive that letter. what i have witnessed this afternoon shows me how right was my judgment." "thank you so much," said isobel. "that takes a great weight off my mind. godfrey, my dear, i apologise to you for my doubts. the truth did occur to me, but i thought it impossible that a clergyman," here she looked again at mr. knight, "could be a thief also who did not dare to own to his theft." "never mind all that," went on sir john in his heavy, masterful voice. "it stands like this. you," and he pointed a fat finger at godfrey, "are--well, i'll tell you what you are--you're just a cunning young fortune-hunter. you found out that this property and a good bit besides are coming to isobel, and you want to collar the sag, like you did that of the old woman out in lucerne. well, you don't do it, my boy. i've other views for isobel. do you think i want to see her married to--to--the son of a fellow like that--a canting snuffler who prigs letters and splits on his own son?" and swinging the fat finger round he thrust it almost into the face of mr. knight. "what did you say?" gasped godfrey. "that i am a fortune-hunter?" "yes, that's what i said, and i'll repeat it if you like." "then," went on godfrey, speaking in a thick, low voice, for now his temper had mastered him thoroughly, "i say that you are a liar. i say that you are a base and vulgar man who has made money somehow and thinks that this justifies him in insulting those who are not base or vulgar, because they have less money." "you infernal young scamp," shouted sir john in a roar like to that of an angry bull. "do you dare to call me a liar? apologise at once, or----" and he stopped. "i do not apologise. i repeat that you are a liar, the greatest liar i ever met. now--or what?" thus spoke godfrey, drawing up his tall, slim young form to its full height, his dark eyes flashing, his fine face alight with righteous rage. isobel, who was standing quite still and smiling a little, rather contemptuously, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and thought that anger became him well. never before had he seemed so handsome to her approving judgment. "or this," bellowed sir john, and, lifting the tightly rolled umbrella he carried, he struck godfrey with all his strength upon the side of the head. godfrey staggered, but fortunately the soft hat he was wearing, upon the brim of which the stroke fell, broke its weight to some extent, so that he was not really hurt. only now he went quite mad in a kind of icy way, and, springing at sir john with the lightness of a leopard, dealt him two blows, one with his left hand and the next with his right. they were good, straight blows, for boxing had been his favourite amusement at sandhurst where he was a middleweight champion. the first caught sir john upon his thick lips which were badly cut against the teeth, causing him to stagger; while the second, that with the right, landed on the bridge of his nose and blacked both his eyes. this, so strong and heavy was it, notwithstanding sir john's great weight, knocked him clean off his feet. back he went, and in his efforts to save himself gripped mr. knight with one hand and with the other the legs of the early victorian angel that surmounted lady jane's grave against which they were standing. neither of these could withstand the strain. the angel, which was only pinned by lead-coated rivets to its base and the column behind, flew from its supports, as did mr. knight from his, so that in another second, the men having tripped against the surround of the grave, all three rolled upon the path, the marble luckily falling clear of both of them. "now i've done it," said godfrey in a reflective voice as he contemplated the tangled ruin. "yes," exclaimed isobel, "i think you have." then they remained grim and silent while the pair, who were not really much injured, picked themselves up with groans. "i am sorry that i knocked you down, since i am young and you are not," said godfrey, "but i repeat that you are a liar," he added by an afterthought. sir john spat out a tooth, and began to mop the blood from his nose with a silk pocket-handkerchief. "oh! you do, do you?" he said in a somewhat subdued voice. "well, you'll find out that i'm other things too before i'm done with you. and i repeat that you are fortune-hunting young rascal and that i would rather see my daughter dead than married to you." "and i say, godfrey, i would rather see you dead than married to her!" broke in mr. knight, spitting out his words like an angry cat. "i don't think that you need be afraid, father," answered godfrey quietly, although his rage burned as fiercely as ever. "you have worked this business well, and it seems a little impossible now, doesn't it? listen, sir john blake. not even for the sake of isobel will i submit to such insults. i will not give her up, but i swear by god that while you are alive i will not marry isobel, nor will i write to her or speak to her again. after you are dead, which i dare say will be before so very long," and he surveyed the huge, puffy-fleshed baronet with a critical eye, "then--if she cares to wait for me--i will marry her, hoping that in the meanwhile you may lose your money or dispose of it as you like." sir john stared, still mopping his face, but finding no words. he feared death very much and this prophecy of it, spoken with such a ring of truth, as though the speaker knew, frightened him. at that moment in his heart he cursed the reverend mr. knight and his tale-bearing, and wished most earnestly that he had never been led into interference with this matter. after all godfrey was a fine young man whom his daughter cared for, and might do well in life, and he had struck him first after offering him intentional and pre-arranged insult. such were the thoughts that flashed through his somewhat muddled brain. also another, that they were too late. the evil was done and never could be undone. then isobel spoke in cold, clear tones, saying: "godfrey is quite right and has been right all through. had you, father, and that man," and she pointed contemptuously at mr. knight, "left us alone we should have come and told you what had happened between us, and if you disapproved we would have waited until we were of full age and have married as we should have been free to do. but now that is impossible, for blows have passed between you. after slandering him vilely, you struck godfrey first, father, and he would not have been a man if he had not struck you back; indeed i should have thought little of him afterwards. well, he has made an oath, and i know that he will keep it. now i, too, make an oath which certainly i shall keep. i swear in the presence of both of you, by myself and by godfrey, that neither in this world or in any other, should i live again and have remembrance, will i marry any man or exchange tendernesses with any man, except himself. so all your plans come to nothing; yes, you have brought all this misery upon us for nothing, and if you want to found a great family, as i know you do, you had better marry again yourself and let me go my way. in any case, if i should survive you and should godfrey live, i will marry him after your death, even if we have to wait until we are old to do so. as to your fortune, i care nothing for it, being quite ready to work in the world with the help of the little i have." she paused as though for an answer, but none came, for if sir john had been frightened before, now he was terrified of this outraged young woman who, tall, commanding and stern-eyed, looked to him like an avenging angel. "there doesn't seem much more to say, does there?" she went on, "except that i think, father, you had better telegraph to your guests that you are not well and cannot receive them, for i won't. so good-bye, dearest godfrey. i shall remember all that you have said, and you will remember all that i have said, and as i believe, we shall live to meet again one day. meanwhile, don't think too bitterly of my father, or of your own, because they have acted according to their natures and lights, though where these will lead them i am sure i do not know. good-bye, dearest, dearest godfrey. do your best in the world and keep out of troubles if you can. oh! what a lot we shall have to tell each other when we meet again." then before them both she kissed him, and he kissed her back, saying: "i will remember. i am glad you think there was nothing else to be done. god bless you, isobel. make the best of your life, as i will try to do with mine. good-bye." "good-bye, dear," she answered, "think of me always when you wake and before you go to sleep, as i will think of you." then she turned and went, never looking behind her. godfrey watched her tall form vanish through the churchyard gate and over the slope of a little hill that lay between it and hawk's hall, and that was the last sight he had of her for many a year. when she was quite lost to view, he spoke to the two men who still stood irresolute before him. "isobel i shall meet again," he said, "but not either of you, for i have done with you both. it is not for me to judge you. judge yourself and be judged." then he turned, too, and went. "it's all right," said sir john to mr. knight, "that is, he won't marry her, at any rate at present, so i suppose that we should both be pleased, if anyone can be pleased with cut lips and two black eyes. and yet somehow we seem to have made a mess of it," and he glanced at the shattered marble statue of the victorian angel of which both the wings were broken off. "we have done our duty," replied mr. knight, pursing up his thin lips, "and at least godfrey is freed from your daughter." "i'm not so sure of that, my reverend friend. but of one thing i am sure, that i am freed from her also, or rather that she is freed from me. also you are freed from him. don't you understand, you vicious little viper, that you will never see that young man again, and that thanks to your cursed advice i shall never see my daughter again, at least not really? what devil was it that sent you to play upon my weaknesses and ambition? if you had left things alone and they had come to me in a natural way there would have been a row, of course, but i dare say it would have ended all right. but you told me how to work on him and i overdid the part. now nothing can ever be all right for either of us, or for them either, until we are both dead. do you understand also that we have made two young people who should have been the supports of our old age desire above everything our deaths because we have given them cause to hate us, and since they are of the sort that keep their word, only by our deaths can they become free, or, at any rate, by mine? well, it doesn't matter what you understand, you little bigot, but i know what i do." "i have done my duty," repeated mr. knight sullenly, "and i don't care what happens afterwards. '_fiat justita ruat coelum_,'" he added in the latin tag. "oh, yes. justice may say fie and the sky may be rude, and anything else may happen, but we've dished our lives and theirs, my friend, and--damn you! get out of my sight. rows i am accustomed to with isobel and others, but this isn't a row, it's an earthquake; it's a catastrophe, for which i have to thank you. lord! how my mouth hurts, and i can't see out of my right eye. talk of a mailed fist, that young beggar has one like a pole-axe. now i must go to telegraph to all those people. temporary indisposition, yes--temporary indisposition, that's it. good-bye, my holy friend. you won't do as much mischief in one day again in a hurry, spy as hard as you like." then sir john departed, nursing his cut lips with one hand and his broken umbrella with the other. mr. knight watched him go, and said to himself: "i thought that i disliked the daughter, but the father is worse. offensive, purse-proud, vulgar beast! how dare he speak to me like that! i'm glad, yes, i'm glad godfrey knocked him down, though i suppose there will be a scandal. well, my hands are clean; i have done my duty, and i must not complain if it is unpleasant, since i have dragged godfrey back from the mouth of the pit. i think i'll take a walk to steady my nerves; it may be as well not to meet godfrey again just now." chapter xvii india on his road to the house to pack his portmanteau godfrey went a little way round to arrange with a blacksmith, generally known as tom, who jobbed out a pony-trap, to drive him to the station to catch the . train. the blacksmith remarked that they would have to hurry, and set to work to put the pony in, while godfrey ran on to the abbey house and hurriedly collected his clothes. he got them packed and down into the hall just as the trap arrived. as he was entering it the servant put a letter into his hand which she said had come for him by the afternoon post. he thrust it into his pocket unlooked at, and off they went at the pony's best pace. "you are going away oncommon quick, master godfrey. coming back to these parts soon?" queried the blacksmith. "no, not for a long while, tom." "i think there must have been lightning with that rain," went on tom, after a pause, "although i heard no thunder. else how ever did that marble angel over poor lady jane's grave come down with such a smash?" godfrey glanced at him, but tom remained imperturbable and went on: "they du say it wor a wunnerful smash, what broke off both the wings and nearly flattered out some as stood by. rum thing, master godfrey, that the lightning should have picked out the grave of so good a lady to hit; ondiscriminating thing, lightning is." "stop talking humbug, tom. were you there?" asked godfrey. "well, not exactly there, master godfrey, but i and one or two others was nigh, having heard voices louder than the common, just looking over the churchyard wall, to tell truth." "oh!" ejaculated godfrey, and tom continued in a reflective voice. "my! they were two beuties, what you gave that old fat devil of a squire. if he'd been a bull instead of only roaring like one, they'd have brought him down, to say nothing of parson and the angel." "i couldn't help it, tom. i was mad." "and no wonder, after being crumped on the nut with a tight umbrella. why, i'd have done the same myself, baronite or no baronite. oh! there's no need to explain; i knows everything about it, and so does every babe in the village by now, not to mention the old women. master godfrey, you take my advice, the next time you go a-courtin' shut the door behind you, which i always made a point o' doing when i was young. being passing that way, i seed parson peeping in, and knowing you was there, guessed why. truth is i came to warn you after he'd gone up to the hall, but seein' how you was engaged, thought it a pity to interrupt, though now i wish i had." godfrey groaned; there was nothing to say. "well, all the soot's in the cooking-pot now, so to speak," proceeded tom blandly, "and we're downright sad about it, we are, for as my missus was saying, you'd make a pretty pair. but, lord, master godfrey, don't you take it too much to heart, for she's an upright young lady, she is, and steadfast. or if she ain't, there's plenty of others; also one day follows another, as the saying goes, and the worst of old varmints don't live for ever. but parson, he beats me, and you his son, so they tell, though i never could think it myself. if he ain't the meanest ferret i ever clapped eyes on, may the old mare fall down and break my neck. well, he'll hear about it, i can promise him, especially if he meets my missus what's got a tongue in her head, and is a chapel woman into the bargain. lord! there comes the train. don't you fear, we'll catch her. hold tight, master godfrey, and be ready to jump out. no, no, there ain't nothing to pay. i'll stick it on to parson's fare next time i've druve him. good-bye, master godfrey, and god bless you, if only for that there right and left which warmed my heart to see, and mind ye," he shouted after him, "there's more young women in the world than ye meets in an afternoon's walk, and one nail drives another out, as being a smith by trade i knows well." godfrey bundled into an empty carriage with his portmanteau and his coat, and covered his face with his hands that he might see no more of that accursed station whence he seemed always to be departing in trouble. so everything had been overheard and seen, and doubtless the story would travel far and wide. poor isobel! as a matter of fact it did, but it was not isobel who suffered, since public sympathy was strong on the side of her and of her lover. the indignation of the neighbourhood concentrated itself upon the square and the parson, especially the latter. indeed the village showed its sympathy with the victims and its wrath with the oppressors, by going on strike. few beaters turned up at sir john's next shooting party, and on the following sunday mr. knight preached to empty benches, a vacuum that continued from week to week. the end of it was he became so unpopular and his strained relations with sir john grew so notorious that the bishop, who like everyone else knew the whole story, gently suggested to him that a change of livings would be to his advantage; also to that of the church in monk's acre and its neighbourhood. so mr. knight departed to another parish in a remote part of the diocese which, having been inundated by the sea, was almost devoid of inhabitants, and saw the abbey and hawk's hall no more. in searching his pockets for matches, godfrey found the letter which had been given to him as he left the abbey. he knew the writing on the envelope at once, and was minded not to open it, for this and the foreign stamp told him that it came from madame riennes. still curiosity, or a desire to take his mind off the miseries by which it was beset, prevailed, and he did open the envelope and read. it ran thus: "ah! my little friend, my godson in the speerit, godfrey "i daresay you thought that poor old madame was dead, gone to join the celestials, because you have not heard from her for so long a while. not a bit, my little godfrey, though perhaps i should not call you little, since my crystal shows me that you have grown taller even than you were in the old days at lucerne, and much broader, quite a good-made man and nice to look at. well, my godfrey, i hear things about you sometimes, for the most part from the speerit called eleanor who, i warn you, has a great bone to pick with you. because, you see, people do not change so much as you think when they get to the other side. so a woman remains a woman, and being a woman she stays jealous, and does not like it when her affinity turns the back on her, as you have done on eleanor. therefore she will give you a bad trick if she can, just as a woman would upon the earth. also i hear of you sometimes from miss ogilvy or, rather, her speerit, for she is as fond of you as ever, so fond that i think you must have mixed up together in a previous life, because otherwise there is nothing to account for it. she tries to protect you from eleanor the indignant, with whom she has, i gather, much row. "now for my message, which come to me from all these speerits. i hear you have done very well in what they call examinations, and have before you a shining future. but do not think that you will be happy, my godfrey, for you will not get that girl you want for a long, long while, and then only for the shortest of time, just enough to kiss and say, 'oh! my pretty, how nice you are!' and then _au revoir_ to the world of speerits. meanwhile, being a little fool, you will go empty and hungry, since you are not one of those who hate the woman, which, after all, is the best thing in life for the man while he is young, like, so the spirits tell me, does your dear papa. and oh! how plenty this woman fruit hang on every tree, so why not pluck and eat before the time come, when you cannot, because if you still have appetite those nice plums turn your stomach? so you have a bad time before you, my godfrey, waiting for the big fat plum far away which you cannot see or touch and much less taste, while the other nice plums fall into different hands, or wither--wither, waiting to be eaten. "at end, when you get your big, fat plum, just as you set your teeth in it, oh! something blow it out of your mouth, i know not what, the speerits will not say, perhaps because they do not know, for they have not prescience of all things. but of this be sure, my godfrey, when that happen, that it is your own fault, for had you trusted to your godmamma riennes it never would have chanced, since she would have shown you how to get your plum and eat it to the stone and then throw away the stone and get other plums and be happy--happy and full instead of empty. well, so it is, and as i must i tell you. there is but one hope for you, unless you would go sorrowful. to come back to your godmamma, who will teach you how to walk and be happy--happy and get all you want. also, since she is now poor, you would do well to send her a little money to this address in italy, since that old humbug of a pasteur, whom she cannot harm because of the influences round him, still prevents her from returning to switzerland, where she has friends. now that big plum, it is very nice and you desire it much. come to your godmamma and she will show you how to get it off the tree quickly. yes, within one year. or do not come and it will hang there for many winters and shrivel as plums do, and at last one bite and it will be gone. and then, my godson, then, my dear godfrey--well, perhaps i will tell you the rest another time. you poor silly boy, who will not understand that the more you get the more you will always have. "your godmamma, "who love you still although you treat her so badly, "the countess of riennes. "(ah! you did not know i had that title, did you, but in the speerit world i have others which are much higher.)" godfrey thrust this precious epistle back into his pocket with a feeling of physical and mental sickness. how did this horrible woman know so much about him and his affairs, and why did she prophesy such dreadful things? further, if her knowledge was so accurate, although veiled in her foreign metaphor, why should not her prophecies be accurate also? and if they were, why should he be called upon to suffer so many things? he could find no answer to these questions, but afterwards he sent her letter to the pasteur, who in due course returned it with some upright and manly comments both upon the epistle itself and the story of his troubles, which godfrey had detailed to him. amongst much else he wrote in french: "you suffer and cannot understand why, my dear boy. nor do i, but it is truth that all who are worth anything are called upon to suffer, to what end we do not know. nothing of value is gained except by suffering. why, again we do not know. this wretched woman is right in a way when she refers all solutions to another world, only her other world is one that is bad, and her solutions are very base. be sure that there are other and better ones that we shall learn in due time, when this little sun has set for us. for it will rise elsewhere, godfrey, in a brighter sky. meanwhile, do not be frightened by her threats, for even if they should all be true, to those evils which she prophesies there is, be sure, another interpretation. as i think one of your poets has said, we add our figures until they come even. so go your way and keep as upright as you can, and have no fear since god is over all, not the devil." thus preached the pasteur, and what he said gave godfrey the greatest comfort. still, being young, he made one mistake. he did send madame riennes some money, partly out of pity--ten pounds in a postal order without any covering letter, a folly that did not tend to a cessation of her epistolatory efforts. on reaching town godfrey went straight to hampstead. there to his surprise he found all prepared for his reception. "i was expecting you, my dear," said mrs. parsons, "and even have a little bit extra in the house in case you should come." "why, when i told you i had gone home for a month?" asked godfrey. "why? for the same reason as i knows that oil and vinegar won't abide mixed in the same bottle. i was sure enough that being a man grown, you and your father could never get on together in one house. but perhaps there is something else in it too," she added doubtfully. then godfrey told her that there was something else, and indeed all about the business. "well, there you are, and there's nothing to be said, or at least so much that it comes to the same thing," remarked mrs. parsons, in a reflective tone, when he had finished his story. "but what i want to know," she went on, "is why these kind of things happen. you two--i mean you and miss isobel--are just fitted to each other, appointed together by nature, so to speak, and fond as a couple of doves upon a perch. so why shouldn't you take each other and have done? what is there to come between a young man and a young woman such as you are?" "i don't know," groaned godfrey. "no, nor don't i; and yet something does come between. what's the meaning of it all? why do things always go cussed in this 'ere world? is there a devil about what manages it, or is it just chance? why shouldn't people have what they want and when it's wanted, instead of being forced to wait until perhaps it isn't, or can't be enjoyed, or often enough to lose it altogether? you can't answer, and nor can't i; only at times i do think, notwithstanding all my christian teachings and hundreds and hundreds of your father's sermons, that the devil, he's top-dog here. and as for that there foreign woman whose letter you've read to me, she's his housemaid. not but what i'm sure it will all come right at last," she added, with an attempt at cheerfulness. "i hope so," replied godfrey, without conviction, and went to bed. presently he descended from his room again, bearing a pill-box in which was enclosed a certain ring that years before he had bought at lucerne, a ring set with two hearts of turquoise. "i promised not to write," he said, "but you might address this to her. she'll know what it is, for i told her about it." "yes," said mrs. parsons, "the young lady shall have that box of pills. being upset, it may do her good." in due course isobel did have it; also the box came back addressed to mrs. parsons. in it was another ring, a simple band of ancient gold--as a matter of fact, it was roman, a betrothal ring of two thousand years ago. round it was a scrap of paper on which was written: "this was dug up in a grave. my great-grandmother gave it to my great-grandfather when they became engaged about a hundred years ago, and he wore it all his life, as in a bygone age someone else had done. now the great-granddaughter gives it to another. let him wear it all his life, whatever happens to her, or to him. then let it go to the grave again, perhaps to be worn by others far centuries hence." godfrey understood and set it on the third finger of his left hand, where it remained night and day, and year by year. so that matter ended, and afterwards came silence and darkness which endured for ten years or more. from his father he heard nothing, nor on his part did he ever write to him again. indeed the first news concerning him which reached godfrey was that of his death which happened some seven years later, apparently after a brief illness. even of this he would not have learned, since no one took the trouble to put it in any paper that he saw, had it not chanced that the rev. mr. knight died intestate, and that therefore his small belongings descended to godfrey as his natural heir. with them were a number of papers, among which in the after days godfrey found the very letter that isobel wrote to him which his father "posted" in his desk. for his son there was no word, a circumstance that showed the implacability of this man's character. notwithstanding his continual profession of the highest christian principles he could never forget or forgive, and this although it was he who was in fault. for what wrong had godfrey done to him in loving a woman whom he did not chance to like? so he died silent, bearing his resentment to the grave. and yet some odd sense of justice prevented him from robbing godfrey of his little inheritance, something under two thousand pounds, that came on a policy of insurance and certain savings, a sum which in after years when money was plentiful with him godfrey appointed to the repair and beautifying of the abbey church at monk's acre. strangely enough, although from his childhood they had been always estranged, godfrey felt this conduct of his father very much indeed. it seemed dreadful to him that he should vanish thus into the darkness, taking his wrath with him; and often he wondered if it still animated him there. also he wondered what could be the possible purpose of it all, and indeed why his father was so fashioned that he could grow venomous over such a matter. to all of which questions no answer came, although one suggested itself to him--namely, that he was the victim of some hereditary taint, and therefore not in fact to blame. in the case of isobel the darkness was equally dense, for both of them kept their word, and with the single exception of the episode of the exchange of rings, neither attempted to communicate with the other directly or indirectly. from mrs. parsons he heard that hawk's hall was shut up, and that sir john and his daughter lived mostly in london or at a place that the former had bought in scotland. once indeed mrs. parsons did write, or got someone else to write, to him that she had seen isobel drive past her in the street, and that she looked well, though rather "stern and quiet-like." that was all the news godfrey had of isobel during those ten years, since she was not a person who advertised her movements in the papers, although for her sake he became a great student of society gossip. also he read with care all announcements of engagements and marriages in _the times_, and the deaths, too, for the matter of that, but happily quite without result. indeed in view of her declaration he ought to have been, and, in fact, was, ashamed of his research; but then, who could be quite sure of anything in this world? sir john, he knew, was living, because from time to time he saw his name in lists of subscriptions of a sort that appear under royal patronage and are largely advertised. so between these two swung a veil of darkness, although, had he but known it, this was not nearly so impenetrable to isobel as to himself. somehow--possibly arthur thorburn had friends with whom he corresponded in england who knew isobel--she acquired information as to every detail of his career. indeed when he came to learn everything he was absolutely amazed at the particulars with which she was acquainted, whereof there were certain that he would have preferred to have kept to himself. but she had them all, with dates and surrounding circumstances and the rest; thousands of miles of ocean had been no bar to her searching gaze. for his part he was not without consolations, since, strangely enough, he never felt as if she were lost to him, or indeed far away; it was always as though she were in the next room, or at any rate in the next street. there are individuals of sensitive mind, and he was one of them, who know well enough when such a total loss has occurred. it has been well said that the dead are never really dead to us until they are forgotten, and the same applies to the living. while they remember us, they are never so very far away, and what is more we, or some of us, are quite aware if they have ceased to remember, for then the door is shut and the doorway built up and our hearts tell us that this has been done. in godfrey's case with isobel, not only did the doorway remained unfilled--the door itself was always ajar. although seas divided them and over these no whisper came, yet he felt her thought leaping to him across the world. especially did this happen at night when he laid himself down to sleep, perhaps because then his mind was most receptive, and since their hours of going to rest must have been different, he being in india and she in england, she could scarcely have been reflecting on him as he fondly believed, at the moment when she, too, entered into the world called sleep. therefore, either it was all imagination or he caught her waking thoughts, or perhaps those that haunted her upon this border land were delayed until his subtler being could interpret them. who knows? at least, unless something had happened to disturb him, those nights were rare when as he was shutting his eyes, godfrey did not seem to be sensible of isobel's presence. at any rate, he knew that she had not forgotten; he knew that somewhere in the vast world she was ever thinking of him with more intensity than she thought of any other man or thing. and during all those lonely years this knowledge or belief was his greatest comfort. not that godfrey's life in india was in any way unhappy. on the contrary it was a full and active life. he worked hard at his profession and succeeded in it to a limited extent, and he had his friends, especially his great friend arthur thorburn, who always clung to him. he had his flirtations also; being a man of susceptibility who was popular with women, how could they be avoided? for above all things godfrey was a man, not a hermit or a saint or an æsthete, but just a man with more gifts of a sort than have some others. he lived the life of the rest, he hunted, he shot tigers, doing those things that the anglo-indian officer does, but all the same he studied. whether it were of his trade of soldiering, or of the natives, or of eastern thought and law, he was always learning something, till at last he knew a great deal, often he wondered to what end. and yet, with all his friends and acquaintances, in a way he remained a very lonely man, as those who are a little out of the ordinary often do. in the common groove we rub against the other marbles running down it, but once we leap over its edge, then where are we? we cannot wander off into space because of the attraction of the earth that is so near to us, and yet we are alone in the air until with a bump we meet our native ground. therefore for the most of us the groove is much better. and yet some who leave it have been carried elsewhere, if only for a little while, like st. paul into the third heaven. chapter xviii france--and after nothing so very remarkable happened to godfrey during those ten years of his life in india, or at least only one or two things. thus once he got into a scrape for which he was not really responsible, and got out of it again, as he imagined, without remark, until isobel showed her common and rather painful intimacy with its details, of which she appeared to take a somewhat uncharitable view, at any rate so far as the lady was concerned. the other matter was more serious, since it involved the loss of his greatest friend, arthur thorburn. briefly, what happened was this. there was a frontier disturbance. godfrey, who by now was a staff officer, had been sent to a far outpost held by thorburn with a certain number of men, and there took command. a reconnaissance was necessary, and thorburn went out for that purpose with over half of the available garrison of the post, having received written orders that he was not to engage the enemy unless he found himself absolutely surrounded. in the end thorburn did engage the enemy with the result that practically he and his force were exterminated, but not before they had inflicted such a lesson on the said enemy that it sued for peace and has been great friends with the british power ever since. first however a feeble attack was made on godfrey's camp that he beat off without the loss of a single man, exaggerated accounts of which were telegraphed home representing it as a "rorke's drift defence." godfrey was heartbroken; he had loved this man as a brother, more indeed than brothers often love. and now thorburn, his only friend, was dead. the darkness had taken him, that impenetrable, devouring darkness out of which we come and into which we go. religion told him he should not grieve, that thorburn doubtless was much better off whither he had gone than he could ever have been on earth, although it was true the same religion said that he might be much worse off, since thither his failings would have followed him. dismissing the latter possibility, how could he be happy in a new world, godfrey wondered, having left all he cared for behind him and without possibility of communication with them? in short, all the old problems of which he had not thought much since miss ogilvy died, came back to godfrey with added force and left him wretched. nor was he consoled by the sequel of the affair of which he was bound to report the facts. the gallant man who was dead was blamed unjustly for what had happened, as perhaps he deserved who had not succeeded, since those who set their blind eye to the telescope as nelson did must justify their action by success. godfrey, on the other hand, who had done little but defeat an attack made by exhausted and dispirited men, was praised to the skies and found himself figuring as a kind of hero in the english press, which after a long period of peace having lost all sense of proportion in such matters, was glad of anything that could be made to serve the purposes of sensation. ultimately he was thanked by the government of india, made a brevet-major and decorated with the d.s.o., of all of which it may be said with truth that never were such honours received with less pleasure. so much did he grieve over this unhappy business that his health was affected and being run down, in the end he took some sort of fever and was very ill indeed. when at length he recovered more or less he went before a medical board who ordered him promptly to england on six months' leave. most men would have rejoiced, but godfrey did not. he had little wish to return to england, where, except mrs. parsons, there were none he desired to see, save one whom he was sworn not to see. this he could bear while they were thousands of miles apart, but to be in the same country with isobel, in the same town perhaps, and forbidden to hear her voice or to touch her hand, how could he bear that? still he had no choice in this matter, arranged by the hand of fate, and went, reflecting that he would go to lucerne and spent the time with the pasteur. perhaps even he would live in the beautiful house that miss ogilvy had left to him, or a corner of it, seeing that it was empty, for the tenants to whom it had been let had gone away. so he started at the end of the first week in july, . when his ship reached marseilles it was to find that the world was buzzing with strange rumours. there was talk of war in europe. russia was said to be mobilising; germany was said to be mobilising; france was said to be mobilising; it was even rumoured that england might be drawn into some titanic struggle of the nations. and yet no accurate information was obtainable. the english papers they saw were somewhat old and their reports vague in the extreme. much excited, like everyone else, godfrey telegraphed to the india office, asking leave to come home direct overland, which he could not do without permission since he was in command of a number of soldiers who were returning to england on furlough. no answer came to his wire before his ship sailed, and therefore he was obliged to proceed by long sea. still it had important consequences which at the moment he could not foresee. in the bay the tidings that reached them by marconigram were evidently so carefully censored that out of them they could make nothing, except that the empire was filled with great doubt and anxiety, and that the world stood on the verge of such a war as had never been known in history. at length they came to southampton where the pilot-boat brought him a telegram ordering him to report himself without delay. three hours later he was in london. at the india office, where he was kept waiting a while, he was shown into the room of a prominent and harassed official who had some papers in front of him. "you are major knight?" said the official. "well, here is your record before me and it is good, very good indeed. but i see that you are on sick leave. are you too ill for service?" "no," answered godfrey, "the voyage has set me up. i feel as well as ever i did." "that's fortunate," answered the official, "but there is a doctor on the premises, and to make sure he shall have a look at you. go down and see him, if you will, and then come back here with his report," and he rang a bell and gave some orders. within half an hour godfrey was back in the room with a clean bill of health. the official read the certificate and remarked that he was going to send him over to the war office, where he would make an appointment for him by telephone. "what for, sir?" asked godfrey. "you see i am only just off my ship and very ignorant of the news." "the news is, major knight, that we shall be at war with germany before we are twelve hours older," was the solemn answer. "officers are wanted, and we are giving every good man from india on whom we can lay our hands. they won't put you on the staff, because you have everything to learn about european work, but i expect they will find you a billet in one of the expeditionary regiments. and now good-bye and good luck to you, for i have lots of men to see. by the way, i take it for granted that you volunteered for the job?" "of course," replied godfrey simply, and went away to wander about the endless passages of the war office till at length he discovered the man whom he must see. a few tumultuous days went by, and he found himself upon a steamer crossing to france, attached to a famous english regiment. the next month always remained in godfrey's mind as a kind of nightmare in which he moved on plains stained the colour of blood, beneath a sky black with bellowing thunder and illumined occasionally by a blaze of splendour. it would be useless to attempt to set out the experience and adventures of the particular cavalry regiment to which he was attached as a major, since, notwithstanding their infinite variety, they were such as all shared whose glory it was to take part with what the kaiser called the "contemptible little army" of england in the ineffable retreat from mons, that retreat which saved france and civilisation. godfrey played his part well, once or twice with heroism indeed, but what of that amid eighty thousand heroes? back he staggered with the rest, exhausted, sleepless, fighting, fighting, fighting, his mind filled alternately with horror and with wonder, horror at the deeds to which men can sink and the general scheme of things that makes them possible, wonder at the heights to which they can rise when lifted by the inspiration of a great ideal and a holy cause. death, he reflected, could not after all mean so very much to man, seeing how bravely it was met every minute of the day and night, and that the aspect of it, often so terrible, did but encourage others in like fashion to smile and die. but oh! what did it all mean, and who ruled this universe with such a flaming, blood-stained sword? then at last came the turn of the tide when the hungry german wolf was obliged to abandon that paris which already he thought between his jaws and, a few days after it, the charge, the one splendid, perfect charge that consoled godfrey and those with him for all which they had suffered, lost and feared. he was in command of the regiment now, for those superior to him had been killed, and he directed and accompanied that charge. they thundered on to the mass of the germans who were retreating with no time to entrench or set entanglements, a gentle slope in front, and hard, clear ground beneath their horses' feet. they cut through them, they trod them down, they drove them by scores and hundreds into the stream beyond, till those two battalions, or what remained of them, were but a tangled, drowning mob. it was finished; the english squadron turned to retreat as had been ordered. then of a sudden godfrey felt a dull blow. for a few moments consciousness remained to him. he called out some command about the retirement; it came to his mind that thus it was well to die in the moment of his little victory. after that--blackness! when his sense returned to him he found himself lying in the curtained corner of a big room. at least he thought it was big because of the vast expanse of ceiling which he could see above the curtain rods and the sounds without, some of which seemed to come from a distance. there was a window, too, through which he caught sight of lawns and statues and formal trees. just then the curtain was drawn, and there appeared a middle-aged woman dressed in white, looking very calm, very kind and very spotless, who started a little when she saw that his eyes were open and that his face was intelligent. "where am i?" he asked, and was puzzled to observe that the sound of his voice seemed feeble and far away. "in the hospital at versailles," she answered in a pleasant voice. "indeed!" he murmured. "it occurred to me that it might be heaven or some place of the sort." "if you looked through the curtain you wouldn't call it heaven," she said with a sigh, adding, "no, major, you were near to 'going west,' very near, but you never got to the gates of heaven." "i can't remember," he murmured again. "of course you can't, so don't try, for you see you got it in the head, a bit of shell; and a nice operation, or rather operations, they had over you. if it wasn't for that clever surgeon--but there, never mind." "shall i recover?" "of course you will. we have had no doubt about that for the last week; you have been here nearly three, you know; only, you see, we thought you might be blind, something to do with the nerves of the eyes. but it appears that isn't so. now be quiet, for i can't stop talking to you with two dying just outside, and another whom i hope to save." "one thing, nurse--about the war. have the germans got paris?" "that's a silly question, major, which makes me think you ain't so right as i believed. if those brutes had paris do you think you would be at versailles? or, at any rate, that i should? don't you bother about the war. it's all right, or as right as it is likely to be for many a long day." then she went. a week later godfrey was allowed to get out of bed and was even carried to sit in the autumn sunshine among other shattered men. now he learned all there was to know; that the german rush had been stayed, that they had been headed off from calais, and that the armies were entrenching opposite to each other and preparing for the winter, the allied cause having been saved, as it were, by a miracle, at any rate for the while. he was still very weak, with great pain in his head, and could not read at all, which grieved him. so the time went by, till at last he was told that he was to be sent to england, as his bed was wanted and he could recover there as well as in france. two days later he started in a hospital train and suffered much upon the journey, although it was broken for a night at boulogne. still he came safely to london, and was taken to a central hospital where next day several doctors held a consultation over him. when it was over they asked him if he had friends in london and wished to stay there. he replied that he had no friends except an old nurse at hampstead, if she were still there, and that he did not like london. then there was talk among them, and the word torquay was mentioned. the head doctor seemed to agree, but as he was leaving, changed his mind. "too long a journey," he said, "it would knock him up. give me that list. here, this place will do; quite close and got up regardless, i am told, for she's very rich. that's what he wants--comfort and first-class food," and with a nod to godfrey, who was listening in an idle fashion, quite indifferent as to his destination, he was gone. next day they carried him off in an ambulance through the crowded strand, and presently he found himself at liverpool street, where he was put into an invalid carriage. he asked the orderly where he was going, but the man did not seem to know, or had forgotten the name. so troubling no more about it he took a dose of medicine as he had been ordered, and presently went to sleep, as no doubt it was intended that he should do. when he woke up again it was to find himself being lifted from another ambulance into a house which was very dark, perhaps because of the lighting orders, for now night had fallen. he was carried in a chair up some stairs into a very nice bedroom, and there put to bed by two men. they went away, leaving him alone. something puzzled him about the place; at first he could not think what it was. then he knew. the smell of it was familiar to him. he did not recognise the room, but the smell he did seem to recognise, though being weak and shaken he could not connect it with any particular house or locality. now there were voices in the passage, and he knew that he must be dreaming, for the only one that he could really hear sounded exactly like to that of old mrs. parsons. he smiled at the thought and shut his eyes. the voice that was like to that of mrs. parsons died away, saying as it went: "no, i haven't got the names, but i dare say they are downstairs. i'll go and look." the door opened and he heard someone enter, a woman this time by her tread. he did not see, both because his eyes were still almost closed and for the reason that the electric light was heavily shaded. so he just lay there, wondering quite vaguely where he was and who the woman might be. she came near to the bed and looked down at him, for he heard her dress rustle as she bent. then he became aware of a very strange sensation. he felt as though something were flowing from that woman to him, some strange and concentrated power of thought which was changing into a kind of agony of joy. the woman above him began to breathe quickly, in sighs as it were, and he knew that she was stirred; he knew that she was wondering. "i cannot see his face, i cannot see his face!" she whispered in a strained, unnatural tone. then with some swift movement she lifted the shade that was over the lamp. he, too, turned his head and opened his eyes. oh, god! there over him leant isobel, clad in a nurse's robes--yes, isobel--unless he were mad. next moment he knew that he was not mad, for she said one word, only one, but it was enough. "godfrey!" "isobel!" he gasped. "is it you?" she made no answer, at least in words. only she bent down and kissed him on the lips. "you mustn't do that," he whispered. "remember--our promise?" "i remember," she answered. "am i likely to forget? it was that you would never see me nor come into this house while my father lived. well, he died a month ago." then a doubt struck her, and she added swiftly: "didn't you want to come here?" "want, isobel! what else have i wanted for ten years? but i didn't know; my coming here was just an accident." "are there such things as accidents?" she queried. "was it an accident when twenty years ago i found you sleeping in the schoolroom at the abbey and kissed you on the forehead, or when i found you sleeping a few minutes ago twenty whole years later--?" and she paused. "and kissed me--_not_ upon the forehead," said godfrey reflective, adding, "i never knew about that first kiss. thank you for it." "not upon the forehead," she repeated after him, colouring a little. "you see i have faith and take a great deal for granted. if i should be mistaken----" "oh! don't trouble about that," he broke in, "because you know it couldn't be. ten years, or ten thousand, and it would make no difference." "i wonder," she mused, "oh! how i wonder. do you think it possible that we shall be living ten thousand years hence?" "quite," he answered with cheerful assurance, "much more possible than that i should be living to-day. what's ten thousand years? it's quite a hundred thousand since i saw you." "don't laugh at me," she exclaimed. "why not, dear, when there's nothing in the whole world at which i wouldn't laugh at just now? although i would rather look at you. also i wasn't laughing, i was loving, and when one is loving very much, the truth comes out." "then you really think it true--about the ten thousand years, i mean?" "of course, dear," he answered, and this time his voice was serious enough. "did we not tell each other yonder in the abbey that ours was the love eternal?" "yes, but words cannot make eternity." "no, but thoughts and the will behind them can, for we reap what we sow." "why do you say that?" she asked quickly. "i can't tell you, except because i know that it is so. we come to strange conclusions out yonder, where only death seems to be true and all the rest a dream. what we call the real and the unreal get mixed." a kind of wave of happiness passed through her, so obvious that it was visible to the watching godfrey. "if you believe it i dare say that it is so, for you always had what they call vision, had you not?" then without waiting for an answer, she went on, "what nonsense we are talking. don't you understand, godfrey, that i am quite old?" "yes," he answered, "getting on; six months younger than i am, i think." "oh! it's different with a man. another dozen years and i'm finished." "possibly, except for that eternity before you." "also," she continued, "i am even----" "even more beautiful than you were ten years ago, at any rate to me," he broke in. "you foolish godfrey," she murmured, and moved a little away from him. just then the door opened, and mrs. parsons, looking very odd in a nurse's dress with the cap awry upon her grey hair, entered, carrying a bit of paper. "the hunt i had!" she began; "that silly, new-fangled kind of a girl-clerk having stuck the paper away under the letter o--for officers, you know, miss--in some fancy box of hers, and then gone off to tea. here are the names, but i can't see without my specs." at this point something in the attitude of the two struck her, something that her instincts told her was uncommon, and she stood irresolute. isobel stepped to her as though to take the list, and, bending down, whispered into her ear. "what?" said mrs. parsons. "surely i didn't understand; you know i'm getting deaf as well as blind. say the name again." isobel obeyed, still in a whisper. "_him_!" exclaimed the old woman, "him! our godfrey, and you've been and let on who you were--you who call yourself a nursing commandant? why, i dare say you'll be the death of him. out you go, miss, anyway; i'll take charge of this case for the present," and as it seemed to godfrey, watching from the far corner, literally she bundled isobel from the room. then she shut and locked the door. coming to the bedside she knelt down rather stiffly, looked at him for a while to make sure, and kissed him, not once, but many times. "so you have come back, my dear," she said, "and only half dead. well, we won't have no young woman pushing between you and me just at present, commandant or not. time enough for love-making when you are stronger. oh! and i never thought to see you again. there must be a good god somewhere after all, although he did make them germans." then again she fell to kissing and blessing him, her hot tears dropping on his face and upsetting him ten times as much as isobel had done. since in this topsy-turvy world often things work by contraries, oddly enough no harm came to godfrey from these fierce excitements. indeed he slept better than he had done since he found his mind again, and awoke, still weak of course, but without any temperature or pains in his head. now it was that there began the most blissful period of all his life. isobel, when she had recovered her balance, made him understand that he was a patient, and that exciting talk or acts must be avoided. he on his part fell in with her wishes, and indeed was well content to do so. for a while he wanted nothing more than just to lie there and watch her moving in and out of his room, with his food or flowers, or whatever it might be, for a burst of bad weather prevented him from going out of doors. then, as he strengthened she began to talk to him (which mrs. parsons did long before that event), telling him all that for years he had longed to know; no, not all, but some things. among other matters she described to him the details of her father's end, which occurred in a very characteristic fashion. "you see, dear," she said, "as he grew older his passion for money-making increased more and more; why, i am sure i cannot say, seeing that heaven knows he had enough." "yes," said godfrey, "i suppose you are a very rich woman." she nodded, saying: "so rich that i don't know how rich, for really i haven't troubled even to read all the figures, and as yet they are not complete. moreover, i believe that soon i shall be much richer. i'll tell you why presently. the odd thing is, too, that my father died intestate, so i get every farthing. i believe he meant to make a will with some rather peculiar provisions that perhaps you can guess. but this will was never made." "why not?" asked godfrey. "because he died first, that's all. it was this way. he, or rather his firm, which is only another name for him, for he owned three-fourths of the capital, got some tremendous shipping contract with the government arising out of the war, that secures an enormous profit to them; how much i can't tell you, but hundreds and hundreds of thousands of pounds. he had been very anxious about this contract, for his terms were so stiff that the officials who manage such affairs hesitated about signing them. at last one day after a long and i gather, stormy interview with i don't know whom, in the course of which some rather strong language seems to have been used, the contract was signed and delivered to the firm. my father came home to this house with a copy of it in his pocket. he was very triumphant, for he looked at the matter solely from a business point of view, not at all from that of the country. also he was very tired, for he had aged much during the last few years, and suffered occasionally from heart attacks. to keep himself up he drank a great deal of wine at dinner, first champagne and then the best part of a bottle of port. this made him talkative, and he kept me sitting there to listen to him while he boasted, poor man, of how he had 'walked round' the officials who thought themselves so clever, but never saw some trap which he had set for them." "and what did you do?" asked godfrey. "you know very well what i did. i grew angry, i could not help it, and told him i thought it was shameful to make money wrongfully out of the country at such a time, especially when he did not want it at all. then he was furious and answered that he did want it, to support the peerage which he was going to get. he said also," she added slowly, "that i was 'an ignorant, interfering vixen,' yes, that is what he called me, a vixen, who had always been a disappointment to him and thwarted his plans. 'however,' he went on, 'as you think so little of my hard-earned money, i'll take care that you don't have more of it than i can help. i am not going to leave it to be wasted on silly charities by a sour old maid, for that's what you are, since you can't get hold of your precious parson's son, who i hope will be sent to the war and killed. i'll see the lawyers to-morrow, and make a will, which i hope you'll find pleasant reading one day.' "i answered that he might make what will he liked, and left the room, though he tried to stop me. "about half an hour later i saw the butler running about the garden where i was, looking for me in the gloom, and heard him calling: 'come to sir john, miss. come to sir john!' "i went in and there was my father fallen forward on the dining-room table, with blood coming from his lips, though i believe this was caused by a crushed wineglass. his pocket-book was open beneath him, in which he had been writing figures of his estate, and, i think, headings for the will he meant to make, but these i could not read since the faint pencilling was blotted out with blood. he was quite dead from some kind of a stroke followed by heart failure, as the doctors said." "is that all the pleasant story?" asked godfrey. "yes, except that there being no will i inherited everything, or shall do so. i tried to get that contract cancelled, but could not; first, because having once made it the government would not consent, since to do so would have been a reflection on those concerned, and secondly, for the reason that the other partners in the shipping business objected. so we shall have to give it back in some other way." godfrey looked at her, and said: "you meant to say that _you_ will have to give it back." "i don't know what i meant," she answered, colouring; "but having said _we_, i think i will be like the government and stick to it. that is, unless you object very much, my dear." "object! _i_ object!" and taking the hand that was nearest to him, he covered it with kisses. as he did so he noted that for the first time she wore the little ring with turquoise hearts upon her third finger, the ring that so many years before he had bought at lucerne, the ring that through mrs. parsons he had sent her in the pill-box on the evening of their separation. this was the only form of engagement that ever passed between them, the truth being that from the moment he entered the place it was all taken for granted, not only by themselves, but by everyone in the house, including the wounded. with this development of an intelligent instinct, it is possible that mrs. parsons had something to do. chapter xix marriage in that atmosphere of perfect bliss godfrey's cure was quick. for bliss it was, save only that there was another bliss beyond to be attained. remember that this man, now approaching middle life, had never drunk of the cup of what is known as love upon the earth. some might answer that such is the universal experience; that true, complete love has no existence, except it be that love of god to which a few at last attain, since in what we know as god completeness and absolute unity can be found alone. other loves all have their flaws, with one exception perhaps, that of the love of the dead which fondly we imagine to be unchangeable. for the rest passion, however exalted, passes or at least becomes dull with years; the most cherished children grow up, and in so doing, by the law of nature, grow away; friends are estranged and lost in their own lives. upon the earth there is no perfect love; it must be sought elsewhere, since having the changeful shadows, we know there is a sky wherein shines the sun that casts them. godfrey, as it chanced, omitting isobel, had walked little even in these sweet shadows. there were but three others for whom he had felt devotion in all his days, mrs. parsons, his tutor, monsieur boiset, and his friend, arthur thorburn, who was gone. therefore to him isobel was everything. as a child he had adored her; as a woman she was his desire, his faith and his worship. if this were so with him, still more was it the case with isobel, who in truth cared for no other human being. something in her nature prevented her from contracting violent female friendships, and to all men, except a few of ability, each of them old enough to be her father, she was totally indifferent; indeed most of them repelled her. on godfrey, and godfrey alone, from the first moment she saw him as a child she had poured all the deep treasure of her heart. he was at once her divinity and her other self, the segment that completed her life's circle, without which it was nothing but a useless, broken ring. so much did this seem to her to be so, that notwithstanding her lack of faith in matters beyond proof and knowledge, she never conceived of this passion of hers as having had a beginning, or of being capable of an end. this contradictory woman would argue against the possibility of any future existence, yet she was quite certain that her love for godfrey _had_ a future existence, and indeed one that was endless. when at length he put it to her that her attitude was most illogical, since that which was dead and dissolved could not exist in any place or shape, she thought for a while and replied quietly: "then i must be wrong." "wrong in what?" asked godfrey. "in supposing that we do not live after death. the continuance of our love i _know_ to be beyond any doubt, and if it involves our continuance as individual entities--well, then we continue, that is all." "we might continue as a single entity," he suggested. "perhaps," she answered, "and if so this would be better still, for it must be impossible to lose one another while that remained alive, comprising both." thus, and in these few words, although she never became altogether orthodox, or took quite the same view of such mysteries as did godfrey, isobel made her great recantation, for which probably there would never have been any need had she been born in different surroundings and found some other spiritual guide in youth than mr. knight. as the cruelties and the narrow bitterness of the world had bred unfaith in her, so did supreme love breed faith, if of an unusual sort, since she learned that without the faith her love must die, and the love she knew to be immortal. therefore the existence of that living love presupposed all the rest, and convinced her, which in one of her obstinate nature nothing else could possibly have done, no, not if she had seen a miracle. also this love of hers was so profound and beautiful that she felt its true origin and ultimate home must be elsewhere than on the earth. that was why she consented to be married in church, somewhat to godfrey's surprise. in due course, having practically recovered his health, godfrey appeared before a board in london which passed him as fit for service, but gave him a month's leave. with this document he returned to hawk's hall, and there showed it to isobel. "and when the month is up?" she asked, looking at him. "then i suppose i shall have to join my regiment, unless they send me somewhere else." "a month is a very short time," she went on, still looking at him and turning a little pale. "yes, dear, but lots can happen in it, as we found out in france. for instance," he added, with a little hesitation, "we can get married, that is, if you wish." "you know very well, godfrey, that i have wished it for quite ten years." "and you know very well, isobel, that i have wished it--well, ever since i understood what marriage was. how about to-morrow?" he exclaimed, after a pause. she laughed, and shook her head. "i believe, godfrey, that some sort of license is necessary, and it is past post time. also it would look scarcely decent; all these people would laugh at us. also, as there is a good deal of property concerned, i must make some arrangements." "what arrangements?" he asked. she laughed again. "that is my affair; you know i am a great supporter of woman's rights." "oh! i see," he replied vaguely, "to keep it all free from the husband's control, &c." "yes, godfrey, that's it. what a business head you have. you should join the shipping firm after the war." then they settled to be married on that day week, after which isobel suggested that he should take up his abode at the abbey house, where the clergyman, a bachelor, would be very glad to have him as a guest. when godfrey inquired why, she replied blandly because his room was wanted for another patient, he being now cured, and that therefore he had no right to stop there. "oh! i see. how selfish of me," said godfrey, and went off to arrange matters with the clergyman, a friendly and accommodating young man, with the result that on this night once more he slept in the room he had occupied as a boy. for her part isobel telephoned, first to her dressmaker, and secondly to the lawyer who was winding up her father's estate, requesting these important persons to come to see her on the morrow. they came quickly, since isobel was too valuable a client to be neglected, arriving by the same train, with the result that the lawyer was kept waiting an hour and a half by the dressmaker, a fact which he remembered in his bill. when at last his turn came, isobel did not detain him long. "i am going to be married," she said, "on the twenty-fourth to major godfrey knight of the indian cavalry. will you kindly prepare two documents, the first to be signed before my marriage, and the second, a will, immediately after it, since otherwise it would be invalidated by that change in my condition." the lawyer stared at her, since so much legal knowledge was not common among his lady clients, and asked for instructions as to what the documents were to set out. "they will be very simple," said isobel. "the first, a marriage settlement, will settle half my income free of my control upon my future husband during our joint lives. the second, that is the will, will leave to him all my property, real and personal." "i must point out to you, miss blake," said the astonished lawyer, "that these provisions are very unusual. does major knight bring large sums into settlement?" "i don't think so," she answered. "his means are quite moderate, and if they were not, it would never occur to him to do anything of the sort, as he understands nothing about money. also circumstanced as i am, it does not matter in the least." "your late father would have taken a different view," sniffed the lawyer. "possibly," replied isobel, "for our views varied upon most points. while he was alive i gave way to his, to my great loss and sorrow. now that he is dead i follow my own." "well, that is definite, miss blake, and of course your wishes must be obeyed. but as regards this will, do not think me indelicate for mentioning it, but there might be children." "i don't think you at all indelicate. why should i at over thirty years of age? i have considered the point. if we are blessed with any children, and i should predecease him, my future husband will make such arrangements for their welfare as he considers wise and just. i have every confidence in his judgment, and if he should happen to die intestate, which i think very probable, they would inherit equally. there is enough for any number of them." "unless he loses or spends it," groaned the lawyer. "he is much more likely to save it from some mistaken sense of duty, and to live entirely on what he has of his own," remarked isobel. "if so, it cannot be helped, and no doubt the poor will benefit. now if you thoroughly understand what i wish done, i think that is all. i have to see the dressmaker again, so good-bye." "executors?" gasped the lawyer. "public trustee," said isobel, over her shoulder. "they say that she is one of these suffragette women, although she keeps it dark. well, i can believe it. anyway, this officer is tumbling into honey, and there's no fool like a woman in love," said the lawyer to himself as he packed his bag of papers. isobel was quite right. the question of settlements never even occurred to godfrey. he was aware, however, that it is usual for a bridegroom to make the bride a present, and going to london, walked miserably up and down bond street looking into windows until he was tired. at one moment he fixed his affections upon an old queen anne porringer, which his natural taste told him to be quite beautiful; but having learned from the dealer that it was meant for the mixing of infant's pap, he retired abashed. almost next door he saw in a jeweller's window a necklace of small pearls priced at three hundred pounds, and probably worth about half that amount. having quite a handsome balance at his back, he came to the conclusion that he could afford this and, going in, bought it at once, oblivious of the fact that isobel already had ropes of pearls the size of marrowfat peas. however, she was delighted with it, especially when she saw what it had cost him, for he had never thought to cut the sale ticket from the necklace. it was those pearls, and not the marrowfat peas, that isobel wore upon her wedding day. save for the little ring with the two turquoise hearts, these were her only ornament. a question arose as to where the honeymoon, or so much as would remain of one, was to be spent. godfrey would have liked to go to lucerne and visit the pasteur, but as this could not be managed in war time, suggested london. "why london?" exclaimed isobel. "only because most ladies like theatres, though i confess i hate them myself." "you silly man," she answered. "do you suppose, when we can have only a few days together, that i want to waste time in theatres?" in the end it was settled that they would go to london for a night, and then on to cornwall, which they hoped fondly might be warm at that time of year. so at last, on the twenty-fourth day of december of that fateful year , they were married in the abbey church. isobel's uncle, the one with whom she had stayed in mexico, and who had retired now from the diplomatic service, gave her away, and a young cousin of hers was the sole bridesmaid, for the ceremony was of the sort called a "war wedding." her dress, however, was splendid of its kind, some rich thing of flowing broidered silk with a veil of wondrous lace. either from accident or by design, in general effect it much resembled that of the plantagenet lady which once she had copied from the brass. perhaps, being dissatisfied with her former effort, she determined to recap it on a more splendid scale, or perhaps it was a chance. at any rate, the veil raised in two points from her head, fell down like that of the nameless lady, while from her elbows long narrow sleeves hung almost to the ground. beautiful isobel never was, but in this garb, with happiness shining in her eyes, her tall, well-made form looked imposing and even stately, an effect that was heightened by her deliberate and dignified movements. the great church was crowded, for the news of this wedding had spread far and wide, and its romantic character attracted people both from the neighbouring villages and the little town. set in the splendid surroundings of the old abbey, through the painted windows of which gleamed the winter sun, godfrey in his glittering indian uniform and orders, and his bride in her quaint, rich dress, made a striking pair at the altar rail. indeed it is doubtful whether since hundreds of years ago the old crusader and his fair lady, whose ashes were beneath their feet, stood where they stood for this same purpose of marriage, clad in coat of mail and gleaming silk, a nobler-looking couple had been wed in that ancient fane. oddly enough, with the strange inconsequence of the human mind, especially in moments of suppressed excitement, it was of this nameless lady and her lord that godfrey kept thinking throughout the service, once more wondering who they were and what was their story. he remembered too how the graves of that unknown pair had been connected with his fortunes and those of isobel. here it was that they plighted the troth which now they were about to fulfil. here it was that he had bidden her farewell before he went to switzerland. he could see her now as she was then, tall and slender in her white robe, and the red ray of sunshine gleaming like a splash of blood upon her breast. he glanced at her by his side as she turned towards him, and behold! there it shone again, splendid yet ominous. he shivered a little at the sight of it--he knew not why--and was glad when a dense black snow-cloud hid the face of the sun and killed it. it was over at last, and they were man and wife. "do these words and vows and ceremonies make any difference to you?" she whispered as they walked side by side down the church, the observed of all observers. "they do not to me. i feel as though all the rites in the world would be quite powerless and without meaning in face of the fact of our eternal unity." it was a queer little speech for her to make, with its thought and balance; godfrey often reflected afterwards, expressing as it did a great truth so far as they were concerned, since no ceremonial, however hallowed, could increase their existing oneness or take away therefrom. at the moment, however, he scarcely understood it, and only smiled in reply. then they went into the vestry and signed their names, and everything was over. here godfrey's former trustee, general cubitte, grown very old now, but as bustling and emphatic as of yore, who signed the book as one of the witnesses, buttonholed him. at some length he explained how he had been to see an eminent swell at the war office, a "dug-out" who was an old friend of his, and impressed upon him his, godfrey's, extraordinary abilities as a soldier, pointing out that he ought at once to be given command of a regiment, and how the eminent swell had promised that he would see to it forthwith. oh! if he had only known, he would not have thanked him. at last they started for the motor-car, which was to drive them in pomp three hundred yards to the hall. some delay occurred. another motor-car at the church gate would not start, and had to be drawn out of the way. three or four of the nurses from the hospital and certain local ladies surrounded isobel, and burst into talk and congratulations, thus separating her from godfrey. overhearing complimentary remarks about himself, he drew back a little from the porch into the church which had now emptied. as he stood there someone tapped him on the shoulder. the touch disturbed him; it was unpleasant to him and he turned impatiently to see from whom it came. there in front of him, bundled up in a rusty black cloak of which the hood covered the head, was a short fat woman. her face was hidden, but from the cavernous recesses of the hood two piercing black eyes shone like to those of a tiger in its den. after all those years godfrey recognised them at once; indeed subconsciously he had known who had touched him even before he turned. it was madame riennes. "ah!" she said, in her hateful, remembered voice, "so my little godfrey who has grown such a big godfrey now--yes, big in every way, had recognition of his dear godmamma, did he? oh! do not deny it; i saw you jump with joy. well, i knew what was happening--never mind how i knew--and though i am so poor now, i travelled here to assist and give my felicitations. eleanor, too, she sends hers, though you guess of what kind they are, for remember, as i told you long ago, speerits are just as jealous as we women, because, you see, they were women before they were speerits." "thank you," broke in godfrey; "i am afraid i must be going." "oh! yes. you are in a great hurry, for now you have got the plum, my godfrey, have you not, and want to eat it? well, i have a message for you, suck it hard, for very, very soon you come to the stone, which you know is sharp and cold with no taste, and must be thrown away. oh! something make me say this too; i know not what. perhaps that stone must be planted, not thrown away; yes, i think it must be planted, and that it will grow into the most beautiful of plum trees in another land." she threw back her hood, showing her enormous forehead and flabby, sunken face, which looked as though she had lived for years in a cellar, and yet had about it an air of inspiration. "yes," she went on, "i see that tree white with blossom. i see it bending with the golden fruit--thousands upon thousands of fruits. oh! godfrey, it is the tree of life, and underneath it sit you and that lady who looks like a queen, and whom you love so dear, and look into each other's eyes for ever and for ever, because you see that tree immortal do not grow upon the earth, my godfrey." the horrible old woman made him afraid, especially did her last words make him afraid, because he who was experienced in such matters knew that she had come with no intention of uttering them, that they had burst from her lips in a sudden semi-trance such as overtakes her sisterhood from time to time. he knew what that meant, that death had marked them, and that they were called elsewhere, he or isobel, or both. "i must be going," he repeated. "yes, yes, you must be going--you who are going so far. the hungry fish must go after the bait, must it not, and oh! the hook it does not see. but, my leetle big godfrey, one moment. your loving old godmamma, she tumble on the evil day ever since that cursed old pasteur"--here her pale face twisted and her eyes grew wicked--"let loose the law-dogs on me. i want money, my godson. here is an address," and she thrust a piece of paper upon him. he threw it down and stamped on it. in his pocket was a leather case full of bank-notes. he drew out a handful of them and held them to her. she snatched them as a hungry hawk snatches meat, with a fierce and curious swiftness. then at last he escaped, and in another minute, amidst the cheers of the crowd, was driving away at the side of the stately isobel. at the hall, where one of the wards had been cleared for the purpose, there was a little informal reception, at which for a while godfrey found himself officiating alone, since isobel had disappeared with general cubitte and the brother officer who had acted as his best man. when at length they returned he asked her where she had been, rather sharply perhaps, for his nerves were on edge. "to see to some business with the lawyer," she answered. "what business, dear?" he inquired. "i thought you settled all that this morning?" "it could not be settled this morning, godfrey, because a will can only be signed after marriage." "good gracious!" he exclaimed. "give me a glass of champagne." an hour later they were motoring to london alone, at last alone, and to this pair heaven opened its seventh door. they dined in the private sitting-room of the suit which under the inspiration of isobel he had taken at a london hotel, and then after the curious-eyed waiters had cleared the table, sat together in front of the fire, hand in hand, but not talking very much. at length isobel rose and they embraced each other. "i am going to bed now," she said; "but before you come, and perhaps we forget about such matters, i want you to kneel down with me and say a prayer." he obeyed as a child might, though wondering, for somehow he had never connected isobel and prayer in his mind. there they knelt in front of the fire, as reverently as though it burned upon an altar, and isobel said her prayer aloud. it ran thus: "o unknown god whom always i have sought and whom now i think that i have found, or am near to finding; o power that sent me forth to taste of life and gather knowledge, and who at thine own hour wilt call me back again, hear the prayer of isobel and of godfrey her lover. this is what they ask of thee: that be their time together on the earth long or short, it may endure for ever in the lives and lands beyond the earth. they ask also that all their sins, known and unknown, great or small, may be forgiven them, and that with thy gifts they may do good, and that if children come to them, they may be blessed in such fashion as thou seest well, and afterwards endure with them through all the existences to be. o giver of life and love eternal, hear this, the solemn marriage prayer of godfrey and of isobel." then she rose and with one long look, left him, seeming to his eyes no more a woman, as ten thousand women are, but a very fire of spiritual love incarnate in a veil of flesh. chapter xx orders godfrey and his wife never went to cornwall after all, for on christmas day the weather turned so bad and travelling was so difficult that they determined to stop where they were for a few days. as for them the roof of this london hotel had become synonymous with that of the crystal dome of heaven, this did not matter in the least. there they sat in their hideous, over-gilded, private sitting-room, or, when the weather was clear enough, went for walks in the park, and once to the south kensington museum, where they enjoyed themselves very thoroughly. it was on the fourth morning after their marriage that the blow fell. godfrey had waked early, and lay watching his wife at his side. the grey light from the uncurtained window, which they had opened to air the over-heated room, revealed her in outline but not in detail and made her fine face mysterious, framed as it was in her yellow hair. he watched it with a kind of rapture, till at length she sighed and stirred, then began to murmur in her sleep. "my darling," she whispered, "oh! my darling, how have i lived without you? well, that is over, since alive or dead we can never be parted more, not really--not really!" then she opened her grey eyes and stretched out her arms to receive him, and he was glad, for he seemed to be listening to that which he was not meant to hear. a little later there came a knocking at the door, and a page boy's squeaky voice without said: "telegram for you, sir." godfrey called to him to put it down, but isobel turned pale and shivered. "what can it be?" she said, clasping him. "no one knows our address." "oh, yes, they do," he answered. "you forget you telephoned to the hall yesterday afternoon about the hospital business you had forgotten and gave our number, which would be quite enough." "so i did, like a fool," she exclaimed, looking as though she were going to cry. "don't be frightened, dear," he said. "i dare say it is nothing. you see we have no one to lose." "no, no, i feel sure it is a great deal and--we have each other. read it quickly and get the thing over." so he rose and fetched the yellow envelope which reposed upon isobel's boots outside the door. a glance showed him that it was marked "official," and then his heart, too, began to sink. returning to the bed, he switched on the electric light and opened the envelope. "there's enough of it," he said, drawing out three closely written sheets. "read, read it!" answered isobel. so he read. it was indeed a very long telegram, one of such as are commonly sent at the expense of the country, and it came from the war office. the gist of it was that attempts had been made to communicate with him at an address he had given in cornwall, but the messages had been returned, and finally inquiry at hawk's hall had given a clue. he was directed to report himself "early to-morrow" (the telegram had been sent off on the previous night) to take up an appointment which would be explained to him. there was, it added, no time to lose, as the ship was due to sail within twenty-four hours. "there!" said isobel, "i knew it was something of the sort. this," she added with a flash of inspiration, "is the result of the meddling of that old general cubitte. you see it must be a distant appointment, or they would not talk about the ship being due to sail." "i dare say," he answered as cheerfully as he could. "such things are to be expected in these times, are they not?" "too bad!" she went on, "at any rate they might have let you have your leave." then they rose because they must and made pretence to eat some breakfast, after which they departed in one of isobel's motors, which had been summoned by telephone from her london house, to the department indicated in the telegram. they need not have hurried, since the important person whom godfrey must see did not arrive for a full hour, during all which time isobel sat waiting in the motor. however, when he appeared he was very gracious. "oh! yes," he said, "you are major knight, and we have a mutual friend in old general cubitte. in fact it was he who put an idea into our heads, for which, as i understand you are just married--a pretty hunt you gave us, by the way--perhaps you won't altogether bless him, since otherwise, as you are only just recovered from your wounds, i have no doubt we could have given you a month or two extra leave. however, i know you are very keen, for i've looked up your record, and private affairs must give way, mustn't they? also, as it happens, mrs. knight need not be anxious, as we are not going to send you into any particular danger; i dare say you won't see a shot fired. "look here, major, you have been a staff officer, haven't you, and it is reported of you that you always got on extremely well with natives, and especially in some semi-political billets which you have held when you had to negotiate with their chiefs. well, to cut it short, a man of the kind is wanted in east africa, coming out direct from home with military authority. he will have to keep in touch with the big chiefs in our own territory and arrange for them to supply men for working or fighting, etc., and if possible, open negotiations with those in german territory and win them over to us. further, as you know, there are an enormous number of indians settled in east africa, with whom you would be particularly qualified to deal. we should look to you to make the most of these in any way required. you see, the appointment is a special one, and if the work be well done, as i have no doubt it will be, i am almost sure," he added significantly, "that the results to the officer concerned will be special also. "now, i don't ask you if you decline the appointment, because we are certain in time of war you will not do so, and i think that's all, except that you will be accredited ostensibly to the staff of the general in command in east africa, and also receive private instructions, of which the general and the local governments will have copies. now, do you understand everything, especially that your powers will be very wide and that you will have to act largely on your own discretion?" "i think so, sir," said godfrey, concealing the complete confusion of his mind as well as he was able. "at any rate, i shall pick things up as i go along." "yes, that's the right spirit--pick things up as you go on, as we are all doing in this war. i have to pick 'em up, i can tell you. and now i won't keep you any longer, for, you see, you'll have to hustle. i believe a special boat for east africa with stores, etc., sails to-morrow morning, so you'll have to take the last train to southampton. an officer will meet you at waterloo with your instructions, and if he misses you, will go on down to the boat. also, you will have details of your pay and allowances, which will be liberal, though i am told you are not likely to want money in future. so good-bye and good luck to you. you must report officially through the general or the local governors, but you will also be able to write privately to us. indeed, please remember that we shall expect you to do so." so godfrey went, but as he neared the door the big man called after him: "by the way, i forgot to congratulate you. no, no, i don't mean on your marriage, but on your promotion. you've been informed, haven't you? well, it will be gazetted to-morrow or in a day or two, and letters will be sent to you with the other papers." "what promotion?" asked godfrey. "oh! to be a colonel, of course. you did very well out there in france, you know, and it is thought advisable that the officer undertaking this special work should have a colonel's rank, just to begin with. good-bye." so godfrey went, and said vaguely to the waiting isobel: "i'm afraid, dear, that i shall have to ask you to help me to do some shopping. i think there are some stores near here. we had better drive to them." "tell me everything," said isobel. so he told her, and when he had finished she said slowly: "it is bad enough, but i suppose it might be worse. will they let me go with you to southampton?" "i expect so," he answered. "at any rate, we will try it on. i think it is an ordinary train, and you have a right to take a ticket." then they shopped, all day they shopped, with the result, since money can do much, that when they reached waterloo his baggage containing everything needful, or at least nearly everything, was already waiting for him. so was the messenger with the promised papers, including a formal communication notifying to him that he was now a lieutenant-colonel. "and to think that they have painted 'major' on those tin cases!" said isobel regretfully, for no objection had been raised to her accompanying godfrey, with whom she was seated in a reserved carriage. they reached southampton about midnight, and on godfrey presenting himself and asking when the boat sailed he was informed that this was uncertain, but probably within the next week. then remembering all he had gone through that day, he swore as a man will, but isobel rejoiced inwardly, oh! how she rejoiced, though all she said was that it would give him time to complete his shopping. save for the advancing shadow of separation and a constant stream of telegrams and telephone messages to and from his chiefs in london, which occupied many of the hours, these were very happy days, especially as in the end they spread themselves out to the original limit of his leave. "at least we have not been cheated," said isobel when at last they stood together on the deck of the ship, waiting for the second bell to ring, "and others are worse off. i believe those two poor people," and she pointed to a young officer and his child-like bride, "were only married yesterday." the scene on the ship was dreary, for many were going in her to the various theatres of war, egypt, africa, and other places, and sad, oh! sad were the good-byes upon that bitter winter afternoon. some of the women cried, especially those of the humbler class. but isobel would not cry. she remained quite calm to the last, arranging a few flowers and unpacking a travelling bag in godfrey's cabin, for as a colonel he had one to himself. then the second bell rang, and to the ears upon which its strident clamour fell the trump of doom could not have been more awful. "good-bye, my darling," she said, "good-bye, and remember what i have told you, that near or far, living or dead, we can never really be apart again, for ours is the love eternal given to us in the beginning." "yes," he answered briefly, "i know that it is so and--enduring for ever! god bless us both as he sees best." the ship cast off, and isobel stood in the evening light watching from the quay till godfrey vanished and the vessel which bore him was swallowed up in the shadows. then she went back to the hotel and, throwing herself upon that widowed bed, kissed the place where his head had lain, and wept, ah! how she wept, for her joy-days were done and her heart was breaking in her. after this isobel took a night train back to town and, returning to hawk's hall, threw herself with the energy that was remarkable in her, into the management of her hospital and many another work and charity connected with the war. for it was only in work that she could forget herself and her aching loneliness. godfrey had a comfortable and a prosperous voyage, since it was almost before the days of submarines, at any rate so far as passenger steamers were concerned, and they saw no enemy ships. therefore, within little more than a month he landed on the hot shores of mombasa, and could cable to isobel that he was safe and well and receive her loving answer. his next business was to report himself in the proper quarter, which he did. those over him seemed quite bewildered as to what he had come for or what he was to do, and could only suggest that he should travel to nairobi and uganda and put himself in touch with the civil authorities. this he did also and, as a result, formulated a certain scheme of action, to which his military superiors assented, intimating that he might do as he liked, so long as he did not interfere with them. what happened to him may be very briefly described. in the end he started to visit a great chief on the borders of german east africa, but in british territory, a man whose loyalty was rumoured to be doubtful. this chief, jaga by name, was a professed christian, and at his town there lived a missionary of the name of tafelett, who had built a church there and was said to have much influence over him. so with the reverend mr. tafelett godfrey communicated by runners, saying that he was coming to visit him. accordingly he started with a guard of native troops, a coloured interpreter and some servants, but without any white companion, since the attack on german territory was beginning and no one could be spared to go with him upon a diplomatic mission. the journey was long and arduous, involving many days of marching across the east african veld and through its forests, where game of all sorts was extraordinarily plentiful, and at night they were surrounded by lions. at length, however, with the exception of one man who remained with the lions, they arrived safely at the town of jaga and were met by mr. tafelett, who took godfrey into his house, a neat thatched building with a wide verandah that stood by the church, which was a kind of whitewashed shed, also thatched. mr. tafelett proved to be a clergyman of good birth and standing, one of those earnest, saint-like souls who follow literally the scriptural injunction and abandon all to advance the cause of their master in the dark places of the earth. a tall, thin, nervous-looking man of not much over thirty years of age; one, too, possessed of considerable private means, he had some five years before given up a good living in england in order to obey what he considered to be his "call." being sent to this outlying post, he found it in a condition of the most complete savagery, and worked as few have done. he built the church with native labour, furnishing it beautifully inside, mostly at his own expense. he learned the local languages, he started a school, he combated the witch-doctors and medicine-men. finally he met with his reward in the conversion of the young chief jaga, which was followed by that of a considerable portion of his people. but here came the trouble. the bulk of the tribe, which was large and powerful, did not share their chief's views. for instance, his uncle, alulu, the head rain-maker and witch-doctor, differed from them very emphatically. he was shrewd enough to see that the triumph of christianity meant his destruction, also the abandonment of all their ancient customs. he harangued the tribe in secret, asking them if they wished to bring upon themselves the vengeance of their ancestral and other spirits and to go through their days as the possessors of only one miserable wife, questions to which they answered that emphatically they did not. so the tribe was rent in two, and by far the smaller half clung to jaga, to whom the dim, turbulent heathen thousands beneath his rule rendered but a lip service. then came the war, and alulu and his great following saw their opportunity. why should they not be rid of jaga and the christian teacher with his new-fangled notions? if it could be done in no other way, why should they not move across the border which was close by, into german territory? the germans, at any rate, would not bother them about such matters; under their rule they might live as their forefathers had done from the beginning, and have as many wives as they chose without being called all sorts of ugly names. this was the position when godfrey arrived. his coming made a great sensation. he was reported to be a very big lord indeed, as big, or bigger than the king's governor himself. alulu put it about that he had come to make a soldier of every fit man and to enslave the women and the elders to work on the roads or in dragging guns. the place seethed with secret ferment. mr. tafelett knew something of all this through jaga, who was genuinely frightened, and communicated it to godfrey. in the result a meeting of all the headmen was held, which was attended by thousands of the people. godfrey spoke through his interpreter, saying that in this great war the king of england required their help, and generally set out the objects of his mission, remarks that were received in respectful silence. then alulu spoke, devoting himself chiefly to an attack upon the christian faith and on the interference of the white teacher with their customs, that, he observed, had resulted in their ancestral spirits cursing them with the worst drought they had experienced for years, which in the circumstances he, alulu, could and would do nothing to alleviate. how could they fight and work for the great king when their stomachs were pinched with hunger owing to the witchcraft and magical rites which the white teacher celebrated in the church? "how, indeed?" shouted the heathen section, although in fact their season had been very good; while the christians, feeling themselves in a minority, were silent. then the chief, jaga, spoke. he traversed all the arguments of alulu, whom he denounced in no measured terms, saying that he was plotting against him. finally he came down heavily on the side of the british, remarking that he knew who were the would-be traitors and that they should suffer in due course. "it has been whispered in my ears," he concluded, "that there is a plot afoot against my friend, the white teacher, who has done us all so much good. it has even been whispered that there are those," here he looked hard at alulu, "who have declared that it would be well to kill this great white lord who is our guest," and he pointed to godfrey with his little chief's staff, "so that he may not return to tell who are the true traitors among the people of jaga. i say to you who have thought such things, that this lord is the greatest of all lords, and as well might you lay hands on our father, the mighty king of england himself, as upon this his friend and counsellor. if a drop of his blood is shed, then surely the king's armies will come, and we shall die, every one of us, the innocent and the guilty together. for terrible will be the vengeance of the king." this outburst made a great impression, for all the multitude cried: "it is so! we know that it is so," and alulu interposed that he would as soon think of murdering his own mother (who, mr. tafelett whispered to godfrey, had been dead these many years) as of touching a hair of the great white chief's head. on the contrary, it was their desire to do everything that he ordered them. but concerning the matter of the new custom of having one wife only, etc. this brought mr. tafelett to his feet, for on monogamy he was especially strong, and the meeting ended on a theological discussion which nearly resulted in blows between the factions. finally it was adjourned for a week, when it was arranged that an answer should be given to godfrey's demands. three nights later an answer was given and one of a terrible sort. shortly after sundown godfrey was sitting in the missionary's house writing a report. mr. tafelett, it being sunday, was holding an evening service in the church, at which jaga and most of the christians were present. suddenly a tumult arose, and the air was rent with savage shouts and shrieks. godfrey sprang up and snatched his revolver just as some of his servants arrived and announced that the people in the church were being killed. acting on his first impulse, he ran to the place, calling to his guard to follow him, which they did so tardily that he entered it alone. here a sight of horror met his eyes. the building was full of dead and dying people. by the altar, dressed in his savage witch-doctor's gear, stood alulu, a lamp in his hand, with which evidently he had been firing the church, for tongues of flame ran up the walls. on the altar itself was something that had a white cloth thrown over it, as do the sacred vessels. catching sight of godfrey, with a yell the brute tore away the napkin, revealing the severed head of mr. tafelett, whose surplice-draped body godfrey now distinguished lying in the shadows on one side of the altar! "here is the white medicine-man's magic wine," he screamed, pointing to the blood that ran down the broidered frontal. "come, drink! come, drink!" godfrey ran forward up the church, his pistol in his hand. when he reached the chancel he stopped and fired at the mouthing, bedizened devil who was dancing hideously in front of the altar. the heavy service-revolver bullet struck him in some mortal place, for he leapt into the air, grabbed at the altar cloth and fell to the ground. there he lay still, covered by the cloth, with the massive brass crucifix resting face downwards on his breast and the murdered man's head lying at his side--as though it were looking at him. this was the last sight that godfrey saw for many a day, for just then a spear pierced his breast, also something struck him on the temple. a curious recollection rose in his mind of the head of a mummy after the pasteur had broken it off, rolling along the floor in the flat at lucerne. then he thought he heard madame riennes laughing, after which he remembered no more; it might have been a thousand years, or it might have been a minute, for he had passed into a state that takes no reck of time. godfrey began to dream. he dreamed that he was travelling; that he was in a house, and then, a long while afterwards, that he was making a journey by sea. another vacuum of nothingness and he dreamed again, this time very vividly. now his dream was that he had come to egypt and was stretched on a bed in a room, through the windows of which he could see the pyramids quite close at hand. more, he seemed to become acquainted with all their history. he saw them in the building; multitudes of brown men dragging huge blocks of stone up a slope of sand. he saw them finished one by one, and all the ceremonies of the worship with which they were connected. dead pharaohs were laid to rest there beneath his eyes, living pharaohs prayed within their chapels and made oblation to the spirits of those who had gone before them, while ever the white-robed, shaven priests chanted in his ears. then all passed, and he saw them mighty as ever, but deserted, standing there in the desert, the monuments of a forgotten greatness, till at length a new people came and stripped off their marble coverings. these things he remembered afterwards, but there were many more that he forgot. again godfrey dreamed, a strange and beautiful dream which went on from day to day. it was that he was very ill and that isobel had come to nurse him. she came quite suddenly and at first seemed a little frightened and disturbed, but afterwards very happy indeed. this went on for a while, till suddenly there struck him a sense of something terrible that had happened, of an upheaval of conditions, of a wrenching asunder of ties, of change utter and profound. then while he mourned because she was not there, isobel came again, but different. the difference was indefinable, but it was undoubted. her appearance seemed to have changed somewhat, and in the intervals between her comings he could never remember how she had been clothed, except for two things which she always seemed to wear, the little ring with the turquoise hearts, though oddly enough, not her wedding ring, and the string of small pearls which he had given her when they were married, and knew again by the clasp, that was fashioned in a lover's knot of gold. her voice, too, seemed changed, or rather he did not hear her voice, since it appeared to speak within him, in his consciousness, not without to his ears. she told him all sorts of strange things, about a wonderful land in which they would live together, and the home that she was making ready for him, and the trees and flowers growing around it, that were unlike any of which godfrey had ever heard. also she said that there were many other matters whereof she would wish to speak to him, only she might not. finally there came a vivid dream in which she told him that soon he would wake up to the world again for a little while (she seemed to lay emphasis on this "little while") and, if he could not find her in it, that he must not grieve at all, since although their case seemed sad, it was much better than he could conceive. in his dream she made him promise that he would not grieve, and he did so, wondering. at this she smiled, looking more beautiful than ever he could have conceived her to be. then she spoke these words, always, as it appeared, within him, printing them, as it were, upon his mind: "now you are about to wake up and i must leave you for a while. but this i promise you, my most dear, my beloved, my own, that before you fall asleep again for the last time, you shall see me once more, for that is allowed to me. indeed it shall be i who will soothe you to sleep and i who will receive you when you awake again. also in the space between, although you do not see me, you will always feel me near, and i shall be with you. so swear to me once more that you will not grieve." then in his vision godfrey swore, and she appeared to lean over him and whisper words into his ear that, although they impressed themselves upon his brain as the others had done, had no meaning for him, since they were in some language which he did not understand. only he knew that they conveyed a blessing to him, and not that of isobel alone! chapter xxi love eternal godfrey awoke and looked about him. he was lying in a small room opposite to an open window that had thin gauze shutters which, as an old indian, he knew at once were to keep out mosquitoes. through this window he could see the mighty, towering shapes of the pyramids, and reflected that after all there must have been some truth in those wonderful dreams. he lifted his hand; it was so thin that the strong sunlight shone through it. he touched his head and felt that it was wrapped in bandages, also that it seemed benumbed upon one side. a little dark woman wearing a nurse's uniform, entered the room and he asked her where he was, as once before he had done in france and under very similar conditions. she stared and answered with an irish accent: "where else but at mena house hospital. don't the pyramids tell you that?" "i thought so," he replied. "how long have i been here?" "oh! two months, or more. i can't tell you, colonel, unless i look at the books, with so many sick men coming and going. shure! it's a pleasure to see you yourself again. we thought that perhaps you'd never wake up reasonably." "did you? i always knew that i should." "and how did you know that?" "because someone whom i am very fond of, came and told me so." she glanced at him sharply. "then it's myself that should be flattered," she answered, "or the night nurse, seeing that it is we who have cared for you with no visitors admitted except the doctors, and they didn't talk that way. now, colonel, just you drink this and have a nap, for you mustn't speak too much all at once. if you keep wagging your jaw you'll upset the bandages." when he woke again it was night and now the full moon, such a moon as one sees in egypt, shone upon the side of the great pyramid and made it silver. he could hear voices talking outside his door, one that of the irish nurse which he recognised, and the other of a man, for although they spoke low, this sense of hearing seemed to be peculiarly acute to him. "it is so, major," said the nurse. "i tell you that except for a little matter about someone whom he thought had been visiting him, he is as reasonable as i am, and much more than you are, saving your presence." "well," answered the doctor, "as you speak the truth sometimes, sister, i'm inclined to believe you, but all i have to say is that i could have staked my professional reputation that the poor chap would never get his wits again. he has had an awful blow and on the top of an old wound, too. after all these months, it's strange, very strange, and i hope it will continue." "well, of course, major, there is the delusion about the lady." "lady! how do you know it was a lady? just like a woman making up a romance out of nothing. yes, there's the delusion, which is bad. keep his mind off it as much as possible, and tell him some of your own in your best brogue. i'll come and examine him to-morrow morning." then the voices died away and godfrey almost laughed because they had talked of his "delusion," when he knew so well that it was none. isobel had been with him. yes, although he could neither hear nor see her, isobel was with him now for he felt her presence. and yet how could this be if he was in egypt and she was in england? so wondering, he fell asleep again. by degrees as he gathered strength, godfrey learned all the story of what had happened to him, or rather so much of it as those in charge of the hospital knew. it appeared, according to sister elizabeth, as his nurse was named, that when he was struck down in the church, "somewhere in africa" as she said vaguely, the guards whom he had with him, rushed in, firing on the native murderers who fled away except those who were killed. believing that, with the missionary, they had murdered the king's officer, a great man, they fled fast and far into german east africa and were no more seen. the chief, jaga, who had escaped, caused him to be carried out of the burning church to the missionary's house, and sent runners to the nearest magistracy many miles away, where there was a doctor. so there he lay in the house. a native servant who once acted as a hospital orderly, had washed his wounds and bound them up. one of these, that on the head, was caused by a kerry or some blunt instrument, and the other was a spear-stab in the lung. also from time to time this servant poured milk down his throat. at length the doctor came with an armed escort and, greatly daring, performed some operation which relieved the pressure on the brain and saved his life. in that house he lay for a month or more and then, in a semi-comatose condition, was carried by slow stages in a litter back to mombasa. here he lay another month or so and as his mind showed no signs of returning, was at length put on board a ship and brought to egypt. meanwhile, as godfrey learned afterwards, he was believed to have been murdered with the missionary, and a report to that effect was sent to england, which, in the general muddle that prevailed at the beginning of the war, had never been corrected. for be it remembered it was not until he was carried to mombasa, nearly two months after he was hurt, that he reached any place where there was a telegraph. by this time also, those at mombasa had plenty of fresh casualties to report, and indeed were not aware, or had forgotten what exact story had been sent home concerning godfrey who could not speak for himself. so it came about through a series of mischances, that at home he was believed to be dead as happened to many other men in the course of the great war. after he came to himself at the mena house hospital, godfrey inquired whether there were not some letters for him, but none could be found. he had arranged with the only person likely to write to him, namely isobel, to do so through the war office, and evidently that plan had not succeeded, for her letters had gone astray. the truth was, of course, that some had been lost and after definite news of his death was received, the rest had not been forwarded. now he bethought him that he would cable home to isobel to tell her that he was recovering, though somehow he imagined that she would know this already through the authorities. with great difficulty, for the hurt to his side made it hard for him to use his arm, he wrote the telegram and gave it to sister elizabeth to send, remarking that he would pay the cost as soon as he could draw some money. "that won't matter," she replied as she took the cable. then with an odd look at him she went away as though to arrange for its despatch. after she had gone, two orderlies helped godfrey downstairs to sit on the broad verandah of the hospital. here still stood many of the little tables which used to serve for pleasant tea-parties when the building was an hotel in the days before the war. on these lay some old english newspapers. godfrey picked up one of them with his left hand, and began to read idly enough. almost the first paragraph that his eye fell on was headed: "heroic death of a v.a.d. commandant." something made him read on quickly, and this was what he saw: "at the inquest on the late mrs. knight, the wife of colonel knight who was reported murdered by natives in east africa some little time ago, some interesting evidence was given. it appeared from the testimony of mrs. parsons, a nurse in the hawk's hall hospital, that when warning was given of the approach of zeppelins during last week's raid on the eastern counties and london, the patients in the upper rooms of the hospital were removed to its lower floors. finding that one young man, a private in the suffolk regiment who has lost both his feet, had been overlooked, mrs. knight, followed by mrs. parsons, went upstairs to help him down. when mrs. parsons, whom she outran, reached the door of the ward there was a great explosion, apparently on the roof. she waited till the dust had cleared off and groped her way down the ward with the help of an electric torch. reaching private thompson's bed, she saw lying on it mrs. knight who had been killed by the fallen masonry. private thompson, who was unhurt beneath the body, said that when the bricks began to come down mrs. knight called to him to lie still and threw herself on him to protect him. then something heavy, he believed the stone coping of a chimney, fell on her back and she uttered one word, he thought it was a name, and was silent. mrs. knight, who was the only child of the late sir john blake, bart., the well-known shipowner, is said to have been one of the richest women in england. she married the late colonel knight some months ago, immediately before he was sent to east africa. under the provisions of her will the cremated remains of mrs. knight will be interred in the chancel of the abbey church at monk's acre." godfrey read this awful paragraph twice and looked at the date of the paper. it was nearly two months old. "so she was dead when she came to me. oh! now i understand," he muttered to himself, and then, had not a passing native servant caught him, he would have fallen to the ground. it was one of the ten thousand minor tragedies of the world war, that is all. three months later, still very crippled and coughing badly, because of the injury to his lung, he reported himself in london, and once more saw the under-secretary who had sent him out to east africa. there he sat in the same room, at the same desk, looking precisely the same. "i am sorry, sir, that my mission has failed through circumstances beyond my control. i can only add that i did my best," he said briefly. "i know," answered the official; "it was no fault of yours if those black brutes tried to murder you. everything goes wrong in that cursed east africa. now go home and get yourself fit again, my dear fellow," he went on very kindly, adding, "your services will not be overlooked." "i have no home, and i shall never be fit again," replied godfrey, and left the room. "i forgot," thought the under-secretary. "his wife was killed in a zeppelin raid. odd that she should have been taken and he left." then, with a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders he turned to his business. godfrey went to the little house at hampstead where he used to live while he was studying as a lad, for here mrs. parsons was waiting for him. then for the first time he gave way and they wept in each other's arms. "we were too happy, nurse," he said. "yes," she answered, "love like hers wasn't for this world, and more than once she said to me that she never expected to see you again in the flesh, though i thought she meant it was you who would go, as might have been expected. stop, i have something for you." going to a desk she produced from it a ring, that with the turquoise hearts; also a canvas-covered book. "that's her diary," she said, "she used to write in it every day." that night godfrey read many beautiful and sacred things in this diary. from it he learned that the shock of his supposed death had caused isobel to miscarry and made her ill for some time, though underneath the entries about her illness and the false news of his death she had written: "he is not dead. i _know_ that he is not dead." afterwards there were some curious sentences in which she spoke joyfully of having seen him in her sleep, ill, but living and going to recover, "at any rate for a while," she had added. on the very day of her death she had made this curious note: "i feel as though godfrey and i were about to be separated for a while, and yet that this separation will really bring us closer together. i am strangely happy. great vistas seem to open to my soul and down them i walk with godfrey for ever and a day, and over them broods the love of god in which are embodied and expressed all other loves. oh! how wrong and foolish was i, who for so many years rejected that love, which yet will not be turned away and in mercy gave me sight and wisdom and with these godfrey, from whose soul my soul can never more be parted. for as i told you, my darling, ours is the love eternal. remember it always, godfrey, if ever your eyes should see these words upon the earth. afterwards there will be no need for memory." so the diary ended. they invalided godfrey out of the service and because of his lung trouble, he went to the house that miss ogilvy had left him in lucerne, taking mrs. parsons with him. there too he found the pasteur, grown an old man but otherwise much the same as ever, and him also he brought to live in the villa ogilvy. the winter went on and godfrey grew, not better, but worse, till at last he knew that he was dying, and rejoiced to die. one evening a letter was brought to him. it was from madame riennes, written in a shaky hand, and ran thus: "i am going to pass to the world of speerits, and so are you, my godfrey, for i know all about you and everything that has happened. the plum is eaten, but the stone--ah! it is growing already, and soon you will be sitting with another under that beautiful tree of life of which i told you in the english church. and i, where shall i be sitting? ah! i do not know, but there is this difference between us that whereas i am afraid, you have no cause for fear. you, you rejoice, yes, and shall rejoice--for though sometimes i hate you i must tell it. yet i am sorry if i have harmed you, and should you be able, i pray you, say a good word in the world of speerits for your sinful old godmamma riennes. so fare you well, who thinking that you have lost, have gained all. it is i, i who have lost. again farewell, and bid that old pasteur to pray for me, which he, who is good, will do, although i was his enemy and cursed him." "see that she lacks for nothing till the end, and comfort her if you can," said godfrey to the pasteur. that night a shape of glory seemed to stand by godfrey's bed and to whisper wonderful things into his ears. he saw it, ah, clearly, and knew that informing its changeful loveliness was all which had been isobel upon the earth. "fear nothing," he thought it said, "for i am with you and others greater than i. know, godfrey, that everything has a meaning and that all joy must be won through pain. our lives seem to have been short and sad, but these are not the real life, they are but its black and ugly door, whereof the threshold must be watered with our tears and the locks turned by the winds of faith and prayer. do not be afraid then of the blackness of the passage, for beyond it shines the immortal light in that land where there is understanding and all forgiveness. therefore be glad, godfrey, for the night of sorrows is at an end and the dawn breaks of peace that passes understanding." godfrey woke and spoke to the old pasteur who was watching by his bed while mrs. parsons wept at its foot. "did you see anything?" he asked. "no, my son," he answered, "but i felt something. it was as though an angel stood at my side." then godfrey told him all his vision, and much else besides, of which before he had never spoken to living man. "it well may be, my son," answered the pasteur, "since to those who have suffered greatly, the good god gives the great reward. he who endured pain can understand our pains, and he who redeemed sin can understand and be gentle to our sins, for his is the true love eternal. so go forward with faith and gladness, and in the joy of that new world and of the lost which is found again, think sometimes of the old pasteur who hopes soon to join you there." then he shrove and blessed him. after this godfrey slept awhile to wake elsewhere in the land of that love eternal which the soul of isobel foreknew. love insurance _by_ earl derr biggers _author of_ seven keys to baldpate indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company press of braunworth & co., bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n.y. contents i a sporting proposition ii an evening in the river iii journeys end in--taxi bills iv mr. trimmer limbers up v mr. trimmer throws his bomb vi ten minutes of agony vii chain lightning's collar viii after the trained seals ix "wanted! board and room" x two birds of passage xi tears from the gaiety xii exit a lady, laughingly xiii "and on the ships at sea" xiv jersey city interferes xv a bit of a blow xvi who's who in england xvii the shortest way home xviii "a rotten bad fit" xix mr. minot goes through fire xx "please kill" xxi high words at high noon xxii "well, hardly ever--" love insurance chapter i a sporting proposition outside a gilt-lettered door on the seventeenth floor of a new york office building, a tall young man in a fur-lined coat stood shivering. why did he shiver in that coat? he shivered because he was fussed, poor chap. because he was rattled, from the soles of his custom-made boots to the apex of his piccadilly hat. a painful, palpitating spectacle, he stood. meanwhile, on the other side of the door, the business of the american branch of that famous marine insurance firm, lloyds, of london--usually termed in magazine articles "the greatest gambling institution in the world"--went on oblivious to the shiverer who approached. the shiverer, with a nervous movement shifted his walking-stick to his left hand, and laid his right on the door-knob. though he is not at his best, let us take a look at him. tall, as has been noted, perfectly garbed after london's taste, mild and blue as to eye, blond as to hair. a handsome, if somewhat weak face. very distinguished--even aristocratic--in appearance. perhaps--the thrill for us democrats here!--of the nobility. and at this moment sadly in need of a generous dose of that courage that abounds--see any book of familiar quotations--on the playing fields of eton. utterly destitute of the eton or any other brand, he pushed open the door. the click of two dozen american typewriters smote upon his hearing. an office boy of the dominant new york race demanded in loud indiscreet tones his business there. "my business," said the tall young man weakly, "is with lloyds, of london." the boy wandered off down that stenographer-bordered lane. in a moment he was back. "mr. thacker'll see you," he announced. he followed the boy, did the tall young man. his courage began to return. why not? one of his ancestors, graduate of those playing fields, had fought at waterloo. mr. thacker sat in plump and genial prosperity before a polished flat-top desk. opposite him, at a desk equally polished, sat an even more polished young american of capable bearing. for an embarrassed moment the tall youth in fur stood looking from one to the other. then mr. thacker spoke: "you have business with lloyds?" the tall young man blushed. "i--i hope to have--yes." there was in his speech that faint suggestion of a lisp that marks many of the well-born of his race. perhaps it is the golden spoon in their mouths interfering a bit with their diction. "what can we do for you?" mr. thacker was cold and matter-of-fact, like a card index. steadily through each week he grew more businesslike--and this was saturday morning. the visitor performed a shaky but remarkable juggling feat with his walking-stick. "i--well--i--" he stammered. oh, come, come, thought mr. thacker impatiently. "well," said the tall young man desperately "perhaps it would be best for me to make myself known at once. i am allan, lord harrowby, son and heir of james nelson harrowby, earl of raybrook. and i--i have come here--" the younger of the americans spoke, in more kindly fashion: "you have a proposition to make to lloyds?" "exactly," said lord harrowby, and sank with a sigh of relief into a chair, as though that concluded his portion of the entertainment. "let's hear it," boomed the relentless thacker. lord harrowby writhed in his chair. "i am sure you will pardon me," he said, "if i preface my--er--proposition with the statement that it is utterly--fantastic. and if i add also that it should be known to the fewest possible number." mr. thacker waved his hand across the gleaming surfaces of two desks. "this is my assistant manager, mr. richard minot," he announced. "mr. minot, you must know, is in on all the secrets of the firm. now, let's have it." "i am right, am i not," his lordship continued, "in the assumption that lloyds frequently takes rather unusual risks?" "lloyds," answered mr. thacker, "is chiefly concerned with the fortunes of those who go down to--and sometimes down into--the sea in ships. however, there are a number of non-marine underwriters connected with lloyds, and these men have been known to risk their money on pretty giddy chances. it's all done in the name of lloyds, though the firm is not financially responsible." lord harrowby got quickly to his feet "then it would be better," he said, relieved, "for me to take my proposition to one of these non-marine underwriters." mr. thacker frowned. curiosity agitated his bosom. "you'd have to go to london to do that," he remarked. "better give us an inkling of what's on your mind." his lordship tapped uneasily at the base of mr. thacker's desk with his stick. "if you will pardon me--i'd rather not," he said. "oh, very well," sighed mr. thacker. "how about owen jephson?" asked mr. minot suddenly. overjoyed, mr. thacker started up. "by gad--i forgot about jephson. sails at one o'clock, doesn't he?" he turned to lord harrowby. "the very man--and in new york, too. jephson would insure t. roosevelt against another cup of coffee." "am i to understand," asked harrowby, "that jephson is the man for me to see?" "exactly," beamed mr. thacker. "i'll have him here in fifteen minutes. richard, will you please call up his hotel?" and as mr. minot reached for the telephone, mr. thacker added pleadingly: "of course, i don't know the nature of your proposition--" "no," agreed lord harrowby politely. discouraged, mr. thacker gave up. "however, jephson seems to have a gambling streak in him that odd risks appeal to," he went on. "of course, he's scientific. all lloyds' risks are scientifically investigated. but--occasionally--well, jephson insured sir christopher conway, k.c.b., against the arrival of twins in his family. perhaps you recall the litigation that resulted when triplets put in their appearance?" "i'm sorry to say i do not," said lord harrowby. mr. minot set down the telephone. "owen jephson is on his way here in a taxi," he announced. "good old jephson," mused mr. thacker, reminiscent. "why, some of the man's risks are famous. take that shopkeeper in the strand--every day at noon the shadow of nelson's monument in trafalgar square falls across his door. twenty years ago he got to worrying for fear the statue would fall some day and smash his shop. and every year since he has taken out a policy with jephson, insuring him against that dreadful contingency." "i seem to have heard of that," admitted harrowby, with the ghost of a smile. "you must have. only recently jephson wrote a policy for the dowager duchess of tremayne, insuring her against the unhappy event of a rainstorm spoiling the garden party she is shortly to give at her italian villa. i understand a small fortune is involved. then there is courtney giles, leading man at the west end road theater. he fears obesity. jephson has insured him. should he become too plump for romeo roles, lloyds--or rather jephson--will owe him a large sum of money." "i am encouraged to hope," remarked lord harrowby, "that mr. jephson will listen to my proposition." "no doubt he will," replied mr. thacker. "i can't say definitely. now, if i knew the nature--" but when mr. jephson walked into the office fifteen minutes later mr. thacker was still lamentably ignorant of the nature of his titled visitor's business. mr. jephson was a small wiry man, crowned by a vast acreage of bald head, and with the immobile countenance sometimes lovingly known as a "poker face." one felt he could watch the rain pour in torrents on the dowager duchess, courtney giles' waist expand visibly before his eyes, the statue of nelson totter and fall on his shopkeeper, and never move a muscle of that face. "i am delighted to meet your lordship," said he to harrowby. "knew your father, the earl, very well at one time. had business dealings with him--often. a man after my own heart. always ready to take a risk. i trust you left him well?" "quite, thank you," lord harrowby answered. "although he will insist on playing polo. at his age--eighty-two--it is a dangerous sport." mr. jephson smiled. "still taking chances," he said. "a splendid old gentleman. i understand that you, lord harrowby, have a proposition to make to me as an underwriter in lloyds." they sat down. alas, if mr. burke, who compiled the well-known _peerage_, could have seen lord harrowby then, what distress would have been his! for a most unlordly flush again mantled that british cheek. a nobleman was supremely rattled. "i will try and explain," said his lordship, gulping a plebeian gulp. "my affairs have been for some time in rather a chaotic state. idleness--the life of the town--you gentlemen will understand. naturally, it has been suggested to me that i exchange my name and title for the millions of some american heiress. i have always violently objected to any such plan. i--i couldn't quite bring myself to do any such low trick as that. and then--a few months ago on the continent--i met a girl--" he paused. "i'm not a clever chap--really," he went on. "i'm afraid i can not describe her to you. spirited--charming--" he looked toward the youngest of the trio. "you, at least, understand," he finished. mr. minot leaned back in his chair and smiled a most engaging smile. "perfectly," he said. "thank you," went on lord harrowby in all seriousness. "it was only incidental--quite irrelevant--that this young woman happened to be very wealthy. i fell desperately in love! i am still in that--er--pleasing state. the young lady's name, gentlemen, is cynthia meyrick. she is the daughter of spencer meyrick, whose fortune has, i believe, been accumulated in oil." mr. thacker's eyebrows rose respectfully. "a week from next tuesday," said lord harrowby solemnly, "at san marco, on the east coast of florida, this young woman and i are to be married." "and what," asked owen jephson, "is your proposition?" lord harrowby shifted nervously in his chair. "i say we are to be married," he continued. "but are we? that is the nightmare that haunts me. a slip. my--er--creditors coming down on me. and far more important, the dreadful agony of losing the dearest woman in the world." "what could happen?" mr. jephson wanted to know. "did i say the young woman was vivacious?" inquired lord harrowby. "she is. a thousand girls in one. some untoward happening, and she might change her mind--in a flash." silence within the room; outside the roar of new york and the clatter of the inevitable riveting machine making its points relentlessly. "that," said lord harrowby slowly, "is what i wish you to insure me against, mr. jephson." "you mean--" "i mean the awful possibility of miss cynthia meyrick's changing her mind." again silence, save for the riveting machine outside. and three men looking unbelievingly at one another. "of course," his lordship went on hastily, "it is understood that i personally am very eager for this wedding to take place. it is understood that in the interval before the ceremony i shall do all in my power to keep miss meyrick to her present intention. should the marriage be abandoned because of any act of mine, i would be ready to forfeit all claims on lloyds." mr. thacker recovered his breath and his voice at one and the same time. "preposterous," he snorted. "begging your lordship's pardon, you can not expect hard-headed business men to listen seriously to any such proposition as that. tushery, sir, tushery! speaking as the american representative of lloyds--" "one moment," interrupted mr. jephson. in his eyes shone a queer light--a light such as one might expect to find in the eyes of peter pan, the boy who never grew up. "one moment, please. what sum had you in mind, lord harrowby?" "well--say one hundred thousand pounds," suggested his lordship. "i realize that my proposition is fantastic. i really admitted as much. but--" "one hundred thousand pounds." mr. jephson repeated it thoughtfully. "i should have to charge your lordship a rather high rate. as high as ten per cent." lord harrowby seemed to be in the throes of mental arithmetic. "i am afraid," he said finally, "i could not afford one hundred thousand at that rate. but i could afford--seventy-five thousand. would that be satisfactory, mr. jephson?" "jephson," cried mr. thacker wildly. "are you mad? do you realize--" "i realize everything, thacker," said jephson calmly. "i have your lordship's word that the young lady is at present determined on this alliance? and that you will do all in your power to keep her to her intention?" "you have my word," said lord harrowby. "if you should care to telegraph--" "your word is sufficient," said jephson. "mr. minot, will you be kind enough to bring me a policy blank?" "see here, jephson," foamed thacker. "what if this thing should get into the newspapers? we'd be the laughing-stock of the business world." "it mustn't," said jephson coolly. "it might," roared thacker. mr. minot arrived with a blank policy, and mr. jephson sat down at the young man's desk. "one minute," said thacker. "the faith of you two gentlemen in each other is touching, but i take it the millennium is still a few years off." he drew toward him a blank sheet of paper, and wrote. "i want this thing done in a businesslike way, if it's to be done in my office." he handed the sheet of paper to lord harrowby. "will you read that, please?" he said. "certainly." his lordship read: "i hereby agree that in the interval until my wedding with miss cynthia meyrick next tuesday week i will do all in my power to put through the match, and that should the wedding be called off through any subsequent direct act of mine, i will forfeit all claims on lloyds." "will you sign that, please?" requested mr. thacker. "with pleasure." his lordship reached for a pen. "you and i, richard," said mr. thacker, "will sign as witnesses. now, jephson, go ahead with your fool policy." mr. jephson looked up thoughtfully. "shall i say, your lordship," he asked, "that if, two weeks from to-day the wedding has not taken place, and has absolutely no prospect of taking place, i owe you seventy-five thousand pounds?" "yes." his lordship nodded. "provided, of course, i have not forfeited by reason of this agreement. i shall write you a check, mr. jephson." for a time there was no sound in the room save the scratching of two pens, while mr. thacker gazed open-mouthed at mr. minot, and mr. minot light-heartedly smiled back. then mr. jephson reached for a blotter. "i shall attend to the london end of this when i reach there five days hence," he said. "perhaps i can find another underwriter to share the risk with me." the transaction was completed, and his lordship rose to go. "i am at the plaza," he said, "if any difficulty should arise. but i sail to-night for san marco--on the yacht of a friend." he crossed over and took mr. jephson's hand. "i can only hope, with all my heart," he finished feelingly, "that you never have to pay this policy." "we're with your lordship there," said mr. thacker sharply. "ah--you have been very kind," replied lord harrowby. "i wish you all--good day." and shivering no longer, he went away in his fine fur coat. as the door closed upon the nobleman, mr. thacker turned explosively on his friend from oversea. "jephson," he thundered, "you're an idiot! a rank unmitigated idiot!" the peter pan light was bright in jephson's eyes. "so new," he half-whispered. "so original! bless the boy's heart. i've been waiting forty years for a proposition like that." "do you realize," thacker cried, "that seventy-five thousand pounds of your good money depends on the honor of lord harrowby?" "i do," returned jephson. "and i would not be concerned if it were ten times that sum. i know the breed. why, once--and you, thacker, would have called me an idiot on that occasion, too--i insured his father against the loss of a polo game by a team on which the earl was playing. and he played like the devil--the earl did--won the game himself. ah, i know the breed." "oh, well," sighed thacker, "i won't argue. but one thing is certain, jephson. you can't go back to england now. your place is in san marco with one hand on the rope that rings the wedding bells." jephson shook his great bald head. "no," he said. "i must return to-day. it is absolutely necessary. my interests in san marco are in the hands of providence." mr. thacker walked the floor wildly. "providence needs help in handling a woman," he protested. "miss meyrick must not change her mind. some one must see that she doesn't. if you can't go yourself--" he paused, reflecting. "some young man, active, capable--" mr. richard minot had risen from his chair, and was moving softly toward his overcoat. looking over his shoulder, he beheld mr. thacker's keen eyes upon him. "just going out to lunch," he said guiltily. "sit down, richard," remarked mr. thacker with decision. mr. minot sat, the dread of something impending in his heart. "jephson," said mr. thacker, "this boy here is the son of a man of whom i was very fond. his father left him the means to squander his life on clubs and cocktails if he had chosen--but he picked out a business career instead. five years ago i took him into this office, and he has repaid me by faithful, even brilliant service. i would trust him with--well, i'd trust him as far as you'd trust a member of your own peerage." "yes?" said mr. jephson. mr. thacker wheeled dramatically and faced his young assistant. "richard," he ordered, "go to san marco. go to san marco and see to it that miss cynthia meyrick does not change her mind." a gone feeling shot through mr. minot in the vicinity of his stomach. it was possible that he really needed that lunch. "yes, sir," he said faintly. "of course, it's up to me to do anything you say. if you insist, i'll go, but--" "but what, richard?" "isn't it a rather big order? women--aren't they like an--er--april afternoon--or something of that sort? it seems to me i've read they were--in books." "humph," snorted mr. thacker. "is your knowledge of the ways of women confined to books?" a close observer might have noted the ghost of a smile in mr. minot's clear blue eyes. "in part, it is," he admitted. "and then again--in part, it isn't." "well, put away your books, my boy," said mr. thacker. "a nice, instructive little vacation has fallen on you from heaven. mad old jephson here must be saved from himself. that wedding must take place--positively, rain or shine. i trust you to see that it does, richard." mr. minot rose and stepped over to his hat and coat. "i'm off for san marco," he announced blithely. his lips were firm but smiling. "the land of sunshine and flowers--and orange blossoms or i know the reason why." "jephson trusts harrowby," said mr. thacker. "all very well. but just the same if i were you i'd be aboard that yacht to-night when it leaves new york harbor. invited or uninvited." "i must ask," put in mr. jephson hurriedly, "that you do nothing to embarrass lord harrowby in any way." "no," said thacker. "but keep an eye on him, my boy. a keen and busy eye." "i will," agreed mr. minot. "do i look like cupid, gentlemen? no? ah--it's the overcoat. well, i'll get rid of that in florida. i'll say good-by--" he shook hands with jephson and with thacker. "good-by, richard," said the latter. "i'm really fond of old jephson here. he's been my friend in need--he mustn't lose. i trust you, my boy." "i won't disappoint you," dick minot promised. a look of seriousness flashed across his face. "miss cynthia meyrick changes her mind only over my dead body." he paused for a second at the door, and his eyes grew suddenly thoughtful. "i wonder what she's like?" he murmured. then, with a smile toward the two men left behind, he went out and down that stenographer-bordered land to san marco. chapter ii an evening in the river though san marco is a particularly gaudy tassel on the fringe of the tourist's south, it was to the north that mr. richard minot first turned. one hour later he made his appearance amid the gold braid and dignity of the plaza lobby. the young man behind the desk--an exquisite creature done in charles dana gibson's best manner--knew when to be affable. he also knew when not to be affable. upon mr. minot he turned the cold fishy stare he kept for such as were not guests under his charge. "what is your business with lord harrowby?" he inquired suspiciously. "since when," asked mr. minot brightly, "have you been in his lordship's confidence?" this was the young man's cue to wince. but hotel clerks are notoriously poor wincers. "it is customary--" he began with perfect poise. "i know," said mr. minot. "but then, i'm a sort of a friend of his lordship." "a sort of a friend?" how well he lifted his eyebrows! "something like that. i believe i'm to be best man at his wedding." ah, yes; that splendid young man knew when to be affable. affability swamped him now. "boy!" he cried. "take this gentleman's card to lord harrowby." a bell-boy in a zenda uniform accepted the card, laid it upon a silver tray, glued it down with a large new york thumb, and strayed off down gilded corridors shouting, "lord harrowby." whereat all the pretty little debutantes who happened to be decorating the scene at the moment felt their pampered hearts go pit-a-pat and, closing their eyes, saw visions and dreamed dreams. lord harrowby was at luncheon, and sent word for mr. minot to join him. entering the gay dining-room, minot saw at the far end the blond and noble head he sought. he threaded his way between the tables. although he was an unusually attractive young man, he had never experienced anything like the array of stares turned upon him ere he had gone ten feet. "what the devil's the matter?" he asked himself. "i seem to be the cynosure of neighboring eyes, and then some." he did not dream that it was because he was passing through a dining-room of democrats to grasp the hand of a lord. "my dear fellow, i'm delighted, i assure you--" really, lord harrowby's face should have paid closer attention to his words. just now it failed ignominiously in the matter of backing them up. "thank you," mr. minot replied. "your lordship is no doubt surprised at seeing me so soon--" "well--er--not at all. shall i order luncheon?" "no, thanks. i had a bite on the way up." and mr. minot dropped into the chair which an eager waiter held ready. "lord harrowby, i trust you are not going to be annoyed by what i have to tell you." his lordship's face clouded, and worry entered the mild blue eyes. "i hope there's nothing wrong about the policy." "nothing whatever. lord harrowby, mr. jephson trusts you--implicitly." "so i perceived this morning. i was deeply touched." "it was--er--touching." minot smiled a bit cynically. "understanding as you do how mr. jephson feels toward you, you will realize that it is in no sense a reflection on you that our office, viewing this matter in a purely business light, has decided that some one must go to san marco with you. some one who will protect mr. jephson's interests." "your office," said his lordship, reflecting. "you mean mr. thacker, don't you?" could it be that the fellow was not so slow as he seemed? "mr. thacker is the head of our office," smiled mr. minot. "it has been thought best that some one go with you, lord harrowby. some one who will work night and day to see to it that miss meyrick does not change her mind. i--i am the some one. i hope you are not annoyed." "my dear chap! not in the least. when i said this morning that i was quite set on this marriage, i was frightfully sincere." and now his lordship's face, frank and boyish, in nowise belied his words. "i shall be deeply grateful for any aid lloyds can give me. and i am already grateful that lloyds has selected you to be my ally." really, very decent of him. dick minot bowed. "you go south to-night?" he ventured. "yes. on the yacht _lileth_, belonging to my friend, mr. martin wall. you have heard of him?" "no. i can't say that i have." "indeed! i understood he was very well-known here. a big, bluff, hearty chap. we met on the steamer coming over and became very good friends." a pause. "you will enjoy meeting mr. wall," said his lordship meaningly, "when i introduce you to him--in san marco." "lord harrowby," said minot slowly, "my instructions are to go south with you--on the yacht." for a moment the two men stared into each other's eyes. then lord harrowby pursed his thin lips and gazed out at fifth avenue, gay and colorful in the february sun. "how extremely unfortunate," he drawled. "it is not my boat, mr. minot. if it were, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to extend an invitation to you." "i understand," said minot. "but i am to go--invited or uninvited." "in my interests?" asked harrowby sarcastically. "as the personal conductor of the bride-groom." "mr. minot--really--" "i have no wish to be rude, lord harrowby. but it is our turn to be a little fantastic now. could any thing be more fantastic than boarding a yacht uninvited?" "but miss meyrick--on whom, after all, mr. jephson's fate depends--is already in florida." "with her lamp trimmed and burning. how sad, your lordship, if some untoward event should interfere with the coming of the bridegroom." "i perceive," smiled lord harrowby, "that you do not share mr. jephson's confidence in my motives." "this is new york, and a business proposition. every man in new york is considered guilty until he proves himself innocent--and then we move for a new trial." "nevertheless"--lord harrowby's mouth hardened--"i must refuse to ask you to join me on the _lileth_." "would you mind telling me where the boat is anchored?" "somewhere in the north river, i believe. i don't know, really." "you don't know? won't it be a bit difficult--boarding a yacht when you don't know where to find it?" "my dear chap--" began harrowby angrily. "no matter." mr. minot stood up. "i'll say au revoir, lord harrowby--until to-night." "or until we meet in san marco." lord harrowby regained his good nature. "i'm extremely sorry to be so impolite. but i believe we're going to be very good friends, none the less." "we're going to be very close to each other, at any rate," minot smiled. "once more--au revoir, your lordship." "pardon me--good-by," answered lord harrowby with decision. and richard minot was again threading his way between awed tables. walking slowly down fifth avenue, mr. minot was forced to admit that he had not made a very auspicious beginning in his new role. why had lord harrowby refused so determinedly to invite him aboard the yacht that was to bear the eager bridegroom south? and what was he to do now? might he not discover where the yacht lay, board it at dusk, and conceal himself in a vacant cabin until the party was well under way? it sounded fairly simple. but it proved otherwise. he was balked from the outset. for two hours, in the library of his club, in telephone booths and elsewhere, he sought for some tangible evidence of the existence of a wealthy american named martin wall and a yacht called the _lileth_. city directories and yacht club year books alike were silent. myth, myth, myth, ran through dick minot's mind. was lord harrowby--as they say at the gaiety--spoofing him? he mounted to the top of a bus, and was churned up riverside drive. along the banks of the river lay dozens of yachts, dismantled, swathed in winter coverings. among the few that appeared ready to sail his keen eye discerned no _lileth_. somewhat discouraged, he returned to his club and startled a waiter by demanding dinner at four-thirty in the afternoon. going then to his rooms, he exchanged his overcoat for a sweater, his hat for a golf cap. at five-thirty, a spy for the first time in his eventful young life, he stood opposite the main entrance of the plaza. near by ticked a taxi, engaged for the evening. an hour passed. lights, laughter, limousines, the cold moon adding its brilliance to that already brilliant square, the winter wind sighing through the bare trees of the park--new york seemed a city of dreams. suddenly the chauffeur of minot's taxi stood uneasily before him. "say, you ain't going to shoot anybody, are you?" he asked. "oh, no--you needn't be afraid of that." "i ain't afraid. i just thought i'd take off my license number if you was." ah, yes--new york! city of beautiful dreams! another hour slipped by. and only the little taxi meter was busy, winking mechanically at the unresponsive moon. at eight-fifteen a tall blond man, in a very expensive fur coat which impressed even the cab starter, came down the steps of the hotel. he ordered a limousine and was whirled away to the west. at eight-fifteen and a half mr. minot followed. lord harrowby's car proceeded to the drive and, turning, sped north between the moonlit river and the manlit apartment-houses. in the neighborhood of one hundred and tenth street it came to a stop, and as minot's car passed slowly by, he saw his lordship standing in the moonlight paying his chauffeur. hastily dismissing his own car, he ran back in time to see lord harrowby disappear down one of the stone stairways into the gloom of the park that skirts the hudson. he followed. on and on down the steps and bare wind-swept paths he hurried, until finally the river, cold, silvery, serene, lay before him. some thirty yards from shore he beheld the lights of a yacht flashing against the gloomy background of jersey. the _lileth_! he watched lord harrowby cross the railroad tracks to a small landing, and leap from that into a boat in charge of a solitary rower. then he heard the soft swish of oars, and watched the boat draw away from shore. he stood there in the shadow until he had seen his lordship run up the accommodation ladder to the _lileth's_ deck. he, too, must reach the _lileth_, and at once. but how? he glanced quickly up and down the bank. a small boat was tethered near by--he ran to it, but a chain and padlock held it firmly. he must hurry. aboard the yacht, dancing impatiently on the bosom of hendrick hudson's important discovery, he recognized the preparations for an early departure. minot stood for a moment looking at the wide wet river. it was february, yes, but february of the mildest winter new york had experienced in years. at the seashore he had always dashed boldly in while others stood on the sands and shivered. he dashed in now. the water was cold, shockingly cold. he struck out swiftly for the yacht. fortunately the accommodation ladder had not yet been taken up; in another moment he was clinging, a limp and dripping spectacle, to the rail of the _lileth_. happily that side of the deck was just then deserted. a row of outside cabin doors in the bow met minot's eye. stealthily he swished toward them. and, in the last analysis, the only thing between him and them proved to be a large commanding gentleman, whose silhouette was particularly militant and whose whole bearing was unfavorable. "mr. wall, i presume," said minot through noisy teeth. "correct," said the gentleman. his voice was sharp, unfriendly. but the moonlight, falling on his face, revealed it as soft, genial, pudgy--the inviting sort of countenance to which, under the melting influence of scotch and soda, one feels like relating the sad story of one's wasted life. though soaked and quaking, mr. minot aimed at nonchalance. "well," he said, "you might be good enough to tell lord harrowby that i've arrived." "who are you? what do you want?" "i'm a friend of his lordship. he'll be delighted, i'm sure. just tell him, if you'll be so kind." "did he invite you aboard?" "not exactly. but he'll be glad to see me. especially if you mention just one word to him." "what word?" mr. minot leaned airily against the rail. "lloyds," he said an expression of mingled rage and dismay came into the pudgy face. it purpled in the moonlight. its huge owner came threateningly toward the dripping minot. "back into the river for yours," he said savagely. almost lovingly--so it might have seemed to the casual observer--he wound his thick arms about the dripping minot. up and down the deck they turkey-trotted. "over the rail and into the river," breathed mr. wall on minot's damp neck. two large and capable sailormen came at sound of the struggle. "here, boys," wall shouted. "help me toss this guy over." willing hands seized minot at opposite poles. "one--two--" counted the sailormen. "well, good night, mr. wall," remarked minot. "three!" a splash, and he was ingloriously in the cold river again. he turned to the accommodation ladder, but quick hands drew it up. evidently there was nothing to do but return once more to little old new york. he rested for a moment, treading water, seeing dimly the tall homes of the cave dwellers, and over them the yellow glare of broadway. then he struck out. when he reached the shore, and turned, the _lileth_ was already under way, moving slowly down the silver path of the moon. an old man was launching the padlocked rowboat. "great night for a swim," he remarked sarcastically. "l-lovely," chattered minot. "say, do you know anything about the yacht that's just steamed out?" "not as much as i'd like ter. used ter belong to a man in chicago. yesterday the caretaker told me she'd been rented fer the winter. seen him to-night in a gin mill with money to throw to the birds. looks funny to me." "thanks." "man came this afternoon and painted out her old name. changed it t' _lileth_. mighty suspicious." "what was the old name?" "the _lady evelyn_. if i was you, i'd get outside a drink, and quick. good night." as minot dashed up the bank, he heard the swish of the old man's oars behind. he ran all the way to his rooms, and after a hot bath and the liquid refreshment suggested by the waterman, called mr. thacker on the telephone. "well, richard?" that gentleman inquired. "sad news. little cupid's had a set-back. tossed into the hudson when he tried to board the yacht that is taking lord harrowby south." "no? is that so?" mr. thacker's tone was contemplative. "well, richard, the palm beach special leaves at midnight. better be on it. better go down and help the bride with her trousseau." "yes, sir. i'll do that. and i'll see to it that she has her lamp trimmed and burning. considering that her father's in the oil business, that ought not to be--" "i can't hear you, richard. what are you saying?" "nothing--er--mr. thacker. look up a yacht called the _lady evelyn_. chicago man, i think--find out if he's rented it, and to whom. it's the boat harrowby went south on." "all right, richard. good-by, my boy. write me whenever you need money." "perhaps i can't write as often as that. but i'll send you bulletins from time to time." "i depend on you, richard. jephson must not lose." "leave it to me. the palm beach special at midnight. and after that--miss cynthia meyrick!" chapter iii journeys end in--taxi bills no matter how swiftly your train has sped through the carolinas and georgia, when it crosses the line into florida a wasting languor overtakes it. then it hesitates, sighs and creeps across the fiat yellow landscape like an aged alligator. now and again it stops completely in the midst of nothing, as who should say: "you came down to see the south, didn't you? well, look about you." the palm beach special on which mr. minot rode was no exception to this rule. it entered florida and a state of innocuous desuetude at one and the same time. after a tremendous struggle, it gasped its way into jacksonville about nine o'clock of the monday morning following. reluctant as romeo in his famous exit from juliet's boudoir, it got out of jacksonville an hour later. and san marco was just two hours away, according to that excellent book of light fiction so widely read in the south--the time-table. it seemed to dick minot that he had been looking out of a car window for a couple of eternities. save for the diversion at jacksonville, nothing had happened to brighten that long and wearisome journey. he wanted, now, to glance across the car aisle toward the diversion at jacksonville. yet it hardly seemed polite--so soon. wherefore he continued to gaze out at the monotonous landscape. for half a mile the train served its masters. then, with a pathetic groan, it paused. still mr. minot gazed out the window. he gazed so long that he saw a family of razor-backs, passed a quarter of a mile back, catch up with the train and trot scornfully by. after that he kept his eyes on the live oaks and evergreens, to whose topmost branches hung gray moss like whiskers on a western senator. then he could stand it no longer. he turned and looked upon the diversion at jacksonville. gentlemen of the jury--she was beautiful. the custodian of a library of books on sociology could have seen that with half an astigmatic eye. her copper-colored hair flashed alluringly in that sunny car; the curve of her cheek would have created a sensation in the neighborhood where burning sappho loved and sang. dick minot's heart beat faster, repeating the performance it had staged when she boarded the train at jacksonville. beautiful, yes--but she fidgeted. she had fidgeted madly in the station at jacksonville during that hour's wait; now even more madly she bounced about on that plush seat. she opened and shut magazines, she straightened her pleasant little hat, she gazed in agony out the window. beauty such as hers should have been framed in a serene and haughty dignity. hers happened to be framed in a frenzy of fidget. in its infinite wisdom, the train saw fit to start again. with a sigh of relief, the girl sank back upon her seat of torture. mr. minot turned again to the uneventful landscape. more yellow sand, more bearded oaks and evergreens. and in a moment, the family of razor-backs, plodding along beside the track with a determined demeanor that said as plainly as words: "you may go ahead--but we shall see what we shall see." excellent train, it seemed fairly to fly. for a little while. then another stop. beauty wildly anxious on the seat of ancient plush. another start--a stop--and a worried but musical voice in dick minot's ear: "i beg your pardon--but what should you say are this train's chances for reaching san marco by one o'clock?" minot turned. brown eyes and troubled ones looked into his. a dimple twitched beside an adorable mouth. fortunate florida, peopled with girls like this. "i should say," smiled mr. minot, "about the same as those of the famous little snowball that strayed far from home." "oh--you're right!" why would she fidget so? "and i'm in a frightfully uncomfortable position. i simply must reach san marco for luncheon at one. i must!" she clenched her small hands. "it's the most important luncheon of my life. what shall i do?" mr. minot glanced at his watch. "it is now twenty minutes of twelve," he said. "my advice to you is to order lunch on the train." "it was so foolish of me," cried the girl. "i ran up to jacksonville in a friend's motor to do a little shopping. i should have known better. i'm always doing things like this." and she looked at dick minot accusingly, as though it were he who always put her up to them. "i'm awfully sorry, really," minot said. he felt quite uncomfortable about it. "and can't you suggest anything?"--pleadingly, almost tearfully. "not at this moment. i'll try, though. look!" he pointed out the window. "that family of razor-backs has caught up with us four times already." "what abominable service," the girl cried. "but--aren't they cunning? the little ones, i mean." and she stood looking out with a wonderful tenderness in her eyes, which, considering the small creatures upon which it was lavished, was almost ludicrous. "off again," cried minot. and they were. the girl sat nervously on the edge of her seat, with the expression of one who meant to keep the train going by mental suggestion. five cheerful minutes passed in rapid transit. and then--another abrupt stop. "almost like a football game," said minot blithely to the distressed lady across the aisle. "third down--five yards to go. oh, by jove, there's a town on my side." "not a trace of a town on mine," she replied. "it's the dreariest, saddest town i ever saw," minot remarked. "so of course its name is sunbeam. and look--what do you see--there beside the station!" "an automobile!" the girl cried. "well, an automobile's ancestor, at any rate," laughed minot. "vintage of . say--i have a suggestion now. if the chauffeur thinks he can get you--i mean, us--to san marco by one o'clock, shall we--" but the girl was already on her way. "come on!" her eyes were bright with excitement. "we--oh, dear--the old train's started again." "no matter--i'll stop it!" minot reached for the bell cord. "but do you dare--can't you be arrested?" "too late--i've done it. let me help you with those magazines. quick! this way." on the platform they met an irate conductor, red and puffing. "say--who stopped this train?" he bellowed. "i don't know--who usually stops it?" minot replied, and he and the girl slid by the uniform to the safety of sunbeam. the lean, lank, weary native who lolled beside the passé automobile was startled speechless for a moment by the sight of two such attractive visitors in his unattractive town. then he remembered. "want a taxi, mister?" he inquired. "take you up to the sunbeam house for a quarter apiece--" "yes, we do want a taxi--" minot began. "to san marco," cried the girl breathlessly. "can you get us there by one o'clock?" "to--to--say, lady," stammered the rustic chauffeur. "that train you just got off of is going to san marco." "oh, no, it isn't," minot explained. "we know better. it's going out into the country to lie down under a shade tree and rest." "the train is too slow," said the girl. "i must be in san marco before one o'clock. can you get me--us--there by then? speak quickly, please." the effect of this request on the chauffeur was to induce even greater confusion. "t--to--to san marco," he stumbled. "w--well, say, that's a new one on me. never had this car out o' sunbeam yet." "please--please!" the girl pleaded. "lady," said the chauffeur, "i'd do anything i could, within reason--" "can you get us to san marco by one o'clock?" she demanded. "i ain't no prophet, lady." a humorous gleam came into his eye. "but ever since i got this car i been feelin' sort o' reckless. if you say so, i'll bid all my family and friends good-by, and we'll take a chance on san marco together." "that's the spirit," laughed minot. "but forget the family and friends." he placed his baggage in the front of the car, and helped the girl into the tonneau. with a show of speed, the countryman went around to the front of the car and began to crank. he continued to crank with agonized face. in the course of a few minutes, sounds of a terrific disturbance came from inside the car. still, like a hurdy-gurdy musician, the man cranked. "i say," minot inquired, "has your machine got the sextette from _lucia_?" "well, there's been a lot of things wrong with it," the man replied, "but i don't think it's had that yet." the girl laughed, and such a laugh, dick minot was sure, had never been heard in sunbeam before. at that moment the driver leaped to his seat, breathing hard, and had it out with the wheel. "exeunt, laughingly, from sunbeam," said minot in the girl's ear. the car rolled asthmatically from the little settlement, and out into the sand and heat of a narrow road. "eight miles to san marco," said the driver out of the corner of his mouth. "sit tight. i'm going to let her out some." again dick minot glanced at the girl beside him. fate was in a jovial mood to-day to grant him this odd ride in the company of one so charming! he could not have told what she wore, but he knew she was all in white, and he realized the wisdom of white on a girl who had, in her hair and eyes, colors to delight the most exacting. about her clung a perfume never captured in a bottle; her chin was the chin of a girl with a sense of humor; her eyes sparkled with the thrill of their adventure together. and the dimple, in repose now, became the champion dimple of the world. minot tried to think of some sprightly remark, but his usually agile tongue remained silent. what was the matter with him? why should this girl seem different, somehow, from all the other girls he had ever met? when he looked into her eyes a flood of memories--a little sad--of all the happy times he had ever known overwhelmed him. memories of a starlit sea--the red and white awnings of a yacht--the wind whispering through the trees on a hillside--an orchestra playing in the distance--memories of old, and happy, far-off things--of times when he was even younger, even more in love with life. why should this be? he wondered. and the girl, looking at him, wondered, too--was he suddenly bereft of his tongue? "i haven't asked you the conventional question?" she said at last. "how do you like florida?" "it's wonderful, isn't it?" minot replied, coming to with a start. "i can speak of it even more enthusiastically than any of the railroad folders do. and yet, it's only recent--my discovery of its charms." "really?" "yes. when i was surveying it on that stopwatch of a train, my impression of it was quite unfavorable. it seemed so monotonous. i told myself nothing exciting could ever happen here." "and--something has happened?" "yes--something certainly has happened." she blushed a little at his tone. young men usually proposed to her the first time they saw her. why shouldn't she blush--a little? "something very fine," minot went on. "and i am surely very grateful to fate--" "would you mind looking at your watch--please?" "certainly. a quarter after twelve. as i was saying--" "do you think we can make it?" "i am sure of it." "you see, it is so very important. i want so very much to be there by one o'clock." "and i want you to." "i wonder--if you really knew--" "knew what?" "nothing. i wish you would, please--but you just did look at your watch, didn't you?" they rattled on down that road that was so sandy, so uninteresting, so lonely, with only a garage advertisement here and there to suggest a world outside. suddenly the driver ventured a word over his shoulder. "don't worry, lady," he said. "we'll get there sure." and even as he spoke the car gave a roar of rage and came to a dead stop. "oh, dear--what is it now?" cried the girl. "acts like the train," commented minot. the driver got out and surveyed the car without enthusiasm. "i wonder what she's up to now?" he remarked. "fifteen years i drove horses, which are supposed to have brains, but this machine can think of things to do to me that the meanest horse never could." "you promised, driver," pleaded the girl. "we must reach san marco on time. mr.--er--your watch?" "twenty-five past twelve," smiled minot. the native descended to the dust and slid under the car. in a moment he emerged, triumphant. "all o.k." he announced. "don't you worry, lady. it's san marco or bust." "if only something doesn't bust," minot said. again they were plowing through the sand. the girl sat anxiously on the edge of the seat, her cheeks flaming, her eyes alight. minot watched her. and suddenly all the happy, sad little memories melted into a golden glow--the glow of being alive--on this lonesome road--with her! then suddenly he knew! this was the one girl, the girl of all the world, the girl he should love while the memory of her lasted, which would be until the eyes that looked upon her now were dust. a great exultation swept through him-- "what did you mean," he asked, "when you said you were always doing things like this?" "i meant," she answered, "that i'm a silly little fool. oh, if you could know me well--" and her eyes seemed to question the future--"you'd see for yourself. never looking ahead to calculate the consequences. it's the old story of fools rushing in--" "you mean of angels rushing in, don't you? i never was good at old saws, but--" "and once more, please--your watch?" "twenty minutes of one." "oh, dear--can we"-- a wild whoop from the driver interrupted. "san marco," he cried, pointing to where red towers rose above the green of the country. "it paid to take a chance with me. i sure did let her out. where do you want to go, lady?" "the hotel de la pax," said the girl, and with a sigh of deep relief, sank back upon the cushions. "and salvator won," quoted mr. minot with a laugh. "how can i ever thank you?" the girl asked. "don't try," said minot. "that is--i mean--try, if you will, please." "it meant so very much to me--" "no--you'd better not, after all. it makes me feel guilty. for i did nothing that doesn't come under the head of glorious privilege. a chance to serve you! why, i'd travel to the ends of the earth for that." "but--it was good of you. you can hardly realize all it meant to me to reach this hotel by one o'clock. perhaps i ought to tell you--" "it doesn't matter," minot replied. "that you have reached here is my reward." his cheeks burned; his heart sang. here was the one girl, and he built castles in spain with lightening strokes. she should be his. she must be. before him life stretched, glorious, with her at his side-- "i think i will tell you," the girl was saying. "this is to be the most important luncheon of my life because--" "yes?" smiled mr. minot "because it is the one at which i am going to announce my engagement!" minot's heart stopped beating. a hundred castles in spain came tumbling about his ears, and the roar of their falling deafened him. he put out his hand blindly to open the door, for he realized that the car had come to a stop. "let me help you, please," he said dully. and even as he spoke a horrible possibility swept into his heart and overwhelmed him. "i--i beg your pardon," he stammered, "but would you mind telling me one thing?" "of course not. but i really must fly--" "the name of--the happy man." "why--allan, lord harrowby. thank you so much--and good-by." she was gone now--gone amid the palms of that gorgeous hotel courtyard. and out of the roar that enveloped him minot heard a voice: "thirty-five dollars, mister." so promptly did he pay this grievous overcharge that the chauffeur asked hopefully: "now could i take you anywhere, sir?" "yes," said minot bitterly. "take me back to new york." "well--if i had a new front tire i might try it." two eager black boys were moving inside with minot's bags, and he followed. as he passed the fountain tinkling gaily in the courtyard: "what was it i promised thacker?" he said to himself. "'miss cynthia meyrick changes her mind only over my dead body.' ah, well--the good die young." chapter iv mr. trimmer limbers up at the desk of the de la pax mr. minot learned that for fifteen dollars a day he might board and lodge amid the splendors of that hotel. gratefully he signed his name. one of the negro boys--who had matched coins for him with the other boy while he registered--led the way to his room. it proved a long and devious journey. the hotel de la pax was a series of afterthoughts on the part of its builders. up hill and down dale the boy led, through dark passageways, over narrow bridges, until at length they arrived at the door of . "my boy," muttered minot feelingly, "i congratulate you. henry m. stanley in the flower of his youth couldn't have done any better." "yes, suh." the boy threw open the door of a narrow cell, at the farther end of which a solitary window admitted the well-known florida sunshine. minot stepped over and glanced out. where the gay courtyard with its green palms waving, its fountain tinkling? not visible from . instead minot saw a narrow street, its ancient cobblestones partly obscured by flourishing grass, and bordered by quaint, top-heavy spanish houses, their plaster walls a hundred colors from the indignities of the years. "we seem to have strayed over into spain," he remarked. the bell-boy giggled. "yes, suh. we one block and a half from de hotel office." "i didn't notice any taxis in the corridors," smiled minot. "here--wait a minute." he tossed the boy a coin. "your fare back home. if you get stranded on the way, telegraph." the boy departed, and minot continued to gaze out. directly across from his window, looking strangely out of place in that dead and buried street, stood a great stone house that bore on its front the sign "manhattan club and grill." on the veranda, flush with the sidewalk and barely fifteen feet away, a huge red-faced man sat deep in slumber. many and strange pursuits had claimed the talents of old tom stacy, manager of the manhattan club, ere his advent in san marco. a too active district attorney had forced the new york police to take a keen interest in his life and works, hence mr. stacy's presence on that florida porch. but such troubles were forgot for the moment. he slumbered peacefully, secure in the knowledge that the real business of the club would not require his attention until darkness fell. his great head fell gradually farther in the direction of his generous waist, and while there is no authentic evidence to offer, it is safe to assume that he dreamed of broadway. suddenly mr. stacy's head took another tilt downward, and his panama hat slipped off to the veranda floor. to the gaze of mr. minot, above, there was revealed a bald pate extensive and gleaming. the habitual smile fled from minot's face. a feeling of impotent anger filled his soul. for a bald head could recall but one thing--jephson. he strode from the window, savagely kicking an innocent suit-case that got in his way. what mean trick was this fate had played him as he entered san marco? to show to him the one girl in all her glory and sweetness, to thrill him through and through with his discovery--and then to send the girl scurrying off to announce her engagement to another man! scurvy, he called it. but scurvier still, that it should be the very engagement he had hastened to san marco to bring to its proper close--"i do," and mendelssohn. he sat gloomily down on the bed. what could he do? what save keep his word, given on the seventeenth floor of an office building in new york? no man had yet had reason to question the good faith of a minot. his dead father, at the beginning of his career, had sacrificed his fortune to keep his word, and gone back with a smile to begin all over again. what could he do? nothing, save grit his teeth and see the thing through. he made up his mind to this as he bathed and shaved, and prepared himself for his debut in san marco. so that, when he finally left the hotel and stepped out into san sebastian avenue, he was cheerful with a dogged, boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck cheerfulness. a dozen negroes, their smiles reminiscent of tooth powder advertisements, vainly sought to cajole him into their shaky vehicles. with difficulty he avoided their pleas, and strolled down san marco's main thoroughfare. on every side clever shopkeepers spread the net for the eagle on the dollar. jewelers' shops flashed, modistes hinted, milliners begged to present their latest creations. he came presently to a narrow cross street, where humbler merchants catered to the coney instinct that lurks in even the most affluent of tourists. there gaudy souvenir stores abounded. the ugly and inevitable alligator, fallen from his proud estate to fireside slipper, wallet, cigar case, umbrella stand, photograph album and lord-knows-what, was head-lined in this street. picture post-cards hung in flocks, tin-type galleries besought, news-stands, soda-water fountains and cheap boarding-houses stood side by side. and, every few feet, mr. minot came upon "the oldest house in san marco." on his way back to the hotel, in front of one of the more dazzling modiste's shops, he saw a limousine drawn up to the curb, and in it jack paddock, friend of his college days. paddock leaped blithely from the machine and grasped dick minot by the hand. "you here?" he cried. "foolish question," commented mr. minot. "yes, i know," said mr. paddock. "been here so long my brain's a little flabby. but i'm glad to see you, old man." "same here." mr. minot stared at the car. "i say, jack, did you earn that writing fiction?" paddock laughed. "i'm not writing much fiction now," he replied. "the car belongs to mrs. helen bruce, the wittiest hostess in san marco." he came closer. "my boy," he confided, "i have struck something essentially soft. some time soon, in a room with all the doors and windows closed and the weather-strips in place, i'll whisper it to you. i've been dying to tell somebody." "and the car--" "part of the graft, dick. here comes mrs. bruce now. did i mention she was the wittiest--of course i did. want to meet her? well, later then. you're at the pax, i suppose. see you there." mr. minot moved on from the imminence of mrs. bruce. a moment later the limousine sped by him. one seat was generously filled by the wittiest hostess in san marco. seated opposite her, mr. paddock waved an airy hand. life had always been the gayest of jokes to mr. paddock. life was at the moment quite the opposite to dick minot. he devoted the next hour to sad introspection in the lobby. it was not until he was on his way in to dinner that he again saw cynthia meyrick. then, just outside the dining-room door, he encountered her, still all in white, lovelier than ever, in her cheek a flush of excitement no doubt put there by the most important luncheon of her life. he waited for her to recognize him--and he did not wait in vain. "ah, mr.--" "minot." "of course. in the hurry of this noon i quite overlooked an introduction. i am--" "miss cynthia meyrick. i happen to know because i met his lordship in new york. may i ask--was the luncheon--" "quite without a flaw. so you know lord harrowby?" "er--slightly. may i offer my very best wishes?" "so good of you." formal, formal, formal. was that how it must be between them hereafter? well, it was better so. miss meyrick presented her father and her aunt, and that did not tend to lighten the formality. icicles, both of them, though stocky puffing icicles. aunt inquired if mr. minot was related to the minots of detroit, and when he failed to qualify, at once lost all interest in him. old spencer meyrick did not accord him even that much attention. yet--all was not formal, as it happened. for as cynthia meyrick moved away, she whispered: "i must see you after dinner--on important business." and her smile as she said it made minot's own lonely dinner quite cheery. at seven in the evening the hotel orchestra gathered in the lobby for its nightly concert, and after the way of orchestras, it was almost ready to begin when minot left the dining-room at eight. sitting primly in straight backed chairs, an audience gathered for the most part from the more inexpensive hostelries waited patiently. presumably these people were there for an hour with music, lovely maid. but it was the gowns of more material maids that interested the greater number of them, and many drab little women sat making furtive mental notes that should while away the hours conversationally when they got back to akron or terre haute. minot sat down in a veranda chair and looked out at the courtyard. in the splendor of its evening colors, it was indeed the setting for romance. in the midst of the green palms and blooming things splashed a fountain which might well have been the one old ponce de leon sought. on three sides the lighted towers and turrets of that huge hotel climbed toward the bright, warm southern sky. a dazzling moon shamed mr. edison's lamps, the breeze came tepid from the sea, the very latest in waltzes drifted out from the gorgeous lobby. here romance, minot thought, must have been born. "mr. minot--i've been looking everywhere--" she was beside him now, a slim white figure in the dusk--the one thing lacking in that glittering picture. he leaped to meet her. "sitting here dreaming, i reckon," she whispered, "of somebody far away." "no." he shook his head. "i leave that to the newly engaged." she made no answer. he gave her his chair, and drew up another for himself. "mr. minot," she said, "i was terribly thoughtless this noon. but you must forgive me--i was so excited. mr. minot--i owe you--" she hesitated. minot bit his lip savagely. must he hear all that again? how much she owed him for his service--for getting her to that luncheon in time--that wonderful luncheon-- "i owe you," finished the girl softly, "the charges on that taxi." it was something of a shock to minot. was she making game of him? "don't," he answered. "here in the moonlight, with that waltz playing, and the old palms whispering--is this a time to talk of taxi bills?" "but--we must talk of something--oh, i mean--i insist. won't you please tell me the figure?" "all the time we were together this morning, i talked figures--the figures on the face of a watch. let us find some pleasanter topic. i believe lord harrowby said you were to be married soon?" "next tuesday. a week from to-morrow." "in san marco?" "yes. it breaks auntie's heart that it can't be in detroit. cord harrowby is her triumph, you see. but father can't go north in the winter--allan wishes to be married at once." minot was thinking hard. so harrowby was auntie's triumph? and was he not cynthia meyrick's as well? he would have given much to be able to inquire. suddenly, with the engaging frankness of a child, the girl asked: "has your engagement ever been announced, mr. minot?" "why--er--not to my knowledge," minot laughed. "why?" "i was just wondering--if it made everybody feel queer. the way it makes me feel. ever since one o'clock--i ought never to say it--i've felt as though everything was over. i've seemed old! old!" she clenched her fists, and spoke almost in terror. "i don't want to grow old. i'd hate it." "it was here," said minot softly, "ponce de leon sought the fountain of youth. when you came up i was pretending the one splashing out there was that very fountain itself--" "if it only were," the girl cried. "oh--you could never drag me away from it. but it isn't. it's supplied by the san marco water works, and there's a meter ticking somewhere, i'm sure. and now--mr. minot--" "i know. you mean the thirty-five dollars i paid our driver. i wish you would write me a check. i've a reason." "thank you. i wanted to--so much. i'll bring it to you soon." she was gone, and minot sat staring into the palms, his lips firm, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. suddenly, with a determined leap, he was on his feet. a moment later he stood at the telegraph counter in the lobby, writing in bold flowing characters a message for mr. john thacker, on a certain seventeenth floor, new york. "i resign. will stay on the job until a substitute arrives, but start him when you get this. "richard minot." the telegram sent, he returned to his veranda chair to think. thacker would be upset, of course. but after all, thacker's claim on him was not such that he must wreck his life's happiness to serve him. even thacker must see that. and the girl--was she madly in love with the lean and aristocratic harrowby? not by any means, to judge from her manner. next tuesday--a week. what couldn't happen in a--minot stopped. no, that wouldn't do, either. even if a substitute arrived, he could hardly with honor turn about and himself wreck the hopes of thacker and jephson. he lost, either way. it was a horrible mix-up. he cursed beneath his breath. the red glow of a cigar near by drew closer as the smoker dragged his chair across the veranda floor. minot saw behind the glow the keen face of a man eager for talk. "some scene, isn't it?" said the stranger. "sort of makes the musical comedies look cheap. all it needs is seven stately chorus ladies walking out from behind that palm down to the left, and it would have broadway lashed to the mast." "yes," replied minot absently. "this is the real thing." "i've been sitting here thinking," the other went on. "it doesn't seem to me this place has been advertised right. why, there are hundreds of people up north whose windows look out on sunset over the brewery--people with money, too--who'd take the first train for here if they realized the picture we're looking at now. get some good hustler to tell 'em about it--" he paused. "i hate to talk about myself, but say--ever hear of cotrell's ink eraser? nothing ever written cotrell can't erase. will not soil or scratch the paper. if the words cotrell has erased were put side by side--" "selling it?" minot inquired wearily. "no. but i made that eraser. put it on every desk between new york and the rolling oregon. after that i landed helot's bottled sauces. and then patterson's lime juice. puckered every mouth in america. advertising is my specialty." "so i gather." "sure as you sit here. have a cigar. trimmer is my name--never mind the jokes. henry trimmer. advertising specialist. is your business flabby? does it need a tonic? try trimmer. quoting from my letter-head." he leaned closer. "excuse a personal question, but didn't i see you talking with miss cynthia meyrick a while back?" "possibly." mr. trimmer came even closer. "engaged to lord harrowby, i understand." "i believe so--" "young fellow," mr. trimmer's tone was exultant, "i can't keep in any longer. i got a proposition in tow so big it's bursting my brain cells--and it takes some strain to do that. no, i can't tell you the exact nature of it--but i will say this--to-morrow night this time i'll throw a bomb in this hotel so loud it'll be heard round the world." "an anarchist?" "not on your life. advertiser. and i've got something to advertise this hot february, take it from me. maybe you're a friend of miss meyrick. well, i'm sorry. for when i spring my little surprise i reckon this harrowby wedding is going to shrivel up and fade away." "you mean to say you--you're going to stop the wedding?" "i mean to say nothing. watch me. watch henry trimmer. just a tip, young fellow. well, i guess i'll turn in. get some of my best ideas in bed. see you later." and mr. trimmer strode into the circle of light, a fine upstanding figure of a man, to pass triumphantly out of sight among the palms. dazed, dick minot stared after him. a voice spoke his name. he turned. the slim white presence again, holding toward him a slip of paper. "the check, mr. minot. thirty-five dollars. is that correct?" "correct. it's splendid. because i'm never going to cash it--i'm going to keep it--" "really, mr. minot, i must say good--" he came closer. thacker and jephson faded. new york was far away. he was young, and the moon was shining-- "--going to keep it--always. the first letter you ever wrote me--" "and the last, mr. minot. really--i must go. good night." he stood alone, with the absurd check in his trembling fingers. slowly the memory of trimmer came back. a bomb? what sort of a bomb? well, he had given his word. there was no way out--he must protect old jephson's interests. but might he not wish the enemy--success? he stared off in the direction the advertising wizard had gone. "trimmer, old boy," he muttered, "here's to your pitching arm!" chapter v mr. trimmer throws his bomb miss cynthia meyrick was a good many girls in one. so many, indeed, that it might truthfully be added that while most people are never so much alone as when in a crowd, miss meyrick was never so much in a crowd as when alone. most of these girls were admirable, a few were more mischievous than admirable, but rely upon it that every single one of them was nice. it happened to be as a very serious-minded girl that miss meyrick opened her eyes on tuesday morning. she lay for a long time watching the florida sunshine, spoken of so tenderly in the railroad's come-on books, as it danced across the foot of her bed. to-day the _lileth_ was to steam into san marco harbor! to-day her bridegroom was to smile his slow british smile on her once more! she recalled these facts without the semblance of a thrill. where, she wondered, was the thrill? the frivolous girl who had met lord harrowby abroad, and dazzled by dreams of social triumphs to come had allowed her aunt to urge her into this betrothal, was not present at the moment. had she been, she would have declared this cynthia meyrick a silly, and laughed her into gaiety again. into the room toddled the aunt who had stood so faithfully on the coaching line abroad. with heavy wit, she spoke of the coming of lord harrowby. miss cynthia did not smile. she turned grave eyes on her aunt. "i'm wondering," she confessed. "was it the thing to do, after all? shall i be so very happy?" "nonsense. ninety-nine out of a hundred engaged girls have doubts. it's natural." aunt mary sat down on the bed, which groaned in agony. "of course you'll be happy. you'll take precedence over marion bishop--didn't we look that up? and after the airs she's put on when she's come back to detroit--well, you ought to be the happiest of girls." "i know--but--" miss meyrick continued to gaze solemnly at her aunt. she was accustomed to the apparition. to any one who knew aunt mary only in her public appearances, a view of her now would have been startling. not to go too deeply into the matter, she had not yet been poured into the steel girders that determined her public form. her washed-out eyes were puffy, and her gray hair was not so luxurious as it would be when she appeared in the hotel dining-room for lunch. there she sat, a fat little lump of a woman who had all her life chased will-o'-the-wisps. "but what?" she demanded firmly. "it seems as if all my fun were over. didn't you feel that way when you became engaged?" "hardly. but then--i hadn't enjoyed everything money will buy, as you have. i've always said you had too much. there, dear--cheer up. you don't seem to realize. why, i can remember when you were born--in the flat down on second street--and your father wearing his old overcoat another year to pay the doctor's bill. and now that little fluffy baby is to marry into the peerage! bless you, how proud your mother would be had she lived--" "are you sure, aunt mary?" "positive." aunt mary's eyes filled, and with a show of real, if clumsy affection, she leaned over and kissed her niece. "come, dear, get up. i've ordered breakfast in the rooms." miss cynthia sat up. and as if banished by that act, the serious little mouse of a girl scampered into oblivion, and in her place appeared a gay young rogue who sees the future lying bright ahead. "after all," she smiled, "i'm not married--yet." and humming brightly from a current musical comedy--"not just yet--just yet--just yet--" she stretched forth one slim white arm to throw aside the coverlet. at which point it is best discreetly to withdraw. mr. minot, after a lonesome if abundant breakfast, was at this moment strolling across the hotel courtyard toward yesterday morning's new york papers. as he walked, the pert promises of mr. trimmer filled his mind. what was the proposition mr. trimmer had in tow? how would it affect the approaching wedding? and what course of action should the representative of jephson pursue when it was revealed? for in the sensible light of morning dick minot realized that while he remained in san marco as the guardian of jephson's interests, he must do his duty. adorable miss meyrick might be, but any change of mind on her part must be over his dead body. a promise was a promise. with this resolve firm, he proceeded along the hot sidewalk of san sebastian avenue. on his right the rich shops again, a dignified spanish church as old as the town, a rambling lackadaisical "opera-house." on his left the green and sand colored plaza, with the old spanish governor's house in the center, now serving uncle sam as post-office. a city of the past was this; "other times, other manners" breathed in the air. at the news-stand minot met jack paddock, jaunty, with a gardenia in his buttonhole and the atmosphere of prosperity that goes with it. "come for a stroll," paddock suggested. "i presume you want the giddy story of my life i promised you yesterday? been down to the old spanish fort yet? no? come ahead, and there on the ramparts i'll impart." they went down the narrow and very modern street of the souvenir venders. suddenly the street ended, and they walked again in the past. the remnants of the old city gates restored, loomed in the sunlight. they stepped through the portals, and minot gave a gasp. there in the quiet morning stood the great gray fort that the early settlers had built to protect themselves from the gay dogs who roamed the seas. its massive walls spoke clearly of romance, of bloody days of cutlass and spike, of bandaged heads and ready arms. such things still stood! still stood in the united states--land of steam radiators and men who marched in suffrage parades! the old caretaker let them in, and they went up the stone steps to stand at last on the parapet looking down on the shimmering sea. to minot, fresh from broadway, it all seemed like a colorful dream. they climbed to the highest point and sat, swinging their legs over the edge. far below the bright blue waters broke on the lower walls. "it's a funny country down here," paddock said slowly. "a sort of too-good-to-be-true, who-believes-it place. bright and gay and full of green palms, and so much like a musical comedy you keep waiting all the time for the curtain to go down and the male population to begin its march up the aisle. i've been here three months, and i don't yet think it's really true." he shifted on the cold stones. "ever since white men hit on it," he went on, "it's sort of kept luring them here on fool dream hunts--like a woman. along about the time old ponce de leon came over here prospecting for the fountain that nobody but lillian russell has located yet, another spaniard--i forget his name--had a pipe dream, too. he came over hot-foot looking for a mountain of gold he dreamed was here. i'm sorry for that old boy." "sorry for him?" repeated minot. "yes--sorry. he had the right idea, but he arrived several hundred years too soon. he should have waited until the yellow rich from the north showed up here. then he'd have found his mountain--he'd have found a whole range of them." "i suppose i'm to infer," mr. minot said, "that where he failed, you've landed." "yes, dick. i am right on the mountain with my little alpenstock in hand." "i'm sorry," replied minot frankly. "you might have amounted to something if you'd been separated from money long enough." "so i've heard," paddock said with a yawn. "but it wasn't to be. i haven't seen you since we left college, have i? well, dick, for a couple of years i tried to make good doing fiction. i turned them out by the yard--nice quiet little tea-table yarns with snappy dialogue. once i got eighty dollars for a story. it was hard work--and i always did yearn for the purple, you know." "i know," said minot gravely. "well, i've struck it, dick. i've struck the deep purple with a loud if sickening thud. hist! the graft i mentioned yesterday." he glanced over his shoulder. "remember mrs. bruce, the wittiest hostess in san marco?" "of course i do." "well, i write her repartee for her." "her--what?" "her repartee--her dialogue--the bright talk she convulses dinner tables with. instead of putting my smart stuff into stories at eighty per, i sell it to mrs. bruce at--i'd be ashamed to tell you, old man. i remarked that it was essentially soft. it is." "this is a new one on me," said minot, dazed. a delighted smile spread over mr. paddock's handsome face. "thanks. that's the beauty of it i'm a pioneer. there'll be others, but i was the first. consider the situation. here's mrs. bruce, loaded with diamonds and money, but tongue-tied in company, with a wit developed in zanesville, ohio. bright, but struggling, young author comes to her--offers to make her conversation the sensation of the place for a few pesos." "you did that?" "yes--i ask posterity to remember it was i who invented the graft. mrs. bruce fell on my fair young neck. now, she gives me in advance a list of her engagements, and for the important ones i devise her line of talk. then, as i'm usually present at the occasion, i swing things round for her and give her her cues. if i'm not there, she has to manage it herself. it's a great life--only a bit of a strain on me. i have to remember not to be clever in company. if i forget and spring a good one, she jumps on me proper afterward for not giving it to her." "jack," said minot slowly, "come way from here with me. come north. this place will finish you sure." "sorry, old man," laughed paddock, "but i've had a nip of the lotus. this lazy old land suits me. i like to sit on a veranda while a dusky menial in a white coat hands me the tinkle-tinkle in a tall cool glass. come away? oh, no--i couldn't do that." "you'll marry down here," sighed minot "some girl with money. and the career we all hoped you'd make for yourself will go up in a golden cloud." "i met a girl," paddock replied, half closing his eyes and smiling cynically at the sea--"little thing from the middle west, stopping at a back street boarding-house--father in the hardware business, nobody at all--but eyes like the sea there, hands like butterflies--sort of--got me-- that's how i happen to know i'll never marry. for if i married anybody it would have to be her--and i let her go home without saying a word because i was selfish and like this easy game and intend to stick to it until i'm smothered in rose-leaves. shall we wander back?" "see here, jack--i don't want to preach"--minot tried to conceal his seriousness with a smile--"but if i were you i'd stick to this girl, and make good--" "and leave this?" paddock laughed. "dick, you old idiot, this is meat and drink to me. this nice old land of loiter in the sun. nay, nay. now, i've really got to get back. mrs. bruce is giving a tango tea this afternoon--informal, but something has to be said-- these fellows who write a daily humorous column must lead a devil of a life." with a laugh, minot followed his irresponsible friend down the steps. they crossed the bridge over the empty moat and came through the city gates again to the street of the alligator. "by the way," paddock said as they went up the hotel steps, "you haven't told me what brought you south?" "business, jack," said minot. "it's a secret--perhaps i can tell you later." "business? i thought, of course, you came for pleasure." "there'll be no pleasure in this trip for me," said minot bitterly. "oh, won't there?" paddock laughed. "wait till you hear mrs. bruce talk. see you later, old man." at luncheon they brought mr. minot a telegram from a certain seventeenth floor in new york. an explosive telegram. it read: "nonsense nobody here to take your place, see it through, you've given your word. "thacker." gloomily mr. minot considered. what was there to do but see it through? even though thacker should send another to take his place, could he stay to woo the lady he adored? hardly. in that event he would have to go away--never see her again--never hear her voice-- if he stayed as jephson's representative he might know the glory of her nearness for a week, might thrill at her smile--even while he worked to wed her to lord harrowby. and perhaps-- who could say? hard as he might work, might he not be thwarted? it was possible. so after lunch he sent thacker a reassuring message, promising to stay. and at the end of a dull hour in the lobby, he set out to explore the town. the mermaid tea house stood on the waterfront, with a small second-floor balcony that looked out on the harbor. passing that way at four-thirty that afternoon, minot heard a voice call to him. he glanced up. "oh, mr. minot--won't you come into my parlor?" cynthia meyrick smiled down on him. "splendid," minot laughed. "i walk forlorn through this old spanish town--suddenly a lattice is thrown wide, a fair hand beckons. i dash within." "thanks for dashing," miss meyrick greeted him, on the balcony. "i was finding it dreadfully dull. but i'm afraid the spanish romance is a little lacking. there is no moonlight, no lattice, no mantilla, no spanish beauty." "no matter," minot answered. "i never did care for spanish types. they flash like a sky-rocket--then tumble in the dark. now, the home-grown girls--" "and nothing but tea," she interrupted. "will you have a cup?" "thanks. was it really very dull?" "yes. this book was to blame." she held up a novel. "what's the matter with it?" "oh--it's one of those books in which the hero and heroine are forever 'gazing into each other's eyes.' and they understand perfectly. but the reader doesn't. i've reached one of those gazing matches now." "but isn't it so in real life--when people gaze into each other's eyes, don't they usually understand?" "do they?" "don't they? you surely have had more experience than i." "what makes you think so?" she smiled. "because your eyes are so very easy to gaze into." "mr. minot--you're gazing into them--brazenly. and--neither of us 'understand,' do we?" "oh, no--we're both completely at sea." "there," she cried triumphantly. "i told you these authors were all wrong." minot, having begun to gaze, found difficulty in stopping. she was near, she was beautiful--and a promise made in new york was a dim and distant thing. "the railroad folders try to make you believe florida is an annex to heaven," he said. "i used to think they were lying. but--" she blushed. "but what, mr. minot?" he leaned close, a strange light in his eyes. he opened his mouth to speak. suddenly he glanced over her shoulder, and the light died from his eyes. his lips set in a bitter curve. "nothing," he said. a silence. "mr. minot--you've grown awfully dull." "have i? i'm sorry." "must i go back to my book--" she was interrupted by the shrill triumphant cry of a yacht's siren at her back. she turned her head. "the _lileth_," she said. "exactly," said minot. "the bridegroom cometh." another silence. "you'll want to go to meet him," minot said, rising. he stood looking at the boat, flashing gaily in the sunshine. "i'll go with you as far as the street." "but--you know lord harrowby. meet him with me." "it seems hardly the thing--" "but i'm not sentimental. and surely allan's not." "then i must be," said minot. "really--i'd rather not--" they went together to the street. at the parting of the ways, minot turned to her. "i promised lord harrowby in new york," he told her, "that you would have your lamp trimmed and burning." she looked up at him. a mischievous light came into her eyes. "please--have you a match?" she asked. it was too much. minot turned and fled down the street. he did not once look back, though it seemed to him that he felt every step the girl took across that narrow pier to her fiancé's side. as he dressed for dinner that night his telephone rang, and miss meyrick's voice sounded over the wire. "harrowby remembers you very pleasantly. won't you join us at dinner?" "are you sure an outsider--" he began. "nonsense. mr. martin wall is to be there." "ah--thank you--i'll be delighted," minot replied. in the lobby harrowby seized his hand. "my dear chap--you're looking fit. great to see you again. by the way--do you know martin wall?" "yes--mr. wall and i met just before the splash," minot smiled. he shook hands with wall, unaccountably genial and beaming. "the hudson, mr. wall, is a bit chilly in february." "my dear fellow," said wall, "can you ever forgive me? a thousand apologies. it was all a mistake--a horrible mistake." "i felt like a rotter when i heard about it," harrowby put in. "martin mistook you for some one else. you must forgive us both." "freely," said minot. "and i want to apologize for my suspicions of you, lord harrowby." "thanks, old chap." "i never doubted you would come--after i saw miss meyrick." "she is a ripper, isn't she?" said harrowby enthusiastically. martin wall shot a quick, almost hostile glance at minot. "you've noticed that yourself, haven't you?" he said in minot's ear. at which point the meyrick family arrived, and they all went in to dinner. that function could hardly be described as hilarious. aunt mary fluttered and gasped in her triumph, and spoke often of her horror of the new. the recent admission of automobiles to the sacred precincts of bar harbor seemed to be the great and disturbing fact in life for her. spencer meyrick said little; his thoughts were far away. the rush and scramble of a business office, the click of typewriters, the excitement of the dollar chase--these things had been his life. deprived of them, like many another exile in the south, he moved in a dim world of unrealities and wished that he were home. minot, too, had little to say. on martin wall fell the burden of entertainment, and he bore it as one trained for the work. blithely he gossiped of queer corners that had known him and amid the flow of his oratory the dinner progressed. it was after dinner, when they all stood together in the lobby a moment before separating, that mr. henry trimmer made good his promise out of a clear sky. cynthia meyrick stood facing the others, talking brightly, when suddenly her face paled and the flippant words died on her lips. they all turned instantly. through the lobby, in a buzz of excited comment, a man walked slowly, his eyes on the ground. he was a tall blond englishman, not unlike lord harrowby in appearance. his gray eyes, when he raised them for a moment, were listless, his shoulders stooped and weary, and he had a long drooping mustache that hung like a weeping willow above a particularly cheerless stream. however, it was not his appearance that excited comment and caused miss meyrick to pale. hung over his shoulders was a pair of sandwich boards such as the outcasts of a great city carry up and down the streets. and on the front board, turned full toward miss meyrick's dinner party, was printed in bold black letters: i am the real lord harrowby with a little gasp and a murmured apology, miss meyrick turned quickly and entered the elevator. lord harrowby stood like a man of stone, gazing at the sandwich boards. it was at this point that the hotel detective sufficiently recovered himself to lay eager hands on the audacious sandwich man and propel him violently from the scene. in the background mr. minot perceived henry trimmer, puffing excitedly on a big black cigar, a triumphant look on his face. mr. trimmer's bomb was thrown. chapter vi ten minutes of agony "all i ask, mister harrowby, is that you consent to a short interview with your brother." mr. trimmer was speaking. the time was noon of the following day, and trimmer faced lord harrowby in the sitting-room of his lordship's hotel suite. also present--at harrowby's invitation--were martin wall and mr. minot. his lordship turned his gray eyes on trimmer's eager face. he could make those eyes fishy when he liked--he made them so now. "he is not my brother," he said coldly, "and i shall not see him. may i ask you not to call me mr. harrowby?" "you may ask till you're red in your noble face," replied trimmer, firm in his disrespect. "but i shall go on calling you 'mister' just the same. i call you that because i know the facts. just as i call your poor cheated brother, who was in this hotel last night between sandwich boards, lord harrowby." "really," said his lordship, "i see no occasion for prolonging this interview." mr. trimmer leaned forward. he was a big man, but his face was incongruously thin--almost ax-like. the very best sort of face to thrust in anywhere--and trimmer was the very man to do the thrusting without batting an eye. "do you deny," he demanded with the air of a prosecutor, "that you had an older brother by the name of george?" "i certainly do not," answered lord harrowby. "george ran off to america some twenty-two years ago. he died in a mining camp in arizona twelve years back. there is no question whatever about that. we had it on the most reliable authority." "a lot of lies," said trimmer, "can be had on good authority. this situation illustrates that. do you think, mr. harrowby, that i'd be wasting my time on this proposition if i wasn't dead sure of my facts. why, poor old george has the evidence in his possession. incontrovertible proofs. it wouldn't hurt you to see him and look over what he has to offer." "your lordship," minot suggested, "you know that i am your friend and that my great desire is to see you happily married next week. in order that nothing may happen to prevent, i think you ought to see--" "this impostor," cut in his lordship haughtily. "no, i can not. this is not the first time adventurers have questioned the harrowby title. the dignity of our family demands that i refuse to take any notice whatsoever." "go on," sneered trimmer. "hide behind your dignity. when i get through with you you won't have enough left to conceal your stick-pin." "trimmer," said martin wall, speaking for the first time, "how much money do you want?" mr. trimmer kept his temper admirably. "your society has not corrupted me, mr. wall," he said sweetly. "i am not a blackmailer. i am simply a publicity man. i'm working on a salary which lord harrowby--the real lord harrowby--is to pay me when he comes into his own. i've handled successfully in publicity campaigns prima donnas, pills, erasers, perfumes, holding companies, race horses, soups and society leaders. it isn't likely that i shall fall down on this proposition. for the last time, mr. allan harrowby, will you see your brother?" "lord harrowby, if i were you--" minot began. "my dear fellow." his lordship raised one slim hand. "it is quite impossible. which, i take it, terminates our talk with mr. trimmer." "yes," said mr. trimmer, rising. "except for one thing. our young friend here, when he urges you to grant my request, is giving a correct imitation of a wise head on youthful shoulders. he's an american, and he knows about me--about henry trimmer. i guess you never heard, mr. harrowby, what i did for cotrell's ink eraser--" "come on," said mr. wall militantly, "erase yourself." "for the moment, i will," smiled mr. trimmer. "but i warn you, mr. harrowby, you are going to be sorry. you aren't up against any piker in publicity--no siree. that little sandwich-board stunt of mine last night was just a starter. i'm going to take the public into partnership. put it up to the people--that's my motto." "good day, sir," snapped lord harrowby. "put it up to the people. and when i pull off the little trick i thought of this morning, you're going to get down before me on your noble knees, and beg off. i warn you. good day, gentlemen. and may i add one simple request on parting? watch trimmer!" he went out, slamming the door behind him. mr. wall rose and walked rapidly toward a decanter. "rather tough on you, lord harrowby," he remarked, pouring himself a drink. "especially just now. the fresh bounder! ought to have been kicked out of the room." "an impostor," snorted harrowby. "a rank impostor." "of course." mr. wall set down his glass. "but don't worry. if trimmer gets too obstreperous, i'll take care of him myself. i guess i'll be going back to the yacht." after wall's departure, minot and harrowby sat staring at each other for a long moment. "see here, your lordship," said minot at last. "you know why i'm in san marco. that wedding next tuesday must take place without fail. and i can't say that i approve of your action just now--" "my dear boy," harrowby interrupted soothingly, "i appreciate your position. but there was nothing to be gained by seeing mr. trimmer's friend. the meyricks were distressed, naturally, by that ridiculous sandwich-board affair last evening, but they have made no move to call off the wedding on account of it. the best thing to do, i'm sure, is to let matters take their course. i might be able to prove that chap's claims false--and then again i mightn't, even if i knew they were false. and--there is a third possibility." "what is that?" "he might really be--george." "but you said your brother died, twelve years ago." "that is what we heard. but--one can not be sure. and, delighted as i should be to know that george is alive, naturally i should prefer to know it after next tuesday." anger surged into minot's heart. "is that fair to the young lady who--" "who is to become my wife?" lord harrowby waved his hand. "it is. miss meyrick is not marrying me for my title. as for her father and aunt, i can not be so sure. i want no disturbance. you want none. i am sure it is better to let things take their course." "all right," said minot. "only i intend to do every thing in my power to put this wedding through." "my dear chap--your cause is mine," answered his lordship. minot returned to the narrow confines of his room. on the bureau, where he had thrown it earlier in the day, lay an invitation to dine that night with mrs. bruce. thus was jack paddock's hand shown. the dinner was to be in miss meyrick's honor, and mr. minot was not sorry he was to go. he took up the invitation and reread it smilingly. so he was to hear mrs. bruce at her own table--the wittiest hostess in san marco--bar none. the drowsiness of a florida midday was in the air. mr. minot lay down on his bed. a hundred thoughts were his: the brown of miss meyrick's eyes, the sincerity of mr. trimmer's voice when he spoke of his proposition, the fishy look of lord harrowby refusing to meet his long lost brother. things grew hazy. mr. minot slept. on leaving lord harrowby's rooms, mr. martin wall did not immediately set out for the _lileth_, on which he lived in preference to the hotel. instead he took a brisk turn about the spacious lobby of the de la pax. people turned to look at him as he passed. they noted that his large, placid, rather jovial face was lighted by an eye sharp and queer, and a bit out of place amid its surroundings. mr. wall considered himself the true cosmopolite, and his history rather bore out the boast. many and odd were the lands that had known him. he had loaned money to a prince of algiers (on excellent security), broken bread with a sultan, organized a baseball nine in cuba, and coming home from the east via the indian ports, had flirted on shipboard with the wife of a russian grand duke. as he passed through that cool lobby it was not to be wondered at that middle west merchants and their wives found him worthy of a second glance. the courtyard of the hotel de la pax was fringed by a series of modish shops, with doors opening both on the courtyard and on the narrow street outside. among these, occupying a corner room was the very smart jewel shop of ostby and blake. occasionally in the winter resorts of the south one may find jewelry shops whose stock would bear favorably competition with fifth avenue. ostby and blake conducted such an establishment. for a moment before the show-window of this shop mr. wall paused, and with the eye of a connoisseur studied the brilliant display within. his whole manner changed. the air of boredom with which he had surveyed his fellow travelers of the lobby disappeared; on the instant he was alert, alive, almost eager. jauntily he strolled into the store. one clerk only--a tall thin man with a sallow complexion and hair the color of a lemon--was in charge. mr. wall asked to be shown the stock of unset diamonds. the trays that the man set before him caused the eyes of mr. wall to brighten still more. with a manner almost reverent he stooped over and passed his fingers lovingly over the stones. for an instant the tall man glanced outside, and smiled a sallow smile. a little girl in a pink dress was crossing the street, and it was at her that he smiled. "there's a flaw in that stone," said mr. wall, in a voice of sorrow. "see--" from outside came the shrill scream of a child, interrupting. the tall man turned quickly to the window. "my god--" he moaned. "what is it?" mr. wall sought to look over his shoulder. "automobile--" "my little girl," cried the clerk in agony. he turned to martin wall, hesitating. his sallow face was white now, his lips trembled. doubtfully he gazed into the frank open countenance of martin wall. and then-- "i leave you in charge," he shouted, and fled past mr. wall to the street. for a moment martin wall stood, frozen to the spot. his eyes were unbelieving; his little cupid's bow mouth was wide open. "here--come back--" he shouted, when he could find his voice. no one heeded. no one heard. outside in the street a crowd had gathered. martin wall wet his dry lips with his tongue. an unaccountable shudder swept his huge frame. "my god--" he cried in a voice of terror, "i'm alone!" for the first time he dared to move. his elbow bumped a hundred thousand dollars' worth of unset diamonds. frightened, he drew back. he collided with a show-case rich in emeralds, rubies and aquamarines. he put out a plump hand to steady himself. it rested on a display case of french, russian and dutch silver. mr. wall's knees grew weak. he felt a strange prickly sensation all over him. he took a step--and was staring at the finest display of black pearls south of maiden lane, new york. quickly he turned away. his eyes fell upon the door of a huge safety vault. it was swinging open! little beads of perspiration began to pop out on the forehead of martin wall. his heart was hammering like that of a youth who sees after a long separation his lady love. his eyes grew glassy. he took out a silk handkerchief and passed it slowly across his damp forehead. staggering slightly, he stepped again to the trays of unset stones. the glassy eyes had grown greedy now. he put out one huge hand as the lover aforesaid might reach toward his lady's hair. then mr. wall shut his lips firmly, and thrust both of his hands deep into his trousers pockets. he stood there in the middle of that gorgeous room--a fat figure of a man suffering a cruel inhuman agony. he was still standing thus when the tall man came running back. apprehension clouded that sallow face. "it was very kind of you." the small eyes of the clerk darted everywhere; then came back to martin wall. "i'm obliged--why, what's the matter, sir?" martin wall passed his hand across his eyes, as a man banishing a terrible dream. "the little girl?" he asked. "hardly a scratch," said the clerk, pointing to the smiling child at his side. "it was lucky, wasn't it?" he was behind the counter now, studying the trays unprotected on the show-case. "very lucky." martin wall still had to steady himself. "perhaps you'd like to look about a bit before i go--" "oh, no, sir. everything's all right, i'm sure. you were looking at these stones--" "some other time," said wall weakly. "i only wanted an idea of what you had." "good day, sir. and thank you very much." "not at all." and the limp ex-guardian passed unsteadily from the store into the glare of the street. mr. tom stacy, of the manhattan club, half dozing on the veranda of his establishment, was rejoiced to see his old friend martin wall crossing the pavement toward him. "well, martin--" he began. and then a look of concern came into his face. "good lord, man--what ails you?" mr. wall sank like a wet rag to the steps. "tom," he said, "a terrible thing has just happened. i was left alone in ostby and blake's jewelry shop." "alone?" cried mr. stacy. "you--alone?" "absolutely alone." mr. stacy leaned over. "are you leaving town--in a hurry?" he asked. gloomily mr. wall shook his head. "he put me on my honor," he complained. "left me in charge of the shop. can you beat it? of course after that, i--well--you know, somehow i couldn't do it. i tried, but i couldn't." mr. stacy threw back his head, and his raucous laughter smote the lazy summer afternoon. "i can't help it," he gasped. "the funniest thing i ever--you--the best stone thief in america alone in charge of three million dollars' worth of the stuff!" "good heavens, man," whispered wall. "not so loud!" and well might he protest, for mr. stacy's indiscreet and mirthful tone carried far. it carried, for example, to mr. richard minot, standing hidden behind the curtains of his little room overhead. "come inside, martin," said stacy. "come inside and have a bracer. you sure must need it, after that." "i do," replied mr. wall, in heartfelt tones. he rose and followed tom stacy. cheeks burning, eyes popping, mr. minot watched them disappear into the manhattan club. here was news indeed. lord harrowby's boon companion the ablest jewel thief in america! just what did that mean? putting on coat and hat, he hurried to the hotel office and there wrote a cablegram: "situation suspicious are you dead certain h. is on the level?" an hour later, in his london office, mr. jephson read this message carefully three times. chapter vii chain lightning's collar the villa jasmine, mrs. bruce's winter home, stood in a park of palms and shrubbery some two blocks from the hotel de la pax. mr. minot walked thither that evening in the resplendent company of jack paddock. "you'll enjoy mrs. bruce to-night," paddock confided. "i've done her some rather good lines, if i do say it as shouldn't." "on what topics?" asked minot, with a smile. "international marriage--jewels--by the way, i don't suppose you know that miss cynthia meyrick is to appear for the first time wearing the famous harrowby necklace?" "i didn't even know there was a necklace," minot returned. "ah, such ignorance. but then, you don't wander much in feminine society, do you? mrs. bruce told me about it this morning. chain lightning's collar." "chain lightning's what?" "ah, my boy--" mr. paddock lighted a cigarette. "you should go round more in royal circles. list, commoner, while i relate. it seems that the earl of raybrook is a giddy old sport with a gambling streak a yard wide. in his young days he loved the lady evelyn hollowway. lady evelyn had a horse entered in a derby about that time--name, chain lightning. and the earl of raybrook wagered a diamond necklace against a kiss that chain lightning would lose." "wasn't that giving big odds?" inquired minot. "not if you believe the stories of lady evelyn's beauty. well, it happened before tammany politicians began avenging ireland on derby day. chain lightning won. and the earl came across with the necklace. afterward he married lady evelyn--" "to get back the necklace?" "cynic. and being a rather racy old boy, he referred to the necklace thereafter as chain lightning's collar. it got to be pretty well known in england by that name. i believe it is considered a rather neat piece of jewelry among the english nobility--whose sparklers aren't what they were before the steel business in pittsburgh turned out a good thing." "chain lightning's collar," mused minot. "i presume lady evelyn was the mother of the present lord harrowby?" "so 'tis rumored," smiled paddock. "though i take it his lordship favors his father in looks." they walked along for a moment in silence. the story of this necklace of diamonds could bring but one thing to minot's thoughts--martin wall drooping on the steps of the manhattan club while old stacy roared with joy. he considered. should he tell mr. paddock? no, he decided he would wait. "as i said," paddock ran on, "you'll enjoy mrs. bruce to-night. her lines are good, but somehow--it's really a great problem to me--she doesn't sound human and natural when she gets them off. i looked up her beauty doctor and asked him if he couldn't put a witty gleam in her eye, but he told me he didn't care to go that far in correcting mrs. bruce's maker." they had reached the villa jasmine now, a great white palace in a flowery setting more like a dream than a reality. the evening breeze murmured whisperingly through the palms, a hundred gorgeous colors shone in the moonlight, fountains splashed coolly amid the greenery. "act two," muttered minot. "the grounds surrounding the castle of the fairy princess." "you have to come down here, don't you," replied paddock, "to realize that old mother nature has a little on belasco, after all?" the whir of a motor behind them caused the two young men to turn. then mr. minot saw her coming up the path toward him--coming up that fantastic avenue of palms--tall, fair, white, a lovely figure in a lovely setting-- ah, yes--lord harrowby! he walked at her side, nonchalant, distinguished, almost as tall as a popular illustrator thinks a man in evening clothes should be. truly, they made a handsome couple. they were to wed. mr. minot himself had sworn they were to wed. he kept the bitterness from his tone as he greeted them there amid the soft magic of the florida night. together they went inside. in the center of a magnificent hallway they found mrs. bruce standing, like stout cortez on his darien peak, triumphant amid the glory of her gold. mr. minot thought mrs. bruce's manner of greeting somewhat harried and oppressed. poor lady, every function was a first night for her. would the glare of the footlights frighten her? would she falter in her lines--forget them completely? only her sisters of the stage could sympathize with her understandingly now. "so you are to carry cynthia away?" minot heard her saying to lord harrowby. "such a lot of my friends have married into the peerage. indeed, i have sometimes thought you english have no other pastime save that of slipping engagement rings on hands across the sea." a soft voice spoke in minot's ear. "mine," mr. paddock was saying. "not bad, eh? but look at that englishman. why should i have sat up all last night writing lines to try on him? can you tell me that?" lord harrowby, indeed, seemed oblivious of mrs. bruce's little bon mot. he hemmed and hawed, and said he was a lucky man. but he did not mean that he was a lucky man because he had the privilege of hearing mrs. bruce. mr. bruce slipped out of the shadows into the weariness of another formal dinner. mrs. bruce glittered, and he wrote the checks. he was a scraggly little man who sometimes sat for hours at a time in silence. there were those unkind enough to say that he sought back, trying to recall the reason that had led him to marry mrs. bruce. when he beheld miss cynthia meyrick, and knew that he was to take her in to dinner, mr. bruce brightened perceptibly. none save a blind and deaf man could have failed to. cocktails consumed, the party turned toward the dining-room. except for the meyricks, martin wall, lord harrowby and paddock, dick minot knew none of them. there were a couple of colorless men from new york who, when they died, would be referred to as "prominent club men," a horsy girl from westchester, an ex-ambassador's wife and daughter, a number of names from boston and philadelphia with their respective bearers. and last but not least the two bond girls from omaha--blond, lovely, but inclined to be snobbish even in that company, for their mother was a van reypan, and van reypans are rare birds in omaha and elsewhere. mr. minot took in the elder of the bond girls, and found that cynthia meyrick sat on his left. he glanced at her throat as they sat down. it was bare of ornament. and then he beheld, sparkling in her lovely hair, the perfect diamonds of chain lightning's collar. as he turned back to the table he caught the eye of mr. martin wall. mr. wall's eye happened to be coming away from the same locality. the girl from omaha gossiped of plays and players, like a dramatic page from some old sunday newspaper. "i'm mad about the stage," she confided. "of course, we get all the best shows in omaha. why, maxine elliott and nat goodwin come there every year." mr. minot, new yorker, shuddered. should he tell her of the many and active years in the lives of these two since they visited any town together? no. what use? on the other side of him a sweet voice spoke: "i presume you know, mr. minot, that mrs. bruce has the reputation of being the wittiest hostess in san marco?" "i have heard as much." minot smiled into cynthia meyrick's eyes. "when does her act go on?" mrs. bruce was wondering the same thing. she knew her lines; she was ready. true, she understood few of those lines. wit was not her specialty. until mr. paddock took charge of her, she had thought colored newspaper supplements humorous in the extreme. however, the lines mr. paddock taught her seemed to go well, and she continued to patronize the old stand. she looked up now from her conversation with her dinner partner, and silence fell as at a curtain ascending. "i was just saying to lord harrowby," mrs. bruce began, smiling about her, "how picturesque our business streets are here. what with the greek merchants in their native costumes--" "bandits, every one of them," growled mr. bruce, bravely interrupting. his wife frowned. "only the other day," she continued, "i bought a rug from a man who claimed to be a persian prince. he said it was a prayer-rug, and i think it must have been, for ever since i got it i've been praying it's genuine." a little ripple of amusement ran about the table. the redoubtable mrs. bruce was under way. people spoke to one another in undertones--little conversational nudges of anticipation. "by the way, cynthia," the hostess inquired, "have you heard from helen arden lately?" "not for some time," responded miss meyrick, "although i have her promise that she and the duke will be here--next tuesday." "splendid." mrs. bruce turned to his lordship. "i think of helen, lord harrowby, because she, too, married into your nobility. her father made his money in sausage in the middle west. in his youth he'd had trouble in finding a pair of ready-made trousers, but as soon as the money began to roll in, helen started to look him up a coat of arms. and a family motto. i remember suggesting at the time, in view of the sausage: 'a family is no stronger than its weakest link.'" mrs. bruce knew when to pause. she paused now. the ripple became an outright laugh. mr. paddock sipped languorously from his wine-glass. he saw that his lines "got over." "went into society head foremost, helen did," mrs. bruce continued. "thought herself a clever amateur actress. used to act often for charity--though i don't recall that she ever got it." "the beauty of mrs. bruce's wit," said miss meyrick in mr. minot's ear, "is that it is so unconscious. she doesn't appear to realize when she has said a good thing." "there's just a chance that she doesn't realize it," suggested minot. "then helen met the duke of lismore," mrs. bruce was speaking once more. "perhaps you know him, lord harrowby?" "no--er--sorry to say i don't--" "a charming chap. in some ways. helen was a shavian in considering marriage the chief pursuit of women. she pursued. followed lismore to italy, where he proposed. i presume he thought that being in rome, he must do as the romeos do." "but, my dear lady," said harrowby in a daze, "isn't it the romans?" "isn't what the romans?" asked mrs. bruce blankly. "your lordship is correct," said mr. paddock hastily. "mrs. bruce misquoted purposely--in jest, you know. jibe--japery." "oh--er--pardon me," returned his lordship. "i saw helen in london last spring," mrs. bruce went on. "she confided to me that she considers her husband a genius. and if genius really be nothing but an infinite capacity for taking champagnes, i am sure the poor child is right." little murmurs of joy, and the dinner proceeded. the guests bent over their food, shipped to mrs. bruce in a refrigerating car from new york, and very little wearied by its long trip. here and there two talked together. it was like an intermission between the acts. mr. minot turned to the omaha girl. even though she was two wives behind on mr. nat goodwin's career, one must be polite. it was at the close of the dinner that mrs. bruce scored her most telling point. she and lord harrowby were conversing about a famous english author, and when she was sure she had the attention of the table, she remarked: "yes, we met his wife at the masonbys'. but i have always felt that the wife of a celebrity is like the coupon on one's railway ticket." "how's that, mrs. bruce?" minot inquired. after all, paddock had been kind to him. "not good if detached," said mrs. bruce. she stood. her guests followed suit. it was by this bon mot that she chose to have her dinner live in the gossip of san marco. hence with it she closed the ceremony. "witty woman, your wife," said one of the colorless new yorkers to mr. bruce, when the men were left alone. mr. bruce only grunted, but mr. paddock answered brightly: "do you really think so?" "yes. don't you?" "why--er--really--" mr. paddock blushed. modest author, he. a servant appeared to say that lord harrowby was wanted at once outside, and excusing himself, harrowby departed. he found his valet, a plump, round-faced, serious man, waiting in the shadows on the veranda. for a time they talked together in low tones. when harrowby returned to the dining-room, his never cheerful face was even gloomier than usual. spencer meyrick and bruce, exiles both of them, talked joyously of business and the rush of the day's work for which both longed. the new york man and a sapling from boston conversed of chamber music. martin wall sat silent, contemplative. perhaps had he spoken his thoughts they would have been of a rich jewel shop at noon--deserted. a half-hour later mrs. bruce's dinner-party was scattered among the palms and flowers of her gorgeous lawn. mr. minot had fallen again to the elder girl from omaha, and blithely for her he was displaying his broadway ignorance of horticulture. suddenly out of the night came a scream. instantly when he heard it, mr. minot knew who had uttered it. unceremoniously he parted from the omaha beauty and sped over the lawn. but quick as he was, lord harrowby was quicker. for when minot came up, he saw harrowby bending over miss meyrick, who sat upon a wicker bench. "cynthia--what is it?" harrowby was saying. cynthia meyrick felt wildly of her shining hair. "your necklace," she gasped. "chain lightning's collar. he took it! he took it!" "who?" "i don't know. a man!" "a man!" reverent repetition by feminine voices out of the excited group. "he leaped out at me there--by that tree--pinioned my arms--snatched the necklace. i couldn't see his face. it happened in the shadow." "no matter," harrowby replied. "don't give it another thought, my child." "but how can i help--" "i shall telephone the police at once," announced spencer meyrick. "i beg you'll do nothing of the sort," expostulated lord harrowby. "it would be a great inconvenience--the thing wasn't worth the publicity that would result. i insist that the police be kept out of this." argument--loud on mr. meyrick's part--ensued. suggestions galore were offered by the guests. but in the end lord harrowby had his way. it was agreed not to call in the police. mr. minot, looking up, saw a sneering smile on the face of martin wall. in a flash he knew the truth. with aunt mary calling loudly for smelling salts, and the whole party more or less in confusion, the return to the house started. mr. paddock walked at minot's side. "rather looks as though chain lightning's collar had choked off our gaiety," he mumbled. "serves her right for wearing the thing in her hair. she spoiled two corking lines for me by not wearing it where you'd naturally expect a necklace to be worn." minot maneuvered so as to intercept lord harrowby under the portico. "may i speak with you a moment?" he inquired. harrowby bowed, and they stepped into the shadows of the drive. "lord harrowby," said minot, trying to keep the excitement from his voice, "i have certain information about one of the guests here this evening that i believe would interest you. your lordship has been badly buffaloed. one of our fellow diners at mrs. bruce's table holds the title of the ablest jewel thief in america!" he watched keenly to catch lord harrowby's start of surprise. alas, he caught nothing of the sort. "nonsense," said his lordship nonchalantly. "you mustn't let your imagination carry you away, dear chap." "imagination nothing! i know what i'm talking about." and then minot added sarcastically: "sorry to bore you with this." his lordship laughed. "right-o, old fellow. i'm not interested." "but haven't you just lost--" "a diamond necklace? yes." they had reached a particularly dark and secluded spot beneath the canopy of palm leaves. harrowby turned suddenly and put his hands on minot's shoulders. "mr. minot," he said, "you are here to see that nothing interferes with my marriage to miss meyrick. i trust you are determined to do your duty to your employers?" "absolutely. that is why--" "then," replied harrowby quickly, "i am going to ask you to take charge of this for me." suddenly minot felt something cold and glassy in his hand. startled, he looked down. even in the dark, chain lightning's collar sparkled like the famous toy that it was. "your lordship!--" "i can not explain now. i can only tell you it is quite necessary that you help me at this time. if you wish to do your full duty by mr. jephson." "who took this necklace from miss meyrick's hair?" asked minot hotly. "i did. i assure you it was the only way to prevent our plans from going awry. please keep it until i ask you for it." and turning, lord harrowby walked rapidly toward the house. "the brute!" angrily mr. minot stood turning the necklace over in his hand. "so he frightened the girl he is to marry--the girl he is supposed to love--" what should he do? go to her, and tell her of harrowby's amiable eccentricities? he could hardly do that--harrowby had taken him into his confidence--and besides there was jephson of the great bald head, the peter pan eyes. nothing to do but wait. returning to the hotel from mrs. bruce's villa, he found awaiting him a cable from jephson. the cable assured him that beyond any question the man in san marco was allan harrowby and, like cæsar's wife, above suspicion. yet even as he read, lord harrowby walked through the lobby, and at his side was mr. james o'malley, house detective of the hotel de la pax. they came from the manager's office, where they had evidently been closeted. with the cablegram in his hand, minot entered the elevator and ascended to his room. the other hand was in the pocket of his top coat, closed tightly upon chain lightning's collar--the bauble that the earl of raybrook had once wagered against a kiss. chapter viii after the trained seals mr. minot opened his eyes on thursday morning with the uncomfortable feeling that he was far from his beloved new york. for a moment he lay dazed, wandering in that dim borderland between sleep and waking. then, suddenly, he remembered. "oh, yes, by jove," he muttered, "i've been knighted. groom of the back-stairs scandals and keeper of the royal jewels--that's me." he lifted his pillow. there on the white sheet sparkled the necklace of which the whole british nobility was proud--chain lightning's collar. some seventy-five blue-white diamonds, pear-shaped, perfectly graduated. his for the moment! "what's harrowby up to, i wonder?" he reflected "the dear old top! nice, pleasant little party if a policeman should find this in my pocket." another perfect day shone in that narrow spanish street. up in manhattan theatrical press agents were crowning huge piles of snow with posters announcing their attractions. ferries were held up by ice in the river. a breeze from the arctic swept round the flatiron building. here lazy summer lolled on the bosom of the town. in the hotel dining-room mr. minot encountered jack paddock, superb in white flannels above his grapefruit. he accepted paddock's invitation to join him. "by the way," said mrs. bruce's jester, holding up a small, badly printed newspaper, "have you made the acquaintance of the _san marco mail_ yet?" "no--what's that?" "a morning newspaper--by courtesy. started here a few weeks back by a noiseless little spaniard from havana named manuel gonzale. slipped in here on his rubber soles, gonzale did--dressed all in white--lovely lemon face--shifty, can't-catch-me eyes. and his newspaper--hot stuff, my boy. it has town topics looking like a consular report from greenland." "scandals?" asked mr. minot, also attacking a grapefruit. "scandals and rumors of scandals. mostly hints, you know. several references this morning to our proud and haughty friend, lord harrowby. for example, madame on dit, writing in her column, on page one, has this to say: 'the impecunious but titled englishman who has arrived in our midst recently with the idea of connecting with certain american dollars has an interesting time ahead of him, if rumor speaks true. the little incident in the lobby of a local hotel the other evening--which was duly reported in this column at the time--was but a mild beginning. the gentleman in charge of the claimant to the title held so jealously by our british friend promises immediate developments which will be rich, rare and racy.'" "rich, rare and racy," repeated minot thoughtfully. "ah, yes--we were to watch mr. trimmer. i had almost forgot him in the excitement of last evening. by the way, does the _mail_ know anything about the disappearance of chain lightning's collar?" "not as yet," smiled mr. paddock, "although madame on dit claims to have been a guest at the dinner. by the way, what do you make of last night's melodramatic farce?" "i don't know what to make of it," answered minot truthfully. he was suddenly conscious of the necklace in his inside coat pocket. "then all i can say, my dear watson," replied mr. paddock with burlesque seriousness, "is that you are unmistakably lacking in my powers of deduction. give me a cigarette, and i'll tell you the name of the man who is gloating over those diamonds to-day." "all right," smiled minot. "go ahead." mr. paddock, reaching for a match tray, spoke in a low tone in minot's ear. "martin wall," he said. he leaned back. "you ask how i arrived at my conclusion. simple enough. i went through the list of guests for possible crooks, and eliminated them one by one. the man i have mentioned alone was left. ever notice his eyes--remind me of manuel gonzale's. he's too polished, too slick, too good to be true. he's traveled too much--nobody travels as much as he has except for the very good reason that a detective is on the trail. and he made friends with simple old harrowby on an atlantic liner--that, if you read popular fiction, is alone enough to condemn him. believe me, dick, martin wall should be watched." "all right," laughed minot, "you watch him." "i've a notion to. harrowby makes me weary. won't call in a solitary detective. any one might think he doesn't want the necklace back." after breakfast minot and paddock played five sets of tennis on the hotel courts. and mr. minot won, despite the harrowby diamonds in his trousers pocket, weighing him down. luncheon over, mr. paddock suggested a drive to tarragona island. "a little bit of nowhere a mile off-shore," he said. "no man can ever know the true inwardness of the word lonesome until he's seen tarragona." minot hesitated. ought he to leave the scene of action? of action? he glanced about him. there was less action here than in a henry james novel. the tangle of events in which he was involved rested for a siesta. so he and mr. paddock drove along the narrow neck of land that led from the mainland to tarragona island. they entered the kingdom of the lonely. sandy beach with the ocean on one side, swamps on the other. scrubby palms, disreputable foliage, here and there a cluster of seemingly deserted cottages--the world and its works apparently a million miles away. yet out on one corner of that bleak forgotten acre stood the slim outline of a wireless, and in a little white house lived a man who, amid the sea-gulls and the sand-dunes, talked daily with great ships and cities far away. "i told you it was lonesome," said mr. paddock. "lonesome," shivered minot. "even god has forgot this place. only marconi has remembered." and even as they wandered there amid the swamps, where alligators and rattlesnakes alone saw fit to dwell, back in san marco the capable mr. trimmer was busy. by poster and by hand-bill he was spreading word of his newest coup, so that by evening no one in town--save the few who were most concerned--was unaware of a development rich, rare and racy. minot and paddock returned late, and their dinner was correspondingly delayed. it was eight-thirty o'clock when they at last strolled into the lobby of the de la pax. there they encountered miss meyrick, her father and lord harrowby. "we're taking harrowby to the movies," said miss meyrick. "he confesses he's never been. won't you come along?" she was one of her gay selves to-night, white, slim, laughing, irresistible. minot, looking at her, thought that she could make even tarragona island bearable. he knew of no greater tribute to her charm. the girl and harrowby led the way, and minot and paddock followed with spencer meyrick. the old man was an imposing figure in his white serge, which accentuated the floridness of his face. he talked of an administration that did not please him, of a railroad fallen on evil days. now and again he paused and seemed to lose the thread of what he was saying, while his eyes dwelt on his daughter, walking ahead. they arrived shortly at the san marco opera-house, devoted each evening to three acts of "refined vaudeville" and six of the newest film releases. it was here that the rich loitering in san marco found their only theatrical amusement, and forgetting broadway, laughed and were thrilled with simpler folk. a large crowd was fairly fighting to get in and mr. paddock, who volunteered to buy the tickets, was forced to take his place at the end of a long line. finally they reached the dim interior of the opera-house, and were shown to seats far down in front. by hanging back in the dusk minot managed to secure the end seat, with miss meyrick at his side. beyond her sat lord harrowby, gazing with rapt british seriousness at the humorous film that was being flashed on the screen. between pictures harrowby offered an opinion. "you in america are a jolly lot," he said. "just fancy our best people in england attending a cinematograph exhibition." they tried to fancy it, but with his lordship there, they couldn't. two more pictures ran their filmy lengths, while mr. minot sat entranced there in the half dark. it was not the pictures that entranced him. rather, was it a lady's nearness, the flash of her smile, the hundred and one tones of her voice--all, all again as it had been in that ridiculous automobile--just before the awakening. after the third picture the lights of the auditorium were turned up, and the hour of vaudeville arrived. on to the stage strolled a pert confident youth garbed in shabby grandeur, who attempted sidewalk repartee. he clipped his jests from barber-shop periodicals, bought his songs from an ex-barroom song writer, and would have gone to the mat with any one who denied that his act was "refined." mr. minot, listening to his gibes, thought of the paddock jest factory and mrs. bruce. when the young man had wrung the last encore from a kindly audience, the drop-curtain was raised and revealed on the stage in gleaming splendor captain ponsonby's troupe of trained seals. an intelligent aggregation they proved, balancing balls on their small heads, juggling flaming torches, and taking as their just due lumps of sugar from the captain's hand as they finished each feat. the audience recalled them again and again, and even the peerage was captivated. "clever beasts, aren't they?" lord harrowby remarked. and as captain ponsonby took his final curtain, his lordship added: "er--what follows the trained seals?" the answer to harrowby's query came almost immediately, and a startling answer it proved to be. into the glare of the footlights stepped mr. henry trimmer. his manner was that of the conquering hero. for a moment he stood smiling and bowing before the approving multitude. then he raised a hand commanding silence. "my dear friends," he said, "i appreciate this reception. as i said in my handbill of this afternoon, i am working in the interests of justice. the gentleman who accompanies me to your delightful little city is beyond any question whatsoever george harrowby, the eldest son of the earl of raybrook, and as such he is entitled to call himself lord harrowby. i know the american people well enough to feel sure that when they realize the facts they will demand that justice be done. that is why i have prevailed upon lord harrowby to meet you here in this, your temple of amusement, and put his case before you. his lordship will talk to you for a time with a view to getting acquainted. he has chosen for the subject of his discourse the old days at rakedale hall. ladies and gentlemen, i have the honor to introduce--the real lord harrowby." out of the wings shuffled the lean and gloomy englishman whom mr. trimmer had snatched from the unknown to cloud a certain wedding-day. the applause burst forth. it shook the building. from the gallery descended a shrill penetrating whistle of acclaim. mr. minot glanced at the face of the girl beside him. she was looking straight ahead, her cheeks bright red, her eyes flashing with anger. beyond, the face of harrowby loomed, frozen, terrible. "shall we--go?" minot whispered. "by no means," the girl answered. "we should only call attention to our presence here. i know at least fifty people in this audience. we must see it through." the applause was stilled at last and, supremely fussed, the "real lord harrowby" faced that friendly throng. "dear--er--people," he said. "as mr. trimmer has told you, we seek only justice. i am not here to argue my right to the title i claim--that i can do at the proper time and place. i am simply proposing to go back--back into the past many years--back to the days when i was a boy at rakedale hall. i shall picture those days as no impostor could picture them--and when i have done i shall allow you to judge." and there in that crowded little southern opera-house on that hot february night, the actor who followed the trained seals proceeded to go back. with unfaltering touch he sketched for his audience the great stone country seat called rakedale hall, where for centuries the harrowbys had dwelt. it was as though he took his audience there to visit--through the massive iron gates up the broad avenue bordered with limes, until the high chimneys, the pointed gables, the mullioned windows, and the walls half hidden by ivy, creeping roses and honeysuckles were revealed to them. he took them through the house to the servants' quarters--which he called "the offices"--out into the kitchen gardens, thence to the paved quadrangle of the stables with its arched gateway and the chiming clock above. tennis-courts, grape-houses, conservatories, they visited breathlessly; they saw over the brow of the hill the low square tower of the old church and the chimneys of the vicar's modest house. and far away, they beheld the trees that furnished cover to the little beasts it was the earl of raybrook's pleasure to hunt in the season. becoming more specific, he spoke of the neighbors, and a bit of romance crept in in the person of the fair-haired honorable edith townshend, who lived to the west of rakedale hall. he described at length the picturesque personality of the "racing parson," neighbor on the south, and in full accord with the ideas of the sporting earl of raybrook. the events of his youth, he said, crowded back upon him as he recalled this happy scene, and emotion well-nigh choked him. however, he managed to tell of a few of the celebrities who came to dinner, of their bon mots, their preferences in cuisine. he mentioned the thrilling morning when he was nearly drowned in the brook that skirted the "purple meadow"; also the thrilling afternoon when he hid his mother's famous necklace in the biscuit box on the sideboard, and upset a whole household. and he narrated a dozen similar exploits, each garnished with small illuminating details. his audience sat fascinated. all who listened felt that his words rang true--even lord harrowby himself, sitting far forward, his hand gripping the seat in front of him, until the white of his knuckles showed through. next the speaker shifted his scene to eton, thrilled his hearers with the story of his revolt against oxford, of his flight to the states, his wild days in arizona. and he pulled out of his pocket a letter written by the old earl of raybrook himself, profanely expostulating with him for his madness, and begging that he return to ascend to the earldom when the old man was no more. the "real lord harrowby" finished reading this somewhat pathetic appeal with a little break in his voice, and stood looking out at the audience. "if my brother allan himself were in the house," he said, "he would have to admit that it is our father speaking in that letter." a rustle of interest ran through the auditorium. the few who had recognized harrowby turned to stare at him now. for a moment he sat silent, his face a variety of colors in the dim light. then with a cry of rage he leaped to his feet. "you stole that letter, you cur," he cried. "you are a liar, a fraud, an impostor." the man on the stage stood shading his eyes with his hand. "ah, allan," he answered, "so you are here, after all? is that quite the proper greeting--after all these years?" a roar of sympathetic applause greeted this sally. there was no doubt as to whose side mr. trimmer's friend, the public, was on. harrowby stood in his place, his lips twitching, his eyes for once blazing and angry. dick minot was by this time escorting miss meyrick up the aisle, and they came quickly to the cool street. harrowby, paddock and spencer meyrick followed immediately. his lordship was most contrite. "a thousand pardons," he pleaded. "really i can't tell you how sorry i am, cynthia. to have made you conspicuous--what was i thinking of? but he maddened me--i--" "don't worry, allan," said miss meyrick gently. "i like you the better for being maddened." old spencer meyrick said nothing, but minot noted that his face was rather red, and his eyes were somewhat dangerous. they all walked back to the hotel in silence. from the hotel lobby, as if by prearrangement, harrowby followed miss meyrick and her father into a parlor. minot and paddock were left alone. "my word, old top," said mr. paddock facetiously, "a rough night for the nobility. what do you think? that lad's story sounded like a little bit of all right to me. eh, what?" "it did sound convincing," returned the troubled minot. "but then--a servant at rakedale hall could have concocted it." "mayhap," said mr. paddock. "however, old spencer meyrick looked to me like a volcano i'd want to get out from under. poor old harrowby! i'm afraid there's a rift within the loot--nay, no loot at all." "jack," said minot firmly, "that wedding has got to take place." "why, what's it to you?" "it happens to be everything. but keep it under your hat." "great scott--does harrowby owe you money?" "i can't explain just at present, jack." "oh, very well," replied mr. paddock. "but take it from me, old man--she's a million times too good for him." "a million," laughed mr. minot bitterly. "you underestimate." paddock stood staring with wonder at his friend. "you lisp in riddles, my boy," he said. "do i?" returned minot. "maybe some day i'll make it all clear." he parted from paddock and ascended to the third floor. as he wandered through the dark passageways in search of his room, he bumped suddenly into a heavy man, walking softly. something about the contour of the man in the dark gave him a suggestion. "good evening, mr. wall," he said. the scurry of hurrying footsteps, but no answer. minot went on to , and placed his key in the lock. it would not turn. he twisted the knob of the door--it was unlocked. he stepped inside and flashed on the light. his small abode was in a mad disorder. the chiffonier drawers had been emptied on the floor, the bed was torn to pieces, the rug thrown in a corner. minot smiled to himself. some one had been searching--searching for chain lightning's collar. who? who but the man he had bumped against in that dark passageway? chapter ix "wanted: board and room" as dick minot bent over to pick up his scattered property, a knock sounded on the half-open door, and lord harrowby drooped in. the nobleman was gloom personified. he threw himself despondently down on the bed. "minot, old chap," he drawled, "it's all over." his eyes took in the wreckage. "eh? what the deuce have you been doing, old boy?" "i haven't been doing anything," minot answered. "but others have been busy. while we were at the--er--theater, fond fingers have been searching for chain lightning's collar." "the devil! you haven't lost it?" "no--not yet, i believe." minot took the envelope from his pocket and drew out the gleaming necklace. "ah, it's still safe--" harrowby leaped from the bed and slammed shut the door. "dear old boy," he cried, "keep the accursed thing in your pocket. no one must see it. i say, who's been searching here? do you think it could have been o'malley?" "what is o'malley's interest in your necklace?" "some other time, please. sorry to inconvenience you with the thing. do hang on to it, won't you? awful mix-up if you didn't. bad mix-up as it is. as i said when i came in, it's all over." "what's all over?" "everything. the marriage--my chance for happiness--minot, i'm a most unlucky chap. meyrick has just postponed the wedding in a frightfully loud tone of voice." "postponed it?" sad news for jephson this, yet as he spoke mr. minot felt a thrill of joy in his heart. he smiled the pleasantest smile he had so far shown san marco. "exactly. he was fearfully rattled, was meyrick. my word, how he did go on. considers his daughter humiliated by the antics of that creature we saw on the stage to-night. can't say i blame him, either. the wedding is indefinitely postponed, unless that impostor is removed from the scene immediately." "oh--unless," said minot. his heart sank. his smile vanished. "unless was the word, i fancy," said harrowby, blinking wisely. "lord harrowby," minot began, "you intimated the other day that this man might really be your brother--" "no," harrowby broke in. "impossible. i got a good look at the chap to-night. he's no more a harrowby than you are." "you give me your word for that?" "absolutely. even after twenty years of america no harrowby would drag his father's name on to the vaudeville stage. no, he is an impostor, and as such he deserves no consideration whatever. and by the by, minot--you will note that the postponement is through no fault of mine." minot made a wry face. "i have noted it," he said. "in other words, i go on to the stage now--following the man who followed the trained seals. i thought my role was that of cupid, but it begins to look more like captain kidd. ah, well--i'll do my best." he stood up. "i'm going out into the soft moonlight for a little while, lord harrowby. while i'm gone you might call spencer meyrick up and ask him to do nothing definite in the way of postponement until he hears from me--us--er--you." "splendid of you, really," said harrowby enthusiastically, as minot held open the door for him. "i had the feeling i could fall back on you." "and i have the feeling that you've fallen," smiled minot. "so long--better wait up for my report." fifteen minutes later, seated in a small rowboat on the starry waters of the harbor, minot was loudly saluting the yacht _lileth_. finally mr. martin wall appeared at the rail. "well--what d'you want?" he demanded. "a word with you, mr. wall," minot answered. "will you be good enough to let down your accommodation ladder?" for a moment wall hesitated. and minot, watching him, knew why he hesitated. he suspected that the young man in the tiny boat there on the calm bright waters had come to repay a call earlier in the evening--a call made while the host was out. at last he decided to let down the ladder. "glad to see you," he announced genially as minot came on deck. "awfully nice of you to say that," minot laughed. "reassures me. because i've heard there are sharks in these waters." they sat down in wicker chairs on the forward deck. minot stared at the cluster of lights that was san marco by night. "corking view you have of that tourist-haunted town," he commented. "ah--yes," mr. wall's queer eyes narrowed. "did you row out here to tell me that?" he inquired. "a deserved rebuke," minot returned. "time flies, and my errand is a pressing one. am i right in assuming, mr. wall, that you are lord harrowby's friend?" "i am." "good. then you will want to help him in the very serious difficulty in which he now finds himself. mr. wall, the man who calls himself the real lord harrowby made his debut on a vaudeville stage to-night." "so i've heard," said wall, with a short laugh. "lord harrowby's fiancée and her father are greatly disturbed. they insist that this impostor must be removed from the scene at once, or there will be no wedding. mr. wall--it is up to you and me to remove him." "just what is your interest in the matter?" wall inquired. "the same as yours. i am harrowby's friend. now, mr. wall, this is the situation as i see it--wanted, board and room in a quiet neighborhood for mr. george harrowby. far from the street-cars, the vaudeville stage, the wedding march and other disturbing elements. and what is more, i think i've found the quiet neighborhood. i think it's right here aboard the _lileth_." "oh--indeed!" "yes. a simple affair to arrange, mr. wall. trimmer and his live proposition are just about due for their final appearance of the night at the opera-house right now. i will call at the stage door and lead mr. trimmer away after his little introductory speech. i will keep him away until you and a couple of your sailors--i suggest the two i met so informally in the north river--have met the vaudeville lord at the stage door and gently, but firmly, persuaded him to come aboard this boat." mr. wall regarded minot with a cynical smile. "a clever scheme," he said. "what would you say was the penalty for kidnaping in this state?" "oh, why look it up?" asked minot carelessly. "surely martin wall is not afraid of a backwoods constable." "what do you mean by that, my boy?" said wall, with an ugly stare. "what do you think i mean?" minot smiled back. "i'd be very glad to take the role i've assigned you--i can't help feeling that it will be more entertaining than the one i have. the difficulty in the way is trimmer. i believe i am better fitted to engage his attention. i know him better than you do, and he trusts me--begging your pardon--further." "he did give me a nasty dig," said wall, flaming at the recollection. "the noisy mountebank! well, my boy, your young enthusiasm has won me. i'll do what i can." "and you can do a lot. watch me until you see me lead trimmer away. then get his pet. i'll steer trimmer somewhere near the beach, and keep an eye on the _lileth_. when you get george safely aboard, wave a red light in the bow. then trimmer and i shall part company for the night." "i'm on," said wall, rising. "anything to help harrowby. and--this won't be the first time i've waited at the stage door." "right-o," said minot. "but don't stop to buy a champagne supper for a trained seal, will you? i don't want to have to listen to mr. trimmer all night." they rowed ashore in company with two husky members of the yacht's crew, and ten minutes later minot was walking with the pompous mr. trimmer through the quiet plaza. he had told that gentleman that he came from allan harrowby to talk terms, and trimmer was puffed with pride accordingly. "so mr. harrowby has come to his senses at last," he said. "well, i thought this vaudeville business would bring him round. although i must say i'm a bit disappointed--down in my heart. my publicity campaign has hardly started. i had so many lovely little plans for the future--say, it makes me sad to win so soon." "sorry," laughed minot. "lord harrowby, however, deems it best to call a halt. he suggests--" "pardon me," interrupted mr. trimmer grandiloquently. "as the victor in the contest, i shall do any suggesting that is done. and what i suggest is this--to-morrow morning i shall call upon allan harrowby at his hotel. i shall bring george with me, also some newspaper friends of mine. in front of the crowd allan harrowby must acknowledge his brother as the future heir to the earldom of raybrook." "why the newspaper men?" minot inquired. "publicity," said trimmer. "it's the breath of life to me--my business, my first love, my last. frankly, i want all the advertisement out of this thing i can get. at what hour shall we call?" "you would not consider a delay of a few days?" minot asked. "save your breath," advised trimmer promptly. "ah--i feared it," laughed minot. "well then--shall we say eleven o'clock? you are to call--with george harrowby." "eleven it is," said trimmer. they had reached a little park by the harbor's edge. trimmer looked at his watch. "and that being all settled, i'll run back to the theater." "i myself have advised harrowby to surrender--" minot began. "wise boy. good night," said trimmer, moving away. "not that i have been particularly impressed by your standing as a publicity man," continued minot. mr. trimmer stopped in his tracks. "as a matter of fact," went on minot. "i never heard of you or any of the things you claim to have advertised, until i came to san marco." mr. trimmer came slowly back up the grave walk. "in just what inland hamlet, untouched by telegraph, telephone, newspaper and railroad," he asked, "have you been living?" minot dropped to a handy bench, and smiled up into mr. trimmer's thin face. "new york city," he replied. mr. trimmer glanced back at the lights of san marco, hesitatingly. then--it was really a cruel temptation--he sat down beside minot on the bench. "do you mean to tell me," he inquired, "that you lived in new york two years ago and didn't hear of cotrell's ink eraser?" "such was my unhappy fate," smiled minot. "then you were in ludlow street jail, that's all i've got to say," trimmer replied. "why, man--what i did for that eraser is famous. i rigged up a big electric sign in times square and all night long i had an electric cotrell's erasing indiscreet sentences--the kind of things people write when they get foolish with their fountain pens--for instance--'i hereby deed to tottie footlights all my real and personal property'--and the like. it took the town by storm. theatrical managers complained that people preferred to stand and look at my sign rather than visit the shows. can you look me in the eye and say that you never saw that sign?" "well," minot answered, "i begin to remember a little about it now." "of course you do." mr. trimmer gave him a congratulatory slap on the knee. "and if you think hard, probably you can recall my neat little stunt of the prima donna and the cough drops. i want to tell you about that--" he spoke with fervor. the story of his brave deeds rose high to shatter the stars apart. a half-hour passed while his picturesque reminiscences flowed on. mr. minot sat enraptured--his eyes on the harbor where the _lileth_, like a painted ship, graced a painted ocean. "my boy," trimmer was saying, "i have made the public stop, look and listen. when i get my last publicity in the shape of an 'in memoriam' let them run that tag on my headstone. and the story of me that i guess will be told longest after i am gone, is the one about the grape juice that i--" he paused. his audience was not listening; he felt it intuitively. mr. minot sat with his eyes on the _lileth_. in the bow of that handsome boat a red light had been waved three times. "mr. trimmer," minot said, "your tales are more interesting than the classics." he stood. "some other time i hope to hear a continuation of them. just at present lord harrowby--or mr. if you prefer--is waiting to hear what arrangement i have made with you. you must pardon me." "i can talk as we walk along," said trimmer, and proved it. in the middle of the deserted plaza they separated. at the dark stage door of the opera-house trimmer sought his proposition. "who d'yer mean?" asked the lone stage-hand there. "george, lord harrowby," insisted mr. trimmer. "oh--that bum actor. seen him going away a while back with two men that called for him." "bum actor!" cried trimmer indignantly. he stopped. "two men--who were they?" the stage-hand asked profanely how he could know that, and mr. trimmer hurriedly departed for the side-street boarding-house where he and his fallen nobleman shared a suite. about the same time dick minot blithely entered lord harrowby's apartments in the hotel de la pax. "well," he announced, "you can cheer up. little george is painlessly removed. he sleeps to-night aboard the good ship _lileth_, thanks to the efforts of martin wall, assisted by yours truly." he stopped, and stared in awe at his lordship. "what's the matter with you?" he inquired. harrowby waved a hopeless hand. "minot," he said, "it was good of you. but while you have been assisting me so kindly in that quarter, another--and a greater--blow has fallen." "good lord--what?" cried minot. "it is no fault of mine--" harrowby began. "on which i would have gambled my immortal soul," minot said. "i thought it was all over and done with--five years ago. i was young--sentimental--calcium-light and grease paint and that sort of thing hit me-hard. i saw her from the stalls--fell desperately in love--stayed so for six months--wrote letters--burning letters--and now--" "yes--and now?" "now she's here. gabrielle rose is here. she's here--with the letters." "oh, for a cotrell's ink eraser," minot groaned. "my man saw her down-stairs," went on harrowby, mopping his damp forehead. "fifty thousand she wants for the letters or she gives them to a newspaper and begins to sue--at once--to-morrow." "i suppose," said minot, "she is the usual gaiety girl." "not the usual, old chap. quite a remarkable woman. she'll do what she promises--trust her. and i haven't a farthing. minot--it's all up now. there's no way out of this." minot sat thinking. the telephone rang. "i won't talk to her," cried harrowby in a panic. "i won't have anything to do with her. minot, old chap--as a favor to me--" "the old family solicitor," smiled minot. "that's me." he took down the receiver. but no voice that had charmed thousands at the gaiety answered his. instead there came over the wire, heated, raging, the tones of mr. henry trimmer. "hello--i want allan harrowby--ah, that's minot talking, isn't it? yes. good. i want a word with you. do you know what i think of your methods? well, you won't now--telephone rules in the way. think you're going to get ahead of trimmer, do you? think you've put one over, eh? well--let me tell you, you're wrong. you're in for it now. you've played into my hands. steal lord harrowby, will you? do you know what that means? publicity. do you know what i'll do to-morrow? i'll start a cyclone in this town that--" "good night," said minot, and hung up. "who was it?" harrowby wanted to know. "our friend trimmer, on the war-path," minot replied. "it seems he's missed his vaudeville partner." he sat down. "see here, harrowby," he said--it was the first time he had dropped the prefix, "it occurs to me that an unholy lot of things are happening to spoil this wedding. so i'm going to ask you a question." "yes." "harrowby"--minot looked straight into the weak, but noble eyes--"are you on the level?" "really--i'm not very expert in your astounding language--" "are you straight--honest--do you want to be married yourself?" "why, minot, my dear chap! i've told you a thousand times--i want nothing more--i never shall want anything more--" "all right," said minot, rising. "then go to bed and sleep the sleep of the innocent." "but where are you going? what are you going to do?" "i'm going to try and do the same." and as he went out, minot slammed the door on a peer. sticking above the knob of the door of he found a telegram. turning on his lights, he sank wearily down on the bed and tore it open. "it rained in torrents," said the telegram, "at the dowager duchess's garden party. you know what that means." it was signed "john thacker." "isn't that a devil of a night-cap?" muttered minot gloomily. chapter x two birds of passage on the same busy night when the _lileth_ flashed her red signal and miss gabrielle rose arrived with a package of letters that screamed for a cotrell, two strangers invaded san marco by means of the eight-nineteen freight south. frayed, fatigued and famished as they were, it would hardly have been kind to study them as they strolled up san sebastian avenue toward the plaza. but had you been so unkind, you would never have guessed that frequently, in various corners of the little round globe, they had known prosperity, the weekly pay envelope, and the buyer's crook of the finger summoning a waiter. one of the strangers was short, with flaming red hair and in his eye the twinkle without which the collected works of bernard shaw are as sounding brass. he twinkled about him as he walked--at the bright lights and spurious gaiety under the spell of which san marco sought to forget the rates per day with bath. "the french," he mused, "are a volatile people, fond of light wines and dancing. so, it would seem, are the inhabitants of san marco. white flannels, harry, white flannels. they should encase that leaning tower of pisa you call your manly form." the other--long, cadaverous, immersed in a gentle melancholy--groaned. "another tourist hothouse! packed with innocents abroad, and everybody bleeding 'em but us. everything here but a real home, with chintz table-covers and a cold roast of beef in the ice-chest. what are we doing here? we should have gone north." "ah, harry, chide me no more," pleaded the little man. "i was weak, i know, but all the freights seemed to be coming south, and i have always longed for a winter amid the sunshine and flowers. look at this fat old duffer coming! alms! for the love of allah, alms!" "shut up," growled the thin one. "save your breath till we stand hat in hand in the office of the local newspaper. a job! two jobs! good lord, there aren't two newspaper jobs in the entire south. well--we can only be kicked out into the night again. and perhaps staked to a meal, in the name of the guild in which we have served so long and liquidly." "some day," said the short man dreamily, "when i am back in the haunts of civilization again, i am going to start something. a society for melting the stone hearts of editors. motto: 'have a heart--have a heart!' emblem, a roast beef sandwich rampant, on a cloth of linen. ah, well--the day will come." they halted in the plaza. in the round stone tub provided, the town alligator dozed. above him hung a warning sign: "do not feed or otherwise annoy the alligator." the short man read, and drew back with a tragic groan. "feed or otherwise annoy!" he cried. "heavens, harry, is that the way they look at it here? this is no place for us. we'd better be moving on to the next town." but the lean stranger gave no heed. instead he stepped over and entered into earnest converse with a citizen of san marco. in a moment he returned to his companion's side. "one newspaper," he announced. "the _evening chronicle_. suppose the office is locked for the night--but come along, let's try." "feed or otherwise annoy," muttered the little man blankly. "for the love of allah--alms!" they traversed several side streets, and came at last to the office of the _chronicle_. it was a modest structure, verging on decay. one man sat alone in the dim interior, reading exchanges under an electric lamp. "good evening," said the short man genially. "are you the editor?" "uh, huh," responded the _chronicle_ man without enthusiasm, from under his green eye-shade. "glad to know you. we just dropped in--a couple of newspaper men, you know. this is mr. harry howe, until recently managing editor of the mobile _press_. my own name is robert o'neill--a humble editorial writer on the same sheet." "uh, huh. if you had jobs for god's sake why did you leave them?" "ah, you may well ask." the red-haired one dropped, uninvited, into a chair. "old man, it's a dramatic story. the chief of police of mobile happened to be a crook and a grafter, and we happened to mention it in the _press_. night before last twenty-five armed cops invaded the peace and sanctity of our sanctum. harry and i--pure accident--landed in the same general heap at the foot of the fire-escape out back. and here we are! here we are!" "my newspaper instinct," said the _chronicle_ man, "had already enabled me to gather that last." sarcasm. it was a bad sign. but blithely bob o'neill continued. "here we are," he said, "two experienced newspaper men, down and out. we thought there might possibly be a vacancy or two on the staff of your paper--" the editor threw off his eye-shade, revealing a cynical face. "boys," he said, "i thank you, from the bottom of my heart. i've been running this alleged newspaper for two long dreary years, and this laugh you've just handed me is the first i've had during that time. vacancies! there is one--a big one. see my pocket for particulars. two years, boys. and all the time hoping--praying--that some day i'd make two dollars and sixty cents, which is the railroad fare to the next town." howe and o'neill listened with faces that steadily grew more sorrowful. "i'd like to stake you to a meal," the editor went on. "but a man's first duty is to his family. any burglar will tell you that." "i suppose," ventured o'neill, most of the flash gone from his manner, "there is no other newspaper here?" "no, there isn't. there's a weird thing here called the _san marco mail_--a morning outrage. it's making money, but by different methods than i'd care to use. you might try there. you look unlucky. perhaps they'd take you on." he rose from his chair, and gave them directions for reaching the _mail_ office. "good night, boys," he said. "thank you for calling. you're the first newspaper men i've seen in two years, except when i've looked in the glass. and the other day i broke my looking-glass. good night, and bad luck go with you to the extent of jobs on the _mail_." "cynic," breathed o'neill in the street. "a bitter tongue maketh a sour face. i liked him not. a morning outrage called the _mail_. sounds promising--like smallpox in the next county." "we shall see," said howe, "that which meets our vision. forward, march!" "the alligator and i," muttered o'neill, "famished, perishing. for the love of allah, as i remarked before, alms!" in the dark second-floor hallway where the _mail_ office was suspected of being, they groped about determinedly. no sign of any nature proclaimed san marco's only morning paper. a solitary light, shining through a transom, beckoned. boldly o'neill pushed open the door. to the knowing nostrils of the two birds of passage was wafted the odor they loved, the unique inky odor of a newspaper shop. their eyes beheld a rather bare room, a typewriter or two, a desk. in the center of the room was a small table under an electric lamp. on this table was a bottle and glasses, and at it two silent men played poker. one of the men was burly and bearded; the other was slight, pale, nervous. from an inner room came the click of linotypes--lonesome linotypes that seemed to have strayed far from their native haunts. the two men finished playing the hand, and looked up. "good evening," said o'neill, with a smile that had drawn news as a magnet draws steel in many odd corners. "gentlemen, four newspaper men meet in a strange land. i perceive you have on the table a greeting unquestionably suitable." the bearded man laughed, rose and discovered two extra glasses on a near-by shelf. "draw up," he said heartily. "the place is yours. you're as welcome as pay-day." "thanks." o'neill reached for a glass. "let me introduce ourselves." and he mentioned his own name and howe's. "call me mears," said the bearded one. "i'm managing editor of the _mail_. and this is my city editor, mr. elliott." "delighted," breathed o'neill. "a pleasant little haven you have found here. and your staff--i don't see the members of your staff running in and out?" "mr. o'neill," said mears impressively, "you have drunk with the staff of the _mail_." "you two?" o'neill's face shone with joy. "glory be--do you hear that, harry? these gentlemen all alone on the premises." he leaned over, and poured out eloquently the story of the tragic flight from mobile. "i call this luck," he finished. "here we are, broke, eager for work. and we find you minus a--" o'neill stopped. for he had seen a sickly smile of derision float across the face of the weary city editor. and he saw the bearded man shaking his great head violently. "nothing doing," said the bearded man firmly. "sorry to dash your hopes--always ready to pour another drink. but--there are no vacancies here. no, sir. two of us are plenty and running over, eh, bill?" "plenty and running over," agreed the city editor warmly. into their boots tumbled the hearts of the two strangers in a strange land. gloom and hunger engulfed them. but the managing editor of the _mail_ was continuing--and what was this he was saying? "no, boys--we don't need a staff. have just as much use for a manicure set. but--you come at an opportune time. _wanderlust_--it tickles the soles of four feet to-night, and those four feet are editorial feet on the _mail_. something tells us that we are going away from here. boys--how would you like our jobs?" he stared placidly at the two strangers. o'neill put one hand to his head. "see me safely to my park bench, harry," he said. "it was that drink on an empty stomach. i'm all in a daze. i hear strange things." "i hear 'em, too," said howe. "see here"--he turned to mears--"are you offering to resign in our favor?" "the minute you say the word." "both of you?" "believe me," said the city editor, "you can't say the word too soon." "well," said howe, "i don't know what's the matter with the place, but you can consider the deal closed." "spoken like a sport!" the bearded man stood up. "you can draw lots to determine who is to be managing editor and who city editor. it's an excellent scheme--i attained my proud position that way. one condition i attach. ask no questions. let us go out into the night unburdened with your interrogation points." elliott, too, stood. the bearded man indicated the bottle. "fill up, boys. i propose a toast. to the new editors of the _mail_. may heaven bless them and bring them safely back to the north when florida's fitful fever is past." dizzily, uncertainly, howe and o'neill drank. mr. mears reached out a great red hand toward the bottle. "pardon me--private property," he said. he pocketed it. "we bid you good-by and good luck. think of us on the choo-choo, please. riding far--riding far." "but--see here--" cried o'neill. "but me no buts," said mears again. "nary a question, i beg of you. take our jobs, and if you think of us at all, think of gleaming rails and a speeding train. once more--good-by." the door slammed. o'neill looked at howe. "fairies," he muttered, "or the d.t's. what is this--a comic opera or a town? you are managing editor, harry. i shall be city editor. is there a city to edit? no matter." "no," said howe. he reached for the greasy pack of cards. "we draw for it. come on. high wins." "jack," announced mr. o'neill. "deuce," smiled howe. "what are your orders, sir?" o'neill passed one hand before his eyes. "a steak," he muttered. "well done. mushroom sauce. french fried potatoes. i've always dreamed of running a paper some day. hurry up with that steak." "forget your stomach," said howe. "if a subordinate may make a suggestion, we must get out a newspaper. ah, whom have we here?" a stocky, red-faced man appeared from the inner room and stood regarding them. "where's mears and elliott?" he demanded. "on a train, riding far," said o'neill. "i am the new managing editor. what can i do for you?" "you can give me four columns of copy for the last page of to-morrow's _mail_," said the stocky man calmly. "i'm foreman of something in there we call a composing-room. glad to meet you." "four columns," mused o'neill. "four columns of what?" the foreman pointed to a row of battered books on a shelf. "it's been the custom," he said, "to fill up with stuff out of that encyclopedia there." "thanks," o'neill answered. he took down a book. "we'll fix you up in ten minutes. mr. howe, will you please do me two columns on--er--mulligatawny--murder--mushrooms. that's it. on mushrooms. the life-story of the humble little mushroom. i myself will dash off a column or so on the climate of algeria." the foreman withdrew, and howe and o'neill stood looking at each other. "once," said o'neill, "i ran an editorial page in boston, where you can always fill space by printing letters from citizens who wish to rewrite lincoln's gettysburg address, and do it right. but i never struck anything like this before." "me either," said howe. "mushrooms, did you say?" they sat down before typewriters. "one thing worries me," remarked o'neill. "if we'd asked the president of the first national bank for jobs, do you suppose we'd be in charge there now?" "write, man, write," said howe. the clatter of their fingers on the keys filled the room. they looked up suddenly ten minutes later to find a man standing between them. he was a little man, clad all in white, suit, shoes, stockings. his sly old face was a lemon yellow, and his eyes suggested lights flaming in the dark woods at night. "beg pardon," said the little man. "ah, and what can we do for you?" inquired o'neill. "nothing. mr. mears? mr. elliott?" "gone. vamosed. you are now speaking to the managing editor of the _mail_." "ah. indeed?" "we are very busy. if you'll just tell me what you want--" "i merely dropped in. i am manuel gonzale, owner of the _mail_." "good lord!" cried o'neill. "do not be disturbed. i take it you gentlemen have replaced mears and elliott. i am glad. let them go. you look like bright young men to me--quite bright enough. i employ you." "thanks," stammered the managing editor. "don't mention it. here is madame on dit's column for to-morrow. it runs on the first page. as for the rest of the paper, suit yourselves." o'neill took the copy, and glanced through it. "are there no libel laws down here?" he asked. "the material in that column," said the little man, his eyes narrowing, "concerns only me. you must understand that at once." "the madame writes hot stuff," ventured o'neill. "i am the madame," said the owner of the _mail_ with dignity. he removed the copy from o'neill's hand, and glided with it into the other room. scarcely had he disappeared when the door was opened furiously and a panting man stood inside. mr. henry trimmer's keen eye surveyed the scene. "where's mears--elliott?" he cried. "you're not the cashier, are you?" asked o'neill with interest. "don't try to be funny," roared trimmer. "i'm looking for the editor of this paper." "your search is ended," o'neill replied. "what is it?" "you mean you-- say! i've got a front-page story for to-morrow's issue that will upset the town." "come to my arms," cried o'neill. "what is it?" "the real lord harrowby has been kidnaped." o'neill stared at him sorrowfully. "have you been reading the duchess again?" he asked. "who the hell is lord harrowby?" "do you mean to say you don't know? where have you been buried alive?" out of the inner room glided manuel gonzale, and recognizing him, mr. trimmer poured into his ear the story of george's disappearance. mr. gonzale rubbed his hands. "a good story," he said. "a very good story. thank you, a thousand times. i myself will write it." with a scornful glance at the two strangers, mr. trimmer went out, and manuel gonzale sat down at his desk. o'neill and howe returned to their encyclopedic despatches. "there you are," said gonzale at last, standing. "put an eight column head on that, please, and run it on the front page. a very fine story. the paper must go to press"--he looked at a diamond studded watch--"in an hour. only four pages. please see to the make-up. my circulation manager will assist you with the distribution." at the door he paused. "it occurs to me that your exchequer may be low. seventy-five dollars a week for the managing editor. fifty for the city editor. allow me--ten dollars each in advance. if you need more, pray remind me." into their hands he put crinkling bills. and then, gliding still like the fox he looked, he went out into the night. "sister," cried o'neill weakly, "the fairies are abroad to-night. i hear the rustle of their feet over the grass." "fairies," sneered howe. "i could find another and a harsher name for them." "don't," pleaded o'neill. "don't look a gift bill in the treasury number. don't try to penetrate behind the beyond. say nothing and let us eat. how are you coming with the mushroom serial?" an hour later they sent the paper to press, and sought the grill room of the hotel alameda. as they came happily away from that pleasant spot, o'neill spied a fruit-stand. he stopped and made a few purchases. "now," said howe, "let us go over and meet the circulation manager. here--where are you going, bob?" "just a minute," o'neill shouted back. "come along, harry. i'm going over to the plaza! i'm going over to feed that alligator!" chapter xi tears from the gaiety friday morning found mr. minot ready for whatever diplomacy the day might demand of him. he had a feeling that the demand would be great. the unheralded arrival of miss gabrielle rose and her packet of letters presented no slight complication. whatever the outcome of any suit she might start against harrowby, minot was sure that the mere announcement of it would be sufficient to blast jephson's hopes for all time. old spencer meyrick, already inflamed by the episode of the elder brother, was not likely to take coolly the publication of harrowby's incriminating letters. after an early breakfast, minot sent a cable to jephson telling of miss rose's arrival and asking for information about her. next he sought an interview with the gaiety lady. an hour later, in a pink and gold parlor of the hotel de la pax, he stood gazing into the china-blue eyes of miss gabrielle rose. it goes without saying that miss rose was pretty; innocent she seemed, too, with a baby stare that said as plainly as words: "please don't harm me, will you?" but--ah, well, lord harrowby was not the first to learn that a business woman may lurk back of a baby stare. "you come from lord harrowby?" and the smile that had decorated ten million postcards throughout the united kingdom flashed on mr. minot. "won't you sit down?" "thanks." minot fidgeted. he had no idea what to say. time--it was time he must fight for, as he was fighting with trimmer. "er--miss rose," he began, "when i started out on this errand i had misgivings. but now that i have seen you, they are gone. everything will be all right, i know. i have come to ask that you show lord harrowby some leniency." the china-blue eyes hardened. "you have come on a hopeless errand, mr--er--minot. why should i show harrowby any consideration? did he show me any--when he broke his word to me and made me the laughing-stock of the town?" "but that all happened five years ago--" "yes, but it is as vivid as though it were yesterday. i have always intended to demand some redress from his lordship. but my art--mr.--mr. minot--you have no idea how exacting art can be. not until now have i been in a position to do so." "and the fact that not until now has his lordship proposed to marry some one else--that of course has nothing to do with it?" "mr. minot!" a delightful pout. "if you knew me better you could not possibly ask that." "miss rose, you're a clever woman--" "oh, please don't. i hate clever women, and i'm sure you do, too. i'm not a bit clever, and i'm proud of it. on the contrary, i'm rather weak--rather easily got round. but when i think of the position allan put me in--even a weak woman can be firm in the circumstances." "have it your own way," said minot, bowing. "but you are at least clever enough to understand the futility of demanding financial redress from a man who is flat broke. i assure you lord harrowby hasn't a shilling." "i don't believe it. he can get money somehow. he always could. the courts can force him to. i shall tell my lawyer to go ahead with the suit." "if you would only delay--a week--" "impossible." miss rose spoke with haughty languor. "i begin rehearsals in new york in a week. no, i shall start suit to-day. you may tell lord harrowby so." poor jephson! minot had a mental picture of the little bald man writing at that very moment a terribly large check for the dowager duchess of tremayne--paying for the rain that had fallen in torrents. he must at least hold this woman off until jephson answered his cable. "miss rose," he pleaded, "grant us one favor. do not make public your suit against harrowby until i have seen you again--say, at four o'clock this afternoon." coldly she shook her head. "but you have already waited five years. surely you can wait another five hours--as a very great favor to me." "i should like to--since you put it that way--but it's impossible. i'm sorry." the great beauty and business woman leaned closer. "mr. minot, you can hardly realize what allan's unkindness cost me--in bitter tears. i loved him--once. and--i believe he loved me." "there can not be any question about that." "ah--flattery--" "no--spoken from the heart." "really!" "my dear lady--i should like to be your press agent. i could write the most gorgeous things about you--and no one could say i lied." "you men are so nice," she gurgled, "when you want to be." ah, yes, gabrielle rose had always found them so, and had yet to meet one not worth her while to capture. she turned the baby stare full on minot. even to a beauty of the theater he was an ingratiating picture. she rose and strolled to a piano in one corner of the room. minot followed. "when harrowby first met me," she said, her fingers on the keys, "i was singing _just a little_. my first dear song--ah, mr. minot, i was happy then." in another minute she began to sing--softly--a plaintive little love-song, and in spite of himself minot felt his heart beat faster. "how it brings back the old days," she whispered. "the lights, and the friendly faces--harrowby in the stalls. and the little suppers after the show--" she leaned forward and sang at minot as she had sung at harrowby five years before: "you could love me just a little--if you tried-- you could feel your heart go pit-a-pat inside--" really, she had a way with her! "dear, it's easy if you try; cross your heart and hope to die-- don't you love me just a little--now?" that baby stare in all its pathos, all its appealing helplessness, was focused full on minot. he gripped the arms of his chair. gabrielle rose saw. had she made another captive? so it seemed. she felt very kindly toward the world. "promise." minot leaned over. his voice was hoarse. "you'll meet me here at four. quite aside from my errand--quite aside from everything--i want to see you again." "do you really?" she continued to hum beneath her breath. "very well--here at four." "and--" he hesitated, fearing to break the spell. "in the meantime--" "in the meantime," she said, "i'll think only of--four o'clock." minot left that pink and gold parlor at sea in several respects. the theory was that he had played with this famous actress--wound her round his finger--cajoled a delay. but somehow he didn't feel exactly as one who has mastered a delicate situation should. instead he felt dazed by the beauty of her. still more was he at sea as to what he was going to do at four o'clock. of what good was the delay if he could not make use of it? and at the moment he hadn't the slightest notion of what he could do to prepare himself for the afternoon interview. he must wait for jephson's cable--perhaps that would give him an idea. minot was walking blankly down the street in the direction of his morning paper when a poster in a deserted store window caught his eye. it was an atrocious poster--red letters on a yellow background. it announced that five hundred dollars reward would be paid by mr. henry trimmer for information that would disclose the present whereabouts of the real lord harrowby. as minot stood reading it, a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. turning, he looked into the lean and hostile face of henry trimmer himself. "good morning," said mr. trimmer. "good morning," replied minot. "glad to number you among my readers," sneered trimmer. "what do you think--reward large enough?" "looks about the right size to me," minot answered. "me, too. ought to bring results pretty quick. by the way, you were complaining last night that you never heard of me until you came here. i've been thinking that over, and i've decided to make up to you in the next few days for all those lonely years--" but the morning had been too much for minot. worried, distressed, he lost for the moment his usual smiling urbanity. "oh, go to the devil!" he said, and walked away. lunch time came--two o'clock. at half past two, out of london, jephson spoke. said his cable: "know nothing of g.r. except that she's been married frequently. do best you can." and what help was this, pray? disgustedly minot read the cable again. four o'clock was coming on apace, and with every tick of the clock his feeling of helplessness grew. he mentally berated thacker and jephson. they left him alone to grapple with wild problems, offering no help and asking miracles. confound them both! three o'clock came. what--what was he to say? lord harrowby, interrogated, was merely useless and frantic. he couldn't raise a shilling. he couldn't offer a suggestion. "dear old chap," he moaned, "i depend on you." three-thirty! well, thacker and jephson had asked the impossible, that was all. minot felt he had done his best. no man could do more. he was very sorry for jephson, but--golden before him opened the possibility of miss cynthia meyrick free to be wooed. yet he must be faithful to the last. at a quarter to four he read jephson's cablegram again. as he read, a plan ridiculous in its ineffectiveness occurred to him. and since no other came in the interval before four, he walked into miss rose's presence determined to try out his weak little bluff. the gaiety lady was playing on the piano--a whispering, seductive little tune. as minot stepped to her side she glanced up at him with a coy inviting smile. but she drew back a little at his determined glare. "miss rose," he said sharply, "i have discovered that you can not sue lord harrowby for breach of contract to marry you." "why--why not?" she stammered. "because," said minot, with a triumphant smile--though it was a shot in the dark--"you already had a husband when those letters were written to you." well, he had done his best. a rather childish effort, but what else was there to attempt? poor old jephson! "nonsense," said the gaiety lady, and continued to play. "nothing of the sort," minot replied. "why, i can produce the man himself." might as well go the limit while he was about it. that should be his consolation when jephson lost. might as well--but what was this? gabrielle rose had turned livid with anger. her lips twitched, her china-blue eyes flashed fire. if only her lawyer had been by her side then! but he wasn't. and so she cried hotly: "he's told! the little brute's told!" good lord! minot felt his knees weaken. a shot in the dark--had it hit the target after all? "if you refer to your husband," said minot, "he has done just that." "he's not my husband," she snapped. oh, what was the use? providence was with jephson. "no, of course not--not since the divorce," minot answered. "but he was when those letters were written." the gaiety lady's chin began to tremble. "and he promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn't tell. but i suppose you found him easy. what honor could one expect in a persian carpet dealer?" a persian carpet dealer? into minot's mind floated a scrap of conversation heard at mrs. bruce's table. "but you must remember," he ventured, "that he is also a prince." "yes," said the woman, "that's what i thought when i married him. he's the prince of liars--that's as far as his royal blood goes." a silence, while miss gabrielle rose felt in her sleeve for her handkerchief. "i suppose," minot suggested, "you will abandon the suit--" she looked at him. oh, the pathos of that baby stare! "you are acting in this matter simply as harrowby's friend?" she asked. "simply as his friend." "and--so far--only you know of my--er--ex-husband?" "only i know of him," smiled minot. the smile died from his face. for he saw bright tears on the long lashes of the gaiety lady. she leaned close. "mr. minot," she said, "it is i who need a friend. not harrowby. i am here in a strange country--without funds--alone. helpless. mr. minot. you could not be so cruel." "i--i--i'm sorry," said minot uncomfortably. the lady was an actress, and she acted now, beautifully. "i--i feel so desolate," she moaned, dabbing daintily at her eyes. "you will help me. it can not be i am mistaken in you. i thought--did i imagine it--this morning when i sang for you--you liked me--just a little?" nervously minot rose from his chair and stood looking down at her. he tried to answer, but his voice seemed lost. "just a very little?" she, too, rose and placed her butterfly hands on his shoulders. "you do like me--just a little, don't you?" her pleading eyes gazed into his. it was a touching scene. to be besought thus tenderly by a famous beauty in the secluded parlor of a southern hotel! the touch of her hands on his shoulders thrilled him. the odor of jockey club-- it was at this instant that mr. minot, looking past the gaiety lady's beautiful golden coiffure, beheld miss cynthia meyrick standing in the doorway of that parlor, a smile on her face. she disappeared on the instant, but gabrielle rose's "big scene" was ruined beyond repair. "my dear lady"--gently minot slipped from beneath her lovely hands--"i assure you i do like you--more than a little. but unfortunately my loyalty to harrowby--no, i won't say that--circumstances are such that i can not be your friend in this instance. though, if i could serve you in any other way--" gabrielle rose snapped her fingers. "very well." her voice had a metallic ring now. "we shall see what we shall see." "undoubtedly. i bid you good day." as minot, somewhat dazed, walked along the veranda of the de la pax he met miss meyrick. there was a mischievous gleam in her eye. "really, it was so tactless of me, mr. minot," she said. "a thousand apologies." he pretended not to understand. "my untimely descent on the parlor." she beamed on him. "i presume it happened because romance draws me--like a magnet. even other people's." minot smiled wanly, and for once sought to end their talk. "oh, do sit down just a moment," she pleaded. "i want to thank you for the great service you did harrowby and me--last night." "wha--what service?" asked minot, sinking into a chair. she leaned close, and spoke in a whisper. "your part in the kidnaping. harrowby has told me. it was sweet of you--so unselfish." "damn!" thought minot. and then he thought two more. "to put yourself out that our wedding may be a success!" was this sarcasm, minot wondered. "i'm so glad to know about it, mr. minot. it shows me at last--just what you think is"--she looked away--"best for me." "best for you? what do you mean?" "can't you understand? from some things you've said i have thought--perhaps--you didn't just approve of my--marriage. and now i see i misconstrued you--utterly. you want me to marry harrowby. you're working for it. i shouldn't be surprised if you were on that train last monday just to make sure that--i'd--get here--safely." really, it was inhuman. did she realize how inhuman it was? one glance at minot might have told her. but she was still looking away. "so i want to thank you, mr. minot," she went on. "i shall always remember your--kindness. i couldn't understand at first, but now--i wonder? you know, it's an old theory that as soon as one has one's own affair of the heart arranged, one begins to plan for others?" minot made a little whistling sound through his clenched teeth. the girl stood up. "your thoughtfulness has made me very happy," she laughed. "it shows that perhaps you care for me--just a little--too." she was gone! minot sat swearing softly to himself, banging the arm of his chair with his fist. he raged at thacker, jephson, the solar system. gradually his anger cooled. underneath the raillery in cynthia meyrick's tone he had thought he detected something of a serious note--as though she were a little wistful--a little hurt. did she care? bitter-sweet thought! in the midst of all this farce and melodrama, had she come to care?--just a little?-- just a little! bah! minot rose and went out on the avenue. prince navin bey imno was accustomed to give lectures twice daily on the textures of his precious rugs, at his shop in the alameda courtyard. his afternoon lecture was just finished as mr. minot stepped into the shop. a dozen awed housewives from the middle west were hurrying away to write home on the hotel stationery that they had met a prince. when the last one had gone out minot stepped forward. "prince--i've dropped in to warn you. a very angry woman will be here shortly to see you." the handsome young persian shrugged his shoulders, and took off the jacket of the native uniform with which he embellished his talks. "why is she angry? all my rugs--they are what i say they are. in this town are many liars selling oriental rugs. oriental! ugh! in new jersey they were made. but not my rugs. see! only in my native country, where i was a prince of the--" "yes, yes. but this lady is not coming about rugs. i refer to your ex-wife." "ah. you are mistaken. i have never married." "oh, yes, you have. i know all about it. there's no need to lie. the whole story is out, and the lady's game in san marco is queered. she thinks you told. that's why she'll be here for a chat." "but i did not tell. only this morning did i see her first. i could not tell--so soon. who could i tell--so soon?" "i know you didn't tell. but can you prove it to an agitated lady? no. you'd better close up for the evening." "ah, yes--you are right. i am innocent--but what does gabrielle care for innocence? we are no longer married--still i should not want to meet her now. i will close. but first--my friend--my benefactor--could i interest you in this rug? see! only in my native country, where--" "prince," said minot, "i couldn't use a rug if you gave me one." "that is exactly what i would do. you are my friend. you serve me. i give you this. fifty dollars. that is giving it to you. note the weave. only in my--" "good night," interrupted minot. "and take my advice. hurry!" gloomy, discouraged, he turned back toward his own hotel. it was true, gabrielle rose's husband at the time of the letters was in san marco. the emissary of jephson was serving a cause that could not lose. that afternoon he had hoped. was there anything dishonorable in that? jephson and thacker could command his service, they could not command his heart. he had hoped--and now-- at a corner a negro gave him a handbill. he read: who has kidnaped the real lord harrowby? at the opera-house to-night!! mr. henry trimmer will appear in place of his unfortunate friend, lord harrowby, and will make a few warm and sizzling remarks. no advance in prices. mr. minot tossed the bill into the street. into his eyes came the ghostlike semblance of a smile. after all, the famous harrowby wedding had not yet taken place. chapter xii exit a lady, laughingly after dinner minot lighted a cigar and descended into the hotel gardens for a stroll. farther and farther he strayed down the shadowy gravel paths, until only the faint far suggestion of music at his back recalled the hotel's lights and gaiety. it was a deserted land he penetrated; just one figure did he encounter in a fifteen minutes' walk--a little man clad all in white scurrying like a wraith in the black shade of the royal palms. at a distant corner of the grounds near the tennis-courts was a summer-house in which tea was served of an afternoon. into this minot strolled, to finish his cigar and ponder the day's developments in the drama he was playing. as he drew a comfortable chair from moonlight into shadow he heard a little gasp at his elbow, and turning, beheld a beautiful vision. gabrielle rose was made for the spotlight, and that being absent, moonlight served as well. under its soft merciful rays she stood revealed--the beauty thousands of playgoers knew and worshiped. dick minot gazed at her in awe. he was surprised that she held out her hand to him, a smile of the utmost friendliness on her face. "how fortunate," she said, as though speaking the cue for a lovely song. "i stand here, the wonder of this old spanish night getting into my very blood--and the only thing lacking in the picture is--a man. and then, you come." "i'm glad to be of service," said minot, tossing away his cigar. "what an unromantic way to put it! really, this chance meeting--it was a chance meeting, i suppose?--" "a lucky chance," he agreed. she pouted. "then you did not follow? unromantic to the last! but as i was saying, this chance meeting is splendid. my train goes in an hour--and i wanted so very much to see you--once again." "you flatter me." "ah--you don't understand." she dropped into a chair. "i wanted to see you--to put your conscience at rest. you were so sorry when you had to be--cruel--to me to-day. you will be so glad to know that it has all turned out happily, after all." "what do you mean?" asked minot, new apprehensions rising in his mind. "alas, if i could only tell you." she was laughing at him now--an experience he did not relish. "but--my lips are sealed, as we say on the stage. i can only give you the hint. you thought you left me a broken vanquished woman. how the thought did pain you! well, your victory was not absolute. let that thought console you." "you are too kind," minot answered. "and--you are glad i am not leaving san marco quite beaten?" "oh, yes--i'm wild with pleasure." "really--that is sweet of you. i am so sorry we must part. the moonlight, the palms, the distant music--all so romantic. but--we shall meet again?" "i don't know." "don't know? how unkind--when it all depends on you. you will look me up in new york, won't you? new york is not so romantic--but i shall try to make it up to you. i shall sing for you. _just a little_." she stood up, and held out a slim white hand. "good-by, mr. minot." still she laughed. "it has been so good to know you." "er--good-by," said minot. he took the hand. he heard her humming beneath her breath--humming _just a little_. "i've enjoyed your singing immensely." she laughed outright now--a silvery joyous laugh. and, refusing the baffled minot's offer to take her back to the hotel, she fled away from him down the dark path. he fell back into his chair, and lighted another cigar. exit the gaiety lady, laughing merrily. what was the meaning of that? what new complication must he meet and solve? for his answer, he had only to return to the hotel. on the steps he was met by lord harrowby's man, agitated, puffing. "been looking all about for you, sir," he announced. "'is lordship wishes to see you at once--most h'important." "more trouble, minot," was lord harrowby's gloomy greeting. "sit down, old chap. just had a very nasty visitor." "sorry to hear it." "little brown monkey of a man--manuel gonzale, proprietor of the _san marco mail_. i say, old boy, there's a syllable missing in the name of that paper. do you get me?" "you mean it should be the _san marco blackmail_? pretty good, harrowby, pretty good." and minot added to himself "for you." "that's exactly what i do mean. gabrielle has sold out her bunch of letters to mr. gonzale. and it appears from the chap's sly hints that unless i pay him ten thousand dollars before midnight, the best of those letters will be in to-morrow's _mail_." "he's got his nerve--working a game like that," said minot. "nerve--not at all," replied harrowby. "he's as safe as a child in its own nursery. he knows as well as anybody that the last thing i'd do would be to appeal to the police. too much publicity down that road. well?" "his price is a bit cheaper than gabrielle's." "yes, but not cheap enough. i'm broke, old boy. the governor and i are on very poor terms. shouldn't think of appealing to him." "we might pawn chain lightning's collar," minot suggested. "never! there must be some way--only three days before the wedding. we mustn't lose on the stretch, old boy." a pause. minot sat glumly. "have you no suggestion?" harrowby asked anxiously. "i have not," said minot, rising. "but i perceive clearly that it now devolves on little dicky minot to up and don his fighting armor once more." "really, old boy, i'm sorry," said harrowby. "i'm hoping things may quiet down a bit after a time." "so am i," replied minot with feeling. "if they don't i can see nervous prostration and a hospital cot ahead for me. you stay here and study the marriage service--i'm going out on the broad highway again." he went down into the lobby and tore jack paddock away from the side of one of the omaha beauties. mr. paddock was resplendent in evening clothes, and thoughtful, for on the morrow mrs. bruce was to give an important luncheon. "jack," minot said, "i'm going to confide in you. i'm going to tell you why i am in san marco." "unbare your secrets," paddock answered. crossing the quiet plaza minot explained to his friend the matter of the insurance policy written by the romantic jephson in new york. he told of how he had come south with the promise to his employer that miss cynthia meyrick would change her mind only over his dead body. incredulous exclamations broke from the flippant paddock as he listened. "knowing your love of humor," minot said, "i hasten to add the crowning touch. the moment i saw cynthia meyrick i realized that if i couldn't marry her myself life would be an uninteresting blank forever after. every time i've seen her since i've been surer of it. what's the answer, jack?" paddock whistled. "delicious," he cried. "pardon me--i'm speaking as a rank outsider. she is a charming girl. and you adore her! bless my soul, how the plot does thicken! why don't you resign, you idiot?" "my first idea. tried it, and it wouldn't work. besides, if i did resign, i couldn't stick around and queer jephson's chances--even supposing she'd listen to my pleading, which she wouldn't." "children, see the very christian martyr! if it was me i'd chuck the job and elope with--oh, no, you couldn't do that, of course. it would be a low trick. you are in a hole, aren't you?" "five million fathoms deep. there's nothing to do but see the wedding through. and you're going to help me. just now, mr. manuel gonzale has a packet of love-letters written by harrowby in his salad days, which he proposes to print on the morrow unless he is paid not to to-night. you and i are on our way to take 'em away from him." "um--but if i help you in this i'll be doing you a mean trick. can't quite make out, old boy, whether to stand by you in a business or a personal way." "you're going to stand by me in a business way. i want you along to-night to lend your moral support while i throttle that little blackmailer.". "ay, ay, sir. i've been hearing some things about gonzale myself. go to it!" they groped about in a dark hallway hunting the _mail_ office. "shady are the ways of journalism," commented paddock. "by the way, i've just thought of one for mrs. bruce to spring to-morrow. in case we fail and the affinity letters are published, she might say that harrowby's epistles got into the _mail_ once too often. it's only a rough idea--ah--i see you don't like it. well, here's success to our expedition." they opened the door of the _mail_ office. mr. o'neill sat behind a desk, the encyclopedia before him, seeking lively material for the morrow's issue. mr. howe hammered at a typewriter. both of the newspaper men looked up at the intrusion. "ah, gentlemen," said o'neill, coming forward. "what can i do for you?" "who are you?" minot asked. "what? can it be? is my name not a household word in san marco? i am managing editor of the _mail_." his eyes lighted on mr. paddock's giddy attire. "we can't possibly let you give a ball here to-night, if that's what you want." "very humorous," said minot. "but our wants are far different. i won't beat around the bush. you have some letters here written by a friend of mine to a lady he adored--at the moment. you are going to print them in to-morrow's _mail_ unless my friend is easy enough to pay you ten thousand dollars. he isn't going to pay you anything. we've come for those letters--and we'll get them or run you and your boss out of town in twenty-four hours--you raw little blackmailers!" "blackmailers!" mr. o'neill's eyes seemed to catch fire from his hair. his face paled. "i've been in the newspaper business seventeen years, and nobody ever called me a blackmailer and got away with it. i'm in a generous mood. i'll give you one chance to take that back--" "nonsense. it happens to be true--" put in paddock. "i'm talking to your friend here." o'neill's breath came fast. "i'll attend to you, you lily of the field, in a minute. you--you liar--are you going to take that back?" "no," cried minot. he saw a wild irishman coming for him, breathing fire. he squared himself to meet the attack! but the man at the typewriter leaped up and seized o'neill from behind. "steady, bob," he shouted. "how do you know this fellow isn't right?" unaccountably the warlike one collapsed into a chair. "damn it, i know he's right," he groaned. "that's what makes me rave. why didn't you let me punch him? it would have been some satisfaction. of course he's right. i had a hunch this was a blackmailing sheet from the moment my hot fingers closed on gonzale's money. but so long as nobody told us, we were all right." he glared angrily at minot. "you--you killjoy," he cried. "you skeleton at the feast. you've put us in a lovely fix." "well, i'm sorry," said minot, "but i don't understand these heroics." "it's all up now, harry," moaned o'neill. "the free trial is over and we've got to send the mattress back to the factory. here in this hollow lotus land, ever to live and lie reclined--i was putting welcome on the mat for a fate like that. back to the road for us. that human fish over in the _chronicle_ office was a prophet--'you look unlucky--maybe they'll give you jobs on the _mail_.' remember." "cool off, bob," howe said. he turned to minot and paddock. "of course you don't understand. you see, we're strangers here. drifted in last night broke and hungry, looking for jobs. we got them--under rather unusual circumstances. things looked suspicious--the proprietor parted with money without screaming for help, and no regular newspaper is run like that. but--when you're down and out, you know--" "i understand," said minot, smiling. "and i'm sorry i called you what i did. i apologize. and i hate to be a--er--a killjoy. but as a matter of fact, your employer is a blackmailer, and it's best you should know it." "yes," put in paddock. "do you gentlemen happen to have heard where the editor of mr. gonzale's late newspaper, published in havana, is now?" "we do not," said o'neill, "but maybe you'll tell us." "i will. he's in prison, doing ten years for blackmail. i understand that mr. gonzale prefers to involve his editors, rather than himself." o'neill came over and held out his hand to minot. "shake, son," he said. "thank god i didn't waste my strength on you. gonzale will be in here in a minute--" "about those letters?" howe inquired. "yes," said minot. "they were written to a gaiety actress by a man who is in san marco for his wedding next tuesday--lord harrowby." "his ludship again," o'neill remarked. "say, i always thought the south was democratic." "well," said howe, "we owe you fellows something for putting us wise. we've stood for a good deal, but never for blackmailing. as a matter of fact, gonzale hasn't brought the letters in yet, but he's due at any minute. when he comes--take the letters away from him. i shan't interfere. how about you, bob?" "i'll interfere," said o'neill, "and i'll interfere strong--if i think you fellows ain't leaving enough of little manuel for me to caress--" the door opened, and the immaculate proprietor of the _mail_ came noiselessly into the room. his eyes narrowed when they fell on the strangers there. "are you manuel gonzale?" minot demanded. "i--i am." the sly little eyes darted everywhere. "proprietor of the _mail_?" "yes." "the gentleman who visited lord harrowby an hour back?" "man! man! you're wasting time," o'neill cried. "excuse me," smiled minot. "unintentional, i assure you." he seized the little spaniard suddenly by the collar. "we're here for lord harrowby's letters," he said. his other hand began a rapid search of manuel gonzale's pockets. "let me go, you thief," screamed the proprietor of the _mail_. he squirmed and fought. "let me go!" he writhed about to face his editors. "you fools! what are you doing, standing there? help me--help--" "we're waiting," said o'neill. "waiting for our turn. remember your promise, son. enough of him left for me." minot and his captive slid back and forth across the floor. the three others watched, o'neill in high glee. "go to it!" he cried. "that's madame on dit you're waltzing with. i speak for the next dance, madame." mr. minot's eager hand came away from the spaniard's inner waistcoat pocket, and in it was a packet of perfumed letters, tied with a cute blue ribbon. he released his victim. "sorry to be so impolite," he said. "but i had to have these to-night." gonzale turned on him with an evil glare. "thief!" he cried. "i'll have the law on you for this." "i doubt that," smiled minot. "jack, i guess that about concludes our business with the _mail_." he turned to howe and o'neill. "you boys look me up at the de la pax. i want to wish you bon voyage when you start north. for the present--good-by." and he and paddock departed. "you're a fine pair," snarled gonzale, when the door had closed. "a fine pair to take my salary money, and then stand by and see me strangled." "you're not strangled yet," said o'neill. he came slowly toward his employer, like a cat stalking a bird. "did you get my emphasis on the word yet?" gonzale paled beneath his lemon skin, and got behind a desk. "now, boys," he pleaded, "i didn't mean anything. i'll be frank with you--i have been a little indiscreet here. but that's all over now. it would be dangerous to try any more--er--deals at present. and i want you to stay on here until i can get new men in your places." "save your breath," said o'neill through his teeth. "your work has been excellent--excellent," went on gonzale hastily. "i feel i am not paying you enough. stay on with me until your week is up. i will give you a hundred each when you go--and i give you my word i'll attempt nothing dangerous while you are here." he retreated farther from o'neill. "wait a minute, bob," said howe. "no blackmailing stunts while we stay?" "well--i shouldn't call them that--" "no blackmailing stunts?" "no--i promise." "harry," wailed the militant o'neill. "what's the matter with you? we ought to thrash him--now--and--" "go back on the road?" howe inquired. "a hundred dollars each, bob. it means new york in a parlor car." "then you will stay?" cried gonzale. "yes,--we'll stay," said howe firmly. "see here--" pleaded o'neill. "oh, what's the use? this dolce far niente has got us." "we stay only on the terms you name," stipulated howe. "it is agreed," said gonzale, smiling wanly. "the loss of those letters cost me a thousand dollars--and you stood by. however, let us forgive and forget. here--madame on dit's copy for to-morrow." timidly he held out a roll of paper toward o'neill. "all right." o'neill snatched it. "but i'm going to edit it from now on. for instance, there's a comma i don't like. and i'm going to keep an eye on you, my hearty." "as you wish," said gonzale humbly. "i--i am going out for a moment." the door closed noiselessly behind him. howe and o'neill stood looking at each other. "well--you had your way," said o'neill, shamefacedly. "i don't seem to be the man i was. it must be the sunshine and the posies. and the thought of the road again." "a hundred each," said howe grimly. "we had to have it, bob. it means new york." "yes." o'neill pondered. "but--that good-looking young fellow, harry--the one who apologized to us for calling us blackmailers--" "yes?" "i'd hate to meet him on the street to-morrow. five days. a lot could happen in five days--" "what are your orders, chief?" asked howe. at that moment minot, followed by paddock was rushing triumphantly into the harrowby suite. he threw down on the table a package of letters. "there they are!" he cried. "i--" he stopped. "thanks," said lord harrowby wildly. "thanks a thousand times. my dear minot--we need you. my man has been to the theater--trimmer is organizing a mob to board the _lileth_!" "board the _lileth_?" "yes--to search for that creature who calls himself lord harrowby." "come on, jack," minot said to paddock. they ran down several flights of stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. "where to?" panted paddock. "the harbor!" minot cried. as they passed the opera-house they saw a crowd forming and heard the buzz of many voices. chapter xiii "and on the ships at sea" mr. paddock knew of a man on the water-front who had a gasoline launch to rent, and fortunately it happened to be in commission. the two young men leaped into it, paddock started the engine, and they zipped with reassuring speed over the dark waters toward the lights of the _lileth_. the accommodation ladder of the yacht was down, and leaving a member of the crew to make fast the launch, minot and paddock climbed hurriedly to the deck. mr. martin wall was at the moment in the main cabin engaged in a game of german whist, and his opponent was no less a person than george harrowby of the peerage. upon this quiet game the two young men rushed in. "unexpected visitors," said wall. "why--what's the matter, boys?" "come out on deck a minute," said minot rapidly. wall threw down his cards and followed. once outside, minot went on: "no time to waste words. trimmer is collecting a mob in front of the opera-house, and they are coming out here to search this boat. you know who they're looking for." with exaggerated calmness wall took out a cigar and lighted it. "indeed?" he remarked. "i told you it might be advisable to look up the penalty for kidnaping. but you knew best. ah, the impetuosity of youth!" "well--this is no time to discuss that," replied minot. "we've got to act, and act quickly!" "yes?" mr. wall drawled. "what would you suggest? shall we drown him? i've come to like george mighty well, but if you say the word--" "my plan is this," said minot, annoyed by wall's pleasantries. "turn george over to us. we'll bundle him into our launch and run off out of sight behind tarragona island. then, let trimmer search to his heart's content. when he gets tired and quits, signal us by hanging a red lantern in the bow." martin wall smiled broadly. "not bad for an amateur kidnaper," he said. "will i turn george over to you? will a duck swim? a good idea." "for god's sake, hurry!" cried minot. "look!" he pointed to the largest of san marco's piers. the moon was lost under clouds now, but the electric lights on the water-front revealed a swarming shouting crowd of people. martin wall stepped to the door of the main cabin. "lord harrowby!" he cried. he turned to minot and paddock. "i call him that to cheer him in captivity," he explained. the tall weary englishman strode out upon the deck. "lord harrowby," said wall, "these two gentlemen have come to take you for a boat ride. will you be kind enough to step into that launch?" poor old george pulled himself together. "if you'll pardon my language, i'll be damned if i do," he said. "i take it mr. trimmer is on his way here. well, gentlemen, the first to grasp his hand when he boards the boat will be the chap who now addresses you." they stood gazing doubtfully at george in revolt. then minot turned, and saw a rowboat putting off from the pier. "come on," he cried, and leaped on the shoulders of the aspirant to the title. paddock and wall followed. despite his discouraged appearance, george put up a lively fight. for a time the four men struggled back and forth across the deck, now in moonlight, now in shadow. once george slipped and fell, his three captors on top of him, and at that moment mr. minot felt a terrific tugging at his coat. but the odds were three to one against george harrowby, and finally he was dragged and pushed into the launch. again paddock started the engine, and that odd boat load drew away from the _lileth_. they had gone about ten feet when poor old george slipped out from under minot and leaped to his feet. "hi--trimmer--it's me--it's george--" he thundered in a startlingly loud tone. minot put his hand over george's lips, and they locked in conflict. the small launch danced wildly on the waters. and fortunately for minot's plans the moon still hid behind the clouds. with a stretch of tarragona's rank vegetation between them and the _lileth_, mr. paddock stopped the engine and they stood still on the dark waters. paddock lighted a cigarette, utilizing the same match to consult his watch. "ten o'clock," he said. "can't say this is the jolliest little party i was ever on." "never mind," replied minot cheerfully. "it won't take trimmer fifteen minutes to find that his proposition isn't on board. in twenty minutes we'll slip back and look for the signal." the "proposition" in question sat up and straightened his collar. "the pater and i split," he said, "over the matter of my going to oxford. the old boy knew best. i wish now i'd gone. then i might have words to tell you chaps what i think of this damnable outrage." minot and paddock sat in silence. "i've been in america twenty odd years," the proposition went on. "seen all sorts of injustice and wrong--but i've lived to experience the climax myself." still silence from his captors, while the black waters swished about the launch. "i take it you chaps believe me to be an impostor, just as allan does. well, i'm not. and i'm going to give you my little talk on the old days at rakedale hall. when i've finished--" "no, you're not," said minot. "i've heard all that once." "and you weren't convinced? why, everybody in san marco is convinced. the mayor, the chief of police, the--" "my dear george," said minot with feeling. "it doesn't make the slightest difference who you are. you and trimmer stay separated until after next tuesday." "yes. and rank injustice it is, too. we'll have the law on you for this. we'll send you all to prison." "pleasant thought," commented paddock. "mrs. bruce would have to develop lockjaw at the height of the social season. oh, the devil--i'd better be thinking about that luncheon." all thought. all sat there silent. the black waters became a little rougher. on their surface small flecks of white began to appear. minot looked up at the dark sky. "twenty-two after," said paddock finally, and turned toward the engine. "heaven grant that red light is on view. this is getting on my nerves." slyly the little launch poked its nose around the corner of the island and peeped at the majestic _lileth_. paddock snorted. "not a trace of it." "i must have underestimated the time," said minot. "wha--what's that?" "that? that's only thunder. oh, this is going to be a pretty party!" suddenly the heavens blazed with lightning. the swell of the waters increased. hastily paddock backed the boat from the range of the _lileth's_ vision. "trimmer must go soon," cried minot. fifteen minutes passed in eloquent silence. the lightning and the thunder continued. "try it again," minot suggested. again they peeped. and still no red light on the _lileth_. and even as they looked, out of the black heavens swept a sheet of stinging rain. it lashed down on that frail tossing boat with cruel force; it obscured the _lileth_, the island, everything but the fact of its own damp existence. in two seconds the men unprotected in that tiny launch were pitiful dripping figures, and the glory of mr. paddock's evening clothes departed never to return. "a fortune-teller in albuquerque," said poor old george, "told me i was to die of pneumonia. it'll be murder, gentlemen--plain murder." "it's suicide, too, isn't it?" snarled paddock. "that ought to satisfy you." "i'm sorry," said minot through chattering teeth. no answer. the downfall continued. "the rain is raining everywhere," quoted paddock gloomily. "it falls on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea. damn the ships at sea." "here, here," said poor old george. a damp doleful pause. "greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend," continued paddock presently. "a thousand apologies," minot said. "but i'm running the same chances, jack." "yes--but it's your party--your happy little party," replied paddock. "not mine." minot did not answer. he was as miserable as the others, and he could scarcely blame his friend for losing temporarily his good nature. "it's after eleven," said paddock, after another long pause. "put in closer to the _lileth_," suggested minot. mr. paddock fumbled about beneath the canvas cover of the engine, and they put in. but still no red light aboard the yacht. "i'd give a thousand dollars," said paddock, "to know what's going on aboard that boat." the knowledge would hardly have been worth the price he offered. aboard the _lileth_, on the forward deck under a protecting awning, mr. trimmer sat firmly planted in a chair. beside him, in other chairs, sat three prominent citizens of san marco--one of them the chief of police. mr. martin wall was madly walking the deck near by. "going to stay here all night?" he demanded at last. "all night, and all day to-morrow," replied mr. trimmer, "if necessary. we're going to stay here until that boat that's carrying lord harrowby comes back. you can't fool henry trimmer." "there isn't any such boat!" flared martin wall. "tell it to the marines," remarked trimmer, lighting a fresh cigar. just as well that the three shivering figures huddled in the launch on the heaving bosom of the waters could not see this picture. mr. wall looked out at the rain, and shivered himself. eleven-thirty came. and twelve. two matches from mr. paddock's store went to the discovery of these sad facts. soaked to the skin, glum, silent, the three on the waters sat staring at the unresponsive _lileth_. the rain was falling now in a fine drizzle. "i suppose," paddock remarked, "we stay here until morning?" "we might try landing on tarragona," said minot. "we might try jumping into the ocean, too," responded paddock, through chattering teeth. "murder," droned poor old george. "that's what it'll be." at one o'clock the three wet watchers beheld unusual things. smoke began to belch from the _lileth's_ funnels. her siren sounded. "she's steaming out!" cried minot. "she's steaming out to sea!" and sure enough, the graceful yacht began to move--out past tarragona island--out toward the open sea. once more paddock started his faithful engine, and, hallooing madly, the three set out in pursuit. not yet had the _lileth_ struck its gait, and in fifteen minutes they were alongside. martin wall, beholding them from the deck, had a rather unexpected attack of pity, and stopped his engines. the three limp watchers were taken aboard. "wha--what does this mean?" chattered minot. "you poor devils," said martin wall. "come and have a drink. mean?" he poured. "it means that the only way i could get rid of our friend trimmer was to set out for new york." "for new york?" cried minot, standing glass in hand. "yes. came on board, trimmer did, searched the boat, and then declared i'd shipped george away until his visit should be over. so he and his friends--one of them the chief of police, by the way--sat down to wait for your return. gad--i thought of you out in that rain. sat and sat and sat. what could i do?" "to trimmer, the brute," said paddock, raising his glass. "finally i had an idea. i had the boys pull up anchor and start the engines. trimmer wanted to know the answer. 'leaving for new york to-night,' i said. 'want to come along?' he wasn't sure whether he would go or not, but his friends were sure they wouldn't. put up an awful howl, and just before we got under way mr. trimmer and party crawled into their rowboat and splashed back to san marco." "well--what now?" asked minot. "i've made up my mind," said wall. "been intending to go back north for some time, and now that i've started, i guess i'll keep on going." "splendid," cried minot. "and you'll take mr. george harrowby with you?" mr. wall seemed in excellent spirits. he slapped minot on the back. "if you say so, of course. don't know exactly what they can do to us--but i think george needs the sea air. how about it, your lordship?" poor old george, drooping as he had never drooped before, looked wearily into wall's eyes. "what's the use?" he said. "fight's all gone out of me. losing interest in what's next. three hours on that blooming ocean with the rain soaking in--i'm going to bed. i don't care what becomes of me." and he sloshed away to his cabin. "well, boys, i'm afraid we'll have to put you off," said martin wall. "glad to have met both of you. sometime in new york we may run into each other again." he shook hands genially, and the two young men dropped once more into that unhappy launch. as they sped toward the shore the _lileth_, behind them, was heading for the open sea. "sorry if i've seemed to have a grouch to-night," said paddock, as they walked up the deserted avenue toward the hotel. "but these florida rain-storms aren't the pleasantest things to wear next to one's skin. i apologize, dick." "nonsense," minot answered. "old job himself would have frowned a bit if he'd been through what you have to-night. it was my fault for getting you into it--" "forget it," paddock said. "well, it looks like a wedding, old man. the letters home again, and george harrowby headed for new york--a three days' trip. nothing to hinder now. have you thought of that?" "i don't want to think," said minot gloomily. "good night, old man." paddock sped up the stairs to his room, which was on the second floor, and minot turned toward the elevator. at that moment he saw approaching him through the deserted lobby mr. jim o'malley, the house detective of the de la pax. "can we see you a minute in the office, mr. minot?" he asked. "certainly," minot answered. "but--i'm soaked through--was out in all that rain--" "too bad," said o'malley, with a sympathetic glance. "we won't keep you but a minute--" he led the way, and wondering, minot followed. in the tiny office of the hotel manager a bullet-headed man stood waiting. "my friend, mr. huntley, of the secret service," o'malley explained. "awful sorry that this should happen. mr. minot but--we got to search you." "search me--for what?" minot cried. and in a flash, he knew. through that wild night he had not once thought of it. but it was still in his inside coat pocket, of course. chain lightning's collar! "what does this mean?" he asked. "that's what they all say," grunted huntley. "come here, my boy. say, you're pretty wet. and shivering! better have a warm bath and a drink. turn around, please. ah--" with practised fingers the detective explored rapidly mr. minot's person and pockets. the victim of the search stood limp, helpless. what could he do? there was no escape. it was all up now--for whatever reason they desired chain lightning's collar, they could not fail to have it in another minute. side pockets--trousers pockets--now! the inner coat pocket! its contents were in the detective's hand. minot stared down. a little gasp escaped him. the envelope that held chain lightning's collar was not among them! two minutes longer huntley pursued, then with an oath of disappointment he turned to o'malley. "hasn't got it!" he announced. minot swept aside the profuse apologies of the hotel detective, and somehow got out of the room. in a daze, he sought . he didn't have it! didn't have chain lightning's collar! who did? it was while he sat steaming in a hot bath that an idea came to him. the struggle on the deck of the _lileth_, with martin wall panting at his side! the tug on his coat as they all went down together. the genial spirits of wall thereafter. the sudden start for new york. no question about it--chain lightning's collar was well out at sea now. and yet--why had wall stopped to take the occupants of the launch aboard? after his bath, minot donned pajamas and a dressing-gown and ventured out to find lord harrowby's suite. with difficulty he succeeded in arousing the sleeping peer. harrowby let him in, and then sat down on his bed and stared at him. "what is it?" he inquired sleepily. briefly minot told him of the circumstances preceding the start of the _lileth_ for new york, of his return to the hotel, and the search party he encountered there. harrowby was very wide awake by this time. "that finishes us," he groaned. "wait a minute," minot said. "they didn't find the necklace. i didn't have it. i'd lost it." "lost it?" "yes. and if you want my opinion, i think martin wall stole it from me on the _lileth_ and is now on his way--" harrowby leaped from bed, and seized minot gleefully by the hand. "dear old chap. what the deuce do i care who took it. it's gone. thank god--it's gone." "but--i don't understand--" "no. but you can understand this much. everything's all right. nothing in the way of the wedding now. it's splendid! splendid!" "but--the necklace was stolen--" "yes. good! very good! my dear minot, the luckiest thing that can happen to us will be--never, never to see chain lightning's collar again!" as completely at sea as he had been that night--which was more or less at sea--minot returned to his room. it was after three o'clock. he turned out his lights and sought his bed. many wild conjectures kept him awake at first, but this had been the busiest day of his life. soon he slept, and dreamed thrilling dreams. the sun was bright outside his windows when he was aroused by a knock. "what is it?" he cried. "a package for you, sir," said a bell-boy voice. he slipped one arm outside his door to receive it--a neat little bundle, securely tied, with his name written on the wrappings. sleepily he undid the cord, and took out--an envelope. he was no longer sleepy. he held the envelope open over his bed. chain lightning's collar tumbled, gleaming, upon the white sheet! also in the package was a note, which minot read breathlessly. "dear mr. minot: "i have decided not to go north after all, and am back in the harbor with the _lileth_. as i expect trimmer at any moment i have sent george over to tarragona island in charge of two sailormen for the day. "cordially, "martin wall. "p.s. you dropped the enclosed in the scuffle on the boat last night." chapter xiv jersey city interferes at ten o'clock that saturday morning lord harrowby was engrossed in the ceremony of breakfast in his rooms. for the occasion he wore an orange and purple dressing-gown with a floral design no botanist could have sanctioned--the sort of dressing-gown that arnold bennett, had he seen it, would have made a leading character in a novel. he was cheerful, was harrowby, and as he glanced through an old copy of the _london times_ he made strange noises in his throat, under the impression that he was humming a musical comedy chorus. there was a knock, and harrowby cried: "come in." mr. minot, fresh as the morning and nowhere near so hot, entered. "feeling pretty satisfied with life, i'll wager," minot suggested. "my dear chap, gay as--as--a robin," harrowby replied. "snatch your last giggle," said minot. "have one final laugh, and make it a good one. then wake up." "wake up? why, i am awake--" "oh, no--you're dreaming on a bed of roses. listen! martin wall didn't go north with the impostor after all. changed his mind. look!" and minot tossed something on the table, just abaft his lordship's eggs. "the devil! chain lightning's collar!" cried harrowby. "back to its original storage vault," said minot. "what is this, harrowby? a drury lane melodrama?" "my word. i can't make it out." "can't you? got the necklace back this morning with a note from martin wall, saying i dropped it last night in the scrap on the deck of the _lileth_." "confound the thing!" sighed harrowby, staring morosely at the diamonds. "my first impulse," said minot, "is to hand the necklace back to you and gracefully withdraw. but of course i'm here to look after jephson's interests--" "naturally," put in harrowby quickly. "and let me tell you that should this necklace be found before the wedding, jephson is practically certain to pay that policy. i think you'd better keep it. they're not likely to search you again. if i took it--dear old chap--they search me every little while." "you didn't steal this, did you?" minot asked. "of course not." harrowby flushed a delicate pink. "it belongs in our family--has for years. everybody knows that." "well, what is the trouble?" "i'll explain it all later. there's really nothing dishonorable--as men of the world look at such things. i give you my word that you can serve mr. jephson best by keeping the necklace for the present--and seeing to it that it does not fall into the hands of the men who are looking for it." minot sat staring gloomily ahead of him. then he reached out, took up the necklace, and restored it to his pocket. "oh, very well," he said. "if i'm sent to jail, tell thacker i went singing an epithalamium." he rose. "by the way," harrowby remarked, "i'm giving a little dinner to-night--at the manhattan club. may i count on you?" "surely," minot smiled. "i'll be there, wearing our necklace." "my dear fellow--ah, i see you mean it pleasantly. wear it, by all means." minot passed from the eccentric blooms of that dressing-gown to the more authentic flowers of the florida outdoors. in the plaza he met cynthia meyrick, rival candidate to the morning in its glory. "matrimony," she said, "is more trouble than it seems on a moonlit night under the palms. i've never been so busy in my life. by the way, two of my bridesmaids arrived from new york last night. lovely girls--both of them. but i forget!" "forget what?" "your young heart is already ensnared, isn't it?" "yes," replied minot fervently. "it is. but no matter. tell me about your preparations for the wedding. i should like to enjoy the thrill of it--by proxy." "how like a man--wants all the thrill and none of the bother. it's dreadfully hard staging a wedding, way down here a thousand miles from everything. but--my gown came last night from paris. can you imagine the thrill of that!" "only faintly." "how stupid being a man must be." "and how glorious being a girl, with man only an afterthought--even at wedding time." "poor harrowby! he keeps in the lime-light fairly well, however." they walked along a moment in silence. "i've wondered," she said at length. "why _did_ you kidnap--mr. trimmer's--friend?" "because--" "yes?"--eagerly. minot looked at her, and something rose in his throat to choke him. "i can't tell you," he said. "it is the fault of--the master of the show. i'm only the pawn--the baffled, raging, unhappy little pawn. that's all i can tell you. you--you were speaking of your wedding gown?" "a present from aunt mary," she answered, a strange tenderness in her tone. "for a good little girl who's caught a lord." "a charming little girl," said minot softly. "may i say that?" "yes--" her brown eyes glowed. "i'm--glad--to have you--say it. i go in here. good-by--mr. kidnaper." she disappeared into a shop, and minot walked slowly down the street. girls from peoria and paris, from boise city and london, passed by. girls chaperoned and girls alone--tourist girls in swarms. and not a few of them wondered why such a good-looking young man should appear to be so sorry for himself. returning to the hotel at noon, minot met martin wall on the veranda. "lucky i put old george on tarragona for the day," wall confided. "as i expected, trimmer was out to call early this morning. searched the ship from stem to stern. i rather think we have mr. trimmer up a tree. he went away not quite so sure of himself." "good," minot answered. "so you changed your mind about going north?" "yes. think i'll stay over for the wedding. by the way, wasn't that chain lightning's collar you left behind you last night?" "y--yes." "thought so. you ought to be more careful. people might suspect you of being the thief at mrs. bruce's." "if you think that, i wish you'd speak to his lordship." "i have. your innocence is established. and i've promised harrowby to keep his little mystery dark." "you're very kind," said minot, and went on into the hotel. the remainder of the day passed lazily. dick minot felt lost indeed, for seemingly there were no more doughty deeds to be done in the name of jephson. the gaiety lady was gone; her letters were in the hands of the man who had written them. the claimant to the title languished among the alligators of tarragona, a prisoner. trimmer appeared to be baffled. bridesmaids arrived. the wedding gown appeared. it looked like smooth sailing now. jack paddock, met for a moment late in the afternoon, announced airily: "by the way, the duke and duchess of lismore have come. you know--the sausage lady and her captive. my word--you should see her! a wardrobe to draw tears of envy from a theatrical star. fifty costly necklaces--and only one neck!" "tragic," smiled minot. "funny thing's happened," paddock whispered. "i met the duchess once abroad. she sent for me this noon and almost bowled me over. seems she's heard of mrs. bruce as the wittiest woman in san marco. and she's jealous. 'you're a clever boy,' says her ladyship to me. 'coach me up so i can outshine mrs. bruce.' what do you know?" "ah--but you were the pioneer," minot reminded him. "well, i was, for that matter," said mr. paddock. "but i know now it wasn't a clever idea, if this woman can think of it, too." "what did you tell her?" "i was shocked. i showed it. it seemed deception to me. still--she made me an offer that--well, i told her i'd think it over." "good heavens, jack! you wouldn't try to sell 'em both dialogue?" "why not? play one against the other--make 'em keener for my goods. i've got a notion to clean up here quick and then go back to the real stuff. that little girl from the middle west--i've forgot all about her, of course. but speaking of cleaning up--i'm thinking of it, dick, my boy. yes, i believe i'll take them both on--secretly, of course. it means hard work for me, but when one loves one's art, no service seems too tough." "you're hopeless," minot groaned. "say not so," laughed paddock, and went away humming a frivolous tune. at a quarter before seven, for the first time, minot entered mr. tom stacy's manhattan club and grill. to any one who crossed mr. stacy's threshold with the expectation of immediately encountering lights and gaiety, the first view of the interior came as a distinct shock. the main dining-room of the manhattan club was dim with the holy dimness of a cathedral. its lamps, hung high, were buried in oriental trappings, and shone half-heartedly. faintly through the gloom could be discerned white table-cloths, gleaming silver. the scene demanded hushed voices, noiseless footsteps. it got both. the main dining-room was hollowed out of the center of the great stone building, and its roof was off in the dark three stories above. on each side of the entrance, stairways led to second and third-floor balconies which stretched around the room on three sides. from these balconies doors opened into innumerable rooms--rooms where lights shone brighter, and from which the chief of police, when he came to make certain financial arrangements with mr. stacy, heard frequently a gentle click-click. it may have been that the furnishings of the main dining-room and the balconies were there before mr. stacy's coming, or again they may have set forth his own idea of suitable decoration. looking about him, mr. minot was reminded of a play like _sumurun_ after three hard seasons on the road. moth-eaten rugs and musty tapestries hung everywhere. here and there an atrocious cozy corner belied its name. iron lanterns gave parsimonious light. aged sofa-pillows lay limply. "oriental," mr. stacy would have called the effect. here in this dim, but scarcely religious light, the patrons of his "grill" ate their food, being not without misgivings as they stared through the gloom at their plates. the long tables for the harrowby dinner were already set, and about them hovered waiters of a color to match the room. most of the guests had arrived. mr. paddock made it a point to introduce mr. minot at once to the duchess of lismore. this noble lady with the packing-house past was making a commendable effort to lighten the manhattan club by a wonderful display of jewels. "then felt i like some watcher of the skies, when a new planet swims into his ken," whispered minot, as the duchess moved away. paddock laughed. "a dowdy little woman by day, but a pillar of fire by night," he agreed. "by the way, i'm foreman of her composing-room, beginning to-morrow." "be careful, jack," minot warned. "a double life from now on," paddock replied, "but i think i can get away with it. say, for ways that are dark this man stacy seems to hold a better hand than the heathen chinee." in one corner the portly spencer meyrick was orating to a circle of young people on the evils of gambling. minot turned away, smiling cynically. meyrick, as everybody knew, had made a large part of his fortune in wall street. the dinner was much larger than mrs. bruce's. minot met a number of new people--the anemic husband of the jewels, smug in his dukedom, and several very attractive girls thrilled at being present in mr. stacy's sinful lair. he bestowed a smile upon aunt mary, serene among the best people, and discussed with mrs. bruce--who wasted no boughten wit on him--the florida climate. also, he asked the elder of the omaha girls if she had heard of mr. nat goodwin's latest wife. for once the dinner itself was a minor event. it sped rapidly there in the gloom, and few so much as listened to the flashes of mrs. bruce's wit--save perhaps the duchess, enviously. it was after the dinner, when harrowby led his guests to the entertainment above, that interest grew tense. no gloom in that bright room overhead. a cluster of electric lights shed their brilliance on mr. stacy's pet roulette tables, set amid parlor furnishings of atrocious plush. from one corner a faro lay-out that had once flourished on fifty-eighth street, new york, beckoned. and on each side, through open doors, might be seen rooms furnished for the game of poker. mr. stacy's assistant, a polished gentleman with a face like aged ivory, presided over the roulette table. he swung the wheel a few times, an inviting smile on his face. harrowby, his eyes bright, laid a sum of money beside a row of innocent figures. he won. he tried again, and won. some of the young women pushed close to the table, visibly affected. others pretended this sort of thing was an old story to them. a few of the more adventurous women borrowed coins from the men, and joined in the play. arguments and misunderstandings arose, which mr. stacy's assistant urbanely settled. more of the men--paddock among them--laid money on the table. a buzz of excited conversation, punctuated now and then by a deathly silence as the wheel spun and the little ball hovered heart-breakingly, filled the room. cheeks glowed red, eyes sparkled, the crush about the table increased. spencer meyrick himself risked from his endless store. mr. tom stacy's place was in full swing. dick minot caught cynthia meyrick's glance as she stood close beside lord harrowby. she seemed another girl to-night, grave rather than gay, her great brown eyes apparently looking into the future, wondering, fearing. as for harrowby, he was a man transformed. not for nothing was he the son of the sporting earl of raybrook--the peer who never failed to take a risk. the excitement of the game was reflected in his tall tense figure, his flaming cheeks. this was the harrowby who had made jephson that gambling proposition on a seventeenth floor in new york. and harrowby won consistently. won, until a fatal choice of numbers with an overwhelming stake left him poor again, and he saw all his winnings swept to swell tom stacy's store. quickly he wormed his way out of the crowd and sought minot. "may i see you a moment?" he asked. "out here." and he led the way to the gloom of the balcony. "if i only had the cash," harrowby whispered excitedly, "i could break stacy to-night. and i'm going to get it. will you give me the necklace, please." "you forget," minot objected, "that the necklace is supposed to have been stolen." "no. no. that's no matter. i'll arrange that. hurry--" "you forget, too, that you told me this morning that should this necklace be found now--" "mr. minot--the necklace belongs to me. will you kindly let me have it." "certainly," said minot coldly. and, much annoyed, he returned to the room amid the buzz and the thrill of gambling. harrowby ran quickly down the stairs. in the office of the club he found tom stacy in amiable converse with martin wall. he threw chain lightning's collar on the manager's desk. "how much can you loan me on that?" he demanded. with a grunt of surprise, mr. stacy took up the famous collar in his thick fingers. he gazed at it for a moment. then he looked up, and caught martin wall's crafty eye over harrowby's shoulder. "not a cent," said mr. stacy firmly. "what! i don't understand." harrowby gazed at him blankly. "it's worth--" "not a cent," stacy repeated. "that's final." harrowby turned appealingly to martin wall. "you--" he pleaded. "i'm not investing," wall replied, with a queer smile. lord harrowby restored the necklace to his pocket and, crestfallen, gloomy, went back to the room above. "wouldn't loan me anything on it," he whispered to minot. "i don't understand, really." thereafter harrowby suffered the pain of watching others play. and while he watched, in the little office down-stairs, a scene of vital bearing on his future was enacted. a short stocky man with a bullet-shaped head had pushed open the door on messrs. stacy and wall. he stood, looking about him with a cynical smile. "hello, tom," he said. "old bill huntley!" cried stacy. "by gad, you gave me a turn. i forgot for a minute that you can't raid me down here." "them happy days is past," returned mr. huntley dryly. "i'm working for uncle sam, now, tom. got new fish to fry. used to have some gay times in new york, didn't we? oh, hello, craig!" "my name is martin wall," said that gentleman stiffly. "ain't he got the lovely manners," said huntley, pretending admiration. "always did have, too. and the swell friends. still going round in the caviar crowd, i hear. what if i was to tell your friends here who you are?" "you won't do that," said wall, outwardly unshaken, but his breath came faster. "oh--you're sure of that, are you?" "yes. who i am isn't one of your worries in your new line of business. and you're going to keep still because i can do you a favor--and i will." "thanks, craig. excuse me--martin wall. sort of a strain keeping track of your names, you know." "forget that. i say i can do you a favor--if you'll promise not to mix in my affairs." "well--what is it?" "you're down here looking for a diamond necklace known as chain lightning's collar." "great little guesser, you are. well--what about it?" "promise?" "you deliver the goods, and i'll see." "all right. you'll find that necklace in lord harrowby's pocket right now. and you'll find lord harrowby in a room up-stairs." mr. huntley stood for a moment staring at the man he called craig. then with a grunt he turned away. two minutes later, in the bright room above, that same rather vulgar grunt sounded in lord harrowby's patrician ear. he turned, and his face paled. hopelessly he looked toward minot. then without a word he followed huntley from the room. only two of that excited crowd about the wheel noticed. and these two fled simultaneously to the balcony. there, half hidden behind an ancient musty rug, cynthia meyrick and minot watched together. harrowby and huntley descended the soft stairs. at the bottom, martin wall and stacy were waiting. the sound of voices pitched low could be heard on the balcony, but though they strained to hear, the pair above could not. however, they could see the plebeian hand of mr. huntley held out to lord harrowby. they could see harrowby reach into his pocket, and bring forth a white envelope. next they beheld chain lightning's collar gleam in the dusk as huntley held it up. a few low words, and harrowby went out with the detective. martin wall ascended the stair. on the dim balcony he was confronted by a white-faced girl whose wonderful copper hair had once held chain lightning's collar. "what does it mean?" she asked, her voice low and tense. "mean?" martin wall laughed. "it means that lord harrowby must go north and face a united states commissioner in jersey city. it seems that when he brought that necklace over he quite forgot to tell the customs officials about it." "go north! when?" "to-night. on the midnight train. north to jersey city." mr. wall went into the bright room where the excitement buzzed on, oblivious. cynthia meyrick turned to minot. "but he can't possibly get back--" she cried. "no. he can't get back. i'm sorry." "and my wedding dress--came last night." she stood clutching a moth-eaten tapestry in her slim white hand. in the gloom of that dull old balcony her eyes shone strangely. "some things aren't to be," she whispered. "and"--very faintly--"others are." a thrill shot through minot, sharp as a pain, but glorious. what did she mean by that? what indeed but the one thing that must not happen--the thing he wanted most of all things in the world to happen--the thing he had come to san marco to prevent. he came closer to her--and closer--the blood was pounding in his brain. dazed, exulting, he held out his arms. "cynthia!" he cried. and then suddenly behind her, on the stairs, he caught sight of a great bald head ascending through the dusk. it was an ordinary bald head, the property of mr. stacy in fact, but to minot a certain jephson seemed to be moving beneath it he remembered. his arms fell to his sides. he turned away. "we must see what can be done," he said mechanically. "yes," cynthia meyrick agreed in an odd tone, "we must see what can be done." and a tear, unnoticed, fell on mr. stacy's aged oriental tapestry. chapter xv a bit of a blow miss meyrick turned back toward the room of chance to find her father. minot, meanwhile, ran down the steps, obtained his hat and coat, and hurried across the street to the hotel. he went at once to harrowby's rooms. there he encountered a scene of wild disorder. the round-faced valet was packing trunks against time, and his time-keeper, mr. bill huntley, sat in a corner, grim and silent, watch in hand. lord harrowby paced the floor madly. when he saw minot he held out his long, lean, helpless hands. "you've heard, old boy?" he said. "yes, i've heard," said minot sharply. "a fine fix, harrowby. why the deuce didn't you pay the duty on that necklace?" "dear boy! was saving every cent i had for--you know what. besides, i heard of such a clever scheme for slipping it in--" "never mind that! mr. huntley, this gentleman was to have been married on tuesday. can't you hold off until then?" "nothing doing," said mr. huntley firmly. "i got to get back to new york. he'll have to postpone his wedding. ought to have thought of these things before he pulled off his little stunt." "it's no use, minot," said harrowby hopelessly. "i've gone all over it with this chap. he won't listen to reason. what the deuce am i to do?" a knock sounded on the door and spencer meyrick, red-faced, flirting with apoplexy, strode into the room. "lord harrowby," he announced, "i desire to see you alone." "er--step into the bedroom," harrowby suggested. mr. huntley rose promptly to his feet. "nix," he said. "there's a door out of that room leading into the hall. if you go in there, i go, too." mr. meyrick glared. harrowby stood embarrassed. "very well," said meyrick through his teeth. "we'll stay here. it doesn't matter to me. i simply want to say, lord harrowby, that when you get to jersey city you needn't trouble to come back, as far as my family is concerned." a look of pain came into harrowby's thin face. "not come back," he said. "my dear sir--" "that's what i said. i'm a plain man, harrowby. a plain american. it doesn't seem to me that marrying into the british nobility is worth all the trouble it's costing us--" "but really--" "it may be, but it doesn't look that way to me. i prefer a simple wedding to a series of vaudeville acts. if you think i'm going to stand for the publicity of this latest affair, you're mistaken. i've talked matters over with cynthia--the marriage is off--for good!" "but my dear sir, cynthia and i are very fond of each other--" "i don't give a damn if you are!" meyrick fumed. "this is the last straw. i'm through with you. good night, and good-by." he stamped out as he had come, and lord harrowby fell limply into a chair. "all over, and all done," he moaned. "and jephson loses," said minot with mixed emotions. "yes--i'm sorry." harrowby shook his head tragically. "sorrier than you are, old chap. i love cynthia meyrick--really i do. this is a bit of a blow." "come, come!" cried mr. huntley. "i'm not going to miss that train while you play-act. we've only got half an hour, now." harrowby rose unhappily and went into the inner room, huntley at his heels. minot sat, his unseeing eyes gazing down at the old copy of the _london times_ which harrowby had been reading that morning at breakfast. gradually, despite his preoccupation, a name in a head-line forced itself to his attention. courtney giles. where had he heard that name before? he picked up the _times_ from the table on which it was lying. he read: "_the ardent lover_, the new romantic comedy in which courtney giles has appeared briefly at the west end road theater, will be removed from the boards to-night. the public has not been appreciative. if truth must be told--and bitter truth it is--the once beloved matinée idol has become too fat to hold his old admirers, and they have drifted steadily to other, slimmer gods. mr. giles' early retirement from the stage is rumored." minot threw down the paper. poor old jephson! first the rain on the dowager duchess, then an actor's expanding waist--and to-morrow the news that harrowby's wedding was not to be. why, it would ruin the man! minot stepped to the door of the inner room. "i'm going out to think," he announced. "i'll see you in the lobby before you leave." two minutes later, in the summer-house where he had bid good-by to the sparkling gaiety lady, he sat puffing furiously at a cigar. back into the past as it concerned chain lightning's collar he went. that night when cynthia meyrick had worn it in her hair, and harrowby, hearing of the search for it--had snatched it in the dark. his own guardianship of the valuable trinket--martin wall's invasion of his rooms--the "dropping" of the jewels on shipboard, and the return of them by mr. wall next morning. and last, but not least, mr. stacy's firm refusal to loan money on the necklace that very night. all these things minot pondered. meanwhile harrowby, having finished his packing, descended to the lobby of the de la pax. in a certain pink parlor he found cynthia meyrick, and stood gazing helplessly into her eyes. "cynthia--your father said--is it true?" "it's true, allan." "you too wish the wedding--indefinitely postponed?" "father thinks it best--" "but you?" he came closer. "you, cynthia?" "i--i don't know. there has been so much trouble, allan--" "i know. and i'm fearfully sorry about this latest. but, cynthia--you mustn't send me away--i love you. do you doubt that?" "no, allan." "you're the most wonderful girl who has ever come into my life--i want you in it always--beside me--" "at any rate, allan, a wedding next tuesday is impossible now." "yes, i'm afraid it is. and after that--" "after that--i don't know, allan." aunt mary came into the room, distress written plainly in her plump face. no misstep of the peerage was beyond aunt mary's forgiveness. she took harrowby's hand. "i'm so sorry, your lordship," she said. "most unfortunate. but i'm sure it will all be cleared away in time--" mr. huntley made it a point to interrupt. he stood at the door, watch in hand. "come on," he said. "we've got to start." harrowby followed the ladies from the room. in the lobby spencer meyrick joined them. his lordship shook hands with aunt mary, with mr. meyrick--then he turned to the girl. "good-by, cynthia," he said unhappily. he took her slim white hand in his. then he turned quickly and started with huntley for the door. it was at this point that mr. minot, his cigar and his cogitations finished, entered upon the scene. "just a minute," he said to mr. huntley. "not another minute," remarked huntley with decision. "not for the king of england himself. we got just fifteen of 'em left to catch that train, and if i know san marco hackmen--" "you've got time to answer one or two questions." impressed by minot's tone, the meyrick family moved nearer. "there's no doubt, is there, mr. huntley, that the necklace you have in your pocket is the one lord harrowby brought from england?" "of course not. now, get out of the way--" "are you a good judge of jewels, mr. huntley?" "well, i've got a little reputation in that line. but say--" "then i suggest," said minot impressively, "that you examine chain lightning's collar closely." "thanks for the suggestion," sneered mr. huntley. "i'll follow it--when i get time. just now i've got to--" "you'd better follow it now--before you catch a train. otherwise you may be so unfortunate as to make a fool of yourself." mr. huntley stood, hesitating. there was something in minot's tone that rang true. the detective again looked at his watch. then, with one of his celebrated grunts, he pulled out the necklace, and stood staring at it with a new expression. he grunted again, and stepped to a near-by writing-desk, above which hung a powerful electric light. the others followed. mr. huntley laid the necklace on the desk, and took out a small microscope which was attached to one end of his watch-chain. with rapt gaze he stared at the largest of the diamonds. he went the length of the string, examining each stone in turn. the expression on mr. huntley's face would have made him a star in the "movies." "hell!" he cried, and threw chain lightning's collar down on the desk. "what's the matter?" mr. minot smiled. "glass," snarled huntley. "fine old bottle glass. what do you know about that?" "but really--it can't be--" put in harrowby. "well it is," mr. huntley glared at him. "the inspector might have known you moth-eaten noblemen ain't got any of the real stuff left." "i won't believe it--" harrowby began, but caught minot's eye. "it's true, just the same," minot said. "by the way, mr. huntley, how much is that little ornament worth?" "about nine dollars and twenty-five cents." mr. huntley still glared angrily. "well--you can't take lord harrowby back for not declaring that, can you?" "no," snorted huntley. "but i can go back myself, and i'm going--on that midnight train. good-by." minot followed him to the door. "aren't you going to thank me?" he asked. "you know, i saved you--" "thank you! hell!" said huntley, and disappeared into the dark. when minot returned he found harrowby standing facing the meyricks, and holding the necklace in his hand as though it were a bomb on the point of exploding. "i say, i feel rather low," he was saying, "when i remember that i made you a present of this thing, cynthia. but on my honor, i didn't know. and i can scarcely believe it now. i know the governor has been financially embarrassed--but i never suspected him of this--the associations were so dear--really--" "it may not have been your father who duplicated chain lightning's collar with a fake," minot suggested. "my word, old boy, who then?" "you remember," said minot, addressing the meyricks, "that the necklace was stolen recently. well--it was returned to lord harrowby under unusual circumstances. at least, this collection of glass was returned. my theory is that the thief had a duplicate made--an old trick." "the very idea," harrowby cried. "i say, minot, you are clever. i should never have thought of that." "thanks," said minot dryly. he sought to avoid miss cynthia meyrick's eyes. "er--by the way," said harrowby, looking at spencer meyrick. "there is nothing to prevent the wedding now." the old man shrugged his shoulders. "i leave that to my daughter," he said, and turned away. "cynthia?" harrowby pleaded. miss meyrick cast a strange look at minot, standing forlorn before her. and then she smiled--not very happily. "there seems to be no reason for changing our plans," she said slowly. "it would be a great disappointment to--so many people. good night." minot followed her to the elevator. "it's as i told you this morning," he said miserably. "i'm just one of the pawns in the hands of the master of the show. i can't explain--" "what is there to explain?" the girl asked coldly. "i congratulate you on a highly successful evening." the elevator door banged shut between them. turning, minot encountered aunt mary. "you clever boy," she cried. "we are all so very grateful to you. you have saved us from a very embarrassing situation." "please don't mention it," minot replied, and he meant it. he sat down beside the dazed harrowby on one of the lobby sofas. "i'm all at sea, really, old chap," harrowby confessed. "but i must say--i admire you tremendously. how the devil did you know the necklace was a fraud?" "i didn't know--i guessed," said minot. "and the thing that led me to make that happy guess was tom stacy's refusal to loan you money on it to-night. mr. stacy is no fool." "and you think that martin wall has the real chain lightning's collar?" "it looks that way to me. there's only one thing against my theory. he didn't clear out when he had the chance. but he may be staying on to avert suspicion. we haven't any evidence to arrest him on--and if we did there'd be the customs people to deal with. if i were you i'd hire a private detective to watch wall, and try to get the real necklace back without enlisting the arm of the law." "really," said harrowby, "things are happening so swiftly i'm at a loss to follow them. i am, old boy. first one obstacle and then another. you've been splendid, minot, splendid. i want to thank you for all you have done. i thought to-night the wedding had gone glimmering. and i'm fond of miss meyrick. tremendously." "don't thank me," minot replied. "i'm not doing it for you--we both know that. i'm protecting jephson's money. in a few days, wedding-bells. and then me back to new york, shouting never again on the cupid act. if i'm ever roped into another job like this--" "it has been a trying position for you," harrowby said sympathetically. "and you've done nobly. i'm sure your troubles are all out of the way now. with the necklace worry gone--" he paused. for across the lobby toward them walked henry trimmer, and his walk was that of a man who is going somewhere. "ah--mister harrowby," he boomed, "and mr. minot i've been looking for you both. it will interest you to know that i had a wireless message from lord harrowby this noon." "a wireless?" cried minot. "yes." trimmer laughed. "not such a fool as you think him, lord harrowby isn't. managed to send me a wireless from tarragona despite the attentions of your friends. so i went out there this afternoon and brought george back with me." silently minot and harrowby stared at each other. "yes," mr. trimmer went on, "george is back again--back under the direction of little me, a publicity man with no grass under the feet. i've come to give you gentlemen your choice. you either see lord harrowby to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and recognize his claims, or i'll have you both thrown into jail for kidnaping." "to-morrow morning at ten," harrowby repeated gloomily. "that's what i said," replied mr. trimmer blithely. "how about it, little brother?" "minot--what would you advise?" "see him," sighed minot. "very well." harrowby's tone was resigned. "i presume i'd better." "ah--coming to your senses, aren't you?" said trimmer. "i hope we aren't spoiling the joyous wedding-day. but then, what i say is, if the girl's marrying you just for the title--" harrowby leaped to his feet "you haven't been asked for an opinion," he said. "no, of course not. don't get excited. i'll see you both in the morning at ten." and mr. trimmer strolled elegantly away. harrowby turned hopefully jo minot. "at ten in the morning," he repeated. "old chap, what are we going to do at ten in the morning?" "i don't know," smiled minot. "but if past performances mean anything, we'll win." chapter xvi who's who in england "what's the matter with you?" seated in the lobby of the de la pax on sunday morning, mr. trimmer turned a disapproving eye upon the lank englishman at his side as he made this query. and his question was not without good foundation. for the aspirant to the title of lord harrowby was at the moment a jelly quaking with fear. "fawncy meeting you after all these years," said poor old george in an uncertain treble. "come, come," cried mr. trimmer, "put a little more authority into your voice. you can't walk up and claim your rights with your knees dancing the tango. this is the moment we've been looking forward to. act determined. walk into that room up-stairs as though you were walking into rakedale hall to take charge of it." "allan, don't you know me--i'm your brother george," went on the englishman, intent on rehearsing. "more like it," said trimmer. "put the fire into it. you're not expecting a thrashing, you know. you're expecting the title and recognition that belongs to you. i wish i was the real lord harrowby. i guess i'd show 'em a thing or two." "i wish you was," agreed poor old george sadly. "somehow, i don't seem to have the spirit i used to have." "a good point," commented trimmer. "years of wrong and suffering have made you timid. i'll call that to their attention. five minutes of ten, your lordship." his lordship groaned. "all right, i'm ready," he said. "what is it i say as i go in? oh, yes--" he stepped into the elevator--"fawncy seeing you after all these years." the negro elevator boy was somewhat startled at this greeting, but regained his composure and started the car. mr. trimmer and his "proposition" shot up toward their great opportunity. in lord harrowby's suite that gentleman sat in considerable nervousness, awaiting the undesired encounter. with him sat miss meyrick and her father, whom he had thought it necessary to invite to witness the ordeal. mr. richard minot uneasily paced the floor, avoiding as much as possible the glances of miss meyrick's brown eyes. ten o'clock was upon him, and mr. minot was no nearer a plan of action than he had been the preceding night. every good press agent is not without a live theatrical sense, and mr. trimmer was no exception. he left his trembling claimant in the entrance hall and strode into the room. "good morning," he said brightly. "here we are, on time to the minute. ah--i beg your pardon." lord harrowby performed brief introductions, which mr. trimmer effusively acknowledged. then he turned dramatically toward his lordship. "out here in the hallway stands a poor broken creature," he began. "your own flesh and blood, allan harrowby." obviously mr. trimmer had prepared speeches for himself as well as for poor old george. "for twenty odd and impecunious years," he went on, "this man has been denied his just heritage. we are here this morning to perform a duty--" "my dear fellow," broke in harrowby wearily, "why should you inflict oratory upon us? bring in this--er--gentleman." "that i will," replied trimmer heartily. "and when you have heard his story, digested his evidence, i am sure--" "yes, yes. bring him in." mr. trimmer stepped to the door. he beckoned. a very reluctant figure shuffled in. george's face was green with fright. his knees rattled together. he made, altogether, a ludicrous picture, and mr. trimmer himself noted this with sinking heart. "allow me," said trimmer theatrically. "george, lord harrowby." george cleared his throat, but did not succeed in dislodging his heart, which was there at the moment. "fawncy seeing you after all these years," he mumbled weakly, to no one in particular. "speak up," said spencer meyrick sharply. "who is it you're talking to?" "to him," explained george, nodding toward lord harrowby. "to my brother allan. don't you know me, allan? don't you know--" he stopped. an expression of surprise and relief swept over his worried face. he turned triumphantly to trimmer. "i don't have to prove who i am to him," he announced. "why don't you?" demanded trimmer in alarm. "because he can't, i fancy," put in lord harrowby. "no," said george slowly, "because i never saw him before in all my life." "ah--you admit it," cried allan harrowby with relief. "of course i do," replied george. "i never saw you before in my life." "and you've never been at rakedale hall, have you?" lord harrowby demanded. "here--wait a minute--" shouted trimmer, in a panic. "oh, yes--i've been at rakedale hall," said the claimant firmly. "i spent my boyhood there. but you've never been there." "i--what--" "you've never been at rakedale hall. why? because you're not allan harrowby! that's why." a deathly silence fell. only a little traveling clock on the mantel was articulate. "absurd--ridiculous--" cried lord harrowby. "talk about impostors," cried george, his spirit and his courage sweeping back. "you're one yourself. i wish i'd got a good look at you sooner, i'd have put a stop to all this. allan harrowby, eh? i guess not. i guess i'd know my own brother if i saw him. i guess i know the harrowby features. i give you twenty-four hours to get out of town--you blooming fraud." "the man's crazy," allan harrowby cried. "raving mad. he's an impostor--this is a trick of his--" he looked helplessly around the circle. in every face he saw doubt, questioning. "good heavens--you're not going to listen to him? he's come here to prove that he's george harrowby. why doesn't he do it?" "i'll do it," said george sweetly, "when i meet a real harrowby. in the meantime, i give you twenty-four hours to get out of town. you'd better go." victorious, george turned toward the door. trimmer, lost between admiration and doubt, turned also. "take my advice," george proclaimed. "make him prove who he is. that's the important point now. what does it matter to you who i am? nothing. but it matters a lot about him. make him prove that he's allan harrowby." and, with the imperious manner that he should have adopted on entering the room, george harrowby left it. mr. trimmer, eclipsed for once, trotted at his side. "say," cried trimmer in the hall, "is that on the level? isn't he allan harrowby?" "i should say not," said george grandly. "doesn't look anything like allan." trimmer chortled in glee. "great stuff," he cried. "i guess we tossed a bomb, eh? now, we'll run him out of town." "oh, no," said george. "we've done our work here. let's go over to london now and see the pater." "that we will," cried trimmer. "that we will. by gad, i'm proud of you to-day, lord harrowby." inside allan harrowby's suite three pairs of questioning eyes were turned on that harassed nobleman. he fidgeted in his chair. "i say," he pleaded. "it's all his bluff, you know." "maybe," said old spencer meyrick, rising. "but harrowby--or whatever your name is--there's altogether too much three-ring circus about this wedding to suit me. my patience is exhausted, sir--clean exhausted. things look queer to me--have right along. i'm more than inclined to believe what that fellow said." "but my dear sir--that chap is a rank impostor. there wasn't a word of truth in what he said. cynthia--you understand--" "why, yes--i suppose so," the girl replied. "you are allan harrowby, aren't you?" "my dear girl--of course i am." "nevertheless," said spencer meyrick with decision, "i'm going to call the wedding off again. some of your actions haven't made much of a hit with me. i'm going to call it off until you come to me and prove that you're allan harrowby--a lord in good and regular standing, with all dues paid." "but--confound it, sir--a gentleman's word--" "mr. meyrick," put in minot, "may i be allowed to say that i consider your action hasty--" "and may i be allowed to ask what affair this is of yours?" demanded mr. meyrick hotly. "father!" cried miss meyrick. "please do not be harsh with mr. minot. his heart is absolutely set on my marriage with lord harrowby. naturally he feels very badly over all this." minot winced. "come, cynthia," said meyrick, moving toward the door. "i've had enough of this play-acting. remember, sir--the wedding is off--absolutely off--until you are able to establish your identity beyond question." and he and his daughter went out. minot sat for a long time staring at lord harrowby. finally he spoke. "say, harrowby," he inquired, "who the devil are you?" his lordship sadly shook his head. "you, too, brutus," he sighed. "haven't i one friend left? i'm allan harrowby. ask jephson. if i weren't, that policy that's causing you so much trouble wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on." "that's right, too. well, admitting you're harrowby, how are you going to prove it?" "i've an idea," harrowby replied. "everything comes to him who waits. what is it?" "a very good friend of mine--an old oxford friend--is attached to our embassy at washington. he was planning to come down for the wedding. i'll telegraph him to board the next train." "good boy," said minot. "that's a regular idea. better send the wire at once." harrowby promised, and they parted. in the lobby below mr. minot met jack paddock. paddock looked drawn and worried. "working up my stuff for the dinner the little lismore lady is giving to the bridal party to-morrow night," he confided. "say, it's no cinch to do two of them. can't you suggest a topic that's liable to come up." "yes," replied minot. "i can suggest one. fake noblemen." and he related to mr. paddock the astounding events of the morning. that sunday that had begun so startlingly progressed as a sunday should, in peace. early in the afternoon harrowby hunted minot up and announced that his friend would arrive monday noon, and that the meyricks had agreed to take no definite step pending his arrival. shortly after six o'clock a delayed telegram was delivered to mr. minot. it was from mr. thacker, and it read: "have located the owner of the yacht _lileth_ its real name the _lady evelyn_ stolen from owner in north river he is on his way south will look you up on arrival." minot whistled. here was a new twist for the drama to take. at about the same time that minot received his message, a similar slip of yellow paper was put into the hands of lord harrowby. three times he read it, his eyes staring, his cheeks flushed. then he fled to his rooms. the elevator was not quick enough; he sped up the stairs. once in his suite he dragged out the nearest traveling-bag and began to pack like a mad man. mr. minot was finishing a leisurely and lonely dinner about an hour later when jack paddock ran up to his table. mr. paddock's usual calm was sadly ruffled. "dick," he cried, "here's news for you. i met lord harrowby sliding out a side door with a suit-case just now." minot leaped to his feet. "what does that mean?" he wondered aloud. "mean?" answered mr. paddock. "it means just one thing. old george had the right dope. harrowby is a fake. he's making his get-away." minot threw down his napkin. "oh, he is, is he?" he cried. "well, i guess not. come on, jack." "what are you going to do?" "i'm going down to the station and stop him. he's caused me too much trouble to let him slide out like this. a fake, eh? well, i'll have him behind the bars to-night." a negro cab driver was, by superhuman efforts, roused to hasty action. he rattled the two young men wildly down the silent street to the railway station. they dashed into the drab little waiting room just as a voice called: "train for the north! jacksonville! savannah! washington! new york!" "there he is!" paddock cried, and pointed to the lean figure of lord harrowby slipping out the door nearest the train-shed. paddock and minot ran across the waiting room and out into the open. in the distance they saw harrowby passing through the gate and on to the tracks. they ran up just in time to have the gate banged shut in their faces. "here," cried minot. "i've got to get in there. let me through!" "where's your ticket?" demanded the great stone face on guard. "i haven't got one, but--" "too late anyhow," said the face. "the train's started." through the wooden pickets minot saw the long yellow string of coaches slipping by. he turned to paddock. "oh, very well," he cried, exulting. "let him go. come on!" he dashed back to the carriage that had brought them from the hotel, the driver of which sat in a stupor trying to regain his wits and nonchalance. "what now?" paddock wanted to know. "get in!" commanded minot. he pushed his friend on to the musty seat, and followed. "to the de la pax," he cried, "as fast as you can go." "but what the devil's the need of hurrying now?" demanded paddock. "all the need in the world," replied minot joyously. "i'm going to have a talk with cynthia meyrick. a little talk--alone." "ah," said mr. paddock softly, "love's young dream." chapter xvii the shortest way home the moon was shining in that city of the picturesque past. its light fell silvery on the narrow streets, the old adobe houses, the listless palms. in every shadow seemed to lurk the memory of a love long dead--a love of the old passionate spanish days. a soft breeze came whispering from the very sea ponce de leon had sailed. it was as if at a signal--a bugle-call, a rose thrown from a window, the boom of a cannon at the water's edge--the forgotten past of hot hearts, of arms equally ready for cutlass or slender waist, could live again. and minot was as one who had heard such a signal. he loved. the obstacle that had confronted him, wrung his heart, left him helpless, was swept away. he was like a man who, released from prison, sees the sky, the green trees, the hills again. he loved! the moon was shining! he stood amid the colorful blooms of the hotel courtyard and looked up at her window, with its white curtain waving gently in the breeze. he called, softly. and then he saw her face, peering out as some senorita of the old days from her lattice-- "i've news--very important news," he said. "may i see you a moment?" far better this than the telephone or the bellboy. far more in keeping with the magic of the night. she came, dressed in the white that set off so well her hair of gleaming copper. minot met her on the veranda. she smiled into his eyes inquiringly. "do you mind--a little walk?" he asked. "where to?" "say to the fort--the longest way." she glanced back toward the hotel. "i'm not sure that i ought--" "but that will only make it the more exciting. please. and i've news--real news." she nodded her head, and they crossed the courtyard to the avenue. from this bright thoroughfare they turned in a moment into a dark and unkempt street. "see," said minot suddenly, "the old spanish churchyard. they built cities around churches in the old days. the world do move. it's railroad stations now." they stood peering through the gloom at a small chapel dim amid the trees, and aged stones leaning tipsily among the weeds. "at the altar of that chapel," minot said, "a priest fell--shot in the back by an indian's arrow. sounds unreal, doesn't it? and when you think that under these musty stones lies the dust of folks who walked this very ground, and loved, and hated, like you and--" "yes--but isn't it all rather gloomy?" cynthia meyrick shuddered. they went on, to pass shortly through the crumbling remains of the city gates. there at the water's edge the great gray fort loomed in the moonlight like a historical novelist's dream. its huge iron-bound doors were locked for the night; its custodian home in the bosom of his family. only its lower ramparts were left for the feet of romantic youth to tread. along these ramparts, close to the shimmering sea, miss meyrick and minot walked. truth to tell, it was not so very difficult to keep one's footing--but once the girl was forced to hold out an appealing hand. "french heels are treacherous," she explained. minot took her hand, and for the first time knew the thrill that, encountered often on the printed page, he had mentally classed as "rubbish!" wisely she interrupted it: "you said you had news?" he had, but it was not so easy to impart as he had expected. "tell me," he said, "if it should turn out that what poor old george said this morning was a fact--that allan harrowby was an impostor--would you feel so very badly?" she withdrew her hand. "you have no right to ask that," she replied. "forgive me. indeed i haven't. but i was moved to ask it for the reason that--what george said was evidently true. allan harrowby left suddenly for the north an hour ago." the girl stood still, looking with wide eyes out over the sea. "left--for the north," she repeated. there was a long silence. at length she turned to minot, a queer light in her eyes. "of course, you'll go after him and bring him back?" she asked. "no." minot bowed his head. "i know i must have looked rather silly of late. but if you think i did the things i've done because i chose to--you're wrong. if you think i did them because i didn't love you--you're wrong, too. oh, i--" "mr. minot!" "i can't help it. i know it's indecently soon--i've got to tell you just the same. there's been so much in the way--i'm wild to say it now. i love you." the water breaking on the ancient stones below seemed to be repeating "sh--sh," but minot paid no heed to the warning. "i've cared for you," he went on, "ever since that morning on the train when we raced the razor-backs--ever since that wonderful ride over a god-forsaken road that looked like heaven to me. and every time since that i've seen you i've known that i'd come to care more--" the girl stood and stared thoughtfully out at the soft blue sea. minot moved closer, over those perilous slippery rocks. "i know it's an old story to you," he went on, "and that i'd be a fool to hope that i could possibly be anything but just another man who adores you. but--because i love you so much--" she turned and looked at him. "and in spite of all this," she said slowly, "from the first you have done everything in your power to prevent the breaking off of my engagement to harrowby." "yes, but--" "weren't you overly chivalrous to a rival? wouldn't what--what you are saying be more convincing if you had remained neutral?" "i know. i can't explain it to you now. it's all over, anyway. it was horrible while it lasted--but it's over now. i'm never going to work again for your marriage to anybody--except one man. the man who is standing before you--who loves you--loves you--" he stopped, for the girl was smiling. and it was not the sort of smile that his words were entitled to. "i'm sorry, really," she said. "but i can't help it. all i can see now is your triumphant entrance last night--your masterly exposure of that silly necklace--your clever destruction of every obstacle in order that harrowby and i might be married on tuesday. in the light of all that has happened--how can you expect to appear other than--" "foolish? you're right. and you couldn't possibly care--just a little--" he stopped, embarrassed. poorly chosen words, those last. he saw the light of recollection in her eye. "i should say," he went on hastily, "isn't there just a faint gleam of hope--for me--" "if we were back on the train," she said, "and all that followed could be different--and harrowby had never been--i might--" "you might--yes?" "i might not say what i'm going to say now. which is--hadn't we better return to the hotel?" "i'm sorry," remarked minot. "sorry i had the bad taste to say what i have at this time--but if you knew and could understand--which you can't of course-- yes, let's go back to the hotel--the shortest way." he turned, and looked toward the towers of the de la pax rising to meet the sky--seemingly a million miles away. so peary might have gazed to the north, setting out for the pole. they went back along the ramparts, over the dry moat, through the crumbling gates. conversation languished. then the ancient graveyard, ghastly in the gloom. after that the long lighted street of humble shops. and the shortest way home seemed a million times longer than the longest way there. "considering what you have told me of--harrowby," she said, "i shall be leaving for the north soon. will you look me up in new york?" "thank you," minot said. "it will be a very great privilege." cynthia meyrick entered the elevator, and out of sight in that gilded cage she smiled a twisted little smile. mr. minot beheld mr. trimmer and his "proposition" basking in the lime-light of the de la pax, and feeling in no mood to listen to the publicity man's triumphant cackle, he hurried to the veranda. there he found a bell-boy calling his name. "gen'lemun to see you," the boy explained. he led the way back into the lobby and up to a tall athletic-looking man with a ruddy, frank, attractive face. the stranger held out his hand. "mr. minot, of lloyds?" he asked. "how do you do, sir? i'm very glad to know you. promised thacker i'd look you up at once. let's adjourn to the grill-room." minot followed in the wake of the tall breezy one. already he liked the man immensely. "well," said the stranger, over a table in the grill, "what'll you have? waiter? perhaps you heard i was coming. i happen to be the owner of the yacht in the harbor, which somebody has rechristened the _lileth_." "yes--i thought so," minot replied. "i'm mighty glad you've come. a mr. martin wall is posing as the owner just at present." "so i learned from thacker. nervy lad, this wall. i live in chicago myself--left my boat--_lady evelyn_, i called her--in the north river for the winter in charge of a caretaker. this wall, it seems, needed a boat for a month and took a fancy to mine. and since my caretaker was evidently a crook, it was a simple matter to rent it. never would have found it out except for you people. too busy. really ought not to have taken this trip--business needs me every minute--but i've got sort of a hankering to meet mr. martin wall." "shall we go out to the boat right away?" "no need of that. we'll run out in the morning with the proper authorities." the stranger leaned across the table, and something in his blue eyes startled minot. "in the meantime," he said, "i happen to be interested in another matter. what's all this talk about george harrowby coming back to life?" "well, there's a chap here," minot explained, "who claims to be the elder brother of allan harrowby. his cause is in the hands of an advertising expert named trimmer." "yes. i saw a story in a washington paper." "this morning george harrowby, so-called, confronted allan harrowby and denounced allan himself as a fraud." the man from chicago threw back his head, and a roar of unexpected laughter smote on minot's hearing. "good joke," said the stranger. "no joke at all. george was right--at least, so it seems. allan harrowby cleared out this evening." "yes. so i was told by the clerk in there. do you happen to know--er--allan?" "yes. very well indeed." "but you don't know the reason he left?" "why," answered minot, "i suppose because george harrowby gave him twenty-four hours to get out of town." again the chicago man laughed. "that can't have been the reason," he said. "i happen to know." "just how," inquired minot, "do you happen to know?" leaning far back in his chair, the westerner smiled at minot with a broad engaging smile. "i fancy i neglected to introduce myself," he said. "i make automobiles in chicago--and my name's george harrowby." "you--you--" minot's head went round dizzily. "oh, no," he said firmly. "i don't believe it." the other's smile grew even broader. "don't blame you a bit, my boy," he said. "must have been a bit of a mix-up down here. then, too, i don't look like an englishman. don't want to. i'm an american now, and i like it." "you mean you're the real lord harrowby?" "that's what i mean--take it slowly, mr. minot. i'm george, and if allan ever gets his eyes on me, i won't have to prove who i am. he'll know, the kid will. but by the way--what i want now is to meet this chap who claims to be me--also his friend, mr. trimmer." "of course you do. i saw them out in the lobby a minute ago." minot rose. "i'll bring them in. but--but--" "what is it?" "oh, never mind. i believe you." trimmer and his proposition still adorned the lobby, puffed with pride and pompousness. briefly minot explained that a gentleman in the grill-room desired to be introduced, and graciously the two followed after. the chicago george harrowby rose as he saw the group approach his table. suddenly behind him minot heard a voice: "my god!" and the limp englishman of the sandwich boards made a long lean streak toward the door. minot leaped after him, and dragged him back. "here, trimmer," he said, "your proposition has chilblains." "what's the trouble?" mr. trimmer glared about him. "allow me," said minot. "sir--our leading vaudeville actor and his manager. gentlemen--mr. george harrowby, of chicago!" "sit down, boys," said mr. harrowby genially. he indicated a chair to mr. trimmer, but that gentleman stood, his eyes frozen to the face of his proposition. the chicago man turned to that same proposition. "brace up, jenkins," he said. "nobody will hurt you." but jenkins could not brace. he allowed minot to deposit his limp body in a chair. "i thought you was dead, sir," he mumbled. "a common mistake," smiled george harrowby. "my family has thought the same, and i've been too busy making automobiles to tell them differently. mr. trimmer, will you have a--what's the matter, man?" for mr. trimmer was standing, purple, over his proposition. "i want to get this straight," he said with assumed calm. "see here, you cringing cur--what does this mean?" "i thought he was dead," murmured poor jenkins in terror. "you'll think the same about yourself in a minute--and you'll be _right_," trimmer predicted. "come, come," said george harrowby pacifically. "sit down, mr. trimmer. sit down and have a drink. do you mean to say you didn't know jenkins here was faking?" "of course i didn't," said trimmer. he sat down on the extreme edge of a chair, as one who proposed to rise soon. "all this has got me going. i never went round in royal circles before, and i'm dizzy. i suppose you're the real lord harrowby?" "to be quite correct, i am. don't you believe it?" "i can believe anything--when i look at him," said trimmer, indicating the pitiable ex-claimant to the title. "say, who is this jenkins we hear so much about?" "jenkins was the son of my father's valet," george harrowby explained. "he came to america with me. we parted suddenly on a ranch in southern arizona." "everybody said you was dead," persisted jenkins, as one who could not lose sight of that fact. "yes? and they gave you my letters and belongings, eh? so you thought you'd pose as me?" "yes, sir," confessed jenkins humbly. mr. trimmer slid farther back into his chair. "well," he said, "it's unbelievable, but henry trimmer has been buncoed. i met this able liar in a boarding-house in new york, and he convinced me he was lord harrowby. it was between jobs for me, and i had a bright idea. if i brought this guy down to the wedding, established him as the real lord, and raised cain generally, i figured my stock as a publicity man would rise a hundred per cent. i'd be turning down fifty-thousand-dollar jobs right and left. i suppose i was easy, but i'd never mixed up with such things before, and all the dope he had impressed me--the family coat of arms, and the motto--" the chicago man laughed softly. "_credo harrowby_," he said. "that was it--trust harrowby," said trimmer bitterly. "lord, what a fool i've been. and it's ruined my career. i'll be the laughing-stock--" "oh, cheer up, mr. trimmer," smiled george harrowby. "i'm sure you're unduly pessimistic about your career. i'll have something to say to you on that score later. for the present--" "for the present," broke in trimmer with fervor, "iron bars for jenkins here. i'll swear out the warrant myself--" "nonsense," said harrowby, "jenkins is the most harmless creature in the world. led astray by ambition, that's all. with any one but allan his claims wouldn't have lasted five minutes. poor allan always was a helpless youngster." "oh--jenkins," broke in minot suddenly. "what was the idea this morning? i mean your calling allan harrowby an impostor?" jenkins hung his head. "i was rattled," he admitted. "i couldn't keep it up before all those people. so it came to me in a flash--if i said allan was a fraud maybe i wouldn't have to be cross-examined myself." "and that was really allan harrowby?" "yes--that was allan, right enough." mr. minot sat studying the wall in front of him. he was recalling a walk through the moonlight to the fort. jephson and thacker pointed accusing fingers at him over the oceans and lands between. "i say--let jenkins go," continued the genial western harrowby, "provided he returns my property and clears out for good. after all, his father was a faithful servant, if he is not." "but," objected trimmer, "he's wasted my time. he's put a crimp in the career of the best publicity man in america it'll take years to straighten out--" "not necessarily," said harrowby. "i was coming to that. i've been watching your work for the last week, and i like it. it's alive--progressive. we're putting out a new car this spring--an inexpensive little car bound to make a hit. i need a man like you to convince the public--" mr. trimmer's eyes opened wide. they shone. he turned and regarded the unhappy jenkins. "clear out," he commanded. "if i ever see you again i'll wring your neck. now, mr. harrowby, you were saying--" "just a minute," said harrowby. "this man has certain letters and papers of mine--" "no, he hasn't," trimmer replied. "i got 'em. right here in my pocket." he slid a packet of papers across the table. "they're yours. now, about--" jenkins was slipping silently away. like a frightened wraith he flitted gratefully through the swinging doors. "a middle-class car," explained harrowby, "and i want a live man to boost it--" "beg pardon," interrupted minot, rising, "i'll say good night. we'll get together about that other matter in the morning. by the way, mr. harrowby, have you any idea what has become of allan?" "no, i haven't. i sent him a telegram this afternoon saying that i was on my way here. must have run off on business. of course, he'll be back for his wedding." "oh, yes--of course," minot agreed sadly, "he'll be back for his wedding. good night, gentlemen." a few minutes later he stood at the window of , gazing out at the narrow street, at the stately manhattan club, and the old spanish houses on either side. "and she refused me!" he muttered. "to think that should be the biggest piece of luck that's come to me since i hit this accursed town!" he continued to gaze gloomily out. the--er--moon was still shining. chapter xviii "a rotten bad fit" minot rose early on monday morning and went for a walk along the beach. he had awakened to black despair, but the sun and the matutinal breeze elevated his spirits considerably. where was allan harrowby? gone, with his wedding little more than twenty-four hours away. if he should not return--golden thought. by his own act he would forfeit his claim on jephson, and minot would be free to-- to what? before him in the morning glow the great gray fort rose to crush his hopes. there on those slanting ramparts she had smiled at his declaration. smiled, and labeled him foolish. well, foolish he must have seemed. but there was still hope. if only allan harrowby did not return. mr. trimmer, his head down, breathing hard, marched along the beach like a man with a destination. seeing minot, he stopped suddenly. "good morning," he said, holding out his hand, with a smile. "no reason why we shouldn't be friends, eh? none whatever. you're out early. so am i. thinking up ideas for the automobile campaign." minot laughed. "you leap from one proposition to another with wonderful aplomb," he said. "the agile mountain goat hopping from peak to peak," trimmer replied. "that's me. oh, i'm the goat all right. sad old jenkins put it all over me, didn't he?" "i'm afraid he did. where is he?" "ask of the railway folder. he lit out in the night. say--he did have a convincing way with him--you know it." "he surely did." "well, the best of us make mistakes," admitted mr. trimmer. "the trouble with me is i'm too enthusiastic. once i get an idea, i see rosy for miles ahead. as i look back i realize that i actually helped jenkins prove to me that he was lord harrowby. i was so anxious for him to do it--the chance seemed so gorgeous. and if i'd put it over--but there. the automobile business looks mighty good to me now. watch the papers for details. and when you get back to broadway, keep a lookout for the hand of trimmer writing in fire on the sky." "i will," promised minot, laughing. he turned back to the hotel shortly after. his meeting with trimmer had cheered him mightily. with a hopeful eye worthy of trimmer himself, he looked toward the future. twenty-four hours would decide it. if only allan failed to return! the first man minot saw when he entered the lobby of the de la pax was allan harrowby, his eyes tired with travel, handing over a suit-case to an eager black boy. what was the use? listlessly minot relinquished his last hope. he followed harrowby, and touched his arm. "good morning," he said drearily. "you gave us all quite a turn last night. we thought you'd taken the advice you got in the morning, and cleared out for good." "well, hardly," harrowby replied. "come up to the room, old man. i'll explain there." "before we go up," replied minot, "i want you to get miss meyrick on the phone and tell her you've returned. yes--right away. you see--last night i rather misunderstood--i thought you weren't allan harrowby after all--and i'm afraid i gave miss meyrick a wrong impression." "by gad--i should have told her i was going," harrowby replied. "but i was so rattled, you know--" he went into a booth. his brief talk ended, he and minot entered the elevator. once in his suite, harrowby dropped wearily into a chair. "confound your stupid trains. i've been traveling for ages. now, minot, i'll tell you what carried me off. yesterday afternoon i got a message from my brother george saying he was on his way here." "yes?" "seems he's alive and in business in chicago. the news excited me a bit, old boy. i pictured george rushing in here, and the word spreading that i was not to be the earl of raybrook, after all. i'm frightfully fond of miss meyrick, and i want that wedding to take place to-morrow. then, too, there's jephson. understand me--cynthia is not marrying me for my title. i'd stake my life on that. but there's the father and aunt mary--and considering the number of times the old gentleman has forbidden the wedding already--" "you saw it was up to you, for once." "exactly. so for my own sake--and jephson's--i boarded a train for jacksonville with the idea of meeting george's train there and coming on here with him. i was going to ask george not to make himself known for a couple of days. then i proposed to tell cynthia, and cynthia only, of his existence. if she objected, all very well--but i'm sure she wouldn't. and i'm sure, too, that george would have done what i asked--he always was a bully chap. but--i missed him. these confounded trains--always late. except when you want them to be. i dare say george is here by this time?" "he is," minot replied. "came a few hours after you left. and by the way, i arranged a meeting for him with trimmer and his proposition. the proposition fled into the night. it seems he was the son of an old servant of your father's--jenkins by name." "surely! surely that was jenkins! i thought i'd seen the chap somewhere--couldn't quite recall-- well, at any rate, he's out of the way. now the thing to do is to see good old george at once--" he went to the telephone, and got his brother's room. "george!" a surprising note of affection crept into his lordship's voice. "george, old boy--this is allan. i'm waiting for you in my rooms." "dear old chap," said his lordship, turning away from the telephone. "twenty-three years since he has seen one of his own flesh and blood! twenty-three years of wandering in this god-forsaken country--i beg your pardon, minot. i wonder what he'll say to me. i wonder what george will say after all those years." nervously allan harrowby walked the floor. in a moment the door opened, and the tall, blond chicago man stood in the doorway. his blue eyes glowed. without a word he came into the room, and gripped the hand of his brother, then stood gazing as if he would never get enough. and then george harrowby spoke. "is that a ready-made suit you have on, allan?" he asked huskily. "why--why--yes, george." "i thought so. it's a rotten bad fit, allan. a rotten bad fit." thus did george harrowby greet the first of his kin he had seen in a quarter of a century. thus did he give the lie to fiction, and to trimmer, writer of "fancy seeing you after all these years" speeches. he dropped his younger brother's hand and strode to the window. he looked out. the courtyard of the de la pax was strangely misty even in the morning sunlight. then he turned, smiling. "how's the old boy?" he asked. "he's well, george. speaks of you--now and then. think he'd like to see you. why not run over and look him up?" "i will." george harrowby turned again to the window. "ought to have buried the hatchet long ago. been so busy--but i'll change all that. i'll run over and see him first chance i get--and i'll write to him to-day." "good. great to see you again, george. heard you'd shuffled off." "not much. alive and well in chicago. great to see you." "suppose you know about the wedding?" "yes. fine girl, too. had a waiter point her out to me at breakfast--rather rude, but i was in a hurry to see her. er--pretty far gone and all that, allan?" "pretty far gone." "that's the eye. i was afraid it might be a financial proposition until i saw the girl." allan shifted nervously. "ah--er--of course, you're lord harrowby," he said. george harrowby threw back his head and laughed his hearty pleasant laugh. "sit down, kid," he said. and the scion of nobility, thus informally addressed, sat. "i thought you'd come at me with the title," said george harrowby, also dropping into a chair. "don't go, mr. minot--no secrets here. allan, you and your wife must come out and see us. got a wife myself--fine girl--she's from marion, indiana. and i've got two of the liveliest little americans you ever saw. live in a little chicago suburb--homey house, shady street, neighbors all from down country way. gibson's drawings on the walls, george ade's books on the tables, phonograph in the corner with all of george m. cohan's songs. whole family wakes in the morning ready for a mccutcheon cartoon. my boys talk about nothing but cubs and white sox all summer. they're going to a western university in a few years. we raised 'em on james whitcomb riley's poems. well, allan----" "well, george----" "say, what do you imagine would happen if i went back to a home like that with the news that i was lord harrowby, in line to become the earl of raybrook. there'd be a riot. wife would be startled out of her wits. children would hate me. be an outcast in my own family. neighbors would turn up their noses when they went by our house. fellows at the club would guy me. lord harrowby, eh! take off your hats to his ludship, boys. business would fall off." smilingly george harrowby took a cigar and lighted it. "no, allan," he finished, "a lord wouldn't make a hell of a hit anywhere in america, but in chicago, in the automobile business--say, i'd be as lonesome and deserted as the reading-room of an elks' club." "i don't quite understand----" allan began. "no," said george, turning to meet minot's smile, "but this gentleman does. it all means, allan, that there's nothing doing. you are lord harrowby, the next earl of raybrook. take the title, and god bless you." "but, george," allan objected, "legally you can't----" "don't worry, allan," said the man from chicago, "there's nothing we can't do in america, and do legally. how's this? i've always been intending to take out naturalization papers. i'll do it the minute i get back to chicago--and then the title is yours. in the meantime, when you introduce me to your friends here, we'll just pretend i've taken them out already." allan harrowby got up and laid his hand affectionately on his brother's shoulder. "you're a brick, old boy," he said. "you always were. i'm glad you're to be here for the wedding. how did you happen to come?" "that's right--you don't know, do you? i came in response to a telegram from lloyds, of new york." "from--er--lloyds?" asked allan blankly. "yes, allan. that yacht you came down here on didn't belong to martin wall. it belonged to me. he made away with it from north river because he happened to need it. wall's a crook, my boy." "the _lileth_ your ship! my word!" "it is. i called it the _lady evelyn_, allan. lloyds found out that it had been stolen and sent me a wire. so here i am." "lloyds found out through me," minot explained to the dazed allan. "oh--i'm beginning to see," said allan slowly. "by the way, george, we've another score to settle with wall." he explained briefly how wall had acquired chain lightning's collar, and returned a duplicate of paste in its place. the elder harrowby listened with serious face. "it's no doubt the collar he was trailing you for, allan," he said. "and that's how he came to need the yacht. but when finally he got his eager fingers on those diamonds, poor old wall must have had the shock of his life." "how's that?" "it wasn't wall who had the duplicate made. it was--father--years ago, when i was still at home. he wanted money to bet, as usual--had the duplicate made--risked and lost." "but," allan objected, "he gave it to me to give to miss meyrick. surely he wouldn't have done that----" "how old is he now? eighty-two? allan, the old boy must be a little childish by now--he forgot. i'm sure he forgot. that's the only view to take of it." a silence fell. in a moment the elder brother said: "allan, i want you to assure me again that you're marrying because you love the girl--and for no other reason." "straight, george," allan answered, and looked his brother in the eye. "good kid. there's nothing in the other kind of marriage--all unhappiness--all wrong. i was sure you must be on the level--but, you see, after mr. thacker--the insurance chap in new york--knew who i was and that i wouldn't take the title, he told me about that fool policy you took out." "no? did he?" "all about it. sort of knocked me silly for a minute. but i remembered the harrowby gambling streak--and if you love the girl, and really want to marry her, i can't see any harm in the idea. however, i hope you lose out on the policy. everything o.k. now? nothing in the way?" "not a thing," lord harrowby replied. "minot here has been a bully help--worked like mad to put the wedding through. i owe everything to him." "insuring a woman's mind," reflected george harrowby. "not a bad idea, allan. almost worthy of an american. still--i could have insured you myself after a fashion--promised you a good job as manager of our new london branch in case the marriage fell through. however, your method is more original." allan harrowby was slowly pacing the room. suddenly he turned, and despite the fact that all obstacles were removed, he seemed a very much worried young man. "george--mr. minot," he began, "i've a confession to make. it's about that policy." he stopped. "the old family trouble, george. we're gamblers to the bone--all of us. last friday night--at the manhattan club--i turned over that policy to martin wall to hold as security for a five thousand dollar loan." "why the devil did you do that?" minot cried. "well----" and allan harrowby was in his old state of helplessness again. "i wanted to save the day. gonzale was hounding us for money--i thought i saw a chance to win----" "but wall! wall of all people!" "i know. i oughtn't to have done it. knew wall wasn't altogether straight. but nobody else was about--i got excited--borrowed--lost the whole of it, too. wha--what are we going to do?" he looked appealingly at minot. but for once it was not on minot's shoulders that the responsibility for action fell. george harrowby cheerfully took charge. "i was just on the point of going out to the yacht, with an officer," he said. "suppose we three run out alone and talk business with martin wall." fifteen minutes later the two harrowbys and minot boarded the yacht which martin wall had christened the _lileth_. george harrowby looked about him with interest. "he's taken very good care of it--i'll say that for him," he remarked. martin wall came suavely forward. "mr. wall," said minot pleasantly, "allow me to present mr. george harrowby, the owner of the boat on which we now stand." "i beg our pardon," said wall, without the quiver of an eyelash. "so careless of me. don't stand, gentlemen. have chairs--all of you." and he stared george harrowby calmly in the eye. "you're flippant this morning," said the elder harrowby. "we'll be glad to sit, thank you. and may i repeat what mr. minot has told you--i own this yacht." "indeed?" mr. wall's face beamed. "you bought it from wilson, i presume." "just who is wilson?" "why--he's the man i rented it from in new york." "so that's your tale, is it?" allan harrowby put in. "you wound me," protested mr. wall. "that is my tale, as you call it. i rented this boat in new york from a man named albert wilson. i have the lease to show you, also my receipt for one month's rent." "i'll bet you have," commented minot. "bet anything you like. you come from a betting institution, i believe." "no, mr. wall, i did not buy the yacht from wilson," said george harrowby. "i've owned it for several years." "how do i know that?" asked martin wall. "glance over that," said the elder harrowby, taking a paper from his pocket. "a precaution you failed to take with albert wilson." "dear, dear." mr. wall looked over the paper and handed it back. "can it be that wilson was a fraud? i suggest the police, mr. harrowby. i shall be very glad to testify." "i suggest the police, too," said minot hotly, "for mr. martin wall. if you thought you had a right on this boat, wall, why did you throw me overboard into the north river when i mentioned the name of lloyds?" mr. wall regarded him with pained surprise. "i threw you overboard because i didn't want you on my boat," he said. "i thought you understood that fully." "nonsense," minot cried. "you stole this boat by bribing the caretaker, and when i mentioned lloyds, famous the world over as a marine insurance firm, you thought i was after you, and threw me over the rail. i see it all very clearly now." "you're a wise young man----" "mr. wall," george harrowby broke in, "it may interest you to know that we don't believe a word of the wilson story. but it may also interest you to know that i am willing to let the whole matter drop--on one condition." "what's that?" "my brother allan here borrowed five thousand dollars from you the other night, and gave you as security a bit of paper quite worthless to any one save himself. accept my check for five thousand and hand him back the paper." mr. wall smiled. he reached into his inner coat pocket. "with the greatest pleasure," he said. "here is the--er--the document." he laughed. then, noting the check book on the elder harrowby's knee, he added: "there was a little matter of interest----" "not at all!" george harrowby looked up. "the interest is forfeited to pay wear and tear on this yacht." for a moment wall showed fight, but he did not much care for the light he saw in the elder harrowby's eyes. he recognized a vast difference in brothers. "oh--very well," he said. the check was written, and the exchange made. "since you are convinced i am the owner of the yacht," said george harrowby, rising, "i take it you will leave it at once?" "as soon as i can remove my belongings," wall said. "a most unfortunate affair all round." "a fortunate one for you," commented mr. minot. wall glared. "my boy," he said angrily, "did any one ever tell you you were a bad-luck jinx?" "never," smiled minot. "you look like one to me," growled martin wall. george harrowby arranged to keep the crew wall had engaged, in order to get the _lady evelyn_ back to new york. it was thought best for the owner to stay aboard until wall had gathered his property and departed, so allan harrowby and minot alone returned to san marco. as they crossed the plaza allan said: "by gad--everything looks lovely now. jenkins out of the way, good old george side-stepping the title, the policy safe in my pocket. not a thing in the way!" "it's almost too good to be true," replied minot, with a very mirthless smile. "it must be a great relief to you, old boy. you have worked hard. must feel perfectly jolly over all this?" "me?" said minot. "oh, i can hardly contain myself for joy. i feel like twining orange blossoms in my hair----" he walked on, kicking the gravel savagely at each step. not a thing in the way now. not a single, solitary, hopeful, little thing. chapter xix mr. minot goes through fire the duchess of lismore elected to give her dinner and dance in miss meyrick's honor as near to the bright florida stars as she could. on the top floor of the de la pax was a private dining-room, only partially enclosed, with a picturesque view of the palm-dotted courtyard below. adjacent to this was a sun-room with a removable glass roof, and this the duchess had ordered transformed into a ballroom. there in the open the newest society dances should rise to offend the soft southern sky. being a good general, the hostess was early on the scene, marshaling her forces. to her there came cynthia meyrick, radiant and lovely and wide-eyed on the eve of her wedding. "how sweet you look, cynthia," said the duchess graciously. "but then, you long ago solved the problem of what becomes you." "i have to look as sweet as i can," replied the girl wearily. "all the rest of my life i shall have to try and live up to the nobility." she sighed. "to think," remarked the duchess, busy over a great bowl of flowers, "that to-morrow night this time little cynthia will be lady harrowby. i suppose you'll go to rakedale hall for part of the year at least?" "i suppose so." "i, too, have had my rakedale hall. formal, cynthia dear, formal. nothing but silly little hunts, silly little shoots--american men would die there. as for american women--nothing ever happens--the hedges bloom in neat little rows--the trees blossom--they're bare again--cynthia, sometimes i've been in a state where i'd give ten years of my life just to hear the rattle of an elevated train!" she stood looking down at the girl, an all too evident pity in her eyes. "it isn't all it might be, i fancy--marrying into the peerage," cynthia said. "my dear," replied the duchess, "i've nearly died at times. i never was exactly what you'd call a patriot, but--often i've waked in the night and thought of detroit. my little car rattling over the cobblestones--a new gown tried on at madame harbier's--a matinée--and chocolate afterward at that little place--you remember it. and our house on woodward avenue--the good times there. on the veranda in the evening, and jack little just back from college in the east running across the lawns to see me----. what became of jack, dear?" "he married elise perkins." "ah--i know--and they live near our old house--have a box when the opera comes--entertain the yale glee club every christmas--oh, cynthia, maybe it's crude, maybe it's middle-class in english eyes--but it's home! when you introduced that brother of lord harrowby's this afternoon--that big splendid chap who said america looked better than a title to him--i could have thrown my arms about his neck and kissed him!" she came closer to the girl, and stood looking down at her with infinite tenderness in her washed-out eyes. "wasn't there--any american boy, my dear?" she asked. "i--i--hundreds of them," answered cynthia meyrick, trying to laugh. the duchess turned away. "it's wrong of me to discourage you like that," she said. "marrying into the peerage is something, after all. you must come home every year--insist on it. johnson--are these the best caviar bowls the hotel can furnish?" and the duchess of lismore, late of detroit, drifted off into a bitter argument with the humble johnson. miss meyrick strolled away, out upon a little balcony opening off the dining-room. she stood gazing down at the waving fronds in the courtyard six stories below. if only that fountain down there were ponce de leon's! but it wasn't. to-morrow she must put youth behind. she must go far from the country she loved--did she care enough for that? strangely enough, burning tears filled her eyes. hot revolt surged into her heart. she stood looking down---- meanwhile the other members of the dinner-party were gathering with tender solicitude about their hostess in the ballroom beyond. dick minot, hopeless, glum, stalked moodily among them. into the crowd drifted jack paddock, his sprightly air noticeably lacking, his eyes worried, dreadful. "for the love of heaven," minot asked, as they stepped together into a secluded corner, "what ails you?" "be gentle with me, boy," said paddock unhappily. "i'm in a horrible mess. the graft, dick--the good old graft. it's over and done with now." "what do you mean?" "it happened last night after our wild chase of harrowby--i was fussed--excited---- i prepared two sets of repartee for my two customers to use to-night----" "yes?" "i always make carbon copies to refer to myself just before the stuff is to be used. a few minutes ago i took out my copies. dick! i sent the same repartee to both of them!" "good lord!" "good lord is meek and futile. so is damn. put on your little rubber coat, my boy. i predict a hurricane." in spite of his own troubles, minot laughed. "mirth, eh?" said paddock grimly. "i can't see it that way. i'll be as popular as a republican in texas before this evening is over. got a couple of hasty rapid-fire resignations all ready. thought at first i wouldn't come--but that seemed cowardly. anyway, this is my last appearance on any stage as a librettist. kindly omit flowers." and mr. paddock drifted gloomily away. while the servants were passing cocktails on gleaming trays, minot found the door to the balcony and stepped outside. a white wraith flitted from the shadows to his side. "mr. minot," said a soft, scared little voice. "ah--miss meyrick," he cried. merciful fate this, that they met for the first time since that incident on the ramparts in kindly darkness. "miss meyrick," began minot hurriedly, "i'm very glad to have a moment alone with you. i want to apologize--for last night--i was mad--i did harrowby a very palpable wrong. i'm very ashamed of myself as i look back. can i hope that you will--forget--all i said?" she did not reply, but stood looking down at the palms far below. "can i hope that you will forget--and forgive?" she glanced up at him, and her eyes shone in the dusk. "i can forgive," she said softly. "but i can't forget. mr.--mr. minot----" "yes?" "what--what--is--woman's greatest privilege?" something in the tone of her voice sent a cold chill sweeping through minot's very soul. he clutched the rail for support. "if--if you'd answer," said the girl, "it would make it easier for----" aunt mary's generous form appeared in the doorway. "oh, there you are, cynthia! you are keeping the duchess' dinner waiting." cynthia meyrick joined her aunt. minot stayed behind a moment. below him florida swam in the azure night. what had the girl been about to say? pulling himself together, he went inside and learned that he was to take in to dinner a glorious blond bridesmaid. when they were seated, he found that miss meyrick's face was hidden from him by a profusion of florida blossoms. he was glad of that. he wanted to think--think. a few others were thinking at that table, mrs. bruce and the duchess among them. mrs. bruce was mentally rehearsing. the duchess glanced at her. "the wittiest woman in san marco," thought the hostess. "bah!" mr. paddock, meanwhile, was toying unhappily with his food. he had little to say. the attractive young lady he had taken in had already classified him as a bore. most unjust of the attractive young lady. "it's lamentable, really." mrs. bruce was speaking. "even in our best society conversation has given way to the turkey trot. our wits are in our feet. where once people talked art, music, literature--now they tango madly. it really seems--" "everything you say is true," interrupted the duchess blandly. "i sometimes think the race of the future will be--a trotting race." mrs. bruce started perceptibly. her eyes lighted with fire. she had been working up to this line herself, and the coincidence was passing strange. she glared at the hostess. mr. paddock studied his plate intently. "i for one," went on the duchess of lismore, "do not dance the tango or the turkey trot. nor am i willing to take the necessary steps to learn them." a little ripple ran round the table--the ripple that up to now had been the exclusive privilege of mrs. bruce. that lady paled visibly. she realized that there was no coincidence here. "it seems too bad, too," she said, fixing the hostess firmly with an angry eye. "because women could have the world at their feet--if they'd only keep their feet still long enough." it was the turn of the duchess to start, and start she did. as one who could not believe her ears, she stared at mrs. bruce. the "wittiest hostess in san marco" was militantly under way. "women are not what they used to be," she continued. "either they are mad about clothes, or they go to the other extreme and harbor strange ideas about the vote, eugenics, what not. in fact, the sex reminds me of the type of shop that abounds in a small town--its specialty is drygoods and notions." the duchess pushed away a plate which had only that moment been set before her. she regarded mrs. bruce with the eye of mrs. pankhurst face to face with a prime minister. "we are hardly kind to our sex," she said, "but i must say i agree with you. and the extravagance of women! half the women of my acquaintance wear gorgeous rings on their fingers--while their husbands wear blue rings about their eyes." mrs. bruce's face was livid. "madam!" she said through her teeth. "what is it?" asked the duchess sweetly. they sat glaring at each other. then with one accord they turned--to glare at mr. jack paddock. mr. paddock, prince of assurance, was blushing furiously. he stood the combined glare as long as he could--then he looked up into the night. "how--how close the stars seem," he murmured faintly. it was noted afterward that mrs. bruce maintained a vivid silence during the remainder of that dinner. the duchess, on the contrary, wrung from her purchased lines every possibility they held. and in that embattled setting mr. minot sat, deaf to the delicious lisp of the debutante at his side. what was woman's greatest privilege? wasn't it---- his forehead grew damp. his knees trembled beneath the table. "jephson--thacker, jephson--thacker," he said over and over to himself. after dinner, when the added guests invited by the duchess for the dance crowded the ballroom, minot encountered jack paddock. mr. paddock was limp and pitiable. "ever apologize to an angry woman?" he asked. "ever try to expostulate with a storm at sea? i've had it out with mrs. bruce--offered to do anything to atone--she said the best thing i could do would be to disappear from san marco. she's right. i'm going. this is my exit from the butterfly life. and i don't intend to say good-by to the duchess, either." "i wish i could go with you," said minot sadly. "well--come along----" "no. i--i'll stick it out. see you later." mr. paddock slipped unostentatiously away in the direction of the elevator. on a dais hidden by palms the orchestra began to play softly. "you haven't asked to see my card," said cynthia meyrick at minot's side. he smiled a wan smile, and wrote his name opposite number five. she drifted away. the music became louder, rising to the bright stars themselves. the dances that had furnished so much bitter conversation at table began to break out. minot hunted up the balcony and stood gazing miserably down at fairy-land below. there miss meyrick found him when the fifth dance was imminent. "is it customary for girls to pursue their partners?" she inquired. "i'm sorry," he said weakly. "shall we go in?" "it's so--so glorious out here." he sighed--a sigh of resignation. he turned to her. "you asked me--what is woman's greatest privilege," he said. "yes." "is it--to change her mind?" she looked timidly into his eyes. "it--is," she whispered faintly. the most miserably happy man in history, he gasped. "cynthia! it's too late--you're to be married to-morrow. do you mean--you'd call it all off now--at the last minute?" she nodded her head, her eyes on the ground. "my god!" he moaned, and turned away. "it would be all wrong--to marry harrowby," she said faintly. "because i've come to--i--oh, dick, can't you see?" "see! of course i see!" he clenched his fists. "cynthia, my dearest----" below him stretched six stories of open space. in his agony he thought of leaping over the rail--of letting that be his answer. but no--it would disarrange things so--it might even postpone the wedding! "cynthia," he groaned, "you can't understand. it mustn't be--i've given my word. i can't explain. i can never explain. but--cynthia--cynthia----" back in the shadow the girl pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. "a strange love--yours," she said. "a love that blows hot and cold." "cynthia--that isn't true--i do love you----" "please! please let us--forget." she stepped into the moonlight, fine, brave, smiling. "do we--dance?" "cynthia!" he cried unhappily. "if you only understood----" "i think i do. the music has stopped. harrowby has the next dance--he'd hardly think of looking for me here." she was gone! minot stood alone on the balcony. he was dazed, blind, trembling. he had refused the girl without whom life could never be worth while! refused her, to keep the faith! he entered upon the bright scene inside, slipped unnoticed to the elevator and, still dazed, descended to the lobby. he would walk in the moonlight until his senses were regained. near the main door of the de la pax he ran into henry trimmer. mr. trimmer had a newspaper in his hand. "what's the matter with the women nowadays?" he demanded indignantly. minot tried in vain to push by him. "seen what those london suffragettes have done now?" and trimmer pointed to a head-line. "what have they done?" asked minot. "done? they put dynamite under the statue of lord nelson in trafalgar square and blew it sky-high. it fell over into the strand----" "good!" cried minot wildly. "good! i hope to hell it smashed the whole of london!" and, brushing aside the startled trimmer, he went out into the night. it was nearly twelve o'clock when mr. minot, somewhat calmer of mind, returned to the de la pax. as he stepped into the courtyard he was surprised to see a crowd gathered before the hotel. then he noticed that from a second-floor window poured smoke and flame, and that the town fire department was wildly getting into action. he stopped--his heart almost ceased beating. that was her window! the window to which he had called her on that night that seemed so far away--last night! breathlessly he ran forward. and he ran straight into a group just descended from the ballroom. of that group cynthia meyrick was a member. for a moment they stood gazing at each other. then the girl turned to her aunt. "my wedding dress!" she cried. "i left it lying on my bed. oh, i can't possibly be married to-morrow if that is burned!" there was a challenge in that last sentence, and the young man for whom it was intended did not miss it. mad with the injustice of life, he swooped down on a fireman struggling with a wabbly ladder. snatching away the ladder, he placed it against the window from which the smoke and flame poured. he ran up it. "here!" shouted the chief of the fire department, laying angry hands on the ladder's base. "wot you doing? you can't go in there." "why the devil can't i?" bellowed minot. "let go of that ladder!" he plunged into the room. the smoke filled his nostrils and choked him. his eyes burned. he staggered through the smoky dusk into another room. his hands met the brass bars of a bed--then closed over something soft and filmy that lay upon it. he seized the something close, and hurried back into the other room. a fireman at another window sought to turn a stream of water on him. water--on that gown! "cut that out, you fool!" minot shouted. the fireman, who had suspected himself of saving a human life, looked hurt. minot regained his window. disheveled, smoky, but victorious, he half fell, half climbed, to the ground. the fire chief faced him. "who was you trying to rescue?" the chief demanded. his eyes grew wide. "you idiot," he roared, "they ain't nobody in that dress." "damn it, i know that," minot cried. he ran across the lawn and stood, a panting, limp, battered, ludicrous figure before cynthia meyrick. "i--i hope it's the right one," he said, and held out the gown. she took his offering, and came very close to him. "i hate you!" she said in a low tone. "i hate you!" "i--i was afraid you would," he muttered. a shout from the firemen announced that the blaze was under control. to his dismay, minot saw that an admiring crowd was surrounding him. he broke away and hurried to his room. cynthia meyrick's final words to him rang in his ears. savagely he tore at his ruined collar. was this ridiculous farce never to end? as if in answer, a distant clock struck twelve. he shuddered. to-morrow, at high noon! chapter xx "please kill" early tuesday morning, while mr. minot still slept and mercifully forgot, two very wide awake gentlemen sat alone together in the office of the _san marco mail_. one was manuel gonzale, proprietor of that paper, as immaculate as the morn; the other was that broad and breezy gentleman known in his present incarnation as mr. martin wall. "very neat. very neat indeed," said mr. wall, gazing with evident approval at an inky smelling sheet that lay before him. "it ought to do the work. if it does, it will be the first stroke of luck i've had in san marco." gonzale smiled, revealing two even rows of very white teeth. "you do not like san marco?" he ventured. mr. wall snorted angrily. "like it? does a beheaded man like the ax? in a long and golden professional career, i've never struck anything like this town before for hard luck. i'm not in it twenty-four hours when i'm left alone, my hands tied, with stuff enough to make your eyes pop out of your head. that's pleasant! then, after spending two months and a lot of money trailing lord harrowby for the family jools, i finally cop them. i give the crew of my borrowed boat orders to steam far, far away, and run to my cabin to gloat. do i gloat? ask me. i do not gloat. i find the famous chain lightning's collar is a very superior collection of glass, worth about twenty-three cents. i send back the glass, and stick around, hoping for better days. and the best i get is a call from the owner of my yacht, with orders to vacate at once. when i first came here i swore i'd visit that jewelry store again--alone. but--there's a jinx after me in this town. what's the use? i'm going to get out." "but before you go," smiled manuel, "one stroke of luck you shall have." "maybe. i leave that to you. this kind of thing"--he motioned toward the damp paper--"is not in my line." he bent over a picture on the front page. "that cut came out pretty well, didn't it? lucky we got the photograph before big brother george arrived." "i have always found san marco lucky," replied gonzale. "always--with one trifling exception." he drummed reminiscently on his desk. "i say--who's this?" mr. wall pointed to a line just beneath the name of the paper. "robert o'neill, editor and proprietor," he read. manuel gonzale gurgled softly somewhere within, which was his cunning, non-committal way of indicating mirth. "ah--my very virtuous managing editor," he said. "one of those dogs who dealt so vilely with me--i have told you of that. manuel gonzale does not forget." he leaned closer. "this morning at two, after o'neill and howe had sent to-day's paper to press as usual, luypas, my circulation manager, and i arrived. my virtuous editors had departed to their rest. luypas and i stopped the presses, we substituted a new first-page form. o'neill and howe--they will not know. always they sleep until noon. in this balmy climate, it is easy to lie abed." again manuel gonzale gurgled. "may their sleep be dreamless," he said. "and should our work of the morning fail, may the name of o'neill be the first to concern the police." wall laughed. "a good idea," he remarked. he looked at his watch. "nine-fifteen. the banks ought to be open now." gonzale got to his feet. carefully he folded the page that had been lying on his desk. "the moment for action has come," he said. "shall we go down to the street?" "i'm in strange waters," responded martin wall uneasily. "the first dip i've ever taken out of my line. don't believe in it either--a man should have his specialty and stick to it. however, i need the money. am i letter perfect in my part, i wonder?" the door of the _mail_ office opened, and a sly little cuban with an evil face stepped in. "ah, luypas," gonzale said, "you are here at last? do you understand? your boys they are to be in the next room--yes? you are to sit near that telephone. at a word from my friend, mr. martin wall, to-day's edition of the _mail_ is to flood the streets--the news-stands. instantly. delay might be fatal. is that clear?" "i know," said luypas. "very good," said gonzale. he turned to martin wall. "now is the time," he added. the two descended to the street. opposite the hotel de la pax they parted. the sleek little spaniard went on alone and mounted boldly those pretentious steps. at the desk he informed the clerk on duty that he must see mr. spencer meyrick at once. "but mr. meyrick is very busy to-day," the clerk objected. "say this is--life and death," replied gonzale, and the clerk, wilting, telephoned the millionaire's apartments. for nearly an hour gonzale was kept waiting. nervously he paced the lobby, consuming one cigarette after another, glancing often at his watch. finally spencer meyrick appeared, pompous, red-faced, a hard man to handle, as he always had been. the spaniard noted this, and his slits of eyes grew even narrower. "will you come with me?" he asked suavely. "it is most important." he led the way to a summer-house in a far forgotten corner of the hotel grounds. protesting, spencer meyrick followed. the two sat down. "i have something to show you," said gonzale politely, and removed from his pocket a copy of the _san marco mail_, still damp from the presses. spencer meyrick took the paper in his own large capable hands. he glanced casually at the first page, and his face grew somewhat redder than its wont. a huge head-line was responsible: harrowby wasn't taking any chances. underneath, in slightly smaller type, spencer meyrick read: remarkable foresight of english fortune hunter who weds miss meyrick to-day took out a policy for seventy-five thousand pounds with lloyds. same to be payable in case the beautiful heiress suffered a change of heart prominent on the page was a large photograph, which purported to be "an exact facsimile of the policy." mr. meyrick examined it. he glanced through the story, which happened to be commendably brief. he told himself he must remain calm, avoid fireworks, think quickly. laying the paper on his knee, he turned to the little white-garbed man beside him. "what trick is this?" he asked sharply. "it is no trick, sir," said gonzale pleasantly. "it is the truth. that is a photograph of the policy." old meyrick studied the cut again. "i'll be damned," he remarked. "i have no desire to annoy," gonzale went on. "but--there are five thousand copies of to-day's _mail_ at the office ready to be distributed at a signal from me. think, sir! newsboys on the street with that story at the very moment when your daughter becomes lady harrowby." "i see," said meyrick slowly. "blackmail." manuel gonzale shuddered in horror. "oh, i beg of you," he protested. "that is hardly it. a business proposition, i should call it. it happens that the men back of the star publishing company, which issues the _mail_, have grown tired of the newspaper game in san marco. they are desirous of closing out the plant at once--say this morning. it occurs to them that you might be very glad to purchase the _mail_--before the next edition goes on the street." "you're a clever little dog," said meyrick, through his teeth. "you are not exactly complimentary. however--let us say for the argument--you buy the _mail_ at once. i am, by the way, empowered to make the sale. you take charge. you hurry to the office. you destroy all copies of to-day's issue so far printed. you give orders to the composing-room to kill this first-page story--good as it is. 'please kill,' you say. a term with newspaper men." "you call yourself a newspaper man?" "why not? the story is killed. another is put in its place--say, for example, an elaborate account of your daughter's wedding. and in its changed form the _mail_--your newspaper--goes on the street." "um--and your price?" "it is a valuable property." "especially valuable this morning, i take it," sneered meyrick. "valuable at any time. our presses cost a thousand. our linotypes two thousand. and there is that other thing--so hard to estimate definitely--the wide appeal of our paper. the price--well--fifteen thousand dollars. extremely reasonable. and i will include--the good will of the retiring management." "you contemptible little--" began spencer meyrick. "my dear sir--control yourself," pleaded gonzale. "or i may be unable to include the good will i spoke of. would you care to see that story on the streets? you may at any moment. there is but one way out. buy the newspaper. buy it now. here is the plan--you go with me to your bank. you procure fifteen thousand in cash. we go together to the _mail_ office. you pay me the money and i leave you in charge." old meyrick leaped to his feet. "very good," he cried. "come on." "one thing more," continued the crafty gonzale. "it may pay you to note--we are watched. even now. all the way to the bank and thence to the office of the _mail_--we will be watched. should any accident, now unforeseen, happen to me, that issue of the _mail_ will go on sale in five minutes all over san marco." spencer meyrick stood glaring down at the little man in white. his enthusiasm of a moment ago for the journey vanished. however, the head-lines of the _mail_ were staring up at him from the bench. he stooped, pocketed the paper, and growled: "i understand. come on!" there must be some escape. the trap seemed absurdly simple. across the hotel lawn, down the hot avenue, in the less hot plaza, meyrick sought a way. a naturally impulsive man, he had difficulty restraining himself. but he thought of his daughter, whose happiness was more than money in his eyes. no way offered. at the counter of the tiny bank meyrick stood writing his check, gonzale at his elbow. suddenly behind them the screen door slammed, and a wild-eyed man with flaming red hair rushed in. "what is it you want?" gonzale screamed. "out of my way, don quixote," cried the red-topped one. "i'm a windmill and my arms breathe death. are you mr. meyrick? well, tear up that check!" "gladly," said meyrick. "only--" "notice the catbirds down here?" went on the wild one. "noisy little beasts, aren't they? well, after this take off your hat to 'em. a catbird saved you a lot of money this morning." "i'm afraid i don't follow--" said the dazed spencer meyrick. "no? i'll explain. i have been working on this man's paper for the last week. so has a very good friend of mine. we knew he was crooked, but we needed the money and he promised us not to pull off any more blackmail while we stayed. last night, after we left the office, he arranged this latest. planned to incriminate me. you little devil--" manuel, frightened, leaped away. "we usually sleep until noon," went on o'neill. "he counted on that. enter the catbird. sat on our window-sill at ten a.m. and screeched. woke us up. we felt uneasy. went to the office, broke down a bolted door, and found what was up." "dog!" foamed manuel. "outcast of the gutter--" "save your compliments! mr. meyrick, my partner is now at the _mail_ office destroying to-day's issue of the _mail_. we've already ruined the first-page form, the cut of the policy, and the negative. and we're going north as fast as the lord'll let us. you can do what you please. arrest our little lemon-tinted employer, if you want to." spencer meyrick stood, considering. "however--i've done you a favor." o'neill went on. "you can do me one. let manuel off--on one condition." "name it." "that he hands me at once two hundred dollars--one hundred for myself, the other for my partner. it's legitimate salary money due us--we need it. a long walk to new york." "i myself--" began meyrick. "don't want your money," said o'neill. "want gonzale's." "gonzale's you shall have," agreed meyrick. "you--pay him!" "never!" cried the spaniard. "then it's the police--" hinted o'neill. gonzale took two yellow bills from a wallet he tossed them at o'neill. "there, you cur--" "careful," cried o'neill. "or i'll punch you yet--" he started forward, but gonzale hastily withdrew. o'neill and the millionaire followed to the street. "just as well," commented meyrick. "i should not have cared to cause his arrest--it would have meant country-wide publicity." he laid a hand on the arm of the newspaper man. "i take it," he said, "that your fortunes are not at the highest ebb. you have done me a very great service. i propose to write two checks--one for you, one for your partner--and you may name the amounts." but the red-haired one shook his head. "no," he replied. "nix on the anticlimax to virtue on a rampage. we can't be paid for it. it would sort of dim the glory. we've got the railroad fare at last--and we're going away from here. yes--away from here. on the choo-choo--riding far--riding north." "well, my boy," answered spencer meyrick, "if i can ever do anything for you in new york, come and see me." "you may have to make good on that," laughed o'neill, and they parted. o'neill hastened to the _mail_ office. he waved yellow bills before the lanky howe. "in the nick of time," he cried. "me, the fair-haired hero. and here's the fare, harry--the good old railroad fare." "heaven be praised," said howe. "i've finished the job, bob. not a trace of this morning's issue left. the fare! north in parlor cars! my tobacco heart sings. can't you hear the elevated--" "music, harry, music." "and the newsboys on park row--" "caruso can't touch them. where can we find a time-table, i wonder?" meanwhile, in a corner of the plaza, manuel gonzale spoke sad words in the ear of martin wall. "it's the jinx," moaned wall with conviction. "the star player in everything i do down here. i'm going to burn the sand hot-footing it away. but whither, manuel, whither?" "in porto rico," replied gonzale, "i have not yet plied my trade. i go there." "palm beach," sighed wall, "has diamonds that can be observed to sparkle as far away as the new york society columns. but alas, i lack the wherewithal to support me in the style to which my victims are accustomed." "try porto rico," suggested gonzale. "the air is mild--so are the police. i will stake you." "thanks. porto rico it is. how the devil do we get there?" up the main avenue of san marco spencer meyrick walked as a man going to avenge. with every determined step his face grew redder, his eye more dangerous. he looked at his watch. eleven. the eleventh hour! but much might happen between the eleventh hour and high noon! chapter xxi high words at high noon in the harrowby suite the holder of the title, a handsome and distinguished figure, adorned for his wedding, walked nervously the rather worn carpet. his brother, hastily pressed into service as best man, sat puffing at a cigar with a persistency which indicated a somewhat perturbed state of mind on his own part. "brace up, allan," he urged. "it'll be over before you realize it. remember my own wedding--gad, wasn't i frightened? always that way with a man--no sense to it, but he just can't help it. never forget that little parlor, with the flower of marion society all about, and me with my teeth chattering and my knees knocking together." "it is a bit of an ordeal," said allan weakly. "chap feels all sort of--gone--inside--" the telephone, ringing sharply, interrupted. george harrowby rose and stepped to it. "allan? you wish allan? very well. i'll tell him." he turned away from the telephone and faced his brother. "it was old meyrick, kid. seemed somewhat hot under the collar. wants to see you in their suite at once." "wha--what do you imagine he wants?" "going to make you a present of riverside drive, i fancy. go ahead, boy. i'll wait for you here." allan harrowby went out, along the dusky corridor to the meyrick door. not without misgivings, he knocked. a voice boomed "come!" he pushed open the door. he saw spencer meyrick sitting purple at a table, and beside him cynthia meyrick, in the loveliest gown of all the lovely gowns she had ever worn. the beauty of the girl staggered harrowby a bit; never demonstrative, he had a sudden feeling that he should be at her feet. "you--you sent for me?" he asked, coming into the room. as he moved closer to the girl he was to marry he saw that her face was whiter than her gown, and her brown eyes strained and miserable. "we did," said meyrick, rising. he held out a paper. "will you please look at that." his lordship took the sheet in unsteady hands. he glanced down. slowly the meaning of the story that met his gaze filtered through his dazed brain. "martin wall did this," he thought to himself. he tried to speak, but could not. dumbly he stared at spencer meyrick. "we want no scene, harrowby," said the old man wearily. "we merely want to know if there is in existence a policy such as the one mentioned here?" the paper slipped from his lordship's lifeless hands. he turned miserably away. not daring to face either father or daughter, he answered very faintly: "there is." spencer meyrick sighed. "that's all we want to know. there will be no wedding, harrowby." "wha--what!" his lordship faced about "why, sir--the guests must be--down-stairs--" "it is--unfortunate. but there will be no wedding." the old man turned to his daughter. "cynthia," he asked, "have you nothing to say?" "yes." white, trembling, the girl faced his lordship. "it seems, allan, that you have regarded our marriage as a business proposition. you have gambled on the stability of the market. well, you win. i have changed my mind. this is final. i shall not change it again." "cynthia!" and any who had considered lord harrowby unfeeling must have been surprised at the anguish in his voice. "i have loved you--i love you now. i adore you. what can i say in explanation--of this. we gamble, all of us--it is a passion bred in the family. that is why i took out this absurd policy. my dearest--it doesn't mean that there was no love on my side. there is--there always will be, whatever happens. can't you understand--" the girl laid her hand on his arm, and drew him away to the window. "it's no use, allan," she said, for his ears alone. "perhaps i could have forgiven--but somehow--i don't care--as i thought i did. it is better, embarrassing as it may be for us both, that there should be no wedding, after all." "cynthia--you can't mean that. you don't believe me. let me send for my brother--he will tell you of the passion for gambling in our family--he will tell you that i love you, too--" he moved toward the telephone. "no use," said cynthia meyrick, shaking her head. "it would only prolong a painful scene. please don't, allan." "i'll send for minot, too," harrowby cried. "mr. minot?" the girl's eyes narrowed. "and what has mr. minot to do with this?" "everything. he came down here as the representative of lloyds. he came down to make sure that you didn't change your mind. he will tell you that i love you--" a queer expression hovered about miss meyrick's lips. spencer meyrick interrupted. "nonsense," he cried. "there is no need to--" "one moment." cynthia meyrick's eyes shone strangely. "send for your brother, allan. and--for--mr. minot." harrowby stepped to the telephone. he summoned his forces. a strained unhappy silence ensued. then the two men entered the room together. "minot--george, old boy," lord harrowby said helplessly. "miss meyrick and her father have discovered the existence of a certain insurance policy about which you both know. they have believed that my motive in seeking a marriage was purely mercenary--that my affection for the girl who is--was--to have become my wife can not be sincere. they are wrong--quite wrong. both of you know that. i've sent for you to help me make them understand--i can not--" george harrowby stepped forward, and smiled his kindly smile. "my dear young lady," he said. "i regret that policy very deeply. when i first heard of it i, too, suspected allan's motives. but after i talked with him--after i saw you--i was convinced that his affection for you was most sincere. i thought back to the gambling schemes for which the family has been noted--i saw it was the old passion cropping out anew in allan--that he was really not to blame--that beyond any question he was quite devoted to you. otherwise i'd have done everything in my power to prevent the wedding." "yes?" miss meyrick's eyes flashed dangerously. "and--your other witness, allan?" the soul of the other witness squirmed in agony. this was too much--too much! "you, minot--" pleaded harrowby. "you have understood--" "i have felt that you were sincerely fond of miss meyrick," minot replied. "otherwise i should not have done--what i have done." "then, mr. minot," the girl inquired, "you think i would be wrong to give up all plans for the wedding?" "i--i--yes, i do," writhed minot "and you advise me to marry lord harrowby at once?" mr. minot passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead. had the girl no mercy? "i do," he answered miserably. cynthia meyrick laughed, harshly, mirthlessly. "because that's your business--your mean little business," she said scornfully. "i know at last why you came to san marco. i understand everything. you had gambled with lord harrowby, and you came here to see that you did not lose your money. well, you've lost! carry that news back to the concern you work for! in spite of your heroic efforts, you've lost! at the last moment cynthia meyrick changed her mind!" lost! the word cut minot to the quick. lost, indeed! lost jephson's stake--lost the girl he loved! he had failed jephson--failed himself! after all he had done--all he had sacrificed. a double defeat, and therefore doubly bitter. "cynthia--surely you don't mean--" lord harrowby was pleading. "i do, allan," said the girl more gently. "it was true--what i told you--there by the window. it is better--father! will you go down and--say--i'm not to be married, after all?" spencer meyrick nodded, and turned toward the door. "cynthia," cried harrowby brokenly. there was no reply. old meyrick went out. "i'm sorry," his lordship said. "sorry i made such a mess of it--the more so because i love you, cynthia--and always shall. good-by." he held out his hand. she put hers in it. "it's too bad, allan," she said. "but--it wasn't to be. and, even now, you have one consolation--the money that lloyds must pay you." "the money means nothing, cynthia--" "miss meyrick is mistaken," minot interrupted. "lord harrowby has not even that consolation. lloyds owes him nothing." "why not?" asked the girl defiantly. "up to an hour ago," said minot, "you were determined to marry his lordship?" "i should hardly put it that way. but--i intended to." "yes. then you changed your mind. why?" "i changed it because i found out about this ridiculous, this insulting policy." "then his lordship's taking out of the policy caused the calling off of the wedding?" "y--yes. why?" "it may interest you to know--and it may interest lord harrowby to recall--that five minutes before he took out this policy he signed an agreement to do everything in his power to bring about the wedding. and he further promised that if the wedding should be called off because of any subsequent act of his, he would forfeit the premium." "by gad," said lord harrowby. "the taking out of the policy was a subsequent act," continued minot. "the premium, i fancy, is forfeited." "he's got you, allan," said george harrowby, coming forward, "and i for one can't say i'm sorry. you're going to tear up that policy now--and go to work for me." "i for one am sorry," cried miss meyrick, her flashing eyes on minot. "i wanted you to win, allan. i wanted you to win." "why?" minot asked innocently. "you ought to know," she answered, and turned away. lord harrowby moved toward the door. "we're not hard losers," he said blankly. "but--everything's gone--it's a bit of a smash-up. good-by, cynthia." "good-by, allan--and good luck." "thanks." and harrowby went out with his brother. minot stood for a time, not daring to move. cynthia meyrick was at the window; her scornful back was not encouraging. finally she turned, saw minot and gave a start of surprise. "oh--you're still here?" "cynthia, now you understand," he said. "you know why i acted as i did. you realize my position. i was in a horrible fix--" she looked at him coldly. "yes," she said, "i do understand. you were gambling on me. you came down here to defend your employer's cash. well, you have succeeded. is there anything more to be said?" "isn't there? on the ramparts of the old fort the other night--" "please do not make yourself any more ridiculous than is necessary. you have put your employer's money above my happiness. always. really, you looked rather cheap to-day, with your sanctimonious advice that i marry harrowby. aren't you beginning to realize your own position--the silly childish figure you cut?" "then you--" "last night when you came staggering across the lawn to me with this foolish gown in your arms--i told you i hated you. do you imagine i hate you any less now. well, i don't." her voice became tearful. "i hate you! i hate you!" "but some day--" she turned away from him, for she was sobbing outright now. "i never want to see you again as long as i live," she cried. "never! never! never!" limp, pitiable, worn by the long fight he had waged, minot stood staring helplessly at her heaving shoulders. "then--i can only say i'm sorry," he murmured. "and--good-by." he waited. she did not turn toward him. he stumbled out of the room. chapter xxii "well, hardly ever--" minot went below and sent two messages, one to jephson, the other to thacker. the lobby of the de la pax was thronged with brilliantly attired wedding guests who, metaphorically, beat their breasts in perplexity over the tidings that had come even as they craned their necks to catch the first glimpse of that distinguished bridal party. the lavishly decorated parlor that was to have been the scene of the ceremony stood tragically deserted. minot cast one look at it, and hurried again to his own particular cell. he took a couple of time-tables from his desk, and sat down in a chair facing the window. all over now. nothing to do but return to the north, as fast as the trains would take him. he had won, but he had also lost. he felt listless, weary. he let the time-tables fall to the floor, and sat gazing out at that narrow street--thinking--wondering--wishing-- it was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled him to himself. he leaped up, and seized the receiver. allan harrowby's voice came over the wire. "can you run down to the room, minot?" he inquired. "the last call, old boy." minot went. he found both the harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by to san marco forever. "going to new york on the _lady evelyn_," said george harrowby, who was aggressively cheerful. "from there i'm taking allan to chicago. going to have him reading george ade and talking our language in a week." lord harrowby smiled wanly. "nothing left but chicago," he drawled. "i wanted to see you before i went, minot, old chap. not that i can thank you for all you did--i don't know how. you stood by me like--like a gentleman. and i realize that i have no claim on lloyds--it was all my fault--if i'd never let martin wall have that confounded policy-- but what's the use of if-ing? all my fault. and--my thanks, old boy." he sighed. "nonsense," said minot. "a business proposition, solely, from my point of view. there's no thanks coming to me." "it seems to me," said george harrowby, "that as the only victor in this affair, you don't exhibit a proper cheerfulness. by the way, we'd be delighted to take you north on our boat. why not--" but minot shook his head. "can't spare the time--thank you just the same," he replied. "i'd like nothing better--" amid expressions of regret, the harrowbys started for the elevator. minot walked along the dusky corridor with them. "we've had a bit of excitement--what?" said allan. "if you're ever in london, you're to be my guest. old george has some sort of a berth for me over there--" "not a berth, allan," objected george, pressing the button for the elevator. "you're not going to sleep. a job. might as well begin to talk the chicago language now. mr. minot, i, too, want to thank you--" they stepped into the elevator, the door slammed, the car began to descend. minot stood gazing through the iron scroll work until the blond head of the helpless lord harrowby moved finally out of sight. then he returned to his room and the time-tables, which seemed such dull unhappy reading. mr. jack paddock appeared to invite minot to take dinner with him. his bags, he remarked, were all packed, and he was booked for the seven o'clock train. "i've slipped down the mountain of gold," he said in the course of the dinner. "but all good things must end, and i certainly had a good thing. somehow, i'm not so gloomy as i ought to be." "where are you going, jack?" minot asked. mr. paddock leaned over confidentially. "did i say her father was in the plumbing business?" he inquired. "my error, dick. he owns a newspaper--out in grand rapids. offered me a job any time i wanted it. great joke then--pretty serious now. for i'm going out to apply." "i'm glad of it." "so am i, dick. i was a fool to let her go back like that. been thinking it all over--and over--one girl in--how many are there in the world, should you say? the other day i had a chill. it occurred to me maybe she'd gone and married the young man with the pale purple necktie who passes the plate in the methodist church. so i beat it to the telegraph counter. and--" "she's heart whole and fancy free?" "o.k. in both respects. so it's me for grand rapids. and say, dick, i--er--i want you to know i'd sent that telegram before the accident last night. as a matter of fact, i sent it two days ago." "good boy," said minot. "i knew this game down here didn't satisfy you. may i be the first to wish you joy?" "you? with a face like a defeated candidate? i say, cheer up! she'll stretch out eager arms in your direction yet." "i don't believe it, jack." "well, while there's life there's still considerable hope lying loose about the landscape. that's why i don't urge you to take the train with me." an hour later mr. paddock spoke further cheering words in his friend's ear, and departed for the north. and in that city of moonlight and romance minot was left (practically) alone. he took a little farewell walk through that quaint old town, then retired to his room to read another chapter in the time-table. at four-twenty in the morning, he noted, a small local train would leave for jacksonville. he decided he would take it. with no parlor cars, no sleepers, he would not be likely to encounter upon it any of the startled wedding party bound north. the call he left did not materialize, and it was four o'clock when he awoke. hastily in the chill dawn he bade farewell to town and hotel. in fifteen minutes he had left both behind, and was speeding toward the small yellow station set on the town's edge. he glanced feverishly at his watch. there was need of haste, for this train was made up in san marco, and had had as yet no chance to be late. he rushed through the gate just as it was being closed, and caught a dreary little train in the very act of pulling out. gloomy oil lamps sought vainly to lessen the dour aspect of its two coaches. panting, he entered the rear coach and threw himself and his bag into a seat. five seconds later he glanced across the aisle and discovered in the opposite seat miss cynthia meyrick, accompanied by a very sleepy-eyed family! "the devil!" said minot to himself. he knew that she would see in this utter accident nothing save a deliberate act of following. what use to protest his innocence? he considered moving to another seat. but such a theatric act could only increase the embarrassment. already his presence had been noted--aunt mary had given him a glare, spencer meyrick a scowl, the girl a cloudy vague "where have i seen this person before?" glance in passing. might as well make the best of it. he settled himself in his seat. once again, as on another railroad car, he sought to keep his eyes on the landscape without--the dim landscape with the royal palms waving like grim ghosts in the half light. the train sped on. a most uncomfortable situation! if only it would grow light! it seemed so silly to be forced to find the view out the window entrancing while it was still very dark. spencer meyrick went forward to the smoker. aunt mary, weary of life, slid gently down to slumber. her unlovely snore filled the dim car. how different this from the first ride together! the faint pink of the sky grew brighter. now minot could see the gray moss hanging to the evergreens, and here and there a squalid shack where human beings lived and knew nothing of life. and beside him he heard a sound as of a large body being shaken. also the guttural protest of aunt mary at this inconsiderate treatment. aunt mary triumphed. her snore rose to shatter the smoky roof. three times minot dared to look, and each time wished he hadn't. the whole sky was rosy now. somewhere off behind the horizon the good old sun was rising to go to work for the passenger department of the coast railroad. some sense in looking out now. minot saw a shack that seemed familiar--then another. next a station, bearing on its sad shingle the cheery name of "sunbeam." and close to the station, gloomy in the dawn, a desiccated chauffeur beside an aged automobile. minot turned quickly, and caught cynthia meyrick in the act of peering over his shoulder. she had seen the chauffeur too. the train had stopped a moment, but was under way again. in those brown eyes minot saw something wistful, something hurt,--saw things that moved him to put everything to a sudden test. he leaped to his feet and pulled madly at the bell cord. "what--what have you done?" startled, she stared at him. "i've stopped the train. i'm going to ride to jacksonville as i rode to san marco--ages ago. i'm not going alone." "indeed?" "quick. the conductor will be here in a minute. here's a card and pencil--write a note for aunt mary. say you'll meet them in jacksonville! hurry, please!" "mr. minot!" with great dignity. "one last ride together. one last chance for me to--to set things right if i can." "if you can." "if--i admit it. won't you give me the chance? i thought you would be game. i dare you!" for a second they gazed into each other's eyes. the train had come to a stop, and aunt mary stirred fretfully in her sleep. with sudden decision cynthia meyrick wrote on the card and dropped it on her slumbering relative. "i know i'll be sorry--but--" she gasped. "hurry! this way! the conductor's coming there!" a moment later they stood together on the platform of the sunbeam station, while the brief little train disappeared indignantly in the distance. "you shouldn't have made me do that!" cried the girl in dismay. "i'm always doing things on the spur of the moment--things i regret afterward--" "i know. you explained that to me once. but you can also do things on the spur of the moment that you're glad about all your life. oh--good morning, barney oldfield." "good morning," replied the rustic chauffeur with gleeful recognition. "where's it to this time, mister?" "jacksonville. and no hurry at all." minot held open the door and the girl stepped into the car. "the gentleman is quite mistaken," she said to the chauffeur. "there is a very great hurry." "ages of time until luncheon," replied minot blithely, also getting in. "if you were thinking of announcing--something--then." "i shall have nothing to announce, i'm sure. but i must be in jacksonville before that train. father will be furious." "trust me, lady," said the chauffeur, grinding again at his hooded music-box. "i've been doing stunts with this car since i saw you last. been over a hundred miles from sunbeam. begins to look as though florida wasn't going to be big enough, after all." he leaped to the wheel, and again that ancient automobile carried cynthia meyrick and the representative of lloyds out of the town of sunbeam. but the exit was not a laughing one. the girl's eyes were serious, cold, and with real concern in his voice minot spoke: "won't you forgive me--can't you? i was only trying to be faithful to the man who sent me down here--faithful through everything--as i should be faithful to you if you gave me the chance. is it too late--cynthia--" "there was a time," said the girl, her eyes wide, "when it was not too late. have you forgotten? that night on the balcony, when i threw myself at your feet, and you turned away. do you think that was a happy moment for me?" "was it happy for me, for that matter?" "oh, i was humiliated, ashamed. then your silly rescue of my gown--your advice to me to marry harrowby--" "would you have had me throw over the men who trusted me--" "i--i don't know. i only know that i can't forgive what has happened--in a minute--" "what was that last?" "nothing." "you said in a minute." "your ears are deceiving you." "cynthia--you're not going to punish me because i was faithful-- don't you suppose i tried to get some one in my place?" "did you?" "the day i first rode in this car with you. and then--i stopped trying--" "why?" "because i realized that if some one came in my place i'd have to go away and never see you again--and i couldn't do that i had to be near you, dear girl--don't worry, he can't hear, the motor's too noisy--i had to be where i could see that little curl making a question mark round your ear--where i could hear your voice--i had to be near you even if to do it i must break my heart by marrying you to another man. i loved you. i love you now--" a terrific crash interrupted. dolefully the chauffeur descended from the car to make an examination. dolefully he announced the result. "busted right off," he remarked. "say, i'm sorry. i'll have to walk back to the garage at sunbeam and--and i'm afraid you'll have to jest sit here until i come back." he went slowly down the road, and the two sat in that ancient car in the midst of sandy desolation. "cynthia," minot cried. "i worship you. won't you--" the girl gave a strange little cry. "i wanted to be cross with you a little longer," she said almost tearfully. "but i can't. i wonder why i can't. i cried all night at the thought of never seeing you again. i wonder why i cried. i guess--it's because--for the first time--i'm really--in love." "cynthia!" "oh, dick--don't let me change my mind again--ever--ever!" "only over my dead body!" with one accord they turned and looked at that quaint southern chauffeur plodding along through the dust and the sunshine. it did not seem to either of them that there was any danger of his looking back. and, happily, he didn't. the end for woman's love a novel by mrs. e. d. e. n. southworth author of "the hidden hand," "only a girl's heart," "unknown," "the lost lady of lone," "nearest and dearest," etc. new york and london street & smith, publishers chapter i. a brilliant match. "i remember regulas rothsay--or rule, as we used to call him--when he was a little bit of a fellow hardly up to my knee, running about bare-footed and doing odd jobs round the foundry. ah! and now he is elected governor of this state by the biggest majority ever heard of, and engaged to be married to the finest young lady in the country, with the full consent of all her proud relations. to be married to-day and to be inaugurated to-morrow, and he only thirty-two years old this blessed seventh of june!" the speaker, a hale man of sixty years, with a bald head, a sharp face, a ruddy complexion, and a figure as twisted as a yew tree, and about as tough, was silas marwig, one of the foremen of the foundry. "well, i don't believe regulas rothsay would ever have risen to his present position if it had not been for his love of corona haught. no more do i believe that old rockharrt would ever have allowed his beautiful granddaughter to be engaged to rothsay if the young man had not been elected governor," observed a stout, florid-faced matron of fifty-five. "how hard he worked for her! and how long she waited for him! why, i remember them both so well! they were the very best of friends from their childhood--the wealthy little lady and the poor orphan boy." "that is very true, mrs. bounce," said a young man, who was a newcomer in the neighborhood and one of the bookkeepers of the great firm. "but how did that orphan get his education?" "by hook and by crook, as the saying is, mr. wall. i think the little lady taught him to read and write, and she loaned him books. he left here when he was about thirteen years old. he went to the city, and got into the printing office of _the national watch_. and he learned the trade. and, oh, you know a bright, earnest boy like that was bound to get on. he worked hard, and he studied hard. after awhile he began to write short, telling paragraphs for the _watch_, and these at length were noticed and copied, and he became assistant editor of the paper. by the time he was twenty-five years old he had bought the paper out." "and, of course, he made it a power in politics. i see the rest. he was elected state representative; then state senator." "yes, indeed. you've hit it. and now he is going to marry his first love to-day, and to take his seat as governor to-morrow," continued the matron, with a little chuckle. "regulas rothsay will never take his seat as governor," spoke a solemn voice from the thicket on the right of the road along which the party were walking to the scene of the grand wedding. all turned to see a strange form step out from the shelter of the trees--a tall, gaunt, swarthy woman, stern of feature and harsh of tone; her head covered with wild, straggling black hair; her body clothed in a long, clinging garment of dark red serge. "old scythia," muttered the matron, shuddering and shrinking closer to the side of the bookkeeper, for the strange creature was reported and believed by the ignorant and superstitious of the neighborhood to be powerful and malignant. "regulas rothsay will never take his seat as governor of this state!" as the beldame repeated and emphasized these words, she raised her hand with a prophetic gesture and advanced upon the group of pedestrians. "now, then, you old crow! what are you up to with your croaking?" demanded mr. marwig. "look here, mistress beelzebub! do you know that you are a very lucky woman to live in a land where not only may a barefooted boy rise to the highest honors by talent and perseverance, but where a malignant old witch may torture and terrify her neighbors without fear of the ducking stool or the stake?" he demanded. the beldame looked at him scornfully, and disdained to reply. "wait!" said a stout, dark, middle-aged, black-whiskered man, timothy ryland by name, and one of the managers of the "works" by state. "wait, i want to question this miserable lunatic. she may have got wind of something. tell me, old mother, why will not the governor-elect take his seat to-morrow?" "because fate forbids it," solemnly replied the crone. "will the governor be--murdered?" "no; regulas rothsay has not an enemy in the world!" "will he be killed on the railroad, or kidnapped?" "no!" "will he be taken suddenly ill?" "no!" "what then in the fiend's name is to prevent his taking his seat to-morrow?" impatiently demanded the manager. "an evil so dire, so awful, so mysterious, that its like never happened on this earth!" "arrest her, mr. ryland! she ought to be locked up until she could be sent to the asylum!" exclaimed old marwig. "i have no power to do so, my friend," replied the manager. "why, where is she?" inquired mrs. bounce, trembling. "who saw her go?" no one answered, but every one looked around. not a trace of the witch could be seen. she had passed like a dark cloud from among them, and was gone. it was a glorious day in june. a long, deep, green valley lay low between two lofty ridges of the cumberland mountains, running north and south for ten miles, and near the boundary lines of three states. this lovely vale was watered by a merry, sparkling little river called the whirligig, which furnished the power for the huge machinery of the great firm of rockharrt & sons, proprietors of the plutus iron mines and the north end foundries, which supplied the mighty engines on the great lines of railroad from the east to the west, and whose massive buildings, forges, furnaces, store-houses and laborers' cottages occupied all the ground between the foot of the mountain and the banks of the river, on both sides of the whirligig, at the upper or north end of the valley, where a substantial bridge connected the two shores. this settlement, called, from its position, north end, was quite a thriving little village. north end was not only blessed with a mission church, having a schoolroom in its basement, but it was provided with a post-office, a telegraph, a drug store, kept by a regular physician, who dispensed his own physic (advice and medicine, one dollar), and a general store, where everything needed to eat, drink, wear or use (except drugs), was kept for sale. on this bright june morning, however, the great works were all stopped. there was a general holiday, and as this was at the cost of the firm, it gave general satisfaction. all the people of north end, except the aged, infirm and infantile, were trooping down the valley, on the rough road between the foot of the west ridge and the side of the river, to a fete to be given them at rockhold on the occasion of the marriage of old aaron rockharrt's granddaughter, corona haught, to regulas rothsay, the governor-elect of the state. it was a marriage of very rare interest to the workmen and their families. to the men, because the governor-elect had been one of their own class. the elders remembered him from the time when he was a friendless orphan child, glad to run the longest errand or do the hardest day's work for a dime, but also a very independent little fellow, who would take nothing in the shape of alms from anybody. to the women, because he was going to marry his first and only sweetheart, and on the very day before his inauguration, so that she might take part in the pageantry that was to be his first great success and triumph. on one side of the river, at the foot of the east ridge, stood rockhold, the country seat of the rockharrts, in its own park, which lay between the mountain and the river. the house itself was a large, heavy, oblong building of gray stone, two stories high, with cellar and garret. from the front of the house to the edge of the river extended a fair green lawn, shaded here and there by great forest trees. under many of these trees, tables with refreshments were set, and seats were placed for the accommodation and refreshment of the out-door guests. in sunny spots, also, some white tents were raised and decorated with flags. as a group of working men and women sat on the west bank of the river, waiting impatiently for the return of the ferryboat, they saw, from minute to minute, carriages drive up the lawn avenue, discharge the occupants at the main entrance of the house, and then roll off to the stable yard in the rear. these seemed to come in a slow procession. "only the nearest relations and most intimate friends of the family are invited to the ceremony. there have only been five carriages passed since we have been sitting here, and i don't believe there was one come before we came, or that there'll be another come after that last one, which was certainly the groom's," said old marwig. "oh! was it, indeed? but how do you know?" demanded mrs. bounce. "it is the new carriage from north end hotel! and he and his groomsmen had engaged it. that's how i know! here comes the ferryboat! now for it!" the boat touched the banks, and as many as could find room crowded into it, and were speedily rowed across the river and landed on the other side, where they found a few of the lawn party there before them. "there is mr. clarence rockharrt coming toward us!" said mrs. bounce, as the party walked up from the landing, and a medium-sized, plump, fair man of middle age, with a round, fresh face, a smiling countenance, blue eyes and light hair, and in "a wedding garment" of the day, came down to meet them, and shook hands with all, warmly welcoming them in the name of his father. then he led them up to the lawn and gave them chairs among the unoccupied seats at the various tables. "if you please, mr. clarence, is the groom in good health and sperrits?" meaningly inquired mrs. bounce. "mr. rothsay is in excellent health and spirits, thank you," replied the gentleman, looking a little surprised at the question: an then moving off quickly to receive some new arrivals. the guests for the lawn party were constantly arriving, and the ferryboat was kept busy plying from the shore to shore. it is time now to introduce our readers to the house of rockharrt. old aaron rockharrt, the head of that house, was at this time seventy-five years of age and a wonder of health and strength. he was called the "iron king," no less from his great hardihood of body and mind than from his vast wealth in mines and foundries. in size he was almost a giant, with a large head covered by closely-curling, steel-gray hair. his character may be summed up in a very few words: aaron rockharrt was an incarnation of monstrous selfishness. his manners to all, but especially to his dependants, were arrogant, egotistical and overbearing. he was utterly destitute of sympathy or compassion. there was no room for either in a soul so full of self. in his opinion there was no one on earth, neither king nor kaiser, saint nor hero, so important to the universe as aaron rockharrt, head of rockharrt & sons. yet aaron rockharrt had two redeeming points. he was strictly truthful in word and honest in deed. his wife was near his own age, a quiet, gentle, little old lady, small and slim, with white hair half hidden by a lace cap. if she ever had any individuality, it had been quite crushed out by the hard heel of her husband's iron will. their eldest son and second partner in the firm was fabian rockharrt, a fine animal of fifty years old, though scarcely looking forty. he had inherited all his father's great strength of body and of mind, with more than his father's business talent; but he had not inherited the truth and honesty of his father. yet there is no one wholly evil, and fabian rockharrt's one redeeming quality was a certain good nature or benevolence which is more the result of temperament than of principle. this quality rendered his manner so kind and considerate to all his employes that he was the most popular member of his family. clarence, the second son, was much younger than his elder brother, and so diametrically opposite to him and to their father, both in person and character, that he scarcely seemed to come of the same race. he was really thirty-five years old, but looked ten years less, and was a fair blonde, medium-sized and plump, with a round head covered with light, curling yellow hair, a round, rosy face as bare as a baby's and almost as innocent. he had not the satanic intellect of his father or his brother, but he had a fine moral and spiritual nature that neither could understand or appreciate. there were yet two other exceptions to the family character of worldliness and selfishness. there were corona and sylvanus haught, a sister and brother, orphan grand-children of aaron rockharrt, left him by his deceased only daughter. sylvanus, a fine, manly young fellow, resembled his uncle clarence in person and in character, having the same truthfulness, generosity and sincerity, but with a mocking spirit, which turned evil into ridicule rather than into a subject of serious rebuke. he was three years younger than his sister. corona was a beautiful brunette, tall, like all the rockharrts, with a superbly developed form, a fine head, adorned with a full suit of fine curly black hair, delicate classic features, straight, low forehead, aquiline nose, a "cupid's bow" mouth, and finely curved chin. this was her wedding-day and she wore her bridal dress of pure white satin, with veil of thread lace and wreath of orange buds. hers was the very triumph of a love match, for she was about to wed one whom she had loved from earliest childhood, and for whom she had waited long years. here was corona haught's great victory. she had seen his opponents, her own family, bow down and worship her idol. yet, at the culmination of her triumph, on this her bridal day, why did she sit so pale and wan? from her deep, sad reverie she was aroused by the entrance of her six gay bridesmaids. "corona, love, good morning! many happy returns, and so on!" said flora fields, the first bridesmaid, coming up to the pale bride and kissing her. all the others followed the example, and then miss fields said: "cora, dear, 'the scene is set'--otherwise, the company are all assembled in the drawing-room. grandpapa and grandmamma are in their seats of honor. the bishop, in his canonicals, is waiting; the groom and his groomsmen are expectant. are you ready?" "i know getting married must be a serious, a solemn, even an awful thing when it comes to the point. and most brides do look pale! but you--you look ghastly! come, take some composing spirits of lavender--do!" "yes; you may give me some. you will find the vial on the dressing-table." the restorative was administered, and then the "bevy of fair maids" left the chamber and went down stairs. there, in the great hall, they met the bridegroom and his six groomsmen; for it was the custom of that time and place to have a groomsman for each bridesmaid. the bridegroom and governor-elect was not a handsome man--that was conceded even by his best friends--but he was tall and muscular, with a look of strength, manliness and nobility that was impressive. a son of the people truly, but with the brain of the ruler. the whole rugged form and face assumed a gentleness and courtesy that almost conferred grace and beauty upon him, as he advanced to greet his bride. why did she shrink from him? no one knew. it was only for a moment; and happily, he, in the simplicity of a single, honest heart, had not seen the momentary shudder. he drew her hand within his arm, looked down on her with a beam of ineffable tenderness and adoration, and then waited, as he had been instructed to do, until the groomsmen and bridesmaids had formed the procession that was to usher them into the drawing-room and before the officiating bishop. they entered the crowded apartment. the bishop, in his white robes, stood on the rug, supported by the rev. mr. wells, temporary minister of the mission church at north end, and the ceremony began. all went on well until he came to that part where the officiating minister must read--though a mere form this solemn adjuration to the contracting lovers: "'i require and charge ye both, as ye shall answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know just cause why ye may not be united in matrimony, ye do now declare it.'" there was a pause, to give opportunity for reply, if any reply was to be made--a mere form, as the adjuration itself was. yet the bride shuddered throughout her frame. many noticed it, but not the bridegroom. the ceremony went on. "'who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'" old aaron rockharrt, who stood on the right of the bridal party, stepped forth, took his granddaughter's hand, and placed it in that of the groom, saying, with visible pride: "i do." the rites went on to their conclusion, and the whole party were invited into the dining-room, where the marriage feast was spread, where the revelry lasted two full hours, and might have lingered longer had not the bride withdrawn from the table, and, attended by her bridesmaids, retired to her chamber to change her bridal robes for a plain traveling suit of silver gray silk, with hat and gloves to match. there the gentle, timid, old grandmother came to bid her pet child a private good-by. "are you happy, my love--are you happy?" she inquired. "why don't you answer?" "my heart is full--too full, grandma," evasively answered corona rothsay. "ah, yes; that is natural--very natural. 'even so it was with me when i was young,'" sighed the old lady, who detected no evasion in the words of her darling. the bride went down stairs, where the bridegroom awaited her. there, in the hall, were collected the members of her family, friends, neighbors and wedding guests. some time was spent in bidding good-by to all these. "but it is not good-by, really; for the majority of us will follow by a later train, and be on hand for the inauguration to-morrow," said old aaron rockharrt, who seemed to have recovered his youth on this proud day. "and, grandpa, be sure to bring grandma. don't say that she is too old, or too feeble, or too anything, to travel, because she is not; and she has set her heart on seeing the pageantry to-morrow. promise me before i leave you," pleaded the bride. "very well; i will bring her," said mr. rockharrt, who would have promised anything to his granddaughter on this auspicious occasion. "you will find your traps all right, cora. they went off by the early train this morning," said mr. clarence. "and i trust, rothsay, that you will find my town house comfortably prepared for your reception," said mr. rockharrt. the bridegroom handed his bride into the carriage that was to convey them to the railway station. the carriage crossed the ferry, and in a few minutes reached the other side, and rolled toward the railway station. the road was at this hour very solitary, and the bridegroom and his bride found themselves for the first time that day tete-a-tete. he turned to her, and drew her head to his heart and whispered: "cora, speak to me! call me your husband!" "i--cannot. my heart is too full," the girl muttered evasively. but his grand, simple, truthful spirit perceived no prevarication in her words. if her heart was full, it was with responsive love of him, he thought. he bent his face lower over her beautiful head, that lay upon his bosom, and kissed her. soon they reached north end, where all the aged, infirm and infantile who could not come to the wedding were seated at their cottage doors, to see the carriage with the bridegroom and bride go by. smiling and bowing in response, the pair passed through the village and went on their way toward the station which they reached at half-past one o'clock. they had to wait about ten minutes for the train to come up. they remained in the carriage; for here, too, a small crowd of country people had collected to see the bride and the bridegroom, who was also the governor-elect. the train from the east ran into the station. the bridal pair left the carriage and went on the cars, and the governor-elect and his bride set out for the state capital. it was a long afternoon ride, and the sun was low when the train drew in sight of the state capital, and slowed into the station. an immense crowd had gathered to welcome the governor-elect, and as he stepped out upon the platform, and stood with his bride on his arm, the cheers were deafening. when these had in some measure subsided, the hero of the hour returned thanks in a simple little speech. then the committee of reception came up and shook hands with the governor-to-be, who next presented them in turn to his wife. at last the pair were allowed to enter the carriage that was in waiting to convey them to the town house of aaron rockharrt. other carriages containing members of the committee attended them. they passed through the main street of the city. the procession of carriages passed until it reached the rockharrt residence, opposite the government mansion, where the committee took leave of the governor-elect and his bride, who entered their temporary home alone, to be received and attended by obsequious servants. there we also will leave them. visitors to the inauguration were arriving by every train. among the arrivals from the east came aaron rockharrt, with his wife, his two sons, fabian and clarence, and his grandson, sylvan, the younger brother of cora. the main door of the mansion was open, and several gentlemen, wearing official badges, stood without or just within it. "by jove! we are just in time, and it has been a close shave! that is the committee come to take him to the state house!" exclaimed old aaron rockharrt as he stepped out of the carriage, and helped his feeble little wife to alight. he led her up the steps, followed by the other three men of his party. "good morning, judge abbot. we are just in time, i find. we came up by the night train, and a close shave it has been. well, a miss is as good as a mile, and we are safe to see the whole of the pageant," said the old man, speaking to a tall, thin, gray-haired gentleman, who wore a rosette on the lapel of his coat. "yes, sir; but here is a very strange difficulty--very strange, indeed," replied the official, with a deeply troubled and perplexed air, which was shared by all the gentlemen who stood with him. "what's the trouble, gentlemen? is the chief justice ill, that his honor cannot administer the oath, or what?" "it is much worse than that--if anything could be worse," gravely replied one of the committee. "what is it then? a contested election at this late hour?" "the governor-elect cannot be found. no one has seen him since eleven o'clock last night. he is missing." chapter ii. a lost governor and bridegroom. "missing!" echoed old aaron rockharrt, drawing up his huge frame to its fullest height, and staring with strong black eyes in a defiant and aggressive manner. "missing! did you say, sir?" he repeated sternly. "yes, mr. rockharrt; ever since last night," replied judge abbot, chairman of the committee, in much distress and anxiety. "impossible! never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my life! a bridegroom lost on the evening of his marriage! a governor lost on the morning of his inauguration! i tell you, sir, it is impossible--utterly and entirely impossible! how do you know, sir, that he has not been seen by some one or other since last night? how do you know that he cannot be found, somewhere, this morning?" "all his household have failed to find him. our messengers have been sent in every direction without discovering the slightest clew to his--fate," gloomily replied the judge. mr. rockharrt turned to the porter, who was still in attendance at the door, and demanded: "where is your mistress?" the man, a negro and an old family servant of the rockharrts, replied: "the young madam is in the back drawing room, sir; and if you please, sir, i think she would be all the better for seeing the old madam." "who is with her now?" shortly demanded mr. rockharrt, ignoring his servant's suggestion, although mrs. rockharrt looked nervously anxious to follow it "there is no one with her, sir." "alone! alone! my granddaughter left alone on the morning after her marriage? what do you mean by that? where is your master? "show me in to your mistress at once. i will get at the bottom of this mystery, or this villainy, as it is more likely to prove, before i am through with the matter. and if my granddaughter's husband is not to be found before the day is out, i will have all concerned in the plot arrested for conspiracy!" exclaimed mr. rockharrt, with that utter recklessness of assertion to which he was addicted in moments of excitement. the dismayed negro lowered his eyes and led the way. aaron rockharrt strode on, followed by his timid and terrified old wife, his stalwart sons, his mocking grandson, and the members of the committee. but the old man, not liking such an escort, turned upon them, and said, with sarcastic politeness and dignity: "gentlemen, permit me. it is expedient, under existing circumstances, that i should first see my granddaughter alone." the members of the committee bowed with offended dignity and withdrew to the front of the hall. meanwhile aaron rockharrt sent back the members of his own family, and strode solemnly into the drawing room, which was half darkened by the closed window shutters. "now leave the room, sir; shut the door after you and stand on the outside to keep off all intruders," commanded mr. rockharrt to the servant who had admitted him. when the door was closed upon him, aaron rockharrt discerned his granddaughter, who sat in an easy chair in a dark corner of the back drawing room, which was divided from the front by blue satin and white lace portieres. her deadly pallid face gleamed out from the shadows in startling contrast to her jet black hair and the black dress which, against all precedent, she wore on this the morning after her marriage. the old man of iron went up and stood before her, looking at her in silence for a few moments. "corona rothsay," he began, sternly, "what is the meaning of this unparalleled situation?" "i--i--do not know." "you do not know where your husband is on the morning after his marriage and on the day of his expected inauguration?" "no; i do not know." "you seem to take this desertion or this death very quietly." "what would be gained by taking it any other way?" she murmured, though indeed she was not taking the situation quietly, but controlling herself. "how dare you say so to me?" severely demanded the old man, scarcely able to control his wrath, though at a loss to know against whom to direct it. "you ask me a direct question. i give you a truthful answer." "answer me, truly!" rudely exclaimed aaron rockharrt, giving way, in his blind egotism, to utter recklessness of assertion, to gross injustice and exaggeration. "what have you done to him, corona? tell me that!" she started violently and looked up quickly; her face was whiter, her eyes wilder than before. "what--have--you--done to him?" he sternly repeated, looking her full in the deathly face. "i? nothing!" she answered, but her voice faltered and her frame shook. "i believe that you have! you look as if you had! i have seen the devil in you since we brought you home from europe against your will; especially within the last few days!" having hurled upon her this avalanche of abuse, he turned and strode wrathfully up and down the room until he had got off some of his excitement. then, he came and stood before his granddaughter. "how long has your husband been missing?" he abruptly inquired. "since last night," in a very low tone. "when did you see him last? tell me that!" "i have already told you--last evening." "tell me all that has occurred from the time you both left rockhold to the time you entered this house which i placed at your disposal and to which i sent you, to save you from the noise and bustle and excitement of a crowded hotel, and to give you rest and quiet and seclusion. yes! and this the result! but go on and tell me. from the time you left rockhold to this time, mind you!" "very well, sir, i will tell you. our journey, a series of ovations. our reception in this city was a triumph. we were met at the depot by a great crowd, and by the committee with carriages, and we were escorted to this house by a military and civil procession with a band of music. they left us at the gate. "we entered, and were received by the servants. as soon as i had changed my dress we went down to dinner. after dinner we went into the drawing room. a gentleman was announced on official business connected with the ceremonies of to-day. he was shown into the library, and my husband went to him. many callers came. they talked with mr. rothsay in the library. i remained in this room. at last the crowd began to thin off, and soon all were gone. mr. rothsay came into this room--and sat down by my side. we talked together for an hour or more. then a card was brought in. mr. rothsay took it, looked at it, and said: "'i will see the gentleman. show him into the front room.' "mr. rothsay arose and went into the front room to receive his visitor. it was late, and i was very tired, so i went up stairs to my chamber and retired to bed. i have never seen my husband since." and corona dropped her face upon her hands and sobbed as if her heart would break. she had utterly broken down for the first time. "good heavens! i don't understand it all! had you had a lover's quarrel now in that hour when you talked together in this parlor?" inquired the old gentleman, his insane anger being now merged in wonder. "had you reproached him for spending so much time with his political friends while you were waiting here alone?" "oh, no, no," replied corona, between her convulsive sobs. "good heavens!" again exclaimed the old man. "when did you first miss him?" "when i came down in the morning. i thought then that he had been kept up all night by his friends, and that i should meet him at breakfast. he did not appear at breakfast. the servants searched for him all over the house, but could not find him. i waited breakfast until i was faint with fasting and suspense. then i took a cup of coffee. on inquiry it was found that jasper had been the last to see him, and that he had not seen him since he showed the visitor in. he did not show the visitor out. he waited some time to do so, and fell asleep. when he awoke the visitor had gone, and the drawing rooms were empty. the man supposed that mr. rothsay had seen his friend to the door, and had then retired to bed. and so he shut up the house and went to his room. no one discovered that mr. rothsay was missing until this morning. when the inaugural committee came two hours ago, the servants told them all that i have just told you." "who was the last visitor? he might throw some light upon this dark, evil subject. who was he?" abruptly demanded aaron rockharrt. "i do not know. no one seems to know. jasper says he never saw him before, nor ever heard his name." "couldn't he see it on his card?" "jasper cannot read, you must remember." "where is that card? let me see it!" "it cannot be found." "conspiracy! treason! murder!" interrupted aaron rockharrt. "the governor-elect has been decoyed away from the house by that last caller, and has been murdered! and the people in the house may not be as innocent or ignorant as they pretend to be. i will go out and take counsel with the committee," he said, and he turned and strode out of the drawing room. when he reached the hall, however, he found that the officials had gone to pursue their search for the missing man elsewhere. the men of his own party were nowhere to be seen. the porter, jasper, was the only occupant of the hall, and aaron rockharrt opened the hall door and walked out. the military and civil escort were still on parade before the house, waiting for the governor-elect. mr. rockharrt's carriage was standing before the door. he entered it and ordered the coachman to drive to police headquarters. the hour for the inauguration of the new governor was approaching. the procession to the state house should have been in motion by this time. the people on the sidewalks, at the doors and windows, on the balconies, and on the roofs, all along the line of march, were beginning to be weary of waiting. the officials who had the ceremonies of the occasion in hand waited until three o'clock in the afternoon, and then, as the governor-elect was nowhere to be found, as the necessity was imminent, the inaugural procession was ordered to begin its march. "where is he? where is rothsay?" demanded the spectators one of the other. no one knew. no one had seen him. no one could, therefore, answer. when the procession reached the state house, the lieutenant-governor, kennelm kennedy, was sworn in, and the military companies and the civic societies and the spectators all dispersed. but where was the governor? that was the question of the hour. why had he not been inaugurated? was asked by everybody of everybody else. the secret of his total and unexplained disappearance had not, indeed, been closely kept. his intimate friends, his household servants and the public officials knew it, but the general public did not. the next morning the news came out, and the papers had sensational head-lines and long accounts of the sudden and mysterious disappearance of the governor-elect on the eve of his inauguration and of a bridegroom on the evening of his wedding day. also there were rewards offered for any intelligence of regulas rothsay, living or dead, and for the identification of the unknown visitor who was supposed to have been the last to have seen him on the night of his disappearance. days passed, and nothing came in answer to the advertisements. the public at length reached in theory this conclusion: that the governor-elect had been decoyed from the house by his latest visitor, and had been secretly murdered in some remote quarter. the rockharrts did not return to rockhold, but remained in town through all the heat of that hot summer, because aaron rockharrt thought he could best pursue his investigations on the scene of the mystery. but he sent his sons to north end to look after the works. corona would see no one save the members of her own family. she kept her room, and grieved without ceasing. on the ninth day after the disappearance of her lover-husband she made an effort and came down into the drawing room, to please the gentle old grandmother. she sat there with the old lady, reading to her, until mrs. rockharrt was called out by her tyrant to get something, it might be a book or a paper, a cigar or a pipe, that he himself or a servant might have got just as well, except that aaron rockharrt liked to have the ladies of his family wait upon him. what happened during the hour of the old lady's absence from the drawing room no one knew, but when she returned she found her granddaughter in a swoon on the carpet. in great alarm she called the servants to her assistance. the unconscious girl was laid upon a sofa, and all means were taken to restore her to her senses. corona recovered her faculties only to fall into the most violent paroxysms of anguish and despair. from her ravings and self-reproaches mrs. rockharrt gathered that the unfortunate girl had heard, or in some way learned, some fatal news. she sent all the servants out of the room, locked the door, administered a sedative to her child, and then, when the latter was somewhat calmer, questioned her as to the cause of her distress. "i have nothing to tell--nothing, nothing to tell! but take me away from this place! take me home to rockhold, where i may be alone!" "i will do all i can to comfort you, my dear," said mrs. rockharrt. "i will speak to mr. rockharrt when he comes in." no one but the snubbed, brow-beaten and humiliated wife knew all that she engaged to suffer when she promised to speak to her lord and master. corona, soothed by the sedative that had been given her, and consoled by the love and sympathy that had been lavished upon her, grew more composed, and finally fell into a deep sleep from which she awoke refreshed. but a rumor went through the house that the young lady had got news which she did not choose to communicate. later in the day mrs. rockharrt deferentially proposed to the domestic despot that they should return to rockhold, as the weather was so oppressive and the town house was so obnoxious to dear corona, which was quite natural under the trying circumstances. aaron rockharrt glared at her until she cowered, and then he told her that he should direct the movements of his family as he thought proper, and that any suggestions from her or from his granddaughter were both unnecessary and impertinent. so they both had to bend under the iron will of aaron rockharrt. at length, however, something happened to relieve them. mr. rockharrt had not been neglecting his own business, while looking after the missing governor-elect, nor had he been leaving it to his sons and partners, whom he refused to trust. he had been corresponding with his chief manager, ryland. this correspondence had not been entirely satisfactory, so at length he wrote to ryland to come to the city for a business talk. it was about the middle of august that the manager arrived and was closeted with his chief. after two hours' discussion of business matters, which ended satisfactorily, the manager, rising to leave the study, observed: "this is a bad job about the governor, sir!" "i do not wish to talk of this matter," said mr. rockharrt. "very well, sir, i am dumb," replied the manager, taking up his hat to leave the house. "do you go back to north end by the night train?" inquired mr. rockharrt. "yes, sir! i must be at my post to-morrow morning, in order to carry out your instructions." "quite right," said the head of the great firm. then with strange inconsistency, since he had declared that he wished to talk no more on the subject of the lost governor, he suddenly inquired: "what do the people of north end say about the disappearance of governor rothsay?" "some say he was beguiled away by that man who called on him late at night, and that he was murdered and his body made away with. but i beg your pardon, sir, for repeating such dreadful things." "go on! what else do they say?" "well, sir, one says one thing, and one another; but they all agree that old scythia could tell something if she chose." "old scythia? and what has she to do with the loss of the governor?" "nothing that i know of, sir. but the people at north end say that she has." "why do they say it?" "because, sir, on the day of the wedding, and the eve of the inauguration, she did foretell, in the hearing of a score, that mr. rothsay would never take his seat as governor." "what! absurd! preposterous!" "of course it was, sir! yet she did say that, sir, in the hearing of twenty or more of us, and it was a strange coincidence, to say the least, that her words came true. she said it in the presence of many witnesses on the day before the intended inauguration, and when there seemed no possibility of her words coming true. and strange to say, they have come true." old aaron rockharrt mused for a few minutes and then replied: "there is no such thing as divination, or soothsaying, or prophesy, or fortune telling in this world. it is all coarse imposture, that can deceive only the weakest mortals. you know that, of course, ryland. it follows, then, that this old woman could have had no knowledge of what was going to happen unless she was in league with conspirators who had planned to kidnap or murder the governor-elect." "but, sir, if old scythia had been in league with any conspirators, would she have betrayed them--beforehand?" "no; unless she was too crazy to keep their secret. but--she may have got wind of their plots in some way without their knowledge." "yes, sir," said manager ryland, who agreed to every opinion advanced by his chief. "well, then, i shall go down to rockhold to-morrow, and investigate this matter for myself. in my capacity of justice of the peace i shall issue a warrant to have that woman brought before me on a charge of vagrancy, and then i shall examine her on this point. but, ryland, you are to be careful not to drop even a hint of my intention." "of course i will not, sir," replied the manager, and then, as there seemed no more to do or say, he took his leave. old aaron rockharrt strode into the drawing room where his wife and granddaughter sat, and astonished them by saying: "pack up your things this afternoon. we leave for rockland by the first train to-morrow morning." he deigned no explanation, but turned and stalked off. the three reached north end at noon. as their arrival was to be a surprise, no carriage had been ordered to meet them. but the large, comfortable hack from the north end hotel was engaged, and in it they rode on to rockhold, where they pulled up two hours later, to the astonishment and consternation of the household, who, be it whispered, had almost as lief been confronted with his satanic majesty as to be surprised by their despotic master. leaving his womenkind to get domestic affairs into order, the iron king went to the little den at the end of the hall, which he called his study, and there made out a warrant for the arrest of hyacinth woods on the charge of vagrancy. this he directed to william hook, county constable, and sent it off to the county seat by one of his servants. he waited all the rest of the day for the return of the warrant with the prisoner, but in vain. the next day, in the afternoon, constable hook made his appearance before the magistrate without the prisoner, and reported: "she cannot be found. i went first to her hut on the mountain, but it was in ruins. it had fallen in. i searched for the woman everywhere, and only found out that she had not been seen by anybody since the day of the grand wedding here," replied the officer. "the old crone is lost on the same day that the young governor was missing, eh? very significant. i want you to take a paper for me to the _peakeville gazette_. i will advertise a thousand dollars reward for the discovery of that woman. she knows the fate of rothsay." chapter iii. a mountain idyl--the girl and the boy. on a fine day near the end of october, several years before the opening of this story, the express train from the southwest was speeding on toward north end. in one of the middle cars, which was not crowded, nor, indeed, quite full, sat a girl and a boy--both dressed in deep mourning, and both in charge of a tall, stout gentleman, also in deep mourning. these children were corona, aged seven, and sylvanus, aged four, orphans and co-heirs of john haught, a millionaire merchant of san francisco, and of his wife, felicia, only daughter of aaron and deborah rockharrt, of rockhold. they had lost their parents during the prevalence of an epidemic fever, and had been left to the guardianship of aaron rockharrt. they were now coming, in charge of their uncle fabian--who had been sent to fetch them--to their grandparents' house, which was to be their home during their minority. in front of these children sat a man of middle age and a boy of about twelve years. they seemed to belong to the honorable order of working men. their clothing was old, worn and travel-stained. they had been picked up only at the last past station, and looked as if they had tramped a long way--weary and dejected. each wore on his battered hat a little wisp of a dusty black crape band. this was a circumstance which much interested the little girl, corona, who had a longer memory than her baby brother, and had not yet done grieving after her father and her mother, and she wanted to speak to the poor boy, and to tell him how very sorry she was for him, but was much too timid for such a venture. neither the boy nor the man looked behind them, and so the children never saw their faces during the ride to north end. both parties got out at the station. the rockhold carriage was waiting for fabian and his charges. nothing was waiting for the tramp and his son. mr. fabian looked at them, and took in the whole situation. he put his nephew and niece into the carriage, told the coachman to wait for him, and then went up to the tramps. "looking for work?" he said, addressing the elder. "yes, sir," replied the latter, touching his old hat. "i have come a long way to look for it, and i am bound now for rockharrt & sons' locomotive works. could you be so kind as to direct me where to find them?" "about three miles down this side of the river. you cannot miss them if you follow this road. stay--i am one of the firm. we have rather more men than we want just now, but i will give you a line to our manager, and he will find a place for you, and the boy, also," said plausible, good-natured, lying, dishonest fabian rockharrt, as he drew a card from his pocket and just wrote above his name: "take the bearer and his boy on." then on the opposite side of the card he wrote the superscription: "timothy ryland, manager north end foundries." he gave this to the tramp, who touched his hat again, and led off his boy for their long walk to the works. fabian rockharrt, with his nephew and niece, reached rockland two hours later. aaron rockharrt and his younger son, clarence, were absent, at the works; but little mrs. rockharrt was at home. little cora became the constant companion of the grandmother, who found her well advanced in learning for a child of seven years. she could read, write a little, and do easy sums in the first four simple rules of arithmetic. a school room was fitted up on the first floor back of the rockhold mansion. a nursery governess was found by advertisement. she was a young and beautiful girl of the wax doll order of beauty, and of not more than sixteen years of age. in person she was tall, slim and fair, with red cheeks, blue eyes and yellow hair. her very name, as well as her presence, was full of the aromas of araby the blest. it was rose flowers. rose smiled and bloomed and beamed on all, but most of all on mr. fabian, who was at that time a very handsome and fascinating man of no more than thirty, and to do her justice, she brought her young pupils well on in elementary education. no more was seen or heard of the tramp and his boy, who had come to seek work at the foundries. they seemed to have been forgotten even by the little girl whose sympathies had been touched by their appearance on the train with their own party. but early in february a catastrophe occurred which brought them back most painfully to, her memory. there was an explosion in the foundry, by which the man was instantly killed. "uncle clarence," asked cora of that person, "where is the boy belonging to the poor man that was killed? you know they came in the cars with us to north end station. oh! and they were so poor! oh, and the boy had a bit of old crape on his old hat! oh, and i know he had no mother! but i don't know whether the man was his father or his uncle. but, oh, uncle clarence, dear, where is the boy?" "i don't know anything about the boy, little one, but i will inquire and tell you. i think the little chap has two more friends left, dear. you are one. i am the other." "oh, uncle clarence, you are a dear ducky-ducky-darling! and when i am a grown-up woman, i will marry you." "oh! well, all right, if you remain in the same mind, and--" "i will never, never change my mind. i love you better than i do anybody in the world, except sylvan and grandma, and miss flowers and tip!" clarence kept his word with the child about making inquiries as to the fate of the boy in whom she was interested. the boy was motherless, and, by the death of his father, had been left utterly destitute. he had found a home with scythia woods, an eccentric woman, who lived in a hut on the mountain side, half way between north end and rockhold, and he supported himself in a poor way by running errands and doing little jobs about the works. little cora haught listened to this account of the poor, friendless, self-reliant lad with the deepest sympathy. "uncle clarence," she pleaded, "you are so rich. why don't you give that poor boy clothes, and shoes, and hats, and all he ought to have?" "my good little girl, nothing would give me more delight, but that fellow would see rockharrt & sons swallowed up by an earthquake before he would take a cent from them that he had not earned." "oh, i like that--that is grand! but why don't you take him on and give him good pay?" "but, my dear, he is a boy, and cannot do regular heavy work. he is quite uneducated, and cannot do any other except what he does." two months later, one lovely spring day, she saw him again for the first time since their meeting on the train six months previous. he came to rockhold one saturday afternoon to bring a letter from the manager to the head of the firm. he came to the back door which opened from the porch. he sent in his letter by the servant who came at his knock, and he said he was to wait for an answer. cora, in the back parlor, saw him, recognized him, and ran out to speak to him. perhaps the tiny lady had some faint idea of the duties and responsibilities of wealth and station. so she spoke to the boy. "are you regulas rothsay?" she inquired, in a soft tone. "yes, miss," replied the boy. there was an awkward pause, and then the little girl said slowly: "you won't let anybody give you anything, although you have no father nor mother. now, why won't you?" "because, i can work for all i want, all--but--" the boy began, and then stopped. "you have all but what?" "a little schooling." "here's the answer, rule! you are to run right away as fast as you can and take it to mr. ryland," said a servant, coming out upon the porch and handing a letter to the boy. it was a week after this interview with the lad before cora saw him again. he was on the lawn in front of the house. she was at the window of the front drawing room. as soon as she espied him she ran out to speak to him, and eagerly begged that she might teach him to read. the boy, surprised at the suddenness and the character of such an offer, blushed, thanked the little lady, and declined, then hesitated, reflected, and then, half reluctantly, half gratefully, consented. cora was delighted, and frankly expressed her joy. "oh, regulas, i am so glad! now every afternoon when i have done my lessons--i am in comly's first speller, peter parley's first book of history, and first book of geography, and i am as far as short division in arithmetic, and round hand in the copy book--so as soon as i get through with my lessons, and you get through with your work, you come to this back porch, where i play, and i will bring my old primer and white slate, and i will teach you. if you get here before i do, you wait for me. i will never be long away. if i get here before you, i will wait for you," she concluded. the iron king, mr. fabian, or mr. clarence, passing out of the back door for an afternoon stroll in the grounds, would see the little lady seated in one of the large quaker chairs, her feet dangling over its edge, busy with her doll's dresses, and furtively watching her pupil, who, seated before her on one of the long piazza benches, would be poring over his primer or his slate. as time went on every one began to wonder at the earnestness and constancy of this childish friendship. so the lessons went on through all the spring and summer and early autumn of that year. before the leaves had fallen regulas had learned all she could teach him. then their parting came about naturally, inevitably. when the weather grew cold, the lessons could no longer be given out on the exposed piazza, and the little teacher could not be permitted to bring her rough and ragged pupil into the house. cora begged of her kind uncle clarence some of his old school books, which she knew to be among the rubbish of the garret, which was her own rainy-day play room in summer, and offered the books to the boy as a loan from herself, because she dared not offer the lad a gift. later, she loaned him a "boy's life of benjamin franklin." it was that book, perhaps, that decided the boy's destiny. he read it with avidity, with enthusiasm. the impression made upon his mind was so deep and intense that his heart became fired with a fine ambition. he longed to tread in the steps of benjamin franklin--to become a printer, to rise to position and power, to do great and good things for his country and for humanity. he brooded over all this. to begin, he resolved to become a printer. so, when the spring opened, he came to rockhold and bade good-by to his little friend, and went, at the age of fourteen, to the city to seek his fortune, walking all the way, and taking with him testimonials as to his character for truth, honesty, and industry. there were at that time three printing offices in that city. rule applied to the first and to the second without success, but when he applied to the third--the office of the _watch_--and showed his credentials, the proprietor took him on. he and his little friend corresponded regularly from month to month. no one objected to this letter writing, any more than to the lesson giving. it was but the charity of the little lady given for the encouragement of the poor, struggling orphan boy. * * * * * it was nearly four years after the departure of rule from the works at north end to seek his fortune in a printing office of the neighboring city. he had never yet returned to see his friends, though his correspondence with cora had been kept up. in the four years that rose flowers had lived at rockhold she had won the hearts of all the household, from the master down to the meanest drudge. she was, indeed, the fragrance of the house. all admired her much and loved her more, and yet-- and yet in every mind there was a latent distrust of her, which seemed unjust, and for which all who felt it reproached themselves--in every mind but one. the iron king felt no distrust of the submissive, beautiful creature, whom he continually held up to other members of his family as the very model of perfect womanhood. he did not see, he said, why she should now, when it was finally decided that cora should be sent to the young ladies' institute, at the city, why rose should leave the house. she might remain as companion for mrs. rockharrt. but when this was proposed to miss flowers, the young governess explained, with much regret, that, not anticipating this generous offer, she had already secured another situation. with tears in her beautiful eyes, rose flowers took the old man's hand and pressed it to her heart and then to her lips as she bent her head and cooed: "i will remember all you have told me--all the wise and good counsel you have ever given me, all the precious acts of kindness you have ever shown me. and when i cease to remember them, sir, may heaven forget me!" "there, there, my child. you are a baby--a mere baby!" said the iron king, as he patted her on the head and left her. this interview occurred a few days before christmas. it was now christmas morning, nearly four years after the departure of rule rothsay. it was a fine clear, cold day. bright with color was the village of north end, where all the houses were decorated with holly, and the people, in their sunday clothes, were out in the streets on their way to the church, which had been beautifully decorated for the occasion. the rockharrt family--with the exception of old aaron rockharrt, who did not choose to turn out that day, and miss rose flowers, who stayed home to keep him company and to wait on him--came early in their capacious and comfortable family carriage. they had a large, square, handsomely upholstered pew in the right-hand upper corner of the church. when they were all quietly settled in their seats and the voluntary was going on, the elders of the party bowed their heads to offer up their preliminary prayers. but cora, girl-like, looked about her, letting her glances wander over the well-filled pews, and then up toward the galleries. a moment later she suddenly gave a little start and half-suppressed exclamation of delight. mrs. rockharrt, who had finished her prayer, looked around in surprise at the girl, who had committed this unusual indecorum. "oh, grandma, it is rule! rule, up there in the boys' gallery--look!" cora whispered, in eager delight. the old lady raised her eyes and recognized regulas rothsay--but so well grown, so well dressed, and well looking as to be hardly recognizable, except from his strong, characteristic head and face. he wore a neatly fitting suit of dark-blue cloth; neat woolen gloves covered his large hands; his hair was trimmed and as nicely dressed as such rough, tawny locks could be. at length the beautiful service was finished, and the congregation filed out of the church into the yard, where all immediately began shaking hands with each other. presently cora saw the youth come out of the church, look earnestly about him until he descried her party, and then walk directly toward her. "oh, rule, i am so glad to see you! when did you get here? why didn't you come straight to rockhold? why didn't you write and tell me you were coming?" cora eagerly demanded, as she met him, and hurrying question upon question before giving him time to answer the first one. the youth raised his cap and bowed to the elder members of the party before answering the girl. then he said: "i did not know that i could come until an hour before i started. i came by the midnight express, and reached here just in time for church. i have not seen, or i should say, i have not spoken to, any one here yet except yourself. "last evening, being friday evening, we were at work very late on our saturday's supplement, and a christmas story in it. very often we have to work on christmas night, if the next day is a week day; and every sunday night--that is, from twelve midnight, when the sabbath ends--we have to work to get out monday morning's paper." "oh, yes; of course," said fabian. "well, i never have had a whole holiday since i have been in the _watch_ office; but last night, about half-past ten, after the paper had gone to press, the foreman came to me, paid my wages up to the first of january, and told me that i need not return to the office at midnight after sunday, but might have leave of absence until monday morning, so as to have time to go and spend christmas with my friends if i wished to do so." just then clarence rockharrt joined them and said, anxiously: "mother, dear, i think you had better get into the carriage. it is very bleak out here, and you might take cold." mrs. rockharrt at once took the arm of her youngest and best-beloved son and let him lead her away to the spot where the comfortable family coach awaited them. mr. fabian started to follow with cora. "come with us to the carriage door, rule," said the girl, looking back and stretching her hand out toward the youth. "yes! come!" added pleasant mr. fabian. regulas touched his hat and followed. fabian put his niece in the seat beside her grandmother, and then turned to the youth and inquired: "what are you going to do with yourself to-day?" "i shall go down to my old home, sir, mother scythia's hut." "oh! ah! yes; i remember. you are going to stop there?" "yes, sir; but i shall try to see all old friends to-day or to-morrow, and i should like to go to rockhold to thank all the friends there who have been kind to me, and to tell mrs. rockharrt and miss cora, who were kindest of all, how i have got on in the city." "certainly! certainly, rule! come whenever you like! and see here! it is a long, rough road from here to old scythia's roost, which is right on our way to rockhold. sorry we cannot offer you a seat in the carriage but you see there are but four seats and there are already five people to fill them." "oh, sir, i should not expect such a thing," said the youth. "but i was about to say if you will mount to a seat beside the coachman, you will be heartily welcome to what used to be my own 'most favoryte' perch in my younger days. and we can set you down at the foot of the path leading up to old scythia's hut," concluded mr. fabian. "oh, do, rule! please do!" pleaded cora. regulas, with his sturdy independence of spirit, would most likely have declined this favor had not the girl's beseeching face and voice persuaded him to accept it. "i thank you very much, sir," he said, and promptly climbed to the seat. three miles down the road the carriage was pulled up at the foot of the highest point of the mountain range, and rule came down from his perch beside the coachman, stepped up to the carriage window, took off his hat, thanked the occupants for his ride, and then drew a neat, white inch-square parcel from his vest pocket, and holding it modestly, said: "i hope you will accept this, miss cora." the girl took it with a smile, but before she could open her lips to express her thanks, the youth had bowed, turned from the carriage, and was speeding his way up the rough mountain path, springing from crag to crag up to the ledge on which old scythia's hut stood. cora opened the parcel and found an inch-square little casket of red morocco. she opened this with a spring, and found a small gold heart reposing in a bed of white satin. "how pretty it is!" she said softly to herself, as she took the trinket from its case. "look, grandma, what rule has brought me for a christmas gift! a little gold heart! a pure gold heart! his is a pure gold heart, is it not?" she added, earnestly, as she placed the trinket in the lady's hand. mrs. rockharrt looked at it with interest, and then passed it on to her eldest son. the ride was continued, and presently the carriage was driven off the boat and up the avenue leading to the house. as the vehicle drew up before the front doors, a pretty picture might have been seen through the drawing-room windows. a bright fireside, an old man reclining in his luxurious arm-chair; a beautiful girl seated on a hassock at his feet, reading to him, and at intervals lifting her lovely blue eyes in childish adoration to his face. they might have been grandfather and granddaughter, but they were, in fact, old aaron rockharrt and miss rose flowers--merlin and vivien again, except that the iron king was rather a rugged and unmanageable merlin. * * * * * meanwhile, regulas rothsay had climbed the rugged mountain path that led to scythia's hut. on the back of the broad shelf of rock on which the hut stood was a hollow in the side of the precipice. scythia had cleared out this hollow of all its natural litter. before this apartment she had built another room, with no better material than fragments of rock found on the spot, and filled in with earth, moss and twigs. she had roofed this over with branches of evergreens piled thick and high, to keep off rain and sun. a heavy buffalo robe, fastened with large wooden pins at its top to the roof of the hut, served for a door. there was no window. in the inner or cavernous apartment she had built a rude fire-place and chimney going up through a hole in the rock. a pallet of rough furs and coarse blankets lay in one corner of this room, and a few rude cooking utensils occupied another. in the outer room there was a rough oak table and two chairs. up before the edge of this natural shelf on which the hut stood appeared the tops of a thicket of pine trees that grew on the mountain side fifty feet below. up behind this shelf arose other pines, height above height, until their highest tops seemed to pierce the clouds. when rule reached this shelf, he found the tops of the pine trees, the ground, and the hut all covered with snow. "good morning, mother! a merry christmas to you!" said rule, gayly. "i hope you have made yourself as comfortable as possible in this place," said the youth, anxiously. "yes, rule! always as happy and as much at ease as my past will permit." "oh! what is--what was this terrible past?" inquired the youth--not for the first time. "it was, it is, and it ever will be! this past will be present and future so long as i live on this earth. and some day, when time and strife and woe have made you strong and hard and stern, i will lift the veil and show you its horrible face! but not now, my boy! not now! come in." as the weird woman said this she led the way into the hut, where the rude table stood covered with a coarse white cloth and adorned with two white plates and two pairs of steel knives and forks. here the christmas dinner was eaten, and afterward the two began a close conversation. "mother," said the youth, "i shall have to leave here to-morrow night. i should go away so much more contented if i could see you living down in the village among people. here you are dwelling alone, far from human help if you should require it. the winter coming on!" "rule! i hate the village! i hate the haunts of human beings! i love the wilderness and the wild creatures that are around me!" "but, mother, if you should be taken ill up here alone!" "i should get well or die; and it would not in the least matter which." "but you might linger, you might suffer." "i am used to suffering, and however long i might linger, the end would come at last. recovery or death, it would not matter which." "oh, mother scythia!" said the youth, in a voice full of distress. "rule! i am as happy here as my past will permit me to be. i abhor the haunts of the human! i love the solitude of the wilderness. the time may come when you too, lad, shall hate the haunts of the human and long for the lair of the lion! you will rise, rule! as sure as flame leaps to the air, you will rise! the fire within you will kindle into flame! you will rise! but--beware the love of woman and the pride of place! see! listen!" the face of the weird woman changed--became ashen gray, her form became rigid, her eyes were fixed, her gaze was afar off in distant space. "what is it, mother?" anxiously demanded the youth. "i see your future and the emblem of your future--a splendid meteor, soaring up from the earth to the sky, filling space with light and glory! dazzling a million of eyes, then dropping down, down, down into darkness and nothingness! that is you!" "mother scythia!" exclaimed the youth, in troubled tones. the weird woman never turned her head, nor withdrew her fearful, far-off stare into futurity. "that is you. you are but a poor apprentice. but from this year you will soar, and soar, and soar to the zenith of place and power among your fellows! you will be the blazing meteor of the day! you will dazzle all eyes by the splendor of your success, and then, 'in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye,' you will drop into night, and nothingness, and be heard of no more!" "mother! mother scythia! wake up! you are dreaming!" said rule, laying his hand on the woman's shoulder and gently shaking her. "oh, what is this? rule! what is it?" "you have been dreaming, mother scythia." "have i?" said the woman, putting her hands to her forehead and stroking away the raven locks that over-shadowed it. and gradually she recovered from her trance and returned to her normal condition. when rule was quite sure that she was all right again, he said: "mother scythia, i am going to rockhold to see the friends there who have been kind to me. but i will come back to spend the night with you." "well, lad, go. why should i try to hinder you? you must work out your destiny and bear your doom," she said, wearily, with her forehead bowed upon her hands, as if she felt the heavy prophetic cloud still over-shadowing and oppressing her. "mother scythia, why do you speak so solemnly of me, and i only in my nineteenth year?" gravely inquired the youth, who, though he had been accustomed to the weird woman's strange moods and stranger words and deemed them little less than the betrayals of insanity, yet now felt unaccountably troubled by them. "yes; you are young, but the years fly fast; and i--i see the future in the present. but go, my boy! enjoy the good of the present--your best days, lad!--and come back this evening and you shall find your pallet of sweet boughs and soft blankets ready for you," she said. rule stooped and kissed her corrugated forehead and then left the hut. the sun was setting behind the mountain, which threw a dark shadow over scythia's ledge and rule's path, as he ran springing from rock to rock down the precipice to the river's side. it was dark when he reached the spot. but the lights from the windows of rockhold on the opposite shore gleamed out upon the snow with splendid effect. every window in the front of the building was shining with light that streamed out upon the snow; for the shutters had been left unclosed on purpose, this christmas night. rule crossed the ferry and went, as he had been used to go, to the back door, opening on the back porch, where, four years before, cora used to keep school for her one pupil. he rapped at the door, and sylvan sprang up and opened it. he was warmly welcomed, and spent a pleasant evening. the rest of his vacation was spent in a way equally pleasant, and at seven a.m., monday, rule was at work, type-setting in the _watch_ office. on the third of january following that christmas there were three departures from rockhold. miss rose flowers went east to enter upon her new engagement. corona haught, in charge of her grandmother and her uncle clarence, went west to enter the young ladies' institute, in the capital, and master sylvanus haught went north, in the care of his uncle fabian, to enter a boy's school. chapter iv. a retrospect. it was near the close of a cold, bright day early in january, that mrs. rockharrt and corona haught, escorted by mr. clarence, stepped from the train at the depot of the capital city of their state--which must, for obvious reason, be nameless--and were driven to the young ladies' institute, where the girl was left, and as the adieus were being said it was explained to cora that discretion and social conventionality dictated that her correspondence with young rothsay should cease. clarence stated that he would write to the youth and explain that the rules of the school, also, forbade such a correspondence. "i will also tell him that he can continue to send the _watch_ to you, with his own paragraphs marked as before," said corona's uncle. "there can be no law against that. i will correspond with rule occasionally, and keep you posted up as to how he is getting on. there can be no school law against your uncle writing to you." cora haught graduated when she was eighteen. in all these years she had not seen rule rothsay. she only heard from him through his letters to her uncle clarence, reported second hand to herself. she knew that in these five years rule had risen, step by step, in the office where he had begun his apprenticeship; that he had risen to be foreman, then sub-editor, and now he was part proprietor and one of the most powerful political writers on the paper. the workingmen's party wished to put him up as a candidate for the state legislature. what a power he would have been for their cause in that place! but when the subject was proposed to him, he admonished the spokesman that he was, as yet, a little less than of legal age for an office that required its holder to be at least twenty-five years old. after cora's graduation the rockharrt family spent a week in their town house, preparatory to a summer tour through the northern states and canada. one morning, while the whole family were sitting around the breakfast table, old aaron rockharrt suddenly spoke: "fabian! now that my granddaughter has left school, she will want a companion near her own age. miss rose flowers would suit very well. have you any idea where she is?" "miss rose flowers, my dear sir, is now mrs. slydell stillwater, the--" "married!" interrupted all voices except that of the iron king, who bent his heavy gray brows as he gazed upon his son. "stuff and nonsense! how did you know anything about her marriage?" demanded old aaron rockharrt. "in the simplest and most natural way, sir. i saw it in the newspapers, about three years ago. and, in point of fact, i forgot it and should never have thought of it again but for your inquiries about the young woman this morning. her husband is captain slydell stillwater, captain and half owner of the east indiaman queen of sheba," replied mr. fabian. "poor child! to be parted from her husband more than half her time. is captain stillwater now at sea?" "i think he must be, sir, as there has hardly been time for his return since he sailed soon after his marriage." "do you know where mrs. stillwater lives?" "i do not, sir; but i might find out by inquiring of some mutual acquaintance." "do so. and, mrs. rockharrt," the king added, turning to his little old wife, "you will write a note to mrs. stillwater, inviting her to join our party for a summer tour, and as our guest, remember. fabian, you will see that the note reaches the lady in time." "i will do my best, sir," said mr. fabian. "very well," said the wife. the note of invitation to mrs. stillwater was written. mr. fabian used such dispatch in his search for the lady that his efforts were soon rewarded with success. a letter came from mrs. stillwater, postmarked baltimore, in which she cordially thanked mrs. rockharrt for her invitation, gratefully accepted it, and offered to join the rockharrt party at any point most convenient to the latter. this answer was communicated to the family autocrat, who thereupon issued his commands: "write and say to mrs. stillwater that we will stop at baltimore on our way, and call for her at her hotel on friday; but say that if she should not be ready, we will wait her convenience." this letter was also written and sent off. three days later the whole family left the capital for baltimore, which they reached at night. they went directly to the hotel where mrs. stillwater was staying, and engaged rooms for their whole party. they scarcely took time enough to wash the travel dust from their faces and brush it from their hair, and change their traveling suits for fresher dresses, before they hurried down stairs to their private parlor, whence mrs. rockharrt sent her own and her granddaughter's cards to mrs. stillwater's room. a few minutes after, the young siren appeared. "heavens! how beautiful she is! more beautiful than before! look, cora! was there ever such a perfect creature?" said mr. clarence, under his breath. cora looked at her former governess with a start of involuntary wonder and admiration. rose stillwater was more beautiful than ever. her exquisite oval face was a little more rounded. her fair complexion had a richer bloom on the cheeks and lips. her hair was darker in the shade and brighter in the light; her blue eyes were softer and sweeter; her graceful form fuller. she was dressed in some floating material that enveloped her figure like a cloud. she came, blooming, beaming, smiling, into the room, where all arose to meet her. she went first to mr. rockharrt, and bent and almost knelt before him, and raised his hand to her lips as if he had been her sovereign; and then, before he could respond--for she saw that he was slightly embarrassed as well as greatly pleased by this adoration--she turned and sank into the arms of old mrs. rockharrt, and cooed forth: "how sweet of you to remember your poor, lonely child and call her to your side!" "why didn't you tell me you were going to be married, my dear?" was the practical question of the old lady. "it was shyness on my part. i dared not obtrude my poor affairs on your attention until you should notice me in some way," she meekly replied, and then she gracefully slipped out of mrs. rockharrt's embrace and went and folded cora to her bosom, murmuring: "my own darling, how happy i am to meet you again! how lovely you are, my sweet angel!" "oh, why did you not write to me that you were going to be married? i should have so liked to have been your bridesmaid!" complained cora. "sweetest sweet, if i had dreamed such honor and happiness were possible for me, i should have written and claimed them with pride and delight. but i dared not, my darling! i dared not. i was but a poor governess, without any claims to your remembrance, and should not now be with you had not the dear lady, your grandmamma, kindly recalled her poor dependant to mind and brought me into her circle." "oh, rose, do not speak so! i should hate to hear even the poorest maid in our house speak so. you were never grandma's dependant, or anybody's dependant. you were one of the noble army whom i honor more than i do all the monarchs on earth," said cora earnestly. with remembrances and delightful chat the evening was wearing away, and it was time for the party to retire to rest. two days after this the rockharrts, with cora haught and mrs. stillwater, left baltimore for the north, _en route_ for canada and new brunswick. the party went first directly to boston, where they stayed for a few days, to attend the commencement of the collegiate school at which master sylvanus haught was preparing himself to become a candidate for admission to the military academy at west point; but where, as yet, he had not distinguished himself by application to his studies. on promising to do better, sylvan was permitted to accompany his friends on their summer tour. the party spent the season in traveling, and it was not until the th of september that they set out on their return south. they reached baltimore late in september, yet found the weather in that latitude still oppressively warm, and roomed at a hotel. here it had been tacitly understood from the first that mrs. stillwater was to remain, while the rest of the party should proceed on their journey west. but the family despot had become so habituated to the incense hourly offered up to his egotism by circe, that he felt her society to be essential to his contentment. so he issued his commands to his wife to invite mrs. stillwater to accompany the family party to rockhold for a long visit. the old lady very willingly obeyed these orders, for she also desired the visit from the fascinator, whose presence kept the tyrant in a good humor and on his good behavior. so she pressed rose stillwater to accompany them to their mountain home. rose stillwater raised her beautiful soft blue eyes, brimming with tears that ever came at will, gazed sorrowfully, penitently, deprecatingly, into the lady's face and cooed: "i feel as if it were a sin to refuse you! you who have been a mother to me. and, oh! how dearly i should love to stay with you and wait on you forever and forever! i could not conceive a happier life! but duty constrains me to deny myself this delight, and to wrench myself away from all i love." "duty? what duty, my dear girl? i do not understand that. you have no children to take care of, no house to look after, no husband to please, for captain stillwater is at sea. what duty, then, can you have which is so pressing as to keep you away from your friends?" "the queen of sheba was spoken and passed by the liverpool and new york ocean steamer arctic on saturday, within three days' sail of land. and he may arrive here any hour. i must wait to receive him." "indeed! i did not know that. my dear, i congratulate you on your coming happiness. i can urge you no more, of course. it is a sacred duty as well as a sweet delight for you to remain here and meet your husband. so, of course, we must resign ourselves to our loss; but i hope, my dear, that you and your husband will come together at an early date and make us a long visit." "i hope so, too, dearest lady!" when, a little later in the evening, the iron king heard the result of this interview, he was--as his wife had feared--dreadfully disappointed, and consequently in one of his morose and diabolical tempers, and sullenly set his despotic will against the reasonable wishes of everybody else. he announced that they should all set forward the next day. it was high time they should all be at home looking after house and business. so it was settled. as the party needed rest, they retired very early. that night cora haught had a rather strange adventure, to relate which intelligibly i must describe the situation of their rooms. the suite occupied by the rockharrt party was on the third floor of the house, and consisted of five rooms in a row, on the left hand side of the corridor, from the head of the stairs. the front room, overlooking an avenue, was tenanted by mr. and mrs. rockharrt, the next one was occupied by cora haught, the third room was the private parlor of the suite, the fourth room was that of mrs. stillwater, and the fifth, and largest, was a double-bedded room, tenanted jointly by mr. fabian and mr. clarence. all these rooms had doors communicating with each other, and also with the corridor, all or any of which could be left open or made fast at discretion. cora's room, between her grandparents' bed-chamber and their private parlor, was the smallest, the closest and the warmest of the suite. that september night was sultry and stifling. scarcely a breath of air came from without. the girl could not sleep for the heat. anathematizing her room as a "black hole" of calcutta, she lay tossing from side to side, and listening for the hourly strokes of a neighboring clock, and praying for the night to be over. she heard that clock strike eleven, twelve, one. at length cora thought that she would go into the private parlor next her own room to get a breath of fresh air. she felt sure that there she should be perfectly safe from intrusion, as she knew that the door leading from the parlor into the corridor was secured from within by a strong bolt, and the other two doors led, the one into her own little room, and the other, on the opposite side, into mrs. stillwater's. so that she would be as secluded as in her own chamber. she slipped on a thin, dark blue silk dressing gown, thrust her feet in slippers, opened the door and passed into the parlor. the room was very dark, still and cool. the two side windows overlooking the alley were open, and a rising breeze from the harbor blew in. cora went and sat down in an easy chair in the angle of the corner between an open side window and her own room door. the room was pitch dark. the darkness, the coolness, and the stillness were all so soothing and refreshing to the girl's heated and excited nerves that she sank back in her high, cushioned chair and dozed off into sleep--into such a deep and dreamless sleep that she knew nothing until she was awakened, or rather only half awakened, by the sound of a key turning in a lock and a door creaking upon its hinges. the sound seemed to come from the direction of mrs. stillwater's room; but cora was still half asleep, and almost unconscious of her whereabouts. as in a dream, she heard some one tiptoe slowly across and jar a chair in the deep darkness. she heard the bolt of the door leading into the corridor grate as it was slipped back. this awakened her thoroughly. she was about to call out: "who is there?" then a voice that she recognized even in its low, whispering tones spoke and arrested the words on her lips. it said: "fabe! fabe! is that you?" "yes. is all quiet?" "yes; and has been so for hours. come in. pass around, feeling by the wall until you reach the sofa. if you attempt to cross the room, you may strike a chair or table and make a noise, as i did." the unseen man cautiously crept around by the wall, feeling his way, but occasionally striking and jarring a picture frame or looking glass as he passed, and muttering good-humored little growls of deprecation, and finally making the sofa creak as he struck and sat heavily down upon it. cora was wide awake now, and quite cognizant of the identity of the invisible persons in the room as that of mr. fabian rockharrt and mrs. rose stillwater. it did not once occur to the girl that she was doing any wrong in remaining there, in the parlor common to the whole party. surprise and wonder held her spellbound in her obscure seat. the sofa on which they sat was between the two windows. she reclined in the easy chair in the corner between the right-hand window and the door of her room. she was so near them that she might have touched the sofa by stretching out her hand. without dreaming of harm, she overheard their conversation. mr. fabian was the first to speak. "i say, rose," he began, "i have a deuce of a hard time to get a tete-a-tete with you. this is the first we have had for two months." "and we could not have had this but for the accidental arrangement of these convenient rooms," she whispered. "exactly. we must arrange for future plans to-night. i understand that the old folks have been trying to persuade you to return home with us?" "yes; but, of course, i shall not go." "of course not; but how did you get out of it?" "oh, by raising the old gentleman." "do you mean the--the--the--de--" "certainly not. i mean my husband, the gallant captain stillwater, of the east indiaman queen of sheba, who has been spoken within three days' sail of port, and is expected here every hour. so that, you see, i must remain here to welcome my husband. it is my sacred duty," said the woman demurely. "ha-ha-ha!" laughed mr. fabian, in a low, half-suppressed chuckle. "hush! oh, be careful! you will be heard!" murmured rose stillwater, in a frightened whisper. "what! at this hour? why, everybody in this suite is in his or her deepest sleep. i say, rosebud." "what?" "his majesty the king of the cumberland mines has been in a demoniac humor ever since he learned that you were not coming home with us." "i know it, and i am very sorry for it, especially on his family's account, but i could not help it." "certainly not. it would have been inconvenient and embarrassing. look here, rosalie." "well?" "if the aged monarch was not such a perfect dragon of truth, honesty and fidelity, and all the cast-iron virtues, i should think that he was over head and ears in love with you." "nonsense, fabian! mr. rockharrt is old enough to be my grandfather, and his hair is quite gray." "if he were old enough to be your great-grandfather, and his hair was quite white, it need make no difference in that respect, my dear. the fires of mt. hecla burn beneath eternal snows." "what rubbish you are talking, fabian! but--to change the subject--when will my house be ready? i warn you that i will not go back to that brick block on main street in your state capital." "you should not, rosebella. your home is finished and furnished; and a lovelier bower of roses cannot be found out of paradise! it is simply perfection, or it will be when you take possession of it." "yes; tell me all about it," whispered the lady, eagerly. "it is a small, elegant villa, situated in the midst of beautiful grounds in a small, sequestered dell, inclosed with wooded hills rising backward into forest-crowned mountains, and watered by many little springs rising among the rocks and running down to empty into a miniature lake that lies shining before the house. it seems to be in the heart of the cumberlands, in the depth of solitude, yet it is not fifteen minutes' walk by a forest footpath to the railway station at north end." "what shall we name this little eden?" "rose bower, and the locality rose valley." "and when may i take possession?" "whenever you please. all is prepared and waiting the arrival of mrs. stillwater, who has taken the house and engaged the servants through her agent, and who is expected to reside there during the absence of her husband, captain stillwater, on long voyages." "how long are these false appearances to be kept up, and when are our true relations to be announced?" "before very long, my sweet!" "i hate this concealment! i know that i am a favorite with your father and mother, so i cannot see why you have not told them and will not tell them." "now, rosamunda, don't be a little idiot! be a little angel, as you always have been! am i not doing everything i can for your comfort and happiness, only asking you in turn to be faithful and patient until i can make you my wife before the whole world? my father does not like the idea of my marrying--anybody! if he knew we were engaged to each other, he would never forgive me, and that means he would cut me off from all share in the patrimony. and we could not afford to lose that! let me tell you a secret, rose. though our firm does business under the name 'rockharrt & sons,' yet 'sons' have a merely nominal interest in the works while rockharrt lives. so you see, i have very little of my own, and if the autocrat should learn, even by our own confession, that we had been--been--been--concealing our engagement from him, he would never forgive either of us." at this moment a step was heard passing along the corridor outside. it caused the two unseen inmates of the parlor to shrink into silence, and even when it had passed out of hearing it caused them, in renewing their conversation, to speak only in the lowest tones, so that cora could no longer catch a word of their speech. she would before this have risen and retired to her own room; but she was afraid of making a noise, and consequently causing a scene. were those two, her uncle fabian and mrs. stillwater, only secretly engaged? secretly engaged? but whoever heard of a betrothed lover providing a home for his betrothed bride to live in before marriage! and then, again, was her uncle fabian really so dependent on his father as he had represented to rose? cora had always understood that he had a quarter share in the great business, and that clarence had an eighth. and, worse than all, had they been so deceived as to the condition of rose that, if she was mrs. stillwater at all, she was the widow and not the wife of captain stillwater, since she was engaged to be married, if not already married, to mr. fabian rockharrt? altogether the affair seemed a blinding and confusing tissue of falsehood and deception that amazed and repulsed the mind of the girl. bewildered by the mystery, lulled by the hum of voices whose words she could not distinguish, fanned by the breeze from the harbor, and calmed by the darkness, the wearied girl sank back into her resting chair, closed her eyes, and lost the sequence of her thoughts in dreams--from which she presently sank into dreamless sleep, which lasted until she was awakened by the noise of the hotel servants moving about on their morning duties, opening windows, rapping at doors to call up travelers for early trains, dragging along trunks, and so on. at breakfast cora watched mr. fabian and rose, because she could not help doing so, and she certainly discovered signs of a secret understanding between them--signs so slight that they would have been unnoticed by any one who had not the key to the mystery. but how sickening and depressing was all this! rose flowers, or stillwater, or rockharrt--whichever name she could legally claim--was a fraud. mr. fabian rockharrt was another fraud. those two were secretly engaged or secretly married. after breakfast the party were ready for their journey then came the leave-taking. every one, except cora haught, shook hands warmly with rose stillwater. mrs. rockharrt embraced and kissed her fondly, and renewed and pressed her invitation to the beauty to come and make a long visit. rose put her arms around the old lady's neck and clung to her, and, with tearful eyes and trembling tones and loving words, assured her that she would fly to rockhold on the first possible opportunity, and, after many caresses, she reluctantly turned away and went toward cora. the girl had lowered her blue veil, and tied it mask-like over her face, in a way that women often do, but which cora never did, except on this occasion, when she wished to evade the sure to be offered kiss of rose stillwater. but rose embraced her strongly and kissed her through the veil, endearments which the young girl could not repel without attracting attention, but which she only endured and did not return. the party reached rockhold on the evening of the second day's travel. old aaron rockharrt found himself so weary of traveling that he announced his intention of remaining in rockhold for the entire winter, nor leaving it even to go to his town house for a few weeks during the session of the legislature. cora was disappointed. she longed to go to washington for the season--to go into company, to go to balls and parties, concerts and operas, to see new people and make new friends, perhaps to attract new admirers; and as she was now nineteen years of age, she need not be too severely criticised for so natural an aspiration. mr. fabian was the most zealous and active member of the firm. he would go to north end and stay two days at a time to be near his scene of duty. time passed, but rose stillwater did not make her promised visit. old aaron often referred to it, and worried his wife to write to her and remind her of her promise. the old lady always complied with her husband's requirements, and wrote pressing letters; but the beauty always wrote back excusing herself on the ground of "the captain's" many engagements, which confined him to the ship and her to his side. so time passed, and nearly another year went by. the rockharrts were still at rockhold. a political crisis was at hand--the election for the state legislature. the candidate for representative of the liberal party in that election district was regulas rothsay. the election day came at length, as anxious a day for cora haught as for any one. it was a grand success, a glorious triumph for the printer boy and for the workingmen's cause as well. rule rothsay was elected representative for his district in the state legislature by an overwhelming majority. cora was destined to a joyful surprise the next morning, when the domestic autocrat suddenly announced: "i shall take the family to my town house on the first of next week. my last bill, which was defeated last year, may be passed this session." cora now, on the irishman's principle of pulling the pig backward if you want him to go forward, ventured on the assurance of counseling her grandfather by saying: "i would not approach mr. rothsay on the subject of this bill, if i were you, sir." "but you are not i, miss!" exclaimed the old man, opening his eyes wide to stare her down. "and the new man is the very one to whom i shall first speak. he is the most proper person to present the bill. he represents my own district. his election is largely due to the men in my own employ. i am surprised that you should presume to advise upon matters of which you can know nothing whatever." cora bowed to the rebuke, but did not mind it in the least, since now she felt sure of meeting rule rothsay in town. on the following monday the rockharrts went to town. mr. rockharrt met and compared notes with some of the lobbyists. one veteran lobbyist gave him what he called the key to the riddle of success. "you appealed to reason and conscience!" said he. "my dear sir, you should have appealed to their stomachs and pockets. you should have given them epicurean feasts, and put money in your 'purse' to be transferred to theirs!" "bribery and corruption! i would lose my bill forever! and i would see the legislature--_exterminated_, before i would pay one cent to get a vote," said the iron king. and he used a much stronger as well as much shorter word than the one underscored; but let it pass. as soon as the morning papers announced--among other arrivals--that of the new assemblyman, the hon. regulas rothsay, aaron rockharrt sought out the young legislator, and explained that he wished to get a charter for a railroad that he wished to build. the company--all responsible men--had been incorporated some time, but he had never succeeded in getting a charter from the legislature. rule saw that the enterprise would be a benefit to the community at large, and especially to the workingmen, the farmers, shop keepers and mechanics; so when he had heard all the old iron king had to say on the subject, he promptly gave a promise which neither favor, affection nor self-interest could ever have won from him, but which reason, conscience and the public good constrained him to give--namely, to present the petition for the charter to the assembly, and to support it with all his might. after this regulas rothsay came often and more often, until at length he passed every evening with the rockharrts when they were at home. old aaron rockharrt esteemed him as he esteemed very, very few of his fellow creatures. mrs. rockharrt really loved him. mr. fabian and mr. clarence liked him. cora admired and honored him. he was made so welcome in the family circle that he felt himself quite at home among them. on the second of january the first business taken up was that of the bill to charter the projected railroad. it was presented by mr. rothsay, and referred to the proper committee. the charter bill was reported with certain amendments, sent back again and reported again, with modified amendments, laid on the table, taken up and generally tormented for ten days, and then passed by a small majority. rule had conscientiously done his best, and this was the result: old aaron rockharrt thanked him stiffly. "you have worked it through, sir! no one but yourself could have done it! and it is a wonder that even you could do so with such a set of pig-headed rascals as our assemblymen. and now, will it pass the senate?" "i believe it will, mr. rockharrt. i have been speaking to many of the senators, and find them well disposed toward it," said rule. to be brief, the bill was soon taken up by the senate; and after much the same treatment it had received in the assembly, it came safely through the ordeal, and was passed--again by a small majority. old aaron rockharrt was triumphant, in his sullen, dogged and undemonstrative way. but having gained his ends, for which alone he had come to the city, he ordered his family to pack up and be ready to leave town for rockhold the next day but one. but the worst was to come. when all the household were assembled at luncheon, he shot his last bolt. "now look you here, all of you! we are going to rockhold to-morrow. i do not wish to have any company there. i am tired of company! i hate company! i am going to the country to get rid of company. so see that you do not, any of you, invite any one to visit us." the next morning the rockharrt family left town for north end, where they arrived early in the afternoon. a monotonous season followed, at least for the two ladies, who led a very secluded life at the dreary old stone house on the mountain side. winter, spring, summer and autumn crept slowly away in, the lonely dwelling. in the last days of november he announced to his family, with the usual suddenness of his peremptory will, that he should go to washington city for the winter, taking with him his wife and granddaughter, and leaving his two sons in charge of the works, and that they would be joined in washington at christmas by his grandson, for whom he was about to apply for admission into the military academy at west point. regulas called frequently, and his attentions to cora were marked. the rockharrt party went to washington on the first of december, and took possession of the suite of rooms previously engaged for them at one of the large west end hotels. one morning, when rule was out of the way, being on a canvassing round with mr. rockharrt among such members of congress as had remained in the city, sylvan suddenly asked his sister: "cora, what's to make the pot boil?" "what do you mean?" inquired the young lady, looking up from "bleak house," which she was reading. "who's to get the grub?" "i--don't understand you." "oh, yes, you do. what are you and rothsay to live on after you are married? he is poor as a church mouse, and you are not much richer. you are reported to be an heiress and all that, but you know very well that you cannot touch a cent of your money until you are twenty-five years old, and not even then if you have married in the interim without our great mogul's consent. such are the wise provisions of our father's will. now then, when you and rule are married, what is to make the pot boil?" "there is no question of marriage between mr. rothsay and myself," replied cora, with a fine assumption of dignity, which was, however, quite, lost on sylvan, who favored her with a broad stare and then exclaimed: "no question of marriage between you? my stars and garters! then there ought to be, for you are both carrying on at a--at a--at a most tremendous rate!" cora took up her book and walked out of the room in stately displeasure. no; there had been no question of marriage between them; no spoken question, at least, up to this day. this was true to-day, but it was not true on the following day, when cora and rule, being alone in the parlor, fell into thoughtful silence, neither knowing exactly why. this was broken at last by rule. "cora, will you look at me, dear?" she raised her eyes and meet his fixed full and tenderly on hers. "cora, i think that you and i have understood each other a long time, too long a time for the reserve we have practiced. my dear, will you now share the poverty of a poor man who loves you with all his heart, or will you wait for that man until he shall have made a home and position more worthy of you? speak, my love, or if you prefer, take some time to think of this. my fate is in your hands." these were calm words, uttered with much, very much, self-restraint; yet eyes and voice could not be so perfectly controlled as language was, and these spoke eloquently of the man's adoration of the woman. she put her hand in his large, rough palm--the palm inherited from many generations of hard workers--where it lay like a white kernel in a brown shell, and she answered quietly, with controlled emotion: "rule, i would rather come to you now forever, and share your life, however hard, and help your work, however difficult, than part from you again; or, if this happiness is not for us now, i would wait for years--i would wait for you forever." "god bless you! god bless you, my dear! my dear! but is not this in your own choice, cora?" "no; it is in my grandfather's." "you are of age, dear." "yes. but not because i am of age would i disobey his will. he has always done his duty by me faithfully. i must do mine by him. he is old now. i must not oppose him. he may consent to our union at once, for you are a very great favorite with him. but his will must be consulted." "of course, dear. i meant to speak to mr. rockharrt after speaking to you." "and to abide by his wishes, rule?" "if i must. but i would rather abide by yours only, since you are of age," said the young man. and what more was spoken need not be repeated here. the next day rule rothsay called early, and asked to see mr. rockharrt. "ah! ah! you come to tell me that you have seen hunter, i suppose? how does he stand affected toward my bill?" exclaimed the iron king, pointing to one chair for his guest and dropping into another himself. "the truth is, mr. rockharrt, i came to see you on quite another matter--" the young man paused. the old man looked attentive and curious. "it is a matter of the deepest interest to me--" again rule paused, for mr. rockharrt was looking at him with bent brows, staring eyes, and bristling iron gray hair and beard, or hair and beard that seemed to bristle. "your granddaughter--" began rule. "your granddaughter has made me very happy by consenting to become my wife, with your approbation," calmly replied rule. "oh!" exclaimed the old man, in a peculiar tone, between surprise and derision. "and so you have come to ask my consent to your marriage with my granddaughter?" "if you please, mr. rockharrt." "and so that is the reason why you worked so hard to get my railroad bill through the legislature. well, i always believed that every man had his price; but i thought you were the exception to the general rule. i thought you were not for sale. but it seems that i was mistaken, and that you were for sale, and set a pretty high price upon yourself, too--the hand of my granddaughter!" the young man was not ill-tempered or irritable. perfectly conscious of his own sound integrity, he was unmoved by this taunt; and he answered with quiet dignity: "if you will reflect for a moment, mr. rockharrt, you will know that your charge is untrue and impossible, and you will recall it. i took up your railroad bill because i saw that its provisions would be beneficial to the small towns, tradesmen and farmers all along the proposed line--interests that many railroads neglect, to the ruin of parties most concerned. and i took up this cause before i had ever met your granddaughter since her childhood or as a woman." "that is true. well, well, the selfish and mercenary character of the men, and women, too, that i meet in this world has made me, perhaps, too suspicious of all men's motives," said the champion egotist of the world, speaking with the air of the great king condescending to an apology--if his answer could be called an apology. rule accepted it as such. he knew it was as near to a concession as the despot could come. he bowed in silence. "and so you want my granddaughter, do you?" demanded the old man. "yes, sir; as the greatest good that you, or the world, or heaven, could bestow on me," earnestly replied the suitor. "rubbish! don't talk like an idiot! how do you propose to support her?" "by the labor of my brain and hands," gravely and confidently replied rule. "worse rubbish than the other! how much a year does the labor of your brain and hands bring you in?--not enough to keep yourself in comfort! and you would bring my granddaughter down to divide that insufficient income with you" "my income would provide us both with modest comforts," replied rule. "i think your ideas and our ideas of comfort may differ importantly. now see here, mr. rothsay, i do believe you to be a true, honest, straightforward man; i believe you are attracted to cora by a sincere preference for herself, irrespective of her prospects; and you are a rising man. wait a year or two, or three. take a few steps higher on the ladder of rank and fame, and then come and ask me for my granddaughter's hand, and if you are both of the same mind, i will give it to you. there!" "mr. rockharrt--" began rule. "there, there, there! i will not even hear of an engagement until that time shall arrive. how do i know how you will pass through the ordeal of a political career, or into what bad company, evil habits, riotous living, dissipation, drunkenness, bribery and corruption, embezzlements, ruin and disgrace you may not be tempted?" "heaven forbid!" exclaimed rule. "amen! i believe you will stand the test, but i have seen too many brilliant and aspiring young politicians go up like a rocket and come down a burnt stick, to be very sure of any man in the same circumstances." "but, mr. rockharrt, such men were most probably brought up in wealth and luxury. they were not trained, perhaps, as i have been, in the hard but wholesome school of labor and self-denial." "there may be something in that; but if you advance it as an argument for me to change my mind in this matter of a prudent delay, it is thrown away upon me. you should know me well enough to know that i never change my mind." rule did know it. but he answered earnestly: "i accept your conditions, mr. rockharrt. i will wait and work as long for cora as jacob did for rachel, if necessary. cora has been the inspiration of all that i have wrought, endured and achieved--and she was all that to me long before i dreamed of aspiring to her hand in marriage, and she will be as long as we both shall live in this world or the world to come." rule bowed and left. he at once recounted to cora the interview and the condition imposed on him. when the short season ended, and the city was tilted upside down and emptied like a bucket of half its contents, the rockharrts went with the rest. old aaron was in his very worst fit of sullen ferocity. he had not been able to get a charter for clearing out the channel of the cumberland river (another pet project of his), or even to form a company strong enough to undertake the enterprise. after a while, out of restlessness, he started with his wife, granddaughter and grandson for a tour to the northern pacific coast. he spent some time in traveling through that region of country, and returned east. he stopped at west point to leave sylvan haught, who had successfully passed his examination and received his appointment at the military academy. then he took his womenkind home to rockhold. a few days later young rothsay was elected senator. some weeks later rothsay again pressed his suit on the attention of mr. rockharrt. but the old man was adamant. "no, sir, no! you must have a firmer foundation to build upon than the fickle favor of the public. wait a year or two longer. let us see whether your success is to be permanent." "but," urged rule, "my chosen bride is twenty-three years of age, and i am twenty-seven. time is flying." "what has that got to do with the question? if you were to marry this morning, would that stop the flight of time? would not time fly just as fast as ever? suppose you should not marry for two years? my granddaughter would then be twenty-five and you thirty, and many wise philosophers think that such are the relative ages at which man and woman should marry. then the iron king cast a thunderbolt. he said: "i am going to take my girl on a trip to europe this summer. when we return, it will be time enough to talk about marriage." rule bowed a reluctant admission to this mandate. he knew well that argument would be thrown away upon the iron king, and he knew that, even if he himself were tempted to try to persuade cora to marry him at present, she would not do so in opposition to her grandfather's will. mr. rockharrt had not as yet said one word to his family concerning his intended trip to europe, although he had been thinking of it, and laying his plans, and making his arrangements, preparatory to the voyage, all the winter. so it was with amazement that cora first heard of the matter from rule rothsay, who came to her to report the result of his last attempt to gain the consent of the old gentleman to his marriage with the granddaughter. a few days later the family despot announced to his subjects that he should start for europe in two weeks, taking his wife and granddaughter with him, and leaving his two sons in charge of the works. active preparations went on for the voyage. mr. rockharrt went every day to the works to lay out plans for the summer to be completed during his absence. mrs. rockharrt and cora had few arrangements to make, for the autocrat had warned them that they were to take only sufficient for the voyage, as they could buy whatever they needed on the other side. a few days before they left rockhold, rule rothsay came uninvited to visit his beloved cora. mr. rockharrt happened to be the first to see him, and received him well. when they were seated, rule said: "you refused to allow me to marry your granddaughter at present, and--" "now begin all that over again, rothsay. i said that in two years you can marry her and take her fortune, if you both choose, whether i like it or not. that is all." "do you, however, sanction our engagement, mr. rockharrt? shall your granddaughter and myself be betrothed, openly betrothed, so that all may know our mutual relations, before the ocean divides us? that is what i would know now. that is what i have come down here to ask." the old man ruminated for a few moments, and then answered: "well, yes; you may be, with the understanding that you will wait to marry for two years longer. these two years will be a probation to both. if you fulfill the promise of your youth, and rise to the position that you can, if you will, attain, and if you remain faithful to her, and if she remains true to you, you may then marry. with all my heart i shall wish you well. but if either of you fail in truth and fidelity, the defaulting one, whether it be you or she, shall never look me in the face again," concluded the iron king. rule's eyes lighted up with the fire of love and faith. he seized the hand of the old man and shook it warmly, saying: "you have made me very happy by your words, mr. rockharrt, and i assure you, by all my hopes on earth or in heaven, that whatever may change in time or eternity, my heart will never vary a hair's breadth from its fidelity to its queen." "i believe you, or rather i believe you think so." a kind impulse, a rare one, moved the old man. perhaps he reflected that these two young people might, have defied him and married without his consent had they pleased to do so; but they had submitted themselves to his will, and as his favorite motto told him that "government is maintained by reward and punishment," he may have reasoned that this was an occasion for reward. so he said to the young man, who had risen, and was standing before him: "rothsay, we shall leave here for new york on tuesday, to sail by the saturday's steamer for liverpool. if your engagements admit of it, and if you would like to spend the intervening time near cora, we should be pleased to have you stay here." rule spent three happy days at rockhold, and in the evening of the third day, the evening before they were to leave for europe, he asked mr. rockharrt if he might have the privilege of attending the travelers to the seaport, and seeing them off by the steamer. the iron king found no objection to this plan. mrs. rockharrt was pleased, and cora was delighted with it. accordingly, on the next morning, they left rockhold for new york, where they arrived on the evening of the next day. and on saturday morning they went on board the steamer persia, bound for liverpool. they bade good-by to regulas rothsay, on the deck, at the last moment. the signal gun was fired, and our party sailed away to a new life, in which the faith of a woman was to be tempted and lost, and the career of a man was to be wrecked. it was in the third year of their absence that they returned from the continent to england. they reached london in february, in time to see the grand pageant of the queen opening parliament. after which they attended the first royal drawing room of the season, on which occasion mrs. rockharrt and miss haught were presented to her majesty by the wife of the american minister. cora haught was a new beauty and a new social sensation. she was, indeed, more beautiful than she had been when she left america. a richly colored southern brunette was unique among british blondes. it was for this, perhaps, she was so much admired. moreover, she was reported to be the only descendant of her grandfather and the sole heiress of his fabulous wealth. there was at this time another _debutant_ in society, a young man, the duke of cumbervale, who had lately reached his majority and come into his estates, or what was left of them--an ancient castle and a few barren acres in northumberland, an old hall and a few acres in sussex, and a town house in london; but his title was an historical one. his person was handsome, his manners attractive, and his mind highly cultivated. cora met him first at the queen's drawing room, and afterward at every ball and party to which she went. it was, perhaps, natural--very natural--that the handsome blonde man should be attracted by the beautiful brunette woman, without thought of the supposed fortune that might have redeemed his mortgaged estates and supported his distinguished title. but why should the betrothed of regulas rothsay have been fascinated by this elegant english aristocrat? surely no two men were ever more diametrically opposite than the american printer and the english duke. regulas rothsay was tall, muscular, and robust, with large feet and hands, inherited from many generations of hard-working forefathers. his movements were clumsy; his manners were awkward, except when he was inspired by some grand thought or tender sympathy, when his whole person and appearance became transfigured. his sole enduring charms were his beautiful eyes and melodious voice. the duke of cumbervale was slight and elegant in form, with small, perfectly shaped hands and feet--derived from a long line of idle and useless ancestors--finely cut grecian profile, pure, clear, white skin, fine, silken, pale yellow hair and mustache, calm blue eyes, graceful movements, and refined manners. regulas rothsay was a man of the people, who did not know any ancestry behind his laboring father, who could not have told the names of his grandparents. the duke of cumbervale was descended from eight generations of noblemen. cora haught saw and felt this contrast between the two men, so opposite in birth, rank, person, manner, character, and cultivation. not all at once could she become an apostate to her faith, pledged to rule. but, in truth, she had always loved him more as a sister loves a dear brother than as a maiden loves her betrothed husband. she had not seen him for three years. and she had seen so much since they had parted! in truth, his image had grown dim in her imagination. she wrote to him briefly from london that her engagements were so numerous as to preclude the possibility of her writing much, but that at the end of the london season they expected to return home. this was before she had-- "foregathered with the de'il," in the shape of the handsome, eloquent, and fascinating duke of cumbervale. afterward a strange madness had seized her; a sudden revulsion of feeling, amounting almost to repugnance, against the rugged man of the people who had hewn out his own fortune, and who looked, she thought, more like a backwoodsman than a gentleman. yes; it was madness--such madness as is sometimes the wreck of families. the duke grew daily more impressive in his attentions, and cora more delighted to receive them. so the season went on. people began to connect the names of the duke of cumbervale and the beautiful american heiress. just about this time old aaron rockharrt walked into the breakfast room of their apartments at langham's with an american newspaper, which had just come by the morning's mail, in his hands. "here is news!" he said. "rothsay has been nominated as governor of ----! but perhaps this is no news to you, cora. you may have received a letter?" he added, turning to his granddaughter. "i had a letter from mr. rothsay yesterday, but he said nothing on the subject," replied the girl somewhat coldly. "well, if he should be elected--and i really believe he will be, for he is the most popular man in the state--i shall throw no obstacles in the way of your immediate marriage with him. you have been engaged long enough--long enough! we shall set out for home on the first of next month, and so be in full time for the election." cora did not reply. she grew pale and cold. the iron king looked at his granddaughter, bending his gray brows over keenly penetrating eyes. "see here, mistress!" he said. "you don't seem to rejoice in this news. what is the matter with you? have any of these english foplings and lordlings, with more peers in their pedigrees than pennies in their pockets, turned your head? if so, it is time for me to take you home." cora did not reply. only the night before, at the ball given by the marchioness of netherby, the duke of cumbervale had proposed to her, and had been referred to her grandfather. he was coming that very morning to ask the hand of the supposed heiress of the iron king. cora was that very day intending to write to rule and tell him the whole truth, and ask him to release her from her engagement; and she knew full well that he would have no alternative but to grant her request. "why do you not answer me, corona? what is the matter with you?" again demanded old aaron rockharrt. but at that moment a waiter entered, and laid a card on the table before the old gentleman. he took it up and read: the duke of cumbervale. "what in the deuce does the young fellow want of me? show him into the parlor, william, and say that i will be with him in a few minutes." the waiter left the room to do his errand, and was soon followed by mr. rockharrt, who found the young duke pacing rather restlessly up and down the room. "good morning, sir," said old aaron, with stiff politeness. the visitor turned and saluted his host. "will you not be seated?" said mr. rockharrt, waving his hand toward sofa and chairs. the visitor bowed and sat down. the host took another chair and waited. there was silence for a short time. the old man seemed expectant, the young man embarrassed. at length, when the latter opened his mouth and spoke, no pearls and diamonds of wisdom and goodness dropped from his lips; he said: "it is a fine day." "yes, yes," admitted the iron king, taking his hands from his knees, and drawing himself up with the sigh of a man badly bored--"for london. we wouldn't call this a fine day in america. but i have heard it said that it is always a fine day in england when it don't pour." "yes," admitted the visitor; and then he driveled into the most inane talk about climates, for you see this was the first time the poor young fellow had ever ventured to "beard the lion in his den," so to speak, by asking: a stern old gentleman for a daughter's hand, and this iron king was a very formidable-looking beast indeed. at length, mr. rockharrt, feeling sure that his visitor had come upon business--though he did not know of what sort--said: "i think, sir, that you are here upon some affairs. if it is about railway shares--" the old man was stopped short by the surprised and insolent stare of the young duke. "i know nothing of railway shares, sir," he answered. "oh, you don't! well, i did not think you did. in what other way can i oblige you?" indignation generally deprives a man of self-possession, but on this occasion it restored that of the embarrassed lover. feeling that he--the descendant of a dozen dukes, whose ancestors had "come over with william the conqueror," had served in palestine under king richard, had compelled king john to sign the magna charta, had gained glory in every generation--was about to do this rude, purse-proud old tradesman the greatest honor in asking of him his granddaughter in marriage, he said, somewhat coldly: "miss haught has made me happy in the hope of her acceptance of my hand, pending your approval, and has referred me to you." the iron king stared at the speaker for a moment, and then said, quite calmly: "please to repeat that all over again, slowly and distinctly." the duke flushed to the edges of his hair, but he repeated his proposal in plain words. "you have asked cora haught to marry you?" demanded the iron king. "yes, sir." "what did she say?" "she did me the honor to give me some hope, and she referred me to you, as i have already explained." "i don't believe it!" blurted the old man. "sir!" said the duke, in a low voice. "i don't believe it! what! my granddaughter--mine--break her faith and wish to marry some one else?" "mr. rockharrt," began the duke, in a smooth tone--though his blood was hot with anger--"i am sorry you should so forget the--" "i forget nothing. i remember that you charge my granddaughter--mine--with unfaithfulness! it is an insult, sir!" "really, mr. rockharrt, i do not understand you." "i don't suppose you do! i never gave your order much credit for intelligence." is this old ruffian mad or drunk? was the secret question of the duke, whose tone and manner, always calm and polite, grew even calmer and more polite as the iron king grew more sarcastic and insulting. "i would suggest that you speak to miss haught on this subject, that she may confirm my statement," he said. "i shall do nothing of the kind! i shall not entertain for an instant the thought of the possibility of my granddaughter breaking her plighted faith." "i never knew that she was engaged. may i ask the name of the happy man?" "regulas rothsay; he is not a duke; he is a printer; also a senator, and nominated for governor of his native state; sure to be elected, and then he is to marry my granddaughter, who has been engaged to him many years." "but miss haught certainly authorized me to ask her hand of you." when did this extraordinary acceptance take place?" "yesterday evening, at lady netherby's ball." "after supper?" "after supper." "that accounts for it! you took too much wine, and misunderstood my granddaughter's reply she must have referred you to me for an explanation of her engagement, and consequent inability to entertain any other man's proposal. that was it!" "may i refer you to miss haught for confirmation of my words?" "i say, as i said before, no." "may i see the young lady herself?" "no; but i will tell you something that may console you under your disappointment. i have seen in several of your papers, in the society columns, my granddaughter referred to as my sole heiress. i do not know who is responsible for these reports, but you may have believed them, though there is not a word of truth in them. my granddaughter is not my sole heiress; not my heiress in the slightest degree. i have two stalwart sons, partners in my business, both now in charge of the works at north end, cumberland mountains, and managing them extremely well, else i could not be taking a long holiday here. these sons are heirs to all my property. nor is my granddaughter the heiress of her late father. she has a brother, now a cadet at our military academy at west point. he inherits the bulk of his father's estate. my granddaughter's fortune is, therefore, very moderate--quite beneath the consideration of an english nobleman," concluded the old man, very grimly. the young duke heard him out, and then answered; "i trust, sir, that you will credit me with better motives in seeking the hand of the young lady. it was her charm of person and of mind that attracted me to her." "of course, of course; but, my dear duke, there is a plenty of sole heiresses among the wealthy trades-people of london who would be proud to buy a title with a fortune. let me advise you to strike a bargain with one of them. now, as i have pressing business on hand, you will excuse me." the young duke arose, with a bow, and left the room, muttering to himself: "what an unmitigated beast that old man is! i do like the girl; she is a beautiful creature, but--i am well out of it after all." old aaron rockharrt made no false pretense of business to get rid of his unwelcome visitor; he never made false pretense of any sort for any purpose. he had pressing business on hand, though it was business which had suddenly arisen during his interview with the duke, and had in fact come out of it. no sooner had the young man left the house than the iron king went to the agency of the cunard line, and secured staterooms for himself and party in the asia, that was to sail on the following saturday from liverpool for new york. when he re-entered his parlor at the langham, he found his wife and cora seated there, the girl reading the _court journal_ to her grandmother. "put that tomfoolery down, cora, and listen to me, both of you! this is wednesday. we leave london for liverpool on friday morning, and sail from liverpool for new york on saturday. so you sent that man to me, mistress?" "yes, sir," without looking up. "for my consent to a marriage with him!" "yes, sir!" "then the fellow did not mistake your meaning! cora haught! i could not have believed that any girl who had any of my blood in her veins could be guilty of such black treachery as to break faith with her betrothed husband, and wish to marry another, just for the snobbish ambition to be a duchess and be called 'her grace'!" said the iron king, with all the sardonic scorn and hatred of any form of falsehood that was the one redeeming trait in his hard and cruel nature. "grandpa, it was not so! indeed, it was not! oh, consider! i had known rule rothsay from my childhood, and loved him with the affection a sister gives a brother; i knew of no other love, and so i mistook it for the love surpassing all others that a betrothed maiden should give her betrothed. but when i met cumbervale and he wooed me, i loved truly for the first time! loved, as he loves me!" she concluded, with trembling lips and downcast eyes and flushed cheeks. "stuff and nonsense! don't talk to me about love or any such sentimental trash! i am talking of good faith between man and woman--words of which you don't seem to know the meaning!" "oh, grandpa! yes, i do! but would it be good faith in me to marry rule rothsay, when i love cumbervale?" "it would be good faith to keep your word, irrespective of your feelings, and bad faith to break it in consideration of your feelings! but you are too false to know this!" "oh, sir! pray do not set your face against my marriage with cumbervale, or insist on my marrying rule! it would not be for rule's good," pleaded cora. "no; heaven knows it would not be for his good! it had been better for rothsay that he had been blown up in the explosion that killed his father, than that he had ever set eyes on your false face! but you have given him your word, and you must keep it, or never look me in the face again! you shall be married as soon as we reach rockhold." cora raised her tearful face from her hands, and looked astonished and wretched. "oh, you may gaze, but it is true. the fortune hunter has discovered that he is on a false scent. there is no fortune on the trail. i told him everything about you. i told him that you were not my heiress at all, because i had two sons who would inherit all my property; that you were not even your father's heiress, because you had a brother who would inherit the larger portion of his; that, in point of fact, you were only moderately provided for. he was startled, i assure you. i also told him that for years you had been engaged to a young printer in your native country, who would probably be the next governor of his native state. he bowed himself out. i engaged our passage to new york by the saturday's steamer. you will never see the little dandy again. he was after a fortune, and finding that you have none, he has forsaken you--and served you right, for a base, treacherous, and contemptible woman, unworthy even of his regard; for you are much lower in every way than he is, for while he was seeking a fortune and you were seeking a title, you were concealing from him the fact of your engagement to rule rothsay. you were doubly false to rule and to cumbervale. oh, cora haught! cora haught! are you not ashamed of yourself! ashamed to look any honest man or woman in the face! ah! you do well to hide yours!" he concluded, for cora had lost all self-control, dropped her head upon her hands, and burst into hysterical sobs and tears. did you ever see a small bantam hen ruffle up all her feathers in angry defense of her chick? so did poor little, timid mrs. rockharrt in protection of her pet. she ventured to expostulate with her tyrant for, perhaps, the first time in their married life. "oh, aaron, do not scold the child so severely. she is but human. she has only been dazzled and fascinated by the young duke's rank, and beauty, and elegance. she could not help it, being thrown in his company so much. and you know they say that half the girls in london society are in love with the handsome duke. we will take her home, and she will come all right, and be our own, dear, faithful cora again, and--" old aaron rockharrt, who had gazed at his wife in speechless astonishment at her audacity in reasoning with him, now burst forth with: "hold your jaw, madam," and strode out of the room. a minute later a waiter came in and laid a note on the table before cora and immediately withdrew. cora took the missive, recognized the handwriting and seal, tore it open and eagerly ran her eyes along the lines. this was the note: cumbervale lodge, london, may, , -- miss haught: for my indiscretion of last evening i owe you an humble apology, which i beg you to accept with this explanation, that, had i known, or even suspected, that your hand was already promised in another quarter, i should never have presumed to propose for it. i beg now to withdraw such a false step. accept my best wishes for your happiness in a union with the more fortunate man of your choice, and believe me to be now and ever, your obedient servant, cumbervale. scarcely had cora's eyes fallen from the paper when lady pendragon's carriage drove up to the door. glad of the interruption that enabled her to escape from the parlor, and give way to the passion and grief and despair that were swelling her heart to breaking, cora hastened to her bed chamber and threw herself down upon the couch in a paroxysm of sobs and tears. mrs. rockharrt waited in the parlor to receive the visitor, but no visitor came up. only two cards were left for the two ladies, and then the countess of pendragon rolled away in her carriage. on friday morning the rockharrts left london. and on saturday morning they sailed from liverpool. after a prosperous voyage of ten days they landed at new york. "my soul! there is rothsay on the pier, waving his hand to us!" exclaimed the iron king, as he led his little wife down the gang plank, while cora came on behind them. yes; there was rule, his tall figure towering above the crowd on the pier, his rugged face beaming with delight, his hand waving welcome to the returning voyagers. he received his friends as they stepped upon the pier. he shook hands warmly with mrs. rockharrt, heartily with the iron king, and then, behind them, with cora, and before cora knew what was coming she was folded in the arms and to the faithful breast of her life-long lover--only for a moment; and then he drew her arm within his own and led her on after the elder couple, whispering: "dear, this is the happiest day i have ever seen as yet, but a happier one is coming--soon, i hope. dear, how soon shall it be?" "you must ask my grandparents, rule. their judgment and their convenience must be consulted," she answered in a low, steady tone. she had no thought now of breaking her engagement with rule, though her heart seemed breaking. she still loved that rugged man with the sisterly affection she had always felt for him, and which, in her ignorance of life and self, she had mistaken for a warmer sentiment, and resolved, in wedding him, to do her whole duty by him for so long as she should live, and she hoped and believed that that would not be very long. rothsay led the way to a carriage. when all were seated in this, the old man leant toward the young one, and said: "well, i haven't had a chance to ask you yet. the election is over. how did it go? who is their man?" "they chose me," answered rothsay, simply. cora haught's bosom was wrung by hopeless passion and piercing remorse. yet she tried to do her whole duty. "if it craze or kill me i will wed rule, and he shall never know what it costs me to keep my word," she said to herself, as she lay sleepless and restless in her bed on the night before her wedding morn. "yes; i will do my duty and keep my secret even unto death." "'even unto death!' but unto whose death?" whispered a voice close to her ear--a voice clear, distinct, penetrating. cora started and opened her eyes. no one was near her. she sat up in bed, and looked around the apartment. the night taper, standing on the hearth, burned low. the dimly lighted room was vacant of any human being except herself. "i have been dreaming," she said, and she laid down and tried to compose herself to sleep again. in vain! memories of the near past, dread of the nearer future, contended in her soul, filling her with discord. when cora arose on her wedding morning, she said to herself: "yes, this day i am going to marry rule, dear, loving, faithful, hard-working, self-denying rule! a monarch among men, if greatness of soul could make a monarch. in that sense no woman, peeress or princess, ever made a prouder match. may heaven make me worthier of him! may heaven help me to be a true, good wife to him!" she said these words to herself, but oh! oh! how she shuddered as she breathed them, and how she reproached herself for such shuddering! the girl's whole nature was at war with itself. yet through all the terrible interior strife she kept her firm determination to be faithful to rule; to go through the ordeal before her, even though it should cost her life or reason. the external circumstances of this wedding were given in the first chapter, and need not be repeated here. my readers may remember the marble-like stillness of the bride as she sat in her bridal robes, looking out from the front window of her chamber on the bright and festive scene below, where all the work people from the mines and foundries were assembled; they will remember how she shivered when she was summoned with her bridesmaids to meet her bridegroom and his attendants in the hall below; how when she met him at the foot of the stairs she shrank from his greeting--emotion in which he in his simple, loyal soul saw no repugnance, but only maiden reserve to be reverenced, as he drew her arm within his own to lead her before the bishop; how she faltered during the whole of the marriage ceremony; how like a woman in a trance she passed through the scenes of the wedding breakfast and those that immediately followed it; how in her own room, where she went to change her wedding dress for a traveling suit, and whither her gentle old grandmother had followed her for a private parting, she had answered the old lady's anxious question as to whether she was "happy," first by silence and then by muttering that her heart was too full for speech; how when the bridegroom and the bride had taken leave of all their friends at rockhold, and were seated _tete-a-tete_ in their traveling carriage, bowling along the river road, at the base of the east ridge toward the north end railway station, when he passed his arm around her and drew her to his heart and murmured of his love and his joy in her ear, and pleaded for some response from her, she had only said that her heart was too full for speech, and he in his confiding spirit had perceived no evasion in her reply, but thought, if her heart was full, it was with responsive love for him. my readers will recollect the railway journey to the state capital; the procession through the decorated streets between the crowded sidewalks from the railway station to the town house of mr. rockharrt, which had been placed at the disposal of the governor-elect for the interval between his arrival in the state capital and his inauguration. the committee of reception escorted them to the gates of the rockharrt mansion and left them at the door. there we also left them, in the second chapter of this story--and there we return to them in this place. chapter v. the great renunciation. when the governor-elect and his bride entered the rockharrt town house, they were received by a group of obsequious servants, headed by jason, the butler, and jane, the housekeeper, and among whom stood martha, lady's maid to the new mrs. rothsay. "will you come into the drawing room and rest, dear, before going upstairs?" inquired mr. rothsay of his bride, as they stood together in the front hall. "no, thank you. i will go to my room. come, martha!" said the bride, and she went up stairs, followed by her maid. rule stood where she had so hastily left him, in the hall, looking so much at a loss that presently jason volunteered to say: "shall i show you to your apartment, sir?" "yes," answered mr. rothsay. and he followed the servant up stairs to a large and handsomely furnished bed chamber, having a dressing room attached. jason lighted the wax candles on the dressing table and on the mantel piece, and then inquired: "is there anything else i can do for you, sir?" "no," replied mr. rothsay. and the servant retired. rothsay was alone in the room. he had never set up a valet; he had always waited on himself. now, however, he was again at a loss. he was covered with railway dust and smoke, yet he saw no conveniences for ablution. while he stood there, a shout arose in the street outside. a single voice raised the cheer: "hoo--rah--ah--ah for rothsay!" he went to the front window of the room. the sashes were hoisted, for the night was warm; but the shutters were closed. he turned the slats a little and looked down on the square below. it was filled with pedestrians, and every window of every house in sight was illuminated. when the shouts had died away, he heard voices in the room. he was himself accidentally concealed by the window curtains. he looked around and saw his bride emerge from the dressing room, attired in an elegant dinner costume of rich maize-colored satin and black lace, with crocuses in her superb black hair. she passed through the room without having seen him, and went down stairs followed by her maid. he saw the door of the dressing room standing open and went into it. it was no mere closet, but a large, well lighted and convenient apartment, furnished with every possible appurtenance for the toilet. here he found his trunk, his valise, his dressing case, all unpacked--his brushes and combs laid out in order, his dinner suit hung over a rack--every requirement of his toilet in complete readiness as if prepared by an experienced valet. all this he had been accustomed to do, and expected to do, for himself. who had served him? had corona and her maid? impossible! he quickly made a refreshing evening toilet and went down stairs, for he was eager to rejoin his bride. he found her in the drawing room; but scarcely had he seated himself at her side when the door was opened and dinner announced by jason. they both arose; he gave her his arm, and they followed the solemn butler to the dining room, which was on the opposite side of the front hall and in the rear of the library. an elegant tete-a-tete dinner but for the presence of the old butler and one young footman who waited on them. they did not linger long at table, but soon left it and returned together to the drawing room. they had scarcely seated themselves when the door bell rang, and in a few moments afterward a card was brought in and handed to mr. rothsay, who took it and read: a.b. crawford. "show the judge into the library and say that i will be with him in a few moments," he said to the servant. "he is one of the judges of the supreme court of the state, dear, and i must go to him. i hope he will not keep me long," said mr. rothsay, as he raised the hand of his bride to his lips and then left the room. with a sigh of intense relief cora leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. people have been known to die suddenly in their chairs. why could not she die as she sat there, with her whole head heavy and her whole heart faint, she thought. she listened--fearfully--for the return of her husband, but he did not come as soon as he had hoped to do; for while she listened the door bell rang again, and another visitor made his appearance, and after a short delay was shown into the library. then came another, and still another, and afterward others, until the library must have been half full of callers on the governor-elect. and presently a large band of musicians halted before the house and began a serenade. they played and sang "hail to the chief," "yankee doodle," "hail columbia," and other popular or national airs. mr. rothsay and his friends went out to see them and thank them, and then their shouts rent the air as they retired from the scene. the gentlemen re-entered the house and retired to the library, where they resumed their discussion of official business, until another multitude had gathered before the house and shouts of-- "hoo-rah-ah ah for rothsay!" rose to the empyrean. neither the governor-elect nor his companions responded in any way to this compliment until loud, disorderly cries for-- "rothsay!" "rothsay!" "rothsay!" constrained them to appear. the governor-elect was again greeted with thundering cheers. when silence was restored he made a short, pithy address, which was received with rounds of applause at the close of every paragraph. when the speech was finished, he bowed and withdrew, and the crowd, with a final cheer, dispersed. mr. rothsay retired once more to the library, accompanied by his friends, to renew their discussion. cora, in her restlessness of spirit, arose from her seat and walked several times up and down the floor. presently, weary of walking, and attracted by the coolness and darkness of the back drawing room, in which the chandeliers had not been lighted, she passed between the draped blue satin portieres that divided it from the front room and entered the apartment. the french windows stood open upon a richly stored flower garden, from which the refreshing fragrance of dewy roses, lilies, violets, cape jasmines, and other aromatic plants was wafted by the westerly breeze. cora seated herself upon the sofa between the two low french windows, and waited. presently she heard the visitors taking leave. "the committee will wait on you between ten and eleven to-morrow morning," she heard one gentleman say, as they passed out. then several "good nights" were uttered, and the guests all departed, and the door was closed. cora heard her husband's quick, eager step as he hurried into the front drawing room, seeking his wife. she felt her heart sinking, the high nervous tension of her whole frame relaxing. she heard the hall clock strike ten. when the last stroke died away, she heard her husband's voice calling, softly: "cora, love, wife, where are you?" she could bear no more. the overtasked heart gave way. when, the next instant, the eager bridegroom pushed aside the satin portieres and entered the apartment, with a flood of light from the room in front, he found his bride had thrown herself down on the persian rug before the sofa in the wildest anguish and despair and in a paroxysm of passionate sobs and tears. what a sight to meet a newly-made, adoring husband's eyes on his marriage evening and on the eve of the day of his highest triumph, in love as in ambition! for one petrified moment he gazed on her, too much amazed to utter a word. then suddenly he stooped, raised her as lightly as if she had been a baby, and laid her on the sofa. "cora--love--wife! oh! what is this?" he cried, bending over her. she did not answer; she could not, for choking sobs and drowning tears. he knelt beside her, and took her hand, and bent his face to hers, and murmured: "oh, my love! my wife! what troubles you?" she wrenched her hand from his, turned her face from him, buried her head in the cushions of the sofa, and gave way to a fresh storm of anguish. when she repulsed him in this spasmodic manner, he recoiled as a man might do who had received a sudden blow; but he did not rise from his position, but watched beside her sofa, in great distress of mind, patiently waiting for her to speak and explain. gradually her tempest of emotion seemed to be raging itself into the rest of exhaustion. her sobs and tears grew fainter and fewer; and presently after that she drew out her handkerchief, and raised herself to a sitting position, and began to wipe her wet and tear-stained face and eyes. though her tears and sobs had ceased, still her bosom heaved convulsively. he arose and seated himself beside her, put his arm around her, and drew her beautiful black, curled head upon his faithful breast, and bending his face to hers, entreated her to tell him the cause of her grief. "what is it, dear one? have you had bad news? a telegram from rockhold? either of the old people had a stroke? tell me, dear?" "nothing--has--happened," she answered, giving each word with a gasp. "then what troubles you, dear? tell me, wife! tell me! i am your husband!" he whispered, smoothing her black hair, and gazing with infinite tenderness on her troubled face. "oh, rule! rule! rule!" she moaned, closing her eyes, that could not bear his gaze. "tell me, dear," he murmured, gently, continuing to stroke her hair. "i am--nervous--rule," she breathed. "i shall get over it--presently. give me--a little time," she gasped. "nervous?" he gazed down on her woe-writhen face, with its closed eyes that would not meet his own. yes, doubtless she was nervous--very nervous--but she was more than that. mere nervousness never blanched a woman's face, wrung her features or convulsed her form like this. "cora, look at me, dear. there is something i have to say to you." she forced herself to lift her eyelids and meet the honest, truthful eyes that looked down into hers. "cora," he said, with a certain grave yet sweet tone of authority, "there is some great burden on your mind, dear--a burden too heavy for you to bear alone." "oh, it is! it is! it is!" she wailed, as if the words had broken from her without her knowledge. "then let me share it," he pleaded. "oh, rule! rule! rule!" she wailed, dropping her head upon his breast. "is your trouble so bitter, dear? what is it, cora? it can be nothing that i may not share and relieve. tell me, dear." "oh, rule, bear with me! i did not wish to distress you with my folly, my madness. do not mind it, rule. it will pass away. indeed, it will. i will do my duty by you. i will be a true wife to you, after all. only do not disturb your own righteous spirit about me, do not notice my moods; and give me time. i shall come all right. i shall be to you--all that you wish me to be. but, for the lord's love, rule, give me time!" she pleaded, with voice and eyes so full of woe that the man's heart sank in his bosom. he grew pale and withdrew his arm from her neck. she lifted her head from his breast then and leaned back in the corner of the sofa. she trembled with fear now, lest she had betrayed her secret, which she had resolved to keep for his own sake. she looked and waited for his words. he was very still, pale and grave. presently he spoke very gently to the grieving woman. "dear, you have said too much and too little. tell me all now, cora. it is best that you should, dear." "rule! oh, rule! must i? must i?" she pleaded, wringing her hands. "yes, cora; it is best, dear." "oh, i would have borne anything to have spared you this. but--i betrayed myself. oh, rule, please try to forget what you have seen and heard. bear with me for a little while. give me some little time to get over this, and you shall see how truly i will do my duty--how earnestly i will try to make you happy," she prayed. "i know, dear--i know you will be a good, dear wife, and a dearly loved and fondly cherished wife. but begin, dear, by giving me your confidence. there can be no real union without confidence between husband and wife, my cora. surely, you may trust me, dear," he said, with serious tenderness. "yes; i can trust you. i will trust you with all, through all, rule. you are wise and good. you will forgive me and help me to do right." she spoke so wildly and so excitedly that he laid his hand tenderly, soothingly, on her head, and begged her to be calm and to confide in him without hesitation. then she told him all. what a story for a newly-married husband to hear from his wife on the evening of their wedding day! he listened in silence, and without moving a muscle of his face or form. when he had heard all he arose from the sofa, stood up, then reeled to an arm chair near at hand and dropped heavily into it, his huge, stalwart frame as weak from sudden faintness as that of an infant. "oh, rule! rule! your anger is just! it is just!" cried cora, wringing her hands in despair. he looked at her in great trouble, but his beautiful eyes expressed only the most painful compassion. he could not answer her. he could not trust himself to speak yet. his breast was heaving, working tumultuously. his tawny-bearded chin was quivering. he shut his lips firmly together, and tried to still the convulsion of his frame. "oh, rule, be angry with me, blame me, reproach me, for i am to blame--bitterly, bitterly to blame. but do not hate me, for i love you, rule, with a sister's love. and forgive me, rule--not just now, for that would be impossible, perhaps. but, oh! do forgive me after a while, rule, for i do repent--oh, i do repent that treason of the heart--that treason against one so worthy of the truest love and honor which woman gives to man. you will forgive me--after a while--after a--probation?" she paused and looked wistfully at his grave, pained, patient face. he could not yet answer her. "oh, if you will give me time, rule, i will--i will banish every thought, every memory of my--my--my season in london, and will devote myself to you with all my heart and soul. no man ever had, or ever could have, a more devoted wife than i will be to you, if you will only trust me and be happy, rule. oh!" she suddenly burst forth, seeing that he did not reply to her, "you are bitterly angry with me. you hate me. you cannot forgive me. you blame me without mercy. and you are right. you are right." now he forced himself to speak, though in a low and broken voice. "angry? with you, cora? no, dear, no." "you blame me, though. you must blame me," she sobbed. "blame you? no, dear. you have not been to blame," he faltered, faintly, for he was an almost mortally wounded man. "ah! what do you mean? why do you speak to me so kindly, so gently? i could bear your anger, your reproaches, rule, better than this tenderness, that breaks my heart with shame and remorse!" cried cora, bursting into a passion of sobs and tears. he did not come near her to take her in his arms and comfort her as before. a gulf had opened between them which he felt that he could not pass, but he spoke to her very gently and compassionately. "do not grieve so bitterly, dear," he said. "do not accuse yourself so unjustly. you have done no wrong to me, or to any human being. you have done nothing but good to me, and to every human being in your reach. to me you have been more than tongue can tell--my first friend, my muse, my angel, my inspiration to all that is best, greatest, highest in human life--the goal of all my earthly, all my heavenly aspirations. that i should love you with a pure, single, ardent passion of enthusiasm was natural, was inevitable. but that you, dear, should mistake your feelings toward me, mistake sisterly affection, womanly sympathy, intellectual appreciation, for that living fire of eternal love which only should unite man and woman, was natural, too, though most unfortunate. i am not fair to look upon, cora. i have no form, no comeliness, that any one should--" he was suddenly interrupted by the girl, who sprang from her seat and sank at his feet, clasped his knees, and dropped her head upon his hands in a tempest of sobs and tears, crying: "oh, rule! i never did deserve your love! i never was worthy of you! and i long have known it. but i do love you! i do love you! oh, give me time and opportunity to prove it!" she pleaded, with many tears, saying the same words over and over again, or words with the same meaning. he laid both his large hands softly on her bowed head and held them there with a soothing, quieting, mesmeric touch, until she had sobbed, and cried, and talked herself into silence, and then he said: "no, cora! no, dear! you are good and true to the depths of your soul; but you deceive yourself. you do not love me. it is not your fault. you cannot do so! you pity, you esteem, you appreciate; and you mistake these sentiments as you mistook sisterly affection for such love as only should sanctify the union of man and woman." "but i will, rule. i will love you even so! give me time! a little time! i am your own," she pleaded. "no, dear, no. i am sure that you would do your best, at any cost to yourself. you would consecrate your life to one whom yet you do not love, because you cannot love. but the sacrifice is too great, dear--a sacrifice which no woman should ever make for any cause, which no man should ever accept under any circumstances. you must not immolate yourself on my unworthy shrine, cora." "oh, rule! what do you mean? you frighten me! what do you intend to do?" exclaimed cora, with a new fear in her heart. "i will tell you later, dear, when we are both quieter. and, cora, promise me one thing--for your own sake, dear." "i will promise you anything you wish, rule. and be glad to do so. glad to do anything that will please you," she earnestly assured him. "then promise that whatever may happen, you will never tell any human being what you have told me to-night." "i promise this on my honor, rule." "promise that you will never repeat one word of this interview between us to any living being." "i promise this, also, on my honor, rule." "that is all i ask, and it is exacted for your own sake, dear. the fair name of a woman is so white and pure that the smallest speck can be seen upon it. and now, dear, it is nearly eleven o'clock. will you ring for your maid and go to your room? i have letters to write--in the library--which, i think, will occupy me the whole night," he said, as he took her hand and gently raised her to her feet. at that moment a servant entered, bringing a card. mr. rothsay took it toward the portiere and read it by the light of the chandelier in the front room. "show the gentleman to the library, and say that i will be with him in a few minutes," said rothsay. "if you please, sir, the lights are out and the library locked. i did not know that it would be wanted again to-night. but i will light up, sir." "wax candles? it would take too long. show the gentleman into this front room," said the governor-elect. the servant went to do his bidding. then rothsay turned to cora, saying: "i must see this man, dear, late as it is! i will bid you good night now. god bless you, dear." and without even a farewell kiss, rothsay passed out. and cora did not know that he had gone for good. she rang for her maid and retired to her room, there to pass a sleepless, anxious, remorseful night. what would be the result of her confession to her husband? she dared not to conjecture. he had been gentle, tender, most considerate, and most charitable to her weakness, never speaking of his own wrongs, never reproaching her for inconstancy. he had said, in effect, that he would come to an understanding with her later, when they both should be stronger. when would that be? to-morrow? scarcely, for the ceremonies of the coming day must occupy every moment of his time. and what, eventually, would he do? his words, divinely compassionate as they had been, had shadowed forth a separation between them. had he not told her that to be the wife of a husband she could not love would be a sacrifice that no woman should ever make and no man should ever accept? that she should not so offer up her life for him? what could this mean but a contemplated separation? so cora lay sleepless and tortured by these harrassing questions. when rule rothsay entered the front drawing room he found there a young merchant marine captain whom he had known for many years, though not intimately. "ah, how do you do, ross?" he said. "how do you do, governor? i must ask pardon for calling so late, but--" "not at all. how can i be of use to you?" "why, in no way whatever. don't suppose that every one who calls to see you has an office to seek or an ax to grind. though, i suppose, most of them have," said the visitor, as he seated himself. rothsay dropped into a chair, and forced himself to talk to the young sailor. "just in from a voyage, ross?" "no; just going out, governor." rothsay smiled at this premature bestowal of the high official title, but did not set the matter right. it was of too little importance. "i was going to explain, governor, that i was just passing through the city on my way to norfolk, from which my ship is to sail to-morrow. so i had to take the midnight train. but i could not go without trying for a chance to see and shake hands with you and congratulate you." "you are very kind, ross. i thank you," said rothsay, somewhat wearily. "you're not looking well, governor. i suppose all this 'fuss and feathers' is about as harassing as a stormy sea voyage. well, i will not keep you up long. i should have been here earlier, only i went first to the hotel to inquire for you, and there i learned that you were here in old rockharrt's house, and had married his granddaughter. congratulate you again, governor. not many men have had such a double triumph as you. she is a splendidly beautiful woman. i saw her once in washington city, at the president's reception. she was the greatest belle in the place. that reminds me that i must not keep you away from her ladyship. this is only hail and farewell. good night. i declare, rothsay, you look quite worn out. don't see any other visitor to-night, in case there should be another fool besides myself come to worry you at this hour. now good-by," said the visitor, rising and offering his hand. "good-by, ross. i wish you a pleasant and prosperous voyage," said rothsay, rising to shake hands with his visitor. he followed the young sailor to the hall, and seeing nothing of the porter, he let the visitor out and locked the door after him. then he returned to the drawing room. holding his head between his hands he walked slowly up and down the floor--up and down the floor--up and down--many times. "this is weakness," he muttered, "to be thinking of myself when i should think only of her and the long life before her, which might be so joyous but for me--but for me! dear one who, in her tender childhood, pitied the orphan boy, and with patient, painstaking earnestness taught him to read and write, and gave him the first impulse and inspiration to a higher life. and now she would give her life to me. and for all the good she has done me all her days, for all the blessings she has brought me, shall i blight her happiness? shall i make her this black return? no, no. better that i should pass forever out of her life--pass forever out of sight--forever out of this world--than live to make her suffer. make her suffer? i? oh, no! let fame, life, honors, all go down, so that she is saved--so that she is made happy." he paused in his walk and listened. all the house was profoundly still--all the household evidently asleep--except her! he felt sure that she was sleepless. oh, that he could go and comfort her! even as a mother comforts her child; but he could not. "i suppose many would say," he murmured to himself, "that i owe my first earthly duty to the people who have called me to this high office; that private sorrows and private conscience should yield to the public, and they would be right. yet with me it is as if death had stepped in and relieved me of official duty to be taken up by my successor just the same--" he stopped and put his hand to his head, murmuring: "is this special pleading? i wonder if i am quite sane?" then dropping into a chair he covered his face with his hands and wept aloud. does any one charge him with weakness? think of the tragedy of a whole life compressed in that one crucial hour! after a little while he grew more composed. the tears had relieved the overladen heart. he arose and recommenced his walk, reflecting with more calmness on the cruel situation. "i shall right her wrongs in the only possible way in which it can be done, and i shall do no harm to the state. kennedy will be a better governor than i could have been. he is an older, wiser, more experienced statesman. i am conscious that i have been over-rated by the people who love me. i was elected for my popularity, not for my merit. and now--i am not even the man that i was--my life seems torn out of my bosom. oh, cora, cora! life of my life! but you shall be happy, dear one! free and happy after a little while. ah! i know your gentle heart. you will weep for the fate of him whom you loved--as a brother. oh! heaven! but your tears will come from a passing cloud that will leave your future life all clear and bright--not darkened forever by the slavery of a union with one whom you do not--only because you cannot--love." he walked slowly up and down the floor a few more turns, then glanced at the clock on the mantel piece, and said: "time passes. i must write my letters." there was an elegant little writing desk standing in the corner of the room and filled with stationery, mostly for the convenience of the ladies of the family when the rockharrts occupied their town house. he went to this, sat down and opened it, laid paper out, and then with his elbow on the desk and his head leaning on the palm of his hand, he fell into deep thought. at length he began to write rapidly. he soon finished and sealed this letter. then he wrote a second and a longer one, sealed that also. one--the first written--he put in the secret drawer of the desk; the other he dropped into his pocket. then he took "a long, last, lingering look" around the room. this was the room in which he had first met cora after long years of separation; where he had passed so many happy evenings with her, when his official duties as an assemblyman permitted him to do so; this was the room in which they had plighted their troth to each other, and to which, only six hours before, they had returned--to all appearance--a most happy bride and groom. ah, heaven! his wandering gaze fell on the open writing desk, which in his misery he had forgotten to close. he went to it and shut down the lid. then he passed out of the room, took his hat from the rack in the hall, opened the front door, passed out, closed it behind him, and left the house forever. outside was pandemonium. the illuminations in the windows had died down, but the streets were full of revelers, too much exhilarated as yet to retire, even if they had any place to retire to; for on that summer night many visitors to the inauguration chose to stay out in the open air until morning rather than to leave the city and lose the show. once again the hum and buzz of many voices was broken by a shrill cry of: "hooray for rothsay!" which was taken up by the chorus and echoed and re-echoed from one end to the other of the city, and from earth to sky. poor rothsay himself passed out upon the sidewalk, unrecognized in the obscurity. an empty hack was standing at the corner of the square, a few hundred feet from the house. to this he went, and spoke to the man on the box: "is this hack engaged?" "yes, sah, it is--took by four gents as can't get no lodgings at none of the hotels, nor yet boarding houses--no, sah. dere dey is ober yonder in dat dere s'loon cross de street--yes, sah. but it don't keep open, dat s'loon don't, longer'n twelve o'clock--no, sah. it's mos' dat now, so dey'll soon call for dis hack--yes, sah!" rothsay left the talkative hackman and passed on. a hand touched him on the arm. he turned and saw old scythia, clothed in a long, black cloak of some thin stuff, with its hood drawn over her head. rothsay stared. "come, rule! you have tested woman's love to-day, and found it fail you; even as i tested man's faith in the long ago, and found it wrong me! come, rule! you and i have had enough of falsehood and treachery! let us shake the dust of civilization off our shoes! come, rule!" chapter vi. the widowed bride. the amazement and confusion that followed the discovery of the mysterious disappearance of governor-elect regulas rothsay, on the morning of the day of his intended inauguration, has been already described in an earlier chapter of this story. the most searching inquiries were made in all directions without any satisfactory result. then advertisements were put in all the principal newspapers in all the chief towns and cities throughout the country, offering large rewards for any information that should lead to the discovery of the missing man or of his fate. these in time drew forth letters from all points of the compass from people anxious to take a chance in this lottery of a reward, and who fabricated reports of the lost governor having been seen in this, that, or the other place, or of his body having been found here, there or elsewhere. prompt investigation proved the falsehood of these fraudulent letters in every instance. no one really knew the fate of the missing man. no one but cora rothsay had even the clew to the cause of his disappearance; and she--from her sensitive pride, no less than from her sacred promise not to reveal the subject of her communicaton to her husband on that fatal evening of his flight or of his death--kept her lips sealed on that subject. days, weeks and months passed away without bringing any authentic news of the lost ruler. at length hope was given up. the advertisements were withdrawn from the papers. still occasionally, at long intervals of time, vague rumors reached his friends--a sailor had seen him in the streets of rio de janeiro; a fur trader had found him in washington territory; a miner had met him in california--but nothing came of all these reports. one morning, late in december, there came some news, not of the actual fate of the governor, but of the long-lost man who had seen the last of him alive. despite the bitter pleading of the poor, bereaved bride, who dreaded the crowded city and desired to remain in seclusion in the country, old aaron had removed his whole family to their town house for the winter. they had been settled there only a few days, and were gathered around the breakfast table, when a card was brought in to mr. rockharrt. "'captain ross!' who, in the fiend's name, is captain ross? and what does he want at this early hour of the morning?" demanded the iron king, after he had read the name on the card. then, as he scrutinized it, he saw faintly penciled lines below the name and read: "the late visitor who called on governor-elect rothsay on the evening of his disappearance." "show the man in the library, jason," exclaimed old aaron rockharrt, rising, leaving his untasted breakfast, and striding out of the room. in the library he found a young skipper, tall, robust, black bearded and sun burned. "captain ross?" said the old man, interrogatively. "the same, at your service, sir--mr. rockharrt, i presume?" said the visitor with a bow. "that's my name. sit down," said the iron king, pointing to one chair for his visitor and taking another for himself. "so you were the last visitor to mr. rothsay, eh?" "yes, sir." "well, can you give any information regarding the disappearance of my grandson-in-law?" "no, sir; but learning that i had been advertised for, i have come forward." "at rather a late date, upon my soul and honor! where have you been all this time?" "at sea. when i called upon mr. rothsay, it was to congratulate him on his position and to bid him good-by. i was on the eve of sailing for india, and, in fact, left the city by the night's express and sailed the next morning. i think we must have been out of sight of land before the news of the governor's disappearance was spread abroad." "what explanation can you give of his sudden disappearance?" "none whatever, sir." "then, in the demon's name, why have you come forward at all at this time?" "because i was advertised for." "that was months ago." "but months ago i was at sea and knew nothing of the matter. i have but just returned from a long voyage, and hearing among other matters that governor rothsay had been missing since the day of his inauguration, that governor kennedy reigned in his stead, and that the latest visitor of the missing man had long been wanting, i have come." "do you appreciate the gravity of your own position, sir, under the circumstances?" sternly demanded the iron king. "i--don't--understand you," said the skipper, in evident perplexity. "you don't? that is strange. you are the last man--the last person--who saw governor-elect rothsay alive, at eleven o'clock on the night of his disappearance. after that hour he was missing, and you had run away." the young sailor smiled. "steamed away, and sailed away, you should say, sir. i see the suspicion to which your words point, and will answer them at once: on that night in question i was a guest of the crockett house. i was absent from that house only half an hour--from a quarter to eleven to a quarter after eleven--during which time i walked to this house, saw the governor-elect, and walked back to the hotel, only to pay my bill, take a hack and drive to the railway station. do you think that in half an hour i could have done all that and murdered the governor, and made away with his body besides, mr. rockharrt?" "you would have to prove the truth of your words, sir," replied the iron king. "that is easily done by the people at the hotel. i did not tell them where i was going. i never even thought of telling them. but they know i was only gone half an hour; for before going out, or just as i was going out, i ordered the carriage to be ready to take me to the depot at a quarter past eleven." "they may have forgotten all about you." "not at all. i am an old customer, though a young man. they know me very well." "then it is very strange that when every anxious inquiry was made for this latest visitor of the governor-elect, these hotel people did not come forward and name you." "but i repeat, sir, that they did not know that i was that latest visitor. i did not think of telling any one that i was going to see rothsay before i went, or of telling them that i had been to see him after i went. they had no more reason to identify me with that late caller than any other guest at the hotel, or, in fact, any other man in the world. come, mr. rockharrt, you have complimented me with one of the blackest suspicions that could wrong an honest man, but i will not quarrel with you. i know very well that the last person seen with a missing man is often suspected of his taking off. as for me, i invite the most searching investigation." "why did you come here, after so long an interval?" demanded the iron king, in no way mollified by the moderation of his visitor. "as i explained to you, i come now because i have just heard that i had been advertised for; and after this long interval because i have been for months at sea. i had, however, another motive for coming--to tell you of the strange manner of regulas rothsay during my interview with him--a manner that does not seem to have been observed by any one else, for all speak and write of his health and extraordinarily good spirits on the evening of his arrival in the city only a few hours before i saw him, when he seemed very far from being in good health or good spirits. in fact, a more utterly broken man i never saw in my life." "ah! ah! what is this you tell me? give me particulars! give me particulars!" said the iron king, rising and standing over his visitor. "indeed, i do not think i can give you particulars. the effect he seemed to produce was that of a general prostration of body and mind. on coming into the room where i waited for him, he looked pale and haggard; he tottered rather than walked; he dropped into his chair rather than sat down in it; his hands fell upon the arms rather than grasped them; he was gloomy, absent-minded, and when he spoke at all, seemed to speak with great effort." "ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed the iron king. "i thought the fatigue and excitement of the day had been too much for him. i made my visit very short, and soon bade him good-night. he wished me a prosperous voyage, but did not invite me to visit him on my return--a kindness that he had never before omitted." "ah, ah ah!" again exclaimed old aaron rockharrt. "then i thought his manner and appearance only the effect of excessive fatigue and excitement. now, seen in the light of future events, i attach a more serious meaning to them." "what! what! what!" demanded the iron king. "i think that some fatal news, from some quarter or other, had reached him; or that some heavy sorrow had fallen upon him; or, worse than all, sudden insanity had overtaken him! that, under the lash of one or another, or all of these, he fled the house and the city, and--made away with himself." "now, heaven forbid!" exclaimed old aaron rockharrt, dropping into his chair. "one favor i have to ask you, mr. rockharrt, and that is, that the most searching investigation be made of my movements on that fatal evening of the governor's disappearance." "it shall be done," said the iron king. "i shall remain at the david crockett until all the friends of the late governor are satisfied so far as i am concerned. and now, having said all i have to say, i will bid you good morning," concluded the visitor as he arose, took up his hat, bowed, and left the room. old aaron rockharrt returned to the breakfast table, where his subservient family waited. the coffee, that had been sent to the kitchen to be kept hot, was brought up again, with hot rolls and hot broiled partridges. the old man resumed his breakfast in silence. he did not think proper to speak of his visitor, nor did any member of the family party venture to question him. and this was well, so far as cora was concerned. any allusion to the agonizing subject of her husband's mysterious disappearance was more than she could well bear; and to have hinted in her presence that some hidden sorrow had driven him to self-destruction might almost have wrecked her reason. cora now never mentioned his name; yet, as after events proved, he was never for a moment absent from her mind. the old grandmother, who could not speak to cora on the subject, and who dared not speak to her lord and master on any subject that he did not first broach, and yet who felt that she must talk to some one of that which oppressed her bosom so heavily, at length confided to her youngest son. "i do think cora's heart is breaking in this suspense, clarence! if rule had died there would have been an end of it, and she would have known the worst and submitted to the inevitable! but this awful suspense, anxiety, uncertainty as to his fate, is just killing her! i wish we could do something to save her, clarence!" "i wish so, too, mother! i see how she is failing and sinking, and i own that this surprises me! i really thought that cora was fascinated by that fellow in london." (this was the irreverent manner in which mr. clarence spoke of his grace the duke of cumbervale.) "and i thought that she only married rothsay from a sense of duty, keeping her word, and all that sort of thing! i can't understand her grieving herself to death for him now!" "oh, clarence! she was fascinated by the rank and splendor and personal attractions of the young duke! her fancy, vanity, ambition and imagination were fired; but her heart was never touched! she had not seen rothsay for so long a time that his image had somewhat faded in her memory when this splendid young fellow crossed her path and dazzled her for a time! it was a brief madness--nothing more! but you can see for yourself how really she loved rothsay when you see that anxiety for his fate is breaking her heart." "i see, mother dear; but i don't understand! and i don't know what on earth we can do for her! if my father does not think proper to suggest something, we must not, for if we should do so it would make matters much worse." "yes," sighed the old lady; and the subject was dropped. clarence had said that he did not understand cora's state of mind. no; nor did old mrs. rockharrt. how could they, when cora had not understood herself, until suffering brought self-knowledge? from her childhood up she had loved rule rothsay as a sister loves a favorite brother. in her girlhood, knowing no stronger love, on the strength of this she accepted the offered hand of rothsay, and was engaged to be married to him. she meant to have been faithful to him; but it was a long engagement, during which she traveled with her grandparents for three years, while the memory of her calmly loved betrothed husband grew rather dim. then came her meeting with the handsome and accomplished young duke of cumbervale, and the infatuation, the hallucination that enslaved her imagination for a period. then began the mental conflict between inclination and duty, ending in her resolution to forget her english lover and to be true to rule. up to the very wedding day she had suppressed and controlled her feelings with heroic firmness, but on the evening of that day, while waiting for her husband, the long, severe tension of her nerves utterly gave way, and when found in a paroxysm of tears and questioned by him, in her wretchedness and misery she had confessed the infidelity of her heart and pleaded for time to conquer it. she had expected bitter reproaches, but there were none. she had dreaded fierce anger, but there was none. she had anticipated obduracy, but there was none. there was nothing but intense suffering, divine compassion, and infinite renunciation. he pitied her. he soothed her. he defended her from the reproaches of her own conscience. he protected her by an imposed provision that for her own sake she should not tell others what she had told him. and then-- he laid down all the honors that his life-long toil and self-denial had won for her sake, and he went out from his triumphs, went out from her life--out, out into the outer darkness of oblivion, to be seen no more of men, to be heard of no more by men. all for her sake. and before the majesty of such infinite love, such infinite renunciation, her whole soul bowed down in adoration. yes, at last, in the hour of losing him she loved him as he longed to be loved by her. she had but one desire on earth--to be at his side. but one prayer, and that was her "vital breath"--for his return. she felt herself to be unworthy of the measureless love that he had given her--that he still gave her, if he still lived, for his love had known no shadow of turning, nor ever would suffer change. but, oh! where in space was he? how could she reach him? how could she make him hear the cry of her heart? one message, like a voice from the grave, had, indeed, come to her from him since his disappearance, but it had been sent before he left the house; it was in the letter he had written and placed in the secret drawer of her writing desk before he went forth that fatal night, a "wanderer through the world's wilderness." she had found it on that day, about three weeks after his loss, when she had come into the parlor for the first time since her illness, and when, left alone for a few minutes by her grandmother, she had gone to her writing desk, and in the idleness of misery had begun carelessly, aimlessly, to turn over her papers. in the same mood she pressed the spring of the secret drawer, and it sprang open and projected the letter before her. she recognized his handwriting, seized the paper and opened it. it contained only a few words of farewell, with a prayer for her happiness and a parting blessing. there was no allusion made to the cause of their separation. probably rule had thought of the letter falling into other hands than hers; so he had refrained from referring to her secret, lest she should suffer reproach from her family. cora read this letter with deep emotion over and over again, until she found herself staring at the lines without gathering their meaning, and then she felt herself growing giddy and faint, for she was still very weak from recent illness, and she hastily dropped the letter into the desk and shut down the lid, only just before a film came over her eyes, a muffled sound in her ears, and oblivion over her senses. this is the swoon in which she was found by mrs. rockharrt, and for which she could give no satisfactory reason. when cora recovered from that swoon her first care, on the first opportunity, was to go to her writing desk to look for her precious letter--rothsay's last letter to her. no one had opened her desk or disturbed its contents. she found her letter; pressed it to her heart and lips many times; then made a little silken bag, into which she put it; then tied it around her neck with a narrow ribbon. and from that day it rested on her heart. it was her priceless treasure to be cherished above all others, "the first to be saved in fire or flood." it was the only relic of her lost love with his last good-by, and prayers and blessings. it was her magic talisman, still connecting her in some occult way with the vanished one. it was her anchor of hope, still promising in some mysterious manner the final return of her lost husband. while cora mourned and dreamed away these first days of the family's return to their town house, old aaron rockharrt was sifting the evidence of the story told by captain ross; he proved the truth of the skipper's account; and he failed to connect the young man's late visit on that fatal night with the almost simultaneous disappearance of rothsay. the season passed on. mr. and mrs. rockharrt gave dinner parties and supper parties; and received and accepted invitations to similar entertainments in return; but no persuasions nor arguments could prevail on cora to go into any society. not even the iron will of the iron king could conquer in this matter. his granddaughter was his own personal property, and one of the attractions of his house; it was in her place to wear her best clothes and costliest jewels, and to show herself to his guests; and her persistent refusal to do this put him in a gloomy, teeth-grinding, impotent rage. "cora is of age! she has a very sufficient provision. and now if she does not return to her duty and render herself amenable to my authority and obedient to my commands, i shall order her to find another home; for i mean to be master of my own house and of everybody in it!" he said, savagely, to his timid wife, one evening when she was doing valet's duty by dressing his hair for a dinner party. "oh, aaron! aaron! have pity on the poor, heartbroken girl!" pleaded the old lady, falling into a fit of trembling that interfered with her task. "hold your tongue and heed my words, for i shall do as i say. and mind what you are about now! you have scratched my ear with the bristles of the brush." "i beg your pardon, aaron, but my hand shakes so." "if that young woman don't submit herself to my will, and obey my orders, i will pack her out of this house. and then, perhaps, your nerves will be quieter! i'll do it, for i am not particularly fond of having grass widows about me," he growled. she made no reply. she could not trust herself to speak. it required all her self-control to steady her hands so as to complete her master's toilet. then she had to dress herself in haste and agitation to be ready in time to accompany her husband to the dinner party at the executive mansion, which was now occupied by lieutenant-governor kenelm kennedy--and from which the iron king would not allow his wife to absent herself. old aaron rockharrt was the lion of the evening, as he was the lion of every party in the state capital, probably because he owned the lion's share of the state's wealth, and had more money, perhaps, than the state's treasury. he enjoyed this beast worship, and came to his town house every season and went into general society to receive it. mrs. rockharrt was very anxious to have a talk with her granddaughter, to warn her of impending danger and to implore her to obey the wishes of her grandfather, but the poor old lady had no opportunity. cora sat up for her grandparents, in case they should need any of her services on their return. they came in very late, and then the exactions of the domestic tyrant kept his wife in attendance on him until they were all in bed. chapter vii. news of the missing man. the next morning, while aaron rockharrt slept the sleep of the dead-in-selfishness, his wife arose and crept into the bedroom of her granddaughter. cora was awake, but not yet up. "oh, grandma, you will get your death of cold! walking about the house in your night gown. what is it? what do you want? can i do anything for you?" cried the girl, springing out of bed to turn on the heat of the register, and then wrapping a large shawl around the old lady, and putting her into the cushioned easy chair. "now what is it, dear grandma? what can i do for you?" she inquired, as she drew on her own wadded dressing gown and sat on the side of the bed near the old lady. "you can do something to set my mind at ease, my dear; but it will be painful for you, and i do not know whether you will do it," said the old lady with timid hesitation. "i can do this, dear? then, of course, i will do it," replied the girl. "it is almost too much to ask of you, my child." "there is nothing, nothing that i would not do to give you peace--you, poor dear, who have so little peace," said cora, tenderly, smoothing the silver hair away from the wrinkled brow of the old lady, who began to drop a few weak tears of self-pity, excited by cora's sympathy. "well, my child," she said, "your grandfather is going to have a little talk with you soon--on the subject of your self-seclusion. oh! my poor child, do not resist him, do not provoke, do not disobey him. oh! for my sake, cora, for my sake, do not!" "dearest dear, i will leave undone anything in the world you wish me not to do. i will no longer rebel against my grandfather's authority, even when he exercises it in such a despotic manner," said cora, raising the clasped hands of the old lady and pressing them to her lips. mrs. rockharrt gathered the girl in her arms and kissed her, with a few more weak tears, but with no more words. she did not tell cora of the cruel threat made by the tyrant to turn her out of doors if she failed to obey him, and she hoped that the girl might never hear of it, lest in her wounded pride she might forestall the threat and leave the house of her own accord. "now be at ease, dear," said cora, soothingly. "no more trouble--" a bell rang sharply and cut off the girl's speech. "oh, there he is awake! i must go to him," exclaimed the timid old creature. cora made her toilet, and then went down to the breakfast parlor, where she found the two old people about to sit down to the table. she bade her grandfather good morning and then took her place. during breakfast aaron rockharrt said: "mrs. rothsay, you will come to me in the library as soon as we leave the table. i have something to say to you that must be said at once and for the last time." "very well, sir," replied the girl. half an hour later she was closeted with her grandfather. "madam, i do not intend to waste much time over you this morning. i merely mean to put a test question, whose answer shall decide my future course in regard to you." "very well." "i must preface my question by reminding you that you have constantly disregarded my wishes and disobeyed my orders by refusing to see my guests or to go out in company with me." "yes." "when honored with an invitation to the state dinner at the executive mansion you declined to go, even though i expressed my will that you should accompany me." "yes." "but for the future i intend to be master of my own house and of every living soul within it. now, then, for my test question. you have received cards to the ball to be given at the house of the chief justice to-morrow evening. i wish you to attend it, and my wish should be a command." "of course." "what is your answer? think before you speak, for on your answer must depend your future position in my house." cora was silent for a few moments. "sir," she began at length, "you are a just man, at least, and you will not refuse to hear and consider my reasons for seclusion." "i will consider nothing! i know them as well as you do. morbid sensitiveness about your peculiar position; morbid dread of facing the world; morbid love of indulging in melancholy. and i will have none of it! none of it! i will be obeyed, and you shall go out into society, or else--" "'or else' what will be the alternative, sir?" "you leave my house! i will have no rebel in my family!" had cora followed the impulse of her proud and outraged spirit, she would have walked out of the library, gone to her room, put on her bonnet and cloak, and left the house, leaving all her goods to be sent after her; but the girl thought of her poor, gentle, suffering grandmother, and bore the insult. "sir," she said, with patient dignity, "do you think that it would have been decorous, under the peculiar circumstances, for me to appear in public, and especially at a state dinner at the executive mansion?" "madam, i instructed you to accept that invitation and to attend that dinner! do you dare to hint that i would counsel you to any indecorous act?" "no, sir; certainly not, if you had stopped to think of it; but weightier matters occupied your mind, no doubt." "let that go. but in the question of this ball? do you mean to obey me?" "grandfather, please consider! how can i mix with gay scenes while the fate of my husband is still an awful mystery?" "you must conquer your feelings, and go, or--take the consequences!" "even if i could forget the tragedy of my wedding day, and mix with the gay world again, what would people say?" "what would people say, indeed? what would they dare to say of my granddaughter?" "but, sir, it would be contrary to all the laws of etiquette and conventionality." "my granddaughter, madam, should give the law to fashion and society, not receive it from them!" said the iron king, throwing himself back in his arm chair as if it had been his throne. cora smiled faintly at this egotism, but made no reply in words. "to come to the point!" he suddenly exclaimed--"will you obey me and attend this ball, or will you take the other alternative?" cora's heart swelled; her eyes flashed; she longed to defy the despot, but she thought of her meek, patient, long-suffering grandmother, and answered coldly: "i will go to the ball, sir, since you wish it." "very well. that will do. now leave the room. i wish to read the morning papers." cora went out to find her grandmother and to relieve the lady's anxiety; old aaron rockharrt threw himself back in his arm chair with grim satisfaction at having conquered cora and set his iron heel upon her neck. yes; he had conquered cora through her love for her poor, timid, abused grandmother. but now fate was to conquer him. but fate had decided that cora should not attend that ball, or any other place of amusement, for a long time. and he was just on the brink of discovering the impertinent interference of fate in human affairs, and especially those of the iron king. he took up a washington paper--a government organ--and read, opening his eyes to their widest extent as he read the following head-lines: a mystery cleared up. _the fate of governor regulas rothsay_. killed by the comanches on november st. a dispatch from fort security to the indian bureau, received this morning, announces another inroad of the comanches upon the new settlement of terrepeur, in which the inhabitants were massacred and their dwellings burned. among the victims who perished in the flames in their own huts was regulas rothsay, late governor-elect of ----, and at the time of his death a volunteer missionary to this treacherous and bloodthirsty tribe. another man, under the circumstances, might have been unnerved by such sudden and awful news, and let fall the paper, but not the iron king. he grasped it only with a firmer hand, and read it again with keener eyes. "what under the heavens took that man out there? had he gone suddenly mad? that seems to be the only possible explanation of his conduct. to abandon his bride on the day of his marriage--to abandon his high official position as governor of this state on the day of his inauguration, and without giving any living creature a hint of his intention, to fly off at a tangent and go to the indian country and become a missionary to those red devils, and be massacred for his pains--it was the work of a raving maniac. but what drove him mad? surely it was not his high elevation that turned his head, for if it had been, his madness would never have taken this particular direction of flying from his honors. no! it is as i have always suspected. he heard, in some way, of the girl's english lover, and he, with his besotted devotion to her, was just the man to be morbidly, madly jealous, and to do some such idiotic thing as he has done, and get himself murdered and burned to ashes for his pains! yes; and it serves him right!--it serves him--right!" he sat glowering at the paragraph, and growling over his news for some time longer, but at length he took it up and walked over to the back parlor, where he felt sure he should find his two women. mrs. rockharrt and cora, who sat at a table before the gloomy coal fire, and were engaged in some fancy needlework, looked up uneasily as he entered; not that they expected bad news, but that they feared bad temper. "cora," he began, "i shall not insist on your going to the ball to-morrow." she looked up in surprise, and a grateful exclamation was on her lips, but he forestalled it by saying: "i suppose the news is all over the city by this time. i am going out to hear what the people are saying about it, and to see if the government house and the public offices are to be hung in mourning. there--there it is told in the first column of this paper." and with cruel abruptness he laid the newspaper on the table between the two women, and pointed out the fatal paragraph. then he stalked out of the room, and called his man-servant to help him on with his heavy overcoat. that house, on the previous night, had been one blaze of light in honor of the state dinner. now, as well as he could see dimly through the falling snow, it was all closed up, and men on ladders were festooning every row of windows with black goods. "yes, of course. it is as i expected. the news has gone all over the town already," said old aaron rockharrt, as he strode through the snowstorm to the business center of the city. every acquaintance whom he met stopped him with the same question in slightly different words. "have you heard?" and so forth. every intimate friend he encountered asked: "how does mrs. rothsay bear it?" or-- "what on earth ever took the governor out there?" to all questions the iron king gave curt answers that discouraged discussion of the subject. he walked on, noticing that the stores and offices of the city were being festooned with mourning, and that notwithstanding the severity of the storm the street corners were occupied by groups talking excitedly of the fatal news. he went into the editorial rooms of all the city newspapers and wished and attempted to dictate to the proprietors the manner in which they should write of the tragic event which was then in the minds and on the tongues of all persons. as he spent an hour on the average at each office, it was late in the winter afternoon when he got home. it was not yet dark, however, and he was surprised to see a man servant engaged in closing the shutters. he entered and demanded severely why the servant shut the windows before night. the old man looked nervous and distressed, and answered vaguely: "it is the missus, sah." the idea that his wife should take the liberty of ordering the house to be closed for the night at this unusual hour of the afternoon, without his authority, enraged him: "help me off with my ulster," he said. when the servant had performed this office the master said: "serve dinner at once." and then he strode into the back parlor, which was the usual sitting room of his wife and granddaughter. the room was empty and darkened. more than ever infuriated by fatigue, hunger, and the supposed disregard of his authority, he came out and walked up stairs to look for his wife in her own room. he pushed open the door and entered. that room was also dark, only for the faint red light that came from the coal fire in the grate. by this he dimly perceived a female form sitting near the bed, and whom he supposed to be his wife. "why, in the fiend's name, is the whole house as dark as pitch?" he roughly demanded, as he went to a front window and threw open the shutters, letting in the white light of the snow storm. "grandfather!" it was the voice of cora that spoke, and there was a something in its tone that struck and almost awed even the iron king. he turned abruptly. cora had risen from her chair and was now standing by the bed. but on the bed lay a little, still, fair form, with hands folded over its breast, with the eyes shut down forever, and all over the fair, wan, placid face was "the peace of god which passeth all understanding." "what is this?" demanded old aaron rockharrt, as he came up to the bed. "look at her. she rests at last. i have been with her twenty years, and this is the first time i have ever seen her rest in peace." old aaron rockharrt stood like a stone beside the bed, gazing down on the dead. "she is safe now, never more to be startled, or frightened, or tortured by any one. 'safe, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest,'" continued cora. still old aaron stood like a stone beside the bed and gazed down on the dead. suddenly, without moving or withdrawing his gaze from where it rested, he asked in a low, gruff tone: "how did this happen?" "she fainted in her chair, and died in that faint." "when? where? from what?" "within an hour after you had left us together in the back parlor, with the paper containing the news of my husband's death," answered cora, speaking in a tone of most unnatural calmness. "had that excitement anything to do with her swoon?" "i do not know." "give me the particulars." "we--or, rather, she--first took up the paper, and without knowing what the news was that you told us to look at, gave it to me, and asked me to read it. i, as soon as i saw what it was--i lost all control over myself. i do not know how i behaved. but she took the paper, to see what it was that had so disturbed me, and then, she, too, became very much agitated; but she tried to console me, tried for a long while to comfort me, standing over my chair, and caressing and talking. at last she left me, and sat down and leaned back in her own chair. i was trying to be quiet, and at last succeeded, and then i arose and went to her, meaning to tell her that i would be calm and not distress her any more. when i looked at her, i found that she had fainted. i rang and sent off for a doctor instantly, and while waiting for him did all that was possible to revive her, but without effect. when the doctor came and examined her condition he pronounced her quite dead." "this must have occurred four or five hours ago. why was i not sent for?" "you were sent for immediately. messengers were dispatched in every direction. but you could nowhere be found. they did not, indeed, know where to look for you." "now close the window again, and then go and leave me alone; and do not let any one disturb me on any account," said the old man, who had not once moved from the bedside, or even lifted his gaze from the face of the dead. "i have telegraphed to north end for uncle fabian and clarence, also to west point for sylvanus. sylvan cannot reach here before to-morrow, but my uncles will be here this evening. shall i send you word when they arrive?" "no. let no one come to me to-night." "shall i send you up anything, grandfather?" "no, no. if i require anything i will ring for it. go now, cora, and leave me to myself." the girl went away, closing the door behind her. as she descended the stairs she heard the key turned, and knew that her grandfather had so shut out all intruders. he who had come home hungry and furious as a famished wolf never appeared at the dinner that he had so peremptorily ordered to be served at once, but shut himself up fasting with his dead. if his eyes were now opened to see how much he had made her suffer through his selfishness, cruelty, and despotism all her married life--if his late remorse awoke--if he grieved for her--no one ever knew it. he never gave expression to it. chapter viii. "the peace of god which passeth all understanding." in the late dawn of that dark winter day mr. clarence came down into the parlor, and found cora still there, with one gas jet burning low. "up so early, my dear child?" he said, as he took her hand and gave her the good morning kiss. "i have not been in bed," she replied. "not in bed all night! that was wrong. how cold your hands are? go to bed now, dear." "i cannot. i do not wish to." "my poor, doubly bereaved child, how much i feel for you!" he said, in a tender tone, and still holding her hand. "do not mind me, uncle clarence. i do not feel for myself. i am numb. i feel nothing--nothing," she replied. mr. clarence, still holding her hand, led her to a large easy chair, and put her in it. then he went and rang the bell. "tell the cook to make a strong cup of coffee as quickly as she can, and bring it up here to mrs. rothsay," he said to the man who answered the call. the latter touched his forehead and left the room. mr. clarence had tact enough not to worry his niece with any more words. he went and opened one of the front windows to look out upon the wintry morning. the ground was covered very deeply with the snow, which was now falling so thickly as to obscure every object. when the servant entered with the coffee, mr. clarence himself took it from the man's hand, and carried it to his niece and persuaded her to drink it. the servant meanwhile, mindful of the proprieties, when he saw the front window open, went and closed it, and then passed down the room and opened both the back windows, which gave sufficient light to the whole area of the apartment. finally he turned off the gas, and taking up the empty coffee service, left the room. presently after mr. fabian came in, and greeted his niece and his brother in a grave, muffled voice. a little later breakfast was served. "some one should go up to see if grandpa will have anything sent to him. will you, uncle fabian?" inquired cora, as they seated themselves at the table. mr. fabian left his chair for the purpose, but before he had crossed the room they heard the heavy footsteps of the iron king coming down the stairs. he entered the dining room, and all arose to receive him. he came up and shook hands with each of his sons in turn and in silence. then he took his place at the table. the three younger members of the family looked at him furtively, whenever they could do so without attracting his attention, and, perhaps, awakening his wrath. some change had come over him, but not of a softening nature. his hard, stern, set face was, if possible, more stony than ever. neither mr. clarence nor cora dared to speak to him; but mr. fabian, feeling the silence awkward and oppressive, at length ventured to say: "my dear father, in this our severe bereavement--" but he got no further in his speech. old aaron rockharrt raised his hand and stopped him right there, and then said: "not one word from any one of you to me or in my presence on this event, either now or ever. it happened in the course of nature. drop the subject. fabian, how are matters going on at the works?" "i do not know, sir," replied mr. fabian, speaking for the first and last and only time, abruptly and indiscreetly to his despotic father. but the iron king took no notice of the words, nor did he repeat the question. he drank one cup of coffee, ate half a roll, and then arose and left the table, without a word. he did not return to his dead wife's chamber, which he probably knew would now have to be given up to dressers of the dead and to the undertakers. he went and locked himself in the library, and was seen no more that day. cora, with her woman's intuition, understood the accession of hardness that was worn as a mask to conceal grief and remorse. "be patient with him, uncle fabian. he is your father, after all. and he suffers! oh, he suffers! yes; much more than any of us do," she said. "do you think so, cora?" inquired mr. fabian, looking at her in surprise. "i know he does," she answered. "well, he has good reason to!" concluded mr. fabian. then, after a pause, he added: "but i am sorry i spoke roughly to my father! i will make it up to him, or try to do so, by extra deference." then they all arose from the table. mr. fabian and mr. clarence to attend to the business of the mournful occasion, which old aaron rockharrt, in his proud, reserved, absorbed sorrow, seemed to have ignored or forgotten. cora stepped away to her grandmother's room, to have a quiet hour beside the beloved dead before the undertaker should come in and take possession. "it is only her body that is dead, i know. but the hands had caressed me and the lips kissed me; and, right or wrong, i love that body as well as the heavenly soul that lived within it! the flesh cleaves to the flesh. and so long as we are in the flesh we will, we must, haunt the shrines that contain the bodies of those we love," she thought, as reverently she entered the chamber of death, closed the door, and went up to the bed whereon lay the tenantless temple in which so lately lived the most loving, the most patient spirit she had ever known! but what is this! into what strange sphere of ineffable peace has cora entered? she could not understand the change that came over her. she had a gentle impulse to close her eyes to all visible matters and yield herself up to the sweetness of this sphere. her dear one was living, was young again, was happy, was sleeping, watched by angels, who would presently awaken her to the eternal life. cora knelt down by the bed and lifted up her heart to the lord of life in silent, wordless, thoughtless, profoundly quiet aspiration. she did not wish to move or speak, or form a sentence even in her mind. she found her state a strange one, but she did not even wonder at it, so deep was the calm that enveloped her spirit. not long had she knelt there in this rapt serenity, when she was conscious that some one was rapping softly at the door. this did not disturb her. she arose from her knees, still in deep peace, went to the door, and said: "presently. i will open presently. wait a moment." then she went back to the bed, turned down the sheet, and gazed upon the beloved face. how placid it was, and how beautiful. death had smoothed every trace of age and care from that little fair old face. she lay as if sleeping, and almost smiling in her sleep-- "as though by fitness she had won the secret of some happy dream." cora stooped and kissed the placid brow, then covered the face, and went to open the door. the gray-haired old jason was waiting outside. "if you please, ma'am, it is the--" "i know, i know," said cora, quietly. "show them in." and she passed out and went to her own room. her front windows were closed; but through the slats of the shutters she saw that it was still snowing fast. "what a winding sheet this will make for her grave," she thought, as she looked out upon the wintry scene. there was no wind, the fine white snow fell softly and steadily, giving only the dimmest view of the government house on the opposite side of the square draped in mourning. the funeral of mrs. rockharrt took place on the third day after her death. the snow had ceased, and the winter sun was shining brightly from a clear blue sky on a white world, whose trees wore pendent diamonds instead of green leaves, and as every house in the city was hung in black for the dead governor, the effect of all this glare and glitter and gloom was very weird and strange, as the funeral cortege passed from the rockharrt home to the church of the lord's peace. after the rites were over, the family returned to their city home, but only for the night; for preparation had been already completed for their removal to rockhold, there to pass the year of mourning. old aaron rockharrt never changed from his look of stony immobility. if he mourned for his patient wife of more than half a century, no outward sign betrayed his feelings. if his spirit suffered with suppressed grief, his strong frame bore up under it without the slightest weakening. on the afternoon of his return from his wife's funeral he shut himself up in his library and remained there all the evening, refusing to come to dinner, calling for a bottle of wine and a sandwich and desiring afterward to be left alone. later in the evening he sent for mr. fabian to come to him, and there opened to his eldest son and partner, in whose business talents he had great confidence, a scheme of speculation so venturous, so gigantic that the younger man was shocked and staggered, and began to lose faith in the sound intellect of the iron king. "this will make us twice told the wealthiest men in the united states, if not in the whole world," concluded old aaron rockharrt. "if it should succeed," said mr. fabian, dubiously. "it shall succeed; i say it. we shall go down to rockhold to-morrow morning and the next day to the works, and there i shall give my whole mind to this matter and make it succeed, do you hear? make it succeed! and place my name at the head of the list of wealthy men of this age." mr. fabian did not dare to raise any objection. "i am pleased, sir," he said, "that you find in this new enterprise an object of so much interest to engage your mind. employ me in any way you think fit. i am quite at your service, as it is my bounden duty to be." "very well; that is as it should be. now i am going to bed. good night," said the iron king, abruptly dismissing his son, then rising and ringing for his valet, whose office, since the patient old lady's death, was now no longer a sinecure. it seems passing strange that a man of seventy-six years, who had just lost his life-long and beloved companion--for in his own selfish way he loved her after a sort, and perhaps more than he loved any human being in the world--and who must expect before many years to follow her, should be so full of this world's avarice and ambition; so eager to make more, and more, and more money, and to stand at the head of the list of all the wealthiest men in the land. strange, yet the name of such a one is legion. but in the case of old aaron rockharrt there might have been this additional motive--the necessity to seek refuge from the pains of grief and remorse in the anxieties and activities of speculation. so he was very eager to get back as soon as possible to business and to enter at once upon the enterprise he had planned. cora was also anxious to leave the city, which she knew was in a fresh ferment of gossip and conjecture on the subject of her lost husband, the deceased governor-elect. the news from the indian territory had renewed all the public interest in the mystery of his disappearance. for some months before this news arrived, the community had settled down to the conviction that the missing governor had been murdered and his body made away with, although, as there was no proof to establish the fact of their theory, there was no thought of inaugurating the lieutenant-governor as chief magistrate of the state. yet, now, when the startling news came that the missing statesman had been killed by the comanches in the wilds of the indian reservation, far from any agency, and that he had been living and preaching there as a volunteer missionary for many months before the massacre, the mystery of his sudden and unexplained disappearance from the state capital on the day of his inauguration was not cleared up and made intelligible, but darkened and rendered more inscrutable. it was easy enough to understand why a missing man might have been lured away from his dwelling by some false letter or plausible message, and murdered in some secret place where his body lay buried in earth or water, for such crimes were not unfrequent. but that a bridegroom should secretly depart on the evening of his wedding day, that a governor should take flight on the evening before his inauguration, was a course of action only to be explained on the ground of insanity; and yet regulas rothsay was always considered one of the most level-headed and mentally well balanced among the rising young statesmen of the country. conjecture had once been wild as to the cause of his disappearance--had he been murdered, or kidnapped, or both? those were the questions then. conjecture was now rampant as to the cause of his sudden flight and self expatriation to the indian territory. had he suddenly gone mad? or committed a capital crime which was on the eve of discovery? these were the questions now. every newspaper was full of the problem, which none but one could solve, and she was bound to secrecy. but it gave her inexpressible pain to know that his motives and his character were being discussed and censured for that course of conduct for which only herself was to be blamed, and which only she could explain. a word from her would show him in a very different light before his critics. but she must not speak that word to save his reputation. so cora was anxious to leave the city. the next morning the whole family set out on their return journey to rockhold, where they arrived early in the afternoon. they found everything in good order, for cora had taken the precaution to write to the housekeeper, and warn her of the return of the family. the grief of the servants for the loss of their kind and gentle old mistress broke out afresh at the sight of the young lady. and it was long before the latter could soothe and quiet them. fortunately mr. rockharrt had gone at once to his room, and so he escaped annoyance from their loud lamentations, and they escaped stern rebuke for their want of self-control. the two young rockharrts had left the family party at north end, to inspect the condition of the works, and were to remain there overnight. old aaron rockharrt, sylvanus haught, and cora rothsay were, therefore, the only ones who sat down at the once full dinner table. the meal passed in almost utter silence, for neither sylvan nor cora ventured to address one word to the hard old man who, whenever they had spoken to him since his loss of his wife, had replied in short, harsh words, or not replied at all. the brother and sister, therefore, only spoke in suppressed tones, at intervals, to each other. after dinner the old man bade them an abrupt good night, and left the room to retire to his own chamber. cora felt sorry for him, despite all his harshness. she stepped after him and asked: "grandfather, can i be of any service to you at all? help you at your--" he stopped her by turning and bending his gray brows over the fierce black eyes which fixed her motionless. he stared at her for an instant and then said: "no. certainly not," and turned and went up stairs. cora walked slowly back into the drawing room, at the open door of which stood sylvan, who had heard all that passed. "you had better let the old man alone, cora. or you'll have your head bitten off. i don't want to break the fifth commandment by saying anything irreverent of our grandfather, but indeed, indeed, indeed it is as much as one's life, or at least as one's temper, is worth to speak to him," said the young man. "i never reverenced my grandfather as much as i do now, sylvan," gravely replied the young lady. "that is all right! reverence him as much as you please; but don't go too near the old lion in his present mood. come and sit down on the sofa by me, sister, and let us have a pleasant talk--" "pleasant talk! oh, sylvan!" "well, then, cora, dear sister, a cozy, confidential talk. do you know we have not had one for years and years and years?" they sat down side by side holding each other's hands in silence for a little while, when cora said: "do you think you will graduate next year, sylvan?" "yes, cora, certainly." "and then you will come home for a long visit." "for a short one, on leave." "and afterward, sylvan?" "well, afterward i shall be ordered out to 'the devil's icy peak.'" "what!" "that was aunt cassy's name for all remote parts, you know. 'devil's icy peak,' which in my destination means some remote frontier fort, among hostile indians, border ruffians, grizzly bears, buffaloes, rattlesnakes, mosquitoes, malaria, and other wild beasts. there is where they send all the new-fledged military officers from west point, and there they may spend the best part of their lives," said sylvan. "unless they have influence with the higher authorities. if they have such influence, they may be sent to choice posts near the great cities, in reach of all the best society, best libraries, and all the luxuries and advantages of the highest civilization." "yes, i know; but--" said the young cadet, hesitatingly. "you, or rather our grandfather, has influence enough to have you ordered to washington, new york, portsmouth--any place." "yes, i know; but--" "but what, sylvan?" "cora, our grandfather's influence is that of wealth--great wealth--and it is a mighty power in this world at this age; but, you see, aaron rockharrt would not use it in such a way. he would not consider it honest to do so. nor would i have it either. no; since the government has given me a free military education, i think it my duty to go exactly wherever they may order me, without attempting to evade orders through the influence of friends or money." "you are entirely right, dear brother. and i tell you this: though i must and will remain with my grandfather so long as he shall need me--so long as he shall live--yet, when he departs, if you should be stationed at one of those border posts, i will go out and join you, sylvan," said cora rothsay, taking both his hands and pressing them warmly. "no, dear sister; you shall not make such a sacrifice for me," he answered. "but after my aged grandfather, whose days on earth cannot be long, whom have i in this world to live for but you, sylvan?" "other interests in life, i hope, will arise, sister, to give you happiness," he replied. cora shook her head, and as the waiter now entered the parlor with the bedroom candles, she lighted one, bade her brother good night, and retired. the next morning, as but one day of his leave of absence remained, the young cadet bade good-by to his friends, and left rockhold for west point, where he arrived the next morning just in time to report for duty, and save his honor. old aaron rockharrt went up to north end, where his sons awaited him; there to inspect the works, and commence proceedings toward that vast enterprise which the iron king had planned out while in the city. and from this day forth. "rockharrt & sons" devoted all their energies to this mammoth speculation, while, as the months passed, it grew into huge and huger proportions, and great and greater success. old aaron rockharrt's spirits rose with the splendor of his fortune. he was nearly seventy-seven years of age, yet he said to himself, in effect: "soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years." cora, meanwhile, living a secluded and almost solitary life at rockhold, occupied herself with a labor of love, in writing the life of her late husband, with extracts from his letters, speeches, and newspaper articles. in doing this her soul seemed once more joined to his. in this manner the year of mourning passed, and the month of january was at hand. chapter ix. turmoil of the world. the rockharrts were again in the state capital. it was but thirteen months since the death of his wife and since the news of the murder of his grandson-in law had been received--calamities which had doubly bereaved the family, and thrown them in the deepest mourning--yet the iron king, elated by his marvelous financial success, had thrown open his house to society, and insisted that his granddaughter should do its honors. cora, who, since the death of the grandmother, had deeply pitied the grandfather, yielded to his wishes in this respect, though much against her secret inclination. she did not leave off her widow's mourning, but she modified it when she presided at the head of the rockharrt table on those frequent occasions of the sumptuous and unrivaled dinners given by the iron king to those whose fortunes he was making, with his own, by his mammoth enterprise. the old man was certainly the lion of the season. he had steadily gone on from step to step on the ladder of fame (for enormous wealth), until now he was quoted as not only the richest man of his state, but as one of the ten richest men in the world. it was at this time that mr. fabian bethought himself of taking a wife. it was indeed quite time that he should marry, if he ever intended to do so. he was nearly fifty-two years of age, though looking no more than forty; his erect and active figure, his fresh and smooth complexion, his curling brown hair and beard, his smiling countenance and cheerful demeanor, rendered him quite an attractive man to young ladies, who credited him with fully twenty years less than his due. there was, at this time, among the lovely "rosebuds" opening in the fashionable drawing rooms of the city, a sweet "wood violet," otherwise violet wood; a perfect blonde, with perfect features and a petite figure. her beauty was peculiar; she was very small, very dainty; her hair the palest yellow, her face so white that almost the only color on her features were her deep blue eyes and crimson lips. she was an orphan heiress, without any near relation in the world. though but eighteen years of age, and just from school, she had already entered on the possession of her fortune by the terms of her father's will. she lived with her former guardians, the chief justice pendletime and his wife. they had given a grand ball to introduce their ward into society. the rockharrts had been invited, of course. and they had all been present. the wood violet, as admirers transposed her name, was equally, of course, the belle of the evening. the tall, towering sunflower, mr. fabian, fell instantly and irrecoverably in love with this tiny white wood violet. many others fell in love with her, but none to the depth of mr. fabian. he resolved to "take time by the forelock," "not to let the grass grow under his feet" in this love chase. the very next morning he said to his father: "you have lately expressed a wish to see me married, sir. i have been, in obedience to your commands, looking out for a wife. i think i have found a woman to suit me, and, what is more to the purpose, to suit you, sir. however, if i should be mistaken in your taste, i shall, of course, give up the thought of proposing to her," added artful mr. fabian, who felt perfectly sure that his father would approve his choice. "who is she?" demanded the iron king. "miss violet wood, the ward of chief justice pendletime." "you could not have made a wiser choice. you have my full approval. and the sooner you are married, the better i shall like it." mr. fabian bowed in silence. "and you remember that we were planning to send a confidential agent to europe to establish syndicates for our shares in the principal cities. now you can utilize your wedding tour by taking your bride to europe and looking after this business in person." "yes, of course," assented mr. fabian. "other details may be thought of afterward. you had better begin to call on the lady. it is well to be the first in the market." "of course, sir." this ended the conference. mr. fabian groomed himself into as charming a toilet as a gentleman's morning suit would admit. he then set forth in his carriage and made the round of the three conservatories of which the town could boast before he could find a cluster of white wood violets to pin on the lapel of his coat. he also got a splendid and fragrant bouquet, and armed with these fascinators he drove to the house of the chief justice and sent in his card. the ladies were at home. he was shown into the drawing room, where, oh! beneficence of fortune, he found his inamorata alone. in a pale blue cashmere home dress trimmed with swan's down and lace, she looked fairer, sweeter, daintier, more suggestive of a wood violet than ever. she left her seat at the piano and came to meet him, saying simply: "good morning, mr. rockharrt. mrs. pendletime will be down presently. she is not in good health, and so she slept late this morning after the ball. oh! what lovely, lovely flowers! for me? oh! thank you so much, mr. rockharrt," she added, as mr. fabian, with a deep bow and a sweet smile, presented his offering. mr. fabian made good use of his time, and had advanced considerably in the good graces of his fair little love before the lady of the house entered. mrs. chief justice pendletime greeted mr. fabian most graciously, inquiring after the health of his father. a little small talk, a few compliments, and the delightful chat was broken into by the arrival of other callers, fine youths, admirers of violet wood and secret aspirants to her favor. even most amiable mr. fabian felt a strong desire to kick them all out of the drawing room, through the front door and into the street. he made himself doubly agreeable to the beauty and her chaperon, and finally offered them a box at the opera for the next evening, and when it was accepted he at last took leave. "i have got the inside track and mean to keep it!" he said to himself, as he drove homeward. and he did keep it. he was really a very fascinating man when he chose to be so, and he generally did choose to be so. and he could "make love like an angel." now, whether he really won the affections of violet wood by his charms of person and address, or whether he only dazzled the girl's imagination by the splendor of his wealth and position, or whether her guardians advocated his cause with the beauty, or whether there was something of all these influences at work upon her will, i do not quite know. but certain it is that when mr. fabian, after two weeks' courtship, offered his heart, hand, and fortune to the little beauty, she accepted them, and not only accepted, but seemed very happy in doing so. the betrothed lover pleaded for an early wedding day. violet wood answered that she would consult her chaperon and abide by her decision. mr. fabian then took the precaution to see mrs. pendletime, and pray that the marriage might take place early in february. the lady answered that she would consult her young protegee and be governed by her wishes. mr. fabian bowed, thanked her warmly, shook hands with her cordially and left the house. he went straight home, took from his safe a casket of diamonds he had bought for his bride, and saying to himself: "i can get violet another and twice as costly a set; and what i need now is to save time." he called jason and dispatched him with this casket and his card done up in a neat parcel, and directed to mrs. chief justice pendletime. so prompt had been his action that the chaperon received this silent bribe before she had spoken to her protegee on the subject of fixing a day for her marriage. now the fire of these diamonds threw such a radiant light on the matter that mrs. pendletime saw at once, and quite clearly, that february, early in february, was the very best time for the wedding. she sent for her protegee, and had a talk with her. now violet wood was by nature a simple-hearted, good-humored girl, who loved to be well dressed, well housed, well served, and, above all, to be much petted, especially by such a charming master of the art as was mr. fabian. she also loved to oblige her friends. so she yielded to the arguments of mrs. pendletime and consented to be married in february--only not during the first week in february, but about the middle of the month--the fourteenth, say. saint valentine's day, the birds' bridal day, would be a very appropriate time for a wood violet to wed. when mr. fabian came to pay his usual visit the next morning, mrs. pendletime received him, thanked him profusely for his munificent gift, telling him at the same time that she should certainly never have accepted such a costly present from any one who was not connected or about to be connected with her family. mr. fabian bowed deprecatingly and asked if he might be permitted to see miss wood. surely he might, she had only intercepted him to thank him for his gift. then she told him that he would find violet alone in the drawing room. he went in, and found the little creature perched upon the music stool, before the open piano, trying a new piece of music. she lighted down like a little bird from a twig and came to meet him. he greeted his betrothed with more warmth of love than a younger man might have ventured upon--but, then, mr. fabian was no freshman in the college of love. and violet, though she did not like to be squeezed so tight and kissed so much, thought it was all right, since he was her first lover and her betrothed husband. she was not sufficiently in love with him to be afraid of him. this was as if one of her school girl friends had hugged and kissed her so much. when they were seated side by side on the sofa, mr. fabian told her that immediately after their wedding breakfast they should take the train for new york and thence sail for liverpool. they should reach london near the beginning of the fashionable season, which is not winter, as with us, but spring. violet listened in the rapture of anticipation. "and at the end of the london season we will make a leisurely tour through england--see the monuments of its great old history; palaces and castles of kings and chieftains who have been dust for ages. then the homes and haunts of the great poets and painters." the door opened, and the servant announced a visitor. mr. fabian, secure now of his prize, arose and said good morning, leaving violet to entertain one of her young adorers. mr. fabian went home and sought his father in the library, where the old man now passed much of his time. "well, my dear sir, it is all settled. with your approbation, we--miss violet wood and myself--will be married on the fourteenth proximo, and leave for europe immediately afterward," said mr. fabian, seating himself. "that is right. i am glad that you will sail in february. you will thereby escape the winds of march and the tempests of the spring equinox," said the iron king, sententiously. "i am very glad you approve," said mr. fabian. old aaron rockharrt nodded in silence. fabian looked at him; saw that the old man looked grave, depressed, yet stern and strong as adamant. he felt very sorry for his father. his own present happiness rendered good-natured mr. fabian very compassionate toward the lonely old widower. he had something, inspired by this compassion, to suggest to the old man, yet he feared to do so straightforwardly. "father," he said at length, for he didn't mind lying the least in the world--"father, i heard a strange report about you this morning." "indeed! what was it? that i had failed in business, or quadrupled my fortune?" inquired the egotist, who was always interested when the question concerned himself. "neither, sir. i heard you were going to be married." "fabian!" sternly exclaimed the iron king, darkly gathering his brows. "yes, sir," said the benevolent mr. fabian, who, now that the ice was broken, could go on lying glibly with the best intentions and without the slightest scruple; "yes, sir; you know such rumors must necessarily get afloat about such a fine-looking, marriageable man as yourself." "ah! and since the community have made so free, pray what lady's name have they honored me by associating with mine?" inquired the iron king somewhat sarcastically, yet not ill-pleased to learn that he was still to be considered a great prize in the matrimonial market. "why, of course there could be but one lady in the question; and equally, of course, you will be able to place her," said mr. fabian, smiling. "upon my soul, i am not." "well, then, the lady to whom you are reported to be engaged is the beautiful mrs. bloomingfield." "who?" "the beautiful and accomplished mrs. bloomingfield, with whom you sat and talked during the whole evening of the governor's state dinner party." "oh, the widow of general bloomingfield, who died three years ago. yes, i remember her--a very fine creature, most certainly--but i never dreamed of her in the light of a wife. in fact, i never dreamed of marrying again," said the iron king, speaking with unusual gentleness. mr. fabian laughed in his sleeve. he thought of the soft place in the hard head of the iron king, a weak part in the strong character of old aaron rockharrt--personal vanity. "with all possible respect and submission, my dear father, i would suggest that if you never thought of marrying again, you should do so now." "fabian, i am seventy-seven years old." "in years, yes; but that is nothing to you. you are not half that age in health, strength, vigor, and activity of mind and body. what man of forty do you know who has anything approaching your energy?" "none that i know of, indeed, fabian," said the iron king, softening into complacency. "no, none," assented mr. fabian. "men die of old age at almost any time in their lives--at forty, fifty, sixty, seventy--but you in your strength of manhood are likely to reach your hundredth year and to be a hale old man then. now, and for many years to come, you will not be old at all." "yes; i think i have twenty-five or thirty years longer to live." "and will you live those years in loneliness? cora will be sure to marry. a young woman like cora will not wear the willow long, believe me. and when cora leaves you, what then will you do? you have no other daughter or granddaughter. as for my promised wife, you yourself made it a condition of our marriage that we should have an establishment of our own." "for the dignity of the house of rockharrt. yes, fabian." "and when cora shall have left you, you will be alone--you who require the gentle ministrations of woman more than any man i ever knew." "fabian!" exclaimed old aaron rockharrt, suddenly and suspiciously, bringing his strong black eyes to bear pointedly upon the face of his son. "what is your motive in wishing me to marry?" "heaven bear me witness, sir, that my motive, my only motive, is your own comfort and happiness," said fabian, and this time he spoke the truth. "i believe you, fabian. but this lady with whom the world associates my name is too young for me. she cannot be more than twenty-five," said old aaron rockharrt reflectively. "well, sir! what did the sages and prophets recommend to david? a young woman to comfort the king. i am not very well posted in bible history, but i think that is the story," said mr. fabian. chapter x. another fine wedding. the marriage of mr. fabian rockharrt and miss violet wood was to be the great event of the winter. when the approaching wedding was announced in the newspapers of the day, it caused a sensation, i assure you. mr. fabian rockharrt, the eldest son of the renowned millionaire, the confirmed bachelor, for whom "caps" had been "set" for the last twenty-five years; who had flirted with maidens who were now wives of elderly men and mothers of grown-up daughters, and in some cases even grandmothers of growing boys and girls--mr. fabian rockharrt to be won at last by a little wood violet! preposterous! the fourteenth of february, saint valentine's day, the birds' wedding day, dawned in that southern climate like a may day. the snow had vanished weeks before; the ground was warm and moist; the grass was springing; the trees were budding; the wood violets were opening their sweet eyes in sheltered nooks of the forest. i do not know in what mood violet wood arose on that momentous morning of her life--probably in a very pleasant one. her chaperon confided to an intimate friend that the child was not in love; that she had never been in love in her life, and did not even know what being in love meant; but that she was rather fond of the fine fellow who adored her, flattered her, petted her, promised her everything she wanted, and whose enormous wealth constituted him a sort of magician who could command the riches, the splendors, the luxuries, and all the delights of life! she was full of rapturous anticipations of extravagant enjoyments. mr. fabian rockharrt, utterly unprincipled as he was, yet had the grace to recognize the purity of the young being whom he was about to make his wife. he was very kind hearted and good humored with every one; he really loved this girl, as he had never loved any one in all his life; and it was his pleasure to indulge her in every wish and whim--even to suggest and create in her mind more wishes and more whims, such as she never could have imagined, so that he might have the joy of gratifying them. before starting to church that morning his father called him into the library for a private interview, and lectured him as if he had been a lad of twenty-one, who was about to contract marriage--lectured him on the duties of a husband, of the master of a household and the head of a family. the arrival of mr. clarence from north end, and of mr. sylvan from west point by the same train, to be present at the wedding, interrupted the bridegroom's reflections. "it is now nine o'clock, boys. you have just time to get your breakfast comfortably and dress yourselves properly before we leave for the church. so look sharp," was the greeting of mr. fabian, as he shook hands with his brother and his nephew. at ten o'clock the carriage containing mr. rockharrt, mrs. rothsay and cadet haught left the house for the church, which they entered by the central front door, from which they were marshaled up the center aisle to their seats in the right hand front pew. at a quarter past ten the bridegroom, with his best man, clarence rockharrt, followed in another very handsome carriage. they drove around to the side of the church, and passed in through the rector's door to the vestry on the left of the chancel, where they awaited the arrival of the bride's party, and through the open door of which they looked in upon the splendidly decorated and crowded church. an affluence of rare exotic flowers everywhere. the green-houses of the state capital and of three neighboring cities had been laid under contribution by mr. fabian, and had yielded up their sweetest treasures for this occasion. floral arches spanned the center aisle from side to side, all the way up from the door to the chancel; festoons of flowers were looped from the galleries on three sides of the church; wreaths of flowers were wound around the pillars from floor to ceiling; the railing around the chancel was covered with flowers; the pulpit and reading desk were hidden under flowers. the pews were filled with the beauty, fashion, and aristocracy of the capital, and a splendid crowd they formed. every lady held a rich bouquet; every gentleman wore a rare boutonniere. mr. fabian looked at his watch from moment to moment. we have scarcely ever seen a more impatient bridegroom than mr. fabian rockharrt. but, then, childish disorders go hard with elderly folks. just as the clock struck eleven, with dramatic punctuality, the gentlemanly white-satin-badged ushers threw open the double doors, and the bride's procession entered. she wore a trained dress of rich white satin, with an overskirt, berthe and veil, all of duchess lace, looped, fastened and festooned here and there and everywhere with orange buds; and a magnificent set of diamonds, consisting of a coronet, necklace, ear-drops, brooch, and bracelets--too much for the little creature--lighting her up like fireworks as she passed under the blaze of the sunlit windows. she carried in her white-gloved hand a bouquet of white wood violets, with her monogram in purple violets in the center. she was leaning on the arm of her guardian, the chief justice, followed by eight bridesmaids. the bishop, with two other clergymen, in their white vestments, entered and took their places at the altar. the choir struck up mendelssohn's wedding march. the bride's procession came slowly up under all the floral arches of the center aisle to the floral hedge around the chancel. the bridegroom came gayly out of the vestry room to meet her, smiling, radiant, tripping as if he had been a slim young lover of twenty, instead of a tall and heavy giant of fifty odd. he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and led her to the altar, where both knelt. the bridesmaids grouped behind them. the best man stood on the groom's right. old aaron rockharrt, mrs. rothsay and cadet haught came out of their pew and formed a group behind the bridegroom. mrs. chief justice pendletime, and a few intimate friends, came out of her pew and grouped behind the bride and her maids. the rest of the congregation remained in their pews, but stood up, and those in the rear raised on tiptoes and craned their necks to witness the proceedings. as soon as the bridegroom and the bride had knelt under the floral arch, from the high center of which hung a wedding bell of white wood violets, the bishop and his assistants stepped down from the high altar steps, and opened their books. the rites commenced, and went on without any unusual disturbance of their course until they came to the question: "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" her guardian, the chief justice, a portly, ponderous person, was moving solemnly forward to perform this duty, when-- old aaron rockharrt--not from officiousness, but out of pure simple egotism--took the bride's hand and placed it in that of the groom, saying: "i do." you may judge the effect of this. the bride was mildly amazed; the bridegroom was deeply annoyed; the chief justice, the rightful owner of the thunder, was highly offended, and withdrew back in solemn dignity. meanwhile the ceremony went on to its end. the benediction was pronounced, and congratulations were in order. the marriage feast was a great success, like most other affairs of the kind. the chief justice had not got over the affront given him at the church, but he could not show resentment in his own house, and on the occasion of his young ward's wedding breakfast. as for old aaron rockharrt, he had not the faintest idea that he had committed any breach of propriety. the deuce, you say! was it not his own eldest son's wedding? had he not a right to give away the bride? he never even asked himself the question. he took it for granted as a matter of course. besides, was not he the greatest man present? and should not he do just as he thought fit? so in utter ignorance of any offense given to any one, the iron king unbent his stiffness for once, and was very genial to every one, especially to the chief justice, who, secretly offended as he was, could not but respond to this friendliness. among the wedding guests around the board was the beautiful widow, mrs. bloomingfield. mrs. pendletime had requested mr. rockharrt to take her to the table, and he had offered her his arm, placing her at the board, and seated himself beside her. the iron king looked at the lady with more interest than he would have felt had not mr. fabian invented a rumor to the effect that he, aaron rockharrt, was addressing her. he looked at the lady on his left critically. yes; she was very beautiful--very beautiful indeed! and, of course, she would accept him at once if he should offer her his hand! very beautiful! a tall, finely rounded, radiant blonde, with a suit of warm auburn hair, which she wore in a mass of puffs and coils high on her head; a brilliant, blooming complexion, damask rose cheeks, redder lips, blue eyes, and a pure, fine roman profile--that means, among the rest, a hooked nose--a very elegant and aristocratic nose indeed, but still a hooked nose. she carried her head high, and her well turned chin a little forward, her lip a little curled. all that meant a high spirit, intolerance of authority, and danger, much danger, to a would-be despot. oh! very handsome, and very willing to marry the old millionaire. but--no! the iron king thought not! she would give him too much trouble in the process of subjugation. he would none of her. cadet haught, watching this pair from the opposite side of the table, whispered to his sister, who sat on his right: "as i live by bread, cora, there is the aged monarch flirting with the handsome widow! a thing unparalleled in human history. or is it dreaming i am?" cora lifted her languid dark eyes, looked across the table and answered: "she is trying to flirt with him, i rather fancy." "wasted ammunition, eh, cora?" "i do not know," replied the young lady. and then the increasing talk and laughter all around the table rendered any tete-a-tete difficult or impossible. and now began the toast drinking and the speech making. it need not be told how mr. rockharrt toasted the bride, how the chief justice responded in behalf of his late ward, how mr. fabian toasted the bridesmaids, how mr. clarence responded on the part of the young ladies, how with this and that and the other observance of forms, the breakfast came to an end and the bishop gave thanks. the bride retired to change her dress for a traveling suit of navy blue poplin, with hat and feather to match, and a cashmere wrap. then came the leave-taking, and the jubilant bridegroom handed his bride into the elegant carriage, while his best man, clarence, gave the last order. "to the railway station." this was the final farewell, for mr. fabian had asked as a particular favor that no one of the wedding party should attend them to the depot. their luggage had been sent on hours before, in charge of the maid and the valet. half an hour's drive brought them to the station in time to catch the : train east. "at last, at last i have you away from all those people and all to myself!" exulted fabian, as he seated his wife in the corner of the car, and turned the opposite seat that they might have no near fellow passenger. for as yet palace cars were not. the maid and valet were seated on the opposite side of the car. the train started. the speed was swift, yet seemed slow. it was the way train they were on, and it stopped at every little station. they could not have got an express before midnight, and that would have been perilous to their chance of catching the steamer on which their passage to europe was engaged. the journey was made without events until about sunset, when the train reached the little mountain station of edenheights, where it stopped twenty minutes for refreshments. "what a lovely scene!" said the bride, looking down from the window on her left, into the depths of a small valley lighted up by the last rays of the setting sun streaming through the opening between two wooded hills. "yes, dear, lovely, if i can think anything lovely besides yourself," he replied. "look, what a sweet cottage that is almost hidden among the trees. an elegant cottage of white freestone built after the grecian order. how strange, fabian, to find such a bijou here in this wild, remote section." "probably the residence of some well-to-do official connected with our works," said mr. fabian, carelessly; then--"will you come out to the refreshment rooms and have some tea? see, they are on the opposite side of the train." violet turned and looked on a very different scene. no wooded and secluded valley with its one lovely cottage, but a row of open saloons and restaurants, crowded and noisy. "no; i think i will not go in there. it is not pretty. you may send me a cup of tea. i will sit here and enjoy this beautiful valley scene. and oh, fabian! look there, coming up the hillside, what a beautiful woman!" mr. fabian looked out and saw and recognized rose stillwater and saw that she had recognized him. she was coming directly toward the train. "sit here, my love; i will go and bring you some refreshments. don't attempt to get out, dearest; to do so might be dangerous. i will not be long," he said, hastily, and rising, he hurried after the other passengers out of the car. but instead of going into the railway restaurant he went back to the rear of the train, placed himself where he stood out of sight of his wife and of all his fellow passengers, yet in full view of the approaching woman. "what devil brings that serpent here?" he muttered to himself. "i must intercept her. she must not go on board the train. she must not approach my little wood violet. good heavens, no!" but the woman turned aside voluntarily from her course to the stationary train and walked directly toward himself. "well, rose," he said, in as pleasant a voice as his perturbation of mind would permit him to use. "well, fabian," she answered. she was as white and hard as marble; her lips when she ceased to speak were closed tightly, her blue eyes blazed from her hard, white face. "what brings you here?" he inquired. "what brings me here, indeed! to see you. only this morning i heard of your intended business. only this morning, after the morning train had left. if there had been another train within an hour or two, i should have taken it and gone to the city and should have been in time to stop the wicked wedding." "what a blessing that there was not! you could not have stopped the marriage. you would only have exposed yourself and made a row." "then i should have done that." "i don't think so. it would not have been like you. you are too cool, too politic to ruin yourself. come, rose," looking at his watch, "there are but just sixteen minutes before the train starts. i have just fifteen to give you, because it will take me one minute to reach my seat. therefore, whatever you have to say, my dear, had better be said at once." "i have not come here to reproach you, fabian rockharrt," she said, fixing him with her eyes. "that is kind of you at all events." "no; we reproach a man for carelessness, for thoughtlessness, for forgetfulness; but for baseness, villainy, treachery like yours it is not reproach, it is--" "magnanimity or murder! i suppose so. let it be magnanimity, rose. i have never done you anything but good since i first met your face, now twenty years ago. you were but sixteen then. you are thirty-six now, and, by jove! handsomer than ever." "thank you; i quite well know that i am. my looking glass, that never flatters, tells me so." "then why, in the name of common sense, can you not be happy? look you, rose, you have no cause to complain of me. when even in your childhood, you--" "how dare you throw that up to me!" she exclaimed. he went on as if he had not heard her. "were utterly lost and ruined through the villainy of your first lover--what did i do? i took you up, got a place for you in my father's house as the governess of my niece." "well, i worked for my living there, did i not? i gave a fair day's work for a fair day's wages, as your stony old father would say." "certainly, you did. but you would not have had an opportunity of doing so in any honest way if it had not been for me." "how dare you hit me in the teeth with that!" "only in self-defense, my rose." "it was with an ulterior, a selfish, a wicked end in view. you know it." "i know, and heaven knows that i served you from pure benevolence and from no other motive. gracious goodness! why, i was over head and ears in love with another woman at that time. but you, rose, you made a dead set at me. you did not care for me the least in life, but you cared for wealth and position, and you were bound to have them if you could." "coward!" she hissed, "to talk to me in this way." "i am not finding fault with you the least in the world. you acted naturally on the principles of self-interest and self-preservation. you wanted me to marry you, but i could not do that under the circumstances. by jove! though, i did more for you than i ever did for any other living woman and with less reward--with no reward at all, in fact. when your time was up at rockhold i settled an income on you, and afterward, in addition to that, i gave you that beautiful cottage, elegantly furnished from basement to roof. and what did i ever get in return for all that? flatteries and fair words--nothing more. you were as cold as a stone, rose." "i would not give my love upon any promise of marriage, but only for marriage itself." "and that you know i could not offer you, and you also knew why i could not." "poltroon! to reproach me with the great calamity of my childhood." "i repeat that i do not reproach you at all. i am only stating the facts, for which i do not blame you in the least, though they prevented the possibility of my ever thinking of marriage with you. i gave you a house furnished, land, and an income to insure you the comforts, luxuries, and elegances of life. i did not bargain with you beforehand. i thought surely you would, as you led me to believe that you would, give me love in return for all these. but no. as soon as you were secure in your possessions you turned upon me and said that i should not even visit you at your house without marriage. now, what have you to complain of?" "this! that you have broken faith with me!" "in what way, pray you?" "you swore that, if you did not marry me, no more would you ever marry any woman." "if you would love me. not if you would not. besides, i had not seen my sweet wood violet then," he added, aggravatingly. she turned upon him, her eyes flashing blue fire. "i will be revenged!" she said. "be anything you like, my dear, only do not be melodramatic. it's bad form. come, now, rose, you have your house and your income. you are still young, and much handsomer than ever. be happy, my dear. and now i really must leave you and run to the train." "go. i will not detain you. i came here only to tell you that i will be revenged. i have told you that and have no more to say." she turned and went down the hill toward the cottage in the dell. mr. fabian hurried to the train and sprang on board just as it began to move. "fabian! oh, fabian!" cried the alarmed bride, "you were almost knocked under the wheels!" "all right, my dear little love. i am safe now," he laughed. "where is my tea?" "oh, my dear child," exclaimed the conscience-stricken man. "i am so very sorry! but the tea was detestable--perfectly detestable! i could not bring you such stuff. i am so very sorry, violet, my precious." "well, never mind. bring me a glass of ice water from the cooler." he obeyed her, and when she had drank, took back the tumbler. a porter came along and lighted the lamps in the cars, for it was now fast growing dark. the train sped on. our travelers reached baltimore late at night, changed cars at midnight for new york, and reached that city the next morning in time to secure the passage they had engaged. at noon they sailed in the arctic for liverpool. chapter xi. the wiles of the siren. when the bridal pair had started on their journey the wedding guests dispersed. old aaron rockharrt and his family returned to their town house. the next morning mr. clarence went back to north end to look after the works. cadet haught left for west point. mr. rockharrt and mrs. rothsay were alone in their city home. old aaron rockharrt continued to give dinners and suppers to noted politicians until the end of the session and the adjournment of the legislature. the family returned to rockhold in may. here they lived a very monotonous life, whose dullness and gloom pressed very heavily upon the young widow. mr. rockharrt and mr. clarence rode out every day to the works and returned late in the afternoon. cora occupied herself in completing the biography of her late husband, which had been interrupted by the season in the city. mr. clarence often spent twenty-four hours at north end looking after the interests of the firm, and eating and sleeping at the hotel. mr. rockharrt came home every evening to dinner, but after dinner invariably shut himself up in his office and remained there until bedtime. cora's evenings were as solitary as her mornings. but a change was at hand. one evening, on his return home, mr. rockharrt brought his own mail from the post office at north end. after dinner, instead of retiring to his office as usual, he came into the drawing room and found cora. dropping himself down in a large arm chair beside the round table, and drawing the moderator lamp nearer to him, he drew a letter from his breast pocket and said: "my dear, i have a very interesting communication here from mrs. stillwater--miss rose flowers that was, you know." "i know," said cora, coldly, and wondering what was coming next. "poor child! she is a widow, thrown destitute upon the cold charities of the world again," he continued. cora said nothing. she was marveling to hear this harsh, cruel, relentless man speaking with so much pity, tenderness, and consideration for this adventuress. "but i will read the letter to you," he said, "and then i will tell you what i mean to do." "very well, sir," she replied, with much misgiving. he opened the letter and began to read as follows: wirt house, baltimore, md., may , -- my most honored benefactor: i should not presume to recall myself to your recollection had you not, in the large bounty of your heart, once taken pity on the forlorn creature that i am, and made me promise that if ever i should find myself homeless, friendless, destitute, and desolate, i should write and inform you. my most revered friend, such is my sad, hopeless, pitiable condition now. my poor husband died of yellow fever in the west indies about a year ago, and his income and my support died with him. for the last twelve months i have lived on the sale of my few jewels, plate, and other personal property, which has gradually melted away in the furnace of my misfortunes, while i have been trying with all my might to obtain employment at my sometime trade as teacher. but, oh, sir! the requirements of modern education are far above my poor capabilities. now, at length, when my resources are well nigh exhausted--now, when i can pay my board here only for a few weeks longer, and at the end of that time must go forth--heaven only knows where!--i venture, in accordance with your own gracious permission, to make this appeal to you! not for pecuniary aid, which you will pardon me if i say i could not receive from any one, but for such advice and assistance as your wisdom and benevolence could afford me, in finding me some honest way of earning my bread. feeling assured that your great goodness will not cast this poor note aside unnoticed, i shall wait and hope to hear from you, and, in the meanwhile, remain, your humble and obedient servant, rose stillwater. "that is what i call a very pathetic appeal, cora. she is a widow, poor child! not such a widow as you are, cora rothsay, with wealth, friends, and position! she is a widow, indeed! homeless, friendless, penniless--about to be cast forth into the streets! my dear, i got this letter this morning. i answered it within an hour after its reception! i invited her to come here as our guest, immediately, and to remain as long as she should feel inclined to stay--certainly until we could settle upon some plan of life for her future. i sent a check to pay her traveling expenses to north end, where i shall send the carriage to meet her. you will, therefore, cora, have a comfortable room prepared for mrs. stillwater. i think she may be with us as early as to-morrow evening," said the iron king. and he arose and strode out of the parlor, leaving his granddaughter confounded. rose stillwater the widow of a year's standing! rose stillwater coming to rockhold as the guest of her aged and widowed grandfather! what a condition of things! what would be the outcome of this event? cora shrank from conjecturing. she felt that there had been two factors in bringing about the situation: first, the death of her grandmother; second, the marriage of her uncle fabian. the field was thus left open for the operations of this scheming adventuress and siren. cora had been so dismayed at the communication of her grandfather that she had scarcely answered him with a word. but he had been too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts and plans to notice her silence and reserve. he had expressed his wishes, given his orders, and gone out. that was all. what could cora do? nothing at all. too well she knew the unbending nature of the iron king to delude herself for a moment with the idea that any opposition, argument, or expostulation from her would have so much as a feather's weight with the despotic old man. if he had asked mrs. stillwater to rockhold under present circumstances, mrs. stillwater would come, and he would have her there just as long as he pleased. cora was at her wits' end. she resolved to write at once to her uncle fabian. surely he must know the true character of this woman, and he must have broken off his very questionable acquaintance with her before marrying violet wood. surely he would not allow his father to be so dangerously deceived in the person he had invited to his house--to the society of his granddaughter. he would unmask her, even though in doing so he should expose himself. she would also write to sylvan, who from the very first had disliked and distrusted "the rose that all admire." and she thanked heaven that cadet haught would graduate at the next exhibition at west point and come home on leave for the midsummer holidays. while waiting answers from the two absent men she would consult her uncle clarence. truth to tell, she had but little hope of help in this affair from her younger uncle. mr. clarence was so far from thinking evil of any one. he was so loath to give pain or have any disturbance in the domestic circle. he would be sure to feel compassion for rose stillwater. he would be sure to recall her pretty, helpful, pleasant ways, and the comfort both his father and his mother used to take in her playful manners and affectionate ministration. mr. clarence was much too benevolent to wish to interfere with any arrangement that was likely to make the house pleasant and cheerful to his aged father, and give a comfortable home and support to a desolate young widow. and that the iron king should ever be seriously taken in by the beautiful and bewitching creature he would never believe. yet cora knew from all past experience that rose stillwater was more esteemed by old aaron rockharrt and had more influence over him than any living creature. strange that a man so hard headed as the iron king, and so clear brained on all occasions when not blinded by his egotism, should allow himself to be so deceived in any one as he was in rose stillwater. but, then, she knew how to flatter this egotism. she was beautiful and attractive in person, meek and submissive in manner, complimentary and caressing in words and tones. cora asked herself whether it would be right, proper, or expedient for her to give information of that secret interview between mr. fabian and mrs. stillwater, to which she herself had been an accidental and most unwilling witness, on that warm night in september, in the hotel parlor at baltimore. she could not refer to it in her intended letter to her uncle fabian. to do so would be useless and humiliating, if not very offensive. her uncle fabian knew much more about that interview than she could tell him, and would be very much mortified and very indignant to learn that she knew anything of it. he might accuse her of being a spy and an eavesdropper, or he might deny and discredit her story altogether. no. no good could come of referring to that interview in her letter to her uncle fabian. she would merely mention to him the fact that mrs. stillwater had written to mr. rockharrt an appealing letter declaring herself to be widowed and destitute, and asking for advice and assistance in procuring employment; and that he had replied by inviting her to rockhold for an indefinite period, and sent her a check to pay her traveling expenses. she would tell mr. fabian this as a mere item of news, expressing no opinion and taking no responsibility, but leaving her uncle to act as he might think proper. she could not tell her brother sylvan of that secret interview, for she was sure that he would act with haste and indiscretion. nor could she tell her uncle clarence, who would only find himself distressed and incapable under the emergency. least of all could she tell her grandfather, and make an everlasting breach between himself and his son fabian. no. she could tell no one of that secret interview to which she had been a chance witness--a shocked witness--but which she only half understood, and which, perhaps, did not mean all that she had feared and suspected. on that subject she must hold her peace, and only let the absent members of the family know of mrs. stillwater's intended visit as an item of domestic news, and leave any or all of them to act upon their own responsibility unbiased by any word from her. cora's position was a very delicate and embarrassing one. she did not believe that this former nursery governess of hers was or ever had been a proper companion for her. she herself--cora rothsay--was now a widow with an independent income, and was at liberty to choose her own companions and make her home wherever she might choose. but how could she leave her aged and widowed grandfather, who had no other daughter or granddaughter, or any other woman relative to keep house for him? and yet how could she associate daily with a woman whose presence she felt to be a degradation? as we have seen, she knew and felt that it would be vain to oppose her grandfather's wish to have mrs. stillwater in the house, especially as he had already invited her and sent her the money to come--unless she should tell him of that secret interview she had witnessed between mr. fabian and mrs. stillwater. that, indeed, might banish rose from rockhold, but it would also bring down a domestic cataclysm that must break up the household and separate its members. no, she could say nothing, do nothing that would not make matters worse. she must let events take their course, bide her time and hope for the best, she said to herself, as she arose and rang the bell. john, the footman, answered the call. "it is martha whom i want. send her here," said the lady. the man went out and the upper housemaid came in. "you wanted me, ma'am?" "yes. do you remember the room occupied by my nursery governess years ago?" "yes, ma'am; the front room on the left side of the hall on the third story." "yes; that is the room. have it prepared for the same person. she will be here to-morrow evening." "good--lord!" involuntarily exclaimed old martha; "why, we haven't heard of her for a dozen years. what a sweet creeter she was, though, miss cora. i thought as she'd a married a fortin' long ago." "she has been married and widowed. at least she says so." "a widow, poor thing! and is she comin' to be a companion or anything?" "she is coming as a guest." "oh! very well, miss cora; i will have the room ready in time." when the old woman had left the room cora sat down to her writing desk and wrote two letters--one to mr. fabian rockharrt, hotel trois freres, paris; the other to cadet sylvanus haught, west point, n.y. when she had finished and sealed these she put them in the mail bag that was left in the hall to be taken at daybreak by the groom to north end post office. then she retired to rest. the next morning she breakfasted tete-a-tete with her grandfather, mr. clarence having remained over night at north end. while they were still at the table the man john entered with a telegram, which he laid on the table before his master. "who brought this?" inquired the iron king, as he opened it. "joseph brought it when he came back from the post office. it had just come, and mr. clarence gave it to joseph to fetch to you, sir. yes, sir!" replied john. "it is from mrs. stillwater. that lady is a perfect model of promptitude and punctuality. she says--but i had better read it to you. john, you need not wait," said mr. rockharrt. the negro, who had lingered from curiosity to hear what was in the telegram, immediately retired. old aaron rockharrt took up the long slip, adjusted his spectacles and read: wirt house, baltimore, md., may th, -- a thousand heartfelt thanks for your princely munificence and hospitality. i avail myself of both gladly and at once. i shall leave baltimore by the : a.m., and arrive at the north end station at : p.m. "that is her message. now i wish you to have everything in readiness for her. i shall go in person to the depot and bring her home with me when i return in the evening. of course it will be two hours later than usual when i get back here. you will, therefore, have the dinner put back until nine o'clock on this occasion." cora bowed. she could scarcely trust her voice to answer in words. mr. rockharrt, absorbed in his own thoughts and plans, never noticed her coldness and silence. he soon finished breakfast, left the table, and a few minutes later entered his carriage to drive to north end. "'pears to me old marse is jes' wonderful, miss cora. to go to his business every day like clock work, and he 'bout seventy-seven years old. and jes' as straight and strong as a pine tree! yes, and as hard as a pine knot! he's wonderful, that he is!" said old jason, the gray haired negro butler, when he came in from seeing his master off and began to clear away the breakfast service. "yes; your master is a fine, strong man, jason--physically," replied cora, who was beginning to doubt the mental soundness of her grandfather! "physicking! no, indeed! 'tain't that as makes the old g'eman so strong. he nebber would take no physic in all his life. it's consternation, that's w'at it is--his good, healthy consternation!" "very likely!" replied cora, who was too much disturbed to set the old man right. she left the breakfast parlor, and went up stairs to superintend in person the preparation for the comfort of the expected guest. chapter xii. the siren and the despot. that may night was clear and cool. the sky was brilliant with stars, sparkling and flashing from the pure, dark blue empyrean. in the house it was chilly, so cora had caused fires to be built in all the grates. the drawing room at rockhold presented a very attractive appearance, with its three chandeliers of lighted wax candles, its cheerful fire of sea coal, its warm crimson and gold coloring of carpets and curtains, and its luxurious easy chairs, sofas and ottomans, its choice pictures, books, bronzes and so forth. in the small dining room the table was set for dinner, in the best spare room all was prepared for its expected occupant. cora, in her widow's cap and dress, sat in an arm chair before the drawing room fire, awaiting the arrival. half past eight had been the hour named by her grandfather for their coming. but a few minutes after the clock had struck, the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the avenue approaching the house. old jason opened the hall door just as the vehicle drew up and stopped. mr. rockharrt alighted and then gave his hand to his companion, who tripped lightly to the pavement, and let him lead her up stairs and into the house. cora stood at the door of the drawing room. mr. rockharrt led his visitor up to his granddaughter, and said: "mrs. stillwater is very much fatigued, cora. take her at once to her room and make her comfortable; and have dinner on the table by the time she is ready to come down." he uttered these words in a peremptory manner, without waiting for the usual greeting that should have passed between the hostess and the visitor. cora touched a bell. "oh! let me embrace my sweet cora first of all! ah! my sweet child! you and i both widowed since the last time we met!" cooed rose, in her most dulcet tones, as she drew cora to her bosom and kissed her before the latter could draw back. "how do you do?" was the formal greeting that fell from the lady's lips. "as you see, dearest--'not happy, but resigned,'" plaintively replied the widow. "you quote from a king's minion, i think," said cora, coldly. rose took no notice of the criticism, but tenderly inquired. "and you, dearest one? how is it with you?" "i am very well, thank you," replied the lady. "after such a terrible trial! but you always possessed a heroic spirit." "we will not speak of that, mrs. stillwater, if you please," was the grave reply. mr. rockharrt looked around, as well as he could while old jason was drawing off his spring overcoat, and said: "take mrs. stillwater to her room, cora. don't keep her standing here." "i have rung for a servant, who will attend to mrs. stillwater's needs," replied the lady, quietly. the iron king turned and stared at his granddaughter angrily, but said nothing. the housemaid came up at this moment. "martha, show mrs. stillwater to the chamber prepared for her, and wait her orders there." the negro woman wiped her clean hand on her clean apron--as a mere useless form--and then held it out to the visitor, saying, with the scorn of conventionality and the freedom of an old family servant: "how do miss rose! 'deed i's mighty proud to see you ag'in--'deed i is! how much you has growed! i mean, how han'some you has growed! you allers was han'some, but now you's han'somer'n ever! 'deed, honey, you's mons'ous han'some!" this hearty welcome and warm admiration, though only from the negro servant, helped to relieve the embarrassment of the visitor, who felt the chill of cora's cold reception. "thank you, aunt martha," she said, and followed the woman up stairs. "why did you not attend mrs. stillwater to her room?" sternly demanded the iron king, fixing his eyes severely on his granddaughter, as soon as the visitor was out of hearing. "it is not usual to do anything of the sort, sir, except in the case of the guest being a very distinguished person or a very dear friend. my ex-governess is neither. she shall, however, be treated with all due respect by me so long as she remains under your roof," quietly replied cora. "you had best see to it that she is," retorted the iron king, as he stalked up stairs to his own room, followed by his valet. cora returned to the drawing room, and seated herself in her arm chair, and put her feet upon her foot-stool, and leaned back, to appearance quite composed, but in reality very much perturbed. had she acted well in her manner to her grandfather's guest? she did not know. she could not, therefore, feel at ease. she certainly did not treat mrs. stillwater with rudeness or hauteur; she was quite incapable of doing so; yet, on the other hand, neither had she treated her ex-governess with kindness or courtesy. she had been calm and cold in her reception of the visitor; that was all. but was she right? after all, she knew no positive evil of the woman. she had only strong circumstantial evidence of her unworthiness. she recalled an old saying of her father's: "better trust a hundred rogues than distrust one honest man." yet all cora's instincts warned her not to trust rose stillwater. after all, she could do nothing--at least at present. she would wait the developments of time, and then, perhaps, be able to see her duty more clearly. meanwhile, for family peace and good feeling, she would be civil to rose stillwater. half an hour passed, and her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the guest. mrs. stillwater seemed determined not to understand coldness or to take offense. she came in, drew her chair to the fire, and spread out her pretty hands over its glow, cooing her delight to be with dear friends again. "oh, darling cora," she purred, "you do not know--you cannot even fancy--the ineffable sense of repose i feel in being here, after all the turbulence of the past year. you read my letter to your dearest grandfather?" "yes," answered mrs. rothsay. "from that you must have seen to what straits i was reduced. think! after having sold everything i possessed in the world--even all my clothing, except two changes for necessary cleanliness--to pay my board; after trying in every direction to get honest work to do; i was in daily fear of being told to leave the hotel because i could not pay my board." "that was very sad! but was it not very expensive--for you--living at the wirt house? would it not have been better, under your circumstances, to have taken cheaper board?" "perhaps so, dear; but captain stillwater had always made his home at the wirt house when his ship was in port, and had always left me there when his ship sailed, so that i felt at home in the house, you see." "yes, i see," said mrs. rothsay. "oh, my fondly cherished darling--you, loved, sheltered, caressed--you, rich, admired, and flattered--cannot understand or appreciate the trials and sufferings of a poor woman in my position and circumstances. think, darling, of my condition in that city, where i was homeless, friendless, penniless, in daily fear of being sent from the house for inability to pay my board!" "i am sorry to hear all this," said cora. and then she was prompted to add: "but where was mr. fabian rockharrt? he was your earliest friend. he first introduced you to my grandfather. he never lost sight of you after you left us, but corresponded with you frequently, and gave us news of you from time to time. surely, mrs. stillwater, had he known your straits, he would have found some way of setting you up in some business. he never would have allowed you to suffer privation and anxiety for a whole year." while cora spoke she fixed her eyes on the face of her listener. but rose stillwater was always perfect mistress of herself. without the slightest change in countenance or voice, she answered sweetly: "why, dear love, of course i did write to mr. fabian first of all, and told him of the death of my dear husband, and asked him if he could help me to get another situation as primary teacher in a school or as a nursery governess." "and he did not respond?" "oh, yes; indeed he did. he replied very promptly, writing that he had a situation in view for me which would be better suited to my needs than any i had ever filled, and that he should come to baltimore to explain and consult with me." "well?" "the next day, dear, he came, and--i hate to betray his confidence and tell you." "then do not, i beg you." "but--i hate more to keep a secret from you. in short, he asked me to marry him." "what!" exclaimed cora, in surprise and incredulity. "yes, my love; that was what he had to explain. the position of his wife was the situation he had to offer me, and which he thought would suit me better than any other i had ever filled." "when was this proposal made?" "about five months ago, and about seven months after the death of my dear husband. he said that he would be willing to wait until the year of mourning should be over." "oh, that was considerate of him." "but i was still heart-broken for the loss of my dear husband. i could not think of another marriage at any time, however distant. i told him so. i told him how much i esteemed and respected him and even loved him as a dear friend, but that i could not be faithless to the memory of my adored husband. i was very sorry; for he was very angry. he called me cold, silly and even ungrateful, so to reject his hand. i began to think that it was selfish and thankless in me to disappoint so good a friend, but i could not help it, loving the memory of my sainted husband as i did. i was grieved to hurt mr. fabian, though." "i do not think he was seriously injured. at least i am sure that his wounds healed rapidly; for in a very few weeks afterward he proposed to miss violet wood, and was accepted by her. they were married on the fourteenth day of february, and sailed for europe the next day," said mrs. rothsay. "yes; i know. disappointed men do such desperate deeds; commit suicide or marry for revenge. poor, dear girl!" murmured rose stillwater, with a deep sigh. "why poor, dear girl?" inquired cora. "oh, you know, she caught his heart in the rebound, and she will not keep it. but let us talk of something else, dear. oh, i am so happy here. so free from fear and trouble and anxiety. oh, what ineffable peace, rest, safety i enjoy here. no one will pain me by presenting a bill that i cannot pay, or frighten me by telling me that my room will be wanted for some one else. oh, how i thank you, cora. and how i thank your honored grandfather for this city of refuge, even for a few days." "you owe no thanks to me," replied cora. "a thousand thanks, my darling!" said rose, and hearing the heavy footsteps of the iron king in the hail, she added--as if she heard them not: "and as for mr. rockharrt, that noble, large brained, great hearted man, i have no words to express the gratitude, the reverence, the adoration with which his magnanimous character and munificent benevolence inspires me. he is of all men the most--" but here she seemed first to have caught sight of the iron king, who was standing in the door, and who had heard every word of adulation that she had spoken. "cora, is not dinner ready?" he inquired, coming forward. "yes, sir; only waiting for you," answered the lady, touching a bell. the gray haired butler came to the call. "put dinner on the table," ordered mr. rockharrt. the old butler bowed and disappeared; and after awhile reappeared and announced: "dinner served, sir." mr. rockharrt gave his arm to mrs. stillwater, to take her to the table. "will not my uncle clarence be home this evening?" inquired cora, as the three took their seats. "no; he will not be home before saturday night. since fabian went away there has been twice as much supervision over the foremen and bookkeepers needed there, and clarence is very busy over the accounts, working night and day," replied the iron king, as he took a plate of soup from the hands of the butler and passed it to mrs. stillwater, who received it with the beaming smile that she always bestowed on the iron king. she was the life of the little party. if she was a broken hearted widow, she did not show it there. she smiled, gleamed, glowed, sparkled in countenance and words. the moody iron king was cheered and exhilarated, and said, as he filled her glass for the first time with tokay, "though you do not need wine to stimulate you, my child. you are full of joyous life and spirits." "oh, sir, pardon me. perhaps i ought to control myself; but i am so happy to be here through your great goodness; so free from care and fear; so full of peace and joy; so safe, so sheltered! i feel like a storm beaten bird who has found a nest, or a lost child who has found a home, and i forget all my losses and all my sorrows and give myself up to delight. pardon me, sir; i know i ought to be calmer." "not at all, not at all, my child! i am glad to see you so gay. i approve of you. you have suffered more than either of us, for you have not only lost your life's companion, but home, fortune, and all your living. my granddaughter here, as you may see, is a monument of morbid, selfish sorrow, which she will not try to throw off even for my sake. but you will brighten us all." "i wish i might; oh, how i wish i might! it seems to me it is easy to be happy if one has only a safe home and a good friend," said rose. "and those you shall always have in me and in my house, my child," said the iron king. cora listened in pure amazement. her grandfather sympathetic! her grandfather giving praise and quoting poetry! what was the matter with him? not softening of the heart; he had never possessed such a commodity. was it softening of the brain, then? as soon as they had finished dinner and returned to the drawing room, the iron king said to his guest: "now, my child, i shall send you off to bed. you have had a very long and fatiguing journey and must have a good, long night's sleep." and with his own hands he lighted a wax taper and gave it to her. rose received it with a grateful smile, bade a sweet toned good night to mr. rockharrt and mrs. rothsay, and went tripping out of the room. "i shall say good night, too, cora; i am tired. but let me say this before i go: do you try to take pattern by that admirable child. see how she tries to make the best of everything and to be pleasant under all her sorrows. you have not had half her troubles, and yet you will not try to get over your own. imitate that poor child, cora." "'child,' my dear grandfather! do you forget that mrs. stillwater is a widow thirty-six years old?" inquired cora. "'thirty-six.' i had not thought of it, and yet of course i knew it. well, so much the better. yet child she is compared to me, and child she is in her perfect trust, her innocent faith, her meekness, candor and simplicity, and the delightful abandon with which she gives herself to the enjoyment of the passing hour. this will be a brighter house for the presence of rose stillwater in it," said the iron king, as he took up his taper and rang for his valet and left the room. cora sat a long time in meditation before she arose and followed his example. when she entered her chamber, she was surprised and annoyed to find rose stillwater there, seated in the arm chair before the fire. old martha was turning down the bed for the night. "cora, love, it is not yet eleven o'clock, though the dear master did send us off to bed. but i wanted to speak to you, darling cora, just a few words, dear, before we part for the night; so when i met my old friend, aunt martha, in the hall, i asked her to show me which was your room, so i could come to you when you should come up; but aunt martha told me she was on the way to your room to prepare your bed for the night, and she would bring me here to sit down and wait for you. so here i am, dear cora." "you wished to speak to me, you say?" inquired mrs. rothsay, drawing another chair and seating herself before the fire. "yes, darling; only to say this, love, that i have not come here to sponge upon your kindness. i will be no drone. i wish to be useful to you, cora. now you are far away from all milliners and dress makers and seamstresses, and i am very skillful with my needle and can do everything you might wish to have done in that line--i mean in the way of trimming and altering bonnets or dresses. i do not think i could cut and fit." "mrs. stillwater," interrupted cora, "you are our guest, and you must not think of such a plan as you suggest." "oh, my dear cora, do not speak to me as if i were only company. i, your old governess! do not make a stranger of me. let me be as one of the family. let me be useful to you and to your dear grandfather. then i shall feel at home; then i shall be happy," pleaded rose. "but, mrs. stillwater, we have not been accustomed to set our guests to work. the idea is preposterous," said the inexorable cora. "oh, my dear, do not treat me as a guest. treat me as you did when i was your governess. make me useful; will you not, dear cora?" "you are very kind, but i would rather not trouble you." "ah, i see; you are tired and sleepy. i will not keep you up, but i must make myself useful to you in some way. well, good night, dear," said the widow, as she stooped and kissed her hostess. then she left the room. chapter xxiii. the spell works. rose stillwater was very near overdoing her part. she rose early the next morning and came down in the drawing room before any of the family had put in an appearance. she had scarcely seated herself before the bright little sea coal fire that the chilly spring morning rendered very acceptable, if not really necessary, when she heard the heavy, measured footsteps of the master of the house coming down the stairs. then she rose impulsively as if in a flutter of delight to go and meet him; but checked herself and sat down and waited for him to come in. "how heavily the old ogre walks! his step would shake the house, if it could be shaken. he comes like the statue of the commander in the opera." she listened, but his footsteps died away on the soft, deep carpet of the library into which he passed. "ah! he does not know that i am down!" she said to herself, complacently, as she settled back in her chair. cora came in and greeted rose with ceremonious politeness, having resolved, at length, to treat mrs. stillwater as an honored guest, not as a cherished friend or member of the household. "good morning, mrs. stillwater. i hope you have had a good night's rest and feel refreshed after your journey," she said. rose responded effusively: "ah, good morning, dear love! yes; thank you, darling, a lovely night's rest, undisturbed by the thoughts of debts and duns and a doubtful future. i slept so deeply and sweetly through the night that i woke quite early this morning. the birds were in full song. you must have millions of birds here! and the subtile, penetrating fragrance of the hyacinths came into the window as soon as i opened it. how i love the early spring flowers that come to us almost through the winter snows and before we have done with fires." cora did not reply to this rhapsody. then rose inquired: "does your grandfather go regularly to look after the works as he used to do?" "mr. rockharrt drives to north end every day," replied cora. "it is amazing, at his age," said rose. "some acute observer has said that 'age is a movable feast.' age, no more than death, is a respecter of persons or of periods. men grow old, as they die, at any age. some grow old at fifty, others not before they are a hundred. i think mr. rockharrt belongs to the latter class." "i am sure he does." cora did not confirm this statement. rose made another venture in conversation: "so both the gentlemen go every day to the works?" "mr. rockharrt goes every day. mr. clarence usually remains there from monday morning until saturday evening." "at the works?" "yes; or at the hotel, where he has a suite of rooms which he occupies occasionally." "dear me! so you have been alone here all day long, every day but sunday! and now i have come to keep you company, darling! you shall not feel lonely any longer. and--what was that mary queen of scots said to her lady hostess on the night she passed at the castle in her sad progress from one prison to another: "'we two widows, having no husbands to trouble us, may agree very well,' or words to that effect. so, darling, you and i, having no husbands to trouble us, may also agree very well. shall we not?" "i cannot speak so lightly on so grave a subject, mrs. stillwater," said cora. old mr. rockharrt came in. "good morning, cora! good morning, mrs. stillwater! i hope you feel quite rested from your journey." "oh, quite, thank you! and when i woke up this morning, i was so surprised and delighted to find myself safe at home! ah! i beg pardon! but i spent so many years in this dear old house, the happiest years of my life, that i always think of it as home, the only home i ever had in all my life," said rose, pathetically, while tears glistened in her soft blue eyes. "you poor child! well, there is no reason why you should ever leave this haven again. my granddaughter needs just such a bright companion as you are sure to be. and who so fitting a one as her first young governess?" "oh, sir, you are so good to me! may heaven reward you! but mrs. rothsay?" she said, with an appealing glance toward cora. "i do not need a companion; if i did, i should advertise for one. the position of companion is also a half menial one, which i should never associate with the name of mrs. stillwater, who is our guest," replied cora, with cold politeness. "you see, my dear ex-pupil will not let me serve her in any capacity," said rose, with a piteous glance toward the iron king. "you have both misunderstood me," he answered, with a severe glance toward his granddaughter, "i never thought of you as a companion to mrs. rothsay, in the professional sense of that word, but in the sense in which daughters of the same house are companions to each other." "i should not shrink from any service to my dear cora," said rose stillwater, and she was about to add--"nor to you, sir," but she thought it best not to say it, and refrained. when breakfast was over, and the rockhold carriage was at the door to convey the iron king to north end, the old autocrat arose from the table and strode into the hall, calling for his valet to come and help him on with his light overcoat. "let me! let me! oh, do please let me?" exclaimed rose, jumping up and following him. "do you remember the last time i put on your overcoat? it was on that morning in baltimore, years ago, when we parted at the monument house; you to go to the depot to take the cars for this place, i to remain in the city to await the arrival of my husband's ship? nine years ago! there, now! have i not done it as well as your valet could?" she prattled, as she deftly assisted him. "better, my child, much better! you are not rough; your hands are dainty as well as strong. thank you, child," said mr. rockharrt, settling himself with a jerk or two into his spring overcoat. "oh, do let me perform these little services for you always! it will make me feel so happy!" "but it will give you trouble." "oh, indeed, no! not the least! it will give me only pleasure." "you are a very good child, but i will not tax you. good morning! i must be off," said mr. rockharrt, shaking hands with rose, and then hurrying out to get into his carriage. rose stood in the door looking after him, until the brougham rolled away out of sight. at luncheon rose stillwater seemed so determined to be pleasant that it was next to impossible for cora rothsay to keep up the formal demeanor she had laid out for herself. "it is very lonely for you here, my dear. how soon does your grandfather usually return? i know he must have been later than usual last night, because he had to go to the depot to meet me," rose said. "mr. rockharrt usually returns at six o'clock. we have dinner at half-past," replied cora. "and this is two! four hours and a half yet!" "the afternoon is very fine. will you take a walk with me in the garden?" inquired cora, as they left the dining room, feeling some compunction for the persistent coldness with which she had treated her most gentle and obliging guest. "oh, thank you very much, dear. with the greatest pleasure! it will be just like old times, when we used to walk in the garden together, you a little child holding on to my hand. and now--but we won't talk of that," said rose. and she fled up stairs to get her hat and shawl. and the two women sauntered for half an hour among the early roses and spring flowers in the beautiful rockhold garden. then they came in and went to the library together and looked over the new magazines. presently cora said: "we all use the library in common to write our letters in. if you have letters to write, you will find every convenience in either of those side tables at the windows." "yes. just as it used to be in the old times when i was so happy here! when the dear old lady was here! ah, me! but i will not think of that. she is in heaven, as sure as there is a heaven for angels such as she, and we must not grieve for the sainted ones. but i have no letters to write, dear. i have no correspondents in all the world. indeed, dear cora, i have no friend in the world outside of this house," said rose, with a little sigh that touched cora's heart, compelling her to sympathize with this lonely creature, even against her better judgment. "is not mr. fabian friendly toward you?" inquired cora, from mixed motives--of half pity, half irony. "fabian?" sweetly replied rose. "no, dear. i lost the friendship of mr. fabian rockharrt when i declined his offer of marriage. you refuse a man, and so wound his vanity; and though you may never have given him the least encouragement to propose to you, and though he has not the shadow of a reason to believe that you will accept yet will he take great offense, and perhaps become your mortal enemy," sighed rose. "but i think uncle fabian is too good natured for that sort of malice." "i don't know, dear. i have never seen him since he left me in anger on the day i begged off from marrying him. really, darling, it was more like begging off than refusing." but little more was said on the subject, and presently afterward the two went up stairs to dress for dinner. punctually at six o'clock mr. rockharrt returned. and the evening passed as on the preceding day, with this addition to its attractions: mrs. stillwater went to the piano and played and sang many of mr. rockharrt's favorite songs--the old fashioned songs of his youth--tom moore's irish melodies, robert burns' scotch ballads, and a miscellaneous assortment of english ditties--all of which were before rose's time, but which she had learned from old mrs. rockharrt's ancient music books during her first residence at rockhold, that she might please the iron king by singing them. surely the siren left nothing untried to please her patron and benefactor. when he complained of fatigue and bade the two women good night, she started and lighted his wax candle and gave it to him. the next day she was on hand to help him on with his great coat, and to hand him his gloves and hat, and he thanked her with a smile. so went on life at rockhold all the week. on saturday evening mr. clarence came home with his father and greeted rose stillwater with the kindly courtesy that was habitual with him. there were four at the dinner table. and rose, having so excellent a coadjutor in the younger rockharrt, was even gayer and more chatty than ever, making the meal a lively and cheerful one even for moody aaron rockharrt and sorrowful cora rothsay. after dinner, when the party had gone into the drawing room, mrs. stillwater said: "here are just four of us. just enough for a game at whist. shall we have a rubber, mr. rockharrt?" "yes, my child! certainly, with all my heart! i thank you for the suggestion! i have not had a game of whist since we left the city. ah, my child, we have had very stupid evenings here at home until you came and brought some life into the house. clarence, draw out the card table. cora, go and find the cards." "let me! let me! please let me!" exclaimed rose, starting up with childish eagerness. "where are the cards, cora, dear?" "they are in the drawer of the card table. you need not stir to find them, thank you, mrs. stillwater." "no; here they are all ready," said mr. clarence, who had drawn the table up before the fire and taken the pack of cards from the drawer. the party of four sat down for the game. "we must cut for partners," said mr. rockharrt, shuffling the cards and then handing them to mrs. stillwater for the first cut. "the highest and the two lowest to be partners?" inquired rose, as she lifted half the pack. "of course, that is the rule." each person cut in turn, and fortune favored mrs. stillwater to mr. clarence, and cora to mr. rockharrt. then they cut for deal, and fortune favored mr. rockharrt. the cards were dealt around. rose stillwater had an excellent hand, and she knew by the pleased looks of her partner, mr. clarence, that he also had a good one; and by the annoyed expression of mr. rockharrt's face that he had a bad one. cora's countenance was as the sphnix's; she was too sadly preoccupied to care for this game. however, rose determined that she would play into the hand of her antagonist and not into that of her partner. pursuing this policy, she watched mr. rockharrt's play, always returned his lead, and when her attention was called to the error, she would flush, exhibit a lovely childlike embarrassment, declare that she was no whist player at all, and beg to be forgiven; and the very next moment she would trump her partner's trick, or purposely commit some other blunder that would be sure to give the trick to mr. rockharrt. mr. clarence was the soul of good humor, but it was provoking to have his own "splendid" hand so ruined by the bad play of his partner that their antagonists, with such very poor hands, actually won the odd trick. in the next deal rose got a "miserable" hand; so did her partner, as she discovered by his looks, while mr. rockharrt must have had a magnificent hand, to judge from his triumphant expression of countenance. rose could, therefore, now afford to redeem her place in the esteem of her partner by playing her very best, without the slightest danger of taking a single trick. to be brief, through rose's management mr. rockharrt and cora won the rubber, and the iron king rose from the card table exultant, for what old whist player is not pleased with winning the rubber? "my child," he said to rose stillwater, "this is altogether the pleasantest evening that we have passed since we left the city, and all through you bringing life and activity among us! i do not think we can ever afford to let you go." "oh, sir! you are too good. would to heaven that i might find some place in your household akin to that which i once filled during the happiest years of my life, when i lived here as your dear granddaughter's governess," said rose stillwater, with a sigh and a smile. "you shall never leave us again with my consent. ah, we have had a very pleasant evening. what do you think, clarence?" "very pleasant for the winners, sir," replied the young man, with a good humored laugh, as he lighted his bed room candle and bade them all good night. soon after the little party separated and retired for the night. as time passed, rose stillwater continued to make herself more and more useful to her host and benefactor. she enlivened his table and his evenings at home by her cheerful conversation, her music and her games. she waited on him hand and foot, helped him on and off with his wraps when he went out or came in; warmed his slippers, filled his pipe, dried his newspapers, served him in innumerable little ways with a childlike eagerness and delight that was as the incense of frankincense and myrrh to the nostrils of the egotist. and he praised her and held her up as a model to his granddaughter. rose stillwater was a proper young woman, a model young woman, all indeed that a woman should be. he had never seen one to approach her status in all his long life. she was certainly the most excellent of her sex. he did not know what in this gloomy house they could ever do without her. such was the burden of his talk to cora. mrs. rothsay gave but cold assent to all this. she had too much reverence for the fifth commandment to tell her grandfather what she thought of the situation--that rose stillwater was making a notable fool of him, either for the sake of keeping a comfortable home, or gaining a place in his will, or of something greater still which would include all the rest. she tried to treat the woman with cold civility. but how could she persevere in such a course of conduct toward a beautiful blue eyed angel who was always eager to please, anxious to serve? cora felt that this woman was a fraud, yet when she met her lovely, candid, heaven blue eyes she could not believe in her own intuitions. cora, like some few unenvious women, was often affected by other women's beauty. the childlike loveliness of her quondam teacher really touched her heart. so she could not at all times maintain the dignified reserve that she wished toward rose stillwater. meantime the day approached when it was decided that they should all go to west point to the commencement, at which cadet sylvan haught was expected to graduate. mr. rockharrt had invited mrs. stillwater to be of their party, and insisted upon her accompanying them. rose demurred. she even ventured to hint that mrs. rothsay might not like her to go with them; whereupon the iron king gathered his brow so darkly and fearfully, and said so sternly: "she had better not dislike it," that rose hastened to say that it was only her own secret misgiving, and that no part of mrs. rothsay's demeanor had led her to such a supposition. and she resolved never again to drop a hint of her hostess' too evident suspicion of herself to the family autocrat, for it was the last mistake that mrs. stillwater could possibly wish to make--to kindle anger between grandfather and granddaughter. her policy was to forbear, to be patient, to conciliate, and to bide her time. "cora," said the iron king, abruptly, to his granddaughter, at the breakfast table, on the morning after this conversation, and in the presence of their guest, "do you object to mrs. stillwater joining our traveling party to west point?" "certainly not, sir. what right have i to object to any one whom you might please to invite?" "no right whatever. and i am glad that you understand that," replied mr. rockharrt. rose was trembling for fear that her benefactor would betray her as the suggester of the question, but he did not. cora had received no letter from her uncle fabian in answer to hers announcing the fact of mrs. stillwater's presence at rockhold. mr. fabian wrote no letters, except business ones to the firm, and these were opened at the office of the works, and never brought to rockhold. if cora should ever inquire of her grandfather whether he had heard from mr. and mrs. fabian rockharrt, his answer would be brief-- "yes; they are both well. they are at paris. they are at berne. they are at aix," or wherever the tourists might then chance to be. sylvan was a better correspondent. he answered her letters promptly. his comments on the visit of rose stillwater were characteristic of the boy. "so you have got the rose 'that all admire' transplanted to the conservatories of rockhold. wish you joy of her. she is a rose without a single thorn, and with a deadly sweet aroma. mind what i told you long ago. it contains the wisdom of ages. 'stillwater runs deep.' mind it does not draw in and submerge the peace and honor of rockhold. i shall see you at the exhibition, when we can talk more freely over this complication. if mrs. stillwater is to remain as a permanent guest at rockhold, i shall ask my sister to join me wherever i may be ordered, after my leave of absence has expired. you see i fully calculate on receiving my commission." cora looked forward anxiously to this meeting with her brother. only the thought of seeing him a little sooner than she should otherwise have done could reconcile her to the proposed trip to west point, where she must be surrounded by all the gayeties of the military academy at its annual exercises. cora had yielded to her grandfather's despotic will in going a little into society while they occupied their town house in the state capital. but she took no pleasure--not the least pleasure--in this. to her wounded heart and broken spirit the world's wealth was dross and its honors--vapor! the only life worth living she had lost, or had recklessly thrown away. her soul turned, sickened, from all on earth, to seek her lost love through the unknown, invisible spheres. she still wore around her neck the thin gold chain, and suspended from it, resting on her bosom, the precious little black silk bag that contained the last tender, loving, forgiving, encouraging letter that he had written to her on the night of his great renunciation for her sake, when he had left all his hard won honors and dignities, and gone forth in loneliness and poverty to the wilderness and to martyrdom. oh, she felt she was never worthy of such a love as that; the love that had toiled for her through long years; the love that had died for her at last; the love that she had never recognized, never appreciated; the love of a great hearted man, whom she had never truly seen until he was lost to her forever. so long as he had lived on earth cora had cherished a hope to meet him, "sometime, somehow, somewhere." but now he had left this planet. oh! where in the lord's universe was he? in what immeasurably distant sphere? oh! that her spirit could reach him where he lived! oh, that she could cause him to hear her cry--her deep cry of repentance and anguish! but no; he never heard her; he never came near her in spirit, even in her dreams, as the departed are sometimes said to come and comfort the loved ones left on earth. during these moods of dark despair cora was so gloomy and reserved that she seemed to treat her unwelcome guest worse than ever, when, in truth, she was not even seeing or thinking of the intruder. the iron king, however, noticed his granddaughter's coldness and reserve, and he deeply resented it. one very rainy, dismal sunday they were all at home and in the drawing room. cora had sat for hours in silence, or replying to mrs. stillwater's frequent attempts to draw her into conversation in brief monosyllables, until at last the visitor arose and left the room, not hurt or offended, as mr. rockharrt supposed, but simply tired of staying so long in one place. but the iron king turned on his granddaughter and demanded: "corona rothsay! why do you treat our visitor with such unladylike rudeness?" cora, brought roughly out of her sad reverie, gazed at the old man vaguely. she scarcely heard his question, and certainly did not understand it. "father," ventured mr. clarence, "i do not believe cora could treat any one with rudeness, and surely she could never be unladylike. but you see she is absent-minded." "hold your tongue, sir! how dare you interfere?" sternly exclaimed the despot. "but i see how it is," he added, with the savage satisfaction of a man who has power to crush and means to do it--"i see how it is! that oppressed woman will never be treated by either of you with proper respect until i give her my name and make her my wife and the mistress of my house." chapter xiv. in the web. "yes, sir and madam, you may stare; but i mean to place my guest in a position from which she can command due honor. i mean to give her my name and make her the mistress of my house," said old aaron rockharrt; and he leaned back in his chair and drew himself up. had a thunderbolt fallen among them, it could hardly have caused greater consternation. the shock was more effective because both his hearers knew full well that old aaron rockharrt never used vain threats, and that he would do exactly what he said he would do. having said that he meant to marry the unwelcome guest, he would marry her. but what unutterable amazement fell upon the two people! both had felt a vague dread of evil from the presence of this siren in the house; but their darkest, wildest fears had never shadowed forth this unspeakable folly. the iron king, a man of seventy-seven, strong, firm, upright, honored, to fall into the idiocy of marrying a beautiful adventuress merely because she waited on him, ran his errands, warmed his slippers, put on his dressing gown or his overcoat, as he would come in or go out, and generally made him comfortable; but above all perhaps, because she flattered his egotism without measure. and yet the iron king was considered sane, and was sane on all other subjects. so thought clarence and cora as they gasped, glanced at the old man, gazed at each other, and then dropped their eyes in a sort of shame. neither spoke or could speak. the dreadful silence was broken at last by rose stillwater, who burst into the room like a sunbeam into a cloud, and said with her childish eagerness: "i have got such a lovely piece of music. i ran out just now to look for it. i was not sure i could find it; but here it is. it may be called sacred music and suitable to the day, i hope. here is the title. "'glad life lives on forever.' "shall i play and sing for you, mr. rockharrt? would you like me to do so, dear cora? and you, mr. clarence?" "certainly, my dear," promptly responded the iron king. "as you please," coldly replied cora. "i--yes--thank you; i think it would be very nice," foolishly observed mr. clarence, who was just now reduced to a state of imbecility by the stunning announcement of his father's intended marriage. but all three had spoken at the same time, so that rose stillwater heard but one voice clearly, and that was the iron king's. mr. clarence, however, went and opened the piano for her. then old mr. rockharrt arose, went to the instrument slowly and deliberately, put his youngest son aside, wheeled up the music stool, seated her and then-- "the monarch o'er the siren hung and beat the measure as she sung, and pressing closer and more near, he whispered praises in her ear." "it is 'the lion in love,' of �sop's fable. he will let her draw his teeth yet," said mr. clarence, in a low tone, quite drowned in the joyous swell of the music. "no, it is not. a man of his age does not fall in love, i feel sure. and she will never gain one advantage over him. he likes her society and her servitude and her flatteries. he will take them all, and more than all, if he can; but he will give nothing, nothing in return," murmured cora. "but why does he give her this attention to-day? it is unusual." "to show us that he will do her honor; place her above us, as he said; but that will not outlast their wedding day, if indeed they marry." "they will marry unless something should happen to prevent them. i do wish fabian was at home." "so do i, with all my heart." the glad bursts of music which had drowned their voices, slowly sank into soft and dreamy tones. then clarence and corona ceased their whispered conversation. soon the dinner bell rang and the family party went into the dining room. on monday morning active preparations were commenced for their journey to new york. not one more word was spoken about the marriage of june and january, nor could either clarence or corona judge by the manner of the ill sorted pair whether the subject had been mentioned between them. on wednesday of that week mr. rockharrt, accompanied by mrs. stillwater and mrs. rothsay, left rockhold for new york, leaving mr. clarence in charge of the works at north end. they went straight through without, as before, stopping overnight at baltimore. consequently they reached new york on thursday noon. mr. rockharrt telegraphed to the cozzens hotel at west point to secure a suite of rooms, and then he took his own party to the blank house. when they were comfortably installed in their apartments and had had dinner, he said to his companions: "i have business which may detain me in the city for several days. we need not, however, put in an appearance at the military academy before monday morning. meanwhile you two may amuse yourselves as you please, but must not look to me to escort you anywhere. here are fine stores, art galleries, parks, matinees and what not, where women may be trusted alone;" and having laid down the law, his majesty marched off to bed, leaving the two young widows to themselves, in the private parlor of their suite. they also retired to the double-bedded chamber, which, to cora's annoyance, had been engaged for their joint occupancy. she detested to be brought into such close intimacy with rose stillwater, and longed for the hour of her brother's release from the academy, and his appointment to some post of duty, however distant, where she might join him, and so escape the humiliation of her present position. however, she tried to bear the mortification as best she might, thankful that she and her unwelcome chum, while occupying the same chamber, were not obliged to sleep in the same bed. truly, rose stillwater felt how unpleasant her companionship was to her former pupil, but she showed no consciousness of this. she comported herself with great discretion--not forcing conversation on her unwilling room mate, lest she should give offense; and it was the policy of this woman to "avoid offenses," nor yet did she keep total silence, lest she should seem to be sulky; for it was also her policy always to seem amiable and happy. so, though cora never voluntarily addressed one word to her, yet rose occasionally spoke sweetly some commonplace about the weather, their room, the bill of fare at dinner, and so on; to all of which observations she received brief replies. both were relieved when they were in their separate beds and the gas was turned off--rose that she need act a difficult part no more that night, but could lie down, and, under the cover of the darkness, gather her features in a cloud of wrath, and silently curse corona rothsay; cora, that she was freed from the sight of the deceitful face and the sound of the lying tongue. fatigued by their long journey, both soon fell asleep, and slept well, until the horrible sound of the gong awakened them--the gong in those days used to summon guests to the public breakfast table. cora sprang out of bed with one fear--that her grandfather was up and waiting for his breakfast, though that gong had really nothing to do with any of their meals, which were always to be served in their private parlor. cora and her room mate quickly dressed and went to the parlor, where they were relieved to find no mr. rockharrt and no table set. presently, however, the iron king strode into the room, a morning paper in his hand. "breakfast not ready yet?" he sharply demanded, looking at corona. then she suddenly remembered that whenever they had traveled before this time, her grandmother had ordered the meals, as she had done everything else that she could do to save her tyrant trouble. "i--suppose so, sir. shall i ring for it?" she inquired. "let me! let me! oh, please let me wait on you!" exclaimed rose, as she sprang up, ran across the room, and rang a peal on the bell. the waiter came. "will you also order the breakfast, mrs. stillwater, if such is your pleasure?" inquired cora, who could not help this little bit of ill humor. "certainly i will, my dear, if you like!" said the imperturbable rose, who was resolved never to understand sarcasm, and never to take offense--"waiter, bring me a bill of fare." the waiter went out to do his errand. old aaron rockharrt glared sternly at his granddaughter; but his fire did not strike his intended victim, for cora had her back turned and was looking out of the window. the waiter came in with the breakfast bill of fare. "will you listen, mr. rockharrt, and you, dear cora, and tell me what to mark, as i read out the items," said rose, sweetly, as she took the card from the hands of the man. "thank you, i want nothing especially," answered cora. "read on, my dear. i will tell you what to mark, and you must be sure also to mark any dish that you yourself may fancy," said mr. rockharrt, speaking very kindly to rose, but glaring ferociously toward cora. rose read slowly, pausing at each item. mr. rockharrt named his favorite dishes, rose marked them, and the order was given to the waiter, who took it away. breakfast was soon served, and a most disagreeable meal it must have been but for rose stillwater's invincible good humor. she chatted gayly through the whole meal, perfectly resolved to ignore the cloud that was between the grandfather and the granddaughter. as soon as they arose from the table old aaron rockharrt ordered a carriage to take him down to wall street, on some business connected with his last great speculation, which was all that his granddaughter knew. before leaving the hotel, he launched this bitter insult at cora, through their guest: "my dear," he said to mrs. stillwater, as he drew on his gloves, "i must leave my granddaughter under your charge. i beg that you will look after her. she really seeds the supervision of a governess quite as much now as she did years ago when you had the training of her." corona's wrath flamed up. a scathing sarcasm was on her lips. she turned. but no. she could not resent the insult of so aged a man; even if he had not been her grandfather. rose stillwater said never a word. it was not--it would not have been prudent to speak. to treat the matter as a jest would have offended the iron king; to have taken it seriously would most justly and unpardonably have offended corona rothsay. truly, rose found that "jordan am a hard road to trabbel!" and here at least was an apt application of the old proverb: "speech is silver, silence is golden." so rose said never a word, but looked from one to the other, smiling divinely on each in turn. old aaron rockharrt having discharged his shot, went down stairs, entered his carriage and drove to wall street. corona went to her room, or to the room she jointly occupied with mrs. stillwater, wishing from the depths of her heart that she could get entirely away from the sight and hearing of the woman who grew more repugnant to her feelings every day. at one time cora thought that she would call a carriage, drive to the hudson river railway station, and take the train for west point, there to remain during the exercises of the academy. she was very strongly tempted to do this; but she resisted the impulse. she would not bring matters to a crisis by making a scene. so the idea of escaping to west point was abandoned. next she thought of taking a carriage and driving out to harlem alone; but then she remembered that the woman stillwater was, after all, her guest, so long as she herself was mistress, if only in name, of her grandfather's house; she could not leave her alone for the whole day; and so the idea of evading the creature's company by driving out alone was also given up. truly, cora was bound to the rack with cords of conventionality as fine as cobwebs, yet as strong as ropes. she did nothing but sit still in her chamber and brood; dreading the entrance of her abhorrent room-mate every moment. but rose stillwater--who read cora rothsay's thoughts as easily as she could read a familiar book--acted with her usual discretion. as long as cora chose to remain in their joint chamber, rose forbore to exercise her own right of entering it. not until the afternoon did corona come out into the parlor. then she found rose seated at the window, watching the busy scene on the broadway pavement below, the hurried promenaders jostling as they passed each other on going up and coming down; the street peddlers, the walking advertisements, and all other sights never noticed by a citizen of the town, but looked at with curiosity by a stranger from the country. rose turned as corona entered, and ignoring all reserve, said sweetly: "i hope you have been resting, dear, and that you feel refreshed. shall i ring and order luncheon? i wish to do all i can, dear, to prove my appreciation of all the kindness shown me; yet not to be officious." now, how could cora repulse the advances of so very good humored a woman? she believed her to be false and designing. she longed with all her heart and soul to be rid of the woman and her insidious influence. yet she could not hear that sweet voice, those meek words, or meet those soft blue eyes, and maintain her manner of freezing politeness. "if you please," she answered, gently, and then said to herself: "heavens! what a hypocrite this unwillingness to hurt the woman's feelings does make me!" rose rang the bell and ordered the luncheon. they sat down in apparent amity to partake of it. the afternoon waned and evening came, but brought no iron king back to the hotel. "have you any idea at what hour mr. rockharrt will return, dear?" inquired mrs. stillwater, in her most dulcet tones. "not the slightest." "i think he said something about going down to wall street to see after the forming of a syndicate in connection with his grand speculation. what is a syndicate, dear?" "i don't know--it may be an agency or a company--" "or it may be something connected with the building of the new synagogue, which it is said is to be constructed of iron." cora was surprised into the first laugh she had had in two years. but the mirth was very short-lived. it came and passed in an instant, and then a pang of remorse seized her heart that she could have laughed at all. she was thinking of her lost rule, and of her own guilty share in his tragic fate. if she had not let her fancy and imagination become so dazzled by the rank and splendor of the british suitor as to blind her heart and mind for a season, as to make her think and believe that she really loved this new man, and that she had never loved, and could never love, ruth rothsay, though she must keep her engagement with him and marry him--had she not broken down and given way to her emotions on that fatal evening of their wedding day--then rule would never have made his great renunciation for her sake--would never have wandered away into the wilderness to meet his death from murderous hands. how could she ever laugh again? she asked herself. "what is the matter with you, dear?" inquired rose, surprised at the sudden change in cora. but before she could be answered the door opened and old aaron rockharrt came in, looking weary and careworn. "how have you amused yourselves to-day?" he inquired of the two young women. cora was slow to speak, but rose answered discreetly: "i do not think we either of us did much but loll around and rest from our journey." "not been out?" "no; i did not care to do so; nor did cora, i believe." dinner was served. afterward the evening passed stupidly. aaron rockharrt sat in the large arm chair and slept. cora, looking at him, thought he was aging fast. as soon as he waked up he bade his companions good night and went to his apartment. the two others soon followed his example. as this day passed, so passed the succeeding days of their sojourn in the city. mr. rockharrt went out every morning on business connected with that great scheme which was going to quadruple his already enormous wealth. he came home every evening quite worn out, and after dinner sat and dozed in his chair until bedtime. cora watched him anxiously and wondered at him. he was aging fast. she could see that in his whole appearance. but what a strange infatuation for a man of seventy-seven, possessed already of almost fabulous wealth, to be as hotly in pursuit of money as if he were some poor youth with his fortune still to make! and what, after all, could he do with so much more money? why could he not retire on his vast riches, and rest from his labors, leaving his two stalwart sons to carry on his business, and so live longer? cora mournfully asked herself. on sunday a strange thing happened. old aaron rockharrt announced at the breakfast table his intention of going to a certain church to hear a celebrated preacher, whose piety, eloquence and enthusiasm was the subject of general discussion; and he invited the two ladies to go with him. both consented--cora because she never willingly absented herself from public worship on the sabbath; rose because it was her cue to be amiable and to agree to everything that was proposed. "we need not take a carriage. the church is only two blocks off," said mr. rockharrt, as he arose from the table. the party was soon ready, and while the bell was still ringing, they set out to walk. as they reached the sacred edifice the bell ceased ringing and the organ pealed forth in a grand voluntary. "you see we are but just in time," said mr. rockharrt, as he led his party into the building. the polite sexton conducted the strangers up the center aisle and put them into a good pew. the church was not full, but was filling rapidly. our party bowed their heads for the preliminary private prayer, and so did not see the great preacher as he entered and stood at the reading desk. he was an english dean of great celebrity as a pulpit orator, now on a visit to the united states, and preaching in turn in every pulpit of his denomination as he passed. he was a man of about sixty-five, tall, thin, with a bald head, a narrow face, an aquiline nose, blue eyes and a gray beard. he began to read the opening texts of the service. "'if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.'" at the sound of his voice rose stillwater started violently, looked up and grew ghastly white. she dropped her face in her hands on the cushioned edge of the pew before her, and so sat trembling through the reading of the texts and the exhortations. afterward followed the ritualistic general confession and prayer, during which all knelt. when at the close all arose mrs. stillwater was gone from her seat. mr. rockharrt looked around him and then stared at cora, who very slightly shook her head, as if to say: "no; i know no more about it than you." how swiftly and silently rose stillwater had left the pew and slipped out of the church while all the congregation were bowed in prayer! old aaron rockharrt looked puzzled and troubled, but the minister was pronouncing the general absolution that followed the general confession, and such a severe martinet and disciplinarian as old aaron rockharrt would on no account fail in attention to the speaker. nor did he change countenance again during the long morning service. at its close he drew cora's arm within his own and led her out of the church. as they walked down broadway he inquired: "why did mrs. stillwater leave the church?" "i do not know," answered his granddaughter. "was she ill?" "i really do not know." "when did she go?" "i do not know that either, except that she must have slipped out while we were at prayers." "you seem to be a perfect know-nothing, cora." "on this subject i certainly am. i did not perceive mrs. stillwater's absence until we rose from our knees." "well, we shall find her at the hotel, i suppose, and then we shall know all about it." by this time they had reached the blank house. they entered and went up into their parlor. rose was not there. "bless my soul, i hope the poor child is not ill. go, cora, and see if she is in her room, and find out what is the matter with her," said old aaron rockharrt, as he dropped wearily into the big arm chair. cora had just come from church, from hearing an eloquent sermon on christian charity, so she was in one of her very best moods. she went at once into the bedroom occupied jointly by herself and her traveling companion. she found rose in a wrapper, with her hair down, lying on the outside of her bed. "are you not well?" she inquired in a gentle tone. "no, dear; i have a very severe neuralgic headache. it takes all my strength of mind and nerve to keep me from screaming under the pain," answered rose, in a faint and faltering voice. "i am very sorry." "it struck me--in the church--with the suddenness of a bullet--shot through my brain." "indeed, i am very, very sorry. you should have told me. i would have come out with you." "no, dear. i did not--wish to disturb--anybody. i slipped out noiselessly--while all were kneeling. no one heard me--no one saw me except the sexton--who opened--the swing doors--silently to let me pass." "you should not have attempted to walk home alone in such a condition. it was not safe. but i am talking to you, when i should be aiding you," said cora; and she went to her dressing case and took from it a certain family specific for neuralgic headaches which had been in great favor with her grandmother. this she poured into a glass, added a little water, and brought to the sufferer. "put it on the stand by the bed, dear. i will take it presently. thank you very much, dear cora. now will you please close all the shutters and make the room as dark as a vault--and shut me up in it--i shall go to sleep--and wake up relieved. the pain goes as suddenly as it comes, dear," said rose, still in a faint, faltering and hesitating voice. cora did all her bidding, put the tassel of the bell cord in her reach, and softly left the room. the chamber was not as dark as a vault, however. enough of light came through the slats of the shutters and the white lace curtains to enable rose to rise, take the medicine from the stand, cross the floor and pour it in the wash basin, under a spigot. then she turned on the water to wash it down the drain. then she turned off the water and went back to bed--not to sleep--for she had too much need to think. had the minister in that pulpit recognized her, as she had certainly recognized him? she hoped not. she believed not. as soon as she had heard the voice--the voice that had been silent for her so many years--she had impulsively looked up. and she had seen him! a specter from the past--a specter from the grave! but his eyes were fixed upon the book from which he was reading, and she quickly dropped her head before he could raise them. no; he had not seen her. but oh! if she had heard his name before she had gone to hear him preach, nothing on earth would ever have induced her to go into the church. but she had not heard his name at all. she had heard of him only as the dean of olivet. he was not a dean in those far-off days when she saw him last; only a poor curate of whose stinted household she had grown sick and tired. but he was now dean of olivet! he had come to make a tour of the united states. should she have the mischance to meet him again? would he go up to west point for the exercises at the military academy? but of course he would! it was so convenient to do so. west point was so near and easy to see. the trip up the hudson was so delightful at this season of the year. and the dean was bound to see everything worth seeing. and what was better worth seeing by a foreigner than the exercises at our celebrated military academy? what should she do to avoid meeting, face to face, this terrible phantom from the grave of her dead past? she could make no excuse for remaining in new york while her party went up to west point--make no excuse, that is, which would not also make trouble. and it was her policy never to do that. she thought and thought until she had nearly given herself the headache which before she had only feigned. at length she decided on this course: to go to west point with her party, and as soon as they should arrive to get up a return of her neuralgic headache, as her excuse for keeping her room at the hotel and absenting herself from the exercises at the academy. as soon as she had formed this resolution she got up, opened one of the windows, washed and dressed herself and went out into the parlor. she entered softly. old aaron rockharrt was sound asleep in his big arm chair. cora was seated at the table engaged in reading. she arose to receive the invalid. "are you better? are you sure you are able to be up?" she kindly inquired. "oh, yes, dear! very much better! well, indeed! when it goes, it goes, you know! but had we better not talk and disturb mr. rockharrt?" inquired rose. "we cannot disturb him. he sleeps very soundly--too soundly, i think, and too much." "do you know by what train we go to west point to-morrow?" "by the : a.m. so that we may arrive in good time for the commencement. we must retire very early to-night, for we must be up betimes in the morning. but sit down; you really look very languid," said cora, and taking the hand of her companion, she led her to the sofa and made her recline upon it. then cora resumed her own seat. "thank you, darling," cooed rose. there was silence in the room for a few moments. mr. rockharrt slept on. cora took up her book. rose was the first to speak. "i wonder if the new lion, the dean of olivet, will go to west point to-morrow," she said in a tone of seeming indifference. "oh, yes! it is in all the papers. he is to be the guest of the chaplain," replied cora. "i wonder what train he will go by." "oh, i don't know that. he may go by the night boat." "the dean of olivet would never travel on sunday night." "but he might hold service and preach on the boat." "oh, yes; so he might." "what on earth are you talking about? when will dinner be ready?" demanded old aaron rockharrt, waking up from his nap. straightening himself up and looking around, he saw rose stillwater. "oh, my dear, are you better of your headache?" "yes, thank you, mr. rockharrt." "you look pale, as if you had gone through a sharp siege, if a short one. you should have told me in the pew, and allowed me to take you here, not ventured out alone, when you were in such pain." "but i did not wish to attract the least attention, so i slipped out unperceived while everybody's heads were bent in prayer." "all very well, my dear; but pray don't venture on such a step again. i am always at your service to attend you. now, cora, ring for dinner to be served. it was ordered for five o'clock, i think, and it is five minutes past," said mr. rockharrt, consulting his watch. cora arose, but before she could reach the bell, the door was opened, and the waiter appeared to lay the cloth. after dinner the iron king went into a little room attached to the suite, which he used as a smoking den. the two young women settled themselves to read. they all retired at nine o'clock that night so as to rise very early next day. chapter xv. at the academy. it was a splendid may morning. our travelers were out of bed at half-past four o'clock. the sun was just rising when they sat down to their early breakfast. mr. rockharrt seemed stronger and brighter than he had been since his arrival in new york. the sabbath day's complete rest had certainly refreshed him. immediately after breakfast they left the hotel, entered the carriage which had been engaged for them and drove to the hudson river depot. "there's the dean!" exclaimed mr. rockharrt, as they entered the waiting room. "he must be going on the same train with us." rose stillwater did not start or change color this time. she had prepared herself for contingencies by taking a dose of morphine just before she left the hotel. but she drew her veil closely over her face, murmuring that the brightness of the sun hurt her eyes. cora looked up and saw the tall, thin form of the church dignitary standing with a group of gentlemen near the gate leading to the train. the waiting room was crowded; a multitude was moving toward west point. "it is well i engaged our rooms a week ago, or we might not have found accommodations," said mr. rockharrt, as he pressed with his party behind the crowd. among the group of gentlemen surrounding the dean, was a wall street broker with whom old aaron rockharrt had been doing business for the last few days. this man was standing beside the dean, and both stood immediately in front of mr. rockharrt and his party. presently the broker turned and saw the iron king. "oh, mr. rockharrt. happy to meet you here. going to the point, as everybody else is? fine day." "yes; a fine day," responded the iron king. at this moment the dean happened to turn his head. "you know the dean of olivet, of course, mr. rockharrt?" "no; i have not that pleasure." "let me present you. dean of olivet, mr. rockharrt." both gentlemen bowed. the iron king held out his hand. "happy to welcome you to america, dean. went to hear you preach yesterday morning. one of the finest sermons i ever heard in my life, i do assure you." the dean bowed very gravely. "let me present you to my granddaughter, mrs. rothsay," said the old man. the dean bowed gravely to the young lady, who bent her head. "and to our friend, mrs. stillwater," continued the old gentleman, waving his hand again. "why, where is she? why, cora, where is mrs. stillwater?" demanded the iron king in amazement. "i do not know. i have just missed her," said the young lady. "well, upon my soul! for the power of vanishing she excels all living creatures. pray, cora, does she carry a fairy cap in her pocket, and put it on when she wishes to make herself invisible?" "i think, sir, that she has been pressed away from us in the crowd. we shall find her when we get through the gate into more space." "well, i hope so." "she is quite able to take care of herself, sir. pray do not be alarmed. she will be sure to find us." "well, i hope so. yes; of course she will." at this moment the gates were opened. "take my arm. don't let me lose you in the crowd. i suppose mrs. stillwater cannot fail to join us. oh! of course not! she knows the train, and there is but one." he drew cora's hand close under his arm, and holding it tightly, followed the multitude through the gate, looking all around in search of rose stillwater. but she was nowhere to be seen. "she may have gotten ahead of us, and be on the train. come on!" said mr. rockharrt, as he hurried his granddaughter along and pushed her upon the platform. the cars were rapidly filling. mr. rockharrt seized upon four seats, in order to secure three. he put cora in one and told her to put her traveling bag on the other, to hold it for mrs. stillwater. then he took possession of the seat in front of her. "as soon as this crowd settles itself down and leaves something like a free passageway, i will go through the train and find mrs. stillwater. she is bound to be on board. she is no baby to lose herself," said mr. rockharrt, and though his words were confident, his tone seemed anxious. the people all got seated at last and the long train moved. mr. rockharrt left his seat, and stooping over his granddaughter, he whispered: "i am going now to look for mrs. stillwater and fetch her here." he passed slowly down the car, looking from side to side, and then out through the back door to the rear cars, and so out of cora's sight. he was gone about fifteen minutes. at the end of that time he reappeared, and came up the car and stopped to speak to cora: "she is not in any of the rear cars. i am going forward to look for her. this comes of traveling in a crowd." he went on as before, looking carefully from side to side, passed out of the front door and again out of cora's sight. this time he was gone twenty minutes. when he come back his face wore an expression of the greatest anxiety. "she is not on the train. she has been left behind! foolish woman, to let herself be separated from us in this stupid way!" testily exclaimed the iron king, as he dropped himself heavily into his seat. "what can be done?" exclaimed cora, now seriously uneasy about her unwelcome companion, because she feared that rose might have been seized with one of her sharp and sudden headaches and had stepped away from them as she had done in the church. "i hope she has had the presence of mind, on finding herself left, to return to the hotel and wait for the next train. this is the express, and does not stop until we reach garrison's. but when we get there i will telegraph to her and tell her what train to take. it is all an infernal nuisance--this being jostled about by a crowd." cora was consulting a time table. she looked up from it and said: "it will all come right, sir. there is another train at half-past eight. if she should take that, she will reach west point in full time for the opening of the exercises. we started unnecessarily early." "i always take time by the forelock, cora. that habit is one of the factors of my success in life." the express train flew on, and in due time reached garrison's, opposite west point. the ferry boat was waiting for the train. as soon as it stopped, mr. rockharrt handed his granddaughter out. the other passengers followed, and made a rush for the boat. "let it go, cora. we must take time to telegraph to mrs. stillwater, and we can wait for the next trip," said mr. rockharrt, still keeping a firm grip on his granddaughter's arm, lest through woman's inherent stupidity she should also lose herself, as he marched her off to the telegraph window of the station. the telegram, a very long-winded one, was sent. then they sat down to wait for the coming boat, which crossed the going one about midstream, and approached rapidly. in a few minutes they were on board and steaming across the river. they reached the opposite bank, and mr. rockharrt led his granddaughter out, and placed her in the carriage he had engaged by telegraph to meet them, for carriages would be in very great demand, he knew. they drove up to the hotel in which he had taken rooms. here they went into their parlor to rest and to wait for an answer to the telegram. "it is no use going over to the academy now. we could not get sight of sylvan. the rules and regulations of the military school are as strict and immutable as the laws of the medes and persians," said old aaron rockharrt, as he dropped heavily into a great armchair, leaned back and presently fell asleep. cora never liked to see him fall into these sudden deep slumbers. she feared that they were signs of physical decay. she sat at a front window, which, from the elevated point upon which the hotel stood, looked down upon the brilliant scene below, where crowds of handsomely dressed ladies were walking about the beautiful grounds. she sat watching them some time, and until she saw the tide of strollers turning from all points, and setting in one direction--toward the academy. then she glanced at her grandfather. oh! how old and worn he looked when he lost control of himself in sleep. she touched him lightly. he opened his eyes. "what is it? has the telegram come from mrs. stillwater?" he inquired. "no, sir; but the visitors are pouring into the academy, and i am afraid, if we do not go over at once, we shall not be able to find a seat," said cora. "oh, yes, we shall. strange we do not get an answer from mrs. stillwater," said the old man anxiously, as he slowly arose and began to draw on his gloves and looked for his hat. cora went and found it and gave it to him. then she put on her bonnet. then they went down together, crossed the grounds, and entered the great hall, which was densely crowded. good seats had been reserved for them, and they found themselves seated next the dean of olivet on cora's right and the wall street broker on mr. rockharrt's left. i do not mean to trouble my readers with any description of this by-gone exhibition. they can read a full account of such every season in every morning paper. merely to say that it was late in the afternoon when the exercises were over for the day. mr. rockharrt and cora rothsay returned to the hotel to a very late dinner. the first question that the iron king asked was whether any telegram had come for him. he was told that there was none. "it is very strange. she could not have received mine," he said, and he went directly to the telegraph office of the hotel and dispatched a long message to the clerk of the blank house, telling him of how mrs. stillwater had been separated from her party by the pressure of the crowd, and how she had thereby missed their train, and inquiring whether she had returned to the hotel, whether she had got his message, and if she were well. any news of her, or from her, was anxiously expected by her friends. having sent off this dispatch, mr. rockharrt went in to dinner. the dinner was long. the courses were many. mr. rockharrt and his granddaughter were still at table when the following telegram was placed in his hands: blank house, new york, may, -- mrs. stillwater is not here, and has not been seen by any of our people since she left the house with your party for the hudson river railway depot. we have made inquiries, but have no news. m. martin. chapter xvi. the search. "this is intolerable," muttered old aaron rockharrt, in a tone as who should say: "how dare fate set herself to baffle me?" he then took tablets and pencil from his pocket and wrote the following telegram: cozzens hotel, west point, may ----, -- to m. martin, esq., blank house, new york city: just received your dispatch. there has been foul play. report the case at police headquarters. set private detective on the track of the missing lady. last seen at the gate of the hudson river railway depot, waiting for : a.m. train for west point yesterday morning, but not seen on train. give me prompt notice of any news. aaron rockharrt. he beckoned a waiter and sent the message to be dispatched from the office of the hotel. then he set himself to finish his dinner. after dinner he went out on the piazza. cora followed him. there was quite a number of people out there, seeing whom, he walked out upon the open grounds. "may i come with you, grandfather?" inquired cora. "if you like," was the short answer. as they walked on he said: "i think it possible that mrs. stillwater, after missing our train, left for north end." "yes, it is possible," assented cora. no more was said. they walked on for half an hour and then returned to the hotel and bade each other good night. the next morning they met in the parlor. old aaron rockharrt was reading a new york morning paper. cora went up and bade him good morning. he merely nodded and went on reading. presently he burst out with: "by ----! this must be mrs. stillwater!" "who? what?" eagerly inquired cora, going to his side. "here! read!" exclaimed the iron king, handing her the sheet and pointing out the paragraph. cora took the paper with trembling hands and read as follows: "a mystery.--yesterday morning at six o'clock an unknown young woman of about twenty-five or thirty years of age, of medium height, plump form, fair complexion and yellow hair, clothed in a rich suit of widow's mourning, was found in a state of coma in the ladies' dressing room of the hudson river railway station. she was taken to st. l----'s hospital. there was nothing on her person to reveal her name or address." "that must have been mrs. stillwater," said old aaron rockharrt. "i think there is no question of it," replied cora. "no doubt the poor child was suddenly seized with one of her terrible neuralgic headaches, caused by the pressure of that infernal crowd at the gate, and she stole away, as before, lest she should disturb us and prevent our journey; the most self-sacrificing creature i ever met. no doubt she meant to telegraph to us, but was prevented by the sudden reaction from agony to stupor. ah! i hope it is not a fatal stupor." "i hope not, sir." "cora!" "yes, sir." "we must leave for new york by the next train. if sylvanus is not free to go with us, he can follow us. come, let us go down and get some breakfast." cora arose and went with her grandfather down to the breakfast room. when they had taken their places at one of the tables and given their orders to one of the waiters, old aaron rockharrt drew a time table from his pocket and consulted it. "there is a down train stops at garrison's at : . we will take that." as soon as they had breakfasted, and as they were leaving the table, another telegram was handed to mr. rockharrt. he opened it and read as follows: blank house, new york, may ----, -- the missing lady is in st. l----'s hospital. m. martin. "it is true, then! true as we surmised. mrs. stillwater was the unknown lady found unconscious in the dressing room of the hudson river railroad and taken to st. l----'s. cora!" "yes, sir." "go and pack our effects immedately. i will go down and settle the bill and leave a letter of explanation for sylvanus. get your bonnet on and be ready. the carriage will be at the door in twenty minutes." cora hurried off to her room and to her grandfather's room, which adjoined hers, to prepare for the sudden journey. she quickly packed and labeled their traveling bags, and rang for a porter to take them down stairs. then she put on her bonnet and duster and went down and joined her grandfather in the parlor. "come," he said, "the carriage is at the door and our traps on the box. i have written to sylvanus, telling him to join us at the blank house, where we will wait for him." he turned abruptly and went out, followed by cora. they entered the waiting carriage and were rapidly driven down to the ferry. the boat was at the wharf. they alighted from the carriage and went on board. old aaron rockharrt's hot haste did not avail them much. the boat remained at the wharf for ten minutes, during which the iron king secretly fumed and fretted. "does this boat connect with the : train for new york?" he inquired. "yes, sir," was the answer. "then you will miss it." "oh, no, sir." the five remaining minutes seemed hours, but they passed at length and the boat left the shore, and old aaron rockharrt walked up and down the deck impatiently. as they neared the other side the whistle of a down train was heard approaching. "there! i said you would miss it!" exclaimed the iron king. "that train does not stop here, sir," was the good humored answer. the boat touched the wharf at garrison's, and the passengers got off. old aaron rockharrt led his granddaughter up to the platform to wait for the train; but no train was in sight or hearing. mr. rockharrt looked at his watch. "after all, we have seven minutes to wait," he growled, as if time and tide were much in fault at not being at his beck and call. "had we not better go into the waiting room?" suggested cora. "no, we will stand here," replied the iron king, who on general principles never acted upon a suggestion. so there they stood--the old man growling at intervals as he looked up the road; cora gazing out upon the fine scenery of river and mountain. presently the whirr of the coming train was heard. in a minute more it rushed into the station and stopped. there were no other down passengers except mr. rockharrt and mrs. rothsay. he handed her up, and took her to a seat. the car was not half full. the tide of travel was northward, not southward at this season. they were scarcely seated when the train started again. they reached new york just before noon. "carriage, sir? carriage, ma'am? carriage? carriage? carriage?" screamed a score of hackmen's voices, as the passengers came out on the sidewalk. mr. rockharrt beckoned the best-looking turnout and handed his granddaughter into it. "drive to st. l----'s hospital," he said. the hackman touched his hat and drove off. in less than fifteen minutes he drew up before the front of st. l----'s. the hackman jumped down, went up and rang the bell. then he came back to the carriage and opened the door. mr. rockharrt got out, followed by his granddaughter. "wait here!" he said to the hackman, as he went to the door, which was promptly opened by an attendant. "i wish to see the physician in charge here, or the head of the hospital, or whatever may be his official title," said the iron king. "you mean the rev. dr. ----" "yes, yes; take him my card." "walk in the parlor, sir." the attendant conducted the party into a spacious, plainly furnished reception or waiting room, saw them seated, and then took away mr. rockharrt's card. a few minutes passed, and a tall, white haired, venerable form, clothed in a long black coat and a round skull cap, entered the room, looking from side to side for his visitor. mr. rockharrt got up and went to meet him. "mr. rockharrt, of north end?" courteously inquired the venerable man. "the same. dr. ----, i presume." "yes, sir. pray be seated. and this lady?" inquired the venerable doctor, courteously turning toward cora. "oh--my granddaughter, mrs. rothsay." the aged man shook hands kindly with cora, and then turned to mr. rockharrt, as if silently questioning his will. "i came to inquire about the lady who was found in an unconscious state at the hudson river railway depot. how is she?" the old man's anxiety betrayed itself even through his deliberate words. "she is better. you know the lady?" "more than know her--have been intimate with her for many years. she is our guest and traveling companion. she got separated from us in the crowd which was pressing through the railway gate to take the train yesterday morning. i surely thought when i missed her that she had found her way to some car. but it appears that she was seized with vertigo, or something, and so missed the train." "yes; a lady, one of our regular visitors, found her there, by providence, in a state of deep stupor, and being unable to discover her friends, or name, or address, put her in a carriage and brought her directly here." "she is better, you say? i wish to see her and take her back to our apartments," said mr. rockharrt. "i will send for one of the nurses to take you to her room. you will excuse me. i am momentarily expecting the dean of olivet, who is on a visit to our city, and comes to-day to go through the hospital," said the doctor, and he rang a bell. "the dean here? why, i thought we left him at west point," said mr. rockharrt. "he came down by a late train last night, i understand. he makes but a flying tour through the country, and cannot stay at any one place," the venerable doctor explained. and then he touched the bell again. the same man who had let our party in came to the door to answer the call. "say to sister susannah that i would like to see her here," said the doctor. the man went out and was presently succeeded by a sweet faced, middle aged woman in a black dress and a neat white cap. "here are the friends of the young lady who was brought in yesterday morning. will you please to take them to the bedside of your patient?" the protestant sister nodded pleasantly and led off the visitors. as they went up the main staircase they heard the front door bell ring, the door opened, and the dean of olivet, with some gentlemen in his company, entered the hall. our party, after one glance, passed up the stairs, through an upper hall and a corridor, and paused before a door which sister susannah opened. they entered a small, clean, neat room, where, clothed in a white wrapper, reclining in a white easy chair, beside a white curtained window, and near a white bed, sat rose stillwater. she was looking, not only pale, but sallow--as she had never looked before. rose stillwater held out one hand to mr. rockharrt and one to cora rothsay, in silence and with a faint smile. the sister, seeing this recognition, set two cane bottomed chairs for the visitors and then went out, leaving them alone with the patient. "good lord, my dear, how did all this come about?" inquired old aaron rockharrt, as he sank heavily upon one of the chairs, making it creak under him. "it was while we stood in the crowd. i was pressed almost out of breath. then the terrible pang shot through my head, and i ceased to struggle and let everybody pass before me. i dropped down on one of the benches. i had taken a morphia pellet before i left the hotel. i had the medicine in my pocket. i took another then--" "very wrong, my dear. very wrong, my dear, to meddle with that drug, without the advice of a physician." "yes; i know it now, but i did not know it then. the second pellet stopped my headache, and i went to the ladies' dressing room to recover myself a little, so as to be able to write a telegram saying that i would follow you by the next train, but there a stupor came over me, and i knew no more until i awoke late last night and found myself here." "how perilous, my child! in that stupor you might have been robbed or kidnapped by persons who might have pretended to be your relations and carried you off and murdered you for your clothing," said old aaron rockharrt, unconscious in his native rudeness that he was frightening and torturing a very nervous invalid. "but," urged rose--who had grown paler at the picture conjured up--"providentially i was found by the kind lady who sent or rather brought me here, and even caused me to be put in this room instead of in a ward. sister susannah explained this to me as soon as i was able to make inquiries." "now, my dear, do you feel able to go back with us to the blank house, where we are now again staying and waiting for sylvanus to join us?" "oh, yes; i shall be glad to go, though all here are most tender and affectionate to me. but i would like to see and thank the doctor for all his goodness. how like the ideal of the beloved apostle he seems to me--so mild, so tender, so reverend." "i think you cannot wait for that to-day, my dear. the reverend doctor is engaged with the dean of olivet, who is going through the hospital." rose stillwater's face blanched. "will they--will they--will they--come into this room?" "of course not! and if they should, you are up and in your chair. and if you were not, they are a party of ministers of the gospel and medical doctors, and you would not mind if they should see you in bed. you are a nervous child to be so easily alarmed. it is the effect of the reaction from your stupor," said mr. rockharrt. "i will go with you, however, if i may," said rose stillwater, touching the hand bell, that soon brought an attendant into the room. "will you ask sister susannah, please, to come to me?" said mrs. stillwater. the attendant went out and was soon succeeded by the sister. "my friends wish to take me away, and i feel quite able to go with them--in a carriage. will you please find the doctor and ask him?" inquired mrs. stillwater. the sister smiled assent and went out. soon the venerable man entered the room. "i hope i find you better, my child," he said, coming to the easy chair in which sat and reclined the patient. "very much better, thank you, sir; so much that i feel quite able to go out with my friends, if i may." "certainly, my child, if you like." "i hope i have not detained you from your friends," said rose. "no. i left the dean in conversation with an english patient from his old parish. it was an accidental meeting, but a most interesting one." "does--the dean--contemplate a long stay in the city?" rose forced herself to ask. "oh, no; he leaves to-night by one of the sound steamers for boston and newport. his english temperament feels the heat of the city even more than we do." rose felt it in her heart to wish that the climate might "burn as an oven," if it should drive the british dean away. "but i must not leave my visitors longer. so if you will excuse me, sir," he said, turning to mr. rockharrt, "i will take leave of my patient and her friends here." he shook hands all around, receiving the warm thanks of the whole party. when the venerable doctor left the room, mr. rockharrt withdrew to the corridor to give the nurse an opportunity to dress the convalescent for her journey. he walked up and down the corridor for a few minutes, at the end of which rose stillwater came out dressed for her drive, and leaning on the arm of cora rothsay. mr. rockharrt hastened to meet her, and took her off cora's hands, and drew her arm within his own. so they went down stairs and entered the carriage that was waiting for them. a drive of fifteen minutes brought them to the blank house. "grandfather," said cora, as they alighted and went into the house, rose leaning on mr. rockharrt's arm--"grandfather, i think, now that the rush of travelers have passed northward, you may be able to get me another room. in mrs. stillwater's nervous condition it cannot be agreeable to her to have the disturbance of a room-mate." "what do you say, my child?" inquired mr. rockharrt of his guest. "sweet cora never could disturb me under any circumstances, but it cannot be good for her to room with such a nervous creature as i am just at present," replied rose. "umph! it appears to me that you two women wish to have separate rooms each only for the welfare of the other. well, you shall have them. take mrs. stillwater up stairs, cora, while i step into the office," said mr. rockharrt. cora drew the convalescent's arm within her own, and helped her to climb the easy flight of stairs, and took her into the parlor, where they were presently joined by the iron king. "i have also engaged a private sitting room, so that we need not go down to the public table, and dinner will be laid for us there in a few minutes. you need not lay off your wraps until you go there; and if there is any special dish that you would particularly like, my dear, i hope you will order it at once. come." and he offered his arm to mrs. stillwater, to whom, indeed, he had addressed all his remarks. he led her from the public parlor, followed by his granddaughter. the little sitting room which mr. rockharrt had been able to engage was just across the hall. on entering they found the table laid for a party of three. neither mr. rockharrt nor cora had broken fast since their early breakfast at west point. the old gentleman was very hungry. dinner was soon served, and two of the party did full justice to the good things set before them; but rose stillwater could touch nothing. she had not recovered her appetite since her overdose of morphia. in vain her host recommended this or that dish, for the more appetizing the flavor, the more she detested them. at last when dinner was over, mr. rockharrt recommended her to retire to rest. she readily took his advice and bade him good night. cora volunteered to see their guest to her chamber. "you will look at both rooms, mrs. stillwater, and take your choice between them," she said, as she led the guest into the new chamber engaged for one of the ladies. "oh, my dear cora, i do not care where i drop myself down, so that i get rest and sleep. oh, cora! i have been so frightened! suppose i had died in that opium sleep!" exclaimed mrs. stillwater, speaking frankly for at least once in her life. "you should not have tampered with such a dangerous drug," said mrs. rothsay. "oh, i took it to stop the maddening pain that seemed to be killing me," exclaimed rose stillwater, as she let herself drop into an easy chair; not speaking frankly this time, for she had taken the morphia to quiet her nerves, and enable her to decide upon some course by which she might avoid meeting with the dean of olivet again, and some excuse for withdrawing herself so suddenly from her traveling party. "so you will remain here?" inquired cora. "oh, yes. i would remain anywhere sooner than move another step." "then i will help to get you to bed. where is your bag?" "bag? bag? i--i don't know! i have not seen it since i fell into that stupor! it must be at the depot or at the hospital." "then i will get you a night dress," said cora. and then she ran off to her own room, and soon returned with a white cambric gown, richly trimmed with lace. when she had prepared her guest for bed, and put her into it, she lowered the gas and left her to repose. then she went to her own room, satisfied to be alone with her memories once more. soon after she heard the slow and heavy steps of her grandfather as he passed into his room. chapter xvii. "a mad marriage, my masters." when the party met at a late breakfast the next morning, mrs. stillwater seemed to have quite recovered her health, and what was still better, in her opinion, her complexion. she was once again a delicately blooming rose. they were still at breakfast when sylvanus haught burst in upon them, bowed to his grandfather, bowed to rose stillwater, and seized cora rothsay around the neck and covered her with kisses, all in a minute and before he spoke a word. old aaron rockharrt glared at him. rose stillwater smiled on him. but cora rothsay put her arms around his neck and kissed him with tears of pleased affection. "well, sir! you have got through," said the iron king with dignified gravity. "yes, sir, got through, 'by the skin of my teeth,' as i might say! and got leave of absence, waiting my commission. hurrah, cora! hurrah, the rose that all admire! i shall be your cavalier for the next three months at least, and until they send me out to fort devil's icy peak, to be killed and scalped by the redskins!" exclaimed the new fledged soldier, throwing up his cap. "will you have the goodness to remember where you are, sir, and endeavor to conduct yourself with some manner approximating toward propriety?" demanded mr. rockharrt, with solemn dignity. "i beg your pardon, grandfather! i beg your pardon, ladies," said sylvanus, assuming so sudden and profound a gravity as to inspire a suspicion of irony in the minds of the two women. but old aaron rockharrt understood only an humble and suitable apology. "have you breakfasted?" he inquired in a modified tone. "no, sir; and i am as hungry as a wolf--i mean i took the first train down this morning without waiting for breakfast." the iron king, whose glare had cut short the first half of the young man's reply, now rang, and when the waiter appeared, gave the necessary orders. and soon sylvanus was seated at the table, sharing the morning meal of his family. "now that my brother has joined us shall we leave for north end to-day, grandfather?" inquired cora, as they all arose from breakfast. "no; nor need you make any suggestions of the sort. when i am ready to go home, i will tell you. i have business to transact before i leave new york," gruffly replied the family bear. rose stillwater took up one of the morning papers and ran her eyes down column after column, over page after page. presently she came to the item she was so anxiously looking for: "the very reverend the dean of olivet left the city last evening by the steamer nighthawk for boston." with a sigh of relief she laid the paper down. mr. rockharrt came and sat down beside her on the sofa, and began to speak to her in a low voice. sylvan, sitting by cora at the other end of the apartment, began to tell all about the exercises at west point which she had missed. his voice, though not loud, was clear and lively, and quite drowned the sound of mr. rockharrt and mrs. stillwater's words, which cora could see were earnest and important. at last rose got up in some agitation and hurried out of the room. then old aaron rockharrt came up to the young people and stood before them. there was something so ominous in his attitude and expression that his two grandchildren looked dismayed even before he spoke. "sir and madam," he said, addressing the young creatures as if they were dignitaries of the church or state, "i have to inform you that i am about to marry mrs. stillwater. the ceremony will be performed at the church to-morrow noon. i shall expect you both to attend us there as witnesses." saying which the iron king arose and strode out of the room. the sister and brother lifted their eyes, and might have stared each other out of countenance in their silent, unutterable consternation. sylvan was the first to find his voice. "cora! it is an outrage! it is worse! it is an infamy!" he exclaimed, as the blood rushed to his face and crimsoned it. cora said never a word, but burst into tears and sobbed aloud. "cora! don't cry! you have me now! oh! the old man is certainly mad, and ought to be looked after. cora, darling, don't take it so to heart! at his age, too; seventy-seven! he'll make himself the laughing stock of the world! oh, cora, don't grieve so! it does not matter after all! such a disgrace to the family! oh, come now, you know, cora! this is not the way to welcome a fellow home! for any old man to make such a--oh, i say, cora! come out of that now! if you don't, i swear i will take my hat and go out to get a drink!" "oh, don't! don't!" gasped his sister; "don't you lend a hand to breaking my heart." "well, i won't, darling, if you'll only come out of that! it is not worth so much grief." "i will--stop--as soon as--i can!" sobbed the young woman, "but when i think--of his reverent gray hairs--brought to such dishonor--by a mere adventuress--and we--so powerless--to prevent it, i feel as if--i should die." "oh, nonsense; you look at it too gravely. besides, old men have married beautiful young women before now!" said sylvan, troubled by his sister's grief, and tacking around in his opinions as deftly as ever did any other politician. "yes, and got themselves laughed at and ridiculed for their folly!" sighed cora, who had ceased to sob. "behind their backs, and that did not hurt them one bit." "oh, if uncle fabian were only here!" "why, what could he do to prevent the marriage?" "i do not know. but i know this, that if any man could prevent this degradation, he would be uncle fabian! it would be no use, i fear, to telegraph to clarence!" "clarence!" said sylvanus with a laugh, "why he has no more influence with the iron king than i have. his father calls him an idiot--and he certainly is weakly amiable. he would back his father in anything the old man had set his heart upon. but, cora, listen here, my dear! you and i are free at present. we need not countenance this marriage by our presence. i, your brother, can take you to another hotel, or take you off to saratoga, where we can stay until i get my orders, and then you can go out with me wherever i go. there! the devil's icy peak itself will be a holier home than rockhold, for you." cora had become quite calm by this time, and she answered quietly: "no; you misapprehend me, sylvan. it was not from indignation or resentment that i cried, and not at all for myself. i grieved for him, the spellbound old man! no, sylvanus; since we feel assured that no power of ours, no power on earth, can turn him from his purpose, we must do our duty by him. we must refrain from giving him pain or making him angry; for his own poor old sake, we must do this! sylvan, i must attend his bride to the altar; and you must attend him--as he desired us to do." "'desired!' by jove, i think he commanded! i do not remember ever to have heard his majesty the king of the cumberland mines request anybody to do anything in the whole course of his life. he always ordered him to do it! well, cora, dear, i will be 'best' man to the bridegroom, since you say so! i have always obeyed you, cora. ah! you have trained me for the model of an obedient husband for some girl, cora! now, i am going down stairs to smoke a cigar. you don't object to that, i hope, mrs. rothsay?" lightly inquired the youth as he sauntered out of the room. he had just closed the door when mrs. stillwater entered. she came in very softly, crossed the room, sat down on the sofa beside cora, and slipped her arm around the lady's waist, purring and cooing: "i have been waiting to find you alone, dearest. i just heard your brother go down stairs. mr. rockharrt has told you, dear?" "yes; he has told me. take your arms away from me, if you please, mrs. stillwater, and pray do not touch me again," quietly replied the young lady, gently withdrawing herself from the siren's close embrace. "you are displeased with me. can you not forgive me, then?" pleaded rose, withdrawing her arms, but fixing her soft blue eyes pleadingly upon the lady's face. "you have given me no personal offense, mrs. stillwater." "cora, dear--" began rose. "mrs. rothsay, if you please," said cora, in a quiet tone. "mrs. rothsay, then," amended rose, in a calm voice, as if determined not to take offense--"mrs. rothsay, allow me to explain how all this came to pass. i have always, from the time i first lived in his house, felt a profound respect and affection for your grandfather--" "mr. rockharrt, if you please," said cora. "for mr. rockharrt, then, as well as for his sainted wife, the late mrs. rockharrt. i--" "madam!" interrupted cora. "is there nothing too holy to be profaned by your lips? you should at least have the good taste to leave that lady's sacred memory alone." "certainly, if you wish; but she was a good friend to me, and i served her with a daughter's love and devotion. in my last visit to rockhold i also served mr. rockharrt more zealously than ever, because, indeed, he needed such affectionate service more than before. he has grown so much accustomed to my services that they now seem vitally necessary to him. but, of course, i cannot take care of him day and night, in parlor and chamber, unless i become his wife--'the abisheg of his age.' and so, cora, dear--i beg pardon--mrs. rothsay, i have yielded to his pleadings and consented to marry him." "mr. rockharrt has already told me so," coldly replied cora. "and, dear, i wish to add this--that the marriage need make no difference in our domestic relations at rockhold." "i do not understand you." "i mean in the family circle." "oh! thank you!" said cora, with the nearest approach to a sneer that ever she made. "i have heard all you have to say, mrs. stillwater, and now i have to reply--first, that i give you no credit for any respect or affection that you may profess for mr. rockharrt, or for disinterested motives in marrying the aged millionaire." "oh, cora--mrs. rothsay!" "i will say no more on that point. mr. rockharrt is old and worn with many business cares. i would not willingly pain or anger him. therefore, because he wills it, for his sake, not for yours, i will attend you to the altar. also, if he should desire me to do so, i shall remain at rockhold until the return of mr. fabian rockharrt." at the sound of this name rose stillwater winced and shivered. "then, knowing that his favorite son will be near him, i shall leave him with the freer heart and go away with my brother, withersoever he may be sent. mr. fabian is expected to return within a few weeks, and will probably be here long before my brother receives his orders. now, mrs. stillwater, i think all has been said between us, and you will please excuse my leaving you," said cora, as she arose and withdrew from the room. then rose stillwater lost her self-command. her blue eyes blazed, she set her teeth, she doubled her fist, and shaking it after the vanished form of the lady, she hissed: "very well, proud madam! i'll pay you for all this! you shall never touch one cent of old aaron rockharrt's millions!" having launched this threat, she got up and went to her room. ten minutes later she drove out in a carriage alone. she did not return to luncheon. neither did mr. rockharrt, who had gone down to wall street. sylvan and cora lunched alone, and spent the afternoon together in the parlor, for they had much to say to each other after their long separation, and much also to say of the impending marriage. during that afternoon many packages and bandboxes came by vans, directed to mrs. rose stillwater. these were sent to her apartment. at dusk mrs. stillwater returned and went directly to her room. she probably did not care to face the brother and sister together, unsupported by their grandfather. a few minutes later mr. rockharrt came in, looking moody and defiant, as if quite conscious of the absurdity of his position, or ready to crush any one who betrayed the slightest, sense of humor. then dinner was served, and rose stillwater came out of her room and entered the parlor--a vision of loveliness--her widow's weeds all gone, her dress a violet brocaded satin, with fine lace berthe and sleeve trimmings, white throat and white arms encircled with pearl necklace and bracelets; golden red hair dressed high and adorned with a pearl comb. she came in smiling and took her place at the table. old aaron rockharrt looked up at her in surprise and not altogether with pleasure. rose stillwater, seeing his expression of countenance, got a new insight into the mind of the old man whom she had thought she knew so well. during dinner, to cover the embarrassment which covered each member of the small party, sylvan began to talk of the cadets' ball at west point on the preceding evening; the distinguished men who were present, the pretty girls with whom he had danced, the best waltzers, and so forth, and then the mischievous scamp added: "but there wasn't a brunette present as handsome as my sister cora, nor a blonde as beautiful as my own grandmamma-elect." when they all left the table, mrs. stillwater went to her room, and mr. rockharrt took occasion to say: "i wish you both to understand the programme for to-morrow. there is to be no fuss, no wedding breakfast, no nonsense whatever." sylvan thought to himself that the marriage alone was nonsense enough to stand by itself, like a velvet dress, which is spoiled by additions; but he said nothing. mr. rockharrt, standing on the rug with his back to the mantlepiece and his hands clasped behind him, continued: "sylvan, you will wear a morning suit; cora, you will wear a visiting costume, just what you would wear to an ordinary church service. rose will be married in her traveling dress. immediately after the ceremony we, myself and wife, shall enter a carriage and drive to the railway depot and take the train for niagara. you two can return here or go to rockhold or wherever you will. we shall make a short tour of the falls, lakes, st. lawrence river, and so on, and probably return to rockhold by the first of july. i cannot remain long from the works while fabian is away. now, am i clearly understood?" "very clearly, sir," replied sylvan, speaking for himself and sister. "then, good night; i am going to bed," said the iron king, and without waiting for a response, he strode out of the room. "who ever heard of a man dictating to a woman what she shall wear?" exclaimed cora. sylvan laughed. "why, the king of the cumberland mines would dictate when you should rise from your seat and walk across the room; when you should sit down again; when you should look out of the window, and every movement of your life, if it were not too much trouble. good night, cora." the brother and sister shook hands and parted for the night, each going to his or her respective apartment. early the next morning the little party met at breakfast. the iron king looked sullen and defiant, as if he were challenging the whole world to find any objection to his remarkable marriage at their peril. mrs. stillwater, in a pretty morning robe of pale blue sarcenet, made very plainly, looked shy, humble, and deprecating, as if begging from all present a charitable construction of her motives and actions. cora rothsay looked calm and cold in her usual widow's dress and cap. sylvan seemed the only cheerful member of the party, and tried to make conversation out of such trifles as the bill of fare furnished. all were relieved when the party separated and went to their rooms to dress for church. at eleven o'clock they reassembled in the parlor. mr. rockharrt wore a new morning suit. he might have been going down to wall street instead of to his own wedding. rose stillwater wore a navy blue, lusterless silk traveling dress, with hat, veil and gloves to match, all very plain, but extremely becoming to her fresh complexion and ruddy hair. cora wore her widow's dress of lusterless black silk with mantle, bonnet, veil and gloves to match. sylvan, like his grandfather, wore a plain morning suit. "well, are you all ready?" demanded old aaron, looking critically upon the party. "all ready, sir," chirped sylvan for the others. "come, then." and the aged bridegroom drew the arm of his bride-elect within his own and led the way down stairs and out to the handsome carriage that stood waiting. he handed her in, put her on the back seat and placed himself beside her. sylvan helped his sister into the carriage and followed her. they seated themselves on the front seat opposite the bridal pair. and the carriage drove off. "oh!" suddenly exclaimed old aaron rockharrt, rummaging in the breast pocket of his coat and drawing thence a white envelope and handing it to sylvan; "here, take this and give it to the minister as soon as we come before him." the young man received the packet and looked inquiringly at the elder. it was really the marriage fee for the officiating clergyman, and a very ostentatious one also; but the iron king did not condescend to explain anything. he had given it to his grandson with his orders, which he expected to be implicitly obeyed without question. they reached the church, the same church in which they had heard the dean preach on the previous sunday. they alighted from the carriage and entered the building, old aaron rockharrt leading the way with his bride-elect on his arm, sylvan and cora following. the church was vacant of all except the minister, who stood in his surplice behind the chancel railing, and the sexton who had opened the door for the party, and was now walking before them up the aisle. the church was empty, because this, though the wedding of a millionaire, was one of which it might be said that there was "no feast, no cake, no cards, no nothing." the party reached the altar railing, bowed silently to the minister, who nodded gravely in return, and then formed before the altar--the venerable bridegroom and beautiful bride in the center, sylvan on the right of the groom, cora on the left of the bride. the young man performed the mission with which he had been intrusted, and then the ceremony was commenced. it went on smoothly enough until the minister in its proper place asked the question: "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" there was an awful pause. no one had thought of the necessity of having a "church father" to give away the bride. the officiating clergyman saw the dilemma at a glance, and quietly beckoned the gray-haired sexton to come up and act as a substitute. but sylvan haught, with a twinkle of fun in his eyes, turned his head and whispered to the new comer: "'after me is manners of you.'" then he took the bride's hand and said mightily:-- "i do." the marriage ceremony went on to its end and was over. congratulations were offered. the register was signed and witnessed. and old aaron rockharrt led his newly married wife out of the church and put her into the carriage. then turning around to his grandchildren he said: "you can walk back to the hotel. see that the porters send off our luggage by express to the cataract house, niagara falls. they have their orders from me, but do you see that these orders are promptly obeyed. now, good-by." he shook hands with sylvan and cora, and entered the carriage, which immediately rolled off in the direction of the railway station. the brother and sister walked back to the hotel together. "it will be a curious study, cora, to see who will rule in this new firm. i believe it is universally conceded that when an old man marries a pretty young wife, he becomes her slave. but our honored grandfather has been absolute monarch so long that i doubt if he can be reduced to servitude." "i have no doubts on the subject," replied his sister. "i have been watching them. he is not subjugated by rose. he is not foolishly in love with her, at his age. he likes her as he likes other agreeable accessories for his own sake. i have neither respect nor affection for rose, yet i feel some compassion for her now. whatever the drudgery of her life as governess may have been since she left us, long ago, it has been nothing, nothing to the penal servitude of the life upon which she has now entered. the hardest-worked governess, seamstress, or servant has some hours in the twenty-four, and some nook in the house that she can call her own where she can rest and be quiet. but rose rockharrt will have no such relief! do i not remember my dear grandmother's life? and my grandfather really did love her, if he ever loved any one on earth. this misguided young woman fondly hopes to be the ideal old man's darling. she deceives herself. she will be his slave, by day and night seldom out of his sight, never out of his service and surveillance. possibly--for she is not a woman of principle--she may end by running away from her master, and that before long." cora's last words brought them to the "ladies' entrance" of their hotel. "go up stairs, cora, and i will step into the office and see if there are any letters," said sylvan. mrs. rothsay went up into their private sitting room, dropped into a chair, took off her bonnet and began to fan herself, for her midday walk had been a very warm one. presently sylvan came up with a letter in his hand. "for you, cora, from uncle fabian! there is a foreign mail just in." "give it to me." sylvan handed her the letter, cora opened it, glanced over it, and exclaimed: "uncle fabian says that he will be home the last of this month." chapter xviii. a crisis at rockhold. brother and sister went to newport and spent a month. the dean of olivet was in the town, but they never met him because they never went into society. toward the last of june, corona proposed that they should go at once to rockhold. the next morning brother and sister took the early train for new york. on the morning of the second day they took the express train for baltimore, where they stopped for another night. and on the morning of the third day they took the early train for north end, where they arrived at sunset. they went to the hotel to get dinner and to engage the one hack of the establishment to take them to rockhold. almost the first man they met on the hotel porch was mr. clarence, who rushed to meet them. "hurrah, sylvan! hurrah, old boy! back again! why didn't you write or telegraph? how do you do, cora! ah! when will you get your roses back, my dear? and how is his majesty? why is he not with you? where did you leave him?" demanded mr. clarence in a gale of high spirits at greeting his nephew and niece again. "he is among the thousand islands somewhere with his bride," answered cora. "his--what?" inquired mr. clarence, with a puzzled air. "his wife," said cora. "his wife? what on earth are you talking about, cora? you could not have understood my question. i asked you where my father was!" said the bewildered mr. clarence. "and i told you that he is on his wedding trip with his bride, among the thousand islands," replied cora. mr. clarence turned in a helpless manner. "sylvan," he said, "tell me what she means, will you?" "why, just what she says. our grandfather and grandmother are on the st. lawrence, but will be home on the first of july," sylvan explained. but mr. clarence looked from the brother to the sister and back again in the utmost perplexity. "what sort of a stupid joke are you two trying to get off?" he inquired. they had by this time reached the public parlor of the hotel and found seats. "is it possible, uncle clarence, that you do not know mr. rockharrt was married on the thirty-first of last month, in new york, to mrs. stillwater?" inquired cora. "what! my father!" "why should you be amazed or incredulous, uncle clarence? the incomprehensible feature, to my mind, is that you should not have heard of the affair directly from grandfather himself. has he really not written and told you of his marriage?" "he has never told me a word of his marriage, though he has written a dozen or more letters to me within the last few weeks." "that is very extraordinary. and did you not hear any rumor of it? did no one chance to see the notice of it in the papers?" "no one that i know of. no; i heard no hint of my father's marriage from any quarter, nor had i, nor any one else at rockhold or at north end, the slightest suspicion of such a thing." "that is very strange. it must have been in the papers," said sylvan. "if it was i did not see it, but, then, i never think of looking at the marriage list." "i am inclined to think that it never got into the papers. the marriage was private, though not secret. and you, sylvan, should have seen that the marriage was inserted in all the daily papers. it was your special duty as groomsman. but you must have forgotten it, and i never remembered to remind you of it," said cora. "not i. i never forgot it, because i never once thought of it. didn't know it was my duty to attend to it. besides, i had so many duties. such awful duties! think of my having to be my own grandmother's church papa and give her away at the altar! that duty reduced me to a state of imbecility from which i have not yet recovered." "but," said mr. clarence, with a look of pain on his fine, genial countenance, "it is so strange that my father never mentioned his marriage in any of his letters to me." "perhaps he did not like to mix up sentiment with business," kindly suggested sylvan. "i don't think it was a question of sentiment," sighed mr. clarence. "what? not his marriage?" "no," sighed mr. clarence. "well, don't worry about the matter. let us order dinner and engage the carriage to take us all to rockhold. how astonished the darkies will be to see us, and how much more astonished to hear the news we have to tell! i wonder if they will take kindly to the rule of the new mistress?" said sylvan. "why did not one of you have the kindness, and thoughtfulness, to write and tell me of my father's marriage?" sorrowfully inquired mr. clarence, utterly ignoring the just spoken words of his nephew. "dear uncle clarence, i should certainly have written and told you all about it at once, if i had not taken for granted that grandfather had informed you of his intention, as was certainly his place to do. and even if i had written to you on any other occasion, i should assuredly have alluded to the marriage. but, you see, i never wrote to any one while away," cora explained. "now, uncle clarence, just take cora's explanation and apology for both of us, will you, for it fits me as well as it does her? and now you two may keep the ball rolling, while i go out and order dinner and engage the hack," said sylvan, starting for the office. when he was gone clarence asked cora to give him all the details of the extraordinary marriage, and she complied with his request. "it will make a country talk," said the young man, with a sigh, which cora echoed. "and you say they will be home on the first of july?" he inquired. "yes," said cora. "i wish i had known in time. i would have had old rockhold hall prepared as it should be for the reception of my father's bride, though i do so strongly disapprove the marriage. do you know, cora, that old house has never had its furniture renewed within my memory? some of the rooms are positively mouldy and musty. and whoever heard of a wealthy man like my father bringing his wife home to a neglected old country house like rockhold, without first having it renovated and refurnished?" "i do not believe he ever once thought of the propriety or necessity of repairing and refitting. his mind is quite absorbed in his new and vast speculations. he spent every day down in wall street while we stayed in new york city." "well, corona, this is the twenty-eighth of june, and we have four days before us; for i do not suppose the newly married pair will arrive before the evening of the first of july; so we must do the best we can, my dear, to make the house pleasant in this short time." "and uncle fabian and his wife will be at rockhold about the same time," added cora. "i knew fabian would be at north end on the first of july, but i did not know that he would go on to rockhold. i thought he would go on to their new house. so we shall have two brides to welcome, instead of one." "yes. and now, uncle clarence, will you please ring for a chambermaid? i must go to a bed room and get some of this railroad dust out of my eyes," said cora. at nine o'clock in the very warm evening, the three were sitting near the open windows, when they started at the sound of a hearty, genial voice in the adjoining room, inquiring for accommodations for the night. "it is fabian!" cried mr. clarence, springing up in joy and rushing out of the room to welcome his only and much beloved brother. the glad voices of the two brothers in greeting reached their ears, and a moment after the door was thrown open again, and mr. clarence entered, conducting mr. and mrs. fabian rockharrt. as soon as they found themselves alone, the two brothers took convenient seats to have a talk. "how goes on the works, clarence?" inquired mr. fabian. "very prosperously. you will go through them to-morrow and see for yourself." "and how goes on the great scheme?" "even better than the works. last reports shares selling at one hundred and thirty." "same over yonder. when i left amsterdam shares selling like hot cakes at a hundred and thirty-one seventenths. how is the governor?" inquired mr. fabian. "as flourishing as a successful financier and septuagenarian bridegroom can be." "why!--what do you mean?" "haven't you heard the news?" "what is it? you--you don't mean--" "has our father written nothing to you of a very important and utterly unexpected act of his life?" "no." "i advised him to marry--" "you! you! fabian! you advised our father to do such an absurd thing at his age?" "i confess i don't see the absurdity of it," quietly replied the elder brother. "oh, why did you counsel him to such an act?" inquired mr. clarence, more in sorrow than in anger. "out of pure good nature. i was getting married myself and wanted everybody to be as happy as i was myself, particularly my old father. now i wonder he did not write to me of his happiness; but perhaps he has done so and the letter passed me on the sea. when did this marriage take place?" "on the last day of may." "whe-ew! then there was ample time in which to have written the news to me. and i have had at least half a dozen business letters since the date of his marriage, in any of which he might have mentioned the occurrence had he so chosen. the lady is no longer young. she must be forty-eight, and she is handsome, cultured, dignified and of very high rank. a queenly woman!" "do you know whom you are talking about, fabian?" "mrs. bloomingfield, the lady i recommended, whom father married." "oh, indeed; i thought you didn't know what you were talking about or whom you were talking of," said mr. clarence. "what do you mean by that?" "our father never accepted your recommendation; never proposed to the handsome, high spirited mrs. bloomingfield." "what!" exclaimed mr. fabian. "whom, then?" "whom? whom should he have selected but "'the rose that all ad-mi-r-r-?' "clarence, what, in the fiend's name, do you mean? whom has my father married?" demanded mr. fabian, starting up and staring at his younger brother. "mrs. rose flowers stillwater," replied mr. clarence, staring back. mr. fabian dropped back in his chair, while every vestige of color left his face. "why, fabian! fabian! why should you care so much as all this? speak, fabian; what is the matter?" inquired the younger brother, rising and bending over the elder. "what is the matter?" cried mr. fabian, excitedly. "ruin is the matter! ruin, disgrace, dishonor, degradation, an abyss of infamy; that is the matter." "oh, come now! see here! that is all wild talk. the young woman was only a nursery governess, to be sure, in our house, and then widow of some skipper or other; but she was respectable, though of humble position." "clarence, hush! you know nothing about it!" exclaimed mr. fabian, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, and then getting up and walking the floor with rapid strides. "i don't understand all this, fabian. we were all of us a good deal cut up by the event, but nothing like this!" said mr. clarence, uneasily. "no; you don't understand. but listen to me: i was on my way to rockhold to join in the family reunion, and to show the old homestead to my wife; but i cannot take her there now. i cannot introduce her to the new mrs. rockharrt--the new mrs. rockharrt!" he repeated, in a tone and with a gesture of disgust and abhorrence. "i shall turn back, and take my wife to our new home; and when i go to rockhold, i shall go alone." "fabian, you make me dreadfully uneasy. what do you know of rose stillwater that is to her discredit?" demanded clarence rockharrt. his elder brother paused in his excited walk, dropped his head upon his chest and reflected for a few moments. then he seemed to recover some degree of self-control and self-recollection. he returned to his chair, sat down, and said: "of my own personal knowledge i know nothing against the woman but just this--that she is but half educated, deceitful, and unreliable. and that knowledge i gained by experience after she had first left rockhold, to which i had first introduced her for a governess to our niece. i had nothing to do with her return to the old hall, and would have never countenanced such a proceeding if i had been in the country." "that is all very deplorable, but yet it hardly warrants your very strong language, fabian. i am sorry that you have discovered her to be 'ignorant, deceitful, and unreliable,' but let us hope that now, when she is placed above temptation, she will reform. don't take exaggerated views of affairs, fabian." the elder man was growing calmer and more thoughtful. presently he said: "you are right, clarence. my indignation, on learning that that woman had succeeded in trapping our iron king, led me into extravagant language on the subject. forget it, clarence. and whatever you do, my brother, drop no hint to any one of what i have said to you to-night, lest our father should hear of it; for if he should--" mr. fabian paused. "i shall never drop a hint that might possibly give our father one moment of uneasiness. be sure of that, fabian." "that is good, my brother! and we will agree to ignore all faults in our young stepmother, and for our father's sake treat her with all proper respect." "of course. i could not do otherwise. and, fabian, i hope you will reconsider the matter, and bring violet to rockhold to join our family reunion." "no, clarence," said the elder brother; "there is just where i must draw the line. i cannot introduce my wife to the new mrs. rockharrt." "but it seems to me that you are very fastidious, fabian. do you expect always to be able to keep violet from meeting with 'ignorant, insincere and unreliable' people, in a world like this?" inquired mr. clarence, significantly. "no, not entirely, perhaps; yet, so far as in me lies, i will try to keep my simple wood violet 'unspotted from the world,'" replied mr. fabian, who, untruthful and dishonest as he was in heart and life, yet reverenced while he wondered at the purity and simplicity of his young wife's nature. "i am afraid the pater will feel the absence of violet as a slight to his bride," said mr. clarence. "no; i shall take care that he does not. violet is in very delicate health, and that must be her excuse for staying at home." the brothers talked on for a little while longer; and then, when they had exhausted the subject for the time being, mr. clarence said he would go and look up sylvan, and he went out for the purpose. fabian rockharrt, left alone, resumed his disturbed walk up and down the room, muttering to himself: "the traitress! the unprincipled traitress! how dared she do such a deed? didn't she know that i could expose her, and have her cast forth in ignominy from my father's house? or did she venture all in the hope that consideration of my father's age and position in the world would shut my mouth and stay my hand? she is mistaken, the jade! unless she falls into my plans, and works for my interest, she shall be exposed and degraded from her present position." mr. fabian was interrupted by the re-entrance of mrs. rothsay. he turned to meet her and inquired: "where did you leave violet, my dear?" "she is in her own room, which is next to mine. i went in with her and saw her to bed, and waited until she went to sleep," replied cora. "poor little one! she is very fragile, and has been very much fatigued. i do not think, my dear, that i can take her on to rockhold to-morrow. i think i must let her rest here for a day or two." "it would be best, not only on account of violet's delicacy and weariness, but also on account of the condition of the house at rockhold, which has not been opened or aired for months." "that is true; though i had not thought of it before," said mr. fabian, who was well pleased that cora so readily fell in with his plans. "what do you think of the pater's marriage, cora?' he next inquired. "i would rather not give an opinion, uncle fabian," she answered. "then i am equally well answered, for that is giving a very strong opinion!" he exclaimed. "the deed is done and cannot be undone!" "can it not? perhaps it can!" "what do you mean, uncle fabian?" "nothing that you need trouble yourself about, my dear. but tell me this--what do you mean to do, cora? do you mean to stay on at rockhold?" "i suppose i must do so." "not at all, if you do not like! you are an independent widow and may go where you please." "i know that and wish to go; but i do not wish to make a scene or cause a scandal by leaving my grandfather's protection so suddenly after his marriage, which is open enough to criticism, as it is. so i must stay on at rockhold so long as sylvan's leave shall last, and until he shall receive his commission and orders. then i will go with him wherever his duty may call him." "good girl! you have decided well and wisely. though the post of duty to which the callow lieutenantling will be ordered must, of course, be fort jumping off point, at the extreme end of the habitable globe. well, my dear, i must bid you good night, for, see, it is on the stroke of eleven o'clock, and i am rather tired from my journey, for, you must know, we rushed it through from new york to north end without lying over," said mr. fabian, as he shook hands with his niece. he retired, and his example was soon followed by all his party. chapter xix. a family reunion. the next morning, after an early breakfast, the travelers assembled in the hall of the hotel to take leave of each other. clarence, sylvan, and cora entered the capacious carriage of the establishment to drive to rockhold, leaving mr. and mrs. fabian rockharrt on the porch of the hotel, at which they had decided to rest for a few days. "we shall go to rockhold to welcome the king and queen when they return, cora," said mr. fabian, waving his hand to the departed trio, though he had not the least intention of keeping his word. he then led his pretty violet into the house. the lumbering carriage rolled along the village street, passed the huge buildings of the locomotive works, and out into the road that lay between the fool of the range of mountains and the banks of the river. the ferryboat was at the wharf, and the broad shouldered negro dwarf was standing on it, pole in hand. his look of surprise and delight on seeing sylvan and cora was good to behold. "why, lors bress my po' ole soul, young marse an' miss, is yer come sure 'nough? 'deed i's moughty proud to see yer. how's de ole marse? when he coming back agin?" he queried, as the carriage rolled slowly across the gangplank from the wharf to the deck of the ferryboat. "your ole marse is quite well, uncle moses, and will be home on the first of the month with his new wife," said sylvan, who could not miss the fun of telling this rare bit of news to the aged ferryman. the old negro dropped his pole into the water, opened his mouth and eyes to their widest extent and gasped and stared. "wid--w'ich?" he said, at last. "with his new wife and your new mistress," answered sylvan. the old negro dropped his chin on his chest, raised his knobby black fingers to his head and scratched his gray hair with a look of quaint perplexity, as he muttered, "now i wunner ef i tuk too heavy a pull on to dat dar rum jug, fo' i lef de house dis mornin'--i wunner if i did." his mate stopped and pulled the pole up out of the water and began himself to push off the boat until it was afloat. they soon reached the opposite shore, drove off the boat and up the avenue between the flowering locust trees that formed a long, green, fragrant arch above their heads, and so on to the gray old house. in a very few moments the door was opened and all the household servants appeared to welcome the returning party. most of them looked more frightened than pleased; but when anxious glances toward the group leaving the carriage assured them that the family "boodlejock" was not present, they seemed relieved and delighted to see the others. with the easy, respectful familiarity of long and faithful service, the negro men and women crowded around the entering party with loving greetings. the news of the iron king's marriage was told by sylvan. had a bombshell fallen and exploded among the servants, they could not have been more shocked. there was a simultaneous exclamation of surprise and dismay, and then total silence. at the end of the third day all was ready for the reception of mr. and mrs. rockharrt. the next day was the first of july. as soon as mr. clarence reached his private office at the works he found a telegram waiting him. he opened it, and read the following: capon springs, july , -- shall reach north end by the p.m. train. send the carriage to meet that train. shall go directly to rockhold. order dinner there for p.m. aaron rockharrt. mr. clarence put a boy on horseback and sent him on to cora, with this message inclosed in a note from himself. and then he gave his attention to the duties of his office. he was still busy at his desk when mr. fabian strolled in. "well, old man, good morning. i return to duty to-day, because it is the first of the month, you know." "and also the first of the financial year. there has been so much to do within the last few days, i am glad you have returned to your post. i would like the pater to find all right when he comes to inspect. by the way, i have just got a telegram from him. i have just sent it off to cora, so that she may know when to send the carriage, and for what hour to order dinner. you know it would never do to have anything 'gang aglee' in which the pater is interested." "no. well, you and i must go to meet him. we must not fail in any attention to the old gentleman." "of course not. oh! what will the people say when they hear the news? i do not think that the slightest rumor of the mad marriage has got out i know that i have not breathed it." "nor i. but of course it will be generally known within twenty-four hours; and then i hope the pater will do the handsome thing and give his workmen a general holiday and jollification." "i doubt it, since he has not even refurnished the shabby old drawing room at rockhold in honor of the occasion," said mr. clarence. then the brothers separated for the day. whenever the family traveling carriage happened to be sent from rockhold to the north end railway depot, it always stopped at the north end hotel to rest and water the horses. so when the afternoon waned, as messrs. fabian and clarence rockharrt had to remain busy in their respective offices up to the last possible minute, sylvan was stationed on the front porch of the hotel, with the day's newspapers and a case of cigars to solace him while watching for the carriage. it came at a quarter to five o'clock, and while the horses were resting and feeding, sylvan sent a messenger to summon his two uncles. by the time the two horses were ready to start again, the two men came up and entered the carriage. sylvan followed them in. "see here, my boy," said mr. fabian, "you can't go, you know. there will be no room for you coming back. clarence and myself fill two seats, and your grandfather and--" "grandmother fill up the other," added sylvan. "but never mind; in coming back i can ride on the box with the coachman; but go i will to meet my venerable grandparents! bless my wig! didn't i give away my grandmother at the altar, and shall i not pay them the attention of going to meet them on their return from their wedding tour?" the horses started at a good pace, passed through the village street, entered the main road running miles between the great works, and rolled on into the silent forest road that led to the railway depot in the valley. here the carriage drew up before the solitary station house. soon the train ran in and stopped. old aaron rockharrt got out and handed down his wife, before turning to face his sons. a man and maid servant, loaded down with handbags, umbrellas, waterproofs, and shawls, got out of another car. "fabian, put mrs. rockharrt into the carriage. i shall step into the waiting room to speak to the ticket agent," said old aaron rockharrt, as he strode off to the building. fabian rockharrt gave his arm to the lady, who during all this time had remained closely veiled. he led her off, leaving clarence and sylvan on the platform to wait for the return of mr. rockharrt. as soon as fabian and his companion were out of hearing of the rest of their party, he turned to her, and bending his head close to her ear, said: "well, ann white, what have you to say for yourself, eh, ann white?" he felt her tremble as she answered defiantly: "mrs. rockharrt, if you please." "no; by my life i will never give to such as you my honored mother's name!" "and yet i have it with all the rights and privileges it bestows, and i defy you, fabian rockharrt!" "you know very little of the laws relating to marriage if you think that you have legal right to the name and position you have seized, or that i have not power to thrust you out of my father's house and into a cell." "you are insolent! i shall report your words to mr. rockharrt, and then we shall see who will be thrust out of his house!" "i think that you had better not. listen, and i will tell you something that you do not know, perhaps." she turned quickly, inquiringly, toward him. he stooped and whispered a few words. he felt her thrill from head to foot, felt her rock and sway for a moment, and then--he had just time to catch her before she fell a dead weight in his arms. chapter xx. the whispered words. "well! what's all this?" abruptly demanded old aaron rockharrt, as he came up, followed by clarence and sylvan, just as fabian was lifting the unconscious woman into the carriage. "mrs. rockharrt has been over-fatigued, i think, sir, for she has fainted. but don't be alarmed; she is recovering," said mr. fabian, as he settled the lady in an easy position in a corner of the carriage, and found a smelling salts bottle and put it to her nose. "'alarmed?' why should i be?" "no reason why, sir," answered mr. fabian, who then stooped to the woman and whispered: "nor need you be so. you are safe for the present." "will you get out of my way and let me come to my place?" demanded the iron king. "pardon me, sir," said fabian, stepping backward from the carriage. "fainting?" said the old man, in a tone of annoyance, as he took his seat beside his new wife--"fainting? the first mrs. rockharrt never fainted in her life; nor ever gave any sort of trouble. what's the matter with you, rose? don't be a consummate fool and turn nervous. i won't stand any nonsense," he said roughly, as he peered into the pale face of his new slave. "oh, it is nothing," she faltered--"nothing. i was overcome by heat. it is a very hot day." "why, it is a very cool afternoon. what do you mean?" he demanded. "it has been a very hot day, and the heat and fatigue--" "rubbish!" he interrupted. "if i were to give any attention to your faints, you would be fainting every day just to have a fuss made over you. now this fainting business has got to be stopped. do you hear? if you are out of order, i will send for my family physician and have you examined. if you are really ill, you shall be put under medical treatment; if you are not, i will have no fine lady airs and affectations. the first mrs. rockharrt was perfectly free from them." "i would not have given way to the weakness if i could have helped it--indeed i would not!" said the poor woman, very sincerely. "we'll see to that!" retorted the iron king. ah, poor rose! she was not the old man's darling and sovereign, as she had hoped and planned to be. she was the tyrant's slave and victim. a man of aaron rockharrt's temperament seldom, at the age of seventy-seven, becomes a lover; and never, at any age, a woman's slave. mr. fabian now got into the carriage, and sat down on the front cushion opposite his father and step-mother. mr. clarence was following him in, when mr. rockharrt roughly interfered. "what are you about here, clarence? what are you going to do?" "take my seat in the carriage, of course, sir," answered the young man, with a surprised look. "you are going to do nothing of the sort! i don't choose to have the horses overtasked in this manner. i myself, with fabian and my coachman, to say nothing of mrs. rockharrt, are weight enough for one pair of horses, and you can't come in here. where's sylvan?" "on the box seat beside the driver." "really?" demanded the iron king, in a sarcastic tone, "how many more of you desire to be drawn by one pair of horses? tell sylvan to come down off that." "but, sir, there is not a single conveyance of any description at the station," urged clarence. "indeed! and pray what do you call your own two pairs of sturdy legs? are they not strong enough to convey you from here to north end, where you can get the hotel hack? and, by the way, why did you not engage the hack to come here and take you back?" "because it was out, sir." "then you two should not have come here to over-load the horses. but as you have come, you must walk back. has sylvan got off his perch? ah, yes; i see. well, tell the coachman to drive first to the north end hotel. and do you two long-legged calves walk after it. if the hack should be still out when we get there, you can stay at the hotel until it comes in." "all right, sir," said clarence, good humoredly; and he closed the door, and gave the order to the coachman, who immediately started his horses on the way to north end. on the way home mr. clarence inquired of his nephew when he expected to receive his commission and where he expected to be ordered. "how can i tell you? i must wait for a vacancy, i suppose, and then be sent to the devil's icy peak or fort jumping off place, or some such other pleasant post of duty on the confines of terra incognita. but the farther off, the stranger and the savager it is, the better i shall like it for my own sake, but it will be rough on cora," said the youth. "but you do not dream of taking cora out there?" exclaimed clarence, in pained surprise. "oh, but i do! she insists on going where i go. she is bent on being a voluntary, unsalaried missionary and school-mistress to the indians just because rule died a martyred minister and teacher among them." "she is mad!" exclaimed mr. clarence; "mad." "she has had enough to make her mad, but she is sane enough on this subject, i can tell you, uncle clarence. she is the most level-headed young woman that i know, and the plan of life that she has laid out for herself is the best course she could possibly pursue under the present circumstances. she is very miserable here. this plan will give her the most complete change of scene and the most interesting occupation. it will cure her of her melancholy and absorption in her troubled past, and when she shall be cured she may return to her friends here, or she may meet with some fine fellow out there who may make her forget the dead and leave off her weeds. that is what i hope for, uncle clarence." and for the rest of their walk they trudged on in silence or with but few words passed between them. it was sunset when they reached north end. that evening when sylvan and cora found themselves together for a moment at rockhold house, the youth said: "corona rothsay, the sooner i get my orders and you and i depart for scalping creek or perdition peak, or wherever i am to be shoveled off to, the better, my dear," said the young soldier. "what do you think of it all now, sylvan?" she inquired. "i think, cora, that while we do stay here it would be christian charity to be very good to 'the rose that all admire.' nobody will admire her any more, i think." "why?" inquired cora, in surprise. "oh, you didn't see her face. she had her mask veil, do you call it?--down, so you couldn't see. but, oh, my conscience! how she is changed in these last six weeks! she is not a blooming rose any more. she is a snubbed, trampled on, crushed, and wilted rose. her face looks pale; her hair dull; her eyes weak; her beauty nowhere; her cheerfulness nowhere else." early the next morning, after a hasty breakfast, mr. rockharrt entered his carriage to drive to the works. young mrs. rockharrt, under the plea of fatigue from her long journey, retired to her own room. cora said to her brother: "sylvan, i wish you would order the little carriage and take me to the banks to see violet. i should have paid her this attention sooner but for the pressure of work that has been upon me. i must defer it no longer, but go this morning." "all right, cora!" answered the young man, and he left the room to do his errand. cora went up stairs to get ready for her drive. in about fifteen minutes the two were seated in the little open landau, that had been the gift of the late mrs. rockharrt to her beloved granddaughter, and that the latter always used when driving out in the country around rockhold during the summer. they did not have to cross the ferry, as the new house of fabian rockharrt was on the same side of the river as was rockhold. the road on this west side was, however, much rougher, though the scenery was much finer. they drove on through the woods, which here clothed the foot of the mountain and grew quite down to the water's edge, meeting over their heads and casting the road into deep shadow. they drove on for about three miles, when they came to a point where another road wound up the mountain side, through heavy woods, and brought them to a beautiful plateau, on which stood the handsome house of fabian rockharrt, in the midst of its groves, flower gardens, arbors, orchards and conservatories. it was a double, two-storied house, of brown stone, with a fine green background of wooded mountain, and a front view of the river below and the mountains beyond. there were bay windows at each end and piazzas along the whole front. as the carriage drew up before the door, violet was discovered walking up and down the front porch. she looked very fragile, but very pretty with her slight, graceful figure in a morning dress of white muslin, with blue ribbons at her throat and in her pale gold hair. she came down to meet her visitors. "oh, i am so glad you have come, cora and sylvan!" she said, throwing her arms around the young lady and kissing her heartily, and then giving her hand and offering her cheek for a greeting from the young man. "i fear you must be lonely here, violet," said cora. "awfully lonesome after fabian has gone away in the morning, cora. it would be such a charity in you to come and stay with me for a little while! come in now and we will talk about it," said the little lady, as she led the way back to the house. "sylvan," she continued, as they paused for a moment on the porch, "send your coachman around to the stable to put up your carriage. you and cora will spend the day with me at the very least." "just as cora pleases; ask her," said the young man with a glance toward his sister. "yes," she answered. "you are a love!" exclaimed violet as she led the way into the hall and thence into a pleasant morning room. cora laid off her bonnet and sank into an easy chair by the front window. "now, as soon as you are well rested, i wish to show you both over the house and grounds. such a charming house, cora! such beautiful grounds, sylvan!" exclaimed the proud little mistress. cora smiled approval, but did not explain that she herself had gone all through the establishment several times, in the course of its fitting up, to see that all things were arranged properly before the arrival of the married pair. and when, a little later, the trio went through the rooms, she expressed as much pleasure in their appearance as if she had never seen them before. the brother and sister spent a very pleasant day at violet banks, and when in the cool of the evening they would have taken leave, the young wife pleaded with them to stay all night. in the midst of this discussion mr. fabian rockharrt came home from north end. as he entered the parlor he heard his wood violet at her petition. he greeted them all, kissed his wife, kissed cora, and shook hands with sylvan. "now let me settle this matter," he said, good humoredly, as he threw himself into a large arm chair. "first tell me, cora, what is the obstacle to your spending the night with us?" "only that i did not announce even this visit to the family at rockhold." "do you owe any special obligation to do so?" "it is not a question of obligation, but of courtesy. i should certainly be remiss in politeness to leave the house for a two days' visit without giving notice of my intention," she answered. "oh! i see. well, i can fix all that. you will both remain to dinner. after dinner it will not be too late for sylvan to take my sure-footed cob and ride back to rockhold and explain to the family that cora is to remain here overnight, and that i will myself take her home to-morrow evening if she should wish to go." "what do you say, cora," inquired the young man. "i accept uncle fabian's offer and will remain here for the present," said the young lady. "like the sensible woman that you are!" exclaimed mr. fabian. half an hour later the four sat down to dinner in one of the prettiest little dining rooms that ever was seen. soon after the pleasant meal was over, sylvan took leave of his friends, mounted the white cob that stood saddled at the door, and rode down the wooded hill to the river road leading to rockhold. the three left behind spent the remainder of the evening on the front porch, watching the deep river, the hoary mountains, the starry sky, and listening to the hum of insects, the whirl of waters and the singing of the summer breeze through the pines that clothed the precipice, and talking very little. they retired to rest at a late hour. yet on the next morning they met at an early breakfast, for mr. fabian had to go to the works to make up for much lost time while affairs were left under the sole management of mr. clarence. cora remained with violet, who took her into a more interior confidence, and exhibited with equal pride and delight sundry dainty little garments of fine cambric and linen richly trimmed with lace or embroidery, all the work of her own delicate fingers. "they tell me, cora, that i could buy all these things as cheap and as good as i can make them. but i do take such pleasure in making them with my own hands." cora kissed her tenderly for all reply. then the little lady began to ask questions about her new step-mother-in-law. "you know, cora, that i could not ask you yesterday while sylvan was with us. he is in your full confidence, no doubt, and i have perfect faith in him; but for all that we cannot speak freely on all subjects before a third person, however near and dear. at least i could not ask searching questions about mr. rockharrt's marriage, before sylvan. such a strange marriage, with such a disparity in years between a man of mr. rockharrt's venerable age and mrs. stillwater's blooming youth! i saw her once by chance. she looked a perfect hebe of radiant health and beauty." cora rothsay smiled. she might have told this little lady that there was not much more difference between the ages of rose stillwater at thirty-seven and aaron rockharrt at seventy-seven than there was between violet wood at seventeen and fabian rockharrt at fifty-two. but as the young wife did not see this fact, cora refrained from showing it to her. then violet wanted to know what cora herself thought of the marriage. cora said she thought it concerned only the parties in question, and only time could tell how it would turn out. in such confidential talk passed the long summer day. in the cool of the evening mr. fabian came home to dinner. he joined his wife in trying to persuade cora to remain with them yet another day; but cora explained that there were many reasons for her return to rockhold. finding her obdurate, mr. fabian ordered mrs. rothsay's landau to be at the door at a certain hour. and as soon as dinner was over and cora had put on her bonnet and taken leave of violet, with a promise to return within a few days, mr. fabian placed her in the carriage, took his seat beside her, and drove down the wooded hill to the river road below. "it is not altogether for pleasure that i pressed you to stay till to-night, cora, although your presence gave great pleasure to my wife and self. i wished to have a private talk with you. cora, you ought not to stay at rockhold. you should come to us," said mr. fabian, as they bowled along the wooded road between the foot of the hills and the banks of the river. "why?" inquired the lady. he did not answer at once, but drove slowly on as if to gain time for thought. at length, however, he said: "i think that a home with violet and myself at the banks would be much more congenial to you than one with your grandfather and his new wife at rockhold." "but, my dear uncle fabian, under present circumstances my grandfather is my natural protector and rockhold my proper home until my brother has one to offer me." "cora, you are not frank with me. i know how you feel about staying at rockhold, and also why you feel as you do; though i do not see by what agency or intuition you could have gained the knowledge you seem to possess." "uncle fabian, i have no positive knowledge of any cause why i should shrink from continuing in my natural home. i have only suspicions, which perhaps you could clear up or confirm, if you would be frank with me." he drove on slowly in silence without answering her. she continued: "i wrote to you while you were in europe, informing you that mrs. stillwater had been invited by my grandfather to come to rockhold to remain as long as should be convenient to herself. you never replied to my letter." "i never got such a letter, cora. it must have been lost with others that miscarried among the continental mails, when they were following me from one office to another. but even if i had received such a letter, it could have made no difference. i could not have prevented mrs. stillwater's visit, nor the event that resulted from the visit. i could not have written or returned in time." "should you have prevented the visit or the marriage that followed if you could have done so?" "most certainly i should." "why?" "for the same reason that you, or clarence, or sylvan would have done so. for the reason of its total unfitness. but, cora, my dear, i repeat that you have not been frank with me. you are hiding something from me." "and i repeat, uncle fabian, that i have no positive knowledge of any--" "yes; so you said before," he exclaimed, interrupting her. "you have no positive knowledge, but you have very strong suspicions founded upon very solid grounds! now, what are these grounds, my dear? i am your uncle. you should give me your confidence." if mr. fabian had not put the matter in this way, and if they had not been driving along the dark and over-shadowed road where the meeting branches of the trees above almost hid the light of the stars, so that only one or two occasionally gleamed through the foliage, cora would never have been able to reply to her uncle as she did. "uncle fabian, do you remember a certain warm night in september some five years ago, when we stopped at the wirt house in baltimore?" "on our way home from canada--yes, i do." "my room was close that night and i could not sleep. a little after midnight i got up and put oil my dressing-gown and went into the adjoining room, which was our private parlor, and i sat down in a cool corner in the shadow of the curtain and in the draught of the window. i fell asleep, but was soon awakened by the sound of a door opening and some one whispering. i was about to call out when i recognized your voice. the room was pitch dark. i could not see you; but then i was about to speak, when i recognized another voice--mrs. stillwater's. you had let yourself in by your own key, through the door leading from the hall. she had come in through the door leading from her room, which was on the opposite side of the parlor from mine." cora paused to wait for the effect of her words. mr. fabian drove on slowly in silence. "i sat there quite still, too much surprised to speak or move." "and so you overheard that interview," said mr. fabian, with a dash of anger in his usually pleasant voice. "i could not escape. i was amazed, spellbound, too confused to know what to do." "well?" "i gathered from your words that you and she were either secretly married or secretly engaged to be married." "that was your opinion." "what other opinion could i form? you were providing her with a house and an income. she was speaking of herself as a daughter-in-law sure to be acceptable to your father and mother. of course, i judged from that that you were either wedded or betrothed, which was an incomprehensible thing to me, who had been led to believe that the lady was the wife of captain stillwater, remaining in baltimore to meet her husband, whose ship was then daily expected to arrive." "you were wrong, cora," said mr. fabian, now speaking in his natural tone without a shade of anger--quite wrong, my dear; there was nothing of the sort. i was never engaged to mrs. stillwater." "then she subsequently refused you. i am telling you what i thought then, not what i think now. i have heard from her own lips that after her husband's death you proposed to her and she refused you." mr. fabian shook with silent laughter. when he recovered he asked: "and you believed her?" "i do not know. i was in a maze. there were so many contradictory and inconsistent circumstances surrounding the woman that seemed to live and move in a web of deception woven by herself," said cora, wearily, as if tired of the subject. "and, after all, she is a very shallow creature, incapable of any deep scheming; there is no great harm. she knows that she is beautiful--still beautiful--and her only art is subtle flattery. she flattered your grandfather 'to the bent of his humor,' with no deeper design than to marry him and gain a luxurious home and an ample dower, as well as an adoring husband. you see she has succeeded in marrying him, poor little devil! but she has gained nothing but a prison and a jailer and penal servitude. i repeat, there is no great harm in her; and yet, cora, my dear, i do not permit my wife to visit her, and i do not wish you to remain in the same house with her." "why, uncle fabian! you were the very first to introduce her to us! it was you who were charged with the duty of finding a nursery governess for me, and you selected rose flowers from a host of applicants." "i know i did, my dear. she seemed to me a lovely, amiable, attractive girl of seventeen, not very well educated, yet quite old enough and learned enough to be nursery governess to a little lady of seven summers. and she did her duty and made herself beloved by you all, did she not?" "yes, indeed." "and so she always has done and always will do. and yet, my dear, you must not live in the same house with her now, even if you did live years together when she was your governess." "are you not even more prejudiced against mrs. rockharrt than i am?" "bah! no, my dear; i have no ill will against the woman, though i will not let my niece live with her or my wife visit her. "i wish, uncle fabian, that you would be more explicit and tell me all you know of rose flowers--or mrs. stillwater--before she became mrs. rockharrt." "have you told me all you know of her, cora, my dear?" "i have said several times that i know nothing, and yet--stop--" "what?" "in addition to that strange interview that i overheard, yet did not understand, there was something else that i saw, but equally did not understand." "what was that?" "something that happened while we were in new york city in may last." "will you tell me what it was?" "yes, certainly. we were staying at the star hotel. we stayed over sunday, and we went to the episcopal church near our hotel, to hear an english divine preach." "well?" "he was the celebrated pulpit orator, the dean of olivet--" "good heav--" exclaimed mr. fabian, involuntarily, but stopping himself suddenly. "what is the matter?" demanded cora, suspiciously. "i was too near the edge of the precipice. we might have been in the river in another moment," said mr. fabian. cora did not believe him, but she refrained from saying so. "the danger is past. go on, my dear." "we were shown into the strangers' pew. the voluntary was playing. we all bowed our heads for the short private prayer. the voluntary stopped. then we heard the voice of the dean and we lifted our heads. i turned to offer mrs. stillwater a prayer book. then i saw her face. it was ghastly, and her eyes were fixed in a wild stare upon the face of the dean, whose eyes were upon the open book from which he was reading. quick as lightning she covered her face with her veil and so remained until we all knelt down for the opening prayer. when we arose from our knees, rose was gone." cora paused for a few moments. "go on, go on," said mr. fabian. "we did not leave the church. grandfather evidently took for granted that rose had left on account of some trifling indisposition, and he is not easily moved by women's ailments, you know. so we stayed out the services and the sermon. when we returned to the hotel we found that rose had retired to her room suffering from a severe attack of neuralgic headache, as she said." "what did you think?" "i thought she might have been suddenly attacked by maddening pain, which had given the wild look to her eyes; but the next day i had good reason to change my opinion as to the cause of her strange demeanor." "what was that?" "we all left the hotel at an early hour to take the train for west point. mrs. stillwater seemed to have quite recovered from her illness. we had arrived at the depot and received our tickets, and were waiting at the rear of a great crowd at the railway gate, till it should be opened to let us pass to our train. i was standing on the right of my grandfather, and rose on my right. suddenly a man looked around. he was a great wall street broker who had dealings with your firm. seeing grandfather, he spoke to him heartily, and then begged to introduce the gentleman who was with him. and then and there he presented the dean of olivet to mr. rockharrt, who, after a few words of polite greeting, presented the dean to me, and turned to find rose stillwater." "well! well!" "she was gone. she had vanished from the crowd at the railway gate as swiftly, as suddenly, and as incomprehensibly as she had vanished from the church. after looking about him a little, my grandfather said that she had got pressed away from us by the crowd, but that she knew her way and would take care of herself and follow us to the train all right. but when the gates were opened we did not see her, nor did we find her on the train, though mr. rockharrt walked up and down through the twenty cars looking for her, and feeling sure that we should find her. the train had started, so we had to go on without her. my grandfather concluded that she had accidentally missed it and would follow by the next one." "and what did you think, cora?" "i thought that, for some antecedent and mysterious reason, she had fled from before the face of the dean of olivet at the railway station, even as she had done at the church." "when and where did you find her?" "not until our return to new york city. my grandfather was in a fine state; kept the telegraph wires at work between west point and new york, until he got some clew to her, and then, without waiting for the closing exercises at the military academy, he hurried me back to the city. we found the missing woman at st. l----'s hospital, where she had been conveyed after having been found in an unconscious condition in the ladies' room of the railway depot. she was better, and we brought her away to the hotel. the dean of olivet went to newport, and mrs. stillwater recovered her spirits. a few days later she married mr. rockharrt at the church where the dean had preached. you know everything else about the matter. and now, uncle fabian, tell me that woman's story, or at least all that is proper for me to know of it." "cora, you read rose stillwater aright. she did on both these occasions fly from before the face of the dean of olivet. i will tell you all about her, for it is now right that you should know; but you must promise never to reveal it." "i promise." chapter xxi. who was rose flowers? "well, my dear corona, i must ask you to cast your thoughts back to that year when you first came to rockhold to live, and engrossed so much of your grandmother's time and attention that your grandfather grew jealous and impatient, and commissioned me to 'hire' a nursery governess to look after you and teach you the rudiments of education. you remember that time, cora?" inquired mr. fabian, as he held the reins with a slackened grasp, so that the horse jogged slowly along the wooded road between the foot of the mountain and the banks of the river, under the star-lit sky. "i remember perfectly," answered the girl. "well, business took me to new york about that time, and i thought it a good opportunity to hunt up a governess for you. so i advertised in the new york papers, giving my address at an uptown office, while my own business kept me down town. "the first letter i opened interested me so much that i gave my whole attention to that first, and so it happened that i had no occasion to touch the others. it was from one ann white, who described herself as a motherless and fatherless girl of sixteen, a stranger in this country, who was trying to get employment as assistant teacher, governess, or copyist, and who was well fitted to take sole charge of a little girl seven years old. "perhaps this might not have impressed me, but she went on to write that she had not a friend in the whole country, that she was utterly destitute and desolate, and begged me for heaven's mercy not to throw her letter aside, but to see her and give her a trial. she inclosed her photograph, not, as she wrote, from any vanity, but that i might see her face and take pity on her. "cora, there was an air of childish frankness and simplicity about her letter that was well illustrated by her photograph. it was that of a sweet-smiling baby face; a sunny, innocent beautiful face. i answered the letter immediately, asking for her address, that i might call and see her. the next day i received her answer, thanking me with enthusiastic earnestness for my prompt attention to her note, and giving me the number and street of her residence in harlem. i got on a second avenue car and rode out to harlem; got off at the terminus, walked up a cross street and walked some distance to a bijou of a brown cottage, standing in shaded grounds, with sunny gleams and flower beds, and half covered by creeping roses, clematis, wisteria, and all that. "i went in, and was received by the beautiful being that you have known as rose flowers. she was dressed in some misty, cloud-like pale blue fabric that set off her blonde beauty to perfection. after we were seated and had talked some time, i telling her what light duties would be required of her--only the care of one good little girl of seven years old, and of a very mild old lady who was the only lady in the house, and of the old gentleman who was the head of the family, strict but just in all his dealings; and of our country house in the mountains and our town house in the state capital--and she expressing the greatest and frankest anxiety to become a member of such a happy, amiable, prosperous family, and declaring with childish boasting that she was quite competent to perform all the duties expected of her and would perform them conscientiously, i suddenly asked her for her references. "'i--i have not a friend in this world,' she said; and then in a timid voice, she asked: 'are references indispensable?' "'of course,' i answered "'then the lord help me! nothing is left but the river. the river won't require references;' and with that she buried her little golden-haired head in the cushions of the sofa and burst into a perfect storm of sobs and tears. now, cora, what in the deuce was a man to do? i had never seen anything like that in all my life before. i had never seen a woman in such a fit before. all this was strange and horrible to me. "i am a middling strong old fellow, but that beautiful girl's despair upset me, and i never could hear any one hint suicide, and she talked of the river. the river would receive her without references. the river was kinder than her own fellow creatures! the river would give her a home and rest and peace! she only wanted to do honest work for her living, but human beings would not even let her work for them without references! and i declare to you, cora, she was not acting, as you might suspect. she was in deadly earnest. her sobs shook her whole frame. "at last i myself behaved like an ass. i went and knelt down beside her so as to get quite close to her, and i began to comfort her. i told her not to mind about the references; that she might have me for a reference all the days of her life; that she should have the situation at rockhold, where i would convey her and introduce her on my own responsibility. "while i spoke to her i laid my hand on the little golden-haired head and smoothed it all the time. out of pity, cora, i assure you on my honor, out of pity. after a while her sobs seemed to subside slowly. i told her that her face was to me a sufficient recommendation in her favor, and all-sufficient testimonial of character; but that i must have her confidence in exchange for my own. "you see, cora, i was very sorry for the poor, pretty creature, and was really anxious to befriend her; but also my curiosity was keenly piqued. i wished to know her private history, and so i assured her that she should have the position she wanted on the condition of telling me her antecedents. "at last she yielded, and told me the story of her short, willful life. this, then, was her poor, little, pathetic story. "her name was ann white. she was the daughter of amos white, an english curate, living in a remote village in northumberland, and of his first wife, who had died during the infancy of her youngest child, ann, a year after which her father had married again. ann's step-mother was one of the most beautiful women in england, and--one of the most discontented, as the wife of a widowed clergyman who was old enough to be her father, who had three sons and two daughters by a former marriage, and who was trying to support his family on a hundred pounds a year. yet, so long as her father lived, ann's childhood was happy. but her father, who had been a consumptive, also died when ann was about seven years old. then the family was broken up. the three step-sons went to seek their fortunes in new zealand. the eldest step-daughter had been married and had gone to london a few months before her father's death; the younger step-daughter went to live with that married sister. ann and her step-mother were permitted to remain at the parsonage until the successor of amos white could be appointed. at last the new curate came--a handsome and accomplished man--rev. raphael rosslynn. he was a bachelor, without near relatives. he called on the widow white and at once set her heart at ease by begging her not to trouble herself to leave the parsonage, but to remain there for the present at least, and take him as a boarder. he was perfectly frank with the lovely widow, and told her that he was engaged to his own cousin, and that as soon as he should get a living promised him on the death of the present incumbent, and which was worth twelve hundred pounds a year, he should marry, but that he could not allow himself to anticipate happiness that must rise on a grave. but in the course of the year that which might have been expected happened, the young widow, who had never cared for her elderly first husband, fell desperately in love with her lodger, who was not very slow to respond, for her grace, beauty and allurements attracted, bewildered, and bedeviled him, so that he forgot or deplored his plighted vows to his good little cousin. to shorten the story, the cousin released him. in a few days the curate and the widow were married. ann was utterly neglected, ignored, and forgotten. her lessons, which, before the advent of the handsome curate, had been the widow's care, were now suspended. time went on, and these ardent lovers cooled off. not that their youth or health or beauty waned; not at all; but that their illusions were fading. yet, as often happens, as love cooled, jealousy warmed to life--each one conscious of indifference toward the other, yet resented a corresponding indifference in the other. as years went on, six children were born to this unhappy pair, whom not the lord but the devil had joined together, and with their increasing family came increasing poverty. it was hard to support a growing household on one hundred pounds a year. "in the seventh year of their marriage, in desperation, the reverend raphael advertised his ability and readiness to 'prepare young men for college.' he obtained but one pupil one alfred whyte, the son of a retired brewer. you perceive that he had the same surname with the young ann, but it was spelled differently--with a _y_, instead of an _i_, as her name was. he seems to have been a fine, hearty, good natured young fellow, about twenty years of age, with a short, stout form, a round, red face, and dark eyes and hair. he hated study, but loved children, animals, and out-door sports. it was in the course of nature that he should fall in love with the fair fifteen-year-old beauty ann white. "she returned his affection because since her father's death he was the only human being who had ever been kind to her. the first year that he spent at the parsonage was the happiest year ann had ever known. before it drew to an end, however, their happiness was clouded. the young man had over and over again assured the girl of his love for her, and at last he asked her to marry him. she consented. then he wrote and asked permission of his father to wed the curate's step-daughter. "the answer might have been anticipated. the purse-proud retired brewer, who had dreams of his only son and heir going into parliament and marrying some impoverished nobleman's daughter, wrote two furious letters, one to his son, commanding his immediate return home, and another to the rev. raphael rosslynn, reproaching him with having entrapped his pupil into an engagement with his pauper step-daughter. "we can judge the effect of these letters upon the peace of the parsonage. "the reverend raphael commanded his pupil into his presence, and after severely censuring him for his conduct in 'betraying the confidence of the family who had received him into its bosom,' he requested that master whyte should leave the house with all convenient speed. "the youth urged that he had meant no harm and had done no harm, that he was honestly in love with the young lady, and had honestly asked leave to marry her, and that he certainly would marry her-- "'though mammy and daddy and all gang mad.' "mr. rosslynn referred him to his father's letter and ordered him to depart. and then the reverend gentleman went to his wife's room and bitterly reproached her that her forward girl had been the cause of his losing his pupil and eighty pounds a year. "she told him that the fault was his own; that he should never have received a young man as a resident pupil in the house where there was a young girl. "a fierce quarrel ensued, which was ended at last by the reverend gentleman going out and banging the door behind him with a force that shook the house, and in a state of mind that rendered him singularly unfit to read the prayers for the sick beside the bed of a dying parishioner to whom he was urgently summoned. "mrs. rosslynn immediately hastened to wreak her vengeance on her step-daughter. she set her teeth as she seized the unlucky girl, whom she found at work in the kitchen, pushed her roughly on into the narrow passage up the steep stairs and into the little back loft that the child called her own bedroom. "here she took a firmer grip upon the girl, and with a dog whip that she had hastily snatched from the hat rack in passing, she lashed the hapless creature over back and shoulder. "ann never struggled or cried out, but held her tongue in fierce wrath and stubborn endurance. could that woman, the victim of all ungovernable passions, have but known what she did, or foreseen its results! "at last she ceased, pushed the bruised and wounded child away from her, sank panting to a chair, and as soon as she recovered her breath, began to insult and abuse the orphan child of her deceased husband, charging her with disgracing the house by improper conduct, of which the girl had never even dreamed; accusing her of causing the loss of their pupil and the income derived from him, and reproaching her for making discord between herself (mrs. rosslynn) and her husband. "ann replied by not one word. "at length the maddened woman, having talked herself out of breath, got up, left the room, and locked the door, not on her victim alone, but on all the evil spirits she had raised from tartarus and left with the girl. "ann sank upon the bed, weeping, moaning, and grinding her teeth, her body prostrated by pain, her soul filled with bitter wrath and scorn toward one whom she should rather have been led to love and honor. in the fiery torture of her flesh and the humiliation of her spirit she uttered but these piteous words: "'oh, my own mother!--oh, my lost father! do you see your child?' "for more than an hour she lay there before the fierce smarting and burning of her scourged flesh began to subside. the short november afternoon darkened into night. no one came near her. the hour for supper passed. no one called her to the meal. she heard the family passing to their rooms. she heard her mother putting the other children to bed--a duty that she herself had hitherto performed. at last all sounds died away in the house, and she knew that all the inmates had retired, and the lights were out. she was meditating to run away; she did not know in what direction, or to what end, farther than to escape from the home that was hateful to her. "evil spirits were with her, suggesting many desperate thoughts; at length they infused a deadly, horrible temptation to a deed of self-destruction so ghastly that its discovery should appal the family, the parish, and the whole world; that should cover her tormentors with shame, reproach and infamy. "she sprang up from her bed and went to search in the drawer of a little old wooden stand, until she found a half page of note paper and a bit of lead pencil. "she took them out and wrote to her persecutors, saying that she was going to throw herself--not into the sea, nor from a precipice, because both earth and sea give up their dead--but into the quicksands, which never give up anything; they, her tormentors, should never even see again the body they had bruised and torn and degraded; and she prayed that the lord would ever deal by them as they had dealt with her. "it must have been near midnight when she heard a tap at her window, so light that at first she thought it was made by a large raindrop; but presently her name was softly called by a voice that she recognized. then she understood it all, and her thoughts of the quicksands vanished. "her room was a small one in the rear of the house, immediately over the back kitchen, and her back window opened upon the roof of the wood shed behind the kitchen. she went and hoisted the window, and there on the roof of the wood shed stood alfred whyte. "he told her that he had taken leave of the ogre and the ogress hours before, and they thought he was off to london by the four o'clock mail; but that he had gone no farther than the railway station, where he had bought a ticket, and had gone on the platform, as if to wait for his train; but when it came up, instead of taking his place on it, he had slipped away in the confusion of its arrival and had hidden himself in the woods on the other side of the road, where he had waited until it was dark, when he had come back to watch the parsonage until every one should have gone to bed, so that he could get speech with ann. "and then he asked her if she were 'game for a bolt?" "she did not understand him; but when he next spoke plainly, and inquired if she would run away with him and be married, she answered promptly that she would. "he told her to get ready quickly, and to dress warmly, for the night was damp and cold, and to tie up a little bundle of things that she might need on the journey; but not to take much, because he had plenty of money, and could buy her all she needed. "'much;' poor little thing, she had not much to take! she put on her best dress--a well-worn blue serge--a coarse, black cloth walking jacket, and a little straw hat with a faded blue ribbon. she had no gloves. she tied up a hair brush, worn nearly to the wood, a tooth brush not much better, the half of a broken dressing comb, and one clean linen collar, in a small pocket handkerchief, and she was all ready for her wedding trip. "he told her to bolt her door before she came out, because that would take the ogres some little while to force it open, and would give the fugitives a better start. "ann did everything her boy lover directed, and finally stepped out of the window on to the roof below, and joined him. he let down the window, and closed the shutters with a spring that securely fastened them. "that, he told her, would certainly give them a longer start, for it would take an hour at least to force the room open and discover her flight. "then they left the parsonage together. "she had forgotten all about the parting note of malediction which she had left behind her on the stand, as she stepped along the lane leading to the highway. "he asked her to take his arm, and when they reached the public road, he inquired if she were game for a ten mile walk. "she told him that she could walk to the end of the world with him, because she was so happy to be beside the only one on earth who had ever been kind to her--since her father's death. "then he explained the steps that he had taken, and must still take, to elude pursuit; how that he had gone to the railway station and bought a first class ticket for the four o'clock express to london, and afterward, when the train came up, he had mingled with the crowd getting off and getting on, and so eluded observation, and had slipped away and hidden himself in the thicket until dark, so as to make every one concerned believe that he had gone off by the mail train alone to london. "now he told her that they must trudge straight on ten miles north, to take the train to glasgow; so that while people were hunting for them in the south, they would be safe in the north. "as they walked on he told her that he wanted to get away from england and see the world--the new world across the ocean. he had seen europe summer after summer, traveling with his father and mother on the continent. now he wanted to see america; and asked her if she did not also. "she told him that she wanted to see every place that he wanted to see, and to go everywhere he wanted to go, for that he was the only friend she had in all the wide world. "so they walked on for about three hours, and then, about two o'clock in the morning, they reached the little railway station of skelton. they had to wait two hours for the parliamentary train, which came heavily puffing in about five o'clock on that november morning. "young whyte took second class tickets, and led his closely veiled companion to her seat on the train. and they moved off. "they reached glasgow about ten o'clock the next day, and found that there was a steamer bound for new york, to sail at noon. no time was to be lost, so they both went to the agency together, represented themselves as a newly married pair, and engaged the only stateroom to be procured--which happened to be in the second cabin. their tickets were filled in with the names of mr. and mrs. alfred whyte--which indeed constituted a legal marriage in scotland, where a marriageable pair of lovers have only to declare themselves man and wife, in the presence of competent witnesses, to be as lawfully married as if the ceremony had been performed by the archbishop of canterbury in his own cathedral. "they took possession of their stateroom on the caledonian, which sailed at noon of the same day, and in due time arrived at new york. "they spent two days at an uptown hotel, and then took the pretty cottage at harlem, in which they lived for several months. ann's boy-husband often told her that she grew prettier every day, and he seemed to grow fonder of her every day. he supplied her with a nicer outfit of clothing and more pocket money than she had ever had in her poverty-stricken life, and made her much happier every way than she had ever been before, as long as his money lasted. "he had left england with nearly one hundred pounds in his pocket--the amount of his half-yearly allowance. "on his arrival in new york, he had written to his father and confessed his marriage with his tutor's step-daughter and begged forgiveness and--remittances. "ann declined to write to her step-mother or the curate, declaring that she preferred that they should believe that she had been driven by their cruelty to bury herself in the quicksands, and that they should suffer all the remorse of conscience and reprobation of society that their conduct toward her deserved. "but weeks passed, on and no letter filled with blessings and bank notes came from the offended and obdurate father, though the boy constantly assured his girl-wife that the expected epistle would surely come in time, for he was the 'old man's' only son, whom he would not be likely to discard. "meanwhile their money was running low. the youth was anxious to travel and see the new world, and to take his bride with him, but he could not do so without funds. at the end of six weeks after he had written the first letter to his father he wrote a second, but received no answer; later still he wrote a third, with no better success. "they had gone a little into debt, in order to eke out their little ready money until the longed-for letters of credit should come from england; but at the end of six months credit and cash were nearly exhausted. "one morning in may the boy-husband took leave of the girl-wife, saying, as he kissed her good-by, that he was going down into the city to see if he could get some work to do. "without the least misgiving, she received his farewell kiss, and saw him depart--watched him all the way down the street, until he got to second avenue and boarded a down-town car. "then she re-entered the little gate, and began to tend the jonquils and hyacinths that were just coming into bloom in her little flower garden. she did not expect to see him until night, nor--did she see him even then. when the little gate opened at eight o'clock and a man came up the walk leading to the front door at which she stood, he was not her husband, but the letter carrier, who put a letter in her hand and went away. "she ran into the house, and lighted the gas to read her letter. though it gave her a shock, it did not shake her faith in her boy. "the letter told her, in effect, that alfred whyte, when he left her that morning, had started to go to england in the only way by which he could get there--that is, by working his passage as a deck hand on board an outward bound ship; that he had decided on this course so as to get a personal interview with his father, to whom he would go as a penitent prodigal son; for he was sure of obtaining by this means forgiveness, and assistance that would enable him to return and bring his little wife back to england, where they would thenceforth live in comfort and luxury; that the reason he had not confided to her his intention of making the voyage was because he dreaded opposition from her that might have led him to abandon the one plan by which he hoped to better their condition. "he concluded by entreating her not to think for one instant that he intended to desert her, who was dearer to him than his own life, but to trust in him as he trusted in her. in a postscript he told her where to find the small balance of money they had left, as he had only taken enough for his car fare to the city. in a second postscript he promised to write by every opportunity. in a third and last postscript he begged her to keep up her heart. "it seemed a frank letter, yet it was reticent upon one point--the name of the ship on which he had sailed. this omission might have been accidental. it certainly did not raise any doubt of the boy's good faith in the mind of the girl. "she cried a great deal over the separation from her lad, and she made a confidant of the elderly irishwoman who was her sole servant. "after two weeks, ann began to watch daily for the letter carrier, in hope of getting a letter from alfred; but day after day, week after week, passed and none came. but there came news of the wreck of the porpoise, which had sailed from new york for london on the very day that alfred whyte had left the country--and which had gone down in a storm in mid-ocean with all on board. "but as numerous ships had left new york on that day bound for various british ports, it was impossible to discover whether the boy was on board, or if he shipped under his own name or an assumed one. "ann cried more than ever for a few days, but then seemed to give up her lad for lost, and to resign herself to the 'inevitable.' "she wrote to mr. alfred whyte, senior, but got no reply to her letter; again and again she wrote with no better success. the little balance of money left by her boy-husband was all gone. she began to sell off the trifles of jewelry that he had given her. "one morning the letter carrier left a letter with a london postmark containing a bill of exchange for a hundred pounds, and not one word besides. "had it come from her boy-husband, or from his father? she could not tell. "well, to be brief, she never saw nor heard of him again. she lived comfortably with her motherly old servant, enjoyed life thoroughly and grew more beautiful every day, and this fool's paradise lasted as long as her money did. before her last dollar was gone, she saw the advertisement in the _pursuivant_ for a nursery governess, and answered it, as has been told. "this, my dear cora, is the substance of the story told me by ann white on the day that i called on her in answer to her letter. what do you think of it?" inquired mr. fabian when he had finished his narrative. "i think the cruel neglect of her step-parents and the sufferings of her childhood accountable for all her faults, and i feel very sorry for her, notwithstanding that she seems to be a very heartless animal," replied corona. "that is the secret of the wonderful preservation of her youth and beauty even up to this present time. nothing wears a woman out as fast as her own heart." "you engaged her as you promised to do, but why did you introduce her at rockhold as a single girl, and why under an alias?" gravely inquired corona. "i introduced her as a single girl at her own request because of her extreme youth and her timidity. she naturally shrank from being known as a discarded wife or a doubtful widow. besides, i never did say she was a single girl. i merely presented her as rose flowers, and left it to be inferred from her baby face that she was so." "but why rose flowers when her name was ann white?" "what a cross-questioner you are, corona! but i will answer you. again it was by her own desire that i presented her as rose flowers, which was not an alias, as she explained to me, but a part of her true name. she had been baptized as rose anna flowers, which was the maiden name of her grandmother, her father's mother." cora might have asked another question, not so easily answered, if she had known the circumstances to which it related, namely: why mr. fabian had fabricated that false story of the young governess which he palmed upon his parents; but, in fact, cora, at that time a child seven years old, had never heard of it. but she made another inquiry. "what became of rose flowers after she left us? did she really go to another place? who was--captain stillwater?" "mr. fabian drove slowly and thoughtfully on without answering her question until she had repeated it. then he said: "cora, my dear, that is a story i cannot tell you. let it be enough for me to say, the stillwater episode in the life of this lady is the ground upon which i forbid my wife to visit her and object to my niece associating with her." "does violet know the stillwater story?" "no; not so much of it even as you have heard. now, look here, cora, you think it inconsistent perhaps that i should have brought this woman to rockhold years ago to become your governess, and now, when she is my father's wife, object to your intimacy with her. in the first instance she has been far, very far, 'more sinned against than sinning;' she had been very imprudent, that was all. she was really the wife, by scotch law, of the boy she ran away with and then lost. i saw nothing in her case that ought to prevent her entrance into a respectable family, and heaven knows i pitied her and tried to save her by bringing her to rockhold. i saved her only for a few years. after she left us--but there, i cannot tell you that story! you must not be intimate with her." "yet she is my grandfather's wife!" "an irreparable misfortune. i can't expose her life to him; such a blow to his pride might be his death, at his age. no! events must take their course; but i hope he will not take her to any place where she is likely to be recognized. nor do i think he will. he is aging fast, and will be likely to live quietly at rockhold." "and i think she also would avoid such risks. she was terribly frightened when she recognized the dean of olivet. was he really her stepfather, the once poor curate?" "yes. you see while they were lionizing him in the eastern cities, his portrait, with a short biographical notice, was published in one of the illustrated weeklies, where i read of him, and identified him by comparing notes with what i had heard." "how came he to rise so high?" "oh, he was a learned divine and eloquent orator. he was well connected, too. it would seem that a very few months after his step-daughter's flight he was inducted into that rich living for which he had been waiting so many years. from that position his rise was slow indeed, covering a period of twenty years, until a few months ago, when he was made dean of olivet." "to think that a man capable of quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-child should fill so sacred a position in the church!" exclaimed cora. "yes; but you see, my dear, the church is his profession, not his vocation. he is a brilliant pulpit orator, with influential friends; but every brilliant pulpit orator is not necessarily a saint. and as for his quarreling with his wife and ill-using their step-daughter, we have heard but one side of that story." when they entered the rockhold drawing room they found mrs. rockharrt alone. she arose and came forward and received them with a smile. "your grandfather, my dear," she explained to cora, "came home later than usual from north end, and very much more than usually fatigued. immediately after dinner he lay down and i left him asleep." "where is uncle clarence?" inquired corona. "he remains at the works for the night. will you have this chair, love?" said rose, pulling forward a luxurious "sleepy hollow." "no, thank you. i must go to my room and change my dress. will you excuse me for half an hour, uncle fabian?" inquired cora. "most willingly, my dear," replied mr. fabian, with a very pleased look. cora left the room. "i will go with you," exclaimed rose, turning pale and starting up to follow the young lady. "no. you will not," said mr. fabian, in a tone of authority, as he laid his hand heavily on the woman's shoulder. "sit down. i have something to say to you." chapter xxii. fabian and rose. "what do you mean?" "i should rather ask what do you mean, or rather what did you mean, by daring to marry any honest man, and of all men--aaron rockharrt? it was the most audacious challenging of destruction that the most reckless desperado could venture upon." fabian rockharrt continued, mercilessly: "do you not know what, if mr. rockharrt were to discover the deception you put upon him, he might do and think himself justified in doing to you?" rose shuddered in silence. "the very least that he would do would be to turn you out of his house, without a dollar, and shut his doors on you forever. then what would become of you? who would take you in?" "oh, fabian!" she screamed at last. "do not talk to me so. you will frighten me into hysterics." "now don't make a noise. for if you do, you will precipitate the catastrophe that you fear. be quiet, i beg you," said mr. fabian, composedly, putting his thumbs in his vest pockets and leaning back. "why do you say such cruel things to me, then? such inconsistent things, too. if i was good enough to marry you, i was good enough to marry your father." "but you were never good enough to marry either of us, my dear. if you will take a little time to reflect on your antecedents, you will acknowledge that you were not quite good enough to marry any honest man," said mr. fabian, coolly. "yet you asked me to marry you," she said, sobbing softly, with her handkerchief to her eyes. "beg pardon, my dear. i think the asking was rather on the other side. you were very urgent that we should be married, and that our betrothal should be formally announced." "yes; because you led me to believe that you were going to marry me." "excuse me. i never led you to believe so, simply allowed you to believe so. what could a gentleman do under the circumstances? he couldn't contradict a lady." "oh, what a prevarication, fabian rockharrt, when every word, every deed, every look you bestowed on me went to assure me that you loved me and wished to marry me!" "softly, my dear. softly. i was sorry for you and generous to you. i gave you the use of a pretty little house and a sufficient income during good behavior. but you were ungrateful to me, rose. you were unkind to me." "i was not. i would have married you. i could not have done more than that." "but, my dear, your good sense must have told you that i could not marry you. i have done the best i could by you always. twice i rescued you from ruin. once when you were but little more than a child, and your boy-lover, or husband, had left you alone, a young stranger in a strange land--a girl friendless, penniless, beautiful, and so in deadly peril of perdition, i took you on your own representation, and introduced you into my own family as the governess of my niece. i became responsible for you." "and did i not try my best to please everybody?" sobbed the woman. "that you did," heartily responded mr. fabian. "and everybody loved you. so that, at the end of five years' service, when my niece was to enter a finishing school, and you were to go to another situation, you took with you the best testimonials from my father and mother and from the minister of our parish. but you did not keep your second situation long." "how could i? i was but half taught. the warrens would have had me teach their children french and german, and music on the harp and the piano. i knew no language but my own, and no music except that of the piano, which the dear, gentle lady, your mother, taught me out of the kindness of her heart. i was told that i must leave at the end of the term. and my term was nearly out when captain stillwater became a daily visitor to the house, and i saw him every evening. he was a tall, handsome man, with a dark complexion and black hair and beard. and i always did admire that sort of a man. indeed, that was the reason why i always admired you." "don't attempt to flatter me." "i am not flattering anybody. i am telling you why i liked captain stillwater. and he was always so good to me! i told him all my troubles. and he sympathized with me! and when i told him that i should be obliged to leave my situation at the end of the quarter, he bade me never mind. and he asked me to be his wife. i did consent to be his wife. i was glad of the chance to get a husband, and a home. so all was arranged. he advised me not to tell the warrens that we were to be married, however. so at the end of my quarter i went away to a hotel, where captain stillwater came for me and took me away to the church where we were married." "you had no knowledge that alfred whyte was dead, and that you were free to wed!" "he had been lost seven years and was as good as dead to me! besides, when a man is missing and has; not been heard of for seven years, his wife is free to marry again, is she not?" "no. she has good grounds for a divorce that is all! to risk a second marriage without these legal formalities, would be dangerous! might be disastrous! the first husband might turn up and make trouble!" "i did not know that! but, after all, as it turned out, it did not matter!" sighed rose. "not in the least!" assented mr. fabian, amiably. "after all, it was not my fault! i married him in good faith; i did, indeed!" "did you tell him of your previous marriage? that is what you have not told me yet!" "n-n-no; i was afraid if i did he might break off with me." "ah!" "and i was in such extremity for the want of a home!" "had not my father and mother told you that if ever you should find yourself out of a situation, you should come to them? why did you not take them at their word? they had always been very kind to you, and they would have given you a warm welcome and a happy home. now, why need you have rushed into a reckless marriage for a home?" "oh, fabian!" she exclaimed, impatiently, "don't pretend to talk like an idiot, for you are not one! don't talk to me as if i were a wax doll or a wooden woman, for you know i am not one!" "i am sure i do not know what you mean!" "well, then, i loved the man! there, it is out! i loved him more than i ever loved any one else in the whole world! and i was afraid of losing him!" "and so it was because you loved him so well that you deceived him so much!" "didn't he deceive me much more?" "there were a pair of you--well matched! so well, it seems a pity that you were parted!" "oh, how very unkind you are to me!" "not yet unkind! only waiting to see how you are going to behave!" "i have never behaved badly! i was not wicked; i was unhappy! unhappy from my birth, almost! i had no evil designs against anybody. i only wanted to be happy and to see people happy. i honestly believed i was lawfully married to captain stillwater. he took me to the wirt house and registered our names as mr. and mrs. stillwater. and we were very happy until his ship sailed. he gave me plenty of money before he went away; but i was heartbroken to part with him, and could take no pleasure in anything until i got a little used to his absence." "i think you told me that you met him once more before your final separation. when was that meeting? eh?" "fabian rockharrt, are you trying to catch me in a falsehood? you know very well that i never told you anything of the sort i told you that i never saw him again after he sailed away that autumn day! i waited all the autumn and heard nothing from him, i wrote to him often, but none of my letters were answered. at length i longed so much to see him that i grew wild and reckless and resolved to follow him. i took passage in the second cabin of the africa and sailed for liverpool, where i arrived about the middle of december. i went to the agency of the blue star line, to which his ship belonged, and inquired where he was to be found. they told me he had sailed for calcutta and had taken his wife with him! it turned me to stone--to stone, fabian--almost! i remember i sat down on a bench and felt numb and cold. and then i asked how long he had been married--hoping, if it was true, that my own was the first and the lawful union. they told me, for ten years, but as they had no family, his wife usually accompanied him on all his voyages. so she had now gone with him to calcutta." "i suspect the people in that office were pretty well acquainted with the handsome skipper's 'ways and manners,' and that they understood your case at once." "i do really believe they did," said rose; "for they looked at me so strangely, and one man, who seemed to be a porter or a messenger, or something of that sort, said something about a sailor having a wife at every port." "so after that you came back to new york, and did, at last, what you should have done at first--you wrote to me." "there was no one on earth to whom, under the peculiar circumstances, i could have written but to you. oh, fabian! to whom else could i appeal?" "and did i not respond promptly to your call?" "indeed you did, like a true knight, as you were. and i did not deceive you by any false story, fabian. i told you all--even thing--how basely i had been deceived--and you soothed and consoled me, and told me that, as i had not sinned intentionally, i had not sinned at all; and you brought me with you to the state capital, and established me comfortably there." "but you were very ungrateful, my dear. you took everything; gave nothing." "i would have given you myself in marriage, but you would not have me. you did not think me good enough for you." "but, bless my wig, child! for your age you had been too much married already--a great deal too much married! you got into the habit of getting married." "oh! how merciless you are to me!" rose said, beginning to weep. "no; i am not. i have never been unkind to you--as yet. i don't know what i may be! my course toward you will depend very much upon yourself. have i not always hitherto been your best friend? ungrateful, unresponsive though you were at that time, did i not procure for you an invitation from my mother to accompany her party on that long, delightful summer trip?" "i had an impression at the time that i owed the invitation to your father, who suggested to your mother to write and ask me to accompany them." mr. fabian looked surprised, and said--for he never hesitated to tell a fib: "oh! that was quite a mistake. it was i myself who suggested the invitation. i thought it would be agreeable to you. was it not i myself who sent you forward in advance to the wirt house, baltimore, there to await the arrival of our party, and join us in our summer travel? and didn't you have a long, delightful tour with us through the most sublime scenery in the most salubrious climates on earth? didn't you return a perfect hebe in health and bloom?" "i acknowledge all that. i acknowledge all my obligations to your family; but at the same time i declare that i also did my part. i was as a white slave to your parents. i was lady's maid to your mother, foot boy to your father. i don't know, indeed, what the old people would have done without me, for no hired servant could have served them as faithfully as i did." "oh, yes; you were grateful and devoted to all the family except to me, your best friend--to me, who gave you the use of a lovely home, and a liberal income, and a faithful friendship; and then trusted in your sense of justice for my reward." "i would have given you all i possessed in the world--my own poor self in marriage--and you led me on to believe that you wished to marry me, but, finally, you would not have me. you went off and married another woman." "bah! we are talking around in a circle, and getting back to where we began. let us come to the point." "very well; come to the point," said rose, sulkily. "listen, then: it is not for your reckless elopement with your step-father's pupil, when you were driven from home by cruelty; it is not for your false marriage with stillwater, when you yourself were deceived; but because with all these antecedents against you--antecedents which constituted you, however unjustly, a pariah, who should have lived quietly and obscurely, but who, instead of doing so, took advantage of kindness shown her, and betrayed the family who sheltered her by luring into a disgraceful marriage its revered father, and bringing to deep dishonor the gray head of aaron rockharrt, a man of stern integrity and unblemished reputation--you should be denounced and punished." "oh, fabian, have mercy! have mercy! you would not now, after years of friendship, you would not now ruin me?" "listen to me! you checkmated me in that matter of the cottage and the income. yes, simple as you seem, and sharp as i may appear, you certainly managed to take all and give nothing. and when you found but that you could not take my hand and my name, you waylaid me at the railway station, when i was on my wedding tour, and you swore to be revenged. i laughed at you. i advised you to be anything rather than dramatic. i never imagined the possibility of your threatened revenge taking the form of your marriage. well, my dear, you have your revenge, i admit; but in your blindness, you could not see that revenge itself might be met by retribution! one man kills another for revenge, and does not, in his blind fury, see the gallows looming in the distance." "what do you mean? you cannot hang me for marrying your father," exclaimed rose. "no; don't raise your voice, or you may be heard. no, rose, i cannot hang you for treachery; but, my dear, there are worse fates than neat and tidy hanging, which is over in a few minutes. i could expose your past life to my father. you know him, and you know that he would show no ruth, no mercy to deception and treachery such as yours. you know that he would turn you out of the house without money or character, destitute and degraded. what then would be your fate at your age--a fading rose past thirty-seven years old? sooner or later, and very little later, the poor-house or the hospital. better a sweet, tidy little hanging and be done with it, if possible." "you are a fiend to talk to me so! a fiend! fabian rockharrt," exclaimed rose, bursting into hysterical sobs and tears. "now, be quiet, my child; you'll raise the house, and then there will be an explosion." "i don't care if there will be. you are cruel, savage, barbarous! i never meant to do any harm by marrying mr. rockharrt. i never meant to be revenged on you or anybody. i only said so because i was so excited by your desertion of me. i married the old gentleman for a refuge from the world. i meant to do my duty by him, though he is as cross as a bear with a bruised head. but do your worst; i don't care. i would just as lief die as live. i am tired of trying to be good; tired of trying to please people; tired, oh, very tired of living!" "come, come," said soft-hearted mr. fabian; "none of that nonsense. place yourself in my hands, to be guided by me and to work for my interests, and none of these evils shall happen to you. you shall live and die in wealth and luxury, my father's honored wife, the mistress of rockhold." he spoke slowly, tenderly, caressingly, and as she listened to him her sobs and tears subsided and she grew calmer. "what is it you want me to do for you? what can i do for you, indeed, powerless as i am?" she inquired at last. "you must use all your influence with my father in my interests, and use it discreetly and perseveringly," he whispered. "but i have no influence. never was the young wife of an old man--and i am young in comparison to him--treated so harshly. i am not his pet; i am his slave!" she complained. "but you must obtain influence over him. you can do that. you are with him night and day when he is not at his business. you are his shadow--beg pardon, i ought to have said his sunshine." "i am his slave, i tell you." "then be his humble, submissive, obedient slave; betray no disappointment, discontent, or impatience at your lot. the harsher he is, the humbler must you be; the more despotic he becomes, the more subservient you must seem. make yourself so perfectly complying in all his moods that he shall believe you to be the very 'perfect rose of womanhood,' more excellent even than he thought when he married you, and so as he grows older and weaker in mind as well as body you will gain not only influence but ascendency over him, and these you must use in my interest." "but how? i don't understand." "pay attention, then, and you will understand mr. rockharrt is aged. in the course of nature he must soon pass away. fie has made no will. should he die intestate, the whole property, by the laws of this commonwealth, would fall to pieces; that is to say, it would be divided into three parts--one-third would go to you--" rose started, caught her breath, and stared at the speaker; the greed of gain dilating her great blue eyes. the third of the rockharrt's fabulous wealth to be hers at her husband's death! amazing! how many millions or tens of millions would that be? incredible! and all for her, and she with, perhaps, half a century of life to live and enjoy it! what a vista! "why do you stare at me so?" demanded mr. fabian. "because i was so surprised. that is not the law in england. in england there are usually what are called marriage settlements, which make a suitable provision for the wife, but leave the bulk of the property to go to the children--generally to the oldest son." "and such should be the law here, but it isn't; and so if my father should die without having made a will, the great estate would break, as i said, into three parts--one part would be yours, the other two parts would be divided into three shares, to me, to my brother, and to the heirs of my sister. the business at north end would probably be carried on by aaron rockharrt's sons." "but would not that be equitable?" inquired rose, who had no mind to have her third interfered with. "it would not be expedient, nor is such a disposition of his property the intention of aaron rockharrt. i know, from what he has occasionally hinted, that he means to bequeath the great north end works to me and my brother clarence, share and share alike; but he puts off making this will, which indeed must never be made. the north end works should not be a monster with two heads, but a colossus with one head with my head. so that i wish my father to make a will leaving the north end works to me exclusively--to me alone as the one head." "i think if i dared to suggest such a thing to him, he would take off my head!" said rose, with grim humor. "i think he would if you should do so suddenly or clumsily. but you must insinuate the idea very slowly and subtlely. clarence is not for the works; clarence is too good for this world--at least for the business of this world. i think him half an imbecile! my father does not hesitate to call him a perfect idiot. do you begin to see your way now? clarence can be moderately provided for, but should have no share in the north end works." "the north end works to be left to you solely; clarence to be moderately provided for; and what of the two children of the late mrs. haught?" "oh! my father never intends to leave them more than a modest legacy. they have each inherited money from their father. no; understand me once for all, rose. i must be the sole heir of all my father's wealth, with the exceptions i have named, and the sole successor to his business, without any exception whatever. you must live, serve him and bear with him only to obtain such an ascendency over him as to induce him to make such a will as i have dictated to you. you can do this. you can insinuate it so subtlely that he will never suspect the suggestion came from you. i say you can do this, and you must do it. the woman who could deceive and entrap old aaron rockharrt, the iron king, into matrimony, can do anything else in the world that she pleases to do with him if only she will be as subtle, as patient, and as complacent to him after marriage as she had been before marriage." "if clarence is to be so provided for, cora and sylvan to have modest legacies, and you to have the huge bulk of the estate--where is my third to come from?" "why, my dear, i could never let you have so vast a slice out of the mammoth fortune! your third of the estate must follow clarence's share of the business--into nothingness. you must play magnanimity, sacrifice your third, and content yourself with a suitable provision," said fabian, equably. "i will never do that! i would not do it to save your life, fabian rockharrt!" "oh, yes, you will, my darling. not to save my life, but to save yourself from being denounced to mr. rockharrt, and turned out of this house, destitute and degraded." "i don't care if i should be! do you think me quite a baby in your hands? i have been reflecting since you have been talking to me. i have been remembering that you told me that the law gives the widow one third of her late husband's property when he dies intestate, and entitles her to it, no matter what sort of a will he makes." "unless there has been a settlement, my angel," said mr. fabian, composedly. "well, there has been no settlement in my case. so whether aaron rockharrt should die intestate, or whether he should make a will, i am sure of my lawful third. so i defy you, mr. fabian rockharrt. you may denounce me to your father he may turn me out of doors without a penny, and 'without a character,' as the servants say, but he cannot divorce me, because i have been faithful to him ever since our marriage. i could compel him by law to support me, even though he might not let me share his home. he would be obliged by law to give me alimony in proportion to his income, and, oh! what a magnificent revenue that would be for me--with freedom from his tyranny into the bargain! and at his death, which could not be long coming at his age, and after such a shock as his dutiful son proposes to give him, i should come in for my third. and, oh, where so rich a widow as i should be! with forty or fifty years of life before me in which to enjoy my fortune! ah, you see, my clever mr. fabian rockharrt, though you frightened me out of self-possession at first, when i come to think over the situation, i find that you can do me no great harm. if you should put your threats in execution and bring about a violent separation between myself and my husband, you would do me a signal favor, for i should gain my personal freedom, with a handsome alimony during his life, and at his death a third of his vast estate," she concluded, snapping her fingers in his face. "i think not." "yes; i would." "no; you would not." "indeed! why would i not, pray?" she inquired, with mocking incredulity. "oh, because of a mere trifle in your code of morals--an insignificant impediment." "tchut!" she exclaimed, contemptuously. "do you think me quite an idiot?" "i think you would be much worse than an idiot if, in case of my father's discarding you, you should move an inch toward obtaining alimony or in the case of the coveted 'third.'" "pshaw! why, pray?" "because you have not, and never can have, the shadow of a right to either." "bah! why not?" "because--alfred whyte is living!" she caught her breath and gazed at the speaker with great dilating blue eyes. "what--do--you--mean?" she faltered. "alfred whyte, your husband of twenty years ago, is still living and likely to live--a very handsome man of forty years old, residing at his magnificent country seat, whyte hall, dulwich, near london." "married again?" she whispered, hoarsely. "certainly not; an english gentleman does not commit bigamy." "how did you--become acquainted--with these facts?" "i was sufficiently interested in you to seek him out, when i was in england. i discovered where he lived; also that he was looking out for the best investment of his idle capital. i called on him personally in the interests of our great enterprise. he is now a member of the london syndicate." "did you speak--of me?" "never mentioned your name. how could i, knowing as i did of the stillwater episode in your story?" "and he lives! alfred whyte lives! oh, misery, misery, misery! evil fate has followed me all the days of my life," moaned rose, wringing her hands. "now, why should you take on so, because whyte is living? would you have had that fine, vigorous man, in the prime of his life, die for your benefit?" "but i thought he was dead long ago." "you were too ready to believe that, and to console yourself. he was more faithful to your memory." "how do you know? you said my name was never mentioned between you." "not from him, but from a mutual acquaintance, of whom i asked how it was that mr. whyte had never married, i heard that he had grieved for her out of all reason and had ever remained faithful to the memory of his first and only love. my own inference was, and is, that the report of your death was got up by his friends to break off the connection." "and you never told this 'mutual friend' that i still lived?" "how could i, my dear, with my knowledge of your stillwater affair? no, no; i was not going to disturb the peace of a good man by telling him that his child-wife of twenty years ago was still living, but lost to him by a fall far worse than death. no--i let you remain dead to him." "oh, misery! misery! misery! i would to heaven i were dead to everybody! dead, dead indeed!" she cried, wringing her hands in anguish. "come, come, don't be a fool! you see that you are utterly in my power and must do my will. do it, and you will come to no harm; but live and die in a luxurious home." chapter xxiii. sylvan's orders. while the amiable mr. fabian was engaged in soothing the woman whom he was resolved to make his instrument in gaining the whole of his father's great business bequeathed to him by will, carriage wheels were heard grating on the gravel of the drive leading up to the front door of the house, and a few minutes afterward the master's knock was answered by the hall waiter, and old aaron rockharrt strode into the drawing room. "i did not know that you had gone out again. i left you on the library sofa asleep," said rose, deferentially, as she sprang up to meet him. "i was called out on business that don't concern you. ah, fabian! how is it that i find you here to-night?" inquired the iron king, as he threw himself into a chair. "i brought cora home from the banks," replied the eldest son. "ah! how is mrs. fabian?" "still delicate. i can scarcely hope that she will be stronger for some weeks yet." "when are you going to bring her to call on my wife?" demanded the iron king, bending his gray brows somewhat angrily and looking suspiciously on his son; for he was not pleased that his daughter-in-law's visit of ceremony had been so long delayed. "as soon as she is able to leave the house. our physician has forbidden her to take any long walk or ride for some time yet." "and how long is this seclusion to last?" "until after a certain event to take place at the end of three months." "ah! and then another month for convalescence! so it will be late in the autumn before we can hope to see mrs. fabian rockharrt at rockhold!" "i fear so, indeed, sir!" "i do not approve of this petting, coddling, and indulging women. it makes the weak creatures weaker. if you choose to seclude your wife or allow her to seclude herself on account of a purely physiological condition, i will not allow mrs. rockharrt to go near her until she goes to return her call." * * * * * when cora reached her chamber that evening, she sat down to reflect on all that her uncle fabian had told her of the past history of her grandfather's young wife, and to anticipate the possible movements of her brother. her own life, since the loss of her husband--now loved so deeply, though loved too late--she felt was over. the future had nothing for herself. what, therefore, could she do with the dull years in which she might long vegetate through life but to give them in useful service to those who needed help? she would go with her brother to the frontier, and find some field of labor among the indians. she would found a school with her fortune, and devote her life to the education of indian children. and she would call the school by her lost husband's name, and so make of it a monument to his memory. revolving these plans in her mind, cora rothsay retired to rest. the next morning she arose at her usual hour, dressed, and went down stairs. old aaron rockharrt and his young wife were already in the parlor, waiting for the breakfast bell to ring. she had but just greeted them when the call came, and all moved toward the breakfast room. just as the three had seated themselves at the table, and while rose was pouring out the coffee, the sound of carriage wheels was heard approaching the house, and a few minutes later mr. clarence and sylvan entered the breakfast room with joyous bustle. "what--what--what does this unseemly excitement mean?" sternly demanded the iron king, while cora arose to shake hands with her uncle and brother; and while rose, fearful of doing wrong, did nothing at all. "what is the matter? what has happened? why have you left the works at this hour of the morning, clarence?" he requested of his son. "i came with sylvan, sir, for the last time before he leaves us for distant and dangerous service, and for an unlimited period." "ah! you have your orders, then?" said mr. rockharrt, in a somewhat mollified tone. "yes, sir," said the young lieutenant. "i received my commission by the earliest mail this morning, with orders to report for duty to colonel glennin, of the third regiment of infantry, now at governor's island, new york harbor, and under orders to start for fort farthermost, on the mexican frontier. i must leave to-night in order to report in time." cora looked at him with the deepest interest. rose thought now she might venture on a little civility without giving offense to her despotic lord. "have you had breakfast, you two?" she inquired. "no, indeed. we started immediately after receiving the orders," said sylvan. "and we are as hungry as two bears." "bring chairs to the table, mark, for the gentlemen," said young mrs. rockharrt, who then rang for two more covers and hot coffee. "cora," whispered sylvan, as soon as he got a chance to speak to his sister, "you can never get ready to go with me on so short a notice. women have so much to do." "sylvan," she replied, "i have been ready for a month." chapter xxiv. something unexpected. the day succeeding that on which sylvanus haught had received his commission as second lieutenant in the d regiment of infantry, then on governor's island, new york harbor, and under orders for fort farthermost, on the southwestern frontier, was a very busy one for cora rothsay; for, however well she had been prepared for a sudden journey, there were many little final details to be attended to which would require all the time she had left at her disposal. a farewell visit must be paid to violet rockharrt, and--worse than all--an explanatory interview must be held with her grandfather in relation to her departure with sylvanus haught, and that interview must be held before the iron king should leave rockhold that morning for his daily visit to the works. cora had often, during the last year, and oftener since her grandfather's second marriage, taken occasion to allude to her intention of accompanying her brother to his post of duty, however distant and dangerous that post might be. she had done this with the fixed purpose of preparing this autocratic old gentleman's mind for the event. now, the day of her intended departure had arrived; she was to leave rockhold with her brother that afternoon to take the evening express to new york. and as she could not go without taking leave of her grandfather, it was necessary that she should announce her intention to him before he should start on his daily visit to north end. therefore cora had risen very early that morning and had gone down into the little office or library of the iron king, that was situated at the rear of the middle hall, there to wait for him, as it was his custom to rise early and go into his study, to look over the papers before breakfast. these papers were brought by a special messenger from north end, who started from the depot as soon as the earliest train arrived with the morning's mail and reached rockhold by seven o'clock. she had not sat there many minutes before mr. rockharrt entered the study. "i am going away with my brother," cora said, without any preface whatever, "to fort farthermost, on the southwestern indian frontier." "i think you must be crazy." "dear grandpa, this is no impulsive purpose of mine. i have thought of it ever since--ever since--the death of my dear husband," said cora, in a broken voice. "oh! the death of your dear husband!" he exclaimed, rudely interrupting her. "much you cared for the death of your dear husband! if you had, you would never have driven him forth to his death!--for that is what you did! you cannot deceive me now. as long as the fate of rule rothsay was a mystery, i was myself at somewhat of a loss to account for his disappearance--though i suspected you even then--but when the news came that he had been killed by the comanches near the boundaries of mexico, and i had time to reflect on it all, i knew that he had been driven away by you--you! and all for the sake of a titled english dandy! you need not deny it, cora rothsay!" "it would be quite useless to deny anything that you choose to assert, sir," replied the young lady, coldly but respectfully. "yet i must say this, that i loved and honored my husband more than i ever did or ever can love and honor any other human being. his departure broke my spirit, and his death has nearly broken my heart--certainly it has blasted my future. my life is worth nothing, nothing to me, except as i make it useful to those who need my help." "rubbish!" exclaimed old aaron rockharrt, turning over the leaves of his paper and looking for the financial column. "grandfather, please hear me patiently for a few minutes, for after to-day i do not know that we may ever meet again," pleaded cora. the old man laid his open paper on his knees, set his spectacles up on his head, and looked at her. "what the devil do you mean?" he slowly inquired. "sir, i am to leave rockhold with my brother this afternoon, to go with him, first to governor's island, and within a few days start with him for the distant frontier fort which may be his post of duty for many years to come. we may not be able to return within your lifetime, grandfather," said cora, gravely and tenderly. "and what in satan's name, unless you are stark mad, should take you out to the indian frontier?" he demanded. "i might answer, to be with my only brother, i being his only sister." "bosh! men's wives very seldom accompany them to these savage posts, much less their sisters! what does a young officer want his sister tagging after him for?" "it is not that sylvan especially wants me, nor for his sake alone that i go." "well, then, what in the name of lunacy do you go for?" "that i may devote my time and fortune to a good cause--to the education of indian girls and boys. i mean to build--" "that, or something like that, was what rothsay tried to do when you drove him away, as if he had been a leper, to the desert. well, go on! what next? let us hear the whole of the mad scheme!" "i mean to build a capacious school house, in which i will receive, board, lodge, and teach as many indian children as may be intrusted to me, until the house shall be full." "moonstruck mania! that is what your mad husband driven mad by you--attempted on a smaller scale, and failed." "that is why i wish to do this. i wish to follow in his footsteps it is the best thing i can do to honor his memory." "but he was murdered for his pains." cora shuddered and covered her face with her hands for a space; then she answered, slowly: "there may be many failures; but there will never be any success unless the failures are made stepping stones to final victory." "fudge! see here, mistress! no doubt you suffer a good many stings of conscience for having driven the best man that ever lived--except, hem! well--to his death! but you need not on that account expatriate yourself from civilization, to go out to try to teach those red devils who murdered your husband and burned his hut, and who will probably murder you and burn your school house! you have been a false woman and a miserable sinner, cora rothsay! and you have deserved to suffer and you have suffered, there is no doubt about that! but you have repented, and may be pardoned. you need not immolate yourself at your age. you are a mere girl. you will get over your morbid grief. you may marry again." cora slowly, sadly, silently shook her head. "oh, yes; you will." "no, no; no, dear grandpa. i will bear my dear, lost husband's name to the end of my life, and it shall be inscribed on my tomb. ah! would to heaven that at the last, i might lay my ashes beside his," she moaned. "now don't be a confounded fool, cora rothsay! to be sure, all women are fools! but, then, a girl with a drop of my blood in her veins should not be such a consummate idiot as you are showing yourself to be. you shall not go out with sylvan to that savage frontier. it is no place for a woman, particularly for an unmarried woman. you would come to a bad end. i shall speak to sylvan. i shall forbid him to take you there," said the old autocrat. cora smiled, but answered nothing. she had firmly made up her mind to go with her brother, whether her grandfather should approve the action or not; but she thought it unnecessary to dispute the matter with him just now. "so, mistress, you will stay here, under my guardianship, until you accept a husband, like a respectable woman," continued old aaron rockharrt. still cora remained silent, standing by his chair, with her hand resting on the table, and her eyes cast down. the egotist seemed not to object to having all the talk to himself. "come!" he exclaimed, with sudden animation, sitting bolt upright in his chair, "when i found you in this room just now, you said you had something to tell me. and you told it. naturally, it was not worth hearing. now, then, i have something to tell you, which is so well worth hearing that when you have heard it your missionary madness may be cured, and your quixotic expedition given up: in fact, all your plans in life changed--a splendid prospect opened before you." cora looked up, her languor all gone, her interest aroused. something was rising in her mind; not a sun of hope ah! no--but nebula, obscure, unformed, indistinct, yet with possible suns of hope, worlds of happiness, within it. what did her grandfather mean? had he heard something about--was rule yet-- swift as lightning flashed these thoughts through her mind while her grandfather drew his breath between his utterances. "listen! this is what i had to tell you: i had a letter a few days ago from an old suitor of yours," he said, looking keenly at his granddaughter. cora's eyes fell, her spirits drooped. the nebula of unknown hopes and joys had faded away, leaving her prospect dark again. she looked depressed and disappointed. she could feel no shadow of interest in her old suitors. "i received this letter several days since, and being at leisure just then. i answered it. but in the pressure of some important matters i forgot to tell you of it, though it concerned yourself mostly, i might say entirely. shouldn't have remembered it now, i suppose, if it had not been for your foolish talk about going out for a missionary to the savages. ah! another destiny awaits your acceptance." cora sighed in silence. "now, then. of course you must know who this correspondent is." "without offense to you, grandfather, i neither know nor care," languidly replied the lady. "but it is not without offense to me. you are the most eccentric and inconsistent woman i ever met in all the course of my life. you are not constant even to your inconstancy." having uttered this paradox, the old man threw himself back in his chair and gazed at his granddaughter. "i am not yet clear as to your meaning, sir," she said, coldly but respectfully. "what! have you quite forgotten the titled dandy for whom you were near breaking your heart three years ago? for whom you were ready to throw over one of the best and truest men that ever lived! for whom you really did drive regulas rothsay, on the proudest and happiest day of his life, into exile and death!" "oh, don't! don't! grandfather! don't!" wailed cora, sinking on an office stool, and dropping her hands and head on the table. "now, none of that, mistress. no hysterics, if you please. i won't permit any woman about me to indulge in such tantrums. listen to me, ma'am. my correspondent was young cumbervale, the noodle!" "then i never wish to see or hear or think of him again!" exclaimed cora. "indeed! but that is a woman all through. she will do or suffer anything to get her own way. she will defy all her friends and relations, all principles of truth and honor; she will move heaven and earth, go through fire and water, to get her own way; and when she does get it she don't want it, and she won't have it." "grandfather!" pleaded cora. "silence! three years ago you would have walked over all our dead bodies, if necessary, to marry that noble booby. and you would have married him if it had not been for me! i would not permit you to wed him then, because you were in honor bound to regulas rothsay. i shall insist on your accepting him now, because poor rothsay is in his grave, and this will be the best thing to do for you to help you out of harm's way from redskins and rattlesnakes and other reptiles. i don't think much of the fellow; but he seems to be a harmless idiot, and is good enough for you." cora answered never a word, but she felt quite sure that not even the iron will of the iron king could ever coerce her into marriage with any man, least of all with the man whose memory was identified with her heart's tragedy. the old man continued his monologue. "the best thing about the fellow is his constancy. he was after your imaginary fortune once. i am sure of that. and he was so dazzled by the illumination of that _ignis fatuus_ that he didn't see you, perhaps, and didn't recognize how much he really cared for you. at all events, in his letter to me--and, by the way, it is very strange that he should write to me after the snubbing i gave him in london," said the iron king, reflectively. cora did not think that was strange. she, at least, felt sure that it was as impossible for the young duke to take offense at the rudeness of the old iron man as at the raging of a dog or the tearing of a bull. but she did not drop a hint of this to the egotist, who never imagined passive insolence to be at the bottom of the duke's forbearance. "in his letter to me," resumed old aaron rockharrt, "the young fool tells me that, immediately after his great disappointment in being rejected by you, he left england--and, indeed, europe--and traveled through every accessible portion of asia and africa, in the hope of overcoming his misplaced affection, but in vain, for that he returned home at the end of two years with his heart unchanged. there he learned through the newspapers that you had been recently widowed, through the murder of your husband in an indian mutiny. that's how he put it. he farther wrote that, in the face of such a tragedy as that, he felt bound to forbear the faintest approach toward resuming his acquaintance with you until some considerable time should have elapsed, although, he was careful to add, he always believed that you had given him your heart, and would have given him your hand had you been permitted to do so. he ended his letter by asking me to give him your address, that he might write to you. he evidently supposed you to be keeping house for yourself, as english widows of condition usually do. well, my girl, what do you think i did?" "you told me, sir, that, being at leisure just then, you answered his letter immediately," coldly replied cora. "yes; and i told him that you were living with me. i gave him the full address. and i told him that i was pleased with his frankness and fidelity, qualities which i highly approved; and i added that if he wished to renew his suit to you, he need not waste time in writing, but that he might come over and court you in person here at rockhold, where he should receive a hearty, old-fashioned welcome." cora gazed at the old man aghast. "oh, grandfather, you never wrote that!" she exclaimed. "i never wrote that? what do you mean, mistress? am i in the habit of saying what is not true?" "oh, no; but i am so grieved that you should have written such a letter." "why, pray?" "because i cannot bear that any one should think for a moment that i could ever marry again." "rubbish!" "well, it does not matter after all. if the duke should come on this fool's errand, i shall be far enough out of his reach," thought cora; but she said no more. the breakfast bell rang out with much clamor, and the old man arose growling. "and now you have cheated me out of my hour with the newspapers by your foolish talk. come, come to breakfast and let us hear no more nonsense about going on that wild goose chase to the indian frontier." at the end of the morning meal he arose from the table, called his young wife to fetch him his hat, his gloves, his duster, and other belongings, and he got ready for his daily morning drive to the works. "i shall remain at north end to bid you good-by, sylvan. call at my office there on your way to the depot," he said, as he left the house to step into his carriage waiting at the door. as the sound of the wheels rolled off and died in the distance, rose turned to cora and inquired: "my dear, does he know that you are going out west with sylvan?" "he should know it. i have spoken freely of my plans before you both for months past," said cora. "but, my dear, he never took the slightest notice of anything you said on that subject. why, he did not even seem to hear you." "he heard me perfectly. nothing passes in my grandfather's presence that he does not see and hear and understand." "well, then, i reckon he thinks you have changed your mind; for he spoke of meeting sylvan at north end to bid him good-by, but said not a word about you." "he will believe that i am going when he sees me with sylvan," said cora. and then she touched the bell and ordered her carriage to be brought to the door. "we must go and take leave of mrs. fabian rockharrt," she said to rose. twenty minutes later cora and sylvan entered the pony carriage. sylvan took the reins and started for violet banks. they soon reached the lovely villa, where they found violet seated in a quaker rocking-chair on the front porch, with a basket workstand beside her, busily and happily engaged in her beloved work--embroidering an infant's white cashmere cloak. she jumped up, dropped her work, and ran to meet her visitors as they alighted from the carriage. she kissed cora rapturously, and sylvan kissed her. "how lovely of you both to come! wait a minute till i call a boy to take your chaise around to the stable. and, oh, sit down. you are going to stay all day with me, too, and late into the night--there is a fine moon to-night. or maybe you will stay a week or a month. why not? oh, do stay," she rattled on, a little incoherently on account of her happy excitement. "no, dear," said cora, "we can only stay a very few minutes. the rising moon will see us far away on our route to new york." "w-h-y! you astonish me! how sudden this is! where are you going?" asked violet, pausing in her hurry to call a groom. "let me explain," said cora, taking one of the quaker chairs and seating herself. "sylvan has just received his commission as second lieutenant in the d regiment of infantry, now on governor's island, new york harbor, but under orders for fort farthermost, on the extreme frontier of the indian reserve. he leaves by the afternoon express, and i go with him." "cora!" exclaimed violet, as she dropped into her chair. "i know you have talked about this, but i never thought you would do such a wild deed! please don't think of going out among bears and indians!" "i must, dear, for many reasons. sylvan and myself are all and all to each other at present, and we should not be parted. more than that, i wish to do something in the world. i can not do anything here. i am not wanted, you see. i must, therefore, go where i may be wanted and may do some good." "but what can you do--out there?" cora then explained her plan of establishing a missionary home and school for indian children. "what a good, great, but, oh, what a quixotic plan! sylvan, why will you let her do it?" pleaded violet. "my dear, i would not presume to oppose cora. if she thinks she is right in this matter, then she is right. if her resolution is fixed, then i will uphold and defend her in that resolution," said the young lieutenant, loyally. but all the same his secret thought was that some fine fellow in his own regiment might be able to persuade cora to devote her time and fortune to him, instead of to the redskins. after a little more talk cora got up and kissed violet good-by. sylvan followed her example with a little more ardor than was absolutely necessary, perhaps. at rockhold luncheon was on the table, and young mrs. rockharrt waiting for them. mr. clarence was also at home, having determined to risk his father's displeasure and to neglect his business on this one day--this last day, for the sake of the niece and the nephew who were so dear to his heart. after luncheon sylvan went out to oversee the loading of the farm van, which was drawn by two sturdy mules, with the many heavy trunks and boxes that contained cora's wardrobe and books--among the latter a large number of elementary school books. mr. clarence stood by his side to help him in case of need. cora went up to her room, where nothing was now left to be done but to pack her little traveling bag with the necessaries for her journey, and then put on her traveling suit. she had a quantity of valuable jewelry, but this she put carefully into her hand bag, intending to convert it all into money as soon as she should reach new york, and to consecrate the fund, with the bulk of her fortune, to her projected home school for the indian children. as she sat there, she was by some occult agency led to think of her grandfather's young wife--to think of her tenderly, charitably, compassionately. poor rose! in infancy, from the day of her father's death, an unloved, neglected, persecuted child; in childhood, driven to desperation and elopement by the miseries of her home; in girlhood, deceived and abandoned by her lover; now, in womanhood, as friendless and unhappy as if she had not married a wealthy man, and was not living in a luxurious home. poor rose! she had lost her sense of honor, or she never would have married mr. rockharrt, even for a refuge. but, through all her sins and sorrows, she had not lost her tender heart, her sweet temper, or her amiable desire to serve and to please. she had now a hard time with her aged, despotic husband. he had not gratified her ambition by taking her into the upper circles of society, for he seemed now to have given up society; he had not pleased her harmless vanity with presents of fine dress and jewelry; no, nor even regarded her services with any sort of affectionate recognition. cora sat there feeling sorry that she had ever shown herself cold and haughty to the helpless creature who had always done all that she could to win her (cora's) love, and whom she was about to leave to the tender mercies of a hard and selfish old man, who, though he highly approved of his young wife's meekness, humility and subserviency, and held her up as an example to her whole sex, yet did not care for her, did not consult her wishes in anything, did not consider her happiness. cora sat wondering what she could do to give this poor little soul some little pleasure before leaving her. suddenly she thought of her jewels. she resolved to select a set and give it to rose with some kind parting word. she took her hand bag and withdrew from it case after case, examining each in turn. there was a set of diamonds worth many thousand dollars; a set of rubies and pearls, worth almost as much; a set of emeralds, very costly; but none of them as lovely as a set of sapphires, pearls, and diamonds, artistically arranged together, the sapphires encircled by a row of pearls, with an outer circle of small diamonds; the whole suggesting the blue color, the foam, and the sparkle of the sea. this cora selected as a parting present to her grandfather's young wife. she took them in her hand and hurried to rose's room, knocked at the door and entered. rose was seated in a white dimity-covered arm chair, engaged in reading a novel. she looked surprised, and almost frightened, at the sight of cora, who had never before condescended to enter this private room. "have i disturbed you?" inquired cora. "oh, no; no, indeed. pray come in. please sit down. will you have this arm chair?" eagerly inquired the young woman, rising from her seat. "no, thank you, rose; i have scarcely time to sit. i have brought you a keepsake which i hope you will sometimes wear in memory of your old pupil," said cora, opening the casket and displaying the gems. rose's face was a study--all that was good and evil in her was aroused at the sight of the rich and costly jewels--vanity, cupidity, gratitude, tenderness. "oh, how superb they are! i never saw such splendid gems! a parure for a princess, and you give them to me? what a munificent present! how kind you are, cora! what can i do? how shall i ever be able to return your kindness?" said rose, as tears of delight and wonder filled her eyes. "wear them and enjoy them. they suit your fair complexion very well. and now let me bid you good-by, here." "no, no; not yet. i will go down and see you off--see the very last of you, cora, until the carriage takes you out of sight. oh, dear, it may indeed be the very last that i shall ever see of you, sure enough." "i hope not. why do you speak so sadly?" "because i am not strong. my father died of consumption; so did my elder brothers and sisters, the children of his first marriage, and often i think i shall follow them." mrs. rothsay looked at the speaker. the transparent delicacy of complexion, the tenderness of the limpid blue eyes, the infantile softness of face, throat, and hands, certainly did not seem to promise much strength or long life; but cora spoke cheerfully: "such hereditary weakness may be overcome in these days of science, rose. you must banish fear and take care of yourself. now, i really must go and put on my bonnet." "very well, then, if you must. i will meet you in the hall. oh, my dear, i am so very grateful to you for these precious jewels, and more than all for the friendship and kindness that prompted the gift," said rose; and perhaps she really did believe that she prized the giver more than the gift; for such self-deception would have been in keeping with her superficial character. cora left the room and hurried to her chamber, where she put on her bonnet and her linen duster. she had scarcely fastened the last button when her brother knocked at the door, calling out: "come, cora, come, or we shall miss the train." cora caught up her traveling bag, cast "a long, last, lingering look" around the dear, familiar room which she had occupied when at rockhold from her childhood's days, and then went out and joined her brother. in the hall below they were met by rose "be good to her, poor thing," whispered cora to sylvan. "all right," replied the young lieutenant. rose's eyes were filled with tears. it seemed to the friendless creature very hard to lose cora, just as cora was beginning to be friendly. "good-by," said mrs. rothsay, taking the woman's hand. but rose burst into tears, threw her arms around the young lady's neck, hugged her close, and kissed her many times. "good-by, my pretty step-grandmother-in-law," said sylvan, gayly, taking her hand and giving her a kiss. "you are still 'the rose that all admire,' but the best of friends must part." and leaving rose in tears, he opened the door for his sister to pass out before him. but she, at least, passed no farther than the front porch, where she stood looking down the lawn in surprise and anxiety, while sylvan hurried off to see what was the meaning of that which had so suddenly startled them. what was it? what had happened? a crowd of men, silent, but with faces full of suppressed excitement and surrounding something that was borne in their midst, was slowly marching up the avenue. cora watched sylvan as he went to meet them; saw him speak to them, though she could not hear what he said; saw them stop and put the something, which they bore along and escorted, down on the gravel; saw a parley between her brother and the crowd, and finally saw her brother turn and hurry back toward the house, wearing a pale and troubled countenance. "you may take the carriage back to the stables, john," said the lieutenant to the wondering negro groom, as he passed it in returning to the porch. "what is the matter, sylvan? what has happened? why have you sent the carriage away?" cora anxiously inquired. "because, my dear, we must not leave rockhold at present," he gravely replied. "there has been an accident, cora." "an accident! on the railroad?" "no, my dear; to our old grandfather." "to grandfather! oh, sylvan! no! no!" she cried, turning white, and dropping upon a bench, all her latent affection for the aged patriarch--the unsuspected affection--waking in her heart. "yes, dear," said sylvan, softly. "seriously? dangerously? fatally? perhaps he is dead and you are trying to break it to me! you can't do it! you can't! oh, sylvan, is grandfather dead?" she wildly demanded. "no, dear! no, no, no! compose yourself. they are bringing him here, and he is perfectly conscious. he must not see you so much agitated. it would annoy him. we do not yet know how seriously he is hurt. he was thrown from his carriage when near north end. the horses took fright at the passing of a train. they ran away and went over that steep bank just at the entrance of the village. the carriage was shattered all to pieces; the coachman killed outright--poor old joseph--and the horses so injured that they had to be shot." "poor old joseph! i am so sorry! so very sorry! but grandfather! grandfather!" "he was picked up insensible; carried to the hotel on a mattress laid on planks, borne by half a dozen workmen, and the doctor was summoned immediately. he was laid in bed, and all means were tried to restore consciousness. but as soon as he came to his senses he demanded to be brought home. the doctor thought it dangerous to do so. but you know the grandfather's obstinacy. so a stretcher was prepared, a spring mattress laid on it, and he has been borne all the way from north end to rockhold ferry by relays of six men at a time, relieving each other at short intervals, and escorted by the doctor and our two uncles. that, cora, is all i can tell you." he then entered the house, followed by cora. they found rose still in the front hall, where they had left her a few minutes before. she was seated in one of the oak chairs wiping her eyes. she had not seen the approaching procession with the burden they carried. and of course she had not heard their silent movements. she looked up in surprise at the re-entrance of cora and sylvan. "oh!" she exclaimed "have you forgotten anything? so glad to see you back, even for half a minute. for, after all, i couldn't see you drive away. i just shut the door and flung myself into this chair to have a good cry. can't you put off your journey now, just for to-night and start to-morrow? you will have to do it anyhow. you can't catch the : express now," she added, coming toward them. "we shall not attempt it, rose," said sylvan, in a kinder tone than he usually used in speaking to her. "i am so glad," she said, but her further words were arrested by the grave looks of the young man. "what is the matter with you?" she suddenly inquired. "there has been an accident, rose. not fatal, my dear, so don't be frightened. my grandfather has been thrown from his carriage and stunned. but he has recovered consciousness, and they are bringing him home a deal shaken, but not in serious danger." while sylvan spoke, rose gazed at him in perfect silence, with her blue eyes widening. when he finished, she asked: "how did it happen?" sylvan told her. rose dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. she was more shocked than grieved by all that she had heard. if her tyrant had been brought home dead, i think she would only have sighed "with the sigh of a great deliverance!" "let us go now, rose, and prepare his bed. sylvan will stay hereto receive him," said cora. the two women went up to the old man's room and turned down the bedclothes, and laid out a change of linen, and many towels in case they should be needed, and then went to the head of the stairs and waited and listened. presently, through the open hall door, they heard the muffled tread and subdued tones of the men, who presently entered, bearing the stretcher on which was laid the huge form of the iron king, covered, all except his face, with a white bed-spread. slowly, carefully, and with some difficulty they bore him up the broad staircase head first--preceded by the family physician, dr. cummins, and followed by messrs. fabian and clarence. rose and cora stood each side the open chamber door, and when the men bore the stretcher in and set it down on the floor, the two women approached and looked down on the injured man. his countenance was scarcely affected by his accident. he was no paler than usual. he was frowning--it might be from pain or it might be from anger--and he was glaring around. rose was afraid to speak to him, prone on the stretcher as he was, lest she should get her head bitten off. cora bent over him and said tenderly: "dear grandfather, i am very sorry for this. i hope you are not hurt much." and she had her head immediately snapped off. "don't be a confounded idiot!" he growled, hoarsely. "go and send old black martha here. she is worth a hundred of you two." rose hurried off to obey this order, glad enough of an excuse to escape. and now the room was cleared of all the men except the family physician, the two sons, and the grandson. these approached the stretcher and carefully and tenderly undressed the patient and laid him on his bed. then the physician made a more careful examination. there were no bones broken. the injuries seemed to be all internal; but of their seriousness or dangerousness the physician could not yet judge. the nervous shock had certainly been severe, and that in itself was a grave misfortune to a man of aaron rockharrt's age, and might have been instantaneously fatal to any one of less remarkable strength. dr. cummins told mr. fabian that he should remain in attendance on his patient all night. then, at the desire of mr. rockharrt, he cleared the sick room of every one except the old negro woman. when the door was shut upon them all, and the chamber was quiet, he administered a sedative to his patient and advised him to close his eyes and try to compose himself. then the doctor sat down on the right side of the bed, with old martha on his left. there was utter silence for a few minutes, and then old aaron rockharrt spoke. "what's the hour, doctor?" "seven," replied the physician after consulting his gold repeater. "but i advise you to keep quiet and try to sleep," he added, returning his timepiece to his fob. as if the iron king ever followed advice! as if he did not, on general principles, always run counter to it! "didn't i see my fool of a grandson among the other lunatics who ran after me here?" he next inquired. "yes." "where is he now?" "with the ladies, i think." "send--him--up--to--me!" the doctor shrugged his shoulders and went to obey the order. the obstinacy of this self-willed egotist was surely growing into a monomania, and perhaps it would have been more dangerous to oppose him than to comply with his whim. in a few moments dr. cummins re-entered the room, followed by sylvan haught. "i hope you are feeling easier," said the lieutenant, as he bent over his grandfather. "i have not complained of feeling uneasy yet, have i?" growled the iron king. "you sent for me, sir. can i do anything for you?" "for me? no; not likely! but you can do your duty to your country! how is it that you are not on your way to join your regiment?" "i had actually bidden good-by and left the house to start on my journey, when i met men bringing you home." "what the demon had that to do with it?" "i could not go on, sir, and leave you under such circumstances." "look here, young sir!" said the iron king, speaking hoarsely, faintly, yet with strong determination. "do you call yourself a soldier or a shirk? let me tell you that it is the first duty of a soldier to obey orders, at all times, under all circumstances, and at all costs! if you had been a married man, and your wife had been dying--if you had been a father, and your child had been dying, it would have been your duty to leave them!" "but, sir, there was no real need that i should go by this night's express. if i should start to-morrow morning, i shall be in good time to report for duty. it was only my zeal to be better than prompt which induced me to start earlier than necessary. to-morrow will be quite time enough to leave for new york." "very well; then go to-morrow by the first train," said the iron king in a more subdued manner, for the sedative was beginning to take effect. at a hint from the doctor the young lieutenant bade his grandfather good-night and softly stepped out of the room. chapter xxv. the sick lion. early the next morning dr. cummins came down stairs and joined the family at the breakfast table. in answer to anxious inquiries, he reported that mr. rockharrt had slept well during the night, and had just taken refreshment prepared by old martha under the physician's own orders, and had composed himself to sleep again. "he would not admit any of us last night. will he see me this morning?" inquired rose rockharrt. "of course, after a little while. it was best that i and the old nurse should have watched him alone together last night, but the woman now needs rest, and i must presently take leave, to look after my other patients. you two ladies must take the watch to-day, with one of these gentlemen within call. i will give you full directions for my patient's treatment, and will see him again in the afternoon." "does my father's present condition admit of my leaving him to go and look after the works this morning?" inquired mr. fabian, who had spent the night at rockhold. "yes," replied the doctor, after some little hesitation. "yes; i think so. if your presence here should be absolutely needed, you can be promptly summoned, you know; but one of you should remain on guard." "clarence will stay home, then," replied mr. fabian. "doctor, you heard my grandfather order me to leave rockhold this morning to join my regiment. now, what do you think? may i see him before i go?" inquired the young lieutenant. "i will let you know when he wakes," said dr. cummins. "must you leave us to-day, sylvan? could you not be excused under the circumstances?" inquired mrs. rockharrt. "no; i could not be excused. i must join my regiment, rose." "but, cora! oh, cora! you will not leave us now? you are not under orders, and--and--i wish you would stay," pleaded rose. "i shall stay, rose. it is as much my bounden duty to stay as it is that of sylvan to go," answered cora. "oh, that is such a relief to my feelings!" exclaimed the other lady. dr. cummins looked up in surprise, glancing from one woman to the other. sylvan undertook to explain. "my sister was going out with me, sir. i am her nearest relative, as she is mine, and we do not like to be separated." "ah!" said the doctor. "and now, very properly, she decides to stay here." "for a while, dr. cummins--until the case of my grandfather shall be decided. later i shall certainly follow my brother," cora explained. before another word could be uttered the door opened, and violet rockharrt, in a silver gray carriage dress, entered the room. mr. fabian sprang up to meet her. "my dear child, why have you come out here against all orders?" mrs. fabian rockharrt saluted all the company at the breakfast, who had risen to receive her, and then replied to her husband's question. "i have come to see how our father is. it was twelve o'clock last night when your messenger arrived at the banks and told me that you would not be able to return that night, because an accident had happened to mr. rockharrt. not a dangerous one, but yet one that would keep you with him for some hours. i know very well how accidents are smoothed over in being reported to women; so i was not reassured by that clause, and i would have set out for rockhold immediately if it had not been a starless midnight, making the road dangerous to others as well as myself. but i was up at daybreak to start this morning, and here i am." "sit down, my child; sit down. you look pale and tired. ah! did not our good doctor here forbid you taking long walks or rides?" "i know, fabian; but sometimes a woman must be a law to herself. it was my duty to come in person and inquire after our father; so i came, even against orders," said violet, composedly. "now look at that little creature, doctor. she seems as soft as a dove, as gentle as a lamb; but she is perfectly lawless. she defies me, abuses me, and upon occasion thrashes me. would you believe it of her?" demanded mr. fabian, gazing with pride and delight on his good little wife. "oh, yes; i can quite believe it. she looks a perfect shrew, vixen, virago! oh, how i pity you, mr. fabian!" said the doctor. cora filled out a cup of coffee and brought it to the visitor, whispering: "i am glad you came, violet. i do not believe it will hurt you one bit in any way." "can i see father? i want to see for myself, and to kiss him, and tell him how sorry i am; and i want to help to nurse him. say, can i see him?" "not just now, dear. none of us have seen him since he was put to bed last evening except the doctor and the nurse; but in the course of the day you may. you will spend the day with us?" cora inquired. "i will spend the day and the night, and to-morrow and to-morrow night, and this week and next week, and just as long as i can be helpful and useful to father, if you and mamma there will permit me. and, by the way, i have not kissed mamma yet. only shaken hands with her." and so saying, violet put down her untasted cup of coffee, went around the table, put her arms round rose's neck, and kissed her fondly, saying: "you are very sweet and lovely, mamma, and i know i shall love you. i wanted to come and see you before this, but the doctor there wouldn't allow it. but now i have come to stay as long as i may be wanted." "i should want you forever, sweet wood violet," cooed rose, returning her caresses. mr. fabian turned away, half in wrath, half in mirth. he was much too good humored to be seriously offended as he said to the doctor: "ah! these dove-eyed darlings! how mistaken we are in them! you are an old bachelor, cummins; but if you should ever take it into your head to repent of celibacy, don't marry a dove-eyed darling, if you don't want to be defied all the days of your life." "i won't," said the doctor; "but now i must go and see how mr. rockharrt is getting on, and take leave to look after my other patients." and he left the breakfast room, followed by mr. fabian. "you and sylvan will not leave rockhold for some time," said violet, with a little air of triumph. "sylvan must leave this morning. i shall remain until grandfather gets well," said cora--"or dies," she added, mentally. in a few minutes dr. cummins returned and said that mr. rockharrt would see lieutenant haught first, and afterward the other members of his family. then the physician bade the family good morning, and left the house. sylvan went up stairs to their grandfather's room. there they found mr. fabian seated by the bedside. old martha had gone to her garret to lie down and rest. the windows were all open, and the summer sun and air lighted and cooled the room. "come here, sylvan," said the iron king, and his voice, though hoarse and feeble, was peremptory. "the young lieutenant went up to the bedside and said: "i hope you are feeling better this morning, sir." "i hope so, too; but don't let us waste words in compliments. cummins tells me that you wished to bid me good-by." "yes, sir." "well, bid good-by, then." "grandfather, have you anything to say to me before i go?" respectfully inquired the young man. "if i had, don't you suppose that i could say it? well, if you wish advice, i will give it you very briefly: you are an 'officer and a gentleman'--that is the phrase, i believe?" "i hope so, sir." "then behave as one under all circumstances. never lie--even to women; never cheat--even the government. that is all. i cannot bless you if that is what you want. no man can bless another--not even the pope of rome or the archbishop of canterbury. no one under heaven can bless you. you can only bless yourself by doing your whole duty under all circumstances. you will have men in authority over you. obey them. you will have authority over other men. make them obey you. there, good-by!" said old aaron rockharrt, holding out his hand to his grandson. sylvan noticed how that hand shook as its aged owner held it up. he took it, lifted it to his lips, and pressed it to his heart. "there, there; don't be foolish, sylvan! good-by! good-by! and you, fabian! what are you loitering here for, when you should be looking after the works?" impatiently demanded the iron king. "the carriage stands at the door, sir, waiting to take sylvan to his train. i shall go with him as far as north end and try to do your work there in addition to my own." "quite right. where is clarence?" "at north end, sir, where he went directly after he saw you safe in bed under the doctor's care," said mr. fabian, lying as fast as a horse could trot. "very well. send the two women here." "there happen to be three women below at present, sir. violet has come to see you." in the morning sitting room below stairs sylvan and fabian found the three ladies with clarence, all in a state of anxiety to hear from the injured man. sylvan was more agitated in leaving his sister than any young soldier should have been. at the last, the very last instant of parting, when mr. fabian had left the parlor and was on his way to the carriage, sylvan turned back and for the third time clasped cora in his arms. "never mind, sylvan, as soon as i possibly can, without violating my duty to the only one on earth to whom i owe any duty, i shall go out to you. i can see now, now in this hour of parting, how very right i was in deciding to go with you. my journey is not abandoned, it is only postponed. god bless you, my dear." after standing at the front door until they had watched the carriage out of sight, the three went up stairs and softly entered the room of the injured man, so softly that he did not hear their entrance. they stood in a silent group, believing him to be asleep, and afraid to sit down, lest a chair should creak and wake him up. in a few seconds, however, they heard him clear his throat, knew that he was awake, and went up to his bedside. rose spoke, gently, for all. "you sent for us, mr. rockharrt. we are all here, and we hope that you are much better," she said. "oh, you do! stand there--all three of you at the foot of the bed, so that i can see you without turning." the three women obeyed, placing themselves in line as he had directed, and perceived that he lay upon the flat of his back, looking straight before him, because he could not turn on either side without great pain. he scanned them and then said: "ah, violet, you are there! you have a proper sense of duty, my girl. so you have come to see how it is with me yourself, eh?" "yes, father; and also to stay and help to nurse you, it i may be permitted to do so." "rubbish! my wife can nurse me. it is her place. i don't want a lot of other women around me! i won't have more than one in the room with me at a time! violet, get into your carriage and return to your home." "oh, papa, how have i offended you?" "not in any way as yet; but you will offend me if you disobey me. you must go home at once. you are not in a condition to be of any service here. you would only injure your own health, and distract the attention of these women from me. wherever there is a lot of women, there is sure to be more talk than duty. so you must go. when i get well, and you get strong again, you may come and stay as long as you like. so, now, bid me good-by and be off with yourself." violet, feeling much chagrined, went around to the side of the bed, took the hand of her father-in-law, bent over and kissed him good-by. "now, cora, take her out and see her off." violet took leave of her young mother-in-law, and followed cora from the sick room. "now, rose, close all the shutters; darken the room and sit beside the head of my bed. don't speak until you are spoken to; don't move; don't even read; but sit still, silent, attentive, while i try to rest." rose obeyed all his orders, and then sat like a dead woman, back in the resting chair beside him. she had noted how weak and husky his voice had been in giving his instructions to his "womankind," with what pain and effort he had spoken, while his strong will bore him through the interview, which, short as it was, had left him prostrate and exhausted. rose wished to offer him the cordial the doctor had left, but he had ordered her not to move or speak until she was spoken to, and rose dared not disobey. she did not know what might be the result of her passive obedience to him, nor, to tell the truth, did she very much care. rose was weary of life! meanwhile, cora and violet went down stairs together. at six o'clock the doctor came, and made anxious inquiries into the state of the injured man; but cora could only report that he seemed to have passed a quiet day, watched by his wife, but unapproached by any other member of his family, all of whom he had forbidden to come near him unless called. "a very wise provision, my dear mrs. rothsay. i will go up now and see him," said dr. cummins. a few minutes later rose came down and entered the parlor, looking very faint and white except for two small, deep crimson spots on the cheeks. "here, rose, take this chair," said violet, vacating the most comfortable seat in the room, on which she had sat all the afternoon. the woman dropped into it, too weak and weary to stand upon ceremony. "how did you leave grandfather?" "i hardly know; but doing well, i should think, for he has been dozing all day, only waking up to ask for iced beef tea, or milk punch, and then, when he had drank one or the other, going to sleep again. i have been fanning him all the time except when i have been feeding him." while rose was sipping some tea which had been promptly brought to her, the doctor came in and reported mr. rockharrt as doing extremely well. "you will stay to dinner with us, dr. cummins," said rose. "thank you, my dear lady, but i cannot. i shall just wait to see mr. fabian rockharrt and give my report to him in all its details, as i promised, and then hurry home and go to bed. i have had no sleep for the last twenty-four--no, bless my soul! not for the last thirty-six hours!" replied the physician. he had scarcely ceased to speak when mr. fabian entered the room. "oh! home so soon!" exclaimed violet, starting up to meet him. "yes; how is the father?" "there is the doctor; ask him." "ah, dr. cummins! good afternoon? how is your patient?" "come with me into the library, mr. fabian, and i will give you a full report." "where is clarence?" inquired fabian. "up stairs somewhere. he did not come to luncheon," replied cora. "poor clarence! he is awfully cut up!" said mr. fabian, as he left the parlor with dr. cummins. as they passed through the hall they were joined by mr. clarence, who had just heard of the doctor's arrival. "i left him very comfortable, carefully watched by old martha, who has waked up refreshed after a ten hours' sleep and has taken her place by his bedside. there is no immediate cause for anxiety, my dear clarence," said the physician, in reply to the questions put to him. "the worst of it is, doctor, that while it was absolutely necessary for me to stay here during fabian's absence, i dare not go into my father's room. he thinks that i am at north end. and he would become very angry if he knew that i was here against his will and his commands. besides which, i hate deception and concealment," complained mr. clarence. "it is rather a difficult case to manage, my boy, but it is absolutely necessary that either yourself or your brother should be on hand here day and night; it is equally necessary that your father should be kept quiet. so i see nothing better to do than for you to stay here and keep still until you are wanted," replied the doctor. and then the three went into the little library or office at the rear of the hall, and what further was said among them was whispered with closed doors. at the end of fifteen minutes they came out. the doctor took leave of all the family and went away. mr. fabian went up to his father's door and rapped softly. old martha came to admit him. "how is your master? is he awake? can i see him?" he inquired. "surely, marse fabe! ole marse wide awake, berry easy, and 'quiring arter you. come in, sar!" mr. fabian entered the room, which was in some darkness from the closed window shutters, and went up to his father's bed. "i hope you are better, sir," he said. "i don't know," said the injured man, in a faint voice. "how are the works getting on?" "famously, sir! splendidly! pray do not feel the least anxiety on that score." "where is clarence?" "at north end, sir. of course, he would not think of leaving the works while both you and myself are absent." "i don't know," sighed the weary invalid, for the third time. "but you had better not, either of you, attempt to deceive me while i am lying here on my back." "not for the world, my dear father! pray do not be doubtful or anxious. we are your dutiful sons, sir, and our first--" "rubbish!" exclaimed the broken iron king. "that will do! go send rose to me. why the deuce did she leave? i--i--i--" his voice dropped into an inarticulate murmur. mr. fabian bent over him, and saw that he had dozed off to sleep. "dat's de way he's been a-goin' on ebber since de doctor lef'. it's de truck wot de doctor give him," said old martha. fabian stole on tiptoe out of the room. dinner was waiting for him down stairs. he would not deliver his father's selfish message to rose, because he wished the poor creature to dine in peace. he told clarence to give her his arm to the dining room. while they were all at dinner violet explained to her husband why mr. rockharrt had directed her to return home. poor violet was very loth to stir up any ill feeling between the father and son; but she need not have feared. mr. fabian understood the autocrat too well to take offense at the dismissal of his wife. the next morning when the family physician arrived, and visited the injured man, he found him suffering from restlessness and a rising fever. he reported this condition to mr. clarence rockharrt, left very particular directions for the treatment of the patient, and then took leave, with the promise to return in the evening and remain all night. later in the afternoon the doctor, having finished all other professional calls for the day, arrived at rockhold. he found his patient delirious. he took up his post by the sick bed for the night, and then peremptorily sent off the worn-out watcher, rose, to the rest she so much needed. the condition of aaron rockharrt was very critical. irritative fever had set in with great violence, and this was the beginning of the hard struggle for life that lasted many days, during which delirium, stupor, and brief lucid intervals followed each other with the rise and fall of the fever. a professional nurse was engaged to attend him; but the real burden of the nursing fell on rose. chapter xxvi. a voluntary expiation. rose never lost patience. she stayed by the bedside always until the doctor turned her out of the room. she came back the moment she was called, night or day. weeks passed and mr. rockharrt grew better and stronger, but rose grew worse and weaker. the fine autumn weather that braced up the convalescent old man chilled and depressed the consumptive young woman. it was certain that mr. rockharrt would entirely regain his health and strength, and even take out a new lease of life. "i never saw any one like your grandfather in all my long practice," said the doctor to cora one morning, after he had left his patient; "he is a wonder to me. nothing but a catastrophe could ever have laid him on an invalid bed; and no other man that i know could have recovered from such injuries as he has sustained. why in a month from this time he will be as well as ever. he has a constitution of tremendous strength." "but the poor wife," said cora. "ah, poor soul!" sighed the doctor. "and yet a little while ago she seemed such a perfect picture of health." "my dear, wherever you see that abnormally clear, fresh, semi-transparent complexion, be sure it is a bad sign--a sign of unsoundness within." "can nothing be done for rose?" "yes; and i am doing it as much as she will let me. i advise a warmer climate for the coming winter. mr. rockharrt will be able to travel by the first of november, and he should then take her to florida. but, you see, he pooh-poohs the whole suggestion. well--'a willful man must have his way,'" said the doctor, as he took up his hat and bade the lady good-by. a week after this conversation, on the day on which aaron rockharrt first sat up in his easy chair, rose had her first hemorrhage from the lungs. it laid her on the bed from which she was never to rise. cora became her constant and tender nurse. rose was subdued and patient. a few days after this she said to the lady: "it seems to me that my own dear father, who has been absent from my thoughts for so many years, has drawn very near his poor child in these last few months, and nearer still in the last few days. i do not see him, nor hear him, nor feel him by any natural sense, but i do perceive him. i do perceive that he is trying to do me good, and that he is glad i am coming to him so soon. i am sorry for all the wrong i have done, and i hope the lord will forgive me. but how can i expect him to do it, when i can scarcely forgive--even now on my dying bed i can scarcely forgive--my step-mother and her husband for the neglect and cruelty that wrecked my life? oh, but i forget. you know nothing of all this." cora did know. fabian had told her; but he had also exacted a promise of secrecy from her; so she said nothing in reply to this. rose continued, speaking in a low, meditative tone: "yes; i am sorry, sorry for the evil i have done. it was not worth while to do it. life is too short--too short even at its longest. but, oh! i had such a passionate ambition for recognition by the great world! for the admiration of society! every one whom i met in our quiet lives told me, either by words or looks, that i was beautiful--very beautiful--and i believed them; and i longed for wealth and rank, for dress and jewels, to set off this beauty, and for ease and luxury to enjoy life. oh, what vanity! oh, what selfishness! and here i am, with the grave yawning to swallow me up," she murmured, drearily. "no, dear; no," said cora, gently laying her hand on the blue-white forehead of the fading woman. "no, rose. no grave opens for any human being; but only for the body that the freed human being has left behind. it is not the grave that opens for you, rose, but your father's arms. would you like to see a minister, dear?" "if mr. rockharrt does not object." "then you shall see one." rose's sick room was on the opposite side of the hall from mr. rockharrt's convalescent apartment. if the iron king felt any sorrow at his young wife's mortal illness, he did not show it. if he felt any compunction for having taxed her strength to its extremity, he did not express it. he maintained his usual stolid manner, and merely issued general orders that no trouble or expense must be spared in her treatment and in her interest. he came into her room every day, leaning on the arm of his servant, to ask her how she felt, and to sit a few minutes by her bed. violet could no longer come to rockhold, because a little violet bud, only a few days old, kept her a close prisoner at the banks. but mr. fabian came twice a week. the minister from the mission church at north end came very frequently, and as he was an earnest, fervent christian, his ministrations were most beneficial to rose. on the day that mr. rockharrt first rode out, the end came, rather suddenly at the last. there was no one in the house but cora and the servants, mr. clarence having gone back to north end. cora had left rose in the care of old martha, and had come down stairs to write a letter to her brother. she had scarcely written a page when the door was opened by martha, who said, in a frightened tone: "come, miss cora--come quick! there's a bad change. i'm 'feard to leave her a minute, even to call you. please come quick!" both went to the bedside of the dying woman, over whose face the dark shadows of death were creeping. rose could no longer raise her hand to beckon or raise her voice to call, but she fixed her eyes imploringly on cora, who bent low to catch any words she might wish to say. she was gasping for breath as in broken tones she whispered: "cora--the lord--has given me--grace--to forgive them. write to--my step-mother. fabian--will tell you--where--" "yes; i will, i will, dear rose," said cora, gazing down through blinding tears, as she stooped and pressed her warm lips on the death-cold lips beneath them. rose lifted her failing eyes to cora's sympathetic face and never moved them more; there they became fixed. the sound of approaching wheels was heard. "it is my grandfather. go and tell him," whispered cora to old martha without turning her head. the woman left the room, and in a few moments mr. rockharrt entered it, leaning on the arm of his valet. when he approached the bed, he saw how it was and asked no questions. he went to the side opposite to that occupied by cora, and bent over the dying woman. "rose," he said in a low voice--"rose, my child." she was past answering, past hearing. he took her thin, chill hand in his, but it was without life. he bent still lower over her, and whispered: "rose." but she never moved or murmured. her eyes were fixed in death on those of cora. then suddenly a smile came to the dying face, light dawned in the dying eyes, as she lifted them and gazed away beyond cora's form, and murmuring contented; "father, father--" and "with a sigh of a great deliverance," she fell asleep. they stood in silence over the dead for a few moments, and then mr. rockharrt drew the white coverlet up over the ashen face, and then leaning on the arm of his servant went out of the room. three days later the mortal remains of rose rockharrt were laid in the cemetery at north end. it was on the first of november, a week after the funeral, that mr. rockharrt, for the first time in three months, went to the works. on that day, while cora sat alone in the parlor, a card was brought to her-- "the duke of cumbervale." the duke of cumbervale entered the parlor. cora rose to receive him; the blood rushing to her head and suffusing her face with blushes, merely from the vivid memory of the painful past called up by the sudden sight of the man who had been the unconscious cause of all her unhappiness. most likely the old lover mistook the meaning of the lady's agitation in his presence, and ascribed it to a self-flattering origin. however that might have been, he advanced with easy grace, and bowing slightly, said: "my dear mrs. rothsay, i am very happy to see you again! i hope i find you quite well?" "quite well, thank you," she replied, recovering her self-control. in the ensuing conversation, cora made known her grandfather's accident and the death of rose. "i am truly grieved to have intruded at so inopportune a time," asserted the visitor, and arose to take leave. then cora's conscience smote her for her inhospitable rudeness. here was a man who had crossed the sea at her grandfather's invitation, who had reached the country in ignorance of the family trouble; who had come directly from the seaport to north end, and ridden from north end to rockhold--a distance of six or seven miles; and she had scarcely given him a civil reception. and now should she let him go all the way back to north end without even offering him some refreshment? such a course, under such circumstances, even toward an utter stranger, would have been unprecedented in her neighborhood, which had always been noted for its hospitality. yet still she was afraid to offer him any polite attention, lest she should in so doing give him encouragement to urge his suit, that she dreaded to hear, and was determined to reject. it was not until the visitor had taken his hat in his left hand, and held out the right to bid her good morning, that she forced herself to do her hostess' duty, and say: "this is a very dull house, duke, but if you can endure its dullness, i beg you will stay to lunch with me." a smile suddenly lighted up the visitor's cold blue eyes. "'dull,' madam? no house can be dull--even though darkened by a recent bereavement--which is blessed by your presence. i thank you. i shall stay with much pleasure." and now i have done it! thought cora, with vexation. at length the clock struck two, the luncheon bell rang, and cora arose with a smile of invitation. the duke gave her his arm, they went into the dining room. the gray-haired butler was in waiting. they took their places at the table. old john had just set a plate of lobster salad before the guest when the sound of carriage wheels was heard approaching the house. in a few minutes more there came heavy steps along the hall, the door opened, and old aaron rockharrt entered the room. cora and her visitor both arose. "ah, duke! how do you do? i got your telegram on reaching north end; went to the hotel to meet you, and found that you had started for rockhold. had your dispatch arrived an hour earlier i should have gone in my carriage to meet you," said the iron king with pompous politeness. now it seemed in order for the visitor to offer some condolence to this bereaved husband. but how could he, where the widower himself so decidedly ignored the subject of his own sorrow? to have said one word about his recent loss would have been, in the world's opinion and vocabulary, "bad form." "you are very kind, mr. rockharrt; and i thank you. i came on quite comfortably in the hotel hack, which waits to take me back," was all that he said. "no, sir! that hack does not wait to take you back. i have sent it away. moreover, i settled your bill at the hotel, gave up your rooms, saw your valet, and ordered your luggage to be brought here. it will arrive in an hour," said the iron king, as he threw himself into the great leathern chair that the old butler pushed to the table for his master's accommodation. the duke looked at the old man in a state of stupefaction. how on earth should he deal with this purse-proud egotist, who took the liberty of paying his hotel bill, giving up his apartments and ordering his servants? and doing all this without the faintest idea that he was committing an unpardonable impertinence. "you are to know, duke, that from the time you entered upon my domain at north end, you became my guest--mine, sir! john, that johannisberg. fill the duke's glass. my own importation, sir; twelve years in my cellar. you will scarcely find its equal anywhere. your health, sir." the duke bowed and sipped his wine. his future bearing to this old barbarian required mature reflection. only for the duke's infatuation with cora, it would have not have needed a minute's thought to make up his mind to flee from rockhold forthwith. when luncheon was over mr. rockharrt invited the duke into his study to smoke. before they had finished their first cigar the iron king, withdrawing his "lotus," and sending a curling cloud of vapor into the air, said: "you have something on your mind that you wish to get off it, sir. out with it! nothing like frankness and promptness." "you are right, mr. rockharrt. i do wish to speak to you on a point on which my life's happiness hangs. your beautiful granddaughter--" "yes, yes! of course i knew it concerned her." "then i hope you do not disapprove my suit." "i don't now, or i never should have invited you to come over to this country and speak for yourself. the circumstances are different. when i refused my granddaughter's hand to you in london, it was because i had already promised it to another man--a fine fellow, worthy to become one of my family, if ever a man was--and i never break a promise. so i refused your offer, and brought the young woman home, and married her to rothsay, who disappeared in a strange and mysterious manner, as you may have heard, and was never heard of again until the massacre of terrepeur by the comanche indians--among whom, it seems, he was a missionary--when the news came that he had been murdered by the savages and his body burned in the fire of his own hut. but the horror is two years old now, and i am at liberty to bestow the hand of my widowed granddaughter on whomsoever i please. you'll do as well as another man, and heaven knows that i shall be glad to have any honest white man take her off my hands, for she is giving me a deal of trouble." "trouble, sir? i thought your lovely granddaughter was the comfort and staff of your age, and, therefore, almost feared to ask her hand in marriage. but what is the nature of the trouble, if i may ask?" "didn't i tell you? well, she has got a missionary maggot in her head. it's feeding on all the little brains she ever had. she wants to go out as a teacher and preacher to the red heathen, and spend her life and her fortune among them. she wants to do as rule did, and, i suppose, die as rule died. oh, of course-- "twas so for me young edwin did, and so for him will i!' "and all that rot. i cannot break her will without breaking her neck. if you can do anything with her, take her, in the lord's name. and joy go with her." the young suitor felt very uncomfortable. he was not at all used to such an old ruffian as this. he did not know how to talk with him--what to reply to his rude consent to the proposal of marriage. at length his compassion, no less than his love for cora, inspired him to say: "thank you, mr. rockharrt. i will take the lady, if she will do me the honor to trust her happiness to my keeping." "more fool you! but that is your look-out," grunted the old man. the next morning when they met at breakfast mr. rockharrt invited his guest to accompany him to north end to inspect the iron mines and foundries, the locomotive works and all the rest of it. the duke had no choice but to accept the invitation. the two gentlemen left directly after breakfast, and cora rejoiced in the respite of one whole day from the society of the unwelcome guest. she saw the house set in order, gave directions for the dinner, and then retired to her own private sitting room to resume her labor of love, the life of her lost husband. earlier than usual that afternoon the iron king returned home accompanied by their guest and by mr. clarence, who had come with them in honor of the duke. the evening was spent in a rubber of whist, in which mr. rockharrt and the duke, who were partners, were the winners over cora and mr. clarence, their antagonists. the evening was finished at the usual hour with champagne and sago biscuits. the next morning, when mr. rockharrt and mr. clarence were about to leave the house for the carriage to take them to north end, the iron king turned abruptly and said to his granddaughter: "by the way, cora, fabian and violet are coming to dinner this evening to meet the duke. it will be a mere family affair upon a family occasion, eh, duke! a very quiet little dinner among ourselves. no other guests! good morning." and so saying the old man left the house, accompanied by his son. cora returned to the drawing room, where she had left the duke. he arose immediately and placed a chair for her; but she waved her hand in refusal of it, and standing, said very politely: "you will find the magazines of the month and the newspapers of the day on the table of the library on the opposite side of the hall, if you feel disposed to look over them." "the papers of to-day! how is it possible you are so fortunate as to get the papers of to-day at so early an hour, at so remote a point?" inquired the duke, probably only to hold her in conversation. "mr. clarence rockharrt's servant takes them from the earliest mail and starts with them for rockhold. mr. rockharrt usually reads the morning papers here before his breakfast." "a wonderful conquest over time and space are our modern locomotives," observed the duke. cora assented, and then said: "pray use the full freedom of the house and grounds; of the servants also, and the horses and carriages. mr. rockharrt places them all at your disposal. but please excuse me, for i have an engagement which will occupy me nearly all day." the duke looked disappointed, but bowed gravely and answered: "of course; pray do not let me be a hindrance to your more important occupations, mrs. rothsay." "thank you!" she answered, a little vaguely, and with a smile she left the room, "rejoicing to be free!" the duke anathematized his fate in finding so much difficulty in the way of his wooing, his ladylove evading him with a grace, a coolness, and a courtesy which he was constrained to respect. he strolled into the library, and then loitered along on the path leading down to the ferry. here he found the boat at the little wharf and old lebanon on duty. "sarvint, marster," said the old negro, touching his rimless old felt hat. "going over?" "yes, my man," said the duke, stepping on board the boat. "w'ich dey calls me uncle lebnum as mentions ob me in dese parts, marster," the old ferryman explained, touching his hat. "oh, they do? very well. i will remember," said the passenger, as the boat was pushed off from the shore. "how many trips do you make in a day?" inquired the fare. "pen's 'pon how many people is a-comin' an' goin'. some days i don't make no trip at all. oder days, w'en dere's a weddin' or a fun'al, i makes many as fifty." the passage was soon made, and the duke stepped out on the west bank. "is there any path leading to the top of this ridge, uncle--lemuel?" inquired the duke. "lebnum, young marster, if you please! lebnum!--w'ich dere is no paff an' no way o' gettin' to de top o' dis wes' range, jes' 'cause 'tis too orful steep; but ef you go 'bout fo' mile up de road, you'd come to a paff leadin' zigzag, wall o' troy like, up to siffier's roos'." "zephyr's--what?" "roos', marster. yes, sar. w'ich so 'tis call 'cause she usen to roos' up dar, jes' like ole turkey buzzard. w'en you get up dar, you can see ober free states. yes, sar, 'cause dat p'ints w'ere de p'ints o' boundy lines ob free states meets--yes, sah!" "i think i will take a walk to that point. i suppose i can find the path?" "you can't miss it, sah, if you keeps a sharp look-out. about fo' miles up, sah" "very well. shall you be here when i come back?" "no, sah. dis ain't my stoppin' place; t'other side is. but i'll be on de watch dere, and ef you holler for me, i'll come. i'll come anyways, 'cause i'll be sure to see you." "quite so," said the duke, as he sauntered up that very road between the foot of the mountain and the bank of the river down which the festive crowd had come on corona haught's fatal wedding day. an hour's leisurely walk brought him to the first cleft in the rock. from the back of this the path ascended, with many a double, to the wooded shelf on which old scythia's hut had once stood--hidden. when he reached the spot he found nothing but charred logs, blasted trees, and ashes, as if the spot had been wasted by fire. a ray of dazzling light darted from the ashes at his feet. in some surprise he stooped to ascertain the cause, and picked up a ring; examined it curiously; found it to be set with a diamond of rare beauty and great value. then in sudden amazement he turned to the reverse side of the golden cup that clasped the gem and saw a monogram. "i thought so," he muttered to himself; "i thought that there was not another such a peculiar setting to any gem in the world but that; and now the monogram proves it beyond the shadow of a doubt to be the same. but how in the name of wonder should the lost talisman be found here--in the ashes of some charcoal burner's hut?" with these words he took out and opened his pocket-book and carefully placed the ring in its safest fold, closed and returned the book to his pocket, and arose and left the spot. the duke turned to descend the mountain. at length, however, he reached the foot, and then, under the shadow of the ridge that threw the whole narrow valley into premature twilight, he hurried to the ferry. the boat was not there. indeed, he had not expected to find it after what old lebanon had told him. it was too obscure in the valley to permit him to see across the river, so he shouted: "boat!" "all wight, young marster, but needn't split your t'roat nor my brain pan, nider! i can hear you! i's coming!" came the voice from mid-stream, for the old ferryman was already half across the river with a chance passenger. in a few minutes more the boat grated upon the shore and the passenger jumped out, tipped his hat to the duke, and hurried up the river road toward north end. "dat pusson were mr. thomas rylan', fust foreman ober all de founderies. dere's a many foremen, but he be de fust. come down long ob de ole mars dis arternoon arter some 'counts, i reckon, an' now gone back wid a big bundle ob papers an' doc'ments. yes, sah. get in. i's ready to start," said the ferryman, as he cleared a seat in the stern of the boat for the accommodation of the passenger. "who used to live in that hut on the mountain before it was burned down?" inquired the duke as he took his seat. "ole injun 'oman named siffier." "where did she come from?" "dunno dat nudder. nobody dunno." "can't you tell me something about such a strange person who lived right here in your neighborhood?" "look yere, marster, leas' said soones' mended where she's 'cerned. i can't tell you on'y but jes' dis: she 'peared yere 'bout twenty year ago, or mo'. she built dat dere hut wid her own han's, an' she use to make baskets an' brackets an' sich, an' fetch 'em roun' to de people to sell. she made 'em out'n twigs an' ornimented 'em wid red rose berries an' hollies an' sich, an' mighty purty dey was, an' de young gals liked 'em, dey did. an' she made her libbin outen de money she got for her wares. she use to tell fortins too; an' folks did say as she tole true, an' some did say as she had a tell-us-man ring w'ich, when she wore it, she could see inter de futur; but lor', young marse, dey was on'y supercilly young idiwuts as b'leibed dat trash! but she nebber would take no money for tellin' fortins--nebber!--w'ich was curous. de berry day as de gubner-leck was missin' ob, she wanished too. when de cons'able went to 'rest her, he foun' her gone an' de hut burnt up. now, yere we is, young marse, at de lan'in', an' you can get right out yere 'dout wettin' your feet," said the old ferryman, as he pushed the boat up to the dry end of the wharf. the passenger astonished the old ferryman by putting a quarter of an eagle in his hand, and then sprang from the boat and ran up the avenue leading toward the house. there was no light visible from the windows of the mansion. the dinner party was a strictly private family affair, and nothing but the solitary lamp at the head of the avenue appeared to guide the pedestrian's steps through the darkness of the newly fallen night. he reached the house, and was admitted by the old servant. when his toilet was complete, the duke went down to the drawing room to join the family circle. the dinner, quiet as it was, was a success. to be sure, the diners were all in deep mourning and the conversation was rather subdued; but, then, it was perhaps on that account the more interesting. the many courses, altogether, occupied more than an hour. when the cloth was drawn and the dessert placed upon the table, at a signal from the iron king the butler went around the table and filled every glass with champagne, then returned and stood at his master's back. mr. rockharrt arose and made a speech, and proposed a toast that greatly astonished his company and compromised two of them. with his glass in his hand, he said: "my sons, daughters, and friend: you all doubtless understand the object of this family gathering, and also why this celebration of an interesting family event must necessarily be confined to the members of the family. in a word, it is my duty and pleasure to announce to you all the betrothal in marriage of his grace the duke of cumbervale and my granddaughter, mrs. corona rothsay. i propose the health of the betrothed pair." cora put down her glass and turned livid with dismay and indignation. all the other diners, the duke among them, arose to the occasion and honored the toast, and then sat down, all except the duke, who remained standing, and though somewhat embarrassed by this unexpected proceeding on the part of the iron king, yet vaguely supposed it might be a local custom, and at all events was certainly very much pleased with it. being in love and being taken by surprise, he could not be expected to speak sensibly, or even coherently. he said: "ladies and gentlemen: this is the happiest day of my life as yet. i look forward to a happier one in the near future, when i shall call the lovely lady at my side by the dearest name that man can utter, and i shall call you not only my dear friends, but my near relatives. i propose the health of the greatest benefactor of the human race now living. the man who, by his mighty life's work, has opened up the resources of nature, compelled the everlasting mountains to give up their priceless treasures of coal and iron ore; given employment to thousands of men and women; made this savage wilderness of rock, and wood, and water 'bloom and blossom as the rose,' and hum with the stir of industry like a myriad hives of bees. i propose the health of mr. aaron rockharrt." all, except cora, arose and honored this toast. mr. fabian rockharrt replied on the part of his father. then the health of each member of the party was proposed in turn. when this was over the two ladies withdrew from the table and went into the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their wine. "oh, my dear, dear cora! i am so glad! i wish you joy with my whole, whole heart!" exclaimed violet, effusively, but most sincerely and earnestly, as she clasped corona to her heart. the next instant she let her go and gazed at cora in surprise and dismay. "why, what is the matter, cora? you are as white and as cold as death. what is the matter?" demanded violet as she led and half supported corona to an easy chair, in which the latter dropped. "tell me, cora. what is it, dear? what can i do for you? can i get you anything? is all this emotion caused by the announcement of your betrothal to the duke?" demanded violet, hurrying question upon question, and trembling even more than cora. "sit down, violet. never mind me. i shall be all right presently. don't be frightened, darling," said cora, as well as she could speak. "but let me do something for you!" "you can do nothing." "but what caused this?" "my feelings have been outraged!--outraged! that is all!" "how? how? surely not by mr. rockharrt's announcement of your betrothal to the duke? it was rather embarrassing to the betrothed pair, i admit; but surely it was the proper thing to do." "'the proper thing to do!' violet, it was false! false! i am not betrothed to the duke. i never was. i never shall be. i would not marry an emperor to share a throne. my life is consecrated to good works in the very field in which my dear husband died. i have said this to my grandfather and to you all, over and over again. if it had not been for mr. rockharrt's accident that endangered his life, i should have gone out to the indian territory with my brother, and should have been at work there at this present time. i shall go at the first opportunity." cora spoke very excitedly, being almost beside herself with wrath and shame at the affront which had been put upon her. "i thought the duke was an old admirer of yours, and had come over on purpose to marry you," said violet. "that is too true. he came against my will. i have never given him the slightest encouragement. how could i when my life is consecrated to the memory of my husband and to the work he left unfinished? i fear mr. rockharrt assured the duke of my hand; and when he heard the false announcement of our betrothal, he took it for granted that it was all right. he must have done so; though he himself was much taken by surprise." "how very strange of mr. rockharrt to do such a thing. if i had been you, cora, i should have got up and disclaimed it." "no you would not. you would not have made a scene at the dinner table. i was in no way responsible for the announcement made by my grandfather, and in no way bound by it. the silence that seemed to indorse it was rendered absolutely necessary under the circumstances." "but what shall you do about it?" "as soon as i can speak of it without making a scene, i shall tell mr. rockharrt and the duke of cumbervale that a most reprehensible liberty has been taken with my name. i will say that i never have been, and never will be, engaged to the duke of cumbervale, or to any other man. that is what i shall do about it." "it would mortify the duke very much." "i do not care if it does." "and, indeed, it would put mr. rockharrt into a terrible rage." "i cannot help it. here come the gentlemen." at that moment the four gentlemen entered the drawing room. the duke came directly up to cora, and bending over her, said in a low voice inaudible to the rest of the party: "corona, you have blessed me beyond the power of words to express! only the dedication of a life to your happiness--" there the ardent lover was suddenly stopped by the cold look of surprise in cora's eyes. his face took on a disturbed expression. "i think there is some serious mistake here, sir, which we may set right at some more fitting opportunity. will you have the kindness not to refer to the comedy enacted at our dinner table to-night?" "i will obey you, although i do not understand you," said the duke. "oblige me, duke! i want to show you a map of the projected oregon and alaska railroad," said the iron king, coming toward his guest with a roll of parchment in his hands. the duke immediately arose and went off with his host to a distant table, where the map was spread out, and the two gentlemen sat down to examine it. mr. fabian and mr. clarence came over to join cora and violet. "this is a pretty march you have stolen on us, cora! i had no more idea of this than the man in the moon! but i congratulate you, my dear! i congratulate you! your present from me shall be a set of the most splendid diamonds that can be got together by the diamond merchants of europe. no mere set that can be picked up ready set, eh? diamonds that shall grace a duchess, my dear!" said mr. fabian ostentatiously. "cora, my dear, i was as much surprised as fabian. but, oh! i was happy for your sake. the duke is a good fellow, i am sure, and awfully in love with you. ah! didn't he offer a just and heartfelt tribute to the father! i declare, cora, i never fully appreciated my father, or realized what a great benefactor he was to the human race, until the duke made that little speech in proposing his health. how appreciative the duke is! really, cora, dear, you are a very happy woman, and i congratulate you with all my heart and soul; indeed, i do," said mr. clarence, wringing the young lady's hand, and turning away to hide the tears that filled his eyes. "thank you, uncle clarence. thank you, uncle fabian. i am grateful for your congratulations, on account of your good intentions; but--congratulations are quite uncalled for on this occasion." "why--what on earth do you mean, cora?" inquired mr. fabian, while mr. clarence looked full of uneasiness. "i mean that i have never been engaged to the duke of cumbervale, and never mean to marry him. mr. rockharrt's announcement was unauthorized and unfounded. it was just an act of his despotic will, to oblige me to contract a marriage which he favors." the two men looked on the speaker in mute amazement. "we will not talk more of this to-night. but the matter must be set right to-morrow," said cora. a little later mr. and mrs. fabian rockharrt took leave and departed for their home. chapter xxvii. unrequited love. the duke of cumbervale, weary of a sleepless pillow, arose early and rang his bell, startling his gentlemanly valet from his morning slumbers; dressed himself with monsieur's assistance, and went down stairs with the intention of taking a walk before the family should be up. but his intention was forestalled by the appearance of mr. rockharrt coming out of his chamber on the opposite side of the hall. the iron king looked up in some surprise at the apparition of his guest at so early an hour; but quickly composed himself as he gave him the matutinal salutation: "ah, good morning, duke. an early riser, like myself, eh? come down into the library with me, and let us look over the morning papers." a cheerful coal fire was burning in the grate, a very acceptable comfort on this chill november morning. this was one of the happy days when there is "nothing in the papers"--that is to say, nothing interesting, absorbing, soul harrowing, in the form of financial ruin, highway robbery, murder, arson, fire, or flood. everything in the world at the present brief hour seemed going on well, consequently the papers were very dull, flat, stale and unprofitable, and were soon laid aside by the host and his guest, and they fell into conversation. "you took a long walk yesterday, i hear--went across in the ferry boat, and strolled up to the foot of scythia's roost." "i did. can you tell me anything about that curious spot?" "no; nothing but that it was the dwelling of an indian woman, who pretended to second sight, and who should have been sent to the state's prison as a felon, or, at the very least, to the madhouse as a lunatic. she was burned out, or perhaps burned herself out, and vanished on the same night that governor rothsay disappeared. she was in some way cognizant of a plot against him that would prevent him from ever entering upon the duties of his office. i, in my capacity as magistrate, issued a warrant for her arrest, but it was too late. she was gone. it is said by some people that she is a mexican indian, who had been very beautiful in her youth, and who had become infatuated with an english tourist who admired her to such a degree that he married her--according to the rites of her nation. he was a false hearted caitiff, if he was an english lord. having committed the folly of marrying the indian woman, he should have been true to her--made the best of the bad bargain. instead of which he grew tired of her, and finally abandoned her." "did he return to his native country, do you know?" "he did not. she never gave him time. she went mad after he left her, followed him to new orleans and tomahawked him on the steamboat. she was tried for murder, acquitted on the ground of insanity, and sent to a lunatic asylum. after a time she was discharged, or she escaped. it is not known which; most probably she escaped, as she certainly was not cured. she was as mad as a march hare all the time she lived here; but as she was harmless--comparatively harmless--it seemed nobody's business to have her shut up! and as i said, when at last i thought it was time to have her arrested on a charge of vagrancy, it was too late. she had fled." "why do you suspect that she had some knowledge of a plot to make away with the governor-elect?" "i suspect that she was in the plot. developments have led me to the conclusion. by these i learned that rothsay was not murdered, as his friends feared, nor abducted, as some persons believed, but that he went away, and lived for many months among the indians in the wilderness, without giving a sign of his identity to the people among whom he lived, or sending a hint of his whereabouts, or even of his existence, to his anxious friends. but that the massacre of terrepeur--in which he was murdered and his hut was burned--occurred when it did, we might never have learned his fate." "yet, still, i cannot see the ground upon which you suspect this indian woman of complicity in the man's disappearance," said cumbervale. "but i am coming to that. scythia was a mexican indian. it is well known to travelers that the mexican indians possess the secret of a drug which, when administered to a man, will not kill him, or do him any physical harm, but will reduce him to a state of abject imbecility, so that his free will is destroyed, and he may be led by any one who may wish to lead him. this drug administered to rothsay, by the woman, must have so deprived him of his reason as to induce him to follow any one influencing him." "what interest could she have had in reducing the man to this state of dementia?" "she had been like a mother to the young man, and had sheltered him in her hut for years, when he had no other home. she was very much attached to this adopted son of hers; she was longing to go back to her tribe and die among her own people. it may be that she wished to take him with her, and so gave him the drug that destroyed his will. or, she may have been the tool of others. all this is the merest conjecture. but the facts remain that she foretold his fate, and that she vanished on the same day on which he disappeared, and that he remained in exile, voluntarily, until he was murdered by the indians. still--there might have been another cause for this self-expatriation." "may i inquire its nature?" "no, duke; it is only in my secret thought. i have no just right to speak of it to you. but if the question be not indiscreet, will you tell me why you take so deep an interest in the unreliable story of this indian woman's life?" "certainly; because the wild young blade who married and left her, and paid down his life for that desertion, was my own uncle, my father's elder brother, earl netherby, the heir to the dukedom, by whose death my father, and subsequently myself, succeeded to the title." "you astonish me! are you sure of this?" "reasonably sure. i was but five years old when my uncle came to bid us good-by, before setting out for america. but i remember his having on his finger a wonderful ring, a large solitaire diamond with certain flaws in it; but these flaws were very curious; they were faint traces left by the hand of nature shaping out a human eye. when ordinary mortals like myself looked at the diamond, they saw the delicate outline of an eye traced by the flaws in the stone; but it was said that whenever a clairvoyant looked into it they could see, not the human eye, but, as through a telescope, they could view the panorama of future events." "what nonsense!" said mr. rockharrt. "nonsense, of course," assented the duke. "i did not speak of the ring on account of its supposed magic power, but because it was so peculiar a jewel that it would be impossible to mistake it for any other ring, or any other ring for itself; and to lead up to the statement that its discovery enabled me to identify the mexican indian woman with the maniac who murdered my uncle, as you will see very soon. when my uncle took leave of us, my father, noticing the family talisman--which, by the way, was picked up by our ancestor, raoul-de-netherbie, the great crusader, on the battle field of acre, and was said to have belonged to an eastern magician, and has remained an heirloom with the head of our family ever since--inquired of his brother whether he was going to wear that outre jewel in open view upon his finger. my uncle answered that he was; and half laughing, and wholly incredulous, he added: "'you know, hugh, that this stone is a talisman against shipwreck, fires, floods, robbery, murder, illness, and all the perils by land or by sea, and all the ills that flesh is heir to. while i wear this ring i expect to be safe from the evils of the world, the flesh, and the devil. so it shall never leave my living hand while i am away; but it shall bring me home safe to live to a patriarchal age and then die peacefully in my bed, with my children and children's children of many generations weeping and wailing around me.' "these or words to this effect he was speaking, while i, standing by the chair in which he sat, toyed with his hand, and gazed curiously upon the talismanic jewel, and got into my mind an impression of it that never was lost. my uncle soon after left the house, and we never saw him alive again." "he was the victim of this mad woman?" "i know it. news was slow in those days. we seldom heard from my uncle. his letters were but the mark of the cities he stopped at. we had one letter from boston; a month later one from new york; a fortnight later, perhaps--for i only remember these matters by hearing them talked over by my parents--from philadelphia; later still, and later, baltimore, washington, nashville, new orleans, and so on as he journeyed southward. then came a long interval, during which we heard nothing from him, while all his family suffered the deepest anxiety, fearing that he had fallen a victim to the terrible fever that was then desolating the crescent city. then at length came a letter from his valet--a deep black-bordered letter--which announced the terrible news of the murder of his master by a mexican indian woman, supposed to be mad. there were no details, but only the explanation that he, the valet--who had seen the murder, which was the work of an instant--was detained in new orleans as a witness for the prosecution, and should not be able to return home until after the trial. it was two months after the latter that the valet came back to england in charge of his late master's effects, which had all been sealed by the new orleans authorities, and reached us intact. only the family talisman was missing, and could nowhere be found. and as the family's prosperity, and even continuity, was supposed to depend upon the possession of that ring, its loss was considered only a less misfortune than my uncle's death. later, my uncle's remains were brought home from new orleans and deposited in the family vault at cumbervale castle. "the ring was never again heard of. on the death of my grandfather, the seventh duke, my father, who was the second son, succeeded to the title. but fortune seemed to have deserted us. by a series of unlucky land speculations my father lost nearly all his riches, which calamities preyed upon his mind so that his health broke down and he sank into premature old age and died. i came into the title with but little to support it. so that when i honestly loved a lady believed to be wealthy, my motives were supposed to be mercenary." the iron king might have felt this thrust, but he gave no sign. the duke continued: "my after life does not concern the story of the ring. on learning, since my return from long travel in the east, that your fair granddaughter was widowed nearly two years before, you know i wrote to you asking her address, with a view of renewing my old suit. you replied by telling me that mrs. rothsay made her home with you, and inviting me to visit you. i refer to this only to keep the sequence of events in order. i came. yesterday morning i went to scythia's roost, climbed from that shelf to the top of the mountain and viewed the scene from it. after i came down again to scythia's roost i sat down to rest. the sun was sinking behind the ridge, but through a crevice in the rocks a ray--'a line of golden light'--pierced and seemed to strike fire and bring out an answering ray from some living light left in the ashes. i went to see what it was, and picked up the magic ring, the family talisman. there it was, the wonderful stone for which no other could possibly be mistaken, the gem of intolerable light and fire that had to be shaded before it could be steadily looked at and before the delicate lines of its flaws delineating the human eye could be discerned. here is the ring, mr. rockharrt. examine it for yourself." mr. rockharrt took the ring, examined it curiously, turned it toward the clouded window, then toward the blazing sea coal fire; in both positions it burned and sparkled just like any other diamond. then he shaded it and looked at it through his eye-glasses; finally he shook his head and returned it to its owner, saying: "it is a fine gem, barring a flaw, and i congratulate you on its recovery, but i see no human eye in it. i see some indistinct lines, fine as the thread of a spider's web, that is all. there is the breakfast bell, duke. we will go into the drawing room and find cora. she must be down by this time." cora was standing at one of the front windows, looking out upon the driving rain. she turned as the two gentlemen entered the room, and responded to their greeting. "well, now we will go in to breakfast. did the fresh venison come in time, cora?" "i think so, sir." "we cook it on the breakfast table, duke, each one for himself. put a slice on a china plate over a chafing dish. the only way to eat a venison cutlet," said old aaron rockharrt, as he led the way into the breakfast room, where his eyes were immediately rejoiced by the sight of three chafing dishes filled with ignited charcoal ready for use, and a covered china dish, which he knew must contain the delicate venison cutlets. when breakfast was over and they had all left the table, the iron king, addressing his guest, said: "well, sir, i must be off to north end. i hope you will find some way of entertaining yourself within doors, for certainly this is not a day to tempt a man to seek recreation abroad. nothing but business of importance could take me out in such weather." "i regret that any cause should take you out, sir," replied the guest. as soon as the noise of the wheels had died away, the duke, who had lingered in the hall to see his host depart, turned and entered the drawing room, where he found cora as before, standing at a window looking out upon the dull november day. "will you permit me now to speak on the subject nearest my heart?" he pleaded, taking the hand which had dropped down by her side. "i had rather that the subject had never been started, but under the circumstances, after what was said last night at dinner, i feel that the sooner we come to a perfect understanding the better it will be," said cora, leading the way to a group of chairs and by a gesture inviting him to be seated. then, to prevent him further committing himself and incurring a humiliating refusal, she herself took the initiative and said: "if any other person than mr. rockharrt had made the public announcement that he did yesterday, i should have denounced the act as an unpardonable outrage; but of him i must say that he must have labored under some strange hallucination to have made such reckless assertions without one shadow of foundation. you yourself must have known that there was not one syllable of truth in his announcement." "my dearest mrs. rothsay, i supposed that mr. rockharrt thought, even as i hoped, that our betrothal was but the question of a few days, or even of a few hours, and that he took the occasion of the family gathering to announce the fact. he had already given his consent to my suit for the blessing of your hand, and if he committed an indiscretion in that premature announcement, i did not know it. i thought such announcement might be a local custom, and i blessed him in my heart for observing it. cora!" he said, taking her hand and dropping his voice to a pleading tone, "dear cora, it was only premature." "duke of cumbervale," she answered, coldly and gravely, withdrawing her hand, "it is not premature. it was utterly false and groundless; it was the declaration of an engagement that not only had never taken place, but could never take place--an engagement forever impossible!" "oh, do not say that! i have kept my faith. after your grandfather's rejection of me in your name i could rest nowhere in england. i went to the continent, and thence to the east; but still could rest nowhere, because i was pursued by your image. when i came back to england, i learned that you had been widowed from your wedding day and almost as long as i had been absent. i determined to renew my suit, for i remembered that it was not you, but your grandfather in your name, who rejected my proposal. i remembered that you had once given me hope." "you refer to a time of sad self-deception on my part, which led me even to unconsciously deceiving you. my imaginary preference for you was a brief hallucination. let it be forgotten. the memory to me is humiliating. you must think of me only as the wife of regulas rothsay." "as the widow, you would say. surely that widowhood can be no bar to my suit." "i do not call myself the widow of rule rothsay, but his wife," said cora, solemnly. "but, my dear lady, surely death has--" "death has not," said cora, fervently interrupting him--"death cannot sever two souls as united as ours. i mean to spend the years i have to live on earth, temporarily and partially separated from my husband, in good works of which he would approve; with which he would sympathize and which would draw his spirit into closer communion with mine; and i hope at that ascension to the higher life which we miscall death to meet him face to face, to be able to tell him, 'i have finished my work, i have kept the faith,' and to be with him forever in one of the many mansions of the father's kingdom." "i see," said the suitor, with a deep sigh, "that my suit would be utterly useless at present. but i will not give up the hope that is my life--the hope that you may yet look with favor on my love. i will merit that you should do so. cora rothsay, i will no longer vex you with my presence in this house. i will take leave of you even now, and only ask of your courtesy the use of a dog cart to take me to the north end hotel." "you are good, you are very good to me, and i pray with all my heart that you may meet some woman much more worthy of your grace than am i, and that you may be very happy. god bless you, duke of cumbervale," said cora, earnestly. he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, bowed over it and silently left the room. cora stepped after him and shut the door; then she hastened across the floor, threw herself down on the sofa, buried her face in the cushions and gave way to the flood of tears that flowed in sympathy with the pain she had given. meantime the duke went up to his room and rang for his valet. that grave and accomplished gentleman came at once. "dubois, go down and order the dogcart to be at the door in half an hour; then return here to assist me." the frenchman bowed profoundly and withdrew. "i have come a long way for a disappointment," murmured the rejected lover, as he threw himself languidly upon the outside of the bed and clasped his hands above his head. "a fanatic she certainly is. a lunatic also most probably. yet i cannot get her out of my head. i would go to canada--to quebec--if it was not so abominably cold. vane is there with the th. but the climate is too severe. i must move southward, not northward--southward, through california, and thence to the sandwich islands, new zealand, and australia. that will be a pleasant winter voyage. talbot is at sydney, and the climate, and the scenery, and the fruits and vegetables said to be the finest in the world. it will be a new experience, and if i can't forget her among soldiers and convicts, miners and bushmen--well, then, i will come back and make a third attempt. well, dubois, what is it?" this question to his valet, who just then re-entered the room. "the carriage will be at the door on time, your grace." "right. now attend to my directions. i am going immediately to north end, and shall leave thereby the six o'clock express, en route for san francisco. after i shall have left rockhold you are to pack up my effects. i shall send a hack from the hotel to fetch them. be very sure to be ready." the duke went out and entered the dog cart, received his valise from his valet, gave the order to the groom and was driven off, without having again seen cora. but from behind the screen of her lace-curtained window she watched his departure. "i hope he will soon forget me," she murmured, as she turned away and went down stairs to the library to look over the morning' papers, which she had not yet seen. but before she touched a paper her eyes were attracted by a letter stuck in the letter rack, directed to herself in her brother's well known handwriting. "to think that my grandfather should have neglected to give me my letter," she complained, as she seized and opened it. it was dated fort farthermost, and announced the fact of the regiment's arrival at the new quarters near the boundary line of texas, "in the midst of a wilderness infested with hostile indians, half-breeds, wild beasts, rattlesnakes and tarantulas. only two companies are to remain here; my company--b--for one. two first lieutenants are married men, but they have not brought their wives. one of the captains is a widower, and the other an old bachelor. in point of fact, there are only two ladies with us--the colonel's wife and the major's. and when they heard from me that my sister was coming to join me, they were delighted with the idea of having another lady for company. all the same, cora, i do not advise you to come here. will write more in a few days; must stop now to secure the mail that goes by this train--wagon and mule train to arkansaw city, my dear." this was the substance of the young lieutenant's letter to his sister. "but 'all the same,' i shall go," said corona. and she sat down to answer her brother's letter. chapter xxviii. a domestic storm. it is a truth almost too trite for reference, that in the experience of every one of us there are some days in in which everything seems to go wrong. such a day was this th of november to the iron king. when he reached north end that morning, the first thing that met him in his private office was the news that certain stocks had fallen. the news came by telegraph, and put him in a terrible temper. this was about ten o'clock. two hours later it was discovered that one of the minor bookkeepers, a new employe who had come well recommended about a month before, had just absconded with all he could lay his hands on--only a few thousand dollars--the merest trifle of a loss to rockharrt & sons, but extremely exasperating under the circumstances. so taking one provocation with another, at noon on that th of november old aaron rockharrt was about the maddest man on the face of the earth. it was his custom to lunch with his sons in the private parlor of mr. clarence's suit of rooms at the north end hotel, every day at two o'clock. to-day, however, he showed no disposition to eat or drink. and although the two younger men were famishing for food they dared not go to lunch without him, or even urge him to make an effort to go with them. it was then three o'clock, an hour later than their usual hour, that mr. rockharrt made a movement in the desired way by rising, stretching his limbs, and saying: "we will go over to the hotel and get something to eat." the three men crossed the street and went directly to mr. clarence's room, where the table for luncheon was set out. but there was nothing on it but cut bread, casters, and condiments, for these men always preferred hot luncheon in cold weather, and it was yet to be dished up. the iron king was not in a humor to wait. he hurried the servants. and at length when the dishes, which had been punctually prepared for two o'clock, were placed on the table at twenty minutes past three, everything was overdone, dried up, and indigestible. it was the iron king's own fault for not coming to the table when the meal was first prepared to order. but he would not admit that into consideration. he ordered the waiter to take everything away and throw it out of doors, declared that he would have a restaurant started on the opposite side of the street where a man could get a decent meal, and rose from the table in a rage. it was while the iron king was in this amiable and promising state of mind that a waiter brought in a card and laid it before him. he took it up and read aloud: "the duke of cumbervale." "show him in," said mr. rockharrt. a few minutes later the visitor entered the parlor, bowed to his host, and then shook hands with the two younger men, whom he had not seen since the evening before. "so you braved the storm after all, duke? you found the old house too dreary for a long, rainy day. take a seat," said mr. rockharrt, waving his hands majestically around the chairs. "no; it was not the weather that made rockhold insupportable to me. but, sir, i have come a long way for a great disappointment," said the rejected lover. "what! what! what! explain yourself, if you please, sir!" exclaimed the iron king, bending his heavy gray brows over flashing eyes. "mrs. rothsay has rejected me." "what! what! rejected you! why, your engagement was declared in the family conclave only last night." "mrs. rothsay states that the declaration was erroneous, and that no such engagement ever has been or ever could be made between us." "how dare she say that? how dare she try to break off with you in this scandalous manner? but she shall not! she shall keep faith with you or she is no granddaughter of mine! i will have nothing to do with false women! how did this breach occur? tell me all about it! fabian--clarence! go about your business. i want to have some private conversation with the duke." the two younger men, thus summarily dismissed, nodded to the visitor and left the room, glad enough to go down below to the saloon and get something to eat and drink. "now, then, sir, what's the row with my granddaughter?" demanded the iron king, wheeling his chair around to face his visitor. "there is no 'row,'" said the young man, with the faintest possible hint of disgust in his tone and manner. "mrs. rothsay rejects me, positively, absolutely. she repudiates the announcement of our betrothal as unauthorized and erroneous." "but you know, as we all know, that she was engaged to you! yes; and she shall keep her engagement. i'll see to that!" "pardon me, mr. rockharrt, i am grieved to say that you have made a mistake. the lady was right. there was no engagement, between mrs. rothsay and myself at the time you made that announcement, nor has there been one since, nor, i fear, can there ever be." "sir!" exclaimed the iron king, rising in his wrath. "did you not come to this country for the express purpose of asking my granddaughter's hand in marriage? did i not promise her hand to you in marriage?" "you did, provi--" "then if that did not constitute an engagement, i do not know what does--that is all. but some people have very loose ideas about honor. you ask the hand of my granddaughter; i bestow it on you, and announce the fact to my family." "pardon me, mr. rockharrt, you promised me the hand of your granddaughter, provided she should be willing to give it to me." "'provided' nothing of the sort, sir. i gave her hand unconditionally, absolutely, and announced the betrothal to the family." "but, my dear mr. rockharrt, the lady's consent is a most necessary factor in such a case as this," urged the young man, who began to think that the despotic egotism of the iron king had in these later years grown into a monomania, deceiving him into the delusion that his power over family and dependants was that of an absolute monarch over his subjects. this opinion was confirmed by the next words of the autocrat. "of course her consent would follow my act. that was taken for granted." "but, sir, her consent did not follow your act. quite the contrary; for my rejection followed it. it is of no use to multiply words. the affair is at an end. i have bidden good-by to mrs. rothsay. i am here to say good-by to you." "you cannot mean it!" "i have left rockhold finally. i shall leave north end by this six p.m. train, en route for the south," continued the rejected lover. "then, by ----! if she has driven you out of my house, she shall go herself! i have done the best i could for the woman, and she has repaid me by ingratitude and rebellion. and she shall leave my house at once!" exclaimed the despot in a tone of savage resolution. "mr. rockharrt, i must beg that you will not visit my disappointment on the head of your unoffending granddaughter." "duke of cumbervale, you must not venture to interfere with me in the discipline of my own family. i don't very much like dukes. i think i said that once before. i rejected you for my granddaughter two years ago when she was bound to rule rothsay. now that she is a widow and is free, i accepted your suit and bestowed her on you, not that i like dukes any better now than i did then, but i like you better as a man." the young duke bowed with solemn gravity at this compliment, repressing the smile that fluttered about his lips. at this moment a waiter entered the room, and said that "the gentleman's" servant had arrived with his master's luggage, and requested to know where it was to be put. "tell him to get his dinner, and then take the luggage in the same carriage to the station," said the duke, and the messenger withdrew. "have you lunched, duke?" inquired mr. rockharrt, mindful, even in his rage, of his duties as a host. "i have not thought of doing so," replied the young man. "umph! i suppose not!" grunted the iron king, as he rang the bell. a waiter appeared. "any game in the house?" "yes, sir; fine venison." "don't want venison--had it for breakfast. anything else?" "a very fine wild turkey, sir." "bother! takes three hours to dress, and i want a hot lunch got up in twenty-five minutes, at longest. any small game?" "uncommon fine partridges, sir." "then have a dozen dressed and sent up, with proper accompaniments; and lose no time about it! also put a bottle of johannisberg on ice." "yes, sir." the waiter vanished. "i must bid you good-by now, mr. rockharrt," said the duke, rising. "no; you must not. sit down. sit down. you must lunch with me, and drink a parting glass of wine. then you will have plenty of time to secure your train, and i to drive to rockhold at my usual hour. say no more, duke. keep your seat." cumbervale looked at the iron-gray man before him, thought certainly this must be their last meeting and parting on earth, and that therefore he would not cross the patriarch in his humor. "you are very kind. thank you. i will break a parting bottle of wine with you willingly." in double-quick time the broiled partridges were served, the wine placed, and all was ready for the two men. "go and tell mr. fabian and mr. clarence that i wish them to come here. you will find them somewhere in the house," said mr. rockharrt. "beg pardon, sir; both gentlemen have gone over to the works," replied the waiter. this was true. both "boys" had gorged themselves with cold ham, bread and cheese, washed down with quarts of brown stout, and were in no appetite to enjoy partridge and johannisberg, even if they had been found in the hotel. "glad they have found out that they must be attentive to business. you and i, duke, will discuss the good things on the table before us. come." the two lingered over the luncheon until it was time for the duke to start for the depot. "i will send over for my two sons, that you may bid them good-by," said mr. rockharrt, and he turned to the waiter, and told him to go and dispatch a messenger to that effect. messrs. fabian and clarence soon put in an appearance, and expressed their surprise and regret at the sudden departure of their father's guest, and their hope and trust to see him again in the near future. neither of them seemed to know that the betrothal declared at the dinner table on the night before had no foundation in fact. the duke thanked them for their good wishes, invited them to visit him if they should find themselves in england, and then he took a final leave of the rockharrts, entered the carriage, and drove off, through a pouring rain, to the railway station--and out of their lives forever. "a fine thing mistress rothsay has done!" exclaimed the iron king, when his guest had gone, and he explained cora's action. corona had spent the day at rockhold drearily enough. she felt reasonably sure that her rejection of the duke's hand would deeply offend her grandfather and precipitate a crisis in her own life. when she had finished her letter to her brother, in which she told him of the death of mr. rockharrt's wife and added her own resolution soon to set out to join him in his distant fort, she began to make preparations for her journey in the event of having to leave rockhold suddenly. she knew her grandfather's temper and disposition, and felt that she must hold herself in readiness to meet any emergencies brought about by their manifestations. so she set about her preparations. she had not much to do. the trunks that she had packed and dispatched to the north end railway station three months before at the hour when her own journey was arrested by the accident to her grandfather, had remained in storage there ever since. the contents of her large valise, which was to have been her own traveling companion in her long journey to and through the "great american desert," and which was well packed with several changes of clothes and with small dressing, sewing and writing cases, supplied all her wants during the three months of her further sojourn at rockhold. she had only now to collect these together, cause all the soiled articles to be laundered, and then repack the valise. this occupied her all the afternoon of the short november day. at six o'clock she came down into the parlor to see that the lamps were trimmed and lighted, and the coal fire stirred up and replenished, so that her grandfather should find the room warm and comfortable on his return home. then she brought out his dressing gown and slippers, hung the first over his arm chair and put the last on the warm hearthstones. at length the carriage wheels were heard faintly over the soft, wet avenue and under the pouring rain. old john, waiting in the hall to be ready to open the door in an instant, did so before the iron king should leave the carriage, and hoisting a very large umbrella, he went out to the carriage door and held it over his master while they walked back to the house and entered the hall. "here! take off my rubber cloak! take off my overcoat! now my rubber boots! what a night!" exclaimed the old man, as he came out of his shell, or various shells. corona had the pitcher of punch on the table now with a cut-glass goblet beside it. "i hope you have not taken cold, grandfather," she said, drawing his easy chair nearer the fire. "hold your tongue! don't dare to speak to me! leave the room this instant! john! come in here. pour me out a glass of that punch, and while i sip it draw off my boots and put on my slippers," said the iron king, throwing himself into his big easy chair and leaning back. corona was more pained than surprised. she had expected something like this from the iron king. she replied never a word, but passed into the adjoining dining room and sat down there. through the open door she could see the old gentleman reclining at his ease, and sipping his fragrant hot punch while old john drew off his boots, rubbed his feet, and put on his warm slippers. presently the waiter brought in the soup, put it on the table, and rang the dinner bell. mr. rockharrt put down his empty glass, and arose and came to the table. cora took her place at the head of the board, hardly knowing whether she would be allowed to remain there. but her grandfather took not the slightest notice of her. she filled his plate with soup, and put it on the waiter held by the young footman, who carried it to his master. in this manner passed the whole dinner in every course. corona carved or served the dishes, filled the plate for her grandfather, which was taken to him by the footman. at the end of the heavy meal the iron king arose from the table and said: "i am going to my own room. mistress rothsay, i shall have something to say to you in the morning;" and he went out. chapter xxix. corona's opportunity. corona rothsay stood behind her chair at the head of the breakfast table, waiting for mr. rockharrt. he entered presently, and returned no answer to her respectful salutation, but moodily took his seat, raised the cover from the hot dish before him, and helped himself to a broiled partridge. after the gloomy meal was finished the iron king arose from the table and pushed back his chair so suddenly and forcibly as to nearly upset his servant. "come into the library! i wish to have a decisive talk with you!" he said, in a harsh voice, to his granddaughter, as he strode from the dining room. corona, who had finished her own slight breakfast some minutes before, immediately arose and followed him. on reaching the bookery, old aaron rockharrt sank heavily into his big leathern armchair, and pointed, sternly, to an opposite one, on which corona obediently seated herself. "look at me, mistress!" he said, placing his hands upon the arms of his chair, bending forward and gazing on her with fixed, keen eyes, that burned like fire beneath the pent roof of his shaggy iron-gray brows. corona looked up at him. "do you know, madam, that in rejecting the hand of the duke of cumbervale you have offered me an unpardonable affront?" "no, grandfather, i did not know it; and certainly i never meant--never could possibly have meant--to affront you," said corona, deprecatingly. "if i have been so unhappy as to disappoint your wishes, i am very sorry, my dear grandfather, but--" he harshly interrupted her. "do not you dare to call me grandfather, either now or ever again! i disclaim forever that relationship, and all relationship with the false, flirting, coquettish, unprincipled creature that you are! your late suitor may forgive your treachery to him, beguiling him by your once pretended preference to pass by all eligible matches and cross the ocean for your sake! yes; he may forgive you, because he is a fool (being a duke)! but as for me--i will never pardon the outrageous affront you have put upon me, in rejecting the man of my choice! never, as long as i live, so help me--" "oh!--oh, grandfather!" cried corona, arresting his half-sworn oath, "don't say that! i am sorry to have crossed your will in this matter, or in any way; but, oh, my dear grandfather--" "stop there!" vociferated the iron king, with a stamp. "i am no grandfather of yours! how dare you insult me with the name when i have forbidden you to do so?" "i beg your pardon, sir. it was a mere slip of the tongue. i spoke impulsively. i had forgotten your prohibition. i shall not certainly offend in that way again," said corona, quietly. "you had better not!" "i was about to say, when you interrupted me," resumed cora, earnestly, "that i am grieved to have been compelled to disappoint you by rejecting the duke of cumbervale; but, sir, i could not do otherwise. i could not accept a man whom i could not love. to have done so would have been a great sin. surely, sir, you must know it would have been a sin," pleaded corona. "stuff and nonsense!" roared the iron king. "don't dare to talk such sentimental rubbish to me! you can't love him, can't you? tell that to an idiot, not to me! when we were in london, two or three years ago, you loved him so well that you were ready to break your engagement with your betrothed husband, regulas rothsay, in order to marry this duke. yes; and you would certainly have done so if i had not put a stop to the affair by having an explanation with the suitor, telling him of your prior engagement, and also of your want of fortune, and bringing you back home to your forgotten duties." "oh, sir, i deserve all your reproaches for that forgetfulness. i was very wrong then," said cora, with a sigh. "bosh! you are always wrong!" sneered old aaron rockharrt. "and you always will be wrong! you were wrong when you wished to break your engagement with regulas rothsay to marry the duke of cumbervale, and you are wrong, now that you are free, to reject the man. why, look at it: now that you have been a widow for more than two years, and cumbervale has proved his constancy by remaining a bachelor two years for your sake, and crossing the ocean and coming down here to propose for you again, and even after i--i myself--have positively promised him your hand, and have given a family dinner in honor of the occasion, and have announced the engagement, and after speeches have been made and toasts have been drank to the happiness and prosperity of your married life, and all due formalities of betrothal had been observed, then, mistress, what do you do?" severely demanded old aaron rockharrt. "only my duty under the circumstances. i was not in the least bound or compromised by or responsible for anything that was said or done at that dinner table," replied corona. "this is what you do: you dare to set me at defiance! you dare to set your will against mine! you dare to reject the man whom i chose for your husband, whom i announced as your betrothed husband! you dare to drive him away from my house, grieved, disappointed, humiliated, to become a wanderer over the face of the earth for your sake, even as you drove regulas rothsay from the goal of his ambition into exile, and--" a sharp cry from corona suddenly stopped him in full career. "do not, oh! do not speak of that! i--i would have given my life to have prevented rule's loss, if i could! as for this man--this duke--he is nothing whatever to me, and never can be!" "and yet you were ready to fall down and worship him three years ago!" "it was a brief insanity--a self-delusion. that is past. cumbervale never was and never can be anything to me. no man can ever be anything to me! i could not live rule's wife, but i will die rule's widow; and i do not care how soon--the sooner the better, if it were the lord's will!" moaned corona. "drivel!" angrily exclaimed old aaron rockharrt. "i am tired of your idiotic, imbecile hypocrisies! here are two men driven away by your unprincipled vacillation--to call your conduct by the lightest name. one driven to his death; one driven, it may be, to his ruin. it is quite time you were sent to follow your victims. look you! i am just about to start for north end. i shall return home at my usual time this evening. do not let me find you here when i arrive, for i never wish to see your false face again!" said the iron king, rising from his arm chair and striding from the room. corona started up and ran after him, pleading, imploring-- "grandfather! dear grandfather! oh, i beg pardon! i forgot! sir! sir! oh, do not part from me in this way!" he turned sharply, stared at her mockingly, and then demanded: "come! shall i call cumbervale back? tell him that you have changed your whirligig mind, and are ready to marry him, if he will only take time by the forelock and return before you shift around again? i can easily do that. i can send a telegram that will over-take him and turn him back so promptly that he may be here in twenty-four hours! come! shall i do that?" corona, who had been gazing at the mocking speaker scarcely knowing whether he spoke in earnest or in irony, now answered despairingly: "oh, no, no! not for the world! i have not changed my mind. i could not do so for any cause." "then don't stop me. i'm in haste. i am going to north end. don't let me find you here when i come back. don't let me ever see or hear from you again, without your consent to marry the man i have chosen for you. john!" "oh, sir, consider--" began corona, pleadingly. "john!" vociferated the iron king, pushing rudely past her. the old servant came hurrying up, helped his master on with his overcoat and with his rubber coat, then gave him his hat and gloves, and finally hoisted a large umbrella to hold over his master's head as he passed from the house to the carriage in front. corona stood watching until the carriage rolled away and old john came back into the hall and closed the door. then she returned to the library and sank sobbing into the big leathern chair. she now realized for the first time what the parting with her grandfather would be--the parting with the gray old man who had been the ogre of her childhood, the terror of her youth, and the autocrat of her maturity, and yet whom, by all the laws of nature, she tenderly loved, and whom by the commandment of god she was bound to honor. she glanced mechanically toward the card rack, and saw there another letter in the handwriting of her brother--a letter that had come in the morning's mail and had been stuck up there, and in the excitement of the hour had been neglected or forgotten. she seized it eagerly and tore it open, wondering what could have urged sylvan to write so soon after his last letter. it was dated three weeks later than the one she had received only the day previous, the first one having, no doubt, been delayed somewhere along the uncertain route. in this letter sylvan complained that he had not received a word from his dear sister since leaving governor's island, and mentioned that he himself had written all along the line of march and three times since the arrival of his regiment at fort farthermost. but he admitted, also, that the mails beyond the regular united states mail roads were very uncertain and irregular. then he came to the object of this particular epistle. "it is, my dear cora, to tell you," he wrote, "that if you should still be resolved to come out and join me here, an opportunity for your safe conduct will be offered you this autumn which may never occur again. our senior captain--captain neville, company a--has been absent on leave for several months. so he did not come out here with the regiment. his leave expires on the th of november. he will be obliged to start in the latter part of october in order to have time enough to accomplish the tedious journey by wagon from leavenworth to fort farthermost, which is, as i believe i told you, in the southern part of the indian reserve, bordering on texas. he is to bring his wife with him. "but our colonel thinks it is i who want you, and, moreover, i who need you; for he says that, next to a wife, a sister is the best safeguard a young officer can have out in these frontier forts, and he gave me the address of captain neville and advised me to write to him and ask him and his wife to take charge of my sister on the route. "and then, dear, he went further than that. he took my letter after i had written it, and inclosed it in one from himself. so now, my dear, all you have to do is to go to washington, call on mrs. neville, at brown's hotel, pennsylvania avenue, and send up your card. she will expect you. then you must hold yourself in readiness to start when the captain and his wife do." cora had no time to indulge in reverie. she must be up and doing. her luggage had long been stored in the freight house of the north end railway station, and her traveling bags had been packed the day before. the servants knew she was going out to join her brother, though they did not know that her grandfather had discarded her. she had very little to do for herself on that day, but she resolved to do all that she could for the comfort of her grandfather before she should leave the house forever. so she went and ordered the dinner--just such a dinner as she knew he would like. then she called old john to her presence and directed him to have the parlor prepared for his master just as carefully as if she herself were on the spot to see it done; to have the fire bright; the hearth clean; the lamps trimmed and lighted; the shutters closed and the curtains drawn; the easy chair, with dressing gown and slippers, before the fire, and, lastly, a jug of hot punch on the hearth. old john promised faithfully to perform all these duties. then cora went and wrote two letters. one to her brother sylvan, in which she acknowledged the receipt of his letter, expressed her thanks to the colonel for his kindness, and assured him that she should gladly avail herself of the escort of the nevilles and go out under their protection to fort farthermost. this letter she put in the mail bag in the hall ready for the messenger to take to the north end post office. the second letter was a farewell to her grandfather, in which she expressed her sorrow at leaving him even at his own command; her grief at having offended him, however unintentionally; her prayers for his forgiveness, and her hope to meet him again in health, happiness and prosperity. this letter corona stuck on the card rack, where he would be sure to find it. then she ordered her own little pony carriage, and went and put on her bonnet and her warm fur-lined cloak and called mark to bring her shawls and traveling bags down to the hall. when all this had been done, corona called all the servants together, made them each a little present, and then bade them good-by. then she stepped into the little carriage and bade the groom to drive on to violet banks. "i think i shall go no further than that to-night, my friends, and leave for washington to-morrow morning," she said, in a broken voice, as the pony started. "then all ob us wot kin get off will come to bid yer annurrer good-by to-morrow mornin'!" came hoarsely from one of the crowd, and was repeated by all in a chorus. the carriage rolled down the avenue to the ferry--not that corona intended to cross the river, for violet banks, it will be remembered, was on the same side and a few miles north of rockhold--but that she would not leave the place without taking leave of old moses, the ferryman. fortunately the boat lay idle at its wharf, and the old man sat in the ferry house, hugging the stove and smoking his pipe. he came out at the sound of wheels. corona called him to the carriage, told him that she did not want to cross the river, but that she was going away for a while and wished to take leave of him. now old moses had seen too many arrivals and departures to and from rockhold to feel much emotion at this news; besides he had no idea of the gravity of this departure. so he only touched his old felt hat and said: "eh, young mist'ess, hopes how yer'll hab a monsous lubly time! country is dull for de young folks in de winter. gwine to de city, s'pose, young mist'ess?" "yes, uncle moses, i am going to washington first," replied corona. "lors! i hear tell how so many folkses do go to washintub! wunner wot dey go for? in de winter, too! lors! well, honey, i wish yer a mighty fine time and a handsome husban' afore yer comes home. lor' bress yer, young mist'ess!" "thank you, uncle moses. here is a trifle for you," said cora, putting a half eagle in his hand. "lor' bress yer, young mist'ess, how i do tank yer wid all my heart! i nebber had so much money at one time in all my life!" exclaimed the overjoyed old ferryman. chapter xxx. farewell to violet banks. along the north road, between the thickly wooded east ridge and the swiftly running river, corona drove on her last journey through that valley. three miles up, the road turned from the river, and, with several windings and doublings, ascended the mountain side to the elevated plateau on which were situated the beautiful house and grounds called violet banks. as the carriage reached the magnificent plateau, corona stopped the horse for a moment to take in the glory of the view. in the midst of her admiration of this scenery, two distinct thoughts were strongly borne in on the mind of corona. one was that violet rockharrt would never be willing to leave this enchanting spot to make her home at rockhold. she might consent to do so to please others, but she would suffer through it. the other thought was that old aaron rockharrt would never consent to live in a place which, however beautiful it might be, was too difficult of access and egress for a man of his age. what, then, could be done to cheer the old man's solitude at his home? the only hope lay in the chance of mr. clarence finding a wife who might be acceptable to his father, and bringing her home to rockhold. the carriage drew up before the long, low villa, with its vine-clad porch, where, though the roses had faded and fallen, the still vivid green foliage and brilliant rose berries made a gay appearance. violet was not sitting on the porch, beside her little wicker workstand basket, as she always had been found by cora in the earlier months of her residence there, but, nevertheless, she saw her visitor's approach from the front windows of her sitting room, and ran out to meet her. "oh, so glad to see you! and such a delightful surprise!" were the words with which she caught cora in her arms, as the latter alighted from the carriage. "how well you look, dear. a real wood violet now, in your pretty purple robe," said corona, with assumed gayety, as she returned the little creature's embrace, and went with her into the house. "i am going to send the carriage to the stable. you shall spend the afternoon and evening with me, whether you will or not, and whether the handsome lover breaks his heart or not!" exclaimed violet, as they entered the parlor. "don't trouble yourself, dear. see, the man is driving around to the stable now, and i have come, not only to spend the afternoon, but the night with you," said cora, sitting down and beginning to unfasten her fur cloak. "will my uncle be late in returning this evening?" "fabian? oh, no! this is his early day. he will be home very soon now. but where did you leave his grace? why did he not escort you here?" inquired the little lady. "have you not heard that he has left rockhold?" asked corona, in her turn. "why, no. i have heard nothing about him since the night of the dinner given in honor of your betrothal. are you tired, cora, dear? you look tired. shall i show you to your room, where you may bathe your face?" inquired violet, noticing for the first time the pale and weary aspect of her visitor. "no; but you may bring the baby here to see me." "my baby? oh, the little angel has just been put to sleep--its afternoon sleep. come into the nursery, and i will show it to you," exclaimed the proud and happy mother, starting up and leading the way to the upper floor and to a front room over the library, fitted up beautifully as a nursery. corona, on entering, was conscious of a blending of many soft bright colors, and of a subdued rainbow light, like the changes of the opal. violet led her directly to the cradle, an elegant structure of fine light wood, satin and lace, in which was enshrined the jewel, the treasure, the idol of the household--a tiny, round-headed, pink-faced little atom of humanity, swathed in flannel, cambric and lace, and covered with fine linen sheets trimmed with lace, little lamb's-wool blankets embroidered with silk, and a coverlet of satin in alternate tablets of rose, azure and pearl tablets. the delighted mother and the admiring visitor stood gazing at the babe, and talking in low tones for ten or fifteen minutes perhaps, and were then admonished by the nurse--an experienced woman--that it was not good for such young babies to be looked over and talked over so long when they were asleep. violet and her visitor softly withdrew from the cradle, and corona had leisure to look around the lovely room, the carpet of tender green, like the first spring grass, and dotted over with buttercups and daisies; the wall paper of pearl white, with a vine of red and white roses running over it; the furniture of curled maple, upholstered in fine chintz, in colors to match the wall paper. but the window curtains were the marvels of the apartment. there were two high front windows, draped in rainbow silk--that is, each breadth of the hangings was in perfect rainbow stripes, and the effect of the light streaming through them was soft, bright, and very beautiful. "it is a creation! whose?" inquired corona, as she stood before one of the windows. "well, it was my idea, though i am not at all noted for ideas, as everybody knows," said violet, with a smile. "but i wanted my baby's first impressions of life to be serenely delightful through every sense. i wanted her to see, when she should open her eyes in the morning, a sphere of soft light and bright, delicate shades of color. so i prepared this room." "but where did you find the rainbow draperies?" "oh, them! i designed them for my baby, and fabian sent the pattern to paris, and we received the goods in due time. i will tell you another thing. i have an Ã�olian harp for her. it is under the front window of the upper hall, but its aerial music can reach her here when it is in place. when she is a little stronger i am going to have a music box for her. oh, i want my little baby to live in a sphere of 'sweet sights, sweet sounds, soft touches.'" a brisk, firm footstep, a cheery, ringing voice in the hall below, arrested the conversation of the two women. "it is fabian! come!" exclaimed violet, joyfully, leading the way down stairs. mr. fabian stood at the foot. he embraced his young wife boisterously, and then seeing cora coming down stairs behind violet, went and shook hands with his niece, saying: "glad to see you! glad to see you! has violet been showing you our little goddess? i tell you what, cora: everything has changed since that usurper came. this place is no longer 'violet banks' it is the holy hill. this house is the temple; that nursery is the sanctuary; that cradle is the altar; and that babe is the idol of the community. now go along with violet. oh! she is high priestess to the idol. go along. i'm going to wash my face and hands, and then i'll join you." mr. fabian went up stairs, and cora followed violet into the parlor. "here are the english magazines, my dear, come this morning. will you look over them, while i go and see to the dinner table? i will not be gone more than ten minutes," said violet, lifting a pile of pamphlets from a side table and placing them on a little stand near the easy chair into which corona had thrown herself. "certainly, violet, love. don't mind me. go." violet kissed her forehead and left the room. cora never touched the magazines, but sat with her elbow on the stand and her forehead resting on her hand. she sat motionless, buried in painful thought until her uncle fabian entered the room. then she looked up. he came and sat down near her; looked at her inquiringly for a few moments; and then, as she did not break the silence, he said: "well, cora?" "well, uncle fabian?" "what is up, my dear?" "i would rather defer all explanations until after dinner, if you please." "very well, my dear cora." and indeed there was no time for further talk just then, for violet came hurrying into the room laughing and exclaiming: "i am the pink of punctuality, cora, dear. here i am back again in just ten minutes." the next moment the dinner bell rang, and they all went into the dining room. violet--trained by mrs. chief justice pendletime, who was a great domestic manager--excelled in every housekeeping department, especially, perhaps, in the culinary art; so the little dinner was an exquisite one, and thoroughly enjoyed by the master and mistress of the house, and might have been equally appreciated by their visitor if her sad thoughts had not destroyed her appetite. after dinner, when they adjourned to the parlor, violet said: "again i must beg you to excuse me, cora, dear, while i go up and put baby to sleep. it is a little weakness of mine, but i always like to put her to sleep myself, though i have the most faithful of all nurses. you will excuse me?" "why, of course, darling!" corona heartily replied; and the happy little mother ran off. "now then, cora, what is it? you said you would explain after dinner. do so now, my dear; for if it is anything very painful i would rather not have my wood violet grieved by hearing it," said mr. fabian, drawing his chair nearer to that of corona. "it is very painful, uncle fabian, and i also would like to shield violet as much as possible from the grief of knowing it. but--is it possible that you do not know what has happened at rockhold?" gravely inquired corona. "i know this much: that the announcement of an engagement between yourself and the englishman was premature and unauthorized; that you have finally rejected the suitor--who has since left rockhold--and by so doing you have greatly enraged our iron king. i know no more than that, cora." "what! has not my grandfather told you anything to day?" "not one word." "then i must tell you. he has cast me off forever." "cora! cora!" "it is true, indeed. this morning he ordered me to quit his house; not to let him find me still there on his return; never to let him see or hear from me again unless it was with my consent to recall and marry my english suitor." "but, cora, my dear, why can you not come into his conditions? why can you not marry cumbervale? he is a splendid fellow every way, and he loves you as hard as a horse can kick. he is awfully in love with you, my dear. now, why not marry him and make everybody happy and all serene?" "because, uncle fabian, i don't happen to be in love with him," replied corona, with just a shade of disdain in her manner. "well, my dear, i will not undertake to persuade you to change your mind. if you have inherited nothing else from the iron king, you have his strength of will. what are you going to do, cora?" "i am going to carry out my purpose of going to the indian reserve as missionary to the indian tribes, to devote all my time and all my fortune to their welfare." "a mad scheme, my dear cora. how are you, a young woman, going to manage to do this? under the auspices of what church do you act?" "under that of the broad church of christian charity--no other." "but how are you going to reach the field of your labors? how are you going to cross those vast tracts, destitute of all inhabitants except tribes of savages, destitute of all roads except the government 'trails'?" "you know, if you have not forgotten, that it was my purpose to join my brother at his post, and to establish my school near his fort and under its protection." "well, yes; i remember hearing something of the sort; but really, cora, i thought it was all talk since sylvan went away." "but it is more than that. some time late in this month i shall go out to fort farthermost under the protection of captain and mrs. neville. they are now in washington, where i am going immediately to join them. when you read this letter, which i received after my grandfather had left me in anger this morning, you will understand all about it," said corona, drawing her brother's last letter from her pocket and handing it to her uncle. mr. fabian took it and read it carefully through; then returned it to her, saying: "well, my dear, it does seem as if there were a fate in all this. but what a journey is before you! at this season of the year, too! but, cora, do not let violet know that the grandfather has discarded you. it would grieve her tender heart too much. just tell her that you are going out to your brother. do not even tell her so much as that to-night. it would keep her from sleep." "i will not hint the subject this evening, uncle fabian. i love violet too much to distress her." "you will have to explain that your engagement with the englishman is at an end." "or, rather, that it has never had a beginning," said corona. "very well," assented mr. fabian. "and now i must go and dispatch a messenger to north end to fetch clarence here to spend the night. a hasty leave-taking at the railway depot would hardly satisfy clarence, cora." "i know! and i thank you very much, uncle fabian," replied corona. "ah, violet! here you are, just in time to take my place. i am going out to send for clarence to spend the evening with us," said mr. fabian, as he passed his young wife, who entered the room as he left it. instead of sending a messenger, fabian put his fastest horse into his lightest wagon, and set off at his best speed himself. he reached north end hotel in twenty minutes, and burst in upon clarence, finding that gentleman seated in an arm chair before a coal fire. "anything the matter, fabian?" he inquired, looking up in surprise. "yes! the devil's to pay! the monarch has driven his granddaughter from court!" exclaimed the elder brother, throwing his hat upon the floor, and dropping into a chair. "you don't mean to say--" "yes, i do! father has turned cora out of doors because she refused to marry the englishman." "good heaven!" "come! there is no time to talk! cora is at my house. she leaves for washington to join captain and mrs. neville, and go out with them to fort farthermost." "but, look here, fabian. why do you let her do that?" "don't be a fool! who is to stop her if she is bound to go? come, hurry up; put on your overcoat and get into my trap, and i will take you back with me, see cora, and stay all night with us." mr. clarence started up, rang for a waiter to see to his rooms, then put on his overcoat, and in five minutes more he was seated beside his brother in the light wagon, behind the fastest horse in mr. fabian's stables, bowling out of the village at a rate of speed that i would not dare to state. it was not nine o'clock when they reached violet banks. mr. fabian drove around to the stables, gave his team up to the groom, and walked back to the house with clarence. "you must not drop a word to violet about cora's intended journey. she thinks that cora has only come to spend the night with her. if she knew otherwise she would be too distressed to sleep. not until after breakfast to-morrow is she to be told that cora is going away; and never is she to know that our niece has been driven away." "i understand, fabian. who is going to washington with cora?" "no one that i know of; but she is quite able to take care of herself, so far." "i will not have it so, fabian. i will go with our niece!" said mr. clarence. "are you mad? the monarch would never forgive such misprision of treason. he would discard you, clarence!" exclaimed mr. fabian, in consternation. "i do not think so. our father is too just for that. and in any case i shall take the risk." "the iron king is just in all his business relations; he would not be otherwise to save himself from bankruptcy. but has he been just to cora?" "from his point of view. he has not been kind; that is all. i must be kind to our niece at all costs." this brought them to the door of the house, which mr. fabian opened with his latch key, and the two men entered the parlor together. "why, how soon you have come! i am so glad!" exclaimed violet, rising to welcome the new visitor. "that is because, instead of sending, i went for him," explained mr. fabian. "so i suspected when i found that you did not return immediately to the parlor," said violet. mr. clarence meanwhile went to his niece, took her hand and kissed her in silence. he could not trust his voice to speak. she understood him, and returned the pressure of his hand. if it had not been for violet, the evening would have passed very gloomily; but she, who knew nothing of the domestic tempest that had driven cora from home, nor even of the impending separation in the morning, and who heartily enjoyed the presence of her two favorite relatives in the house, kept the party enlivened by her own good spirits and gay talk. once during the evening clarence and cora found themselves far enough off from their friends for a short tete-a-tete, in which there was a brief but perfect explanation between them. then clarence announced his intention of escorting her to washington and seeing her safe under the protection of the nevilles. cora strongly opposed this plan, on the ground that his escort was unnecessary and might be deeply offensive to mr. rockharrt. but clarence was firm. "you may turn your back on me, cora. you may refuse to speak to me during the whole journey. but you cannot prevent me from going on the same train with you, and so becoming your guardian on the journey," said clarence. cora's answer to this was prevented by the approach of violet, who said: "clarence, it is half past eleven o'clock, and cora looks tired to death. your room is ready whenever you would like to retire." acting upon this very broad hint, mr. clarence laughed, kissed his niece good night, shook hands with his sister-in-law, and left the room, preceded by mr. fabian, who offered to show him to his chamber. violet conducted cora to the room prepared for her, and, with a warm embrace, left her to repose for the last time in that house. chapter xxxi. "it is the unexpected that happens." after her exciting and fatiguing day, corona slept long and heavily, and when she reached the family sitting room she found her two uncles there in conversation. "i am sorry i kept you waiting, uncle fabian," she said, hurriedly. "you have not done so, my dear. the bell has not yet rung." "then i'm glad. good morning, clarence," she said, turning to her younger uncle. "good morning, cora. how did you sleep?" "perfectly, clarence dear. i hope you will set out for north end immediately after breakfast. i shall not start for washington until to-night. i shall spend the day here, so that after telling violet of my intended journey i may have some little time to reconcile her to it." "how good you are, cora. i do appreciate this consideration for violet," said mr. fabian earnestly. "it is only her due, uncle. well, clarence, since you are determined to escort me to washington, whether or not, you may meet me at the depot for the : express. i feel that it is every way better that i should go by the night train; better for violet, with whom i can thus spend a few more hours, and better for clarence, who need not by this arrangement lose this day's work." "quite so," assented mr. fabian. "and now," he added, as light footsteps were heard approaching the room, "here comes violet. not a word about the journey until after breakfast." they all went into the breakfast room, where a fragrant, appetizing morning meal was spread. how different this was from the breakfast at rockhold on the preceding-day, darkened by the sullen wrath of the iron king and eaten in the most gloomy silence! here were affectionate attentions and jests and laughter. violet was in such gay spirits that her vivacity became contagious, and fabian and clarence often laughed aloud, and corona was won to smile at her sallies. at last mr. fabian arose with a sigh, half of satisfied appetite, half of reluctance to leave the scene, and said: "well, i suppose we must be moving. clarence, will you drive with me to north end?" "certainly. that is all arranged, you know," replied the younger brother. "mr. fabian walked out into the hall, saying as he left the breakfast room: "corona, a word with you, my dear." corona went to him, and he said: "after you have had an explanation with violet, persuade her to accompany you to north end. you had better come in your own pony carriage, my dear; it is so easy and the horse so safe. and then, after you have left us, i can drive her home in the same vehicle. and, by the way, my dear, what shall you do with that little turnout? shall i send it to hyde's livery stable for sale? you can get double what was given for it. and remit you the price?" "no, uncle fabian; it is not to be sold. and i am glad you reminded me of it. i have intended all along to give it to our minister's wife. she has no carriage of any sort, and she really needs one, and she will enjoy this because she can drive the pony herself. so, after i have gone, will you please send it to mrs. melville, with my love?" "certainly, my dear; with the greatest pleasure. cora, that is well thought of. now i must go up to the nursery and bid good-by to baby, or her mother would never forgive me." and high and heavy mr. fabian tripped up the stairs like a lamplighter. corona lingered in the hall, talking with mr. clarence, who had now come there to put on his overcoat. presently mr. fabian came hurrying down stairs alone. he had left violet in the sanctuary. "come, come, clarence, hurry up! we are late! what if the monarch should reach the works before us? i shouldn't like to meet him in his roused wrath! should you? "old age ne'er cooled the douglass blood!" said mr. fabian, hurriedly pulling on his overcoat, seizing hat and gloves, and with a hasty-- "good-by, cora, until to-night," hurried out of the front door. he need not have been in such haste--the iron king was not destined to reach north end in advance of his sons that morning. mr. clarence kissed corona good-by, and hurried after his elder brother, and then stopped short at what he saw. mr. fabian was standing before the carriage door with one foot on the step. beside him was a horseman who had just ridden up--the horse in a lather of foam, the man breathless and dazed--telling some news in broken sentences; mr. fabian listening pallid and aghast. "great heaven! how sudden! how shocking!" he exclaimed at last, turning back toward the house, and hurrying up the steps. "what is it? what is the matter? what has happened, fabian?" anxiously demanded clarence. "the father has had a stroke! no time for particulars now! take the fastest horse in the stable and go yourself to north end to fetch the doctor. you can bring him sooner than any servant. i must go directly on to rockhold. cora must delay her journey again. be off, clarence!" said mr. fabian. and while the elder brother returned to the house, the younger went to get his horse. "cora!" called mr. fabian. corona came out of the parlor. "you cannot go away to-day." "why?" inquired the young lady. "don't talk! listen! your grandfather is ill--very ill. old john has just come from rockhold to tell me." "oh! i am very sorry." "no time for words! go put on your bonnet, and come along with me; the carriage that was to have taken me to north end must take us both to rockhold. hurry, cora." "but violet?" "i will go and tell violet that the grandfather is not feeling very well, and has sent for you. i can do this while you are getting ready to go. then come into the nursery and bid violet good-by." corona hurried up to her room, and quickly put on her bonnet and fur-lined cloak, and then ran into the nursery, where she found violet nursing her baby, looking serious but composed, and evidently unconscious of old aaron rockharrt's danger. mr. fabian was standing at the back of her chair, so that she might not read the truth in his face. "so you are going home so suddenly, cora, dear? i am so sorry the father is not feeling well that i cannot even ask you to stay here a moment longer. give my love to the father, and tell him if he does not get better in a day or two i shall be sure to come and nurse him." she could not rise without disturbing her precious baby, but she raised her head and put up her lips, that cora might kiss her good-by. then cora followed her uncle down stairs, and in five minutes more they were seated in the carriage, slowly winding their way down the dangerous mountain pass to the river road that led to rockhold. "uncle fabian," said corona, gravely, "i have been trying to think what is right for me to do. this sorrowful news took me so completely by surprise, and your directions were so prompt and peremptory, that i had not a moment for reflection; so that i followed your lead automatically. but now, uncle fabian, i have considered, and i ask you as i have asked myself--am i right in going back to rockhold, after my grandfather has sent me away, and forbidden me ever to return? tell me, uncle fabian." "my dear, what do you yourself wish to do?" he inquired. "to return to rockhold and nurse my grandfather, if he will allow me to do so." "then by all means do so." "but, uncle fabian--against my grandfather's express command?" "good heaven, girl!" those 'commands' were issued by a well and angry man. you are returning to minister to an ill and perhaps a dying one." "still, uncle fabian, would it not seem to be taking advantage of my grandfather's helpless state to return now, after he had forbidden me to enter his house? i think it would. and the more i reflect upon the subject, the surer i feel that i ought not to enter rockhold unbidden. and--i will not." "you will not! what! can you show resentment to your stricken--it may be dying--grandfather?" "heaven forbid! but i must not disobey his injunction, now that he is too helpless to prevent me. no, uncle fabian, i must not enter the house. but neither will i be far from it. i will remain within call." "where?" "at the ferryman's cottage. will you, uncle fabian, as soon as you have an opportunity, say that i am deeply grieved for all that has estranged us. will you ask him to forgive me and let me come to him?" "yes; i will do so, my dear, if there is an opportunity. but, cora, i think you are morbidly scrupulous. i think that you should come to the house. he may wish to see you if he should have a lucid interval, and there may not be time to send for you." "i must risk that rather than disobey him in his extremity." "as you will," replied mr. fabian. and no more was said on the subject. when they reached the foot of the mountain and the level of the river road, the horses were put upon their speed, and they soon arrived at rockhold. "i will wait in the carriage until you go in and inquire how he is," said corona, as the vehicle drew up before the front door. mr. fabian got out and hurried up the steps. the door stood open, cold as the day was, and all things wore the neglected aspect of a dwelling wherein the master lay stricken unto death. the housekeeper, martha, was coming down the stairs and crying. "how is your master?" breathlessly inquired mr. fabian. "oh, marse fabe, sir, jes' livin', an' dat's all!" sobbed the woman. "dunno nuffin. layin' dere jes' like a dead corpe, 'cept for breavin' hard," wept the woman. "who is with him?" "me mos' times an' young mark. i jes' come down to speak 'long o' you, marse fabe, w'en i see de carriage dribe up." "well, go back to your master. i will speak to my niece, and then come in," said mr. fabian, as he hurried out to the carriage. all his interview with the housekeeper had not occupied two minutes, but cora was pale with suspense and anxiety. "how is he?" she panted. "unconscious, my poor girl. oh, cora! come in!" "no, no; i must not. not until he permits me. i will stop at the ferryman's cottage. oh, if he should recover consciousness--oh, uncle fabian, ask him to let me come to him, and send me word." "yes, yes; i will do it. i must go to him now. charles," he said, turning to the coachman, "drive mrs. rothsay down to the ferry house, and then take the carriage to the stables." and then, with a grave nod to corona, mr. fabian re-entered the house. the coachman drove the carriage down to the ferryman's cottage and drew up. the door was open and the cottage was empty. "boat on t'other side, ma'am," said charles. "for the doctor, i suppose--and hope," said corona, looking across the river, and seeing a gig with two men coming on to the ferryboat. she watched from the door of the ferryman's cottage while charles drove off the empty carriage toward the stables and the two ferrymen poled their boat across the river. she retreated within the house before the boat touched the land, for she knew that the doctor, if he should see her there, would wonder why she was not at her grandfather's bedside, and perhaps--as he was an old friend--he might ask questions which she would find it embarrassing to answer. the boat touched the shore; the gig, containing the doctor and mr. clarence, rolled off the boat on along the drive leading to the house. meanwhile mr. fabian had re-entered the hall and hurried up to his father's room. he found the iron king in bed, lying on his right side and breathing heavily. his eyes were half closed. "father," said the son, in a low voice, taking his hand and bending over him. there was no response. "it ain't no use, marster fabe. yer can't rouse him, do wot yer will. better wait till de doctor come, young marse. i done been tried all i knowed how, but it wa'n't no use," said martha, who stood on the other side of the bed watching her insensible master. "tell me when this happened. come away to the upper end of the room and tell me about it." "might's well tell yer right here, marse. 'twon't sturve him. lor! thunder wouldn't sturve him, the way he is in." "then tell me, how was it? when was he stricken?" "we don't know, marse. he was found jes' dis way by john dis mornin'--not jes zackly dis way, howaseber, case he was a-layin' on his lef side, w'ich was berry bad; so me an' john turn him ober jes so like he is a-layin' now. den we sent right off for you, marse, to ketch yer at home 'fore yer went to de works." "did he seem well when he came home last night?' "jes 'bout as ujual, marse. he came in, an' john he waited on him. an he ax, ole marse did, 'was mrs. rossay gone?' w'ich john tole him she were. den he ordered dinner to be fotch up. an' john he had a pitcher ob hot punch ready. an' ole marse drank some. den he went in to dinner all by hisself. an' young mark he waited on de table, w'ich he tell me, w'en i ax him dis mornin', how de ole marse eat much as ujual, wid a good relish. den arter dinner he went to de liberairy and sot dere a long time. ole john say it were midnight 'fo' de ole marse walk up stairs an' call him to wait on him." "was john the last one who saw my father before he was found unconscious this morning?" "hi! yes, young marse, to be sure he were. de las' to see de ole marse in healt' las' night, an' de firs' to fine him dis way dis mornin'." "how came he to find his master in this condition?" "it was dis way. yer know, young marse, as dere is two keys to ole marser's do', w'ich ole marse keeps one in his room to lock hisse'f in, an' john keeps one to let hisse'f in wen de ole marse rings for him in de mornin'." "yes; i know." "well, dis mornin' de ole marse didn't ring at his ujual hour. an' de time passed, an' de breakfast were ready an' spilin'. so i tole john how he better go up an' see if ole marse was well, how maybe he didn' feel like gettin' up an' might want to take his breakfas' in bed. but lor! i nebber participated sich a sarious 'tack as dis. well, den, john he went an' rapped soft like. but he didn't get no answer. den he rap little louder. but still no answer. den john he got scared, awful scared. las' john he plucks up courage, an' unlocks de do', slow an' saf', an' goes in on tiptoe to de bedside, an'--an'--an'--dis yer is wot he seen. he t'ought his ole marse were dead sure, an' he come howlin' an' tumblin' down to me, an' tole me so, an' i called young mark to follow me, case ole john wa'n't no good, an' i run up yere, an'--an'--an' dis yer is wot i foun'! o'ly he were a layin' on his lef side, an' i see he were breavin' an' i turn' him ober on his right, an' did all i could for him, an' sent john arter you." "i wish the doctor would come," said mr. fabian, anxiously, as he took his father's hand again and tried to feel the pulse. the door opened very quietly, and clarence came into the room. fabian beckoned him to approach the bed. "how is he?" inquired the younger man. "as you see! he was found in this condition by his servant this morning. he has shown no sign of consciousness since," replied the elder. "the doctor is below. shall he come up now?" "certainly." clarence left the room and soon returned with the physician. after a very brief examination of pulse, temperature, the pupils of the eyes of the patient, prompt measures were taken to relieve the evident pressure on the brain. the doctor bled the sufferer, who presently opened his eyes, and looked slowly around his bed. his two sons bent over him. he tried to speak. they bent lower still to listen. after several futile efforts he uttered one word: "cora." "yes, father--she is here. go, clarence, and fetch her at once. she is at the ferryman's cottage." the last sentence was added in a low whisper. clarence immediately left the room to do his errand. a few minutes later the door opened softly, and clarence re-entered the room with cora. mr. fabian went to meet her, saying softly: "he has called for you, my dear! the only word he has spoken since he recovered consciousness was your name." "so uncle clarence told me," she said, in a broken voice. "come to him now," said fabian, leading her to the bedside. she sank on her knees and took the hand of the dying man and kissed it, pleading: "grandfather, dear grandfather, i love you. i am grieved at having offended you. will you forgive me--now?" he made several painful efforts to answer her, before he uttered the few disconnected words: "yes--forgive--you--cora." she bathed his hand with her tears. all on her part also was forgotten now--all the harshness and despotism of years was forgotten now, and nothing was remembered but the gray-haired man, always gray-haired in her knowledge of him, who had protected her orphanage and given her a home and an education. she knelt there, holding his hand, and was presently touched and comforted because the lingers of that hand closed on hers with a loving pressure that they had never given her in all her life before. that was the last sign of consciousness he gave for many hours. mr. fabian took the doctor aside. "ought i to send for my wife?" he inquired. "yes; i think so," replied the physician. and the son knew that answer was his father's sentence of death. not one of the family could be spared from this death bed to go and fetch violet. so mr. fabian went down stairs to the library and wrote a hasty note: dear violet: you offered to come and help to nurse the father, who is sicker than we thought, but with no contagious fever. come now, dear, and bring baby and nurse, for you may have to stay several days. fabian. he inclosed this letter in an envelope, sealed and directed it, and took it down to the stable, where he found his own groom charles in the coachman's room. "put the horses to the carriage again, and return to violet banks to bring your mistress here. give her this note. it will explain all," said mr. fabian, handing the note to the servant. he found the same group around the death bed. clarence and the doctor standing on the left side, cora kneeling by the right side, still holding the hand of the dying man, whose fingers were closed upon hers and whose face was turned toward hers, but with "no speculation" in it. two hours passed away without any change. the sound of wheels without could be heard through the profound stillness of the death chamber. mr. fabian again left the room to receive his wife. he met violet in the hall, just as old john had admitted her. she was closely followed by the nurse and the child. "how is father?" she inquired. "he is very ill, my dear, but resting quietly just at present. here is martha; she will take you to your room and make you and the baby comfortable. then, as soon as you can, come to the father's chamber; you know where to find it," said mr. fabian, who feared to shock his sensitive wife by telling her that he was sinking fast, and thought that it would be safer to let her come into the room and join the group around the bed, and gradually learn the sad truth by her own observation. "yes; i can find my way very well," answered violet, as she handed her bag, shawl, and umbrella to martha, and followed the housekeeper up stairs, with the nurse and baby. mr. fabian returned to the chamber of the dying man, around whose bed the group remained as he had left it, and where in a very few minutes he was joined by violet. she entered the room very softly, so that her approach was not heard until she reached the bedside. then she took and silently pressed the hands that were silently held out by cora, and finally she knelt down beside her. more hours passed; no one left the sick room, for no one knew how soon the end might come. old john thoughtfully brought in a waiter of refreshments and set it down on a side table for any one who might require it. day declined. through the front windows of the death room the western sky could be seen, dark, lowering, and stormy. a long range of heavy clouds lay massed above the horizon, obscuring the light of the sinking sun, but leaving a narrow line of clear sky just along the top of the western ridge. presently a singularly beautiful effect was produced. the sun, sinking below the dark cloud into the clear gold line of sky, sent forth a blaze of light from the mountain heights, across the river, and into the chamber of death! was it this sudden illumination that kindled the fire of life in the dying man into a last expiring flame, or was it indeed the presence of a spiritual visitant, visible only to the vanishing spirit? who can tell? suddenly old aaron rockharrt opened his eyes--those great, strong black eyes that had ever been a terror to the evil doer--and the well doer also--and stared before him, held up his hands and exclaimed: "deborah! deborah!" and then he dropped his arms by his side, and with a long, deep-drawn sigh fell asleep. the name of his old wife was the last word upon his dying lips. no one but the doctor knew what had happened. he bent over the lifeless shell, gazed on the face, felt the pulse, felt the heart, and then stood up and said: "all is over, my dear friends. his passage has been quite painless. i never saw an easier death." and he drew up the sheet over the face of the dead. although all day they had hourly expected this end, yet now they could not quite believe that it had indeed come. the huge, strong man, the rugged iron king--dead? he who, if not as indestructible as he seemed, was at least constituted of that stern stuff of which centenarians are made, and whom all expected should live far up into the eighties or nineties--dead? the father who had lived over them like some mighty governing and protecting power all their lives, necessary, inevitable, inseparable from their lives--dead? "come, my dear," said mr. clarence, gently raising corona and leading her away. "you have this to console you: he died reconciled to you, holding your hand in his to the last." "ah, dear uncle clarence, you have much more to console you, for you never failed even once in your duty to him, and never gave him one moment of uneasiness in all your life," replied corona, as she left him in front of her old room. she entered and shut the door and gave way to the natural grief that overwhelmed her for a time. when she was sufficiently composed she sat down and wrote to her brother, informing him of what had occurred, and telling him that she still held her purpose of going out to him with the nevilles. chapter xxxii. "sic transit gloria mundi." if old aaron rockharrt, the iron king, had never been generally loved, he was certainly very highly respected by the whole community. the news of his sudden death fell like a shock upon the public. preparations for the obsequies were on the grandest scale. they occupied two days. on the first day there were funeral services at rockhold, performed by the rev. luke melville, pastor of the north end mission church, and attended by all the neighboring families, as well as by all the operatives of the works. after these were over, the whole assembly, many in carriages and many more on foot, followed the hearse that carried the remains to the north end railway depot, where the coffin was placed in a special car prepared for its reception, and, attended by the whole family, it was conveyed to the state capital and deposited in the long drawing room of the rockharrt mansion, where it remained until the next day. on the second day funeral services were held at the town house by the bishop of the diocese, assisted by the rector of the church of the lord's peace, and attended by a host of the city friends of the family. after these services the long funeral procession moved from the house to the cemetery of the lord's peace, where the body was laid in the rockharrt vault beside that of his old wife. on the return of the family to the house they assembled in the library to hear the reading of the will of aaron rockharrt, which had been brought in by his solicitor, mr. benjamin norris. there were present, seated around the table, fabian, violet, and clarence rockharrt, cora rothsay, the doctor and the lawyer. standing behind these were gathered the servants of the family. mr. norris blew his nose, cleared his throat, put on his spectacles, opened the will and proceeded to read it. the testament may be briefly summed up as follows: first there were handsome legacies left to each of the old servants. one full half of the testator's vast estate was left to his elder son, fabian; one quarter to his younger son, clarence; and one quarter to be divided equally between his grandson, sylvan haught, and his granddaughter, corona rothsay. fabian was appointed sole executor. the lawyer folded up the document and handed it to fabian rockharrt. "clarence, old boy, i hardly think this is altogether fair to you," said fabian, good naturedly, and ready to deceive him into the delusion that he had not schemed for this unequal division of the enormous wealth. "it is all right, fabian. altogether right. you are the eldest son, and now the head of the firm, and you have ten times over the business brains that i have. i am perfectly satisfied, and even if i were not, i would not dream of criticising my father's will," replied clarence, with perfect good humor and sincerity. the legacies were promptly paid by fabian rockharrt. mr. clarence decided to remain as his brother's junior partner in the firm that was henceforth to be known as "aaron rockharrt's sons," and to leave all his share of the money invested in the works. when corona was asked when and how she would receive her own, she also declared that she would leave it for the present where it was invested in the works, and the firm might pay her legal interest for its use, or make her a small silent partner in the business. sylvan had yet to be consulted in regard to the disposal of his capital. the month of october was in its third week. it was high time for corona to go to washington and make the acquaintance of the nevilles, if she wished to go to travel west under their protection. she had several times spoken of this purpose in the presence of violet, so as to accustom that emotional young woman to the idea of their separation. but violet, absorbed in her grief for the dead, paid but little attention to corona's casual remarks. at the end of a few days fabian rockharrt began to talk about going back to violet banks, and invited corona to accompany his wife and himself to their, pleasant country home. it was then that corona spoke decisively. she thanked him for his invitation and reminded him of her unalterable resolution to go out to fort farthermost to join her brother. when fabian rockharrt tried to combat her determination, she informed him that she had during the funeral week received a joint letter from captain and mrs. neville, inviting her to join their party to the frontier. this letter had been written at the suggestion of the colonel of captain neville's regiment, and had not been mentioned or even answered until after the funeral. she said that she had accepted this kind invitation, and had forwarded all her baggage, which had been so long stored at north end, to washington to wait her arrival in that city. "very well, then," said fabian. "if you are set upon this expedition, i cannot hinder you, and shall not try to do so. but i tell you what i will do. i will take violet to washington with you, and get rooms at some pleasant house before the rush of winter visitors. we shall not be able to go into general society, but there is a great plenty of sightseeing in the national capital with which to divert the mind of my poor little girl. her old guardians, the pendletimes, are there also, and it will comfort her to see them. with them she will be able to let you depart without breaking her poor little heart." "oh, uncle fabian, i am so glad you have thought of this! it will be so good for violet. she has had a sad time since her home-coming. she needs a change," said corona, eagerly. "i think she will be very much pleased with the plan. now, cora, when do you wish to go?" "as soon as possible; but since you are so kind as to accompany me, my wish must wait on yours, uncle fabian." "let us go and consult violet," said fabian rockharrt, rising and leading the way to the nursery, which had been hastily fitted up for the accommodation of the rockharrt baby and her nurse, and where he felt sure of finding the young mother, too. violet, when told of the scheme to go immediately to washington and see her old friends, was more than "pleased;" she was delighted. to show her baby to her more than mother, as she often called mrs. pendletime, would fill her soul with pride and joy. very early the next morning mr. fabian and his party left the city by the express train en route for the national capital, leaving mr. clarence to go to north end and take charge of the works. they reached baltimore at p.m., and remained over night. the next day they went on to washington, where they arrived about noon, and went directly to the hotel where captain and mrs. neville were staying. violet, very much fatigued, lay down to rest and to get her baby to sleep at her bosom. mr. fabian, as we must continue from habit to call him, though his rightful style was now mr. rockharrt, went down to the reading room to send his own and his wife's cards to chief justice and mrs. pendletime, and to collect washington gossip. corona changed her traveling dress, went down into the ladies' parlor, and sent her card to the rooms of the nevilles. and presently there entered to her a very handsome middle-aged pair. the captain was a fine, tall, broad-shouldered, soldierly-looking man, with a bald head and a gray mustache. he was clothed in a citizen's morning suit. the captain's wife was also rather tall, slender, dark complexioned, with a thin face, black eyes, and black hair very slightly touched with gray, which she wore in ringlets over her ears, and in a braid behind her neck. her dress was a plain, dark cashmere, with white cuffs and collar. "it is very kind of you to take charge of me," said corona to mrs. neville, as the three seated themselves on a group of chairs near together. "my dear, i am very glad to have your company, as well on the long and dreary journey over the plains as at that distant frontier fort. you will find life at the fort with your brother a severe test to your affection for him," said mrs. neville, with her rather doubtful smile. "you have some experience of life at fort farthermost?" remarked corona pleasantly. "no; not at that particular fort. we have never been quite so far as that yet. it is a new fort--an outpost really on the extreme southwestern frontier, as i understand. we shall have to cross what used to be called the great american desert to reach it. we go first to leavenworth, and, of course, the journey to leavenworth is easy enough. but from leavenworth the long, tedious traveling by army wagons over the plains and through the wilderness to the southwestern forts will try your endurance, my dear." "come, come!" said the captain, heartily; "it is not all unmitigated dreadfulness. to be sure we have no railroads through the wilderness, no fine city hotels to stay at; but, then, there are some few forts along the line of travel, where we can stop a day or two to rest, and have good sport. and when we have no fort at the end of a day's journey, it is not very awful to bivouac under the shelter of some friendly rock or in the thicket of some forest. the wagons by day make good couches by night; and as for the bill of fare, a haunch of venison from a deer shot by some soldier on the road, and cooked on a fire in the open air, has a very particularly fine flavor. all civilized condiments we carry with us. as for amusements, though we have no theaters or concerts, yet there is always sure to be some fellow along who can sing a good song, and some other fellow who can tell a good story. i rather think you will enjoy the trip as a novelty, mrs. rothsay. i observe that most young people do." "i really think i shall enjoy it," assented corona. "i hope that you will be able to endure it, my dear," added mrs. neville. "you see the journey is no novelty to my wife, mrs. rothsay. she has spent all her married life on the frontier. thirty years ago, my dear lady, i received my first commission as second lieutenant in the third infantry, and was ordered to okononak, oregon. i married my sweetheart here, and took her with me, and she has been with me ever since; for we both agreed that anything was better than separation. we have raised children, and they have married and left us, and we have never been parted for a week. we have lived on the frontier, and know every fort from the confines of canada to those of mexico. we have lived among soldiers, savages, pioneers, scouts, border ruffians, wild beasts, and venomous reptiles all the days of our married life. what do you think of us?" "i think it is unjust that some military officers have to vegetate all their days in those wilds of the west, while others live for all that life is worth in the eastern centers of civilization." "bless you, my dear, we don't vegetate. if nothing else should rouse our souls the indians would, and make it lively for us, too! it is not an unpleasant life, upon the whole, mrs. rothsay; but you see we are growing old, and my wife is tired of it, that is all." "how soon shall we leave for the west?" inquired corona. "how soon can you be ready, my dear young lady?" "i am quite ready now." "then on monday, i think. what do you say, mrs. neville?" inquired the captain. "monday will do," replied the wife. "now here are some people coming in to interrupt us," said the captain in a vexed tone. corona looked up and said: "they are chief justice and mrs. pendletime, come to call on their late ward, mrs. fabian rockharrt. you know them?" "not a bit of it. so if you please, my dear, we will retire at once and leave you to receive them, especially as we are both engaged to dine at the arsenal this afternoon," said the captain; and he arose, and with his wife withdrew from the parlor. cora went forward to receive the new visitors. they both greeted her very warmly, and then expressed the deepest sympathy with her in her sorrow at the loss of her grandfather, and made many inquiries for the particulars of his illness. when corona had answered all their questions, and they had again expressed their sympathy, she inquired: "have you sent for violet? does she know you are here? if not, i will go and call her." "oh, yes; the servant took up our card. and here she comes! and the baby in her arms, by all that is beautiful!" said mrs. pendletime, as she arose to meet her favorite, and took the infant from the fond mother and covered both with caresses. "to think of my child coming to a hotel instead of directly to my house!" said the elder lady, reproachfully. "but i wished to stay a day or two with corona before she leaves for the west. and after i meant to go to you and stay as long as you would let me," violet replied. "mrs. rothsay going west!" exclaimed the old lady. "yes; she is," said violet, emphatically and impatiently. and then there ensued more explanations, and exclamations, and remonstrances. and finally mrs. pendletime inquired: "and when do you leave on this fearful expedition, my dear?" "on monday next i go, with captain and mrs. neville," replied corona. "well, i am truly sorry for it; but, of course, i cannot help it. on monday, therefore, after your friend has taken leave of you, you will remove to my house, violet?" "oh, yes; the thought of going to you is the only comfort i have in parting from corona," replied mrs. fabian rockharrt. chapter xxxiii. corona's departure. on the sunday following her arrival in washington, the last day of her sojourn in the capital, the day before her departure for the frontier, corona rothsay rose early in the morning, and soon as she was dressed went down to the ladies' parlor. neither her uncle nor his young wife had yet left their rooms. in fact, so early was it that none of the ladies staying in the house had yet come down to the parlor. the place was vacant. corona went up the long room and sat down by one of the front windows, to look down on the passing life of the avenue below. while she sat looking out of the window she heard a movement at the lower end of the room. some one entered and sat down to wait. and some one else went out again. corona never turned round to see who was there. she continued to look through the window. she was not interested in the comers and goers into and out of the hotel. presently some one came in again and said: "mrs. rothsay is not in her room, sir." "then i will wait here until she can be found," replied the new comer in a familiar voice. but then corona started up and rushed down the length of the room, crying eagerly: "uncle clarence! oh, uncle clarence! is this you? is this indeed you? i am so glad to see you once more before i go! i had thought never to see you again! or, at least, not for many years! and here you are!" he caught the hands she held out as she reached him, drew her to his bosom and kissed her as he answered: "yes, my dear, it is i, your old bachelor uncle, who was not satisfied with the leave taking on last thursday, but longed to see you again before your departure." "you dear uncle clarence!" "so yesterday afternoon i telegraphed to fabian to ask him when you were to start for the west. he telegraphed back that you expected to leave washington on monday morning. i got this answer about five o'clock in the afternoon. and, as it was saturday night and i had a clear day, the blessed sabbath, before me, i only waited to close the works at six o'clock, as usual, and then i hurried away, packed a carpet bag and caught, by half a minute, the six-thirty express for baltimore and washington, and came straight through! it was a twelve hours' journey, my dear, without stopping except to change cars, which connected promptly, and so you see i have lost no time! i have just arrived, and did not have to wait five minutes even to see you, for you were here to receive me! and now that i am here, my dear, i shall stay to see you off with the nevilles. you go to-morrow, as i understand? there has been no change in the programme?" "we go to-morrow, uncle clarence," replied corona, in a grave, sorrowful tone, for she was sympathizing with him. "by what train, my child?" "the eight-thirty express, baltimore and ohio railroad." "then i need not part with you here in washington. our routes are the same for some hundred miles. i shall travel with you as far as the north end junction, and take leave of you there. that will be seeing the very last of you, up to the very last minute." just at this moment mr. fabian entered the parlor, and recognizing his younger brother and junior partner, approached him with a shout: "clarence! by all that's magical! pray, did you rise from the earth, or fall from the skies, that i find you here?" "how do you do, fabian? i came in the most commonplace way you can imagine--by the night express train--and have only just now arrived," replied mr. clarence. "and how goes on the works?" inquired fabian rockharrt. "admirably." "glad to hear it. and what brought you here, if it is a civil question?" "it isn't a civil question, but i'll answer it all the same. i came to see cora once more, to spend the last sabbath with her and to accompany her as far on the journey to-morrow as our way runs together, which will be as far as the north end junction." "and you will not reach north end before monday night! a whole day lost at the works, clarence! ah! it is well you have me to deal with instead of the father--heaven rest his soul!" "see here, fabian," said mr. clarence, "for a very little more i will go with cora all the way to fort farthermost, as her natural protector and helper in her missionary work. what, indeed, have i to keep me here in the east since the father left us? nothing whatever. you have your wife and child; i have no one. cora is nearer to me than any other being." "come! come down to breakfast. you have been traveling all night without food, i feel sure; and fasting and vigils never were means of grace to a rockharrt. come!" said mr. fabian, with a laugh. "i must get a room and go to it first. look at me!" said clarence. "you do look like the ash man or blacksmith, certainly. well, come along; we'll go to the office and get a room, and then you can get some of that dust off you. it won't take ten minutes. after that we will go to breakfast." the brothers left the parlor together. the next moment violet entered it, and bade good morning to corona, who in turn told her of the new arrival. "clarence! oh, i am so glad! what an addition he will be to our party, cora, especially after you have left us, my dear, when we shall miss you so sadly," said violet. cora made no reply. she disliked to tell violet that she, violet, would lose the society of clarence at the same time that she would lose that of herself, as her uncle was to leave washington by the same train. while they were still talking the two brothers re-entered the parlor. when fabian demanded whether they were ready to go down to breakfast, and received a satisfactory answer, he drew the arm of his wife within his own, and led the way down stairs. clarence and corona followed. when they entered the breakfast saloon, the polite waiter came forward and ushered them to a table at which captain and mrs. neville were already seated. morning greetings were exchanged, and mr. clarence was introduced and welcomed. after breakfast all the party went to church. then clarence and corona spent the afternoon together at one end of the long parlor, which was so long and had so many recesses that half a dozen separate groups might have isolated themselves there, each without fear of their conversation being overheard by the others. all the members of our party sat up late that evening to eke out the time they might spend together before parting. it was after midnight when they retired. the travelers met at an early breakfast the next morning. their baggage had been sent on and checked in advance. they had nothing to do but make the most of the few remaining minutes. when the meal was over they all hastily left the table and went to their rooms to put on their traveling wraps. fabian and violet were to accompany the travelers to the railway depot to see them off, so that there was to be no leave taking at the hotel except of the baby. corona went into the nurse's room, took the mite in her arms, held it to her bosom, caressed and kissed it tenderly, but dropped no tear on its sweet, fair face or soft white robe. the baby received all this love with delight, leaping and dancing in corona's arms, then gazing at her with intense eyes, and crowing and prattling in inarticulate and unintelligible language, of some happy, incommunicable news, some joyful message it would deliver if it could. "come, cora. we are waiting for you, my dear," sounded the voice of mr. fabian in the hall outside. corona kissed the baby for the last time, blessed it for the vague sweet hope it had infused into her heart, and then laid it in its nurse's arms and left the room. "we shall barely catch the train, if we catch it at all. and the captain is as nearly in a 'stew' as an officer and a gentleman permits himself to get. we have been looking for you everywhere," said mr. fabian. "i was in the nurse's room, bidding good-by to the baby," replied cora. "oh!" no more was said. baby was excuse for any amount of delay, even though it had caused the missing of their train and the driving of the captain into a war dance. they hurried down stairs and entered the carriages that were waiting to take them to the depot--fabian, violet, clarence and corona in one; captain and mrs. neville, and mrs. neville's maid, in the other. and so they drove to the depot, and arrived just in time to take their tickets and rush to their seats on the train, with no further leave taking than a kiss all around, and a general, heartfelt "god bless you!" the train was speeding away, leaving washington city behind, when our party first began to realize that they were really "off" and to take in their surroundings. captain and mrs. neville sat together about midway in the car. clarence and corona sat immediately behind them. on the opposite side sat mrs. neville's colored maid, manda, and in the rear corner, on the same side, the captain's orderly--a new recruit. about half the remaining seats in the car were occupied by other travelers. at harper's ferry, amid the most beautiful and sublime mountain scenery of virginia, the train stopped twenty minutes for dinner, which, in those ante-bellum days, was well served from the hotel at the depot. after dinner, the train started off again at express speed, stopping but at few stations, until near night, when it reached north end junction, where mr. clarence was to get off. "cora, my darling, we must part here," said mr. clarence, gathering up his effects, as the train slackened speed. "oh, uncle clarence! dear uncle clarence! god bless you! god bless you!" sobbed corona. "keep up your heart, dear one. you may see me sooner than you dream of. the missionary mania is sometimes contagious. you have it in its most pronounced form. and i have been sitting by you for eight hours," replied mr. clarence, forgetting his prudent resolution to say nothing to corona of an incipient plan in his mind. "what do you mean, dear uncle clarence?" she anxiously inquired. "i hardly know myself, corona. but ponder my words in your heart, dear one. they may mean something. here we are! good-by! good-by! god bless you!" exclaimed mr. clarence. "good-by! god bless you!" cried corona, and they parted--clarence jumping off the train just as it started again, at the imminent risk of his life, yet with lucky immunity from harm. corona, looking through the side window, saw him standing safely on the platform waiting a north end train to come up--saw him only for an instant as her train flashed onward, and "pondered his words in her heart," and wondered what they meant. chapter xxxiv. on the frontier. traveling in the ante-bellum days, even by steamboats and railway trains, was not the rapid transit of the present time. it took one day for our travelers to reach wheeling. there they embarked on a river steamer for st. louis. on monday morning they took a steamboat for leavenworth, where they arrived early in the evening. this was the first and best part of their long journey. the second part must of necessity be very different. here their railway and steamboat travel ceased, and the remainder of their course to the far southwestern frontier must be by military wagons through an almost untrodden wilderness. i know that since the days of which i write this section of the country has been wonderfully developed, and the wilderness has been made to "bloom and blossom as the rose," but in those days it was still laid down on the maps as "the great american desert." and fort leavenworth appeared to us as an extreme outpost of civilization in the west, and a stopping place and a point of new departure for troops en route for the southwestern frontier forts. captain neville and his party landed at leavenworth on the afternoon of a fine november day. the captain led the way to the colonel's quarters. a sentinel was walking up and down the front. he saluted the captain, who passed into the quarters, where an orderly received the party, showed them into a parlor, gave them seats, and then took the captain's card to the colonel. in a few moments col. ---- entered the parlor, looked around, recognized captain neville, and greeted him with: "ah, neville! delighted to see you! mrs. neville, of course! i remember you well, madam! and this young lady your daughter, i presume?" he added, turning from the elders to shake hands with corona. "no; not our daughter, i wish she were; but our young friend, mrs. rothsay, who is going with us to farthermost," captain neville explained. "to join her husband! one of the new set of officers turned out by the academy! happy man!" exclaimed the colonel, warmly shaking corona's hand. "no, sir; mrs. rothsay is a widow. she goes out to join her only brother, lieutenant haught!" the captain again explained, in a low and faintly reproachful tone. "oh! ah! i beg pardon, i am sure. the mistake was absurd," said the colonel, with a penitent air. "when did you leave washington?" "a week ago to-day; but the boats were slow." "pleasant journey, i hope?" "oh, yes, so far." at this moment the colonel's wife came into the room. she was a tall, gray-haired woman with a fair complexion and blue eyes, and dressed in black silk and a lace cap. she shook hands with captain and mrs. neville, who were old friends, and who then presented mrs. rothsay, whom the hostess received with much cordiality. meanwhile the colonel and the captain strolled out upon the piazza, to smoke each a cigar. the former inquired more particularly into the history of the beautiful, pale woman who had come out under the protection of the captain and his wife. captain neville told him all he knew of mrs. rothsay's story--namely, that she was the granddaughter of the famous iron king, aaron rockharrt, lately deceased, and that she was the widow of the late regulas rothsay, who so mysteriously disappeared on the evening of his wedding before the day of his expected inauguration as governor of his native state, and who was afterward discovered to have been murdered by the comanche indians. in the evening, when a number of officers dropped into the drawing room of the colonel's quarters, our party were quite able to receive them. one unexpected thing happened. among the callers was a certain major ----, a childless widower of middle age, short, thick-set, black-bearded and red-faced, with a bluff presence and a bluff voice, who fell--yes, tumbled--heels over head in love with corona at first sight. this catastrophe was so patent to all beholders as to excite equal wonder and mirthfulness. only corona of all the company remained ignorant of the conquest she had made; ignorant, that is, until the visitors had all left the quarters, when her hostess said to her in a bantering tone: "you have subdued our major, my dear, utterly subdued him. this is the first case of love at first sight that ever came under my notice, but it is an unmistakable one. and, oh, i should say a malignant, if not a fatal, type of the disorder." so closed the day of our travelers' arrival at fort leavenworth. it was saturday afternoon, on the sixth day of the visitors' stay at the fort, and the ladies were on the parade ground watching the drill, when the word came that the steamer was coming up the river with troops on board. "our raw recruits at last," said captain neville, who was standing with the ladies. "and that means, i suppose, that we are to start for farthermost at once," said mrs. neville. "not on the instant," laughed the captain. "this is saturday afternoon. to-morrow is sunday. we shall leave on monday morning." "rain or shine?" "fair or foul, of course," said the captain. it was really the steamer with the new recruits on board. half an hour later they landed and marched into the fort, under the command of the recruiting sergeant, and they were received with cheers. that evening captain neville announced his intention to set out for farthermost on monday morning. of course this was expected. and equally, of course, not one word was said to induce him to defer his departure for one day. military duty must take precedence of mere politeness. the next day being the sabbath, the ladies attended the morning service in the chapel of the fort. the irrepressible major ---- was present, and after the benediction, attached himself to captain neville's party, and walked home with them to the colonel's quarters, but not next to cora, who walked with mrs. neville. as the major paused at the door, mrs. ---- had no choice but to invite him to come in and stay to dinner, adding that this was the last day of the nevilles' and mrs. rothsay's sojourn at the fort. the major thanked the lady, and followed her into the drawing room, where he sat talking to the colonel, while the ladies went to their rooms to lay off their bonnets and cloaks. they came down only when called by the bell to the early sunday dinner. as this was the last day of the guests' stay at fort leavenworth, many of the officers dropped in to say good by; so that the party sat up rather later than usual, and it was near midnight when they retired to rest. corona did not go to bed at once. she sat from twelve to one writing a letter to her uncle clarence, not knowing how the next was to be mailed to him. the next morning was so clear, bright, and beautiful that every one said that it must be the perfection of indian summer. on the road outside the walls five strong army wagons, to which stout mules were harnessed, stood in a line. these were to serve the men as carriages by day and couches by night. besides these, there were two carriages of better make and more comfortable fittings for the captain and the ladies of his party. the farewell breakfast at the colonel's quarters partook of the nature of an official banquet. it was unnecessarily prolonged. at length the company left the table. mrs. neville and mrs. rothsay went to their rooms to put on hats and cloaks. as soon as they were ready they came down to bid good by to mrs. ---- and some other ladies who had come to the colonel's quarters to see them off. when these adieus were all said, the colonel gave mrs. rothsay his arm to lead her to the carriage, which stood in line with the army wagons on the road outside the walls. captain and mrs. neville had gone on before. "there, the steamer has landed, and here are some people coming up from it," said the colonel, pausing at the gate with corona on his arm, as a heavy carriage, drawn by a pair of powerful draught horses, came up from the steamboat landing and drew up at the gate. a tall man, in a long overcoat and a fur cap, jumped down and approached corona. "uncle clarence! oh, heaven of heavens! uncle clarence!" she exclaimed, pale and faint with excess of surprise and joy. "yes, my dear; i am going with you. see, i have my own carriage and horses, brought all the way by steamer from st. louis. our own servants, brought all the way from north end. now introduce me to your friend here, and later i will tell you all about it," said the new comer, with a smile, as he kissed his niece. "oh, colonel ----, this is my dear uncle clarence--mr. clarence rockharrt, i mean," said corona, in a rapture of confusion. "how do you do, sir? i am very glad to see you. really going over the plains with this train?" inquired the colonel, as the two gentlemen shook hands. chapter xxxv. the new comers. "yes, colonel," briskly replied clarence, "i am really going out to the frontier! i have not enlisted in the army, nor have i received any appointment as post trader or indian agent from the government, nor missionary or schoolmaster from any christian association. but, all the same, i am en route for the wilderness on my own responsibility, by my own conveyance, at my own expense, and with this outgoing trail--if there be no objection," added clarence, with a sudden obscure doubt arising in his mind that there might exist some military regulation against the attachment of any outsider to the trail of army wagons going over the plains from fort to fort. "'objections!' what objections could there possibly be, my dear sir? i fancy there could be nothing worse than a warm welcome for you," replied the colonel. at that moment captain neville, who had put his wife in their carryall, came up to see what had delayed his guest. "my dear mrs. rothsay, we are ready to start," he said. then seeing mr. clarence, whom he had met in washington and liked very much, he seized his hand and exclaimed: "why, rockharrt, my dear fellow! you here! this is a surprise, indeed! i am very glad to see you! how are you? when did you arrive?" and he shook the hand of the new comer as if he would have shaken it off. "i am very well, thank you, captain, and have just landed from the boat. i hope you and your wife are quite well." "robust, sir! robust! so glad to see you! but so sorry you did not arrive a few days sooner, so that we might have seen more of you. you have come, i suppose, all this distance to bid a last, supplementary farewell to your dear favorite niece?" "i have come to go with her to the frontier, if i may have the privilege of traveling with your trail of wagons." "why, assuredly. we are always glad of good company on the way," heartily responded the captain. "oh, beg pardon, and thank you very much; but i did not intend to 'beat' my way. look there!" exclaimed clarence, with a brighter smile, as he pointed to the commodious carriage, drawn by a pair of fine draught horses, that stood waiting for him, and to the covered wagon, drawn by a pair of stout mules, that was coming up behind. "oh! ah! yes, i see! you are traveling with your retinue. but is not this a very sudden move on your part?" demanded the captain. "so sudden in its impulse that it might be mistaken for the flight of a criminal, had it not been so deliberate in its execution. the fact is, sir, i am very much attached to my widowed niece, and not being able to dissuade her from her purpose of going out into the indian country, and being her natural protector and an unincumbered bachelor, i decided to follow her. and now i feel very happy to have overtaken her in the nick of time." "i see! i see!" said the captain with a laugh. while this talk was still going on, corona turned to take a better look at the great, strong carriage in which her uncle had driven up from the steamboat landing. there, to her surprise and delight, she saw young mark, from rockhold, seated on the box. he was staring at her, trying to catch her eye, and when he did so he grinned and bobbed, and bobbed and grinned, half a dozen times, in as many half seconds. "why, mark! i am so surprised!" said corona, as she went toward him. "i am so glad to see you!" "yes'm. thanky'm. so is i. yes'm, an'dar's mammy an' daddy an' sister phebe 'hind dar in de wagon," jerking his head toward the rear. corona looked, and her heart leaped with joy to see the dear, familiar faces of the colored servants who had been about her from her childhood. for there on the front seat of the wagon sat old john, from rockhold, with the reins in his hands, drawing up the team of mules, while on one side of him sat his middle-aged wife, martha, the housekeeper, and on the other his young daughter, phebe, once lady's maid to corona rothsay. corona uttered a little cry of joy as she hastened toward the wagon. the three colored people saw her at once, and, with the unconventionally of their old servitude, shouted out in chorus: "how do, miss c'rona?" "sarvint, miss c'rona!" "didn't 'spect to see we dem come trapesin' arter yer 'way out yere, did yer now?" and they also grinned and bobbed, and bobbed and grinned, between every word, as they tumbled off their seats and ran to meet her. mr. clarence hoisted the two women to their seats, one on each side of the driver, and then turned to corona. "come, my dear. let me put you into our carriage," he said, as he drew her arm within his own and led her on. "oh! i have not taken leave of colonel ---- yet. "where is he?" she inquired, looking around. "here i am, my dear mrs. rothsay. waiting at the carriage door to put you in your seat and to wish you a pleasant journey. and certainly, if this initial day is any index, you will have a pleasant one, for i never saw finer weather at this season of the year," said the colonel, cheerily, as he received corona from her uncle's hand, and, with the stately courtesy of the olden time, placed her in her seat. "i thank you, colonel, for all the kindness i have received at your hands and at those of mrs. ----. i shall never forget it. good by," said corona, giving him her hand. he lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips, bowed, and stepped back. mr. clarence entered the carriage and gave the order to the young coachman. carriage and covered wagon then fell into the procession, which began to move on. a farewell gun was fired from the fort. "uncle clarence," said corona, after the party had been on the road some hours--"uncle clarence, how came you first to think of such a strange move as to leave the works and come out here? and when did you first make up your mind to do it?" "i think, cora, my dear, that the idea came vaguely into my mind, as a mere possibility, after my father's death. it occurred to me that there was no absolute necessity for my remaining longer at the works. you see, cora, however much i might have wished for a change in my life, i never could have vexed my father by even expressing such a wish, while he lived. after his death i thought of it vaguely." "oh! why didn't you tell me?" "my mind was not made up; therefore i spoke of the matter to no one. i only hinted something to you, when on bidding you good by at north end junction i told you that you might possibly see me before you would expect to do so." "yes; i remember that well. i thought you only said that to comfort me. and you really meant that you might possibly follow me?" "yes, my dear; that is just what i meant. i could not speak more plainly because i was not sure of my own course. i had to think of fabian." "yes. how, at last, came you to the conclusion of following your poor niece?" "fabian and myself could not agree upon a certain policy in conducting our business. there was no longer the father's controlling influence, you see, and fabian is the head of the firm; and i could not do business on his principles," said mr. clarence, flushing up to his brow. "no; i suppose you could not," said cora, meditatively; and then she was sorry that she had said anything that might imply a reproach to the good-humored uncle she had left behind. "still, i said nothing about a dissolution of partnership until fabian complained that i, or my policy, was a dead weight around his neck, dragging him down from the most magnificent flights to mere sordid drudgery. then i proposed that we should dissolve partnership. and he said he was sorry. and i believe he was; but also glad, inconsistent as that seems. for he was sorry i could not come into his policy, and stay in the firm; but since i could not so agree with him, he was relieved when i proposed to withdraw from it. we disagreed, my dear cora, but we did not fall out; we parted good friends and brothers with tears in our eyes. poor little violet cried a good deal. but you know she has such a tender heart, poor child!--look at that herd of deer, cora, standing on the top of that swell of the land to the right, and actually gazing at the trail without a motion or a panic. i hope nobody will shoot at them!" exclaimed mr. clarence, suddenly breaking off in his discourse to point to the denizens of the thicket and the prairie, until upon some sudden impulse the whole herd turned and bounded away. so they fared on through that glorious autumn day--over the vast, rolling, solitary prairie--now rising to a smooth, gradual elevation that revealed the circle of the whole horizon where it met the sky; now descending into a wide, shallow hollow, where the rising ground around inclosed them as in an amphitheater; but everywhere along the trail, the prairie grass, dried and burnished by the autumn's suns and winds, burned like gold on the hills and bronze in the hollows, giving a singularly beautiful effect in light and shade of mingling metallic hues. at noon the captain ordered a halt, and all the teams were drawn up in a line; and all the men got out to feed and water the horses and mules, and to prepare their own dinner. they were now beside a clear, deep, narrow stream, a tributary of the kansas river, running through a picturesque valley, carpeted with long grass, and bordered with low, well-wooded hills on either side. the burnished gold and bronze of the long dried grass on the river's brim, dotted here and there with a late scarlet prairie flower, the brilliant crimson and purple of the autumn foliage that clothed the trees, the bright blue of the sky and the soft white of the few downy clouds floating overhead, and all reflected and duplicated in the river below, made a beauty and glory of color that must have delighted the soul of an artist, and pleased the eye of even the most careless observer. mike o'reilly, the captain's orderly, was busy spreading a table cloth on the grass, at the foot of a hill on the right, and old john, mr. clarence's man, was emulating mike by spreading a four-yard square of white damask at a short distance behind him. our friends had nearly finished their lunch, when something--she never could tell what--caused corona to look behind her. then she shrieked! all looked to see the cause of her sudden fright. there stood a group of indians, with blankets around their forms, and gleaming tomahawks about their shoulders. "pawnees--friendly. don't be afraid. give them something to eat," said the captain, in a low tone, addressing the first part of his conversation to corona and the last part to mrs. neville. but corona had never seen an indian in her life, and could not at once get over her panic caused by the sight of those bare, keen-edged axes gleaming in the sun. captain neville spoke to them in their native tongue, and they replied. the conversation that ensued was quite unintelligible to clarence and corona, but not to mrs. neville, who beckoned to two squaws who stood humbly in the rear of the braves. they were both clothed in short, rude, blue cotton skirts, with blankets over their shoulders. the elder squaw carried a pack on her back; the younger one carried a baby snugly in a hood made of the loop of her blanket at the back of her neck. they both approached the ladies, chattering as they came; the elder one threw down her pack on the grass and began to open it, and display a number of dressed raccoon skins stretched upon sticks, and by gibbering and gesticulations expressed her wish to sell them. neither of the ladies wished to buy; but mrs. neville give her loaves of bread and junks of dried beef from the hampers on the grass, and corona gave her money. she put the money in a little fur pouch she carried at her belt, and she packed the bread and beef in the bundle with the highly flavored raccoon skins. she was not fastidious. while mrs. neville and corona were occupied with the squaw, captain neville and mr. clarence had been feasting the braves, and the attendants had been washing dishes, repacking hampers, and reloading wagons for a fresh start. when all was ready the wayfarers took leave of the indians and re-entered their conveyances and resumed their route, leaving the savages still feasting on the fragments that remained. it was now two o'clock in the afternoon, as the long trail of carryalls and army wagons passed up from the beautiful valley and out upon the vast prairie that still rolled on before them in hills and hollows of gold and bronze, blazing under the bright autumnal sun. men and women, mules and horses, had all been rested and refreshed by their mid-day halt and repast. the people, however, seemed less inclined to observe and converse than in the forenoon. even clarence saw more than one flock of birds sail over their heads, and made no sign; saw a herd of deer stand and gaze, and said not a word. at length clarence took out his cigar and lit it, and as he smoked he watched the descending sun until it sank below the horizon and sent up the most singular after-glow that clarence had ever seen--a shower of sparks and needle-like flames from the edge of the prairie immediately under the horizon. "looks like de worl' was ketchin on fire ober dere, marse clarence," said young mark, speaking for the first time since they had resumed their march. "it is only the light reflected by the prairie, my boy," kindly replied mr. clarence. and then he smoked on in silence, while the after-glow died out, the twilight faded, and one by one the stars came out. corona seemed to be slumbering in her seat. young mark crooned low, as if to himself, a weird, old camp meeting hymn. it was so dark that he could not have seen to guide his horses, had not the captain's carryall been immediately in front of his own, and the long trail of wagons in front of the captain's, with lantern carried by the advance guard to show the way. "what's the matter?" suddenly called out mr. clarence, who was aroused from his reverie by the halt of the whole procession. "we 'pears to got sumwhurze," replied mark, strongly pulling in his horses, which had nearly run into the back of the captain's stationary carryall in front. "we are at burley's," called out captain neville from his seat. while he spoke mike o'reilly brought up a lantern to show their way to the house. clarence alighted and handed down his niece, took her arm, and followed captain and mrs. neville past the wagons and mules and groups of men through a door that admitted them into a long, low-ceiled room, lighted by tallow candles in tin sconces along the log walls, and warmed by a large cooking stove in the middle of the floor. rude, unpainted wooden chairs, benches and tables were the only furniture, if we except the rough shelves on which coarse crockery and tinware were arranged and under which iron cooking utensils were piled. captain neville and mr. clarence returned to the wagons to see for themselves that their valuable personal effects were safely bestowed for the night, and that the horses and mules were well cared for. the proprietor of this place attended them. while mrs. neville and corona still walked up and down in the room, a small dark-haired woman came in and nodded to them, and asked if they would like to go upstairs and have some water to wash their faces. both ladies thankfully accepted this offer, and followed the landlady up a rude flight of steps that led up from the corner of the room to an open trap door, through which they entered the garret. this was nothing better than a loft, whose rough plank floor formed the ceiling of the room below, and whose sloping roof rose from the floor front and back, and met overhead. here they rested through the night. let us hasten on. it was the thirteenth day out. the trail had crossed nearly the whole of the indian territory, and were within one day's march of fort farthermost, on the texan frontier. they had passed the previous night at fort w., and at sunrise they had crossed the rio negro, and before noon they had made nearly a score of miles toward their destination. they halted beside a little stream that took its rise in a spring among the rocks on the right hand of the trail. here the party meant to rest for two hours before resuming the march to fort farthermost, which they hoped to reach that same night. as usual at the noon rest, mules and horses were unharnessed and led down to the stream to be watered and fed. fires were built and rustic cranes improvised to hang the pots and kettles gypsy style. since the first day out old martha had been constituted cook and old john butler to our party. in a short time martha had prepared such a hot dinner as was practicable under the circumstances, and john had laid the cloth. when all was ready the party of four sat down on the dry grass to partake of the meal, to every course of which they all did ample justice. "this is our last _al fresco_ feast," said captain neville, after dinner, as he filled the glasses of the two ladies and of clarence rockharrt and proposed the toast: "our lasting friendship and companionship." it was honored warmly. next clarence proposed: "mrs. neville," which was also honored and responded to by the captain in a neat little speech, at the end of which he proposed: "mrs. rothsay." this was duly met by clarence with a brief acknowledgment. mr. clarence was no speechmaker. but he proposed the health of-- "our gallant captain," which was drank with enthusiasm. the captain responded, and proposed-- "mr. clarence rockharrt," which was cordially honored. then mr. clarence made his last little speech of personal thanks. after this the company arose and separated, to wander about the camping ground, to stretch their cramped limbs before returning to their seats on their carryalls. "come, clarence, let us follow this little stream up to its head. it cannot be far away," said corona. mr. clarence silently drew her arm within his, and they walked on up the little valley until it narrowed into a gorge, clothed with stunted trees in brilliant autumn hues, through which the gray rocks jutted. the tinkling of the spring which supplied the stream could be heard while it was yet out of sight. "did you bring your drinking cup with you, clarence? i should like a draught from the spring," said corona. "oh, yes," said her uncle, producing the silver cup. they clambered up the side of the gorge until they reached the spring--a great jet of water issuing from the rock. but there both stopped short, spellbound, in amazement. on a ledge of rock above the spring, and facing them, stood a majestic man, clothed in coat of buckskin, faced and bordered with fur, leggings of buckskin and sandals of buffalo hide. on his head he wore a fur cap that half concealed his tawny hair. the face was fine, but sunburnt and half covered with a long, tawny beard. corona looked up, and recognized--regulas rothsay! with a cry of terror, she struck her hands to her eyes, as if to dispel an optical illusion, and sank half fainting, to be caught in the arms of her uncle and laid against the side of the rocks, while he sprinkled her face with water from the spring. she recovered her breath, opened her eyes, and looked anxiously, fearfully, all around her. there was no one in sight anywhere. the apparition had vanished. corona and her uncle were alone. chapter xxxvi. the meeting on the mount. "what is this? am i mad? have i seen a spirit? oh, clarence, what is it?" cried corona, in a tumult of emotion in which her life seemed throbbing away as she clung to her uncle for support. "try to compose yourself, dear cora," he answered, as he gently laid her down on the mossy rocks, and went and brought her water from the spring in his pocket cup. she raised herself and drank it at his request, and then staring wildly at him, repeated her questions: "oh, what was it? who was here just now? or was it--or was it--was it--delusion?" "for heaven's sake, cora, calm yourself. it was regulas rothsay who stood here a moment ago." "rule himself, and no delusion! but, oh! i knew it! i knew it all the time!" she exclaimed, still trembling violently. "my darling cora, try--" "where did he go? where?" she cried, staggering to her feet and clinging to her uncle. "where? oh, take me to him!" "do you see that log cabin on the plateau above us, cora, to the right?" he said, pointing in the direction of which he spoke. her eyes followed his index, and she saw a cottage of rough-hewn logs standing against the rocky steep at the back of the broad ledge above them. "what do you mean? is he up there? is he up there?" she breathlessly demanded. "yes; he is in that hut. i saw him climb the rocks and enter it, and close the door. but, for heaven's sake! compose yourself, my dear. you are shaking as with an ague, and your hands are cold as ice," said clarence. "in that hut, did you say? so near? so near?" "yes, dear cora; but be calm." "take me there! take me there! oh, give me your arm, uncle clarence, and help me. my limbs fail now, when i need them more than ever before. ah! and my heart fails, too!" she moaned, growing suddenly pale and fainter as she leaned heavily against her uncle. "cora, darling! cora, rouse yourself, my girl! this weakness is not like you. take courage; all will be well," said mr. clarence, caressingly, laying his hand on her head. she sighed heavily as she asked: "how will he receive me? oh, how will he receive me? will he have me now? but he must! oh, he must! for i will never, never, never go down this mountain side again without him! i will perish on its rocks sooner! oh, come, come! help me to reach that hut, clarence." there was no resisting her wild and passionate appeal. clarence put his arm around her waist, to sustain her more effectually, as he said: "now lean on me, cora, and step carefully, for the path is almost hidden, and very rugged." "oh, clarence, did he recognize me? did he, clarence? did he?" she eagerly inquired. "yes, cora, he did," gravely answered the young uncle. "and turned and went away! and turned and went away! went away and left me without one word!" she wailed, in doubt and distress. "cora, my dear, pray control yourself," said clarence, uneasily. "did he speak to you?" she suddenly inquired. "not one word." "did you speak to him?" "no; for he was gone in an instant, before i recovered from my astonishment at his appearance." "how did he look?--how did he look when he recognized me? in anger?" "no, corona; but in much sorrow, pity, and tenderness," gravely replied clarence. "then, why did he leave me? oh, why did he turn away from me?" "my dear, he had every reason to think that his sudden appearance had frightened you, and that his presence grieved and distressed you." "why, oh, why should he have thought so?" she demanded, with increasing agitation. "my dear girl, you were frightened. i might say appalled. you saw him suddenly, and with a half-smothered scream threw your hands to your eyes as if to shut out the sight, and then sank to the ground. now what could the man think but that you feared and hated the sight of him?" "just as he thought before! just as he thought before!" "and he turned sorrowfully away and walked up to his cabin on the mount, entered, and shut the door. i saw him do it." "just as he did before! just as he did before! oh, rule! what a fatality! that appearances should always be false and disastrous between us!" she moaned. "not in this case, cora. at least not from this hour. come, we are on the ledge now!" said clarence, as he helped his niece, who with one more high step stood on the top of the plateau, her back to one of the most glorious prairie scenes in nature, her face to a rocky, pine-dotted precipice, against which stood a double log cabin, with a door in the middle and a window on each side. "there is the hut! now, shall i take you there, or shall i wait here and let you go alone?" he inquired, as they stood side by side gazing on the hut. she did not answer. her eyes were riveted on the door of the cabin, while she leaned heavily on the arm of her uncle. "i see how it is: you are weakening, losing courage. let me support you to the door," said clarence, putting his arm around her waist. but she drew herself up suddenly. "oh, let me go alone, dear uncle clarence. my meeting with rule should be face to face only," she replied, still trembling, but resolute. "are you sure you can do it?" "oh, yes, yes! my limbs shall no longer refuse their office!" clarence threw himself down at the foot of a pine tree to sit and await events. he took out his watch and looked at the time. "it is one o'clock," he said to himself. "at two sharp the trail will move, or ought to do so. perhaps neville might give us half an hour's grace, though. at any rate, i will wait here three-quarters of an hour, and if in that time i hear nothing from rothsay or cora, i shall go down the mountain to explain the situation to neville." so saying, mr. clarence took out his pipe, filled and lighted it, and smoked. corona, like a somnambulist or a blind woman, went slowly toward the log cabin, holding out her hands before her. she soon reached it, leaned for a moment against the log wall to recover her breath and her courage, and then knocked. the door was instantly opened, and regulas rothsay stood on the threshold, still clothed in his hunter's suit of buckskin, but without the fur cap--the same rule, unchanged except in habiliments and in the length of his untrimmed, tawny hair and beard. in the instant of meeting she raised her eyes to his, and read in them the undying love of his heart. with a cry of rapture, of infinite relief and infinite content, she sank upon his doorstep, clasped his knees, and laid her beautiful head down prone on his feet. only for a second. he instantly raised her in his arms, pressed her to his heart, kissed her, and kissed her again and again, bore her into the cabin, placed her in the only chair, and knelt down beside her. she turned and threw her arms around his neck, and dropped her head upon his bosom. and not a word was spoken between them. the emotions of both were too great for utterance, too great almost for endurance. they were bathed in a flood of light from the noonday sun pouring its rays through the open door and windows of the cabin. it was the apotheosis of love. rule was the first to speak. "you are welcome, oh, welcome, as life to the dead, my love! but i do not understand my blessedness--i do not," he said, dropping his head on her shoulders, while she still lay on his bosom, in a dream, a trance of perfect contentment. "oh, rule, my husband, my lord, my king! i have come to you, unconsciously led by the divine providence! but i have come to you, to stay forever, if you will have me! i have come, never, never, never to leave you, unless you send me away!" she said. "i send you away, dear? i send away my restored life from me? ah, you know, you know how impossible that would be! but if i should try to tell you, dear, all that i feel at this moment, i should fail, and talk folly, for no human words can utter this, dear! but i am amazed--amazed to see you here with me, as the dead to the material world might be, on awaking amid the splendors of paradise!" "you wish to know how i came?" "no! i do not! amazed as i may be, i am content to know that you are here, dear--here! but," he said, looking around on the rudeness of his hut, "oh, what a place to receive you in! i left you in a palace, surrounded by all the splendors and luxuries of civilization! i receive you in a log cabin, bare of even the necessaries and comforts of life!" he added, gravely. "but you left me a discarded, broken-hearted woman, and you receive me a restored and happy wife!" she exclaimed. "but, oh, cora! can you live with me here, here? look around you, dear! look on the home you would share!--the walls of logs, the chimney of rocks, the floor of stone, the cups and dishes of earthenware, pewter and iron, the--" she interrupted him, passionately: "but you are here, rule! you! you! and the log hut is transfigured into a mansion of light! a mansion like the many in our heavenly father's house! oh, rule! you, you are all, all to me! life, joy, riches, splendor, all to me! am i all to you, rule?" "all of earth and heaven, dear." "oh, happy i am! oh, i thank god, i thank god for this happiness! rule, we will never part again!--never for a single day! but be together, to-day and 'to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, to the last syllable of recorded time,' and through the endless ages of eternity! oh, rule, how could we ever have mistaken our hearts? how could we ever have parted?" "the mistake was mine only, dear. after what you told me on our marriage day, i lost all hope, all interest and ambition in life. i had toiled and striven and conquered, for the one dear prize; all my battle of life was fought for you; all my victories were won for you, and were laid at your feet. but when i found that all my love and hope had brought only grief and despair to you--then, dear, all my triumphs turned into dead sea fruit on my lips! then i left all and came into the wilderness; left no trace behind me; effaced myself from your life, from the world, as effectually as i could do it; and so--believing it to be for your good and happiness--died to the world and died to you!" "oh, rule! miserable woman that i was! i wrecked your life! i wrecked your career!" "no, dear, no; the mistake, i said, was mine! i should have trusted your heart. i should have given you the time you implored; i should not have fled in the madness of suddenly wounded affection." "oh, rule? if you could have only looked back on me after you went away, only known the anguish your disappearance caused me and the inconsolable sorrow of the time that followed it." "if i could have supposed it possible even, i would have hastened to you, from the uttermost parts of the earth!" "and then they reported you dead, murdered by the comanches, in the massacre of la terrepeur, and sorrow was deepened to despair." "yes; i heard of that massacre. the report of my death must have arisen in this way: i had lived at la terrepeur for many months, but had left and come to this place some days before the massacre. some other unfortunate was murdered and burned in the deserted hut, whose bones were found in ashes. i did not return to contradict the report. i wished to be dead to the world, as i was dead to hope, dead to you, dead to myself!" "oh, rule! in all that time how i longed, famished, fainted, died, for your presence! yes, rule; died daily." "my own, dear cora, how could i have mistaken you? oh! if i had only known!" "ah, yes! if you had only known my heart, or i had only known your whereabouts! in either case we should have met before, and not lost four years out of our lives! but now, rule," she said, with sudden animation--"now 'we meet to part no more,' as the hymn says. i will never, never, never, leave you for a day! i will be your very shadow!" "my sunshine, rather, dear!" "and are you content, rule?" "infinitely." "and happy?" "perfectly." "thank god! so am i. but why, oh, why when we met by the spring just now, why, when i was crazed with joy and fear at the sudden sight of you, why did you turn away and leave me?" she passionately demanded. he looked at her serenely, incisively, and answered, calmly, quietly: "dear, because you shrank from me, threw your hands up before your eyes, as if to shut out the sight of me. dear, your own sudden appearance before me at the spring, to which i had gone for my noonday draught of water, nearly overwhelmed me; but i readily recovered myself and understood it, connected it with the trail below, and concluded that you were on your way to farthermost to join your brother, whom i had heard of as one of the officers of the new fort. then, believing that my presence distressed you, i went away." "oh, rule!" after a little while rothsay inquired: "was not that mr. clarence rockharrt whom i saw with you by the spring?" "yes; uncle clarence. he helped me up to this ledge, and then he stayed outside while i came in here to look for you." "let us go and bring him in now, dear," said rule. and the two walked out together. but no one was to be seen on the plateau; only, on the ground under the pine tree where mr. clarence had rested was a piece of white paper, kept in place by a small stone laid upon it. rule picked up the stone, and handed the paper to cora. it proved to be a leaf from mr. clarence's pocket tablets, and on it was written: "i am going down the mountain to tell captain neville that my party will camp here to-night, and join him at the fort to-morrow, so that he may go on with his train at once, if he should see fit. clarence." "he saw you receive me; he knew it was all right; then he grew tired of waiting for me. he thought i had forgotten him, and so i had, and he left this paper and went down to the trail," corona explained with a smile. "shall we go down and see your friends, cora? tell me what you wish, dear," said rothsay. corona looked at her watch, and then replied: "courtesy would have required me to go down and take leave of captain and mrs. neville before leaving them, but it is too late now. their caravan is on the march by this time. they were to have resumed their route at two o'clock. it is after three now." "we can go to farthermost later, dear. it is but half a day's ride from here. shall we go down the mountain and join clarence? is it your wish, cora?" "no, not yet. he is very well as he is. he can wait for us. let us sit down here together. i have so much to tell, and so much to hear," said corona. "yes, dear; and i also have 'so much to tell, and so much to hear,'" assented rothsay, as they sat down at the foot of the young pine tree, with their backs to the rising cliffs and their faces to the descending mountain, the brook at its foot, and the vast, sunlit prairie, in its autumn coat of dry grass, rolling in smooth hills and hollows of gold and bronze off to the distant horizon. "tell me, dear, of all that has befallen you in these dark years that have parted us. tell me of your grandparents. do they still live?" inquired rothsay. "ah, no!" replied corona. and then she entered upon the family history of the last four years and four months, since rule had disappeared, and told him of the sudden death of her dear old grandmother on the very day on which the false report of rothsay's murder reached them. she told him of her uncle fabian's marriage to violet wood a year later. of her widowed grandfather's second marriage to mrs. stillwater, whom rothsay had known in his childhood as miss rose flowers. of the recent death of this second wife, followed very soon after by that of the aged widower. and finally she told him of her own resolution to follow her brother sylvan to his post of duty at fort farthermost, to open a mission home school for indian children, and to devote her life and fortune to their service; and of the good opportunity offered her by the kindness of colonel z. in procuring for her the escort of captain and mrs. neville, who were on their way to farthermost with a party of recruits. "and clarence? how came he to be of the company?" inquired rothsay. "uncle clarence could not agree with uncle fabian in business policy. so they dissolved partnership very amicably and with mutual satisfaction. this was after i had left rockhold. clarence gathered up his wealth, brought three devoted servants with him, and set out to follow me. at st. louis he purchased wagons, tents, horses, mules, and every convenience for crossing the plains. he overtook and surprised us at fort leavenworth on the very day of our intended departure for farthermost." "clarence came for your sake." "yes; and he has enjoyed the journey. on the free prairie he has been like a boy out of school--so buoyant, so joyous--the life of the whole company." "what will he do now?" "i think he will go on to farthermost for this season. after this i do not know what he will do or where he will go." "he will remain in this quarter, which offers a grand field for a man like clarence rockharrt," said rothsay. "i should think it might--in the future," replied corona. "in the near future. the tide of emigration is pouring into this section so fast that very soon the ground will be disputed with the mexican government, and true men and brave men will be much wanted here." "yes," said corona, indifferently, for she cared very little at this moment for public interests. "but tell me of yourself, rule. i long to hear you talk of yourself." rothsay was no egotist. he never had been addicted to speaking of himself or of his feelings. now, at her urgent request, he told her in brief how he had renounced all his honors in the country for the sake of the woman for whose sake, also, he had first striven to win them and had won them. "dear," he said, "from the time you first noticed me, when you were a sweet child of seven summers and i a boy of twelve--yes, winters--for while all your years had been summers, dear--summers of love, shelter, comfort, luxury--all my years had been winters of loss, want, orphanage, and destitution--you were my help, support, inspiration. i longed to be worthy of your friendship, your interest, your sympathy. and for all these things i toiled, endured, and struggled." "i know! oh, i know!" said corona, earnestly. "yes, dear, you know it all. for who but you were with me in the spirit through all the struggle, helping, supporting, encouraging, until you seemed to me my muse, my soul, my inner and purer and higher self. dear, i wronged you when i connected your love with this world's pride. i wronged you bitterly, and i have suffered for it and made you suffer--" "oh, no, no, no, rule! the fault was all my own! i am not so good and wise as you!" exclaimed corona. "hush, dear! hush! hear me out!" said rothsay, laying his hand gently on her head. "well, go on, but don't blame yourself. oh, '_chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_,'" said corona, fervently. he resumed very quietly: "when i had reached a position in this world's honor to which i dared to invite you, then i laid my victory at your feet and prayed you to share it. and, corona, when the bishop had blessed our nuptials, i dreamed that we were blessed indeed. you know, dear, what a miserable awakening i had from that dream on the evening of our wedding day." "it was my fault! it was my fault! oh, vain, foolish, infatuated woman that i was!" cried corona. "no, dear; you were not to blame. you were true, candid, natural through it all. our betrothal, dear, was on your part the betrothal of friends. you did not know your own heart then. you went abroad with your grandparents, and, after two years of travel, you were thrown in the court circles of london, and exposed to all the splendors, temptations and fascinations of rank, culture and refinement, such as you had never met at home in your rural neighborhood. you were caught, dazzled, bewildered. you thought you loved the english duke who sought your hand--" "but i never did, rule. oh, heaven knows i never did. it was all self-delusion," broke in corona. "no; you never did. i saw that in the first instant that i met your eyes in the log cabin up yonder. you never did! it was a self-delusion. yet you were under the influence of that self-delusion when i found you on our wedding evening in such a paroxysm of grief and despair that i--astonished and amazed at what i saw--shared your delusion and imagined that you loved this duke when you married me. what could i do, my own dear cora, for whom i would have lived or died at bidding--what could i do but efface myself from your life?" "oh! you could have given me time--time to recover from my mental illness, since i had done no evil willingly. since i had kept my troth as well as i could. since i had vowed to love and serve you all the days of my life. you should have given me time, rule, to recover my senses and keep my vow." "yes; i should have done so! but, you see, i did not know. how could i know? oh, my dear cora! it cost me little to lay down all the honors i had won, for they were worthless to me if not shared by you, for whom they were won. but it cost my life almost to resign you. mine was 'not the flight of a felon' or a coward, but the retirement of one sick, sick unto death of the world and of all the glory of the world. some men in my case might have sought relief in death, but i--i knew i must live until the lord of life should himself relieve me of duty. so i left the city on the night of my wedding day, the night also before my inauguration day." "oh, rule! and as if it required that supreme act of renunciation to tear the veil from my eyes and let me see you as you were, and see my own heart as it was--from that hour i knew how much, how deeply, how eternally i loved you!" said corona. rothsay raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. then he resumed: "i wrote two letters--one to you, explaining my motives for leaving, and advising you not to repeat to any one the subject or substance of our last interview, lest it should be misunderstood or misrepresented, and should do you unmerited injury with an evil-thinking world--" "yes, rule. see! see! i have that letter yet!" exclaimed corona, hastily unbuttoning the front of her bodice and pulling up the little black silk bag which she wore next her heart, suspended from the silken cord around her neck, and taking from it the old, yellow, broken paper which contained the last lines he had written to her. "you kept that all this time, dear?" he inquired, gently taking the paper and looking at it. "yes. why not? it was the last relic i possessed of you. and it has never left me. i never showed it to a human being, because you did not wish me to do so. but you said you had written two letters. to whom was the other? we never heard of it." rothsay looked at her in surprise for a moment and answered: "the other letter? why, of course it was my letter of resignation." "then it was never found! never! if it had been, it would have saved much trouble. no one knew what had become of you, rule. not even i, except that you had left me on account of that last conversation between us, which you adjured me never to divulge. and oh! what amazement your disappearance caused! and what conjectures as to your fate! many thought that you had been assassinated and your body sunk in the river. oh, rule! many others thought that you had been abducted by some political enemy--as if any force could have carried you off, rule!" rothsay laughed for the first time during the interview. corona continued: "advertisements were placed in all the papers, offering large rewards for information that should lead to the discovery of your fate or whereabouts, living or dead. and, oh! how many impostors came forward to claim the money, with information that led to nothing at all. a sailor returning from rio de janeiro swore that you had shipped as a man before the mast and gone out with him, and that he had left you in the capital of brazil. a fur trader from alaska reported you killing seals in that territory. a returned miner swore that he had left you gold digging in california. a new bedford sailor made his affidavit that he had seen you embark on a whaling ship for baffin's bay. these were the most hopeful reports. but there were others. there was never the body of an unknown man found anywhere that was not reported to be yours. oh, rule! think of the anguish all these rumors cost your friends!" "cost you, my poor corona! i doubt if they cost any other human being a single pang." "but all these rumors proved to be false, and your fate remained a mystery until it was apparently cleared up by the report of your murder by the comanches in the massacre of la terrepeur." "a report as false as any of the others, as you see, yet with a better foundation in probability than any of those, as i have explained. but how my letter of resignation should have been lost i cannot conjecture. i posted it with my own hand," said rothsay, reflectively. "why, letters are occasionally lost in the mail! but, rule, how was it that you never heard of all the amazement and confusion that followed your flight, for the want of your letter to explain it?" "because, dear, from the time i left the state capital to this day i have never seen a newspaper or spoken to a civilized being." "rule!" "it is true, dear! look at me. have i not degenerated into a savage?" "no, no, no, regulas rothsay! you could never do that! ah! how much nobler you look to me in that rude forest garb than ever in the fine dress of the drawing room! but tell me about your journey from the city into the wilderness, and of your life since." "i have been trying to do so, cora, but every time i try to begin my narrative by reverting to the hour of my flight, i seem spellbound to that hour and cannot escape from it. but i will try again," he said, and he began his story. he told her, in brief, that on leaving the rockhold house and going out upon the sidewalk, he found the streets still alight with illuminated houses and alive with the orgies of revelers who had come to the inauguration. in moving through the crowd he was unrecognized, for who could suspect the black-coated figure passing alone along the street at midnight to be the governor-elect of the state, in whose honor the assembled multitudes were getting drunk? his first intention had been to take a hack, drive to the railway depot, and board the first train going west. but the hacks were all engaged as sleeping berths by men who could not get accommodations in any of the houses of the overcrowded city. so he set off to walk, and almost immediately came face to face with old scythia, the friend of his childhood. "old scythia!" exclaimed corona, interrupting the narrative. "yes, dear; the old seeress of raven roost, as they used to call her. of course, i never, even as a boy, believed in the supernatural powers of divination ascribed to her, but i must credit her with wonderful intuitions. she had divined the very crisis that had come, and in that hour of my agony and humiliation she exercised a strange power over me," said rothsay; and then he took up the thread of his narrative again. he told her that on leaving the state capital he had taken neither railway carriage nor river steamboat, but had tramped, with old scythia by his side, all the way from the cumberland mountains to the southwestern frontier. the journey had taken them all the summer, for they traveled very slowly--sometimes walking no more than ten miles a day, sometimes sleeping on pallets made of leaves under the trees of the forest, sometimes reaching a pioneer's log hut, where they could get a hot supper and a night's lodging. sometimes stopping over sunday in some settlement where there was no church, and where rule, though not an ordained minister, would on christian principles hold a service and preach a sermon. so they journeyed over the mountains, and through the valleys and forests, until at length, in the end of october, they arrived at the poorest, loneliest, and most forlorn of all the pioneer settlements they had seen. this was la terrepeur, on the borders of the indian reserve. it was a settlement of about twenty log huts, in a small valley shut in by densely wooded hills, and watered by a narrow brook. it was too near the country of the comanches for safety, and too far from the nearest fort for protection. there was neither church nor school house within a hundred miles. the travelers were hospitably received by the pioneers, and here, as the autumn was far advanced, and travel difficult, they determined to halt for the winter, at least, and in the spring to go farther south in search of scythia's tribe, the nez percees, who had been moved away from their former hunting grounds. they were feasted and lodged by the hutters that night. the next morning the men turned out in a body, felled trees and cleared a spot on the slope of a wooded hill, sawed logs and built two huts, one for rothsay, and one for old scythia. they were finished before night. and then the settlers had a house-warming, which was a breakdown dance to the music of the one fiddle in the settlement, and a supper of such eatables and drinkables as the place could afford. but there was no furniture in these two primitive dwellings. so once more these wayfarers had each to sleep on a bed of leaves. on the second day the man who owned the only mule and cart, and was the only expressman and carrier to the settlement, offered to go to the nearest post trader's station--a distance of fifty miles--and purchase anything that the strangers might need, if said strangers had the money to buy. rothsay had money in notes, hardly thought of, and never looked at, except when, on their long journey, he had to take out his pocket book to pay for accommodations at some log cabin, or to purchase a change of under clothing at some post trader's. also old scythia had a pouch of silver and gold coin, saved from the money that had been regularly sent to her by rule from the time when he first began to earn wages to the time when they set out for the wilderness in company. of this money they gave the frontier expressman all that he required to purchase the plainest furniture for the log cabins--bedding, cooking utensils, crockery ware, and some groceries. "yer can't buy bed or mattresses at the post trader's; but yer can buy ticking, and we can sew it up for yer, and the men will stuff with straw. there's plenty of straw," said one of the kindly women, speaking for all her neighbors. and the expressman set out with his list. in three days he was back again with a satisfactory supply. the women made the straw beds and pillows and hemmed the sheets. the men filled the ticks and "knocked together" a pine table and a few rude, three-legged stools. and so rothsay and old scythia were settled for the winter. rothsay took upon himself the office of teacher and preacher. among the articles brought from the post trader's were a few bibles, hymn books, and elementary school books, slates and pencils. he began his labors by holding a religious service in his own cabin on the first sabbath of his sojourn at la terrepeur, which--perhaps for its rarity--was attended by the whole of the little community. and on the next day he opened his little school in his hut, where he taught the children all day, and where he slept at night. old scythia's cabin was kitchen and dining room. all that autumn, winter and spring rule labored among the pioneers of la terrepeur. it was not true, as had been reported, that he was a missionary and schoolmaster to the indians; for no one of the savages who occasionally came into the settlement could be induced to approach the "school." it was in june that old scythia became restless and anxious to find her tribe--the wandering nez percees. rothsay gave his school a vacation and set out with scythia to find the valley where they were reported to be in camp. "this valley below, cora, dear," said rothsay, interrupting the course of the narrative. "but when we reached it, the nez percees had disappeared. a lonely old hunter, who had built this hut, was the only human being in the place, and he was slowly dying, and he would have died alone but for the opportune arrival of old scythia and myself. he told us that the nez percees had crossed the river about two weeks before, and were far on their migration west." "old scythia sat down flat on the floor, drew up her knees, folded her hands upon them, dropped her head, and died as quietly as a tired child falls to sleep." "oh!" exclaimed corona, "how sad it was." "yes; it was sad; age, fatigue and disappointment did their work. i buried her body under that pine tree where your uncle clarence sat down. the old hunter's struggle with dissolution was longer. he lingered five days. i waited on him until death relieved him, and then laid his body to rest beside old scythia's. i was then preparing to return to la terrepeur, when a wandering scout brought me the news of the massacre of the inhabitants and the destruction of the settlement. since that time, dear corona, i have lived alone on this mountain. that is all. come, shall we go down and see your uncle?" "yes," said corona. and they arose and walked down into the valley. they soon found the wagon camp of clarence rockharrt and his followers. the horses and mules, which had been unharnessed, watered and fed, were now tethered to the scattered tree trunks, and were nosing about under the dried leaves in search of the tender herbage that was still springing in that genial soil beneath the shelter of the fallen foliage. the wagons had been drawn up under cover of the thicket and prepared as sleeping berths. on the grass was spread a large white damask table cloth, and on that was arranged a neat tea service for three. martha was busy at a gypsy fire boiling coffee and broiling venison steaks. "you are just in time, rule. how do you do?" exclaimed mr. clarence, emerging from among the horses, and coming forward to shake hands with rothsay as if they had been in the daily habit of meeting for the last four years. the two men clasped hands cordially. "i always had a secret conviction that you were living, rule, and always secretly hoped to meet you again, 'somehow, somewhere;' and now my prescience is justified in our meeting to-day." "clarence," gravely replied rothsay, "you ask me no questions, yet now i feel that you are entitled to some explanation of my strange flight and long sequestration. and i will give it to you to-morrow." "my dear rothsay, i have divined much of the mystery, but you may tell me what you like, when you like. and now supper is ready," said clarence, heartily, as the four servants came up, each with a dish to set on the cloth, quite an unnecessary pageantry where one would have been enough, but that they all wanted to see the long-lost man. and with the warmth and freedom of their race they quickly set down their dishes and gathered around the stranger to give him a warm welcome, expressing loudly their surprise and delight in seeing him. "dough 'deed i doane wonner at nuffin' wot turns up in dis yere new country!" old martha declared. then followed a gay and happy _al fresco_ supper. by the time it was over the sun had set, and the autumn evening air, even in that southern clime, was growing very chilly. so the three friends arose from the table. rothsay and corona turned to go up the hill. clarence escorted them, carrying corona's bag. they parted at the door of the log cabin. "i shall have our tent pitched at the foot of the mountain early to-morrow morning, and breakfast prepared. you will come down and join me," said mr. clarence, as he bade the reunited pair good night. the wagon camp did not break up the next day, nor the day after that. on the third day who should arrive but lieut. haught, absent on leave, and come to look up his relations. his meeting with them was a jubilee. his sister wept for joy; his brother-in-law and his uncle would have embraced him if they had expressed their emotions as continental europeans do; even the negroes almost hugged and kissed him. on lieut. haught's representations and at his persuasions the little camp broke up, and with rothsay and cora in company, marched off to fort farthermost, where they were cordially received by the commandant and the officers, and where the reunited pair commenced life anew. my story opened with the marriage and mysterious separation of the newly married pair. it should close with their reunion. the later life of my young hero belongs to history. it would require a pen more powerful than mine to pursue his career, which was as grand, heroic and romantic as that of any knight, prince, or paladin in the days of old. his pure name and fame became identified with the rise and progress of a great state in that southwestern wilderness. soldier, statesman, patriot, benefactor, all in one, his memory will be honored as long as his country shall last. and yet, perhaps, the crowning glory of his character was his power of self-renunciation--proved in every act of his public life, but shown first, perhaps, when, to leave the life of one beloved woman free, he renounced not only the hand of his adored bride, but "the kingdoms of the world and the glory." desert love by joan conquest author of "leonie of the jungle" new york the macaulay company copyright, by the macaulay company printed in the u. s. a. to m. f. contents part i the seed part ii the flower part iii the fruit part i the seed desert love chapter i jill looked at the east! at her feet sat huddled groups of women, just bundles of black robes, some with discs about their necks, some with chains or golden crescents upon the forehead, all wearing the _burko_ [yashmak or face veil] covering the entire face with the exception of the eyes, and held in position between the eyebrows by the quaint tube-shaped _selva_, fastening it to the _tarhah_, the flowing black veil which nearly touches the ground behind, covers the head, and pulled down to the eyebrows leaves just the beautiful dark eyes to be seen, glancing up timidly--in this case--at the golden-haired, blue-eyed girl above them. men of different classes stood around, or squatted on their heels upon the ground, all in flowing robes of different colouring and various stages of cleanliness, some with heads covered in turbans, some with the tarboosh, others with the kahleelyah or head handkerchief, all chattering with the exception of the higher classes and the bedouins, the latter clothed in white, with the distinctive thong of camel's hair wound about the head covering, arms folded and face passively serene, looking as though they had stepped right out of the old testament on to the fly-ridden, sunbaked station of ismailiah; whilst vendors of cakes, sticky, melting sweets, and small oranges, wandered in and out of the crowd screaming their wares. shouts of laughter drew jill's attention to the other side of the station, where, with terms of endearment mixed with blood-curdling threats, a detachment of british soldiers getting ready to start en route for suez were urging, coaxing, striving to make that most obstinate of animals, the camel, get to its feet some time before midnight. from them she looked at a group of native dwellings made of sunbaked clay. small square buildings, looking in the distance like out-houses, with scarcely perceptible windows, and flat roofs given over to poultry. near them the patient bullock did its monotonous round, drawing the precious water from the well with which to moisten the arid little patch of earth from which the fellah extracts the so very little necessary to him in his life. a clump of slender palms, like forgotten scaffolding, stood out clear against the intense blue of the sky; the desert, that wonderful magnetic plain, stretched away in mile upon mile of yellow nothingness, until as minute as flies on a yellow floor, growing more distinct at every step, with solemn and exceeding great dignity stalked a string of camels, each animal fastened by a rope to the saddle of the one in front, each apparently unconscious of its seemingly overwhelming burden, as with heads swaying slightly from side to side with that air of disdain which the dame of belgravia unsuccessfully tries to imitate when essaying to crush the inhabitant of suburbia by means of long-handled lorgnettes resting on the shiny arch of her aristocratic nose, they responded without fail to the soft musical voice of the arab seated cross-legged on the leader. then her eyes turned to the west. to the mixed mob which had rushed from the _norddeutscher lloyd_ at suez, leaving the great liner to the wise few, while perspiring and querulous, and altogether unpleasant, they had filled the little train which chuffs its way along the edge of the canal to ismailiah, and through the dust and fly-laden miles to cairo, where it turns its burden out to clamour and argue vociferously with the wily dragoman who would take a herd of elephants to "do" the pyramids in one hour if the backsheesh proved substantial enough. with absolute loathing she gazed at those with whom she had passed so many weary days on the return journey from australia. there were of a certain type of english women not a few, sunburnt, loud of voice, lean of breast and narrow of hip. their sisters, wiser and better endowed by nature, had remained on the liner, taking advantage of the empty conditions of the boat to repair the ravage done to complexion and wardrobe by the sizzling, salt-laden wind which had tortured them since colombo had been left behind. two daughters and a mother stood aloofly in the shade thrown by the indescribable waiting-room; the mother still labouring under the delusion that if you can't afford to send your girls properly wardrobed on a visit to relations in india, the next best method of annexing husbands for them is to take them hacking on a long sea voyage. for has it not been known that many a man driven to the verge of madness by the everlasting sight of flying fish, and the as enduring sound of the soft plop of the little bull-board sandbag, has become engaged to "a perfectly im-_poss_-ible person in the second class, you know," so as to break the deadly monotony of his surroundings. they did not want to see cairo or any other part of egypt, for the east said nothing to them, even a rush view of the pyramids failing to stir their shallow hearts; but they knew to a shade the effect on their less fortunate friends when in course of time they should murmur, "you remember, dear, the winter we were in cairo." added to these there were raucous australians, clumsily built guttural germans, in fact the usual omnium gatherum, unavoidable, alas! on a sea voyage, clothed in short skirts, shirt waists, squash hats, and thick boots as "they were going tramping about the sands," and each, of _course_, loaded with the inevitable camera which gives dire offence to many an eastern of higher rank, who hates being photographed willy-nilly along with all the other "only a native" habits of the westerner, who with the one word "nigger" describes the rajah of india, the sheik of arabia, the hottentot and the christy minstrel. free for one day from the restraining manners of those others who at that very moment were doubtless returning thanks on deck to allah for his manifold blessings in the shape of some few hours of perfect peace, a few men of different nationalities were either boisterously chaffing the less plain of their companions, or ogling the shrinking eastern women, crouching on the edge of the platform. mr. billings in fact, in unclean canvas shoes and a frantic endeavour to find favour in the bistre enlarged eyes of a certain slim black figure, was executing the very double shuffle which had "brought down" the second class dining saloon honoured for the nonce by the presence of the first class, on the occasion of one of the purgatorial concerts habitual to sea life as known on board a liner. chapter ii jill stood by herself! personally i consider as infinitely boring those descriptions written at length anent the past lives of the characters, male and female, which go to the building of a novel, so in as few words as possible will try to outline the years which had brought jill carden to the dreary task of waiting hand and foot upon the whimsies of a neurotic german woman of great wealth, and still greater disinclination to part with the smallest coin of any realm she might be travelling through. jill, an only child and motherless, had led a glorious care-free existence. adored by her father and her two friends, moll, otherwise the honourable mary bingham pronounced beam, of the neighbouring estate, and jack, otherwise sir john wetherbourne, baronet, of the next county, big brother to jill and worshipper at the shrine of moll. jill was also loved by all who waited on her, and sought after by not a few on account of her great wealth, and had laughed her way through seventeen years of life, to find herself suddenly minus father and money, with nothing left in fact but an estate mortgaged to the smallest pebble, and a heart-whole proposition from her chum moll to "just come over the wall" and restart laughing her way as her adopted sister through the bit of life which might stretch from the moment of disaster to such time that she should find a life companion with whom she could settle down and live happily ever after! but although jill's head was outwardly covered with great plaits of auburn hair, through which broke riotous, frivolous curls, the inside held a distinctly active and developed brain, which had acquired the habit of thinking deeply upon such subjects as woman, wife and motherhood. added to this, which is already quite enough to put out of gear the life of any girl brought up in convention bound england, she had a heart as big as her outrageous longing for, and love of adventure, neither of which bignesses she had so far been able to satisfy. as i have said this was quite bad enough, but through and above all, her whole rather exceptional being was desirous of love. not the shape which clothes its diseased body in soiled robes of imitation something at one and elevenpence three farthings per yard, and under ferns in conservatories, in punts up back-waters, in stifling tea-rooms, hotels, theatres and night-clubs, exchanges sly look for sly look and soiled mouth for soiled kisses, in its endeavours to pass itself off as that wonder figure which, radiant of brow and humorous of mouth, deep of breast and profound of thought, stands motionless in high and by-ways with hands outstretched to those futile figures, blindly hurrying past the love they fondly imagine is to be found in the front row of the chorus, the last row of the cinema, or the unrestrained licence of the country house. jill had never flirted and therefore had known no kiss excepting her father's matutinal and nocturnal peck. she looked upon her beautiful body as some jewel to be placed in the hands of the man she loved upon her wedding-night, so it was as unsoiled and as untainted as her mind, although she knew that once she loved she would go down before that mighty force as a tree before a storm. dull, you will say all this. may be! but mighty refreshing in these days when amourette follows amourette as surely as monday follows sunday, the only difference in the stock being the trade mark, which stamps the one with the outline of a perfect limousine, and the other with the front seat on the top of an omnibus; though believe me the mondays and sundays differ not at all. jill's ideas on franchise and suffrage, and a "good time" as seen from the standpoint of the average society girl or woman were absolutely nil. she wanted first of all a master, then a home, and then children, many of them. her idea of love was utter submission to the man she should love. her ideal of happiness his happiness, and although she had no fixed idea of her home, she was positively certain she did not want lodge gates and forelock-pulling peasantry, nor tame deer inside elaborate palings, nor the white-capped nurse stiff with starch trundling a perambulator with a fat, ordinary, rosy heir to the palings, deer, and pullers of locks. so she sweetly but very definitely said no to a certain millionaire, who had earned his banking account and the thanks of many thousands by his invention of a non-popping champagne cork, and who, adoring the girl, had hastened the very day the news of the smash had spread through the country, like fire on a windy day, to lay his portly self and all that thereunto adhered at her beautiful feet. the disgust of her relatives upon her want of common sense was outspoken; for having overstocked their respective quivers with commonplace female arrows, they quite naturally looked with dismay upon an almost beautiful and _quite_ penniless and homeless girl about whom, _after_ having read the will they referred to as "poor jill, for whom i _suppose_ we _must_ do _something_ don't you know?" with a quavering inflection at the end of the phrase. but jill did not stop on refusing the eligible owner of an unmortgaged estate. no! she set out to look for work off her own bat, and actually found it in that occupation which, far less paid than more, opens up a perfect vista of possible adventures under the guise of a travelling companion. she spoke french, german, and italian like natives, which was all to the good. she danced like a vernon castle, knew almost as much about fencing as a saviolo, shot like a george v., and rode like a cowboy, all of which qualifications she erased from her list on the termination of the freezing half-hour of her first interview with her first would-be employer, who, until the enumeration of the above sporting qualifications, had seemed desirous of taking her along with a bronchitic pug to winter in bath. since then she had done europe and africa pretty well with never the suspicion of an adventure, and, when you meet her on the station of ismailiah, where you change for port said, she was returning from australia, with a wardrobe at last beginning to fret about the hem, and shine around the seams, a condition accounted for by the emaciated condition of her purse; a memory of good things and hours worn thin by the constant nerve-wracking routine of capsules, hot drinks, hot water bottles, moods and shawls; and a fully developed rebellion in her whole being against the never-ending vista which stretched far into the future, of other such hours, days, months, yea! even years! but everything was capped by a still more fully developed decision to brave it out, and out, and out, rather than return to ask the help of those whose hand-clasp had weakened in ratio to the dwindling of the gold in her coffers. chapter iii and why did she stand by herself? this is no riddle, the answer being too easy. men would have answered, "guessed in once, she was pretty!" and the women would guess in once too, but would keep silent, the pretty ones merely smiling, having sampled the coventry-sending powers of plain women in the majority on board, and the plain ones from that unwillingness inborn or inherited in every woman to admit good looks, or good anything for that matter, in a member of her own sex. and she _was_ pretty, with the prettiness of youth allied to genuine red-gold hair, and the bluest of blue eyes, which looked at you in disconcertingly straight manner from between the longest black lashes you ever saw. she sounds very much like a "dainty novel heroine," but i have met her and i know, and she also had a mouth turned up at the corners, and the loveliest teeth, a nose which also turned up, not unduly, and a skin on which lay the merest suspicion of powder like dust on a butterfly's wings, also two jet black _grains de beauté_, one at the corner of her mouth and the other on top of the left cheek, just under the outside corner of the eye. _ravissante_! her beauty was nature's own, and she had the loveliest, longest, narrowest feet ever shod and silken hosed by audet, and as lovely out of the silken hose as in. but all that, though it pleased the eye, did not really constitute her real charm. it was more the idea of strength, and buoyancy, and the love of humanity she gave out, that attracted young and old, rich and poor, dogs, children, and the sick of soul and body to her. the type of woman who owns the husband of a roaming disposition and has not got accustomed to the disposition, or the woman eager to acquire a husband of any disposition whatever, liked her not at all, failing to see that she was genuinely uninterested in other people's male belongings. those who think to lure men by the mystery of a tobacco cloud permanently around the head, or to stimulate by the sight of a glass which looks like lemonade but isn't, nestling among the everlasting cards and cigarette debris, disliked her _intensely_, not so much because she did not ally herself _with_ them, as for the fact that she did not range herself _against_ them, having even been heard to remark that the world would be a deadly dull place is everyone enjoyed the same pleasure and the same wickedness. just three more items to add to the long list against her on this particular voyage. firstly, had she not one sizzling red sea day appeared with her hair hanging in two great plaits reaching below her knees? which escapade might have escaped uncensured if accompanied by the whitish eye-lashes, forceful freckles, and pungent aroma usually allied to reddish hair, but as it was, the combination of the red-gold glory with blackest curling lashes, skin like satin, and the faintest trace of devonshire lavender, created a perfect scandal among those whose locks were either limply curtaining their owner's cheeks or blinding the eye, or câchéd under some head covering were acquiring a wave which might with luck last out the dinner and bridge hours. secondly, although a penniless companion, she allowed no familiarity from the men and no condescension from the women; and thirdly, her shoes gave reason for envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, being on the day you met her exquisite champagne coloured things, her critics little guessing that the reason she wore them was that she had none thicker, and no money wherewith to buy any. this last point sounds almost absurd, but those who know will any day back the woman with dainty ankles, pretty feet, the glimpse of white lace and a plain face, against the really beautiful countenance up above the shapeless ankle-calf combine, and the foot that in two days gives a shoe the shape of the bows of a dinghey. so because of all these reasons, also because all the nice, wise people who loved her having stayed behind, she stood alone, her heart clamouring for life and adventure, which comes to about the same thing, and which she sensed is to be found so much more easily in the east she was leaving behind in the space of a few hours. the rest of her rebelling against the west, the monotonous days on the boat racing her back to england in november, with nothing to do, too much to eat, and the trail of medicine glasses, cushions, gouty, dyspeptic, and neurotic employers lengthening into the drab future. "allah! help me!" she whispered, and really meaning it, as she turned to look again at the camels stalking on into the desert, and finding herself instead looking straight into the eyes of an arab standing behind her. and here, i hope, endeth the dullest part of the book. chapter arabs as a race are tall, most of them having a grave look of nobility, all without exception, inheriting from their forefathers ishmail or johtan that air of studied calm, that seldom smiling, never restless attitude, which expresses the height of dignity and gravity. there were many of them in this motley station crowd, also bedouins, smaller of stature, and the members of the many other tribes which go to populating the great egyptian desert. but not one of all the men, magnificent though some of them were, could compare with hahmed the camel king, who, standing alone and motionless with folded arms, let his eyes rest upon this most fair woman from the west. jill was accustomed to being looked at, from the impudent stare of frenchmen, the open look of admiration, both male and female, of the italian, to the never-to-be-forgotten look of berlin that had seemed to undress and leave her naked in the street. but now under grave scrutiny she felt the colour, which made her even more lovely, rising from chin to brow, and longed to cover her face or to run away and hide, though there was nothing but a wondering respect in the arab's eyes. for one moment his eyes met hers, then she slowly lowered the heavy white lids with their fringe of curling lashes, and, turning, stood looking out over the desert, where she no longer saw the stretches of yellow sand, nor the airing of camels stalking away into the distance, nor the mud houses and patient bullocks. no! nothing of all these, but instead, just one man's face, oval, lean-featured, eyes brilliantly black and deep-set under thick eyebrows, an aquiline nose, the lower part of the face covered in a sharp pointed beard, and the thick virile hair by a snow-white kahleelyah, bound by a band to the well-shaped head. a man was he indeed with a width of shoulder rarely seen in an arab, standing well over six foot, in spotless white robes sweeping to his feet, a cloak of finest black cloth falling over all in swinging folds, failing, however, to hide that look of tremendous strength which impresses one so in some of the long-limbed, lean, muscular inhabitants of the desert. jill walked over to the edge of the platform which, as a rule is only raised a few inches above the rail, and after a few seconds beckoned her employer's special dragoman, who had annexed himself at cairo and presumably would only be shaken off on deck. he came immediately, all smiles. all the so-called lower classes smiled upon jill, from the coster in whitechapel to the kaffir at the cape. and why? why, because she smiled when she asked a service. "be more dignified!" she would indignantly reply when remonstrated with about the native. "they certainly show a varied degree of blackness in their skin, and have less brains than some of us, but they are human, so i shall continue to smile if i like," and smile she did, and they smiled too and ran to do her bidding. not that she indulged in the "our dear black brother" views of those people who, from utter lack of knowledge upon the subject, believe that with the exception of a certain difference in the pigment which embellishes the skin, the lowest type of hottentot has the same ideals, desires, and outlook on life as the highest born, or, as i think to be more correct, i should say, the cleanest living individual in the western hemisphere. she did not approve of the promiscuous mingling of the white and black as is so often and so unhappily seen in london, where a servant girl maybe, will ecstatically spend her evening out under the protection of some ebony hued product of africa and, labouring under the delusion that the dusky swain is the direct descendant of cetewayo, also totally lacking all knowledge of african history, will fondly imagine herself a queen in embryo, instead of which she is merely the means to feed the lustful longing for the white in some cape boy, who believes he hides the roll of his native walk under an exaggerated skirt to his over-padded coat. and she equally hated to see the social butterfly smile upon the high-born native of india, angling for his lakhs with the bait of a fair white skin upon which to fasten a string of priceless pearls, gathering her fastidious skirts about her at the sign of any feeling more human than that which she would allow from a respectable bank manager, recoiling disdainfully from a man whose ancestors were mighty in the land, when hers were just beginning to break through the crust of serfdom, as a toad will crack and throw back the caked mud under which it has blissfully slept. as a preventative to social and racial mishaps she thoroughly endorsed the theory that "east is east and west is west, etc." but in her heart, or rather in her somewhat searching brain, she had often wondered if there could be no exception to the ruling, if half of the east and half of west could never combine to make a perfect whole. all smiles the dragoman ran forward, saluting her with hands to forehead, mouth, and breast. "do you know who that man is?" she asked, indicating with a scarcely perceptible movement of the head the arab who had not moved a muscle since she had turned away from him to look at his homeland, the desert. "'im! my lady!" replied the native, eyes and white teeth flashing as he essayed in his best anglo-french to please the beautiful foreigner who so graciously spoke to him. "'im? oh, 'im! is hahmed the camel king. 'im provide the camels for government 'camels corpse,'" pointing to the camelry corps, where perspiring tommies and a seething mass of brown beasts were literally raising the dust on the other side of the railroad. "'im," he continued, "is ze great man, from far away over ze canal from ze greates' and best part of south arabia. is rich, oh! rich! oh! so very rich--_riche comme le diable, madame_. is master of many villages, many peoples, but is 'ow say, my lady--_est étrange_--and feared. 'is word is ze law and 'is arm is ze iron and 'e can also shoot ze fly on ze top of cheops!" the man paused, literally from want of breath. "he is evidently a very fine man," said jill, it must be confessed a little disappointedly, having expected something a little less ordinary in the way of history, "but i can't say i see anything strange about it all!" the dragoman, slightly downcast by the lack of enthusiasm on the part of his audience, took in a huge quantity of the absolutely stifling air and started afresh. "oh! _mais, madame_, ze strange zing is zat wiz all 'is rich, all 'is camel, all 'is 'ouse--ah! i forgot zat is 'is ismailiah 'ouse," pointing a long, brown finger to a huge pink edifice, standing like a huge pink birthday cake under the blazing sun on the edge of the town--"'e 'as no woman--no not an one--not wife--not lady--zere is tales of one wife long ago over zere," pointing vaguely in the direction he imagined south arabia might be, "but feared, we say and ask nozing--no! ze great hahmed live alone--not zere------" once more pointing contemptuously to the pink abode. "zat but a business 'ouse--ze most beautiful place in one oasis! ze flat oasis! ah madame! _comme c'est 'belle_--i who 'ave been on camel business can tell, ze 'ouse, ze shade, ze water--but no lady, no children, no son, no one--'e go and sleep and live all by self alone--_triste_, madame, because 'e is ze great, ze just, but go always alone in ze night to 'is oasis _bien aimée_ and------" and here the uplifting of an angry guttural voice caused him to turn and run hurriedly towards a figure vehemently signalling with a huge fawn-coloured sun-shade lined with green. and as he ran the soul of the desert, born of the sun, palms, ennui, flies, the sand, and allah knows what besides, suddenly sat up in jill's eyes and laughed, and as she laughed the words "go always alone in ze night to 'is oasis _bien aimée_" rang in the girl's ears, as a strange and startling idea flashed across her mind. for and against the idea ranged her thoughts; upheld one moment by the insistent clamouring of her whole soul for freedom; combated the next by the inherited deference to convention planted by long dead generations in the mind soil of almost every british subject. why should she not break away and strike out on her own, if only for a few hours? but would she not be running into positive physical danger if she did so? still it would only be for a few hours--a swift ride into the desert--a glimpse of a desert home--a break anyhow in the deadly, soul-stifling monotony of her daily round. yes! but what did she know of the man outside the eulogies of the dragoman, who for all she knew might be leagued with him in nefarious schemes. and yet, no one cared if she lived or died in soul or body. marry she would not for years, and years, though of a truth that prospect would become more and more remote as youth vanished and the waters of her wealth remained at low tide. but the most irresistible argument in favour of the mad idea was that so far she had not had one single real adventure. "allah!" she whispered, clasping her hands involuntarily. "where is my path? show me the way out!" and even as she unclasped her hands, she heard a faint tinkle of coins in the well-worn little bag hanging from her wrist. "allah has heard!" she murmured to herself, as she fished for a coin. "heads i speak--tails i go back to england," she continued, placing the silver coin on her thumb nail, flipping it into the air, and catching it on the back of her hand. "heads. oh!" and giving herself no time to think, whilst the soul in her eyes first frowned and then laughed in glee, she turned and crossed the few yards covered by the sand which for centuries blown hither and hither had been waiting to make a carpet for her lovely feet to tread when allah in his graciousness should show her the path, which would lead her to the way out. chapter v jill had an entrancing speaking voice. she spoke on a low note, and having trained the muscles of the throat to relax or tighten at will, she was able to throw all manner of inflection into the words, and all shades of tone and melody into the chords of the beautiful musical instrument which is so terribly neglected the world over. so that when she spoke, her words sounded like the chiming of distant bells in the ears of the man, and his heart seemed likely to be engulfed in the golden stream of a voice through which continuously rippled a gentle laughter. "monsieur will forgive me for speaking in this abrupt way, but the moments are few in which to make my request. i hear that in the desert is a beautiful oasis, and many beautiful arabian horses. i have never seen an oasis, for you see i know nothing of egypt, but i once had an arab mare. she was wonderful and white. perhaps monsieur has some of her brothers or sisters? and just for once i should like to see the desert stars at night, and the desert sun at dawn. could monsieur take me to see these things if----" and then the golden voice stopped short, and the girl involuntarily took one step backward. those who know the race know that the arab has a tremendous control over his emotions. he can love and kill in one moment, but until the woman is literally swept off her feet, or the man or woman is dead, in a heap, neither by voice or gesture will he betray the passion consuming him. the voice, the greatest betrayer of mankind, is especially under control of these exceedingly strong men. no matter what paroxysm of rage, revenge, or desire may be shaking the man to the innermost depth of his being, his voice flows on just as musically, just as softly. but jill, being observant, had noticed that although the hands lay folded on the crossed arms, the nails were dug into the palms, and raising her eyes to the sombre face for explanation, had encountered two eyes blazing with a mighty anger. there are many ways in which to incite the arab to wrath, but believe me, the way which will most surely lead to sudden murder, or to long bloody feud drawn out over many years, passing from generation to generation, is the way of _ridicule_. let him think that you are laughing at him, and i should advise you to take the nearest camel, train, or boat, or any other means of locomotion to hand, and fly the country. the _country_ mind you, for hide you ever so craftily, he will find you, even though your hair be white, and your figure bent with the passage of years, and then, only _then_ will he be appeased, when the real or imagined jest at his expense has been lost in the deep colour of your rich red blood. so that when the arab spoke a light of understanding dawned upon jill, for, touching his forehead, mouth, and a spot on his raiment just above his heart with his right hand, and murmuring the customary salutation, "may peace be upon you," he paused for a moment, and then continued, "but it pleases madame to jest with me. she awaits the train to take her to the boat, how therefore could she come into the desert to-night?" but jill was absolutely unafraid! having known no master, she cared not one _sou_ for any son of man, or any untoward position she might find herself in, so opening wide her very beautiful eyes she simply smiled back into the angry ones which looked down upon her from some considerable height, and, with a little shrug of her shoulders, a habit acquired from one of a succession of foreign governesses, she made reply in her turn, and in words which though absolutely common-place served as the golden key with which to unlock the bejewelled, golden casket of this man's love. in any western country the situation would have been _absurd_! an english girl, minus scenery and every accessory due to a book heroine, capable in five brief minutes of smiting the heart of one of egypt's most renowned men! ridiculous! perhaps in the lands of fogs and fires, grey skies and east winds, but not in egypt, where the sun, sky, winds, and memories serve rather to force the growth of the love-plant and hasten the budding of the passion-flower. studiously buttoning up the last button which she always left undone on her last pair of suede gloves, smooth as a newly born whippet puppy, and as yet unruffled from the cleaner's manipulations, she spoke with a ripple of laughter which made it impossible to decide if she was speaking seriously or not. "madame permits herself to do just as she pleases. if by some unforeseen circumstances she were to miss the train, would she be taken to see the oasis, and the horses, and the stars?" and let it be understood that, in her utter ignorance of deserts, she imagined the oasis could be reached after a journey of a few hours. for one moment there was dead silence between these two, the strings of whose lives fate was inextricably mixing in her fingers, palsied by age, and fretted by the constant tugging and straining of those other threads which, in moments of senile anger or childishness, she gets into such hopeless tangles. then as the shriek of an engine whistle shrilled faintly in the distance the man spoke, his voice sinking to that deep note which no other nation attains, resembling in no way the russian bass, and which in the arab upon rare occasions alone betrays some emotional upheaval. "listen, woman of the west, who even at this moment stands in my shadow, between that faint engine whistle and the grinding of the brakes as the train comes to a standstill, you must make your choice. a few moments ago i saw you toss a silver coin and decide quickly that which had been decided already for you since the beginning of all time. "once more you shall cast your die. the table is the sand of egypt, the dice-cup is your hand, the dice are your life and my life, the stakes our happiness. decide again and quickly for i hear the rumbling of wheels. make known your choice, for although we travellers through the desert of life lie down to sleep, and rise again to live, to fight, to hate, and above all to love, in obedience to the will which counteth and heapeth the particles of sand upon this station, yet are we allowed, to voice our desires, being mouth-pieces of fate. nay! wait one moment until i make clear the way, so that you may not put down your beautiful feet blindly upon a trackless waste of doubt and mistrust. if you come with me to-night, you come alone. i have no woman in my desert home, excepting one old hunchback slave, a withered bough but faithful. no woman has set foot within the belt of palms surrounding my house, and without the sand stretches! mile upon mile of pathless sand! "you will come into the desert alone with me, and the sand will close in upon you and keep you in the desert alone--with me! "if you come, be at the gate of yonder pink house at nine to-night; if you are not there i shall know that your heart has failed." but the soul of the desert glinted for one moment in the english girl's eyes. "there may be no woman there, but there will be a man--a man indeed!" she whispered, as though communing with herself. and the eyes so soft and blue looked up, and then down, down into the soul of hahmed the arab, so deeply indeed that a shiver ran from her brain to her finger-ends, causing her to draw herself together sharply and to turn and walk away. * * * * * * so it came about as it was written that she had decided when the brakes grinded, and that after retrieving her employer for the last time, and placing her in a dusty corner of the stifling carriage, she slipped away on the excuse of finding her dressing-case, which she did, taking it with her into a corner of the deserted waiting-room just as the engine announced its immediate departure. without a qualm she watched "her crowd" jostle and push their way into the small carriages, and the train, move out, leaving her alone--alone in the desert town, alone with the dweller of that desert. a wave of exultation rushed through her as she thought of this her great adventure, of this her freedom for at least a short while, and of the unknown quantity she was mixing into her portion of daily bread which, up to this moment, had consisted of the plainest, wholesomest, most uninteresting bun-loaf, not even resembling that extremely dull and unappetising cake named, i believe, swiss roll, which hides its staleness under the glass case of life's shop window, lying fly-blown on the plate and heavily and unimaginatively on the digestive powers of those who consume it for the thin layer of jam to be discovered between its wedges of sullen dough. a soul-stifling mess to be found in the drab sideboards of most english households along with its sister made of a pastry so flimsy that it chokes, filled with a cream that is merely froth, the whole hiding its cheapness under an application of highly coloured paint essence, the consuming of which will prove as fatal as the swiss roll. so she raised her hands to the grimy ceiling of the dirty waiting-room and whispered to the dust, the buzzing flies, and vivid ray of sunlight, "verily, and indeed i have burned my boats behind, or perhaps i should say my liner before me!" chapter vi jill, very fair indeed to look upon, and with seven-and-sixpence in odd money in her bag, stepped out bravely on to the road, scorched by the midday sun, with a curl at the corner of her mouth, a medley of disconnected thoughts in her madcap head, and a feeling of unromantic emptiness somewhere in the vicinity of her white leather waist belt. a wisp of a boy, clad in very dirty garments, shrilled the equivalent of "carry your bag, miss," in the egyptian tongue, calling down the displeasure of allah upon the foreign woman when she shook her head, and changed the heavy dressing-case to the other hand. ismailiah is no place for a beautiful english girl to wander in unchaperoned, especially when out of respect to the slenderness of her purse she gets off the beaten track in search of a cheap restaurant. indeed jill was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable at the way the natives stared and even turned to look after her as she plodded on, so that it was with a feeling of relief that she espied "cuisine francaise" written across the window of a fairly clean-looking restaurant in a small street, into which place she turned, to be confronted by a fat, oily individual hailing from the levant, who looked as though his business was anything but that of the kitchen. unsophisticated jill, however, saw nothing wrong in the person who bowed, and smiled, and rubbed the palms of his hands in a rotary movement; and being taken up in trying to amalgamate the scantiness of her money, the prices on the carte, and the enormity of her hunger, neither did she notice the burning eyes in the handsome, sensual dark face of a middle-aged native fixed upon her hungrily from behind a half-open door, where he had been hurriedly summoned by the man who advertised his skill in "_la cuisine francaise_." to pass away the time jill lingered over her meal until she was alone in the place save for the waiter, who was aching to get away to smoke a cigarette, and the native who had noiselessly entered and slipped into a seat in the far corner. once jill, inadvertently looking straight into his eyes, and hurriedly looking away, had picked up a paper lying on the chair beside her; glanced at the first page, and dropped it like a hot plate, whilst a wave of scorching red rushed over her neck and face. "allah!" she thought, "what an awful place, and what on earth am i to do with two shillings in my pocket, and not a cinema handy!" and feeling the native's eyes still fixed on her, she beckoned to the waiter, paid her bill, and once out in the street turned sharply up the first on the right just as the native and the levantine came to the restaurant door in time to see the last inch of her disappearing skirt. and yet through all her haste and her annoyance the inner membrane of jill's mind, that delicate fabric woven of intuition and divination, which gives women the pull on so many occasions, and on certain courses get her past the post lengths ahead of man, whispered to her that it had not failed her earlier in the day, and that if she could but stick out the next few hours she would find a sure reward for her present distress. but she stopped short and clicked her teeth angrily when she met the native of the restaurant face to face in a narrow street, and turned and walked in the opposite direction as quickly as her dignity would allow. but after the same thing had happened three times, and that it had suddenly struck her that she was being headed in the direction of a quarter where unveiled women peered from windows with great eyes made larger by the rims of kohl smeared on the lid, and the cheeks rendered dead white with the powder that proves so strangely attractive to the eastern prostitute, she suddenly made up her mind to get herself out of the danger and difficulty. she was utterly lost, and walking at a pace that was almost a run, turned into the street she found nearest. not one open door did she see; at least, not one that was not congested with women sitting smoking or eating sticky sweetmeats, or drying their heads plastered in the henna clay which would eventually dye their hair the red favoured of man. she was wellnigh breathless and wondering for how long she could continue when the man suddenly appeared at the top of the street into which she had just turned, and seeing her salaamed deeply. back she twisted like a hunted hare and raced up the street through which she had just passed. it was empty, but on her left standing ajar was a door painted bright blue. chapter vii without pausing to think she entered, closing it behind her just as the man relentlessly pursuing her passed in ignorance on the other side. in the middle of the courtyard two eastern women in the domestic act of disembowelling a kid looked up lazily, and one smiling, pointed to the upper storey of the house, through the small windows of which came the sound of stringed instruments, and seeing that the stranger did not understand, explained her gesture in broken french: "_au premiez étase--voz amieze--les anglaiseez." no idea of any further possible danger entering her head, and at a complete loss to understand, but thankful for her present safety, jill crossed the court, slipping unromantically on a piece of the animal's entrails which lay about, and entering a low door mounted the stairs. through a curtained archway the distinct twang of an american voice came to her as a message of peace, so pushing back the stuff she entered to find herself confronted by ten pairs of eyes of different nationality. "come right in," twanged the same voice, "guess you're from the same boat! cute of you to find your way here all by your lonesome!" the well-corseted wife of a can-king, flanked on one side by her thin, leather-skinned, neat daughter, and on the other by the inevitable italian marquis, whose tailor had evidently been a sartorial futurist, pointed to a cushion on the nobleman's off side, on which perplexed jill squatted in imitation of the others. the party consisted of the aforementioned trio, two flash-looking english women, who had in tow a certain type of man who is only to be found on board ship, an obese german, a french widow whose weeds grew more from utility than necessity, and a dapper little frenchman who twinkled his over-manicured fingers for the benefit of a healthy, jolly looking australian girl sitting uncomfortably on the adjacent cushion. the party's dragoman proffered a cup of coffee and a cigarette. the former was excellent, the latter, after one puff, jill extinguished on the floor, for she knew tobacco when she smoked it, and guessed at hasheesh without having to look at the slightly brightened eyes of those who sat smoking the same brand around her. then she glanced curiously round the room. long, low, with four tawdry glass and gilt chandeliers hanging from the not over-clean ceiling, cushions spreading all over the floor excepting in the middle where lay an exquisite persian carpet, long mirrors on all sides, little inlaid tables, and at the far end, built into the wall with steps leading up to it, a bed behind gilt bars, the door in which was fastened by a gilt padlock. it seemed that their dragoman had brought them to the house so as to add yet more perquisites to his daily remuneration by regaling them with an exhibition of eastern dancing. "what kind of dancing?" asked jill with a slight frown, as the twinkling music suddenly stopped. "guess we can't tell you!" replied the american mother, whose corsets were not in exact accord with the cushions upon which she sat, breathing heavily from her upper whaleboned register. "_nous espérons le mieux_," said the frenchman, winking at the dragoman. and that moment they were enlightened. the two english women emitted each a little screech, the american mother caught convulsively at her daughter, who coldly raised her long-handled lorgnettes the more fully to survey the picture before her. the australian girl sat quiet, as did the englishman who had been there before; the italian ejaculated "_per dio_," and the frenchman "_mon dieu_," as the widow, pulling one side of her veil across her face, hid her over-crimson mouth, but in no way impeded her view, whilst jill looked round hastily for a way of escape, but suddenly remembering the certain peril in the street decided, as she edged as far as possible from the marchese, to sit out the difficulties of the moment. chapter viii to natives, a dressed or undressed dancer is nothing more than a plaything, or something to help pass the hour; he will look at and criticise her with much less enthusiasm than he would a she-camel, and remunerate her or her owner according to the measure of pleasure he has found in her posturing. but it is difficult, wellnigh impossible, to describe the feeling of the occidental women when three orientals of their own sex, without a vestige of clothing, suddenly one after the other, like ducks, sidled into the room. they were none of them in their first youth, and the dragoman, after watching their movements, decided once and for all to withdraw his patronage from the house, and sat wondering how much he dared try to extract from his patron's pockets for such an exhibition, while jill, who felt as though she had been suddenly struck between the eyes, sat hypnotised by the undulating forms before her, until she was overcome by a frantic desire to bury her face in a cushion and to give way to unrestrained hysterical laughter. this same feeling has been known to overcome one in church when a hen, side-tracking through the open door, takes a constitutional up the aisle on a sunday morning in the country; also it has been known to seize you in its grip at a levee, when your predecessor's shoe-buckles, not having been properly adjusted, flip up and down like shutters as their owner, in solitary state, stalks up the audience chamber; worse and stronger still is it when your revered bishop uncle, of whom you have great expectations, insists at morning prayers upon those things which have been left undone, when before your earthly eyes gapes the cotton dress of eliza the cook, whose comfortable dorsal proportions have forbidden the matutinal union of a couple or so of buttons and buttonholes. try as she would she could not overcome it, neither could she remove her gaze from the three females who, poor things, were but doing their best to add to the family coffers. up and down, and round and round they went, the string band twanging an accompaniment, until the gauze scarf of the middle lady catching in the hanging chandelier put an end to their rhythmical swayings, while like hens with a suspended cherry they hopped in turn off the ground in their effort to disentangle their one and only bit of covering. everyone sat still until the disentanglement had taken place, upon which event the dancers once more advanced in force, each selecting a special man victim, until jill, absolutely helpless and afraid of raising native wrath by allowing even a glimmer of a smile to appear, buried her pretty head on the marchese's over-padded shoulder, which action he of course took for a sign of encouragement, responding to it by slipping his arm round the girl's waist, but circumspectly enough so that it should not be seen by the can-king's relations, while jill prayed for strength to resist until the end. the end came in a positive catherine-wheel exhibition of posturing, and a deathly silence on the part of the audience; the men not daring to make any comment, the women not daring to look at each other, until the widow, suddenly seizing upon the situation, clapped her little hands roguishly, and avowed in a babyish voice that "_c'était bien gentil et original, n'est ce pas_," which she didn't think at all really. anyway her opinion served as a break, so that on the exit of the dancers in single file, which was ten-fold more trying to the spectators than their entry, with stretching of cramped limbs and stereotyped utterances such as "how very eastern," "so unexpected," the entire party rose to their feet, the dragoman holding a hurried whispered conversation with the men who each, and successively, and vehemently, shook their heads, leaving the women asking of themselves how on earth they were to continue existing relations with the men during the interminable weeks to australia. jill, feeling almost faint from suppressed emotion and a revival of hunger, stood a little on one side watching them. an eastern dancing house is a strange place in which to make the final decision of one's life, but in just such a spot she made hers. she knew that she had only to make up the tale of a lost boat, and something would be done for her; in fact she could probably go as lady's maid to the americans on their _tour de monde_, having overheard them complaining bitterly of their own french maid who had not been retrieved at algiers. but her whole soul suddenly rising in mutiny against the stultifying civilisation of the west, she finally made up her mind to stay with the strangers until the hour came when she could slip out of the hotel where they were staying the night, into oriental liberty, and glamour, and unknown possibilities. so she sat next the marchese at dinner, whose love-making was on exactly the same line as his clothes, and having found out from the maid in the ladies' room just how to get to the end of the town in which was situated the camel king's house, she waited for a desirable opportunity, and slipped out of the hotel on the pretence of looking at the stars, knowing that her unwitting hosts would think she had simply gone to bed. chapter ix jill's memory being of the kind which retains only the pleasant word and act, the disagreeable episode of the afternoon had completely evacuated that cell which in one second can raise us through the bluest ether to the heaven as understood by the prayer-book, or send us diving to the mud flats of the ocean bed to co-habit for a time with wingless and non-temperamental oddities. having stopped several times to discover by ear and eye if she was being followed from the hotel, and being satisfied that the sight of her dressing-case had in no wise aroused the hall porter's curiosity, she propped her luggage against the base of a palm tree growing casually in the middle of a small street and proceeded to take her bearings. "somehow it seemed quite easy to find when the maid was explaining," she communed to herself as she dug a hatpin afresh into her hat as is the way of woman when at a loss. "how stupid of me to try a short cut, because she distinctly said i was to stick to the main street until i came to two mosques side by side, and then to turn off sharply to the right. oh! well, i turned off too soon and am lost--and i don't like these little streets--no! not one little bit, but that big red star hangs right over the house so i can but follow it--here goes!" she picked up her case, and then drew back quickly behind the tree as a white-robed figure slowly crossed the street, turned up another and disappeared. "oh! moll and jack, what on earth would you think if you knew i was alone in egypt. alone! but free! free! at last, quite, _quite_ free!" and stretching out her arms on each side and giving herself a little shake, jill laughed ever so softly in pure exuberance of that feeling of freedom, which seems to make an air pocket all about you and in the middle of which you float contentedly, oblivious of the winds raging on the outside. so glancing up at the red star, and once more picking up her bag, she too crossed the street and disappeared up a narrower one, halting for a moment at the sight of a man standing with bent head in the attitude of prayer and the beads of allah hanging from the hands crossed upon the breast. jilt's intuition was intense, and never once in all her life had it failed her, and though to her all eastern men seemed exactly alike in the moonlight, yet her inner consciousness began to tap ont a message of warning, and the bristles of her self-protection to rise at the threatenings of danger. "bother!" however, was her only comment as, keeping the star ahead, she walked steadily onward. but she made a silent, strenuous, but unavailing struggle when something white and soft was slipped over her head and a hand placed firmly upon her mouth, as she felt herself lifted in a pair of strong arms and carried some considerable distance until she heard the click of a key, the opening and shutting of a door, and her captor's soft footfall through what seemed to be a deserted house. she stood perfectly still when planted on her feet, and looked around her when the cloth had been removed from about her head. white was her face indeed, but a little smile twisted the corner of her mouth as she noted the oriental luxury of the room in which she stood. ornate could hardly describe it so offensive was it in its multitudinous hangings, mirrors, lamps, and clutter of stools, tables, divans, and couches, inlaid or plastered with glittering sequins, bits of glass, and coloured imitation jewels. but scorn simply blazed in the great blue eyes as she looked into those of a man standing in front of the one and only door to the whole apartment. "you brute!" she said undiplomatically and in french as he moved a few steps nearer and salaamed deeply. "why, you're the man who followed me from the restaurant to-day! what do you want? backsheesh? i haven't any so you had better let me go at once unless you want the police after you! you can't treat english women in this off-hand way with impunity, i can assure you. open the door immediately if you please!" poor little jill, who by involuntarily harking back to the insular belief that the veriest heathen will quake in unison with the british culprit at the mere threat of british law, showed the absolute yarborough she held in this game, the stakes of which she guessed were something more precious than life itself, and in which she held not a single winning card. "let not madame cause herself worry," answered the oriental also in french, as he approached nearer still, his eyes ablaze with passion of sorts as be looked the girl up and down from head to foot. "the police--the law--you are in egypt, madame, or i should say mademoiselle i think. money! when a man holds heaven itself within his grasp, does he open his hand to grasp a passing cloud?" "i should advise you to let me go _at_ once," repeated jill, "if you don't want my friends to raise trouble!" but her bluff was of no avail as she was soon aware when once more the man salaamed with a world of mockery in the action. "but mademoiselle has but now run away from her friends! no?--she has but little--oh! _very_ little money!--yes?--and nowhere to go--it is for that that i have thrown my protection around her!" jill thought hard for a moment, wondering how much the man knew of her escapade. "how do you know? _who_ told you i had no money? i _have_ a friend as it happens------!" "mademoiselle has no friend but me," interrupted the man; "she left them at the hotel when she went to take a walk." and jill retreated step by step before him as he came closer still, his voice sinking to a whisper, his hand within an inch of her wrist. "i will not harm you because you are oh, _very_ beautiful! you are a feast of loveliness and i--i am hungry!" but still the little smile twisted the corner of jill's red mouth as she looked unflinchingly into the brown eyes in the depths of which smouldered a something which was not good to look upon. "i suppose you have stolen my dressing-case too," was her next, somewhat irrelevant remark. "men of _your_ type i dare say can find a use for everything from women to hair-pins. you black _dog_, who _are_ you?" red murder flared in the room for one moment and then died down, leaving a little smoke cloud of uncertainty in the man's mind. he was used--oh, _very_ used to the breaking in of women, for was not his name notorious in northern egypt and were there not whispers of many young and beautiful who had mysteriously disappeared. were not men and women in his pay in every corner of the big cities posing as honest individuals? and was he not in direct communication with them? and had he not a coterie of jackal friends who hunted with him, though of a truth not half so successfully or artistically as he? and yet this slip of a girl, this pale white blossom, held him at bay, more by her seeming indifference to the fate before her than by any effort of will she made to combat the danger. blasé to tears of the exquisite women of his own country with their lustrous brown eyes, marvellous languorous figures, and well-trained, inherited ideas on love, the man was violently attracted by the whiteness of this girl allied to her indifferent manner and an intense virility which seemed to envelop her from head to foot. true, there are natives of a white and surpassing beauty, but which whiteness when compared to the genuine colouring of a _very_ fair englishwoman has the same effect on the purchaser or temporary owner as would a white sapphire bought in mistake for a diamond. very, very beautiful, but somehow giving an impression of masquerade. "your so _valuable_ dressing-case is behind those cushions, mademoiselle, but you shall have things of gold to adorn your apartment, at least for a time. i tire easily even of the most perfect fruit, but i have friends, oh, many who are not so easily wearied!" the man paused a moment as though awaiting some outburst, but none forthcoming continued the enlightening discourse. "who am i?--that will you know shortly. a merry chase you gave me this afternoon, and even baffled me for a time, but surely i have not enjoyed an hour so much for many a day. you are unique, therefore not to be run to earth by a _common_ black dog, otherwise i could have secured you earlier in the day and by now------" the man's lips, of an almost negroid fullness, curved in a smile, the abomination of which sent a little shudder from jill's high held head to her steady little feet. "but i _have_ you now, beautiful maiden, and if you will not bend to my will, i will break you to it, even if i spoil your satin skin and the soles of your small feet by the lash of the whip!" "so!" said jill after an interval in which the atmosphere, charged with the electricity of anger, lust, scorn, and all the kindred sisters of evilness, resembled what might be the result of a cross between a spitting cat and a wireless installation. "so! am i to understand that you have vulgarly kidnapped me--and are holding me _not_ for ransom, but for your evil pleasures and those of your friends?" "quite so, mademoiselle! your words are as clear as the stream running through a certain oasis which long i coveted, but which fell to my greatest enemy because he had a few more piastres than i--and maybe a little more diplomacy--a man who would kill me if he could but find the excuse, the moral breeder of camels, the fanatic son of solomon, hahmed the great, hahmed the most noble--_pah_!" for one brief second jill's eyes scanned the sensual face in front, but seeing nothing more subtle than an intense hatred therein for the absent man, shrugged her shoulders and then flung up her hand sharply as the man's hand suddenly fastened on her wrist. "let go my hand at once," she said as indifferently as though she were asking for a glass of water, but she wrenched herself free and fled behind a divan almost hidden in a bower of growing tropical plants as the man let go at her command to suddenly grip her about the waist. "i shall scream the place down, and bite, and kick, and scratch, if you touch me again." for one moment they looked at each other across the pile of silken cushions, the dark shining leaves of the plants throwing up the girl's wonderful colouring, the white petals of a flower falling like snow about her as she stood waiting for the next move in the exceedingly dangerous game in which she was taking part. the silence was absolutely deathly until the oriental broke it, smiling the while as he might on a rebellious child. "if you make a noise you will bring women and servants, and perhaps my friends, packing to the door from the most distant corners of the house. they do not know that you are here as i brought you in by a secret door and private way, also no one is allowed to place foot in my own quarter of the house without my permission, with the exception of the guardian of the big door itself, but their curiosity would outweigh their prudence if they heard cries, for their delight is unbounded when trouble reigns between their friend or master and a _woman_. if you bite and kick and scratch i shall have you overpowered and bound to _your_ great sorrow, and _their_ greater delight. it has been written that you shall be one of those whom i honour with my favour, why then try to fight against that which is ordained?" jill answered never a word, contenting herself with keeping a watch on the man's movements, though to the very innermost part of her she longed to fling herself upon him to mutilate or to kill. "we will have coffee, o! very lovely daughter of the north, and consider this little matter settled even before we were born. does my suggestion find favour in those eyes which are as the sky at night?" but for all answer jill moved round the couch and sat herself down upon the satin cushions, opened her hand-bag, and finding her cigarette case lit a cigarette. "by allah! but you are wonderful, you english girl. i do not understand you. i have had women here screaming, fighting, fainting, begging for mercy upon their knees. pah! they sickened me, but you--well! i will go and order the coffee, not wishing to bring a slave into your presence, and give orders also, mademoiselle, that no matter _what_ noise may be heard i must on no account be disturbed! and death by knife, or whip, or water, is the _ordinary_ punishment for those who disobey!" jill blew a smoke ring through another and smiled. "it's no good ordering coffee because i shan't drink it!" "you _will_ drink it," was the sharp reply. "will you take a bet?" was the ready answer. for a moment the man who was becoming more and more amazed stared in silence and then laughed softly as the absurdity of the situation struck him. "certainly i will, for do not we orientals love a seeming hazard? so although i take an unfair advantage of you i will lay this emerald ring engraven with my name against one kiss from your red mouth that within the half of one hour you will have drunk the coffee." and taking the ring from his finger as he spoke he laid it upon a small table beside jill. chapter x she was sitting with her hands crossed on her lap when he returned, carrying a small tray bearing two cups filled with coffee. "you have been a very long time," she remarked casually. "an especially delicious coffee had to be prepared for mademoiselle, and strict orders given that we were not to be disturbed until i give the signal. also that this quarter of the house, which is mine, is to be cleared absolutely of all inhabitants. therefore shall we be at peace even until this time to-morrow if i make no sign. also to emphasise my orders, i ordered that a certain person be bastinadoed. she sickens me with her outpourings of love, and was loitering about this door seeking doubtlessly to enter. when she does she will most certainly not enter upon her feet if my orders have been strictly carried out." and even as he spoke a distant piercing scream, followed by another, and yet another, rent the air, causing jill's mouth to shut like a steel trap, and her eyes to blaze like fires. "_that_ is what happens when i am _disobeyed_, mademoiselle! here is your coffee, _drink it_!" the tone was brutal, and jill meekly put out her hand to take the little porcelain and silver trifle the man was bringing to her, laying it beside the emerald ring upon the table as he turned to fetch his own cup. "drop that!" jill had not raised her voice, but a certain unmistakable quality in it caused the man to wheel sharply. he stared in blank amazement for a fleeting second, and then, still carefully holding the cup, backed hastily and sideways out of the direct range of a very small but very useful-looking revolver in jill's right hand. there was a curious lifelessness in the whole situation, and a quite distressing lack of drama until the oriental smiled contemptuously. "do not think to frighten me with that plaything, because i am totally unafraid. we hear of the englishwomen who shoot and ride like men, but--well! we hear so many tales of europe. put up your little toy, mademoiselle, and remember in future that no one with any respect for his life _ever_ gives me an order!" with an indifference that was not in the least assumed, he raised the cup he was still holding. there was a crashing report in the luxurious room, a tinkling of broken china, and a wisp of smoke between a smiling girl and a _very_ surprised man. "don't be a fool, and do as you're told if _you_ have any respect for _your_ life," said jill tersely, as she moved her hand slightly so that her aim was on a dead level with a big button ornamenting an inch or so of satin on the middle left of the man's undervest. he stood like an image carved out of consternation, whilst streaks of rage seemed to flash across his livid face. be it confessed, he was not in the least afraid, but no word in the egyptian or any other tongue could be found to express the depths of humiliation in which he stood neck deep. "now, drink _this_ coffee!" said jill pleasantly, pointing with her left hand to the cup she had placed on the little table. "_never_!" jill smiled icily. "i _thought_ as much. you scoundrel! so it is drugged, and i, having drunk it, would have lain unconscious at your mercy. god! to think that such brutes as you are allowed to live." the man was watching the girl's every movement, ready to spring like a cat from the area steps upon the unsuspecting sparrow in the road, but neither her eyes nor her hand moved as she continued speaking very gently. "listen! i should have killed you myself to-night, feeling myself justified, so that other wretched girls should escape the fate you had prepared for me--you, lower than the beasts of the field; but i am not going to do it, as happily i know of one more powerful than i who will enjoy it thoroughly. think of what i say when you see his messenger with your ring upon his finger, to-morrow or next month or next year perhaps--and when your time comes, watch the procession of betrayed and tortured girls as they pass before you to catch your soul in their slim hands as it leaves your body. now! drink that coffee!" but the man stood stock still, and jill frowned, for she was not a paragon of patience at any time, and the obstinacy of the man fretted her already jagged nerves. "very well," she said, "i give you one more chance. if you refuse again i shall put a bullet straight through your head just between the eyebrows, as i shall now put one through that brooch kind of thing in your turban." there was another deafening report, and the turban flew from the oriental's head just as a paper-bag will fly before a march wind. "go and pick that turban up and put it on your head. hurry now, or we shall have the police or someone coming to inquire about the shooting gallery." the eyes of the boa-constrictor in the zoo were gems of humanity in comparison with those of the negroid-egyptian's as he turned to obey, and then stopped mulishly until a third little reminder chipped splinters from the marble at his heel, whereupon he stooped and recovered his headgear, minus the brooch, but plus a neat little hole fore and aft. "now come and drink the coffee! it won't be very nice as it is almost cold. and remember in future if you are allowed to live, which i _very_ much doubt, that such supreme indifference as mine could only _possibly_ be the outcome of an absolute sense of perfect security." jill patted the silly-looking little ivory and silver thing she held. "you mongrel!" she continued sweetly, "i was simply playing with you until the right moment--the coffee moment which i knew must happen--should arrive in which to give you a lesson. why! when i saw your eyes in the restaurant i took my little friend from my pocket and made sure he was in order. i may look a fool, and i may act in a manner still more foolish, but i am _not_ exactly what you would call a _born_ fool! now drink that, i am late already! and don't spill a single drop or i'll shoot you on the spot!" there was nothing for it but to obey, though the brute took the only revenge he could in pouring out a torrent of language beyond description, until jill suddenly rose and levelled her revolver at his head, which seemed to send the sickly contents post-haste down his throat, after which jill ordered him to stretch himself comfortably upon the flower-screened divan. he did so smiling stupidly, the drug having begun to take effect; and the big eyes closed and opened and closed again, and the mouth relaxed as a gentle snore told jill that as far as the present danger was concerned she was safe. she stood for a second looking idly down upon one of the world's greatest criminals, and then at the thought of the dangers which might still be awaiting her on the other side of the door, unloaded her revolver and slipped a fully loaded clip into her little friend. then picking up the emerald ring from the table, and her dressing-case from behind the cushions, she crept gently across the room, and gently--oh! so very gently, opened the door which yielded noiselessly to her touch, and stepped into a deserted hall only to recoil violently from something at her feet. across the threshold lay a girl. the agonised eyes in the beautiful dark face gazed up in terror at jill, whilst a little hand searched weakly for a jewelled plaything of a dagger at her waist. "oh! poverina!" said jill, as she knelt to raise the little head, and then stared in horror at the girl's shoulders and the hem of her satin trousers. some expert hand had flicked the delicate flesh off the back in a criss-cross pattern; what was left of the feet lay in a pool of blood, the deep red of which stretched across the hall far into the distance, showing the path along which the child, left by her torturers for dead, had dragged herself. "poor little, little thing!" whispered jill, as she made to raise the body in her arms. but the dusky head shook feebly, and a dainty henna-tipped finger pointed to a window across the hall, and jill, feeling herself pushed away ever so slightly, rose as three words were whispered over and over again: "vite--allez--mort--vite--allez--mort!" and understanding that there was nothing more to be done she bent and kissed the child upon the cheek and turned away, looking back as she opened the window which gave on to a balcony about ten feet above the level of the deserted street, and even as she looked, saw the door of the room she had just left being pushed back inch by inch as the dying girl, strengthened by love and agony, dragged herself slowly into the room in which lay the man she worshipped asleep. chapter xi ten o'clock!--half-past!--eleven! the usual noises of a night in an egyptian town were at their height. the distant and never-ceasing shuffling of slippered or naked feet on stone, or sand, made a dull accompaniment to the sharper notes of men's voices crying their wares of sticky sweetmeat or fruit, and the barking and growling of innumerable dogs. muffled ejaculations could be heard, little gurgles of laughter, which in egypt, thanks be to allah, do not degenerate into giggles, the swish of a whip in the shadow, followed by a woman's cry, and through all, above all, unfinished catches of music. all kinds of humans, including tourists, writers, european officials and desert dilettanti, have affixed every kind of adjective to egypt's music. ethereal, melancholy, wailing, plaintive, nebulous, and pathetic are but a few. why--why try to tie a label to something which slips from the fingers even as they close about it? why _try_ to describe that which cannot be described? there is, or was, a certain line which in the heat of an egyptian noon, or the stillness of an egyptian night, when the first notes of a human voice, or stringed instrument, or rudely cut pipe-reed reach the ears, would creep out of some memory cell. one loved the vagueness of those words: "out of the nowhere, into here!" loved the infinite space they opened up with their aloofness and indefiniteness, until, alas! they took concrete shape when chosen as title to the picture of a robust, royal academy, fed-on-virol looking babe, which doubtless, when trying to grab some passing olympian butterfly, fell off the lap of the gods into a sitting position upon mother earth. also, one thinks of that mist wraith which on a cloudless day stretched across some mountain's breast, lies lightly upon the air, with diaphanous ends coming out of and going into nothingness; for in just such manner does the music fall across an egyptian day or night. these catches of music have no end, and no beginning; they rise, linger a moment, and are gone, leaving behind them an indescribable loneliness of soul, and a longing to stretch one's hand back down the centuries to pluck their meaning from the past. under the sand, the granite, the marble, buried deep in the pyramids or merely covered by the earth of shallow graves, there must surely be many instruments of music wrought in gold or silver, studded in jewels, or cut out of humble wood; many strings still unbroken, and near them many whitened bones of dusky hands which, for all we know, at odd moments of day or night set those strings a-thrumming, or lift the reed pipes to ghostly lips. who knows but that the british museum at night, rid at last of those who gape at egypt's dishonoured dead, may not be filled with snatches of music from throat or hand of those unfortunates, priest, priestess, fair woman and honoured man, dug out and laid upon a slab of grass for the education of the revellers of a wet bank holiday, or those others from northern climes, who bid their snuffling, sticky progeny to "coom oop, lad, an' look at t' stuffed un!" and on this night of which i write, music was caught up, and carried hither and hither upon the breeze which clittered the leaves of the palms, and softly moved the flowing robes of hahmed the arab, who, perfectly motionless, stood in the ink-black shadow cast by the bougainvillaea, which trailed its purple masses over the walls of the house, shining faintly pink under the silver moon. at the man's feet lay three camels, superb beasts. one red brown and one-humped, packed with a seemingly huge load which in reality it hardly felt, and two bactrian or two-humped, pacing dromedaries of dhalul, one of deepest black and therefore most rare, with black saddle cloth embroidered in silver, the third of a light golden colour, decked out in cloth of softest silk patterned with glistening jewels, and shimmering crystal specks, cushions padding the saddle-seat, to which hung stirrups of silver. about this beast's neck, outstretched upon the sand, lay a garland of flowers, upon the ground by its side lay an eastern rug of purple shade, covered inches deep in flowers of every kind. there was no grumbling or snarling, they knew their master and lay still, until, with a slight grunt, one raised its head and looked towards the east, as the man with a muttered "allah" slowly moved towards the gate. putting his hands to his lips and forehead and murmuring, "peace be upon you!" he took jill's dressing-case from her. * * * * * * "i'm sorry to be so late," she said in a voice devoid of anything in the way of tone or inflection, "and i had to bring my dressing-case, it would be so tiresome to be stranded in the desert with no looking-glass or face cream, wouldn't it?" "it would be terrible!" was the answer, as though a dearth in dates was in discussion. and then jill sat down upon a convenient block of marble, and searching in her cheap bag for one of those russian cigarette cases of wood, which had the advantage of being inexpensive and distinctive compared to those of gold, silver, or silver gilt, which jingle so irritatingly against the universal gold, silver, or silver gilt bag, took out a cigarette, lit it, and began to make conversation. it is very difficult to describe the girl's frame of mind at this moment when she stood upon the verge of great happenings, or in fact of any moment when danger, possible or certain, confronted her. she was perfectly calm, in fact a little dull, with a heart which physically neither slowed nor hastened. yet it was not the fearlessness of blissful ignorance, or the aggravating recklessness of the foolhardy. three times she had been in actual danger of death: once when her horse bolted, making straight for the cliffs a short way ahead; another time when the receding tide had caught her, pulling her slowly out to sea, and never a boat in sight; and again when taking a pre-breakfast stroll on the col di tenda, she had encountered a fugitive of the law desperately making for the frontier, who, half crazed with fear, sleeplessness, and hunger, literally at the point of an exceedingly sharp knife had demanded money, or bracelet, in fact anything which could be transformed into a mattress, and coffee, polenta, cigarette or succulent frittata. after each of the preceding incidents she had tried to analyse her utter want of feeling, her inability to recognise danger, her almost placid confidence in an ultimate happy ending. "it doesn't seem to be me, dads," she had once explained, or tried to explain, to her father, who, in the depths of an armchair and the _sporting news_, had no more idea of what she was talking about than the man in the moon. "i seem to be standing outside myself looking at myself. a sort of something seems to come right down, shutting the danger right away from me. i know i'm in it and have to get out of it, but though i pulled arabia for all i knew, and swam for all i was worth to reach rock point, and bluffed that poor devil out of taking mumsie's bracelet, i kind of did it mechanically, not with any intention of putting things right, for i knew i was not going to die that time, because i'm sure that i shall _know_ when i've got to die . . . understand, dads?" to which dads had replied: "quite so, my dear, quite so! personally i don't see how it could be otherwise. i agree with every word you say!" patting his red setter's head, which in the firelight he fondly believed to be his daughter's. chapter xii and so it was now as she sat under the african moon, whilst little rings and puffs of smoke helped to irritate the insects ensconced in the leaves of the creeper. she seemed to be standing on the other side of a wall, watching the outcome of the tossing of a silver coin. "i've had a perfectly awful day," she announced with a ripple of genuine amusement in her voice as she proceeded quite unconcernedly to recount the doings of the last few hours. "so naturally i was followed from the restaurant," she went on after a moment's pause, "and my bag was so heavy, and i was absolutely lost, and only just managed to give the man the slip by hiding behind a half-open door, painted bright blue of all colours." "allah!" murmured hahmed. "an english girl hiding in a house with a blue door!" "but," she went on, having for some unknown reason omitted the dance episode from her narrative, "that wasn't the worst part"--and continued, quite unconcernedly, to give a detailed account of the night's happenings. whilst she was speaking the arab moved nearer until he stood over her, there was neither shadow nor frown upon the fine face, or movement of lip or hand, but the air seemed to throb with the intensity of the white-hot rage within him. "by allah!" he said quite gently, as he took the emerald ring jill held out. "i do not need this, for behold for many years i have known of the doings of this thing of whom you speak. and yet so great has been his cunning, that until to-night i have never been able to lay hands upon him in his guilt. but to-morrow will dawn a brighter day for egypt, in that she will be rid of one of her greatest evils. and were you not afraid?" jill smiled up into the eyes fixed with love, plus worship, plus reverence, upon her. "i? oh! no! why should i be when i am supposed to be one of the finest shots in europe? are you going to kill him?" "he will be dead ere the sun rises, and i beg you to forgive me if i leave you for a while, for i must go to give orders as to his death." jill's thoughts can be most aptly described as tumultuous, but her smile was a festival of youth as she watched the arab, in whom she had put her trust, walk up the long avenue, stop, and clap his hands. she could hear no word of the orders given to the servant, who ran from out a clump of trees to kneel at his master's feet, but she guessed that it was the engraven emerald ring which passed from one to the other to be hidden in the servant's turban; and she felt a wave of absolute satisfaction sweep through her whole being at the thought of the man's death before the dawn. at which sensation she mentally shook herself, feeling that the young tree of her experience, unrestrainedly shooting out in all directions within the space of a few hours, would require the sharp edge of the pruning knife if it was to be kept to the merest outline of the shape common to the ordinary life she had led up to now. "it is well! he dies before the dawn!" announced the arab prosaically, as he came towards this woman who, on the edge of a new life which might, for all she knew, bring ruin, despair, or even death in its wake, could so tranquilly talk of the risks she had already encountered in the course of the first few steps she had taken upon the path she had chosen to follow. "and tell me, o! woman, whose courage causes me to marvel, how once happily escaped from the house of few windows and but one apparent door, did you find your way to these gates?" "oh! that!" said jill, as she sat with her hands about her knee and her face upturned to the moon, which, throwing a deep shadow from the hat brim across the upper part of her face, made of the deep eyes a mystery, and a delirious invitation of the red mouth. "amongst other till now useless accomplishments, i have learned to guide myself by the stars, though i'm positive they move over here. i had noticed that big one there, which we haven't got in england, that very big sparkling one, hung over the quarter in which the waiting-maid told me lay your house." "yes!" replied the man who, though he knew the west so well, was secretly wondering at the trait in a character which allowed a _woman_, on the edge of something unknown, fraught, perhaps, with every kind of danger, to talk unconcernedly of hotels, face creams, blue doors, and stars. "that is the star of happiness, it hangs also right in the middle of my oasis, right over my desert dwelling," and the string of beads hanging from the waist slipped through the long fingers as words of prayer fell softly on the perfumed air. the girl got up and walked over to the camels. "so i followed my star and suddenly found myself at the gates! is this my ship of the desert--and what a beautiful coat, the dear thing," starting back as the dear thing turned its bead suddenly, bared its teeth and snarled. "don't be afraid, she is always nervous with strangers, also is she a little spoilt, being the fastest and most perfect bactrian camel in the whole of egypt and arabia. her pedigree, on parchment embossed with gold, goes back almost to ismael, and is kept in a millwell safe in my oasis, which shows that east does meet west occasionally. she has, up to to-night, known no rider but me, and is used only for short journeys of about seven days; you see these two-humped beasts can only go three days with comfort without a drink, but their pace is so smooth that it almost induces one to sleep. also taffadaln, which means welcome, a name given to her after her mother had foaled three he-camels, has a special guard both day and night, for there are many who covet her, for she is the queen of camels, with her blood and breeding enhanced by many years of training and special treatment. but alas! though her coat is as silk, the cushions of her feet without fault, and her teeth unblemished ivory, her manners are as ill-bred, and her indifference to those who love her as great as that of the lowest of her species which pollute the streets of cairo." and leaning down he patted the beast's head, speaking to her in the native tongue, whereupon she made juicy, gurgling sounds in her long throat, and nuzzled the flowing sleeve, which might have meant affection in any other animal but a camel. "more extremes," he added, as a long, soft blast of a motor-horn sounded just outside the walls. "will you not sit down whilst i explain things for the last time," unwinding, as he spoke, the soft black cloak from about him, and folding it to make a cushion for the stone, standing silhouetted against the shadow of the walls, whilst the slight breeze blowing the snow-white raiment outlined the tremendous width of shoulder, the slimness of the waist, and the muscular leanness of the whole body. and jill sat down with a suddenness surprising in so controlled a person, and to hide a sudden rush of rosy colour which swept uncontrollably from chin to brow, extracted another cigarette from the russian case. "'simon artz,' i am sure! may i not offer you one of mine? they are all made especially and only for me. and do you prize the case? no!" as the girl shook her head he took the wooden trifle from her, closed his hand gently, and, crushing it to matchwood, dropped it soundlessly on to the sand. and when hahmed, the arab, had finished speaking, jill carden, the english girl, understood that with her only rested the decision, that even now, at the eleventh hour, she was still absolutely free to go. outside the gates waited the man's car, ready to take her wherever she listed on her way home! at her feet lay the camels, ready to take her to all the possibilities of the unknown! there was absolute silence as she sat motionless, looking into the future. in the west she saw boats, trains, hotels, inner cabins, middle seats, back bedrooms; felt women, mothers, and wives clutching their mankind so as to keep them from the pariah, the penniless, pretty companion; heard the clink of the five or ten shillings a week paid monthly in silver, and all this to be repeated over and over again until she died, unless she married a man she did not love and "settled down" for ever and ever and ever; though even this possibility seemed to have receded into the remote distance with the receding of her fortune. then she looked up to the stars, and down to the sand, and out to the east, seeing her freedom if she dared grasp it, if she dared venture out on the many days' journey which, to her astonishment, she had learned stretched between ismailiah and the oasis. she scrutinised the man before her--this arab with the impassive face, the camels at his feet, her life in his hands if she went with him. his what? wife! to settle down for ever and ever and ever. his plaything? this was not the man to play or be played with, for had he not said: "if you come with me, fear not that you will be a prisoner. the oasis, the house, my servants, houses, camels, all will be yours, and there will be nothing to prevent your leaving it all--nothing except the desert, the miles of pitiless sand, trackless, pathless, strewn with the white bones of those who have essayed to escape from fate, the never-changing, ever-different ocean which beats about my dwelling." then once again she looked into the dark eyes which were reading every passing emotion on the mobile face, and putting out her hands made one step towards the camel, whilst the soul of the desert laughed with her scarlet mouth. chapter xiii a sharp word of command and the pack-camel rose, moved a few paces on its noiseless feet, swaying from side to side as though to readjust its load, whisked its miserable tail, and stretching out its long neck began to nibble the leaves of a flowering shrub. jill followed the beast, stroked its silky coat, and prodded one of the water skins filled to bursting. "will that be enough to last us all the way? and what happens when we want to rest? and do we do all the cooking and washing-up ourselves, just like a picnic? what fun!" which shows that jill had no idea of what unlimited money can do to mitigate the discomfort of desert travelling by providing every possible comfort, even luxury. "my servants have gone ahead with a caravan containing all that i think will be necessary for your comfort. the journey takes many nights of travelling when the cool wind has tempered the scorching sands. at sunrise we shall find our tents pitched, and you shall rest from then, an hour after dawn, until just before sunset, for it is unwise to be asleep at sunset in the desert. when we halt your bath will be ready, your meals as you desire, your bed as soft and spotless as your own." "really!" said jill, who had imagined herself camping out under the stars with scorpions and spiders as bedfellows. "but if the men have to go on ahead of us, we shall have to get up early so as to let them pack and give them a start." the arab gravely shook his head, with never a glimmer of a smile rear the mouth or eyes. "ah! no! you need not worry, a caravan of many persons has preceded us." "many _people_!" ejaculated jill. "what a lot of servants for two!" "let me explain! in egypt, arabia, or persia, when we speak of sheep or horses we say so many 'head,' but not so of the camel. the camel is the most cherished possession of the arab. "there are three events which bring joy to us, and which are occasions of greatest festival, namely, the birth of a son, the birth of a she-camel, and the birth of a mare. the she-camel provides her master with food for both himself and his horses; for in an area, or season, where there is little water but an abundance of juicy grass in which the camel finds both food and drink, the camel's milk is given to the horses in lieu of water, the master's covering and tent are made of the hair, the waterless places are known to him through her. there are many other ways in which the animal is useful, and for which we daily return thanks to allah, therefore we speak of them as persons, so many persons in a herd, because as the proverb says, 'god created the camel for the arab, and the arab for the camel.' "therefore for each resting-place there are two one-humped camels to carry all things necessary for your night's sojourn." "why one-humped?" asked the girl, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, and was getting slightly mixed with her first endeavour to grasp something of eastern life. "the one-humped or, as we say, the dyemal-mai, which means water-camel, although they cannot carry so heavy a load as the bactrian, can go even up to eight or nine days without water. "there is only one well between here and the water, and it is usually surrounded by caravans, with water as thick as the mud in a london street in november, and dirtier, being polluted by the filth of man and beast. "this we will pass, contenting ourselves with the water we carry for ablutions and cooking, and with wine or coffee to drink. if there is water to spare the camels can have it, if not they can go without, with the exception of the two that carry us. "but you will find the going irksome even on taffadaln, and so that you may rest, beautiful woman, whose name even i do not know, howesha, which name, being translated, means that she is a past mistress in the art of grumbling, carries all that will give you repose if you should desire to stop before we reach our caravan." and just as though she understood, howesha the grumbler, opening wide her mouth, proceeded to give a series of very fine imitations, including those of a nest of spitting snakes, a sobbing woman, and a choking dog--all of which she concluded by her masterpiece, of a child masticating sticky sweets, when her master, to stop her querulous upbraidings, thrust dates between her polished teeth. and then he turned to jill, who was laughing delightedly, and stroked her camel's coat. "later you shall have servants, many of them, who hand and foot, shall do your bidding, and carry out your slightest wish, but to-night and for ever i am your slave. allah! to think that i, the worst feared man in egypt, whose word is law, who condemns to death by the lifting of a finger, of a race who looks upon women as a useful plaything, at the most as a potential mother of sons, _i_ crave to serve you from your lying down in the heat of the day to your rising up, when the sunset breeze shall blow the soft curls about your flower-face. do you think i would allow a servant, some low-born son of a bazaar-dweller, to throw his shadow upon the ground over which your lovely feet must tread, or to touch a vessel which your white fingers might hold, to breathe the air which maybe has just passed from your sweet mouth, on this night when you make your journey into egypt, _real_ egypt; for to us, cairo and other such places are but tourist centres which we give to the foreigner readily, traversing many miles of sand and rock and hills ourselves, before we can lie down upon the soft breast of our own motherland. "come, woman! the moon tarries not, neither does the sun, and we have many miles to go." * * * * * * with the exception of a twopenny ride at the zoo, few europeans ever mount or ride a camel, thereby missing an art or a pastime or sport, which to the novice, until he has been thoroughly and literally broken in, is the most back, heart, and nerve-wearing means of locomotion he could possibly choose in all the wide world. jill stood ankle-deep in flowers looking down at her mount, the prize of the desert. "i do not know how you will fare, woman of the west. i dare not put palanquin on taffadaln for fear that she might bolt from terror and take you far into the desert, there to die. but arrived at our destination she shall be broken in at once, however, for in all my stables there is no other camel with her sliding step, not one who would not make you feel as though your spine had snapped after one hour's journey upon its back. we arabs can sit a camel in more than one way, but the easiest for you, and allah knows it will be hard enough after a time, is, if your skirt permits, to sit astride and put both your feet round the pummel in front. that, anyway, will prevent you from being twisted as you are with the shocking ladies' saddle you use in england." "oh, but i ride astride," volunteered jill, as she raised her skirts, settled herself, and taking the gold-studded rein, held firmly to the front and back peak of the saddle as instructed, and awaited the word of command. a camel rises from its front or hind legs just as the fancy seizes it, so that if you do not keep a fair balance, also yourself in complete readiness to lean forward or backward according to your mount's final decision, you will assuredly find yourself ignominiously pitched in a heap over the quadruped's nose, or just as ignominiously hanging head down in the vicinity of its tail, either of which positions will cause her to chortle gleefully before the next lurch, which gets the rest of her feet into order. a final touch is given by the imitation of an infantile earthquake as she arranges you to her taste, and then you may consider yourself ready to start out on a journey which may make you more sea-sick than any rough channel-crossing in boat or aeroplane. chapter xiv it was with a feeling of exultation that jill, from her elevated seat, looked down into the arab's face, outlined in the scented dimness of the garden by the snow-white head-cloth, and her brilliant mouth widened in a low laugh of pleasure as she pulled down a bough of fluffy mimosa to sniff its perfume, and she also gave a little shriek of dismay as taffadaln, taking matters into her own enormous feet, and utterly ignoring the frantic tugging of the silken reins, suddenly stalked off towards the gate. there was a sharp word of command bringing the animal to a standstill, then a throaty exclamation from somewhere in the long neck as she pitted her hereditary obstinacy against the man's will. five times, with a blatant wink towards her sisters; and a sneer on her hideous mouth, she journeyed towards the gate, and five times was she brought back to the starting-place, to be fastened at last by a strong lead to the bridle of her more submissive sister, who was making disgusting masticatory noises over a tough twig. then, upon the fastening of the lead, there arose a concerto of such growlings, fretting, sobbing, groaning, and roaring, as to make the inexperienced jill beg to be allowed to dismount, for fear of having caused hurt to the hateful brute. but it seemed that all the fuss came about through the queen of the desert's objection to the unknown lady on her hack, an objection which was causing her to twist her long neck backwards in the diabolical hope that the loose-lipped mouth in the spite-contorted face might reach something to bite, be it foot or saddle, cloth or skirt. "o! hateful, impatient descendant of a dissatisfied mother!" suddenly ejaculated the man. "more foolish than an ostrich, and as poisonous as a scorpion, yet have i to put up with thy whims and fancies because of thy specially formed stomach. i, who long to strike thy repellent face again and again, and dare not, for the fear that thy evil, dwarfed brain, twisted with jealousy, might make thy beautiful rider the object of thy revenge, tearing her limb from limb, and rolling upon her;[ ] but behold! in as much as allah made thee, yet shalt thou, through thy disobedience and ill-manners of to-day, be put to stud with thy elder brother, who, for a camel, rejoiceth in seeming good manners. then shalt thou be chastened, and thy milk given to the feeding of horses." this harangue might have been a paean of praise for all the change it made in the beautiful eastern voice, and the girl's low laughter rang out like bells on the night air, as the man explained that the animal was inordinately jealous of all and sundry who, in her sin-laden brain, she feared might do her out of a handful of sugar or bucket of water. * * * * * * from all time women have revelled in a novel sensation, but never surely so much, or in such a one, as did jill in hers, as, with peace restored, she passed through the gates with her companion, on her way to a life about which she had not allowed herself the slightest analysis. and a great silence fell on the girl as they left the town, padding noiselessly through the outskirts where no one met them, and no sound was to be heard save for the barking of dogs, and the occasional wail of an infant; for the strangeness of everything had suddenly made her realise that of her own will she was standing on the threshold of a new life, laden--though this the usual narrow outlook and education of the west prevented her from understanding--with a love and passion and womanhood which cannot, and never will be, realised in countries where the dominant colour is grey. gone was her laughter, and vanished the merry exclamations and remarks, as she began to glean some idea of the width and breadth of the desert which was slowly engulfing her. once or twice she had looked behind at the ever-receding town, with the sheen of the fresh water canal becoming fainter and fainter at each step, until it at last vanished into nothingness. and the living silence of the desert seemed to close in upon her, and the canopy of heaven, weighty with stars, to press down upon her, and the snapping and breaking of generations-rooted conventions to deafen her, until like a lost child she suddenly sobbed, and dropping the rein, held out her hands to the man who, although she knew it not, had been watching and waiting for just such an outburst. for he worshipped the sand and pebbles and rocks and dunes and hills of his adored desert, and knew the effect it sometimes made, even at the paltry distance of a mile or two from some teeming city, upon both male and female denizens of the west, who bloom palely in the heat of a coal-fire, and lift their faces thankfully to the red lozenge which, for eight months of an english year, represents the sun shining through fog or cloud. also must it be confessed that jill's head was beginning already to swim a little with the sway of the camel, though of nausea she suffered not at all, and it was with a feeling of joy that she felt the animals come to a halt, saw the black one, upon a word of command, get docilely to its knees, heard howesha grumbling fiercely to the moon as she went through the same gymnastic performance, and felt her own rocking and pitching until it came to the ground. whereupon she dismounted lightly, and reeled against the man as the entire desert, herself and camels included, turned a complete somersault, after which she meekly sat down on taffadaln's back and watched proceedings. the pack-camel lay supinely as its master with strong deft fingers unbound and unknotted the various ropes until everything desired was found. a rug of many colours was laid at jill's feet, and cushions thrown thereon, upon which, with a great sigh of relief, she laid herself down, until something softly crawling round her neck brought her to her feet shaking with disgust. "it is doubtlessly a sand-spider," explained the man. "they are perfectly harmless and to be found everywhere, and are even welcomed in some houses as they help to reduce the plague of flies from which we have suffered, with other things, since the time of pharaoh. i am so sorry, but insects are a nuisance we have totally failed to conquer, though in your house, believe me, there will be none, not even the smallest." upon which assurance jill sat down, took off her hat, arranged her hair in a pocket mirror, flicked a shadow of powder upon her nose, and settled down to watch and wait. the man's agile fingers arranged some charcoal, which he lighted quickly in some desert fashion inside a square of four bricks, over which he placed a brass tripod. there was a gurgling sound as water ran from a skin into a brass pot which hung from a hook on the tripod, and in a few minutes the water began to bubble furiously, as the fire, leaping and falling, cast giant shadows on the arab's flowing robes. small boxes were opened, and the contents laid on plates: sandwiches, cakes, sweetmeats, fruit, and wine, red and white, in skins, poured into empty earthen-ware jugs in which to cool it. small cups of egyptian coffee, a "cona machine" for the western idea of coffee, and a box of cigarettes. "if i had known you would be a-hungered, i would have brought the wherewithal to make a repast of substance!" "oh, but it is all so topping!" cried the girl, and then stopped. the slang words had suddenly struck her as foolish and silly, and out of place in a country where the syllables of words sound sonorously, and time passes like a slow moving river with its banks unchoked with "hustle weeds." and from that day, or rather night, jill gave up slang, and one by one all the little dreary habits which rub the bloom off the western maid. [ ]to revenge the lash or whip camels have been known even after a lapse of months to seize their victim, tearing and trampling him to pieces, and then with infinite relish proceed to roll time and again upon the remains. chapter xv a striking and unrealistic picture the two made as they lay on their cushions alone in the desert. the girl in her white dress, which in truth was somewhat crumpled, her white neck rising like a gleaming pillar from the low-cut blouse, the little curls rippling round the face which, under the moonlight and the stress of the past hours, showed white with shadow-encircled eyes, gazing at the man who rose and knelt with a towel of softest linen, and a basin of brass filled with water. jill happened to be one of those lucky individuals who can with impunity wash their face anywhere, and at any time of the day, and look the better for it. neither had she to fear a futurist impression in vivid colours of dorin rouge and blue pencillings mixed with liquid powder appearing on her face after a sudden rain storm. so she put her face right into the basin, lifted it sparkling with laughter and rainbow drops to bury it in the snowy cloth. her sleeves she turned back, and ran the water up and down her arms. "and you must wash your feet, woman, for so small are they, they must assuredly be fatigued!" and without hesitation the girl proffered her shoe to be unlaced, whilst without lifting her skirt, with a quick movement she undid the suspender which held her last pair of real silk stockings to the infinitesimal girdle she wore instead of the usual figure-distorting corset, peeled off the silken hose and put the prettiest foot in the world in flesh, painting, or marble, into another basin of brass laid upon the ground, and also filled with water. "allah!" whispered the man, as he dried each little foot, "so small, so slender, rivalling the arch of ctesisphon, dimpled as the sky at dawn, never in the most perfect circassian have i seen feet so wonderful, glory be to allah, whose prophet is mohammed." and then the arab, filling another basin, moved to the far corner of the rug, where facing towards the east he made ablutions of his mouth and hands and feet, and raising his hands to heaven, gave praise to his god for the wonder of the day, and bowed himself in obeisance. "i was returning thanks to allah for you, o! moon flower," he said simply, and led her to the cloth of finest damask upon which the repast was spread, praising allah anew as he poured the contents of the wine jars upon the sands when jill announced that she only drank water. rested and cheered, the girl chatted merrily all through the al fresco meal, in her turn inwardly giving thanks for the arab's perfect manners and knowledge of table methods, for in her heart she, particular to the point of becoming finicky about the usually so unpleasant process of eating, had looked forward with absolute horror to the moment when the man's fingers should close upon some succulent portion of a mess of pottage or chicken, and convey it to his mouth with charitable distribution of rice grains upon the beard. reassured, her laughter rang out sweetly when the absence of methylated spirit for the "cona machine" was discovered. "and i would really rather have yours," said she, "for am i not to become an eastern------" and suddenly stopped, for looking up she found the man gazing at her with eyes ablaze with love. and once more a great silence fell between them, as they both sat staring wide-eyed over the desert, and up into the starry heavens. few, very few of those who live in the west have had the privilege of sitting alone under the stars in the desert. this does not mean riding out on a tourist track with dragoman and camel-driver, and retiring a few yards from their perpetual chatter to gaze at the heavens in what _you_ imagine to be the approved style, to the accompaniment of correct gasps, after which, finding you have left your cigarettes behind, you look at your wrist watch and wait another five minutes, until you can with decency saunter back to your camel-driver with the feeling of something quite well done, and the unuttered hope in your mind that everyone would not have gone to bed on your return. no! it means, when wearied from long travel you call a halt, perhaps just before the dawn, when the very stars seem to commune with you. leaving your servants to pitch your tent, urge your camel to the distance when the clattering of pans, and the jar of inter-domestic feud shall not assail your hearing, then urge your camel to its knees, and set you down at a distance so that the pungent odour of the beast shall not assail your nostrils, and then removing little by little the outer covering of the worries and pin-pricks which have made the passing of the day unbearable, give way to your soul, or second self, or whatever you call that which causes you to joy in the coming of the spring, and to mourn when the fire refuses to heat but a portion of the room in winter. for this is what happened to jill, the english girl, as she sat on her cushions in the egyptian desert, and has nothing to do with table-turning, or ten-and-six-penny visions in maida vale, or whisperings, or touchings in a conveniently darkened room; neither must you put it down to magnetism or hypnotism, or any of those "isms" which we, of a glacier-born country and a machine-made life, so irreverently tag on as terms descriptive to all that which we cannot label and place upon a museum shelf, or conveniently start by motor power. a long dissertation on the eastern's power of concentration, love of meditation, and utter detachment from self, would doubtlessly prove wearisome in the extreme, neither for a true explanation thereof can help be got from highly or lowly born native. without movement for hours he will sit or squat, as becomes his station, staring, as we should say, vacantly into space, in reality seeing and hearing that which others, blinded by material enjoyment, can never hope to visualise or hear. jill afterwards tried to explain the outcome of this, her first step in the meadows of meditation, which she took without help and without intention, and in which she has become so versed, to the mystification of those about her, who look upon woman as a bearer of children, a plaything for sunny hours, useful in time of rain, endowed with the brain of a pea-hen, and as much soul as the priests see fit to mete out to her. "something had left me," jill explained later. "my body seemed to be sitting on the cushions, and i could minutely describe the way hahmed was sitting, and the exact shape of the shadow cast before him by the moon, which was setting behind us. but inside i was quite empty, whilst all sorts of little things i had known so long, crept out and stole away into the desert. i was just a husk, with no more impatience or quick temper or restlessness, and i can remember wondering if i were likely to break in two or crumble into dust, i felt so thin. and then i heard all sorts of whisperings, just as though thousands of people were standing near me, trying to make me understand something, and a violet shadow suddenly appeared between hahmed and myself, seeming to get deeper and deeper in colour, and then get less and less; and as it lessened, so did my feeling of being a mere husk leave me, until at last, when it had all gone, i felt--well _full_ is the only way to put it, and my heart was thudding, and the blood pounding in my head, and well--that's all!" very indefinite and very unsatisfactory, and of which the whispering can easily be put down to the snuffling of the camels, the passing of the faint breeze, or the intake of the arab's breath; and the purple shadows to the folds of his black cloak. for the effect of fatigue, excitement, and strong egyptian coffee upon the mind of a western maid is quite likely to turn the buzzing of a fly into the flight of an aeroplane, or the dripping of a tap into the roar of a niagara. be that as it may, the arab made no sound or movement when with a low cry the girl sprung suddenly to her feet, and with both hands upraised, although she knew it not, turned towards the direction in which mecca lay. for a full minute she stood absolutely motionless, then gently moving towards the man, who had risen and was standing behind her, she put out her hand, saying softly, "behold! i am ready to come with thee." chapter xvi it was close upon dawn when the two figures suddenly and silently emerged from the tree shadows in which they had been hiding for some considerable time. very simple and harmless they looked too, the taller one in spotless galabeah and red fez, his smallpox pitted face softened by the light of the dying moon; the other, a mere bundle of clothes with the yashmak covering all except the eyes, dragging back from the hand which pulled her ruthlessly up to the door of a house conspicuous by its length of wall unbroken by windows. the faintest sound of music from somewhere about the immense building sounded as out of place at that hour as would a boy's shrill whistling in the middle of high mass, but unperturbed thereby, the pitted-face man knocked gently three times upon the door, vehemently upbraiding the while his shrinking and protesting companion, who tugged still more forcibly at the restraining hand. "behold, art thou the daughter of ungrateful parents and not fit to be honoured by the great lord who awaits thee. raise thy voice in protest, speak but one word, and thy back shall resemble the red pattern upon thy raiment, which has cost much hard toil to provide for thee." the female figure suddenly sank back, in all humility at the feet of the upbraider, as unperceived--maybe--by both, a small portion of the door above their heads slipped noiselessly back to show a gleaming eye glued to the little grille, taking in the scene beneath it. unperceived or not, the elder man, taking a deep breath, continued in a slightly raised tone to administer his admonition. "comely art thou, and young, and good is the price paid for thee, and may he who has purchased thee be not annoyed at the hour in which i bring thee, for in truth was thy mother against thy flight from the nest, being not awake to the advantages of the new bough upon which thou wouldst come to rest--therefore was i forced to bring thee by stealth. perchance------!" the gentle voice stopped suddenly as the door was thrown open by a much armed individual, who angrily demanded the meaning of the disturbance. "the peace of allah be upon thee and upon this house, into which, by the order of thy master, o! brother, i bring a flower which he has deigned to pluck from within the city. comely is she, and gifted in music and the dance, but young, is affrighted at the honour before her. i------" here the armed individual broke in ruthlessly upon the paean of praise, drawing a most gleaming and curved weapon from somewhere about his huge person. "begone, disturbers of the peace," he ejaculated with the difficulty natural to one who has had his tongue split. "my master awaits a flower in truth, being even now o'ercome in sleep in the waiting, but the flower will show a warrant the which will pass her through this door of which i am the guardian. by allah! it is not opened at the tapping of every chance weed which the wind of poverty may cause to flutter across this path!" things began to look somewhat awkward for the humble flower wilting on the marble step, until her friend, speaking suddenly and sharply, saved the situation by leaning down and quite violently snatching something from the little hand fumbling most awkwardly among the many feminine draperies. "behold the warrant, o! unbeliever. so desirous of this maiden is thy master, upon whom may the blessing of allah rest, that he even gave unto her father the ring of emerald from off his right hand. art satisfied, or is't best to risk the tempest by still further questioning and delay!" the guardian of the door, not a little astounded, snatched in his turn at the jewel, and seeming perfectly satisfied after a prolonged scrutiny, stood aside and motioned the two to enter, and shutting the door behind them and ordering them to stand where they were until he returned from his dangerous mission of disobeying, by breaking in upon his master's privacy, stalked off with much dignity into the perfumed, half-lit, enormous hall. now if only he had been afflicted with one iota of the curiosity apportioned by time to lot's wife, that man might have been alive even to this day. but he neither turned his head nor pricked his ears, thereby failing to note that with the lightning methods of the eel the comely flower had in some miraculous way slipped from her all enveloping sheath of draperies to stand revealed a wiry, glistening-with-oil youth, who, without a moment's pause, with knife in teeth, and as silently as a lizard, glided across the dividing yards of persian carpet separating him from his quarry. across the hall and through endless deserted rooms they passed, the companion of the camouflage maiden bringing up the rear. right to the far quarter of the house they went, one after the other, and the guardian of the house felt little more than a pin-prick when, just as his hand pulled aside the curtain screening a door, the youth behind him raising his right arm drove the knife clean under the left shoulder blade, catching the dead body as it fell backwards to lay it noiselessly upon the floor just as his friend appeared upon the scene. "it was well done, o! brother--neatly, and with strength--leaving no trace of blood to speak of. but now must we proceed with cunning, else may we too be lying lifeless upon our backs. take even thy knife, my brother, 'twere a pity to leave it in yon carcase!" indifferently turning the body over, the boy drew the knife, as indifferently wiping it on the dead man's raiment, and stood for a moment as still as any one of the exotic specimens of statuary which ornamented the whole house. truly and implicitly had the orders of the master been obeyed; there was no sound of any living thing in or near the place, so that after a few whispered words the curtain was gently pulled back and the door opened just as gently inch by inch. for a long minute the two men peered in through the crack, their eyes searching swiftly for sign of him whom they searched. unavailing at first, until with a motion of the head the younger one pointed. "look! yonder he sleeps!" the room was still brilliantly lighted by the many lamps hanging from the ceilings and the walls, but the shadow of the great mass of growing plants fell upon the divan upon which jill had sat some few hours ago. inch by inch the door was opened, until it was wide enough to allow the dusky slender body of the boy to slip in. round the wall he slid, his eyes a-glisten, and the knife fast held between his teeth; then down upon his hands and knees he sank to crawl as quietly as a cat up to the back of the flowering plants. and then he quite suddenly sprang to his feet, beckoning to his companion, who sped straight across the room, knife in hand. "behold! o! brother!" and a world of disappointment rang in the whispered words as the youth pointed disgustedly to the picture before him. very peacefully lay the man whose name had been a byword in the land of egypt, and whose delight had been in the moral and physical terrors of women. his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open, showing the white teeth; the hands were gently clasped, but over the spot where should have been his heart, and on the silken coverings of the cushions, spread a great crimson patch of blood, whilst at his feet, lying prone across the couch, was the body of a girl. her eyes were open, and a little smile widened the beautiful mouth, but from the spot above the heart which had so unwisely and so well loved, glittered the jewelled hilt of a dagger. one hand touched the hem of her master's coat, but what the bastinado had left of the little feet seemed to shriek aloud for vengeance, vengeance for the dead child, and vengeance for all those who had likewise suffered. "allah! allah!" the cry cleft the stillness of the room as the boy's eyes fell upon the terrible sight; and the knife flashed twice and thrice, and yet again, until the evil beauty of the dead man's face had been entirely obliterated, and a strong hand gripped the supple wrist. "come, o! brother! waste not thy strength upon the dead. behold! yon little maid has carried out our master's wish, may she rest in the delights of paradise with the beloved of allah whose prophet is mohammed, and may the spirit of him who is accursed enter into the body of a pig to live eternally in filth and dishonour!" and the sun had risen upon a cleaner day when the twain departed from the house of shadows. chapter xvii it was close upon dawn when to jill's ears was borne a faint melodious sound. inexpressibly weary was she, exhausted to the point of fainting, for in spite of numerous haltings, the drinking of tea, coffee, and sherbet, and the eating of cakes and curious egyptian sweetmeats, had in no way lessened the agony of her lower limbs, which she moved this way and that in the vain effort to relieve the terrible cramp that seemed to creep from her spine to her brain, and down again to her feet. the stars danced before and around her, as she swayed to and fro to the deadly lurching rhythm of the camel's pace; one thing, and one thing only, having so far saved her from the utter dissolution of fatigue, and that being when, urged by their master's voice, the three animals had broken into a gentle trot, ending in a pace which literally took away the girl's breath; but even that relaxation had had to be abandoned as the nature of the ground changed. most people's conception of the desert is that of one huge expanse of smooth sand, with here and there a palm tree to break the monotony; an entirely wrong conception, bred partly, i think, from the highly coloured scriptural pictures of our youth. there are tracts of sand extending for many miles, such as those around big cities into which you wander on camel-back at so much an hour, and with the description of which you hold your less travelled neighbours enthralled, as you intersperse the munching of muffins with the words "dragoman," "backsheesh," and "cheops." but even on a week or ten days of genuine travelling you are likely to pass through and over a variety of grounds, from hard gravel which is delightful for tent-pitching, ground covered with a liberal supply of rocks, under which lurks the festive scorpion, great mounds of limestone which in the desert take on the proportions of mountains, marks of long-dried pools left by long-dried torrents, defiles almost as narrow as the camel's scriptural needle, and in places, an earth, the curious marking of which will almost lead you to believe that it is cloud-shadowed, if the heat of your head, the state of your throat, and the lamentable leathery appearance of your skin did not tell you that for months no such thing as a cloud had been known to appear in the blazing heavens. at the first faint, flute-like note jill thought that she must have awakened from sleep or delirium, and, it must be confessed, really did not care which was the solution of the mystery; sinking back into a state of apathy so exhausted was she, until the three camels came to a standstill, and the arab, with something that looked like a dark cloak across his arm, drew his beast alongside of hers. "behold, woman, the hour of namaz is at hand, when throughout the land the muezzin is called, for it is the hour of dawn. the hour when the curtains of heaven are drawn about the stars, so that they may not be blinded by the glory of their golden master, as i shall draw this cloak about the fairness of your sweet face, and the outline of your gracious figure, which allah in his bounty has placed within my unworthy hands, to hide them from the eyes of the high-born, and the eyes of the low-born, such as yonder slave who, though he be the sweetest maker of music in all egypt, is but my head camel tender, though before allah who is god, his worth as such could not be purchased for the price of rubies. "and now shall your weary form rest a while, while i give praise to allah, whose prophet is mohammed." grumbling, the three animals subsided. "is all well with you?" the girl nodded as she stumbled from her seat and stretched herself full length upon the sands, the convulsive twitching of her cramped limbs giving way at last to the peace of oblivion. "will you forgive me if i leave you in your stress, for behold, the hour of namaz waits neither for weariness or joy, nay, nor even death." but jill heard nothing, neither his light footfall as he moved some yards from the unclean christian whom he loved, and placing his prayer-rug upon the ground turned towards mecca, which in islam is called keblah, which, being translated, means "centre"; nor the splashing of water as he washed three times his nostrils, his mouth, and hands and arms to the elbow, the right first as ordained, then head and neck, and ears once and feet once, whilst murmuring a prescribed form of words, these words being repeated in different positions, standing erect or sitting, with inclinations of the head and body, and prostrations in which the arab in all humility touched the ground with his forehead. for hahmed was a true mohammedan, carrying out the precepts of his religion as laid down by the koran as fully and conscientiously as is within the power of man. but, you will say, he was voluntarily consorting with a christian, who, by the edicts of the koran, is considered unclean, inviting pollution by touching the bare skin of her hands and feet. true! but the man was no evil liver, picking up to throw away, buying to regret the purchase within the hour, attracted by this pretty face or that lovely form. nay. he loved the girl as it is unhappily given on this earth for but few women to be so loved, and with all the strength of his will he intended the outcome of this love to be one more triumph to the glory of allah. as for the pollution of her satin skin, did he not murmur the prayer of purification when in contact with it? neither did jill notice that the man, his purification and his prayers ended, had come over to her, standing gazing down at the almost tragic picture she made out-stretched on the sands. her death-white face was buried in the curve of one folded arm, the other, flung out, lay with the palm of the hand uppermost. the little feet were crossed under the crumpled skirt, from which peeped the folds of her last white silk petticoat. "poor little bird," he murmured, as the sense of mastership rose strong within him at the sight of the helpless child at his feet. "so weary, so beautiful, and so young. behold, shall a nest be built for thee in which thou shalt rest, shaking off the plumage harmed in thy short passage through life, to appear at last more beautiful than the most glorious bird in paradise," and bending he touched her gently. but jill, who had had no real sleep since she had left the boat, had passed at last into an almost comatose condition, from which it was doubtful she could have been awakened, even at the sound of israfil's trumpet.[ ] crossing to the camels hahmed considerably lengthened the lead, and attaching the camels taffadaln and howesha one on each side of his own, he bade the two former rise, which they did with alacrity, leading one to believe that they heard the flute-like music calling them to the cool of the palm tree's shade, the doubtful bucket of water, and the certain repast, terminating with a handful of luscious dates. stooping, the man raised the unconscious girl from the ground, holding her as lightly as a feather on one arm, and draping the dark cloak around her so as to cover the red-gold hair, drew a corner across the face. perhaps some may enjoy restraining the vagaries of a lead horse, which sees fit to proceed sideways at the encounter of anything in motion on the road, or execute a _pas seul_ on the hind legs at the flutter of a leaf, without referring to what happens if a white paper-bag should attract the nervous eye. but it is mere child's play compared with the leading under certain circumstances, of one or more self-willed, obstinate, vain-glorious camels. seated across his black camel the arab drew the girl's head against his shoulder, holding her gently but firmly in his left arm. a word, and the camel pitching and tossing finally acquired an upright position. things went well for a score or so of yards, the three animals proceeding at a stately demure pace, until verily the devil entered into taffadaln. suddenly she rushed sideways, then with front legs wide apart came to a dead stop, jerking the black camel violently. "thou awkward descendant of clumsy parents, what aileth thee?" exclaimed her master, as jill's head bumped violently against his shoulder. "take heed to my words. enjoy this thy last ride through the glory of the desert, for verily at the end shalt thou, between the periods of bearing young, be put to the lowest tasks apportioned to the lowest of thy species." whereupon taffadaln turned solemnly towards the speaker, and lifting her upper lip laughed, and with no more ado faced towards the palm trees, which to desert-trained eyes showed faintly some miles away, took two steps forward, humped herself together, collapsed on the ground, and stretching out her neck, half-closed her eyes. imagine the helplessness of her master, seated so high upon his camel as to render useless any chastisement with the _courbaash_, which whip applied deftly to certain less tough portions of the camel's body will usually bring the brute to reason, if he who wields the whip cares to risk the accumulation of revenge which the punishment will infallibly store up in the camel's brain. a veritable storm of anger raged in the man as he looked down upon the girl lying peacefully in his arms in a sleep which even the camel's uncouth procedure could not disturb. once more groaning bitterly his camel and howesha grounded, which latter word describes best, in condensed form, the camel's method of lying down. out of one corner of her half-shut, insolent eye, the beautiful taffadaln watched proceedings, and just as her master, holding jill gently in his arms, was slipping from the saddle, with a positively fiendish squeal of triumph, and one gigantic effort which beat any record, for swiftness established in any camel's family history, she rose suddenly, and rushing forward once more to the end of her lead, caused the black camel to fall sideways and the dismounting man to stumble, and in order to save her, to place jill with distinct vigour upon the sand. not one syllable did he utter, not one line appeared on the perfectly calm face, as he raised the girl and carried her further from the camels, where she lay as still as though the angel azrael[ ] had separated her soul from her body. walking to taffadaln he stood for some minutes absolutely motionless in contemplation, whilst the object of his thoughts, blissfully ignorant of what was in store, and because it suited her mood of the moment, came meekly to ground on the word of command. [ ]in islamism there are four angels particularly favoured by allah, who is god. israfil is the name of one whose office will be to sound the trumpet at the resurrection. [ ]azrael--angel of death. chapter xviii i am sure that those who read the following and know the east will say that i exaggerate, that under no circumstances or stress of emotion would an arab so treat a camel, especially the most perfect of her species. but against this wish to hurt must be weighed the love that consumed the man, a love mighty and sudden, and for the advent of which, and the enjoyment thereof, he had trained himself from his youth, abstaining from aught which might cause his perfect body to deteriorate, and all that which by satisfying the senses might dull his mind. a love, in fact, which, stronger than the wind of the hurricane, swifter than the raging torrent, swept all before it. the arab's love for his camel is a love of gratitude, for does not the koran say, "and hath also provided you with tents and the skin of cattle, which ye find light to be removed on the day of your departure, and easy to be pitched on the day of your sitting down therein, and of their wool, and their fur, and of their hair, hath he supplied you with furniture and household stuff for a season." his love for his horse is a love of delight in her beauty, and her endurance and her swiftness, causing the master even at the point of death in battle to pour forth the praises of his mare, and with his last breath call aloud her pedigree to the lucky person, to whom she falls as booty. but once let an arab love a woman, with the love which has nothing to do with the arranged marriage of his early youth, or his attraction to some beautiful face which causes him to take the possessor thereof to wife, of which allah in his bounty allows him four, or his desire for some one of his concubines, to the number of which there is no limit; _then_ i say will the love of sons, love of beast, and thought for all save his religion, go down before it as a young tree before the storm. hahmed the arab loved the english girl with just such a love, also had she been hurt through the brutish manners of the animal, who had been expressly chosen for the honour of carrying her, therefore his love for his camel had turned to seething hate, and when that happens in the east, it is time to remove thyself, and that hastily. unfastening the lead from the pack camel, the man knotted it firmly to the back of her flat saddle, which usually makes the foundation for the animal's burden, then urging her to her feet led her in front of taffadaln, who, a little at sea as to the proceedings, was marking time with her head. the same thing happened to the black animal, and then with a swiftness which thoroughly befogged the small brain of all this trouble, the leathered thong across her soft muzzle was tightened to the verge of cruelty, and the reins twisted twice round the back of the head, and then knotted to the leading reins fastened to the saddlebacks of her two inferior sisters. "thus will i show thee who is master, o! shrew!" observed her master, as he surveyed his handiwork. "thou wilt not walk, then shall thy sisters force thee to run; thou wilt lie down, then shall they drag thee until thy mouth runs blood. "behold has thou brought misery to thy fair mistress, o! curse of camels, and for each moment that thou shalt have lost unto her the shade of the palm tree, for each moment shall thou shed a drop of blood." howesha of her own free will scrambled to her feet, whilst the arab raised the girl, who, sunk in a sleep resembling unconsciousness, took no heed of these untoward events, and placing her so that her head lay softly against his shoulder, mounted his camel and brought the animal to her feet. the forcing to their feet of three camels by voice persuasion alone is no mean performance, but no voice, not even the vocal chords of the archangel gabriel, would have moved the cause of all this pother, for at the word of command, in a tone which should have put fear of death into her black heart, she slightly shifted her hind-quarters and lay still. "so thou wilt not move, thou daughter of a desert snail! verily then shalt thou so remain!" a sharp word, and the two upstanding camels moved forward, coming to a standstill as they felt the weight of their recumbent sister. there was then heard a sharp swish, as the _courbaash_ delicately flicked each astounded quadruped, astounded indeed, for never had they felt the like before, and be it confessed, never had their master been possessed of such a fury. simultaneously they bounded forward, if so one can describe their action, bringing a snarl of rage from the unrepentant desert pearl. straining and tugging, with the whip constantly flicking and stinging, they slowly dragged taffadaln over the sand, until gradually the agony of the tightening muzzle-thong cut not only into the flesh, but into the very soul of the rebellious camel queen. foam began to gather round the bruised mouth, dripping from the teeth only half closed by the leather strap; a drop of blood showed red near the corner, cut by the cruel knot, sweat poured from the silky coat as again and again she vainly tried to scramble to her feet, whilst the eyes of her master, ablaze with hate, watched her futile efforts. suddenly he halted the animals, and sat contemplating the beautiful taffadaln, panting and moaning upon the sand. "get up!" he suddenly cried, with a ring of steel in the usually soft voice, and obediently the brute scrambled to her feet, leaving red patches where had rested her mouth. "now that i have almost broken thy neck, will i essay to break thy heart." in which endeavour the arab entirely failed.[ ] "thou wouldst halt, therefore shall thou run!" but taffadaln was no fool, no, not one bit. for the first few yards, as her sisters raced ahead, she hung back, pulling on the blood covered thong, and tearing her tongue between her vicious teeth. faster, and faster, sped the forerunners, and how fast that can be may only be understood by one who has pressed this swift moving animal's pace. resisting less and less, taffadaln raced after, until the agony and outrage of the proceedings suddenly drove her mad, and also to her fastest speed, until with a positive shriek of hate she rushed upon the pack camel, regardless of the slackened reins which were like to trip her at every step, a scream of agony announcing the fact that the bloody teeth had met in the camel's side. "allah!" ejaculated hahmed as again and again he struck at the animal's infuriated face, when she turned her attention to her black sister, whom she had the full intention of savaging, what time the three were tearing like the wind towards those palms under which figures in white could easily be discerned. finding she was unable to wreak her vengeance with her teeth, her crafty brain conceived the idea of harassing her fleeing companions, to whom she was ignominiously fastened. what were they but snails in speed compared to her, and if she could not pass them for the bonds which held her captive, she could, at least urge them on until they dropped from exhaustion. so into first one and then the other she bumped, with an occasional nip at the tails, whilst the air was rent with agonising shrieks, through which tumult jill slept sweetly upon the man's heart, until at last they raced up to the caravan. many camels and four men watched the arrival, the former grunting and groaning as they scented the trouble, the men calling upon allah to witness the madness which had befallen their master. at the sight of the tents and the men who had tended them from birth, howesha and the black camel stopped dead, but too terrified to pay heed to the voice that bade them get down, stood literally shaking with fear, or wheeling sharply to dodge the gleaming teeth which seldom failed to leave their mark, until howesha, in a moment of absolute terror, twisted and met her teeth in the upper portion of the back part of taffadaln's hind-leg, of which there is no tenderer part in the camel's anatomy, following which action ensued a pitched battle. with a scream, the rage-filled taffadaln flung herself upon the two camels and then upon her master and she who lay in his arms and who was the real cause of this unseemly fracas. the arab, essaying to hold the cloak around the girl, so as to save her from the insult of a man's gaze, struck again and again at the mouth which tore great pieces from his flowing robes, the girl's covering, and chunks of hair from the shrieking camel's body. blood and foam covered the animal's chest, the girl's cloak, and the garments of the men, who, on account of the inextricable knotting of the leads which bound the animals one to another, and the three sets of teeth which were snapping and tearing at everything within their reach, found themselves helpless to calm the tumult. but suddenly there was peace, just as jill opening her eyes murmured, "what a dreadful noise the sea is making," and closed them again, for the maker of sweet music, and head-tender of camels, had grasped the danger to his beloved master, also the disaster impending among the seething herd, who were all upon their feet and straining at their tethers. swiftly divesting himself of his long, white, outer garment, he waved it in front of the glory of the desert, whose price was above rubies, and temper a direct gift from eblis.[ ] to her everlasting undoing, she paused for one moment to stretch her neck at length and eye the new menace. a fatal delay in which the offending object lighted upon and around her head, shutting her completely into outer darkness, whereupon she stood like a lamb whilst hobbles were placed about her feet; after which the shade was lifted slightly, leaving the eyes covered, whilst the blood-soaked thong was cut away from the torn flesh, and a kind of leather cage slipped over the muzzle, which would certainly prevent her from biting, or indulging in her usual wide yawn of indifference. the covering being lifted from her eyes, her bonds were undone, and herself likened by the maker of sweet music, unto all that the koran calls unclean, even unto the vilest of the vile, the pig, into the company of which she was relegated for all eternity. she was then ordered to ground in a manner reminiscent of the tones used to bazaar dogs, which order was emphasised with a flick of the _courbaash_ upon a part which had known the meeting of howesha's teeth. but when at sunset jill opened her eyes all sounds and signs of battle were stilled. [ ]having four times successfully foaled a she-camel, taffadaln, the glory of the desert, was ultimately shot on account of her demoniacal temper. [ ]the devil. chapter xix the sun was sinking when jill moved, stretched a little, half opened her eyes, and closing them turned over and went to sleep again for about two minutes. then she half opened her eyes again, stretched out her hand to pull uncomprehendingly at the white netting round her bed, through which she could see a blaze of red, gold, and purple; and laughing in the vacant manner of the delirious, or those but half-awake, tried to collect her thoughts sufficiently to explain the strangeness of her surroundings, sitting up with a jerk as the doings of the last twenty-four hours suddenly stirred in her awakened mind. wide-eyed she sat with her hands clasped round her knees, whilst the deadly stillness seemed to rise as a wall around her, cutting her off from laughter, love, and life, until wild unreasoning fear, seizing her very soul, caused her to tear and rend the mosquito nets, and force a way through them and out of the tent. for a while she stood holding to the tent rope, looking this way and that for the sign of some living thing. before her stretched one vast plain of gravel, miles upon miles of it receding into nothingness, on each side the same, behind her tent above, the palm trees waving gently in the evening breeze, and above again, a sky such as is to be seen only in this part of the world, for travel you ever so widely, you will find nothing to rival a desert sunset in its design and colour. above her head seemed to be stretched a canopy, made by some eastern magic, of a mixture of colours woven by the hands of love and hate, passion and revenge, underneath which she stood disheartened, dishevelled, in crumpled clothes and shoeless feet, with fear-distended eyes in a fatigue-shadowed face, searching vainly for something alive and near, be it human, dog, horse or camel. owing to a sudden nervous reaction brought about by the cessation of all physical and mental effort, the girl's power of reasoning had gone, along with her will, her common sense, and her fearlessness. that there was another tent beside her own made no more impression on her mind than the fact that a slight smoke haze softened the intense blue of the sky on her right. she was absolutely terrified and ravenously hungry, also unwashed, therefore altogether unhappy, so with no more ado she flung out her arms, and with a great sob rushed headlong into that which frightened her most, the unlimited, uninhabited desert. her shoeless feet made hardly a sound as she sped like a deer from the desolation she imagined, to the certain desolation and death in front of her, but she had hardly cut her little feet over more than twenty yards when hahmed, the swiftest runner in egypt, was speeding after her. "allah! be merciful to me! for behold, i fail to keep from harm that which thou hast placed in my keeping," he murmured, as he ran abreast with the girl for a few yards, then putting his arm around her lifted her off her feet, holding her gently to him, and speaking no word until the paroxysm of sobs had subsided. "where to fly you, o! woman, and whyfore are you thus afraid?" "i was simply terrified. i--i--thought you had left me all alone to die, and i just ran and ran to find someone or something else beside myself in the desert," answered a voice, muffled by the snowy garments of the man who held her so gently against his heavily beating heart. "i will take you back to your tent, to the bath and repast which awaits you. i dared not loosen your raiment without your permission, so having removed the shoes from off your feet, laid you upon your bed, but when you are bathed, i pray you wrap yourself in the soft garments you will find, and clapping your hands make known to your slave that you are ready to eat." "oh, there is a servant to wait on me. i thought we were quite alone." "i am your slave," simply replied the arab, as he placed jill upon her feet in front of her tent, where she stood with her hand on his arm, rooted to the spot by the glory of the sky, whilst the man gazed down upon her, as the dying sun struck the gold of her hair, the blue of her eyes, and the cream of her neck. "you, who are of those who are versed in music, and of those who can make poetry, describe that glory to me," imperiously demanded jill, after a moment of silence, with that suddenness and complete change of mood which falls occasionally upon all women, causing the meek to scratch like cats, and the strong to give in, often to their everlasting undoing. "bathe the white body of thy beloved in the blue-green of egypt's river, so that the coolness and fairness may give delight to thee! drape the satin veil of deepest blue about the red glory of thy love's hair, and bind a band of gold, set deep is sapphires, above the twin pools of heaven, which are her eyes. set turquoise, threaded with finest gold, a-swing in the rose-leaf of her ears, to fall and wind about the snow of her white neck. "fasten the blue flower which spies upon thee from the shelter of the golden corn, within the glory of her hair. "perfume her hair and her breasts, anoint her hands and her feet, and wrap thy delight in a garment of passion, sparing not the shades therein, for in them shalt thou find thy delight. "let the garment be heavy with the gold of love, rich with the purples of passion, aflame with the crimson of thy desire, forgetting not the caress of the rose, nor the light mingling of opal and saffron, and the faint touch of amethyst and topaz, in which shall _she_ find _her_ delight. "bind thy love with the broad bands of the setting sun so that she cleaves unto thee, and carry her unto the twilight of thy tent, which shall slowly darken until the roof thereof is swathed in purple gloom, through which shall shine the stars of thy beloved. "and there lie down in thy delight, until the hour of dawn calleth thee to prayer." the voice was stilled, whereupon jill lifted her face bathed in rosy colour, which might or might not have been the reflection from the sky, whilst her red mouth quivered ever so slightly, and her great blue eyes looked for a moment into those of the man, and as quickly looked away. so seductive was she in her youth and utter helplessness that the man stepped back two paces, and saluting her for whom his whole being craved, gathered his cloak about him and departed to his tent. and jill also entered her tent, and having earlier and under the lash of terror departed therefrom in blind haste, stood amazed. she had imagined a mattress, a rug, an earthenware basin on the ground, and sand over everything, and on the top of the sand scorpions, spiders, and all that creepeth and flieth both by day and by night. not at all. a carpet of many colours stretching to the corners of the desert tent, which is not peaked like the european affair, into which you crawl fearing to bring the whole concern about your ears, when if you should be over tall you hit the top with your head. it was as big as a fair-sized room, high enough for a man of over six feet to stand erect, not so broad as long, with sides which, lifted according to the direction of the sun, and through the uplifted portion of which the faint delicious evening breeze blew refreshingly. a white enamelled bedstead covered in finest, whitest linen stood in the centre of the carpet, surrounded by a white net curtain hanging from the tent ceiling, each foot in a broad tin of water. in the corners were a canvas folding dressing-table, a full length mirror, a long chair and a smaller one, over which hung diaphanous garments of finest muslin, and a shimmering wrap of pearl white satin, and through a half-drawn curtain which hung across the narrower end of the tent, the vision of a big canvas bath filled with water, big white towels, and another canvas table upon which stood all the things necessary to a woman's toilet. so that it was a very refreshed jill who, wrapped in a loose turkish bath-gown, with little feet thrust into heelless slippers, went in search of raiment. and wonderfully soft, simple things she found into which she slipped, and out of which she slipped again, holding them out at arm's length for inspection, then burying her face in the soft perfumed folds in very thankfulness. and she laughed a delicious little laugh, of pure glee as she replaced the garments on the chair, and slithering hither and thither in her unaccustomed footgear, tidied the tent and made her bed, regarding ruthfully the torn mosquito curtain. "oh, for a maid," she sighed, as she wrestled with the mattress, and "oh, for dear babette," she sighed again, as she wrestled with the masses of her hair. and the tent was filled with a blaze of light, as, wrapped in her bath-gown, she stood in front of the steel mirror, plaiting and unplaiting, twisting and pinning her hair, until with an exclamation of impatience she let it all down, holding great strands out at arm's length, through which she passed the comb again and again, until the red-gold mass shone, and curled, and rippled about her like a cloak of satin. it is hopeless to try and describe the shining, waving masses which curled round her knees, and fluttered in tendrils round her face, and it would have been hard to find anything anywhere so beautiful as jill when, clad in the loose silk garment and soft satin wrapper, with her perfumed hair swirling about her, she stood entranced at the opening of her tent, until the sun suddenly disappearing left her in darkness, whereupon she clapped her hands quickly. chapter xx jill had finished the first of many evening meals she was to partake of in the desert, and was lying on a heap of cushions listening to the clink of brass coffee utensils and porcelain cups, whilst sniffing appreciatively the aroma of eastern coffee easternly made, which is totally different to that which permeates the dim recesses draped with tinselled dusty hangings, and cluttered with eastern stools and tables inlaid with mother o' pearl made in birmingham, in the ubiquitous oriental cafe at which we meet the rest of us at eleven o'clock on saturday morning at the seaside; nor does it resemble in the slightest that which is oilily poured forth in london town by the fat, oily, so-called "son of the crescent" who, wearing fez and baggy trousers, in some caravanserai west, sou'-west or nor'-west, has unfailingly been chief coffee-maker to the late sultan, _vide_ anyway the hotel advertisements. she was smiling as she lay stretched full length with her chin in her palms, thinking of the meal just eaten. whilst waiting for it she had imagined a mess of pottage perhaps, or stewed kid as _pièce de résistance_, with honey or manna as sweets, and a savoury of fried locusts, which she, with many others, imagined to be the all-devouring insect. she knew by now, and returned thanks, that the man neither ate with his mouth open nor gave precedence to his fingers and teeth over knives and forks, but in her wildest dreams she had never imagined that such exquisite things, served in such an exquisite way, could be laid before her in a desert. when the light had suddenly closed down upon the two adventurers on the road of life, she had been led to the tent adjoining hers, a sudden shyness preventing her from asking where the arab slept, which she found alight with the soft glow of many candles, and spread with a carpet upon which were many cushions. the table had certainly been the ground, but everything upon it had been of the daintiest, and all that she had eaten, although she had had no notion of what it had consisted, might have been the outcome of some _cordon bleu's_ genius. "our life is one long picnic," had replied the arab to her question anent the cooking facilities in waste places. "so why should we not all, high and low born, learn to make the picnic pleasant, for behold, we know not what a day may bring forth, nor in what place the night shall find us." and jill came quite suddenly out of her reverie when asked if she would like to go outside for coffee and cigarettes. "for though the moon in her youth has gone early to bed, the stars are shining like your eyes." "oh," said she, as she got into a half-sitting position, "i thought we should have to pack up; it's late already, isn't it?" "you are tired from unaccustomed travelling, and your limbs must ache, therefore if it pleases you we will wait until to-morrow night, so that with many baths and much refreshing sleep you will feel glad to mount your camel, who is not the begotten daughter of sin, taffadaln, and come still further into the desert." so jill went outside the tent and looked up to the blazing stars, and the soft wind blew her hair so that a burnished red-gold perfumed strand fell across the man's mouth, and behold he trembled, for great was his desire, but greater still his love for this woman. and when she sat down upon the cushions he stood apart and watched her, until a little hand, like a white moth fluttering in the dark, beckoned him, and he moved towards her and sat at her feet; and the wind, whispered to the palms and the hours fled as the english girl lay on the cushions and listened, and she had learnt of many things before she rose and passed into her tent to sleep again. hahmed was of southern arabia, and therefore with truth could claim direct descent from kahtan. he was the first-born of the great sheik el has'ad, his father, and his favourite wife who, on her marriage, besides much wealth, had brought a dowry of purest blood, and wonderful beauty, to her lord and master, so that the man who sat at the english girl's feet under the stars, and who trembled at her nearness was _pur sang_, and further than that you cannot go. worshipped by his father, idolised by his mother, at the age of ten he bad been betrothed to the daughter, aged seven, of the sheik el banjad. she was also _pur sang_, and already of looks promising great beauty. and so he had grown in the warmth of his parents' love, trained in what we call outdoor sports, but which are life itself to the arab, until at fourteen no one could surpass him in running or horsemanship or spear-throwing, whilst with rifle or revolver he could clip the hair off the top of a man's head, the which strenuous accomplishments he balanced in passing his leisure moments in the gentle arts of verse-making and even music, in spite of the latter being condemned by religion; also did he learn to converse in foreign tongues. do not think that these qualifications were enumerated with the zest and glorification which usually precede the distribution of dull books at a prize-giving, for the man might have been talking of the sunshine or the sand or the flies or any other part of that which goes to the making up of egypt, rather than that which had helped to make him the finest man in the country. and yet another trait which he touched upon lightly, and which had served to make him the subject of comment in the bazaars, and of gossip in the harems. in regard to his womenfolk there is no man sterner the world over than the mohammedan, shielding them from harm, and insisting on the absolute privacy of their lives and their bodies. upon just this subject, from the first day of his understanding, hahmed the arab was stern to fanaticism, intolerant even to injustice. he disapproved of licence in all things, but especially in speech, food, and religion. when forced by circumstances, he went to the feasts to which he was invited, eating sparingly as was his wont, taking no more interest in the more or less clothed dancing women than in a set of performing dogs, departing thankfully when the hour came. let me recount, in his own words, the happenings of his youth, which served to change the whole tenor of his life, and was to culminate in the high adventure of an english girl. "at the age of fourteen i was to marry and was content, for the desires of my own woman had come upon me, and i longed to possess the beauty of which my mother told me, and which, save for her father, had been seen by no man. "my own woman i desired, i say, for bought women were not for me, and i had refrained therefrom, therefore was i unsoiled at the time of my wedding. "true my marriage had naught to do with my horoscope cast at birth, for it had been read that water would bring me joy, and water would bring me grief, and that water again would bring me everlasting happiness, so i thought with others that it had lied, and was amazed. "but behold, when after great festival and feasting my bride was in the care of her handmaidens who prepared her for my coming, one came, and casting herself at my feet, covered her head in dust, begging a word with me. "it seemed she was a master in the art of tinting the fingers the pink which we arabs love. "i thought she had a boon to crave so listened to her, but when she told her news i took her by the throat to strangle her, but in choking breath she vowed the great vow, therefore i listened again, and though i were like to die of shame i took counsel with her, asking her the price of her information, whereupon she merely muttered 'revenge,' and showed her breast which was a festering sore caused by the boiling water which her mistress had flung upon her when the scissors had proved over sharp. "whereupon i withdrew the handmaidens from the beautiful zuleikha with the exception of one, cross-bred of french and tunisian, who, though of passing beauty, scorned all men, it seemed, and passed her days in waiting upon the whims of her mistress, and tending to the beauties of her body. "i know not how far the women of the west are versed in the knowledge of evil, therefore will i speak in words that are veiled. be it that i--i, hahmed, the son of my great father, demeaned myself to spy between the perfumed curtains of my bride's chamber, to witness the passionate farewells of the two beautiful women. allah! that such things should be. tears streamed down the cheeks of she who was to share my couch, as the slave, the unclean half-caste, beat her breast in her despair, and letting loose the strands of thick black hair which covered her to the knees, knotted it around until it covered, as a mantle, the body of she who had been anointed for my pleasure. "and then i tore down the curtains and strode in upon them, bound one to another in their disgrace, and clapping my hands brought eight women as witnesses to my shame. and still bound with the thongs of hair i threw the sinners naked across my horse, and made my way to the woman's house, and before a great assembly, for behold, the guests had not yet departed, i flung them at the feet of the woman's father, and calling my witnesses spake my tale. and when i had finished, the wailing of grief was heard in the land. and then they were unbound and brought before me, and the half-caste mocked me. me! until i took her hair within my hands and twisting it about her neck, stopped her speech for ever, and when she fell dead, zuleika my wife, allah! hear me, my wife! screamed in terror, for i ordered my slaves to seize her. and then the sheik el banjad, her father, pronounced judgment, quoting from the koran as is written in the second verse of the th sura. "'shall you scourge with a hundred stripes, and let not compassion towards them prevent you from executing the judgment of god, if ye believe in god, and the last day.' "and to the scourging was added the punishment of death, for behold, the moslem law is less lenient than the holy book, also of such a case is it not written in the koran. and zuleika, my wife, was bound naked to a pillar and scourged with a hundred stripes. and the city in which had taken place the marriage, and in which both her father and my father had great property being built upon flat ground, there was, therefore, no height from which to throw her, neither well in which to fling her without fear of polluting the water, for time, alas, is making us softer towards misdeeds, so that such places of punishment are disappearing quickly." hahmed the arab stopped short as with a little rustling sound jill raised herself to her knees, her hair sweeping to the satin cushion, her hands stretched before her face as though to blind her eyes to the word-picture which the man was painting in a perfectly indifferent voice. "how awful! how awful!" she whispered. "surely, surely you never let them _kill_ her!" for a moment the arab sat silent, as he forced his mind to an understanding of the western outlook upon what to him was so simple a matter. "but she was unchaste, woman, therefore there was nothing else to do!" and at the tone of finality in the gentle voice, jill sat back on her heels and said, "and then?" and listened without interrupting until the tale was done. "so," continued hahmed, "she was taken screaming to a public spot and there buried to her waist, and after that her mother had thrown the first stone, was put to death by men and women who, following the edicts of the moslem law, meted out death by stoning to the unchaste. and from that day i fled my country and my home. east and west i travelled, passing many moons in england, hence it is that i can converse with you in your own language. "there are many good things in your country and there are some bad, the greatest of the latter, to an eastern mind, being the freedom of the women, who, even in their youth, go half-naked to the festival, so that all men, yea, even to the slaves who serve at table, may cast their eye of desire upon wife, or wife to be, taking from the husband the privilege of possessing all the beauty of the woman for himself. also did i see the women of the west go down to the salt waters to bathe. naked were they save for a covering which clung as closely as the skin to a peach, so that if i had had a mind i could have discoursed upon the comeliness of the wife of el jones, or the poor land belonging to el smith. allah! i remember well a bride-to-be of seventeen summers, comely in her outer raiment, displaying to her future husband, without hesitation, the poor harvest of which he would shortly be the reaper, for i think that the majority of the women of the west strive not to render themselves beautiful, develop not the portion of the body which maybe lacks contour from birth, bathes not her body in perfumed waters, feeds not her skin with delicious unguents, cares not if her hair reaches in wisps to her shoulders, or falls below her waist as a natural covering under which she may hide at the approach of her master, neither does she daily perfume it, nor her hands, nor her feet, nor any part of her." once again jill snapped the story thread, but this time with laughter, for her mind's eye, aided by her companion's scathing comments, had called up picture after picture of friends and acquaintances who, at balls, theatres, or by the sea, had draped themselves or not according to what they imagined to be their menfolk's outlook upon life. "how funny!" she laughed, "how too funny!" and added: "and then?" as she lit another cigarette which she did not smoke. "for many years," continued hahmed, "i wandered, even unto asia and to america. in truth whilst there the desert suddenly called me. my body craved for the sun, my eyes for the great distances of the sand, my ears for the familiar sounds of the east. "but i could not return to the place of my shame, likewise were my parents dead, leaving me an equal part of their great wealth. "so i went to other parts and bought 'the flat oasis' as it is called, on account of the many miles of perfectly flat sand surrounding it, absolutely unbroken by rock or bush or sand-dune. and perforce because i needed it not i acquired wealth, and yet more wealth, buying villages and great tracts of ground, breeding and selling camels and horses, diverting myself with my hawks, hunting with my cheetahs, or greyhounds, to occupy my time, heaping up the jewels in my bank at cairo, keeping the best of everything for my wife, the woman predicted in my horoscope, for there can be no real happiness without a perfect helpmate, and real happiness has been promised me. "and all these things i have done for her, yet am i looked upon as mad by many in that at twenty-eight years i have not begotten me a son, for they could not understand the disgust which had taken root in my whole being, so that in love or passion or desire i laid not hands upon women. "you cannot understand, woman of the west, what it means when i say this to you, for in the east a man's greatest desire is to propagate his race, to have sons, many sons, with a daughter or two, or more as allah wills, and to satisfy this longing in the shadow of the law, allah, who is god, in his all-powerful goodness and bounty has allowed us as many as four wives, and as many women slaves or concubines as a man can properly and with decency provide for, the children of the latter, if recognised by the father, sharing equally with the offspring of the former. though why a man who has found his love should wish to cumber his house with other women, seething with jealousy and peevish from want of occupation, is beyond my power of comprehension. "so i have none, because it is within me to love one woman only, and to find the light of my life in her and the children of her loins, and if allah in his wisdom sees not good to grant me this woman, who must come to me of her own free-will and love, then will i go to my grave in allah's time without wife, without child, although the koran sayeth that he who fails in his duty towards his race is accursed among men." and behold, a great trembling fell upon the english girl, as rising to her feet she stood to look out upon the desert, and drawing the glory of her hair about her so that she was covered from the gaze of the man who stood apart, passed into her tent. and the hour of prayer being at hand the man purified himself, and turning towards mecca praised his god, and divesting himself of his outer raiment laid himself across the entrance of the woman's tent so as to guard her through her sleep, until such time that allah, who is god, should open the entrance of her chamber unto him, and place the delights thereof into his hands for ever. chapter xxi and the first day was like unto the second and the third, for these two desert farers went but slowly. each dawn, if they had travelled in the night, they found their tents pitched; each night they moved on, or not, as pleased the girl's mood, each hour of the day strengthening the love in the man's soul, each minute of the night passing over him, as he lay outside the entrance to her tent, so that, at the slightest sound from the dim, sweet, scented interior, he might spring to his feet, awaiting the little call for help which never came. jill slept as peacefully as a babe, stirring only at a dreamed of, or imagined, swaying of the bed, as does the seafarer sometimes who sleeps for the first time after many months upon a bed, the four feet of which stand firmly on the ground. during the waking moments after her first night's rest, uninitiated jill had in imagination gone through and ardently disliked the frightful hour in which she would help collect, and clean, and pack a litter of soiled pots and pans, and other such abominations, which collecting, etc., seems to constitute one of the chief charms of a western picnic; so great had been her relief on hearing that there was absolutely nothing to do but to see that the cushions and coffee were safely strapped upon howesha's back, the only patient part of the animal. they were standing in front of the tents with the animals at their feet, the man watching the girl's every movement. jill herself, being vastly rested, was absolutely radiant as to looks; strange dishes and hot winds and cold causing no havoc to the skin, nor the lack of marcel methods unsightliness to her hair. the dusk hid the dilapidation of her tailor-made, which looked the fresher for being pressed under the mattress; she always travelled boot-trees, so her shoes were all right, and the two jacob's ladders, falling on the outside of her stockings, looked just like clocks neatly mended; her lovely hair rioted under her blue hat, and her high spirits rioted in her blue eyes, as she fed the camels with dates and wiped her sticky fingers on the silken coats. "what!" she had exclaimed. "you don't mean to say that you are going to leave all this for the first thief to collect," withdrawing as she spoke her basket of dates from the vicinity of her new camel's mouth. verily, a beast of great beauty and worth was she, but shining as a mere rushlight, in comparison to the blériot head-light radiance of the fallen taffadaln. "the arab does not steal!" "oh! but------" said jill, putting a date into her own mouth by mistake, and therefore speaking with difficulty, "but they do steal, and murder, and do all kinds of _dreadful_ things like that--i learnt it all in school!" "no," reiterated the man calmly, "the arab does _not_ steal, he merely carries out the order of allah, who, when abraham turned his son ishmael from his door, gave unto the boy the open plains and deserts as a heritage, permitting him to take and make use of whatever he could find therein. "and as it is written that every hand was turned against ishmael, so his descendants turn their hand against the descendants of those who persecuted the son of abraham; but amongst their own tribe, or to those who ask of their hospitality, you will find the greatest honesty. "in a camp everything is left unguarded, and nothing goes astray. if you, clothed in fine linen and arrayed in jewels, were to enter the tent of some half-starving arab, and ask of him hospitality, he would share his last few coffee beans with you, and give you his couch, if by chance he was possessed of such a luxury, and speed you on your way the morrow, and believe me, you would not find a ribbon missing from your attire, even though you had left him without the wherewith to make his beloved coffee." the girl laughed, for she really cared not a rap either way, and was only arguing for the sake of drawing the man out, having found argument the best and simplest method of breaking through the eastern reserve, up against which she had more than once found herself during the last few days. "well! i call that splitting hairs. i really can't say i see that the persecution of ishmael makes stealing different from stealing; to my mind, taking sugar from a bowl that is not yours, and diamonds that are not yours from a safe, are one and the same thing, as both ornamental and necessary booty belong to someone else." "and yet," replied the eastern, "in the west a man who cheats at cards is damned everlastingly, but a nation is acclaimed who takes the land with all its wealth from some wretched, half-educated native; takes it by force of arms or diplomacy, which, nine times out of ten, means trickery. yes! acclaimed with such adjectives as valiant, strong, beneficent, applauded to the skies, whilst reams are written anent the glorious, victorious campaign. victorious! allah! when the nation goes out with artillery and unlimited forces to meet a handful of men, whose strength lies in a spear, and pride in some dozen flintlocks, which have been sold to the benighted heathen for solid gold or shining lengths of purest ivory. "besides, the arab requires 'what he gains,' as is his way of expressing himself. no people on earth endure such hardships as this my people; never enough to eat, burnt in the summer, frozen in the winter, buried in sand, tortured with thirst, fleeing from place to place, never at peace, yet always happy in his miserable tent. "for the _gazu_ or raid on caravan or camp, which will yield booty of horse, or camel, or women--well! that is in the blood, and both sides are prepared. if you or they should have the better horses, or the better cunning, both of which we of the east so dearly love, one can hardly be expected to sympathise with those who lose from want of forethought." and as he spoke, he raised a light spear, which he held in his hand, and drove it through one edge of the tent flap which covered the entrance, deep into the sand. "that is a sign that i am coming back, and believe me, the worst of arabs would pass this way and seeing the sign would leave my belongings unmolested. yes! even if many moons passed, until the skins had rotted, and the sands had covered the rotted remains." after which explanation, jill remained silent for a space, and then approached her camel, feeling that the rapping of her knuckles, however slight, had been quite unwarranted, for her sympathy in human beings and their feelings was great, and the understanding which kept her from wounding the sensibilities of those humans even greater. her wish to draw out the man had caused her figurative feet to make a _faux pas_, in fact she felt that her pedestal had tilted ever so slightly, causing the drapery of decency, and courtesy, to swing aside for one moment, exposing a particle of clay upon the ivory of her beautiful feet to the eyes of the man whose outlook on life was so broad, whose principles were so stern, and whose people she had so rudely criticised. therefore she was dissatisfied with herself. though, if she had known it, the man looked upon her with the same solicitude and tenderness, as you or i would look upon the babe, who, in its first efforts to get from table to chair, pulls the table-cloth about its unsteady little feet. also sensing that the woman he loved was troubled, there was no gladness in the heart of the arab, so that, in his anxiety to remove the pebble from the path, he approached her, as she stood with skirt lifted in readiness to mount her recumbent camel, whereupon she looked up at the grave face and apologised truly and sweetly, and by her sweet and humble act, causing the man of the east to marvel at her strength, and to salaam deeply before her as he accounted himself as the sand beneath her little feet. "now wait a moment!" laughed jill, whose worries disappeared beneath the warmth of her happy nature with the vanishing celerity of the dew beneath the sun. "i am going to try my hand with the camels. i really have a good deal of influence over animals--domesticated ones, i mean------ oh! yes! i suppose they are, but of course in england we don't have them hanging around as we do horses and dogs, you know. i don't like cats, however--i simply can't stand the way they look past and through you, at the spirits i always think, which we humans cannot see standing beside us. "i had one once, i found her in the picture gallery one night, who positively made me creep. she would get up suddenly from the fire and go sidling and wriggling across the room in the most absurd fashion, purring and simply confused with delight, to rub herself up and down the empty air, and by the way her tail was flattened down and then shot up again, i was positive she was being stroked. she almost lived in the picture gallery, sitting staring at the pictures of an ancestor of mine, who had the most _frightful_ reputation. "the worst of it all was that the whole village began to suffer from catalepsy as dads said, and then it all got into the newspapers, and occult societies camped at the gates, water diviners drilled on the lawns, the _merry harvester_ was filled with 'ologists hailing from this country, and some genuine catamaniacs, until i had the bright idea of fastening a placard on the gates to say that the cat was dead, though she had suddenly disappeared the night the picture of the ancestress fell, owing _honestly_ to a faulty plug in the wall. now! let me try and see if my knowledge of the arabian tongue is good enough to be understood by the camel." lowering her voice a tone, she suddenly cried "get up!" whereupon the animal rose clumsily to its feet, as the girl, laughing aloud, clung to the man's arm. "oh," she cried, "did you ever know anything so funny, though why, i am sure i can't say--fancy a camel obeying me." "get down!" she suddenly ordered in her sweet, broken arabic, at which the camel knelt, leaving the arab astounded, for the beautiful, lazy woman of the east troubles not her soul in the training of beasts, nor has she any command over them. having mounted and got the three animals to their feet, jill laughed delightedly, announcing her intention of starting the trio and leading them for a short space, to which the man, craving to satisfy the slightest wish, consented, fastening the pack camel to the off-side of jill's beast, so that she should be in the middle, upon which they started off triumphantly, leaving the tent to the stars and moon. for an hour they travelled over the sand, covered in patches with low shrubs, and broken here and there by sand dunes, until jill suddenly stopped her chattering and pointed. "there's a caravan or something over there, and we seem to be heading straight for it--it's--yes--it's a tent under some palms--why! yes--no! yes it is--oh, it's our tent--how _can_ it be our tent when we have been going straight ahead all the time, haven't we?" without the glimmer of a smile, the arab shook his head. "we have been describing a circle ever since we started." "but no!" argued the girl, who was half mortified, half ready to laugh, "there is no left rein, and i left the right one hanging------" "yes, but quite unconsciously you kicked your camel with your left foot when we were some way from the tent--you didn't notice, but she immediately began to turn to the left; after that, you patted her continually on the left side, and camels, who, from pure stupidity or hereditary instinct, will go straight on to eternity untouched, are trained to turn in the direction of the side touched by hand, foot, or whip; the single rein is of very little use, and hardly ever used by a native, for once a camel bolts, nothing will stop him, excepting a cloth flung over his head, or the birth of some passing fancy in his head, which serves to divert the evil tenor of his benighted brain. and i defy anyone unused to the desert and its markings to know if they are really going straight or in a circle, and you were too taken up to notice the stars. try again! keep that red star straight ahead, those two close together, just behind your right shoulder, and you will unfailingly reach the so-called mountain, in the shadow of which we shall find our tent." and the maker of sweet music bowed low from afar, and salaamed with fervour, when, just before the hour of dawn, three camels came to a halt, and knelt on the word of command of this veiled woman, who spoke his language sweetly, but as a stranger. chapter xxii few have or ever will make use of the route which the arab was explaining by means of a sharp stick and a flat stretch of sand. and in truth 'twere wise to leave it to those who are born of the desert, for even if ignoring the danger signals of her cumbersome covering, the body, the soul should urge the would-be traveller to tread the unknown path, he will, if he sets foot thereon, find the discomforts out of all proportion to the interesting dangers. 'twere best to eschew it, keeping to the normal route of boat or rail; even if the soul of the desert, wrapt in mystic garments, stands with plump, henna-tipped, beckoning forefinger; for she is but a lying jade, outcome of some digestive upheaval; the spirit of the sand, the scorpions and the stars, beckoning to but the very few, and baring herself to none; though the wind may lift her robes of saffron, brown and purple, revealing for one sharp second the figure slim to gauntness, and blow the thick, coarse black hair from before her face, exposing those eyes of different colouring, and flaming mouth, luring to kisses, which will steep the mind in intoxication, and rasp the lips with stinging particles of burning sand. no! take rather the boat from the round ring, which the arab drew in the sand, christening it ismailiah; whereupon jill got up from her place in the moon, and crossing over to the man, crouched down beside him, the better to view the map, taking it for an offering of prayer, when the sweetness of her breath, and the savour of her perfume, assailing the man's nostrils, he suddenly raised his hands to the starry heavens, praying to allah to give him strength. the stick starting from the ring christened ismailiah turned slightly to the west and continued in a line which curved at every inch. "i haven't the vaguest idea where we are," remarked jill, as she took a proffered cigarette, and proceeded to blow smoke rings in the still night, from a mouth contracted until it looked like one of those little leather jug purses, whilst her head, thrown back, showed the beauty of her bare throat. are we going towards cairo?" "nay, woman! having crossed the fertile land, outcome of the fresh water canal at ismailiah, we continued to the west for a space, and then came south, winding in and out so as to miss the higher hills and sand dunes. "to-morrow we pass through the mountains of the jebel aweibid range, and find the haj road, which, glory to allah, will be free of pilgrims until next moon. that road we will follow as far as the fertility of airud, passing that spot afar off, as even in this month caravans will congregate there; then crossing the canal a space higher than suez, where crowds embark and disembark, we will pick up the haj road on the far side, making use of it to pass through the jebel rabah range, leaving it, once through, to strike to the east, and find our way at last to the peace of my own habitation." upon which explanation jill sat back on her heels, and wrinkled her brow. "but surely the easiest way would have been by boat to suez!" "true, o! woman, whose eyes ringed with the shadows of fatigue are as blue flowers growing in the mountain's purple shade. i pondered long before i made decision in my choice of roads. upon the one we traverse, you could but meet fatigue, and in this month, but few travellers upon the way that leads to mecca. "upon the boat you would have met many of your land, friends maybe, who perchance would have turned upon you the eyes of suspicion, the shoulder cold with disdainful convention, whilst their tongue, more poisonous even than the forked tip of the _cerastes cornutus_,[ ] might, nay, _would_, have striven to corrupt your mind with a festering mass of doubt and suspicion and misgiving. therefore have i brought you on this journey, which is so much longer, and is likely to kill you with fatigue. verily, for behold the half is not yet accomplished." jill, who had unconsciously taken the sharp stick from the arab, and had also, unconsciously, been drawing monstrous beasts in the sand, lifted her head and made a slight grimace. "oh! but you will kill me, you will really! and to think that i thought you lived quite near cairo! where _are_ we going _really_?" and hahmed, overcome by an almost irresistible longing to take the girl in his arms and hold her close against all dangers and discomforts, suddenly rose to his feet, standing towering over her, and when she held out both her hands, asking to be helped up, leant down and raised her as lightly as though she were of thistle's down. then there came about one of those pauses which sometimes do come to pass between man and woman, a pause in which, as there is no midway, either much is won or lost. as still as a mouse, jill lay in his arms, until he very gently set her upon her feet; and though a little ripple akin to disappointment disturbed the smooth surface of her content, she said "thank you," and smiled sweetly into the grave face which showed no sign of a pulse disturbed by a thudding heart. and then jill sat down again upon her cushions, drawing her knees up under her chin and clasping them with her hands, and the shadow of the man falling upon her, left her well content, and still more content did she feel when he stretched himself full length beside her and continued speaking. "where are we going? oh woman, who has placed her hand in mine, we journey to my own country, unto the desert of arabia, until we shall come to the place which was mine, but now is yours. although, verily, it is unworthy of your eyes, you will bear with it for a few moons, until a habitation worthy of your beauty is erected. nay, as oasis, it is not over large, but it is fertile beyond thought. many have essayed to steal it by force of arms, or buy it, but i prevailed through the magic of much wealth and the virtue of patience. i bought it bit by bit from those who owned it, and now they rent it from me--i did not want their money, but i desired to make the ground productive and the people happy. "the grain plains require good workmen, also my date groves, my paddocks, and stables for camels and horses. the fruit and vegetables and other produce, which were once mine and now are yours, are cultivated and tended by some hundreds of especially trained men, who, with their wives and numerous offspring, live in the shadow of the acacia, loving, quarrelling, hating, dying, but always happy. my own habitation is in the shade of the palms, removed from the unseemly wailing of children and barking of dogs, and as i have told you, no woman has placed foot therein, save for the hunchback. verily the flat oasis is unique in the desert annals, and to bring unto perfection requires but a son to take on the work, when these mine hands are clasped in the handshake of death." but those very hands showed no sign of their master's desire to close them upon those clasped whitely round the girl's knees, neither did his voice portray the desire of possession raging within him as he continued speaking. "if later you should desire to travel, then shall the boats, the cars which were mine, but are now yours, be at your disposal, so that in comfort shall your journey be made, wiping out the bitter memory of this your first." but there was no doubt about it that jill was suffering acutely from a cumulative fatigue, engendered by the unaccustomed mode of travelling, the intense heat through which she essayed to sleep during the day, the biting cold at night, when the temperature fell many degrees, as is its agonising wont in that part of the world, the strain of the mind as it valiantly essayed to accustom itself to the new way of everything; but above all, the inability to change her under raiment, which, strive against it as she would, managed to conceal particles of sand and insects, which, though they did not bite, crawled most successfully and irritatingly. so that as in a dream she passed down the haj road to the water, with a vague recollection of a few wayfarers and beggars squatting on the roadside, many men who salaamed with fervour at the water's edge; a boat, a quick passage, and more of those who salaamed, and a three days' rest, when the tents were pitched on the near side of the mountains. three days in which she slept, and slept, and slept, rising to bathe and eat, grateful to the man who spoke only when she asked a question, and who, though sign of servant there was none, forestalled her every unuttered wish. then followed they the haj road through the mountains and left it to take a line in the eastern direction, which they also followed until the hour when the arab called his camels to a halt, and pointing straight ahead, exclaimed: "behold, woman, your land!" upon which jill strained her eyes in vain, for her untrained sight revealed nothing but sand, and yet more sand. "yonder lies the oasis, o! woman of the west, and beneath the star of happiness the dwelling which will serve to throw a shadow upon your path in the heat of the day, and from the roof of which you may watch the changing of the moon; and learn the way of the eastern stars, whilst listening to the million voices of the desert night." the girl made no reply, neither did she turn to look at the man. there was no sound, save for an occasional grunt of satisfaction from one or other of the beasts, who sensed their home and the termination of their labour. there was nothing to break the silence, and nothing to break the never-ending stretches of sand, as the two, caught in the inevitable fingers of fate, sat motionless, looking ahead beyond the oasis, beyond the stars, to the moment when the first wind blew a particle of sand to find its mate, with which to multiply and form the desert, the birthplace and burial ground of so many; whilst gnarled hands playing with life's shuttlecock drew a golden thread to a brown, proceeding to weave them in and out with the blood-red silk of the pomegranate, the orange of the setting sun, the silver of the rising moon, and the purples of the bougainvillaea, until upon the background of dull greys and saffrons appeared an amazing pattern of that which is called love. and suddenly the girl looked up into the man's face, and stretching out her hand spake softly, calling upon him by name, so that his heart quaked within him, and his being was suffused with love. "hahmed! o! hahmed! is it happiness?" and hahmed the arab, raising his right hand, called heaven to witness. "as allah is above us, o woman, it is happiness. glory be to him whose prophet is mohammed." [ ]the most poisonous snake in egypt. chapter xxiii little by little the face of the desert began to change, just as changes the face of a fainted woman, which, drawn and grey and pinched about the mouth, starts to relax and fill out and to colour faintly, when life begins to return to the limp form. rough shrubs grew in patches, giving way to rough grass growing about the roots of short trees. a clump of palms and then another, a mimosa tree scenting the air from its diminutive yellow lanterns, and then great stretches of land, some light with the grain silvered by the waning moon, some dark from the plough's drastic hand, undivided by hedge or wall, yet as evenly marked out as a chess-board, reminding jill of a very great patchwork quilt held together by some invisible feather-stitching. her questions fell like rain, and in them the man seemed to find great joy. that was an artesian well, and this a grove of tailik dates. yes! the rivulet which would sing her to sleep on its way through the sand was a very bounteous spring, more precious than gold or jewels, holding only a second place to allah, whose prophet is mohammed, in the esteem of the fellaheen, but being a playful spring, almost disappearing at one moment to gush out the next, artesian wells had been made so that the oasis should not depend solely upon her caprices, though, be it confessed, she had bubbled and laughed her way contentedly through many years, and had even deigned to widen into a diminutive lake, which lay between the principal dwelling-place, which contained the sleeping apartments and living rooms of the master, and the house which had been built on the same principle for the innumerable guests, and the quarters, hidden from view by a belt of palms, in which such servants as were necessary to the well-being of the house cooked and worked and entertained such wayfarers as were of their own station. many figures had seemingly sprung from nowhere at the sound of the padded feet, which were only prevented from breaking into a swift trot by the voice of the man who guided them. these figures had salaamed deeply, and lifted up their hands to the starry heavens as though to call down a blessing upon the heads of those who passed, but they had not approached until the arab suddenly cried aloud a name, whereupon a figure, standing apart, had sped quickly forward, salaamed, listened to his master's words, and had sped away as silently as a panther, as swiftly as a deer. "your runner, o! woman, who, after your slave, is the swiftest in all asia and africa. if ever you would speak with me, and i were perchance afar off, bid that man to your presence, give him your message in script or word of mouth, and say but, 'thy master--cairo,' or wherever i might sojourn, and he will find me, over desert sands or mountain range; he would die for me, and therefore he would die for you. "we approach the grounds around your dwelling, may it find favour in your eyes." gradually the grass had deepened and softened, until like a velvet carpet it lay spread. great groves of dates threw ink-black shadows, slender palms with feathery heads swayed slightly in the dawn-coming wind, when suddenly of their own accord the camels stopped. to right and left as far as the dim light allowed, jill saw what looked to her like an impenetrable wall. "this is the dividing line, a high wall with its nakedness covered in creepers, which separates your dwelling from the land upon which common feet may tread. no one can pass without the permission of mustapha, the blackest of all black negroes; no one can leave, not even my guests, unless they are accompanied by some one of the servants of my house. thus will you be safe in the care of black mustapha, even if i should be called to a distance from which i cannot guard you from harm. enter, o! woman, and may the blessing of allah fall upon you, even as the petals of the purple flower will fall upon your head." and they fell in showers from the purple bougainvillaea which trailed its length over the wrought arch above the gate, of which one half swung back by the hand of the biggest, blackest man ever dreamed of in nightmarious slumber. "master! master!" cried the product of africa, and, prostrating himself, flung the desert sand upon his woolly pate; then rising, ran towards the man who owned him, lifting the black cloak to his huge mouth through which scintillated white, unblemished ivories. the arab stretched out his hand, and laying it upon the girl's cloak spake but one word, upon which the negro once more prostrated himself before jill's camel, covering his already sandy hair with yet more glistening particles, murmuring something unintelligible, until a sharp word brought him to his feet, whereupon he backed towards the gates, flinging them wide apart, falling upon his knees as the camels stalked disdainfully through the opening. through a long avenue of trees they passed, the trunks twisted into uncouth shapes, the heads of long spear-shaped leaves glistening as though drenched in dew, the roots buried in masses of flowering shrubs, behind all of which showed an occasional glint of distant water. the camels made their sedate way across a great plain of grass, stretching without a break from the avenue up to a belt of palms, before which they stopped, swayed a moment, grunting disapprovingly in chorus, and knelt. "your journey's end is here, and even though it should prove the last effort of your will to combat the fatigue which surely crushes your slight form, yet will i ask you to give me your hand so that i may lead you to your dwelling, as by the will of allah i will lead you slowly or quickly to that which we call happiness." and as he spoke the arab slipped from his camel, to stand tall and straight beside the little figure enveloped from head to foot in a long dark veil, from out of the folds of which stretched a little hand, pulling the flimsy covering from the lower part of the face. "nay, that you must not do, for behold! although you see them not the tenders of my camels hover around, waiting till we have passed on to fall upon those three beasts and lead them to their stables. come!" the silence was intense between the two as jill, with her hand in that of the arab, passed slowly over the grass up to a long, low, two-storeyed house which, with two wings, made a quadrangle round a great court, in the middle of which splashed a fountain. a multitude of figures stood absolutely motionless under the palms surrounding the house, who, even as the two passed, with one accord, called aloud as they raised their right hands to heaven: "allah--jal-jelalah!" which, being translated, means: "praise to god the almighty!" disappearing on a sign from their master as he turned to explain to jill that this being his first visit in six months, his servants, with twenty-four weeks of grievances and domestic feud upon their minds, and a near prospect of being able to unburden themselves, were doubtlessly delighted to see their master. jill passed into the house too dazed to notice much of her surroundings, heard the swish of silk curtains closing behind her, and stood alone in a most exquisite room. six lamps, hung from the ceiling by bronze chains, threw a shaded light upon the soft-toned persian rugs covering the floor; a divan piled high with silken cushions of every shade of mauve, covered with silken sheets, and smothered in the white folds of a mosquito net, stood against the far wall; there were small inlaid tables, piles of cushions, and a dressing-table glittering with crystal and silver in the light of the lamps, and a small fire which flung out sweet resinous odours from the burning logs; stretching right across one wall, a low cupboard showed gleaming satins and soft silks behind its open doors, and through an archway of fretted cedar-wood she saw a roman bath of tiles, into which you enter by descending shallow steps, and over which hung a lamp with glass shade of many colours. little white tables smothered in towels and bottles and little pots stood about, and across a low seat was thrown a garment of shimmering gold and silver cobwebby tissue. dusty, tired jill stretched out her arms, opened the cupboard doors wider, and inspected the garments therein one by one. and she frowned. a net had been spun in which she had been caught, her silly ears had listened to an absurd tale, she had stretched out a greedy hand to pluck an unknown fruit to find it bitter; in one brief word she had been fooled. whereupon she pulled back the silken curtain, of the door with a vicious rasp, which seemed to have spread to her voice when she called aloud. the curtain swung back as the arab entered, murmuring the eastern prayer of greeting, and though furious, and therefore ripe to cut and hurt with woman's weapon, the tongue, the girl stood still and silent for a moment, instinctively feeling that tale or no tale, net or no, the great man before her was master here, though no one would have guessed at her momentary weakness as she flung open the cupboard doors to their widest, and taking an armful of soft feminine attire, held them out for the inspection of the grave arab, whilst her voice rang through the room, giving exactly the same impression of trouble as does the wind which, springing from nowhere, usually precedes the storm. "you said no woman save an old peasant had ever placed foot within this house. if so, what do these eastern things mean?" holding out as she spoke a feminine something which seemed to be composed of sea-form, and pearls. "for myself i only see a few bedroom wraps, and--and a garment in--in the bathroom." and her heart suddenly stopped a beat, and then made the blank up by multiplying the next, for she had seen the man's face as he had taken the offending garment, and tearing it across and again across, dropped it at his feet, before he moved slowly towards her across the dividing space to take her two hands in his, holding them against his breast in a clasp that hurt. "listen," he said. "i shall speak this once and never again! listen!" for a moment the quiet voice stopped, so that the gentle cracking of the burning logs could alone be heard above the heavy thud of the girl's heart, which to her ears sounded like thunder of the surf at dawn. "you are _mine, mine_, do you understand? you are no silly child, you knew what you were doing when you came with me, neither am i a man, for man or woman to play with. and now i have you, as allah is above us, i will never let you go, for although the oasis and the camels and horses are yours, you will find no soul to lead the beast across the sands so covered with the bleaching bones of those who have gone astray. oh! be not afraid," for the little face beneath his was white. "you are mistress here. you need but draw the curtain and no one will enter, no one until you clap your hands and _call them by name_. you will forgive the lowly room which entours you, and the unseemly garments which in haste i ordered, guessing at what you might require. tomorrow you shall order what you will, and your slaves shall bring all from the great cities at the greatest speed, for as i have said, a dwelling worthy of your beauty shall be erected before many moons have sped. i will leave you, for doubtless you would remove your dust-laden raiment. i will send your slave, who even now is returning thanks to allah in that i have found her worthy to wait upon you, and who also prepares some dishes for your refreshment. you are not hungry, and you do not wish her presence! then shall she not disturb you." and jill found herself alone, upon which she took stock of herself in a long mirror which stretched from floor to ceiling, and hurriedly removed her outer garments. chapter xxiv it was a very beautiful girl who stood by the fire listening to the intense silence which precedes the dawn. the golden shimmering garment fell from her shoulders in soft folds, clinging here and there as though it loved the beautiful form it covered; her feet slipped in and out of the golden mules, in which, try as she would, she could not walk; her hair fell in two great plaits far below her knees; she was perfumed with the perfumes of egypt, than which there is no more to say. and she was afraid. there was absolutely no sound, save for the fall of a charred log which sounded like a pistol shot, the rustle of her raiment, which sounded like the incoming tide of some invisible sea, and the quick intake of her breath, which might have meant unadulterated terror, and--did. she shivered slightly, for of a sudden she saw a woman's face in a corner unreached by the light of the lamp. a long brown hand drew back the coarse hair, which curled and tangled under a veil, black brows frowned down on great eyes, which looked at her steadily, but the mouth, crimson as blood, parted in a smile wonderful to behold in its understanding, as jill called softly: "speak, woman! who are you?" but when the silence remained unbroken, and the girl, rushing swiftly across the room, touched just ordinary wood, she looked quickly round for escape; then hesitating, raised her hands and clapped them softly; raised them again when the silence remained unbroken, dropped them and once more shook with terror, which was really fatigue, when a something rustled behind, being in truth the catching of her garment on the fretted edge of a table; then once more she clapped her hands as she whispered, so low that the words hardly seemed to carry beyond the firelight: "hahmed! hahmed!" whereupon there was a faint rustle, the swinging to and fro of the curtain door, and the man stood before her. not a sound broke the stillness, not a movement caused a flicker to the name of the shaded hanging lamp, which, just above the girl's head, threw down the light on the radiance of her hair, and the wonder of her body which the diaphanous garment half concealed and half revealed. not a sign on the arab's face, this dweller of the desert, whose forefathers in wonderment had watched the ways of wisdom with which solomon in all his glory had ruled more than one fair and obstreperous woman among the scented eastern sands. face to face they stood, whilst the racing blood fled from the girl's face down to the finger-tips of her contradictory hands. the hands she knew so well, the square back, the square finger-tips, the long, square, high-mooned, deeply laid nail. hands which, coming to her down the centuries through quaker and through puritan, were calling to her to stand firm and hold the scales well-balanced, whilst the soft, rounded palm, hidden in the golden fringe of her garment, and the over-sensitive finger-tips, with little nerve-filled cushions at the end of each, clamoured aloud for beauty and sweetness, tenderness and mastery, as the great man, with the beads of allah slipping noiselessly through his fingers, reading the girl's thoughts as though they were written on the wall, marked and watched with sombre eyes in the breathless silence of the coming dawn. slowly the girl raised her eyes and scanned the man, from the snow-white turban on the dark head, the softness of the silken shirt, showing through the long, open, orange satin front of the voluminous coat, which reached almost to the ankles, leaving exposed the trousers of softest white linen, fastened close above the leather shoes, whilst quite subconsciously she wondered what he would look like in european evening dress. slowly she stretched out her long thin arms, until they almost touched the golden embroidery on the coat, as slowly she turned her hands, and looked at the glittering nails, the hands she knew and feared so much, and turning them back again, with a little smile drew a finger-tip over the hills and valleys of the palms. higher still, until the pink and scented palms were on a line with the man's stern mouth, whilst a sigh, faint as the passing of a fly's wing, left his lips, as taking the little hands in his, he drew the girl closer yet. "behold, you are beautiful, o! woman, whom i would take to wife. you start! why! for what manner of man have you taken me? did you think that being an arab means being without honour? nay! when my eyes fell upon you standing in the sun, i knew that my heart had found its desire, that the woman who for all these years had, invisible to others, walked beside me in my waking hours, and hovered near me in my dreams, had come to life; that before me, if allah willed, stood my wife and the mother of my children. i know that the english race, from lack of sun perchance, love not in a moment with a love that can outlast eternity. i do not ask you if you love me, only that you will be my wife, honouring me above all men, delighting me with such moments as you can give me. "listen, o! woman. i ask of you nothing until you shall love me. you shall draw the curtains of your apartment, and until you call me, you shall go undisturbed. _when_ you shall call me--then--ah!" and his voice sank to infinite depths of tenderness as he drew her to him--"then you will be all mine--all--lily of the night you are now--rose of the morning you will be then, and i--i will wear that rose upon my heart. you are even as a necklace of rich jewels, o! my beloved. your eyes are the turquoise, your teeth are the white pearls, even as the ravishing marks upon your face,[ ] and may be upon that part of your body upon which my eyes may not rest, are as black pearls of the rarest. your lips are redder than rubies, and your fingers are of ivory. "and one day shall that necklace be placed in my hands, and not alone the necklace, but the white alabaster pillar of your body, from your feet like lotus flowers, to the golden rain of your hair, shall you be mine. "and you shall not make me wait too long, for behold, i love you. allah! how i love you---as only we men of the desert love. allah help me," and holding the girl in the bend of his left arm, so that she felt the racing of his heart, he raised his eyes and right hand to heaven. "allah! god of all, give me this rose soon!" for one long moment the girl was still, with face as white as death, and great eyes troubled even as the ocean when swept by gusts of wind; for to the very depths of her stirred her heritage of tremendous passions, untouched, unknown, whilst that which is in all women, from queen to coster, coming down from the day when they were slaves, that which urges them to cry aloud, "master! master!" upon their bended knees, stirred not at all; so that even as her eyes, so was her soul troubled, knowing that love had not yet laid hand to draw the curtains from about her womanhood. freeing herself gently, she moved towards the fire, trailing the golden raiment after her so that it pulled against the beauty of her body. for a moment she stood unconsciously silhouetted against the wall, virginal in her whiteness and her slimness, and yet, in her build alone, giving such promise of greater beauty, in the maturity of love. slowly, whilst her mind worked, she traced the blue vein from her wrist up her forearm, up until the finger stopped suddenly, upon a tiny mark tattooed just above the elbow. a faint shadow of incomprehension swept across the man's face, for from nowhere, in one brief instant, a little wind, laden with straying particles of fear, distrust and memories, swept between the two, as the girl's voice, biting in its coldness, searing great scars upon the arab's raging, storming, totally hidden pride, let fall slowly, cruelly, light-spoken, mocking words of french. "please tell me my woman's name, so that i may call her, for i would disrobe, being overcome by a great desire to--sleep!" [ ]moles are considered a great beauty among the egyptian races. chapter xxv the sun in a great red-gold ball was slipping behind the sharp edge of sand which like a steel wire marked the far horizon, the sky resembling some gorgeous eastern mantle stretched red and orange and purple from the west, fastened by one enormous scintillating diamond star to the pink, grey, fawn and faintest heliotrope shroud which the dying day was wrapping around her in the east. terrific had been the heat throughout the month, wilting the palms, drawing iridescent vapours from the diminished stream, making the very sand too hot even for native feet. the green reed blinds sheltering the great balcony room, and over which, in the heat of the day, trickled a continuous stream of water, were drawn up to allow the sunset breeze to pass right through the long two-storeyed building which, the essence of coolness, comfort, and beauty, in the past months by the efforts of countless skilled workmen, hailing from every conceivable corner of asia and egypt, and regardless of expense and labour, had been built for one beautiful english girl, who, in a moment of ever regretted contrariness, had refused to participate in the planning and devising of the work, thereby shutting herself off from that most fascinating pastime, house-building; leaving everything down to the minutest details to the imagination, ingenuity, and inventive genius of the arab. for months she had listened to the monotonous chant of the men at work, the tap of hammer, swish of saw, and dull thud of machinery, and also to the grunting and grumbling of the camels who, in great caravans from every point of the compass, had complainingly brought their burdens of riches. the groves of great date palms around her temporary abode had prevented her from seeing the outcome of all the noise, her misplaced pride or temper, or whatever you will, likewise preventing her from inquiring as to the progress made from the arab, who, at her bidding, would come and sit with her, talking gravely upon absolutely indifferent subjects, neither showing by word or gesture if she were any more to him than the rug beneath his feet. just a mouth ago, when the moon was at the full, jill had made what she whimsically called the moon-light flitting. veiled closely, she had put her hand into that of the man, and confidingly walked with him through the pitch blackness of the palm groves, and out into the moon-filled space beyond the lake, until they reached and stopped before a heavy iron door let into a massive wall, the top of which bore a crown of flashing, razor-edged, needle-pointed steel blades. "the treasure of the world will be safe behind those walls, for behold, there are but two golden keys with which to open the door, one is yours the other mine. to mustapha has been confided the safe-keeping of the walls, and with it power to kill whoever should approach within ten yards without your permit." and the girl turned quickly as the door swung to softly, with the scarcely perceptible click of a lock, and then moved forward with as much indifference as she could muster on the spur of the moment, feeling the eyes of the arab upon her. gardens stretched before her with groves, and arbours, and every device conceivable for throwing shade upon her path. the stream, bending in an s, rippled and laughed its way under the little bridges; fountains splashed, seats of marble, seats of scented wood, little tables, silken awnings and screens, hanging lanterns of many colours, and swinging hammocks made of the place a fairyland; until suddenly, as she turned the last curve of the stream, she saw the marble building, built as it were by the waving of a magic wand, glistening in the silver light. imagine four buildings about the height of buckingham palace, without the attic windows, or whatever they represent, built to form a square of snow-white gleaming marble, with verandahs built out and supported by fairy marble pillars, so as to throw the lower rooms into complete shade; more fairy pillars springing from the upper side of the verandahs to support the wide edge of the roof, and so make a great covered-in balcony to the second floor. the french windows, divided by columns of different coloured marble, terminated in perfect arches, studded with great lumps of uncut amethyst, turquoise matrix, and blocks of quartz in which dully gleamed the yellow of gold, reminding jill somewhat of the outer decorations of a shop she had once seen in the nevski prospekt, the owner of which, dealing in _objets d'arts_, and precious bibelots of jade and sich, had quite successfully thought out the novel and expensive advertising method of plastering the front of his shop with chunks of the precious metal with which the bibelots were made. the drops of a myriad slender fountain jets, caught in the light of the hanging lanterns, sparkled and flashed like handfuls of precious stones, and an almost overpowering perfume filled the air from flowers only half-asleep. a great gate of silver and bronze opened silently to admit them to the inner courtyard, only the rolling, glistening eyeballs of mustapha, the eunuch, showing that there was any life whatever in the massive black hulk standing within the shadow. just for a moment the girl stood absolutely motionless, and then turned sharply as a noiseless shape stole past her, and purring loudly rose on its hind feet and laid its velvety paws upon the arab's shoulder, dropping back in a crouching position as jill, exclaiming softly, involuntarily stepped forward and laid her hand protectingly upon the man's arms. it takes a long time to write, but hardly a second had passed before the great animal, snarling viciously, shot out its velvety paw, plus a row of steel-strong claws, and ripped the girl's cloak open from neck to knee. and then indeed did black mustapha rise to the occasion, and in his master's esteem, as also without a sound he shot out an ebony black arm, gnarled and knotted like any centuries old bough of oak, terminating in an ebony black hand, which could have easily been divided between four normal men, and still left a bit over, and picking up the fighting, clawing animal by the neck, held it lightly at arm's length, whilst awaiting dumbly his master's order. "kill it," said hahmed briefly. and whilst jill pinched herself to see if she was really there or no, the eunuch, with joy-filled eye, and teeth glistening in a smile of utter satisfaction, gently tightened his grip on the velvety, tawny throat. there was a stifled growl, a click, and the dead animal was laid at the girl's slender feet. "my favourite hunting cheetah, o! woman! behold, mustapha, shalt thou spread the news of its untimely end as a warning to all those who, by sign of hand or word of mouth or thought of brain, should desire to do harm to thy mistress. and even shall thou tell me how yon dead beast came to be prowling in the seclusion of thy mistress's abode." great beads of perspiration broke out on the face and neck of the scared man, as he salaamed deeply before his master, and knelt to beat his forehead upon the ground before the woman. "behold, o! master! and may allah grant me years of life within the blessing of thy shadow. a slave returning from the exercising and feeding of four, o! master, of thy hunting cheetahs, came to me this noon full of idle curiosity. behold, i spoke with him outside the open gate, and perchance yon dead brute crept in unnoticed, whilst i pointed out the evil of his ways and those of his ancestors; also, perchance fatigued and full of meat, the animal lay down and slept until she heard the tread of thy honoured footsteps; perchance also thy slave, fatigued and also full of meat, passing the hours in slumber, troubled not to count the animals in his care." for one moment there was silence as the arab stood looking at the trembling man, then jill, laying her little hand gently upon the satin sleeve of him whom she loved, whispered softly: "a boon, o! hahmed! i know--i _feel_ that you are planning the death of this wretched man. i ask his life!" by this time mustapha was prone upon his face, piling imaginary dust from the spotless mosaic pavement upon his woolly pate, scrambling to his shaking knees on a word from his master. "get to thy feet and make obeisance to thy mistress, who in her manifold bounty has saved this time thy worthless life. for behold, i had planned to give my people a holiday in which to see thee whipped round the wall of thy mistress's dwelling, until thou had died; then would thy black skin have been ripped from thy worthless carcass, and pinned to the ground before the camel paddock, so that in their goings in and coming out they would have befouled what remained of thee uneaten by the vultures." and taking jill's hand he crossed the square, leaving the eunuch absolutely gibbering with relief. through a massive iron door they passed into the house, jill exclaiming softly at the beauty of the place. room after room they traversed until they came to a standstill before a satin curtain. hahmed lifted it and jill entered a great room, the floor of which was of pink marble, covered in persian rugs, their colouring softened in the passing of many, oh! many moons; the walls panelled in soft brocade, and great mirrors reflecting the simplicity of the exquisite hangings, the tint of flowers, the statuary gleaming half hidden in the corners, the great chairs, the piles of cushions, and the swinging lamps suspended from the ceiling by silver chains. "i will explain, o! woman, how this house has been built, though verily would i have had your help in these past months, for how was i to know in what or which your desires lay. "behold, the rooms upon the level of the ground are rooms for your repasts, and rooms for receiving your guests; above are the rooms for your slumber, and your toilet, for the bathing of your white body, and for your entertainment. in the latter you will find all that appertains to music, to the dance, to the study of books, to the flash of the needle. above again are the rooms open to the breezes of the night, screened by light screens to enable you, unveiled, to look out upon the world, and yet keep you hidden from the curious eyes of your many slaves who, under the rule of black mustapha, live within the walls and near to hand to do your slightest bidding, but hidden until you call so as not to disturb you by their unseemly presence. they may not die within the wall, neither may they give birth therein, still less may they make merry without your permission. the slightest breach of your laws will see them flogged to death and cast out into the desert sand. one suite of rooms is pink, and one white, and one is palest heliotrope, and yet another black, and there are many others. may it find favour in your eyes. if perchance it pleases not, then shall it be razed to the ground, and rebuilt upon your design." and jill had walked through a building such as she had not dreamed of in her wildest fantasies, and having very sweetly thanked the arab, had clapped her hands, and being of perverse mood, had indifferently bidden him good night, and entered the rose pink sleeping-room where the couch had been designed by love, and the colouring reflected by the great mirrors by passion; to slip from out her perfumed raiment, and step down into the pink marble roman bath and hide beneath the rose-tinted waters, the rose-tinted glory of her perfect body. chapter xxvi and just as the dead cheetah was laid at jill's feet, a huge bull dog, with a face like a gargoyle to be seen on the western transept of notre-dame, and a chest like a steel safe, supported on legs which had given way under the weight, walked across from sir john wetherbourne, bart., of bourne manor, and other delectable mansions, to lay his snuffling, stertorous self at the feet of his mistress, the honourable mary bingham, pronounced beam, in whose sanctum sat the man on the bleak november evening, and of whom he had just asked advice. people always asked advice of mary, she was of that kind. on this occasion she sat looking across at the man she loved, and had always loved, just as he loved and had always loved her, since the days they had more or less successfully followed the hounds on fat ponies. she sat meditatively twisting a heavy signet ring up and down her little finger. _the_ finger, the one which advises the world of the fact that some man in it has singled you out of the ruck as being fit for the honour of wifehood, was unadorned, showing neither the jewels which betoken the drawn-up contract, nor the pure gold which denotes the contract fulfilled. those two had grown up in the knowledge that they would some time marry, though never a word had been uttered, and being sure and certain of each other, they had never worried, or forced the pace. and then jill had disappeared! gone was their pal, their little sister whom they had petted and spoiled from the day she too had appeared on a fat pony, gone without a trace, leaving these two honest souls, in a sudden unnecessary burst of altruism, to come to a mutual, unspoken understanding that their love must be laid aside in folds of soft tissue, that they must turn the key upon their treasure, until such time as definite news of the lost girl should allow them to bring it out with decency, and deck it with orange blossom. and worry having entered upon them, they both suddenly discovered that uncertainty is a never-failing aperitif, and they both hungered for a care-free hour like unto those they had carelessly let slip. foolish perhaps, but they loved jill, making of themselves brother and sister; hurt to the quick when after the _débâcle_ she had sweetly declined all offers of help, and worried to death when she had started out on the hare-brained scheme of earning her own living off her own bat. mary bingham was one of those delightful women peculiar to england, restful to look at, restful to know. her thick, glossy brown hair was coiled neatly in plaits, no matter what the fashion; her skin, devoid of powder, did not shine, even on the hottest day; her smile was a benison, and her teeth and horsemanship perfect. her clothes? well, she was tailor-made, which means that near a horse she beat other women to a frazzle, but on a parquet floor, covered with dainty, wispy, fox-trotting damsels, she showed up like a double magenta-coloured dahlia in a bed of anemones. jack wetherbourne was of the same comfortable and honest type, and they loved each other in a tailor-made way; one of those tailor-mades of the best tweed, which, cut without distinctive style, is warranted with an occasional visit to the cleaners to last out its wearer; a garment you can always reply on, and be sure of finding ready for use, no matter how long you have kept it hidden in your old oak chest, or your three-ply wardrobe, or whatever kind of cupboard you may have managed to make out of your life. although no word of love had ever passed between them, you would have sworn they had been married for years, as they sat on each side of the fire; mary in a black demi-toilette, cut low at the neck, which does not mean décolleté by any means, but which _does_ invariably spell dowdiness, and jack wetherbourne with his chin in his hand, and a distinct frown on his usually undisturbed countenance. a great fire crackled in the old-fashioned grate, the flames jumping from one bit of wood to another, throwing shadows through the comfortable room, and drawing dull lustre from the highly polished floor and jacobean furniture. it was an extraordinarily restful room for a woman, for with the exception of a few hunting pictures in heavy frames on the wall, a few hunting trophies on solid tables, some books and a big box of chocolates, there were no feminine fripperies, no photographs, nothing with a ribbon attachment, no bits of silver and egg-shell china. oh! but the room was typical of the honourable mary bingham, into whose capable hands had slipped the reins controlling the big estate bounded on one side by that of the man opposite her. "there is only one more thing i can suggest," said the deep, clear voice, "and that is that you go over to egypt yourself. who knows if you might not pick up a clue. detectives have failed, though i think we made a mistake in employing english ones, they hardly seem tactful or subtle enough for the east." certainly one would have hardly applied either adjective to detective john gibbs, who, bull-necked and blustering, had pushed and bullied his way through egypt's principal cities in search of jill. "how like jill not to have sent us a line," remarked jack wetherbourne for the hundredth time as he lit a cigarette. "oh, but as i have said before, she may have had sunstroke, and lost her memory, or have been stolen and put away in a harem. she's not dead, that's certain, because she had her hand told before she left on her last trip, and she's to live to over eighty." "that's splendid," was wetherbourne's serious answer to a serious statement, as he rose on the entry of lady bingham, who, having at the same moment finished her knitting wool and the short commons of consecutive thought of which she was capable, had meandered in on gossip bent, looking quickly and furtively from one to the other for signs of an understanding which would join the estates in matrimony, a pact upon which her heart was set. and seeing none, she sat down with an irritated rustle, which gathered in intensity until it developed into a storm of expostulating petulance when she heard of the proposed programme. on the stroke of eleven mary got up and walked down the broad staircase, and through the great hall, and out on to the steps beside the very splendid man beside her, and they stood under the moon, whilst a nightingale bubbled for a moment, and _yet_ they were silent. "dear old girl," said jack wetherbourne, as he pushed open the little gate in the wall which divided their lands, and waved his hand in the direction of the old tudor house. "dear old jack," murmured mary as her capable hand reached for a chocolate as she sat on the window-seat and waited until she heard the faint click of the gate, upon which she waved her handkerchief. prosaic sayings, prosaic doings, but those three prosaic words meant as much, and a good deal more to them, than the most exquisite poetical outburst, written or uttered, since the world began, might mean to us. chapter xxvii by degrees jill had become accustomed to the habits of the east, sleeping peacefully upon the cushion-laden perfumed divan, sitting upon cushions beside the snow-white napery spread upon the floor for meals, eating the curiously attractive eastern dishes without a single pang for eggs and bacon and golden marmalade, revelling in her eastern garments, from the ethereal under raiment to the soft loose trousers clasped above her slender ankles by jewel-studded anklets, delighting in the flowing cloaks and veils and over-robes and short jackets of every conceivable texture, shape, and colour, passing hours in designing wondrous garments, which in an incredibly short time she would find in the scented cupboards of her dressing-rooms. then would she attire herself therein, and stand before her mirror laughing in genuine amusement at the perfect eastern picture reflected, and drawing the veil over her sunny head, and the yashmak to beneath her eyes, and a cloak about her body, would summon the arab to her presence. which shows that knowing nothing whatever about the eastern character, she merely added a hundredfold to her attractions, for if there is one thing a man of the east has brought to perfection, it is his enjoyment of procrastinating in his love-making, passing hours and days and weeks, even months in touching the edge of the cup, until the moment comes when, raising it to his lips, he drains it to the last drop. to keep herself physically fit she had found strenuous recreation in two ways. firstly, she had made known that her wish was to learn something of the dancing of the east, whereupon for a sum which would have made pavlova's slender feet tingle in astonishment, the finest dancer in all egypt and asia had, for many months, taken up her abode in the beautiful house especially built for honoured guests just without the wall. the supple, passionate eastern woman found it in her soul to love the slender white girl who laughed aloud in glee, and showed such amazing aptitude in learning the a.b.c. of this language, especially reserved in the east for the portrayal of the history of love and all its kin. presents were showered upon the teacher who, with the craft of the oriental mind, in some cases forbore to fully explain the meaning of certain gestures, so that unintentionally a veritable lightning flash of passion blazed about jill's head one night, when with the innocent desire of showing the arab how well she was progressing in the art, she suddenly stood up before him and made a slight movement of her body, holding the slender white arms rigidly to her side, whilst her small, rose-tinted right foot tapped the ground impatiently. "allah!" had suddenly exclaimed the arab, as he had seized her arms and pulled her towards him. "you would mock me, make fun of me, you woman of ice! "how dare you make me see a picture of you in--ah! but i cannot speak of it in words, suffice that one day i will--allah! you--you dare to mock me with a picture of that which you refuse me------!" "i haven't the faintest idea of what you are talking about," had replied a very ruffled jill, as with golden anklets softly clinking she withdrew to a distance. "if that is the effect of my dancing i will never dance for you, _never_!" "but, woman, do you mean to tell me that you have no idea of the translation put upon your movements?" "evidently not," haughtily replied the inwardly laughing girl. "that you do not know the movement you made just now meant that in the dimness of the night i--oh! i cannot tell you, but i swear before allah that _i--i_, hahmed, who have known no woman, will teach you the translation of every movement of all that you have learned." whereupon jill, having seated herself upon the stuffed head of an enormous lion skin, murmured "_soit_," and proceeded to light a cigarette. her second and favourite pastime was riding, and, in as few words as possible, so that my book shall not ramble to unseemly length, i will tell you how the fame of her horsemanship had come to be spoken of, even in the almost untrodden corners of asia and egypt. the whim seizing her, she would bid the arab to her presence, sometimes to her evening repast, sometimes to sweet coffee and still sweeter music, sometimes to wander on foot or on camel-back through the oasis, to the desert stretching like a great sea beyond, and still beyond. everything, as you will note if you have the patience to get through to the end of this book, happened to jill in the light of the full moon. on this night in question, clad all in black, with the moonbeams striking rays from the silver embroidered on her veil, and the anklets above her little feet, she seemed small and fragile, altogether desirable, and infinitely to be protected to the man beside her on the edge of the sand. still more so when she waxed ecstatic with delight on the approach of two horses, one bay ridden by a man clothed from head to foot in white burnous, and a led mare as white as the man's raiment. "hahmed! o! hahmed! stop them!" had she cried, forgetting the ice out of which she had elected to hack herself a pedestal. "oh, you beauty, you priceless thing!" she continued, when the mare, whinnying gently, rubbed its muzzle on her shoulder; whereupon she took the rein from the servant who had dismounted, and led the beast up and down. perfect she stood, the breeze of the desert, with her flowing tail high set, her streaming mane, the little ears so close together as to almost touch, her great chest, and dainty hoofs which scarcely deigned to touch the sand. bit and bridle she had none, her sole harness consisting of a halter with a leather rein on the right side, and a rug upon her back hardly kept in place by a loose girth. it seemed that she was of the al hamsa, which, being translated, means being a direct descendant of one of the five great mares of the time of mohammed; also she was a two-year-old and playful but not over friendly, therefore was it astounding to see her as she listened to the girl's musical voice, and showed no fretfulness at the touch of a strange hand. and then there was a quick run, a cry, and a rush of tearing hoofs! for jill, in the twinkling of a star, had let fall the enveloping cloak, standing for one second like some exotic bit of statuary in her black billowing satin trousers and infinitesimal coatee over a silver-spangled frothy vest, her great eyes dancing with glee over the face veil. she had swiftly backed a few yards, and before either man or horse had guessed her intention, with a quick run and a full grasp of the great mane had swung herself into the native saddle, and was away over the desert to wherever the horse listed. neither was there a second lost before the bay was racing after the mare; and jill, riding with the loose seat of the native, turned and waved hilariously to hahmed as he tore like the wind beside her, shouting something she could not distinguish in the rush of the air past her face. half-frightened, half-maddened by her own tremendous pace, the breeze of the desert laid herself out to beat all speed records. mile after mile flew under her dainty feet, whilst jill by little cries urged her still faster yet, the all-enduring bay keeping alongside without any apparent effort, until at last the arab, leaning forward, struck the mare lightly upon the left side of the neck, whereupon without slackening speed she turned instinctively in that direction, turning a little each time she felt the light touch, until jill at last perceived the outline of the oasis and the figure of the arab servant standing with folded arms awaiting the return of his beloved horses or not, as should be the will of allah; being, however, shaken from his native calm when this woman when some hundreds of yards from him in a straight line, without stopping the speed of the racing horse, suddenly slipped from the saddle, remaining upon her feet without a tremor, whilst the "breeze" stopped of her own free-will within a few feet of her attendant. "and our master whom allah protect," as recounted the native afterwards to an astonished, almost unbelieving bevy of listeners, "bringing his horse in a circle, suddenly picked up that woman rider. yea! i tell thee, thou disbelieving son of a different coloured horse, a woman-rider, even she for whom the palace has been built; and swinging her across the saddle so that her feet, as small as thine are big, thou grandchild of a reptile with poisonous tongue, as i say her little feet hung down on one side, and her head, and may allah protect me from the wrath of my master if i say that it was as the sun in all its glory, hanging down on the other, dashed into the night with her, but _where_ it is not meet for me to know." the "where," as it happened, being jill's palace, in which, lying full length upon a white divan, with a small brazier of sweet smelling incense sending up spirals of blue haze around her dishevelled head, and an ivory tray laden with coffee and sweetmeats at her side, she promised never to run the risk of getting lost in the desert again, on condition that the breeze of the desert became her own property, and that she could ride untroubled whenever and wherever she liked; cheerfully promising also to have made a habit, or rather riding-dress, which, would combine the utility of the west with the protective covering properties of the east. after which she got to her feet, standing the very essence of youth and strength in the soft glow of the lamps, smiled into the arab's stern face with a look in the great eyes which caused his mouth to tighten like a steel trap, clapped her hands and disappeared through a curtain-shrouded door without even looking back. chapter xxviii the recounting of which true episode has taken me from the evening when the sun had just slipped behind the edge of sand. jill sat motionless in a corner of her beautiful room, with a pucker of dissatisfaction on her forehead. jill, the girl who only a few moons back had taken the reins of her life into her own hands, and had tangled them into a knot which her henna-tipped fingers seemed unable to unravel. english books, magazines, papers lay on tables, the latest music was stacked on a grand piano, great flowering plants filling the air with heavy scent stood in every corner, the pearls around her neck were worth a king's ransom, the sweetmeats on a filigree stand looked like uncut jewels; in fact everything a woman could want was there, and yet not enough to erase the tiny pucker. months ago she had played for her freedom and lost. this exquisite building had been built for her, horses were hers, and camels; jewels were literally flung at her feet. she clapped her hands and soft-footed natives ran to do her bidding, flowers and fruit came daily from the oasis, sweetmeats and books each day from the nearest city. her smallest whim, even to the mere passing of a shadow of a wish, was fulfilled, and yet------ a few months ago her mocking words had swung to the silken curtains of her chamber, and since then she had been alone. verily, there were no restrictions and no barriers, but the yellow sand stretched away to the east and away to the west, and obedience in the oasis was bred from love and her twin sister fear. true, the girl had but to bid the arab to her presence and the curtain would swing back. but upon the threshold he would stand, or upon the floor he would seat himself, motionless, with a face as expressionless as stone. by no movement, word or sign, could she find out if she was any more to him than the wooden beads which ceaselessly passed between his fingers. nothing showed her if he remembered the first night, when for a moment the man had broken through the inherited reserve of centuries. had it been merely the east clamouring for the out-of-reach, longed-for west? perhaps! just a passing moment, as quickly forgotten, and against which forgetfulness the woman in her rebelled. it had even come to her to lie awake during the night following the days in which the man had been away from his beloved oasis. the swift rush of naked feet, taking her as swiftly to the roof, where peeping between the carved marble she would look upon a distant scene, which could well have illustrated some eastern fable. either the great camel would stalk slowly, solemnly out of the night, kneeling at a word; or a pure bred arabian horse would rush swiftly through the palm belt, its speed unchecked as its master threw himself from the saddle. she could even distinguish a murmured conversation between the eunuch and his master, guessing that he was inquiring as to her welfare, and issuing orders for her comfort, before passing out of sight to his own dwelling, she imagined, though she would rather have died than have asked one question of those around her. she craved for the nights when he would send to inquire if she would ride, often from sheer contrariness denying herself the exercise she longed for. in fact, feeling the mystery of love germinating within her, she showed herself rebellious and contrary, and infinitely sweet, surpassing in all things the ways of women; who, since the beginning of all time, have plagued the man into whose keeping their heart is slowly but surely slipping. and as the shadows fell, so did the pucker of discontent deepen, and a tiny blue-grey marmoset sprang to the top of the piano, chattering shrilly, when a book swished viciously across the floor, and a diminutive gazelle, standing on reed-pipe legs, blinked its soft eyes, and whisked its apology of a tail when a henna-tipped finger tapped its soft nose over sharply, before the girl clapped her hands to summon her body-woman, who, as silently as a wraith, slipped into the room. "light all the lamps and come and tell me the news." the little woman obeyed, and came to kneel beside the girl, gazing up at the fair white face with positive worship in her eyes. "great is the news, o! mistress." "tell it." the words were sharp, and the faintest shadow of a smile glinted for a moment in the native's eyes. "behold, o! beautiful flower! unto us, the slaves of our great master, under whose feet we are but as dust, it has been told that he upon whom may allah's greatest blessings fall, is about to take unto himself a wife." silence! save for a little breath indrawn too quickly. "well, proceed with the wonderful news!" the words were icy, but a smile flickered for a moment across the native's face, and was gone. "behold has he, the greatest man in egypt and arabia, before whom all are but shadows, and unto whom is offered the love and respect of all those who live within the bounty of his great heart, yea! behold has he deigned to look upon amanreh, the thirteen year old daughter of sheikh el hoatassin, second only in wealth and prowess to our own master. fair is she and young, in very truth meet to wed with him who rules us with a hand of iron, bound in thongs of softest velvet. "beautiful, yes! beautiful as the day at dawn, and straight as yon marble pillar, and as delicately tinted, rounded as the bursting lotus bud, and fit to carry the honour of bearing her master's children! in a few moons it------!" "begone!" the word cracked like a whip through the scented room, but as the little hunchback crept swiftly through the curtains, the smile passed from the eyes to the mouth, as softly she whispered to herself: "it is well done!" chapter xxix out on to the balcony and back, this way, that way, to and fro, paced jill in her black room. black skins lay upon the black marble floor, black satin cushions upon the skins. curtains of scented leather, as soft and supple as satin, hung before the doors let into the walls of black carved wood. a long couch of ebony, untouched by silver or by gold, stood under one of the gigantic black marble statues, which represented an ethiopian slave or some wild beast, holding in hand or mouth a lamp with shade of flaming orange, the one touch of colour in the whole room. there was no sound save for the occasional crackle of resinous log burning in a brazier placed in a far corner, before which jill suddenly crouched, shivering, though the night was warm. weary was she from want of sleep, weary was her heart from loneliness, weary her mouth, laden with unuttered words of the great love, which, day by day, hour by hour, yea! even from the moment she had turned to find her fate behind her, had been growing and expanding until naught was left of her but love and fear. for fear had been her companion in the hours of the night, which she had passed in restless pacing upon the balcony. for two of these restless hours she had put on and discarded the garments within her cupboards, until she had found that which she desired. and an hour she had spent likewise in the adorning of her beauty, before she stood satisfied in front of her mirror. the voluminous trousers of softest black fabric, hardly revealing the exquisite whiteness of her perfect limbs, were caught by heavy golden anklets above the little feet, with henna-tipped toes and reddened heel. her bare waist shone like a strip of creamy satin above the belt and stomacher of black leather encrusted in black pearls, her arms were bare, also the supple back and glistening shoulders, but the rounded glory of her breasts was hidden by a covering of soft interlaced ribbon, sewn with pearls. her hair wound round and round her head, and, fastened by great combs, shone like a golden globe, and over it she had thrown a flimsy veil, and around her a swinging cloak. there was no touch of paint upon her face, nor did she, with the exception of her anklets, wear loose jewels, or the ornaments which cause that nerve-breaking clatter so beloved by the eastern woman, and so superlatively irritating to the western ear. in fact she was the most ravishing picture of delight imaginable, her first shyness and awkwardness of her unaccustomed attire having long since vanished, though, be it confessed, that until this night she had never intended that human eye should rest upon her loveliness. but the earth of discontent and the waters of loneliness make fertile soil for the seeds of fear, even if those seeds be planted by the hand of a misshapen slave; but a little smile and a sigh of satisfaction had been the outcome of a prolonged scrutiny in a mirror, before which she had stood whilst quoting certain words which ran thusly: "beautiful as the dawn, rounded as the bursting lotus bud." and then she had shrugged her glistening shoulders and frowned, and smiled again, before stretching her long arms towards the silken curtains which, though she knew it not, gently blew against the figure of a man, who, prone upon his face, clenched his fingers in the soft stuff, striving to quieten the mad beating of his heart at the sound of the footsteps or the rustle of the raiment of the woman he loved, yea, and desired. "hahmed! oh, hahmed!" as faint as the rose of the breaking dawn, as tender as the notes of a cooing dove calling gently to its mate, as soft as the touch of a flower-petal the words drifted through the curtain. with a whispered cry to allah, his god, the man was upon his feet. with the strength of the oriental, which has its root in patience and its flower in achievement in all that appertains to love, he had uncomplainingly waited through month succeeding month, making no effort to further his cause by either word or movement, content to leave the outcome to the fate which had inscribed upon the unending, non-beginning rolls of eternity the moment when that voice should break across the desert place in which lay his seed of love. a rustle of the curtain, and he stood before the woman who loved and desired him, until her soul waxed faint within her. for a space they stood, the light from one great lamp striking down upon the little veil-wrapped figure and the man in flaming orange cloak over soft satin trousers and vest of black, one huge diamond blazing in the turban upon his dark head. silently jill pointed to a chair carved out of ebony, the ends of the arms representing the snarling face of some wild beast, with great fangs of ivory, and staring ruby eyes flashing in the lamplight. as silently hahmed sat down, never once removing his eyes from the girl who stood motionless upon a black panther skin, looking back over her half-turned shoulder at him for whom she was bidding against the unknown. have you ever watched a rosebud unfold in the warmth of the sun, each petal quivering, widening, until the intoxicating scent of the flower goes to your head like wine as you faintly perceive the rose heart within? in just such a way did jill unfold her treasures to the arab, sitting as some carven image in the shadow. the veil from her head slipped to the ground, leaving exposed her white face with its crimson mouth and shadow-laden eyes; slowly the cloak dropped from her shoulders, so that the whiteness of her skin blazed suddenly in the black marble room. for one long moment she stood before her master in the strength of her virginal beauty, and even as a faint sigh broke the stillness, she moved. do not imagine for one moment that she copied the strenuous movements of salome as understood at the palace theatre, london, or the disgusting contortions of certain orientals born in montmartre, and favoured by the denizens of paris. of very truth she moved not her lower limbs at all, though her exquisite body swayed as if by a passing breeze, her little hands elaborating that which the body originated, the tiny feet punctuating the love story of both. by one slight movement of her right arm she had told the man she loved him, by half-arrested gestures, a little shrug, an infinitesimal undulation of her body, a faint tapping of the left foot or the right, she described the delights of love, she who knew _nothing_, to him who knowing _all_, had denied himself all. heaven alone knows if she really understood that which she described; be that as it may, the man rose to his feet as she turned with outstretched arms towards him, moving almost imperceptibly from the waist, telling him that which her lips would not utter, until suddenly with a great cry he sprang towards her, and sweeping her into his arms, tore the coverings from her breasts, until indeed like a lotus-bud she lay silent upon his heart. for one second he stood, and then he raised her above his head upon his outstretched hands, so that the great pins fell from her head and the perfumed hair like golden rain about his shoulders, then he flung her upon the bed of cushions and stood above her with blazing eyes and dilated, quivering nostrils. and then he knelt beside her, covering her gleaming nakedness with the cloak, and spoke softly in the eastern tongue. "i leave you, woman, to go and give orders for your journey to cairo. there shall you become my wife, my woman, for behold, i will no longer wait. "let not your thoughts dwell upon caprice or tricks of woman, for if you say me nay, _yet_ will i make you my wife, and force you unto me. but you will not gainsay me, for behold you love me, so rest upon your bed for the three weeks which must pass before the caravan is ready for the journey, so that in health and strength and surpassing loveliness you will come to me." and having knelt to kiss the rosy feet, he withdrew from the presence of his beloved, and the english girl turned on her face and sobbed, and then, gathering her cloak around her so as to hide the dishevelment of her raiment, passed to the roof above to hold conclave with the stars. chapter xxx it seems wellnigh impossible that an english maid could look with such equanimity upon the prospect of marriage with a man, an eastern, of whom she knew nothing outside the tales and anecdotes recounted to her of his exploits and prowess, the which stood good to rival even the adventures of haroun al raschid. as if an english girl, you will say, could ever _dream_ of such a thing--a girl brought up in england's best society! true! brought up within a wall of convention, with her ears for ever filled with the everlasting tag, "it's not done, you know," that shibboleth which for stultifying all original effort surpasses even the mythical but revered sway of mrs. grundy. a girl whose brain, and originality, and deep passions, must under the said circumstances and environment inevitably culminate in the same silver-haired, pink-cheeked, grandchildren-adoring old lady, who sees the regulation ending in england of the _brilliant_ girl, just as she sees the end of the girl whose brain registers the fact that the seaside is a place to be visited only in august; whose originality finds vent in the different coloured ribbons with which she adorns her dogs and her lingerie; whose passions--oh well! who bothers about the little placid stream flowing without a ripple between the mud flats of that drear country habit? no doubt about it, if money troubles had not given her the opportunity for which she had always craved, jill _would_ have finally metamorphosed her brilliant self into that dear old dame who is as beloved and ubiquitous and uniform as the penny bun. but seeing her chance she had clutched at it with eager out-stretched hands, and in all these months she had not had one single regret, or one moment of longing for peaceful, grey-tinted england, or the friends with whom she had visited and hunted and done the hundred and one trivial things wealthy beautiful girls are accustomed to do in england, and who in her case had continued their social career without breaking their hearts or engagements on account of the monetary _débâcle_ of their one time companion. her instinct had not failed her in regard to the man who, without consulting her in any way, was even at that hour starting forth to arrange their marriage, and she troubled not her head with the thought of what _might_ have happened to her _if_ her instinct had failed her, though the chances are that rather than have even the outer petals of her womanhood bruised by the closing of a trap into which she might have placed her feet, she would have sent the vessel of her soul afloat down the great wide river ending in the ocean of eternity. she was that most interesting and most rare cross-bred result of the elusive something, be it soul, imagination, or ecstasy which had turned a woman ancestress, created for the great honour of bearing children, into the nun, whose maternal instincts had feigned find solace in the marble or plaster child-image, and even that out of reach of those hands which should have trembled over swaddling clothes; and that passion for love and light which had driven the dancing wayward feet of a belle marquise ancestress from love to love, until they had come to a standstill before madame la guillotine, who bothered not herself with those two minute extremities. so that on waking after sweet slumber, jill kissed the misshapen slave upon the cheek and told her the news, whereupon the dusky little woman raised her eyes and hands heavenwards, gibbering like a monkey, albeit she had just left an excited coterie of serving folk who, in the mysterious native way, had become acquainted with the news of the impending function without the uttering of one word from those most interested in an event which would mean fulfilment of dreams to more than one of those who had, for months past, pondered and commented on the strangeness of their master's love-affair. and jill in the softest pink raiment sat like the perfect heart of a perfect rose in the scented coolness of the pink chamber, and passed the days designing garments of which it is useless to give a description, seeing that the womenfolk in northern climes have only two notes on which to ring the changes of their wardrobe; the long, shroud-looking thing in silk or crepe de chine or good honest nainsook, picked out in different coloured ribbons, or the romance killing, stove-pipe giving effect of the masculine pyjama. from camel back jill had watched the departure of the first caravan of swiftest camels, laden with gifts on their way to cairo. the jangling of bells, the musical cries of the drivers, and the roaring and grumbling of the beasts, causing her to laugh aloud from sheer happiness; whilst the natives, many of whom had not seen the mystery woman their master was about to take to wife, fumbled with the packs so as to get a good look at the little figure, who, allah! had intercourse with the man before the wedding. "and may the blessings of allah fall upon her, for it is not for us to inquire into the strange ways of our master upon whom may the sun shine, and beside whose path may a stream of purest water for ever run for long years has he lived alone, knowing no woman; may she whom he hath chosen be fruitful, bearing many sons, so that our children may live in the blessed shadow of our master's children for generation after generation." that was the outlook of the happy oasis upon the most untoward proceedings, for in the east the betrothed child passes her life in the seclusion of her family until the very moment of the wedding, the man depending absolutely upon the words of his mother or female relatives as to the appearance and character of his future partner. on the second day started, another caravan of camels, laden with the household goods with which the wealthy eastern always travels, yet more caravans following, carrying the wherewithal of the enormous retinue with which hahmed the arab saw fit to surround his bride; the ensuing days passing in the preparation of the greatest caravan of all, that which was to take jill to the place where, steam up, the great white yacht at the water's edge was waiting. hahmed and jill were on the broad balcony the night before the start, the arab lying at the feet of the woman sitting in an ebony chair covered with cushions of every shade of purple, with the faint haze of incense about her little head, and the light of a great love in the softness of her eyes. holding the hem of her cloak in his hands he made love to her by words alone, for in all the time since their first meeting, his hands had not held hers, neither had their lips met; but the music of his words served to send the blood surging to her face, then to draw it back to her heart, leaving her as white as the crescent moon above her. "tell me, o! hahmed," she suddenly exclaimed softly, after a long silence, "will not your people think it strange that i, a bride, should have lived these many months with you? will they _believe_ that i am pure, will they not think harm of me, throwing your good name in shadow?" the man raised himself so that his face was on a level with hers as he laid one hand upon her chair. "woman, i speak not in pride when i say that i, hahmed the arabian, have never sought and never desired the opinion of those about me. i do as my heart inclineth, let that suffice. were i a poorer man these things could not be, but with my wealth i have bought my freedom, loosening the iron shackles of convention from about my feet with a key of gold. wealth can accomplish all things. "this oasis is mine because i was the only bidder with wealth enough to pay the exorbitant prices demanded, other oases are mine, and villages and tracts of rich lands. also the respect of my neighbours, also are their tongues tied on account of my riches. "i live for years without wife, or woman or child, they say no word. "i marry a christian and a white woman, and they will say no word; that she is _my wife_ will suffice them, though doubtless whispers in the harems will not be all sweet, seeing that for years the quarry has eluded the traps laid by the henna-tipped fingers of relentless hunters and huntresses. wealth! it buys peace and freedom, o! woman, so let not your thoughts disturb you. you will be the greatest woman in all egypt and arabia--but listen, some one sings the bridal song, which has come down to us unchanged from the time of the great sesostris." chapter xxxi the love-song broke the stillness of the desert night with the suddenness and sweetness of the nightingale's call in the depths of an english garden, laden with the perfume of june roses. so softly as to be hardly distinguished from a whisper, the wonderful voice called--called again and stopped, whilst the stars seemed to gather closer until the sky hung as a canopy of softest purple velvet picked out in silver lightings over the heads of those who listened to the call of love, and from very ecstasy were still. again, and yet again, the voice cried aloud to its hearts desire, rising like incense from some hidden spot in the village, twining among the feathery leaves of the palms to drop like golden rain upon the heart of some maiden, who doubtless sat upon her roof-top, modestly veiled if in company of friends or relations, but otherwise, i am positively certain, might be found peeking over the top of the balustrade as have peeked the hearts' desires from the beginning of all time. jill's face was white as death, as she too sat motionless, listening to the love-song, whilst her great eyes blazing like the stars above watched the man at her feet. closely veiled was she, for this was the eve of her wedding journey to cairo, also had the spirit of perversity prevailed within her for the last month, causing her to resemble the coldness, warmth, eastiness, sweetness, and general warpiness of the english climate, sparkling one day with the dew-drop-on-the-grass-freshness of an early summer morning, to hang the next as passing heavy on the hand as the november fog upon the new hat brim; veering within twelve hours to the sharpness of the east wind, which braces skin and temper to cracking point, and to make up for it all, for one whole hour in the twenty-four, resembling the exquisite moment of the june morning, in which you find the first half-open rose upon the bush just outside your breakfast-room. she was consumed with love of the man who lay at her feet, with the hem of her rose-satin veil against his lips, and her heart had melted within her as the love-song thrilled; and sobbed, and cried its love through the night; melted until she suddenly leant forward and stretching out her hand laid it for one moment on the man's dark head, whereupon he rose to his knees so that the dark beauty of his face was on a level with hers, the tale in his eyes causing her heavy white lids to close, whilst speechless she lay back among her satin cushions. "woman! o! woman! the touch of your hand is like the first breeze after the scorching heat of the day, and yet must i await your word before the love that consumes me may throw aside its coverings to stand in the perfumed freshness of the wind which maketh the delight of the desert dawn. "together we have watched the goings out of the caravans on their way to cairo, laden with gifts and all that is necessary for the feasting of those who are invited to attend the marriage of one who, by the wonder of allah's bounty, has been allowed to gather the glory of his harvest. in your graciousness you have troubled your heart with misgivings as to the outcome of a marriage between a mohammedan and a christian, and i have answered you that there are many such marriages in the east, of which great happiness has been the outcome, though not such happiness as shall well forth from the union of our love." and the man rose to his feet, standing straight as a pine against the fretted wood-work of the balcony, and the girl watching him from under the half-closed lids, suddenly tearing the veil from before her face, sprang also to her feet, and stood against him with her face upraised, so that the glory of her red mouth came to the level of his shoulder, and the thudding of her heart caused the diamonds on the embroidery of her vest to flash in the starlight, and the perfume of her skin to scent the night air. and the man bent down until it seemed that their lips must meet in this their first kiss, but instead he withdrew one pace, though the agony of love drew all blood from his face, until it shone palely in the gloom. "yea, woman, you love me, else would not your eyes be suffused with the pain of unsatisfied longing! yet have i not said that until you come to me, and whisper, 'hahmed, i love you!' until that moment i will not in love touch even the fairness of your hand, though as allah is above us it taxes my strength to the uttermost shred. "perchance i am foolish, missing the untold and unknown delights of wooing the woman of my heart, but in such wise am i built. i will have all the fruit at the plucking or none, for where is the delight of the sweetest peach if the stem, the leaves, the bloom have been bruised by much handling. "one day, nay in the stillness of one night shall i hear you call me--then, ah! allah!" the voice stopped suddenly, though the man made no other sign, when the girl before him, beside herself with anger which springs from love denied, suddenly struck him full upon the mouth, and then shaking from head to foot, with rage, and love, and fear, broke the deadly silence. "nay, man! in that you are mistaken, for you shall never hear my voice calling you in love. that may become the woman of your land, but not the woman from the west. i will marry you, for i will not bring derision upon a man who has treated me with such courtesy and gentleness. but love! nay! better far buy some beautiful circassian upon our wedding-trip, for surely you shall never hear my voice upraised in love!" and gathering her swirling draperies about her, she made to depart, knowing that she had spoken hastily, making vows she could not keep for the very love she denied. her hand was upon the silken hangings of her door when she was swung round by the shoulder to face the very essence of cold rage. "so, woman, you are one of those who have ever hidden an inner chamber of perversity, for surely had i thought to have come to the end of your store of moods and whims. listen! by striking me across the face you have but made my love the greater, but as allah is above me, i will make you pay, as you say in your far cold country. you will come to me one day, because such love as ours is not to be denied, and when you come, for that blow i will bruise your lips until the red blood starts from them, and i will bruise your body until marks of black show upon its startling fairness, but above all will i bruise your soul with unsatisfied longings, and unrequited desires, until you lie half dead at my feet; then only will i take you in my arms and carry you to the secret chamber, which fate has prepared somewhere for the fulfilment of my love." and as the love-song died on the night, jill passed slowly into the inner chamber, failing to see the man kneel to kiss the rug impressed by the passage of her little feet. part ii the flower chapter xxxii the rolls royce containing representatives of the savoy and shepherds in the shapes of beautifully gowned, handsome, placid, somewhat dull, the honourable mary bingham, pronounced beam, her friend diana lytham, and the rotund personalities of sir timothy and lady sarah ann gruntham, drew up behind the menacing hand of a policeman alongside a limousine containing representatives of shepherds and the savoy in the shapes of two rotund-to-be daughters and one thin son of the race of gruntham, and the honourable mary's faded mother, who were all racing home in the search of cool baths, or cooler drinks, or a few moments' repose in a darkened room in which to forget the stifling half hours of a series of social functions, given in honour of cairo's most festive week of the season, before starting on a dressing campaign against the depredations made upon the skin by flies, heat, sand, wind, and cosmetics. the past middle-aged sir timothy of the latest birthday honours, partner in life of lady gruntham, and therefore part possessor of the gruntham family, was whole owner of an army of chimney stacks which, morning, noon, and night, belched thick oily smoke across one of england's northern counties in the process of manufacturing a substitute for something; also he owned a banking account almost as big as his honest old heart. _la famille_ gruntham were breaking their first wide-eyed, open-mouthed _tour de monde_ in cairo, having selected their hotel from an advertisement in the a.b.c. the honourable mary's nondescript mother sat patiently waiting the decisive moment which would see her _en route_ once more to tea in her bedroom and the last chapter of a hichens novel, as she had patiently awaited decisive moments for years, having uncomplainingly allowed the reins which controlled the large estate, and large fortune, to slip into the large, capable hands of her daughter, just as she had also either as uncomplainingly criss-crossed the world in the wake of her daughter's unaristocratically large footsteps, or submissively remained at home for the hunting, in which field the honourable mary excelled. diana lytham, spinster, through no want of trying to remedy the defect, expert at bridge, razor-edged of tongue, but still youthful enough to allow the lid of pandora's casket to lift on occasions, also to be described by those who feared the razor-edge as petulant instead of peevish, and cendrée instead of sandy, passed the tedious moments of waiting in a running commentary upon the idiosyncrasies and oddities of the people and refreshments of the past hours, with a verve which she fondly believed to be a combination of sarcasm and cynicism, but which, in reality, was the kernel of the nut of spitefulness, hanging from the withering bough of the tree of passing youth. she, having an atrocious seat and knowing it, with the excuse of england's winter dampness had fled the hunting. the gruntham's younger generation, knowing not the difference between a hunter and a carriage-horse, had not given the subject a thought, but mary bingham had made a whole-hearted sacrifice of the month she loved best because, although loving her horses with a love of understanding, she knew that the love in her heart for just the one man, was a love passing all understanding whatsoever; feeling, therefore, that the sacrifice brought its own reward in the qualified bliss of being near the one man of her heart, whilst he passed weeks and months in the vain endeavour to find their friend, who had been lost to them in the land of the long-dead pharaohs. "most annoying indeed--great negligence on the part of the city police to allow a hold-up like this at _this_ hour of the afternoon. no wonder egypt's in the mess of ruins it is if this is the way traffic has always been regulated," fumed and fretted sir timothy, whilst mary bingham twirled her sunshade over her hat and gazed unseeingly at the domes, cupolas, and minarets of the distant mosque of the mohamet ali; and the thin heir of the race of gruntham pondered upon the allurements of the yashmak, which hid all but the eyes of the few eastern women who glanced timidly in passing at the occupants of the motor-cars. "now then, dearies," smiled the irate old knight's comfortable wife, "don't you take on so, though i do allow it's a nuisance, considering i have to get into my apricot satin to-night, with all those hooks. pity sir john wetherbourne ain't--isn't here, it u'd never have happened i'm sure if he had been, seeing the way he has with him, though i can't say as 'ow i approve of him so young and good-looking--and all these eastern hussies around--wandering about so much by himself. i do wonder what 'appened--all right, lad, there's many a slip between the aitch and the noovoh rich lip, _h'appened_ to the girl he's looking for. over a year ago you say, mary, my dear, since she disappeared at ishmael, and not heard of since, and sir john scouring egypt with all the energy i used to use to the kitchen floor, and not half the result to show for it, eh, timothy lad? do you think he was in love with her, or is it a case of--oh, what's them two words which mean that you can't think of anything but one thing." "_idé fixe_," enlightened diana lytham. "eyedyfix! sounds like one of those cocktails that heathen feller-me-lad's always trying to poison me with, eh, miss diana," chuckled the old manufacturer, who worshipped the cloth of aristocracy, and even reverenced the fringe. "oh, you bet he was in love all right, don't you think so, mary dearest," and the small grey eyes snapped spitefully across at the good-natured, healthy girl, who had raised a weak resemblance of hate in her whilom school friend's breast, more by the matter-of-course, jolly way she had helped lame dogs over stiles than the fact that such obstructions had never lain in her path. "are you talking about jack and jill? everybody loved her, and she was made to be loved, was beautiful, wilful jillikins. i wish he could find her, or a trace, or some news of her! oh, but surely we are intruding upon his own affairs too much, and i _wonder_ what has---- oh, but listen--do listen, did you ever hear such a noise, and just _look_ at the crowds! why, the whole of old cairo is coming this way." even as she spoke, two arabs, mounted on superb horses, and brandishing spears, dashed past the cars, shouting continuously what would be the equivalent of "clear the way" in english, just as to the sound of shouting and singing, the beating of drums, and clashing of cymbals, a stream of natives, dancing and waving their arms, poured into the square. round and round they spun about six great camels, which, hung with bells and decked from head to stubbly tail with glistening harness and embroidered saddle-cloths, stalked ahead, unheeding of the tumult; whilst riders of restless horses did their best to regulate the action and pace of the nervous animals. behind them walked scores of young men in snow-white galabeah, their impassive, delicately curved faces surmounted by the scarlet tarboosh, chanting that old-egyptian marriage song of which the music score was lost some few thousand years ago, lying perhaps securely hidden in a secret chamber, undiscovered in the ruins of karnak, but which song, without a single alteration of note or word, has descended from rameses the second down through the history-laden centuries to _us_, the discoverers and worshippers of ragtime. but the greatest crush surged round two camels which walked disdainfully through the throng, seemingly as oblivious of the excited multitude as the one made herself out to be of the man who walked beside her with a fantastic whip, and the other of the golden chains which fastened her to the blackest eunuch of all africa. upon the one of the golden chains, rested a golden palanquin, closed with curtains of softest white satin, a-glitter with precious stones. around the brute's neck hung great garlands of flowers, from its harness chimed golden bells of softest tone, whilst tassels of silver swung from the jewel encrusted net covering her shining coat. what or who was inside, no one seemed to be able to coherently explain, though the setting alone told of some priceless treasure. there was no doubt as to the rider of the other camel! "hahmed! hahmed! hahmed!" rose the unceasing cry from old and young, whilst blessings ranging from the continued comfortable shape of his shadow, to the welfare of his progeny unto the most far-reaching generation, through a life perpetual of sun, sweetmeats, and shady streams, rose and fell from the pavements, roofs, and balconies crowded with the curious, upon the impassive man who held his camel harnessed with native simplicity, just one pace behind its companion. the crowning touch was added to this delirious moment of festival by the simply scandalous distribution of golden coin, _golden_ mind you, which attendants clothed in every colour of an egyptian sunset, and mounted upon diminutive, but pure bred donkeys, threw right and left with no stinting hand, to the distribution of which largesse responded shrill laughter, and still shriller cries, and thwack of stick on dark brown pate and cries of pain upon the meeting of youthful ivories in the aged ankle or wrist. no doubt about it, cairo, _real_ cairo i mean, had been in an uproar from the moment two special trains had chugged into the central station a few hours back. chapter xxxiii crowned and uncrowned queens travel in comfort all the world over, a comfort of over-heated special trains, the most stable part of the boat, the most skilful chauffeur, allied to the most speedy car, an elaboration of the luncheon basket, and the heartening effect of strips of red baize; but the comfort of a church pew compared to the downy recesses of a chesterfield, against the comfort and regal luxury of jill's mode of travelling. surrounded by an armed guard under the absolute control of black mustapha, armed to the teeth, chaperoned by mrs. grundy in the shape or, as i should say, represented in the shapeless person of a dusky duenna of many moons, a good heart and a vitriolic tongue, who coyly peeped from behind the sombre curtains of her middle-aged palanquin, jill started on her wedding journey. over a carpet of flowers, through a long lane of palm leaves, held by veiled maidens, so as to form an arch, she passed, whilst the sweetness of the girls' voices rose to the tops of the acacia and mimosa trees, and gigantic date palms, in the egyptian bridal song. in no way did jill's return journey across the desert and through the mountains to the canal's edge resemble the out going. she did it with leisure and comfort this time, to find the arab's great white steam yacht waiting to race her to ismailiah. she had looked round for the man she loved, but had seen him only when, with great pomp and circumstance, she landed on the other side. the whole of the town had turned out, so that the white car in which she made the short trajet between the landing-place and the station passed between a lane lined with male faces, dusky, dark brown, and light tan, thousands of soft eyes sparkling over the all-hiding, all-attractive yashmak, and a dotted line, well in the forefront of the leather-brown, european physiognomies, of those who nudged and pointed, exclaiming aloud, so that their words carried even into the interior of the closed car, upon their luck of seeing a _real native show_. with grave obeisance to the woman, hahmed the arab had entered his special train, which preceded jill's by ten minutes, so that when she arrived at cairo central station, surrounded by her armed guard, and with her duenna rocking painfully by her side in a pair of over small shoes, a little scared at the sea of faces, and the echo of the voices of those who stood outside, kept in order by the swash-buckling native police of fez ornamented heads, she had stood transfixed, wondering what on earth she should do next. verily, the eastern can carry off a situation which would undoubtedly fill the western with consternation. perhaps the clothing has as much to do with it as any national traits, for surely no man in stove-pipe trousers, and all that goes to the well-looking of these garments, could have so composedly traversed the broad flower-strewn carpet, laid with the consent of the authorities and no little distribution of backsheesh upon the dusty station, and making deep obeisance, have so serenely led the little cloaked and veiled figure to the gorgeously caparisoned (if one may apply that term to the ship of the desert's rigging) camel, which sprawled its neck upon the ground for the benefit of the motley crowd without. anyway, it was an unbelievable thing to happen in egypt, the land of veiled and secluded women. it was wonderful enough to know that the great hahmed was taking unto himself a wife, but that that wife should suddenly appear from out of the desert unknown, unseen--well, it took one's breath away, indeed it did, but well again--seeing the wealth and power of the man, it was wiser to rejoice than to quibble and gossip upon such doings. so all along the sharia clot bey, which is the electrically lit, motor filled, modern shop-lined road leading from the station, jill peeped between the curtains at the throngs of jubilant natives, and the surrounding western looking buildings. she felt hurt to the soul by the modernity of the latter, just as she had been hurt on arriving in rome and venice, until later on she had found balm in the old stones and streets and buildings of both places hidden behind the twentieth century. jill knew that she was being taken to the palace of the old sheikh, uncle of the man she was about to wed, but where it was she had no idea, nor of the names of the streets, the mosques or the palaces and the mansions she could spy upon, from between her satin curtains, on her way to the bab-es-shweyla gate. the route they had taken in the glow of the setting sun, once they had left european cairo behind, lay through the el katai quarter, having chosen the road leading from the mosque of sultan hassan, through the bazaar of the amourers to reach the great gate, the very heart of old cairo. and the girl's whole being seemed inundated with the light of the gorgeous heavens above her as she passed down the sukkariya, the broad and pleasant path running under the gate, and her eyes shone as they rested on the huge and ancient el-azhar, the university of all islam. past mosque and tomb in the el-nahassin, whilst minarets turned from gold to rose, and rose to crimson in the dying sun, up through the gamahyia, danced and sang the ever increasing multitude, until the armed guard suddenly came to a standstill, forming a circle round the two camels, who had haughtily condescended to kneel, as jill with her hand in that of her chaperon, passing between rows of salaaming servants, wondering what had become of hahmed, and where she was going, and if tea could possibly be forthcoming instead of coffee, entered a courtyard, beautiful beyond words, and passing through the gates leading to the harem, heard them shut behind her; whilst with little cries of greeting, the four wives and many inhabitants of this secluded spot swept down upon her, their dainty, henna-tipped fingers quickly removing her cloak and veil, their little exclamations of astonishment testifying to their appreciation of the radiant little vision who smiled so sweetly upon them, and returned their greetings in such prettily broken arabic. only one contretemps had marred the perfect organisation of the proceedings, and that happened when the advance guard, turning a corner at full speed, regardless of the life and limbs of the seething mass of adults, babies, and dogs, had found themselves forced to edify the spectators with an exhibition of _haute école_, as their terrified horses, suddenly rearing, pawed the quivering air above a brace of camels, who had lawlessly and obstinately stretched themselves forth upon the soft bed of mud and house garbage spread liberally throughout one of the narrowest streets in el-katia. proddings of spears, and kickings of tender anatomical portions availing nothing, the last means for the hasty moving of obstreperous camels had been resorted to with success. the following is the recipe: take two or more camels, fully laden for choice, stretched at length across a narrow street. for removal of same, apply a vigorous drubbing by means of a stick or sticks. if no result, apply foot with yet more vigour. if this fails, gather an armful of good dry straw, fix it cunningly under the animal's belly, apply match, and fly for your life to the nearest sanctuary. chapter xxxiv jill had been married a fortnight. everything down to the minutest detail had passed off perfectly, everything had been duly signed and sealed and conducted in the most orthodox and binding manner, leaving the witnesses breathless at the thought of the land, jewels, houses, and cattle with which hahmed the arab endowed this woman who brought him nothing excepting beauty, which was not exactly beauty, but rather colouring, plus brain and charm. not even love had she brought it seemed, or obedience, for had not her lord and master uncomplainingly allowed her to keep the door of her apartments closed, neither had he insisted on the dyeing of her golden hair to that henna shade, of which so much is thought in the land of black hirsute coverings. the feasting and rejoicings of the past ten days had surpassed anything ever dreamt of on the banks of the nile. there had been tournaments and exhibitions of strength and agility and horsemanship in the day, and dancing by the most famous dancers in the land by night--dances, let me tell you, in spite of what you gather by hearsay or ocular proof in such cesspools as port said and kindred towns, which were lessons in modesty compared to that blush-producing exercise called the tango and its descendants. the harem was a cage of excited love-birds to whom were duly brought detailed accounts of the nightly and daily doings. never had there been such a commotion within the somewhat over-decorated walls, nor had the great mirrors reflected such sheen of wondrous silks, and satins, and flashing jewels; whilst sweetmeats, coffee, and cool drinks were the order of the day for the sustenance and refreshment of the never-ending stream of high-born ladies, who from far and near and in all kinds of covered vehicles hastened with the excuse of greeting the wife of the great arab, to gather first hand delectable morsels of gossip anent her strange methods of procedure, and her master's still stranger leniency towards her. "truly," remarked fatima (which is not her real name), the thirteen-year-old and latest addition to the harem, and therefore favourite of the old sheikh, as for the eighth time she changed her costume, and with the tip of her henna pink finger skilfully removed a too liberal application of kohl from about her right and lustrous eye, whilst chatting with her maid. "truly, i say, the man is either besotted with love, or suffering from some strange malady. nigh upon the passage of ten days and nights, and yet he bends not the woman to his will, and she more luscious than a peach from the southern wall. thinkest thou it's love, oh fuddja? and thinkest thou the whiteness of my bosom shows to advantage against the gold of my neckband?" chapter xxxv having just wrested a promise from hahmed that he would take her one moonlight night to the summit of the great pyramid, in spite of the strict rules against such nightly excursions, jill sat very still and quite content upon her camel gazing at the sphinx. she turned and looked in the direction where the great eyes were staring, and then turning once more towards the mystery of all ages, she urged her camel on until it stood close to the base, and then, dissatisfied, she urged it back until she could look once more from a distance, and shaking her head with a little sigh, spoke in a whisper to the man at her side. "i wonder, hahmed," she said, holding out her hand as was her habit when perplexed or distressed, "i wonder who conceived the idea. no! i mean something quite different--it is--how shall i say--i wonder who it was who, having the _meaning_ of that face in his mind, had the power and the will to hold it there while he carved or chipped it--oh! so slowly into stone. it is easy enough to paint from a model, or hew blocks of marble in the shape of a man or a woman or animal, isn't it--when you have them in front with their expressions and their forms? but how did the man who did this with only a picture in his _mind_ to rely on _dare_ to use a chisel? because you can't rub out mistakes in stone, and sketches wouldn't have helped him, would they, because even photographs give one no real idea of all the sphinx means? and i wonder where the look lies--in the eyes or the whole face, or the set of the head, or what? the eyes are rather like a dog's, aren't they--a sort of wistfulness and steadfastness." "many have asked, o! woman, though not many who have looked upon the sphinx have, i think, thought upon just your first point. what do we know about this living stone before which the mightiest, and most wonderful, and most beautiful works of even the greatest masters seem as nothing? who was he? whose brain conceived, and hands gave birth to this mystery? why is his name not engraved somewhere for us pigmies to read? though doubtless it is in the depths of the hidden chambers in the base which up to now have only been superficially examined." "yes!" broke in jill, "but whoever he was, slave or prince, captive or free, _who_ taught him what eternity _looks like_; for that surely is is what the sphinx sees, the circle with no join, the world--not this one--not egypt--without end. we all say for ever and ever, but _our_ brains reel when we _think_ for one minute on eternity. do you think his brain snapped when he put the last stroke? do you think he was buried with decency with his chisels beside him?" "no! surely not! otherwise, moonflower, somebody would have dug him out along with the pharaohs, and priests, and courtesans, so that we should have learned something about him by turning his mummified body inside out, and unwinding the burial cloth from about those fingers which have given us the sphinx. strange! that a woman's whim, born of vanity, should be spoken of with bated breath, even to this day! a woman melts a pearl and the world continues to cry ah! through all time; a man creates this, and no record is left of him. verily allah has blessed me in giving you into my hands, for behold your thoughts are as sweet to me as the wind that blows through the mimosa trees at dawn." the girl turned a serious face towards hahmed and smiled sweetly. "how small and futile we are, hahmed, in front of this great thing. see how it, i say it because surely there is no sex in any one part of it, brushes us aside, not in indifference, but just because to it we simply do not exist any more than the sand, even less so, because the sand in time would even blind those eyes. how i wish i could see it lying uncovered on its base. and i somehow can't imagine that mary laid the infant christ to rest between its paws! how did they cross the desert on one poor ass? how would they, so humble and so poor, be able to approach the sphinx with its guards about it? and i wonder if they will ever open up the shaft and search until they find the history on the walls of the base which, i am sure, buries somebody down in its depths. "eternity! and yet i fret and worry, get cross--_cross_, hahmed, which is so much more little than angry--and love to tease and give pain. forgive me!" and something had crept into the girl's voice which caused the man to lean forward, and very gently to tilt jill's face upward so that the moon struck down full upon it. but the heavy lids veiled the eyes, so that nothing could be seen of the wonder of all-time reflected therein. a wonder of the birth of which there is no record; a mystery which has a million times million shapes, each shape fashioned afresh, yet always the same; a mystery besides which the sphinx is as a grain of sand. the mystery of love. and hahmed the arab, who had waited since all eternity for this moment of time, raised one hand to heaven and praised his god, and then leant forward to readjust the veil before the woman's face. "the sphinx shall not see your face, neither shall the stars, nor shall the wind touch your mouth, o! my beloved! for i would take you to the ruins of the temple of khafra, where the rose colour of the stone shall tint your face and your hands, where eyes shall not see nor hear the story of the love i have to tell you." and leaning across he put his arm about jill and lifted her from her saddle, and laid her across his knees with her head in the hollow of his shoulder. "i am of the desert, o! my woman, of the sandstorm and the winds, the rocks, and the heat--i have no desire this night for soft cushions, nor for the fragrance of the hanging curtains of your chamber. i love you, allah, and this time i will not wait. you have played with me for many moons! not even once have i laid my lips upon even the whiteness of your hand since allah in his greatness made you my wife in the name before the law. at your wish i have denied myself all, until i have longed to bring you to my feet with the lash of the whip--yet have i waited, knowing that the moment of your surrender would be the sweeter for it. "and the spirits of the past shall be your hand-maidens, and the moon shall be your lamp, and the sand shall be your marriage-couch this night--and i, o! woman--i shall be your master." and who knows if it was not love who wrought upon the granite until the sphinx was born? for after all love is eternal, and eternity is love. chapter xxxvi the silver shafts of the full moon struck down into the ruined outer courts of the temple of khafra, turning the rose-colour of the granite to a dull terra-cotta, and picking out the pavement with weird designs of gigantic beasts and flowers, the which, when jill put her foot upon them, proved to be nothing more harmful than the shadows thrown by the walls and huge blocks of fallen masonry. slowly she crossed the court and as slowly climbed the incline leading to the chambers of long dead priests and priestesses, pausing at the opening with a little catch of the breath, and a quick glance at the man she loved beside her. the darkness of egypt is a common enough expression on the lips of those who know nothing of what they are talking about, and jill, who had often used the words, stood transfixed at the abysmal blackness in front of her. outside it was as clear as day, inside it was darker than any night, and like a flash, the girl compared it with her life at that very moment. up to now she had been her own mistress, in that she had deliberately and of her own free will done the things she ought and ought not to have done, and had been content with the result. true, she was married to the man beside her, bound to him by law, his in the eyes of the world, and of allah who is god, but she knew full well that until she called to him and surrendered herself in love, that she was as free as any maiden could be in that land, and, she thought, that doubtless in time he would tire of her caprice and let her go, taking unto himself another as wife. in which surmise she was utterly mistaken! should she move forward into the darkness? should she turn back into the light? if she crossed the threshold she knew she would seek the protection of his arms against the threatenings of the shadows which surely held the spirits of the past; and in his arms, why! even at the thought her heart leapt and her face burned beneath the veil. if she turned back she would return to her position of honoured guest in the man's house, a barren, unsatisfying position for one in whom youth cried for love and mastery. if only hahmed would make a sign, a movement; if only he would say one word. but he stood motionless just behind her, waiting himself, with the oriental's implicit belief for some deciding sign from fate. there was no sound, no sign of life as they stood waiting, and then the night breeze, gently lifting a corner of the arab's full white cloak, wrapped it like some great wing about the girl. a thrill swept her from head to foot as she pressed her hands above her heart, and then with eyes wide open and alight with love stepped across the threshold into the shadows, unknowingly turning the corner of that block of granite which hides the opening, leaving one in complete and utter darkness. she flung out her hands and felt nothing, turned swiftly and flung them out again, vainly searching for the arab's cloak, and finding nothing let them fall to her side. "my god!" she whispered, and moved a step forward, stopped and listened and moved back. "hahmed! hahmed!" she called aloud in fear, she who had never known what it was to be afraid, and she gave a little sob of pure relief when the arab answered from the distance of a few feet. "wherefore are you afraid, o! woman? behold i am near you, watching you, for my eyes are trained for the night as well as for the day, even though your eyes, which are as the turquoise set in a crown of glory, may not pierce the darkness, being unaccustomed to the violent contrasts and colourings of the east." then fell a silence. and then the perfume of the night, and the scent of the sand and the spirit of the dead women who had lived and loved even in that temple chamber, assailed the nostrils of the girl, entering in unto her and causing a wave of longing and unutterable love to rise and flood her whole being, so that she smiled sweetly to herself and held out her arms, and trembled not at the thought of the moment awaiting her. "hahmed! hahmed!" she called softly from love, and hearing no sound called again and yet more softly. "come to me, hahmed! come to me--because--i love you!" and her master held her in one arm whilst he gently removed the veil from before her face, which she turned and laid against his heart as he poured forth his soul in an ecstasy of love. "behold!" he cried, as he removed the outer cloak from about her. "behold is my beloved like unto a citadel which has fallen before my might, and the gates thereof are unbarred before the conqueror! "behold," and jill's head veil fell to her feet, "is the citadel fair to look upon, from the glistening of the golden cupolas to the feet awash in the river of love. "surrounded by the ivory wall of innocence is she, and unto her lord is the glory of measuring the circumference thereof. "even as a flowering tree is she, and beneath my hands shall the bloom of love turn even unto the passion flower. "like unto a court of love is my heart's delight, and many are the chambers therein, in which in the heat of the day and the coolness of the night i shall find repose. "her fingers are as the lattice before the windows of her joy, through which she shall peep; looking for the coming of her lord; her lashes are the silken curtains which she will draw before the twin pools of love which are her eyes; her body is as a column of alabaster in the shadow of which i shall find my delight! "yea! the citadel has fallen, and the walls about it are riven at my approach. allah! allah! allah!" and the shadows crept gently about them as once more the silence fell, and gathered again into the corners as jill sighed softly. "tremble not, my beloved! for behold i love thee! gentle is love to such as thee, and soft is the sand of egypt which shall be thy couch. and yet, thou child of love, even at this moment when my heart waxeth faint within me from love of thee, yet will i listen, and take thee back unto thy dwelling and thy fragrant chamber if so thou desireth!" but jill, lifting her arms, laid her hands in utter submission upon the man's breast, and sighed again in perfect content beneath the kisses which covered them, and her arms and her breasts and her beautiful mouth. "as thou wilt," she whispered softly, "only as thou wilt." and verily as a young tree she stood in the glory of her youth with her feet upon the sands of egypt, and verily was her heart glad when she was carried into the inner chamber, and passed into the keeping of her master for ever. chapter xxxvii some months had gone, and the sun sparkled on the water of the little singing stream, though bitter winds had blown and all-enveloping sand had swirled about the palms which surrounded jill's beautiful home in the oasis, of which the reins were gradually slipping into fingers skilled in driving anything from a four-in-hand to a donkey in a cart. three mornings a week, an hour after dawn, she gave audience to all those who, with grievance or in difficulty, desired her help or advice; for which ceremony, and having the dramatic instinct, she had caused a clearing to be made in the shade of the palms, under the biggest of which she had also had placed a great chair of snow-white marble, in which, clothed always in white, she would seat herself, her passionate mouth smiling happily behind the yashmak whilst over it the great eyes, into which had crept a look of infinite tenderness in the months that had passed, would scrutinise the people standing humbly and astounded before her. she would look across upon mothers with obstreperous sons who would not work, or would not wed; mothers who beat their breasts in despair at the utter lack of looks or grace in the unfortunately multiplied feminine arrows within the parental quiver; young men who craved a word of recommendation so as to obtain a certain post; older men who craved an overdraft at the bank of her patience; young mothers whose infants were either too fat or too lean, or with eyes half-eaten away with disease; all of whom having received a full measure of help, pressed down and running over, and having bestrewn themselves upon the ground around her chair, would depart in high fettle to spread the news of this wonder woman, their mistress, in whom they felt such inordinate pride; so that one, then two, then more, from distances long and short, would creep into the council with pretexts ranging from the thin to the absolutely transparent, until one morning the whole séance ended in an unseemly fracas between the legitimate and the illegitimate seekers after help in word or kind, whereupon hahmed, rising in his wrath, smote them verbally hip and thigh, and jill departed in high dudgeon, leaving the culprits to wilt in the frost of her keen displeasure. and from about that date, a month ago, everything seemed to have gone wrong. days of depression would follow days of mad spirits, hours when she was as the sweetest scented rose within the hands of the arab, followed by interminable, stretches of time when the points of the "wait-a-bit" thorn were blunt compared to the exceeding sharpness of her temper. days when all that was right was wrong, and all that was wrong _was_ wrong, so that her women crept quietly, and hahmed wondered sometimes if some "afreet"[ ] haunted the soil and had taken possession of the soul of his beloved. jill swung to and fro in a hammock slung between two palms at a very early hour indeed of this morning late in december. she had neither veil before her face nor shoes upon her feet, and the flimsy mauve robe clung to the supple body as she restlessly swung, until she clapped her hands to summon her breakfast, and clapped them again sharply so that a figure came running at high pressure. "go, ask thy master if he will break bread with me in the shade of the palms, oh laleah, and let not the shadows lengthen unduly in thy going for fear that i give thee cause to hasten thy footsteps!" which manner of speech shows that jill had not unduly tarried either in acquiring knowledge of things eastern. and hahmed, as he stood before her and greeted her in the beautiful arabian tongue, wondered if in all the world there could be found such another picture as that of his wife, with the riot of red-gold hair about her little face, which somehow seemed over white in the shade of the palm, and the blueness of her eyes, and the redness of her mouth, which neither the one nor the other smiled at his approach. "do sit down and help yourself!" said she indeed, and clapping her hands sharply ordered fresh food and drinks, both hot and cold, to be brought upon the instant. and her next remark, after the breakfast of tea in a real teapot, a hissing kettle, strange loaves, purest butter, honey, and fruits of every conceivable colour had been laid upon a cloth upon the grass, fell like a bolt from the blue, though the man made no sign of disturbance from the impact. "i want eggs and bacon, hahmed!" for a moment he pondered the remark, whilst he offered jill a cigarette and lit one for himself. "the eggs, my woman," and the musical voice made a poem even of the absurd words, "now that thou hast taught thy slaves to poach and scramble and prepare them in divers and pleasant ways, are easy--but bacon--no! that canst thou _not_ have amongst these my people!" and jill swung ceaselessly to and fro, looking at the man sitting a few yards from her on a rug, before she answered in tersest english: "don't be dense, hahmed! i want eggs and bacon, and a starched finger napkin--toast in a rack--covered dishes--marmalade--i'm--i'm------" "fed up!" the deep voice filled in the pause also in tersest english. for one moment jill sat up as straight as the hammock would allow, and then for the first time in many days broke into a peal of sweetest laughter, and swinging herself clear of the net ran over and laid herself down upon the rug beside the man, with her chin in the palms of her hands, to find herself the next moment in his arms, whilst he looked down into her eyes without speaking. whereupon she turned her face on to his shoulder and burst into tears. and hahmed, being wise, let her cry until there were no more tears, only little sobs which tore at his heart, which lightened considerably when having mopped her eyes with the edge of his cloak, she twisted herself into a sitting position, and smiled as she laid her golden head against his dark one, and entwined her slim fingers in his. and hahmed smiled also, knowing that this was the preliminary to some request of which his wife had doubts as to the granting, but never a word did he utter, nor made sign to help, whilst jill, somewhat at a loss, lit a cigarette, and proceeded to blow rings which on account of the breeze refused to pass one through the other. "hahmed!" she managed at last and stopped, and then continued as she got up and moved away: "hahmed! i'm feeling absolutely _miserable_. i think i want a change--i really do want all i said just now, so--so _can't_ we go to cairo and stay at an english hotel for the new year? we could _just_ do it if we started at once--_couldn't_ we? i know you have important business or something next month--_can't_ you put it off?" hahmed looked at her for a moment, as she stood very fair and straight, with her beautiful feet peeping from under her trailing gown; and frowned a little, noticing the shadows round the big eyes, and the suspicion of a collar-bone showing above the embroidery of her bodice. "and why didst thou hesitate, little one, to ask--knowing as thou dost that thy wish is law absolute to me? business affairs, what are they? let them wait--let the world wait as long as thou art happy. verily thou art pale and thin------" upon which unfortunate remark jill turned like the spitfire she had lately become. "seeing that you are allowed four wives, hahmed, there is no reason to bemoan your fate; this is not europe, where once married you are for ever tied to the one girl, who, a bud in her youth, may as time passes turn to one of those dreadful cabbage-roses, which go purple and fat with age. i'm sorry," she continued, as she held out both her hands, "you simply must not notice me these days. i think i am bewitched--i have even sent my darling old ameena away because her deformity suddenly irritated me, and i told mustapha i would have him thrown as breakfast to the cheetahs if he dared to make himself seen, and he believed it, and no shampoo will _ever_ get the sand out of his hair." "but he _shall_ be thrown to the cheetahs if it would please thee, beloved!" and the uncalculating cruelty in the man's voice sent the red to the girl's white face, and moving over to him made her lean down and kiss him upon the mouth. and then she seated herself upon the ground and made tea, laughing like a child when to please her the arab drank it protestingly. "by allah! it is a poison which you drink in europe, and yet you would go and drink it in a crowded city." "are we going, hahmed, oh hahmed, _are_ we?" whispered jill, half afraid to break the spell by the raising of her voice. "but of course, beloved--hast thou not expressed the wish--though surely it were better to go to thine own dwelling, for it will go hard with thee to keep thy face covered and remain undiscovered to thy many friends, who doubtless will be seeking the solace of egypt's winter sun; for the time is not yet at hand when i will permit thee to make thyself known to them." but jill was ready to accept anything as long as her craving could be satisfied, and hahmed, longing to satisfy her craving, looked with eyes of love upon the sweetness of her face aglow with anticipation, so that both were well content. and an hour passed in which they ate and drank, and jill balanced pieces of sweet bread upon the noses of two great hounds, who, scenting their master from afar, had broken bounds and raced to him, leaping the breakfast table to jill's infinite delight, whilst their groom lay upon the ground out of sight anticipating the thrashing his carelessness merited him, but from which he was spared by reason of his mistress' sweetness. "and so, light of heaven, i must leave thee, for there is much to prepare if we would start at once, for it is difficult to secure the strict privacy due to my wife in these times when the world is overrun by the tourist ants who should by right be underground. "and my heart inclineth to hours spent with thee, o! flower of the desert, hours spent at thy feet in the heat of the day whilst thou slumberest, hours upon the roof of thy dwelling, watching the day prepare herself for the coming of her lover, the night; and yet must i leave thee when my being is overwhelmed with love of thee, thou wind of caprice! would that i could tell the meaning of my gentleness towards thee, i, hahmed, who, like a love-sick youth, sleeps the night without the silken curtain of thy door and dare not enter in unto thee." and his hands suddenly gripped the girl by her shoulders and pulled her towards him, at which roughness she smiled, as women do when so treated, and rested her sweet-scented head above his heart. "ah, hahmed! who knows if thou are not over timorous even for a love-sick youth," she sighed. "and _must_ thou go when my heart inclineth to hours spent with _thee_? and yet at night the stars come out so 'tis said, and can be seen from the roof of my dwelling; and when the wind sweeps over chill across the sands the fire throws shadows in my room of roses, where the love bird with little wings hovers above my couch suspended by a little silken cord." and the man bent her back towards him so that the ribbon of her bodice snapped and the beauty of her lay under his hands, and she stretched both arms outwards and whispered so that only he could hear, "kiss me, hahmed, oh my heart's desire! kiss me, for i am faint with love of thee." and even as he bent downwards to her she fell unconscious at his feet, whereupon he raised her in his arms and looked into the white face, speaking so that only she might hear. "and the love bird shall fly down to thy couch this night, delight of my heart, and the shadows upon thy sweet face shall deepen ere the dawn," and he kissed the closed eyes and the red mouth and the white throat and the shadow of a collar-bone which showed above the roundness of her breasts, and then he laid her upon the cushions on the ground, and, clapping his hands, gave her into the care of her handmaidens. [ ]evil spirit. chapter xxxviii an hour and more had passed before jack wetherbourne suddenly awoke, and stretching his arms above his head apostrophised the full moon shining down upon the great pyramid in the shadows of which he was sitting. "what the dickens lady moon brought me to this place of all places to-night," he said lazily, as he struck a match and lit a cigarette. "let's hope my ship of the desert hasn't upstreamed for cairo all on her own, else i see myself here until the advent of the next cook's party. decent of the camel wallah to let me take the apple of his commercial eye into the desert unaccompanied." he stretched and settled himself more comfortably, continuing to talk aloud. "what a night--what a country--wish i'd brought mary with me--ideal spot for a heart-to-heart talk. i might have shaken her out of her 'eyedyfix,' as old gruntham calls it. silly idea that she won't get married until jill has been found--why! what! who in heaven's name are coming down the pyramid? well, i'm blessed! two native wallahs been breaking the rules, and i had no idea they were perched up there above my head." safe in the protecting shadows he watched hahmed and jill descend. little ripples of laughter fell on the night air as hahmed, letting himself down easily from one gigantic block to another, held out his arms and lifted jill down, bending his head to kiss her each time he put her on her feet. they were at the last step but one when, with a little scream, she swayed, and nearly fell to the step beneath. "hold me, hahmed," she cried, "i'm dizzy, everything is going round!" and hahmed caught her and lifted her gently down the last steps to the sand, bending to kiss her on the mouth, and shifting her suddenly to his left arm so as to catch jack wetherbourne by the throat as he dashed shouting from the shadows upon them. "jill! jill! it's i--jack! don't let-----" until the grip tightening choked back his words, when with a surprising swiftness the arab let go his hold, and getting one in on the point, sent the englishman reeling backwards to fall in a heap against the base of the pyramid, and then to scramble to his feet, too dizzy to stop his adversary, who, flinging the veil over the woman's face, passed swiftly to the place where awaited the camels. and too slow was jack wetherbourne to gain the spot in time to stop the flight of the camel which with its double burden was already racing straight ahead into the desert; and too bemused by the blow to recognise the fact when he did get there that the hired brute he was staggering too was built for speed in the image of the tortoise compared to the hare-like-for-swiftness contour of the abandoned beauty who had strolled to the spot from the other side of the pyramid, and quite undisturbed was watching her sister's hurried departure into the unknown. chapter xxxix all our lives we all chase wraiths in the moonshine! be the wraiths the outcome of proximity in the garden under the silvery moon rays, which so often snap the trap about our unwary feet by rounding off the physical angles of our momentary heart's desires, or lending point to the stub ends of their undeveloped mentality; or the wraiths of the midnight soul, otherwise disarranged nervous or digested system, which float invitingly, distractingly, tantalisingly in front of our clogged-by-sleep vision at night; turning out, however, in the early light heralding the early cup of tea, to be nothing more soul distracting than the good old brass knob adorning the end of the bedstead. but jack wetherbourne's wraiths, which he was chasing in the moonlight, were good honest humans with the requisite number of legs and arms wrapped in good, white raiment; one of which humans with the other in his arms sat astride a camel, who made up by her muscular development whatever she might lack in goodness of heart and honesty of purpose; she too being wrapped in the silvery drapery which the moon throws pell-mell around pyramid and mud hut, humble fellah, descendant maybe of some long dead pharaoh, and the jocular, jubilant millionaire, who with luck can trace a grandfather. but chase he ever so eagerly, jack wetherbourne could barely keep his quarry in sight as on and on sped the racing camel with that curious slithering gait which denotes great speed, whilst the wind caught at jill's veil, blowing it this way and that until she impatiently tore it from before her face, and struggling against the arm which held her like a vice, managed to screw herself round to look behind, whereupon the arab jerked her suddenly back, looking down into her white face with eyes ablaze with jealousy. "hast thou no circumspection, o! wife of mine?" he cried, the wind carrying the words from his lips almost before they were uttered. "mine, all mine thou art, and yet thou strivest to look upon the countenance of that madman who would have outraged my honour by looking upon thy face!" "oh, but hahmed! you don't understand--that was jack wetherbourne, my neighbour and brother and friend, and do for pity's sake make the camel go slower, i am being bumped to bits!" which of all foolish utterances was the most foolish she could have uttered, fanning the man's jealousy to a pitch where it burned right through the barrier of self-restraint, making him desire to stop her foolish words with kisses, and long to strangle her as she lay in his arms, and cast her on to the sands for the vultures to pick at. "thy friend and brother! how could any man unborn of thy parents be anything but the would-be lover and husband of thy beautiful self! verily, woman, could i beat thee for such words until thy shoulders ran blood. i know of him and his foolish futile searchings for thee, yet it is _i_ who hold thee, and in very truth can call thee wife; nor will i stay this my camel so that thou mayest have speech with him; this pale faced yearling, who dared to look upon thy shadow; but by the grace of allah, i will so bewilder him who blundereth after thee astride the product of the bazaar, that his sightless skull shall stare blindly at the moon to-morrow night, whilst i shall feast my eyes upon the whiteness of thy satin skin." and jill lay still, knowing that she was up against something with which she could not cope, noticing not at all that the camel began a wide circle to the left, therefore being excessively surprised when an hour before the dawn, upon the very outskirts of cairo itself, the man caused his camel to kneel, and placing the girl like a bundle of hay upon the ground, turned towards mecca; and the time of prayer being passed, came to her suddenly and held her to him, raining kisses upon the fairness of her face, shining pale and shadowed in the light of the coming day. chapter xl you have only to stare long enough at it to get the image of some distinct object imprinted upon your retina, then you need but stare again at some space of indistinct colouring and you will see the impression of your distinct object reprinted a hundred times upside down. who has not tried the experiment in their youth with the aid of the ceiling and red-lettered advertisement of chocolate or soap, and later in years upbraided the reflected blobs of sun which usually choose a critical moment in which to obscure your vision when you have turned your back upon the sunset. jack wetherbourne distinctly saw the fleeing camel in front of him, when he at last got his own to its feet, and being eager to keep his quarry well within his vision, continued to stare and strain his eyes, whilst he raced for hour after hour over mile after mile of sand, until in the end he saw the fleeing camel ahead of him when in reality it was well on its way back to cairo; and continued, with eyes staring out of a white, dust-covered face, to pursue the phantom until the first ray of the sun hitting him fiercely, caused him to cover his eyes a while, and after, to look about him with refreshed sight, which showed him in the midst of the desert, alone, with a cloud of sand rising before the wind some miles behind him--an infant sandstorm, but strong enough to hide the distant peaks of the pyramids from him, and to send his terrified, idiotic camel fleeing straight ahead through hours of increasing heat, without a drop of water upon its foolish back or in its master's pocket flask, until with a sudden silly chuckle the man jerked the reins and tumbled headlong from the saddle, laughing stupidly with sudden sunstroke. chapter xli the midday sun of the same day blazed down upon a picture which for ghastliness surpassed even the horrors painted by the madman werth, which, if your mind is steeped in morbidness, you can see for a franc, or for nothing, i really forget which, when next you visit brussels. upon a hillock of sand, the summit of which continually trickled to the base in fine golden streams, a little mound built with the aid of a pair of pumps, sat jack wetherbourne, laughing sickeningly, just as he had sat since the moment he had waved a delirious adieu to the quickly disappearing camel. his dress coat, trousers, white waistcoat, shirt, undergarments, socks and shoes, lay upon the sand arranged by the disordered mind in the fantastic design of a scarecrow. as i have said, the man himself, naked save for a vest twisted round his waist, sat upon the mound gesticulating violently, whilst keeping up a one-sided, unanswered conversation with the figure on the sand. his bronzed face, burnt almost black even in the few hours of sun beating down upon his unshaded head, turned restlessly to the right and left; his long fingers plucked without ceasing at the great blisters which the heat drew up upon his body, bursting them, so that the fluid mingled with the sand blown upon him by the light wind, and upon which flies, thousands of them, settled, to buzz away when he rose to run this way and that in an effort to stay the awful irritation. two o'clock by the clocks in cairo, the hour when workers and idlers, rich and poor, seek the coolest spot in their vicinity in which to lay them down and sleep a while--the hour when mary bingham drove up to shepherds, having raced here, there, and everywhere during the morning in a vain endeavour to awaken a little interest in the minds of those who listened, and shrugged, and looked at each other significantly, at the tale of a man who had got lost in cairo for a night and a morning--a tale told agitatedly by a charming woman who could give no reason for her agitation. also she had tried, desperately hard, with the aid of the hotel porter, to make head or tail out of the narrative as recounted by the hirer of camels--a woebegone tale in which the undercurrent was a dismal foreboding as to the fate of the priceless quadruped; the fate of an englishman seemingly being of small account when compared to that of the snarling, unpleasant brute who represented the native's entire fortune--at least so he said. "yes, the nobleman had hired the camel as he so often did, and being acquainted with the ways of the animal had gone alone as he always did. no! upon the beard of his grandfather he had no idea in which direction he had gone, though verily upon the outskirts of cairo there had been a festival in which la belle, the well-known dancer, was to dance--who knows------" and the hon. mary had flung out of the place in disgust, knowing with a woman's intuition, sharpened love, in comparison with which a _kukri_ is blunt, that no such place hid the man she had been searching for so desperately ever since she had suddenly wakened and sprung out of her bed the night before, for no reason whatever, and, having rung up shepherds and ascertained the fact that sir john wetherbourne was not in the hotel, had paced her room until she could with reason arouse her maid, and, having bathed and breakfasted, had started out on the seemingly mad pursuit of someone who had failed to return to his habitat during the night--and in cairo too! is it surprising that men winked secretly at one another, and that their wives, sharers of their joys and sorrows, scandal and gossip inclusive, jingled their bracelets and pursed their lips, and did all those things which jealous women--not necessarily love jealous--are feign to do when the object responsible for the conception of the green-eyed monster within their being is bent on making a fool of herself? "come now, dearie," mumbled lady sarah gruntham, who insisted on keeping lancashire meal hours to the consternation of the hotel staff, native and otherwise, as she mopped her heated brow with her handkerchief and with the other hand patted the dark head leaning wearily upon the row of scarab buttons adorning her tussore front, from which she had forgotten to remove her finger napkin when the girl had entered. "come now--come now. don't 'ee take on an' fret so. the lad'll coom back to ye, never ye fear now. well i remember when yon tim of mine was down t' mine in t' big explosion--i took on just as ye are takin' on, love, but down in me heart, lass, i never really feared me, because i knew that me love for me lad was that great, lass, that i'd pull him out of danger--and sure and i did, lass, black as a sweep and with a broken arm, but alive, and a champion tea of shrimps and cress we had, jest as ye'll have with yer lad when he comes back, lass!" which motherly comfort served to lighten the heavy heart, but brought not the faintest shadow of a smile to the steadfast eyes. for even the vision of watercress, shrimps and tea on the verandah at shepherds will not force a light to the windows of the soul when they are blinded with anxiety. so mary bingham, in her cool white dress, lay back in the long chair, with a glass of iced lemonade on a table by her side in a room darkened so as to induce slumber, whilst out in the desert with choked cries of "good dog! at it! good dog!" a man began scratching the sand as a ratting terrier does the earth, until he had excavated a hole big enough in which to curl himself, where he lay until desert things that creep and crawl drove him out again, shrieking for water. chapter xlii and the full force of the storm crashed about jill's defenceless head at the midday hour also of the same day, when she ought to have been searching the coolness of her midday sleeping chamber, and forgetfulness of the last few hours in sleep. not quite defenceless was she, however, as she sat back in the chair, her eyes ablaze and her veil torn to shreds at her feet, ripping the moral atmosphere with words which seemed to have been dipped in some corrosive verbal fluid. she was angry, hurt, and deathly tired, and was doing her best to pass some of her mental suffering anyway on to the man who leant with folded arms against the cedar wall. the inevitable crisis had come! the independence of western womanhood had clashed with the eastern ideas on the privacy and seclusion of the gentler sex. jill simply could _not_ understand that there was any cause for the terrible jealousy which had suddenly blazed up in the arab when she had innocently repeated her request to be allowed to see her old friend; hahmed was as incapable of understanding the request, having failed in his sojourn in the west to fully realise the everyday kind of jolly, good, frank camaraderie which can exist between certain types of english man and woman. half a word of tenderness, half a gesture of love, and she would have been sobbing or laughing happily in his arms, but like a prairie fire before the wind, the terrible eastern rage was blazing through the man, too fierce, too terrific to allow him to analyse the situation, or remember that the upbringing of his girl-wife had been totally different to that of the women of his country. jill suddenly sat forward, clasping one slim ankle across her knee in a slim hand, a position she knew perfectly well would rouse hahmed to a frenzy, and spoke slowly and mockingly in english instead of the pretty lisping arabic which always entranced him. "you may lecture, and remonstrate, and admonish, which all comes to the same thing, until night falls, but you will never make me see eye to eye with you in _this_. it is simply _absurd_ to threaten that you will shut me in my apartments until i learn reason. if you lock me in, or place guards about me, i will jump from the roof and gain my freedom by breaking my neck. why jack wetherbourne--oh------" hahmed had leant forward, and gripping her by the shoulders had very suddenly, and not over gently, jerked her to her feet, holding her by the strength of his hands alone, as she desperately tried to liberate herself. "let me go, hahmed! let me go! you are hurting me dreadfully. you must _not_ hurt me--you must _not_ bruise me. oh! you don't understand!" she struggled furiously and unavailingly, resorting at last to cruelty to gain her end. "let me go, hahmed! take your hands away--i--i _hate to feel them upon me_!" he let her go, pushing her away from him ever so slightly, so that she stumbled against the chair, cracking her ankle-bone, that tenderest bit of anatomical scaffolding, against a projecting piece of ornamental wood. it was a case of injury added to insult, and she crouched back furious in her physical hurt as she tore the silken covering from her arms, where already showed faint bruises above the little tattoo mark showing itself so black against the white skin, and upon which she put her finger. "oh! who would have thought when you tattooed that, jack----!" but she stood her ground and shrugged her naked shoulders irritatingly when hahmed crossed the dividing space in a bound with his hand upon the hilt of his dagger. "bi--smi--llah! what sayest thou? this mark upon the fairness of thy arm which i have thought a blemish, and therefore have not questioned thee thereon--sayest thou it is a _dakkh_, what thou callest a tattoo mark? and if so what has it to do with the man whose name is unceasingly upon thy lips?" jill stood like a statue of disdain. "what _is_ the matter now, hahmed? please understand that i will not tolerate such continual fault-finding any longer! that is a tattoo mark of a pail of water--you may not know that we have a rhyme in england which begins like this: "jack and jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water!" oh! shades of ancient egypt, did you ever hear or see anything so pathetically absurd as jill as she solemnly repeated the old doggerel. "that makes no difference--a pail of water or the outline of a flower--did this man--this--this _jack_ make the mark upon thee?" jill hesitated for a second and then answered with a glint in her eye. "yes! he did--and he did mary too--put the dinkiest little heart on her arm--we were under the cherry tree in the vegetable------!" "go!" suddenly thundered the arab. and jill, gathering her raiment about her for departure, turned to look straight into the man's eyes, whilst her heart, in spite of the little scornful smile which twisted the corner of her mouth, leapt with the love which had blossomed a hundredfold under the torrent of jealousy, wrath, and mastery which he had poured forth upon her during the last hour. "behold! art thou weak," she said sweetly in his own tongue, "having not the strength to kill that which offends thee. 'thou shalt not know this man, or any other man,'" she mocked, quoting his words, "and yet canst thou not break me to thy will! of a truth, i have no further use for thee in thy weakness!" but hahmed's control had only been slightly cracked, so that he merely pointed to the curtain which divided jill's quarters from the rest of the house. "go!" he said simply, "go to thy apartment, wherein thou shalt stay until thou seest good to come to me in obedience and love. thou shalt _not_ go forth except to the gardens; neither shall thy friends visit thee, neither shalt thou climb to the roof; and thou _shalt_ obey me--many, aye, many a woman were dead for far less than this thy disobedience--but thou--thou art too beautiful to kill, except with love--go!" and jill went, with beautiful head held high, heart throbbing from love, and blood pounding in her ears from downright rage. "i will not obey you! i shall do exactly as i wish!" she proclaimed, with the curtain in her hand. in which she was mistaken, for the simple fact that love held her fast. and the curtain swinging to hide her from the arab, as she stood for one moment holding out her arms toward him; and for the same reason she did not see him pick up her torn, scented veil, to thrust it between his inner silken vest and his sorely perturbed heart. chapter xliii night with her blessed wind had come at last, which means coolness for a space beneath the stars, and oblivion for a while in sleep for those who have untroubled heart and good digestion. there was just one black patch in all that silvery stretch of sand, upon which the moon shone, a patch that came neither from rock or tree or cloud, and which moved occasionally in fitful jerks, until it raised itself and collapsed again, and spread itself in a still stranger shape as from underneath garments which had the form of arms and legs and disjointed feet which fell apart, there crawled a man. a man, though the face was cracked in great seams from brow to chin, whilst the black tongue protruded from the split mouth drawn back from the even teeth until the great bloated face seemed to laugh in derision at the moon's softness. the body, covered in a mass of sores coated with sand, raised itself to the knees, whilst the hands tried painfully to scoop up the silver moonbeams and raise them to the mouth. there was no sound in all that deathly plain, which allah knows is accustomed to such scenes, and when the body had fallen forward once more upon the sand, so that the open mouth was filled with grit, neither was there movement, until upon the pale light of dawn a silent shape, and yet another, and still another one, sailed serenely across the sky, and with a faint rustle of folding wings settled down around the heap; to soar noiselessly skyward when it suddenly twitched convulsively; to settle again with faint rustling when all once more was still. "verily, o! brother, i am led towards that spot upon which the birds of death have come together." so said the egyptian who was partner in the small caravan proceeding leisurely towards cairo, as he shaded his eyes and pointed first up to the ever lightening sky, across which from all parts floated small black dots, and then to a distant place upon the sand, where the black spots seemed to mingle until they formed a blot of shade. "nay! raise not thy voice in dissent, o! my brother, for behold we have made good time, and water faileth us not." and well was it that they turned aside, and shouted as they approached so that only one beak had time to tear a strip of flesh from beneath the naked shoulder, ere the flock of vultures rose, hovered a second, and were gone. the two men drew near, and having dismounted, turned the poor thing over, and feeling the faint beating of the heart, with no more ado than if they were setting down to food, undid one of the goatskins from the nearest camel, and soaking the flowing bernous until it dripped with the precious water, wrapped the body in its folds; and collecting the gold watch, money and card-case strewn upon the sands, slipped everything back into a waistcoat pocket with the exception of a three day old programme announcing a cotillion at shepherd's hotel, a sketch of which hideous building was elaborately and mendaciously reproduced on the cover, so that to the mind of uneducated yussuf, unversed in the english tongue, there was but one thing to do, and that to go straight to the well-known caravanserai with his burden, and deliver it safely into the proprietor's hands. so yussuf, euphoniously termed a benighted heathen by some enlightened christians, seated himself upon the fastest camel in the caravan, receiving into his arms the thing that was still a man by their good efforts, from the hands of the other heathen, who, with hands raised to heaven, called down the blessing of allah upon men and beast as the latter departed at her swiftest for the great city, leaving him to follow in more leisurely manner. so that consternation and excitement were great among those who sat upon the verandah after dinner, partaking of coffee and cigarettes before undertaking the more strenuous task of entertaining themselves, when in the glare of the electric light a great camel suddenly appeared out of the night, and totally disregarding the upraised voice of the enormous hotel porter, subsided in the gutter, thereby causing a block in the street; whilst a man clumsily dismounted and staggered up the shallow steps, tenderly holding some covered burden the while in his arms that were breaking with fatigue, and who, speaking with authority, demanded speech of the proprietor, who, furious at being disturbed, came forth as furiously to annihilate the disturber, but instead, at the first word from the arab, who clutched a dirty piece of paper in a hand almost paralysed with cramp, lifted a corner of the cloth from about that which lay so inertly under the all-hiding cloak, and choked, and stuttered, and then recovering himself, blandly led the arab to the lift which whirled them to the first floor, leaving the occupants on the verandah all a-twitter, whilst the coffee grew cold and the cigarettes went out. chapter xliv days and nights passed, and still more days and nights, in which the man, bound from head to foot in soft wrappings soaked in unguents, tossed and raved, screaming for water, tearing at the bed-linen which to his distorted mind was alive with every conceivable insect, beating blindly at the faces of the two women who, refusing any help, watched over and tended jack wetherbourne through his days of distress. "aye, lass! now don't 'ee lose 'eart," whispered sarah ann gruntham to the girl who, having held consultation with the doctor, was sobbing her heart out on the elder woman's motherly bosom which covered a heart of purest gold. "don't 'ee listen to such fash, lass, for what's he likely to know outside of lady jones's wimble-wambles and me lor' fitznoodles' rheumatism. why 'e couldn't even tell that i 'ad 'ad a touch of my old complaint, and me with an 'andle to me name. come, lass, oop with ye bonnie head, for i'll tell 'ee the great news--i sees a bead o' perspiration on sir john's brow--an' so i'm off to take me 'air out of crackers. though tim does find it more home-like, 'e says, when i 'ave 'em h'in--oh, dearie! dearie! i often wish i was plain mrs. gruntham again with no aitches to mind. i'll be with you in ten minutes, and then, lass, ye'll just run away and have a bath--i managed the aitch that time--and come back as fresh as a daisy, if there were such a innocent thing in this land of sphinxes and minxes--and ye'll see ten beads then, which sounds as tho' i be a roman instead of a strict baptist. i'll run along, love, and don't let 'im see tears in them bonny eyes of yours when he comes to know ye, lass." and the dearest old soul in the world waddled away to take her hair out of the crackers which had made a steel halo round her silvery hair for many a night, and waddled hack again to see mary with a great glow in her eyes, and her hand clasping the skeleton fingers of jack wetherbourne, who had known her at last, and was gazing blissfully at his beloved. his lips moved, though so weak was he that no sound came from them, so that mary had to bend to catch the whisper until her ear just touched the lips still distorted from the effects of the desert sun. she sat up, blushing from chin to brow, and smilingly shook her head. "i will marry you, jack dear, as soon as we find jill!" wetherbourne made a feeble and unsuccessful attempt to frown, and then turned his eyes as mary turned her head on the opening of the door between the bedroom and the sitting-room. in the doorway stood the bewildering picture of an eastern woman. wrapped round in the voluminous cloak of the east, with the face and head veils hiding all but her eyes, she stood quite still as lady sarah bustled across the room towards her, and mary held up a warning hand. a twitching of the man's fingers drew mary's attention, and once more she leant down to him. "we're engaged," came the faint whisper, "_it's jill_!" chapter xlv decked out in mary's trappings jill lay on the couch, her pale face shining like an evening flower, whilst she passed the brush over and over again through the burnished strands of her wonderful hair. mary had sat spellbound, almost open-mouthed, at the arabian nights tale jill had poured into her astounded ears. "hahmed!" she had exclaimed when jill had told her of her marriage; and be it confessed that jill had tautened to meet the coming attack, and relaxed when mary, clasping her capable hands, had suddenly and whole-heartedly beamed upon her. "why, i've heard the most wonderful things about him since i have been out here, in fact i've been almost wearied to death listening to the accounts of his haroun al raschid methods and qualities. his wedding put cairo in an uproar--i saw the pro------ but _jill_, darling, is it possible it was you inside the palanquin on the wonderful camel?" jill nodded as she busied herself in plaiting her hair into great ropes. "and you've run away--escaped, you say?" jill nodded again. "yes!" she said, with three big tortoiseshell combs between her teeth. "we had a _frightful_ flare-up--all the fault of my tearing temper. you see i've been absolutely spoilt these last months, and i simply behaved anyhow the first time i got scolded. but i didn't deserve it all the same!" she added as an afterthought, as she wound the plaits round her head. "and," she went on, "i should never have got away if mustapha had been with us." "who's mustapha?" "my own special bodyguard! but as he _wasn't_ there i managed to thoroughly examine the high wall round the grounds, and found just one spot to give me a foothold. i scrambled up in the heat of the day when everyone was asleep, and had a terrible time with my garments." she pointed as she spoke to a scented heap of silk and satin thrown on a chair. "i had to partly disrobe whilst sitting on the top of the wall, and was terrified in case some pedlar might chance along. i tied my face and head veil round my waist, but the _habarah_, that big black cloak--by the way it belongs to one of my women, and i borrowed it with the excuse that i wanted it copied, mine you see are rather ornamental, as, of course, i never walk in the streets--well, i threw that on to the ground, tucked up my _sebleh_, that dressing-gown sort of thing, and scrambled down the other side, as i did not want to jump, ripping the knees of my _shintiyan_--the wide trouser kind of things we wear------" mary's face was a study. "thanks to my borrowed cloak i was able to walk through the streets in comfort--drawing my _burko_, face veil, dear, across my face so that only one eye should be seen,[ ] and a blue one at that. when i got to cairo i hired a car--speaking in arabic to the astounded and fluttering englishman--drove to the savoy, where i guessed you'd be--found you'd moved here--came here--and being mistaken for what i am by marriage, namely, a high-born lady of the land, was conducted straightway to you in spite of the invalid--_et voilà_!" mary got up, and crossing to jill sat down beside her on the couch. "and what now, jill? hahmed will come and fetch you." "not hahmed," said jill, with a shadow in her eyes as she remembered his parting words after what she had tersely called the flare-up. "besides, he trusts me _really_!" she added as an afterthought, and continued with a note of feverish excitement in her voice: "so i i'm going to stay with you, mary, if you'll let me, until something or another happens to help me make up my mind. i want to do a lot of sight-seeing, and wear white skirts and a silk jersey and blouse. i'll find a maid somewhere, i expect." "oh!" broke in practical mary, "don't worry about that--servants are such a nuisance. do you remember higgins? well! she came out with me, and gave me notice the second week--'couldn't abide the 'eathen ways'--and wanted to get back to her home in vauxhall. but the proprietor found me a native woman, a perfect treasure, whose one complaint is that she hasn't enough work to do!" silence fell for a time whilst mary studied the face of her friend, suddenly leaning forward to stroke the pale cheek and pat the little hand. "you don't look well, jillikins! are you sure you are happy?" "perfectly," said jill, turning her face to the cushions and bursting into uncontrollable weeping. [ ]a custom. chapter xlvi with short steps the native woman shuffled quickly along the outside of the wall surrounding the house of hahmed the arab, stopping in front of the great gates, which were closed at sunset, to peer between the wrought bronze work, standing her ground unconcernedly when a nubian of gigantic proportions suddenly appeared on the other side. terrifying he looked as he towered in the dusk, his huge eyes rolling, and his hand on the hilt of a scimitar, which looked as though it had been tempered more for use than for ornament. "what wouldst thou?" he demanded in dog arabic of the woman whose eyes flashed disdainfully over the veil which hid her pock-marked face. "speech with they master, who has bidden me to his presence, and move quickly, thou black dog of ill repute; tarry not in saying that his servant from the big house in the city has news for his most august ears." the son of ill repute stared inquisitively for a moment, and then moved off slowly with the inimitable gait of these ebon specimens of mankind, increasing his pace almost to a run once out of the female's range of vision. like a shadow she followed the different people, who, passing her from one to another, led her through rooms and halls into an open court, at the far end of which sat the man she sought, watching two jaguars being led up and down before him. "peace unto thee, o! my daughter, and fear not to approach," hahmed said gently as the woman made deep obeisance, and shrank from the animals who snarled at her viciously. "and thou, my son, take these products of the bazaar hence, for surely hast thou been fooled by him who brought them from distant climes. verily, the sire may have been a jaguar, but his mate, judging from the shape of the offspring, must most surely have been a jackal. bring not such trash to me, if thou wouldst not incur my wrath!" the snarling products of the bazaar were hurriedly jerked out of the court as hahmed turned to the woman. "is all well, o! faithful one?" "all is well, o! most high," answered the honourable mary's perfect treasure of a maid. "behold the gracious flower, upon whom it is my joy and honour to wait, changeth her mood one hundred times in the passing hour. she laughs at noon, and her pillow is wet with salt tears at night; her feet, like lotus-buds, carry her hither and thither in the day, the dimness of her room sees her face downwards upon her couch. "as unto a sweet rose she clings to her friend, the great lady, who forsooth is as pleasing as a well-cooked dish of the flesh of kid mingled with tamarind and rice; but the rose mixeth not with other flowers, and about her heart rests thy most honourable picture." for some long time hahmed stared unseeingly in front and then he spoke. "thou hast worked well, my daughter, even from the moment when thou didst take the place of the great lady's white servant, to report to me upon the doings of the white man who strove to find my wife. "ask what reward thou will'st, it shall be granted unto thee!" and the man, knowing the cupidity of his race, was somewhat astounded when, casting herself at his feet, the woman craved to be taken into his household so that, as she put it, "i may dwell in content in thy shadow, and the shadow of the snow-white dove when she wings her way back to happiness." just for a moment the arab looked into the eyes of the woman, as, greatly daring, she lifted her right hand. "for so it is written, o! my lord! the blessing of allah is upon thee, and thy heart shall be at rest." chapter xlvii the day following the native woman's surreptitious visit to the great arab saw jill and mary and jack, followed discreetly by the same native woman, set sail at an early, gay and blithesome hour for denderah, where are to be seen the ruins of the temple of hathor, the venus of ancient egypt. upon arriving, after much dallying on the way, jill insisted upon walking along the narrow tracks through the stretches of corn and sweet-smelling flowering bean, among which, to the general horror, cattle ranging from cows to goats were allowed to roam at will. a temple of love calls up visions of marble halls, marble fretwork, basins with splashing waters and marble doves, pillars crowned with intertwined marble hearts and lovers' knots tied with marble ribbons; therefore jill stood transfixed as she entered the great hall of columns, with the goddess's somewhat forbidding head carved on each side of each pillar. she walked across slowly to peer into the inner court, shrouded in deep shadows, shuddered and moved back towards the other two, whose mentality, psychology or temperament responded not in the least to light and shade. together they traversed the place, jill running her hand over the hieroglyphics which cover the pillars to their beautiful capitals, until she stopped before a representation of hathor the wanton, standing naked and verily unashamed before the image of a man, whose name i know not, but whose beauty and nudity are as great as hers. turning sharply she glanced hurriedly at jack and mary, and slipping a hand through the arm of each, almost pulled them across the floor to a stairway made in the wall and leading to the roof. for, taken up in their own love story, those two had noticed nothing, not even the uncountable figures of stone in the bas-reliefs which, appearing to turn and whisper to each other, seem in the shadows to take a delight in portraying by pantomimic gestures a love wholly allied to voluptuousness and license. but jill had seen, and her ultra fastidiousness had dyed face and neck crimson, and caused her to try and spare her companions similar uncomfortable moments. for a moment she stood on the roof watching the clouds of twittering birds as they flew in the direction of the libyan hills, and then she slipped quietly down the stairway, leaving her friends, supremely oblivious of her presence or absence, weaving their love-tale on the roof of the ruined temple of love. with nerves a-jangle and heart disturbed jill longed for shadows and solitude, so that she shrank back, hesitated, and then advanced slowly towards the veiled figure of a woman standing watching her from the shadows of the very heart of the ruins, the holy of holies, the hall of past mysteries and solemn rites. "what wouldst thou?" jill asked her in arabic, which was as wellnigh perfect as any european can make it, and although she could hardly make out one whole sentence of what she took for a dialect spoken by the woman, she grasped enough to understand that the egyptian, draped in the peasant's cloak, was anxious to read her fortune in the sand she carried in the black handkerchief, and which sand she said she had gathered on the steps of the temple's high altar at the full moon. jill sat down on a fallen block of masonry, looking very fragile, very sweet, very fair, with her white throat gleaming above the white silk blouse and jersey, soft blue hat pulled over her sunny head to shade her face, death-white save for the shadows which seemed to make a mask about her eyes, as she drew hieroglyphics on her own account in the sand with the tip of her small white shoe. she had heard of the extraordinary powers possessed by some of the egyptian people; hahmed had told her of their gift of reading the future in the sand; among her own household she had come across authentic cases where the most unlikely things predicted had come to pass. and the cloud about her was so thick, and weighed so heavily upon her! of her own free-will she had flung her happiness away, and with her happiness had gone her content and light-heartedness. she laughed with others, and cried softly by herself at night; she shared the amusements with others, and sat up at night, bewildered and afraid, to steal to the mirror and look upon a pinched face with tightened nostrils, and to wipe away the dampness gathered under the golden curls. had her marriage been a mistake or not? if not, why had she fled before the first little sign of storm? if it had been, why was she utterly miserable now that liberty was hers? her friends would surely be taking their departure soon. should she go too, or should she go back in all humbleness to the man she loved? did he want her, having shown no sign or desire for her return? did he--did he not? a decision must be made, and soon, but what was it to be? round and round, like a flock of startled pigeons, went her thoughts, one breaking away to whirr into the back of her mind, another to drift into the shadows, and another, and yet another, whilst the rest flew on, round and round! and then she shrank back, gripping the stone with two cold little hands as great drops gathered and trickled down her face, her breath coming in silent gasps. stricken with terror she threw out her arms passionately. "speak, woman, speak! spread the sand, and read to me what thou seest therein. thy finger shall point the way, and that way will i follow wherever it may lead." chapter xlviii whereupon the woman of the shadows, turning towards that which had once been an altar, and raising her arms straight above her head with hands out-turned at an acute angle, thrice repeated words that were absolutely unintelligible to jill. and then kneeling, she spread the sand upon the ground, dividing it into circles and squares, drawing curious signs with the tip of her hand, which as jill noticed was passing white and slender for that of a peasant woman, and spoke--in modern tongue. "behold, o! woman, who emerged from a grey cloud to enter into the radiance of the sun, thou art beloved by the gods who rule the earth through the countless and eternal ages. thou dost pause upon the threshold of the temple of love, fearing these shadows which will pass away when thou shalt stand within the great radiance of the goddess. yea! and fearful art thou of the sand out of which shall spring a tree of many branches, and in the shade of which thou shalt encompass thy life's span. behold," and the finger drew a line upon the sand, "the grey cloud encloses thee yet once again, and the goddess weeps without! yet will she rejoice! before many moons have come and gone, the great god amen shall tear aside that which blindeth thee, and placing a man son upon thy breast shall lead thee into the innermost temple. "six times shall amen strike thee in love, so that thou bearest sons, and once shall he strike thee upon both breasts so that a woman child shall spring from thy loins. "love is thy portion, thy meat, and thy drink, bringing unto thee those who travailing in love shall come for thy wisdom, and those labouring in grief for thy succour. "and thou shalt not die before thy time, and thou shalt pass to the gods with thy hand in thy master's, for he shall not leave thee through all thy life, nay not even at the last. and thy name shall ring throughout the land of egypt, and be engraven upon the walls of time. "behold hathor, behold i say!" and three times the unintelligible words rang through the place as jill sank back staring open-eyed. the small white hand had pulled the veil aside from about the face, and head, and body of the fortune-teller, so that for a moment she seemed to stand outlined against the pillar, with flashing eyes, scarlet mouth, and brow encircled with a golden band, from which sprang something round with wings set in precious stones; the glory of her gleaming body shone white as ivory in the gloom, her perfect arms stretched straight downwards with hands turned sharply in so that the finger-tips rested on the rounded thighs. and then jill rubbed her eyes and stared, and stared again; for the spot was empty, save for a square of sand with strange signs drawn upon it; neither was there sound of retreating footsteps or swish of drapery. jill stumbled to her feet, swaying as she caught at a pillar for support, and then with a violent effort of will walked to a great shaft of sunlight which struck the ground in front of the ruins of the high altar from an opening in the roof. "am i mad?" she whispered. "did i dream that woman--and yet the sand is there!" a pitiful little smile flickered across the ashen face as she stood motionless and alone in the ruins. "the temple of love," she cried softly, flinging out her arms, "the temple of love and i am alone. hahmed beloved, where are you? i feel so--i--i wish you were here to take me in your arms. hahmed--i want comforting--i do--i'm lonely--i--i'm--oh, oh! god--god have mercy on me--i--we------" for a moment the transfigured girl stood upright, her face one blaze of wonder in the light of the sun, her eyes wide open and filled with a great surprise and a greater awe. and then she slowly sank to her knees and bowed her beautiful head to the sand, whilst the echoes took up her words and carried them to the far corners of the vast ruins. "i am not worthy, my beloved, for this great honour--i am not worthy in that i am not with thee at this moment when thy child stirs within me. i am covered in shame in that i doubted. i am bowed down with shame and yet lifted up to the heavens with joy." for long minutes thus knelt she alone with her happiness, and then she raised herself whilst a great sob shook her from head to foot. "hahmed," she cried as she flung her arms out wide, "hahmed, wherever thou art i am calling thee. hahmed, hahmed!" and fell face downward unconscious upon the sand covered floor. noiselessly an arab stepped from behind a pillar, crossing to the still figure on the ground, and gently he picked her up in his arms, covering her in the folds of his great white cloak. "little bird! little bird!" he whispered in the beautiful arabian tongue, "why willst thou beat thy tender wings against the bars of happiness around thy dwelling? and thou wert frightened--frightened by yon peasant woman. what said she, my dove, to strike thee senseless to the ground? "thou art pale, o! my heart's delight, and weigh but as a handful of down upon my arm, and yet must thou learn thy lesson, to the end; and even will i forsake thee, leaving thee guided by the star of happiness to find thy way alone to thy dwelling in the desert. yea! there will i await thee, o! my beloved--beloved!" and hahmed passed swiftly through the hall of shadows, and down the fields of waving corn and sweet scented bean to the banks of the nile, and there he placed his sweet burden in the arms of the faithful native woman, who tenderly wiped the sand from the golden curls and raised her right hand in fealty to her master as he turned away, neither did she falter in her tale to mary and jack when, goaded by anxiety and in spite of the heat, they ran down towards the boat. "sunstroke!" said mary, who had a certificate for first-aid, and speaking with the certain flat determination which even her best friends found most trying at times. "you simply _cannot_ go about in egypt without a green-lined umbrella. yes! it's a slight, quite slight attack of sunstroke," she continued, without noticing the radiance of jill's eyes, "and i will apply this damp handkerchief to your medulla oblongata." chapter xlix jill sat on the edge of her bed in an hotel at suez. that she was absolutely alone in egypt, and ought not to have been alone, never entered her head once, as she gazed through the open window towards the sea. her eyes shone like stars, her mouth was a beautiful sign of content, her hands were clasped peacefully on her knee, and she simply radiated happiness. mary and jack, lady bingham, diana lytham and sir timothy and lady sarah, had started that morning for england in the great liner which jill had watched unconcernedly until it disappeared up the canal. and so for the first time for many weary weeks she was alone, though it must be confessed that the liberty had only been gained by a deliberate perversion of the truth. fussed by kind-hearted, though, somewhat scandalised lady gruntham, driven to the point of madness by the never-ending stream of wisdom, advice, and plans which from morning till night flowed unceasingly from the store of mary's book-gleaned knowledge, jill had cleared up the situation all round by suddenly announcing the imaginative fact that hahmed was coming to cairo to fetch her home. whereupon mary bingham had arranged everything to her own entire satisfaction in the twinkling of an eye, told jack wetherbourne that she and her mother were leaving for england if he'd like to come too, had worked her maid to death with packing, distributing quite a fair supply of backsheesh, and had bundled her bewildered mother and contented fiancé down to suez, where jill had seen them off to the accompaniment of a last final flood of advice which was mercifully lost in the scream of the siren, the rasp of machinery, and the manifold sounds which add hilariously, especially in foreign climes, to the pandemonium that reigns to within a second of the cry which invites some of us to descend to terra firma on the occasion of the sailing of a passenger boat. jill suddenly came out of a reverie which had painted her cheeks a most exquisite pink, and caused her teeth to show in the faintest smile. then she frowned and shook back her mane of hair, as was her habit when perplexed, and spoke softly to the night wind which was blowing straight in at the window from the other side of the canal. "the oasis is calling me, night wind, calling, calling, and yet i do not know. you who come from the oasis, tell me, is my beloved there, or shall i find my dwelling empty, and my happiness but as a turned-down cup?" who can explain what it is that leads the spirit astraying from its material covering? are love and longing its sole companions upon the road of shadows? surely no! for is not revenge, or jealousy, or the near approach of that which is called death as potent to span the stretches of the world; and will not a vision of stark terror blot out the sun at the commonplace hour of noon, and may not the body, squatting on the market pavement, find it a place of rest, even as unto a seat in paradise through the spirit's communion? the soul's wireless, mental telepathy, the sympathetic chord, and so on, and so on, good honest words to describe that which no one understands, and which caused the girl sitting on a prosaic bed in a prosaic hotel to smile suddenly as she sat so very still. for her soul had wandered until she stood with her feet in the sand, looking in at a wide-open door through which a beam of violet-orange light struck across the night. two men sat motionless within, until one slowly turned his head and looked through the door straight into her eyes. for one long moment, with unutterable longing he gazed, and then the vision faded just as jill, saying softly, "beloved! i come," stretched out her arms, and with a sudden shiver awoke to her surroundings. part iii the fruit chapter l "doubtless my beloved sleeps!" thought hahmed the arab, as he looked at the watch on his wrist to find it pointing to midnight, and clapped his hands for fresh coffee, then lit another cigarette whilst his guest who, like himself, sat cross-legged on cushions on the floor, inhaled contentedly from a _shibuk_[ ] in a house of rest on the outer edge of a distant oasis. weary to death was he of the uninterrupted flow of words which unceasingly streamed from the mouth of the cross-bred man, who was gleefully rubbing the hands of his soul over what he imagined to be the clinching of a remarkable bargain with the camel king, whereas if he had but known it, his host had merely put a little difficulty in the way so as to lengthen the deal, and thereby kill a few moments of the dreary hours of the dreary time he had passed since had left the woman he loved alone to learn the last words of her lesson. turning he called sharply to the servile proprietor of the house, which for the first time was honoured by the presence of its redoubtable landlord. salaaming until his tarboosh reached the level of his knees, the inwardly shaking achmed stood before his two guests. "hast thou naught wherewith to entertain thy guests, o! achmed, or must they perchance pass the hours in counting the flies which flit about the none too clean lamps? thinkest thou that this house is solely a roof to shade thy head from the sun, or perchance is it a dwelling of comfort for those who pass east and west?" by this time the oriental's head was bobbing like a mandarin's, whilst in a spasm of terror his mouth opened and shut unceasingly. "find thy tongue, o! fool, before i turn thee from the door. hast thou aught of entertainment, and hast thou other than this mud thou callest coffee? speak i say!" with a gulp which served to clench hahmed's fingers, the wretched achmed vowed he had music of a kind and dancers of sorts, and that at that moment his first wife was preparing a brew surpassed only by that drunk in the gardens of delight by the chosen of allah, who had passed to their well-earned rest. "choose, o! my guest! doubtless they will both be as forlorn as this coffee, for which i crave thy forgiveness--our business is at an end, and some hours stretch unendingly before us." ali 'assan, dying to satisfy his cross-bred inquisitiveness which, with the curiosity of egypt entire, had been aroused by the strange rumours of some catastrophe happened in his host's household, had not the slightest desire for bed, rather would he have sat up for an entire week of nights, if only be could have got an inkling of the truth; so he plumped for music and dancing whilst his host sat motionless, the light of the hanging lamps throwing strange shadows on the stern, relentless face. hahmed the arab, it is true, sat upon the cushions in the dingy room; you would have certainly touched a human body if you had laid a hand upon his arm, but by an effort of will which left him sitting absolutely motionless with half-closed eyes, he, in spite of the heat, the irritation of his guest's presence, and all that went to make the evening intolerable, had sent his spirit, or soul, or what you will, adrift, searching for his beloved; so unutterable was his longing, so wracked was his heart with love, so utter was his detachment, that neither piping of reed, twanging of stringed instrument or patter of feet could bring him back to his surroundings. and then under some unexplainable impulse hahmed turned his head slowly, looking across the shoulder of his guest to the door behind, and his eyes glowed like fires in the darkness of night as in the doorway he saw framed the face of her for whom body and soul craved. the face was pale even unto death, but the red mouth smiled softly, and the golden curls clustered and twisted as they had ever done; the blue eyes were wells of love, in which the arab's soul sank as he called though his lips moved not, neither was there sound of words in the room. "come to me, beloved, beloved! come to me!" and the vision faded, and hahmed's spirit returned to its dwelling as a faint sigh from ali 'assan made him remember his duty towards his guest. the arab does not indulge in nerves, though allah only knows how long it will be before he resorts to bromide if he continues to fraternise with the european, but hahmed, unknown to himself, was suffering from the almost unendurable strain of the past endless empty days. he was consumed with thirst for his beloved, agonising with hunger for his heart's desire, forcing himself to do business in out-of-the-way places in his land so as to keep his thoughts from the exquisite face of his own woman. true, he could have stayed in cairo, and waited for further news of her; true, he could have seized her and carried her forcibly back to his own lands, but the pride of centuries raged within him, and until she came back of her own free will he would neither move hand nor foot to compel her. anyway, let us put the following episode down to the months of strain culminating in an intense irritation wrought by the babble of ali 'assan's meaningless chatter, and the vileness perhaps of the coffee. he lifted his eyes and looked at the picture before him. the room was low, and the lighting bad, the air suffocating, whilst a few particles of sand blown in by the hot wind heralded an approaching storm. standing before him with a piece of tawdry gauze about her quite unprepossessing form stood the over aged dancer with a set simper upon her silly vacant face. "allah!" ejaculated hahmed, as he lit a cigarette, whilst achmed, peeping through the door, suddenly smote his forehead. now dancing women were no more to the great man than a troupe of performing collies, but his artistic sense demanded the best, and when it was not forth-coming he felt the same annoyance as you or i would feel if arrayed in purple and fine linen we adorned a box at the opera with our presence, covered with as many diamonds upon it as possible, to find a street singer deputising for a melba or caruso. "thou dog," he said pleasantly to the cringing man, who tremblingly explained that indeed he had one better--yea, even fair to look upon. "behold, if thou offerest yet another insult to this mine guest i will have thee and thy woman whipped into the desert and left to die." whereupon achmed fled precipitately in the wake of her who had annoyed, and snatching a whip beat her smartly on her plump but ill-formed shoulders, the while he urged the prima ballerina of the establishment to anoint herself and depart right quickly to the pacifying of the great hahmed, which order, alas, put a totally wrong idea into her tunisian-arabian pate. [ ]long native pipe. chapter li la belle, a rank cross-breed of tunisian and french with a dash of arabian, was the one good part of a bad debt which had overwhelmed achmed when he had inadvertently over-reached himself. her body was passable, lithe, sinewy, with a faint hint of rib and a wonderful bust; her brain was good, intuitive in its non-educated state, and subtle from inheritance; her ambition was superb, it knew no limits, it saw no obstacle. born in a kennel in tunis, she had figuratively and literally fought her way to the upper reaches of the gutter, sleeping in filth, eating it, listening to it, living it; dancing for a meal, selling her strangely seductive body for a piastre or so, settling her quarrels with a knife she carried in her coarse, crisp, henna-dyed hair, with one goal before her slanting orange eyes, that of dancer in chief, prima ballerina, or what you will, in some house of good repute; the explanation of which phrase would overtax my oriental knowledge i fear. dance she could, if dancing is the correct term for the subtle portraying of every conceivable vice by every conceivable gesture and posture; and she had felt herself content on the day she had for a good round sum sold herself to take up a dancing position of some importance in the house of him who, unknown to her, had got himself entangled in more than one human money-spider's web. if her dancing was correct or not, men had begun to foregather in the house, where--if her temper allowed--she would dance o' nights fully clothed or fully unclothed; also her reputation was beginning to be used as a lure to the uninitiated freshly arrived in cairo, therefore her usually fiendish temper was as hell unloosed when, as part payment of a debt, she found herself willy-nilly strapped to a camel and carted by slow stages to the house of rest whose proprietor was achmed, and landlord hahmed, the camel king. "dance i will not, thou descendant of pigs," she stormed at achmed, who, reducing his fez to a pulp, raved at her as she crouched in a corner with something a-glitter in her hand. "send in thy wife who ambles like a camel in foal, and whose ankles are thick enough to serve as prop to a falling house." "thou fool," hissed the man with sweat pouring down his face, and who through the working of his oriental mind already felt the swish of the whip about his shoulders, and the agony of the desert fly's bite on his flagellated anatomy. "it is _hahmed_--the great _hahmed_, who orders thee to his presence. it is thy chance, thou fool--it is------" and his dull eyes brightened, and his sensual month widened in a grin as the girl sprang to her feet and sped to a mirror on the opposite side of the room. "dullard," she cried, as she pulled her clothing furiously from her, and stood with nothing but a plain coloured shawl of gauze covered in tinsel twined about her slim waist, "why hast thou wasted precious moments? why has thou imperilled my chance by infuriating the great man? out of my way, thou snail." and as she fled precipitately from the room she caught the man by the throat and flung him against the wall with the ease of muscle trained to the last point. "ow!" exclaimed ali 'assan at the apparition in the doorway with the flaming henna head and taut brown body, with long, thin, brown arms stretched down stiff as ramrods to the sides, and "ow!" he said again, as she suddenly moved and again stood still with the gleaming orange eyes fixed on his host, who looked at her for an instant, and looked away again to the far corner, as he indifferently lit a cigarette. and then la belle danced for all she was worth, and for all she knew, whilst the guest watched in sensual enjoyment, and the host took not the slightest notice. nearer she came, and nearer still, until the pungent odour of the insufferable eastern perfume of which the body is musk, suddenly struck the nostrils of the man for whom she danced, bringing a slight frown to his face, and causing him to thoughtlessly raise his right hand, which, as perhaps the reader may not know, is an oriental sign of appreciation. a flash of triumph swept across the face of the woman, who was absolutely on the wrong tack, as she sidled so near that her bare limbs almost touched the flowing cloak which swept round the man. his mind was full of his exquisite, delicate, tantalising, fastidious wife, his body ached for her, his soul fainted for even a touch of her little hand, so that once again he raised his right hand as though to sweep away some pestilential insect from his path, just one little careless gesture which proved a woman's undoing. back bent la belle, and still farther back until her evil face was on a level with that of the man she was trying to subjugate, and when for an instant his eyes rested on hers, which peered at him from the strange angle of her upside down position, she whispered one little word. and then a great fury suddenly blazed in hahmed's eyes, a sudden storm of hate swept across the stern face, as his hand steel strong closed fiercely about the long thin neck. "thou daughter of gutter dogs," he whispered, so low that the words were hardly caught by ali 'assan, who with fingers twining uncontrollably in his white garment, sat petrified by the suddenly arisen storm. "thou essence of evil, go back to the devil who spawned thee." there was a choked gurgling cry as the hand closed tighter, a little click like the closing of a safe door, and the body of the dead woman, was hurled into the middle of the room, whilst hahmed lit a cigarette and clapped his hands for the presence of achmed, who, his legs refusing to support his shaking body, crawled in on his hands and knees. "carry that carrion out, o! thou trafficker in evil, and throw it to the jackals." "master, o! master! may the light of allah shine upon thee in thy wisdom, may the houris of paradise make thy couch one of delight when thou art gathered to thy forefathers! in all ignorance i sent yon ignoble female to dance before my honoured guest--a great price i paid for her in the market." "thou liest," gently replied his master. whereupon achmed gathered good handfuls of dust from the floor and massaged it into his oily hair, whilst hahmed, rising to his great height, prayed forgiveness from his guest, who was even then thinking what a waste of good material the dead woman represented. "let this serve thee as a lesson, thou perverter of allah's truth," spake hahmed, in a voice as caressing as that of a woman, "and teach thee to acquire property which does honour to thy house. camels, a male and female, shall be sent in payment for that for which thou hast not paid one piastre. "breed with them so that the milk refreshes the traveller, and the hair spins soft covering for their bed, and fail me not again, for behold when i strike it is as the lightning which blasts the tree." and the two men stalked silently from the scene of the tragedy, leaving achmed rubbing his hands in glee, with intervals of removing particles of dust from his eyes and mouth, whilst his virago of a first wife ambled in to ascertain the proceeds of the evening, an account of which caused her to raise dirty hands to heaven and praise allah, before she ambled out again, contemptuously kicking the dead body _en passant_, which action nearly upset the equilibrium of her cumbersome body, as she hastened to summon the help necessary to lift and carry to the jackals the body of la belle who had missed her chance. chapter lii the full moon shone down on the scene, which surely had not changed since the wise men of the east--led by a star--came to find a babe. the palms swayed slightly in a faint breeze, the sand stretched a restful grey, and there was no sound whatever save the faint ripple of the life-giving stream singing its way through the oasis. neither was there sign of human life excepting the figure of an arab standing as if carved in bronze in the black shadow of the palms. immobile, with arms folded he stood, eyes intent on the road leading to civilisation, watching and waiting, as he had watched and waited through many a night until dawn. "allah!" and the words were indistinguishable from the brook's murmuring. "god of all, send her back to me. behold! with patience i have waited these last long months--and yet would i wait even until death--for thou, o! allah, in thy greatness hast allowed me dimly to understand this woman's mind--my woman, my heritage of all time. "the eastern night will draw her back, as surely as the moon will make a silvery path for her return; for she has but tried her soft white wings, and i have no fear that she will have sullied them in her flight. "but this time, this time there shall be no escape." the long brown hand stretched out as if to seize and hold, the slender fingers closed gently, but with a grip of steel, as though upon the whiteness of some woman's throat. "when she comes back my wife," continued the voice, as the moon slowly swung up to her throne, blinding in her power the million twinkling eyes that had watched for her coming. "yet, when she comes it will be for very love of me, her lover, and for love of the night and the scent of the dawn, for the stillness of the dusk, and the longing to lay her pure whiteness at rest within my arms." and then he threw his hands heavenwards with a great cry. "allah, be praised! oh allah, unto thee i give thanks." and sank upon his knees, touching the sand with his forehead, and rising with hands outstretched strode quickly to the clump of palms near the gate in the wall surrounding jill's dwelling, to meet three camels stalking upon the road leading from civilisation towards him; one golden-brown with a closed palanquin swaying upon its back, the others dark brown, one laden with great skins, almost empty of water, and bundles of every size and description, the other mounted by the head keeper of camels, who, having brought the animals to their knees, ran to his master and knelt before him with his mouth open as though to speak, and a look of wracking anxiety and indecision upon his usually imperturbable countenance. but a slight motion of his master's hand sent him hurriedly towards the servants' quarters, where he was received by scores of his own kind simply bursting with curiosity, whilst hahmed silently held out his hands to help jill from the palanquin. she stumbled badly as her feet touched the ground, and bit on a cry as the man's strong hand caught and steadied her as she stood swaying slightly. "remove thy veil for i fain would see what winds have blown upon thee!" the little figure, wrapped in countless yards of the soft purple satin habarah, recoiled a step as the words fell with the hiss of icy water upon red hot steel; a little nervous laugh rising like thin vapour on the strained atmosphere. "and so the great hahmed would expose the face of his wife to the driver of camels? behold, has his pride fallen." and she continued with the sharp edge of an approaching nerve storm in her voice. "methinks it would be better for him to send his fleetest camel to the great city, and bid it wait without the house of the blue door, wherein are to be found those who, unveiled and unashamed, will come and dance upon the sand before such men as--yon camel driver!" a slight sound of tearing silk and the scented veil lay in hahmed's hands, whilst the great moon threw its rays mercilessly on the little face. deep purple rings made the eyes seem twice their size, the nose looked pinched, the mouth slightly twisted, whilst great drops from the damp brow fell upon the silk covering she held heaped up around her. "allah!" ejaculated hahmed, as he looked and looked again. "methinks the winds have been ill which have blown upon thee. thou lookest stricken unto death--and i know not how, but thou hast changed inconceivably--thou art shorter. no! i know not what it is, but hearken. "thou hast filled my cup of endurance, o! woman, to the brim. yea! until the drops of bitterness have overflowed and fallen upon the sands, but now thou art come back, rather than let thee go i would drive this dagger through thy heart. "fear not that i will pass uncalled the silken hangings of thy chamber, or force upon thee the sweet title of wife which against my wish thou hast so long disdained, but thou art my prisoner. if love could not bind thee to me, then shall care be taken that thou strayest not again from thy home. "thy body woman has orders to come to thee only when i command her to do so, though such is her love for thee that she beats her shrivelled body in despair at thy absence, and is like to die for weariness of thy empty chamber. so when thou wilt retire, if perchance the silken ribbon of thy raiment has become knotted, there are no hands but these to the unravelling of the mysteries of thy toilet. "if thou hast need of me, thou needest but call me, and i will speed to thy bidding, for behold! i will lay across thy portal, as i have lain these many moons since thy nest has been without the bird for whom it was my pleasure to build." for a moment fell a mighty silence between the two, broken only by the stream which hurried past them on its way to the great green nile. not a frond stirred, neither did the breeze even move the multitudinous folds of jill's raiment. from the west the sand swept up to her feet, and as far as eye could see to the east it stretched. slowly she turned and looked at the motionless figure under the palms, then silently she held out her hands with a little movement of utter submission, as a sound, twixt a sob and a moan, fell gently on the soft air. for one long moment they looked across the sand at each other, these two who had been tried to their utmost limit, and then the man was at her feet, with, flimsy veil held in his hands, lower he bent and lower, as his white cloak swept out on each side of the girl like great protecting wings, as catching the hem of her dress he raised it to his forehead, and then rising to fasten the veil before her face, led her by the hand to the door of her dwelling, pulling back the white silk curtain for her to pass. chapter liii a very ecstasy of love radiated upon the arab's face as he stood behind jill, who in amazement stopped dead on the threshold. beautiful her many rooms had been, but none to compare with the snow-white beauty of this. great white persian rugs with faint tracings worked in gold and silver lay upon the white marble of the floor; white cushions, with little corner gold and silver tassels, lay piled upon a great divan raised a foot on ivory feet above the floor, and half hidden behind white damask curtains hanging from a finely wrought arch carved out of creamy stretches of ivory held together with gold and silver clasps of rare workmanship. stools of ivory, and one great perfect chair, made of innumerable tusks with each tip blunted by a ball of crystal, shone in the dim light cast by the hanging lamps, which drew countless rays from the four fountains playing in the four corners. bibelots, jewelled boxes, rare books in rare age-dulled covers, things of use and things of luxury lay in every corner, and yet so big was the room that it gave jill an infinitely refreshing feeling of space as she walked slowly through to another one, leading out from the far side, where crystal and ivory gleamed from low tables, and full length mirrors reflected the water in the roman bath over which hung flowering plants scenting the air from the great gold and white cups, whilst two snow-white doves cooed to each other in a silver cage at the approach of the coming dawn. "so would i have it for my--ah----!" hahmed stopped suddenly, as with a little cry the girl falling forward clutched frantically at his fine white clothing, tearing it in many places under her weight. "woman--wife, art thou stricken with fear of him who loves thee--allah! that i should have lived to see thy face distorted in anguish in my presence. i spoke in anger, o! my heart, but my wrath waxeth faint within me in thy beloved presence," and speaking soft words of love he raised her in his arms, causing the voluminous mantle which she held so closely about her to slip from her shoulders to the ground. speechless she stood before him with her hands before her face, and speechless stood hahmed, as, holding her at arm's length, he gazed upon his woman, gazed until a great tremor suddenly shook him. for behold he saw that the glory of womanhood had descended upon her, and that her hour was nigh. "allah!" he whispered, as he gently drew her into his arms. "thou art with child, o! my beloved. why was i not stricken blind for this my senseless folly? why was i not stricken dumb for those my words of wrath spoken to _thee_, thou tree bearing the fruit of love? oh! glory be to allah in this most wonderful thing." he picked her up, and carrying her into the first room, laid her upon the divan and knelt beside her with her hand against his mouth whilst she whispered to him the great, the everlastingly wonderful and new tidings of the coming of her babe. "oh, dearest of men and most little understanding. truly it is that within me i hold thy great gift. how was it thou didst not guess when i no longer raced thee across the sands upon my horse, or sprang to the ground to greet thee on my return. "and even when my moods changed even as changeth the colour of the sands, even then, dear heart, thou didst not guess; and i in my foolish woman's way was contrary, and could not even then be sure that my happiness lay here in the desert. and so i left thee, to try thee and myself, and not until i could no longer see thee, and have speech with thee, did i------ hahmed! ah, beloved! nay, 'tis nothing--it can be nothing--because two moons have yet to rise and wane before--ah, and yet--maybe--maybe the journey, although not tedious, has brought about my happiness before its time. beloved, i------" with eyes alight, with a great pride and face aglow with tenderness, hahmed bent and kissed the little agonised face. "i go one instant, queen of women, to bid thy body woman come, she, praise be to allah, being well versed in the mighty miracle of birth. "she will tend thee with the tenderness of a mother, and the skill of the greatest doctor in the land. "fret not, beloved, i am gone but for one moment." jill lay silent, and then smiled sweetly as out of the shadows ran a little hunchback figure who stood without word, for a moment gazing with love-laden eyes at the white woman, then kneeling suddenly, kissed the cushion upon which rested the girl's dainty feet. for half an hour jill submitted to the adoring little woman's ministrations, who made water to splash, and scented the air with aromatic perfume, and spread white loose gowns and softest linens before her mistress for her choice. "leave me, ameena, now," whispered jill, and she was alone with the golden glory of her hair falling about her, as she pressed her hands against her mouth, until uncontrollably and insistently her cry for her master tore the air. "hahmed! ah, hahmed! come to me!" and he was beside her. the arab had faced death more than once, had witnessed things unmoved which had served to freeze the very blood of others; but never had he heard such a cry as this which cleft the shadows in the room. great drops of sweat shone upon his forehead as he stooped above the couch, his strong white teeth biting into his under lip. swiftly he crossed the room, pulling back the silken curtain which served as a door, leaving an opening through which the dying moon struck a mighty silver spear. and as swiftly he passed out into the gardens scented with sweet flowers, a little gate in the wall swinging back at his touch, through which he sped on and on to the great plains of his beloved desert. it was the hour before the dawn, and turning in the direction of mecca he prayed, and the prayer finished, advanced yet another twenty yards and, divesting himself of his cloak, laid it upon the ground, and then turning, sped back to his woman who honoured him before all men. a little breeze heralding the coming dawn blew the silken curtains gently to and fro as the man knelt beside the low divan. "hahmed! the hour strikes--i am afraid--i--oh! hahmed, i cannot see thy face, beloved." two little white hands sought and grasped the strong ones held out to help, for through the faint voice had crept a note of fear. but even though the little teeth had bit until red drops of blood had spilled from her mouth on to the white cushion, the great eyes smiled up into the man's tortured face as he bent closer to the golden head. "harken! woman of women, thou who bringest honour unto me, in this thou shalt please thyself, for art thou not in this moment a very queen, and i but a slave at thy feet. "behold is it the custom of my tribe, dwellers of the desert, children of the sand, that the woman give birth to her first-born upon the very sand of this mighty desert. "not upon couch and silken cloth does the first-born draw its breath, but upon the sand with the desert wind upon his little head. "i have no command for thee, beloved, because thou art of the west, where different customs rule, and i--i mind not--for my love for thee is above all custom, and all manner and fashioning of mankind! choose then and i am satisfied!" once again two little hands shone dimly as they were raised, searching blindly. "take me into thy arms, beloved, and carry me to the desert sand, for behold, thy will is my will and my ways are henceforth thy ways! but hasten! for the moment is at hand. hold me in thy strength for i faint!" tenderly the great man stooped and gathered the girl to his breast. swiftly he crossed the threshold, and passing through the gate gently laid her down upon his mantle, stretched upon the ground. * * * * * * the wind of dawn blew the stars out one by one, the great plains of sand changed from purple to steel, to grey, to yellow. the palms whispered gently together, the water sang on its swift way to the river, a faint movement everywhere heralded the coming of the day. motionless, hahmed knelt beside jill, whose snow-white face, half-ridden in the folds of cloth, looked like some faint spring flower in a world of shadows. and then, as the woman whose unbound hair rippled in golden streams about the arab's feet, put out her hands to grasp her master's robe, a long-drawn cry which spoke of pain and joy, death and ecstasy and life, crept over the sands, rising, rising to the very heavens, to sink back in faintest moan to her who in that moment had fulfilled the miracle of love. a hush fell upon the earth, a mighty stillness upon those two. and then! a little sound, soft as a bird's call at dawn, broke the silence of the sands! and at the little sound the man sprang upright, with hands and blazing eyes upraised to heaven. and as he stood towering over the motionless woman at his feet, the sound of rejoicing was great in the land; for over the yellow sand, tearing apart the last dim shadows of the night, up struck the sun's first golden shaft, and as it spread, piling gold upon red, and red upon gold, across the great plains and up to the very highest of high heaven thundered the mohammedan's tumultuous, triumphant hymn of praise. "_la allah, illa allah! muhammed rasul allah!_" the end [transcriber's note: the word "amourers" in chapter xxxiii should probably be "armourers" (weapon makers).] [transcriber's note: in the "la allah" line above, two characters are supported only in unicode. they are the second "a" in "allah" and the "a" in "illa", both of which should be a-macron (u+ ), and the "u" in "rasul", which should be u-macron (u+ b).] http://www.archive.org/details/lovelucy hewliala love and lucy by maurice hewlett author of "the forest lovers," "the life and death of richard yea and nay," etc. new york dodd, mead and company copyright, by dodd, mead and company, inc. _beati possidentes_ contents chapter i onslow square ii a dinner party iii in the drawing-room iv after-talk v eros steps in vi a leap outwards vii patience and psyche viii again ix sundry romantic episodes x at a world's edge xi anteros xii martley thicket ( ) xiii martley thicket ( ) xiv the great scheme xv james xvi _amari aliquid_ xvii the shivering fit xviii the hardanger xix the moon-spell xx fair warning xxi the departure xxii catastrophe xxiii james and jimmy xxiv urquhart's apology epilogue: _quid plura_? love and lucy chapter i onslow square this is a romantic tale. so romantic is it that i shall be forced to pry into the coy recesses of the mind in order to exhibit a connected, reasonable affair, not only of a man and his wife prosperously seated in the mean of things, _nel mezzo del cammin_ in space as well as time--for the macartneys belonged to the middle class, and were well on to the middle of life themselves--, but of stript, quivering and winged souls tiptoe within them, tiptoe for flight into diviner spaces than any seemly bodies can afford them. as you peruse you may find it difficult to believe that macartney himself--james adolphus, that remarkable solicitor--could have possessed a quivering, winged soul fit to be stript, and have hidden it so deep. but he did though, and the inference is that everybody does. as for the lady, that is not so hard of belief. it very seldom is--with women. they sit so much at windows, that pretty soon their eyes become windows themselves--out of which the soul looks darkling, but preening; out of which it sometimes launches itself into the deep, wooed thereto or not by _aubade_ or _serena_. but a man, with his vanity haunting him, pulls the blinds down or shuts the shutters, to have it decently to himself, and his looking-glass; and you are not to know what storm is enacting deeply within. finally, i wish once for all to protest against the fallacy that piracy, brigandage, pearl-fishery and marooning are confined to the wilder parts of the habitable globe. never was a greater, if more amiable, delusion fostered (to serve his simplicity) by lord byron and others. because a man wears trousers, shall there be no more cakes and ale? because a woman subscribes to the london institution, desires the suffrage, or presides at a committee, does the _bocca baciata perde ventura_? believe me, no. there are at least two persons in each of us, one at least of which can course the starry spaces and inhabit where the other could hardly breathe for ten minutes. such is my own experience, and such was the experience of the macartney pair--and now i have done with exordial matter. the macartneys had a dinner-party on the twelfth of january. there were to be twelve people at it, in spite of the promised assistance of lancelot at dessert, which lucy comforted herself by deciding would only make twelve and a half, not thirteen. she told that to her husband, who fixed more firmly his eyeglass, and grunted, "i'm not superstitious, myself." he may not have been, but certainly, lucy told herself, he wasn't very good at little jokes. lancelot, on the other hand, was very good at them. "twelve and a half!" he said, lifting one eyebrow, just like his father. "why, i'm twelve and a half myself!" then he propounded his little joke. "i say, mamma, on the twelve and halfth of january--because the evening is exactly half the day--twelve and a half people have a dinner-party, and one of them _is_ twelve and a half. isn't that neat?" lucy encouraged her beloved. "it's very neat indeed," she said, and her grey eyes glowed, or seemed to glow. "it's what we call an omen at school," said lancelot. "it means--oh, well, it means lots of things, like you're bound to have it, and it's bound to be a frightful success, or an utter failure, or something of that kind." he thought about it. developments crowded upon him. "i say, mamma--" all this was at breakfast, macartney shrouding himself in the _morning post_: "yes, lancelot?" "it would be awfully good, awfully ingenious and all that, if one of the people was _twice_ twelve and a half." she agreed. "yes, i should like that. very likely one of them is." lancelot looked extremely serious. "not mr. urquhart?" he said. "no," said lucy, "i am sure mr. urquhart is older than that. but there's margery dacre. she might do." lancelot had his own ideas as to whether women counted or not, in omens, but was too polite to express them. "is she twenty-five, do you think? she's rather thin." lucy exploded, and had to kiss the unconscious humourist. "do you think we grow fatter as we grow older? then you must think me immense, because i'm much more than twenty-five," she said. here was a vital matter. it is impossible to do justice to lancelot's seriousness, on the edge of truth. "how much more are you, really?" he asked her, trembling for the answer. she looked heavenly pretty, with her drawn-back head and merry eyes. she was a dark-haired woman with a tender smile; but her eyes were her strong feature--of an intensely blue-grey iris, ringed with black. poising to tantalise him, adoring the fun of it, suddenly she melted, leaned until her cheek touched his, and whispered the dreadful truth--"_thirty-one_." i wish i could do justice to his struggle, politeness tussling with pity for a fall, but tripping it up, and rising to the proper lightness of touch. "are you really thirty-one? oh, well, that's nothing." it was gallantly done. she kissed him again, and lancelot changed the subject. "there's mr. lingen, isn't there?" he asked, adding, "he's always here." "much more than twenty-five," said his mother, very much aware of mr. lingen's many appearances in onslow square. she made one more attempt at her husband, wishing, as she always did wish, to draw him into the company. it was not too successful. "lingen? oh, a stripling," he said lightly and rustled the _morning post_ like an aspen tree. "father always talks as if he was a hundred himself," said lancelot, who was not afraid of him. he had to be content with miss dacre after all. the others--the judge and lady bliss, aunt mabel and uncle corbet, the worthingtons, were out of the question. as for miss bacchus--oh, miss bacchus was, _at least_, five hundred, said lancelot, and wished to add up all the ages to see if they came to a multiple of twelve and a half. meanwhile mr. macartney in his leisurely way had risen from the table, cigar in mouth, had smoothed his hair before the glass on the chimney-piece, looked at his boots, wriggled his toes in them with gratifying results, adjusted his coat-collar, collected his letters in a heap, and left the room. they saw no more of him. half an hour later the front door shut upon him. he had gone to his office, or, as he always said, chambers. he was rather bleak, and knew it, reckoning it among his social assets. reduced into a sentence, it may be said of macartney that the chief good in his philosophy was to be, and to seem, successful without effort. what effort he may have made to conceal occasional strenuous effort is neither here nor there. the point is that, at forty-two, he found himself solidly and really successful. the husband of a very pretty wife, the father of a delightful and healthy son, the best-dressed solicitor in london, and therefore, you may fairly say, in the world, with an earned income of some three or four thousand a year, with money in the funds, two houses, and all the rest of it, a member of three very old-fashioned, most uncomfortable and absurdly exclusive clubs--if this is not success, what is? and all got smoothly, without a crease of the forehead, by means of an eyeglass, a cold manner and an impassivity which nothing foreign or domestic had ever disturbed. he had ability too, and great industry, but it was characteristic of him to reckon these as nothing in the scales against the eyeglass and the manner. they were his by the grace of god; but the others, he felt, were his own additions, and of the best. these sort of investments enabled a man to sleep; they assured one of completeness of effect. nevertheless he was a much more acute and vigorous-minded man than he chose to appear. he was a solicitor, it is true, and had once been called an attorney by a client in a rage; but he could afford to smile at that because he was quite a peculiar sort of solicitor, by no means everybody's money. rather, he was a luxury, an appanage of the great. his office, which he called "chambers," as if it was an old house in the country, was in cork street; his clients were landed gentry, bankers, peers and sons of peers. the superior clergy, too: he handled the affairs of a bishop of lukesboro', and those of no less than three deans and chapters. tall, dark and trenchant, with a strong nose and chin, and clouded grey eyes, a handsome man with a fine air of arrogant comfort on him, he stood well, and you could not but see what good clothes he wore--to my taste, i confess, a little too good. his legs were a feature, and great play was made by wits with his trousers. he was said to have two hundred pairs, and to be aiming at three hundred and sixty-five. certainly they had an edge, and must have been kept in order like razors; but the legend that they were stropped after every day's use is absurd. they used to say that they would cut paper easily, and every kind of cheese except parmesan. he wore an eyeglass, which, with the wry smile made necessary by its use, had the marked effect of intimidating his clients and driving them into indiscretions, admissions and intemperate discourse. hypnotised by the unknown terrific of which the glitter of the blank surface, the writhen and antick smile were such formidable symbols, they thought that he knew all, and provided that he should by telling it him. to these engines of mastery he had added a third. he practised laconics, and carried them to the very breaking point. he had in his time--i repeat the tale--gone without his breakfast for three days running rather than say that he preferred his egg poached. his wife had been preoccupied at the time--it had been just before lancelot was born, barely a year after marriage--and had not noticed that he left cup and platter untouched. she was very penitent afterwards, as he had intended she should be. the egg was poached--and even so she was afraid to ask him when the time was ripe to boil it again. it made her miserable; but he never spoke of it. of course all that was old history. she was hardened by this time, but still dreadfully conscious of his comforts, or possible discomforts. this was the manner of the man who, you may say, had quizzed, or mesmerised, lucy meade into marriage. she had been scarcely eighteen; i believe that she was just seventeen and a half when he presented himself, the second of three pretty, dark-haired and grey-eyed girls, the slimmest and, as i think, by far the prettiest. the meades lived at drem house, which is practically within bushey park. here the girls saw much society, for the old meades were hospitable, and the mother meade, a scotchwoman, had a great idea of establishing her daughters. the sons she left to father meade and his competent money-bags. here then james adolphus macartney presented himself, and here sat smiling bleakly, glaring through his glass, one eyebrow raised to enclose it safely--and waited for her to give herself away. swaying beneath that shining disk, she did it infallibly; and he heard her out at leisure, and accepted her. that's poetry of course. really, it came near to that. he had said to her at a garden-party, in his easiest, airiest manner, "you can't help knowing that i am in love with you. now, don't you think that we should be a happy couple? i do. what do you say, lucy? shall we have a shot?" he had taken her hand--they were alone under a cedar tree--and she had not known how to take it away. she was then kissed, and had lost any opportunity there might have been. that was what really happened, and as she told her sister mabel some time afterwards, when the engagement had been made public and there could be no question of going back, "you know, mabel, he seemed to expect it, and i couldn't help feeling at the time that he was justified." mabel, tossing her head up, had protested, "oh, my dear, nobody knows whether he was justified but yourself;" and lucy, "no, of course not." "the question," mabel went on, "is whether you encouraged him or not." lucy was clear about that: "no, not the least in the world. he--encouraged himself. i felt that i simply had to do something." i suspect that that is perfectly true. i am sure that he did just as i said he always did, and bluffed her into marriage with an eyeglass and smile awry. whether or no he bluffed himself into it too, tempted by the power of his magic apparatus, is precisely the matter which i am to determine. it may have been so--but anyhow the facts show you how successful he was in doing what had to be done. _cosa fatta capo ha_, as the proverb says. the thing done, whether wisely or not, was smoothly done. everything was of a piece with that. he pulled off whatever he tried for, without any apparent effort. people used to say that he was like a river, smoothly flowing, very deep, rippling, constant in mutability, husbanding and guiding his eddies. it's not a bad figure of him. he liked it himself, and smiled more askew and peered more blandly when he heard it. small things betray men. here is one. his signature was invariably in full: "yours very truly, james adolphus macartney." it was as if he knew that adolphus was rather comic opera, but wouldn't stoop to disguise it. why bother? he crowded it upon the bishop, upon the dean and chapter of mells, upon old lord drake. he said, "why conceal the fact that my sponsors made a _faux pas_? there it is, and have done with it. such things have only to be faced to be seen as nothings. what! are we reasonable beings?" now when lucy meade, practically a child for all her sedateness and serious eyes, married him, two things terrified her on the day. one was her husband and the other lest her friends should discover it. they never did, and in time her panic wore off. she fought it in the watches of the night and in the glare of her lonely days. not a soul, not her mother, not even mabel, knew her secret. james never became comic to her; she never saw him a figure of fun; but she was able to treat him as a human being. lancelot's arrival made all the difference in the world to that matter as to all her other matters, for even lucy herself could not help seeing how absurdly jealous james was of his offspring. for a time he was thrown clean out of the saddle and as near falling in his own esteem as ever in life. but he recovered his balance, and though he never regained his old ascendency, which had been that of a ju-ju, he was able to feel himself, as he said, "master in his own house," with a very real reserve of terrorism--if it should be wanted. the great thing, macartney thought, was discipline, constant, watchful discipline. a man must bend everything to that. women have to learn the virtue of giving up, as well as of giving. giving is easy; any woman knows that; but giving up. let that be seen as a subtle, a sublimated form of giving, and the lesson is learned. but practice makes perfect. you must never relax the rein. he never did. there was all the ingenuity and patience of a woman about him. by this time, after twelve years and more of marriage, they were very good friends; or, why not say, old acquaintances? there are two kinds of crystallisation in love affairs, with all respect to m. de stendhal. one kind hardens the surfaces without any decorative effect. there are no facets visible, no angles to catch the light. in the case of the macartney marriage i suspect this to have been the only kind--a kind of callosity, protective and numbing. the less they were thrown together, she found, the better friends they were. at home they were really no more than neighbours; abroad she was mrs. macartney, and never would dine out without him. she was old-fashioned; her friends called her a prude. but she was not at all unhappy. she liked to think of lancelot, she said, and to be quiet. and really, as miss bacchus (a terrible old woman) once said, lucy was so little of a married woman that she was perfectly innocent. but she was one-and-thirty, and as sweet and pretty a woman as you would wish to see. she had the tender, dragging smile of a luini madonna; grave, twilight eyes, full of compassionate understanding; very dark eyebrows, very long lashes, like the fringe of rain over a moorland landscape. she had a virginal shape, and liked her clothes to cling about her knees. long fingers, longish, thin feet. but her humorous sense was acute and very delightful, and all children loved her. such charms as these must have been as obvious to herself as they were to everybody else. she had a modest little court of her own. francis lingen was almost admittedly in love with her; one of macartney's friends. but she accepted her riches soberly, and did not fret that they must be so hoarded. if, by moments, as she saw herself, or looked at herself, in the glass, a grain of bitterness surged up in her throat, that all this fair seeming could not be put out to usury--! well, she put it to herself very differently, not at all in words, but in narrowed scrutinising eyes, half-turns of the pretty head, a sigh and lips pressed together. there had been--nay, there was--lancelot, her darling. that was usufruct; but usury was a different thing. there had never been what you would call, or miss bacchus would certainly call, usury. that, indeed! she would raise her fine brows, compress her lips, and turn to her bed, then put out the light. lying awake very often, she might hear james chain the front door, trumpet through his nose on the mat, and slowly mount the stairs to his own room. she thought resolutely of lancelot pursuing his panting quests at school, or of her garden in mid-june, or of the gorse afire on wycross common,--and so to sleep. a long chapter, but you will know the macartney pair by means of it. chapter ii a dinner party this was not to be one of macartney's grand full-dress dinner-parties, the sort where you might have two lords, and would be sure to have one with his lady; or a cabinet minister in a morning-coat and greenish tie; or a squire and squiress from northumberland up for a month of the season; or the dean of mells. no, nor was it to be one which lucy had to give to her visiting-list, and at which, as macartney rarely failed to remark, there was bound to be a clergyman, and some lean woman with straw-coloured hair interested in a settlement. it was to be a particular kind of dinner-party, this one, of which the first object was to bring urquhart in touch with lingen. it could have been done at a club, no doubt. macartney admitted it. "yes, i know, i know,"--he used his most tired voice, as if he had been combating the suggestion all along. "you are perfectly right. it might--if it had not happened to be exactly what i didn't want. jimmy urquhart is rather a queer fish. he is apt to shy off if one is not careful. it don't suit me to bring them together explicitly, do you see? i want them to happen on each other. they can do that better here than anywhere. do you see?" lucy saw, or saw enough. she never enquired into james's law affairs. "shall i like mr. urquhart, do you think?" she asked him. the eyeglass focussed upon the cornice, and glared at a fly which found itself belated there. "oh, i think so. why not?" "well, you see, i don't know why not--or why i should. have i ever seen him?" james was bored. "no doubt you have. he's very much about." "yes," said lucy, "but i am not." james left the fly, and fixed her--apparently with horror. then he looked at his boots and moved his toes up and down. "he looks like a naval officer," he said; "you instinctively seek the cuffs of his coat. beef-coloured face, blue eyes, a square-jawed chap. yes, you might like him. he might amuse you. he's a great liar." lucy thought that she might like mr. urquhart. on those lines the party was arranged: the blisses because "we owe them a dinner; and i think the judge will be amused by jimmy;" the worthingtons--make-weights; but "she's a soft pink woman, like a persian kitten." "does mr. urquhart like that?" lucy asked, but james, who didn't like his jokes to be capped, said drily, "i don't know." then lucy's favourite sister mabel was to be allowed because james rather liked corbet. he thought him good style. now we wanted two women. one must be miss bacchus--"hideous, of course," said james; "a kind of crime, but very smart." he meant that she mixed with the aristocracy, which was true, though nobody knew why. the last was to be margery dacre, a very pretty girl. lucy put her forward, and james thought her over, gazing out of window. "i like her name," he said--so lucy knew that she was admitted. that was all. the rest was her care, and he washed his mind of it, very sure that she would see to it. he wished the two men to meet for a particular reason in a haphazard way, because it was better to drift urquhart into a thing than to lead him up to it. moreover, it was not at all disagreeable to him that urquhart, a club and office acquaintance, should see how comfortably placed he was, how well appointed with wife and child, with manservant and maidservant and everything that was his. urquhart was a rich man, and to know that his lawyer was rich was no bad thing. it inspired confidence. now the particular thing to be done with the two men, francis lingen and urquhart, was this. francis lingen, who might be a baronet some day and well to do, was at the moment, as at most moments hitherto, very short of money. urquhart always had plenty. macartney's idea was that he might get urquhart to fill francis lingen's pockets, on terms which could easily be arranged. there was ample security, of course. francis lingen could have gone to the jews, or the bank, but if the thing could be done in a gentlemanly way through one's lawyer, who also happened to be a gentleman, in one's own set, and so on--well, why not? hence the little dinner, over whose setting forth lucy puckered her brows with mrs. jenkins, her admirable cook, and wrote many notes on little slips of paper which she kept for the purpose. she knew quite well when james was "particular" about a party. he said less than usual when he was "particular." over this one he said practically nothing. so she toiled, and made a success of it. the drawing-room looked charming, and she herself in black over white, with her pearls, the most charming thing in it. it wanted a week of lancelot's day for school; he was to come in to dessert--that was understood. but the possible danger of a thirteenth was removed by their being two tables of six each. james had suddenly ordered this variation of practice--he did not say why--and so it was to be. crewdson, the invaluable butler-valet of the house, who presided over a zenana of maids, and seemed to carry his whiskers into the fray like an oriflamme, was visibly perturbed at this new notion. "mr. macartney has his reason, we know. but how is one gentleman's servant to split himself in halves? and where does he stand, mrs. jenkins? with tables dotted about--like a café--or an archumpelygo?" he knew that it was done in the highest places, but he knew his own place best. "we are not what you call the smart set," he said. "we are not park lane or brook street. but we are solid--the professions--the land and the church. no jinks in this house. and small tables is jinks. not a dinner, but a kick-up." so crewdson thought, and so he looked, but his master was flint. mabel came the first, the lively and successful mabel, two years younger than lucy--she and laurence: he was laurence corbet, esq., of peltry park, wavertree, and roehampton, s.w., a hunting man and retired soldier, as neatly groomed as a man may be. he was jolly, and adored his mabel. he was county, and approved by james. lucy used to say of him that his smile could cure a toothache. lancelot pounced upon the pair instantly and retired with them to the conservatory to show off his orange-tree, whose pip had been plunged on his first birthday. but before long a suspicious sliding of the feet and a shout from corbet of "goal!" betrayed the orange-tree's eclipse. next plunged miss bacchus, with her front hair and front teeth, and air of digging you in the ribs. she explained that she made a point of being early lest she should be taken for an actress, and forestalled macartney's assurance that she never would be--which annoyed him. the worthingtons--she like an autumn flower-bed, and he pale and sleek--and francis lingen came in together: lingen, a very elegant, pale pink and frail young man with a straw-coloured moustache, who bowed when he shook your hand as if he was going to kiss it but remembered just in time that he was in england. he lowered his voice when he spoke to women, and most of them liked it. lucy wasn't sure whether she did or not. it made her self-conscious and perverse at once. she found herself wondering (a) whether he was going to make love to her, (b) when he was going to begin, and (c) how she might best cut him out. all this was bewildering, made her feel stupid, and annoyed her. but she really liked francis lingen, and had been amused to discover how much he was "francis" in her private mind. certainly he was very elegant. he had an outside pocket to his dress coat, and a handkerchief which you could have plugged your tooth with. he had just said to lucy, "i'm so glad to see you. it's more than a week since we met--and i want your advice--" when crewdson, like a priest, announced sir matthew and lady bliss. the judge and his dame were before lucy--the lady had a motherly soul in crimson satin and paste, the gentleman square and solid, like a pillar-box with a bald head. that is a pretty exact description of him. the judge was very square-headed, very shiny and very plain; but he was solid, and he was useful. macartney used to say that he had a face like a bad egg. certainly he was curdled--but he shone and looked healthy. lucy allowed herself to be mothered, and in the meantime murmured the judge's name and miss bacchus's. "everybody knows miss bacchus," said the gallant man, and miss bacchus briskly rejoined, "more people know tom fool--" after that they got on excellently. then she heard from the door, "mr. urquhart" and had time to turn francis lingen over to lady bliss before she faced the ruddy and blue-eyed stranger. her first thought, the only one she had time for, was "what very blue eyes, what a very white shirt-front!" when she shook hands. "how d'ye do? you won't know who i am," he said at once. "oh, but i do," she assured him. "james described you to me." he blinked. "oh, did he? i suppose he told you i was a great liar?" james's very words. she nodded without speaking, but laughter flickered over her face like summer lightning. "well," said urquhart, "i am--to him. i've known macartney for years--long before you did. i like him, but i think he gives himself airs. now you can't, you know, when the man with you is a liar. you never know where to have a liar, or whether you have him or not. and then you get in a fright whether he's not having you. macartney, saving your presence, doesn't like being had." lucy laughed, and turned to wave her hand to lancelot in the entry of the conservatory. "that your boy?" urquhart asked. "but of course. he's like you--with his father's tricks." that was perfectly true. "and that's your sister, of course. pretty woman. like you too--you in a sunset." perfect unconsciousness robbed this open commentary of sting. upon him drifted mrs. worthington, like a peony in the tideway. urquhart bowed. "your servant, ma'am." she cried, "hullo, jimmy, you here?" "where else?" "why, i thought you were in switzerland." "so i was," he said. "all among the curates. but i came back--because they didn't." he turned to lucy. "and because i was asked here." she asked him, "were you ski-ing? lancelot will grudge you that." he told her, "i was not. no lonely death for me. i was bobbing it. you are swept off by dozens at a time there--by fifties in a cave. it's more cheerful." then he seemed to remark something which he thought she ought to know. "jimmy. you heard her? now macartney and i are both called james. but who ever made a jimmy of him?" she was annoyed with him--the man seemed to suppose she could be pleased by crabbing james--and glad of margery dacre, a mermaid in sea-green, who swam in with apologies--due to macartney's abhorrent eyeglass upon her. and then they all went in to their archumpelygo, where crewdson and his ladies were waiting for them, _rari nautes_. lucy's table--she was between the judge and urquhart and had mabel, worthington and miss bacchus before her--at once took the mastery. urquhart fixed crewdson with his eye and thenceforward commanded him. james's eyeglass, speechless with horror over lady bliss's shoulder, glared like a frosty moon. miss bacchus, it seems, was his old acquaintance. she too called him jimmy, and drove at him with vigour. he charged her not to rally him, and being between the two sisters, talked to both of them at once, or rather started them off, as a music-hall singer starts the gallery, and then let them go on over his head. they talked of wycross, lucy's house in the country, compared it with peltry, which mabel deprecated as a barrack, and came to hear of urquhart's house in the new forest. it was called martley thicket. urquhart said it was a good sort of place. "i've made an immense lake," he said, with his eyes so very wide that miss bacchus said, "you're making two, now." he described martley and the immense lake. "house stands high in beech woods, but is cut out to the south. it heads a valley--lawns on three sides, smooth as billiard tables--then the lake with a marble lip--and steps--broad and low steps, in flights of eight. very good, you know. you shall see it." lucy wanted to know, "how big was the lake, really." urquhart said, "it looked a mile--but that's the art of the thing. really, it's two hundred and fifty yards. much better than a jab in the eye with a blunt stick. i did it by drainage, and a dam. took a year to get the water up. when a hunted stag took to it and swam across, i felt that i'd done something. fishing? i should think so. and a bathing-house in a wooded corner--in a cane-brake of bamboos. you'll like it." miss bacchus said, "i don't believe a word of it;" but he seemed not to hear her. "when will you come and see it?" he asked lucy. she agreed that see it she must, if only to settle whether it existed or not. "you see that miss bacchus has no doubts." urquhart said, "she never has--about anything. she is fixed in certainty like a bee in amber. a dull life." "bless you, jimmy," she said, "i thrive on it--and you'll never thrive." "pooh!" said urquhart, "what you call thriving i call degradation. what! you snuggle in there out of the draughts--and then somebody comes along and rubs you, and picks up bits of paper with you." his good spirits made the thing go--and james's eyeglass prevailed not against it. but urquhart's real triumph was at dessert--lancelot sedately by his mother; between her and the judge, who briskly made way for him. lancelot in his eton jacket took on an air of precocious, meditative wisdom infinitely diverting to a man who reflects upon boys--and, no doubt, infinitely provocative. his coming broke up the talk and made one of those momentous pauses which are sometimes paralysing to a table. this one was so, and even threatened the neighbouring island. upon it broke the voice of urquhart talking to mabel corbet. "i was out in corfù in ," he was heard to say; "i was in fact in the bath, when one of my wives came to the door, and said that there was a turk in the almond-tree. i got a duck-gun which i had and went out--" lancelot's eyes, fixed and pulsing, interdicted him. they held up the monologue. in his hand was a robust apple; but that was forgotten. "i say," he said, "have you got two wives?" urquhart's eyes met his with an extenuating look. "it was some time ago, you see," he said; and then, passing it off, "there are as many as you like out there. dozens." lancelot absorbed this explanation through the eyes. you could see them at it, chewing it like a cud. he was engrossed in it--lucy watched him. "i say--two wives!" and then, giving it up, with a savage attack he bit into his apple and became incoherent. one cheek bulged dangerously and required all his present attention. finally, after a time of high tension, urquhart's wives and the apple were bolted together, and given over to the alimentary juices. the turk in the almond-tree was lost sight of, and no one knows why he was there, or how he was got out--if indeed he ever was. for all that, urquhart finished his story to his two ladies; but lucy paid him divided attention, being more interested in her lancelot than in urquhart's turk. francis lingen, at the other table, kept a cold eye upon the easy man who was to provide him with ready money, as he hoped. he admired ease as much as anybody, and believed that he had it. but he was very much in love with lucy, and felt the highest disapproval of urquhart's kind of spread-eagle hardihood. he bent over his plate like the willow-tree upon one. his eyelids glimmered, he was rather pink, and used his napkin to his lips. to his neighbour of the left, who was lady bliss, he spoke _sotto voce_ of "our variegated friend," and felt that he had disposed of him. but that "one of his wives" filled him with a sullen despair. what were you to do with that sort of man? macartney saw all this and was dreadfully bored. "damn jimmy urquhart," he said to himself. "now i shall have to work for my living--which i hate, after dinner." but he did it. "we'll go and talk to the judge," he said to his company, and led the way. urquhart settled down to claret, and was taciturn. he answered linden's tentative openings in monosyllables. but he and the judge got on very well. chapter iii in the drawing-room after dinner, when the men came into the drawing-room, francis lingen went directly to lucy and began to talk to her. lancelot fidgeted for urquhart who, however, was in easy converse with the judge and his host--looking at the water-colours as the talk went on, and cutting in as a thought struck him. lucy, seeing that all her guests were reasonably occupied, lent herself to lingen's murmured conversation, and felt for it just so much tolerance, so much compassion, you may say, as to be able to brave mabel's quizzing looks from across the room. mabel always had a gibe for francis lingen. she called him the ewe lamb, and that kind of thing. it was plain that she scorned him. lucy, on the other hand, pitied him without knowing it, which was even more desperate for the young man. it had never entered lingen's head, however, that anybody could pity him. true, he was poor; but then he was very expensive. he liked good things; he liked them choice. and they must have distinction; above all, they must be rare. he had some things which were unique: a chair in ivory and bronze, one of a set made for mme. de lamballe, and two of horace walpole's snuff-boxes. he had a private printing-press, and did his own poems, on vellum. he had turned off a poem to lucy while she was inspecting the _appareil_ once. "to l. m. from the fount." "sonnets while you wait," said mabel, curving her upper lip; but there was nothing in it, because many ladies had received the same tribute. he had borrowed that too from horace walpole, and only wanted notice. now you don't pity a man who can do these things, even if he has got no money; and for what else but want of money could you pity a man of taste? i believe myself that both mabel and lucy overrated francis lingen's attentions. i don't think that they amounted to much more than providing himself with a sounding-board, and occasional looking-glass. he loved to talk, and to know himself listened to; he loved to look and to know himself looked at. you learned a lot about yourself that way. you saw how your things were taken. a poet--for he called himself poet, and had once so described himself in a hotel visitors' book--a poet can only practise his art by exerting it, and only learn its effect by studying his hearers. he preferred ladies for audience, and one lady at a time: there were obvious reasons for that. men never like other men's poetry. wordsworth, we know, avowedly read but his own. but mabel, and lucy too, read all sorts of implications. his lowered tones, his frequency, his persistence--"my dear, he caresses you with his eyes. you know he does," mabel used to say. lucy wondered whether he really did, and ended by supposing it. just now, therefore, francis lingen flowed murmuring on his way, like a purling brook, rippling, fluctuant, carrying insignificant straws, insects of the hour, on his course, never jamming, or heaving up, monotonous but soothing. and as for implications--! good heavens, he was stuffed with them like a michaelmas goose.... "i do so wish that you could talk with her. you could do so much to straighten things out for the poor child. you are so wise. there's a kind of balm in your touch upon life, something that's aromatic and healing at once. _sainfoin_, the healing herb--that should be your emblem. i have always thought so. by the by, have you an emblem? i wish you'd let me find you one. old gerrard will give it me--and i will give it to you. some patient, nimble-fingered good soul has coloured my copy. you shall have it faithfully rendered; and it shall be framed by le nôtre of vigo street--do you know his work? you must--and stand on your writing-table.... i see you are shaping a protest. frugality? another of your shining qualities. not of mine? no, no. i admire it in you. it is not a manly virtue. a 'frugal swain' means a harassed wife. now, confess. would you have me board? i believe i would do it if you asked me...." not very exciting, all this; but if you want implications--! it was while this was going on that lancelot, hovering and full of purpose, annexed urquhart. the judge, suddenly aware of him between them, put a hand upon his head as you might fondle the top of a pedestal--which lancelot, intent upon his prey, endured. then his moment came, a decent subsidence of anecdotes, and his upturned eyes caught urquhart's. "i say, will you come and see my orange-tree? it's just over there, in the conservatory. it's rather interesting--to me, you know." urquhart considered the proposition. "yes," he said, "i'll do that." and they went off, lancelot on tiptoe. lucy's attention strayed. the orange-tree was exhibited, made the most of; its history was related. there was nothing more to say about it. lancelot, his purpose growing, gave a nervous laugh. "no turk could hide in that, i expect," he said, and trembled. urquhart gazed at the weedy little growth. "no," he said, "he couldn't--yet. but a ladybird could." he picked out a dormant specimen. but lancelot was now committed to action beyond recall. the words burned his lips. "i say," he said, twiddling a leaf of his orange-tree, "i expect you've been a pirate?" the judge had wandered in, and was surveying the pair, his hands deep in his trousers-pockets. urquhart nodded. "you've bit it," he said. lancelot had been certain of it. good lord! the questions crowded upon him. "what kind of a ship was yours?" "she was a brigantine. fifteen hundred tons." "oh! i say--" with the air of, you needn't tell me if you'd rather not--"was she a good one?" "she was a clipper." "what name?" "the _dog star_." this was beyond everything. "oh--good. did you ever hang fellows?" "we did." "many?" "some." he had expected that too. he felt that he was being too obvious. the man of the world in him came into use. "for treachery, i suppose, and that kind of thing?" "yes," said urquhart, "and for fun, of course." lancelot nodded gloomily. "i know," he said. "so does sir matthew, now," he said. "you've led me into admissions, you know." "you are up to the neck," said the judge. for a moment lancelot looked shrewdly from one to the other. was it possible that--? no, no. he settled all that. "it's all right. he's a guest, you see--the same as you are." urquhart was looking about him. "i should smoke a cigarette, if i had one," he said. lancelot's hospitality was awake. "come into father's room. he has tons." he led the way for his two friends. they pierced the conservatory and entered another open glass door. they were now in james's private room. on the threshold lancelot paused to exhibit what he said was a jolly convenient arrangement. these were two bay windows, with two glass doors. between them stretched the conservatory. "jolly convenient," said lancelot. "what, for burglars?" the judge asked. "yes, for burglars, and policemen, and father, you know ... i don't think," said the terse lancelot. "why don't you think, my friend?" says the judge, and lancelot became cautious. "oh, father won't come into the drawing-room if he can possibly help it. he says it's mamma's province--but i expect he's afraid of meeting women, i mean ladies." urquhart blinked at him. "'never be afraid of any one' will do for you and me," he said; and lancelot said deeply, "rather not." then they went into the misogynist's study. the judge and urquhart were accommodated with cigarettes, and lancelot entertained them. but he did not pry any further into urquhart's past. a hint had been enough. conversation was easy. lancelot talked freely of his father. "father will be awfully waxy with me for not going to bed. he might easily come in here--hope he won't, all the same. but do you know what he likes? he likes the same things to happen at the same time every day. now mamma and i don't agree with him, you see. so it's rather pink sometimes." "i expect it is," urquhart said. "mamma of course likes to be quiet a bit. she doesn't like ructions--hay, and all that. so i keep myself pretty close." "quite right," said the judge. "i know," lancelot said, dreamily, and then with great briskness, "beastly grind, all the same." the judge had a fit of coughing, and urquhart got up and looked about. then the judge said that he too should catch it if he didn't go back and make himself polite. lancelot led the way back, but at the entry of the drawing-room, where the talk was buzzing like bees in a lime-tree, he put his hand on the switch, and showed the whites of his eyes. "shall i dare you to switch it off?" he said to urquhart, who replied, "don't, or i shall do it." lancelot and he entered the room; but before the judge followed there was a momentary flicker of the lights. lancelot nudged urquhart. "_he's_ all right," he said out of one corner of his mouth. "oh, he's all right," urquhart agreed. they both went to lucy, and lingen looked mildly round, interrupted in his flow. lancelot's greeting was, "darling, you really must go to bed." he knew it. it was so obvious--the abhorrent eyeglass apart--that he didn't even try the pathetic "only a week before school." he got up, enquiring of his mother if she would swear to come up presently. "well, good-bye," he said to urquhart, and held out his hand. "good night to you," said urquhart. "anyhow, you know the worst." but lancelot shook his cautious head. "no," he said, "not the worst"--and then with a deep chuckle, "but the best. hoho! two wives!" with that he went. "jolly chap," said urquhart, and sat himself down by lucy, to lingen's inexpressible weariness. she warmed to his praise, but denied him, her conscience at work. "no, you mustn't sit down. i shall take you to talk to lady bliss. you'll like her." "no, i shan't," he said. "i can see that. and she'll think i've corrupted her husband." but he had to go. lingen, also, she recruited for service. he had had a good innings and found himself able to be enthusiastic about urquhart. he could bear to discuss him--in possible relations with himself, of course. miss bacchus sized him up aloud, according to her habit. "jimmy urquhart--a good man? yes, he's a live man. no flies on jimmy urquhart. been everywhere, had a bit of most things. why, i suppose jimmy has eaten more things than you've ever read about." "i've read brillat-savarin," said lingen modestly. "i dare say jimmy's had a notch out of _him_," said miss bacchus. "he's what i call a blade." lingen didn't ask her what she called him. chapter iv after-talk nevertheless the two men talked down to knightsbridge together, and lingen did most of the talking. he chose to expand upon macartney, the nearest he dared get to the subject of his thoughts. "now macartney, you know, is a very self-contained man. no doubt you've noticed how he shies at expression. chilling at times. good in a lawyer, no doubt. you get the idea of large reserves. but perhaps as a--well, as a father, for instance-- that bright boy of theirs now. you may have noticed how little there is between them. what do you think of the spartan parent--in these days?" "oh, i think mr. lancelot can hold his own," said urquhart. "he'll do--with his mother to help. i don't suppose the spartan boy differed very much from any other kind of boy. mostly they haven't time to notice anything; but they are sharp as razors when they do." an eager note could be detected in francis lingen's voice, almost a crow. "ah, you've noticed then! the mother, i mean. mrs. macartney. now, there again, i think our friend overdoes the repression business. a sympathetic attitude means so much to women." "she'll get it, somewhere," said urquhart shortly. "well," said lingen, "yes, i suppose so. but there are the qualifications of the martyr in mrs. macartney." "greensickness," urquhart proposed; "is that what you mean?" lingen stared. "it had not occurred to me. but now you mention it--well, a congestion of the faculties, eh?" "i don't know anything about it," said urquhart. "she seemed to me a fond mother, and very properly. do you mean that macartney neglects her?" lingen was timid by nature. "perhaps i went further than i should. i think that he takes a great deal for granted." "i always thought he was a supercilious ass," said urquhart, "but i didn't know that he was a damned fool." "i say,"--lingen was alarmed. "i say, i hope i haven't made mischief." urquhart relieved him. "bless you, not with me. i use a lawyer for law. he's no fool there." "no, indeed," lingen said eagerly. "i've found him most useful. in fact, i trust him further than any man i know." "he's a good man," urquhart said, "and he's perfectly honest. he'd sooner put you off than on, any day. that's very sound in a lawyer. but if he carries it into wedlock he's a damned fool, in my opinion." they parted on very good terms, lingen for the albany, urquhart elsewhere. meantime lancelot, wriggling in his bed, was discussing urquhart. "i say, mamma," he said--a leading question--"do you think mr. urquhart really had two wives?" "no, darling, i really don't. i think he was pulling our legs." that was bad. "all our legs?" "all that were pullable. certainly your two." "perhaps he was." lancelot sighed. "oh, what happened to the turk? i forgot him, thinking of his wives.... he said, 'one of my wives,' you know. he might have had six then.... i say, perhaps mr. urquhart is a turk in disguise. what do you think?" lucy was sleepy, and covered a yawn. "i don't think, darling. i can't. i'm going to bed, and you are going to sleep. aren't you now?" "yes, of course, yes, of course. did i tell you about the pirate part? his ship was a brigantine ... called the _dog star_." "oh, was it?" "yes, it was. and he used to hang the chaps, sometimes for treachery, and sometimes for fun." "how horrid!" said lucy. "good night." "oh, well," came through the blankets, "of course you don't understand, but i do. good night." and he was asleep at the turn of that minute. james had disappeared into his room, so she took herself off to bed. surely he might have said a word! it had all gone off so well. mr. urquhart had been such a success, and she really liked him very much. and how the judge had taken to him! and how lancelot! at the first stair she stopped, in three quarters of a mind to go in and screw a sentence out of him. but no! she feared the angry blank of the eyeglass. trailing up to bed, she thought that she could date the crumbling of her married estate by the ascendency of the eyeglass. and to think, only to think, that when she was engaged to james she used to play with it, to try it in her eye, to hide it from him! well, she had lancelot--her darling boy. that brought to mind that, a week to-night, she would be orphaned of him. the day she dreaded was coming again--and the blank weeks and months which followed it. true to his ideas of "discipline," of the value of doing a thing well for its own sake, macartney was dry about the merits of the dinner-party when they met at breakfast. "eh? oh, yes, i thought it went quite reasonably. urquhart talked too much, i thought." "my dear james,"--she was nettled--"you really are--" he looked up; the eyeglass hovered in his hand. "_plaît-il_?" "nothing. i only thought that you were hard to please." "really? because i think a man too vivacious?" lancelot said to his porridge-bowl, over the spoon, "i think he's ripping." "you've hit it," said his father. "he'd rip up anybody." lucy, piqued upon her tender part, was provoked into what she always avoided if she could--acrimony at breakfast. "i was hostess, you see; and i must say that the more people talk the more i am obliged to them. i suppose that you asked mr. urquhart so that he might be amusing...." james's head lifted again. you could see it over the _morning post_. "i asked urquhart for quite other reasons, you remember." "i don't know what they were," said lucy. "my own reason was that he should make things go. 'a party in a parlour...'" she bit her lip. the _morning post_ quivered but recovered itself. "what was the party in a parlour, mamma? do tell me." that was lancelot, with a _flair_ for mischief. "it was 'all silent and all damned,'" said lucy. "jolly party," said lancelot. "not like yours, though." the _morning post_ clacked like a bellying sail, then bore forward over an even keel. lucy, beckoning lancelot, left the breakfast-room. she was ruffled, and so much so that lancelot noticed it, and, being the very soul of tact where she was concerned, spoke neither of his father nor of urquhart all the morning. in the afternoon the weather seemed more settled, and he allowed himself more play. he would like to see mr. urquhart on horseback, in a battle, he thought. he expected he'd be like henry of navarre. lucy thought that he might be. would he wear a white plume though? much head-shaking over this. "bareheaded, i bet you. he's just that sort. dashing about! absolutely reckless!--frightfully dangerous!--a smoking sword!--going like one o'clock! oh, i bet you what you like." then with startling conviction, "father doesn't like him. feels scored off, i expect. he wasn't though, but he might be, all the same ... i think father always expects he's going to be scored off, don't you? at any minute." lucy set herself to combat this hazard, which was very amusing and by no means a bad shot. poor james! what a pity it was that he couldn't let himself like anybody. it was true--it was quite true--he was afraid of being scored off. she husbanded a sigh. "poor james!" to pity james was a new experience. she felt all the better for it, and was able to afford a lighter hand when they met at dinner. it may even be that james himself had thought the time come for a little relaxation of _askêsis_, or he may have had something to forestall: he seldom spoke of his affairs without design. at any rate, he told her that francis lingen had been with him, and that urquhart was likely to be of use. "i've written to him, anyhow. he will do as he thinks well. urquhart is a sharp man of business." lucy said, "he struck me so. i thought that he could never have any doubt of his own mind." james wriggled his eyeglass, to wedge it more firmly. "ah, you noticed that? very acute of you, lucy. we may have a meeting before long--to arrange the whole thing.... it's a lot of money ... ten thousand pounds.... your francis is an expensive young man ... or let's say _ci-devant jeune homme_." "why do you call him 'my' francis?" she asked--rather mischievous than artless. the eyeglass dropped with a click and had to be sought. "well, i can hardly call him _mine_, could i?" "i don't see why he should be anybody's," said lucy, "except his own." "my dear girl," said macartney, "_himself_ is the last person he belongs to. francis lingen will always belong to somebody. i must say that he has chosen very wisely. you do him a great deal of good." "that's very nice of you," she said. "i own that i like francis lingen. he's very gentle, not too foolish, and good to look at. you must own that he's extremely elegant." "oh," said james, tossing up his foot, "elegant! he is what his good horace would have called 'a very pretty fellow'--and what i call 'a nice girl.'" "i'm sure he isn't worth so much savagery," lucy said. "you are like ugolino--and poor francis is your _fiero pasto_." james instantly corrected himself. "my besetting sin, lucy. but i must observe--" he applied his glazed eye to her feet--"the colour of your stockings, my friend. ha! a tinge of blue, upon my oath!" so it passed off, and that night when, after his half-hour with the evening paper in the drawing-room, he prepared to leave her, she held out her hand to him, and said good night. he took it, waved it; and then stooped to her offered cheek and pecked it delicately. the good girl felt quite elate. she did so like people to be kind to her. half an hour later yet, in her evening post was a letter from urquhart. he proposed for herself and lancelot to go to the play with him. the play, _raffles_, "which ought to meet the case," he said. he added, "i don't include macartney in this jaunt, partly because he won't want to come, but mainly because there won't be room for him. i am taking a nephew, one bob nugent, an osborne boy, but very gracious to poor civilians like lancelot and me." he signed himself, "yours to command." lucy was pleased, and accepted promptly; and lancelot was pleased when he heard of it. his hackles were up at the graciousness of the osborne kid. he honked over it like a heron. "ho! i expect you'll tell him that i'm r. e., or going to be," he said, which meant that he himself certainly would. the event, with subsequent modifications on the telephone, proved to be the kind of evening that lancelot's philosophy had never dreamed of. they dined at the café royal, where urquhart pointed out famous anarchists and their wives to his young guests; they went on to the theatre in what he called a 'bus, but lancelot saw to be a mighty motor which rumbled like a volcano at rest, and proceeded by a series of violent rushes, accompanied by explosions of a very dangerous kind. the whole desperate passage, short as it was, had the right feeling of law-breaking about it. policemen looked reproachfully at them as they fled on. lancelot, as guest of honour, sat in front, and wagged his hand like a semaphore at all times and in all faces; he felt part policeman and part malefactor, which was just right. then they thrilled at the smooth and accomplished villainy of mr. du maurier, lost not one line of his faultless clothes, nor one syllable of his easy utterance, "like treacle off a spoon," said urquhart; and then they tore back through the starry night to onslow square, leaving in their wake the wrecks and salvage of a hundred frail taxis; finally, from the doorstep waved the destroyer, as the boys agreed she should be called, upon her ruthless course, listened to the short and fierce bursts of her wrath until she was lost in the great sea of sound; and then--replete to speechlessness--lancelot looked up to his mother and squeezed her hand. she saw that his eyes were full. "well, darling?" she said. "you liked all that?" lancelot had recovered himself. he let go her hand. his reply was majestic. "not bad," he said. lucy immediately hugged him. now that was exactly what james would have said, _mutatis mutandis_. yet she would not have hugged james for it, nor have loved him because of it. "these are our crosses, mr. wesley!" reflecting on the jaunt, she warmed to the thought of urquhart, who had, she felt, the knack of making you at ease. what had he done, or how done it? well, he seemed to be interested in what you said. he looked at you, and waited for it; then he answered, still looking at you. now, so many men looked at their toes when they answered you. james always did. yet mr. urquhart did not look too much: there were men who did that. no, not too much. chapter v eros steps in when she was told that francis lingen and urquhart were coming on the nineteenth, not to dine, lucy said, "oh, what a bore!" and seeing the mild shock inflicted on the eyeglass by her remark, explained that it was lancelot's day for going to school, and that she was always depressed at such times. the eyeglass dropped, and its master stretched out his fine long legs, with a great display of black speckled sock. "my dear, absurd as it may seem, they are coming to see me. i know your little way. you shan't be disturbed, if i may be indulged so far as to contrive that the house hold us both. i had thought that it would be only civil to bring them in to you for a minute or two, when they've done. but that is for you to decide." she was immediately penitent. "oh, do, of course. i daresay they will be useful. i'm very foolish to miss him so much." the eyeglass ruefully stared at the fire. "urquhart consents," said james, "and lingen will have his money. more snuff-boxes, you'll find. but he's had to work for it. insured his life--and a letter from sir giles, which must have cost him something." sir giles lingen was the uncle of francis, a childless veteran. he turned his disk upon her for a moment. "you like urquhart?" "yes," lucy said, "i do. i like him--because he likes lancelot." "ah," said james, who thought her weak where the boy was concerned. he added, "urquhart gets on with children. he's a child himself." "why do you call him that?" she asked, with a tinge of offence in her voice. james could raise the fine hairs at the back of her neck by a mere inflection. he accepted battle. "because he only thinks of one thing at a time. because to get what he wants he'll sacrifice every mortal thing--very often the thing itself which he's after." but lucy had heard all that before, and wasn't impressed. "all men are like that," she said. "i could give you a much better reason." james and his eyeglass both smiled. "your exquisite reason?" "he is like a child," said lucy, "because he doesn't know that anybody is looking at him, and wouldn't care if anybody was." james clasped his shin. "not bad," he said, "not at all bad. but the test of that is the length to which you can carry it. would he wear a pot hat with a frock-coat?--that's the crux." it really was, to james, as she knew very well. she perused the glowing fire with its blue salt flames. perhaps to most men. probably also to mr. urquhart. but she felt that she would be lowering a generous ideal if she probed any further: so james was left to his triumph. * * * * * the fatal week wore on apace; one of the few remaining days was wholly occupied with preparations for the last. a final jaunt together was charged with a poignancy of unavailing regrets which made it a harder trial than the supreme moment. never, never, had she thought this bright and intense living thing which she had made, so beautiful and so dear. nor did it make a straw's worth of difference to the passion with which she was burdened that she felt precisely the same thing every time he left her. as for lancelot, he took her obvious trouble like the gentleman he was. he regretted it, made no attempt to conceal that, but was full of little comfortable suggestions which made her want to cry. "you'll have no more sapping upstairs directly after dinner, i suppose!" was one of them; another was, "no more draughty adventures by the round pond." lucy thought that she would have stood like jane shore by the round pond, in a blizzard, for another week of him. but she adored him for his intention, and was also braced by it. her sister mabel, who had three boys, did not conceal her satisfaction at the approaching release--but mabel spent christmas at peltry; and the hunting was a serious matter. the worst of her troubles was over when they were at victoria. lancelot immediately became one of a herd. and so did she: one of a herd of hens at the pond's edge. business was business. lancelot remained kind to her, but he was inflexible. this was no place for tears. he even deprecated the last hug, the lingering of the last kiss. he leaned nonchalantly at the window, he kept his eye on her; she dared not have a tear. the train moved; he lifted one hand. "so long," he said, and turned to his high affairs. she was almost aghast to realise how very small, how very pale, how atomy he looked--to confront a howling world! and so to listen to the comfortable words of mrs. furnivall-briggs. "my dear, they've no use for us. the utmost we can do is to see that they have good food. and warm socks. i am untiring about warm socks. that is what i am always girding my committee about. i tell the vicar, 'my dear sir, i will give you their souls, if you leave me their soles.' do you see? he is so much amused. but he is a very human person. except at the altar. _there_ he's every inch the priest. well, good-bye. i thought lancelot looked delightful. he's taller than my geoff. but i must fly. i have a meeting of workers at four-fifteen. bless me, i had no idea it was four o'clock. the parish-room, alphonse." a spartan mother. lucy paid two calls, on people who were out, and indulged herself with shopping in sloane street. lancelot had recently remarked on her gloves. "you have jolly thin hands," he had said. "it's having good gloves, i expect." the memory of such delightful sayings encouraged her to be extravagant. she thought that perhaps he would find her ankles worth a moment--if she took pains with them. anyhow, he was worth dressing for. james never noticed anything--or if he did, his ambiguity was two-edged. "extraordinary hat," he might say, and drop his eyeglass, which always gave an air of finality to comments of the sort. but her shopping done, for lancelot's sake, life stretched before her a grey waste. she went back to tea, to a novel, to a weekly paper full of photographs of other people's houses, dogs, children and motor-cars. it was dark, she was bored as well as child-sick, dissatisfied with herself as well as heart-hungry. she must get herself something to do, she said. who was the vicar of onslow square? she didn't know. somehow, religion, to her, had always seemed such a very private affair. not a soul must be near her when she said her prayers--except lancelot, of course. when he was at home she always said them while he said his. last night--ah, she had not been able to say anything last night. all her faculties had been bent to watching him at it. was it bravery in him--or insensibility? she remembered mr. urquhart had talked about it. "all boys are born stoics," he said, "and all girls epicureans. that's the instinct. they change places when they grow up." was james an epicurean? it was six o'clock. they would be at their meeting in james's room. surely they wouldn't want tea? apparently crewdson thought that they might, otherwise--well, she would leave it to crewdson. james never seemed to care for anything done by anybody except crewdson. sometimes he seemed to resent it. "have we no servants then?" the eyeglass seemed to inquire. she wondered if james knew for how much his eyeglass was answerable. how could one like to be kissed, with that glaring disk coming nearer and nearer? and if it dropped just at the moment--well, it seemed simply to change all one's feelings. oh, to have her arms round lancelot's salient young body, and hear him murmur, "oh, i say!" as she kissed his neck!... at this moment, being very near to tears, the light was switched off. she seemed to be drowning in dark. that was a favourite trick of lancelot's, who had no business, as a matter of fact, in his father's room. it gave her a moment of tender joy, and for another she played with the thought of him, tiptoeing towards her. suddenly, all in the dark, she felt a man's arms about her, and a man's lips upon hers. to wild alarm succeeded warm gratitude. lucy sobbed ever so lightly; her head fell back before the ardent advance; her eyes closed. with parted lips she drank deep of a new consolation: her heart drummed a tune to which, as it seemed, her wings throbbed the answer. the kiss was a long one--perhaps a full thirty seconds--but she was released all too soon. he left her as he had come, on silent feet. the light was turned up; everything looked as it had been, but everything was not. she was not. she found herself an ariadne, in a drawing-room, still lax from theseus' arms. yes, but theseus was next door, and would come back to her. to say that she was touched is to say little. she was more elated than touched, and more interested than either. how utterly romantic, how perfectly sweet, how thoughtful, how ardent of james! james, of all people in the world! her husband, of course: but who knew better than she what that office had implied--and who less than she what it must have hidden? really, was it true? could it be true? for some time she sat luxurious where she had been left, gloating (the word is fairly used) over this new treasure. but then she jumped up and looked at herself in the glass, curiously, quizzingly, and even perhaps shamefaced. next she laughed, richly and from a full heart. "my dear girl, it's not hard to see what has happened to you. you've been--" not even in her thoughts did she care to end the sentence. but those shining dark eyes, that air of floating, of winged feet--"ha, my dear, upon my word! at thirty-one, my child. really, it becomes you uncommonly." she found herself now walking swiftly up and down the room, clasping and unclasping her hands. to think that james--the last man in the world--had kept this up his coat-sleeve for years--and at last--! and how like the dear thing to turn the light out! to save his own face, of course, for he must have known, even _he_ must have known, that _she_ wouldn't have cared. she would have liked the light--to see his eyes! there had been no eyeglass this time, anyhow. but that was it. that was a man's romance. in _cupid and psyche_, it had been psyche who had wanted to know, to see. women were like that. such realists. and, as psyche was, they were always sorry for it afterwards. well, bless him, he should love her in the dark, or how he pleased. she stopped again--again in front of the glass. what had he seen--what new thing had he seen to make him--want to kiss her like that? was she pretty? she supposed that she really was. she fingered the crinkled whiteness at her neck; touched herself here and there; turned her head sideways, and patted her hair, lifting her chin. now, was there anything she could put on--something she could put in--for dinner? her thoughts were now turned to serious matters--this and that possibility flashed across her mind. they were serious matters, because james had made them so by his most extraordinary, most romantic, most beautiful action. then she stretched out her hands, the palms upward, and sighed out her heart. "oh, what a load is lightened. oh, days to come!" voices in the conservatory suddenly made her heart beat violently. he was coming! she heard james say--oh, the rogue!--"yes, it's rather nice. we put it up directly we came. lucy's idea. mind the little step at the door, though." urquhart, francis lingen were in the room--francis' topknot stood up like a bottle-brush. then came the hero of the evening, james, the unknown eros. she beamed into the shining disk. sweet old spyglass, she would never abuse it again. all the same, he had pocketed it for the occasion the last time he had been in the room! urquhart refused tea. "tea at seven o'clock at night!" all her eyes were for james, who had sought her in love and given her heart again. the eyeglass expressed its horror of tea at seven o'clock. "god forbid," said james, dear, ridiculous creature. mr. urquhart talked at once of lancelot. "well, he's off with all the rest of them. they love it, you know. it's movement--it's towards the unknown, the not impossible--the 'anything might turn up at any minute.' now, we don't feel so sure about the minutes, do we?" oh, don't we though? she laughed and tilted her chin. "we feel, anyhow, for _their_ minutes, bless them," she said, and urquhart looked at her with narrowed eyes. "'he for god only, she for god in him,'" he said. he added, "i like that boy of yours. i think he understands me"--and pleased her. there were a few minutes' desultory talk, in the course of which lucy gravitated towards james, and finally put her hand in his arm. you should have seen the effect of this simple caress upon the eyeglass. like a wounded snake it lifted its head to ask, "who has struck me?" it wavered and wagged. but lucy was glass-proof now. urquhart said that he was going away shortly, at least he supposed he should. a man he knew wanted to try a new motor. they were to rush down to biarritz, and possibly over the frontier to pampluna. but nothing was arranged. here he looked scrutinising and half quizzical at her. "are you adventurously inclined? will you try my monster? it's a dragon." she was very adventurously inclined--as james might know! but not with a mr. urquhart necessarily: therefore she hesitated. "oh, i don't really know--" urquhart laughed. "be bold--be bold--be not too bold. well, there it is. i start for the newmarket road at eleven to-morrow--but i'll fetch you for twopence. ask _him_." he jerked his head forward towards james, on whose arm her hand rested. lucy looked up at her romantic lord--a look which might have made a man proud. but james may have been proud enough already. at any rate, he didn't see her look, but was genial to urquhart--over whom he considered that he had triumphed in the library. "sooner her than me," he said. "i know that she likes it and so advise her to go. but i should die a thousand deaths." "she won't," said urquhart; and then to lucy, "well, ma'am?" her eyes assented before she did. "very well, i'll come. i dare say it will be delightful." "oh, it will," he said. still he rambled on--plain, grumbling, easy, familiar talk, while lucy fumed and fidgeted to be alone with her joy and pride. "your handsome sister has asked me to hunt in essex. don't like hunting, but i do like her--and there's a great deal waiting to be done at martley. i don't know. we'll talk about it to-morrow." then he asked her, "would she come and look at martley?" it seemed she had half promised. she said, "oh, yes, of course." nothing of that kind seemed very important. but james here looked down at her, which made it different. "we might go at whitsuntide," he said. she looked deeply up--deeply into him, so to speak. "very well, we will. if you'll come." "oh, he'll come," urquhart said; and james, "i should like it." so that was settled. heavens, how she wished these people would go. she could see that francis lingen wanted to be asked to stay to dine, but she didn't mean to have that. so when urquhart held out his hand with a blunt "good night to you," she let hers hover about francis as if his was waiting for it--which it wasn't, but had to be. "oh, good night," said the embarrassed exquisite, and forgot to be tender. james picked up the evening paper and was flickering his eye over the leading articles, like a searchlight. lucy, for her part, hovered quick-footed in his neighbourhood. this was her hour of triumph, and she played with it. she peeped at the paper over his shoulder till he said, "please," and moved it. her fingers itched to touch his hair, but very prudently refrained. she was too restless to settle to anything, and too happy to wish it. if she had been a singing-bird she would have trilled to the piano; but she had not a note of music. the dressing-gong gave her direction. there was plenty to be done. "the gong! i'm going to make myself smart, james. quite smart. are you coming up?" james had the paper open in the middle. "eh? oh, there's lots of time--run away. i'm rather busy." "you're not a bit busy. but i'll go." and she went with hardly a perceptible hang-back at the door. upstairs she rejected her usual choice with a curled lip. "no, no, too stuffy." "oh, smithers, i couldn't. it makes me look a hundred." no doubt she was absurd; but she had been starved. such a thing as this had not happened to her since her days of betrothal, and then but seldom. when she had satisfied herself she had a panic. suppose he said, "comic opera!" he said nothing at all. he was in a thoughtful mood, and talked mostly of urquhart's proposal for whitsuntide. "i believe it's rather remarkable. quite a place to be seen. jimmy does things well, you know. he's really a rich man." "as rich as you?" lucy asked, not at all interested in urquhart just now. the eyeglass was pained. "my dear soul! you don't know what you're saying!" she quizzed him with a saucy look. "i didn't say anything, dear. i asked something." if eyeglasses shiver, so did james's. "well, well--you quibble. i dare say urquhart has fifteen thousand a year, and even you will know that i haven't half as much." she quenched her eyes, and looked meek. "no, dear, i know. all right, he's quite rich. now what does he do with it?" "do with it?" james tilted his head and scratched his neck vigorously, but not elegantly. "very often nothing at all. there will be years when he won't spend a hundred above his running expenses. then he'll get a kind of maggot in the brain, and squander every sixpence he can lay hands on. or he may see reason good, and drop ten thousand in a lap like lingen's. why does he do it? god knows, who made him. he's made like that." lucy said it was very interesting, but only because she thought james would be pleased. then she remembered, with a pang of doubt, that she was to be driven by this wild man to-morrow. but james--would he--? he had never been really jealous, and just now she didn't suppose he could possibly be so; but you can't tell with men. so she said, "james dear," very softly, and he looked over the table at her. "if you don't think it--sensible, i could easily telephone." "eh? what about?--to whom?--how? i don't follow you." "i mean to mr. urquhart, about his motor to-morrow. i don't care about it in the least. in fact--" "oh," said james, "the motor? ah, i had forgotten. oh, i think you might go. urquhart's been very reasonable about this business of lingen's. i had a little trouble, of course--it's a lot of money, even for him. oh, yes, i should go if i were you. why, he might want _me_ to go, you know--which would bore me to extinction. but i know you like that sort of thing." he nodded at her. "yes, i should go." she pouted, and showed storm in her eyes--all for his benefit. but he declined benefit. a strange, dear, bleak soul. "very well. if it saves you anything, i'll do it," she said. james was gratified; as he was also by the peeling of walnuts and service of them in a sherry glass, which she briskly performed, as if she liked it. further than that she was too shy to go; but in the drawing-room, before it might be too late, she was unable to forbear her new tenderness. she stood behind him; her hand fell upon his shoulder, and rested there, like a leaf. he could not but be conscious of it--he was very conscious of it, and accepted it, as a tribute. such a tribute was gratifying. lucy was a charming woman. she did pretty things in a pretty way, as a man's wife should, but too seldom did. how many men's wives--after fourteen years of it--would stand as she was standing now? no--the luck held. he had a tradition of success--success without visible effort. the luck held! like a steady wind, filling a sail. discipline, however; gentle but firm! he went on reading, but said, most kindly, "well, luce, well--" adding, on an afterthought, "how can i serve you?" her eyes were luminous, dilating her gentle mood, downcast towards his smooth black hair. she sighed, "serve me? oh, you serve me well. i'm happy just now--that's all." "not fretting after the boy?" "no, no. not now. bless him, all the same." "to be sure." whereon, at a closer touch of her hand, he looked comically up. her head moved, ever so slightly, towards him. he dropped his eyeglass with a smart click and kissed her cheek. she shivered, and started back. a blank dismay fell upon her; her heart seemed to stop. good heavens! not so, not at all so, had james kissed her in the dark. there wasn't a doubt about that--not the shade of a doubt. here had been a brush on the cheek; here the cold point of his nose had pecked a little above. she had felt that distinctly, more distinctly than the touch of his lips. whereas that other, that full-charged message of hope and promise--oh, that had been put upon her mouth, soft and close, and long. she recalled how her head had fallen back and back, how her laden heart had sighed, how she had been touched, comforted, contented. good god, how strange men were! how entirely outside her philosophy! she strayed about her drawing-room, touching things here and there, while he complacently fingered his _punch_, flacking over the leaves with brisk slaps of the hand. at this moment he was as comfortably-minded a householder as any in london, engaged solely in digestion, at peace at home and abroad, so unconscious of the fretting, straining, passionate lost soul in the room with him, hovering, flicking about it like a white moth, as to be supremely ridiculous--to any one but lucy. it is difficult to hit off her state of mind in a word, or in two. she was fretted; yes, but she was provoked too. she was provoked, but she was incredulous. it could not continue; it was too much. men were not made so. and yet--and yet--james was a possible eros, an eros (bless him!) with an eyeglass: and eros loved in the dark. she comforted herself with this thought, which seemed to her a bright solution of the puzzle, and saw james rise and stretch his length without mutiny. she received the taps on the cheek of his rolled _punch_, allowed, nay, procured, another chilly peck, with no pouting lips, no reproachful eyes. then came a jar, and her puzzlement renewed. "shall you be late?" "oh, my dear soul, how can i possibly say? i brought papers home with me--and you know what that means! it's an interesting case. we have merridew for us. i am settling the brief." alas, for her. the infatuate even stayed to detail points of the cause. much, it appeared, depended upon the chancellor of the diocese: a very shaky witness. he had a passion for qualification, and might tie himself into as many knots as an eel on a night-line. oh, might he indeed? and this, this was in the scales against her pride and joy! she was left--alone on naxos now--while james went sharply to his papers. there i must leave her, till the hour when she could bear the room no more. she had fought with beasts there, and had prevailed. yet unreason (as she had made herself call it) lifted a bruised head at the last. papers! papers, after such a kiss! oh, the folly of the wise! caught up she knew not whence, harboured in the mind she knew not how, the bitter words of an old scots song tasted salt upon her lips: there dwelt a man into the west, and o gin he was cruel; for on his bridal night at e'en he up and grat for gruel. they brought him in a gude sheepshead, a bason and a towel. "gar take thae whimwhams far frae me, i winna want my gruel!" standing in the hall while these words were ringing in her head, she stayed after they were done, a rueful figure of indecision. instinct fought instinct, and the acquired beat down the innate. she regarded the shut door, with wise and tender eyes, without reproach; then bent her head and went swiftly upstairs. chapter vi a leap outwards she arose, a disillusioned bride, with scarcely spirit enough to cling to hope, and with less taste for urquhart's motor than she had ever had for any duller task-work. nothing in the house tended to her comfort. james was preoccupied and speechless; the coffee was wrong, the letters late and stupid. she felt herself at cross-purposes with her foolish little world. if james had resought her love overnight, it had been a passing whim. she told herself that love so desired was almost an insult. nevertheless at eleven o'clock the motor was there, and urquhart in the hall held out his hand. "she can sprint," he said; "so much i've learned already. i think you'll be amused." lucy hoped so. she owned herself very dull that morning. well, said urquhart, he could promise her that she should not be that. she might cry for mercy, he told her, or stifle screams; but she wouldn't stifle yawns. "macartney," he said, "would sooner see himself led out by a firing-party than in such an engine as i have out there." she smiled at her memory. "james is not of the adventurous," she said--but wasn't he? "shall i be cold?" "put on everything you have," he bade her, "and then everything else. she can do sixty." "you are trying to terrify me," she said, "but you won't succeed. i don't know why, but i feel that you can drive. i think i have caught lancelot's complaint." "perhaps so. i know that i impose upon the young and insipient." "and which am i, pray?" he looked at her. "don't try me too far." she came forth finally to see crewdson and her own chauffeur grouped with urquhart. the bonnet was open; shining coils, mighty cylinders were in view, and a great copper feed-pipe like a burnished boa-constrictor. the chauffeur, a beady-eyed swiss, stared approval; crewdson, rubbing his chin, offered a deft blend of the deferential butler and the wary man of the world. she was tucked in; the swiss started the monster; they were off with a bound. they slashed along knightsbridge, won piccadilly circus by a series of short rushes; avoided the city, and further east found a broad road and slow traffic. soon they were in the semi-urban fringe, among villa gardens, over-glazed public-houses, pollarded trees and country glimpses in between. there was floating ice on the ponds, a violet rime traversed with dun wheelmarks in the shady parts of the way. after that a smooth white road, deep green fields, much frozen water, ducks looking strangely yellow, and the low blue hills of essex. urquhart was a sensitive driver; she noticed that. the farseeing eye was instantly known in the controlling foot. he used very little brake; when he pushed his car there was no mark upon him of urgency. success without effort! the gospel of james! urquhart accepted it as a commonplace, and sought his gospel elsewhere. he began to talk without any palpable beginning, and drifted into reminiscence. "i remember being run away with by a mule train in ronda ... the first i had ever handled. they got out of hand--it was a nasty gorge with a bend in it where you turn on to the bridge. i got round that with a well-directed stone which caught the off-side leader exactly at the root of his wicked ear. he had only one ear, so you couldn't mistake it. he ducked his head and up with his heels. he went over, and the next pair on top of him. we pulled up, not much the worse. well, the point of that story is that the pace of that old coach and six mokes, i assure you, has always seemed to me faster than any motor i've ever driven. it was nothing to be compared with it, of course; but the effort of those six mad animals, the _élan_ of the thing, the rumbling and swaying about, heeling over that infernal gorge of stone--! you can't conceive the whirl and rush of it. now we're doing fifty, yet you don't know it. wind-screen: yes, that's very much; but the concealment of effort is more." "you've had a life of adventure," she said. "lancelot may have been right." "he wasn't far wrong," urquhart said. "as a fact, i have never been a pirate; but i have smuggled tobacco in the black sea, and that's as near as you need go. i excuse myself by saying that it was a long time ago--twenty years i dare say; that i was young at the time; that i was very hard up, and that i liked the fun. lovely country, you know, that strip of shore. you never saw such oleanders in your life. and sand like crumbled crystal. we used to land the stuff at midnight, up to our armpits in water sometimes; and a man would stand up afterwards shining with phosphorus, like a golden statue. romantic! no poet could relate it. they used to cross and recross in the starlight--all the gleaming figures. like a ballet done for a sultan in the arabian nights. i was at that for a couple of years, and then the gunboats got too sharp for us and the game didn't pay." she had forgotten her spleen. her eyes were wide at the enlarging landscape. "and what did you do next--or what had you done before? tell me anything." "i really don't know what i did before. i went out to the chersonese from naples. i remember that well. i had been knocking about vesuvius for a bit, keeping very bad company, which, nevertheless, behaved very well to me. but finally there was a row with knives, which rather sickened me of the vesuvians; so i shipped for constantinople and fell in with a very nice old chap on board. he took me on at his contraband job. i didn't get very much money, but i got some, and saw a deal of life. when it was over i went to greece. i like the greeks. they are a fine people." "what did you do in greece?" she insisted, not interested in the fineness of the people. "blasting, first," he said. "they were making the railway from larissa through tempe. that was a dangerous job, because the rock breaks so queerly. you never know when it has finished. i had seen a good deal of it in south america, so i butted in, and was taken on. then i did some mining at lavrion, and captained a steamer that carried mails among the islands. that was the best time i had. you see, i like responsibility, and i got it. everything else was tame--out there, i mean.... "i got into government service at corfù and stopped there six years or more ... i was all sorts of things--lighthouse-keeper, inspector of marine works, harbour-master ... and then my wicked old father (i must tell you about him some day. you could write a book about him) up and died--in his bed of all places in the world, and left me a good deal of money. that was the ruin of me. i really might have done something if it hadn't been for that. strange thing! he turned me out of the house in a rage one day, and had neither seen me nor written me a letter from my seventeenth to my thirtieth birthday, when he died--or thereabouts. but at the last, when he was on his bed of death, he rolled himself over and said to the priest, 'there's jimmy out at his devilry among the haythen turks,' he says. 'begob, that was a fine boy, and i'll leave him a plum.' and so he did. i wish he hadn't. i was making my hundred and fifty in corfù and was the richest man in the place. and i liked the life." "that was where you had so many wives," she reminded him. "so it was. well, perhaps i needn't assure you that the number has been exaggerated. i've very nearly had some wives, but there was always something at the last minute. there was a girl at valletta, i remember--a splendid girl with the figure of a young venus, and a tragic face and great eyes that seemed to drown you in dark. lady macbeth as a child might have been like that--or antigone with the doom on her, or perhaps elektra. no, i expect elektra took after her mother: red-haired girl, i fancy. but there you are. she was a lovely, solemn, deep-eyed, hag-ridden goose. not a word to say--thought mostly of pudding. i found that out by supposing that she thought of me. then i was piqued, and we parted. i suppose she's vast now, and glued to an upper window-ledge with her great eyes peering through a slat in the shutter. living in a bed-gown. imagine a wife who lives in a bed-gown!" they were lunching at colchester when these amorous chapters were reached. lucy was quite at her ease with her companion. "a wife who was always at the dressmaker's would suit you no better. but i don't know that mixed marriages often answer. after all, so dreadfully much can never be opened between you." "that's quite true," he said, "and by no means only of mixed marriages. how much can your average husband and wife open between them? practically nothing, since they choose to live by speech." "but what else have we?" "i would choose to live by touch," he said. "if two people can't communicate fully and sufficiently by the feelers they are not in the same sphere and have no common language. but speech is absurd. why, every phrase, and nearly every word, has a conventional value." by touch! she was set dreaming by that. so she and james--a james she had had no conception of--had communicated not four-and-twenty hours ago. certainly subsequent speech had not advanced the intelligence then conveyed. but she resumed urquhart's affairs. "and do you despair of finding a woman with whom you can hold communion?" "no," he said, looking at the bread which he broke. "i don't despair at all. i think that i shall find her." and then he looked steadily at her, and she felt a little uncomfortable. but it was over in a minute. she feared to provoke that again, so made no fishing comment; but she was abundantly curious of what his choice would be. meantime he mused aloud. "what you want for a successful marriage is--a layer of esteem, without which you will infallibly, if you are a man, over-reach yourself and be disgusted; then a liberal layer of animal passion--and i only shrink from a stronger word for fear of being misunderstood--which you won't have unless you have (a) vitality, (b) imagination; thirdly, for a crown, respect. you must know your due, and your duty, and fear to omit the one or excuse the other. everything follows from those three." "and how do you know when you have found them?" he looked up and out into the country. "a sudden glory," he said, "a flare of insight. there's no mistake possible." "who was the man," she asked him, rather mischievously, "who saw a girl at a ball, and said, 'that's a fine girl; i'll marry her'--and did it--and was miserable?" he twinkled as he answered, "that was savage landor; but it was his own fault. he could never make concessions." she thought him a very interesting companion. on the way home he talked more fitfully, with intervals of brooding silence. but he was not morose in his fits, and when he excused himself for sulking, she warmly denied that he did any such thing. "i expect you are studying the motor," she said; and he laughed. "i'm very capable of that." altogether, a successful day. she returned braced to her duties, her james, and his hidden-up eros. to go home to james had become an exciting thing to do. chapter vii patience and psyche there are two ways of encountering an anti-climax, an heroic, an unheroic. lucy did her best to be a heroine, but her temperament was against her. her imagination was very easily kindled, and her reasons much at the mercy of the flames. by how much she was exalted, by so much was she dashed. but she had a conscience too, a lively one with a forefinger mainly in evidence. it would be tedious to recount how often that wagged her into acquiescence with a james suddenly revealed freakish, and how often she relapsed into the despair of one sharply rebuffed when she found him sedately himself. however, or by means of her qualities, the time-cure worked its way; her inflammation wore itself out, and her life resumed its routine of dinner-parties, calls and callers, francis lingen's purring, and letters to or from lancelot--with this difference, mind you, that far recessed in her mind there lay a grain, a grain of promise: that and a glamorous memory. she was able to write her first letter to lancelot in high spirits, then, to tell him her little bits of news and to remind him (really to remind herself) of good days in the past holiday-time. something she may have said, or left unsaid, as the chance may be, drew the following reply. she always wrote to him on friday, so that he might answer her on sunday. "dear mama," he wrote, "i was third in weakly order which was rather good (i.d.t.)*. mr. tonks said if i go up so fast i shall brake the ceialing. bad spelling i know but still. last wendesday a boy named jenkinson swalowed a button-hook but recovered it practically as good as when bought (or perhaps a xmas present). he was always called bolter for a nickname, so it was jolly convene. for once he did the right thing. mostly he is an utter ass. how is the polligamous pirate getting on with wives &c.? that comes from a greek word polis, a city, so i suppose in the country they are too conventual. i like him awfully. he's my sort (not father's though). well, the term is waring away. five days crost off on new diery. where shall we go this time three months? easter i mean. wycross i hope, but suppose dreery brighton, hope not. i must swot now kings of isereel and such-like so goodby now or so long as we say here--lancelot." she thought that she must show the letter to urquhart when next she saw him, and meantime, of course, showed it to james. the eyeglass grew abhorrent over the spelling. "this boy passes belief. look at this, lucy. c-e-i-a-ling!" "oh, don't you see?" she cried. "he had it perfectly: c-e-i. well, and then a devil of doubt came in, and he tried an _a_. oh, i can see it now, on his blotting-pad! whichever he decided on, he must have forgotten to cross out the other. you shouldn't be so hard on your own son. his first letter too." james felt compunction. "no, no, i won't be hard. it's all right, of course." he read on. the polligamous pirate with wives &c. had to be explained. she told him the story. the eyeglass became a searchlight exploring her. "did urquhart tell that tale? upon my soul--!" "it was sheer nonsense, of course, but--" "oh, i don't know," said james. "you can't tell with a man of that sort. he can be a march hare if he's in the mood. he'd as soon shoot a turk as a monkey, or keep two women as half a dozen. by the by, lucy," and the eyeglass went out like a falling star, "don't let that sentimental idiot make too much of an ass of himself." lucy's eyes concentrated; they shone. "who is your sentimental idiot? i haven't the least notion what you mean." "i mean francis lingen, of course. you must admit-- oh," and he nipped her indignation in the bud, "i know you won't misunderstand me. i am not at all a fool. you are kindness itself, generosity itself. but there it is. he's an ass, and there's really nothing more to say." lucy was mollified. she was, indeed, amused after the first flash. remembering the james of a week ago, the eager wooer of the dark, she was able to be playful with a little jealousy. but if he could have known--or if she had cared to tell him--what she had been thinking of on sunday afternoon when francis purred to her about himself and sought her advice how best to use his ten thousand of urquhart's pounds--well, james would have understood, that's all! so she laughed. "poor francis lingen! he is not very wise. but i must say that your honour is perfectly safe with me." "my dear child--" said james, frowning. "no, no, i shall go on. it will do you good. there is one thing you may always be quite sure of, dear, and that is that the more francis lingen is a goose, the less likely i am to encourage him in goosery, if there is such a word." james pished, but she pursued him. mabel was announced, up from the country to dine and sleep. the parthian shot was delivered actually on the way to mabel's embrace. "but i'm flattered to see you jealous--please understand that. i should like you to be jealous of the chair i sit on." james was hurt and uncomfortable. he thought all this rank form. and mabel--the bright and incisive mabel with her high hunting colour--made it much worse. "what! is james jealous? oh, how perfectly splendid! is he going to give secret orders to crewdson not to admit mr.--? as they do in plays at the st. james's? oh, james, do tell me whom you darkly suspect? cæsar's wife! my dear and injured man--" james writhed, but he was in the trap. you may be too trenchant, it would seem, and your cleaver stick fast in the block. it behooved him to take a strong line. this kind of raillery must be stopped. he must steer between the serious and the flippant. he hated to be pert; on the other hand, to be solemn would be offensive to lucy--which he would not be. for james was a gentleman. "mabel, my dear, you stretch the privileges of a guest--" a promising beginning, he thought; but lucy pitied him plunging there, and cut all short by a way of her own. "oh, mabel, you are a goose. come and take your things off, and tell me all about peltry, and the hunting, and the new horse. mr. urquhart told me he was going to stay with you. is he? i'm so glad you like him. lancelot and i highly approve. i must show you lancelot's letter about him. he calls him the polligamous pirate--with two _l_'s of course." "yes," said james, who had recovered his composure, "yes, my dear; but he gives you the accent in polis." "does he though? i'm afraid that was beyond me." she paused to beam at james. "that pleases you?" "it's a sign of grace, certainly." so the squall blew over. james was dining out somewhere, so the sisters had a short dinner and a very long evening by the fire. lucy dallied with her great news until crewdson had served the coffee--then out it came, with inordinate and delightful delicacy of approach. mabel's eyes throughout were fixed upon her face.... "and of course, naturally--" here lucy turned away her own. "but nothing--not a sign. neither then nor since. i--"; she stopped, bit her lip, then broke forth. "i shall never understand it. oh, i do think it extraordinary!" mabel said at once, "it's not at all extraordinary. it would be with any one else; but not with james." lucy lifted her head. "what do you mean, mabel?" "well, it's difficult to explain. you are so odd about james. he is either the sort of being you name in a whisper--or makes you edgy all over--like a slate-pencil. but james--i dare say you haven't noticed it: you think he's a clever man, and so he may be; but really he has never grown up." lucy's foot began to rock. "my dear girl, really--" "oh, i know. i know. of course you're annoyed, especially after such a queer experience. we won't discuss it--it will be useless. but that's my opinion, you know. i think that he was completely successful, according to his own ideas." the battle raged; i need not add that the mystery, far from being undiscussed, was driven up and down the field of possibility till a late hour; nor that mabel held to her position, in high disparagement, as lucy felt, of lancelot, deeply involved. an upshot, and a shrewd one, was mabel's abrupt, "well, what are you going to do now? i mean, supposing he does it again?" lucy mused. "i don't somehow think he will, for a long time." she added naïvely, "i wish he would. i like it." mabel understood her. "you mean that you like him for doing it." and dreamy lucy nodded. "yes, that's exactly what i mean. i do, awfully." mabel here kissed lucy. "dearest, you're wonderfully sweet. you would love anybody who loved you." "i don't think i would," lucy said, "but i should certainly have loved james more if he had ever seemed to love me. and i can't possibly doubt that he did that day that lancelot went back. what bothers me is that he stopped there." and so, to it again, in the manner of women, tireless in speculation about what is not to be understood. james, restored in tone, was affable, and even considerate, in the morning. mabel, studying him with new eyes, had to admire his flawless surface, though her conviction of the shallow depth of him was firmlier rooted than before. "he is--he really is--a tremendous donkey, poor james," she thought to herself as he gave out playful sarcasms at her expense, and was incisive without loss of urbanity. mabel was urgent with her sister to join the party at peltry when urquhart was there. "i do wish you would. he's rather afraid of you, i think, and that will throw him upon me--which is what is wanted." that was how she put it. james, quite the secure, backed her up. "i should go if i were you," he said to lucy from behind the _morning post_. "it will do you a great deal of good. you always choose february to moult in, and you will have to be feathered down there. besides, it's evident you can be useful to mabel." lucy went so far as to get out her engagement book, and to turn up the date, not very seriously. what she found confirmed her. "i can't," she said; "it's out of the question." "why, what is happening?" mabel must know. "it's an opera night," said lucy. "the _walküre_ is happening." "oh, are they? h'm. yes, i suppose i can't expect you." lucy was scornfully clear. "i should think not indeed. not for a wilderness of urquharts!" "not all the peltry of siberia--" said james, rather sharply, as he thought; and dismissed the subject in favour of his own neatly-spatted foot. "wagner!" he said. "i am free to confess that, apart from the glory of the thing, i had rather--" "marry one of mr. urquhart's wives," said the hardy mabel. "two," said james, quite ready for her. mabel rattled away to her essex and left her sister all the better for the astringent she had imparted. lucy did not agree with her by any means; it made her hot with annoyance to realise that anybody could so think of james. at the same time she felt that she must steady herself. after all, a man might kiss his wife if he pleased, and he might do it how he pleased. it was undignified to speculate about it. she tried very hard to drive that home to herself, and she did succeed in imposing it upon her conduct. but she was not convinced. she was too deeply romantic for conviction by any such specious reasoning. that affair in the dark had been the real thing; it implied--oh, everything. let come what might, let be what was, that was the true truth of the mystery. and to be loved like that was--oh, everything! but she dismissed it from her thoughts with an effort of will, and relations with james resumed their old position. they became formal, they were tinged now and again with the old asperity; they were rather dreary. lancelot's star rose as james's sank in the heavens. his letters became her chief preoccupation. but james's star, fallen low though it were, still showed a faint hue of rose-colour. some little time after this--somewhere in early february, she met urquhart at a luncheon party, and was glad to see him. he shook hands in his usual detached way, as if her gladness and their acquaintance were matters of course. he sat next to her without ceremony, removing another man's name-card for the purpose, and after a few short, snapped phrases about anything or nothing, they drifted into easy talk. lucy's simplicity made her a delightful companion, when she was sure of her footing. she told him that she had been saving up lancelot's letter to show him. "good," he said. "i want it." but it was not here, as it happened. so she wrote out from memory the sentence about urquhart: the polligamous pirate, with wives &c. "aren't you flattered?" she asked him, radiant with mirthful malice. he frowned approval. he was pleased, but, like all those who make laughter, he had none of his own. "that shot told. i got him with the first barrel. trust a boy to love a law-breaker. he'll never forget me that. he's my friend for life." he added, as if to himself, "hope so, anyhow." lucy at this, had she been a cat, would have purred and kneaded the carpet. as it was, her contentment emboldened her to flights. she was much more bird than cat. "i wonder if you are really a law-breaker," she said. "i don't think i should be surprised to know it of you." he frowned again. "no, i should say that the ground had been prepared for that. you wouldn't be surprised--but would you be disturbed? that's what i want to know before i tell you." this had to be considered. what did she in her private mind think of law-breakers? one thing was quite clear to her. whatever she might think of them, she was not prepared to tell him. "i'm a lawyer's wife, you know." "that tells me nothing," he said. "that would only give you the position of an expert. it doesn't commit you to a line. i'll tell you this--it may encourage you to a similar confidence. if i wanted to break a law very badly, i shouldn't do it on reflection perhaps; but i could never resist a sudden impulse. if somebody told me that it would be desirable in all sorts of ways to break a man's head i shouldn't do it, because i should be bothering myself with all the possibilities of the thing--how desirable it might be, or how undesirable. but if, happening to be in his company, i saw his head in a breakable aspect--splosh! i should land him a nasty one. that's a certainty. now, what should you say to that? it happens that i want to know." it was evident to her that he really did. lucy gave him one of her kind, compassionate looks, which always made her seem beautiful, and said, "i should forgive you. i should tell you that you were too young for your years; but i should forgive you, i'm sure." "that's what i wanted to know," said urquhart, and remained silent for a while. when he resumed it was abruptly, on a totally new matter. "i shall bring my sister over to you after this. she's here. i don't know whether you'll like her. she'll like you." "where is she?" lucy asked, rather curious. "she's over there, by our hostess. that big black hat is hers. she's underneath it." lucy saw a spry, black-haired youngish woman, very vivacious but what she herself called "good." james would have said, "smart." not at all like her brother, she thought, and said so. "she's not such a scoundrel," urquhart admitted, "but she takes a line of her own. her husband's name is nugent. he is south irish, where we are north. that boy who went with us to the play is her son. he is a lively breed--so it hasn't turned out amiss. she's not at all your sort, but as you know the worst of us you may as well know what we can do when we exert ourselves." he added, "my old father, now with beelzebub, was a terror." "do tell me about him." "it would take too long. he was very old-fashioned in most ways. they used to call him king urquhart in donegal. the worst of it was that he knew good claret and could shoot. that makes a bad combination. he used to sit on a hogshead of it in his front yard and challenge all and sundry to mortal combat. he really did. duels he used to call them. he said, 'me honour's involved, d'ye see?' and believed it. but they were really murders, because he was infallible with a revolver. he adored my mother, but she couldn't do anything with him. 'tush, me dear,' he used to say, 'i wouldn't hurt a hair of his bald head.' and then he'd have to bolt over to france for a bit and keep quiet. but everybody liked him, i'm sorry to say. they gave him a public funeral when he died. they took him out of the hearse--imagine the great sooty plumes of it--and carried him to the chapel--half a mile away." lucy didn't know how much of this to believe, which made it none the worse. "he was a catholic?" "he was." "and so are you?" he looked up. "eh? i suppose i am--if any." "what _do_ you mean?" she insisted. "well," he said. "it's there, i expect. you don't get rid of it." she considered this to herself. mrs. nugent--the honourable mrs. nugent, as it afterwards appeared--made herself very amiable. "we both like boys," she said, "which makes everything easy. i hope you liked my pat--you met him, i know. yours seems to be an unconscious humourist. jimmy is always chuckling over him. mine takes after the urquharts; rather grim, but quite sound when you know them. my husband is really irish. he might say 'begorra' at any minute. the urquharts are a mixed lot. jimmy says we're eurasians when he's cross with us--which means with himself. i suppose we were border thieves once, like the turnbulls and pringles. but james i planted us in ireland, and there have been james urquharts ever since. i don't know why that seems satisfactory, but it does." "i saw what jimmy was saying, you know," she said presently. "he began upon me, and then slid off to our deplorable father. an inexhaustible subject to jimmy, who really admires that kind of thing." lucy smilingly deprecated the criticism. "oh, but he does. if he could be like that, he would be. but he wants two qualities--he can't laugh, and he can't cry. father could only laugh internally. he used to get crimson, and swallow hard. that was his way. jimmy can't laugh at all, that's the mischief of it. and crying too. father could cry rivers. one of the best things i remember of him was his crying before mother. 'damn it all, meg, i missed him!' he said, choking with grief. mother knew exactly what to say. 'you'll get him next time, jimmy. come and change your stockings now.' well, _our_ jimmy couldn't do that. to begin with, of course, he wouldn't have 'missed him.'" "no," said lucy, reflecting, "i don't think he would miss--unless he was in too much of a hurry to hit." mrs. nugent looked quickly at her. "that is very clever of you. you have touched on his great difference from father. he is awfully impatient." all this did lucy a great deal of good. james thought that she had better call on mrs. nugent. he knew all about her. chapter viii again the second time was in late february, at the opera: the _walküre_, of all operas in the world, where passion of the suddenest is seen on its most radiant spring morning. james, who was dreadfully bored by wagner, and only went because it was the thing to do, and truly also because "a man must be seen with his wife," could not promise to be there, dressed, at such an unearthly hour as half-past six--james, i say, did not go with her, but vowed to be there "long before seven." that he undertook. so she went alone, and sat, as she always did, half hidden behind the curtain of her box on the second tier. the place was flooded with dark. the great wonder began--the amazing prelude with its brooding, its surmisals, its storms, its pounding hooves remorselessly pursuing, and flashes of the horn, like the blare of lightning. she surrendered herself, and as the curtain rose settled down to drink with the eyes as well as with the ears; for she was no musician, and could only be deeply moved by this when she saw and heard. it immediately absorbed her; the music "of preparation and suspense" seemed to turn her bones to liquor--and at this moment she again felt herself possessed by man's love: the strong hand over her heart, the passion of his hold, the intoxication of the kiss. to the accompaniment of shrill and wounded violins she yielded herself to this miracle of the dark. she seemed to hear in a sharp whisper, "you darling!" she half turned, she half swooned again, she drank, and she gave to drink. the music speared up to the heights of bliss, then subsided as the hold on her relaxed. when she stretched out her hand for her lover's, he was not near her. she was alone. the swift and poignant little drama may have lasted a minute; but like a dream it had the suggestion of infinity about it, transcending time as it defied place. confused, bemused, she turned her attention to the stage, determined to compose herself at all cost. she sat very still, and shivered; she gave all her powers to her mind, and succeeded by main effort. insensibly the great drama doing down there resumed its hold; and it was even with a slight shock that she became aware by and by of james sitting sedately by her, with the eyeglass sharply set for diversion anywhere but on the scene. again she remembered with secret amusement that she had not been conscious of the eyeglass when--for reasons of his own--he had paid his mysterious homage to love and her. she kept a firm grip of herself: she would not move an inch towards him. she could never do that again. but she passed him over the play-bill, and lifted the glasses to show him where they were. she saw the eyeglass dip as he nodded his thanks, and heard him whisper as he passed back the bill, "no good. dark as the grave." oh, extraordinary james! she suffered hysterical laughter, but persisted against it, and succeeded. when the lights went up she afforded herself a gay welcome of him, from gleaming, happy and conscious eyes. he met it blandly, smiled awry and said, "you love it?" "oh," she sighed, meaning all that she dared not say, "how i love it!" james said, "bravo. i was very punctual, you'll admit." that very nearly overcame her. but all she said was, "i didn't hear you come in--or go out." james looked very vague at that. he was on the point of frowning over it, but gave it up. it was a lucyism. he rose and touched his coat-collar, to feel that it gripped where it should. "let's see who's in the house," he said, and searched the boxes. "royalty, as usual! that's what i call devotion. who's that woman in a snow-leopard? oh, yes, of course. hullo. i say, my child, will you excuse me? i've just seen some people i ought to see. there's lots of time--and i won't be late." and he was off. a very remarkable lover indeed was james. mrs. nugent waved her hand across the parterre. francis lingen knocked and entered. she could afford that; and presently a couple added themselves, young married people whom she liked for their poverty, hopefulness and unaffected pleasure in each other. she made lingen acquainted with them, and talked to young mr. pierson. he spoke with a cheer in his voice. "ripping opera. madge adores it. we saw your husband downstairs, but i don't think he knew us."... and through her head blew the words like a searching wind: "you darling! you darling!" oh, that was great love! small wonder that james saw nothing of the piersons. and yet--ah, she must give up speculating and judging. that had undone poor psyche. young mr. pierson chattered away about madge and wagner, both ripping; james returned, bland, positive, dazzling the man of exclusive clubs; was reminded of young mrs. pierson, with whom he shook hands, of young mr. pierson, to whom he nodded and said "ha!" and finally of francis lingen. "ha, lingen, you here!" francis shivered. that seemed to him to ring a knell. since when had he been lingen to james. since this moment. now why had james cold-shouldered him? was it possible that he had noticed too much devotion?... and if he had, was it not certain that she must have noticed it? he stopped midway of the stairs, and passers-by may have thought he was looking for a dropt sixpence. not at all. the earth seemed to be heaving beneath his feet. but a wave of courage surged up through him. pooh! no woman yet ever disregarded the homage of a man. he would send some roses to-morrow, without a card. she would understand. and so it went on. wagner came back to his own. on this occasion, after this second great adventure, lucy had no conflict with fate. thankfully she took the gift of the god; she took it as final, as a thing complete in itself, a thing most beautiful, most touching, most honourable to giver and recipient. it revived all her warmth of feeling, but this time without a bitter lees to the dram. and she was immensely the better for it. she felt in charity with all the world, her attitude to james was one of clear sight. oh, now she understood him through and through. she would await the fulness of time; sufficient for the day was the light of the day. she was happier than she had been for many years. half-term was approaching, when she would be allowed to go down and see lancelot; in these days she felt spring in the air. february can be kind to us, and show a golden threshold to march. she had a letter from mabel telling her of mr. urquhart's feats in the hunting field.... "he's quite mad, i think, and mostly talks about you and lancelot. he calls you proserpine. as for his riding, my dear, it curdles the blood. he doesn't ride, he drives; sits well back, and accelerates on the near side. he brought his own horses, luckily for ours and his neck. they seem to understand it. he hunted every day but one; and then he rushed up to town to keep some appointment and came back to a very late dinner, driving himself in his motor. he is a tempestuous person, but can be very grave when he likes. he talked beautifully one evening--mostly about you." lucy's eyes smiled wisely over this letter. she liked to think that she could induce gravity upon a hunting party. she had never quite approved of the peltry atmosphere. hard riding seemed to involve hard living, and hard swearing. she had once heard laurence let himself go to some rider over hounds, and had put him on a back shelf in her mind--him and his peltry with him. a prude? no, she was sure she was nothing of the sort; but she liked people to keep a hold on themselves. a gay little dinner-party, one of hers, as she told james, finished a month of high light. the young pierson couple, some warreners, a mrs. treveer and jimmy urquhart--eight with themselves. the faithful francis lingen was left out as a concession to james and love in the dark. she noticed, with quiet amusement, how gratified james was. he was so gratified that he did not even remark upon it. now james's little weakness, or one of them, let us say, was that he could not resist a cutting phrase, when the thing did not matter. therefore--she reasoned--francis lingen, absurdly enough, did matter. that he should, that anything of the sort should matter to james was one more sign to her of the promise, just as the weather was one. the spring was at hand, and soon we should all go a-maying. so we dined at one table, and had a blaze of daffodils from wycross, and everybody seemed to talk at once. pierson told her after dinner that madge thought urquhart ripping (as she had thought wagner); and certainly he was one to make a dinner-party go. he was ridiculous about laurence corbet and his sacred foxes. "don't _shoot_ that thing! god of heaven, what are you about?" "oh, i beg your pardon, i thought--" "are you out of your senses? that must be torn to pieces by dogs." he was very good at simulating savagery, but had a favourite trick of dropping it suddenly, or turning it on himself. he caught mrs. treveer, a lady of ardour not tempered by insight. she agreed with him about hunting. "oh, you are so right! now can't something be done about it? couldn't a little paper be written--in that vein, you know?" "not by me," said urquhart. "i'm a hunting man, you see." mrs. treveer held up her fan, but took no offence. lucy, with mabel's letter in mind, gave her guest some attention; but for the life of her could not see that he paid her any beyond what he had for the others or for his dinner. he joined pierson at her side, and made no effort to oust him. he did not flatter her by recalling lancelot; he seemed rather to muse out loud. james with his coat-tails to the fire was quite at his ease--and when urquhart offered to drive her down to westgate for the half-term (which she herself mentioned), it was james who said, "capital! that will be jolly for you." "but _you_ wouldn't come, would you?" "my child, it is that i _couldn't_ come. a motor in march! i should die. besides," he added, "as you know, i have to be at brighton that sunday." she had known it, and she had known also that brighton was an excuse. one of the bogies she kept locked in a cupboard was james's _ennui_ when lancelot was to the fore. could this too be jealousy! "i'll tell you what i'll do," jimmy urquhart said. "the run down would be rather jolly, but the run back in the dark might be a bore. the nugents have got a house at sandwich. why shouldn't you go there? you know my sister nugent, as they used to say." "yes, of course i do," lucy said, "but i couldn't really--" "but she is there, my dear ma'am. that's the point. i'll drop you there on my way back. i wish i could stop too, but that's not possible. she'll arrange it." james thought it an excellent plan; but lucy had qualms. odd, that the visit of eros should a second time be succeeded by a motor-jaunt! to go motoring, again, with a mr. urquhart--oh! but she owned that she was absurd. james did not conceal his sarcasms. "she either fears her fate too much..." he quoted at her. she pleaded with him. "darling," she said--and he was immensely complacent over that--"i suppose it's a sign of old age, but-- after all, why shouldn't i go by train--or in our own car, if it comes to that?" "firstly," said james through his eyeglass, "because urquhart asks you to go in his--a terror that destroyeth in the noonday compared to ours; and secondly because, if you don't want it, i should rather like to go to brighton in mine." "oh," said she, "then you don't mind motoring in march!" "not in a closed car," said james--"and not to brighton." this acted as an extinguisher of the warmer feelings. let mr. urquhart do his worst then. chapter ix sundry romantic episodes a little cloud of witness, assembled at will like seagulls out of the blue inane, would come about her in after years. that madly exhilarating rush to westgate, for instance, on a keen march morning; and that sudden question of hers to urquhart, "what made you think of asking me?" and his laconic answer, given without a turn of the head, "because i knew you would like it. you did before, you know. and that was january." there was one. another, connected with it, was her going alone up to the schoolhouse, and her flush of pleasure when lancelot said, "oh, i say, did he bring you down? good--then we'll go immediately and see the car; perhaps it's a new one." she could afford to recall that--after a long interval. they had had a roaring day, "all over the place," as lancelot said afterwards to a friend; and then there had been her parting with urquhart in the dark at the open door of queendon court. "aren't you going to stop?" "no, my dear." she remembered being amused with that. "aren't you even coming in?" "i am not. good-bye. you enjoyed yourself?" "oh, immensely." "that's what i like," he had said, and "pushed off," as his own phrase went. atop of that, the return to james, and to nothingness. for nothing happened, except that he had been in a good temper throughout, which may easily have been because she had been in one herself--until the easter holidays, when he had been very cross indeed. poor james, to get him to begin to understand lancelot's bluntness, intensity, and passion for something or other, did seem hopeless. they were at wycross, on her urgent entreaty, and james was bored at wycross, she sometimes thought, because she loved it so much. jealousy. a man's wife ought to devote herself. she should love nothing but her husband. he had spent his days at the golf course, not coming home to lunch. urquhart was asked for a sunday--on lancelot's account--but couldn't come, or said so at least. then, on the saturday, when he should have been there, james suddenly kissed her in the garden--and, of course, in the dark. she hadn't known that he was in the house yet. he had contracted the habit of having tea at the club-house and talking on till dark. he did that, as she believed, because she always read to lancelot in the evenings: she gave up the holidays entirely to him. well, lancelot that afternoon had been otherwise engaged--with friends of a neighbour. she had cried off on the score of "seeing something of father," at which lancelot had winked. but james was not in to tea, and at six--and no sign of him--she yielded to the liquid calling of a thrush in the thickening lilacs, and had gone out. there she stayed till it was dark, in a favourite place--a circular garden of her contriving, with a pond, and a golden privet hedge, so arranged as to throw yellow reflections in the water. standing there, it grew perfectly dark--deeply and softly dark. the night had come down warm and wet, like manifold blue-black gauze. she heard his quick, light step. her heart hammered, but she did not move. he came behind her, clasped and held her close. "oh, you've come--i wondered. oh, how sweet, how sweet--" and then "my love!" had been said, and she had been kissed. in a moment he was gone. she had stayed on motionless, enthralled by the beauty of the act--and when she had withdrawn herself at last, and had tiptoed to the house, she saw his lamp on the table, and himself reading the _spectator_ before a wood fire! recalling all that, she remembered the happy little breath of laughter which had caught her. "if it wasn't so perfectly sweet and beautiful, it would be the most comic thing in the world!" she had said to herself. a telegram from jimmy urquhart came that night just before dinner. "arriving to-morrow say ten-thirty for an hour or so, urquhart." it was sent from st. james's street. lancelot had said, "stout fellow," and james took it quite well. she herself remembered her feeling of annoyance, how clearly she foresaw an interrupted reverie and a hampered sunday--and also how easily he had falsified her prevision. there had been an animated morning of garden inspection, in the course of which she had shown him (with a softly fluttering heart and perhaps enhanced colour) the hedged oval of last night's romance; a pony race; a game of single cricket in the paddock--lancelot badly beaten; lunch, and great debate with james about aeroplanes, wherein lancelot showed himself a bitter and unscrupulous adversary of his parent. finally, the trial of the new car: an engine of destruction such as lancelot had never dreamed of. it was admittedly too high-powered for england; you were across the county in about a minute. and then he had departed in a kind of thunderstorm of his own making. lancelot, preternaturally moved, said to his mother, "i say, mamma, what a man--eh?" she, lightly, "yes, isn't he wonderful?" and lancelot, with a snort: "a man? ten rather small men--easily." and james, poor james, saw nothing kissable in that! it hadn't been till may of that year that lucy began to think about urquhart--or rather it was in may that she discovered herself to be thinking about him. mabel assisted her there. mabel was in cadogan square for the season, and the sisters saw much of each other. now it happened that one day mabel had seen lucy with urquhart walking down bond street, at noon or thereabouts, and had passed by on the other side with no more than a wave of the hand. it was all much simpler than it looked, really, because lucy had been to james's office, which was in cork street, and coming away had met jimmy urquhart in burlington gardens. he had strolled on with her, and was telling her that he had been waterplaning on chichester harbour and was getting rather bitten with the whole business of flight. "i'm too old, i know, but i'm still ass enough to take risks. i think i shall get the ticket," he had said. what ticket? the pilot's ticket, or whatever they might call it. "i expect you are too old," she had said, and then-- "how old are you, by the way?" he told her. "we call it forty-two." "exactly james's age; and exactly ten years older than me. yes, too old. i think i wouldn't." he had laughed. "i'm certain i shall. it appeals to me." then he had told her, "the first time i saw a man flying i assure you i could have shed tears." she remembered that this was out of his power. "odd thing! what's gravitation to me, or i to gravitation? a commonplace whereby i walk the world. never mind. there was that young man breaking a law of this planet. well--that's a miracle. i tell you i might have wept. and then i said to myself, "my man, you'll do this or perish." then she: "and have you done it?" and he: "i have not, but i'm going to." she had suddenly said, "no, please don't." his quick look at her she remembered, and the suffusion on his burnt face. "oh, but i shall. do you wish to know why? because you don't mean it; because you wouldn't like me if i obeyed you." she said gravely, "you can't know that." "yes, but i do. you like me--assume that--" lucy said, "you may"; and he, "i do. you like me because i am such as i am. if i obeyed you in this i should cease to be such as i am and become such as i am not and never have been. you might like me more--but you might not. no, that's too much of a risk. i can't afford it." she had said, "that's absurd," but she hadn't thought it so. mabel came to her for lunch and rallied her. "i saw you, my dear. but i wouldn't spoil sport. all right--you might do much worse. he's very much alive. anyhow, he doesn't wear an--" then lucy was hurt. "oh, mabel, that's horrid. you know i hate you to talk like that." mabel stood rebuked. "it was beastly of me. but you know i never could stand his eyeglass. it is what they call anti-social in their novels. really, you might as well live in the crystal palace." then she held out her hand, and lucy took it after some hesitation. but mabel was irrepressible. almost immediately she had jumped into the fray again, with "you're both going to his place in hampshire, aren't you?" then lucy had flushed; and mabel had given her a queer look. "that's all right," she presently said. "he asked us, you know, but we can't. i hear that vera nugent is to be hostess. i rather liked her, though of course you can never tell how such copious conversation will wear. i don't think she stopped talking for a single moment. laurence thought he was going mad. it makes him broody, you know, like a hen. he rubs his ears, and says his wattles are inflamed." it was either that day, or another such day--it really doesn't matter which day it was--that mabel drifted into the subject of what she called "the james romance." did james--? had james--? and where were we standing now? lucy, whose feelings upon the subject were more complicated than they had been at first, was not very communicative; but she owned there had been repetitions. mabel, who was desperately quick to notice, judged that she was mildly bored. "i see," she said; "i see. but--that's all." "all!" cried lucy. "yes, indeed." mabel said again, "i see." lucy, who certainly didn't see, was silent; and then mabel with appalling candour said, "i suppose you would have it out with him if you weren't afraid to." lucy was able to cope with that kind of thing. "nothing would induce me to do it. i shouldn't be able to lift my head up if i did. it would not only be--well, horrible, but it would be very cruel as well. i should feel myself a brute." on mabel's shrug she was stung into an attack of her own. "and whatever you may say, to me, i know that you couldn't bring yourself to such a point. no woman could do it, who respected herself." mabel had the worst of it in the centre, but by a flanking movement recovered most of the ground. she became very vague. she said, as if to herself, "after all, you know, you may be mistaken. perhaps the less you say the better." mistaken! and "the less you say"! lucy's grey eyes took intense direction. "please tell me what you mean, my dear. do you think i'm out of my senses? do you really think i've imagined it all?" "no, no," said mabel quickly, and visibly disturbed. "no, no, of course i don't. i really don't know what i meant. it's all too confusing for simple people like you and me. let's talk about something else." lucy, to whom the matter was distasteful, agreed; but the thought persisted. mistaken ... and "the less you say...!" chapter x at a world's edge it was after that queer look, after her too conscious blush that she began to envisage the state of her affairs. she was going to martley thicket for whitsuntide; it was an old engagement, comparatively old, that is; she did want to go, and now she knew that she did. well, how much did she want to go? ought she to want it? what had happened? questions thronged her when once she had opened a window. what did it matter to her whether urquhart qualified as an aviator or not? what had made her ask him not to do it? how had she allowed him to say "assume that you like me"? the short dialogue stared at her in red letters upon the dark. "assume that you like me--" "you may assume it." "i do." she read the packed little sentences over and over, and studied herself with care. no, honestly, nothing jarred. there was no harm; she didn't feel any tarnish upon her. and yet--she was looking forward to martley thicket with a livelier blood than she had felt since easter when james had kissed her in the shrouded garden. a livelier blood? hazarding the looking-glass, she thought that she could detect a livelier iris too. what had happened? well, of course, the answer to that question was involved in another: how much was she to assume? how much did urquhart like her? she hoped, against conviction, that she might have answered these questions before she met him again--which would probably be at martley. just now, stoutly bearing her disapproval, he was doubtless at byfleet or elsewhere risking his neck. she answered a question possibly arising out of this by a shrewd smile. "of course i don't disapprove. he knows that. i shiver; but i know he's perfectly right. he may be sure." the meeting at martley would, at the very least, be extremely interesting. she left it there for the moment. but having once begun to pay attention to such matters as these, she pursued her researches--in and out of season. it was a busy time of year, and james always laid great stress on what he called "the duties of her station." she must edge up crowded stairways behind him, stand at his side in hot and humming rooms where the head spun with the effort not to hear what other people were saying--so much more important, always, than what your partner was. james's height and eyeglass seemed to give him an impartial air at these dreadful ceremonies. behind his glass disk he could afford to be impertinent. and he was certainly rude enough to be an under-secretary. without that shining buckler of the soul he would have been simply nobody; with it, he was a demi-god. here then, under the very shadow of his immortality, lucy pursued her researches. what of the romantic, hidden, eponymous james? where did he stand now in her regard? since easter at wycross, james had not been her veiled eros, but the possibilities were all there. he was not a garden god, by any means, nor a genius of the spring. january and onslow square had not frozen his currents; february and the opera house had heightened his passion. at any moment he might resume his devotional habit--even here in carlton house terrace. and what then? well--and this was odd--this ought to have produced a state of tension very trying to the nerves; and, well--it hadn't. that's all. at that very party in carlton house terrace, with a band braying under the stairs, and a fat lord shouting in her ear, her secret soul was trembling on a brink. she was finding out to her half-rueful dismay--it was only half--that she was prepared to be touched, prepared to be greatly impressed, but not prepared to be thrilled as she had been, if james should kiss her again. she was prepared, in fact, to present--as statesmen do when they write to their sovereign--her grateful, humble duty--and no more. in vain the band brayed, in vain lord j----, crimson by her ear, roared about the weather in the west of ireland, lucy's soul was peering over the edge of her old world into the stretches of a misty new one. this was bad enough, and occupied her through busy nights and days; but there was more disturbing matter to come, stirred up to cloud her mind by mabel's unwonted discretion. mabel had been more than discreet. she had been frightened. pushing out into a stream of new surmise, she had suddenly faltered and hooked at the quay. lucy herself was at first merely curious. she had no doubts, certainly no fears. what had been the matter with mabel, when she hinted that perhaps, after all, james had never done anything? what could mabel know, or guess, or suspect? lucy owned to herself, candidly, that james was incomprehensible. after thirteen years, or was it fourteen?--suddenly--with no warning symptoms, to plunge into such devotion as never before, when everything had been new, and he only engaged--! men were like that when they were engaged. they aren't certain of one, and leave no chances. but james, even as an engaged man, had always been certain. he had taken her, and everything else, for granted. she remembered how her sisters, not only mabel, but the critical agnes (now mrs. riddell in the north), had discussed him and found him too cocksure to be quite gallant. kissed her? of course he had kissed her. good heavens. yes, but not as he had that night at the opera. "you darling! you darling!" now james had called her "my darling" as often as you please--but never until then "you darling." there's a world of difference. anybody can see it. and then--after the beautiful, the thrilling, the deeply touching episode--the moment after it--there was the old, indifferent, slightly bored james with the screwed eye and the disk. not a hint, not a ripple, not the remains of a flush. it was the most bewildering, the most baffling jig-saw of a business she had ever heard of. you would have said that he was two quite separate people; you might have said--mabel would have said at once--that james had had nothing to do with it. but she _had_ said so! the discovery stabbed lucy in the eyes like a flash of lightning, left her blind and quivering, with a swim of red before her hurt vision. that was why mabel had been frightened. and now lucy herself was frightened. francis lingen, absurd! mr. urquhart? ah, that was quite another thing. she grew hot, she grew quite cold, and suddenly she began to sob. oh, no, no, not that. a flood of tossing thoughts came rioting and racing in, flinging crests of foam, like white and beaten water. she for a time was swept about, a weed in this fury of storm. she was lost, effortless, at death's threshold. but she awoke herself from the nightmare, walked herself about, and reason returned. it was nonsense, unwholesome nonsense. why, that first time, he was in the library with james and francis lingen, his second visit to the house! why, when she was at the opera he had been at peltry with the mabels. and as for wycross, he had wired from st. james's in the afternoon, and come on the next day. absurd--and thank god for it. and poor francis lingen! she could afford to laugh at that. francis lingen was as capable of kissing the duchess of westbury--at whose horrible party she had been the other night--as herself. she felt very safe, and enormously relieved. so much so that she could afford herself the reflection that if hardihood had been all that was wanting, jimmy urquhart would have had plenty and to spare. oh, yes, indeed. but--thank god again--he was a gentleman if ever there was one. nobody but a gentleman could afford to be so simple in dealing. having worked all this out, she felt that her feet at least were on solid ground. a spirit of adventure was renewed in her, and a rather unfortunate _contretemps_ provoked it. before she knew where she was, she was up to the neck, as urquhart would have said, in a turbid stream. francis lingen, that elegant unfortunate, was certainly responsible, if you could call one so tentative and clinging responsible for anything. he had proposed the flower show, to which she had been, as an earnest gardener, early in the morning, by herself, with a note-book. she did not want to go with him at all; and moreover she had an appointment to meet james at a wedding affair in queen's gate. however, being ridiculously amiable where the pale-haired hectic was concerned, go she did, and sat about at considerable length. he had only cared to look at the sweet-peas, his passion of the hour, and urged a chair upon her that he might the better do what he really liked, look at her and talk about himself. so he did, and read her a poem, and made great play with his tenderness, his dependence upon her judgment and his crosses with the world. he pleaded for tea, which, ordered, did not come; then hunted for the motor, which finally she found for herself. she arrived late at queen's gate; the eyeglass glared in horror. james, indeed, was very cross. what any chance victim of his neighbourhood may have endured is not to be known. so far as lucy could see he did not open his mouth once while he was there. he refused all nourishment with an angry gleam, and seemed wholly bent upon making her self-conscious, uncomfortable and, finally, indignant. upon this goodly foundation he reared his mountain of affront. he made himself a monument of matter-of-fact impassivity during the drive home. his arms were folded, he stared out of window; she thought once she heard him humming an air. but he didn't smoke, as he certainly would have done had relations been easy. he kept her at a distance, but not aggressively. lucy was by this time very much annoyed. her apologies had been frozen at the front by his angry glare. she had no intention now of renewing them, nor did she care to justify herself, as she might have done, by pointing out that, while she was half-an-hour late, he was probably a quarter of an hour too early. this would have been a safe venture, for his fussiness over an appointment and tendency to be beforehand with it were quite well known to himself. she kept the best face she could upon the miserable affair, but was determined that she would force a crisis at home, come what might. arrived at onslow square, james strode into the library and shut the door behind him. when crewdson was disposed of on his numerous affairs, lucy followed her lord. he turned, he stared, and waited for her to speak. lucy said, "i think that you must be sorry that you have treated me so. i feel it very much, and must ask you how you justify it." james did his best to an easy calm. "apologies should be in the air. i should have looked for one myself an hour or so ago." "you should have had it," she said, "if you had given me time. but you stared me out of countenance the moment i came in. anger before you had even heard me is not a nice thing to face." james turned pale. he used his most incisive tones. "i am ready to hear your explanation. perhaps i had better say that i know it." lucy showed him angry eyes. "if you know it, there is no need for me to trouble you with it. you must also know that it isn't easy to get away from a great crowd in a minute." but he seemed not to hear her. he had another whip in waiting, which nothing could have kept him from the use of. "i think that i must trouble you, rather. i think i should be relieved by hearing from you where the crowd was of which you were one--or two, indeed." she discovered that he was white with rage, though she had never seen him so before. "what do you mean, james?" she said--and he, "i know that you were at the flower show. you were there with lingen." "yes," said lucy, "i was indeed. and why shouldn't i be?" "i have told you before this what my views are about that. i don't intend to repeat them, at present." "i think you must be mad," said lucy. "do you mean to tell me that you object to francis lingen to that extent--to the extent of such a scene as this?" he faced her from his height. "i do mean that." "then," she said, out of herself, "you are insulting me. i don't think you can intend to do that. and i should like to say also that you, of all the men in the world, are the last person to be jealous or suspicious of anybody where i am concerned." she hadn't meant to say that; but when she saw that he took it as a commonplace of marital ethics, she determined to go further still. he took it, in fact, just so. it seemed to him what any wife would say to any indignant husband. "i beg your pardon," he said, "you don't quite follow me. i agree with you that i should be the last person; but i beg to point out to you that i should also be the first person. and i will go on to add, if you will excuse me, that i should be the only person." "no person at all," said lucy, "has the right or the reason to suspect me of anything, or to be jealous of any of my acquaintance. you didn't understand me: i suppose because you are too angry. what i meant you to remember was how much, how very much, you are bound to believe in me--now of all times in our life." here then was a psyche with the lamp in her hand. here was lucy on the limit of a world unknown. here she stood, at her feet the tufted grasses and field herbs, dusty, homely, friendly things, which she knew. beyond her, beyond the cliff's edge were the dim leagues of a land and sea unknown. what lay out there beyond her in the mist? what mountain and forest land lay there, what quiet islands, what sounding mains? but it was done now. james gazed blankly, but angrily, puzzled into her face. "i haven't the faintest notion what you mean," he said. evidently he had not. she must go on, though she hated it. "you are very surprising. i can hardly think you are serious. let me remind you of the opera--of the _walküre_." he gave his mind to it, explored the past, and so entirely failed to understand her that he looked rather foolish. "i remember that we were there." then he had a flash of light--and shed it on her, god knows. "i remember also that lingen was in the box." "oh, lingen! are you mad on--? do you not remember that you were there before lingen?" "yes, i do remember it." he stood, poor fool, revealed. lucy's voice rang clear. "very well. if that is all that your memory brings you, i have nothing more to say." she left him swiftly, and went upstairs in the possession of an astounding truth, but rapt with it in such a whirlwind of wonder that she could do no more than clutch it to her bosom as she flew. she sent out word that she was not coming down to dinner, and locked herself in with her truth, to make what she could of it. chapter xi anteros macartney was no fool in his own world, where a perfectly clear idea of what you want to do combined with a nonchalant manner of "take it or leave it" had always carried him through the intricacies of business. if he was a fool in supposing that precisely the same armoury would defend him at home, there is this excuse for him, that lucy had encouraged him to suppose it. when she dashed from the room at this recent moment he sat for some time with his eyes fixed upon his foolscap; but presently found himself reading the same sentence over and over again without understanding one word in it. he dropped the document, rose and picked himself out a cigar, with deliberation and attention disproportionate to the business. he cut, stabbed and lighted the cigar, and stood by the mantelpiece, smoking and gazing out of window. he had overdone it. he had stretched _régime_ too far. there had been a snap. now, just where had he failed? was it with francis lingen? perhaps. he must admit, though, that some good had come out of the trouble. he felt reassured about francis lingen, because, as he judged, women don't get angry in cases of the kind unless the husband has nothing to be angry about. he felt very world-wise and shrewd as he propounded this. women like their husbands to be jealous, especially if they are jealous with reason. because, then, they say to themselves, "well, anyhow, he loves me still. i have him to fall back upon, at all events." capital! he gave a short guffaw, and resumed his cigar. but lucy was angry: obviously because he had wasted good jealousy on a mere fancy. damn it, he had overdone it. the next thing--if he didn't look out--would be that she would give him something to be jealous of. he must calm her--there would be no difficulty in that, no loss of prestige. prestige: that was the thing you wanted to maintain. discipline be jiggered--that might do mischief--if you drove it too hard. the fact was, he was a little too sharp with lucy. she was a dear, gentle creature, and no doubt one fell into the habit of pushing a willing horse. he could see it all now perfectly. he had been put out when he arrived at the marchants' too early--she was not there; and then that old fool vane with his, "saw your wife at the chelsea thing, with lingen. they looked very settled"; that had put the lid on. that was how it was; and he had been too sharp. well, one must make mistakes-- he wondered what she had meant about the opera. why had she harped upon that string? "you were there before francis lingen," she had said--well, and then--she had been furious with him. he had said, "i know that i was," and she, "if that is all your memory brings you--" and off she went. he smoked hard--lifted his hand and dropped it smartly to his mantelpiece. no; that was a thing no man could fathom. a lucyism--quite clear to herself, no doubt. well, he'd leave that alone. the more one tried to bottom those waters, the less one fished up. but he would make peace with her after dinner. he heard, "mrs. macartney is not dining this evening; she has a bad headache, and doesn't wish to be disturbed," received it with a curt nod, and accepted it simply. better to take women at their word. her troubles would have simmered down by the morning, whereas if he were to go up now, one of two things: either she'd be angry enough to let him batter at the door to no purpose--and feel an ass for his pains; or she would let him in, and make a fuss--in which case he would feel still more of an ass. "ask mrs. macartney if i can do anything," he had said to smithers, and was answered, "i think mrs. macartney is asleep, sir." he hoped she was. that would do her a world of good. morning. in the breakfast-room he faced a lucy self-possessed, with guarded eyes, and, if he could have seen it, with implied reproach stiffening every line of her. her generosity gratified him, but should have touched him keenly. she came to him at once, and put up her face. "i'm sorry i was so cross, james." his immediate feeling, i say, was one of gratification. that was all right. she had come in. to that succeeded a wave of kindness. he dropped his glass, and took her strongly in his arms. "dearest, i behaved very badly. i'm truly sorry." he kissed her, and for a moment she clung to him, but avoided his further kisses. yet he had kissed her as a man should. she had nothing more to say, but he felt it her due that he should add something while yet he held her. "as for poor francis--i know that i was absurd--i admit it frankly." he felt her shake and guessed her indignation. "you'll believe me, dear. you know i don't like owning myself a fool." then she had looked up, still in his arms--"why should you be so stupid? how can you possibly be? you, of all people!" there she was again. but he intended to make peace once and for all. "my dearest, i can't be more abject, for the life of me. i have confessed that i was an abounding ass. please to believe in me. ask francis lingen to tea for a month of days--and not a word from me!" she had laughed, rather scornfully, and tried to free herself. he kissed her again before he let her go. almost immediately he resumed his habits--eyeglass, _morning post_, and scraps of comment. he made an effort and succeeded, he thought, in being himself. "johnny mallet gives another party at the bachelors to-day. i believe i go. has he asked you? he means to. he's a tufthunter--but he gets tufts.... i see that the fathers in god are raving about the tithe bill. i shall have jasper mellen at me--and the dean too. do you remember--did you ever hear, i wonder, of _box and cox_? they have a knack of coming to me on the same day. once they met on the doorstep, and each of them turned and fled away. it must have been very comic...." lucy busied herself with her letters and her coffee-cups. she wished that she did not feel so ruffled, but--a walk would do her good. she would go into the park presently, and look at the tulips and lilacs. it was horrid to feel so stuffy on such a perfect day. how long to whitsuntide? that was to be heavenly--if james didn't get inspired by the dark! something would have to be prepared for that. in her eyes, sedate though they were, there lurked a gleam: the beacon-fire of a woman beleaguered. certainly jimmy urquhart liked her. he had said that she liked him. well, and so she did. very much indeed. james went, forgiven, to his bishops and deans, and to lunch with his johnny mallet and the tufted. lucy, her household duties done, arrayed herself for the tulips of the park. the grey watches of the night with their ache and moments of panic, the fever and fret, the wearing down of rage and emptying of wonder and dismay, the broken snatches of dream-sleep, and the heavy slumber which exhaustion finally gave her--all this had brought downstairs, to be kissed, embraced and forgiven, a lucy disillusioned and tired to death, but schooled to patience. her conclusion of the whole matter now was that it was james who had indeed loved her in the dark, with an access of passion which he had never shown before and could drop apparently as fitfully as he won to it, and also with a fulness of satisfaction to himself which she did not pretend to understand. it was james and no other, simply because any other was unthinkable. such things were not done. jimmy urquhart--and what other could she imagine it?--was out of the question. she had finally brushed him out as a girl flecks the mirror in a cotillon. it was james; but why he had been so moved, how moved, how so lightly satisfied, how his conduct at other times could be fitted in--really, it didn't matter two straws. it meant nothing but a moment's silliness, it led to nothing, it mended nothing--and it broke nothing. her soul was her own, her heart was her own. it was amiable of him, she dared say, but had become rather a bore. she conceived of a time at hand when she might have to be careful that he shouldn't. but just now she wouldn't make a fuss. anything but that. he was within his rights, she supposed; and let it rest at that. so arrayed, she faced him, and, to let nothing be omitted on her part, she herself apologised for what had been his absurd fault, and so won as much from him as he could ever have given anybody. as for francis lingen--she had not once given him a thought. now, however, james away to his bishops, she arrayed herself anew, and went out, _fraîche et dispose_, into the park, intending that she should see urquhart. and so she did. he was on horseback and dismounted the moment he saw her. he was glad to see her, she could tell, but did not insist upon his gladness. he admired her, she could see, but took his admiration as a matter of course. she wore champagne-colour. she had snakeskin shoes, a black hat. she was excited, and had colour; her eyes shone. "well," he said, "here you are then. that's a good thing. i began to give you up." "how did you know--?" she stopped, and bit her lip. "i didn't. but i'm very glad to see you. you look very well. where are you going?" she nodded her direction. "tulips. just over there. i always pilgrimise them." "all right. let us pilgrimise them. tulips are like a drug. a little is exquisite, and you are led on. excess brings no more enchantment, only nausea. you buy a million and plant your woodland, and the result is horror. a hundred would have been heavenly. that's what i find." she had mockery in her look, gleams of it shot with happiness to be there. "is that what you've done at martley? i shan't praise you when i see it. i hate too-muchness." "so do i, but always too late. i ought to learn from you, whose frugality is part of your charm. one can't imagine too much lucy." "ah, don't be sure," she cautioned him. "ask james." "i shall. i'm quite equal to that. i'll ask him to-day. he's to be at an idiotic luncheon, to which i'm fool enough to be going. marchionesses and all the rest of it." "how can you go to such things when you might be--flying?" "earning your displeasure? oh, i know, i know. i didn't know how to refuse mallet. he seemed to want me. i was flattered. as a matter of fact--i _have_ flown." "alone?" "good lord, no. i had an expert there. he let me have the levers. i had an illusion. but i always do." "do tell me your illusion." "i thought that i could sing." "you did sing, i'm sure." "i might have. one miracle the more. as for the machine--it wasn't a machine, it was a living spirit." "a male spirit or a female spirit?" "female, i think. anyhow i addressed it as such." "what did you say to her?" "i said, 'you darling.'" that startled her, if you like! she looked frightened, then coloured deeply. urquhart seemed full of his own thoughts. "how's lancelot?" he asked her. that helped her. "oh, he delights me. another 'living spirit.' he never fails to ask after you." "stout chap." "he harps on your story. the first you ever told us. this time he put in his postscript, 'how is wives and co?'" he nodded. "very good. i begat an immortal. that tale will never die. he'll tell it to his grandchildren." they stood, or strolled at ease, by the railings, she within them, he holding his horse outside them. the tulips were adjudged, names taken, colours approved. "you'll see mine," he said, "in ten days. do you realise that?" she was radiant. "i should think so. that has simply got to happen. are you going to have other people there?" "vera," he said, "and her man, and i rather think considine, her man's brother. fat and friendly, with a beard, and knows a good deal about machines, one way and another. i want his advice about hydroplanes, among other things. you'll like him." "why shall i like him?" "because he's himself. he has no manners at all, only feelings. nice feelings. that's much better than manners." "yes, i dare say they are." she thought about it. "there's a difference between manner and manners." "oh, rather. the more manner you have the less manners." "yes, i meant that. but even manners don't imply feelings, do they?" "i was going to say, never. but that wouldn't be true. you have charming manners: your feelings' clothes and a jolly good fit." "how kind you are." she was very pleased. "now, _you_--what shall i say?" "you might say that i have no manners, and not offend me. i have no use for them. but i have feelings, sometimes nice, sometimes horrid." "i am sure that you couldn't be horrid." "don't be sure," he said gravely. "i had rather you weren't. i have done amiss in my day, much amiss; and i shall do it again." she looked gently at him; her mouth showed the luini compassion, long-drawn and long-suffering, because it understood. "don't say that. i don't think you mean it." he shook his head, but did not cease to watch her. "oh, but i mean it. when i want a thing, i try to get it. when i see my way, i follow it. it seems like a law of nature. and i suppose it is one. what else is instinct?" "yes," she said, "but i suppose we have feelings in us so that we may realise that other people have them too." "yes, yes--or that we may give them to those who haven't got any of their own." they had become grave, and he, at least, moody. lucy dared not push enquiry. she had the ardent desire to help and the instinct to make things comfortable on the surface, which all women have, and which makes nurses of them. but she discerned trouble ahead. urquhart's startling frankness had alarmed her before, and she didn't trust herself to pass it off if it flashed once too often. flashes like that lit up the soul, and not of the lamp-holder only. they parted, with unwillingness on both sides, at prince's gate, and lucy sped homewards with feet that flew as fast as her winged thoughts. that "you darling" was almost proof positive. and yet he had been at peltry that night; and yet he couldn't have dared! now even as she uttered that last objection she faltered; for when daring came into question, what might he not dare? remained the first. he had been at peltry, she knew, because she had been asked to meet him there and had refused on the opera's account. besides, she had heard about his riding horses as if they were motors, and-- here she stood still; and found herself shaking. that letter--in that letter of mabel's about his visit to peltry, had there not been something of a call to london, and return late for dinner? and the opera began at half-past six. what was the date of his call to london? could she find that letter? and should she hunt for it, or leave it vague? and then she thought of martley. and then she blushed. chapter xii martley thicket ( ) urquhart was a man of explosive action and had great reserve of strength. he was moved by flashes of insight, and was capable of long-sustained flights of vehement effort; but his will-power was nourished entirely by those moments of intense prevision, which showed him a course, and all the stages of it. the mistakes he made, and they were many and grievous, were mostly due to overshooting his mark, sometimes to underrating it. in the headlong and not too scrupulous adventure he was now upon, both defects were leagued against him. when he first saw lucy at her dinner-party, he said to himself, "that's a sweet woman. i shall fall in love with her." to say as much was proof that he had already done so; but it was the sudden conviction of it which inspired him, filled him with effervescent nonsense and made him the best of company, for a dinner-party. throughout it, at his wildest and most irresponsible, his fancy and imagination were at work upon her. he read her to the soul, or thought so. chance, and lancelot, gave him the chart of the terrain. the switch at the drawing-room door gave him his plan. the opportunity came, and he dared to take it. he marked the effect upon her. it was exactly what he had foreseen. he saw her eyes humid upon macartney, her hand at rest on his arm. jesuitry palliated what threatened to seem monstrous, even to him. "god bless her, i drive her to her man. what's the harm in that?" so he went on--once more, and yet again; and in the meantime by daylight and by more honest ways he gained her confidence and her liking. he saw no end to the affair so prosperously begun, and didn't trouble about one. all he cared about just now were two courtships--the vicarious in the dark, and the avowed of the daylight. he intended to go on. he was full of it--in the midst of his other passions of the hour, such as this of the air. he was certain of his direction, as certain as he had ever been. but now his mistakes and miscalculations began. he had mistaken his lucy, and his macartney too. what he didn't know about macartney, lucy did know; what he didn't know about lucy was that she had found out james. james as eros wouldn't do, chiefly because such conduct on james's part would have been incredible. urquhart didn't know it would be incredible, nor did he know that she did. one other thing he didn't know, which was that lucy was half his own before she started for martley. she, in fact, didn't know it either. she had been his from the moment when she had asked him to keep out of the air, and he had declined. all this is necessary matter, because in the light of it his next deliberated move in his game was a bad mistake. on the night before she was expected at martley, being there himself, he wrote her a letter to this effect: "dear mrs. macartney: to my dismay and concern i find that i can't be here to receive you, nor indeed until you are on the point to go away. i shall try hard for sunday, which will give me one day with you--better to me than a thousand elsewhere. vera will be my curate. nothing will be omitted which will show you how much martley owes you, or how much i am, present or absent, yours, "j. u." that letter he gave to vera nugent to deliver to lucy. vera wanted to know what it was all about. "it's to say that i can't be here," he said. "that is the fact, unfortunately." "why, my dear jimmy, i thought you adored her. isn't the poor lady the very latest?" "my dear girl, i do adore her. leave it at that. it's an excellent reason for not being here: the best. but i'm going up with a star, which is another reason. and i hope to be here on sunday, which is the most i can afford myself. really, that's all. but you like her, you say; or you should." "i do like her. she's not very talkative--to me; but listens well. considine will like her. listeners are rare with him, poor dear. but you move me. i didn't know you were so far gone." "never mind how far i am gone, provided that i go," said urquhart. "oh, at this rate, i will hasten you. i can't be bothered with a _cause célèbre_. but what am i to tell the lady? you must be practical, my fine man." "tell her that i was sent for in a hurry. hint at the air if you think proper. i think i have said all that is necessary in the note." * * * * * the macartneys were expected to lunch. urquhart left his house at noon, driving himself in a motor. he disappeared in the forest, but didn't go very far. james heard of his host's defection with impassivity and a glance of his eyeglass. "wonder what jimmy has shied off for?" he said to lucy through the dressing-room door. "aeroplaning or royalty, do you think? the ----s may have sent for him. i know he knows them. but it's characteristic. he makes a fuss about you, so that you think you're his life or death; and then you find out--not at all! you simply don't exist--that's all. what do you think?" "i don't think that we don't exist," she said. "i think that something important has happened." "oh, well," said james, "one had got into the way of thinking that one was important oneself. d----d cool, i call it." there had been a moment when lucy knew anger; but that had soon passed. she knew that she was bitterly disappointed, and found a rueful kind of happiness in discovering how bitterly. she had reached the stage where complete happiness seems to be rooted in self-surrender. in a curious kind of way the more she suffered the more surely she could pinch herself on the chin and say, "my dear, you are caught." there was comfort in this--and martley itself, house, gardens, woodlands, the lake, the vistas of the purple wolds of forest country, all contributed to her enchaining. luncheon passed off well under vera nugent's vivacious brown eyes, which could not penetrate the gentle mask of lucy's manner. nugent the husband was a sleepy, good-humoured giant; lord considine, whose beard was too long, and jacket-sleeves much too short--as were his trousers--"his so-called trousers," as james put it in his scorn--talked fiercely about birds'-nests and engaged lucy for the whole afternoon. this was not allowed him by his sister-in-law, who had other more sociable plans, but the good man had his pleasure of a docile listener after tea, took her for a great walk in the woods, and exhibited nearly all his treasures, though, as he said, she should have been there six weeks earlier. alas, if she had been, she would have had a more open mind to give to the birds and their affairs. after dinner, when they were on the terrace under the stars, he returned to his subject. there were nightingales, it seemed. what did mrs. macartney say to that? it appeared that six miles away the nightingale was an unknown fowl. here, of course, they were legionaries. you might hear six at a time: two triangles of them. did she know that they sang in triangles? she did not. very well, then: what did she say? what about shoes--a cloak--a shawl? all these things could be brought. lucy said that she would fetch them for herself, and went upstairs--shallow, broad stairs of black oak, very much admired by the experts. but of them and their excellence she had no thought. she did not care to let her thoughts up to the surface just then. adventure beckoned her. when she returned nugent had withdrawn himself to the smoking-room, and james was talking to vera nugent about people one knew. neither of them was for nightingales. "you are very foolhardy," james said. "i can't help you with nightingales." lord considine, in a black spanish cloak, with the staff of a pilgrim to compostella, offered his arm. "we'll go first to the oak spinney," he said. "it's rather spongy, i'm afraid, but who minds a little cold water?" vera assured him that she did for one, and james added that he was rather rheumatic. "come along, mrs. macartney," said the lord. "these people make me sorry for them." so they went down the steps and dipped into the velvet night. it was barely dark skirting the lake. you could almost see the rings made by rising trout, and there was enough of you visible at least to send the waterfowl scuttering from the reeds. beyond that again, you could descry the pale ribbon of the footpath, and guess at the exuberant masses of the peony bushes, their heavy flowers, when they were white, still smouldering with the last of the sunset's fire. but once in the woods you had to feel your way, and the silence of it all, like the darkness, was thick, had a quality which you discovered only by the soft close touch of it upon your cheeks and eyes. it seemed to clog the ears, and made breathing a deeper exercise. the further in they went the greater the guesswork of the going. lord considine went in front, to keep the branches from her face. upon that rich, heavy silence the first birds' song stole like a sense of tears: the low, tentative, pensive note which seems like the welling of a vein. lucy stayed and breathlessly listened. the doubtfulness, the strain of longing in it chimed with her own mood, which was one, perhaps, of passive wonderment. she waited, as one who is to receive; she was not committed, but she was prepared: everything was to come. the note was held, it waxed, it called, and then broke, as it were, into a fountain of crystal melody. thereafter it purred of peace, it floated and stopped short as if content. but out of the dark another took up the song, and further off another, provoking our first musician to a new stave. lucy, with parted lips, held her heart. love was in this place, overshadowing her; her sightless eyes were wide, waiting upon it; and it came. she heard a step in the thicket; she stayed without motion, will or thought. _expectans expectavit._ she was in the strange arms, and the strange kisses were on her parted lips. she knew not, nor cared, how long this rapture held. she got, and she gave. james, or another, this was eros who had her now. she heard, "oh, lucy, oh, my love, my love," and she thought to have answered, "you have me--what shall i do?" but she had no reply to her question, and seemed to have no desire unsatisfied. lord considine's voice calling, "i say, shall we go on--or do you think you had better go in?" sounded a very homely note. her eros still held her, even as she answered, "perhaps we had better turn back now. i could stop out forever on such a night. it has been more beautiful than i can say." approval of the sentiment expressed was stamped upon her. for a moment of wild surrender she clung as she kissed; then she was gently relinquished, and the lord was at hand. "there's nothing quite like it, is there?" he said. "i've heard astounding orchestras of birds in south america; but nothing at all like this--which, moreover, seems to me at its best in england. in granada, up there in the wellington elms, they absolutely--mind, mind, here's a briar-root--they shout at you. there's a brazen hardihood about them. in athens, too, in the king's garden, it is a kind of clamour of sound--like an arab wedding. no, no, i say that we are unrivalled for nightingales." the enthusiastic man galloped on, and lucy, throbbing in the dark, was grateful to him. the lights of the house recalled her to the world. presently, up the slope, she saw vera nugent, at the piano, turning to say something to somebody. it was james, rather bored in an arm-chair. james liked neither the society of women nor the notes of a piano. but he liked still less for such things to be known of him. his own social standard may perhaps be put thus: he liked to appear bored without boring his companions. on the whole he flattered himself that, high as it was, he nearly always reached it. "where's my beautiful young brother?" said lord considine, plunging in upon them. "asleep, i'll take my oath. my dear vera, you are too easy with him. the man is getting mountainous. you two little know what you've missed--hey, mrs. macartney?" he was obviously overheated, but completely at ease with himself. "what do you say we have missed?" vera asked of james, and he now, on his feet, said bravely, "for myself, a nasty chill." a chill--out there! * * * * * lucy was asked, did she like it all, and boldly owned, all. "the dark is like an eiderdown bed. impossible to imagine anything softer." she rubbed her eyes. "it has made me dreadfully sleepy," she said. "i think, if you won't be horrified--" vera said that she should go up with her. james stooped to her cheek, lord considine bowed over her hand. in lucy's room the pair had a long talk, all of which i don't pretend to report. it began with, "i'm so glad that you take to poor considine. you are so very much his sort of woman. he's a dear, simple creature, far too good for most of us--and a nugent freak, i assure you. they've never known the like in the county of cork.... i like him immensely, but of course he's too remote for the like of me. no small talk, you know, and i'm aburst with it. i talk while i'm thinking, and he when he _has_ thought. you understand that kind, evidently. i suppose your clever husband is like that. not that i don't get on with _him_. we did excellently--i think he knew everybody that i could think of, and i everybody he chose to mention. but jimmy likes considine, you know.... by the way, it was very disgraceful of jimmy, but not so disgraceful as you might think. in its way it's a compliment. he thinks so much of you--oh, i may as well tell you the shocking truth. he ran away. what a moth in the drawing-room ought to do, but never can, jimmy, not at all a moth, quite suddenly did. my dear mrs. macartney, jimmy ran away from you. flying! i doubt it profoundly. wrestling, i fancy, fighting beasts at ephesus. you have doubtless discovered how enthusiastic jimmy is. most attractive, no doubt, but sometimes embarrassing. as once, when we were in naples--in the funicolare, halfway up vesuvius--jimmy sees a party at the other end of the carriage: mother, daughter, two pig-tailed children, _and_ a governess--quite a pretty gel. jimmy was enormously struck with this governess. he could see nothing else, and nobody else either, least of all me, of course. he muttered and rolled his eyes about--his chin jutted like the bow of a destroyer. presently he couldn't stand it. he marched across the carriage and took off his hat with a bow--my dear, to the governess, poor gel! 'i beg your pardon,' says he, 'but i have to tell you something. i think you are the most beautiful person i ever saw in my life, and take pride in saying so.' wasn't it awful? i didn't dare look at them--but it seemed all right afterwards. i suppose she told her people that of course he was mad. so he is, in a way; but it's quite nice madness. i won't say that jimmy never goes too far--but nobody could be nicer about it afterwards than jimmy--no one. he's awfully sorry, and contrite, and all that. most people like him amazingly. i suppose he's told you about our father? he loves all the stories there are about him ..." and so on. vera nugent was a great talker. lucy at her prayers, lucy in her bed, had large gaps in the sequence of her thoughts. safety lay only with lancelot. she could centre herself in him. lancelot it was who with forceful small fingers, and half-shy, half-sly eyes, finally closed down hers, with a "go to sleep, you tired mamma." chapter xiii martley thicket ( ) the day that succeeded was prelude to the night, sufficient to show lucy her way into that spacious unknown. by her own desire she passed it quietly, and had leisure to review and to forecast. she put it to herself, roughly, thus. i may guess, but i don't know, who loves me so. it cannot continue--it shall stop this very night. but this one night i must go to him, if only to say that it can never be again. and it won't be again; i am sure of that. however he may take it, whatever he may be driven to, he will do what i say must be. as for me, i don't think women can ever be very happy. i expect i shall get used to it--one does, to almost anything, except toothache. and i have lancelot. she put all this quite frankly to herself, not shirking the drab outlook or the anguish of doing a thing for the last time--always a piercing ordeal for her. as for james, if she thought of him at all, it was with pity. poor dear, he really was rather dry! she ought to have been very angry with urquhart, but she was not. "the first time he did it, i understand. i am sure he had a sudden thought, and couldn't resist it. it must have been more than half fun, and the rest because it was so romantic. the other times were much more wrong. but i'm not angry with him. i ought to be--but i'm not--not at all. i suppose that is because i couldn't be angry with him if i tried ... not if he did much more.... no, i am sure he doesn't hold me cheap. he's not at all like that. james might--only james holds all women cheap. but he doesn't. i never felt at all like this about a man before. only--it must stop, after this once...." you see, he had not kindled passion in her, even if there were any to be kindled. lucy, with a vehement imagination, lacked initiative. you could touch her in a moment, if you knew how, or if you were the right person. now urquhart had never touched, though he had excited, her. to be touched you must respond to a need of hers--much more that than have a need of your own. and to be the right person you must be empowered, according to lucy. urquhart was not really empowered, but an usurper. of course he didn't know that. he reasoned hastily, and superficially. he thought her to be like most women, struck by audacity. what really struck her about him were his timeliness--he had responded to a need of hers when he had first kissed her--and his rare moments of tenderness. "you darling!" oh, if james could only have said that instead of "my darling!" poor james, what a goose he was. it was a very peaceful day. james and nugent had driven out to play golf on some first-class course or other by the sea. lord considine was busy with his secretary over a paper for the british association. in the afternoon he promised lucy sight of two golden orioles, and kept his promise. she had leisure to look about her and find traces of urquhart in much that was original, and more that was comfortable and intimate, in martley thicket. it was a long two-storeyed house of whitewashed brick, with a green slate roof, intermixed with reed-thatch, deep-eaved and verandahed along the whole south front. the upper windows had green _persanes_. the house stood on the side of a hill, was terraced, and looked over a concave of fine turf into a valley, down whose centre ran the lake, at whose bottom was the wood; and beyond that the moors and beech-masses of the forest. beside the house, and behind it, was a walled kitchen garden, white-walled, with a thatch atop. on the other side were stables, kennels and such-like. everything was grown to the top of its bent; but there was nothing very rare. "no frills," said lord considine, and approved of it all. "i dare say a woman would beautify it, but it would cease to be jimmy's and would cease to be interesting too. she would have more flowers and fewer shrubs. now jimmy knows enough about it to understand that shrubs and trees are the real test of gardening. anybody can grow flowers; but shrubs want science." lucy felt rebuked. she had desiderated more flowers. james, who knew nothing and cared little about gardens, passed approval of the house and offices. "it doesn't smell of money," he said, "and yet you see what a lot it means when you look into it." success, in fact, without visible effort: one of james's high standards. he didn't know how jimmy got his money, but had no doubts at all of its being there. a man who could lend francis lingen £ , without a thought must be _richissimè_. yet jimmy had no men-servants in the house, and james glared about him for the reason. lucy had a reason. "i suppose, you know, he wants to be really comfortable," she proposed, and james transferred his mild abhorrence to her. "comfortable, without a fellow to put out his things!" he scoffed at her. but she was rather short with him, even testy. "my dear james, mr. urquhart's things are things to be put on or taken off--like lord considine's 'so-called clothes.' to you they seem to be robes of ceremony, or sacrificial vestments." james stared rather through than at her, as if some enemy lurked behind her. "my clothes seem to annoy you. may i suggest that somebody must get the mud off them, and that i had rather it wasn't me? as for ceremony--" but she had gone. james shrugged her out of mind, and wondered vaguely if she was rather attracted by jimmy urquhart. it was bound to be somebody--at her age. thirty-two she must be, when they begin to like a fling. well, there was nothing in it. later on it occurred to him that she was looking uncommonly well just now. he saw her, in white, cross the lawn: a springy motion, a quick lift, turn of the head. she looked a girl, and a pretty one at that. his heart warmed to her. how could a man have a better wife than that? success without effort again! there it was. the evening came, the close of a hot and airless day. the sun set heavy and red. a bluish mist seemed to steal out of the forest and shroud the house. the terrace was not used after dinner, and when the men joined vera and her in the drawing-room lord considine, who had proposed a game of chess to james at the table, now came forward with board and box of men. nugent, as usual, had disappeared. "he's dormant when there's no hunting," his wife explained. "he has nothing to kill and hates his fellow-creatures." "then," said james, "he might kill some of them. i could furnish him with a rough list." lucy felt restless and strayed about the room, looking at things here and there without seeing them. vera watched her, saw her wander to the open window and stand there looking gravely into the dark. she said nothing, and presently lucy stepped out and disappeared. vera, with raised eyebrows and a half smile, resumed her book. lucy was now high-hearted on her quest--her quest and mission. it was to be this once, and for the last time. she followed the peony path from the lake to the thicket, entered among the trees and pushed her way forward. long before she reached the scene of last night's wonder she was a prisoner, her lips a prize. there was very little disguise left now. for a full time they clung together and loved without words; but then he spoke. "so you came! i hoped, i waited, i thought that you might. oh, my lucy, what a fact for me!" she answered simply and gently, "i came--i had to come--but--" "well, my love?" "ah," she said, "but this must be for the last time." this was not taken as she had meant it to be. love began again. then he said, "that's absurd." "no, no," she protested, "it's right. it must be so. you would not have me do anything else." "and i must go?" "yes, indeed, you must go now." "not yet, lucy. soon." "no, at once," she told him. "the last time is come, and gone. you must not keep me." "let me talk to you, so, for a few minutes. there's everything to say." "no," she said, "tell me nothing. i dare not know it. please let me go now." "a last time, then, lucy." she yielded her lips, but unwillingly; for now her mind was made up. the thing had to be done, and the sooner the better. "ah," he said, "how can i let you go?" "easily," she answered, "when i ask you"; and was unanswerable. she forced herself free, and stood undecided. "you needn't go back yet," he said, but she thought she must. "i came out alone," she told him, "but vera was in the room. so were the others. i don't know what they will think." "nothing at all," he said. "well, everything shall be as you wish. you see that you have only to name your wish." "i have one thing to ask you--i dare not ask any more," she said. her voice had a wavering sound. "ask," he said, "and i'll tell you the truth." "you don't think it wicked of me, to have come? because i did come. i thought that i must, because--because i could never explain at any other time, in any other way. you don't think--lightly of me?" "oh, my dear, my dear," he said--and she felt him tremble, though he did not touch her. "i think more dearly of you than of anything in heaven. the world holds no other woman for me. so it will always be." she said quietly, "it's very wonderful. i don't understand it at all. i thought perhaps--i wondered--if i had been angry--" "i deserve that, and more." "i know i ought to be angry. so i should be if--" "well, my love, well?" but she couldn't tell him, and asked him to let her go. they parted at the entry of the wood with good night, and lucy flitted back with a pain in her heart like the sound of wailing. but women can wail at heart and show a fair face to the world. her stretched smile had lost none of its sweetness, her eyes none of their brightness. vera nugent watched her narrowly, and led the conversation upstairs. she thought that she detected a pensive note, but assured herself that all was pretty well. "that's a remarkable woman," she said to herself, "who would rather have a heartache now than grin with misery next week. after this i'd trust her anywhere." * * * * * on sunday morning urquhart made an explicit return to martley, arriving at the hour of eleven in his motor of battleship grey colour and formidable fore-extension. behind it looked rather like a toy. lucy had gone to church alone, for james never went, and vera nugent simply looked appealing and then laughed when she was invited. that was her way of announcing her religion, and a pleasant one. lord considine was out for the day, with sandwiches bulging his pockets. nugent had been invisible since overnight. he was slugging, said his wife. returning staidly through the wood, she saw urquhart waiting for her at the wicket, and saw him, be it owned, through a veil of mist. but it was soon evident, from his address, that the convention set up was to be maintained. the night was to take care of itself; the day was to know nothing of it, officially. his address was easy and light-hearted. "am i to be forgiven? can i expect it? let me tell you that i do expect it. you know me better than to suppose that i didn't want to be here on your first visit." she answered him with the same spirit. "i think you might have been, i must say." "no, i couldn't. there was no doubt about it. i simply had to go." "so vera told me." then she dared. "may i ask if you went far?" he tipped his head sideways. "too far for my peace of mind, anyhow." "that tells me nothing. i am not to know any more?" "you are to know what you please." "well," she said, "i please to forget it. now i had better tell you how much i love martley. james says that the house is perfect in its way; but i say that you have done justice to the site, and think it higher praise." "it is. i'm much obliged to you. the problem was--not to enhance the site, for that was out of the question; rather to justify the impertinence of choosing to put any building there. because of course you see that any house is an impertinence in a forest." "yes, of course--but not yours." urquhart shrugged. "i'm not afraid of your flatteries, because i know," he said. "the most that can be said for me is that i haven't choked it up with scarlet and orange flowers. there's not a geranium in the place, and i haven't even a pomegranate in a tub, though i might." "oh, no," she said warmly, "there's nothing finicky about your garden--any more than there is about you. there was never such a man of direction--at least i never met one." the moment she had said it she became embarrassed; but he took no notice. his manner was perfect. they returned by the lake, and stayed there a while to watch nugent trying to catch trout. the rest of the day she spent in urquhart's company, who contrived with a good deal of ingenuity to have her to himself while appearing to be generally available. after dinner, feeling sure of him, she braved the tale-bearing woods and nightingales vocal of her sweet unease. there was company on this occasion, but she felt certain it would not have been otherwise had they been retired with the night. she was thoughtful and quiet, and really her heart was full of complaining. he was steadily cheerful, and affected a blunt view of life at large. she did not look forward to leaving him on the morrow, and as good as said so. "i have been enchanted here," she said, "and hate the thought of london. but james won't hear of wycross in june. he loves the world." urquhart said, "what are you going to do in august? wycross?" "no, we never go there in august. it's too hot-- and there's lancelot. a boy must have excitement. i expect it will come to my taking him to the sea, unless james consents to scotland. we used to do that, but now--well, he's bored there." he was looking at her, she felt, though she couldn't see him. "did you ever go to norway?" she shook her head. he said no more on that head just then. "i shall see you in london," he told her. "i am going to take my certificate at brooklands. next week i hope. you might come and applaud." "no, indeed," said she. "i couldn't bear to see you in those conditions. i have nerves, if you have none." "i have plenty," he said, "but you ought to do it. some day you will have to face it." "why shall i?" he wouldn't tell her. that made her daring. "why shall i?" his first answer was a steady look; his second, "nothing stops, you know. things all swim to a point. ebb and flow. they don't go back until they reach it." "and then?" "and then they may--or they may not blot it out and swim on." chapter xiv the great scheme the height of her esteem for urquhart was the measure of her growing disrelish for james. it was hard to visit upon a man the sense that he was not what he had never dreamed of being; but that is what happened to him. by how much he had risen in her eyes when she made an eros of him, by so much did he fall when she found out her mistake. because he was obviously no eros, was he so obviously but part of a man? it seemed so indeed. if he discerned it there's no wonder. he irritated her; she found herself instinctively combating his little preparations for completeness of effect--she was herself all for simplicity in these days. she could not conceal her scorn, for instance, when he refused to go with her to dine in a distant suburb because he would not have time to dress. "as if," she said, "you eat your shirt-front!" trenchancy from james produced a silent disapproval. as he said, if she didn't sniff, she looked as if she felt a cold coming on. she knew it herself and took great pains; but it coloured her tone, if not her words. too often she was merely silent when he was very much himself. silence is contagious: they passed a whole dinner through without a word, sometimes. now james had his feelings, and was rather unhappy over what he called her moods. he thought she did not go out enough. she ought to see more people: a woman liked to be admired. it did not occur to him that she might have been very glad of it from him; but then he didn't know how highly she had been elated with what she called, thinking it really so, his love-in-the-darkness. no, macartney, if ever he looked into himself, found nothing wrong there. he kept a wary eye through his masking-glass upon urquhart's comings and goings. as far as he could ascertain he was rarely in london during june and early july. no doubt he wrote to lucy; james was pretty sure of it; yet he could not stoop to examining envelopes, and had to leave that to providence and herself. he mingled with his uneasiness a high sense of her integrity, which he could not imagine ever losing. it was, or might have been, curious to observe the difference he made between his two jealousies. he had been insolent to francis lingen, with his "ha, lingen, you here?" he was markedly polite to jimmy urquhart, much more so than his habit was. he used to accompany him to the door when he left, an unheard-of attention. but that may have been because lucy went thither also. as a matter of fact urquhart saw very little of her. he was very much away, on his aerial and other affairs, and did not care to come to the house unless james was there, nor, naturally, very much when he was. they mostly met in the park, rarely at other people's houses. once she lunched at the nugents' and had the afternoon alone with him; twice he drove her to kew gardens; once she asked him for a week-end to wycross, and they had some talks and a walk. he wrote perhaps once a week, and she answered him perhaps once a fortnight. not more. she had to put the screw on herself to outdo him in frugality. she respected him enormously for his mastery of himself, and could not have told how much it enhanced her love. it was really comical that precisely what she had condemned james for she found admirable in jimmy. james had neglected her for his occupations, and jimmy was much away about his. in the first case she resented, in the second she was not far from adoration of such a sign of serious strength. they never alluded directly to what had happened, but sometimes hinted at it. these hints were always hers, for urquhart was a random talker, said what came into his head and had no eye for implications. he made one odd remark, and made it abruptly, as if it did not affect anybody present. "it's a very funny thing," he said, "that last year i didn't know macartney had a wife, and now, six months later, i don't realise that you have got a husband." it made her laugh inwardly, but she said gently, "try to realise it. it's true." "you wish me to make a point of it?" he asked her that with a shrewd look. "i wish you, naturally, to realise me as i am." "there doesn't seem much of you involved in it," he said; but she raised her eyebrows patiently. "it is a fact, and the fact is a part of me. besides, there's lancelot." "oh," he said, "i don't forget him. you needn't think it. he is a symbol of you--and almost an emanation. put it like this, that what you might have been, he is." "oh," said she, "do you want me to be different?" he laughed. "bless you, no. but i like to see what you gave up to be made woman. and i see it in your boy." she was impelled to say what she said next by his words, which excited her. "i can't tell you--and perhaps i ought not--how happy you make me by loving lancelot. i love him so very much--and james never has. i can't make out why; but it was so from the beginning. that was the first thing which made me unhappy in my life at home. it was the beginning of everything. he seemed to lose interest in me when he found me so devoted." urquhart said nothing immediately. then he spoke slowly. "macartney is uneasy with boys because he's uneasy with himself. he is only really interested in one thing, and he can see that they are obviously uninterested in it." "you mean--?" she began, and did not finish. "i do," said urquhart. "most men are like that at bottom--only some of us can impose ourselves upon our neighbours more easily than he can. half the marriages of the world break on that rock, and the other half on idleness." she then confessed. "do you know what i believe in my heart? i believe that james's eyeglass stands in his way with lancelot--as it certainly did with me." "i think you are right there," he agreed. "but you must allow for it. he's very uncertain of his foothold, and that's his war armour." she was more tolerant of james after that conversation, and less mutinous against her lot. she wondered, of course, what was to become of them, how long she could hold him at arms' length, how she could bring herself to unsay what had been said in the dark of martley thicket. but she had boundless faith in urquhart, and knew, among other things, that any request she made him would be made easy for her. but when, at the end of june, he broached to her his great scheme, she was brought face to face with the situation, and had to ask herself, could she be trusted? that he could she knew very well. he had a project for a month or six weeks in norway. he had hinted at it when she was at martley, but now it was broached. he didn't disguise it that his interest lay wholly in her coming. he laid it before her: she, lancelot and james were to be the nucleus. he should ask the corbets and their boys, vera and hers. nugent would refuse, he knew. meantime, what did she say? he watched her shining eyes perpending, saw the gleam of anticipated delight. what a plan! but then she looked down, hesitating. something must now be said. "oh, of course lancelot would go mad with joy, and i dare say i could persuade james--" "well? but you?" "i should live every moment of the time, but--sometimes life seems to cost too much." he held out his hand to her, and she took it very simply. "promise to come, and you shan't repent it. mind, you have my word on that." then he let her go, and they discussed ways and means. she would speak to james; then he should come and dine, and talk it out. meantime, let him make sure of vera, and do his best with the corbets. if they were fixed up, as she thought probable, he might get some other people. considine might like it. "he's very much at your disposal, let me tell you. you have him at your feet." so it was settled, and james was attacked in front. she told him as they were driving out to dinner that she had met mr. urquhart that afternoon. "i dare say you might," said james. but he had stiffened to attention. "he blazed upon me a plan for august. i said i would ask you about it." james said, "h'm. does it rest with me?" "naturally it does. i should not think of any plans without talking to you." "no, i suppose you wouldn't," said he. then he asked, "and what does urquhart want you to do?" "he doesn't want me, particularly. he wants all three of us." "i think," said james, "you'll find that he wants you most." she felt that this must be fathomed. "and if he did," she said, "should you object to that?" he kept very dry. "it isn't a case of objecting to that, or this. the question before me at present is whether i want to form one of a party which doesn't want me, and where i might be in the way." "from what i know of mr. urquhart," she answered, "i don't think he would ever ask a person he didn't want." "he might, if he couldn't get the person he did want in any other way," said james. "who else is to come?" "vera nugent and her boy, and perhaps lord considine. he is going to ask laurence and mabel and all the boys too." "it will be a kind of school-treat," said james. "i own it doesn't sound very exciting. where are we to go to?" "to norway. he knows of a house on the hardanger fiord, a house in a wood. he wants to hire a steamer to take us up from bergen, and means to bring a motor-boat with him. there will be fishing of sorts if you want it." "i don't," said james; then held up his chin. "is my tie straight?" she looked. "perfectly. what am i to say to mr. urquhart?" he said, "i'll talk about it; we'll discuss it in all its bearings. i don't think i'm so attracted as you are, but then--" "it's very evident you aren't," lucy said, and no more. she felt in a prickly heat, and thought that she had never wanted anything so much in her life as this which was about to be denied her. she dared not write to lancelot about it; but to urquhart she confessed her despair and hinted at her longing. he replied at once, "ask me to dinner. i'll tackle him. vera and child will come; not considine. the corbets can't--going to scotland, yachting. we needn't have another woman, but vera will be cross if there is no other man. up to you to find one." this again she carried to james, who said, "let him come--any free night. tell me which you settle, will you?" james had been thinking it out. he knew he would have to go, and was prepared with what he called a spoke for jimmy's wheel. incidentally it would be a nasty one for lucy, and none the worse for that. he considered that she was getting out of hand, and that urquhart might be a nuisance because such a spiny customer to tackle. but he had a little plan, and chuckled over it a good deal when he was by himself. he was, as usual, excessively urbane to urquhart when they met, and himself opened the topic of the norwegian jaunt. urquhart took up the ball. "i think you might come. your wife and boy will love it, and you'll kindle at their joy. 'they for life only, you for life in them,' to flout the bard. besides, you are not a fogey, if i'm not. i believe our ages tally. you shall climb mountains with me, macartney, and improve the muscles of your calves. you don't fish, i think. nor do i. i thought i should catch your brother-in-law with that bait--but no. as for mine, he'll spend the month in bed somewhere." "is your sister coming?" james asked. urquhart nodded. "and her youngster. osborne boy, and a good sort. lancelot and he have met." "they'll fight," said james, "and mrs. nugent and lucy won't speak." "vera would speak, i'm sure," said lucy, "and as for me, i seldom get a chance." "a very true saying," said urquhart. "i don't believe the last judgment would prevent vera from talking. well, macartney, what says the man of the world?" "if you mean me," said james, "i gather that you all want to go. lucy does, but that's of course. lancelot will, equally of course. but i have a suggestion to make. might not the party be a little bigger?" "it might, and it should," said urquhart; "in fact, i asked considine to join us. he would love it, but he has to make a speech at a congress, or read a paper, and he says he can't get out of it. the corbets can't come. i'll ask anybody else you like." james, who was now about to enjoy himself, said, "i leave the ladies to lucy and mrs. nugent. their choice would no doubt be mine. but i certainly think we want another man. much as you and i esteem each other, my dear urquhart, if there's walking to be done--serious walking, i think we shall be better three than two. i don't at all agree that three is no company. where men are concerned i think it better than two or four. if only to give a knee, or hold the sponge! and with more than four you become a horde. we want a man now." "i think so too," urquhart said. "well, who's your candidate?" james meditated, or appeared to meditate. "well," he said, looking up and fixing urquhart with his eyeglass, "what do you say to francis lingen? lucy likes him, i am used to him, and you will have to be some day." lucy was extremely annoyed. that was evident. she bit her lip, and crumbled her bread. she said shortly, "francis couldn't walk to save his life." "let us put it another way," said james, enjoying his little _coup_. "let us say that if he did walk, he might save his life." urquhart marked the breeze, and sailed into it. "i leave all that to you. all i know about lingen is that i have done my best to oblige him in his private affairs. i confess that i find him mild, not to say insipid, but i dare say he's the life of a party when he's put to it." "oh," said james, not averse from disparaging an old rival, "oh, poor chap, he hasn't many party tricks. i'd back him at cat's-cradle, and i dare say he plays a very fair game at noughts-and-crosses. besides, he'll do what he's told, and fetch things for you. you'll find him a handy and obliging chap to have about." "sounds delightful," said urquhart pleasantly. he turned to lucy. "we'll give him lingen, shall we?" she said, "by all means. it doesn't matter in the least to me." so james had his little whack, after all. chapter xv james james, hardly knowing it, was bracing himself for a serious situation. he had a keen eye for a man, a feeling for style; in his judgment urquhart was momentous, so much so that he could not afford to be irritated. jealousy to him was a weakness, only pardonable when the cause was trivial. it had been trivial with poor lingen. fishing in heavy water, a skipjack snaps at your fly, and you jerk him out to bank with a devil take you. but the swirling shoulder, the long ridge across the pool, and the steady strain: you are into a twelve-pounder, and the devil is uninvoked. he asked jimmy to lunch at his club, and took the candid line about the norwegian project. lucy was desperately tired, he said, so he was pleased with the scheme. the poor dear girl was run down, the fact was. "you are very good for her, i believe. you exhilarate her; she forgets her troubles. she admires audacity--from the bank." "i'll be as audacious as you please," said jimmy. "oh, you won't take me in," james said. "i'm an old hand. i know my urquhart. but lucy will expect feats of strength. you are a champion." "d---- your eyes!" said urquhart to himself. "the boy is one of your slaves, too. i can't tell you how contented i am that you approve of him." "he's all right," said urquhart, who didn't like all this. james, on the contrary, liked it awfully. he became a chatterbox. "he's more than that in his mother's esteem. but lucy's a wise mother. she moves with her finger on her lip. and that, mind you, without coddling. she'll risk him to the hair's-breadth--and never a word. but she won't risk herself. not she! why, she might be wanted! but there it is. women can do these things, god knows how! it's men who make a fuss. well, well--but i babble." "my dear man," said urquhart, "not at all. it's a thing you never do." thus encouraged, james plugged onwards. he talked more of himself and his affairs than he had ever done in his life before; expatiated upon his growing business, assumed his guest's contentment in his happiness, invited praise of his lucy, and was not rebuffed at their denial. urquhart, at first amused, ended by being annoyed. he felt as if james was a busy dwarf engaged in tying him up in lengths of black cotton. round and round he went, coil after coil was added; before luncheon was over he could move neither hand nor foot. it was rather ludicrous, really; reduced to speechlessness, he sat and stared blankly at a voluble james, prattling away about things which didn't matter. he found himself even admiring things about him: the way he could bite pull-bread, for instance; the relish he had for his food. but all this chatter! he was too uncomfortable to see that james's present relish was chiefly for that. the stilton and biscuits, the glass of port were but salt to the handling of jimmy urquhart; for james was a good fighter when he had a good man against him. his parting words were these: "now i shouldn't be surprised if she found herself out of conceit with this beano before we start. she's like that, you know. in such a case it's up to you to do something. you and lancelot between you. that's an irresistible pair. i defy a gentlewoman, and a mother, to lose heart. come in when you can. tell us tales of far cashmere. sing us songs of araby. i won't promise to join in the chorus--if you have choruses; but i shall revel in my quiet way. now don't forget. i count upon you. by-bye." "d---- your eyes, oh, d---- your eyes!" said jimmy, shouldering the hill as he went his way. really, he began to lose nerve a little--and for such a sanguine man a little was much. it was as if he was on the downward slide of the wave, no longer cresting the flow, which surged on ahead of him, carrying him no longer. the fact was that he was now at the difficult part of an enterprise which had been so far too easy. at the moment it was not obvious to him what he was to do. james was aware, that was plain; and james had a strong hand--if he knew that too, he had an unassailable hand. but did he? urquhart thought not. he chuckled grimly to himself as he saw his complacent host taken at his word. he looked at his wrist. "half-past three? d---- him, i'll go and see her now." but lucy, as james had truly put it, held firmly to the bank. glad of him she certainly was, amused by his audacities; but not tempted to plunge. he saw very soon that he must be careful with her. a reference to the hardanger woods at night, to the absence of nightingales, absence of the dark--she veiled her eyes with blankness, and finally shut down the topic. "don't let's talk of what is not in norway. tell me what is there. i have to keep lancelot supplied you know." no man has so little self-esteem as to suppose that a woman can definitely put him away. urquhart had plenty, and preferred to think that she thrust him more deeply within her heart. "quite right," he said, and exerted himself on her amusement. james, coming home early, found him on the hearth-rug, talking really well about his flying. nobody could have behaved better than james. he took his cup of tea, listened, was interested, smoked a cigarette; then touched lucy's shoulder, saying, "i leave you to your escapades." he went to his own room, with nothing to do there, and sat it out. he fought his nervousness, refused to see his spectres, sat deep in his chair, grimly smoking. he heard the drawing-room door open, urquhart's voice: "yes, it will be all right. leave all that to me." lucy said something, he could not tell what. his heart beat faster to hear her tones. urquhart let himself out: she had not gone with him to the front door. was that a good sign? or a bad one? he frowned over that intricate question; but kept himself from her until dinner-time. she might have come in--he half expected her; but she did not. what was she doing in there by herself? was she thinking where she stood? so pretty as she was, so innocent, such a gentle, sweet-natured creature! alas, alas! in short, james was growing sentimental about lucy. man of fashion as he was, with that keen eye for style and the mode, it may well be that urquhart's interest in her was a kind of _cachet_. a hall-mark! however that may be, james looked at her more curiously during that july than he had done since he saw her first in the garden of drem house. yes, lucy was pretty; more than that, she had charm. he saw it now. she moved her head about like a little bird--and yet she was not a little woman by any means; tall, rather, for a woman. but there was an absence of suspicion about lucy--or rather of fundamental suspicion (for she was full of little superficial alarms), which was infinitely charming--but how pathetic! it was deeply pathetic; it made him vaguely unhappy, and for a long time he did not know why tears swam into his eyes as he watched her over the top of his evening paper, or was aware (at the tail of his eye) of her quick and graceful motions before her dressing-glass. studying his feelings deeply, as never before, he found himself out. it was that he was to lose her, had perhaps lost her, just as he had found out how inexpressibly dear she was to be. and amazement came upon him, and dismay to realise that this sweetness of hers, this pliancy of temper, this strength within beauty were really there in her apart from him. as if he had believed that they lay in his esteem! no, indeed: they were her own; she could bestow them where she pleased. but he couldn't touch her--now: he would die sooner than touch her. and he couldn't say anything to her: that would have been to throw up the game. she should never pity him, and give him for pity what would have become, in the very giving, negligible to herself. he knew himself well: he could never ask for a thing. no! but could he get her to ask for something? ah, then she might find out whom she had married! a man, he judged, of spendthrift generosity, a prodigal of himself. yes, that was how it must be, if to be at all. he kept his eyes wide, and followed her every movement, with a longing to help which was incessant, like toothache. at the same time he was careful to keep himself quiet. not a tone of voice must vary, not a daily action betray him. that hand on the shoulder, now, when urquhart was last here. too much. there must be no more of it, though he could still feel the softness of her in the tips of his fingers. thus he braced himself. he held good cards: but he didn't know how good. chapter xvi amari aliquid lingen was exceedingly gratified by lucy's letter. james had thought the invitation should come from her, and, as the subject-matter was distasteful to her, sooner than discuss it she had acquiesced. few pin-pricks had rankled as this one. she had never had any feeling but toleration for lingen; james had erected him as a foible; and that he should use him now as a counter-irritant made her both sore and disgustful. she wished to throw up the whole scheme, but was helpless, because she could neither tell james, who would have chuckled, nor urquhart either. to have told urquhart, whether she told him her reason or left him to guess it, would have precipitated a confession that her present position was untenable. in her heart she knew it, for the heart knows what the mind stores; but she had not the courage to summon it up, to table it, and declare, "this robe is outworn, stretched at the seams, ragged at the edges. away with it." just now she could not do it; and because she could not do it she was trapped. james had her under his hand. therefore she wrote her, "dear francis," and had his grateful acceptance, and his solemn elation, visible upon his best calling face. "i can't tell you how happy you have made me. it is beautiful, even for you, to make people happy. that is why you do it: what else could you do? life is made up of illusions, i think. let me therefore add to the sum of mine that you have desired my happiness." this sort of thing, which once had stirred her to gentle amusement, now made her words fall dry. "you mustn't forget that james has desired it too." "oh," said francis lingen, "that's very kind of him." "really, it is mr. urquhart's party. he invented it." "did he desire my happiness too?" asked lingen, provoked into mockery of his own eloquence by these chills upon it. "at least he provided for it," said lucy, "and that you shouldn't be uncomfortable i have asked margery dacre to come." lingen felt this to be unkind. but he closed his eyes and said, "how splendid." that was the fact. it had been an afterthought of hers, and partially countered on james. margery dacre also had accepted. she had said, "how too delicious!" james, when made aware that she was coming, ducked his head, it is true, but made a damaging defence. "is she?" he said. "why?" "she'll make our number a square one," she replied, "to begin with. and she might make it more pleasant for the others--francis lingen and mr. urquhart." if she hadn't been self-conscious she would never have said such a thing as that. james's commentary, "i see," and the subsequent digestion of the remark by the eyeglass, made her burn with shame. she felt spotted, she felt reproach, she looked backward with compunction and longing to the beginning of things. there was now a tarnish on the day. yet there was no going back. clearly she was not of the hardy stuff of which sinners must be made if they are to be cheerful sinners. she was qualmish and easily dismayed. urquhart was away, or she would have dared the worst that could befall her, and dragged out of its coffer her poor tattered robe of romance. between them they would have owned to the gaping seams and frayed edges. then he might have kissed her--and good-bye. but he was not at hand, and she could not write down what she could hardly contemplate saying. never, in fact, was a more distressful lady on the eve of a party of pleasure. lancelot's serious enjoyment of the prospect, evident in every line of his letters, was her only relish; but even that could not sting her answers to vivacity. "i hope the norwegians are very sensible. they will need all their sense, because we shall have none when the pirate is there." "there used to be vikings in norway. they came to england and stole wives and animals. now we bring them a man for wives. that is what for with the chill of." "i must have a new reel to my fishing-rod. the old one has never been the same since i made a windlass of it for the battleship when it was a canal-boat, and it fell into the water when we made a landslide and accident which was buried for three days and had a worm in the works. also a v. sharp knife for reindeer, etc. they are tough, i hear, and my knife is sharpest at the back since opening sardines and other tins, all rather small." he drove a fevered pen, but retained presence of mind enough to provide for his occasions: "the excitement of norway may lose me some marks in term's order. not many i dare say." again, "when you are excited reports go bad. i have been shouting rather, kicking up a shine. once there was a small fight which was twigged. norway is a serious matter." there was an undercurrent of nervousness, discernible only to her eyes. she could not account for it till she had him home, and they were on the edge of adventure. it was lest he should be seasick and disgrace himself in the esteem of young nugent, who, as a naval officer, was of course sea-proof. "i expect nugent likes it very rough," he said--and then, "i don't, you know, much. not for weeks at a time. rather a nuisance." however, it was solved in the event by nugent being prostrate from the time they left the tyne. between his spasms he urged his mother to explain that lord nelson was always seasick. but lancelot was very magnanimous about it. there was diversion in much of this, and she used it to lighten her letters to urquhart, which, without it, had been as flat as yesterday's soda-water. as the time came near when they should leave home she grew very heavy, had forebodings, wild desires to be done with it all. then came a visitation from the clear-eyed mabel and a cleansing of the conscience. mabel said that she was sorry to miss norway. it would have amused her enormously. "to see you in the saddle, with two led horses!" she always talked as if she was an elder sister. "i almost threw laurence over; but of course i couldn't do that. he's so dependent and silent and pathetic--but thank goodness, he hasn't found out, like james, the real use of wives. that is, to have somebody to grumble to who really minds. there's your james for you. he doesn't want to go a bit; he'd much rather be at harrogate or somewhere of that sort. perhaps he'd like homburg. but he wouldn't go for the world. he's not pathetic at all, though he wants to be; but he wants to be sarcastic at the same time, and is cross because the two things won't go together. of course he stuck in francis lingen. he would. as if he cared about francis lingen, a kind of poodle!" "you oughtn't to abuse james to me," lucy said, not very stoutly; "i don't abuse laurence." "abuse him!" cried mabel. "good heavens, child, i only say out loud what you are saying to yourself all day. we may as well know where we are." then came a pause; and then, "i suppose you and jimmy urquhart are in a mess." lucy said nothing; whereupon mabel showed her clear sight. "and i suppose you know now who turned the light off." at that terrible surmise lucy got up and stood above her sister. "mabel, i don't know what to do." "i am sure you don't," said mabel. "on the other hand, you know what you have to do." "yes," lucy replied; "but it isn't so easy as you would think. you see, i have never spoken to him about it, nor he to me; and it seems almost impossible to begin--now." mabel was out of her depth. "do you mean--? what do you really mean?" "i mean exactly what i say. i found out the truth, by a kind of accident--one day. it wasn't possible to doubt. well, then--it went on, you know--" "of course it did," said mabel. "well?" --"and there was no disguise about it, after there couldn't be." "why should there be, if there couldn't be?" mabel was at her wits' end. "there was no disguise about it, while it was going on, you know. but in the daytime--well, we seemed to be ordinary people, and nothing was said. now do you see?" mabel did. "it makes it very awkward for you. but feeling as you do now, you simply must have it out." "i can't," lucy said with conviction. "i know i can't do that. no, it must stop another way. i must--be hateful." "do you mean to make him dislike you? to put him off?" lucy nodded. "something like that." "try it," said mabel. "you mean it won't answer?" "i mean that _you_ won't, my dear. you are not that sort. much too kind. now i could be perfectly beastly, if i felt it the only thing." lucy was in a hard stare. "i don't feel kind just now. james has given me a horror of things of the sort. i don't believe he meant it. i think he felt snappish and thought he would relieve his feelings that way. but there it is. he has made it all rather disgusting. it's become like a kind of intrigue of vulgar people, in a comedy." "these things do when you take them out and look at them," mabel said. "like sham jewellery. they are all right in their cases. the velvet lining does so much. but although you may be disgusted with james's handling of your private affairs, you are not disgusted with--the other?" "no, i suppose not. i really don't know. he is the most understanding man in the world, and i would trust him through everything. i don't think he could tell me an untruth. not one that mattered, anyhow. i could see him go away from me for a year, for two, and not hear a word from him, and yet be sure that he would come back, and be the same, and know me to be the same. i feel so safe with him, so proud of his liking me, so settled in life--i never felt settled before--like being in a nest. he makes everything i love or like seem more beautiful and precious--lancelot, oh, i am much prouder of lancelot than i used to be. he has shown me things in lancelot which i never saw. he has made the being lancelot's mother seem a more important, a finer thing. i don't know how to say it, but he has simply enhanced everything--as you say, like a velvet lining to a jewel. all this is true--and something in me calls for him, and urges me to go to him. but now--but yet--all this hateful jealousy--this playing off one man against another--francis lingen! as if i ever had a minute's thought of francis lingen--oh, it's really disgusting. i didn't think any one in our world could be like that. it spots me--i want to be clean. i'd much rather be miserable than feel dirty." here she stopped, on the edge of tears, which a sudden access of anger dried up. she began again, more querulously. "it's his fault, of course. it was outrageous what he did. i'm angry with him because i can't be angry with myself--for not being angry. how could i be angry? oh, mabel, if it had been james after all! but of course it wasn't, and couldn't be; and i should be angry with him if i wasn't so awfully sorry for him." mabel stared. "sorry for james!" "yes, naturally. he's awfully simple, you know, and really rather proud of me in his way. i see him looking at me sometimes, wondering what he's done. it's pathetic. but that's not the point. the point is that i can't get out." "do you want to get out?" mabel asked. "yes, i do in a way. it has to be--and the sooner the better. and whether i do or not, i don't like to feel that i can't. nobody likes to be tied." "then nobody should be married," said mabel, who had listened to these outbursts of speech, and pauses which had been really to find words rather than breath, with staring and hard-rimmed eyes. she had a gift of logic, and could be pitiless. "what it comes to, you know," she said, "is that you want to have your fun in private. we all do, i suppose; but that can't come off in nine cases out of ten. especially with a man like james, who is as sharp as a razor, and just as edgy. the moment anybody peers at you you show a tarnish, and get put off. it doesn't look to me as if you thought so highly of--the other as you think you do. after all, if you come to that, the paraphernalia of a wedding is pretty horrid; one feels awfully like a heifer at the cattle show. at least, i did. the complacency of the bridegroom is pretty repulsive. you feel like a really fine article. but one lives it down, if one means it." lucy told her to go, or as good as told her. sisters may be plain with each other. she wasn't able to answer her, though she felt that an answer there was. what she had said was partly true. lucy was a romantic without knowing it. so had psyche been, and the fatal lamp should have told her so. the god removed himself. thus she felt it to be. he seemed just outside the door, and a word, a look, would recall him to his dark beauty of presence. that he was beautiful so she knew too well, that he was unbeautiful in the glare of day she felt rather than knew. the fault, she suspected, lay in her, who could not see him in the light without the blemish of circumstance--not his, but circumstance, in whose evil shade he must seem smirched. what could she do with her faulty vision, but send him away? was that not less dishonourable than to bid him remain and dwindle as she looked at him? what a kink in her affairs, when she must be cruel to her love, not because she loved him less, but rather that she might love him more! but the spirit of adventure grew upon her in spite of herself, the sense of something in the wind, of the morning bringing one nearer to a great day. it pervaded the house; crewdson got in the way of saying, "when we are abroad, we shall find that useful, ma'am"; or "mr. macartney will be asking for that in norway." as for james, it had changed his spots, if not his nature. james bought marvellous climbing boots, binoculars, compasses of dodgy contrivance, sandwich-cases, drinking-flasks, a knowing hat. he read about norway, studied a dictionary, and ended by talking about it, and all to do with it, without any pragmatism. lucy found out how he relied upon urquhart and sometimes forgot that he was jealous of him. jealous he was, but not without hope. for one thing, he liked a fight, with a good man. lingen caught the epidemic, and ceased to think or talk about himself. he had heard of carpets to be had, of bold pattern and primary colouring; he had heard of bridal crowns of silver-gilt worthy of any collector's cabinet. he also bought boots and tried his elegant leg in a flame-coloured sock. and to crown the rocking edifice, lancelot came home in a kind of still ecstasy which only uttered itself in convulsions of the limbs, and sudden and ear-piercing whistles through the fingers. from him above all she gained assurance. "oh, mr. urquhart, he'll put all that straight, i bet you--in two ticks!..." and once it was, "i say, mamma, i wonder where you and i would be without mr. urquhart." james heard him, and saw lucy catch her breath. not very pleasant. chapter xvii the shivering fit they were to start on the th of august, and it was now the th. packing had begun, and crewdson, as usual, was troublesome. he had the habit of appearing before lucy and presenting some small deficiency as a final cause of ruin and defeat. "i can't find any of the brown polish, ma'am. i don't know what mr. macartney will do without it." this, or something like it, had become a classic in the family. it had always been part of the fun of going away. but this year lucy was fretted by it. she supposed herself run down and whipped herself to work. she found herself, too, lingering about the house, with an affection for the familiar aspect of corners, vistas, tricks of light and shadow, which she had never thought to possess. she felt extremely unwilling to leave it all. it was safety, it was friendliness; it asked no effort of her. to turn away from its lustrous and ordered elegance and face the unknown gave her a pain in the heart. it was odd to feel homesick before she had left home; but that was the sum of it. she was homesick. urquhart was very much in her mind; a letter of his was in her writing-table drawer, under lock and key; but urquhart seemed part of a vague menace now, while james, though he did his unconscious utmost to defeat himself, got his share of the sunset glow upon the house. fanciful, nervous, weary of it all as she was, she devoted herself to her duties; and then, on this fifth of august, in the afternoon, she had a waking vision, perfectly distinct, and so vivid that, disembodied and apart, she could see herself enacting it. it was followed by a shivering fit and depression; but that must tell its own tale. * * * * * the vision occurred while she was on her knees, busied beside a trunk, turning over garments of lace and fine linen and pale blue ribbons which a maid, in the same fair attitude, was bestowing as she received them. lancelot was out for the afternoon with crewdson and a friend. they had gone to the zoological gardens, and would not be back till late. she had the house to herself; it was cool and shadowed from the sun. the square, muffled in the heat, gave no disturbing sounds. looking up suddenly, for no apparent reason, she saw herself with jimmy urquhart in a great empty, stony place, and felt the dry wind which blew upon them both. all but her own face was visible; of that she saw nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek, which was very white. she saw herself holding her hat, bending sideways to the gale; she saw her skirt cling about her legs, and flack to get free. she wondered why she didn't hold it down. the wind was a hot one; she felt that it was so. it made her head ache, and burned her cheek-bone. urquhart was quite visible. he looked into the teeth of the wind, frowning and fretful. why didn't she say something to him? she had a conviction that it was useless. "there's nothing to say, nothing to say." that rang in her head, like a church bell. "nothing to say, nothing to say." a sense of desolation and total loss oppressed her. she had no hope. the vacancy, the silence, the enormous dry emptiness about her seemed to shut out all her landmarks. why didn't she think of lancelot? she wondered why, but realised that lancelot meant nothing out there. she saw herself turn about. she cried out, "james! james!" started up with a sense of being caught, and saw the maid's face of scare. she was awake in a moment. "what is it, ma'am? what is it?" lucy had recovered her faculties: "nothing, emily; it's nothing. i was giddy." but she was shivering and couldn't go on. "i think i'll lie down for a minute," she said, and asked for the aspirin. she took two tabloids and a sip of water, was covered up and left to herself. emily tiptoed away, full of interest in the affair. the shivering fit lasted the better part of an hour. lucy crouched and suffered, open-eyed but without any consciousness. something had happened, was happening still; a storm was raging overhead; she lay quaking and waited for it to pass. she fell asleep, slept profoundly, and awoke slowly to a sense of things. she had no doubt of what lay immediately before her. disrelish of the norwegian expedition was now a reasonable thing. either it must be given up, or the disaster reckoned with. _advienne que pourra._ but in either case she must "have it out" with james. what did that mean? jimmy urquhart would be thrown over. he would go--and she would not. she lay, picturing rather than reasoning; saw him superbly capable, directing everything. she felt a pride in him, and in herself for discovering how fine he was. his fineness, indeed, was a thing shared. she felt a sinking of the heart to know that she could not be there. but the mere thought of that sickened her. out of the question. she must "have it out" with james. that might be rather dreadful; it might take her where she must refuse to go--but on the whole, she didn't think it need. the certainty that she couldn't go to norway, that james must be made to see it, was a moral buttress. timidity of james would not prevail against it. besides that, deeply within herself, lay the conviction that james was kind if you took him the right way. he was irritable, and very annoying when he was sarcastic; but he was good at heart. and it was odd, she thought, that directly she got into an awkward place with a flirtation, her first impulse was to go to james to get her out. in her dream she had called to him, though urquhart had been there. why was that? she was thinking now like a child, which indeed she was where such matters were concerned. she was not really contrite for what she had done, neither regretted that she had done it, nor that it was done with. she wanted to discharge her bosom of perilous stuff. james would forgive her. he must not know, of course, what he was forgiving; but--yes, he would forgive her. * * * * * at six or thereabouts, listening for it, she heard the motor bring james home; she heard his latch-key, and the shutting of the door behind him. her heart beat high, but she did not falter. he was reading a letter in the hall when she came downstairs; he was very much aware of her, but pretended not to be. she stood on the bottom stair looking at him with wide and fixed eyes; but he would not look up. he was not just then in a mood either to make advances or to receive them. his grievance was heavy upon him. "james," said lucy, "i've been listening for you." "too good," said he, and went on with his letter. "i wanted to tell you that i don't think--that i don't much want to go to norway." then he did look up, keenly, with a drawn appearance about his mouth, showing his teeth. "eh?" he said. "oh, absurd." he occupied himself with his letter, folding it for its envelope, while she watched him with a pale intensity which ought to have told him, and perhaps did tell him, what she was suffering. "i don't think you should call me absurd," she said. "i was never very certain of it." "but, my dearest child, you made me certain, at any rate," he told her. "you made everybody certain. so much so that i have the tickets in my pocket at this moment." "i'm very sorry. i could pay for mine, of course--and i'm sure vera would look after lancelot. i wouldn't disappoint him for the world." "what are you going to tell urquhart?" said james. her eyes paled. "i believe that he would take it very simply," she said. james plunged his hands into his pockets. he thought that they were on the edge of the gulf. "look here, lucy," he said; "hadn't you better tell me something more about this? perhaps you will come into the library for a few minutes." he led the way without waiting for her, and she stood quaking where she was. she was making matters worse: she saw that now. naturally she couldn't tell james the real state of the case, because that would involve her in history. james would have to understand that he had been believed to have wooed her when he had done nothing of the kind. that was a thing which nothing in the world would bring her to reveal to him. and if she left that out and confined herself to her own feelings for urquhart--how was all that to be explained? was it fair to herself, or to urquhart, to isolate the flowering of an affair unless you could show the germinating of it? certainly it wasn't fair to herself--as for urquhart, it may be that he didn't deserve any generous treatment. she knew that there was no defence for him, though plenty of excuse--possibly. no--she must go through with the norway business. meantime james was waiting for her. she stood by the library table while james, back to the fireplace, lifted his head and watched her through cigar-smoke. he had no mercy for her at this moment. suspicions thronged his darkened mind. but nothing of her rueful beauty escaped him. the flush of sleep was upon her, and her eyes were full of trouble. "it isn't that i have any reason which would appeal to you," she told him. she faltered her tale. "i think i have been foolish--i know that i'm very tired and worried; but--i have had presentiments." james clicked his tongue, which he need not have done--as he knew very well. but he had not often been arbiter of late. "my child," he said, "really--" and annoyed her. "of course you are impatient. i can't help it, all the same. i am telling you the truth. i don't know what is going to happen. i feel afraid of something--i don't know what--" "run down," said james, looking keenly at her, but kindly; "end of the season. two days at sea will do the job for you. anyhow, my dear, we go." he threw himself in his deep chair, stretched his legs out and looked at lucy. she was deeply disappointed; she had pictured it so differently. he would have understood her, she had thought. but he seemed to be in his worst mood. she stood, the picture of distressful uncertainty, hot and wavering; her head hung, her hand moving a book about on the table. to his surprise and great discomfort he now discerned that she was silently crying. tears were falling, she made no effort to stop them, nor to conceal them. her weakness and dismay were too much for her. she accepted the relief, and neither knew nor cared whether he saw it. james was not hard-hearted unless his vanity was hurt. this was the way to touch him, as he was prepared to be touched. "my child," he said, "why, what's the matter with you?" she shook her head, tried to speak, failed, and went on crying. "lucy," said james, "come here to me." she obeyed him at once. something about her attitude moved him to something more than pity. her pretty frock and her refusal to be comforted by it; her youthful act--for lucy had never yet cried before him; her flushed cheeks, her tremulous lips--what? if i could answer the question i should resolve the problem of the flight of souls. he looked at her and knew that he desired her above all things. a lucy in tears was a new lucy; a james who could afford to let his want be seen was a new james. that which stirred him--pity, need, desire, kindness--vibrated in his tones. to hear was to obey. he took her two hands and drew her down to his knee. he made her sit there, embraced her with his arm. "there, my girl, there," he said; "now let me know all about it. upon my soul, you are a baffling young woman. you will, and you won't; and then you cry, and i become sentimental. i shall end by falling in love with you." at these strange words she broke down altogether, and sobbed her soul out upon his shoulder. again he assured himself that he had never seen her cry before. he was immensely touched by it, and immensely at his ease too. his moral status was restored to him. he knew now what he wanted. "you poor little darling, i can't bear to see you cry so. there then--cry away, if it does you good. what does me good is to have you here. now what made you so meek as to come when i called you? and why weren't you afraid that i should eat you up? so i might, lucy, you know; for you've made me madly in love with you." it seemed to her beating heart that indeed he was. he held her very close, kissed her wet cheeks, her wet eyes and her lips. she struggled in his embrace, but not for long. she yielded, and returned his kisses. so they clung together, and in the silence, while time seemed to stand still, it really did nothing of the kind; for if he gained experience she lost it. he must have grown more experienced, for he was able to return without embarrassment to the affairs so strangely interrupted. she must have grown less so, because she answered him simply, like a child. he asked her what had upset her, and she told him, a dream. a dream? had she been asleep? no, it was a waking dream. she told him exactly what it was. she was with mr. urquhart in a horrible place--a dry, sandy place with great rocks in it. "and where did i come in?" "you didn't come in. that was why i called you." "you called for me, did you? but urquhart was there?" "yes, i suppose he was still there. i didn't look." "why did you call for me, lucy?" "because i was frightened." "i'm grateful to you for that. that's good news to me," he said; and then when he kissed her again, she opened her eyes very wide, and said, "oh, james, i thought you didn't care for me any more." james, master of himself, smiled grimly. "i thought as much," he said; "and so you became interested in somebody else?" lucy sat up. "no," she said, "i became interested in you first." that beat him. "you became interested in _me_? why? because i didn't care for you?" "no," she said sharply; "no! because i thought that you did." james felt rather faint. "i can't follow you. you thought that i didn't, you said?" lucy was now excited, and full of her wrongs. "how extraordinary! surely you see? i had reason to think that you cared for me very much--oh, very much indeed; and then i found out that you didn't care a bit more than usual; and then--well, then--" james, who was too apt to undervalue people, did not attempt to pursue the embroilment. but he valued her in this melting mood. he held her very close. "well," he said, "and now you find that i do care--and what then?" she looked at him, divinely shy. "oh, if you really care--" this would have made any man care. "well, if i really do--?" "ah!" she hid her face on his shoulder. "i shall love to be in norway." james felt very triumphant; but true to type, he sent her upstairs to dress with the needless injunction to make herself look pretty. presently, however, he stood up and stared hard at the ground. "good lord!" he said. "i wonder what the devil--" then he raised his eyebrows to their height. "this is rather interesting." * * * * * the instinct was strong in him to make her confess--for clearly there was something to be known. but against that several things worked. one was his scorn of the world at large. he felt that it was beneath him to enquire what that might be endeavouring against his honour or peace. another--and a very new feeling to him--was one of compassion. the poor girl had cried before him--hidden her face on his shoulder and cried. to use strength, male strength, upon that helplessness; to break a butterfly on a wheel--upon his soul, he thought he couldn't do it. and after all--whether it was lingen or urquhart--he was safe. he knew he was safe because he wanted her. he knew that he _could_ not want what was not for him. that was against nature. true to type again, he laughed at himself, but owned it. she had been gone but five or ten minutes, but he wanted to see her again--now. he craved the sight of that charming diffidence of the woman who knows herself desired. he became embarrassed as he thought of it, but did not cease to desire. should he yield to the whim--or hold himself...? at that moment lancelot was admitted. he heard him race upstairs calling, "mamma, mamma! frightfully important!" that decided the thing. he opened his door, listening to what followed. he heard lucy's voice, "i'm here. you can come in...." and was amazed. was that lucy's voice? she was happy, then. he knew that by her tone. there was a lift in it, a _timbre_. was it just possible, by some chance, that he had been a damned fool? he walked the room in some agitation, then went hastily upstairs to dress. whether to a new james or not, dinner had a new lucy to reveal; a lucy full of what he called "feminine charm"; a lucy who appealed to him across the table for support against a positive lancelot; who brought him in at all points; who was concerned for his opinion; who gave him shy glances, who could even afford to be pert. he, being essentially a fair-weather man, was able to meet her half-way--no more than that, because he was what he was, always his own detective. the discipline which he had taught himself to preserve was for himself first of all. lancelot noticed his father. "i say," he said, when he and lucy were in the drawing-room, "father's awfully on the spot, isn't he? it's norway, i expect. bucks him up." "norway is enough to excite anybody," lucy said--"even me." "oh, you!" lancelot was scornful. "anything would excite you. look at mr. urquhart." lucy flickered. "how do you mean?" lancelot was warm for his absent friend. "why, you used to take a great interest in all his adventures--you know you did." this must be faced. "of course i did. well--?" "well," said lancelot, very acutely, "now they seem rather ordinary--rather chronic." _chronic_ was a word of crewdson's, used as an augmentive. lucy laughed, but faintly. "yes, i expect they are chronic. but i think mr. urquhart is very nice." "he's ripping," said lancelot, in a stare. james in the drawing-room that evening was studiously himself, and lucy fought with her restlessness, and prevailed against it. he was shy, and spun webs of talk to conceal his preoccupations. lucy watched him guardedly, but with intense interest. it was when she went upstairs that the amazing thing happened. she stood by him, her hand once more upon his shoulder. he had his book in his hand. "i'm going," she said. "you have been very sweet to me. i don't deserve it, you know." he looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested glass. "you darling," he said calmly, and she thrilled. where had she heard that phrase? at the _walküre_! "you darling," he said; "who could help it?" "oh, but--" she pouted now. "oh, but you can help it often--if you like." "but, you see, i don't like. i should hate myself if i thought that i could." "do let me take your glass away for one minute." "you may do what you please with it, or me." the glass in eclipse, she looked down at him, considering, hesitating, choosing, poised. "oh, i was right. you look much nicer without it. some day i'll tell you." he took her hand and kept it. "some day you shall tell me a number of things." she did not cease to look at him, but he saw fear in her eyes. "some day, perhaps, but not yet." "no," said he, "not yet--perhaps." "will you trust me?" "i always have." she sighed. "oh, you are good. i didn't know how good." then she turned to go. "i told you i was going--and i am. good night." he put his book down. she let his eyeglass fall. he drew her to his knee, and looked at her. "it's not good night," he said. "that's to come." she gave him a startled, wide look, and then her lips, before she fled. chapter xviii the hardanger that enchanted land of sea and rock, of mountains rooted in the water, and water which pierces the secret valleys of the mountains, worked its spell upon our travellers, and freed them from themselves for a while. for awhile they were as singleminded as the boys, content to live and breathe that wine-tinctured air, and watch out those flawless days and serene grey nights. london had sophisticated some of them almost beyond redemption: francis lingen was less man than sensitive gelatine; james was the offspring of a tradition and a looking-glass. but the zest and high spirits of urquhart were catching, and after a week francis lingen ceased to murmur to ladies in remote corners, and james to care whether his clothes were pressed. everybody behaved well: urquhart, who believed that he possessed lucy's heart, james, who knew now what he possessed, vera nugent, who was content to sit and look on, and lucy herself, who simply and honestly forgot everything except the beauty of the world, and the joy of physical exertion. she had been wofully ill on the passage from newcastle and had been invisible from beginning to end. but from the moment of landing at bergen she had been transformed. she was now the sister of her son, a wild, wilful, impetuous creature, a nymph of the heath, irresponsible and self-indulgent, taking what she could get of comfort and cherishing, and finding a boundless appetite for it. it was something, perhaps, to know in her heart that every man in the party was in love with her; it was much more--for the moment at least--to be without conscience in the matter. she had put her conscience to sleep for once, drugged it with poppy and drowsy syrups, and led the life of a healthy and vigorous animal. urquhart enjoyed that; he was content to wait and watch. for the time james did not perceive it. the beauty and freshness of this new world was upon him. francis lingen, born to cling, threw out tentative tendrils to margery dacre. margery dacre was a very pretty girl; she had straw-coloured hair and a bright complexion. she wore green, especially in the water. urquhart called her undine, and she was mostly known as the mermaid. she had very little mind, but excellent manners; and was expensive without seeming to spend anything. for instance, she brought no maid, because she thought that it might have looked ostentatious, and always made use of lucy's, who didn't really want one. that was how margery dacre contrived to seem very simple. for the moment urquhart took natural command. he knew the country, he owned the motor-boat; he believed that he owned lucy, and he believed that james was rather a fool. he thought that he had got the better of james. but this could not last, because james was no more of a fool than he was himself, though his intelligence worked in a different way. things flashed upon urquhart, who then studied them intensely and missed nothing. they dawned on james, who leisurely absorbed them, and allowed them to work out their own development. it was very gradually now dawning upon james that urquhart had assumed habits of guidance over lucy and was not aware of any reason why he should relinquish them. he believed that he understood her thoroughly; he read her as a pliant, gentle nature, easily imposed upon, and really at the mercy of any unscrupulous man who was clever enough to see how she should be treated. he had never thought that before. it was the result of his cogitations over recent events. so while he kept his temper and native jealousy under easy control, he watched comfortably--as well he might--and gained amusement, as he could well afford to do, from urquhart's marital assumptions. when he was tempted to interfere, or to try a fall with urquhart, he studiously refrained. if urquhart said, as he did sometimes, "i advise you to rest for a bit," james calmly embraced the idea. if urquhart brought out a cloak or a wrap and without word handed it to her, james, watching, did not determine to forestall him on the next occasion. and lucy, as he admitted, behaved beautifully, behaved perfectly. there were no grateful looks from her, such as he would expect to see pass between lovers. keenly as he watched her, he saw no secret exchange. on the other hand, her eyes frequently sought his own, as if she wanted him to understand that she was happy, as if, indeed, she wanted him to be happy by such an understanding. this gave him great pleasure, and touched him too. if he had been capable of it, he would have told her; but he was not. it was part of his nature to treat those whom he loved _de haut en bas_. he found that it was so, and hated himself for it. the one thing he really grudged urquhart was his simplicity and freedom from ulterior motive. urquhart was certainly able to enjoy the moment for the moment's worth. but james must always be calculating exactly what it was worth, and whether to be enhanced by what might follow it. he was kinder to her than he had ever been before. in fact, he was remarkably interesting. she told him of it in their solitary moments of greatest intimacy. "this is my honeymoon," she said, "and i never had one before." "goose," said he, "don't attempt to deceive me." but she reasserted it. "it's true, james. you may have loved me in your extraordinary way, but i'm sure i didn't love you. i was much too frightened of you." "well," he laughed, "i don't discover any terrors now." she wouldn't say that there were none. so far as she dared she was honest. "we aren't on an exact equality. we never shall be. but we are much nearer. own it." he held her closely and kissed her. "you are a little darling, if that's what you mean." "oh, but it isn't; it isn't at all what i mean. why, you wouldn't call me 'little' if you didn't know you were superior. because i'm rather tall for a woman." he knew that she was right, and respected her for the discernment. "my love," he said, "i'm a self-centred, arrogant beast, and i don't like to think about it. but you'll make something of me if you think it worth while. but listen to me, lucy. i'm going to talk to you seriously." then he whispered in her ear: "some day you must talk to me." he could feel her heart beat, he could feel her shiver as she clung. "yes," she said very low; "yes, i promise--but not now." "no," he said, "not now. i want to be happy as long as i can." she started away, and he felt her look at him in the dark. "you'll be happier when i've told you," she said. "why do you say that?" "because i shall be happier myself then," she said; and james hoped that she was right about him. one thing amazed him to discover--how women imputed their own virtues to the men they loved. it struck him a mortal blow to realise that his evident happiness would give lucy joy, whereas hers would by no means necessarily add to his. "what does give me happiness, then?" he asked himself; "what could conceivably increase my zest for life? evidence of power, exercise of faculty: so far as i know, nothing else whatever. a parlous state of affairs. but it is the difference, i presume, between a giving creature and a getting one which explains all. is a man, then, never to give, and be happy? has he ever tried? is a woman not to get? has she ever had a chance of it?" he puzzled over these things in his prosaic, methodical way. one thing was clear to everybody there but urquhart in his present fatuity: lucy was thriving. she had colour, light in her eyes, a bloom upon her, a dewiness, an auroral air. she sunned herself like a bird in the dust; she bathed her body, and tired herself with long mountain and woodland walks. when she was alone with her husband she grew as sentimental as a housemaid and as little heedful of the absurd. she grew young and amazingly pretty, the sister of her son. it would be untrue to say that, being in clover, she was unaware of it. for a woman of one-and-thirty to have her husband for a lover, and her lover for a foil, is a gift of the gods. so she took it--with the sun and green water, and wine-bright air. let the moralists battle it out with the sophists: it did her a world of good. chapter xix the moon-spell macartney fell easily into habits, and was slow to renounce them. having got into the way of making love to his wife, he by no means abandoned it; at the same time, and in as easy a fashion, it came to be a matter of routine with him to play piquet with vera nugent after dinner. it was she who had proposed it, despairing of a quartette, or even of a trio, for the bridge which was a dram to her. here also james would have been only too happy; but nobody else would touch it. lucy never played cards; urquhart, having better things to do, said that he never did. margery dacre and lingen preferred retirement and their own company. lingen, indeed, was exhibiting his heart to the pale-haired girl as if it was a specimen-piece. "i am really a very simple person," he told her, "one of those who, trusting once, trust for ever. i don't expect to be understood, i have no right to ask for sympathy. that would be too much to look for in a jostling, market-day world like ours. but i cherish one or two very fragrant memories of kindnesses done. i open, at need, a drawer; and, like the scent of dry rose-leaves, or lavender, a sweet hint steals out that there are good women in the world, that life is not made up of receipted bills. don't you understand the value of such treasures? i am sure that you do. you always seem to me so comprehending in your outlook." margery said that she hoped she was. * * * * * it was lucy's business immediately after dinner to see that lancelot was decently abed. the lad took the last ounce out of himself before that time came, and was to be brought by main force to the bath, crimson to the roots of his hair and dripping with sweat. protesting to the uttermost, still panting with his final burst in the open, she saw to it that he was quiet before she could be so herself. then she was free, and urquhart found--or looked for--his chance. the woods called her, the wondrous silver-calm of the northern night. she longed to go; but now she dreaded urquhart, and dared not trust herself. it had come to this, that, possessed as she was, and happy in possession, he and all that he stood for could blot the whole fair scene up in cold fog. that was how she looked at it in the first blush of her new life. he didn't understand that; but he saw that she was nervous, and set himself to reassure her. he assumed his dryest tone, his most negligent manner. when she came downstairs from lancelot, and after watching the card-players, fingering a book or magazine, drifted to the open window and stood or leaned there, absorbing the glory of the night--urquhart left her, and pulled at his pipe. when she spoke to the room at large--"oh, you stuffy people, will you never understand that all the world is just out here?" he was the first to laugh at her, though he would have walked her off into that world of magic and dream, straight from the window where she stood. he was a wild idealist himself, and was sure of her. but he must wait her good time. often, therefore, she drifted out by herself, and he suffered damnably. but she never went far--he comforted himself with that assurance. "she has the homing instinct. she won't go without me; and she knows that i can't come--but oh, to be kissing her under those birches by the water's edge!" he was not the only one who was aware that she had flitted. macartney was always intensely aware of it, and being by this time exceedingly fond, it tended to spoil his play. so long as urquhart left her alone he was able to endure it. then came an evening when, tending to the open door, she found urquhart there before her. he had behaved so admirably that her fears were asleep. he acted with the utmost caution, saying just enough, with just enough carelessness of tone, to keep her unsuspicious. the boreal lights were flashing and quivering in the sky: very soon he saw her absorbed in the wonder and beauty of them. "a night," she said, "when anything might happen!" "yes, it looks like that," he agreed. "but that is not what enraptures you." "what do you think enraptures me?" she wished to know. "the certainty," he replied, "that nothing will." she waited a while, then said, "yes, you are right. i don't want anything else to happen." "you have everything you want, here in the house. safe to hand! your lancelot in bed, your james at cards, and myself at the window. wonderful! and you are contented?" "yes, yes. i ask so little, you see. but you despise me for it." "god forbid. i promised you that you shouldn't repent this trip. and you don't, i hope?" her eyes were wide open and serious. "no, indeed. i never expected to be so happy as this. it never happened to me before." she had no compunctions at all--but he was in the fatuous stage, drugged by his own imaginings. "that's good. shall we go down to the water?" "i think we might," she said, not daring to look back into the room, lest he should think that she feared him. they strolled leisurely through the wood, she in a soft rapture of delight at the still grey beauty of the night; urquhart in a state of mind bordering upon frenzy. he gripped himself by both hands to make sure of the mastery. what gave him conviction was his constant sense of lucy's innocency. this beautiful woman had the heart of a child and the patience of the mother of a god. to shock the one or gibe at the other were a blasphemy he simply couldn't contemplate. what then was to be the end of it? he didn't know; he didn't care. she loved him, he believed; she had kissed him, therefore she must love him. such women don't give their lips without their hearts. but then she had been scared, and had cried off? well, that, too, he seemed to understand. that was where her sense of law came in. he could not but remember that it would have come in before, had she known who her lover was. as things fell out, she slipped into love without knowing it. the moment she had known it, she withdrew to the shadow of her hearth. that was his lucy all over. _his_ lucy? yes, for that wasn't the solicitor's lucy--if, indeed, the solicitor had a lucy. but had he? a little weakness of urquhart's was to pride himself on being a man of whims, and to suppose such twists of the mind his unique possession. all indeed that he had of unique was this, that he invariably yielded to his whims; whereas other people did not. however, he set a watch upon himself on this night of witchery, and succeeded perfectly. they talked leisurely and quietly--of anything or nothing; the desultory, fragmentary interjections of comment which pass easily between intimates. lucy's share was replete with soft wonderings at the beauty of the world. neither of them answered the other. under the birch-trees it was light, but very damp. he wouldn't allow her to stop there, but bade her higher up the hillside. there were pines there which were always dry. "wait you there," he said; "i'm going back to get you a wrap." she would have stopped him, but he had gone. urquhart, walking up sharply to the house, was not at all prepared for macartney walking as sharply down from it. in fact, he was very much put out, and the more so because from the first james took the upper hand. "hulloa," said the lord of the eyeglass. "hulloa, yourself," said urquhart, and stopped, which he need not have done, seeing that macartney with complete nonchalance continued his walk. "seen my wife anywhere?" came from over his shoulder. urquhart turned on his heels. "yes," he said, and walked on. there was an end of one, two and three--as the rhyme goes. urquhart was hot with rage. that bland, blundering fool, that glasshouse, that damned supercilious ass: all this and more he cried upon james. he scorned him for his jealousy; he cursed him for it; he vowed that he would carry her off before his very eyes. "let her give the word, lift an eyebrow, and i take her across the world." and the lad too, bless him. what did the quill-driver want of them but credit? damn him, he hung them up in his house, as tradesmen use the royal arms. he baited for his deans and chapters with them. he walked far into the night in a passion of anger. it never once occurred to him that james was a rival. and there he was right. he thought that urquhart had certainly been with lucy; he knew that he was in love with her; but oddly enough that stimulated instead of quelled him. it enhanced her. it made her love worth keeping. he had a great respect, in his heart of hearts, for urquhart's validity in a world of action which certainly comprehended the taking and keeping of hearts. now he came to think of it, he must confess that he had never loved lucy as he did now until he had observed that so redoubtable a champion was in the lists against him. odd thing! he had been jealous of francis lingen, as he now was of urquhart; but it was the latter jealousy which had made him desire lucy. the former had simply disgusted him, the latter had spurred him to rivalry--and now to main desire. james was no philosopher; he had an idle mind except in the conduct of his business. he could not attempt, then, to explain his state of mind--but he was very much interested. soon he saw her in the dusk under the pines: a slim white shape, standing with one hand upon the trunk of a tree. her back was towards him; she did not turn. she supposed that it was urquhart come back, and was careful not to seem waiting for him. "how quick you have been!" she said lightly, and stood where she was. no answer was returned. then came a shock indeed, and her head seemed to flood with fear. two hands from behind her covered her eyes; her head was drawn gently back, and she was kissed ardently on the lips. she struggled wildly; she broke away. "oh!" she said, half sobbing. "oh, how cruel you are--how cruel! how could you dare to do it?" and then, free of the hands, she turned upon urquhart--and saw james. "oh, my love!" she said, and ran to him and broke into tears. james had secured his eyeglass, but now let it drop. he allowed her to cry her fill, and then made the best of a rather bad business. "if every man who kissed his wife," said he, "was answered like that, lips would go dry." she said through her tears, "you see, i thought you were mr. urquhart with my wrap." "oh, the dickens you did," said james. "and is that how mr. urquhart usually brings you a wrap?" she clung to him. "well, no. if he did, i suppose i shouldn't have been so angry--by this time." "that's a very good answer," james allowed. "i'll only make one comment upon it. you cried out upon the cruelty of the attack. now if it had been--assume it for the moment--our--well, friend, let us say, why would it have been cruel of him? shameful, flagrant, audacious, impudent, insolent, all that i can understand. but cruel, lucy?" lucy's cheek was upon his shoulder, and she let it stay there, even while she answered. the moment was serious. she must tell him as much as she dared. certain things seemed out of the question; but something she must tell him. "you see, james," she said, "i think mr. urquhart is fond of me--in fact, i'm sure of it--" "has he told you so?" "not in so many words--but--" "but in so many other words, eh? well, pursue." "and i told him that i couldn't possibly join the party--on that account." "did you tell him it was on that account?" "no," said lucy, "i didn't; but he understood that. i know he understood it, because he immediately said that if i would come i shouldn't repent it. and i haven't. he has never made me feel uncomfortable. but just now--when i was expecting him--oh, it seemed to me quite horrible--and i was furious with him." "you were indeed. it didn't occur to you that it might have been--well, somebody with more right." her arm tightened, but she said nothing. the unconscious james went on. "i was wrong. a man has no right to kiss a woman unawares--in the dark. even if it's his wife. she'll always want to know who it was, and she's bound to find out. and he'll get no thanks for it, either." then it became necessary for lucy to thank him. "mind you, my dear," he told her. "i have no quarrel with jimmy urquhart up to now. you say he's in love with you, and i think that he is. i've thought so for some time, and i confess that i didn't relish the idea that he should be out here with us. but since we are in for confessions i'll make one more. if he hadn't been in love with you i don't believe that i should be--as i am now." lucy laughed--the laugh of a woman rich. "then i'm very much obliged to him," she said. but urquhart was harder to convince than james. chapter xx fair warning vera nugent, a brisk woman of the world, with a fondness for vivid clothing and a spanish air which went oddly with it, took the trouble one fine day to tackle her brother. "look here, jimmy," she said as they breasted a mountain pass, "are you quite sure what you are up to with these people?" urquhart's eyes took a chill tinge--a hard and pebbly stare. "i don't know what you mean," he said. "men always say that, especially when they know very well. of course i mean the macartneys. you didn't suppose i was thinking of the poplolly?" the poplolly, i regret to say, was francis lingen, whom vera abhorred. the term was opprobrious, and inexact. but urquhart shrouded himself in ice. "perhaps you might explain yourself," he said. vera was not at all sure that she would. "you make it almost impossible, you know." they were all out in a party, and were to meet the luncheon and the boys, who had gone round in the boat. as parties will have it, they had soon scattered. lingen had taken margery dacre to himself, lucy was with her husband. urquhart, now he came to think of it, began to understand that the sceptre was out of his hands. the pass, worn out of the shelving rock by centuries of foot-work, wound itself about the breasting cliffs like a scarf; below them lay the silver fiord, and upon that, a mere speck, they could see the motor-boat, with a wake widening out behind her like parallel lines of railway. urquhart saw in his mind that he would be a fool to quarrel with vera. she was not on his side, he could feel; but he didn't despair of her. one way of putting her off him forever was to allow her to think him a fool. that he could not afford. "don't turn against me for a mannerism, my dear," he said. "i turn against you, if at all, for a lack of mannerism," said vera briskly. "it's too bad of you. here i am as so much ballast for your party, and when i begin to make myself useful, you pretend i'm not there. but i _am_ there, you know." "i was cross," he said, "because i'm rather worried, and i thought you were going to worry me more." "well, maybe that i am,"--she admitted that. "but i don't like to see a sharp-faced man make a donkey of himself. the credit of the family is at stake." he laughed. "i wouldn't be the first of us--and this wouldn't be the first time. there's whimsy in the blood. well--out with it. let me know the worst." vera stopped. "i intend to do it sitting. we've heaps of time. none of the others want us." urquhart hit the rock with his staff. "that's the point, my child. do they--or don't they?" "you believe," vera said, "that lucy is in love with you." urquhart replied, "i know that she was." "there you have the pull over me," she answered. "i haven't either your confidence or hers. all i can tell you is that now she isn't." urquhart was all attention. "do you mean, she has told you anything?" "good heavens," vera scoffed, "what do you take me for? do you think i don't know by the looks of her? if you weren't infatuated you'd know better than i do." "my dear girl," urquhart said, with a straight look at her, "the fact is, i am infatuated." "i'm sorry for you. you've made a mess of it. but i must say that i'm not at all sorry for her. don't you suppose that she is the sort to find the world well lost for your _beaux yeux_. far from that. she'd wilt like a rose in a window-box." "i'd take her into fairy-land," said urquhart. "she should walk in the dawn. she wouldn't feel her feet." "she would if they were damp," said vera, who could be as direct as you please. "if you think she's a wood nymph in a cage, you're very much mistaken. she's very domestic." "i know," said the infatuate, "that i touched her." vera tossed her head. "i'll be bound you did. you aren't the first man to light a fire. that's what you did. you lit a fire for macartney to warm his hand at. she's awfully in love with him." urquhart grew red. "that's not probable," he said. vera said, "it's certain. perhaps you'll take the trouble to satisfy yourself before you take tickets for fairy-land. it's an expensive journey, i believe. had you thought what you would be doing about lancelot--a very nice boy?" "no details had been arranged," said urquhart, in his very annoying way. "not even that of the lady's inclinations, it appears. well, i've warned you. i've done it with the best intentions. i suppose even you won't deny that i'm single-minded? i'm not on the side of your solicitor." that made urquhart very angry. "i'm much obliged to you, my dear. we'll leave my solicitor out of account for the moment." but that nettled vera, who flamed. "upon my word, jimmy, you are too sublime. you can't dispose of people quite like that. how are you to leave him out of account, when you brought his wife into it? if you ever supposed that macartney was nothing but a solicitor, you were never more mistaken in your life--except when you thought that lucy was a possible law-breaker." at the moment, and from where they stood, the sea-scape and the coast-road stood revealed before and behind them for many a league. in front it descended by sharp spirals to a river-bed. vera nugent standing there, her chin upon her hands, her hands upon her staff, could see straight below her feet two absorbed couples, as it were on different grades of the scene. in the first the fair margery dacre leaned against a rock while lingen, on his knees, tied her shoestring; at a lower level yet macartney, having handed his lucy over a torrent, stooped his head to receive his tribute. vera, who had a grain of pity in her, hoped that urquhart had been spared; but whether he was or not she never knew. no signs of disturbance were upon him at the ensuing picnic, unless his treatment of macartney--with a kind of humorous savagery--betrayed him. they talked of the folgefond, that mighty snow-field beyond the fiord which the three men intended to traverse in a day or two's time. "brace yourself, my friend," urquhart said. "hearts have been broken on that ground before now." james said that he had made his peace with god--but lucy looked full-eyed and serious. "i never know when you are laughing at us," she said to urquhart. "be sure that i have never laughed at you in my life," he said across the table-cloth. "he laughs at me," said james behind his eyeglass; "but i defy him. the man who can laugh at himself is the man i envy. now i never could do that." "you've hit me in a vital spot," urquhart said. "that's my little weakness; and that's why i've never succeeded in anything--even in breaking my neck." lancelot nudged his friend patrick. "do you twig that?" patrick blinked, having his mouth too full to nod conveniently. "can't drive a motor, i suppose! can't fly--i don't think." "as to breaking your neck," said james, "there's still a chance for you." "i shall make a mess of it," urquhart retorted. "is this going to be a neck-breaking expedition?" that was from lingen, who now had an object in life. "i never said so," urquhart told him. "i said heart-breaking--a far simpler affair." "what is going to break your heart in it, please?" lucy asked him. she saw that there lay something behind his rattle. "well," said urquhart, brazening it out, "it would break mine to get over the snow-field--some eight miles of it, there are--and to find that i couldn't get down. that might easily happen." "and what would you do?" james fixed her with his eyeglass. "that's where the neck-breaking might intervene," he said. "jimmy would rather risk his neck any day." "than his heart!" "heart!" said vera. "no such thing. quite another organ. it's a case of dinner. he'd risk his neck for a dinner, and so would any man." "i believe you are right," said james. lucy with very bright eyes looked from one to the other of her lovers. each wore a mask. she determined to ask james to give up the folgefond, discerning trouble in the air. they went home by water, and lancelot added his unconscious testimony. he was between urquhart's knees, his hand upon the tiller, his mood confidential. "i say--" he began, and urquhart encouraged him to say on. --"it's slightly important, but i suppose i couldn't do the folgefond by any chance?" "you are saying a good deal," said urquhart. "i'll put it like this, that by some chance you might, but by no chance in the world could patrick." "hoo!" said lancelot, "and why not, pray?" "his mother would put her foot on it. splosh! it would go like a cockroach." "i know," said dreamy lancelot. "that's what would happen to me, i expect." then he added, "that's what will happen to my father." "good cockroach," said urquhart, looking ahead of him. "you think she won't want him to go." lancelot snorted. "_won't_ want him! why, she doesn't already. and he'll do what she wants, i'll bet you." "does he always?" "he always does now. it's the air, i fancy." chapter xxi the departure but pout as she might, she could not prevail with james, whose vanity had been scratched. "my dear girl, i'd sooner perish," he said. "give up a jolly walk because jimmy urquhart talks about my heart and his own neck--preposterous! besides, there's nothing in it." "but, james," she said, "if i ask you--" he kissed the back of her neck. she was before the glass, busy with her hair. "you don't ask me. you wouldn't ask me. no woman wants to make a fool of a man. if she does, she's a vampire." "mr. urquhart is very impulsive," she dared to say. "i've known that for a long time," said james. "longer than you have, i fancy. but it takes more than impulse to break another man's neck. besides, i really have no reason to suppose that he wants to break my neck. why should he?" here they were up against the wall again. if there were reasons, he could not know them. there was no getting over it yet. they were to start betimes in the morning, and sleep that night at brattebö, which is the hithermost spur of the chain. dinner and beds had been ordered at odde, beyond the snow-field. dinner was a gay affair. they toasted the now declared lovers. true to his cornering instincts, lingen had told lucy all about it in the afternoon. "your sympathy means so much to me--and margery, whose mind is exquisitely sensitive, is only waiting your nod to be at your feet, with me." "i should be very sorry to see either of you there," lucy said. "i'm very fond of her and i shouldn't take it at all kindly if she demeaned herself. when do you think of marrying?" he looked at her appealingly. "i must have time," he said; "time to build the nest." "a flat, i suppose," she said, declining such poetical flights. "a flat!" said francis lingen. "really, it hadn't occurred to me." from lucy the news went abroad, and so the dinner was gay. urquhart confined himself to the two boys, and told them about the folgefond--of its unknown depth, of the crevasses, of the glacier on its western edge, of certain white snakes, bred by the snow, which might be found there. their bite was death, he said. "frost-bite," said patrick nugent, who knew his uncle's way; but lancelot favoured his mother. "hoo!" he said. "i expect that you'd give him what for. one blow of your sword and his head would lie at your feet." "that's nasty, too," said urquhart. "they have white blood, i believe." lancelot blinked. "beastly," he said. "did mamma hear you? you'd better not tell her. she hates whiteness. secretly--so do i, rather." it was afterwards, when the boys had gone to bed, that a seriousness fell upon those of them who were given to seriousness. james and vera nugent settled down squarely to piquet. francis lingen murmured to his affianced bride. "i don't disguise from myself--and from you i can have no secrets--that there is danger in the walk. the snow is very treacherous at this season. we take ropes, of course. urquhart is said to know the place; but urquhart is--" "he's very fascinating," said margery dacre, and francis lifted his eyebrows. "you find that? then i am distressed. i would share everything with you if i could. to me, i don't know why, there is something crude--some harsh note--a clangour of metal. i find him brazen--at times. but to you, my love, who could be strident? you are the very home of peace. when i think of you i think of doves in a nest." "you must think of me to-morrow, then," said margery. he rewarded her with a look. lucy, for her part, had another sort of danger in her mind. it seemed absolutely necessary to her now to speak to urquhart, because she had a conviction that he and james had very nearly come to grips. women are very sharp at these things. she was certain that urquhart knew the state of her heart, just as certain as if she had told him of it. that being so, she dreaded his impulse. she suspected him of savagery, and as she had no pride where love was concerned she intended to appeal to him. modesty she had, but no pride. she must leave great blanks in her discourse; but she trusted him to fill them up. then there was another difficulty. she had no remains of tenderness left for him: not a filament. unless she went warily he might find that out and be mortally offended. all this she battled with while the good-nights to lancelot were saying upstairs. she kissed his forehead, and stood over him for a moment while he snuggled into his blankets. "oh, my lamb, you are worth fighting for!" was her last thought, as she went downstairs full of her purpose. the card-players sat in the recess; the lovers were outside. urquhart was by himself on a divan. she thought that he was waiting for her. with a book for shield against the lamp she took the chair he offered her. "aren't they extraordinary?" she said. he questioned. "who is extraordinary? do you mean the card-sharpers? not at all. it's meat and drink to them. it's we who are out of the common: daintier feeders." "no," she said, "it's not quite that. james's strong point is that he can keep his feelings in separate pigeonholes. i'm simply quaking with fear, because my imagination has flooded me. but he won't think about the risks he's running--until he is running them." urquhart had been looking at her until he discovered that james had his eye upon her too. he crossed his leg and clasped the knee of it; he looked fixedly at the ceiling as he spoke. "i should like to know what it is you're afraid of," he said in a carefully literal but carefully inaudible tone. he did that sort of thing very well. lucy was pinching her lip. "all sorts of things," she said. "i suffer from presentiments. i think that you or james may be hurt, for instance--" "do you mean," said urquhart--as if he had been saying "where did you get this tobacco?"--"do you mean that you're afraid we may hurt each other?" she hung her head deeply. "you needn't be. if you can fear that you must forget my promise." he saw her eyes clear, then cloud again before her difficulties. "james, at least," she said, "has never done you any harm." it was awfully true. but it annoyed him. damn james! "none whatever," he answered sharply. "i wonder if i haven't done him any good." looking at her guardedly, through half-closed eyes, he saw that she was strongly moved. her bosom rose and fell hastily, like short waves lipping a wharf. her hands were shut tight. "you have been the best friend i ever had," she said. "don't think i'm not grateful." that came better. he tapped his pipe on the ash-tray at hand. "my dear," he said, "i intend to live on your gratitude. don't be afraid of anything. _lascia fare a me._" she rewarded him with a shy look. a rueful look, it cut him like a knife; but he could have screwed it round in the wound to get more of such pain. there's no more bitter-sweet torment to a man than the thanks of the beloved woman for her freedom given back to her. he felt very sick indeed--but almost entirely with himself. for her he chose to have pity; of macartney he would not allow himself to think at all. danger lay that way, and he did not intend to be dangerous. he would not even remember that he was subject to whims. the thought flitted over his mind, like an angel of death, but he dismissed it with an effort. after all, what good could come of freebooting? the game was up. like all men of his stamp, he cast about him far and wide for a line of action; for directly the folgefond walk was over he would be off. to stay here was intolerable--just as to back out of the walk would be ignominious. no, he would go through with that somehow; but from odde, he thought, he might send for his things and clear out. it did not occur to him that he might have to deal with macartney. what should macartney want that he had not? he had vindicated the law! but the hour was come when macartney was to know everything. lucy was adorable, and he simply adored her; then in the melting mood which follows she sobbed and whispered her broken confession. he had the whole story from the beginning. he listened and learned; he was confounded, he was deeply touched. he might have been humiliated, and so frozen; he might have been offended, and so bitter; but he was neither. her tears, her sobs, her clinging, her burning cheeks, the flood of her words, or the sudden ebb which left her speechless--all this taught him what he might be to a woman who dared give him so much. he said very little himself, and exacted the last dregs from her cup. he drank it down like a thirsty horse. probably it was as sweet for him to drink as for her to pour; for love is a strange affair and can be its own poison and antidote. at the end he forgot his magnanimity, so great was his need of hers. "you have opened my eyes to my own fatuity. you have made me what i never thought i could be. i am your lover--do you know that? and i have been your husband for how long? your husband, lucy, and now your lover. never let these things trouble you any more." she clung to him with passion. "i love you," she said. "i adore you. if i've been wicked, it was to prove you good to me, and to crush me to the earth. love me again--i am yours forever." later she was able to talk freely to him, as of a thing past and done. "it's very odd; i can't understand it. you didn't begin to love me until he did, and then you loved me for what he saw in me. isn't that true?" "i couldn't tell you," he said, "because i don't know what he did see." "he thought i was pretty--" "so you are--" "he thought that i liked to be noticed--" "well, and you do--" "of course. but it never struck you." "no--fool that i was." "i love you for your foolishness." "yes, but you didn't." "no," she said quickly. "no! because you wouldn't allow it. you must let women love before you can expect them to be meek." he laughed. "do you intend to be meek?" then it was her turn to laugh. "i should think i did! that's my pride and joy. you may do what you like now." he found that a hard saying; but it is a very true one. the departure was made early. lucy came down to breakfast, and the boys; but margery dacre did not appear. vera of course did not. noon was her time. the boys were to cross the fiord with them and return in the boat. lucy would not go, seeing what was the matter with urquhart. urquhart indeed was in a parlous frame of mind. he was very grim to all but the boys. he was to them what he had always been. polite and very quiet in his ways with lucy, he had no word for either of his companions. james treated him with deference; francis lingen, who felt himself despised, was depressed. "jolly party!" said lancelot, really meaning it, and made urquhart laugh. but lucy shuddered at such a laugh. she thought of the wolves in the zoological gardens when at sundown they greet the night. it made her blood feel cold in her veins. "if no one's going to enjoy himself, why does anybody go?" she said at a venture. james protested that he was going to enjoy himself prodigiously. as for lingen, he said, it would do him no end of good. "i jolly well wish i could go," was lancelot's fishing shot, and lucy, who was really sorry for urquhart, was tempted to urge it. but james would not have heard of such a thing, she knew. then they went, with a great deal of fuss and bustle. james, a great stickler for the conventions, patted her shoulder for all good-bye. urquhart waited his chance. "good-bye, my dear," he said. "i've had my innings here. you won't see me again, i expect. i ask your pardon for many things--but i believe that we are pretty well quits. trust me with your james, won't you? good-bye." he asked her that to secure himself against whims. she could do no more than give him her hand. he kissed it, and left her. the boat was pushed out. urquhart took the helm, with lancelot in the crook of his arm. he turned once and waved his cap. "there goes a man any woman could love," she told herself. if she had a regret she had it not long. "some natural tears they shed, but dried them soon." they made a good landing, bestowed their gear in a cart, and set out for a long climb to brattebö, which they reached in the late afternoon--a lonely farm on the side of a naked hill. they slept there, and were to rise at four for the snow-field. chapter xxii catastrophe they were up and away before the light, taking only one guide with them, a sinewy, dark man with a clubbed beard on his chin. if they had had two it had been better, and urquhart, who knew that, made a great fuss; but to no purpose. all the men were at the sæters, they were told; haymaking was in full swing out there. there was nothing to be done. urquhart was put out, and in default of another man of sense made james his partner in griefs. "i know these chaps," he said. "when they are alone they lose their heads. the least little difficulty, they shy off and turn for home. i judge this man of ours to have the heart of a mouse. he don't want to go at all. if there are two of them they egg each other on. they talk it over. each tries to be the bolder man." "but is there going to be any difficulty?" james enquired, surveying the waste through his eyeglass. "i don't see why there should be." "you never know," urquhart said curtly; but presently he was more confidential. "don't tell that ass lingen; but it might be quite difficult to get off this place." james stared about him. "you know best. but is it harder to get off than on?" "of course it is, my dear chap," said urquhart, quite in his old vein of good-tempered scorn. "we are going up on the north side, where the snow is as hard as a brick." "ah," said james, "now i see. and we go down on the south, where it's as soft--" "where it may be as soft as a bran-mash. or blown over into cornices." james saw, or said that he did. in his private mind he judged urquhart of trying to intimidate him. the vice of the expert! but he noticed that the guide had a coil of rope, and that urquhart carried a shovel. it was easy going until near noon, with no snow to speak about. they climbed a series of ridges, like frozen waves; but each was higher than the last, and took them closer to the clouds. when they lunched under the shelter of some tumbled rocks a drifting rain blew across the desolation. "jolly!" said james, but quite happily. lingen shivered. "my dear man," said urquhart, "just you wait. i'll surprise you in a quarter of an hour's time." he spoke in his old way, as hectoring whom he tolerated. james noticed it, and was amused. he hadn't yet had time to be angry with this rascal; and now he began to doubt whether he should. after all, he had gained so very much more than he had lost. honour? oh, that be jiggered. something too much of his own honour. why, it was through urquhart's attack upon lucy that he had found out what lucy was. urquhart, at this time, was marching rather in front of him: james looked him over. a hardy, impudent rogue, no doubt--with that square, small head on him, that jutting chin--and his pair of blue eyes which would look through any woman born and burn her heart to water. yes, and so he had had lucy's heart--as water to be poured over his feet. by heaven, when he thought of it, he, james adolphus, had been the greater rogue: to play the grand turk; to hoard that lovely, quivering creature in his still seraglio; to turn the key, and leave her there! and jimmy urquhart got in by the window. of course he did. he was not an imaginative man by nature; but he was now a lover and had need to enhance his mistress. how better do that than by calling himself a d----d fool (the greatest blame he knew)? it follows that if he had been a fool, urquhart had not! impudent dog, if you like, but not a fool. now, for the life of him, james could not despise a man who was not a fool. nor could he hate one whom he had bested. he did not hate urquhart; he wasn't angry with him; he couldn't despise him. on the contrary, he was sorry for him. but now the miracle happened, and one could think of nothing else. as they tramped through the cold mist, over snow that was still crisp and short with frost, the light gained by degrees. the flying fog became blue, then radiant: quite suddenly they burst into the sun. the dazzling field stretched on all sides so far as the eye could see. snow and cloud, one could not distinguish them; and above them the arch of hyaline, a blue interwoven with light, which throbbed to the point of utterance, and drowned itself in the photo-sphere. the light seemed to make the sun, to climb towards the zenith, to mass and then to burst in flame. all three men took it in, each in his fashion. lingen was greatly moved; urquhart became jocular. "well," he said to macartney, "what do you make of that? that's worth coming up for. that ought to extenuate a good deal." james was quick to notice the phrase. "oh," he said, "you can show me things. i'm very much obliged to you. this is a wonder of the world." "now what the deuce does he mean by that?" urquhart thought to himself. had lucy told him anything? he didn't believe it. impossible. women don't tell. they had seven miles of snow, pretty soft by now, and steadily up hill. they bent themselves seriously to it, and found no occasion for talk. there were crevasses--green depths of death--to be avoided. their guide, light-eyed for scares, seemed to know them all, and reserved his alarm for signs in the sky invisible to the party. he mended the pace, which became rather severe. francis lingen was distressed; macartney kept back to give him company. urquhart forged on ahead with the guide. by four in the afternoon one at least of them was gruelled. that was lingen. "if we don't get down after all, it'll go hard with poplolly," urquhart said to james. james replied, "oh, we must get down. that's all nonsense." urquhart said nothing, and they went on. they reached a point where their guide, stopping for a moment, looked back at them and pointed forward with his staff. "odde is over there," he said, and urquhart added that he knew whereabouts they were. "if it were clear enough," he told them, "you might see it all lying below you like a map; but i doubt if you'll see anything." they pushed on. before the last slope, which was now close at hand, the ground became very bad. the crevasses showed in every direction, raying out like cracks on an old bench. the guide was evidently anxious. he gave up all appearance of conducting his party and went off rapidly by himself. they waited for him in silence; but presently urquhart said, "i bet you any money he won't want to go down." "don't he want to dine as much as we do?" said james. "he doesn't want to break his neck," said urquhart; "that's his little weakness." "i sympathise with him," james said; "but i should like to know more before i turn back." "you'll only know what he chooses to tell you," urquhart answered. lingen was sitting on the snow. the guide came back with firm steps. his eyes sought urquhart's naturally. "well?" he was asked; and lifted his stock up. "impossible," he said. "why impossible?" james asked urquhart, having none of the language, but guessing at the word. urquhart and the man talked; the latter was eloquent. "he says," urquhart told them, "that there's a great cornice, and a drop of forty feet or so. then he thinks there's another; but he's not sure of that. he intends to go back. i knew he did before he went out to look. it's a beastly nuisance." james looked at lingen, who was now on his feet. "well," he said, "what do you feel about it?" lingen, red in the face, said, "you'll excuse me, but i shall do what the guide proposes, though i admit to great fatigue. i don't think it would be right, under the circumstances, to do otherwise. i feel a great responsibility; but i gather that, in any case, he himself would decline to go down. you will think me timid, i dare say." "no, no," james said. "that's all right, of course. personally, i should be inclined to try the first cornice anyhow. there's always a chance, you know." urquhart looked at him keenly. "do you mean that?" he asked him. "yes," james said. "why do you ask?" urquhart turned away. when he faced james again he was strangely altered. his eyes were narrower; lines showed beside his mouth. temptation was hot in the mouth. "we'd better talk about it," he said, and jerked his head sideways. james walked with him a little way. "what's all this mystery?" he asked. "i wonder if you know what you are doing," urquhart said; "i wonder if you know what this means. do you know, for instance, that i don't care a damn whether i break my neck or not, and on the whole would rather that you did than didn't? you ought to know it. but i'm asking you." james kept his eyeglass to his eye. "i think you are talking nonsense," he said, "but i don't suppose you intend it for nonsense. you inspire me to say, taking you on your face value, that i shall try the first cornice. if it's a forty-foot drop, we ought to have rope enough." urquhart peered at him. "you mean what you say?" "certainly i do." urquhart turned on his heel. "all right," he said, and went over to the other two. "macartney and i are going down," he said to lingen. "i don't at all blame you for going back, but i'll trouble you to see that this man does the needful to-morrow. the needful is to come out here as early as he can get over the ground, to see if we want him. he had better fire a gun, or shout. if we are alive we shall answer him. if we don't answer, he had better see about it. i don't want to scare you, but this is not a joke, and i can't afford to be misunderstood. now i'm going to tell him all that in his own lingo." lingen took it very badly; but said nothing. urquhart spoke vehemently to the guide, who raised his staff and appeared to be testifying to heaven. he handed over the rope, the shovel, and the kit with an air of pilate washing his hands. "now," urquhart said to james, "we'll rope, and see if we can cut some steps through this thing. i've seen that done." james, dropping his eyeglass, said that he was in his hands. everybody was quiet, but they were all in a hurry. lingen came up to say good-bye. he was very much distressed, nearly crying. the guide, on the other hand, was chafing to be off. "if that chap calls himself a guide," said urquhart, "he ought to be shot." the guide thereupon threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. lingen said that he couldn't possibly go until he had seen them down. the guide, who was sullen and nervous, remained to help them. even that seemed to be against his convictions. they fixed one of the stocks in a crevasse; urquhart roped. then he went forward to the edge, or what seemed to be the edge, and having crawled on his belly so far as to be almost invisible, presently was seen to be standing up, then to fall to it with the shovel. he seemed to be cutting steps, and descending as he worked. gradually he disappeared, and the pull on the rope began. they paid out cautiously and regularly--all seemed well. he might have had twenty feet of it; and then there was a sudden violent wrench at it, and it came back limp in macartney's hands. "he's gone," he said. then he shouted with all his might. no answer came. they all shouted; the echoes rang round the waste, driven back on them from the hidden mountain tops. in the deathlike hush which followed one of them thought to hear an answering cry. lingen heard it, or thought that he did, and began to haul up the rope. when they had the end of it in their hands it was found to be cut clean. "he did that himself," james said, then added, "i'm going down. give me out this rope--for what it's worth." to lingen he said, "get back as quick as you can, and bring up some men to-morrow." then, having secured himself, he went down the flawless snow slope, and they paid out the cord as he wanted it. he had no particular sensation of fear; he knew too little about it to have any. it is imaginative men who fear the unknown. true, the rope had been cut once, and might have to be cut again. if urquhart had had to cut, it was because it had been too short. and now it would be shorter. but there was no time to think of anything. the snow seemed to be holding him. he had got far beyond urquhart's ledges, was upon the place where urquhart must have slid rapidly down. all was well as yet, but he didn't want to overshoot the mark. he kept his nerve steady, and tried to work it all out in his mind. if this were really a cornice it must now be very thin, he thought. he drove at it with his staff, and found that it was so. it was little more than a frozen crust. he kicked into it with his feet, got a foothold, and worked the hole bigger. then he could peer down into the deep, where the shadows were intensely blue. it looked a fearful drop; but he saw urquhart lying there, and went on. he descended some ten, or perhaps fifteen feet more, and found himself dangling in the air. he was at the end of the rope then. "i'll risk it," he said, and got his knife out. he dropped within a few yards of urquhart. chapter xxiii james and jimmy macartney found him lying very still; nothing, in fact, seemed to be alive but his eyes, which were wide open and missed nothing. "you're hurt, i'm afraid. can you tell me anything?" urquhart spoke in a curiously level tone. it seemed to give impartiality to what he said, as if he had been discussing the troubles of a man he hardly knew. "back broken, i believe. anyhow, i can't feel anything. i'm sorry you came down after me." "my dear fellow," said james, "what do you take me for?" those bright, all-seeing, steady eyes were fixed upon him. they had the air of knowing everything. "well, you knew what i _did_ take you for, anyhow, and so it would have been reasonable--" "we won't talk about all that," james said. "let me cover you up with something--and then i'll see what can be done about moving you." urquhart spoke indifferently about that. "i doubt if you can get down--and it's a good step to odde. four hours, i dare say." "yes, but there would be a house nearer than odde. if i could get some bearers--we'd get you comfortable before dark." "oh, i'm comfortable enough now," urquhart said. james thought that a bad sign. he unpacked the rücksacks, got out the brandy-flask, a mackintosh, a sweater and a cape. "now, my dear man, i'm going to hurt you, i'm afraid; but i must have you on a dry bed; and you must drink some of this liquor. which will you have first?" "the brandy," said urquhart, "and as soon as you like." he helped as much as he could, groaned once or twice, sweated with the effort; but the thing was done. he lay on the mackintosh, his head on a rücksack, the cape and sweater over him. macartney went to the edge of the plateau to prospect. a billowy sea of white stretched out to a blue infinity. the clouds had lifted or been vaporised. he could see nothing of odde; but he believed that he could make out a thread of silver, which must be the fiord. it would take him too long to get out there and back--and yet to stay here! that meant that the pair of them would die. it is but just to him to say that no alternative presented itself to him. the pair of them would die? well, yes. what else was there? he returned. urquhart was waiting for him, intensely awake to everything. "old chap," said james, "that's no go. i didn't try the snow; but i can judge distances. it's a deuce of a way down, even if there _is_ a way, and--" "it's all right," urquhart said, "there isn't a way. i'm cornered this time. but there's just a chance for you--if you work at it. it'll begin to freeze--in fact, it has begun already. now if you can find the shovel, you might employ yourself finely, digging a stairway. you'll be up by midnight." "never mind about me," james said. "i'm going to keep you warm first." but urquhart was fretting. he frowned and moved his head about. "no, no, don't begin that. it's not worth it--and i can't have you do it. you ought to know who i am before you begin the good samaritan stunt. i want to talk to you while i can. i've got a good deal to tell you. that will be better for me than anything." jimmy was prepared for something of the kind. "i believe it will," he said. "go on, then, and get it over." it had been his first impulse to assure the poor chap that he knew all about it; but a right instinct stopped him. he would have to hear it. so urquhart began his plain tale, and as he got into it the contrast between it and himself became revolting, even to him. a hale man might have brazened it out with a better air. a little of the romance with which it had begun, which indeed alone made it tolerable, would have been about it still. a sicker man than urquhart, who made a hard death for himself, would have given up the battle, thrown himself at james's feet and asked no quarter. urquhart was not so far gone as that; a little bluster remained. he did it badly. he didn't mean to be brutal; he meant to be honest; but it sounded brutal, and james could hardly endure it. he saw, too, as the poor chap went on, that he was getting angry, and doing himself harm. that was so. every step he took in his narrative sharpened the edge of the fate which cut him off. he would have made a success of it if he could--but he had been really broken before he broke his back, and the knowledge exasperated him. so he took refuge in bluster, made himself out worse than he was, and in so doing distorted lucy. james was in torment, remembering what he must. he felt her arms close about his neck; he felt the rush of her words: "and oh, darling, i thought it was you--of course i thought so--and i was proud and happy--that you should like me so much! i looked at myself in the glass afterwards. i thought, 'you must be rather pretty.' ..." oh, heaven, and this mocking, dying devil, with his triumphs! "say no more, man, say no more," broke from him. "i understand the rest. i have nothing to say to you. you did badly--you did me a wrong--and her too. but it's done with, and she (god bless her!) can take no harm. how can she? she acted throughout with a pure mind. she thought that you were me, and when she found that you weren't--well, well, take your pride in that. i give it up to you. why shouldn't i? she gave you her innocent heart. i don't grudge you." "you needn't," said urquhart, "since i'm a dead man. but if i had been a living one, who knows--?" he laughed bitterly, and stung the other. "you forget one thing," said james, with something of his old frozen calm. "for all that you knew, ten minutes after you had left my house that day--the first of them--i might have benefited by your act--and you been none the wiser, nor i any the worse off. and there would have been an end of it." urquhart considered the point. james could have seen it working in his poor, wicked, silly mind, but kept his face away. "yes," urquhart said, "you might; but you didn't." then he laughed again--not a pleasant sound. "man," said james indignant, "don't you see? what robs me of utterance is that i _have_ benefited by what you have done." "it's more than you have deserved, in my opinion," urquhart retorted. "i'll ask you not to forget that she has loved me, and doesn't blame me. and i'll ask you not to forget that it is i who am telling you all this, and not she." it was his last bite. the retort was easy, and would have crushed him; but james did not make it. let him have his pitiful triumph. he was not angry any more; he couldn't be--and there was lucy to be thought of. what would urquhart think of a lucy who could have revealed such things as these? he would have judged her brazen, little knowing the warm passion of her tears. ah, not for him these holy moments. no, let him die thinking honour of her--honour according to his own code. he put his hand out and touched urquhart's face with the back of it. "let us leave it at this," he said; "we both love her. we are neither of us fit. she would have taken either of us. but i came first, and then came lancelot--and she loves the law. put it no other way." "the law, the law!" said the fretful, smitten man. "the law of her nature," said james. he felt urquhart's piercing eyes to be upon him and schooled himself to face them and to smile into them. to his surprise he saw them fill with tears. "you are a good chap," urquhart said. "i never knew that before." macartney blew his nose. no more was said, but the sufferer now allowed him to do what he would. he chafed his hands and arms with brandy; took off his boots and chafed his feet. he succeeded in getting a certain warmth into him, and into himself too. he began to be hopeful. "i think i shall pull you through," he told him. "you ought to be a pretty hard case. i suppose you don't know how you came to fall so badly." "well, i do," urquhart said. "don't tell me if you'd rather not." "oh, what does it matter now? it was a whim." james smiled. "another whim?" "yes--and another fiasco. you see, in a way, i had dared you to come." "i admit that." "well, i hadn't played fair. i knew, and you didn't, that it was a bad job. you can't get down this way--not when the snow's like this." "oh, can't you?" "i think not. well, i ought to have told you. i was tempted. that's the worst thing i ever did. i ask your pardon for that." "you have it, old chap," said james. "you can afford to be magnanimous," urquhart snapped out fiercely. "damn it, you have everything. but i felt badly about it as i was going down, and i thought, 'they'll feel the break, and know it's all over. so i cut the painter--do you see?" "yes," said james, "i see." he did indeed see. urquhart began to grow drowsy and to resent interference. he was too far gone to think of anything but the moment's ease. james, on the other hand, was entirely absorbed in his patient. "i'm not going to let you sleep," he said. "it's no good making a fuss. i've got the kinch on you now." it was as much as he had. the air was biting cold, and the colder it got the more insistent on sleep urquhart became. james stared about him. was this the world that he knew? were kindly creatures moving about somewhere in it, helping each other? was lucy in this place? had she lain against his heart two nights ago? had he been so blessed? had life slipped by--and was this the end? which was the reality, and which the dream? if both had been real, and this was the end of men's endeavour--if this were death--if one slipped out in this cur's way, the tail between the legs--why not end it? he could sleep himself, he thought. suppose he lay by this brother cur of his and slept? somewhere out beyond this cold there were men by firelight kissing their wives. poor chaps, they didn't know the end. this was the end--loneliness and cold. yes, but you could sleep!... * * * * * suddenly he started, intent and quivering. he had heard a cry. every fibre of him claimed life. he listened, breathlessly. above the knocking of his own heart he heard it again. no doubt at all. he turned to urquhart and shook him. "they are coming--they are coming--we are going to be saved!" he was violently moved; tears were streaming down his face. urquhart, out of those still, aware, dreadfully intelligent eyes, seemed to see them coming--whoever they were. he too, and his pitiful broken members, were calling on life. james, on his feet, shouted with might and main, and presently was answered from near at hand. then he saw lingen and the guide wading through the snow. "they have found us," he told urquhart; "it's francis lingen and the guide. how they've done it i don't pretend to guess." "they've got around the cornice," urquhart said. "it can be done i know." he seemed indifferent again, even annoyed again that he couldn't be allowed to sleep. james thought it a pose, this time. lingen, out of breath but extremely triumphant, met james. "thank god," he said. james with lifted brows waved his head backward to indicate the sufferer. "he's very bad," he said. "how did you get him to come?" he meant the guide. flaming lingen said, "i made him. i was desperate. i've never done such a thing before, but i laid hands on him." "you are a brick," said james. lingen said, "it's something to know that you can throttle a man when you want to badly enough. i hadn't the slightest idea. it's a thing i never did before. i rather like it." throttled or not, the guide saved the situation. he saved it, undisguisedly, for his own sake; for he had no zest for helping to carry a bier over the folgefond. they made a litter of alpen-stocks and the mackintosh, and so between them carried urquhart down the mountain. no need to dwell on it. they reached the hotel at odde about midnight, but halfway to it they found help. chapter xxiv urquhart's apology macartney was right when he said to lucy, in talking over the adventure, that urquhart had no moral sense, though she had not then been convinced. but she was to be convinced before she had done with him. he asked for her repeatedly, and with no regard at all to what had happened. at last he was told that if he excited himself she would leave the hotel. vera nugent told him that, having installed herself his nurse. vera, who knew nothing but suspected much, guessed that macartney had had as much of her brother as he cared about. as for lucy, on the whole she despised her for preferring james with the law to jimmy without it. in this she did little justice to james's use of his advantage; but, as i say, she didn't know what had happened. all she could see for herself was that where she had once had a _faible_ for urquhart she was now ridiculously in love with her husband. vera thought that any woman was ridiculous who fell into that position. she was not alone in the opinion. however, the main thing was that jimmy shouldn't fret himself into a fever. if he kept quiet, she believed that he would recover. there was no dislocation, the doctors told her, but a very bad wrench. he must be perfectly still--and we should see. lucy was not told how impatiently she was awaited. james, maybe, did not know anything about it. he felt great delicacy in telling what he had to tell her of the events of that day. but she guessed nearly everything, even that urquhart had intended to break his own neck. "he would," she said, being in a stare; "he's like that." james agreed, but pointed out that it had nearly involved his own end likewise. lucy stared on, but said, "that wouldn't occur to him at the time." no, said james, on the contrary. it had occurred to him at the time that if he cut the rope, he, james, would immediately turn for home. she nodded her head several times. "he's like that." and then she turned and hid her face. "it's all dreadful," she said; "i don't want to know any more." it was then that james pronounced upon urquhart's absence of morality, and found out that she was very much interested in him anyhow. she was curious about what had passed between him and james, for she was sure that there had been something. james admitted that. "it was very uncomfortable," he said; "i cut him as short as i could--but i was awfully sorry for him. after all, i had scored, you see." she gave him a long look. "yes, you scored. all ways. because, it was only when i was angry with you that i--thought he might do." there could be no comment on that. then she said, "i'm thankful that i told you everything before he did." "so am i, by jove," said james. he put his arm round her. "if you hadn't," he said, "i think i could have let him die." lucy shook her head. "no, you wouldn't have done that. he would have--but not you. if you had been capable of that you wouldn't have called me to come to you as you did--that day." he knew which day she meant, and felt it necessary to tell her something about it. "on that day," he said, "though you didn't know it, i was awfully in love with you." she looked at him, wonderfully. "no, i didn't know that! what a donkey i was! but i was wretched. i simply longed for you." "if you hadn't cried, you would never have had me." that she understood. "you wanted to pity me." "no, i had been afraid of you. your tears brought you down to earth." "that's poetry," said lucy. "it's the nature of man," he maintained. she wanted to know if he "minded" her seeing urquhart. he did, very much; but wouldn't say so. "you needn't mind a bit," she told him. "he has terrified me. i'm not adventurous at all; besides--" "besides--?" "no, no, not now." she would say nothing more. * * * * * an expedition was made to the foot of the snow-field--for the benefit of the boys. from a distance they saw the great cornice, and the plateau where james had watched by urquhart. lancelot was here confronted with irony for the first time. his loyalty was severely tried. by rights mr. urquhart ought to have rescued the lot. not for a moment could he doubt of that. as for his father, accepted on all hands as a hero, there were difficulties in the way which he could not get over. he had to go very warily to work because of his mother; but he went as far as he could. why was it that mr. urquhart was hurt and father was not, when they both had the same drop? lucy could only say that father dropped better--or fell better. and then there was a pause. "what! with an eyeglass!" he allowed himself that--with her; but with patrick nugent he was short and stern. patrick had said something of the same kind, as they were journeying home together. why hadn't lancelot's governor smashed his eyeglass when he dropped? lancelot sniffed offence immediately, and snorted, "hoo! jolly good thing for him he didn't! it kept the cold out of his eye. it's like feeding a mouse when you're a prisoner in dungeons. afterwards it comes and gnaws the rope. pooh, any ass could see that." and so much for patrick and cheek. * * * * * but the sick man, fretting in his bed, took short views. to see lucy again had become so desirable that he could think of nothing else. she glanced before him as a promise, and his nature was such that a promise was halfway to a fulfilling. as strength grew, so did he wax sanguine, and amused himself by reconstructing his spanish castle. vera nugent gave him no encouragement; and perhaps overdid it. "hadn't you really better let the woman alone? she's perfectly happy--in spite of you." he could afford to laugh at this. "she doesn't know what happiness is. she thinks it is safety. i could teach her better." "you've made a great mess of it so far," vera said. he ignored that. "you say that she's happy. i suggest that she is merely snug. that's what a dormouse calls happiness." "well, there's a good deal of the dormouse in lucy," vera said. "if you stroke her she shines." "silence!" he cried sharply out. "you don't know anything at all. i have had her radiant--like a moonstone. when am i to see her?" "i'll tell her that you want to see her--but it would be reasonable if she refused." "she won't refuse," he said. * * * * * james must be told, of course. he took it quietly. "yes, on the whole--yes. i don't think you can refuse him that. it will try you." "it will be horrid--but anyhow you know everything he can say." "he doesn't know that i do. he'll build on that." "build!" said lucy quickly. "what sort of building?" "oh, fantastic architecture. bowers by bendemeer. never mind. are you going?" "yes," said lucy slowly. "yes, i'll go now." she went to him and put her hands on his shoulders. her eyes searched his face, and found it inscrutable. "you mind," she said, "i know you do. you ought not--but i'm glad of it." he humbled himself at once. they parted as lovers part; but for the life of him he could not understand how she could find the heart to go. with himself, now, it would have been a point of honour not to go. he did not see that the more a woman loves the more love she has to spare. vera nugent took her into the room, pausing outside the door. "you'll find him very jumpy," she said; and then, "my dear, you're so sensible." lucy, who knew that she meant precisely the opposite, said, "no, i don't think i am. i'm excitable myself. what do you want me to do?" "keep cool," said vera. "he won't like it, but it's important." then they went in. "jimmy, here's mrs. macartney." the quick eyes from the bed had been upon her from the first. it was immediately evident to her that she was not to be spared. she heard his "at last!" and braced herself for what that might mean. "i should have come before if the doctors had approved--so would james and lancelot," she said as briskly as she might. he took no notice of her addition. vera nugent, saying, "don't let him talk too much," then left her with him. she began matter-of-fact enquiries, but he soon showed her that she had not been brought in for such platitude. he played the mastery of the invalid without hesitation. "oh, i'm very sick, you know. they tell me that i shall be as fit as ever i was, if i behave--but really i don't know. i've a good deal behind me--and not much before--so that i'm comparatively indifferent how the thing goes.... look here, lucy," he said suddenly--and she stiffened at her name--"i have to talk to you at last. it's wonderful how we've put it off--but here it has come." she said in low tones, "i don't see why we should talk about anything. i would much rather not. everything is changed now--everything." urquhart began with a touch of asperity ill disguised. "might one be allowed to enquire...?" scared perhaps by his pomposity, he broke off: "no, that won't do. i'll ask you simply, what has happened? you liked me--to say no more. now you don't. no, no, don't protest yet. leave it at that. well, and then there's macartney. macartney didn't know you existed. now he doesn't see that any one else does. what has happened, lucy?" she was annoyed at his _lucy_, annoyed that she could be annoyed, annoyed at his question, and his right to ask it--which she had given him. mostly, perhaps, she was annoyed because her answer must sound ridiculous. hateful, that such should be the lot of men and wives! she repeated his question, "what has happened? i don't know how to tell you. i found out, before we started--james found out-- please don't ask me to talk about it. believe me when i say that everything is changed. i can't say more than that." he didn't move his eyes from her. she knew they were there though she would not face them. "everything isn't changed. i'm not changed. i don't know that you are, although you say so." she faced him. "indeed, i am. i hope you'll understand that." he frowned, his fever flushed him. "you can't be. we can never be ordinary acquaintance. i have kissed you--" "you had no right--" "you have kissed me--" "you are cruel indeed." "i am not cruel--i don't pretend to excuse myself. the first time--it was the act of a cad--but i worked it all out. it couldn't fail; i knew exactly how it would be. you would of course think it was he. you would be awfully touched, awfully pleased--set up. and you were. i saw that you were when we all came into the room. you went over and stood by him. you put your hand on his arm. i said, 'you divine, beautiful, tender thing, now i'll go through the fire to get you....'" lucy had covered her face with her hands; but now she lifted it and showed him as it might be the eyes of an assessing angel. "you went through no fire at all. but you put me in the fire." but he continued as if she had said nothing material. "i had made up my mind to be satisfied. i thought if i could see you exalted, proud of what you had, that would be enough. but you found him out; and then you found me out too ... and we never spoke of it. but there it was, lucy, all the time; and there it is still, my dear--" her face was aflame, but her eyes clear and cold. "no," she said, "it's not there. there is nothing there at all. you are nothing to me but a thought of shame. i think i deserve all that you can say--but surely you have said enough to me now. i must leave you if you go on with this conversation. nothing whatever is there--" he laughed, not harshly, but comfortably, as a man does who is sure of himself. "yes, there is something there still. i count on that. there is a common knowledge, unshared by any one but you and me. he would have it so. i was ready to tell him everything, but he wouldn't hear me. it was honourable of him. i admired him for it; but it left me sharing something with you." she stared at him, as if he had insulted her in the street. "what can you mean? how could he want to hear from you what he knew already from me?" urquhart went pale. grey patches showed on his cheeks and spread like dry places in the sand. "you told him?" "everything. two nights before you went." he fell silent. his eyes left her face. power seemed to leave him. "that tears it," he said. "that does for me." he was so utterly disconcerted that she could have pitied him. "so that's why he didn't want to hear me! no wonder. but--why didn't he tell me that he knew it? i taunted him with not knowing." he turned towards her; his eyes were bright with fever. "if you know, perhaps you'll tell me." lucy said proudly, "i believe i know. he didn't want to change your thoughts of me." he received that in silence. then he said, "by george, he's a better man than i am." lucy said, "yes, he is." her head was very fixed, her neck very stiff. she was really angry, and urquhart had sense enough to see it. she got up to leave him, really angry, but unwilling to appear so. "you must forget all this," she said, "and get well. then you will do wonderful things." he said, "i've been a blackguard; but i meant something better." "oh, i am sure you did," she said warmly. "i won't see macartney, if he doesn't mind. tell him from me that he's a better man than i am." "he won't believe you," said lucy. "oh, yes, he will," urquhart held. "good-bye. love to lancelot." that melted her. "don't give us up. we are all your friends now." he wouldn't have it. "no. i am a neck-or-nothing man. it can't be. there's no cake in the cupboard. i've eaten it. send vera in if you see her about. good-bye." she left him. * * * * * she went through the hall, with a word to vera, who was writing letters there. "he asked for you." vera looked up at her. "he's excited, i suppose?" "no, not now," said lucy. then she went into the sitting-room and saw the party at tea on the balcony. james paused in his careful occupations, and focussed her with his eyeglass. she went quickly to the table. "oh, let me do it, let me." and then she sighed deeply. "hulloa," said james, knowing very well. "what's up?" she poured the tea. "only that i'm glad to be here." glances were exchanged, quick but reassuring. lancelot said, "there's a ripping cake. mr. urquhart would like some, i bet you." lucy said, "he can't have any cake just yet." upon which remark she avoided james's eye, and eyeglass, with great care. but on a swift afterthought she stooped and kissed lancelot. epilogue really, the only fact i feel called upon to add is the following announcement, culled from a fashionable newspaper. "on the rd june," we read, "at ---- onslow square, to mr. and mrs. james adolphus macartney, a daughter." that ought to do instead of the wedding bells once demanded by the average reader. let it then stand for the point of my pair's pilgrimage. i promised a romantic james and have given you a sentimental one. it is a most unfortunate thing that it should be thought ridiculous for a man to fall in love with his wife, for his wife to fall in love with him; and we have to thank, i believe, the high romanticks for it. they must have devilry, it seems, or cayenne pepper. but i say, scorn not the sentimental, though it be barley-sugar to ambrosia, a canary's flight to a skylark's. scorn it not; it's the romantic of the unimaginative; and if it won't serve for a magic carpet, it makes a useful anti-macassar. the macartneys saw no more of urquhart, who, however, recovered the use of his backbone, and with it his zest for the upper air. he sent lucy some flowers after the event of june, and later on, at the end of july, a letter, which i reproduce. "_quid plura_? i had news of you and greeted it, and am gone. i have hired myself to the greeks for the air. i take two machines of my own, and an m. b. if you can forgive me when i have worked out my right we shall meet again. if you, i shall know, and keep off. good-bye, lucy. "j. u. "the one thing i can't forgive myself was the first, a wild impulse, but a cad's. all the rest was inevitable. good-bye." she asked lancelot what _quid plura_ meant. he snorted. "hoo! stale! it means, what are you crying about? naturally. who said it? that letter? who's it from? mr. urquhart, i suppose?" "yes, it's from mr. urquhart, to say good-bye. he's going to greece, to fly for the navy." "oh. rather sport. has he gone?" "yes, dear, i think so." "you'll write to him, i suppose?" "i might." "i shall too, then. rather. i should think so." the end * * * * * transcriber's note: ) inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original. ) the original text includes greek characters. for this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. ) passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. ) the following misprints have been corrected: vicacious corrected to vivacious (page ) "s[oe]ters" corrected to "sæters" (page ) missing text "w____" corrected to "where" (page ) ) other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained. love of brothers by katharine tynan author of "the middle years," "the years of the shadows," "the west wind," "miss gascoigne," etc., etc. london constable & company ltd. contents chap. i o'garas of castle talbot ii patsy remembers iii a tea party iv from the past v the haven vi stella vii brady's bull viii sir shawn sees a ghost ix the letter x mrs. wade xi the only pretty ring-time xii mother-love xiii the old love xiv stella goes visiting xv the shadow xvi the dead hand xvii miss brennan xviii the daughter xix anger cruel as death xx sir shawn has a visitor xxi stella is sick xxii a sudden blow xxiii the home-coming xxiv the sick watchers xxv in which terry finds a dead man xxvi mother and daughter xxvii the story is told xxviii the vigil xxix the lakh of rupees introductory it was a night of bright moonlight that made for pitchy shadows under wall or tree. patsy kenny was looking for the goat, she having broken her tether. he had been driven forth by his fierce old grandfather with threats of the most awful nature if he should return without the goat. the tears were not yet dry on patsy's small face. he had kneaded them in with his knuckles, but the smears caused by the process were not visible in the moonlight, even if there had been any one to see them. it was not only the hardship of being driven out when the meal of hot potatoes was on the table, to search for that "ould divil" of a goat, and his sense of the injustice which had put the blame of the goat's straying on to his narrow shoulders. the old, in patsy's knowledge of them, were crabbed and unjust. that was something for the young to take in the day's work. it was patsy's fears of the supernatural that kept him creeping along in the shadow of the hedge, now and again stopping to weep a little over his troubles, or to listen fearfully like a frightened hare before going on again. why, close to the road by which he must go to seek the goat there was the tomb in which captain hercules o'hart lay buried. people about killesky did not take that road if they could help it. the tomb was a terror to all those who must pass the road by night, and to their horses if they were riding or driving. it was well known that no horse would pass by the tomb without endeavouring to avoid it, and if forced or cajoled into accomplishing the passage, would emerge trembling and sweating. some unimaginative person had suggested that the terror of the horses was due to the thunder of the invisible waterfall where the river tumbled over its weir, just below the mount on which old hercules had chosen to be buried. the horses knew better than that. nothing natural said the people would make a horse behave in such a way. the dumb beast knew what it saw and that was nothing good. the anguish of patsy's thoughts caused him suddenly to "bawl" as he would have put it himself. "isn't it an awful thing?" he asked, addressing the quiet bog-world under the moon, "to think of a little lad like me havin' to be out in the night facin' all them ghosts and that ould heart-scald of a man burnin' his knees at home be the fire? what'll i do at all if that tormint of a goat is up strayin' on the mount? it would be like what the divil 'ud do to climb up there, unless it was to be the churchyard below, and all them ould bones stickin' up through the clay. "there isn't wan out this night but meself," he went on. "it's awful to think of every wan inside their houses an' me wanderin' about be me lone. it isn't wan ghost but twinty i might meet betune this an' the cross-roads, let alone fairies and pookas. won't i just welt the divil out o' the oul' goat when i ketch her?" a little whinny close to him made him look round with a fearful hope. he saw neither pooka nor fairy, but the long horns of the animal he was in search of. he snatched joyfully at her chain, forgetting all his anger. indeed none knew better than the goat patsy's gentleness with all living creatures. her mouth was full of grass. he remembered his grandfather's speech as he tethered the little goat on the bare hillside above the house. "my poor girl," he had said, "you've got little enough to ate, but then you've a beautiful view." "sure she strayed," said patsy in extenuation, "because she was hungry, the creature." so he had not had to leave the brightly lit bog-road for that black tunnel of trees just beyond which led to old hercules' tomb, and the well where the woman fell in and the fields where old michael halloran, who had been steward and general overseer to the o'harts, was reputed to be seen night after night--hedging and fencing the lands and he years dead. "you was a good little goat," said patsy in his great relief. "come home now and i'll milk you: and maybe that cross ould man would let me have a sup o' tay for my supper." he had pulled the goat down the bank into the dry ditch. it was a good thing he had stopped to "bawl," else maybe he'd have missed the goat who had been having her fill of mrs. mcenroe's after-grass. still he wondered now at his temerity since the bawlin' might have brought _them_ upon him disturbin' their sleep that way. he suddenly caught the sound of horses' feet coming along the bog-road towards him. he stopped and listened, holding firmly on to the goat. the bog-road was light as day. two people were walking their horses side by side, a dog at their heels. "it'll be mr. terence comerford, an' sir shawn o'gara, comin' home together," patsy said to himself. "what at all would be keepin' them out till this hour of the night, unless it was to be talkin' to bridyeen sweeney? quare ways young gentlemen has that they'd be talkin' to a poor girl an' maybe turnin' her head, let alone settin' the neighbours to talkin' about her. god help her." in this musing, be it said, patsy was but repeating the talk of his elders, although he was naturally what is called an old-fashioned child. he crouched low in the ditch while the horses came on at a walking pace. the riders were talking, one in a low voice, so low that patsy could not make out what he said. this one was slender and young. the other, young also, but big and burly, was riding a horse which apparently did not like the walking pace. she--it was a mare--curveted and caracoled in the road, which was one reason why patsy could not hear what was being said. the boy peered out, with fear in his heart. the knowledge of horses was born in him. his father had been stud-groom to mr. comerford of inch. by and by patsy meant to escape from his old tyrant and become a stable-boy at inch or at castle talbot. perhaps in time he might come to be stud-groom, though that was a dizzy height towards which as yet his imagination hardly carried him. "mr. terence has drink taken," said patsy, in his own mind. "he's not steady in the saddle. an', glory be to goodness, it's spitfire he's ridin'." patsy was at home in many stables where the grooms and stable-helpers condescended to accept his willing aid in running messages or the like. "what would the misthress or miss mary say if they was to see him now? look well to him, sir shawn, look well to him, or it's killin' himself he'll be!" this apostrophe was unspoken. mr. terence comerford had brought spitfire under control and she walked more soberly. the talk had ceased for moment. it broke out again. as the riders went on their way sir shawn's voice sounded as though he was pleading hard with his friend. they had always been the most attached and devoted friends from boyhood. terence comerford's laugh came back borne upon a little wind. "it'll be," said patsy in his thoughts, "that sir shawn'll be biddin' mr. terence to have sinse. a quare thing it is, and he all but promised to miss mary that he'd be down at dowd's every night since she and the misthress went to dublin, talking to poor bridyeen. 'tis sorrow the crathur'll have, no less, if she goes listenin' to mr. terence. 'tis a wonder sir shawn wouldn't be givin' him better advice. unless it was to be--there's some do be sayin' he's fond of miss mary too." all gossip of his elders, told round the turf-fire at night when patsy was supposed to be fast asleep in the settle bed, instead of "cockin' his ears" for grown people's talk. he peered out with wide eyes in the direction the riders had taken. his small bullet head and narrow shoulders threw a shadow on the moonlit road. "sir shawn 'ud have a right to be seein' mr. terence home to inch itself," he thought. "it isn't alone ould hercules an' the river tumblin' over the weir an' the terrible dark road, but there's ould halloran's ghost on the long avenue to inch, and there's the ghost of the minister's wife by the churchyard. and spitfire, that would take fright at a pinkeen much less a ghost, under him, and mr. terence be the way of him none too steady." mr. terence's laughter came back on the wind, and was caught up and repeated by something that lurked in the wood of the echoes, as the people called it, which grew on a spit of solid land that reached out into the bog. those echoes were difficult to explain. why should a little wood of slender trees within a low wall catch and fling back human voices? the echo repeating that mocking laughter, out there in the bog, was a new element of terror to patsy. he had better be getting away from this queer unlucky place before the riders were out of hearing. the little old grandfather, with his blazing eyes of wrath and the stick concealed somewhere behind his coat-tails, his most familiar aspect to patsy, was better than this solitude, with that old echo across the bog there cackling in that unchancy way. soon, very soon, the lower road, overhung with trees, pitch-black, where one had to pass by old hercules' tomb, just above the fall of the river over its weir, would swallow mr. terence, while sir shawn's way would wind upwards towards the mountains. unless indeed sir shawn was to go home to inch with mr. terence, seeing he was riding spitfire and so many perils to be passed, and him not too steady by the look of him. patsy trotted along in the wake of the riders, his bare feet making a soft padding noise in the dust of the road. his way was sir shawn's way. the wealth of the world would not have induced patsy to go down under the black shade of the trees into the assemblage of all the ghosts. the little goat followed with docility at his heels, uttering now and again a plaintive bleat of protest at the pace. suddenly there came a sound which, filling patsy's heart with a concrete terror, banished all the shadowy terrors. it was the sharp slash of a whip, followed by the sound of a horse in mad flight. "it's spitfire, it's spitfire!" cried patsy to the moon and the stars. "she'll kill mr. terence. the world knows she'd never take the whip." it seemed to him as though there were two horses in the headlong flight, but he could not be sure. he stumbled along, sobbing in his haste and calling out inarticulate appeals to heaven, to sir shawn, to save mr. terence, while the clatter of the horses' feet died in the distance. he even forgot his terror of the dark road which closed about him as he followed on spitfire's track. it might be that sir shawn was catching up with the runaway horse, ready to snatch at the bridle if only he could be in time. suddenly patsy, sobbing and shaking, cannoned into some one, something, in the darkness of the trees. a man's voice cursed him low and deep,--no ghostly voice, nor that of the countryside, an unfamiliar voice and speech to patsy. his slender little body was caught in a fierce grip. he was lifted and dashed on to the road. if it had been a stony road, instead of the yielding bog, there would have been an end of patsy's story. as it was he lay very quietly, while the little goat went home without him. chapter i o'garas of castle talbot patsy kenny, stud-groom to sir shawn o'gara, a quiet man, devoted to his horses and having a wonderful way with them, sometimes allowed his mind to wander back to the night mr. terence comerford was killed and the days that followed. he could recall the inquest on poor mr. terence, himself, with a bandaged head, keeping the one eye he had available fixed on the gentleman who asked him questions. he knew that sir shawn o'gara was present, his face marble pale and his eyes full of a strange anguish. well, that was not to be wondered at. the gentleman who asked the questions made sympathetic references to the unusual friendship between sir shawn and mr. comerford. patsy had been aware of the nervous tension in sir shawn's face, the occasional quiver of a nostril, "like as if he was a horse, a spirity one, aisy frightened, like spitfire," patsy had thought. he remembered that tense anguish of sir shawn's face now, as he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree in the paddock of the foals at castle talbot. the foals were running with their mothers, exquisite creatures, of the most delicate slenderness. the paddock was full of the lush grass of june. the mares were contentedly grazing. now and again one lifted her head and sniffed the air with the wind in her mane, as if at the lightest sound she would take fright. patsy had had a hard tussle that morning with an ill-tempered horse he was breaking, and he felt tired out. he had no idea of compelling a horse with a whip. sir shawn had bought this horse at a fair a short time before. he was jet-black and they had called him mustapha. that was master terry's name for him, a queer heathenish name to patsy's mind, but all master terry did and all the mistress, master terry's mother did, was right in patsy's eyes, so mustapha the horse was called. he was certainly an ill-tempered brute, with a lot of the devil in him, but patsy kenny was never angry with a horse; it was an invaluable quality in a stud-groom. patsy was wont to say that when he found a horse wicked he looked for the man. there was no evidence of the man so far as their record of mustapha went. he had been bought from a little old man as pink as a baby and with a smiling innocence of aspect, so small that when mustapha tossed his head the little man, hanging on by the rope-bridle, was lifted in the air and dropped again. "that crathur," said patsy to himself, "would never have done the horse a wrong. i wonder where he got him from an' who had the rearin' of him. i'm surprised the master cared to handle him. he's as like as two pins to spitfire. where was it they said spitfire went? some mountainy man bought her for a five-pound note i've heard tell." he pulled out a fine red handkerchief and mopped his forehead with it. he'd had two hours of it trying to "insinse some rayson" into mustapha's head. he had not made much progress. mustapha was still kicking and squealing in his loose-box. the sounds reached patsy kenny where he sat on his log and made him sad. gentle as he was he thought he had an understanding of even mustapha. the ears back, the whites of the eyes showing, the wild nostrils, the tense muscles under the skin of black satin, were something of an unhappiness in his mind. some time or other mustapha must have been ill-treated. he put his head down on his hand. he was really tired out. so he was unaware of the approach over the grass towards him of two people till their shadows fell upon him and he looked up. "that brute has taken it out of you, patsy," said the elder man, who had a curious elegance of face and figure. years had not coarsened sir shawn o'gara. he was still slight and active. his white hair was in almost startling contrast with the darkly foreign face, the small black moustache, the dark eyes, almost too large and soft and heavily lashed for a man's eyes. the boy who was with him was very unlike his father. he had taken after his mother, who had once been mary creagh, of whom some one had said she had the colour of the foxes. the boy had his mother's reddish brown eyes and hair, something of the same colour underlying his fair skin as it did hers. he had the white, even teeth, the flashing and radiant smile. mary creagh had been a beautiful girl, with a look of motherliness even in her immature girlhood. as a wife and mother that aspect of her beauty had developed. many a strange confidence had been brought to mary creagh, and later to lady o'gara. she had a way of opening hearts and lips with that soft, steadfast glance of hers. her full bosom looked as though it were made for a child's head or a man's to rest upon. "he'll come round, he'll come round," said patsy. "he'll have been hurted some time or another. whin he gets to know me he'll be biddable enough." "oh, i know your theories," sir shawn said, a smile breaking over the melancholy of his face. "you'll never give in that a horse could be cursed with a natural ill-temper. but there are ill-tempered people: why not ill-tempered horses?" "bedad, i dunno!" said patsy, scratching his head thoughtfully. he stood up with a jerk. it had occurred to him suddenly that he was sitting while the gentlemen were standing. "i never could see inside a human. i don't know how it is at all that i can see the mind of a horse." "you're a wonderful man, patsy," said the boy gaily. "you are wasted as our stud-groom. the scientific beggars would like to get hold of a man who could see into the mind of a horse. only we couldn't spare you. i'm afraid mustapha would only listen to reason from you, and i've set my heart on riding him this autumn." "you won't do that, master terry, till i've had a good many more talks with the horse. i'd be sorry to see you ridin' him yet, sir." terry o'gara, brilliant in white flannels,--he had been playing tennis with his mother's distant young cousin, eileen creagh--seemed to draw the afternoon sun on to his spotlessness. patsy kenny, a little dazed with fatigue, blinked at his whiteness against the green grass. a mare came trotting up to them with her foal. the mare allowed herself to be fondled, but the little foal was very wild and cantered away when they tried to stroke him. the big paddock was a pleasant sight with the mares and their foals wandering over the young grass. the trees surrounding the paddock had not yet lost their first fresh green: and the white red-roofed stabling, newly built to accommodate the racing stud, made a vivid high light against the coppices. the three wandered on from one mare and foal to another. patsy, chewing a straw, offered the opinion that magda's foal was the best of the lot. magda belonged to her ladyship. "there won't be a foal in it like that little wan," said patsy, looking at a tall chestnut foal, the slender legs of which seemed as though they might break with a little pressure, so delicate were they. "the filly won't be in it, master terry, wid your mamma's horse. i've never seen a better foal. he'll win the derby yet. woa, magda, woa, my beauty." he was trying to get close to the mare, she being restive. suddenly she uttered a joyous whinny and started off down the field, the little foal at her heels, the long manes of both flying in the wind. "she knows her ladyship has sugar for her. an' there's miss eileen. i never knew a young lady as much afraid of a horse as miss eileen. you should tache her better, master terry." they stood by a gate to look at the horses which at a little distance beyond a small enclosure hung their long sleek noses across a five-foot paling. the points of the horses had to be discussed. patsy had quite forgotten his fatigue. he opened the gate and they crossed the narrow strip between that and the paling. a second gate was opened and they passed through. while they were looking at the horses they were joined by lady o'gara and miss creagh, the latter, a delicately fair girl with a mass of fine golden hair caught up with many hairpins a-top of her small head, keeping close to lady o'gara. lady o'gara was laughing. her husband sometimes called her the laughing goddess. she had two aspects to her beauty--one when she was soft and motherly, the other when she rallied those she loved and sparkled with merriment. her still beautiful copper-coloured hair had hardly a white thread in it. she was very charming to look at in her matronly beauty. "i've had to defend poor eileen from the mares," she said. "they were impudent, crowding around me for sugar and sticking their noses in my pocket. magda and brunette nearly came to blows. i had to push them off with my whip. poor eileen!" "i'm so sorry you were frightened," terry o'gara said, drawing a little nearer to the girl and looking into her blue eyes. the others had gone on. "you won't be afraid with me," said the boy, who had just passed out of sandhurst; and was feeling immensely proud of his commission and his sword and all they betokened, although he talked lazily about "cutlery" and the pleasure of getting into mufti, making his mother's eyes dance. "if you like, we will keep behind," he said. "if you are not accustomed to it, it is rather alarming to be caught into a herd of horses. my mother is so used to them that she cannot imagine any one being afraid." the horses were coming in a long string from the other end of the paddock, whinnying and neighing, shaking the ground as they came. the girl drew back towards the hedge. "it's only rough love," the boy said. "patsy kenny can do anything with the horses. they quarrel if he takes more notice of one than another." "they won't hurt your mother?" the girl said anxiously. "there she is in the midst of them. is it safe?" "quite safe. nothing will happen to mother while father and patsy kenny are there. what a frightened child you are!" miss creagh's soft red mouth widened into a smile which had amusement in it. she was six years older than the boy who called her a frightened child. the smile was gone before he could see it. "i'm afraid i'm rather a coward," she said meekly. "father has always said that it was absurd for a soldier's daughter to be alarmed of so many things." terry o'gara thought at the moment that it was the most beautiful and appealing thing in the world for a girl to be frightened of many things, when the girl happened to be as pretty as eileen creagh, and he was the valiant youth who was to protect her from her terrors. although he liked the feeling of protecting her he fell in with her suggestion that they should go back and talk to the foals. miss creagh was certainly a coward, for she cried out when a horse showed any evidence of friendliness; but when terry suggested that they should go to the garden and look for strawberries she did not fall in with the suggestion. "let us wait for your mother here," she said, having gained the safe shelter of the space between the palings and the gate. "you are sure she is quite safe? just look at her among those wild horses! there couldn't be ... an accident?" he laughed at her terrors. "mother was born in a stable, so to speak," he said. "she has a way with the horses. but how fond you are of her! i am so grateful to you for appreciating my mother as she deserves." "she is an angel," said the girl fervently. "well, i think so." he laughed rather shyly. "it would not be easy for a boy to have better parents. father is quite unlike mother, of course ... but ... i have a tremendous admiration for him, all the same. i'll tell you a secret. i believe up to this time i have wanted more than anything else to please my father. when i had to work for exams. i hated, or any stunt of that kind, when i--oh, i oughtn't to be talking about myself. it isn't that i love mother less, but mother is so happy. she would always find something good in my failures. but--to see father's face light up...!" "he looks rather sad," miss creagh said wistfully. "yes, though he can be uncommonly jolly. we have had such rags together in london. why, here is shot." he stooped to fondle the head of a beautiful red setter. "he must have got shut up in the garden. what i can't understand about shot is his indifference to you." "he knows that in my secret heart i'm afraid of dogs,--a dreadful admission, isn't it? i think it was our old nurse. i can always remember her driving a dog out of the nursery. 'nasty thing!' she used to say. 'you shall not come near my baby.' i suppose i got the idea quite in babyhood that a dog was something noxious. not that the others minded. the house was always full of dogs." "oh, you'll get over that. won't she, shot? do you think his hair and eyes are like my mother's?" "like?" miss creagh was puzzled. "oh, surely not! how could a dog's hair and eyes be like a person's. your beautiful mother! it seems such an odd comparison." "oh, well--shot is beautiful too." despite his infatuation terry felt a little disappointed in miss creagh. sir shawn and lady o'gara had gone on into the next paddock, which belonged to the young mares. there was a momentary excitement. one of the horses had got through after them and was racing up and down between the hurdles whinnying loudly. by the time he was secured and put back in his proper quarters the young people were out of sight. chapter ii patsy remembers "shot's a good dog," patsy kenny was wont to observe in his slow way, "an' his father before him was a good dog. yet i wouldn't be sayin' but what ould shot, the grandfather, wasn't the pick o' the basket." old shot had lived for five years after sir shawn o'gara's marriage to mary creagh, which had sorely offended and alienated mrs. comerford, who had brought up the girl from childhood and loved her like a daughter. when he had died it was by lady o'gara's wish that the dog was buried in the grass-plot just outside the drawing-room window. she could see the mound from the window recess, where she sat to write her letters, in which she kept her work-table, the book she was reading, and various other belongings; she had screened it off so that the deep recess was like a little room to itself. "when i look up and see the mound instead of shot it always hurts me," she had said in early days. "but then i feel that he likes to be near." "he was so fond of you, mary," her husband often said, "fonder even, i believe, than he was of me." "oh, no, shawn, not that. no one could take your place with shot. but he accepted me, dear old dog, and i am very proud of it." that was before shot's son had aspired to take his father's place, while he was still indeed one of a likely litter of puppies in the stable-yard, just beginning to be cast off by judy who had other things to do in a sporting autumn besides looking after a lot of sprawling, big-pawed puppies, who were quite independent of her and becoming rather unmanageable. it was also before old shot had begun to return to his friends as nothing more tangible than a padding of soft paws on the stairs, a movement under the dining-table, where he had been accustomed to lie in life, a sound of a dog lying down with a sigh, or getting up from the hearthrug before the billiard-room fire. these manifestations had sometimes perturbed visitors to castle talbot; but intimates at the house had come to accept as its owners did these sounds of a presence that was never seen. no one was any longer incommoded by it except young shot, who would get up uncomfortably and lie at a distance, his nose on his paws, regarding with a wistful melancholy the place from which he had been driven forth. "meself an' ould shot'll never lave the master till we have to," patsy kenny had said to lady o'gara, to whom he was as much attached as old shot had been. "me an' shot'll stick by the master," he had often said in his own mind, and sometimes aloud, when he was out in the paddocks with the horses and there was no human ear to listen to him. then he would have a vision of a young man in a grey suit, slender and elegant, face downward on the grass and he calling out to some one to forgive him. "sure god help him, he has suffered," he would add as the memory came to him. patsy, who had been taking a short cut by the wood to the stable-yard when he had come upon that sight,--it was long ago--had gone away terrified and aching with pity for the misery he had surprised. sir shawn o'gara had interfered once to save little patsy from a beating and had been rewarded disproportionately by a silent ardent devotion, at which no one,--he himself least of all,--had ever guessed. patsy had liked mr. terence comerford too. he was handsomer, the people thought, than sir shawn, being golden-haired, blue-eyed and ruddy, and very big and broad-shouldered, with a jolly greeting for every one. many a time he had let patsy hold his horse and flung him a sixpence for it. the peasants had no eye for the beauty and distinction of sir shawn o'gara's looks, his elegant slenderness, the somewhat mournful depths of his eyes which were of so dark a grey that they were almost black. too foreign looking, the people pronounced him, their idea of foreigners being bounded by their knowledge of a greatly-daring italian organ-grinder who had once come over the mountains to killesky with a little red-coated monkey sitting a-top of the organ, to the great joy of the children. that had been a record rainy season, and the organ-grinder and the monkey had both sickened for the sun, and would have died if old lady o'gara, who was half-italian herself, had not heard the tale and sent the man back to his own country. "he'd be askin' mr. terence to forgive him because maybe he was vexed wid him about poor bridyeen," patsy had often thought since. "an' maybe because miss mary creagh had always liked him better than mr. terence, though she was too much afraid of mrs. comerford, to say it. or maybe 'twas that he couldn't save him from spitfire. not but what she was kind enough, the crathur, if he hadn't took to floggin' her." very rarely patsy thought on the man who had cursed him in the ditch that night long ago. he was only an accidental terror of the night crowded with terrors, from which patsy had reached his grandfather's door and tumbled in "about the flure" in a fainting condition. he had queer hazy memories that the old man was kind, that the two little eyes which had often blazed fury at him, were dim with tears. he did not know if he dreamt it or not that he had heard his grandfather telling the other old men around the turf fire that he, patsy, was a good little lad, but that he had to be strict with him to keep him good. when he had got about again he had heard that sir shawn o'gara had been very ill, that the shock of his friend's death had been too much for him. then one day the old lady o'gara had come to the cottage on the edge of the bog to ask for him. it had got out that patsy had seen something of the terrible happening of that night, and she had been very gentle and friendly with him, and had asked him if he would not like to go to school; and afterwards what he would like to do. he could see her delicate profile now if he closed his eyes, the olive skin, the deep velvety eyes, the red lips. even the country people did not deny lady o'gara beauty, of a foreign sort. though they would never admire her as they admired miss mary creagh. soon after patsy had gone to school lady o'gara died, and a year later sir shawn and miss mary creagh were married. by this time patsy had become a favourite pupil with mr. o'connell, at the national schools, who thought that in time he might qualify for a "vit," seeing his love for animals; but perhaps mr. o'connell's liking for patsy was only because he found in him an equal mind with his own about animals, mr. o'connell's attachment to his dog, sambo, being a cause of laughter to most of his pupils. patsy had a happy time with mr. o'connell; but the necessary education for the veterinary profession in the matter of mere book-learning he seemed either unable or unwilling to acquire, so he went in time to the stables at castle talbot to qualify as he had coveted for the hereditary position of stud-groom. sir shawn, since he had married miss creagh, had taken to keeping racehorses; and patsy kenny had a way with horses. he was a natural solitary as regarded his kind. many a pretty girl had looked patsy's way invitingly, seeing in him a steady, sober boy who might be trusted not to spend his wages in drink, whose dreamy eyes and soft slow voice promised gentleness with a woman; but patsy never thought of the girls apparently. he was very fond of his master, but his great devotion was for lady o'gara who, as miss mary creagh, had dazzled him when she came and went at castle talbot, not forgetting if she met patsy to stop and speak with him. that devotion to miss mary, continued to lady o'gara, had perhaps spoilt patsy's chances of being happy after the manner of other men. he would have said himself, perhaps, that with the horses to think of he had no time to think about getting married. certainly he did not seem to find his bachelor state amiss. his little house, in the new block of stabling, white walled, red-roofed, painted with cross beams to its pointed gable, was kept with meticulous care. patsy did his own work. lady o'gara was right perhaps when she called him a natural celibate. long, long ago old judy dowd and her granddaughter, bridyeen, had left killesky,--for america. they had not gone away with the drafts of boys and girls who went week after week during the spring weather, leaving beragh station on their way to liverpool with a great send-off from friends and relatives, ending, as the train went, with cries of lamentation that brought the other passengers to their carriage windows, curious or sympathetic, according to their natures. no: judy dowd and bridyeen had gone off in an underhand manner, leaving mr. casey, the solicitor, to dispose of the public-house and effects. the neighbours had been rather indignant about it, and had made up their minds as to the reason of this unsportsmanlike flitting. but by the time they were saying to each other that judy dowd had a right not to be spoiling her grand-daughter, making her pretty for the eyes of gentlemen; that what could a girl want more than barney killeen, who had a farm and an outside car, if he was sixty itself? that there was no use humouring the fancies of girls: that they'd always known how it would end: finally that it was well bridyeen should be taken away before she made a scandal in the parish--by that time the dowds were no more than a name and a memory. few people now remembered the old unhappy far-off things. judy dowd's public-house in killesky, which had been a very small affair, had made way for conneely's hotel. there was not much hotel about it, but there was quite a thriving shop, divided into two parts--one, general store, the other public. if you were a person of importance and called at conneely's for refreshment you had it in "the drawing-room" upstairs, where the misses conneely's drawings in chalk hung on the walls, and their photographs adorned the chimney-piece, while their school prizes were arranged neatly on the round table in the middle of the room, flanking the wax flowers under a glass shade which made the centre piece. the miss conneelys had done well in the intermediate. their elder brother was a priest. father tom's photograph was in the centre of the chimney-piece a-top of the clock. they could play the piano and violin and had fortunes when the time came for them to marry. their mother would never have permitted them to serve in the bar nor even behind the drapery counter. they were black-haired, rosy, buxom girls, who set the fashions in killesky. there had been a sensation when nora conneely came back from dublin with a walking-stick, but after an amazed pause killesky--the young ladies of it,--broke out in walking-sticks. there was enough positive about the conneelys, the priest, the prosperous self-satisfied girls, the managing capable mother, to make people feel that there had always been conneely's hotel in killesky. if the old people remembered julia dowd's little public-house with its thatched roof, the low ceiling and the fire of turf to which you could draw a chair while you had your drink, the little parlour beyond which was reserved for customers of a superior station, they did not talk about it. inch too was shut up. mrs. comerford had gone away after mary creagh's engagement to sir shawn o'gara. she had taken it very ill,--as a slur to her dead son's memory. she had always been an austere, somewhat severe woman, but she had taken mary creagh from her dying mother's arms, a child of a few weeks old, had reared her as her own and been tender to her, with the surprising precious tenderness of a reserved, apparently cold nature. mrs. comerford had gone to italy and had never since returned. perhaps she would never come now, although the place was kept from going to rack and ruin by james clinch, the butler, and mrs. clinch, who had been cook and had married the butler after mrs. comerford had gone away. all these things came back to patsy kenny in his solitary hours. he was very fond of sitting on a log or a stone between his strenuous working times, going over old days in his mind. this june afternoon, rather wearied still by his struggle with mustapha, he was sitting on a block in front of his little house in the stable-yard. judy, a half-bred setter--the names of the animals at castle talbot were hereditary--was lying at his feet. the pigeons were pecking about him daintily. only judy's watchful, jealous eye prevented their flying on to his knee or his shoulder. the memories unfolded themselves like the scenes of a cinematograph, slipping past his mind. he remembered bridyeen sweeney, whose delicate beauty used to draw the gentlemen to dowd's long ago. he contrasted her in his mind with nora conneely whom he had met that morning as he went to the post-office, wearing what he had heard called a merry widow hat, and a tight skirt, displaying open-work stockings and high-heeled shoes, a string of pearls about a neck generously displayed by the low blouse she was wearing, her right hand twirling the famous walking-stick. "i dunno what at all came to bridyeen," he murmured to himself. "she was as pretty as a picture,--like a little rose she was, and so modest in all her ways. even my grandfather used to say there was nothing against bridyeen. i wouldn't have thought it of mr. terence either that he'd be tryin' to turn the little girl's head and he the mistress's cousin an' they as good as promised. i only hope master terence had time to repent, if the stories were true itself that the people told. sure maybe there was nothin' in it." he had perhaps dozed off. he came awake suddenly to judy's snarling. judy never gave the alarm for nothing. a man had come into the stable-yard, quite obviously a tramp. behind him came a woman and a child of the same fraternity. the woman stood humbly in the wake of the man, and the boy kept close to her. the man was a bad-looking fellow, patsy said to himself. half-consciously he noticed the man's hands, wicked-looking hands, covered with hair, the nails stubby and broken. the long arms were like the arms of a monkey. his tattered coat was velveteen. patsy remembered to have seen the material on the game-keepers of a big estate in the next county. "'ullo, matey," said this uninviting person, with an attempt at jocularity. "'ave you anythink to give a poor man out of a job?" the truculent voice, with its attempt at oiliness, the small red eyes under the shock of hair, the thick purple lips, had an extraordinary effect on patsy. he hated the tramp, yet he felt a queer sick fear of him. once, when sir shawn had taken him to england for a big race, he had seen a dog destroy an adder, with the same mixture of half-terrified rage and loathing he was feeling now. "there's nothing for you here," he said gruffly. "you don't look as if you had much taste for work." then he looked beyond the tramp to the woman and child. she was decent, the poor creature, he thought. her poor rags were clean and mended. she had a shrinking, suffering air. the boy, who was about nine years old, seemed to cling to her as though in terror of the burly ruffian. he was pale and thin and even on this beautiful june day he looked cold. patsy was suddenly gentle. he saw the glare in the tramp's eyes. "here's a shillin' for you," he said. "i've no job you'd care about. but the woman and the child might like a cup of tay." "all right," said the tramp, placated. "tea's not in my way. i'll be back in 'arf a mo'. don't you be makin' love to my ol' woman." he flicked his thumb and finger at the woman with an ugly jocularity: then went, with the tramp's shambling trot, out of the stable-yard the way he had come, down the back avenue which opened on to the road to killesky. chapter iii a tea party "i've seen that man of yours before," said patsy, turning round and gazing at the woman. he felt the most extraordinary pity for her. she must have been a pretty girl once, he thought, noticing the small pure outlines of the face. the child was like her, not like the ruffian who had just set off in the direction of conneely's hotel. a pretty boy, with soft, pale silken hair and blue eyes that looked scared. patsy remembered his own childhood with the terrible old grandfather, and his heart was soft with compassion. "i don't think so, sir," said the woman. she was english by her voice. "he hasn't been in these parts before." patsy noticed with the same sharp pity which seemed to hurt him, that she trembled. she was tired and hungry, perhaps; not cold, surely, in this glorious june sunshine. "sit down," he said, "sit down." he indicated a stone seat by the open door of the house. "you are tired, my poor girl. i've put the kettle on. it'll be boilin' by this time. i'll wet the cup of tay and it'll do you good." there was no one in the stable-yard to observe the strange sight of the stud-groom giving a meal to the tramping woman and her child. he brought out a little cloth and spread it on the stone seat. then he fetched the cups and saucers, one by one. "let me help you, sir," said the woman. "i was a servant in a good house before i had the misfortune to marry." there had been some strange delicacy in patsy's mind which had induced him to have the outdoor tea rather than a less troublesome arrangement within doors. perhaps he had an instinctive knowledge of what the woman's husband might be capable of in the way of thought or speech. "sit down there, georgie," said the woman to the child, with a kind of passionate tenderness. "he's too little, so he is," she addressed patsy kenny, "for the load o' cans and pots he has to carry. his bones are but soft yet." "cans and pots?" "there, beyond the gate. we sell them as we go along. when they're sold we buy more. we had a donkey-cart, but ... we had to sell it. we only take now what georgie and me can carry." "and your husband?" "he carries nought. he doesn't hold with a man carrying things." patsy said nothing. what was the matter with him that he felt such a pain of pity and such a rage of anger? he had felt the like before for an ill-treated animal. ill-treated humans had not often entered his experience, since he lived so much to himself. he went to the gate leading to the back avenue and looked out. hidden by the gate-post were a number of pots and pans and bright glittering new cans. a little away lay another heap. he stooped. there was a contrivance, something like a yoke for the shoulders, to which the cans were attached. he had seen, also in england, gipsy carts covered with such wares. he had not known that human shoulders could be adapted to this burden. "god help ye," he said, coming back. "'tis too much for you, let alone the child. the polis should see to it." "he takes the load from the boy before we come to a village," she said, nodding her head the way the man had gone. it was wonderful to see how quickly and deftly the woman set out the tea-things, made the tea, using much less than patsy's liberal allowance, and cut bread and butter. patsy found a few new-laid eggs and put them on to boil. the child sat in the shade: patsy had found him a chair, made of ropes of straw, to rest on instead of the cold stone. he sat in a relaxed way as though all his muscles were limp, taking no heed of the dog that sniffed about him. dead-tired, patsy thought, and loathed the muscular ruffian who went free while a child and a woman bore the burdens. it was pretty to see the woman coaxing the child to eat, forgetting herself. patsy looked about the familiar place and saw it strange with an appearance of domesticity. the creature was very gentle, he said to himself, and she was decent. her poor clothes were tidy, and the boy's likewise. their boots caused a queer pang in patsy's heart. they were disgraceful boots, bulging at the sides, broken: he had noticed that the boy shuffled as he walked. the woman sat holding her tea-cup in her hand, looking around the yard. patsy's house had a little yard to itself off the stable-yard proper. in the middle was a bed in which there was a rose-tree with pinks and pansies growing about its roots, patsy's garden, of which he was very proud. "it's a nice little spot you have here," she said, with a sigh. the canary, which hung by the door in a cage, sent out a hard bright runlet of song. the dog lay on her side with one brown eye fixed on her master. one of the big cats, which kept the stables free of rats and made company for the horses in winter, came delicately and rubbed himself against patsy's blue hand-knitted stockings. her eyes roved enviously about, taking in the quiet peacefulness of the scene. "i'll be washin' up for you before i go," she said. "sure i'm used to doin' for myself," returned patsy. "you've no wife?" she said; and looked down at the boy where he lay back wearily in the straw chair. "i'm a bachelor boy," said patsy. her eye considered her host in a way that caused patsy a curious internal shyness, not altogether unpleasant. "a pity," said she. "it would be a nice little place for a woman and a child." then she straightened herself and stood up. she had made a very good meal. "i saw where the basin was in the scullery," she said. "don't you trouble. it's a woman's work, not a man's. you stay here and talk to georgie." he carried in the tray when she had piled it with cups and saucers. otherwise he obeyed her. better if that ruffian came back he should find him talking to georgie rather than helping the woman to wash up. but georgie was very uncommunicative. he seemed too tired to talk. he too had not done so badly with the meal once he had begun. after a while his head fell a little to one side and he slept. patsy sat where he was. he could hear the noise of water flowing inside the house and the chink of cups and saucers in process of washing up. not for worlds would he have entered the house. he was thinking strange thoughts. for the first time he was touched by a woman, this poor, ill-clad, tramping woman, the wife of an evident scoundrel, touched to the heart for her and her child. the happy, pretty girls who had looked shy invitation at him had not appealed. they had, one by one, put him down as a dry old bachelor and taken their charms elsewhere. patsy had never missed wife or child. he would have said himself that he had enough to think of, with her ladyship and the master and mr. terry, enough to fill his heart. not that he felt anything beyond an immense compassion for these poor victims of man's cruelty. perhaps with such a person as patsy kenny compassion would serve for love always. "the creatures!" he said to himself, "the creatures! sure it isn't the hard ways of the world they're fit for at all." the woman emerged from the cottage, moving with a gentle softness. there was nothing of the tramp about her beyond the broken boots, the hat which had obviously been under the weather, the poor clothes. she sat down beside patsy kenny and spoke in a low voice for fear of waking the sleeping child. "it is a hard road he has to travel for one so young," she said, and he noticed that she looked quickly towards the gate. "it is," said patsy kenny. "too hard. he had no right to be carryin' all that tinker's stuff. that man of yours, my girl, oughtn't to be let do it." a little colour came to the woman's cheek. "we've run away from him over and over," she said. "he's always tracked us down. time and time again i was doin' well and georgie at school, but he always found us: i used to say my prayers to be delivered from him, but i never was: i don't suppose i ever will be now. i can't hide from him. i wouldn't mind for myself, if it wasn't for georgie. he'll kill georgie." "how long have you been at it?" patsy kenny asked quietly. "this sort of life? he found us in leicestershire three months ago. i was in a place with one lady. she was kind and let me have georgie. she always said she'd never have known there was a child in the house. georgie went to school and came home of afternoons. it was a quiet, peaceful spot. baker found me again. it wasn't the first time by many he dragged us out on the road. he sold all my clothes as well as takin' my savin's. he said there was money for him over here. i don't see no sign of it. the life will kill georgie. we tramped from dublin: with the last of my money baker bought the tins to keep us goin' on the road. it was bad in the cold, wet weather last month." "have you no one at all belongin' to you?" patsy asked in a low voice. "sisters and brothers, all respectable. my parents are dead. when i took baker i turned my back on them all." patsy's mind was working hard. there must be some help for the woman's case. it could not be law that this ruffian should have the power to drag his wife and child after him, loading them with burdens they were not fit to carry. the creature knew no better than to yield to him. the master was a magistrate and a kindly one. he was always settling disputes of one kind or another. patsy thought of bidding her wait where she was till the master could be found. he looked up from his thoughts and saw that mr. baker had come back. his face was very red and shiny. he wore a truculent look. "'ullo!" he said thickly. "'ere's quite a family party. 'ope you've been enjoyin' of yourselves as i 'ave, subjec' to _re_strictions. a bob don't go fur in liquor now-a-days. you might ha' made it two." "one seems to have been quite enough for you," said patsy, with a light of battle in eyes no longer dreamy. "i don't deny as i 'ad a bob myself to spend," said the ruffian. "'ere, you, georgie! you wake up, you lazy young devil! 'tis time we was on the road." patsy stepped between the man and the child who had come out of his sleep with a cry of fear. he put a open hand on mr. baker's chest and pushed him backward. somewhat contrary to his expectations the man did not resent his action, beyond remarking that no one had the right to interfere between a man and his kid. "now it comes to that," he said, with a sudden change to jocularity, "if so be as you've a fancy for 'er i'd sell her for five quid an' throw in the kid. it's no catch draggin' 'em round an' me 'avin' to carry the cans 'arf the time because o' your blasted coppers." the full enormity of the speech seemed to reveal itself only gradually to patsy's mind. he turned red and then pale. the poor woman was quivering as though a lash had struck her. "you're a bad brute," said patsy quietly. "the woman's too good for you." "you can 'ave her for nothink if you like. she never was much good to me." he sat down suddenly in the chair georgie had left empty. "i want to see your boss," he said: and his tone was bullying. "i was thinkin' about that myself," said patsy. "you go along the road an' wait for me," he said with a sudden ferocity which made the woman start. "off with ye now. i'll come up with ye: unless this gentleman 'ud make it a matter of a five-pun' note." "hold your dirty tongue," said patsy, and landed mr. baker one in the chest. the man rushed at him with his head down, a shower of foul words coming from his lips. before anything could happen some one intervened,--terry o'gara, dazzlingly clean as he always looked. "here, you keep quiet, you ruffian!" he said, delivering a very neat blow just under the man's chin. "what is it all about, patsy? hadn't i better send for the police?" mr. baker had fallen back against the stone bench and subsided on to it, feeling his jaw bone. "i'll make you pay for this yere conduck to an 'armless man wot was doin' nothink," he growled. something floated into patsy's mind, vague, terrible. before he could grasp it another person joined the group,--sir shawn o'gara. "what's the matter?" he asked. "who is this person?" his face changed. patsy kenny, who was watching him, saw the change. he had grown livid, his lips blue. was he ill? was he going to fall? before patsy could do anything he recovered himself and spoke. "you have business with me?" he said to the tramp. "yes, sir." mr. baker was suddenly cringingly respectful. "i came 'ere to talk business an' was set upon by this yere man o' yourn somethink crool. i'd sack him if i was you. your 'orses wouldn't be safe with 'im, 'im bein' so 'ot-tempered." sir shawn still looked very ill. patsy had once seen a person in a bad heart-seizure. was sir shawn's heart affected? small mottled patches of a purple colour had come out on the smooth darkness of his skin. angina. that was what the doctor called it in the case of that other person. had that mysterious, terrible disease laid hold on the master? he had not looked well for many a day. patsy had wondered that the mistress did not see it, was not disturbed by it, seeing how fond a wife she was. his heart sank with fear for the master. "let me deal with him, father," said terry, looking like a young god in contrast with the unpleasant mr. baker. "i know this man," sir shawn said, quietly. "he once rendered me a service." "when i were gamekeeper over to ashbridge 'all," said mr. baker eagerly, "you'd a bin shot but for me. some gents will never learn 'ow 'to 'old their guns. i knocked the barrel up just in the nick. that mr. lascelles, 'e weren't safe." ashbridge! oh--so the man had been employed at ashbridge hall, lord trentham's place, some thirty miles away on the edge of lough aske. how long ago? patsy kept asking himself the question. he looked after sir shawn and mr. baker as they went away in the direction of the house. sir shawn had an official room with a door opening out on to the grounds, so that the many people who came to consult him on one business or another need not enter through the house. "that fellow's face would hang him anywhere," said terry o'gara. "i wonder what amount of villainy lies between a gamekeeper's place at ashbridge and the brute he is to-day?" "god help them that are in his power," patsy kenny said fervently. then he went to the gate and looked out. the pots and pans and cans had disappeared. down the long straight road there was no one in sight. the woman and child had vanished. oddly enough he was disturbed by the noise mustapha was still making in his box-stall. "i shouldn't be surprised now if he was to be a foal of spitfire," he said. "i did hear she was bought by a man somewhere about lewy mountain. the little man we bought him from was a mountainy man, if he wasn't a fairy." chapter iv from the past the morning after these happenings lady o'gara, turning over the pile of letters on the breakfast table, changed colour at the sight of one which bore an italian postmark. it was addressed in a large firm handwriting in which only very keen observation could have discovered any sign of weakening. after that momentary glance she laid away the letter with the superscription turned downwards while she read the rest of her correspondence. when she had finished breakfast she followed her husband into his office, as that special room was called. the windows had not been opened--they were french windows and they served as a door out on to the gravel sweep which ran around the house--and she thought she detected a faint disagreeable smell, as of drugs. she unbolted a window and flung it wide and the warm june air came flowing in, banishing the unpleasant sharp odour. "you haven't been taking anything, shawn?" she asked, looking at him a little anxiously. "i thought i smelt something peculiar. you are not looking well." "i am very well, mary," he answered. "perhaps it was the person i had here yesterday evening. i believe i closed the window after he went out. he had been drinking. there was a horrible smell." "i came to the door while you were talking to him and i heard you say, 'what do you mean by coming here?' who was he, shawn?" again sir shawn was suddenly pale. she was looking down at the letter she had extracted from the pile, and he turned his back to the window, so that when she looked at him again with her frank ingenuous gaze, his face was in shadow. "he was a man who saved my life, or thinks he did, at a shooting-party at ashbridge. there was a fellow there who had never handled a gun before. he would have put a whole charge of shot into me if this chap, baker, hadn't knocked up his gun in time. i don't think it would have killed me, although it might have been rather unpleasant. baker likes to think, for his own purposes,"--he spoke with a weary air,--"that he saved my life. he may have saved my beauty. he considers himself my pensioner." "ah!" lady o'gara was satisfied with the explanation. "what a pity he should drink! can we do nothing for him?" "i'm afraid not. he would like to be my game-keeper, but that is out of the question. he had not much character when he left ashbridge. he has had more than one job in england since then, and has lost them all. he has come down very much in the world even since i saw him last." "a pity," said lady o'gara, "since he rendered you a service." "i gave him some money and got rid of him: it was the only thing to do." once again lady o'gara's frank eyes turned upon her husband. "i don't think you ever told me about that thing before," she said. "i should have remembered if you had told me." "no," he said with an averted face. "it happened--the winter you were in florence. i came home and was met by the news that you were away. the sun dropped out of my skies." she blushed suddenly and brightly. her husband had turned from his gloomy contemplation of the lawn outside, on which a tiny kerry cow was feeding. he said to himself that she was more beautiful in her mature womanhood than the day he married her. she had been soft and flowing even in her girlhood, with a promise of matronly beauty. now, with a greater amplitude, she was not less but more gracious. her bronze hair which had the faintest dust upon it went back from her temples and ears in lovely waves which no art could have produced. it was live hair, full of lights and shadows. her husband had said that it was like a brown venetian glass with powdered gold inside its brownness. there were a few brown freckles on the milk-white neck. her eyes were kind and faithful and set widely apart: her nose straight and short: and she had a delightful smile. she came now and put her arms about his neck. they were in curious contrast, she so soft, fair and motherly: he slender and dark, with weary eyes and a look as though he had suffered. "shawn!" she said, "shawn!" and there was a passionate tenderness in her voice, as she pressed his head against her heart. then she let her arms fall and turned away, looking as though some sadness had clouded her joy. "poor terence!" she said. there was the same thought between them, but they left it unspoken. she had chosen shawn o'gara in her own heart even while she was expected to marry terence comerford. "why do you talk of terence now?" he asked. "i have had a letter from aunt grace after all these years." she held the letter towards him. "she has forgiven you?" he asked, making no movement to take the letter. "she is coming back to inch. she writes that stella, her adopted daughter, is growing up. she has forgiven us. she is pleased that we named our son after poor terence. you remember you were rather opposed to it, shawn." "i did not wish to be reminded of the loss of my friend at every moment," he said. "the tragedy was too new." still he showed no indication of taking the letter from her hand. "read it to me," he said, in his weary voice. "i wonder how stella will like inch after italy. there is so much rain and cloud. one has to be born to it to like it." "when i was in italy i simply longed for a day of irish rain," mary o'gara said: "it is good for us. we need it. we grow parched in the dry climates." "it has held the secret of perpetual youth and beauty for you, mary," her husband said, looking at her with loving admiration. she laughed and blushed. she was not beyond blushing at a compliment even from her husband. "we must make things as gay for the child as possible," she said. then she added: "i wonder if aunt grace realizes that terry is now a young man. he seems _épris_ with eileen, so i suppose he will not fall in love with stella?" sir shawn looked startled. "i hope not," he said. "eileen seems to have him very securely in her chains." lady o'gara frowned ever so slightly. "i wish our children did not grow away from us so soon," she said. "terry might have continued a little longer being in love only with his mother." sir shawn lifted his eyebrows in a manner which accentuated his foreign look. "jealous, mary?" he asked. "not of eileen. she allures him, but, i come first." "you would always have your place. you are of the women who are adored by their sons. you would not care for eileen for a daughter-in-law, though she has been almost your adopted daughter these ten years back?" "she would not suit terry." "she is very fond of you." "yes, i think she is fond of me." her voice was cold. "i hardly know you, mary, in this mood towards eileen. you are usually so sweetly reasonable." "it is the privilege of a woman to be unreasonable sometimes." the sunshine came back to her face, laughed in the depths of her eyes and brought a dimple to either cheek. "i suppose i am a little jealous of terry," she said. "you see he is very like you, shawn. and i am fond of eileen, really. only, i suppose all mothers are critical of the girls their sons fall in love with, especially if it is an only son. it is odd how it has come suddenly to terry that eileen is a pretty girl. of course he has only seen her in her vacations. sit down now, shawn, and i will read you aunt grace's letter." he sat down obediently in the revolving chair in front of his desk and she came and stood by him. her voice was a little disturbed as she read the letter. "my dear mary,--you will be surprised to hear that i am coming back again to inch. the years bring their dust, as some poet says: they certainly soften griefs and asperities. when i left inch i was broken-hearted for my one boy. it was a poisoning of the grief at that time to know that you and shawn o'gara were going to be married. i felt that you had forgotten my beautiful boy, that his friend had forgotten him: but that i acknowledge now to have been a morbid and unreasonable way of looking at things. my boy never thought of any girl but you, yet i could not expect you to go unmarried for his sake: indeed i would not have wished it. you and shawn must forgive that old unreasonable bitterness of mine, the bitterness of a mother distraught by grief. "i have left you alone all these years, but i have not been without knowledge of you. i know that your son is called terence after my son. i appreciate that fact, which indicates to me that you keep him in loving remembrance. "after all these years i am suddenly weary for home, so weary that i wonder now how i could have kept away so long. whether i shall end my days at inch depends on stella. my wild experiment of adopting this child, as some of my friends thought it at the time, has turned out very well. stella is a dear child. i send you a photograph which hardly does her justice. as she is entirely mine she goes by my name, although her father was french. i should like to say to you that though i shall provide for stella it will not be to your detriment. i have a sense of justice towards my kin. "i trust to you to receive stella and me in a manner which will prove that you have blotted out any memories of the past that are otherwise than happy. "your affectionate cousin-aunt, "grace comerford. "ps.--stella has something of your colouring." "here is the photograph," said lady o'gara, handing it to her husband. "stella is very pretty, is she not?" he twisted his chair so that the light from the window might fall on the photograph. the face was in profile. it was tilted delicately upwards. there was a little straight nose, a round chin, a mouth softly opened, one of those mouths which do not quite close. the large eyes looked upward; the hair was short and curled in little rings. he looked at it and said nothing, but his eyes were tragic in the shadow. "the profile is quite french," said lady o'gara. "i remember the young man who i think must have been stella's father. he was a lieutenant of chasseurs. he was killed in algiers--afterwards. i saw it in a newspaper about four years after our marriage. he was going to be married when he came to inch. his mother, who was as poor as a church mouse, had written a bitter complaint to aunt grace that gaston was about to marry a poor irish girl, a governess, whose part he had taken when he thought her unfairly treated. i think stella must be gaston de st. maur's child." "odd, not leaving the child her own name," sir shawn said, handing back the photograph. "aunt grace would want her so entirely for her own. she always had a fierce way of loving. if she had loved me more reasonably and less jealously she would not have quarrelled with me as she did. she was always rather terrible in anger." she gathered together a bundle of letters which she had laid down on the table. "i must go and write to aunt grace," she said. "she must not wait for a letter telling her how glad i shall be to see her back at inch, how glad we shall all be. she was very good to me, shawn." she sent a wistful look towards her husband who sat with his back to her. "if she had been the aunt she called herself, instead of a somewhat remote cousin, she could not have been kinder. she treated us very generously, despite her anger at our marriage." "you brought me too much," said shawn o'gara, not turning his head, "and it has prospered. you should have brought me nothing but yourself. you were a rich gift enough for any man." lady o'gara looked well-pleased as she came and kissed the top of her husband's head, dusted over its darkness with an effect of powder as contrasted with the dark moustache and dark eyes. "i am glad for terry's sake i did not," she said; and went out of the room. "mr. kenny wishes to see your ladyship," said a servant, meeting her in the hall. patsy, perhaps by reason of his friendly aloofness, had come to be treated with unusual respect by the other servants. "he is at the hall-door. he would not come inside." she found patsy, playing with shot's son and daughter--they were the fourth generation from "ould shot" on the gravel sweep. "come in, patsy," she said, and led the way into an octagonal room, lit by a skylight overhead and walled around with ancient books which were very seldom taken from their shelves. "sit down," she said, "and tell me what is troubling you." patsy sat down on the extreme edge of one of the chairs, which were upholstered in scarlet damask. he looked up at her with blinking eyes of worship, like the eyes of the dogs. the room, painted white above the bookshelves, was full of light. he turned his cap about in his hands. obviously there was something more here than the business on which he usually consulted lady o'gara. "'tis," he began, "a little bit of a woman, an' a child, no bigger nor a robin an' as wake as a wran...." with this opening he began the story of the woman and child, who had come with the disreputable person the afternoon before. it appeared that mr. baker had deserted his wife and son, flinging them the pots and pans with a scornful generosity. he had apparently arrived at the possession of money some way or other, and overtaking them on the road at some considerable distance away he had bidden them, with threats, to take themselves out of his sight, since he had no further use for them. "he was full of drink," patsy said, looking down. "your ladyship, his tratement of them was something onnatural. she said she'd run away from him often, but he'd always found her when she was doin' well an' earnin' for herself an' the child. the people she lived with were often kind and ready to stand by her, but sure, as she says, the kindest will get tired out. he'd broken the spirit in her, maybe, for she showed me his marks on the poor child. she said nothin' about herself, but i could guess, the poor girl! the man that could lay his heavy hand on a woman or a child is a black villain. i wouldn't be comparin' him to the dumb bastes, for they've nature in them. the poor little woman, she's dacent. it would break your heart to see how thin she is an' how fretted-lookin' an' the little lad wid the scare in his eyes." "has the woman come back?" "wasn't that what i was tellin' your ladyship? lasteways, she didn't come back exactly. i found her on the road an' she not knowin' where to turn to, in a strange country. there they were, when i found them, hugging aich other an' cryin'. and the cans beside them in the ditch." "what cans?" "wasn't i tellin' your ladyship--the pots and pans and the few little bright cans among them, and not a penny betune the two poor souls, nor they knowing where to turn to!" "where are they now?" lady o'gara asked quietly. "they're in my house, your ladyship. i brought them back there last night an' i gev it up to them. i slep' in the loft over the stables myself." "oh, but, patsy, they can't stay in your house! the people would talk." "sure i know they'd talk--if it was an angel in heaven. that's why i kem to your ladyship." "i'll come and see the woman, patsy, and we'll decide what is best to be done." patsy's face cleared amazingly. "i knew you'd come," he said. "it'll be all right when your ladyship sees them, god help them." chapter v the haven lady o'gara came in by way of a little-used gate a few days later. she had been to inch, where the house was being turned out of doors and everything aired and swept and dusted and repolished, for a home-coming so long delayed that people had forgotten to look for it. castle talbot had six entrance gates, each with its lodge: and this one was rarely used. susan--as mrs. baker preferred to be called, susan horridge: she seemed to wish to drop the "mrs. baker"--came out with a key to open the gate, which was padlocked. such a different susan! the old susan might have been dropped with "mrs. baker." she had been just ten days at the south lodge, and now, in her neat print dress, her silken hair braided tidily, her small face filling out, she looked as she dropped a curtsey just as might the susan horridge of a score years earlier. "you keep the gate padlocked, susan?" lady o'gara asked, with a little surprise. "this is a quiet, honest place. i hardly think you need fear any disagreeable visitors." "oh, but, m'lady, you never know." susan had admitted her by this time. "a lone woman and a little boy, and him that nervous through being frightened!" she hurried on as though she did not wish to make any reference to the cause of georgie's fright. "i heard men singin' along the road the night before last it was. it fair gave me the jumps. glad i was to have that gate between me and them and the strong padlock on it." "this lodge is perhaps a little lonely for you. it's a very quiet road. the people don't use it much. it runs down to a road where they think there's a ghost. you're not afraid of ghosts?" "no, m'lady. if but they'd keep the people from the road." "ah! you will find the people friendly and kindly after a time. you're new to the place." "maybe so, m'lady. i always was one for keeping myself to myself. my granny brought me up strict. i wish i hadn't lost her when i did." she heaved a deep sigh. "we had a sweet little place at home in warwickshire. such a pretty cottage, _and_ an orchard, _and_ the roses climbin' about my window." what matter that she said "winder"! her eyes, the pale large eyes, had light in them as though she beheld a vision. "'twere all peace with my granny and me," she went on. "and her ladyship at the court,--mr. neville was our squire and her ladyship was lady frances neville--used to drop in to see granny, and she used to say what a good girl i was, always busy with my needle and my book. and our rector's wife, mrs. farmiloe, she gave me a silver thimble when i was nine--a prize for needlework. lady frances used to say, 'don't you keep her too close to work, mrs. horridge. a child must play with other children.' but my granny she'd up and say: 'she's all i have, and i'd rather bury her than see her trapesin' about with boys like some i know.' and there was miss sylvia peepin' at me from behind her ladyship and me peepin' at her from behind my granny. i went to the court at sixteen as sewing maid, and at twenty i was miss sylvia's own maid. she married lord southwater, and i'd have gone with her only i couldn't leave my granny. she was failin', poor old soul!" she paused and again she heaved the deepest of sighs. "beggin' your pardon, m'lady, for talkin' so much. you'd maybe take a look at the little place?" she said. lady o'gara turned aside. she was in no great hurry home and she was interested in susan. susan had padlocked the gate again and held the key swinging from her finger, while she looked up at lady o'gara as though her saying "yes" or "no" meant a great deal to her. "i wonder what would happen if we wanted to get in or out by that gate at night time," lady o'gara said. "we don't use it much. still we might want to and you might be in bed." "i'd get up at any hour, m'lady," susan said eagerly. "i'm a light sleeper: and it would only be to throw on something in a hurry." she looked scared, as though her peace of mind was threatened, and lady o'gara felt a pity for such manifest nervousness. susan would forget her terror presently as she got further and further away from the bad days. obviously she was very nervous. her eyes dilated and her breath came and went as she gazed imploringly at lady o'gara. "don't look like that, susan," lady o'gara said, almost sharply. "you look as though i were judge and executioner. you shall keep your padlocked gate. after all it is a bad road, i don't think sir shawn will want to take it, though it is the shortest way to inch. you did not find the gate padlocked when you came?" "no, m'lady. 'twas mr. kenny. he guessed i'd be frightened, so he brought the padlock and put it on himself." the finest little line showed itself in lady o'gara's smooth forehead. her skin was extraordinarily unfretted for her forty-five years of life. but now the little crease came, deepened and extended itself to a line, where its presence had been unsuspected. "patsy is very kind," she said, with a penetrating glance at susan. what a pretty girl susan must have been, so soft and pale and appealing, a little human wood-anemone! she would be very pretty again when she had got over the scared look and the thinness which was almost emaciation. and how well that print suited her! lady o'gara had sent down a bundle of things to the south lodge, so that susan might not appear as a scarecrow to the people. the print had pale green leaves sprinkled over a white surface. it suggested a snowdrop, perished by the winter, as a comparison for susan rather than the wood-anemone one. "indeed he's very kind," said susan; and dropped a curtsey. "the clothes fitted georgie as though they were made for him. i'll be able to use all you sent, m'lady, i'm such a good needlewoman. i hope i may mend your ladyship's lace or any fine embroideries. once we're settled--with georgie away at school all day--i'll have a deal o' time on my hands. i'd like to do something for you, m'lady." "so you shall, susan. margaret mckeon, who has been with me since i was a child, is no longer able for work that tries the eyes. i promise i'll keep you busy as soon as you get settled in here." "oh, m'lady! thank you, m'lady!" said susan, colouring as though lady o'gara had promised her something very delightful. "i do love fine needle-work, m'lady. any fine damask cloths or the like i'll darn so you'd hardly know. i'm never happier than when i'm sewin' an' my georgie reads a bit to me. he's a good scholar, is my georgie, although he's but nine." "you've made a pretty place of it," lady o'gara said, looking round the lodge with satisfaction. "i was afraid it was going to be a grimy place for you, for it had been empty since old mrs. veldon died. you see we didn't know you were coming. you've had it whitewashed." "yes, m'lady. mr. kenny came and whitewashed it. he was very good, better than ever i can repay. he cleaned out the little place for me. the pots and pans turned in well. and he lent me a few things till,--maybe--i could earn a bit, washin' or mendin' or sewin'; i'm a good dressmaker. maybe i could get work that way." "there hasn't been a dressmaker in the village since the last one went to america. i'll ask the parish priest and the nuns to tell the women you can dressmake. you'll have your hands full." again susan flushed delicately. "i'm never so happy as when i've no time for thinkin'," she said. "any work pleases me, but fine work best of all. i can do lovely work tuckin' and veinin'. when i'm at it i'm happy. 'tis like what drink is to some people; it makes me forget." the lodge was indeed altered from what lady o'gara remembered it, when mrs. veldon lived there. mrs. veldon had been so piteously sure than any washing or whitewashing would kill her with rheumatism that she had been left to her murky gloom. now, with a few gaily coloured pictures of the saints and irish patriots on the walls, the dresser filled with bright crockery, including a whole shelf of lustre jugs, the pots and pans set out to advantage, to say nothing of the cans, a clean scrubbed table, a few chairs, a strip of matting in front of the fireplace, flowers in a jug on the table which also bore susan's few implements of sewing and a pile of white stuff, the place was homelike and pretty. lady o'gara decided that susan was one of the women who have the gift of creating a home wherever they may be. so much the worse, she added in her own mind, not particularizing what it was that was so much the worse. round susan, standing meekly by the table while her ladyship sat, floated the mysterious aura which draws men and children as to a warm hearth-fire. so much the worse, thought lady o'gara, and commented to herself that patsy must have stripped his own house bare. those jugs were his, the gay crockery, and the pictures of the saints and patriots--she wondered what appeal these might have for susan--and that shelf of books in the corner. patsy had a taste, laughed at by his fellows, for book-buying, whenever the occasion arose. he was well-known at auctions round about the country, where he bought miscellaneous lots of books, with some few ornaments as well. she could see the backs of two books patsy had a great admiration for, "fardarougha the miser" and "charles o'malley"; and, on the chimney-piece, there were two large pink shells and a weather house which she had often seen on patsy's chimney-piece. the more solid pieces of furniture and some of the plain crockery had been sent down from castle talbot. "i see patsy's been lending you his treasures," she said. "yes, indeed, m'lady. i asked him not to, but he wouldn't take any notice of me. he said he'd no use for the things. he's stripped himself bare, m'lady. i didn't know men were like that. small wonder the dumb beasts love him. i wonder he has anything left to give." she spoke with such fervour that lady o'gara was touched. "you've had a sad experience of men, my poor susan," she said. "but you are quite right about patsy. there are few men as gentle as he is. we all look on patsy as a dear and valued friend. i must find him some other things to keep him from missing these. not books--i know his house is piled with books. he won't miss those, though he has given you the ones he like best. i wonder whether i could find pictures like those. i think i have seen that robert emmet, or something like it, in a shop-window in galway." "i don't know who the gentlemen are," susan said, looking from one patriot to another, "and i didn't want to have them taken from his walls. i expect they've left a mark on the wall-paper where they were taken down, for he said he'd got to do some papering for himself." it was on lady o'gara's tongue to utter a gentle warning that patsy must not be too much about the south lodge, but the warning remained unspoken. "he's the best man i ever knew," said susan, "i didn't know there was his like in the world. it's a strange thing, m'lady, that men can be so different. listen, m'lady,--if baker was to come back--you wouldn't let him claim me? the master wouldn't let him claim me? i'd drown myself and the child before we'd go back to him. he did knock us about something cruel. and my georgie, so gentle that he'd move a heart of stone. i frightened baker from laying a hand on georgie; i told him i'd kill him if i was to be hanged for it." the woman's eyes, no longer gentle, blazed at lady o'gara. "hush! hush!" she said. "he shall not trouble you. if he should come back..." "he's found us out no matter where we've been. even good christians got tired at last of baker comin' and askin' for his wife and son and makin' a row and the police fetched, and it gettin' in the papers. they give us up. oh, lord, if they knew what they was givin' us up to! they'd better have shot us." "if he comes back he will be prosecuted for deserting you. we shall not give you up to him. you may be sure of that. here is my hand on it." she held out a firm white hand which showed a couple of beautiful rings. susan looked at it for a moment in amazement before she took it. the colour flooded back into her face. her eyes became quieter. then she took the hand and kissed it, hard. "thank you, m'lady," she said. "i trust you." lady o'gara walked to the door and paused to ask for news of georgie, who was already at school. he was doing very well. it was so easy for him to reach the school by this gate, and he was beginning to get on well with the boys; and mr. mcgroarty, mr. o'connell's successor, gave a very favourable report of him. "we feel so safe inside the big wall, me and georgie," said susan horridge. "it isn't likely he'd come on us from the park." she looked a little apprehensively over the beautiful prospect of trees in their early summer beauty, and the shining greensward; with the hills beyond. through an opening in the trees there was a glimpse of a deer feeding. "no one here associates you with that man. patsy and i have taken care of that," lady o'gara assured her. "if he came back looking for you no one could tell him where you were. would you like a dog for company? there is a litter of puppies of shot's breed in the stable-yard. you shall have one, if you like it." "is it like it?" asked susan, her face lighting up,--"i should be very pleased to have it. so would georgie. that boy's fair gone on animals." "those dogs make very good watch-dogs, though they are so gentle. you should see how shot keeps walking before and behind me if he thinks he sees a suspicious character when we are out walking! i shall send down a puppy, then." susan horridge stood in her doorway shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked after lady o'gara. there were tears in her eyes. "the lord didn't forget us," she said to herself. "i shall have to speak to patsy," lady o'gara was thinking as she hurried along. she was a little late for lunch. "poor patsy! it would be a thousand pities if his heart should open to that poor creature for the first time." chapter vi stella mrs. comerford and stella arrived unexpectedly. they found lady o'gara at inch. she had gone over, taking susan with her, to give the finishing touch to the preparations. there was a new staff of servants under clinch and mrs. clinch. there were things the new servants might have forgotten: and mrs. clinch was old and rheumatic now--not equal to much climbing of stairs. lady o'gara remembered many things which most people would have forgotten, little things about the arrangement of rooms and furniture, the choice of flowers, the way mrs. comerford had liked the blinds drawn, all the trifling things which mean so much to certain orderly minds. she was in the bedroom which had been mrs. comerford's, was to be hers again. the room which had been mary creagh's was prepared for stella. the pink curtains which she remembered as faded had been laid away and new pink curtains hung up. the old ones were riddled with holes. she hoped aunt grace--she went back to the familiar name--would not miss them, would be satisfied with the room, which looked so fresh with its clean white paper and the pink carpet and cushions and curtains. she was filling bowls and vases with red and white roses, setting them where the tired eyes of the travellers might rest upon them when they came. probably they would arrive about ten o'clock. the room looked over the lawns and paddocks at the back of the house. she had not heard any sounds of arrival,--but--the bedroom door opened suddenly and mrs. comerford came in. "clinch told me i should find you here, mary," she said: and the two who had loved each other and parted, with cold resentment on one side, tears on the other, were looking into each other's eyes. lady o'gara had often wondered,--she had been wondering, wondering, during the last few days--how they should greet each other, what should be the first words to pass between them. the half-dreaded, half-looked-for moment had come, and the greeting was of the tritest. "we have arrived, you see," said mrs. comerford. "we caught the irish mail last night instead of staying the night in london." "oh,--did no one meet you?" "we left the luggage and came up on farrell's car. it _was_ farrell's car, just as muddy and disreputable as i remember it. it was driven by old johnny's son. i am sorry johnny is dead. perhaps the car is not the same--but there is nothing to choose between that and the old one." the meeting had taken place. the great moment had come and gone: and there was aunt grace talking about farrell's car as though all that lay between them had been but a dream. lady o'gara's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "ah, you are tired," she said with soft tenderness, "you are tired!" the change the years had wrought in the tall handsome woman who had been queenly to her young mind overwhelmed her. she forgot the dread she had had of the meeting, which had destroyed any happy anticipation. "come and sit down," she said. "let me help you off with your cloak. you will have breakfast? what a long journey for you!" mrs. comerford allowed herself to be put into the softest of the easy chairs. a look of gratification, of pleasure, came to her face. she allowed lady o'gara to take off her hat and long travelling cloak, to unlace her shoes. "you were always a kind creature," she said, "and it is nice to be home again. how beautiful the cloudy skies are! many and many a time during those years i have wanted grey skies. i've been sick even for a whole wet day. do you think, mary, that if we westerners get to heaven we will want a wet day now and again?" so the old resentment had gone. how strange it was after all the grief and estrangement to have aunt grace talking like this. it encouraged lady o'gara, sitting on the floor at mrs. comerford's feet, to pat the foot from which she had drawn off the shoe, with a tender furtive caress. "you'd better get up, mary. i hear clinch coming. you have hardly changed from the girl of twenty-five years ago. of course you are plumper, more matronly. you have a boy of twenty-one." clinch came in with the bag, followed by mrs. clinch with a tea-tray, smiling broadly. "the young lady said she'd have a bath before her breakfast, ma'am," she said, and there was a radiance about her old face which had not been there for many a day. "breakfast--we had breakfast in the train. miss stella cannot want breakfast." mrs. comerford smiled as she said it. "she made a very good breakfast in the train." "she's young and the young want food. 'tis a good day that's in it, ma'am, to see you home again--with such a beautiful young lady too. she'll make the house lively. the first thing she did was to fling her arms about shot's neck,--lady o'gara's dog, ma'am. for all he's a proud, stand-off dog, he licked her face." "now, don't spoil miss stella. every one spoils her, so i suppose there's no use expecting you to be the exception." "she brings her love with her," said mrs. clinch. "she's so delighted with all she sees, and making friends with every one. they'll be won over by her: even old tom kane will give her the key of his garden, as he calls it, before she's an hour in the place. she'll be into his strawberry beds that he's so jealous about, you'll see." mrs. clinch went off. lady o'gara poured out a cup of tea, remembering, over all the years, that mrs. comerford liked only a little sugar. she found her slippers and put them on and brought a footstool for feet to rest upon. she was thinking that this stella, the young adopted daughter, explained the change in the woman before her. mrs. comerford had grown much softer. she was still a remarkable-looking woman, the wreck of stately beauty. in her black garments, which fell about her in flowing lines, she had the air of a priestess. her age showed in her thinness, which was almost emaciation, and her face was wrinkled and heavily lined. yet her smile was more ready than lady o'gara remembered and her eyes quieter. they had been very blue eyes once upon a time--her son had had such blue eyes--now, they had faded almost to lavender, and they were almost gentle. yet there was something in the face, some suggestion of burnt-out fires, which forbade the idea of a gentle nature, and the lips were too thin for softness. "am i a wreck, mary?" she asked. "yes, i know i am. some one took me for a duchess the other day, addressing me as 'your grace.' italy has dried up my skin. it will hardly revive at my time of life. but i am happy: you cannot imagine how stella makes for happiness. stella and age between them have broken me down. a child could play with me." she laughed as she said it. grace comerford had not laughed much in the old days. mary had adored her, with an adoration tinged with awe. she had always felt in those days that it would be an awful thing to offend aunt grace. she had offended her and it had been awful. "i am longing to see stella," she said. "she is very joyous. i was becoming morose when i found her--like a rogue elephant. i was wrong, mary, to make such a grievance of your marriage. you were a good child to me, and you would have pleased me if you could. i know better now than to be angry with you for caring more for shawn o'gara than for my son. you should have told me at the time. you shouldn't have let me believe that you cared for terence. was i an ogre? perhaps i was. i must have been." "i wanted to please you _dreadfully_ in those days. you had been everything to me." "you and terence were everything to me. still--i should not have been so unreasonable as to expect you to marry terence to please me when you liked shawn o'gara better. i ought to have known that love does not grow up like that. you and terence were almost brother and sister." "yes," said lady o'gara. "we were so used to each other. i was eighteen when i first saw shawn and we fell in love at first sight." she blushed, with a startling effect of youth. "terence and i were like brother and sister. it would not have worked. we were very fond of each other, but no more than that. you were wrong when you thought terence would have cared." she had expected some disclaimer, remembering mrs. comerford's bitter anger because her son had been supplanted by his friend, even while he was yet in the world; but no disclaimer came. "yes, i was wrong. i see it now. i ought to have come back long ago and said i was wrong. i could not bring myself to do it, and--there were other reasons. it is very good to come back and to see you so bonny, mary, and to feel that we may live in love and peace as long as i am here." she drank her tea and looked round the room, with a sigh as though her heart rested on what she saw. "you have made the old room very sweet, mary," she went on, "and you have remembered my tastes. dear me, see those old things on the chimney-piece! those crockery dogs,--how fond terence was of them when he was a child! and that piece of agate, and the rockingham lambs! i had almost forgotten them." "you, had better come over to castle talbot to lunch," lady o'gara said. "i want you to see my boy. he has just passed out of sandhurst." "a soldier? how strange that i should have had to ask! i left your letters unanswered, but i always read them. that was how i knew that you had called your boy after my son." "yes, terence has chosen to be a soldier, for some years, at least. there is not very much doing now. after a few years his father thinks he might take to politics." "i want to see him. and i want you to see my girl." she glanced towards the door as though she expected it to open. "eileen creagh is with us. you remember her father, anthony creagh. he came here once or twice in old days. she has lived with us for a long time. terry was always at school. it would have been lonely for me without eileen." "yes, i remember i did not like anthony creagh because i thought he came for your sake. he married a fair girl, very unlike you. i've forgotten her name." "eileen is very pretty, like her mother. beautiful soft silver-gold hair and greyish blue eyes: she is very gentle." "characterless?" lady o'gara smiled ever so slightly. "oh, she has character, i think." "no one will look at her when stella is by. you will see. she has no animation; i know her kind. by the way, you have patsy kenny still with you? you told me about patsy in the letters i did not answer." "still with us. he is an institution--like the shots. i have a shot still--the great-grandson of old shot. i don't know what we should do without patsy. he has such a wonderful way with the horses,--with all animals, indeed." "he'll adore stella. she's so fearless with animals. many a fright she gave me when she was a child. but the animals, even when they were savage with others, never hurt her. there was an awful day when we found her with the boarhound puppies at prince valetti's villa in her arms, and the mother looking on well-pleased. she was a savage brute to other people. the prince was ready to shoot her if she had turned nasty with stella: but there was no occasion. stella scrambled through the barrier when we called her name." "is she like a french girl?" "no: why should she be?" "i suppose i was wrong. i thought she was the child of gaston de st. maur, who used to visit us here." "her mother was irish," mrs. comerford said. "and she is like her mother?" before mrs. comerford could answer there came a knocking as of knuckles on the door. "come in, my darling," mrs. comerford said, her face lighting up. a charming girlish face looked in at the open door. "may i? is it lady o'gara whom my dearest mamma so greatly loves?" there was the slightest foreign intonation in the voice,--something of deliberate utterance, as though english was not the language of the speaker. the girl came into the room and towards them. she was charming. her hair curled in rings of reddish brown on her little head. her eyes were grey with something of brown in the iris: her eyebrows strongly marked. she had a straight beautiful little nose, lips softly opening, a chin like that of the irish poet's "mary donnelly," "round as a china cup." there was something softly graceful about her as she came into the room. she looked down, then up again. her eyes,--were they grey? they were brown surely, almost gold. her little head was held as though she courted a caress. "i am so glad you have come back, stella," lady o'gara said, fascinated straight off by this charming vision. "i wonder how mamma stayed away so long," stella returned. "the sweet house, the beautiful grey country." she took lady o'gara's hand and kissed it lightly; yet with an air of reverence,--"the beloved people." "the country will not prove too grey for you, i hope, stella," lady o'gara said, feeling touched and pleased by the girl's air of homage. "my husband's mother, who was an italian, said that the grey skies made her weep when first she came to ireland. they were so unlike italian skies." "i must be irish then," said the girl, "for i adore them. even when it rains i shall not weep." "she has something of your colouring, mary; don't you think so?" mrs. comerford asked. "yes, perhaps--more golden." she was feeling surprised at herself. this girl made more appeal to her than eileen creagh whom she had had with her from childhood. this girl touched some motherly chord in her which eileen had never awakened. she wanted to stroke her dear curls, to be good to her. yet she had been telling herself all those years, that she had no need for a daughter, having terry. chapter vii brady's bull the meeting between eileen creagh and stella comerford brought the flying dimple to lady o'gara's cheek. she watched them as though they were young children meeting in the shy yet uncompromising atmosphere of the nursery. stella was inclined to be friendly and then drew back, chilled by something she detected in eileen's manner. eileen was indifferently polite. terry and his father were out when the party arrived for luncheon, but they returned very soon afterwards. lady o'gara's attention was otherwise absorbed so that she did not notice the sudden delighted friendliness in terry towards stella nor the quick withdrawal into sullenness which spoilt eileen's looks for the luncheon-hour. lady o'gara was wondering about her husband. why should he have looked so startled when his eye fell on stella? he had known that she was coming. to lady o'gara's anxious eye sir shawn looked pale. he had been pale of late, with curious shadows about his face, but when she had asked him if he was not feeling well he had answered with an air of lightness that he felt as well as ever he had felt. at the luncheon table he sat with his back to the light. the persistence of those shadows in his face worried her loving heart. she wondered if mrs. comerford saw a great change in him. it ought to have been a very happy occasion. mrs. comerford had met shawn with an air of affection mingled with deprecation, as though she asked pardon for the old unreason. if she saw that the years had changed him she made no sign. "i have stayed away a long time from you and mary," she said. "i had made it difficult for myself to come back: but i have wanted to come back. now i hope we shall remain neighbours to the end." sir shawn had not responded as he ought to have done. he had worn a queer look. after a while his wife had found the proper adjective for it: his eyes were haunted. he might have seen a ghost. it distracted her from her talk across the table with mrs. comerford, happy talk of friends long parted and re-united, full of "don't you remember?" and "have you forgotten?": arrears of talk in which so much had to be explained, so many fates elucidated. it might have been so happy if only shawn had not worn that odd look. once lady o'gara thought she caught his eyes fixed with a gloomy intentness on the group of young people at the other end of the table. she glanced that way, and the ready smile came. terry was making himself very agreeable to the two pretty girls. it was obvious, even at a glance, that eileen had little chance against the new-comer's vivacity. she sat with her lips pursed a little and something of gloom on her face. terry, between his sallies with stella, who was at once shy and bright, full of those charming glances out of the eyes which were grey at one moment, golden brown at another,--sent now and again a tenderly apologetic look eileen's way, trying to draw the sulking beauty into the conversation. there was nothing for shawn to be gloomy about in this little comedy. terry was always so sweetly amiable. in the days that followed the comedy unfolded itself. stella was very often at castle talbot, or they were at inch. terry was evidently drawn towards stella, while loyally endeavouring to keep up his former attitude towards eileen. if eileen wished to keep him she went the worst possible way about it, for she sulked, and sulkiness did not become her. her fair skin took on a leaden look. she repulsed stella's advances till stella was hurt and vexed. "eileen will not be friends with me," she complained to lady o'gara. "she is so cold. that lovely pale hair of hers i took it in my hands one day when it was undone, and it was cold as ice. her heart is like her hair. why will she not like me?" why not, indeed? apart from the fact that stella chattered, pretty chatter like the singing of a bird, and was so quickly intelligent about everything, and so interested in the new life that the slower eileen was rather left out of things, her attitude towards eileen was most disarming. she admired her greatly and was evidently quite unaware of her own good looks. she tried to win her over with gifts, which eileen accepted, while she was not propitiated. "she will not like me," stella complained with a flash of tears in her eyes, "if i was to give her my heart she would not like me." "you should not have given her your seed-pearls," said lady o'gara. "it is too valuable a gift to pass from one girl to another." it was beginning to dawn on her that eileen was greedy and selfish. perhaps she had had intuitions of it when eileen had disappointed her. eileen was only friendly to stella when she wanted something. once she had obtained it she relapsed into her former coldness. lady o'gara realized that eileen had always been greedy. she had laid terry under heavy toll for small attentions and such gifts as he might give her. eileen's incessant eating of chocolate had made lady o'gara wonder how she could give so good an account of herself at meal-times. she smoked--it was a new fashion of which lady o'gara did not altogether approve--a cigarette now and again and terry supplied the gold-tipped, scented kind which eileen took from a cigarette case of platinum with her name in turquoise at the corner. the cigarette case was a new possession. lady o'gara supposed that it came from terry. she had not asked. a violet scent, so good that on its first introduction lady o'gara had cried out that some one was wearing wet violets, now always heralded miss creagh's coming into a room. there were some things which had not come from terry. when lady o'gara had noticed them eileen had said carelessly that they were given her by robin gillespie, the son of the doctor at inver, and a doctor himself in the indian army. anthony creagh and his wife had an overflowing quiverful. lady o'gara made excuses for the girl who must have had it in her blood to do without. still, robin gillespie, the doctor's son at inver, could not have much to spare, but apparently he had given eileen a good many trinkets. "when does terry join his regiment?" sir shawn asked his wife one day with a certain sharpness. "not till september." "and it is now august. a pity he should waste his time philandering." "does he philander?" lady o'gara's voice had a hurt sound in it. she found nothing amiss in her one child. "he philandered with eileen till stella came. now apparently he inclines to stella. he mustn't play fast and loose with girls." "it sounds so ugly, shawn. terry is incapable of such a thing,--as incapable as you yourself. he is not the flirting sort. he is just a simple boy." there was something piteous in her voice. her husband lifted her face by the chin till he looked down into her eyes. "if he were like me he would only have one love," he said. "you made your own of me, mary, altogether, from the first moment i saw you." stella had made friends with every one round about her. she was in and out of the cottages. she knew all about the old people's ailments and nursed all the children. eileen complained with a fastidious disgust that stella did not seem to know whether the children were dirty or clean. she kissed and hugged them all the same. in likewise she loved and petted the animals and so commended herself hugely to patsy kenny. "she's worth twenty of miss eileen," he said. "all i'm afeard of is she'll run herself into danger. she doesn't know what fear is. she ups and says to me the other day whin i bid her not make too free with the mares that the only rayson the crathurs ever was wicked was that men wasn't good to them." "i've heard you say the same yourself, mr. kenny," said susan horridge, over the half-door of whose lodge he was leaning. he often paid susan a visit in this uncomfortable fashion, refusing a chair in the kitchen or even one outside. "so you have," patsy acknowledged, and made as if to go; but lingered to ask what mrs. horridge thought of miss stella. "i like fair hair best myself," he said, with a shy glance at susan's hair, neatly braided around a face that began to have soft, even plump, contours once more. "miss eileen has a lovely head of hair," susan acknowledged. "and yet," said patsy, "miss stella's my choice. did you ever take notice of her side-face? it's the purtiest, softest thing i ever seen. i think i seen somethin' like it wance, but where i disremimber." "which of the young ladies is mr. terry sweet on, mr. kenny?" "bedad, i don't know, ma'am." patsy scratched his head. "i wouldn't be sure he's not sweet on the two o' them." a day came when the two girls, crossing the fields by a short cut, found themselves face to face with a very fine bull. they had not noticed him till they came quite near him. their path wound round by a little wood which, since it belonged to the paddock of the mares, was surrounded by high hurdles. the bull must have broken into the field, for he had no right to be there. the piece of rope hanging from his neck showed that he had escaped from bondage. the path curved gently by the edges of the coppice. they came upon the bull unawares. he was grazing when they first saw him, his fine curled head half-buried in the long grass. "it is brady's bull," eileen said in a whisper. "he is not to be trusted. and--he sees your red cloak." the bull lifted his head and stared at them. eileen had slipped behind stella and had begun to retreat backwards. the bull stamped with his foot and emitted a low roar. stella did not seem to feel afraid. she kept her eye steadily on the bull. the day was chilly and lady o'gara had wrapped the girls up in connemara cloaks of red and blue flannel. she had put the blue one about eileen's shoulders, remarking that it matched her eyes. "run, eileen, run," stella said quietly without taking her eyes from the bull. "keep the gate open for me." eileen ran with a will, never looking back to see what was happening. stella took off the red cloak. the bull had put his head to the earth as though about to charge. he roared, a roar that seemed to shake the ground. as he came on she flung the offending garment on to his horns and stepped to one side. she did not wait to see the result. she could run like atalanta. it was a pretty good sprint to the gate, which closed and opened by an iron switch. as she ran, the roars of the bull followed her. he was rending lady o'gara's connemara cloak. presently he would discover that the perpetrator of this outrage upon his dignity was yet in sight. she was some distance from the gate when she heard the thudding of the bull behind her. for a second or two she did not discover that eileen was not holding the gate open for her. it was apparently shut to. would she have time to open it before the bull came up! the switch, which was new, took some pressure to move. would she have time? she had just a wild hope that eileen might have left the gate unfastened. she flung herself against it. no, the switch had fallen into its place: there was no time, no time even to climb the gate. the bull was upon her with a rush. she felt the wind of his approach. she closed her eyes and clung to the gate. her mind was never clearer. she saw herself trampled and gored, flung in the air and to earth again a helpless thing for the bull to wreak his wrath upon. suddenly there was a shout, close at hand, almost at her ear. something hurtled through the air, a stone flung with an unerring aim which struck the bull in the forehead. the gate opened with her and she felt herself drawn through the opening while the switch fell with a sharp click. "i say, that was a near thing!" said terry o'gara. "you're not going to faint, are you? just look at that chap tearing up my old football blazer. thank god, it isn't you." "where is eileen?" she asked. "she was terribly frightened." "i know," he answered, somewhat grimly. "i dare say she has done a faint. i left her over there by the stile. she was sitting down, recovering herself. lucky i heard the roars of the bull and was so close at hand. i suppose it was eileen who shut the gate. she made some sort of explanation, but there was no time to listen. what a fright you've had, you poor child!" the bull, having reduced the blazer to rags like the connemara cloak, had trotted away and was grazing quietly, some of the tattered pieces still hanging to his horns, with an odd effect of absurdity. "i never thought an animal could be so alarming," said stella. "you must be more careful in future," he answered. "not that i want you to be afraid--like eileen. this brute had no business here. he must have broken through the hedge. he might have got into the foals' paddock. there's a way in for anything very determined where the water runs in that far ditch." "oh, i'm glad he didn't get in among the pretty foals." "it would have been a horrible thing, but better the foals than you." he looked at her with a simple boyish tenderness. there was something childish about her beauty, something boyish about the slight figure and the curly head, borne out by her frank gaze. "i wish i had killed the brute," he said, with a vengeful glance in the direction of the quietly-feeding bull. "you probably cut him with that stone, poor beast." "yes: it had a good sharp edge. how lucky i found it just there!" he noticed that she turned very pale. quickly his arm went round her to give her support. "you poor little thing!" he said. "i am so sorry. are you better now?" the colour came back to her face. she withdrew gently from his arm. "i am all right," she said. "it was splendid how you came to my rescue." her frank eyes thanked him in a way he found bewildering. he was very goodly in his flannels, with his alert slender darkness and his bright eyes, softened now as his gaze rested upon her. "it won't make you afraid?" he asked anxiously. "i mean, of course, you must be cautious; but any one would be afraid of brady's bull. don't be timid like eileen, who screams if a foal trots up to her, and is afraid even of shot." he had quite forgotten the time when he had found eileen's timidity pleasing. "oh, i shall not be afraid of shot, or the foals," she said, and laughed. "after all," she lifted her eyes to him as though she asked for pardon--"any one might be afraid of a bull. i'm not a coward for that." "of course you're not," he answered, with a sound in his voice as though she was very pleasant to him. "bulls are treacherous brutes." they went back slowly to where eileen sat watching their approach gloomily. "well!" she said. "you've been a long time. wasn't that a horrid brute? i never ran such danger in my life before." "stella ran a greater because you had taken care to slam the gate after you," terry said, with young condemning eyes. "i was only just in time to save her from that brute." "oh well, i was frightened. i only thought of getting away as far as i could from him. i shan't walk in the fields again in a hurry. if it isn't horses, it's bulls." eileen's face kept its unbecoming gloom on the homeward way, even though she pressed very close to terry for protection whenever they came near the feeding horses, or one of them trotted up to be petted and stroked. she knew she was disapproved of, and the knowledge was unpleasant to her, although it did not cause her any searchings of conscience. eileen always took the line of least resistance, as her clever sister, paula, who was a b.a. of dublin university, had said. chapter viii sir shawn sees a ghost "there's a blast o' talk goin' through the place like an earthquake," said patsy kenny to sir shawn, "that the little cottage down by the waterfall is took by a stranger woman." there was "a blast of talk" even about trifles among the country-people, from whom patsy kept his distance with an abhorrence of gossip and curiosity about other people's business. many a one had tried to pump patsy,--the people had an inordinate curiosity about their "betters"--and of late tongues had been very busy with the return of mrs. comerford and the reconciliation with lady o'gara: also with miss stella and her parentage. those who tried to pump patsy kenny about these matters embarked, and they knew it, on perilous seas. patsy's stiff face as he repelled the gossips was a sight to see. he had also to keep at bay many questions about susan horridge and her boy, in doing which he showed some asperity and thereby gave a handle to the gossips. "i should have thought the cottage by the waterfall a damp place," said sir shawn, indifferently. he was not much interested in the petty happenings of the neighbourhood. "she won't stay," patsy went on with a shake of his head. "they'll get at her about ould hercules. a lone woman like that will be scared out of her life. i saw her in dunphy's shop buyin' her little bits of food. she's not the common sort. she was all in black, with a veil about her face. she'll have no truck with them long-tongued people about here." "oh, a superior class?" said sir shawn, now faintly interested. the waterfall cottage was his property. he supposed norman, who lived in the town and did his legal business, had let it. "not to say a lady," said patsy, "but nigh hand one. she have the little place rale snug and comfortable. she'll keep herself to herself. there's two lone women in it now, herself and mrs. horridge. mrs. horridge do be drawin' the water from the well behind the waterfall cottage, and this mrs. wade kem out an' spoke to her. she took great notice of georgie. the schoolmaster's well contint with georgie. he takes to the irish like a duck to water. the master do be sayin' he's better at the language nor them that should be spakin' it be rights. he'll have him doin' a trifle o' poetry in it by the christmas holidays." "oh! so the two lonesome women have made friends with each other. between them they'll be a match for hercules' ghost," sir shawn said, faintly smiling. by this time terry had joined his regiment, and eileen had gone for a time to her parents. she usually went home rather unwillingly, complaining of the discomfort of the tightly packed house. apparently she did not add to the joy of her family during those periodic visits and she made no pretence of eagerness about going. but this time, for some reason, she was quite pleased to go. she even set about refurbishing her wardrobe, and was not above accepting help from stella, who was very quick with her needle and possessed a frenchwoman's art in making excellent use of what materials came her way. these preparations somewhat mystified lady o'gara, for usually eileen took only her less reputable garments when she went home, because she had to live in her trunk, or share a wardrobe with two sisters, who would hang their roughest garments over her evening frocks if she were to bring them. lady o'gara sometimes wondered if she had chosen wisely in selecting eileen from anthony creagh's quiverful to be her companion during the years terry was at school and college. the others had been tumbling over each other like frolicsome young puppies when the choice was made; eileen had been sitting placidly eating bread and honey. she remembered that anne creagh had said that eileen would always get the best of things! to lady o'gara's eyes, the demure little girl, with a golden plait hanging down each side of her face, and the large blue eyes, had looked like a little blessed mary in the temple of albrecht dürer. perhaps she had not chosen. perhaps eileen had chosen her, when she said to anne creagh, "dear anne, you have so many girls. lend me one for company. i shall be very good to her and shall only keep her during your pleasure." eileen had heard the speech, and had seized on lady o'gara, not to be detached. when it had come to longer and longer visits, so that eileen was oftener at castle talbot than at home, anne creagh had said, "ah, well, eileen knows what is good for her. the others don't. they've no worldly wisdom. there is hilary, who runs away from every school we send him to. they are all like hilary, except eileen. she's a changeling." with terry gone, eileen had put off her sulkiness. lady o'gara came on the two girls one day at work on a pink billowy stuff, which was evidently going to be an evening-frock. at least stella was at work, and eileen was looking on. eileen usually commandeered some one to her service when any sewing was to be done. she had confessed that she could not endure to have her forefinger pricked by the needle. "you are going to be very smart, eileen," lady o'gara said. "this looks like gaieties at inver." "there may be some," answered eileen, colouring slightly. "there are some soldiers under canvas at inver hill." lady o'gara referred to eileen's preparations a little later in talking with her husband. sir shawn had got a bee in his bonnet about terry and eileen. for the first time during all their years of love he had been irritable with his wife about terry--terry, who had given them so little trouble in his twenty years of life. "i am glad she has the spirit," he said. "a pretty girl like eileen need not go wasting her charms on a young ass who doesn't know his own mind." "oh, shawn! poor terry!" "terry has been playing fast and loose with eileen." "he would not like to hear you say so," lady o'gara said, with a proud and wounded air. "there you go, mary, getting your back up! your one son can do no wrong. do you deny that he was philandering after eileen before stella came, and that he has been philandering after stella since?" "do you know, shawn," lady o'gara said, with sudden energy, "that, fond as i am of eileen, i think she has not the stuff in her to hold a boy like terry. there is something lethargic in her. i'm afraid she is a little selfish. she can be very sweet when she likes, but i think at heart she is cold." "this is a late discovery, mary." lady o'gara laughed, a little ruefully. "i think it is a very old discovery," she said. "anne said to me once--she never pretended that she loved eileen as well as some of the others--that eileen had a way of looking at her when she was in high spirits or something of the sort that was like a douche of cold water. i have had the lame experience myself. eileen said something the other day about 'at your age.' i felt ninety, all of a sudden." "nonsense, mary! eileen adores you." lady o'gara said no more. she let pass, with a shrug of her shoulders, her husband's accusation that she was fickle like terry, putting away the old love for the new. suddenly sir shawn asked a direct question. "are you quite certain about stella's parentage, mary? she _is_ the child of that french soldier, st. maur, was it? and the irish governess?" "of course, shawn." it had never occurred to lady o'gara to doubt it. she looked at her husband with wondering eyes. the lights in her brown eyes were as deep and quiet now as when she was in her young beauty. she had a sudden illumination. was _that_ the bee in shawn's bonnet? there had been a certain silence about stella's parentage. she thought she understood it. mrs. comerford had always been jealous of her loves. she did not wish it recalled that stella, whom she adored, had not belonged to her by any tie of blood. shawn must have got it into his head that the mystery might cover something disgraceful. "you may be quite sure, shawn," she said, her candid eyes fixed on him: "there was nothing to conceal. aunt grace has told me _everything_." his face cleared. "then i confess," he said almost gaily, "that stella is a young angel. perhaps i was too hard on terry." the evenings began to draw in. sir shawn missed his boy. the hunting season was at hand. the opening meet was to be at dunmara cross-roads in a fortnight's time. lady o'gara went out perhaps once a week. the other days sir shawn would miss terry jogging along beside him, on the way to the meet in the morning, full of cheerful anticipation; riding homewards, tired and happy, in the dusk. stella had never ridden to hounds. she had done little riding, indeed, since the days at the advanced roman convent when the girls went out on the campagna in a flock, in charge of a discreet riding master, of unimpeachable age and plainness. he was thinking as he rode home one evening, with the dusk closing in, that it would be pleasant to have stella with him when mary was not available. it was one tangible thing against eileen that she did not like horses. anthony creagh's daughter! it seemed incredible to sir shawn, as it did to patsy kenny, that any one should not like horses. there was a little mare not quite up to racing standard which he thought would just do for stella. indeed, though he did not know it, patsy kenny had put the idea into his head. "that wan 'ud carry a lady in less than no time," patsy had said, "a lady about the size of miss stella. she'd take the ditches like a bird." but patsy was always talking in his slow way, and sir shawn was not always listening to him, or he seemed not to listen. he had a way of forgetting his surroundings and travelling off to a distance where even she who loved him best could not follow. but sometimes he heard when he did not seem to hear and was unconscious of having heard. he was going to ride mustapha this winter as soon, he said with his slow smile, as patsy kenny would permit it. mustapha, although a beautiful creature to look at, had not yet been "whispered" by patsy. he had still an uncommonly nasty temper, and indeed most of the tricks a horse could possess. sir shawn thought some hard work would improve mustapha's temper, but patsy remained oddly unwilling. "give me a week or two longer to get over him," he would say when sir shawn proposed to ride mustapha. he had lunched one day with sir james dillon, fourteen miles off, and had waited for tea, and on the way home his horse had lost a shoe. he hoped mary would not be anxious. he had said he would be home by five, and had meant it; but lady dillon, who was, her friends said, the wittiest woman in ireland, had so beguiled the time in the billiard-room after lunch that he had not noticed it passing. and, since he was not the man to ride a horse who had lost a shoe, he had walked the last six irish miles of the road. very seldom did he take the road on which terence comerford had been killed, more than twenty years back. one could avoid it by a détour, so he had only taken it when necessity called for the short road, and he had always found it an ordeal. but he was not going to put an extra mile on to the tired horse because of his own feelings. he had come near the dreaded spot where terence comerford had been flung on to the convenient heap of shingle. already he could hear the roar of the water where it tumbled over the weir like long green hair. above it on either side the banks of the river rose steeply. on the side nearest to him was the mount, in the heart of which admiral hercules o'hart had chosen to be buried. it was covered thickly with trees. in spring it was beautiful with primroses which showed not a leaf between, a primrose sea which seemed in places as though a wave had run forward into the lower slopes of green grass and retreated leaving a foam of primroses behind. the horse pulled up sharply at the sound of the waterfall and stood quivering in the darkness. there was a glimmer of light overhead, but because of the thick trees this road was very dark. "it is only the water falling over the weir, you foolish thing!" he said, caressing the long brown nose of the little horse. the horse answered with a whinny and, talking to him to distract his attention, sir shawn got him along. perhaps the horse knew that his master's heart was cold. it was a well-nigh unendurable pain to sir shawn to pass the place where the friend of his youth and boyhood had been killed. suddenly the horse jibbed again. a long ray of light had streamed out on to the darkness of the road. at first sir shawn thought it was a hooded lantern. few came this road, unless it might be a stranger who did not know the countryside traditions. but the light was steady; it did not move as a lantern carried in the hand would have done. it flashed upon him what it was. the woman in the waterfall cottage must have lit her lamp, forgetting to shutter her window which looked upon the road. the cottage turned a gable to the road, from which a paling divided it. otherwise the little place was hidden away behind a wall, approached by a short avenue from a gate some distance away. a pretty place, with a garden that looked on to the fields, but very lonely for one woman, and too near the water. the light remained steady. as though it gave him confidence, the horse went on quietly, feeling his master's hand upon him. just opposite the gable of the cottage a wall of loose stones led into the o'hart park. the house had been long derelict and was going to be pulled down, now that the congested board, as the people called it, had acquired the o'hart property. any one who wanted to go that way knocked down a stone from the wall. there was a little cairn there always, though the employees of the board were constantly putting back the stones. the light from the cottage fell full on the cairn. sir shawn's eyes rested on it and were quickly averted. there the heap of stones for mending the road had lain that night long ago when spitfire, had run away with terence comerford and thrown him. there had been blood on the stones--blood and ... and ... brains. horrible! sir shawn had come level now with the long ray of light. at the edge of it he paused. he could see plainly the interior of the room. the unshaded lamp threw its bright light into every corner of the room. it was comfortable and homelike. the furniture had belonged to the previous tenant of the cottage and had been taken over by the estate. it was good, old-fashioned furniture of a certain dignity. the grandfather clock by the wall, the tall mahogany bookcase, the sofa and chairs covered in red damask, were all good. there was a round convex mirror above the fireplace and some pictures on the wall. the fire burned brightly, toning down somewhat the hard unshaded lamplight. a woman was sitting by the fire. she was in black with a white collar and cuffs. her hair was braided about her head. she sat with her cheek resting in her hand, a pensive figure. as though she knew she was being watched she started, turning her face sharply towards the window. evidently she had forgotten to pull down the blind. as she turned, her face was in the full lamplight. "my god!" sir shawn said to himself. "my god!" he stood for a few seconds as though in pain, leaning against the horse's side, before he went on. when he lifted his head darkness had come again. the window had been shuttered. chapter ix the letter from the pile of her letters one morning a month or so later, lady o'gara picked out one and eyed it with distaste. it looked mean. the envelope of flimsy paper was dirty. some emanation came from the thing like a warning of evil: she laid it on one side, away from her honest respectable letters. while she read through one or two of these the disreputable letter awaiting her attention worried her. it was something importunate, disagreeable, like a debased face thrust in at her door. with a sigh she turned to it, to get it out of the way before she opened terry's letter, clean and dandyish, written on the delicate paper the regiment affected. she held the thing gingerly by the edge, and, going away from the table, she stood by the fire while she opened it. a smell of turf-smoke came out of it,--nothing worse than that. perhaps, after all, it was only one of the many appeals for help which came to her pretty constantly. "honoured madam,--this is from one who wishes you no harm, but onley good. there is a woman lives in the waterfall cottage your husband goes to see often. such doins ought not to be aloud. "from your sinceer well-wisher, xxx." if it had been a longer letter she would not have read it. it was so short and written so legibly that the whole disgraceful thing leaped at her in a single glance. as though it had been a noxious reptile which had bitten her she flung it from her into the heart of the brightly burning fire of wood and turf. a little flame sprang up and it was gone, just as sir shawn came into the room. they had the breakfast room to themselves now that there were no visitors, but lady o'gara hesitated to speak. she had no intention of keeping the matter of the anonymous letter from her husband, but she wanted to let him eat his breakfast in peace, and to talk later on, secure from possible interruptions. she gave him scraps of news from her letters, and from _the times_ of the preceding day, which reached them at their breakfast table. she felt disturbed and agitated, but only as one does who has received an insult. she would be better when she had told shawn about the horrid thing. her restlessness, so unlike her usual benign placidity, at last attracted her husband's notice. "any disturbing news, mary?" he asked. "nothing." her hand hovered over terry's letter. "terry thinks he can get a few days' leave next week for the pheasants and bring a couple of brother-officers with him." "h'm!" sir shawn said, a little grimly. "he hasn't been away very long. i suppose eileen is coming back." "she comes on monday." "i expect he knows it." "perhaps he does. have you finished, shawn? another cup of tea? no? i want to talk to you, dear. will you come out to the robin's seat. it is really a beautiful morning." "let me get my pipe." unsuspiciously he found his pipe and tobacco pouch and followed her. the robin's seat was a wooden seat below a little hooded arch, under a high wall over which had grown all manner of climbing wall-plants. the arbour and the seat were on the edge of a path which formed the uppermost of three terraces: below the lowest the country swept away to the bog. the wall, made to copy one in a famous roman garden, was beautiful at all times of the year, with its strange clinging and climbing plants that flourished so well in this mild soft air. in autumn it was particularly beautiful with its deep reds and golds and purples and bronzes. the robin's seat was a favourite resting-place of these two married lovers, who fed the robins that came strutting about their feet, and even perched on their knees, asking a crumb. despite the disturbance of her mind lady o'gara had not forgotten her feathered pensioners. she threw crumbs to them as she talked, and the robins picked them up and flirted their little heads and bodies daintily, turning a bright inquiring eye on her when the supply ceased. "well, mary?" "i hate to tell you, shawn." she brushed away the last crumbs from her lap. "i did not tell you the truth when i said there was nothing disturbing among my letters." "i knew there was something. we have not lived so long together for me not to know you through and through. and you are as open as the day." "it was a horrid thing, a creeping, lying thing." "an anonymous letter." his eyes fluttered nervously under the droop of the long lashes. "you should have put it in the fire, darling." "i did. there was so little of it that unfortunately i saw it all at a glance. it is horrid to think that any one about here could do such a thing." suddenly she laughed. she had a peculiarly joyous laugh. "they,--whoever wrote it--should have said something more likely to be believed. they said--i beg your pardon for telling you, shawn--that you were visiting a lady at the waterfall cottage." she was looking at him and suddenly she saw the shadows come in his face which had had the power to disturb her before: or she thought she did. the upper part of his face was in shadow from the balsam that dropped its trails like a fringe over the arch. "you did not believe it, mary?" "what do you think? would you believe such a story of me?" "don't!" he said, and there was something sharp, like a cry, in the protest. "no reptile would be base enough to spit at you." they were alone together. below them the terraces fell to the coloured bogs. a river winding through the bog showed as a darkly blue ribbon, reflecting the cloud of indigo which hung above the bog. beyond was the wood of the echoes, the trees apparently with their feet in the water in which other trees showed inverted. not a creature to see them, but the robins. suddenly he put his head down on her shoulder, with the air of a tired child. "your correspondent was not a liar, mary," he said. "i have visited mrs. wade at waterfall cottage, at night too, and only not by stealth because i thought that hercules' ghost--" he shivered a little--"would have kept spies and onlookers from that place." lady o'gara shifted his head slightly with the greatest gentleness, so that she might caress him, stroking his hair with her fingers. "well, and why not?" she asked, with her air of gaiety. "there never was such a wife as you, mary," he said. "go on stroking my hair. it draws the pain out." "you have neuralgia?" she asked with quick alarm. "no: it is a duller pain than that. it is a sort of congestion caused by keeping secrets from you." "secrets!" her voice was quite unsuspicious. "you could not keep them long." he sat up and looked at her, and she saw that there was pain in his eyes. "i have been keeping secrets from you all our wedded life together, mary." she uttered a little sound of dismay--of grief. then she said, with an assumption of an easy manner: "and if you have, shawn, well--they must be things i had no right to know. there are reticences i can respect. other people's secrets might be involved...." "that was it," he said eagerly. "there was another person's secret involved. i kept it back when it would have rested my heart to tell you." "i shall not ask you to tell me now unless the time has come to tell. i can trust you, shawn." "the time may have come," he answered, drawing down her caressing hand to kiss it. "another man might have told it to win you the more completely, mary. he might have found justification for betraying his friend. i thought at one time you must have cared for terence comerford and not for me. it was the strangest thing in the world that you should have cared for me. terence was so splendid, so big, so handsome and pleasant with every one. how could you have preferred me before him? and i knew he wasn't fit for you, mary. i knew there was another girl,--yet i held my peace. it tortured me, to keep silence. and there was the other girl to be thought of. he owed reparation to the other girl. but his mother had her heart set on you for a daughter-in-law. i believe he would have done the right thing if he had lived,--in spite of all it would have meant to his mother. he had a good heart,--but--oh, my god!--he should not have lifted his eyes to you when there was that other poor girl!" he spoke in a voice as though he were being tortured, and her caressing hand felt the cold sweat ooze out on his forehead. how sensitive he was! how he grieved for his friend after all those years! "he did not really lift his eyes to me as you say," she said. "his mother wanted it. he never did. a woman is not deceived." "but you cared for him--to some extent?" he asked jealously. "i never cared for any man but one," she answered. "i used to think you would never ask me. perhaps you never would have only that i came to you when you were so broken down after your illness; and you had not strength enough to resist me." she finished with a certain pathetic gaiety. with all his deep love for her she had not brought him joyfulness. many people had noticed it. her own well-spring of joy had never run dry. it had survived even his sadness, and had made the house bright for their one child, but there had been moments, hours, when she had felt oddly exhausted, as though she had to bear a double strain of living. "you saved me from utter despair,--'an angel beautiful and bright.' that is what you seemed to me when you showed me your exquisite pity." "poor terence!" she said softly. "do you know, shawn, i believe he was often on the edge of telling me his secret. over and over again he began and was interrupted, or he drew back." "hardly, mary. men do not tell such things to the ladies of their family." "oh!" she coloured like a girl. "it was,--that. i thought it was ... a lady ... some one he knew in dublin perhaps." "it was a girl in killesky. her grandmother kept a little public-house. she looked like an old gipsy-queen, the grandmother. and the girl--the girl was like a dark rose. all the men in the county raved about her--the gentlemen, i mean. it was extraordinary how many roads led through killesky. the girl was as modest as she was beautiful. terence was mad about her. he knocked down a connaught ranger man who made a joke about her. that last leave--before he was killed--he was never out of the place. she had been at a convent school--the old woman had brought her up well--and she used to go on visits to school friends in dublin. terence told me he met her in dublin when we were at the royal barracks. i implored him to let her alone, but he was angry and told me to mind my own business. that last time it was more serious. poor little bridyeen! i told him he ought to marry her. i think he knew it. it made him short-tempered with me. but ... i hope ... i hope...--" the strange anguish came back to his voice--"that he would have married her." "i remember now," lady o'gara said. "i remember the girl. aunt grace thought very well of her; she told the old woman she ought not to have bridyeen serving in the bar. she was a beautiful little creature, like a moss rosebud, such dark hair and the beautiful colour and the ardent look in her eyes. old mrs. dowd answered aunt grace with a haughtiness equal to her own. aunt grace was very angry: she said the old woman was insolent. i did not learn exactly what mrs. dowd had said, but i gathered that she said she knew how to keep her girl as well as aunt grace did." "i sometimes thought the old woman was ambitious," sir shawn went on, dreamily. "she used to watch bridyeen while all those fellows were hanging about her and paying her compliments. i have sometimes thought she meant bridyeen to marry a gentleman. several were infatuated enough for that. the old woman was always about watching and listening. i don't think any of them was ever rude to the little girl. she was so innocent to look at. if any man had forgotten himself so far he would have had to answer to the others." "what became of them--afterwards? killesky seldom came in my path. i did not know that the picturesque old woman and the little granddaughter had gone till after we were married, when i drove that way and saw the garish new shop going up. "it was like the old woman to carry off poor bridyeen from all the scandal and the talk. you remember how ill i was. i thought that as soon as i was well enough i would go and see them--the old woman and the poor child. i would have done what i could. they were gone. no one knew what had become of them. they had gone away quietly and mysteriously. the little place was shut up one morning. you remember how pretty it was, the little thatched house behind its long garden. they had gone to america. fortunately the people had not begun to talk." "that poor little thing!" lady o'gara said softly. "she looked as shy as a fawn. i wonder what became of her." "don't you understand, mary? she has come back. she is ... mrs. wade." "oh! she married then? of course you would want to be kind to her. i suppose she is a widow!" "i don't think she married. i don't know what brings her back here, unless it is the desire to return which afflicts the irish wherever they go. she has fixed herself in such a lonely spot. after all, she is my tenant. it is my business to see that she wants for nothing. i recognized her one night i came that way--when i was late and had to take that road. i saw her through the unshuttered window with a strong light on her face. i went back there in daylight and came upon her drawing water from the well. she was frightened at first, but afterwards she seemed glad to see me. she is very lonely. no one goes to see her but mrs. horridge,--a good creature--but bridyeen is a natural lady. i must not go there again though she is a grey-haired woman older than her years--it was strange that i recognized her after twenty years; there are beasts who will talk." "i shall come with you, shawn," said lady o'gara. "that will be the best way to prevent their talking." chapter x mrs. wade a friendship had sprung up between mrs. horridge and mrs. wade, as sir shawn had said--a curious friendship, not altogether equal, for mrs. wade had a certain amount of education and was curiously refined--america had not altered her even to the extent of affecting her speech; and that was a very exceptional thing, for the returned americans usually came with a speech altered out of all recognition. when lady o'gara came into the little sitting-room at the cottage, having knocked with her knuckles and obtained no answer, she found susan horridge there. susan stood up, making a little dip, took the boy's garment she had been mending and went away, while mrs. wade received her visitor with a curious air of equality. it was not such an equality as she might have learnt in the united states. there was nothing assertive about it. it was quite unconscious. she seemed profoundly agitated by lady o'gara's visit, her colour coming and going, her eyes dilated. she had put out a hand as susan horridge went away, almost as though she would have detained her by force. "please forgive my coming in like this," lady o'gara said. "i was knocking for some time, but you did not hear me. my husband, sir shawn o'gara, has told me about his tenant, and i thought i would like to come and see you." "thank you very much, lady o'gara. i am sorry you had to wait at the door. won't you sit down?" "may i sit here? i don't like facing the light. my eyes are not over-strong." "dear me. they look so beautiful too." the naïve compliment seemed to ease the strain in the situation. lady o'gara laughed. she had sometimes said that she laughed when she felt like to die with trouble. people had taken it for an exaggerated statement. what cause could mary o'gara have to feel like dying with trouble? even though shawn o'gara was a melancholy gentleman, mary seemed very well able to enjoy life. "how kind of you!" she said merrily. "i might return the compliment. what a pretty place you have made of this!" "i brought a few little things with me. i knew nothing was to be bought here. and the things i found here already were good." "it is a damp place down here under the trees. now that you have made it so pretty it would be hard to leave it. else i should suggest another cottage. there is a nice dry one on the upper road." "oh! i shouldn't think of leaving this," mrs. wade said, nervously. still her colour kept coming and going. america had not yellowed her as it usually had the _revenants_. her dark skin was smooth and richly coloured: her eyes soft and still brilliant. only the greying of her hair told that she was well on towards middle age. "but it is very lonely. you are not nervous?" "i like the loneliness." "you should have a dog." her tongue had nearly slipped into saying that a dog was the kind of company that did not ask questions. "i should have to exercise a dog." a queer look of fear came into her eyes. lady o'gara could have imagined that she looked stealthily from one side to another. "but you must go out sometimes," she said. again the look of fear cowered away from her. what was it that mrs. wade was afraid of? "i was never one for walking," she said, lamely. "you don't like to tear yourself from this pretty room?" it was very pretty. the walls had been thickly whitewashed and the curtains at the window were of a deep rose-colour. a few cushions in the white chairs and sofa repeated the rose-colour. the room seemed to glow within the shadow of the many trees, overhanging too heavily outside. "you have too many trees here," lady o'gara went on. "it must be pitchy towards nightfall. i shall ask my husband to cut down some of them." she was wondering at her own way with this woman. gentle and kindly as she was, she had approached the visit with something of shrinking, the unconscious, uncontrollable shrinking of the woman whose ways have always been honourable and tenderly guarded, from the woman who has slipped on the way, however pitiable and forgivable her fault. it is the feeling with which the nun, however much a lover of her kind, approaches the penitent committed to her care. she suddenly realized that in this case she did not shrink. whatever difference there might be between her and mrs. wade there was not _that_ difference. they met as one honourable woman meets another. lady o'gara was glad that she had forgotten to shrink. "thank you very much," said mrs. wade. "it is kind of you to think of it. but--i like the trees. you are very kind, lady o'gara. about the dog,--if i had a little gentle one, who would stay with me while i gardened and not want too much exercise, i should like it." "i believe i can get you such a one. my cousin, mrs. comerford, or rather her adopted daughter, has poms. there is a little one, rather lame, in the last litter. his leg got hurt somehow. i am sure i can have him. you will be good to him." mrs. wade had drawn back into the shadow. the one window lit the space across by the fireside to the door and the other portion of the room was rather dark. but lady o'gara had an idea that the woman's eyes leaped at her. "i saw the young lady," she said. "she came to mrs. horridge's lodge one day i was there. she was so pretty, and the little dogs with her were jumping upon her. little goldy-coloured dogs they were." "yes, that would be stella. she loves her dogs: i know she would be so glad to give you one, because you would be good to it." "maybe she'd bring it to me one day? she's a pretty thing. it would be nice to see her in this house." the voice was low, but there was something hurried and eager about it. lady o'gara imagined that she could see the heave of the woman's breast. "certainly. we shall bring the puppy together. i shall tell stella." a sudden misgiving came to her when she had said it. perhaps she ought to be too careful of stella to bring her into touch with a woman who had slipped from virtue, however innocently and pitiably. it was a scruple which might not have troubled her if stella had been her own child. there was another thing. would grace comerford, if she knew all, be willing that her adopted daughter should be friends with mrs. wade? again something leaped at her from the woman's eyes, something of a gratitude which took lady o'gara's breath away. "it will be nice to have a little dog of my own," she said. "it will be great company in the house at night. a little dog like that would be almost like a child. and in the daytime he'd give me word if any one was coming." suddenly she seemed to have a new thought. she leant forward and said in the same agitated way: "you wouldn't be bringing mrs. comerford?" "no, no," said lady o'gara. "i shall not bring mrs. comerford." "i knew her long ago. she was kind, but she was very proud," mrs. wade said, dropping back into the shadow from which she had emerged. so it was of mrs. comerford she was afraid! what was it? conscience? did she think terence comerford's mother could have heard anything in that far away time? "i shall not bring mrs. comerford," she said. "stella is much with me at castle talbot." again she wondered why she had said "stella." it would have been "miss stella" to another woman of mrs. wade's class. "might i be making you a cup of tea, lady o'gara?" mrs. wade asked with a curiously brightening face. "i had put on the kettle in the kitchen for mrs. horridge. it will be boiling by this time." lady o'gara was about to refuse. then she changed her mind. a refusal might hurt mrs. wade. beyond that she had a sudden curiosity,--her husband had often said that she had a touch of the _gamin_--as to how mrs. wade would give her tea. would she sit down with her in the equality of an afternoon call? there was a little twitch at the corners of her lips as she answered that she would like tea. sir shawn was away shooting wild duck, and she would be alone at tea if she went home. while she waited, still with that half-delighted feeling of curiosity, she went and stood before the old-fashioned bookcase which contained mrs. wade's library. very good, she said to herself. there were odd volumes of thackeray and dickens, mrs. gaskell and charlotte brontë. her dimples came and were reflected as she turned about in the convex glass, with an eagle atop, over the fireplace. outside a couple of stone eagles perched on the low roof, after the fashion of a bygone day. far away in the silvery distance of the convex mirror a miniature lady o'gara dimpled. she was remembering a pretentious lady who had called on her a few days earlier--the wife of a newly rich man who had taken ardnavalley, a place in the neighbourhood, for the shooting. sir robert smith, the multi-millionaire, was very simple. not so lady smith, who had remarked that bront was always readable. there were also a few volumes of poetry, not very exacting,--tennyson, adelaide procter, longfellow, and some irish books--"the spirit of the nation," "lady wilde's poems," davis, moore: a few devotional books. ah well, it was very good--gentle and innocent reading. and there was mrs. wade's prayer-book--the key of heaven,--on a small table, the "imitation of christ" beside it. by these lay one or two oddly bound books in garish colourings, lady o'gara opened one. she saw it was in french--an innocuous french romance suitable for the reading of convent-school girls. mechanically she looked at the flyleaf. it bore an inscription; miss bride sweeney, enfant de marie, had received this book for proficiency in italian, some twenty-two years earlier at st. mary's convent. she held the book in her hand when mrs. wade appeared, carrying a little tray of unpainted wood, on which was set out a tea for one person, all very dainty, from the small china cup and saucer on its white damask napkin to the thinly cut bread and butter. lady o'gara had been thinking that if mrs. wade did not wish to be identified with bride sweeney, she should not leave her school-prizes about. "ah, you are looking at that old book," mrs. wade said, setting down her little tray, while she spread a tea-cloth on the table. "they are very dull stories. even a convent-school girl could not extract much from them. i'm sorry it's so plain a tea. if i'd known your ladyship was coming i'd have had some cakes made." "this home-made bread is delicious," lady o'gara said. "but, won't you have some tea too?" "no, thank you. i am not one for tea at every hour of the day like mrs. horridge. i take my tea when you are taking your dinner. you wouldn't like a boiled egg now? i've one little hen laying." her voice was coaxing. now that lady o'gara could see the face in full light she thought it an innocent and gentle face. the eyes still looked upward with a kind of passion in their depths. she remembered her husband's epithet,--"ardent." it well described mrs. wade's eyes. just now the ardour was for herself. she wondered why. "thank you so very much," she said sweetly. "i don't think i could eat an egg, though. your tea is delicious." "the cream is from your own kerries. mrs. horridge arranged it for me that i could get the milk from your dairy. it would make any tea good. she brings me the milk twice daily, or her little lad does." "susan seldom ventures out, i think," lady o'gara said, while she sipped her tea. "i am glad you get her beyond her own gate." "she's a scared creature. she dreads the road. mr. kenny gets her all she wants from the village. she comes to me across the mount. she doesn't mind that way even in the dark, though the people about here wouldn't take it on any account. perhaps she doesn't know the stories. perhaps, like myself, she thinks a ghost is better company than humans sometimes." "ah; you are not afraid of ghosts!" "if i was," mrs. wade's eyes suddenly filled with tears,--"would i be settled here? it's not thinking of the admiral's ghost i'd be. maybe there's some you'd welcome back from the grave, if you loved them well enough. i can't imagine any one not wanting the dead back, if so be that you loved them." her voice died off in a wail, and suddenly it came to lady o'gara that just outside, where the water fell over the weir, terence comerford had met with his death. "no," she said softly, "i cannot imagine any one being afraid of the dear dead." as she said it she remembered the shadows about her husband's face and her heart was cold. it was only later that she wondered if mrs. wade had chosen that lonely spot to return to because there terence comerford's handsome head had lain in its blood. it occurred to her at the same time that not one word had passed between them which could indicate that she knew anything of mrs. wade beyond that she had been a dweller in these parts long before she had come to be a tenant of sir shawn o'gara at the waterfall cottage. a curious thing that there should be there side by side, thrown into an odd companionship, two women who had reason to be afraid and had chosen these lonely places to hide. poor susan! the reason for her hiding was obvious. with mrs. wade it was another matter. why need she have come back if she so dreaded her past? or was it the memory of terence comerford that drew her, the thought of the old tragedy and the old passion? chapter xi the only pretty ring-time castle talbot took on new lightness and brightness when terry came home. his mother said fondly that it was like the palace of the sleeping beauty where life hung in suspense between his goings and comings. the mere presence of this one young man seemed to put all the servants on their mettle. the cook sent up such meals as she did not at any other time. "sure sir shawn and her ladyship never minded what they would be atin," she said. the gardener, a gruff old cynic usually, gave his best grapes and peaches for "master terry"; even the small sewing maid who sat in a slip of a room at a remote corner of the house, mending the house-linen under the supervision of the housekeeper, was known to have said that though she never _saw_ master terry she _felt_ he was there. the dogs were aware of his coming before he came. they had their own intuitions of the joyful expectancy in the house and what it meant. shot would take to lying in the hall, with one wistful eye fixed on the open hall door, while lady o'gara's two poms became quite hysterical, rushing out when there was no one at all or some one they were well accustomed to, assailing them with foolish shrieks. "it is all right when terence is coming home," lady o'gara said, smiling. "i can forgive chloë and cupid for yapping. it is when he is gone and they rush out at every sound that i find it unbearable." "you will kill the fatted calf for terry," sir shawn grumbled, "as though he had been a year away. the youngster does nothing but amuse himself. when i was his age we got in some hard work at soldiering." "every generation says the same of the one that comes after it," lady o'gara rejoined. "terry loves his work, though he manages to enjoy himself." "too much of a golden youth," grumbled his father. "you spoil the boy, mary!" but his eyes were glad all the time, and the grumbling was only a pretence. "you'll see what the golden boys are capable of if the war they are always talking about comes in our time," lady o'gara said, and a swift shadow passed over her face. "i hope there will be no more wars, even to vindicate them. i suffered enough in those years of the south african war when you were out and terry and i were alone." eileen arrived a few hours earlier than terry. she clapped her hands to her ears when she arrived, and the poms broke out into shrill chorus. shot, who began already to be very dim-sighted, came to the door to see what the clamour was about, and with the most indifferent movement of his tail returned to his place on the rug before the fire. "little beasts!" said eileen, poking viciously at the poms with her umbrella. "i don't know how you endure them, cousin mary; i can hardly tell which is the worst, chloë or cupid." eileen had never liked the dogs any more than she liked the horses. she was fond of cats and had a favourite smoke-blue persian, between whom and the poms there was an armed neutrality. the cat's name was cleopatra, and she deserved it. her green eyes shone like emeralds when she curled boa-fashion about her mistress's white neck and looked down at the poms. lady o'gara had come out on the steps to meet eileen and had kissed her on each cold satin cheek, making a tender fuss about removing her wraps. her coldnesses were easily dispelled. "come right in, darling, and have some tea," she said fondly. "why, you are perished! it is very cold. we shall have a frost to-night. and how are all at home?" "oh, much the same as usual. mother has rheumatism. dad is grumbling over his large and expensive family and the bad year it has been for everything. it is always a bad year with farmers, isn't it? the house is tight-packed, as usual. they always have visitors. i _was_ glad to escape to this delicious roominess. they are all outrageously well and hungry, as dad says. and some of them will love to come after christmas, if you can _really_ have them. they _must_ be at home for christmas, they say. i am sure some of them could well be spared." a momentary vision passed before lady o'gara's inner eyes. it was of mrs. anthony creagh and the quiverful, three boys and five girls then, to be increased later. mrs. anthony sat in her armchair, one child on her lap, a second with its face buried in her trailing, somewhat shabby silk skirt, two others peeping from behind her chair. the boys were at a table with books open before them. eileen, aged eight, and already the beauty of the family, stood by her mother's knee, eating an apple. "cousin mary wants one of my little girls to go home with her," mrs. creagh had said, rather tearfully. she was an incurably motherly person, whose heart expanded with the quiver--"she wants one of my little girls to play with her terry. who will go?" the boys had looked indifferent. the child whose face was buried in her mother's skirts seemed to burrow a little further in, while the two standing behind the chair disappeared. the baby on its mother's knee only gurgled cheerfully, as though at the best joke in the world. then eileen had laid down her half-eaten apple, and turning, had thrust her moist little hand into lady o'gara's, warm from her muff. dear friendly thing! lady o'gara had brought her back in triumph to castle talbot, feeling that she could never do enough to make up to the child for forsaking for her that long family, happy and happy-go-lucky. eileen had become conventional in her growing-up, not much like the others, who frolicked like puppies and grew up pretty well at their own sweet will. "i told mother she should not fill the house with visitors in addition to her long family, if dad had had a bad year," said eileen, putting off her furs in the hall. "she said that what people ate never counted. isn't it just like mother? what a jolly fire, darling cousin mary! and how sweet to see you again!" she took up lady o'gara's hand and kissed it. she had done the same thing that evening long ago when she had come for the first time to castle talbot, and had snuggled against lady o'gara in the brougham, warming her heart, which was chilly because in a very short time terry was to go off to his preparatory school for eton. it was his father's will and she had not grumbled, but she had often felt in her own heart that she had had very little of terry since he was eight years old. "come and eat something," she said, leading the girl into the drawing-room, where the lamps had been lit and the tea-table drawn near the fire. "i told cook to send up an extra good tea, knowing you would be cold and hungry after your journey." "how delicious!" miss creagh said, lifting off one cover after another. "i haven't had a decent tea since i went away. we are such a hungry family, to say nothing of the visitors." "terry will be here in time for dinner," lady o'gara said, her eyes joyful. "so put on your best bib-and-tucker. we don't get many occasions to wear our finery. i shall wear my limerick lace and emeralds." "and terry won't see them because he will be thinking only of yourself," eileen said, devouring sandwiches and hot cakes. for a girl of her slender delicacy she had a very good appetite and usually indulged it, although there were moments when she tried to hold it in check, having detected, as she said, a tendency to _embonpoint_. "i can really afford to be greedy, cousin mary," she said, with a laughing apology. "i've been _starved_ at inver. how the _stacks_ of food went! they have such healthy appetites. i _couldn't_ eat potato-cakes, soaked in butter, nor doorsteps as the boys called them, of bread and jam and honey. fearfully fattening food." "you remind me of when you came to me and started to grow out of your clothes with such alarming rapidity. when your white satin, long-waisted frock grew too small for you, you said, for you did not like giving it up, 'i can really get into it if i hold myself in like _this_. and anyhow i've given up pudding!'" "ah, that was the worst of me," said eileen mournfully. "i could never continue long doing without pudding." she came down to dinner wearing a pale green frock with a prim fichu of chiffon and lace. terry had already arrived and was in the drawing-room, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. "hullo, eileen!" he shouted, "how stunning you look! you grow prettier every day!" the compliment was too brotherly in its easy candour to please her altogether: but she knew very well she was "stunning." she could see herself in a long old-fashioned mirror on the wall. her hair was like gold floss. there was no sign of the embonpoint she feared in the slender grace of her figure. the pearls about her neck became her mightily, as did the green ribbon, the same shade as her dress, snooded in her hair. she lifted her eyes to the boy's frank gaze in a way which she had usually found very effective. she had been able to do anything with terry when she looked at him like that, and she had tried the same allurement on others than terry. "you're only just back," he went on. "jolly nice of you to come for me. the mater must have missed you." "they insist on my presence at inver now and again. i don't know why. it is very unreasonable of them!" she put out a satin slipper and stirred shot with it. "the only drawback to this dear house," she said, "is that there are dogs everywhere." shot growled in his sleep. perhaps she had not touched him in quite the right way. she withdrew her foot in alarm, more alarm that she felt, and turned eyes of a child-like fear upon terry. "oh! shot is cross," she said innocently. the man in terry answered. he bent towards her as though drawn irresistibly. there was a flutter of feminine garments in the doorway of the room. some one looked in and withdrew. sir shawn, coming down the stairs, did not notice the small figure by the fire in the hall, fast fading to ashes, the centre of a circle of adoring dogs, who had withdrawn themselves from miss creagh's unfriendliness. he went on to the drawing-room door. he too was attracted by the tableau. nothing could have been prettier than the boy's bold advance, the girl's withdrawal. they were too engrossed in each other, or appeared to be, to notice his face in the doorway. with a deep sigh, as of relief, he turned away. then he caught sight of the pink blob by the fireplace in the hall. stella was down on her knees feeding the dying fire with sods of turf. her rose geranium frock made what the children call a "cheese" about her. her golden brown head was charming against the audacious colour of her frock. the dogs had taken advantage of her position to press about her. now and again she pushed off cupid, who was the bold one, with the sod of turf in her hand. sir shawn felt particularly kind towards the girl. "hullo, stella," he said: "i didn't know you had come." "some little time ago," she replied. "grannie is with lady o'gara. do you mind my making up the fire?" "not a bit." his heart was light within him, almost to the extent of taking stella into his confidence. discreet little thing! she, too, had surprised the pretty picture in the drawing-room, and had withdrawn, leaving the lovers to themselves. "the lovers." he said the words over to himself, mouthing them as though they were sweet. he had been unnecessarily alarmed. things were arranging themselves beautifully. he believed in early marriages. the happiness of the youngsters would keep him young. he would get away from his shadows. after a while terry must come home and settle down somewhere near. a few years of soldiering in these piping times of peace were as much as the boy need do. so his mind ran on into the happy future while he sat on the arm of one of the red-leather chairs and beamed at stella, who had always been rather alarmed of sir shawn, and came out now as prettily as a flower in the warm sun. he looked at his watch. it was a quarter to eight. dinner-time. a pity the youngsters had not more time to settle their pretty affair. he began to think of what gift he would give eileen. his mother's pearl cross--large pearls set _en cabochon_. mary had so many things. she would not grudge that to terry's wife. there were mary and grace comerford coming down the staircase, talking as though they did not see each other constantly. how well mary looked in the brown silk! it brought out the dear shades of red in her hair and eyes. he went over and joined the two ladies. "only _just_ in time!" he said, in rather a loud voice, as he opened the drawing-room door. he intended it as a warning, but it was apparently not necessary. terry was sitting in a chair at one side of the fireplace with shot's head on his knee. miss creagh, a cloud on her face, was in the opposite chair, caressing cleopatra. sir shawn's heart sank. had they been quarrelling, silly children? he began to tremble for his dream. "cleopatra scratched shot's nose," said terry, holding up the liver-coloured nose for inspection. "see, it has bled. eileen will have it that it was shot's fault. of course it was not. shot is so gentle." he stood up to meet the ladies and, swift as an arrow from the bow, he went to stella's side. poor sir shawn! poor gentleman! the fabric of his rosy dreams had faded to ashes. he looked almost piteously towards eileen: and, unreasonably, was angry with her because with that sullenness of expression her beauty had departed: she was almost plain. under his breath he damned cleopatra. chapter xii mother-love somehow or other lady o'gara found it difficult to get stella to herself in the days that followed. there were times when she almost thought that stella deliberately kept away. sir shawn had often said, rallying his wife, that mary never saw further than her own nose. she was a little bewildered about the young people. terry and eileen seemed to have quarrelled. eileen found occupations that kept her in her own room. she had suddenly developed a desire to make herself a coat and skirt, and lady o'gara had gone in many times, to find her pinning and fitting on the lay-figure which occupied the centre of the room, surrounded by all manner of snippets and pieces. this ridiculous pre-occupation of eileen's gave lady o'gara something she did not complain of. she had more of her son than otherwise she would have had. terry had never looked for better companionship than his mother's, but he grumbled about eileen nevertheless. "she used to be always ready to come anywhere," he said. "i know i can't always have you, because father needs you so much. we have always torn you in pieces between the two of us. i asked eileen to come out shooting on the bog with me and she wouldn't. she just opened her door and i saw a horrid thing, an indecent thing that pretended to look like a woman's body, taking up the middle of her room." "it's for fitting dresses on, you ridiculous boy!" lady o'gara said laughing. "it gave me a shock. a horrid, stuffed thing. i shall not be able to look at eileen again without seeing that. why does she want to make her dresses? can't your maid do it? industry in eileen is quite a new thing. not that she's half as good a companion on the bog as you are, darling. i've always had to carry her over the pools. she said she couldn't jump." lady o'gara's face at this frankness was a study. "she's so helpless. not like a country girl, at all. you remember that day with the bull. she left stella to be gored by the bull and expected to be admired for it." there was certainly a change in terry's attitude towards eileen. lady o'gara sighed, because of what she knew was in her husband's mind rather than for any disappointment in herself. eileen was not her ideal wife for terry. "eileen will go with you all right," she said. they were standing in front of the house on the gravel-sweep. "i've just told her she was injuring her complexion by staying indoors. she has gone to put on her hat. i did not like to tell her that margaret mckeon lamented to me that eileen was cutting out that beautiful foxford tweed so badly. we'll go and rout out stella. she has not been over here for five days." terry's face lit up. "i don't know why stella's out with me," he said. "she is always hiding behind your skirts or mrs. comerford's when i am about and want to talk to her." his mother looked at him, with the yearning tenderness of the woman who would give all the world to her beloved man if she only might. "you like stella?" "yes: she's a little darling. don't you?" "i am very fond of stella. perhaps ... she thinks ... you like eileen very much?" after all, if her boy wanted stella, why should even his father's preferences prevail? she had surprised a glance in stella's eyes when they rested on terry for a brief moment before they quickly veiled themselves. the child had something southern in her. so, for the matter of that, had terry. she was fond of eileen, but, simple as she was, she had not had eileen with her pretty constantly for many years without being aware of a certain shallowness in the girl. the blood under the fair skin ran thinly, coldly. his face lit up with such a light that she was alarmed at what she had done. what would shawn say if he knew? but, after all, shawn had married where he loved. why should not the boy have the same felicity? stella had been pushing her small soft way into mary o'gara's heart. she knew now that eileen could never have been the little daughter she wanted. "you think she would mind that?" his eyes leaped at her. she felt like one who had burnt her boats. she would not look before or behind. shawn was wrong, she said vehemently to herself. eileen was not the girl for terry. "i will tell you a secret, terry," she said. "the first evening you came back, in the drawing-room before dinner, there was something that might have passed for a love-scene between you and eileen. your father opened the door and withdrew. then he discovered that stella had come downstairs before him and was playing with the dogs in the hall by the dying fire. he supposed that she had surprised that scene before he did." oh, poor shawn! what a use she was making of his confidence! but men never knew about their sons as mothers did. she would give anything, except her own soul, to procure terry the joy he desired. and it was a good joy. she loved stella. of course, she would be very good to eileen, but she did not want eileen for a daughter-in-law. shawn did not look very deeply. he had hardly considered eileen except as something pretty and gentle, who was pleasant in the house and sang him moore's melodies of evenings in a small sweet voice. he missed her when she returned to her own people. "i was an idiot for a second," the boy said, shamefacedly. "i don't suppose you understand, mother, but men are like that. eileen can be very alluring when she likes and..." "don't tell me any more. i can imagine," lady o'gara said and laughed, a laugh which had a certain shyness in it. "then we fell out over the cat and dog," he said. "eileen was rather rude. perhaps i was a little rough with cleopatra, but she had scratched shot's nose. you know what shot is! it was an entirely unprovoked attack. i believe i did say that cleopatra should be sent to the cats' home." eileen appeared at this point, coming with an unwilling air. it was true that her staying within-doors so much had not improved her looks. she had not a very good circulation at any time. that, or her mood, had given her rose and white a dull, leaden look. her discontented little face was lifted towards the dappled sky. it was really a beautiful day of autumn. there was a little wind, and the last yellow leaves on the branches tinkled like so many small golden cymbals. a pale gold sun was going low amid oceans of amber touched with rose, and above dappled clouds were floating as though the day was february. "it is so cold," said eileen, and shivered. "i don't see how margaret can get on without fitting me. she had made up such a nice fire in my room. i cannot see why any one wants to go out in such weather." "oh, come along, you little grumbler!" lady o'gara said with her infectious gaiety. "come for a good trot. i know what will happen to you: you'll get chilblains if you sit by the fire in cold weather. your hands will be dreadful to look at, and your feet will be a torture." eileen looked down at her feet and then at her hands, childishly. she had very pretty feet and hands. "they are all right so far," she said. "you and terry had better race each other to the bridge," lady o'gara said. "i want to see the colour in your face, child." "come along," said terry, and caught at eileen's hand. half-unwillingly she ran with him, but when lady o'gara caught up with them, eileen was laughing and panting. "this wretched son of yours," she said, "has run me off my feet." "and you look the better for it," lady o'gara answered, her brown eyes merry and her cheeks dimpling like a girl's. "we are going for stella, to bring her back to tea. she has not been near us for some days." "oh!" eileen had gone back to the chilly voice. "she doesn't want to come. she finds us rather dull, i think." lady o'gara laughed. "i don't believe any one could find us dull," she said merrily, "least of all stella." "oh well, i suppose i'm not telling the truth," eileen said huffily. "all i know is she asked me the last time i saw her if terry ever brought any of his brother-officers home with him." terry's candid face clouded over ever so slightly; while his mother remarked that, of course, three was an awkward number for games. they wanted another man. she believed she had been talking about it. "you might ask major evelyn," she said to terry. "it is still possible to have golf when there is fine weather." "i wonder if he would come?" terry said ingenuously. "think of a second-lieutenant like me asking a swell like evelyn! why, his decorations make a perfect breastplate when he chooses to put them on. not that it is a matter of choice. he only does it when he can't help it. he did so splendidly in south africa." "i dare say he'd condescend to come," lady o'gara said. "few sportsmen can resist the castle talbot duck-shooting." "do ask him," said eileen, becoming animated. "two's company, three's none. everything is lop-sided without a second man." "i'll ask him, of course," terry said. "but i don't suppose he'll come. it is like a kid in the lower school asking a prefect to tea. he may come--for the grub. on the other hand he may give the kid a kicking for his impudence." after all, they had not to go as far as inch. they met stella exercising her dogs about half a mile from her own gates. she would like to come to tea if she might first take the dogs home and leave word as to where she had gone. to lady o'gara's mind she looked small and unhappy as soon as the flush had faded which came when she saw them. she clung to lady o'gara, and could not be detached from her. the dogs, surrounding her, made a barrier between her and terry, who, at first, kept as close to her as he could, leaving eileen to walk the other side of lady o'gara. but stella did not seem to have much to say to him. she was too engrossed with the dogs and with his mother to spare him a word. the eager light which had come to his eyes when he had first caught sight of her faded. his candid face was overcast. she had been keeping him at arms-length ever since he had come back. his mother watched him with a comprehension which was half tender amusement, half compassion. he was becoming a little sullen over stella's persistent disregard of him. she watched the set boyish mouth, the pucker of his forehead--her baby. terry had always had that pucker for perplexity or disappointment. why, he had had it when the first down was on his baby head, as soft as a duckling's. the road grew narrow. he began to lag behind, to veer towards eileen. "is it worth while for us all to go on to inch?" he asked in his discontented young voice. "supposing eileen and i go on by the river, while you and stella take back the dogs! they wouldn't follow me or i'd offer to go home with them. it must be nearly a mile to the house from the gate." "i've a better way than that," lady o'gara said on a sudden impulse. she had taken stella's cold little hand in hers, and it made a mute appeal. she was sure stella was unhappy, poor little motherless child. the two poor children, fretting and worrying each other about nothing at all! her comprehending, merry, pitiful gaze went from one to the other young face. "suppose eileen and i walk back. you'll overtake us before we get home. you two are such quick walkers." eileen's lips opened as though to protest. her face had brightened at terry's suggestion. she closed them again in a tight snap. "i never _can_ see the good of walking about wet roads," she said crossly. "it must be nice to live in a town, where there are dry pavements, and people, and shops." a robin rained out his little song from a bough above her head, and behind the trees the sky broke up into magnificence--the sun looking from under a great dun cloud suffused with his rays, while all below him was a cool greenish bluish wash of sky, tender and delicate. "you would not find that in a city, eileen," lady o'gara said, pushing away gently stella's cold little hand that seemed to cling to hers. "make her trot, terry," she said. "her hands are cold as little frogs, like the child's hands in herrick's 'grace for a child.' "cold as paddocks though they be, still i lift them up to thee for a benison to fall on our meat and on us all." she saw the sudden rush of joy to her son's face and she was a little lonely. she felt that she was no longer first with terry. chapter xiii the old love sir shawn was still out when they got back, after a brisk walk. the laggard young people made no appearance for tea, though they waited a while. eileen grumbled discontentedly over everything being cold and suggested a carelessness in stella about other people's convenience. the tea-cakes had been kept warm over a spirit-lamp, but she was in a captious mood. lady o'gara wondered at the girl, who had sometimes been embarrassingly effusive in the display of her affection. had she spoilt eileen? or was the girl feeling sore and a little out of it? the suggestion that eileen might be feeling terry's desertion of her was enough to soften his mother's heart towards the captious girl, who as soon as she had finished her tea,--and a very good tea she made--went off to see how margaret mckeon was progressing with her skirt. at the door she turned about. "do you think i might have a new evening frock, cousin mary?" she asked. "my pink has gone out of fashion. there are such beautiful blues in some patterns i have got from liberty's: i could make it myself, with margaret's help. it would only need a little lace to trim it, or some of that pearl trimming liberty's use so much." "certainly, my dear child. let me know what it will cost. i have a piece of carrickmacross lace somewhere which would make a fichu. you must remind me, eileen. we live so quietly here that i do not remember how the fashions change." "i've hardly noticed, either," said eileen, with a hand on the door handle. "the pink does very well for home-wear. but if terry is going to have friends, i should want something a little smarter." lady o'gara smiled. so eileen was interested in the coming of major evelyn! and she had made so good a tea that any one less ethereal-looking than eileen might have been considered greedy! she had left very little of the abundant tea to be removed. "we'll have a turning-out one of these days," she said. "i noticed your wardrobe was very full the other day when i was in your-room. we can send off what you don't want to inver, and i shall add a few lengths of that liberty silk. brigid and nora are so clever with that little sewing machine i gave them last christmas that they'll turn out something very pretty for themselves." "they've no occasion for pretty things," said eileen. "there never was any young man there but robin gillespie, the doctor's son. he is in india in the r.a.m.c. brigid liked him, i think, but he was not thinking of brigid." then she closed the door on her departing footsteps, leaving lady o'gara to her thoughts. she put the consideration of eileen from her a little impatiently. she was afraid eileen was selfish. she did not seem to have any desire to share her good things with her family, not even with her mother, yet mrs. creagh was a very sweet mother; mrs. comerford who had a cynical way sometimes had remarked one day when eileen had been very caressing with lady o'gara: "if your mother is like what i remember her you need not go further for some one to love." it was the day on which lady o'gara had given eileen her necklet of amethysts and seed-pearls--a beautiful antique thing, of no great intrinsic value beyond its workmanship. it suddenly came to her that, for a good while past, she had got into a way of propitiating eileen with gifts. it had not occurred to her exactly as propitiation, but she had learnt that when eileen was out of sorts the gift of some pretty thing worked wonders. had she been spoiling the girl? was she herself responsible for the whims and fancies which eileen took so often nowadays? in the old days it had not been so. eileen had been sweet-tempered and placidly selfish. there was a change in her of late. it was quite unlike the old eileen to go away and leave her sitting alone in the drawing-room with only two watchful poms, each with a bright eye upon her from their respective chairs, and shot stretched at her feet, to keep her company. she acquitted herself. love and generosity ought not to spoil any one: they ought to lift up, to awake their like. was eileen in love with terry and resenting his desertion? no; she said emphatically in her thoughts. she would have known if eileen cared. if it had been _that_ she could have been very tolerant. her thoughts went back to the first beginnings of difficulty with eileen, and she fixed them at the date of her return from her visit home during the preceding summer. the fatted calf had been killed for the girl's return. lady o'gara remembered how she had anticipated it, and had thought of what eileen liked, the special food and sweets, and so on. she had kept margaret mckeon busy with the new chintz curtains and cushions for miss eileen's room, and when it was all finished had fussed about doing one little thing and another till the privileged maid had been moved to protest. "hasn't miss eileen had everything she wanted from the lucky day for her that she came here? don't be robbin' yourself, m'lady." lady o'gara had taken some of her own pretty things, a crystal clock, a silver and tortoiseshell box for the toilet table--things eileen particularly admired--and had added them to the other pretty things, her gifts, of which the room had many. she had brought an armful of her dearest books: and she had insisted on pink roses because eileen particularly liked pink. after all eileen had been cold when she came. it had been like a douch of cold water. she had not recovered her sweet placidity since that time. lady o'gara had commented on the change to her husband, but he had not seen it. he was fond of eileen, in a superficial way. indeed his devotion to and absorption in his wife were such that almost all other affection in him must be superficial by contrast. to two people his love had been given passionately, to terence comerford and to his wife. he never spoke of the dead friend. it was a well-understood thing in the circle that terence comerford was not to be spoken of carelessly, when sir shawn was within hearing. sitting alone in the firelight, except for the adoring dogs, lady o'gara let her thoughts wander on away from eileen. how deep and passionate was shawn's love when it was given. he had shrunk from that first meeting with mrs. comerford after all those years. he had turned pale when she had taken his hand in hers, looking at him with a long gaze that asked pardon for her past unreason and remembered that he and her dead son had been dearer than brothers. after all those years that touch with the past had opened the floodgates of grief in shawn o'gara. only his wife knew the anguish, the disturbed nights and the weary days that followed. grief in him was like a sharp physical suffering. dear shawn! how glad she was that she was so strong and healthy and had such good spirits always, so as to be able to cheer and comfort him. she smiled to herself, remembering how some of her friends had pitied her because she must always be uplifting his mood. she had never wearied nor found it an irksome effort. a serious sad thought came to her; when the hour of the inevitable parting came she prayed it might be her lot to be left desolate rather than his. she looked at her little watch, a delicate french thing, with a tiny painted picture on the back framed within pearls ending in a true-lovers'-knot, one of shawn's many gifts. six o'clock. it was time shawn was home. she was very glad he had not ridden mustapha, as he had wanted to. patsy kenny had dissuaded him. terry must have stayed on at inch for tea. it had been a cold bright day, and it must be turning to frost, for the fire was burning so redly. the cold was on the floor too, for the little dogs had left their baskets and taken to the chairs, a thing supposed to be strictly forbidden, although as a matter of fact chloë and cupid were always cheerfully disobedient. she wished shawn was home. he had gone up the mountains to a shooting-lodge, where was a party of men gathered to shoot red deer. he had been out overnight and he would be very tired when he came home after a long drive on an outside car. well, after all, it was better than mustapha. patsy's unwillingness to see sir shawn go out on mustapha had infected her, little nervous as she was where horse-flesh was concerned. she comforted herself. it was not like those dreadful days when there had been trouble with the tenants, and she had sat in this very room, listening in anguish for the sound of the horse's hoofs coming fast. terry had been away at his preparatory school then. she had never told any one her terrors. perhaps some of the servants had guessed them. she remembered the night of the big wind, when shawn had been out, and the house had shaken in the first onslaught of the hurricane, before he came. there was a butler's pantry close to the drawing-room door which had always an open window. she had often stolen in there in the dark to listen for the sound of the mare's trot. fatima had been shawn's favourite mount in those days, and no one could mistake the sound of her delicate feet in the distance. there, with her ear to the night, mary o'gara had listened and listened, her heart thumping so fast sometimes that she could not be sure if she heard the horse's hoofs. only, as she used to say joyously afterwards, there was really no mistaking fatima's trot when she _was_ coming. once, rafferty, the old butler, who was dead now, had opened the pantry door suddenly, and had all but let the tray of waterford glass he was carrying fall, for the fright she had given him. she remembered how on that night of the big wind, when her terror was at its worst. patsy kenny had asked to see her about something or other; how she had gone into the office to talk to him; how he had talked gently about fatima, how sure-footed she was and how wise, and how little likely to be frightened as long as she was carrying her master. he had wandered off into simple homely talk, about the supply of turf, how the fair had gone, the price the people were getting for their beasts; now and again leaving off to say, when the moan of the wind came and the house shook: "glory be to god, it's goin' to be a wild night, so it is!" or "that was a smart little clap o' win'. it's a great blessin' to be on dry land to-night." patsy's way with the dumb beasts was well known; and lady o'gara had said afterwards, when she had her husband warm and dry by the fire, and she too happy, being relieved of her terrors, to mind the storm which had not yet reached anything like its height, that patsy had soothed her as though she were a nervous horse. shawn had been younger and stronger then. he had laughed at her fears and had insisted on making a night of it, keeping a roaring fire and lamplight all through the terrifying din, while the servants in the kitchen said their rosary and prayed for the night to be over. sometime in the wild late dawn, when the wind was subsiding, shawn had made her go to bed, saying he would follow. but he had not come for a long time, and she had dropped asleep and wakened to his weary face beside her bed, and to hear him saying that, thank god, they had got out the horses, although the stables were all but in ruins. as she thought over these things the fulness of her love for her husband swept her heart like a springtide. it was sweet yet poignant, for she had the pity beyond all telling in her love for shawn. suddenly she began to be a little in dread because she had been going against what she knew were his wishes. would he mind very much if terry's choice were stella and not eileen? she hoped he would not--at first. later on, when he knew little stella better, with her soft appealing ways, he would be glad. eileen would never be such a dear little daughter. stella had not those ardent eyes for nothing. her disinclination to let the winds of heaven blow too roughly on the men she loved, for whom she had always the maternal pity, brought a sharp revulsion of feeling. after all, the world was for the young. they had never refused terry anything. in a detached way the father was very fond of his boy. he was not necessary to him. no one was that except his wife: but he had been a kind, indulgent father. why should not terry wait a little till his father came to know stella better? things would be all right then. shawn had seemed to avoid stella, perhaps because he avoided mrs. comerford. at last there was terry's ringing step in the hall. there could be little doubt to the mother's mind of what tidings he brought. there was triumph in the step. he burst in on his mother like a young wind. "darling," he said, "i'm so very sorry not to have come home for tea. i simply couldn't induce stella to: she's so dreadfully shy, but she adores you. congratulate me!" he placed his two young firm hands on his mother's shoulders, and stooping, he kissed her. "i shall never love you any less, you know," he said boyishly. "you angel, how you helped us! not many mothers of an only boy would have done it." to their ears came the sound of wheels, approaching the house, now near, now far, as the long avenue turned and twisted. "it is your father," said lady o'gara. "he will be very tired. don't tell him yet, terry. he hardly knows stella. you are very young. it will have to be something of a long engagement." "oh!" he said, but less disappointedly than she had feared, "you too! mrs. comerford said we must wait. i don't want to wait. i want to shout out to the whole world that stella is mine, but, of course, i know. father would rather have had eileen. i have known eileen since i was eight years old. love does not come that way." he was repeating her own words, her own thought. she was relieved that he was so amenable. "after all," she said roguishly, "there have been moments when you seemed on the edge of falling in love with eileen. last june we thought it was all but settled, your father and i." "oh," he said shamelessly, "when the true gods come the half-gods go." sir shawn came into the room. he was pale and tired and the shadows crept in the hollows of his cheeks. she was glad he was not to be disturbed by terry's love-story to-night. she wondered if he would notice the shining radiance of the boy's face. joy--the triumphant joy of the accepted lover--dazzled there to her eyes. she was relieved when the boy went away and left them alone. when shawn was tired he was irresistible to her tenderness. for the moment even terry was out of it. chapter xiv stella goes visiting lady o'gara had met stella, had drawn her to her and kissed her warmly and softly. "your granny will not have it just yet, stella," she said, "so we need not announce it, need we? as though all the world will not read it in terry's eyes!" it made it easier that mrs. comerford was somewhat unreasonable about the engagement. there was too short an acquaintance, she said. three months,--what was three months? and they had not had three weeks of each other's society. too slender a foundation on which to build a life's happiness. and terry had been obviously in love, or what such children called love, with eileen, when they came. he must be sure of himself before she gave him stella. she had drawn back in some curious way, lady o'gara felt, for she had seemed pleased when terry openly displayed his infatuation. the most candid creature alive, although for the moment she held a secret, lady o'gara was puzzled by something in grace comerford. once she said that she was sorry she had yielded to the ridiculous irish passion for return: and when mary o'gara had looked at her with a certain pain in her expression she had railed upon the wet irish climate. but the weather was not what she had meant. had she not said that in italy and egypt she had been parched for the atlantic rain-storms and the humid atmosphere of western ireland? it was a relief that the duck-shooting had begun with the frost: that there was rough shooting in the other days to keep the men out of doors. major evelyn and another man, a cheerful little blonde boy named earnshaw, had got a few days leave from the curragh. their presence imposed a certain restraint upon terry in regard to his love-making--otherwise it must have been obvious even to his father, despite that growing absent-mindedness which enfolded shawn o'gara like a mist. eileen seemed happy once again. lady o'gara began to reproach herself; doubtless castle talbot in winter was a lonesome place for the young. young earnshaw was obviously épris with stella, while major evelyn, a big, laughing brown man, attached himself to eileen. eileen, despite her dislike of the sound of a shot,--she would clap her hands over her pretty ears, with their swinging hoops of turquoise, whenever a gun was fired,--went out with the guns when they shot the last of the pheasants, she at least managed to accompany the lunch. in the evenings she sang to the tired happy men--her irish songs, while major evelyn watched her, an admiring light in his brown eyes. he was half-irish, and the sentiment of the songs appealed to him. night after night eileen went through her little repertoire, charming with her soft, veiled voice, and sir shawn was drawn in from his office to listen with the others. only occasionally stella put in an appearance, which was as well in the circumstances, terry was so taken up attending to all possible needs of his c.o., and wondering ingenuously why evelyn had done him the honour to come, that he bore the deprivation imposed upon him by mrs. comerford better than he might otherwise have done. when she should be alone again with shawn she would tell him, lady o'gara said to herself. she had surprisingly few moments alone with him these days. a few days more and the house would have settled down quietly once more. she would be passing terry's room, with the door standing open revealing its emptiness, as she had had to do many times, always missing the boy sadly. one of these days eileen went out alone with the lunch while stella came to the meal at castle talbot. sir shawn was absent. lady o'gara had ordered a specially dainty lunch such as a young girl would like. she loved to give stella pleasure, and to draw out the look of adoration from her soft bright eyes, which had something of the shyness and wildness of the woodland creature. terry had complained boyishly that stella ran away from him, was shy of his caresses. he had had to take her by capture, he said, and his mother loved him none the less. they were going to see mrs. wade. stella was already friends with susan horridge at the south lodge and with georgie. she had heard much of mrs. wade from them, and she pitied her loneliness, as she pitied susan's when georgie was at school. "odd, isn't it, dear?" she asked in her soft deliberate voice: she had lost or nearly lost the slightly foreign way of speaking she had had at first. "odd, isn't it, that those two natural recluses should have found each other? the other day i was talking to susan, when some one shook the gate and there was a rattle of tins. i thought susan would have fainted. i had to go to the gate for her. it was only a procession of tinkers, as patsy calls them, and an impudent fellow asked me if i wanted any pots or pans mended. i asked him did i look like wanting any pots or pans mended, and he nodded his head towards the lodge. 'the good woman of the house there might,' he said. 'she keeps herself to herself. i never knew this gate locked before.' poor susan asked me twenty questions about what the man looked like. i think she was satisfied." "we are going to bring mrs. wade a gift of a puppy," lady o'gara said. "you shall select one from judy's family, with the assistance of patsy. they are a good lot." "i know the one she shall have," stella said. "it is the one with a few white hairs on his breast. patsy says they'll be a patch as big as a plate when he's older, and tells him he's a disgrace to the litter. he's a darling, much nicer than the others. may i carry him, dear?" "won't he be rather heavy?" "he can walk for little bits where it is dry. but he falls over his great big puppy paws. i don't think there ever were such beautiful dogs as your setters, not even my poms or yours." "i did think of asking you to give mrs. wade a pom, but although they are good watchdogs they would not afford such a sense of protection as a setter. i hope she'll like a setter puppy just as well. we are very proud of our setters. the old shot strain is known everywhere. it has been in the family for at least two hundred years." lady o'gara could be very eloquent about the dogs, but she refrained. this little daughter of hers was just as much a lover of the little brethren as she was. stella simply could not endure to see anything killed, which was a reason against her going out with the guns. once or twice when she had seen anything shot, although she had not screamed like eileen, she had turned pale, while her dark eyes had dilated as though with fear. lady o'gara, noticing how close and silky the gold nut-brown hair grew, rather like feathers than hair, had said to herself that stella had been a rabbit or a squirrel or perhaps a wild bird in one of her incarnations. they went off after lunch to see mrs. wade, the waddling puppy following them, now and again tumbling over his paws. they went out by susan's gate, where lady o'gara stopped to admire the garden that was growing up about the lodge. "you have transfigured it, susan," she said. "it used to be so damp here with the old ragged laurels. they are well away. but i would not have thought there was such good earth under them; the ground always seemed caked so hard." "so it were, my lady," said susan, colouring prettily. "it were mr. kenny. he has worked so 'ard. him an' georgie've been puttin' in bulbs no end these last few days, when he can spare an half-hour from his horses. it's downright pleasant to watch them do it, knowin' that the dead-lookin' things come forth in glory soon as ever this wet winter's past." susan had to bring out her michael to be presented to the puppy, who had no name as yet, but michael only growled and disappeared into the lodge as soon as he was released, like an arrow from the bow. jealousy, susan pronounced it, and suggested that the puppy should be called pansy. "i fancied callin' michael pansy," she said. "but mr. kenny, he fair talked me out of it. his eyes do favour the brown pansies that growed in my old granny's garden in the cotswolds." a thousand, thousand pities, lady o'gara thought, as they went down the hill towards the river, that patsy kenny, that confirmed bachelor, should apparently have found his ideal in an unhappily married woman. stella was carrying the puppy, so that he should not arrive muddy at his new mistress's house. she had twined a ridiculous blue ribbon in his russet curls, which he tried to work off whenever he got a chance, desisting only to lick vigorously at her hand. "he knew me when he was a blind puppy," stella explained. "i had them all in my lap when they were a few hours old. judy let me handle them. you should see eileen's face of disgust as i sat on the horse-block in the stable-yard with my arms full of them." "i can see it!" lady o'gara said, with a queer little smile. the day had been one of heavy showers, between which a pale sun came out and gilt the dappled golds and browns of the woods, and set up a rainbow bridge on the rain cloud that had passed over. they had left the house in a fair interval. they were within sight of the waterfall cottage, within hearing of the water as it fell over the weir, when the heavy drops began to patter. they ran the intervening space, lady o'gara laughing like a girl. it was the girlishness in her that made girls love her society, while they adored her in her own proper place. as they passed the window of mrs. wade's cottage, where it showed beyond the iron railing, lady o'gara glanced that way. the interior of the room was no longer visible to the casual passer-by. curtains were drawn across it, but through the parting of the curtains one caught a glimpse of fire-light. it would be a pleasant rosy window in the desolate road when the lamps were lit. but probably mrs. wade shuttered her window against the night, although the barred opening in the wall, designed to give light to the window, was well protected by its bristling spikes atop. the gate was padlocked. they remained shaking it long enough to make them fearful that they would have to turn back before mrs. wade came flying down the avenue to open to them. "i am so sorry i kept you waiting," she said, panting: "i had just gone into the house when you came. i have been so busy getting my garden into order." she was stooping in the act of unlocking the gate. a pale shaft of watery sunlight came and lay on her hair, showing how thick and soft it was, how closely it grew. the sun was in her eyes, dazzling, and on her cheek, making it pale. she took the hand lady o'gara extended to her, without looking at stella. "this is your little dog, mrs. wade," stella said, not waiting to be introduced. "now isn't he a darling? i think myself he's the pick of the basket, although patsy kenny says he's a disgrace to the place, with that old white waistcoat making a holy show of him." mrs. wade looked at her, shading her eyes with her hand. "thank you, miss," she said humbly. "i'm sure he'll be a dear little dog and a great companion." she had a fluttered, flustered look. her breath came short. lady o'gara wondered if her heart was strong. "i've been expecting you any day at all, m'lady," she went on. "you didn't say when you'd come, but you said you'd come and i've been expecting you, though i used to say to myself, 'she won't come yet: it's too soon to be expecting her. maybe 'tis in a month's time or six weeks she'd be coming, with the little dog and the young lady. she wouldn't be remembering. hasn't she her beautiful son at home?'" lady o'gara was touched. she had forgotten how very lonely mrs. wade's lot must be. after all, susan horridge could not be very much of a companion to mrs. wade, who, despite the humility of her manner, was evidently a person of some education and refinement. "we shall come oftener now," she said. "it has been a rather busy time. i am sure stella will come often to see you and the dog. we must find a name for him. i once knew a man who called his dog, dog,--just that. we must find something better than that." she was talking to set mrs. wade at her ease. mrs. wade lit the lamp; apologizing for the darkness of the firelit room. the deep pink shade flooded the room with rosy light. there was a tea-table set in the background. lady o'gara had a passing wonder as to whether the table had been set daily in expectation of their visit. "now, what do you think of your dog?" stella asked, as soon as the lamp was lit. "see how he has made himself at home already, lying on his side on the hearthrug as though he was a big dog, and not a ridiculous tumbling-over puppy." mrs. wade knelt down obediently to receive the puppy's large paw, with more than a suspicion of white about the toes, which stella laid in her hand. as the two heads met together it occurred to lady o'gara that the hair grew similarly on the two heads, close, silken, rippling. she watched mrs. wade take the dog's paws and hold them against her breast. a very lonely woman, she said to herself. there had been something of passion in the little act and in the way she laid her cheek against the dog's head. "i can see he's going to have a most lovely time," said stella approvingly. "we'll call him terry, i think, after mr. terry o'gara. all my dogs are called after my friends. i haven't a terry yet, though." "oh, no, not that name, please," mrs. wade said. "let me call him keep, if you don't mind, miss. he's going to keep me and the house, and we'll keep together." "oh, certainly," said stella, a little surprised at mrs. wade's manner. "i know some people don't like dogs called after people. there was a dear old man in rome, count raimondi, carlo raimondi. i had a dear king charles spaniel then. he died of distemper, poor darling! count raimondi did not like carlo's being called after him. he had just the same mouth and eyes, and both were rather fond of their food. so i had to change carlo for golliwog, poor darling." mrs. wade laughed, a sweet fresh laugh. lady o'gara was glad she could laugh. she asked to be excused while she made the tea, and in her absence stella went round the room, exclaiming at the prettiness of everything. "only i do not like her to be so lonely," she said. "i must come very often to see her. she is a darling, is she not? don't you feel drawn to love her? think of her having to depend on susan for society--nice as susan is!" mrs. wade came back with a dainty tea. she was with difficulty persuaded to share it, saying that she had had her tea earlier. but even when she yielded to persuasion she did not make much of a tea. she had picked up a fan and sat shading her eyes with it from the lamp. from the shadow her eyes doated on stella. chapter xv the shadow one evening some ten days later lady o'gara, who had been out, arrived home with the dressing-bell. hurrying upstairs, she found her husband in his dressing-room. he had had his bath: she noticed that his hair was wet as he stood in front of the glass, knotting his white cravat. he wore hunting things in the winter evenings, and the scarlet coat, with the little facing of blue, became his dark skin and eyes. "is it you, mary?" he asked, without turning round. "what kept you so late?" "i forgot the time. i went to see mrs. wade, and found stella there. i did not know she had been there since we brought mrs. wade a puppy to keep her company. stella was on her way here. she had sent on her luggage, meaning to follow." sir shawn turned about completely and stared at her. she saw that his face was disturbed. "i wonder if it was wise to take stella there!" he said. "poor woman! one would not deny her any happiness. but--i warn you, grace comerford will not like it. there is another thing, mary. come in and shut the door. in a few minutes we shall have to go downstairs and talk platitudes. i could wish we were alone once more." "why, what is the matter, shawn!" lady o'gara asked, coming forward in some alarm. "you don't feel ill?" "i feel as well as ever i feel. but i've been infernally disturbed. evelyn, quite gaily, and showing his white teeth, as he does when he laughs--i've nothing against evelyn--frightened me by talking about terry and stella. he said it was delightful to see children so thoroughly in love. i pulled him up, rather short. he turned it off with a half apology, but i could see he did not believe me when i said there was nothing. 'oh, they haven't told him.' i could see by his eyes that he thought that. i felt infernally frightened, i can tell you!" "oh, but why, shawn?" lady o'gara's eyes fluttered nervously in the candlelight. she was frightened at her own complicity, really frightened for the first time. "why shouldn't the poor children be happy? i know you like eileen better than stella. still it is not a question of our choice." she had been strangely, implicitly obedient to her husband during their married life, even when she might well have departed from obedience. "what in god's name are you talking about, mary?" he asked and she felt vaguely shocked. shawn had always been reverent in using the name of his creator. "it is not a question of my likes or dislikes. why, for the matter of that, i can see little stella with the poor lad's eyes well enough. but this thing simply cannot go on. it must be killed. god knows i don't want to hurt the boy. i'd give my life to make him happy, although i don't show him affection as you do, as you can. is it possible you did not understand? was i stupid about explaining to you? don't you know that stella is terence's daughter?" no; she had not known. that was plain enough in her face. "oh, no," she said in a bewildered way. "stella is the daughter of gaston de st. maur...." "grace comerford said so, or she allowed people to believe it. did she ever say so? stella is the daughter of terence comerford and bridyeen sweeney, whom you know as mrs. wade. don't you see now how impossible it is? i wish to heaven grace comerford had not come back." a sense of the piteousness, the pitilessness, of it all came overwhelmingly to mary o'gara. she had been learning to love stella. the fond, ardent little creature had pushed herself into her heart. what was to happen to them all, to terry, to stella, to herself? "you are sure, shawn?" she asked, rubbing her hands together as though she were cold. but while she asked the certainty was borne in upon her. it was the starved mother-love that had burned in mrs. wade's eyes as they rested on the girl. it was the unconscious daughterly tenderness, the mysterious attraction which had made stella chatter on the homeward way of mrs. wade and how she pitied her, she knew not for what. she threw out her hands in a gesture of despair. "it seems we are all going to be hurt," she said. "i would not mind if it were not for the children. why did grace comerford bring stella where she and terry were certain to meet? the boy was bound to find her irresistible?" she remembered suddenly that the dinner bell might ring at any moment and that the patient margaret mackeon was waiting to help her to dress. she sighed. it was one of the moments when one finds the social demands hard to endure. "one of us will have to tell terry," she said. "it is not a pretty story. poor little stella!" no one would have thought from lady o'gara's demeanour at the dinner table that black care pressed hard on her white shoulders. sir shawn had often said that when his wife chose she could put the young girls in the shade. she put them in the shade to-night. she had a deep, brilliant spot of colour in either cheek. her dress of leaf brown matched her eyes and hair. she had laid aside her other jewels for a close-fitting antique collar of garnets, the deep ruby of which suggested a like colour in the gown as it did in her eyes. eileen was out of it with major evelyn and pouted. terry was tired and happy after his day of tramping over the bogs. he seemed content to watch stella across the bowl of growing violets which was between them. young earnshaw talked nonsense and stella dimpled and smiled. she had gained the colour of the moss rose-bud since she had come back to ireland. there was a daintiness, a delicacy in her little face with the softly moulded, yet firm features, the grey-brown eyes with dark lashes, the arched fine brows, which would have made a plain face distinguished. her head as she moved it about in the lamplight--she had bird-like gestures--showed a sheen like a pheasant's breast. watching her miserably sir shawn o'gara said to himself that terence comerford's red hair had come out as golden bronze on his daughter's pretty head. he had a girl at either hand, as lady o'gara had the two male visitors. terry, the odd man, had come round and slipped in between his father and eileen, moving her table-napkin so that she sat between him and major evelyn. he and his father were almost equally silent from different reasons. eileen at first had been crumbling her bread, sending her food away untasted or only just tasted. she was vexed about something. it was not like eileen to be capricious over her food. perhaps lady o'gara noticed the dissatisfaction and ascribed it to the fact that eileen was not having the attention she desired, so she drew gently out of a very interesting discussion she was having with major evelyn and turned to little earnshaw, an agreeably impudent boy, with cheeks like a winter apple and an irresistibly jolly smile. he seemed to have got over his first shyness with stella and was conducting his veiled love-making with a rather charming audacity. lady o'gara had glanced a little anxiously once or twice at terry, but there was obviously only amusement at young earnshaw's way in terry's face. he must be very sure of stella. "don't mind him," he said across the table while she watched. "he's very young and he's apt to get excited when he stays up for dinner. very often the mess has to pack him off to bed." mary o'gara smiled at the banter between the two boys. now and again she inclined an ear to the conversation of major evelyn and eileen. the big, handsome, jovial man of the world, whom his subalterns, while evidently deeply admiring him, called "cecil," did not find much to interest him in eileen, though he was too well-bred to show it. stella, laughing, put down her head with one of her bird-like movements. her hair was parted in the centre and the thick masses of it, so much like plumage, went off in silken waves and curls and was looped behind her little ears where it was combed up from her white neck. she was wearing green tonight, a vivid emerald green which would have tried a less beautiful complexion. the movement, the close fine ripple of the hair, were like mrs. wade's; there was no reason to doubt the relationship. would others see it? but mrs. wade hardly ever walked abroad. she seemed as much afraid of her fellow-creatures as any one could wish her to be. lady o'gara found herself seeking for another likeness. no; except for that slight redness in the hair there was nothing she could discover of terence comerford. she wondered vaguely whether grace comerford had looked for such a likeness and been disappointed. she let her thoughts slip away from things around her. she asked herself whether in the circumstance mrs. wade was a fit companion for her daughter, and answered herself, with a little scorn, that there was nothing to fear from the mother's influence. she remembered something she had caught sight of at the end of a little cross-passage in waterfall cottage. there was a statue, a throbbing rosy lamp in the darkness. mrs. wade was at o'clock mass at the convent every morning despite her recluse habits. she was a good woman, whatever there was in her past. lady o'gara recalled herself with a start to the things about her. how long had her thoughts been straying? not very long, for the plates were being taken away that had been full when last she was aware of them. her eyes rested on eileen's face. a name caught her ear--robin gillespie. oh, that was the doctor's son of whom eileen had spoken with a certain consciousness. eileen's manner had suggested that robin gillespie was in love with her, while she said: "of course he has not a penny and never will have." eileen was listening now, absorbed in what major evelyn was saying. her lips were parted, her eyes and colour bright. the air of slackness which so often dulled her beauty had disappeared. for once she was animated. major evelyn perceived that his hostess was listening and turned to her with a courteous intention to include her in the conversation. he was charming to all women, this big man, with the irresistible gaiety. poor eileen, she had been playing off all her little charms upon him, and in vain. he showed openly his preference for an old woman, as mary o'gara called herself in her thoughts, wincing a little. "i've discovered that miss creagh knows gillespie, the young doctor who has defied all the army regulations. it was quite an excitement in india. the rajah of bundelpore had a very bad attack of indian cholera one night. his own doctors could do nothing for him. some one--the rajah's heir who had been at harrow, probably--sent over for the regimental doctor, who happened to be gillespie. he found all sorts of devilry going on while the rajah writhed and turned black and green. gillespie took him in hand--i heard his treatment was nearly as weird as that of the native doctors. there was something about blackberry jam stirred in boiling water for an astringent drink. anyhow the rajah pulled through. he's got a constitution like a horse. and as soon as he was well he presented gillespie with a horse that was the very kohinoor of horses--gillespie sold him, for a preposterous sum i believe, to lord nutwood--magnificent jewels and a lakh of rupees." "how much is a lakh of rupees?" eileen asked with breathless interest. "oh, a big sum--somewhere about fifty thousand pounds. the jewels are worth as much. then came in the indian government and the army regulations. they ordered gillespie to return the rajah's gifts. gillespie, who hadn't a penny to bless himself with--it was understood that all he could squeeze out of his pay went home to his people in ireland--snapped his fingers at them. they bid him choose between leaving the service and giving up the rajah's gifts. gillespie quite unhesitatingly--i believe they really thought there could be a question of choice--gave up the service. i hear he's come home and means to set up as a specialist in cavendish square. they said there was a girl in the case, some girl who wouldn't have him, and that took the savour even out of the lakh of rupees. i don't suppose it's true. do you happen to know him, miss creagh? he is from your part of the world, donegal way." "my people know him quite well," said eileen, her breath coming and going fast. "just fancy, i never heard of it. you'd have thought some one would have written to me." she frowned, looking down at her plate. at bed-time when lady o'gara, putting her own preoccupations aside, went to say good-night to eileen she found her in tears. "my dear, what is it?" she asked in dismay. "oh, cousin mary--you know that story major evelyn told us about robin gillespie. well--isn't it awful?" she broke into sobbing. "i wouldn't listen to him when he asked me to be engaged to him. he said he knew he was a poor ... poor ... beggar, but ... with that to spur him on ... he could do anything. i was ... horrid. i told him to ask ... brigid. he said it wasn't brigid he wanted ... it was me. he got ... angry at last ... and now... i know i loved him ... all the time." lady o'gara troubled as she was, could not refrain from smiling, but as eileen's tears apparently had overtaken her during the process of brushing her hair, and the long mantle of greenish grey, silver-gold hair hung about her face, lady o'gara's smile passed unnoticed. "do you think ... it would seem ... very forward of me to write to him?" asked eileen; and then looked from the curtain of her hair with wet eyes but a new hopefulness. "i should ask brigid. he may have acted on your advice." "oh, but he hadn't time," said eileen, whose strong point was not humour. "he went away at once, broken-hearted. besides, i should have known if he had made any advance to brigid. cousin mary, _would_ you mind very much if i went home for a little visit? i know that i have only just come back--but still..." "certainly not, eileen." lady o'gara had a feeling that just at present eileen might be a jarring element. "make your own arrangements, my dear. i am very glad if it will make you happier." "oh, _thank_ you," said eileen, with effusion. "you are always so sympathetic and understanding, darling cousin mary. you see, if robin has come back as major evelyn says, he might be with his people just at this moment." chapter xvi the dead hand terry came to his mother a week later with a look in his face which made her want to take his young head in her arms and weep over it. a shadow had fallen on his comely youth. he looked "grumpy," as he had been accustomed to look in his darling childhood when he was about to have a croupy attack, at which times the sense of injury against all the world had been part humorous, whole poignant, to his mother's mind. "what is it, darling?" she asked, although she knew before he spoke what was the matter. "i have been talking to father," he broke out. "mother, it is intolerable. he says he will not consent to my engagement to stella. as though he or anybody could prevent it." "you have not quarrelled?" she asked in quick alarm, anxious for both her men. he laughed angrily. "oh, we didn't shout at each other, if that is what you mean. he told me he would never consent to my engagement. why? in the name of heaven why? i asked him that and he wouldn't answer me. he told me to come to you. what bee has he got in his bonnet? i should have thought--stella is a sort of little sister of terence comerford, from whom i am called, whose death i have always understood shadowed father's life. oh, i know you've been throwing cold water on me, leading me up to this. i knew when you would not let me shout it out that first night, as i wanted to, before all the world. father said something about eileen. ridiculous! we have never thought of each other. as a matter of fact she has a young man of her own. i always knew he wanted me to marry eileen. as though i ever could have married any one but stella!" she did not at all resent her husband's laying the burden of comfort upon her. he had always left terry to her. she looked at his young angry face. he was ramping up and down the little boudoir like an animal in a cage. he was adorably young and she loved him. what was she to say? "i'm not a child," terry went on. "things can't stand like this, as father expects them to, apparently. one doesn't throw over a girl one loves better than life for no reason at all, and father will give none except that the marriage is unsuitable. how can it be unsuitable except that i am so unworthy of her? mother"--he stopped suddenly in his pacing to and fro--"you can do anything with father. make him see sense. you know my whole happiness depends on this--and hers. it has gone deep with me." suddenly he turned away, and putting his two arms on the mantelpiece he laid down his face upon them. she went to him and stroked his hair softly. he looked up at her and his eyes were miserable, and so young. "darling," he said, "you have always been good to me. can't you talk father over? i am going away to-morrow. if he persists in this insanity i shall chuck my commission, go off to canada and try to make a home there for stella." "terry!" the name was wrung from her like a cry. "you see i couldn't stay, darling, hanging round in the hope that father might change his mind. i couldn't stick being engaged and not engaged. i should hate to leave you, of course, darling, but then you wouldn't come. you'd never leave father. he says his decision is final, but he gives me no reason for it. it is the maddest way of treating a man i ever heard. what does he mean by it?" "he was always a very indulgent father, terry. if he refuses you a thing you desire so much he must have a good reason." she felt the feebleness of her plea even before he turned and looked at her. "that is really foolish, mother," he said. "i beg your pardon if i am rude. i'm not a child, to be kept in the dark and told that my elders know what is best for me. do you know his reasons?" she had been dreading the question, yet she was unprepared with an answer. "i see you do," he went on grimly. "but of course you won't tell me, if father will not, though he sent me to you." the poor lady was profoundly wretched. tears were not far off. she would not for the world have wept before the boy. he had enough to bear without her tears. "where is your father?" she asked. "he is in his office. you will speak to him? you angel! tell him how impossible it is that stella and i could give up each other. you love her, mother, don't you? the bird-like thing! i remember you said at first that she was like a bird. she has flown into my heart and i cannot turn her out. say..." "i will say all i can, terry. do you feel fit to go back to the others?" "they don't want me. they are quite happy knocking about the billiard-balls. evelyn would know, and i don't think i could stand little earnshaw's chaffing ways." boyishly he looked at himself in the glass. he had rumpled his hair out of its usual order. there was a bright colour in his cheeks. he looked brilliantly handsome. what he said was: "lord, what an outsider i look!" she left him there and went off to look for her husband. her heart was very heavy. already she knew that the compromise she had to suggest would be received with scorn. it was a weak womanly compromise, just the kind of thing a man will put his foot on and squelch utterly. he turned round as she came in. "well, mary," he said. "i've been having a very unpleasant discussion with terry. it ended where it began. he would not listen to me." she came and stood behind his chair. the fire was low in the grate. there was the intolerable smell of a smoking lamp in the room. the reading-lamp on the table was flaring. she turned it down and replenished the fire. the discomfort of it all--the room felt cold and dismal--depressed her further. "the poor boy!" she said. "what are we to do, shawn? you can't expect him to give up stella without any explanation. he would be a poor creature if he could--not your son or mine. shawn, you will have to tell him. how could you leave it to me?" "and if i do, what then?" she shook her head. she did not know what then: or rather she did not wish to answer the question. she was sitting on the arm of his chair. he leant his head against her wearily. in the glass above the chimney-piece, tilted towards them, she saw his face and was frightened. were the purple shadows really there, or did she only imagine them? "if such a story had been told to me about you, mary," he asked, "do you suppose it would have made any difference? i would have said like an ancestor of mine: "has the pearl less whiteness because of its birth? has the violet less brightness for growing near earth? that is what any lover worth his salt would say: yet when one is older and very proud of one's family the bar sinister is not a thing to be thought of." "you said yourself that bridyeen was an innocent creature. you forgave terence, who was her tempter. you love his memory and you have called your one son after him. is it fair, is it just?" she was frightened at her own temerity. the subject of terence comerford had always been like an open wound to her husband. "did i forgive terence?" he asked with a wonder that had something child-like about it; "i was very angry with terence, dreadfully angry. do you remember that passage, mary? "alas they had been friends in youth; you know how it goes on: "and to be wroth with one we love doth work like madness in the brain." she had slipped an arm about his neck, and her hand went on softly caressing his cheek. "i think we shall have to tell terry," she said, "if we persist in our refusal. we could not take up such an untenable position. unless..."--she hesitated. "go on, mary," he said. "unless we were to accept grace's story of stella's birth. why should it not be true?" she asked the question piteously. "are you sure, shawn, about the other thing?" but while she said it she remembered stella's likeness to mrs. wade. why, any one might see it, any one. a new fear sprang up in her heart, troubled by many fears. this time it was for stella. any day, any hour, some one besides herself might discover that likeness. why, for all she knew the place buzzed with it already. sooner or later some one would recognize mrs. wade as bridyeen sweeney. then it would be easy to piece the old story together. already people had noticed that stella had the comerford colour, which had been, in her own case, the creagh colour. grace comerford ought not to have come back. shawn was quite right. she ought not to have come back. "you are a very clever woman, mary. but it seems to me a cheap novel kind of suggestion. i think we must face the thing as it is. i shall tell terry to-night." terry was told. he came to his mother's room after hearing the story. she had been expecting him. in the end her men always brought her their troubles. so she had piled up a bright fire, had set a couple of softly cushioned chairs side by side, as though the physical comfort would reach the wounded spirit. she smiled to herself rather piteously at the thought. men were susceptible to comfort, to being petted, no matter at what age one loved them, or in what grief one would comfort them. she was in her silk dressing gown, her hair in two long plaits before terry came. despite his miserable preoccupation his face lightened at sight of her. "how sweet you look, mother!" he said. "and so young with your hair like that." "come and sit down, my darling boy." he came and sat by her, and presently he laid his face on her shoulder to conceal, she divined, set eyes. "what am i to do, mothereen, at all, at all?" he asked, going back to the phraseology of his nursery days. "your father has told you?" "yes, he has told me." "it is pretty bad," she said compassionately. "mother," he lifted his face and his eyes were bloodshot. "why did you call me after that villain? why does my father love him still? i have never heard you say one word against him." she flinched before the accusation. "dear," she said. "i have only just been told of this. your father kept it from me all those years." "and you were engaged to him at the time! good lord!" he broke out with young passion. "don't tell me, mother, that there is any excuse for him. i could not bear that from you. one law for the man, another for the woman: it is the easy way of the world. my poor little darling!" suddenly he choked and got up and went away from her. she found nothing to say. he was back again in a second, while she watched him helplessly. "i don't want her to know," he said. "she must not know. what am i to do? she ought to enter this family as its loved and honoured daughter. mother, i do not intend to give her up." she had been waiting for it. if he had said otherwise she would have been bitterly disappointed, however much she might have tried to deceive herself. it was a pity, a thousand pities, the child could not have come to them without that smirch. but it had not touched her: there was no stain on her. thinking upon stella's mother she said to herself that no levity in the girl she had been had led to her downfall. why, shawn had said she was the simplest, whitest of creatures. it made terence's sin all the blacker. she drew her boy's head down to her and kissed it. "i did not ask you to give her up," she said. "i do not take the world's view of such things." he looked at her with an incredible incredulous relief. "you angel mother!" he said with a deep sigh. "i might have trusted you. there is one thing. stella must never know." "she must never know," she repeated after him. her husband's foot sounded in the adjoining room and terry went away comforted. shawn did not come in to say good-night to her as usual, by which omission she conjectured the trouble of his mind. she prayed for light, almost in despair of finding it, and slept, although she had expected to lie awake, seeking unhappily a way out of this threatening sorrow for all dear to her. she awoke somewhere in the small hours. the moon was on her bed and the air was very cold. she came awake suddenly, with a thought in her mind so concrete that it was as though some one had spoken it aloud. "is it quite certain that terence did not marry bridyeen sweeney?" she caught at it as a drowning man catches at a straw. her heart gave a wild bound towards it. it was so thin, so frail a hope, that while her fingers closed upon it she knew the futility. again she slept, and the thought was with her when she awoke in the grey morning. chapter xvii miss brennan she was grateful to the exigencies of the service which made it absolutely necessary for terry to be back in barracks next day. he had gone off after breakfast with major evelyn and mr. earnshaw, forbidding her to come to see him off. sir shawn, who was high sheriff for the year and had to be in the county town for the opening of the assizes, took the party to the station on his way. she was left with the morning on her hands. how to use it? oh, she had been impatient for them to be gone! the hope which had seemed so frail in the night had strengthened and failed, strengthened and failed many times since. this morning it was strong within her. it was founded on so little. terry had called terence comerford hard names last night. a villain. she did not think terence was a villain. he had been a kindly, affectionate fellow, very quick to be angry about a cruelty to any helpless thing. a good heart: oh, yes, terence had had a good heart: but, even to her had come the dreary knowledge that good-hearted people can be very cruel in their sins. she had looked at it from many points of view. supposing terence had meant to marry the girl and been prevented by his sudden death! something came into her mind, dreary and terrible. "the way to hell is paved with good intentions." poor terence, who had laid this coil for their feet, tangling their lives and happiness in the meshes of his passion, had he been paving hell, just paving hell, with good intentions never to be realized? early as they had started she had found time to speak to her husband about the possibility of there having been a marriage. he had found her beside his bed full-dressed when he opened his eyes on the grey morning. "shawn," she had said, "could terence have married bridyeen sweeney?" the maze of sleep was still in his eyes. for a moment he stared at her as though she had given him a new idea. then he turned away fretfully. "no," he said, "no. put that out of your head. if it was so would he have let me go on suffering as i did? it was the whiskey was at the root of the trouble. he would never have spoken to me as he did if it had not been for the whiskey." she passed over the irrelevancy. shawn was not yet all awake. "would he have righted her if he had lived, do you think, shawn?" "my god, mary, how can i tell? why do you torture me with such senseless questions? you know how that old tragedy has power to upset me. "i'm sorry, shawn," she said humbly. "it was for the boy's sake." she left him, his face turned to the wall, her heart heavy because the hope had failed. but a little later she had the house to herself, and the hope came back again and asked the insistent question. she was going to see mrs. wade for herself and discover if there was hope for terry and stella. common sense whispered at her ear, that it was not likely mrs. wade would choose to be mrs. wade all those years if she might have been mrs. terence comerford, living at inch, honoured and with the love of her child. she would not listen to that chilling whisper. she had known many strange things in life, quite contrary to common sense. it would not be common sense now for terry to want to marry a girl born out of wedlock. it would not be common sense that the girl should be kept in ignorance of the stain on her birth. but these things happened.--a wryness came to mary o'gara's sweet mouth with the thought that if terry married stella his children would be born of a nameless mother. so the world was so strong in her! scornfully in her own mind she defied the world. she took a roundabout way to waterfall cottage, because she did not want the slight interruption of speaking to susan horridge if she went out by the south lodge, the nearest way. by a détour through her own park she entered o'hart property, which had been in chancery since she remembered it, the house going to rack and ruin. her way led her round by the mount in which was the tomb of old hercules. the earth was warmly beautiful, covered with the rust-coloured autumn leaves. under the trees overlooking the river there were many strangely coloured fungi pushing in rows and ranks from the damp earth on which the foot slid, for it was covered thickly by a moss that exuded slimy stuff when trodden upon as though it was seaweed. she was just by the vault where the admiral's coffin stood on its shelf, plain to be seen by any one who had the temerity to peep through the barred grating in the iron door. suddenly a little figure dipped in front of her and she recognized miss brennan, who had once been a lady's maid to a mrs. o'hart and had survived the provision made for her before the o'harts were off the face of the earth. she had come to live in one of the dilapidated lodges on the place, with very little between her and starvation beyond the old-age pension, supplemented by contributions from charity. the old woman was nearer ninety than eighty, but was still lively and intelligent, despite her eccentricity. the big apron she was wearing was full of sticks and she had a bundle in her arms as well. "good morning, my lady," she said, with her little dip. she always prided herself on her superior manners and her traditions, and the neighbours good-naturedly acknowledged her pretensions by addressing her always as _miss_ brennan. "good morning, lizzie," returned lady o'gara, who was one of the privileged ones to call the old woman by her name. "how are you keeping? it is very rheumatic weather, i'm afraid." "i'm as well as can be since your ladyship gave me the beautiful boarded floor to my little place, may the lord reward you! squealin' and scurryin' i do hear the rats under the floor, but i'm not afraid now that they'll bite my nose off when i fall asleep." "i wish i could make it more comfortable for you. lizzie. i'll see that you get a couple of cribs of turf. your lodge is damp under the trees." "thank your ladyship," said the old woman with another dip. "i'm wonderful souple in my limbs, considerin' everythin'; for the same house would give a snipe a cowld. the blankets are a great comfort. they're as warm as injia." "oh, i'm glad of that." she was about to go on her way when miss brennan jerked her thumb backward in the direction of waterfall cottage. "she's gone," she said. "who is gone?" "mrs. wade, she calls herself. i knew as soon as ever i laid eyes on her she was little bride sweeney, old judy dowd's granddaughter. she kep' out of the way o' the people that might ha' known her. she stopped to spake to me one day i was pickin' sticks an' brought me in an' made me a lovely cup o' tay. she thought i was too old to remember. the little lady that's at inch now would be her little girl. i've seen them together when they didn't know any wan was lookin'. them beautiful pink curtains don't meet well. i've seen little missie on a footstool before the fire an' the mother adorin' her." lady o'gara was overwhelmed. what had been happening during the days--there were not twenty of them--since she had first taken stella to see mrs. wade. "when little missie wasn't there bridyeen would be huggin' the dog the same as if he was a babby. some people make too much o' dogs. i kep' my old shep tied up till he died. he was wicked and i wasn't afraid o' tinkers with him about. i saw her once when she didn't think any wan was peepin' in. she was cryin' on the dog's head an' him standin' patient, lickin' her now and again with his tongue. i never could bear the lick of a dog." lizzie looked at lady o'gara with the most cunning eyes. apparently she expected contradiction, but she met with none. lady o'gara was in fact too dumbfounded to answer. "many's the time i took notice of bridyeen," the old woman went on. "she was well brought up. she respected ould people. when she wint away out of the place i said nothin', whatever i guessed. i said nothin' all those years. it was to me she kem when mr. terence comerford was kilt. 'tisn't likely i wouldn't know her when i seen her agin. what's twinty years when you're my age? she didn't say i'd made a mistake when i called her bridyeen. she's gone now, an' i'll miss her. 'tis a lonesome road without a friend on it, for i'm too ould to take to an englishwoman, though yon's a quiet crathur at the lodge." lady o'gara was recovering her power of speech. still she did not feel able to contradict this terrible old woman of the bright piercing eyes, with whom it seemed useless to have any subterfuges. "you don't be afeard i'll tell, me lady. i keep meself to meself, away from the commonality round about here. she needn't have gone for me. i'd have held my tongue. 'twasn't likely i'd want to set tongues clackin' about her that was good to me. as i sez to the little lady...." terror seized upon lady o'gara. what had the old woman said to stella? "you didn't tell the young lady anything?" she said, very gently, remembering not to frighten the frail old creature before her. "not me. i said no more than 'your mamma's left.'" she looked with a peering anxiety into lady o'gara's face, as though she had just begun to doubt her own wisdom. "i didn't do any harm sayin' them words, did i? didn't i know they was that to each other, seein' them through the chink in the curtain lovin' an' kissin'?" was it possible that stella knew? anyhow it was no use frightening old lizzie. "no, no," lady o'gara said. "you did nothing wrong. only remember, i depend on you for silence. the people are so fond of gossip about here like all country-people." "i let them go their own ways an' i go mine," miss brennan said, and looked down at the sticks which she had dropped. "i don't know who's goin' to pick them up," she said plaintively. "i've picked them up wance an' me ould knees are goin' under me. i don't consider i could do it twicet." "i'll pick them up and carry them for you," lady o'gara said. "it is not far to your lodge. indeed you ought not to be picking up sticks or carrying them. i'll speak to patsy kenny. he'll see that some dry wood is sent down to you, as much as you want. you have only to ask for it to have it any time. that is, if i forget." "thank your ladyship kindly," miss brennan said with one of the dips which perhaps kept her limbs "souple" as she said. "i'll be glad o' the dry sticks. the green do be makin' me cry. all the same i like to pick up sticks. isn't it what the lord sends us, what matter if they're green itself. 'tis the chancey things i love havin'--the musharoons and the blackberries,--straight from god, i call them. but i couldn't let your ladyship carry sticks for the like o' me. i hope i know me place better. if your ladyship was to give me a hoosh up wid them? my back's not too bent if only they was to be tied in a bundle." she performed a series of little dips which would have made lady o'gara smile at another time. "the sticks are very light," she said. "supposing we share the burden? then we can talk as we go along. i suppose there never will be any news of mr. florence o'hart, who went to australia and was lost sight of?" it was enough for miss brennan, who forgot even to protest when lady o'gara took the big bundle of sticks and gave her a few light ones to carry. she could always be set off chattering on the topic of the o'hart who _might_ have survived the family _debâcle_ and _might_ come home one day to restore the fallen splendours of the place. lady o'gara walked as far as the lodge with the old woman, and laid the sticks away in the corner by the fireplace. it was a very short distance, though it counted as long to miss brennan. as she went back along the road, the old woman, watching her disappear through the arch of orange and scarlet and pale fluttering gold, for the trees were not yet bare, talked to herself. "there she goes!" she said, "an' she's proud to the proud an' humble to the humble. 'tis the great day for you, lizzie brennan, to have the likes o' lady o'gara carryin' home your bits o' sticks. i hope i wasn't wrong sayin' what i did to the little lady. it seemed to get on her mind, for she wasn't listenin' to what i was sayin' for all she kep' her head towards me. still an' all little missie couldn't be without knowin' the light in a mother's eyes whin she seen it." chapter xviii the daughter lady o'gara went away quickly from the rusty gate overhung by ivy, not looking back to see how miss brennan watched her out of sight. she had not indeed heard one word of what the old woman had been saying about the o'harts. she was dreadfully perturbed. the fair placidity of her face was broken up. in either cheek two spots of vivid colour pulsed. seeing them one would have said she was in pain. she hastened back along the tree-overhung road, over the dead leaves where the fine silver veining of last night's frost was yielding to a sodden dampness, to the gate of waterfall cottage. she had half-expected to find it locked, but it was open. there was a thick carpet of dead leaves on the gravel sweep. between the boughs sparsely clothed with leaves and the slender tree-trunks she caught a glimpse of the bronze and amber river running over its stones, or winding about the big dripping boulders that were in the bed of the stream. a damp, rheumatic place, she said to herself, although she loved the river; and its backwaters, full of wild duck and dabchick and the moorhens, were enchanting places. the grounds which she remembered as neglected and overgrown had become orderly. the little beds cut in the turf were neat in their winter bareness, despite a few dead leaves which had fluttered on to them. her eyes fell on a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel lying on the grass by one of the beds. from the open mouth of a brown paper bag a bulb had partly rolled before it became stationary. there was a hole dug in the turf. some one had been planting bulbs and had gone away leaving the task unfinished. from the house-wall hung a branch of clematis torn down by the rough wind. a ladder stood close by. some one had had the intention of nailing up the branch, and had not carried it into effect. she lifted her hand to the knocker and found that the door yielded to her slight touch. it was open. for a second she had a wild thought that miss brennan might have been wandering in her wits--that mrs. wade, or bridyeen sweeney--she had come to calling her that in her mind--was still in the house. she looked into the little hall. it was bright with a long ray from the white sun that peered below a cloud, seeming to her dazzled eyes surrounded by a coruscation of coloured rays. the white sun portended rain to come, probably in the afternoon. shot had pushed his way before her into the hall. she had almost forgotten that shot had come with her when she had left the poms at home because of the muddy roads. he had disappeared into mrs. wade's little parlour. the plume of his fine tail caught a flash from the sun's rays on its burnished bronze. she heard the dog whine. no one answered her knock nor did shot return, so, after a second's hesitation, she followed the dog. she was not prepared for what she saw. the only occupant of the room beside the dog, who had dropped on to the hearthrug, and lay with his nose between his paws and his melancholy eyes watching, was stella--stella kneeling by a chair in an abandonment of grief, her face hidden. the little figure kept its grace even in the huddled-up attitude. the face hidden in the chair, childishly, as though a child suffered pain, was lifted as lady o'gara touched the bronze-brown head. the misery of stella's wide eyes shocked her. stella's face was stained and disfigured by tears. the soft close hair, which she had taken to wearing plaited about her head, was ruffled and disordered. "stella, darling child!" lady o'gara said, with a gasp of consternation. she had never seen stella before without brightness, the brightness of a bird. now the small ivory pale face had lost the golden tints of its underlying brownness. the child was wan under the disfigurement of her tears. she got up with a groping motion as though tears obscured her sight. she came to meet lady o'gara and held out her hands with a piteous gesture of grief. "she has gone away," she said. her hands were chill in mary o'gara's warm clasp. the woman drew the girl to her, holding the cold hands against her breast with a soft motherliness. "now, tell me what is the matter?" she said, while her voice shook in the effort to be composed. "where has mrs. wade gone to?" "that is what i do not know, lady o'gara," stella answered, with a catch of the breath. "i came to her as i have come every day of late. she was gone. i thought she would come back at first; but she has not come. while i stood looking out of the gate watching for her an old woman came by picking up sticks for her fire. she said"--something like a spasm shook the slender body and her face quivered--"that she, mrs. wade, was gone away. do you know what she called her, lady o'gara? she called her my _mother_--my _mother_." the suffering eyes were full upon her. lady o'gara found nothing to say that could serve any useful purpose. "yes, i know," she said aimlessly. "it was old lizzie brennan. she lives at that gate-lodge a little way down the road." "she said my _mother_." the eyes, grey in one light, brown in another; made a piteous appeal. "how could mrs. wade be my mother?" stella asked, with a quiver of the lip, clasping and unclasping her hands. "my mother died long ago. i am stella de st. maur, although granny will have me called by her name. but i love mrs. wade; i love her. i have never loved any one in the same way." lady o'gara took the bewildered head into her arms and stroked it with tender touches as though it was the head of a frightened bird, one of those birds that sometimes came in at her windows, and nearly killed themselves trying to escape before she could give them their liberty. she sought in a frightened way for something to say to the girl and could find nothing. "granny is so angry with me," stella went on. "she has found out that i came here. she said she would not have me keep low company, that she was shocked to find i could slip away from her to a person not in my own class of life. she had noticed that i was always slipping away. she talked about throwbacks. what did she mean by that? she was very angry when she said it." "oh, i am sorry you made her angry, stella." mary o'gara had found her tongue at last. she had no idea of the inadequacy of what she said. her thoughts had gone swiftly back to the days when she had trembled before grace comerford's cold rages. her thoughts, as though they were too tired to consider the situation of the moment, went on to terence. poor terence! she remembered him red and white before his mother's anger, her tongue that stung like a whip, the more bitter where she roved. "i ran away from her," stella went on. "she told me to go to my room, as though i was a child. i went, but i got out of the window: it is not far from the ground. i came here only to find _her_ gone. i had been running all the way thinking of how she would comfort me. she has taken nothing with her but keep. i expect keep followed her. i would not have minded anything if she had been here. the old woman called her my _mother_. is she mad, cousin mary? how _could_ mrs. wade be my mother?" her eyes asked an insistent question. lady o'gara was a truthful woman. the candour of her face did not belie her. she tried to avoid the eyes, lest they should drag the truth from her. "she is only very old," she answered, haltingly. "not mad, but perhaps..." "the odd thing is,"--stella put by what she had been about to say as a trivial thing,--"that i _wish_ what the old woman said was true. i _wish_ it with all my heart. she was like what i think a mother must be to me. i have always been running away to her, ever since you brought me first. she _comforted_ me. i have always felt there was something i did not know. granny would never tell me about my father and mother. if she is not my mother why should i feel all that about her? she made up to me for everything. and sir shawn was cold. he used to like me, but now he does not. he is afraid,"--a little colour came to her cheek,--"that i will marry terry. he need not be afraid. if mrs. wade is my mother i shall not marry terry. he can marry eileen creagh and please his father! do not tell me she is not my mother." was the mother, the nameless mother, worth all that to her child? it seemed so. "oh, the poor boy!" lady o'gara said, with sudden tears, clasping her hands together. "is he to have no word in it?" "not if i am mrs. wade's daughter. she told me how she lived with her grandmother who kept a shop in the village long ago. of course sir shawn would not like it. i see that quite well, and i am not thinking of marrying terry or any one. i am only thinking that mrs. wade may be my mother. i've always wanted a mother. how i used to envy the italian children when i was little. they had such soft warm, dark-eyed mothers. and i had only granny--and miss searle. miss searle was fond of me but she was often cross with me. granny never _loved_ me as a mother would have. i was sometimes afraid of her though she was good to me"--her cheeks were scarlet by this time,--"i am going to stay here and wait for mrs. wade to return. if _she_ does not come i must go to look for her. terry need not trouble about me, nor sir shawn...." "oh, the poor boy!" said lady o'gara again, with the soft illogicality that her lovers loved in her. "but, stella, love, you cannot stay here. think how people would talk. come home with me. you can wait just as well at castle talbot. every day you shall come and see if she has returned. it would be better, of course, for you to go back to inch..." "but granny will lock me in my room. i cannot go to castle talbot, for sir shawn would look coldly at me and i should not like that." lady o'gara was suddenly decided. "you cannot stay here, stella," she said. "it is quite out of the question." in her own mind was a whirl of doubt and fear. who was going to tell stella? who was going to tell her? apparently stella suspected no worse than that she was peasant-born. she had not yet arrived at the point of asking for her father. at any moment she might ask. what was any one to answer? "come with me, dear child," she said. "my husband comes home dead-tired these hunting days, has some food and stumbles off to bed. i am all alone. we can have the days together. i will write to your granny that you are paying me a visit. let us lock up here." some one paused in the road outside the window to look in, leaning impudently on the green paling. it was a ragged tramp bearded like the pard. as he shuffled on his way lady o'gara said with a rather nervous laugh. "there, stella! you see the impossibility of your being here alone. i wonder where that creature came from! we don't get many of his sort here. think of the night in this place! we could not possibly allow it. mrs. wade is sure to come back. she would not have gone away leaving all her things here. was the door open when you came to it?" "it was locked. i found the key where she used to put it if she went out. she sometimes walked over there across the mount, where the people do not walk because they are afraid of the o'hart ghosts. i thought i would wait for her till she came back." "let us lock up and put the key where she left it. she is sure to return. the place does not look as if she were not coming back." "everything is in order," said stella, a light of hope coming to her face. "i have been in her bedroom. the lamp is burning on her altar. there is a purse lying on her bed with money in it." "she will come back," said lady o'gara. there was a sound of carriage wheels which made two pairs of eyes turn towards the window. "it is granny," said stella, drawing back into the shade of the window curtains. "and she is very angry. she is sitting up so straight and tall. when she is like that i am afraid of her. is she coming here?" "do not be afraid; i will stay with you," said lady o'gara. the carriage re-passed the window, going slowly and without its occupant. almost immediately came the sound of the knocker on the little hall-door. chapter xix anger cruel as death lady o'gara met mrs. comerford in the hall. despite the shadows of all the greenery outside flung through the fanlight across the white horse of hanover, which stands in so many irish fanlights, she could see that the lady was in one of the towering rages she remembered and had dreaded in her youth. looking at her, with a stammering apology on her lips, she had a wandering memory of the day at inch long ago when terry had broken a reproduction of the portland vase. he had been a big boy of sixteen then and he had flatly refused to meet his mother, going away and laying _perdu_ in a stable loft for two or three days till she had forgotten her anger in her fear for him. "stella is here, i suppose," said the icy voice. that suggestion of holding herself in check, which accompanied mrs. comerford's worst anger, had been a terrifying thing in mary creagh's experience of her. "i believe it is you i have to thank for introducing her to her mother. what a fool i was to have come back. i thought that shame was covered up long ago. what a mother for stella!" she spoke with a fierce scorn. she had not troubled to lower her voice. lady o'gara lifted her hand in a warning gesture, glancing fearfully back over her shoulder. but the angry woman did not heed her. "have you told her what her mother is, what _she_ is?" she demanded furiously. "did you understand what you were doing, mary o'gara? it was your husband who told me bride sweeney had come back, who urged me to get stella away. i was mad ever to have come home." "hush, hush!" said lady o'gara, wringing her hands and whispering. "stella is in there; she will hear you..." "perhaps i mean her to hear me. she shall know what sort of woman it is who has crept back here to disgrace her and me and to ruin her life." there came out into the hall a little figure gliding like a ghost, stella, her eyes wide and piteous, her pretty colour blanched. "my mother is a good woman," she said, facing mrs. comerford. "you must never say a word against her. i would follow her through the world. i have had more happiness with her in those stolen meetings than you could ever give me." a pale shaft of winter sunshine stole through the low hall window, filtered through red dead leaves that gave it the colour of a dying sunset. it fell on stella's hair, bringing out its bronzes. she had the warm bronze hair of her father's people. it came to lady o'gara suddenly that she and stella had much the same colouring. in terence comerford it had been ruddier. why, any one might have known that stella was a comerford by that colour; not the child of some dark frenchman. "you stand up to me better than your father ever did," said mrs. comerford in white and gasping fury. had she no pity, mary o'gara asked herself; and remembered that grace comerford's anger was sheer madness while it lasted. she had always known it. she had a memory of how she and terence had tried to screen each other when they were children together. "you dare to tell me that your shameful mother is more to you than i am!" the enraged woman went on. "it shows the class you have sprung from. i took you out of the gutter. i should have left you there." "oh, hush! hush!" cried lady o'gara in deep distress. "you do not know what you are saying, grace. for heaven's sake, be silent." mrs. comerford pushed her away with a force that hurt. a terrible thing about her anger was that while she said appalling things her voice had hardly lifted. stella looked at her in a bewildered way. "i do not understand," she said. "you always told me my father was a gentleman. you said little about my mother. what have you against my mother except that she was a poor governess?" "all that was fiction," said grace comerford, with a terrible laugh. "very poor fiction. i often wondered that any one believed it. your father was my son, terence comerford. he disgraced himself." she was as white as a sheet by this time. "your mother was the granddaughter of the woman who kept the public-house in killesky." "then i am your granddaughter?" "in nature, not in law. my son did not marry your mother." stella groped in the air with her hands. they were taken and pressed against mary o'gara's heart. mary o'gara's arms drew the stricken child close to her. "go," she said to the pale, evil-looking woman, in whom she hardly recognized mrs. comerford--"go!--and ask god to forgive you and deliver you from your wicked temper. it has blighted your own life as well as your son's and your granddaughter's. go!" mrs. comerford put her hand to her throat. her face darkened. she seemed as if she were going to fall. then she controlled herself as by a mighty effort, turned and went out of the house. the bang of the hall-door as she went shook the little house. a second or two later her carriage passed the window, she sitting upright in it, her curious stateliness of demeanour unaltered. mary o'gara did not look through the window to see her go. her eyes were blind with tears as she bent over the child who was the innocent victim of others. all her life afterwards she could never forget the anguish of poor stella, who was like a thing demented. she could remember the objects that met her eyes as she held the two hot trembling hands to her with one hand while the other stroked stella's ruffled hair. she felt as though she were holding the girl back by main force from the borderland beyond which lay total darkness. she could remember afterwards just the look of things--the autumn leaves and berries in the blue jars on the chimney-piece; the convex glass leaning forward with its outspread eagle, mirroring her and stella; shot lying on his side on the hearthrug, now and again heaving a deep sigh. how pretty the room was, she kept thinking! what a quiet background for this human tragedy. she knew that her heart was gabbling prayers for help, eagerly, insistently, while her lips only said over and over: "hush, stella! be still, darling child!" and such tender foolish phrases. at last the heart-broken crying was over. the girl was exhausted. now and again a quiver passed through her where she sat with her face turned away from lady o'gara--but the terrible weeping was done. "come," lady o'gara said, at last. "we must find some water to bathe your face, you poor child. you are coming back with me to castle talbot. you are mine now. i shall not give you up again." stella shook her head; she stooped and kissed lady o'gara's hand as though she asked pardon. the swift dipping gesture like a bird's was too painful, recalling as it did the bright stella of yesterday. her hair was roughened like the feathers of a sick bird. lady o'gara, her hand passing softly over it, had felt the roughness with a pang. "i am not yours, dear lady o'gara," she said. "i am no one's but my mother's. i am not going to castle talbot. i shall stay here for the present. if she does not come back i will go to look for her. all that other life is done with." with a gesture of her little hands she put away all that had been hers till to-day, including terry. his mother's heart began to ache anew with the thought of terry. what would he say when he knew that stella knew? poor boy, he had a very gentle and faithful heart. oh, what a tangle it all was, what a coil of things! "but you can't stay here, darling child," she said tenderly. "how can you stay in this lonely little house by yourself? i will take you away somewhere where you do not know people, if you think that would be better. there are griefs that are more easily borne under the eyes of strangers. let me see! there is a convent i know where you could be quiet for a little time, and i could trust the reverend mother--mary benedicta is her name; she is a cousin of mine and a dear friend--to be as loving to you as myself." "she would be my ... father's cousin," said stella; and a shudder ran through her. then she said piteously: "i never thought of my father as wicked." oh, poor terence! how was she going to explain to the child to whom he had done this hideous wrong? was it any use saying that terence had always been good-natured? she remembered oddly after many years a day when he had turned away from the glazing eyes of a wood-pigeon he had shot. what use to tell such things to his daughter, whose life was laid in ruins by that sin of his youth? those tragical eyes would confute her in the midst of her excuses. she could not yet make any plea for forgiveness for the dead man. "mother mary benedicta would be gentle with you," she said, "if you will not come to castle talbot. but, dear, no one need know. you shall take eileen's place with me. you shall be my little daughter." her loving heart was running away with her. shawn would never forgive her if she brought stella to castle talbot, to which terry might return at any time. mary benedicta would know how to tend the wounded spirit, if poor little stella would but consent. "it is getting late," said stella, breaking in on the confusion of her thoughts. her voice, which seemed drained of tears, was suddenly composed. "you will be late for lunch." "and you, stella, what about _your_ lunch?" she could have cried out on the futility of this talk of lunches. stella shook her head. "there is food here if i want it. my mother had taken to storing dainty food for me, since i have been so much with her, as though her food was not good enough for me. i shall not starve, lady o'gara." "stella, i tell you it is impossible for you to stay here alone." lady o'gara spoke almost sharply. she had a foreboding that stella's will would be too strong for her. "she will come back. she has left everything behind; even her purse with money in it. she must find me here when she comes home. we can go away together." lady o'gara looked at the little face in despair. it was so set that it was not easy to recognize the soft stella who had crept into all their hearts. even shawn had felt her charm though he had locked the door of his heart against her. a thought came to lady o'gara's mind. stella's remaining at the cottage for the present would at least give time. prudence whispered to her that she must not bring stella to castle talbot. she might have felt equal to opposing shawn, but, perhaps, she was relieved by the chance of escape. shawn was not well--those dark shadows were more and more noticeable in his face. other people had begun to see them and to ask her if sir shawn was not well. presently stella might be more amenable to reason, and go to mother mary benedicta at st. scholastua's abbey. benedicta was like her name. she, if any one, could salve the poor child's wound. she was as tolerant as she was tender, and she had been fond of terence comerford in the old days. no fear that she would be shocked at the story, as some women--cloistered or otherwise--might have been! benedicta was perfect, mary o'gara said to herself and heaved a sigh of relief because there was benedicta to turn to. she felt tired out with her emotions, almost too tired to think. suddenly she had a happy inspiration. she and stella should eat together. the girl looked worn out. if she left her she was tolerably sure stella would not think of food. "no one will be alarmed if i do not come back for lunch," she said. "i often do not trouble about lunch when i am alone. they will expect me in for tea. sir shawn will not be home till late. do you think you could give me some food, stella?" "oh, yes, it will be a pleasure," stella said, getting up with an air of anxious politeness. "i am sure there are eggs. you will not mind eggs for lunch, with tea and bread and butter. i am afraid the kitchen fire may be out--but the turf keeps a spark so long. it is alight when you think it is out." she took the poker and stirred the grey fire to a blaze, then put on turf, building it as she had seen others do in the narrow grate. "there are hearths in connaught on which the fire has not gone out for fifty years," said lady o'gara, watching the shower of sparks that rose and fell as stella struck the black sods with the poker. neither of them ate very much when the meal was prepared, though stella drank the tea almost greedily. she had begun to look a little furtively at lady o'gara before the meal was finished as though she wished her to be gone. it hurt mary o'gara's kind heart; though she understood that the girl was aching for solitude. but how was she going to leave her in this haunted place alone--a child like her--in such terrible trouble? suddenly she found a solution of her difficulties. it would serve for the moment, if stella would but consent. "would you have mrs. horridge to stay with you?" she asked. "you know you cannot stay here quite alone. she is a gentle creature, and very unobtrusive. i shall feel happy about you if she is here." to her immense relief stella consented readily. "she has been very good to my mother," she said; "and they are both victims of men's cruelty." lady o'gara, who was looking at stella at the moment, noticed that her eyes fell on something outside the window and a quick shudder passed through the slight body. she went to stella's side and saw only a heap of stones for road-mending. they must have been newly flung down there, for she did not remember to have seen them when last she passed this way. was it possible that stella knew? that her eyes saw another heap of stones, and upon them a dead man lying, his blood turning the sharp stones red? chapter xx sir shawn has a visitor the sun was low, almost out of sight, as lady o'gara climbed up the hill from waterfall cottage to her own south lodge. through the bars of the gate she caught a glimpse of a red ball going low, criss-crossed with the bare branches of the trees. the air nipped. there was going to be frost. before she left she had seen the lamps lit at waterfall cottage and bidden stella lock herself in and only open to a voice she knew. she had delayed, washing up the tea-cups with stella, trying to distract the girl from her grief to the natural simple things of life: and all the time she had felt that stella longed for her to be gone. she had narrowly escaped being caught in the dusk--without the flashlight terry had given her, which she usually carried when she went out these short afternoons. was she growing as stupid as the villagers? she had glanced nervously at the heap of stones as she passed them by where the water made a loud roaring noise hurrying over the weir. she had to remind herself that it was not really dark but only dusk, and that she had never been afraid of the dark. rather she had loved the kind night, the mantle with which god covers his restless earth that she may sleep. as she went up the hill she thought uneasily of the tramp who had passed the window of waterfall cottage a few hours earlier. the shambling figure had a menace for her. she could not keep from glancing over her shoulder and was glad to come to her own gate. she called through the bars and patsy kenny came to open for her. seeing him she sighed. more complications. her mind was too weary to tackle the matter of patsy's unfortunate attachment to susan horridge. not that she doubted patsy. she had a queer confidence that patsy would not hurt the woman he loved. people would talk, were talking in all probability. what a world it was! what a world! of late patsy had refrained from visiting the south lodge so far as she knew. sir shawn had said to her only a day or two before that patsy had taken up the fiddle again--patsy was a great fiddler--that he could hear him playing his old tunes night after night. there had been an interval during which the fiddle had been silent. she thought that, with the simple craft of his class, patsy might have played the fiddle to let possible gossips know that he was at home in the solitude which in the old times before susan came he had never seemed to find solitary. "is that you, m'lady?" said patsy. "the dark was near comin' up wid ye. i'd like if you'd the time you'd come in and see susan. she's frightened like in herself an' she won't listen to rayson." "why, what's the matter?" asked lady o'gara, turning towards the lodge, while patsy re-padlocked the gate. she did not wait for his answer, which was slow of coming. patsy was always deliberate. in the quiet and cheerful interior of the lodge she found a terrified susan. michael lay on the hearth-rug before a bright fire, georgie sat by the white, well-scrubbed table, his cheek on his hand, the lamplight on his pale fine hair, watching his mother anxiously; the lesson book on top of a pile of others, was plainly forgotten. susan seemed desperately frightened. she got out the reason why at last, with some help from patsy kenny. she shook as she told the tale. she had been washing, outside the lodge, earlier in the day, fortunately out of view of the gate, when some one had shaken it and cursed at finding it locked. susan had seen his hand, a coarse hairy hand, thrust through the gate in an attempt to force the lock. the man, whoever he was, had gone on his way, seeing the futility of trying to enter by the strongly padlocked gate. susan had locked herself in the lodge till georgie had come home from school, when the two of them had fled to patsy kenny for protection. "the poor girl will have it that baker has come back," said patsy, scratching his head. "she says she knew his voice an' the wicked-looking hand of him. if it was to be him itself--but i had the master's word for it he had gone to america--he wouldn't know she was here. i keep on tellin' her that, but she won't listen." lady o'gara had a passing wonder about shawn's having known that susan's husband was gone to america--she had not associated the person who had saved shawn from accident at ashbridge park with susan's graceless husband. "he might find out by asking questions," said susan. "he's only got to ask. there's many a one to tell him." "i was goin' to your ladyship," said patsy. "the two frightened things can't be left their lone in this little place. the heart would jump out of her. can't i see it flutterin' there in her side like a bird caught in your hand." "i came to ask susan if she would go down to waterfall cottage to look after miss stella comerford, who is there alone." lady o'gara's eyes fluttered nervously. she was aware of the strangeness of the thing she said, and she felt shy about the effect of it on her listeners. she hastened to make some kind of explanation. "miss stella has had a disagreement with mrs. comerford and will not return to her--for the present. she wishes to stay at waterfall cottage, but, of course, she cannot stay alone." "the poor young lady," said susan, looking up; she added hopefully: "baker would never look for me there. the people would think i was gone away out of this place. few pass waterfall cottage, and we could keep the gate locked." "where at all is mrs. wade gone to?" asked patsy; not seeming to find it strange that miss stella should be at waterfall cottage. "could georgie be very wise and silent?" asked lady o'gara. georgie flushed under her look and sent her a worshipping glance. "georgie would be silent enough if it was likely his father would find us," said susan. "not but what he's quiet by nature. baker used to say that georgie would run into a mouse-hole from him. not that i let him knock my georgie about. i told him if he laid a hand on georgie i'd do him a mischief, and he believed me. he knocked me about after that." "god help the two o' ye," said patsy with sharp anguish in his voice. "if i was to see the rascal i couldn't keep my hands off him." "he might do _you_ a harm. the hands of him are dangerous strong. he used to say he'd choked a man once. it isn't likely i wouldn't know the wicked hands of him when i saw them." "i'd take my chance," said patsy with a baleful light in his eyes. "the one time i seen him i was mad to kill him. i never felt the like before for any man. 'twas like a dog i seen when the master an' me was in south africay. he'd found a nest of vipers, and i never seen anything like the rage o' that dog whin he wint tearin' them to tatters. i felt the same way with that blackguard that owns you, susan, my girl." patsy was pale, and in the lamplight little drops of perspiration showed on his forehead and about his lips. "very probably the man who frightened susan was not her husband at all," lady o'gara put in. "but in the remote case of its being baker, susan will be better away for the present. she can have georgie with her, or perhaps he could stay with you, patsy?" "i'd like to have georgie with me, if he didn't mind keepin' to the house in the daytime," said patsy with a fatherly look at the boy. "he'd have the run o' the books, what he's always cravin' for." "georgie can go to mr. penny's," said susan. "he'll be safe there an' my mind'll be easy about him." "i'll leave you then, susan, to put out the fire here and lock the door," lady o'gara said. "be as quick as you can. i don't like to think of miss stella in that lonely place. here is the key of the gate. i locked it when i came through. miss stella will let you in when you knock. patsy will take you down there. you won't be afraid with him?" "not with mr. kenny, m'lady," said susan with a flattering fervour. lady o'gara went on her way, refusing the offer of georgie as an escort. she was quite safe with shot, she said; adding that she was not at all a nervous person. she was a bit puzzled now about her panic coming up the dark road, under the trees, from waterfall cottage to the south lodge. she stepped out briskly. it was nearly a mile from the south lodge to the house. the darkness increased as she went. she was quite pleased to see the light shining from the window of the room sir shawn called his office, through the bay trees and laurestinus and portugal laurels which lay between her and it. she was glad shawn was at home. she had forgotten for once to ask patsy if the master was at home. after all the years of their life together her heart always lifted for shawn's coming home before the dark night settled down upon the world. she had only to tap on the french window and he would open it and let her in, as he had done so many times before. she took the path by the side of the house, between the ivied wall and the shrubbery. as she approached the window shot uttered a low growl. at the same moment she became aware that her husband was not alone. some one had crossed between the light and the window. for a second a huge shadow was flung across the gravel path almost at her feet. with a sigh she went back again, entering by the hall-door way. she was sorry shawn had one of his troublesome visitors. she wanted so much to talk to him, to tell him of all the trouble about stella. she felt chilled that he was not ready to listen to her when she needed to talk to him so much. "sir shawn has returned, m'lady," said reilly, the new butler, the possessor of a flat large face with side whiskers which always made her want to laugh. reilly's manners, she had said, would befit a ducal household, and it had been no surprise to her to learn that he had lived with an old gentleman who had a duke for a grandfather, and that a part of his duties had been to recite family prayers, understudying his master. "yes," she said, "has he had tea, reilly?" "no, m'lady. he did not wish for tea." "he has a visitor? has this person been long with him?" "i don't know, m'lady. no one came in this way. i went a while ago to see if the fire was burning, and i found the door locked, m'lady, i concluded sir shawn did not wish to be disturbed." "sir shawn's visitors on business come in by the window that opens on the lawn. the handle of the office door is rather stiff. i don't think it could have been locked." she went on down the passage to the office door. she heard voices the other side of the door. sir shawn was speaking in a fatigued voice. she had hardly ever known him to speak angrily. she listened for a second or two. the other voice answered; it was thick and coarse: she could not hear what was said. she went back to the drawing-room, where a little later sir shawn joined her. even when they were alone she always dressed in her most beautiful garments for her husband's eyes. to-night she had chosen a pink satin dress, close-fitting and trailing heavily, with her garnets. she was sitting by the fire when sir shawn came in and his eyes lighted as they fell upon her. "you look like your own daughter, mary," he said, "only so much more beautiful than the girl i married. what a wonderful colour your gown is! it makes you like a beautiful open rose." she laughed. his compliments were never stale to her. "where were you when i came in?" he asked. "'i looked in your chamber, 'twas lonely?'" she evaded the question for a moment. "i made an attempt to enter by your window as i came back, but you had a visitor." he was standing with his back to the fire, looking down at her, and she saw the ominous shadows come in the hollows of his cheeks. "a troublesome visitor, mary," he said. "when i come to you you exorcise all my troubles. you are the angel before whom the blue devils flee away." she did not ask him further about his visitor. so many of them were troublesome. she often wondered at shawn's patience with the people. the family quarrels over land were apt to be the worst of all: but there were other things hardly less disagreeable. "poor shawn!" she said tenderly. "sit down by me and let me smoothe that line out of your forehead! it threatens to become permanent." she stooped, half playfully, to him as he sat down beside her leaning his head back against a cushion, and touched his forehead with her finger-tips gently. "go on doing that, mary," he said. "it seems to smoothe a tangle out of my brain. i cannot tell you how restful it is. i saw terry off--and the others. the boy looked rather down in the mouth. what have you been doing all day?" it was a quiet hour. she had dressed early on purpose to have this hour. no one had business in the room till the dressing bell rang. she had learnt by long use to watch his moods. she knew her own power over him, to soothe, to assuage. the moment was propitious. so she told him the tale of the day's happenings, in a quiet easy flow, now and again patting his hand or stroking his forehead with her delicate finger-tips. "good lord, what a kettle of fish!" he groaned when she had finished. "and you take it so easily, mary! i wish to the lord, grace comerford had never come back. it was an ill day." she almost echoed the wish. then she found herself, to her amazement, setting stella against all the trouble, putting her in the balance against all that had happened and might happen. to her amazement stella counted against all the rest. she was just the little daughter she had wanted all her days--to stay with her when the insistent world snatched her boy from her. she acknowledged to herself that she was jealous of the woman who was stella's real mother, whom the girl had chosen before everything, every one else. she sought in her own mind, with what her husband called her incurable optimism, for a bright side to this dark trouble and could find none. she must leave it where she left everything, at the foot of the altar. god could unpick the black knot of stella's fate. he could smooth out the tangle. she must only pray and hope. she had meant to talk the matter out thoroughly with shawn. she had so often found that light and comfort came that way. but shawn would not discuss things thoroughly. he would only say that it was a pretty kettle of fish; that he wished grace comerford had never come back, that he wished they could send terry somewhere out of harm's way. and presently he fell asleep with his head against her shoulder. he had had a hard day and a tiring one. of late he had taken to dropping asleep in the evenings. she let him sleep, remaining as motionless as she could so as not to disturb him. when he awoke he was full of repentance. she had not even had a book to solace her watch. that which she had been reading was out of reach. "you are the perfect woman, mary," he said gratefully, "and i am an unworthy fellow. i don't know how i came to be so sleepy. you make me too comfortable." her face lit up. shawn was often unreasonable in these latter days. indeed he had not been the easiest of men to live with since terence comerford's tragic death. but when he was like this his wife thought that all was worth while. chapter xxi stella is sick a few days passed by and mrs. wade had not returned. mrs. comerford had written an icy message to mary o'gara. "when stella comes to her right mind this house is open to her. i have said to my servants that she is with you. i was once a truthful woman." reading this brief epistle mary o'gara had said to herself that it was lucky there was distance enough between inch and castle talbot; also that though _she_ considered herself a truthful woman there was nothing she would not say in order to shield stella from gossiping tongues. she was bitterly angry with grace comerford for the cruel and evil temper which had done so much hurt to an innocent thing. "does she think," she asked herself hotly, "that so easily stella will forget her cruelty? i do not believe the child will ever go back to her." she had written to mary benedicta about the case, giving her a cautious account of poor stella's plight, abstaining from mentioning terence comerford's part in the story. she could have told that: she could not write it. mary benedicta would think that stella's trouble came from the fictitious french father. there was little or no communication between the nun and mrs. comerford, who had quarrelled with her over her choice of a conventual life long ago. mary benedicta had answered the letter with another full of the milk and honey of a compassionate tenderness. the best solution of the problem lady o'gara could find was that stella should go for a time at least to the convent. terry had not written. terry would have his say in the matter presently. he had gone off chilled for the time by stella's disinclination towards him: but he would come back. if he only knew stella's plight at this moment he would surely break all the barriers to get back to her. poor stella's plight was indeed a sad one. susan horridge, watching her like a faithful dog, reported that she ate little, that she walked up and down her room at night when she ought to have been sleeping, that she started when spoken to, that she spent long hours staring before her piteously, doing nothing. "if mrs. wade don't come back soon the young lady will either go after her or she'll have a breakdown," susan said. sometimes lady o'gara wondered how much susan knew or suspected, but there was in her manner an entire absence of curiosity, of a sense that anything out of the way was happening, that was invaluable in a crisis like this. lady o'gara thought more highly of susan every day. the weather had turned very wet, but waterfall cottage glowed with brightness and roaring fires of turf and wood. the rain and darkness were shut out. stella could not have been in better hands. about the fifth day came a hunting morning. the meet was fixed for a distant part of the country. lady o'gara got up in the dark of the morning to superintend her husband's cup of tea, to see that his flask was filled and his sandwiches to his liking. "i wish you had been coming out too, mary," he said wistfully as he stood on the steps drawing on his gloves. "you are growing lazy, old lady." "i'll come out with you on saturday," she said, and patted his shoulder. patsy was late in bringing round black prince, the beautiful spirited horse which was sir shawn's favourite hunter that season. it was unlike patsy to be late. the first grey dawn was coming lividly over the sky. standing in the lamplit hall mary o'gara looked out and caught the shiver of the little wind which brings the day. "i'll be late at the wood of the hare," sir shawn said, fuming a little. "i don't want to press the prince with a hard day before him." still patsy did not come. "good-bye, darling," sir shawn said at last. "go back to bed and have a good sleep before breakfast. i'll see what's up with patsy." she had gone upstairs before she heard her husband ride out of the stable yard. so patsy had been late. was it possible he had overslept? it would be so unlike patsy, who, especially of a hunting morning, had always slept the fox's sleep. she had a long day before her, with many things to do. she ought to write to terry, but she knew the things terry expected to hear. there had been a letter from him, asking roundly for news of stella. "why don't you write?" it asked. "are you going to treat me like a child as father does? i've made up my mind about stella. i will marry her, if she will have me; and she shall never know anything from me. are you looking after her, keeping her happy? for heaven's sake don't take father's view of it! that would be ruin to everything, but i warn you, that if you do, it will not alter me. tell me what she says, how she looks. has her colour come back? does she speak of me? there are a thousand things i want to know." there had been a postscript to the letter. "by the way, evelyn has discovered that the man who got the lakh of rupees,--you remember?--had been rather badly treated by eileen, or so evelyn's informant said. it is a she--a cousin of evelyn's who is married to somebody up there. evelyn says he will come again to castle talbot if you ask him. he says the duck-shooting was splendid--and he congratulated me on you--darling. i did myself proud. just imagine,--evelyn!" she did not know how to answer his letter. it was not in her to put off the boy with a letter which should disappoint him. she imagined him running through it with a blank face, looking for what she had not written. no: she could not write without telling him the truth: and the truth would make the boy miserable. she supposed it would have to be told--presently, but she would wait till then. she was not one to deal in half-truths and subterfuges. she went forth after breakfast with an intention of seeing stella, and afterwards going on to old lizzie brennan, who required some looking after, in cold weather especially. she had rather mad fits of wandering over the country, from which she would return soaked through with rain, hungry and exhausted. more than once lady o'gara had discovered her after these expeditions, choking with bronchitis, in a fireless room, too weak to light a fire or prepare food for herself. lady conyers, a neighbour of castle talbot at mount esker, had tried to induce lizzie to go into the workhouse, with many arguments as to the comfort which awaited her there. but lizzie was about as much inclined for the workhouse as the free bird for the cage, and, rather to lady conyers' indignation, lady o'gara had abetted the culprit, saying that she would look after her. there was not much to be done with stella, who had begun to look sharpened in the face and her eyes very bright. susan repeated that her charge did not sleep. she had gone in to her half a dozen times during the night and found her wide-eyed on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "i never see any one take on so," susan said. "seems to me if missie don't get what she wants she won't be long wantin' anything." stella had shown no inclination to get up and susan had left her in bed. "seems like as if gettin' up was more than she could a-bear," said susan. "i did try to coax her out when the day were sunny, but 'twas no use. that poor old fly-away miss brennan came to the door this mornin' with a bunch of leaves and berries. i asked her into my kitchen, and gave her a cup o' cocoa. there, she were grateful, poor soul!" "you must have the four-leaved shamrock, susan," lady o'gara said. "lizzie is so very stand-off with most people." "so mr. kenny was tellin' me. he used your ladyship's words. i never 'eard of the four-leaved shamrock before. she has a kind heart. there, i'd never have thought it. she was fair put out over the poor young lady. she talked about a decline in a way that giv me a turn. but people don't go into a decline sudding like that. it's something on miss stella's mind. take that away and she'll be as bright as bright. so i said to the old person, an' she took a fit o' bobbin' to me, and then she ran off a-talkin' to herself." lady o'gara went up to the pretty bedroom which had been mrs. wade's. it was in the gable and was lit from the roof and by a tiny slit of a window high up in the wall through which one saw the bare boughs across the road, with a few fluttering leaves still on them. a similar window on the other side had a picture of the wet country, the distant woods of mount esker, and the sapphire sky just above the sapphire line of hills. the little windows were open and a soft wet wind blew into the room. when lady o'gara had climbed up the corkscrewy staircase and stepped into the room she was horrified to find the ravages one more day's suspense had wrought in stella's looks. her eyes were heavy and there were dark red spots in her cheeks. "is that you, lady o'gara?" she asked in a low voice, "i've been asleep, and i've only just wakened up. you are very good to come to see me, but now you need not trouble about me any more. i am going away from here. i do not think she will come back. she must have got a long way on her road in these endless seven days of time. i should have followed her at first and not wasted time waiting for her here." "but, my poor child, where would you have gone?" lady o'gara asked, sitting down beside the bed and capturing one of the restless hands. "i think that old woman, lizzie brennan, knows something about where she is. she was here yesterday, and she looked in at me and seemed frightened. 'god help you, child,' she said. 'don't you be wearin' your heart out. she'll come back fast enough as soon as she knows you want her. you see, mavourneen, it's a long time since she was anything but a trouble to people.' i thought she was only talking in her mad way. but since i've wakened up i've been thinking that maybe she knows something." "oh, i wouldn't build on it, child. lizzie often talks nonsense, though she's not as mad as people think." "i was just going to get up when i heard your foot on the stairs. i feel stronger this morning, and i want to get out-of-doors. the house is stifling me. i have been listening so hard for the sound of her foot or her voice that when i try to listen i can't hear for the thumping of my heart in my ears. i want to be with her. i too am only a trouble to people. she and i will not be a trouble to each other." lady o'gara had a thought. "if you will get up and dress and eat your breakfast to my satisfaction i shall go with you to lizzie brennan's lodge. it is only about half a mile down the road. you have been too much in the house." she went away downstairs, leaving stella to get up and dress. there was a dainty little breakfast ready for her when she came down, but she did it little justice. lady o'gara had to be content with her trying to eat. she seemed tired even after the slight exertion of dressing, but she was very eager to go to lizzie brennan. "if only i knew i should find my mother i should not be so troublesome to you kind people," she said with a quivering smile, which lady o'gara found terribly pathetic. she said to herself that grace comerford must have lacked a good deal in her relation towards stella to have left the child so hungry for mother-love. again there was something that puzzled her. stella seemed to have forgotten everything except the fact of her mother's disappearance. did she understand the facts of her birth, all that they meant to her and how the world regarded them? or was it that these things were swallowed up in the girl's passion of love and loss? stella started out at a great pace, but lagged after a little while, and turned with an apology to lady o'gara. "i feel as though i had had influenza," she said. "i suppose it's being in the house so much and not eating or sleeping well. oh, i must not get ill, lady o'gara; for i cannot stay here unless my mother comes back..." "i thought you liked us all, stella," lady o'gara said, rather sadly. "you seemed very happy with us always." "that was before my mother came, before i knew that she and i belonged to each other and were only a trouble to people." she harped on old lizzie's phrase. "my poor little mother!" she said. "all that time i was living in luxury my mother was working. her poor hands are the hands of a working woman. i cannot bear to look at them." "she was in america, was she not?" lady o'gara asked, by way of saying something. "she never spoke of america. i do not think she was there. she was housekeeper somewhere--to a priest. she said he was such a good old man, innocent and simple. he had a garden with bee-hives, and a poodle dog she was very fond of. she said it had been a refuge to her for many years; and she did not like leaving the good old man, but something drew her back. she was hungry for news of me." the child was not ashamed of her mother. perhaps she did not understand. lady o'gara was glad. she remembered how shawn had always said that bridyeen was innocent and simple. they had arrived at the gate, one half of it swinging loose from the hinges; the stone balls, once a-top of the gate-posts, were down on the ground, having brought a portion of the gate-post with them. lady o'gara glanced at the lodge. it had been a pretty place once, with diamond-paned windows and a small green trellised porch, over which woodbine and roses had trailed. there were still one or two golden spikes of the woodbine, and a pale monthly rose climbed to the top of the porch to the roof; but the creepers which grew round the windows had been torn down and were lying on the grass-green gravel path. "lizzie is out," lady o'gara said, glancing at the door hasped and padlocked. "we shall have to come another time." chapter xxii a sudden blow there was always a good deal of interest for lady o'gara in the affairs of castle talbot. she went out after her solitary lunch to look for patsy kenny. she wanted to talk to him about the turf and wood to be given away to the poor people for christmas. little by little patsy had slid from being stud-groom into being general overlooker of the business of the place. having found him she went with him into the stables where the light was just failing, going from one to the other of the horses, talking to them, fondling them, discussing them with patsy in the knowledgable way of a person accustomed to horses and loving them all her days. suddenly she caught sight of black prince, wrapped up in a horse-cloth, hanging his long intelligent nose over his stall and looking at her wistfully. "why," she said, "i thought sir shawn was riding the prince!" she put out her hand to fondle the delicate nose and black prince whinnied. "no, m'lady. the prince was coughin' this mornin': and tartar was a bit lame. you might notice i was late comin' round. i didn't want the master to ride mustapha. not but what he's come on finely and the master has a beautiful pair of hands. you'll remember vixen that broke her back at the double ditch at punchestown, how she was a lamb with the master though a greater divil than mustapha to the rest of the world?" she knew that way patsy had of talking a lot about a subject when he was really keeping something essential back. it was quite true that mustapha had been coming to his senses of late--and shawn had a beautiful pair of hands, gentle yet as strong as steel. she had thought patsy's anxiety about mustapha's being ridden by any one but himself unnecessary, perhaps even with an unconscious spice of vanity underlying it. patsy had conquered mustapha. perhaps he would not be altogether pleased that the horse should be amenable to some one else, yet mustapha had taken a lump of sugar from her hand, only yesterday, as daintily as her own chloë, his muzzle moving over her hands afterwards with silken softness. "i hope mustapha will repay all the time and care you have spent on him, patsy," she said, and would not acknowledge that her heart had turned cold for a second. she hoped shawn would be home early, before she had time to feel alarmed. of course there was no cause for alarm. patsy himself said that mustapha had come to be that kind that a lamb or a child could play with him. it was absurd of patsy not to be satisfied about shawn's riding the horse. there were some things patsy needed--a bandage for tartar, some cough-balls for black prince, which could be procured at the general shop in killesky. she went into sir shawn's office to write the order. patsy would come for it presently. after she had written it she went out by the open french window and climbed the rising ground at the back of the house. very often she went up there of afternoons to look at the sunset. she had always loved sunsets. the afternoon had been grey, but at the top of the hill she was rewarded for her climb. on one side the sloping valley was filled with a dun-coloured mist. over it leant the dun-coloured cloud which was a part of the grey heavens. to the other side were the hills, coloured the deep blue which is only seen in the west of ireland. behind them were long washes of light, silver and pale gold. the dun cloud above had caught the sapphire as though in a mirror. round the southern and western horizon ran the broad belt of light under the sapphire cloud, while to north and east the dun sky met the dun-coloured mist. she went back after a while, her sense of beauty satisfied. from that hill one could hear anything, horse or vehicle, coming from a long way off. the sound ascended and was not lost in the winding and twisting roads. but she would not acknowledge disappointment to herself. she had gone up to look at the evening sky and it had been beautiful with one of the strange kaleidoscopic effects which makes those western skies for ever new and beautiful. the tea had been brought in and the lamps lit when a visitor was announced--sir felix conyers. she was glad she had not heard the noise of his arrival and mistaken it for shawn's. sir felix was an old soldier who had held an important command in india. he was a rather fussy but very kind-hearted person whom mary o'gara liked better than his handsome cold wife with her organized system of charities. "this is kind, sir felix," she said. "shawn is not home yet. they met at the wood of the hare this morning. the scent must have lain well. we were a little anxious about the frost before the wind went to the south-west." then she discovered that sir felix, a transparently simple person, was labouring under some curious form of excitement. he stammered as he tried to answer, and looked at her furtively. he dropped his riding whip, which he was carrying in his hands, stooped to look for it and came up rather apologetic and more nervous than before. "the fact is ... i came over, lady o'gara ... to ... to ..." "is anything the matter, sir felix?" down went her heart like a plummet of lead. _shawn!_ had anything happened to shawn? had this stammering, purple-faced gentleman come to prepare her? her heart gave a cry of anguish, while her eyes rested with apparent calmness on sir felix's unhappy face. of course it was mustapha. would he never speak? why could they not have found a better messenger than this unready inarticulate gentleman? at last the cry was wrung from her: "has anything happened to my husband?" "no! god bless my soul,--no!" her heart lifted slightly with the relief and fell again. she had been frightened and had not got over the shock. "it is a perfectly absurd business, lady o'gara. your husband will--i have no doubt"--he emitted a perfectly unnatural chuckle--"be immensely amused. i should not have mentioned it ... i should have shown the ruffian the door, only that new district inspector ... fury ... a very good name for him ... mad as a hatter, i should say ... brought the fellow to me." "what is it all about, sir felix?" asked lady o'gara, in a voice of despair. "my dear lady, have i been trying you? i'm sorry." sir felix pulled himself together by a manifest effort. "i apologize for even telling you such a thing, though i don't believe one word of it. the fellow was obviously drunk and so i told d.i. fury. i absolutely refused to swear him, but i had to issue a summons. yes, yes, i'm coming to it now! don't be impatient, my dear lady. a low drunken tramp went to the police with a ridiculous story that your husband was privy to the death of young terence comerford, poor fellow! ridiculous! when every one knows there was the love of brothers between them. the ruffian maintains that he was on the spot,--that your husband and comerford were quarrelling, that your husband struck him repeatedly, he not being in a way to defend himself, finally that he lashed the horse, a young and very spirited horse who would not take the whip, saying: 'you'll never reach home alive, terence comerford! you've forced me to do it.' my dear lady, don't look so terrified. of course there's nothing in it. your husband will have to answer the charge at petty sessions. it won't go any further. if it were true itself they couldn't bring it in more than manslaughter. indeed, i doubt if any charge would lie after so many years." he stopped, panting after the long speech. "it was very kind of you to ride over this dark night to tell us. of course it is a ridiculous tale. but the mere suggestion will upset my husband. as you say, they were so devoted, dearer than brothers. why should this person come with such a tale at this time of day?" "that is exactly what i asked, my dear lady. trumped up, every bit of it, i haven't the smallest doubt. only for fury it would end where it began. the fellow says--i beg your pardon, lady o'gara,--that sir shawn paid him to keep silence--that he has grown tired of being bled and told him to do his worst. as i said to fury, you had only to look at the fellow to see that the truth wasn't in him." lady o'gara was very pale. "would you mind waiting a second, sir felix?" she said gently. "you were not here at the time of the dreadful accident. the one who really all but witnessed it is here, close at hand. you might like to hear his version of what happened." she rang the bell and asked the servant who came in answer if mr. kenny was waiting. patsy was mr. kenny even to the new butler. patsy came in, small, neat, in his gaiters and riding breeches, his cap in his hand. he stood blinking in the lamplight, looking from lady o'gara to sir felix conyers. "sir felix would like to hear from your lips, patsy, the story of what you saw the night mr. terence comerford was killed." there was a wild surmise in patsy's eyes. not for many a year had that tragedy been spoken of in his hearing. "i would not recall it," lady o'gara went on in her gentle voice, "only that sir felix tells me some man has been saying that sir shawn flogged mr. comerford's horse, using words as he did so which proved that he knew the horse would not take the whip and that he had it in his mind to kill mr. comerford." "who was the man said the likes of that?" asked patsy, his eyes suddenly red. "it was a sort of ... tramping person," said sir felix, putting on his pince-nez the better to see patsy. "he has been in these parts before. a most unprepossessing person. quite a bad lot, i should say." "a foxy man with a hanging jowl," said patsy. "not irish by his speech. seems like as if he'd curse you if you come his way. no whiskers,--a bare-faced man." "that would be his description." "it's a quare thing," said patsy in a slow ruminating voice, "that for all the rage i felt agin him, so that i wanted to throttle him wid me two hands, i never thought of him with the man that was there the night mr. terence comerford was killed. did you notice the big hairy hands of him? they all but choked me that night. i thought i'd cause enough to hate him when he came my way again because o' the poor girl and the child. i could scarce keep my hands off him. the villain! i'd rather kill him than a rat in the stable yard." "you seem to have a very accurate idea about the person who has made this grotesque charge against your master," sir felix said in his pompous way. "your feelings do you credit, but still ... i should not proceed to violence." "please tell sir felix what happened that night, patsy," lady o'gara said. she had stood up and gone a little way towards the window. she spoke in a quiet voice. only one who was devoted to her, as patsy was, could have guessed the control she was exercising over herself. patsy's eyes, in the shadow of the lamp, sent her a look of mute protecting pity and tenderness. "'tis, sir, that i was in the ditch that night." patsy turned his cap about in his hands. "i was lookin' for the goat an' she draggin' her chain an' the life frightened out of me betwixt the black night and the ghosts and the terrible cross ould patch i had of a grandfather, that said he'd flog me alive if i was to come home without the goat. i was blowin' on me hands for the cowld an' shakin' wid fright o' bein' me lone there; an' not a hundred yards between me an' that place where the ould admiral's ghost walks. when i heard the horses' feet comin' my heart lifted up, once i was sure it wasn't ghosts they was. they passed me whin i was sittin' in the ditch. no sooner was they gone by than i let a bawl out o' me, an' i ran after them for company, for it come over me how i was me lone in that dark place. you see, your honour, i was only a bit of a lad, an' th' ould grandfather had made me nervous-like. just then i caught the bleat of the goat an' i was overjoyed, for i thought i'd ketch her an' creep home behind sir shawn an' the walkin' horse. they parted company where the roads met, an' i heard sir shawn trottin' his horse up the road in front o' me, an' spitfire--that was mr. comerford's horse--was unaisy an' refusin' the dark road under the trees. you couldn't tell what the crathur saw, god help us all! no horse liked that road. thin i heard spitfire clatterin' away in the dark an' i ran, draggin' the little goat after me to get past the place where the unchancy ould road dips down. somewan cannoned into me runnin' out o' the dark road. i couldn't see his face, but he cursed me, an' i felt his hairy hands round me neck and me scratchin' and tearin' at them. it was that villain that's comin' here to annoy the master, or i think it was. mind you, i never seen him. but he took me up be me little coat an' he dashed me down on the road an' nigh knocked the life out o' me. the next thing i knew i was lying in the bed at home an' me sore from head to foot, an' able to see only out o' wan eye be rayson of a bandage across the other: an' me grandfather an' the neighbours wor sayin' that mr. terence comerford was kilt, and that sir shawn o'gara was distracted with grief. but the quarest thing at all was hearin' the ould man sayin' that i was a good little boy, after all the divils and villains he'd called me, as long as i could remember." patsy stopped, still turning his hat about in his hands, his velvety eyes fixed on lady o'gara, where she stood leaning by the mantelpiece, her face turned away, one slender foot resting on the marble kerb. if sir felix had been aware of the expression of the eyes he might have been startled, but even the pince-nez were not equal to that. "thank you very much," he said. "that story should knock the bottom out of our friend's statement. merely vexatious; i said so to d.i. fury. sir shawn and mr. comerford parted in perfect amity?" "like brothers," said patsy with emphasis, "as they wor ever an' always. sure the master was never the same man since. i often heard the people sayin' how it was the love of brothers was betwixt them, an' more, for many a blood brother doesn't fret for his brother as the master fretted for master terence. he was never the same man since." chapter xxiii the home-coming after sir felix had gone off, profuse in his apologies, and anathematizing mr. fury's zeal, lady o'gara went to a desk in the corner of the drawing-room, a sheraton desk which she did not often use. she found a tiny key and unlocked a little cupboard door between the pigeon-holes. she felt about the back of one of the three little drawers it contained and brought out a sliding well, one of the innocent secret receptacles which are so easily discovered by any one who has the clue. she drew out a little bundle of yellow papers from it--newspaper cuttings. these she took to the lamp and proceeded to read with great care. once or twice she knitted her fair brows over something as she read; but, on the whole, she seemed satisfied as she put the papers back into their secret place, locked the little door and put away the key. then she remembered that she had not given patsy his orders. she went to sir shawn's office-room and wrote them out. while she put the second one in its envelope patsy tapped at the door and came in, closing it carefully behind him. "no wan 'ud be expectin' the master home from the wood o' the hare yet," he said. "'tis a good step an' sir john fitzgerald would be very sorry to part with him after he'd carried him in for his lunch. maybe 'tis staying to dinner he'd be." lady o'gara looked at her watch. "it's quite early," she said; "not much after six." "'tis a dark night," said patsy. "maybe 'tis the way they'll be persuadin' him to wait till the moon rises. sorra a bit she'll show her face till nine to-night." mary o'gara's heart sank. she knew that patsy was nervous. "he may come at any moment," she said. "i don't think he'll wait for the rising of the moon." "it isn't like the troubled times," said patsy, "an' you listenin' here, an' me listenin' by the corner o' the stable-yard where the wind brings the sounds from the bog-road whin 'tis in that quarter. your ladyship had great courage. an' look at all you must ha' went through whin we was at the war!" he looked compassionately at her as he went towards the door. "i'll be sendin' a boy wid this message," he said. "or maybe georgie an' me would be steppin' down there. it's lonesome for the child to be sittin' over his books all day whin i'm busy." he opened the door, looked into the empty hall and came back. "i wouldn't be troublin' the master wid them ould stories," he said. "didn't i tell my story fair!" "you did, patsy. there were some things in it were not in the evidence you gave at the time." "see that now! t'ould mimiry of me's goin'. still, there wasn't much differ?" there was some anxiety in his voice as he asked the question. "nothing much. you said nothing long ago of running towards the upper road after sir shawn." "sure where else would i be runnin' to? it isn't the lower road i'd be takin'--now is it your ladyship! it wouldn't be likely." "i suppose it wouldn't," she said, slightly smiling. "i remember it like as if it was yesterday, the sound of the horse's hoofs climbin' and then the clatter that broke out on the lower road whin spitfire took the bit between his teeth an' bolted. i'll put the stopper on that villain's lies. i'd like to think the master wouldn't be troubled wid them." "i'm afraid he'll have to hear them, patsy. sir felix was obliged to issue a summons. it might have been worse if sir felix had not been a friend." "the divil shweep that man, fury," said patsy with ferocity. "if he hadn't been a busy-body an' stirrer-up of trouble, he'd have drowned that villain in a bog-hole." he went off, treading delicately on his toes, which was his way of showing sympathetic respect, and lady o'gara returned to the drawing-room. she was very uneasy. she tried reading, but her thoughts came between her and the page. writing was no more helpful. she went to the piano. music at least, if it did not soothe her, would prevent her straining her ears in listening for sounds outside. the butler came and took away the tea-things, made up the fire and departed in the noiseless way of the trained servant. her hands on the keys broke unconsciously into the solemn music of chopin's funeral march. she took her hands off the piano with a shiver as she realized her choice and began something else, a mad, merry reel to which the feet could scarcely refrain from dancing. but her heart did not dance. the music fretted her, keeping her from listening. after a while she gave up the pretence of it and went back to the fireside, to the sofa on which she and shawn had sat side by side while she comforted him. she could have thought she felt the weight of his head on her shoulder, that she smelt the peaty smell of his home-spuns. he would be disturbed, poor shawn, by what she had to tell him. it would be an intolerable ordeal if he should be dragged to the petty sessions court to refute the preposterous charge of being concerned in the death of the man he had loved more than a brother.. poor shawn! she listened. was that the sound of a horse coming? he would be so disturbed! it was only the wind that was getting up. she drew her work-table to her and took out a pair of shawn's stockings that needed darning. margaret mckeon's eyes had been failing of late, and lady o'gara had taken on joyfully the mending of her husband's things. her darning was a thing of beauty. she had said it soothed her when sir shawn would have taken the stocking from her because it tired her dear eyes. nothing could have seemed quieter than the figure of the lady sitting mending stockings by rosy lamplight. she had put on her spectacles. terry had cried out in dismay when he had first seen her wear them, and she had laughed and put them away; her beautiful eyes were really rather short-sighted and she had never spared them. but while she sat so quietly she was gripped by more terrors than one. she was trying to keep down the thought, the question, that would return no matter how she strove to push it away--had she been told all the truth about terence comerford's death? there had always been things that puzzled her, things shawn had said under the stress of emotion, and when he talked in sleep. there had been a night when he had cried out: "my god, he should not have laughed. if he had wanted to live he should not have laughed. when he laughed i felt i must kill him." she had wakened him up, telling him he had had a nightmare and had thought no more about it. there were other things he had said in the stress of mental sufferings. she began to piece them together, to make a whole of them, in the light of this horrible accusation. and--patsy had been lying, had been ready to lie more if necessary. patsy was a truthful person. conceivably he would not have lied unless there was a reason for it, unless there was something to conceal. she got up at last, weary with her thoughts, and went upstairs to dress. before doing anything else she opened her window and leant out. it had come on to rain. she had known the beautiful strange sky was ominous of wet weather, although for a little time in the afternoon it had seemed inclined to freeze. the heavy raindrops were falling like the pattering of feet. a wind got up and shook the trees. she said to herself that she _would not_ fancy she heard the horse's hoofs in the distance. when they were coming she would have no doubt. she dressed herself finely, or she permitted margaret mckeon to dress her, in a golden brown dress which her husband had admired. through the transparent stuff that draped the corsage modestly her warm white shoulders gleamed. her arms were very beautiful. she remembered as she sat in front of the glass, while the maid dressed her hair, that her husband had said she was more beautiful than the girl he had married. she went back to the drawing-room where shot lay, stretched on the skin-rug before the fire, now and again lifting his head to look at her. the poms were in their baskets either side of the fireplace. it was very quiet. not a sound disturbed the silence of the room beyond the ticking of the clock over the mantelpiece and the purring and murmuring of the fire. she had a book in her hand, but she did not read it. she was too concerned about real actual happenings for the book to keep her attention. she held it indeed so that she might seem to be reading if a servant came into the room. she wondered if the story of the tramp's charge against sir shawn had reached the kitchen. very probably it had. the police would know of it and from them it would spread to the village and the countryside. the people were insatiable of gossip, especially where their "betters" were involved. probably the tramp--baker, was it?--poor susan's husband and georgie's father--had made the statement at every place where he had satisfied his thirst. what a horrid thing to have happened! how would shawn take the accusation? of course it was absurd--nevertheless it was intolerable. reilly came in presently and asked if her ladyship would have dinner at the usual hour. it still wanted a quarter of the hour--eight o'clock. she answered in the affirmative. shawn was always vexed if she waited for him when he was late, wishing she would remember that he might be detained by twenty things. it would be something to do and would suspend for a while the listening which made her head ache. she hated these hours of listening. of late years she had forgotten to be nervous when sir shawn was not in good time. he had said that he would not give her the habit of his punctual return lest a chance unpunctuality should terrify her. to-night she had only gone back to the listening because shawn was riding mustapha. besides, the news she had to give him had upset her nerves out of their usual tranquil course. the rain beat hard against the windows. she hoped shawn was not crossing the bog in that rainstorm. some horses hated the wind and the rain and would not face them. it would be so terribly easy for mustapha if he swung round or reared to topple over where the bog-pools lay dark and silent below the road, on either side. a thought came to her with some sense of companionship that patsy kenny was doubtless listening round the corner of the stables for the sound of mustapha's hoofs, coming closer and closer. she had thought she heard them so often without hearing them. before she came down the stairs to dinner, she had turned into the private chapel to say her night-prayers, praying for her beloved ones, and for all the world; and as she knelt there in the dimness she had been almost certain she heard mustapha come. now, sitting by the drawing-room fire, the river of prayer went flowing through her heart, half articulate, broken into by the effort of listening that might become something tense and aching. the dinner gong began, rising to a roar and falling away again. she smiled as she stood up, saying to herself that reilly sounded the gong with a sense of the climax. as she stood up the poms bristled and shot suddenly barked and listened. he sat up on his haunches and threw back his head and howled. the dogs knew the master was out and that something vexed the mistress, and were uneasy. as she passed across the hall, her golden-brown dress catching the light of the lamps, suddenly the hall door opened. there came in the wind and the rain. the lamps flared. patsy kenny stood in the doorway. he was very wet. as he took off his hat mechanically the rain dripped from it. his hair was plastered down on his face and the rain was in his eyes. he was panting as though he had run very hard. "the master's comin'," he said with a sound like a sob. "he's not kilt, though he's hurted. i'm telling you the truth, jewel. it was well there was a pig-fair in meelick to-morrow or he might have lain out all night. an' wasn't it the mercy o' god the cart didn't drive over him?" "where is he?" she asked, going to the door and peering out into the darkness. "where is he?" "he's comin'. they're carryin' him on the tail-board o' the cart. he's not kilt. did ye ever know your poor patsy to decave you yet? i ran ahead lest ye'd die wid the fright. here, hould a light, you." he spoke to reilly, who had never been spoken to so unceremoniously in the whole course of his professional career. the hall was full of the servants by this time, peering and pushing from the inner hall with curious or disturbed faces. reilly brought a lamp, more quickly than might have been expected of him. there was the measured tramp of men's feet and something came in sight as the lamplight streamed out on the wet ground. "stand back!" lady o'gara said, pushing away the crowding servants with a gesture. "can they see, patsy?" "they can see," said patsy. "god help you! but mind ye he's not kilt. i'm goin' for the doctor. i won't be many minutes." into the hall came tim murphy, the road-contractor and small farmer, who lived up a boreen from the bog. he was under the tailboard of the cart. behind was his son larry. there was a crowd of wet faces and tousled heads crowding in the dark looking into the hall. the men were carrying the silent figure of sir shawn o'gara, hatless, his scarlet coat sodden and mud-stained, his eyes closed and his head fallen to one side. chapter xxiv the sick watchers patsy had told the truth. sir shawn was not dead. whether he was going to live was another matter. patsy had brought back dr. costello with unhoped for speed. the doctor had just come in from a case and had only to get what he thought he might need and come as fast as his motor-bicycle would carry him. he was a kind, competent doctor who might have had a wider field for his ambition than this lonely bog country. one of the big dublin doctors had said to a patient: "haven't you got costello at killesky? i don't know why he wastes himself there. it is very lucky for you since you need not trouble to be coming up to me." it was a comfort to the poor woman's desolation to see the pitying capable face. "patsy has told me all about it as we came along," he said in the slow even voice that had quieted many a terrified heart. "i got him to leave his bicycle at my place and come back with me in the side car. the horse broke his back in the bog, i believe. better the horse than the man. is there any one here who will help me to undress him?" "the butler valets my husband," lady o'gara replied. "he was with an invalid before he came to us, and he was highly recommended for his skill and gentleness in nursing. i did not think then that we should have need of these qualifications." "the very man i want. can you send him?" as she turned away he put his hand on her arm. the pale smile with which she had spoken touched the man who was accustomed to but not hardened by human suffering. "it is not as bad as it seems," he said. "i think he will recover consciousness presently. he must have been thrown rather violently." she went away somewhat comforted. outside the door she found patsy seated on a chair, his head fallen in his hands. shot was sitting by him, his nose on patsy's knee. they looked companions in suffering. "the doctor is hopeful," she said, with a hand on patsy's shoulder. "go down and tell reilly to come. the doctor wants him." the flat-faced, soft-footed reilly was to prove indeed in those sad days and nights an untold help and comfort. patsy watched him curiously and enviously, going and coming, as he would, in and out the sick-room. absorbed as she was lady o'gara noticed that sick look of jealousy on patsy's face. she herself was content to sit by her husband's bed and let others do the useful serviceable things, unless when by the doctor's orders she went out of doors for a while. "we don't want him to open his eyes on a white face he doesn't know. the better you look, my lady, the better it will be for him," said dr. costello. the afternoon after the accident a watery sun had come out in fitful gleams. it had been raining and blowing for some hours. there was still no sign of returning consciousness in the sick man. sir shawn's face looked heavy and dull on the pillow, where he lay as motionless as though he were already dead. "concussion, not fracture," said the doctor, lifting an eyelid to look at the unseeing eye. "he will come to himself presently." and so saying he had sent her out to walk, bidding her exercise the dog as well as herself, for shot was a heartbreak in these days, lying about and sighing, a creature ill at ease. "so long as he does not howl," she said piteously, "i do not mind. i could not bear him to howl." "dogs howl for the discomfort of themselves or their human friends," said the doctor. "you are not superstitious, lady o'gara?" "oh, no," she said, huddling in her fur cloak with a little shiver. "you must believe in god or the devil. if in god you can't admit the devil, who is the father of superstition as well as of lies." "oh, i know, i know," she said. "but, just now, i cannot bear to hear a dog howl." on the hall table she found a telegram from terry. he hoped to be with her by eleven o'clock. the news from terry turned her thoughts to stella. for twenty-four hours she had not remembered stella. terry would ask first for his father and next for stella. she would go and ask for stella. she turned back from the path that led to the south lodge, remembering that the gate was locked. patsy would have the key. she went in search of him, accompanied by the melancholy shot and the two poms, rescued from the kitchen regions, to which they had been banished because of their inane habit of barking with or without reason. she was grateful to the poms, now that she was out of hearing of the sick-room, for the manner in which they leaped upon her and filled the air with their clamorous joy. there was nothing ominous about their yapping. patsy came to meet her as she entered the stableyard. the small neat figure had a disconsolate air. patsy's eyes were red, his hair rumpled. "how is he?" he asked. "there is no change. the doctor is not alarmed." "ah, well, that's good so far. master terry'll be comin'; that's better. i'll be meetin' him at the late train?" "how did you know?" she asked surprised; "the telegram has only just come." "the gorsoon that brought it spread the news along the road. we was the last to hear it." "oh, of course," she said listlessly. he looked at her anxiously. "there'll be no use to trouble the master about that blackguard's lies?" "no fear of that," she answered. "nothing to hurt or harm him shall enter that room." "sure god's good always!" patsy said reverently. she went on to ask him for the key of the south lodge. "wait a minit, m'lady," he said, "i'll come wid you." she waited while he fetched the key. he came back swinging it on his finger. "i never seen a quieter little lad thin that georgie," he said. "he's very fond o' the books. i don't know how i'll give him back to his mother at all. he's great company for me." they went on, past the house and into the path that led to the south lodge. out of sight of the house patsy suddenly stopped, and nodded his head towards where the boundary wall of castle talbot ran down to the o'hart property. "it never rains but it teems," he said. "i was waitin' about to see you. there's trouble down there." his pointing finger indicated the direction of the waterfall cottage. "what's the matter?" she asked in quick alarm. "it's little miss stella. she strayed away last night. susan didn't miss her till the mornin'. she found her just inside the gates of the demesne--by old lizzie's lodge. she was soaked wid rain an' in a dead faint. i wonder susan ventured with that blackguard about. she brought miss stella to and helped or carried her back. she's wanderin' like in her mind ever since, the poor little lady." "give me the key," lady o'gara said. "go back and bring dr. costello." "it was what i was venturin' to recommend," said patsy, giving her the key. she went on quickly, a new cause for trouble oppressing her. she had not waited to ask questions of patsy.... was stella very ill? what had happened to the poor child? how was she going to tell terry? these were some of the questions that hammered at her ears as she hurried on as fast as her feet could carry her. she was at the south lodge before she remembered the dogs. shot might be trusted to be quiet, but the poms, in a strange house, would bark incessantly. she shut the gate between them and her, leaving it unlocked for the doctor. their shrill protests followed her as she went down the road. she stood by the gable-end of the house and called up to the window, open at the top, which she knew to be that of stella's room. while she waited expectantly, she became aware of a low voice talking very quickly in a queer monotonous way. susan came to the window and looked out above the lace blind. she made a signal that she would open the gate and disappeared. lady o'gara went on to the gate and saw susan coming down the little avenue. susan, dropping the curtsey which had doubtless been the meed of the squire's lady, opened the gate for her. "i'm troubled about the poor young lady, m'lady," she said, jerking her thumb backwards towards the cottage. "i wish her mother'd come back. she do keep callin' for her, somethink pitiful." "leave the gate open, susan; i expect the doctor immediately." "i'm sorry for your own trouble, m'lady," susan said. "i hope sir shawn's doin' nicely now?" "there is no change yet. but the doctor seems confident." "there: i _am_ pleased," said susan. they went back to the little house, susan explaining and apologizing. she did not know how she had come to sleep so soundly. she supposed it must have been because she'd been sleeping the fox's sleep, keeping one eye open on miss stella, for several nights past, till she was fair worn out. still, she didn't ought to have done it. as they stood by the end of the little brass bed on which stella lay, tossing in fever, she told the rest of the tale--how she had awakened with the first glimmer of dawn and realized that she had slept the night through; how, going to stella's room she had missed her; how she had searched house and garden in a frenzy without finding any traces of her; finally she had discovered that the gate stood open. "i declare to goodness, m'lady," said susan. "i never even thought of baker when i went out to look for her. after all, if georgie was safe, there isn't much more he could do to me than he's done. i don't know why it was i turned in at old lizzie's cottage, an' there i found the poor lamb up against the door, for all the world as though she'd tried to get in and dropped where she was. she've been talking ever since of some one follerin' her. and then she calls out for her mother to come. once or twice i thought i heard her callin' master terry to come and save her. i can't tell whether she was frightened or whether she fancied it. but she do cry out, poor little soul, in mortal terror of some one or something." standing there by the foot of the bed lady o'gara's heart went out in tenderness to the sick girl as though she was her own little daughter. what maze of terror had she passed through, whether in dreams or reality, that had brought that look to her face? while they watched stella got up on her elbow and peered into the corners of the room with a terrible expression. she struggled violently for a moment as though held in a monstrous grip. then she fell back on her pillow, exhausted. there came a knocking at the door. the doctor. in a few seconds dr. costello was in the room with his invaluable air of never being flurried, of there being no need for flurry. he did not even express surprise, though he must have felt it, at seeing stella there, nor at the state in which he found her. "i shall explain to you presently," lady o'gara said, "why she is here instead of at inch. mrs. comerford has quarrelled with her." "ah," said the doctor, getting out his clinical thermometer. "it has been her bane, poor lady, that difficult temper. years have not softened it apparently." "but for all that she has a noble nature," lady o'gara said. "this will be a terrible grief to her." "if they have fallen out i should not recommend her presence here when miss stella returns to herself," the doctor said quietly. "she must be kept very quiet. evidently she has had a bad shock of some kind, following on a strained condition of the nerves." after his examination lady o'gara told him something of stella's case. he did not ask for more than he was told. he did not even show surprise at hearing that stella had a mother living. "ah," he said, "if her mother's face could be the first thing for her eyes to rest upon when she comes out of that bad dream, it would do a good deal to restore her sanity." "unfortunately we do not know where the mother is," lady o'gara said sorrowfully. "i will give the patient something to keep her quiet to-night," the doctor went on. "perhaps you could send some one over to my house for the medicine." "patsy kenny will go." "now let me take you back to the house. it is growing dusk. is there any one you could send to stay with mrs. ... mrs. ...?" "susan horridge. oh, yes. i can send margaret mckeon, my maid. she never talks." the doctor gave no indication of any curiosity as to why no talking made margaret mckeon a suitable person for this emergency. the world was full of odd things, even such a remote bit of it as lay about killesky. the place buzzed with gossip. every one in it knew already the story of the charge made by the drunken tramp against sir shawn o'gara. it had reached dr. costello at an early stage in its progress. he remembered the death of terence comerford and the gossip of that time. in his own mind he was piecing the story together: but he was discretion itself. no one should be the wiser for him. he was on his way home, having left lady o'gara safely at her own door, when he did something that very nearly ran the bicycle with the side-car into the bog. patsy, his passenger, merely remarked calmly: "a horse 'ud have more sinse than this hijeous thing." the doctor, piecing together the details of the old tragedy to explain the new, had had an illumination as blinding as the flash of lightning widen reveals a whole countryside for a moment before it falls again to impenetrable blackness. "by jove," he had said to himself, "stella is terry's daughter. and the woman at waterfall cottage--they will talk even though i don't encourage them--is bridyeen sweeney that was. i wonder some of them didn't chance on that." he murmured excuses to patsy for the peril he had narrowly escaped. "she answers to my hand like a horse," he said. "that time i was dreaming and i pulled her a bit too suddenly." as he got out at his own door he said something half aloud; being a solitary bachelor man he had got into a trick of talking to himself. "i did hear that boy of the o'garas' was sweet on her," he said. "my word, what a pretty kettle of fish!" "i beg your pardon, doctor?" said patsy. "oh nothing, nothing. i was wool-gathering. come in and wait; i'll have the medicine ready in less than no time." chapter xxv in which terry finds a dead man terry arrived a little before midnight, having made the difficult cross-country journey from the curragh, looking so troubled and unhappy that his mother's heart was soft over him as when he was the little boy she remembered. he bent his six foot of height to kiss her, and his voice was husky as he asked how his father was. "he is asleep, thank god," she answered. "he came to himself for a little time while i was out this afternoon. reilly, who is invaluable, a real staff, tells me it is healthy sleep now, not unconsciousness." "imagine reilly!" said terry, with a sigh of immense relief. "you poor darling! to think of your having to bear it alone! the colonel was so decent about leave. he told me not to come back till you could do without me. a son's not as good as a daughter. still, i'm better than nothing, aren't i, darling?" "you are better than any one," his mother said, caressing his smooth young cheeks. "you should have wired for eileen. what's that selfish minx doing? making up with the lakh of rupees, i suppose?" "do you know i never remembered eileen," she said, and laughed for the first time since the accident. her heart had lifted suddenly with an irrational, joyful hope. she wanted to get terry to bed and a night's sleep before he knew anything about stella's illness. in the morning the girl might be better. terry looked very weary. he explained to her with a half-shy laugh what terrible imaginings had been his companions on the railway journey. "by jove, darling," he said, "i never want an experience like it again. and how the train dragged! i felt like trying to push it along with something inside me all the time till i was as tired as though i had been really pushing it. at one place the train stopped in the middle of a bog--some one had pulled the communication cord--and the guard and the fireman ran along the carriages, using frightful language, only to pull out seven drunken men going home from a fair, in charge of one small boy who was sober. he was explaining that he couldn't wake them up at the last station, and that as soon as they came awake they pulled the cord. 'go on out o' that now, ye ould divil!' said the guard giving a kick to the last of them. i assure you i didn't feel inclined to laugh, even then, darling, though it was so ridiculous!" she pressed him to eat, but he was too weary to eat much; and she vetoed his seeing his father before morning, being afraid that the strange pallor on the face of the sick man would frighten the boy. she got him off at last, unwillingly, but out of consideration for her weariness. she was going to bed, she said; reilly was taking the night watch. she had not slept all the preceding night. he had not asked about stella, although several times she had thought he was about to ask. she hoped he would not ask. how was she to answer him if he did? she said good-night to him in his warm fire-lit room, feeling the sweetness and comfort of having him there again despite all the trouble: and, half-way to the door, she was stopped by the question she had dreaded. "mother, have you seen stella?" "you shall see her to-morrow," she answered, and hurried away, feeling dreadfully guilty because she imagined the light of joy in his young face. despite all her troubles she slept soundly, the sleep of dead-tiredness: and when she awoke it was half-past seven. she could hear the maid in the drawing-room below her lighting the fire. it was still grey, but there were indications of a beautiful sunrise in the long golden-yellow light that was breaking in the sky: and a robin was singing. she did not feel inclined to lie on. she was refreshed and strengthened for the many difficulties of the day before her. she got up, dressed and went down to the sick-room. reilly was just coming out with a scuttle-full of ashes: he had been "doing" the grate and lighting the fire. he had expressed a wish that there might be as few intruders in the sick-room as possible. "the thing is to keep him quiet, m'lady," he had said. "they are well-meaning girls"--referring to the maids--"but as like as not they'd drop the fire-irons just when he was in a beautiful sleep." reilly looked quite cheerful; and lady o'gara began to think that the flat side-whiskered face had something very pleasant about it after all. he did not wait for her to make inquiries. "he's doing nicely, m'lady," he said. "he's been awake and asked for your ladyship." "oh!" she said with a catch of the breath, "you should have called me." "he'd have been asleep before your ladyship could have come. sleep's the best of all medicine." she had her breakfast and relieved reilly. somewhere about ten o'clock terry opened the door and peeped in. "come!" she beckoned to him. he came and stood beside her looking down at the bandaged head and pale unconscious face. the deadly pallor of yesterday had passed. a slight colour had come to the cheeks, driving away the blue shadows. tears filled the boy's eyes as he looked, and his mother loved him for the sensibility. she went out with him into the corridor to speak. there was so much she had to tell him that could not be told in a moment or two. "i shall be off duty by three o'clock," she said. "can you wait till then?" "i suppose i couldn't ... they wouldn't want me at inch? i have written to stella and she has not answered." "she has not been very well. i will tell you about it. only be patient, dear boy. i must not stay away from your father too long." "very well," he said resignedly. "i'll take out shot and we'll pot at rabbits--a long way from the house, darling. it's good to be here, anyhow." "it's good to have you," she said gratefully. he had not taken up what she said about stella's not being well, and she was glad of that. stella had not been at her best when he left. she might have alarmed him and set him to asking questions which she would have found it difficult to parry. twice during the morning hours, while she sat in the clean well-ordered room, with its bright fire and its sudden transformation to a sick-room, she was called to the door. once it was to interview patsy kenny. he had brought word that susan had spoken to him from the window of waterfall cottage and had said that miss stella was no worse. patsy was to watch by sir shawn for the afternoon and evening: so much had been conceded to him. she was expecting the doctor when another summons came--this time it was sir felix conyers, who came tip-toeing along the corridor since she could not go downstairs to him. "i'm terribly sorry for this dreadful accident, lady o'gara," he said. she noticed with a wondering gratitude that sir felix was quite pale. "i've only just heard it. the whole countryside will be shocked. such a popular man as sir shawn, such a good landlord and fine specimen of a country gentleman. upon my word, i'm sorry." she saw that he was, and she put out her fair be-ringed hand and took his, pressing it softly. "thank you, sir felix," she said. "i know you feel for us and i am very grateful. thank god, it is not as bad as it might have been. my husband is sleeping quietly. the doctor is quite pleased." "thank god for that," said sir felix, echoing her. "he'll be back amongst us again in no time. i came to tell you as soon as i could that the ruffian fury brought to me the other night has disappeared. the effects of the drink worn off, i said to fury, and gave him a sharp touch-up about too much zeal. the fellow walks like a dancing-master, and talks picking his words to conceal want of education. i pity the men under him, i do indeed. i'm really sorry, lady o'gara, that i troubled you with that cock and bull story the other night. i don't anticipate that we'll hear any more about it." "i'm glad my husband was not troubled with it," she said, and left her hand in the kind gentleman's: he was wringing it hard, so that the rings hurt her, but she would not have betrayed it for worlds. a few more expressions of sympathy and of a desire to help and sir felix was gone. she was left to her watch once more. the house seemed extraordinarily quiet. the clock in the corridor ticked away, marking the flight of time. now and again a coal fell from the fire on to the hearth, or some one came to know if anything was wanted. mary o'gara, usually so full of energy, was content to sit watching her husband's face on the pillow. sir felix's visit had brought her a certain relief. she could put that worry away from her--for the time. if the man had disappeared he had probably good reasons for disappearing. perhaps he would not come back. he might be frightened of the thing he had done. anyhow, she was grateful for so much relief; and if shawn was going to live she felt that she could endure all other troubles. after a time she remembered something--something that must be done. mrs. comerford must be told about stella. perhaps the anger had died down in her by this time, leaving her chilled and miserable, as mary o'gara remembered her in the old days after some violent scene with terence. she went to the writing-table in the room and wrote a note. she had just placed it in its envelope when the doctor came and she gave it to the servant who showed him up; bidding her give it to patsy kenny to be sent to inch by a special messenger. the doctor was well satisfied with sir shawn's condition. while he examined him the patient opened his eyes. how dark they looked in the white face! they rested on the doctor with recognition, then passed on to his wife, and he smiled. "have i ... been very troublesome?" he asked. "i remember ... now ... that brute, spitfire ... always was a brute...." the eyes grew vague again and closed, but the lips kept their faint smile. "he'll sleep a lot," said the doctor. "much the best thing for him too. he had run himself down even before the accident. he'll be able to talk more presently." he had taken her out to the corridor before he told the latest, most sensational news. "i found a new nurse by the little girl's bedside this morning," he said. "apparently she is the lady who occupied the cottage--mrs. wade. the patient seems wonderfully improved. hardly any fever; she kept watching her new nurse as though she dreaded letting her out of her sight." "ah--that is good!" there was another lightening of the heaviness of lady o'gara's heart. some mothers in her place might have had an unacknowledged feeling that stella's death would not be altogether the worst solution of a difficult situation. it would have been easy to think with a kindly pity of how much better it would be for the poor child without a name to drift quietly out on the great sea. not so lady o'gara. her whole being had been in suffering for the suffering of this young thing who had crept into her heart. now she was lifted up with the thought of stella coming back to life and health. for the rest it was in the future. with god be the future! terry was late for lunch. patsy kenny had begged and prayed to be allowed to help in "lookin' after the master," so he took the afternoon watch, setting lady o'gara free to be with her son. it was not like terry to be late for lunch. he was a very good trencherman and had always been the first to laugh at his own appetite. but to-day he did not come. his mother waited, turning over the newspapers which came late to castle talbot. he must have gone farther afield than he had intended. she was not nervous. what was there to be nervous about? terry had forgotten in the joy of rabbiting that the luncheon hour was gone by: that was all. at last he came, almost simultaneously with a wild idea in his mother's head that he might have wandered towards waterfall cottage and somehow discovered that stella was there. she got up quite cheerfully when she saw him. "you are late, dear boy," she said. her heart had gone up because so many good things had happened this morning. shawn was better and had recognized her. the wretch who would have hurt him in the secret places of his heart had gone on farther. stella was doing well. it was always the way with her to be irrationally hopeful. many and many a time she had had to ask herself why, on some particular day, she was feeling particularly happy, and had had to trace back the cause to something so small that even she had forgotten it. the founts of happiness in her were very quick to flow. "there is a cold game pie here," she said, "and there is some curry which i have sent down to keep warm. also there is pressed beef and a cold pheasant on the sideboard. i suggest that you begin with the curry and go on to the other things." he did not answer her, but sat down with a weary air. she looked at him in quick alarm. he was not looking well. "what is the matter, terry?" she asked anxiously. "oh, nothing, darling, to make you look so frightened. only i have had a rather gruesome experience. i found a dead man, and such an ugly one!" "a dead man!" "yes--just by old hercules o'hart's tomb. the place will have twice as bad a name now." "what sort of a man?" "oh, a tramp, apparently. he appeared to have fallen from the mount. he might have been running in the dark and shot out violently over the edge. from the look of him i should say he had broken his neck. you know how thick the moss is there under the trees. you would not think the fall could have hurt him, but he is stone-dead. i didn't want him brought here so i ran off and got some men who are building a congested districts board house on the tubber road to lift him. the body is in the stable belonging to the pub. there will have to be an inquest, i suppose, and i shall have to give evidence. a beastly bore." he began to cut himself a slab out of the game pie absent-mindedly. "terry," she said, "i think i know the man. he has been about here lately. patsy would know. if he is the man i think, he is the husband of susan horridge, the little woman at the south lodge." "oh--that patsy's so sweet on! he was a bad lot, wasn't he? a brute to that poor little woman and the delicate child. he didn't look a nice person." he gave a fastidious little shudder. "we're too squeamish," he said. "it comes of the long peace. i've sent word to costello. i suppose i'll have to appear at the inquest. they say a wise man never found a dead man. no one would accuse me of being wise." a queer thought came to her. if shawn had not been lying as he was, helpless, might not he have been suspected of a hand in the death of the man who had made such charges against him? chapter xxvi mother and daughter lady o'gara left terry eating his curry--the castle talbot cook made a particularly good and hot curry--with a quickly recovered appetite, and went upstairs to where patsy kenny was sitting by the fire in the sick-room. "he woke up an' took his milk," said patsy in an ecstatic whisper, "an' he knew me! 'is that you, patsy, ye ould divil?' says he. sorra a word o' lie in it! an' shot had twisted himself in unbeknownst to me, an' when he heard the master spakin' he up an' licked his hand." "i've asked reilly to come on duty now, patsy. i shall be up to-night, so he has taken a short sleep." "you think i'm not fit to be wid him," said patsy mournfully. "maybe there's the smell o' the stables about me, though i put on me sunday clothes and claned me boots." "no, no; sir shawn wouldn't mind the stable smell. nor should i. i want you to do something for me. i'll tell you in the office. here's reilly now." reilly came in, cat-footed. lady o'gara delayed to tell him what had happened during her watch. then she followed patsy downstairs, shot going with her. in the office where patsy stood, turning about his unprofessional bowler in his hands, and looking quite unlike the smart patsy she knew in his slop-suit of tweeds, she told him how terry had found a dead man. "murdered?" asked patsy. "sure it was no sight for a little young boy like him!" "no; not murdered, fortunately. he was lying huddled up by the admiral's tomb. just as though in the dark he had stepped out over the edge of the mount, not knowing there was a sharp drop below. mr. terry thought his neck was broken by the way he was lying." she had a thought that but for terry's rabbiting, which had led him anywhere without thought of trespass, the body might have lain there a long time undiscovered. very few people cared, even in daylight, to go close up to the tomb. "what sort of a man?" asked patsy, beetling his brows at her. "a tramp, mr. terry thought." "it wouldn't be that villain." "that is just what i thought of. the police have the key of the stable where the body is. they would let you see it if you asked." "it would be a pity if it was some harmless poor man," said patsy, with fire in his brown eyes. he went towards the door and came back. "it might be the hand of god," he said. "i had a word with susan this mornin'. she was tellin' me miss stella does be cryin' out not to let some one ketch her, an' screamin' like a mad thing that she's ketched. supposin' that villain was to have put the heart across in the poor child, an' she out wanderin' in the night! wouldn't it be a quare thing for him to tumble down there an' break his dirty neck before he was let lay hold on her?" it gave lady o'gara fresh food for thought, this hypothesis of patsy's. she put away the thoughts with a shudder. to what danger had poor fevered stella been exposed, wandering in the night? and what vengeful angel had interposed to save her? she went back to terry. he had made a very good lunch, she was glad to see, and was just lighting a cigarette. he looked up expectantly as she came in. "you said i should see stella if she would see me. it did not seem like it last time." a shade fell over his face as he concluded. she sat down by him and told him of stella's illness, of the disappearance of her mother and her return. of patsy's suggestion she did not speak. it would be too much for the poor boy, who sat, knitting his brows over her tale, his face changing as he looked down at the cigarette between his fingers. he had interjected one breathless question. was stella better? was she in any danger? and his mother had answered that dr. costello was satisfied that the girl would mend now. "i suppose i must wait till she is better before seeing her," he said, when his mother paused. "poor little darling! i may tell you, mother, my mind is not shaken. i shall marry stella if she will have me." "you can walk with me if you like to the waterfall cottage," she said, "and wait for me. there is something about the place that makes a coward of me. it will be worse than ever now after your discovery." she laughed nervously. "poor mother, you have too many troubles to bear!" he said with loving compassion. "you carry all our burdens." "i have sent patsy to identify your dead man. i think he can do it." she was saying to herself that never, never must terry know the charges that had been brought against his father. they might become a country tale--but the whole countryside might ring with the story without any one having the cruelty to repeat it to terry. the night was closing down--christmas was close at hand, and it was already the first day of the shortest days--when they started. a few dry flakes of snow came in the wind as they crossed the park to the south lodge, silent now and empty. under the trees as they went down the road it was already dark. the window of the little sitting-room of the waterfall cottage threw its cheerful rosy light out over the road. the bedroom window above showed a dimmer light. "perhaps, after all," she said, "you might come in and wait for me. i see susan has lit the fire downstairs. she has not been lighting it since stella's illness--i have got a second key for the padlock, so we shall not have to wait, rattling at the gate." "you think i may come in?" he asked eagerly. "we shall consult mrs. wade." susan received them with a great unbolting and unlocking of the door. she apologized for her slowness. "it isn't that lonesome now mrs. wade's come," she said. "yet i've had a fear on me this while back. maybe it's the poor child upstairs and her thinkin' somethink's after her. it fair gave me the creeps to hear her. she's stopped that since mrs. wade's come back. she takes her for her ma. now she's got her she doesn't seem scared any more." susan had curtseyed to terry. "i've that poor old soul, miss brennan, a-sittin' in my kitching, as warm as warm," she went on. "didn't you know, m'lady? 'twas 'er as went to look for mrs. wade. how she knew as mrs. wade would content a child callin' for 'er ma, passes me." "oh, i am glad you have poor lizzie. i never liked to think of her alone in that wretched place. yet when we talked of her leaving it she always seemed so afraid her liberty would be interfered with. she is really too old to be running all over the country as she does, coming back cold and wet to that wretched place, where she might die any night all alone." "she do seem to have taken a fancy to me," mrs. horridge said placidly. "i might take her for a lodger, maybe. georgie's not one to annoy an old lady like some boys might. i'd love humourin' her little fancies; i could always do anythink for an old person or a child." "i am going up to see miss stella," lady o'gara said. "do you think mr. terry may wait by the fire? i shall tell mrs. wade." "he'll be as welcome as the flowers in may, as the sayin' is," mrs. horridge said, briskly pushing a chair for terry nearer the fire and lamplight. "an' plenty o' books to amuse you, sir, while your ma's upstairs." lady o'gara left terry in the cheerful room and went up the winding staircase. as she entered stella's room she had an idea that the place had become more home-like with mrs. wade's presence. mrs. wade was wearing the white dress of a nurse and a nurse's cap, the white strings tied under her chin. the room was cosy in fire and lamplight and yet very fresh. stella was awake. she turned her head weakly on the pillow and smiled at lady o'gara. "my darling child, this is an improvement," lady o'gara said, quite joyfully. "my mother has come back," stella whispered, and put out a thin little hand to mrs. wade, who had stood up at the other side of the bed and was still standing as though she waited for lady o'gara to bid her be seated. "i am very glad," lady o'gara said, and bent to kiss stella's forehead. it was cool and a little moist. the fever had quite departed. "you should not have gone away and left her," she said reproachfully to mrs. wade. "you see she cannot do without you." "i shall not leave her again," mrs. wade said. "she chooses me before all the world." oh, poor terry! there was something of a definite choice in the words. they meant that stella had chosen her mother before all the world might give her. and the poor boy was sitting just below them, bearing the time of waiting with as much patience as possible, listening to the sounds upstairs, his mother divined, with a beating heart. "won't you sit down?" said lady o'gara. "i cannot sit till you do." "thank you," replied mrs. wade, and sat down the other side of stella. her profile in the nurse's cap showed against the lamplight. it was a beautiful soft, composed profile, like stella's own. and her manner was perfect in its quiet dignity. a nature's lady, lady o'gara said to herself. lady o'gara could not have told what inspired her next speech. it was certainly not premeditated. "my son is waiting for me downstairs in your pretty room." mrs. wade bowed her head without comment on terry's waiting. "we were sorry to hear of the accident to sir shawn. i hope he is better," she said. how quietly they were talking! it might have been just conventional drawing-room talk. no one looking on could have guessed at the web of difficulties they were snared in, at the tragedy that menaced so many harmless joys. again lady o'gara felt surprise at her own attitude towards mrs. wade, at mrs. wade's towards her. she had no feeling of inequality, nothing of the attitude of the woman who has always been securely placed within reverence and affections, to the woman who has gone off the rails, even though she be more sinned against than sinning. mrs. wade met her so to speak on equal grounds. there was no indication in her manner of the woman who had stepped down from her place among honoured women. and yet, the mere saying that terry was in the house had somehow affected mrs. wade. there was agitation under the calm exterior. in the atmosphere there was something disturbed, electrical. she hardly seemed to hear lady o'gara's answer to her inquiry about sir shawn. she got up after a few minutes, and, saying that she would get some tea, went out of the room; to recover her self-possession, lady o'gara thought. when she had gone stella turned her eyes on lady o'gara's face. "when i get well," she said, "i am going away with my mother. it will be best for everybody. i shall begin a new life with her." "oh, stella, child! you can't give us up like that! you have made your place in our hearts." there were tears in mary o'gara's kind eyes and in her voice. stella reached out and patted her hand as though she were the older woman. "you needn't think i shan't feel it," she said. "you have been dear to me, sweet to me; and i shall always love you. and poor granny----" a little shiver ran through her and for a second she closed her eyes. "i am sorry for her, too, poor woman! but it will be kinder to you all for me to go away. i did think that i was going to die and that would have made it so much easier for every one. only, now that my mother has come back and needs me, i must go on living--but at a distance from this place. terry will forget me and marry eileen and be very happy." the tired voice trailed off into silence. evidently the long speech had been an effort. "terry is obstinately faithful," said lady o'gara, with a sound like a sob in her voice. "but now, i think you have talked enough. go to sleep, child. we shall have plenty of time for talk, even if you do keep to your resolve to leave us all." stella opened her eyes again to say: "no one is ever to say a word against my mother. she never did anything wrong, my poor little mother, even if she was deceived. i honour her more than any one in the world." "don't talk about it, child. no one will dare to say anything," lady o'gara assured her, eager to stop something which she felt too poignant, too intolerable to be said or heard. almost at once stella was asleep. there came a little knock at the door. it was susan to say that, please would lady o'gara come down to tea, while she sat with miss stella. again lady o'gara felt the strangeness of it all. there was mrs. wade pouring out the tea, handing cakes and toast, doing the honours like any assured woman in her drawing-room--except that she would not take tea herself and could not be prevailed upon to sit down with them. once or twice lady o'gara thought she intercepted a soft, motherly glance, with something of beaming approval in it, directed from mrs. wade's eyes upon terry. there was light upon terry's dark head from mrs. wade's eyes. the boy was shy, ill at ease. he was dying to ask questions, but he felt that the situation craved wary walking. he fidgeted and grew red: looked this way and that; was manifestly uncomfortable. none of them had heard the hall-door open nor any one enter, but keep, stretched on the hearthrug, growled. shot lying under the table answered him. from michael, in the kitchen, came a sharp hysterical barking. michael was not so composed, not so entirely well-mannered as his brothers of the famous shot breed. the door opened. in came mrs. comerford, tall, in her trailing blacks, magnificent, the long veil of her bonnet floating about her. she looked from one to the other of the group with amazement. "i am surprised to find you here, mary o'gara," she said. "but perhaps you come to see my child. where is stella? i have brought the carriage to take her back to inch." "oh, the poor child is too ill to be moved," said lady o'gara tremblingly. "you should be by your husband's side," mrs. comerford said, as though mary o'gara was still the child she had loved and oppressed. she had not looked at mrs. wade since the first bitter contemptuous glance. suddenly mrs. wade spoke with an air as though she swept the others aside. she faced mrs. comerford with eyes as steady as her own. "stella will not go with you, she said. she stays with me." "you! her nurse. i did not know the child was so ill as to need a hospital nurse." "her mother, mrs. comerford. you did not satisfy her in all those years since you took her from my breast. i take her back again." chapter xxvii the story is told lady o'gara's first terror was of a scene which should waken stella and alarm her in her weak state. she made as if to stand between the two women: she looked fearfully for the signs of the rising storm as she remembered them in mrs. comerford, the heaving breast, the working hands, the dilated nostrils. but there were none of these signs. instead mrs. comerford was curiously quiet. for a moment the quietness seemed to possess the little house. in the silence you might have heard a pin drop. shot sighed windily under the table and keep laid his nose along his paws and turned eyes of worship on his mistress. long afterwards mary o'gara remembered these things and how the wind sprang up and drove a few dead leaves against the window with a faint tinkling sound. then the momentary tense silence was broken. "you are stella's mother--terence's..." what she would have said was for ever unsaid. "your son's wife, mrs. comerford," said mrs. wade proudly. she held out her hand with a gesture which had a strange dignity. on the wedding finger was a thin gold ring. there was a silence, a gasp. mrs. comerford leant across the table and stared at the ring. "terence's wife!" she repeated slowly. "you don't expect me to believe that! why, my god, if it were true"--her voice rose to a sudden anguish--"if it were true, if it could be true--why didn't you tell me long ago? why did you let me go on thinking such things of my boy? i won't believe it. i tell you i won't believe it. you would have been quick enough to step into my place, old judy dowd's granddaughter! is it likely you'd have gone all these years without your child--in disgrace--the mother of a child born out of wedlock? it's a lie--bride sweeney, it's a lie!" "it is not a lie," mrs. wade said wearily. "i know it seems incredible. there is no difficulty about proof. we were married in dublin, when terence was at the royal barracks and i was staying with maeve mccarthy, a school-friend. she was my bridesmaid." mrs. comerford put a bewildered hand to her head. her other hand clutched the rail of a chair as though her head reeled. lady o'gara and terence looked on as spectators, out of it, though passionately interested. lady o'gara gave a quick glance at her son. there was a strange light on his face. he put out his hand and steadied mrs. comerford, helping her to a chair. as she sat down, the long black draperies floating about her, she looked more than ever a tragedy queen. "you have your marriage certificate?" she asked with an effort. "i have never parted with it." "if you are not mad, will you tell me why you masqueraded as my son's mistress when you were his wife?" "because your son was so afraid of you--you may believe it or not as you will--that he made me swear never to tell it to any one till he gave me leave. poor terence! he did not live to give me leave. he had made up his mind to tell you. he said our child should be born in his old home. then he was killed, and my baby was born, and the world was at an end for me. i only wanted to go away and die somewhere. my grandmother had been terrible; and then you came and you were terrible too: and you took away my baby. i don't think i knew or thought how it was going to affect the baby. you said that she would be brought up to inherit inch if i never claimed her. i was very innocent, very ignorant. i kept the oath i had sworn to terence. i have kept it all these years." "he need not have been afraid of me," mrs. comerford said in a heart-broken voice. "i loved him so much that i could have forgiven him his marriage. do you think that i would have kept your place from you all these years? that i would have lied and lied to keep the world from knowing what i thought the shameful secret of stella's birth?" "i think nothing. i only know that he who was afraid of nothing else was afraid of your anger." the two women stared at each other. something of pity came into mrs. wade's face. "it might be that he loved you so well he couldn't bear to bring you trouble," she said. "i was only a poor girl from the village, judy dowd's grand-daughter, who served in the bar of the little public-house. it would have been a bitter story for you to hear, and you so proud." "terence would have raised his wife to his own station. what insanity! i was always hot-tempered but i soon cooled and forgave. what was there in my anger for my six-foot son to be afraid of?" mary o'gara remembered how terence shook with terror of his mother's anger after some boyish escapade. grace comerford deceived herself! apparently she had no idea of how terrible her fits of temper could be, how the fear of them overclouded the lives of children, defenceless before her. "you wanted her," mrs. wade indicated lady o'gara--"for terence's wife. it was not likely you could have put up with me instead." "she preferred shawn o'gara," said mrs. comerford, with a queer bitterness. "i might have turned to you who loved terence. i had nothing against shawn o'gara. he loved terence better than a brother. i meant not to lose sight of you though i forbade you ever to claim the child. you disappeared from the place where i had sent you. i did not mean you to want for anything. after all you were terence's." her voice ended on a queer note of tenderness. suddenly terry o'gara spoke, coming out of his corner, the bright light on his glowing eager young face. "stella will not refuse to listen to me, now," he said. "you will not refuse me stella, mrs. comerford?" he addressed mrs. wade. the name sounded most strangely in the ears of those who heard it. the woman addressed coloured and looked at him with softly parted lips. her eyes were suddenly dewy. "if it had been as ... as ... the poor darling thought," the boy blushed vividly, averting his gaze from the face that was so like stella's in its softness and wonder and shyness--"it would have made no difference. my mother knows. it would have made no difference. the only barrier would have been stella herself. i was afraid of stella's will." "stella must decide for herself. thank god, she did not turn from her mother. i thought i would go away and that this tale need never be told. i knew i had been wrong to come back. i never thought any one would have had the heart to tell my child that story." she turned suddenly accusing eyes on mrs. comerford. "even yet she does not know that i was married to her father," she went on. "but she does not shrink from me. my little daughter! that such an anguish as that should ever have come to her! she has chosen me even so before all the world!" she lifted her head proudly as she said it. then her expression softened as she saw the shadow on terry o'gara's candid face. "give her time," she said. "if your father and mother will not mind her being my daughter--why--i think you should ask her." "where have you been hiding yourself all this time?" mrs. comerford asked, with a certain roughness. "if i had known where you were i might have extracted this story from you earlier. i suppose it is true. how i have suffered by your folly! do you know that i have had hard thoughts of my dead son--that he disgraced me?" "he thought you would call his marriage disgrace." "he wronged me there. it would have been a bitter pill, but i'd have got over it. to think of all those years during which i believed that my one son had betrayed a girl and left her to suffer the shame." "you should not have thought it; you were his mother," mrs. wade, or mrs. comerford, said simply. then she settled down as to a story-telling. "my grandmother kept her word to you, mrs. comerford," she said. "you told her i was not to come back. she did not live very long after we left killesky. we had reached liverpool on our way to america, and she became ill there. she was very old and she had gipsy blood. she thought i had disgraced her. even then i kept my oath to terence, till almost the very end when she was dying--i thought he would forgive--i whispered in her ear that i was married. she died happy because of that word." "what folly it was! what cruel folly!" the other woman said, as though she were in pain. "i came back again," mrs. wade went on, "after some years. i did go to america, but the homesickness was terrible. it was bad enough wanting the child, but wanting the country was a separate pain. it was like a wolf in my heart. i used to look at an irish face in the street and wonder if the man or woman suffered as i did. i believe that if i had had stella i should have still suffered as much, or nearly as much." "i know," mrs. comerford said. "it was not as bad with me, but i had to come back." "i did not dare come near killesky, though i knew that trouble had altered me. i came to drumlisk on the other side of the mountain. you had been generous, mrs. comerford, and my grandmother had saved money and i wanted for nothing. i lived in a little cottage there and i nursed the poor. father anthony o'connell, the priest there, was very good to me. he is a dear old saint. he had a terrible woman for housekeeper. she had a wicked tongue, and she persecuted him with her tantrums, and half-starved him because she was too lazy to cook for him or get up in the morning to keep his house. he used to say--'ah well, she doesn't drink!' he'd find some good in the worst. he wouldn't get rid of her, but at last she got rid of herself. she went off to look after a distant cousin, who was old and dying and had a little money to leave. i hope she didn't hasten the creature's death. i was with him three months--i loved to work for him: he was such an old saint and so grateful--when she came back and wanted to take up the place again. she hadn't got the money, i believe, after all. but by that time i knew more about her than the saintly old man did, and i threatened to tell, and so got rid of her. i was very happy there at drumlisk--there was a light upon the house. why wouldn't there be with a saint in it? and the least thing you did for him he was so grateful. i told him about my marriage and the oath i'd taken. he absolved me from that oath. he said it wasn't binding, and that i was in the wrong to let people think me something i was not, much less the wrong to the child deprived of her father as well as her mother." "he was quite right there," mrs. comerford said. "i never had stella's heart. she wanted you if she could not have her father." "i had too low an opinion of myself. i said to myself that stella would grow up a lady and i was a poor woman. i had done better for her by not claiming her, no matter what sorrow it had meant to me. i had my spies out all the time. lizzie brennan recognized me one day she wandered into the church at drumlisk when i was cleaning the sanctuary lamp. it was no use denying it. she knew me. i made her promise she'd never tell. the creature was grateful for the little i could do for her. she told me inch was empty all those years. then, when father o'connell died, and i was in grief for him, she came and told me mrs. comerford had come back with the little lady. the longing grew on me--i was very lonely and so i came to waterfall cottage, that i might see the child i'd been longing for all my days." "you should have walked into inch and said out that you were my son's lawful wife. i am not the woman to turn my back on his wife, even though you were judy dowd's grandchild," mrs. comerford said fiercely. "i never thought of doing that. i only wanted to get a glimpse of the child now and again. then you, lady o'gara, brought her to me, and the love leapt up alive between us the minute we met. i gave myself up to it for a while, feeling as though i was committing a sin all the time. then i was frightened by old lizzie. she discovered somehow that stella was my daughter. she was getting less reliable, being so old. i did not want to stand between stella and her happiness." she looked at terry. "so i ran away, meaning to send for my things. i never meant to come back. i returned to my old cottage at drumlisk till i could make up my mind where i was to go to. lizzie found me there. it is a long way over the mountains. she walked it in the wind and rain to tell me stella was here and pining for me--so i came." "go up and tell the child, if she can listen to you, that we are friends," mrs. comerford said. "tell her you are terence's wife and my daughter. tell her i am not such an ogre as she thinks and you think. tell her that you and she are to come to inch as soon as she can be moved. tell her all that, mrs. terence comerford. perhaps then she will consent to see me." she pointed a long finger at stella's mother, looking more than ever like a priestess, and mrs. wade, as she had called herself, obeyed meekly. when the door closed behind her mrs. comerford turned to terry. "good-bye," she said. "the future will be yours. you are like your mother, and she never had any worldly wisdom. i love you for it, but now you had better go." so terry and his mother went away, passing in the dark road mrs. comerford's carriage with its bright lights and champing and impatient horses. chapter xxviii the vigil some time in the night when lady o'gara had nodded in the chair beside her husband's bed, she came awake sharply to the knowledge that he had called her name. "mary! mary!" she could not have dozed for long, since the fire which she had made up was burning brightly. "yes, shawn, i am here," she answered. "move your chair so that i may see your face. i want to talk to you." his voice was quite strong. there was something in the sound of it that spoke of recovering strength. "i've been lying awake some little time," he said. "i didn't like to wake you, you poor sweet woman. i liked to hear your breathing so softly there close to me--as you have been all these years." "you are better, shawn, wonderfully better," she said, leaning down to see his face, for firelight and the shaded lamp did not much assist her short-sighted eyes. "i am free of pain," he answered. "i don't know when it may return. give me something to keep me going while i talk." she gave him a few spoonfuls of a strong meat extract mixed with brandy, supporting his head on her arm while he took the nourishment. "how young you look, mary," he said, when she had laid down his head again on the pillow. "sit there, just where you are. what a burthen i have been to you all these years, holding me up from the abyss. and yet your eyes and your skin are like a child's. i suppose it is prayer and quiet and honest thoughts." "you really feel able to talk, shawn?" she asked anxiously. "i feel as strong as a horse at this moment. that stuff is potent. but i had better talk while i am able. there is much i want to tell you, mary, and there may be no great time." her eyes looked at him in dumb protest, but she said not a word. "to go back to the beginning, mary. i have not told you all the truth about myself and terence. it was not the loss of my friend that darkened my life. that would have been unnatural when i had you beside me. it was--mary--it was i who sent terence comerford to his death." "you, shawn! you are dreaming! there was more than the love of brothers between you!" "my mind is perfectly clear. you won't turn away from me when i tell you? my need of you is bitter." she dropped on her knees by the bed and laid her face against his hand. she did not want him to see her eyes while he told his story. "nothing could make me turn away from you," she answered. "nothing, nothing. we are everything to each other." "you are everything to me. but you have terry. i am fond of terry, but i have only need of you. i will tell you what happened the night terence was killed. i had been praying and pleading with him to right bridyeen, for i knew that there was a baby coming. never had i so pleaded with any one. i remember that i sweated for sheer anguish, although the night was cold. i don't know what possessed terence, unless it was the whisky. he told me to go and marry you and leave his affairs alone. and then he laughed. a laugh can be the most terrible and intolerable thing in the world. it maddened me. it was not only poor bride; but there was you. i thought he would leave bride and her baby and go back to you. i believed you loved him. i begged and prayed him not to laugh, and he but laughed the louder. he said hateful things; but it was not what he said; it was the way he laughed. it mocked as a devil might have mocked, or i thought it did. it drove me mad. i knew spitfire would not take the whip and that terence was in no state to control her. i leant out and i lashed her with all my strength. i can remember shouting something while i did it. then spitfire was off, clattering down the road--and suddenly the madness died in me. i would have given my life for his, but i had killed him. i had killed myself. i have never since been the man i was when terence and i were closer than brothers." he ended with a sob. "you can't forgive me, mary?" he asked, in a terrified whisper, as she did not speak. "for god's sake say something." she got up and put her arms about his head. whatever grief or horror there was in her face he should not see it. she laid her face against his, embracing him closely and softly. "the only thing i find it hard to forgive," she whispered, "is your not telling me. it would not have been so bad if you had told me, shawn. i could have helped you to bear it. i could have carried at least half your burden." "you understand, mary," he asked in a wondering voice, "that when i struck spitfire, i meant to kill terence." "it was madness," she said. "i would almost say it was justifiable madness. no one could believe it was deliberate." "a jury might have brought it in manslaughter," he said. "only for you and terence i would have tested it long ago. you cannot imagine what a weight i have carried. even telling it has eased me as though a stone had been rolled from off my heart." "you should have shared it," she said. "that is all i have to forgive--that you carried it alone all those years." "oh, incomparable woman!" he said. "indeed i have felt the wrong i did you in marrying you, in chaining your brightness and sweetness to a doomed man like me." "you have made me perfectly happy," she said. "i would not have changed my lot for anything else in the world. why do you talk of doom? it is going to be happiness for both of us now that you have spoken at last." "i have made you happy?" he asked wonderingly. "why, if i have, it is not so bad after all." "did patsy know?" she asked on a sudden thought. "patsy knew, though he has tried to keep the fact of his knowledge from me. he must have heard what i said. one other knew and has blackmailed me ever since. no matter how much money i gave him he came back again. i was so weary of it and so weary of the burthen i was carrying that the last time i refused him. he went away cursing and swearing that he would have me brought to justice. i felt i didn't care. i told him to do his worst. he is the husband of that poor thing you sheltered at the south lodge, one of the many your goodness has comforted. a bad fellow through and through." "he will not harm us, shawn. he is dead. he was found with a broken neck just by the doorway of the admiral's tomb. he must have stepped over the edge of the mount not knowing there was a steep fall." "i am glad for your sake and terry's. for my own sake i should welcome any atonement." he went on in a low voice. "a strange thing happened to me--when was it--the day i went hunting?" "it is the third day since that day." "i did not know it was so long. you remember that black prince was lame. that was why patsy was late. he wanted me not to ride mustapha, but i was determined. the horse went all right during the day--a bit difficult and sulky at some of the jumps, but i kept coaxing him and got him along. it was a long day. we put up three foxes. the last gave us a smart run before we lost him the other side of altnabrocky. it was late by then and it was raining. you'd think mustapha would have come home quietly. there was the devil in him, poor brute; and patsy could not exorcise it. i suppose he is dead?" "he broke his back." "ah, well, he meant to break mine, i think. you know what wild country there is about altnabrocky. the dusk came fast and i lost my way. i knew it was going to be very dark before the moon rose; the rain was beating in my face and mustapha kept jibbing and trying to turn round, for he hated the rain and the wind on his eyes. i was considering whether i ought to lead him, and wondering where on earth we were, when a low white light came under the rim of an immense cloud. it was like daylight come back for a little while. by the light i saw a little farmhouse up a boreen off the road. i was dreading to lose the road in the darkness, for it was not much more than a track. mustapha had been dancing about a bit, but suddenly he whinnied and made a rush for the boreen. it was all right, as i wanted to go there, but he'd have gone whether i wanted to or not. "an extraordinary thing happened. the door of the cottage opened and out stepped a little old man. i could see his figure against the light within: and mustapha, who was such a devil with all of us, started whinnying and nuzzling the old fellow, who seemed just as delighted to see him. "'how far am i from the main road to galway?' i asked; for i knew i'd be all right once i got on to that. i had quite lost my bearings. "'a matter of a couple of miles, your honour,' said he. i saw then that he was a little innocent-looking old man like a child, and i remembered patsy's description of the one he'd bought mustapha from in the fair of keele. "'the horse seems to know you,' said i. "'it's a foal of me own rarin',' said he, 'an' more betoken he was out of a mare that kilt a man, an' a fine man--poor mr. terence comerford, lord rest him! she was a beauty, an' i could do anything with her. she was sent to the fair to be sold and no one 'ud touch her. i got her for a twinty-pound note. only for her foals the roof wouldn't be over me head. this wan was the last o' them.'" sir shawn's voice failed and died away. "give me a little more of that stuff, mary," he said weakly. "i want to finish, and then i can sleep. you don't know how it has oppressed me." she obeyed him, and, after an interval, he went on again. "so that was where spitfire went. i never could make out. and there was i riding a colt of hers, and a worse one than spitfire to manage. i had great difficulty in getting mustapha away from his old master, but at last i succeeded, and we jogged along: as he covered the long road he seemed to become quieter. i think i dozed in the saddle. i know i thought it was spitfire i was riding and not mustapha. i remember calling him spitfire as i woke up and encouraged him. "the night was as dark as i expected, but there was some glimmer from overhead and i could see the bog-pools either side of us as we crossed the bog. it wasn't much guidance to keep us to the road, but we'd crossed the railway bridge, and i could see the lights of castle talbot; i was lifting my heart towards you, mary, as i've always done at that point when--something ran across the road--it might have been only a rabbit--just under mustapha's feet. then he was out of control. he reared backwards towards the bog, trying to throw me. i had a struggle with him. it could hardly have lasted a minute, but it seemed a long time. there did not seem any chance for either of us; all i could think of was that i was riding spitfire's son and that he was going to kill me, and that, maybe, it was a sort of reparation i had to make. besides, i should be free of baker and his threats, and he could never harm you through me. but all the time the instinct to live was strong, and i'd got my feet clear of the stirrups, for i didn't want to go with him into the bog. then he threw me and i heard his hoofs tearing at the stones of the road as he went over, and he squealed. it's horrible to hear a horse squeal, mary." he ended with a long sigh of exhaustion. "now you are not to talk any more," she said. "the doctor would be angry with me if he knew i had let you talk so much." "i had to get it off," he said. "i am going to sleep till morning now. dear terence! he would have forgiven me if he knew how i suffered." "he has forgiven you," she said steadily. "i want to tell you, before you sleep, that terence had married bride sweeney secretly. he swore her to silence, because he dreaded his mother's anger; and, poor girl, she bore all that unmerited shame and the loss of her child to keep faith with him." "he had married her after all!" sir shawn, by an immense effort lifted his head from the pillows. there was a strange light on his face. "i thought i had cut terence off in his sins, i who loved him. i said he would wake up in hell. terence has been in heaven all these years. it has been hell to me that i had sent terence to hell. now i can sleep." he slept quietly all through the morning hours, till reilly came to relieve her. "he looks a deal better, m'lady," said reilly, looking at him curiously. "i thought yesterday, if you'll excuse me, m'lady, that you were going to lose him. he has taken a new lease of life." later on dr. costello corroborated reilly's verdict. "something has worked a miracle," he said, patting lady o'gara's hand kindly. "i should have said yesterday that we could not keep him very long. there is a marked change for the better. i've been watching sir shawn these many years back and i was never satisfied with him." "there! there!" he said as the joy broke out over her face. "don't be too glad, my dear lady. i was afraid the spine might have been injured, or something internal. i have made a thorough examination this morning. he is not seriously injured in any way. his thinness and lightness must have saved him when he was thrown. he is very thin. we must fatten him. but, my dear lady, he is going to be more or less of an invalid. there is heart-trouble. no more strenuous days for him! he will have to live with great care. you will be tied to him, lady o'gara. i can see he depends on you for everything. he will be more dependent than ever." he said to himself, looking at her wonderfully fresh beauty--the beauty of a clear soul--that it would be hard on her to be tied up to a sick man. but her face, which had been changing during his speech, was now uplifted. "if i can only keep him," she said, "all the rest will be nothing. he is going to be so happy with me." she said it as though she made a vow. chapter xxix, and last the lakh of rupees mrs. comerford acted with characteristic thoroughness. perhaps she felt that she had much to atone for. it was christmas day by the time stella could be moved to inch, where amazement reigned. mrs. comerford had given her orders. miss stella's room was to be prepared. she was coming back again, with her mother. the bride's room, which was the finest bedroom at inch, was to be prepared for mrs. terence comerford. mrs. clinch, to whom the order was given, gasped. "mrs. terence comerford, ma'am?" she repeated. "yes: i hope you're not becoming deaf. my son was married, and miss stella is his daughter. he chose to keep his marriage a secret. i have only just learnt that his wife is living." no more than that. mrs. comerford was not a person to ask questions of. she went her way serenely, with a queer air of happiness about her while inch was swept and garnished. of course clinch and mrs. clinch debated these amazing happenings with each other; of course the servants buzzed and the news spread to the village and about the countryside with amazing swiftness. christmas morning saw the transference from the waterfall cottage to inch accomplished. stella was by this time able to sit up for the journey, and since there could be no proper christmas festivity at castle talbot terry o'gara was to lunch at inch. he was witness of the strange ceremonial air with which mrs. comerford laid down her seals of office, so to speak. "mrs. terence comerford will take the head of the table," she said. then she passed to the foot of the table while mrs. terence, flushed and half tearful, took the vacated place. terry was in the seventh heaven. there was no longer anything between him and stella, who had accepted him as though their happiness had never been threatened. stella, with that air of illness yet about her which made her many times more dear and precious to her lover, looked with shining eyes from her mother to her grandmother. in the drawing-room afterwards, while stella rested in her own pretty room, and her mother, rather overwhelmed by her new estate, sat by her, mrs. comerford talked to terry. "it is a long winter here," she said. "i remember frost and snow in january when it was dangerous to walk across your own lawn because of the drifts. if the snow does not come it will be wild and wet. stella was brought up in italy. i should hurry up the marriage, young man, and take her away. now that your father is going on so well there is no reason for delay. besides, we want to get it out of her head that she was pursued by some ruffian the night she wandered and fell by the empty lodge at athvara." "poor little angel," said terry, "i am only too anxious, mrs. comerford. i shall be the happiest man alive if she will consent." "of course she will consent. she is an obedient child," said mrs. comerford, with an entire oblivion of stella's marked disobedience in the not very remote past. "it is adorably unselfish of you to be willing to part with her," said terry, his face shining with happiness. "for the matter of that i shall have my daughter-in-law," said mrs. comerford superbly. "she has never travelled. we shall probably do some travelling together. you had better resign your commission." "oh, must i? i might get a year's leave because of my ... stella's health. i am very fond of the regiment. but of course i should not put it before her." "of course not. i don't mind your sticking to the regiment, as you say, for a bit longer. your father and stella's father each took their turn at soldiering. it is as well to be prepared--in case of need. there might be a bolt out of the blue sky. so much more reason for being happy while we may." "you know that susan horridge--or mrs. baker, but she won't be called that--identified the dead man i found by the admiral's tomb as her husband?" "yes, i heard so. a good riddance. i wonder if he was hunting for susan and the boy when he met with that accident. he was 'warm' as the children say, close up against waterfall cottage. you are to make stella forget that dream of hers of being pursued by some terrible creature that night." "i will do my best," said terry. "a pity some one does not take athvara! it is a fine old house all falling to rack and ruin." "i have heard a rumour that some order is buying it for a boys' school. that would be best of all. a crowd of boys about would soon banish the ghosts. they would delight in the admiral's tomb. my own boy and shawn o'gara, your father, made a cache there one cold winter, pretending they were whalers in the north sea. it was the time of dr. nansen. the tomb used to be open then. they had all sorts of queer things stowed away under the shelf that held the admiral's coffin. queer things, boys!" she looked into the fire for a few minutes. "your father loved my boy," she said. "i believe he'd have died to save him. there was a time when i was angry against him, because he lived and was warm and my boy was cold, and because your mother had married him. i always looked to see her my terence's wife. i was wrong. terence had chosen his own wife." the marriage was fixed for early in the new year. every one seemed extremely happy. terence had got his leave of absence for a year. stella was making excellent progress and had begun to take a shy interest in the preparations for the wedding and the details of the wedding journey. she had seen sir shawn, lying on the invalid couch which had the very latest improvements to make his invalid's lot as easy as possible. he had drawn down her face to his and kissed it, saying something inexplicable to stella. "you are the dove with the olive branch to say that the floods have retreated." he was very happy about the marriage, and lady o'gara, watching him as though he were a beloved and delicate child, smiled at his saying, a bright brave smile which made stella say afterwards to terry that his mother's smile was like winter sunshine. "it used to be so full of fun," said terry, "her dimples used to come and go, but she is troubled about my father, though she says she is the happiest woman alive, because she can keep him perhaps for a long time yet." patsy kenny was painting and papering his house in the stable yard, in the intervals of his professional labours, whistling over his work. mrs. horridge, as she still called herself, was back at the south lodge with georgie, and old lizzie brennan as her lodger. "the old soul," she said to lady o'gara. "i'll always find room for her. she do take on so when it comes over her that she might go to the 'ouse. i've promised her she shan't. wasn't it clever of her, m'lady, to go off and find miss stella's ma for her. i don't believe miss stella would be with us this day if it weren't for that. i never saw a young lady so set on her ma. m'lady," she drew lady o'gara away from the gate by which they were standing talking, a little way along the avenue where no listener could hear--"i've told miss stella a lie, and i'm not sorry for it, although i'm a truthful woman. it was a big lie too. i told her that there terror she had of runnin' and runnin' from somethink dreadful was but the fever. i told her she dreamed it. but i'd never have got it out of her head if her ma hadn't come." she turned away and was silent for a minute. then she spoke again in a low voice. "it was the drink," she said. "the lord forgive all the wicked!" one of these days lady o'gara was saying to herself that she must read and answer all the letters that had come to her while sir shawn still claimed her constant attention. there was a heaped basket of them on the desk in her own room. it was a very chilly afternoon. sir shawn was asleep upstairs. presently reilly and patsy kenny would carry him down on his wonderful couch. terry was over at inch. he was to bring back stella, and later on they were to be joined at dinner by mrs. comerford and mrs. terence. "i'm afraid no one ever wrote to tell poor eileen," lady o'gara said to herself, with a whimsical glance at the letter basket and the flanking waste-paper basket. the telling that was in her mind referred to the approaching marriage of terry and stella. eileen had been notified of sir shawn's illness and had written expressing her concern. but eileen never could write a letter. the formal and ill-constructed phrases conveyed nothing. somewhat to lady o'gara's surprise eileen had not offered to return. but after that formal letter another letter had come, quite a thick one, and it lay still unopened amid the accumulated letters. "poor eileen! i wonder if there was anything in terry's story about the lakh of rupees!" the thought had but entered her mind when she heard, or thought she heard, the sound of approaching carriage-wheels. she listened. it might be dr. costello, who had a way of coming on friendly visits very often. or perhaps terry and stella were coming earlier than she had expected them. the door opened. in came a young woman wearing magnificent furs, bringing with her a scent of violets. eileen! she flung her arms about lady o'gara with an unaccustomed demonstrativeness. but she turned a cold satin cheek to the lady's kiss. it had been characteristic of eileen even in small childhood that in moments of apparently greatest abandonment she had never kissed but always turned her cheek to be kissed. "since you wouldn't write, dearest cousin mary," she cried in a voice strangely affected to lady o'gara's ear, "i've come to see what is the matter. and i've brought my husband." a shortish man with a keen, clear, plain face came from behind the shadow of eileen and her furs. lady o'gara had a queer thought. she recognized eileen's furs for sables. she had never attained to sables. the coat must have cost three hundred guineas. how quick eileen had been about her marriage! and how soon she had begun to spend the lakh! meanwhile her lips were saying-- "i am very glad to meet you, dr. gillespie. but what a surprise! i did not think eileen had had time even to get engaged." "you see there was so little to be done," the lakh responded in a very pleasant voice, which at once secured lady o'gara's liking. besides, his hand-clasp was very warm, so unlike eileen's chilly cheek. she hoped eileen was going to be good to him. "i was eileen's slave always. she had refused me innumerable times. she only had to say she had changed her mind and i procured a special licence." "you will take off your furs, eileen. of course you and dr. gillespie will stay. sir shawn is so much better. and you have to hear all our news. you have sent away your car?" eileen was taking off the sables, and flinging them carelessly to one side, as though three hundred guinea sables were things of common experience with her. the rose-silk lining fairly dazzled lady o'gara's amused eyes, so sumptuous was it. "only between two trains, dearest cousin mary. we are going to london on our way to italy. we've been married a week and have been boring each other dreadfully at recess. i am longing for italy, but i felt i must see you and introduce bobbin. we have till seven o'clock to stay." lady o'gara glanced at the bridegroom to whom his bride had given so absurd a name. he was looking amusedly, if adoringly, at eileen. he had a good strong chin, a firm mouth, which was sweet when he smiled: his grey eyes were quizzical. she thought the marriage would be all right. "i am going to get warm in the sun," said eileen with a little shiver. "you see bobbin has to go back to work. he has taken a house in harley street and we wish to settle in as early as possible. there has been an article in the _medical journal_." "in fact london can't wait till i put up my brass plate, lady o'gara," dr. gillespie said, with twinkling eyes. reilly came to ask if he should bring tea. "yes, please; mr. terry and miss stella will be here very shortly." lady o'gara thought she had better prepare eileen, who had always had the air of terry being her property. "our great news, after my husband being so well," she said, "is that terry and stella are going to be married almost immediately. by the way, they too are going to italy. perhaps you may meet there." eileen opened her eyes wide and lifted her hands, with a side look at her husband. "i am _so_ glad," she said. "do you know, cousin mary, the one drawback to my happiness--you see i _always_ cared for bobbin, since we were small children--was the dread that terry might _mind_." the end further corrections by menno de leeuw. women in love by d. h. lawrence contents chapter i. sisters chapter ii. shortlands chapter iii. class-room chapter iv. diver chapter v. in the train chapter vi. crème de menthe chapter vii. fetish chapter viii. breadalby chapter ix. coal-dust chapter x. sketch-book chapter xi. an island chapter xii. carpeting chapter xiii. mino chapter xiv. water-party chapter xv. sunday evening chapter xvi. man to man chapter xvii. the industrial magnate chapter xviii. rabbit chapter xix. moony chapter xx. gladiatorial chapter xxi. threshold chapter xxii. woman to woman chapter xxiii. excurse chapter xxiv. death and love chapter xxv. marriage or not chapter xxvi. a chair chapter xxvii. flitting chapter xxviii. gudrun in the pompadour chapter xxix. continental chapter xxx. snowed up chapter xxxi. exeunt chapter i. sisters ursula and gudrun brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father�s house in beldover, working and talking. ursula was stitching a piece of brightly-coloured embroidery, and gudrun was drawing upon a board which she held on her knee. they were mostly silent, talking as their thoughts strayed through their minds. �ursula,� said gudrun, �don�t you _really want_ to get married?� ursula laid her embroidery in her lap and looked up. her face was calm and considerate. �i don�t know,� she replied. �it depends how you mean.� gudrun was slightly taken aback. she watched her sister for some moments. �well,� she said, ironically, �it usually means one thing! but don�t you think anyhow, you�d be�� she darkened slightly��in a better position than you are in now.� a shadow came over ursula�s face. �i might,� she said. �but i�m not sure.� again gudrun paused, slightly irritated. she wanted to be quite definite. �you don�t think one needs the _experience_ of having been married?� she asked. �do you think it need _be_ an experience?� replied ursula. �bound to be, in some way or other,� said gudrun, coolly. �possibly undesirable, but bound to be an experience of some sort.� �not really,� said ursula. �more likely to be the end of experience.� gudrun sat very still, to attend to this. �of course,� she said, �there�s _that_ to consider.� this brought the conversation to a close. gudrun, almost angrily, took up her rubber and began to rub out part of her drawing. ursula stitched absorbedly. �you wouldn�t consider a good offer?� asked gudrun. �i think i�ve rejected several,� said ursula. �_really!_� gudrun flushed dark��but anything really worth while? have you _really?_� �a thousand a year, and an awfully nice man. i liked him awfully,� said ursula. �really! but weren�t you fearfully tempted?� �in the abstract but not in the concrete,� said ursula. �when it comes to the point, one isn�t even tempted�oh, if i were tempted, i�d marry like a shot. i�m only tempted _not_ to.� the faces of both sisters suddenly lit up with amusement. �isn�t it an amazing thing,� cried gudrun, �how strong the temptation is, not to!� they both laughed, looking at each other. in their hearts they were frightened. there was a long pause, whilst ursula stitched and gudrun went on with her sketch. the sisters were women, ursula twenty-six, and gudrun twenty-five. but both had the remote, virgin look of modern girls, sisters of artemis rather than of hebe. gudrun was very beautiful, passive, soft-skinned, soft-limbed. she wore a dress of dark-blue silky stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck and sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. her look of confidence and diffidence contrasted with ursula�s sensitive expectancy. the provincial people, intimidated by gudrun�s perfect _sang-froid_ and exclusive bareness of manner, said of her: �she is a smart woman.� she had just come back from london, where she had spent several years, working at an art-school, as a student, and living a studio life. �i was hoping now for a man to come along,� gudrun said, suddenly catching her underlip between her teeth, and making a strange grimace, half sly smiling, half anguish. ursula was afraid. �so you have come home, expecting him here?� she laughed. �oh my dear,� cried gudrun, strident, �i wouldn�t go out of my way to look for him. but if there did happen to come along a highly attractive individual of sufficient means�well�� she tailed off ironically. then she looked searchingly at ursula, as if to probe her. �don�t you find yourself getting bored?� she asked of her sister. �don�t you find, that things fail to materialize? _nothing materializes!_ everything withers in the bud.� �what withers in the bud?� asked ursula. �oh, everything�oneself�things in general.� there was a pause, whilst each sister vaguely considered her fate. �it does frighten one,� said ursula, and again there was a pause. �but do you hope to get anywhere by just marrying?� �it seems to be the inevitable next step,� said gudrun. ursula pondered this, with a little bitterness. she was a class mistress herself, in willey green grammar school, as she had been for some years. �i know,� she said, �it seems like that when one thinks in the abstract. but really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine him coming home to one every evening, and saying �hello,� and giving one a kiss�� there was a blank pause. �yes,� said gudrun, in a narrowed voice. �it�s just impossible. the man makes it impossible.� �of course there�s children�� said ursula doubtfully. gudrun�s face hardened. �do you _really_ want children, ursula?� she asked coldly. a dazzled, baffled look came on ursula�s face. �one feels it is still beyond one,� she said. �_do_ you feel like that?� asked gudrun. �i get no feeling whatever from the thought of bearing children.� gudrun looked at ursula with a masklike, expressionless face. ursula knitted her brows. �perhaps it isn�t genuine,� she faltered. �perhaps one doesn�t really want them, in one�s soul�only superficially.� a hardness came over gudrun�s face. she did not want to be too definite. �when one thinks of other people�s children�� said ursula. again gudrun looked at her sister, almost hostile. �exactly,� she said, to close the conversation. the two sisters worked on in silence, ursula having always that strange brightness of an essential flame that is caught, meshed, contravened. she lived a good deal by herself, to herself, working, passing on from day to day, and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to grasp it in her own understanding. her active living was suspended, but underneath, in the darkness, something was coming to pass. if only she could break through the last integuments! she seemed to try and put her hands out, like an infant in the womb, and she could not, not yet. still she had a strange prescience, an intimation of something yet to come. she laid down her work and looked at her sister. she thought gudrun so _charming_, so infinitely charming, in her softness and her fine, exquisite richness of texture and delicacy of line. there was a certain playfulness about her too, such a piquancy or ironic suggestion, such an untouched reserve. ursula admired her with all her soul. �why did you come home, prune?� she asked. gudrun knew she was being admired. she sat back from her drawing and looked at ursula, from under her finely-curved lashes. �why did i come back, ursula?� she repeated. �i have asked myself a thousand times.� �and don�t you know?� �yes, i think i do. i think my coming back home was just _reculer pour mieux sauter_.� and she looked with a long, slow look of knowledge at ursula. �i know!� cried ursula, looking slightly dazzled and falsified, and as if she did _not_ know. �but where can one jump to?� �oh, it doesn�t matter,� said gudrun, somewhat superbly. �if one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.� �but isn�t it very risky?� asked ursula. a slow mocking smile dawned on gudrun�s face. �ah!� she said laughing. �what is it all but words!� and so again she closed the conversation. but ursula was still brooding. �and how do you find home, now you have come back to it?� she asked. gudrun paused for some moments, coldly, before answering. then, in a cold truthful voice, she said: �i find myself completely out of it.� �and father?� gudrun looked at ursula, almost with resentment, as if brought to bay. �i haven�t thought about him: i�ve refrained,� she said coldly. �yes,� wavered ursula; and the conversation was really at an end. the sisters found themselves confronted by a void, a terrifying chasm, as if they had looked over the edge. they worked on in silence for some time, gudrun�s cheek was flushed with repressed emotion. she resented its having been called into being. �shall we go out and look at that wedding?� she asked at length, in a voice that was too casual. �yes!� cried ursula, too eagerly, throwing aside her sewing and leaping up, as if to escape something, thus betraying the tension of the situation and causing a friction of dislike to go over gudrun�s nerves. as she went upstairs, ursula was aware of the house, of her home round about her. and she loathed it, the sordid, too-familiar place! she was afraid at the depth of her feeling against the home, the milieu, the whole atmosphere and condition of this obsolete life. her feeling frightened her. the two girls were soon walking swiftly down the main road of beldover, a wide street, part shops, part dwelling-houses, utterly formless and sordid, without poverty. gudrun, new from her life in chelsea and sussex, shrank cruelly from this amorphous ugliness of a small colliery town in the midlands. yet forward she went, through the whole sordid gamut of pettiness, the long amorphous, gritty street. she was exposed to every stare, she passed on through a stretch of torment. it was strange that she should have chosen to come back and test the full effect of this shapeless, barren ugliness upon herself. why had she wanted to submit herself to it, did she still want to submit herself to it, the insufferable torture of these ugly, meaningless people, this defaced countryside? she felt like a beetle toiling in the dust. she was filled with repulsion. they turned off the main road, past a black patch of common-garden, where sooty cabbage stumps stood shameless. no one thought to be ashamed. no one was ashamed of it all. �it is like a country in an underworld,� said gudrun. �the colliers bring it above-ground with them, shovel it up. ursula, it�s marvellous, it�s really marvellous�it�s really wonderful, another world. the people are all ghouls, and everything is ghostly. everything is a ghoulish replica of the real world, a replica, a ghoul, all soiled, everything sordid. it�s like being mad, ursula.� the sisters were crossing a black path through a dark, soiled field. on the left was a large landscape, a valley with collieries, and opposite hills with cornfields and woods, all blackened with distance, as if seen through a veil of crape. white and black smoke rose up in steady columns, magic within the dark air. near at hand came the long rows of dwellings, approaching curved up the hill-slope, in straight lines along the brow of the hill. they were of darkened red brick, brittle, with dark slate roofs. the path on which the sisters walked was black, trodden-in by the feet of the recurrent colliers, and bounded from the field by iron fences; the stile that led again into the road was rubbed shiny by the moleskins of the passing miners. now the two girls were going between some rows of dwellings, of the poorer sort. women, their arms folded over their coarse aprons, standing gossiping at the end of their block, stared after the brangwen sisters with that long, unwearying stare of aborigines; children called out names. gudrun went on her way half dazed. if this were human life, if these were human beings, living in a complete world, then what was her own world, outside? she was aware of her grass-green stockings, her large grass-green velour hat, her full soft coat, of a strong blue colour. and she felt as if she were treading in the air, quite unstable, her heart was contracted, as if at any minute she might be precipitated to the ground. she was afraid. she clung to ursula, who, through long usage was inured to this violation of a dark, uncreated, hostile world. but all the time her heart was crying, as if in the midst of some ordeal: �i want to go back, i want to go away, i want not to know it, not to know that this exists.� yet she must go forward. ursula could feel her suffering. �you hate this, don�t you?� she asked. �it bewilders me,� stammered gudrun. �you won�t stay long,� replied ursula. and gudrun went along, grasping at release. they drew away from the colliery region, over the curve of the hill, into the purer country of the other side, towards willey green. still the faint glamour of blackness persisted over the fields and the wooded hills, and seemed darkly to gleam in the air. it was a spring day, chill, with snatches of sunshine. yellow celandines showed out from the hedge-bottoms, and in the cottage gardens of willey green, currant-bushes were breaking into leaf, and little flowers were coming white on the grey alyssum that hung over the stone walls. turning, they passed down the high-road, that went between high banks towards the church. there, in the lowest bend of the road, low under the trees, stood a little group of expectant people, waiting to see the wedding. the daughter of the chief mine-owner of the district, thomas crich, was getting married to a naval officer. �let us go back,� said gudrun, swerving away. �there are all those people.� and she hung wavering in the road. �never mind them,� said ursula, �they�re all right. they all know me, they don�t matter.� �but must we go through them?� asked gudrun. �they�re quite all right, really,� said ursula, going forward. and together the two sisters approached the group of uneasy, watchful common people. they were chiefly women, colliers� wives of the more shiftless sort. they had watchful, underworld faces. the two sisters held themselves tense, and went straight towards the gate. the women made way for them, but barely sufficient, as if grudging to yield ground. the sisters passed in silence through the stone gateway and up the steps, on the red carpet, a policeman estimating their progress. �what price the stockings!� said a voice at the back of gudrun. a sudden fierce anger swept over the girl, violent and murderous. she would have liked them all annihilated, cleared away, so that the world was left clear for her. how she hated walking up the churchyard path, along the red carpet, continuing in motion, in their sight. �i won�t go into the church,� she said suddenly, with such final decision that ursula immediately halted, turned round, and branched off up a small side path which led to the little private gate of the grammar school, whose grounds adjoined those of the church. just inside the gate of the school shrubbery, outside the churchyard, ursula sat down for a moment on the low stone wall under the laurel bushes, to rest. behind her, the large red building of the school rose up peacefully, the windows all open for the holiday. over the shrubs, before her, were the pale roofs and tower of the old church. the sisters were hidden by the foliage. gudrun sat down in silence. her mouth was shut close, her face averted. she was regretting bitterly that she had ever come back. ursula looked at her, and thought how amazingly beautiful she was, flushed with discomfiture. but she caused a constraint over ursula�s nature, a certain weariness. ursula wished to be alone, freed from the tightness, the enclosure of gudrun�s presence. �are we going to stay here?� asked gudrun. �i was only resting a minute,� said ursula, getting up as if rebuked. �we will stand in the corner by the fives-court, we shall see everything from there.� for the moment, the sunshine fell brightly into the churchyard, there was a vague scent of sap and of spring, perhaps of violets from off the graves. some white daisies were out, bright as angels. in the air, the unfolding leaves of a copper-beech were blood-red. punctually at eleven o�clock, the carriages began to arrive. there was a stir in the crowd at the gate, a concentration as a carriage drove up, wedding guests were mounting up the steps and passing along the red carpet to the church. they were all gay and excited because the sun was shining. gudrun watched them closely, with objective curiosity. she saw each one as a complete figure, like a character in a book, or a subject in a picture, or a marionette in a theatre, a finished creation. she loved to recognise their various characteristics, to place them in their true light, give them their own surroundings, settle them for ever as they passed before her along the path to the church. she knew them, they were finished, sealed and stamped and finished with, for her. there was none that had anything unknown, unresolved, until the criches themselves began to appear. then her interest was piqued. here was something not quite so preconcluded. there came the mother, mrs crich, with her eldest son gerald. she was a queer unkempt figure, in spite of the attempts that had obviously been made to bring her into line for the day. her face was pale, yellowish, with a clear, transparent skin, she leaned forward rather, her features were strongly marked, handsome, with a tense, unseeing, predative look. her colourless hair was untidy, wisps floating down on to her sac coat of dark blue silk, from under her blue silk hat. she looked like a woman with a monomania, furtive almost, but heavily proud. her son was of a fair, sun-tanned type, rather above middle height, well-made, and almost exaggeratedly well-dressed. but about him also was the strange, guarded look, the unconscious glisten, as if he did not belong to the same creation as the people about him. gudrun lighted on him at once. there was something northern about him that magnetised her. in his clear northern flesh and his fair hair was a glisten like sunshine refracted through crystals of ice. and he looked so new, unbroached, pure as an arctic thing. perhaps he was thirty years old, perhaps more. his gleaming beauty, maleness, like a young, good-humoured, smiling wolf, did not blind her to the significant, sinister stillness in his bearing, the lurking danger of his unsubdued temper. �his totem is the wolf,� she repeated to herself. �his mother is an old, unbroken wolf.� and then she experienced a keen paroxyism, a transport, as if she had made some incredible discovery, known to nobody else on earth. a strange transport took possession of her, all her veins were in a paroxysm of violent sensation. �good god!� she exclaimed to herself, �what is this?� and then, a moment after, she was saying assuredly, �i shall know more of that man.� she was tortured with desire to see him again, a nostalgia, a necessity to see him again, to make sure it was not all a mistake, that she was not deluding herself, that she really felt this strange and overwhelming sensation on his account, this knowledge of him in her essence, this powerful apprehension of him. �am i _really_ singled out for him in some way, is there really some pale gold, arctic light that envelopes only us two?� she asked herself. and she could not believe it, she remained in a muse, scarcely conscious of what was going on around. the bridesmaids were here, and yet the bridegroom had not come. ursula wondered if something was amiss, and if the wedding would yet all go wrong. she felt troubled, as if it rested upon her. the chief bridesmaids had arrived. ursula watched them come up the steps. one of them she knew, a tall, slow, reluctant woman with a weight of fair hair and a pale, long face. this was hermione roddice, a friend of the criches. now she came along, with her head held up, balancing an enormous flat hat of pale yellow velvet, on which were streaks of ostrich feathers, natural and grey. she drifted forward as if scarcely conscious, her long blanched face lifted up, not to see the world. she was rich. she wore a dress of silky, frail velvet, of pale yellow colour, and she carried a lot of small rose-coloured cyclamens. her shoes and stockings were of brownish grey, like the feathers on her hat, her hair was heavy, she drifted along with a peculiar fixity of the hips, a strange unwilling motion. she was impressive, in her lovely pale-yellow and brownish-rose, yet macabre, something repulsive. people were silent when she passed, impressed, roused, wanting to jeer, yet for some reason silenced. her long, pale face, that she carried lifted up, somewhat in the rossetti fashion, seemed almost drugged, as if a strange mass of thoughts coiled in the darkness within her, and she was never allowed to escape. ursula watched her with fascination. she knew her a little. she was the most remarkable woman in the midlands. her father was a derbyshire baronet of the old school, she was a woman of the new school, full of intellectuality, and heavy, nerve-worn with consciousness. she was passionately interested in reform, her soul was given up to the public cause. but she was a man�s woman, it was the manly world that held her. she had various intimacies of mind and soul with various men of capacity. ursula knew, among these men, only rupert birkin, who was one of the school-inspectors of the county. but gudrun had met others, in london. moving with her artist friends in different kinds of society, gudrun had already come to know a good many people of repute and standing. she had met hermione twice, but they did not take to each other. it would be queer to meet again down here in the midlands, where their social standing was so diverse, after they had known each other on terms of equality in the houses of sundry acquaintances in town. for gudrun had been a social success, and had her friends among the slack aristocracy that keeps touch with the arts. hermione knew herself to be well-dressed; she knew herself to be the social equal, if not far the superior, of anyone she was likely to meet in willey green. she knew she was accepted in the world of culture and of intellect. she was a _kulturträger_, a medium for the culture of ideas. with all that was highest, whether in society or in thought or in public action, or even in art, she was at one, she moved among the foremost, at home with them. no one could put her down, no one could make mock of her, because she stood among the first, and those that were against her were below her, either in rank, or in wealth, or in high association of thought and progress and understanding. so, she was invulnerable. all her life, she had sought to make herself invulnerable, unassailable, beyond reach of the world�s judgment. and yet her soul was tortured, exposed. even walking up the path to the church, confident as she was that in every respect she stood beyond all vulgar judgment, knowing perfectly that her appearance was complete and perfect, according to the first standards, yet she suffered a torture, under her confidence and her pride, feeling herself exposed to wounds and to mockery and to despite. she always felt vulnerable, vulnerable, there was always a secret chink in her armour. she did not know herself what it was. it was a lack of robust self, she had no natural sufficiency, there was a terrible void, a lack, a deficiency of being within her. and she wanted someone to close up this deficiency, to close it up for ever. she craved for rupert birkin. when he was there, she felt complete, she was sufficient, whole. for the rest of time she was established on the sand, built over a chasm, and, in spite of all her vanity and securities, any common maid-servant of positive, robust temper could fling her down this bottomless pit of insufficiency, by the slightest movement of jeering or contempt. and all the while the pensive, tortured woman piled up her own defences of æsthetic knowledge, and culture, and world-visions, and disinterestedness. yet she could never stop up the terrible gap of insufficiency. if only birkin would form a close and abiding connection with her, she would be safe during this fretful voyage of life. he could make her sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very angels of heaven. if only he would do it! but she was tortured with fear, with misgiving. she made herself beautiful, she strove so hard to come to that degree of beauty and advantage, when he should be convinced. but always there was a deficiency. he was perverse too. he fought her off, he always fought her off. the more she strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back. and they had been lovers now, for years. oh, it was so wearying, so aching; she was so tired. but still she believed in herself. she knew he was trying to leave her. she knew he was trying to break away from her finally, to be free. but still she believed in her strength to keep him, she believed in her own higher knowledge. his own knowledge was high, she was the central touchstone of truth. she only needed his conjunction with her. and this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest fulfilment also, with the perverseness of a wilful child he wanted to deny. with the wilfulness of an obstinate child, he wanted to break the holy connection that was between them. he would be at this wedding; he was to be groom�s man. he would be in the church, waiting. he would know when she came. she shuddered with nervous apprehension and desire as she went through the church-door. he would be there, surely he would see how beautiful her dress was, surely he would see how she had made herself beautiful for him. he would understand, he would be able to see how she was made for him, the first, how she was, for him, the highest. surely at last he would be able to accept his highest fate, he would not deny her. in a little convulsion of too-tired yearning, she entered the church and looked slowly along her cheeks for him, her slender body convulsed with agitation. as best man, he would be standing beside the altar. she looked slowly, deferring in her certainty. and then, he was not there. a terrible storm came over her, as if she were drowning. she was possessed by a devastating hopelessness. and she approached mechanically to the altar. never had she known such a pang of utter and final hopelessness. it was beyond death, so utterly null, desert. the bridegroom and the groom�s man had not yet come. there was a growing consternation outside. ursula felt almost responsible. she could not bear it that the bride should arrive, and no groom. the wedding must not be a fiasco, it must not. but here was the bride�s carriage, adorned with ribbons and cockades. gaily the grey horses curvetted to their destination at the church-gate, a laughter in the whole movement. here was the quick of all laughter and pleasure. the door of the carriage was thrown open, to let out the very blossom of the day. the people on the roadway murmured faintly with the discontented murmuring of a crowd. the father stepped out first into the air of the morning, like a shadow. he was a tall, thin, careworn man, with a thin black beard that was touched with grey. he waited at the door of the carriage patiently, self-obliterated. in the opening of the doorway was a shower of fine foliage and flowers, a whiteness of satin and lace, and a sound of a gay voice saying: �how do i get out?� a ripple of satisfaction ran through the expectant people. they pressed near to receive her, looking with zest at the stooping blond head with its flower buds, and at the delicate, white, tentative foot that was reaching down to the step of the carriage. there was a sudden foaming rush, and the bride like a sudden surf-rush, floating all white beside her father in the morning shadow of trees, her veil flowing with laughter. �that�s done it!� she said. she put her hand on the arm of her care-worn, sallow father, and frothing her light draperies, proceeded over the eternal red carpet. her father, mute and yellowish, his black beard making him look more careworn, mounted the steps stiffly, as if his spirit were absent; but the laughing mist of the bride went along with him undiminished. and no bridegroom had arrived! it was intolerable for her. ursula, her heart strained with anxiety, was watching the hill beyond; the white, descending road, that should give sight of him. there was a carriage. it was running. it had just come into sight. yes, it was he. ursula turned towards the bride and the people, and, from her place of vantage, gave an inarticulate cry. she wanted to warn them that he was coming. but her cry was inarticulate and inaudible, and she flushed deeply, between her desire and her wincing confusion. the carriage rattled down the hill, and drew near. there was a shout from the people. the bride, who had just reached the top of the steps, turned round gaily to see what was the commotion. she saw a confusion among the people, a cab pulling up, and her lover dropping out of the carriage, and dodging among the horses and into the crowd. �tibs! tibs!� she cried in her sudden, mocking excitement, standing high on the path in the sunlight and waving her bouquet. he, dodging with his hat in his hand, had not heard. �tibs!� she cried again, looking down to him. he glanced up, unaware, and saw the bride and her father standing on the path above him. a queer, startled look went over his face. he hesitated for a moment. then he gathered himself together for a leap, to overtake her. �ah-h-h!� came her strange, intaken cry, as, on the reflex, she started, turned and fled, scudding with an unthinkable swift beating of her white feet and fraying of her white garments, towards the church. like a hound the young man was after her, leaping the steps and swinging past her father, his supple haunches working like those of a hound that bears down on the quarry. �ay, after her!� cried the vulgar women below, carried suddenly into the sport. she, her flowers shaken from her like froth, was steadying herself to turn the angle of the church. she glanced behind, and with a wild cry of laughter and challenge, veered, poised, and was gone beyond the grey stone buttress. in another instant the bridegroom, bent forward as he ran, had caught the angle of the silent stone with his hand, and had swung himself out of sight, his supple, strong loins vanishing in pursuit. instantly cries and exclamations of excitement burst from the crowd at the gate. and then ursula noticed again the dark, rather stooping figure of mr crich, waiting suspended on the path, watching with expressionless face the flight to the church. it was over, and he turned round to look behind him, at the figure of rupert birkin, who at once came forward and joined him. �we�ll bring up the rear,� said birkin, a faint smile on his face. �ay!� replied the father laconically. and the two men turned together up the path. birkin was as thin as mr crich, pale and ill-looking. his figure was narrow but nicely made. he went with a slight trail of one foot, which came only from self-consciousness. although he was dressed correctly for his part, yet there was an innate incongruity which caused a slight ridiculousness in his appearance. his nature was clever and separate, he did not fit at all in the conventional occasion. yet he subordinated himself to the common idea, travestied himself. he affected to be quite ordinary, perfectly and marvellously commonplace. and he did it so well, taking the tone of his surroundings, adjusting himself quickly to his interlocutor and his circumstance, that he achieved a verisimilitude of ordinary commonplaceness that usually propitiated his onlookers for the moment, disarmed them from attacking his singleness. now he spoke quite easily and pleasantly to mr crich, as they walked along the path; he played with situations like a man on a tight-rope: but always on a tight-rope, pretending nothing but ease. �i�m sorry we are so late,� he was saying. �we couldn�t find a button-hook, so it took us a long time to button our boots. but you were to the moment.� �we are usually to time,� said mr crich. �and i�m always late,� said birkin. �but today i was _really_ punctual, only accidentally not so. i�m sorry.� the two men were gone, there was nothing more to see, for the time. ursula was left thinking about birkin. he piqued her, attracted her, and annoyed her. she wanted to know him more. she had spoken with him once or twice, but only in his official capacity as inspector. she thought he seemed to acknowledge some kinship between her and him, a natural, tacit understanding, a using of the same language. but there had been no time for the understanding to develop. and something kept her from him, as well as attracted her to him. there was a certain hostility, a hidden ultimate reserve in him, cold and inaccessible. yet she wanted to know him. �what do you think of rupert birkin?� she asked, a little reluctantly, of gudrun. she did not want to discuss him. �what do i think of rupert birkin?� repeated gudrun. �i think he�s attractive�decidedly attractive. what i can�t stand about him is his way with other people�his way of treating any little fool as if she were his greatest consideration. one feels so awfully sold, oneself.� �why does he do it?� said ursula. �because he has no real critical faculty�of people, at all events,� said gudrun. �i tell you, he treats any little fool as he treats me or you�and it�s such an insult.� �oh, it is,� said ursula. �one must discriminate.� �one _must_ discriminate,� repeated gudrun. �but he�s a wonderful chap, in other respects�a marvellous personality. but you can�t trust him.� �yes,� said ursula vaguely. she was always forced to assent to gudrun�s pronouncements, even when she was not in accord altogether. the sisters sat silent, waiting for the wedding party to come out. gudrun was impatient of talk. she wanted to think about gerald crich. she wanted to see if the strong feeling she had got from him was real. she wanted to have herself ready. inside the church, the wedding was going on. hermione roddice was thinking only of birkin. he stood near her. she seemed to gravitate physically towards him. she wanted to stand touching him. she could hardly be sure he was near her, if she did not touch him. yet she stood subjected through the wedding service. she had suffered so bitterly when he did not come, that still she was dazed. still she was gnawed as by a neuralgia, tormented by his potential absence from her. she had awaited him in a faint delirium of nervous torture. as she stood bearing herself pensively, the rapt look on her face, that seemed spiritual, like the angels, but which came from torture, gave her a certain poignancy that tore his heart with pity. he saw her bowed head, her rapt face, the face of an almost demoniacal ecstatic. feeling him looking, she lifted her face and sought his eyes, her own beautiful grey eyes flaring him a great signal. but he avoided her look, she sank her head in torment and shame, the gnawing at her heart going on. and he too was tortured with shame, and ultimate dislike, and with acute pity for her, because he did not want to meet her eyes, he did not want to receive her flare of recognition. the bride and bridegroom were married, the party went into the vestry. hermione crowded involuntarily up against birkin, to touch him. and he endured it. outside, gudrun and ursula listened for their father�s playing on the organ. he would enjoy playing a wedding march. now the married pair were coming! the bells were ringing, making the air shake. ursula wondered if the trees and the flowers could feel the vibration, and what they thought of it, this strange motion in the air. the bride was quite demure on the arm of the bridegroom, who stared up into the sky before him, shutting and opening his eyes unconsciously, as if he were neither here nor there. he looked rather comical, blinking and trying to be in the scene, when emotionally he was violated by his exposure to a crowd. he looked a typical naval officer, manly, and up to his duty. birkin came with hermione. she had a rapt, triumphant look, like the fallen angels restored, yet still subtly demoniacal, now she held birkin by the arm. and he was expressionless, neutralised, possessed by her as if it were his fate, without question. gerald crich came, fair, good-looking, healthy, with a great reserve of energy. he was erect and complete, there was a strange stealth glistening through his amiable, almost happy appearance. gudrun rose sharply and went away. she could not bear it. she wanted to be alone, to know this strange, sharp inoculation that had changed the whole temper of her blood. chapter ii. shortlands the brangwens went home to beldover, the wedding-party gathered at shortlands, the criches� home. it was a long, low old house, a sort of manor farm, that spread along the top of a slope just beyond the narrow little lake of willey water. shortlands looked across a sloping meadow that might be a park, because of the large, solitary trees that stood here and there, across the water of the narrow lake, at the wooded hill that successfully hid the colliery valley beyond, but did not quite hide the rising smoke. nevertheless, the scene was rural and picturesque, very peaceful, and the house had a charm of its own. it was crowded now with the family and the wedding guests. the father, who was not well, withdrew to rest. gerald was host. he stood in the homely entrance hall, friendly and easy, attending to the men. he seemed to take pleasure in his social functions, he smiled, and was abundant in hospitality. the women wandered about in a little confusion, chased hither and thither by the three married daughters of the house. all the while there could be heard the characteristic, imperious voice of one crich woman or another calling �helen, come here a minute,� �marjory, i want you�here.� �oh, i say, mrs witham�.� there was a great rustling of skirts, swift glimpses of smartly-dressed women, a child danced through the hall and back again, a maidservant came and went hurriedly. meanwhile the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking, pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women�s world. but they could not really talk, because of the glassy ravel of women�s excited, cold laughter and running voices. they waited, uneasy, suspended, rather bored. but gerald remained as if genial and happy, unaware that he was waiting or unoccupied, knowing himself the very pivot of the occasion. suddenly mrs crich came noiselessly into the room, peering about with her strong, clear face. she was still wearing her hat, and her sac coat of blue silk. �what is it, mother?� said gerald. �nothing, nothing!� she answered vaguely. and she went straight towards birkin, who was talking to a crich brother-in-law. �how do you do, mr birkin,� she said, in her low voice, that seemed to take no count of her guests. she held out her hand to him. �oh mrs crich,� replied birkin, in his readily-changing voice, �i couldn�t come to you before.� �i don�t know half the people here,� she said, in her low voice. her son-in-law moved uneasily away. �and you don�t like strangers?� laughed birkin. �i myself can never see why one should take account of people, just because they happen to be in the room with one: why _should_ i know they are there?� �why indeed, why indeed!� said mrs crich, in her low, tense voice. �except that they _are_ there. _i_ don�t know people whom i find in the house. the children introduce them to me��mother, this is mr so-and-so.� i am no further. what has mr so-and-so to do with his own name?�and what have i to do with either him or his name?� she looked up at birkin. she startled him. he was flattered too that she came to talk to him, for she took hardly any notice of anybody. he looked down at her tense clear face, with its heavy features, but he was afraid to look into her heavy-seeing blue eyes. he noticed instead how her hair looped in slack, slovenly strands over her rather beautiful ears, which were not quite clean. neither was her neck perfectly clean. even in that he seemed to belong to her, rather than to the rest of the company; though, he thought to himself, he was always well washed, at any rate at the neck and ears. he smiled faintly, thinking these things. yet he was tense, feeling that he and the elderly, estranged woman were conferring together like traitors, like enemies within the camp of the other people. he resembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and one ear forward, to know what is ahead. �people don�t really matter,� he said, rather unwilling to continue. the mother looked up at him with sudden, dark interrogation, as if doubting his sincerity. �how do you mean, _matter?_� she asked sharply. �not many people are anything at all,� he answered, forced to go deeper than he wanted to. �they jingle and giggle. it would be much better if they were just wiped out. essentially, they don�t exist, they aren�t there.� she watched him steadily while he spoke. �but we didn�t imagine them,� she said sharply. �there�s nothing to imagine, that�s why they don�t exist.� �well,� she said, �i would hardly go as far as that. there they are, whether they exist or no. it doesn�t rest with me to decide on their existence. i only know that i can�t be expected to take count of them all. you can�t expect me to know them, just because they happen to be there. as far as _i_ go they might as well not be there.� �exactly,� he replied. �mightn�t they?� she asked again. �just as well,� he repeated. and there was a little pause. �except that they _are_ there, and that�s a nuisance,� she said. �there are my sons-in-law,� she went on, in a sort of monologue. �now laura�s got married, there�s another. and i really don�t know john from james yet. they come up to me and call me mother. i know what they will say��how are you, mother?� i ought to say, �i am not your mother, in any sense.� but what is the use? there they are. i have had children of my own. i suppose i know them from another woman�s children.� �one would suppose so,� he said. she looked at him, somewhat surprised, forgetting perhaps that she was talking to him. and she lost her thread. she looked round the room, vaguely. birkin could not guess what she was looking for, nor what she was thinking. evidently she noticed her sons. �are my children all there?� she asked him abruptly. he laughed, startled, afraid perhaps. �i scarcely know them, except gerald,� he replied. �gerald!� she exclaimed. �he�s the most wanting of them all. you�d never think it, to look at him now, would you?� �no,� said birkin. the mother looked across at her eldest son, stared at him heavily for some time. �ay,� she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded profoundly cynical. birkin felt afraid, as if he dared not realise. and mrs crich moved away, forgetting him. but she returned on her traces. �i should like him to have a friend,� she said. �he has never had a friend.� birkin looked down into her eyes, which were blue, and watching heavily. he could not understand them. �am i my brother�s keeper?� he said to himself, almost flippantly. then he remembered, with a slight shock, that that was cain�s cry. and gerald was cain, if anybody. not that he was cain, either, although he had slain his brother. there was such a thing as pure accident, and the consequences did not attach to one, even though one had killed one�s brother in such wise. gerald as a boy had accidentally killed his brother. what then? why seek to draw a brand and a curse across the life that had caused the accident? a man can live by accident, and die by accident. or can he not? is every man�s life subject to pure accident, is it only the race, the genus, the species, that has a universal reference? or is this not true, is there no such thing as pure accident? has _everything_ that happens a universal significance? has it? birkin, pondering as he stood there, had forgotten mrs crich, as she had forgotten him. he did not believe that there was any such thing as accident. it all hung together, in the deepest sense. just as he had decided this, one of the crich daughters came up, saying: �won�t you come and take your hat off, mother dear? we shall be sitting down to eat in a minute, and it�s a formal occasion, darling, isn�t it?� she drew her arm through her mother�s, and they went away. birkin immediately went to talk to the nearest man. the gong sounded for the luncheon. the men looked up, but no move was made to the dining-room. the women of the house seemed not to feel that the sound had meaning for them. five minutes passed by. the elderly manservant, crowther, appeared in the doorway exasperatedly. he looked with appeal at gerald. the latter took up a large, curved conch shell, that lay on a shelf, and without reference to anybody, blew a shattering blast. it was a strange rousing noise, that made the heart beat. the summons was almost magical. everybody came running, as if at a signal. and then the crowd in one impulse moved to the dining-room. gerald waited a moment, for his sister to play hostess. he knew his mother would pay no attention to her duties. but his sister merely crowded to her seat. therefore the young man, slightly too dictatorial, directed the guests to their places. there was a moment�s lull, as everybody looked at the _hors d�oeuvres_ that were being handed round. and out of this lull, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, with her long hair down her back, said in a calm, self-possessed voice: �gerald, you forget father, when you make that unearthly noise.� �do i?� he answered. and then, to the company, �father is lying down, he is not quite well.� �how is he, really?� called one of the married daughters, peeping round the immense wedding cake that towered up in the middle of the table shedding its artificial flowers. �he has no pain, but he feels tired,� replied winifred, the girl with the hair down her back. the wine was filled, and everybody was talking boisterously. at the far end of the table sat the mother, with her loosely-looped hair. she had birkin for a neighbour. sometimes she glanced fiercely down the rows of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously. and she would say in a low voice to birkin: �who is that young man?� �i don�t know,� birkin answered discreetly. �have i seen him before?� she asked. �i don�t think so. _i_ haven�t,� he replied. and she was satisfied. her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face, she looked like a queen in repose. then she started, a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. for a moment she bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. and then immediately the shadow came back, a sullen, eagle look was on her face, she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay, hating them all. �mother,� called diana, a handsome girl a little older than winifred, �i may have wine, mayn�t i?� �yes, you may have wine,� replied the mother automatically, for she was perfectly indifferent to the question. and diana beckoned to the footman to fill her glass. �gerald shouldn�t forbid me,� she said calmly, to the company at large. �all right, di,� said her brother amiably. and she glanced challenge at him as she drank from her glass. there was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy, in the house. it was rather a resistance to authority, than liberty. gerald had some command, by mere force of personality, not because of any granted position. there was a quality in his voice, amiable but dominant, that cowed the others, who were all younger than he. hermione was having a discussion with the bridegroom about nationality. �no,� she said, �i think that the appeal to patriotism is a mistake. it is like one house of business rivalling another house of business.� �well you can hardly say that, can you?� exclaimed gerald, who had a real _passion_ for discussion. �you couldn�t call a race a business concern, could you?�and nationality roughly corresponds to race, i think. i think it is _meant_ to.� there was a moment�s pause. gerald and hermione were always strangely but politely and evenly inimical. �_do_ you think race corresponds with nationality?� she asked musingly, with expressionless indecision. birkin knew she was waiting for him to participate. and dutifully he spoke up. �i think gerald is right�race is the essential element in nationality, in europe at least,� he said. again hermione paused, as if to allow this statement to cool. then she said with strange assumption of authority: �yes, but even so, is the patriotic appeal an appeal to the racial instinct? is it not rather an appeal to the proprietory instinct, the _commercial_ instinct? and isn�t this what we mean by nationality?� �probably,� said birkin, who felt that such a discussion was out of place and out of time. but gerald was now on the scent of argument. �a race may have its commercial aspect,� he said. �in fact it must. it is like a family. you _must_ make provision. and to make provision you have got to strive against other families, other nations. i don�t see why you shouldn�t.� again hermione made a pause, domineering and cold, before she replied: �yes, i think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry. it makes bad blood. and bad blood accumulates.� �but you can�t do away with the spirit of emulation altogether?� said gerald. �it is one of the necessary incentives to production and improvement.� �yes,� came hermione�s sauntering response. �i think you can do away with it.� �i must say,� said birkin, �i detest the spirit of emulation.� hermione was biting a piece of bread, pulling it from between her teeth with her fingers, in a slow, slightly derisive movement. she turned to birkin. �you do hate it, yes,� she said, intimate and gratified. �detest it,� he repeated. �yes,� she murmured, assured and satisfied. �but,� gerald insisted, �you don�t allow one man to take away his neighbour�s living, so why should you allow one nation to take away the living from another nation?� there was a long slow murmur from hermione before she broke into speech, saying with a laconic indifference: �it is not always a question of possessions, is it? it is not all a question of goods?� gerald was nettled by this implication of vulgar materialism. �yes, more or less,� he retorted. �if i go and take a man�s hat from off his head, that hat becomes a symbol of that man�s liberty. when he fights me for his hat, he is fighting me for his liberty.� hermione was nonplussed. �yes,� she said, irritated. �but that way of arguing by imaginary instances is not supposed to be genuine, is it? a man does _not_ come and take my hat from off my head, does he?� �only because the law prevents him,� said gerald. �not only,� said birkin. �ninety-nine men out of a hundred don�t want my hat.� �that�s a matter of opinion,� said gerald. �or the hat,� laughed the bridegroom. �and if he does want my hat, such as it is,� said birkin, �why, surely it is open to me to decide, which is a greater loss to me, my hat, or my liberty as a free and indifferent man. if i am compelled to offer fight, i lose the latter. it is a question which is worth more to me, my pleasant liberty of conduct, or my hat.� �yes,� said hermione, watching birkin strangely. �yes.� �but would you let somebody come and snatch your hat off your head?� the bride asked of hermione. the face of the tall straight woman turned slowly and as if drugged to this new speaker. �no,� she replied, in a low inhuman tone, that seemed to contain a chuckle. �no, i shouldn�t let anybody take my hat off my head.� �how would you prevent it?� asked gerald. �i don�t know,� replied hermione slowly. �probably i should kill him.� there was a strange chuckle in her tone, a dangerous and convincing humour in her bearing. �of course,� said gerald, �i can see rupert�s point. it is a question to him whether his hat or his peace of mind is more important.� �peace of body,� said birkin. �well, as you like there,� replied gerald. �but how are you going to decide this for a nation?� �heaven preserve me,� laughed birkin. �yes, but suppose you have to?� gerald persisted. �then it is the same. if the national crown-piece is an old hat, then the thieving gent may have it.� �but _can_ the national or racial hat be an old hat?� insisted gerald. �pretty well bound to be, i believe,� said birkin. �i�m not so sure,� said gerald. �i don�t agree, rupert,� said hermione. �all right,� said birkin. �i�m all for the old national hat,� laughed gerald. �and a fool you look in it,� cried diana, his pert sister who was just in her teens. �oh, we�re quite out of our depths with these old hats,� cried laura crich. �dry up now, gerald. we�re going to drink toasts. let us drink toasts. toasts�glasses, glasses�now then, toasts! speech! speech!� birkin, thinking about race or national death, watched his glass being filled with champagne. the bubbles broke at the rim, the man withdrew, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine, birkin drank up his glass. a queer little tension in the room roused him. he felt a sharp constraint. �did i do it by accident, or on purpose?� he asked himself. and he decided that, according to the vulgar phrase, he had done it �accidentally on purpose.� he looked round at the hired footman. and the hired footman came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. birkin decided that he detested toasts, and footmen, and assemblies, and mankind altogether, in most of its aspects. then he rose to make a speech. but he was somehow disgusted. at length it was over, the meal. several men strolled out into the garden. there was a lawn, and flower-beds, and at the boundary an iron fence shutting off the little field or park. the view was pleasant; a highroad curving round the edge of a low lake, under the trees. in the spring air, the water gleamed and the opposite woods were purplish with new life. charming jersey cattle came to the fence, breathing hoarsely from their velvet muzzles at the human beings, expecting perhaps a crust. birkin leaned on the fence. a cow was breathing wet hotness on his hand. �pretty cattle, very pretty,� said marshall, one of the brothers-in-law. �they give the best milk you can have.� �yes,� said birkin. �eh, my little beauty, eh, my beauty!� said marshall, in a queer high falsetto voice, that caused the other man to have convulsions of laughter in his stomach. �who won the race, lupton?� he called to the bridegroom, to hide the fact that he was laughing. the bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth. �the race?� he exclaimed. then a rather thin smile came over his face. he did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door. �we got there together. at least she touched first, but i had my hand on her shoulder.� �what�s this?� asked gerald. birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom. �h�m!� said gerald, in disapproval. �what made you late then?� �lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,� said birkin, �and then he hadn�t got a button-hook.� �oh god!� cried marshall. �the immortality of the soul on your wedding day! hadn�t you got anything better to occupy your mind?� �what�s wrong with it?� asked the bridegroom, a clean-shaven naval man, flushing sensitively. �sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of married. _the immortality of the soul!_� repeated the brother-in-law, with most killing emphasis. but he fell quite flat. �and what did you decide?� asked gerald, at once pricking up his ears at the thought of a metaphysical discussion. �you don�t want a soul today, my boy,� said marshall. �it�d be in your road.� �christ! marshall, go and talk to somebody else,� cried gerald, with sudden impatience. �by god, i�m willing,� said marshall, in a temper. �too much bloody soul and talk altogether�� he withdrew in a dudgeon, gerald staring after him with angry eyes, that grew gradually calm and amiable as the stoutly-built form of the other man passed into the distance. �there�s one thing, lupton,� said gerald, turning suddenly to the bridegroom. �laura won�t have brought such a fool into the family as lottie did.� �comfort yourself with that,� laughed birkin. �i take no notice of them,� laughed the bridegroom. �what about this race then�who began it?� gerald asked. �we were late. laura was at the top of the churchyard steps when our cab came up. she saw lupton bolting towards her. and she fled. but why do you look so cross? does it hurt your sense of the family dignity?� �it does, rather,� said gerald. �if you�re doing a thing, do it properly, and if you�re not going to do it properly, leave it alone.� �very nice aphorism,� said birkin. �don�t you agree?� asked gerald. �quite,� said birkin. �only it bores me rather, when you become aphoristic.� �damn you, rupert, you want all the aphorisms your own way,� said gerald. �no. i want them out of the way, and you�re always shoving them in it.� gerald smiled grimly at this humorism. then he made a little gesture of dismissal, with his eyebrows. �you don�t believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?� he challenged birkin, censoriously. �standard�no. i hate standards. but they�re necessary for the common ruck. anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he likes.� �but what do you mean by being himself?� said gerald. �is that an aphorism or a cliché?� �i mean just doing what you want to do. i think it was perfect good form in laura to bolt from lupton to the church door. it was almost a masterpiece in good form. it�s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one�s impulses�and it�s the only really gentlemanly thing to do�provided you�re fit to do it.� �you don�t expect me to take you seriously, do you?� asked gerald. �yes, gerald, you�re one of the very few people i do expect that of.� �then i�m afraid i can�t come up to your expectations here, at any rate. you think people should just do as they like.� �i think they always do. but i should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. and they only like to do the collective thing.� �and i,� said gerald grimly, �shouldn�t like to be in a world of people who acted individually and spontaneously, as you call it. we should have everybody cutting everybody else�s throat in five minutes.� �that means _you_ would like to be cutting everybody�s throat,� said birkin. �how does that follow?� asked gerald crossly. �no man,� said birkin, �cuts another man�s throat unless he wants to cut it, and unless the other man wants it cutting. this is a complete truth. it takes two people to make a murder: a murderer and a murderee. and a murderee is a man who is murderable. and a man who is murderable is a man who in a profound if hidden lust desires to be murdered.� �sometimes you talk pure nonsense,� said gerald to birkin. �as a matter of fact, none of us wants our throat cut, and most other people would like to cut it for us�some time or other�� �it�s a nasty view of things, gerald,� said birkin, �and no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.� �how am i afraid of myself?� said gerald; �and i don�t think i am unhappy.� �you seem to have a lurking desire to have your gizzard slit, and imagine every man has his knife up his sleeve for you,� birkin said. �how do you make that out?� said gerald. �from you,� said birkin. there was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very near to love. it was always the same between them; always their talk brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange, perilous intimacy which was either hate or love, or both. they parted with apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. and they really kept it to the level of trivial occurrence. yet the heart of each burned from the other. they burned with each other, inwardly. this they would never admit. they intended to keep their relationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them. they had not the faintest belief in deep relationship between men and men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful but suppressed friendliness. chapter iii. class-room a school-day was drawing to a close. in the class-room the last lesson was in progress, peaceful and still. it was elementary botany. the desks were littered with catkins, hazel and willow, which the children had been sketching. but the sky had come overdark, as the end of the afternoon approached: there was scarcely light to draw any more. ursula stood in front of the class, leading the children by questions to understand the structure and the meaning of the catkins. a heavy, copper-coloured beam of light came in at the west window, gilding the outlines of the children�s heads with red gold, and falling on the wall opposite in a rich, ruddy illumination. ursula, however, was scarcely conscious of it. she was busy, the end of the day was here, the work went on as a peaceful tide that is at flood, hushed to retire. this day had gone by like so many more, in an activity that was like a trance. at the end there was a little haste, to finish what was in hand. she was pressing the children with questions, so that they should know all they were to know, by the time the gong went. she stood in shadow in front of the class, with catkins in her hand, and she leaned towards the children, absorbed in the passion of instruction. she heard, but did not notice the click of the door. suddenly she started. she saw, in the shaft of ruddy, copper-coloured light near her, the face of a man. it was gleaming like fire, watching her, waiting for her to be aware. it startled her terribly. she thought she was going to faint. all her suppressed, subconscious fear sprang into being, with anguish. �did i startle you?� said birkin, shaking hands with her. �i thought you had heard me come in.� �no,� she faltered, scarcely able to speak. he laughed, saying he was sorry. she wondered why it amused him. �it is so dark,� he said. �shall we have the light?� and moving aside, he switched on the strong electric lights. the class-room was distinct and hard, a strange place after the soft dim magic that filled it before he came. birkin turned curiously to look at ursula. her eyes were round and wondering, bewildered, her mouth quivered slightly. she looked like one who is suddenly wakened. there was a living, tender beauty, like a tender light of dawn shining from her face. he looked at her with a new pleasure, feeling gay in his heart, irresponsible. �you are doing catkins?� he asked, picking up a piece of hazel from a scholar�s desk in front of him. �are they as far out as this? i hadn�t noticed them this year.� he looked absorbedly at the tassel of hazel in his hand. �the red ones too!� he said, looking at the flickers of crimson that came from the female bud. then he went in among the desks, to see the scholars� books. ursula watched his intent progress. there was a stillness in his motion that hushed the activities of her heart. she seemed to be standing aside in arrested silence, watching him move in another, concentrated world. his presence was so quiet, almost like a vacancy in the corporate air. suddenly he lifted his face to her, and her heart quickened at the flicker of his voice. �give them some crayons, won�t you?� he said, �so that they can make the gynaecious flowers red, and the androgynous yellow. i�d chalk them in plain, chalk in nothing else, merely the red and the yellow. outline scarcely matters in this case. there is just the one fact to emphasise.� �i haven�t any crayons,� said ursula. �there will be some somewhere�red and yellow, that�s all you want.� ursula sent out a boy on a quest. �it will make the books untidy,� she said to birkin, flushing deeply. �not very,� he said. �you must mark in these things obviously. it�s the fact you want to emphasise, not the subjective impression to record. what�s the fact?�red little spiky stigmas of the female flower, dangling yellow male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the other. make a pictorial record of the fact, as a child does when drawing a face�two eyes, one nose, mouth with teeth�so�� and he drew a figure on the blackboard. at that moment another vision was seen through the glass panels of the door. it was hermione roddice. birkin went and opened to her. �i saw your car,� she said to him. �do you mind my coming to find you? i wanted to see you when you were on duty.� she looked at him for a long time, intimate and playful, then she gave a short little laugh. and then only she turned to ursula, who, with all the class, had been watching the little scene between the lovers. �how do you do, miss brangwen,� sang hermione, in her low, odd, singing fashion, that sounded almost as if she were poking fun. �do you mind my coming in?� her grey, almost sardonic eyes rested all the while on ursula, as if summing her up. �oh no,� said ursula. �are you _sure?_� repeated hermione, with complete _sang-froid_, and an odd, half-bullying effrontery. �oh no, i like it awfully,� laughed ursula, a little bit excited and bewildered, because hermione seemed to be compelling her, coming very close to her, as if intimate with her; and yet, how could she be intimate? this was the answer hermione wanted. she turned satisfied to birkin. �what are you doing?� she sang, in her casual, inquisitive fashion. �catkins,� he replied. �really!� she said. �and what do you learn about them?� she spoke all the while in a mocking, half teasing fashion, as if making game of the whole business. she picked up a twig of the catkin, piqued by birkin�s attention to it. she was a strange figure in the class-room, wearing a large, old cloak of greenish cloth, on which was a raised pattern of dull gold. the high collar, and the inside of the cloak, was lined with dark fur. beneath she had a dress of fine lavender-coloured cloth, trimmed with fur, and her hat was close-fitting, made of fur and of the dull, green-and-gold figured stuff. she was tall and strange, she looked as if she had come out of some new, bizarre picture. �do you know the little red ovary flowers, that produce the nuts? have you ever noticed them?� he asked her. and he came close and pointed them out to her, on the sprig she held. �no,� she replied. �what are they?� �those are the little seed-producing flowers, and the long catkins, they only produce pollen, to fertilise them.� �do they, do they!� repeated hermione, looking closely. �from those little red bits, the nuts come; if they receive pollen from the long danglers.� �little red flames, little red flames,� murmured hermione to herself. and she remained for some moments looking only at the small buds out of which the red flickers of the stigma issued. �aren�t they beautiful? i think they�re so beautiful,� she said, moving close to birkin, and pointing to the red filaments with her long, white finger. �had you never noticed them before?� he asked. �no, never before,� she replied. �and now you will always see them,� he said. �now i shall always see them,� she repeated. �thank you so much for showing me. i think they�re so beautiful�little red flames�� her absorption was strange, almost rhapsodic. both birkin and ursula were suspended. the little red pistillate flowers had some strange, almost mystic-passionate attraction for her. the lesson was finished, the books were put away, at last the class was dismissed. and still hermione sat at the table, with her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her long white face pushed up, not attending to anything. birkin had gone to the window, and was looking from the brilliantly-lighted room on to the grey, colourless outside, where rain was noiselessly falling. ursula put away her things in the cupboard. at length hermione rose and came near to her. �your sister has come home?� she said. �yes,� said ursula. �and does she like being back in beldover?� �no,� said ursula. �no, i wonder she can bear it. it takes all my strength, to bear the ugliness of this district, when i stay here. won�t you come and see me? won�t you come with your sister to stay at breadalby for a few days?�do�� �thank you very much,� said ursula. �then i will write to you,� said hermione. �you think your sister will come? i should be so glad. i think she is wonderful. i think some of her work is really wonderful. i have two water-wagtails, carved in wood, and painted�perhaps you have seen it?� �no,� said ursula. �i think it is perfectly wonderful�like a flash of instinct.� �her little carvings _are_ strange,� said ursula. �perfectly beautiful�full of primitive passion�� �isn�t it queer that she always likes little things?�she must always work small things, that one can put between one�s hands, birds and tiny animals. she likes to look through the wrong end of the opera glasses, and see the world that way�why is it, do you think?� hermione looked down at ursula with that long, detached scrutinising gaze that excited the younger woman. �yes,� said hermione at length. �it is curious. the little things seem to be more subtle to her�� �but they aren�t, are they? a mouse isn�t any more subtle than a lion, is it?� again hermione looked down at ursula with that long scrutiny, as if she were following some train of thought of her own, and barely attending to the other�s speech. �i don�t know,� she replied. �rupert, rupert,� she sang mildly, calling him to her. he approached in silence. �are little things more subtle than big things?� she asked, with the odd grunt of laughter in her voice, as if she were making game of him in the question. �dunno,� he said. �i hate subtleties,� said ursula. hermione looked at her slowly. �do you?� she said. �i always think they are a sign of weakness,� said ursula, up in arms, as if her prestige were threatened. hermione took no notice. suddenly her face puckered, her brow was knit with thought, she seemed twisted in troublesome effort for utterance. �do you really think, rupert,� she asked, as if ursula were not present, �do you really think it is worth while? do you really think the children are better for being roused to consciousness?� a dark flash went over his face, a silent fury. he was hollow-cheeked and pale, almost unearthly. and the woman, with her serious, conscience-harrowing question tortured him on the quick. �they are not roused to consciousness,� he said. �consciousness comes to them, willy-nilly.� �but do you think they are better for having it quickened, stimulated? isn�t it better that they should remain unconscious of the hazel, isn�t it better that they should see as a whole, without all this pulling to pieces, all this knowledge?� �would you rather, for yourself, know or not know, that the little red flowers are there, putting out for the pollen?� he asked harshly. his voice was brutal, scornful, cruel. hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted. he hung silent in irritation. �i don�t know,� she replied, balancing mildly. �i don�t know.� �but knowing is everything to you, it is all your life,� he broke out. she slowly looked at him. �is it?� she said. �to know, that is your all, that is your life�you have only this, this knowledge,� he cried. �there is only one tree, there is only one fruit, in your mouth.� again she was some time silent. �is there?� she said at last, with the same untouched calm. and then in a tone of whimsical inquisitiveness: �what fruit, rupert?� �the eternal apple,� he replied in exasperation, hating his own metaphors. �yes,� she said. there was a look of exhaustion about her. for some moments there was silence. then, pulling herself together with a convulsed movement, hermione resumed, in a sing-song, casual voice: �but leaving me apart, rupert; do you think the children are better, richer, happier, for all this knowledge; do you really think they are? or is it better to leave them untouched, spontaneous. hadn�t they better be animals, simple animals, crude, violent, _anything_, rather than this self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous.� they thought she had finished. but with a queer rumbling in her throat she resumed, �hadn�t they better be anything than grow up crippled, crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings�so thrown back�so turned back on themselves�incapable�� hermione clenched her fist like one in a trance��of any spontaneous action, always deliberate, always burdened with choice, never carried away.� again they thought she had finished. but just as he was going to reply, she resumed her queer rhapsody��never carried away, out of themselves, always conscious, always self-conscious, always aware of themselves. isn�t _anything_ better than this? better be animals, mere animals with no mind at all, than this, this _nothingness_�� �but do you think it is knowledge that makes us unliving and self-conscious?� he asked irritably. she opened her eyes and looked at him slowly. �yes,� she said. she paused, watching him all the while, her eyes vague. then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vague weariness. it irritated him bitterly. �it is the mind,� she said, �and that is death.� she raised her eyes slowly to him: �isn�t the mind�� she said, with the convulsed movement of her body, �isn�t it our death? doesn�t it destroy all our spontaneity, all our instincts? are not the young people growing up today, really dead before they have a chance to live?� �not because they have too much mind, but too little,� he said brutally. �are you _sure?_� she cried. �it seems to me the reverse. they are over-conscious, burdened to death with consciousness.� �imprisoned within a limited, false set of concepts,� he cried. but she took no notice of this, only went on with her own rhapsodic interrogation. �when we have knowledge, don�t we lose everything but knowledge?� she asked pathetically. �if i know about the flower, don�t i lose the flower and have only the knowledge? aren�t we exchanging the substance for the shadow, aren�t we forfeiting life for this dead quality of knowledge? and what does it mean to me, after all? what does all this knowing mean to me? it means nothing.� �you are merely making words,� he said; �knowledge means everything to you. even your animalism, you want it in your head. you don�t want to _be_ an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, to get a mental thrill out of them. it is all purely secondary�and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism. what is it but the worst and last form of intellectualism, this love of yours for passion and the animal instincts? passion and the instincts�you want them hard enough, but through your head, in your consciousness. it all takes place in your head, under that skull of yours. only you won�t be conscious of what _actually_ is: you want the lie that will match the rest of your furniture.� hermione set hard and poisonous against this attack. ursula stood covered with wonder and shame. it frightened her, to see how they hated each other. �it�s all that lady of shalott business,� he said, in his strong abstract voice. he seemed to be charging her before the unseeing air. �you�ve got that mirror, your own fixed will, your immortal understanding, your own tight conscious world, and there is nothing beyond it. there, in the mirror, you must have everything. but now you have come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be like a savage, without knowledge. you want a life of pure sensation and �passion.�� he quoted the last word satirically against her. she sat convulsed with fury and violation, speechless, like a stricken pythoness of the greek oracle. �but your passion is a lie,� he went on violently. �it isn�t passion at all, it is your _will_. it�s your bullying will. you want to clutch things and have them in your power. you want to have things in your power. and why? because you haven�t got any real body, any dark sensual body of life. you have no sensuality. you have only your will and your conceit of consciousness, and your lust for power, to _know_.� he looked at her in mingled hate and contempt, also in pain because she suffered, and in shame because he knew he tortured her. he had an impulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. but a bitterer red anger burned up to fury in him. he became unconscious of her, he was only a passionate voice speaking. �spontaneous!� he cried. �you and spontaneity! you, the most deliberate thing that ever walked or crawled! you�d be verily deliberately spontaneous�that�s you. because you want to have everything in your own volition, your deliberate voluntary consciousness. you want it all in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like a nut. for you�ll be the same till it is cracked, like an insect in its skin. if one cracked your skull perhaps one might get a spontaneous, passionate woman out of you, with real sensuality. as it is, what you want is pornography�looking at yourself in mirrors, watching your naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it all in your consciousness, make it all mental.� there was a sense of violation in the air, as if too much was said, the unforgivable. yet ursula was concerned now only with solving her own problems, in the light of his words. she was pale and abstracted. �but do you really _want_ sensuality?� she asked, puzzled. birkin looked at her, and became intent in his explanation. �yes,� he said, �that and nothing else, at this point. it is a fulfilment�the great dark knowledge you can�t have in your head�the dark involuntary being. it is death to one�s self�but it is the coming into being of another.� �but how? how can you have knowledge not in your head?� she asked, quite unable to interpret his phrases. �in the blood,� he answered; �when the mind and the known world is drowned in darkness everything must go�there must be the deluge. then you find yourself a palpable body of darkness, a demon�� �but why should i be a demon�?� she asked. ��_woman wailing for her demon lover_��� he quoted��why, i don�t know.� hermione roused herself as from a death�annihilation. �he is such a _dreadful_ satanist, isn�t he?� she drawled to ursula, in a queer resonant voice, that ended on a shrill little laugh of pure ridicule. the two women were jeering at him, jeering him into nothingness. the laugh of the shrill, triumphant female sounded from hermione, jeering him as if he were a neuter. �no,� he said. �you are the real devil who won�t let life exist.� she looked at him with a long, slow look, malevolent, supercilious. �you know all about it, don�t you?� she said, with slow, cold, cunning mockery. �enough,� he replied, his face fixing fine and clear like steel. a horrible despair, and at the same time a sense of release, liberation, came over hermione. she turned with a pleasant intimacy to ursula. �you are sure you will come to breadalby?� she said, urging. �yes, i should like to very much,� replied ursula. hermione looked down at her, gratified, reflecting, and strangely absent, as if possessed, as if not quite there. �i�m so glad,� she said, pulling herself together. �some time in about a fortnight. yes? i will write to you here, at the school, shall i? yes. and you�ll be sure to come? yes. i shall be so glad. good-bye! good-bye!� hermione held out her hand and looked into the eyes of the other woman. she knew ursula as an immediate rival, and the knowledge strangely exhilarated her. also she was taking leave. it always gave her a sense of strength, advantage, to be departing and leaving the other behind. moreover she was taking the man with her, if only in hate. birkin stood aside, fixed and unreal. but now, when it was his turn to bid good-bye, he began to speak again. �there�s the whole difference in the world,� he said, �between the actual sensual being, and the vicious mental-deliberate profligacy our lot goes in for. in our night-time, there�s always the electricity switched on, we watch ourselves, we get it all in the head, really. you�ve got to lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is, lapse into unknowingness, and give up your volition. you�ve got to do it. you�ve got to learn not-to-be, before you can come into being. �but we have got such a conceit of ourselves�that�s where it is. we are so conceited, and so unproud. we�ve got no pride, we�re all conceit, so conceited in our own papier-maché realised selves. we�d rather die than give up our little self-righteous self-opinionated self-will.� there was silence in the room. both women were hostile and resentful. he sounded as if he were addressing a meeting. hermione merely paid no attention, stood with her shoulders tight in a shrug of dislike. ursula was watching him as if furtively, not really aware of what she was seeing. there was a great physical attractiveness in him�a curious hidden richness, that came through his thinness and his pallor like another voice, conveying another knowledge of him. it was in the curves of his brows and his chin, rich, fine, exquisite curves, the powerful beauty of life itself. she could not say what it was. but there was a sense of richness and of liberty. �but we are sensual enough, without making ourselves so, aren�t we?� she asked, turning to him with a certain golden laughter flickering under her greenish eyes, like a challenge. and immediately the queer, careless, terribly attractive smile came over his eyes and brows, though his mouth did not relax. �no,� he said, �we aren�t. we�re too full of ourselves.� �surely it isn�t a matter of conceit,� she cried. �that and nothing else.� she was frankly puzzled. �don�t you think that people are most conceited of all about their sensual powers?� she asked. �that�s why they aren�t sensual�only sensuous�which is another matter. they�re _always_ aware of themselves�and they�re so conceited, that rather than release themselves, and live in another world, from another centre, they�d�� �you want your tea, don�t you,� said hermione, turning to ursula with a gracious kindliness. �you�ve worked all day�� birkin stopped short. a spasm of anger and chagrin went over ursula. his face set. and he bade good-bye, as if he had ceased to notice her. they were gone. ursula stood looking at the door for some moments. then she put out the lights. and having done so, she sat down again in her chair, absorbed and lost. and then she began to cry, bitterly, bitterly weeping: but whether for misery or joy, she never knew. chapter iv. diver the week passed away. on the saturday it rained, a soft drizzling rain that held off at times. in one of the intervals gudrun and ursula set out for a walk, going towards willey water. the atmosphere was grey and translucent, the birds sang sharply on the young twigs, the earth would be quickening and hastening in growth. the two girls walked swiftly, gladly, because of the soft, subtle rush of morning that filled the wet haze. by the road the black-thorn was in blossom, white and wet, its tiny amber grains burning faintly in the white smoke of blossom. purple twigs were darkly luminous in the grey air, high hedges glowed like living shadows, hovering nearer, coming into creation. the morning was full of a new creation. when the sisters came to willey water, the lake lay all grey and visionary, stretching into the moist, translucent vista of trees and meadow. fine electric activity in sound came from the dumbles below the road, the birds piping one against the other, and water mysteriously plashing, issuing from the lake. the two girls drifted swiftly along. in front of them, at the corner of the lake, near the road, was a mossy boat-house under a walnut tree, and a little landing-stage where a boat was moored, wavering like a shadow on the still grey water, below the green, decayed poles. all was shadowy with coming summer. suddenly, from the boat-house, a white figure ran out, frightening in its swift sharp transit, across the old landing-stage. it launched in a white arc through the air, there was a bursting of the water, and among the smooth ripples a swimmer was making out to space, in a centre of faintly heaving motion. the whole otherworld, wet and remote, he had to himself. he could move into the pure translucency of the grey, uncreated water. gudrun stood by the stone wall, watching. �how i envy him,� she said, in low, desirous tones. �ugh!� shivered ursula. �so cold!� �yes, but how good, how really fine, to swim out there!� the sisters stood watching the swimmer move further into the grey, moist, full space of the water, pulsing with his own small, invading motion, and arched over with mist and dim woods. �don�t you wish it were you?� asked gudrun, looking at ursula. �i do,� said ursula. �but i�m not sure�it�s so wet.� �no,� said gudrun, reluctantly. she stood watching the motion on the bosom of the water, as if fascinated. he, having swum a certain distance, turned round and was swimming on his back, looking along the water at the two girls by the wall. in the faint wash of motion, they could see his ruddy face, and could feel him watching them. �it is gerald crich,� said ursula. �i know,� replied gudrun. and she stood motionless gazing over the water at the face which washed up and down on the flood, as he swam steadily. from his separate element he saw them and he exulted to himself because of his own advantage, his possession of a world to himself. he was immune and perfect. he loved his own vigorous, thrusting motion, and the violent impulse of the very cold water against his limbs, buoying him up. he could see the girls watching him a way off, outside, and that pleased him. he lifted his arm from the water, in a sign to them. �he is waving,� said ursula. �yes,� replied gudrun. they watched him. he waved again, with a strange movement of recognition across the difference. �like a nibelung,� laughed ursula. gudrun said nothing, only stood still looking over the water. gerald suddenly turned, and was swimming away swiftly, with a side stroke. he was alone now, alone and immune in the middle of the waters, which he had all to himself. he exulted in his isolation in the new element, unquestioned and unconditioned. he was happy, thrusting with his legs and all his body, without bond or connection anywhere, just himself in the watery world. gudrun envied him almost painfully. even this momentary possession of pure isolation and fluidity seemed to her so terribly desirable that she felt herself as if damned, out there on the high-road. �god, what it is to be a man!� she cried. �what?� exclaimed ursula in surprise. �the freedom, the liberty, the mobility!� cried gudrun, strangely flushed and brilliant. �you�re a man, you want to do a thing, you do it. you haven�t the _thousand_ obstacles a woman has in front of her.� ursula wondered what was in gudrun�s mind, to occasion this outburst. she could not understand. �what do you want to do?� she asked. �nothing,� cried gudrun, in swift refutation. �but supposing i did. supposing i want to swim up that water. it is impossible, it is one of the impossibilities of life, for me to take my clothes off now and jump in. but isn�t it _ridiculous_, doesn�t it simply prevent our living!� she was so hot, so flushed, so furious, that ursula was puzzled. the two sisters went on, up the road. they were passing between the trees just below shortlands. they looked up at the long, low house, dim and glamorous in the wet morning, its cedar trees slanting before the windows. gudrun seemed to be studying it closely. �don�t you think it�s attractive, ursula?� asked gudrun. �very,� said ursula. �very peaceful and charming.� �it has form, too�it has a period.� �what period?� �oh, eighteenth century, for certain; dorothy wordsworth and jane austen, don�t you think?� ursula laughed. �don�t you think so?� repeated gudrun. �perhaps. but i don�t think the criches fit the period. i know gerald is putting in a private electric plant, for lighting the house, and is making all kinds of latest improvements.� gudrun shrugged her shoulders swiftly. �of course,� she said, �that�s quite inevitable.� �quite,� laughed ursula. �he is several generations of youngness at one go. they hate him for it. he takes them all by the scruff of the neck, and fairly flings them along. he�ll have to die soon, when he�s made every possible improvement, and there will be nothing more to improve. he�s got _go_, anyhow.� �certainly, he�s got go,� said gudrun. �in fact i�ve never seen a man that showed signs of so much. the unfortunate thing is, where does his _go_ go to, what becomes of it?� �oh i know,� said ursula. �it goes in applying the latest appliances!� �exactly,� said gudrun. �you know he shot his brother?� said ursula. �shot his brother?� cried gudrun, frowning as if in disapprobation. �didn�t you know? oh yes!�i thought you knew. he and his brother were playing together with a gun. he told his brother to look down the gun, and it was loaded, and blew the top of his head off. isn�t it a horrible story?� �how fearful!� cried gudrun. �but it is long ago?� �oh yes, they were quite boys,� said ursula. �i think it is one of the most horrible stories i know.� �and he of course did not know that the gun was loaded?� �yes. you see it was an old thing that had been lying in the stable for years. nobody dreamed it would ever go off, and of course, no one imagined it was loaded. but isn�t it dreadful, that it should happen?� �frightful!� cried gudrun. �and isn�t it horrible too to think of such a thing happening to one, when one was a child, and having to carry the responsibility of it all through one�s life. imagine it, two boys playing together�then this comes upon them, for no reason whatever�out of the air. ursula, it�s very frightening! oh, it�s one of the things i can�t bear. murder, that is thinkable, because there�s a will behind it. but a thing like that to _happen_ to one�� �perhaps there _was_ an unconscious will behind it,� said ursula. �this playing at killing has some primitive _desire_ for killing in it, don�t you think?� �desire!� said gudrun, coldly, stiffening a little. �i can�t see that they were even playing at killing. i suppose one boy said to the other, �you look down the barrel while i pull the trigger, and see what happens.� it seems to me the purest form of accident.� �no,� said ursula. �i couldn�t pull the trigger of the emptiest gun in the world, not if some-one were looking down the barrel. one instinctively doesn�t do it�one can�t.� gudrun was silent for some moments, in sharp disagreement. �of course,� she said coldly. �if one is a woman, and grown up, one�s instinct prevents one. but i cannot see how that applies to a couple of boys playing together.� her voice was cold and angry. �yes,� persisted ursula. at that moment they heard a woman�s voice a few yards off say loudly: �oh damn the thing!� they went forward and saw laura crich and hermione roddice in the field on the other side of the hedge, and laura crich struggling with the gate, to get out. ursula at once hurried up and helped to lift the gate. �thanks so much,� said laura, looking up flushed and amazon-like, yet rather confused. �it isn�t right on the hinges.� �no,� said ursula. �and they�re so heavy.� �surprising!� cried laura. �how do you do,� sang hermione, from out of the field, the moment she could make her voice heard. �it�s nice now. are you going for a walk? yes. isn�t the young green beautiful? so beautiful�quite burning. good morning�good morning�you�ll come and see me?�thank you so much�next week�yes�good-bye, g-o-o-d b-y-e.� gudrun and ursula stood and watched her slowly waving her head up and down, and waving her hand slowly in dismissal, smiling a strange affected smile, making a tall queer, frightening figure, with her heavy fair hair slipping to her eyes. then they moved off, as if they had been dismissed like inferiors. the four women parted. as soon as they had gone far enough, ursula said, her cheeks burning, �i do think she�s impudent.� �who, hermione roddice?� asked gudrun. �why?� �the way she treats one�impudence!� �why, ursula, what did you notice that was so impudent?� asked gudrun rather coldly. �her whole manner. oh, it�s impossible, the way she tries to bully one. pure bullying. she�s an impudent woman. �you�ll come and see me,� as if we should be falling over ourselves for the privilege.� �i can�t understand, ursula, what you are so much put out about,� said gudrun, in some exasperation. �one knows those women are impudent�these free women who have emancipated themselves from the aristocracy.� �but it is so _unnecessary_�so vulgar,� cried ursula. �no, i don�t see it. and if i did�pour moi, elle n�existe pas. i don�t grant her the power to be impudent to me.� �do you think she likes you?� asked ursula. �well, no, i shouldn�t think she did.� �then why does she ask you to go to breadalby and stay with her?� gudrun lifted her shoulders in a low shrug. �after all, she�s got the sense to know we�re not just the ordinary run,� said gudrun. �whatever she is, she�s not a fool. and i�d rather have somebody i detested, than the ordinary woman who keeps to her own set. hermione roddice does risk herself in some respects.� ursula pondered this for a time. �i doubt it,� she replied. �really she risks nothing. i suppose we ought to admire her for knowing she _can_ invite us�school teachers�and risk nothing.� �precisely!� said gudrun. �think of the myriads of women that daren�t do it. she makes the most of her privileges�that�s something. i suppose, really, we should do the same, in her place.� �no,� said ursula. �no. it would bore me. i couldn�t spend my time playing her games. it�s infra dig.� the two sisters were like a pair of scissors, snipping off everything that came athwart them; or like a knife and a whetstone, the one sharpened against the other. �of course,� cried ursula suddenly, �she ought to thank her stars if we will go and see her. you are perfectly beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever she is or was, and to my thinking, a thousand times more beautifully dressed, for she never looks fresh and natural, like a flower, always old, thought-out; and we _are_ more intelligent than most people.� �undoubtedly!� said gudrun. �and it ought to be admitted, simply,� said ursula. �certainly it ought,� said gudrun. �but you�ll find that the really chic thing is to be so absolutely ordinary, so perfectly commonplace and like the person in the street, that you really are a masterpiece of humanity, not the person in the street actually, but the artistic creation of her�� �how awful!� cried ursula. �yes, ursula, it _is_ awful, in most respects. you daren�t be anything that isn�t amazingly _à terre_, so much _à terre_ that it is the artistic creation of ordinariness.� �it�s very dull to create oneself into nothing better,� laughed ursula. �very dull!� retorted gudrun. �really ursula, it is dull, that�s just the word. one longs to be high-flown, and make speeches like corneille, after it.� gudrun was becoming flushed and excited over her own cleverness. �strut,� said ursula. �one wants to strut, to be a swan among geese.� �exactly,� cried gudrun, �a swan among geese.� �they are all so busy playing the ugly duckling,� cried ursula, with mocking laughter. �and i don�t feel a bit like a humble and pathetic ugly duckling. i do feel like a swan among geese�i can�t help it. they make one feel so. and i don�t care what _they_ think of me. _je m�en fiche._� gudrun looked up at ursula with a queer, uncertain envy and dislike. �of course, the only thing to do is to despise them all�just all,� she said. the sisters went home again, to read and talk and work, and wait for monday, for school. ursula often wondered what else she waited for, besides the beginning and end of the school week, and the beginning and end of the holidays. this was a whole life! sometimes she had periods of tight horror, when it seemed to her that her life would pass away, and be gone, without having been more than this. but she never really accepted it. her spirit was active, her life like a shoot that is growing steadily, but which has not yet come above ground. chapter v. in the train one day at this time birkin was called to london. he was not very fixed in his abode. he had rooms in nottingham, because his work lay chiefly in that town. but often he was in london, or in oxford. he moved about a great deal, his life seemed uncertain, without any definite rhythm, any organic meaning. on the platform of the railway station he saw gerald crich, reading a newspaper, and evidently waiting for the train. birkin stood some distance off, among the people. it was against his instinct to approach anybody. from time to time, in a manner characteristic of him, gerald lifted his head and looked round. even though he was reading the newspaper closely, he must keep a watchful eye on his external surroundings. there seemed to be a dual consciousness running in him. he was thinking vigorously of something he read in the newspaper, and at the same time his eye ran over the surfaces of the life round him, and he missed nothing. birkin, who was watching him, was irritated by his duality. he noticed too, that gerald seemed always to be at bay against everybody, in spite of his queer, genial, social manner when roused. now birkin started violently at seeing this genial look flash on to gerald�s face, at seeing gerald approaching with hand outstretched. �hallo, rupert, where are you going?� �london. so are you, i suppose.� �yes�� gerald�s eyes went over birkin�s face in curiosity. �we�ll travel together if you like,� he said. �don�t you usually go first?� asked birkin. �i can�t stand the crowd,� replied gerald. �but third�ll be all right. there�s a restaurant car, we can have some tea.� the two men looked at the station clock, having nothing further to say. �what were you reading in the paper?� birkin asked. gerald looked at him quickly. �isn�t it funny, what they _do_ put in the newspapers,� he said. �here are two leaders�� he held out his _daily telegraph_, �full of the ordinary newspaper cant�� he scanned the columns down��and then there�s this little�i dunno what you�d call it, essay, almost�appearing with the leaders, and saying there must arise a man who will give new values to things, give us new truths, a new attitude to life, or else we shall be a crumbling nothingness in a few years, a country in ruin�� �i suppose that�s a bit of newspaper cant, as well,� said birkin. �it sounds as if the man meant it, and quite genuinely,� said gerald. �give it to me,� said birkin, holding out his hand for the paper. the train came, and they went on board, sitting on either side a little table, by the window, in the restaurant car. birkin glanced over his paper, then looked up at gerald, who was waiting for him. �i believe the man means it,� he said, �as far as he means anything.� �and do you think it�s true? do you think we really want a new gospel?� asked gerald. birkin shrugged his shoulders. �i think the people who say they want a new religion are the last to accept anything new. they want novelty right enough. but to stare straight at this life that we�ve brought upon ourselves, and reject it, absolutely smash up the old idols of ourselves, that we sh�ll never do. you�ve got very badly to want to get rid of the old, before anything new will appear�even in the self.� gerald watched him closely. �you think we ought to break up this life, just start and let fly?� he asked. �this life. yes i do. we�ve got to bust it completely, or shrivel inside it, as in a tight skin. for it won�t expand any more.� there was a queer little smile in gerald�s eyes, a look of amusement, calm and curious. �and how do you propose to begin? i suppose you mean, reform the whole order of society?� he asked. birkin had a slight, tense frown between the brows. he too was impatient of the conversation. �i don�t propose at all,� he replied. �when we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.� the little smile began to die out of gerald�s eyes, and he said, looking with a cool stare at birkin: �so you really think things are very bad?� �completely bad.� the smile appeared again. �in what way?� �every way,� said birkin. �we are such dreary liars. our one idea is to lie to ourselves. we have an ideal of a perfect world, clean and straight and sufficient. so we cover the earth with foulness; life is a blotch of labour, like insects scurrying in filth, so that your collier can have a pianoforte in his parlour, and you can have a butler and a motor-car in your up-to-date house, and as a nation we can sport the ritz, or the empire, gaby deslys and the sunday newspapers. it is very dreary.� gerald took a little time to re-adjust himself after this tirade. �would you have us live without houses�return to nature?� he asked. �i would have nothing at all. people only do what they want to do�and what they are capable of doing. if they were capable of anything else, there would be something else.� again gerald pondered. he was not going to take offence at birkin. �don�t you think the collier�s _pianoforte_, as you call it, is a symbol for something very real, a real desire for something higher, in the collier�s life?� �higher!� cried birkin. �yes. amazing heights of upright grandeur. it makes him so much higher in his neighbouring collier�s eyes. he sees himself reflected in the neighbouring opinion, like in a brocken mist, several feet taller on the strength of the pianoforte, and he is satisfied. he lives for the sake of that brocken spectre, the reflection of himself in the human opinion. you do the same. if you are of high importance to humanity you are of high importance to yourself. that is why you work so hard at the mines. if you can produce coal to cook five thousand dinners a day, you are five thousand times more important than if you cooked only your own dinner.� �i suppose i am,� laughed gerald. �can�t you see,� said birkin, �that to help my neighbour to eat is no more than eating myself. �i eat, thou eatest, he eats, we eat, you eat, they eat��and what then? why should every man decline the whole verb. first person singular is enough for me.� �you�ve got to start with material things,� said gerald. which statement birkin ignored. �and we�ve got to live for _something_, we�re not just cattle that can graze and have done with it,� said gerald. �tell me,� said birkin. �what do you live for?� gerald�s face went baffled. �what do i live for?� he repeated. �i suppose i live to work, to produce something, in so far as i am a purposive being. apart from that, i live because i am living.� �and what�s your work? getting so many more thousands of tons of coal out of the earth every day. and when we�ve got all the coal we want, and all the plush furniture, and pianofortes, and the rabbits are all stewed and eaten, and we�re all warm and our bellies are filled and we�re listening to the young lady performing on the pianoforte�what then? what then, when you�ve made a real fair start with your material things?� gerald sat laughing at the words and the mocking humour of the other man. but he was cogitating too. �we haven�t got there yet,� he replied. �a good many people are still waiting for the rabbit and the fire to cook it.� �so while you get the coal i must chase the rabbit?� said birkin, mocking at gerald. �something like that,� said gerald. birkin watched him narrowly. he saw the perfect good-humoured callousness, even strange, glistening malice, in gerald, glistening through the plausible ethics of productivity. �gerald,� he said, �i rather hate you.� �i know you do,� said gerald. �why do you?� birkin mused inscrutably for some minutes. �i should like to know if you are conscious of hating me,� he said at last. �do you ever consciously detest me�hate me with mystic hate? there are odd moments when i hate you starrily.� gerald was rather taken aback, even a little disconcerted. he did not quite know what to say. �i may, of course, hate you sometimes,� he said. �but i�m not aware of it�never acutely aware of it, that is.� �so much the worse,� said birkin. gerald watched him with curious eyes. he could not quite make him out. �so much the worse, is it?� he repeated. there was a silence between the two men for some time, as the train ran on. in birkin�s face was a little irritable tension, a sharp knitting of the brows, keen and difficult. gerald watched him warily, carefully, rather calculatingly, for he could not decide what he was after. suddenly birkin�s eyes looked straight and overpowering into those of the other man. �what do you think is the aim and object of your life, gerald?� he asked. again gerald was taken aback. he could not think what his friend was getting at. was he poking fun, or not? �at this moment, i couldn�t say off-hand,� he replied, with faintly ironic humour. �do you think love is the be-all and the end-all of life?� birkin asked, with direct, attentive seriousness. �of my own life?� said gerald. �yes.� there was a really puzzled pause. �i can�t say,� said gerald. �it hasn�t been, so far.� �what has your life been, so far?� �oh�finding out things for myself�and getting experiences�and making things _go_.� birkin knitted his brows like sharply moulded steel. �i find,� he said, �that one needs some one _really_ pure single activity�i should call love a single pure activity. but i _don�t_ really love anybody�not now.� �have you ever really loved anybody?� asked gerald. �yes and no,� replied birkin. �not finally?� said gerald. �finally�finally�no,� said birkin. �nor i,� said gerald. �and do you want to?� said birkin. gerald looked with a long, twinkling, almost sardonic look into the eyes of the other man. �i don�t know,� he said. �i do�i want to love,� said birkin. �you do?� �yes. i want the finality of love.� �the finality of love,� repeated gerald. and he waited for a moment. �just one woman?� he added. the evening light, flooding yellow along the fields, lit up birkin�s face with a tense, abstract steadfastness. gerald still could not make it out. �yes, one woman,� said birkin. but to gerald it sounded as if he were insistent rather than confident. �i don�t believe a woman, and nothing but a woman, will ever make my life,� said gerald. �not the centre and core of it�the love between you and a woman?� asked birkin. gerald�s eyes narrowed with a queer dangerous smile as he watched the other man. �i never quite feel it that way,� he said. �you don�t? then wherein does life centre, for you?� �i don�t know�that�s what i want somebody to tell me. as far as i can make out, it doesn�t centre at all. it is artificially held _together_ by the social mechanism.� birkin pondered as if he would crack something. �i know,� he said, �it just doesn�t centre. the old ideals are dead as nails�nothing there. it seems to me there remains only this perfect union with a woman�sort of ultimate marriage�and there isn�t anything else.� �and you mean if there isn�t the woman, there�s nothing?� said gerald. �pretty well that�seeing there�s no god.� �then we�re hard put to it,� said gerald. and he turned to look out of the window at the flying, golden landscape. birkin could not help seeing how beautiful and soldierly his face was, with a certain courage to be indifferent. �you think its heavy odds against us?� said birkin. �if we�ve got to make our life up out of a woman, one woman, woman only, yes, i do,� said gerald. �i don�t believe i shall ever make up _my_ life, at that rate.� birkin watched him almost angrily. �you are a born unbeliever,� he said. �i only feel what i feel,� said gerald. and he looked again at birkin almost sardonically, with his blue, manly, sharp-lighted eyes. birkin�s eyes were at the moment full of anger. but swiftly they became troubled, doubtful, then full of a warm, rich affectionateness and laughter. �it troubles me very much, gerald,� he said, wrinkling his brows. �i can see it does,� said gerald, uncovering his mouth in a manly, quick, soldierly laugh. gerald was held unconsciously by the other man. he wanted to be near him, he wanted to be within his sphere of influence. there was something very congenial to him in birkin. but yet, beyond this, he did not take much notice. he felt that he, himself, gerald, had harder and more durable truths than any the other man knew. he felt himself older, more knowing. it was the quick-changing warmth and venality and brilliant warm utterance he loved in his friend. it was the rich play of words and quick interchange of feelings he enjoyed. the real content of the words he never really considered: he himself knew better. birkin knew this. he knew that gerald wanted to be _fond_ of him without taking him seriously. and this made him go hard and cold. as the train ran on, he sat looking at the land, and gerald fell away, became as nothing to him. birkin looked at the land, at the evening, and was thinking: �well, if mankind is destroyed, if our race is destroyed like sodom, and there is this beautiful evening with the luminous land and trees, i am satisfied. that which informs it all is there, and can never be lost. after all, what is mankind but just one expression of the incomprehensible. and if mankind passes away, it will only mean that this particular expression is completed and done. that which is expressed, and that which is to be expressed, cannot be diminished. there it is, in the shining evening. let mankind pass away�time it did. the creative utterances will not cease, they will only be there. humanity doesn�t embody the utterance of the incomprehensible any more. humanity is a dead letter. there will be a new embodiment, in a new way. let humanity disappear as quick as possible.� gerald interrupted him by asking, �where are you staying in london?� birkin looked up. �with a man in soho. i pay part of the rent of a flat, and stop there when i like.� �good idea�have a place more or less your own,� said gerald. �yes. but i don�t care for it much. i�m tired of the people i am bound to find there.� �what kind of people?� �art�music�london bohemia�the most pettifogging calculating bohemia that ever reckoned its pennies. but there are a few decent people, decent in some respects. they are really very thorough rejecters of the world�perhaps they live only in the gesture of rejection and negation�but negatively something, at any rate.� �what are they?�painters, musicians?� �painters, musicians, writers�hangers-on, models, advanced young people, anybody who is openly at outs with the conventions, and belongs to nowhere particularly. they are often young fellows down from the university, and girls who are living their own lives, as they say.� �all loose?� said gerald. birkin could see his curiosity roused. �in one way. most bound, in another. for all their shockingness, all on one note.� he looked at gerald, and saw how his blue eyes were lit up with a little flame of curious desire. he saw too how good-looking he was. gerald was attractive, his blood seemed fluid and electric. his blue eyes burned with a keen, yet cold light, there was a certain beauty, a beautiful passivity in all his body, his moulding. �we might see something of each other�i am in london for two or three days,� said gerald. �yes,� said birkin, �i don�t want to go to the theatre, or the music hall�you�d better come round to the flat, and see what you can make of halliday and his crowd.� �thanks�i should like to,� laughed gerald. �what are you doing tonight?� �i promised to meet halliday at the pompadour. it�s a bad place, but there is nowhere else.� �where is it?� asked gerald. �piccadilly circus.� �oh yes�well, shall i come round there?� �by all means, it might amuse you.� the evening was falling. they had passed bedford. birkin watched the country, and was filled with a sort of hopelessness. he always felt this, on approaching london. his dislike of mankind, of the mass of mankind, amounted almost to an illness. ��where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles miles and miles��� he was murmuring to himself, like a man condemned to death. gerald, who was very subtly alert, wary in all his senses, leaned forward and asked smilingly: �what were you saying?� birkin glanced at him, laughed, and repeated: ��where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles, miles and miles, over pastures where the something something sheep half asleep��� gerald also looked now at the country. and birkin, who, for some reason was now tired and dispirited, said to him: �i always feel doomed when the train is running into london. i feel such a despair, so hopeless, as if it were the end of the world.� �really!� said gerald. �and does the end of the world frighten you?� birkin lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. �i don�t know,� he said. �it does while it hangs imminent and doesn�t fall. but people give me a bad feeling�very bad.� there was a roused glad smile in gerald�s eyes. �do they?� he said. and he watched the other man critically. in a few minutes the train was running through the disgrace of outspread london. everybody in the carriage was on the alert, waiting to escape. at last they were under the huge arch of the station, in the tremendous shadow of the town. birkin shut himself together�he was in now. the two men went together in a taxi-cab. �don�t you feel like one of the damned?� asked birkin, as they sat in a little, swiftly-running enclosure, and watched the hideous great street. �no,� laughed gerald. �it is real death,� said birkin. chapter vi. cr�me de menthe they met again in the café several hours later. gerald went through the push doors into the large, lofty room where the faces and heads of the drinkers showed dimly through the haze of smoke, reflected more dimly, and repeated ad infinitum in the great mirrors on the walls, so that one seemed to enter a vague, dim world of shadowy drinkers humming within an atmosphere of blue tobacco smoke. there was, however, the red plush of the seats to give substance within the bubble of pleasure. gerald moved in his slow, observant, glistening-attentive motion down between the tables and the people whose shadowy faces looked up as he passed. he seemed to be entering in some strange element, passing into an illuminated new region, among a host of licentious souls. he was pleased, and entertained. he looked over all the dim, evanescent, strangely illuminated faces that bent across the tables. then he saw birkin rise and signal to him. at birkin�s table was a girl with dark, soft, fluffy hair cut short in the artist fashion, hanging level and full almost like the egyptian princess�s. she was small and delicately made, with warm colouring and large, dark hostile eyes. there was a delicacy, almost a beauty in all her form, and at the same time a certain attractive grossness of spirit, that made a little spark leap instantly alight in gerald�s eyes. birkin, who looked muted, unreal, his presence left out, introduced her as miss darrington. she gave her hand with a sudden, unwilling movement, looking all the while at gerald with a dark, exposed stare. a glow came over him as he sat down. the waiter appeared. gerald glanced at the glasses of the other two. birkin was drinking something green, miss darrington had a small liqueur glass that was empty save for a tiny drop. �won�t you have some more�?� �brandy,� she said, sipping her last drop and putting down the glass. the waiter disappeared. �no,� she said to birkin. �he doesn�t know i�m back. he�ll be terrified when he sees me here.� she spoke her r�s like w�s, lisping with a slightly babyish pronunciation which was at once affected and true to her character. her voice was dull and toneless. �where is he then?� asked birkin. �he�s doing a private show at lady snellgrove�s,� said the girl. �warens is there too.� there was a pause. �well, then,� said birkin, in a dispassionate protective manner, �what do you intend to do?� the girl paused sullenly. she hated the question. �i don�t intend to do anything,� she replied. �i shall look for some sittings tomorrow.� �who shall you go to?� asked birkin. �i shall go to bentley�s first. but i believe he�s angwy with me for running away.� �that is from the madonna?� �yes. and then if he doesn�t want me, i know i can get work with carmarthen.� �carmarthen?� �lord carmarthen�he does photographs.� �chiffon and shoulders�� �yes. but he�s awfully decent.� there was a pause. �and what are you going to do about julius?� he asked. �nothing,� she said. �i shall just ignore him.� �you�ve done with him altogether?� but she turned aside her face sullenly, and did not answer the question. another young man came hurrying up to the table. �hallo birkin! hallo _pussum_, when did you come back?� he said eagerly. �today.� �does halliday know?� �i don�t know. i don�t care either.� �ha-ha! the wind still sits in that quarter, does it? do you mind if i come over to this table?� �i�m talking to wupert, do you mind?� she replied, coolly and yet appealingly, like a child. �open confession�good for the soul, eh?� said the young man. �well, so long.� and giving a sharp look at birkin and at gerald, the young man moved off, with a swing of his coat skirts. all this time gerald had been completely ignored. and yet he felt that the girl was physically aware of his proximity. he waited, listened, and tried to piece together the conversation. �are you staying at the flat?� the girl asked, of birkin. �for three days,� replied birkin. �and you?� �i don�t know yet. i can always go to bertha�s.� there was a silence. suddenly the girl turned to gerald, and said, in a rather formal, polite voice, with the distant manner of a woman who accepts her position as a social inferior, yet assumes intimate _camaraderie_ with the male she addresses: �do you know london well?� �i can hardly say,� he laughed. �i�ve been up a good many times, but i was never in this place before.� �you�re not an artist, then?� she said, in a tone that placed him an outsider. �no,� he replied. �he�s a soldier, and an explorer, and a napoleon of industry,� said birkin, giving gerald his credentials for bohemia. �are you a soldier?� asked the girl, with a cold yet lively curiosity. �no, i resigned my commission,� said gerald, �some years ago.� �he was in the last war,� said birkin. �were you really?� said the girl. �and then he explored the amazon,� said birkin, �and now he is ruling over coal-mines.� the girl looked at gerald with steady, calm curiosity. he laughed, hearing himself described. he felt proud too, full of male strength. his blue, keen eyes were lit up with laughter, his ruddy face, with its sharp fair hair, was full of satisfaction, and glowing with life. he piqued her. �how long are you staying?� she asked him. �a day or two,� he replied. �but there is no particular hurry.� still she stared into his face with that slow, full gaze which was so curious and so exciting to him. he was acutely and delightfully conscious of himself, of his own attractiveness. he felt full of strength, able to give off a sort of electric power. and he was aware of her dark, hot-looking eyes upon him. she had beautiful eyes, dark, fully-opened, hot, naked in their looking at him. and on them there seemed to float a film of disintegration, a sort of misery and sullenness, like oil on water. she wore no hat in the heated café, her loose, simple jumper was strung on a string round her neck. but it was made of rich peach-coloured crêpe-de-chine, that hung heavily and softly from her young throat and her slender wrists. her appearance was simple and complete, really beautiful, because of her regularity and form, her soft dark hair falling full and level on either side of her head, her straight, small, softened features, egyptian in the slight fulness of their curves, her slender neck and the simple, rich-coloured smock hanging on her slender shoulders. she was very still, almost null, in her manner, apart and watchful. she appealed to gerald strongly. he felt an awful, enjoyable power over her, an instinctive cherishing very near to cruelty. for she was a victim. he felt that she was in his power, and he was generous. the electricity was turgid and voluptuously rich, in his limbs. he would be able to destroy her utterly in the strength of his discharge. but she was waiting in her separation, given. they talked banalities for some time. suddenly birkin said: �there�s julius!� and he half rose to his feet, motioning to the newcomer. the girl, with a curious, almost evil motion, looked round over her shoulder without moving her body. gerald watched her dark, soft hair swing over her ears. he felt her watching intensely the man who was approaching, so he looked too. he saw a pale, full-built young man with rather long, solid fair hair hanging from under his black hat, moving cumbrously down the room, his face lit up with a smile at once naive and warm, and vapid. he approached towards birkin, with a haste of welcome. it was not till he was quite close that he perceived the girl. he recoiled, went pale, and said, in a high squealing voice: �pussum, what are _you_ doing here?� the café looked up like animals when they hear a cry. halliday hung motionless, an almost imbecile smile flickering palely on his face. the girl only stared at him with a black look in which flared an unfathomable hell of knowledge, and a certain impotence. she was limited by him. �why have you come back?� repeated halliday, in the same high, hysterical voice. �i told you not to come back.� the girl did not answer, only stared in the same viscous, heavy fashion, straight at him, as he stood recoiled, as if for safety, against the next table. �you know you wanted her to come back�come and sit down,� said birkin to him. �no i didn�t want her to come back, and i told her not to come back. what have you come for, pussum?� �for nothing from _you_,� she said in a heavy voice of resentment. �then why have you come back at _all?_� cried halliday, his voice rising to a kind of squeal. �she comes as she likes,� said birkin. �are you going to sit down, or are you not?� �no, i won�t sit down with pussum,� cried halliday. �i won�t hurt you, you needn�t be afraid,� she said to him, very curtly, and yet with a sort of protectiveness towards him, in her voice. halliday came and sat at the table, putting his hand on his heart, and crying: �oh, it�s given me such a turn! pussum, i wish you wouldn�t do these things. why did you come back?� �not for anything from you,� she repeated. �you�ve said that before,� he cried in a high voice. she turned completely away from him, to gerald crich, whose eyes were shining with a subtle amusement. �were you ever vewy much afwaid of the savages?� she asked in her calm, dull childish voice. �no�never very much afraid. on the whole they�re harmless�they�re not born yet, you can�t feel really afraid of them. you know you can manage them.� �do you weally? aren�t they very fierce?� �not very. there aren�t many fierce things, as a matter of fact. there aren�t many things, neither people nor animals, that have it in them to be really dangerous.� �except in herds,� interrupted birkin. �aren�t there really?� she said. �oh, i thought savages were all so dangerous, they�d have your life before you could look round.� �did you?� he laughed. �they are over-rated, savages. they�re too much like other people, not exciting, after the first acquaintance.� �oh, it�s not so very wonderfully brave then, to be an explorer?� �no. it�s more a question of hardships than of terrors.� �oh! and weren�t you ever afraid?� �in my life? i don�t know. yes, i�m afraid of some things�of being shut up, locked up anywhere�or being fastened. i�m afraid of being bound hand and foot.� she looked at him steadily with her dark eyes, that rested on him and roused him so deeply, that it left his upper self quite calm. it was rather delicious, to feel her drawing his self-revelations from him, as from the very innermost dark marrow of his body. she wanted to know. and her dark eyes seemed to be looking through into his naked organism. he felt, she was compelled to him, she was fated to come into contact with him, must have the seeing him and knowing him. and this roused a curious exultance. also he felt, she must relinquish herself into his hands, and be subject to him. she was so profane, slave-like, watching him, absorbed by him. it was not that she was interested in what he said; she was absorbed by his self-revelation, by _him_, she wanted the secret of him, the experience of his male being. gerald�s face was lit up with an uncanny smile, full of light and rousedness, yet unconscious. he sat with his arms on the table, his sunbrowned, rather sinister hands, that were animal and yet very shapely and attractive, pushed forward towards her. and they fascinated her. and she knew, she watched her own fascination. other men had come to the table, to talk with birkin and halliday. gerald said in a low voice, apart, to pussum: �where have you come back from?� �from the country,� replied pussum, in a very low, yet fully resonant voice. her face closed hard. continually she glanced at halliday, and then a black flare came over her eyes. the heavy, fair young man ignored her completely; he was really afraid of her. for some moments she would be unaware of gerald. he had not conquered her yet. �and what has halliday to do with it?� he asked, his voice still muted. she would not answer for some seconds. then she said, unwillingly: �he made me go and live with him, and now he wants to throw me over. and yet he won�t let me go to anybody else. he wants me to live hidden in the country. and then he says i persecute him, that he can�t get rid of me.� �doesn�t know his own mind,� said gerald. �he hasn�t any mind, so he can�t know it,� she said. �he waits for what somebody tells him to do. he never does anything he wants to do himself�because he doesn�t know what he wants. he�s a perfect baby.� gerald looked at halliday for some moments, watching the soft, rather degenerate face of the young man. its very softness was an attraction; it was a soft, warm, corrupt nature, into which one might plunge with gratification. �but he has no hold over you, has he?� gerald asked. �you see he _made_ me go and live with him, when i didn�t want to,� she replied. �he came and cried to me, tears, you never saw so many, saying _he couldn�t_ bear it unless i went back to him. and he wouldn�t go away, he would have stayed for ever. he made me go back. then every time he behaves in this fashion. and now i�m going to have a baby, he wants to give me a hundred pounds and send me into the country, so that he would never see me nor hear of me again. but i�m not going to do it, after�� a queer look came over gerald�s face. �are you going to have a child?� he asked incredulous. it seemed, to look at her, impossible, she was so young and so far in spirit from any childbearing. she looked full into his face, and her dark, inchoate eyes had now a furtive look, and a look of a knowledge of evil, dark and indomitable. a flame ran secretly to his heart. �yes,� she said. �isn�t it beastly?� �don�t you want it?� he asked. �i don�t,� she replied emphatically. �but�� he said, �how long have you known?� �ten weeks,� she said. all the time she kept her dark, inchoate eyes full upon him. he remained silent, thinking. then, switching off and becoming cold, he asked, in a voice full of considerate kindness: �is there anything we can eat here? is there anything you would like?� �yes,� she said, �i should adore some oysters.� �all right,� he said. �we�ll have oysters.� and he beckoned to the waiter. halliday took no notice, until the little plate was set before her. then suddenly he cried: �pussum, you can�t eat oysters when you�re drinking brandy.� �what has it go to do with you?� she asked. �nothing, nothing,� he cried. �but you can�t eat oysters when you�re drinking brandy.� �i�m not drinking brandy,� she replied, and she sprinkled the last drops of her liqueur over his face. he gave an odd squeal. she sat looking at him, as if indifferent. �pussum, why do you do that?� he cried in panic. he gave gerald the impression that he was terrified of her, and that he loved his terror. he seemed to relish his own horror and hatred of her, turn it over and extract every flavour from it, in real panic. gerald thought him a strange fool, and yet piquant. �but pussum,� said another man, in a very small, quick eton voice, �you promised not to hurt him.� �i haven�t hurt him,� she answered. �what will you drink?� the young man asked. he was dark, and smooth-skinned, and full of a stealthy vigour. �i don�t like porter, maxim,� she replied. �you must ask for champagne,� came the whispering, gentlemanly voice of the other. gerald suddenly realised that this was a hint to him. �shall we have champagne?� he asked, laughing. �yes please, dwy,� she lisped childishly. gerald watched her eating the oysters. she was delicate and finicking in her eating, her fingers were fine and seemed very sensitive in the tips, so she put her food apart with fine, small motions, she ate carefully, delicately. it pleased him very much to see her, and it irritated birkin. they were all drinking champagne. maxim, the prim young russian with the smooth, warm-coloured face and black, oiled hair was the only one who seemed to be perfectly calm and sober. birkin was white and abstract, unnatural, gerald was smiling with a constant bright, amused, cold light in his eyes, leaning a little protectively towards the pussum, who was very handsome, and soft, unfolded like some red lotus in dreadful flowering nakedness, vainglorious now, flushed with wine and with the excitement of men. halliday looked foolish. one glass of wine was enough to make him drunk and giggling. yet there was always a pleasant, warm naïveté about him, that made him attractive. �i�m not afwaid of anything except black-beetles,� said the pussum, looking up suddenly and staring with her black eyes, on which there seemed an unseeing film of flame, fully upon gerald. he laughed dangerously, from the blood. her childish speech caressed his nerves, and her burning, filmed eyes, turned now full upon him, oblivious of all her antecedents, gave him a sort of licence. �i�m not,� she protested. �i�m not afraid of other things. but black-beetles�ugh!� she shuddered convulsively, as if the very thought were too much to bear. �do you mean,� said gerald, with the punctiliousness of a man who has been drinking, �that you are afraid of the sight of a black-beetle, or you are afraid of a black-beetle biting you, or doing you some harm?� �do they bite?� cried the girl. �how perfectly loathsome!� exclaimed halliday. �i don�t know,� replied gerald, looking round the table. �do black-beetles bite? but that isn�t the point. are you afraid of their biting, or is it a metaphysical antipathy?� the girl was looking full upon him all the time with inchoate eyes. �oh, i think they�re beastly, they�re horrid,� she cried. �if i see one, it gives me the creeps all over. if one were to crawl on me, i�m _sure_ i should die�i�m sure i should.� �i hope not,� whispered the young russian. �i�m sure i should, maxim,� she asseverated. �then one won�t crawl on you,� said gerald, smiling and knowing. in some strange way he understood her. �it�s metaphysical, as gerald says,� birkin stated. there was a little pause of uneasiness. �and are you afraid of nothing else, pussum?� asked the young russian, in his quick, hushed, elegant manner. �not weally,� she said. �i am afwaid of some things, but not weally the same. i�m not afwaid of _blood_.� �not afwaid of blood!� exclaimed a young man with a thick, pale, jeering face, who had just come to the table and was drinking whisky. the pussum turned on him a sulky look of dislike, low and ugly. �aren�t you really afraid of blud?� the other persisted, a sneer all over his face. �no, i�m not,� she retorted. �why, have you ever seen blood, except in a dentist�s spittoon?� jeered the young man. �i wasn�t speaking to you,� she replied rather superbly. �you can answer me, can�t you?� he said. for reply, she suddenly jabbed a knife across his thick, pale hand. he started up with a vulgar curse. �show�s what you are,� said the pussum in contempt. �curse you,� said the young man, standing by the table and looking down at her with acrid malevolence. �stop that,� said gerald, in quick, instinctive command. the young man stood looking down at her with sardonic contempt, a cowed, self-conscious look on his thick, pale face. the blood began to flow from his hand. �oh, how horrible, take it away!� squealed halliday, turning green and averting his face. �d�you feel ill?� asked the sardonic young man, in some concern. �do you feel ill, julius? garn, it�s nothing, man, don�t give her the pleasure of letting her think she�s performed a feat�don�t give her the satisfaction, man�it�s just what she wants.� �oh!� squealed halliday. �he�s going to cat, maxim,� said the pussum warningly. the suave young russian rose and took halliday by the arm, leading him away. birkin, white and diminished, looked on as if he were displeased. the wounded, sardonic young man moved away, ignoring his bleeding hand in the most conspicuous fashion. �he�s an awful coward, really,� said the pussum to gerald. �he�s got such an influence over julius.� �who is he?� asked gerald. �he�s a jew, really. i can�t bear him.� �well, he�s quite unimportant. but what�s wrong with halliday?� �julius�s the most awful coward you�ve ever seen,� she cried. �he always faints if i lift a knife�he�s tewwified of me.� �h�m!� said gerald. �they�re all afwaid of me,� she said. �only the jew thinks he�s going to show his courage. but he�s the biggest coward of them all, really, because he�s afwaid what people will think about him�and julius doesn�t care about that.� �they�ve a lot of valour between them,� said gerald good-humouredly. the pussum looked at him with a slow, slow smile. she was very handsome, flushed, and confident in dreadful knowledge. two little points of light glinted on gerald�s eyes. �why do they call you pussum, because you�re like a cat?� he asked her. �i expect so,� she said. the smile grew more intense on his face. �you are, rather; or a young, female panther.� �oh god, gerald!� said birkin, in some disgust. they both looked uneasily at birkin. �you�re silent tonight, wupert,� she said to him, with a slight insolence, being safe with the other man. halliday was coming back, looking forlorn and sick. �pussum,� he said, �i wish you wouldn�t do these things�oh!� he sank in his chair with a groan. �you�d better go home,� she said to him. �i _will_ go home,� he said. �but won�t you all come along. won�t you come round to the flat?� he said to gerald. �i should be so glad if you would. do�that�ll be splendid. i say?� he looked round for a waiter. �get me a taxi.� then he groaned again. �oh i do feel�perfectly ghastly! pussum, you see what you do to me.� �then why are you such an idiot?� she said with sullen calm. �but i�m not an idiot! oh, how awful! do come, everybody, it will be so splendid. pussum, you are coming. what? oh but you _must_ come, yes, you must. what? oh, my dear girl, don�t make a fuss now, i feel perfectly�oh, it�s so ghastly�ho!�er! oh!� �you know you can�t drink,� she said to him, coldly. �i tell you it isn�t drink�it�s your disgusting behaviour, pussum, it�s nothing else. oh, how awful! libidnikov, do let us go.� �he�s only drunk one glass�only one glass,� came the rapid, hushed voice of the young russian. they all moved off to the door. the girl kept near to gerald, and seemed to be at one in her motion with him. he was aware of this, and filled with demon-satisfaction that his motion held good for two. he held her in the hollow of his will, and she was soft, secret, invisible in her stirring there. they crowded five of them into the taxi-cab. halliday lurched in first, and dropped into his seat against the other window. then the pussum took her place, and gerald sat next to her. they heard the young russian giving orders to the driver, then they were all seated in the dark, crowded close together, halliday groaning and leaning out of the window. they felt the swift, muffled motion of the car. the pussum sat near to gerald, and she seemed to become soft, subtly to infuse herself into his bones, as if she were passing into him in a black, electric flow. her being suffused into his veins like a magnetic darkness, and concentrated at the base of his spine like a fearful source of power. meanwhile her voice sounded out reedy and nonchalant, as she talked indifferently with birkin and with maxim. between her and gerald was this silence and this black, electric comprehension in the darkness. then she found his hand, and grasped it in her own firm, small clasp. it was so utterly dark, and yet such a naked statement, that rapid vibrations ran through his blood and over his brain, he was no longer responsible. still her voice rang on like a bell, tinged with a tone of mockery. and as she swung her head, her fine mane of hair just swept his face, and all his nerves were on fire, as with a subtle friction of electricity. but the great centre of his force held steady, a magnificent pride to him, at the base of his spine. they arrived at a large block of buildings, went up in a lift, and presently a door was being opened for them by a hindu. gerald looked in surprise, wondering if he were a gentleman, one of the hindus down from oxford, perhaps. but no, he was the man-servant. �make tea, hasan,� said halliday. �there is a room for me?� said birkin. to both of which questions the man grinned, and murmured. he made gerald uncertain, because, being tall and slender and reticent, he looked like a gentleman. �who is your servant?� he asked of halliday. �he looks a swell.� �oh yes�that�s because he�s dressed in another man�s clothes. he�s anything but a swell, really. we found him in the road, starving. so i took him here, and another man gave him clothes. he�s anything but what he seems to be�his only advantage is that he can�t speak english and can�t understand it, so he�s perfectly safe.� �he�s very dirty,� said the young russian swiftly and silently. directly, the man appeared in the doorway. �what is it?� said halliday. the hindu grinned, and murmured shyly: �want to speak to master.� gerald watched curiously. the fellow in the doorway was goodlooking and clean-limbed, his bearing was calm, he looked elegant, aristocratic. yet he was half a savage, grinning foolishly. halliday went out into the corridor to speak with him. �what?� they heard his voice. �what? what do you say? tell me again. what? want money? want _more_ money? but what do you want money for?� there was the confused sound of the hindu�s talking, then halliday appeared in the room, smiling also foolishly, and saying: �he says he wants money to buy underclothing. can anybody lend me a shilling? oh thanks, a shilling will do to buy all the underclothes he wants.� he took the money from gerald and went out into the passage again, where they heard him saying, �you can�t want more money, you had three and six yesterday. you mustn�t ask for any more. bring the tea in quickly.� gerald looked round the room. it was an ordinary london sitting-room in a flat, evidently taken furnished, rather common and ugly. but there were several negro statues, wood-carvings from west africa, strange and disturbing, the carved negroes looked almost like the f�tus of a human being. one was a woman sitting naked in a strange posture, and looking tortured, her abdomen stuck out. the young russian explained that she was sitting in child-birth, clutching the ends of the band that hung from her neck, one in each hand, so that she could bear down, and help labour. the strange, transfixed, rudimentary face of the woman again reminded gerald of a f�tus, it was also rather wonderful, conveying the suggestion of the extreme of physical sensation, beyond the limits of mental consciousness. �aren�t they rather obscene?� he asked, disapproving. �i don�t know,� murmured the other rapidly. �i have never defined the obscene. i think they are very good.� gerald turned away. there were one or two new pictures in the room, in the futurist manner; there was a large piano. and these, with some ordinary london lodging-house furniture of the better sort, completed the whole. the pussum had taken off her hat and coat, and was seated on the sofa. she was evidently quite at home in the house, but uncertain, suspended. she did not quite know her position. her alliance for the time being was with gerald, and she did not know how far this was admitted by any of the men. she was considering how she should carry off the situation. she was determined to have her experience. now, at this eleventh hour, she was not to be baulked. her face was flushed as with battle, her eye was brooding but inevitable. the man came in with tea and a bottle of kümmel. he set the tray on a little table before the couch. �pussum,� said halliday, �pour out the tea.� she did not move. �won�t you do it?� halliday repeated, in a state of nervous apprehension. �i�ve not come back here as it was before,� she said. �i only came because the others wanted me to, not for your sake.� �my dear pussum, you know you are your own mistress. i don�t want you to do anything but use the flat for your own convenience�you know it, i�ve told you so many times.� she did not reply, but silently, reservedly reached for the tea-pot. they all sat round and drank tea. gerald could feel the electric connection between him and her so strongly, as she sat there quiet and withheld, that another set of conditions altogether had come to pass. her silence and her immutability perplexed him. _how_ was he going to come to her? and yet he felt it quite inevitable. he trusted completely to the current that held them. his perplexity was only superficial, new conditions reigned, the old were surpassed; here one did as one was possessed to do, no matter what it was. birkin rose. it was nearly one o�clock. �i�m going to bed,� he said. �gerald, i�ll ring you up in the morning at your place or you ring me up here.� �right,� said gerald, and birkin went out. when he was well gone, halliday said in a stimulated voice, to gerald: �i say, won�t you stay here�oh do!� �you can�t put everybody up,� said gerald. �oh but i can, perfectly�there are three more beds besides mine�do stay, won�t you. everything is quite ready�there is always somebody here�i always put people up�i love having the house crowded.� �but there are only two rooms,� said the pussum, in a cold, hostile voice, �now rupert�s here.� �i know there are only two rooms,� said halliday, in his odd, high way of speaking. �but what does that matter?� he was smiling rather foolishly, and he spoke eagerly, with an insinuating determination. �julius and i will share one room,� said the russian in his discreet, precise voice. halliday and he were friends since eton. �it�s very simple,� said gerald, rising and pressing back his arms, stretching himself. then he went again to look at one of the pictures. every one of his limbs was turgid with electric force, and his back was tense like a tiger�s, with slumbering fire. he was very proud. the pussum rose. she gave a black look at halliday, black and deadly, which brought the rather foolishly pleased smile to that young man�s face. then she went out of the room, with a cold good-night to them all generally. there was a brief interval, they heard a door close, then maxim said, in his refined voice: �that�s all right.� he looked significantly at gerald, and said again, with a silent nod: �that�s all right�you�re all right.� gerald looked at the smooth, ruddy, comely face, and at the strange, significant eyes, and it seemed as if the voice of the young russian, so small and perfect, sounded in the blood rather than in the air. �_i�m_ all right then,� said gerald. �yes! yes! you�re all right,� said the russian. halliday continued to smile, and to say nothing. suddenly the pussum appeared again in the door, her small, childish face looking sullen and vindictive. �i know you want to catch me out,� came her cold, rather resonant voice. �but i don�t care, i don�t care how much you catch me out.� she turned and was gone again. she had been wearing a loose dressing-gown of purple silk, tied round her waist. she looked so small and childish and vulnerable, almost pitiful. and yet the black looks of her eyes made gerald feel drowned in some potent darkness that almost frightened him. the men lit another cigarette and talked casually. chapter vii. fetish in the morning gerald woke late. he had slept heavily. pussum was still asleep, sleeping childishly and pathetically. there was something small and curled up and defenceless about her, that roused an unsatisfied flame of passion in the young man�s blood, a devouring avid pity. he looked at her again. but it would be too cruel to wake her. he subdued himself, and went away. hearing voices coming from the sitting-room, halliday talking to libidnikov, he went to the door and glanced in. he had on a silk wrap of a beautiful bluish colour, with an amethyst hem. to his surprise he saw the two young men by the fire, stark naked. halliday looked up, rather pleased. �good-morning,� he said. �oh�did you want towels?� and stark naked he went out into the hall, striding a strange, white figure between the unliving furniture. he came back with the towels, and took his former position, crouching seated before the fire on the fender. �don�t you love to feel the fire on your skin?� he said. �it _is_ rather pleasant,� said gerald. �how perfectly splendid it must be to be in a climate where one could do without clothing altogether,� said halliday. �yes,� said gerald, �if there weren�t so many things that sting and bite.� �that�s a disadvantage,� murmured maxim. gerald looked at him, and with a slight revulsion saw the human animal, golden skinned and bare, somehow humiliating. halliday was different. he had a rather heavy, slack, broken beauty, white and firm. he was like a christ in a pietà. the animal was not there at all, only the heavy, broken beauty. and gerald realised how halliday�s eyes were beautiful too, so blue and warm and confused, broken also in their expression. the fireglow fell on his heavy, rather bowed shoulders, he sat slackly crouched on the fender, his face was uplifted, weak, perhaps slightly disintegrate, and yet with a moving beauty of its own. �of course,� said maxim, �you�ve been in hot countries where the people go about naked.� �oh really!� exclaimed halliday. �where?� �south america�amazon,� said gerald. �oh but how perfectly splendid! it�s one of the things i want most to do�to live from day to day without _ever_ putting on any sort of clothing whatever. if i could do that, i should feel i had lived.� �but why?� said gerald. �i can�t see that it makes so much difference.� �oh, i think it would be perfectly splendid. i�m sure life would be entirely another thing�entirely different, and perfectly wonderful.� �but why?� asked gerald. �why should it?� �oh�one would _feel_ things instead of merely looking at them. i should feel the air move against me, and feel the things i touched, instead of having only to look at them. i�m sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual�we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. i�m sure that is entirely wrong.� �yes, that is true, that is true,� said the russian. gerald glanced at him, and saw him, his suave, golden coloured body with the black hair growing fine and freely, like tendrils, and his limbs like smooth plant-stems. he was so healthy and well-made, why did he make one ashamed, why did one feel repelled? why should gerald even dislike it, why did it seem to him to detract from his own dignity. was that all a human being amounted to? so uninspired! thought gerald. birkin suddenly appeared in the doorway, in white pyjamas and wet hair, and a towel over his arm. he was aloof and white, and somehow evanescent. �there�s the bath-room now, if you want it,� he said generally, and was going away again, when gerald called: �i say, rupert!� �what?� the single white figure appeared again, a presence in the room. �what do you think of that figure there? i want to know,� gerald asked. birkin, white and strangely ghostly, went over to the carved figure of the negro woman in labour. her nude, protuberant body crouched in a strange, clutching posture, her hands gripping the ends of the band, above her breast. �it is art,� said birkin. �very beautiful, it�s very beautiful,� said the russian. they all drew near to look. gerald looked at the group of men, the russian golden and like a water-plant, halliday tall and heavily, brokenly beautiful, birkin very white and indefinite, not to be assigned, as he looked closely at the carven woman. strangely elated, gerald also lifted his eyes to the face of the wooden figure. and his heart contracted. he saw vividly with his spirit the grey, forward-stretching face of the negro woman, african and tense, abstracted in utter physical stress. it was a terrible face, void, peaked, abstracted almost into meaninglessness by the weight of sensation beneath. he saw the pussum in it. as in a dream, he knew her. �why is it art?� gerald asked, shocked, resentful. �it conveys a complete truth,� said birkin. �it contains the whole truth of that state, whatever you feel about it.� �but you can�t call it _high_ art,� said gerald. �high! there are centuries and hundreds of centuries of development in a straight line, behind that carving; it is an awful pitch of culture, of a definite sort.� �what culture?� gerald asked, in opposition. he hated the sheer african thing. �pure culture in sensation, culture in the physical consciousness, really ultimate _physical_ consciousness, mindless, utterly sensual. it is so sensual as to be final, supreme.� but gerald resented it. he wanted to keep certain illusions, certain ideas like clothing. �you like the wrong things, rupert,� he said, �things against yourself.� �oh, i know, this isn�t everything,� birkin replied, moving away. when gerald went back to his room from the bath, he also carried his clothes. he was so conventional at home, that when he was really away, and on the loose, as now, he enjoyed nothing so much as full outrageousness. so he strode with his blue silk wrap over his arm and felt defiant. the pussum lay in her bed, motionless, her round, dark eyes like black, unhappy pools. he could only see the black, bottomless pools of her eyes. perhaps she suffered. the sensation of her inchoate suffering roused the old sharp flame in him, a mordant pity, a passion almost of cruelty. �you are awake now,� he said to her. �what time is it?� came her muted voice. she seemed to flow back, almost like liquid, from his approach, to sink helplessly away from him. her inchoate look of a violated slave, whose fulfilment lies in her further and further violation, made his nerves quiver with acutely desirable sensation. after all, his was the only will, she was the passive substance of his will. he tingled with the subtle, biting sensation. and then he knew, he must go away from her, there must be pure separation between them. it was a quiet and ordinary breakfast, the four men all looking very clean and bathed. gerald and the russian were both correct and _comme il faut_ in appearance and manner, birkin was gaunt and sick, and looked a failure in his attempt to be a properly dressed man, like gerald and maxim. halliday wore tweeds and a green flannel shirt, and a rag of a tie, which was just right for him. the hindu brought in a great deal of soft toast, and looked exactly the same as he had looked the night before, statically the same. at the end of the breakfast the pussum appeared, in a purple silk wrap with a shimmering sash. she had recovered herself somewhat, but was mute and lifeless still. it was a torment to her when anybody spoke to her. her face was like a small, fine mask, sinister too, masked with unwilling suffering. it was almost midday. gerald rose and went away to his business, glad to get out. but he had not finished. he was coming back again at evening, they were all dining together, and he had booked seats for the party, excepting birkin, at a music-hall. at night they came back to the flat very late again, again flushed with drink. again the man-servant�who invariably disappeared between the hours of ten and twelve at night�came in silently and inscrutably with tea, bending in a slow, strange, leopard-like fashion to put the tray softly on the table. his face was immutable, aristocratic-looking, tinged slightly with grey under the skin; he was young and good-looking. but birkin felt a slight sickness, looking at him, and feeling the slight greyness as an ash or a corruption, in the aristocratic inscrutability of expression a nauseating, bestial stupidity. again they talked cordially and rousedly together. but already a certain friability was coming over the party, birkin was mad with irritation, halliday was turning in an insane hatred against gerald, the pussum was becoming hard and cold, like a flint knife, and halliday was laying himself out to her. and her intention, ultimately, was to capture halliday, to have complete power over him. in the morning they all stalked and lounged about again. but gerald could feel a strange hostility to himself, in the air. it roused his obstinacy, and he stood up against it. he hung on for two more days. the result was a nasty and insane scene with halliday on the fourth evening. halliday turned with absurd animosity upon gerald, in the café. there was a row. gerald was on the point of knocking-in halliday�s face; when he was filled with sudden disgust and indifference, and he went away, leaving halliday in a foolish state of gloating triumph, the pussum hard and established, and maxim standing clear. birkin was absent, he had gone out of town again. gerald was piqued because he had left without giving the pussum money. it was true, she did not care whether he gave her money or not, and he knew it. but she would have been glad of ten pounds, and he would have been _very_ glad to give them to her. now he felt in a false position. he went away chewing his lips to get at the ends of his short clipped moustache. he knew the pussum was merely glad to be rid of him. she had got her halliday whom she wanted. she wanted him completely in her power. then she would marry him. she wanted to marry him. she had set her will on marrying halliday. she never wanted to hear of gerald again; unless, perhaps, she were in difficulty; because after all, gerald was what she called a man, and these others, halliday, libidnikov, birkin, the whole bohemian set, they were only half men. but it was half men she could deal with. she felt sure of herself with them. the real men, like gerald, put her in her place too much. still, she respected gerald, she really respected him. she had managed to get his address, so that she could appeal to him in time of distress. she knew he wanted to give her money. she would perhaps write to him on that inevitable rainy day. chapter viii. breadalby breadalby was a georgian house with corinthian pillars, standing among the softer, greener hills of derbyshire, not far from cromford. in front, it looked over a lawn, over a few trees, down to a string of fish-ponds in the hollow of the silent park. at the back were trees, among which were to be found the stables, and the big kitchen garden, behind which was a wood. it was a very quiet place, some miles from the high-road, back from the derwent valley, outside the show scenery. silent and forsaken, the golden stucco showed between the trees, the house-front looked down the park, unchanged and unchanging. of late, however, hermione had lived a good deal at the house. she had turned away from london, away from oxford, towards the silence of the country. her father was mostly absent, abroad, she was either alone in the house, with her visitors, of whom there were always several, or she had with her her brother, a bachelor, and a liberal member of parliament. he always came down when the house was not sitting, seemed always to be present in breadalby, although he was most conscientious in his attendance to duty. the summer was just coming in when ursula and gudrun went to stay the second time with hermione. coming along in the car, after they had entered the park, they looked across the dip, where the fish-ponds lay in silence, at the pillared front of the house, sunny and small like an english drawing of the old school, on the brow of the green hill, against the trees. there were small figures on the green lawn, women in lavender and yellow moving to the shade of the enormous, beautifully balanced cedar tree. �isn�t it complete!� said gudrun. �it is as final as an old aquatint.� she spoke with some resentment in her voice, as if she were captivated unwillingly, as if she must admire against her will. �do you love it?� asked ursula. �i don�t _love_ it, but in its way, i think it is quite complete.� the motor-car ran down the hill and up again in one breath, and they were curving to the side door. a parlour-maid appeared, and then hermione, coming forward with her pale face lifted, and her hands outstretched, advancing straight to the newcomers, her voice singing: �here you are�i�m so glad to see you�� she kissed gudrun��so glad to see you�� she kissed ursula and remained with her arm round her. �are you very tired?� �not at all tired,� said ursula. �are you tired, gudrun?� �not at all, thanks,� said gudrun. �no�� drawled hermione. and she stood and looked at them. the two girls were embarrassed because she would not move into the house, but must have her little scene of welcome there on the path. the servants waited. �come in,� said hermione at last, having fully taken in the pair of them. gudrun was the more beautiful and attractive, she had decided again, ursula was more physical, more womanly. she admired gudrun�s dress more. it was of green poplin, with a loose coat above it, of broad, dark-green and dark-brown stripes. the hat was of a pale, greenish straw, the colour of new hay, and it had a plaited ribbon of black and orange, the stockings were dark green, the shoes black. it was a good get-up, at once fashionable and individual. ursula, in dark blue, was more ordinary, though she also looked well. hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beads and coral coloured stockings. but her dress was both shabby and soiled, even rather dirty. �you would like to see your rooms now, wouldn�t you! yes. we will go up now, shall we?� ursula was glad when she could be left alone in her room. hermione lingered so long, made such a stress on one. she stood so near to one, pressing herself near upon one, in a way that was most embarrassing and oppressive. she seemed to hinder one�s workings. lunch was served on the lawn, under the great tree, whose thick, blackish boughs came down close to the grass. there were present a young italian woman, slight and fashionable, a young, athletic-looking miss bradley, a learned, dry baronet of fifty, who was always making witticisms and laughing at them heartily in a harsh, horse-laugh, there was rupert birkin, and then a woman secretary, a fräulein märz, young and slim and pretty. the food was very good, that was one thing. gudrun, critical of everything, gave it her full approval. ursula loved the situation, the white table by the cedar tree, the scent of new sunshine, the little vision of the leafy park, with far-off deer feeding peacefully. there seemed a magic circle drawn about the place, shutting out the present, enclosing the delightful, precious past, trees and deer and silence, like a dream. but in spirit she was unhappy. the talk went on like a rattle of small artillery, always slightly sententious, with a sententiousness that was only emphasised by the continual crackling of a witticism, the continual spatter of verbal jest, designed to give a tone of flippancy to a stream of conversation that was all critical and general, a canal of conversation rather than a stream. the attitude was mental and very wearying. only the elderly sociologist, whose mental fibre was so tough as to be insentient, seemed to be thoroughly happy. birkin was down in the mouth. hermione appeared, with amazing persistence, to wish to ridicule him and make him look ignominious in the eyes of everybody. and it was surprising how she seemed to succeed, how helpless he seemed against her. he looked completely insignificant. ursula and gudrun, both very unused, were mostly silent, listening to the slow, rhapsodic sing-song of hermione, or the verbal sallies of sir joshua, or the prattle of fräulein, or the responses of the other two women. luncheon was over, coffee was brought out on the grass, the party left the table and sat about in lounge chairs, in the shade or in the sunshine as they wished. fräulein departed into the house, hermione took up her embroidery, the little contessa took a book, miss bradley was weaving a basket out of fine grass, and there they all were on the lawn in the early summer afternoon, working leisurely and spattering with half-intellectual, deliberate talk. suddenly there was the sound of the brakes and the shutting off of a motor-car. �there�s salsie!� sang hermione, in her slow, amusing sing-song. and laying down her work, she rose slowly, and slowly passed over the lawn, round the bushes, out of sight. �who is it?� asked gudrun. �mr roddice�miss roddice�s brother�at least, i suppose it�s he,� said sir joshua. �salsie, yes, it is her brother,� said the little contessa, lifting her head for a moment from her book, and speaking as if to give information, in her slightly deepened, guttural english. they all waited. and then round the bushes came the tall form of alexander roddice, striding romantically like a meredith hero who remembers disraeli. he was cordial with everybody, he was at once a host, with an easy, offhand hospitality that he had learned for hermione�s friends. he had just come down from london, from the house. at once the atmosphere of the house of commons made itself felt over the lawn: the home secretary had said such and such a thing, and he, roddice, on the other hand, thought such and such a thing, and had said so-and-so to the pm. now hermione came round the bushes with gerald crich. he had come along with alexander. gerald was presented to everybody, was kept by hermione for a few moments in full view, then he was led away, still by hermione. he was evidently her guest of the moment. there had been a split in the cabinet; the minister for education had resigned owing to adverse criticism. this started a conversation on education. �of course,� said hermione, lifting her face like a rhapsodist, �there _can_ be no reason, no _excuse_ for education, except the joy and beauty of knowledge in itself.� she seemed to rumble and ruminate with subterranean thoughts for a minute, then she proceeded: �vocational education _isn�t_ education, it is the close of education.� gerald, on the brink of discussion, sniffed the air with delight and prepared for action. �not necessarily,� he said. �but isn�t education really like gymnastics, isn�t the end of education the production of a well-trained, vigorous, energetic mind?� �just as athletics produce a healthy body, ready for anything,� cried miss bradley, in hearty accord. gudrun looked at her in silent loathing. �well�� rumbled hermione, �i don�t know. to me the pleasure of knowing is so great, so _wonderful_�nothing has meant so much to me in all life, as certain knowledge�no, i am sure�nothing.� �what knowledge, for example, hermione?� asked alexander. hermione lifted her face and rumbled� �m�m�m�i don�t know . . . but one thing was the stars, when i really understood something about the stars. one feels so _uplifted_, so _unbounded_ . . .� birkin looked at her in a white fury. �what do you want to feel unbounded for?� he said sarcastically. �you don�t want to _be_ unbounded.� hermione recoiled in offence. �yes, but one does have that limitless feeling,� said gerald. �it�s like getting on top of the mountain and seeing the pacific.� �silent upon a peak in dariayn,� murmured the italian, lifting her face for a moment from her book. �not necessarily in dariayn,� said gerald, while ursula began to laugh. hermione waited for the dust to settle, and then she said, untouched: �yes, it is the greatest thing in life�_to know_. it is really to be happy, to be _free_.� �knowledge is, of course, liberty,� said mattheson. �in compressed tabloids,� said birkin, looking at the dry, stiff little body of the baronet. immediately gudrun saw the famous sociologist as a flat bottle, containing tabloids of compressed liberty. that pleased her. sir joshua was labelled and placed forever in her mind. �what does that mean, rupert?� sang hermione, in a calm snub. �you can only have knowledge, strictly,� he replied, �of things concluded, in the past. it�s like bottling the liberty of last summer in the bottled gooseberries.� �_can_ one have knowledge only of the past?� asked the baronet, pointedly. �could we call our knowledge of the laws of gravitation for instance, knowledge of the past?� �yes,� said birkin. �there is a most beautiful thing in my book,� suddenly piped the little italian woman. �it says the man came to the door and threw his eyes down the street.� there was a general laugh in the company. miss bradley went and looked over the shoulder of the contessa. �see!� said the contessa. �bazarov came to the door and threw his eyes hurriedly down the street,� she read. again there was a loud laugh, the most startling of which was the baronet�s, which rattled out like a clatter of falling stones. �what is the book?� asked alexander, promptly. �fathers and sons, by turgenev,� said the little foreigner, pronouncing every syllable distinctly. she looked at the cover, to verify herself. �an old american edition,� said birkin. �ha!�of course�translated from the french,� said alexander, with a fine declamatory voice. �_bazarov ouvra la porte et jeta les yeux dans la rue._� he looked brightly round the company. �i wonder what the �hurriedly� was,� said ursula. they all began to guess. and then, to the amazement of everybody, the maid came hurrying with a large tea-tray. the afternoon had passed so swiftly. after tea, they were all gathered for a walk. �would you like to come for a walk?� said hermione to each of them, one by one. and they all said yes, feeling somehow like prisoners marshalled for exercise. birkin only refused. �will you come for a walk, rupert?� �no, hermione.� �but are you _sure?_� �quite sure.� there was a second�s hesitation. �and why not?� sang hermione�s question. it made her blood run sharp, to be thwarted in even so trifling a matter. she intended them all to walk with her in the park. �because i don�t like trooping off in a gang,� he said. her voice rumbled in her throat for a moment. then she said, with a curious stray calm: �then we�ll leave a little boy behind, if he�s sulky.� and she looked really gay, while she insulted him. but it merely made him stiff. she trailed off to the rest of the company, only turning to wave her handkerchief to him, and to chuckle with laughter, singing out: �good-bye, good-bye, little boy.� �good-bye, impudent hag,� he said to himself. they all went through the park. hermione wanted to show them the wild daffodils on a little slope. �this way, this way,� sang her leisurely voice at intervals. and they had all to come this way. the daffodils were pretty, but who could see them? ursula was stiff all over with resentment by this time, resentment of the whole atmosphere. gudrun, mocking and objective, watched and registered everything. they looked at the shy deer, and hermione talked to the stag, as if he too were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. he was male, so she must exert some kind of power over him. they trailed home by the fish-ponds, and hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans, who had striven for the love of the one lady. she chuckled and laughed as she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel. when they arrived back at the house, hermione stood on the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far: �rupert! rupert!� the first syllable was high and slow, the second dropped down. �roo-o-opert.� but there was no answer. a maid appeared. �where is mr birkin, alice?� asked the mild straying voice of hermione. but under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane _will!_ �i think he�s in his room, madam.� �is he?� hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out in her high, small call: �ru-oo-pert! ru-oo pert!� she came to his door, and tapped, still crying: �roo-pert.� �yes,� sounded his voice at last. �what are you doing?� the question was mild and curious. there was no answer. then he opened the door. �we�ve come back,� said hermione. �the daffodils are _so_ beautiful.� �yes,� he said, �i�ve seen them.� she looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look, along her cheeks. �have you?� she echoed. and she remained looking at him. she was stimulated above all things by this conflict with him, when he was like a sulky boy, helpless, and she had him safe at breadalby. but underneath she knew the split was coming, and her hatred of him was subconscious and intense. �what were you doing?� she reiterated, in her mild, indifferent tone. he did not answer, and she made her way, almost unconsciously into his room. he had taken a chinese drawing of geese from the boudoir, and was copying it, with much skill and vividness. �you are copying the drawing,� she said, standing near the table, and looking down at his work. �yes. how beautifully you do it! you like it very much, don�t you?� �it�s a marvellous drawing,� he said. �is it? i�m so glad you like it, because i�ve always been fond of it. the chinese ambassador gave it me.� �i know,� he said. �but why do you copy it?� she asked, casual and sing-song. �why not do something original?� �i want to know it,� he replied. �one gets more of china, copying this picture, than reading all the books.� �and what do you get?� she was at once roused, she laid as it were violent hands on him, to extract his secrets from him. she _must_ know. it was a dreadful tyranny, an obsession in her, to know all he knew. for some time he was silent, hating to answer her. then, compelled, he began: �i know what centres they live from�what they perceive and feel�the hot, stinging centrality of a goose in the flux of cold water and mud�the curious bitter stinging heat of a goose�s blood, entering their own blood like an inoculation of corruptive fire�fire of the cold-burning mud�the lotus mystery.� hermione looked at him along her narrow, pallid cheeks. her eyes were strange and drugged, heavy under their heavy, drooping lids. her thin bosom shrugged convulsively. he stared back at her, devilish and unchanging. with another strange, sick convulsion, she turned away, as if she were sick, could feel dissolution setting-in in her body. for with her mind she was unable to attend to his words, he caught her, as it were, beneath all her defences, and destroyed her with some insidious occult potency. �yes,� she said, as if she did not know what she were saying. �yes,� and she swallowed, and tried to regain her mind. but she could not, she was witless, decentralised. use all her will as she might, she could not recover. she suffered the ghastliness of dissolution, broken and gone in a horrible corruption. and he stood and looked at her unmoved. she strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a ghost, like one attacked by the tomb-influences which dog us. and she was gone like a corpse, that has no presence, no connection. he remained hard and vindictive. hermione came down to dinner strange and sepulchral, her eyes heavy and full of sepulchral darkness, strength. she had put on a dress of stiff old greenish brocade, that fitted tight and made her look tall and rather terrible, ghastly. in the gay light of the drawing-room she was uncanny and oppressive. but seated in the half-light of the dining-room, sitting stiffly before the shaded candles on the table, she seemed a power, a presence. she listened and attended with a drugged attention. the party was gay and extravagant in appearance, everybody had put on evening dress except birkin and joshua mattheson. the little italian contessa wore a dress of tissue, of orange and gold and black velvet in soft wide stripes, gudrun was emerald green with strange net-work, ursula was in yellow with dull silver veiling, miss bradley was of grey, crimson and jet, fräulein märz wore pale blue. it gave hermione a sudden convulsive sensation of pleasure, to see these rich colours under the candle-light. she was aware of the talk going on, ceaselessly, joshua�s voice dominating; of the ceaseless pitter-patter of women�s light laughter and responses; of the brilliant colours and the white table and the shadow above and below; and she seemed in a swoon of gratification, convulsed with pleasure and yet sick, like a _revenant_. she took very little part in the conversation, yet she heard it all, it was all hers. they all went together into the drawing-room, as if they were one family, easily, without any attention to ceremony. fräulein handed the coffee, everybody smoked cigarettes, or else long warden pipes of white clay, of which a sheaf was provided. �will you smoke?�cigarettes or pipe?� asked fräulein prettily. there was a circle of people, sir joshua with his eighteenth-century appearance, gerald the amused, handsome young englishman, alexander tall and the handsome politician, democratic and lucid, hermione strange like a long cassandra, and the women lurid with colour, all dutifully smoking their long white pipes, and sitting in a half-moon in the comfortable, soft-lighted drawing-room, round the logs that flickered on the marble hearth. the talk was very often political or sociological, and interesting, curiously anarchistic. there was an accumulation of powerful force in the room, powerful and destructive. everything seemed to be thrown into the melting pot, and it seemed to ursula they were all witches, helping the pot to bubble. there was an elation and a satisfaction in it all, but it was cruelly exhausting for the newcomers, this ruthless mental pressure, this powerful, consuming, destructive mentality that emanated from joshua and hermione and birkin and dominated the rest. but a sickness, a fearful nausea gathered possession of hermione. there was a lull in the talk, as it was arrested by her unconscious but all-powerful will. �salsie, won�t you play something?� said hermione, breaking off completely. �won�t somebody dance? gudrun, you will dance, won�t you? i wish you would. _anche tu, palestra, ballerai?�sì, per piacere._ you too, ursula.� hermione rose and slowly pulled the gold-embroidered band that hung by the mantel, clinging to it for a moment, then releasing it suddenly. like a priestess she looked, unconscious, sunk in a heavy half-trance. a servant came, and soon reappeared with armfuls of silk robes and shawls and scarves, mostly oriental, things that hermione, with her love for beautiful extravagant dress, had collected gradually. �the three women will dance together,� she said. �what shall it be?� asked alexander, rising briskly. �_vergini delle rocchette_,� said the contessa at once. �they are so languid,� said ursula. �the three witches from macbeth,� suggested fräulein usefully. it was finally decided to do naomi and ruth and orpah. ursula was naomi, gudrun was ruth, the contessa was orpah. the idea was to make a little ballet, in the style of the russian ballet of pavlova and nijinsky. the contessa was ready first, alexander went to the piano, a space was cleared. orpah, in beautiful oriental clothes, began slowly to dance the death of her husband. then ruth came, and they wept together, and lamented, then naomi came to comfort them. it was all done in dumb show, the women danced their emotion in gesture and motion. the little drama went on for a quarter of an hour. ursula was beautiful as naomi. all her men were dead, it remained to her only to stand alone in indomitable assertion, demanding nothing. ruth, woman-loving, loved her. orpah, a vivid, sensational, subtle widow, would go back to the former life, a repetition. the interplay between the women was real and rather frightening. it was strange to see how gudrun clung with heavy, desperate passion to ursula, yet smiled with subtle malevolence against her, how ursula accepted silently, unable to provide any more either for herself or for the other, but dangerous and indomitable, refuting her grief. hermione loved to watch. she could see the contessa�s rapid, stoat-like sensationalism, gudrun�s ultimate but treacherous cleaving to the woman in her sister, ursula�s dangerous helplessness, as if she were helplessly weighted, and unreleased. �that was very beautiful,� everybody cried with one accord. but hermione writhed in her soul, knowing what she could not know. she cried out for more dancing, and it was her will that set the contessa and birkin moving mockingly in malbrouk. gerald was excited by the desperate cleaving of gudrun to naomi. the essence of that female, subterranean recklessness and mockery penetrated his blood. he could not forget gudrun�s lifted, offered, cleaving, reckless, yet withal mocking weight. and birkin, watching like a hermit crab from its hole, had seen the brilliant frustration and helplessness of ursula. she was rich, full of dangerous power. she was like a strange unconscious bud of powerful womanhood. he was unconsciously drawn to her. she was his future. alexander played some hungarian music, and they all danced, seized by the spirit. gerald was marvellously exhilarated at finding himself in motion, moving towards gudrun, dancing with feet that could not yet escape from the waltz and the two-step, but feeling his force stir along his limbs and his body, out of captivity. he did not know yet how to dance their convulsive, rag-time sort of dancing, but he knew how to begin. birkin, when he could get free from the weight of the people present, whom he disliked, danced rapidly and with a real gaiety. and how hermione hated him for this irresponsible gaiety. �now i see,� cried the contessa excitedly, watching his purely gay motion, which he had all to himself. �mr birkin, he is a changer.� hermione looked at her slowly, and shuddered, knowing that only a foreigner could have seen and have said this. �_cosa vuol�dire, palestra?_� she asked, sing-song. �look,� said the contessa, in italian. �he is not a man, he is a chameleon, a creature of change.� �he is not a man, he is treacherous, not one of us,� said itself over in hermione�s consciousness. and her soul writhed in the black subjugation to him, because of his power to escape, to exist, other than she did, because he was not consistent, not a man, less than a man. she hated him in a despair that shattered her and broke her down, so that she suffered sheer dissolution like a corpse, and was unconscious of everything save the horrible sickness of dissolution that was taking place within her, body and soul. the house being full, gerald was given the smaller room, really the dressing-room, communicating with birkin�s bedroom. when they all took their candles and mounted the stairs, where the lamps were burning subduedly, hermione captured ursula and brought her into her own bedroom, to talk to her. a sort of constraint came over ursula in the big, strange bedroom. hermione seemed to be bearing down on her, awful and inchoate, making some appeal. they were looking at some indian silk shirts, gorgeous and sensual in themselves, their shape, their almost corrupt gorgeousness. and hermione came near, and her bosom writhed, and ursula was for a moment blank with panic. and for a moment hermione�s haggard eyes saw the fear on the face of the other, there was again a sort of crash, a crashing down. and ursula picked up a shirt of rich red and blue silk, made for a young princess of fourteen, and was crying mechanically: �isn�t it wonderful�who would dare to put those two strong colours together�� then hermione�s maid entered silently and ursula, overcome with dread, escaped, carried away by powerful impulse. birkin went straight to bed. he was feeling happy, and sleepy. since he had danced he was happy. but gerald would talk to him. gerald, in evening dress, sat on birkin�s bed when the other lay down, and must talk. �who are those two brangwens?� gerald asked. �they live in beldover.� �in beldover! who are they then?� �teachers in the grammar school.� there was a pause. �they are!� exclaimed gerald at length. �i thought i had seen them before.� �it disappoints you?� said birkin. �disappoints me! no�but how is it hermione has them here?� �she knew gudrun in london�that�s the younger one, the one with the darker hair�she�s an artist�does sculpture and modelling.� �she�s not a teacher in the grammar school, then�only the other?� �both�gudrun art mistress, ursula a class mistress.� �and what�s the father?� �handicraft instructor in the schools.� �really!� �class-barriers are breaking down!� gerald was always uneasy under the slightly jeering tone of the other. �that their father is handicraft instructor in a school! what does it matter to me?� birkin laughed. gerald looked at his face, as it lay there laughing and bitter and indifferent on the pillow, and he could not go away. �i don�t suppose you will see very much more of gudrun, at least. she is a restless bird, she�ll be gone in a week or two,� said birkin. �where will she go?� �london, paris, rome�heaven knows. i always expect her to sheer off to damascus or san francisco; she�s a bird of paradise. god knows what she�s got to do with beldover. it goes by contraries, like dreams.� gerald pondered for a few moments. �how do you know her so well?� he asked. �i knew her in london,� he replied, �in the algernon strange set. she�ll know about pussum and libidnikov and the rest�even if she doesn�t know them personally. she was never quite that set�more conventional, in a way. i�ve known her for two years, i suppose.� �and she makes money, apart from her teaching?� asked gerald. �some�irregularly. she can sell her models. she has a certain _réclame_.� �how much for?� �a guinea, ten guineas.� �and are they good? what are they?� �i think sometimes they are marvellously good. that is hers, those two wagtails in hermione�s boudoir�you�ve seen them�they are carved in wood and painted.� �i thought it was savage carving again.� �no, hers. that�s what they are�animals and birds, sometimes odd small people in everyday dress, really rather wonderful when they come off. they have a sort of funniness that is quite unconscious and subtle.� �she might be a well-known artist one day?� mused gerald. �she might. but i think she won�t. she drops her art if anything else catches her. her contrariness prevents her taking it seriously�she must never be too serious, she feels she might give herself away. and she won�t give herself away�she�s always on the defensive. that�s what i can�t stand about her type. by the way, how did things go off with pussum after i left you? i haven�t heard anything.� �oh, rather disgusting. halliday turned objectionable, and i only just saved myself from jumping in his stomach, in a real old-fashioned row.� birkin was silent. �of course,� he said, �julius is somewhat insane. on the one hand he�s had religious mania, and on the other, he is fascinated by obscenity. either he is a pure servant, washing the feet of christ, or else he is making obscene drawings of jesus�action and reaction�and between the two, nothing. he is really insane. he wants a pure lily, another girl, with a baby face, on the one hand, and on the other, he _must_ have the pussum, just to defile himself with her.� �that�s what i can�t make out,� said gerald. �does he love her, the pussum, or doesn�t he?� �he neither does nor doesn�t. she is the harlot, the actual harlot of adultery to him. and he�s got a craving to throw himself into the filth of her. then he gets up and calls on the name of the lily of purity, the baby-faced girl, and so enjoys himself all round. it�s the old story�action and reaction, and nothing between.� �i don�t know,� said gerald, after a pause, �that he does insult the pussum so very much. she strikes me as being rather foul.� �but i thought you liked her,� exclaimed birkin. �i always felt fond of her. i never had anything to do with her, personally, that�s true.� �i liked her all right, for a couple of days,� said gerald. �but a week of her would have turned me over. there�s a certain smell about the skin of those women, that in the end is sickening beyond words�even if you like it at first.� �i know,� said birkin. then he added, rather fretfully, �but go to bed, gerald. god knows what time it is.� gerald looked at his watch, and at length rose off the bed, and went to his room. but he returned in a few minutes, in his shirt. �one thing,� he said, seating himself on the bed again. �we finished up rather stormily, and i never had time to give her anything.� �money?� said birkin. �she�ll get what she wants from halliday or from one of her acquaintances.� �but then,� said gerald, �i�d rather give her her dues and settle the account.� �she doesn�t care.� �no, perhaps not. but one feels the account is left open, and one would rather it were closed.� �would you?� said birkin. he was looking at the white legs of gerald, as the latter sat on the side of the bed in his shirt. they were white-skinned, full, muscular legs, handsome and decided. yet they moved birkin with a sort of pathos, tenderness, as if they were childish. �i think i�d rather close the account,� said gerald, repeating himself vaguely. �it doesn�t matter one way or another,� said birkin. �you always say it doesn�t matter,� said gerald, a little puzzled, looking down at the face of the other man affectionately. �neither does it,� said birkin. �but she was a decent sort, really�� �render unto cæsarina the things that are cæsarina�s,� said birkin, turning aside. it seemed to him gerald was talking for the sake of talking. �go away, it wearies me�it�s too late at night,� he said. �i wish you�d tell me something that _did_ matter,� said gerald, looking down all the time at the face of the other man, waiting for something. but birkin turned his face aside. �all right then, go to sleep,� said gerald, and he laid his hand affectionately on the other man�s shoulder, and went away. in the morning when gerald awoke and heard birkin move, he called out: �i still think i ought to give the pussum ten pounds.� �oh god!� said birkin, �don�t be so matter-of-fact. close the account in your own soul, if you like. it is there you can�t close it.� �how do you know i can�t?� �knowing you.� gerald meditated for some moments. �it seems to me the right thing to do, you know, with the pussums, is to pay them.� �and the right thing for mistresses: keep them. and the right thing for wives: live under the same roof with them. _integer vitae scelerisque purus_�� said birkin. �there�s no need to be nasty about it,� said gerald. �it bores me. i�m not interested in your peccadilloes.� �and i don�t care whether you are or not�i am.� the morning was again sunny. the maid had been in and brought the water, and had drawn the curtains. birkin, sitting up in bed, looked lazily and pleasantly out on the park, that was so green and deserted, romantic, belonging to the past. he was thinking how lovely, how sure, how formed, how final all the things of the past were�the lovely accomplished past�this house, so still and golden, the park slumbering its centuries of peace. and then, what a snare and a delusion, this beauty of static things�what a horrible, dead prison breadalby really was, what an intolerable confinement, the peace! yet it was better than the sordid scrambling conflict of the present. if only one might create the future after one�s own heart�for a little pure truth, a little unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried out ceaselessly. �i can�t see what you will leave me at all, to be interested in,� came gerald�s voice from the lower room. �neither the pussums, nor the mines, nor anything else.� �you be interested in what you can, gerald. only i�m not interested myself,� said birkin. �what am i to do at all, then?� came gerald�s voice. �what you like. what am i to do myself?� in the silence birkin could feel gerald musing this fact. �i�m blest if i know,� came the good-humoured answer. �you see,� said birkin, �part of you wants the pussum, and nothing but the pussum, part of you wants the mines, the business, and nothing but the business�and there you are�all in bits�� �and part of me wants something else,� said gerald, in a queer, quiet, real voice. �what?� said birkin, rather surprised. �that�s what i hoped you could tell me,� said gerald. there was a silence for some time. �i can�t tell you�i can�t find my own way, let alone yours. you might marry,� birkin replied. �who�the pussum?� asked gerald. �perhaps,� said birkin. and he rose and went to the window. �that is your panacea,� said gerald. �but you haven�t even tried it on yourself yet, and you are sick enough.� �i am,� said birkin. �still, i shall come right.� �through marriage?� �yes,� birkin answered obstinately. �and no,� added gerald. �no, no, no, my boy.� there was a silence between them, and a strange tension of hostility. they always kept a gap, a distance between them, they wanted always to be free each of the other. yet there was a curious heart-straining towards each other. �_salvator femininus_,� said gerald, satirically. �why not?� said birkin. �no reason at all,� said gerald, �if it really works. but whom will you marry?� �a woman,� said birkin. �good,� said gerald. birkin and gerald were the last to come down to breakfast. hermione liked everybody to be early. she suffered when she felt her day was diminished, she felt she had missed her life. she seemed to grip the hours by the throat, to force her life from them. she was rather pale and ghastly, as if left behind, in the morning. yet she had her power, her will was strangely pervasive. with the entrance of the two young men a sudden tension was felt. she lifted her face, and said, in her amused sing-song: �good morning! did you sleep well? i�m so glad.� and she turned away, ignoring them. birkin, who knew her well, saw that she intended to discount his existence. �will you take what you want from the sideboard?� said alexander, in a voice slightly suggesting disapprobation. �i hope the things aren�t cold. oh no! do you mind putting out the flame under the chafing-dish, rupert? thank you.� even alexander was rather authoritative where hermione was cool. he took his tone from her, inevitably. birkin sat down and looked at the table. he was so used to this house, to this room, to this atmosphere, through years of intimacy, and now he felt in complete opposition to it all, it had nothing to do with him. how well he knew hermione, as she sat there, erect and silent and somewhat bemused, and yet so potent, so powerful! he knew her statically, so finally, that it was almost like a madness. it was difficult to believe one was not mad, that one was not a figure in the hall of kings in some egyptian tomb, where the dead all sat immemorial and tremendous. how utterly he knew joshua mattheson, who was talking in his harsh, yet rather mincing voice, endlessly, endlessly, always with a strong mentality working, always interesting, and yet always known, everything he said known beforehand, however novel it was, and clever. alexander the up-to-date host, so bloodlessly free-and-easy, fräulein so prettily chiming in just as she should, the little italian countess taking notice of everybody, only playing her little game, objective and cold, like a weasel watching everything, and extracting her own amusement, never giving herself in the slightest; then miss bradley, heavy and rather subservient, treated with cool, almost amused contempt by hermione, and therefore slighted by everybody�how known it all was, like a game with the figures set out, the same figures, the queen of chess, the knights, the pawns, the same now as they were hundreds of years ago, the same figures moving round in one of the innumerable permutations that make up the game. but the game is known, its going on is like a madness, it is so exhausted. there was gerald, an amused look on his face; the game pleased him. there was gudrun, watching with steady, large, hostile eyes; the game fascinated her, and she loathed it. there was ursula, with a slightly startled look on her face, as if she were hurt, and the pain were just outside her consciousness. suddenly birkin got up and went out. �that�s enough,� he said to himself involuntarily. hermione knew his motion, though not in her consciousness. she lifted her heavy eyes and saw him lapse suddenly away, on a sudden, unknown tide, and the waves broke over her. only her indomitable will remained static and mechanical, she sat at the table making her musing, stray remarks. but the darkness had covered her, she was like a ship that has gone down. it was finished for her too, she was wrecked in the darkness. yet the unfailing mechanism of her will worked on, she had that activity. �shall we bathe this morning?� she said, suddenly looking at them all. �splendid,� said joshua. �it is a perfect morning.� �oh, it is beautiful,� said fräulein. �yes, let us bathe,� said the italian woman. �we have no bathing suits,� said gerald. �have mine,� said alexander. �i must go to church and read the lessons. they expect me.� �are you a christian?� asked the italian countess, with sudden interest. �no,� said alexander. �i�m not. but i believe in keeping up the old institutions.� �they are so beautiful,� said fräulein daintily. �oh, they are,� cried miss bradley. they all trailed out on to the lawn. it was a sunny, soft morning in early summer, when life ran in the world subtly, like a reminiscence. the church bells were ringing a little way off, not a cloud was in the sky, the swans were like lilies on the water below, the peacocks walked with long, prancing steps across the shadow and into the sunshine of the grass. one wanted to swoon into the by-gone perfection of it all. �good-bye,� called alexander, waving his gloves cheerily, and he disappeared behind the bushes, on his way to church. �now,� said hermione, �shall we all bathe?� �i won�t,� said ursula. �you don�t want to?� said hermione, looking at her slowly. �no. i don�t want to,� said ursula. �nor i,� said gudrun. �what about my suit?� asked gerald. �i don�t know,� laughed hermione, with an odd, amused intonation. �will a handkerchief do�a large handkerchief?� �that will do,� said gerald. �come along then,� sang hermione. the first to run across the lawn was the little italian, small and like a cat, her white legs twinkling as she went, ducking slightly her head, that was tied in a gold silk kerchief. she tripped through the gate and down the grass, and stood, like a tiny figure of ivory and bronze, at the water�s edge, having dropped off her towelling, watching the swans, which came up in surprise. then out ran miss bradley, like a large, soft plum in her dark-blue suit. then gerald came, a scarlet silk kerchief round his loins, his towels over his arms. he seemed to flaunt himself a little in the sun, lingering and laughing, strolling easily, looking white but natural in his nakedness. then came sir joshua, in an overcoat, and lastly hermione, striding with stiff grace from out of a great mantle of purple silk, her head tied up in purple and gold. handsome was her stiff, long body, her straight-stepping white legs, there was a static magnificence about her as she let the cloak float loosely away from her striding. she crossed the lawn like some strange memory, and passed slowly and statelily towards the water. there were three ponds, in terraces descending the valley, large and smooth and beautiful, lying in the sun. the water ran over a little stone wall, over small rocks, splashing down from one pond to the level below. the swans had gone out on to the opposite bank, the reeds smelled sweet, a faint breeze touched the skin. gerald had dived in, after sir joshua, and had swum to the end of the pond. there he climbed out and sat on the wall. there was a dive, and the little countess was swimming like a rat, to join him. they both sat in the sun, laughing and crossing their arms on their breasts. sir joshua swam up to them, and stood near them, up to his arm-pits in the water. then hermione and miss bradley swam over, and they sat in a row on the embankment. �aren�t they terrifying? aren�t they really terrifying?� said gudrun. �don�t they look saurian? they are just like great lizards. did you ever see anything like sir joshua? but really, ursula, he belongs to the primeval world, when great lizards crawled about.� gudrun looked in dismay on sir joshua, who stood up to the breast in the water, his long, greyish hair washed down into his eyes, his neck set into thick, crude shoulders. he was talking to miss bradley, who, seated on the bank above, plump and big and wet, looked as if she might roll and slither in the water almost like one of the slithering sealions in the zoo. ursula watched in silence. gerald was laughing happily, between hermione and the italian. he reminded her of dionysos, because his hair was really yellow, his figure so full and laughing. hermione, in her large, stiff, sinister grace, leaned near him, frightening, as if she were not responsible for what she might do. he knew a certain danger in her, a convulsive madness. but he only laughed the more, turning often to the little countess, who was flashing up her face at him. they all dropped into the water, and were swimming together like a shoal of seals. hermione was powerful and unconscious in the water, large and slow and powerful. palestra was quick and silent as a water rat, gerald wavered and flickered, a white natural shadow. then, one after the other, they waded out, and went up to the house. but gerald lingered a moment to speak to gudrun. �you don�t like the water?� he said. she looked at him with a long, slow inscrutable look, as he stood before her negligently, the water standing in beads all over his skin. �i like it very much,� she replied. he paused, expecting some sort of explanation. �and you swim?� �yes, i swim.� still he would not ask her why she would not go in then. he could feel something ironic in her. he walked away, piqued for the first time. �why wouldn�t you bathe?� he asked her again, later, when he was once more the properly-dressed young englishman. she hesitated a moment before answering, opposing his persistence. �because i didn�t like the crowd,� she replied. he laughed, her phrase seemed to re-echo in his consciousness. the flavour of her slang was piquant to him. whether he would or not, she signified the real world to him. he wanted to come up to her standards, fulfil her expectations. he knew that her criterion was the only one that mattered. the others were all outsiders, instinctively, whatever they might be socially. and gerald could not help it, he was bound to strive to come up to her criterion, fulfil her idea of a man and a human-being. after lunch, when all the others had withdrawn, hermione and gerald and birkin lingered, finishing their talk. there had been some discussion, on the whole quite intellectual and artificial, about a new state, a new world of man. supposing this old social state _were_ broken and destroyed, then, out of the chaos, what then? the great social idea, said sir joshua, was the _social_ equality of man. no, said gerald, the idea was, that every man was fit for his own little bit of a task�let him do that, and then please himself. the unifying principle was the work in hand. only work, the business of production, held men together. it was mechanical, but then society _was_ a mechanism. apart from work they were isolated, free to do as they liked. �oh!� cried gudrun. �then we shan�t have names any more�we shall be like the germans, nothing but herr obermeister and herr untermeister. i can imagine it��i am mrs colliery-manager crich�i am mrs member-of-parliament roddice. i am miss art-teacher brangwen.� very pretty that.� �things would work very much better, miss art-teacher brangwen,� said gerald. �what things, mr colliery-manager crich? the relation between you and me, _par exemple?_� �yes, for example,� cried the italian. �that which is between men and women�!� �that is non-social,� said birkin, sarcastically. �exactly,� said gerald. �between me and a woman, the social question does not enter. it is my own affair.� �a ten-pound note on it,� said birkin. �you don�t admit that a woman is a social being?� asked ursula of gerald. �she is both,� said gerald. �she is a social being, as far as society is concerned. but for her own private self, she is a free agent, it is her own affair, what she does.� �but won�t it be rather difficult to arrange the two halves?� asked ursula. �oh no,� replied gerald. �they arrange themselves naturally�we see it now, everywhere.� �don�t you laugh so pleasantly till you�re out of the wood,� said birkin. gerald knitted his brows in momentary irritation. �was i laughing?� he said. �_if_,� said hermione at last, �we could only realise, that in the _spirit_ we are all one, all equal in the spirit, all brothers there�the rest wouldn�t matter, there would be no more of this carping and envy and this struggle for power, which destroys, only destroys.� this speech was received in silence, and almost immediately the party rose from the table. but when the others had gone, birkin turned round in bitter declamation, saying: �it is just the opposite, just the contrary, hermione. we are all different and unequal in spirit�it is only the _social_ differences that are based on accidental material conditions. we are all abstractly or mathematically equal, if you like. every man has hunger and thirst, two eyes, one nose and two legs. we�re all the same in point of number. but spiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality nor inequality counts. it is upon these two bits of knowledge that you must found a state. your democracy is an absolute lie�your brotherhood of man is a pure falsity, if you apply it further than the mathematical abstraction. we all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we all want to ride in motor-cars�therein lies the beginning and the end of the brotherhood of man. but no equality. �but i, myself, who am myself, what have i to do with equality with any other man or woman? in the spirit, i am as separate as one star is from another, as different in quality and quantity. establish a state on _that_. one man isn�t any better than another, not because they are equal, but because they are intrinsically _other_, that there is no term of comparison. the minute you begin to compare, one man is seen to be far better than another, all the inequality you can imagine is there by nature. i want every man to have his share in the world�s goods, so that i am rid of his importunity, so that i can tell him: �now you�ve got what you want�you�ve got your fair share of the world�s gear. now, you one-mouthed fool, mind yourself and don�t obstruct me.�� hermione was looking at him with leering eyes, along her cheeks. he could feel violent waves of hatred and loathing of all he said, coming out of her. it was dynamic hatred and loathing, coming strong and black out of the unconsciousness. she heard his words in her unconscious self, _consciously_ she was as if deafened, she paid no heed to them. �it _sounds_ like megalomania, rupert,� said gerald, genially. hermione gave a queer, grunting sound. birkin stood back. �yes, let it,� he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out of his voice, that had been so insistent, bearing everybody down. and he went away. but he felt, later, a little compunction. he had been violent, cruel with poor hermione. he wanted to recompense her, to make it up. he had hurt her, he had been vindictive. he wanted to be on good terms with her again. he went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony place. she was sitting at her table writing letters. she lifted her face abstractedly when he entered, watched him go to the sofa, and sit down. then she looked down at her paper again. he took up a large volume which he had been reading before, and became minutely attentive to his author. his back was towards hermione. she could not go on with her writing. her whole mind was a chaos, darkness breaking in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with her will, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water. but in spite of her efforts she was borne down, darkness seemed to break over her, she felt as if her heart was bursting. the terrible tension grew stronger and stronger, it was most fearful agony, like being walled up. and then she realised that his presence was the wall, his presence was destroying her. unless she could break out, she must die most fearfully, walled up in horror. and he was the wall. she must break down the wall�she must break him down before her, the awful obstruction of him who obstructed her life to the last. it must be done, or she must perish most horribly. terrible shocks ran over her body, like shocks of electricity, as if many volts of electricity suddenly struck her down. she was aware of him sitting silently there, an unthinkable evil obstruction. only this blotted out her mind, pressed out her very breathing, his silent, stooping back, the back of his head. a terrible voluptuous thrill ran down her arms�she was going to know her voluptuous consummation. her arms quivered and were strong, immeasurably and irresistibly strong. what delight, what delight in strength, what delirium of pleasure! she was going to have her consummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last. it was coming! in utmost terror and agony, she knew it was upon her now, in extremity of bliss. her hand closed on a blue, beautiful ball of lapis lazuli that stood on her desk for a paper-weight. she rolled it round in her hand as she rose silently. her heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purely unconscious in ecstasy. she moved towards him and stood behind him for a moment in ecstasy. he, closed within the spell, remained motionless and unconscious. then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like fluid lightning and gave her a perfect, unutterable consummation, unutterable satisfaction, she brought down the ball of jewel stone with all her force, crash on his head. but her fingers were in the way and deadened the blow. nevertheless, down went his head on the table on which his book lay, the stone slid aside and over his ear, it was one convulsion of pure bliss for her, lit up by the crushed pain of her fingers. but it was not somehow complete. she lifted her arm high to aim once more, straight down on the head that lay dazed on the table. she must smash it, it must be smashed before her ecstasy was consummated, fulfilled for ever. a thousand lives, a thousand deaths mattered nothing now, only the fulfilment of this perfect ecstasy. she was not swift, she could only move slowly. a strong spirit in him woke him and made him lift his face and twist to look at her. her arm was raised, the hand clasping the ball of lapis lazuli. it was her left hand, he realised again with horror that she was left-handed. hurriedly, with a burrowing motion, he covered his head under the thick volume of thucydides, and the blow came down, almost breaking his neck, and shattering his heart. he was shattered, but he was not afraid. twisting round to face her he pushed the table over and got away from her. he was like a flask that is smashed to atoms, he seemed to himself that he was all fragments, smashed to bits. yet his movements were perfectly coherent and clear, his soul was entire and unsurprised. �no you don�t, hermione,� he said in a low voice. �i don�t let you.� he saw her standing tall and livid and attentive, the stone clenched tense in her hand. �stand away and let me go,� he said, drawing near to her. as if pressed back by some hand, she stood away, watching him all the time without changing, like a neutralised angel confronting him. �it is not good,� he said, when he had gone past her. �it isn�t i who will die. you hear?� he kept his face to her as he went out, lest she should strike again. while he was on his guard, she dared not move. and he was on his guard, she was powerless. so he had gone, and left her standing. she remained perfectly rigid, standing as she was for a long time. then she staggered to the couch and lay down, and went heavily to sleep. when she awoke, she remembered what she had done, but it seemed to her, she had only hit him, as any woman might do, because he tortured her. she was perfectly right. she knew that, spiritually, she was right. in her own infallible purity, she had done what must be done. she was right, she was pure. a drugged, almost sinister religious expression became permanent on her face. birkin, barely conscious, and yet perfectly direct in his motion, went out of the house and straight across the park, to the open country, to the hills. the brilliant day had become overcast, spots of rain were falling. he wandered on to a wild valley-side, where were thickets of hazel, many flowers, tufts of heather, and little clumps of young fir-trees, budding with soft paws. it was rather wet everywhere, there was a stream running down at the bottom of the valley, which was gloomy, or seemed gloomy. he was aware that he could not regain his consciousness, that he was moving in a sort of darkness. yet he wanted something. he was happy in the wet hillside, that was overgrown and obscure with bushes and flowers. he wanted to touch them all, to saturate himself with the touch of them all. he took off his clothes, and sat down naked among the primroses, moving his feet softly among the primroses, his legs, his knees, his arms right up to the arm-pits, lying down and letting them touch his belly, his breasts. it was such a fine, cool, subtle touch all over him, he seemed to saturate himself with their contact. but they were too soft. he went through the long grass to a clump of young fir-trees, that were no higher than a man. the soft sharp boughs beat upon him, as he moved in keen pangs against them, threw little cold showers of drops on his belly, and beat his loins with their clusters of soft-sharp needles. there was a thistle which pricked him vividly, but not too much, because all his movements were too discriminate and soft. to lie down and roll in the sticky, cool young hyacinths, to lie on one�s belly and cover one�s back with handfuls of fine wet grass, soft as a breath, soft and more delicate and more beautiful than the touch of any woman; and then to sting one�s thigh against the living dark bristles of the fir-boughs; and then to feel the light whip of the hazel on one�s shoulders, stinging, and then to clasp the silvery birch-trunk against one�s breast, its smoothness, its hardness, its vital knots and ridges�this was good, this was all very good, very satisfying. nothing else would do, nothing else would satisfy, except this coolness and subtlety of vegetation travelling into one�s blood. how fortunate he was, that there was this lovely, subtle, responsive vegetation, waiting for him, as he waited for it; how fulfilled he was, how happy! as he dried himself a little with his handkerchief, he thought about hermione and the blow. he could feel a pain on the side of his head. but after all, what did it matter? what did hermione matter, what did people matter altogether? there was this perfect cool loneliness, so lovely and fresh and unexplored. really, what a mistake he had made, thinking he wanted people, thinking he wanted a woman. he did not want a woman�not in the least. the leaves and the primroses and the trees, they were really lovely and cool and desirable, they really came into the blood and were added on to him. he was enrichened now immeasurably, and so glad. it was quite right of hermione to want to kill him. what had he to do with her? why should he pretend to have anything to do with human beings at all? here was his world, he wanted nobody and nothing but the lovely, subtle, responsive vegetation, and himself, his own living self. it was necessary to go back into the world. that was true. but that did not matter, so one knew where one belonged. he knew now where he belonged. this was his place, his marriage place. the world was extraneous. he climbed out of the valley, wondering if he were mad. but if so, he preferred his own madness, to the regular sanity. he rejoiced in his own madness, he was free. he did not want that old sanity of the world, which was become so repulsive. he rejoiced in the new-found world of his madness. it was so fresh and delicate and so satisfying. as for the certain grief he felt at the same time, in his soul, that was only the remains of an old ethic, that bade a human being adhere to humanity. but he was weary of the old ethic, of the human being, and of humanity. he loved now the soft, delicate vegetation, that was so cool and perfect. he would overlook the old grief, he would put away the old ethic, he would be free in his new state. he was aware of the pain in his head becoming more and more difficult every minute. he was walking now along the road to the nearest station. it was raining and he had no hat. but then plenty of cranks went out nowadays without hats, in the rain. he wondered again how much of his heaviness of heart, a certain depression, was due to fear, fear lest anybody should have seen him naked lying against the vegetation. what a dread he had of mankind, of other people! it amounted almost to horror, to a sort of dream terror�his horror of being observed by some other people. if he were on an island, like alexander selkirk, with only the creatures and the trees, he would be free and glad, there would be none of this heaviness, this misgiving. he could love the vegetation and be quite happy and unquestioned, by himself. he had better send a note to hermione: she might trouble about him, and he did not want the onus of this. so at the station, he wrote saying: i will go on to town�i don�t want to come back to breadalby for the present. but it is quite all right�i don�t want you to mind having biffed me, in the least. tell the others it is just one of my moods. you were quite right, to biff me�because i know you wanted to. so there�s the end of it. in the train, however, he felt ill. every motion was insufferable pain, and he was sick. he dragged himself from the station into a cab, feeling his way step by step, like a blind man, and held up only by a dim will. for a week or two he was ill, but he did not let hermione know, and she thought he was sulking; there was a complete estrangement between them. she became rapt, abstracted in her conviction of exclusive righteousness. she lived in and by her own self-esteem, conviction of her own rightness of spirit. chapter ix. coal-dust going home from school in the afternoon, the brangwen girls descended the hill between the picturesque cottages of willey green till they came to the railway crossing. there they found the gate shut, because the colliery train was rumbling nearer. they could hear the small locomotive panting hoarsely as it advanced with caution between the embankments. the one-legged man in the little signal-hut by the road stared out from his security, like a crab from a snail-shell. whilst the two girls waited, gerald crich trotted up on a red arab mare. he rode well and softly, pleased with the delicate quivering of the creature between his knees. and he was very picturesque, at least in gudrun�s eyes, sitting soft and close on the slender red mare, whose long tail flowed on the air. he saluted the two girls, and drew up at the crossing to wait for the gate, looking down the railway for the approaching train. in spite of her ironic smile at his picturesqueness, gudrun liked to look at him. he was well-set and easy, his face with its warm tan showed up his whitish, coarse moustache, and his blue eyes were full of sharp light as he watched the distance. the locomotive chuffed slowly between the banks, hidden. the mare did not like it. she began to wince away, as if hurt by the unknown noise. but gerald pulled her back and held her head to the gate. the sharp blasts of the chuffing engine broke with more and more force on her. the repeated sharp blows of unknown, terrifying noise struck through her till she was rocking with terror. she recoiled like a spring let go. but a glistening, half-smiling look came into gerald�s face. he brought her back again, inevitably. the noise was released, the little locomotive with her clanking steel connecting-rod emerged on the highroad, clanking sharply. the mare rebounded like a drop of water from hot iron. ursula and gudrun pressed back into the hedge, in fear. but gerald was heavy on the mare, and forced her back. it seemed as if he sank into her magnetically, and could thrust her back against herself. �the fool!� cried ursula loudly. �why doesn�t he ride away till it�s gone by?� gudrun was looking at him with black-dilated, spellbound eyes. but he sat glistening and obstinate, forcing the wheeling mare, which spun and swerved like a wind, and yet could not get out of the grasp of his will, nor escape from the mad clamour of terror that resounded through her, as the trucks thumped slowly, heavily, horrifying, one after the other, one pursuing the other, over the rails of the crossing. the locomotive, as if wanting to see what could be done, put on the brakes, and back came the trucks rebounding on the iron buffers, striking like horrible cymbals, clashing nearer and nearer in frightful strident concussions. the mare opened her mouth and rose slowly, as if lifted up on a wind of terror. then suddenly her fore feet struck out, as she convulsed herself utterly away from the horror. back she went, and the two girls clung to each other, feeling she must fall backwards on top of him. but he leaned forward, his face shining with fixed amusement, and at last he brought her down, sank her down, and was bearing her back to the mark. but as strong as the pressure of his compulsion was the repulsion of her utter terror, throwing her back away from the railway, so that she spun round and round, on two legs, as if she were in the centre of some whirlwind. it made gudrun faint with poignant dizziness, which seemed to penetrate to her heart. �no�! no�! let her go! let her go, you fool, you _fool_�!� cried ursula at the top of her voice, completely outside herself. and gudrun hated her bitterly for being outside herself. it was unendurable that ursula�s voice was so powerful and naked. a sharpened look came on gerald�s face. he bit himself down on the mare like a keen edge biting home, and _forced_ her round. she roared as she breathed, her nostrils were two wide, hot holes, her mouth was apart, her eyes frenzied. it was a repulsive sight. but he held on her unrelaxed, with an almost mechanical relentlessness, keen as a sword pressing in to her. both man and horse were sweating with violence. yet he seemed calm as a ray of cold sunshine. meanwhile the eternal trucks were rumbling on, very slowly, treading one after the other, one after the other, like a disgusting dream that has no end. the connecting chains were grinding and squeaking as the tension varied, the mare pawed and struck away mechanically now, her terror fulfilled in her, for now the man encompassed her; her paws were blind and pathetic as she beat the air, the man closed round her, and brought her down, almost as if she were part of his own physique. �and she�s bleeding! she�s bleeding!� cried ursula, frantic with opposition and hatred of gerald. she alone understood him perfectly, in pure opposition. gudrun looked and saw the trickles of blood on the sides of the mare, and she turned white. and then on the very wound the bright spurs came down, pressing relentlessly. the world reeled and passed into nothingness for gudrun, she could not know any more. when she recovered, her soul was calm and cold, without feeling. the trucks were still rumbling by, and the man and the mare were still fighting. but she herself was cold and separate, she had no more feeling for them. she was quite hard and cold and indifferent. they could see the top of the hooded guard�s-van approaching, the sound of the trucks was diminishing, there was hope of relief from the intolerable noise. the heavy panting of the half-stunned mare sounded automatically, the man seemed to be relaxing confidently, his will bright and unstained. the guard�s-van came up, and passed slowly, the guard staring out in his transition on the spectacle in the road. and, through the man in the closed wagon, gudrun could see the whole scene spectacularly, isolated and momentary, like a vision isolated in eternity. lovely, grateful silence seemed to trail behind the receding train. how sweet the silence is! ursula looked with hatred on the buffers of the diminishing wagon. the gatekeeper stood ready at the door of his hut, to proceed to open the gate. but gudrun sprang suddenly forward, in front of the struggling horse, threw off the latch and flung the gates asunder, throwing one-half to the keeper, and running with the other half, forwards. gerald suddenly let go the horse and leaped forwards, almost on to gudrun. she was not afraid. as he jerked aside the mare�s head, gudrun cried, in a strange, high voice, like a gull, or like a witch screaming out from the side of the road: �i should think you�re proud.� the words were distinct and formed. the man, twisting aside on his dancing horse, looked at her in some surprise, some wondering interest. then the mare�s hoofs had danced three times on the drum-like sleepers of the crossing, and man and horse were bounding springily, unequally up the road. the two girls watched them go. the gate-keeper hobbled thudding over the logs of the crossing, with his wooden leg. he had fastened the gate. then he also turned, and called to the girls: �a masterful young jockey, that; �ll have his own road, if ever anybody would.� �yes,� cried ursula, in her hot, overbearing voice. �why couldn�t he take the horse away, till the trucks had gone by? he�s a fool, and a bully. does he think it�s manly, to torture a horse? it�s a living thing, why should he bully it and torture it?� there was a pause, then the gate-keeper shook his head, and replied: �yes, it�s as nice a little mare as you could set eyes on�beautiful little thing, beautiful. now you couldn�t see his father treat any animal like that�not you. they�re as different as they welly can be, gerald crich and his father�two different men, different made.� then there was a pause. �but why does he do it?� cried ursula, �why does he? does he think he�s grand, when he�s bullied a sensitive creature, ten times as sensitive as himself?� again there was a cautious pause. then again the man shook his head, as if he would say nothing, but would think the more. �i expect he�s got to train the mare to stand to anything,� he replied. �a pure-bred harab�not the sort of breed as is used to round here�different sort from our sort altogether. they say as he got her from constantinople.� �he would!� said ursula. �he�d better have left her to the turks, i�m sure they would have had more decency towards her.� the man went in to drink his can of tea, the girls went on down the lane, that was deep in soft black dust. gudrun was as if numbed in her mind by the sense of indomitable soft weight of the man, bearing down into the living body of the horse: the strong, indomitable thighs of the blond man clenching the palpitating body of the mare into pure control; a sort of soft white magnetic domination from the loins and thighs and calves, enclosing and encompassing the mare heavily into unutterable subordination, soft blood-subordination, terrible. on the left, as the girls walked silently, the coal-mine lifted its great mounds and its patterned head-stocks, the black railway with the trucks at rest looked like a harbour just below, a large bay of railroad with anchored wagons. near the second level-crossing, that went over many bright rails, was a farm belonging to the collieries, and a great round globe of iron, a disused boiler, huge and rusty and perfectly round, stood silently in a paddock by the road. the hens were pecking round it, some chickens were balanced on the drinking trough, wagtails flew away in among trucks, from the water. on the other side of the wide crossing, by the road-side, was a heap of pale-grey stones for mending the roads, and a cart standing, and a middle-aged man with whiskers round his face was leaning on his shovel, talking to a young man in gaiters, who stood by the horse�s head. both men were facing the crossing. they saw the two girls appear, small, brilliant figures in the near distance, in the strong light of the late afternoon. both wore light, gay summer dresses, ursula had an orange-coloured knitted coat, gudrun a pale yellow, ursula wore canary yellow stockings, gudrun bright rose, the figures of the two women seemed to glitter in progress over the wide bay of the railway crossing, white and orange and yellow and rose glittering in motion across a hot world silted with coal-dust. the two men stood quite still in the heat, watching. the elder was a short, hard-faced energetic man of middle age, the younger a labourer of twenty-three or so. they stood in silence watching the advance of the sisters. they watched whilst the girls drew near, and whilst they passed, and whilst they receded down the dusty road, that had dwellings on one side, and dusty young corn on the other. then the elder man, with the whiskers round his face, said in a prurient manner to the young man: �what price that, eh? she�ll do, won�t she?� �which?� asked the young man, eagerly, with a laugh. �her with the red stockings. what d�you say? i�d give my week�s wages for five minutes; what!�just for five minutes.� again the young man laughed. �your missis �ud have summat to say to you,� he replied. gudrun had turned round and looked at the two men. they were to her sinister creatures, standing watching after her, by the heap of pale grey slag. she loathed the man with whiskers round his face. �you�re first class, you are,� the man said to her, and to the distance. �do you think it would be worth a week�s wages?� said the younger man, musing. �do i? i�d put �em bloody-well down this second�� the younger man looked after gudrun and ursula objectively, as if he wished to calculate what there might be, that was worth his week�s wages. he shook his head with fatal misgiving. �no,� he said. �it�s not worth that to me.� �isn�t?� said the old man. �by god, if it isn�t to me!� and he went on shovelling his stones. the girls descended between the houses with slate roofs and blackish brick walls. the heavy gold glamour of approaching sunset lay over all the colliery district, and the ugliness overlaid with beauty was like a narcotic to the senses. on the roads silted with black dust, the rich light fell more warmly, more heavily, over all the amorphous squalor a kind of magic was cast, from the glowing close of day. �it has a foul kind of beauty, this place,� said gudrun, evidently suffering from fascination. �can�t you feel in some way, a thick, hot attraction in it? i can. and it quite stupifies me.� they were passing between blocks of miners� dwellings. in the back yards of several dwellings, a miner could be seen washing himself in the open on this hot evening, naked down to the loins, his great trousers of moleskin slipping almost away. miners already cleaned were sitting on their heels, with their backs near the walls, talking and silent in pure physical well-being, tired, and taking physical rest. their voices sounded out with strong intonation, and the broad dialect was curiously caressing to the blood. it seemed to envelop gudrun in a labourer�s caress, there was in the whole atmosphere a resonance of physical men, a glamorous thickness of labour and maleness, surcharged in the air. but it was universal in the district, and therefore unnoticed by the inhabitants. to gudrun, however, it was potent and half-repulsive. she could never tell why beldover was so utterly different from london and the south, why one�s whole feelings were different, why one seemed to live in another sphere. now she realised that this was the world of powerful, underworld men who spent most of their time in the darkness. in their voices she could hear the voluptuous resonance of darkness, the strong, dangerous underworld, mindless, inhuman. they sounded also like strange machines, heavy, oiled. the voluptuousness was like that of machinery, cold and iron. it was the same every evening when she came home, she seemed to move through a wave of disruptive force, that was given off from the presence of thousands of vigorous, underworld, half-automatised colliers, and which went to the brain and the heart, awaking a fatal desire, and a fatal callousness. there came over her a nostalgia for the place. she hated it, she knew how utterly cut off it was, how hideous and how sickeningly mindless. sometimes she beat her wings like a new daphne, turning not into a tree but a machine. and yet, she was overcome by the nostalgia. she struggled to get more and more into accord with the atmosphere of the place, she craved to get her satisfaction of it. she felt herself drawn out at evening into the main street of the town, that was uncreated and ugly, and yet surcharged with this same potent atmosphere of intense, dark callousness. there were always miners about. they moved with their strange, distorted dignity, a certain beauty, and unnatural stillness in their bearing, a look of abstraction and half resignation in their pale, often gaunt faces. they belonged to another world, they had a strange glamour, their voices were full of an intolerable deep resonance, like a machine�s burring, a music more maddening than the siren�s long ago. she found herself, with the rest of the common women, drawn out on friday evenings to the little market. friday was pay-day for the colliers, and friday night was market night. every woman was abroad, every man was out, shopping with his wife, or gathering with his pals. the pavements were dark for miles around with people coming in, the little market-place on the crown of the hill, and the main street of beldover were black with thickly-crowded men and women. it was dark, the market-place was hot with kerosene flares, which threw a ruddy light on the grave faces of the purchasing wives, and on the pale abstract faces of the men. the air was full of the sound of criers and of people talking, thick streams of people moved on the pavements towards the solid crowd of the market. the shops were blazing and packed with women, in the streets were men, mostly men, miners of all ages. money was spent with almost lavish freedom. the carts that came could not pass through. they had to wait, the driver calling and shouting, till the dense crowd would make way. everywhere, young fellows from the outlying districts were making conversation with the girls, standing in the road and at the corners. the doors of the public-houses were open and full of light, men passed in and out in a continual stream, everywhere men were calling out to one another, or crossing to meet one another, or standing in little gangs and circles, discussing, endlessly discussing. the sense of talk, buzzing, jarring, half-secret, the endless mining and political wrangling, vibrated in the air like discordant machinery. and it was their voices which affected gudrun almost to swooning. they aroused a strange, nostalgic ache of desire, something almost demoniacal, never to be fulfilled. like any other common girl of the district, gudrun strolled up and down, up and down the length of the brilliant two-hundred paces of the pavement nearest the market-place. she knew it was a vulgar thing to do; her father and mother could not bear it; but the nostalgia came over her, she must be among the people. sometimes she sat among the louts in the cinema: rakish-looking, unattractive louts they were. yet she must be among them. and, like any other common lass, she found her �boy.� it was an electrician, one of the electricians introduced according to gerald�s new scheme. he was an earnest, clever man, a scientist with a passion for sociology. he lived alone in a cottage, in lodgings, in willey green. he was a gentleman, and sufficiently well-to-do. his landlady spread the reports about him; he _would_ have a large wooden tub in his bedroom, and every time he came in from work, he _would_ have pails and pails of water brought up, to bathe in, then he put on clean shirt and under-clothing _every_ day, and clean silk socks; fastidious and exacting he was in these respects, but in every other way, most ordinary and unassuming. gudrun knew all these things. the brangwen�s house was one to which the gossip came naturally and inevitably. palmer was in the first place a friend of ursula�s. but in his pale, elegant, serious face there showed the same nostalgia that gudrun felt. he too must walk up and down the street on friday evening. so he walked with gudrun, and a friendship was struck up between them. but he was not in love with gudrun; he _really_ wanted ursula, but for some strange reason, nothing could happen between her and him. he liked to have gudrun about, as a fellow-mind�but that was all. and she had no real feeling for him. he was a scientist, he had to have a woman to back him. but he was really impersonal, he had the fineness of an elegant piece of machinery. he was too cold, too destructive to care really for women, too great an egoist. he was polarised by the men. individually he detested and despised them. in the mass they fascinated him, as machinery fascinated him. they were a new sort of machinery to him�but incalculable, incalculable. so gudrun strolled the streets with palmer, or went to the cinema with him. and his long, pale, rather elegant face flickered as he made his sarcastic remarks. there they were, the two of them: two elegants in one sense: in the other sense, two units, absolutely adhering to the people, teeming with the distorted colliers. the same secret seemed to be working in the souls of all alike, gudrun, palmer, the rakish young bloods, the gaunt, middle-aged men. all had a secret sense of power, and of inexpressible destructiveness, and of fatal half-heartedness, a sort of rottenness in the will. sometimes gudrun would start aside, see it all, see how she was sinking in. and then she was filled with a fury of contempt and anger. she felt she was sinking into one mass with the rest�all so close and intermingled and breathless. it was horrible. she stifled. she prepared for flight, feverishly she flew to her work. but soon she let go. she started off into the country�the darkish, glamorous country. the spell was beginning to work again. chapter x. sketch-book one morning the sisters were sketching by the side of willey water, at the remote end of the lake. gudrun had waded out to a gravelly shoal, and was seated like a buddhist, staring fixedly at the water-plants that rose succulent from the mud of the low shores. what she could see was mud, soft, oozy, watery mud, and from its festering chill, water-plants rose up, thick and cool and fleshy, very straight and turgid, thrusting out their leaves at right angles, and having dark lurid colours, dark green and blotches of black-purple and bronze. but she could feel their turgid fleshy structure as in a sensuous vision, she _knew_ how they rose out of the mud, she _knew_ how they thrust out from themselves, how they stood stiff and succulent against the air. ursula was watching the butterflies, of which there were dozens near the water, little blue ones suddenly snapping out of nothingness into a jewel-life, a large black-and-red one standing upon a flower and breathing with his soft wings, intoxicatingly, breathing pure, ethereal sunshine; two white ones wrestling in the low air; there was a halo round them; ah, when they came tumbling nearer they were orangetips, and it was the orange that had made the halo. ursula rose and drifted away, unconscious like the butterflies. gudrun, absorbed in a stupor of apprehension of surging water-plants, sat crouched on the shoal, drawing, not looking up for a long time, and then staring unconsciously, absorbedly at the rigid, naked, succulent stems. her feet were bare, her hat lay on the bank opposite. she started out of her trance, hearing the knocking of oars. she looked round. there was a boat with a gaudy japanese parasol, and a man in white, rowing. the woman was hermione, and the man was gerald. she knew it instantly. and instantly she perished in the keen _frisson_ of anticipation, an electric vibration in her veins, intense, much more intense than that which was always humming low in the atmosphere of beldover. gerald was her escape from the heavy slough of the pale, underworld, automatic colliers. he started out of the mud. he was master. she saw his back, the movement of his white loins. but not that�it was the whiteness he seemed to enclose as he bent forwards, rowing. he seemed to stoop to something. his glistening, whitish hair seemed like the electricity of the sky. �there�s gudrun,� came hermione�s voice floating distinct over the water. �we will go and speak to her. do you mind?� gerald looked round and saw the girl standing by the water�s edge, looking at him. he pulled the boat towards her, magnetically, without thinking of her. in his world, his conscious world, she was still nobody. he knew that hermione had a curious pleasure in treading down all the social differences, at least apparently, and he left it to her. �how do you do, gudrun?� sang hermione, using the christian name in the fashionable manner. �what are you doing?� �how do you do, hermione? i _was_ sketching.� �were you?� the boat drifted nearer, till the keel ground on the bank. �may we see? i should like to _so_ much.� it was no use resisting hermione�s deliberate intention. �well�� said gudrun reluctantly, for she always hated to have her unfinished work exposed��there�s nothing in the least interesting.� �isn�t there? but let me see, will you?� gudrun reached out the sketch-book, gerald stretched from the boat to take it. and as he did so, he remembered gudrun�s last words to him, and her face lifted up to him as he sat on the swerving horse. an intensification of pride went over his nerves, because he felt, in some way she was compelled by him. the exchange of feeling between them was strong and apart from their consciousness. and as if in a spell, gudrun was aware of his body, stretching and surging like the marsh-fire, stretching towards her, his hand coming straight forward like a stem. her voluptuous, acute apprehension of him made the blood faint in her veins, her mind went dim and unconscious. and he rocked on the water perfectly, like the rocking of phosphorescence. he looked round at the boat. it was drifting off a little. he lifted the oar to bring it back. and the exquisite pleasure of slowly arresting the boat, in the heavy-soft water, was complete as a swoon. �_that�s_ what you have done,� said hermione, looking searchingly at the plants on the shore, and comparing with gudrun�s drawing. gudrun looked round in the direction of hermione�s long, pointing finger. �that is it, isn�t it?� repeated hermione, needing confirmation. �yes,� said gudrun automatically, taking no real heed. �let me look,� said gerald, reaching forward for the book. but hermione ignored him, he must not presume, before she had finished. but he, his will as unthwarted and as unflinching as hers, stretched forward till he touched the book. a little shock, a storm of revulsion against him, shook hermione unconsciously. she released the book when he had not properly got it, and it tumbled against the side of the boat and bounced into the water. �there!� sang hermione, with a strange ring of malevolent victory. �i�m so sorry, so awfully sorry. can�t you get it, gerald?� this last was said in a note of anxious sneering that made gerald�s veins tingle with fine hate for her. he leaned far out of the boat, reaching down into the water. he could feel his position was ridiculous, his loins exposed behind him. �it is of no importance,� came the strong, clanging voice of gudrun. she seemed to touch him. but he reached further, the boat swayed violently. hermione, however, remained unperturbed. he grasped the book, under the water, and brought it up, dripping. �i�m so dreadfully sorry�dreadfully sorry,� repeated hermione. �i�m afraid it was all my fault.� �it�s of no importance�really, i assure you�it doesn�t matter in the least,� said gudrun loudly, with emphasis, her face flushed scarlet. and she held out her hand impatiently for the wet book, to have done with the scene. gerald gave it to her. he was not quite himself. �i�m so dreadfully sorry,� repeated hermione, till both gerald and gudrun were exasperated. �is there nothing that can be done?� �in what way?� asked gudrun, with cool irony. �can�t we save the drawings?� there was a moment�s pause, wherein gudrun made evident all her refutation of hermione�s persistence. �i assure you,� said gudrun, with cutting distinctness, �the drawings are quite as good as ever they were, for my purpose. i want them only for reference.� �but can�t i give you a new book? i wish you�d let me do that. i feel so truly sorry. i feel it was all my fault.� �as far as i saw,� said gudrun, �it wasn�t your fault at all. if there was any _fault_, it was mr crich�s. but the whole thing is _entirely_ trivial, and it really is ridiculous to take any notice of it.� gerald watched gudrun closely, whilst she repulsed hermione. there was a body of cold power in her. he watched her with an insight that amounted to clairvoyance. he saw her a dangerous, hostile spirit, that could stand undiminished and unabated. it was so finished, and of such perfect gesture, moreover. �i�m awfully glad if it doesn�t matter,� he said; �if there�s no real harm done.� she looked back at him, with her fine blue eyes, and signalled full into his spirit, as she said, her voice ringing with intimacy almost caressive now it was addressed to him: �of course, it doesn�t matter in the _least_.� the bond was established between them, in that look, in her tone. in her tone, she made the understanding clear�they were of the same kind, he and she, a sort of diabolic freemasonry subsisted between them. henceforward, she knew, she had her power over him. wherever they met, they would be secretly associated. and he would be helpless in the association with her. her soul exulted. �good-bye! i�m so glad you forgive me. gooood-bye!� hermione sang her farewell, and waved her hand. gerald automatically took the oar and pushed off. but he was looking all the time, with a glimmering, subtly-smiling admiration in his eyes, at gudrun, who stood on the shoal shaking the wet book in her hand. she turned away and ignored the receding boat. but gerald looked back as he rowed, beholding her, forgetting what he was doing. �aren�t we going too much to the left?� sang hermione, as she sat ignored under her coloured parasol. gerald looked round without replying, the oars balanced and glancing in the sun. �i think it�s all right,� he said good-humouredly, beginning to row again without thinking of what he was doing. and hermione disliked him extremely for his good-humoured obliviousness, she was nullified, she could not regain ascendancy. chapter xi. an island meanwhile ursula had wandered on from willey water along the course of the bright little stream. the afternoon was full of larks� singing. on the bright hill-sides was a subdued smoulder of gorse. a few forget-me-nots flowered by the water. there was a rousedness and a glancing everywhere. she strayed absorbedly on, over the brooks. she wanted to go to the mill-pond above. the big mill-house was deserted, save for a labourer and his wife who lived in the kitchen. so she passed through the empty farm-yard and through the wilderness of a garden, and mounted the bank by the sluice. when she got to the top, to see the old, velvety surface of the pond before her, she noticed a man on the bank, tinkering with a punt. it was birkin sawing and hammering away. she stood at the head of the sluice, looking at him. he was unaware of anybody�s presence. he looked very busy, like a wild animal, active and intent. she felt she ought to go away, he would not want her. he seemed to be so much occupied. but she did not want to go away. therefore she moved along the bank till he would look up. which he soon did. the moment he saw her, he dropped his tools and came forward, saying: �how do you do? i�m making the punt water-tight. tell me if you think it is right.� she went along with him. �you are your father�s daughter, so you can tell me if it will do,� he said. she bent to look at the patched punt. �i am sure i am my father�s daughter,� she said, fearful of having to judge. �but i don�t know anything about carpentry. it _looks_ right, don�t you think?� �yes, i think. i hope it won�t let me to the bottom, that�s all. though even so, it isn�t a great matter, i should come up again. help me to get it into the water, will you?� with combined efforts they turned over the heavy punt and set it afloat. �now,� he said, �i�ll try it and you can watch what happens. then if it carries, i�ll take you over to the island.� �do,� she cried, watching anxiously. the pond was large, and had that perfect stillness and the dark lustre of very deep water. there were two small islands overgrown with bushes and a few trees, towards the middle. birkin pushed himself off, and veered clumsily in the pond. luckily the punt drifted so that he could catch hold of a willow bough, and pull it to the island. �rather overgrown,� he said, looking into the interior, �but very nice. i�ll come and fetch you. the boat leaks a little.� in a moment he was with her again, and she stepped into the wet punt. �it�ll float us all right,� he said, and man�uvred again to the island. they landed under a willow tree. she shrank from the little jungle of rank plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. but he explored into it. �i shall mow this down,� he said, �and then it will be romantic�like paul et virginie.� �yes, one could have lovely watteau picnics here,� cried ursula with enthusiasm. his face darkened. �i don�t want watteau picnics here,� he said. �only your virginie,� she laughed. �virginie enough,� he smiled wryly. �no, i don�t want her either.� ursula looked at him closely. she had not seen him since breadalby. he was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face. �you have been ill; haven�t you?� she asked, rather repulsed. �yes,� he replied coldly. they had sat down under the willow tree, and were looking at the pond, from their retreat on the island. �has it made you frightened?� she asked. �what of?� he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her, and shook her out of her ordinary self. �it _is_ frightening to be very ill, isn�t it?� she said. �it isn�t pleasant,� he said. �whether one is really afraid of death, or not, i have never decided. in one mood, not a bit, in another, very much.� �but doesn�t it make you feel ashamed? i think it makes one so ashamed, to be ill�illness is so terribly humiliating, don�t you think?� he considered for some minutes. �maybe,� he said. �though one knows all the time one�s life isn�t really right, at the source. that�s the humiliation. i don�t see that the illness counts so much, after that. one is ill because one doesn�t live properly�can�t. it�s the failure to live that makes one ill, and humiliates one.� �but do you fail to live?� she asked, almost jeering. �why yes�i don�t make much of a success of my days. one seems always to be bumping one�s nose against the blank wall ahead.� ursula laughed. she was frightened, and when she was frightened she always laughed and pretended to be jaunty. �your poor nose!� she said, looking at that feature of his face. �no wonder it�s ugly,� he replied. she was silent for some minutes, struggling with her own self-deception. it was an instinct in her, to deceive herself. �but _i�m_ happy�i think life is _awfully_ jolly,� she said. �good,� he answered, with a certain cold indifference. she reached for a bit of paper which had wrapped a small piece of chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. he watched her without heeding her. there was something strangely pathetic and tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated and hurt, really. �i _do_ enjoy things�don�t you?� she asked. �oh yes! but it infuriates me that i can�t get right, at the really growing part of me. i feel all tangled and messed up, and i _can�t_ get straight anyhow. i don�t know what really to _do_. one must do something somewhere.� �why should you always be _doing?_� she retorted. �it is so plebeian. i think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walking flower.� �i quite agree,� he said, �if one has burst into blossom. but i can�t get my flower to blossom anyhow. either it is blighted in the bud, or has got the smother-fly, or it isn�t nourished. curse it, it isn�t even a bud. it is a contravened knot.� again she laughed. he was so very fretful and exasperated. but she was anxious and puzzled. how was one to get out, anyhow. there must be a way out somewhere. there was a silence, wherein she wanted to cry. she reached for another bit of chocolate paper, and began to fold another boat. �and why is it,� she asked at length, �that there is no flowering, no dignity of human life now?� �the whole idea is dead. humanity itself is dry-rotten, really. there are myriads of human beings hanging on the bush�and they look very nice and rosy, your healthy young men and women. but they are apples of sodom, as a matter of fact, dead sea fruit, gall-apples. it isn�t true that they have any significance�their insides are full of bitter, corrupt ash.� �but there _are_ good people,� protested ursula. �good enough for the life of today. but mankind is a dead tree, covered with fine brilliant galls of people.� ursula could not help stiffening herself against this, it was too picturesque and final. but neither could she help making him go on. �and if it is so, _why_ is it?� she asked, hostile. they were rousing each other to a fine passion of opposition. �why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? because they won�t fall off the tree when they�re ripe. they hang on to their old positions when the position is over-past, till they become infested with little worms and dry-rot.� there was a long pause. his voice had become hot and very sarcastic. ursula was troubled and bewildered, they were both oblivious of everything but their own immersion. �but even if everybody is wrong�where are _you_ right?� she cried, �where are you any better?� �i?�i�m not right,� he cried back. �at least my only rightness lies in the fact that i know it. i detest what i am, outwardly. i loathe myself as a human being. humanity is a huge aggregate lie, and a huge lie is less than a small truth. humanity is less, far less than the individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies. and they say that love is the greatest thing; they persist in _saying_ this, the foul liars, and just look at what they do! look at all the millions of people who repeat every minute that love is the greatest, and charity is the greatest�and see what they are doing all the time. by their works ye shall know them, for dirty liars and cowards, who daren�t stand by their own actions, much less by their own words.� �but,� said ursula sadly, �that doesn�t alter the fact that love is the greatest, does it? what they _do_ doesn�t alter the truth of what they say, does it?� �completely, because if what they say _were_ true, then they couldn�t help fulfilling it. but they maintain a lie, and so they run amok at last. it�s a lie to say that love is the greatest. you might as well say that hate is the greatest, since the opposite of everything balances. what people want is hate�hate and nothing but hate. and in the name of righteousness and love, they get it. they distil themselves with nitroglycerine, all the lot of them, out of very love. it�s the lie that kills. if we want hate, let us have it�death, murder, torture, violent destruction�let us have it: but not in the name of love. but i abhor humanity, i wish it was swept away. it could go, and there would be no _absolute_ loss, if every human being perished tomorrow. the reality would be untouched. nay, it would be better. the real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of dead sea fruit, the intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite weight of mortal lies.� �so you�d like everybody in the world destroyed?� said ursula. �i should indeed.� �and the world empty of people?� �yes truly. you yourself, don�t you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?� the pleasant sincerity of his voice made ursula pause to consider her own proposition. and really it _was_ attractive: a clean, lovely, humanless world. it was the _really_ desirable. her heart hesitated, and exulted. but still, she was dissatisfied with _him_. �but,� she objected, �you�d be dead yourself, so what good would it do you?� �i would die like a shot, to know that the earth would really be cleaned of all the people. it is the most beautiful and freeing thought. then there would _never_ be another foul humanity created, for a universal defilement.� �no,� said ursula, �there would be nothing.� �what! nothing? just because humanity was wiped out? you flatter yourself. there�d be everything.� �but how, if there were no people?� �do you think that creation depends on _man!_ it merely doesn�t. there are the trees and the grass and birds. i much prefer to think of the lark rising up in the morning upon a humanless world. man is a mistake, he must go. there is the grass, and hares and adders, and the unseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanity doesn�t interrupt them�and good pure-tissued demons: very nice.� it pleased ursula, what he said, pleased her very much, as a phantasy. of course it was only a pleasant fancy. she herself knew too well the actuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. she knew it could not disappear so cleanly and conveniently. it had a long way to go yet, a long and hideous way. her subtle, feminine, demoniacal soul knew it well. �if only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go on so marvellously, with a new start, non-human. man is one of the mistakes of creation�like the ichthyosauri. if only he were gone again, think what lovely things would come out of the liberated days;�things straight out of the fire.� �but man will never be gone,� she said, with insidious, diabolical knowledge of the horrors of persistence. �the world will go with him.� �ah no,� he answered, �not so. i believe in the proud angels and the demons that are our fore-runners. they will destroy us, because we are not proud enough. the ichthyosauri were not proud: they crawled and floundered as we do. and besides, look at elder-flowers and bluebells�they are a sign that pure creation takes place�even the butterfly. but humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage�it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings. it is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.� ursula watched him as he talked. there seemed a certain impatient fury in him, all the while, and at the same time a great amusement in everything, and a final tolerance. and it was this tolerance she mistrusted, not the fury. she saw that, all the while, in spite of himself, he would have to be trying to save the world. and this knowledge, whilst it comforted her heart somewhere with a little self-satisfaction, stability, yet filled her with a certain sharp contempt and hate of him. she wanted him to herself, she hated the salvator mundi touch. it was something diffuse and generalised about him, which she could not stand. he would behave in the same way, say the same things, give himself as completely to anybody who came along, anybody and everybody who liked to appeal to him. it was despicable, a very insidious form of prostitution. �but,� she said, �you believe in individual love, even if you don�t believe in loving humanity�?� �i don�t believe in love at all�that is, any more than i believe in hate, or in grief. love is one of the emotions like all the others�and so it is all right whilst you feel it. but i can�t see how it becomes an absolute. it is just part of human relationships, no more. and it is only part of _any_ human relationship. and why one should be required _always_ to feel it, any more than one always feels sorrow or distant joy, i cannot conceive. love isn�t a desideratum�it is an emotion you feel or you don�t feel, according to circumstance.� �then why do you care about people at all?� she asked, �if you don�t believe in love? why do you bother about humanity?� �why do i? because i can�t get away from it.� �because you love it,� she persisted. it irritated him. �if i do love it,� he said, �it is my disease.� �but it is a disease you don�t want to be cured of,� she said, with some cold sneering. he was silent now, feeling she wanted to insult him. �and if you don�t believe in love, what _do_ you believe in?� she asked mocking. �simply in the end of the world, and grass?� he was beginning to feel a fool. �i believe in the unseen hosts,� he said. �and nothing else? you believe in nothing visible, except grass and birds? your world is a poor show.� �perhaps it is,� he said, cool and superior now he was offended, assuming a certain insufferable aloof superiority, and withdrawing into his distance. ursula disliked him. but also she felt she had lost something. she looked at him as he sat crouched on the bank. there was a certain priggish sunday-school stiffness over him, priggish and detestable. and yet, at the same time, the moulding of him was so quick and attractive, it gave such a great sense of freedom: the moulding of his brows, his chin, his whole physique, something so alive, somewhere, in spite of the look of sickness. and it was this duality in feeling which he created in her, that made a fine hate of him quicken in her bowels. there was his wonderful, desirable life-rapidity, the rare quality of an utterly desirable man: and there was at the same time this ridiculous, mean effacement into a salvator mundi and a sunday-school teacher, a prig of the stiffest type. he looked up at her. he saw her face strangely enkindled, as if suffused from within by a powerful sweet fire. his soul was arrested in wonder. she was enkindled in her own living fire. arrested in wonder and in pure, perfect attraction, he moved towards her. she sat like a strange queen, almost supernatural in her glowing smiling richness. �the point about love,� he said, his consciousness quickly adjusting itself, �is that we hate the word because we have vulgarised it. it ought to be prescribed, tabooed from utterance, for many years, till we get a new, better idea.� there was a beam of understanding between them. �but it always means the same thing,� she said. �ah god, no, let it not mean that any more,� he cried. �let the old meanings go.� �but still it is love,� she persisted. a strange, wicked yellow light shone at him in her eyes. he hesitated, baffled, withdrawing. �no,� he said, �it isn�t. spoken like that, never in the world. you�ve no business to utter the word.� �i must leave it to you, to take it out of the ark of the covenant at the right moment,� she mocked. again they looked at each other. she suddenly sprang up, turned her back to him, and walked away. he too rose slowly and went to the water�s edge, where, crouching, he began to amuse himself unconsciously. picking a daisy he dropped it on the pond, so that the stem was a keel, the flower floated like a little water lily, staring with its open face up to the sky. it turned slowly round, in a slow, slow dervish dance, as it veered away. he watched it, then dropped another daisy into the water, and after that another, and sat watching them with bright, absolved eyes, crouching near on the bank. ursula turned to look. a strange feeling possessed her, as if something were taking place. but it was all intangible. and some sort of control was being put on her. she could not know. she could only watch the brilliant little discs of the daisies veering slowly in travel on the dark, lustrous water. the little flotilla was drifting into the light, a company of white specks in the distance. �do let us go to the shore, to follow them,� she said, afraid of being any longer imprisoned on the island. and they pushed off in the punt. she was glad to be on the free land again. she went along the bank towards the sluice. the daisies were scattered broadcast on the pond, tiny radiant things, like an exaltation, points of exaltation here and there. why did they move her so strongly and mystically? �look,� he said, �your boat of purple paper is escorting them, and they are a convoy of rafts.� some of the daisies came slowly towards her, hesitating, making a shy bright little cotillion on the dark clear water. their gay bright candour moved her so much as they came near, that she was almost in tears. �why are they so lovely,� she cried. �why do i think them so lovely?� �they are nice flowers,� he said, her emotional tones putting a constraint on him. �you know that a daisy is a company of florets, a concourse, become individual. don�t the botanists put it highest in the line of development? i believe they do.� �the compositæ, yes, i think so,� said ursula, who was never very sure of anything. things she knew perfectly well, at one moment, seemed to become doubtful the next. �explain it so, then,� he said. �the daisy is a perfect little democracy, so it�s the highest of flowers, hence its charm.� �no,� she cried, �no�never. it isn�t democratic.� �no,� he admitted. �it�s the golden mob of the proletariat, surrounded by a showy white fence of the idle rich.� �how hateful�your hateful social orders!� she cried. �quite! it�s a daisy�we�ll leave it alone.� �do. let it be a dark horse for once,� she said: �if anything can be a dark horse to you,� she added satirically. they stood aside, forgetful. as if a little stunned, they both were motionless, barely conscious. the little conflict into which they had fallen had torn their consciousness and left them like two impersonal forces, there in contact. he became aware of the lapse. he wanted to say something, to get on to a new more ordinary footing. �you know,� he said, �that i am having rooms here at the mill? don�t you think we can have some good times?� �oh are you?� she said, ignoring all his implication of admitted intimacy. he adjusted himself at once, became normally distant. �if i find i can live sufficiently by myself,� he continued, �i shall give up my work altogether. it has become dead to me. i don�t believe in the humanity i pretend to be part of, i don�t care a straw for the social ideals i live by, i hate the dying organic form of social mankind�so it can�t be anything but trumpery, to work at education. i shall drop it as soon as i am clear enough�tomorrow perhaps�and be by myself.� �have you enough to live on?� asked ursula. �yes�i�ve about four hundred a year. that makes it easy for me.� there was a pause. �and what about hermione?� asked ursula. �that�s over, finally�a pure failure, and never could have been anything else.� �but you still know each other?� �we could hardly pretend to be strangers, could we?� there was a stubborn pause. �but isn�t that a half-measure?� asked ursula at length. �i don�t think so,� he said. �you�ll be able to tell me if it is.� again there was a pause of some minutes� duration. he was thinking. �one must throw everything away, everything�let everything go, to get the one last thing one wants,� he said. �what thing?� she asked in challenge. �i don�t know�freedom together,� he said. she had wanted him to say �love.� there was heard a loud barking of the dogs below. he seemed disturbed by it. she did not notice. only she thought he seemed uneasy. �as a matter of fact,� he said, in rather a small voice, �i believe that is hermione come now, with gerald crich. she wanted to see the rooms before they are furnished.� �i know,� said ursula. �she will superintend the furnishing for you.� �probably. does it matter?� �oh no, i should think not,� said ursula. �though personally, i can�t bear her. i think she is a lie, if you like, you who are always talking about lies.� then she ruminated for a moment, when she broke out: �yes, and i do mind if she furnishes your rooms�i do mind. i mind that you keep her hanging on at all.� he was silent now, frowning. �perhaps,� he said. �i don�t _want_ her to furnish the rooms here�and i don�t keep her hanging on. only, i needn�t be churlish to her, need i? at any rate, i shall have to go down and see them now. you�ll come, won�t you?� �i don�t think so,� she said coldly and irresolutely. �won�t you? yes do. come and see the rooms as well. do come.� chapter xii. carpeting he set off down the bank, and she went unwillingly with him. yet she would not have stayed away, either. �we know each other well, you and i, already,� he said. she did not answer. in the large darkish kitchen of the mill, the labourer�s wife was talking shrilly to hermione and gerald, who stood, he in white and she in a glistening bluish foulard, strangely luminous in the dusk of the room; whilst from the cages on the walls, a dozen or more canaries sang at the top of their voices. the cages were all placed round a small square window at the back, where the sunshine came in, a beautiful beam, filtering through green leaves of a tree. the voice of mrs salmon shrilled against the noise of the birds, which rose ever more wild and triumphant, and the woman�s voice went up and up against them, and the birds replied with wild animation. �here�s rupert!� shouted gerald in the midst of the din. he was suffering badly, being very sensitive in the ear. �o-o-h them birds, they won�t let you speak�!� shrilled the labourer�s wife in disgust. �i�ll cover them up.� and she darted here and there, throwing a duster, an apron, a towel, a table-cloth over the cages of the birds. �now will you stop it, and let a body speak for your row,� she said, still in a voice that was too high. the party watched her. soon the cages were covered, they had a strange funereal look. but from under the towels odd defiant trills and bubblings still shook out. �oh, they won�t go on,� said mrs salmon reassuringly. �they�ll go to sleep now.� �really,� said hermione, politely. �they will,� said gerald. �they will go to sleep automatically, now the impression of evening is produced.� �are they so easily deceived?� cried ursula. �oh, yes,� replied gerald. �don�t you know the story of fabre, who, when he was a boy, put a hen�s head under her wing, and she straight away went to sleep? it�s quite true.� �and did that make him a naturalist?� asked birkin. �probably,� said gerald. meanwhile ursula was peeping under one of the cloths. there sat the canary in a corner, bunched and fluffed up for sleep. �how ridiculous!� she cried. �it really thinks the night has come! how absurd! really, how can one have any respect for a creature that is so easily taken in!� �yes,� sang hermione, coming also to look. she put her hand on ursula�s arm and chuckled a low laugh. �yes, doesn�t he look comical?� she chuckled. �like a stupid husband.� then, with her hand still on ursula�s arm, she drew her away, saying, in her mild sing-song: �how did you come here? we saw gudrun too.� �i came to look at the pond,� said ursula, �and i found mr birkin there.� �did you? this is quite a brangwen land, isn�t it!� �i�m afraid i hoped so,� said ursula. �i ran here for refuge, when i saw you down the lake, just putting off.� �did you! and now we�ve run you to earth.� hermione�s eyelids lifted with an uncanny movement, amused but overwrought. she had always her strange, rapt look, unnatural and irresponsible. �i was going on,� said ursula. �mr birkin wanted me to see the rooms. isn�t it delightful to live here? it is perfect.� �yes,� said hermione, abstractedly. then she turned right away from ursula, ceased to know her existence. �how do you feel, rupert?� she sang in a new, affectionate tone, to birkin. �very well,� he replied. �were you quite comfortable?� the curious, sinister, rapt look was on hermione�s face, she shrugged her bosom in a convulsed movement, and seemed like one half in a trance. �quite comfortable,� he replied. there was a long pause, whilst hermione looked at him for a long time, from under her heavy, drugged eyelids. �and you think you�ll be happy here?� she said at last. �i�m sure i shall.� �i�m sure i shall do anything for him as i can,� said the labourer�s wife. �and i�m sure our master will; so i _hope_ he�ll find himself comfortable.� hermione turned and looked at her slowly. �thank you so much,� she said, and then she turned completely away again. she recovered her position, and lifting her face towards him, and addressing him exclusively, she said: �have you measured the rooms?� �no,� he said, �i�ve been mending the punt.� �shall we do it now?� she said slowly, balanced and dispassionate. �have you got a tape measure, mrs salmon?� he said, turning to the woman. �yes sir, i think i can find one,� replied the woman, bustling immediately to a basket. �this is the only one i�ve got, if it will do.� hermione took it, though it was offered to him. �thank you so much,� she said. �it will do very nicely. thank you so much.� then she turned to birkin, saying with a little gay movement: �shall we do it now, rupert?� �what about the others, they�ll be bored,� he said reluctantly. �do you mind?� said hermione, turning to ursula and gerald vaguely. �not in the least,� they replied. �which room shall we do first?� she said, turning again to birkin, with the same gaiety, now she was going to _do_ something with him. �we�ll take them as they come,� he said. �should i be getting your teas ready, while you do that?� said the labourer�s wife, also gay because _she_ had something to do. �would you?� said hermione, turning to her with the curious motion of intimacy that seemed to envelop the woman, draw her almost to hermione�s breast, and which left the others standing apart. �i should be so glad. where shall we have it?� �where would you like it? shall it be in here, or out on the grass?� �where shall we have tea?� sang hermione to the company at large. �on the bank by the pond. and _we�ll_ carry the things up, if you�ll just get them ready, mrs salmon,� said birkin. �all right,� said the pleased woman. the party moved down the passage into the front room. it was empty, but clean and sunny. there was a window looking on to the tangled front garden. �this is the dining-room,� said hermione. �we�ll measure it this way, rupert�you go down there�� �can�t i do it for you,� said gerald, coming to take the end of the tape. �no, thank you,� cried hermione, stooping to the ground in her bluish, brilliant foulard. it was a great joy to her to _do_ things, and to have the ordering of the job, with birkin. he obeyed her subduedly. ursula and gerald looked on. it was a peculiarity of hermione�s, that at every moment, she had one intimate, and turned all the rest of those present into onlookers. this raised her into a state of triumph. they measured and discussed in the dining-room, and hermione decided what the floor coverings must be. it sent her into a strange, convulsed anger, to be thwarted. birkin always let her have her way, for the moment. then they moved across, through the hall, to the other front room, that was a little smaller than the first. �this is the study,� said hermione. �rupert, i have a rug that i want you to have for here. will you let me give it to you? do�i want to give it you.� �what is it like?� he asked ungraciously. �you haven�t seen it. it is chiefly rose red, then blue, a metallic, mid-blue, and a very soft dark blue. i think you would like it. do you think you would?� �it sounds very nice,� he replied. �what is it? oriental? with a pile?� �yes. persian! it is made of camel�s hair, silky. i think it is called bergamos�twelve feet by seven�. do you think it will do?� �it would _do_,� he said. �but why should you give me an expensive rug? i can manage perfectly well with my old oxford turkish.� �but may i give it to you? do let me.� �how much did it cost?� she looked at him, and said: �i don�t remember. it was quite cheap.� he looked at her, his face set. �i don�t want to take it, hermione,� he said. �do let me give it to the rooms,� she said, going up to him and putting her hand on his arm lightly, pleadingly. �i shall be so disappointed.� �you know i don�t want you to give me things,� he repeated helplessly. �i don�t want to give you _things_,� she said teasingly. �but will you have this?� �all right,� he said, defeated, and she triumphed. they went upstairs. there were two bedrooms to correspond with the rooms downstairs. one of them was half furnished, and birkin had evidently slept there. hermione went round the room carefully, taking in every detail, as if absorbing the evidence of his presence, in all the inanimate things. she felt the bed and examined the coverings. �are you _sure_ you were quite comfortable?� she said, pressing the pillow. �perfectly,� he replied coldly. �and were you warm? there is no down quilt. i am sure you need one. you mustn�t have a great pressure of clothes.� �i�ve got one,� he said. �it is coming down.� they measured the rooms, and lingered over every consideration. ursula stood at the window and watched the woman carrying the tea up the bank to the pond. she hated the palaver hermione made, she wanted to drink tea, she wanted anything but this fuss and business. at last they all mounted the grassy bank, to the picnic. hermione poured out tea. she ignored now ursula�s presence. and ursula, recovering from her ill-humour, turned to gerald saying: �oh, i hated you so much the other day, mr crich,� �what for?� said gerald, wincing slightly away. �for treating your horse so badly. oh, i hated you so much!� �what did he do?� sang hermione. �he made his lovely sensitive arab horse stand with him at the railway-crossing whilst a horrible lot of trucks went by; and the poor thing, she was in a perfect frenzy, a perfect agony. it was the most horrible sight you can imagine.� �why did you do it, gerald?� asked hermione, calm and interrogative. �she must learn to stand�what use is she to me in this country, if she shies and goes off every time an engine whistles.� �but why inflict unnecessary torture?� said ursula. �why make her stand all that time at the crossing? you might just as well have ridden back up the road, and saved all that horror. her sides were bleeding where you had spurred her. it was too horrible�!� gerald stiffened. �i have to use her,� he replied. �and if i�m going to be sure of her at _all_, she�ll have to learn to stand noises.� �why should she?� cried ursula in a passion. �she is a living creature, why should she stand anything, just because you choose to make her? she has as much right to her own being, as you have to yours.� �there i disagree,� said gerald. �i consider that mare is there for my use. not because i bought her, but because that is the natural order. it is more natural for a man to take a horse and use it as he likes, than for him to go down on his knees to it, begging it to do as it wishes, and to fulfil its own marvellous nature.� ursula was just breaking out, when hermione lifted her face and began, in her musing sing-song: �i do think�i do really think we must have the _courage_ to use the lower animal life for our needs. i do think there is something wrong, when we look on every living creature as if it were ourselves. i do feel, that it is false to project our own feelings on every animate creature. it is a lack of discrimination, a lack of criticism.� �quite,� said birkin sharply. �nothing is so detestable as the maudlin attributing of human feelings and consciousness to animals.� �yes,� said hermione, wearily, �we must really take a position. either we are going to use the animals, or they will use us.� �that�s a fact,� said gerald. �a horse has got a will like a man, though it has no _mind_ strictly. and if your will isn�t master, then the horse is master of you. and this is a thing i can�t help. i can�t help being master of the horse.� �if only we could learn how to use our will,� said hermione, �we could do anything. the will can cure anything, and put anything right. that i am convinced of�if only we use the will properly, intelligibly.� �what do you mean by using the will properly?� said birkin. �a very great doctor taught me,� she said, addressing ursula and gerald vaguely. �he told me for instance, that to cure oneself of a bad habit, one should _force_ oneself to do it, when one would not do it�make oneself do it�and then the habit would disappear.� �how do you mean?� said gerald. �if you bite your nails, for example. then, when you don�t want to bite your nails, bite them, make yourself bite them. and you would find the habit was broken.� �is that so?� said gerald. �yes. and in so many things, i have _made_ myself well. i was a very queer and nervous girl. and by learning to use my will, simply by using my will, i _made_ myself right.� ursula looked all the while at hermione, as she spoke in her slow, dispassionate, and yet strangely tense voice. a curious thrill went over the younger woman. some strange, dark, convulsive power was in hermione, fascinating and repelling. �it is fatal to use the will like that,� cried birkin harshly, �disgusting. such a will is an obscenity.� hermione looked at him for a long time, with her shadowed, heavy eyes. her face was soft and pale and thin, almost phosphorescent, her jaw was lean. �i�m sure it isn�t,� she said at length. there always seemed an interval, a strange split between what she seemed to feel and experience, and what she actually said and thought. she seemed to catch her thoughts at length from off the surface of a maelstrom of chaotic black emotions and reactions, and birkin was always filled with repulsion, she caught so infallibly, her will never failed her. her voice was always dispassionate and tense, and perfectly confident. yet she shuddered with a sense of nausea, a sort of seasickness that always threatened to overwhelm her mind. but her mind remained unbroken, her will was still perfect. it almost sent birkin mad. but he would never, never dare to break her will, and let loose the maelstrom of her subconsciousness, and see her in her ultimate madness. yet he was always striking at her. �and of course,� he said to gerald, �horses _haven�t_ got a complete will, like human beings. a horse has no _one_ will. every horse, strictly, has two wills. with one will, it wants to put itself in the human power completely�and with the other, it wants to be free, wild. the two wills sometimes lock�you know that, if ever you�ve felt a horse bolt, while you�ve been driving it.� �i have felt a horse bolt while i was driving it,� said gerald, �but it didn�t make me know it had two wills. i only knew it was frightened.� hermione had ceased to listen. she simply became oblivious when these subjects were started. �why should a horse want to put itself in the human power?� asked ursula. �that is quite incomprehensible to me. i don�t believe it ever wanted it.� �yes it did. it�s the last, perhaps highest, love-impulse: resign your will to the higher being,� said birkin. �what curious notions you have of love,� jeered ursula. �and woman is the same as horses: two wills act in opposition inside her. with one will, she wants to subject herself utterly. with the other she wants to bolt, and pitch her rider to perdition.� �then i�m a bolter,� said ursula, with a burst of laughter. �it�s a dangerous thing to domesticate even horses, let alone women,� said birkin. �the dominant principle has some rare antagonists.� �good thing too,� said ursula. �quite,� said gerald, with a faint smile. �there�s more fun.� hermione could bear no more. she rose, saying in her easy sing-song: �isn�t the evening beautiful! i get filled sometimes with such a great sense of beauty, that i feel i can hardly bear it.� ursula, to whom she had appealed, rose with her, moved to the last impersonal depths. and birkin seemed to her almost a monster of hateful arrogance. she went with hermione along the bank of the pond, talking of beautiful, soothing things, picking the gentle cowslips. �wouldn�t you like a dress,� said ursula to hermione, �of this yellow spotted with orange�a cotton dress?� �yes,� said hermione, stopping and looking at the flower, letting the thought come home to her and soothe her. �wouldn�t it be pretty? i should _love_ it.� and she turned smiling to ursula, in a feeling of real affection. but gerald remained with birkin, wanting to probe him to the bottom, to know what he meant by the dual will in horses. a flicker of excitement danced on gerald�s face. hermione and ursula strayed on together, united in a sudden bond of deep affection and closeness. �i really do not want to be forced into all this criticism and analysis of life. i really _do_ want to see things in their entirety, with their beauty left to them, and their wholeness, their natural holiness. don�t you feel it, don�t you feel you _can�t_ be tortured into any more knowledge?� said hermione, stopping in front of ursula, and turning to her with clenched fists thrust downwards. �yes,� said ursula. �i do. i am sick of all this poking and prying.� �i�m so glad you are. sometimes,� said hermione, again stopping arrested in her progress and turning to ursula, �sometimes i wonder if i _ought_ to submit to all this realisation, if i am not being weak in rejecting it. but i feel i _can�t_�i _can�t_. it seems to destroy _everything_. all the beauty and the�and the true holiness is destroyed�and i feel i can�t live without them.� �and it would be simply wrong to live without them,� cried ursula. �no, it is so _irreverent_ to think that everything must be realised in the head. really, something must be left to the lord, there always is and always will be.� �yes,� said hermione, reassured like a child, �it should, shouldn�t it? and rupert�� she lifted her face to the sky, in a muse��he _can_ only tear things to pieces. he really _is_ like a boy who must pull everything to pieces to see how it is made. and i can�t think it is right�it does seem so irreverent, as you say.� �like tearing open a bud to see what the flower will be like,� said ursula. �yes. and that kills everything, doesn�t it? it doesn�t allow any possibility of flowering.� �of course not,� said ursula. �it is purely destructive.� �it is, isn�t it!� hermione looked long and slow at ursula, seeming to accept confirmation from her. then the two women were silent. as soon as they were in accord, they began mutually to mistrust each other. in spite of herself, ursula felt herself recoiling from hermione. it was all she could do to restrain her revulsion. they returned to the men, like two conspirators who have withdrawn to come to an agreement. birkin looked up at them. ursula hated him for his cold watchfulness. but he said nothing. �shall we be going?� said hermione. �rupert, you are coming to shortlands to dinner? will you come at once, will you come now, with us?� �i�m not dressed,� replied birkin. �and you know gerald stickles for convention.� �i don�t stickle for it,� said gerald. �but if you�d got as sick as i have of rowdy go-as-you-please in the house, you�d prefer it if people were peaceful and conventional, at least at meals.� �all right,� said birkin. �but can�t we wait for you while you dress?� persisted hermione. �if you like.� he rose to go indoors. ursula said she would take her leave. �only,� she said, turning to gerald, �i must say that, however man is lord of the beast and the fowl, i still don�t think he has any right to violate the feelings of the inferior creation. i still think it would have been much more sensible and nice of you if you�d trotted back up the road while the train went by, and been considerate.� �i see,� said gerald, smiling, but somewhat annoyed. �i must remember another time.� �they all think i�m an interfering female,� thought ursula to herself, as she went away. but she was in arms against them. she ran home plunged in thought. she had been very much moved by hermione, she had really come into contact with her, so that there was a sort of league between the two women. and yet she could not bear her. but she put the thought away. �she�s really good,� she said to herself. �she really wants what is right.� and she tried to feel at one with hermione, and to shut off from birkin. she was strictly hostile to him. but she was held to him by some bond, some deep principle. this at once irritated her and saved her. only now and again, violent little shudders would come over her, out of her subconsciousness, and she knew it was the fact that she had stated her challenge to birkin, and he had, consciously or unconsciously, accepted. it was a fight to the death between them�or to new life: though in what the conflict lay, no one could say. chapter xiii. mino the days went by, and she received no sign. was he going to ignore her, was he going to take no further notice of her secret? a dreary weight of anxiety and acrid bitterness settled on her. and yet ursula knew she was only deceiving herself, and that he _would_ proceed. she said no word to anybody. then, sure enough, there came a note from him, asking if she would come to tea with gudrun, to his rooms in town. �why does he ask gudrun as well?� she asked herself at once. �does he want to protect himself, or does he think i would not go alone?� she was tormented by the thought that he wanted to protect himself. but at the end of all, she only said to herself: �i don�t want gudrun to be there, because i want him to say something more to me. so i shan�t tell gudrun anything about it, and i shall go alone. then i shall know.� she found herself sitting on the tram-car, mounting up the hill going out of the town, to the place where he had his lodging. she seemed to have passed into a kind of dream world, absolved from the conditions of actuality. she watched the sordid streets of the town go by beneath her, as if she were a spirit disconnected from the material universe. what had it all to do with her? she was palpitating and formless within the flux of the ghost life. she could not consider any more, what anybody would say of her or think about her. people had passed out of her range, she was absolved. she had fallen strange and dim, out of the sheath of the material life, as a berry falls from the only world it has ever known, down out of the sheath on to the real unknown. birkin was standing in the middle of the room, when she was shown in by the landlady. he too was moved outside himself. she saw him agitated and shaken, a frail, unsubstantial body silent like the node of some violent force, that came out from him and shook her almost into a swoon. �you are alone?� he said. �yes�gudrun could not come.� he instantly guessed why. and they were both seated in silence, in the terrible tension of the room. she was aware that it was a pleasant room, full of light and very restful in its form�aware also of a fuchsia tree, with dangling scarlet and purple flowers. �how nice the fuchsias are!� she said, to break the silence. �aren�t they! did you think i had forgotten what i said?� a swoon went over ursula�s mind. �i don�t want you to remember it�if you don�t want to,� she struggled to say, through the dark mist that covered her. there was silence for some moments. �no,� he said. �it isn�t that. only�if we are going to know each other, we must pledge ourselves for ever. if we are going to make a relationship, even of friendship, there must be something final and infallible about it.� there was a clang of mistrust and almost anger in his voice. she did not answer. her heart was too much contracted. she could not have spoken. seeing she was not going to reply, he continued, almost bitterly, giving himself away: �i can�t say it is love i have to offer�and it isn�t love i want. it is something much more impersonal and harder�and rarer.� there was a silence, out of which she said: �you mean you don�t love me?� she suffered furiously, saying that. �yes, if you like to put it like that. though perhaps that isn�t true. i don�t know. at any rate, i don�t feel the emotion of love for you�no, and i don�t want to. because it gives out in the last issues.� �love gives out in the last issues?� she asked, feeling numb to the lips. �yes, it does. at the very last, one is alone, beyond the influence of love. there is a real impersonal me, that is beyond love, beyond any emotional relationship. so it is with you. but we want to delude ourselves that love is the root. it isn�t. it is only the branches. the root is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, that does _not_ meet and mingle, and never can.� she watched him with wide, troubled eyes. his face was incandescent in its abstract earnestness. �and you mean you can�t love?� she asked, in trepidation. �yes, if you like. i have loved. but there is a beyond, where there is not love.� she could not submit to this. she felt it swooning over her. but she could not submit. �but how do you know�if you have never _really_ loved?� she asked. �it is true, what i say; there is a beyond, in you, in me, which is further than love, beyond the scope, as stars are beyond the scope of vision, some of them.� �then there is no love,� cried ursula. �ultimately, no, there is something else. but, ultimately, there _is_ no love.� ursula was given over to this statement for some moments. then she half rose from her chair, saying, in a final, repellent voice: �then let me go home�what am i doing here?� �there is the door,� he said. �you are a free agent.� he was suspended finely and perfectly in this extremity. she hung motionless for some seconds, then she sat down again. �if there is no love, what is there?� she cried, almost jeering. �something,� he said, looking at her, battling with his soul, with all his might. �what?� he was silent for a long time, unable to be in communication with her while she was in this state of opposition. �there is,� he said, in a voice of pure abstraction; �a final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. so there is a final you. and it is there i would want to meet you�not in the emotional, loving plane�but there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms of agreement. there we are two stark, unknown beings, two utterly strange creatures, i would want to approach you, and you me. and there could be no obligation, because there is no standard for action there, because no understanding has been reaped from that plane. it is quite inhuman,�so there can be no calling to book, in any form whatsoever�because one is outside the pale of all that is accepted, and nothing known applies. one can only follow the impulse, taking that which lies in front, and responsible for nothing, asked for nothing, giving nothing, only each taking according to the primal desire.� ursula listened to this speech, her mind dumb and almost senseless, what he said was so unexpected and so untoward. �it is just purely selfish,� she said. �if it is pure, yes. but it isn�t selfish at all. because i don�t _know_ what i want of you. i deliver _myself_ over to the unknown, in coming to you, i am without reserves or defences, stripped entirely, into the unknown. only there needs the pledge between us, that we will both cast off everything, cast off ourselves even, and cease to be, so that that which is perfectly ourselves can take place in us.� she pondered along her own line of thought. �but it is because you love me, that you want me?� she persisted. �no it isn�t. it is because i believe in you�if i _do_ believe in you.� �aren�t you sure?� she laughed, suddenly hurt. he was looking at her steadfastly, scarcely heeding what she said. �yes, i must believe in you, or else i shouldn�t be here saying this,� he replied. �but that is all the proof i have. i don�t feel any very strong belief at this particular moment.� she disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness and faithlessness. �but don�t you think me good-looking?� she persisted, in a mocking voice. he looked at her, to see if he felt that she was good-looking. �i don�t _feel_ that you�re good-looking,� he said. �not even attractive?� she mocked, bitingly. he knitted his brows in sudden exasperation. �don�t you see that it�s not a question of visual appreciation in the least,� he cried. �i don�t _want_ to see you. i�ve seen plenty of women, i�m sick and weary of seeing them. i want a woman i don�t see.� �i�m sorry i can�t oblige you by being invisible,� she laughed. �yes,� he said, �you are invisible to me, if you don�t force me to be visually aware of you. but i don�t want to see you or hear you.� �what did you ask me to tea for, then?� she mocked. but he would take no notice of her. he was talking to himself. �i want to find you, where you don�t know your own existence, the you that your common self denies utterly. but i don�t want your good looks, and i don�t want your womanly feelings, and i don�t want your thoughts nor opinions nor your ideas�they are all bagatelles to me.� �you are very conceited, monsieur,� she mocked. �how do you know what my womanly feelings are, or my thoughts or my ideas? you don�t even know what i think of you now.� �nor do i care in the slightest.� �i think you are very silly. i think you want to tell me you love me, and you go all this way round to do it.� �all right,� he said, looking up with sudden exasperation. �now go away then, and leave me alone. i don�t want any more of your meretricious persiflage.� �is it really persiflage?� she mocked, her face really relaxing into laughter. she interpreted it, that he had made a deep confession of love to her. but he was so absurd in his words, also. they were silent for many minutes, she was pleased and elated like a child. his concentration broke, he began to look at her simply and naturally. �what i want is a strange conjunction with you�� he said quietly; �not meeting and mingling�you are quite right�but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single beings�as the stars balance each other.� she looked at him. he was very earnest, and earnestness was always rather ridiculous, commonplace, to her. it made her feel unfree and uncomfortable. yet she liked him so much. but why drag in the stars. �isn�t this rather sudden?� she mocked. he began to laugh. �best to read the terms of the contract, before we sign,� he said. a young grey cat that had been sleeping on the sofa jumped down and stretched, rising on its long legs, and arching its slim back. then it sat considering for a moment, erect and kingly. and then, like a dart, it had shot out of the room, through the open window-doors, and into the garden. �what�s he after?� said birkin, rising. the young cat trotted lordly down the path, waving his tail. he was an ordinary tabby with white paws, a slender young gentleman. a crouching, fluffy, brownish-grey cat was stealing up the side of the fence. the mino walked statelily up to her, with manly nonchalance. she crouched before him and pressed herself on the ground in humility, a fluffy soft outcast, looking up at him with wild eyes that were green and lovely as great jewels. he looked casually down on her. so she crept a few inches further, proceeding on her way to the back door, crouching in a wonderful, soft, self-obliterating manner, and moving like a shadow. he, going statelily on his slim legs, walked after her, then suddenly, for pure excess, he gave her a light cuff with his paw on the side of her face. she ran off a few steps, like a blown leaf along the ground, then crouched unobtrusively, in submissive, wild patience. the mino pretended to take no notice of her. he blinked his eyes superbly at the landscape. in a minute she drew herself together and moved softly, a fleecy brown-grey shadow, a few paces forward. she began to quicken her pace, in a moment she would be gone like a dream, when the young grey lord sprang before her, and gave her a light handsome cuff. she subsided at once, submissively. �she is a wild cat,� said birkin. �she has come in from the woods.� the eyes of the stray cat flared round for a moment, like great green fires staring at birkin. then she had rushed in a soft swift rush, half way down the garden. there she paused to look round. the mino turned his face in pure superiority to his master, and slowly closed his eyes, standing in statuesque young perfection. the wild cat�s round, green, wondering eyes were staring all the while like uncanny fires. then again, like a shadow, she slid towards the kitchen. in a lovely springing leap, like a wind, the mino was upon her, and had boxed her twice, very definitely, with a white, delicate fist. she sank and slid back, unquestioning. he walked after her, and cuffed her once or twice, leisurely, with sudden little blows of his magic white paws. �now why does he do that?� cried ursula in indignation. �they are on intimate terms,� said birkin. �and is that why he hits her?� �yes,� laughed birkin, �i think he wants to make it quite obvious to her.� �isn�t it horrid of him!� she cried; and going out into the garden she called to the mino: �stop it, don�t bully. stop hitting her.� the stray cat vanished like a swift, invisible shadow. the mino glanced at ursula, then looked from her disdainfully to his master. �are you a bully, mino?� birkin asked. the young slim cat looked at him, and slowly narrowed its eyes. then it glanced away at the landscape, looking into the distance as if completely oblivious of the two human beings. �mino,� said ursula, �i don�t like you. you are a bully like all males.� �no,� said birkin, �he is justified. he is not a bully. he is only insisting to the poor stray that she shall acknowledge him as a sort of fate, her own fate: because you can see she is fluffy and promiscuous as the wind. i am with him entirely. he wants superfine stability.� �yes, i know!� cried ursula. �he wants his own way�i know what your fine words work down to�bossiness, i call it, bossiness.� the young cat again glanced at birkin in disdain of the noisy woman. �i quite agree with you, miciotto,� said birkin to the cat. �keep your male dignity, and your higher understanding.� again the mino narrowed his eyes as if he were looking at the sun. then, suddenly affecting to have no connection at all with the two people, he went trotting off, with assumed spontaneity and gaiety, his tail erect, his white feet blithe. �now he will find the belle sauvage once more, and entertain her with his superior wisdom,� laughed birkin. ursula looked at the man who stood in the garden with his hair blowing and his eyes smiling ironically, and she cried: �oh it makes me so cross, this assumption of male superiority! and it is such a lie! one wouldn�t mind if there were any justification for it.� �the wild cat,� said birkin, �doesn�t mind. she perceives that it is justified.� �does she!� cried ursula. �and tell it to the horse marines.� �to them also.� �it is just like gerald crich with his horse�a lust for bullying�a real _wille zur macht_�so base, so petty.� �i agree that the _wille zur macht_ is a base and petty thing. but with the mino, it is the desire to bring this female cat into a pure stable equilibrium, a transcendent and abiding _rapport_ with the single male. whereas without him, as you see, she is a mere stray, a fluffy sporadic bit of chaos. it is a _volonté de pouvoir_, if you like, a will to ability, taking _pouvoir_ as a verb.� �ah�! sophistries! it�s the old adam.� �oh yes. adam kept eve in the indestructible paradise, when he kept her single with himself, like a star in its orbit.� �yes�yes�� cried ursula, pointing her finger at him. �there you are�a star in its orbit! a satellite�a satellite of mars�that�s what she is to be! there�there�you�ve given yourself away! you want a satellite, mars and his satellite! you�ve said it�you�ve said it�you�ve dished yourself!� he stood smiling in frustration and amusement and irritation and admiration and love. she was so quick, and so lambent, like discernible fire, and so vindictive, and so rich in her dangerous flamy sensitiveness. �i�ve not said it at all,� he replied, �if you will give me a chance to speak.� �no, no!� she cried. �i won�t let you speak. you�ve said it, a satellite, you�re not going to wriggle out of it. you�ve said it.� �you�ll never believe now that i _haven�t_ said it,� he answered. �i neither implied nor indicated nor mentioned a satellite, nor intended a satellite, never.� �_you prevaricator!_� she cried, in real indignation. �tea is ready, sir,� said the landlady from the doorway. they both looked at her, very much as the cats had looked at them, a little while before. �thank you, mrs daykin.� an interrupted silence fell over the two of them, a moment of breach. �come and have tea,� he said. �yes, i should love it,� she replied, gathering herself together. they sat facing each other across the tea table. �i did not say, nor imply, a satellite. i meant two single equal stars balanced in conjunction�� �you gave yourself away, you gave away your little game completely,� she cried, beginning at once to eat. he saw that she would take no further heed of his expostulation, so he began to pour the tea. �what _good_ things to eat!� she cried. �take your own sugar,� he said. he handed her her cup. he had everything so nice, such pretty cups and plates, painted with mauve-lustre and green, also shapely bowls and glass plates, and old spoons, on a woven cloth of pale grey and black and purple. it was very rich and fine. but ursula could see hermione�s influence. �your things are so lovely!� she said, almost angrily. �_i_ like them. it gives me real pleasure to use things that are attractive in themselves�pleasant things. and mrs daykin is good. she thinks everything is wonderful, for my sake.� �really,� said ursula, �landladies are better than wives, nowadays. they certainly _care_ a great deal more. it is much more beautiful and complete here now, than if you were married.� �but think of the emptiness within,� he laughed. �no,� she said. �i am jealous that men have such perfect landladies and such beautiful lodgings. there is nothing left them to desire.� �in the house-keeping way, we�ll hope not. it is disgusting, people marrying for a home.� �still,� said ursula, �a man has very little need for a woman now, has he?� �in outer things, maybe�except to share his bed and bear his children. but essentially, there is just the same need as there ever was. only nobody takes the trouble to be essential.� �how essential?� she said. �i do think,� he said, �that the world is only held together by the mystic conjunction, the ultimate unison between people�a bond. and the immediate bond is between man and woman.� �but it�s such old hat,� said ursula. �why should love be a bond? no, i�m not having any.� �if you are walking westward,� he said, �you forfeit the northern and eastward and southern direction. if you admit a unison, you forfeit all the possibilities of chaos.� �but love is freedom,� she declared. �don�t cant to me,� he replied. �love is a direction which excludes all other directions. it�s a freedom _together_, if you like.� �no,� she said, �love includes everything.� �sentimental cant,� he replied. �you want the state of chaos, that�s all. it is ultimate nihilism, this freedom-in-love business, this freedom which is love and love which is freedom. as a matter of fact, if you enter into a pure unison, it is irrevocable, and it is never pure till it is irrevocable. and when it is irrevocable, it is one way, like the path of a star.� �ha!� she cried bitterly. �it is the old dead morality.� �no,� he said, �it is the law of creation. one is committed. one must commit oneself to a conjunction with the other�for ever. but it is not selfless�it is a maintaining of the self in mystic balance and integrity�like a star balanced with another star.� �i don�t trust you when you drag in the stars,� she said. �if you were quite true, it wouldn�t be necessary to be so far-fetched.� �don�t trust me then,� he said, angry. �it is enough that i trust myself.� �and that is where you make another mistake,� she replied. �you _don�t_ trust yourself. you don�t fully believe yourself what you are saying. you don�t really want this conjunction, otherwise you wouldn�t talk so much about it, you�d get it.� he was suspended for a moment, arrested. �how?� he said. �by just loving,� she retorted in defiance. he was still a moment, in anger. then he said: �i tell you, i don�t believe in love like that. i tell you, you want love to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. love is a process of subservience with you�and with everybody. i hate it.� �no,� she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyes flashing. �it is a process of pride�i want to be proud�� �proud and subservient, proud and subservient, i know you,� he retorted dryly. �proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud�i know you and your love. it is a tick-tack, tick-tack, a dance of opposites.� �are you sure?� she mocked wickedly, �what my love is?� �yes, i am,� he retorted. �so cocksure!� she said. �how can anybody ever be right, who is so cocksure? it shows you are wrong.� he was silent in chagrin. they had talked and struggled till they were both wearied out. �tell me about yourself and your people,� he said. and she told him about the brangwens, and about her mother, and about skrebensky, her first love, and about her later experiences. he sat very still, watching her as she talked. and he seemed to listen with reverence. her face was beautiful and full of baffled light as she told him all the things that had hurt her or perplexed her so deeply. he seemed to warm and comfort his soul at the beautiful light of her nature. �if she _really_ could pledge herself,� he thought to himself, with passionate insistence but hardly any hope. yet a curious little irresponsible laughter appeared in his heart. �we have all suffered so much,� he mocked, ironically. she looked up at him, and a flash of wild gaiety went over her face, a strange flash of yellow light coming from her eyes. �haven�t we!� she cried, in a high, reckless cry. �it is almost absurd, isn�t it?� �quite absurd,� he said. �suffering bores me, any more.� �so it does me.� he was almost afraid of the mocking recklessness of her splendid face. here was one who would go to the whole lengths of heaven or hell, whichever she had to go. and he mistrusted her, he was afraid of a woman capable of such abandon, such dangerous thoroughness of destructivity. yet he chuckled within himself also. she came over to him and put her hand on his shoulder, looking down at him with strange golden-lighted eyes, very tender, but with a curious devilish look lurking underneath. �say you love me, say �my love� to me,� she pleaded. he looked back into her eyes, and saw. his face flickered with sardonic comprehension. �i love you right enough,� he said, grimly. �but i want it to be something else.� �but why? but why?� she insisted, bending her wonderful luminous face to him. �why isn�t it enough?� �because we can go one better,� he said, putting his arms round her. �no, we can�t,� she said, in a strong, voluptuous voice of yielding. �we can only love each other. say �my love� to me, say it, say it.� she put her arms round his neck. he enfolded her, and kissed her subtly, murmuring in a subtle voice of love, and irony, and submission: �yes,�my love, yes,�my love. let love be enough then. i love you then�i love you. i�m bored by the rest.� �yes,� she murmured, nestling very sweet and close to him. chapter xiv. water-party every year mr crich gave a more or less public water-party on the lake. there was a little pleasure-launch on willey water and several rowing boats, and guests could take tea either in the marquee that was set up in the grounds of the house, or they could picnic in the shade of the great walnut tree at the boat-house by the lake. this year the staff of the grammar-school was invited, along with the chief officials of the firm. gerald and the younger criches did not care for this party, but it had become customary now, and it pleased the father, as being the only occasion when he could gather some people of the district together in festivity with him. for he loved to give pleasures to his dependents and to those poorer than himself. but his children preferred the company of their own equals in wealth. they hated their inferiors� humility or gratitude or awkwardness. nevertheless they were willing to attend at this festival, as they had done almost since they were children, the more so, as they all felt a little guilty now, and unwilling to thwart their father any more, since he was so ill in health. therefore, quite cheerfully laura prepared to take her mother�s place as hostess, and gerald assumed responsibility for the amusements on the water. birkin had written to ursula saying he expected to see her at the party, and gudrun, although she scorned the patronage of the criches, would nevertheless accompany her mother and father if the weather were fine. the day came blue and full of sunshine, with little wafts of wind. the sisters both wore dresses of white crêpe, and hats of soft grass. but gudrun had a sash of brilliant black and pink and yellow colour wound broadly round her waist, and she had pink silk stockings, and black and pink and yellow decoration on the brim of her hat, weighing it down a little. she carried also a yellow silk coat over her arm, so that she looked remarkable, like a painting from the salon. her appearance was a sore trial to her father, who said angrily: �don�t you think you might as well get yourself up for a christmas cracker, an� ha� done with it?� but gudrun looked handsome and brilliant, and she wore her clothes in pure defiance. when people stared at her, and giggled after her, she made a point of saying loudly, to ursula: �_regarde, regarde ces gens-là! ne sont-ils pas des hiboux incroyables?_� and with the words of french in her mouth, she would look over her shoulder at the giggling party. �no, really, it�s impossible!� ursula would reply distinctly. and so the two girls took it out of their universal enemy. but their father became more and more enraged. ursula was all snowy white, save that her hat was pink, and entirely without trimming, and her shoes were dark red, and she carried an orange-coloured coat. and in this guise they were walking all the way to shortlands, their father and mother going in front. they were laughing at their mother, who, dressed in a summer material of black and purple stripes, and wearing a hat of purple straw, was setting forth with much more of the shyness and trepidation of a young girl than her daughters ever felt, walking demurely beside her husband, who, as usual, looked rather crumpled in his best suit, as if he were the father of a young family and had been holding the baby whilst his wife got dressed. �look at the young couple in front,� said gudrun calmly. ursula looked at her mother and father, and was suddenly seized with uncontrollable laughter. the two girls stood in the road and laughed till the tears ran down their faces, as they caught sight again of the shy, unworldly couple of their parents going on ahead. �we are roaring at you, mother,� called ursula, helplessly following after her parents. mrs brangwen turned round with a slightly puzzled, exasperated look. �oh indeed!� she said. �what is there so very funny about _me_, i should like to know?� she could not understand that there could be anything amiss with her appearance. she had a perfect calm sufficiency, an easy indifference to any criticism whatsoever, as if she were beyond it. her clothes were always rather odd, and as a rule slip-shod, yet she wore them with a perfect ease and satisfaction. whatever she had on, so long as she was barely tidy, she was right, beyond remark; such an aristocrat she was by instinct. �you look so stately, like a country baroness,� said ursula, laughing with a little tenderness at her mother�s naive puzzled air. �_just_ like a country baroness!� chimed in gudrun. now the mother�s natural hauteur became self-conscious, and the girls shrieked again. �go home, you pair of idiots, great giggling idiots!� cried the father inflamed with irritation. �mm-m-er!� booed ursula, pulling a face at his crossness. the yellow lights danced in his eyes, he leaned forward in real rage. �don�t be so silly as to take any notice of the great gabies,� said mrs brangwen, turning on her way. �i�ll see if i�m going to be followed by a pair of giggling yelling jackanapes�� he cried vengefully. the girls stood still, laughing helplessly at his fury, upon the path beside the hedge. �why you�re as silly as they are, to take any notice,� said mrs brangwen also becoming angry now he was really enraged. �there are some people coming, father,� cried ursula, with mocking warning. he glanced round quickly, and went on to join his wife, walking stiff with rage. and the girls followed, weak with laughter. when the people had passed by, brangwen cried in a loud, stupid voice: �i�m going back home if there�s any more of this. i�m damned if i�m going to be made a fool of in this fashion, in the public road.� he was really out of temper. at the sound of his blind, vindictive voice, the laughter suddenly left the girls, and their hearts contracted with contempt. they hated his words �in the public road.� what did they care for the public road? but gudrun was conciliatory. �but we weren�t laughing to _hurt_ you,� she cried, with an uncouth gentleness which made her parents uncomfortable. �we were laughing because we�re fond of you.� �we�ll walk on in front, if they are _so_ touchy,� said ursula, angry. and in this wise they arrived at willey water. the lake was blue and fair, the meadows sloped down in sunshine on one side, the thick dark woods dropped steeply on the other. the little pleasure-launch was fussing out from the shore, twanging its music, crowded with people, flapping its paddles. near the boat-house was a throng of gaily-dressed persons, small in the distance. and on the high-road, some of the common people were standing along the hedge, looking at the festivity beyond, enviously, like souls not admitted to paradise. �my eye!� said gudrun, _sotto voce_, looking at the motley of guests, �there�s a pretty crowd if you like! imagine yourself in the midst of that, my dear.� gudrun�s apprehensive horror of people in the mass unnerved ursula. �it looks rather awful,� she said anxiously. �and imagine what they�ll be like�_imagine!_� said gudrun, still in that unnerving, subdued voice. yet she advanced determinedly. �i suppose we can get away from them,� said ursula anxiously. �we�re in a pretty fix if we can�t,� said gudrun. her extreme ironic loathing and apprehension was very trying to ursula. �we needn�t stay,� she said. �i certainly shan�t stay five minutes among that little lot,� said gudrun. they advanced nearer, till they saw policemen at the gates. �policemen to keep you in, too!� said gudrun. �my word, this is a beautiful affair.� �we�d better look after father and mother,� said ursula anxiously. �mother�s _perfectly_ capable of getting through this little celebration,� said gudrun with some contempt. but ursula knew that her father felt uncouth and angry and unhappy, so she was far from her ease. they waited outside the gate till their parents came up. the tall, thin man in his crumpled clothes was unnerved and irritable as a boy, finding himself on the brink of this social function. he did not feel a gentleman, he did not feel anything except pure exasperation. ursula took her place at his side, they gave their tickets to the policeman, and passed in on to the grass, four abreast; the tall, hot, ruddy-dark man with his narrow boyish brow drawn with irritation, the fresh-faced, easy woman, perfectly collected though her hair was slipping on one side, then gudrun, her eyes round and dark and staring, her full soft face impassive, almost sulky, so that she seemed to be backing away in antagonism even whilst she was advancing; and then ursula, with the odd, brilliant, dazzled look on her face, that always came when she was in some false situation. birkin was the good angel. he came smiling to them with his affected social grace, that somehow was never _quite_ right. but he took off his hat and smiled at them with a real smile in his eyes, so that brangwen cried out heartily in relief: �how do you do? you�re better, are you?� �yes, i�m better. how do you do, mrs brangwen? i know gudrun and ursula very well.� his eyes smiled full of natural warmth. he had a soft, flattering manner with women, particularly with women who were not young. �yes,� said mrs brangwen, cool but yet gratified. �i have heard them speak of you often enough.� he laughed. gudrun looked aside, feeling she was being belittled. people were standing about in groups, some women were sitting in the shade of the walnut tree, with cups of tea in their hands, a waiter in evening dress was hurrying round, some girls were simpering with parasols, some young men, who had just come in from rowing, were sitting cross-legged on the grass, coatless, their shirt-sleeves rolled up in manly fashion, their hands resting on their white flannel trousers, their gaudy ties floating about, as they laughed and tried to be witty with the young damsels. �why,� thought gudrun churlishly, �don�t they have the manners to put their coats on, and not to assume such intimacy in their appearance.� she abhorred the ordinary young man, with his hair plastered back, and his easy-going chumminess. hermione roddice came up, in a handsome gown of white lace, trailing an enormous silk shawl blotched with great embroidered flowers, and balancing an enormous plain hat on her head. she looked striking, astonishing, almost macabre, so tall, with the fringe of her great cream-coloured vividly-blotched shawl trailing on the ground after her, her thick hair coming low over her eyes, her face strange and long and pale, and the blotches of brilliant colour drawn round her. �doesn�t she look _weird!_� gudrun heard some girls titter behind her. and she could have killed them. �how do you do!� sang hermione, coming up very kindly, and glancing slowly over gudrun�s father and mother. it was a trying moment, exasperating for gudrun. hermione was really so strongly entrenched in her class superiority, she could come up and know people out of simple curiosity, as if they were creatures on exhibition. gudrun would do the same herself. but she resented being in the position when somebody might do it to her. hermione, very remarkable, and distinguishing the brangwens very much, led them along to where laura crich stood receiving the guests. �this is mrs brangwen,� sang hermione, and laura, who wore a stiff embroidered linen dress, shook hands and said she was glad to see her. then gerald came up, dressed in white, with a black and brown blazer, and looking handsome. he too was introduced to the brangwen parents, and immediately he spoke to mrs brangwen as if she were a lady, and to brangwen as if he were _not_ a gentleman. gerald was so obvious in his demeanour. he had to shake hands with his left hand, because he had hurt his right, and carried it, bandaged up, in the pocket of his jacket. gudrun was _very_ thankful that none of her party asked him what was the matter with the hand. the steam launch was fussing in, all its music jingling, people calling excitedly from on board. gerald went to see to the debarkation, birkin was getting tea for mrs brangwen, brangwen had joined a grammar-school group, hermione was sitting down by their mother, the girls went to the landing-stage to watch the launch come in. she hooted and tooted gaily, then her paddles were silent, the ropes were thrown ashore, she drifted in with a little bump. immediately the passengers crowded excitedly to come ashore. �wait a minute, wait a minute,� shouted gerald in sharp command. they must wait till the boat was tight on the ropes, till the small gangway was put out. then they streamed ashore, clamouring as if they had come from america. �oh it�s _so_ nice!� the young girls were crying. �it�s quite lovely.� the waiters from on board ran out to the boat-house with baskets, the captain lounged on the little bridge. seeing all safe, gerald came to gudrun and ursula. �you wouldn�t care to go on board for the next trip, and have tea there?� he asked. �no thanks,� said gudrun coldly. �you don�t care for the water?� �for the water? yes, i like it very much.� he looked at her, his eyes searching. �you don�t care for going on a launch, then?� she was slow in answering, and then she spoke slowly. �no,� she said. �i can�t say that i do.� her colour was high, she seemed angry about something. �_un peu trop de monde_,� said ursula, explaining. �eh? _trop de monde!_� he laughed shortly. �yes there�s a fair number of �em.� gudrun turned on him brilliantly. �have you ever been from westminster bridge to richmond on one of the thames steamers?� she cried. �no,� he said, �i can�t say i have.� �well, it�s one of the most _vile_ experiences i�ve ever had.� she spoke rapidly and excitedly, the colour high in her cheeks. �there was absolutely nowhere to sit down, nowhere, a man just above sang �rocked in the cradle of the deep� the _whole_ way; he was blind and he had a small organ, one of those portable organs, and he expected money; so you can imagine what _that_ was like; there came a constant smell of luncheon from below, and puffs of hot oily machinery; the journey took hours and hours and hours; and for miles, literally for miles, dreadful boys ran with us on the shore, in that _awful_ thames mud, going in _up to the waist_�they had their trousers turned back, and they went up to their hips in that indescribable thames mud, their faces always turned to us, and screaming, exactly like carrion creatures, screaming ��ere y�are sir, �ere y�are sir, �ere y�are sir,� exactly like some foul carrion objects, perfectly obscene; and paterfamilias on board, laughing when the boys went right down in that awful mud, occasionally throwing them a ha�penny. and if you�d seen the intent look on the faces of these boys, and the way they darted in the filth when a coin was flung�really, no vulture or jackal could dream of approaching them, for foulness. i _never_ would go on a pleasure boat again�never.� gerald watched her all the time she spoke, his eyes glittering with faint rousedness. it was not so much what she said; it was she herself who roused him, roused him with a small, vivid pricking. �of course,� he said, �every civilised body is bound to have its vermin.� �why?� cried ursula. �i don�t have vermin.� �and it�s not that�it�s the _quality_ of the whole thing�paterfamilias laughing and thinking it sport, and throwing the ha�pennies, and materfamilias spreading her fat little knees and eating, continually eating�� replied gudrun. �yes,� said ursula. �it isn�t the boys so much who are vermin; it�s the people themselves, the whole body politic, as you call it.� gerald laughed. �never mind,� he said. �you shan�t go on the launch.� gudrun flushed quickly at his rebuke. there were a few moments of silence. gerald, like a sentinel, was watching the people who were going on to the boat. he was very good-looking and self-contained, but his air of soldierly alertness was rather irritating. �will you have tea here then, or go across to the house, where there�s a tent on the lawn?� he asked. �can�t we have a rowing boat, and get out?� asked ursula, who was always rushing in too fast. �to get out?� smiled gerald. �you see,� cried gudrun, flushing at ursula�s outspoken rudeness, �we don�t know the people, we are almost _complete_ strangers here.� �oh, i can soon set you up with a few acquaintances,� he said easily. gudrun looked at him, to see if it were ill-meant. then she smiled at him. �ah,� she said, �you know what we mean. can�t we go up there, and explore that coast?� she pointed to a grove on the hillock of the meadow-side, near the shore half way down the lake. �that looks perfectly lovely. we might even bathe. isn�t it beautiful in this light. really, it�s like one of the reaches of the nile�as one imagines the nile.� gerald smiled at her factitious enthusiasm for the distant spot. �you�re sure it�s far enough off?� he asked ironically, adding at once: �yes, you might go there, if we could get a boat. they seem to be all out.� he looked round the lake and counted the rowing boats on its surface. �how lovely it would be!� cried ursula wistfully. �and don�t you want tea?� he said. �oh,� said gudrun, �we could just drink a cup, and be off.� he looked from one to the other, smiling. he was somewhat offended�yet sporting. �can you manage a boat pretty well?� he asked. �yes,� replied gudrun, coldly, �pretty well.� �oh yes,� cried ursula. �we can both of us row like water-spiders.� �you can? there�s a light little canoe of mine, that i didn�t take out for fear somebody should drown themselves. do you think you�d be safe in that?� �oh perfectly,� said gudrun. �what an angel!� cried ursula. �don�t, for _my_ sake, have an accident�because i�m responsible for the water.� �sure,� pledged gudrun. �besides, we can both swim quite well,� said ursula. �well�then i�ll get them to put you up a tea-basket, and you can picnic all to yourselves,�that�s the idea, isn�t it?� �how fearfully good! how frightfully nice if you could!� cried gudrun warmly, her colour flushing up again. it made the blood stir in his veins, the subtle way she turned to him and infused her gratitude into his body. �where�s birkin?� he said, his eyes twinkling. �he might help me to get it down.� �but what about your hand? isn�t it hurt?� asked gudrun, rather muted, as if avoiding the intimacy. this was the first time the hurt had been mentioned. the curious way she skirted round the subject sent a new, subtle caress through his veins. he took his hand out of his pocket. it was bandaged. he looked at it, then put it in his pocket again. gudrun quivered at the sight of the wrapped up paw. �oh i can manage with one hand. the canoe is as light as a feather,� he said. �there�s rupert!�rupert!� birkin turned from his social duties and came towards them. �what have you done to it?� asked ursula, who had been aching to put the question for the last half hour. �to my hand?� said gerald. �i trapped it in some machinery.� �ugh!� said ursula. �and did it hurt much?� �yes,� he said. �it did at the time. it�s getting better now. it crushed the fingers.� �oh,� cried ursula, as if in pain, �i hate people who hurt themselves. i can _feel_ it.� and she shook her hand. �what do you want?� said birkin. the two men carried down the slim brown boat, and set it on the water. �you�re quite sure you�ll be safe in it?� gerald asked. �quite sure,� said gudrun. �i wouldn�t be so mean as to take it, if there was the slightest doubt. but i�ve had a canoe at arundel, and i assure you i�m perfectly safe.� so saying, having given her word like a man, she and ursula entered the frail craft, and pushed gently off. the two men stood watching them. gudrun was paddling. she knew the men were watching her, and it made her slow and rather clumsy. the colour flew in her face like a flag. �thanks awfully,� she called back to him, from the water, as the boat slid away. �it�s lovely�like sitting in a leaf.� he laughed at the fancy. her voice was shrill and strange, calling from the distance. he watched her as she paddled away. there was something childlike about her, trustful and deferential, like a child. he watched her all the while, as she rowed. and to gudrun it was a real delight, in make-belief, to be the childlike, clinging woman to the man who stood there on the quay, so good-looking and efficient in his white clothes, and moreover the most important man she knew at the moment. she did not take any notice of the wavering, indistinct, lambent birkin, who stood at his side. one figure at a time occupied the field of her attention. the boat rustled lightly along the water. they passed the bathers whose striped tents stood between the willows of the meadow�s edge, and drew along the open shore, past the meadows that sloped golden in the light of the already late afternoon. other boats were stealing under the wooded shore opposite, they could hear people�s laughter and voices. but gudrun rowed on towards the clump of trees that balanced perfect in the distance, in the golden light. the sisters found a little place where a tiny stream flowed into the lake, with reeds and flowery marsh of pink willow herb, and a gravelly bank to the side. here they ran delicately ashore, with their frail boat, the two girls took off their shoes and stockings and went through the water�s edge to the grass. the tiny ripples of the lake were warm and clear, they lifted their boat on to the bank, and looked round with joy. they were quite alone in a forsaken little stream-mouth, and on the knoll just behind was the clump of trees. �we will bathe just for a moment,� said ursula, �and then we�ll have tea.� they looked round. nobody could notice them, or could come up in time to see them. in less than a minute ursula had thrown off her clothes and had slipped naked into the water, and was swimming out. quickly, gudrun joined her. they swam silently and blissfully for a few minutes, circling round their little stream-mouth. then they slipped ashore and ran into the grove again, like nymphs. �how lovely it is to be free,� said ursula, running swiftly here and there between the tree trunks, quite naked, her hair blowing loose. the grove was of beech-trees, big and splendid, a steel-grey scaffolding of trunks and boughs, with level sprays of strong green here and there, whilst through the northern side the distance glimmered open as through a window. when they had run and danced themselves dry, the girls quickly dressed and sat down to the fragrant tea. they sat on the northern side of the grove, in the yellow sunshine facing the slope of the grassy hill, alone in a little wild world of their own. the tea was hot and aromatic, there were delicious little sandwiches of cucumber and of caviare, and winy cakes. �are you happy, prune?� cried ursula in delight, looking at her sister. �ursula, i�m perfectly happy,� replied gudrun gravely, looking at the westering sun. �so am i.� when they were together, doing the things they enjoyed, the two sisters were quite complete in a perfect world of their own. and this was one of the perfect moments of freedom and delight, such as children alone know, when all seems a perfect and blissful adventure. when they had finished tea, the two girls sat on, silent and serene. then ursula, who had a beautiful strong voice, began to sing to herself, softly: ��nnchen von tharau.� gudrun listened, as she sat beneath the trees, and the yearning came into her heart. ursula seemed so peaceful and sufficient unto herself, sitting there unconsciously crooning her song, strong and unquestioned at the centre of her own universe. and gudrun felt herself outside. always this desolating, agonised feeling, that she was outside of life, an onlooker, whilst ursula was a partaker, caused gudrun to suffer from a sense of her own negation, and made her, that she must always demand the other to be aware of her, to be in connection with her. �do you mind if i do dalcroze to that tune, hurtler?� she asked in a curious muted tone, scarce moving her lips. �what did you say?� asked ursula, looking up in peaceful surprise. �will you sing while i do dalcroze?� said gudrun, suffering at having to repeat herself. ursula thought a moment, gathering her straying wits together. �while you do�?� she asked vaguely. �dalcroze movements,� said gudrun, suffering tortures of self-consciousness, even because of her sister. �oh dalcroze! i couldn�t catch the name. _do_�i should love to see you,� cried ursula, with childish surprised brightness. �what shall i sing?� �sing anything you like, and i�ll take the rhythm from it.� but ursula could not for her life think of anything to sing. however, she suddenly began, in a laughing, teasing voice: �my love�is a high-born lady�� gudrun, looking as if some invisible chain weighed on her hands and feet, began slowly to dance in the eurythmic manner, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically with her feet, making slower, regular gestures with her hands and arms, now spreading her arms wide, now raising them above her head, now flinging them softly apart, and lifting her face, her feet all the time beating and running to the measure of the song, as if it were some strange incantation, her white, rapt form drifting here and there in a strange impulsive rhapsody, seeming to be lifted on a breeze of incantation, shuddering with strange little runs. ursula sat on the grass, her mouth open in her singing, her eyes laughing as if she thought it was a great joke, but a yellow light flashing up in them, as she caught some of the unconscious ritualistic suggestion of the complex shuddering and waving and drifting of her sister�s white form, that was clutched in pure, mindless, tossing rhythm, and a will set powerful in a kind of hypnotic influence. �my love is a high-born lady�she is-s-s�rather dark than shady�� rang out ursula�s laughing, satiric song, and quicker, fiercer went gudrun in the dance, stamping as if she were trying to throw off some bond, flinging her hands suddenly and stamping again, then rushing with face uplifted and throat full and beautiful, and eyes half closed, sightless. the sun was low and yellow, sinking down, and in the sky floated a thin, ineffectual moon. ursula was quite absorbed in her song, when suddenly gudrun stopped and said mildly, ironically: �ursula!� �yes?� said ursula, opening her eyes out of the trance. gudrun was standing still and pointing, a mocking smile on her face, towards the side. �ugh!� cried ursula in sudden panic, starting to her feet. �they�re quite all right,� rang out gudrun�s sardonic voice. on the left stood a little cluster of highland cattle, vividly coloured and fleecy in the evening light, their horns branching into the sky, pushing forward their muzzles inquisitively, to know what it was all about. their eyes glittered through their tangle of hair, their naked nostrils were full of shadow. �won�t they do anything?� cried ursula in fear. gudrun, who was usually frightened of cattle, now shook her head in a queer, half-doubtful, half-sardonic motion, a faint smile round her mouth. �don�t they look charming, ursula?� cried gudrun, in a high, strident voice, something like the scream of a seagull. �charming,� cried ursula in trepidation. �but won�t they do anything to us?� again gudrun looked back at her sister with an enigmatic smile, and shook her head. �i�m sure they won�t,� she said, as if she had to convince herself also, and yet, as if she were confident of some secret power in herself, and had to put it to the test. �sit down and sing again,� she called in her high, strident voice. �i�m frightened,� cried ursula, in a pathetic voice, watching the group of sturdy short cattle, that stood with their knees planted, and watched with their dark, wicked eyes, through the matted fringe of their hair. nevertheless, she sank down again, in her former posture. �they are quite safe,� came gudrun�s high call. �sing something, you�ve only to sing something.� it was evident she had a strange passion to dance before the sturdy, handsome cattle. ursula began to sing, in a false quavering voice: �way down in tennessee�� she sounded purely anxious. nevertheless, gudrun, with her arms outspread and her face uplifted, went in a strange palpitating dance towards the cattle, lifting her body towards them as if in a spell, her feet pulsing as if in some little frenzy of unconscious sensation, her arms, her wrists, her hands stretching and heaving and falling and reaching and reaching and falling, her breasts lifted and shaken towards the cattle, her throat exposed as in some voluptuous ecstasy towards them, whilst she drifted imperceptibly nearer, an uncanny white figure, towards them, carried away in its own rapt trance, ebbing in strange fluctuations upon the cattle, that waited, and ducked their heads a little in sudden contraction from her, watching all the time as if hypnotised, their bare horns branching in the clear light, as the white figure of the woman ebbed upon them, in the slow, hypnotising convulsion of the dance. she could feel them just in front of her, it was as if she had the electric pulse from their breasts running into her hands. soon she would touch them, actually touch them. a terrible shiver of fear and pleasure went through her. and all the while, ursula, spell-bound, kept up her high-pitched thin, irrelevant song, which pierced the fading evening like an incantation. gudrun could hear the cattle breathing heavily with helpless fear and fascination. oh, they were brave little beasts, these wild scotch bullocks, wild and fleecy. suddenly one of them snorted, ducked its head, and backed. �hue! hi-eee!� came a sudden loud shout from the edge of the grove. the cattle broke and fell back quite spontaneously, went running up the hill, their fleece waving like fire to their motion. gudrun stood suspended out on the grass, ursula rose to her feet. it was gerald and birkin come to find them, and gerald had cried out to frighten off the cattle. �what do you think you�re doing?� he now called, in a high, wondering vexed tone. �why have you come?� came back gudrun�s strident cry of anger. �what do you think you were doing?� gerald repeated, automatically. �we were doing eurythmics,� laughed ursula, in a shaken voice. gudrun stood aloof looking at them with large dark eyes of resentment, suspended for a few moments. then she walked away up the hill, after the cattle, which had gathered in a little, spell-bound cluster higher up. �where are you going?� gerald called after her. and he followed her up the hill-side. the sun had gone behind the hill, and shadows were clinging to the earth, the sky above was full of travelling light. �a poor song for a dance,� said birkin to ursula, standing before her with a sardonic, flickering laugh on his face. and in another second, he was singing softly to himself, and dancing a grotesque step-dance in front of her, his limbs and body shaking loose, his face flickering palely, a constant thing, whilst his feet beat a rapid mocking tattoo, and his body seemed to hang all loose and quaking in between, like a shadow. �i think we�ve all gone mad,� she said, laughing rather frightened. �pity we aren�t madder,� he answered, as he kept up the incessant shaking dance. then suddenly he leaned up to her and kissed her fingers lightly, putting his face to hers and looking into her eyes with a pale grin. she stepped back, affronted. �offended�?� he asked ironically, suddenly going quite still and reserved again. �i thought you liked the light fantastic.� �not like that,� she said, confused and bewildered, almost affronted. yet somewhere inside her she was fascinated by the sight of his loose, vibrating body, perfectly abandoned to its own dropping and swinging, and by the pallid, sardonic-smiling face above. yet automatically she stiffened herself away, and disapproved. it seemed almost an obscenity, in a man who talked as a rule so very seriously. �why not like that?� he mocked. and immediately he dropped again into the incredibly rapid, slack-waggling dance, watching her malevolently. and moving in the rapid, stationary dance, he came a little nearer, and reached forward with an incredibly mocking, satiric gleam on his face, and would have kissed her again, had she not started back. �no, don�t!� she cried, really afraid. �cordelia after all,� he said satirically. she was stung, as if this were an insult. she knew he intended it as such, and it bewildered her. �and you,� she cried in retort, �why do you always take your soul in your mouth, so frightfully full?� �so that i can spit it out the more readily,� he said, pleased by his own retort. gerald crich, his face narrowing to an intent gleam, followed up the hill with quick strides, straight after gudrun. the cattle stood with their noses together on the brow of a slope, watching the scene below, the men in white hovering about the white forms of the women, watching above all gudrun, who was advancing slowly towards them. she stood a moment, glancing back at gerald, and then at the cattle. then in a sudden motion, she lifted her arms and rushed sheer upon the long-horned bullocks, in shuddering irregular runs, pausing for a second and looking at them, then lifting her hands and running forward with a flash, till they ceased pawing the ground, and gave way, snorting with terror, lifting their heads from the ground and flinging themselves away, galloping off into the evening, becoming tiny in the distance, and still not stopping. gudrun remained staring after them, with a mask-like defiant face. �why do you want to drive them mad?� asked gerald, coming up with her. she took no notice of him, only averted her face from him. �it�s not safe, you know,� he persisted. �they�re nasty, when they do turn.� �turn where? turn away?� she mocked loudly. �no,� he said, �turn against you.� �turn against _me?_� she mocked. he could make nothing of this. �anyway, they gored one of the farmer�s cows to death, the other day,� he said. �what do i care?� she said. �_i_ cared though,� he replied, �seeing that they�re my cattle.� �how are they yours! you haven�t swallowed them. give me one of them now,� she said, holding out her hand. �you know where they are,� he said, pointing over the hill. �you can have one if you�d like it sent to you later on.� she looked at him inscrutably. �you think i�m afraid of you and your cattle, don�t you?� she asked. his eyes narrowed dangerously. there was a faint domineering smile on his face. �why should i think that?� he said. she was watching him all the time with her dark, dilated, inchoate eyes. she leaned forward and swung round her arm, catching him a light blow on the face with the back of her hand. �that�s why,� she said, mocking. and she felt in her soul an unconquerable desire for deep violence against him. she shut off the fear and dismay that filled her conscious mind. she wanted to do as she did, she was not going to be afraid. he recoiled from the slight blow on his face. he became deadly pale, and a dangerous flame darkened his eyes. for some seconds he could not speak, his lungs were so suffused with blood, his heart stretched almost to bursting with a great gush of ungovernable emotion. it was as if some reservoir of black emotion had burst within him, and swamped him. �you have struck the first blow,� he said at last, forcing the words from his lungs, in a voice so soft and low, it sounded like a dream within her, not spoken in the outer air. �and i shall strike the last,� she retorted involuntarily, with confident assurance. he was silent, he did not contradict her. she stood negligently, staring away from him, into the distance. on the edge of her consciousness the question was asking itself, automatically: �why _are_ you behaving in this _impossible_ and ridiculous fashion.� but she was sullen, she half shoved the question out of herself. she could not get it clean away, so she felt self-conscious. gerald, very pale, was watching her closely. his eyes were lit up with intent lights, absorbed and gleaming. she turned suddenly on him. �it�s you who make me behave like this, you know,� she said, almost suggestive. �i? how?� he said. but she turned away, and set off towards the lake. below, on the water, lanterns were coming alight, faint ghosts of warm flame floating in the pallor of the first twilight. the earth was spread with darkness, like lacquer, overhead was a pale sky, all primrose, and the lake was pale as milk in one part. away at the landing stage, tiniest points of coloured rays were stringing themselves in the dusk. the launch was being illuminated. all round, shadow was gathering from the trees. gerald, white like a presence in his summer clothes, was following down the open grassy slope. gudrun waited for him to come up. then she softly put out her hand and touched him, saying softly: �don�t be angry with me.� a flame flew over him, and he was unconscious. yet he stammered: �i�m not angry with you. i�m in love with you.� his mind was gone, he grasped for sufficient mechanical control, to save himself. she laughed a silvery little mockery, yet intolerably caressive. �that�s one way of putting it,� she said. the terrible swooning burden on his mind, the awful swooning, the loss of all his control, was too much for him. he grasped her arm in his one hand, as if his hand were iron. �it�s all right, then, is it?� he said, holding her arrested. she looked at the face with the fixed eyes, set before her, and her blood ran cold. �yes, it�s all right,� she said softly, as if drugged, her voice crooning and witch-like. he walked on beside her, a striding, mindless body. but he recovered a little as he went. he suffered badly. he had killed his brother when a boy, and was set apart, like cain. they found birkin and ursula sitting together by the boats, talking and laughing. birkin had been teasing ursula. �do you smell this little marsh?� he said, sniffing the air. he was very sensitive to scents, and quick in understanding them. �it�s rather nice,� she said. �no,� he replied, �alarming.� �why alarming?� she laughed. �it seethes and seethes, a river of darkness,� he said, �putting forth lilies and snakes, and the _ignis fatuus_, and rolling all the time onward. that�s what we never take into count�that it rolls onwards.� �what does?� �the other river, the black river. we always consider the silver river of life, rolling on and quickening all the world to a brightness, on and on to heaven, flowing into a bright eternal sea, a heaven of angels thronging. but the other is our real reality�� �but what other? i don�t see any other,� said ursula. �it is your reality, nevertheless,� he said; �that dark river of dissolution. you see it rolls in us just as the other rolls�the black river of corruption. and our flowers are of this�our sea-born aphrodite, all our white phosphorescent flowers of sensuous perfection, all our reality, nowadays.� �you mean that aphrodite is really deathly?� asked ursula. �i mean she is the flowering mystery of the death-process, yes,� he replied. �when the stream of synthetic creation lapses, we find ourselves part of the inverse process, the blood of destructive creation. aphrodite is born in the first spasm of universal dissolution�then the snakes and swans and lotus�marsh-flowers�and gudrun and gerald�born in the process of destructive creation.� �and you and me�?� she asked. �probably,� he replied. �in part, certainly. whether we are that, _in toto_, i don�t yet know.� �you mean we are flowers of dissolution�_fleurs du mal?_ i don�t feel as if i were,� she protested. he was silent for a time. �i don�t feel as if we were, _altogether_,� he replied. �some people are pure flowers of dark corruption�lilies. but there ought to be some roses, warm and flamy. you know herakleitos says �a dry soul is best.� i know so well what that means. do you?� �i�m not sure,� ursula replied. �but what if people _are_ all flowers of dissolution�when they�re flowers at all�what difference does it make?� �no difference�and all the difference. dissolution rolls on, just as production does,� he said. �it is a progressive process�and it ends in universal nothing�the end of the world, if you like. but why isn�t the end of the world as good as the beginning?� �i suppose it isn�t,� said ursula, rather angry. �oh yes, ultimately,� he said. �it means a new cycle of creation after�but not for us. if it is the end, then we are of the end�_fleurs du mal_ if you like. if we are _fleurs du mal_, we are not roses of happiness, and there you are.� �but i think i am,� said ursula. �i think i am a rose of happiness.� �ready-made?� he asked ironically. �no�real,� she said, hurt. �if we are the end, we are not the beginning,� he said. �yes we are,� she said. �the beginning comes out of the end.� �after it, not out of it. after us, not out of us.� �you are a devil, you know, really,� she said. �you want to destroy our hope. you _want_ us to be deathly.� �no,� he said, �i only want us to _know_ what we are.� �ha!� she cried in anger. �you only want us to know death.� �you�re quite right,� said the soft voice of gerald, out of the dusk behind. birkin rose. gerald and gudrun came up. they all began to smoke, in the moments of silence. one after another, birkin lighted their cigarettes. the match flickered in the twilight, and they were all smoking peacefully by the water-side. the lake was dim, the light dying from off it, in the midst of the dark land. the air all round was intangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal noise of banjoes, or suchlike music. as the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon gained brightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her ascendancy. the dark woods on the opposite shore melted into universal shadow. and amid this universal under-shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. far down the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of wan fire, green and red and yellow. the music came out in a little puff, as the launch, all illuminated, veered into the great shadow, stirring her outlines of half-living lights, puffing out her music in little drifts. all were lighting up. here and there, close against the faint water, and at the far end of the lake, where the water lay milky in the last whiteness of the sky, and there was no shadow, solitary, frail flames of lanterns floated from the unseen boats. there was a sound of oars, and a boat passed from the pallor into the darkness under the wood, where her lanterns seemed to kindle into fire, hanging in ruddy lovely globes. and again, in the lake, shadowy red gleams hovered in reflection about the boat. everywhere were these noiseless ruddy creatures of fire drifting near the surface of the water, caught at by the rarest, scarce visible reflections. birkin brought the lanterns from the bigger boat, and the four shadowy white figures gathered round, to light them. ursula held up the first, birkin lowered the light from the rosy, glowing cup of his hands, into the depths of the lantern. it was kindled, and they all stood back to look at the great blue moon of light that hung from ursula�s hand, casting a strange gleam on her face. it flickered, and birkin went bending over the well of light. his face shone out like an apparition, so unconscious, and again, something demoniacal. ursula was dim and veiled, looming over him. �that is all right,� said his voice softly. she held up the lantern. it had a flight of storks streaming through a turquoise sky of light, over a dark earth. �this is beautiful,� she said. �lovely,� echoed gudrun, who wanted to hold one also, and lift it up full of beauty. �light one for me,� she said. gerald stood by her, incapacitated. birkin lit the lantern she held up. her heart beat with anxiety, to see how beautiful it would be. it was primrose yellow, with tall straight flowers growing darkly from their dark leaves, lifting their heads into the primrose day, while butterflies hovered about them, in the pure clear light. gudrun gave a little cry of excitement, as if pierced with delight. �isn�t it beautiful, oh, isn�t it beautiful!� her soul was really pierced with beauty, she was translated beyond herself. gerald leaned near to her, into her zone of light, as if to see. he came close to her, and stood touching her, looking with her at the primrose-shining globe. and she turned her face to his, that was faintly bright in the light of the lantern, and they stood together in one luminous union, close together and ringed round with light, all the rest excluded. birkin looked away, and went to light ursula�s second lantern. it had a pale ruddy sea-bottom, with black crabs and sea-weed moving sinuously under a transparent sea, that passed into flamy ruddiness above. �you�ve got the heavens above, and the waters under the earth,� said birkin to her. �anything but the earth itself,� she laughed, watching his live hands that hovered to attend to the light. �i�m dying to see what my second one is,� cried gudrun, in a vibrating rather strident voice, that seemed to repel the others from her. birkin went and kindled it. it was of a lovely deep blue colour, with a red floor, and a great white cuttle-fish flowing in white soft streams all over it. the cuttle-fish had a face that stared straight from the heart of the light, very fixed and coldly intent. �how truly terrifying!� exclaimed gudrun, in a voice of horror. gerald, at her side, gave a low laugh. �but isn�t it really fearful!� she cried in dismay. again he laughed, and said: �change it with ursula, for the crabs.� gudrun was silent for a moment. �ursula,� she said, �could you bear to have this fearful thing?� �i think the colouring is _lovely_,� said ursula. �so do i,� said gudrun. �but could you _bear_ to have it swinging to your boat? don�t you want to destroy it _at once?_� �oh no,� said ursula. �i don�t want to destroy it.� �well do you mind having it instead of the crabs? are you sure you don�t mind?� gudrun came forward to exchange lanterns. �no,� said ursula, yielding up the crabs and receiving the cuttle-fish. yet she could not help feeling rather resentful at the way in which gudrun and gerald should assume a right over her, a precedence. �come then,� said birkin. �i�ll put them on the boats.� he and ursula were moving away to the big boat. �i suppose you�ll row me back, rupert,� said gerald, out of the pale shadow of the evening. �won�t you go with gudrun in the canoe?� said birkin. �it�ll be more interesting.� there was a moment�s pause. birkin and ursula stood dimly, with their swinging lanterns, by the water�s edge. the world was all illusive. �is that all right?� said gudrun to him. �it�ll suit _me_ very well,� he said. �but what about you, and the rowing? i don�t see why you should pull me.� �why not?� she said. �i can pull you as well as i could pull ursula.� by her tone he could tell she wanted to have him in the boat to herself, and that she was subtly gratified that she should have power over them both. he gave himself, in a strange, electric submission. she handed him the lanterns, whilst she went to fix the cane at the end of the canoe. he followed after her, and stood with the lanterns dangling against his white-flannelled thighs, emphasising the shadow around. �kiss me before we go,� came his voice softly from out of the shadow above. she stopped her work in real, momentary astonishment. �but why?� she exclaimed, in pure surprise. �why?� he echoed, ironically. and she looked at him fixedly for some moments. then she leaned forward and kissed him, with a slow, luxurious kiss, lingering on the mouth. and then she took the lanterns from him, while he stood swooning with the perfect fire that burned in all his joints. they lifted the canoe into the water, gudrun took her place, and gerald pushed off. �are you sure you don�t hurt your hand, doing that?� she asked, solicitous. �because i could have done it _perfectly_.� �i don�t hurt myself,� he said in a low, soft voice, that caressed her with inexpressible beauty. and she watched him as he sat near her, very near to her, in the stern of the canoe, his legs coming towards hers, his feet touching hers. and she paddled softly, lingeringly, longing for him to say something meaningful to her. but he remained silent. �you like this, do you?� she said, in a gentle, solicitous voice. he laughed shortly. �there is a space between us,� he said, in the same low, unconscious voice, as if something were speaking out of him. and she was as if magically aware of their being balanced in separation, in the boat. she swooned with acute comprehension and pleasure. �but i�m very near,� she said caressively, gaily. �yet distant, distant,� he said. again she was silent with pleasure, before she answered, speaking with a reedy, thrilled voice: �yet we cannot very well change, whilst we are on the water.� she caressed him subtly and strangely, having him completely at her mercy. a dozen or more boats on the lake swung their rosy and moon-like lanterns low on the water, that reflected as from a fire. in the distance, the steamer twanged and thrummed and washed with her faintly-splashing paddles, trailing her strings of coloured lights, and occasionally lighting up the whole scene luridly with an effusion of fireworks, roman candles and sheafs of stars and other simple effects, illuminating the surface of the water, and showing the boats creeping round, low down. then the lovely darkness fell again, the lanterns and the little threaded lights glimmered softly, there was a muffled knocking of oars and a waving of music. gudrun paddled almost imperceptibly. gerald could see, not far ahead, the rich blue and the rose globes of ursula�s lanterns swaying softly cheek to cheek as birkin rowed, and iridescent, evanescent gleams chasing in the wake. he was aware, too, of his own delicately coloured lights casting their softness behind him. gudrun rested her paddle and looked round. the canoe lifted with the lightest ebbing of the water. gerald�s white knees were very near to her. �isn�t it beautiful!� she said softly, as if reverently. she looked at him, as he leaned back against the faint crystal of the lantern-light. she could see his face, although it was a pure shadow. but it was a piece of twilight. and her breast was keen with passion for him, he was so beautiful in his male stillness and mystery. it was a certain pure effluence of maleness, like an aroma from his softly, firmly moulded contours, a certain rich perfection of his presence, that touched her with an ecstasy, a thrill of pure intoxication. she loved to look at him. for the present she did not want to touch him, to know the further, satisfying substance of his living body. he was purely intangible, yet so near. her hands lay on the paddle like slumber, she only wanted to see him, like a crystal shadow, to feel his essential presence. �yes,� he said vaguely. �it is very beautiful.� he was listening to the faint near sounds, the dropping of water-drops from the oar-blades, the slight drumming of the lanterns behind him, as they rubbed against one another, the occasional rustling of gudrun�s full skirt, an alien land noise. his mind was almost submerged, he was almost transfused, lapsed out for the first time in his life, into the things about him. for he always kept such a keen attentiveness, concentrated and unyielding in himself. now he had let go, imperceptibly he was melting into oneness with the whole. it was like pure, perfect sleep, his first great sleep of life. he had been so insistent, so guarded, all his life. but here was sleep, and peace, and perfect lapsing out. �shall i row to the landing-stage?� asked gudrun wistfully. �anywhere,� he answered. �let it drift.� �tell me then, if we are running into anything,� she replied, in that very quiet, toneless voice of sheer intimacy. �the lights will show,� he said. so they drifted almost motionless, in silence. he wanted silence, pure and whole. but she was uneasy yet for some word, for some assurance. �nobody will miss you?� she asked, anxious for some communication. �miss me?� he echoed. �no! why?� �i wondered if anybody would be looking for you.� �why should they look for me?� and then he remembered his manners. �but perhaps you want to get back,� he said, in a changed voice. �no, i don�t want to get back,� she replied. �no, i assure you.� �you�re quite sure it�s all right for you?� �perfectly all right.� and again they were still. the launch twanged and hooted, somebody was singing. then as if the night smashed, suddenly there was a great shout, a confusion of shouting, warring on the water, then the horrid noise of paddles reversed and churned violently. gerald sat up, and gudrun looked at him in fear. �somebody in the water,� he said, angrily, and desperately, looking keenly across the dusk. �can you row up?� �where, to the launch?� asked gudrun, in nervous panic. �yes.� �you�ll tell me if i don�t steer straight,� she said, in nervous apprehension. �you keep pretty level,� he said, and the canoe hastened forward. the shouting and the noise continued, sounding horrid through the dusk, over the surface of the water. �wasn�t this _bound_ to happen?� said gudrun, with heavy hateful irony. but he hardly heard, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her way. the half-dark waters were sprinkled with lovely bubbles of swaying lights, the launch did not look far off. she was rocking her lights in the early night. gudrun rowed as hard as she could. but now that it was a serious matter, she seemed uncertain and clumsy in her stroke, it was difficult to paddle swiftly. she glanced at his face. he was looking fixedly into the darkness, very keen and alert and single in himself, instrumental. her heart sank, she seemed to die a death. �of course,� she said to herself, �nobody will be drowned. of course they won�t. it would be too extravagant and sensational.� but her heart was cold, because of his sharp impersonal face. it was as if he belonged naturally to dread and catastrophe, as if he were himself again. then there came a child�s voice, a girl�s high, piercing shriek: �di�di�di�di�oh di�oh di�oh di!� the blood ran cold in gudrun�s veins. �it�s diana, is it,� muttered gerald. �the young monkey, she�d have to be up to some of her tricks.� and he glanced again at the paddle, the boat was not going quickly enough for him. it made gudrun almost helpless at the rowing, this nervous stress. she kept up with all her might. still the voices were calling and answering. �where, where? there you are�that�s it. which? no�no-o-o. damn it all, here, _here_�� boats were hurrying from all directions to the scene, coloured lanterns could be seen waving close to the surface of the lake, reflections swaying after them in uneven haste. the steamer hooted again, for some unknown reason. gudrun�s boat was travelling quickly, the lanterns were swinging behind gerald. and then again came the child�s high, screaming voice, with a note of weeping and impatience in it now: �di�oh di�oh di�di�!� it was a terrible sound, coming through the obscure air of the evening. �you�d be better if you were in bed, winnie,� gerald muttered to himself. he was stooping unlacing his shoes, pushing them off with the foot. then he threw his soft hat into the bottom of the boat. �you can�t go into the water with your hurt hand,� said gudrun, panting, in a low voice of horror. �what? it won�t hurt.� he had struggled out of his jacket, and had dropped it between his feet. he sat bare-headed, all in white now. he felt the belt at his waist. they were nearing the launch, which stood still big above them, her myriad lamps making lovely darts, and sinuous running tongues of ugly red and green and yellow light on the lustrous dark water, under the shadow. �oh get her out! oh di, _darling!_ oh get her out! oh daddy, oh daddy!� moaned the child�s voice, in distraction. somebody was in the water, with a life belt. two boats paddled near, their lanterns swinging ineffectually, the boats nosing round. �hi there�rockley!�hi there!� �mr gerald!� came the captain�s terrified voice. �miss diana�s in the water.� �anybody gone in for her?� came gerald�s sharp voice. �young doctor brindell, sir.� �where?� �can�t see no signs of them, sir. everybody�s looking, but there�s nothing so far.� there was a moment�s ominous pause. �where did she go in?� �i think�about where that boat is,� came the uncertain answer, �that one with red and green lights.� �row there,� said gerald quietly to gudrun. �get her out, gerald, oh get her out,� the child�s voice was crying anxiously. he took no heed. �lean back that way,� said gerald to gudrun, as he stood up in the frail boat. �she won�t upset.� in another moment, he had dropped clean down, soft and plumb, into the water. gudrun was swaying violently in her boat, the agitated water shook with transient lights, she realised that it was faintly moonlight, and that he was gone. so it was possible to be gone. a terrible sense of fatality robbed her of all feeling and thought. she knew he was gone out of the world, there was merely the same world, and absence, his absence. the night seemed large and vacuous. lanterns swayed here and there, people were talking in an undertone on the launch and in the boats. she could hear winifred moaning: �_oh do find her gerald, do find her_,� and someone trying to comfort the child. gudrun paddled aimlessly here and there. the terrible, massive, cold, boundless surface of the water terrified her beyond words. would he never come back? she felt she must jump into the water too, to know the horror also. she started, hearing someone say: �there he is.� she saw the movement of his swimming, like a water-rat. and she rowed involuntarily to him. but he was near another boat, a bigger one. still she rowed towards him. she must be very near. she saw him�he looked like a seal. he looked like a seal as he took hold of the side of the boat. his fair hair was washed down on his round head, his face seemed to glisten suavely. she could hear him panting. then he clambered into the boat. oh, and the beauty of the subjection of his loins, white and dimly luminous as he climbed over the side of the boat, made her want to die, to die. the beauty of his dim and luminous loins as he climbed into the boat, his back rounded and soft�ah, this was too much for her, too final a vision. she knew it, and it was fatal. the terrible hopelessness of fate, and of beauty, such beauty! he was not like a man to her, he was an incarnation, a great phase of life. she saw him press the water out of his face, and look at the bandage on his hand. and she knew it was all no good, and that she would never go beyond him, he was the final approximation of life to her. �put the lights out, we shall see better,� came his voice, sudden and mechanical and belonging to the world of man. she could scarcely believe there was a world of man. she leaned round and blew out her lanterns. they were difficult to blow out. everywhere the lights were gone save the coloured points on the sides of the launch. the bluey-grey, early night spread level around, the moon was overhead, there were shadows of boats here and there. again there was a splash, and he was gone under. gudrun sat, sick at heart, frightened of the great, level surface of the water, so heavy and deadly. she was so alone, with the level, unliving field of the water stretching beneath her. it was not a good isolation, it was a terrible, cold separation of suspense. she was suspended upon the surface of the insidious reality until such time as she also should disappear beneath it. then she knew, by a stirring of voices, that he had climbed out again, into a boat. she sat wanting connection with him. strenuously she claimed her connection with him, across the invisible space of the water. but round her heart was an isolation unbearable, through which nothing would penetrate. �take the launch in. it�s no use keeping her there. get lines for the dragging,� came the decisive, instrumental voice, that was full of the sound of the world. the launch began gradually to beat the waters. �gerald! gerald!� came the wild crying voice of winifred. he did not answer. slowly the launch drifted round in a pathetic, clumsy circle, and slunk away to the land, retreating into the dimness. the wash of her paddles grew duller. gudrun rocked in her light boat, and dipped the paddle automatically to steady herself. �gudrun?� called ursula�s voice. �ursula!� the boats of the two sisters pulled together. �where is gerald?� said gudrun. �he�s dived again,� said ursula plaintively. �and i know he ought not, with his hurt hand and everything.� �i�ll take him in home this time,� said birkin. the boats swayed again from the wash of steamer. gudrun and ursula kept a look-out for gerald. �there he is!� cried ursula, who had the sharpest eyes. he had not been long under. birkin pulled towards him, gudrun following. he swam slowly, and caught hold of the boat with his wounded hand. it slipped, and he sank back. �why don�t you help him?� cried ursula sharply. he came again, and birkin leaned to help him in to the boat. gudrun again watched gerald climb out of the water, but this time slowly, heavily, with the blind clambering motions of an amphibious beast, clumsy. again the moon shone with faint luminosity on his white wet figure, on the stooping back and the rounded loins. but it looked defeated now, his body, it clambered and fell with slow clumsiness. he was breathing hoarsely too, like an animal that is suffering. he sat slack and motionless in the boat, his head blunt and blind like a seal�s, his whole appearance inhuman, unknowing. gudrun shuddered as she mechanically followed his boat. birkin rowed without speaking to the landing-stage. �where are you going?� gerald asked suddenly, as if just waking up. �home,� said birkin. �oh no!� said gerald imperiously. �we can�t go home while they�re in the water. turn back again, i�m going to find them.� the women were frightened, his voice was so imperative and dangerous, almost mad, not to be opposed. �no!� said birkin. �you can�t.� there was a strange fluid compulsion in his voice. gerald was silent in a battle of wills. it was as if he would kill the other man. but birkin rowed evenly and unswerving, with an inhuman inevitability. �why should you interfere?� said gerald, in hate. birkin did not answer. he rowed towards the land. and gerald sat mute, like a dumb beast, panting, his teeth chattering, his arms inert, his head like a seal�s head. they came to the landing-stage. wet and naked-looking, gerald climbed up the few steps. there stood his father, in the night. �father!� he said. �yes my boy? go home and get those things off.� �we shan�t save them, father,� said gerald. �there�s hope yet, my boy.� �i�m afraid not. there�s no knowing where they are. you can�t find them. and there�s a current, as cold as hell.� �we�ll let the water out,� said the father. �go home you and look to yourself. see that he�s looked after, rupert,� he added in a neutral voice. �well father, i�m sorry. i�m sorry. i�m afraid it�s my fault. but it can�t be helped; i�ve done what i could for the moment. i could go on diving, of course�not much, though�and not much use�� he moved away barefoot, on the planks of the platform. then he trod on something sharp. �of course, you�ve got no shoes on,� said birkin. �his shoes are here!� cried gudrun from below. she was making fast her boat. gerald waited for them to be brought to him. gudrun came with them. he pulled them on his feet. �if you once die,� he said, �then when it�s over, it�s finished. why come to life again? there�s room under that water there for thousands.� �two is enough,� she said murmuring. he dragged on his second shoe. he was shivering violently, and his jaw shook as he spoke. �that�s true,� he said, �maybe. but it�s curious how much room there seems, a whole universe under there; and as cold as hell, you�re as helpless as if your head was cut off.� he could scarcely speak, he shook so violently. �there�s one thing about our family, you know,� he continued. �once anything goes wrong, it can never be put right again�not with us. i�ve noticed it all my life�you can�t put a thing right, once it has gone wrong.� they were walking across the high-road to the house. �and do you know, when you are down there, it is so cold, actually, and so endless, so different really from what it is on top, so endless�you wonder how it is so many are alive, why we�re up here. are you going? i shall see you again, shan�t i? good-night, and thank you. thank you very much!� the two girls waited a while, to see if there were any hope. the moon shone clearly overhead, with almost impertinent brightness, the small dark boats clustered on the water, there were voices and subdued shouts. but it was all to no purpose. gudrun went home when birkin returned. he was commissioned to open the sluice that let out the water from the lake, which was pierced at one end, near the high-road, thus serving as a reservoir to supply with water the distant mines, in case of necessity. �come with me,� he said to ursula, �and then i will walk home with you, when i�ve done this.� he called at the water-keeper�s cottage and took the key of the sluice. they went through a little gate from the high-road, to the head of the water, where was a great stone basin which received the overflow, and a flight of stone steps descended into the depths of the water itself. at the head of the steps was the lock of the sluice-gate. the night was silver-grey and perfect, save for the scattered restless sound of voices. the grey sheen of the moonlight caught the stretch of water, dark boats plashed and moved. but ursula�s mind ceased to be receptive, everything was unimportant and unreal. birkin fixed the iron handle of the sluice, and turned it with a wrench. the cogs began slowly to rise. he turned and turned, like a slave, his white figure became distinct. ursula looked away. she could not bear to see him winding heavily and laboriously, bending and rising mechanically like a slave, turning the handle. then, a real shock to her, there came a loud splashing of water from out of the dark, tree-filled hollow beyond the road, a splashing that deepened rapidly to a harsh roar, and then became a heavy, booming noise of a great body of water falling solidly all the time. it occupied the whole of the night, this great steady booming of water, everything was drowned within it, drowned and lost. ursula seemed to have to struggle for her life. she put her hands over her ears, and looked at the high bland moon. �can�t we go now?� she cried to birkin, who was watching the water on the steps, to see if it would get any lower. it seemed to fascinate him. he looked at her and nodded. the little dark boats had moved nearer, people were crowding curiously along the hedge by the high-road, to see what was to be seen. birkin and ursula went to the cottage with the key, then turned their backs on the lake. she was in great haste. she could not bear the terrible crushing boom of the escaping water. �do you think they are dead?� she cried in a high voice, to make herself heard. �yes,� he replied. �isn�t it horrible!� he paid no heed. they walked up the hill, further and further away from the noise. �do you mind very much?� she asked him. �i don�t mind about the dead,� he said, �once they are dead. the worst of it is, they cling on to the living, and won�t let go.� she pondered for a time. �yes,� she said. �the _fact_ of death doesn�t really seem to matter much, does it?� �no,� he said. �what does it matter if diana crich is alive or dead?� �doesn�t it?� she said, shocked. �no, why should it? better she were dead�she�ll be much more real. she�ll be positive in death. in life she was a fretting, negated thing.� �you are rather horrible,� murmured ursula. �no! i�d rather diana crich were dead. her living somehow, was all wrong. as for the young man, poor devil�he�ll find his way out quickly instead of slowly. death is all right�nothing better.� �yet you don�t want to die,� she challenged him. he was silent for a time. then he said, in a voice that was frightening to her in its change: �i should like to be through with it�i should like to be through with the death process.� �and aren�t you?� asked ursula nervously. they walked on for some way in silence, under the trees. then he said, slowly, as if afraid: �there is life which belongs to death, and there is life which isn�t death. one is tired of the life that belongs to death�our kind of life. but whether it is finished, god knows. i want love that is like sleep, like being born again, vulnerable as a baby that just comes into the world.� ursula listened, half attentive, half avoiding what he said. she seemed to catch the drift of his statement, and then she drew away. she wanted to hear, but she did not want to be implicated. she was reluctant to yield there, where he wanted her, to yield as it were her very identity. �why should love be like sleep?� she asked sadly. �i don�t know. so that it is like death�i _do_ want to die from this life�and yet it is more than life itself. one is delivered over like a naked infant from the womb, all the old defences and the old body gone, and new air around one, that has never been breathed before.� she listened, making out what he said. she knew, as well as he knew, that words themselves do not convey meaning, that they are but a gesture we make, a dumb show like any other. and she seemed to feel his gesture through her blood, and she drew back, even though her desire sent her forward. �but,� she said gravely, �didn�t you say you wanted something that was _not_ love�something beyond love?� he turned in confusion. there was always confusion in speech. yet it must be spoken. whichever way one moved, if one were to move forwards, one must break a way through. and to know, to give utterance, was to break a way through the walls of the prison as the infant in labour strives through the walls of the womb. there is no new movement now, without the breaking through of the old body, deliberately, in knowledge, in the struggle to get out. �i don�t want love,� he said. �i don�t want to know you. i want to be gone out of myself, and you to be lost to yourself, so we are found different. one shouldn�t talk when one is tired and wretched. one hamletises, and it seems a lie. only believe me when i show you a bit of healthy pride and insouciance. i hate myself serious.� �why shouldn�t you be serious?� she said. he thought for a minute, then he said, sulkily: �i don�t know.� then they walked on in silence, at outs. he was vague and lost. �isn�t it strange,� she said, suddenly putting her hand on his arm, with a loving impulse, �how we always talk like this! i suppose we do love each other, in some way.� �oh yes,� he said; �too much.� she laughed almost gaily. �you�d have to have it your own way, wouldn�t you?� she teased. �you could never take it on trust.� he changed, laughed softly, and turned and took her in his arms, in the middle of the road. �yes,� he said softly. and he kissed her face and brow, slowly, gently, with a sort of delicate happiness which surprised her extremely, and to which she could not respond. they were soft, blind kisses, perfect in their stillness. yet she held back from them. it was like strange moths, very soft and silent, settling on her from the darkness of her soul. she was uneasy. she drew away. �isn�t somebody coming?� she said. so they looked down the dark road, then set off again walking towards beldover. then suddenly, to show him she was no shallow prude, she stopped and held him tight, hard against her, and covered his face with hard, fierce kisses of passion. in spite of his otherness, the old blood beat up in him. �not this, not this,� he whimpered to himself, as the first perfect mood of softness and sleep-loveliness ebbed back away from the rushing of passion that came up to his limbs and over his face as she drew him. and soon he was a perfect hard flame of passionate desire for her. yet in the small core of the flame was an unyielding anguish of another thing. but this also was lost; he only wanted her, with an extreme desire that seemed inevitable as death, beyond question. then, satisfied and shattered, fulfilled and destroyed, he went home away from her, drifting vaguely through the darkness, lapsed into the old fire of burning passion. far away, far away, there seemed to be a small lament in the darkness. but what did it matter? what did it matter, what did anything matter save this ultimate and triumphant experience of physical passion, that had blazed up anew like a new spell of life. �i was becoming quite dead-alive, nothing but a word-bag,� he said in triumph, scorning his other self. yet somewhere far off and small, the other hovered. the men were still dragging the lake when he got back. he stood on the bank and heard gerald�s voice. the water was still booming in the night, the moon was fair, the hills beyond were elusive. the lake was sinking. there came the raw smell of the banks, in the night air. up at shortlands there were lights in the windows, as if nobody had gone to bed. on the landing-stage was the old doctor, the father of the young man who was lost. he stood quite silent, waiting. birkin also stood and watched, gerald came up in a boat. �you still here, rupert?� he said. �we can�t get them. the bottom slopes, you know, very steep. the water lies between two very sharp slopes, with little branch valleys, and god knows where the drift will take you. it isn�t as if it was a level bottom. you never know where you are, with the dragging.� �is there any need for you to be working?� said birkin. �wouldn�t it be much better if you went to bed?� �to bed! good god, do you think i should sleep? we�ll find �em, before i go away from here.� �but the men would find them just the same without you�why should you insist?� gerald looked up at him. then he put his hand affectionately on birkin�s shoulder, saying: �don�t you bother about me, rupert. if there�s anybody�s health to think about, it�s yours, not mine. how do you feel yourself?� �very well. but you, you spoil your own chance of life�you waste your best self.� gerald was silent for a moment. then he said: �waste it? what else is there to do with it?� �but leave this, won�t you? you force yourself into horrors, and put a mill-stone of beastly memories round your neck. come away now.� �a mill-stone of beastly memories!� gerald repeated. then he put his hand again affectionately on birkin�s shoulder. �god, you�ve got such a telling way of putting things, rupert, you have.� birkin�s heart sank. he was irritated and weary of having a telling way of putting things. �won�t you leave it? come over to my place��he urged as one urges a drunken man. �no,� said gerald coaxingly, his arm across the other man�s shoulder. �thanks very much, rupert�i shall be glad to come tomorrow, if that�ll do. you understand, don�t you? i want to see this job through. but i�ll come tomorrow, right enough. oh, i�d rather come and have a chat with you than�than do anything else, i verily believe. yes, i would. you mean a lot to me, rupert, more than you know.� �what do i mean, more than i know?� asked birkin irritably. he was acutely aware of gerald�s hand on his shoulder. and he did not want this altercation. he wanted the other man to come out of the ugly misery. �i�ll tell you another time,� said gerald coaxingly. �come along with me now�i want you to come,� said birkin. there was a pause, intense and real. birkin wondered why his own heart beat so heavily. then gerald�s fingers gripped hard and communicative into birkin�s shoulder, as he said: �no, i�ll see this job through, rupert. thank you�i know what you mean. we�re all right, you know, you and me.� �i may be all right, but i�m sure you�re not, mucking about here,� said birkin. and he went away. the bodies of the dead were not recovered till towards dawn. diana had her arms tight round the neck of the young man, choking him. �she killed him,� said gerald. the moon sloped down the sky and sank at last. the lake was sunk to quarter size, it had horrible raw banks of clay, that smelled of raw rottenish water. dawn roused faintly behind the eastern hill. the water still boomed through the sluice. as the birds were whistling for the first morning, and the hills at the back of the desolate lake stood radiant with the new mists, there was a straggling procession up to shortlands, men bearing the bodies on a stretcher, gerald going beside them, the two grey-bearded fathers following in silence. indoors the family was all sitting up, waiting. somebody must go to tell the mother, in her room. the doctor in secret struggled to bring back his son, till he himself was exhausted. over all the outlying district was a hush of dreadful excitement on that sunday morning. the colliery people felt as if this catastrophe had happened directly to themselves, indeed they were more shocked and frightened than if their own men had been killed. such a tragedy in shortlands, the high home of the district! one of the young mistresses, persisting in dancing on the cabin roof of the launch, wilful young madam, drowned in the midst of the festival, with the young doctor! everywhere on the sunday morning, the colliers wandered about, discussing the calamity. at all the sunday dinners of the people, there seemed a strange presence. it was as if the angel of death were very near, there was a sense of the supernatural in the air. the men had excited, startled faces, the women looked solemn, some of them had been crying. the children enjoyed the excitement at first. there was an intensity in the air, almost magical. did all enjoy it? did all enjoy the thrill? gudrun had wild ideas of rushing to comfort gerald. she was thinking all the time of the perfect comforting, reassuring thing to say to him. she was shocked and frightened, but she put that away, thinking of how she should deport herself with gerald: act her part. that was the real thrill: how she should act her part. ursula was deeply and passionately in love with birkin, and she was capable of nothing. she was perfectly callous about all the talk of the accident, but her estranged air looked like trouble. she merely sat by herself, whenever she could, and longed to see him again. she wanted him to come to the house,�she would not have it otherwise, he must come at once. she was waiting for him. she stayed indoors all day, waiting for him to knock at the door. every minute, she glanced automatically at the window. he would be there. chapter xv. sunday evening as the day wore on, the life-blood seemed to ebb away from ursula, and within the emptiness a heavy despair gathered. her passion seemed to bleed to death, and there was nothing. she sat suspended in a state of complete nullity, harder to bear than death. �unless something happens,� she said to herself, in the perfect lucidity of final suffering, �i shall die. i am at the end of my line of life.� she sat crushed and obliterated in a darkness that was the border of death. she realised how all her life she had been drawing nearer and nearer to this brink, where there was no beyond, from which one had to leap like sappho into the unknown. the knowledge of the imminence of death was like a drug. darkly, without thinking at all, she knew that she was near to death. she had travelled all her life along the line of fulfilment, and it was nearly concluded. she knew all she had to know, she had experienced all she had to experience, she was fulfilled in a kind of bitter ripeness, there remained only to fall from the tree into death. and one must fulfil one�s development to the end, must carry the adventure to its conclusion. and the next step was over the border into death. so it was then! there was a certain peace in the knowledge. after all, when one was fulfilled, one was happiest in falling into death, as a bitter fruit plunges in its ripeness downwards. death is a great consummation, a consummating experience. it is a development from life. that we know, while we are yet living. what then need we think for further? one can never see beyond the consummation. it is enough that death is a great and conclusive experience. why should we ask what comes after the experience, when the experience is still unknown to us? let us die, since the great experience is the one that follows now upon all the rest, death, which is the next great crisis in front of which we have arrived. if we wait, if we baulk the issue, we do but hang about the gates in undignified uneasiness. there it is, in front of us, as in front of sappho, the illimitable space. thereinto goes the journey. have we not the courage to go on with our journey, must we cry �i daren�t�? on ahead we will go, into death, and whatever death may mean. if a man can see the next step to be taken, why should he fear the next but one? why ask about the next but one? of the next step we are certain. it is the step into death. �i shall die�i shall quickly die,� said ursula to herself, clear as if in a trance, clear, calm, and certain beyond human certainty. but somewhere behind, in the twilight, there was a bitter weeping and a hopelessness. that must not be attended to. one must go where the unfaltering spirit goes, there must be no baulking the issue, because of fear. no baulking the issue, no listening to the lesser voices. if the deepest desire be now, to go on into the unknown of death, shall one forfeit the deepest truth for one more shallow? �then let it end,� she said to herself. it was a decision. it was not a question of taking one�s life�she would _never_ kill herself, that was repulsive and violent. it was a question of _knowing_ the nextcstep. and the next step led into the space of death. did it?�or was there�? her thoughts drifted into unconsciousness, she sat as if asleep beside the fire. and then the thought came back. the space of death! could she give herself to it? ah yes�it was a sleep. she had had enough. so long she had held out; and resisted. now was the time to relinquish, not to resist any more. in a kind of spiritual trance, she yielded, she gave way, and all was dark. she could feel, within the darkness, the terrible assertion of her body, the unutterable anguish of dissolution, the only anguish that is too much, the far-off, awful nausea of dissolution set in within the body. �does the body correspond so immediately with the spirit?� she asked herself. and she knew, with the clarity of ultimate knowledge, that the body is only one of the manifestations of the spirit, the transmutation of the integral spirit is the transmutation of the physical body as well. unless i set my will, unless i absolve myself from the rhythm of life, fix myself and remain static, cut off from living, absolved within my own will. but better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions. to die is to move on with the invisible. to die is also a joy, a joy of submitting to that which is greater than the known, namely, the pure unknown. that is a joy. but to live mechanised and cut off within the motion of the will, to live as an entity absolved from the unknown, that is shameful and ignominious. there is no ignominy in death. there is complete ignominy in an unreplenished, mechanised life. life indeed may be ignominious, shameful to the soul. but death is never a shame. death itself, like the illimitable space, is beyond our sullying. tomorrow was monday. monday, the beginning of another school-week! another shameful, barren school-week, mere routine and mechanical activity. was not the adventure of death infinitely preferable? was not death infinitely more lovely and noble than such a life? a life of barren routine, without inner meaning, without any real significance. how sordid life was, how it was a terrible shame to the soul, to live now! how much cleaner and more dignified to be dead! one could not bear any more of this shame of sordid routine and mechanical nullity. one might come to fruit in death. she had had enough. for where was life to be found? no flowers grow upon busy machinery, there is no sky to a routine, there is no space to a rotary motion. and all life was a rotary motion, mechanised, cut off from reality. there was nothing to look for from life�it was the same in all countries and all peoples. the only window was death. one could look out on to the great dark sky of death with elation, as one had looked out of the classroom window as a child, and seen perfect freedom in the outside. now one was not a child, and one knew that the soul was a prisoner within this sordid vast edifice of life, and there was no escape, save in death. but what a joy! what a gladness to think that whatever humanity did, it could not seize hold of the kingdom of death, to nullify that. the sea they turned into a murderous alley and a soiled road of commerce, disputed like the dirty land of a city every inch of it. the air they claimed too, shared it up, parcelled it out to certain owners, they trespassed in the air to fight for it. everything was gone, walled in, with spikes on top of the walls, and one must ignominiously creep between the spiky walls through a labyrinth of life. but the great, dark, illimitable kingdom of death, there humanity was put to scorn. so much they could do upon earth, the multifarious little gods that they were. but the kingdom of death put them all to scorn, they dwindled into their true vulgar silliness in face of it. how beautiful, how grand and perfect death was, how good to look forward to. there one would wash off all the lies and ignominy and dirt that had been put upon one here, a perfect bath of cleanness and glad refreshment, and go unknown, unquestioned, unabased. after all, one was rich, if only in the promise of perfect death. it was a gladness above all, that this remained to look forward to, the pure inhuman otherness of death. whatever life might be, it could not take away death, the inhuman transcendent death. oh, let us ask no question of it, what it is or is not. to know is human, and in death we do not know, we are not human. and the joy of this compensates for all the bitterness of knowledge and the sordidness of our humanity. in death we shall not be human, and we shall not know. the promise of this is our heritage, we look forward like heirs to their majority. ursula sat quite still and quite forgotten, alone by the fire in the drawing-room. the children were playing in the kitchen, all the others were gone to church. and she was gone into the ultimate darkness of her own soul. she was startled by hearing the bell ring, away in the kitchen, the children came scudding along the passage in delicious alarm. �ursula, there�s somebody.� �i know. don�t be silly,� she replied. she too was startled, almost frightened. she dared hardly go to the door. birkin stood on the threshold, his rain-coat turned up to his ears. he had come now, now she was gone far away. she was aware of the rainy night behind him. �oh is it you?� she said. �i am glad you are at home,� he said in a low voice, entering the house. �they are all gone to church.� he took off his coat and hung it up. the children were peeping at him round the corner. �go and get undressed now, billy and dora,� said ursula. �mother will be back soon, and she�ll be disappointed if you�re not in bed.� the children, in a sudden angelic mood, retired without a word. birkin and ursula went into the drawing-room. the fire burned low. he looked at her and wondered at the luminous delicacy of her beauty, and the wide shining of her eyes. he watched from a distance, with wonder in his heart, she seemed transfigured with light. �what have you been doing all day?� he asked her. �only sitting about,� she said. he looked at her. there was a change in her. but she was separate from him. she remained apart, in a kind of brightness. they both sat silent in the soft light of the lamp. he felt he ought to go away again, he ought not to have come. still he did not gather enough resolution to move. but he was _de trop_, her mood was absent and separate. then there came the voices of the two children calling shyly outside the door, softly, with self-excited timidity: �ursula! ursula!� she rose and opened the door. on the threshold stood the two children in their long nightgowns, with wide-eyed, angelic faces. they were being very good for the moment, playing the rôle perfectly of two obedient children. �shall you take us to bed!� said billy, in a loud whisper. �why you _are_ angels tonight,� she said softly. �won�t you come and say good-night to mr birkin?� the children merged shyly into the room, on bare feet. billy�s face was wide and grinning, but there was a great solemnity of being good in his round blue eyes. dora, peeping from the floss of her fair hair, hung back like some tiny dryad, that has no soul. �will you say good-night to me?� asked birkin, in a voice that was strangely soft and smooth. dora drifted away at once, like a leaf lifted on a breath of wind. but billy went softly forward, slow and willing, lifting his pinched-up mouth implicitly to be kissed. ursula watched the full, gathered lips of the man gently touch those of the boy, so gently. then birkin lifted his fingers and touched the boy�s round, confiding cheek, with a faint touch of love. neither spoke. billy seemed angelic like a cherub boy, or like an acolyte, birkin was a tall, grave angel looking down to him. �are you going to be kissed?� ursula broke in, speaking to the little girl. but dora edged away like a tiny dryad that will not be touched. �won�t you say good-night to mr birkin? go, he�s waiting for you,� said ursula. but the girl-child only made a little motion away from him. �silly dora, silly dora!� said ursula. birkin felt some mistrust and antagonism in the small child. he could not understand it. �come then,� said ursula. �let us go before mother comes.� �who�ll hear us say our prayers?� asked billy anxiously. �whom you like.� �won�t you?� �yes, i will.� �ursula?� �well billy?� �is it _whom_ you like?� �that�s it.� �well what is _whom_?� �it�s the accusative of who.� there was a moment�s contemplative silence, then the confiding: �is it?� birkin smiled to himself as he sat by the fire. when ursula came down he sat motionless, with his arms on his knees. she saw him, how he was motionless and ageless, like some crouching idol, some image of a deathly religion. he looked round at her, and his face, very pale and unreal, seemed to gleam with a whiteness almost phosphorescent. �don�t you feel well?� she asked, in indefinable repulsion. �i hadn�t thought about it.� �but don�t you know without thinking about it?� he looked at her, his eyes dark and swift, and he saw her revulsion. he did not answer her question. �don�t you know whether you are unwell or not, without thinking about it?� she persisted. �not always,� he said coldly. �but don�t you think that�s very wicked?� �wicked?� �yes. i think it�s _criminal_ to have so little connection with your own body that you don�t even know when you are ill.� he looked at her darkly. �yes,� he said. �why don�t you stay in bed when you are seedy? you look perfectly ghastly.� �offensively so?� he asked ironically. �yes, quite offensive. quite repelling.� �ah!! well that�s unfortunate.� �and it�s raining, and it�s a horrible night. really, you shouldn�t be forgiven for treating your body like it�you _ought_ to suffer, a man who takes as little notice of his body as that.� ��takes as little notice of his body as that,� he echoed mechanically. this cut her short, and there was silence. the others came in from church, and the two had the girls to face, then the mother and gudrun, and then the father and the boy. �good-evening,� said brangwen, faintly surprised. �came to see me, did you?� �no,� said birkin, �not about anything, in particular, that is. the day was dismal, and i thought you wouldn�t mind if i called in.� �it _has_ been a depressing day,� said mrs brangwen sympathetically. at that moment the voices of the children were heard calling from upstairs: �mother! mother!� she lifted her face and answered mildly into the distance: �i shall come up to you in a minute, doysie.� then to birkin: �there is nothing fresh at shortlands, i suppose? ah,� she sighed, �no, poor things, i should think not.� �you�ve been over there today, i suppose?� asked the father. �gerald came round to tea with me, and i walked back with him. the house is overexcited and unwholesome, i thought.� �i should think they were people who hadn�t much restraint,� said gudrun. �or too much,� birkin answered. �oh yes, i�m sure,� said gudrun, almost vindictively, �one or the other.� �they all feel they ought to behave in some unnatural fashion,� said birkin. �when people are in grief, they would do better to cover their faces and keep in retirement, as in the old days.� �certainly!� cried gudrun, flushed and inflammable. �what can be worse than this public grief�what is more horrible, more false! if _grief_ is not private, and hidden, what is?� �exactly,� he said. �i felt ashamed when i was there and they were all going about in a lugubrious false way, feeling they must not be natural or ordinary.� �well�� said mrs brangwen, offended at this criticism, �it isn�t so easy to bear a trouble like that.� and she went upstairs to the children. he remained only a few minutes longer, then took his leave. when he was gone ursula felt such a poignant hatred of him, that all her brain seemed turned into a sharp crystal of fine hatred. her whole nature seemed sharpened and intensified into a pure dart of hate. she could not imagine what it was. it merely took hold of her, the most poignant and ultimate hatred, pure and clear and beyond thought. she could not think of it at all, she was translated beyond herself. it was like a possession. she felt she was possessed. and for several days she went about possessed by this exquisite force of hatred against him. it surpassed anything she had ever known before, it seemed to throw her out of the world into some terrible region where nothing of her old life held good. she was quite lost and dazed, really dead to her own life. it was so completely incomprehensible and irrational. she did not know _why_ she hated him, her hate was quite abstract. she had only realised with a shock that stunned her, that she was overcome by this pure transportation. he was the enemy, fine as a diamond, and as hard and jewel-like, the quintessence of all that was inimical. she thought of his face, white and purely wrought, and of his eyes that had such a dark, constant will of assertion, and she touched her own forehead, to feel if she were mad, she was so transfigured in white flame of essential hate. it was not temporal, her hatred, she did not hate him for this or for that; she did not want to do anything to him, to have any connection with him. her relation was ultimate and utterly beyond words, the hate was so pure and gemlike. it was as if he were a beam of essential enmity, a beam of light that did not only destroy her, but denied her altogether, revoked her whole world. she saw him as a clear stroke of uttermost contradiction, a strange gem-like being whose existence defined her own non-existence. when she heard he was ill again, her hatred only intensified itself a few degrees, if that were possible. it stunned her and annihilated her, but she could not escape it. she could not escape this transfiguration of hatred that had come upon her. chapter xvi. man to man he lay sick and unmoved, in pure opposition to everything. he knew how near to breaking was the vessel that held his life. he knew also how strong and durable it was. and he did not care. better a thousand times take one�s chance with death, than accept a life one did not want. but best of all to persist and persist and persist for ever, till one were satisfied in life. he knew that ursula was referred back to him. he knew his life rested with her. but he would rather not live than accept the love she proffered. the old way of love seemed a dreadful bondage, a sort of conscription. what it was in him he did not know, but the thought of love, marriage, and children, and a life lived together, in the horrible privacy of domestic and connubial satisfaction, was repulsive. he wanted something clearer, more open, cooler, as it were. the hot narrow intimacy between man and wife was abhorrent. the way they shut their doors, these married people, and shut themselves in to their own exclusive alliance with each other, even in love, disgusted him. it was a whole community of mistrustful couples insulated in private houses or private rooms, always in couples, and no further life, no further immediate, no disinterested relationship admitted: a kaleidoscope of couples, disjoined, separatist, meaningless entities of married couples. true, he hated promiscuity even worse than marriage, and a liaison was only another kind of coupling, reactionary from the legal marriage. reaction was a greater bore than action. on the whole, he hated sex, it was such a limitation. it was sex that turned a man into a broken half of a couple, the woman into the other broken half. and he wanted to be single in himself, the woman single in herself. he wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites, to be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment. he believed in sex marriage. but beyond this, he wanted a further conjunction, where man had being and woman had being, two pure beings, each constituting the freedom of the other, balancing each other like two poles of one force, like two angels, or two demons. he wanted so much to be free, not under the compulsion of any need for unification, or tortured by unsatisfied desire. desire and aspiration should find their object without all this torture, as now, in a world of plenty of water, simple thirst is inconsiderable, satisfied almost unconsciously. and he wanted to be with ursula as free as with himself, single and clear and cool, yet balanced, polarised with her. the merging, the clutching, the mingling of love was become madly abhorrent to him. but it seemed to him, woman was always so horrible and clutching, she had such a lust for possession, a greed of self-importance in love. she wanted to have, to own, to control, to be dominant. everything must be referred back to her, to woman, the great mother of everything, out of whom proceeded everything and to whom everything must finally be rendered up. it filled him with almost insane fury, this calm assumption of the magna mater, that all was hers, because she had borne it. man was hers because she had borne him. a mater dolorosa, she had borne him, a magna mater, she now claimed him again, soul and body, sex, meaning, and all. he had a horror of the magna mater, she was detestable. she was on a very high horse again, was woman, the great mother. did he not know it in hermione. hermione, the humble, the subservient, what was she all the while but the mater dolorosa, in her subservience, claiming with horrible, insidious arrogance and female tyranny, her own again, claiming back the man she had borne in suffering. by her very suffering and humility she bound her son with chains, she held him her everlasting prisoner. and ursula, ursula was the same�or the inverse. she too was the awful, arrogant queen of life, as if she were a queen bee on whom all the rest depended. he saw the yellow flare in her eyes, he knew the unthinkable overweening assumption of primacy in her. she was unconscious of it herself. she was only too ready to knock her head on the ground before a man. but this was only when she was so certain of her man, that she could worship him as a woman worships her own infant, with a worship of perfect possession. it was intolerable, this possession at the hands of woman. always a man must be considered as the broken off fragment of a woman, and the sex was the still aching scar of the laceration. man must be added on to a woman, before he had any real place or wholeness. and why? why should we consider ourselves, men and women, as broken fragments of one whole? it is not true. we are not broken fragments of one whole. rather we are the singling away into purity and clear being, of things that were mixed. rather the sex is that which remains in us of the mixed, the unresolved. and passion is the further separating of this mixture, that which is manly being taken into the being of the man, that which is womanly passing to the woman, till the two are clear and whole as angels, the admixture of sex in the highest sense surpassed, leaving two single beings constellated together like two stars. in the old age, before sex was, we were mixed, each one a mixture. the process of singling into individuality resulted into the great polarisation of sex. the womanly drew to one side, the manly to the other. but the separation was imperfect even them. and so our world-cycle passes. there is now to come the new day, when we are beings each of us, fulfilled in difference. the man is pure man, the woman pure woman, they are perfectly polarised. but there is no longer any of the horrible merging, mingling self-abnegation of love. there is only the pure duality of polarisation, each one free from any contamination of the other. in each, the individual is primal, sex is subordinate, but perfectly polarised. each has a single, separate being, with its own laws. the man has his pure freedom, the woman hers. each acknowledges the perfection of the polarised sex-circuit. each admits the different nature in the other. so birkin meditated whilst he was ill. he liked sometimes to be ill enough to take to his bed. for then he got better very quickly, and things came to him clear and sure. whilst he was laid up, gerald came to see him. the two men had a deep, uneasy feeling for each other. gerald�s eyes were quick and restless, his whole manner tense and impatient, he seemed strung up to some activity. according to conventionality, he wore black clothes, he looked formal, handsome and _comme il faut_. his hair was fair almost to whiteness, sharp like splinters of light, his face was keen and ruddy, his body seemed full of northern energy. gerald really loved birkin, though he never quite believed in him. birkin was too unreal;�clever, whimsical, wonderful, but not practical enough. gerald felt that his own understanding was much sounder and safer. birkin was delightful, a wonderful spirit, but after all, not to be taken seriously, not quite to be counted as a man among men. �why are you laid up again?� he asked kindly, taking the sick man�s hand. it was always gerald who was protective, offering the warm shelter of his physical strength. �for my sins, i suppose,� birkin said, smiling a little ironically. �for your sins? yes, probably that is so. you should sin less, and keep better in health?� �you�d better teach me.� he looked at gerald with ironic eyes. �how are things with you?� asked birkin. �with me?� gerald looked at birkin, saw he was serious, and a warm light came into his eyes. �i don�t know that they�re any different. i don�t see how they could be. there�s nothing to change.� �i suppose you are conducting the business as successfully as ever, and ignoring the demand of the soul.� �that�s it,� said gerald. �at least as far as the business is concerned. i couldn�t say about the soul, i�am sure.� �no.� �surely you don�t expect me to?� laughed gerald. �no. how are the rest of your affairs progressing, apart from the business?� �the rest of my affairs? what are those? i couldn�t say; i don�t know what you refer to.� �yes, you do,� said birkin. �are you gloomy or cheerful? and what about gudrun brangwen?� �what about her?� a confused look came over gerald. �well,� he added, �i don�t know. i can only tell you she gave me a hit over the face last time i saw her.� �a hit over the face! what for?� �that i couldn�t tell you, either.� �really! but when?� �the night of the party�when diana was drowned. she was driving the cattle up the hill, and i went after her�you remember.� �yes, i remember. but what made her do that? you didn�t definitely ask her for it, i suppose?� �i? no, not that i know of. i merely said to her, that it was dangerous to drive those highland bullocks�as it _is_. she turned in such a way, and said��i suppose you think i�m afraid of you and your cattle, don�t you?� so i asked her �why,� and for answer she flung me a back-hander across the face.� birkin laughed quickly, as if it pleased him. gerald looked at him, wondering, and began to laugh as well, saying: �i didn�t laugh at the time, i assure you. i was never so taken aback in my life.� �and weren�t you furious?� �furious? i should think i was. i�d have murdered her for two pins.� �h�m!� ejaculated birkin. �poor gudrun, wouldn�t she suffer afterwards for having given herself away!� he was hugely delighted. �would she suffer?� asked gerald, also amused now. both men smiled in malice and amusement. �badly, i should think; seeing how self-conscious she is.� �she is self-conscious, is she? then what made her do it? for i certainly think it was quite uncalled-for, and quite unjustified.� �i suppose it was a sudden impulse.� �yes, but how do you account for her having such an impulse? i�d done her no harm.� birkin shook his head. �the amazon suddenly came up in her, i suppose,� he said. �well,� replied gerald, �i�d rather it had been the orinoco.� they both laughed at the poor joke. gerald was thinking how gudrun had said she would strike the last blow too. but some reserve made him keep this back from birkin. �and you resent it?� birkin asked. �i don�t resent it. i don�t care a tinker�s curse about it.� he was silent a moment, then he added, laughing. �no, i�ll see it through, that�s all. she seemed sorry afterwards.� �did she? you�ve not met since that night?� gerald�s face clouded. �no,� he said. �we�ve been�you can imagine how it�s been, since the accident.� �yes. is it calming down?� �i don�t know. it�s a shock, of course. but i don�t believe mother minds. i really don�t believe she takes any notice. and what�s so funny, she used to be all for the children�nothing mattered, nothing whatever mattered but the children. and now, she doesn�t take any more notice than if it was one of the servants.� �no? did it upset _you_ very much?� �it�s a shock. but i don�t feel it very much, really. i don�t feel any different. we�ve all got to die, and it doesn�t seem to make any great difference, anyhow, whether you die or not. i can�t feel any _grief_, you know. it leaves me cold. i can�t quite account for it.� �you don�t care if you die or not?� asked birkin. gerald looked at him with eyes blue as the blue-fibred steel of a weapon. he felt awkward, but indifferent. as a matter of fact, he did care terribly, with a great fear. �oh,� he said, �i don�t want to die, why should i? but i never trouble. the question doesn�t seem to be on the carpet for me at all. it doesn�t interest me, you know.� �_timor mortis conturbat me_,� quoted birkin, adding��no, death doesn�t really seem the point any more. it curiously doesn�t concern one. it�s like an ordinary tomorrow.� gerald looked closely at his friend. the eyes of the two men met, and an unspoken understanding was exchanged. gerald narrowed his eyes, his face was cool and unscrupulous as he looked at birkin, impersonally, with a vision that ended in a point in space, strangely keen-eyed and yet blind. �if death isn�t the point,� he said, in a strangely abstract, cold, fine voice��what is?� he sounded as if he had been found out. �what is?� re-echoed birkin. and there was a mocking silence. �there�s long way to go, after the point of intrinsic death, before we disappear,� said birkin. �there is,� said gerald. �but what sort of way?� he seemed to press the other man for knowledge which he himself knew far better than birkin did. �right down the slopes of degeneration�mystic, universal degeneration. there are many stages of pure degradation to go through: agelong. we live on long after our death, and progressively, in progressive devolution.� gerald listened with a faint, fine smile on his face, all the time, as if, somewhere, he knew so much better than birkin, all about this: as if his own knowledge were direct and personal, whereas birkin�s was a matter of observation and inference, not quite hitting the nail on the head:�though aiming near enough at it. but he was not going to give himself away. if birkin could get at the secrets, let him. gerald would never help him. gerald would be a dark horse to the end. �of course,� he said, with a startling change of conversation, �it is father who really feels it. it will finish him. for him the world collapses. all his care now is for winnie�he must save winnie. he says she ought to be sent away to school, but she won�t hear of it, and he�ll never do it. of course she _is_ in rather a queer way. we�re all of us curiously bad at living. we can do things�but we can�t get on with life at all. it�s curious�a family failing.� �she oughtn�t to be sent away to school,� said birkin, who was considering a new proposition. �she oughtn�t. why?� �she�s a queer child�a special child, more special even than you. and in my opinion special children should never be sent away to school. only moderately ordinary children should be sent to school�so it seems to me.� �i�m inclined to think just the opposite. i think it would probably make her more normal if she went away and mixed with other children.� �she wouldn�t mix, you see. _you_ never really mixed, did you? and she wouldn�t be willing even to pretend to. she�s proud, and solitary, and naturally apart. if she has a single nature, why do you want to make her gregarious?� �no, i don�t want to make her anything. but i think school would be good for her.� �was it good for you?� gerald�s eyes narrowed uglily. school had been torture to him. yet he had not questioned whether one should go through this torture. he seemed to believe in education through subjection and torment. �i hated it at the time, but i can see it was necessary,� he said. �it brought me into line a bit�and you can�t live unless you do come into line somewhere.� �well,� said birkin, �i begin to think that you can�t live unless you keep entirely out of the line. it�s no good trying to toe the line, when your one impulse is to smash up the line. winnie is a special nature, and for special natures you must give a special world.� �yes, but where�s your special world?� said gerald. �make it. instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. as a matter of fact, two exceptional people make another world. you and i, we make another, separate world. you don�t _want_ a world same as your brothers-in-law. it�s just the special quality you value. do you _want_ to be normal or ordinary! it�s a lie. you want to be free and extraordinary, in an extraordinary world of liberty.� gerald looked at birkin with subtle eyes of knowledge. but he would never openly admit what he felt. he knew more than birkin, in one direction�much more. and this gave him his gentle love for the other man, as if birkin were in some way young, innocent, child-like: so amazingly clever, but incurably innocent. �yet you are so banal as to consider me chiefly a freak,� said birkin pointedly. �a freak!� exclaimed gerald, startled. and his face opened suddenly, as if lighted with simplicity, as when a flower opens out of the cunning bud. �no�i never consider you a freak.� and he watched the other man with strange eyes, that birkin could not understand. �i feel,� gerald continued, �that there is always an element of uncertainty about you�perhaps you are uncertain about yourself. but i�m never sure of you. you can go away and change as easily as if you had no soul.� he looked at birkin with penetrating eyes. birkin was amazed. he thought he had all the soul in the world. he stared in amazement. and gerald, watching, saw the amazing attractive goodliness of his eyes, a young, spontaneous goodness that attracted the other man infinitely, yet filled him with bitter chagrin, because he mistrusted it so much. he knew birkin could do without him�could forget, and not suffer. this was always present in gerald�s consciousness, filling him with bitter unbelief: this consciousness of the young, animal-like spontaneity of detachment. it seemed almost like hypocrisy and lying, sometimes, oh, often, on birkin�s part, to talk so deeply and importantly. quite other things were going through birkin�s mind. suddenly he saw himself confronted with another problem�the problem of love and eternal conjunction between two men. of course this was necessary�it had been a necessity inside himself all his life�to love a man purely and fully. of course he had been loving gerald all along, and all along denying it. he lay in the bed and wondered, whilst his friend sat beside him, lost in brooding. each man was gone in his own thoughts. �you know how the old german knights used to swear a _blutbruderschaft_,� he said to gerald, with quite a new happy activity in his eyes. �make a little wound in their arms, and rub each other�s blood into the cut?� said gerald. �yes�and swear to be true to each other, of one blood, all their lives. that is what we ought to do. no wounds, that is obsolete. but we ought to swear to love each other, you and i, implicitly, and perfectly, finally, without any possibility of going back on it.� he looked at gerald with clear, happy eyes of discovery. gerald looked down at him, attracted, so deeply bondaged in fascinated attraction, that he was mistrustful, resenting the bondage, hating the attraction. �we will swear to each other, one day, shall we?� pleaded birkin. �we will swear to stand by each other�be true to each other�ultimately�infallibly�given to each other, organically�without possibility of taking back.� birkin sought hard to express himself. but gerald hardly listened. his face shone with a certain luminous pleasure. he was pleased. but he kept his reserve. he held himself back. �shall we swear to each other, one day?� said birkin, putting out his hand towards gerald. gerald just touched the extended fine, living hand, as if withheld and afraid. �we�ll leave it till i understand it better,� he said, in a voice of excuse. birkin watched him. a little sharp disappointment, perhaps a touch of contempt came into his heart. �yes,� he said. �you must tell me what you think, later. you know what i mean? not sloppy emotionalism. an impersonal union that leaves one free.� they lapsed both into silence. birkin was looking at gerald all the time. he seemed now to see, not the physical, animal man, which he usually saw in gerald, and which usually he liked so much, but the man himself, complete, and as if fated, doomed, limited. this strange sense of fatality in gerald, as if he were limited to one form of existence, one knowledge, one activity, a sort of fatal halfness, which to himself seemed wholeness, always overcame birkin after their moments of passionate approach, and filled him with a sort of contempt, or boredom. it was the insistence on the limitation which so bored birkin in gerald. gerald could never fly away from himself, in real indifferent gaiety. he had a clog, a sort of monomania. there was silence for a time. then birkin said, in a lighter tone, letting the stress of the contact pass: �can�t you get a good governess for winifred?�somebody exceptional?� �hermione roddice suggested we should ask gudrun to teach her to draw and to model in clay. you know winnie is astonishingly clever with that plasticine stuff. hermione declares she is an artist.� gerald spoke in the usual animated, chatty manner, as if nothing unusual had passed. but birkin�s manner was full of reminder. �really! i didn�t know that. oh well then, if gudrun _would_ teach her, it would be perfect�couldn�t be anything better�if winifred is an artist. because gudrun somewhere is one. and every true artist is the salvation of every other.� �i thought they got on so badly, as a rule.� �perhaps. but only artists produce for each other the world that is fit to live in. if you can arrange _that_ for winifred, it is perfect.� �but you think she wouldn�t come?� �i don�t know. gudrun is rather self-opinionated. she won�t go cheap anywhere. or if she does, she�ll pretty soon take herself back. so whether she would condescend to do private teaching, particularly here, in beldover, i don�t know. but it would be just the thing. winifred has got a special nature. and if you can put into her way the means of being self-sufficient, that is the best thing possible. she�ll never get on with the ordinary life. you find it difficult enough yourself, and she is several skins thinner than you are. it is awful to think what her life will be like unless she does find a means of expression, some way of fulfilment. you can see what mere leaving it to fate brings. you can see how much marriage is to be trusted to�look at your own mother.� �do you think mother is abnormal?� �no! i think she only wanted something more, or other than the common run of life. and not getting it, she has gone wrong perhaps.� �after producing a brood of wrong children,� said gerald gloomily. �no more wrong than any of the rest of us,� birkin replied. �the most normal people have the worst subterranean selves, take them one by one.� �sometimes i think it is a curse to be alive,� said gerald with sudden impotent anger. �well,� said birkin, �why not! let it be a curse sometimes to be alive�at other times it is anything but a curse. you�ve got plenty of zest in it really.� �less than you�d think,� said gerald, revealing a strange poverty in his look at the other man. there was silence, each thinking his own thoughts. �i don�t see what she has to distinguish between teaching at the grammar school, and coming to teach win,� said gerald. �the difference between a public servant and a private one. the only nobleman today, king and only aristocrat, is the public, the public. you are quite willing to serve the public�but to be a private tutor�� �i don�t want to serve either�� �no! and gudrun will probably feel the same.� gerald thought for a few minutes. then he said: �at all events, father won�t make her feel like a private servant. he will be fussy and greatful enough.� �so he ought. and so ought all of you. do you think you can hire a woman like gudrun brangwen with money? she is your equal like anything�probably your superior.� �is she?� said gerald. �yes, and if you haven�t the guts to know it, i hope she�ll leave you to your own devices.� �nevertheless,� said gerald, �if she is my equal, i wish she weren�t a teacher, because i don�t think teachers as a rule are my equal.� �nor do i, damn them. but am i a teacher because i teach, or a parson because i preach?� gerald laughed. he was always uneasy on this score. he did not _want_ to claim social superiority, yet he _would_ not claim intrinsic personal superiority, because he would never base his standard of values on pure being. so he wobbled upon a tacit assumption of social standing. no, birkin wanted him to accept the fact of intrinsic difference between human beings, which he did not intend to accept. it was against his social honour, his principle. he rose to go. �i�ve been neglecting my business all this while,� he said smiling. �i ought to have reminded you before,� birkin replied, laughing and mocking. �i knew you�d say something like that,� laughed gerald, rather uneasily. �did you?� �yes, rupert. it wouldn�t do for us all to be like you are�we should soon be in the cart. when i am above the world, i shall ignore all businesses.� �of course, we�re not in the cart now,� said birkin, satirically. �not as much as you make out. at any rate, we have enough to eat and drink�� �and be satisfied,� added birkin. gerald came near the bed and stood looking down at birkin whose throat was exposed, whose tossed hair fell attractively on the warm brow, above the eyes that were so unchallenged and still in the satirical face. gerald, full-limbed and turgid with energy, stood unwilling to go, he was held by the presence of the other man. he had not the power to go away. �so,� said birkin. �good-bye.� and he reached out his hand from under the bed-clothes, smiling with a glimmering look. �good-bye,� said gerald, taking the warm hand of his friend in a firm grasp. �i shall come again. i miss you down at the mill.� �i�ll be there in a few days,� said birkin. the eyes of the two men met again. gerald�s, that were keen as a hawk�s, were suffused now with warm light and with unadmitted love, birkin looked back as out of a darkness, unsounded and unknown, yet with a kind of warmth, that seemed to flow over gerald�s brain like a fertile sleep. �good-bye then. there�s nothing i can do for you?� �nothing, thanks.� birkin watched the black-clothed form of the other man move out of the door, the bright head was gone, he turned over to sleep. chapter xvii. the industrial magnate in beldover, there was both for ursula and for gudrun an interval. it seemed to ursula as if birkin had gone out of her for the time, he had lost his significance, he scarcely mattered in her world. she had her own friends, her own activities, her own life. she turned back to the old ways with zest, away from him. and gudrun, after feeling every moment in all her veins conscious of gerald crich, connected even physically with him, was now almost indifferent to the thought of him. she was nursing new schemes for going away and trying a new form of life. all the time, there was something in her urging her to avoid the final establishing of a relationship with gerald. she felt it would be wiser and better to have no more than a casual acquaintance with him. she had a scheme for going to st petersburg, where she had a friend who was a sculptor like herself, and who lived with a wealthy russian whose hobby was jewel-making. the emotional, rather rootless life of the russians appealed to her. she did not want to go to paris. paris was dry, and essentially boring. she would like to go to rome, munich, vienna, or to st petersburg or moscow. she had a friend in st petersburg and a friend in munich. to each of these she wrote, asking about rooms. she had a certain amount of money. she had come home partly to save, and now she had sold several pieces of work, she had been praised in various shows. she knew she could become quite the �go� if she went to london. but she knew london, she wanted something else. she had seventy pounds, of which nobody knew anything. she would move soon, as soon as she heard from her friends. her nature, in spite of her apparent placidity and calm, was profoundly restless. the sisters happened to call in a cottage in willey green to buy honey. mrs kirk, a stout, pale, sharp-nosed woman, sly, honied, with something shrewish and cat-like beneath, asked the girls into her too cosy, too tidy kitchen. there was a cat-like comfort and cleanliness everywhere. �yes, miss brangwen,� she said, in her slightly whining, insinuating voice, �and how do you like being back in the old place, then?� gudrun, whom she addressed, hated her at once. �i don�t care for it,� she replied abruptly. �you don�t? ay, well, i suppose you found a difference from london. you like life, and big, grand places. some of us has to be content with willey green and beldover. and what do you think of our grammar school, as there�s so much talk about?� �what do i think of it?� gudrun looked round at her slowly. �do you mean, do i think it�s a good school?� �yes. what is your opinion of it?� �i _do_ think it�s a good school.� gudrun was very cold and repelling. she knew the common people hated the school. �ay, you do, then! i�ve heard so much, one way and the other. it�s nice to know what those that�s in it feel. but opinions vary, don�t they? mr crich up at highclose is all for it. ay, poor man, i�m afraid he�s not long for this world. he�s very poorly.� �is he worse?� asked ursula. �eh, yes�since they lost miss diana. he�s gone off to a shadow. poor man, he�s had a world of trouble.� �has he?� asked gudrun, faintly ironic. �he has, a world of trouble. and as nice and kind a gentleman as ever you could wish to meet. his children don�t take after him.� �i suppose they take after their mother?� said ursula. �in many ways.� mrs krik lowered her voice a little. �she was a proud haughty lady when she came into these parts�my word, she was that! she mustn�t be looked at, and it was worth your life to speak to her.� the woman made a dry, sly face. �did you know her when she was first married?� �yes, i knew her. i nursed three of her children. and proper little terrors they were, little fiends�that gerald was a demon if ever there was one, a proper demon, ay, at six months old.� a curious malicious, sly tone came into the woman�s voice. �really,� said gudrun. �that wilful, masterful�he�d mastered one nurse at six months. kick, and scream, and struggle like a demon. many�s the time i�ve pinched his little bottom for him, when he was a child in arms. ay, and he�d have been better if he�d had it pinched oftener. but she wouldn�t have them corrected�no-o, wouldn�t hear of it. i can remember the rows she had with mr crich, my word. when he�d got worked up, properly worked up till he could stand no more, he�d lock the study door and whip them. but she paced up and down all the while like a tiger outside, like a tiger, with very murder in her face. she had a face that could _look_ death. and when the door was opened, she�d go in with her hands lifted��what have you been doing to _my_ children, you coward.� she was like one out of her mind. i believe he was frightened of her; he had to be driven mad before he�d lift a finger. didn�t the servants have a life of it! and didn�t we used to be thankful when one of them caught it. they were the torment of your life.� �really!� said gudrun. �in every possible way. if you wouldn�t let them smash their pots on the table, if you wouldn�t let them drag the kitten about with a string round its neck, if you wouldn�t give them whatever they asked for, every mortal thing�then there was a shine on, and their mother coming in asking��what�s the matter with him? what have you done to him? what is it, darling?� and then she�d turn on you as if she�d trample you under her feet. but she didn�t trample on me. i was the only one that could do anything with her demons�for she wasn�t going to be bothered with them herself. no, _she_ took no trouble for them. but they must just have their way, they mustn�t be spoken to. and master gerald was the beauty. i left when he was a year and a half, i could stand no more. but i pinched his little bottom for him when he was in arms, i did, when there was no holding him, and i�m not sorry i did�� gudrun went away in fury and loathing. the phrase, �i pinched his little bottom for him,� sent her into a white, stony fury. she could not bear it, she wanted to have the woman taken out at once and strangled. and yet there the phrase was lodged in her mind for ever, beyond escape. she felt, one day, she would _have_ to tell him, to see how he took it. and she loathed herself for the thought. but at shortlands the life-long struggle was coming to a close. the father was ill and was going to die. he had bad internal pains, which took away all his attentive life, and left him with only a vestige of his consciousness. more and more a silence came over him, he was less and less acutely aware of his surroundings. the pain seemed to absorb his activity. he knew it was there, he knew it would come again. it was like something lurking in the darkness within him. and he had not the power, or the will, to seek it out and to know it. there it remained in the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being silent. and when it tore him he crouched in silent subjection under it, and when it left him alone again, he refused to know of it. it was within the darkness, let it remain unknown. so he never admitted it, except in a secret corner of himself, where all his never-revealed fears and secrets were accumulated. for the rest, he had a pain, it went away, it made no difference. it even stimulated him, excited him. but it gradually absorbed his life. gradually it drew away all his potentiality, it bled him into the dark, it weaned him of life and drew him away into the darkness. and in this twilight of his life little remained visible to him. the business, his work, that was gone entirely. his public interests had disappeared as if they had never been. even his family had become extraneous to him, he could only remember, in some slight non-essential part of himself, that such and such were his children. but it was historical fact, not vital to him. he had to make an effort to know their relation to him. even his wife barely existed. she indeed was like the darkness, like the pain within him. by some strange association, the darkness that contained the pain and the darkness that contained his wife were identical. all his thoughts and understandings became blurred and fused, and now his wife and the consuming pain were the same dark secret power against him, that he never faced. he never drove the dread out of its lair within him. he only knew that there was a dark place, and something inhabiting this darkness which issued from time to time and rent him. but he dared not penetrate and drive the beast into the open. he had rather ignore its existence. only, in his vague way, the dread was his wife, the destroyer, and it was the pain, the destruction, a darkness which was one and both. he very rarely saw his wife. she kept her room. only occasionally she came forth, with her head stretched forward, and in her low, possessed voice, she asked him how he was. and he answered her, in the habit of more than thirty years: �well, i don�t think i�m any the worse, dear.� but he was frightened of her, underneath this safeguard of habit, frightened almost to the verge of death. but all his life, he had been so constant to his lights, he had never broken down. he would die even now without breaking down, without knowing what his feelings were, towards her. all his life, he had said: �poor christiana, she has such a strong temper.� with unbroken will, he had stood by this position with regard to her, he had substituted pity for all his hostility, pity had been his shield and his safeguard, and his infallible weapon. and still, in his consciousness, he was sorry for her, her nature was so violent and so impatient. but now his pity, with his life, was wearing thin, and the dread almost amounting to horror, was rising into being. but before the armour of his pity really broke, he would die, as an insect when its shell is cracked. this was his final resource. others would live on, and know the living death, the ensuing process of hopeless chaos. he would not. he denied death its victory. he had been so constant to his lights, so constant to charity, and to his love for his neighbour. perhaps he had loved his neighbour even better than himself�which is going one further than the commandment. always, this flame had burned in his heart, sustaining him through everything, the welfare of the people. he was a large employer of labour, he was a great mine-owner. and he had never lost this from his heart, that in christ he was one with his workmen. nay, he had felt inferior to them, as if they through poverty and labour were nearer to god than he. he had always the unacknowledged belief, that it was his workmen, the miners, who held in their hands the means of salvation. to move nearer to god, he must move towards his miners, his life must gravitate towards theirs. they were, unconsciously, his idol, his god made manifest. in them he worshipped the highest, the great, sympathetic, mindless godhead of humanity. and all the while, his wife had opposed him like one of the great demons of hell. strange, like a bird of prey, with the fascinating beauty and abstraction of a hawk, she had beat against the bars of his philanthropy, and like a hawk in a cage, she had sunk into silence. by force of circumstance, because all the world combined to make the cage unbreakable, he had been too strong for her, he had kept her prisoner. and because she was his prisoner, his passion for her had always remained keen as death. he had always loved her, loved her with intensity. within the cage, she was denied nothing, she was given all licence. but she had gone almost mad. of wild and overweening temper, she could not bear the humiliation of her husband�s soft, half-appealing kindness to everybody. he was not deceived by the poor. he knew they came and sponged on him, and whined to him, the worse sort; the majority, luckily for him, were much too proud to ask for anything, much too independent to come knocking at his door. but in beldover, as everywhere else, there were the whining, parasitic, foul human beings who come crawling after charity, and feeding on the living body of the public like lice. a kind of fire would go over christiana crich�s brain, as she saw two more pale-faced, creeping women in objectionable black clothes, cringing lugubriously up the drive to the door. she wanted to set the dogs on them, �hi rip! hi ring! ranger! at �em boys, set �em off.� but crowther, the butler, with all the rest of the servants, was mr crich�s man. nevertheless, when her husband was away, she would come down like a wolf on the crawling supplicants: �what do you people want? there is nothing for you here. you have no business on the drive at all. simpson, drive them away and let no more of them through the gate.� the servants had to obey her. and she would stand watching with an eye like the eagle�s, whilst the groom in clumsy confusion drove the lugubrious persons down the drive, as if they were rusty fowls, scuttling before him. but they learned to know, from the lodge-keeper, when mrs crich was away, and they timed their visits. how many times, in the first years, would crowther knock softly at the door: �person to see you, sir.� �what name?� �grocock, sir.� �what do they want?� the question was half impatient, half gratified. he liked hearing appeals to his charity. �about a child, sir.� �show them into the library, and tell them they shouldn�t come after eleven o�clock in the morning.� �why do you get up from dinner?�send them off,� his wife would say abruptly. �oh, i can�t do that. it�s no trouble just to hear what they have to say.� �how many more have been here today? why don�t you establish open house for them? they would soon oust me and the children.� �you know dear, it doesn�t hurt me to hear what they have to say. and if they really are in trouble�well, it is my duty to help them out of it.� �it�s your duty to invite all the rats in the world to gnaw at your bones.� �come, christiana, it isn�t like that. don�t be uncharitable.� but she suddenly swept out of the room, and out to the study. there sat the meagre charity-seekers, looking as if they were at the doctor�s. �mr crich can�t see you. he can�t see you at this hour. do you think he is your property, that you can come whenever you like? you must go away, there is nothing for you here.� the poor people rose in confusion. but mr crich, pale and black-bearded and deprecating, came behind her, saying: �yes, i don�t like you coming as late as this. i�ll hear any of you in the morning part of the day, but i can�t really do with you after. what�s amiss then, gittens. how is your missis?� �why, she�s sunk very low, mester crich, she�s a�most gone, she is�� sometimes, it seemed to mrs crich as if her husband were some subtle funeral bird, feeding on the miseries of the people. it seemed to her he was never satisfied unless there was some sordid tale being poured out to him, which he drank in with a sort of mournful, sympathetic satisfaction. he would have no _raison d�être_ if there were no lugubrious miseries in the world, as an undertaker would have no meaning if there were no funerals. mrs crich recoiled back upon herself, she recoiled away from this world of creeping democracy. a band of tight, baleful exclusion fastened round her heart, her isolation was fierce and hard, her antagonism was passive but terribly pure, like that of a hawk in a cage. as the years went on, she lost more and more count of the world, she seemed rapt in some glittering abstraction, almost purely unconscious. she would wander about the house and about the surrounding country, staring keenly and seeing nothing. she rarely spoke, she had no connection with the world. and she did not even think. she was consumed in a fierce tension of opposition, like the negative pole of a magnet. and she bore many children. for, as time went on, she never opposed her husband in word or deed. she took no notice of him, externally. she submitted to him, let him take what he wanted and do as he wanted with her. she was like a hawk that sullenly submits to everything. the relation between her and her husband was wordless and unknown, but it was deep, awful, a relation of utter inter-destruction. and he, who triumphed in the world, he became more and more hollow in his vitality, the vitality was bled from within him, as by some hæmorrhage. she was hulked like a hawk in a cage, but her heart was fierce and undiminished within her, though her mind was destroyed. so to the last he would go to her and hold her in his arms sometimes, before his strength was all gone. the terrible white, destructive light that burned in her eyes only excited and roused him. till he was bled to death, and then he dreaded her more than anything. but he always said to himself, how happy he had been, how he had loved her with a pure and consuming love ever since he had known her. and he thought of her as pure, chaste; the white flame which was known to him alone, the flame of her sex, was a white flower of snow to his mind. she was a wonderful white snow-flower, which he had desired infinitely. and now he was dying with all his ideas and interpretations intact. they would only collapse when the breath left his body. till then they would be pure truths for him. only death would show the perfect completeness of the lie. till death, she was his white snow-flower. he had subdued her, and her subjugation was to him an infinite chastity in her, a virginity which he could never break, and which dominated him as by a spell. she had let go the outer world, but within herself she was unbroken and unimpaired. she only sat in her room like a moping, dishevelled hawk, motionless, mindless. her children, for whom she had been so fierce in her youth, now meant scarcely anything to her. she had lost all that, she was quite by herself. only gerald, the gleaming, had some existence for her. but of late years, since he had become head of the business, he too was forgotten. whereas the father, now he was dying, turned for compassion to gerald. there had always been opposition between the two of them. gerald had feared and despised his father, and to a great extent had avoided him all through boyhood and young manhood. and the father had felt very often a real dislike of his eldest son, which, never wanting to give way to, he had refused to acknowledge. he had ignored gerald as much as possible, leaving him alone. since, however, gerald had come home and assumed responsibility in the firm, and had proved such a wonderful director, the father, tired and weary of all outside concerns, had put all his trust of these things in his son, implicitly, leaving everything to him, and assuming a rather touching dependence on the young enemy. this immediately roused a poignant pity and allegiance in gerald�s heart, always shadowed by contempt and by unadmitted enmity. for gerald was in reaction against charity; and yet he was dominated by it, it assumed supremacy in the inner life, and he could not confute it. so he was partly subject to that which his father stood for, but he was in reaction against it. now he could not save himself. a certain pity and grief and tenderness for his father overcame him, in spite of the deeper, more sullen hostility. the father won shelter from gerald through compassion. but for love he had winifred. she was his youngest child, she was the only one of his children whom he had ever closely loved. and her he loved with all the great, overweening, sheltering love of a dying man. he wanted to shelter her infinitely, infinitely, to wrap her in warmth and love and shelter, perfectly. if he could save her she should never know one pain, one grief, one hurt. he had been so right all his life, so constant in his kindness and his goodness. and this was his last passionate righteousness, his love for the child winifred. some things troubled him yet. the world had passed away from him, as his strength ebbed. there were no more poor and injured and humble to protect and succour. these were all lost to him. there were no more sons and daughters to trouble him, and to weigh on him as an unnatural responsibility. these too had faded out of reality. all these things had fallen out of his hands, and left him free. there remained the covert fear and horror of his wife, as she sat mindless and strange in her room, or as she came forth with slow, prowling step, her head bent forward. but this he put away. even his life-long righteousness, however, would not quite deliver him from the inner horror. still, he could keep it sufficiently at bay. it would never break forth openly. death would come first. then there was winifred! if only he could be sure about her, if only he could be sure. since the death of diana, and the development of his illness, his craving for surety with regard to winifred amounted almost to obsession. it was as if, even dying, he must have some anxiety, some responsibility of love, of charity, upon his heart. she was an odd, sensitive, inflammable child, having her father�s dark hair and quiet bearing, but being quite detached, momentaneous. she was like a changeling indeed, as if her feelings did not matter to her, really. she often seemed to be talking and playing like the gayest and most childish of children, she was full of the warmest, most delightful affection for a few things�for her father, and for her animals in particular. but if she heard that her beloved kitten leo had been run over by the motor-car she put her head on one side, and replied, with a faint contraction like resentment on her face: �has he?� then she took no more notice. she only disliked the servant who would force bad news on her, and wanted her to be sorry. she wished not to know, and that seemed her chief motive. she avoided her mother, and most of the members of her family. she _loved_ her daddy, because he wanted her always to be happy, and because he seemed to become young again, and irresponsible in her presence. she liked gerald, because he was so self-contained. she loved people who would make life a game for her. she had an amazing instinctive critical faculty, and was a pure anarchist, a pure aristocrat at once. for she accepted her equals wherever she found them, and she ignored with blithe indifference her inferiors, whether they were her brothers and sisters, or whether they were wealthy guests of the house, or whether they were the common people or the servants. she was quite single and by herself, deriving from nobody. it was as if she were cut off from all purpose or continuity, and existed simply moment by moment. the father, as by some strange final illusion, felt as if all his fate depended on his ensuring to winifred her happiness. she who could never suffer, because she never formed vital connections, she who could lose the dearest things of her life and be just the same the next day, the whole memory dropped out, as if deliberately, she whose will was so strangely and easily free, anarchistic, almost nihilistic, who like a soulless bird flits on its own will, without attachment or responsibility beyond the moment, who in her every motion snapped the threads of serious relationship with blithe, free hands, really nihilistic, because never troubled, she must be the object of her father�s final passionate solicitude. when mr crich heard that gudrun brangwen might come to help winifred with her drawing and modelling he saw a road to salvation for his child. he believed that winifred had talent, he had seen gudrun, he knew that she was an exceptional person. he could give winifred into her hands as into the hands of a right being. here was a direction and a positive force to be lent to his child, he need not leave her directionless and defenceless. if he could but graft the girl on to some tree of utterance before he died, he would have fulfilled his responsibility. and here it could be done. he did not hesitate to appeal to gudrun. meanwhile, as the father drifted more and more out of life, gerald experienced more and more a sense of exposure. his father after all had stood for the living world to him. whilst his father lived gerald was not responsible for the world. but now his father was passing away, gerald found himself left exposed and unready before the storm of living, like the mutinous first mate of a ship that has lost his captain, and who sees only a terrible chaos in front of him. he did not inherit an established order and a living idea. the whole unifying idea of mankind seemed to be dying with his father, the centralising force that had held the whole together seemed to collapse with his father, the parts were ready to go asunder in terrible disintegration. gerald was as if left on board of a ship that was going asunder beneath his feet, he was in charge of a vessel whose timbers were all coming apart. he knew that all his life he had been wrenching at the frame of life to break it apart. and now, with something of the terror of a destructive child, he saw himself on the point of inheriting his own destruction. and during the last months, under the influence of death, and of birkin�s talk, and of gudrun�s penetrating being, he had lost entirely that mechanical certainty that had been his triumph. sometimes spasms of hatred came over him, against birkin and gudrun and that whole set. he wanted to go back to the dullest conservatism, to the most stupid of conventional people. he wanted to revert to the strictest toryism. but the desire did not last long enough to carry him into action. during his childhood and his boyhood he had wanted a sort of savagedom. the days of homer were his ideal, when a man was chief of an army of heroes, or spent his years in wonderful odyssey. he hated remorselessly the circumstances of his own life, so much that he never really saw beldover and the colliery valley. he turned his face entirely away from the blackened mining region that stretched away on the right hand of shortlands, he turned entirely to the country and the woods beyond willey water. it was true that the panting and rattling of the coal mines could always be heard at shortlands. but from his earliest childhood, gerald had paid no heed to this. he had ignored the whole of the industrial sea which surged in coal-blackened tides against the grounds of the house. the world was really a wilderness where one hunted and swam and rode. he rebelled against all authority. life was a condition of savage freedom. then he had been sent away to school, which was so much death to him. he refused to go to oxford, choosing a german university. he had spent a certain time at bonn, at berlin, and at frankfurt. there, a curiosity had been aroused in his mind. he wanted to see and to know, in a curious objective fashion, as if it were an amusement to him. then he must try war. then he must travel into the savage regions that had so attracted him. the result was, he found humanity very much alike everywhere, and to a mind like his, curious and cold, the savage was duller, less exciting than the european. so he took hold of all kinds of sociological ideas, and ideas of reform. but they never went more than skin-deep, they were never more than a mental amusement. their interest lay chiefly in the reaction against the positive order, the destructive reaction. he discovered at last a real adventure in the coal-mines. his father asked him to help in the firm. gerald had been educated in the science of mining, and it had never interested him. now, suddenly, with a sort of exultation, he laid hold of the world. there was impressed photographically on his consciousness the great industry. suddenly, it was real, he was part of it. down the valley ran the colliery railway, linking mine with mine. down the railway ran the trains, short trains of heavily laden trucks, long trains of empty wagons, each one bearing in big white letters the initials: �c. b. & co.� these white letters on all the wagons he had seen since his first childhood, and it was as if he had never seen them, they were so familiar, and so ignored. now at last he saw his own name written on the wall. now he had a vision of power. so many wagons, bearing his initial, running all over the country. he saw them as he entered london in the train, he saw them at dover. so far his power ramified. he looked at beldover, at selby, at whatmore, at lethley bank, the great colliery villages which depended entirely on his mines. they were hideous and sordid, during his childhood they had been sores in his consciousness. and now he saw them with pride. four raw new towns, and many ugly industrial hamlets were crowded under his dependence. he saw the stream of miners flowing along the causeways from the mines at the end of the afternoon, thousands of blackened, slightly distorted human beings with red mouths, all moving subjugate to his will. he pushed slowly in his motor-car through the little market-top on friday nights in beldover, through a solid mass of human beings that were making their purchases and doing their weekly spending. they were all subordinate to him. they were ugly and uncouth, but they were his instruments. he was the god of the machine. they made way for his motor-car automatically, slowly. he did not care whether they made way with alacrity, or grudgingly. he did not care what they thought of him. his vision had suddenly crystallised. suddenly he had conceived the pure instrumentality of mankind. there had been so much humanitarianism, so much talk of sufferings and feelings. it was ridiculous. the sufferings and feelings of individuals did not matter in the least. they were mere conditions, like the weather. what mattered was the pure instrumentality of the individual. as a man as of a knife: does it cut well? nothing else mattered. everything in the world has its function, and is good or not good in so far as it fulfils this function more or less perfectly. was a miner a good miner? then he was complete. was a manager a good manager? that was enough. gerald himself, who was responsible for all this industry, was he a good director? if he were, he had fulfilled his life. the rest was by-play. the mines were there, they were old. they were giving out, it did not pay to work the seams. there was talk of closing down two of them. it was at this point that gerald arrived on the scene. he looked around. there lay the mines. they were old, obsolete. they were like old lions, no more good. he looked again. pah! the mines were nothing but the clumsy efforts of impure minds. there they lay, abortions of a half-trained mind. let the idea of them be swept away. he cleared his brain of them, and thought only of the coal in the under earth. how much was there? there was plenty of coal. the old workings could not get at it, that was all. then break the neck of the old workings. the coal lay there in its seams, even though the seams were thin. there it lay, inert matter, as it had always lain, since the beginning of time, subject to the will of man. the will of man was the determining factor. man was the archgod of earth. his mind was obedient to serve his will. man�s will was the absolute, the only absolute. and it was his will to subjugate matter to his own ends. the subjugation itself was the point, the fight was the be-all, the fruits of victory were mere results. it was not for the sake of money that gerald took over the mines. he did not care about money, fundamentally. he was neither ostentatious nor luxurious, neither did he care about social position, not finally. what he wanted was the pure fulfilment of his own will in the struggle with the natural conditions. his will was now, to take the coal out of the earth, profitably. the profit was merely the condition of victory, but the victory itself lay in the feat achieved. he vibrated with zest before the challenge. every day he was in the mines, examining, testing, he consulted experts, he gradually gathered the whole situation into his mind, as a general grasps the plan of his campaign. then there was need for a complete break. the mines were run on an old system, an obsolete idea. the initial idea had been, to obtain as much money from the earth as would make the owners comfortably rich, would allow the workmen sufficient wages and good conditions, and would increase the wealth of the country altogether. gerald�s father, following in the second generation, having a sufficient fortune, had thought only of the men. the mines, for him, were primarily great fields to produce bread and plenty for all the hundreds of human beings gathered about them. he had lived and striven with his fellow owners to benefit the men every time. and the men had been benefited in their fashion. there were few poor, and few needy. all was plenty, because the mines were good and easy to work. and the miners, in those days, finding themselves richer than they might have expected, felt glad and triumphant. they thought themselves well-off, they congratulated themselves on their good-fortune, they remembered how their fathers had starved and suffered, and they felt that better times had come. they were grateful to those others, the pioneers, the new owners, who had opened out the pits, and let forth this stream of plenty. but man is never satisfied, and so the miners, from gratitude to their owners, passed on to murmuring. their sufficiency decreased with knowledge, they wanted more. why should the master be so out-of-all-proportion rich? there was a crisis when gerald was a boy, when the masters� federation closed down the mines because the men would not accept a reduction. this lock-out had forced home the new conditions to thomas crich. belonging to the federation, he had been compelled by his honour to close the pits against his men. he, the father, the patriarch, was forced to deny the means of life to his sons, his people. he, the rich man who would hardly enter heaven because of his possessions, must now turn upon the poor, upon those who were nearer christ than himself, those who were humble and despised and closer to perfection, those who were manly and noble in their labours, and must say to them: �ye shall neither labour nor eat bread.� it was this recognition of the state of war which really broke his heart. he wanted his industry to be run on love. oh, he wanted love to be the directing power even of the mines. and now, from under the cloak of love, the sword was cynically drawn, the sword of mechanical necessity. this really broke his heart. he must have the illusion and now the illusion was destroyed. the men were not against _him_, but they were against the masters. it was war, and willy nilly he found himself on the wrong side, in his own conscience. seething masses of miners met daily, carried away by a new religious impulse. the idea flew through them: �all men are equal on earth,� and they would carry the idea to its material fulfilment. after all, is it not the teaching of christ? and what is an idea, if not the germ of action in the material world. �all men are equal in spirit, they are all sons of god. whence then this obvious _disquality_?� it was a religious creed pushed to its material conclusion. thomas crich at least had no answer. he could but admit, according to his sincere tenets, that the disquality was wrong. but he could not give up his goods, which were the stuff of disquality. so the men would fight for their rights. the last impulses of the last religious passion left on earth, the passion for equality, inspired them. seething mobs of men marched about, their faces lighted up as for holy war, with a smoke of cupidity. how disentangle the passion for equality from the passion of cupidity, when begins the fight for equality of possessions? but the god was the machine. each man claimed equality in the godhead of the great productive machine. every man equally was part of this godhead. but somehow, somewhere, thomas crich knew this was false. when the machine is the godhead, and production or work is worship, then the most mechanical mind is purest and highest, the representative of god on earth. and the rest are subordinate, each according to his degree. riots broke out, whatmore pit-head was in flames. this was the pit furthest in the country, near the woods. soldiers came. from the windows of shortlands, on that fatal day, could be seen the flare of fire in the sky not far off, and now the little colliery train, with the workmen�s carriages which were used to convey the miners to the distant whatmore, was crossing the valley full of soldiers, full of redcoats. then there was the far-off sound of firing, then the later news that the mob was dispersed, one man was shot dead, the fire was put out. gerald, who was a boy, was filled with the wildest excitement and delight. he longed to go with the soldiers to shoot the men. but he was not allowed to go out of the lodge gates. at the gates were stationed sentries with guns. gerald stood near them in delight, whilst gangs of derisive miners strolled up and down the lanes, calling and jeering: �now then, three ha�porth o� coppers, let�s see thee shoot thy gun.� insults were chalked on the walls and the fences, the servants left. and all this while thomas crich was breaking his heart, and giving away hundreds of pounds in charity. everywhere there was free food, a surfeit of free food. anybody could have bread for asking, and a loaf cost only three-ha�pence. every day there was a free tea somewhere, the children had never had so many treats in their lives. on friday afternoon great basketfuls of buns and cakes were taken into the schools, and great pitchers of milk, the schoolchildren had what they wanted. they were sick with eating too much cake and milk. and then it came to an end, and the men went back to work. but it was never the same as before. there was a new situation created, a new idea reigned. even in the machine, there should be equality. no part should be subordinate to any other part: all should be equal. the instinct for chaos had entered. mystic equality lies in abstraction, not in having or in doing, which are processes. in function and process, one man, one part, must of necessity be subordinate to another. it is a condition of being. but the desire for chaos had risen, and the idea of mechanical equality was the weapon of disruption which should execute the will of man, the will for chaos. gerald was a boy at the time of the strike, but he longed to be a man, to fight the colliers. the father however was trapped between two half-truths, and broken. he wanted to be a pure christian, one and equal with all men. he even wanted to give away all he had, to the poor. yet he was a great promoter of industry, and he knew perfectly that he must keep his goods and keep his authority. this was as divine a necessity in him, as the need to give away all he possessed�more divine, even, since this was the necessity he acted upon. yet because he did _not_ act on the other ideal, it dominated him, he was dying of chagrin because he must forfeit it. he wanted to be a father of loving kindness and sacrificial benevolence. the colliers shouted to him about his thousands a year. they would not be deceived. when gerald grew up in the ways of the world, he shifted the position. he did not care about the equality. the whole christian attitude of love and self-sacrifice was old hat. he knew that position and authority were the right thing in the world, and it was useless to cant about it. they were the right thing, for the simple reason that they were functionally necessary. they were not the be-all and the end-all. it was like being part of a machine. he himself happened to be a controlling, central part, the masses of men were the parts variously controlled. this was merely as it happened. as well get excited because a central hub drives a hundred outer wheels or because the whole universe wheels round the sun. after all, it would be mere silliness to say that the moon and the earth and saturn and jupiter and venus have just as much right to be the centre of the universe, each of them separately, as the sun. such an assertion is made merely in the desire of chaos. without bothering to _think_ to a conclusion, gerald jumped to a conclusion. he abandoned the whole democratic-equality problem as a problem of silliness. what mattered was the great social productive machine. let that work perfectly, let it produce a sufficiency of everything, let every man be given a rational portion, greater or less according to his functional degree or magnitude, and then, provision made, let the devil supervene, let every man look after his own amusements and appetites, so long as he interfered with nobody. so gerald set himself to work, to put the great industry in order. in his travels, and in his accompanying readings, he had come to the conclusion that the essential secret of life was harmony. he did not define to himself at all clearly what harmony was. the word pleased him, he felt he had come to his own conclusions. and he proceeded to put his philosophy into practice by forcing order into the established world, translating the mystic word harmony into the practical word organisation. immediately he _saw_ the firm, he realised what he could do. he had a fight to fight with matter, with the earth and the coal it enclosed. this was the sole idea, to turn upon the inanimate matter of the underground, and reduce it to his will. and for this fight with matter, one must have perfect instruments in perfect organisation, a mechanism so subtle and harmonious in its workings that it represents the single mind of man, and by its relentless repetition of given movement, will accomplish a purpose irresistibly, inhumanly. it was this inhuman principle in the mechanism he wanted to construct that inspired gerald with an almost religious exaltation. he, the man, could interpose a perfect, changeless, godlike medium between himself and the matter he had to subjugate. there were two opposites, his will and the resistant matter of the earth. and between these he could establish the very expression of his will, the incarnation of his power, a great and perfect machine, a system, an activity of pure order, pure mechanical repetition, repetition _ad infinitum_, hence eternal and infinite. he found his eternal and his infinite in the pure machine-principle of perfect co-ordination into one pure, complex, infinitely repeated motion, like the spinning of a wheel; but a productive spinning, as the revolving of the universe may be called a productive spinning, a productive repetition through eternity, to infinity. and this is the god-motion, this productive repetition _ad infinitum_. and gerald was the god of the machine, _deus ex machina_. and the whole productive will of man was the godhead. he had his life-work now, to extend over the earth a great and perfect system in which the will of man ran smooth and unthwarted, timeless, a godhead in process. he had to begin with the mines. the terms were given: first the resistant matter of the underground; then the instruments of its subjugation, instruments human and metallic; and finally his own pure will, his own mind. it would need a marvellous adjustment of myriad instruments, human, animal, metallic, kinetic, dynamic, a marvellous casting of myriad tiny wholes into one great perfect entirety. and then, in this case there was perfection attained, the will of the highest was perfectly fulfilled, the will of mankind was perfectly enacted; for was not mankind mystically contra-distinguished against inanimate matter, was not the history of mankind just the history of the conquest of the one by the other? the miners were overreached. while they were still in the toils of divine equality of man, gerald had passed on, granted essentially their case, and proceeded in his quality of human being to fulfil the will of mankind as a whole. he merely represented the miners in a higher sense when he perceived that the only way to fulfil perfectly the will of man was to establish the perfect, inhuman machine. but he represented them very essentially, they were far behind, out of date, squabbling for their material equality. the desire had already transmuted into this new and greater desire, for a perfect intervening mechanism between man and matter, the desire to translate the godhead into pure mechanism. as soon as gerald entered the firm, the convulsion of death ran through the old system. he had all his life been tortured by a furious and destructive demon, which possessed him sometimes like an insanity. this temper now entered like a virus into the firm, and there were cruel eruptions. terrible and inhuman were his examinations into every detail; there was no privacy he would spare, no old sentiment but he would turn it over. the old grey managers, the old grey clerks, the doddering old pensioners, he looked at them, and removed them as so much lumber. the whole concern seemed like a hospital of invalid employees. he had no emotional qualms. he arranged what pensions were necessary, he looked for efficient substitutes, and when these were found, he substituted them for the old hands. �i�ve a pitiful letter here from letherington,� his father would say, in a tone of deprecation and appeal. �don�t you think the poor fellow might keep on a little longer. i always fancied he did very well.� �i�ve got a man in his place now, father. he�ll be happier out of it, believe me. you think his allowance is plenty, don�t you?� �it is not the allowance that he wants, poor man. he feels it very much, that he is superannuated. says he thought he had twenty more years of work in him yet.� �not of this kind of work i want. he doesn�t understand.� the father sighed. he wanted not to know any more. he believed the pits would have to be overhauled if they were to go on working. and after all, it would be worst in the long run for everybody, if they must close down. so he could make no answer to the appeals of his old and trusty servants, he could only repeat �gerald says.� so the father drew more and more out of the light. the whole frame of the real life was broken for him. he had been right according to his lights. and his lights had been those of the great religion. yet they seemed to have become obsolete, to be superseded in the world. he could not understand. he only withdrew with his lights into an inner room, into the silence. the beautiful candles of belief, that would not do to light the world any more, they would still burn sweetly and sufficiently in the inner room of his soul, and in the silence of his retirement. gerald rushed into the reform of the firm, beginning with the office. it was needful to economise severely, to make possible the great alterations he must introduce. �what are these widows� coals?� he asked. �we have always allowed all widows of men who worked for the firm a load of coals every three months.� �they must pay cost price henceforward. the firm is not a charity institution, as everybody seems to think.� widows, these stock figures of sentimental humanitarianism, he felt a dislike at the thought of them. they were almost repulsive. why were they not immolated on the pyre of the husband, like the sati in india? at any rate, let them pay the cost of their coals. in a thousand ways he cut down the expenditure, in ways so fine as to be hardly noticeable to the men. the miners must pay for the cartage of their coals, heavy cartage too; they must pay for their tools, for the sharpening, for the care of lamps, for the many trifling things that made the bill of charges against every man mount up to a shilling or so in the week. it was not grasped very definitely by the miners, though they were sore enough. but it saved hundreds of pounds every week for the firm. gradually gerald got hold of everything. and then began the great reform. expert engineers were introduced in every department. an enormous electric plant was installed, both for lighting and for haulage underground, and for power. the electricity was carried into every mine. new machinery was brought from america, such as the miners had never seen before, great iron men, as the cutting machines were called, and unusual appliances. the working of the pits was thoroughly changed, all the control was taken out of the hands of the miners, the butty system was abolished. everything was run on the most accurate and delicate scientific method, educated and expert men were in control everywhere, the miners were reduced to mere mechanical instruments. they had to work hard, much harder than before, the work was terrible and heart-breaking in its mechanicalness. but they submitted to it all. the joy went out of their lives, the hope seemed to perish as they became more and more mechanised. and yet they accepted the new conditions. they even got a further satisfaction out of them. at first they hated gerald crich, they swore to do something to him, to murder him. but as time went on, they accepted everything with some fatal satisfaction. gerald was their high priest, he represented the religion they really felt. his father was forgotten already. there was a new world, a new order, strict, terrible, inhuman, but satisfying in its very destructiveness. the men were satisfied to belong to the great and wonderful machine, even whilst it destroyed them. it was what they wanted. it was the highest that man had produced, the most wonderful and superhuman. they were exalted by belonging to this great and superhuman system which was beyond feeling or reason, something really godlike. their hearts died within them, but their souls were satisfied. it was what they wanted. otherwise gerald could never have done what he did. he was just ahead of them in giving them what they wanted, this participation in a great and perfect system that subjected life to pure mathematical principles. this was a sort of freedom, the sort they really wanted. it was the first great step in undoing, the first great phase of chaos, the substitution of the mechanical principle for the organic, the destruction of the organic purpose, the organic unity, and the subordination of every organic unit to the great mechanical purpose. it was pure organic disintegration and pure mechanical organisation. this is the first and finest state of chaos. gerald was satisfied. he knew the colliers said they hated him. but he had long ceased to hate them. when they streamed past him at evening, their heavy boots slurring on the pavement wearily, their shoulders slightly distorted, they took no notice of him, they gave him no greeting whatever, they passed in a grey-black stream of unemotional acceptance. they were not important to him, save as instruments, nor he to them, save as a supreme instrument of control. as miners they had their being, he had his being as director. he admired their qualities. but as men, personalities, they were just accidents, sporadic little unimportant phenomena. and tacitly, the men agreed to this. for gerald agreed to it in himself. he had succeeded. he had converted the industry into a new and terrible purity. there was a greater output of coal than ever, the wonderful and delicate system ran almost perfectly. he had a set of really clever engineers, both mining and electrical, and they did not cost much. a highly educated man cost very little more than a workman. his managers, who were all rare men, were no more expensive than the old bungling fools of his father�s days, who were merely colliers promoted. his chief manager, who had twelve hundred a year, saved the firm at least five thousand. the whole system was now so perfect that gerald was hardly necessary any more. it was so perfect that sometimes a strange fear came over him, and he did not know what to do. he went on for some years in a sort of trance of activity. what he was doing seemed supreme, he was almost like a divinity. he was a pure and exalted activity. but now he had succeeded�he had finally succeeded. and once or twice lately, when he was alone in the evening and had nothing to do, he had suddenly stood up in terror, not knowing what he was. and he went to the mirror and looked long and closely at his own face, at his own eyes, seeking for something. he was afraid, in mortal dry fear, but he knew not what of. he looked at his own face. there it was, shapely and healthy and the same as ever, yet somehow, it was not real, it was a mask. he dared not touch it, for fear it should prove to be only a composition mask. his eyes were blue and keen as ever, and as firm in their sockets. yet he was not sure that they were not blue false bubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear annihilation. he could see the darkness in them, as if they were only bubbles of darkness. he was afraid that one day he would break down and be a purely meaningless babble lapping round a darkness. but his will yet held good, he was able to go away and read, and think about things. he liked to read books about the primitive man, books of anthropology, and also works of speculative philosophy. his mind was very active. but it was like a bubble floating in the darkness. at any moment it might burst and leave him in chaos. he would not die. he knew that. he would go on living, but the meaning would have collapsed out of him, his divine reason would be gone. in a strangely indifferent, sterile way, he was frightened. but he could not react even to the fear. it was as if his centres of feeling were drying up. he remained calm, calculative and healthy, and quite freely deliberate, even whilst he felt, with faint, small but final sterile horror, that his mystic reason was breaking, giving way now, at this crisis. and it was a strain. he knew there was no equilibrium. he would have to go in some direction, shortly, to find relief. only birkin kept the fear definitely off him, saved him his quick sufficiency in life, by the odd mobility and changeableness which seemed to contain the quintessence of faith. but then gerald must always come away from birkin, as from a church service, back to the outside real world of work and life. there it was, it did not alter, and words were futilities. he had to keep himself in reckoning with the world of work and material life. and it became more and more difficult, such a strange pressure was upon him, as if the very middle of him were a vacuum, and outside were an awful tension. he had found his most satisfactory relief in women. after a debauch with some desperate woman, he went on quite easy and forgetful. the devil of it was, it was so hard to keep up his interest in women nowadays. he didn�t care about them any more. a pussum was all right in her way, but she was an exceptional case, and even she mattered extremely little. no, women, in that sense, were useless to him any more. he felt that his _mind_ needed acute stimulation, before he could be physically roused. chapter xviii. rabbit gudrun knew that it was a critical thing for her to go to shortlands. she knew it was equivalent to accepting gerald crich as a lover. and though she hung back, disliking the condition, yet she knew she would go on. she equivocated. she said to herself, in torment recalling the blow and the kiss, �after all, what is it? what is a kiss? what even is a blow? it is an instant, vanished at once. i can go to shortlands just for a time, before i go away, if only to see what it is like.� for she had an insatiable curiosity to see and to know everything. she also wanted to know what winifred was really like. having heard the child calling from the steamer in the night, she felt some mysterious connection with her. gudrun talked with the father in the library. then he sent for his daughter. she came accompanied by mademoiselle. �winnie, this is miss brangwen, who will be so kind as to help you with your drawing and making models of your animals,� said the father. the child looked at gudrun for a moment with interest, before she came forward and with face averted offered her hand. there was a complete _sang-froid_ and indifference under winifred�s childish reserve, a certain irresponsible callousness. �how do you do?� said the child, not lifting her face. �how do you do?� said gudrun. then winifred stood aside, and gudrun was introduced to mademoiselle. �you have a fine day for your walk,� said mademoiselle, in a bright manner. �_quite_ fine,� said gudrun. winifred was watching from her distance. she was as if amused, but rather unsure as yet what this new person was like. she saw so many new persons, and so few who became real to her. mademoiselle was of no count whatever, the child merely put up with her, calmly and easily, accepting her little authority with faint scorn, compliant out of childish arrogance of indifference. �well, winifred,� said the father, �aren�t you glad miss brangwen has come? she makes animals and birds in wood and in clay, that the people in london write about in the papers, praising them to the skies.� winifred smiled slightly. �who told you, daddie?� she asked. �who told me? hermione told me, and rupert birkin.� �do you know them?� winifred asked of gudrun, turning to her with faint challenge. �yes,� said gudrun. winifred readjusted herself a little. she had been ready to accept gudrun as a sort of servant. now she saw it was on terms of friendship they were intended to meet. she was rather glad. she had so many half inferiors, whom she tolerated with perfect good-humour. gudrun was very calm. she also did not take these things very seriously. a new occasion was mostly spectacular to her. however, winifred was a detached, ironic child, she would never attach herself. gudrun liked her and was intrigued by her. the first meetings went off with a certain humiliating clumsiness. neither winifred nor her instructress had any social grace. soon, however, they met in a kind of make-belief world. winifred did not notice human beings unless they were like herself, playful and slightly mocking. she would accept nothing but the world of amusement, and the serious people of her life were the animals she had for pets. on those she lavished, almost ironically, her affection and her companionship. to the rest of the human scheme she submitted with a faint bored indifference. she had a pekinese dog called looloo, which she loved. �let us draw looloo,� said gudrun, �and see if we can get his looliness, shall we?� �darling!� cried winifred, rushing to the dog, that sat with contemplative sadness on the hearth, and kissing its bulging brow. �darling one, will you be drawn? shall its mummy draw its portrait?� then she chuckled gleefully, and turning to gudrun, said: �oh let�s!� they proceeded to get pencils and paper, and were ready. �beautifullest,� cried winifred, hugging the dog, �sit still while its mummy draws its beautiful portrait.� the dog looked up at her with grievous resignation in its large, prominent eyes. she kissed it fervently, and said: �i wonder what mine will be like. it�s sure to be awful.� as she sketched she chuckled to herself, and cried out at times: �oh darling, you�re so beautiful!� and again chuckling, she rushed to embrace the dog, in penitence, as if she were doing him some subtle injury. he sat all the time with the resignation and fretfulness of ages on his dark velvety face. she drew slowly, with a wicked concentration in her eyes, her head on one side, an intense stillness over her. she was as if working the spell of some enchantment. suddenly she had finished. she looked at the dog, and then at her drawing, and then cried, with real grief for the dog, and at the same time with a wicked exultation: �my beautiful, why did they?� she took her paper to the dog, and held it under his nose. he turned his head aside as in chagrin and mortification, and she impulsively kissed his velvety bulging forehead. ��s a loolie, �s a little loozie! look at his portrait, darling, look at his portrait, that his mother has done of him.� she looked at her paper and chuckled. then, kissing the dog once more, she rose and came gravely to gudrun, offering her the paper. it was a grotesque little diagram of a grotesque little animal, so wicked and so comical, a slow smile came over gudrun�s face, unconsciously. and at her side winifred chuckled with glee, and said: �it isn�t like him, is it? he�s much lovelier than that. he�s _so_ beautiful-mmm, looloo, my sweet darling.� and she flew off to embrace the chagrined little dog. he looked up at her with reproachful, saturnine eyes, vanquished in his extreme agedness of being. then she flew back to her drawing, and chuckled with satisfaction. �it isn�t like him, is it?� she said to gudrun. �yes, it�s very like him,� gudrun replied. the child treasured her drawing, carried it about with her, and showed it, with a silent embarrassment, to everybody. �look,� she said, thrusting the paper into her father�s hand. �why that�s looloo!� he exclaimed. and he looked down in surprise, hearing the almost inhuman chuckle of the child at his side. gerald was away from home when gudrun first came to shortlands. but the first morning he came back he watched for her. it was a sunny, soft morning, and he lingered in the garden paths, looking at the flowers that had come out during his absence. he was clean and fit as ever, shaven, his fair hair scrupulously parted at the side, bright in the sunshine, his short, fair moustache closely clipped, his eyes with their humorous kind twinkle, which was so deceptive. he was dressed in black, his clothes sat well on his well-nourished body. yet as he lingered before the flower-beds in the morning sunshine, there was a certain isolation, a fear about him, as of something wanting. gudrun came up quickly, unseen. she was dressed in blue, with woollen yellow stockings, like the bluecoat boys. he glanced up in surprise. her stockings always disconcerted him, the pale-yellow stockings and the heavy heavy black shoes. winifred, who had been playing about the garden with mademoiselle and the dogs, came flitting towards gudrun. the child wore a dress of black-and-white stripes. her hair was rather short, cut round and hanging level in her neck. �we�re going to do bismarck, aren�t we?� she said, linking her hand through gudrun�s arm. �yes, we�re going to do bismarck. do you want to?� �oh yes-oh i do! i want most awfully to do bismarck. he looks _so_ splendid this morning, so _fierce_. he�s almost as big as a lion.� and the child chuckled sardonically at her own hyperbole. �he�s a real king, he really is.� �_bonjour, mademoiselle,_� said the little french governess, wavering up with a slight bow, a bow of the sort that gudrun loathed, insolent. �_winifred veut tant faire le portrait de bismarck�! oh, mais toute la matiné_e��we will do bismarck this morning!��_bismarck, bismarck, toujours bismarck! c�est un lapin, n�est-ce pas, mademoiselle?_� �_oui, c�est un grand lapin blanc et noir. vous ne l�avez pas vu?_� said gudrun in her good, but rather heavy french. �_non, mademoiselle, winifred n�a jamais voulu me le faire voir. tant de fois je le lui ai demandé, �qu�est ce donc que ce bismarck, winifred?� mais elle n�a pas voulu me le dire. son bismarck, c�etait un mystère._� �_oui, c�est un mystère, vraiment un mystère!_ miss brangwen, say that bismarck is a mystery,� cried winifred. �bismarck, is a mystery, _bismarck, c�est un mystère, der bismarck, er ist ein wunder_,� said gudrun, in mocking incantation. �_ja, er ist ein wunder_,� repeated winifred, with odd seriousness, under which lay a wicked chuckle. �_ist er auch ein wunder?_� came the slightly insolent sneering of mademoiselle. �_doch!_� said winifred briefly, indifferent. �_doch ist er nicht ein könig._ beesmarck, he was not a king, winifred, as you have said. he was only�_il n�était que chancelier._� �_qu�est ce qu�un chancelier?_� said winifred, with slightly contemptuous indifference. �a _chancelier_ is a chancellor, and a chancellor is, i believe, a sort of judge,� said gerald coming up and shaking hands with gudrun. �you�ll have made a song of bismarck soon,� said he. mademoiselle waited, and discreetly made her inclination, and her greeting. �so they wouldn�t let you see bismarck, mademoiselle?� he said. �_non, monsieur._� �ay, very mean of them. what are you going to do to him, miss brangwen? i want him sent to the kitchen and cooked.� �oh no,� cried winifred. �we�re going to draw him,� said gudrun. �draw him and quarter him and dish him up,� he said, being purposely fatuous. �oh no,� cried winifred with emphasis, chuckling. gudrun detected the tang of mockery in him, and she looked up and smiled into his face. he felt his nerves caressed. their eyes met in knowledge. �how do you like shortlands?� he asked. �oh, very much,� she said, with nonchalance. �glad you do. have you noticed these flowers?� he led her along the path. she followed intently. winifred came, and the governess lingered in the rear. they stopped before some veined salpiglossis flowers. �aren�t they wonderful?� she cried, looking at them absorbedly. strange how her reverential, almost ecstatic admiration of the flowers caressed his nerves. she stooped down, and touched the trumpets, with infinitely fine and delicate-touching finger-tips. it filled him with ease to see her. when she rose, her eyes, hot with the beauty of the flowers, looked into his. �what are they?� she asked. �sort of petunia, i suppose,� he answered. �i don�t really know them.� �they are quite strangers to me,� she said. they stood together in a false intimacy, a nervous contact. and he was in love with her. she was aware of mademoiselle standing near, like a little french beetle, observant and calculating. she moved away with winifred, saying they would go to find bismarck. gerald watched them go, looking all the while at the soft, full, still body of gudrun, in its silky cashmere. how silky and rich and soft her body must be. an excess of appreciation came over his mind, she was the all-desirable, the all-beautiful. he wanted only to come to her, nothing more. he was only this, this being that should come to her, and be given to her. at the same time he was finely and acutely aware of mademoiselle�s neat, brittle finality of form. she was like some elegant beetle with thin ankles, perched on her high heels, her glossy black dress perfectly correct, her dark hair done high and admirably. how repulsive her completeness and her finality was! he loathed her. yet he did admire her. she was perfectly correct. and it did rather annoy him, that gudrun came dressed in startling colours, like a macaw, when the family was in mourning. like a macaw she was! he watched the lingering way she took her feet from the ground. and her ankles were pale yellow, and her dress a deep blue. yet it pleased him. it pleased him very much. he felt the challenge in her very attire�she challenged the whole world. and he smiled as to the note of a trumpet. gudrun and winifred went through the house to the back, where were the stables and the out-buildings. everywhere was still and deserted. mr crich had gone out for a short drive, the stableman had just led round gerald�s horse. the two girls went to the hutch that stood in a corner, and looked at the great black-and-white rabbit. �isn�t he beautiful! oh, do look at him listening! doesn�t he look silly!� she laughed quickly, then added �oh, do let�s do him listening, do let us, he listens with so much of himself;�don�t you darling bismarck?� �can we take him out?� said gudrun. �he�s very strong. he really is extremely strong.� she looked at gudrun, her head on one side, in odd calculating mistrust. �but we�ll try, shall we?� �yes, if you like. but he�s a fearful kicker!� they took the key to unlock the door. the rabbit exploded in a wild rush round the hutch. �he scratches most awfully sometimes,� cried winifred in excitement. �oh do look at him, isn�t he wonderful!� the rabbit tore round the hutch in a hurry. �bismarck!� cried the child, in rousing excitement. �how _dreadful_ you are! you are beastly.� winifred looked up at gudrun with some misgiving in her wild excitement. gudrun smiled sardonically with her mouth. winifred made a strange crooning noise of unaccountable excitement. �now he�s still!� she cried, seeing the rabbit settled down in a far corner of the hutch. �shall we take him now?� she whispered excitedly, mysteriously, looking up at gudrun and edging very close. �shall we get him now?�� she chuckled wickedly to herself. they unlocked the door of the hutch. gudrun thrust in her arm and seized the great, lusty rabbit as it crouched still, she grasped its long ears. it set its four feet flat, and thrust back. there was a long scraping sound as it was hauled forward, and in another instant it was in mid-air, lunging wildly, its body flying like a spring coiled and released, as it lashed out, suspended from the ears. gudrun held the black-and-white tempest at arms� length, averting her face. but the rabbit was magically strong, it was all she could do to keep her grasp. she almost lost her presence of mind. �bismarck, bismarck, you are behaving terribly,� said winifred in a rather frightened voice, �oh, do put him down, he�s beastly.� gudrun stood for a moment astounded by the thunder-storm that had sprung into being in her grip. then her colour came up, a heavy rage came over her like a cloud. she stood shaken as a house in a storm, and utterly overcome. her heart was arrested with fury at the mindlessness and the bestial stupidity of this struggle, her wrists were badly scored by the claws of the beast, a heavy cruelty welled up in her. gerald came round as she was trying to capture the flying rabbit under her arm. he saw, with subtle recognition, her sullen passion of cruelty. �you should let one of the men do that for you,� he said hurrying up. �oh, he�s _so_ horrid!� cried winifred, almost frantic. he held out his nervous, sinewy hand and took the rabbit by the ears, from gudrun. �it�s most _fearfully_ strong,� she cried, in a high voice, like the crying a seagull, strange and vindictive. the rabbit made itself into a ball in the air, and lashed out, flinging itself into a bow. it really seemed demoniacal. gudrun saw gerald�s body tighten, saw a sharp blindness come into his eyes. �i know these beggars of old,� he said. the long, demon-like beast lashed out again, spread on the air as if it were flying, looking something like a dragon, then closing up again, inconceivably powerful and explosive. the man�s body, strung to its efforts, vibrated strongly. then a sudden sharp, white-edged wrath came up in him. swift as lightning he drew back and brought his free hand down like a hawk on the neck of the rabbit. simultaneously, there came the unearthly abhorrent scream of a rabbit in the fear of death. it made one immense writhe, tore his wrists and his sleeves in a final convulsion, all its belly flashed white in a whirlwind of paws, and then he had slung it round and had it under his arm, fast. it cowered and skulked. his face was gleaming with a smile. �you wouldn�t think there was all that force in a rabbit,� he said, looking at gudrun. and he saw her eyes black as night in her pallid face, she looked almost unearthly. the scream of the rabbit, after the violent tussle, seemed to have torn the veil of her consciousness. he looked at her, and the whitish, electric gleam in his face intensified. �i don�t really like him,� winifred was crooning. �i don�t care for him as i do for loozie. he�s hateful really.� a smile twisted gudrun�s face, as she recovered. she knew she was revealed. �don�t they make the most fearful noise when they scream?� she cried, the high note in her voice, like a seagull�s cry. �abominable,� he said. �he shouldn�t be so silly when he has to be taken out,� winifred was saying, putting out her hand and touching the rabbit tentatively, as it skulked under his arm, motionless as if it were dead. �he�s not dead, is he gerald?� she asked. �no, he ought to be,� he said. �yes, he ought!� cried the child, with a sudden flush of amusement. and she touched the rabbit with more confidence. �his heart is beating _so_ fast. isn�t he funny? he really is.� �where do you want him?� asked gerald. �in the little green court,� she said. gudrun looked at gerald with strange, darkened eyes, strained with underworld knowledge, almost supplicating, like those of a creature which is at his mercy, yet which is his ultimate victor. he did not know what to say to her. he felt the mutual hellish recognition. and he felt he ought to say something, to cover it. he had the power of lightning in his nerves, she seemed like a soft recipient of his magical, hideous white fire. he was unconfident, he had qualms of fear. �did he hurt you?� he asked. �no,� she said. �he�s an insensible beast,� he said, turning his face away. they came to the little court, which was shut in by old red walls in whose crevices wall-flowers were growing. the grass was soft and fine and old, a level floor carpeting the court, the sky was blue overhead. gerald tossed the rabbit down. it crouched still and would not move. gudrun watched it with faint horror. �why doesn�t it move?� she cried. �it�s skulking,� he said. she looked up at him, and a slight sinister smile contracted her white face. �isn�t it a _fool!_� she cried. �isn�t it a sickening _fool?_� the vindictive mockery in her voice made his brain quiver. glancing up at him, into his eyes, she revealed again the mocking, white-cruel recognition. there was a league between them, abhorrent to them both. they were implicated with each other in abhorrent mysteries. �how many scratches have you?� he asked, showing his hard forearm, white and hard and torn in red gashes. �how really vile!� she cried, flushing with a sinister vision. �mine is nothing.� she lifted her arm and showed a deep red score down the silken white flesh. �what a devil!� he exclaimed. but it was as if he had had knowledge of her in the long red rent of her forearm, so silken and soft. he did not want to touch her. he would have to make himself touch her, deliberately. the long, shallow red rip seemed torn across his own brain, tearing the surface of his ultimate consciousness, letting through the forever unconscious, unthinkable red ether of the beyond, the obscene beyond. �it doesn�t hurt you very much, does it?� he asked, solicitous. �not at all,� she cried. and suddenly the rabbit, which had been crouching as if it were a flower, so still and soft, suddenly burst into life. round and round the court it went, as if shot from a gun, round and round like a furry meteorite, in a tense hard circle that seemed to bind their brains. they all stood in amazement, smiling uncannily, as if the rabbit were obeying some unknown incantation. round and round it flew, on the grass under the old red walls like a storm. and then quite suddenly it settled down, hobbled among the grass, and sat considering, its nose twitching like a bit of fluff in the wind. after having considered for a few minutes, a soft bunch with a black, open eye, which perhaps was looking at them, perhaps was not, it hobbled calmly forward and began to nibble the grass with that mean motion of a rabbit�s quick eating. �it�s mad,� said gudrun. �it is most decidedly mad.� he laughed. �the question is,� he said, �what is madness? i don�t suppose it is rabbit-mad.� �don�t you think it is?� she asked. �no. that�s what it is to be a rabbit.� there was a queer, faint, obscene smile over his face. she looked at him and saw him, and knew that he was initiate as she was initiate. this thwarted her, and contravened her, for the moment. �god be praised we aren�t rabbits,� she said, in a high, shrill voice. the smile intensified a little, on his face. �not rabbits?� he said, looking at her fixedly. slowly her face relaxed into a smile of obscene recognition. �ah gerald,� she said, in a strong, slow, almost man-like way. ��all that, and more.� her eyes looked up at him with shocking nonchalance. he felt again as if she had torn him across the breast, dully, finally. he turned aside. �eat, eat my darling!� winifred was softly conjuring the rabbit, and creeping forward to touch it. it hobbled away from her. �let its mother stroke its fur then, darling, because it is so mysterious�� chapter xix. moony after his illness birkin went to the south of france for a time. he did not write, nobody heard anything of him. ursula, left alone, felt as if everything were lapsing out. there seemed to be no hope in the world. one was a tiny little rock with the tide of nothingness rising higher and higher she herself was real, and only herself�just like a rock in a wash of flood-water. the rest was all nothingness. she was hard and indifferent, isolated in herself. there was nothing for it now, but contemptuous, resistant indifference. all the world was lapsing into a grey wish-wash of nothingness, she had no contact and no connection anywhere. she despised and detested the whole show. from the bottom of her heart, from the bottom of her soul, she despised and detested people, adult people. she loved only children and animals: children she loved passionately, but coldly. they made her want to hug them, to protect them, to give them life. but this very love, based on pity and despair, was only a bondage and a pain to her. she loved best of all the animals, that were single and unsocial as she herself was. she loved the horses and cows in the field. each was single and to itself, magical. it was not referred away to some detestable social principle. it was incapable of soulfulness and tragedy, which she detested so profoundly. she could be very pleasant and flattering, almost subservient, to people she met. but no one was taken in. instinctively each felt her contemptuous mockery of the human being in himself, or herself. she had a profound grudge against the human being. that which the word �human� stood for was despicable and repugnant to her. mostly her heart was closed in this hidden, unconscious strain of contemptuous ridicule. she thought she loved, she thought she was full of love. this was her idea of herself. but the strange brightness of her presence, a marvellous radiance of intrinsic vitality, was a luminousness of supreme repudiation, nothing but repudiation. yet, at moments, she yielded and softened, she wanted pure love, only pure love. this other, this state of constant unfailing repudiation, was a strain, a suffering also. a terrible desire for pure love overcame her again. she went out one evening, numbed by this constant essential suffering. those who are timed for destruction must die now. the knowledge of this reached a finality, a finishing in her. and the finality released her. if fate would carry off in death or downfall all those who were timed to go, why need she trouble, why repudiate any further. she was free of it all, she could seek a new union elsewhere. ursula set off to willey green, towards the mill. she came to willey water. it was almost full again, after its period of emptiness. then she turned off through the woods. the night had fallen, it was dark. but she forgot to be afraid, she who had such great sources of fear. among the trees, far from any human beings, there was a sort of magic peace. the more one could find a pure loneliness, with no taint of people, the better one felt. she was in reality terrified, horrified in her apprehension of people. she started, noticing something on her right hand, between the tree trunks. it was like a great presence, watching her, dodging her. she started violently. it was only the moon, risen through the thin trees. but it seemed so mysterious, with its white and deathly smile. and there was no avoiding it. night or day, one could not escape the sinister face, triumphant and radiant like this moon, with a high smile. she hurried on, cowering from the white planet. she would just see the pond at the mill before she went home. not wanting to go through the yard, because of the dogs, she turned off along the hill-side to descend on the pond from above. the moon was transcendent over the bare, open space, she suffered from being exposed to it. there was a glimmer of nightly rabbits across the ground. the night was as clear as crystal, and very still. she could hear a distant coughing of a sheep. so she swerved down to the steep, tree-hidden bank above the pond, where the alders twisted their roots. she was glad to pass into the shade out of the moon. there she stood, at the top of the fallen-away bank, her hand on the rough trunk of a tree, looking at the water, that was perfect in its stillness, floating the moon upon it. but for some reason she disliked it. it did not give her anything. she listened for the hoarse rustle of the sluice. and she wished for something else out of the night, she wanted another night, not this moon-brilliant hardness. she could feel her soul crying out in her, lamenting desolately. she saw a shadow moving by the water. it would be birkin. he had come back then, unawares. she accepted it without remark, nothing mattered to her. she sat down among the roots of the alder tree, dim and veiled, hearing the sound of the sluice like dew distilling audibly into the night. the islands were dark and half revealed, the reeds were dark also, only some of them had a little frail fire of reflection. a fish leaped secretly, revealing the light in the pond. this fire of the chill night breaking constantly on to the pure darkness, repelled her. she wished it were perfectly dark, perfectly, and noiseless and without motion. birkin, small and dark also, his hair tinged with moonlight, wandered nearer. he was quite near, and yet he did not exist in her. he did not know she was there. supposing he did something he would not wish to be seen doing, thinking he was quite private? but there, what did it matter? what did the small privacies matter? how could it matter, what he did? how can there be any secrets, we are all the same organisms? how can there be any secrecy, when everything is known to all of us? he was touching unconsciously the dead husks of flowers as he passed by, and talking disconnectedly to himself. �you can�t go away,� he was saying. �there _is_ no away. you only withdraw upon yourself.� he threw a dead flower-husk on to the water. �an antiphony�they lie, and you sing back to them. there wouldn�t have to be any truth, if there weren�t any lies. then one needn�t assert anything�� he stood still, looking at the water, and throwing upon it the husks of the flowers. �cybele�curse her! the accursed syria dea! does one begrudge it her? what else is there�?� ursula wanted to laugh loudly and hysterically, hearing his isolated voice speaking out. it was so ridiculous. he stood staring at the water. then he stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw sharply at the pond. ursula was aware of the bright moon leaping and swaying, all distorted, in her eyes. it seemed to shoot out arms of fire like a cuttle-fish, like a luminous polyp, palpitating strongly before her. and his shadow on the border of the pond, was watching for a few moments, then he stooped and groped on the ground. then again there was a burst of sound, and a burst of brilliant light, the moon had exploded on the water, and was flying asunder in flakes of white and dangerous fire. rapidly, like white birds, the fires all broken rose across the pond, fleeing in clamorous confusion, battling with the flock of dark waves that were forcing their way in. the furthest waves of light, fleeing out, seemed to be clamouring against the shore for escape, the waves of darkness came in heavily, running under towards the centre. but at the centre, the heart of all, was still a vivid, incandescent quivering of a white moon not quite destroyed, a white body of fire writhing and striving and not even now broken open, not yet violated. it seemed to be drawing itself together with strange, violent pangs, in blind effort. it was getting stronger, it was re-asserting itself, the inviolable moon. and the rays were hastening in in thin lines of light, to return to the strengthened moon, that shook upon the water in triumphant reassumption. birkin stood and watched, motionless, till the pond was almost calm, the moon was almost serene. then, satisfied of so much, he looked for more stones. she felt his invisible tenacity. and in a moment again, the broken lights scattered in explosion over her face, dazzling her; and then, almost immediately, came the second shot. the moon leapt up white and burst through the air. darts of bright light shot asunder, darkness swept over the centre. there was no moon, only a battlefield of broken lights and shadows, running close together. shadows, dark and heavy, struck again and again across the place where the heart of the moon had been, obliterating it altogether. the white fragments pulsed up and down, and could not find where to go, apart and brilliant on the water like the petals of a rose that a wind has blown far and wide. yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding the path blindly, enviously. and again, all was still, as birkin and ursula watched. the waters were loud on the shore. he saw the moon regathering itself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home the fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return. and he was not satisfied. like a madness, he must go on. he got large stones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burning centre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollow noise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes tangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim or meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscope tossed at random. the hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise, and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. flakes of light appeared here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows, far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow on the island. birkin stood and listened and was satisfied. ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. she felt she had fallen to the ground and was spilled out, like water on the earth. motionless and spent she remained in the gloom. though even now she was aware, unseeing, that in the darkness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes of light, a cluster dancing secretly in a round, twining and coming steadily together. they were gathering a heart again, they were coming once more into being. gradually the fragments caught together re-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling back as in panic, but working their way home again persistently, making semblance of fleeing away when they had advanced, but always flickering nearer, a little closer to the mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger and brighter, as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a ragged rose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters again, re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its convulsion, to get over the disfigurement and the agitation, to be whole and composed, at peace. birkin lingered vaguely by the water. ursula was afraid that he would stone the moon again. she slipped from her seat and went down to him, saying: �you won�t throw stones at it any more, will you?� �how long have you been there?� �all the time. you won�t throw any more stones, will you?� �i wanted to see if i could make it be quite gone off the pond,� he said. �yes, it was horrible, really. why should you hate the moon? it hasn�t done you any harm, has it?� �was it hate?� he said. and they were silent for a few minutes. �when did you come back?� she said. �today.� �why did you never write?� �i could find nothing to say.� �why was there nothing to say?� �i don�t know. why are there no daffodils now?� �no.� again there was a space of silence. ursula looked at the moon. it had gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly. �was it good for you, to be alone?� she asked. �perhaps. not that i know much. but i got over a good deal. did you do anything important?� �no. i looked at england, and thought i�d done with it.� �why england?� he asked in surprise. �i don�t know, it came like that.� �it isn�t a question of nations,� he said. �france is far worse.� �yes, i know. i felt i�d done with it all.� they went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the shadow. and being silent, he remembered the beauty of her eyes, which were sometimes filled with light, like spring, suffused with wonderful promise. so he said to her, slowly, with difficulty: �there is a golden light in you, which i wish you would give me.� it was as if he had been thinking of this for some time. she was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. yet also she was pleased. �what kind of a light,� she asked. but he was shy, and did not say any more. so the moment passed for this time. and gradually a feeling of sorrow came over her. �my life is unfulfilled,� she said. �yes,� he answered briefly, not wanting to hear this. �and i feel as if nobody could ever really love me,� she said. but he did not answer. �you think, don�t you,� she said slowly, �that i only want physical things? it isn�t true. i want you to serve my spirit.� �i know you do. i know you don�t want physical things by themselves. but, i want you to give me�to give your spirit to me�that golden light which is you�which you don�t know�give it me�� after a moment�s silence she replied: �but how can i, you don�t love me! you only want your own ends. you don�t want to serve _me_, and yet you want me to serve you. it is so one-sided!� it was a great effort to him to maintain this conversation, and to press for the thing he wanted from her, the surrender of her spirit. �it is different,� he said. �the two kinds of service are so different. i serve you in another way�not through _yourself_�somewhere else. but i want us to be together without bothering about ourselves�to be really together because we _are_ together, as if it were a phenomenon, not a not a thing we have to maintain by our own effort.� �no,� she said, pondering. �you are just egocentric. you never have any enthusiasm, you never come out with any spark towards me. you want yourself, really, and your own affairs. and you want me just to be there, to serve you.� but this only made him shut off from her. �ah well,� he said, �words make no matter, any way. the thing _is_ between us, or it isn�t.� �you don�t even love me,� she cried. �i do,� he said angrily. �but i want�� his mind saw again the lovely golden light of spring transfused through her eyes, as through some wonderful window. and he wanted her to be with him there, in this world of proud indifference. but what was the good of telling her he wanted this company in proud indifference. what was the good of talking, any way? it must happen beyond the sound of words. it was merely ruinous to try to work her by conviction. this was a paradisal bird that could never be netted, it must fly by itself to the heart. �i always think i am going to be loved�and then i am let down. you _don�t_ love me, you know. you don�t want to serve me. you only want yourself.� a shiver of rage went over his veins, at this repeated: �you don�t want to serve me.� all the paradisal disappeared from him. �no,� he said, irritated, �i don�t want to serve you, because there is nothing there to serve. what you want me to serve, is nothing, mere nothing. it isn�t even you, it is your mere female quality. and i wouldn�t give a straw for your female ego�it�s a rag doll.� �ha!� she laughed in mockery. �that�s all you think of me, is it? and then you have the impudence to say you love me.� she rose in anger, to go home. you want the paradisal unknowing,� she said, turning round on him as he still sat half-visible in the shadow. �i know what that means, thank you. you want me to be your thing, never to criticise you or to have anything to say for myself. you want me to be a mere _thing_ for you! no thank you! _if_ you want that, there are plenty of women who will give it to you. there are plenty of women who will lie down for you to walk over them�_go_ to them then, if that�s what you want�go to them.� �no,� he said, outspoken with anger. �i want you to drop your assertive _will_, your frightened apprehensive self-insistence, that is what i want. i want you to trust yourself so implicitly, that you can let yourself go.� �let myself go!� she re-echoed in mockery. �i can let myself go, easily enough. it is you who can�t let yourself go, it is you who hang on to yourself as if it were your only treasure. _you�you_ are the sunday school teacher�_you_�you preacher.� the amount of truth that was in this made him stiff and unheeding of her. �i don�t mean let yourself go in the dionysic ecstatic way,� he said. �i know you can do that. but i hate ecstasy, dionysic or any other. it�s like going round in a squirrel cage. i want you not to care about yourself, just to be there and not to care about yourself, not to insist�be glad and sure and indifferent.� �who insists?� she mocked. �who is it that keeps on insisting? it isn�t _me!_� there was a weary, mocking bitterness in her voice. he was silent for some time. �i know,� he said. �while ever either of us insists to the other, we are all wrong. but there we are, the accord doesn�t come.� they sat in stillness under the shadow of the trees by the bank. the night was white around them, they were in the darkness, barely conscious. gradually, the stillness and peace came over them. she put her hand tentatively on his. their hands clasped softly and silently, in peace. �do you really love me?� she said. he laughed. �i call that your war-cry,� he replied, amused. �why!� she cried, amused and really wondering. �your insistence�your war-cry��a brangwen, a brangwen��an old battle-cry. yours is, �do you love me? yield knave, or die.�� �no,� she said, pleading, �not like that. not like that. but i must know that you love me, mustn�t i?� �well then, know it and have done with it.� �but do you?� �yes, i do. i love you, and i know it�s final. it is final, so why say any more about it.� she was silent for some moments, in delight and doubt. �are you sure?� she said, nestling happily near to him. �quite sure�so now have done�accept it and have done.� she was nestled quite close to him. �have done with what?� she murmured, happily. �with bothering,� he said. she clung nearer to him. he held her close, and kissed her softly, gently. it was such peace and heavenly freedom, just to fold her and kiss her gently, and not to have any thoughts or any desires or any will, just to be still with her, to be perfectly still and together, in a peace that was not sleep, but content in bliss. to be content in bliss, without desire or insistence anywhere, this was heaven: to be together in happy stillness. for a long time she nestled to him, and he kissed her softly, her hair, her face, her ears, gently, softly, like dew falling. but this warm breath on her ears disturbed her again, kindled the old destructive fires. she cleaved to him, and he could feel his blood changing like quicksilver. �but we�ll be still, shall we?� he said. �yes,� she said, as if submissively. and she continued to nestle against him. but in a little while she drew away and looked at him. �i must be going home,� she said. �must you�how sad,� he replied. she leaned forward and put up her mouth to be kissed. �are you really sad?� she murmured, smiling. �yes,� he said, �i wish we could stay as we were, always.� �always! do you?� she murmured, as he kissed her. and then, out of a full throat, she crooned �kiss me! kiss me!� and she cleaved close to him. he kissed her many times. but he too had his idea and his will. he wanted only gentle communion, no other, no passion now. so that soon she drew away, put on her hat and went home. the next day however, he felt wistful and yearning. he thought he had been wrong, perhaps. perhaps he had been wrong to go to her with an idea of what he wanted. was it really only an idea, or was it the interpretation of a profound yearning? if the latter, how was it he was always talking about sensual fulfilment? the two did not agree very well. suddenly he found himself face to face with a situation. it was as simple as this: fatally simple. on the one hand, he knew he did not want a further sensual experience�something deeper, darker, than ordinary life could give. he remembered the african fetishes he had seen at halliday�s so often. there came back to him one, a statuette about two feet high, a tall, slim, elegant figure from west africa, in dark wood, glossy and suave. it was a woman, with hair dressed high, like a melon-shaped dome. he remembered her vividly: she was one of his soul�s intimates. her body was long and elegant, her face was crushed tiny like a beetle�s, she had rows of round heavy collars, like a column of quoits, on her neck. he remembered her: her astonishing cultured elegance, her diminished, beetle face, the astounding long elegant body, on short, ugly legs, with such protuberant buttocks, so weighty and unexpected below her slim long loins. she knew what he himself did not know. she had thousands of years of purely sensual, purely unspiritual knowledge behind her. it must have been thousands of years since her race had died, mystically: that is, since the relation between the senses and the outspoken mind had broken, leaving the experience all in one sort, mystically sensual. thousands of years ago, that which was imminent in himself must have taken place in these africans: the goodness, the holiness, the desire for creation and productive happiness must have lapsed, leaving the single impulse for knowledge in one sort, mindless progressive knowledge through the senses, knowledge arrested and ending in the senses, mystic knowledge in disintegration and dissolution, knowledge such as the beetles have, which live purely within the world of corruption and cold dissolution. this was why her face looked like a beetle�s: this was why the egyptians worshipped the ball-rolling scarab: because of the principle of knowledge in dissolution and corruption. there is a long way we can travel, after the death-break: after that point when the soul in intense suffering breaks, breaks away from its organic hold like a leaf that falls. we fall from the connection with life and hope, we lapse from pure integral being, from creation and liberty, and we fall into the long, long african process of purely sensual understanding, knowledge in the mystery of dissolution. he realised now that this is a long process�thousands of years it takes, after the death of the creative spirit. he realised that there were great mysteries to be unsealed, sensual, mindless, dreadful mysteries, far beyond the phallic cult. how far, in their inverted culture, had these west africans gone beyond phallic knowledge? very, very far. birkin recalled again the female figure: the elongated, long, long body, the curious unexpected heavy buttocks, the long, imprisoned neck, the face with tiny features like a beetle�s. this was far beyond any phallic knowledge, sensual subtle realities far beyond the scope of phallic investigation. there remained this way, this awful african process, to be fulfilled. it would be done differently by the white races. the white races, having the arctic north behind them, the vast abstraction of ice and snow, would fulfil a mystery of ice-destructive knowledge, snow-abstract annihilation. whereas the west africans, controlled by the burning death-abstraction of the sahara, had been fulfilled in sun-destruction, the putrescent mystery of sun-rays. was this then all that remained? was there left now nothing but to break off from the happy creative being, was the time up? is our day of creative life finished? does there remain to us only the strange, awful afterwards of the knowledge in dissolution, the african knowledge, but different in us, who are blond and blue-eyed from the north? birkin thought of gerald. he was one of these strange white wonderful demons from the north, fulfilled in the destructive frost mystery. and was he fated to pass away in this knowledge, this one process of frost-knowledge, death by perfect cold? was he a messenger, an omen of the universal dissolution into whiteness and snow? birkin was frightened. he was tired too, when he had reached this length of speculation. suddenly his strange, strained attention gave way, he could not attend to these mysteries any more. there was another way, the way of freedom. there was the paradisal entry into pure, single being, the individual soul taking precedence over love and desire for union, stronger than any pangs of emotion, a lovely state of free proud singleness, which accepted the obligation of the permanent connection with others, and with the other, submits to the yoke and leash of love, but never forfeits its own proud individual singleness, even while it loves and yields. there was the other way, the remaining way. and he must run to follow it. he thought of ursula, how sensitive and delicate she really was, her skin so over-fine, as if one skin were wanting. she was really so marvellously gentle and sensitive. why did he ever forget it? he must go to her at once. he must ask her to marry him. they must marry at once, and so make a definite pledge, enter into a definite communion. he must set out at once and ask her, this moment. there was no moment to spare. he drifted on swiftly to beldover, half-unconscious of his own movement. he saw the town on the slope of the hill, not straggling, but as if walled-in with the straight, final streets of miners� dwellings, making a great square, and it looked like jerusalem to his fancy. the world was all strange and transcendent. rosalind opened the door to him. she started slightly, as a young girl will, and said: �oh, i�ll tell father.� with which she disappeared, leaving birkin in the hall, looking at some reproductions from picasso, lately introduced by gudrun. he was admiring the almost wizard, sensuous apprehension of the earth, when will brangwen appeared, rolling down his shirt sleeves. �well,� said brangwen, �i�ll get a coat.� and he too disappeared for a moment. then he returned, and opened the door of the drawing-room, saying: �you must excuse me, i was just doing a bit of work in the shed. come inside, will you.� birkin entered and sat down. he looked at the bright, reddish face of the other man, at the narrow brow and the very bright eyes, and at the rather sensual lips that unrolled wide and expansive under the black cropped moustache. how curious it was that this was a human being! what brangwen thought himself to be, how meaningless it was, confronted with the reality of him. birkin could see only a strange, inexplicable, almost patternless collection of passions and desires and suppressions and traditions and mechanical ideas, all cast unfused and disunited into this slender, bright-faced man of nearly fifty, who was as unresolved now as he was at twenty, and as uncreated. how could he be the parent of ursula, when he was not created himself. he was not a parent. a slip of living flesh had been transmitted through him, but the spirit had not come from him. the spirit had not come from any ancestor, it had come out of the unknown. a child is the child of the mystery, or it is uncreated. �the weather�s not so bad as it has been,� said brangwen, after waiting a moment. there was no connection between the two men. �no,� said birkin. �it was full moon two days ago.� �oh! you believe in the moon then, affecting the weather?� �no, i don�t think i do. i don�t really know enough about it.� �you know what they say? the moon and the weather may change together, but the change of the moon won�t change the weather.� �is that it?� said birkin. �i hadn�t heard it.� there was a pause. then birkin said: �am i hindering you? i called to see ursula, really. is she at home?� �i don�t believe she is. i believe she�s gone to the library. i�ll just see.� birkin could hear him enquiring in the dining-room. �no,� he said, coming back. �but she won�t be long. you wanted to speak to her?� birkin looked across at the other man with curious calm, clear eyes. �as a matter of fact,� he said, �i wanted to ask her to marry me.� a point of light came on the golden-brown eyes of the elder man. �o-oh?� he said, looking at birkin, then dropping his eyes before the calm, steadily watching look of the other: �was she expecting you then?� �no,� said birkin. �no? i didn�t know anything of this sort was on foot�� brangwen smiled awkwardly. birkin looked back at him, and said to himself: �i wonder why it should be �on foot�!� aloud he said: �no, it�s perhaps rather sudden.� at which, thinking of his relationship with ursula, he added��but i don�t know�� �quite sudden, is it? oh!� said brangwen, rather baffled and annoyed. �in one way,� replied birkin, ��not in another.� there was a moment�s pause, after which brangwen said: �well, she pleases herself�� �oh yes!� said birkin, calmly. a vibration came into brangwen�s strong voice, as he replied: �though i shouldn�t want her to be in too big a hurry, either. it�s no good looking round afterwards, when it�s too late.� �oh, it need never be too late,� said birkin, �as far as that goes.� �how do you mean?� asked the father. �if one repents being married, the marriage is at an end,� said birkin. �you think so?� �yes.� �ay, well that may be your way of looking at it.� birkin, in silence, thought to himself: �so it may. as for _your_ way of looking at it, william brangwen, it needs a little explaining.� �i suppose,� said brangwen, �you know what sort of people we are? what sort of a bringing-up she�s had?� ��she�,� thought birkin to himself, remembering his childhood�s corrections, �is the cat�s mother.� �do i know what sort of a bringing-up she�s had?� he said aloud. he seemed to annoy brangwen intentionally. �well,� he said, �she�s had everything that�s right for a girl to have�as far as possible, as far as we could give it her.� �i�m sure she has,� said birkin, which caused a perilous full-stop. the father was becoming exasperated. there was something naturally irritant to him in birkin�s mere presence. �and i don�t want to see her going back on it all,� he said, in a clanging voice. �why?� said birkin. this monosyllable exploded in brangwen�s brain like a shot. �why! _i_ don�t believe in your new-fangled ways and new-fangled ideas�in and out like a frog in a gallipot. it would never do for me.� birkin watched him with steady emotionless eyes. the radical antagnoism in the two men was rousing. �yes, but are my ways and ideas new-fangled?� asked birkin. �are they?� brangwen caught himself up. �i�m not speaking of you in particular,� he said. �what i mean is that my children have been brought up to think and do according to the religion i was brought up in myself, and i don�t want to see them going away from _that_.� there was a dangerous pause. �and beyond that�?� asked birkin. the father hesitated, he was in a nasty position. �eh? what do you mean? all i want to say is that my daughter��he tailed off into silence, overcome by futility. he knew that in some way he was off the track. �of course,� said birkin, �i don�t want to hurt anybody or influence anybody. ursula does exactly as she pleases.� there was a complete silence, because of the utter failure in mutual understanding. birkin felt bored. her father was not a coherent human being, he was a roomful of old echoes. the eyes of the younger man rested on the face of the elder. brangwen looked up, and saw birkin looking at him. his face was covered with inarticulate anger and humiliation and sense of inferiority in strength. �and as for beliefs, that�s one thing,� he said. �but i�d rather see my daughters dead tomorrow than that they should be at the beck and call of the first man that likes to come and whistle for them.� a queer painful light came into birkin�s eyes. �as to that,� he said, �i only know that it�s much more likely that it�s i who am at the beck and call of the woman, than she at mine.� again there was a pause. the father was somewhat bewildered. �i know,� he said, �she�ll please herself�she always has done. i�ve done my best for them, but that doesn�t matter. they�ve got themselves to please, and if they can help it they�ll please nobody _but_ themselves. but she�s a right to consider her mother, and me as well�� brangwen was thinking his own thoughts. �and i tell you this much, i would rather bury them, than see them getting into a lot of loose ways such as you see everywhere nowadays. i�d rather bury them�� �yes but, you see,� said birkin slowly, rather wearily, bored again by this new turn, �they won�t give either you or me the chance to bury them, because they�re not to be buried.� brangwen looked at him in a sudden flare of impotent anger. �now, mr birkin,� he said, �i don�t know what you�ve come here for, and i don�t know what you�re asking for. but my daughters are my daughters�and it�s my business to look after them while i can.� birkin�s brows knitted suddenly, his eyes concentrated in mockery. but he remained perfectly stiff and still. there was a pause. �i�ve nothing against your marrying ursula,� brangwen began at length. �it�s got nothing to do with me, she�ll do as she likes, me or no me.� birkin turned away, looking out of the window and letting go his consciousness. after all, what good was this? it was hopeless to keep it up. he would sit on till ursula came home, then speak to her, then go away. he would not accept trouble at the hands of her father. it was all unnecessary, and he himself need not have provoked it. the two men sat in complete silence, birkin almost unconscious of his own whereabouts. he had come to ask her to marry him�well then, he would wait on, and ask her. as for what she said, whether she accepted or not, he did not think about it. he would say what he had come to say, and that was all he was conscious of. he accepted the complete insignificance of this household, for him. but everything now was as if fated. he could see one thing ahead, and no more. from the rest, he was absolved entirely for the time being. it had to be left to fate and chance to resolve the issues. at length they heard the gate. they saw her coming up the steps with a bundle of books under her arm. her face was bright and abstracted as usual, with the abstraction, that look of being not quite _there_, not quite present to the facts of reality, that galled her father so much. she had a maddening faculty of assuming a light of her own, which excluded the reality, and within which she looked radiant as if in sunshine. they heard her go into the dining-room, and drop her armful of books on the table. �did you bring me that girl�s own?� cried rosalind. �yes, i brought it. but i forgot which one it was you wanted.� �you would,� cried rosalind angrily. �it�s right for a wonder.� then they heard her say something in a lowered tone. �where?� cried ursula. again her sister�s voice was muffled. brangwen opened the door, and called, in his strong, brazen voice: �ursula.� she appeared in a moment, wearing her hat. �oh how do you do!� she cried, seeing birkin, and all dazzled as if taken by surprise. he wondered at her, knowing she was aware of his presence. she had her queer, radiant, breathless manner, as if confused by the actual world, unreal to it, having a complete bright world of her self alone. �have i interrupted a conversation?� she asked. �no, only a complete silence,� said birkin. �oh,� said ursula, vaguely, absent. their presence was not vital to her, she was withheld, she did not take them in. it was a subtle insult that never failed to exasperate her father. �mr birkin came to speak to _you_, not to me,� said her father. �oh, did he!� she exclaimed vaguely, as if it did not concern her. then, recollecting herself, she turned to him rather radiantly, but still quite superficially, and said: �was it anything special?� �i hope so,� he said, ironically. ��to propose to you, according to all accounts,� said her father. �oh,� said ursula. �oh,� mocked her father, imitating her. �have you nothing more to say?� she winced as if violated. �did you really come to propose to me?� she asked of birkin, as if it were a joke. �yes,� he said. �i suppose i came to propose.� he seemed to fight shy of the last word. �did you?� she cried, with her vague radiance. he might have been saying anything whatsoever. she seemed pleased. �yes,� he answered. �i wanted to�i wanted you to agree to marry me.� she looked at him. his eyes were flickering with mixed lights, wanting something of her, yet not wanting it. she shrank a little, as if she were exposed to his eyes, and as if it were a pain to her. she darkened, her soul clouded over, she turned aside. she had been driven out of her own radiant, single world. and she dreaded contact, it was almost unnatural to her at these times. �yes,� she said vaguely, in a doubting, absent voice. birkin�s heart contracted swiftly, in a sudden fire of bitterness. it all meant nothing to her. he had been mistaken again. she was in some self-satisfied world of her own. he and his hopes were accidentals, violations to her. it drove her father to a pitch of mad exasperation. he had had to put up with this all his life, from her. �well, what do you say?� he cried. she winced. then she glanced down at her father, half-frightened, and she said: �i didn�t speak, did i?� as if she were afraid she might have committed herself. �no,� said her father, exasperated. �but you needn�t look like an idiot. you�ve got your wits, haven�t you?� she ebbed away in silent hostility. �i�ve got my wits, what does that mean?� she repeated, in a sullen voice of antagonism. �you heard what was asked you, didn�t you?� cried her father in anger. �of course i heard.� �well then, can�t you answer?� thundered her father. �why should i?� at the impertinence of this retort, he went stiff. but he said nothing. �no,� said birkin, to help out the occasion, �there�s no need to answer at once. you can say when you like.� her eyes flashed with a powerful light. �why should i say anything?� she cried. �you do this off your _own_ bat, it has nothing to do with me. why do you both want to bully me?� �bully you! bully you!� cried her father, in bitter, rancorous anger. �bully you! why, it�s a pity you can�t be bullied into some sense and decency. bully you! _you�ll_ see to that, you self-willed creature.� she stood suspended in the middle of the room, her face glimmering and dangerous. she was set in satisfied defiance. birkin looked up at her. he too was angry. �but none is bullying you,� he said, in a very soft dangerous voice also. �oh yes,� she cried. �you both want to force me into something.� �that is an illusion of yours,� he said ironically. �illusion!� cried her father. �a self-opinionated fool, that�s what she is.� birkin rose, saying: �however, we�ll leave it for the time being.� and without another word, he walked out of the house. �you fool! you fool!� her father cried to her, with extreme bitterness. she left the room, and went upstairs, singing to herself. but she was terribly fluttered, as after some dreadful fight. from her window, she could see birkin going up the road. he went in such a blithe drift of rage, that her mind wondered over him. he was ridiculous, but she was afraid of him. she was as if escaped from some danger. her father sat below, powerless in humiliation and chagrin. it was as if he were possessed with all the devils, after one of these unaccountable conflicts with ursula. he hated her as if his only reality were in hating her to the last degree. he had all hell in his heart. but he went away, to escape himself. he knew he must despair, yield, give in to despair, and have done. ursula�s face closed, she completed herself against them all. recoiling upon herself, she became hard and self-completed, like a jewel. she was bright and invulnerable, quite free and happy, perfectly liberated in her self-possession. her father had to learn not to see her blithe obliviousness, or it would have sent him mad. she was so radiant with all things, in her possession of perfect hostility. she would go on now for days like this, in this bright frank state of seemingly pure spontaneity, so essentially oblivious of the existence of anything but herself, but so ready and facile in her interest. ah it was a bitter thing for a man to be near her, and her father cursed his fatherhood. but he must learn not to see her, not to know. she was perfectly stable in resistance when she was in this state: so bright and radiant and attractive in her pure opposition, so very pure, and yet mistrusted by everybody, disliked on every hand. it was her voice, curiously clear and repellent, that gave her away. only gudrun was in accord with her. it was at these times that the intimacy between the two sisters was most complete, as if their intelligence were one. they felt a strong, bright bond of understanding between them, surpassing everything else. and during all these days of blind bright abstraction and intimacy of his two daughters, the father seemed to breathe an air of death, as if he were destroyed in his very being. he was irritable to madness, he could not rest, his daughters seemed to be destroying him. but he was inarticulate and helpless against them. he was forced to breathe the air of his own death. he cursed them in his soul, and only wanted, that they should be removed from him. they continued radiant in their easy female transcendancy, beautiful to look at. they exchanged confidences, they were intimate in their revelations to the last degree, giving each other at last every secret. they withheld nothing, they told everything, till they were over the border of evil. and they armed each other with knowledge, they extracted the subtlest flavours from the apple of knowledge. it was curious how their knowledge was complementary, that of each to that of the other. ursula saw her men as sons, pitied their yearning and admired their courage, and wondered over them as a mother wonders over her child, with a certain delight in their novelty. but to gudrun, they were the opposite camp. she feared them and despised them, and respected their activities even overmuch. �of course,� she said easily, �there is a quality of life in birkin which is quite remarkable. there is an extraordinary rich spring of life in him, really amazing, the way he can give himself to things. but there are so many things in life that he simply doesn�t know. either he is not aware of their existence at all, or he dismisses them as merely negligible�things which are vital to the other person. in a way, he is not clever enough, he is too intense in spots.� �yes,� cried ursula, �too much of a preacher. he is really a priest.� �exactly! he can�t hear what anybody else has to say�he simply cannot hear. his own voice is so loud.� �yes. he cries you down.� �he cries you down,� repeated gudrun. �and by mere force of violence. and of course it is hopeless. nobody is convinced by violence. it makes talking to him impossible�and living with him i should think would be more than impossible.� �you don�t think one could live with him� asked ursula. �i think it would be too wearing, too exhausting. one would be shouted down every time, and rushed into his way without any choice. he would want to control you entirely. he cannot allow that there is any other mind than his own. and then the real clumsiness of his mind is its lack of self-criticism. no, i think it would be perfectly intolerable.� �yes,� assented ursula vaguely. she only half agreed with gudrun. �the nuisance is,� she said, �that one would find almost any man intolerable after a fortnight.� �it�s perfectly dreadful,� said gudrun. �but birkin�he is too positive. he couldn�t bear it if you called your soul your own. of him that is strictly true.� �yes,� said ursula. �you must have _his_ soul.� �exactly! and what can you conceive more deadly?� this was all so true, that ursula felt jarred to the bottom of her soul with ugly distaste. she went on, with the discord jarring and jolting through her, in the most barren of misery. then there started a revulsion from gudrun. she finished life off so thoroughly, she made things so ugly and so final. as a matter of fact, even if it were as gudrun said, about birkin, other things were true as well. but gudrun would draw two lines under him and cross him out like an account that is settled. there he was, summed up, paid for, settled, done with. and it was such a lie. this finality of gudrun�s, this dispatching of people and things in a sentence, it was all such a lie. ursula began to revolt from her sister. one day as they were walking along the lane, they saw a robin sitting on the top twig of a bush, singing shrilly. the sisters stood to look at him. an ironical smile flickered on gudrun�s face. �doesn�t he feel important?� smiled gudrun. �doesn�t he!� exclaimed ursula, with a little ironical grimace. �isn�t he a little lloyd george of the air!� �isn�t he! little lloyd george of the air! that�s just what they are,� cried gudrun in delight. then for days, ursula saw the persistent, obtrusive birds as stout, short politicians lifting up their voices from the platform, little men who must make themselves heard at any cost. but even from this there came the revulsion. some yellowhammers suddenly shot along the road in front of her. and they looked to her so uncanny and inhuman, like flaring yellow barbs shooting through the air on some weird, living errand, that she said to herself: �after all, it is impudence to call them little lloyd georges. they are really unknown to us, they are the unknown forces. it is impudence to look at them as if they were the same as human beings. they are of another world. how stupid anthropomorphism is! gudrun is really impudent, insolent, making herself the measure of everything, making everything come down to human standards. rupert is quite right, human beings are boring, painting the universe with their own image. the universe is non-human, thank god.� it seemed to her irreverence, destructive of all true life, to make little lloyd georges of the birds. it was such a lie towards the robins, and such a defamation. yet she had done it herself. but under gudrun�s influence: so she exonerated herself. so she withdrew away from gudrun and from that which she stood for, she turned in spirit towards birkin again. she had not seen him since the fiasco of his proposal. she did not want to, because she did not want the question of her acceptance thrust upon her. she knew what birkin meant when he asked her to marry him; vaguely, without putting it into speech, she knew. she knew what kind of love, what kind of surrender he wanted. and she was not at all sure that this was the kind of love that she herself wanted. she was not at all sure that it was this mutual unison in separateness that she wanted. she wanted unspeakable intimacies. she wanted to have him, utterly, finally to have him as her own, oh, so unspeakably, in intimacy. to drink him down�ah, like a life-draught. she made great professions, to herself, of her willingness to warm his foot-soles between her breasts, after the fashion of the nauseous meredith poem. but only on condition that he, her lover, loved her absolutely, with complete self-abandon. and subtly enough, she knew he would never abandon himself _finally_ to her. he did not believe in final self-abandonment. he said it openly. it was his challenge. she was prepared to fight him for it. for she believed in an absolute surrender to love. she believed that love far surpassed the individual. he said the individual was _more_ than love, or than any relationship. for him, the bright, single soul accepted love as one of its conditions, a condition of its own equilibrium. she believed that love was _everything_. man must render himself up to her. he must be quaffed to the dregs by her. let him be _her man_ utterly, and she in return would be his humble slave�whether she wanted it or not. chapter xx. gladiatorial after the fiasco of the proposal, birkin had hurried blindly away from beldover, in a whirl of fury. he felt he had been a complete fool, that the whole scene had been a farce of the first water. but that did not trouble him at all. he was deeply, mockingly angry that ursula persisted always in this old cry: �why do you want to bully me?� and in her bright, insolent abstraction. he went straight to shortlands. there he found gerald standing with his back to the fire, in the library, as motionless as a man is, who is completely and emptily restless, utterly hollow. he had done all the work he wanted to do�and now there was nothing. he could go out in the car, he could run to town. but he did not want to go out in the car, he did not want to run to town, he did not want to call on the thirlbys. he was suspended motionless, in an agony of inertia, like a machine that is without power. this was very bitter to gerald, who had never known what boredom was, who had gone from activity to activity, never at a loss. now, gradually, everything seemed to be stopping in him. he did not want any more to do the things that offered. something dead within him just refused to respond to any suggestion. he cast over in his mind, what it would be possible to do, to save himself from this misery of nothingness, relieve the stress of this hollowness. and there were only three things left, that would rouse him, make him live. one was to drink or smoke hashish, the other was to be soothed by birkin, and the third was women. and there was no one for the moment to drink with. nor was there a woman. and he knew birkin was out. so there was nothing to do but to bear the stress of his own emptiness. when he saw birkin his face lit up in a sudden, wonderful smile. �by god, rupert,� he said, �i�d just come to the conclusion that nothing in the world mattered except somebody to take the edge off one�s being alone: the right somebody.� the smile in his eyes was very astonishing, as he looked at the other man. it was the pure gleam of relief. his face was pallid and even haggard. �the right woman, i suppose you mean,� said birkin spitefully. �of course, for choice. failing that, an amusing man.� he laughed as he said it. birkin sat down near the fire. �what were you doing?� he asked. �i? nothing. i�m in a bad way just now, everything�s on edge, and i can neither work nor play. i don�t know whether it�s a sign of old age, i�m sure.� �you mean you are bored?� �bored, i don�t know. i can�t apply myself. and i feel the devil is either very present inside me, or dead.� birkin glanced up and looked in his eyes. �you should try hitting something,� he said. gerald smiled. �perhaps,� he said. �so long as it was something worth hitting.� �quite!� said birkin, in his soft voice. there was a long pause during which each could feel the presence of the other. �one has to wait,� said birkin. �ah god! waiting! what are we waiting for?� �some old johnny says there are three cures for _ennui_, sleep, drink, and travel,� said birkin. �all cold eggs,� said gerald. �in sleep, you dream, in drink you curse, and in travel you yell at a porter. no, work and love are the two. when you�re not at work you should be in love.� �be it then,� said birkin. �give me the object,� said gerald. �the possibilities of love exhaust themselves.� �do they? and then what?� �then you die,� said gerald. �so you ought,� said birkin. �i don�t see it,� replied gerald. he took his hands out of his trousers pockets, and reached for a cigarette. he was tense and nervous. he lit the cigarette over a lamp, reaching forward and drawing steadily. he was dressed for dinner, as usual in the evening, although he was alone. �there�s a third one even to your two,� said birkin. �work, love, and fighting. you forget the fight.� �i suppose i do,� said gerald. �did you ever do any boxing�?� �no, i don�t think i did,� said birkin. �ay�� gerald lifted his head and blew the smoke slowly into the air. �why?� said birkin. �nothing. i thought we might have a round. it is perhaps true, that i want something to hit. it�s a suggestion.� �so you think you might as well hit me?� said birkin. �you? well! perhaps�! in a friendly kind of way, of course.� �quite!� said birkin, bitingly. gerald stood leaning back against the mantel-piece. he looked down at birkin, and his eyes flashed with a sort of terror like the eyes of a stallion, that are bloodshot and overwrought, turned glancing backwards in a stiff terror. �i fell that if i don�t watch myself, i shall find myself doing something silly,� he said. �why not do it?� said birkin coldly. gerald listened with quick impatience. he kept glancing down at birkin, as if looking for something from the other man. �i used to do some japanese wrestling,� said birkin. �a jap lived in the same house with me in heidelberg, and he taught me a little. but i was never much good at it.� �you did!� exclaimed gerald. �that�s one of the things i�ve never ever seen done. you mean jiu-jitsu, i suppose?� �yes. but i am no good at those things�they don�t interest me.� �they don�t? they do me. what�s the start?� �i�ll show you what i can, if you like,� said birkin. �you will?� a queer, smiling look tightened gerald�s face for a moment, as he said, �well, i�d like it very much.� �then we�ll try jiu-jitsu. only you can�t do much in a starched shirt.� �then let us strip, and do it properly. hold a minute�� he rang the bell, and waited for the butler. �bring a couple of sandwiches and a syphon,� he said to the man, �and then don�t trouble me any more tonight�or let anybody else.� the man went. gerald turned to birkin with his eyes lighted. �and you used to wrestle with a jap?� he said. �did you strip?� �sometimes.� �you did! what was he like then, as a wrestler?� �good, i believe. i am no judge. he was very quick and slippery and full of electric fire. it is a remarkable thing, what a curious sort of fluid force they seem to have in them, those people�not like a human grip�like a polyp�� gerald nodded. �i should imagine so,� he said, �to look at them. they repel me, rather.� �repel and attract, both. they are very repulsive when they are cold, and they look grey. but when they are hot and roused, there is a definite attraction�a curious kind of full electric fluid�like eels.� �well�yes�probably.� the man brought in the tray and set it down. �don�t come in any more,� said gerald. the door closed. �well then,� said gerald; �shall we strip and begin? will you have a drink first?� �no, i don�t want one.� �neither do i.� gerald fastened the door and pushed the furniture aside. the room was large, there was plenty of space, it was thickly carpeted. then he quickly threw off his clothes, and waited for birkin. the latter, white and thin, came over to him. birkin was more a presence than a visible object, gerald was aware of him completely, but not really visually. whereas gerald himself was concrete and noticeable, a piece of pure final substance. �now,� said birkin, �i will show you what i learned, and what i remember. you let me take you so�� and his hands closed on the naked body of the other man. in another moment, he had gerald swung over lightly and balanced against his knee, head downwards. relaxed, gerald sprang to his feet with eyes glittering. �that�s smart,� he said. �now try again.� so the two men began to struggle together. they were very dissimilar. birkin was tall and narrow, his bones were very thin and fine. gerald was much heavier and more plastic. his bones were strong and round, his limbs were rounded, all his contours were beautifully and fully moulded. he seemed to stand with a proper, rich weight on the face of the earth, whilst birkin seemed to have the centre of gravitation in his own middle. and gerald had a rich, frictional kind of strength, rather mechanical, but sudden and invincible, whereas birkin was abstract as to be almost intangible. he impinged invisibly upon the other man, scarcely seeming to touch him, like a garment, and then suddenly piercing in a tense fine grip that seemed to penetrate into the very quick of gerald�s being. they stopped, they discussed methods, they practised grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to each other�s rhythm, they got a kind of mutual physical understanding. and then again they had a real struggle. they seemed to drive their white flesh deeper and deeper against each other, as if they would break into a oneness. birkin had a great subtle energy, that would press upon the other man with an uncanny force, weigh him like a spell put upon him. then it would pass, and gerald would heave free, with white, heaving, dazzling movements. so the two men entwined and wrestled with each other, working nearer and nearer. both were white and clear, but gerald flushed smart red where he was touched, and birkin remained white and tense. he seemed to penetrate into gerald�s more solid, more diffuse bulk, to interfuse his body through the body of the other, as if to bring it subtly into subjection, always seizing with some rapid necromantic fore-knowledge every motion of the other flesh, converting and counteracting it, playing upon the limbs and trunk of gerald like some hard wind. it was as if birkin�s whole physical intelligence interpenetrated into gerald�s body, as if his fine, sublimated energy entered into the flesh of the fuller man, like some potency, casting a fine net, a prison, through the muscles into the very depths of gerald�s physical being. so they wrestled swiftly, rapturously, intent and mindless at last, two essential white figures working into a tighter closer oneness of struggle, with a strange, octopus-like knotting and flashing of limbs in the subdued light of the room; a tense white knot of flesh gripped in silence between the walls of old brown books. now and again came a sharp gasp of breath, or a sound like a sigh, then the rapid thudding of movement on the thickly-carpeted floor, then the strange sound of flesh escaping under flesh. often, in the white interlaced knot of violent living being that swayed silently, there was no head to be seen, only the swift, tight limbs, the solid white backs, the physical junction of two bodies clinched into oneness. then would appear the gleaming, ruffled head of gerald, as the struggle changed, then for a moment the dun-coloured, shadow-like head of the other man would lift up from the conflict, the eyes wide and dreadful and sightless. at length gerald lay back inert on the carpet, his breast rising in great slow panting, whilst birkin kneeled over him, almost unconscious. birkin was much more exhausted. he caught little, short breaths, he could scarcely breathe any more. the earth seemed to tilt and sway, and a complete darkness was coming over his mind. he did not know what happened. he slid forward quite unconscious, over gerald, and gerald did not notice. then he was half-conscious again, aware only of the strange tilting and sliding of the world. the world was sliding, everything was sliding off into the darkness. and he was sliding, endlessly, endlessly away. he came to consciousness again, hearing an immense knocking outside. what could be happening, what was it, the great hammer-stroke resounding through the house? he did not know. and then it came to him that it was his own heart beating. but that seemed impossible, the noise was outside. no, it was inside himself, it was his own heart. and the beating was painful, so strained, surcharged. he wondered if gerald heard it. he did not know whether he were standing or lying or falling. when he realised that he had fallen prostrate upon gerald�s body he wondered, he was surprised. but he sat up, steadying himself with his hand and waiting for his heart to become stiller and less painful. it hurt very much, and took away his consciousness. gerald however was still less conscious than birkin. they waited dimly, in a sort of not-being, for many uncounted, unknown minutes. �of course�� panted gerald, �i didn�t have to be rough�with you�i had to keep back�my force�� birkin heard the sound as if his own spirit stood behind him, outside him, and listened to it. his body was in a trance of exhaustion, his spirit heard thinly. his body could not answer. only he knew his heart was getting quieter. he was divided entirely between his spirit, which stood outside, and knew, and his body, that was a plunging, unconscious stroke of blood. �i could have thrown you�using violence�� panted gerald. �but you beat me right enough.� �yes,� said birkin, hardening his throat and producing the words in the tension there, �you�re much stronger than i�you could beat me�easily.� then he relaxed again to the terrible plunging of his heart and his blood. �it surprised me,� panted gerald, �what strength you�ve got. almost supernatural.� �for a moment,� said birkin. he still heard as if it were his own disembodied spirit hearing, standing at some distance behind him. it drew nearer however, his spirit. and the violent striking of blood in his chest was sinking quieter, allowing his mind to come back. he realised that he was leaning with all his weight on the soft body of the other man. it startled him, because he thought he had withdrawn. he recovered himself, and sat up. but he was still vague and unestablished. he put out his hand to steady himself. it touched the hand of gerald, that was lying out on the floor. and gerald�s hand closed warm and sudden over birkin�s, they remained exhausted and breathless, the one hand clasped closely over the other. it was birkin whose hand, in swift response, had closed in a strong, warm clasp over the hand of the other. gerald�s clasp had been sudden and momentaneous. the normal consciousness however was returning, ebbing back. birkin could breathe almost naturally again. gerald�s hand slowly withdrew, birkin slowly, dazedly rose to his feet and went towards the table. he poured out a whiskey and soda. gerald also came for a drink. �it was a real set-to, wasn�t it?� said birkin, looking at gerald with darkened eyes. �god, yes,� said gerald. he looked at the delicate body of the other man, and added: �it wasn�t too much for you, was it?� �no. one ought to wrestle and strive and be physically close. it makes one sane.� �you do think so?� �i do. don�t you?� �yes,� said gerald. there were long spaces of silence between their words. the wrestling had some deep meaning to them�an unfinished meaning. �we are mentally, spiritually intimate, therefore we should be more or less physically intimate too�it is more whole.� �certainly it is,� said gerald. then he laughed pleasantly, adding: �it�s rather wonderful to me.� he stretched out his arms handsomely. �yes,� said birkin. �i don�t know why one should have to justify oneself.� �no.� the two men began to dress. �i think also that you are beautiful,� said birkin to gerald, �and that is enjoyable too. one should enjoy what is given.� �you think i am beautiful�how do you mean, physically?� asked gerald, his eyes glistening. �yes. you have a northern kind of beauty, like light refracted from snow�and a beautiful, plastic form. yes, that is there to enjoy as well. we should enjoy everything.� gerald laughed in his throat, and said: �that�s certainly one way of looking at it. i can say this much, i feel better. it has certainly helped me. is this the bruderschaft you wanted?� �perhaps. do you think this pledges anything?� �i don�t know,� laughed gerald. �at any rate, one feels freer and more open now�and that is what we want.� �certainly,� said gerald. they drew to the fire, with the decanters and the glasses and the food. �i always eat a little before i go to bed,� said gerald. �i sleep better.� �i should not sleep so well,� said birkin. �no? there you are, we are not alike. i�ll put a dressing-gown on.� birkin remained alone, looking at the fire. his mind had reverted to ursula. she seemed to return again into his consciousness. gerald came down wearing a gown of broad-barred, thick black-and-green silk, brilliant and striking. �you are very fine,� said birkin, looking at the full robe. �it was a caftan in bokhara,� said gerald. �i like it.� �i like it too.� birkin was silent, thinking how scrupulous gerald was in his attire, how expensive too. he wore silk socks, and studs of fine workmanship, and silk underclothing, and silk braces. curious! this was another of the differences between them. birkin was careless and unimaginative about his own appearance. �of course you,� said gerald, as if he had been thinking; �there�s something curious about you. you�re curiously strong. one doesn�t expect it, it is rather surprising.� birkin laughed. he was looking at the handsome figure of the other man, blond and comely in the rich robe, and he was half thinking of the difference between it and himself�so different; as far, perhaps, apart as man from woman, yet in another direction. but really it was ursula, it was the woman who was gaining ascendance over birkin�s being, at this moment. gerald was becoming dim again, lapsing out of him. �do you know,� he said suddenly, �i went and proposed to ursula brangwen tonight, that she should marry me.� he saw the blank shining wonder come over gerald�s face. �you did?� �yes. almost formally�speaking first to her father, as it should be, in the world�though that was accident�or mischief.� gerald only stared in wonder, as if he did not grasp. �you don�t mean to say that you seriously went and asked her father to let you marry her?� �yes,� said birkin, �i did.� �what, had you spoken to her before about it, then?� �no, not a word. i suddenly thought i would go there and ask her�and her father happened to come instead of her�so i asked him first.� �if you could have her?� concluded gerald. �ye-es, that.� �and you didn�t speak to her?� �yes. she came in afterwards. so it was put to her as well.� �it was! and what did she say then? you�re an engaged man?� �no,�she only said she didn�t want to be bullied into answering.� �she what?� �said she didn�t want to be bullied into answering.� ��said she didn�t want to be bullied into answering!� why, what did she mean by that?� birkin raised his shoulders. �can�t say,� he answered. �didn�t want to be bothered just then, i suppose.� �but is this really so? and what did you do then?� �i walked out of the house and came here.� �you came straight here?� �yes.� gerald stared in amazement and amusement. he could not take it in. �but is this really true, as you say it now?� �word for word.� �it is?� he leaned back in his chair, filled with delight and amusement. �well, that�s good,� he said. �and so you came here to wrestle with your good angel, did you?� �did i?� said birkin. �well, it looks like it. isn�t that what you did?� now birkin could not follow gerald�s meaning. �and what�s going to happen?� said gerald. �you�re going to keep open the proposition, so to speak?� �i suppose so. i vowed to myself i would see them all to the devil. but i suppose i shall ask her again, in a little while.� gerald watched him steadily. �so you�re fond of her then?� he asked. �i think�i love her,� said birkin, his face going very still and fixed. gerald glistened for a moment with pleasure, as if it were something done specially to please him. then his face assumed a fitting gravity, and he nodded his head slowly. �you know,� he said, �i always believed in love�true love. but where does one find it nowadays?� �i don�t know,� said birkin. �very rarely,� said gerald. then, after a pause, �i�ve never felt it myself�not what i should call love. i�ve gone after women�and been keen enough over some of them. but i�ve never felt _love_. i don�t believe i�ve ever felt as much _love_ for a woman, as i have for you�not _love_. you understand what i mean?� �yes. i�m sure you�ve never loved a woman.� �you feel that, do you? and do you think i ever shall? you understand what i mean?� he put his hand to his breast, closing his fist there, as if he would draw something out. �i mean that�that i can�t express what it is, but i know it.� �what is it, then?� asked birkin. �you see, i can�t put it into words. i mean, at any rate, something abiding, something that can�t change�� his eyes were bright and puzzled. �now do you think i shall ever feel that for a woman?� he said, anxiously. birkin looked at him, and shook his head. �i don�t know,� he said. �i could not say.� gerald had been on the _qui vive_, as awaiting his fate. now he drew back in his chair. �no,� he said, �and neither do i, and neither do i.� �we are different, you and i,� said birkin. �i can�t tell your life.� �no,� said gerald, �no more can i. but i tell you�i begin to doubt it!� �that you will ever love a woman?� �well�yes�what you would truly call love�� �you doubt it?� �well�i begin to.� there was a long pause. �life has all kinds of things,� said birkin. �there isn�t only one road.� �yes, i believe that too. i believe it. and mind you, i don�t care how it is with me�i don�t care how it is�so long as i don�t feel�� he paused, and a blank, barren look passed over his face, to express his feeling��so long as i feel i�ve _lived_, somehow�and i don�t care how it is�but i want to feel that�� �fulfilled,� said birkin. �we-ell, perhaps it is fulfilled; i don�t use the same words as you.� �it is the same.� chapter xxi. threshold gudrun was away in london, having a little show of her work, with a friend, and looking round, preparing for flight from beldover. come what might she would be on the wing in a very short time. she received a letter from winifred crich, ornamented with drawings. �father also has been to london, to be examined by the doctors. it made him very tired. they say he must rest a very great deal, so he is mostly in bed. he brought me a lovely tropical parrot in faience, of dresden ware, also a man ploughing, and two mice climbing up a stalk, also in faience. the mice were copenhagen ware. they are the best, but mice don�t shine so much, otherwise they are very good, their tails are slim and long. they all shine nearly like glass. of course it is the glaze, but i don�t like it. gerald likes the man ploughing the best, his trousers are torn, he is ploughing with an ox, being i suppose a german peasant. it is all grey and white, white shirt and grey trousers, but very shiny and clean. mr birkin likes the girl best, under the hawthorn blossom, with a lamb, and with daffodils painted on her skirts, in the drawing room. but that is silly, because the lamb is not a real lamb, and she is silly too. �dear miss brangwen, are you coming back soon, you are very much missed here. i enclose a drawing of father sitting up in bed. he says he hopes you are not going to forsake us. oh dear miss brangwen, i am sure you won�t. do come back and draw the ferrets, they are the most lovely noble darlings in the world. we might carve them in holly-wood, playing against a background of green leaves. oh do let us, for they are most beautiful. �father says we might have a studio. gerald says we could easily have a beautiful one over the stables, it would only need windows to be put in the slant of the roof, which is a simple matter. then you could stay here all day and work, and we could live in the studio, like two real artists, like the man in the picture in the hall, with the frying-pan and the walls all covered with drawings. i long to be free, to live the free life of an artist. even gerald told father that only an artist is free, because he lives in a creative world of his own�� gudrun caught the drift of the family intentions, in this letter. gerald wanted her to be attached to the household at shortlands, he was using winifred as his stalking-horse. the father thought only of his child, he saw a rock of salvation in gudrun. and gudrun admired him for his perspicacity. the child, moreover, was really exceptional. gudrun was quite content. she was quite willing, given a studio, to spend her days at shortlands. she disliked the grammar school already thoroughly, she wanted to be free. if a studio were provided, she would be free to go on with her work, she would await the turn of events with complete serenity. and she was really interested in winifred, she would be quite glad to understand the girl. so there was quite a little festivity on winifred�s account, the day gudrun returned to shortlands. �you should make a bunch of flowers to give to miss brangwen when she arrives,� gerald said smiling to his sister. �oh no,� cried winifred, �it�s silly.� �not at all. it is a very charming and ordinary attention.� �oh, it is silly,� protested winifred, with all the extreme _mauvaise honte_ of her years. nevertheless, the idea appealed to her. she wanted very much to carry it out. she flitted round the green-houses and the conservatory looking wistfully at the flowers on their stems. and the more she looked, the more she _longed_ to have a bunch of the blossoms she saw, the more fascinated she became with her little vision of ceremony, and the more consumedly shy and self-conscious she grew, till she was almost beside herself. she could not get the idea out of her mind. it was as if some haunting challenge prompted her, and she had not enough courage to take it up. so again she drifted into the green-houses, looking at the lovely roses in their pots, and at the virginal cyclamens, and at the mystic white clusters of a creeper. the beauty, oh the beauty of them, and oh the paradisal bliss, if she should have a perfect bouquet and could give it to gudrun the next day. her passion and her complete indecision almost made her ill. at last she slid to her father�s side. �daddie�� she said. �what, my precious?� but she hung back, the tears almost coming to her eyes, in her sensitive confusion. her father looked at her, and his heart ran hot with tenderness, an anguish of poignant love. �what do you want to say to me, my love?� �daddie�!� her eyes smiled laconically��isn�t it silly if i give miss brangwen some flowers when she comes?� the sick man looked at the bright, knowing eyes of his child, and his heart burned with love. �no, darling, that�s not silly. it�s what they do to queens.� this was not very reassuring to winifred. she half suspected that queens in themselves were a silliness. yet she so wanted her little romantic occasion. �shall i then?� she asked. �give miss brangwen some flowers? do, birdie. tell wilson i say you are to have what you want.� the child smiled a small, subtle, unconscious smile to herself, in anticipation of her way. �but i won�t get them till tomorrow,� she said. �not till tomorrow, birdie. give me a kiss then�� winifred silently kissed the sick man, and drifted out of the room. she again went the round of the green-houses and the conservatory, informing the gardener, in her high, peremptory, simple fashion, of what she wanted, telling him all the blooms she had selected. �what do you want these for?� wilson asked. �i want them,� she said. she wished servants did not ask questions. �ay, you�ve said as much. but what do you want them for, for decoration, or to send away, or what?� �i want them for a presentation bouquet.� �a presentation bouquet! who�s coming then?�the duchess of portland?� �no.� �oh, not her? well you�ll have a rare poppy-show if you put all the things you�ve mentioned into your bouquet.� �yes, i want a rare poppy-show.� �you do! then there�s no more to be said.� the next day winifred, in a dress of silvery velvet, and holding a gaudy bunch of flowers in her hand, waited with keen impatience in the schoolroom, looking down the drive for gudrun�s arrival. it was a wet morning. under her nose was the strange fragrance of hot-house flowers, the bunch was like a little fire to her, she seemed to have a strange new fire in her heart. this slight sense of romance stirred her like an intoxicant. at last she saw gudrun coming, and she ran downstairs to warn her father and gerald. they, laughing at her anxiety and gravity, came with her into the hall. the man-servant came hastening to the door, and there he was, relieving gudrun of her umbrella, and then of her raincoat. the welcoming party hung back till their visitor entered the hall. gudrun was flushed with the rain, her hair was blown in loose little curls, she was like a flower just opened in the rain, the heart of the blossom just newly visible, seeming to emit a warmth of retained sunshine. gerald winced in spirit, seeing her so beautiful and unknown. she was wearing a soft blue dress, and her stockings were of dark red. winifred advanced with odd, stately formality. �we are so glad you�ve come back,� she said. �these are your flowers.� she presented the bouquet. �mine!� cried gudrun. she was suspended for a moment, then a vivid flush went over her, she was as if blinded for a moment with a flame of pleasure. then her eyes, strange and flaming, lifted and looked at the father, and at gerald. and again gerald shrank in spirit, as if it would be more than he could bear, as her hot, exposed eyes rested on him. there was something so revealed, she was revealed beyond bearing, to his eyes. he turned his face aside. and he felt he would not be able to avert her. and he writhed under the imprisonment. gudrun put her face into the flowers. �but how beautiful they are!� she said, in a muffled voice. then, with a strange, suddenly revealed passion, she stooped and kissed winifred. mr crich went forward with his hand held out to her. �i was afraid you were going to run away from us,� he said, playfully. gudrun looked up at him with a luminous, roguish, unknown face. �really!� she replied. �no, i didn�t want to stay in london.� her voice seemed to imply that she was glad to get back to shortlands, her tone was warm and subtly caressing. �that is a good thing,� smiled the father. �you see you are very welcome here among us.� gudrun only looked into his face with dark-blue, warm, shy eyes. she was unconsciously carried away by her own power. �and you look as if you came home in every possible triumph,� mr crich continued, holding her hand. �no,� she said, glowing strangely. �i haven�t had any triumph till i came here.� �ah, come, come! we�re not going to hear any of those tales. haven�t we read notices in the newspaper, gerald?� �you came off pretty well,� said gerald to her, shaking hands. �did you sell anything?� �no,� she said, �not much.� �just as well,� he said. she wondered what he meant. but she was all aglow with her reception, carried away by this little flattering ceremonial on her behalf. �winifred,� said the father, �have you a pair of shoes for miss brangwen? you had better change at once�� gudrun went out with her bouquet in her hand. �quite a remarkable young woman,� said the father to gerald, when she had gone. �yes,� replied gerald briefly, as if he did not like the observation. mr crich liked gudrun to sit with him for half an hour. usually he was ashy and wretched, with all the life gnawed out of him. but as soon as he rallied, he liked to make believe that he was just as before, quite well and in the midst of life�not of the outer world, but in the midst of a strong essential life. and to this belief, gudrun contributed perfectly. with her, he could get by stimulation those precious half-hours of strength and exaltation and pure freedom, when he seemed to live more than he had ever lived. she came to him as he lay propped up in the library. his face was like yellow wax, his eyes darkened, as it were sightless. his black beard, now streaked with grey, seemed to spring out of the waxy flesh of a corpse. yet the atmosphere about him was energetic and playful. gudrun subscribed to this, perfectly. to her fancy, he was just an ordinary man. only his rather terrible appearance was photographed upon her soul, away beneath her consciousness. she knew that, in spite of his playfulness, his eyes could not change from their darkened vacancy, they were the eyes of a man who is dead. �ah, this is miss brangwen,� he said, suddenly rousing as she entered, announced by the man-servant. �thomas, put miss brangwen a chair here�that�s right.� he looked at her soft, fresh face with pleasure. it gave him the illusion of life. �now, you will have a glass of sherry and a little piece of cake. thomas�� �no thank you,� said gudrun. and as soon as she had said it, her heart sank horribly. the sick man seemed to fall into a gap of death, at her contradiction. she ought to play up to him, not to contravene him. in an instant she was smiling her rather roguish smile. �i don�t like sherry very much,� she said. �but i like almost anything else.� the sick man caught at this straw instantly. �not sherry! no! something else! what then? what is there, thomas?� �port wine�curacçao�� �i would love some curaçao�� said gudrun, looking at the sick man confidingly. �you would. well then thomas, curaçao�and a little cake, or a biscuit?� �a biscuit,� said gudrun. she did not want anything, but she was wise. �yes.� he waited till she was settled with her little glass and her biscuit. then he was satisfied. �you have heard the plan,� he said with some excitement, �for a studio for winifred, over the stables?� �no!� exclaimed gudrun, in mock wonder. �oh!�i thought winnie wrote it to you, in her letter!� �oh�yes�of course. but i thought perhaps it was only her own little idea�� gudrun smiled subtly, indulgently. the sick man smiled also, elated. �oh no. it is a real project. there is a good room under the roof of the stables�with sloping rafters. we had thought of converting it into a studio.� �how _very_ nice that would be!� cried gudrun, with excited warmth. the thought of the rafters stirred her. �you think it would? well, it can be done.� �but how perfectly splendid for winifred! of course, it is just what is needed, if she is to work at all seriously. one must have one�s workshop, otherwise one never ceases to be an amateur.� �is that so? yes. of course, i should like you to share it with winifred.� �thank you _so_ much.� gudrun knew all these things already, but she must look shy and very grateful, as if overcome. �of course, what i should like best, would be if you could give up your work at the grammar school, and just avail yourself of the studio, and work there�well, as much or as little as you liked�� he looked at gudrun with dark, vacant eyes. she looked back at him as if full of gratitude. these phrases of a dying man were so complete and natural, coming like echoes through his dead mouth. �and as to your earnings�you don�t mind taking from me what you have taken from the education committee, do you? i don�t want you to be a loser.� �oh,� said gudrun, �if i can have the studio and work there, i can earn money enough, really i can.� �well,� he said, pleased to be the benefactor, �we can see about all that. you wouldn�t mind spending your days here?� �if there were a studio to work in,� said gudrun, �i could ask for nothing better.� �is that so?� he was really very pleased. but already he was getting tired. she could see the grey, awful semi-consciousness of mere pain and dissolution coming over him again, the torture coming into the vacancy of his darkened eyes. it was not over yet, this process of death. she rose softly saying: �perhaps you will sleep. i must look for winifred.� she went out, telling the nurse that she had left him. day by day the tissue of the sick man was further and further reduced, nearer and nearer the process came, towards the last knot which held the human being in its unity. but this knot was hard and unrelaxed, the will of the dying man never gave way. he might be dead in nine-tenths, yet the remaining tenth remained unchanged, till it too was torn apart. with his will he held the unit of himself firm, but the circle of his power was ever and ever reduced, it would be reduced to a point at last, then swept away. to adhere to life, he must adhere to human relationships, and he caught at every straw. winifred, the butler, the nurse, gudrun, these were the people who meant all to him, in these last resources. gerald, in his father�s presence, stiffened with repulsion. it was so, to a less degree, with all the other children except winifred. they could not see anything but the death, when they looked at their father. it was as if some subterranean dislike overcame them. they could not see the familiar face, hear the familiar voice. they were overwhelmed by the antipathy of visible and audible death. gerald could not breathe in his father�s presence. he must get out at once. and so, in the same way, the father could not bear the presence of his son. it sent a final irritation through the soul of the dying man. the studio was made ready, gudrun and winifred moved in. they enjoyed so much the ordering and the appointing of it. and now they need hardly be in the house at all. they had their meals in the studio, they lived there safely. for the house was becoming dreadful. there were two nurses in white, flitting silently about, like heralds of death. the father was confined to his bed, there was a come and go of _sotto voce_ sisters and brothers and children. winifred was her father�s constant visitor. every morning, after breakfast, she went into his room when he was washed and propped up in bed, to spend half an hour with him. �are you better, daddie?� she asked him invariably. and invariably he answered: �yes, i think i�m a little better, pet.� she held his hand in both her own, lovingly and protectively. and this was very dear to him. she ran in again as a rule at lunch time, to tell him the course of events, and every evening, when the curtains were drawn, and his room was cosy, she spent a long time with him. gudrun was gone home, winifred was alone in the house: she liked best to be with her father. they talked and prattled at random, he always as if he were well, just the same as when he was going about. so that winifred, with a child�s subtle instinct for avoiding the painful things, behaved as if nothing serious was the matter. instinctively, she withheld her attention, and was happy. yet in her remoter soul, she knew as well as the adults knew: perhaps better. her father was quite well in his make-belief with her. but when she went away, he relapsed under the misery of his dissolution. but still there were these bright moments, though as his strength waned, his faculty for attention grew weaker, and the nurse had to send winifred away, to save him from exhaustion. he never admitted that he was going to die. he knew it was so, he knew it was the end. yet even to himself he did not admit it. he hated the fact, mortally. his will was rigid. he could not bear being overcome by death. for him, there was no death. and yet, at times, he felt a great need to cry out and to wail and complain. he would have liked to cry aloud to gerald, so that his son should be horrified out of his composure. gerald was instinctively aware of this, and he recoiled, to avoid any such thing. this uncleanness of death repelled him too much. one should die quickly, like the romans, one should be master of one�s fate in dying as in living. he was convulsed in the clasp of this death of his father�s, as in the coils of the great serpent of laocoön. the great serpent had got the father, and the son was dragged into the embrace of horrifying death along with him. he resisted always. and in some strange way, he was a tower of strength to his father. the last time the dying man asked to see gudrun he was grey with near death. yet he must see someone, he must, in the intervals of consciousness, catch into connection with the living world, lest he should have to accept his own situation. fortunately he was most of his time dazed and half gone. and he spent many hours dimly thinking of the past, as it were, dimly re-living his old experiences. but there were times even to the end when he was capable of realising what was happening to him in the present, the death that was on him. and these were the times when he called in outside help, no matter whose. for to realise this death that he was dying was a death beyond death, never to be borne. it was an admission never to be made. gudrun was shocked by his appearance, and by the darkened, almost disintegrated eyes, that still were unconquered and firm. �well,� he said in his weakened voice, �and how are you and winifred getting on?� �oh, very well indeed,� replied gudrun. there were slight dead gaps in the conversation, as if the ideas called up were only elusive straws floating on the dark chaos of the sick man�s dying. �the studio answers all right?� he said. �splendid. it couldn�t be more beautiful and perfect,� said gudrun. she waited for what he would say next. �and you think winifred has the makings of a sculptor?� it was strange how hollow the words were, meaningless. �i�m sure she has. she will do good things one day.� �ah! then her life won�t be altogether wasted, you think?� gudrun was rather surprised. �sure it won�t!� she exclaimed softly. �that�s right.� again gudrun waited for what he would say. �you find life pleasant, it is good to live, isn�t it?� he asked, with a pitiful faint smile that was almost too much for gudrun. �yes,� she smiled�she would lie at random��i get a pretty good time i believe.� �that�s right. a happy nature is a great asset.� again gudrun smiled, though her soul was dry with repulsion. did one have to die like this�having the life extracted forcibly from one, whilst one smiled and made conversation to the end? was there no other way? must one go through all the horror of this victory over death, the triumph of the integral will, that would not be broken till it disappeared utterly? one must, it was the only way. she admired the self-possession and the control of the dying man exceedingly. but she loathed the death itself. she was glad the everyday world held good, and she need not recognise anything beyond. �you are quite all right here?�nothing we can do for you?�nothing you find wrong in your position?� �except that you are too good to me,� said gudrun. �ah, well, the fault of that lies with yourself,� he said, and he felt a little exultation, that he had made this speech. he was still so strong and living! but the nausea of death began to creep back on him, in reaction. gudrun went away, back to winifred. mademoiselle had left, gudrun stayed a good deal at shortlands, and a tutor came in to carry on winifred�s education. but he did not live in the house, he was connected with the grammar school. one day, gudrun was to drive with winifred and gerald and birkin to town, in the car. it was a dark, showery day. winifred and gudrun were ready and waiting at the door. winifred was very quiet, but gudrun had not noticed. suddenly the child asked, in a voice of unconcern: �do you think my father�s going to die, miss brangwen?� gudrun started. �i don�t know,� she replied. �don�t you truly?� �nobody knows for certain. he _may_ die, of course.� the child pondered a few moments, then she asked: �but do you _think_ he will die?� it was put almost like a question in geography or science, insistent, as if she would force an admission from the adult. the watchful, slightly triumphant child was almost diabolical. �do i think he will die?� repeated gudrun. �yes, i do.� but winifred�s large eyes were fixed on her, and the girl did not move. �he is very ill,� said gudrun. a small smile came over winifred�s face, subtle and sceptical. �_i_ don�t believe he will,� the child asserted, mockingly, and she moved away into the drive. gudrun watched the isolated figure, and her heart stood still. winifred was playing with a little rivulet of water, absorbedly as if nothing had been said. �i�ve made a proper dam,� she said, out of the moist distance. gerald came to the door from out of the hall behind. �it is just as well she doesn�t choose to believe it,� he said. gudrun looked at him. their eyes met; and they exchanged a sardonic understanding. �just as well,� said gudrun. he looked at her again, and a fire flickered up in his eyes. �best to dance while rome burns, since it must burn, don�t you think?� he said. she was rather taken aback. but, gathering herself together, she replied: �oh�better dance than wail, certainly.� �so i think.� and they both felt the subterranean desire to let go, to fling away everything, and lapse into a sheer unrestraint, brutal and licentious. a strange black passion surged up pure in gudrun. she felt strong. she felt her hands so strong, as if she could tear the world asunder with them. she remembered the abandonments of roman licence, and her heart grew hot. she knew she wanted this herself also�or something, something equivalent. ah, if that which was unknown and suppressed in her were once let loose, what an orgiastic and satisfying event it would be. and she wanted it, she trembled slightly from the proximity of the man, who stood just behind her, suggestive of the same black licentiousness that rose in herself. she wanted it with him, this unacknowledged frenzy. for a moment the clear perception of this preoccupied her, distinct and perfect in its final reality. then she shut it off completely, saying: �we might as well go down to the lodge after winifred�we can get in the car there.� �so we can,� he answered, going with her. they found winifred at the lodge admiring the litter of purebred white puppies. the girl looked up, and there was a rather ugly, unseeing cast in her eyes as she turned to gerald and gudrun. she did not want to see them. �look!� she cried. �three new puppies! marshall says this one seems perfect. isn�t it a sweetling? but it isn�t so nice as its mother.� she turned to caress the fine white bull-terrier bitch that stood uneasily near her. �my dearest lady crich,� she said, �you are beautiful as an angel on earth. angel�angel�don�t you think she�s good enough and beautiful enough to go to heaven, gudrun? they will be in heaven, won�t they�and _especially_ my darling lady crich! mrs marshall, i say!� �yes, miss winifred?� said the woman, appearing at the door. �oh do call this one lady winifred, if she turns out perfect, will you? do tell marshall to call it lady winifred.� �i�ll tell him�but i�m afraid that�s a gentleman puppy, miss winifred.� �oh _no!_� there was the sound of a car. �there�s rupert!� cried the child, and she ran to the gate. birkin, driving his car, pulled up outside the lodge gate. �we�re ready!� cried winifred. �i want to sit in front with you, rupert. may i?� �i�m afraid you�ll fidget about and fall out,� he said. �no i won�t. i do want to sit in front next to you. it makes my feet so lovely and warm, from the engines.� birkin helped her up, amused at sending gerald to sit by gudrun in the body of the car. �have you any news, rupert?� gerald called, as they rushed along the lanes. �news?� exclaimed birkin. �yes,� gerald looked at gudrun, who sat by his side, and he said, his eyes narrowly laughing, �i want to know whether i ought to congratulate him, but i can�t get anything definite out of him.� gudrun flushed deeply. �congratulate him on what?� she asked. �there was some mention of an engagement�at least, he said something to me about it.� gudrun flushed darkly. �you mean with ursula?� she said, in challenge. �yes. that is so, isn�t it?� �i don�t think there�s any engagement,� said gudrun, coldly. �that so? still no developments, rupert?� he called. �where? matrimonial? no.� �how�s that?� called gudrun. birkin glanced quickly round. there was irritation in his eyes also. �why?� he replied. �what do you think of it, gudrun?� �oh,� she cried, determined to fling her stone also into the pool, since they had begun, �i don�t think she wants an engagement. naturally, she�s a bird that prefers the bush.� gudrun�s voice was clear and gong-like. it reminded rupert of her father�s, so strong and vibrant. �and i,� said birkin, his face playful but yet determined, �i want a binding contract, and am not keen on love, particularly free love.� they were both amused. _why_ this public avowal? gerald seemed suspended a moment, in amusement. �love isn�t good enough for you?� he called. �no!� shouted birkin. �ha, well that�s being over-refined,� said gerald, and the car ran through the mud. �what�s the matter, really?� said gerald, turning to gudrun. this was an assumption of a sort of intimacy that irritated gudrun almost like an affront. it seemed to her that gerald was deliberately insulting her, and infringing on the decent privacy of them all. �what is it?� she said, in her high, repellent voice. �don�t ask me!�i know nothing about _ultimate_ marriage, i assure you: or even penultimate.� �only the ordinary unwarrantable brand!� replied gerald. �just so�same here. i am no expert on marriage, and degrees of ultimateness. it seems to be a bee that buzzes loudly in rupert�s bonnet.� �exactly! but that is his trouble, exactly! instead of wanting a woman for herself, he wants his _ideas_ fulfilled. which, when it comes to actual practice, is not good enough.� �oh no. best go slap for what�s womanly in woman, like a bull at a gate.� then he seemed to glimmer in himself. �you think love is the ticket, do you?� he asked. �certainly, while it lasts�you only can�t insist on permanency,� came gudrun�s voice, strident above the noise. �marriage or no marriage, ultimate or penultimate or just so-so?�take the love as you find it.� �as you please, or as you don�t please,� she echoed. �marriage is a social arrangement, i take it, and has nothing to do with the question of love.� his eyes were flickering on her all the time. she felt as is he were kissing her freely and malevolently. it made the colour burn in her cheeks, but her heart was quite firm and unfailing. �you think rupert is off his head a bit?� gerald asked. her eyes flashed with acknowledgment. �as regards a woman, yes,� she said, �i do. there _is_ such a thing as two people being in love for the whole of their lives�perhaps. but marriage is neither here nor there, even then. if they are in love, well and good. if not�why break eggs about it!� �yes,� said gerald. �that�s how it strikes me. but what about rupert?� �i can�t make out�neither can he nor anybody. he seems to think that if you marry you can get through marriage into a third heaven, or something�all very vague.� �very! and who wants a third heaven? as a matter of fact, rupert has a great yearning to be _safe_�to tie himself to the mast.� �yes. it seems to me he�s mistaken there too,� said gudrun. �i�m sure a mistress is more likely to be faithful than a wife�just because she is her _own_ mistress. no�he says he believes that a man and wife can go further than any other two beings�but _where_, is not explained. they can know each other, heavenly and hellish, but particularly hellish, so perfectly that they go beyond heaven and hell�into�there it all breaks down�into nowhere.� �into paradise, he says,� laughed gerald. gudrun shrugged her shoulders. �_je m�en fiche_ of your paradise!� she said. �not being a mohammedan,� said gerald. birkin sat motionless, driving the car, quite unconscious of what they said. and gudrun, sitting immediately behind him, felt a sort of ironic pleasure in thus exposing him. �he says,� she added, with a grimace of irony, �that you can find an eternal equilibrium in marriage, if you accept the unison, and still leave yourself separate, don�t try to fuse.� �doesn�t inspire me,� said gerald. �that�s just it,� said gudrun. �i believe in love, in a real _abandon_, if you�re capable of it,� said gerald. �so do i,� said she. �and so does rupert, too�though he is always shouting.� �no,� said gudrun. �he won�t abandon himself to the other person. you can�t be sure of him. that�s the trouble i think.� �yet he wants marriage! marriage�_et puis?_� �_le paradis!_� mocked gudrun. birkin, as he drove, felt a creeping of the spine, as if somebody was threatening his neck. but he shrugged with indifference. it began to rain. here was a change. he stopped the car and got down to put up the hood. chapter xxii. woman to woman they came to the town, and left gerald at the railway station. gudrun and winifred were to come to tea with birkin, who expected ursula also. in the afternoon, however, the first person to turn up was hermione. birkin was out, so she went in the drawing-room, looking at his books and papers, and playing on the piano. then ursula arrived. she was surprised, unpleasantly so, to see hermione, of whom she had heard nothing for some time. �it is a surprise to see you,� she said. �yes,� said hermione��i�ve been away at aix�� �oh, for your health?� �yes.� the two women looked at each other. ursula resented hermione�s long, grave, downward-looking face. there was something of the stupidity and the unenlightened self-esteem of a horse in it. �she�s got a horse-face,� ursula said to herself, �she runs between blinkers.� it did seem as if hermione, like the moon, had only one side to her penny. there was no obverse. she stared out all the time on the narrow, but to her, complete world of the extant consciousness. in the darkness, she did not exist. like the moon, one half of her was lost to life. her self was all in her head, she did not know what it was spontaneously to run or move, like a fish in the water, or a weasel on the grass. she must always _know_. but ursula only suffered from hermione�s one-sidedness. she only felt hermione�s cool evidence, which seemed to put her down as nothing. hermione, who brooded and brooded till she was exhausted with the ache of her effort at consciousness, spent and ashen in her body, who gained so slowly and with such effort her final and barren conclusions of knowledge, was apt, in the presence of other women, whom she thought simply female, to wear the conclusions of her bitter assurance like jewels which conferred on her an unquestionable distinction, established her in a higher order of life. she was apt, mentally, to condescend to women such as ursula, whom she regarded as purely emotional. poor hermione, it was her one possession, this aching certainty of hers, it was her only justification. she must be confident here, for god knows, she felt rejected and deficient enough elsewhere. in the life of thought, of the spirit, she was one of the elect. and she wanted to be universal. but there was a devastating cynicism at the bottom of her. she did not believe in her own universals�they were sham. she did not believe in the inner life�it was a trick, not a reality. she did not believe in the spiritual world�it was an affectation. in the last resort, she believed in mammon, the flesh, and the devil�these at least were not sham. she was a priestess without belief, without conviction, suckled in a creed outworn, and condemned to the reiteration of mysteries that were not divine to her. yet there was no escape. she was a leaf upon a dying tree. what help was there then, but to fight still for the old, withered truths, to die for the old, outworn belief, to be a sacred and inviolate priestess of desecrated mysteries? the old great truths _had_ been true. and she was a leaf of the old great tree of knowledge that was withering now. to the old and last truth then she must be faithful even though cynicism and mockery took place at the bottom of her soul. �i am so glad to see you,� she said to ursula, in her slow voice, that was like an incantation. �you and rupert have become quite friends?� �oh yes,� said ursula. �he is always somewhere in the background.� hermione paused before she answered. she saw perfectly well the other woman�s vaunt: it seemed truly vulgar. �is he?� she said slowly, and with perfect equanimity. �and do you think you will marry?� the question was so calm and mild, so simple and bare and dispassionate that ursula was somewhat taken aback, rather attracted. it pleased her almost like a wickedness. there was some delightful naked irony in hermione. �well,� replied ursula, �_he_ wants to, awfully, but i�m not so sure.� hermione watched her with slow calm eyes. she noted this new expression of vaunting. how she envied ursula a certain unconscious positivity! even her vulgarity! �why aren�t you sure?� she asked, in her easy sing song. she was perfectly at her ease, perhaps even rather happy in this conversation. �you don�t really love him?� ursula flushed a little at the mild impertinence of this question. and yet she could not definitely take offence. hermione seemed so calmly and sanely candid. after all, it was rather great to be able to be so sane. �he says it isn�t love he wants,� she replied. �what is it then?� hermione was slow and level. �he wants me really to accept him in marriage.� hermione was silent for some time, watching ursula with slow, pensive eyes. �does he?� she said at length, without expression. then, rousing, �and what is it you don�t want? you don�t want marriage?� �no�i don�t�not really. i don�t want to give the sort of _submission_ he insists on. he wants me to give myself up�and i simply don�t feel that i _can_ do it.� again there was a long pause, before hermione replied: �not if you don�t want to.� then again there was silence. hermione shuddered with a strange desire. ah, if only he had asked _her_ to subserve him, to be his slave! she shuddered with desire. �you see i can�t�� �but exactly in what does�� they had both begun at once, they both stopped. then, hermione, assuming priority of speech, resumed as if wearily: �to what does he want you to submit?� �he says he wants me to accept him non-emotionally, and finally�i really don�t know _what_ he means. he says he wants the demon part of himself to be mated�physically�not the human being. you see he says one thing one day, and another the next�and he always contradicts himself�� �and always thinks about himself, and his own dissatisfaction,� said hermione slowly. �yes,� cried ursula. �as if there were no one but himself concerned. that makes it so impossible.� but immediately she began to retract. �he insists on my accepting god knows what in _him_,� she resumed. �he wants me to accept _him_ as�as an absolute�but it seems to me he doesn�t want to _give_ anything. he doesn�t want real warm intimacy�he won�t have it�he rejects it. he won�t let me think, really, and he won�t let me _feel_�he hates feelings.� there was a long pause, bitter for hermione. ah, if only he would have made this demand of her? her he _drove_ into thought, drove inexorably into knowledge�and then execrated her for it. �he wants me to sink myself,� ursula resumed, �not to have any being of my own�� �then why doesn�t he marry an odalisk?� said hermione in her mild sing-song, �if it is that he wants.� her long face looked sardonic and amused. �yes,� said ursula vaguely. after all, the tiresome thing was, he did not want an odalisk, he did not want a slave. hermione would have been his slave�there was in her a horrible desire to prostrate herself before a man�a man who worshipped her, however, and admitted her as the supreme thing. he did not want an odalisk. he wanted a woman to _take_ something from him, to give herself up so much that she could take the last realities of him, the last facts, the last physical facts, physical and unbearable. and if she did, would he acknowledge her? would he be able to acknowledge her through everything, or would he use her just as his instrument, use her for his own private satisfaction, not admitting her? that was what the other men had done. they had wanted their own show, and they would not admit her, they turned all she was into nothingness. just as hermione now betrayed herself as a woman. hermione was like a man, she believed only in men�s things. she betrayed the woman in herself. and birkin, would he acknowledge, or would he deny her? �yes,� said hermione, as each woman came out of her own separate reverie. �it would be a mistake�i think it would be a mistake�� �to marry him?� asked ursula. �yes,� said hermione slowly��i think you need a man�soldierly, strong-willed�� hermione held out her hand and clenched it with rhapsodic intensity. �you should have a man like the old heroes�you need to stand behind him as he goes into battle, you need to _see_ his strength, and to _hear_ his shout�. you need a man physically strong, and virile in his will, _not_ a sensitive man�.� there was a break, as if the pythoness had uttered the oracle, and now the woman went on, in a rhapsody-wearied voice: �and you see, rupert isn�t this, he isn�t. he is frail in health and body, he needs great, great care. then he is so changeable and unsure of himself�it requires the greatest patience and understanding to help him. and i don�t think you are patient. you would have to be prepared to suffer�dreadfully. i can�t _tell_ you how much suffering it would take to make him happy. he lives an _intensely_ spiritual life, at times�too, too wonderful. and then come the reactions. i can�t speak of what i have been through with him. we have been together so long, i really do know him, i _do_ know what he is. and i feel i must say it; i feel it would be perfectly _disastrous_ for you to marry him�for you even more than for him.� hermione lapsed into bitter reverie. �he is so uncertain, so unstable�he wearies, and then reacts. i couldn�t _tell_ you what his reactions are. i couldn�t _tell_ you the agony of them. that which he affirms and loves one day�a little latter he turns on it in a fury of destruction. he is never constant, always this awful, dreadful reaction. always the quick change from good to bad, bad to good. and nothing is so devastating, nothing�� �yes,� said ursula humbly, �you must have suffered.� an unearthly light came on hermione�s face. she clenched her hand like one inspired. �and one must be willing to suffer�willing to suffer for him hourly, daily�if you are going to help him, if he is to keep true to anything at all�� �and i don�t _want_ to suffer hourly and daily,� said ursula. �i don�t, i should be ashamed. i think it is degrading not to be happy.� hermione stopped and looked at her a long time. �do you?� she said at last. and this utterance seemed to her a mark of ursula�s far distance from herself. for to hermione suffering was the greatest reality, come what might. yet she too had a creed of happiness. �yes,� she said. �one _should_ be happy�� but it was a matter of will. �yes,� said hermione, listlessly now, �i can only feel that it would be disastrous, disastrous�at least, to marry in a hurry. can�t you be together without marriage? can�t you go away and live somewhere without marriage? i do feel that marriage would be fatal, for both of you. i think for you even more than for him�and i think of his health�� �of course,� said ursula, �i don�t care about marriage�it isn�t really important to me�it�s he who wants it.� �it is his idea for the moment,� said hermione, with that weary finality, and a sort of _si jeunesse savait_ infallibility. there was a pause. then ursula broke into faltering challenge. �you think i�m merely a physical woman, don�t you?� �no indeed,� said hermione. �no, indeed! but i think you are vital and young�it isn�t a question of years, or even of experience�it is almost a question of race. rupert is race-old, he comes of an old race�and you seem to me so young, you come of a young, inexperienced race.� �do i!� said ursula. �but i think he is awfully young, on one side.� �yes, perhaps childish in many respects. nevertheless�� they both lapsed into silence. ursula was filled with deep resentment and a touch of hopelessness. �it isn�t true,� she said to herself, silently addressing her adversary. �it isn�t true. and it is _you_ who want a physically strong, bullying man, not i. it is you who want an unsensitive man, not i. you _don�t_ know anything about rupert, not really, in spite of the years you have had with him. you don�t give him a woman�s love, you give him an ideal love, and that is why he reacts away from you. you don�t know. you only know the dead things. any kitchen maid would know something about him, you don�t know. what do you think your knowledge is but dead understanding, that doesn�t mean a thing. you are so false, and untrue, how could you know anything? what is the good of your talking about love�you untrue spectre of a woman! how can you know anything, when you don�t believe? you don�t believe in yourself and your own womanhood, so what good is your conceited, shallow cleverness�!� the two women sat on in antagonistic silence. hermione felt injured, that all her good intention, all her offering, only left the other woman in vulgar antagonism. but then, ursula could not understand, never would understand, could never be more than the usual jealous and unreasonable female, with a good deal of powerful female emotion, female attraction, and a fair amount of female understanding, but no mind. hermione had decided long ago that where there was no mind, it was useless to appeal for reason�one had merely to ignore the ignorant. and rupert�he had now reacted towards the strongly female, healthy, selfish woman�it was his reaction for the time being�there was no helping it all. it was all a foolish backward and forward, a violent oscillation that would at length be too violent for his coherency, and he would smash and be dead. there was no saving him. this violent and directionless reaction between animalism and spiritual truth would go on in him till he tore himself in two between the opposite directions, and disappeared meaninglessly out of life. it was no good�he too was without unity, without _mind_, in the ultimate stages of living; not quite man enough to make a destiny for a woman. they sat on till birkin came in and found them together. he felt at once the antagonism in the atmosphere, something radical and insuperable, and he bit his lip. but he affected a bluff manner. �hello, hermione, are you back again? how do you feel?� �oh, better. and how are you�you don�t look well�� �oh!�i believe gudrun and winnie crich are coming in to tea. at least they said they were. we shall be a tea-party. what train did you come by, ursula?� it was rather annoying to see him trying to placate both women at once. both women watched him, hermione with deep resentment and pity for him, ursula very impatient. he was nervous and apparently in quite good spirits, chattering the conventional commonplaces. ursula was amazed and indignant at the way he made small-talk; he was adept as any _fat_ in christendom. she became quite stiff, she would not answer. it all seemed to her so false and so belittling. and still gudrun did not appear. �i think i shall go to florence for the winter,� said hermione at length. �will you?� he answered. �but it is so cold there.� �yes, but i shall stay with palestra. it is quite comfortable.� �what takes you to florence?� �i don�t know,� said hermione slowly. then she looked at him with her slow, heavy gaze. �barnes is starting his school of æsthetics, and olandese is going to give a set of discourses on the italian national policy�� �both rubbish,� he said. �no, i don�t think so,� said hermione. �which do you admire, then?� �i admire both. barnes is a pioneer. and then i am interested in italy, in her coming to national consciousness.� �i wish she�d come to something different from national consciousness, then,� said birkin; �especially as it only means a sort of commercial-industrial consciousness. i hate italy and her national rant. and i think barnes is an amateur.� hermione was silent for some moments, in a state of hostility. but yet, she had got birkin back again into her world! how subtle her influence was, she seemed to start his irritable attention into her direction exclusively, in one minute. he was her creature. �no,� she said, �you are wrong.� then a sort of tension came over her, she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and went on, in rhapsodic manner: �_il sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il più grande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono tutti_�� she went on in italian, as if, in thinking of the italians she thought in their language. he listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said: �for all that, i don�t like it. their nationalism is just industrialism�that and a shallow jealousy i detest so much.� �i think you are wrong�i think you are wrong�� said hermione. �it seems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern italian�s _passion_, for it is a passion, for italy, _l�italia_�� �do you know italy well?� ursula asked of hermione. hermione hated to be broken in upon in this manner. yet she answered mildly: �yes, pretty well. i spent several years of my girlhood there, with my mother. my mother died in florence.� �oh.� there was a pause, painful to ursula and to birkin. hermione however seemed abstracted and calm. birkin was white, his eyes glowed as if he were in a fever, he was far too over-wrought. how ursula suffered in this tense atmosphere of strained wills! her head seemed bound round by iron bands. birkin rang the bell for tea. they could not wait for gudrun any longer. when the door was opened, the cat walked in. �micio! micio!� called hermione, in her slow, deliberate sing-song. the young cat turned to look at her, then, with his slow and stately walk he advanced to her side. �_vieni�vieni quá_,� hermione was saying, in her strange caressive, protective voice, as if she were always the elder, the mother superior. �_vieni dire buon� giorno alla zia. mi ricordi, mi ricordi bene�non è vero, piccolo? � vero che mi ricordi? � vero?_� and slowly she rubbed his head, slowly and with ironic indifference. �does he understand italian?� said ursula, who knew nothing of the language. �yes,� said hermione at length. �his mother was italian. she was born in my waste-paper basket in florence, on the morning of rupert�s birthday. she was his birthday present.� tea was brought in. birkin poured out for them. it was strange how inviolable was the intimacy which existed between him and hermione. ursula felt that she was an outsider. the very tea-cups and the old silver was a bond between hermione and birkin. it seemed to belong to an old, past world which they had inhabited together, and in which ursula was a foreigner. she was almost a parvenue in their old cultured milieu. her convention was not their convention, their standards were not her standards. but theirs were established, they had the sanction and the grace of age. he and she together, hermione and birkin, were people of the same old tradition, the same withered deadening culture. and she, ursula, was an intruder. so they always made her feel. hermione poured a little cream into a saucer. the simple way she assumed her rights in birkin�s room maddened and discouraged ursula. there was a fatality about it, as if it were bound to be. hermione lifted the cat and put the cream before him. he planted his two paws on the edge of the table and bent his gracious young head to drink. �_sicuro che capisce italiano_,� sang hermione, �_non l�avrà dimenticato, la lingua della mamma._� she lifted the cat�s head with her long, slow, white fingers, not letting him drink, holding him in her power. it was always the same, this joy in power she manifested, peculiarly in power over any male being. he blinked forbearingly, with a male, bored expression, licking his whiskers. hermione laughed in her short, grunting fashion. �_ecco, il bravo ragazzo, com� è superbo, questo!_� she made a vivid picture, so calm and strange with the cat. she had a true static impressiveness, she was a social artist in some ways. the cat refused to look at her, indifferently avoided her fingers, and began to drink again, his nose down to the cream, perfectly balanced, as he lapped with his odd little click. �it�s bad for him, teaching him to eat at table,� said birkin. â��yes,â�� said hermione, easily assenting. then, looking down at the cat, she resumed her old, mocking, humorous sing-song. â��_ti imparano fare brutte cose, brutte cose_â��â�� she lifted the minoâ��s white chin on her forefinger, slowly. the young cat looked round with a supremely forbearing air, avoided seeing anything, withdrew his chin, and began to wash his face with his paw. hermione grunted her laughter, pleased. â��_bel giovanotto_â��â�� she said. the cat reached forward again and put his fine white paw on the edge of the saucer. hermione lifted it down with delicate slowness. this deliberate, delicate carefulness of movement reminded ursula of gudrun. â��_no! non è permesso di mettere il zampino nel tondinetto. non piace al babbo. un signor gatto così selvaticoâ��!_â�� and she kept her finger on the softly planted paw of the cat, and her voice had the same whimsical, humorous note of bullying. ursula had her nose out of joint. she wanted to go away now. it all seemed no good. hermione was established for ever, she herself was ephemeral and had not yet even arrived. â��i will go now,â�� she said suddenly. birkin looked at her almost in fearâ��he so dreaded her anger. â��but there is no need for such hurry,â�� he said. â��yes,â�� she answered. â��i will go.â�� and turning to hermione, before there was time to say any more, she held out her hand and said â��good-bye.â�� â��good-byeâ��â�� sang hermione, detaining the hand. â��must you really go now?â�� â��yes, i think iâ��ll go,â�� said ursula, her face set, and averted from hermioneâ��s eyes. â��you think you willâ��â�� but ursula had got her hand free. she turned to birkin with a quick, almost jeering: â��good-bye,â�� and she was opening the door before he had time to do it for her. when she got outside the house she ran down the road in fury and agitation. it was strange, the unreasoning rage and violence hermione roused in her, by her very presence. ursula knew she gave herself away to the other woman, she knew she looked ill-bred, uncouth, exaggerated. but she did not care. she only ran up the road, lest she should go back and jeer in the faces of the two she had left behind. for they outraged her. chapter xxiii. excurse next day birkin sought ursula out. it happened to be the half-day at the grammar school. he appeared towards the end of the morning, and asked her, would she drive with him in the afternoon. she consented. but her face was closed and unresponding, and his heart sank. the afternoon was fine and dim. he was driving the motor-car, and she sat beside him. but still her face was closed against him, unresponding. when she became like this, like a wall against him, his heart contracted. his life now seemed so reduced, that he hardly cared any more. at moments it seemed to him he did not care a straw whether ursula or hermione or anybody else existed or did not exist. why bother! why strive for a coherent, satisfied life? why not drift on in a series of accidentsâ��like a picaresque novel? why not? why bother about human relationships? why take them seriously-male or female? why form any serious connections at all? why not be casual, drifting along, taking all for what it was worth? and yet, still, he was damned and doomed to the old effort at serious living. â��look,â�� he said, â��what i bought.â�� the car was running along a broad white road, between autumn trees. he gave her a little bit of screwed-up paper. she took it and opened it. â��how lovely,â�� she cried. she examined the gift. â��how perfectly lovely!â�� she cried again. â��but why do you give them me?â�� she put the question offensively. his face flickered with bored irritation. he shrugged his shoulders slightly. â��i wanted to,â�� he said, coolly. â��but why? why should you?â�� â��am i called on to find reasons?â�� he asked. there was a silence, whilst she examined the rings that had been screwed up in the paper. â��i think they are _beautiful_,â�� she said, â��especially this. this is wonderfulâ��â�� it was a round opal, red and fiery, set in a circle of tiny rubies. â��you like that best?â�� he said. â��i think i do.â�� â��i like the sapphire,â�� he said. â��this?â�� it was a rose-shaped, beautiful sapphire, with small brilliants. â��yes,â�� she said, â��it is lovely.â�� she held it in the light. â��yes, perhaps it _is_ the bestâ��â�� â��the blueâ��â�� he said. â��yes, wonderfulâ��â�� he suddenly swung the car out of the way of a farm-cart. it tilted on the bank. he was a careless driver, yet very quick. but ursula was frightened. there was always that something regardless in him which terrified her. she suddenly felt he might kill her, by making some dreadful accident with the motor-car. for a moment she was stony with fear. â��isnâ��t it rather dangerous, the way you drive?â�� she asked him. â��no, it isnâ��t dangerous,â�� he said. and then, after a pause: â��donâ��t you like the yellow ring at all?â�� it was a squarish topaz set in a frame of steel, or some other similar mineral, finely wrought. â��yes,â�� she said, â��i do like it. but why did you buy these rings?â�� â��i wanted them. they are second-hand.â�� â��you bought them for yourself?â�� â��no. rings look wrong on my hands.â�� â��why did you buy them then?â�� â��i bought them to give to you.â�� â��but why? surely you ought to give them to hermione! you belong to her.â�� he did not answer. she remained with the jewels shut in her hand. she wanted to try them on her fingers, but something in her would not let her. and moreover, she was afraid her hands were too large, she shrank from the mortification of a failure to put them on any but her little finger. they travelled in silence through the empty lanes. driving in a motor-car excited her, she forgot his presence even. â��where are we?â�� she asked suddenly. â��not far from worksop.â�� â��and where are we going?â�� â��anywhere.â�� it was the answer she liked. she opened her hand to look at the rings. they gave her _such_ pleasure, as they lay, the three circles, with their knotted jewels, entangled in her palm. she would have to try them on. she did so secretly, unwilling to let him see, so that he should not know her finger was too large for them. but he saw nevertheless. he always saw, if she wanted him not to. it was another of his hateful, watchful characteristics. only the opal, with its thin wire loop, would go on her ring finger. and she was superstitious. no, there was ill-portent enough, she would not accept this ring from him in pledge. â��look,â�� she said, putting forward her hand, that was half-closed and shrinking. â��the others donâ��t fit me.â�� he looked at the red-glinting, soft stone, on her over-sensitive skin. â��yes,â�� he said. â��but opals are unlucky, arenâ��t they?â�� she said wistfully. â��no. i prefer unlucky things. luck is vulgar. who wants what _luck_ would bring? i donâ��t.â�� â��but why?â�� she laughed. and, consumed with a desire to see how the other rings would look on her hand, she put them on her little finger. â��they can be made a little bigger,â�� he said. â��yes,â�� she replied, doubtfully. and she sighed. she knew that, in accepting the rings, she was accepting a pledge. yet fate seemed more than herself. she looked again at the jewels. they were very beautiful to her eyesâ��not as ornament, or wealth, but as tiny fragments of loveliness. â��iâ��m glad you bought them,â�� she said, putting her hand, half unwillingly, gently on his arm. he smiled, slightly. he wanted her to come to him. but he was angry at the bottom of his soul, and indifferent. he knew she had a passion for him, really. but it was not finally interesting. there were depths of passion when one became impersonal and indifferent, unemotional. whereas ursula was still at the emotional personal levelâ��always so abominably personal. he had taken her as he had never been taken himself. he had taken her at the roots of her darkness and shameâ��like a demon, laughing over the fountain of mystic corruption which was one of the sources of her being, laughing, shrugging, accepting, accepting finally. as for her, when would she so much go beyond herself as to accept him at the quick of death? she now became quite happy. the motor-car ran on, the afternoon was soft and dim. she talked with lively interest, analysing people and their motivesâ��gudrun, gerald. he answered vaguely. he was not very much interested any more in personalities and in peopleâ��people were all different, but they were all enclosed nowadays in a definite limitation, he said; there were only about two great ideas, two great streams of activity remaining, with various forms of reaction therefrom. the reactions were all varied in various people, but they followed a few great laws, and intrinsically there was no difference. they acted and reacted involuntarily according to a few great laws, and once the laws, the great principles, were known, people were no longer mystically interesting. they were all essentially alike, the differences were only variations on a theme. none of them transcended the given terms. ursula did not agreeâ��people were still an adventure to herâ��butâ��perhaps not as much as she tried to persuade herself. perhaps there was something mechanical, now, in her interest. perhaps also her interest was destructive, her analysing was a real tearing to pieces. there was an under-space in her where she did not care for people and their idiosyncracies, even to destroy them. she seemed to touch for a moment this undersilence in herself, she became still, and she turned for a moment purely to birkin. â��wonâ��t it be lovely to go home in the dark?â�� she said. â��we might have tea rather lateâ��shall we?â��and have high tea? wouldnâ��t that be rather nice?â�� â��i promised to be at shortlands for dinner,â�� he said. â��butâ��it doesnâ��t matterâ��you can go tomorrowâ��â�� â��hermione is there,â�� he said, in rather an uneasy voice. â��she is going away in two days. i suppose i ought to say good-bye to her. i shall never see her again.â�� ursula drew away, closed in a violent silence. he knitted his brows, and his eyes began to sparkle again in anger. â��you donâ��t mind, do you?â�� he asked irritably. â��no, i donâ��t care. why should i? why should i mind?â�� her tone was jeering and offensive. â��thatâ��s what i ask myself,â�� he said; â��why _should_ you mind! but you seem to.â�� his brows were tense with violent irritation. â��i _assure_ you i donâ��t, i donâ��t mind in the least. go where you belongâ��itâ��s what i want you to do.â�� â��ah you fool!â�� he cried, â��with your â��go where you belong.â�� itâ��s finished between hermione and me. she means much more to _you_, if it comes to that, than she does to me. for you can only revolt in pure reaction from herâ��and to be her opposite is to be her counterpart.â�� â��ah, opposite!â�� cried ursula. â��i know your dodges. i am not taken in by your word-twisting. you belong to hermione and her dead show. well, if you do, you do. i donâ��t blame you. but then youâ��ve nothing to do with me. in his inflamed, overwrought exasperation, he stopped the car, and they sat there, in the middle of the country lane, to have it out. it was a crisis of war between them, so they did not see the ridiculousness of their situation. â��if you werenâ��t a fool, if only you werenâ��t a fool,â�� he cried in bitter despair, â��youâ��d see that one could be decent, even when one has been wrong. i _was_ wrong to go on all those years with hermioneâ��it was a deathly process. but after all, one can have a little human decency. but no, you would tear my soul out with your jealousy at the very mention of hermioneâ��s name.â�� â��i jealous! _i_â��jealous! you _are_ mistaken if you think that. iâ��m not jealous in the least of hermione, she is nothing to me, not _that!_â�� and ursula snapped her fingers. â��no, itâ��s you who are a liar. itâ��s you who must return, like a dog to his vomit. it is what hermione _stands for_ that i _hate_. i _hate_ it. it is lies, it is false, it is death. but you want it, you canâ��t help it, you canâ��t help yourself. you belong to that old, deathly way of livingâ��then go back to it. but donâ��t come to me, for iâ��ve nothing to do with it.â�� and in the stress of her violent emotion, she got down from the car and went to the hedgerow, picking unconsciously some flesh-pink spindleberries, some of which were burst, showing their orange seeds. â��ah, you are a fool,â�� he cried, bitterly, with some contempt. â��yes, i am. i _am_ a fool. and thank god for it. iâ��m too big a fool to swallow your cleverness. god be praised. you go to your womenâ��go to themâ��they are your sortâ��youâ��ve always had a string of them trailing after youâ��and you always will. go to your spiritual bridesâ��but donâ��t come to me as well, because iâ��m not having any, thank you. youâ��re not satisfied, are you? your spiritual brides canâ��t give you what you want, they arenâ��t common and fleshy enough for you, arenâ��t they? so you come to me, and keep them in the background! you will marry me for daily use. but youâ��ll keep yourself well provided with spiritual brides in the background. i know your dirty little game.â�� suddenly a flame ran over her, and she stamped her foot madly on the road, and he winced, afraid that she would strike him. â��and _i, iâ��m_ not spiritual enough, _iâ��m_ not as spiritual as that hermioneâ��!â�� her brows knitted, her eyes blazed like a tigerâ��s. â��then _go_ to her, thatâ��s all i say, _go_ to her, _go_. ha, she spiritualâ��_spiritual_, she! a dirty materialist as she is. _she_ spiritual? what does she care for, what is her spirituality? what _is_ it?â�� her fury seemed to blaze out and burn his face. he shrank a little. â��i tell you itâ��s _dirt, dirt_, and nothing _but_ dirt. and itâ��s dirt you want, you crave for it. spiritual! is _that_ spiritual, her bullying, her conceit, her sordid materialism? sheâ��s a fishwife, a fishwife, she is such a materialist. and all so sordid. what does she work out to, in the end, with all her social passion, as you call it. social passionâ��what social passion has she?â��show it me!â��where is it? she wants petty, immediate _power_, she wants the illusion that she is a great woman, that is all. in her soul sheâ��s a devilish unbeliever, common as dirt. thatâ��s what she is at the bottom. and all the rest is pretenceâ��but you love it. you love the sham spirituality, itâ��s your food. and why? because of the dirt underneath. do you think i donâ��t know the foulness of your sex lifeâ��and herâ��s?â��i do. and itâ��s that foulness you want, you liar. then have it, have it. youâ��re such a liar.â�� she turned away, spasmodically tearing the twigs of spindleberry from the hedge, and fastening them, with vibrating fingers, in the bosom of her coat. he stood watching in silence. a wonderful tenderness burned in him, at the sight of her quivering, so sensitive fingers: and at the same time he was full of rage and callousness. â��this is a degrading exhibition,â�� he said coolly. â��yes, degrading indeed,â�� she said. â��but more to me than to you.â�� â��since you choose to degrade yourself,â�� he said. again the flash came over her face, the yellow lights concentrated in her eyes. â��_you!_â�� she cried. â��you! you truth-lover! you purity-monger! it _stinks_, your truth and your purity. it stinks of the offal you feed on, you scavenger dog, you eater of corpses. you are foul, _foul_â��and you must know it. your purity, your candour, your goodnessâ��yes, thank you, weâ��ve had some. what you are is a foul, deathly thing, obscene, thatâ��s what you are, obscene and perverse. you, and love! you may well say, you donâ��t want love. no, you want _yourself_, and dirt, and deathâ��thatâ��s what you want. you are so _perverse_, so death-eating. and thenâ��â�� â��thereâ��s a bicycle coming,â�� he said, writhing under her loud denunciation. she glanced down the road. â��i donâ��t care,â�� she cried. nevertheless she was silent. the cyclist, having heard the voices raised in altercation, glanced curiously at the man, and the woman, and at the standing motor-car as he passed. â��â��afternoon,â�� he said, cheerfully. â��good-afternoon,â�� replied birkin coldly. they were silent as the man passed into the distance. a clearer look had come over birkinâ��s face. he knew she was in the main right. he knew he was perverse, so spiritual on the one hand, and in some strange way, degraded, on the other. but was she herself any better? was anybody any better? â��it may all be true, lies and stink and all,â�� he said. â��but hermioneâ��s spiritual intimacy is no rottener than your emotional-jealous intimacy. one can preserve the decencies, even to oneâ��s enemies: for oneâ��s own sake. hermione is my enemyâ��to her last breath! thatâ��s why i must bow her off the field.â�� â��you! you and your enemies and your bows! a pretty picture you make of yourself. but it takes nobody in but yourself. i _jealous! i!_ what i say,â�� her voice sprang into flame, â��i say because it is _true_, do you see, because you are _you_, a foul and false liar, a whited sepulchre. thatâ��s why i say it. and _you_ hear it.â�� â��and be grateful,â�� he added, with a satirical grimace. â��yes,â�� she cried, â��and if you have a spark of decency in you, be grateful.â�� â��not having a spark of decency, howeverâ��â�� he retorted. â��no,â�� she cried, â��you havenâ��t a _spark_. and so you can go your way, and iâ��ll go mine. itâ��s no good, not the slightest. so you can leave me now, i donâ��t want to go any further with youâ��leave meâ��â�� â��you donâ��t even know where you are,â�� he said. â��oh, donâ��t bother, i assure you i shall be all right. iâ��ve got ten shillings in my purse, and that will take me back from anywhere _you_ have brought me to.â�� she hesitated. the rings were still on her fingers, two on her little finger, one on her ring finger. still she hesitated. â��very good,â�� he said. â��the only hopeless thing is a fool.â�� â��you are quite right,â�� she said. still she hesitated. then an ugly, malevolent look came over her face, she pulled the rings from her fingers, and tossed them at him. one touched his face, the others hit his coat, and they scattered into the mud. â��and take your rings,â�� she said, â��and go and buy yourself a female elsewhereâ��there are plenty to be had, who will be quite glad to share your spiritual mess,â��or to have your physical mess, and leave your spiritual mess to hermione.â�� with which she walked away, desultorily, up the road. he stood motionless, watching her sullen, rather ugly walk. she was sullenly picking and pulling at the twigs of the hedge as she passed. she grew smaller, she seemed to pass out of his sight. a darkness came over his mind. only a small, mechanical speck of consciousness hovered near him. he felt tired and weak. yet also he was relieved. he gave up his old position. he went and sat on the bank. no doubt ursula was right. it was true, really, what she said. he knew that his spirituality was concomitant of a process of depravity, a sort of pleasure in self-destruction. there really _was_ a certain stimulant in self-destruction, for himâ��especially when it was translated spiritually. but then he knew itâ��he knew it, and had done. and was not ursulaâ��s way of emotional intimacy, emotional and physical, was it not just as dangerous as hermioneâ��s abstract spiritual intimacy? fusion, fusion, this horrible fusion of two beings, which every woman and most men insisted on, was it not nauseous and horrible anyhow, whether it was a fusion of the spirit or of the emotional body? hermione saw herself as the perfect idea, to which all men must come: and ursula was the perfect womb, the bath of birth, to which all men must come! and both were horrible. why could they not remain individuals, limited by their own limits? why this dreadful all-comprehensiveness, this hateful tyranny? why not leave the other being, free, why try to absorb, or melt, or merge? one might abandon oneself utterly to the _moments_, but not to any other being. he could not bear to see the rings lying in the pale mud of the road. he picked them up, and wiped them unconsciously on his hands. they were the little tokens of the reality of beauty, the reality of happiness in warm creation. but he had made his hands all dirty and gritty. there was a darkness over his mind. the terrible knot of consciousness that had persisted there like an obsession was broken, gone, his life was dissolved in darkness over his limbs and his body. but there was a point of anxiety in his heart now. he wanted her to come back. he breathed lightly and regularly like an infant, that breathes innocently, beyond the touch of responsibility. she was coming back. he saw her drifting desultorily under the high hedge, advancing towards him slowly. he did not move, he did not look again. he was as if asleep, at peace, slumbering and utterly relaxed. she came up and stood before him, hanging her head. â��see what a flower i found you,â�� she said, wistfully holding a piece of purple-red bell-heather under his face. he saw the clump of coloured bells, and the tree-like, tiny branch: also her hands, with their over-fine, over-sensitive skin. â��pretty!â�� he said, looking up at her with a smile, taking the flower. everything had become simple again, quite simple, the complexity gone into nowhere. but he badly wanted to cry: except that he was weary and bored by emotion. then a hot passion of tenderness for her filled his heart. he stood up and looked into her face. it was new and oh, so delicate in its luminous wonder and fear. he put his arms round her, and she hid her face on his shoulder. it was peace, just simple peace, as he stood folding her quietly there on the open lane. it was peace at last. the old, detestable world of tension had passed away at last, his soul was strong and at ease. she looked up at him. the wonderful yellow light in her eyes now was soft and yielded, they were at peace with each other. he kissed her, softly, many, many times. a laugh came into her eyes. â��did i abuse you?â�� she asked. he smiled too, and took her hand, that was so soft and given. â��never mind,â�� she said, â��it is all for the good.â�� he kissed her again, softly, many times. â��isnâ��t it?â�� she said. â��certainly,â�� he replied. â��wait! i shall have my own back.â�� she laughed suddenly, with a wild catch in her voice, and flung her arms around him. â��you are mine, my love, arenâ��t you?â�� she cried straining him close. â��yes,â�� he said, softly. his voice was so soft and final, she went very still, as if under a fate which had taken her. yes, she acquiescedâ��but it was accomplished without her acquiescence. he was kissing her quietly, repeatedly, with a soft, still happiness that almost made her heart stop beating. â��my love!â�� she cried, lifting her face and looking with frightened, gentle wonder of bliss. was it all real? but his eyes were beautiful and soft and immune from stress or excitement, beautiful and smiling lightly to her, smiling with her. she hid her face on his shoulder, hiding before him, because he could see her so completely. she knew he loved her, and she was afraid, she was in a strange element, a new heaven round about her. she wished he were passionate, because in passion she was at home. but this was so still and frail, as space is more frightening than force. again, quickly, she lifted her head. â��do you love me?â�� she said, quickly, impulsively. â��yes,â�� he replied, not heeding her motion, only her stillness. she knew it was true. she broke away. â��so you ought,â�� she said, turning round to look at the road. â��did you find the rings?â�� â��yes.â�� â��where are they?â�� â��in my pocket.â�� she put her hand into his pocket and took them out. she was restless. â��shall we go?â�� she said. â��yes,â�� he answered. and they mounted to the car once more, and left behind them this memorable battle-field. they drifted through the wild, late afternoon, in a beautiful motion that was smiling and transcendent. his mind was sweetly at ease, the life flowed through him as from some new fountain, he was as if born out of the cramp of a womb. â��are you happy?â�� she asked him, in her strange, delighted way. â��yes,â�� he said. â��so am i,â�� she cried in sudden ecstacy, putting her arm round him and clutching him violently against her, as he steered the motor-car. â��donâ��t drive much more,â�� she said. â��i donâ��t want you to be always doing something.â�� â��no,â�� he said. â��weâ��ll finish this little trip, and then weâ��ll be free.â�� â��we will, my love, we will,â�� she cried in delight, kissing him as he turned to her. he drove on in a strange new wakefulness, the tension of his consciousness broken. he seemed to be conscious all over, all his body awake with a simple, glimmering awareness, as if he had just come awake, like a thing that is born, like a bird when it comes out of an egg, into a new universe. they dropped down a long hill in the dusk, and suddenly ursula recognised on her right hand, below in the hollow, the form of southwell minster. â��are we here!â�� she cried with pleasure. the rigid, sombre, ugly cathedral was settling under the gloom of the coming night, as they entered the narrow town, the golden lights showed like slabs of revelation, in the shop-windows. â��father came here with mother,â�� she said, â��when they first knew each other. he loves itâ��he loves the minster. do you?â�� â��yes. it looks like quartz crystals sticking up out of the dark hollow. weâ��ll have our high tea at the saracenâ��s head.â�� as they descended, they heard the minster bells playing a hymn, when the hour had struck six. glory to thee my god this night for all the blessings of the lightâ�� so, to ursulaâ��s ear, the tune fell out, drop by drop, from the unseen sky on to the dusky town. it was like dim, bygone centuries sounding. it was all so far off. she stood in the old yard of the inn, smelling of straw and stables and petrol. above, she could see the first stars. what was it all? this was no actual world, it was the dream-world of oneâ��s childhoodâ��a great circumscribed reminiscence. the world had become unreal. she herself was a strange, transcendent reality. they sat together in a little parlour by the fire. â��is it true?â�� she said, wondering. â��what?â�� â��everythingâ��is everything true?â�� â��the best is true,â�� he said, grimacing at her. â��is it?â�� she replied, laughing, but unassured. she looked at him. he seemed still so separate. new eyes were opened in her soul. she saw a strange creature from another world, in him. it was as if she were enchanted, and everything were metamorphosed. she recalled again the old magic of the book of genesis, where the sons of god saw the daughters of men, that they were fair. and he was one of these, one of these strange creatures from the beyond, looking down at her, and seeing she was fair. he stood on the hearth-rug looking at her, at her face that was upturned exactly like a flower, a fresh, luminous flower, glinting faintly golden with the dew of the first light. and he was smiling faintly as if there were no speech in the world, save the silent delight of flowers in each other. smilingly they delighted in each otherâ��s presence, pure presence, not to be thought of, even known. but his eyes had a faintly ironical contraction. and she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell. kneeling on the hearth-rug before him, she put her arms round his loins, and put her face against his thigh. riches! riches! she was overwhelmed with a sense of a heavenful of riches. â��we love each other,â�� she said in delight. â��more than that,â�� he answered, looking down at her with his glimmering, easy face. unconsciously, with her sensitive fingertips, she was tracing the back of his thighs, following some mysterious life-flow there. she had discovered something, something more than wonderful, more wonderful than life itself. it was the strange mystery of his life-motion, there, at the back of the thighs, down the flanks. it was a strange reality of his being, the very stuff of being, there in the straight downflow of the thighs. it was here she discovered him one of the sons of god such as were in the beginning of the world, not a man, something other, something more. this was release at last. she had had lovers, she had known passion. but this was neither love nor passion. it was the daughters of men coming back to the sons of god, the strange inhuman sons of god who are in the beginning. her face was now one dazzle of released, golden light, as she looked up at him, and laid her hands full on his thighs, behind, as he stood before her. he looked down at her with a rich bright brow like a diadem above his eyes. she was beautiful as a new marvellous flower opened at his knees, a paradisal flower she was, beyond womanhood, such a flower of luminousness. yet something was tight and unfree in him. he did not like this crouching, this radianceâ��not altogether. it was all achieved, for her. she had found one of the sons of god from the beginning, and he had found one of the first most luminous daughters of men. she traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs, at the back, and a living fire ran through her, from him, darkly. it was a dark flood of electric passion she released from him, drew into herself. she had established a rich new circuit, a new current of passional electric energy, between the two of them, released from the darkest poles of the body and established in perfect circuit. it was a dark fire of electricity that rushed from him to her, and flooded them both with rich peace, satisfaction. â��my love,â�� she cried, lifting her face to him, her eyes, her mouth open in transport. â��my love,â�� he answered, bending and kissing her, always kissing her. she closed her hands over the full, rounded body of his loins, as he stooped over her, she seemed to touch the quick of the mystery of darkness that was bodily him. she seemed to faint beneath, and he seemed to faint, stooping over her. it was a perfect passing away for both of them, and at the same time the most intolerable accession into being, the marvellous fullness of immediate gratification, overwhelming, out-flooding from the source of the deepest life-force, the darkest, deepest, strangest life-source of the human body, at the back and base of the loins. after a lapse of stillness, after the rivers of strange dark fluid richness had passed over her, flooding, carrying away her mind and flooding down her spine and down her knees, past her feet, a strange flood, sweeping away everything and leaving her an essential new being, she was left quite free, she was free in complete ease, her complete self. so she rose, stilly and blithe, smiling at him. he stood before her, glimmering, so awfully real, that her heart almost stopped beating. he stood there in his strange, whole body, that had its marvellous fountains, like the bodies of the sons of god who were in the beginning. there were strange fountains of his body, more mysterious and potent than any she had imagined or known, more satisfying, ah, finally, mystically-physically satisfying. she had thought there was no source deeper than the phallic source. and now, behold, from the smitten rock of the manâ��s body, from the strange marvellous flanks and thighs, deeper, further in mystery than the phallic source, came the floods of ineffable darkness and ineffable riches. they were glad, and they could forget perfectly. they laughed, and went to the meal provided. there was a venison pasty, of all things, a large broad-faced cut ham, eggs and cresses and red beet-root, and medlars and apple-tart, and tea. â��what _good_ things!â�� she cried with pleasure. â��how noble it looks!â��shall i pour out the tea?â��â�� she was usually nervous and uncertain at performing these public duties, such as giving tea. but today she forgot, she was at her ease, entirely forgetting to have misgivings. the tea-pot poured beautifully from a proud slender spout. her eyes were warm with smiles as she gave him his tea. she had learned at last to be still and perfect. â��everything is ours,â�� she said to him. â��everything,â�� he answered. she gave a queer little crowing sound of triumph. â��iâ��m so glad!â�� she cried, with unspeakable relief. â��so am i,â�� he said. â��but iâ��m thinking weâ��d better get out of our responsibilities as quick as we can.â�� â��what responsibilities?â�� she asked, wondering. â��we must drop our jobs, like a shot.â�� a new understanding dawned into her face. â��of course,â�� she said, â��thereâ��s that.â�� â��we must get out,â�� he said. â��thereâ��s nothing for it but to get out, quick.â�� she looked at him doubtfully across the table. â��but where?â�� she said. â��i donâ��t know,â�� he said. â��weâ��ll just wander about for a bit.â�� again she looked at him quizzically. â��i should be perfectly happy at the mill,â�� she said. â��itâ��s very near the old thing,â�� he said. â��let us wander a bit.â�� his voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went through her veins like an exhilaration. nevertheless she dreamed of a valley, and wild gardens, and peace. she had a desire too for splendourâ��an aristocratic extravagant splendour. wandering seemed to her like restlessness, dissatisfaction. â��where will you wander to?â�� she asked. â��i donâ��t know. i feel as if i would just meet you and weâ��d set offâ��just towards the distance.â�� â��but where can one go?â�� she asked anxiously. â��after all, there _is_ only the world, and none of it is very distant.â�� â��still,â�� he said, â��i should like to go with youâ��nowhere. it would be rather wandering just to nowhere. thatâ��s the place to get toâ��nowhere. one wants to wander away from the worldâ��s somewheres, into our own nowhere.â�� still she meditated. â��you see, my love,â�� she said, â��iâ��m so afraid that while we are only people, weâ��ve got to take the world thatâ��s givenâ��because there isnâ��t any other.â�� â��yes there is,â�� he said. â��thereâ��s somewhere where we can be freeâ��somewhere where one neednâ��t wear much clothesâ��none evenâ��where one meets a few people who have gone through enough, and can take things for grantedâ��where you be yourself, without bothering. there is somewhereâ��there are one or two peopleâ��â�� â��but whereâ��?â�� she sighed. â��somewhereâ��anywhere. letâ��s wander off. thatâ��s the thing to doâ��letâ��s wander off.â�� â��yesâ��â�� she said, thrilled at the thought of travel. but to her it was only travel. â��to be free,â�� he said. â��to be free, in a free place, with a few other people!â�� â��yes,â�� she said wistfully. those â��few other peopleâ�� depressed her. â��it isnâ��t really a locality, though,â�� he said. â��itâ��s a perfected relation between you and me, and othersâ��the perfect relationâ��so that we are free together.â�� â��it is, my love, isnâ��t it,â�� she said. â��itâ��s you and me. itâ��s you and me, isnâ��t it?â�� she stretched out her arms to him. he went across and stooped to kiss her face. her arms closed round him again, her hands spread upon his shoulders, moving slowly there, moving slowly on his back, down his back slowly, with a strange recurrent, rhythmic motion, yet moving slowly down, pressing mysteriously over his loins, over his flanks. the sense of the awfulness of riches that could never be impaired flooded her mind like a swoon, a death in most marvellous possession, mystic-sure. she possessed him so utterly and intolerably, that she herself lapsed out. and yet she was only sitting still in the chair, with her hands pressed upon him, and lost. again he softly kissed her. â��we shall never go apart again,â�� he murmured quietly. and she did not speak, but only pressed her hands firmer down upon the source of darkness in him. they decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon, to write their resignations from the world of work there and then. she wanted this. he rang the bell, and ordered note-paper without a printed address. the waiter cleared the table. â��now then,â�� he said, â��yours first. put your home address, and the dateâ��then â��director of education, town hallâ��sirâ��â�� now then!â��i donâ��t know how one really standsâ��i suppose one could get out of it in less than monthâ��anyhow â��sirâ��i beg to resign my post as classmistress in the willey green grammar school. i should be very grateful if you would liberate me as soon as possible, without waiting for the expiration of the monthâ��s notice.â�� thatâ��ll do. have you got it? let me look. â��ursula brangwen.â�� good! now iâ��ll write mine. i ought to give them three months, but i can plead health. i can arrange it all right.â�� he sat and wrote out his formal resignation. â��now,â�� he said, when the envelopes were sealed and addressed, â��shall we post them here, both together? i know jackie will say, â��hereâ��s a coincidence!â�� when he receives them in all their identity. shall we let him say it, or not?â�� â��i donâ��t care,â�� she said. â��noâ��?â�� he said, pondering. â��it doesnâ��t matter, does it?â�� she said. â��yes,â�� he replied. â��their imaginations shall not work on us. iâ��ll post yours here, mine after. i cannot be implicated in their imaginings.â�� he looked at her with his strange, non-human singleness. â��yes, you are right,â�� she said. she lifted her face to him, all shining and open. it was as if he might enter straight into the source of her radiance. his face became a little distracted. â��shall we go?â�� he said. â��as you like,â�� she replied. they were soon out of the little town, and running through the uneven lanes of the country. ursula nestled near him, into his constant warmth, and watched the pale-lit revelation racing ahead, the visible night. sometimes it was a wide old road, with grass-spaces on either side, flying magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes it was trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble bushes, sometimes the walls of a crew-yard and the butt of a barn. â��are you going to shortlands to dinner?â�� ursula asked him suddenly. he started. â��good god!â�� he said. â��shortlands! never again. not that. besides we should be too late.â�� â��where are we going thenâ��to the mill?â�� â��if you like. pity to go anywhere on this good dark night. pity to come out of it, really. pity we canâ��t stop in the good darkness. it is better than anything ever would beâ��this good immediate darkness.â�� she sat wondering. the car lurched and swayed. she knew there was no leaving him, the darkness held them both and contained them, it was not to be surpassed. besides she had a full mystic knowledge of his suave loins of darkness, dark-clad and suave, and in this knowledge there was some of the inevitability and the beauty of fate, fate which one asks for, which one accepts in full. he sat still like an egyptian pharoah, driving the car. he felt as if he were seated in immemorial potency, like the great carven statues of real egypt, as real and as fulfilled with subtle strength, as these are, with a vague inscrutable smile on the lips. he knew what it was to have the strange and magical current of force in his back and loins, and down his legs, force so perfect that it stayed him immobile, and left his face subtly, mindlessly smiling. he knew what it was to be awake and potent in that other basic mind, the deepest physical mind. and from this source he had a pure and magic control, magical, mystical, a force in darkness, like electricity. it was very difficult to speak, it was so perfect to sit in this pure living silence, subtle, full of unthinkable knowledge and unthinkable force, upheld immemorially in timeless force, like the immobile, supremely potent egyptians, seated forever in their living, subtle silence. â��we need not go home,â�� he said. â��this car has seats that let down and make a bed, and we can lift the hood.â�� she was glad and frightened. she cowered near to him. â��but what about them at home?â�� she said. â��send a telegram.â�� nothing more was said. they ran on in silence. but with a sort of second consciousness he steered the car towards a destination. for he had the free intelligence to direct his own ends. his arms and his breast and his head were rounded and living like those of the greek, he had not the unawakened straight arms of the egyptian, nor the sealed, slumbering head. a lambent intelligence played secondarily above his pure egyptian concentration in darkness. they came to a village that lined along the road. the car crept slowly along, until he saw the post-office. then he pulled up. â��i will send a telegram to your father,â�� he said. â��i will merely say â��spending the night in town,â�� shall i?â�� â��yes,â�� she answered. she did not want to be disturbed into taking thought. she watched him move into the post-office. it was also a shop, she saw. strange, he was. even as he went into the lighted, public place he remained dark and magic, the living silence seemed the body of reality in him, subtle, potent, indiscoverable. there he was! in a strange uplift of elation she saw him, the being never to be revealed, awful in its potency, mystic and real. this dark, subtle reality of him, never to be translated, liberated her into perfection, her own perfected being. she too was dark and fulfilled in silence. he came out, throwing some packages into the car. â��there is some bread, and cheese, and raisins, and apples, and hard chocolate,â�� he said, in his voice that was as if laughing, because of the unblemished stillness and force which was the reality in him. she would have to touch him. to speak, to see, was nothing. it was a travesty to look and to comprehend the man there. darkness and silence must fall perfectly on her, then she could know mystically, in unrevealed touch. she must lightly, mindlessly connect with him, have the knowledge which is death of knowledge, the reality of surety in not-knowing. soon they had run on again into the darkness. she did not ask where they were going, she did not care. she sat in a fullness and a pure potency that was like apathy, mindless and immobile. she was next to him, and hung in a pure rest, as a star is hung, balanced unthinkably. still there remained a dark lambency of anticipation. she would touch him. with perfect fine finger-tips of reality she would touch the reality in him, the suave, pure, untranslatable reality of his loins of darkness. to touch, mindlessly in darkness to come in pure touching upon the living reality of him, his suave perfect loins and thighs of darkness, this was her sustaining anticipation. and he too waited in the magical steadfastness of suspense, for her to take this knowledge of him as he had taken it of her. he knew her darkly, with the fullness of dark knowledge. now she would know him, and he too would be liberated. he would be night-free, like an egyptian, steadfast in perfectly suspended equilibrium, pure mystic nodality of physical being. they would give each other this star-equilibrium which alone is freedom. she saw that they were running among treesâ��great old trees with dying bracken undergrowth. the palish, gnarled trunks showed ghostly, and like old priests in the hovering distance, the fern rose magical and mysterious. it was a night all darkness, with low cloud. the motor-car advanced slowly. â��where are we?â�� she whispered. â��in sherwood forest.â�� it was evident he knew the place. he drove softly, watching. then they came to a green road between the trees. they turned cautiously round, and were advancing between the oaks of the forest, down a green lane. the green lane widened into a little circle of grass, where there was a small trickle of water at the bottom of a sloping bank. the car stopped. â��we will stay here,â�� he said, â��and put out the lights.â�� he extinguished the lamps at once, and it was pure night, with shadows of trees like realities of other, nightly being. he threw a rug on to the bracken, and they sat in stillness and mindless silence. there were faint sounds from the wood, but no disturbance, no possible disturbance, the world was under a strange ban, a new mystery had supervened. they threw off their clothes, and he gathered her to him, and found her, found the pure lambent reality of her forever invisible flesh. quenched, inhuman, his fingers upon her unrevealed nudity were the fingers of silence upon silence, the body of mysterious night upon the body of mysterious night, the night masculine and feminine, never to be seen with the eye, or known with the mind, only known as a palpable revelation of living otherness. she had her desire of him, she touched, she received the maximum of unspeakable communication in touch, dark, subtle, positively silent, a magnificent gift and give again, a perfect acceptance and yielding, a mystery, the reality of that which can never be known, vital, sensual reality that can never be transmuted into mind content, but remains outside, living body of darkness and silence and subtlety, the mystic body of reality. she had her desire fulfilled. he had his desire fulfilled. for she was to him what he was to her, the immemorial magnificence of mystic, palpable, real otherness. they slept the chilly night through under the hood of the car, a night of unbroken sleep. it was already high day when he awoke. they looked at each other and laughed, then looked away, filled with darkness and secrecy. then they kissed and remembered the magnificence of the night. it was so magnificent, such an inheritance of a universe of dark reality, that they were afraid to seem to remember. they hid away the remembrance and the knowledge. chapter xxiv. death and love thomas crich died slowly, terribly slowly. it seemed impossible to everybody that the thread of life could be drawn out so thin, and yet not break. the sick man lay unutterably weak and spent, kept alive by morphia and by drinks, which he sipped slowly. he was only half consciousâ��a thin strand of consciousness linking the darkness of death with the light of day. yet his will was unbroken, he was integral, complete. only he must have perfect stillness about him. any presence but that of the nurses was a strain and an effort to him now. every morning gerald went into the room, hoping to find his father passed away at last. yet always he saw the same transparent face, the same dread dark hair on the waxen forehead, and the awful, inchoate dark eyes, which seemed to be decomposing into formless darkness, having only a tiny grain of vision within them. and always, as the dark, inchoate eyes turned to him, there passed through geraldâ��s bowels a burning stroke of revolt, that seemed to resound through his whole being, threatening to break his mind with its clangour, and making him mad. every morning, the son stood there, erect and taut with life, gleaming in his blondness. the gleaming blondness of his strange, imminent being put the father into a fever of fretful irritation. he could not bear to meet the uncanny, downward look of geraldâ��s blue eyes. but it was only for a moment. each on the brink of departure, the father and son looked at each other, then parted. for a long time gerald preserved a perfect _sang-froid_, he remained quite collected. but at last, fear undermined him. he was afraid of some horrible collapse in himself. he had to stay and see this thing through. some perverse will made him watch his father drawn over the borders of life. and yet, now, every day, the great red-hot stroke of horrified fear through the bowels of the son struck a further inflammation. gerald went about all day with a tendency to cringe, as if there were the point of a sword of damocles pricking the nape of his neck. there was no escapeâ��he was bound up with his father, he had to see him through. and the fatherâ��s will never relaxed or yielded to death. it would have to snap when death at last snapped it,â��if it did not persist after a physical death. in the same way, the will of the son never yielded. he stood firm and immune, he was outside this death and this dying. it was a trial by ordeal. could he stand and see his father slowly dissolve and disappear in death, without once yielding his will, without once relenting before the omnipotence of death. like a red indian undergoing torture, gerald would experience the whole process of slow death without wincing or flinching. he even triumphed in it. he somehow _wanted_ this death, even forced it. it was as if he himself were dealing the death, even when he most recoiled in horror. still, he would deal it, he would triumph through death. but in the stress of this ordeal, gerald too lost his hold on the outer, daily life. that which was much to him, came to mean nothing. work, pleasureâ��it was all left behind. he went on more or less mechanically with his business, but this activity was all extraneous. the real activity was this ghastly wrestling for death in his own soul. and his own will should triumph. come what might, he would not bow down or submit or acknowledge a master. he had no master in death. but as the fight went on, and all that he had been and was continued to be destroyed, so that life was a hollow shell all round him, roaring and clattering like the sound of the sea, a noise in which he participated externally, and inside this hollow shell was all the darkness and fearful space of death, he knew he would have to find reinforcements, otherwise he would collapse inwards upon the great dark void which circled at the centre of his soul. his will held his outer life, his outer mind, his outer being unbroken and unchanged. but the pressure was too great. he would have to find something to make good the equilibrium. something must come with him into the hollow void of death in his soul, fill it up, and so equalise the pressure within to the pressure without. for day by day he felt more and more like a bubble filled with darkness, round which whirled the iridescence of his consciousness, and upon which the pressure of the outer world, the outer life, roared vastly. in this extremity his instinct led him to gudrun. he threw away everything nowâ��he only wanted the relation established with her. he would follow her to the studio, to be near her, to talk to her. he would stand about the room, aimlessly picking up the implements, the lumps of clay, the little figures she had castâ��they were whimsical and grotesqueâ��looking at them without perceiving them. and she felt him following her, dogging her heels like a doom. she held away from him, and yet she knew he drew always a little nearer, a little nearer. â��i say,â�� he said to her one evening, in an odd, unthinking, uncertain way, â��wonâ��t you stay to dinner tonight? i wish you would.â�� she started slightly. he spoke to her like a man making a request of another man. â��theyâ��ll be expecting me at home,â�� she said. â��oh, they wonâ��t mind, will they?â�� he said. â��i should be awfully glad if youâ��d stay.â�� her long silence gave consent at last. â��iâ��ll tell thomas, shall i?â�� he said. â��i must go almost immediately after dinner,â�� she said. it was a dark, cold evening. there was no fire in the drawing-room, they sat in the library. he was mostly silent, absent, and winifred talked little. but when gerald did rouse himself, he smiled and was pleasant and ordinary with her. then there came over him again the long blanks, of which he was not aware. she was very much attracted by him. he looked so preoccupied, and his strange, blank silences, which she could not read, moved her and made her wonder over him, made her feel reverential towards him. but he was very kind. he gave her the best things at the table, he had a bottle of slightly sweet, delicious golden wine brought out for dinner, knowing she would prefer it to the burgundy. she felt herself esteemed, needed almost. as they took coffee in the library, there was a soft, very soft knocking at the door. he started, and called â��come in.â�� the timbre of his voice, like something vibrating at high pitch, unnerved gudrun. a nurse in white entered, half hovering in the doorway like a shadow. she was very good-looking, but strangely enough, shy and self-mistrusting. â��the doctor would like to speak to you, mr crich,â�� she said, in her low, discreet voice. â��the doctor!â�� he said, starting up. â��where is he?â�� â��he is in the dining-room.â�� â��tell him iâ��m coming.â�� he drank up his coffee, and followed the nurse, who had dissolved like a shadow. â��which nurse was that?â�� asked gudrun. â��miss inglisâ��i like her best,â�� replied winifred. after a while gerald came back, looking absorbed by his own thoughts, and having some of that tension and abstraction which is seen in a slightly drunken man. he did not say what the doctor had wanted him for, but stood before the fire, with his hands behind his back, and his face open and as if rapt. not that he was really thinkingâ��he was only arrested in pure suspense inside himself, and thoughts wafted through his mind without order. â��i must go now and see mama,â�� said winifred, â��and see dadda before he goes to sleep.â�� she bade them both good-night. gudrun also rose to take her leave. â��you neednâ��t go yet, need you?â�� said gerald, glancing quickly at the clock. â��it is early yet. iâ��ll walk down with you when you go. sit down, donâ��t hurry away.â�� gudrun sat down, as if, absent as he was, his will had power over her. she felt almost mesmerised. he was strange to her, something unknown. what was he thinking, what was he feeling, as he stood there so rapt, saying nothing? he kept herâ��she could feel that. he would not let her go. she watched him in humble submissiveness. â��had the doctor anything new to tell you?â�� she asked, softly, at length, with that gentle, timid sympathy which touched a keen fibre in his heart. he lifted his eyebrows with a negligent, indifferent expression. â��noâ��nothing new,â�� he replied, as if the question were quite casual, trivial. â��he says the pulse is very weak indeed, very intermittentâ��but that doesnâ��t necessarily mean much, you know.â�� he looked down at her. her eyes were dark and soft and unfolded, with a stricken look that roused him. â��no,â�� she murmured at length. â��i donâ��t understand anything about these things.â�� â��just as well not,â�� he said. â��i say, wonâ��t you have a cigarette?â��do!â�� he quickly fetched the box, and held her a light. then he stood before her on the hearth again. â��no,â�� he said, â��weâ��ve never had much illness in the house, eitherâ��not till father.â�� he seemed to meditate a while. then looking down at her, with strangely communicative blue eyes, that filled her with dread, he continued: â��itâ��s something you donâ��t reckon with, you know, till it is there. and then you realise that it was there all the timeâ��it was always thereâ��you understand what i mean?â��the possibility of this incurable illness, this slow death.â�� he moved his feet uneasily on the marble hearth, and put his cigarette to his mouth, looking up at the ceiling. â��i know,â�� murmured gudrun: â��it is dreadful.â�� he smoked without knowing. then he took the cigarette from his lips, bared his teeth, and putting the tip of his tongue between his teeth spat off a grain of tobacco, turning slightly aside, like a man who is alone, or who is lost in thought. â��i donâ��t know what the effect actually _is_, on one,â�� he said, and again he looked down at her. her eyes were dark and stricken with knowledge, looking into his. he saw her submerged, and he turned aside his face. â��but i absolutely am not the same. thereâ��s nothing left, if you understand what i mean. you seem to be clutching at the voidâ��and at the same time you are void yourself. and so you donâ��t know what to _do_.â�� â��no,â�� she murmured. a heavy thrill ran down her nerves, heavy, almost pleasure, almost pain. â��what can be done?â�� she added. he turned, and flipped the ash from his cigarette on to the great marble hearth-stones, that lay bare in the room, without fender or bar. â��i donâ��t know, iâ��m sure,â�� he replied. â��but i do think youâ��ve got to find some way of resolving the situationâ��not because you want to, but because youâ��ve _got_ to, otherwise youâ��re done. the whole of everything, and yourself included, is just on the point of caving in, and you are just holding it up with your hands. well, itâ��s a situation that obviously canâ��t continue. you canâ��t stand holding the roof up with your hands, for ever. you know that sooner or later youâ��ll _have_ to let go. do you understand what i mean? and so somethingâ��s got to be done, or thereâ��s a universal collapseâ��as far as you yourself are concerned.â�� he shifted slightly on the hearth, crunching a cinder under his heel. he looked down at it. gudrun was aware of the beautiful old marble panels of the fireplace, swelling softly carved, round him and above him. she felt as if she were caught at last by fate, imprisoned in some horrible and fatal trap. â��but what _can_ be done?â�� she murmured humbly. â��you must use me if i can be of any help at allâ��but how can i? i donâ��t see how i _can_ help you.â�� he looked down at her critically. â��i donâ��t want you to _help_,â�� he said, slightly irritated, â��because thereâ��s nothing to be _done_. i only want sympathy, do you see: i want somebody i can talk to sympathetically. that eases the strain. and there _is_ nobody to talk to sympathetically. thatâ��s the curious thing. there _is_ nobody. thereâ��s rupert birkin. but then he _isnâ��t_ sympathetic, he wants to _dictate_. and that is no use whatsoever.â�� she was caught in a strange snare. she looked down at her hands. then there was the sound of the door softly opening. gerald started. he was chagrined. it was his starting that really startled gudrun. then he went forward, with quick, graceful, intentional courtesy. â��oh, mother!â�� he said. â��how nice of you to come down. how are you?â�� the elderly woman, loosely and bulkily wrapped in a purple gown, came forward silently, slightly hulked, as usual. her son was at her side. he pushed her up a chair, saying â��you know miss brangwen, donâ��t you?â�� the mother glanced at gudrun indifferently. â��yes,â�� she said. then she turned her wonderful, forget-me-not blue eyes up to her son, as she slowly sat down in the chair he had brought her. â��i came to ask you about your father,â�� she said, in her rapid, scarcely-audible voice. â��i didnâ��t know you had company.â�� â��no? didnâ��t winifred tell you? miss brangwen stayed to dinner, to make us a little more livelyâ��â�� mrs crich turned slowly round to gudrun, and looked at her, but with unseeing eyes. â��iâ��m afraid it would be no treat to her.â�� then she turned again to her son. â��winifred tells me the doctor had something to say about your father. what is it?â�� â��only that the pulse is very weakâ��misses altogether a good many timesâ��so that he might not last the night out,â�� gerald replied. mrs crich sat perfectly impassive, as if she had not heard. her bulk seemed hunched in the chair, her fair hair hung slack over her ears. but her skin was clear and fine, her hands, as she sat with them forgotten and folded, were quite beautiful, full of potential energy. a great mass of energy seemed decaying up in that silent, hulking form. she looked up at her son, as he stood, keen and soldierly, near to her. her eyes were most wonderfully blue, bluer than forget-me-nots. she seemed to have a certain confidence in gerald, and to feel a certain motherly mistrust of him. â��how are _you?_â�� she muttered, in her strangely quiet voice, as if nobody should hear but him. â��youâ��re not getting into a state, are you? youâ��re not letting it make you hysterical?â�� the curious challenge in the last words startled gudrun. â��i donâ��t think so, mother,â�� he answered, rather coldly cheery. â��somebodyâ��s got to see it through, you know.â�� â��have they? have they?â�� answered his mother rapidly. â��why should _you_ take it on yourself? what have you got to do, seeing it through. it will see itself through. you are not needed.â�� â��no, i donâ��t suppose i can do any good,â�� he answered. â��itâ��s just how it affects us, you see.â�� â��you like to be affectedâ��donâ��t you? itâ��s quite nuts for you? you would have to be important. you have no need to stop at home. why donâ��t you go away!â�� these sentences, evidently the ripened grain of many dark hours, took gerald by surprise. â��i donâ��t think itâ��s any good going away now, mother, at the last minute,â�� he said, coldly. â��you take care,â�� replied his mother. â��you mind _yourself_â��thatâ��s your business. you take too much on yourself. you mind _yourself_, or youâ��ll find yourself in queer street, thatâ��s what will happen to you. youâ��re hysterical, always were.â�� â��iâ��m all right, mother,â�� he said. â��thereâ��s no need to worry about _me_, i assure you.â�� â��let the dead bury their deadâ��donâ��t go and bury yourself along with themâ��thatâ��s what i tell you. i know you well enough.â�� he did not answer this, not knowing what to say. the mother sat bunched up in silence, her beautiful white hands, that had no rings whatsoever, clasping the pommels of her arm-chair. â��you canâ��t do it,â�� she said, almost bitterly. â��you havenâ��t the nerve. youâ��re as weak as a cat, reallyâ��always were. is this young woman staying here?â�� â��no,â�� said gerald. â��she is going home tonight.â�� â��then sheâ��d better have the dog-cart. does she go far?â�� â��only to beldover.â�� â��ah!â�� the elderly woman never looked at gudrun, yet she seemed to take knowledge of her presence. â��you are inclined to take too much on yourself, gerald,â�� said the mother, pulling herself to her feet, with a little difficulty. â��will you go, mother?â�� he asked, politely. â��yes, iâ��ll go up again,â�� she replied. turning to gudrun, she bade her â��good-night.â�� then she went slowly to the door, as if she were unaccustomed to walking. at the door she lifted her face to him, implicitly. he kissed her. â��donâ��t come any further with me,â�� she said, in her barely audible voice. â��i donâ��t want you any further.â�� he bade her good-night, watched her across to the stairs and mount slowly. then he closed the door and came back to gudrun. gudrun rose also, to go. â��a queer being, my mother,â�� he said. â��yes,â�� replied gudrun. â��she has her own thoughts.â�� â��yes,â�� said gudrun. then they were silent. â��you want to go?â�� he asked. â��half a minute, iâ��ll just have a horse put inâ��â�� â��no,â�� said gudrun. â��i want to walk.â�� he had promised to walk with her down the long, lonely mile of drive, and she wanted this. â��you might _just_ as well drive,â�� he said. â��iâ��d _much rather_ walk,â�� she asserted, with emphasis. â��you would! then i will come along with you. you know where your things are? iâ��ll put boots on.â�� he put on a cap, and an overcoat over his evening dress. they went out into the night. â��let us light a cigarette,â�� he said, stopping in a sheltered angle of the porch. â��you have one too.â�� so, with the scent of tobacco on the night air, they set off down the dark drive that ran between close-cut hedges through sloping meadows. he wanted to put his arm round her. if he could put his arm round her, and draw her against him as they walked, he would equilibriate himself. for now he felt like a pair of scales, the half of which tips down and down into an indefinite void. he must recover some sort of balance. and here was the hope and the perfect recovery. blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly round her waist, and drew her to him. her heart fainted, feeling herself taken. but then, his arm was so strong, she quailed under its powerful close grasp. she died a little death, and was drawn against him as they walked down the stormy darkness. he seemed to balance her perfectly in opposition to himself, in their dual motion of walking. so, suddenly, he was liberated and perfect, strong, heroic. he put his hand to his mouth and threw his cigarette away, a gleaming point, into the unseen hedge. then he was quite free to balance her. â��thatâ��s better,â�� he said, with exultancy. the exultation in his voice was like a sweetish, poisonous drug to her. did she then mean so much to him! she sipped the poison. â��are you happier?â�� she asked, wistfully. â��much better,â�� he said, in the same exultant voice, â��and i was rather far gone.â�� she nestled against him. he felt her all soft and warm, she was the rich, lovely substance of his being. the warmth and motion of her walk suffused through him wonderfully. â��iâ��m _so_ glad if i help you,â�� she said. â��yes,â�� he answered. â��thereâ��s nobody else could do it, if you wouldnâ��t.â�� â��that is true,â�� she said to herself, with a thrill of strange, fatal elation. as they walked, he seemed to lift her nearer and nearer to himself, till she moved upon the firm vehicle of his body. he was so strong, so sustaining, and he could not be opposed. she drifted along in a wonderful interfusion of physical motion, down the dark, blowy hillside. far across shone the little yellow lights of beldover, many of them, spread in a thick patch on another dark hill. but he and she were walking in perfect, isolated darkness, outside the world. â��but how much do you care for me!â�� came her voice, almost querulous. â��you see, i donâ��t know, i donâ��t understand!â�� â��how much!â�� his voice rang with a painful elation. â��i donâ��t know eitherâ��but everything.â�� he was startled by his own declaration. it was true. so he stripped himself of every safeguard, in making this admission to her. he cared everything for herâ��she was everything. â��but i canâ��t believe it,â�� said her low voice, amazed, trembling. she was trembling with doubt and exultance. this was the thing she wanted to hear, only this. yet now she heard it, heard the strange clapping vibration of truth in his voice as he said it, she could not believe. she could not believeâ��she did not believe. yet she believed, triumphantly, with fatal exultance. â��why not?â�� he said. â��why donâ��t you believe it? itâ��s true. it is true, as we stand at this momentâ��â�� he stood still with her in the wind; â��i care for nothing on earth, or in heaven, outside this spot where we are. and it isnâ��t my own presence i care about, it is all yours. iâ��d sell my soul a hundred timesâ��but i couldnâ��t bear not to have you here. i couldnâ��t bear to be alone. my brain would burst. it is true.â�� he drew her closer to him, with definite movement. â��no,â�� she murmured, afraid. yet this was what she wanted. why did she so lose courage? they resumed their strange walk. they were such strangersâ��and yet they were so frightfully, unthinkably near. it was like a madness. yet it was what she wanted, it was what she wanted. they had descended the hill, and now they were coming to the square arch where the road passed under the colliery railway. the arch, gudrun knew, had walls of squared stone, mossy on one side with water that trickled down, dry on the other side. she had stood under it to hear the train rumble thundering over the logs overhead. and she knew that under this dark and lonely bridge the young colliers stood in the darkness with their sweethearts, in rainy weather. and so she wanted to stand under the bridge with _her_ sweetheart, and be kissed under the bridge in the invisible darkness. her steps dragged as she drew near. so, under the bridge, they came to a standstill, and he lifted her upon his breast. his body vibrated taut and powerful as he closed upon her and crushed her, breathless and dazed and destroyed, crushed her upon his breast. ah, it was terrible, and perfect. under this bridge, the colliers pressed their lovers to their breast. and now, under the bridge, the master of them all pressed her to himself! and how much more powerful and terrible was his embrace than theirs, how much more concentrated and supreme his love was, than theirs in the same sort! she felt she would swoon, die, under the vibrating, inhuman tension of his arms and his bodyâ��she would pass away. then the unthinkable high vibration slackened and became more undulating. he slackened and drew her with him to stand with his back to the wall. she was almost unconscious. so the colliersâ�� lovers would stand with their backs to the walls, holding their sweethearts and kissing them as she was being kissed. ah, but would their kisses be fine and powerful as the kisses of the firm-mouthed master? even the keen, short-cut moustacheâ��the colliers would not have that. and the colliersâ�� sweethearts would, like herself, hang their heads back limp over their shoulder, and look out from the dark archway, at the close patch of yellow lights on the unseen hill in the distance, or at the vague form of trees, and at the buildings of the colliery wood-yard, in the other direction. his arms were fast around her, he seemed to be gathering her into himself, her warmth, her softness, her adorable weight, drinking in the suffusion of her physical being, avidly. he lifted her, and seemed to pour her into himself, like wine into a cup. â��this is worth everything,â�� he said, in a strange, penetrating voice. so she relaxed, and seemed to melt, to flow into him, as if she were some infinitely warm and precious suffusion filling into his veins, like an intoxicant. her arms were round his neck, he kissed her and held her perfectly suspended, she was all slack and flowing into him, and he was the firm, strong cup that receives the wine of her life. so she lay cast upon him, stranded, lifted up against him, melting and melting under his kisses, melting into his limbs and bones, as if he were soft iron becoming surcharged with her electric life. till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away, everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, become contained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft stone. so she was passed away and gone in him, and he was perfected. when she opened her eyes again, and saw the patch of lights in the distance, it seemed to her strange that the world still existed, that she was standing under the bridge resting her head on geraldâ��s breast. geraldâ��who was he? he was the exquisite adventure, the desirable unknown to her. she looked up, and in the darkness saw his face above her, his shapely, male face. there seemed a faint, white light emitted from him, a white aura, as if he were visitor from the unseen. she reached up, like eve reaching to the apples on the tree of knowledge, and she kissed him, though her passion was a transcendent fear of the thing he was, touching his face with her infinitely delicate, encroaching wondering fingers. her fingers went over the mould of his face, over his features. how perfect and foreign he wasâ��ah how dangerous! her soul thrilled with complete knowledge. this was the glistening, forbidden apple, this face of a man. she kissed him, putting her fingers over his face, his eyes, his nostrils, over his brows and his ears, to his neck, to know him, to gather him in by touch. he was so firm, and shapely, with such satisfying, inconceivable shapeliness, strange, yet unutterably clear. he was such an unutterable enemy, yet glistening with uncanny white fire. she wanted to touch him and touch him and touch him, till she had him all in her hands, till she had strained him into her knowledge. ah, if she could have the precious _knowledge_ of him, she would be filled, and nothing could deprive her of this. for he was so unsure, so risky in the common world of day. â��you are so _beautiful_,â�� she murmured in her throat. he wondered, and was suspended. but she felt him quiver, and she came down involuntarily nearer upon him. he could not help himself. her fingers had him under their power. the fathomless, fathomless desire they could evoke in him was deeper than death, where he had no choice. but she knew now, and it was enough. for the time, her soul was destroyed with the exquisite shock of his invisible fluid lightning. she knew. and this knowledge was a death from which she must recover. how much more of him was there to know? ah much, much, many days harvesting for her large, yet perfectly subtle and intelligent hands upon the field of his living, radio-active body. ah, her hands were eager, greedy for knowledge. but for the present it was enough, enough, as much as her soul could bear. too much, and she would shatter herself, she would fill the fine vial of her soul too quickly, and it would break. enough nowâ��enough for the time being. there were all the after days when her hands, like birds, could feed upon the fields of him mystical plastic formâ��till then enough. and even he was glad to be checked, rebuked, held back. for to desire is better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded as deeply as it was desired. they walked on towards the town, towards where the lamps threaded singly, at long intervals down the dark high-road of the valley. they came at length to the gate of the drive. â��donâ��t come any further,â�� she said. â��youâ��d rather i didnâ��t?â�� he asked, relieved. he did not want to go up the public streets with her, his soul all naked and alight as it was. â��much ratherâ��good-night.â�� she held out her hand. he grasped it, then touched the perilous, potent fingers with his lips. â��good-night,â�� he said. â��tomorrow.â�� and they parted. he went home full of the strength and the power of living desire. but the next day, she did not come, she sent a note that she was kept indoors by a cold. here was a torment! but he possessed his soul in some sort of patience, writing a brief answer, telling her how sorry he was not to see her. the day after this, he stayed at homeâ��it seemed so futile to go down to the office. his father could not live the week out. and he wanted to be at home, suspended. gerald sat on a chair by the window in his fatherâ��s room. the landscape outside was black and winter-sodden. his father lay grey and ashen on the bed, a nurse moved silently in her white dress, neat and elegant, even beautiful. there was a scent of eau-de-cologne in the room. the nurse went out of the room, gerald was alone with death, facing the winter-black landscape. â��is there much more water in denley?â�� came the faint voice, determined and querulous, from the bed. the dying man was asking about a leakage from willey water into one of the pits. â��some moreâ��we shall have to run off the lake,â�� said gerald. â��will you?â�� the faint voice filtered to extinction. there was dead stillness. the grey-faced, sick man lay with eyes closed, more dead than death. gerald looked away. he felt his heart was seared, it would perish if this went on much longer. suddenly he heard a strange noise. turning round, he saw his fatherâ��s eyes wide open, strained and rolling in a frenzy of inhuman struggling. gerald started to his feet, and stood transfixed in horror. â��wha-a-ah-h-hâ��â�� came a horrible choking rattle from his fatherâ��s throat, the fearful, frenzied eye, rolling awfully in its wild fruitless search for help, passed blindly over gerald, then up came the dark blood and mess pumping over the face of the agonised being. the tense body relaxed, the head fell aside, down the pillow. gerald stood transfixed, his soul echoing in horror. he would move, but he could not. he could not move his limbs. his brain seemed to re-echo, like a pulse. the nurse in white softly entered. she glanced at gerald, then at the bed. â��ah!â�� came her soft whimpering cry, and she hurried forward to the dead man. â��ah-h!â�� came the slight sound of her agitated distress, as she stood bending over the bedside. then she recovered, turned, and came for towel and sponge. she was wiping the dead face carefully, and murmuring, almost whimpering, very softly: â��poor mr crich!â��poor mr crich! poor mr crich!â�� â��is he dead?â�� clanged geraldâ��s sharp voice. â��oh yes, heâ��s gone,â�� replied the soft, moaning voice of the nurse, as she looked up at geraldâ��s face. she was young and beautiful and quivering. a strange sort of grin went over geraldâ��s face, over the horror. and he walked out of the room. he was going to tell his mother. on the landing he met his brother basil. â��heâ��s gone, basil,â�� he said, scarcely able to subdue his voice, not to let an unconscious, frightening exultation sound through. â��what?â�� cried basil, going pale. gerald nodded. then he went on to his motherâ��s room. she was sitting in her purple gown, sewing, very slowly sewing, putting in a stitch then another stitch. she looked up at gerald with her blue undaunted eyes. â��fatherâ��s gone,â�� he said. â��heâ��s dead? who says so?â�� â��oh, you know, mother, if you see him.â�� she put her sewing down, and slowly rose. â��are you going to see him?â�� he asked. â��yes,â�� she said by the bedside the children already stood in a weeping group. â��oh, mother!â�� cried the daughters, almost in hysterics, weeping loudly. but the mother went forward. the dead man lay in repose, as if gently asleep, so gently, so peacefully, like a young man sleeping in purity. he was still warm. she stood looking at him in gloomy, heavy silence, for some time. â��ay,â�� she said bitterly, at length, speaking as if to the unseen witnesses of the air. â��youâ��re dead.â�� she stood for some minutes in silence, looking down. â��beautiful,â�� she asserted, â��beautiful as if life had never touched youâ��never touched you. god send i look different. i hope i shall look my years, when i am dead. beautiful, beautiful,â�� she crooned over him. â��you can see him in his teens, with his first beard on his face. a beautiful soul, beautifulâ��â�� then there was a tearing in her voice as she cried: â��none of you look like this, when you are dead! donâ��t let it happen again.â�� it was a strange, wild command from out of the unknown. her children moved unconsciously together, in a nearer group, at the dreadful command in her voice. the colour was flushed bright in her cheek, she looked awful and wonderful. â��blame me, blame me if you like, that he lies there like a lad in his teens, with his first beard on his face. blame me if you like. but you none of you know.â�� she was silent in intense silence. then there came, in a low, tense voice: â��if i thought that the children i bore would lie looking like that in death, iâ��d strangle them when they were infants, yesâ��â�� â��no, mother,â�� came the strange, clarion voice of gerald from the background, â��we are different, we donâ��t blame you.â�� she turned and looked full in his eyes. then she lifted her hands in a strange half-gesture of mad despair. â��pray!â�� she said strongly. â��pray for yourselves to god, for thereâ��s no help for you from your parents.â�� â��oh mother!â�� cried her daughters wildly. but she had turned and gone, and they all went quickly away from each other. when gudrun heard that mr crich was dead, she felt rebuked. she had stayed away lest gerald should think her too easy of winning. and now, he was in the midst of trouble, whilst she was cold. the following day she went up as usual to winifred, who was glad to see her, glad to get away into the studio. the girl had wept, and then, too frightened, had turned aside to avoid any more tragic eventuality. she and gudrun resumed work as usual, in the isolation of the studio, and this seemed an immeasurable happiness, a pure world of freedom, after the aimlessness and misery of the house. gudrun stayed on till evening. she and winifred had dinner brought up to the studio, where they ate in freedom, away from all the people in the house. after dinner gerald came up. the great high studio was full of shadow and a fragrance of coffee. gudrun and winifred had a little table near the fire at the far end, with a white lamp whose light did not travel far. they were a tiny world to themselves, the two girls surrounded by lovely shadows, the beams and rafters shadowy over-head, the benches and implements shadowy down the studio. â��you are cosy enough here,â�� said gerald, going up to them. there was a low brick fireplace, full of fire, an old blue turkish rug, the little oak table with the lamp and the white-and-blue cloth and the dessert, and gudrun making coffee in an odd brass coffee-maker, and winifred scalding a little milk in a tiny saucepan. â��have you had coffee?â�� said gudrun. â��i have, but iâ��ll have some more with you,â�� he replied. â��then you must have it in a glassâ��there are only two cups,â�� said winifred. â��it is the same to me,â�� he said, taking a chair and coming into the charmed circle of the girls. how happy they were, how cosy and glamorous it was with them, in a world of lofty shadows! the outside world, in which he had been transacting funeral business all the day was completely wiped out. in an instant he snuffed glamour and magic. they had all their things very dainty, two odd and lovely little cups, scarlet and solid gilt, and a little black jug with scarlet discs, and the curious coffee-machine, whose spirit-flame flowed steadily, almost invisibly. there was the effect of rather sinister richness, in which gerald at once escaped himself. they all sat down, and gudrun carefully poured out the coffee. â��will you have milk?â�� she asked calmly, yet nervously poising the little black jug with its big red dots. she was always so completely controlled, yet so bitterly nervous. â��no, i wonâ��t,â�� he replied. so, with a curious humility, she placed him the little cup of coffee, and herself took the awkward tumbler. she seemed to want to serve him. â��why donâ��t you give me the glassâ��it is so clumsy for you,â�� he said. he would much rather have had it, and seen her daintily served. but she was silent, pleased with the disparity, with her self-abasement. â��you are quite _en ménage_,â�� he said. â��yes. we arenâ��t really at home to visitors,â�� said winifred. â��youâ��re not? then iâ��m an intruder?â�� for once he felt his conventional dress was out of place, he was an outsider. gudrun was very quiet. she did not feel drawn to talk to him. at this stage, silence was bestâ��or mere light words. it was best to leave serious things aside. so they talked gaily and lightly, till they heard the man below lead out the horse, and call it to â��back-back!â�� into the dog-cart that was to take gudrun home. so she put on her things, and shook hands with gerald, without once meeting his eyes. and she was gone. the funeral was detestable. afterwards, at the tea-table, the daughters kept sayingâ��â��he was a good father to usâ��the best father in the worldâ��â��or elseâ��â��we shanâ��t easily find another man as good as father was.â�� gerald acquiesced in all this. it was the right conventional attitude, and, as far as the world went, he believed in the conventions. he took it as a matter of course. but winifred hated everything, and hid in the studio, and cried her heart out, and wished gudrun would come. luckily everybody was going away. the criches never stayed long at home. by dinner-time, gerald was left quite alone. even winifred was carried off to london, for a few days with her sister laura. but when gerald was really left alone, he could not bear it. one day passed by, and another. and all the time he was like a man hung in chains over the edge of an abyss. struggle as he might, he could not turn himself to the solid earth, he could not get footing. he was suspended on the edge of a void, writhing. whatever he thought of, was the abyssâ��whether it were friends or strangers, or work or play, it all showed him only the same bottomless void, in which his heart swung perishing. there was no escape, there was nothing to grasp hold of. he must writhe on the edge of the chasm, suspended in chains of invisible physical life. at first he was quiet, he kept still, expecting the extremity to pass away, expecting to find himself released into the world of the living, after this extremity of penance. but it did not pass, and a crisis gained upon him. as the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang with fear. he could not bear another night. another night was coming on, for another night he was to be suspended in chain of physical life, over the bottomless pit of nothingness. and he could not bear it. he could not bear it. he was frightened deeply, and coldly, frightened in his soul. he did not believe in his own strength any more. he could not fall into this infinite void, and rise again. if he fell, he would be gone for ever. he must withdraw, he must seek reinforcements. he did not believe in his own single self, any further than this. after dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his own nothingness, he turned aside. he pulled on his boots, put on his coat, and set out to walk in the night. it was dark and misty. he went through the wood, stumbling and feeling his way to the mill. birkin was away. goodâ��he was half glad. he turned up the hill, and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost the path in the complete darkness. it was boring. where was he going? no matter. he stumbled on till he came to a path again. then he went on through another wood. his mind became dark, he went on automatically. without thought or sensation, he stumbled unevenly on, out into the open again, fumbling for stiles, losing the path, and going along the hedges of the fields till he came to the outlet. and at last he came to the high road. it had distracted him to struggle blindly through the maze of darkness. but now, he must take a direction. and he did not even know where he was. but he must take a direction now. nothing would be resolved by merely walking, walking away. he had to take a direction. he stood still on the road, that was high in the utterly dark night, and he did not know where he was. it was a strange sensation, his heart beating, and ringed round with the utterly unknown darkness. so he stood for some time. then he heard footsteps, and saw a small, swinging light. he immediately went towards this. it was a miner. â��can you tell me,â�� he said, â��where this road goes?â�� â��road? ay, it goes ter whatmore.â�� â��whatmore! oh thank you, thatâ��s right. i thought i was wrong. good-night.â�� â��good-night,â�� replied the broad voice of the miner. gerald guessed where he was. at least, when he came to whatmore, he would know. he was glad to be on a high road. he walked forward as in a sleep of decision. that was whatmore villageâ��? yes, the kingâ��s headâ��and there the hall gates. he descended the steep hill almost running. winding through the hollow, he passed the grammar school, and came to willey green church. the churchyard! he halted. then in another moment he had clambered up the wall and was going among the graves. even in this darkness he could see the heaped pallor of old white flowers at his feet. this then was the grave. he stooped down. the flowers were cold and clammy. there was a raw scent of chrysanthemums and tube-roses, deadened. he felt the clay beneath, and shrank, it was so horribly cold and sticky. he stood away in revulsion. here was one centre then, here in the complete darkness beside the unseen, raw grave. but there was nothing for him here. no, he had nothing to stay here for. he felt as if some of the clay were sticking cold and unclean, on his heart. no, enough of this. where then?â��home? never! it was no use going there. that was less than no use. it could not be done. there was somewhere else to go. where? a dangerous resolve formed in his heart, like a fixed idea. there was gudrunâ��she would be safe in her home. but he could get at herâ��he would get at her. he would not go back tonight till he had come to her, if it cost him his life. he staked his all on this throw. he set off walking straight across the fields towards beldover. it was so dark, nobody could ever see him. his feet were wet and cold, heavy with clay. but he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate. there were great gaps in his consciousness. he was conscious that he was at winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how he had got there. and then, as in a dream, he was in the long street of beldover, with its street-lamps. there was a noise of voices, and of a door shutting loudly, and being barred, and of men talking in the night. the â��lord nelsonâ�� had just closed, and the drinkers were going home. he had better ask one of these where she livedâ��for he did not know the side streets at all. â��can you tell me where somerset drive is?â�� he asked of one of the uneven men. â��where what?â�� replied the tipsy minerâ��s voice. â��somerset drive.â�� â��somerset drive!â��iâ��ve heard oâ�� such a place, but i couldnâ��t for my life say where it is. who might you be wanting?â�� â��mr brangwenâ��william brangwen.â�� â��william brangwenâ��?â��?â�� â��who teaches at the grammar school, at willey greenâ��his daughter teaches there too.â�� â��o-o-o-oh, brangwen! _now_ iâ��ve got you. of _course_, william brangwen! yes, yes, heâ��s got two lasses as teachers, aside hisself. ay, thatâ��s himâ��thatâ��s him! why certainly i know where he lives, back your life i do! yiâ��_what_ place do they caâ�� it?â�� â��somerset drive,â�� repeated gerald patiently. he knew his own colliers fairly well. â��somerset drive, for certain!â�� said the collier, swinging his arm as if catching something up. â��somerset driveâ��yi! i couldnâ��t for my life lay hold oâ�� the lercality oâ�� the place. yis, i know the place, to be sure i doâ��â�� he turned unsteadily on his feet, and pointed up the dark, nigh-deserted road. â��you go up theerâ��anâ�� you taâ��e thâ�� firstâ��yi, thâ�� first turninâ�� on your leftâ��oâ�� that sideâ��past withamses tuffy shopâ��â�� â��_i_ know,â�� said gerald. â��ay! you go down a bit, past wheer thâ�� water-man livesâ��and then somerset drive, as they caâ�� it, branches off on â��t right hand sideâ��anâ�� thereâ��s nowt but three houses in it, no more than three, i believe,â��anâ�� iâ��m aâ��most certain as theirs is thâ�� lastâ��thâ�� last oâ�� thâ�� threeâ��you seeâ��â�� â��thank you very much,â�� said gerald. â��good-night.â�� and he started off, leaving the tipsy man there standing rooted. gerald went past the dark shops and houses, most of them sleeping now, and twisted round to the little blind road that ended on a field of darkness. he slowed down, as he neared his goal, not knowing how he should proceed. what if the house were closed in darkness? but it was not. he saw a big lighted window, and heard voices, then a gate banged. his quick ears caught the sound of birkinâ��s voice, his keen eyes made out birkin, with ursula standing in a pale dress on the step of the garden path. then ursula stepped down, and came along the road, holding birkinâ��s arm. gerald went across into the darkness and they dawdled past him, talking happily, birkinâ��s voice low, ursulaâ��s high and distinct. gerald went quickly to the house. the blinds were drawn before the big, lighted window of the dining-room. looking up the path at the side he could see the door left open, shedding a soft, coloured light from the hall lamp. he went quickly and silently up the path, and looked up into the hall. there were pictures on the walls, and the antlers of a stagâ��and the stairs going up on one sideâ��and just near the foot of the stairs the half opened door of the dining-room. with heart drawn fine, gerald stepped into the hall, whose floor was of coloured tiles, went quickly and looked into the large, pleasant room. in a chair by the fire, the father sat asleep, his head tilted back against the side of the big oak chimney piece, his ruddy face seen foreshortened, the nostrils open, the mouth fallen a little. it would take the merest sound to wake him. gerald stood a second suspended. he glanced down the passage behind him. it was all dark. again he was suspended. then he went swiftly upstairs. his senses were so finely, almost supernaturally keen, that he seemed to cast his own will over the half-unconscious house. he came to the first landing. there he stood, scarcely breathing. again, corresponding to the door below, there was a door again. that would be the motherâ��s room. he could hear her moving about in the candlelight. she would be expecting her husband to come up. he looked along the dark landing. then, silently, on infinitely careful feet, he went along the passage, feeling the wall with the extreme tips of his fingers. there was a door. he stood and listened. he could hear two peopleâ��s breathing. it was not that. he went stealthily forward. there was another door, slightly open. the room was in darkness. empty. then there was the bathroom, he could smell the soap and the heat. then at the end another bedroomâ��one soft breathing. this was she. with an almost occult carefulness he turned the door handle, and opened the door an inch. it creaked slightly. then he opened it another inchâ��then another. his heart did not beat, he seemed to create a silence about himself, an obliviousness. he was in the room. still the sleeper breathed softly. it was very dark. he felt his way forward inch by inch, with his feet and hands. he touched the bed, he could hear the sleeper. he drew nearer, bending close as if his eyes would disclose whatever there was. and then, very near to his face, to his fear, he saw the round, dark head of a boy. he recovered, turned round, saw the door ajar, a faint light revealed. and he retreated swiftly, drew the door to without fastening it, and passed rapidly down the passage. at the head of the stairs he hesitated. there was still time to flee. but it was unthinkable. he would maintain his will. he turned past the door of the parental bedroom like a shadow, and was climbing the second flight of stairs. they creaked under his weightâ��it was exasperating. ah what disaster, if the motherâ��s door opened just beneath him, and she saw him! it would have to be, if it were so. he held the control still. he was not quite up these stairs when he heard a quick running of feet below, the outer door was closed and locked, he heard ursulaâ��s voice, then the fatherâ��s sleepy exclamation. he pressed on swiftly to the upper landing. again a door was ajar, a room was empty. feeling his way forward, with the tips of his fingers, travelling rapidly, like a blind man, anxious lest ursula should come upstairs, he found another door. there, with his preternaturally fine sense alert, he listened. he heard someone moving in bed. this would be she. softly now, like one who has only one sense, the tactile sense, he turned the latch. it clicked. he held still. the bed-clothes rustled. his heart did not beat. then again he drew the latch back, and very gently pushed the door. it made a sticking noise as it gave. â��ursula?â�� said gudrunâ��s voice, frightened. he quickly opened the door and pushed it behind him. â��is it you, ursula?â�� came gudrunâ��s frightened voice. he heard her sitting up in bed. in another moment she would scream. â��no, itâ��s me,â�� he said, feeling his way towards her. â��it is i, gerald.â�� she sat motionless in her bed in sheer astonishment. she was too astonished, too much taken by surprise, even to be afraid. â��gerald!â�� she echoed, in blank amazement. he had found his way to the bed, and his outstretched hand touched her warm breast blindly. she shrank away. â��let me make a light,â�� she said, springing out. he stood perfectly motionless. he heard her touch the match-box, he heard her fingers in their movement. then he saw her in the light of a match, which she held to the candle. the light rose in the room, then sank to a small dimness, as the flame sank down on the candle, before it mounted again. she looked at him, as he stood near the other side of the bed. his cap was pulled low over his brow, his black overcoat was buttoned close up to his chin. his face was strange and luminous. he was inevitable as a supernatural being. when she had seen him, she knew. she knew there was something fatal in the situation, and she must accept it. yet she must challenge him. â��how did you come up?â�� she asked. â��i walked up the stairsâ��the door was open.â�� she looked at him. â��i havenâ��t closed this door, either,â�� he said. she walked swiftly across the room, and closed her door, softly, and locked it. then she came back. she was wonderful, with startled eyes and flushed cheeks, and her plait of hair rather short and thick down her back, and her long, fine white night-dress falling to her feet. she saw that his boots were all clayey, even his trousers were plastered with clay. and she wondered if he had made footprints all the way up. he was a very strange figure, standing in her bedroom, near the tossed bed. â��why have you come?â�� she asked, almost querulous. â��i wanted to,â�� he replied. and this she could see from his face. it was fate. â��you are so muddy,â�� she said, in distaste, but gently. he looked down at his feet. â��i was walking in the dark,â�� he replied. but he felt vividly elated. there was a pause. he stood on one side of the tumbled bed, she on the other. he did not even take his cap from his brows. â��and what do you want of me,â�� she challenged. he looked aside, and did not answer. save for the extreme beauty and mystic attractiveness of this distinct, strange face, she would have sent him away. but his face was too wonderful and undiscovered to her. it fascinated her with the fascination of pure beauty, cast a spell on her, like nostalgia, an ache. â��what do you want of me?â�� she repeated in an estranged voice. he pulled off his cap, in a movement of dream-liberation, and went across to her. but he could not touch her, because she stood barefoot in her night-dress, and he was muddy and damp. her eyes, wide and large and wondering, watched him, and asked him the ultimate question. â��i cameâ��because i must,â�� he said. â��why do you ask?â�� she looked at him in doubt and wonder. â��i must ask,â�� she said. he shook his head slightly. â��there is no answer,â�� he replied, with strange vacancy. there was about him a curious, and almost godlike air of simplicity and native directness. he reminded her of an apparition, the young hermes. â��but why did you come to me?â�� she persisted. â��becauseâ��it has to be so. if there werenâ��t you in the world, then _i_ shouldnâ��t be in the world, either.â�� she stood looking at him, with large, wide, wondering, stricken eyes. his eyes were looking steadily into hers all the time, and he seemed fixed in an odd supernatural steadfastness. she sighed. she was lost now. she had no choice. â��wonâ��t you take off your boots,â�� she said. â��they must be wet.â�� he dropped his cap on a chair, unbuttoned his overcoat, lifting up his chin to unfasten the throat buttons. his short, keen hair was ruffled. he was so beautifully blond, like wheat. he pulled off his overcoat. quickly he pulled off his jacket, pulled loose his black tie, and was unfastening his studs, which were headed each with a pearl. she listened, watching, hoping no one would hear the starched linen crackle. it seemed to snap like pistol shots. he had come for vindication. she let him hold her in his arms, clasp her close against him. he found in her an infinite relief. into her he poured all his pent-up darkness and corrosive death, and he was whole again. it was wonderful, marvellous, it was a miracle. this was the ever-recurrent miracle of his life, at the knowledge of which he was lost in an ecstasy of relief and wonder. and she, subject, received him as a vessel filled with his bitter potion of death. she had no power at this crisis to resist. the terrible frictional violence of death filled her, and she received it in an ecstasy of subjection, in throes of acute, violent sensation. as he drew nearer to her, he plunged deeper into her enveloping soft warmth, a wonderful creative heat that penetrated his veins and gave him life again. he felt himself dissolving and sinking to rest in the bath of her living strength. it seemed as if her heart in her breast were a second unconquerable sun, into the glow and creative strength of which he plunged further and further. all his veins, that were murdered and lacerated, healed softly as life came pulsing in, stealing invisibly in to him as if it were the all-powerful effluence of the sun. his blood, which seemed to have been drawn back into death, came ebbing on the return, surely, beautifully, powerfully. he felt his limbs growing fuller and flexible with life, his body gained an unknown strength. he was a man again, strong and rounded. and he was a child, so soothed and restored and full of gratitude. and she, she was the great bath of life, he worshipped her. mother and substance of all life she was. and he, child and man, received of her and was made whole. his pure body was almost killed. but the miraculous, soft effluence of her breast suffused over him, over his seared, damaged brain, like a healing lymph, like a soft, soothing flow of life itself, perfect as if he were bathed in the womb again. his brain was hurt, seared, the tissue was as if destroyed. he had not known how hurt he was, how his tissue, the very tissue of his brain was damaged by the corrosive flood of death. now, as the healing lymph of her effluence flowed through him, he knew how destroyed he was, like a plant whose tissue is burst from inwards by a frost. he buried his small, hard head between her breasts, and pressed her breasts against him with his hands. and she with quivering hands pressed his head against her, as he lay suffused out, and she lay fully conscious. the lovely creative warmth flooded through him like a sleep of fecundity within the womb. ah, if only she would grant him the flow of this living effluence, he would be restored, he would be complete again. he was afraid she would deny him before it was finished. like a child at the breast, he cleaved intensely to her, and she could not put him away. and his seared, ruined membrane relaxed, softened, that which was seared and stiff and blasted yielded again, became soft and flexible, palpitating with new life. he was infinitely grateful, as to god, or as an infant is at its motherâ��s breast. he was glad and grateful like a delirium, as he felt his own wholeness come over him again, as he felt the full, unutterable sleep coming over him, the sleep of complete exhaustion and restoration. but gudrun lay wide awake, destroyed into perfect consciousness. she lay motionless, with wide eyes staring motionless into the darkness, whilst he was sunk away in sleep, his arms round her. she seemed to be hearing waves break on a hidden shore, long, slow, gloomy waves, breaking with the rhythm of fate, so monotonously that it seemed eternal. this endless breaking of slow, sullen waves of fate held her life a possession, whilst she lay with dark, wide eyes looking into the darkness. she could see so far, as far as eternityâ��yet she saw nothing. she was suspended in perfect consciousnessâ��and of what was she conscious? this mood of extremity, when she lay staring into eternity, utterly suspended, and conscious of everything, to the last limits, passed and left her uneasy. she had lain so long motionless. she moved, she became self-conscious. she wanted to look at him, to see him. but she dared not make a light, because she knew he would wake, and she did not want to break his perfect sleep, that she knew he had got of her. she disengaged herself, softly, and rose up a little to look at him. there was a faint light, it seemed to her, in the room. she could just distinguish his features, as he slept the perfect sleep. in this darkness, she seemed to see him so distinctly. but he was far off, in another world. ah, she could shriek with torment, he was so far off, and perfected, in another world. she seemed to look at him as at a pebble far away under clear dark water. and here was she, left with all the anguish of consciousness, whilst he was sunk deep into the other element of mindless, remote, living shadow-gleam. he was beautiful, far-off, and perfected. they would never be together. ah, this awful, inhuman distance which would always be interposed between her and the other being! there was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. she felt an overwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-stirring of jealous hatred, that he should lie so perfect and immune, in an other-world, whilst she was tormented with violent wakefulness, cast out in the outer darkness. she lay in intense and vivid consciousness, an exhausting superconsciousness. the church clock struck the hours, it seemed to her, in quick succession. she heard them distinctly in the tension of her vivid consciousness. and he slept as if time were one moment, unchanging and unmoving. she was exhausted, wearied. yet she must continue in this state of violent active superconsciousness. she was conscious of everythingâ��her childhood, her girlhood, all the forgotten incidents, all the unrealised influences and all the happenings she had not understood, pertaining to herself, to her family, to her friends, her lovers, her acquaintances, everybody. it was as if she drew a glittering rope of knowledge out of the sea of darkness, drew and drew and drew it out of the fathomless depths of the past, and still it did not come to an end, there was no end to it, she must haul and haul at the rope of glittering consciousness, pull it out phosphorescent from the endless depths of the unconsciousness, till she was weary, aching, exhausted, and fit to break, and yet she had not done. ah, if only she might wake him! she turned uneasily. when could she rouse him and send him away? when could she disturb him? and she relapsed into her activity of automatic consciousness, that would never end. but the time was drawing near when she could wake him. it was like a release. the clock had struck four, outside in the night. thank god the night had passed almost away. at five he must go, and she would be released. then she could relax and fill her own place. now she was driven up against his perfect sleeping motion like a knife white-hot on a grindstone. there was something monstrous about him, about his juxtaposition against her. the last hour was the longest. and yet, at last it passed. her heart leapt with reliefâ��yes, there was the slow, strong stroke of the church clockâ��at last, after this night of eternity. she waited to catch each slow, fatal reverberation. â��threeâ��fourâ��five!â�� there, it was finished. a weight rolled off her. she raised herself, leaned over him tenderly, and kissed him. she was sad to wake him. after a few moments, she kissed him again. but he did not stir. the darling, he was so deep in sleep! what a shame to take him out of it. she let him lie a little longer. but he must goâ��he must really go. with full over-tenderness she took his face between her hands, and kissed his eyes. the eyes opened, he remained motionless, looking at her. her heart stood still. to hide her face from his dreadful opened eyes, in the darkness, she bent down and kissed him, whispering: â��you must go, my love.â�� but she was sick with terror, sick. he put his arms round her. her heart sank. â��but you must go, my love. itâ��s late.â�� â��what time is it?â�� he said. strange, his manâ��s voice. she quivered. it was an intolerable oppression to her. â��past five oâ��clock,â�� she said. but he only closed his arms round her again. her heart cried within her in torture. she disengaged herself firmly. â��you really must go,â�� she said. â��not for a minute,â�� he said. she lay still, nestling against him, but unyielding. â��not for a minute,â�� he repeated, clasping her closer. â��yes,â�� she said, unyielding, â��iâ��m afraid if you stay any longer.â�� there was a certain coldness in her voice that made him release her, and she broke away, rose and lit the candle. that then was the end. he got up. he was warm and full of life and desire. yet he felt a little bit ashamed, humiliated, putting on his clothes before her, in the candle-light. for he felt revealed, exposed to her, at a time when she was in some way against him. it was all very difficult to understand. he dressed himself quickly, without collar or tie. still he felt full and complete, perfected. she thought it humiliating to see a man dressing: the ridiculous shirt, the ridiculous trousers and braces. but again an idea saved her. â��it is like a workman getting up to go to work,â�� thought gudrun. â��and i am like a workmanâ��s wife.â�� but an ache like nausea was upon her: a nausea of him. he pushed his collar and tie into his overcoat pocket. then he sat down and pulled on his boots. they were sodden, as were his socks and trouser-bottoms. but he himself was quick and warm. â��perhaps you ought to have put your boots on downstairs,â�� she said. at once, without answering, he pulled them off again, and stood holding them in his hand. she had thrust her feet into slippers, and flung a loose robe round her. she was ready. she looked at him as he stood waiting, his black coat buttoned to the chin, his cap pulled down, his boots in his hand. and the passionate almost hateful fascination revived in her for a moment. it was not exhausted. his face was so warm-looking, wide-eyed and full of newness, so perfect. she felt old, old. she went to him heavily, to be kissed. he kissed her quickly. she wished his warm, expressionless beauty did not so fatally put a spell on her, compel her and subjugate her. it was a burden upon her, that she resented, but could not escape. yet when she looked at his straight manâ��s brows, and at his rather small, well-shaped nose, and at his blue, indifferent eyes, she knew her passion for him was not yet satisfied, perhaps never could be satisfied. only now she was weary, with an ache like nausea. she wanted him gone. they went downstairs quickly. it seemed they made a prodigious noise. he followed her as, wrapped in her vivid green wrap, she preceded him with the light. she suffered badly with fear, lest her people should be roused. he hardly cared. he did not care now who knew. and she hated this in him. one _must_ be cautious. one must preserve oneself. she led the way to the kitchen. it was neat and tidy, as the woman had left it. he looked up at the clockâ��twenty minutes past five then he sat down on a chair to put on his boots. she waited, watching his every movement. she wanted it to be over, it was a great nervous strain on her. he stood upâ��she unbolted the back door, and looked out. a cold, raw night, not yet dawn, with a piece of a moon in the vague sky. she was glad she need not go out. â��good-bye then,â�� he murmured. â��iâ��ll come to the gate,â�� she said. and again she hurried on in front, to warn him of the steps. and at the gate, once more she stood on the step whilst he stood below her. â��good-bye,â�� she whispered. he kissed her dutifully, and turned away. she suffered torments hearing his firm tread going so distinctly down the road. ah, the insensitiveness of that firm tread! she closed the gate, and crept quickly and noiselessly back to bed. when she was in her room, and the door closed, and all safe, she breathed freely, and a great weight fell off her. she nestled down in bed, in the groove his body had made, in the warmth he had left. and excited, worn-out, yet still satisfied, she fell soon into a deep, heavy sleep. gerald walked quickly through the raw darkness of the coming dawn. he met nobody. his mind was beautifully still and thoughtless, like a still pool, and his body full and warm and rich. he went quickly along towards shortlands, in a grateful self-sufficiency. chapter xxv. marriage or not the brangwen family was going to move from beldover. it was necessary now for the father to be in town. birkin had taken out a marriage licence, yet ursula deferred from day to day. she would not fix any definite timeâ��she still wavered. her monthâ��s notice to leave the grammar school was in its third week. christmas was not far off. gerald waited for the ursula-birkin marriage. it was something crucial to him. â��shall we make it a double-barrelled affair?â�� he said to birkin one day. â��who for the second shot?â�� asked birkin. â��gudrun and me,â�� said gerald, the venturesome twinkle in his eyes. birkin looked at him steadily, as if somewhat taken aback. â��seriousâ��or joking?â�� he asked. â��oh, serious. shall i? shall gudrun and i rush in along with you?â�� â��do by all means,â�� said birkin. â��i didnâ��t know youâ��d got that length.â�� â��what length?â�� said gerald, looking at the other man, and laughing. â��oh yes, weâ��ve gone all the lengths.â�� â��there remains to put it on a broad social basis, and to achieve a high moral purpose,â�� said birkin. â��something like that: the length and breadth and height of it,â�� replied gerald, smiling. â��oh well,â�� said birkin, â��itâ��s a very admirable step to take, i should say.â�� gerald looked at him closely. â��why arenâ��t you enthusiastic?â�� he asked. â��i thought you were such dead nuts on marriage.â�� birkin lifted his shoulders. â��one might as well be dead nuts on noses. there are all sorts of noses, snub and otherwiseâ��â�� gerald laughed. â��and all sorts of marriage, also snub and otherwise?â�� he said. â��thatâ��s it.â�� â��and you think if i marry, it will be snub?â�� asked gerald quizzically, his head a little on one side. birkin laughed quickly. â��how do i know what it will be!â�� he said. â��donâ��t lambaste me with my own parallelsâ��â�� gerald pondered a while. â��but i should like to know your opinion, exactly,â�� he said. â��on your marriage?â��or marrying? why should you want my opinion? iâ��ve got no opinions. iâ��m not interested in legal marriage, one way or another. itâ��s a mere question of convenience.â�� still gerald watched him closely. â��more than that, i think,â�� he said seriously. â��however you may be bored by the ethics of marriage, yet really to marry, in oneâ��s own personal case, is something critical, finalâ��â�� â��you mean there is something final in going to the registrar with a woman?â�� â��if youâ��re coming back with her, i do,â�� said gerald. â��it is in some way irrevocable.â�� â��yes, i agree,â�� said birkin. â��no matter how one regards legal marriage, yet to enter into the married state, in oneâ��s own personal instance, is finalâ��â�� â��i believe it is,â�� said birkin, â��somewhere.â�� â��the question remains then, should one do it,â�� said gerald. birkin watched him narrowly, with amused eyes. â��you are like lord bacon, gerald,â�� he said. â��you argue it like a lawyerâ��or like hamletâ��s to-be-or-not-to-be. if i were you i would _not_ marry: but ask gudrun, not me. youâ��re not marrying me, are you?â�� gerald did not heed the latter part of this speech. â��yes,â�� he said, â��one must consider it coldly. it is something critical. one comes to the point where one must take a step in one direction or another. and marriage is one directionâ��â�� â��and what is the other?â�� asked birkin quickly. gerald looked up at him with hot, strangely-conscious eyes, that the other man could not understand. â��i canâ��t say,â�� he replied. â��if i knew _that_â��â�� he moved uneasily on his feet, and did not finish. â��you mean if you knew the alternative?â�� asked birkin. â��and since you donâ��t know it, marriage is a _pis aller._â�� gerald looked up at birkin with the same hot, constrained eyes. â��one does have the feeling that marriage is a _pis aller_,â�� he admitted. â��then donâ��t do it,â�� said birkin. â��i tell you,â�� he went on, â��the same as iâ��ve said before, marriage in the old sense seems to me repulsive. _Ã�goïsme à deux_ is nothing to it. itâ��s a sort of tacit hunting in couples: the world all in couples, each couple in its own little house, watching its own little interests, and stewing in its own little privacyâ��itâ��s the most repulsive thing on earth.â�� â��i quite agree,â�� said gerald. â��thereâ��s something inferior about it. but as i say, whatâ��s the alternative.â�� â��one should avoid this _home_ instinct. itâ��s not an instinct, itâ��s a habit of cowardliness. one should never have a _home_.â�� â��i agree really,â�� said gerald. â��but thereâ��s no alternative.â�� â��weâ��ve got to find one. i do believe in a permanent union between a man and a woman. chopping about is merely an exhaustive process. but a permanent relation between a man and a woman isnâ��t the last wordâ��it certainly isnâ��t.â�� â��quite,â�� said gerald. â��in fact,â�� said birkin, â��because the relation between man and woman is made the supreme and exclusive relationship, thatâ��s where all the tightness and meanness and insufficiency comes in.â�� â��yes, i believe you,â�� said gerald. â��youâ��ve got to take down the love-and-marriage ideal from its pedestal. we want something broader. i believe in the _additional_ perfect relationship between man and manâ��additional to marriage.â�� â��i can never see how they can be the same,â�� said gerald. â��not the sameâ��but equally important, equally creative, equally sacred, if you like.â�� â��i know,â�� said gerald, â��you believe something like that. only i canâ��t _feel_ it, you see.â�� he put his hand on birkinâ��s arm, with a sort of deprecating affection. and he smiled as if triumphantly. he was ready to be doomed. marriage was like a doom to him. he was willing to condemn himself in marriage, to become like a convict condemned to the mines of the underworld, living no life in the sun, but having a dreadful subterranean activity. he was willing to accept this. and marriage was the seal of his condemnation. he was willing to be sealed thus in the underworld, like a soul damned but living forever in damnation. but he would not make any pure relationship with any other soul. he could not. marriage was not the committing of himself into a relationship with gudrun. it was a committing of himself in acceptance of the established world, he would accept the established order, in which he did not livingly believe, and then he would retreat to the underworld for his life. this he would do. the other way was to accept rupertâ��s offer of alliance, to enter into the bond of pure trust and love with the other man, and then subsequently with the woman. if he pledged himself with the man he would later be able to pledge himself with the woman: not merely in legal marriage, but in absolute, mystic marriage. yet he could not accept the offer. there was a numbness upon him, a numbness either of unborn, absent volition, or of atrophy. perhaps it was the absence of volition. for he was strangely elated at rupertâ��s offer. yet he was still more glad to reject it, not to be committed. chapter xxvi. a chair there was a jumble market every monday afternoon in the old market-place in town. ursula and birkin strayed down there one afternoon. they had been talking of furniture, and they wanted to see if there was any fragment they would like to buy, amid the heaps of rubbish collected on the cobble-stones. the old market-square was not very large, a mere bare patch of granite setts, usually with a few fruit-stalls under a wall. it was in a poor quarter of the town. meagre houses stood down one side, there was a hosiery factory, a great blank with myriad oblong windows, at the end, a street of little shops with flagstone pavement down the other side, and, for a crowning monument, the public baths, of new red brick, with a clock-tower. the people who moved about seemed stumpy and sordid, the air seemed to smell rather dirty, there was a sense of many mean streets ramifying off into warrens of meanness. now and again a great chocolate-and-yellow tramcar ground round a difficult bend under the hosiery factory. ursula was superficially thrilled when she found herself out among the common people, in the jumbled place piled with old bedding, heaps of old iron, shabby crockery in pale lots, muffled lots of unthinkable clothing. she and birkin went unwillingly down the narrow aisle between the rusty wares. he was looking at the goods, she at the people. she excitedly watched a young woman, who was going to have a baby, and who was turning over a mattress and making a young man, down-at-heel and dejected, feel it also. so secretive and active and anxious the young woman seemed, so reluctant, slinking, the young man. he was going to marry her because she was having a child. when they had felt the mattress, the young woman asked the old man seated on a stool among his wares, how much it was. he told her, and she turned to the young man. the latter was ashamed, and selfconscious. he turned his face away, though he left his body standing there, and muttered aside. and again the woman anxiously and actively fingered the mattress and added up in her mind and bargained with the old, unclean man. all the while, the young man stood by, shamefaced and down-at-heel, submitting. â��look,â�� said birkin, â��there is a pretty chair.â�� â��charming!â�� cried ursula. â��oh, charming.â�� it was an arm-chair of simple wood, probably birch, but of such fine delicacy of grace, standing there on the sordid stones, it almost brought tears to the eyes. it was square in shape, of the purest, slender lines, and four short lines of wood in the back, that reminded ursula of harpstrings. â��it was once,â�� said birkin, â��gildedâ��and it had a cane seat. somebody has nailed this wooden seat in. look, here is a trifle of the red that underlay the gilt. the rest is all black, except where the wood is worn pure and glossy. it is the fine unity of the lines that is so attractive. look, how they run and meet and counteract. but of course the wooden seat is wrongâ��it destroys the perfect lightness and unity in tension the cane gave. i like it thoughâ��â�� â��ah yes,â�� said ursula, â��so do i.â�� â��how much is it?â�� birkin asked the man. â��ten shillings.â�� â��and you will send itâ��?â�� it was bought. â��so beautiful, so pure!â�� birkin said. â��it almost breaks my heart.â�� they walked along between the heaps of rubbish. â��my beloved countryâ��it had something to express even when it made that chair.â�� â��and hasnâ��t it now?â�� asked ursula. she was always angry when he took this tone. â��no, it hasnâ��t. when i see that clear, beautiful chair, and i think of england, even jane austenâ��s englandâ��it had living thoughts to unfold even then, and pure happiness in unfolding them. and now, we can only fish among the rubbish heaps for the remnants of their old expression. there is no production in us now, only sordid and foul mechanicalness.â�� â��it isnâ��t true,â�� cried ursula. â��why must you always praise the past, at the expense of the present? _really_, i donâ��t think so much of jane austenâ��s england. it was materialistic enough, if you likeâ��â�� â��it could afford to be materialistic,â�� said birkin, â��because it had the power to be something otherâ��which we havenâ��t. we are materialistic because we havenâ��t the power to be anything elseâ��try as we may, we canâ��t bring off anything but materialism: mechanism, the very soul of materialism.â�� ursula was subdued into angry silence. she did not heed what he said. she was rebelling against something else. â��and i hate your past. iâ��m sick of it,â�� she cried. â��i believe i even hate that old chair, though it _is_ beautiful. it isnâ��t _my_ sort of beauty. i wish it had been smashed up when its day was over, not left to preach the beloved past to us. iâ��m sick of the beloved past.â�� â��not so sick as i am of the accursed present,â�� he said. â��yes, just the same. i hate the presentâ��but i donâ��t want the past to take its placeâ��i donâ��t want that old chair.â�� he was rather angry for a moment. then he looked at the sky shining beyond the tower of the public baths, and he seemed to get over it all. he laughed. â��all right,â�� he said, â��then let us not have it. iâ��m sick of it all, too. at any rate one canâ��t go on living on the old bones of beauty.â�� â��one canâ��t,â�� she cried. â��i _donâ��t_ want old things.â�� â��the truth is, we donâ��t want things at all,â�� he replied. â��the thought of a house and furniture of my own is hateful to me.â�� this startled her for a moment. then she replied: â��so it is to me. but one must live somewhere.â�� â��not somewhereâ��anywhere,â�� he said. â��one should just live anywhereâ��not have a definite place. i donâ��t want a definite place. as soon as you get a room, and it is _complete_, you want to run from it. now my rooms at the mill are quite complete, i want them at the bottom of the sea. it is a horrible tyranny of a fixed milieu, where each piece of furniture is a commandment-stone.â�� she clung to his arm as they walked away from the market. â��but what are we going to do?â�� she said. â��we must live somehow. and i do want some beauty in my surroundings. i want a sort of natural _grandeur_ even, _splendour_.â�� â��youâ��ll never get it in houses and furnitureâ��or even clothes. houses and furniture and clothes, they are all terms of an old base world, a detestable society of man. and if you have a tudor house and old, beautiful furniture, it is only the past perpetuated on top of you, horrible. and if you have a perfect modern house done for you by poiret, it is something else perpetuated on top of you. it is all horrible. it is all possessions, possessions, bullying you and turning you into a generalisation. you have to be like rodin, michelangelo, and leave a piece of raw rock unfinished to your figure. you must leave your surroundings sketchy, unfinished, so that you are never contained, never confined, never dominated from the outside.â�� she stood in the street contemplating. â��and we are never to have a complete place of our ownâ��never a home?â�� she said. â��pray god, in this world, no,â�� he answered. â��but thereâ��s only this world,â�� she objected. he spread out his hands with a gesture of indifference. â��meanwhile, then, weâ��ll avoid having things of our own,â�� he said. â��but youâ��ve just bought a chair,â�� she said. â��i can tell the man i donâ��t want it,â�� he replied. she pondered again. then a queer little movement twitched her face. â��no,â�� she said, â��we donâ��t want it. iâ��m sick of old things.â�� â��new ones as well,â�� he said. they retraced their steps. thereâ��in front of some furniture, stood the young couple, the woman who was going to have a baby, and the narrow-faced youth. she was fair, rather short, stout. he was of medium height, attractively built. his dark hair fell sideways over his brow, from under his cap, he stood strangely aloof, like one of the damned. â��let us give it to _them_,â�� whispered ursula. â��look they are getting a home together.â�� â��_i_ wonâ��t aid abet them in it,â�� he said petulantly, instantly sympathising with the aloof, furtive youth, against the active, procreant female. â��oh yes,â�� cried ursula. â��itâ��s right for themâ��thereâ��s nothing else for them.â�� â��very well,â�� said birkin, â��you offer it to them. iâ��ll watch.â�� ursula went rather nervously to the young couple, who were discussing an iron washstandâ��or rather, the man was glancing furtively and wonderingly, like a prisoner, at the abominable article, whilst the woman was arguing. â��we bought a chair,â�� said ursula, â��and we donâ��t want it. would you have it? we should be glad if you would.â�� the young couple looked round at her, not believing that she could be addressing them. â��would you care for it?â�� repeated ursula. â��itâ��s really _very_ prettyâ��butâ��butâ��â�� she smiled rather dazzlingly. the young couple only stared at her, and looked significantly at each other, to know what to do. and the man curiously obliterated himself, as if he could make himself invisible, as a rat can. â��we wanted to _give_ it to you,â�� explained ursula, now overcome with confusion and dread of them. she was attracted by the young man. he was a still, mindless creature, hardly a man at all, a creature that the towns have produced, strangely pure-bred and fine in one sense, furtive, quick, subtle. his lashes were dark and long and fine over his eyes, that had no mind in them, only a dreadful kind of subject, inward consciousness, glazed and dark. his dark brows and all his lines, were finely drawn. he would be a dreadful, but wonderful lover to a woman, so marvellously contributed. his legs would be marvellously subtle and alive, under the shapeless, trousers, he had some of the fineness and stillness and silkiness of a dark-eyed, silent rat. ursula had apprehended him with a fine _frisson_ of attraction. the full-built woman was staring offensively. again ursula forgot him. â��wonâ��t you have the chair?â�� she said. the man looked at her with a sideways look of appreciation, yet far-off, almost insolent. the woman drew herself up. there was a certain costermonger richness about her. she did not know what ursula was after, she was on her guard, hostile. birkin approached, smiling wickedly at seeing ursula so nonplussed and frightened. â��whatâ��s the matter?â�� he said, smiling. his eyelids had dropped slightly, there was about him the same suggestive, mocking secrecy that was in the bearing of the two city creatures. the man jerked his head a little on one side, indicating ursula, and said, with curious amiable, jeering warmth: â��what she warnt?â��eh?â�� an odd smile writhed his lips. birkin looked at him from under his slack, ironical eyelids. â��to give you a chairâ��thatâ��with the label on it,â�� he said, pointing. the man looked at the object indicated. there was a curious hostility in male, outlawed understanding between the two men. â��whatâ��s she warnt to give it _us_ for, guvnor,â�� he replied, in a tone of free intimacy that insulted ursula. â��thought youâ��d like itâ��itâ��s a pretty chair. we bought it and donâ��t want it. no need for you to have it, donâ��t be frightened,â�� said birkin, with a wry smile. the man glanced up at him, half inimical, half recognising. â��why donâ��t you want it for yourselves, if youâ��ve just bought it?â�� asked the woman coolly. â��â��taint good enough for you, now youâ��ve had a look at it. frightened itâ��s got something in it, eh?â�� she was looking at ursula, admiringly, but with some resentment. â��iâ��d never thought of that,â�� said birkin. â��but no, the woodâ��s too thin everywhere.â�� â��you see,â�� said ursula, her face luminous and pleased. â��_we_ are just going to get married, and we thought weâ��d buy things. then we decided, just now, that we wouldnâ��t have furniture, weâ��d go abroad.â�� the full-built, slightly blowsy city girl looked at the fine face of the other woman, with appreciation. they appreciated each other. the youth stood aside, his face expressionless and timeless, the thin line of the black moustache drawn strangely suggestive over his rather wide, closed mouth. he was impassive, abstract, like some dark suggestive presence, a gutter-presence. â��itâ��s all right to be some folks,â�� said the city girl, turning to her own young man. he did not look at her, but he smiled with the lower part of his face, putting his head aside in an odd gesture of assent. his eyes were unchanging, glazed with darkness. â��cawsts something to chynge your mind,â�� he said, in an incredibly low accent. â��only ten shillings this time,â�� said birkin. the man looked up at him with a grimace of a smile, furtive, unsure. â��cheap at â��arf a quid, guvnor,â�� he said. â��not like getting divawced.â�� â��weâ��re not married yet,â�� said birkin. â��no, no more arenâ��t we,â�� said the young woman loudly. â��but we shall be, a saturday.â�� again she looked at the young man with a determined, protective look, at once overbearing and very gentle. he grinned sicklily, turning away his head. she had got his manhood, but lord, what did he care! he had a strange furtive pride and slinking singleness. â��good luck to you,â�� said birkin. â��same to you,â�� said the young woman. then, rather tentatively: â��whenâ��s yours coming off, then?â�� birkin looked round at ursula. â��itâ��s for the lady to say,â�� he replied. â��we go to the registrar the moment sheâ��s ready.â�� ursula laughed, covered with confusion and bewilderment. â��no â��urry,â�� said the young man, grinning suggestive. â��oh, donâ��t break your neck to get there,â�� said the young woman. â��â��slike when youâ��re deadâ��youâ��re long time married.â�� the young man turned aside as if this hit him. â��the longer the better, let us hope,â�� said birkin. â��thatâ��s it, guvnor,â�� said the young man admiringly. â��enjoy it while it larstsâ��niver whip a dead donkey.â�� â��only when heâ��s shamming dead,â�� said the young woman, looking at her young man with caressive tenderness of authority. â��aw, thereâ��s a difference,â�� he said satirically. â��what about the chair?â�� said birkin. â��yes, all right,â�� said the woman. they trailed off to the dealer, the handsome but abject young fellow hanging a little aside. â��thatâ��s it,â�� said birkin. â��will you take it with you, or have the address altered.â�� â��oh, fred can carry it. make him do what he can for the dear old â��ome.â�� â��mike use of â��im,â�� said fred, grimly humorous, as he took the chair from the dealer. his movements were graceful, yet curiously abject, slinking. â��â��ereâ��s motherâ��s cosy chair,â�� he said. â��warnts a cushion.â�� and he stood it down on the market stones. â��donâ��t you think itâ��s pretty?â�� laughed ursula. â��oh, i do,â�� said the young woman. â��â��ave a sit in it, youâ��ll wish youâ��d kept it,â�� said the young man. ursula promptly sat down in the middle of the market-place. â��awfully comfortable,â�� she said. â��but rather hard. you try it.â�� she invited the young man to a seat. but he turned uncouthly, awkwardly aside, glancing up at her with quick bright eyes, oddly suggestive, like a quick, live rat. â��donâ��t spoil him,â�� said the young woman. â��heâ��s not used to arm-chairs, â��e isnâ��t.â�� the young man turned away, and said, with averted grin: â��only warnts legs on â��is.â�� the four parted. the young woman thanked them. â��thank you for the chairâ��itâ��ll last till it gives way.â�� â��keep it for an ornyment,â�� said the young man. â��good afternoonâ��good afternoon,â�� said ursula and birkin. â��gooâ��-luck to you,â�� said the young man, glancing and avoiding birkinâ��s eyes, as he turned aside his head. the two couples went asunder, ursula clinging to birkinâ��s arm. when they had gone some distance, she glanced back and saw the young man going beside the full, easy young woman. his trousers sank over his heels, he moved with a sort of slinking evasion, more crushed with odd self-consciousness now he had the slim old arm-chair to carry, his arm over the back, the four fine, square tapering legs swaying perilously near the granite setts of the pavement. and yet he was somewhere indomitable and separate, like a quick, vital rat. he had a queer, subterranean beauty, repulsive too. â��how strange they are!â�� said ursula. â��children of men,â�� he said. â��they remind me of jesus: â��the meek shall inherit the earth.â��â�� â��but they arenâ��t the meek,â�� said ursula. â��yes, i donâ��t know why, but they are,â�� he replied. they waited for the tramcar. ursula sat on top and looked out on the town. the dusk was just dimming the hollows of crowded houses. â��and are they going to inherit the earth?â�� she said. â��yesâ��they.â�� â��then what are we going to do?â�� she asked. â��weâ��re not like themâ��are we? weâ��re not the meek?â�� â��no. weâ��ve got to live in the chinks they leave us.â�� â��how horrible!â�� cried ursula. â��i donâ��t want to live in chinks.â�� â��donâ��t worry,â�� he said. â��they are the children of men, they like market-places and street-corners best. that leaves plenty of chinks.â�� â��all the world,â�� she said. â��ah noâ��but some room.â�� the tramcar mounted slowly up the hill, where the ugly winter-grey masses of houses looked like a vision of hell that is cold and angular. they sat and looked. away in the distance was an angry redness of sunset. it was all cold, somehow small, crowded, and like the end of the world. â��i donâ��t mind it even then,â�� said ursula, looking at the repulsiveness of it all. â��it doesnâ��t concern me.â�� â��no more it does,â�� he replied, holding her hand. â��one neednâ��t see. one goes oneâ��s way. in my world it is sunny and spaciousâ��â�� â��it is, my love, isnâ��t it?â�� she cried, hugging near to him on the top of the tramcar, so that the other passengers stared at them. â��and we will wander about on the face of the earth,â�� he said, â��and weâ��ll look at the world beyond just this bit.â�� there was a long silence. her face was radiant like gold, as she sat thinking. â��i donâ��t want to inherit the earth,â�� she said. â��i donâ��t want to inherit anything.â�� he closed his hand over hers. â��neither do i. i want to be disinherited.â�� she clasped his fingers closely. â��we wonâ��t care about _anything_,â�� she said. he sat still, and laughed. â��and weâ��ll be married, and have done with them,â�� she added. again he laughed. â��itâ��s one way of getting rid of everything,â�� she said, â��to get married.â�� â��and one way of accepting the whole world,â�� he added. â��a whole other world, yes,â�� she said happily. â��perhaps thereâ��s geraldâ��and gudrunâ��â�� he said. â��if there is there is, you see,â�� she said. â��itâ��s no good our worrying. we canâ��t really alter them, can we?â�� â��no,â�� he said. â��one has no right to tryâ��not with the best intentions in the world.â�� â��do you try to force them?â�� she asked. â��perhaps,â�� he said. â��why should i want him to be free, if it isnâ��t his business?â�� she paused for a time. â��we canâ��t _make_ him happy, anyhow,â�� she said. â��heâ��d have to be it of himself.â�� â��i know,â�� he said. â��but we want other people with us, donâ��t we?â�� â��why should we?â�� she asked. â��i donâ��t know,â�� he said uneasily. â��one has a hankering after a sort of further fellowship.â�� â��but why?â�� she insisted. â��why should you hanker after other people? why should you need them?â�� this hit him right on the quick. his brows knitted. â��does it end with just our two selves?â�� he asked, tense. â��yesâ��what more do you want? if anybody likes to come along, let them. but why must you run after them?â�� his face was tense and unsatisfied. â��you see,â�� he said, â��i always imagine our being really happy with some few other peopleâ��a little freedom with people.â�� she pondered for a moment. â��yes, one does want that. but it must _happen_. you canâ��t do anything for it with your will. you always seem to think you can _force_ the flowers to come out. people must love us because they love usâ��you canâ��t _make_ them.â�� â��i know,â�� he said. â��but must one take no steps at all? must one just go as if one were alone in the worldâ��the only creature in the world?â�� â��youâ��ve got me,â�� she said. â��why should you _need_ others? why must you force people to agree with you? why canâ��t you be single by yourself, as you are always saying? you try to bully geraldâ��as you tried to bully hermione. you must learn to be alone. and itâ��s so horrid of you. youâ��ve got me. and yet you want to force other people to love you as well. you do try to bully them to love you. and even then, you donâ��t want their love.â�� his face was full of real perplexity. â��donâ��t i?â�� he said. â��itâ��s the problem i canâ��t solve. i _know_ i want a perfect and complete relationship with you: and weâ��ve nearly got itâ��we really have. but beyond that. _do_ i want a real, ultimate relationship with gerald? do i want a final almost extra-human relationship with himâ��a relationship in the ultimate of me and himâ��or donâ��t i?â�� she looked at him for a long time, with strange bright eyes, but she did not answer. chapter xxvii. flitting that evening ursula returned home very bright-eyed and wondrousâ��which irritated her people. her father came home at suppertime, tired after the evening class, and the long journey home. gudrun was reading, the mother sat in silence. suddenly ursula said to the company at large, in a bright voice, â��rupert and i are going to be married tomorrow.â�� her father turned round, stiffly. â��you what?â�� he said. â��tomorrow!â�� echoed gudrun. â��indeed!â�� said the mother. but ursula only smiled wonderfully, and did not reply. â��married tomorrow!â�� cried her father harshly. â��what are you talking about.â�� â��yes,â�� said ursula. â��why not?â�� those two words, from her, always drove him mad. â��everything is all rightâ��we shall go to the registrarâ��s officeâ��â�� there was a secondâ��s hush in the room, after ursulaâ��s blithe vagueness. â��_really_, ursula!â�� said gudrun. â��might we ask why there has been all this secrecy?â�� demanded the mother, rather superbly. â��but there hasnâ��t,â�� said ursula. â��you knew.â�� â��who knew?â�� now cried the father. â��who knew? what do you mean by your â��you knewâ��?â�� he was in one of his stupid rages, she instantly closed against him. â��of course you knew,â�� she said coolly. â��you knew we were going to get married.â�� there was a dangerous pause. â��we knew you were going to get married, did we? knew! why, does anybody know anything about you, you shifty bitch!â�� â��father!â�� cried gudrun, flushing deep in violent remonstrance. then, in a cold, but gentle voice, as if to remind her sister to be tractable: â��but isnâ��t it a _fearfully_ sudden decision, ursula?â�� she asked. â��no, not really,â�� replied ursula, with the same maddening cheerfulness. â��heâ��s been _wanting_ me to agree for weeksâ��heâ��s had the licence ready. only iâ��i wasnâ��t ready in myself. now i am readyâ��is there anything to be disagreeable about?â�� â��certainly not,â�� said gudrun, but in a tone of cold reproof. â��you are perfectly free to do as you like.â�� â��â��ready in yourselfâ��â��_yourself_, thatâ��s all that matters, isnâ��t it! â��i wasnâ��t ready in myself,â��â�� he mimicked her phrase offensively. â��you and _yourself_, youâ��re of some importance, arenâ��t you?â�� she drew herself up and set back her throat, her eyes shining yellow and dangerous. â��i am to myself,â�� she said, wounded and mortified. â��i know i am not to anybody else. you only wanted to _bully_ meâ��you never cared for my happiness.â�� he was leaning forward watching her, his face intense like a spark. â��ursula, what are you saying? keep your tongue still,â�� cried her mother. ursula swung round, and the lights in her eyes flashed. â��no, i wonâ��t,â�� she cried. â��i wonâ��t hold my tongue and be bullied. what does it matter which day i get marriedâ��what does it _matter!_ it doesnâ��t affect anybody but myself.â�� her father was tense and gathered together like a cat about to spring. â��doesnâ��t it?â�� he cried, coming nearer to her. she shrank away. â��no, how can it?â�� she replied, shrinking but stubborn. â��it doesnâ��t matter to _me_ then, what you doâ��what becomes of you?â�� he cried, in a strange voice like a cry. the mother and gudrun stood back as if hypnotised. â��no,â�� stammered ursula. her father was very near to her. â��you only want toâ��â�� she knew it was dangerous, and she stopped. he was gathered together, every muscle ready. â��what?â�� he challenged. â��bully me,â�� she muttered, and even as her lips were moving, his hand had caught her smack at the side of the face and she was sent up against the door. â��father!â�� cried gudrun in a high voice, â��it is impossible!â�� he stood unmoving. ursula recovered, her hand was on the door handle. she slowly drew herself up. he seemed doubtful now. â��itâ��s true,â�� she declared, with brilliant tears in her eyes, her head lifted up in defiance. â��what has your love meant, what did it ever mean?â��bullying, and denialâ��it didâ��â�� he was advancing again with strange, tense movements, and clenched fist, and the face of a murderer. but swift as lightning she had flashed out of the door, and they heard her running upstairs. he stood for a moment looking at the door. then, like a defeated animal, he turned and went back to his seat by the fire. gudrun was very white. out of the intense silence, the motherâ��s voice was heard saying, cold and angry: â��well, you shouldnâ��t take so much notice of her.â�� again the silence fell, each followed a separate set of emotions and thoughts. suddenly the door opened again: ursula, dressed in hat and furs, with a small valise in her hand: â��good-bye!â�� she said, in her maddening, bright, almost mocking tone. â��iâ��m going.â�� and in the next instant the door was closed, they heard the outer door, then her quick steps down the garden path, then the gate banged, and her light footfall was gone. there was a silence like death in the house. ursula went straight to the station, hastening heedlessly on winged feet. there was no train, she must walk on to the junction. as she went through the darkness, she began to cry, and she wept bitterly, with a dumb, heart-broken, childâ��s anguish, all the way on the road, and in the train. time passed unheeded and unknown, she did not know where she was, nor what was taking place. only she wept from fathomless depths of hopeless, hopeless grief, the terrible grief of a child, that knows no extenuation. yet her voice had the same defensive brightness as she spoke to birkinâ��s landlady at the door. â��good evening! is mr birkin in? can i see him?â�� â��yes, heâ��s in. heâ��s in his study.â�� ursula slipped past the woman. his door opened. he had heard her voice. â��hello!â�� he exclaimed in surprise, seeing her standing there with the valise in her hand, and marks of tears on her face. she was one who wept without showing many traces, like a child. â��do i look a sight?â�� she said, shrinking. â��noâ��why? come in,â�� he took the bag from her hand and they went into the study. thereâ��immediately, her lips began to tremble like those of a child that remembers again, and the tears came rushing up. â��whatâ��s the matter?â�� he asked, taking her in his arms. she sobbed violently on his shoulder, whilst he held her still, waiting. â��whatâ��s the matter?â�� he said again, when she was quieter. but she only pressed her face further into his shoulder, in pain, like a child that cannot tell. â��what is it, then?â�� he asked. suddenly she broke away, wiped her eyes, regained her composure, and went and sat in a chair. â��father hit me,â�� she announced, sitting bunched up, rather like a ruffled bird, her eyes very bright. â��what for?â�� he said. she looked away, and would not answer. there was a pitiful redness about her sensitive nostrils, and her quivering lips. â��why?â�� he repeated, in his strange, soft, penetrating voice. she looked round at him, rather defiantly. â��because i said i was going to be married tomorrow, and he bullied me.â�� â��why did he bully you?â�� her mouth dropped again, she remembered the scene once more, the tears came up. â��because i said he didnâ��t careâ��and he doesnâ��t, itâ��s only his domineeringness thatâ��s hurtâ��â�� she said, her mouth pulled awry by her weeping, all the time she spoke, so that he almost smiled, it seemed so childish. yet it was not childish, it was a mortal conflict, a deep wound. â��it isnâ��t quite true,â�� he said. â��and even so, you shouldnâ��t _say_ it.â�� â��it _is_ trueâ��it _is_ true,â�� she wept, â��and i wonâ��t be bullied by his pretending itâ��s loveâ��when it _isnâ��t_â��he doesnâ��t care, how can heâ��no, he canâ��tâ��â�� he sat in silence. she moved him beyond himself. â��then you shouldnâ��t rouse him, if he canâ��t,â�� replied birkin quietly. â��and i _have_ loved him, i have,â�� she wept. â��iâ��ve loved him always, and heâ��s always done this to me, he hasâ��â�� â��itâ��s been a love of opposition, then,â�� he said. â��never mindâ��it will be all right. itâ��s nothing desperate.â�� â��yes,â�� she wept, â��it is, it is.â�� â��why?â�� â��i shall never see him againâ��â�� â��not immediately. donâ��t cry, you had to break with him, it had to beâ��donâ��t cry.â�� he went over to her and kissed her fine, fragile hair, touching her wet cheeks gently. â��donâ��t cry,â�� he repeated, â��donâ��t cry any more.â�� he held her head close against him, very close and quiet. at last she was still. then she looked up, her eyes wide and frightened. â��donâ��t you want me?â�� she asked. â��want you?â�� his darkened, steady eyes puzzled her and did not give her play. â��do you wish i hadnâ��t come?â�� she asked, anxious now again for fear she might be out of place. â��no,â�� he said. â��i wish there hadnâ��t been the violenceâ��so much uglinessâ��but perhaps it was inevitable.â�� she watched him in silence. he seemed deadened. â��but where shall i stay?â�� she asked, feeling humiliated. he thought for a moment. â��here, with me,â�� he said. â��weâ��re married as much today as we shall be tomorrow.â�� â��butâ��â�� â��iâ��ll tell mrs varley,â�� he said. â��never mind now.â�� he sat looking at her. she could feel his darkened steady eyes looking at her all the time. it made her a little bit frightened. she pushed her hair off her forehead nervously. â��do i look ugly?â�� she said. and she blew her nose again. a small smile came round his eyes. â��no,â�� he said, â��fortunately.â�� and he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his arms. she was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he could only bear to hide her against himself. now; washed all clean by her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes against her. she had the perfect candour of creation, something translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment unfolded in primal blessedness. she was so new, so wonder-clear, so undimmed. and he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. her soul was new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. and his soul was dark and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of mustard seed. but this one living grain in him matched the perfect youth in her. â��i love you,â�� he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far exceeding the bounds of death. she could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the few words. almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her. but the passion of gratitude with which he received her into his soul, the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing himself living and fit to unite with her, he, who was so nearly dead, who was so near to being gone with the rest of his race down the slope of mechanical death, could never be understood by her. he worshipped her as age worships youth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith, he was young as she, he was her proper mate. this marriage with her was his resurrection and his life. all this she could not know. she wanted to be made much of, to be adored. there were infinite distances of silence between them. how could he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, or weight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! how could he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. he said â��your nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.â�� but it sounded like lies, and she was disappointed, hurt. even when he said, whispering with truth, â��i love you, i love you,â�� it was not the real truth. it was something beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed oneself, of having transcended the old existence. how could he say â��iâ�� when he was something new and unknown, not himself at all? this i, this old formula of the age, was a dead letter. in the new, superfine bliss, a peace superseding knowledge, there was no i and you, there was only the third, unrealised wonder, the wonder of existing not as oneself, but in a consummation of my being and of her being in a new one, a new, paradisal unit regained from the duality. nor can i say â��i love you,â�� when i have ceased to be, and you have ceased to be: we are both caught up and transcended into a new oneness where everything is silent, because there is nothing to answer, all is perfect and at one. speech travels between the separate parts. but in the perfect one there is perfect silence of bliss. they were married by law on the next day, and she did as he bade her, she wrote to her father and mother. her mother replied, not her father. she did not go back to school. she stayed with birkin in his rooms, or at the mill, moving with him as he moved. but she did not see anybody, save gudrun and gerald. she was all strange and wondering as yet, but relieved as by dawn. gerald sat talking to her one afternoon in the warm study down at the mill. rupert had not yet come home. â��you are happy?â�� gerald asked her, with a smile. â��very happy!â�� she cried, shrinking a little in her brightness. â��yes, one can see it.â�� â��can one?â�� cried ursula in surprise. he looked up at her with a communicative smile. â��oh yes, plainly.â�� she was pleased. she meditated a moment. â��and can you see that rupert is happy as well?â�� he lowered his eyelids, and looked aside. â��oh yes,â�� he said. â��really!â�� â��oh yes.â�� he was very quiet, as if it were something not to be talked about by him. he seemed sad. she was very sensitive to suggestion. she asked the question he wanted her to ask. â��why donâ��t you be happy as well?â�� she said. â��you could be just the same.â�� he paused a moment. â��with gudrun?â�� he asked. â��yes!â�� she cried, her eyes glowing. but there was a strange tension, an emphasis, as if they were asserting their wishes, against the truth. â��you think gudrun would have me, and we should be happy?â�� he said. â��yes, iâ��m _sure!_â�� she cried. her eyes were round with delight. yet underneath she was constrained, she knew her own insistence. â��oh, iâ��m _so_ glad,â�� she added. he smiled. â��what makes you glad?â�� he said. â��for _her_ sake,â�� she replied. â��iâ��m sure youâ��dâ��youâ��re the right man for her.â�� â��you are?â�� he said. â��and do you think she would agree with you?â�� â��oh yes!â�� she exclaimed hastily. then, upon reconsideration, very uneasy: â��though gudrun isnâ��t so very simple, is she? one doesnâ��t know her in five minutes, does one? sheâ��s not like me in that.â�� she laughed at him with her strange, open, dazzled face. â��you think sheâ��s not much like you?â�� gerald asked. she knitted her brows. â��oh, in many ways she is. but i never know what she will do when anything new comes.â�� â��you donâ��t?â�� said gerald. he was silent for some moments. then he moved tentatively. â��i was going to ask her, in any case, to go away with me at christmas,â�� he said, in a very small, cautious voice. â��go away with you? for a time, you mean?â�� â��as long as she likes,â�� he said, with a deprecating movement. they were both silent for some minutes. â��of course,â�� said ursula at last, â��she _might_ just be willing to rush into marriage. you can see.â�� â��yes,â�� smiled gerald. â��i can see. but in case she wonâ��tâ��do you think she would go abroad with me for a few daysâ��or for a fortnight?â�� â��oh yes,â�� said ursula. â��iâ��d ask her.â�� â��do you think we might all go together?â�� â��all of us?â�� again ursulaâ��s face lighted up. â��it would be rather fun, donâ��t you think?â�� â��great fun,â�� he said. â��and then you could see,â�� said ursula. â��what?â�� â��how things went. i think it is best to take the honeymoon before the weddingâ��donâ��t you?â�� she was pleased with this _mot_. he laughed. â��in certain cases,â�� he said. â��iâ��d rather it were so in my own case.â�� â��would you!â�� exclaimed ursula. then doubtingly, â��yes, perhaps youâ��re right. one should please oneself.â�� birkin came in a little later, and ursula told him what had been said. â��gudrun!â�� exclaimed birkin. â��sheâ��s a born mistress, just as gerald is a born loverâ��_amant en titre_. if as somebody says all women are either wives or mistresses, then gudrun is a mistress.â�� â��and all men either lovers or husbands,â�� cried ursula. â��but why not both?â�� â��the one excludes the other,â�� he laughed. â��then i want a lover,â�� cried ursula. â��no you donâ��t,â�� he said. â��but i do,â�� she wailed. he kissed her, and laughed. it was two days after this that ursula was to go to fetch her things from the house in beldover. the removal had taken place, the family had gone. gudrun had rooms in willey green. ursula had not seen her parents since her marriage. she wept over the rupture, yet what was the good of making it up! good or not good, she could not go to them. so her things had been left behind and she and gudrun were to walk over for them, in the afternoon. it was a wintry afternoon, with red in the sky, when they arrived at the house. the windows were dark and blank, already the place was frightening. a stark, void entrance-hall struck a chill to the hearts of the girls. â��i donâ��t believe i dare have come in alone,â�� said ursula. â��it frightens me.â�� â��ursula!â�� cried gudrun. â��isnâ��t it amazing! can you believe you lived in this place and never felt it? how i lived here a day without dying of terror, i cannot conceive!â�� they looked in the big dining-room. it was a good-sized room, but now a cell would have been lovelier. the large bay windows were naked, the floor was stripped, and a border of dark polish went round the tract of pale boarding. in the faded wallpaper were dark patches where furniture had stood, where pictures had hung. the sense of walls, dry, thin, flimsy-seeming walls, and a flimsy flooring, pale with its artificial black edges, was neutralising to the mind. everything was null to the senses, there was enclosure without substance, for the walls were dry and papery. where were they standing, on earth, or suspended in some cardboard box? in the hearth was burnt paper, and scraps of half-burnt paper. â��imagine that we passed our days here!â�� said ursula. â��i know,â�� cried gudrun. â��it is too appalling. what must we be like, if we are the contents of _this!_â�� â��vile!â�� said ursula. â��it really is.â�� and she recognised half-burnt covers of â��vogueâ��â��half-burnt representations of women in gownsâ��lying under the grate. they went to the drawing-room. another piece of shut-in air; without weight or substance, only a sense of intolerable papery imprisonment in nothingness. the kitchen did look more substantial, because of the red-tiled floor and the stove, but it was cold and horrid. the two girls tramped hollowly up the bare stairs. every sound re-echoed under their hearts. they tramped down the bare corridor. against the wall of ursulaâ��s bedroom were her thingsâ��a trunk, a work-basket, some books, loose coats, a hat-box, standing desolate in the universal emptiness of the dusk. â��a cheerful sight, arenâ��t they?â�� said ursula, looking down at her forsaken possessions. â��very cheerful,â�� said gudrun. the two girls set to, carrying everything down to the front door. again and again they made the hollow, re-echoing transit. the whole place seemed to resound about them with a noise of hollow, empty futility. in the distance the empty, invisible rooms sent forth a vibration almost of obscenity. they almost fled with the last articles, into the out-of-door. but it was cold. they were waiting for birkin, who was coming with the car. they went indoors again, and upstairs to their parentsâ�� front bedroom, whose windows looked down on the road, and across the country at the black-barred sunset, black and red barred, without light. they sat down in the window-seat, to wait. both girls were looking over the room. it was void, with a meaninglessness that was almost dreadful. â��really,â�� said ursula, â��this room _couldnâ��t_ be sacred, could it?â�� gudrun looked over it with slow eyes. â��impossible,â�� she replied. â��when i think of their livesâ��fatherâ��s and motherâ��s, their love, and their marriage, and all of us children, and our bringing-upâ��would you have such a life, prune?â�� â��i wouldnâ��t, ursula.â�� â��it all seems so _nothing_â��their two livesâ��thereâ��s no meaning in it. really, if they had _not_ met, and _not_ married, and not lived togetherâ��it wouldnâ��t have mattered, would it?â�� â��of courseâ��you canâ��t tell,â�� said gudrun. â��no. but if i thought my life was going to be like itâ��prune,â�� she caught gudrunâ��s arm, â��i should run.â�� gudrun was silent for a few moments. â��as a matter of fact, one cannot contemplate the ordinary lifeâ��one cannot contemplate it,â�� replied gudrun. â��with you, ursula, it is quite different. you will be out of it all, with birkin. heâ��s a special case. but with the ordinary man, who has his life fixed in one place, marriage is just impossible. there may be, and there _are_, thousands of women who want it, and could conceive of nothing else. but the very thought of it sends me _mad_. one must be free, above all, one must be free. one may forfeit everything else, but one must be freeâ��one must not become , pinchbeck streetâ��or somerset driveâ��or shortlands. no man will be sufficient to make that goodâ��no man! to marry, one must have a free lance, or nothing, a comrade-in-arms, a glücksritter. a man with a position in the social worldâ��well, it is just impossible, impossible!â�� â��what a lovely wordâ��a glücksritter!â�� said ursula. â��so much nicer than a soldier of fortune.â�� â��yes, isnâ��t it?â�� said gudrun. â��iâ��d tilt the world with a glücksritter. but a home, an establishment! ursula, what would it mean?â��think!â�� â��i know,â�� said ursula. â��weâ��ve had one homeâ��thatâ��s enough for me.â�� â��quite enough,â�� said gudrun. â��the little grey home in the west,â�� quoted ursula ironically. â��doesnâ��t it sound grey, too,â�� said gudrun grimly. they were interrupted by the sound of the car. there was birkin. ursula was surprised that she felt so lit up, that she became suddenly so free from the problems of grey homes in the west. they heard his heels click on the hall pavement below. â��hello!â�� he called, his voice echoing alive through the house. ursula smiled to herself. _he_ was frightened of the place too. â��hello! here we are,â�� she called downstairs. and they heard him quickly running up. â��this is a ghostly situation,â�� he said. â��these houses donâ��t have ghostsâ��theyâ��ve never had any personality, and only a place with personality can have a ghost,â�� said gudrun. â��i suppose so. are you both weeping over the past?â�� â��we are,â�� said gudrun, grimly. ursula laughed. â��not weeping that itâ��s gone, but weeping that it ever _was_,â�� she said. â��oh,â�� he replied, relieved. he sat down for a moment. there was something in his presence, ursula thought, lambent and alive. it made even the impertinent structure of this null house disappear. â��gudrun says she could not bear to be married and put into a house,â�� said ursula meaningfulâ��they knew this referred to gerald. he was silent for some moments. â��well,â�� he said, â��if you know beforehand you couldnâ��t stand it, youâ��re safe.â�� â��quite!â�� said gudrun. â��why _does_ every woman think her aim in life is to have a hubby and a little grey home in the west? why is this the goal of life? why should it be?â�� said ursula. â��_il faut avoir le respect de ses bêtises_,â�� said birkin. â��but you neednâ��t have the respect for the _bêtise_ before youâ��ve committed it,â�� laughed ursula. â��ah then, _des bêtises du papa?_â�� â��_et de la maman_,â�� added gudrun satirically. â��_et des voisins_,â�� said ursula. they all laughed, and rose. it was getting dark. they carried the things to the car. gudrun locked the door of the empty house. birkin had lighted the lamps of the automobile. it all seemed very happy, as if they were setting out. â��do you mind stopping at coulsons. i have to leave the key there,â�� said gudrun. â��right,â�� said birkin, and they moved off. they stopped in the main street. the shops were just lighted, the last miners were passing home along the causeways, half-visible shadows in their grey pit-dirt, moving through the blue air. but their feet rang harshly in manifold sound, along the pavement. how pleased gudrun was to come out of the shop, and enter the car, and be borne swiftly away into the downhill of palpable dusk, with ursula and birkin! what an adventure life seemed at this moment! how deeply, how suddenly she envied ursula! life for her was so quick, and an open doorâ��so reckless as if not only this world, but the world that was gone and the world to come were nothing to her. ah, if she could be _just like that_, it would be perfect. for always, except in her moments of excitement, she felt a want within herself. she was unsure. she had felt that now, at last, in geraldâ��s strong and violent love, she was living fully and finally. but when she compared herself with ursula, already her soul was jealous, unsatisfied. she was not satisfiedâ��she was never to be satisfied. what was she short of now? it was marriageâ��it was the wonderful stability of marriage. she did want it, let her say what she might. she had been lying. the old idea of marriage was right even nowâ��marriage and the home. yet her mouth gave a little grimace at the words. she thought of gerald and shortlandsâ��marriage and the home! ah well, let it rest! he meant a great deal to herâ��butâ��! perhaps it was not in her to marry. she was one of lifeâ��s outcasts, one of the drifting lives that have no root. no, no it could not be so. she suddenly conjured up a rosy room, with herself in a beautiful gown, and a handsome man in evening dress who held her in his arms in the firelight, and kissed her. this picture she entitled â��home.â�� it would have done for the royal academy. â��come with us to teaâ��_do_,â�� said ursula, as they ran nearer to the cottage of willey green. â��thanks awfullyâ��but i _must_ go inâ��â�� said gudrun. she wanted very much to go on with ursula and birkin. that seemed like life indeed to her. yet a certain perversity would not let her. â��do comeâ��yes, it would be so nice,â�� pleaded ursula. â��iâ��m awfully sorryâ��i should love toâ��but i canâ��tâ��reallyâ��â�� she descended from the car in trembling haste. â��canâ��t you really!â�� came ursulaâ��s regretful voice. â��no, really i canâ��t,â�� responded gudrunâ��s pathetic, chagrined words out of the dusk. â��all right, are you?â�� called birkin. â��quite!â�� said gudrun. â��good-night!â�� â��good-night,â�� they called. â��come whenever you like, we shall be glad,â�� called birkin. â��thank you very much,â�� called gudrun, in the strange, twanging voice of lonely chagrin that was very puzzling to him. she turned away to her cottage gate, and they drove on. but immediately she stood to watch them, as the car ran vague into the distance. and as she went up the path to her strange house, her heart was full of incomprehensible bitterness. in her parlour was a long-case clock, and inserted into its dial was a ruddy, round, slant-eyed, joyous-painted face, that wagged over with the most ridiculous ogle when the clock ticked, and back again with the same absurd glad-eye at the next tick. all the time the absurd smooth, brown-ruddy face gave her an obtrusive â��glad-eye.â�� she stood for minutes, watching it, till a sort of maddened disgust overcame her, and she laughed at herself hollowly. and still it rocked, and gave her the glad-eye from one side, then from the other, from one side, then from the other. ah, how unhappy she was! in the midst of her most active happiness, ah, how unhappy she was! she glanced at the table. gooseberry jam, and the same home-made cake with too much soda in it! still, gooseberry jam was good, and one so rarely got it. all the evening she wanted to go to the mill. but she coldly refused to allow herself. she went the next afternoon instead. she was happy to find ursula alone. it was a lovely, intimate secluded atmosphere. they talked endlessly and delightedly. â��arenâ��t you _fearfully_ happy here?â�� said gudrun to her sister glancing at her own bright eyes in the mirror. she always envied, almost with resentment, the strange positive fullness that subsisted in the atmosphere around ursula and birkin. how really beautifully this room is done,â�� she said aloud. â��this hard plaited mattingâ��what a lovely colour it is, the colour of cool light!â�� and it seemed to her perfect. â��ursula,â�� she said at length, in a voice of question and detachment, â��did you know that gerald crich had suggested our going away all together at christmas?â�� â��yes, heâ��s spoken to rupert.â�� a deep flush dyed gudrunâ��s cheek. she was silent a moment, as if taken aback, and not knowing what to say. â��but donâ��t you think,â�� she said at last, â��it is _amazingly cool!_â�� ursula laughed. â��i like him for it,â�� she said. gudrun was silent. it was evident that, whilst she was almost mortified by geraldâ��s taking the liberty of making such a suggestion to birkin, yet the idea itself attracted her strongly. â��thereâ��s a rather lovely simplicity about gerald, i think,â�� said ursula, â��so defiant, somehow! oh, i think heâ��s _very_ lovable.â�� gudrun did not reply for some moments. she had still to get over the feeling of insult at the liberty taken with her freedom. â��what did rupert sayâ��do you know?â�� she asked. â��he said it would be most awfully jolly,â�� said ursula. again gudrun looked down, and was silent. â��donâ��t you think it would?â�� said ursula, tentatively. she was never quite sure how many defences gudrun was having round herself. gudrun raised her face with difficulty and held it averted. â��i think it _might_ be awfully jolly, as you say,â�� she replied. â��but donâ��t you think it was an unpardonable liberty to takeâ��to talk of such things to rupertâ��who after allâ��you see what i mean, ursulaâ��they might have been two men arranging an outing with some little _type_ theyâ��d picked up. oh, i think itâ��s unforgivable, quite!â�� she used the french word â��_type_.â�� her eyes flashed, her soft face was flushed and sullen. ursula looked on, rather frightened, frightened most of all because she thought gudrun seemed rather common, really like a little _type_. but she had not the courage quite to think thisâ��not right out. â��oh no,â�� she cried, stammering. â��oh noâ��not at all like thatâ��oh no! no, i think itâ��s rather beautiful, the friendship between rupert and gerald. they just are simpleâ��they say anything to each other, like brothers.â�� gudrun flushed deeper. she could not _bear_ it that gerald gave her awayâ��even to birkin. â��but do you think even brothers have any right to exchange confidences of that sort?â�� she asked, with deep anger. â��oh yes,â�� said ursula. â��thereâ��s never anything said that isnâ��t perfectly straightforward. no, the thing thatâ��s amazed me most in geraldâ��how perfectly simple and direct he can be! and you know, it takes rather a big man. most of them _must_ be indirect, they are such cowards.â�� but gudrun was still silent with anger. she wanted the absolute secrecy kept, with regard to her movements. â��wonâ��t you go?â�� said ursula. â��do, we might all be so happy! there is something i _love_ about geraldâ��heâ��s _much_ more lovable than i thought him. heâ��s free, gudrun, he really is.â�� gudrunâ��s mouth was still closed, sullen and ugly. she opened it at length. â��do you know where he proposes to go?â�� she asked. â��yesâ��to the tyrol, where he used to go when he was in germanyâ��a lovely place where students go, small and rough and lovely, for winter sport!â�� through gudrunâ��s mind went the angry thoughtâ��â��they know everything.â�� â��yes,â�� she said aloud, â��about forty kilometres from innsbruck, isnâ��t it?â�� â��i donâ��t know exactly whereâ��but it would be lovely, donâ��t you think, high in the perfect snowâ��?â�� â��very lovely!â�� said gudrun, sarcastically. ursula was put out. â��of course,â�� she said, â��i think gerald spoke to rupert so that it shouldnâ��t seem like an outing with a _type_â��â�� â��i know, of course,â�� said gudrun, â��that he quite commonly does take up with that sort.â�� â��does he!â�� said ursula. â��why how do you know?â�� â��i know of a model in chelsea,â�� said gudrun coldly. now ursula was silent. â��well,â�� she said at last, with a doubtful laugh, â��i hope he has a good time with her.â�� at which gudrun looked more glum. chapter xxviii. gudrun in the pompadour christmas drew near, all four prepared for flight. birkin and ursula were busy packing their few personal things, making them ready to be sent off, to whatever country and whatever place they might choose at last. gudrun was very much excited. she loved to be on the wing. she and gerald, being ready first, set off via london and paris to innsbruck, where they would meet ursula and birkin. in london they stayed one night. they went to the music-hall, and afterwards to the pompadour café. gudrun hated the café, yet she always went back to it, as did most of the artists of her acquaintance. she loathed its atmosphere of petty vice and petty jealousy and petty art. yet she always called in again, when she was in town. it was as if she _had_ to return to this small, slow, central whirlpool of disintegration and dissolution: just give it a look. she sat with gerald drinking some sweetish liqueur, and staring with black, sullen looks at the various groups of people at the tables. she would greet nobody, but young men nodded to her frequently, with a kind of sneering familiarity. she cut them all. and it gave her pleasure to sit there, cheeks flushed, eyes black and sullen, seeing them all objectively, as put away from her, like creatures in some menagerie of apish degraded souls. god, what a foul crew they were! her blood beat black and thick in her veins with rage and loathing. yet she must sit and watch, watch. one or two people came to speak to her. from every side of the café, eyes turned half furtively, half jeeringly at her, men looking over their shoulders, women under their hats. the old crowd was there, carlyon in his corner with his pupils and his girl, halliday and libidnikov and the pussumâ��they were all there. gudrun watched gerald. she watched his eyes linger a moment on halliday, on hallidayâ��s party. these last were on the look-outâ��they nodded to him, he nodded again. they giggled and whispered among themselves. gerald watched them with the steady twinkle in his eyes. they were urging the pussum to something. she at last rose. she was wearing a curious dress of dark silk splashed and spattered with different colours, a curious motley effect. she was thinner, her eyes were perhaps hotter, more disintegrated. otherwise she was just the same. gerald watched her with the same steady twinkle in his eyes as she came across. she held out her thin brown hand to him. â��how are you?â�� she said. he shook hands with her, but remained seated, and let her stand near him, against the table. she nodded blackly to gudrun, whom she did not know to speak to, but well enough by sight and reputation. â��i am very well,â�� said gerald. â��and you?â�� â��oh iâ��m all wight. what about wupert?â�� â��rupert? heâ��s very well, too.â�� â��yes, i donâ��t mean that. what about him being married?â�� â��ohâ��yes, he is married.â�� the pussumâ��s eyes had a hot flash. â��oh, heâ��s weally bwought it off then, has he? when was he married?â�� â��a week or two ago.â�� â��weally! heâ��s never written.â�� â��no.â�� â��no. donâ��t you think itâ��s too bad?â�� this last was in a tone of challenge. the pussum let it be known by her tone, that she was aware of gudrunâ��s listening. â��i suppose he didnâ��t feel like it,â�� replied gerald. â��but why didnâ��t he?â�� pursued the pussum. this was received in silence. there was an ugly, mocking persistence in the small, beautiful figure of the short-haired girl, as she stood near gerald. â��are you staying in town long?â�� she asked. â��tonight only.â�� â��oh, only tonight. are you coming over to speak to julius?â�� â��not tonight.â�� â��oh very well. iâ��ll tell him then.â�� then came her touch of diablerie. â��youâ��re looking awfâ��lly fit.â�� â��yesâ��i feel it.â�� gerald was quite calm and easy, a spark of satiric amusement in his eye. â��are you having a good time?â�� this was a direct blow for gudrun, spoken in a level, toneless voice of callous ease. â��yes,â�� he replied, quite colourlessly. â��iâ��m awfâ��lly sorry you arenâ��t coming round to the flat. you arenâ��t very faithful to your fwiends.â�� â��not very,â�� he said. she nodded them both â��good-nightâ��, and went back slowly to her own set. gudrun watched her curious walk, stiff and jerking at the loins. they heard her level, toneless voice distinctly. â��he wonâ��t come over;â��he is otherwise engaged,â�� it said. there was more laughter and lowered voices and mockery at the table. â��is she a friend of yours?â�� said gudrun, looking calmly at gerald. â��iâ��ve stayed at hallidayâ��s flat with birkin,â�� he said, meeting her slow, calm eyes. and she knew that the pussum was one of his mistressesâ��and he knew she knew. she looked round, and called for the waiter. she wanted an iced cocktail, of all things. this amused geraldâ��he wondered what was up. the halliday party was tipsy, and malicious. they were talking out loudly about birkin, ridiculing him on every point, particularly on his marriage. â��oh, _donâ��t_ make me think of birkin,â�� halliday was squealing. â��he makes me perfectly sick. he is as bad as jesus. â��lord, _what_ must i do to be saved!â��â�� he giggled to himself tipsily. â��do you remember,â�� came the quick voice of the russian, â��the letters he used to send. â��desire is holyâ��â��â�� â��oh yes!â�� cried halliday. â��oh, how perfectly splendid. why, iâ��ve got one in my pocket. iâ��m sure i have.â�� he took out various papers from his pocket book. â��iâ��m sure iâ��veâ��_hic! oh dear!_â��got one.â�� gerald and gudrun were watching absorbedly. â��oh yes, how perfectlyâ��_hic!_â��splendid! donâ��t make me laugh, pussum, it gives me the hiccup. hic!â��â�� they all giggled. â��what did he say in that one?â�� the pussum asked, leaning forward, her dark, soft hair falling and swinging against her face. there was something curiously indecent, obscene, about her small, longish, dark skull, particularly when the ears showed. â��waitâ��oh do wait! _no-o_, i wonâ��t give it to you, iâ��ll read it aloud. iâ��ll read you the choice bits,â��_hic!_ oh dear! do you think if i drink water it would take off this hiccup? _hic!_ oh, i feel perfectly helpless.â�� â��isnâ��t that the letter about uniting the dark and the lightâ��and the flux of corruption?â�� asked maxim, in his precise, quick voice. â��i believe so,â�� said the pussum. â��oh is it? iâ��d forgottenâ��_hic!_â��it was that one,â�� halliday said, opening the letter. â��_hic!_ oh yes. how perfectly splendid! this is one of the best. â��there is a phase in every raceâ��â��â�� he read in the sing-song, slow, distinct voice of a clergyman reading the scriptures, â��â��when the desire for destruction overcomes every other desire. in the individual, this desire is ultimately a desire for destruction in the selfâ��â��_hic!_â��â�� he paused and looked up. â��i hope heâ��s going ahead with the destruction of himself,â�� said the quick voice of the russian. halliday giggled, and lolled his head back, vaguely. â��thereâ��s not much to destroy in him,â�� said the pussum. â��heâ��s so thin already, thereâ��s only a fag-end to start on.â�� â��oh, isnâ��t it beautiful! i love reading it! i believe it has cured my hiccup!â�� squealed halliday. â��do let me go on. â��it is a desire for the reduction process in oneself, a reducing back to the origin, a return along the flux of corruption, to the original rudimentary conditions of beingâ��!â�� oh, but i _do_ think it is wonderful. it almost supersedes the bibleâ��â�� â��yesâ��flux of corruption,â�� said the russian, â��i remember that phrase.â�� â��oh, he was always talking about corruption,â�� said the pussum. â��he must be corrupt himself, to have it so much on his mind.â�� â��exactly!â�� said the russian. â��do let me go on! oh, this is a perfectly wonderful piece! but do listen to this. â��and in the great retrogression, the reducing back of the created body of life, we get knowledge, and beyond knowledge, the phosphorescent ecstasy of acute sensation.â�� oh, i do think these phrases are too absurdly wonderful. oh but donâ��t you think they _are_â��theyâ��re nearly as good as jesus. â��and if, julius, you want this ecstasy of reduction with the pussum, you must go on till it is fulfilled. but surely there is in you also, somewhere, the living desire for positive creation, relationships in ultimate faith, when all this process of active corruption, with all its flowers of mud, is transcended, and more or less finishedâ��â�� i do wonder what the flowers of mud are. pussum, you are a flower of mud.â�� â��thank youâ��and what are you?â�� â��oh, iâ��m another, surely, according to this letter! weâ��re all flowers of mudâ��_fleursâ��hic! du mal!_ itâ��s perfectly wonderful, birkin harrowing hellâ��harrowing the pompadourâ��_hic!_â�� â��go onâ��go on,â�� said maxim. â��what comes next? itâ��s really very interesting.â�� â��i think itâ��s awful cheek to write like that,â�� said the pussum. â��yesâ��yes, so do i,â�� said the russian. â��he is a megalomaniac, of course, it is a form of religious mania. he thinks he is the saviour of manâ��go on reading.â�� â��surely,â�� halliday intoned, â��â��surely goodness and mercy hath followed me all the days of my lifeâ��â��â�� he broke off and giggled. then he began again, intoning like a clergyman. â��â��surely there will come an end in us to this desireâ��for the constant going apart,â��this passion for putting asunderâ��everythingâ��ourselves, reducing ourselves part from partâ��reacting in intimacy only for destruction,â��using sex as a great reducing agent, reducing the two great elements of male and female from their highly complex unityâ��reducing the old ideas, going back to the savages for our sensations,â��always seeking to _lose_ ourselves in some ultimate black sensation, mindless and infiniteâ��burning only with destructive fires, raging on with the hope of being burnt out utterlyâ��â��â�� â��i want to go,â�� said gudrun to gerald, as she signalled the waiter. her eyes were flashing, her cheeks were flushed. the strange effect of birkinâ��s letter read aloud in a perfect clerical sing-song, clear and resonant, phrase by phrase, made the blood mount into her head as if she were mad. she rose, whilst gerald was paying the bill, and walked over to hallidayâ��s table. they all glanced up at her. â��excuse me,â�� she said. â��is that a genuine letter you are reading?â�� â��oh yes,â�� said halliday. â��quite genuine.â�� â��may i see?â�� smiling foolishly he handed it to her, as if hypnotised. â��thank you,â�� she said. and she turned and walked out of the café with the letter, all down the brilliant room, between the tables, in her measured fashion. it was some moments before anybody realised what was happening. from hallidayâ��s table came half articulate cries, then somebody booed, then all the far end of the place began booing after gudrunâ��s retreating form. she was fashionably dressed in blackish-green and silver, her hat was brilliant green, like the sheen on an insect, but the brim was soft dark green, a falling edge with fine silver, her coat was dark green, lustrous, with a high collar of grey fur, and great fur cuffs, the edge of her dress showed silver and black velvet, her stockings and shoes were silver grey. she moved with slow, fashionable indifference to the door. the porter opened obsequiously for her, and, at her nod, hurried to the edge of the pavement and whistled for a taxi. the two lights of a vehicle almost immediately curved round towards her, like two eyes. gerald had followed in wonder, amid all the booing, not having caught her misdeed. he heard the pussumâ��s voice saying: â��go and get it back from her. i never heard of such a thing! go and get it back from her. tell gerald crichâ��there he goesâ��go and make him give it up.â�� gudrun stood at the door of the taxi, which the man held open for her. â��to the hotel?â�� she asked, as gerald came out, hurriedly. â��where you like,â�� he answered. â��right!â�� she said. then to the driver, â��wagstaffâ��sâ��barton street.â�� the driver bowed his head, and put down the flag. gudrun entered the taxi, with the deliberate cold movement of a woman who is well-dressed and contemptuous in her soul. yet she was frozen with overwrought feelings. gerald followed her. â��youâ��ve forgotten the man,â�� she said cooly, with a slight nod of her hat. gerald gave the porter a shilling. the man saluted. they were in motion. â��what was all the row about?â�� asked gerald, in wondering excitement. â��i walked away with birkinâ��s letter,â�� she said, and he saw the crushed paper in her hand. his eyes glittered with satisfaction. â��ah!â�� he said. â��splendid! a set of jackasses!â�� â��i could have _killed_ them!â�� she cried in passion. â��_dogs!_â��they are dogs! why is rupert such a _fool_ as to write such letters to them? why does he give himself away to such _canaille?_ itâ��s a thing that _cannot be borne._â�� gerald wondered over her strange passion. and she could not rest any longer in london. they must go by the morning train from charing cross. as they drew over the bridge, in the train, having glimpses of the river between the great iron girders, she cried: â��i feel i could _never_ see this foul town againâ��i couldnâ��t _bear_ to come back to it.â�� chapter xxix. continental ursula went on in an unreal suspense, the last weeks before going away. she was not herself,â��she was not anything. she was something that is going to beâ��soonâ��soonâ��very soon. but as yet, she was only imminent. she went to see her parents. it was a rather stiff, sad meeting, more like a verification of separateness than a reunion. but they were all vague and indefinite with one another, stiffened in the fate that moved them apart. she did not really come to until she was on the ship crossing from dover to ostend. dimly she had come down to london with birkin, london had been a vagueness, so had the train-journey to dover. it was all like a sleep. and now, at last, as she stood in the stern of the ship, in a pitch-dark, rather blowy night, feeling the motion of the sea, and watching the small, rather desolate little lights that twinkled on the shores of england, as on the shores of nowhere, watched them sinking smaller and smaller on the profound and living darkness, she felt her soul stirring to awake from its anæsthetic sleep. â��let us go forward, shall we?â�� said birkin. he wanted to be at the tip of their projection. so they left off looking at the faint sparks that glimmered out of nowhere, in the far distance, called england, and turned their faces to the unfathomed night in front. they went right to the bows of the softly plunging vessel. in the complete obscurity, birkin found a comparatively sheltered nook, where a great rope was coiled up. it was quite near the very point of the ship, near the black, unpierced space ahead. there they sat down, folded together, folded round with the same rug, creeping in nearer and ever nearer to one another, till it seemed they had crept right into each other, and become one substance. it was very cold, and the darkness was palpable. one of the shipâ��s crew came along the deck, dark as the darkness, not really visible. they then made out the faintest pallor of his face. he felt their presence, and stopped, unsureâ��then bent forward. when his face was near them, he saw the faint pallor of their faces. then he withdrew like a phantom. and they watched him without making any sound. they seemed to fall away into the profound darkness. there was no sky, no earth, only one unbroken darkness, into which, with a soft, sleeping motion, they seemed to fall like one closed seed of life falling through dark, fathomless space. they had forgotten where they were, forgotten all that was and all that had been, conscious only in their heart, and there conscious only of this pure trajectory through the surpassing darkness. the shipâ��s prow cleaved on, with a faint noise of cleavage, into the complete night, without knowing, without seeing, only surging on. in ursula the sense of the unrealised world ahead triumphed over everything. in the midst of this profound darkness, there seemed to glow on her heart the effulgence of a paradise unknown and unrealised. her heart was full of the most wonderful light, golden like honey of darkness, sweet like the warmth of day, a light which was not shed on the world, only on the unknown paradise towards which she was going, a sweetness of habitation, a delight of living quite unknown, but hers infallibly. in her transport she lifted her face suddenly to him, and he touched it with his lips. so cold, so fresh, so sea-clear her face was, it was like kissing a flower that grows near the surf. but he did not know the ecstasy of bliss in fore-knowledge that she knew. to him, the wonder of this transit was overwhelming. he was falling through a gulf of infinite darkness, like a meteorite plunging across the chasm between the worlds. the world was torn in two, and he was plunging like an unlit star through the ineffable rift. what was beyond was not yet for him. he was overcome by the trajectory. in a trance he lay enfolding ursula round about. his face was against her fine, fragile hair, he breathed its fragrance with the sea and the profound night. and his soul was at peace; yielded, as he fell into the unknown. this was the first time that an utter and absolute peace had entered his heart, now, in this final transit out of life. when there came some stir on the deck, they roused. they stood up. how stiff and cramped they were, in the night-time! and yet the paradisal glow on her heart, and the unutterable peace of darkness in his, this was the all-in-all. they stood up and looked ahead. low lights were seen down the darkness. this was the world again. it was not the bliss of her heart, nor the peace of his. it was the superficial unreal world of fact. yet not quite the old world. for the peace and the bliss in their hearts was enduring. strange, and desolate above all things, like disembarking from the styx into the desolated underworld, was this landing at night. there was the raw, half-lighted, covered-in vastness of the dark place, boarded and hollow underfoot, with only desolation everywhere. ursula had caught sight of the big, pallid, mystic letters â��ostend,â�� standing in the darkness. everybody was hurrying with a blind, insect-like intentness through the dark grey air, porters were calling in un-english english, then trotting with heavy bags, their colourless blouses looking ghostly as they disappeared; ursula stood at a long, low, zinc-covered barrier, along with hundreds of other spectral people, and all the way down the vast, raw darkness was this low stretch of open bags and spectral people, whilst, on the other side of the barrier, pallid officials in peaked caps and moustaches were turning the underclothing in the bags, then scrawling a chalk-mark. it was done. birkin snapped the hand bags, off they went, the porter coming behind. they were through a great doorway, and in the open night againâ��ah, a railway platform! voices were still calling in inhuman agitation through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along the darkness between the train. â��kölnâ��berlinâ��â�� ursula made out on the boards hung on the high train on one side. â��here we are,â�� said birkin. and on her side she saw: â��elsassâ��lothringenâ��luxembourg, metzâ��basle.â�� â��that was it, basle!â�� the porter came up. â��_Ã� bâleâ��deuxième classe?â��voilà!_â�� and he clambered into the high train. they followed. the compartments were already some of them taken. but many were dim and empty. the luggage was stowed, the porter was tipped. â��_nous avons encoreâ��?_â�� said birkin, looking at his watch and at the porter. â��_encore une demi-heure._â�� with which, in his blue blouse, he disappeared. he was ugly and insolent. â��come,â�� said birkin. â��it is cold. let us eat.â�� there was a coffee-wagon on the platform. they drank hot, watery coffee, and ate the long rolls, split, with ham between, which were such a wide bite that it almost dislocated ursulaâ��s jaw; and they walked beside the high trains. it was all so strange, so extremely desolate, like the underworld, grey, grey, dirt grey, desolate, forlorn, nowhereâ��grey, dreary nowhere. at last they were moving through the night. in the darkness ursula made out the flat fields, the wet flat dreary darkness of the continent. they pulled up surprisingly soonâ��bruges! then on through the level darkness, with glimpses of sleeping farms and thin poplar trees and deserted high-roads. she sat dismayed, hand in hand with birkin. he pale, immobile like a _revenant_ himself, looked sometimes out of the window, sometimes closed his eyes. then his eyes opened again, dark as the darkness outside. a flash of a few lights on the darknessâ��ghent station! a few more spectres moving outside on the platformâ��then the bellâ��then motion again through the level darkness. ursula saw a man with a lantern come out of a farm by the railway, and cross to the dark farm-buildings. she thought of the marsh, the old, intimate farm-life at cossethay. my god, how far was she projected from her childhood, how far was she still to go! in one life-time one travelled through æons. the great chasm of memory from her childhood in the intimate country surroundings of cossethay and the marsh farmâ��she remembered the servant tilly, who used to give her bread and butter sprinkled with brown sugar, in the old living-room where the grandfather clock had two pink roses in a basket painted above the figures on the faceâ��and now when she was travelling into the unknown with birkin, an utter strangerâ��was so great, that it seemed she had no identity, that the child she had been, playing in cossethay churchyard, was a little creature of history, not really herself. they were at brusselsâ��half an hour for breakfast. they got down. on the great station clock it said six oâ��clock. they had coffee and rolls and honey in the vast desert refreshment room, so dreary, always so dreary, dirty, so spacious, such desolation of space. but she washed her face and hands in hot water, and combed her hairâ��that was a blessing. soon they were in the train again and moving on. the greyness of dawn began. there were several people in the compartment, large florid belgian business-men with long brown beards, talking incessantly in an ugly french she was too tired to follow. it seemed the train ran by degrees out of the darkness into a faint light, then beat after beat into the day. ah, how weary it was! faintly, the trees showed, like shadows. then a house, white, had a curious distinctness. how was it? then she saw a villageâ��there were always houses passing. this was an old world she was still journeying through, winter-heavy and dreary. there was plough-land and pasture, and copses of bare trees, copses of bushes, and homesteads naked and work-bare. no new earth had come to pass. she looked at birkinâ��s face. it was white and still and eternal, too eternal. she linked her fingers imploringly in his, under the cover of her rug. his fingers responded, his eyes looked back at her. how dark, like a night, his eyes were, like another world beyond! oh, if he were the world as well, if only the world were he! if only he could call a world into being, that should be their own world! the belgians left, the train ran on, through luxembourg, through alsace-lorraine, through metz. but she was blind, she could see no more. her soul did not look out. they came at last to basle, to the hotel. it was all a drifting trance, from which she never came to. they went out in the morning, before the train departed. she saw the street, the river, she stood on the bridge. but it all meant nothing. she remembered some shopsâ��one full of pictures, one with orange velvet and ermine. but what did these signify?â��nothing. she was not at ease till they were in the train again. then she was relieved. so long as they were moving onwards, she was satisfied. they came to zürich, then, before very long, ran under the mountains, that were deep in snow. at last she was drawing near. this was the other world now. innsbruck was wonderful, deep in snow, and evening. they drove in an open sledge over the snow: the train had been so hot and stifling. and the hotel, with the golden light glowing under the porch, seemed like a home. they laughed with pleasure when they were in the hall. the place seemed full and busy. â��do you know if mr and mrs crichâ��englishâ��from paris, have arrived?â�� birkin asked in german. the porter reflected a moment, and was just going to answer, when ursula caught sight of gudrun sauntering down the stairs, wearing her dark glossy coat, with grey fur. â��gudrun! gudrun!â�� she called, waving up the well of the staircase. â��shu-hu!â�� gudrun looked over the rail, and immediately lost her sauntering, diffident air. her eyes flashed. â��reallyâ��ursula!â�� she cried. and she began to move downstairs as ursula ran up. they met at a turn and kissed with laughter and exclamations inarticulate and stirring. â��but!â�� cried gudrun, mortified. â��we thought it was _tomorrow_ you were coming! i wanted to come to the station.â�� â��no, weâ��ve come today!â�� cried ursula. â��isnâ��t it lovely here!â�� â��adorable!â�� said gudrun. â��geraldâ��s just gone out to get something. ursula, arenâ��t you _fearfully_ tired?â�� â��no, not so very. but i look a filthy sight, donâ��t i!â�� â��no, you donâ��t. you look almost perfectly fresh. i like that fur cap _immensely!_â�� she glanced over ursula, who wore a big soft coat with a collar of deep, soft, blond fur, and a soft blond cap of fur. â��and you!â�� cried ursula. â��what do you think _you_ look like!â�� gudrun assumed an unconcerned, expressionless face. â��do you like it?â�� she said. â��itâ��s _very_ fine!â�� cried ursula, perhaps with a touch of satire. â��go upâ��or come down,â�� said birkin. for there the sisters stood, gudrun with her hand on ursulaâ��s arm, on the turn of the stairs half way to the first landing, blocking the way and affording full entertainment to the whole of the hall below, from the door porter to the plump jew in black clothes. the two young women slowly mounted, followed by birkin and the waiter. â��first floor?â�� asked gudrun, looking back over her shoulder. â��second madamâ��the lift!â�� the waiter replied. and he darted to the elevator to forestall the two women. but they ignored him, as, chattering without heed, they set to mount the second flight. rather chagrined, the waiter followed. it was curious, the delight of the sisters in each other, at this meeting. it was as if they met in exile, and united their solitary forces against all the world. birkin looked on with some mistrust and wonder. when they had bathed and changed, gerald came in. he looked shining like the sun on frost. â��go with gerald and smoke,â�� said ursula to birkin. â��gudrun and i want to talk.â�� then the sisters sat in gudrunâ��s bedroom, and talked clothes, and experiences. gudrun told ursula the experience of the birkin letter in the café. ursula was shocked and frightened. â��where is the letter?â�� she asked. â��i kept it,â�� said gudrun. â��youâ��ll give it me, wonâ��t you?â�� she said. but gudrun was silent for some moments, before she replied: â��do you really want it, ursula?â�� â��i want to read it,â�� said ursula. â��certainly,â�� said gudrun. even now, she could not admit, to ursula, that she wanted to keep it, as a memento, or a symbol. but ursula knew, and was not pleased. so the subject was switched off. â��what did you do in paris?â�� asked ursula. â��oh,â�� said gudrun laconicallyâ��â��the usual things. we had a _fine_ party one night in fanny bathâ��s studio.â�� â��did you? and you and gerald were there! who else? tell me about it.â�� â��well,â�� said gudrun. â��thereâ��s nothing particular to tell. you know fanny is _frightfully_ in love with that painter, billy macfarlane. he was thereâ��so fanny spared nothing, she spent _very_ freely. it was really remarkable! of course, everybody got fearfully drunkâ��but in an interesting way, not like that filthy london crowd. the fact is these were all people that matter, which makes all the difference. there was a roumanian, a fine chap. he got completely drunk, and climbed to the top of a high studio ladder, and gave the most marvellous addressâ��really, ursula, it was wonderful! he began in frenchâ��_la vie, câ��est une affaire dâ��âmes impériales_â��in a most beautiful voiceâ��he was a fine-looking chapâ��but he had got into roumanian before he had finished, and not a soul understood. but donald gilchrist was worked to a frenzy. he dashed his glass to the ground, and declared, by god, he was glad he had been born, by god, it was a miracle to be alive. and do you know, ursula, so it wasâ��â�� gudrun laughed rather hollowly. â��but how was gerald among them all?â�� asked ursula. â��gerald! oh, my word, he came out like a dandelion in the sun! _heâ��s_ a whole saturnalia in himself, once he is roused. i shouldnâ��t like to say whose waist his arm did not go round. really, ursula, he seems to reap the women like a harvest. there wasnâ��t one that would have resisted him. it was too amazing! can you understand it?â�� ursula reflected, and a dancing light came into her eyes. â��yes,â�� she said. â��i can. he is such a whole-hogger.â�� â��whole-hogger! i should think so!â�� exclaimed gudrun. â��but it is true, ursula, every woman in the room was ready to surrender to him. chanticleer isnâ��t in itâ��even fanny bath, who is _genuinely_ in love with billy macfarlane! i never was more amazed in my life! and you know, afterwardsâ��i felt i was a whole _roomful_ of women. i was no more myself to him, than i was queen victoria. i was a whole roomful of women at once. it was most astounding! but my eye, iâ��d caught a sultan that timeâ��â�� gudrunâ��s eyes were flashing, her cheek was hot, she looked strange, exotic, satiric. ursula was fascinated at onceâ��and yet uneasy. they had to get ready for dinner. gudrun came down in a daring gown of vivid green silk and tissue of gold, with green velvet bodice and a strange black-and-white band round her hair. she was really brilliantly beautiful and everybody noticed her. gerald was in that full-blooded, gleaming state when he was most handsome. birkin watched them with quick, laughing, half-sinister eyes, ursula quite lost her head. there seemed a spell, almost a blinding spell, cast round their table, as if they were lighted up more strongly than the rest of the dining-room. â��donâ��t you love to be in this place?â�� cried gudrun. â��isnâ��t the snow wonderful! do you notice how it exalts everything? it is simply marvellous. one really does feel _übermenschlich_â��more than human.â�� â��one does,â�� cried ursula. â��but isnâ��t that partly the being out of england?â�� â��oh, of course,â�� cried gudrun. â��one could never feel like this in england, for the simple reason that the damper is _never_ lifted off one, there. it is quite impossible really to let go, in england, of that i am assured.â�� and she turned again to the food she was eating. she was fluttering with vivid intensity. â��itâ��s quite true,â�� said gerald, â��it never is quite the same in england. but perhaps we donâ��t want it to beâ��perhaps itâ��s like bringing the light a little too near the powder-magazine, to let go altogether, in england. one is afraid what might happen, if _everybody else_ let go.â�� â��my god!â�� cried gudrun. â��but wouldnâ��t it be wonderful, if all england did suddenly go off like a display of fireworks.â�� â��it couldnâ��t,â�� said ursula. â��they are all too damp, the powder is damp in them.â�� â��iâ��m not so sure of that,â�� said gerald. â��nor i,â�� said birkin. â��when the english really begin to go off, _en masse_, itâ��ll be time to shut your ears and run.â�� â��they never will,â�� said ursula. â��weâ��ll see,â�� he replied. â��isnâ��t it marvellous,â�� said gudrun, â��how thankful one can be, to be out of oneâ��s country. i cannot believe myself, i am so transported, the moment i set foot on a foreign shore. i say to myself â��here steps a new creature into life.â��â�� â��donâ��t be too hard on poor old england,â�� said gerald. â��though we curse it, we love it really.â�� to ursula, there seemed a fund of cynicism in these words. â��we may,â�� said birkin. â��but itâ��s a damnably uncomfortable love: like a love for an aged parent who suffers horribly from a complication of diseases, for which there is no hope.â�� gudrun looked at him with dilated dark eyes. â��you think there is no hope?â�� she asked, in her pertinent fashion. but birkin backed away. he would not answer such a question. â��any hope of englandâ��s becoming real? god knows. itâ��s a great actual unreality now, an aggregation into unreality. it might be real, if there were no englishmen.â�� â��you think the english will have to disappear?â�� persisted gudrun. it was strange, her pointed interest in his answer. it might have been her own fate she was inquiring after. her dark, dilated eyes rested on birkin, as if she could conjure the truth of the future out of him, as out of some instrument of divination. he was pale. then, reluctantly, he answered: â��wellâ��what else is in front of them, but disappearance? theyâ��ve got to disappear from their own special brand of englishness, anyhow.â�� gudrun watched him as if in a hypnotic state, her eyes wide and fixed on him. â��but in what way do you mean, disappear?â��â�� she persisted. â��yes, do you mean a change of heart?â�� put in gerald. â��i donâ��t mean anything, why should i?â�� said birkin. â��iâ��m an englishman, and iâ��ve paid the price of it. i canâ��t talk about englandâ��i can only speak for myself.â�� â��yes,â�� said gudrun slowly, â��you love england immensely, _immensely_, rupert.â�� â��and leave her,â�� he replied. â��no, not for good. youâ��ll come back,â�� said gerald, nodding sagely. â��they say the lice crawl off a dying body,â�� said birkin, with a glare of bitterness. â��so i leave england.â�� â��ah, but youâ��ll come back,â�� said gudrun, with a sardonic smile. â��_tant pis pour moi_,â�� he replied. â��isnâ��t he angry with his mother country!â�� laughed gerald, amused. â��ah, a patriot!â�� said gudrun, with something like a sneer. birkin refused to answer any more. gudrun watched him still for a few seconds. then she turned away. it was finished, her spell of divination in him. she felt already purely cynical. she looked at gerald. he was wonderful like a piece of radium to her. she felt she could consume herself and know _all_, by means of this fatal, living metal. she smiled to herself at her fancy. and what would she do with herself, when she had destroyed herself? for if spirit, if integral being is destructible, matter is indestructible. he was looking bright and abstracted, puzzled, for the moment. she stretched out her beautiful arm, with its fluff of green tulle, and touched his chin with her subtle, artistâ��s fingers. â��what are they then?â�� she asked, with a strange, knowing smile. â��what?â�� he replied, his eyes suddenly dilating with wonder. â��your thoughts.â�� gerald looked like a man coming awake. â��i think i had none,â�� he said. â��really!â�� she said, with grave laughter in her voice. and to birkin it was as if she killed gerald, with that touch. â��ah but,â�� cried gudrun, â��let us drink to britanniaâ��let us drink to britannia.â�� it seemed there was wild despair in her voice. gerald laughed, and filled the glasses. â��i think rupert means,â�� he said, â��that _nationally_ all englishmen must die, so that they can exist individually andâ��â�� â��super-nationallyâ��â�� put in gudrun, with a slight ironic grimace, raising her glass. the next day, they descended at the tiny railway station of hohenhausen, at the end of the tiny valley railway. it was snow everywhere, a white, perfect cradle of snow, new and frozen, sweeping up on either side, black crags, and white sweeps of silver towards the blue pale heavens. as they stepped out on the naked platform, with only snow around and above, gudrun shrank as if it chilled her heart. â��my god, jerry,â�� she said, turning to gerald with sudden intimacy, â��youâ��ve done it now.â�� â��what?â�� she made a faint gesture, indicating the world on either hand. â��look at it!â�� she seemed afraid to go on. he laughed. they were in the heart of the mountains. from high above, on either side, swept down the white fold of snow, so that one seemed small and tiny in a valley of pure concrete heaven, all strangely radiant and changeless and silent. â��it makes one feel so small and alone,â�� said ursula, turning to birkin and laying her hand on his arm. â��youâ��re not sorry youâ��ve come, are you?â�� said gerald to gudrun. she looked doubtful. they went out of the station between banks of snow. â��ah,â�� said gerald, sniffing the air in elation, â��this is perfect. thereâ��s our sledge. weâ��ll walk a bitâ��weâ��ll run up the road.â�� gudrun, always doubtful, dropped her heavy coat on the sledge, as he did his, and they set off. suddenly she threw up her head and set off scudding along the road of snow, pulling her cap down over her ears. her blue, bright dress fluttered in the wind, her thick scarlet stockings were brilliant above the whiteness. gerald watched her: she seemed to be rushing towards her fate, and leaving him behind. he let her get some distance, then, loosening his limbs, he went after her. everywhere was deep and silent snow. great snow-eaves weighed down the broad-roofed tyrolese houses, that were sunk to the window-sashes in snow. peasant-women, full-skirted, wearing each a cross-over shawl, and thick snow-boots, turned in the way to look at the soft, determined girl running with such heavy fleetness from the man, who was overtaking her, but not gaining any power over her. they passed the inn with its painted shutters and balcony, a few cottages, half buried in the snow; then the snow-buried silent sawmill by the roofed bridge, which crossed the hidden stream, over which they ran into the very depth of the untouched sheets of snow. it was a silence and a sheer whiteness exhilarating to madness. but the perfect silence was most terrifying, isolating the soul, surrounding the heart with frozen air. â��itâ��s a marvellous place, for all that,â�� said gudrun, looking into his eyes with a strange, meaning look. his soul leapt. â��good,â�� he said. a fierce electric energy seemed to flow over all his limbs, his muscles were surcharged, his hands felt hard with strength. they walked along rapidly up the snow-road, that was marked by withered branches of trees stuck in at intervals. he and she were separate, like opposite poles of one fierce energy. but they felt powerful enough to leap over the confines of life into the forbidden places, and back again. birkin and ursula were running along also, over the snow. he had disposed of the luggage, and they had a little start of the sledges. ursula was excited and happy, but she kept turning suddenly to catch hold of birkinâ��s arm, to make sure of him. â��this is something i never expected,â�� she said. â��it is a different world, here.â�� they went on into a snow meadow. there they were overtaken by the sledge, that came tinkling through the silence. it was another mile before they came upon gudrun and gerald on the steep up-climb, beside the pink, half-buried shrine. then they passed into a gulley, where were walls of black rock and a river filled with snow, and a still blue sky above. through a covered bridge they went, drumming roughly over the boards, crossing the snow-bed once more, then slowly up and up, the horses walking swiftly, the driver cracking his long whip as he walked beside, and calling his strange wild _hue-hue!_, the walls of rock passing slowly by, till they emerged again between slopes and masses of snow. up and up, gradually they went, through the cold shadow-radiance of the afternoon, silenced by the imminence of the mountains, the luminous, dazing sides of snow that rose above them and fell away beneath. they came forth at last in a little high table-land of snow, where stood the last peaks of snow like the heart petals of an open rose. in the midst of the last deserted valleys of heaven stood a lonely building with brown wooden walls and white heavy roof, deep and deserted in the waste of snow, like a dream. it stood like a rock that had rolled down from the last steep slopes, a rock that had taken the form of a house, and was now half-buried. it was unbelievable that one could live there uncrushed by all this terrible waste of whiteness and silence and clear, upper, ringing cold. yet the sledges ran up in fine style, people came to the door laughing and excited, the floor of the hostel rang hollow, the passage was wet with snow, it was a real, warm interior. the newcomers tramped up the bare wooden stairs, following the serving woman. gudrun and gerald took the first bedroom. in a moment they found themselves alone in a bare, smallish, close-shut room that was all of golden-coloured wood, floor, walls, ceiling, door, all of the same warm gold panelling of oiled pine. there was a window opposite the door, but low down, because the roof sloped. under the slope of the ceiling were the table with wash-hand bowl and jug, and across, another table with mirror. on either side the door were two beds piled high with an enormous blue-checked overbolster, enormous. this was allâ��no cupboard, none of the amenities of life. here they were shut up together in this cell of golden-coloured wood, with two blue checked beds. they looked at each other and laughed, frightened by this naked nearness of isolation. a man knocked and came in with the luggage. he was a sturdy fellow with flattish cheek-bones, rather pale, and with coarse fair moustache. gudrun watched him put down the bags, in silence, then tramp heavily out. â��it isnâ��t too rough, is it?â�� gerald asked. the bedroom was not very warm, and she shivered slightly. â��it is wonderful,â�� she equivocated. â��look at the colour of this panellingâ��itâ��s wonderful, like being inside a nut.â�� he was standing watching her, feeling his short-cut moustache, leaning back slightly and watching her with his keen, undaunted eyes, dominated by the constant passion, that was like a doom upon him. she went and crouched down in front of the window, curious. â��oh, but thisâ��!â�� she cried involuntarily, almost in pain. in front was a valley shut in under the sky, the last huge slopes of snow and black rock, and at the end, like the navel of the earth, a white-folded wall, and two peaks glimmering in the late light. straight in front ran the cradle of silent snow, between the great slopes that were fringed with a little roughness of pine-trees, like hair, round the base. but the cradle of snow ran on to the eternal closing-in, where the walls of snow and rock rose impenetrable, and the mountain peaks above were in heaven immediate. this was the centre, the knot, the navel of the world, where the earth belonged to the skies, pure, unapproachable, impassable. it filled gudrun with a strange rapture. she crouched in front of the window, clenching her face in her hands, in a sort of trance. at last she had arrived, she had reached her place. here at last she folded her venture and settled down like a crystal in the navel of snow, and was gone. gerald bent above her and was looking out over her shoulder. already he felt he was alone. she was gone. she was completely gone, and there was icy vapour round his heart. he saw the blind valley, the great cul-de-sac of snow and mountain peaks, under the heaven. and there was no way out. the terrible silence and cold and the glamorous whiteness of the dusk wrapped him round, and she remained crouching before the window, as at a shrine, a shadow. â��do you like it?â�� he asked, in a voice that sounded detached and foreign. at least she might acknowledge he was with her. but she only averted her soft, mute face a little from his gaze. and he knew that there were tears in her eyes, her own tears, tears of her strange religion, that put him to nought. quite suddenly, he put his hand under her chin and lifted up her face to him. her dark blue eyes, in their wetness of tears, dilated as if she was startled in her very soul. they looked at him through their tears in terror and a little horror. his light blue eyes were keen, small-pupilled and unnatural in their vision. her lips parted, as she breathed with difficulty. the passion came up in him, stroke after stroke, like the ringing of a bronze bell, so strong and unflawed and indomitable. his knees tightened to bronze as he hung above her soft face, whose lips parted and whose eyes dilated in a strange violation. in the grasp of his hand her chin was unutterably soft and silken. he felt strong as winter, his hands were living metal, invincible and not to be turned aside. his heart rang like a bell clanging inside him. he took her up in his arms. she was soft and inert, motionless. all the while her eyes, in which the tears had not yet dried, were dilated as if in a kind of swoon of fascination and helplessness. he was superhumanly strong, and unflawed, as if invested with supernatural force. he lifted her close and folded her against him. her softness, her inert, relaxed weight lay against his own surcharged, bronze-like limbs in a heaviness of desirability that would destroy him, if he were not fulfilled. she moved convulsively, recoiling away from him. his heart went up like a flame of ice, he closed over her like steel. he would destroy her rather than be denied. but the overweening power of his body was too much for her. she relaxed again, and lay loose and soft, panting in a little delirium. and to him, she was so sweet, she was such bliss of release, that he would have suffered a whole eternity of torture rather than forego one second of this pang of unsurpassable bliss. â��my god,â�� he said to her, his face drawn and strange, transfigured, â��what next?â�� she lay perfectly still, with a still, child-like face and dark eyes, looking at him. she was lost, fallen right away. â��i shall always love you,â�� he said, looking at her. but she did not hear. she lay, looking at him as at something she could never understand, never: as a child looks at a grown-up person, without hope of understanding, only submitting. he kissed her, kissed her eyes shut, so that she could not look any more. he wanted something now, some recognition, some sign, some admission. but she only lay silent and child-like and remote, like a child that is overcome and cannot understand, only feels lost. he kissed her again, giving up. â��shall we go down and have coffee and _kuchen?_â�� he asked. the twilight was falling slate-blue at the window. she closed her eyes, closed away the monotonous level of dead wonder, and opened them again to the every-day world. â��yes,â�� she said briefly, regaining her will with a click. she went again to the window. blue evening had fallen over the cradle of snow and over the great pallid slopes. but in the heaven the peaks of snow were rosy, glistening like transcendent, radiant spikes of blossom in the heavenly upper-world, so lovely and beyond. gudrun saw all their loveliness, she _knew_ how immortally beautiful they were, great pistils of rose-coloured, snow-fed fire in the blue twilight of the heaven. she could _see_ it, she knew it, but she was not of it. she was divorced, debarred, a soul shut out. with a last look of remorse, she turned away, and was doing her hair. he had unstrapped the luggage, and was waiting, watching her. she knew he was watching her. it made her a little hasty and feverish in her precipitation. they went downstairs, both with a strange other-world look on their faces, and with a glow in their eyes. they saw birkin and ursula sitting at the long table in a corner, waiting for them. â��how good and simple they look together,â�� gudrun thought, jealously. she envied them some spontaneity, a childish sufficiency to which she herself could never approach. they seemed such children to her. â��such good _kranzkuchen!_â�� cried ursula greedily. â��so good!â�� â��right,â�� said gudrun. â��can we have _kaffee mit kranzkuchen?_â�� she added to the waiter. and she seated herself on the bench beside gerald. birkin, looking at them, felt a pain of tenderness for them. â��i think the place is really wonderful, gerald,â�� he said; â��_prachtvoll_ and _wunderbar_ and _wunderschön_ and _unbeschreiblich_ and all the other german adjectives.â�� gerald broke into a slight smile. â��_i_ like it,â�� he said. the tables, of white scrubbed wood, were placed round three sides of the room, as in a gasthaus. birkin and ursula sat with their backs to the wall, which was of oiled wood, and gerald and gudrun sat in the corner next them, near to the stove. it was a fairly large place, with a tiny bar, just like a country inn, but quite simple and bare, and all of oiled wood, ceilings and walls and floor, the only furniture being the tables and benches going round three sides, the great green stove, and the bar and the doors on the fourth side. the windows were double, and quite uncurtained. it was early evening. the coffee cameâ��hot and goodâ��and a whole ring of cake. â��a whole _kuchen!_â�� cried ursula. â��they give you more than us! i want some of yours.â�� there were other people in the place, ten altogether, so birkin had found out: two artists, three students, a man and wife, and a professor and two daughtersâ��all germans. the four english people, being newcomers, sat in their coign of vantage to watch. the germans peeped in at the door, called a word to the waiter, and went away again. it was not meal-time, so they did not come into this dining-room, but betook themselves, when their boots were changed, to the _reunionsaal._ the english visitors could hear the occasional twanging of a zither, the strumming of a piano, snatches of laughter and shouting and singing, a faint vibration of voices. the whole building being of wood, it seemed to carry every sound, like a drum, but instead of increasing each particular noise, it decreased it, so that the sound of the zither seemed tiny, as if a diminutive zither were playing somewhere, and it seemed the piano must be a small one, like a little spinet. the host came when the coffee was finished. he was a tyrolese, broad, rather flat-cheeked, with a pale, pock-marked skin and flourishing moustaches. â��would you like to go to the _reunionsaal_ to be introduced to the other ladies and gentlemen?â�� he asked, bending forward and smiling, showing his large, strong teeth. his blue eyes went quickly from one to the otherâ��he was not quite sure of his ground with these english people. he was unhappy too because he spoke no english and he was not sure whether to try his french. â��shall we go to the _reunionsaal_, and be introduced to the other people?â�� repeated gerald, laughing. there was a momentâ��s hesitation. â��i suppose weâ��d betterâ��better break the ice,â�� said birkin. the women rose, rather flushed. and the wirtâ��s black, beetle-like, broad-shouldered figure went on ignominiously in front, towards the noise. he opened the door and ushered the four strangers into the play-room. instantly a silence fell, a slight embarrassment came over the company. the newcomers had a sense of many blond faces looking their way. then, the host was bowing to a short, energetic-looking man with large moustaches, and saying in a low voice: â��_herr professor, darf ich vorstellen_â��â�� the herr professor was prompt and energetic. he bowed low to the english people, smiling, and began to be a comrade at once. â��_nehmen die herrschaften teil an unserer unterhaltung?_â�� he said, with a vigorous suavity, his voice curling up in the question. the four english people smiled, lounging with an attentive uneasiness in the middle of the room. gerald, who was spokesman, said that they would willingly take part in the entertainment. gudrun and ursula, laughing, excited, felt the eyes of all the men upon them, and they lifted their heads and looked nowhere, and felt royal. the professor announced the names of those present, _sans cérémonie_. there was a bowing to the wrong people and to the right people. everybody was there, except the man and wife. the two tall, clear-skinned, athletic daughters of the professor, with their plain-cut, dark blue blouses and loden skirts, their rather long, strong necks, their clear blue eyes and carefully banded hair, and their blushes, bowed and stood back; the three students bowed very low, in the humble hope of making an impression of extreme good-breeding; then there was a thin, dark-skinned man with full eyes, an odd creature, like a child, and like a troll, quick, detached; he bowed slightly; his companion, a large fair young man, stylishly dressed, blushed to the eyes and bowed very low. it was over. â��herr loerke was giving us a recitation in the cologne dialect,â�� said the professor. â��he must forgive us for interrupting him,â�� said gerald, â��we should like very much to hear it.â�� there was instantly a bowing and an offering of seats. gudrun and ursula, gerald and birkin sat in the deep sofas against the wall. the room was of naked oiled panelling, like the rest of the house. it had a piano, sofas and chairs, and a couple of tables with books and magazines. in its complete absence of decoration, save for the big, blue stove, it was cosy and pleasant. herr loerke was the little man with the boyish figure, and the round, full, sensitive-looking head, and the quick, full eyes, like a mouseâ��s. he glanced swiftly from one to the other of the strangers, and held himself aloof. â��please go on with the recitation,â�� said the professor, suavely, with his slight authority. loerke, who was sitting hunched on the piano stool, blinked and did not answer. â��it would be a great pleasure,â�� said ursula, who had been getting the sentence ready, in german, for some minutes. then, suddenly, the small, unresponding man swung aside, towards his previous audience and broke forth, exactly as he had broken off; in a controlled, mocking voice, giving an imitation of a quarrel between an old cologne woman and a railway guard. his body was slight and unformed, like a boyâ��s, but his voice was mature, sardonic, its movement had the flexibility of essential energy, and of a mocking penetrating understanding. gudrun could not understand a word of his monologue, but she was spell-bound, watching him. he must be an artist, nobody else could have such fine adjustment and singleness. the germans were doubled up with laughter, hearing his strange droll words, his droll phrases of dialect. and in the midst of their paroxysms, they glanced with deference at the four english strangers, the elect. gudrun and ursula were forced to laugh. the room rang with shouts of laughter. the blue eyes of the professorâ��s daughters were swimming over with laughter-tears, their clear cheeks were flushed crimson with mirth, their father broke out in the most astonishing peals of hilarity, the students bowed their heads on their knees in excess of joy. ursula looked round amazed, the laughter was bubbling out of her involuntarily. she looked at gudrun. gudrun looked at her, and the two sisters burst out laughing, carried away. loerke glanced at them swiftly, with his full eyes. birkin was sniggering involuntarily. gerald crich sat erect, with a glistening look of amusement on his face. and the laughter crashed out again, in wild paroxysms, the professorâ��s daughters were reduced to shaking helplessness, the veins of the professorâ��s neck were swollen, his face was purple, he was strangled in ultimate, silent spasms of laughter. the students were shouting half-articulated words that tailed off in helpless explosions. then suddenly the rapid patter of the artist ceased, there were little whoops of subsiding mirth, ursula and gudrun were wiping their eyes, and the professor was crying loudly. â��_das war ausgezeichnet, das war famos_â��â�� â��_wirklich famos_,â�� echoed his exhausted daughters, faintly. â��and we couldnâ��t understand it,â�� cried ursula. â��_oh leider, leider!_â�� cried the professor. â��you couldnâ��t understand it?â�� cried the students, let loose at last in speech with the newcomers. â��_ja, das ist wirklich schade, das ist schade, gnädige frau. wissen sie_â��â�� the mixture was made, the newcomers were stirred into the party, like new ingredients, the whole room was alive. gerald was in his element, he talked freely and excitedly, his face glistened with a strange amusement. perhaps even birkin, in the end, would break forth. he was shy and withheld, though full of attention. ursula was prevailed upon to sing â��annie lowrie,â�� as the professor called it. there was a hush of _extreme_ deference. she had never been so flattered in her life. gudrun accompanied her on the piano, playing from memory. ursula had a beautiful ringing voice, but usually no confidence, she spoiled everything. this evening she felt conceited and untrammelled. birkin was well in the background, she shone almost in reaction, the germans made her feel fine and infallible, she was liberated into overweening self-confidence. she felt like a bird flying in the air, as her voice soared out, enjoying herself extremely in the balance and flight of the song, like the motion of a birdâ��s wings that is up in the wind, sliding and playing on the air, she played with sentimentality, supported by rapturous attention. she was very happy, singing that song by herself, full of a conceit of emotion and power, working upon all those people, and upon herself, exerting herself with gratification, giving immeasurable gratification to the germans. at the end, the germans were all touched with admiring, delicious melancholy, they praised her in soft, reverent voices, they could not say too much. â��_wie schön, wie rührend! ach, die schottischen lieder, sie haben so viel stimmung! aber die gnädige frau hat eine wunderbare stimme; die gnädige frau ist wirklich eine künstlerin, aber wirklich!_â�� she was dilated and brilliant, like a flower in the morning sun. she felt birkin looking at her, as if he were jealous of her, and her breasts thrilled, her veins were all golden. she was as happy as the sun that has just opened above clouds. and everybody seemed so admiring and radiant, it was perfect. after dinner she wanted to go out for a minute, to look at the world. the company tried to dissuade herâ��it was so terribly cold. but just to look, she said. they all four wrapped up warmly, and found themselves in a vague, unsubstantial outdoors of dim snow and ghosts of an upper-world, that made strange shadows before the stars. it was indeed cold, bruisingly, frighteningly, unnaturally cold. ursula could not believe the air in her nostrils. it seemed conscious, malevolent, purposive in its intense murderous coldness. yet it was wonderful, an intoxication, a silence of dim, unrealised snow, of the invisible intervening between her and the visible, between her and the flashing stars. she could see orion sloping up. how wonderful he was, wonderful enough to make one cry aloud. and all around was this cradle of snow, and there was firm snow underfoot, that struck with heavy cold through her boot-soles. it was night, and silence. she imagined she could hear the stars. she imagined distinctly she could hear the celestial, musical motion of the stars, quite near at hand. she seemed like a bird flying amongst their harmonious motion. and she clung close to birkin. suddenly she realised she did not know what he was thinking. she did not know where he was ranging. â��my love!â�� she said, stopping to look at him. his face was pale, his eyes dark, there was a faint spark of starlight on them. and he saw her face soft and upturned to him, very near. he kissed her softly. â��what then?â�� he asked. â��do you love me?â�� she asked. â��too much,â�� he answered quietly. she clung a little closer. â��not too much,â�� she pleaded. â��far too much,â�� he said, almost sadly. â��and does it make you sad, that i am everything to you?â�� she asked, wistful. he held her close to him, kissing her, and saying, scarcely audible: â��no, but i feel like a beggarâ��i feel poor.â�� she was silent, looking at the stars now. then she kissed him. â��donâ��t be a beggar,â�� she pleaded, wistfully. â��it isnâ��t ignominious that you love me.â�� â��it is ignominious to feel poor, isnâ��t it?â�� he replied. â��why? why should it be?â�� she asked. he only stood still, in the terribly cold air that moved invisibly over the mountain tops, folding her round with his arms. â��i couldnâ��t bear this cold, eternal place without you,â�� he said. â��i couldnâ��t bear it, it would kill the quick of my life.â�� she kissed him again, suddenly. â��do you hate it?â�� she asked, puzzled, wondering. â��if i couldnâ��t come near to you, if you werenâ��t here, i should hate it. i couldnâ��t bear it,â�� he answered. â��but the people are nice,â�� she said. â��i mean the stillness, the cold, the frozen eternality,â�� he said. she wondered. then her spirit came home to him, nestling unconscious in him. â��yes, it is good we are warm and together,â�� she said. and they turned home again. they saw the golden lights of the hotel glowing out in the night of snow-silence, small in the hollow, like a cluster of yellow berries. it seemed like a bunch of sun-sparks, tiny and orange in the midst of the snow-darkness. behind, was a high shadow of a peak, blotting out the stars, like a ghost. they drew near to their home. they saw a man come from the dark building, with a lighted lantern which swung golden, and made that his dark feet walked in a halo of snow. he was a small, dark figure in the darkened snow. he unlatched the door of an outhouse. a smell of cows, hot, animal, almost like beef, came out on the heavily cold air. there was a glimpse of two cattle in their dark stalls, then the door was shut again, and not a chink of light showed. it had reminded ursula again of home, of the marsh, of her childhood, and of the journey to brussels, and, strangely, of anton skrebensky. oh, god, could one bear it, this past which was gone down the abyss? could she bear, that it ever had been! she looked round this silent, upper world of snow and stars and powerful cold. there was another world, like views on a magic lantern; the marsh, cossethay, ilkeston, lit up with a common, unreal light. there was a shadowy unreal ursula, a whole shadow-play of an unreal life. it was as unreal, and circumscribed, as a magic-lantern show. she wished the slides could all be broken. she wished it could be gone for ever, like a lantern-slide which was broken. she wanted to have no past. she wanted to have come down from the slopes of heaven to this place, with birkin, not to have toiled out of the murk of her childhood and her upbringing, slowly, all soiled. she felt that memory was a dirty trick played upon her. what was this decree, that she should â��rememberâ��! why not a bath of pure oblivion, a new birth, without any recollections or blemish of a past life. she was with birkin, she had just come into life, here in the high snow, against the stars. what had she to do with parents and antecedents? she knew herself new and unbegotten, she had no father, no mother, no anterior connections, she was herself, pure and silvery, she belonged only to the oneness with birkin, a oneness that struck deeper notes, sounding into the heart of the universe, the heart of reality, where she had never existed before. even gudrun was a separate unit, separate, separate, having nothing to do with this self, this ursula, in her new world of reality. that old shadow-world, the actuality of the pastâ��ah, let it go! she rose free on the wings of her new condition. gudrun and gerald had not come in. they had walked up the valley straight in front of the house, not like ursula and birkin, on to the little hill at the right. gudrun was driven by a strange desire. she wanted to plunge on and on, till she came to the end of the valley of snow. then she wanted to climb the wall of white finality, climb over, into the peaks that sprang up like sharp petals in the heart of the frozen, mysterious navel of the world. she felt that there, over the strange blind, terrible wall of rocky snow, there in the navel of the mystic world, among the final cluster of peaks, there, in the infolded navel of it all, was her consummation. if she could but come there, alone, and pass into the infolded navel of eternal snow and of uprising, immortal peaks of snow and rock, she would be a oneness with all, she would be herself the eternal, infinite silence, the sleeping, timeless, frozen centre of the all. they went back to the house, to the _reunionsaal_. she was curious to see what was going on. the men there made her alert, roused her curiosity. it was a new taste of life for her, they were so prostrate before her, yet so full of life. the party was boisterous; they were dancing all together, dancing the _schuhplatteln_, the tyrolese dance of the clapping hands and tossing the partner in the air at the crisis. the germans were all proficientâ��they were from munich chiefly. gerald also was quite passable. there were three zithers twanging away in a corner. it was a scene of great animation and confusion. the professor was initiating ursula into the dance, stamping, clapping, and swinging her high, with amazing force and zest. when the crisis came even birkin was behaving manfully with one of the professorâ��s fresh, strong daughters, who was exceedingly happy. everybody was dancing, there was the most boisterous turmoil. gudrun looked on with delight. the solid wooden floor resounded to the knocking heels of the men, the air quivered with the clapping hands and the zither music, there was a golden dust about the hanging lamps. suddenly the dance finished, loerke and the students rushed out to bring in drinks. there was an excited clamour of voices, a clinking of mug-lids, a great crying of â��_prositâ��prosit!_â�� loerke was everywhere at once, like a gnome, suggesting drinks for the women, making an obscure, slightly risky joke with the men, confusing and mystifying the waiter. he wanted very much to dance with gudrun. from the first moment he had seen her, he wanted to make a connection with her. instinctively she felt this, and she waited for him to come up. but a kind of sulkiness kept him away from her, so she thought he disliked her. â��will you _schuhplätteln, gnädige frau?_â�� said the large, fair youth, loerkeâ��s companion. he was too soft, too humble for gudrunâ��s taste. but she wanted to dance, and the fair youth, who was called leitner, was handsome enough in his uneasy, slightly abject fashion, a humility that covered a certain fear. she accepted him as a partner. the zithers sounded out again, the dance began. gerald led them, laughing, with one of the professorâ��s daughters. ursula danced with one of the students, birkin with the other daughter of the professor, the professor with frau kramer, and the rest of the men danced together, with quite as much zest as if they had had women partners. because gudrun had danced with the well-built, soft youth, his companion, loerke, was more pettish and exasperated than ever, and would not even notice her existence in the room. this piqued her, but she made up to herself by dancing with the professor, who was strong as a mature, well-seasoned bull, and as full of coarse energy. she could not bear him, critically, and yet she enjoyed being rushed through the dance, and tossed up into the air, on his coarse, powerful impetus. the professor enjoyed it too, he eyed her with strange, large blue eyes, full of galvanic fire. she hated him for the seasoned, semi-paternal animalism with which he regarded her, but she admired his weight of strength. the room was charged with excitement and strong, animal emotion. loerke was kept away from gudrun, to whom he wanted to speak, as by a hedge of thorns, and he felt a sardonic ruthless hatred for this young love-companion, leitner, who was his penniless dependent. he mocked the youth, with an acid ridicule, that made leitner red in the face and impotent with resentment. gerald, who had now got the dance perfectly, was dancing again with the younger of the professorâ��s daughters, who was almost dying of virgin excitement, because she thought gerald so handsome, so superb. he had her in his power, as if she were a palpitating bird, a fluttering, flushing, bewildered creature. and it made him smile, as she shrank convulsively between his hands, violently, when he must throw her into the air. at the end, she was so overcome with prostrate love for him, that she could scarcely speak sensibly at all. birkin was dancing with ursula. there were odd little fires playing in his eyes, he seemed to have turned into something wicked and flickering, mocking, suggestive, quite impossible. ursula was frightened of him, and fascinated. clear, before her eyes, as in a vision, she could see the sardonic, licentious mockery of his eyes, he moved towards her with subtle, animal, indifferent approach. the strangeness of his hands, which came quick and cunning, inevitably to the vital place beneath her breasts, and, lifting with mocking, suggestive impulse, carried her through the air as if without strength, through blackmagic, made her swoon with fear. for a moment she revolted, it was horrible. she would break the spell. but before the resolution had formed she had submitted again, yielded to her fear. he knew all the time what he was doing, she could see it in his smiling, concentrated eyes. it was his responsibility, she would leave it to him. when they were alone in the darkness, she felt the strange, licentiousness of him hovering upon her. she was troubled and repelled. why should he turn like this? â��what is it?â�� she asked in dread. but his face only glistened on her, unknown, horrible. and yet she was fascinated. her impulse was to repel him violently, break from this spell of mocking brutishness. but she was too fascinated, she wanted to submit, she wanted to know. what would he do to her? he was so attractive, and so repulsive at one. the sardonic suggestivity that flickered over his face and looked from his narrowed eyes, made her want to hide, to hide herself away from him and watch him from somewhere unseen. â��why are you like this?â�� she demanded again, rousing against him with sudden force and animosity. the flickering fires in his eyes concentrated as he looked into her eyes. then the lids drooped with a faint motion of satiric contempt. then they rose again to the same remorseless suggestivity. and she gave way, he might do as he would. his licentiousness was repulsively attractive. but he was self-responsible, she would see what it was. they might do as they likedâ��this she realised as she went to sleep. how could anything that gave one satisfaction be excluded? what was degrading? who cared? degrading things were real, with a different reality. and he was so unabashed and unrestrained. wasnâ��t it rather horrible, a man who could be so soulful and spiritual, now to be soâ��she balked at her own thoughts and memories: then she addedâ��so bestial? so bestial, they two!â��so degraded! she winced. but after all, why not? she exulted as well. why not be bestial, and go the whole round of experience? she exulted in it. she was bestial. how good it was to be really shameful! there would be no shameful thing she had not experienced. yet she was unabashed, she was herself. why not? she was free, when she knew everything, and no dark shameful things were denied her. gudrun, who had been watching gerald in the _reunionsaal_, suddenly thought: â��he should have all the women he canâ��it is his nature. it is absurd to call him monogamousâ��he is naturally promiscuous. that is his nature.â�� the thought came to her involuntarily. it shocked her somewhat. it was as if she had seen some new _mene! mene!_ upon the wall. yet it was merely true. a voice seemed to have spoken it to her so clearly, that for the moment she believed in inspiration. â��it is really true,â�� she said to herself again. she knew quite well she had believed it all along. she knew it implicitly. but she must keep it darkâ��almost from herself. she must keep it completely secret. it was knowledge for her alone, and scarcely even to be admitted to herself. the deep resolve formed in her, to combat him. one of them must triumph over the other. which should it be? her soul steeled itself with strength. almost she laughed within herself, at her confidence. it woke a certain keen, half contemptuous pity, tenderness for him: she was so ruthless. everybody retired early. the professor and loerke went into a small lounge to drink. they both watched gudrun go along the landing by the railing upstairs. â��_ein schönes frauenzimmer_,â�� said the professor. â��_ja!_â�� asserted loerke, shortly. gerald walked with his queer, long wolf-steps across the bedroom to the window, stooped and looked out, then rose again, and turned to gudrun, his eyes sharp with an abstract smile. he seemed very tall to her, she saw the glisten of his whitish eyebrows, that met between his brows. â��how do you like it?â�� he said. he seemed to be laughing inside himself, quite unconsciously. she looked at him. he was a phenomenon to her, not a human being: a sort of creature, greedy. â��i like it very much,â�� she replied. â��who do you like best downstairs?â�� he asked, standing tall and glistening above her, with his glistening stiff hair erect. â��who do i like best?â�� she repeated, wanting to answer his question, and finding it difficult to collect herself. â��why i donâ��t know, i donâ��t know enough about them yet, to be able to say. who do _you_ like best?â�� â��oh, i donâ��t careâ��i donâ��t like or dislike any of them. it doesnâ��t matter about me. i wanted to know about you.â�� â��but why?â�� she asked, going rather pale. the abstract, unconscious smile in his eyes was intensified. â��i wanted to know,â�� he said. she turned aside, breaking the spell. in some strange way, she felt he was getting power over her. â��well, i canâ��t tell you already,â�� she said. she went to the mirror to take out the hairpins from her hair. she stood before the mirror every night for some minutes, brushing her fine dark hair. it was part of the inevitable ritual of her life. he followed her, and stood behind her. she was busy with bent head, taking out the pins and shaking her warm hair loose. when she looked up, she saw him in the glass standing behind her, watching unconsciously, not consciously seeing her, and yet watching, with finepupilled eyes that _seemed_ to smile, and which were not really smiling. she started. it took all her courage for her to continue brushing her hair, as usual, for her to pretend she was at her ease. she was far, far from being at her ease with him. she beat her brains wildly for something to say to him. â��what are your plans for tomorrow?â�� she asked nonchalantly, whilst her heart was beating so furiously, her eyes were so bright with strange nervousness, she felt he could not but observe. but she knew also that he was completely blind, blind as a wolf looking at her. it was a strange battle between her ordinary consciousness and his uncanny, black-art consciousness. â��i donâ��t know,â�� he replied, â��what would you like to do?â�� he spoke emptily, his mind was sunk away. â��oh,â�� she said, with easy protestation, â��iâ��m ready for anythingâ��anything will be fine for _me_, iâ��m sure.â�� and to herself she was saying: â��god, why am i so nervousâ��why are you so nervous, you fool. if he sees it iâ��m done for foreverâ��you _know_ youâ��re done for forever, if he sees the absurd state youâ��re in.â�� and she smiled to herself as if it were all childâ��s play. meanwhile her heart was plunging, she was almost fainting. she could see him, in the mirror, as he stood there behind her, tall and over-archingâ��blond and terribly frightening. she glanced at his reflection with furtive eyes, willing to give anything to save him from knowing she could see him. he did not know she could see his reflection. he was looking unconsciously, glisteningly down at her head, from which the hair fell loose, as she brushed it with wild, nervous hand. she held her head aside and brushed and brushed her hair madly. for her life, she could not turn round and face him. for her life, _she could not_. and the knowledge made her almost sink to the ground in a faint, helpless, spent. she was aware of his frightening, impending figure standing close behind her, she was aware of his hard, strong, unyielding chest, close upon her back. and she felt she could not bear it any more, in a few minutes she would fall down at his feet, grovelling at his feet, and letting him destroy her. the thought pricked up all her sharp intelligence and presence of mind. she dared not turn round to himâ��and there he stood motionless, unbroken. summoning all her strength, she said, in a full, resonant, nonchalant voice, that was forced out with all her remaining self-control: â��oh, would you mind looking in that bag behind there and giving me myâ��â�� here her power fell inert. â��my whatâ��my whatâ��?â�� she screamed in silence to herself. but he had started round, surprised and startled that she should ask him to look in her bag, which she always kept so _very_ private to herself. she turned now, her face white, her dark eyes blazing with uncanny, overwrought excitement. she saw him stooping to the bag, undoing the loosely buckled strap, unattentive. â��your what?â�� he asked. â��oh, a little enamel boxâ��yellowâ��with a design of a cormorant plucking her breastâ��â�� she went towards him, stooping her beautiful, bare arm, and deftly turned some of her things, disclosing the box, which was exquisitely painted. â��that is it, see,â�� she said, taking it from under his eyes. and he was baffled now. he was left to fasten up the bag, whilst she swiftly did up her hair for the night, and sat down to unfasten her shoes. she would not turn her back to him any more. he was baffled, frustrated, but unconscious. she had the whip hand over him now. she knew he had not realised her terrible panic. her heart was beating heavily still. fool, fool that she was, to get into such a state! how she thanked god for geraldâ��s obtuse blindness. thank god he could see nothing. she sat slowly unlacing her shoes, and he too commenced to undress. thank god that crisis was over. she felt almost fond of him now, almost in love with him. â��ah, gerald,â�� she laughed, caressively, teasingly, â��ah, what a fine game you played with the professorâ��s daughterâ��didnâ��t you now?â�� â��what game?â�� he asked, looking round. â��_isnâ��t_ she in love with youâ��oh _dear_, isnâ��t she in love with you!â�� said gudrun, in her gayest, most attractive mood. â��i shouldnâ��t think so,â�� he said. â��shouldnâ��t think so!â�� she teased. â��why the poor girl is lying at this moment overwhelmed, dying with love for you. she thinks youâ��re _wonderful_â��oh marvellous, beyond what man has ever been. _really_, isnâ��t it funny?â�� â��why funny, what is funny?â�� he asked. â��why to see you working it on her,â�� she said, with a half reproach that confused the male conceit in him. â��really gerald, the poor girlâ��!â�� â��i did nothing to her,â�� he said. â��oh, it was too shameful, the way you simply swept her off her feet.â�� â��that was _schuhplatteln_,â�� he replied, with a bright grin. â��haâ��haâ��ha!â�� laughed gudrun. her mockery quivered through his muscles with curious re-echoes. when he slept he seemed to crouch down in the bed, lapped up in his own strength, that yet was hollow. and gudrun slept strongly, a victorious sleep. suddenly, she was almost fiercely awake. the small timber room glowed with the dawn, that came upwards from the low window. she could see down the valley when she lifted her head: the snow with a pinkish, half-revealed magic, the fringe of pine-trees at the bottom of the slope. and one tiny figure moved over the vaguely-illuminated space. she glanced at his watch; it was seven oâ��clock. he was still completely asleep. and she was so hard awake, it was almost frighteningâ��a hard, metallic wakefulness. she lay looking at him. he slept in the subjection of his own health and defeat. she was overcome by a sincere regard for him. till now, she was afraid before him. she lay and thought about him, what he was, what he represented in the world. a fine, independent will, he had. she thought of the revolution he had worked in the mines, in so short a time. she knew that, if he were confronted with any problem, any hard actual difficulty, he would overcome it. if he laid hold of any idea, he would carry it through. he had the faculty of making order out of confusion. only let him grip hold of a situation, and he would bring to pass an inevitable conclusion. for a few moments she was borne away on the wild wings of ambition. gerald, with his force of will and his power for comprehending the actual world, should be set to solve the problems of the day, the problem of industrialism in the modern world. she knew he would, in the course of time, effect the changes he desired, he could re-organise the industrial system. she knew he could do it. as an instrument, in these things, he was marvellous, she had never seen any man with his potentiality. he was unaware of it, but she knew. he only needed to be hitched on, he needed that his hand should be set to the task, because he was so unconscious. and this she could do. she would marry him, he would go into parliament in the conservative interest, he would clear up the great muddle of labour and industry. he was so superbly fearless, masterful, he knew that every problem could be worked out, in life as in geometry. and he would care neither about himself nor about anything but the pure working out of the problem. he was very pure, really. her heart beat fast, she flew away on wings of elation, imagining a future. he would be a napoleon of peace, or a bismarckâ��and she the woman behind him. she had read bismarckâ��s letters, and had been deeply moved by them. and gerald would be freer, more dauntless than bismarck. but even as she lay in fictitious transport, bathed in the strange, false sunshine of hope in life, something seemed to snap in her, and a terrible cynicism began to gain upon her, blowing in like a wind. everything turned to irony with her: the last flavour of everything was ironical. when she felt her pang of undeniable reality, this was when she knew the hard irony of hopes and ideas. she lay and looked at him, as he slept. he was sheerly beautiful, he was a perfect instrument. to her mind, he was a pure, inhuman, almost superhuman instrument. his instrumentality appealed so strongly to her, she wished she were god, to use him as a tool. and at the same instant, came the ironical question: â��what for?â�� she thought of the colliersâ�� wives, with their linoleum and their lace curtains and their little girls in high-laced boots. she thought of the wives and daughters of the pit-managers, their tennis-parties, and their terrible struggles to be superior each to the other, in the social scale. there was shortlands with its meaningless distinction, the meaningless crowd of the criches. there was london, the house of commons, the extant social world. my god! young as she was, gudrun had touched the whole pulse of social england. she had no ideas of rising in the world. she knew, with the perfect cynicism of cruel youth, that to rise in the world meant to have one outside show instead of another, the advance was like having a spurious half-crown instead of a spurious penny. the whole coinage of valuation was spurious. yet of course, her cynicism knew well enough that, in a world where spurious coin was current, a bad sovereign was better than a bad farthing. but rich and poor, she despised both alike. already she mocked at herself for her dreams. they could be fulfilled easily enough. but she recognised too well, in her spirit, the mockery of her own impulses. what did she care, that gerald had created a richly-paying industry out of an old worn-out concern? what did she care? the worn-out concern and the rapid, splendidly organised industry, they were bad money. yet of course, she cared a great deal, outwardlyâ��and outwardly was all that mattered, for inwardly was a bad joke. everything was intrinsically a piece of irony to her. she leaned over gerald and said in her heart, with compassion: â��oh, my dear, my dear, the game isnâ��t worth even you. you are a fine thing reallyâ��why should you be used on such a poor show!â�� her heart was breaking with pity and grief for him. and at the same moment, a grimace came over her mouth, of mocking irony at her own unspoken tirade. ah, what a farce it was! she thought of parnell and katherine oâ��shea. parnell! after all, who can take the nationalisation of ireland seriously? who can take political ireland really seriously, whatever it does? and who can take political england seriously? who can? who can care a straw, really, how the old patched-up constitution is tinkered at any more? who cares a button for our national ideas, any more than for our national bowler hat? aha, it is all old hat, it is all old bowler hat! thatâ��s all it is, gerald, my young hero. at any rate weâ��ll spare ourselves the nausea of stirring the old broth any more. you be beautiful, my gerald, and reckless. there _are_ perfect moments. wake up, gerald, wake up, convince me of the perfect moments. oh, convince me, i need it. he opened his eyes, and looked at her. she greeted him with a mocking, enigmatic smile in which was a poignant gaiety. over his face went the reflection of the smile, he smiled, too, purely unconsciously. that filled her with extraordinary delight, to see the smile cross his face, reflected from her face. she remembered that was how a baby smiled. it filled her with extraordinary radiant delight. â��youâ��ve done it,â�� she said. â��what?â�� he asked, dazed. â��convinced me.â�� and she bent down, kissing him passionately, passionately, so that he was bewildered. he did not ask her of what he had convinced her, though he meant to. he was glad she was kissing him. she seemed to be feeling for his very heart to touch the quick of him. and he wanted her to touch the quick of his being, he wanted that most of all. outside, somebody was singing, in a manly, reckless handsome voice: â��mach mir auf, mach mir auf, du stolze, mach mir ein feuer von holze. vom regen bin ich nass vom regen bin ich nassâ��â�� gudrun knew that that song would sound through her eternity, sung in a manly, reckless, mocking voice. it marked one of her supreme moments, the supreme pangs of her nervous gratification. there it was, fixed in eternity for her. the day came fine and bluish. there was a light wind blowing among the mountain tops, keen as a rapier where it touched, carrying with it a fine dust of snow-powder. gerald went out with the fine, blind face of a man who is in his state of fulfilment. gudrun and he were in perfect static unity this morning, but unseeing and unwitting. they went out with a toboggan, leaving ursula and birkin to follow. gudrun was all scarlet and royal blueâ��a scarlet jersey and cap, and a royal blue skirt and stockings. she went gaily over the white snow, with gerald beside her, in white and grey, pulling the little toboggan. they grew small in the distance of snow, climbing the steep slope. for gudrun herself, she seemed to pass altogether into the whiteness of the snow, she became a pure, thoughtless crystal. when she reached the top of the slope, in the wind, she looked round, and saw peak beyond peak of rock and snow, bluish, transcendent in heaven. and it seemed to her like a garden, with the peaks for pure flowers, and her heart gathering them. she had no separate consciousness for gerald. she held on to him as they went sheering down over the keen slope. she felt as if her senses were being whetted on some fine grindstone, that was keen as flame. the snow sprinted on either side, like sparks from a blade that is being sharpened, the whiteness round about ran swifter, swifter, in pure flame the white slope flew against her, and she fused like one molten, dancing globule, rushed through a white intensity. then there was a great swerve at the bottom, when they swung as it were in a fall to earth, in the diminishing motion. they came to rest. but when she rose to her feet, she could not stand. she gave a strange cry, turned and clung to him, sinking her face on his breast, fainting in him. utter oblivion came over her, as she lay for a few moments abandoned against him. â��what is it?â�� he was saying. â��was it too much for you?â�� but she heard nothing. when she came to, she stood up and looked round, astonished. her face was white, her eyes brilliant and large. â��what is it?â�� he repeated. â��did it upset you?â�� she looked at him with her brilliant eyes that seemed to have undergone some transfiguration, and she laughed, with a terrible merriment. â��no,â�� she cried, with triumphant joy. â��it was the complete moment of my life.â�� and she looked at him with her dazzling, overweening laughter, like one possessed. a fine blade seemed to enter his heart, but he did not care, or take any notice. but they climbed up the slope again, and they flew down through the white flame again, splendidly, splendidly. gudrun was laughing and flashing, powdered with snow-crystals, gerald worked perfectly. he felt he could guide the toboggan to a hair-breadth, almost he could make it pierce into the air and right into the very heart of the sky. it seemed to him the flying sledge was but his strength spread out, he had but to move his arms, the motion was his own. they explored the great slopes, to find another slide. he felt there must be something better than they had known. and he found what he desired, a perfect long, fierce sweep, sheering past the foot of a rock and into the trees at the base. it was dangerous, he knew. but then he knew also he would direct the sledge between his fingers. the first days passed in an ecstasy of physical motion, sleighing, skiing, skating, moving in an intensity of speed and white light that surpassed life itself, and carried the souls of the human beings beyond into an inhuman abstraction of velocity and weight and eternal, frozen snow. geraldâ��s eyes became hard and strange, and as he went by on his skis he was more like some powerful, fateful sigh than a man, his muscles elastic in a perfect, soaring trajectory, his body projected in pure flight, mindless, soulless, whirling along one perfect line of force. luckily there came a day of snow, when they must all stay indoors: otherwise birkin said, they would all lose their faculties, and begin to utter themselves in cries and shrieks, like some strange, unknown species of snow-creatures. it happened in the afternoon that ursula sat in the _reunionsaal_ talking to loerke. the latter had seemed unhappy lately. he was lively and full of mischievous humour, as usual. but ursula had thought he was sulky about something. his partner, too, the big, fair, good-looking youth, was ill at ease, going about as if he belonged to nowhere, and was kept in some sort of subjection, against which he was rebelling. loerke had hardly talked to gudrun. his associate, on the other hand, had paid her constantly a soft, over-deferential attention. gudrun wanted to talk to loerke. he was a sculptor, and she wanted to hear his view of his art. and his figure attracted her. there was the look of a little wastrel about him, that intrigued her, and an old manâ��s look, that interested her, and then, beside this, an uncanny singleness, a quality of being by himself, not in contact with anybody else, that marked out an artist to her. he was a chatterer, a magpie, a maker of mischievous word-jokes, that were sometimes very clever, but which often were not. and she could see in his brown, gnomeâ��s eyes, the black look of inorganic misery, which lay behind all his small buffoonery. his figure interested herâ��the figure of a boy, almost a street arab. he made no attempt to conceal it. he always wore a simple loden suit, with knee breeches. his legs were thin, and he made no attempt to disguise the fact: which was of itself remarkable, in a german. and he never ingratiated himself anywhere, not in the slightest, but kept to himself, for all his apparent playfulness. leitner, his companion, was a great sportsman, very handsome with his big limbs and his blue eyes. loerke would go toboganning or skating, in little snatches, but he was indifferent. and his fine, thin nostrils, the nostrils of a pure-bred street arab, would quiver with contempt at leitnerâ��s splothering gymnastic displays. it was evident that the two men who had travelled and lived together, sharing the same bedroom, had now reached the stage of loathing. leitner hated loerke with an injured, writhing, impotent hatred, and loerke treated leitner with a fine-quivering contempt and sarcasm. soon the two would have to go apart. already they were rarely together. leitner ran attaching himself to somebody or other, always deferring, loerke was a good deal alone. out of doors he wore a westphalian cap, a close brown-velvet head with big brown velvet flaps down over his ears, so that he looked like a lop-eared rabbit, or a troll. his face was brown-red, with a dry, bright skin, that seemed to crinkle with his mobile expressions. his eyes were arrestingâ��brown, full, like a rabbitâ��s, or like a trollâ��s, or like the eyes of a lost being, having a strange, dumb, depraved look of knowledge, and a quick spark of uncanny fire. whenever gudrun had tried to talk to him he had shied away unresponsive, looking at her with his watchful dark eyes, but entering into no relation with her. he had made her feel that her slow french and her slower german, were hateful to him. as for his own inadequate english, he was much too awkward to try it at all. but he understood a good deal of what was said, nevertheless. and gudrun, piqued, left him alone. this afternoon, however, she came into the lounge as he was talking to ursula. his fine, black hair somehow reminded her of a bat, thin as it was on his full, sensitive-looking head, and worn away at the temples. he sat hunched up, as if his spirit were bat-like. and gudrun could see he was making some slow confidence to ursula, unwilling, a slow, grudging, scanty self-revelation. she went and sat by her sister. he looked at her, then looked away again, as if he took no notice of her. but as a matter of fact, she interested him deeply. â��isnâ��t it interesting, prune,â�� said ursula, turning to her sister, â��herr loerke is doing a great frieze for a factory in cologne, for the outside, the street.â�� she looked at him, at his thin, brown, nervous hands, that were prehensile, and somehow like talons, like â��griffes,â�� inhuman. â��what _in?_â�� she asked. â��_aus was?_â�� repeated ursula. â��_granit_,â�� he replied. it had become immediately a laconic series of question and answer between fellow craftsmen. â��what is the relief?â�� asked gudrun. â��_alto relievo._â�� â��and at what height?â�� it was very interesting to gudrun to think of his making the great granite frieze for a great granite factory in cologne. she got from him some notion of the design. it was a representation of a fair, with peasants and artisans in an orgy of enjoyment, drunk and absurd in their modern dress, whirling ridiculously in roundabouts, gaping at shows, kissing and staggering and rolling in knots, swinging in swing-boats, and firing down shooting galleries, a frenzy of chaotic motion. there was a swift discussion of technicalities. gudrun was very much impressed. â��but how wonderful, to have such a factory!â�� cried ursula. â��is the whole building fine?â�� â��oh yes,â�� he replied. â��the frieze is part of the whole architecture. yes, it is a colossal thing.â�� then he seemed to stiffen, shrugged his shoulders, and went on: â��sculpture and architecture must go together. the day for irrelevant statues, as for wall pictures, is over. as a matter of fact sculpture is always part of an architectural conception. and since churches are all museum stuff, since industry is our business, now, then let us make our places of industry our artâ��our factory-area our parthenon, _ecco!_â�� ursula pondered. â��i suppose,â�� she said, â��there is no _need_ for our great works to be so hideous.â�� instantly he broke into motion. â��there you are!â�� he cried, â��there you are! there is not only _no need_ for our places of work to be ugly, but their ugliness ruins the work, in the end. men will not go on submitting to such intolerable ugliness. in the end it will hurt too much, and they will wither because of it. and this will wither the _work_ as well. they will think the work itself is ugly: the machines, the very act of labour. whereas the machinery and the acts of labour are extremely, maddeningly beautiful. but this will be the end of our civilisation, when people will not work because work has become so intolerable to their senses, it nauseates them too much, they would rather starve. _then_ we shall see the hammer used only for smashing, then we shall see it. yet here we areâ��we have the opportunity to make beautiful factories, beautiful machine-housesâ��we have the opportunityâ��â�� gudrun could only partly understand. she could have cried with vexation. â��what does he say?â�� she asked ursula. and ursula translated, stammering and brief. loerke watched gudrunâ��s face, to see her judgment. â��and do you think then,â�� said gudrun, â��that art should serve industry?â�� â��art should _interpret_ industry, as art once interpreted religion,â�� he said. â��but does your fair interpret industry?â�� she asked him. â��certainly. what is man doing, when he is at a fair like this? he is fulfilling the counterpart of labourâ��the machine works him, instead of he the machine. he enjoys the mechanical motion, in his own body.â�� â��but is there nothing but workâ��mechanical work?â�� said gudrun. â��nothing but work!â�� he repeated, leaning forward, his eyes two darknesses, with needle-points of light. â��no, it is nothing but this, serving a machine, or enjoying the motion of a machineâ��motion, that is all. you have never worked for hunger, or you would know what god governs us.â�� gudrun quivered and flushed. for some reason she was almost in tears. â��no, i have not worked for hunger,â�� she replied, â��but i have worked!â�� â��_travailléâ��lavorato?_â�� he asked. â��_e che lavoroâ��che lavoro? quel travail est-ce que vous avez fait?_â�� he broke into a mixture of italian and french, instinctively using a foreign language when he spoke to her. â��you have never worked as the world works,â�� he said to her, with sarcasm. â��yes,â�� she said. â��i have. and i doâ��i work now for my daily bread.â�� he paused, looked at her steadily, then dropped the subject entirely. she seemed to him to be trifling. â��but have _you_ ever worked as the world works?â�� ursula asked him. he looked at her untrustful. â��yes,â�� he replied, with a surly bark. â��i have known what it was to lie in bed for three days, because i had nothing to eat.â�� gudrun was looking at him with large, grave eyes, that seemed to draw the confession from him as the marrow from his bones. all his nature held him back from confessing. and yet her large, grave eyes upon him seemed to open some valve in his veins, and involuntarily he was telling. â��my father was a man who did not like work, and we had no mother. we lived in austria, polish austria. how did we live? ha!â��somehow! mostly in a room with three other familiesâ��one set in each cornerâ��and the w.c. in the middle of the roomâ��a pan with a plank on itâ��ha! i had two brothers and a sisterâ��and there might be a woman with my father. he was a free being, in his wayâ��would fight with any man in the townâ��a garrison townâ��and was a little man too. but he wouldnâ��t work for anybodyâ��set his heart against it, and wouldnâ��t.â�� â��and how did you live then?â�� asked ursula. he looked at herâ��then, suddenly, at gudrun. â��do you understand?â�� he asked. â��enough,â�� she replied. their eyes met for a moment. then he looked away. he would say no more. â��and how did you become a sculptor?â�� asked ursula. â��how did i become a sculptorâ��â�� he paused. â��_dunque_â��â�� he resumed, in a changed manner, and beginning to speak frenchâ��â��i became old enoughâ��i used to steal from the market-place. later i went to workâ��imprinted the stamp on clay bottles, before they were baked. it was an earthenware-bottle factory. there i began making models. one day, i had had enough. i lay in the sun and did not go to work. then i walked to munichâ��then i walked to italyâ��begging, begging everything.â�� â��the italians were very good to meâ��they were good and honourable to me. from bozen to rome, almost every night i had a meal and a bed, perhaps of straw, with some peasant. i love the italian people, with all my heart. â��_dunque, adessoâ��maintenant_â��i earn a thousand pounds in a year, or i earn two thousandâ��â�� he looked down at the ground, his voice tailing off into silence. gudrun looked at his fine, thin, shiny skin, reddish-brown from the sun, drawn tight over his full temples; and at his thin hairâ��and at the thick, coarse, brush-like moustache, cut short about his mobile, rather shapeless mouth. â��how old are you?â�� she asked. he looked up at her with his full, elfin eyes startled. â��_wie alt?_â�� he repeated. and he hesitated. it was evidently one of his reticencies. â��how old are _you?_â�� he replied, without answering. â��i am twenty-six,â�� she answered. â��twenty-six,â�� he repeated, looking into her eyes. he paused. then he said: â��_und ihr herr gemahl, wie alt ist er?_â�� â��who?â�� asked gudrun. â��your husband,â�� said ursula, with a certain irony. â��i havenâ��t got a husband,â�� said gudrun in english. in german she answered, â��he is thirty-one.â�� but loerke was watching closely, with his uncanny, full, suspicious eyes. something in gudrun seemed to accord with him. he was really like one of the â��little peopleâ�� who have no soul, who has found his mate in a human being. but he suffered in his discovery. she too was fascinated by him, fascinated, as if some strange creature, a rabbit or a bat, or a brown seal, had begun to talk to her. but also, she knew what he was unconscious of, his tremendous power of understanding, of apprehending her living motion. he did not know his own power. he did not know how, with his full, submerged, watchful eyes, he could look into her and see her, what she was, see her secrets. he would only want her to be herselfâ��he knew her verily, with a subconscious, sinister knowledge, devoid of illusions and hopes. to gudrun, there was in loerke the rock-bottom of all life. everybody else had their illusion, must have their illusion, their before and after. but he, with a perfect stoicism, did without any before and after, dispensed with all illusion. he did not deceive himself in the last issue. in the last issue he cared about nothing, he was troubled about nothing, he made not the slightest attempt to be at one with anything. he existed a pure, unconnected will, stoical and momentaneous. there was only his work. it was curious too, how his poverty, the degradation of his earlier life, attracted her. there was something insipid and tasteless to her, in the idea of a gentleman, a man who had gone the usual course through school and university. a certain violent sympathy, however, came up in her for this mud-child. he seemed to be the very stuff of the underworld of life. there was no going beyond him. ursula too was attracted by loerke. in both sisters he commanded a certain homage. but there were moments when to ursula he seemed indescribably inferior, false, a vulgarism. both birkin and gerald disliked him, gerald ignoring him with some contempt, birkin exasperated. â��what do the women find so impressive in that little brat?â�� gerald asked. â��god alone knows,â�� replied birkin, â��unless itâ��s some sort of appeal he makes to them, which flatters them and has such a power over them.â�� gerald looked up in surprise. â��_does_ he make an appeal to them?â�� he asked. â��oh yes,â�� replied birkin. â��he is the perfectly subjected being, existing almost like a criminal. and the women rush towards that, like a current of air towards a vacuum.â�� â��funny they should rush to that,â�� said gerald. â��makes one mad, too,â�� said birkin. â��but he has the fascination of pity and repulsion for them, a little obscene monster of the darkness that he is.â�� gerald stood still, suspended in thought. â��what _do_ women want, at the bottom?â�� he asked. birkin shrugged his shoulders. â��god knows,â�� he said. â��some satisfaction in basic repulsion, it seems to me. they seem to creep down some ghastly tunnel of darkness, and will never be satisfied till theyâ��ve come to the end.â�� gerald looked out into the mist of fine snow that was blowing by. everywhere was blind today, horribly blind. â��and what is the end?â�� he asked. birkin shook his head. â��iâ��ve not got there yet, so i donâ��t know. ask loerke, heâ��s pretty near. he is a good many stages further than either you or i can go.â�� â��yes, but stages further in what?â�� cried gerald, irritated. birkin sighed, and gathered his brows into a knot of anger. â��stages further in social hatred,â�� he said. â��he lives like a rat, in the river of corruption, just where it falls over into the bottomless pit. heâ��s further on than we are. he hates the ideal more acutely. he _hates_ the ideal utterly, yet it still dominates him. i expect he is a jewâ��or part jewish.â�� â��probably,â�� said gerald. â��he is a gnawing little negation, gnawing at the roots of life.â�� â��but why does anybody care about him?â�� cried gerald. â��because they hate the ideal also, in their souls. they want to explore the sewers, and heâ��s the wizard rat that swims ahead.â�� still gerald stood and stared at the blind haze of snow outside. â��i donâ��t understand your terms, really,â�� he said, in a flat, doomed voice. â��but it sounds a rum sort of desire.â�� â��i suppose we want the same,â�� said birkin. â��only we want to take a quick jump downwards, in a sort of ecstasyâ��and he ebbs with the stream, the sewer stream.â�� meanwhile gudrun and ursula waited for the next opportunity to talk to loerke. it was no use beginning when the men were there. then they could get into no touch with the isolated little sculptor. he had to be alone with them. and he preferred ursula to be there, as a sort of transmitter to gudrun. â��do you do nothing but architectural sculpture?â�� gudrun asked him one evening. â��not now,â�� he replied. â��i have done all sortsâ��except portraitsâ��i never did portraits. but other thingsâ��â�� â��what kind of things?â�� asked gudrun. he paused a moment, then rose, and went out of the room. he returned almost immediately with a little roll of paper, which he handed to her. she unrolled it. it was a photogravure reproduction of a statuette, signed f. loerke. â��that is quite an early thingâ��_not_ mechanical,â�� he said, â��more popular.â�� the statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sitting on a great naked horse. the girl was young and tender, a mere bud. she was sitting sideways on the horse, her face in her hands, as if in shame and grief, in a little abandon. her hair, which was short and must be flaxen, fell forward, divided, half covering her hands. her limbs were young and tender. her legs, scarcely formed yet, the legs of a maiden just passing towards cruel womanhood, dangled childishly over the side of the powerful horse, pathetically, the small feet folded one over the other, as if to hide. but there was no hiding. there she was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse. the horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start. it was a massive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up power. its neck was arched and terrible, like a sickle, its flanks were pressed back, rigid with power. gudrun went pale, and a darkness came over her eyes, like shame, she looked up with a certain supplication, almost slave-like. he glanced at her, and jerked his head a little. â��how big is it?â�� she asked, in a toneless voice, persisting in appearing casual and unaffected. â��how big?â�� he replied, glancing again at her. â��without pedestalâ��so highâ��â�� he measured with his handâ��â��with pedestal, soâ��â�� he looked at her steadily. there was a little brusque, turgid contempt for her in his swift gesture, and she seemed to cringe a little. â��and what is it done in?â�� she asked, throwing back her head and looking at him with affected coldness. he still gazed at her steadily, and his dominance was not shaken. â��bronzeâ��green bronze.â�� â��green bronze!â�� repeated gudrun, coldly accepting his challenge. she was thinking of the slender, immature, tender limbs of the girl, smooth and cold in green bronze. â��yes, beautiful,â�� she murmured, looking up at him with a certain dark homage. he closed his eyes and looked aside, triumphant. â��why,â�� said ursula, â��did you make the horse so stiff? it is as stiff as a block.â�� â��stiff?â�� he repeated, in arms at once. â��yes. _look_ how stock and stupid and brutal it is. horses are sensitive, quite delicate and sensitive, really.â�� he raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of slow indifference, as much as to inform her she was an amateur and an impertinent nobody. â��_wissen sie_,â�� he said, with an insulting patience and condescension in his voice, â��that horse is a certain _form_, part of a whole form. it is part of a work of art, a piece of form. it is not a picture of a friendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you seeâ��it is part of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that work of art.â�� ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly _de haut en bas_, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exoteric amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face. â��but it _is_ a picture of a horse, nevertheless.â�� he lifted his shoulders in another shrug. â��as you likeâ��it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.â�� here gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any more of this, any more of ursulaâ��s foolish persistence in giving herself away. â��what do you mean by â��it is a picture of a horse?â��â�� she cried at her sister. â��what do you mean by a horse? you mean an idea you have in _your_ head, and which you want to see represented. there is another idea altogether, quite another idea. call it a horse if you like, or say it is not a horse. i have just as much right to say that _your_ horse isnâ��t a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up.â�� ursula wavered, baffled. then her words came. â��but why does he have this idea of a horse?â�� she said. â��i know it is his idea. i know it is a picture of himself, reallyâ��â�� loerke snorted with rage. â��a picture of myself!â�� he repeated, in derision. â��_wissen sie, gnädige frau_, that is a _kunstwerk_, a work of art. it is a work of art, it is a picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. it has nothing to do with anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all counsel, a making confusion everywhere. do you see, you _must not_ confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art. that you _must not do_.â�� â��that is quite true,â�� cried gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody. â��the two things are quite and permanently apart, they have nothing to do with one another. _i_ and my art, they have _nothing_ to do with each other. my art stands in another world, i am in this world.â�� her face was flushed and transfigured. loerke who was sitting with his head ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and murmured, â��_jaâ��so ist es, so ist es._â�� ursula was silent after this outburst. she was furious. she wanted to poke a hole into them both. â��it isnâ��t a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me,â�� she replied flatly. â��the horse is a picture of your own stock, stupid brutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and then ignored.â�� he looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. he would not trouble to answer this last charge. gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. ursula _was_ such an insufferable outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. but thenâ��fools must be suffered, if not gladly. but ursula was persistent too. â��as for your world of art and your world of reality,â�� she replied, â��you have to separate the two, because you canâ��t bear to know what you are. you canâ��t bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you _are_ really, so you say â��itâ��s the world of art.â�� the world of art is only the truth about the real world, thatâ��s allâ��but you are too far gone to see it.â�� she was white and trembling, intent. gudrun and loerke sat in stiff dislike of her. gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of the speech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. he felt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the esotericism which gave man his last distinction. he joined his forces with the other two. they all three wanted her to go away. but she sat on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingers twisting her handkerchief. the others maintained a dead silence, letting the display of ursulaâ��s obtrusiveness pass by. then gudrun asked, in a voice that was quite cool and casual, as if resuming a casual conversation: â��was the girl a model?â�� â��_nein, sie war kein modell. sie war eine kleine malschülerin._â�� â��an art-student!â�� replied gudrun. and how the situation revealed itself to her! she saw the girl art-student, unformed and of pernicious recklessness, too young, her straight flaxen hair cut short, hanging just into her neck, curving inwards slightly, because it was rather thick; and loerke, the well-known master-sculptor, and the girl, probably well-brought-up, and of good family, thinking herself so great to be his mistress. oh how well she knew the common callousness of it all. dresden, paris, or london, what did it matter? she knew it. â��where is she now?â�� ursula asked. loerke raised his shoulders, to convey his complete ignorance and indifference. â��that is already six years ago,â�� he said; â��she will be twenty-three years old, no more good.â�� gerald had picked up the picture and was looking at it. it attracted him also. he saw on the pedestal, that the piece was called â��lady godiva.â�� â��but this isnâ��t lady godiva,â�� he said, smiling good-humouredly. â��she was the middle-aged wife of some earl or other, who covered herself with her long hair.â�� â��_Ã� la_ maud allan,â�� said gudrun with a mocking grimace. â��why maud allan?â�� he replied. â��isnâ��t it so? i always thought the legend was that.â�� â��yes, gerald dear, iâ��m quite _sure_ youâ��ve got the legend perfectly.â�� she was laughing at him, with a little, mock-caressive contempt. â��to be sure, iâ��d rather see the woman than the hair,â�� he laughed in return. â��wouldnâ��t you just!â�� mocked gudrun. ursula rose and went away, leaving the three together. gudrun took the picture again from gerald, and sat looking at it closely. â��of course,â�� she said, turning to tease loerke now, â��you _understood_ your little _malschülerin_.â�� he raised his eyebrows and his shoulders in a complacent shrug. â��the little girl?â�� asked gerald, pointing to the figure. gudrun was sitting with the picture in her lap. she looked up at gerald, full into his eyes, so that he seemed to be blinded. â��_didnâ��t_ he understand her!â�� she said to gerald, in a slightly mocking, humorous playfulness. â��youâ��ve only to look at the feetâ��_arenâ��t_ they darling, so pretty and tenderâ��oh, theyâ��re really wonderful, they are reallyâ��â�� she lifted her eyes slowly, with a hot, flaming look into loerkeâ��s eyes. his soul was filled with her burning recognition, he seemed to grow more uppish and lordly. gerald looked at the small, sculptured feet. they were turned together, half covering each other in pathetic shyness and fear. he looked at them a long time, fascinated. then, in some pain, he put the picture away from him. he felt full of barrenness. â��what was her name?â�� gudrun asked loerke. â��annette von weck,â�� loerke replied reminiscent. â��_ja, sie war hübsch._ she was prettyâ��but she was tiresome. she was a nuisance,â��not for a minute would she keep stillâ��not until iâ��d slapped her hard and made her cryâ��then sheâ��d sit for five minutes.â�� he was thinking over the work, his work, the all important to him. â��did you really slap her?â�� asked gudrun, coolly. he glanced back at her, reading her challenge. â��yes, i did,â�� he said, nonchalant, â��harder than i have ever beat anything in my life. i had to, i had to. it was the only way i got the work done.â�� gudrun watched him with large, dark-filled eyes, for some moments. she seemed to be considering his very soul. then she looked down, in silence. â��why did you have such a young godiva then?â�� asked gerald. â��she is so small, besides, on the horseâ��not big enough for itâ��such a child.â�� a queer spasm went over loerkeâ��s face. â��yes,â�� he said. â��i donâ��t like them any bigger, any older. then they are beautiful, at sixteen, seventeen, eighteenâ��after that, they are no use to me.â�� there was a momentâ��s pause. â��why not?â�� asked gerald. loerke shrugged his shoulders. â��i donâ��t find them interestingâ��or beautifulâ��they are no good to me, for my work.â�� â��do you mean to say a woman isnâ��t beautiful after she is twenty?â�� asked gerald. â��for me, no. before twenty, she is small and fresh and tender and slight. after thatâ��let her be what she likes, she has nothing for me. the venus of milo is a bourgeoiseâ��so are they all.â�� â��and you donâ��t care for women at all after twenty?â�� asked gerald. â��they are no good to me, they are of no use in my art,â�� loerke repeated impatiently. â��i donâ��t find them beautiful.â�� â��you are an epicure,â�� said gerald, with a slight sarcastic laugh. â��and what about men?â�� asked gudrun suddenly. â��yes, they are good at all ages,â�� replied loerke. â��a man should be big and powerfulâ��whether he is old or young is of no account, so he has the size, something of massiveness andâ��and stupid form.â�� ursula went out alone into the world of pure, new snow. but the dazzling whiteness seemed to beat upon her till it hurt her, she felt the cold was slowly strangling her soul. her head felt dazed and numb. suddenly she wanted to go away. it occurred to her, like a miracle, that she might go away into another world. she had felt so doomed up here in the eternal snow, as if there were no beyond. now suddenly, as by a miracle she remembered that away beyond, below her, lay the dark fruitful earth, that towards the south there were stretches of land dark with orange trees and cypress, grey with olives, that ilex trees lifted wonderful plumy tufts in shadow against a blue sky. miracle of miracles!â��this utterly silent, frozen world of the mountain-tops was not universal! one might leave it and have done with it. one might go away. she wanted to realise the miracle at once. she wanted at this instant to have done with the snow-world, the terrible, static ice-built mountain tops. she wanted to see the dark earth, to smell its earthy fecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine touch a response in the buds. she went back gladly to the house, full of hope. birkin was reading, lying in bed. â��rupert,â�� she said, bursting in on him. â��i want to go away.â�� he looked up at her slowly. â��do you?â�� he replied mildly. she sat by him und put her arms round his neck. it surprised her that he was so little surprised. â��donâ��t _you?_â�� she asked troubled. â��i hadnâ��t thought about it,â�� he said. â��but iâ��m sure i do.â�� she sat up, suddenly erect. â��i hate it,â�� she said. â��i hate the snow, and the unnaturalness of it, the unnatural light it throws on everybody, the ghastly glamour, the unnatural feelings it makes everybody have.â�� he lay still and laughed, meditating. â��well,â�� he said, â��we can go awayâ��we can go tomorrow. weâ��ll go tomorrow to verona, and find romeo and juliet, and sit in the amphitheatreâ��shall we?â�� suddenly she hid her face against his shoulder with perplexity and shyness. he lay so untrammelled. â��yes,â�� she said softly, filled with relief. she felt her soul had new wings, now he was so uncaring. â��i shall love to be romeo and juliet,â�� she said. â��my love!â�� â��though a fearfully cold wind blows in verona,â�� he said, â��from out of the alps. we shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.â�� she sat up and looked at him. â��are you glad to go?â�� she asked, troubled. his eyes were inscrutable and laughing. she hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading: â��donâ��t laugh at meâ��donâ��t laugh at me.â�� â��why howâ��s that?â�� he laughed, putting his arms round her. â��because i donâ��t want to be laughed at,â�� she whispered. he laughed more, as he kissed her delicate, finely perfumed hair. â��do you love me?â�� she whispered, in wild seriousness. â��yes,â�� he answered, laughing. suddenly she lifted her mouth to be kissed. her lips were taut and quivering and strenuous, his were soft, deep and delicate. he waited a few moments in the kiss. then a shade of sadness went over his soul. â��your mouth is so hard,â�� he said, in faint reproach. â��and yours is so soft and nice,â�� she said gladly. â��but why do you always grip your lips?â�� he asked, regretful. â��never mind,â�� she said swiftly. â��it is my way.â�� she knew he loved her; she was sure of him. yet she could not let go a certain hold over herself, she could not bear him to question her. she gave herself up in delight to being loved by him. she knew that, in spite of his joy when she abandoned herself, he was a little bit saddened too. she could give herself up to his activity. but she could not be herself, she _dared_ not come forth quite nakedly to his nakedness, abandoning all adjustment, lapsing in pure faith with him. she abandoned herself to _him_, or she took hold of him and gathered her joy of him. and she enjoyed him fully. but they were never _quite_ together, at the same moment, one was always a little left out. nevertheless she was glad in hope, glorious and free, full of life and liberty. and he was still and soft and patient, for the time. they made their preparations to leave the next day. first they went to gudrunâ��s room, where she and gerald were just dressed ready for the evening indoors. â��prune,â�� said ursula, â��i think we shall go away tomorrow. i canâ��t stand the snow any more. it hurts my skin and my soul.â�� â��does it really hurt your soul, ursula?â�� asked gudrun, in some surprise. â��i can believe quite it hurts your skinâ��it is _terrible_. but i thought it was _admirable_ for the soul.â�� â��no, not for mine. it just injures it,â�� said ursula. â��really!â�� cried gudrun. there was a silence in the room. and ursula and birkin could feel that gudrun and gerald were relieved by their going. â��you will go south?â�� said gerald, a little ring of uneasiness in his voice. â��yes,â�� said birkin, turning away. there was a queer, indefinable hostility between the two men, lately. birkin was on the whole dim and indifferent, drifting along in a dim, easy flow, unnoticing and patient, since he came abroad, whilst gerald on the other hand, was intense and gripped into white light, agonistes. the two men revoked one another. gerald and gudrun were very kind to the two who were departing, solicitous for their welfare as if they were two children. gudrun came to ursulaâ��s bedroom with three pairs of the coloured stockings for which she was notorious, and she threw them on the bed. but these were thick silk stockings, vermilion, cornflower blue, and grey, bought in paris. the grey ones were knitted, seamless and heavy. ursula was in raptures. she knew gudrun must be feeling _very_ loving, to give away such treasures. â��i canâ��t take them from you, prune,â�� she cried. â��i canâ��t possibly deprive you of themâ��the jewels.â�� â��_arenâ��t_ they jewels!â�� cried gudrun, eyeing her gifts with an envious eye. â��_arenâ��t_ they real lambs!â�� â��yes, you _must_ keep them,â�� said ursula. â��i donâ��t _want_ them, iâ��ve got three more pairs. i _want_ you to keep themâ��i want you to have them. theyâ��re yours, thereâ��â�� and with trembling, excited hands she put the coveted stockings under ursulaâ��s pillow. â��one gets the greatest joy of all out of really lovely stockings,â�� said ursula. â��one does,â�� replied gudrun; â��the greatest joy of all.â�� and she sat down in the chair. it was evident she had come for a last talk. ursula, not knowing what she wanted, waited in silence. â��do you _feel_, ursula,â�� gudrun began, rather sceptically, that you are going-away-for-ever, never-to-return, sort of thing?â�� â��oh, we shall come back,â�� said ursula. â��it isnâ��t a question of train-journeys.â�� â��yes, i know. but spiritually, so to speak, you are going away from us all?â�� ursula quivered. â��i donâ��t know a bit what is going to happen,â�� she said. â��i only know we are going somewhere.â�� gudrun waited. â��and you are glad?â�� she asked. ursula meditated for a moment. â��i believe i am _very_ glad,â�� she replied. but gudrun read the unconscious brightness on her sisterâ��s face, rather than the uncertain tones of her speech. â��but donâ��t you think youâ��ll _want_ the old connection with the worldâ��father and the rest of us, and all that it means, england and the world of thoughtâ��donâ��t you think youâ��ll _need_ that, really to make a world?â�� ursula was silent, trying to imagine. â��i think,â�� she said at length, involuntarily, â��that rupert is rightâ��one wants a new space to be in, and one falls away from the old.â�� gudrun watched her sister with impassive face and steady eyes. â��one wants a new space to be in, i quite agree,â�� she said. â��but _i_ think that a new world is a development from this world, and that to isolate oneself with one other person, isnâ��t to find a new world at all, but only to secure oneself in oneâ��s illusions.â�� ursula looked out of the window. in her soul she began to wrestle, and she was frightened. she was always frightened of words, because she knew that mere word-force could always make her believe what she did not believe. â��perhaps,â�� she said, full of mistrust, of herself and everybody. â��but,â�� she added, â��i do think that one canâ��t have anything new whilst one cares for the oldâ��do you know what i mean?â��even fighting the old is belonging to it. i know, one is tempted to stop with the world, just to fight it. but then it isnâ��t worth it.â�� gudrun considered herself. â��yes,â�� she said. â��in a way, one is of the world if one lives in it. but isnâ��t it really an illusion to think you can get out of it? after all, a cottage in the abruzzi, or wherever it may be, isnâ��t a new world. no, the only thing to do with the world, is to see it through.â�� ursula looked away. she was so frightened of argument. â��but there _can_ be something else, canâ��t there?â�� she said. â��one can see it through in oneâ��s soul, long enough before it sees itself through in actuality. and then, when one has seen oneâ��s soul, one is something else.â�� â��_can_ one see it through in oneâ��s soul?â�� asked gudrun. â��if you mean that you can see to the end of what will happen, i donâ��t agree. i really canâ��t agree. and anyhow, you canâ��t suddenly fly off on to a new planet, because you think you can see to the end of this.â�� ursula suddenly straightened herself. â��yes,â�� she said. â��yesâ��one knows. one has no more connections here. one has a sort of other self, that belongs to a new planet, not to this. youâ��ve got to hop off.â�� gudrun reflected for a few moments. then a smile of ridicule, almost of contempt, came over her face. â��and what will happen when you find yourself in space?â�� she cried in derision. â��after all, the great ideas of the world are the same there. you above everybody canâ��t get away from the fact that love, for instance, is the supreme thing, in space as well as on earth.â�� â��no,â�� said ursula, â��it isnâ��t. love is too human and little. i believe in something inhuman, of which love is only a little part. i believe what we must fulfil comes out of the unknown to us, and it is something infinitely more than love. it isnâ��t so merely _human_.â�� gudrun looked at ursula with steady, balancing eyes. she admired and despised her sister so much, both! then, suddenly she averted her face, saying coldly, uglily: â��well, iâ��ve got no further than love, yet.â�� over ursulaâ��s mind flashed the thought: â��because you never _have_ loved, you canâ��t get beyond it.â�� gudrun rose, came over to ursula and put her arm round her neck. â��go and find your new world, dear,â�� she said, her voice clanging with false benignity. â��after all, the happiest voyage is the quest of rupertâ��s blessed isles.â�� her arm rested round ursulaâ��s neck, her fingers on ursulaâ��s cheek for a few moments. ursula was supremely uncomfortable meanwhile. there was an insult in gudrunâ��s protective patronage that was really too hurting. feeling her sisterâ��s resistance, gudrun drew awkwardly away, turned over the pillow, and disclosed the stockings again. â��haâ��ha!â�� she laughed, rather hollowly. â��how we do talk indeedâ��new worlds and oldâ��!â�� and they passed to the familiar worldly subjects. gerald and birkin had walked on ahead, waiting for the sledge to overtake them, conveying the departing guests. â��how much longer will you stay here?â�� asked birkin, glancing up at geraldâ��s very red, almost blank face. â��oh, i canâ��t say,â�� gerald replied. â��till we get tired of it.â�� â��youâ��re not afraid of the snow melting first?â�� asked birkin. gerald laughed. â��does it melt?â�� he said. â��things are all right with you then?â�� said birkin. gerald screwed up his eyes a little. â��all right?â�� he said. â��i never know what those common words mean. all right and all wrong, donâ��t they become synonymous, somewhere?â�� â��yes, i suppose. how about going back?â�� asked birkin. â��oh, i donâ��t know. we may never get back. i donâ��t look before and after,â�� said gerald. â��_nor_ pine for what is not,â�� said birkin. gerald looked into the distance, with the small-pupilled, abstract eyes of a hawk. â��no. thereâ��s something final about this. and gudrun seems like the end, to me. i donâ��t knowâ��but she seems so soft, her skin like silk, her arms heavy and soft. and it withers my consciousness, somehow, it burns the pith of my mind.â�� he went on a few paces, staring ahead, his eyes fixed, looking like a mask used in ghastly religions of the barbarians. â��it blasts your soulâ��s eye,â�� he said, â��and leaves you sightless. yet you _want_ to be sightless, you _want_ to be blasted, you donâ��t want it any different.â�� he was speaking as if in a trance, verbal and blank. then suddenly he braced himself up with a kind of rhapsody, and looked at birkin with vindictive, cowed eyes, saying: â��do you know what it is to suffer when you are with a woman? sheâ��s so beautiful, so perfect, you find her _so good_, it tears you like a silk, and every stroke and bit cuts hotâ��ha, that perfection, when you blast yourself, you blast yourself! and thenâ��â�� he stopped on the snow and suddenly opened his clenched handsâ��â��itâ��s nothingâ��your brain might have gone charred as ragsâ��andâ��â�� he looked round into the air with a queer histrionic movement â��itâ��s blastingâ��you understand what i meanâ��it is a great experience, something finalâ��and thenâ��youâ��re shrivelled as if struck by electricity.â�� he walked on in silence. it seemed like bragging, but like a man in extremity bragging truthfully. â��of course,â�� he resumed, â��i wouldnâ��t _not_ have had it! itâ��s a complete experience. and sheâ��s a wonderful woman. butâ��how i hate her somewhere! itâ��s curiousâ��â�� birkin looked at him, at his strange, scarcely conscious face. gerald seemed blank before his own words. â��but youâ��ve had enough now?â�� said birkin. â��you have had your experience. why work on an old wound?â�� â��oh,â�� said gerald, â��i donâ��t know. itâ��s not finishedâ��â�� and the two walked on. â��iâ��ve loved you, as well as gudrun, donâ��t forget,â�� said birkin bitterly. gerald looked at him strangely, abstractedly. â��have you?â�� he said, with icy scepticism. â��or do you think you have?â�� he was hardly responsible for what he said. the sledge came. gudrun dismounted and they all made their farewell. they wanted to go apart, all of them. birkin took his place, and the sledge drove away leaving gudrun and gerald standing on the snow, waving. something froze birkinâ��s heart, seeing them standing there in the isolation of the snow, growing smaller and more isolated. chapter xxx. snowed up when ursula and birkin were gone, gudrun felt herself free in her contest with gerald. as they grew more used to each other, he seemed to press upon her more and more. at first she could manage him, so that her own will was always left free. but very soon, he began to ignore her female tactics, he dropped his respect for her whims and her privacies, he began to exert his own will blindly, without submitting to hers. already a vital conflict had set in, which frightened them both. but he was alone, whilst already she had begun to cast round for external resource. when ursula had gone, gudrun felt her own existence had become stark and elemental. she went and crouched alone in her bedroom, looking out of the window at the big, flashing stars. in front was the faint shadow of the mountain-knot. that was the pivot. she felt strange and inevitable, as if she were centred upon the pivot of all existence, there was no further reality. presently gerald opened the door. she knew he would not be long before he came. she was rarely alone, he pressed upon her like a frost, deadening her. â��are you alone in the dark?â�� he said. and she could tell by his tone he resented it, he resented this isolation she had drawn round herself. yet, feeling static and inevitable, she was kind towards him. â��would you like to light the candle?â�� she asked. he did not answer, but came and stood behind her, in the darkness. â��look,â�� she said, â��at that lovely star up there. do you know its name?â�� he crouched beside her, to look through the low window. â��no,â�� he said. â��it is very fine.â�� â��_isnâ��t_ it beautiful! do you notice how it darts different coloured firesâ��it flashes really superblyâ��â�� they remained in silence. with a mute, heavy gesture she put her hand on his knee, and took his hand. â��are you regretting ursula?â�� he asked. â��no, not at all,â�� she said. then, in a slow mood, she asked: â��how much do you love me?â�� he stiffened himself further against her. â��how much do you think i do?â�� he asked. â��i donâ��t know,â�� she replied. â��but what is your opinion?â�� he asked. there was a pause. at length, in the darkness, came her voice, hard and indifferent: â��very little indeed,â�� she said coldly, almost flippant. his heart went icy at the sound of her voice. â��why donâ��t i love you?â�� he asked, as if admitting the truth of her accusation, yet hating her for it. â��i donâ��t know why you donâ��tâ��iâ��ve been good to you. you were in a _fearful_ state when you came to me.â�� her heart was beating to suffocate her, yet she was strong and unrelenting. â��when was i in a fearful state?â�� he asked. â��when you first came to me. i _had_ to take pity on you. but it was never love.â�� it was that statement â��it was never love,â�� which sounded in his ears with madness. â��why must you repeat it so often, that there is no love?â�� he said in a voice strangled with rage. â��well you donâ��t _think_ you love, do you?â�� she asked. he was silent with cold passion of anger. â��you donâ��t think you _can_ love me, do you?â�� she repeated almost with a sneer. â��no,â�� he said. â��you know you never _have_ loved me, donâ��t you?â�� â��i donâ��t know what you mean by the word â��love,â�� he replied. â��yes, you do. you know all right that you have never loved me. have you, do you think?â�� â��no,â�� he said, prompted by some barren spirit of truthfulness and obstinacy. â��and you never _will_ love me,â�� she said finally, â��will you?â�� there was a diabolic coldness in her, too much to bear. â��no,â�� he said. â��then,â�� she replied, â��what have you against me!â�� he was silent in cold, frightened rage and despair. â��if only i could kill her,â�� his heart was whispering repeatedly. â��if only i could kill herâ��i should be free.â�� it seemed to him that death was the only severing of this gordian knot. â��why do you torture me?â�� he said. she flung her arms round his neck. â��ah, i donâ��t want to torture you,â�� she said pityingly, as if she were comforting a child. the impertinence made his veins go cold, he was insensible. she held her arms round his neck, in a triumph of pity. and her pity for him was as cold as stone, its deepest motive was hate of him, and fear of his power over her, which she must always counterfoil. â��say you love me,â�� she pleaded. â��say you will love me for everâ��wonâ��t youâ��wonâ��t you?â�� but it was her voice only that coaxed him. her senses were entirely apart from him, cold and destructive of him. it was her overbearing _will_ that insisted. â��wonâ��t you say youâ��ll love me always?â�� she coaxed. â��say it, even if it isnâ��t trueâ��say it gerald, do.â�� â��i will love you always,â�� he repeated, in real agony, forcing the words out. she gave him a quick kiss. â��fancy your actually having said it,â�� she said with a touch of raillery. he stood as if he had been beaten. â��try to love me a little more, and to want me a little less,â�� she said, in a half contemptuous, half coaxing tone. the darkness seemed to be swaying in waves across his mind, great waves of darkness plunging across his mind. it seemed to him he was degraded at the very quick, made of no account. â��you mean you donâ��t want me?â�� he said. â��you are so insistent, and there is so little grace in you, so little fineness. you are so crude. you break meâ��you only waste meâ��it is horrible to me.â�� â��horrible to you?â�� he repeated. â��yes. donâ��t you think i might have a room to myself, now ursula has gone? you can say you want a dressing room.â�� â��you do as you likeâ��you can leave altogether if you like,â�� he managed to articulate. â��yes, i know that,â�� she replied. â��so can you. you can leave me whenever you likeâ��without notice even.â�� the great tides of darkness were swinging across his mind, he could hardly stand upright. a terrible weariness overcame him, he felt he must lie on the floor. dropping off his clothes, he got into bed, and lay like a man suddenly overcome by drunkenness, the darkness lifting and plunging as if he were lying upon a black, giddy sea. he lay still in this strange, horrific reeling for some time, purely unconscious. at length she slipped from her own bed and came over to him. he remained rigid, his back to her. he was all but unconscious. she put her arms round his terrifying, insentient body, and laid her cheek against his hard shoulder. â��gerald,â�� she whispered. â��gerald.â�� there was no change in him. she caught him against her. she pressed her breasts against his shoulders, she kissed his shoulder, through the sleeping jacket. her mind wondered, over his rigid, unliving body. she was bewildered, and insistent, only her will was set for him to speak to her. â��gerald, my dear!â�� she whispered, bending over him, kissing his ear. her warm breath playing, flying rhythmically over his ear, seemed to relax the tension. she could feel his body gradually relaxing a little, losing its terrifying, unnatural rigidity. her hands clutched his limbs, his muscles, going over him spasmodically. the hot blood began to flow again through his veins, his limbs relaxed. â��turn round to me,â�� she whispered, forlorn with insistence and triumph. so at last he was given again, warm and flexible. he turned and gathered her in his arms. and feeling her soft against him, so perfectly and wondrously soft and recipient, his arms tightened on her. she was as if crushed, powerless in him. his brain seemed hard and invincible now like a jewel, there was no resisting him. his passion was awful to her, tense and ghastly, and impersonal, like a destruction, ultimate. she felt it would kill her. she was being killed. â��my god, my god,â�� she cried, in anguish, in his embrace, feeling her life being killed within her. and when he was kissing her, soothing her, her breath came slowly, as if she were really spent, dying. â��shall i die, shall i die?â�� she repeated to herself. and in the night, and in him, there was no answer to the question. and yet, next day, the fragment of her which was not destroyed remained intact and hostile, she did not go away, she remained to finish the holiday, admitting nothing. he scarcely ever left her alone, but followed her like a shadow, he was like a doom upon her, a continual â��thou shalt,â�� â��thou shalt not.â�� sometimes it was he who seemed strongest, whist she was almost gone, creeping near the earth like a spent wind; sometimes it was the reverse. but always it was this eternal see-saw, one destroyed that the other might exist, one ratified because the other was nulled. â��in the end,â�� she said to herself, â��i shall go away from him.â�� â��i can be free of her,â�� he said to himself in his paroxysms of suffering. and he set himself to be free. he even prepared to go away, to leave her in the lurch. but for the first time there was a flaw in his will. â��where shall i go?â�� he asked himself. â��canâ��t you be self-sufficient?â�� he replied to himself, putting himself upon his pride. â��self-sufficient!â�� he repeated. it seemed to him that gudrun was sufficient unto herself, closed round and completed, like a thing in a case. in the calm, static reason of his soul, he recognised this, and admitted it was her right, to be closed round upon herself, self-complete, without desire. he realised it, he admitted it, it only needed one last effort on his own part, to win for himself the same completeness. he knew that it only needed one convulsion of his will for him to be able to turn upon himself also, to close upon himself as a stone fixes upon itself, and is impervious, self-completed, a thing isolated. this knowledge threw him into a terrible chaos. because, however much he might mentally _will_ to be immune and self-complete, the desire for this state was lacking, and he could not create it. he could see that, to exist at all, he must be perfectly free of gudrun, leave her if she wanted to be left, demand nothing of her, have no claim upon her. but then, to have no claim upon her, he must stand by himself, in sheer nothingness. and his brain turned to nought at the idea. it was a state of nothingness. on the other hand, he might give in, and fawn to her. or, finally, he might kill her. or he might become just indifferent, purposeless, dissipated, momentaneous. but his nature was too serious, not gay enough or subtle enough for mocking licentiousness. a strange rent had been torn in him; like a victim that is torn open and given to the heavens, so he had been torn apart and given to gudrun. how should he close again? this wound, this strange, infinitely-sensitive opening of his soul, where he was exposed, like an open flower, to all the universe, and in which he was given to his complement, the other, the unknown, this wound, this disclosure, this unfolding of his own covering, leaving him incomplete, limited, unfinished, like an open flower under the sky, this was his cruellest joy. why then should he forego it? why should he close up and become impervious, immune, like a partial thing in a sheath, when he had broken forth, like a seed that has germinated, to issue forth in being, embracing the unrealised heavens. he would keep the unfinished bliss of his own yearning even through the torture she inflicted upon him. a strange obstinacy possessed him. he would not go away from her whatever she said or did. a strange, deathly yearning carried him along with her. she was the determinating influence of his very being, though she treated him with contempt, repeated rebuffs, and denials, still he would never be gone, since in being near her, even, he felt the quickening, the going forth in him, the release, the knowledge of his own limitation and the magic of the promise, as well as the mystery of his own destruction and annihilation. she tortured the open heart of him even as he turned to her. and she was tortured herself. it may have been her will was stronger. she felt, with horror, as if he tore at the bud of her heart, tore it open, like an irreverent persistent being. like a boy who pulls off a flyâ��s wings, or tears open a bud to see what is in the flower, he tore at her privacy, at her very life, he would destroy her as an immature bud, torn open, is destroyed. she might open towards him, a long while hence, in her dreams, when she was a pure spirit. but now she was not to be violated and ruined. she closed against him fiercely. they climbed together, at evening, up the high slope, to see the sunset. in the finely breathing, keen wind they stood and watched the yellow sun sink in crimson and disappear. then in the east the peaks and ridges glowed with living rose, incandescent like immortal flowers against a brown-purple sky, a miracle, whilst down below the world was a bluish shadow, and above, like an annunciation, hovered a rosy transport in mid-air. to her it was so beautiful, it was a delirium, she wanted to gather the glowing, eternal peaks to her breast, and die. he saw them, saw they were beautiful. but there arose no clamour in his breast, only a bitterness that was visionary in itself. he wished the peaks were grey and unbeautiful, so that she should not get her support from them. why did she betray the two of them so terribly, in embracing the glow of the evening? why did she leave him standing there, with the ice-wind blowing through his heart, like death, to gratify herself among the rosy snow-tips? â��what does the twilight matter?â�� he said. â��why do you grovel before it? is it so important to you?â�� she winced in violation and in fury. â��go away,â�� she cried, â��and leave me to it. it is beautiful, beautiful,â�� she sang in strange, rhapsodic tones. â��it is the most beautiful thing i have ever seen in my life. donâ��t try to come between it and me. take yourself away, you are out of placeâ��â�� he stood back a little, and left her standing there, statue-like, transported into the mystic glowing east. already the rose was fading, large white stars were flashing out. he waited. he would forego everything but the yearning. â��that was the most perfect thing i have ever seen,â�� she said in cold, brutal tones, when at last she turned round to him. â��it amazes me that you should want to destroy it. if you canâ��t see it yourself, why try to debar me?â�� but in reality, he had destroyed it for her, she was straining after a dead effect. â��one day,â�� he said, softly, looking up at her, â��i shall destroy _you_, as you stand looking at the sunset; because you are such a liar.â�� there was a soft, voluptuous promise to himself in the words. she was chilled but arrogant. â��ha!â�� she said. â��i am not afraid of your threats!â�� she denied herself to him, she kept her room rigidly private to herself. but he waited on, in a curious patience, belonging to his yearning for her. â��in the end,â�� he said to himself with real voluptuous promise, â��when it reaches that point, i shall do away with her.â�� and he trembled delicately in every limb, in anticipation, as he trembled in his most violent accesses of passionate approach to her, trembling with too much desire. she had a curious sort of allegiance with loerke, all the while, now, something insidious and traitorous. gerald knew of it. but in the unnatural state of patience, and the unwillingness to harden himself against her, in which he found himself, he took no notice, although her soft kindliness to the other man, whom he hated as a noxious insect, made him shiver again with an access of the strange shuddering that came over him repeatedly. he left her alone only when he went skiing, a sport he loved, and which she did not practise. then he seemed to sweep out of life, to be a projectile into the beyond. and often, when he went away, she talked to the little german sculptor. they had an invariable topic, in their art. they were almost of the same ideas. he hated mestrovic, was not satisfied with the futurists, he liked the west african wooden figures, the aztec art, mexican and central american. he saw the grotesque, and a curious sort of mechanical motion intoxicated him, a confusion in nature. they had a curious game with each other, gudrun and loerke, of infinite suggestivity, strange and leering, as if they had some esoteric understanding of life, that they alone were initiated into the fearful central secrets, that the world dared not know. their whole correspondence was in a strange, barely comprehensible suggestivity, they kindled themselves at the subtle lust of the egyptians or the mexicans. the whole game was one of subtle inter-suggestivity, and they wanted to keep it on the plane of suggestion. from their verbal and physical nuances they got the highest satisfaction in the nerves, from a queer interchange of half-suggested ideas, looks, expressions and gestures, which were quite intolerable, though incomprehensible, to gerald. he had no terms in which to think of their commerce, his terms were much too gross. the suggestion of primitive art was their refuge, and the inner mysteries of sensation their object of worship. art and life were to them the reality and the unreality. â��of course,â�� said gudrun, â��life doesnâ��t _really_ matterâ��it is oneâ��s art which is central. what one does in oneâ��s life has _peu de rapport_, it doesnâ��t signify much.â�� â��yes, that is so, exactly,â�� replied the sculptor. â��what one does in oneâ��s art, that is the breath of oneâ��s being. what one does in oneâ��s life, that is a bagatelle for the outsiders to fuss about.â�� it was curious what a sense of elation and freedom gudrun found in this communication. she felt established for ever. of course gerald was _bagatelle_. love was one of the temporal things in her life, except in so far as she was an artist. she thought of cleopatraâ��cleopatra must have been an artist; she reaped the essential from a man, she harvested the ultimate sensation, and threw away the husk; and mary stuart, and the great rachel, panting with her lovers after the theatre, these were the exoteric exponents of love. after all, what was the lover but fuel for the transport of this subtle knowledge, for a female art, the art of pure, perfect knowledge in sensuous understanding. one evening gerald was arguing with loerke about italy and tripoli. the englishman was in a strange, inflammable state, the german was excited. it was a contest of words, but it meant a conflict of spirit between the two men. and all the while gudrun could see in gerald an arrogant english contempt for a foreigner. although gerald was quivering, his eyes flashing, his face flushed, in his argument there was a brusqueness, a savage contempt in his manner, that made gudrunâ��s blood flare up, and made loerke keen and mortified. for gerald came down like a sledge-hammer with his assertions, anything the little german said was merely contemptible rubbish. at last loerke turned to gudrun, raising his hands in helpless irony, a shrug of ironical dismissal, something appealing and child-like. â��_sehen sie, gnädige frau_â��â�� he began. â��_bitte sagen sie nicht immer, gnädige frau_,â�� cried gudrun, her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning. she looked like a vivid medusa. her voice was loud and clamorous, the other people in the room were startled. â��please donâ��t call me mrs crich,â�� she cried aloud. the name, in loerkeâ��s mouth particularly, had been an intolerable humiliation and constraint upon her, these many days. the two men looked at her in amazement. gerald went white at the cheek-bones. â��what shall i say, then?â�� asked loerke, with soft, mocking insinuation. â��_sagen sie nur nicht das_,â�� she muttered, her cheeks flushed crimson. â��not that, at least.â�� she saw, by the dawning look on loerkeâ��s face, that he had understood. she was _not_ mrs crich! so-o-, that explained a great deal. â��_soll ich fräulein sagen?_â�� he asked, malevolently. â��i am not married,â�� she said, with some hauteur. her heart was fluttering now, beating like a bewildered bird. she knew she had dealt a cruel wound, and she could not bear it. gerald sat erect, perfectly still, his face pale and calm, like the face of a statue. he was unaware of her, or of loerke or anybody. he sat perfectly still, in an unalterable calm. loerke, meanwhile, was crouching and glancing up from under his ducked head. gudrun was tortured for something to say, to relieve the suspense. she twisted her face in a smile, and glanced knowingly, almost sneering, at gerald. â��truth is best,â�� she said to him, with a grimace. but now again she was under his domination; now, because she had dealt him this blow; because she had destroyed him, and she did not know how he had taken it. she watched him. he was interesting to her. she had lost her interest in loerke. gerald rose at length, and went over in a leisurely still movement, to the professor. the two began a conversation on goethe. she was rather piqued by the simplicity of geraldâ��s demeanour this evening. he did not seem angry or disgusted, only he looked curiously innocent and pure, really beautiful. sometimes it came upon him, this look of clear distance, and it always fascinated her. she waited, troubled, throughout the evening. she thought he would avoid her, or give some sign. but he spoke to her simply and unemotionally, as he would to anyone else in the room. a certain peace, an abstraction possessed his soul. she went to his room, hotly, violently in love with him. he was so beautiful and inaccessible. he kissed her, he was a lover to her. and she had extreme pleasure of him. but he did not come to, he remained remote and candid, unconscious. she wanted to speak to him. but this innocent, beautiful state of unconsciousness that had come upon him prevented her. she felt tormented and dark. in the morning, however, he looked at her with a little aversion, some horror and some hatred darkening into his eyes. she withdrew on to her old ground. but still he would not gather himself together, against her. loerke was waiting for her now. the little artist, isolated in his own complete envelope, felt that here at last was a woman from whom he could get something. he was uneasy all the while, waiting to talk with her, subtly contriving to be near her. her presence filled him with keenness and excitement, he gravitated cunningly towards her, as if she had some unseen force of attraction. he was not in the least doubtful of himself, as regards gerald. gerald was one of the outsiders. loerke only hated him for being rich and proud and of fine appearance. all these things, however, riches, pride of social standing, handsome physique, were externals. when it came to the relation with a woman such as gudrun, he, loerke, had an approach and a power that gerald never dreamed of. how should gerald hope to satisfy a woman of gudrunâ��s calibre? did he think that pride or masterful will or physical strength would help him? loerke knew a secret beyond these things. the greatest power is the one that is subtle and adjusts itself, not one which blindly attacks. and he, loerke, had understanding where gerald was a calf. he, loerke, could penetrate into depths far out of geraldâ��s knowledge. gerald was left behind like a postulant in the ante-room of this temple of mysteries, this woman. but he loerke, could he not penetrate into the inner darkness, find the spirit of the woman in its inner recess, and wrestle with it there, the central serpent that is coiled at the core of life. what was it, after all, that a woman wanted? was it mere social effect, fulfilment of ambition in the social world, in the community of mankind? was it even a union in love and goodness? did she want â��goodnessâ��? who but a fool would accept this of gudrun? this was but the street view of her wants. cross the threshold, and you found her completely, completely cynical about the social world and its advantages. once inside the house of her soul and there was a pungent atmosphere of corrosion, an inflamed darkness of sensation, and a vivid, subtle, critical consciousness, that saw the world distorted, horrific. what then, what next? was it sheer blind force of passion that would satisfy her now? not this, but the subtle thrills of extreme sensation in reduction. it was an unbroken will reacting against her unbroken will in a myriad subtle thrills of reduction, the last subtle activities of analysis and breaking down, carried out in the darkness of her, whilst the outside form, the individual, was utterly unchanged, even sentimental in its poses. but between two particular people, any two people on earth, the range of pure sensational experience is limited. the climax of sensual reaction, once reached in any direction, is reached finally, there is no going on. there is only repetition possible, or the going apart of the two protagonists, or the subjugating of the one will to the other, or death. gerald had penetrated all the outer places of gudrunâ��s soul. he was to her the most crucial instance of the existing world, the _ne plus ultra_ of the world of man as it existed for her. in him she knew the world, and had done with it. knowing him finally she was the alexander seeking new worlds. but there _were_ no new worlds, there were no more _men_, there were only creatures, little, ultimate _creatures_ like loerke. the world was finished now, for her. there was only the inner, individual darkness, sensation within the ego, the obscene religious mystery of ultimate reduction, the mystic frictional activities of diabolic reducing down, disintegrating the vital organic body of life. all this gudrun knew in her subconsciousness, not in her mind. she knew her next stepâ��she knew what she should move on to, when she left gerald. she was afraid of gerald, that he might kill her. but she did not intend to be killed. a fine thread still united her to him. it should not be _her_ death which broke it. she had further to go, a further, slow exquisite experience to reap, unthinkable subtleties of sensation to know, before she was finished. of the last series of subtleties, gerald was not capable. he could not touch the quick of her. but where his ruder blows could not penetrate, the fine, insinuating blade of loerkeâ��s insect-like comprehension could. at least, it was time for her now to pass over to the other, the creature, the final craftsman. she knew that loerke, in his innermost soul, was detached from everything, for him there was neither heaven nor earth nor hell. he admitted no allegiance, he gave no adherence anywhere. he was single and, by abstraction from the rest, absolute in himself. whereas in geraldâ��s soul there still lingered some attachment to the rest, to the whole. and this was his limitation. he was limited, _borné_, subject to his necessity, in the last issue, for goodness, for righteousness, for oneness with the ultimate purpose. that the ultimate purpose might be the perfect and subtle experience of the process of death, the will being kept unimpaired, that was not allowed in him. and this was his limitation. there was a hovering triumph in loerke, since gudrun had denied her marriage with gerald. the artist seemed to hover like a creature on the wing, waiting to settle. he did not approach gudrun violently, he was never ill-timed. but carried on by a sure instinct in the complete darkness of his soul, he corresponded mystically with her, imperceptibly, but palpably. for two days, he talked to her, continued the discussions of art, of life, in which they both found such pleasure. they praised the by-gone things, they took a sentimental, childish delight in the achieved perfections of the past. particularly they liked the late eighteenth century, the period of goethe and of shelley, and mozart. they played with the past, and with the great figures of the past, a sort of little game of chess, or marionettes, all to please themselves. they had all the great men for their marionettes, and they two were the god of the show, working it all. as for the future, that they never mentioned except one laughed out some mocking dream of the destruction of the world by a ridiculous catastrophe of manâ��s invention: a man invented such a perfect explosive that it blew the earth in two, and the two halves set off in different directions through space, to the dismay of the inhabitants: or else the people of the world divided into two halves, and each half decided _it_ was perfect and right, the other half was wrong and must be destroyed; so another end of the world. or else, loerkeâ��s dream of fear, the world went cold, and snow fell everywhere, and only white creatures, polar-bears, white foxes, and men like awful white snow-birds, persisted in ice cruelty. apart from these stories, they never talked of the future. they delighted most either in mocking imaginations of destruction, or in sentimental, fine marionette-shows of the past. it was a sentimental delight to reconstruct the world of goethe at weimar, or of schiller and poverty and faithful love, or to see again jean jacques in his quakings, or voltaire at ferney, or frederick the great reading his own poetry. they talked together for hours, of literature and sculpture and painting, amusing themselves with flaxman and blake and fuseli, with tenderness, and with feuerbach and böcklin. it would take them a life-time, they felt to live again, _in petto_, the lives of the great artists. but they preferred to stay in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries. they talked in a mixture of languages. the ground-work was french, in either case. but he ended most of his sentences in a stumble of english and a conclusion of german, she skilfully wove herself to her end in whatever phrase came to her. she took a peculiar delight in this conversation. it was full of odd, fantastic expression, of double meanings, of evasions, of suggestive vagueness. it was a real physical pleasure to her to make this thread of conversation out of the different-coloured strands of three languages. and all the while they two were hovering, hesitating round the flame of some invisible declaration. he wanted it, but was held back by some inevitable reluctance. she wanted it also, but she wanted to put it off, to put it off indefinitely, she still had some pity for gerald, some connection with him. and the most fatal of all, she had the reminiscent sentimental compassion for herself in connection with him. because of what _had_ been, she felt herself held to him by immortal, invisible threadsâ��because of what _had_ been, because of his coming to her that first night, into her own house, in his extremity, becauseâ�� gerald was gradually overcome with a revulsion of loathing for loerke. he did not take the man seriously, he despised him merely, except as he felt in gudrunâ��s veins the influence of the little creature. it was this that drove gerald wild, the feeling in gudrunâ��s veins of loerkeâ��s presence, loerkeâ��s being, flowing dominant through her. â��what makes you so smitten with that little vermin?â�� he asked, really puzzled. for he, man-like, could not see anything attractive or important _at all_ in loerke. gerald expected to find some handsomeness or nobleness, to account for a womanâ��s subjection. but he saw none here, only an insect-like repulsiveness. gudrun flushed deeply. it was these attacks she would never forgive. â��what do you mean?â�� she replied. â��my god, what a mercy i am _not_ married to you!â�� her voice of flouting and contempt scotched him. he was brought up short. but he recovered himself. â��tell me, only tell me,â�� he reiterated in a dangerous narrowed voiceâ��â��tell me what it is that fascinates you in him.â�� â��i am not fascinated,â�� she said, with cold repelling innocence. â��yes, you are. you are fascinated by that little dry snake, like a bird gaping ready to fall down its throat.â�� she looked at him with black fury. â��i donâ��t choose to be discussed by you,â�� she said. â��it doesnâ��t matter whether you choose or not,â�� he replied, â��that doesnâ��t alter the fact that you are ready to fall down and kiss the feet of that little insect. and i donâ��t want to prevent youâ��do it, fall down and kiss his feet. but i want to know, what it is that fascinates youâ��what is it?â�� she was silent, suffused with black rage. â��how _dare_ you come brow-beating me,â�� she cried, â��how dare you, you little squire, you bully. what right have you over me, do you think?â�� his face was white and gleaming, she knew by the light in his eyes that she was in his powerâ��the wolf. and because she was in his power, she hated him with a power that she wondered did not kill him. in her will she killed him as he stood, effaced him. â��it is not a question of right,â�� said gerald, sitting down on a chair. she watched the change in his body. she saw his clenched, mechanical body moving there like an obsession. her hatred of him was tinged with fatal contempt. â��itâ��s not a question of my right over youâ��though i _have_ some right, remember. i want to know, i only want to know what it is that subjugates you to that little scum of a sculptor downstairs, what it is that brings you down like a humble maggot, in worship of him. i want to know what you creep after.â�� she stood over against the window, listening. then she turned round. â��do you?â�� she said, in her most easy, most cutting voice. â��do you want to know what it is in him? itâ��s because he has some understanding of a woman, because he is not stupid. thatâ��s why it is.â�� a queer, sinister, animal-like smile came over geraldâ��s face. â��but what understanding is it?â�� he said. â��the understanding of a flea, a hopping flea with a proboscis. why should you crawl abject before the understanding of a flea?â�� there passed through gudrunâ��s mind blakeâ��s representation of the soul of a flea. she wanted to fit it to loerke. blake was a clown too. but it was necessary to answer gerald. â��donâ��t you think the understanding of a flea is more interesting than the understanding of a fool?â�� she asked. â��a fool!â�� he repeated. â��a fool, a conceited foolâ��a _dummkopf_,â�� she replied, adding the german word. â��do you call me a fool?â�� he replied. â��well, wouldnâ��t i rather be the fool i am, than that flea downstairs?â�� she looked at him. a certain blunt, blind stupidity in him palled on her soul, limiting her. â��you give yourself away by that last,â�� she said. he sat and wondered. â��i shall go away soon,â�� he said. she turned on him. â��remember,â�� she said, â��i am completely independent of youâ��completely. you make your arrangements, i make mine.â�� he pondered this. â��you mean we are strangers from this minute?â�� he asked. she halted and flushed. he was putting her in a trap, forcing her hand. she turned round on him. â��strangers,â�� she said, â��we can never be. but if you _want_ to make any movement apart from me, then i wish you to know you are perfectly free to do so. do not consider me in the slightest.â�� even so slight an implication that she needed him and was depending on him still was sufficient to rouse his passion. as he sat a change came over his body, the hot, molten stream mounted involuntarily through his veins. he groaned inwardly, under its bondage, but he loved it. he looked at her with clear eyes, waiting for her. she knew at once, and was shaken with cold revulsion. _how_ could he look at her with those clear, warm, waiting eyes, waiting for her, even now? what had been said between them, was it not enough to put them worlds asunder, to freeze them forever apart! and yet he was all transfused and roused, waiting for her. it confused her. turning her head aside, she said: â��i shall always _tell_ you, whenever i am going to make any changeâ��â�� and with this she moved out of the room. he sat suspended in a fine recoil of disappointment, that seemed gradually to be destroying his understanding. but the unconscious state of patience persisted in him. he remained motionless, without thought or knowledge, for a long time. then he rose, and went downstairs, to play at chess with one of the students. his face was open and clear, with a certain innocent _laisser-aller_ that troubled gudrun most, made her almost afraid of him, whilst she disliked him deeply for it. it was after this that loerke, who had never yet spoken to her personally, began to ask her of her state. â��you are not married at all, are you?â�� he asked. she looked full at him. â��not in the least,â�� she replied, in her measured way. loerke laughed, wrinkling up his face oddly. there was a thin wisp of his hair straying on his forehead, she noticed that his skin was of a clear brown colour, his hands, his wrists. and his hands seemed closely prehensile. he seemed like topaz, so strangely brownish and pellucid. â��good,â�� he said. still it needed some courage for him to go on. â��was mrs birkin your sister?â�� he asked. â��yes.â�� â��and was _she_ married?â�� â��she was married.â�� â��have you parents, then?â�� â��yes,â�� said gudrun, â��we have parents.â�� and she told him, briefly, laconically, her position. he watched her closely, curiously all the while. â��so!â�� he exclaimed, with some surprise. â��and the herr crich, is he rich?â�� â��yes, he is rich, a coal owner.â�� â��how long has your friendship with him lasted?â�� â��some months.â�� there was a pause. â��yes, i am surprised,â�� he said at length. â��the english, i thought they were soâ��cold. and what do you think to do when you leave here?â�� â��what do i think to do?â�� she repeated. â��yes. you cannot go back to the teaching. noâ��â�� he shrugged his shouldersâ��â��that is impossible. leave that to the _canaille_ who can do nothing else. you, for your partâ��you know, you are a remarkable woman, _eine seltsame frau_. why deny itâ��why make any question of it? you are an extraordinary woman, why should you follow the ordinary course, the ordinary life?â�� gudrun sat looking at her hands, flushed. she was pleased that he said, so simply, that she was a remarkable woman. he would not say that to flatter herâ��he was far too self-opinionated and objective by nature. he said it as he would say a piece of sculpture was remarkable, because he knew it was so. and it gratified her to hear it from him. other people had such a passion to make everything of one degree, of one pattern. in england it was chic to be perfectly ordinary. and it was a relief to her to be acknowledged extraordinary. then she need not fret about the common standards. â��you see,â�� she said, â��i have no money whatsoever.â�� â��ach, money!â�� he cried, lifting his shoulders. â��when one is grown up, money is lying about at oneâ��s service. it is only when one is young that it is rare. take no thought for moneyâ��that always lies to hand.â�� â��does it?â�� she said, laughing. â��always. the gerald will give you a sum, if you ask him for itâ��â�� she flushed deeply. â��i will ask anybody else,â�� she said, with some difficultyâ��â��but not him.â�� loerke looked closely at her. â��good,â�� he said. â��then let it be somebody else. only donâ��t go back to that england, that school. no, that is stupid.â�� again there was a pause. he was afraid to ask her outright to go with him, he was not even quite sure he wanted her; and she was afraid to be asked. he begrudged his own isolation, was _very_ chary of sharing his life, even for a day. â��the only other place i know is paris,â�� she said, â��and i canâ��t stand that.â�� she looked with her wide, steady eyes full at loerke. he lowered his head and averted his face. â��paris, no!â�� he said. â��between the _réligion dâ��amour_, and the latest â��ism, and the new turning to jesus, one had better ride on a carrousel all day. but come to dresden. i have a studio thereâ��i can give you work,â��oh, that would be easy enough. i havenâ��t seen any of your things, but i believe in you. come to dresdenâ��that is a fine town to be in, and as good a life as you can expect of a town. you have everything there, without the foolishness of paris or the beer of munich.â�� he sat and looked at her, coldly. what she liked about him was that he spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself. he was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first. â��noâ��paris,â�� he resumed, â��it makes me sick. pahâ��_lâ��amour_. i detest it. _lâ��amour, lâ��amore, die liebe_â��i detest it in every language. women and love, there is no greater tedium,â�� he cried. she was slightly offended. and yet, this was her own basic feeling. men, and loveâ��there was no greater tedium. â��i think the same,â�� she said. â��a bore,â�� he repeated. â��what does it matter whether i wear this hat or another. so love. i neednâ��t wear a hat at all, only for convenience. neither need i love except for convenience. i tell you what, _gnädige frau_â��â�� and he leaned towards herâ��then he made a quick, odd gesture, as of striking something asideâ��â��_gnädige fräulein_, never mindâ��i tell you what, i would give everything, everything, all your love, for a little companionship in intelligenceâ��â�� his eyes flickered darkly, evilly at her. â��you understand?â�� he asked, with a faint smile. â��it wouldnâ��t matter if she were a hundred years old, a thousandâ��it would be all the same to me, so that she can _understand_.â�� he shut his eyes with a little snap. again gudrun was rather offended. did he not think her good looking, then? suddenly she laughed. â��i shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at that!â�� she said. â��i am ugly enough, arenâ��t i?â�� he looked at her with an artistâ��s sudden, critical, estimating eye. â��you are beautiful,â�� he said, â��and i am glad of it. but it isnâ��t thatâ��it isnâ��t that,â�� he cried, with emphasis that flattered her. â��it is that you have a certain wit, it is the kind of understanding. for me, i am little, _chétif_, insignificant. good! do not ask me to be strong and handsome, then. but it is the _me_â��â�� he put his fingers to his mouth, oddlyâ��â��it is the _me_ that is looking for a mistress, and my _me_ is waiting for the _thee_ of the mistress, for the match to my particular intelligence. you understand?â�� â��yes,â�� she said, â��i understand.â�� â��as for the other, this _amour_â��â�� he made a gesture, dashing his hand aside, as if to dash away something troublesomeâ��â��it is unimportant, unimportant. does it matter, whether i drink white wine this evening, or whether i drink nothing? it _does not matter_, it does not matter. so this love, this _amour_, this _baiser_. yes or no, _soit ou soit pas_, today, tomorrow, or never, it is all the same, it does not matterâ��no more than the white wine.â�� he ended with an odd dropping of the head in a desperate negation. gudrun watched him steadily. she had gone pale. suddenly she stretched over and seized his hand in her own. â��that is true,â�� she said, in rather a high, vehement voice, â��that is true for me too. it is the understanding that matters.â�� he looked up at her almost frightened, furtive. then he nodded, a little sullenly. she let go his hand: he had made not the lightest response. and they sat in silence. â��do you know,â�� he said, suddenly looking at her with dark, self-important, prophetic eyes, â��your fate and mine, they will run together, tillâ��â�� and he broke off in a little grimace. â��till when?â�� she asked, blanched, her lips going white. she was terribly susceptible to these evil prognostications, but he only shook his head. â��i donâ��t know,â�� he said, â��i donâ��t know.â�� gerald did not come in from his skiing until nightfall, he missed the coffee and cake that she took at four oâ��clock. the snow was in perfect condition, he had travelled a long way, by himself, among the snow ridges, on his skis, he had climbed high, so high that he could see over the top of the pass, five miles distant, could see the marienhütte, the hostel on the crest of the pass, half buried in snow, and over into the deep valley beyond, to the dusk of the pine trees. one could go that way home; but he shuddered with nausea at the thought of home;â��one could travel on skis down there, and come to the old imperial road, below the pass. but why come to any road? he revolted at the thought of finding himself in the world again. he must stay up there in the snow forever. he had been happy by himself, high up there alone, travelling swiftly on skis, taking far flights, and skimming past the dark rocks veined with brilliant snow. but he felt something icy gathering at his heart. this strange mood of patience and innocence which had persisted in him for some days, was passing away, he would be left again a prey to the horrible passions and tortures. so he came down reluctantly, snow-burned, snow-estranged, to the house in the hollow, between the knuckles of the mountain tops. he saw its lights shining yellow, and he held back, wishing he need not go in, to confront those people, to hear the turmoil of voices and to feel the confusion of other presences. he was isolated as if there were a vacuum round his heart, or a sheath of pure ice. the moment he saw gudrun something jolted in his soul. she was looking rather lofty and superb, smiling slowly and graciously to the germans. a sudden desire leapt in his heart, to kill her. he thought, what a perfect voluptuous fulfilment it would be, to kill her. his mind was absent all the evening, estranged by the snow and his passion. but he kept the idea constant within him, what a perfect voluptuous consummation it would be to strangle her, to strangle every spark of life out of her, till she lay completely inert, soft, relaxed for ever, a soft heap lying dead between his hands, utterly dead. then he would have had her finally and for ever; there would be such a perfect voluptuous finality. gudrun was unaware of what he was feeling, he seemed so quiet and amiable, as usual. his amiability even made her feel brutal towards him. she went into his room when he was partially undressed. she did not notice the curious, glad gleam of pure hatred, with which he looked at her. she stood near the door, with her hand behind her. â��i have been thinking, gerald,â�� she said, with an insulting nonchalance, â��that i shall not go back to england.â�� â��oh,â�� he said, â��where will you go then?â�� but she ignored his question. she had her own logical statement to make, and it must be made as she had thought it. â��i canâ��t see the use of going back,â�� she continued. â��it is over between me and youâ��â�� she paused for him to speak. but he said nothing. he was only talking to himself, saying â��over, is it? i believe it is over. but it isnâ��t finished. remember, it isnâ��t finished. we must put some sort of a finish on it. there must be a conclusion, there must be finality.â�� so he talked to himself, but aloud he said nothing whatever. â��what has been, has been,â�� she continued. â��there is nothing that i regret. i hope you regret nothingâ��â�� she waited for him to speak. â��oh, i regret nothing,â�� he said, accommodatingly. â��good then,â�� she answered, â��good then. then neither of us cherishes any regrets, which is as it should be.â�� â��quite as it should be,â�� he said aimlessly. she paused to gather up her thread again. â��our attempt has been a failure,â�� she said. â��but we can try again, elsewhere.â�� a little flicker of rage ran through his blood. it was as if she were rousing him, goading him. why must she do it? â��attempt at what?â�� he asked. â��at being lovers, i suppose,â�� she said, a little baffled, yet so trivial she made it all seem. â��our attempt at being lovers has been a failure?â�� he repeated aloud. to himself he was saying, â��i ought to kill her here. there is only this left, for me to kill her.â�� a heavy, overcharged desire to bring about her death possessed him. she was unaware. â��hasnâ��t it?â�� she asked. â��do you think it has been a success?â�� again the insult of the flippant question ran through his blood like a current of fire. â��it had some of the elements of success, our relationship,â�� he replied. â��itâ��might have come off.â�� but he paused before concluding the last phrase. even as he began the sentence, he did not believe in what he was going to say. he knew it never could have been a success. â��no,â�� she replied. â��you cannot love.â�� â��and you?â�� he asked. her wide, dark-filled eyes were fixed on him, like two moons of darkness. â��i couldnâ��t love _you_,â�� she said, with stark cold truth. a blinding flash went over his brain, his body jolted. his heart had burst into flame. his consciousness was gone into his wrists, into his hands. he was one blind, incontinent desire, to kill her. his wrists were bursting, there would be no satisfaction till his hands had closed on her. but even before his body swerved forward on her, a sudden, cunning comprehension was expressed on her face, and in a flash she was out of the door. she ran in one flash to her room and locked herself in. she was afraid, but confident. she knew her life trembled on the edge of an abyss. but she was curiously sure of her footing. she knew her cunning could outwit him. she trembled, as she stood in her room, with excitement and awful exhilaration. she knew she could outwit him. she could depend on her presence of mind, and on her wits. but it was a fight to the death, she knew it now. one slip, and she was lost. she had a strange, tense, exhilarated sickness in her body, as one who is in peril of falling from a great height, but who does not look down, does not admit the fear. â��i will go away the day after tomorrow,â�� she said. she only did not want gerald to think that she was afraid of him, that she was running away because she was afraid of him. she was not afraid of him, fundamentally. she knew it was her safeguard to avoid his physical violence. but even physically she was not afraid of him. she wanted to prove it to him. when she had proved it, that, whatever he was, she was not afraid of him; when she had proved _that_, she could leave him forever. but meanwhile the fight between them, terrible as she knew it to be, was inconclusive. and she wanted to be confident in herself. however many terrors she might have, she would be unafraid, uncowed by him. he could never cow her, nor dominate her, nor have any right over her; this she would maintain until she had proved it. once it was proved, she was free of him forever. but she had not proved it yet, neither to him nor to herself. and this was what still bound her to him. she was bound to him, she could not live beyond him. she sat up in bed, closely wrapped up, for many hours, thinking endlessly to herself. it was as if she would never have done weaving the great provision of her thoughts. â��it isnâ��t as if he really loved me,â�� she said to herself. â��he doesnâ��t. every woman he comes across he wants to make her in love with him. he doesnâ��t even know that he is doing it. but there he is, before every woman he unfurls his male attractiveness, displays his great desirability, he tries to make every woman think how wonderful it would be to have him for a lover. his very ignoring of the women is part of the game. he is never _unconscious_ of them. he should have been a cockerel, so he could strut before fifty females, all his subjects. but really, his don juan does _not_ interest me. i could play dona juanita a million times better than he plays juan. he bores me, you know. his maleness bores me. nothing is so boring, so inherently stupid and stupidly conceited. really, the fathomless conceit of these men, it is ridiculousâ��the little strutters. â��they are all alike. look at birkin. built out of the limitation of conceit they are, and nothing else. really, nothing but their ridiculous limitation and intrinsic insignificance could make them so conceited. â��as for loerke, there is a thousand times more in him than in a gerald. gerald is so limited, there is a dead end to him. he would grind on at the old mills forever. and really, there is no corn between the millstones any more. they grind on and on, when there is nothing to grindâ��saying the same things, believing the same things, acting the same things. oh, my god, it would wear out the patience of a stone. â��i donâ��t worship loerke, but at any rate, he is a free individual. he is not stiff with conceit of his own maleness. he is not grinding dutifully at the old mills. oh god, when i think of gerald, and his workâ��those offices at beldover, and the minesâ��it makes my heart sick. what _have_ i to do with itâ��and him thinking he can be a lover to a woman! one might as well ask it of a self-satisfied lamp-post. these men, with their eternal jobsâ��and their eternal mills of god that keep on grinding at nothing! it is too boring, just boring. however did i come to take him seriously at all! â��at least in dresden, one will have oneâ��s back to it all. and there will be amusing things to do. it will be amusing to go to these eurythmic displays, and the german opera, the german theatre. it _will_ be amusing to take part in german bohemian life. and loerke is an artist, he is a free individual. one will escape from so much, that is the chief thing, escape so much hideous boring repetition of vulgar actions, vulgar phrases, vulgar postures. i donâ��t delude myself that i shall find an elixir of life in dresden. i know i shanâ��t. but i shall get away from people who have their own homes and their own children and their own acquaintances and their own this and their own that. i shall be among people who _donâ��t_ own things and who _havenâ��t_ got a home and a domestic servant in the background, who havenâ��t got a standing and a status and a degree and a circle of friends of the same. oh god, the wheels within wheels of people, it makes oneâ��s head tick like a clock, with a very madness of dead mechanical monotony and meaninglessness. how i _hate_ life, how i hate it. how i hate the geralds, that they can offer one nothing else. â��shortlands!â��heavens! think of living there, one week, then the next, and _then the third_â�� â��no, i wonâ��t think of itâ��it is too muchâ��â�� and she broke off, really terrified, really unable to bear any more. the thought of the mechanical succession of day following day, day following day, _ad infintum_, was one of the things that made her heart palpitate with a real approach of madness. the terrible bondage of this tick-tack of time, this twitching of the hands of the clock, this eternal repetition of hours and daysâ��oh god, it was too awful to contemplate. and there was no escape from it, no escape. she almost wished gerald were with her to save her from the terror of her own thoughts. oh, how she suffered, lying there alone, confronted by the terrible clock, with its eternal tick-tack. all life, all life resolved itself into this: tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack; then the striking of the hour; then the tick-tack, tick-tack, and the twitching of the clock-fingers. gerald could not save her from it. he, his body, his motion, his lifeâ��it was the same ticking, the same twitching across the dial, a horrible mechanical twitching forward over the face of the hours. what were his kisses, his embraces. she could hear their tick-tack, tick-tack. haâ��haâ��she laughed to herself, so frightened that she was trying to laugh it offâ��haâ��ha, how maddening it was, to be sure, to be sure! then, with a fleeting self-conscious motion, she wondered if she would be very much surprised, on rising in the morning, to realise that her hair had turned white. she had _felt_ it turning white so often, under the intolerable burden of her thoughts, und her sensations. yet there it remained, brown as ever, and there she was herself, looking a picture of health. perhaps she was healthy. perhaps it was only her unabateable health that left her so exposed to the truth. if she were sickly she would have her illusions, imaginations. as it was, there was no escape. she must always see and know and never escape. she could never escape. there she was, placed before the clock-face of life. and if she turned round as in a railway station, to look at the bookstall, still she could see, with her very spine, she could see the clock, always the great white clock-face. in vain she fluttered the leaves of books, or made statuettes in clay. she knew she was not _really_ reading. she was not _really_ working. she was watching the fingers twitch across the eternal, mechanical, monotonous clock-face of time. she never really lived, she only watched. indeed, she was like a little, twelve-hour clock, vis-à-vis with the enormous clock of eternityâ��there she was, like dignity and impudence, or impudence and dignity. the picture pleased her. didnâ��t her face really look like a clock dialâ��rather roundish and often pale, and impassive. she would have got up to look, in the mirror, but the thought of the sight of her own face, that was like a twelve-hour clock-dial, filled her with such deep terror, that she hastened to think of something else. oh, why wasnâ��t somebody kind to her? why wasnâ��t there somebody who would take her in their arms, and hold her to their breast, and give her rest, pure, deep, healing rest. oh, why wasnâ��t there somebody to take her in their arms and fold her safe and perfect, for sleep. she wanted so much this perfect enfolded sleep. she lay always so unsheathed in sleep. she would lie always unsheathed in sleep, unrelieved, unsaved. oh, how could she bear it, this endless unrelief, this eternal unrelief. gerald! could he fold her in his arms and sheathe her in sleep? ha! he needed putting to sleep himselfâ��poor gerald. that was all he needed. what did he do, he made the burden for her greater, the burden of her sleep was the more intolerable, when he was there. he was an added weariness upon her unripening nights, her unfruitful slumbers. perhaps he got some repose from her. perhaps he did. perhaps this was what he was always dogging her for, like a child that is famished, crying for the breast. perhaps this was the secret of his passion, his forever unquenched desire for herâ��that he needed her to put him to sleep, to give him repose. what then! was she his mother? had she asked for a child, whom she must nurse through the nights, for her lover. she despised him, she despised him, she hardened her heart. an infant crying in the night, this don juan. ooh, but how she hated the infant crying in the night. she would murder it gladly. she would stifle it and bury it, as hetty sorrell did. no doubt hetty sorrellâ��s infant cried in the nightâ��no doubt arthur donnithorneâ��s infant would. haâ��the arthur donnithornes, the geralds of this world. so manly by day, yet all the while, such a crying of infants in the night. let them turn into mechanisms, let them. let them become instruments, pure machines, pure wills, that work like clock-work, in perpetual repetition. let them be this, let them be taken up entirely in their work, let them be perfect parts of a great machine, having a slumber of constant repetition. let gerald manage his firm. there he would be satisfied, as satisfied as a wheelbarrow that goes backwards and forwards along a plank all dayâ��she had seen it. the wheel-barrowâ��the one humble wheelâ��the unit of the firm. then the cart, with two wheels; then the truck, with four; then the donkey-engine, with eight, then the winding-engine, with sixteen, and so on, till it came to the miner, with a thousand wheels, and then the electrician, with three thousand, and the underground manager, with twenty thousand, and the general manager with a hundred thousand little wheels working away to complete his make-up, and then gerald, with a million wheels and cogs and axles. poor gerald, such a lot of little wheels to his make-up! he was more intricate than a chronometer-watch. but oh heavens, what weariness! what weariness, god above! a chronometer-watchâ��a beetleâ��her soul fainted with utter ennui, from the thought. so many wheels to count and consider and calculate! enough, enoughâ��there was an end to manâ��s capacity for complications, even. or perhaps there was no end. meanwhile gerald sat in his room, reading. when gudrun was gone, he was left stupefied with arrested desire. he sat on the side of the bed for an hour, stupefied, little strands of consciousness appearing and reappearing. but he did not move, for a long time he remained inert, his head dropped on his breast. then he looked up and realised that he was going to bed. he was cold. soon he was lying down in the dark. but what he could not bear was the darkness. the solid darkness confronting him drove him mad. so he rose, and made a light. he remained seated for a while, staring in front. he did not think of gudrun, he did not think of anything. then suddenly he went downstairs for a book. he had all his life been in terror of the nights that should come, when he could not sleep. he knew that this would be too much for him, to have to face nights of sleeplessness and of horrified watching the hours. so he sat for hours in bed, like a statue, reading. his mind, hard and acute, read on rapidly, his body understood nothing. in a state of rigid unconsciousness, he read on through the night, till morning, when, weary and disgusted in spirit, disgusted most of all with himself, he slept for two hours. then he got up, hard and full of energy. gudrun scarcely spoke to him, except at coffee when she said: â��i shall be leaving tomorrow.â�� â��we will go together as far as innsbruck, for appearanceâ��s sake?â�� he asked. â��perhaps,â�� she said. she said â��perhapsâ�� between the sips of her coffee. and the sound of her taking her breath in the word, was nauseous to him. he rose quickly to be away from her. he went and made arrangements for the departure on the morrow. then, taking some food, he set out for the day on the skis. perhaps, he said to the wirt, he would go up to the marienhütte, perhaps to the village below. to gudrun this day was full of a promise like spring. she felt an approaching release, a new fountain of life rising up in her. it gave her pleasure to dawdle through her packing, it gave her pleasure to dip into books, to try on her different garments, to look at herself in the glass. she felt a new lease of life was come upon her, and she was happy like a child, very attractive and beautiful to everybody, with her soft, luxuriant figure, and her happiness. yet underneath was death itself. in the afternoon she had to go out with loerke. her tomorrow was perfectly vague before her. this was what gave her pleasure. she might be going to england with gerald, she might be going to dresden with loerke, she might be going to munich, to a girl-friend she had there. anything might come to pass on the morrow. and today was the white, snowy iridescent threshold of all possibility. all possibilityâ��that was the charm to her, the lovely, iridescent, indefinite charm,â��pure illusion. all possibilityâ��because death was inevitable, and _nothing_ was possible but death. she did not want things to materialise, to take any definite shape. she wanted, suddenly, at one moment of the journey tomorrow, to be wafted into an utterly new course, by some utterly unforeseen event, or motion. so that, although she wanted to go out with loerke for the last time into the snow, she did not want to be serious or businesslike. and loerke was not a serious figure. in his brown velvet cap, that made his head as round as a chestnut, with the brown-velvet flaps loose and wild over his ears, and a wisp of elf-like, thin black hair blowing above his full, elf-like dark eyes, the shiny, transparent brown skin crinkling up into odd grimaces on his small-featured face, he looked an odd little boy-man, a bat. but in his figure, in the greeny loden suit, he looked _chétif_ and puny, still strangely different from the rest. he had taken a little toboggan, for the two of them, and they trudged between the blinding slopes of snow, that burned their now hardening faces, laughing in an endless sequence of quips and jests and polyglot fancies. the fancies were the reality to both of them, they were both so happy, tossing about the little coloured balls of verbal humour and whimsicality. their natures seemed to sparkle in full interplay, they were enjoying a pure game. and they wanted to keep it on the level of a game, their relationship: _such_ a fine game. loerke did not take the toboganning very seriously. he put no fire and intensity into it, as gerald did. which pleased gudrun. she was weary, oh so weary of geraldâ��s gripped intensity of physical motion. loerke let the sledge go wildly, and gaily, like a flying leaf, and when, at a bend, he pitched both her and him out into the snow, he only waited for them both to pick themselves up unhurt off the keen white ground, to be laughing and pert as a pixie. she knew he would be making ironical, playful remarks as he wandered in hellâ��if he were in the humour. and that pleased her immensely. it seemed like a rising above the dreariness of actuality, the monotony of contingencies. they played till the sun went down, in pure amusement, careless and timeless. then, as the little sledge twirled riskily to rest at the bottom of the slope, â��wait!â�� he said suddenly, and he produced from somewhere a large thermos flask, a packet of keks, and a bottle of schnapps. â��oh loerke,â�� she cried. â��what an inspiration! what a _comble de joie indeed!_ what is the schnapps?â�� he looked at it, and laughed. â��_heidelbeer!_â�� he said. â��no! from the bilberries under the snow. doesnâ��t it look as if it were distilled from snow. can youâ��â�� she sniffed, and sniffed at the bottleâ��â��can you smell bilberries? isnâ��t it wonderful? it is exactly as if one could smell them through the snow.â�� she stamped her foot lightly on the ground. he kneeled down and whistled, and put his ear to the snow. as he did so his black eyes twinkled up. â��ha! ha!â�� she laughed, warmed by the whimsical way in which he mocked at her verbal extravagances. he was always teasing her, mocking her ways. but as he in his mockery was even more absurd than she in her extravagances, what could one do but laugh and feel liberated. she could feel their voices, hers and his, ringing silvery like bells in the frozen, motionless air of the first twilight. how perfect it was, how _very_ perfect it was, this silvery isolation and interplay. she sipped the hot coffee, whose fragrance flew around them like bees murmuring around flowers, in the snowy air, she drank tiny sips of the _heidelbeerwasser_, she ate the cold, sweet, creamy wafers. how good everything was! how perfect everything tasted and smelled and sounded, here in this utter stillness of snow and falling twilight. â��you are going away tomorrow?â�� his voice came at last. â��yes.â�� there was a pause, when the evening seemed to rise in its silent, ringing pallor infinitely high, to the infinite which was near at hand. â��_wohin?_â�� that was the questionâ��_wohin?_ whither? _wohin?_ what a lovely word! she _never_ wanted it answered. let it chime for ever. â��i donâ��t know,â�� she said, smiling at him. he caught the smile from her. â��one never does,â�� he said. â��one never does,â�� she repeated. there was a silence, wherein he ate biscuits rapidly, as a rabbit eats leaves. â��but,â�� he laughed, â��where will you take a ticket to?â�� â��oh heaven!â�� she cried. â��one must take a ticket.â�� here was a blow. she saw herself at the wicket, at the railway station. then a relieving thought came to her. she breathed freely. â��but one neednâ��t go,â�� she cried. â��certainly not,â�� he said. â��i mean one neednâ��t go where oneâ��s ticket says.â�� that struck him. one might take a ticket, so as not to travel to the destination it indicated. one might break off, and avoid the destination. a point located. that was an idea! â��then take a ticket to london,â�� he said. â��one should never go there.â�� â��right,â�� she answered. he poured a little coffee into a tin can. â��you wonâ��t tell me where you will go?â�� he asked. â��really and truly,â�� she said, â��i donâ��t know. it depends which way the wind blows.â�� he looked at her quizzically, then he pursed up his lips, like zephyrus, blowing across the snow. â��it goes towards germany,â�� he said. â��i believe so,â�� she laughed. suddenly, they were aware of a vague white figure near them. it was gerald. gudrunâ��s heart leapt in sudden terror, profound terror. she rose to her feet. â��they told me where you were,â�� came geraldâ��s voice, like a judgment in the whitish air of twilight. â��_maria!_ you come like a ghost,â�� exclaimed loerke. gerald did not answer. his presence was unnatural and ghostly to them. loerke shook the flaskâ��then he held it inverted over the snow. only a few brown drops trickled out. â��all gone!â�� he said. to gerald, the smallish, odd figure of the german was distinct and objective, as if seen through field glasses. and he disliked the small figure exceedingly, he wanted it removed. then loerke rattled the box which held the biscuits. â��biscuits there are still,â�� he said. and reaching from his seated posture in the sledge, he handed them to gudrun. she fumbled, and took one. he would have held them to gerald, but gerald so definitely did not want to be offered a biscuit, that loerke, rather vaguely, put the box aside. then he took up the small bottle, and held it to the light. â��also there is some schnapps,â�� he said to himself. then suddenly, he elevated the battle gallantly in the air, a strange, grotesque figure leaning towards gudrun, and said: â��_gnädiges fräulein_,â�� he said, â��_wohl_â��â�� there was a crack, the bottle was flying, loerke had started back, the three stood quivering in violent emotion. loerke turned to gerald, a devilish leer on his bright-skinned face. â��well done!â�� he said, in a satirical demoniac frenzy. â��_câ��est le sport, sans doute._â�� the next instant he was sitting ludicrously in the snow, geraldâ��s fist having rung against the side of his head. but loerke pulled himself together, rose, quivering, looking full at gerald, his body weak and furtive, but his eyes demoniacal with satire. â��_vive le héros, vive_â��â�� but he flinched, as, in a black flash geraldâ��s fist came upon him, banged into the other side of his head, and sent him aside like a broken straw. but gudrun moved forward. she raised her clenched hand high, and brought it down, with a great downward stroke on to the face and on to the breast of gerald. a great astonishment burst upon him, as if the air had broken. wide, wide his soul opened, in wonder, feeling the pain. then it laughed, turning, with strong hands outstretched, at last to take the apple of his desire. at last he could finish his desire. he took the throat of gudrun between his hands, that were hard and indomitably powerful. and her throat was beautifully, so beautifully soft, save that, within, he could feel the slippery chords of her life. and this he crushed, this he could crush. what bliss! oh what bliss, at last, what satisfaction, at last! the pure zest of satisfaction filled his soul. he was watching the unconsciousness come unto her swollen face, watching the eyes roll back. how ugly she was! what a fulfilment, what a satisfaction! how good this was, oh how good it was, what a god-given gratification, at last! he was unconscious of her fighting and struggling. the struggling was her reciprocal lustful passion in this embrace, the more violent it became, the greater the frenzy of delight, till the zenith was reached, the crisis, the struggle was overborne, her movement became softer, appeased. loerke roused himself on the snow, too dazed and hurt to get up. only his eyes were conscious. â��_monsieur!_â�� he said, in his thin, roused voice: â��_quand vous aurez fini_â��â�� a revulsion of contempt and disgust came over geraldâ��s soul. the disgust went to the very bottom of him, a nausea. ah, what was he doing, to what depths was he letting himself go! as if he cared about her enough to kill her, to have her life on his hands! a weakness ran over his body, a terrible relaxing, a thaw, a decay of strength. without knowing, he had let go his grip, and gudrun had fallen to her knees. must he see, must he know? a fearful weakness possessed him, his joints were turned to water. he drifted, as on a wind, veered, and went drifting away. â��i didnâ��t want it, really,â�� was the last confession of disgust in his soul, as he drifted up the slope, weak, finished, only sheering off unconsciously from any further contact. â��iâ��ve had enoughâ��i want to go to sleep. iâ��ve had enough.â�� he was sunk under a sense of nausea. he was weak, but he did not want to rest, he wanted to go on and on, to the end. never again to stay, till he came to the end, that was all the desire that remained to him. so he drifted on and on, unconscious and weak, not thinking of anything, so long as he could keep in action. the twilight spread a weird, unearthly light overhead, bluish-rose in colour, the cold blue night sank on the snow. in the valley below, behind, in the great bed of snow, were two small figures: gudrun dropped on her knees, like one executed, and loerke sitting propped up near her. that was all. gerald stumbled on up the slope of snow, in the bluish darkness, always climbing, always unconsciously climbing, weary though he was. on his left was a steep slope with black rocks and fallen masses of rock and veins of snow slashing in and about the blackness of rock, veins of snow slashing vaguely in and about the blackness of rock. yet there was no sound, all this made no noise. to add to his difficulty, a small bright moon shone brilliantly just ahead, on the right, a painful brilliant thing that was always there, unremitting, from which there was no escape. he wanted so to come to the endâ��he had had enough. yet he did not sleep. he surged painfully up, sometimes having to cross a slope of black rock, that was blown bare of snow. here he was afraid of falling, very much afraid of falling. and high up here, on the crest, moved a wind that almost overpowered him with a sleep-heavy iciness. only it was not here, the end, and he must still go on. his indefinite nausea would not let him stay. having gained one ridge, he saw the vague shadow of something higher in front. always higher, always higher. he knew he was following the track towards the summit of the slopes, where was the marienhütte, and the descent on the other side. but he was not really conscious. he only wanted to go on, to go on whilst he could, to move, to keep going, that was all, to keep going, until it was finished. he had lost all his sense of place. and yet in the remaining instinct of life, his feet sought the track where the skis had gone. he slithered down a sheer snow slope. that frightened him. he had no alpenstock, nothing. but having come safely to rest, he began to walk on, in the illuminated darkness. it was as cold as sleep. he was between two ridges, in a hollow. so he swerved. should he climb the other ridge, or wander along the hollow? how frail the thread of his being was stretched! he would perhaps climb the ridge. the snow was firm and simple. he went along. there was something standing out of the snow. he approached, with dimmest curiosity. it was a half-buried crucifix, a little christ under a little sloping hood, at the top of a pole. he sheered away. somebody was going to murder him. he had a great dread of being murdered. but it was a dread which stood outside him, like his own ghost. yet why be afraid? it was bound to happen. to be murdered! he looked round in terror at the snow, the rocking, pale, shadowy slopes of the upper world. he was bound to be murdered, he could see it. this was the moment when the death was uplifted, and there was no escape. lord jesus, was it then bound to beâ��lord jesus! he could feel the blow descending, he knew he was murdered. vaguely wandering forward, his hands lifted as if to feel what would happen, he was waiting for the moment when he would stop, when it would cease. it was not over yet. he had come to the hollow basin of snow, surrounded by sheer slopes and precipices, out of which rose a track that brought one to the top of the mountain. but he wandered unconsciously, till he slipped and fell down, and as he fell something broke in his soul, and immediately he went to sleep. chapter xxxi. exeunt when they brought the body home, the next morning, gudrun was shut up in her room. from her window she saw men coming along with a burden, over the snow. she sat still and let the minutes go by. there came a tap at her door. she opened. there stood a woman, saying softly, oh, far too reverently: â��they have found him, madam!â�� â��_il est mort?_â�� â��yesâ��hours ago.â�� gudrun did not know what to say. what should she say? what should she feel? what should she do? what did they expect of her? she was coldly at a loss. â��thank you,â�� she said, and she shut the door of her room. the woman went away mortified. not a word, not a tearâ��ha! gudrun was cold, a cold woman. gudrun sat on in her room, her face pale and impassive. what was she to do? she could not weep and make a scene. she could not alter herself. she sat motionless, hiding from people. her one motive was to avoid actual contact with events. she only wrote out a long telegram to ursula and birkin. in the afternoon, however, she rose suddenly to look for loerke. she glanced with apprehension at the door of the room that had been geraldâ��s. not for worlds would she enter there. she found loerke sitting alone in the lounge. she went straight up to him. â��it isnâ��t true, is it?â�� she said. he looked up at her. a small smile of misery twisted his face. he shrugged his shoulders. â��true?â�� he echoed. â��we havenâ��t killed him?â�� she asked. he disliked her coming to him in such a manner. he raised his shoulders wearily. â��it has happened,â�� he said. she looked at him. he sat crushed and frustrated for the time being, quite as emotionless and barren as herself. my god! this was a barren tragedy, barren, barren. she returned to her room to wait for ursula and birkin. she wanted to get away, only to get away. she could not think or feel until she had got away, till she was loosed from this position. the day passed, the next day came. she heard the sledge, saw ursula and birkin alight, and she shrank from these also. ursula came straight up to her. â��gudrun!â�� she cried, the tears running down her cheeks. and she took her sister in her arms. gudrun hid her face on ursulaâ��s shoulder, but still she could not escape the cold devil of irony that froze her soul. â��ha, ha!â�� she thought, â��this is the right behaviour.â�� but she could not weep, and the sight of her cold, pale, impassive face soon stopped the fountain of ursulaâ��s tears. in a few moments, the sisters had nothing to say to each other. â��was it very vile to be dragged back here again?â�� gudrun asked at length. ursula looked up in some bewilderment. â��i never thought of it,â�� she said. â��i felt a beast, fetching you,â�� said gudrun. â��but i simply couldnâ��t see people. that is too much for me.â�� â��yes,â�� said ursula, chilled. birkin tapped and entered. his face was white and expressionless. she knew he knew. he gave her his hand, saying: â��the end of _this_ trip, at any rate.â�� gudrun glanced at him, afraid. there was silence between the three of them, nothing to be said. at length ursula asked in a small voice: â��have you seen him?â�� he looked back at ursula with a hard, cold look, and did not trouble to answer. â��have you seen him?â�� she repeated. â��i have,â�� he said, coldly. then he looked at gudrun. â��have you done anything?â�� he said. â��nothing,â�� she replied, â��nothing.â�� she shrank in cold disgust from making any statement. â��loerke says that gerald came to you, when you were sitting on the sledge at the bottom of the rudelbahn, that you had words, and gerald walked away. what were the words about? i had better know, so that i can satisfy the authorities, if necessary.â�� gudrun looked up at him, white, childlike, mute with trouble. â��there werenâ��t even any words,â�� she said. â��he knocked loerke down and stunned him, he half strangled me, then he went away.â�� to herself she was saying: â��a pretty little sample of the eternal triangle!â�� and she turned ironically away, because she knew that the fight had been between gerald and herself and that the presence of the third party was a mere contingencyâ��an inevitable contingency perhaps, but a contingency none the less. but let them have it as an example of the eternal triangle, the trinity of hate. it would be simpler for them. birkin went away, his manner cold and abstracted. but she knew he would do things for her, nevertheless, he would see her through. she smiled slightly to herself, with contempt. let him do the work, since he was so extremely _good_ at looking after other people. birkin went again to gerald. he had loved him. and yet he felt chiefly disgust at the inert body lying there. it was so inert, so coldly dead, a carcase, birkinâ��s bowels seemed to turn to ice. he had to stand and look at the frozen dead body that had been gerald. it was the frozen carcase of a dead male. birkin remembered a rabbit which he had once found frozen like a board on the snow. it had been rigid like a dried board when he picked it up. and now this was gerald, stiff as a board, curled up as if for sleep, yet with the horrible hardness somehow evident. it filled him with horror. the room must be made warm, the body must be thawed. the limbs would break like glass or like wood if they had to be straightened. he reached and touched the dead face. and the sharp, heavy bruise of ice bruised his living bowels. he wondered if he himself were freezing too, freezing from the inside. in the short blond moustache the life-breath was frozen into a block of ice, beneath the silent nostrils. and this was gerald! again he touched the sharp, almost glittering fair hair of the frozen body. it was icy-cold, hair icy-cold, almost venomous. birkinâ��s heart began to freeze. he had loved gerald. now he looked at the shapely, strange-coloured face, with the small, fine, pinched nose and the manly cheeks, saw it frozen like an ice-pebbleâ��yet he had loved it. what was one to think or feel? his brain was beginning to freeze, his blood was turning to ice-water. so cold, so cold, a heavy, bruising cold pressing on his arms from outside, and a heavier cold congealing within him, in his heart and in his bowels. he went over the snow slopes, to see where the death had been. at last he came to the great shallow among the precipices and slopes, near the summit of the pass. it was a grey day, the third day of greyness and stillness. all was white, icy, pallid, save for the scoring of black rocks that jutted like roots sometimes, and sometimes were in naked faces. in the distance a slope sheered down from a peak, with many black rock-slides. it was like a shallow pot lying among the stone and snow of the upper world. in this pot gerald had gone to sleep. at the far end, the guides had driven iron stakes deep into the snow-wall, so that, by means of the great rope attached, they could haul themselves up the massive snow-front, out on to the jagged summit of the pass, naked to heaven, where the marienhütte hid among the naked rocks. round about, spiked, slashed snow-peaks pricked the heaven. gerald might have found this rope. he might have hauled himself up to the crest. he might have heard the dogs in the marienhütte, and found shelter. he might have gone on, down the steep, steep fall of the south-side, down into the dark valley with its pines, on to the great imperial road leading south to italy. he might! and what then? the imperial road! the south? italy? what then? was it a way out? it was only a way in again. birkin stood high in the painful air, looking at the peaks, and the way south. was it any good going south, to italy? down the old, old imperial road? he turned away. either the heart would break, or cease to care. best cease to care. whatever the mystery which has brought forth man and the universe, it is a non-human mystery, it has its own great ends, man is not the criterion. best leave it all to the vast, creative, non-human mystery. best strive with oneself only, not with the universe. â��god cannot do without man.â�� it was a saying of some great french religious teacher. but surely this is false. god can do without man. god could do without the ichthyosauri and the mastodon. these monsters failed creatively to develop, so god, the creative mystery, dispensed with them. in the same way the mystery could dispense with man, should he too fail creatively to change and develop. the eternal creative mystery could dispose of man, and replace him with a finer created being. just as the horse has taken the place of the mastodon. it was very consoling to birkin, to think this. if humanity ran into a _cul de sac_ and expended itself, the timeless creative mystery would bring forth some other being, finer, more wonderful, some new, more lovely race, to carry on the embodiment of creation. the game was never up. the mystery of creation was fathomless, infallible, inexhaustible, forever. races came and went, species passed away, but ever new species arose, more lovely, or equally lovely, always surpassing wonder. the fountain-head was incorruptible and unsearchable. it had no limits. it could bring forth miracles, create utter new races and new species, in its own hour, new forms of consciousness, new forms of body, new units of being. to be man was as nothing compared to the possibilities of the creative mystery. to have oneâ��s pulse beating direct from the mystery, this was perfection, unutterable satisfaction. human or inhuman mattered nothing. the perfect pulse throbbed with indescribable being, miraculous unborn species. birkin went home again to gerald. he went into the room, and sat down on the bed. dead, dead and cold! imperial caesar dead, and turned to clay would stop a hole to keep the wind away. there was no response from that which had been gerald. strange, congealed, icy substanceâ��no more. no more! terribly weary, birkin went away, about the dayâ��s business. he did it all quietly, without bother. to rant, to rave, to be tragic, to make situationsâ��it was all too late. best be quiet, and bear oneâ��s soul in patience and in fullness. but when he went in again, at evening, to look at gerald between the candles, because of his heartâ��s hunger, suddenly his heart contracted, his own candle all but fell from his hand, as, with a strange whimpering cry, the tears broke out. he sat down in a chair, shaken by a sudden access. ursula who had followed him, recoiled aghast from him, as he sat with sunken head and body convulsively shaken, making a strange, horrible sound of tears. â��i didnâ��t want it to be like thisâ��i didnâ��t want it to be like this,â�� he cried to himself. ursula could but think of the kaiserâ��s: â��_ich habe es nicht gewollt._â�� she looked almost with horror on birkin. suddenly he was silent. but he sat with his head dropped, to hide his face. then furtively he wiped his face with his fingers. then suddenly he lifted his head, and looked straight at ursula, with dark, almost vengeful eyes. â��he should have loved me,â�� he said. â��i offered him.â�� she, afraid, white, with mute lips answered: â��what difference would it have made!â�� â��it would!â�� he said. â��it would.â�� he forgot her, and turned to look at gerald. with head oddly lifted, like a man who draws his head back from an insult, half haughtily, he watched the cold, mute, material face. it had a bluish cast. it sent a shaft like ice through the heart of the living man. cold, mute, material! birkin remembered how once gerald had clutched his hand, with a warm, momentaneous grip of final love. for one secondâ��then let go again, let go for ever. if he had kept true to that clasp, death would not have mattered. those who die, and dying still can love, still believe, do not die. they live still in the beloved. gerald might still have been living in the spirit with birkin, even after death. he might have lived with his friend, a further life. but now he was dead, like clay, like bluish, corruptible ice. birkin looked at the pale fingers, the inert mass. he remembered a dead stallion he had seen: a dead mass of maleness, repugnant. he remembered also the beautiful face of one whom he had loved, and who had died still having the faith to yield to the mystery. that dead face was beautiful, no one could call it cold, mute, material. no one could remember it without gaining faith in the mystery, without the soulâ��s warming with new, deep life-trust. and gerald! the denier! he left the heart cold, frozen, hardly able to beat. geraldâ��s father had looked wistful, to break the heart: but not this last terrible look of cold, mute matter. birkin watched and watched. ursula stood aside watching the living man stare at the frozen face of the dead man. both faces were unmoved and unmoving. the candle-flames flickered in the frozen air, in the intense silence. â��havenâ��t you seen enough?â�� she said. he got up. â��itâ��s a bitter thing to me,â�� he said. â��whatâ��that heâ��s dead?â�� she said. his eyes just met hers. he did not answer. â��youâ��ve got me,â�� she said. he smiled and kissed her. â��if i die,â�� he said, â��youâ��ll know i havenâ��t left you.â�� â��and me?â�� she cried. â��and you wonâ��t have left me,â�� he said. â��we shanâ��t have any need to despair, in death.â�� she took hold of his hand. â��but need you despair over gerald?â�� she said. â��yes,â�� he answered. they went away. gerald was taken to england, to be buried. birkin and ursula accompanied the body, along with one of geraldâ��s brothers. it was the crich brothers and sisters who insisted on the burial in england. birkin wanted to leave the dead man in the alps, near the snow. but the family was strident, loudly insistent. gudrun went to dresden. she wrote no particulars of herself. ursula stayed at the mill with birkin for a week or two. they were both very quiet. â��did you need gerald?â�� she asked one evening. â��yes,â�� he said. â��arenâ��t i enough for you?â�� she asked. â��no,â�� he said. â��you are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. you are all women to me. but i wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and i are eternal.â�� â��why arenâ��t i enough?â�� she said. â��you are enough for me. i donâ��t want anybody else but you. why isnâ��t it the same with you?â�� â��having you, i can live all my life without anybody else, any other sheer intimacy. but to make it complete, really happy, i wanted eternal union with a man too: another kind of love,â�� he said. â��i donâ��t believe it,â�� she said. â��itâ��s an obstinacy, a theory, a perversity.â�� â��wellâ��â�� he said. â��you canâ��t have two kinds of love. why should you!â�� it seems as if i canâ��t,â�� he said. â��yet i wanted it.â�� â��you canâ��t have it, because itâ��s false, impossible,â�� she said. â��i donâ��t believe that,â�� he answered. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from amazing stories november . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. oogie finds love by berkeley livingston it took a fierce battle with the prehistoric cro-magnons, and a modern wrestling match with the russian bear, before oogie, the caveman, finally won beautiful sala for his woman * * * * * [illustration: from the caves men appeared, dragging after them the women who had been clubbed into submission] "kill him...!" "moider 'im...!" "tear his arm off!" the cries and shrieks and boos and confusion were general throughout the auditorium, and the tenor of them was about the same, that the russian bear should be annihilated. alas for the public's pleas. oogie the caveman was underneath, and already the referee was on his knees, his head bent almost to the canvas, his nose almost touching the muscled shoulder of oogie who was underneath the russian bear. the two wrestlers were almost in the center of the ring and the nearest of the spectators was some eight feet off. the front row could see the lips of the ref moving but none could hear the words, nor even imagine. for what the ref said, was: "boss wants to see you after the match...." oogie rolled a face toward the ref upon which was writ the tortures of the damned, and blinked his right eyelid. then the ref slapped the russian bear on the shoulder and the match was over.... "... hi boss," algernon allerdyce called in greeting. his nose sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of coffee. "hi oogie," sam grogan replied without turning from what he was doing, lifting the cover of the percolator on the electric plate. "squat oog," he directed. "this is just about done. be with you...." the fragrant aroma of mocha, java and brazilian coffee beans, ground, mixed and blended until they had achieved a perfect harmony, perfumed the air. two cups, saucers and spoons lay on the desk. beside them was a bottle of brandy. oogie and sam shared the same vice, _coffee_. sam did the honors, and after both men sniffed with the deepest delight of the brew, he leaned back in his chair and regarded the muscular man at his side with both affection and speculation. after all, algernon allerdyce, known to the wrestling public as oogie the caveman, had been sam's own discovery, and he was proud of it. a flashback of memory brought a clear picture to sam's mind: a huge bulk of a man whose face could have served as a model for the drawing of _pithecanthropus erectus_, entering his offices at the old hippodrome building. the wonder he felt at the gentleness of the voice, as the stranger asked: "sam grogan?" and at sam's nod, "i'm here in answer to the ad you had placed in the _sun_...." that had been the beginning of a strange and very profitable friendship. for grogan had advertised for wrestlers and allerdyce had been the first of those to answer. it was sam who gave him the name of oogie the caveman. as such he had achieved fame around the wrestling circuits, fame and fortune. sam had learned many facts in the life of allerdyce during the three years of their association. how when allerdyce was fifteen a truck had struck the bike he was riding and hurled the unfortunate boy into a tree which mashed his face to a pulp. how the family had brought the injured youth to a famous plastic surgeon who had performed surgery on him. the next day it was found the surgeon was insane, and had been insane when he performed the plastic work on the boy. the result was the ape-like face he had given him. "... oogie," sam said from the depth of his introspection, "i've got news for you...." allerdyce took another appreciative sip of the brew before bending his attention to the other. and then it was only with lifted brow and questioning eyes. "... the big deal we've been waiting for is on the fire," sam said. "at last, eh?" allerdyce said. "yep! the big clean-up! a hundred grand guarantee plus a percentage. it will mean at least two hundred thousand for you...." allerdyce's lips twisted in a smile though to the casual observer, those lips seemed to snarl. "i can't say i won't be glad that this long grind is over. three years of this fakery is enough to try the soul of a saint. but now that the goal is in sight i can only feel a sort of fear that maybe...." grogan knew what the other meant. for on that afternoon, long, long gone, allerdyce had told him why he had answered the ad. it was to achieve enough money to permit the building of a dream, a laboratory of research in plastics. for algernon allerdyce had graduated _cum laude_ from one of the finest technical schools in the country, his heart set on research, but with his goal closed to him because of his fearsome appearance. he had tried time and again to enter any of the phases of his calling but after the first interview there had never been a second. sam grogan had shown him how enough money could be made at wrestling to do what he wanted to. allerdyce had not always been oogie the caveman. once he had been billed as the gentleman grunter, but laughter had only greeted his appearance. as oogie, he looked the part and the fans had never failed him. "so don't go soft now!" grogan said sharply. "it's in the bag, kid...." * * * * * allerdyce leaned back and the chair creaked loudly at the unexpected movement. "what's the set-up, sam?" he asked. "the whole troupe goes; the bear, the irishman, the masked marvel and all the others. london, paris, berlin, moscow.... yep, oog, all eighteen of us on the european circuit.... hey! what's wrong?" grogan had observed the darkening thunderhead of a frown on the wrestler's forehead. "sam, this may sound a bit childish because the whole thing is childish, but i don't like ed finster.... now wait! i know we've been packing them in with our act, the russian bear and oogie the caveman. but ed's been taking the deal a little more seriously than it warrants. like tonight. he threw a double hammer on me and _really_ used pressure. nor was tonight the first time. "a week ago in omaha he almost tore my ears off with a headlock...." sam grogan beamed. allerdyce didn't know it but sam had been the motivating force behind the grudge which had developed between the two men. finster had complained one night that the public didn't like him, said that the name he had been given made them mad. sam had mentioned the name was oogie's idea. finster then took personal exception to it and made a personal issue out of it. so the grudge begun in jest developed until it was noticeable to the rest of the troupe. grogan chuckled and in a few words made clear how the thing started. but the smile was wiped from his lips at allerdyce's words: "too late now, sam. i'd just as soon forget it but not ed. he's got that excuse for a brain thinking the whole thing is real. i'd suggest you get to work on him before it's too late altogether...." "that bad, huh? maybe i'd better straighten the yuk out...." * * * * * flight was well out over the atlantic, thirty thousand feet below. the super-cruiser _orion_ of the _twp_ lines held a full complement of passengers among whom was the wrestling circus of sam grogan and his partner algernon allerdyce, more affectionately known to the wrestling public as oogie the caveman. the hour was for sleep and everyone but two were observing it. these two, allerdyce and finster, were in the lounge, playing gin. finster had challenged allerdyce to a couple of games to pass the time. but those two games had long been played. finster played a wild and woolly game, never remembering discards, or trying knocks when they would be to his advantage, but always playing for gin. so it was that allerdyce had won almost every game. and since they were playing for a cent a point, finster was out money. that was why they were still playing while the rest had gone to bed. "... i'll knock with two, ed," allerdyce said. "now why the hell didn't you give that ten!" finster yelled. he held up the discard and looked at it with savage eyes. "that would have ginned me...." allerdyce shrugged his shoulders and replied: "that's what i figured. well, ed, let's call it quits, huh?" "sure! call it quits when you got me stuck for dough. but that's the way you operate. why you yellah...." it was at that instant the horror descended on the _orion_. there was a screaming cacophonous whirlwind of sound, a shriek of metal parting, flames suddenly bursting into full bloom, and the thin voices of men and women in mortal fear. above all there was a _whooshing_ noise, as though a giant hand was gripping them. finster and allerdyce felt themselves lifted from the depths of the ship and plunged into a maelstrom of storm in space. for a full ten seconds algernon allerdyce looked into the face of terror beyond words, then unconsciousness descended on him.... * * * * * the air was hot and damp and the slight breeze which fanned his cheek was of little solace. allerdyce turned his head from side to side; a quiver stirred the heavy frame of his body, and awareness came in a rush to him as he opened his eyes. he sat erect and looked about him. a figure lay sprawled on the ground some ten feet away. it was that of a man and one glance showed allerdyce that the man was ed finster and that he was alive, though not yet conscious. allerdyce rose to his feet and grunted at the effort. it seemed as if every bone and muscle creaked and groaned in protest. awe and amazement made his brows lift and his eyes widen as he looked about. the two men had fallen among some ferns in a shallow glade bound about by dense jungle growth. allerdyce caught a glimpse of hills in the near distance. then he saw finster stir and he stepped to the other's side. "wha-what happened?" finster asked while he turned his head from one side to the other. "i don't know exactly," allerdyce replied in a low voice. "but i'm going to make a guess, fantastic as it may sound. i think we fell or were sucked into a space fault. from the looks of this jungle and from the feel of the atmosphere, i'll bet we've landed in a time long before the dawn of men such as we know...." and as though in corroboration there came to their ears a low, grunting sound. instantly finster leaped to his feet and jumped the several feet to the side of the other. the sharp movement brought another coughing grunt, this time from the opposite side. and as they watched, a huge striped shape stepped into the open from the depths of the thick jungle growth. it was fully ten feet long and high as their shoulders, and the head of it was that of a tiger but such as they had never seen, for twin tusks, a foot long protruded down the length of the jowls.... "a saber tooth!" allerdyce whispered hoarsely. ed finster could only stare in open-mouthed horror at the thing. his muscled jaws began to quiver as the tiger began a sinuous advance toward them, and then, as the animal suddenly crouched in preparation for its leap, finster screamed. but the tiger never moved from his crouch. as if by magic a half dozen spears pierced its sides and two found a resting place in the tiger's throat. then the silence was broken by the hoarse shouts of human voices, and a dozen men leaped into the glade and advanced on the two. "cro-magnons," allerdyce said aloud. they were tall, broad-shouldered, deep of chest and long of limb. the skins of wild animals covered their nakedness. their faces showed intelligence, though it was all too apparent that it was limited. but whatever speculations about their origin was in allerdyce's mind, were wiped from it by their attitudes. they were definitely hostile. most of them were armed with spears, as if those they had hurled were just one of a number they carried. those who bore no spears, held clubs from the heads of which wooden spikes stuck out in vicious fingers of anger. * * * * * allerdyce acted from instinct. his right hand shot up to the height of his head and stuck out in front of his face. at that the advancing cavemen stopped and looked at each other. there were gutteral sounds of consultation, then the largest most-fearsome stepped forward and moved toward the two until he was at arm's length. "who are you?" he asked. "what do you here in the land of ugg the mighty? from whence come you?" allerdyce's mind worked at lightning speed. the solution to their problem lay in but a single direction, whatever their position. he looked up to the cloudless, sun-scorched sky and said: "from the great spirit we come. for see ... are we not different than you? so we were sent to look into the affairs of the great spirit's children...." the caveman knitted his brows, shook his head in wonder, then, as a child does at an elder's invitation to inspect a doll, he stepped forward and fingered the suiting of the two men. little clucking sounds came from the lips as he did so. then whirling, he shouted: "the great spirit has sent them! let us do them honor...." at the same time allerdyce whispered, "don't act scared," to finster. their leader's words were as a signal for the rest. they came forward in dancing steps, raising their spears and clubs on high and shouting gleefully words of exultation and praise of their leader ugg. they surrounded the two strangers and after their leader stepped in the lead they started on a march through the brush. the way seemed endless and after a while allerdyce shed his upper garments, leaving only his trousers to cover him. finster followed suit. oddly, there was a complete absence of insect life. the way led straight toward the hills they had glimpsed. the wall of jungle ended with startling abruptness and they entered on a rolling plain which after a while became more and more rocky as the upland sweep began. quite suddenly ugg stopped, his head tilting to one side in a listening attitude and one hand held in warning. the others, with the two strangers in their midst, crowded close. "sobar!" ugg grunted hoarsely. "he is after our young and women. listen...." they heard it then, shouts and screams from up above. but what was going on was hidden from them. ahead lay a narrow cleft between two sides of sheer rock some fifty feet high. the way on the right was clear though at a strong angle. ugg motioned for allerdyce to follow and the two climbed to the top of the rock where they lay on their bellies and looked slightly downward at the scene. ahead were some dozen caves and a common compound. men were struggling here and there but for the most part those were few. the screams came from the caves. in a matter of seconds men appeared, dragging after them the women and some children. when a woman failed to go along too readily or when one of the men lost his patience, the club was used. ugg nudged allerdyce and motioned with a silent shake of the head for them to return. "... it is the tribe of sobar," ugg explained to his men. "they must have learned i sent my son, ugg the younger, on a hunting expedition with most of the tribe and that we few went on the hunt for the saber-tooth. they are too many for us...." "but they must come through the cleft in the rock," allerdyce said. "we can lie in wait for them. hidden, they cannot know how many we are and when the spears are thrown they will think they have been ambushed." "but there are only the few of us," ugg objected. "even a few will be enough." but ugg had an even better idea: "they will not fear us. but the spirits.... they will run from you after they see how little their weapons do against you...." now we're in for it, allerdyce thought. right in the middle. if we don't, these boys will let us have it. if we do, the others will. and what is worse we can't ask for weapons.... h'm! maybe.... an idea had come to him, a silly idea. yet if it succeeded.... "come on, ed," he said, turning to finster. "follow my lead, fellah. otherwise...." he didn't have to finish. the other understood. * * * * * allerdyce felt the quiver in his legs and arms as they reached the top of the cleft. one look and he saw the enemy tribe was about to descend. they saw the two men at the same time. for a long moment the modern and the prehistoric stared at each other. it was the modern who made the first move: "men of sobar!" allerdyce shouted. "hear me!" there were a full fifty of them. three of them stepped forward, spears held ready for the throwing. one of them was a giant of a man, a full seven feet tall and wide as a barn door. "who calls sobar," the giant asked. "i do," allerdyce replied. "the messenger of the great spirit...." he hoped sobar knew of this great spirit. "he has sent me because sobar has displeased him...." for a few seconds silence reigned. then the giant stepped forward a few more steps, and his brow tight in a scowl of anger, asked: "i do not believe you. you look like one of the swamp people, face of an ape...." allerdyce felt the brittle coldness of a terrible anger sweep through him. he had been called ape before. and always the one who had done the calling had suffered for his temerity. but mixed with his anger was the knowledge that death could be the result of an unwise move or word. yet time was not on his side, for sobar was taking the initiative and was stepping even closer and behind him the other two were also coming toward him in imitation of their leader. "hold!" allerdyce suddenly called in a ringing, imperative voice. "you do not believe me, then, eh? a test, sobar...?" the other was silent, waiting for the stranger to continue. "drop your weapon," allerdyce said. "you and i, unarmed, to the death...." then gone was the scowl, gone the furrowed brow. here was meat to sobar's liking. here was something he was not frightened of. spirit or man, sobar was not afraid of combat of arms. flinging the spear to one side sobar motioned for the other to come to him. allerdyce made a feint to come in low but the other merely waited, arms wide, legs spread, and body shifting from the waist. once again allerdyce feinted, and as sobar's body shifted to the side the other seemed to want to come from, allerdyce leaped forward and grabbed sobar by his right wrist and using the hand as a lever pivoted on it until he was behind the giant. then allerdyce began to exert pressure in a hammerlock. all the while he had been moving the giant had been still, as if confused. but as pain came in a rush to his shoulder blade, he moved. never had allerdyce felt such strength. for though the wrestler was using all his strength on the grip, sobar broke it with one gigantic movement of his huge body. allerdyce knew then that the rules of fair play were out. this prehistoric baby was dynamite.... allerdyce staggered away from the other but recovered quickly as the giant came in, both arms outstretched. and once again allerdyce grasped one of those huge wrists. only it was in a judo grip this time, a grip where when a man tries to break it, pressure simply multiplies until either the arm breaks or one cries quits. in this case sobar waited too long. * * * * * even as his face contorted in pain allerdyce whipped around to one side and delivered a blow with the side of his palm to the side of sobar's neck. the crack of the breaking neck was like that of a branch breaking. sobar pitched to his face and lay still. instantly ugg leaped to allerdyce's side. "your chieftain was bested in fair play!" he shouted to the warriors of sobar's tribe. "by our laws you have now become our prisoners." "but not by mine!" a strange voice yelled. and before allerdyce could do more than turn, finster was on him. what made ed finster do what he did was never explained. perhaps the realization of what had happened came to the man. perhaps his mind, twisted by jealousy and hate snapped at that moment. whatever the reason, he turned on allerdyce. it was the signal for a general battle. for of all the cavemen who were present, only one was quick-witted enough to take advantage of the situation. this one was one of the two who had come forward with sobar. he yelled: "gomar is now chief. one of the spirits is on our side.... kill ugg and his...." had it been one of the cavemen attacking, allerdyce would have managed to get away for the moment he needed to recover. but it wasn't. it was a trained wrestler, one who knew all the tricks, who had leaped at him. so finster worked his surprise vantage for all it was worth. but even then allerdyce might have won out had it not been for gomar's call to arms. his men forgot the booty they had taken, the women and children and leaped forward with savage shouts, spears and clubs used indiscriminately. allerdyce had broken finster's first hold, and was turning to get a grip on the other, when a club thrown by one of the cavemen caught him a blow on the temple and stretched him senseless to the ground. * * * * * allerdyce's awakening this time was not as pleasant as before. someone was kicking him in the face. he opened his eyes, one of them anyway. the other was closed shut. he was in a cave. it was a smelly cave, the walls blackened from the smoke of many fires. nor was he alone. he tried to move his arms and discovered he had been securely bound. suddenly from behind, a foot came swinging out and pain shot up the side of his jaw as the bare toes connected with it. "enough," a voice called. "aah! i've been wanting to do this for a long time," ed finster said. there was disgust in gomar's voice as he replied: "the great spirit has small men for messengers.... remove the other's bonds." "hey!" finster yelped in protest. but no one paid attention. hands tore the fibre ropes loose from about allerdyce's figure and helped him to his feet where he stood swaying like a tree in a high wind. "the great spirit sent two messengers," gomar said. "but he had a reason. one was sent to conquer sobar so that i could become chief. the other was to conquer you. the light is clear.... take him to the women...." only finster laughed at the edict. he had reason for the laughter. in all the years of their association allerdyce had never been known to go for the fillies. and now he was to be thrown to a pack of them. with that puss, finster thought, they'd throw him right back. spear points pressed against his back, a rope around his wrists, and while the rest walked behind, one man led allerdyce from the cave into the open, across a level stretch of ground and into a very large cave. here his wrists were unbound and to the jibes and laughter of the warriors who had accompanied him, allerdyce was shoved into the cave proper itself. the cave was immense, and seemed to be filled entirely with women and children. for a second there was silence. then as their eyes saw this almost naked stranger, a wild shriek of laughter went up. hands went out, pointing to his shorts which seemed to be all the clothing he had, to his face, puffed into a gargoylish mask, and to his hairy chest, which looked like the stuffing of a mattress. allerdyce stared in horror at the women, turned and started for the cave entrance. but the cavemen had anticipated his move. they stood guard, spears thrust point forward, and after a few hesitant seconds, allerdyce turned back. but now they were no longer scattered about the cave. they came over in a rush, forcing him to the wall, his hands pawing in futile attempts to prevent them from touching him. for some reason this made them angry. their hands clenched and spiteful words came from their lips, and several turned aside and called something to the children, who after a moment returned, with stones and sticks. "hey!" allerdyce called in alarm. "take it easy...." the alarm in his voice was the signal for them to attack. in a moment he was the center of a mob of women all bent, it seemed, on his destruction. he fought at first as gently as he could. but as some of the stones hit and some of the clubs struck vulnerable parts of his anatomy, he fought with less gentleness. finally, he was forced to club one of the women with his fist. she went flying backward and landed flat on her back. * * * * * instantly the attack ceased. he watched them move away from him and wondered why. his question was answered as the woman he had struck crawled to him and embraced his legs. he tried to withdraw her hands but she held only tighter and said: "we are mated. you made the choice. i am sala...." "you're nuts!" allerdyce said sharply. he turned to call the guards to help him with the woman when he discovered that they were gone. "are customs different in your tribe?" sala asked. "do you not mate with a woman in this manner?" the beginning of a hope came to him in a rush as he realized the consequences of what had happened. he was free now. he tried to put the proper authority in his voice, when he said: "go woman! find me a corner and bring me food...." without the slightest hesitation sala rose and trotted to a far corner of the cave. allerdyce followed and squatted beside her. he had always been a shy man and had never known many women, especially women with as little clothes as sala wore. she was beautiful by any standard he thought. but only for a moment. his thoughts for the first time centered on his predicament. his mind allowed for but a single conclusion. that the plane had run into a time-fault and that he and ed finster had been drawn into it. the others must have died in the plane crash. since the giant ship was over the atlantic at the time of the crash it was reasonable to assume that time only was involved and not space. therefore, by the same line of reasoning, he and ed were to be here for the rest of their lives. that is unless somehow they found the same fault again. but that was not probable, he realized. for a moment fear lay heavy on him. then the scientist came uppermost. what an opportunity he had. a man of science among these children. the chance to build a civilization. it could be done with his knowledge. but first he had to get the power over these people. sala came back just then with what looked like the leg of a rabbit. it was very underdone but allerdyce didn't quibble. if he were going to live as they did then he might as well start right there. * * * * * three days went by and nothing changed. he learned all about his mate. she had been one of ugg's tribe. now she was part of the tribe of gomar. it was that simple. she was a tigress when she thought another woman was even looking at her mate and fought with the savagery of a beast for him. and he had been granted his freedom with his acquisition of a mate. he learned to hunt as the others did, with spear and club. but already he had fashioned his first bow and arrow, and knew it would be a matter of time before he was taught the rest. there was but one fly in the ointment, ed finster. as yet he had no mate. and he looked with avaricious eyes on sala. it was on the fourth day. allerdyce had returned from the hunt. he had killed an animal with his arrow and the tribe looked on him with respect. as he neared his cave he heard shrieks of pain and anger. and as he watched with amazement, ed finster appeared, dragging sala by her hair. his action was instinctive. rushing forward, he threw his bow to one side and knocked ed to the ground. immediately a circle of warriors were drawn about the two men and gomar stepped forward. "it is time," he said. "i have wondered about this. a combat of arms will settle it. whoever wins will have the woman ... and his freedom." as they stood facing each other, finster turned aside as though to say something to gomar. allerdyce relaxed naturally. but finster had done it with that view in mind. like a flash he whirled on allerdyce and grabbed a headlock. it would have ended right then had not both men been barefoot. for allerdyce had not stiffened his neck muscles. but finster stepped on a thorn and the shock made him loosen his grip for an instant. it was enough for allerdyce to break free. there were no more surprises. bit by bit allerdyce wore the other down. at last he straddled finster, who lay face down on the ground. then allerdyce grabbed the other by the shock of black hair, pulled his neck up until he could get his arm under it. then slowly, using all his strength, allerdyce pulled back until after a moment there was a sharp crack. finister would be no more trouble. algernon allerdyce rose and throwing his head back let out a bellow of triumph, and knew then he was no longer algernon allerdyce. he was in fact oogie the caveman, replete with wife. for sala had been the first to rush to his side. and as he threw his arms around her he knew love had come to him. she was his and woe betide the one who tried to take her from him. but when gomar stepped to his side and asked: "this sliver of wood you made and the bow of elk thong.... could you make another for me...?" oogie the caveman knew his life had begun in earnest.... the end * * * * * a love story by a bushman. vol. i. "my thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, and bear my spirit back again over the earth, and through the air, a wild bird and a wanderer." . to lady gipps this work is respectfully inscribed, by a grateful friend. preface. the author of these pages considered that a lengthened explanation might be necessary to account for the present work. he had therefore, at some length, detailed the motives that influenced him in its composition. he had shown that as a solitary companionless bushman, it had been a pleasure to him in his lone evenings "to create, and in creating live a being more intense." he had expatiated on the love he bears his adopted country, and had stated that he was greatly influenced by the hope that although "sparta hath many a worthier son than he," this work might be the humble cornerstone to some enduring and highly ornamented structure. the author however fortunately remembered, that readers have but little sympathy with the motives of authors; but expect that their works should amuse or instruct them. he will therefore content himself, with giving a quotation from one of those old authors, whose "well of english undefined" shames our modern writers. he intreats that the indulgence prayed for by the learned cowell may be accorded to his humble efforts. "my true end is the advancement of knowledge, and therefore have i published this poor work, not only to impart the good thereof, to those young ones that want it, but also to draw from the learned, the supply of my defects. "whosoever will charge these travails with many oversights, he shall need no solemn pains to prove them. "and upon the view taken of this book sithence the impression, i dare assure them, that shall observe most faults therein, that i, by gleaning after him, will gather as many omitted by him, as he shall shew committed by me. "what a man saith well is not, however, to be rejected, because he hath some errors; reprehend who will, in god's name, that is, with sweetness, and without reproach. "so shall he reap hearty thanks at my hands, and thus more soundly help in a few months, than i by tossing and tumbling my books at home, could possibly have done in some years." a love story chapter i. the family. "it was a vast and venerable pile." "oh, may'st thou ever be as now thou art, nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring." the mansion in which dwelt the delmés was one of wide and extensive range. its centre slightly receded, leaving a wing on either side. fluted ledges, extending the whole length of the building, protruded above each story. these were supported by quaint heads of satyr, martyr, or laughing triton. the upper ledge, which concealed the roof from casual observers, was of considerably greater projection. placed above it, at intervals, were balls of marble, which, once of pure white, had now caught the time-worn hue of the edifice itself. at each corner of the front and wings, the balls were surmounted by the family device--the eagle with extended wing. one claw closed over the stone, and the bird rode it proudly an' it had been the globe. the portico, of a pointed gothic, would have seemed heavy, had it not been lightened by glass doors, the vivid colours of which were not of modern date. these admitted to a capacious hall, where, reposing on the wide-spreading antlers of some pristine tenant of the park, gleamed many a piece of armour that in days of yore had not been worn ingloriously. the delmé family was an old norman one, on whose antiquity a peerage could have conferred no new lustre. at the period when the aristocracy of great britain lent themselves to their own diminution of importance, by the prevalent system of rejecting the poorer class of tenantry, in many instances the most attached,--the consequence was foreseen by the then proprietor of delmé park, who, spurning the advice of some interested few around him, continued to foster those whose ancestors had served his. the delmés were thus enabled to retain--and they deserved it--that fair homage which rank and property should ever command. as a family they were popular, and as individuals universally beloved. at the period we speak of, the delmé family consisted but of three members: the baronet, sir henry delmé; his brother george, some ten years his junior, a lieutenant in a light infantry regiment at malta; and one sister, emily, emily delmé was the youngest child; her mother dying shortly after her birth. the father, sir reginald delmé, a man of strong feelings and social habits, never recovered this blow. henry delmé was barely fifteen when he was called to the baronetcy and to the possession of the delmé estates. it was found that sir reginald had been more generous than the world had given him credit for, and that his estates were much encumbered. the trustees were disposed to rest contented with paying off the strictly legal claims during sir henry's minority. this the young heir would not accede to. he waited on his most influential guardian--told him he was aware his father, from hospitality and good nature, had incurred obligations which the law did not compel his son to pay; but which he could not but think that equity and good feeling did. he begged that these might be added to the other claims, and that the trustees would endeavour to procure him a commission in the army. he was gazetted to a cornetcy; and entered life at an age when, if the manlier traits are ready to be developed, the worthless ones are equally sure to unfold themselves. few of us that have not found the first draught of life intoxicate! few of us that have not then run wild, as colts that have slipped their bridle! experience--that mystic word--is wanting; the retrospect of past years wakes no sigh; expectant youth looks forward to future ones without a shade of distrust. the mind is elastic--the body vigorous and free from pain; and it is then youth inwardly feels, although not daring to avow it, the almost total impossibility that the mind should wax less vigorous, or the body grow helpless, and decay. but sir henry was cast in a finer mould, nor did his conduct at this dangerous period detract from this his trait of boyhood. he joined his regiment when before the enemy, and, until he came of age, never drew on his guardians for a shilling. delmé's firmness of purpose, and his after prudence, met with their due reward. the family estates became wholly unencumbered, and sir henry was enabled to add to the too scanty provision of his sister, as well as to make up to george, on his entering the army, a sum more than adequate to all his wants. these circumstances were enough to endear him to his family; and, in truth, amidst all its members, there prevailed a confidence and an unanimity which were never for an instant impaired. there was one consequence, however, of sir henry delmé's conduct that _he_, at the least, foresaw not, but which was gradually and unconsciously developed. in pursuing the line of duty he had marked out--in acting up to what he knew was right--his mind became _too_ deeply impressed with the circumstances which had given rise to his determination. it overstepped its object. the train of thought, to which necessity gave birth, continued to pervade when that necessity no longer existed. his wish to re-establish his house grew into an ardent desire to aggrandize it. his ambition appeared a legitimate one. it grew with his years, and increased with his strength. many a time, on the lone bivouac, when home presents itself in its fairest colours to the soldier's mind, would delmé's prayer be embodied, that his house might again be elevated, and that his descendants might know _him_ as the one to whom they were indebted for its rise. delmé's ambitious thoughts were created amidst dangers and toil, in a foreign land, and far from those who shared his name. but his heart swelled high with them as he again trod his native soil in peace--as he gazed on the home of his fathers, and communed with those nearest and dearest to him on earth. sir henry considered it incumbent on him to exert every means that lay in his power to promote his grand object. a connection that promised rank and honours, seemed to him an absolute essential that was worth any sacrifice. sir henry never allowed himself to look for, or give way to, those sacred sympathies, which the god of nature hath implanted in the breasts of all of us. delmé had arrived at middle age ere a feeling incompatible with his views arose. but his had been a dangerous experiment. our hearts or minds, or whatever it may be that takes the impression, resemble some crystalline lake that mirrors the smallest object, and heightens its beauty; but if it once gets muddied or ruffled, the most lovely object ceases to be reflected in its waters. by the time that lake is clear again, the fairy form that ere while lingered on its bosom is fled for ever. thus much in introducing the head of the family. let us now attempt to sketch the gentle emily. emily delmé was not an ordinary being. to uncommon talents, and a mind of most refined order, she united great feminine propriety, and a total absence of those arts which sometimes characterise those to whom the accident of birth has given importance. with unerring discrimination, she drew the exact line between vivacity and satire, true religion and its semblance. she saw through and pitied those who, pluming themselves on the faults of others, and imparting to the outward man the ascetic inflexibility of the inner one, would fain propagate on all sides their rigid creed, forbidding the more favoured commoners of nature even to sip joy's chalice. if not a saint, however, but a fair, confiding, and romantic girl, she was good without misanthropy, pure without pretension, and joyous, as youth and hopes not crushed might make her. she was one of those of whom society might justly be proud. she obeyed its dictates without question, but her feelings underwent no debasement from the contact. if not a child of nature, she was by no means the slave of art. emily delmé was more beautiful than striking. she impressed more than she exacted. her violet eye gleamed with feeling; her smile few could gaze on without sympathy--happy he who might revel in its brightness! if aught gave a peculiar tinge to her character, it was the pride she felt in the name she bore,--this she might have caught from sir henry,--the interest she took in the legends connected with that name, and the gratification which the thought gave her, that by her ancestors, its character had been but rarely sullied, and never disgraced. these things, it may be, she had accustomed herself to look on in a light too glowing: for these things and all mundane ones are vain; but her character did not consequently suffer. her lip curled not with hauteur, nor was her brow raised one shadow the more. the remembrance of the old baronetcy were on the ensanguined plain,--of the matchless loyalty of a father and five valiant sons in the cause of the royal charles,--the pondering over tomes, which in language obsolete, but true, spoke of the grandeur--the deserved grandeur of her house; these might be recollections and pursuits, followed with an ardour too enthusiastic, but they stayed not the hand of charity, nor could they check pity's tear. if her eye flashed as she gazed on the ancient device of her family, reposing on its time worn pedestal, it could melt to the tale of the houseless wanderer, and sympathise with the sorrows of the fatherless. chapter ii. the album. "oh that the desert were my dwelling place, with one fair spirit for my minister; that i might all forget the human race, and, hating no one, love but only her." a cheerful party were met in the drawing room of delmé. clarendon gage, a neighbouring land proprietor, to whom emily had for a twelvemonth been betrothed, had the night previous returned from a continental tour. in consequence, emily looked especially radiant, delmé much pleased, and clarendon superlatively happy. nor must we pass over mrs. glenallan, miss delmé's worthy aunt, who had supplied the place of a mother to emily, and who now sat in her accustomed chair, with an almost sunny brow, quietly pursuing her monotonous tambouring. at times she turned to admire her niece, who occasionally walked to the glass window, to caress and feed an impudent white peacock; which one moment strutted on the wide terrace, and at another lustily tapped for his bread at ne of the lower panes. "i am glad to see you looking so well, clarendon!" "and i can return the compliment, delmé! few, looking at you now, would take you for an old campaigner." the style of feature in delmé and clarendon was very dissimilar. sir henry was many years gage's senior; but his manly bearing, and dark decided features, would bear a contrast with even the tall and elegant, although slight form of clarendon. the latter was very fair, and what we are accustomed to call english-looking. his hair almost, but not quite, flaxen, hung in thick curls over his forehead, and would have given an effeminate expression to the face, were it not for the peculiar flash of the clear blue eye. "come! clarendon," said emily, "i will impose a task. you have written twice in my album; once, years ago, and the second time on the eve of our parting. come! you shall read us both effusions, and then write a sonnet to our happy meeting. would that dear george were here now!" gage took up the book. it was a moderately-sized volume, bound in crimson velvet. it was the fashion to keep albums _then_. it glittered not in a binding of azure and gold, nor were its momentous secrets enclosed by one of bramah's locks. the spanish proverb says, "tell me who you are with, and i will tell you what you are." ours, in that album age, used to be, "show me your scrap book, i will tell you your character." emily's was not one commencing with-- "i never loved a dear gazelle!" and ending with stanzas on the "forget-me-not." it had not those hackneyed but beautiful lines addressed by mr. spencer to lady crewe-- "i stay'd too late: forgive the crime! unheeded flew the hours; for noiseless falls the foot of time. that only treads on flowers." nor contained it those sublime, but yet more common ones, on sir john moore's death; which lines, by the bye, have suffered more from that mischief-making, laughter-loving creature, parody, than any lines we know. it was not one of these books. nor was it the splendid scrap book, replete with superb engravings and proof-impression prints; nor at all allied to the sentimental one of a garrison flirt, containing locks of hair of at least five gentlemen, three of whom are officers in the army. nor, lastly, was it of that genus which has vulgarity in its very title-page, and is here and there interspersed with devilish imps, or caricatured likenesses of the little proprietress, all done in most infinite humour, and marking the familiar friendship, of some half-dozen whiskered cubs, having what is technically called the run of the house. no! it was a repository for feeling and for memory, and, in its fair pages, presented an image of emily's heart. many of these were marked, it is true; and what human being's character is unchequered? but it was blotless; and the virgin page looks not so white as when the contrast of the sable ink is there. clarendon read aloud his first contribution--who knows it not? the very words form a music, and that music is metastasio's, "placido zeffiretto, se trovi il caro oggetto, digli che sei sospiro ma non gli dir di chi, limpido ruscelletto, se mai t'incontri in lei, digli che pianto sei, ma non le dir qual' eiglio crescer ti fe cosi." "and now, emily! for my parting tribute--if i remember right, it was sorrowful enough." gage read, with tremulous voice, the following, which we will christen the farewell. i will not be the lightsome lark, that carols to the rising morn,-- i'd rather be some plaintive bird lulling night's ear forlorn. i will not be the green, green leaf, mingling 'midst thousand leaves and flowers that shed their fairy charms around to deck spring's joyous bowers. i'd rather be the one red leaf, waving 'midst autumn's sombre groves:-- on the heart to breathe that sadness which contemplation loves. i will not be the morning ray, dancing upon the river's crest, all light, all motion, when the stream turns to the sun her breast. i'd rather be the gentle shade, lengthening as eve comes stealing on, and rest in pensive sadness there, when those bright rays are gone. i will not be a smile to play upon thy coral lip, and shed around it sweetness, like the sun risen from his crimson bed. oh, no! i'll be the tear that steals in pity from that eye of blue, making the cheek more lovely red, like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew. i will not be remember'd when mirth shall her pageant joys impart,-- a dream to sparkle in thine eye, yet vanish from thy heart. but when pensive sadness clouds thee, when thoughts, half pain, half pleasure, steal upon the heart, and memory doth the shadowy past reveal. when seems the bliss of former years,-- too sweet, too pure, to feel again,-- and long lost hours, scenes, friends, return, remember me, love--then! "ah, clarendon! how often have i read those lines, and thought--but i will not think now! here come the letters! henry will soon be busy--i shall finish my drawing--and aunt will finish--no! she never _can_ finish her tambour work. take my portfolio and give me another contribution!" gage now wrote "the return," which we insert for the reader's approval:-- the return. when the blue-eyed morn doth peep over the soft hill's verdant steep, lighting up its shadows deep, i'll think of thee, love, _then!_ when the lightsome lark doth sing her grateful song to nature's king, making all the woodlands ring, i'll think of thee, love, _then!_ or when plaintive philomel shall mourn her mate in some lone dell, and to the night her sorrows tell, i'll think of thee, love, _then!_ when the first green leaf of spring shall promise of the summer bring, and all around its fragrance fling, i'll think of thee, love, _then!_ or when the last red leaf shall fall, and winter spread its icy pall, to mind me of the death of all, i'll think of thee, love, _then!_ when the lively morning ray is dancing on the river's spray, and sunshine gilds the joyous day, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! and when the shades of eve steal on, lengthening as life's sun goes down, like sweetest constancy alone, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! when i see a sweet smile play on coral lips, like phoebus' ray, making all look warm and gay, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! when steals the tear of pity, too, o'er a cheek, whose crimson hue looks like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! when mirth's pageant joys unbind the gloomy spells that chain my mind, and make me dream of all that's kind, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! and when pensive sadness clouds me, when the host of memory crowds me, when the shadowy past enshrouds me, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! when seems the bliss of former years,-- too sweet, too pure, to feel again,-- and long lost hours, scenes, friends, return, i'll think of thee, love, _then_! chapter iii. the dinner. "hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven." "away! there need no words or terms precise, the paltry jargon of the marble mart, where pedantry gulls folly: we have eyes." we are told by the members of the silver-fork school, that no tale of fiction can be complete unless it embody the description of a dinner. let us, therefore, shutting from our view that white-limbed gum-tree, and dismissing from our table tea and damper, [footnote: _damper_. bushman's fare--unleavened bread] call on memory's fading powers, and feast once more with the rich, the munificent, the intellectual belliston græme. dinner! immortal faculty of eating! to what glorious sense or pre-eminent passion dost thou not contribute? is not love half fed by thy attractions? beams ever the eye of lover more bright than when, after gazing with enraptured glance at the coveted haunch, whose fat--a pure white; whose lean--a rich brown--invitingly await the assault. when doth lover's eye sparkle more, than when, at such a moment, it lights on the features of the loved fair one? is not the supper quadrille the most dangerous and the dearest of all? cherished venison! delicate white soup! spare young susceptible bosoms! again we ask, is not dinner the very aliment of friendship? the hinge on which it turns? does a man's heart expand to you ere you have returned his dinner? it would be folly to assert it. cabinet dinners--corporation dinners--election dinners--and vestry dinners--and rail-road dinners--we pass by these things, and triumphantly ask--does not _the_ ship par excellence--the ship of greenwich--annually assemble under its revered roof the luminaries of the nation? oh, whitebait! called so early to your last account! a tear is all we give, but it flows spontaneously at the memory of your sorrows! as mr. belliston græme was much talked of in his day, it may not be amiss to say a few words regarding him. he was an only child, and at an early age lost his parents. the expense of his education was defrayed by a wealthy uncle, the second partner in a celebrated banking house. his tutor, with whom he may be said to have lived from boyhood--for his uncle had little communication with him, except to write to him one letter half-yearly, when he paid his school bill--was a shy retiring clergyman--a man of very extensive acquirements, and a first rate classical scholar. after a short time, the curate and young græme became attached to each other. the tutor was a bachelor, and græme was his only pupil. the latter was soon inoculated with the classical mania of his preceptor; and, as he grew up, it was quite a treat to hear the pair discourse of greeks and romans. a stranger who had _then_ heard them would have imagined that themistocles and scipio africanus were stars of the present generation. when græme was nineteen, his uncle invited him to town for a month--a most unusual proceeding. during this period he studied closely his nephew's character. at the end of this term, mr. hargrave and his young charge were on their way to the classical regions, where their fancy had been so long straying. they explored france, and the northern parts of italy--came on the shores of the adriatic--resided and secretly made excavations near the amphitheatre of polo--and finally reached the morea. not a crag, valley, or brook, that they were not conversant with before they left it. they at length tore themselves away; and found themselves at the ancient parthenope. it was at pompeii mr. græme first saw the beautiful miss vignoles, the mrs. glenallan of our story; and, in a strange adventure with some neapolitan guides, was of some service to her party. they saw his designs of some tombs, and took the trouble of drawing him out. the young man now for the first time basked in the sweets of society; in a fortnight, to mr. hargrave's horror, was rolling in its vortex; in a couple of months found himself indulging in, and avowing, a hopeless passion; and in three, was once again in his native land, falsely deeming that his peace of mind had fled for ever. he was shortly, however, called upon to exert his energies. the death of his uncle suddenly made him, to his very great surprise, one of the wealthiest commoners of england. at this period he was quite unknown. in a short time mr. hargrave and himself were lodged luxuriously--were deep in the pursuit of science, literature, and the belle arte--and on terms of friendship with the cleverest and most original men of the day. mr. græme's occupations being sedentary, and his habits very regular, he shortly found that his great wealth enabled him, not only to indulge in every personal luxury at rendlesham park, but to patronise largely every literary work of merit. in him the needy man of genius found a friend, the man of wit a companion, and the publisher a generous customer. he became famous for his house, his library, his exclusive society. but he did not become spoilt by his prosperity, and never neglected his old tutor. our party from delmé were ushered into a large drawing-room, the sole light of which was from an immense bow window, looking out on the extensive lawn. the panes were of enormous size, and beautiful specimens of classique plated glass. the only articles of furniture, were some crimson ottomans which served to set off the splendid paintings; and one table of the florentine manufacture of pietra dura, on which stood a carved bijou of benvenuto cellini's. our party were early. they were welcomed by mr. græme with great cordiality, and by mr. hargrave with some embarrassment, for the tutor was still the bashful man of former days. mr. græme's dress shamed these degenerate days of black stock and loose trowser. diamond buckles adorned his knees, and fastened his shoes. his clear blue eye--the high polished forehead--the deep lines of the countenance--revealed the man of thought and intellect. the playful lip shewed he could yet appreciate a flash of wit or spark of humour. "miss delmé, you are looking at my paintings; let me show you my late purchases. observe this sweet madonna, by murillo! i prefer it to the one in the munich gallery. it may not boast titian's glow of colour, or raphael's grandeur of design,--in delicate angelic beauty, it may yield to the delightful efforts of guido's or correggio's pencil,--but surely no human conception can ever have more touchingly portrayed the beauteous resigned mother. the infant, too! how inimitably blended is the god-like serenity of the saviour, with the fond and graceful witcheries of the loving child! how little we know of the beauties of the spanish school! would i could ransack their ancient monasteries, and bring a few of them to light! "you are a chess player! pass not by this check-mate of caravaggio's. what undisguised triumph in one countenance! what a struggle to repress nature's feelings in the other! here is a guido! sweet, as his ever are! he may justly be styled the female laureat. what artist can compete with him in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender, but lighter, shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even the fornarina, and that divine effort, the beatrice cenci of the barberini?" the party were by this time assembled. besides our immediate friends, there was his grace the duke of gatten, a good-natured fox-hunting nobleman, whose estate adjoined mr. græme's; there was the viscount chambéry, who had penned a pamphlet on finance--indited a folio on architecture--and astonished europe with an elaborate dissertation on modern cookery; there was charles selby, the poet and essayist; daintrey, the sculptor--a wonderful ornithologist--a deep read historian--a learned orientalist--and a novelist, from france; whose works exhibited such unheard of horrors, and made man and woman so irremediably vicious, as to make this young gentleman celebrated, even in paris--that babylonian sink of iniquity. dinner was announced, and our host, giving his arm very stoically to mrs. glenallan, his love of former days, led the way to the dining-room. round the table were placed beautifully carved oaken fauteuils, of a very old pattern. the service of plate was extremely plain, but of massive gold. but the lamp! it was of magnificent dimensions! the light chains hanging from the frescoed ceiling, the links of which were hardly perceptible, were of silver, manufactured in venice; the lower part was of opal-tinted glass, exactly portraying some voluptuous couch, on which the beautiful amphitrite might have reclined, as she hastened through beds of coral to crystal grot, starred with transparent stalactites. in the centre of this shell, were sockets, whence verged small hollow golden tubes, resembling in shape and size the stalks of a flower. at the drooping ends of these, were lamps shaped and coloured to imitate the most beauteous flowers of the parterre. this bouquet of light had been designed by mr. græme. few novelties had acquired greater celebrity than the græme astrale. the room was warmed by heating the pedestals of the statues. "potage à la fantôme, and à l'ourika." "i will trouble you, græme," said my lord chambéry, "for the fantôme. i have dined on la pritannière for the last three months, and a novel soup is a novel pleasure." of the fish, the soles were à la rowena, the salmon à l'amour. emily flirted with the wing of a chicken sauté au suprême, coquetted with perdrix perdu masqué à la montmorenci, and tasted a boudin à la diebitsch. the wines were excellent--the geisenheim delicious--the champagne sparkling like a pun of jekyll's. but nothing aroused the attention of the viscount chambéry so much as a liqueur, which mr. græme assured him was new, and had just been sent him by the conte de desir. the dessert had been some time on the table, when the viscount addressed his host. "græme! i am delighted to find that you at length agree with me as to the monstrous superiority of a french repast. your omelette imaginaire was faultless, and as for your liqueur, i shall certainly order a supply on my return to paris." "that liqueur, my dear lord," replied mr. græme, "is good old cowslip mead, with a flask of maraschino di zara infused in it. for the rest, the dinner has been almost as imaginaire as the omelet. the greater part of the recipes are in an old english volume in my library, or perhaps some owe their origin to the fertile invention of my housekeeper. let us style them à la dorothée." "capital! i thank you, græme!" said his grace of gatten, as he shook his host by the hand, till the tears stood in his eyes. the prescient chambéry had made a good dinner, and bore the joke philosophically. coffee awaited the gentlemen in a small octagonal chamber, adjoining the music room. there stood mr. græme's three favourite modern statues:--a venus, by canova--a discobole, by thorwaldson--and a late acquisition--the ariadne, of dannecker. "this is the work of an artist," said mr. græme, "little known in this country, but in germany ranking quite as high as thorwaldson. this is almost a duplicate of his ariadne at frankfort, but the marble is much more pure. how wonderfully fine the execution! pray notice the bold profile of the face; how energetic her action as she sits on the panther!" mr. græme touched the spring of a window frame. a curtain of crimson gauze fell over a globe lamp, and threw a rich shade on the marble. the features remained as finely chiselled, but their expression was totally changed. they adjourned to the music-room, which deserved its title. save some seats, which were artfully formed to resemble lyres, nothing broke the continuity of music's tones, which ascended majestically to the lofty dome, there to blend and wreath, and fall again. at one extremity of music's hall was an organ; at the other a grand piano, built by a german composer. ranged on carved slabs, at intermediate distances, was placed almost every instrument that may claim a votary. of viols, from the violin to the double bass,--of instruments of brass, from trombones and bass kettledrums even unto trumpet and cymbal,--of instruments of wood, from winding serpents to octave flute,--and of fiddles of parchment, from the grosse caisse to the tambourine. nor were ancient instruments wanting. these were of quaint forms and diverse constructions. mr. græme would descant for hours on an antique species of spinnet, which he procured from the east, and which he vehemently averred, was the veritable dulcimer. he would display with great gusto, his specimens of harps of israel; whose deep-toned chorus, had perchance thrilled through the breast of more than one of judea's dark-haired daughters. greece, too, had her representatives, to remind the spectators that there had been an orpheus. there were flutes of the doric and of the phrygian mode, and--let us forget not--the tyrrhenian trumpet, with its brazen-cleft pavilion. but by far the greater part of his musical relics he had acquired during his stay in italy. he could show the litui with their carved clarions--the twisted cornua--the tuba, a trumpet so long and taper,--the concha wound by tritons--and eke the buccina, a short and brattling horn. belliston græme was an enthusiastic musician; and was in this peculiar, that he loved the science for its simplicity. musicians are but too apt to give to music's detail and music's difficulties the homage that should be paid to music's self: in this resembling the habitual man of law, who occasionally forgetteth the great principles of jurisprudence, and invests with mysterious agency such words as latitat and certiorari. the soul of music may not have fled;--for we cultivate her assiduously,--worship handel--and appreciate mozart. but music _now_ springs from the head, not the heart; is not for the mass, but for individuals. with our increased researches, and cares, and troubles, we have lost the faculty of being pleased. past are those careless days, when the shrill musette, or plain cittern and virginals, could with their first strain give motion to the blythe foot of joy, or call from its cell the prompt tear of pity. those days are gone! music may affect some of us as deeply, but none as readily! mr. græme had received from paris an unpublished opera of auber's. emily seated herself at the piano--her host took the violin--clarendon was an excellent flute player--and the tinkle of the viscount's guitar came in very harmoniously. by the time refreshments were introduced, charles selby too was in his glory. he had already nearly convulsed the orientalist by a theory which he said he had formed, of a gradual metempsychosis, or, at all events, perceptible amalgamation, of the yellow qui hi to the darker hindoo; which said theory he supported by the most ingenious arguments. "how did you like your stay in scotland, mr. selby?" said sir henry delmé. "i am a terrible cockney, sir henry,--found it very cold, and was very sulky. the only man i cared to see in scotland was at the lakes; but i kept a register of events, which is now on the table in my dressing-room. if græme will read it, for i am but a stammerer, it is at your service." the paper was soon produced, and mr. græme read the following:-- "the brahmin. "a stranger arrived from a far and foreign country. his was a mind peculiarly humble, tremblingly alive to its own deficiencies. yet, endowed with this mistrust, he sighed for information, and his soul thirsted in the pursuit of knowledge. thus constituted, he sought the city he had long dreamingly looked up to as the site of truth--scotia's capital, the modern athens. in endeavouring to explore the mazes of literature, he by no means expected to discover novel paths, but sought to traverse beauteous ones; feeling he could rest content, could he meet with but one flower, which some bolder and more experienced adventurer might have allowed to escape him. he arrived, and cast around an anxious eye. he found himself involved in an apparent chaos--the whirl of distraction--imbedded amidst a ceaseless turmoil of would-be knowing students, endeavouring to catch the aroma of the pharmacopaeia, or dive to the deep recesses of scotch law. he sought and cultivated the friendship of the literati; and anticipated a perpetual feast of soul, from a banquet to which one of the most distinguished members of a learned body had invited him. he went with his mind braced up for the subtleties of argument--with hopes excited, heart elate. he deemed that the authenticity of champolion's hieroglyphics might now be permanently established, or a doubt thrown on them which would for ever extinguish curiosity. he heard a doubt raised as to the probability of dr. knox's connection with burke's murders! disappointed and annoyed, he returned to his hotel, determined to seek other means of improvement; and to carefully observe the manners, customs, and habits of the beings he was among. he enquired first as to their habits, and was presented with scones, kippered salmon, and a gallon of glenlivet; as to their manners and ancient costume, and was pointed out a short fat man, the head of his clan, who promenaded the streets without trousers. neither did he find the delineation of their customs more satisfactory. he was made nearly tipsy at a funeral--was shown how to carve haggis--and a fit of bile was the consequence, of his too plentifully partaking of a superabundantly rich currant bun. he mused over these defeats of his object, and, unwilling to relinquish his hitherto fruitless search,--reluctant to despair,--he bent his steps to that city, where utility preponderates over ornament; that city which so early encouraged that most glorious of inventions, by the aid of which he hoped, that the diminutive barks of his countrymen might yet be propelled, thus superseding the ponderous paddle of teak, he here expected to be involved in an intricate labyrinth of mechanical inventions,--in a stormy discussion on the comparative merits of rival machinery,--to be immersed in speculative but gigantic theories. he was elected an honorary member of a news-room; had his coat whitened with cotton; and was obliged to confess that he knew of no beverage that could equal their superb cold punch. our philosopher now gave himself up to despair; but before returning to his own warm clime, he sought to discover the reason of his finding the flesh creep, where he had deemed the spirit would soar. he at length came to the conclusion that we are all slaves to the world and to circumstances; and as, with his peculiar belief, he could look on our sacred volume with the eye of a philosopher, felt impressed with the conviction that the history of babel's tower is but an allegory, which says to the pride of man, "'thus far shall ye go, and no farther.'" the brahmin's adventures elicited much amusement. in a short time, selby was in a hot argument with the french novelist. every now and then, as the frenchman answered him, he stirred his negus, and hummed a translation of "i'd be a butterfly." "erim papilio, natus in flosculo." chapter iv. the postman. "not in those visions, to the heart displaying forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd; or, having seen thee, shall i vainly seek to paint those charms which, imaged as they beam'd, to such as see thee not, my words were weak; to those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?" delmé had long designed some internal improvements in the mansion; and as workmen would necessarily be employed, had proposed that our family party should pass a few weeks at a watering place, until these were completed. they were not without hopes, that george might there join them, as emily had written to malta, pressing him to be present at her wedding. we have elsewhere said, that sir henry had arrived at middle age, before one feeling incompatible with his ambitious thoughts arose. it was at leamington this feeling had imperceptibly sprung up; and to leamington they were now going. is there an electric chain binding hearts predestined to love? hath providence ordained, that on our first interview with that being, framed to meet our wishes and our desires--the rainbow to our cloud, and the sun to our noon-day--hath it ordained that there should also be given us some undefinable token--some unconscious whispering from the heart's inmost spirit? who may fathom these inscrutable mysteries? sir henry had been visiting an old schoolfellow, who had a country seat near leamington. he was riding homewards, through a sequestered and wooded part of the park, when he was aware of the presence of two ladies, evidently a mother and daughter. they sate on one side of the rude path, on an old prostrate beech tree. the daughter, who was very beautiful, was sketching a piece of fern for a foreground: the mother was looking over the drawing. neither saw the equestrian. it was a fair sight to regard the young artist, with her fine profile and drooping eyelid, bending over the drawing, like a grecian statue; then to note the calm features upturn, and forget the statue in the breathing woman. at intervals, her auburn tresses would fall on the paper, and sweep the pencil's efforts. at such times, she would remove them with her small hand, with such a soft smile, and gentle grace, that the very action seemed to speak volumes for her feminine sympathies. delmé disturbed them not, but making a tour through the grove of beech trees, reached leamington in thoughtful mood. it was not long before he met them in society. the mother was a mrs. vernon, a widow, with a large family and small means. of that family julia was the fairest flower. as sir henry made her acquaintance, and her character unfolded itself, he acknowledged that few could study it without deriving advantage; few without loving her to adoration. that character it would be hard to describe without our description appearing high-flown and exaggerated. it bore an impress of loftiness, totally removed from pride; a moral superiority, which impressed all. with this was united an innate purity, that seemed her birthright; a purity that could not for an instant be doubted. if the libertine gazed on her features, it awoke in him recollections that had long slumbered; of the time when his heart beat but for one. if, in her immediate sphere, any littleness of feeling was brought to her notice, it was met with an intuitive doubt, followed by painful surprise, that such feeling, foreign as she felt it to be to her own nature, could really have existence in that of another. thank god! she had seen few of the trickeries of this restless world, in which most of us are struggling against our neighbours; and, if we could look forward with certainty, to the nature of the world beyond this, it is most likely that we should breathe a fervent prayer that she should never witness more. her person was a fit receptacle for such a mind. a face all softness, seemed and _was_ the index to a heart all pity. taller than her compeers,--in all she said or did, a native dignity and a witching grace were exquisitely blended. she was one not easily seen without admiration; but when known, clung cydippe-like to the heart's mirror, an image over which neither time nor absence possessed controul. the delmés resided at leamington the remainder of the winter, which passed fleetly and happily. emily, for the first time, gave way to that one feeling, which, to a woman, is the all-important and engrossing one, enjoying her happiness in that full spirit of content, which basking in present joys, attempts not to mar them by ideal disquietudes. the delmés cultivated the society of the vernons; emily and julia became great friends; and sir henry, with all his stoicism, was nourishing an attachment, whose force, had he been aware of it, he would have been at some pains to repress. as it was, he totally overlooked the possibility of his trifling with the feelings of another. he had a number of sage aphorisms to urge against his own entanglement, and, with a moral perverseness, from which the best of us are not free, chose to forget that it was possible his convincing arguments, might neither be known to, nor appreciated by one, on whom their effect might be far from unimportant. at this stage, clarendon thought it his duty to warn delmé; and, to his credit be it said, shrunk not from it. "excuse me, delmé," said he, "will you allow me to say one word to you on a subject that nearly concerns yourself?" sir henry briefly assented. "you see a great deal of miss vernon. she is a very fascinating and a very amiable person; but from something you once said to me, it has struck me that in some respects she might not suit you." "i like her society," replied his friend; "but you are right. she would _not_ suit me. _you_ know me pretty well. my hope has ever been to increase, and not diminish the importance of my house. it once stood higher both in wealth and consideration. i see many families springing up around me, that can hardly lay claim to a descent so unblemished i speak not in a spirit of intolerance, nor found my family claim solely on its pedigree; but my ancestors have done good in their generation, and it is a proud thing to be 'the scion of a noble race!'" "it may be;" said clarendon quietly, "but i cannot help thinking, that with your affluence, you have every right to follow your own inclination. i know that few of my acquaintances are so independent of the world." sir henry shook his head. "the day is not very distant, gage, when a dacre would hardly have returned two members for my county, if a delmé had willed it otherwise. but there is little occasion for me to have said thus much. miss vernon, i trust, has other plans; and i believe my own feelings are not enlisted deep enough, to make me forget the hopes and purposes of half a life-time." it was some few days after this, when emily had almost given up looking with interest to the postman's visit, that a letter at last came, directed to sir henry; not indeed in george's hand-writing, but with the malta post mark. delmé read it over thoughtfully, and, assuring emily that there was nothing to alarm her, left the room to consider its contents. by the way, we have thought over heartless professions, and cannot help conceiving that of a postman, (it may be conceit!) the most callous and unfeeling of all. he is waited for with more anxiety than any guest of the morning; for his visits invariably convey something new to the mind. he is not love! but he bears it in his pocket; he cannot be friendship! but he daily hawks about its assurances. with all this, knowing his importance, aware of the sensation his appearance calls forth, his very knock is heartless--the tones of his voice cold. feeling seems denied him; his head is a debtor and creditor account, his departure the receipt, and time alone can say, whether your bargain has been a good or a bad one. he has certainly no assumption--it is one of his few good traits; he walks with his arms in motion, but attempts not a swagger; his knock is unassuming, and his words, though much attended to, are few, and to the point. why, then, abuse him? we know not, but believe it originates in fear. an intuitive feeling of dread--a rushing presentiment of evil--crosses our mind, as our eye dwells on his thread-bare coat, with its capacious pockets. news of a death--or a marriage--the tender valentine--the remorseless dun--your having been left an estate, or cut off with a shilling--fortune, and misfortune--he quietly dispenses, as if totally unconscious. surely such a man--his round performed--cannot quietly sink to the private individual. can such a man caress his wife, or kiss his child, when he knows not how many hearts are bursting with joy, or breaking with sorrow, from the tidings _he_ has conveyed? to our mind, a postman should be an abstracted visionary being, endowed with a peculiar countenance, betraying the unnatural sparkle of the opium-eater, and evincing intense anxiety at the delivery of each sheet. but these,--they wait not to hear the joyful shout, or heart-rending moan--to know if hope deferred be at length joyful certainty, or bitter only half-expected woe. we dread a postman. our hand shook, as we last year paid the man of many destinies his demanded christmas box. the amount was double that we gave to the minister of our corporeal necessities--the butcher's boy--not from a conviction of the superior services or merit of the former, but from an uneasy desire to bribe, if we could, that mercury of fate. the letter to sir henry, was from the surgeon of george's regiment. it stated that george had been severely ill, and that connected with his illness, were symptoms which made it imperative on the medical adviser, to recommend the immediate presence of his nearest male relative. apologies were made for the apparent mystery of the communication, with a promise that this would be at once cleared up, if sir henry would but consent to make the voyage; which would not only enable him to be of essential service to his brother, but also to acquire much information regarding him, which could only be obtained on the spot. a note from george was enclosed in this letter. it was written with an unsteady hand, and made no mention of his illness. he earnestly begged his brother to come to malta, if he could possibly so arrange it, and transmitted his kindest love and blessing to emily. sir henry at once made up his mind, to leave leamington for town on the morrow, trusting that he might there meet with information which would be more satisfactory. he concealed for the time the true state of the case from all but clarendon; nor did he even allude to his proposed departure. it was emily's birth-day, and gage had arranged that the whole party should attend a little fête on that night. sir henry could not find it in his heart to disturb his sister's dream of happiness. chapter v the fête. "ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! if, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven, that, in our aspirations to be great, our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, and claim a kindred with you." the night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just such a night as might have been wished for such a fête. it was in the month of april. april dews, in britain's variable clime; are not the most salubrious, and april's night air is too often keen and piercing; but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to be pleased and happy. the giver of the fête was an enterprising italian. winter's amusements were over, or neglected--summer's delights were not arrived; and signor pacini conceived, that during the dull and monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to the public and beneficial to himself. to do the little man justice, he was indefatigable in his exertions. from door to door he wended his smiling way,--here praising the mother's french, there the daughter's italian. he gained hosts of partisans. "of course you patronise pacini!" was in every one's mouth. the signor's prospectus stated, that "through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman, who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the grounds of the earl of w----; where a full quadrille band would be in attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river, and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and enlightened public. the performance would be most various, novel, and exciting. brilliant fireworks from vauxhall would delight the eye, and shed a charm on the fairy scene; whilst the car would be regaled with the unequalled harmony of the styrian brethren, messrs. schezer, lobau, and berdan, who had very kindly deferred their proposed return to styria, in order to honour the fete of signor pacini." as night drew on, the mimic thunder of carriages hastening to the scene of action, bespoke the signor's success. after the ninth hour, his numbers swelled rapidly. pacini assumed an amusing importance, and his very myrmidons gave out their brass tickets with an air. at ten, a rocket was fired. at this preconcerted signal, the pavilion, hitherto purposely concealed, blazed in a flood of light. on its balcony stood the three styrian brethren,--although, by the way, they were not brethren at all,--and, striking their harmonious guitars, wooed attention to their strains. the crowd hurried down the walk, and formed round the pavilion. our party suddenly found themselves near the vernons. as the gentlemen endeavoured to obtain chairs for the ladies, a crush took place, and sir henry was obliged to offer his arm to julia, who happened to be the nearest of her party. it was with pain miss vernon noted his clouded brow, and look of abstraction; but hardly one word of recognition had passed, before the deep voices of the styrians silenced all. after singing some effective songs, accompanied by a zither, and performing a melodious symphony on a variety of jew's-harps; pacini, the manager, advanced to address his auditors, with that air of smiling confidence which no one can assume with better grace than a clever italian. his dark eye flashed, and his whole features irradiated, as he delivered the following harangue. "ladies and gentlemen! me trust you well satisfied wid de former musical entertainment; but, if you permit, me mention one leetle circonstance. monsieur schezer propose to give de song; but it require much vat you call stage management: all must be silent as de grave. it ver pretty morceau." the applause at the end of this speech was very great. signor pacini bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in which he rejoiced. schezer stepped forward. he was attired as a mountaineer. his hat tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. hussars might have envied him his moustaches. from his right side protruded a couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed his calf to the very best advantage. the singer's voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the words, of which the following may be taken as a free version. "mountains! dear mountains! on you have i passed my green youth; to me your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. when may i see the chamois bounding o'er your toppling crags? when, oh when, may i see my fair-haired mary?" the minstrel paused--a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. it was the mountain's echo. it continued the air--then died away in the softest harmony. all were charmed. again the singer stepped forward--the utmost silence prevailed--his tones became more impassioned--they breathed of love. "thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! oft hast thou responded to the strains of love my soul poured to--ah me! how beautiful was the fair-haired mary!" again the echo spoke--again all were hushed. the minstrel's voice rose again; but its tones were not akin to joy. "why remember this, deceitful echo? war's blast hath blown, and hushed are the notes of love. the foe hath polluted my hearth--i wander an exile. where, where is mary?" the echo faintly but plaintively replied. there were some imagined that a tear really started to the eye of the singer. he struck the guitar wildly--his voice became more agitated--he advanced to the extremity of the balcony. "my sword! my sword! may my right hand be withered ere it forget to grasp its hilt! one blow for freedom. freedom--sweet as was the lip--yes! i'll revenge my mary!" schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. the echo wildly replied, as if registering the patriot's vow. for a moment all was still! a thundering burst of applause ensued. the mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of "la cara nina." it was near midnight, when all eyes were directed to a ball of fire, which, rising majestically upward, soared amid the tall elm trees. for a moment, the balloon became entangled in the boughs, revealing by its transparent light the green buds of spring, which variegated and cheered the scathed bark. it broke loose from their embrace--hovered irresolutely above them--then swept rapidly before the wind, rising till it became as a speck in the firmament. this was the signal for mr. robinson's fireworks, which did not shame vauxhall's reputation. at one moment, a salamander courted notice; at another, a train of fiery honours, festooned round four wooden pillars, was fired at different places, by as many doves practised to the task. here, an imitation of a jet d'eau elicited applause--there, the gyrations of a catherine's wheel were suddenly interrupted by the rapid ascent of a roman candle. directly after the ascent of the balloon, emily and clarendon had turned towards the ball room. julia's sisters had a group of laughing beaux round their chairs,--mrs. glenallan and mrs. vernon were discussing bygone days,--and no one seemed disposed to leave the pavilion. sir henry, in his silent mood, was glad to escape from the party; and engaging julia in a search for emily, made his way to the crowded ball room. he there found his sister spinning round with clarendon to one of strauss's waltzes; and sir henry and his partner seated themselves on one of the benches, watching the smiling faces as they whirled past them. it was a melancholy thought to delmé, how soon emily's brow would be clouded, were he to breathe one word of george's illness and despondency. the waltz concluded, a quadrille was quickly formed. miss vernon declined dancing, and they rose to join emily and clarendon; but the lovers were flown. the ball room became still more thronged; and delmé was glad to turn once more towards the pavilion. the party they had left there had also vanished, and strangers usurped their seats. in this dilemma, miss vernon proposed seeking their party in the long walk. they took one or two turns down this, but saw not those for whom they were in search. "if you do not dislike leaving this busy scene," said sir henry, "i think we shall have a better chance of meeting emily and clarendon, if we turn down one of these winding paths." they turned to their left, and walked on. how beautiful was that night! its calm tranquillity, as they receded from the giddy throng, could not but subdue them. we have said that the moon was not riding the heavens in her full robe of majesty, nor was there a sombre darkness. the purple vault was spangled thick with stars; and there reigned that dubious, glimmering light, by which you can note a face, but not mark its blush. the walks wound fantastically. they were lit by festoons of coloured lamps, attached to the neighbouring trees, so as to resemble the pendent grape-clusters, that the traveller meets with just previous to the bolognese vintage. occasionally, a path would be encountered where no light met the eye save that of the prying stars overhead. in the distant vista, might be seen a part of the crowded promenade, where music held its court; whilst at intervals, a voice's swell or guitar's tinkle would be borne on the ear. there was the hum of men, too--the laugh of the idlers without the sanctum, as they indulged in the delights of the mischievous fire-ball--and the sudden whizz, followed by an upward glare of light, as a rocket shot into the air. but the hour, and the nameless feeling that hour invoked, brought with them a subduing influence, which overpowered these intruding sounds, attuning the heart to love and praise. they paced the walk in mutual and embarrassed silence. sir henry's thoughts would at one time revert to his brother, and at another to that parting, which the morrow would assuredly bring with it. he was lost in reverie, and almost forgot who it was that leant thus heavily upon his arm. julia had loved but once. she saw his abstraction, and knew not the cause; and her timid heart beat quicker than was its wont, as undefined images of coming evil and sorrow, chased each other through her excited fancy. at length she essayed to speak, although conscious that her voice faltered. "what a lovely night! are you a believer in the language of the stars?" this was said with such simplicity of manner, that delmé, as he turned to answer her, felt truly for the first time the full force of his attachment. he felt it the more strongly, that his mind previously had been wandering more than it had done for years. there are times and seasons when we are engrossed in a train of deep and unconscious thought. suddenly recalled to ourselves, we start from our mental aberration, and a clearer insight into the immediate purposes and machinery of our lives, is afforded us. we seem endowed with a more accurate knowledge of self; the inmost workings of our souls are abruptly revealed--feeling's mysteries stand developed--our weaknesses stare us in the face--and our vices appear to gnaw the very vitals of our hope. the veil was indeed withdrawn,--and delmé's heart acknowledged, that the fair being who leant on him for support, was dearer--far dearer, than all beside. but he saw too, ambition in that heart's deep recess, and knew that its dictates, unopposed for years, were totally incompatible with such a love. he saw and trembled. julia's question was repeated, before sir henry could reply. "a soldier, miss vernon, is particularly susceptible of visionary ideas. on the lone bivouac, or remote piquet, duty must frequently chase sleep from his eyelids. at such times, i have, i confess, indulged in wild speculations, on their possible influence on our wayward destinies. i was then a youth, and should not now, i much fear me, pursue with such unchecked ardour, the dreams of romance in which i could then unrestrainedly revel. perhaps i should not think it wise to do so, even had not sober reality stolen from imagination her brightest pinion." "i would fain hope, sir henry," replied julia, "that all your mind's elasticity is not thus flown. why blame such fanciful theories? i cannot think them wrong, and i have often passed happy hours in forming them." "simply because they remove us too much from our natural sphere of usefulness. they may impart us pleasure; but i question whether, by dulling our mundane delights, they do not steal pleasure quite equivalent. besides, they cannot assist us in conferring happiness on others, or in gleaning improvement for ourselves. i am not quite certain, enviable as appears the distinction, whether the _too_ feelingly appreciating even nature's beauties, does not bear with it its own retribution." "ah! do not say so! i cannot think that it _should_ be so with minds properly regulated. i cannot think that _such_ can ever gaze on the wonders revealed us, without these imparting their lesson of gratitude and adoration. if, full of hope, our eye turns to some glorious planet, and we fondly deem that _there_, may our dreams of happiness _here,_ be perpetuated; surely in such poetical fancy, there is little to condemn, and much that may wean us from folly's idle cravings. "if in melancholy's hour, we mourn for one who hath been dear, and sorrow for the perishable nature of all that may here claim our earthly affections; is it not sweet to think that in another world--perhaps in some bright star--we may again commune with what we have _so_ loved--once more be united in those kindly bonds--and in a kingdom where those bonds may not thus lightly be severed?" julia's voice failed her; for she thought of one who had preceded her to "the last sad bourne." delmé was much affected. he turned towards her, and his hand touched hers. "angelic being!" as he spoke, darker, more worldly thoughts arose. a fearful struggle, which convulsed his features, ensued. the world triumphed. julia vernon saw much of this, and maiden delicacy told her it was not meet they should be alone. "let us join the crowd!" said she. "we shall probably meet our party in the long walk: if not, we will try the ball room." poor julia! little was her heart in unison with that joyous scene! by the eve of the morrow, delmé was many leagues from her and his family. restless man, with travel, ambition, and excitement, can woo and almost win oblivion;--but poor, weak, confiding woman--what is left to her? in secret to mourn, and in secret still to love. chapter iii. the journey. "adieu! adieu! my native land fades o'er the ocean blue; the night winds sigh--the breakers roar-- and shrieks the wild sea mew. yon sun that sets upon the sea, we follow in his flight: farewell awhile to him and thee! my native land! good night!" we have rapidly sketched the dénouement of the preceding chapter; but it must not be forgotten, that delmé had been residing some months at leamington, and that emily and julia were friends. in his own familiar circle--a severe but true test--sir henry had every opportunity of becoming acquainted with miss vernon's sweetness of disposition, and of appreciating the many excellencies of her character. for the rest, their intercourse had been of that nature, that it need excite no surprise, that a walk on a gala night, had the power of extracting an avowal, which, crude, undigested, and hastily withdrawn as it was, was certainly more the effusion of the heart--more consonant with sir henry's original nature--than the sage reasonings on his part, which preceded and followed that event. on delmé's arrival in town, he prosecuted with energy his enquiries as to his brother. he called on the regimental agents, who could give him no information. george's military friends had lost sight of him since he had sailed for the mediterranean; and of the few persons, whom he could hear of, who had lately left malta; some were passing travellers, who had made no acquaintances there, others, english merchants, who had met george at the opera and in the streets, but nowhere else. it is true, there was an exception to this, in the case of a hair-brained young midshipman; who stated that he had dined at george's regimental mess, and had there heard that george "had fallen in love with some young lady, and had fought with her brother or uncle, or a soldier-officer, he did not know which." meagre as all this information was, it decided sir henry delmé. he wrote a long letter to emily, in which he expressed a hope that both george and himself would soon be with her, and immediately prepared for his departure. ere we follow him on his lonely journey, let us turn to those he left behind. mrs. glenallan and emily decided on at once leaving leamington for their own home. the marriage of the latter was deferred; and as clarendon confessed that his period of probation was a very happy one, he acquiesced cheerfully in the arrangement. emily called on the vernons, and finding that julia was not at home, wrote her a kind farewell; secretly hoping that at some future period they might be more nearly related. the sun was sinking, as the travellers neared delmé. the old mansion looked as calm as ever. the blue smoke curled above its sombre roof; and the rooks sailed over the chimneys, flapping their wings, and cawing rejoicefully, as they caught the first glimpse of their lofty homes. emily let down the carriage window, and with sunshiny tear, looked out on the home of her ancestors. there let us leave her; and turn to bid adieu for a season, to one, who for many a weary day, was doomed to undergo the pangs of blighted affection. such pangs are but too poignant and enduring, let the worldly man say what he may. could we but read the history of the snarling cynic, blind to this world's good--of him, who from being the deceived, has become the deceiver--of the rash sensualist, who plunging into vice, thinks he can forget;--could we but know the train of events, that have brought the stamping madman to his bars--and his cell--and his realms of phantasy;--or search the breast of her, who lets concealment "feed on her damask cheek"--who prays blessings on him, who hath wasted her youthful charms--then mounts with virgin soul to heaven:--we, in our turn, might sneer at the worldling, and pin our fate on the tale of the peasant girl, who discourses so glibly of crossed love and broken hearts. sir henry delmé left england with very unenviable sensations. a cloud seemed to hang over the fate of his brother, which no speculations of his could pierce. numberless were the conjectures he formed, as to the real causes of george's sickness and mental depression. it was in vain he re-read the letters, and varied his comments on their contents. it was evident, that nothing but his actual presence in malta, could unravel the mystery. sir henry had _one_ consolation; how great, let those judge who have had aught dear placed in circumstances at all similar. he had a confidence in george's character, which entirely relieved him from any fear that the slightest taint could have infected it. but an act of imprudence might have destroyed his peace of mind--sickness have wasted his body. nor was his uncertainty regarding george, delmé's only cause of disquiet. when he thought of julia vernon, there was a consequent internal emotion, that he could not subdue. he endeavoured to forget her--her image haunted him. he meditated on his past conduct; and at times it occurred to him, that the resolutions he had formed, were not the result of reason, but were based on pride and prejudice. he thought of her as he had last seen her. _now_ she spoke with enthusiasm of the bright stars of heaven; anon, her eye glistened with piety, as she showed how the feeling these created, was but subservient to a nobler one still. again, he was beside her in the moment of maiden agony; when low accents faltered from her quivering lip, and the hand that rested on his arm, trembled from her heart's emotion. such were the bitter fancies that assailed him, as he left his own, and reached a foreign land. they cast a shadow on his brow, which change of scene possessed no charm to dispel. he hurried on to france's capital, and only delaying till he could get his passports signed, hastened from paris to marseilles. on his arrival at the latter place, his first enquiries were, as to the earliest period that a vessel would sail for malta. he was pointed out a small yacht in the harbour, which belonging to the british government, had lately brought over a staff officer with despatches. a courier from england had that morning arrived--the vessel was about to return--her canvas was already loosened--the blue peter streaming in the wind. delmé hesitated not an instant, but threw himself into a boat, and was rowed alongside. the yacht's commander was a lieutenant in our service, although a maltese by birth. he at once entered into sir henry's views, and felt delighted at the prospect of a companion in his voyage. a short time elapsed--the anchor was up--the white sails began to fill--sir henry was once more on the wide sea. what a feeling of loneliness, almost of despair, infects the landsman's mind, as he recedes from an unfamiliar port--sees crowds watching listlessly his vessel's departure--crowds, of whom not one feels an interest in _his_ fate; and then, turning to the little world within, beholds but faces he knows not, persons he wots not of! but to one whose home is the ocean, such are not the emotions which its expanse of broad waters calls forth. to such an one, each plank seems a friend; the vessel, a refuge from the world and its cares. trusting himself to its guidance, deceit wounds him no more--hollow-hearted friendship proffers not its hand to sting--love exercises not its fatal sorcery--foes are afar--and his heart, if not the waves, is comparatively at peace. and oh! the wonders of the deep! ocean! tame is the soul that loves not thee! grovelling the mind that scorns the joys thou impartest! to lean our head on the vessel's side, and in idleness of spirit ponder on bygone scene, that has brought us anything but happiness,--to gaze on the curling waves, as impelled by the boisterous wind, we ride o'er the angry waters, lashed by the sable keel to a yeasty madness,--to look afar upon the disturbed billow, presenting its crested head like the curved neck of the war horse,--_then_ to mark the screaming sea bird, as, his bright eye scanning the waters, he soars above the stormy main--its wide tumult his delight--the roaring of the winds his melody--the shrieks of the drowned an harmonious symphony to the hoarse diapason of the deep! all these things may awake reflections, which are alike futile and transitory; but they are accompanied by a mental excitement, which land scenes, however glorious, always fail to impart. delmé's voyage was not unpropitious, although the yacht was frequently baffled by contrary winds, which prevented the passage being very speedy. during the day, the weather was ordinarily blustering, at times stormy; but with the setting sun, it seemed that tranquillity came; for during the nights, which were uncommonly fine, gentle breezes continued to fill the sails, and their vessel made tardy but sure progress. henry would sit on deck till a late hour, lost in reverie. _there_ would he remain, until each idle mariner was sunk to rest; and nothing but the distant tread of the wakeful watch, or the short cough of the helmsman, bespoke a sentinel over the habitation on the waters. how would the recollections of his life crowd upon him!--the loss of his parent--the world's first opening--bitter partings--painful misgivings--the lone bivouac--the marshalling of squadrons--the fierce charge--the excitement of victory, whose charm was all but flown, for where were the comrades who had fought beside him? these things were recalled, and brought with them alternate pain and pleasure. and a less remote era of his life would be presented him; when he tasted the welcome of home--saw hands uplifted in gratitude--was cheered by a brother's greeting, and subdued by a sister's kiss. but there _was_ a thought, which let him dwell as he might on others, remained the uppermost of all. it was of julia vernon, and met him as a reproach. if his feelings were not of that enthusiastic nature, which they might have been were he now in his green youth, they were not on this account the less intense. they were coloured by the energy of manhood. he had lost a portion of his self-respect: for he knew that his conduct had been vacillating with regard to one, whom each traversed league, each fleeting hour, proved to be yet dearer than he had deemed her. in the first few days of their passage, the winds shaped their vessel's course towards the genoese gulf. they then took a direction nearly south, steering between corsica and sardinia on the one hand--italy on the other. delmé had an opportunity of noting the outward aspect of napoleon's birth-place; and still more nearly, that of its opposite island, which also forms so memorable a link in the history of that demi-god of modern times. how could weaker spirits deem that _there_, invested with monarchy's semblance, the ruler of the petty isle could forget that he had been master of the world? how think that diplomacy's cobweb fibre could hold the eagle, panting for an upward flight? they fearfully misjudged! what a transcendent light did his star give, as it shot through the appalled heavens, ere it sunk for ever in endless night! the commander of the yacht pointed out the rock, which is traditionally said to be the one, on which napoleon has been represented--his arms folded--watching intently the ocean--and ambition's votary gleaning his moral from the stormy waves below. as they advanced farther in their course, other associations were not wanting; and delmé, whose mind, like that of most englishmen, was deeply tinctured with classic lore, was not insensible to their charms. they swept by the latian coast. every creek and promontory, attested the fidelity of the poet's description, by vividly recalling it to the mind. on the seventh day, they doubled cape maritime, on the western coast of sicily; and two days afterwards, the vessel neared what has been styled the abode of calypso, the island of gozzo. as they continued to advance, picturesque trading boats, with awnings and numerous rowers, became more frequent--the low land appeared--they were signalled from the palace--the point of st. elmo was turned--and a wide forest of masts met the gaze. the vessel took up her moorings; and in the novelty of the scene, and surrounding bustle, sir henry for a time rested from misgivings, and forgot his real causes for melancholy. the harbour of malta is not easily forgotten. the sun was just sinking, tinging with hues of amber, the usually purple waters of the harbour, and bronzing with its fiery orb, the batteries and lofty baraca, where lie entombed the remains of sir thomas maitland. between the baraca's pillars, might be discerned many a faldette, with pretty face beneath, peering over to mark the little yacht, as she took her station, amidst the more gigantic line of battle ships. the native boatmen, in their gilded barks with high prows, were seen surrounding the vessel; and as they exerted themselves in passing each other, their dress and action had the most picturesque appearance. their language, a corrupted arabic, is not unpleasing to the ear; and their costume is remarkably graceful. a red turban hangs droopingly on one side, and their waistcoats are loaded with large silver buttons, the only remains of their uncommon wealth during the war, when this little island was endowed with a fictitious importance, it can never hope to resume. just as the yacht cast anchor, a gun from the saluting battery was fired. it was the signal for sunset, and every flag was lowered. down came in most seaman-like style the proud flag of merry england--the _then_ spotless banner of france--and the great cross, hanging ungracefully, over the stout, but clumsy, russian man of war. all these flags were then in the harbour of valletta, although it was not at that eventful time when--the moslem humbled--they met with the cordiality of colleagues in victory. the harbour was full of vessels. every nation had its representative. the intermediate spaces were studded by maltese boats, crowded with passengers indiscriminately mingled. the careless english soldier, with scarlet coat and pipe-clayed belt--priests and friars--maltese women in national costume sat side by side. occasionally, a gig, pulled by man of war's men, might be seen making towards the town, with one or more officers astern, whose glittering epaulettes announced them as either diners out, or amateurs of the opera. the scene to delmé was entirely novel; although it had previously been his lot to scan more than one foreign country. the arrival of the health officers was the first circumstance that diverted his mind from the surrounding scene. there had been an epidemic disease at marseilles, and there appeared to be some doubts, whether, as a precaution, some quarantine would not be imposed. the superintendent of quarantine was rowed alongside, chiefly for the purpose of regulating this. the spirited little commander of the yacht, however, was not at all desirous of any such arrangement; and after some energetic appeals on his part, met by cautious remonstrances on the part of the other, their pratique was duly accorded. during the discussion with the superintendent, sir henry had enquired from the health officer, as to where he should find george, and was informed that his regiment was quartered at floriana, one of valletta's suburbs. in a short time a boat from the yacht was lowered, and the commander prepared to accompany the government courier with his dispatches to the palace. previous to leaving the deck, he hailed a boat alongside--addressed the boatmen in their native language--and consigned sir henry to their charge. twilight was deepening into night as delmé left the vessel. the harbour had lost much of its bustle; lights were already gleaming from the town, and as seen in some of the loftiest houses, looked as if suspended in the air above. our traveller folded his cloak around him, and was rowed swiftly towards the shore. chapter vii. the young greek. "but not in silence pass calypso's isles, the sister tenants of the middle deep." * * * * * "her reign is past, her gentle glories gone, but trust not this; too easy youth, beware! a mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne. and thou mayst find a new calypso there." night had set in before sir henry reached the shore. the boatmen, in broken, but intelligible english, took the trouble of explaining, that they must row him to a point higher up the harbour, than the landing place towards which the commander's gig was directing its course, on account of his brother's regiment being quartered at floriana. landing on the quay, they took charge of delmé's portmanteau, and conducted him through an ascending road, which seemed to form a part of the fortifications, till they arrived in front of a closed gate. they were challenged by the sentinel, and obliged to explain their business to a non-commissioned officer, before they were admitted. this form having been gone through, a narrow wicket was opened for their passage. they crossed a species of common, and, after a few minutes' walk, found themselves in front of the barrack. this was a plain stone building, enclosing a small court, in the centre of which stood a marble bason. the taste of some of the officers had peopled this with golden fish; whilst on the bason's brim were placed stands for exotics, whose fragrance charmed our sea-worn traveller, so lately emancipated from those sad drawbacks to a voyage, the odours of tar and bilge water. on either side, were staircases leading to the rooms above. a sentry was slowly pacing the court, and gave delmé the necessary directions for finding george's room. delmé's hand was on the latch, but he paused for a moment ere he pressed it, for he pictured to himself his brother lying on the bed of sickness. this temporary irresolution soon gave way to the impulse of affection, and he hastily entered the chamber. george was reading, and had his back turned towards him. as he heard the footsteps, he half turned round; an enquiry was on his lip, when his eye caught henry's figure--a hectic flush suffused his cheek--he rose eagerly, and threw himself into his brother's arms. ah! sweet is fraternal affection! as boys, we own its just, its proper influence; but as men--how few of us can lay our hands on our hearts, and in the time of manhood feel, that the thought of a brother, still calls up the kindly glow which it did in earlier years. delmé strained his brother to his heart, whilst poor george's tears flowed like a woman's. "ah, how," he exclaimed, "can i ever repay you for this?" the first burst of joyful meeting over--sir henry scanned his brother's features, and was shocked at the apparent havoc a few short years had wrought. it was not that the cheek--whose carnation tint had once drawn a comment from all who saw it--it was not that the cheek was bronzed by an eastern sun. the alabaster forehead, showed that this was the natural result, of exposure to climate. but the wan, the sunken features--the unnatural brilliancy of the eye--the almost impetuous agitation of manner--all these bespoke that more than even sickness had produced the change:--that the mind, as well as body, must have had its sufferings. "my dear, dear brother," said henry, "tell me, i implore you, the meaning of this. you look ill and distressed, and yet from you i did not hear of sickness, nor do i know any reason for grief." george smiled evasively; then, as if recollecting himself, struck his forehead. he pressed his brother's arm, and led him towards a room adjoining the one in which they were. "it were in vain to tell you now, henry, the eventful history of the last few months; but see!" said he, as they together entered, "the innocent cause of much that i have gone through." sir henry delmé started at the sight that greeted him. the room was dimly lighted by a lamp, but the moon was up, and shed her full light through part of the chamber. on a small french bed, whose silken linings threw their rosy hue on the face of its fair occupant, lay as lovely a girl as ever eye reposed on. the heat had already commenced to become oppressive; the jalousies and windows were thrown open. as the night breeze swept over the curtains, and the tint these gave, trembled on that youthful beauty; delmé might well be forgiven, for deeming it was very long since he had seen a countenance so exquisitely lovely. the face did indeed bear the stamp of youth. delmé would have guessed that the being before him, had barely attained her fifteenth year, but that her bosom heaved like playful billows, as she breathed her sighs in a profound slumber. her style of beauty for a girl was most rare. it had an almost infantine simplicity of character, which in sleep was still more remarkable; for awake, those eyes, now so still, did not throw unmeaning glances. such as these must guarini have apostrophised, as he looked at his slumbering love. "occhi! stelle mortale! ministri de miei mali! se chiusi m'uccidete, aperti,--che farete?" or, as clarendon gage translated it. "ye mortal stars! ye eyes that, e'en in sleep, can thus my senses chain'd in wonder keep, say, if when closed, your beauties thus i feel, oh, what when open, would ye not reveal?" her beauty owed not its peculiar charm to any regularity of feature; but to an ineffable sweetness of expression, and to youth's freshest bloom. hafiz would have compared that smooth cheek to the tulip's flower. her eye-lashes, of the deepest jet, and silken gloss, were of uncommon length. her lips were apart, and disclosed small but exquisitely formed teeth. their hue was not that of ivory, but the more delicate though more transient one of the pearl. one arm supported her head--its hand tangled in the raven tresses--of the other, the snowy rounded elbow was alone visible. she met the eye, like a vision conjured up by fervid youth; when, ere our waking thoughts dare to run riot in beauty's contemplation--sleep, the tempter, gives to our disordered imaginations, forms and scenes, which in after life we pant for, but meet them--never! george put his finger to his lips, as delmé regarded her--kissed her silken cheek, and whispered, "acmé, carissima mia!" the slumberer started--the envious eye-lid shrouded no more its lustrous jewel--the wondering eyes dilated, as they met her lover's--and she murmured something with that sweet venetian lisp, in which the greek women breathe their italian. but, as she saw the stranger, her face and neck became suffused with crimson, and her small hand wrapped the snowy sheet round her beauteous form. sir henry, who felt equally embarrassed, returned to the room they had left; whilst george lingered by the bedside of his mistress, and told her it was his brother. once more together, sir henry turned towards george. "for god's sake," said he, "unravel this mystery! who is this young creature?" "not now!" said his brother, "let us reserve it for to-morrow, and talk only of home. acmé has retired earlier than usual--she has been complaining." and he commenced with a flushed brow and rapid voice, to ask after those he loved. "and so, dearest emily will soon be married. i am glad of it; you speak so well of gage! i wish i had stayed three weeks longer in england, and i should have seen him. we shall miss her in the flower garden, henry! yes! and every where else! and how is my kind aunt? i forgot to thank her when i last wrote to delmé, for making fidèle a parlour inmate!--and i don't think she likes dogs generally either!--and mrs. wilcox! as demure as ever?--do you recollect the trick i played her the last april i was at home?--and my favourite pony! does _he_ still adorn the paddock, or is he gone at last? emily wrote me he could hardly support himself out of the shed. and the old oak--have you railed it round as i advised? and the deer--is my aunt still as tenacious of killing them? i suppose emily's pet fawn is a fine antlered gentleman by this time. and your charger, henry--how is he? and mr. sims? and the new green house? does the aviary succeed? did you get my slips of the blood orange? have the zante melon seeds answered? and the daisy of delmé, fanny porter--is she married? i stole a kiss the day i left. and so the coachman is dead? and you have given the reins to jenkins, and have taken my little fellow on your own establishment? and ponto? and ranger? and my friend guess?" here george paused, quite out of breath; and his brother, viewing with some alarm his nervous agitation, attempted to answer his many queries; determined in his own mind, not to seek the explanation he so much longed for, until a more favourable period for demanding it arrived. the brothers continued conversing on english topics till a late hour, when henry rose to retire. "i cannot," said george, "give you a bed here to-night; but my servant shall show you the way to an hotel; and in the course of to-morrow, we will take care to have a room provided for you. you must feel harassed: will nine be too early an hour for breakfast?" it was a beautiful night, still and starry. till they arrived in the busy street, no sound could be heard, but the cautious opening of the lattice, answering the signal of the guitar. escorted by his guide, delmé entered valletta, which is bustling always, even at night; but was more than usually so, as there happened to be a fête at the palace. as they passed through the strado teatro, the soldier pointed out the opera-house; although from the lateness of the hour, rossini's melodies were hushed. from a neighbouring café, however, festive sounds proceeded; and delmé, catching the words of an unfamiliar language, paused before the door to recognise the singer. the table at which he sat, was so densely enveloped in smoke, that it was some time before he could make out the forms of the party, which consisted of some jovial british midshipmen, and some tartar-looking russians. one of the russian officers was charming his audience with a chanson à boire, acquired on the banks of the vistula, his compatriots were yelling the chorus most unmercifully. a few calèche drivers, waiting for their fares, and two or three idle maltese, were pacing outside the cafe, and appeared to regard the scene as one of frequent occurrence, and calculated to excite but little interest. his guide showed delmé the hotel, and was dismissed; and sir henry, preceded by an obsequious waiter, was introduced to a spacious apartment facing the street. it was long ere sleep visited him. he had many subjects on which to ruminate; there were many points which the morrow would clear up. his mind was too busy to permit him to rest. when he did, however, close his eyes; he slept soundly, and did not awake till the broad glare of day, penetrating through the venetian blinds, disclosed to him the unfamiliar apartment at beverley's. chapter viii. the invalid. "'mid many things most new to ear and eye, the pilgrim rested here his weary feet." as sir henry delmé stepped from the hotel into the street, the sun's rays commenced to be oppressive, and, although it was only entering the month of may, served to remind him that he was in a warmer clime. the scene was already a bustling one. the shopkeepers were throwing water on the hot flag stones, and erecting canvas awnings in front of their doors. in the various cafés might be seen the subservient waiters, handing round the small gilded cup, which contained thick turkish coffee, or carrying to some old smoker the little pipkin, whence he was to light his genial cigar. in front of one of these cafés, some english officers were collected, sipping ices, and criticising the relieving of the guard. turning a corner of the principal street, a group of half black and three-parts naked children assaulted our traveller, and vociferously invoked carità. they accompanied this demand by the corrupted cry of "nix munjay"--nothing to eat,--which they enforced by most expressive gestures, extending their mouths, and exhibiting rows of ravenous-looking teeth. the calèche drivers, too, were on the alert, and respectfully taking off their turbans, proffered their services to convey the signore to floriana. delmé declined their offers, and, passing a draw-bridge which divides valletta from the country, made his way through an embrasure, and descending some half worn stone steps--during which operation he was again surrounded by beggars--he found himself within sight of the barracks. acmé and george were ready to receive him. the latter's eye lit, as it was wont to do, on seeing his brother, whilst the young greek appeared in doubt, whether to rejoice at what gave him pleasure, or to stand in awe of a relation, whose influence over george might shake her own. this did not, however, prevent her offering delmé her hand, with an air of great frankness and grace. nor was he less struck with her peculiar beauty than he had been on the night previous. her dress was well adapted to exhibit her charms to the greatest advantage. her hair was parted in front, and smoothly combed over her neck and shoulders, descending to her waist. over her bosom, and fastened by a chased silver clasp, was one of the saffron handkerchiefs worn by the parganot women. a jacket of purple velvet, embroidered with gold, fitted closely to her figure. round her waist was a crimson girdle, fastened by another enormous broach, or rather embossed plate of silver. a maltese gold rose chain of exquisite workmanship was flung round her neck, to which depended a locket, one side of which held, encased in glass, george's hair braided with her own; the other had a cameo, representing the death of the patriot marco bozzaris. "giorgio tells me," said she, "that you speak italian, at which i am very glad; for his efforts to teach me english have quite failed. do you know you quite alarmed me last night, and i really think it was too bad of george introducing you when he did;" and she placed her hand on her lover's shoulder, and looked in his face confidingly. in spite of the substance of her speech, and the circumstances under which delmé saw her, he could not avoid feeling an involuntary prepossession in her favour. her manner had little of the polish of art, but much of nature's witching simplicity; and sir henry felt surprised at the ease and animation of the whole party. acmé presided at the breakfast table, with a grace which many a modern lady of fashion might envy; and during the meal, her conversation, far from being dull or listless, showed that she had much talent, and that to a quick perception of nature's charms, she united great enthusiasm in their pursuit. the meal was over, when the surgeon of the regiment was announced, and introduced by george to sir henry. after making a few inquiries as to the invalid's state of health, he proposed to delmé, taking a turn in the botanical garden, which was immediately in front of their windows. sir henry eagerly grasped at the proposition; anxious, as he felt himself, to ascertain the real circumstances connected with his brother's indisposition. they strolled through the garden, which was almost deserted--for none but dogs and englishmen, to use the expression of the natives, court the maltese noon-day sun,--and the surgeon at once entered into george's history. he was a man of most refined manners, and a cultivated intellect, and his professional familiarity with horrors, had not diminished his natural delicacy of feeling. his narrative was briefly thus:-- george delmé's bosom companion had been an officer of his own age and standing in the service, with whom he had embarked when leaving england. their intercourse had ripened into the closest friendship. george had met acmé, although the surgeon knew not the particulars of the rencontre,--had confided to his friend the acquaintance he had made--and had himself introduced delancey at the house where acmé resided. whether her charms really tempted the friend to endeavour to supplant george, or whether he considered the latter's attentions to the young greek to be without definite object, and undertaken in a spirit of indifference, the narrator could not explain; but it was not long before delancey considered himself as a principal in the transaction. acmé, whose knowledge of the world was slight, and whose previous seclusion from society, had rendered her timidity excessive, considered that her best mode of avoiding importunities she disliked, and attentions that were painful to her, would be to speak to george himself on the subject. by this time, the latter, quite fascinated by her beauty and simplicity, and deeming, as was indeed the fact, that his love was returned, needed not other inquietudes than those his attachment gave him. the pride of ancestry and station on the one hand--on the other, a deep affection, and a wish to act nobly by acmé--caused an internal struggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to any wrong. he sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered it imperative that they should meet as foes. delancey was wounded; and as _he_ thought--and it was long doubtful whether it _were_ so--_mortally_. he beckoned george delmé to his bedside--begged him to forgive him--told him that his friendship had been the greatest source of delight to him--a friendship which in his dying moments he begged to renew--that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution, he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full and entire forgiveness to die happy. george delmé wrung his hands in the bitterness of despair--prayed him to live for his sake--told him, that did he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepest misery,--that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to his grave. the surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which he assured delmé was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot to witness. this meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to have a beneficial effect on the wounded man. he sunk into a sweet sleep; and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical. he improved gradually, and was now convalescent. but it was otherwise with george delmé. he sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey to the agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. he considered himself instrumental in taking the life of his best friend--of one, richly endowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. his nerves previously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture his imagination had conjured up. his servant was alarmed by startling screams, entered his room, and found his master in fearful convulsions. a fever ensued, during which george's life hung by a thread. to this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness, occasionally broken by wild delirium. during his illness, there was one who never left him--who smoothed his pillow--who supported his head on her breast--who watched him as a mother watches her first-born. it was the youthful greek, acmé frascati. the instant she heard of his danger, she left her home to tend him. no entreaties could influence her, no arguments persuade. she would sit by his bedside for hours, his feverish hand locked in hers, and implore him to recover, to bless one who loved him so dearly. they could not part them; for george, even in his delirious state, seemed to be conscious that some one was near him, and, did she leave his side, would rise in his bed, and look around him as if missing some accustomed object. in his wilder flights, he would call passionately upon her, and beg her to save his friend, who was lying so dead and still. for a length of time, neither care nor professional skill availed. fearful was the struggle, between his disease, and a naturally hardy constitution. reason at last resumed her dominion. "i know not," said the surgeon, "the particulars of the first dawning of consciousness. it appears that acmé was alone with him, and that it was at night. i found him on my professional visit one morning, clear and collected, and his mistress sobbing her thanks. i need perhaps hardly inform you," said the narrator, "that george's gratitude to acmé was vividly expressed. it was in vain i urged on her the propriety of now leaving her lover. this was met on both sides by an equal disinclination, and indeed obstinate refusal; and i feared the responsibility i should incur, by enforcing a separation which might have proved of dangerous consequence to my patient. alas! for human nature, sir henry! need it surprise you that the consequences were what they are? loving him with the fervency of one born under an eastern sun--with the warm devotion of woman's first love--with slender ideas of christian morality--and with a mind accustomed to obey its every impulse--need it, i say, surprise you, that the one fell, and that remorse visited the other? to that remorse, do i attribute what my previous communication may not have sufficiently prepared you for; namely, the little dependence to be placed on the tone of the invalid's mind. reason is but as a glimmering in a socket; and painful as my professional opinion may be to you, it is my duty to avow it; and i frankly confess, that i entertain serious apprehensions, as to the stability of his mind's restoration. it is on this account, that i have felt so anxious that one of his relations should be near him. change of scene is absolutely necessary, as soon as change of scene can be safely adopted. every distracting thought must be avoided, and the utmost care taken that no agitating topic is discussed in his presence. these precautions may do much; but should they have no effect, which i think possible; as a medical man, i should then recommend, what as a member of his family may startle you. my advice would be, that if it be ultimately found, that his feelings as regard this young girl, are such as are likely to prevent or impede his mind's recovery; why i would then at once allow him to make her any reparation he may think just. "to what do you allude?" enquired sir henry. "why," continued the surgeon, "that if his feelings appear deeply enlisted on that side of the question, and all our other modes have failed in obtaining their object; that he should be permitted to marry her as soon as he pleases. i see you look grave. i am not surprised you should do so; but life is worth preserving, and acmé, if not entirely to our notions, is a good, a very good girl--warm-hearted and affectionate; and it is not fair to judge her by our english standard. you will however have time and scope, to watch yourself the progress and extent of his disorder. i fear this is more serious than you are at present aware of; but from your own observations, would i recommend and wish your future line of conduct to be formed. may i trust my frankness has not offended you?" sir henry assured him, that far from this being the case, he owed him many thanks for being thus explicit. shaking him by the hand, he returned to george's room with a clouded brow; perplexed how to act, or how best discuss with his brother, the points connected with his history. chapter ix. the narrative. "the seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd, denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch, her lips whose kisses pout to leave their nest, bid man be valiant ere he merit such; her glance how wildly beautiful--how much hath phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, which grows yet smoother from his amorous clutch, who round the north for paler dames would seek? how poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak." love! heavenly love! by plato's mind conceived, and sicyon's artist chiselled! not thou! night's offspring, springing on golden wing from the dark bosom of erebus! the first created, and the first creating: but thou! immaculate deity; effluence of unspotted thought, and child of a chaster age! where, oh where is now thy resting place? pensile in mid-heaven, gazest thou yet with seraphic sorrow on this, the guilty abode of guilty man?--with pity's tear still mournest thou, as yoked to the car of young desire, we bow the neck in degrading and slavish bondage? or dost thou, the habitant of some bright star, where frailty such as ours is yet unknown, lend to lovers a rapture unalloyed by passion's grosser sense; as, symphonious with the tremulous zephyr, chastened vows of constancy are there exchanged? ah! vainly does one solitary enthusiast, in his balmy youth, for a moment conceive he really grasps thee! 'tis but a fleeting phantasy, doomed to fade at the first sneer of derision--and for ever vanish, as a false and fascinating world stamps its dogmas on his heart! celestial love! oh where may he yet find thee? and a clear voice whispers, eternity! hope! guide the fainting pilgrim! undying soul! shield him from the world's venomed darts, as he painfully wends his toilsome way! when delmé returned to his brother, he found the latter anxiously expecting him, and desirous of ascertaining the impression, which his conversation with the surgeon had created. but delmé thought it more prudent, to defer the discussion of those points, till he had heard from george himself, as to many circumstances connected with acmé's history, and had been able to form some personal opinion regarding the health of the invalid. he therefore begged george, if he felt equal to the task, to avail himself of the opportunity of acmé's absence, to tell him how he had first met her. to this george willingly assented; and as there is ever a peculiarity in foreign scenes and habits, which awakens interest, we give his story in his own language. "there are some old families here, henry," began the invalid, "whose names are connected with some of the proudest, which the annals of the knights of st. john of jerusalem can boast. they are for the most part sunk in poverty, and possess but little of the outward trappings of rank. but their pride is not therefore the less; and rather than have it wounded, by being put in collision with those with whom in worldly wealth they are unable to compete, they prefer the privacy of retirement; and are rarely seen, and more rarely known, by any of the english residents, whom they distrust and dislike. it is true, there are a few families, some of the male members of which have accepted subordinate situations under government: and these have become habituated to english society, and meet on terms of tolerable cordiality, the english whose acquaintance they have thus made. but there are others, as i have said, whose existence is hardly recognised, and who vegetate in some lone palazzo; brooding over the decay of their fortunes--never crossing the threshold of their mansions--except when religious feelings command them to attend a mass, or public procession. of such a family was acmé a member. by birth a greek, she was a witness to many of the bloody scenes which took place at the commencement of the struggle for grecian freedom. she was herself present at the murder of both her parents. her beauty alone saved her from sharing their fate. one of the turks, struck with, her expression of childish sorrow, interfered in her behalf, and permitted a friend and neighbour to save her life and his own, by taking shipping for one of the islands in our possession. after residing in corfu for some months, she received an invitation from her father's brother-in-law, a member of an ancient maltese family; and for the last few years has spent a life, if not gay, at least free from a repetition of those sanguinary scenes, which have lent their impress to a sensitive mind, and at moments impart a melancholy tinge, to a disposition by nature unusually joyous. it was on a festa day, dedicated to the patron saint of the island, when no maltese not absolutely bed-ridden, but would deem it a duty, to witness the solemn and lengthy procession which such a day calls forth; that i first met acmé frascati. "i was alone in the strada reale, and strolling towards the piazza, when my attention was directed to what struck me as the loveliest face i had ever seen. "acmé, for it was her, was drest in the costume of the island; and, although a faldette is not the best dress for exhibiting a figure, there was a grace and lightness in her carriage, that would have arrested my attention, even had i not been riveted by her countenance. she was on the opposite side of the street to myself, and was attended by an old moorish woman, who carried an illumined missal. of these women, several may yet be seen in malta, looking very oriental and duenna-like. as i stopped to admire her, she suddenly attempted to cross to the side of the street where i stood. at the same moment, i observed a horse attached to a calèche galloping furiously towards her. it was almost upon her ere acmé saw her danger. the driver, anxious to pass before the procession formed, had whipped his horse till it became unmanageable, and it was now in vain that he tried to arrest its progress. a natural impulse induced me to rush forward, and endeavour to save her. she was pale and trembling, as i caught her and placed her out of the reach of danger; but before i could touch the pavement, i felt myself struck by the wheel of the carriage, was thrown down, and taken up insensible. when consciousness returned, i found they had conveyed me to a neighbouring shop, and that medical attendance had been procured. but more than all, i noticed the solicitude of acmé. until the surgeon had given a favourable report, she could not address me, but when this had been pronounced, she overwhelmed me with thanks, begged to know where i would wish to be taken, and rested not until her own family calèche came up, and she saw me, attended by the moorish woman, on the road to floriana. "my accident, though not a very serious one, proved of sufficient consequence, to confine me to my room for some time; and during that period, not a day passed, that did not give me proof of the anxiety of the young greek for my restoration. i need not say that one of my first visits was to her. her family received me as they would an absent brother. the obligations they considered i had conferred, outweighed all prejudices which they might have imbibed against my nation. on _my_ part, charmed with my adventure, delighted with acmé, and gratified by the kindness of her relations, i endeavoured to increase their favourable opinion by all the means in my power. acmé and myself were soon more than friends, and i found my visits gave and imparted pleasure. "i now arrive at the unhappy part of my narrative. how do i wish it were effaced from my memory. you may remember how, in all my letters to delmé, i made mention of my dear friend delancey. we were indeed dear friends. we joined at the same time, lived together in england, embarked together, and when, one dreadful night off the african coast, the captain of the transport thought we must inevitably drift on the lee shore, we solaced each other, and agreed that, if it came to the worst, on one plank would we embark our fortunes. on our landing in malta, we were inseparable, and my first impulse was to inform delancey of all that had occurred, and to introduce him to a house where i felt so happy. i must here do him the justice to state, that whether i was partly unaware of the extent of my own feelings towards acmé, or whether i felt a morbid sense of delicacy, in alluding to what i knew to be the first attachment i had ever formed, i am unable to inform you! but the only circumstance i concealed from my friend was my attachment to the young greek. perhaps to this may be mainly attributed what happened. god, who knows all secrets, knows this; but i may now aver, that my friend, with many faults, has proved himself to have as frank and ingenuous a spirit, as noble ideas of friendship, as can exist in the human breast. for some time, matters continued thus. we were both constant visitors at acmé's house. with unparalleled blindness, i never mistrusted the feelings of my friend. i never contemplated that _he_ also might become entangled with the young beauty. i considered her as my own prize, and was more engaged in analysing my own sensations, and in vainly struggling against a passion, which i was certain could not meet my family's approval, than at all suspicious that fresh causes of uneasiness might arise in another quarter. as acmé's heart opened to mine, i found her with feelings guileless and unsuspecting as a child's; although these were warm, and their expression but little restrained. there was a confiding simplicity in her manner, that threw an air over all she said or did, which quite forbade censure, and excited admiration. my passion became a violent and an all-absorbing one. i had made up my mind, to throw myself on the kindness of my family, and endeavour to obtain all your consents. thus was i situated, when one day acmé came up to me with frankness of manner, but a tremulous voice, to beg i would use my interest with my friend, to prevent his coming to see her. "'indeed, indeed,' said she, 'i have tried to love him as a friend, as the friend of my life's preserver, but ever since he has spoken as he now does, his visits are quite unpleasant. my family begged me to tell you. they would have asked him to come no more, but were afraid you might be angry. will you still come to us, and love us all, if they tell him this? if you will not, he shall still come; for indeed we could not offend one to whom we owe so much.' "'_i_, too,' said i to acmé, '_i_, too, dearest, ought perhaps to leave you, _i_, too'-- "'oh, never! never!' said she, as she turned to me her dark eyes, bright with humid radiance. 'we cannot thus part!' "she _did_, then, love me! i clasped her to my arms--our lips clung together in one rapturous intoxicating embrace. "yet, even in that moment of delirium, henry, i told her of you, and of the many obstacles which still presented themselves to retard or even prevent our union. i sought my friend delancey, and remonstrated with him. he appeared to doubt my right to question his motives. success made me feel still more injured. i showered down reproaches. he could not have acted differently. we met! and i saw him fall! till then, i had considered myself as the injured man; but as i heard him on the ground name his mother, and one dearer still--as he took from his breast the last gift _she_ had made him--as he begged of _me_ to be its bearer; i then first felt remorse. he was taken to his room. even the surgeon entertained no hopes. he again called me to his side; i heard his noble acknowledgment, his reiterated vows of friendship, the mournful tones of his farewell. i entered this room a heart-broken man. i felt my pulse throb fearfully, a gasping sensation was in my throat, my head swam round, and i clung to the wall for support. the next thing of which i have any recollection, was the dawn of reason breaking through my troubled dreams. it was midnight--all was still. the fitful lamp shone dimly through my chamber. i turned on my side--and, oh! by its light, i saw the face i most loved--that face, whose gentle lineaments, were each deeply and separately engraven on my heart. i saw her bending over me with a maiden's love and a mother's solicitude. as i essayed to speak--as my conscious eye met her's--as the soft words of affection were involuntarily breathed by my feeble lips--how her features lit up with joy! oh, say not, henry, till you have experienced such a moment of transport, say not that the lips which then vowed eternal fidelity, that the young hearts which _then_ plighted their truth, and vowed to love for ever--oh call not these guilty! "since that time my health has been extremely precarious. whether the events crowded too thickly on me, or that i have not fully recovered my health, or--which i confess i think is the case--that my compunctions for my conduct to acmé weigh me down, i know not; but it is not always, my dear henry, that i can thus address you. there are hours when i am hardly sensible of what i do, when my brain reels from its oppression. at such times, acmé is my guardian angel--my tender nurse--my affectionate attendant! in my lucid intervals, she is what you see her--the gentle companion--the confiding friend. i love her, henry, more than i can tell you! i shall never be able to leave her! from acmé you may learn more of those dreary hours, which appear to me like waste dreams in my existence. she has watched by my bed of sickness, till she knows every turn of the disorder. from her, henry, may you learn all." thus did george conclude his tale of passion; which delmé mused over, but refrained from commenting on. soon afterwards, george's calèche, in which he daily took exercise, was announced as being at the door. the brothers entered, and left floriana. chapter x. the calèche. "the car rattling through the stony street." for an easy conveyance, commend us to a maltese calèche! many a time, assaulted by the blue devils, have we taken refuge in its solacing interior--have pulled down its silken blinds, and unseeing and unseen, the motion, like that of the rocking-cradle to the petulant child of less mature growth, has restored complacency, and lulled us to good humour. the calèche, the real calèche, is, we believe, peculiar to malta. it is the carriage of the rich and poor--lady woodford may be seen employing it, to visit her gardens at st. antonio; and in the service of the humblest of her subjects, will it be enlisted, as they wend their way to a picnic in the campagna. every variety of steed is put in requisition for its draught. we may see the barb, with nostril of fire, and mane playing with the wind, perform a curvet, as he draws our aristocratic countrywoman--aristocratic and haughty at least in malta, although, in england, perhaps a star of much less magnitude. we may view too the over-burthened donkey, as he drags along some aged vehicle, in which four fat smiling women, and one lean weeping child, look forward to his emaciated carcase, and yet blame him for being slow. and thou! patient and suffering animal, whose name has passed into a proverb, until each vulgar wight looks on thee as the emblem of obstinacy,--maligned mule! when dost thou appear to more advantage, more joyous, or more self-satisfied, than when yoked to the maltese calèche? who that has witnessed thee, taking the scanty meal from the hand of thine accustomed driver, with whinnying voice, waving tail, thy long ears pricked upwards, and thy head rubbing his breast, who that has seen thee thus, will deny thee the spirit of gratitude? most injured of quadrupeds! if we ascend the rugged mountain's path, where on either side, precipices frown, and the pines wave far--far beneath--when one false step would plunge us, with our hopes, our fears, and our vices, into the abyss of eternity; is it not to thee we trust? calumniated mule! go on thy way. this world's standard is but little to be relied on, whether it be for good, or whether it be for evil. the motion of a calèche, such as we patronised, is an easy and luxurious one--the pace, a fast trot or smooth canter, of seven miles an hour--and with the blinds down, we have communed with ourselves, with as great freedom, and as little fear of interruption, as if we had been crossing the zahara. the calèche men too are a peculiar and happy race--attentive to their fares--masters of their profession--and with a cigar in their cheek dexter, will troll you maltese ditties till your head aches. their costume is striking. their long red caps are thrown back over their necks--their black curls hang down on each side of the face--and a crimson, many-folded sash, girds in a waist usually extremely small. their neck, face, and breast, from continued exposure to the sun, are a red copper colour. they are always without shoes and stockings; and even our countrywomen, who pay much attention to the costume of their drivers, have not yet ventured to encase their brawny feet in the mysteries of leather. they run by the side of their calèches, the reins in one hand--the whip in the other--cheering on their animals by a constant succession of epithets, oaths, and invocations to their favourite saint. they are rarely fatigued, and may be seen beside their vehicles, urging the horses, with the thermometer at °, and perhaps a stout-looking englishman inside, with white kerchief to his face, the image of languor and lassitude. their horses gallop down steeps, which no english jehu dare attempt; and ascend and descend with safety and hardihood, stone steps which occur in many parts of valletta; and which would certainly present an insurmountable obstacle to our steeds at home. the proper period, however, to see a calèche man in his glory, is during the carnival. every calèche is in employ; and many a one which has reposed for the twelvemonth previous, is at that time wheeled from its accustomed shed, and put in requisition for some of pleasure's votaries. long lines of them continue to pass and repass in the principal street. their inmates are almost universally of the fair sex, and of the best part of it, the young and beautiful. cavaliers, with silken bags, containing bon-bons, slung on their left arm, stand at intervals, ready to discharge the harmless missiles, at those whom their taste approves worthy of the compliment. happy the young beauty, who, returning homewards, sees the carpet of her calèche thickly strewn with these dulcet favours! the driver is now in his element! he ducks his head, as the misdirected sweetmeat approaches; he has an apt remark prompt for the occasion. as he nears too the favoured inamorato, for whom he well knows his mistress' sweetest smile is reserved--who already with his right hand grasping the sugared favours, is prepared to lavish his whole store on this one venture--how arch his look--how roguish his eye--as he turns towards his donna, and speaks as plainly as words could do, "see! there he is, he whom you love best!" ah! well may we delight to recal once more those minute details! ah! well may we remember how--when our brow was smoothed with youth, as it is now furrowed with care--when our eye sparkled from pleasure, as it is now dimmed from time, or mayhap, tears--well may we love to remember, how our whole hearts were engrossed in that mimic warfare. how impatiently did we watch for _one_, amidst that crowded throng, for one--whose beauty haunted us by day, and whose smile we dreamt over by night. well do we recal with what unexampled ingenuity, we laboured to befit the snow white egg for a rare tenant--attar-gul. well do we remember how that face, usually so cloudless, became darkened almost to a frown, as our heart's mistress saw the missile approach her. what a radiant smile bewitched us, as it burst on her lap, and filled the air with its fragrance! truly we had our reward! delmé and george took a quiet drive, and enjoyed that sweet interchange of ideas, that characterises the meeting of two brothers long absent from each other. they went in the direction of st. julian's, a drive all our maltese friends will be familiar with. the road lay almost wholly by the sea side. a gentle breeze was crisping the waters, and served to allay the heat, which, at a more advanced period of the season, is by no means an enviable one. sun-shine seemed to beam on george's mind, as he once more spoke of home ties, to one to whom those home ties were equally dear. and gratefully did he bask in its rays! long used to the verdant but tame, beautiful but romantic landscapes, which the part of england he resided in presented; the scenery around him, novel and picturesque, struck sir henry forcibly. to one who has resided long in malta, its scenes may wear an aspect somewhat different. the limited country--the ceaseless glare--the dust, or rather the pulverised rock--the ever-present lizard, wary and quick, peeping out at each crevice--the buzzing mosquito, inviting the moody philosopher to smite his own cheek,--these things may come to be regarded as real grievances. but delmé, as a visitor, was pleased with what he saw. the promising vineyards--the orange groves, with their glowing fruit and ample foliage, "looking like golden lamps" in a dark night of leaves--the thick leaves of the prickly pear--the purple sky above him, lending its rich hue to the sea beside--the architectural beauties of the cottages--the wide portico of the mansions--the flat terrace with its balustrade, over which might be seen a fair face, half concealed by the faldette, smilingly peering, and through whose pillars might be noted a pretty ancle, and siesta-looking slipper--these were novelties, and pleasing ones! their drive over, delmé felt more tranquil as to george's state of mind, and more inclined to look on the bright side, as to his future fortunes. acmé was waiting to receive them, and as she scanned george's features, delmé could not but observe the affectionate solicitude that marked her glance and manner. let it not be thought we would make vice seductive! fair above all things is the pure affection of woman! happy he who may regard it his! he may bask without a shade of distrust in its glorious splendour, and permanently adore its holy beauty. while, fascinating though be the concentred love of woman, whether struggling in its passion--enraptured in its madness--or clinging and loving on in its guilt: man--that more selfish wanderer from virtue's pale, that destroyer of his own best sympathies--will find too late that a day of bitterest regret must arrive: a day when love shall exist no more, or, linked with remorse, shall tear--a fierce vulture--at his very heart strings. chapter xi. the colonel. "not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace." delmé strolled out half an hour before his brother's dinner hour, with the intention of paying a visit of ceremony to the colonel of george's regiment. his house was not far distant. it had been the palazzo of one of the redoubted knights of st. john; and the massive gate at which sir henry knocked for admittance, seemed an earnest, that the family, who had owned the mansion, had been a powerful and important one. the door was opened, and the servant informed delmé, that colonel vavasour was on the terrace. the court yard through which they passed was extensive; and a spring "of living water from its centre rose, whose bubbling did a genial softness fling." ascending a lofty marble staircase, along which were placed a few bronzed urns, delmé crossed a suite of apartments--thrown open in the italian mode--and passing through a glass door, found himself on a wide stone terrace, edged by pillars. immediately beneath this, was an orange grove, whose odours perfumed the air. colonel vavasour was employed in reading a german treatise on light infantry tactics. he received sir henry with great cordiality, and proposed adjourning to the library. delmé was pleased to observe, for it corresponded with what he had heard of the man; that, with the exception of the chef d'oeuvres of the english and german poets, the colonel's library, which was an extensive one, almost wholly consisted of such books as immediately related to military subjects, or might be able to bear on some branch of science connected with military warfare. pagan, and his follower vauban, and the more matured treatises of cormontaigne, were backed by the works of that boast of the low countries, coehorn; and by the ingenious theories, as yet _but_ theories, of napoleon's minister of war, carnot. military historians, too, crowded the shelves. _there_ might be noted the veracious polybius--the classic xenophon--the scientific cæsar--the amusing froissart, with his quaint designs, and quainter discourses--and many an author unknown to fame, who in lengthy quarto, luxuriated on the lengthy campaigns of marlborough or eugene; those wise commanders, who flourished in an era, when war was a well debated scientific game of chess; when the rival opponents took their time, before making their moves; and the loss of a pawn was followed by the loss of a kingdom. _there_ might you be enamoured with even a soldier's hardships, as your eye glanced on the glowing circumstantial details of kincaid;--or you might glory in your country's thucydides, as you read the nervous impassioned language of a napier. _thou_, too, trant! our friend! wert there! ah, why cut off in thy prime? did not thy spirit glow with martial fire? did not thy conduct give promise, that not in vain were those talents accorded thee? what hadst _thou_ done, to sink thus early to a premature inglorious grave? nor were our friends folard and jomini absent; nor eke the minute essays of a jarry, who taught the aspiring youths of great britain all the arts of castrametation. with what gusto does he show how to attack reading; or how, with the greatest chance of success, to defend the tranquil town of egham. _here_ would he sink trous de loup on the ancient runnimede, whereby the advance of the enemy's cavalry would be frustrated; _there_ would he cut down an abattis, or plant chevaux de frise. at _this_ winding of england's noblest river, would he establish a pontoon bridge; the approaches to which he would enfilade, by a battery placed on yonder height. before relating the conversation between delmé and colonel vavasour, it may not be improper to say a few words as to the character of the latter. when we say that he was looked up to as an officer, and adored as a man, by the regiment he had commanded for years; we are not according light praise. those who have worn a coat of red, or been much conversant with military affairs, will appreciate the difficult, the ungrateful task, devolving on a commanding officer. how few, how very few are those, who can command respect, and ensure love. how many, beloved as men, are imposed on, and disregarded as officers. how many are there, whose presence on the parade ground awes the most daring hearts, who are passed by in private life, with something like contumely, and of whom, in their private relations, few speak, and yet fewer are those who wish kindly. when deserving in each relation, how frequently do we see those who want the manner, the tact, to show themselves in their true colours. an ungracious refusal--ay! or an ungraciously accorded favour! may raise a foe who will be a bar to a man's popularity for years:--whilst how many a free and independent spirit is there, who criticises with a keener eye than is his wont, the sayings and doings of his commanding officer, solely because he _is_ such. how apt is such an one to misrepresent a word, or create a wrong motive for an action! how slow in giving praise, lest _he_ should be deemed one of the servile train! pass we over the host of petty intrigues--the myriads of conflicting interests:--show not how the partial report of a favourite, may make the one in authority unjust to him below him; or how the false tale-bearer may induce the one below to be unjust to his superior. colonel vavasour was not only considered in the field, as one of england's bravest soldiers; but was yet more remarkable for his gentlemanly deportment, and for the attention he ever paid to the interior economy of his corps. this gave a tone to the ---- mess, almost incredible to one, who has not witnessed, what the constant presence of a commanding officer, if he be a real gentleman, is enabled to effect. colonel vavasour had ideas on the duties of a soldier, which to many appeared original. we cannot but think, that the colonel's ideas, in the main, were right. he disliked his officers marrying; often stating that he considered a sword and a wife as totally incompatible. "where," would he say, "is _then_ that boasted readiness of purpose, that spirit of enterprise? can an officer _then_, with half a dozen shirts in his portmanteau, and a moderate quantity of cigars, if he be a smoker, declare himself ready to sail over half the world?" the colonel would smile as he said this, but would continue with a graver tone. "no, there is a choice, and i blame no one for making his election:--a soldier's hardships and a soldier's joys;--or domestic happiness, and an inglorious life:--but to attempt to blend the two, is, i think, injudicious." on regimental subjects, he was what is technically called, a regulation man. no innovations ever crept into his regiment, wanting the sanction of the horse guards; whilst every order emanating from thence, was as scrupulously adopted and adhered to, as if his own taste had prompted the change. on parade, colonel vavasour was a strict disciplinarian;--but his sword in the scabbard, he dropped the officer in his manner,--it was impossible to do so in his appearance,--and no one ever heard him discuss military points in a place inappropriate. he knew well how to make the distinction between his public and his private duties. on an officer under his command, being guilty of any dereliction of duty, he would send for him, and reprimand him before the assembled corps, if he deemed that such reprimand would be productive of good effect to others; but--the parade dismissed--he would probably take this very officer's arm, or ask to accompany him in his country ride. colonel vavasour had once a young and an only brother under his command. in no way did he relax discipline in his favour. young vavasour had committed a breach of military etiquette. he was immediately ordered by his brother to be placed in arrest, and would inevitably have been brought to a court martial, had not the commanding officer of the station interfered. during the whole of this time, the colonel's manner towards him continued precisely the same. they lived together as usual; and no man, without a knowledge of the circumstance, could have been aware that any other but a fraternal tie bound them together. what was more extraordinary, the younger brother saw all this in its proper light; and whilst he clung to and loved his brother, looked up with awe and respect to his commanding officer. as for colonel vavasour, no one who saw his convulsed features, as his brother fell heading a gallant charge of his company at waterloo, could have doubted for a moment his deep-rooted affection. from that period, a gloomy melancholy hung about him, which, though shaken off in public, gave a shade to his brow, which was very perceptible. in person, he was particularly neat; being always the best dressed officer in his regiment, "how can we expect the men to pay attention to _their_ dress, when we give them reason to suppose we pay but little attention to our own?" was a constant remark of his. and here we may observe, that no class of men have a stricter idea of the propriety of dress, than private soldiers. to dress well is half a passport to a soldier's respect; whilst on the other hand, it requires many excellent qualities, to counterbalance in his mind a careless and slovenly exterior. colonel vavasour had an independent fortune, which he spent at the head of his regiment. many a dinner party was given by him, for which the corps he commanded obtained the credit; many a young officer owed relief from pecuniary embarrassments, which might otherwise have overwhelmed him, to the generosity of his colonel. he appeared not to have a wish, beyond the military circle around him, although those who knew him best, said he had greater talent, and possessed the art of fascinating in general society, more than most men. "i am glad to see you here, sir henry," said he to delmé, "although i cannot but wish that happier circumstances had brought you to us. i have a very great esteem for your brother, and am one of his warmest well wishers. but i must not neglect the duties of hospitality. you must allow me to present you to my officers at mess this evening. our dinner hour is late; but were it otherwise, we should miss that delightful hour for our ride, when the sun's rays have no longer power to harm us, and the sea breezes waft us a freshness, which almost compensates for the languor attending the summer's heat." delmé declined his invitation, stating his wish to dine with his brother on that day; but expressed himself ready to accept his kind offer on the ensuing one. "thank you!" said colonel vavasour, "it is natural you should wish to see your brother; and it pains me to think that poor george cannot yet dine with his old friends. have you seen mr. graham?" delmé replied in the affirmative; adding, that he could not but feel obliged to him for his frankness. "i am glad you feel thus," said vavasour, "it emboldens me to address you with equal candour; and, painful as our advice must be, i confess i am inclined to side with george's medical attendant. i have myself been witness to such lamentable proofs of george's state of mind--he has so often, with the tears in his eyes, spoken to me of his feelings with regard to acmé frascati, that i certainly consider these as in a great measure the cause, and his state of mind the effect. i speak to you, sir henry, without disguise. i had once a brother--the apple of my eye--i loved him as i shall never love human being more; and, as god is my witness, under similar circumstances, frankness is what i should have prayed for,--my first wish would have been at once to know the worst. mr. graham has told you of his long illness--his delirium--and has, i conclude, touched upon the present state of his patient. shall i shock you, when i add that his lucid intervals are not to be depended upon; that occasionally the wildest ideas, the most extraordinary projects, are conceived by him? i wish you not, to act on any thing that mr. graham, or that i may tell you, but to judge for yourself. without this, indeed, you would hardly understand the danger of these mental paroxysms. so fearful are they, that i confess i should be inclined to adopt any remedy, make any sacrifices which promised the remotest possibility of success." "i trust," said sir henry, "there are no sacrifices i would not personally make for my only brother, were i once convinced these were for his real benefit." "i frankly mean," said vavasour, "that i think almost the only chance of restoring him, is by allowing him to marry acmé frascati." delmé's brow clouded. "think not," continued he, "that i am ignorant of what such a determination must cost you. _i_, too, sir henry,"--and the old man drew his commanding form to its utmost height,--"_i_ too, know what must be the feelings of a descendant of noble ancestors. i know them well; and in more youthful days, the blood boiled in my veins as i thought of the name they had left me. thank heaven! i have never disgraced it. but were _i_ situated as _you_ are, and the dead augustus vavasour in the place of the living george delmé, i would act as i am now advising you to do. i speak solely as to the expediency of the measure. from what i have stated--from my situation in life--from my character--you may easily imagine that all my prejudices are enlisted on the other side of the question. but i must here confess that i see something inexpressibly touching in the devotion which that young greek girl displayed, during the whole of george's illness. but putting this on one side, and considering the affair as one of mere expediency, i think you will finally agree with me, that however desperate the remedy, some such must be applied. and now, let me assure you, that nothing could have induced me to obtrude thus, my feelings and opinions on a comparative stranger, were it not that that stranger is the brother of one in whose welfare i feel the liveliest interest." sir henry delmé expressed his thanks, and inwardly determined that he would form no opinion till he had himself been witness to some act of mental aberration. it is true, he had heard the medical attendant give a decided opinion,--from george's own lips he had an avowal of much that had been stated,--and now he had heard one, for whom he could not but feel great respect--one who had evidently no interest in the question--declare his sentiments as strongly. we are all sanguine as to what we wish. it may be, that a hope yet lurked in delmé's breast, that these accounts might be unconsciously exaggerated, or that his brother's state of health was now more established than heretofore. on returning to floriana, delmé found george and the blushing acmé awaiting him. a delightful feeling is that, of again finding ourselves with those from whom we have long been parted, once more engaged in the same round of familiar avocations, once more re-acting the thousand little trifles of life which we have so often acted before, and that, too, in company with those who now sit beside us, as if to mock the lapse of intervening years. these meetings seem to steal a pinion from time's wing, and hard indeed were it if the sensations they called forth were not pleasurable ones; for oh! how rudely and frequently, on the other hand, are we reminded of the changes which the progress of years brings with it: the bereavement of loved ones--the prostration of what we revered--our buoyant elasticity of body and mind departed--all things changing and changed. we sigh, and gaze back. how few are the scenes, which memory's kaleidoscope presents in their pristine bright colours, of that journey, performed so slowly, as it once appeared, but which, to the eye of retrospection, seems to have hurried to its end with the rapid wings of the wind! imbued with an association, what a trivial circumstance will please! as the brothers touched each other's glass; and drank to mutual happiness, what grateful recollections were called up by that act! how did these manifest their power, as they lighted up the wan features of george delmé. acmé looked on smilingly; her hair flowing about her neck--her dark eyes flashing with unusual brilliancy. delmé felt it would be unsocial were he alone to look grave; and although many foreboding thoughts crowded on him, _he_ too seemed to be happy. it was twilight when the dinner was over. the windows were open, and the party placed themselves near the jalousies. they here commanded a view of the public gardens, where groups of maltese were enjoying the coolness of the hour, and the fragrance of the flowers. the walk had a roof of lattice work supported by wooden pillars; round which, an image of woman's love, the honeysuckle clingingly twined, diffusing sweets. immediately before them, the principal outlet of the town presented itself. laughing parties of english sailors were passing, mounted on steeds of every size, which they were urging forward, in spite of the piteous remonstrances of the menials of their owners. the latter, for the most part, held by the tails of their animals, and uttered a jargon composed of english, italian, and maltese. the only words however, that met the unregarding ears of the sailors, were some such exclamations as these. "not you go so fast, signore; he good horse, but much tire." the riders sat in their saddles swinging from side to side, evidently thinking their tenure more precarious than that on the giddy mast; and wholly unmindful of the expressive gestures, and mournful ejaculations of the bare-legged pursuers. at another time, their antics and buffoonery, as they made unmerciful use of the short sticks with which they were armed, would have provoked a smile. _now_ our party gazed on these things as they move the wise. they felt calm and happy; and deceptive hope whispered they might yet remain so. acmé took up her guitar, and throwing her fingers over it, as she gave a soft prelude, warbled that sweet although common song, "buona notte, amato bene." she sung with great feeling, and feeling is the soul of music. how plaintively! how tenderly did her lips breathe the "ricordati! ricordati di me!" there was something extremely witching in her precocious charms. she resembled some beauteous bud, just ready to burst into light and bloom. it is not yet the rose,--but a moment more may make it such. her beauties were thus ripe for maturity. it seemed as if the sunshine of love were already upon them--they were basking in its rays. a brief space--and the girl shall no longer be such. what was promise shall be beauty. she shall meet the charmed eye a woman; rich in grace and loveliness. as delmé marked her sympathising glance at george--her beaming features--her innocent simplicity;--as he thought of all she had lost, all she had suffered for his brother's sake,--as he thought of the scorn of the many--the pity of the few--the unwearied watching--the sleepless nights--the day of sorrow passed by the bed of sickness--all so cheerfully encountered for _him_--he could not reproach her. no! he took her hand, and the brothers whispered consolation to her, and to each other. late that evening, they were joined by colonel vavasour, and mr. graham. george's spirits rose hourly. never had his colonel appeared to such advantage--acmé so lovely--or henry so kind--as they did to george delmé that night. it was with a sigh at the past pleasures that george retired to his chamber. chapter xii. the mess. "red coats and redder faces." the following day, a room having been given up to delmé, he discharged his bill at beverley's; and moved to floriana. he again accompanied george in his drive; and they had on this occasion, the advantage of acmé's society, who amused them with her artless description of the manners of the lower orders of maltese. pursuant to his promise, at the bugle's signal delmé entered the mess room; and the colonel immediately introduced him to the assembled officers. to his disappointment, for he felt curious to see one, who had exercised such an influence over his brother, delancey was not amongst them. sir henry was much pleased with the feeling that appeared to exist, between colonel vavasour and his corps of officers:--respect on one side--and the utmost confidence on both. we think it is the talented author of pelham, who describes a mess table as comprising "cold dishes and hot wines, where the conversation is of johnson of ours and thomson of jours." this, though severe, is near the truth; and if, to this description, be added _lots_ of plate of that pattern called the queen's--ungainly servants in stiff mess liveries--and a perpetual recurrence to mr. vice; we have certainly caught the most glaring features of a commonplace regimental dinner. vavasour was well aware of this, and had directed unremitting attention, to give a tone to the conversation at the mess table, more nearly approaching to that of private life; one which should embrace topics of general interest, and convey some general information. even in _his_ well ordered regiment, there were some, whose nature would have led them, to confine their attention to thoughts of the daily military routine. this inclination was repressed by the example of their colonel; and these, if not debaters, were at least patient listeners, as the conversation dealt of matters, to them uncongenial, and the value of the discussion of which they could not themselves perceive. not that military subjects were interdicted; the contrary was the case. but these subjects took a somewhat loftier tone, than the contemplation of an exchange of orderly duty, or an overslaugh of guard. when dinner was announced, colonel vavasour placed his hand on the shoulder of a boy near him. "come, cholmondeley!" said he, "sit near me, and give me an account of your match. you must not fail to write your yorkshire friends every particular. major clifford, will you sit on the other side of sir henry? you are both peninsula men, and will find, i doubt not, that you have many friends in common. "there is something," said he to delmé, as he took his seat, "revivifying to an old soldier, in noting the exhilaration of spirit of these boys. it reminds us of the zeal with which _we_ too buckled on our coat of red. it is a great misfortune these youngsters labour under, that they have no outlet for their ambition, no scene on which they can display their talents. never were youthful aspirants for service more worthy, or more zealous, and yet it is probable their country will not need them, until they arrive at an age, when neither body nor mind are attuned for _commencing_ a life of hardship, however well adapted to _continue_ in it. _we_ have had the advantage there--_we_ trod the soldier's proudest stage when our hopes and buoyancy of heart were at their highest; and for myself, i am satisfied that much of my present happiness, arises from the very different life of my earlier years." the conversation took a military turn; and delmé could not help observing the attention, with which the younger members of the corps heard the anecdotes, related by those who had been actually engaged. occasionally, the superior reading of the juniors would peep out, and give them the advantage of knowledge, even with regard to circumstances, over those who had been personal actors in the affairs they spoke of. the most zealous of these detail narrators, were the quarter-master of the regiment, and delmé's right-hand neighbour, major clifford. the former owed his appointment to his gallantry, in saving the colours of his regiment, when the ensign who bore them was killed, and the enemy's cavalry were making a sudden charge, before the regiment could form its square. his was a bluff purple face, denoting the bon vivant. indeed, it was with uncommon celerity, that his previous reputation of being the best maker of rum punch in the serjeants' mess, had changed into his present one of being the first concoctor of sangaree at the officers'. major clifford merits more especial notice. he was a man hardly appreciated in his own profession; out of it, he was misrepresented, and voted a bore. he had spent all the years of his life, since the down mantled his upper lip, in the service of his country; and for _its_ good, as he conceived it, he had sacrificed all his little fortune. it is true his liberality had not had a very comprehensive range: he had sunk his money in the improvement of the personal appearance of his company--in purchasing pompons--or new feathers--or whistles, when he was a voltigeur--in establishing his serjeants' mess on a more respectable footing--in giving his poor comrade a better coffin, or a richer pall:--these had been his foibles; and in indulging them, he had expended the wealth, that might have purchased him on to rank and honours. his eagle glance, his aquiline nose, and noble person, showed what he must have been in youth. his hair was now silvered, but his coat was as glossy as formerly--his zeal was unabated--his pride in his profession the same--and what he could spare, still went, to adorn the persons of the soldiers he still loved. he remained a captain, although his long standing in the army had brought him in for the last brevet. it is true every one had a word for poor clifford. "such a fine fellow! what a shame!" but _this_ did not help him on. at the horse guards, too, his services were freely acknowledged. the military secretary had always a smile for him at his levee, and an assurance that "he had his eye on him" the commander in chief, too, the last time he had inspected the regiment, attracted by his waterloo badge, and portuguese cross, had stopped as he passed in front of the ranks, and conversed with him most affably, for nearly two minutes and a half; as his colour serjeant with some degree of pride used to tell the story. but yet, somehow or other, although major clifford was an universal favourite, they always forgot to reward him. a man of the world, would have deemed the major's ideas to be rather contracted; and to confess the truth, there were two halcyon periods of his life, to which he was fond of recurring. the one was, when he commanded a light company, attached to general crauford's light brigade;--the other, when he had the temporary command of the regimental depot, and at his own expense, had dressed out its little band, as it had never been dressed out before. do you sneer at the old soldier, courtly reader? there breathes not a man who dare arraign that man's courage;--there is not one who knows him, who would not cheerfully stake his life as a gage for his stainless honour. the soup and fish had been removed, when delmé observed a young officer glide in, with that inexpressible air of fashion, which appears to shun notice, whilst it attracts it. his arm was in a sling, and his attenuated face seemed to bespeak ill health. sir henry addressed colonel vavasour, and begged to know if the person who had just entered the room was delancey. he was answered in the affirmative; and he again turned to scrutinise his features. these rivetted attention; and were such as could not be seen once, without being gazed at again. his eyes were dark and large, and rested for minutes on one object, with an almost mournful expression; nor was it until they turned from its contemplation, that the discriminating observer might read in their momentary flash, that their possessor had passions deep and uncontrollable. his dark hair hung in profusion over his forehead, which it almost hid; though from the slight separation of a curl, the form of brow became visible; which was remarkable for its projection, and for its pallid hue, which offered a strong contrast to the swart and sunburnt face. "are you aware of his history?" said the colonel. "not in the slightest," replied delmé. "i felt curious to see him, on account of the way in which he has been mixed up with george's affair; and think his features extraordinary--very extraordinary ones." "he is son," said vavasour, "to the once celebrated lady harriet d----, who made a marriage so disgracefully low. he is the only child by that union. his parents lived for many years on the continent, in obscurity, and under an assumed name. they are both dead. it is possible delancey may play a lofty role in the world, as he has only a stripling between him and the earldom of d----, which descends in the female line. i am sure he will not be a common character; but i have great fears about him. in the regiment he is considered proud and unsocial; and indeed it was your brother's friendship that appeared to retain him in our circle. he has great talents, and some good qualities; but from his uncommon impetuosity of temper, and his impatience of being thwarted, i should be inclined to predict, that the first check he receives in life, will either make him a misanthrope, or a pest to society." at a later period of his life, delmé again encountered delancey; and this prophecy of the colonel's was vividly recalled. in the ensuing chapter, we purpose giving oliver delancey's history, as a not uninstructive episode; although we are aware that episodes are impatiently tolerated, and it is in nowise allied to the purpose of our story. but before doing so, we must detail a conversation which occurred between delancey and delmé, at the table of the ---- mess. the latter was scanning the features of the former, when their eyes met. a conviction seemed to flash on delancey, that delmé was george's brother; for the blood rushed to his cheek--his colour went and came--and as he turned away his head, he made a half involuntary bow. delmé was struck with his manner, and apparent emotion; and in returning the salute, ventured "to hope he was somewhat recovered." when major clifford left the table, delancey took his vacant seat. "sir henry delmé," said he, "i have before this wished to see you, to implore the forgiveness of your family for the misery i have occasioned. how often have i cursed my folly! i acted on an impulse, which at the time i could not withstand. i had never serious views with regard to acmé frascati. indeed, i may here tell you,--to no other man have i ever named it,--that i have ties in my own country far dearer, and more imperatively binding. i knew i had erred. the laws of society could alone have made me meet george belmé as a foe; but even then--on the ground--god and my second know that my weapon was never directed at my friend. i am an unsocial being, sir henry, and, from my habits, not likely to be popular. your brother knew this, and saved me from petty contentions and invidious calumnies. he was the best and only friend i possessed. i purpose soon to leave malta and the army. the former is become painful to me,--for the latter i have a distaste, a feeling of delicacy to acmé frascati would prevent my seeing your brother, even if mr. graham had not forbidden the interview, as likely to harass his mind. will you, then, assure him of my unabated attachment, and tell me that _you_ forgive me for the part i have taken in this unhappy affair." delmé was much moved as he assured him he would do all he wished; that he could see little to blame him for--that george's excited feelings had brought on the present crisis, and that _he_ had amply atoned for any share he might have had in the transaction. delancey pressed his hand gratefully. it was at a somewhat late hour that delmé joined acmé and his brother; declining the hearty invitation of the quartermaster to come down to his quarters. "he could give him a devilled turkey and a capital cigar." chapter xiii. oliver delancey. "then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness, are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess; the magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain the shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never reach again." we have said that delmé saw delancey once more. it was at a later period of our story, when business had taken sir henry to bath. he had been dining with mr. belliston græme, who possessed a villa in the neighbourhood. tempted by the beauty of the night, he dismissed his carriage, and, turning from the high road, took a by-path which led to the city. the air was serene and mild. the moon-light was sufficiently clear to chase away night's dank vapours. the ground had imperceptibly risen, until having ascended a grassy eminence, over which the path stretched, the well-lighted city burst upon the eye. immediately in front of the view, a principal street presented itself, the lamps on either side stretching in regular succession, until they gradually narrowed and joined in the perspective. nearer to the spectator, the flickering lights of the detached villas, and the moving ones of the carriages in the public road, relieved the stillness of the scene. delmé paused to regard it, with that subdued feeling with which men, arrived at a certain period of life, scan the aspect of nature. the moon at the moment was enveloped in light clouds. as it broke through them, its shimmering light revealed a face and form that delmé at once recognised as delancey's. it was with a consciousness of pain he did so, for it brought before him recollections of scenes, whose impressions had still power to subdue him. all emotions, however, soon became absorbed in that of curiosity, as he noted the still figure and agitated features before him. a block of granite lay near the path. delancey leant back over it--his right hand nearly touched the ground--his hat lay beside him. the dark hair, wet with the dews of night, was blown back by the breeze. his high forehead was fully shewn. his vest and shirt were open, as he gazed with an air of fixedness on the city, and conversed to himself. his teeth were firmly clenched, and it seemed that the lips moved not, but the words were fearfully distinct. we often hear of these soliloquies,--they afford scope to the dramatist, food for the poet, a chapter for the narrator of fiction,--but we rarely witness them. when we do, they are eminently calculated to thrill and alarm. it was evident that delancey saw him not; but had it been otherwise, delmé's interest was so aroused that he could not have left the spot. "hail! sympathising night!" thus spoke the young man, "the calm of thy silent hour seems in unison with my lone heart--thy dewy breeze imparts a freshness to this languid and darkened spirit, sweet night! how i love thee! and moon, too! fair moon! how abruptly!--how chastely!--how gloriously!--dost thou break through the variegated and fleecy clouds, which would impede thy progress, and deny me to gaze on thy white orb unshrouded. and thou, too! radiant star of eve! oh that woman's love but resembled thee! that it were gentle, constant, and pure as thy holy gleam. that _that_ should dazzle to bring in its train--oh god! what misery." he raised his hand to his brow, as if a poignant thought had stung him. sir henry delmé stole away, and ruminated long that night, on the distress that could thus convulse those fine features. afterwards, when delancey's name was no longer the humble one he had first known it, but became bruited in loftier circles,--for vavasour's prediction became realised,--delmé heard it whispered, that his affections had suffered an early blight, from the infidelity of one to whom he had been affianced. we may relate the circumstances as they occurred. blanche allen was the daughter of a country gentleman of some wealth, whose estate joined that of the earl of d----'s, where delancey's boyhood had been spent. for years blanche and oliver considered themselves as more than friends. each selected the other as the companion in the solitary walk, or partner in the joyous dance. not a country girl but had her significant smile, as young delancey's horse's head was turned towards hatton grange. delancey joined the army at an early age. blanche was some eighteen months his junior. they parted with tears, and thus they continued to do for the two following years, during which oliver frequently got leave to run down to his uncle's. this was while he was serving with part of the regiment at home. when it came to his turn to embark for foreign service, it was natural from this circumstance, as well as from their riper age, that their farewell should be of a more solemn nature. they bade adieu by the side of the streamlet that divided the two properties. it was where this made a small fall, down which it gushed in crystal brightness, and then meandered with gentle murmur through a succession of rich meadows. a narrow bridge was below the fall, while beside it, a rustic seat had been placed, on which the sobbing blanche sat, with her lover's arm round her waist. for the first time he had talked seriously of their attachment, and it was with youthful earnestness, that they mutually plighted their troth. nor did blanche hesitate, though blushing deeply as she did so, to place in his hand a trivial gage d'amour, and that which has so long solaced absent lovers, a lock of her sunny hair. blanche was very beautiful, but she had a character common to many english women--more so, we think, than to foreign ones. as a girl, blanche was nature's self, warm, gentle, confiding,--as an unmarried woman, she was a heartless coquette,--as a matron, an exemplary mother and an affectionate wife. during the time delancey was abroad, he heard of blanche but seldom, for the lovers were not of that age in which a correspondence would be tolerated by blanche's family. she once managed to send him, by the hands of a young cousin, some trifling present, with a few lines accompanying it, informing him that she had not forgotten him. his uncle--his only correspondent in england--was not exactly the person to make a confidant of; but he would, in an occasional postscript, let him know that he had seen blanche allen lately--that "she was very gay, prettier than ever, and always blushing when spoken to of a certain person." to do oliver justice, he at all times thought of blanche. we have seen him, with regard to acme, apparently disregarding her, but in that affair he had been actuated by a mere spirit of adventure. his heart was but slightly enlisted, and his feelings partook of any thing but those of a serious attachment. oliver delancey left malta soon after his conversation with delmé. previous to doing so, he had forwarded his resignation to colonel vavasour. he passed some time in italy, and, as the season arrived, found himself a denizen in that gayest of cities, vienna. pleasure is truly there enshrouded in her liveliest robes. as regards delancey, not in vain was she thus clothed. just relieved from the dull monotony of a military life--dull as it ever must be without war's excitement, and peculiarly distasteful to one constituted like delancey, who refused to make allowance for the commonplace uncongenial spirits with whom he found himself obliged to herd--he was quite prepared to embrace with avidity any life that promised an agreeable change. austria's capital holds out many inducements to dissipation, and to none are these more freely tendered, than to young and handsome englishmen. the women, over the dangerous sentimentality of their nation, throw such an air of ease and frankness, that their victims resemble the finny tribe in the famous tunny fishery. while they conceive the whole ocean is at their command--disport here and there in imagined freedom--they are already encased by the insidious nets; the harpoon is already pointed, which shall surely pierce them. delancey plunged headlong into pleasure's vortex--touched each link between gaiety and crime. he wandered from the paths of virtue from the infatuation of folly, and continued to err from the fascinations of sin. he was suddenly recalled to himself, by one of those catastrophes often sent by providence, to awaken us from intoxicating dreams. his companion, with whom he had resided during his stay in vienna, lost his all at a gaming table. although he had not the firmness of mind to face his misfortunes, yet had he the rashness to meet his god unbidden. sobered and appalled, oliver left germany for england. there was a thought, which even in the height of his follies obtruded, and which now came on him with a force that surprised himself. that thought was of blanche allen. he turned from the image of his expiring friend to dwell unsated on hers. a new vista of life seemed to open--thoughts which had long slept came thronging on his mind--he was once more the love-sick boy. the more, too, he brooded over his late unworthiness, the more did his imagination ennoble the one he loved. he now looked to the moment of meeting her, as that whence he would date his moral regeneration. "thank god!" thought he, "a sure haven is yet mine. there will i--my feelings steadied, my affections concentrated--enjoy a purified and unruffled peace. what a consolation to be loved by one so good and gentle!" he hurried towards england, travelled day and night, and only wondered that he could have rested any where, while he had the power of flying to her he had loved from childhood. occasionally a feeling of apprehension would cross him. it was many months since he had heard of her--she might be ill. his love was of that confiding nature, that he could not conceive her changed. as he came near his home, happier thoughts succeeded. in fancy, he again saw her enjoying the innocent pleasures in which he had been her constant companion,--health on her cheek--affection in her glance. he had to pass that well known lodge. his voice shook, as he told the driver to stop at its gate. as he drove through the avenue of elms, he threw himself back in the carriage, and every limb quivered from his agitation. he could hardly make himself understood to the domestic--he waited not an answer to his enquiry--but bounded up the stairs, and with faltering step entered the room. blanche was there, and not alone but oh! how passing fair! even delancey had not dared to think, that the beauty of the girl could have been so eclipsed by the ripe graces of the woman. she recognised him, and rose to meet him with a burst of unfeigned surprise. she held out her hand with an air of winning frankness; and yet for an instant,--and his hand as it pressed hers, trembled with that thought,--he deemed there was a hesitating blush on her cheek, which should not have been there. but it passed away, and radiant with smiles, she turned to the one beside her. "my dear," said she, as she gave him a confiding look, which haunts delancey yet, "this is a great friend of papa's, and an old playmate of mine--mr. delancey;" and as the stranger stepped forward to shake his hand, blanche looked at her old lover, with a glance that seemed to say, "how foolish were we, to deem we were ever more than friends." oliver delancey turned deadly pale; but pride bade him scorn her, and his hand shook not, as it touched that of him, who had robbed him of a treasure, he would have died to have called his. "and you have been to d---- castle, i suppose, and found your uncle had left it for bath. indeed, _we_ only arrived the day before yesterday; but papa wrote us, saying he had got one of his attacks of rheumatism, from the late fishing, and begged us to take this on our way to habberton, did you see my marriage in the papers, or did your uncle write you, oliver?" delancey's lips quivered, but his countenance did not change, as he looked her in the face, and told her he had not known it until now. and now her husband spoke: "it was very late, and he must want refreshment; and mr. allen intended to be wheeled to the dinner table; and they could so easily send up to d---- castle to tell them to get a bed aired; and he could dismiss the chaise now, and their carriage could take him there at night." and delancey _did_ stay, although unable to analyse the feeling that made him do so. and during dinner, _he_ was the life of that little party. he spoke of foreign lands--related strange incidents of travel--dwelt with animation on his schoolboy exploits. the old man was delighted--the husband forgot his wife;--and she, the false one, sat silent, and for the moment disregarded. she gazed and gazed again on that familiar face--drank in the tones of that accustomed voice--and the chill of compunction crept over her frame. but delancey's brain was on fire; and in the solitude of his chamber--no! he was not calm there. he paced hurriedly across the oaken floor; and he opened wide his window, and looked out on the bright stars, spangling heaven's blue vault; and then beneath him, where the cypress trees bowed their heads to the wind, and the moon's light fell on the marble statues on the terrace. and he turned to his bed-side, and hid his tearless face in his hands; and in the fulness of his despair, he knelt and prayed, that though he had long neglected his god, his god would not now forsake him. and, as if to mock his sufferings, sleep came; but it was short, very short; and a weight, a leaden weight, oppressed his eye-lids even in slumber. and he gave one start, and awoke a prey to mental agony. his despair flashed on him--he sprung up wildly in his bed. "liar! liar!" said he, as with clenched teeth, and hand upraised, he recalled that fond look given to another. drops of sweat started to his brow--his pulse beat quick and audibly--quicker--quicker yet. a feeling of suffocation came over him--and god forgive him! oliver delancey deemed that hour his last. he staggered blindly to the bell, and with fearful energy pulled its cord, till it fell clattering on the marble hearth stone. the domestics found him speechless and insensible on the floor--the blood oozing from his mouth and ears. it may be said that this picture is overcharged; that no vitiated mind could have thus felt. but it is not so. in life's spring we all feel acutely: and to the effects of disappointed love, and wounded pride, there are few limits. woman! dearest woman! born to alleviate our sorrow, and soothe our anguish! who canst bid feeling's tear trickle down the obdurate cheek, or mould the iron heart, till it be pliable as a child's--why stain thy gentle dominion by inconstancy? why dismiss the first form that haunted thy maiden pillow, until--or that vision is a dear reality beside thee--or thou liest pale and hushed, on thy last couch of repose? and then--shall not thy virgin spirit hail him? why first fetter us, slaves to virtue and to thee; _then_ become the malevolent typhoon, on whose wings our good genius flies for ever? in this--far worse than the iconoclasts of yore art thou! _they_ but disfigured images of man's rude fashioning: whilst _thou_ wouldst injure the _once_ loved form of god's high creation,--wouldst entail on the body a premature decay--and on that which dieth not, an irradicable blight. "then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself comes down; it cannot feel for others woes--it dares not dream its own. that heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears; and though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears." on such a character as was delancey's, the blow did indeed fall heavy. not that his paroxysms of grief were more lasting, or his pangs more acute, than is usual in similar cases; but to his moral worth it was death. an infliction of this nature, falling on a comparatively virtuous man, is productive of few evil consequences. it may give a holier turn to his thoughts--wean him from sublunary vanities--and purify his nature. on an utterly depraved man, its effects may be fleeting also; for few can _here_ expect a moral regeneration. but falling on delancey, it was not thus. the slender thread that bound him to virtue, was snapt asunder; the germ whence the good of his nature might have sprung, destroyed for ever. such a man could not love purely again. to expect him to wander to another font, and imbibe from as clear a stream, would be madness. the love of a man of the world, let it be the first and best, is gross and earthly enough; but let him be betrayed in that love--let him see the staff on which he confidingly leant, break from under him--and he becomes from henceforth the deceiver--but never the deceived. when delmé saw him, delancey was writhing under his affliction. when he again entered the world, and it was soon, he regarded it as a wide mart, where he might gratify his appetites, and unrestrainedly indulge his evil propensities. he believed not that virtue and true nobility were there; could he but find them. he looked at the blow his happiness had sustained, and thought it afforded a fair sample of human nature. oliver delancey became a selfish and a profligate man. he was to be pitied; and from his soul did delmé pity him. he had been one of promise and of talent; but _now_ his lot is cast on the die of apathy;--and it is to be feared--without a miracle intervene--and should his life be spared--that when the wavy locks of youth are changed to the silver hairs of age--that he will then be that thing of all others to be scoffed at--the hoary sensualist. let us hope not! let us hope that she who hath brought him to this, may rest her head on the bosom of her right lord, and forget the one, whose hand used to be locked in her own, for hours--hours which flew quick as summer's evening shadows! let us trust that remorse may be absent from her; that she may never know that worst of reflections--the having injured one who had loved her, irremediably; that she may gaze on her fair-haired children, and her cheek blanch not as she recals another form than the father's; that her life may be irreproachable, her end calm and dignified; that dutiful children may attend the inanimate clay to its resting place; that filial tears may bedew her grave; and, when the immortal stands appalled before its judge, that the destruction of that soul may not be laid to her charge. chapter xiv. the spitfire. "and i have loved thee! ocean! and my joy of youthful sports was on thy breast to be borne like thy bubbles onward." * * * * * "pull away! yo ho! boys!" delmé continued to reside with his brother, whose health seemed to amend daily. george generally managed to accompany him in his sight-seeing, from which henry derived great gratification. he mused over the antique tombs of some of the departed knights; and admired the rich mosaics in that splendid church, dedicated to saint john; than which the traveller may voyage long, and meet nothing worthier his notice. he visited the ancient armoury--dined at the palace, and at the different messes--inspected the laborious travailings of the silkworm at the boschetto--conversed with the original of byron's leila--a sweet creature she is!--looked with wondering eye on the ostrich of fort manuel--and heard the then commandant's wife relate her tale thereanent. he went to gozzo too--shot rabbits--and crossed in a basket to the fungus rock. he saw a festa in the town, and a festa in the country--rode to st. antonio, and st. paul's bay--and was told he had seen the lions. nor must we pass over that most interesting of spectacles; viz., some figures enveloped in monkish cowl, and placed in convenient niches; but beneath the close hood, the blood mounts not with devotion's glow, nor do eyes glare from sockets shrunk by abstinence. skeletons alone are there! these, curious reader, are the bodies of saintly capuchins; thus exhibited--dried and baked--to excite beholders to a life of virtue! one morning, george said he felt rather unwell, and would stay at home. an oar happened to be wanted in the regimental gig, which sir henry offered to take. he was soon accoutred in the dress of an absent member, and in a short time was discharging the duties of his office to the satisfaction of all; for he knew every secret of _feathering,_ and had not _caught a crab_ for years. it was a beautifully calm day--not a speck in the azure heaven. it was hot too--but for this they cared not. they had porter; and on such occasions, what better beverage would you ask? swiftly and gaily did the slim bark cleave through the glassy sea. its hue was a dark crimson, with one black stripe--its nom de guerre, the spitfire. as the ------ regiment particularly prided itself on its aquatic costume, we shall describe it. small chased pearl buttons on the blue jacket and white shirt; a black band round the neck, to match the one on the narrow-brimmed thick straw hat; white trousers; couleur de rose silk collar, fastened to the throat by a golden clasp; and stockings of the same colour. how joyously did the gig hold her course! what a thrilling sensation expanded the soul, as the steersman, a handsome little fellow with large black whiskers, gave the encouraging word, "stroke! my good ones!" then were exerted all the energies of the body--then was developed each straining muscle--then were the arms thrown back in sympathy, to give a long pull, and a strong pull--till the bark reeled beneath them, and shot through the wave. the tall ship--the slender mole--the busy deck--the porticoed palace--the strong fort--the bristling battery--the astonished fisher's bark as it sluggishly crept on--were all cheeringly swept by, as the bending oars in perfect unison, kissed the erst slumbering water. what sensation can be more glorious? the only thing to compete with it, is the being in a crack coach on the western road; the opposition slightly in front--a knowing whip driving--when the horses are at their utmost speed--the traces tight as traces can be--the ladies inside pale and screaming--one little child cramming out her head, her mouth stuffed with banbury cakes, adding her shrill affetuoso--whilst the odd-looking man in the white hat, seated behind, is blue from terror, and with chattering teeth, mumbles undistinguishable sentences of furious driving and prosecution. surely such moments half redeem our miseries! what bitter thought can travel twelve miles an hour? and ever and anon would the spitfire dart into some little creek, and the thirsty rowers would rest on their oars, whose light drip fell on purple ocean, tinged by a purple sky. and now would the jovial steersman introduce the accommodating corkscrew, first into one bottle and then into another, as these were successively emptied, and thrown overboard, to give the finny philosophers somewhat to speculate on. delmé landed weary; but it was a beneficial weariness. he felt he had taken manly exercise, and that it would do him good. he was walking towards the barrack, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, when he was met by george's servant. "oh, sir!" said the man, "i am so glad you are come. the signora is terribly afraid for my young master. i fear, sir, he is in one of his fits." delmé hurried forward, and entered his brother's room. george held a riding whip in his hand. he had thrown off his cravat--his throat was bare--his eyes glanced wildly. "and who are you, sir?" said he, as henry entered. "what! not know me, dearest george?" replied his brother, in agony. "i do not understand your insolence, sir; but if you are a dun, go to my servant. thompson," continued he, "give me my spurs! i shall ride." "ride!" said delmé. thompson made him a quiet sign. "i am very sorry, sir," said he, "but the arab is quite lame, and is not fit for the saddle." "give me a glass of sangaree then, you rascal! port--do you hear?" the glass was brought him. he drained its contents at a draught. "now, kick that scoundrel out of the room, thompson, and let me sleep." he threw himself listlessly on the sofa. acmé was weeping bitterly, but he seemed not to notice her. it was late in the day. the surgeon had been sent for. he now arrived, and stated that nothing could be done; but recommended his being watched closely, and the removing all dangerous weapons. he begged henry, however, to indulge him in all his caprices, in order that he might the better observe the state of his mind. while george slept, delmé entered another room, and ordering the servant to inform him when he awoke, he sat down to dinner alone and dispirited; for acmé refused to leave george. it was indeed a sad, and to sir henry delmé an unforeseen shock. in a couple of hours, thompson came with a message from acmé. "master is awake, sir--knows the signora--and seems much better. he has desired me to brush his cloak, as he intends going out. shall i do so, sir, or not?" "do so!" said delmé, "but fail not to inform me when he is about to go; and be yourself in readiness. we will watch him." chapter xv. the charnel house. "and when at length the mind shall be all free, from what it hates in this degraded form, reft of its carnal life, save what shall be existent happier in the fly or worm; when elements to elements conform, and dust is as it should be." the last grey tinge of twilight, was fast giving place to the sombre hues of night, as a figure, enveloped in a military cloak, issued from the barrack at floriana. henry at once recognised george; and only delaying till a short distance had intervened between his brother and himself, delmé and thompson followed his footsteps. george delmé walked swiftly, as if intent on some deep design. the long shadow thrown out by his figure, enabled his pursuers to distinguish him very clearly. he did not turn his head, but, with hurried step, strode the species of common which divides floriana from la valette. crossing the drawbridge, and passing through the porch which guards the entrance to the town, he turned down an obscure street, and, folding his cloak closer around him, rapidly--yet with an appearance of caution--continued his route, diving from one street to another, till he entered a small court-yard, in which stood an isolated gloomy-looking house. no light appeared in the windows, and its exterior bespoke it uninhabited. henry and the domestic paused, expecting george either to knock or return to the street. he walked on, however, and, turning to one side of the porch, descended a flight of stone steps, and entered the lower part of the house. "perhaps we had better not both follow him," said the servant. "no, thompson! do you remain here, only taking care that your master does not pass you: and i think you may as well go round the house, and see if there is any other way of leaving it." sir henry descended the steps in silence. arrived at the foot of the descent, a narrow passage, diverging to the left, presented itself. beyond appeared a distant glimmering of light. delmé groped along the passage, using the precaution to crouch as low as possible, until he came before a large comfortless room in the centre of which, was placed a brass lamp, whose light was what he had discerned at the extremity of the passage. he could distinctly observe the furniture and inmates of the room. of the former, the only articles were a table--on which were placed the remains of a homely meal--an iron bedstead, and a barrel, turned upside down, which served as a substitute for a chair. the bedstead had no curtains, but in lieu of them, there were hangings around it, which struck delmé as resembling mourning habiliments. whilst the light operated thus favourably, in enabling sir henry to note the interior of the apartment, it was hardly possible, from its situation, that he himself could be observed. its rays did not reach the passage; and he was also shrouded in some degree by a door, which was off its hinges, and which was placed against the wall. fastened to the side of the room were two deep shelves--the lower one containing some bottles and plates; the upper, a number of human sculls. in a corner were some more of these, intermingled in a careless heap, with a few bleached bones. george delmé was standing opposite the door, conversing earnestly with a maltese, evidently of the lowest caste. the latter was seated on the barrel we have mentioned, and was listening with apparently a mixture of surprise and exultation to what george was saying. george's voice sunk to an inaudible whisper, as the conversation continued, and he was evidently trying to remove some scruples, which this man either affected to feel, or really felt. the man's answers were given in a gruff and loud tone of voice, but from the maltese dialect of his italian, sir henry could not understand what was said. his countenance was very peculiar. it was of that derisive character rarely met with in one of his class of life, except when called forth by peculiar habits, or extraordinary circumstances. his eyes were very small, but bright and deeply set. his lips wore a constant sarcastic smile, which gave him the air of a bold but cunning man. his throat and bosom were bare, and of a deep copper colour; and his muscular chest was covered with short curly hair. the conversation on george's part became more animated, and he at length made use of what seemed an unanswerable argument. taking out a beaded purse, which sir henry knew well--it had been emily's last present to george--he emptied the contents into the bronzed hand of his companion, who grasped the money with avidity. the maltese _now_ appeared to acquiesce in all george's wishes; and rising, went towards the bed, and selected some of the articles of wearing apparel delmé had already noticed. he addressed some words to george, who sat on the bedside quiescently, while the man went to the table, and took up a knife that was upon it. for a moment, delmé felt alarm lest his design might be a murderous one; but it was not so. he laughed savagely, as he made use of the knife, to cut off the luxuriant chestnut ringlets, which shaded george's eyes and forehead. he then applied to the face some darkening liquid, and commenced choosing a sable dress. george threw off his cloak, and was attired by the maltese, in a long black cotton robe of the coarsest material, which, descending to the feet, came in a hood over his face, which it almost entirely concealed. during the whole of this scene, george delmé's features wore an air of dogged apathy, which alarmed his brother, even more than his agitation in the earlier part of the day. after his being metamorphosed in the way we have described, it would have been next to an impossibility to have recognised him. his companion put on a dress of the same nature, and sir henry was preparing to make his retreat, presuming that they would now leave the building, when he was induced to stay for the purpose of remarking the conduct of the maltese. he took up a scull, and placing his finger through an eyeless hole, whence _once_ love beamed or hate flashed, he made some savage comment, which he accompanied by a long and malignant laugh. this would at another time have shocked sir henry, but there was another laugh, wilder and more discordant, that curdled the blood in delmé's veins. it proceeded from his brother, the gay--the happy george delmé; and as it re-echoed through the gloomy passage, it seemed that of a remorseless demon, gloating on the misfortunes of the human race. delmé turned away in agony, and, unperceived, regained the anxious domestic. screened by an angle of the building, they saw george and his companion ascend the stone steps, cross the yard, and turn into the street. they followed him cautiously--delmé's ears ringing with that fiendish laugh. george's companion stopped for a moment, at a house in the street, where they were joined by a sallow-looking priest, apparently one of the most disgusting of his tribe. he was accompanied by a boy, also drest in sacerdotal robes, in one hand bearing a silver-ornamented staff, of the kind frequently used in processions, and in other observances of the catholic religion; and in the other, a rude lanthorn, whose light enabled delmé to note these particulars. as the four figures swept through the streets, the lower orders prostrated themselves, before the figure of the crucified and dying saviour which surmounted the staff. they again stopped, and the priest entered a house alone. on coming back, he was followed by a coffin, borne on the shoulders of four of the lower order of maltese. at the moment these were leaving the house, henry heard a solitary scream, apparently of a woman. it was wild and thrilling; such an one as we hear from the hovering sea bird, as the tempest gathers to a head. to delmé, coming as it did at that lone hour from one he saw not, it seemed superhuman. in the front of the house stood two calèches, the last of which, sir henry observed was without doors. at a sign from the maltese, george and his strange companion entered it. they were followed by the coffin, which was placed lengthways, with the two ends projecting into the street. in the _leading_ calèche were the priest and boy, the latter of whom thrust the figure of the bleeding jesus out at the window, whilst with the other hand he held up the lanthorn. twice more did the calèche stop--twice receive corpses. another light was produced, and placed in the last conveyance, and delmé took the opportunity of their arranging this, to pass by the calèche. the light that had been placed in it shone full on george. the coffins were on a level with the lower part of his face. nothing of his body, which was jammed in between the seat and the coffins, could be seen. but the features, which glared over the pall, were indeed terrific; apathy no longer marked them. george seemed wound up to an extraordinary state of excitement. gone was the glazed expression of his eye, which now gleamed like that of a famished eagle. the maltese leant back in the carriage, with a sardonic smile, his dark face affording a strange contrast to the stained, but yet ghastly hue of george delmé's. "they intend to take them to the vault at floriana, your honor," said the servant, "shall i call a calèche, and we can follow them?" without waiting a reply, for the man saw that sir henry's faculties, were totally absorbed in the strange scene he had witnessed; thompson called a carriage, which passed the other two--now commencing at a funeral pace to proceed to the vault--and, taking the same direction which they had done on entering the town, a short time sufficed to put them down immediately opposite the church. they had time allowed them to dismiss their carriage, and screen themselves from observation, before the funeral procession arrived. this stopped in front of the vault, and delmé anxiously scrutinised the proceedings. another man--probably the one whose place george had supplied--had joined them outside the town, and now walked by the side of the calèche. he assisted george's companion in bearing out the coffins. the huge door grated on its hinges, as they opened it. the coffins were borne in, and the whole party entered; the priest mumbling a short latin prayer. in a short time, the priest alone returned; and looking cautiously around, and seeing no one, struck a light from a tinder box, and lighted his cigar. the other two men brought back the coffins, evidently relieved of their weight; and the priest--the boy--with the man who had last joined them, and who had also lit his cigar--entered the first calèche, after exchanging some jokes with george's companion, and returned at a rapid pace towards the town. during this time, george delmé had been left alone in the vault. his companion returned to him, after taking the precaution to fasten its doors inside. sir henry was now at a loss what plan to adopt; but thompson, after a moment's hesitation, suggested one. "there is an iron grating, sir, over part of the vault, through which, when a bar was loose, i know one of our soldiers went down. shall i get a cord?" the man ran towards his barrack, and returned with it. to wrench by their united efforts, one bar from its place, and to fasten the rope to another, was the work of an instant. space was just left them to creep through the aperture. sir henry was the first to breathe the confined air of the sepulchre. a voice warned him in what direction to proceed; and not waiting for the domestic, he groped his way forward through a narrow passage. at first, delmé thought there was a wall on either side him; but as he made a false step, and the bones crumbled beneath, he knew that it was a wall, formed of the bleached remains of the bygone dead. as he drew nearer the voice, he was guided by the lanthorn brought by george's companion; and towards this he proceeded, almost overpowered by the horrible stench of the charnel house, as he drew near enough to distinguish objects, what a scene presented itself! in one corner of the vault, lay a quantity of lime used to consume the bodies, whilst nearer the light, lay corpses in every stage of putrefaction. in some, the lime had but half accomplished its purpose; and while in parts of the body, the bones lay bare and exposed; in others, corruption in its most loathsome form prevailed. here the meaner reptiles--active and prolific--might be seen busily at work, battening on human decay. sir henry stepped over a dead body, and started, as a rat, scared from its prey, rustled through a wreath of withered flowers, and hid itself amid a mouldering heap of bones. but there were some forms lovely still! in them the pulse of life had that day ceased to beat. the rigidity of death--his impressive stillness was there--but he had not yet "swept the lines where beauty lingers." the maltese stood with folded arms, closely regarding george delmé. george leant against a pillar, with one knee bent. over it was stretched the corpse of a girl, with the face horribly decomposed. the dull and flagging winds of the vault moved her dank and matted hair. "acmé," said he, as he parted the dry hair from the blackened brow, "_do_ but speak to your own george! be not angry with me, dearest!" he held the disgusting object to his lips, and lavished endearments on the putrid corpse. delmé staggered--and thompson supported him--as he gasped for breath in the extremity of his agony. at this moment his eye caught the face of the maltese. he had advanced towards george--his arms were still folded--his eyes were sparkling with joy--and his features wore the malignant expression of gratified revenge. sir henry sprang to his feet and rushed forward. "george! my brother! my brother!" the maniac raised his pallid brow--his eye flashed consciousness--the blue veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting--he tossed his arms wildly--and sunk powerless on the corpses around--his convulsive shrieks re-echoing in that lonely vault. thompson seized the maltese, and making him unlock the door, bore the brothers into the open air; for henry, at the time, was as much overpowered as george himself. a clear solution to that curious scene was never given, for george could not give the clue to his train of mental aberration. with regard to his companion's share in the transaction, the man was closely questioned, and other means of information resorted to, but the only facts elicited were these: his son had been executed some years before for a desperate attempt to assassinate a british soldier, with whom he had had an altercation during the carnival. the man himself said, that he had no recollection of ever having seen george before, but that he certainly _did_ remember some officers questioning him on two occasions somewhat minutely as to his mode of life. this part of his story was confirmed by another officer of the regiment, who remembered george and delancey being with him on one occasion, when the latter had taken much interest in the questioning of this man. the maltese declared, that on the night in question he was taken entirely by surprise--that george entered the room abruptly--offered him money to be allowed to accompany him to the vault--and told him that he had just placed a young lady there whom he wished to see. colonel vavasour, who took some trouble in arriving at the truth, was satisfied that the man was well aware of george's insanity, but that he felt too happy in being able to wreak an ignoble revenge on a british officer. chapter xvi. the marriage. "the child of love, though born in bitterness, and nurtured in convulsion." for many days, george delmé lay on his couch unconscious and immoveable. if his eye looked calm, it was the tranquillity of apathetic ignorance, the fixedness of idiotcy. he spoke if he was addressed, but recognised no one, and his answers were not to the purpose. he took his food, and would then turn on his side, and close his eyes as if in sleep. in vain did acmé watch over him--in vain did her tears bedew his couch--in vain did delmé take his hand, and endeavour to draw his attention to passing objects. george had never been so long without a lucid interval. the surgeon's voice grew less cheering every day, as he saw the little amendment in his patient, and remarked that the pulse was gradually sinking. colonel vavasour never allowed a day to elapse without visiting the invalid; and in the regiment, his illness excited great commiseration, and drew forth many expressions of kindness. "oh god! oh god!" said delmé, "he must not sink thus. just as i am with him--just as--oh, poor emily! what will _she_ feel? can nothing be done, mr. graham?" "nothing! sir: we must now put our whole trust in an all-seeing providence. _my_ skill can neither foresee nor hasten the result." one soft summer's evening, when the wind blew in the scent of flowers from the opposite gardens--and the ceaseless hum of the insects--those twilight revellers--sounded happily on the ear, acmé started from the couch as a thought crossed her. "we have never tried music," said she, "i have been too unhappy to think of it." her tears fell fast on the guitar, as she tuned its strings. she sung a plaintive greek air. it was the first george ever heard her sing, and was the favourite. he heard it, when watching; lover-like beneath her balcony during the first vernal days of their attachment. the song was gone through sadly, and without hope. george's face was from her, and she laid down the guitar, weary of life. george gently turned his head. his eyes wore a subdued melancholy expression, bespeaking consciousness. down his cheek one big drop was trickling. "acmé!" said he, "dearest acmé!" delmé, who had left the room, was recalled by the hysterical sobs of the poor girl, as she fell back on the chair, her hands clasped in joyful gratitude. the surgeon, who had immediately been sent for, ordered that george should converse as little as possible. what he did say was rational. what a solace was that to henry and acmé! the invalid too appeared well aware of his previous illness, although he alluded to it but seldom. to those about him, his manner was femininely soft, as he whispered his thanks, and sense of their kindness. immediately after the horrible scene he had witnessed, sir henry's mind had been made up, as to the line of conduct he ought to pursue. the affectionate solicitude of the young greek, during george's illness, gave him no reason to regret his determination. "now," said mr. graham, one day as george was rapidly recovering, "now, sir henry, i would recommend you to break all you have to say to george. for god's sake, let them be married; and although, mark me! i by no means assert that it will quite re-establish george's health, yet i think such a measure _may_ effectually do so, and at all events will calm him for the present; which, after all, is the great object we have in view." the same day, delmé went to his brother's bed-side. "george," said he, "let me take the present opportunity of acmé's absence, to tell you what i had only deferred till you were somewhat stronger. she is a good girl, george, a very good girl. i wish she had been english--it would have been better!--but this we cannot help. you must marry her, george! i will be a kind brother-in-law, and emily shall love her for your sake." the invalid sat up in his bed--his eyes swam in tears. he twice essayed to speak, ere he could express his gratitude. "thank you! a thousand times thank you! my kind brother! even _you_ cannot tell the weight of suffering, you have this day taken from my mind. my conduct towards acmé has been bowing me to the earth; and yet i feared your consent would never be obtained. i feared that coldness from you and emily would have met her; and that i should have had but _her_ smile to comfort me for the loss of what i so value. god bless you for this!" delmé was much affected. to complete his good work, he waited till acmé had returned from a visit she had just made to her relations; and taking her aside, told her his wishes, and detailed his late conversation with george. "never! never!" said the young greek, "i am too happy as i am. i have heard you all make better lovers than husbands. i cannot be happier! no! no! i will never consent to it." all remonstrances were fruitless--no arguments could affect her--no entreaties persuade. delmé, quite perplexed at finding such a difficulty, where he had so little expected to find one,--pitying her simplicity, but admiring her disinterestedness,--went to george, and told him acmé's objections. "i feared it," said his brother, "but perhaps i may induce her to think differently. were i to take advantage of her unsophisticated feelings, and want of knowledge of the world, i should indeed be a villain." acmé was sent for, and came weeping in--took georg's hand--and gazed earnestly in his face as he addressed her. "you must change your mind, dearest," said he. and he told her of the world's opinion--the contumely she might have to endure--the slights to which she would be subjected. still she heeded not. "why mention these things?" said she. "who would insult me, were _you_ near? or if they did, should i regard them while _you_ were kind?" and her lover's words took a loftier tone; and he spoke of religion, and of the duties it imposes; of the feelings of his countrywomen; and the all-seeing eye of their god. still the fond girl wept bitterly, but spoke not. "my own acmé! consider _my_ health too, dearest! were you now to consent, i might never again be ill. it would be cruelty to me to refuse. say you consent for _my_ sake, sweet!" "for your sake, then!" said acme, as she twined her snowy arms round his neck, "for _your_ sake, giorgio, i do so! but oh! when i am yours for ever by that tie; when--if this be possible--our present raptures are less fervent--our mutual affections less devoted--do not, dearest george--do not, i implore you--treat me with coldness. it would break my heart, indeed it would." they were married according to the rites of both the protestant and catholic church. few were present. george had been lifted to the sofa, and sat up during the ceremony; and although his features were pale and emaciated, they brightened with internal satisfaction, as he heard those words pronounced, which made his love a legitimate one. acmé was silent and thoughtful; and tears quenched the fire of her usually sparkling eye. george delmé's recovery from this date became more rapid. he was able to resume his wonted exercise--his step faltered less--his eye became clearer. his convalescence was so decided, that the surgeon recommended his at once travelling, and for the present relinquishing the army. "perhaps the excessive heat may not be beneficial. i would, if possible, get him to switzerland for the summer months. i will enquire what outward-bound vessels there are. if there is one for leghorn, so much the better. but the sooner he tries change of scene, the more advantageous it is likely to be; and after all, the climate is but a secondary consideration." an american vessel bound to palermo, happened to be the only one in the harbour, whose destination would serve their purpose; and determined not to postpone george's removal, sir henry at once engaged its cabin. colonel vavasour obtained george leave for the present, and promised to arrange as to his exchanging from full pay. he likewise enabled him, which george felt as a great boon, to take his old and attached servant with him; with the promise that he would use all his interest to have the man's discharge forwarded him, before the expiration of his leave. "he may be useful to you, my dear boy, if you get ill again, which god forbid! he is an old soldier, and a good man--well deserving the indulgence. and remember! if you should be better, and feel a returning penchant for the red coat, write to me--we will do our best to work an exchange for you." chapter xvii. the departure. "farewell! a word that must be, and hath been, a sound that makes us linger, yet farewell." the day of departure at length arrived. thompson had been busy the greater part of the night in getting every thing ready for the voyage. it was a lovely morning, and the wind, although light, was propitious. acmé had parted with her relations and friends the day previous. she was henceforward to share the destiny of one, who was to supply the place of both to her. attached to them as she was, and grateful as she felt for their kindness in the hour of need, there was nothing in that parting to throw a permanent gloom on the hopes of the youthful bride. her love, and the feelings it engendered, were of that confiding nature, that she could have followed george anywhere, and been happy still. as it was, her lot seemed cast "in pleasant places," and no foreboding of evil, except indeed for george, ever marred the waking dreams of acmé. her simple heart had already learnt, to look up with respect and affection to sir henry, and yearned with fond longing for the period when she should return a sister's love. she had that lively talent too, which, miniatured as it was, allowed of her fully appreciating the superiority of the english she had lately met, to the general run of those with whom she had hitherto associated. an english home had none but charms for her. "come acmé," said george, as he assisted her in adjusting the first bonnet that had ever confined her wavy curls, "wish good bye to your ring-dove, dear! mrs. graham will take good care of it; and thompson has just finished the packing." the boat which was to convey them to the vessel was so near, that they had agreed to walk down to the place of embarkation. as george left the room, a tall figure presented itself on the staircase. "ah, clark!" said george, "my good fellow! i am very sorry to part with you. i do not know what i shall do without my pay serjeant!" and he held out his hand. it was grasped gratefully. "thank you, your honour!" the old soldier stood erect, and put his hand to his cap. "god bless you! mr. delmé. i have served under many officers, but never under a kinder. may the almighty bless you, sir, in all your wanderings." the soldier turned away--one large drop burst o'er the lid, and trickled down his sun-burnt cheek. with the back of his hand, he brushed it off indignantly. his converse may be rough--his manner rude--his hand ever ready for quarrel;--but, believe us! ye who deem the soldier beneath his fellow-men,--that the life of change--of chance--of hardship--and of danger--which is his, freezes not the kindlier emotions of the soul, if it sweep away its sicklier refinements. beneath the red vest, beat hearts as warm and true, as ever throbbed beneath operative apron, or swelled under softest robe of ermine. george was moved by the man's evidently sincere grief. he reached the bottom of the stairs. the company to which he belonged was drawn up in the court yard. in front of it, the four tallest men supported a chair, and almost before george delmé was aware of their purpose, bore him to it, and lifted him on their shoulders, amidst the huzzas of their comrades. the band, too, which had voluntarily attended, now struck up the march which george delighted to hear; and, followed by his company, he was carried triumphantly towards the mole. george's heart was full. sir henry felt deeply interested in the scene; and poor acmé leant on his arm, and wept with joy. yes! there are moments in life, and this was one, when the approval of our inferiors awakens a degree of pride and mental satisfaction, that no panegyric of our superiors, no expressions of esteem from our equals, could have ever called forth. such approval meets us, as the spontaneous effusion of hearts that have looked up to ours, and have _not_ been deceived. this pride was it that flushed george's cheek, and illumed with brightness his swimming eye. he was thus carried till he arrived at the spot where his boat should have been. it was already, with thompson and their baggage, half way towards the vessel. in its place was the regimental gig, manned by george's best friends. its steersman was colonel vavasour, drest in the fanciful aquatic costume his regiment had adopted. trifling as this may appear, this act of his colonel, seemed to george the very highest compliment that had ever been paid him. george delmé turned to his company, and with choking voice thanked them for this last mark of attention. we are very certain that a shake of the hand from a prince, would not have delighted him as much, as did the hearty farewell greeting of his rough comrades. even acmé blushingly went up to the chair-supporters, and, with a winning smile, extended her small hand. vavasour assisted her into the gig, and it was with a bounding elasticity of spirit, to which he had long been a stranger, that george followed. as the boat cut through the water, they were greeted with a last and deafening huzza. in a short time they were alongside the vessel. the captain was pacing the deck, and marking the signs of the wind, with the keen eye of the sailor. a chair was lowered for acmé. she shook hands with the rowers. george parted from them as if they had been brothers, and from colonel vavasour last of all. "take care of yourself, my dear boy," said the latter, "do not forget to write us; we shall all be anxious to know how you have stood the voyage." as the gig once more shot its way homewards, and many a friendly handkerchief waved its adieu, george felt, that sad as the parting was, he should have felt it more _bitterly_ if they had loved him less. to divert their minds from thoughts of a melancholy nature, sir henry, as the boat made a turn of the land, and was no longer visible, proposed exploring the cabin. this they found small, but cleanly. some hampers of fruit, and a quantity of ice, exhibited agreable proofs of the attention of acmé's relations. we may, by the way, observe, that rarely does the sense of the palate assert its supremacy with greater force than on board-ship. there will the _thought_--much more the _reality_--of a mellow pine--or juicy pomegranate--cause the mouth to water for the best part of a long summer's day. on their ascending the deck, the captain approached sir henry. "no offence! sir; but i guess the wind is fair. if you want nothing ashore, we will off, sir, _now_! if you please." delmé acquiesced. how disagreable is the act of leaving harbour in a merchant ship! even sailors dislike it, and growl between their teeth, like captive bears. the chains of the anchor clank gratingly on the ear. the very chorus of the seamen smacks of the land, and wants the rich and free tone that characterises it in mid-sea. hoarse are the mandates of the boat-swain! his whistle painfully shrill! the captain walks the deck thoughtfully, and frowningly ruminates on his bill of lading--or on some over-charge in the dock duties--or, it may be, on his dispute on shore with a part owner of the vessel. and anon, he shakes off these thoughts, and looks on the weather-side--then upwards at the the masts--and, as he notes the proceedings, his orders are delivered fiercely, and his passions seem ungovernable. the vessel, too, seems to share the general feeling--is loath to leave the port. she unsteadily answers the call of her canvas--her rigging creaks--and her strong sides groan--as she begins lazily and slowly to make her way. glad to turn their attention to anything rather than the scene around, george began conversing on the effect the attentions of his company and brother officers had had on him. "their kindness," said george, "was wholly unexpected by me, and i felt it very deeply. an hour before, i fancied that acmé and my own family monopolised every sympathy i possessed. but, thank god! the heart has many hidden channels through which kindness may steal, and infuse its genial balm." "_i_ felt it, too, george!" said his brother, "and was anxious as to the effect the scene might have on you. i am glad it _was_ unexpected. we are sometimes better enabled to enact our parts improvising them, than when we have schooled ourselves, and braced all our energies to the one particular purpose. "acmé, how did you like the way george's men behaved?" "it made me weep with joy," replied the young greek, "for i love all who love my giorgio." chapter xviii. the adieu. "adieu! the joys of la valette." * * * * * "no more! no more! no! never more on me the freshness of the heart shall fall like dew." * * * * * "absence makes the heart grow fonder, isle of beauty! fare thee well." malta! the snowy sail shivers in the wind--the waves, chafed by our intruding keel, are proudly foaming--sea birds soar, screaming their farewell aloft--as we wave our hand to thee for ever! what is our feeling, as we see thee diminish hourly? regret! unfeigned regret! albeit we speed to our native land, on the wing of a bark as fleet as ever--but it matters not--_thou_ hast seen the best of our days. visions conjured up by thee, have the unusual power, to banish anticipations of almack's glories, and of home flirtations. we are recalling balls enjoyed in thee, loved island! the valse spun round with the darling fleet-footed maltese, who during its pauses leant back on our arm, against which her spangled zone throbbed, from the pulsations of her heart. dreams of turtle and of grand master--the _fish_, not the _official_--and of consecutive iced champagne, mock our sight! but more--yes! far more than all, are we reminded of thy abode--thou dispenser of cheering liquids! thou promoter of convivial happiness! meek saverio! how swiftly glided the mirth-loving nights as--the enchanting strains of the prima donna hushed--we adjourned to thy ever to be praised bottegua! with what precision didst thou there mete out the many varied ingredients--the exact relative proportions--which can alone embody our conception of the nectar of the gods, punch à la romaine! whose cigars ever equalled thine, thou prince of ganymedes? and when were cigars more justly appreciated, than as our puffs kept time with the trolling ditty, resounding through the walls of thy domain? the luxury of those days! then would sol come peeping in upon us; as unwelcome and unlooked-for a visitant, as to the enamoured juliet, when she sighing told her lover that "'twas but a meteor that the sun exhaled, to be to him that night a torch-bearer, and light him on his way to mantua." then, with head dizzy from its gladness, with heart unduly elate, has the strada teatro seen us, imperiously calling for the submissive calèche. arrived in our chamber, how gravely did we close its shutters! with what a feeling of satisfied enjoyment, did we court the downy freshness of the snow-white sheet! sweet and deep were our slumbers--for youth's spell was upon us, and our fifth lustre had not _yet_ heralded us to serious thoughts and anxious cares. awoke by the officious valet, and remorseless friend, deemest though our debauch was felt? no! an effervescent draught of soda calmed us; we ate a blood orange, and smoked a cigar! we often hear malta abused. byron is the stale authority; and every snub-nosed cynic turns up his prominent organ, and talks of "sirocco, sun, and sweat." byron disliked it--he had cause. he was there at a bad season, and was suffering from an attack of bile. _we_ know of no place abroad, where the english eye will meet with so little to offend it, and so much to please and impress. there is such a blending together of european, asiatic, and african customs; there is such a variety in the costumes one meets; there is such grandeur in their palaces--such glory in their annals; such novelty in their manners and habits; such devotion in their religious observances; such simplicity and yet such beauty, in the dress of the women; and their wearers possess such fascinations; that we defy the most fastidious of critics, who has really resided there, to deny to malta many of those attributes, with which he would invest that place, on whose beauty and agrémens, he may prefer of all others to descant. with the commonplace observer, its superb harbour, studded with gilded boats; its powerful fortifications, where art towers over nature, and where the eye looks up a rock, and catches a bristling battery; the glare of its scenery, with no foliage to cover the white stone;--all these, together with the different way in which the minutiae of life are transacted,--will call forth his attention, and demand his notice. art thou a poet, or a fancied warrior? what scene has been more replete with noble exploits? in whose breasts did the flame of chivalry burn brighter, than in those of the knights of st. john of jerusalem? not a name meets thee, that has not belonged to a hero! if thou grievest to find all dissimilar _but_ the name; yet mayest thou still muse, contemplative, over the tomb and ashes of him, whom thy mind has shadowed forth, as a noble light in a more romantic age. art thou a moralist, a thinking christian? thou mayest there trace--and the pursuit shall profit thee--the steps of the sainted apostle; he who was so signally called forth, to hear witness to the truth of one, whom he had erst reviled. yon cordelier will show you the bay, where his vessel took refuge in its distress; and will tell you, that yon jagged rock first gave its dangerous welcome, to the bark of his patron saint. lovest thou music? hast loved? or been beloved? or both perchance? steal forth when night holds her starry court, and the guitars around are tinkling, as more than one rich voice deplores his mistress's cruelty, in hopes she may now relent. but see! _there_ is one, who puts in requisition neither music's spell, nor flattery's lay. see! he approaches. his cloak wrapped around him, he cautiously treads the tranquil street. he gains the portico--the signal is given. who but an expectant maiden could hear one so slight? hark! a sound! cautiously the lattice opens--above him blushes the fair one! how brightly her dark eye flashes! how silver soft the tones of her voice! the stern father--the querulous mother--the tricked duenna--all--all are slumbering. she leans forward, and her ear drinks in his honied words; as her head is supported by her snowy arm. and now he whispers more passionately. she answers not, but hides her face in her hands. she starts! she throws back her hair from her brow; she waves a white fazzolet, and is gone. not thus flies the lover. he crouches beneath the ionic portico, his figure hardly discernible. a bolt--the last bolt is withdrawn. a form is dimly seen within--retiring, timid, repentant. sweet the task to calm that throbbing heart, or teach it to throb no more with fear! but let him of melancholy mood, wander to the deserted village. a more fearful calamity has befallen it, than ever attended the soft shades, of the one conjured up by the poet. _here_ the demon plague, with baneful wing, and pestilential influence, tarried for many days; till not one--no! not one soul of that village train--that did not join his bygone fathers. stray along its grass-grown roofless tenements! where _your_ echo alone breaks the silence, as it startles from its resting-place the slumbering owl--for who would dwell in abodes so marked for destruction? stray there! think of the gentle contadina diffusing happiness around her! _then_ think of her as she supports the youth she loves--as she clasps his faint form--and drinks in a poisonous contagion from his pallid lip. think of her as the disease seizes on its new victim--still attempting to prop up his head--to reach the cup, that may relieve his maddening thirst,--until, giddy and overpowered, she sinks at last; but--beside him! think of their dying together! _that_ at least is a solace. do not the scene and the thought draw a tear? if your eye be dry, come--come away--_your_ step should not sound there! the wind continued fair during the whole of the first day. every trace of valletta was soon lost; and the good barque boston swept by the rocky coast of the island, where few human habitations meet the eye, swiftly and cheerily. the sea birds sported round the tall masts--the canvas bulged out bravely--the captain forgot his shore griefs, and commenced a colloquy with sir henry. the sailors sung in chorus; whilst poor acmé,--we grieve to confess the fact, for never was a mediterranean sea looked down on by brighter sun, or more cloudless sky,--retired to her cabin, supported by george, a prey to that unsentimental malady, sea sickness. the following day, the wind shifted some points; and the captain judged it most prudent to forego his original intention of steering direct for palermo; but to take advantage of the breeze, and adopt the passage through the faro of messina. delmé felt glad of this change; for scylla and charybdis to an englishman, are as familiar as whittington and his cat. for the first two days acmé continued unwell; and george, who already appeared improved by the sea air, never left her side. delmé had therefore a dull time of it; which he strove to enliven by conversing, one after the other, with the captain and his two mates. from all of them, he learnt something; but from all he turned away, as they commenced discussing the comparative merits of the united states, and the old country; a subject he had neither the wish to enter on, nor fortitude to prosecute. not daunted, he attacked mate the third; and was led to infer better things, as the young gentleman commenced expatiating on the "purple sky," and "dark blue sea." this hope did not last long; for this lover of nature turned round to sir henry, and asked him in a nasal twang, if he preferred cooper's or mr. scott's novels? delmè was not naturally a rude man, but as he turned away, he hummed something very like yankee-doodle. and then the moon got up; and sir henry felt lonely and sentimental. he leant over the vessel's side, and watched it pictured on the ocean, and quivering as the transient billow swept onwards. and he thought of home, and emily. he thought of his brother, his heir,--if he died, the only male to inherit the ancient honours of his house,--married to a stranger, and--but acmé was too sweet a being, not to have already enlisted all his sympathies with her. and as if all these thoughts, like rays converged in a burning glass, did but tend to one object, the image of julia vernon suddenly rose before him. he saw her beautiful as ever--gentleness in her eye--fascination in her smile! and the air got cold--and he went to bed. chapter xix. a dream and a ghost story. "touching this eye-creation; what is it to surprise us? here we are engendered out of nothing cognisable-- if this were not a wonder, nothing is; if this be wonderful, then all is so. man's grosser attributes can generate what _is_ not, and has never been at all; what should forbid his fancy to restore a being pass'd away? the wonder lies in the mind merely of the wondering man." it was the fourth evening of the voyage. hardly a breath fanned the sails, as the vessel slowly glided between the calabrian and sicilian coasts, approaching quite close to the former. the party, seated on chairs placed on the deck, gazed in a spirit of placid enjoyment on one of those scenes, which the enthusiastic traveller often recals, as in his native clime, he pines for foreign lands, and for novel impressions. the sun was setting over the purple peaks of the calabrian mountains, smiling in sunny gladness on deep ravines, whose echoes few human feet now woke, save those of simple peasant, or lawless bandit. where the orb of day held its declining course, the sky wore a hue of burnished gold; its rich tint alone varied, by one fleecy violet cloud, whose outline of rounded beauty, was marked by a clear cincture of white, on their right, beneath the mountain, lay the little village of capo del marte, a perfect specimen of italian scenery. its sandy beach, against which the tide beat in dalliance--the chafed spray catching and reflecting the glories of the setting sun--ran smoothly up a slope of some thirty yards; beyond which, the orange trees, in their greenest foliage, chequered with their shade the white cottages scattered above them. the busy hum of the fishermen on the coast--the splash of the casting net--and the drip of the oar--were appropriate accompaniments to the simple scene. on the sicilian side, a different view wooed attention. there, old etna upreared his encumbered head, around which the smoke clung in dense majesty; and--not contemptible rivals of the declining deity--the moon's silvery crescent, and the evening star's quiet splendour, were bedecking the cloudless blue of the firmament. acmé gazed enraptured on the scene--her long tresses hanging back on the chair, across which one hand was languidly thrown. "giorgio," said she, "do you see this beautiful bird close to the ship--swimming so steadily--its snowy plumage apparently unwet from its contact with the wave? to what can you compare it?" "that bright-eyed gull, love!" replied he, "riding on the water as if all regardless that he is on the wide--wide sea--whose billows may so soon be lashed up to madness;--where may i find a resemblance more close, than my acmé's simplicity, which guides her through a troubled world, unknowing its treacheries, and happily ignorant of its dangers and its woes?" "ah!" said the blushing girl, "how poetical you are this evening; will you tell us a story, giorgio?" "_i_ will tell you one," said delmé, interrupting her. "do you recollect old featherstone, who had been in the civil service in india, and who lived so near delmé park, george?" "perfectly," said his brother, "i remember i used to think him mad, because he always looked so melancholy, and used to send us word in the morning when he contemplated a visit; in order that all cats might be kept out of his way." "the very man! i am glad you know so much about him, for it is on this subject i was going to speak. i cannot tell you where he picked up the idea originally--but i believe in a dream--that a cat would occasion his death. "well! he was at ascot one year, when a gipsy woman came up to him on the course--told him his fortune--and, to his utter astonishment, warned him to beware of the wild cat. "from that moment, i understand his habits changed. from being a tolerably cheerful companion, he became a wretched hypochondriac; all his energies being directed to the avoiding a contact with any of the feline race. "featherstone, two or three years ago, embarked in one of the mining speculations--lost great part of his fortune--and found it necessary to try and retrieve his affairs, by a second voyage to india. "i heard nothing more of him, till just before leaving england, when my old school-fellow, lockhart, who went as a cadet to the east, called on me--reminded me of our old whimsical friend--and related his tragic death. "lockhart says that one day he and some mutual friends, persuaded featherstone to accompany them into the interior of the country, to enjoy the diversion of a boar hunt. "they had had good sport, and were returning homewards, when they suddenly came on a party of natives, headed by the rajah. "they were mounted on elephants, and surrounding a jungle, in which, as some sepoys had reported, lay a tiger. "you know lockhart's manner--animated and enthusiastic--making one see the scene he is describing. "i will try and clothe the rest of the story in his own words, although i can hardly hope it will make the same impression on you, that its recital did on me. "'well, sir! we all said we would see the sport--all but featherstone--who said something about coming on. "'we were engaged to dine with sir john m----, who was in that part of the world, on some six-and-eightpenny mission about indigo. "'the beaters went in, firing and shouting--intending to make him break towards the hunting party. "'we all drew up on one side, to be in view, but out of the way; featherstone was next me. he suddenly grasped my arm, and pointed to the jungle, his teeth chattering--his face ashy pale. i turned and saw the tiger!--a splendid beast--certainly! "'he seemed not to notice us, and stalked on with an innocent yep! yep! like a sick hound's, more than anything else. "'suddenly his eye caught us, and flashed fire. at the first view, he crouched to the earth, then came on us, bounding like a tost foot-ball. more magnificent leaps i never beheld! we were struck dumb--but fired--and turned our horses' heads!--all but featherstone. "'i shall remember the tones of his voice to my dying hour. "'"the cat! lockhart! the cat!" "'i don't know whether his horse refused the spur--or whether the rider's nerve was gone: but neither appeared to make an effort, till the animal was close on them. "'the horse gave one plunge--and had hardly recovered his feet, when down went horse and rider. "'featherstone gave a piercing scream! some of the sepoys were by this time up--and fired. "'the tiger trailed off--the blood spouting down his striped side. "'we came up--it was all over! "'the first stroke of that terrific paw had laid the unfortunate man's scull bare. on his shoulder, were the marks of the animal's teeth. "'the horse was still writhing in agony. one of my pistols relieved him. "'we bore featherstone to the nearest cantonment, and buried him there.'" "how terrible!" said acmé, as she gave a slight shudder. "englishmen are generally more sceptical on these points than we are; and disbelieve supernatural appearances, which we are accustomed to think are not unfrequent. i could tell you many stories, which, in my native island, were believed by our enemies the turks, as well as by ourselves: but if you would like it, i will tell you a circumstance that occurred to myself, the reality of which i dare not doubt. "you have often, giorgio! heard me revert with pain, to the horrible scene which took place, on the recapture of our little isle by the infidel turks; when my family were massacred, and only poor acmé left to tell their tale." here the young bride put her handkerchief to her face, and wept bitterly. george put his arm round her and soothed her. she continued her narrative. "you know my escape, and how i was sent to a kinsman, who had promised to have me sent to my kind friends in malta. he was a corfuote, and it was in corfu i remained for a long--a very long time--and there first met my dear friend, zöe scalvo-forressi. i was then very young. we lived in the campagna--about four miles from each other. "we had both our greek ponies, and used often to pass the evenings together; and at length knew our road so well, that often it was night before we parted. "one night, we had been singing together at her house, and it was later than usual when i cantered home. "about four months had elapsed previous to my landing in corfu, and i had been eight months there; although at the time, i paid little attention to these circumstances. "my road lay through an olive grove. i had arrived in its centre, where a small knoll stretched away on my right; on whose summit, was a white greek monastery, backed by some dark cypress trees. "the moon was shining brightly--dancing on the silver side of the olive trees--and illuminating the green sward. "this was smooth and verdant. "my spirits were more than usually buoyant, when suddenly my pony stopped. "i could not conceive the reason. "i looked before me. immediately in front of me, was the shattered trunk of an old olive tree--it had been blasted by lightning--and sitting quietly at its foot--i saw my own mother, giorgio! as clearly as i see you now. i could not be mistaken. she wore the same embroidered vest and albanian shawl, as when i had last seen her. "she conversed with me calmly for many minutes, and--which surprised me much at the time--i felt no dread, and asked her and answered many questions. "she told me i should die early, in a foreign land; and many--many more things, which i dare not repeat; for i cannot contemplate the possibility of their being true. "at the time, i told you i felt composed: without any sense of alarm or surprise. for many days afterwards, however, i never left my bed of sickness. "i told my kinsman all the circumstances, and he discovered beyond a doubt, that it was on that very day, the twelve-month previous, that my poor mother had been murdered." sir henry and george tried to smile at acmé's story, and account for what she had seen;--but her manner was so impressive, and her ingenious reasonings--delivered in the most earnest tone--seemed to confute so entirely all their speculations, that they were at length content to deem it "wondrous strange." in the best and wisest of us, there is such a tendency to believe in a mysterious link, connecting the living and the departed; that a story of this nature, in exciting our feelings, serves to paralyse our reasoning faculties, and leaves us half converts, to the doctrines that we faintly combat. they looked forth again on the scene. the mountains of calabria were frowning on them. the village was far behind--and not a straggling light marked its situation. numberless stars were reflected on the glassy water, whose serenity was no longer ruffled by wing of sea bird, which long ere now had returned to its "wave girded nest." our party and the watch were the only lingerers on deck. george wrapped acmé's silk cloak around her, and then carefully assisted her in her descent to the cabin. chapter xx. the mad house. "and see the mind's convulsion leave it weak." the land breeze continued to freshen, and the first dawn of morning saw our party on deck, scanning with near view, the opposite coasts of sicily and italy, as their vessel glided through the faro of messina. some pilot boats,--how unlike those which greet the homeward-bound voyager, as he first hails britain's chalky cliffs--crowded around the vessel, offering their services to guide it through the strait. avarice--one incentive to language--had endowed these sicilian mariners with a competent knowledge of english, which they dealt out vociferously. as the captain made his selection, the rejected candidates failed not to use that familiar english salâm; half the gusto of which is lost, when used by foreign lip. on the calabrian coast, the sea-port town of reggio wore an unusual air of bustle and animation. it was a festa day there; and groups of peasants, in many-coloured costumes, paced up and down the mole; emitting that joyous hum, which is the never-failing concomitant of a happy crowd. passing through the faro, the vessel's course lay by the northern coast of sicily. the current and wind were alike favourable, as it swept on by melazzo and lascari. etna, towering over the lesser mountains, became once more visible; its summit buried in the clouds of heaven. on the right, a luminous crimson ring revealed stromboli, whose fitful volcano was more than usually active. the following day our party arrived at palermo. so pleasurable had been their voyage, that it was with a feeling akin to regret, that they heard the rumbling chains of the anchor, rush through the hawse-hole, as their vessel took her station in the bay. after going through those wearisome forms, which a foreign sea-port exacts; and which appear purposely intended, to temper the rapture of the sea-worn voyager, as he congratulates himself on once more treading terra firma; our party found themselves the inmates of the english hotel; and spent the remainder of the day in engaging a cicerone, and in discussing plans for the morrow. the morrow came--sunny and cloudless--and the cicerone bowed to the ground, as he opened the door of the commodious fiacre. "where shall i drive to, sir?" "what were our plans, george?" said sir henry. "i think," replied george, "that we only formed one plan to change it for another. let the cicerone decide for us." _he,_ nothing loath, accepted the charge; and taking his station on the box of the carriage, directed the driver. the carriage first stopped before a large stone building. the bell was rung--a veteran porter presented himself--and our party entered the court yard. "what place is this?" said delmé. "this," rejoined his guide, with the true cicerone fluency, "is the famous lunatic asylum, instituted by the illustrious baron pisani. this, gentlemen, is the baron!" here a benevolent-looking little man with a large nose, took off his hat. "so much approved of was his beneficent design, that our noble king, and our paternal government, have not only adopted it; but have graciously permitted the baron, to continue to preside over that institution, which he so happily commenced, and which he so refulgently adorns." during this announcement, the baron's face flushed with a simple, but honest pride. these praises did not to him appear exaggerated; for his intentions had been of the purest, and in this institution was his whole soul wrapt up. acmé became somewhat pale, as she heard where they were, and looked nervously at george; who could not forbear smiling, as he begged they would be under no apprehensions. "yes! gentlemen," said the baron, "circumstances in early life made me regard mental disease as the most fearful of all. i observed its victims struggling between reason and insanity; goaded on by the ignorance of empirics, and the harsh treatment of those about them, until light fled the tortured brain, and madness directed its every impulse. you, gentlemen, are english travellers, i perceive! in _your_ happy land, where generosity and wealth go hand in hand, there are, i doubt not, many humane institutions, where those, who--bowed down by misfortunes, or preyed on by disease--have lost the power to take care of themselves, may find a home, where they may be anxiously tended, and carefully provided for. "here we knew not of such things. "i have said, gentlemen, that chance made me feel a deep interest in these unfortunates. i sunk the greater part of my fortune, in constructing this mansion, trusting that the subscriptions of individuals, would enable me to prosecute the good work. "in this i was disappointed; but our worthy viceroy, who took an interest in my plans, laid the matter before the government, which--as signer guiseppe observes--has not only undertaken to support my asylum, but also permits me to preside over the establishment. _that_, gentlemen, is my apartment, with the mignionette boxes in front, and without iron bars in the window; though indeed these very bars are painted, at my suggestion, such a delicate green, that you might not have been aware that they were such. "this is our first chamber--cheerful and snug. here are the patients first brought. we indulge them in all their caprices, until we are enabled to decide with certainty, on the fantasy the brain has conjured up. from this room, we take them to the adjacent bed-room, where we administer such remedies as we think the best fitted to restore reason. "if these fail, we apportion the patient a cell, and consider the case as beyond our immediate relief. we cure, on an average, two-thirds of the cases forwarded to us; and there have been instances of the mind's recovering its tone, after a confinement of some years." "how many inmates have you in the asylum at present?" said acmé. "one hundred and thirty-six, eighty-six of whom are males. these are our baths, to which they are daily taken; this the refectory; this the parlatorio, where they see their friends; and now, if the lady is not afraid, we will descend to the court yard, and see my charges." "there is no fear?" said george. "not in the least. our punishment is so formidable, that few will incur it by being refractory." "what! then you are obliged to punish them?" said acmé, with a shudder. "sometimes, but not often. i will show you what our punishment consists in. you see this room without furniture! observe the walls and floor; and even the door as it closes. all these are carefully stuffed; and if you walk across the room, there is no sound. "we cautiously search violent lunatics; who are then dressed in a plain flannel suit, and left alone. it is seldom we have occasion to retain them longer than twenty-four hours. they soon find they cannot injure themselves; their most violent efforts cannot elicit a sound. their minds become calmed; and when released, they are perfectly quiet, and generally inclined to melancholy." they descended to the court yard, set apart for the men. its inmates were pacing it hurriedly; some jabbering to themselves; others with groups round them, to whom they addressed some quickly delivered jargon. with one or two exceptions, all noticed the entrance of the strangers; and some of them bowed to them, with mock gravity. one man, who wore an old cocked hat with a shabby feather, tapped sir henry on the shoulder. "vous me reconnaissez--napoleon! votre empereur!" he wheeled round, and called for his mamelukes. the next moment, a young and interesting looking person came forward, the tears standing in his, eyes, and extended his hand to acmé. "give me yours," said he, "as a great favour. i was a painter once in naples--and i went to rome--and i loved gianetta cantieri!" a more ludicrous incident now occurred. at and since their entrance, our party had heard what seemed the continued bark of a dog. a man on all fours came forward from behind a group, and with unmeaning face, and nostril snuffing up the wind, imitated to perfection the deep bay of a mastiff. "that man's peculiarity," observed the baron, "is an extraordinary one. he had a cottage near catania, and had saved some little wealth. his house was one night robbed of all it contained. this misfortune preyed on the man's reason, and he now conceives himself a watch dog. he knows the step of every inmate of the asylum, and only barks at strangers." from the male court yard, the baron ushered them to the female, where insanity assumed a yet more melancholy shape. a pale-faced maniac, with quivering frame, and glaring eye-balls, continued to cry, in a low and piteous tone, "murder! murder!! murder!!!" one woman, reclining on the cold pavement, dandled a straw, and called it her sweet child; while another hugged a misshapen block of wood to her bared breast, and deemed it her true love. a third was on her knees, and at regular intervals, bent down her shrivelled body, and devoured the gravel beneath her. acmé was happy to leave the scene, and move towards the garden; which was extensive, and beautifully laid out. as they turned down one of the alleys, they encountered five or six men, drawn up in line, and armed with wooden muskets. in front stood napoleon, who, with stentorian voice, gave the word to "present arms!" then dropping his stick, and taking off his hat to delmé, began to converse familiarly with him, as with his friend emperor alexander, as to the efficiency of poniatowski and his polish lancers. "poor fellow!" said the baron, as they moved on. "never was insanity more harmless! he was once brigade major to murat. this is his hour for exercise. exactly at two, he goes through the scene of fontainbleau, what will appear to you extraordinary is, that over the five or six men you saw around him, whose madness has been marked by few distinguishing traits, he has gradually assumed a superiority, until they now believe him to be, in reality, the emperor he so unconsciously personates." in the garden, which was of considerable size, were placed a number of swings and whirligigs, in full motion and occupancy. on a stuccoed wall, were represented grotesque figures of animals dancing; opposite to which, one of terpsichore's votaries, with a paper cap on his head, shaped like a pyramid, was executing agile capers, whose zeal of purpose would have found infinite favour in the eyes of laporte. having explored the garden, delmé accompanied the baron to a small room, where the sculls of the deceased maniacs were ranged on shelves, with a small biographical note attached to each; and heard with attention, the old man's energetic reasoning, as to these fully demonstrating the truth of spurzheim's theory. acmé, meantime, remained on george's arm, talking to a girl of thirteen, who had been selected to conduct them to the carriage. they entered their names in a book at the lodge, and then, turning to the benevolent director, paid him some well deserved compliments, for which he bowed low and often. the young girl, who had been conversing most rationally with acmé, moved forward, and made a signal for the carriage to drive up. she was a fair-haired gentle-looking creature, with quiet eye, and silvery voice. she assisted acmé to step into the carriage, who dropped a piece of silver into her hand, for which she gave a sweet smile and a curtsey. she stood a moment motionless. suddenly her eye lighted up--she darted into the carriage, and clapped her hands together joyfully. "viva! viva! we shall soon be home at trapani!" the tears sprang to the eyes of the young greek. even the driver and cicerone were moved. acmé took some flowers from her zone--kissed her cheek--and tried to change the current of her thoughts; but it was not till the driver promised he would call again, at the same hour the following day, that she consented with a sigh to relinquish her journey home. from the lunatic asylum, our party adjourned to the duomo, and beheld the coffin, where the revered body of the palermitan saint, attracts many a devout catholic. sweet rosalia! thy story is a pretty one--thy festa beauteous--the fireworks in thy honour most bright. no wonder the fair sicilians adore thy memory. in the cool of the evening, our travellers drove to the marina; where custom--the crowded assemblage--and the grateful sea breeze--nightly attract the gay inhabitants of palermo. the carriages, with their epauletted chasseurs, swept on in giddy succession, and made a scene quite as imposing as is witnessed in most european capitals. delmé did not think it advisable, to remain too long in the metropolis of sicily; and the travellers contented themselves, with the sight-seeing of the immediate neighbourhood. they admired the mosaics of the chiesa di monte reale; and fed the pheasants, at that beautiful royal villa, well styled "the favourite." they took a boat to witness the tunny fishery; and sir henry explored alone the vast catacombs--that city of the dead. after a few days thus passed--the weather continuing uncommonly fine--they did not hesitate to engage one of the small vessels of the place, to convey them to naples. after enjoying their evening drive as usual, they embarked on board the sparonara, one fine starry night, in order to get the full advantage of the favouring night breeze. end of the first volume. a love story by a bushman. vol. ii. "my thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, and bear my spirit back again over the earth, and through the air, a wild bird and a wanderer." . a love story. chapter i. naples. "and be it mine to muse there, mine to glide from day-break when the mountain pales his fire, yet more and more, and from the mountain top, till then invisible, a smoke ascends, solemn and slow." "vedi napoli! e poi muori!" memory! beloved memory! to us thou art as hope to other men. the present--solitary, unexciting--where are its charms? the future hath no joys in store for us; and may bereave us of some of the few faint pleasures that still are ours. what then is left us--old before our time--but to banquet on the past? memory! thou art in us, as the basil of the enamoured florentine. [footnote : see keats' poem taken from boccaccio.] thy blossoms, thy leaves,--green, fresh, and fragrant,--draw their nurture, receive their every colouring, from what was dearest to us on earth. and are they not watered by our tears? the poet tells us-- "nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria." but it is not so. where is he of the tribe of the unfortunate, who would not gladly barter the contemplation of present wretchedness, for the remembrance, clogged as it is by a thousand woes, of a time when joyous visions flitted across life's path? yes! though the contrast, the succeeding moment, should cut him to the soul. but "joy's recollection is no longer joy, whilst sorrow's memory is a sorrow still." ah! there's the rub! yet, better to think it _was_ joy, than gaze unveiled on the cold reality around; than view the wreck--the grievous wreck--a few short years have made. we care not,--and, alas! to such as we have in our mind's eye, these are the only cases allowed,--we care not! whether rapture has been succeeded by apathy, or whether the feelings continue as deeply enlisted--the thoughts as intensely concentrated;--but--in the servitude of despair! and again we say--gentle memory! let us dream over our past joys! ay! and brood over our sorrows--undeserved--as in this hour of solitude, we may justly deem them. yes! let us again live over our days of suffering, and deem it wiser to steep our soul in tears, than let it freeze with an iced coating of cynic miscalled philosophy. and shall adversity--that touchstone--softened as our hearts shall thus be--shall it pass over us, and improve us not? no! it has purifying and cleansing qualities; and for us, it has them not in vain. we are not dust, to be more defiled by water; nor are we as the turbid stream, which passing over driven snow, becomes more impure by the close contact. thee, mnemosyne! let us still adore; content rather to droop, fade, and die--martyrs to thee! than linger on as beasts of the forest, that know thee not. no hope may be ours to animate the future: let us still cling to thee, though thine influence sadden the past. away! we are on the placid sea! and naples lies before us. the sun had just risen from ocean's bed, attired in his robe of gold; as our travellers watched from the deck of their sparonara, to catch the first view of the "garden of the world," as the neapolitans fondly style their city, a dim haze was abroad, the mists were slowly stealing up the mountains, as their vessel glided on; a light breeze anon filling its canvas, then dying away, and leaving the sails to flap against the loosened cordage. on their left, extended the charming heights of posilipo---the classic site of baia--pozzuoli--nisida--and ischia, to be reverenced for its wine. on their right, capra's isle and portici--and vesuvius--wreathed in vapour, presented themselves. as their vessel held on her way, naples became visible--its turrets capt by a solitary cloud, which had not yet acknowledged the supremacy of the rising deity. the effulgence of the city was dimmed, but it was lovely still,--as a diamond, obscured by a passing breath; or woman's eye, humid from pity's tear. "and this," said sir henry, for it happened that his travels in italy had not extended so far south, "this is naples! and this sea view the second finest in the world!" "which is the first?" said acmé, laughing, "not in england, i trust; for we foreigners do not invest your island with beauty's attributes." "my dear acmé!" replied sir henry, somewhat gravely, "i trust the day may arrive, when you will deem delmé park, with its mansion bronzed by time--its many hillocks studded with ancient trees--its glistening brook, and hoary gateways--its wooded avenue, where the rooks have built for generations--its verdant glades, where the deer have long found a home:--when you will consider all these, as forming as fair a prospect, as ever eye reposed on. but i did not allude at the time to england; but to the turkish capital. george! i remember your glowing description of your trip in mildmay's frigate, up the dardanelles. what comparison would you make between the two scenes?" "i confess to have been much disappointed," replied george, "in my first view of stamboul; and even the beauty of the passage to the dardanelles, seemed to me to have been exaggerated. but what really _did_ strike me, as being the most varied, the most interesting scenery i had ever witnessed, was that which greeted us, on an excursion we made in a row boat, from the bosphorus into the black sea. "there all my floating conceptions of oriental luxury, and of moslem pomp, were more than realised. "the elegant kiosks--the ornamented gardens--the pinnacled harems, the entrance to which lofty barriers jealously guarded--the number of the tombs in their silent cities---gave an intense interest to the turkish coast;--while sumptuous barges, filled with veiled women, swept by us, and gave a fairy charm to the sea. on our return, we were nearly lost from our ignorance of the current, which is rapid and dangerous." "well! i am glad to hear such a smiling account of stamboul," rejoined acmé. "my feelings regarding it have been quite grecian. it has always been to me a sort of ogre city." the breeze began to freshen, and the vessel made way fast. as they neared the termination of their voyage, some church, or casino bedecked with statues, or fertile glen, whose sides blushed with the luscious grape, opened at every instant, and drew forth their admiration. their little vessel swung to her anchor. the busy hum of the restless inhabitants, and the joyous toll of the churches, announcing one of the never-failing neapolitan processions, was borne on the breeze. the whole party embarked for the quarantine office, and--once authorised to join the throng of naples--soon found themselves in the strada toledo, moving towards the santa lucia. their hotel was near the mole; its windows commanding an extensive view of the purple sea, beyond which the eye took in the changeful volcano; and many a vista--sunny, smiling, and beauteous enough, for the exacting fancy of an englishman, who conjures up for an italian landscape, marble-like villas--and porticoes, where grapes cluster, in festoons of the vine--heaving mountains--a purple sky--faces bronzed, but oh how fair!--and song, revelry, and grace. but what struck acmé, and even sir henry, who was more inured to the whirl of cities, as the characteristical feature of naples, was its moving life. in the streets, there was an incessant bustle from morning until midnight. each passer by wore an air of importance, almost amounting to a consciousness of happiness. there was fire in the glance--speech in the action--on the lip a ready smile. in no city of italy, does care seem more misplaced. the noble rolls on in his vehicle on the corso, with features gay and self-possessed; while the merry laugh of the beggar--as he feasts on the lengthened honors of his macaroni--greets the ear at every turn. stray not there! oh thou with brow furrowed by anguish! if thy young affections have been blighted--if hope fondly indulged, be replaced by despair--if feelings that lent their roseate hue, to the commonest occurrences of life, now darken every scene--if thou knowest thyself the accessary to this, thy misery, stray not in naples, all too joyous for thee! rather haunt the shrines of the world's ancient mistress! perchance the sunken pillar--and the marble torso--and the moss-grown edifice--and the sepulchre, with the owl as tenant--and the thought that the great, the good, and the talented, who reared these fading monuments--are silent and mouldering below: mayhap these things will speak to thy heart, and repress the full gush of a sorrow that may not be controlled! and if--the martyr to o'er-sicklied refinement--to sentiment too etherialised for the world, where god hath placed thee--ideal woes have stamped a wrinkle on the brow, and ideal dreams now constitute thy pleasure and thy bane: for such as thou art! living on feeling's excess--soaring to rapture's heights--or sinking to despair's abyss--naples is not fitting! visit the city of the sea! there indulge thy shapeless imaginings--with no sound to break thy day dreams--save the shrill cry of the gondolier, and the splash of his busy oar. the young greek, delmé, and george, were soon immersed in the round of sight seeing. visits to the ancient palace of queen joanna--to the modern villa of the margravine--to the sibyl's cave, and to maro's tomb--to _some_ sites that owed their interest to classic associations--to _others_ that claimed it from present beauty--wiled away days swiftly and pleasurably. what with youth, change of scene, and an italian sky, george was no longer an invalid. his eye wore neither the film of apathy, nor the unnatural flush of delirium; but smiled its happiness on all, and beamed its love on acmé. one night they were at the fondo, and after listening delightedly to lalande, and following with quick glance, the rapid movements of the agile ballerina, and after george had been honoured by a bow--which greatly amused acmé--from the beautiful princess; who, poor girl! _then_ felt a penchant for englishmen, which she failed not to avow from her opera box--the party agreed to walk home to the hotel. on their way, they turned into a coffee-room to take ice. the fluent waiter prattled over his catalogue; and acmé selected his "sorbetto maltese," because the name reminded her of the loved island. leaving the coffee-room, they were accosted by a driver of one of the public coaches. "now, signore! just in time for vesuvius! see the sun rise! superb sight! elegant carriage!" "do let us go!" said acmé, clapping her hands with youthful enthusiasm. "no, no! my dear!" said sir henry, "we must not think of it! you would be so tired." "no, no! you do not know how strong i am; and i intend sleeping on george's shoulder all the way--and we are all in such high spirits--and these improvised excursions you yourself granted were always best--and besides, you know we must always start at this hour, if we expect to see the sunrise from the mountain. what do _you_ say, giorgio?" the discussion ended, by the driver taking the direction of the hotel; whence, after making arrangements as to provisions and change of dress, the party started for the mountain. the warm cheek of acmé was reposing on that of her husband; and the wanton night air was disporting with her wavy tresses, as the loud halloo of the driver, warned them that they were in portici, and in the act of arousing salvador, the guide to the mountain. after some short delay, they procured mules. each brother armed himself with a long staff, and leaving the carriage, they wended their way towards the hermitage. it was a clear night. the moon was majestically gliding on her path, vassalled by myriads of stars. there was something in the hour--and the scene--and the novelty of the excursion--that enjoined silence. arrived at the hermitage, the party dismounted. acmé clung to the strap, fastened round their guide, and they commenced the ascent. in a short time, they had manifest proofs of their vicinity to the volcano. the ashy lava gave way at each footstep, and it was only by taking short and quick steps, and perseveringly toiling on, that they were enabled to make any progress. more than once, was acmé inclined to stop, and take breath, but the guide assured them they were already late, and that they would only just be in time for the sunrise. as the last of the party reached the summit, the sun became perceptible--and rose in glory indescribable. the scene afar how gorgeous! around them how grand! panting from their exertions, they sat on a cloak of salvador's, and gazed with astonishment at the novelties bursting on the eye. each succeeding moment, gusts of flame issued forth from the crater. they looked down on the bason, above which they were. from a conical pyramid of lava, were emitted volumes of smoke, which rolled up to heaven in rounded and fantastic shapes of beauty. below, a deep azure--above, of a clear amber hue--the clouds wreathed and ascended majestically, as if in time to the rumbling thunder--the accompaniments of nature's subterraneous throes. their fatigues were amply repaid. sir henry's curiosity was aroused, and he descended with the guide to the crater. george and acmé, delighted with the excursion, remained on the summit, partaking of salvador's provisions. the descent they found easy and rapid; the lava now assisting, as much as it had formerly impeded them. at portici, salvador introduced them to his apartment, embellished with specimens of lava. they purchased some memorials of their visit--partook of some fruit--and, after rewarding the guide, they returned to naples. another of their excursions, and it is one than which there are few more interesting, was to that city--which, like the fabulous one of the eastern tale, rears its temples, but there are none to worship; its theatres, but there are none to applaud; its marble statues, where are the eyes that should dwell on them with pride? its mansions are many--its walls and tesselated pavements, show colours of vivid hue, and describe tales familiar from our boyhood. the priest is at his altar--the soldiers in their guard-room--the citizen in his bath. it is indeed difficult, as our step re-echoes through the silent streets, to divest ourselves of the impression, that we are wandering where the enchanter's wand has been all powerful, that he has waved it, and lo! the city sleeps for a season, until some event shall have been fulfilled. our party were in the via appia of pompeii, when acmé turned aside, to remark one tomb more particularly. it was an extensive one, surrounded with a species of iron net work, through which might be seen ranges of red earthen vases. acme turned to the custode, and asked if this was the burial place of some noble family. "no! signora! this is where the ashes of the gladiators are preserved." from the appian way, they entered through the public gate; and passing many shops, whose signs yet draw notice, if they no longer attract custom, they came to the private houses, and entered one--that called sallust's--for the purpose of a more minute inspection. "nothing appears to be more strange," said george, "on looking at these frescoed paintings, and on such mosaics as we have yet seen; than the extraordinary familiarity of their subjects. "there are many depicted on these walls, and i do not think, henry, _we_ are first rate classics;--and yet it would be difficult to puzzle us, in naming the story whence these frescoes have their birth. look at this latona--and leda--and the ariadne abbandonata--and this must certainly be the blooming hebe. ah! and look at this little niche! this grinning little deity--the facsimile of an indian idol--must express their idea of the penates. strange! is it not?" "but are you not," rejoined sir henry, "somewhat disappointed in the dwelling-houses? this seems one of the most extensive, and yet, how diminutive the rooms! and how little of attraction in the whole arrangement, if we except this classic fountain. "this i think is a proof, that the ancient romans must have chiefly passed their day abroad--in the temples--the forum--or the baths--and have left as home tenants none but women, and those unadorned with the toga virilis. "these habits may have tended to engender a manlier independence; and to impart to their designs a loftier spirit of enterprise. what say you, acmé?" "i might perhaps answer," replied acmé, "that the happiness gained, is well worth the glory lost. but i must not fail to remind you, that--grand as this nation must have been--my poor fallen one was its precursor--its tutor--and its model." hence they wandered to the theatre--the forum--the pantheon--and amphitheatre:--which last, from their converse in the earlier part of the day--fancy failed not to fill with daring combatants. as the guide pointed out the dens for the wild beasts--the passages through which they came--and the arena for the combat--sir henry, like most british travellers, recalled the inimitable story of thraso, and his lion fight. [footnote: in valerius.] the following day was devoted to the studio, and to the inspection of the relics of pompeii. these relics, interesting as they are, yet convey a melancholy lesson to the contemplative mind. each modern vanity here has its parallel--each luxury its archetype. here may be found the cameoed ring--and the signet seal--and the bodkin--and paint for the frail one's cheek--a cuirass, that a life guardsman might envy--weights--whose elegance of shape charm the eye. not an article of modern convenience or of domestic comfort, that has not its representative. they teach us the trite french lesson. "l'histoire se répète." with the exception of these two excursions, and one to poestum; our travellers passed their mornings sight-seeing in naples, and chiefly at the studio, whose grand attraction is the thrilling group of the taureau farnese. in the cool of the evening, until twilight's hour was past, they drove into the country, or promenaded in the gardens of the villa reale, to the sound of the military band. each night they turned their footsteps towards the mole; where they embarked on the unruffled bay. to a young and loving heart--the heart of a bride--no pleasure can equal that, of being next the one loved best on earth--at night's still witching hour. the peculiar scenery of naples, yet more enhances such pleasure. elsewhere night may boast its azure vault and its silver stars. cynthia may ride the heavens in majesty--the water may be serene--and the heart attuned to the night's beauty:--but from the _land_, if discernible--we can rarely expect much addition to the charms of the scene, and can never expect it to form its chief attraction. at naples it is otherwise. our eyes turn to the volcano, whose flame, crowning the mountain's summit, crimsons the sky. we watch with undiminished interest, its fitful action--now bursting out brilliantly--now fading, as if about to be extinguished for ever. seated beside george, and thus gazing, what pleasure was acmé's! we need not say time flew swiftly. never did happiness meet with more ardent votary than in that young bride--or find a more ready mirror, on which to reflect her beaming attributes--than on the features of that bride's husband. their swimming eyes would fill with tears--and their voices sink to the lowest whisper. sir henry rarely interrupted their converse; but leant his head on the boat's side, and thoughtfully gazed on the placid waters, till he almost deemed he saw reflected on its surface, the face of one, in whose society _he_ felt he too might be blest. but these fancies would not endure long. delmé would quickly arouse himself; and, warned by the lateness of the hour, and feeling the necessity that existed, for his thinking for the all-engrossed pair, would order the rowers to direct the boat's course homewards. returned to their hotel, it may be that orisons more heavenward, have issued from hearts more pure. few prayers more full of gratitude, have been whispered by earthly lips, than were breathed by george and his young wife in the solitude of their chamber. how often is such uncommon happiness as this the precursor of evil! chapter ii. the doctor. "son port, son air de suffisance, marquent dans son savoir sa noble confiance. dans les doctes debats ferme et rempli de coeur, même après sa défaite il tient tête an vainqueur. voyez, pour gagner temps, quelles lenteurs savantes, prolongent de ses mots les syllabes traînantes! tout le monde l'admire, et ne peut concevoir que dans un cerveau seul loge tant de savoir." it was soon after the excursion to poestum, that a packet of letters reached the travellers from malta. these letters had been forwarded from england, on the intelligence reaching emily, of george's intended marriage. they had been redirected to naples, by colonel vavasour, and were accompanied by a few lines from himself. in sir henry's communication with his sister, he had prudently thrown a veil, over the distressing part of george's story, and had dwelt warmly, on the beauty and sweetness of temper of acmé frascati. he could hardly hope that the proposed marriage, would meet with the entire approval of those, to whom he addressed himself. the letters in reply, however, only breathed the affectionate overflowings of kind hearts. mrs. glenallan sent her motherly blessing to george; and emily, in addition to a long communication to her brother, wrote to acmé as to a beloved sister; begging her to hasten george's return to england, that they might meet one, in whom they must henceforward feel the liveliest interest. "how kind they all are," said george. "i only wish we _were_ with them." "and so do i," said acmé. "how dearly i shall love them all." "george!" said sir henry, abruptly, "do you know, i think it is quite time we should move farther north. the weather is getting most oppressive; and we have nearly exhausted the lions of naples." "with all my heart," replied george. "i am ready to leave it whenever you please." on sir henry's considering the best mode of conveyance, it occurred to him, that some danger might arise from the malaria of the pontine marshes; and indeed, rome and its environs were represented, at that time, as being by no means free from this unwelcome visitant. sir henry enquired if there were any english physicians resident in naples; and having heard a high eulogium passed by the waiter, on a doctor pormont, "who attended the noble consul, and my lord rimington," ventured to enclose his card, with a note, stating that he would be glad of five minutes' conversation with that gentleman. in a short time, doctor pormont was introduced. he was a tall man, with very marked features, and a deeply furrowed brow; whose longitudinal folds, however, seemed rather the result of thought or of study, than of age. the length of his nose was rivalled by the width of his mouth. when he spoke, he displayed two rows of very clean and very regular teeth, but which individually narrowed to a sharp point, and gave his whole features a peculiarly unpleasing expression. his voice was husky--his manners chilling--his converse that of a pedant. doctor pormont was in many respects a singular man. from childhood, he had been remarkable for stoicism of character. he possessed none of the weak frailties, or gentle sympathies, which ordinarily belong to human nature. his blood ran cold, like that of a fish. never had he been known to lose his equanimity of deportment. a species of stern principle, however, governed his conduct; and his very absence of feeling, made him an impartial physician, and one of the most successful anatomists of the day. what brought him to bustling, sunny naples, was an unfathomed mystery. once there, he acquired wealth without anxiety, and patients without friends. amongst the many anecdotes, current amongst his professional brethren, as to the blunted feelings of doctor pormont, was one,--related of him when he was lecturer at a popular london institution. a subject had been placed on the anatomist's table, for the purpose of allowing the lecturer, to elucidate to the young students, the advantages of a post mortem examination, in the determination of diseases. the lecturer dissected as he proceeded, and was particularly clear and luminous. he even threw light on the previous habits of the deceased, and showed at what period of life, the germ of decay was probably forming. a friend casually enquired, as they left the lecture room, whether the subject had been a patient of his own. "no!" replied the learned lecturer, "the body is that of my cousin and schoolfellow, harry welborne. i attended his funeral, at some little distance from town, a couple of days ago. my servant must have given information to the exhumer. it is clear the body was removed from the vault on the same evening." sir henry delmé briefly explained to doctor pormont, his purpose in sending for him. he stated that he was anxious to take his advice, as to the best mode of proceeding to rome, and also as to the best sleeping place for the party;--that he had a wholesome dread of the malaria, but that one of his party being a female, and another an invalid, he thought it might be as well to sleep one night on the road. regarding all this, he deferred to the advice and superior judgment of the physician. "judgment," said doctor pormont, "is two-fold. it may be defined, either as the faculty of arriving at the knowledge of things, which may be effected by the synthetic or analytic method; or it may be considered as the just perception of them, when they are fully indagated. "our problem seems to resolve itself into two cases. "first: does malaria exist to an unusual and alarming extent, on the route you purpose taking? "secondly: the existence conceded--what is the best method to escape the evil effects that might attend its inhibition into the human system? "let us apply the synthetic method to our first case." the doctor prefaced his arguments, by a long statement, as to the gradual commencement, and progress of malaria;--showed how the atmosphere, polluted by exhalations of water, impregnated with decaying and putrified vegetable matter, gave forth miasmata; which he described as being particles of poison in a volatile state. he alluded to the opinion held by many, that the disease owed its origin to the ravages of the barbarians, who destroying the roman farms and villas, had made _desert_ what were _fertile_ regions. he traced it from the time of the late roman emperors, to that of the dominion of the popes, whose legislative enactments to arrest the malady, he failed not to comment on at length. he explained the uncertainty which continued to exist, as to the boundaries of the tract of country, in which the disease was rife; and then plunged into his argument. george, at this crisis, quietly took the opportunity of gliding from the room. sir henry stretched his legs on an ottoman, and appeared immersed in the study of a print--the europa of paul veronese--which hung over the mantel-piece. "the diario di roma," continued the doctor, "received this day, decidedly states that malaria is fearfully raging on the neapolitan road. pray forgive me, if i occasionally glide into the vulgar error, of confounding the disease itself, with the causes of that disease. "on the other hand, a young collegian, who arrived in naples from rome yesterday evening, states that he smoked and slept the whole journey, and suffered no inconvenience whatever. "here two considerations present themselves. while sleep has been considered by the best authorities, as predisposing the human frame to infection, by opening the pores, relaxing the integuments, and retarding the circulation of the blood; i cannot overlook the virtues of tobacco, narcotic--aromatic--disinfecting--as we must grant them to be. "here then may i place in juxta-position, the testimony of the diario, and that of a young gentleman, half of his time asleep--the other half, under the influence of the fumes of tobacco. "synthetically, i opine, that we may conclude that malaria does exist, and to a great degree, in the campagna di roma. will you now allow me, to submit the question under dispute, to the analytic process? by many, in the present age, though not by me, it is considered the more philosophical mode of reasoning." "i am extremely obliged to you, doctor," said sir henry, in a quiet tone of voice, "but you have raised the synthetic structure so admirably, that i think that in this instance we may dispense with your analysis. pray proceed!" "having already shown, then--although your kindness has allowed me to do so but partially--that malaria does indeed exist, it becomes me to show, which is the best mode of avoiding its baneful effects. "injurious as are the miasmata in general, and fatal as are the effects of that peculiar form in this country, termed malaria; the diseases they engender, i apprehend to be rather endemic than epidemic. "it would be difficult to determine, to what part of the campagna, the disease is at present confined; but i should certainly not advise you, to sleep within the bounds of contagion, for the predisposing effects of sleep i have already hinted at. "rapid travelling is, in my opinion, the best prophylactic i can prescribe, as besides a certain exhilarating effect on the spirits, the swift passage through the air, will remove any spiculæ of the marsh miasmata, which may be hovering near your persons. air, cheerfulness, and exercise, however, predispose to, and are the results of sleep: and to an invalid especially, sleep is indispensable. "in mr. delmé's case, therefore, i would recommend a temporary halt." dr. pormont then gave an account of the length of the stages, the nature of the post-house accommodations, and the probable degree of danger attached to each site. from all this, delmé gathered, that malaria existed to some extent, on the line of road they were to travel--that sleep would be necessary for george--and that, on the whole, it would be most desirable to sleep at an inn, situated at a hamlet between molo di gaetà and terracina, somewhat removed from the central point of danger. but the truth is, that sir henry delmé was disposed to consider dr. pormont, with his pomposity, and wordy arguments, as a mere superficial thinker; and he half laughed at himself, for having ever thought it necessary to consult him. this class of men influence less than they ought. sensible persons are apt to set them down, as either fools or pedants. their very magniloquence condemns them; for, in the present day, it seems an axiom, that simplicity and genius are invariably allied. this rule, like most others, has its exceptions; and it would be well for all of us, if we thought less of the manner, in which advice may be delivered, and more of the matter which it may contain. the doctor rose to take leave,--sir henry witnessed his departure with lively satisfaction; and, with the exception of enjoying a hearty laugh, at his expense, with george and acmé, ceased to recollect that such a personage existed. delmé, however, had cause to remember that doctor pormont. were it not so, he would not have figured in these pages. the last evening they were at naples, they proceeded, as was their custom, to the mole; and there engaging a boat, directed it to be rowed across the bay. the volcano was more than usually brilliant, and the villages at its base, appeared as clear as at noonday. the water's surface was not ruffled by a ripple. a bridal party was following in the wake of their boat--and nuptial music was floating past them in subdued cadence. a nameless regret filled their minds, as they thought of the journey on the coming morrow. they had been so happy in naples. could they hope to be happier elsewhere? it was midnight, when they returned to the hotel. as they neared its portico, the round cold moon fell on the forms of the lazzaroni, who were lying in groups round the pillars. one of the party sprang to his feet, alarming the slumberers. the whole of them rose with admirable cheerfulness--took off their hats respectfully--and made way for the forestieri. during the momentary pause that ensued, acmé turned to the volcano, and playfully waved her hand in token of farewell. her eyes filled with tears, and she clung heavily to george's arm. she was doomed never to look on that scene again. chapter iii. the beginning of the end. "thou too, art gone! thou loved and lovely one, whom youth and youth's affections bound to me." at an early hour, rich aureate hues yet streaking the east, our party were duly seated in a roomy carriage of angrasani's, on their way to rome. they had hopes of arriving at the capital, in time to witness that unique sight, the illumination of saint peter's; a sight which few can remember, without deeming its anticipation well worthy, to urge on the jaded traveller, to his journey's termination. who can forget the play of the fountains in front of the vatican, the music of whose descending water is most distinctly audible, although crowds throng the wide and noble space. breathless--silent all--is the assembled multitude, as the clock of saint peter's gives its long expected signal. away! darkness is light! a fairy palace springs before us! its beautiful proportions starting into life, until the giddy brain reels, from the excess of that splendour, on which the eye suddenly and delightedly feasts! with the exception of a short halt, which afforded the travellers time for an early dinner at the albergo di cicerone, which is about half a mile from the molo di gaeta, they prosecuted their journey without intermission, till arrived within sight of their resting place. this bore the aspect of an extensive, but dilapidated mansion, evidently designed for some other purpose. its proprietor had erected it, at a period, when malaria was either less prevalent or less dreaded; and his descendants had quitted it, for some more salubrious site. the albergo itself, occupied but a small portion of the building, immediately on the right and left of the porch. the other apartments, which formed the wings, were either wholly tenantless, or were fitted up as hay-lofts, granaries, or receptacles for farming utensils. in the upper rooms, the panes of glass were broken; and the whole aspect of the place betokened desolation and decay. as they drove to the door, a throng of mendicants and squalid peasants came forth. their faces had a cadaverous hue, which could not but be remarked. their eyes, too, seemed heavy, and deep set in the head; while many had their throats bandaged, from the effects of glandular swellings, brought on by the marshy exhalations. acmé threw some small pieces of neapolitan money amongst them; and their gratitude in consequence was boundless. she sprang from the carriage like a young fawn. "come, come, giorgio! look at that sweet sun-set--and at the blue clouds edged with burnished gold! would it not be a sin to remain in-doors on such an evening? and besides," added she, in a whisper--"is it not a pleasure to leave behind us these sickly faces, to muse on an italian landscape, and admire an italian sky? driver! will you order supper? we will take a stroll while it is preparing. "come! henry! come away! do not look so grave, or you will make me think of your amusing friend--dr. pormont." "thompson!" said george, as the smiling bride bore off the brothers in triumph, "do not forget your mistress' guitar case!" the travellers passed a paved court, in rear of the building; whence a wicket gate admitted them to a kitchen garden, well stocked with the requisites for an italian salad. behind this, enclosed with embankments, was a small vineyard. the vines twined round long poles, these again being connected with thin cords, which the tendrils were already clasping. thus far, there was nothing that seemed indicative of an unwholesome situation. as they extended their walk, however, pursuing the continuation of the path, that had led them through the vineyard, they arrived at the edge of a dark sluggish stream, whose surface was nearly on a level with them; and which, gradually becoming broader, at length emptied itself into what might be styled a wide and luxuriant marsh, which abounded with water-fowl. this was studded with small round lakes, and with islets of an emerald verdure. from the bosom of the marsh itself, rose bulrushes and pollard willows, towered over by gigantic noisy reeds. the stream was thickly strewn with the pure honours of the water lily. if--as eastern poets tell us--these snowy flowers bathe their charms, when the sun is absent, but lift up their virgin heads, when he looks down approvingly:--but that, sometimes deceived, on some peerless damsel's approaching, they mistake her eye for their loved luminary, and pay to her beauty an abrupt and involuntary homage:--_now_ might they indeed gaze upward, to greet as fair a face as ever looked down on the water they bedecked. they approached the edge of the marsh, and discovered a rural arbour of faded boughs--the work of children--placed around a couple of willow trees. within it, was a rude seat; and some parasitical plant with a deep red flower, had twined round the withered boughs, and mingled fantastically with the dead leaves. below the arbour, was a small stone embankment, which prevented the waters from encroaching, and made the immediate site comparatively free from dampness. acme arranged her cloak--took one hand of each of the brothers in hers--and in the exuberance of health and youth--commenced prattling in that charming domestic strain, which only household intimacy can beget or justify. george leant back in silence, but could have clasped her to his heart. memory! memory! who that hath a soul, cannot conjure up one such gentle being,--while the blood for one moment responds to thy call, and rolls through the veins with the tide of earlier and of happier days? at the extremity of the horizon, was a more extensive lake, than any near them. over this, the sun was setting; tinting its waters with a clear rich amber, save in its centre, where, the lake serving as a halo to its glory, a blood-red sun was vividly reflected. as the sun descended, one slender ray of light, came quivering and trembling through the leaves of the arbour. this little incident gave rise to a thousand fanciful illustrations on the part of acmé. her spirits were as buoyant as a child's; and her playful mood soon communicated itself to her travelling companions. they compared the solitary ray to virtue in loneliness--to the flickering of a lamp in a tomb--to a star reflected on quicksilver--to the flash of a sword cutting through a host of foes--and to the light of genius illuming scenes of poverty and distress. thompson made his appearance, and announced the supper as being ready. "this," said george, good-naturedly, "is an odd place, is it not, thompson? is it anything like the lincolnshire fens?" "not exactly, your honour!" replied the domestic, with perfect gravity, "but there ought to be capital snipe shooting here." "ah! che vero inglese!" said the laughing acmé. they retraced their steps to the inn, and were ushered into the supper room, which was neither more nor less than the kitchen, although formerly, perhaps, the show room of the mansion. around the deep-set fireplace, watching the simmering of the cauldron, were grouped some peasants. the supper table was laid in one corner of the room; and although neither the accommodation nor the viands were very tempting, there was such a disposition to be happy, that the meal was as much enjoyed as if served up in a palace. the repast concluded, acmé rose; and observing a countryman with his arm bound up, enquired if he had met with an accident; and patiently listened to the prosy narrative of age. an old bronzed husbandman, too, was smoking his short earthen pipe, near the window sill. "what a study for lanfranc!" said the happy wife, as she took up a burnt stick, and sketched his dried visage to the life. the old man regarded his portrait on the wall, with intense satisfaction; and commenced dilating on what he had been in youth. how different, thought sir henry, is all this from the conduct of a well bred english girl! yet how natural and amiable does it appear in acmé! with what an endearing manner--with what sweet frankness--does this young foreigner wile away--what would otherwise have been--a tedious evening in an uncomfortable inn! as the night advanced, george brought out the guitar; and acmé warbled to its accompaniment like a fairy bird. it was a late hour, before delmé ventured to remind the songstress, that they must prosecute their journey early on the following morning. "i will take your hint," said acmé, as she shook his hand, and tripped out of the room; "buona sera! miei signori." "she is a dear creature!" said delmé, "she is indeed!" replied his brother, "and i am a fortunate man. henry! i think i shall be jealous of you, one of these days. i do believe she loves you as well as she does me!" the brothers retired. sir henry's repose was unbroken, until morning dawned; when george entered his room in the greatest agitation, and with a face as pale as death, told him acmé was ill. delmé arose immediately; and at george's earnest solicitation, entered the room. her left cheek, suffused with hectic, rested on one small hand. the other arm was thrown over the bed-clothes. her eyes sparkled like diamonds. her lips murmured indistinctly--the mind was evidently wandering. a man and horse were sent express to naples. the whole of that weary day, george delmé was by acmé's side, preparing cooling drinks, and vainly endeavouring to be calm. as the delirium continued, she seemed to be transported to the scenes of her early youth, as night wore on, the fever, if it were such, gradually increased. george's state of mind bordered on distraction. sir henry became exceedingly alarmed, and anxious for the presence of the medical attendant. at about four o'clock the following morning, doctor pormont was announced, cold and forbidding as was his aspect, george hailed him as his tutelary angel, and burst into tears, as he implored him to exert his skill to the uttermost. the physician approached the invalid, and in a moment saw that the case was a critical one. his patient was bled twice during the day, and strong opiates administered. towards evening, she slept; and awoke with restored consciousness, but with feelings keenly alive to her own danger. the following night and day she lingered on, speaking but little. during the whole of that time, even, when she slept, george's hand remained locked in hers. on this, her tears would sometimes fall, but these she strove to restrain. to the others around her, she spoke gratefully, and with feminine softness; but her whole heart seemed to be with george. doctor pormont, to do him justice, was unremitting in his exertions, and hardly took rest. all his professional skill was called to her aid; but from the second day, he saw it was in vain. the strength of the invalid failed her more and more. doctor pormont at length called sir henry on one side, and informed him that he entertained no doubt of a fatal result; and recommended his at once procuring such religious consolation as might be in his power. no protestant clergyman was near at hand, even had delmé thought it adviseable to procure one. but he was well aware, that however acme might have sympathised with george, her earlier religious impressions would now in all probability be revived. a catholic priest was sent for, and arrived quickly. he was habited in the brown garb of his order, his waist girt with a knotted cord. he bore in his hand the sainted pyx, and commenced to shrive the dying girl. it was the soft hour of sunset, and the prospect in rear of the mansion, presented a wide sea of rich coloured splendour. over the window, had been placed a sheet, in order to exclude the light from the invalid's chamber. the priest knelt by her bedside; and folding his hands together, began to pray. the rays of the setting sun, fitfully flickered on the sheet, over whose surface, light shadows swiftly played, ever and anon glancing on the shorn head of the kneeling friar. his intelligent face was expressive of firm belief. his eye turned reverentially to heaven, as in deep and sonorous accents, he implored forgiveness for the sufferer, for the sins committed during her mortal coil. acmé sat up in her bed. on her countenance, calm devotion seemed to usurp the place of earthly affections, and earthly passions. the soul was preparing for its upward flight. delmé led away the sorrowing husband, and the minister of christ was left alone, to hear the contrite outpourings of a weak departing sinner. the priest left the chamber, but spoke not, either to the physician, or the expecting brothers. his impassioned glance belonged to another and a higher world. he made one low obeisance--his robes swept the passage quickly--and the franciscan friar sought his lonely cell to reflect on death. the brothers re-entered. they found acmé in the attitude in which they had left her--her features wearing an expression at once radiant and resigned. but--as her eye met george's--as she saw the havoc grief had already made--the feelings of the woman resumed the mastery. she extended her arms--she brought his lip to hers--as if she would have made _that_ its resting place for ever. alas! an inward pang told her to be brief. she drew away her face, crimsoned with her passion's flush--tremblingly grasped his hand---and, with voice choked by emotion, gave her last farewell. "giorgio, my dearest! my own! i shall soon join my parents. i feel this--and my mother's words, as she met me by the olive tree, ring in my ear. "she told me i should die thus; but she told me, too, that i should kill the one dearest to me on earth. thank god! this cannot be--for i know my life to be ebbing fast. "dearest i do not mourn for me too much. you may find another acmé--as true. but, oh! sometimes--yes! even when your hearts cling fondly together, as ours were wont to do--think of your own acmé--who loved you first--and only--and does it now! oh! how well! giorgio! dear! dearest! adieu! my feet are _so, so_ cold--and ice seems"-- a change shadowed the face, as from some corporeal pang. she tried to raise an ebony cross hung round her neck. in the effort, her features became convulsed--and george heard a low gurgling in the throat, as from suffocation. ah! that awful precursor of "the first dark hour of nothingness." george delmé sprang to his feet, and was supporting her head, when the physician grasped his arm. "stop! stop! you are preventing"---- the lower lip quivered--and drooped--slightly! very slightly! the head fell back. one long deep drawn sigh shook the exhausted frame. the face seemed to become fixed. doctor pormont extended his hand, and silently closed those dark fringed lids. the cold finger, with its harsh touch, once more brought consciousness. once more the lid trembled! there was an upward glance that looked reproachful! another short sigh! another! lustreless and glaring was that once bright eye! again the physician extended his hand. "assuredly, gentlemen! vitality hath departed!" a deep--solemn--awful silence--which not a breath disturbed--came over that chamber of death. it seemed as if the insects had ceased their hum--that twilight had suddenly turned to night--that an odour, as of clay, was floating around them, and impregnating the very atmosphere. george took the guitar, whose chords were never more to be woke to harmony by that loved hand, and dashed it to the ground. ere delmé could clasp him, he had staggered to the bedside--and fallen over acmé's still form. and did her frame thrill with rapture? did she bound to his caress? did her lip falter from her grateful emotion?--did she bury his cheek in her raven tresses? no, no! still--still--still were all these! still as death! chapter iv. rome. "woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well." * * * * * "the niobe of nations! there she stands, childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; an empty urn within her wither'd hands, whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago. the scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; the very sepulchres lie tenantless of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow, old tiber! through a marble wilderness? rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress." undertakers! not one word shall henceforth pass our lips in your dispraise! an useful and meritorious tribe are you! what! though sleek and rosy cheeked, you seem to have little in common with the wreck of our hopes? what! if our ears be shocked by profane jests on the weight of your burden, as you bear away from the accustomed mansion, what _was_ its light and its load star--but what _is_--pent up in your dark, narrow tenement, but-- "a heap, to make men tremble, that never weep." what! if our swimming eye--as we follow those dear--dear remains to their last lone resting place--glance on the heartless myrmidons, who salute the passer by with nods of recognition, and smiles of indifference? what! if, returning homewards--choked with bitter recollections, which rise fantastic, quick, and ill-defined--the very ghosts of departed scenes and years--what if we start as we then perceive you--lightsome of heart, and glib of speech--clustered and smirking, on that roof of nodding plumes--neath which, one short hour since--lay what was dearest to us on earth? let us not heed these things! for--light as is the task to traders in death's dark trappings; painful and soul-subduing are those withering details to the grieving and heart-struck mourner! we left george lying half insensible by the side of his dead wife. sir henry and thompson carried him to the apartment of the former, and while thompson hung over his master, attempting to restore consciousness--delmé had a short conference with doctor pormont as to their ulterior proceedings. doctor pormont--as might be expected--enjoined the greatest promptitude, and recommended that poor acmé's remains, should be consigned to the burial place of the hamlet. george's objections to this, however, as soon as he was well enough to comprehend what was going forward, seemed quite insurmountable; and after sir henry had sought the place by moonlight, and found it wild and open, with goats browsing on the unpicturesque graves, and with nothing to mark the sanctity of the spot, save a glaring painted picture of the virgin, his own prejudices became enlisted, and he consented to proceed to rome. after this decision was made, he found it utterly impossible, to procure a separate conveyance for the corpse; and was equally unsuccessful in his attempt to procure that--which from being a common want, he had been disposed to consider of every day attainment--a coffin. while his brother made what arrangements he best might, poor george returned to the chamber of death, and gazed long and fixedly--with the despair of the widower--on those hushed familiar features. her hair was now turned back, and was bound with white ribbon, and festooned with some of the very water lilies that acmé had admired. a snow-white wreath bound her brow. it was formed of the white convolvulus. we have said the features were familiar; but oh! how different! the yellow waxen hue--the heavy stiffened lid--how they affected george delmé, who had never looked on death before! first he would gaze with stupid awe--then turn to the window, and attempt to repress his sobs--return again--and refuse to credit his bereavement. surely the hand moved? no! of its free will shall it never move more! the eye! was there not a slight convulsion in that long dark lash? no! over it may crawl the busy fly, and creep the destructive worm, without let, and without hindrance! no finger shall be raised in its behalf--that lid shall remain closed and passive! the insect and the reptile shall extend their wanderings over the smooth cheek, and revel on the lips, whose red once rivalled that of the indian shell. moveless! moveless shall all be! the long--long night wore on. an italian sunrise was gilding the heavens. acmé was never to see a sunrise more; and even this reflection--trite as it may seem, occurring to one, who had watched through the night, by the side of the dead--even this reflection, convulsed again the haggard features of the mourner. delmé had made the requisite arrangements during the night, for their early departure. just previous to the carriage being announced, he led george out of the room; whilst the physician, aided by the women, took such precautions as the heat of the climate rendered necessary. linen cloths, steeped in a solution of chlorate of lime, were closely wound round the body--a rude couch was placed in the inside of the carriage, which was supported by the two seats--and the carriage itself was darkened. these preparations concluded--and having parted with doctor pormont---whose attentions, in spite of his freezing manner, had been very great--the brothers commenced their painful task. george knelt at the head of the corpse--ejaculated one short fervent prayer--and then, assisted by his brother, bore it in his arms to the vehicle. the italian peasants, with rare delicacy, witnessed the scene from the windows of the inn, but did not intrude their presence. the body was placed crosswise in the carriage. george sat next the corpse. delmé sat opposite, regarding his brother with anxious eye. most distressing was that silent journey! it made an impression on sir henry's mind, that no after events could ever efface; and yet it had already been his lot, to witness many scenes of horror, and ride over fields of blood. we have said it was a silent journey. george's despair was too deep for words. the first motion of the carriage affected the position of the corpse. george put one arm round it, and kept it immoveable. sometimes, his scalding tears would fall on that cold face, whose outline yet preserved its beautiful roundness. it appeared to sir henry, that he had never seen life and death, so closely and painfully contrasted. there sat his brother, in the full energies of manhood and despair; his features convulsed--his frame quivering--his sobs frequent--his pulse quick and disturbed. there lay extended his mistress--cold--colourless--silent--unimpassioned. there was life in the breeze that played on her raven tresses--grim death was enthroned on the face those tresses swept. not that decay's finger had yet really assailed it; but one of the peculiar properties of the preservative used by doctor pormont, is its pervading sepulchral odour. they reached rome; and the consummation of their task drew nigh. pass we over the husband's last earthly farewell. pass we over that subduing scene, in which henry assisted george to sever long ringlets, and rob the cold finger, of affection's dearest pledge. alas! these might be retained as the legacy of love. they were useless as love's memento. memory, the faithful mirror, forbade the relic gatherer ever to forget! would you know where acmé reposes? a beautiful burial ground looks towards rome. it is on a gentle declivity leaning to the south-east, and situated between mount aventine and the monte testaccio. its avenue is lined with high bushes of marsh roses; and the cemetery itself, is divided into three rude and impressive terraces. _there_ sleeps--in a modest nook, surmounted by the wall-flower, and by creeping ivy, and by many-coloured shrubs, and by one simple yellow flower, of very peculiar and rare fragrance; a type, as the author of these pages deemed, of the wonderful etherialised genius of the man--_there_ sleeps, as posterity will judge him, the first of the poets of the age we live in--percy bysshe shelley! there too, moulders that wonderful boy author--john keats. who can pass his grave, and read that bitter inscription, dictated on his deathbed, by the heart-broken enthusiast, without the liveliest emotion? "here lies one, whose name was writ in water. february th, ." the ancient wall of rome, crowns the ridge of the slope we have described. above it, stands the pyramid of caius cæstius, constructed some twenty centuries since. immediately beneath it, in a line with a round tower buried with ivy, and near the vault of our beautiful countrywoman, miss bathurst, who was thrown from her horse and drowned in the tiber, may be seen a sarcophagus of rough granite, surmounted by a black marble slab. luxuriant with wild flowers, and studded even in the winter season, with daisies and violets, the sides of the tomb are now almost concealed. over the slab, one rose tree gracefully droops. when seen in the dew of the morning, when the cups of the roses are full, and crystal drops, distilling from leaves and flowers, are slowly trickling on the dark stone, you might think that inanimate nature was weeping for the doom of beauty. only one word is engraved on that slab. should you visit rome, and read it, recollect this story. that word is--"acmé!" * * * * * sir henry and his brother remained at rome nearly a month. the former, with hopes that the exertion might be useful, in distracting george from the constant contemplation of his loss, plunged at once into the sight-seeing of "the eternal city." their days were busily passed--in visiting the classic sites of rome and its neighbourhood--in wandering through the churches and convents--and loitering through the long galleries of the vatican. delmé, fearfully looking back on the scenes that had occurred in malta, was apprehensive, that george's despair might lead to some violent outbreak of feeling; and that mind and body might sink simultaneously. it was not so. that heavy infliction appeared to bear with it a torpedo-like power. the first blow, abrupt and stunning, had paralysed. afterwards, it seemed to carry with it a benumbing faculty, which repressed external display. we say _seemed_; for there were not wanting indications, even to sir henry's partial eye, that the wound had sunk very deep, the mourner _might_ sink, although he did not writhe. in the mornings, george, followed by thompson, would find his way to the protestant burial ground; and weep over the spot where his wife lay interred. during the day, he was sir henry's constant and gentle companion; giving vent to no passionate display, and uttering few unavailing complaints. yet it was now, that a symptom of disease first showed itself, which delmé could not account for. george would suddenly lean back, and complain of a spasm on the left side of the chest. this would occasionally, but rarely, affect the circulation. george's sleep too, was disturbed, and he frequently had to rise from his bed, and pace the apartment; but this last circumstance, perhaps, was the mere result of anxiety of mind. sir henry, without informing george, consulted a medical gentleman, who was well known to him, and who happened to be at rome at the time, regarding these novel symptoms. he was reassured by being informed, that these pains were probably of a neuralgic character, and not at all likely to proceed from any organic affection. george delmé's mind was perfectly clear and collected; with the exception, that he would occasionally allude to his loss, in connection with some scene or subject of interest before them; and in a tone, and with language, that, appeared to his brother eccentric, but inexpressibly touching. for instance, they were at tivoli, and in the syren's grotto, looking up to the foaming fall, which dashes down a rude cleft, formed of fantastically shaped rocks. immediately below this, the waters make a semicircular bend. on their surface, a mimic rainbow was depicted in vivid colours. "not for me!" burst forth the mourner, "not for me! does the arc of promise wear those radiant hues. prismatic rays once gilded my existence. with acmé they are for ever fled. but look! how the stream dashes on! thus have the waters of bitterness passed over my soul!" in the gallery of the vatican, too, the very statues seemed to speak to him of his loss. "i like not," would he exclaim, "that disdainful apollo. thus cold, callous, and triumphing in the work of destruction, must be the angel of death, who winged the shaft at my bright acmé. "may the launching of his arrow, have been but the signal, for her translation to a sphere, more pure than this. "let us believe her the habitant of some bright planet, such as she pointed out to us in the bay of naples--a seraph with a golden lyre--and shrouded in a white cymar! no, no!" would he continue, turning his footsteps towards the adjacent room, where the suffering pangs of apollo's high priest are painfully told in marble, "let let me rather contemplate the laocoon! his agony seems to sympathise with mine--but was his fate as hard? _he_ saw his sons dying before him; could a son, or sons, be as the wife of one's bosom? the serpent twines around him, too, awaking exquisite corporeal pangs, but would it not have been luxury to have died with my acmé? "can the body suffer as the mind?" at night, reposing from the fatigues of the day, might the brothers frequently be seen at the fountain of trevi; george listlessly swinging on the chains near it, and steadfastly watching the water, as it gurgled over the fantastic devices beneath--while his mind wandered back to malta, and to acmé. sir henry's conduct during this trying period was most exemplary. like the mother, who lavishes her tenderest endearments on her sickliest child, did he now endeavour to support his brother in his afflictions. as the bleak night wind came on, he would arouse george from his reverie--would make him lean his tall form on his--would wrap closely the folds of his cloak around him--would speak _so_ softly--and soothe _so_ tenderly. and gratefully did george's heart respond to his kindness. he knew that the sorrow which bowed _him_ to the earth, was also blanching the cheek of his brother, and he loved him doubly for his solicitude. ah! few brothers have thus made sweet the fraternal tie! chapter v. the east indian. "would i not stem a tide of suffering, rather than forego such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm of those whose thoughts are only turn'd below, gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?" from rome and our care-worn travellers, let us turn to mrs. vernon's drawing-room at leamington. an unforeseen event suddenly made a considerable change in the hopes and prospects of our fair friend julia. one warm summer's morning--it was on the very day, that the brothers, with acmé, were sailing close to the calabrian mountains, and the latter was telling her ghost story, within view of the sweet village of capo del marte--one balmy summer's morning, the miss vernons were seated in a room, furnished like most english drawing-rooms; that is to say, it had tables for trinkets--a superb mirror--a broadwood piano--an erard harp--a reclining sofa--and a woolly rug, on which slept, dreamt, and snored, a small blenheim spaniel. julia had a mahogany frame before her, and was thoughtfully working a beaded purse. the hue of health had left her cheek. its complexion was akin to that of translucent alabaster. the features wore a more fixed and regular aspect, and their play was less buoyant and quick changing than heretofore. deep thought! thus has been thy warfare for ever. first, thou stealest from the rotund face its joyous dimples; then, dost thou gradually imprint remorseless furrows on the anxious brow. a servant entered the room, and bore on a salver a letter addressed to miss vernon. its deep black binding--its large coat of arms--bespoke it death's official messenger. julia's cheek blanched as she glanced over its first page. her sisters laid down their work, and looked towards her with some curiosity. julia burst into tears. "poor uncle vernon!" her sisters seemed surprised at the announcement, but not to participate in julia's feelings on the occasion. one of them took up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and the two read its contents. "how very odd!" said they together, "uncle has left you hornby, and catesfield, and almost all the property!" "has he?" replied julia, "i could not read it all, for however he may have behaved to mamma, i ever found him good and kind; and had always hoped, that we might have yet seen him with us once more. poor old man! and the letter says a lingering illness--how sad to think that we were not with him to soothe his pillow, and cheer his death bed!" "well!" said one of the sisters reddening, "i must say it was his own fault. he would not live with his nearest relations, who loved him, and tried to make his a happy home--but showed his caprice _then_, as he has _now_. but i will go up stairs, and break it to mamma, and will tell her you are an heiress." "an heiress!" replied julia, with heart-broken tone! "an heiress!" the tear quivered in her eye; but before the moisture had formed its liquid bead, to course down her pallid cheek; a thought flashed across her, which had almost the power to recal it to its cell. that thought comprised the fervency and timidity--the hopes and fears of woman's first love. she thought of her last meeting with sir henry delmé: of the objections which might now be removed. a new vista of happiness seemed to open before her. it was but for a moment. the blush which that thought called up, faded away--the tear trickled on--her features recovered their serenity--and she turned with a sweet smile to her sisters. "my dear--dear sisters! it is long since we have seen my poor uncle. "affection's ties may have been somewhat loosened. they cannot--i am sure--have been dissolved. "do not think me selfish enough to retain this generous bequest. "it may yet be in my power, and it no doubt is, to amend its too partial provisions. "let us be sisters still--sisters in equality--sisters in love and affection." julia vernon was a very noble girl. she lived to become of age, and she acted up to this her resolve. and, now, a few words as to the individual, by whose death the miss vernons acquired such an accession of property. the miss vernons' father had an only and a younger brother, who at an early age had embarked for the east, in the civil service. he had acquired great wealth, and, after a residence of twenty-five years in the bengal presidency, had returned to england a confirmed bachelor, and a wealthy nabob. his brother died, while mr. benjamin vernon was on his passage home. he arrived in england, and found himself a stranger in his native land. he shouldered his cane through regent street, and wandered in the quadrant's shade;--and in spite of the novelties that every where met him--in spite of cabs and plated glass--felt perfectly isolated and miserable. it is true, his indian friends found him out at the burlington, and their cards adorned his mantelpiece--for mr. benjamin vernon was said to be worth a plum, and to be on the look out for a vacancy in the directory. but although these were indisputably his indian friends, it appeared to mr. vernon, that they were no longer his friends of india. they seemed to him to live in a constant state of unnatural excitement. _some_ prided themselves on being stars in fashion's gayest circle--others, whom he had hardly known, _were_ fathers--for their families were educating in england---he now found surrounded by children, on whose provision they were wholly intent. these were off at a tangent, "to see peter auber, at the india house," or, "could not wait an instant; they were to meet josh: alexander precisely at two." and then their flippant sons! taking wine with him, forsooth--adjusting their neckcloths--and asking "whether he had met their father at madras or calcutta?" this to a true bengalee! nor was this all! the young renegades ate their curry with a knife! others, from whom he had parted years before, shook hands with him at the oriental, as if his presence there was a matter of course; and then asked him "what he thought of stanley's speech?" now, there are few men breathing, who have their sympathies so keenly alive--who show and who look for, such warmth of heart---who are so chilled and hurt by indifference--as your bachelor east indian. the married one may solace himself for coldness abroad, by sunny smiles at home;--but the friendless bachelor is sick at heart, unless he encounter a hearty pressure of the hand--an eye that sparkles, as it catches his--an interested listener to his thousand and one tales of oriental scenes, and of oriental good fellowship. mr. benjamin vernon soon found this london solitude--it was worse than solitude--quite insupportable. he determined to visit his brother's widow, and left town for leamington. the brother-in-law felt more than gratified at the cordial welcome that there met him. his heart responded to their tones of kindness, and the old indian, in the warmth of his gratitude, thought he had at length discovered a congenial home. he plunged into the extreme of dangerous intimacy; and was soon domiciled in mrs. vernon's small mansion. it is absurd what trifles can extinguish friendships, and estrange affection. mr. vernon had always had the controul of his hours--loved his hookah, and his after-dinner dose. his brother's widow was an amiable person, but a great deal too independent, to humour any person's foibles. she liked activity, and disliked smoking; and was too matter-of-fact in her ideas, to conceive that these indulgences, merely from force of habit, might have now become absolute necessities. mrs. vernon first used arguments; which were listened to very patiently, and as systematically disregarded. as she thought she knew her ground better, she would occasionally secrete the hookah, and indulge in eloquent discourse, on the injurious effects, and waste of time, that the said hookah entailed. nor could the old man enjoy in peace, his evening slumber. one of his nieces was always ready to shake him by the elbow, and address him with an expostulatory "oh! dear uncle!" which, though delivered with silvery voice, seemed to him deuced provoking. for some time, the old indian good-naturedly acquiesced in these arrangements; and was far too polite at any time to scold, or hazard a scene. mrs. vernon was all complacency, and imagined her triumph assured. suddenly the tempest gathered to a head. bachelor habits regained their ascendancy; and mrs. vernon was thunderstruck, when it was one morning duly announced to her, that her brother-in-law had purchased a large estate in monmouthshire, and that he intended permanently to reside there. mrs. vernon was deeply chagrined. she thought him ungrateful, and told him so. at the outset, our east indian was anxious that his niece julia, who had been by far the most tolerant of his bachelor vices, should preside over his new establishment; but the feelings of the mother and daughter were alike opposed to this arrangement. this was the last rock on which he and his brother's widow split; and it was decisive. from that hour, all correspondence between them ceased. arrived in wales, our nabob endeavoured to attach himself to country pursuits--purchased adjoining estates--employed many labourers--and greatly improved his property. but his rural occupations were quite at variance with his acquired habits. he pined away--became hypochondriacal--and died, just three years after leaving mrs. vernon, for want of an eastern sun, and something to love. chapter vi. veil "the seal is set." on the day fixed for the departure of sir henry delmé and his brother, they together visited once more the sumptuous pile of st. peter's, and heard the voices of the practised choristers swell through the mighty dome, as the impressive service of the catholic church was performed by the pope and his conclave. the morning dawn had seen george, as was his daily custom in rome, kneeling beside the grave of acmé, and breathing a prayer for their blissful reunion in heaven. as the widower staggered from that spot, the thought crossed him, and bitterly poignant was that thought, that now might he bid a second earthly farewell, to what had been his pride, and household solace. now, indeed, "was the last link broken." each hour--each traversed league--was to bear him away from even the remains of his heart's treasure. their bones must moulder in a different soil. it was sir henry's choice that they should on that day visit saint peter's; and well might the travellers leave rome with so unequalled an object fresh in the mind's eye. whether we gaze on its exterior of faultless proportions--or on the internal arrangement, where perfect symmetry reigns;--whether we consider the glowing canvas--or the inspired marble,--or the rich mosaics;--whether with the enthusiasm of the devotee, we bend before those gorgeous shrines; or with the comparative apathy of a cosmopolite, reflect on the historical recollections with which that edifice--the focus of the rays of catholicism--teems and must teem forever;--we must in truth acknowledge, that _there_ alone is the one matchless temple, in strict and perfect harmony with imperial rome. gazing there--or recalling in after years its unclouded majesty--the delighted pilgrim knows neither shade of disappointment--nor doth he harbour one thought of decay. where is the other building in the "eternal city," of which we can say thus much? sir henry delmé had engaged a vettura, which was to convey them with the same horses as far as florence. this arrangement made them masters of their own time, and was perhaps in their case, the best that could be adopted; for slowness of progress, which is its greatest objection, was rather desirable in george's then state of health. as is customary, delmé made an advance to the vetturino, who usually binds himself to defray all the expenses at the inns on the road. the travellers dined early--left rome in the afternoon--and proposed pushing on to neppi during the night. when about four miles on their journey, delmé observed a mausoleum on the side of the road, which appeared of ancient date, and rather curious construction. on consulting his guide-book, he found it designated as the tomb of nero. on examining its inscription, he saw that it was erected to the memory of a prefect of sardinia; and he inwardly determined to distrust his guide-book on all future occasions. the moon was up as they reached the post-house of storta. the inn, or rather tavern, was a small wretched looking building, with a large courtyard attached, but the stables appeared nearly--if not quite--untenanted. sir henry's surprise and anger were great, when the driver, coolly stopping his horses, commenced taking off their harness;--and informed the travellers, that _there_ must they remain, until he had received some instructions from his owner, which he expected by a vettura leaving rome at a later hour. it was in vain that the brothers expostulated, and reminded him of his agreement to stop when they pleased, expressing their determination to proceed. the driver was dogged and unmoved; and the travellers had neglected to draw up a written bargain, which is a precaution absolutely necessary in italy. they soon found they had no alternative but to submit. it was with a very bad grace they did so, for englishmen have a due abhorrence of imposition. they at length stepped from the vehicle--indulged in some vehement remonstrances--smiled at thompson's voluble execrations, which they found were equally unavailing--and were finally obliged to give up the point. they were shown into a small room. the chief inmates were some papal soldiers of ruffianly air, engaged in the clamorous game of moro. unlike the close shorn englishmen, their beards and mustachios, were allowed to grow to such length, as to hide the greater part of the face. their animated gestures and savage countenances, would have accorded well with a bandit group by salvator. the landlord, an obsequious little man, with face pregnant with mischievous cunning, was watching with interest, the turns of the game; and assisting his guests, to quaff his vino ordinario, which sir henry afterwards found was ordinary enough. delmé's equanimity of temper was already considerably disturbed. the scanty accommodation afforded them, by no means diminished his choler; which he began to expend on the obstinate driver, who had followed them into the room, and was busily placing chairs round one of the tables. "see what you can get for supper, you rascal!" "signore! there are some excellent fowls, and the very best wine of velletri." the wine was produced and proved vinegar. the host bustled away loud in its praise, and a few seconds afterwards, the dying shriek of a veteran tenant of the poultry yard, warned them that supper was preparing. "thompson!" said george, rather languidly, "do, like a good fellow, see that they put no garlic with the fowl!" "i will, sir," replied the domestic; "and the wine, mr. george, seems none of the best. i have a flask of brandy in the rumble." "just the thing!" said sir henry. to their surprise, the landlord proffered sugar and lemons. sir henry's countenance somewhat brightened, and he declared he would make punch. punch! thou just type of matrimony! thy ingredients of sweets and bitters so artfully blended, that we know not which predominate,--so deceptive, too, that we imbibe long and potent draughts, nor awake to a consciousness of thy power, till awoke by headache. hail to thee! all hail! thy very name, eked out by thine appropriate receptacle, recals raptures past--bids us appreciate joys present--and enjoins us duly to reverence thee, if we hope for joys in futurity. a bowl of punch! each merry bacchanal rises at the call! moderate bacchanals all! for where is the abandoned sot, who would not rather dole out his filthy lucre, on an increase of the mere alchohol--than expend it on those grateful adjuncts, which, throwing a graceful veil over that spirit's grossness, impart to it its chief and its best attraction. up rises then each hearty bacchanal! thrice waving the clear tinkling crystal, ere he emits that joyful burst, fresh from the heart, which from his uncontrolled emotion, meets the ear husky and indistinct. delmé squeezed the lemons into not a bad substitute for a bowl, viz. a red earthen vase of rough workmanship, but elegant shape, somewhat resembling a modern wine cooler. george stood at the inn door, wistfully looking upward; when he remarked an intelligent boy of fourteen, with dark piercing eyes, observing him somewhat earnestly. on finding he was noticed, he approached with an air of ingenuous embarrassment--pulled off his cap--and said in a tone of enquiry, "un signore inglese?" "yes! my fine fellow! do you know anything of me or the english?" "oh yes!" replied the boy with vivacity, replacing his cap, "i have travelled in england, and like london very much." george conversed with him for some time; and found him to be one of that class, whose numbers make us unmindful of their wants or their loneliness; who eke out a miserable pittance, by carrying busts of plaster-of-paris--grinding on an organ--or displaying through europe, the tricks of some poodle dog, or the eccentricities of a monkey disguised in scarlet. it is rare that these come from a part of italy so far south; but it appeared in this instance, that giuseppe's father being a carrier, had taken him with him to milan--had there met a friend, rich in an organ and porcupine--and had entrusted the boy to his care, in order that he might see the world, and make his fortune. giuseppe gave a narrative of some little events, that had occurred to him during his wanderings, which greatly interested george; and he finally concluded, by saying that his father had now retired to his native place at barberini, where many strangers came to see the "antichità." george, on referring to the guide book, found that this was indeed the case; and that isola barberini is marked as the site of ancient veii, the rival of young rome. "and when do you go there, youngster, and how far is it from this?" "i am going now, signore, to be in time for supper. it is only a 'piccolo giro' across the fields; and looks as well by moonlight as at any other time." "ah!" replied george, "i would be glad to accompany you. henry," said he, as he entered the room of the inn, "i am away on a classic excursion to veii. the night is lovely--i have an excellent guide--and shall be back before you have finished your punch making. "_do_ let me go!" and he lowered his voice, and the tears swam in his eyes, "i cannot endure these rude sounds of merriment, and a moonlight walk will at least afford nothing that can _thus_ pain me." sir henry looked out. the night was perfectly fine. the young peasant, all willingness, had already shouldered his bundle, and was preparing to move forward. "you must not be late, george," said his brother, assenting to his proposal. "do not stay too long about the ruins. remember that you are still delicate, and that i shall wait supper for you." as the boy led on, george followed him in a foot path, which led through fields of meadow land, corn, and rye. the fire-flies--mimic meteors--were giddily winging their way from bush to bush,--illuming the atmosphere, and imparting to the scene a glittering beauty, which a summer night in a northern clime cannot boast. as they approached somewhat nearer to the hamlet, their course was over ground more rugged; and the disjointed fragments of rocks strewed, and at intervals obstructed, the path. the cottages were soon reached. the villagers were all in front of their dwellings, taking their last meal for the day, in the open air. the young guide stopped in front of a cottage, a little apart from the rest. the family party were seated round a rude table, on which were plates and napkins. before the master of the house--a wrinkled old man, with long grey hair--was a smoking tureen of bread soup, over which he was in the act of sprinkling some grated parmesan cheese. a plate of green figs, and a large water melon--the cocomero--made up the repast. "giuseppe! you are late for supper," said the old patriarch, as the boy approached to whisper his introduction of the stranger. the old man waved his hand courteously--made a short apology for the humble viands--and pointed to a vacant seat. "many thanks," said george, "but my supper already awaits me. i will not, however, interfere with my young guide. show me the ruins, giuseppe, and i will trouble you no further." the boy moved on towards what were indeed ruins, or rather the vestige of such. here a misshapen stone--there a shattered column--decaying walls, overgrown with nettles--arches and caves, choked up with rank vegetation--bespoke remains unheeded, and but rarely visited. george threw the boy a piece of silver--heard his repeated cautions as to his way to storta--and wished him good night, as he hurried back to the cottage. george delmé sat on the shaft of a broken pillar, his face almost buried in his hands, as he looked around him on a scene once so famous. but with him classic feelings were not upper-most. the widowed heart mourned its loneliness; and in that calm hour found the full relief of tears. the mourner rose, and turned his face homeward, slowly--sadly--but resignedly. the heavens had become more overcast--and clouds occasionally were hiding the moon. it was with some difficulty that george avoided the pieces of rock which obstructed the path. the road seemed longer, and wilder, than he had previously thought it. suddenly the loud bay of dogs was borne to his ear; and almost, before he had time to turn from the path, two large hounds brushed past him, followed by a rider--his gun slung before his saddle--and his horse fearlessly clattering over the loose stones. the horseman seemed a young roman farmer. he did not salute, and probably did not observe our traveller. as the sound from the horse receded, and the clamour of the dogs died away, a feeling almost akin to alarm crossed george's mind. george was one, however, who rarely gave way to vague fears. it so happened that he was armed. delancey had made him a present of a brace of pocket pistols, during the days of their friendship; and, very much to sir henry's annoyance, george had been in the habit, since leaving malta, of constantly carrying these about him. he strode on without adventure, until entering the field of rye. the pathway became very narrow--so that on either side him, he grazed against the bearded ears. suddenly he heard a rustling sound. the moon at the moment broke from a dark cloud, and he fancied he discerned a figure near him half hid by the rye. again the moon was shrouded. a rustling again ensued. george felt a ponderous blow, which, aimed at the left shoulder, struck his left arm. the collar of his coat was instantaneously grasped. for a moment, george delmé felt irresolute--then drew a pistol from his pocket and fired. the hold was loosened--a man fell at his feet. the pistol's flash revealed another figure, which diving into the corn--fled precipitately. let us turn to sir henry delmé and to thompson. for some time after george's departure, they were busily engaged in preparing supper. while they were thus occupied, they noticed that the papal soldiers whispered much together--but this gave rise to no suspicion on their part. one by one the soldiers strolled out, and the landlord betook himself to the kitchen. the punch was duly made, and sir henry, leaving the room, paced thoughtfully in front of the inn. at length it struck him, that it was almost time for his brother to return. he was entering the inn, for the purpose of making some enquiries; when he saw one of the soldiers cross the road hurriedly, and go into the courtyard, where he was immediately joined by the vetturino. delmé turned in to the house, and called for the landlord. before the latter could appear, george rushed into the room. his hat was off--his eyes glared wildly--his long hair streamed back, wet with the dews of night. he dragged with him the body of one of the soldiers; and threw it with supernatural strength into the very centre of the room. "supper!" said he, "ha, ha, ha! _i_ have brought you supper!" the man was quite dead. the bullet had pierced his neck and throat. the blood was yet flowing, and had dabbled the white vest. his beard and hair were clotted with gore. shocked as sir henry was, the truth flashed on him. he lost not a moment in beckoning to thompson, and rushing towards the stable. the driver was still there, conversing with the soldier. as sir henry approached, they evinced involuntary confusion; and the vetturino---at once unmanned--fell on his knees, and commenced a confession. they were dragged into the inn, and the officers of justice were sent for. sir henry delmé's anxious regards were now directed to his brother. george had taken a seat near the corpse; and was sternly regarding it with fixed, steady, and unflinching gaze. it is certainly very fearful to mark the dead--with pallid complexion--glazed eye--limbs fast stiffening--and gouts of blood--standing from out the face, like crimson excrescences on a diseased leaf. but it is far more fearful than even this, to look on one, who is bound to us by the nearest and most cherished ties--with cheek yet glowing--expression's flush mantling still--and yet to doubt whether the intellect, which adorned that frame--the jewel in the casket--hath not for ever left its earthly tenement. chapter vii. the vetturini. "far other scene is thrasymene now." * * * * * "fair florence! at thy day's decline when came the shade from appennine, and suddenly on blade and bower the fire-flies shed the sparkling shower, as if all heaven to earth had sent each star that gems the firmament; 'twas sweet at that enchanting hour, to bathe in fragrance of the italian clime, by arno's stream." the brothers were detained a few days at storta; while the roman police, who, to do them justice, were active on the occasion, and showed every anxiety to give the travellers as little trouble as possible--were investigating the occurrences we have described. it appeared that some suspicion had previously attached itself to vittore santado, and that the eyes of the police had been on him for some time. it now became evident, both from his own confession, and subsequent discoveries, that this man had for years trafficked in the lives and property of others;--and that the charge connected with george, was one of the least grave, that would be brought against him. it was shown that he was an active agent, in aiding the infamous designs of that inn, on the italian frontier, whose enormities have given rise to more than one thrilling tale of fiction, far out-done by the reality--that inn--where the traveller retired to rest--but rose not refreshed to prosecute his journey:--where--if he slumbered but once, that sleep was his last. until now, his career had been more than usually successful. the crafty vetturino had had the art to glean a fair reputation even from his crimes. more than once, had he induced a solitary traveller to leave the high road and his carriage, for the purpose of visiting some ruin, or viewing some famous prospect. on such occasions, vittore's accomplices were in waiting; and the unsuspecting stranger--pillaged and alarmed, would return to the vettura penniless. vittore would be foremost in his commiseration; and with an air of blunt sincerity, would proffer the use of his purse; such conduct ensuring the gratitude, and the after recommendations of his dupe. it is supposed that the vetturino had contemplated rifling the carriage in the inn yard; but some suspicion as to the servant's not leaving the luggage, and the sort of dog fidelity displayed by thompson towards the brothers; had induced him rather to sanction an attempt on george during his imprudent excursion to barberini. vittore santado was executed near the piazza del popolo, and to this day, over the chimney-piece of many a roman peasant, may be seen the tale of his crimes--his confessions--and his death; which perused by casual neighbour guests--calls up many a sign of the cross--and devout look of rustic terror. after the incident we have related in the last chapter, george delmé, contrary to sir henry's previous misgivings, enjoyed a good night's rest, and arose tolerably calm and refreshed. the following night he was attacked with palpitation of the heart. his brother and thompson felt greatly alarmed; but after an hour's severe suffering, the paroxysm left him. nothing further occurred at storta, to induce them to attach very great importance to the shock george's nerves had experienced; but in after life, sir henry always thought, he could date many fatal symptoms from that hour of intense excitement. delmé was in rome two days; during which period, his depositions, as connected with santado, were taken down; and he was informed that his presence during the trial would not be insisted on. delmé took that opportunity again to consult his medical friend; who accompanied him to storta, to visit george; and prescribed a regimen calculated to invigorate the general system. he directed delmé not to be alarmed, should the paroxysm return; and recommended, that during the attack, george should lie down quietly--and take twenty drops of battley's solution of opium in a wine glass of water. as his friend did not appear alarmed, delmé's mind was once more assured; and he prepared to continue their journey to florence, by the way of perugia. punctual to his time, the new vetturino--as to whose selection sir henry had been very particular--arrived at storta; and the whole party, with great willingness left the wretched inn, and its suspicious inmates. there certainly could not be a greater contrast, than between the two vetturini. vittore santado was a roman; young--inclined to corpulency---oily faced--plausible--and a most consummate rascal. pietro molini was a milanese;--elderly--with hardly an ounce of flesh on his body--with face scored and furrowed like the surface of the hedge pippin--rough in his manners--and the most honest of his tribe. poor pietro molini! never did driver give more cheering halloo to four-footed beast! or with spirit more elate, deliver in the drawling patois of his native paesi, some ditty commemorative of northern liberty! honest pietro! thy wishes were contained within a small compass! thy little brown cur, snarling and bandy-legged--thy raw-boned steeds--these were thy first care;--the safety of thy conveyance, and its various inmates, the second. to thee--the most delightful melody in this wide world, was the jingling of thy horses' bells, as all cautiously and slowly they jogged on their way:--the most discordant sound in nature, the short husky cough, emitted from the carcase of one of these, as disease and continued fatigue made their sure inroads. poor simple pietro! his only pride was encased in his breeches pocket, and it lay in a few scraps of paper--remembrances of his passengers. one and all lavished praise on pietro! yes! we have him again before us as we write--his ill-looking, but easy carriage--his three steeds--the rude harness, eked out with clustering knots of rope--and the happy driver, seated on a narrow bench, jutting over the backs of his wheelers, as he contentedly whiffs from his small red clay pipe--at intervals dropping off in a dose, with his cur on his lap. at such a time, with what perfect nonchalance would he open his large grey eyes, when recalled to the sense of his duties, by the volubly breathed execration of some rival whip--and with what a silent look of ineffable contempt, would he direct his horses to the side of the road, and again steep his senses in quiescent repose. at night, pietro's importance would sensibly increase, as after rubbing down the hides of his favourites, and dropping into the capacious manger the variegated oats; he would wait on his passengers to arrange the hour of departure--would accept the proffered glass of wine, and give utterance to his ready joke. a king might have envied pietro molini, as---the straw rustling beneath him--he laid down in his hairy capote, almost between the legs of his favourite horse. to do so will be to anticipate some years! yet we would fain relate the end of the vetturino. crossing from basle to strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending an undulated valley, pietro slept as usual. implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of german beer, german tobacco, and german sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers. a fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay across the road. against this the leader tripped and fell. the shock threw pietro and his dog from their exalted station. the pipe, which--whether he were sleeping or waking--had long decked the cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a thousand pieces. it was an evil omen. when the carriage was stopped, pietro molini was found quite lifeless. he had received a kick from the ungrateful heel of his friend bruno, and the wheel of the carriage, it had been his delight to clean, had passed over the body of the hapless vetturino. ah! as that news spread! many an ostler of many a nation, shook his head mournfully, and with saddened voice, wondered that the same thing had not occurred years before. at the time, however, to which we allude--viz., the commencement of the acquaintance between our english travellers, and pietro; the latter thought of anything rather than of leaving a world for which he had an uncommon affection. he and thompson soon became staunch allies; and the want of a common language seemed only to cement their union. not noblet, in her inimitable performance of the muette, threw more expression into her sweet face--than did pietro, into the furrowed lines of his bronzed visage, as he endeavoured to explain to his friend some italian custom, or the reason why he had selected another dish, or other wine; rather than that, to which they had done such justice the previous day. thompson's gestures and countenance in reply, partook of a more stoical character; but he was never found wanting, when a companion was needed for a bottle or a pipe. their friendship was not an uninstructive one. it would have edified him, who prides himself on his deep knowledge of human nature, or who seizes with avidity on the minuter traits of a nation, to note with what attention the english valet, would listen to a milanese arietta; whose love notes, delivered by the unmusical pietro, were about as effectively pathetic as the croak of the bull frog in a marsh, or screech of owl sentimentalising in ivied ruin; and to mark with what gravity, the italian driver would beat his hand against the table; in tune to "ben baxter," or "the british grenadiers," roared out more anglico. there are two grand routes from home to florence:--the one is by perugia, the other passes through sienna. the former, which is the one sir henry selected, is the most attractive to the ordinary traveller; who is enabled to visit the fall of terni, thrasymene, and the temple of clitumnuss the first, despite its being artificial, is equal in our opinion, to the vaunted schaffhausen;--the second is hallowed in story;--and the third has been illustrated by byron. "pass not unblest the genius of the place! if through the air a zephyr more serene win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace along the margin a more eloquent green, if on the heart, the freshness of the scene sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust of weary life a moment lave it clean with nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must pay orisons for this suspension of disgust." poor george delmé showed little interest in anything connected with this journey. sir henry embarked on the lake above, in order to see the cascade of terni in every point of view; and afterwards took his station with george, on various ledges of rock below the fall--whence the eye looks upward, on that mystic scene of havoc, turbulence, and mighty rush of water. but the cataract fell in snowy sheet--the waves hissed round the sable rocks--and the rainbow played on the torrent's foam;--but these possessed not a charm, to rouse to a sense of their beauty, the sad heart of the invalid. near the lake of thrasymene, they passed some hours; allowing pietro to put up his horses at casa di piano. sir henry, with a livy in his hand, first proceeded to the small eminence, looking down on the round tower of borghetto; and on that insidious pass, which his fancy peopled once more, with the advancing troops of the consul. the soldier felt much interested, and attempted to impart that interest to george; but the widowed husband shook his head mournfully; and it was evident, that his thoughts were not with flaminius and his entrapped soldiers, but with the gentle acmé, mouldering in her lonely grave. from borghetto, they proceeded to the village of torre, where delmé was glad to accept the hospitable offer of its priest, and procure seats for himself and george, in the balcony of his little cottage. from this point, they looked down on the arena of war. there it lay, serene and basking in the rays of the meridian sun. on either side, were the purple summits of the gualandra hills. beneath flowed the little rivulet, once choked by the bodies of the combatants; but which now sparkled gaily through the valley, although at intervals, almost dried up by the fierce heat of summer. the lake was tranquil and unruffled--all on its margin, hushed and moveless. what a contrast to that exciting hour, which sir henry was conjuring up again; when the clang of arms, and crash of squadrons, commingled with the exulting shout, that bespoke the confident hope of the wily carthaginian; and with that sterner response, which hurled back the indomitable spirit of the unyielding, but despairing roman! our travellers quitted the papal territories; and entering tuscany, passed through arezzo, the birth-place of petrarch; arriving at florence just previous to sunset. as they reached the lung' arno, pietro put his horses to a fast trot, and rattling over the flagged road, drew up in front of schneidorff's with an air of greater importance, than his sorry vehicle seemed to warrant. the following morning, george delmé was taken by his brother, to visit the english physician resident at florence; and again was delmé informed, that change of scene, quiet, and peace of mind, were what his brother most required. george was thinner perhaps, than when at rome, and his lip had lost its lustrous red; but he concealed his physical sufferings, and always met henry with the same soft undeviating smile. on their first visit to the tribune, george was struck with the samian sibyl of guercino. in the glowing lip--the silken cheek--the ivory temple--the eye of inspiration--the bereaved mourner thought he could trace, some faint resemblance to the lost acmé. henceforward, it was his greatest pleasure, to remain with eyes fixed on that masterpiece of art. sir henry delmé, accompanied by the custode, would make himself acquainted with the wonders of the florentine gallery; and every now and then, return to whisper some sentence, in the soothing tones of brotherly kindness. at night, their usual haunt was the public square--where the loggio of andrea orcagna presents so much, that may claim attention. there stands the david! in the freshness of his youth! proudly regarding his adversary--ere he overthrow, with the weapon of the herdsman, the haughty giant. the inimitable perseus, too! the idol of that versatile genius, benvenuto cellini:--an author! a goldsmith! a cunning artificer in jewels! a founder in bronze! a sculptor in marble! the prince of good fellows! the favored of princes! the warm friend and daring lover! as we gaze on his glorious performance, and see beside it the hercules, and cacus of his rival baccio bandanelli,--we seem to live again in those days, with which cellini has made us so familiar:--and almost naturally regard the back of the bending figure, to note if its muscles warrant the stinging sarcasm of cellini, which we are told at once dispelled the pride of the aspiring artist--"that they resembled cucumbers!" the rape of the sabines, too! the white marble glistening in the obscurity, until the rounded shape of the maiden seems to elude the strong grasp of the roman! will she ever fly from him thus? will the home of her childhood be ever as dear? no! the husband's love shall replace the father's blessing; and the affections of the daughter, shall yield to the tender yearnings of the mother's bosom. we marvel not that george's footsteps lingered there! how often have _we_--martyrs to a hopeless nympholepsy--strayed through that piazza, at the self same hour--there deemed that the heart would break--but never thought that it might slowly wither. how often have _we_ gleaned from those beauteous objects around, but aliment to our morbid griefs;--and turning towards the gurgling fountain of ammonati, and gazing on its trickling waters, have vainly tried to arrest our trickling tears! chapter viii. arguà. "there is a tomb in arquà: rear'd in air, pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose the bones of laura's lover." * * * * * "i stood in venice on the bridge of sighs." how glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the spirit--the undying spirit--ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust. how does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the confined tenement--how do the floating ideas congregate--how does each impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance! this is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. it is one in which we feel--indubitably feel--that we are of the fashioning of god;--that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of education--of maxims inculcated--or of principles instilled;--but that it is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity--that when our wavering pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the baser and the useless dust--that ray shall not be quenched; but shall again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated. surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the inferior votaries of knowledge--to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on towards the resplendent shrines of science:--how must _he_--the divine petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love's hopes and story, as to clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal affection:--how must _he_ have revelled in the proud sensations called forth at such a moment! it is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden atmosphere of loftiest aspirations--step from the magic circle, where all is pure and etherial--and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre and an earthly world, it was in the early part of september, that the brothers turned their backs on the etrurian athens. their destination was venice, and their route lay through bologna and arquà. they had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino, that sir henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at florence, at the time of their departure;--and pietro and thompson were once more seated beside each other. before commencing the ascent of the appennines, our travellers visited the country seat of the archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by john of bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at fonte-buona, cast a farewell glance on florence, and the ancient fiesole. as they advanced towards caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character. each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape. the wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges--then swept tempestuously through some deep ravine. on either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to the traveller during winter's snows; while, in one exposed gully, were built large stone embankments for his protection--as a latin inscription intimated--from the violence of the gales. few signs of life appeared. here and there, her white kerchief shading a sun-burnt face, a young bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed on the edge of the precipice. as they neared bologna, however, the scenery changed. festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear--white villas chequered the suburbs--and it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old façades. it is the only one, where the englishman recals mrs. ratcliffe's harrowing tales; and half expects to see a schedoni, advancing from some covered portico. the next day found them in the bolognese gallery, which is the first which duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers of the art. the soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the st. cecilia; and the cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in guide's murder of the innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer. it was on the fourth morning from their arrival in bologna, that they approached the poet's "mansion and his sepulchre." as they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan amphitheatre round the lovely village of arquà. the road made an abrupt ascent to the fontana petrarca. a large ruined arch spanned a fine spring, that rushes down the green slope. in the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of petrarch. its peculiarly bold elevation--the numberless thrilling associations connected with the poet--gave a tone and character to the whole scene. the chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius--the shade of his tomb. the day was lovely--warm, but not oppressive. the soft green of the hills and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams. the brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble, raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent bronze bust of petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous ornament in such a scene. the surrounding landscape--the dwelling place of the poet--his tomb facing the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees--the half-effaced inscription of that hallowed shrine--all these seemed appropriate, and melted the gazer's heart. how useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid the simpler scenes of nature. ornament is here misplaced. the feeling heart regrets its presence at the time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections. george could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they silently followed their guide to petrarch's house, now partly used as a granary. passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown into petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted. in the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet. there did he sit--and write--and muse--and die! george turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and luxuriant as the garden of eden. the rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed with the vines that clustered round the lattice. the round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy slope beneath a grassy walk;--and this thicket of fruit was charmingly enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of their blossom. the poet's garden alone was neglected--rank herbage choking up its uncultivated flowers. a thousand thoughts filled the mind of george delmé. he thought of laura! of his own acmé! with swimming glance, he looked round the chamber. it was almost without furniture, and without ornament. in a niche, and within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of petrarch's. suddenly george delmé felt a faintness stealing over him:--and he turned to bare his forehead, to catch the slight breeze from below redolent of sweets. this did not relieve him. a sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness. another rush of blood to the head:--and a snap, as of some tendon, was distinctly felt by the sufferer. his mouth filled with blood. a small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued. sir henry was wholly unprepared for this scene. assisted by thompson, he bore him to the carriage--sprinkled his face with water--and administered cordials. george's recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of the vessel had been caused by the irregular circulation, for no further bad effects were felt at the time. the loss of blood, however, evidently weakened him; and his spasms henceforward were more frequent. he became less able to undergo fatigue; and his mind, probably in connection with the nervous system, became more than ordinarily excited. there was no longer wildness in his actions; but in his thoughts and language, was developed a poetical eccentricity--a morbid sympathy with surrounding scenes and impressions, which kept sir henry delmé in a constant state of alarm,--and which was very remarkable. * * * * * "what! at mestré already, pietro?" said sir henry. "even so, signore! and here is the gondola to take you on to venice." "well, pietro! you must not fail to come and see us at the inn." the vetturino touched his hat, with the air of a man who would be very sorry _not_ to see them. it was not long ere the glittering prow of the gondola pointed to venice. before the travellers, rose ocean's cybele; springing from the waters, like some fairy city, described to youthful ear by aged lip. the fantastic dome of st. mark--the palladian churches--the columned palaces--the sable gondolas shooting through the canals--made its aspect, as is its reality, unique in the world. "beautiful, beautiful city!" said george, his eye lighting up as he spoke, "thou dost indeed look a city of the heart--a resting place for a wearied spirit. and our gondola, henry, should be of burnished silver; and those afar--so noiselessly cutting their way through the glassy surface--those should be angels with golden wings; and, instead of an oar flashing freely, a snowy wand of mercy should beat back the kissing billows. "and acmé, with her george, should sit on the crystal cushion of glory--and we would wait expectant for you a long long time--and then you should join us, henry, with dear emily. "and thompson should be with us, too, and recline on the steps of our bark as he does now. "and together we would sail loving and happy through an amethystine sea." during their stay in venice, george, in spite of his increasing languor, continued to accompany his brother, in his visits to the various objects of interest which the city can boast. the motion of the gondola appeared to have a soothing influence on the mind of the invalid. he would recline on the cushions, and the fast flowing tears would course down his wan cheeks. these, however, were far from being a proof of suffering;--they were evidently a relief to the surcharged spirit. one evening, a little before sunset, they found themselves in the crowded piazza of saint mark. the cafés were thronged with noble venetians, come to witness the evening parade of an austrian regiment. the sounds of martial music, swelled above the hum of the multitude; and few could listen to those strains, without participating in some degree, in the military enthusiasm of the hour. but the brothers turned from the pageantry of war, as their eyes fell on the emblems of venice free--the minarets of st. mark, with the horses of lysippus, a spoil from byzantium--the flagless poles that once bore the banners of three tributary states--the highly adorned azure clock--the palaces of the proud doges--where faliero reigned--where faliero suffered:--these were before them. their steps mechanically turned to the beautiful campanile. george, leaning heavily on sir henry's arm, succeeded in gaining the summit: and they looked down from thence, on that wonderful city. they saw the parade dismissed--they heard the bugle's fitful blast proclaim the hour of sunset. the richest hues of crimson and of gold, tinted the opposite heavens; while on those waters, over which the gondolas were swiftly gliding, quivered another city, the magic reflection of the one beneath them. they gazed on the scene in silence, till the grey twilight came on. "now, george! it is getting late," said sir henry. "i wonder whether we could find some old mariner, who could give us a chaunt from tasso?" descending from the campanile, sir henry made enquiries on the quay, and with some difficulty found gondoliers, who could still recite from their favourite bard. engaging a couple of boats, and placing a singer in each, the brothers were rowed down the canale giudecca--skirted many of the small islands, studding the lagoons; and proceeded towards the adriatic. gradually the boats parted company, and just as sir henry was about to speak, thinking there might be a mistake as to the directions; the gondolier in the other boat commenced his song,--its deep bass mellowed by distance, and the intervening waves. the sound was electric. it was so exquisitely appropriate to the scene, and harmonised so admirably, with the associations which venice is apt to awaken, that one longed to be able to embody that fleeting sound--to renew its magic influence in after years. the pen may depict man's stormy feelings: the sensitive caprice of woman:--the most vivid tints may be imitated on the glowing canvas:--the inspired marble may realise our every idea of the beauty of form:--a scroll may give us at will, the divine inspiration, of handel:--but there are sounds, as there are subtle thoughts, which, away from the scenes, where they have charmed us, can never delight us more. it was not until the second boatman answered the song, that the brothers felt how little the charm lay, in the voice of the gondolier, and that, heard nearer, the sounds were harsh and inharmonious. they recited the death of clorinda; the one renewing the stanza, whenever there was a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the other. the clock of st. mark had struck twelve, before the travellers had reached the hotel. george had not complained of fatigue, during a day which even sir henry thought a trying one; and the latter was willing to hope that his strength was now increasing. their first design had been to proceed though switzerland, resting for some time at geneva. their plans were now changed, and sir henry belme determined, that their homeward route should be through the tyrol and bavaria, and eventually down the rhine. he considered that the water carriage, and the very scenes themselves, might prove beneficial to the invalid. thompson was sent over to mestré, to inform pietro; and they prepared to take their departure. "you have been better in venice," said sir henry, as they entered the gondola, that was to bear them from the city. "god grant that you may long remain so!" george shook his head doubtingly. "my illness, henry, is not of the frame alone, although that is fragile and shattered. "the body lingers on without suffering; but the mind--a very bright sword in a worthless sheath--is forcing its way through. some feelings must remain to the last--gratitude to you--love to dear emily! acmé, wife of my bosom! when may i join you?" chapter ix. inspruck. "oh there is sweetness in the mountain air, and life, that bloated ease can never hope to share." inspruck! a thousand recollections flash across us, as we pronounce the word! we were there at a memorable period; when the body of the hero of the tyrol--the brave, the simple-minded anderl hofer--was removed from mantua, where he so nobly met a patriot's death, to the capital of the country, which he had so gallantly defended. the event was one, that could not fail to be impressive; and to us it was doubly so, for that very period formed an epoch in our lives. we had lost! we had suffered! we had mourned! our mind's strength was shook. ordinary remedies were worse than futile. we threw ourselves into the heart of the tyrol, and became resigned if not happy. romantic country! did not duty whisper otherwise, how would we fly to thy rugged mountains, and find in the kindly virtues of thine inhabitants, wherewithal to banish misanthropy, and it may be purchase oblivion. noble land! where the chief in his hall--the peasant in his hut--alike open their arms with sheltering hospitality, to welcome the stranger--where kindness springs from the heart, and dreams not of sordid gain--where courtesy attends superior rank, without question, but without debasement--where the men are valiant, the women virtuous--where it needed but a few home-spun heroes--an innkeeper and a friar--to rouse up to arms an entire population, and in a brief space to drive back the gallic foeman! oh! how do we revert with choking sense of gratitude, to the years we have spent in thy bosom! oh! would that we were again treading the mountain's summit--the rifle our comrade--and a rude countryman, our guide and our companion. in vain! in vain! the net of circumstance is over us! we may struggle! but cannot escape from its close meshes. we have said that we were at inspruck at this period. it was our purpose, on the following morning, to take our departure. with renewed health, and nerves rebraced, we hoped to combat successfully, a world that had already stung us. there was a group near the golden-roofed palace, that attracted our attention. it consisted of a father and his five sons. they were dressed in the costume of the country; wearing a tapering hat, with black ribbons and feather--a short green jerkin--a red vest surmounted by broad green braces--and short boots tightly laced to the ancle. they formed a picture of free mountaineers. we left our lodging, and passed them irresolutely twice or thrice. the old man took off his hat to the stranger. "sir! i am of sand, in passeyer. "anderl hofer was my schoolfellow; and these are my boys, whom i have brought to see all that remains of him. oh! sir! they did not conquer him, although the murderers shot him on the bastion; but, as he wrote to pulher--_his_ friend and mine--it was indeed 'in the name, and by the help of the lord, that he undertook the voyage,'" we paced through the city sorrowfully. it was night, as we passed by the church of the holy cross. solemn music there arrested our footsteps; and we remembered, that high mass would that night be performed, for the soul of the deceased patriot. we entered, and drew near the mausoleum of maximilian the first:--leaning against a colossal statue in bronze, and fixing our eyes on a bas relief on the tomb: one of twenty-four tablets, wrought from carrara's whitest marble, by the unrivalled hand of colin of malines! one blaze of glory enveloped the grand altar:--vapours of incense floated above:--and the music! oh it went to the soul! down! down knelt the assembled throng! our mind had been previously attuned to melancholy; it now reeled under its oppression. we looked around with tearful eye. old theodoric of the goths seemed to frown from his pedestal. we turned to the statue against which we had leant. it was that of a youthful and sinewy warrior. we read its inscription. artur, konig von england "ah! hast _thou_ too thy representative, my country?" we looked around once more. the congregation were prostrate before the mysterious host; and we alone stood up, gazing with profound awe and reverence on the mystic rite. the rough caps of the women almost hid their fair brows. in the upturned features of the men, what a manly, yet what a devout expression reigned! melodiously did the strains proceed from the brazen-balustraded orchestra; while sweet young girls smiled in the chapel of silver, as they turned to heaven their deeply-fringed eyes, and invoked pardon for their sins. alas! alas! that such as these _should_ err, even in thought! that our feelings should so often mislead us,--that our very refinement, should bring temptation in its train,--and our fervent enthusiasm, but too frequently terminate in vice and crime! our whole soul was unmanned! and well do we remember the morbid prayer, that we that night offered to the throne of mercy. "pity us! pity us! creator of all! "with thousands around, who love--who reverence--whose hearts, in unison with ours, tremble at death, yet sigh for eternity;--who gaze with eye aspiring, although dazzled--as, the curtain of futurity uplifted, fancy revels in the glorious visions of beatitude:--even here, oh god! hear our prayer and pity us! "we are moulded, though faintly, in an angel's form. endow us with an angel's principles. for ever hush the impure swellings of passion! lull the stormy tide of contending emotions! let not circumstances overwhelm! "receive our past griefs: the griefs of manhood, engrafted on youth; accept these tears, falling fast and bitterly! take them as past atonement,--as mute witnesses that we feel:--that reason slumbers not, although passion may mislead:--that gilded temptation may overcome, and gorgeous pleasure intoxicate:--but that sincere repentance, and bitter remorse, are visitants too. "oh guide and pity us!" a cheerless dawn was breaking, and a thick damp mist was lazily hanging on the water's surface, as our travellers waved the hand to venice. "fare thee well!" said george, as he rose in the gondola to catch a last glimpse of the piazzetta, "sea girt city! decayed memorial of patrician splendour, and plebeian debasement! of national glory, blended with individual degradation!--fallen art thou, but fair! it was not with freshness of heart, i reached thee:--i dwelt not in thee, with that jocund spirit, whose every working or gives the lip a smile, or moistens the eye of feeling with a tear. "sad were my emotions! but sadder still, as i recede from thy shores, bound on a distant pilgrimage. acmé! dear acmé! would i were with thee!" passing through treviso, they stopped at castel franco, which presents one of the best specimens of an italian town, and italian peasantry, that a stranger can meet with. at bassano, they failed not to visit the municipal hall, where are the principal pictures of giacomo da ponte, called after his native town. his style is peculiar. his pictures are dark to an excess, with here and there a vivid light, introduced with wonderful effect. from this town, the ascent of the mountains towards ospedale is commenced; and the route is one full of interest. on the right, lay a low range of country, adorned with vineyards; beyond which, the mountains rose in a precipitous ridge, and closed the scene magnificently. the brenta was then reached, and continued to flow parallel with the road, as far as eye could extend. farther advanced, the mountains presented a landscape more varied:--_here_ chequered with hamlets, whose church hells re-echoed in mellow harmony: there--the only break to their majesty, being the rush of the river, as it formed rolling cascades in its rapid route; or beat in sparkling foam, against the large jagged rocks, which opposed its progress. at one while, came shooting down the stream, some large raft of timber, manned by adventurous navigators, who, with graceful dexterity, guided their rough bark, clear of the steep banks, and frequent fragments of rock;--at another--as if to mark a road little frequented, a sharp turn would bring them on some sandalled damsel, sitting by the road side, adjusting her ringlets. detected in her toilet, there was a mixture of frankness and modesty, in the way in which she would turn away a blushing face, yet neglect not, with native courtesy, to incline the head, and wave the sun-burnt hand. from ospedale, nearing the bold castle of pergini, which effectually commands the pass; the travellers descended through regions of beauty, to the ancient tridentum of council celebrity. the metal roof of its duomo was glittering in the sunshine; and the adige was swiftly sweeping by its fortified walls. leaving trent, they reached san michele, nominally the last italian town on the frontier; but the german language had already prepared them for a change of country. the road continued to wind by the adige, and passing through lavis, and bronzoli, the brothers halted for the night at botzen, a clean german town, watered by the eisach. the following day's journey, was one that few can take, and deem their time misspent. mossy cliffs--flowing cascades--"chiefless castles breaking stern farewells"--all these were met, and met again, as through brixen, they reached the village of mülks. they had intended to have continued their route; but on drawing up at the post-house, were so struck with the gaiety of the scene, that they determined to remain for the night. immediately in rear of the small garden of the inn, and with a gentle slope upwards, a wide piece of meadow land extended. on its brow, was pitched a tent, or rather, a many-coloured awning; and, beside it, a pole adorned with flags. this was the station for expert riflemen, who aimed in succession at a fluttering bird, held by a silken cord. the sloping bank of the hill was covered with spectators. age looked on with sadness, and mourned for departed manhood--youth with envy, and sighed for its arrival. after seeing their bedrooms, george leant on henry's arm, and, crossing the garden, they took a by-path, which led towards the tent. the strangers were received with respect and cordiality. seats were brought, and placed near the scene of contest. the trial of skill over, the victor took advantage, of his right, and selected his partner from the fairest of the peasant girls. shrill pipes struck up a waltz--a little blind boy accompanied these on a mandolin--and in a brief space, the hill's flat summit was swarming with laughing dancers. nor was youth alone enlisted in terpsichore's service. the mother joined in the same dance with the daughter; and not unfrequently tripped with foot as light. twilight came on, and the patriarchs of the village, and with them our travellers, adjourned to the inn. the matrons led away their reluctant charges, and the youth of the village alone protracted the revels. the brothers seated themselves at a separate table, and watched the village supper party, with some interest. bowls of thick soup, with fish swimming in butter, and fruit floating in cream, were successively placed in the middle of the table. each old man produced his family spoon, and helped himself with primitive simplicity:--then lighted his pipe, and told his long tale, till he had exhausted himself and his hearers. nor must we forget the comely waiter. a bunch of keys hanging on one side,--a large leathern purse on the other--with a long boddice, and something like a hoop--she really resembled, save that her costume was more homely, one of the portraits of vandyke. the brothers left mülks by sunrise, and were not long, ere they reached the summit of the brenner, the loftiest point of the tyrol. from the beautiful town of gries, embosomed in the deep valley, until they trod the steep steinach, the mountain scenery at each step become more interesting. the road was cut on the face of a mountain. on one side, frowned the mountain's dark slope; on the other, lay a deep precipice, down which the eye fearfully gazed, and saw naught but the dark fir trees far far beneath. dividing that dense wood, a small stream, entangled in the dark ravine, glided on in graceful windings, and looked more silvery from its contrast with the sombre forest. at the steinach pietro pulled up, to show the travellers the capital of the tyrol, and to point in the distance to hall, famous for its salt works. casting a hasty glance, on the romantic vale beneath them:--the fairest and most extensive in the northern recesses of the alps, sir henry desired his driver to continue his journey. they rapidly descended, and passing by the column, commemorative of the repulse of the french and bavarian armies, soon found themselves the inmates of an hotel in inspruck. chapter x. the students' stories. "the lilacs, where the robins built, and where my brother set the laburnum on his birth-day-- _the tree_ is living yet." at inspruck, delmé had the advantage of a zealous, if not an appropriate guide, in the red-faced landlord of the hotel, whose youth had been passed in stirring times, which had more than once, required the aid of his arm, and which promised to tax his tongue, to the last day of his life. he knew all the heroes of the tyrolese revolution--if revolution it can be called--and had his tale to tell of each. he had got drunk with hofer,--had visited joseph speckbacker, when hid in his own stable,--and had confessed more than once to haspinger, the fighting capuchin. his stories were very characteristic; and, if they did not breathe all the poetry of patriotism, were at least honest versions, of exploits performed in as pure and disinterested a spirit, as any that have ever graced the sacred name of liberty. after seeing all its sights, and making an excursion to some glaciers in its neighbourhood, delmé and george left the capital of the tyrol, to proceed by easy stages to munich. in the first day's route, they made the passage of the zirl, which has justly been lauded; and pietro failed not to point to a crucifix, placed on a jutting rock, which serves to mark the site of maximilian's cave. the travellers took a somewhat late breakfast, at the guitar-making mittelwald, where chance detained them later than usual. they were still at some distance from their sleeping place, the hamlet of wallensee, when the rich hues of sunset warned pietro, that if he would not be benighted, he must urge on his jaded horses. the sun's decline was glorious. for a time, vivid streaks of crimson and of gold, crowned the summits of the heaving purple mountains. gradually, these streaks became fainter, and died away, and rolling, slate-coloured clouds, hung heavily in the west. the scene and the air seemed to turn on a sudden, both cold and grey; and, as the road wound through umbrageous forests of pine, night came abruptly upon them; and it was a relief to the eye, to note the many bright stars, as they shone above the tops of the lofty trees. a boding stillness reigned, on which the sound of their carriage wheels ungratefully broke. the rustling of each individual bough had an intonation of its own; and the deep notes of the woodman, endeavouring to forget the thrilling legends of his land, mingled fitfully with the hollow gusts, which came moaning through the leafless branches below. hist! can it be the boisterous revel of the _forst geister_, that meets his ear? or is it but the chirp of insects, replying from brake to underwood? woodman! stay not thy carol! yon sound _may_ be the wild laugh of the holz könig! better for thee, to deem it the whine of thine own dog, looking from the cottage door, and awaiting but thy presence, to share in the homely meal. arrived on the summit of the hill, the lights of the hamlet at length glistened beneath them. the tired steeds, as if aware of the near termination of their labours, shook their rough manes, and jingled their bells in gladness. an abrupt descent--and they halted, at the inn facing the lake. and here may we notice, that it has been a source of wonder to us, that english tourists, whose ubiquity is great, have not oftener been seen straying, by the side of the lake of wallensee. a sweeter spot exists not;--whether we rove by its margin, and perpetrate a sonnet; limn some graceful tree, hanging over its waters; or gaze on its unruffled surface, and, noting its aspect so serene, preach from that placid text, peace to the wearied breast. they were shown into a room in the inn, already thronged with strangers. these were students on their way to heidelberg. they were sitting round a table, almost enveloped in smoke; and were hymning praises to their loved companion--beer. as being in harmony with the moustaches, beard, and bandit propensities--which true bürschen delight to cultivate--they received the strangers with an unfriendly stare, and continued to vociferate their chorus. sir henry, a little dismayed at the prospect before them, called for the landlord and his bill of fare; and had the pleasure of discovering, that the provisions had been consumed, and that two hours would elapse, before more could be procured. at this announcement, delmé looked somewhat blank. one of the students, observing this, approached, and apologising, in english, for their voracity, commenced conversing with the landlord, as to the best course to be pursued towards obtaining supper. his comrades, seeing one of their number speaking with the travellers, threw off some part of their reserve, and made way for them at the table. george and henry accepted the proffered seats, although they declined joining the drinking party. the students, however, did not appear at ease. as if to relieve their embarrassment, one of them addressed the young man, with whom sir henry had conversed. "carl! it is your turn now! if you have not a song, we must have an original story." carl at once complied, and related the following. the first story. perhaps some of you remember fritz hartmann and his friend leichtberg. they were the founders of the last new liberty club, and were famous at _renowning_. these patriots became officers of the imperial guard, and at vienna were soon known for their friendship and their gallantries. fritz had much sentiment and imagination; but some how or other, this did not preserve him from inconstancy. if he was always kind and gentle, he was not always faithful. his old college chums had the privilege of joking him on these subjects; and we always did so without mercy. fritz would sometimes combat our assertions, but they ordinarily made him laugh so much, that a stranger would have deemed he assented to their truth. one night after the opera, the friends supped together at fritz's. i was of the party, and brought for my share a few bottles of johannisberg, that had been sent me by my uncle from the last vintage. over these we got more than usually merry, and sang all the songs and choruses of mother heidelberg, till the small hours arrived. the sitting room we were in, communicated on one side with the bedroom;--on the other, with a little closet, containing nothing but some old trunks. this last was closed, but there was a small aperture in the door, over which was a slight iron lattice work. the officer who had last tenanted fritz's quarters, had kept pheasants there, and had had this made on purpose. after one of our songs, leichtberg attacked fritz on the old score. "fritz! you very werter of sentiment! i was amazed to see you with no loves to-night at the opera. where is the widow with sandy hair? or the actress who gave your _kirschenwasser_ such a benefit? where our sallow-faced friend? or more than all, where may the fair pole be who sells such charming fruit? fritz! fritz! your sudden attachment to grapes is too ominous." "come, leichtberg!" said hartmann, laughing, "this is really not fair. do you know i think myself very constant, and as to the pole, i have thought of little else for these three months." "not so fast! not so fast! master hartmann. was it not on wednesday week i met you arm in arm with the actress? were you not waltzing with the widow at the tivoli? have you not"-- "come, come!" said fritz, reddening, "let us say no more. i confess to having made a fool of myself with the actress, but she begged and prayed to see me once more, ere we parted for ever. with this exception----" "yes, yes!" interrupted leichtberg, "i know you, master fritz, and all your evil doings. have you heard of our polish affaire de coeur, carl?", and he turned to me. "no!" replied i, "let me hear it." "well, you must know that a certain friend of ours is very economical, and markets for himself. he bargains for fruit and flowers with the peasant girls, and the prettiest always get his orders, and bring up their baskets, and--we will say no more. well! our friend meets a foreign face, dark eye--greek contour--and figure indescribable. she brings him home her well arranged bouquets. he swears her lips are redder than her roses--her brow whiter than lilies--and her breath--which he stoops to inhale--far sweeter than her jasmines. to his amazement, the young flower girl sees no such great attractions in the imperial guardsman; leaves her nosegays,--throws his napoleon, which he had asked her to change, in his face,--and makes her indignant exit. our sentimental friend finds out her home, and half her history;--renews his flattering tales--piques her pride,--rouses her jealousy;--and makes her love him, bon gré--mal gré, better than either fruit or flowers. "fritz swears eternal constancy, and keeps it, as i have already told you, with the actress and the sandy haired widow." leichtberg told this story inimitably, and fritz laughed as much as i did. at length we rose to wish him good night, and saw him turn to his bedroom door, followed by a swiss dog, which always slept under his bed. the rest of the story we heard from his dying lips. it was as near as he could guess, between two and three in the morning, that he awoke with the impression that some one was near him. for a time he lay restless and ill at ease; with the vague helpless feeling, that often attacks one, after a good supper. fritz had just made up his mind to ascribe to this cause, all his nervousness; when something seemed to drop in the adjoining room; and his dog, starting to its feet, commenced barking furiously. again all was still. he got up for a moment, but fancying he heard a footstep on the stair, concluded that the noise proceeded from one of the inmates of the house, who was come home later than usual. but fritz could not sleep; and his dog seemed to share his feelings; for he turned on his side restlessly, and occasionally gave a quick solitary bark. suddenly a conviction flashed across hartmann, that there was indeed some one in the chamber. his curtain stirred. he sprang from his bed, and reached his tinder box. as the steel struck sparks from the flint, these revealed the face of the intruder. it was the young polish girl. a fur cloak was closely folded around her;--her face was deadly pale;--with one hand she drew back her long dark hair, while she silently uplifted the other. our friend's last impression was his falling back, at the moment his dog made a spring at the girl. the inmates of the house were alarmed. his friends were all sent for. i arrived among the earliest. what a sight met me! the members of the household were so stupefied that they had done nothing. fritz hartmann lay on the floor insensible:--his night shirt steeped in blood, still flowing from a mortal wound in his breast. at his feet, moaning bitterly, its fangs and mouth filled with mingled fur and gore, lay the swiss dog, with two or three deep gashes across the throat. in the adjoining room, thrown near the door, was the instrument of fritz's death--one of the knives we had used the evening before. beside it, lay a woman's cloak, the fur literally dripping with blood. fritz lingered for five hours. before death, he was sensible, and told us what i have stated:--and acknowledged that he had loved the girl, more than her station in life might seem to warrant. of course, the young pole had been concealed in the closet, and heard leichtberg's sallies. love and jealousy effected the rest. we never caught her, although we had all the vienna police at our beck; and accurate descriptions of her person were forwarded to the frontiers. we were not quite certain as to her fate, but we rather suppose her to have escaped by a back garden; in which case she must have made a most dangerous leap; and then to have passed as a courier, riding as such into livonia. where she obtained the money or means to effect this, god knows. she must have been a heroine in her way, for this dog is not easily overpowered, and yet--look here! these scars were given him by that young girl. the student whistled to a dog at his feet, which came and licked his hand, while he showed the wounds in his throat. "i call him hartmann," continued he, "after my old friend. his father sent him to me just after the funeral, and leichtberg has got his meershaum." * * * * * the students listened attentively to the story, refilling their pipes during its progress, with becoming gravity. carl turned towards his right hand neighbour. "wilhelm! i call on you!" the student, whom he addressed, passed his hand through his long heard, and thus commenced. the second story. my father's brother married at lausanne, in the canton de vaud, and resided there. he died early, and left one son; who, as you may suppose, was half a frenchman. in spite of that, i thought caspar von hazenfeldt a very handsome fellow. his chestnut hair knotted in curls over his shoulders. his eyes, the veins of his temples, and i would almost say, his very teeth, had a blueish tint, that i have noticed in few men; and which must, i think, be the peculiar characteristic of his complexion. when engaged in pleasure parties, either pic-nicing at the signal, or promenading in the evening on mont benon, or sitting tête-à-tête at languedoc, he had no eyes or ears but for caroline de werner. he waltzed with her--he talked with her--and he walked with her--until he had fairly talked, walked, and waltzed himself into love. she was the daughter of a rich old colonel of the empire:--he was the poor son of a poorer widow. what could he do? caspar von hazenfeldt could gaze on the house of the old soldier; but the avenue of elms, the waving corn-fields, and the luxuriant gardens, told him that the heiress of beau-séjour could never be his. he was one evening sitting on a stone, in a little ruined chapel, near the house of his beloved; ruminating as usual on his ill fate, and considering which would be the better plan, to mend his fortunes by travel, or mar them by suicide;--when an elderly gentleman, dressed in a plain suit of black, appeared hat in hand before him. after the usual compliments, they entered into conversation, and at last, having walked for some distance, towards hazenfeldt's house, agreed to meet again at the chapel on the next evening. suffice it to say that they often met, and as often parted, on the margin of the little stream, that ran before the door of caspar's mother's house:--that they became great friends;--and that the young man confided the tale of his love, hopes, and miseries, to the sympathising senior. at last _the old gentleman_, for such he really was, told caspar that he would help him in a trice, through all his difficulties. "there is one condition, caspar!" said he, "but that is a mere trifle. you are young, and would be quite happy, were it not for this love affair of yours:--you sleep soundly, you seek and quit your bed early, and you care not for night-roving. henceforth, lend me your body from ten at night, until two in the morning, and i promise that caroline de werner shall be yours. here she is!" continued he, as he opened his snuff box, and showed the lid to caspar, "here she is!" and sure enough, there she was on the inside of the lid, apparently reading to the gouty old colonel, as he sat in his easy chair in the petit salon of beau-sejour. one evening, the old gentleman delighted caspar, by telling him that he had authority from colonel de werner, to bring a guest to a ball at beau-séjour, and by begging caspar to be his shade--to use our continental expression--on the occasion. caspar von hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless unguarded moment. hazenfeldt was introduced to caroline in due form, and engaged her for the first dance. before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair. "caspar!" continued he, "when your dance is over, give me a few minutes in the next room. we will chat together, and sip our negus." caspar _did_ so, and _did_ sip his negus. the little gentleman in black, was very facetious, and very affable. "are you not going to dance again, caspar? look at all those pretty girls, waiting for partners! why do you not lead one to the country dance?" as he ended speaking, a sylph-like figure, with long golden ringlets, floated past them. "i can, and i will," replied caspar, laughing, as he took the fair-haired girl by the hand, and led her to the dance. he turned to address his friend in triumph, but he had disappeared. the dance was over, and caspar led the stranger towards a silken ottoman. "will you not try one waltz?" said the beautiful girl, as she shook her ringlets, over his flushed cheek; "but i must not ask you, if you are tired." "how can i refuse?" rejoined caspar. caroline was forgotten, as his partner's golden hair floated on his shoulders, and her soft white arms were twined around him, as they danced the mazy coquettish waltz, which was then the fashion in lausanne. "how warm these rooms are!" she exclaimed at last. "the moon is up: let us walk in the avenue." caspar assented; for he grew fonder of his new partner, and more forgetful of caroline. she pressed closer and closer to his side. a distant clock struck ten. entwined in her tresses, encircled in her arms, he sunk senseless to the ground. when caspar recovered from the trance, into which he had fallen, the cold morning breeze, that precedes the dawn, was freshening his cheek; a few faint streaks on the horizon, reflected the colours of the coming sun; and the night birds were returning tired to the woods, as the day birds were merrily preparing for their flight. he was not where he had fallen: he was sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock. caroline de werner was beside him. her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in bacchante curls, twined with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood bubbled from her mouth. her hand was fast locked in that of hazenfeldt. "caroline!" he exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment, as one who awakes from a deep sleep, "caroline! why are we here? what means this disorder?" "you now speak," said she, "as did my caspar," caroline de werner is in a mad-house near vevay:--the man in black has not been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of beau-séjour:--my cousin, caspar von hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the swiss mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met _the old gentleman_, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of the gemmi. * * * * * supper was not ready as the student finished this story; and george proposed a stroll. the change from the heated room to the margin of the lake, was a most refreshing one. as the brothers silently gazed upwards, a young lad approached, and accosted them. "gentlemen! i have seen the horses fed, and they are now lying down." "have you?" said delmé, drily. "a very fine night! gentlemen! perhaps you have heard of the famous echo, on the other side of the lake. it will be a good hour, i am sure, before your supper is ready. my boat lies under that old tree. if you like it, i will loose the chain, and row you over." the brothers acquiesced. they were just in the frame of mind for an unforeseen excursion. the motion of the boat, too, would be easy for george, and he might there unrestrainedly give way to his excited feelings, or commune ungazed on, with the current of his thoughts. a thin crescent of a moon had risen. it was silvering the tops of the overhanging boughs, and was quiveringly mirrored on the light ripple. george leant against the side of the boat, and listened to the liquid music, as the broad paddle threw back the resisting waters. how soothing is the hour of night to the wounded spirit! the obscurity which shrouds nature, seems to veil even man's woes--the harsh outline of his sufferings is discerned no more. grief takes the place of despair--pensive melancholy of sorrow. as we gaze around, and feel the chill air damp each ringlet on the pallid brow; know that _that_ hour hath cast a shade on each inanimate thing around us; we feel resigned to our bereavements, and confess, in our heart's humility, that no changes _should_ overwhelm, and that no grief _should_ awaken repinings. to many a bruised and stricken spirit, night imparts a grateful balm. in the morning, the feelings are too fresh;--oblivion is exchanged for conscious suffering;--the merriment of the feathered songsters seems to us as a taunt;--our sympathies are not with waking nature. the glare and splendour of noon, bid us recal _our_ hopes, and their signal overthrow. the zenith of day's lustre meets us as a wilful mockery. eve may bring rest, but on her breast is memory. but at night! when the mental and bodily energies are alike worn out by the internal struggle;--when hushed is each sound--softened each feature--dimmed each glaring hue;--a calm which is not deceptive, steals over us, and we regard our woes as the exacted penalty of our erring humanity. calumniated night! to one revelling in the full noon-tide of hope and gladness:--to the one, to whom a guilty conscience incessantly whispers, "think! but sleep not!"--to such as these, horrors may appear to bound thy reign!--but to him who hath loved, and who hath lost,--to many a gentle but tried spirit, thou comest in the guise of a sober, and true friend. the boat for some time, kept by the steep bank, under the shadows of the trees. as it emerged from this, towards where the moon-beams cast their light on the water, the night breeze rustled through the foliage, and swept a yet green leaf from one of the drooping boughs. it fell on the surface of the lake, and george's eye quickly followed it. "look at that unfaded leaf! henry. what a gentle breeze it was, that parted it from its fellows! to me it resembles a youthful soul, cut off in its prime, and wandering mateless in eternity." sir henry only sighed. the young rower silently pursued his course across the lake; running his boat aground, on a small pebbly strand near a white cottage. jumping nimbly from his seat, and fastening the boat to a large stone, the guide, followed by the brothers, shouted to the inmates of the cottage, and violently kicked at its frail door. an upper window was opened, and the guardian of the echo--a valorous divine in a black night-cap--demanded their business. this was soon told. the priest descended--struck a light--unbarred the door--and with the prospect of gain before him, fairly forgot that he had been aroused from a deep slumber. they were soon ushered into the kitchen. an aged crone descended, and raking the charcoal embers, kindled a flame, by which the rower was enabled to light his pipe. the young gentleman threw himself into an arm chair, and puffed away with true german phlegm. the old man bustled about, in order to obtain the necessary materials for loading an ancient cannon; and occupied himself for some minutes, in driving the charge into the barrel. this business arranged, he led the way towards the beach; and aided by the old woman, pointed his warlike weapon. a short pause--it was fired! rebounding from hill to hill, the echo took its course, startling the peasant from his couch, and the wolf from his lair. again all was still;--then came its distant reverberation--a tone deep and subdued--dying away mournfully on the ear. "how wonderfully fine!" said george, "but let us embark, for i feel quite chilled." "i will run for the youngster," replied his brother. as he moved towards the cottage, the priest seized him by the collar of the coat, and held up the torch, by which he had fired the cannon. "this echo is indeed a wonderful one! it has nineteen distinct repetitions; the first twelve being heard from _this_ side of a valley, which, were it day, i would point out; the other seven, on the opposite side. tradition tells us, that nineteen castles in ancient times, stood near the spot; that each of these laid claim to the echo; and that, as it passes the ruin, where once dwelt sigismund of the bloody hand, the chief springs from the round ivied tower--waves his sword thrice, the drops of blood falling from its hilt as he does so--and proclaims aloud, that whosoever dare gainsay"-- "i am sorry to leave you," interrupted sir henry, as he shook him off, "particularly at this interesting part of the story; but it is late, and my brother feels unwell, and i wish to go to the cottage to call our guide." delmé was pursued by the echo's elucidator, who being duly remunerated, allowed sir henry to accompany the guide towards the boat. george was not standing where he had left him. delmé stepped forward, and nearly fell over a prostrate body. it was the motionless one of his brother. he gave a shriek of anguish; flew towards the house, and in a moment, was again on the spot, bearing the priest's torch. he raised his brother's head. one hand was extended over the body, and fell to the earth like a clod of clay as it was. he gazed on that loved face. in that gaze, how much was there to arrest his attention. on those features, death had stamped his seal. but there was a thought, which bore the ascendancy over this in delmé's mind. it was a thought which rose involuntarily,--one for which he could not _then_ account, and cannot now. for some seconds, it swayed his every emotion. he felt the conviction--deep, undefinable--that there was indeed a soul, to "shame the doctrine of the sadducee." he deemed that on those lineaments, this was the language forcibly engraven! the features were still and fixed:--the brow alone revealed a dying sense of pain. the lips! how purple were they! and the eye, that erst flashed so freely:--the yellow film of death had dimmed its lustre. the legs were apart, and one of the feet was in the lake. henry tried to chafe his brother's forehead. in vain! in vain! he knew it was in vain! he let the head fall, and buried his face in his hands. he turned reproachfully, to gaze on that cloudless heaven, where the moon, and the brilliant stars, and the falling meteor, seemed to hold a bright and giddy festival. he clasped his hands in mute agony. for a brief moment--his dark eye seeming to invite his wrath--he dared to arraign the mercy of god, who had taken what he had made. it was but for a moment he thus thought. he had watched that light of life, until its existence was almost identified with his own. he had seen it flicker--had viewed it reillumed--blaze with increased brilliancy--fade--glimmer--and fade. now! where was it? a bitter cry escaped! his limbs trembled convulsively, and could no longer support him. he fell senseless beside his brother. chapter xi the student "what is my being? _thou_ hast ceased to be." carl obers was as enthusiastic a being as ever germany sent forth. brought up in a lone recess in the hartz mountains, with neither superiors nor equals to commune with, he first entered the miniature world, as a student at heidelberg. his education had been miserably neglected. he had read much; but his reading had been without order and without system. the deepest metaphysics, and the wildest romances had been devoured in succession; until the young man hardly knew which was the real, or which was the visionary world:--the one he actually lived in, or the one he was always brooding over:--where souls are bound together by mysterious and hidden links, and where men sell themselves to satan;--the penalty merely being:--to walk through life, and throw no shadow. enrolled amongst a select corps of brüschen, warm and true; his ear was caught by the imposing jargon of patriotism; and his imagination dwelt on those high sounding words, "the rights of man;"--until he became the staunch advocate and unflinching votary of a state of things, which, for aught we know, _may_ exist in one of the planets, but which never can, and which never will exist on this earth of ours. "what!" would exclaim our enthusiast, "have we not all our bodily and our mental, energies? doth not dame nature, in our birth, as in our death, deal out impartial justice? she may endow me with stronger limbs, than another:--our feelings as we grow up, may not be chained down to one servile monotony;--the lip of the precocious cynic"--this was addressed to a young matter of fact englishman--"who sneers at my present animation, may not curl with a smile as often as my own; but let our powers of acting be equal,--our prerogatives the same." carl obers, with his youth and his vivacity, carried his auditors--a little knot of beer drinking liberty-mongers--_with_ him, and _for_ him, in all he said; and the orator would look round, with conscious power, and considerable satisfaction; and flatter himself, that his specious arguments were as unanswerable, as they were then unanswered. many of our generation may remember the unparalleled enthusiasm, which, like an electric flash, spread over the civilised world; as greece armed herself, to shake off her moslem ruler. it was one that few could help sharing. to almost all, is greece a magic word. her romantic history--the legacies she has left us--our early recollections, identifying with her existence as a nation, all that is good and glorious;--no wonder these things should have shed a bright halo around her,--and have made each breast deeply sympathise with her in her unwonted struggle for freedom. carl obers did not hear of this struggle with indifference. he at once determined to give greece the benefit of his co-operation, and the aid of his slender means. he immediately commenced an active canvass amongst his personal friends, in order to form a band of volunteers, who might be efficient, and worthy of the cause on which his heart was set. he now first read an useful lesson from life's unrolled volume. many a voice, that had rung triumphantly the changes on liberty, was silent now, or deprecated the active attempt to establish it. the hands that waved freely in the debating room, were not the readiest to grasp the sword's hilt. many who had poetically expatiated on the splendours of modern greece; on reflection preferred the sunny views of the neckar, to the prospect of eating honey on hymettus. youth, however, is the season for enterprise; and carl, with twenty-three comrades, was at length on his way to trieste. he had been offered the command of the little band, but had declined it, with the sage remark, that "as they were about to fight for equality, it was their business to preserve it amongst themselves." a slight delay in procuring a vessel, took place at trieste. this delay caused a defection of eight of the party. the remaining students embarked in a miserable greek brigantine, and after encountering some storms in the adriatic, thought themselves amply repaid, as the purple hills of greece rose before them. on their landing, they felt disappointed. no plaudits met them; no vivas rung in the air: but a greek soldier filched carl's valise, and on repairing to the commandant of the town, they were told that no redress could be afforded them. willing to hope that the scum of the irregular troops was left behind, and that better feeling, and stricter discipline, existed nearer the main body; our students left on the morrow;--placed themselves under the command of one of the noted leaders of the revolution:--and had shortly the satisfaction of crossing swords with the turk. for some months, the party went through extraordinary hardships;--engaged in a series of desultory but sanguinary expeditions;--and gradually learnt to despise the nation, in whose behalf they were zealously combating. at the end of these few months, what a change in the hopes and prospects of the little band! some had rotted in battle field, food for vultures; others had died of malaria in greek hamlets, without one friend to close their eyes, or one hand to proffer the cooling draught to quench the dying thirst;--two were missing--had perhaps been murdered by the peasants;--and five only remained, greatly disheartened, cursing the nation, and their own individual folly. four of the five turned homewards. carl was left alone, but fought on. now there was a greek, achilles metaxà by name, who had attached himself to carl's fortunes. in person, he was the very model of an ancient hero. he had the capacious brow, the eye of fire, and the full black beard, descending in wavy curls to his chest. the man was brave, too, for carl and he had fought together. it so happened, that they slept one night in a retired convent. their hardships latterly had been great, and the complaints of achilles had been unceasing in consequence. in the morning carl rose, and found that his clothes and arms had vanished, and that his friend was absent also. carl remained long enough to satisfy himself, that his friend was the culprit; and then turned towards the sea coast, determined at all hazards to leave greece. he succeeded in reaching missolonghi, in the early part of , shortly after the death of marco botzaris--being then in a state of perfect destitution, and his mental sufferings greatly aggravated by the consciousness, that he had induced so many of his comrades to sacrifice their lives and prospects in an unworthy cause. at missolonghi, where mavrocordato reigned supreme, he was grudged the paltry ration of a suliote soldier, and might have died of starvation, had it not been for the timely interposition of a stranger. moved by that stranger's persuasion, carl consented to form one of a contemplated expedition against lepanto; and, had his illustrious benefactor lived, might have found a steady friend. as it was, he waited not to hear the funeral oration, delivered by spiridion tricoupi; but was on the deck of the vessel that was to bear him homewards, and shed tears of mingled grief, admiration, and gratitude, as thirty-seven minute guns, fired from the battery, told greece and carl obers, that they had lost byron, their best friend. carl reached germany, a wiser man than when he left it. he found his father dead, and he came into possession of his small patrimony; but felt greatly, as all men do who are suddenly removed from active pursuits, the want of regular and constant employment. he was glad to renew his intercourse with his old university; and found himself greatly looked up to by the students, who were never wearied with listening to his accounts of the morea, and of the privations he had there encountered. we need hardly inform our readers, that carl obers was one of the pedestrian students at wallensee, and was indeed the identical narrator of the vienna story. we left george and his brother, on the shore below the priest's cottage. the one was laid cold and motionless--the other wished that _he_ also were so. immediately on delmé's falling, the young guide alarmed the priest--brought him down to the spot--pointed to the brothers--threw himself into the boat--and paddled swiftly across the lake, to alarm the guests at the inn. it was with feelings of deep commiseration, that carl looked on the two brothers. he was the only person present, whose time was comparatively his own; he spoke english, although imperfectly; and he owed a deep debt of gratitude to an englishman. these circumstances seemed to point him out, as the proper person to attend to the wants of the unfortunate traveller; and carl obers mentally determined, that he would not leave delmé, as long as he had it in his power to befriend him, sir henry delmé was completely unmanned by his bereavement. he had been little prepared for such a severe loss; although it is more than probable, that george's life had long been hanging on a thread, which a single moment might snap. the medical men had been singularly sanguine in his case, for it is rarely that disease of the heart attacks one so young; but it now seemed evident, that even had not anxiety of mind, and great constitutional irritability, hastened the fatal result, that poor george could never have hoped to have survived to a ripe old age. there was much in his character at any time, to endear him to an only brother. as it was, delmé had seen george under such trying circumstances--had entered so fully into his feelings and sufferings--that this abrupt termination to his brother's sorrows, appeared to sir henry delmé, to bring with it a sable pall, that enveloped in darkness his own future life and prospects. the remains of poor george were placed in a small room, communicating with one intended for sir henry. here delmé shut himself up, brooding over his loss, and permitting no one to intrude on his privacy. carl had offered his services, which were gratefully accepted, in making the necessary arrangements for his brother's obsequies; and sir henry, in the solitude of the dead man's chamber, could give free scope to a flood of bitter recollections. it may be, that those silent hours of agony, when the brother looked fixedly on that moveless face, and implored the departed spirit to breathe its dread and awful secret, were not without their improving tendency; for haggard and wan as was the mourner's aspect, there was no outward sign of quivering, even as he saw the rude coffin lowered, and as fell on his ear, the creaking of cords, and that harsh jarring sound, to which there is nothing parallel on earth, the heavy clods falling on the coffin lid. the general arrangements had been simple; but carl's directions had been given in such a sympathising spirit, that they could not be otherwise than acceptable. about the church-yard itself, there is nothing very striking. it is formed round a small knoll, on the summit of which stands a sarcophagus literally buried in ivy. beneath this, is the vault of the baronial family, that for centuries swayed the destinies of the little hamlet; but which family has been extinct for some years. round it are grouped the humbler osiered graves; over which, in lieu of tomb stones, are placed large black iron crosses, ornamented with brass, and bearing the simple initials of the bygone dead. even delmé, with all his ancestral pride, felt that george "slept well." it is true no leaden coffin enclosed his relics, nor did the murky vault of his ancestors, open with creaking hinge to receive another of the race. no escutcheon darkened the porch whence they bore him; and no long train of mourners followed his remains to their last home. but there was something in the quiet of the spot, that seemed to delmé in harmony with his history; and to promise, that a sorrowless world had already opened, on one who had loved so truly, and felt so deeply in this. sir henry returned to the inn, and darkened his chamber. he had not the heart to prosecute his journey, nor to leave the spot, which held what was to him so dear. carl obers attempted to combat his despondency; but observing how useless were his arguments, wisely allowed his grief to take its course. there was one point, in which delmé was decidedly wrong. he could not bring himself, to communicate their loss to his sister. carl pressed this duty frequently on him, but was always met by the same reply. "no! no! how can i inflict such a pang?" it is possible the intelligence might have been very long in reaching england, had it not been for a providential circumstance, that occurred shortly after george's funeral. a carriage, whose style and appointments bespoke it english, changed horses at the inn at wallensee. the courier, while ordering the relays, had heard george's story; and touching his hat to the inmates of the vehicle, retailed it with natural pathos. on hearing the name of delmé, the lady was visibly affected. she was an old friend of the family; and as melicent dashwood, had known george as a boy. it was not without emotion, that she heard of one so young, and to her so familiar, being thus prematurely called to his last account. the lady and her husband alighted, and sending up their cards, begged to see the mourner. the message was delivered; but delmé, without comment or enquiry, at once declined the offer; and it was thought better not to persist. they were too deeply interested, however, not to attempt to be of use. they saw carl and thompson,--satisfied themselves that sir henry was in friendly hands; and thanking the student with warmth and sincerity, for his attention to the sufferer, exacted a promise, that he would not leave him, as long as he could in any way be useful. the husband and wife prepared to continue their journey; but not before the former had left his address in florence, with directions to carl to write immediately, in case he required the assistance of a friend; and the latter had written a long letter to mrs. glenallan, in which she broke as delicately as she could, the melancholy and unlooked-for tidings. chapter xii the letter. "and from a foreign shore well to that heart might _hers_ these absent greetings pour." three weeks had elapsed since george's death. it would be difficult to depict satisfactorily, the state of sir henry delmé's mind during that period. the pride of life appeared crushed within him. he rarely took exercise, and when he did, his step was slow, and his gait tottering. that one terrible loss was ever present to his mind; and yet his imagination, as if disconnected with his feelings, or his memory, was constantly running riot over varying scenes of death, and conjuring up revolting pictures of putrescence and decay. a black pall, and an odour of corruption, seemed to commingle with each quick-springing fantasy; and delmé would start with affright from his own morbid conceptions, as he found himself involuntarily dwelling on the waxen rigidity of death,--following the white worm in its unseemly wanderings,--and finally stripping the frail and disgusting coat from the disjointed skeleton. sir henry delmé had in truth gone through arduous and trying scenes. the very circumstance that he had to conceal his own feelings, and support george through his deeper trials, made the present reaction the more to be dreaded. certain are we, that trials such as his, are frequently the prevailing causes, of moral and intellectual insanity. fortunately, sir henry was endued with a firm mind, and with nerves of great power of endurance. one morning, at an early hour, thompson brought in a letter. it was from emily delmé; and as sir henry noted the familiar address, and the broad black edge, which told that the news of his brother's death had reached his sister, he cast it from him with a feeling akin to pain. the next moment, however, he sprang from the bed, threw open the shutters, and commenced reading its contents. emily's letter. my own dear brother, my heart bleeds for you! but yesterday, we received the sad, sad letter. to-day, although blinded with tears, i implore you to remember, that you have not lost your all! our bereavement has been great! our loss heavy indeed. but if a link in the family love-chain be broken--shall not the remaining ones cling to each other the closer? my aunt is heart-broken. clarendon, kind as he is, did not know our george! alas! that he should be ours no more! my only brother! dwell not with strangers! a sister's arms are ready to clasp you:--a sister's sympathy must lighten the load of your sufferings. think of your conduct! your devotedness! should not these comfort you? did you not love and cherish him? did you not--happier than i--soothe his last days? were you not present to the end? from this moment, i shall count each hour that divides us. on my knees both night and morning, will i pray the almighty god, who has chastened us, to protect my brother in his travels by sea and land. may we be spared, my dearest henry, to pray together, that he may bestow on us present resignation, and make us duly thankful for blessings which still are ours. your affectionate sister, emily. delmé read the letter with tearless eye. for some time he leant his head on his hand, and thought of his sister, and of the dead. he shook, and laughed wildly, as he beat his hand convulsively against the wall. carl obers and thompson held him down, while this strong paroxysm lasted. his sobs became fainter, and he sunk into a placid slumber. the student watched anxiously by his side. he awoke; called for emily's letter; and as he read it once more, the tears coursed down his sunken cheeks. ah! what a relief to the excited man, is the fall of tears. it would seem as if the very feelings, benumbed and congealed as they may hitherto have been, were suddenly dissolving under some happier influence, and that,--with the external sign--the weakness and pliability of childhood--we were magically regaining its singleness of feeling, and its gentleness of heart. sir henry swerved no more from the path of manly duty. he saw the vetturino, and arranged his departure for the morrow. on that evening, he took carl's arm, and sauntered through the village church-yard. already seemed it, that the sods had taken root over george's grave. the interstices of the turf were hidden;--a white paper basket, which still held some flowers, had been suspended by some kind stranger hand over the grave;--from it had dropped a wreath of yellow amaranths. there was great repose in the scene. the birds appeared to chirp softly and cautiously;--the tufts of grass, as they bowed their heads against the monumental crosses, seemed careful not to rustle too drearily. sir henry's sleep was more placid, on _that_, his last night at wallensee, than it had been for many a night before. * * * * * acting up to his original design, delmé passed through the capitals of bavaria and wurtemburg; and quickly traversing the picturesque country round heilbron, reached the romantic heidelberg, washed by the neckar. the student, as might be expected, did not arrive at his old university, with feelings of indifference; but he insisted, previous to visiting his college companions, on showing sir henry the objects of interest. the two friends, for such they might now be styled, walked towards the castle, arm in arm; and stood on the terrace, adorned with headless statues, and backed by a part of the mouldering ruin, half hid by the thick ivy. they looked down on the many winding river, murmuringly gliding through its vine covered banks. beyond this, stretched a wide expanse of country; while beneath them lay the town of heidelberg--the blue smoke hanging over it like a magic diadem. "here, here!" said carl obers, as he gazed on the scene, with mournful sensations, "_here_ were my youthful visions conceived and embodied--_here_ did i form vows, to break the bonds of enslaved mankind--_here_ did i dream of grateful thousands, standing erect for the first time as free men--_here_ did i brood over, the possible happiness of my fellow men, and in attempting to realise it, have wrecked my own." "my kind friend!" replied delmé, "your error, if it be such, has been of the head, and not the heart. it is one, natural to your age and your country. far from being irreparable, it is possible it may have taught you a lesson, that may ultimately greatly benefit you. this is the first time we have conversed regarding your prospects. what are your present views?" "i have none. my friends regard me as one, who has improvidently thrown away his chance of advancement. my knowledge of any _one_ branch of science is so superficial, that this precludes my ever hoping to succeed in a learned profession. i cannot enter the military service in my own country, without commencing in the lowest grade. this i can hardly bring my mind to." "what would you say to the hanoverian army?" replied delmé. "i would say," rejoined carl: "for i see through your kind motive in asking, that i esteem myself fortunate, if i have been in any way useful to you; but that i cannot, and ought not, to think, of accepting a favour at your hands." sir henry said no more at that time: and they reached the inn in silence. delmé retired for the night. carl obers sought his old chums; and, exhilarated by his meershaum, and the excellent beer--rivalling the famous lubeck beer, sent to martin luther, during his trial, by the elector of saxony--triumphantly placed "young germany" at the head of nations. early the following morning, they were again en route. they passed through manheim, where the rhine and neckar meet,--through erpach,--through darmstadt, that cleanest of continental towns,--and finally reached frankfort-on-the-maine, where it was agreed that sir henry and thompson were to part from their travelling companions. sir henry in his distress of mind, felt that theirs was not a casual farewell. on reaching the quay, he pressed the student's hand with grateful warmth, but dared not trust to words. on the deck of the steamer, assisting thompson to arrange the portmanteaux, stood pietro molini. the natural gaiety of the old driver had received a considerable check at george's death. he could not now meet sir henry, without an embarrassment of manner; and even in his intercourse with thompson, his former jocularity seemed to have deserted him. "good bye, pietro!" said delmé, extending his hand. "i trust we may one day or other meet again." the vetturino grasped it,--his colour went and came,--he looked down at his whip,--then felt in his vest for his pipe, as he saw delmé turn towards the poop, and as thompson warned him it was time to leave the vessel,--his feelings fairly gave way. he threw his arms round the englishman's neck and blubbered like a child. we have elsewhere detailed the luckless end of the vetturino. as for carl obers, that zealous patriot; the last we heard of him, was that he was holding a commission in the hanoverian jägers, obtained for him by sir henry's intervention. he was at that period, in high favour with that liberal monarch, king ernest. chapter xiii. home. "'tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home, 'tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come." embarking on its tributary stream, delmé reached the rhine--passed through the land of snug treckschut, and wooden-shoed housemaid--and arrived at rotterdam, whence he purposed sailing for england. to that river, pay we no passing tribute! the rhine--with breast of pride--laving fertile vineyards, cities of picturesque beauty, beetling crags, and majestic ruins; hath found its bard to hymn an eulogy, in matchless strains, which will be co-existent, with the language they adorn. sir henry was once more on the wide sea. where were they who were his companions when his vessel last rode it? where the young bride breathing her devotion? where the youthful husband whispering his love? the sea yet glistened like a chrysolite; the waves yet laughed in the playful sunbeams--the bright-eyed gull yet dipped his wing in the billow, fearless as heretofore;--where was the one, who from that text had deduced so fair a moral? sir henry wished not to dwell on the thought, but as it flashed across him, his features quivered, and his brow darkened. he threw himself into the chaise which was to bear him to his home, with alternate emotions of bitterness and despair! hurrah for merry england! click, clack! click, clack! thus cheerily let us roll! great are the joys of an english valet, freshly emancipated from sauerkraut, and the horrors of silence! sweet is purl, and sonorous is an english oath. bright is the steel, arming each clattering hoof! leather strap and shining buckle, replace musty rope and ponderous knot! the carriage is easier than a landgravine's,--the horses more sleek,--the driver as civil,--the road is like a bowling green,--the axletree and under-spring, of collinge's latest patent. but the heart! the heart! _that_ may be sad still. delmé's voyage and journey were alike a blank. on the ocean, breeze followed calm;--on the river, ship succeeded ship;--on the road, house and tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. he drew his cap over his eyes, and his arms continued folded. his first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at delmé. on the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family. the porter's daughter, george's friend, issued from the lodge, and threw open the iron gates. she was dressed in black. how this recalled his loss. "my dear--dear--dear brother!" emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. he felt the warm tear trickle on his cheek. he clasped her waist,--gazed on her pallid brow,--and held her lip to his. how it trembled from her emotion! "my own brother! how pale--how ill you look!" "emily! my sister! i have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy kind aunt, too!" he kissed mrs. glenallan's forehead, and tried to soothe her. she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob, with the deep measured sob of age. how mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death has swept away one of its members! how the presence of each, calls up sorrow, and yet assists to repress it,--awakes remembrances full of grief, yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most poignant sting! the very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the full, only when each one sees it worn by the other--the very garb paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the awful truth, that for our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. how holy, how chaste is the affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us. surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigns to flit through this wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united--on which family love has shed its genial influence--and of which, each member, albeit bowed down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is inefficient and valueless indeed! for many months, sir henry continued to reside with his family. clarendon gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in their daily walks and rides. he had never met poor george, but loved emily so well, that he could not but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as delmé noted this quiet sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to providence, for the fair prospect of the happiness, that awaited his sister. winter passed away. the fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night--the mute herald of a coming and welcome guest--might be seen peering beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the wide-spreading elm. spring too glided by, and another messenger came. the migratory swallow, returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in safety, commenced building a home. at twilight's hour might she be seen, unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool--skimming over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing--and returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest. summer too went by; and as the leaves of autumn rustled at his feet, delmé started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. it was with something like reproach, that he did so. there is a dignity in grief--a pride in perpetuating it--and his had been no common affliction. it is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it scatters our joys. the heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so has grief. the impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates;--the influence of years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something approaching to a smile;--and time--mysterious time--wounding, but healing all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass. we do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror, but over which we have slept. the outline is still present, but the fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of conception, so scared and alarmed us,--these have vanished with the night. emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more looked bright and cheerful. chapter xiv. a wedding. "'tis time this heart should be unmoved, since others it has ceased to move, but though i may not be beloved, still let me love!" "i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, with a wreath of orange blossoms upon her beauteous brow." spring of life! whither art thou flown? a few hot sighs--and scalding tears--fleeting raptures and still fading hopes--and then--thou art gone for ever. lovelorn we look on beauty: no blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened emotions of our heart. fresh garlands bedeck the lap of spring. faded as the shrivelled flowers, that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:--spring of life! how and whither art thou flown? clarendon gage was a happy man. he had entered upon the world with very bright prospects. the glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded, and his heart beat as high with hope as ever. experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that time will darken the sunniest, as well as the least inviting anticipations; and that the visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the reflections of age. clarendon gage was happy and grateful; and so might he well be! few of us are there, who, on our first loving, have met with a love, fervent, confiding, and unsuspecting as our own,--fewer are there, who in reflection's calm hour, have recognised in the form that has captivated the eye, the mind on which their own can fully and unhesitatingly rely,--and fewest of all are they, who having encountered such a treasure, can control adverse circumstances--can overcome obstacles that oppose--and finally call it their own. passionate, imaginative, and fickle as man may be, this is a living treasure beyond a price: than which this world has none more pure--none as enduring, to offer. ah! say and act as we may--money-making--worldly--ambitious as we may become--who among us that will not allow, that in the success of his honest suit--that in his possession of the one first loved--and which first truly loved him--a kind ray from heaven, seems lent to this changeful world. such affection as this, lends a new charm to man's existence. it lulls him in his anger--it soothes him in his sorrow--calms him in his fears--cheers him in his hopes--it deadens his grief--it enlivens his joy. it was a lovely morning in may--the first of the month. not a cloud veiled the sun's splendour--the birds strained their throats in praise of day--and the rural may-pole, which was in the broad avenue of walnut trees, immediately at the foot of the lawn, was already encircled with flowers. half way up this, was the station of the rustic orchestra--a green bower, which effectually concealed them from the view of the dancers. on the lawn itself, tents were pitched in a line facing the house. behind these, between the tents and the may-pole, extended a long range of tables, for the coming village feast. emily delmé looked out on the fair sunrise, and noted the gay preparations with some dismay. her eye fell on her favourite bed of roses, the rarest and most costly that wealth and extreme care could produce; and she mournfully thought, that ere those buds were blown, a very great change would have taken place in her future prospects. she thought of all she was to leave. will _he_ be this, and more to me? how many a poor girl, when it is all too late, has fearfully asked herself the same question, and how deeply must the answer which time alone can give, affect the happiness of after years! emily took her mother's miniature, and gazing on that face, of which her own appeared a beautiful transcript; she prayed to god to support him who was still present to her every thought. the family chapel of the delmés was a beautiful and picturesque place of worship. with the exception of one massive door-way, whose circular arch and peculiar zig-zag ornament bespoke it co-eval with, or of an earlier date than, the reign of stephen--and said to have belonged to a ruin apart from the chapel, whose foundations an antiquary could hardly trace--delmé chapel might be considered a well preserved specimen of the florid gothic, of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. the progress of the edifice, had been greatly retarded during the wars of the roses; but it was fortunately completed, before, the doctrine of the cinquecentists--who saw no beauty save in the revived dogmas of vitruvius--had so far gained ground, as to make obsolete and unfashionable, the most captivating and harmonious style of architecture, that has yet flourished in england. its outer appearance was comparatively simple--it had neither spire, lantern, or transepts--and its ivy-hidden belfry was a detached tower. the walls of the aisles were supported by massive buttresses, and surmounted by carved pinnacles; and from them sprung flying buttresses, ornamented with traced machicolations, to bear the weight of the embattled roof of the nave. the interior was more striking. as the stranger entered by the western door, and proceeded up the nave, each step was re-echoed from the crypt below:--as he trod on strange images, and inscriptions in brass; commemorative of the dead, whose bones were mouldering in the subterranean chapel. on them, many coloured tints fantastically played, through gorgeously stained panes--the workmanship of the middle ages. the richly carved oaken confessional--now a reading desk--first attracted the attention. in the very centre of the chapel, stood a white marble font, whose chaplet of the flower of the tudors, encircled by a fillet, sufficiently bespoke its date. between the altar and this font was a tomb, which merits special attention. it was the chantry of sir reginald delmé, the chief of his house in the reign of harry monmouth. it was a mimic chapel, raised on three massive steps of grey stone. the clustered columns, that bore the light and fretted roof, were divided by mullions, rosettes, and trefoils in open work; except where the interstices were filled up below, to bear the sculptured, and once emblazoned shields of the delmés, and their cognate families. the entrance to the chantry, was through a little turret at its north-eastern corner, the oaken door of which, studded with quarrel-headed nails, was at one time never opened, but when the priests ascended the six steep and spiral steps, and stood around the tomb to chant masses for the dead. the diminutive font, and the sarcophagus itself, had once been painted. on this, lay the figure of sir reginald delmé. on a stone cushion--once red--supported by figures of angels in the attitude of prayer, veiling their eyes with their wings, reposed the unarmed head of the warrior:--his feet uncrossed rested on the image of a dog, crouching on a broken horn, seeming faithfully to gaze at the face of his master. the arms were not crossed--the hands were not clasped; but were joined as in prayer. sir reginald had not died in battle. above the head of the sleeping warrior, hung his gorget, and his helmet, with its beaver, and vizor open; and the banner he himself had won, on the field of shrewsbury, heavily shook its thick folds in the air. the fading colours on the surcoat of the recumbent knight, still faintly showed the lilies and leopards of england;--and sir henry himself was willing to believe, that the jagged marks made in that banner by the tooth of time, were but cuts, left by the sword of the herald, as at the royal henry's command, he curtailed the pennon of the knight; and again restored it to sir reginald delmé--a banner. the altar, which extended the whole width of the chapel, was enclosed by a marble screen, and was still flanked by the hallowed niche, built to receive the drainings of the sacred cup. the aisles were divided from the nave, by lancet arches, springing from clustered columns. but how describe the expansive windows, with their rich mullions, and richer rosettes--their deeply moulded labels, following the form of the arch, and resting for support on the quaintest masks--how describe the matchless hues of the glass--valued mementoes of a bygone age, and of an art that has perished? the walls of the chapel were profusely ornamented with the richest carving; and the oaken panels of the chancel, were adorned with those exquisite festoons of fruit and flowers, so peculiarly english. the very ceiling exacted admiration. it closed no lantern--it obstructed no view--and its light ribs, springing from voluted corbels, bore at each intersection, an emblazoned escutcheon, or painted heraldic device. the intricate fan-like tracery of the roof--the enriched bosses at each meeting of the gilded ribs--gave an airy charm and lightness to the whole, which well accorded with the florid architecture, and with the chivalrous associations, with which it is identified. and here, beneath this spangled canopy, in this ancient shrine, whose every ornament was as a memory of her ancestors; stood emily delmé, as fair as the fairest of her race, changeful and trembling, a faint smile on her lip, and a quivering tear in her eye. clarendon gage took her hand in his, and placed on her finger the golden pledge of truth, and as he did so, an approving sunbeam burst through the crimson-stained pane, and before lightening the tomb of sir reginald, fell on her silvery veil--her snowy robe--her beautiful face. there was a very gay scene on the lawn, as they returned from the chapel. the dancing had already commenced--strains of music were heard from on high--the ever moving circle became one moment contracted, then expanded to the full length of the arms of the dancers, as they actively footed it round the garlanded may-pole. at the first sight of the leading carriage, however, a signal was given--the music suddenly ceased--and the whole party below, with the exception of one individual, proceeded in great state towards an arch, composed of flowers and white thorn, which o'ercanopied the road. the carriage stopped to greet the procession. on came the blushing may-queen, and maid marian--both armed with wands wreathed with cowslips--followed by a jovial retinue of morrice dancers with drawn swords--guisers in many-coloured ribbons--and a full train of simple peasants, in white smock-frocks. the may queen advanced to the carriage, followed by the peasant girls, and timidly dropped a choice wreath into the lap of the bride. loud hurras rung in the air, as sir henry gave his steward some welcome instructions as to the village feast; and the cavalcade continued its route. we have said that one individual lingered near the may-pole. as he was especially active, we may describe him and his employment. he was apparently about fifteen. he had coarse straight white hair--a face that denoted stupidity--but with a cunning leer, which seemed to belie his other features. he was taking advantage of the cessation of dancing, to supply the aspiring musicians with sundry articles of good cheer. a rope, armed with a hook, was dropped from their lofty aërie, and promptly drawn up, on the youngster's obtaining from the neighbouring tents, wherewithal to fill satisfactorily the basket which he attached. sir henry delmé and george had been so much abroad, and emily's attachment to clarendon was of so early a date, that it happened that the members of the delmé family had mixed little in the festivities of the county in which they resided; and were not intimately known, nor perhaps fully appreciated, in the neighbourhood. but the family was one of high standing, and had ever been remarkable for its kind-heartedness; and what _was_ known of its individuals, was so much to their credit, that it kept alive the respect and consideration that these circumstances might of themselves warrant. sir henry, on the other hand, regarded his sister's marriage as an event, at which it might be proper to show, that neither hauteur nor want of sociability, had precluded their friendly intercourse with the neighbouring magnates; and consequently, most of the principal families were present at emily's wedding. while this large assemblage increased the gaiety of the scene, it was somewhat wearisome to delmé, who was too truly attached to his sister, to be otherwise than thoughtful during the ceremony, and the breakfast that succeeded it. at length the time came when emily could escape from the gay throng; and endeavour, in the quiet of her own room, to be once more calm, before she prepared to leave her much-loved home. the preparations made, a note was despatched to her brother, begging him to meet her in the library. as he did so, a fresh pang shot through delmé's heart. as he looked on emily's flushed face--her dewy cheek--and noted her agitated manner; he for the first time perceived, her very strong resemblance to poor george, and wondered that he had never observed this before. clarendon announced the carriage. "god bless you! dear henry!" "god bless and preserve you! my sweet! clarendon! good bye! i am sure you will take every care of her!" in another moment, the carriage was whirling past the library window; and sir henry felt little inclined, to join the formal party in the drawing-room. sending therefore a brief message to mrs. glenallan, he threw open the library window, and with hurried steps reached a summer-house, half hidden in the shrubbery. he there fell into a deep reverie, which was by no means a pleasurable one. he thought of emily--of george--of acmé,--and felt that he was becoming an isolated being. and had _he_ not loved too? as this thought crossed him, his ambitious dreams were almost forgotten. sir henry delmé was aroused by the sound of voices. a loving couple, too much engaged to observe _him_, passed close to the summer-house. it was the "queen of the may," the prettiest and one of the poorest girls in the parish, walking arm in arm with her rural swain. they had left the "roasted beeves," and the "broached casks," for one half-hour's delicious converse. there was some little coquettish resistance on the part of the girl, as they sat down together at the foot of a fir tree. her lover put his arm round her waist. "oh! mary! if father would but give us a cow or so!" this little incident decided the matter. delmé at once resolved that mary smith _should_ have a cow or so; and also that his own health would be greatly benefited, by a short sojourn at leamington. chapter xv. the meeting. "oh ever loving, lovely, and beloved! how selfish sorrow ponders on the past, and clings to thoughts now better far removed, but time shall tear thy shadow from me last." we know not whether our readers have followed us with due attention, as we have incidentally, and at various intervals, made our brief allusion to the gradual change of character, wrought on delmé, by the eventful scenes in which he so lately played a prominent part. when we first introduced him to our reader's notice, we endeavoured to depict him as he then really was,--a man of strong principles, warm heart, and many noble qualities; but one, prone to over-estimate the value of birth and fortune--with a large proportion of pride and reserve--and with ideas greatly tinctured with the absurd fallacies of the mere man of the world. but there was much in the family events we have described, to shake delmé's previous convictions, and to induce him to recal many of his former opinions. he had seen his brother form a connection, which set at naught all those convenances, which _he_ had been accustomed to regard as essential to, and as indeed forming the very ingredient of, domestic happiness. and yet sir henry delmé could not disguise from himself, that if, in george's short-lived career, there had been much of pain and sorrow, they were chiefly engendered by george's mental struggle, to uphold those very opinions to which he himself was wedded; and that to this alone, might be traced much of the suffering he had undergone. this was it that had so weakened mind and body, as to render change of scene necessary;--this was it that exposed acmé to the air of the pestiferous marshes, and which left george himself--a broken hearted man--totally incapable of bearing his bereavement. on the other hand, the sunny happiness his brother had basked in,--and it was very great,--had sprung from the natural out-pourings of an affection, which,--unfettered as it had been by prudential considerations,--had yet the power to make earth a heaven while acmé shared it with him, and the dark grave an object of bright promise, when hailed as the portal, through which _he_ must pass, ere he gazed once more on the load-star of his hopes. in the case, too, of emily and clarendon, although their union was far more in accordance with his earlier theories, yet he could not but note, how little their happiness seemed to rest on their position in society, and how greatly was it based on their love for each other. these considerations were strengthened, by a growing feeling of isolation, which the death of george and of acmé,--the marriage of his sister,--and probably the time of life he had arrived at, were all calculated to awaken. with the knowledge of his disease, sprung up the hope of an antidote; and it may be, that the little episode of the may queen in our last chapter, came but as a running comment, to reflections that had long been cherished and indulged. the thoughts of sir henry delmé anxiously centred in julia vernon; and as he recalled her graceful emotion when they last parted, the unfrequent blush,--it might be of shame, it might be of consciousness,--coloured his sun-burnt cheek. at length,--the guests being dismissed, delmé was at leisure to renew an acquaintance, which had already proved an eventful one to him. he had heard little of miss vernon since his return to england. his sister had thought it better to let matters take their own course; and julia, who knew that in the eyes of the world, her circumstances were very different to what they had been previous to her uncle's death; had from motives of delicacy, shunned any intercourse that might lead to a renewed intimacy with the family. her health, too, had been precarious, and her elasticity of mind was gone. slowly wasting from day to day, she had sought to banish all thoughts that were not of a world less vain than this--and her very languor of body--while it gave her an apology for declining all gaieties, induced a resigned spirit, and a quiet frame of mind. when sir henry delmé was announced, julia was alone in the drawing-room. at that name, she attempted to rise from the sofa; but she was weak, and her head fell back on the white pillow. delmé stood for a moment irresolute,--a prey to the deepest pangs of remorse. well might he be shocked at that altered form! her figure was greatly attenuated,--her cheeks sunken,--her eyes bright and large; while over the forehead and drooping eyelid branched the sapphire veins, with their intricate windings so clearly marked, that delmé almost thought, that he could trace the motion of the blood beneath. that momentary pause, and the one mutual glance of recognition, told a more accurate tale than words could convey. as sir henry pressed that small transparent hand, julia's thin lip quivered convulsively. she attempted to speak, but the exertion of utterance was too great, and she burst into a flood of tears. "julia! my own julia! forgive me! we will never part more!" after this interview, it is needless to say that there was little else to be explained. mrs. vernon was delighted at julia's happy prospects, and it was settled that their marriage should take place in the ensuing august. such arrangements as could be made on the spot to facilitate this, were at once entered on. at the end of two months, it became necessary that delmé should proceed to town, for the purpose of seeing the commander-in-chief, in order to withdraw a previous application to be employed on active service. he was anxious also to consult a friend, whom he proposed appointing one of the trustees for his marriage settlement; and clarendon and emily had exacted a promise, that he would pay them a visit on his way to delmé park; which he had determined to take on his route to town, that he might personally inspect some alterations he had lately planned there. it was with bright prospects before him, that delmé kissed off the big tear that coursed down julia's cheek; as she bade him farewell, with as much earnestness, as if years, instead of a short fortnight, were to elapse before they met again. miss vernon's health had decidedly improved. she was capable of much greater exertion; and her spirits were sometimes as buoyant as in other days. when sir henry first reached leamington, the only exercise that julia could take was in a wheel chair; and great was her delight at seeing a hand present itself over its side, and know that it was _his_. latterly, however, she had been able to lean on his arm, and take a few turns on the lawn, and had on one occasion even reached the public gardens. mrs. vernon, with the deceptive hope common to those, who watch day by day by the side of an invalid's couch, and in the very gradual loss of strength, lose sight of the real extent of danger, had never been desponding as to her daughter's ultimate recovery; and was now quite satisfied that a few weeks more would restore her completely to health. sir henry delmé, with the gaze of a lover, would note each flush of animation, and mistake it for the hue of health; while julia herself _felt her love, and thought it strength_. there was only one person who looked somewhat grave at these joyous preparations. this was dr. jephson, who noticed that julia's voice continued very weak, and that she could not get rid of a low hollow cough, that had long distressed her. clarendon and his wife were resident at a beautiful cottage near malvern, on the road to eastnor castle. the cottage itself was small, and half hidden with fragrant honey-suckles, but had well appointed extensive grounds behind it. _they_ were not of the very many, who after the first fortnight of a forced seclusion,--the treacle moon, as some one has called it,--find their own society, both wearisome and unprofitable. _theirs_ was a lover felt but by superior and congenial minds--a love, neither sensual nor transient--a love on which affection and reflection shed their glow,--which could bear the test of scrutiny,--and which owed its chief charm to the presence of truth. delmé passed a week at malvern, and then proceeded towards town, with the pleasing conviction that his sister's happiness was assured. twenty-four hours at delmé sufficed to inspect the alterations, and to give orders as to lady delmé's rooms. sir henry had received two letters from julia, while at malvern, and both were written in great spirits. at his club in london another awaited him, which stated that she had not been quite so well, and that she was writing from her room. a postscript from mrs. vernon quite did away with any alarm that sir henry might otherwise have felt. delmé attended lord hill's levee; and immediately afterwards proceeded to his friend's office. to his disappointment, he was informed that his friend had left for bath; and thinking it essential that he should see him; he went thither at an early hour the following day. at bath he was again doomed to be disappointed, for his friend had gone to clifton. sir henry dined that day with mr. belliston græme; and on returning to the hotel, had the interview with oliver delancey, that has been described in the thirteenth chapter of our first volume. on the succeeding morning, delmé was with the future trustee; and finally arranged the affair to his entire satisfaction. his absence from leamington, had been a day or two more protracted than he had anticipated, and his not finding his friend in london, had prevented his hearing from miss vernon so lately as he could have wished. sir henry had posted all night, and it was ten in the morning when he reached leamington. he directed the postilion to drive to his hotel, but it happened that on his way he had to pass mrs. vernon's door. as the carriage turned a corner, which was distant some hundred yards from mrs. vernon's house, sir henry was surprised by a momentary check on the part of his driver. it had rained heavily during the early part of the day. the glasses were up, and so bespattered with the mud and rain, that it was impossible to see through them. sir henry let them down; saw a confused mass of carriages; and could clearly discern a mourning coach. he did not give himself time to breathe his misgivings; but flung the door open, and sprang from his seat into the road. it was still three or four doors from mrs. vernon's house, and he prayed to god that his fears might be groundless. as he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle about _that_ house. delmé grasped the iron railing, and clung to it for support; but with every sense keenly alive to aught that might dispel, or confirm that horrible suspicion. two old women, dressed in the characteristic red cloak of the english peasant, were earnestly conversing together--their baskets of eggs and flowers being laid on a step of one of the adjacent houses. "so you knowed her, betsy farmer?" "lord a mercy!" responded the other, "i ha' knowed miss july since she wa' the height of my basket. ay! and many's the bunch of flowers she ha' had from me. that was afore the family went to the sea side. well! it's a matter o' five year, sin' she comed up to me one morning--so grown as i'd never ha' known her. but she knowed me, and asked all about me. and i just told her all my troubles, and how i had lost my good man. and sure enough sin' that day she ha' stood my friend, and gived me soup and flannels for the little uns, and put my bess to service, and took me through all the bad christmas'. poor dear soul! she ha' gone now! and may the lord bless her and all as good as she!" the poor woman, who felt the loss of her benefactress, put the corner of her apron to her eyes. sir henry strode forward. mutes were on each side of the front step. a servant threw open the door of the breakfast room, and delmé mechanically entered it. it was filled with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table. an ominous whisper ran through the apartment. "sir henry delmé?" said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him. "i trust you received my letter. women are so utterly helpless in these matters; and poor mrs. vernon was quite overpowered." delmé turned away to master his emotion. at this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and mrs. vernon's maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs. he mechanically obeyed her--reeled into an inner drawing room--and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother. mrs. vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. _now_ she sat with her feet on a footstool--her head almost touching her lap--her silver hair all loose and dishevelled. it seemed to delmé as if age had suddenly come upon her. she rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms. "my son i my son! that _should_ have been. our angel is gone--gone!" delmé tried to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth, and the hysteric globe rose to his throat. suddenly he heard the sound of wheels, and of heavy footsteps on the stairs. he imprinted a kiss on the old woman's forehead--it was his farewell for ever!--gave her to the care of the maid servant--and rushed from the room. he was stopped on the landing of the staircase by the coffin of her he loved so well. the bearers stopped for an instant; they felt that this was no common greeting. part of the pall was already turned back. delmé removed its head with trembling hand. "julia vernon. ætate ." he dropped the velvet with a groan, and was only saved from falling by the timely aid of the old butler, whose face was as sorrowful as his own. but there was a duty yet to be performed, and delmé followed the corpse. the first mourning coach was just drawn up. an intended occupant had already his foot on the step. "this place is mine!" said sir henry in a hollow voice. the cortege proceeded; and delmé, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin could be discerned no more. thompson, who had followed his master, assisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel. but delmé gave a quick impetuous motion of the hand, which the domestic understood well; and the horses' heads were turned towards the metropolis. the mourner tarried not, even to bid his sister farewell; but sought once more his brother's grave. some friendly hand had kept its turf smooth; no footsteps, save the innocent ones of children, had pressed its grassy mound. it was clothed with soft daisies and drooping harebells. the sun seemed to shine on that spot, to bid the wanderer be contented and at rest. but as yet there was no rest for delmé. and he stood beside the marble slab, beneath which lay acmé frascati. the downy moss--soft as herself--was luxuriating there; and the cry of the cicalas was pleasant to the ear; and the image of the young greek girl, as in a vivid picture, rose to his mind's eye. she was not attired in her white cymar; nor was her head wreathed with monumental amaranths;--health was on her cheek, fond smiles on her pouting lip, and tender love swimming in her melting glance. his own griefs came back on delmé; he groaned aloud. he traversed the deserts, he crossed lofty mountains, he knew thirst and privations. he was scoffed at and spat upon in an infidel country--he was tossed on the ocean--he shook hands with danger. he visited our wide oriental possessions; and sojourned amid the spicy islands of the indian archipelago, where vegetation attains a magnificence unknown elsewhere, and animal life partakes of this unexampled exuberance,--where flowers of the most exquisite colours and fragrance charm the senses by day, and delicious plants saturate the air with their odours by night. delmé extended his wanderings to the rarely visited "many isles," which stud the vast pacific, and found that there too were fruitful and smiling regions. but not on the desert--nor on the mountains--nor in the land of the moslem---nor on tempestuous seas--nor in those verdant islets, which seem to breathe of paradise, to greet the wearied traveller; could delmé's restless spirit find an abiding place, his thirst for foreign travel be slaked, or his heart know peace. he madly sought oblivion, which could not be accorded him. chapter xvi. the wanderer. "then i consider'd life in all its forms, of vegetables first, next zoophytes, the tribe that dwells upon the confine strange 'twixt plants and fish; some are there from their mouth spit out their progeny, and some that breed, by suckers from their base or tubercles, sea-hedgehog, madrepore, sea-ruff, or pad, fungus, or sponge, or that gelatinous fish, that taken from its element at once stinks, melts, and dies a fluid; so from these, through many a tribe of less equivocal life, dividual or insect, up i ranged, from sentient to percipient, small advance, next to intelligent, to rational next, so to half spiritual human kind, and what is more, is more than man may know. last came the troublesome question--what am i?" * * * * * "and vain were the hat, the staff, and stole, and all outward signs were a snare, unless the pilgrim's endanger'd soul were inwardly clothed with prayer. "but the pilgrim prays--and then trials are light-- for prayer to him on his way, resembles the pillar of fire by night, and the guiding cloud by day. "and salvation's helm the pilgrim wears, or vain were all other dress; and the shield of faith the pilgrim bears, with the breastplate of righteousness. "at length his tears all wiped away; he enters the city of light; and how gladly he changes his gown of grey, for zion's robe of white." it was on the nd of october, , that an emissary from his sister, sought sir henry delmé. it was at the antipodes to his ancestral home; in australia, that wonderful country, which--belied and calumniated, as she has hitherto been--presents some anomalous and creditable features. for her population, she is the wealthiest, the most enterprising, the most orderly and loyal, of our british possessions. there, is the aristocracy of wealth, to an unprecedented degree, subservient to the aristocracy of virtue. while she is stigmatised as the cloacæ of britain, the philosopher looks into the future, and already beholds a nation, perpetuating the language of the brave and free; when the parent stock has perhaps ceased to be an empire; or is lingering on, like modern greece, in the hopeless languor of decay and decrepitude. this agent had arrived from england, a very short period before; and, accredited with a packet, containing various communications from emily and clarendon, accompanied by the miniatures of their children, with little silky curls attached to each, proceeded an expectant guest, to sir henry delmé's temporary residence. early dawn saw him pacing the deck of a steam vessel; and regarding with great surprise, the opposite banks of hunter's river, up which the vessel was gliding. a rich dark soil, of great depth, bespoke uncommon fertility; while the varieties of the gum tree--then quite new to him--with their bark of every diversity of colour, gave a primeval grandeur to the scene. each moment brought in sight the location of some enterprising settler, which, ever varying in appearance, in importance, and in extent yet told the same tale of difficulties overcome, and success ensuing. on his reaching the township, near the head of the navigation, this agent found horses waiting for him:--he was addressed by a well-appointed groom--our old friend thompson--who touched his hat respectfully, and mentioned the name, he was already prepared for by his sydney advices. suffice it, that sir henry was no longer the baronet, and that the name of delmé was a strange one in his household. their route skirted the banks of one of those rivers, which, diverging from that mine of wealth, the hunter, wind into the bowels of the land, like a vein of gold. that emissary will not soon forget his lovely ride. his eye, wearied with gazing on the wide expanse of ocean, feasted on the rich and novel landscape. they rode alternately, through cleared lands, studded with rich farms, waving with luxuriant crops of wheat and rye; and again, through regions, where the axe had never resounded, but where eucalypti, and bastard box, and forest oak with its rough acorn, towered above beauteous wild flowers, whose forms and varieties were associated in the mind of the stranger, with some of the most precious and valued flowers which adorn british conservatories. the russet certhia, with outspread fluttering wing, pecked at the smooth bark, and preying on some destructive insect, really preserved what it seemed to injure. the larger parrots, travelling in pairs, screamed their passing salutation, as they displayed their bright plumage to the sun; while hundreds, of a smaller kind, with crimson shoulder, were concealed amid the green leaves; and, as they rode beneath them, babbled--like frolicsome children of the forest--a rude, but to themselves a not unmeaning dialogue. the superb warblers, ornaments alike to the bush or the garden, flitted cheerily from bough to bough. strangely mated are they! the male, in suit of black velvet, trimmed with sky blue, looks like a knight, attired for a palace festival:--while his lady-love--she resembles some peasant girl, silent and grateful, clothed in modest kirtle of sober brown. as he reined in his horse, to examine these at leisure, how melodiously came on his ear, the clear, ceaseless, silver tinkle of the bell-bird; this sound ever and anon chequered by the bold chock-ee-chock! of the bald-headed friar. they had proceeded very leisurely, and the sun was already declining, when thompson, pointing to an abrupt path, motioned him to descend, and at the same time, gave the peculiar cry, known in the colony as the cooï; a cry which was as promptly answered. it was not until he was close to the edge of the river, that the stranger understood its purport. a punt was rapidly approaching from the opposite bank. an athletic aboriginal native, in an attitude that seemed studiedly graceful, was bending to the stout rope, which, attached to either side of the river, served to propel the punt. he had been spearing fish; for his wife, or gin, or queen--for she was born such, and contradicted in her person the old adage, "there's a difference between a beggar and a queen"-- was drawing the barb of a spear from the bleeding side of a struggling mullet. she sat at the bottom of the boat, with a blanket closely wound round her. she was young, and her looks were not unpleasing. her thickly-matted hair was ornamented with kangaroo teeth; and to her shoulder, closely clung a native tailless bear, whose appearance could not do otherwise than excite a smile. with convex staring eyes--hairless nose--and white ruff of fur round his face--he very closely resembled in physiognomy, some grey-whiskered guzzling citizen. the well-trained horses gave no trouble, as they entered the punt; and the smiling boatman, displaying his teeth to thompson, but without speaking, commenced warping the punt to the opposite side of the river. they were half way across, ere the guest observed the mansion of the friend he sought. it stood on the summit of the hill, on the left; beneath which the river made a very abrupt bend. the house itself resembled the common weather-boarded cottage of the early settler,--wide verandah was over the front entrance,--and two small rooms, the exact width of this, jutted out on either side of it. its site however was commanding. the house stood on an eminence, and from the windows, a long reach of the river was visible. at the top of the brow of the hill, extended a range of english rose trees, in full flower. the bank, which might be about thirty yards in front of these, was clothed with foliage to the water's edge. there might be seen the fragrant mimosa--the abundant acacia--the swamp oak, which would have been styled a fir, had not the first exiles to australia found twined round its boughs, the misletoe, with its many home associations--the elegant cedar--the close-growing mangrove--and strange parasitical plants, pushing through huge fungi, and clasping with the remorseless strength of the wrestler, and with the round crunching folds of the boa, the trees they were gradually to supplant and destroy. suddenly, the quick finger of the black pointed to an object close beside the punt. a bill, as of a bird, and apparently of the duck tribe, protruded above the surface of the water. for an instant, small, black, piercing eyes peered towards them: but as the quadruped, for such it was, prepared to dive in affright, the unerring shot of a rifle splashed the water on the cheek of the stranger--the body rolled slowly over--the legs stiffened--a sluggish stream of dark blood tainted the surrounding wave--and the ferryman, extending his careless hand, threw the victim to his companion, at the same time addressing a few words to her in their native language. the guest had little difficulty, in recognising the uncouth form of the ornithorhynchus, or water-mole; but he turned with yet more eagerness, towards the spot, whence that shot had proceeded. on the summit of the steep bank, leaning on his rifle, stood sir henry delmé. his form was still commanding--there was something in the air with which the cap was worn--and in the strap round his swiss blouse--that bespoke the soldier and the gentleman: but his face was sadly attenuated--the lower jaw appeared to have fallen in--and his hair was very grey. he received his guest with a cordial and sincere welcome. while the latter delivered his packet the native who had warped the punt over, came up with the dead platypus, "well, boomeroo! is it a female?" "no, massa! full grown--with large spur!" sir henry saw that his guest was puzzled by this dialogue, and good-naturedly showed him the distinguishing characteristic of the male ornithorhynchus--the spur on the hinder foot, which is hollow, and transmits an envenomed liquid, secreted by a gland on the inner surface of the thigh. in november, of the year preceding, a burrow of the animal had been opened on the bank of the river, which contained the dam, and three live young ones;--there were many points, yet to be determined relative to its interior organization; and it was on this account, that sir henry was anxious to obtain a female specimen at this particular period. as he spoke, delmé introduced the stranger to his study, which might more aptly be styled a museum;--applied some spirits of wine to the platypus, and placing it under a bell-glass for the morrow's examination, left him turning over his collection of birds, while he perused his valued home letters. it was with unmixed pleasure, knowing as he did his melancholy history, that the stranger found sir henry delmé engaged in pursuits, which it was evident he was following up with no common enthusiasm. in truth, a mere accidental circumstance,--the difficulty of obtaining a vessel at one of the indian islands for any port,--had at first brought him to australia, a country regarding which he had felt little curiosity. the strange varieties, however, of its animal kingdom, had interested him;--he was struck with the rapid strides that that country has made in half a century--and he continued from month to month to occupy the house where his friend had now found him. to the stranger's eye, the eye of a novice, the well arranged specimens of birds of the most beautiful plumage--of animals, chiefly marsupial, of the most singular developement--of glittering insects--and of deep coloured shells; were attractive wonders enough; but from the skeletons beside these, it was quite clear, that delmé had acquired considerable knowledge as to the internal construction of the animals themselves--that he had studied the subsisting relations, between the mechanism and the movements--the structure, and its varied functions. after dinner, sir henry delmé, who appeared to think that the bearer of his despatches had conferred on him a lasting favour, threw off his habitual reserve, and delighted and interested him with his tales of foreign travel. as the night wore on, the conversation reverted to his sister and his home. it was evident, that what remained for the living of that crushed heart, was with emily and clarendon, and their children; perhaps more than all, with his young heir and god-son, henry delmé gage. the very colour of that sunny lock of hair, gave rise to much speculation: and it seemed as if he would never be wearied, of listening to the minutest description of the dawning of intellect, in a precocious little fellow of barely five years of age. encouraged by his evident feeling, and observing many more comforts about him, than he had been led to expect from his previous errant habits; his guest ventured to express his hope, that sir henry might yet return to england. "my good friend!" replied he, "for i must call you such now, for i know not when i have experienced such unalloyed satisfaction, as you have conferred on me this night, by conversing so freely of those i love; i certainly never can forget that i am the last male of an ancient race, and that those who are nearest and dearest to me, are divided from me by a wide waste of waters. i have learnt to suffer with more patience than i had ever hoped for; and, it may be,--although i have hardly breathed the thought to myself--it may yet be accorded me to revisit that ancient chapel, and to dwell once more in that familiar mansion." his guest was overcome by his emotion, and pressed his hand with warmth, as he made his day's journey the excuse for an early retirement. sleep soon visited his eyelids, for the ride, to one fresh from a sea voyage, had brought with it a wholesome weariness. he was aroused from his slumbers, by the deep sonorous accents as of a man reading spanish. the light streamed from an adjacent room, through the chinks of a partition. he started up alike forgetful of delmé, his ride, and his arrival in australia; conceiving that he was again at the mercy of the waves, in his narrow comfortless cabin. that light, however, brought the stranger back to the wanderer, and his griefs. beside a small table, strewn with his lately received english letters, knelt sir henry delmé. the stranger had seen condemned criminals pray with becoming fervour; and devotees of many a creed lift up their hearts to heaven; but never had he witnessed a more contrite or a humbler spirit imprinted on the features of mortal man, than then shed its radiance on that sorrowful, but noble face. strange as it may appear, he knew not whether the words themselves really caught his ear, or whether the motion of the lips expressed them--but this he _did_ know, that every syllable seemed to reach his heart, and impress him with a mystic thrill, "or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto god who gave it." chapter xvii the wanderer's return. "and he had learn'd to love--i know not why, for this in such as him seems strange of mood,-- the helpless looks of blooming infancy, even in its earliest nurture; what subdued, to change like this, a mind so far imbued with scorn of man, it little boots to know; but thus it was; and though in solitude small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, in him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow." within a period of two months, from the interview we have described, the stranger found that his arguments had not been thrown away; as he shook sir henry's hand on the deck of a vessel bound for valparaiso. his love of travel and of excitement, had induced such an habitual restlessness, that delmé was not prepared at once to embark for england. he crossed the cordillera de los andes--traversed the pampas of buenos ayres--and finally embarked for his native land. it was the height of summer, when the carriage which bore the long absent owner to his ancestral home, neared the ancient moss-grown lodge. fanny porter, who was now married, and had a thriving babe at her breast, started with surprise; as, throwing open the gate, she recognised in the care-worn man with bronzed face and silver hair, her well known and beloved master. as the carriage neared the chapel, it struck sir henry, that it would be but prudent, to inform clarendon of his near approach; in order that he might prepare emily for the meeting. he ordered the postilion to pull up--tore a leaf from his memorandum book--and wrote a few lines to clarendon, despatching thompson in advance. he turned into the chapel, and as he approached its altar, the bridal scene, enacted there nearly seven years back, seemed to rise palpably before him. but the tomb of sir reginald delmé, with its velvet dusty banner--the marble monument of his mother, with the bust above it, whose naked eye seemed turned towards him--his withered heart and hopes soon darkened his recollections of that bright hour. with agitated emotions, sir henry left the chapel; and in a spirit of impatience, strode towards the mansion, intending to meet the returning domestic. his feelings were strange, various, and not easily defined. he was awakened from his day-dream by the sound of children's voices, which sound he instinctively followed, until he reached the old orchard. it was such an orchard, as might be planted by an old delmé, ere any linnean or loudonean horticulturist had decided that slopes are best for the sun, that terraces are an economical saving of ground, that valleys must be swamps, and that blights are vulgar errors. the orchard at delmé was strikingly unscientific; but the old stock contrived to bear good fruit. the pippins, golden and russet--the pears, jargonelle and good-christian--the cherries, both black and white heart--still thrived; while under their shade, grew hips, haws, crabs, sloes, and blackberries, happy to be shaded from rain, dews, and fierce sun-shine, and unenvious of roses, cherries, apples, damsons, and mulberries; their self-defended, and more aristocratic cousins. sir henry stopped unseen at the gate of the orchard, and for some minutes looked on the almost fairy group, whose voices had led him thither. lying on the bank, which enclosed the orchard, was a blue-eyed rosy-cheeked little girl;--the ground ashes had been cut down; and her laughing face was pillowed on the violets and oxlips, that burst from between the roots. she was preparing to take another roll into the clayey ditch below. another little girl was gazing at the child from within the orchard; half doubtful whether she should encourage or check her. one pale-blue slipper and her little sock were half sunk in the clay, while the veiny and pink-soled foot, the large lids half closed over her deep blue eyes, the finger thrust between her red and pouting lips, her bonnet thrown back and hanging by the strings round her swelling throat, her hair dishevelled and stuck with oxlips, primroses, cowslips, violets, and daisies; and wreathed with the spring-holly, or butcher's-broom--made her a perfect picture of english beauty, and of childish anxiety and indecision. beside her stood a boy older than herself, and evidently as perplexed. there was julia perched cock-horse on the bank--there was emily, her hair undone, her bonnet crashed, with one shoe and stocking lost--and yet he had promised mamma, that if she would but once trust his sisters to him, that he would bring them home, "with such a pretty basket of spring-flowers." the beautiful blossoms of the cherry hung around the boy--the bees buzzed in its bells--the apple and pear blossoms shook their fragrance in the warm air--and the shadows of the flying clouds hurried like wings over the bright green grass. the boy had dropped his basket of fresh-blown flowers at his feet--tears were trembling in his eye-lids, as he gazed on his sisters. his look was that of george. "childhood too has its sorrows," said sir henry, half aloud, "even when seeking joy on a bank of primroses. why should _i_ then repine?" the boy started as he heard and saw the stranger:--he involuntarily put one foot forward in an attitude of childish defiance: but children are keen physiognomists, and there was nothing but affection beaming from that mournful face. "my boy!" said delmé, and his eyes were moist, "did you ever hear of your uncle henry?" "emily! emily! julia!" exclaimed the little fellow, as he rushed into sir henry's arms, "here is uncle henry, my god-papa, and he will help us to reach the blackberries." we need follow the wanderer no further. it is true that in his youth he had not known sympathy; in his manhood he had experienced sorrow; but it is a pleasure to us to reflect, that despair is not the companion of his old age. the end. distributed proofreading canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from page images generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com) note: images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://books.google.com/books?vid=r zsxieqduc&id the works of mrs. amelia opie; complete in three volumes. volume iii. philadelphia: crissy & markley, no. minor st. . printed by t. k. & p. g. collins. contents of third volume. page temper a woman's love a wife's duty; being a continuation of a woman's love the two sons the opposite neighbour love, mystery, and superstition after the ball; or, the two sir williams false or true; or, the journey to london the confessions of an odd-tempered man illustrations of lying, in all its branches: chap. i.--introduction chap. ii.--on the active and passive lies of vanity--the stage coach--unexpected discoveries chap. iii.--on the lies of flattery--the turban chap. iv.--lies of fear--the bank-note chap. v.--lies falsely called lies of benevolence--a tale of potted sprats--an authoress and her auditors chap. vi.--lies of convenience--projects defeated chap. vii.--lies of interest--the screen chap. viii.--lies of first-rate malignity--the orphan chap. ix.--lies of second-rate malignity--the old gentleman and the young one chap. x.--lies of benevolence--mistaken kindness--father and son chap. xi.--lies of wantonness and practical lies chap. xii.--our own experience of the painful results of lying chap. xiii.--lying the most common of all vices chap. xiv.--extracts from lord bacon, and others chap. xv.--observations on the extracts from hawkesworth and others chap. xvi.--religion the only basis of truth chap. xvii.--the same subject continued conclusion a woman's love, and a wife's duty. you command, and i obey: still, so conscious am i of the deceitfulness of the human heart, and especially of my own, that i am doubtful whether i am not following the dictates of self-love, when i seem to be actuated by friendship only; as you have repeatedly assured me, that the story of my life will not alone _amuse_ and _interest_ you, but also hold up to an injudicious and suffering friend of yours, a salutary example of the patient fulfilment of a _wife's duty_. there is something very gratifying to one's self-love, in being held up as an example: but _remember_, i beg, that while to oblige you i draw the veil from past occurrences, and live over again the most trying scenes of my life, i think myself more a warning than an example; and that, if i exhibit in any degree, that difficult and sometimes painful task--the fulfilment of a wife's duty--i at the same time exhibit the rash and dangerous fervour of a _woman's love_. i must begin my narrative, by a short account of my progenitors. introduction. my grandfather and the grandfather of seymour pendarves were brothers, and the younger sons of a gentleman of ancient family and large possessions in the county of cornwall; some of whose paternal ancestors were amongst the first settlers in america. disappointments, of which i never heard the detail, and dislike of their paternal home, determined these young men to leave their native country, and embark for the new world, where the family had still some land remaining, and on the improvement of which they determined to spend a sum of money which had been left them by a relation. they carried out with them, besides money, _enterprise_, _industry_, _integrity_, and _talents_. after they had been settled in long island three years, they found themselves rich enough to marry; and the beautiful daughters of an opulent american farmer became their wives. my grandfather had only one child--a son; but his brother had a large family, of whom, however, one only survived--a son also. these two cousins were brought up together, and were as much attached to each other as if they had been brothers. never, as i have been told, was there a scene of greater domestic happiness, than my grandfather's house exhibited, till death deprived him of his beloved wife. he did not long survive her; and my uncle soon afterwards lost her equally-beloved sister, whose health had been destroyed, first by the fatigue of attendance on her sick children, and then by grief for their loss. george pendarves, the sad survivor of so many dear ones, now lost his spirits--lost that energy which had so much distinguished him before; and he soon sunk under the cessation of those habits of exertion and temperance, which he had once practised, and, after two or three years of protracted suffering, died. thus the two youthful cousins found themselves both orphans before they had reached the age of twenty. they had not inherited their parents' dislike of europe. on the contrary, when their fathers imparted to them the learning and the elegant arts which they had acquired at the university, and in the society of england, they were impressed with respect and admiration for the sources whence such precious stores were derived, and resolved to enter themselves at an english college. accordingly, having put a confidential agent into their farms, they set sail for the land of their ancestors, and arrived at pendarves castle, the seat of their eldest paternal uncle, who had come into possession of the estates on the death of his father. at this time, my mother and lady helen seymour, the daughter of lord seymour, were both on a visit there. the young americans had now been some months expected, and their relations had long been amusing themselves with conjecturing what these savages (as they fancied them) would be like; while they anticipated much pleasure from beholding their surprise at manners, scenes, and accommodations, so different from their own. nor was my mother, though she was their relation, and herself a pendarves, less forward than her friend lady helen to hold up these strangers in a ridiculous view to her imagination, and to express an unbenevolent eagerness for the arrival of the _yankees_. at length, they came; and it was on the evening of a ball, given by mr. pendarves, to celebrate the birth-day of his wife. the dance was begun before they arrived; and their uncle was called out of the room to receive them. he went with a heart warmed with fraternal affection, and yearning towards the representatives of his regretted brothers: but the emotion became overpowering when he beheld them; for those well-remembered brothers seemed to stand before him in improved loftiness of stature, dignity of person, and beauty of feature. from their mothers, they had inherited that loveliness and symmetry, which so peculiarly distinguish american women; and in stature they towered even above their father's family. the young men, at the same time, were considerably affected at sight of mr. pendarves, as he reminded them strongly of their parents. while these endearing recollections were uppermost in their minds, mr. pendarves at first wholly forgot how different his nephews were from the pictures his laughter-loving family had delighted to draw of them. but when he did recollect it, he enjoyed the idea of the surprise which their appearance would occasion. their dress, as well as their manners, bespoke them perfect gentlemen; but their hair was not yet spoiled by compliance with the fashion of england at that period; for it curled, uncontaminated by powder, in glossy clustering ringlets on their open brows. such were the young men who now followed mr. pendarves to the apartment in which his lady received her guests. "dear me! how surprising!" cried that lady, who was very pretty, very volatile, and very apt to think aloud. "are these the yankees? why, i protest they look more like christians than savages, and are like other people, except that they are much handsomer than other people." this last part of her speech made some amends for the first part; but had she been of a contrary opinion, mrs. pendarves would have uttered it; and the glow of indignation on their cheek was succeeded by that of gratified vanity, for their hostess added to her compliment, by asking mr. pendarves if he was not quite proud of his nephews. he replied in the affirmative, declaring himself impatient to show them to the assembled family. it was therefore with cheeks dyed with becoming blushes, and eyes sparkling with delight at the flattering welcome which they had received, that they followed their uncle to the ball-room, but at his desire they stopped within the folding-doors, whence they surveyed the gay groups before them. mr. pendarves made his way amongst the dancers, and accosting his guest, lady helen seymour, and julia pendarves, his niece, told them they must leave the dance a little while, for he must present to them the _yankees_, who were just arrived. "i will come as soon as i have been down the dance," they both exclaimed. "but how unfortunate they should come to-night! for what can we do with them in a fine party like this? because," said julia, "though they may do to laugh at in our own family circle, one should not like to see one's relations supply subjects for laughter to other people." the dance was now beginning, and mr. pendarves, smiling sarcastically as he listened to his niece, allowed her to dance to the bottom of it, secretly resolving that she should now _ask_ him for that introduction which she had thus delayed; and in the meanwhile he amused himself with watching for the first moment when lady helen and julia should discover the two strangers, which he knew they could not fail to do, as the dance down which they were now going, fronted the folding-doors. mr. pendarves did not watch long in vain; lady helen and her companion saw them at the same instant, and were so struck with their appearance, that they were out in the figure, and wondered to their partners, who those strangers could be. "i cannot think," replied one of the gentlemen; "but they look like brothers, and are the finest and handsomest men i ever saw." "julia," whispered lady helen, "is it possible these can be your yankee cousins? if so, i am so ashamed." "and so am i; and do look at my uncle, he is laughing at us." "oh, it must be they, i am so shocked!" when they reached the bottom of the dance, they vainly looked towards mr. pendarves; he cruelly kept aloof. the strangers turned, however, eagerly round at hearing some one behind them address another by the name of miss pendarves. their glowing cheeks, their animated looks, were not lost on their equally conscious observers, and mr. pendarves now good-naturedly came forward to put a stop to this embarrassing dumb show, by presenting the cousins to each other, and then introducing them to lady helen. you remember my mother, and you have seen a picture of lady helen; you will not wonder, therefore, that the sudden admiration which lady helen felt that evening for george pendarves, and my mother for charles, was as warmly returned. it even seemed that their attachment foreran that of their lovers, for the cousins went to college without disclosing their love. on their return, however, finding the dangerous objects whom they meant to avoid still at pendarves, they ventured to make their proposals; and unsanctioned by parental authority, lady helen and my mother accepted the vows of their lovers, and pledged theirs in return. i shall pass over the consequent misery which they underwent, and simply state that the two friends were at last so hurried away by their romantic affection, that they allowed the cousins to carry them to gretna green; and that after the ceremony they embarked from the nearest scotch port for america. at first lady helen was too happy in the new ties which she had formed, to feel much sorrow or much compunction when she remembered those which she had broken. but when she became a parent herself, and learnt the feelings of a mother, she thought with agonizing regret on the pains which she had inflicted on her own, and in the bitterness of awakened remorse, she supplicated to be forgiven. the answer to this letter was sealed with black, and was in the hand of her father! it was as follows: "your mother is dead, and it was your disobedience which killed her. expect, therefore, no forgiveness from me. "seymour." a fever of the brain was the consequence of this terrible stroke, and her life was despaired of. in the agonies therefore of anxious affection, george pendarves wrote to lord seymour, retorting on him his own blow, for he told him that his letter had _killed lady helen_. the wretched husband inflicted as much pain as he intended; for lady helen, however faulty, was lord seymour's _favourite_ child--his only daughter; and the next letters from america were expected with trembling anxiety. the information, therefore, that lady helen was better, was _received_ with gratitude, though it did not procure an offer of forgiveness. my mother, though not quite such a culprit as lady helen, because she was one of many daughters, left an aged grandmother and an affectionate uncle with whom she lived; but the former pronounced her forgiveness before she breathed her last, and suffered the will to remain in force in which he had left her a handsome legacy. nor was her uncle himself slow to pronounce her pardon. she therefore had no drawbacks on her felicity but the sight of lady helen's constant dejection, which was so great that my father thought it right to make an effort to procure her the comfort of lord seymour's pardon. the troubles in america were now on the eve of breaking out, for it was the year ; and the joy of my birth was considerably damped to my affectionate parents by the increasing agitation of the country. but george pendarves was too miserable and too indignant to write himself; he therefore gladly deputed my father to write for him. while they were impatiently awaiting the reply, they both busied themselves in politics, in order to escape from domestic uneasiness; and though undetermined which side to take, they were considerably inclined to espouse the cause of the mother country, when lord seymour's answer arrived, in which he offered lady helen and her husband his entire forgiveness, on condition that the latter took part against the rebels, as he called them, and accepted a commission in the english army, which would soon be joined by his son, colonel seymour. it is impossible to say which at this trying moment was the governing motive of george pendarves,--whether it was chiefly political conviction, or whether he was influenced insensibly by the wish of conciliating his father-in-law, in order to restore peace to the mind of the woman whom he adored; but certain it is that this letter hastened his decision, and that my father, who loved him as a brother, coincided with him in that decision, and resolved to share his destiny. accordingly, both the cousins _accepted_ commissions in the british army; and when colonel seymour met his brother-in-law at head-quarters, he presented to him a letter from his father, containing a fervent blessing for lady helen and himself. the husband and the brother soon after obtained permission to visit the one his wife, and the other his sister; and something resembling peace of mind, on one subject at least, returned to the patient lady helen, while with a mother's pride she put into the arms of her brother her only child, seymour pendarves, to whom, unpermitted, she had given the name of her family, and who was then seven years old. but now a _new_ source of anxiety was opened upon her. her husband was become a soldier, and she had to fear for his life; nor was she in a state to follow him to battle, as she would otherwise have done, because she had lately been confined with a dead child. my mother was in this respect more fortunate; for she was able to accompany her husband to the seat of war, and she persisted to do so, though both my father and his cousin earnestly wished her to stay with lady helen and myself, i being at that period only two years old. but my mother had set up her husband as the only idol whom she was called upon to worship, and before that idol she bowed down in singleness of adoration; nor could the inconvenience to which her resolution exposed him at all shake her constancy. she was equally insensible also to the anxiety which her leaving lady helen at such a time occasioned, both to the husband and the brother of that amiable being. the reply of, "it is my duty to accompany my husband as long as i can," silenced all objections from others, and all the whisperings of her own affectionate heart; and she tore herself away, though not without considerable pain, from the embrace of her friend, and committed me to her maternal care. dreadful was the moment of separation between lady helen and her husband: but the former bore it better than the latter; for, as her mind was impressed with the idea that she had deserved her afflictions, she believed that by patient submission to the divine will, she could alone show her sense of the error which she had committed. yet, independently of the violence thus done to the enjoyment of affections, it was impossible for a feeling heart and a reflective mind to contemplate that awful moment without agony--that moment, when brother was about to arm against brother--when men speaking the same language, and hitherto considering themselves as subjects of the same king, were marching in dread array against each other, and breathing the vows of vengeance against those endeared to them perhaps by habits of social intercourse and the interchange of good offices. such was the scene now exhibited at lexington, in the april of ; for there the _first_ blood was spilt in the american contest. in that hour of deadly strife, my mother's trial was not equal to lady helen's; for she could linger around the fatal field, she could ask questions of stragglers from the army, and her daily suspense would end with every day; while other anxious wives around her, by sharing, soothed her uneasiness. but lady helen was in a sick chamber, surrounded by servants and by objects of interest which only served to heighten her distress; for, as she gazed upon her son and her charge, she knew not but that she was gazing at that moment upon fatherless orphans. there is certainly no comparison in strength between the uneasiness which can vent itself in _exertion_, and that which is obliged by circumstances to remain in _inaction_. but not at the battle of lexington was the heart of lady helen doomed to bleed. her husband escaped unwounded, and once more he returned to her and to his children. the interview was indeed short, but it was a source of comfort to lady helen, which ended but with her life. his looks--his words of love during that meeting, were treasured up with even a miser's care; for, after their parting embrace--after that happy interview, they _never met more_. george pendarves fell in the next decisive battle, which was fought near his residence. by desire of his afflicted brother, the body was conveyed to his own house, which was near to that of the unconscious widow. the bearers mistook their orders, and conveyed it home. lady helen, who was at that moment teaching me my letters, after having set seymour his lesson, broke off to listen to an unusual noise of feet in the hall; then gently opening the door, she leaned over the baluster to discover the cause. young as i was, never can i forget the shriek she uttered, which told she had _discovered it_! while, wildly rushing down stairs, she threw herself upon the bloody corse. we, echoing her cry, followed her in helpless terror; but fear and horror were my only feelings. poor seymour, on the contrary, was old enough to take in the extent of the misery, and i yet hear his fond and fruitless exclamations of "papa! dear papa!" and his vain, but still repeated supplication, that he would open his eyes and speak to him. lady helen now neither screamed, nor spoke, nor wept; but she sat in the _silent desolation_ of her soul on the couch by the body of pendarves, with eyes as fixed and even as rayless as his. there was a something in this still grief which seemed to awe the by-standers into stillness also. no hand was lifted to remove _her_ from the _body_, nor the _body_ from _her_. the only sounds of life were the _sobs of seymour_, for my cries had been checked by alarm and the groans of the compassionate witnesses, or the grief of the servants. but this state of feeling could not last long, and i remember that seymour destroyed it; for, looking terrified by his mother's changed countenance, he threw his arms passionately around her, conjuring her not to look so terribly, but to take him on her lap, and speak to him. the attendants now came up to take her away; but she resisted all their efforts with the violence of frenzy, till she sank exhausted into their arms, and could resist no longer. the month that ensued was a blank in the existence of lady helen: that pressure on the brain from which she had suffered so much before returned, and delirium, ending in insensibility, ensued. when consciousness was restored, her feelings of humble piety and deep contrition returned with it, and kissing the rod which had chastised her, she resolved for our sakes to struggle with her grief, and enter again upon a life of usefulness. my father meanwhile fought, and my mother followed his fortunes. once he was brought wounded to his tent, and she was allowed to nurse him till he recovered. after that, she had to cross the country, and endure incredible hardships; but her husband lived, and hardships seemed nothing to her. during this time--a period of two years--i have heard seymour pendarves say, that he dreaded his mother's receiving a letter from the army, because it made her so wretched. he used to call my father and mother uncle and aunt; and when, in seeing her affliction, he asked her whether uncle pendarves was shot, or aunt pendarves ill, she was accustomed to reply, "no--they are indeed sufferers, but have much to be thankful for; for _he lives_, they are _together_, and she is happy!" in the october of , the british army, commanded by general burgoyne, under whom my father now served, and held a major's commission, were obliged to lay down their arms at saratoga--yet not before my father had been severely wounded, and taken prisoner. this was a new trial to my mother's constancy; but her courage and her perseverance seemed to increase with the necessity for them; and had she wanted any other incitement to fortitude than her conjugal affection and her sense of duty, she would have found it in the splendid example of lady harriet ackland, whose difficulties and dangers, in the performance of a wife's extremest duty, will ever form a brilliant page in the annals of english history. some of the dangers and many of the difficulties of lady harriet, had been endured by my mother, but had ended in her being allowed to share the prison of my father; when, on the surrender of general burgoyne's army, the officers were allowed to return on their parole to england. my father, therefore, was glad to hasten to that spot from choice, to which he might be ultimately driven by necessity; and my mother, who never liked america, was rejoiced to return to the dear land of her birth. lady helen, meanwhile, had undergone another sorrow; but one which, during its progress, had given a new interest to life. her brother, colonel seymour, had been desperately wounded at the beginning of the year , and had been conveyed in a litter to the house of his widowed sister. had the wounds of lady helen's heart ever been entirely closed, this circumstance would have opened them afresh. "so," she was heard to say, "would i have nursed and watched over my husband, and tried to restore him to life; but to go _at once_--no _warning_--no _preparation_! but god's will be done!" and then she used to resume her quiet seat by the bedside of her brother; whom, however, neither skill nor tenderness could restore. he died in her arms, blessing her with his last breath. colonel seymour was only a younger brother; but having married an heiress, who died soon after, leaving no child, and bequeathing him in fee her large fortune, he was a rich man. this fortune, as soon as he was able to hold his pen, he bequeathed equally between his sister, lady helen, and her son, desiring also that his remains might be sent to england to be interred in the family vault of his wife. i was five years old, when my father and mother returned to us, to prepare for their departure to england, and to prevail on lady helen to accompany them; and i have a perfect recollection of my feelings at that moment--or rather, i should say, of my first seeing them; for seymour and i were both in bed when they arrived. i have heard since, that my father's resemblance to his brother awoke in lady helen remembrance even to agony, and that he was not much less affected. i also heard that my mother soon hastened to gaze upon her sleeping child, and to enjoy the luxury of being a parent, after having been so long engrossed by the duty of a wife; for, though she had been confined once during her perils, her confinement had not added to her family. the next morning, i remember to have felt a joy--i could not tell why--at hearing that my father and mother were come, and that i was both pleased and pained when seymour ran into the nursery, screaming out, "oh, ellen! my uncle and aunt are come, and i have seen them; but they are very ill-looking, poor souls! and my uncle is so lame!" "ill-looking, and my papa lame!" thought i. it was with difficulty the nurse could prevail on me to obey the summons; and i behaved so ill when i got to their bedside, that they were glad to send me away. it was impossible that i could know either of them, they were really so pale and haggard through fatigue and suffering; and i shrunk frightened and averse from their embraces. true, the name of mother was associated in my mind with all that i best loved, for by that name i called lady helen. but why did i so? because she had been to me the tenderest of guardians, and had fulfilled the duty which my real parent had been forced to resign. on returning to the nursery, i found lady helen, to whom i clung in an agony of tears, satisfied that _she_ was my _own dear mamma_. but when my father and mother were seated at the breakfast-table, and gave me some of the nice things set before them, i became less averse to their caresses, and before the day was over, i consented to have one papa and two mammas, while seymour assured me he thought my papa, though _ill_, very handsome, and like his own poor papa. at first, lady helen shrunk from the idea of returning to england; but she at length consented, from consideration of the superior advantages which her two young charges would receive from an english education, and as it was evidently in conformity to her brother's intention. accordingly, in the beginning of the year , we arrived at liverpool, bringing with us the bodies of colonel seymour and george pendarves. well was it for lady helen that we reached the inn at liverpool at night, and that she had some hours of refreshing slumber, to prepare her for the surprise which awaited her the next day. while she and my parents were at breakfast the following morning, and seymour and i were amusing ourselves with looking out at the window, we saw a very elegant carriage drive up to the door: our exclamations called lady helen to us. "what are those pretty things painted on the sides, mamma?" asked seymour. "an earl's coronet, and supporters to the arms, my dear!" repeated lady helen in a faint voice, and suddenly retreating, as she saw there were gentlemen in the carriage, who looked up, on hearing the children's voices. it was her father's. nor had time, suffering, and sickness so altered her beautiful features as to render them irrecognizable by a father's heart. catching the arm of lord mountgeorge, his son, who was with him, lord seymour exclaimed-- "o frederic! surely i have beheld your sister!" and with trembling limbs he alighted, and reached the rooms bespoken for him. he was on his way from london to the seat of a gentleman near liverpool, from whose house he was to proceed to his own place in the north. he now sent for the landlord, and begged to know if there were not some american strangers in the house; and on receiving from him a confirmation of his suspicions, he desired one of the waiters to tell major pendarves that a gentleman begged to see him. on entering the room, major pendarves took in silence the hand which the agitated earl in silence tendered to him. the past and the present rushed over the minds of both; while lord mountgeorge, whose emotion was less violent, begged the major to prepare his sister to receive them. in the meanwhile, lord seymour, with his heart full of his lost son, surveyed with respectful pity the faded cheek and altered form of the once-blooming charles pendarves. "you did not look thus when we last met," said he; "but you have suffered in a noble cause, and you have only lost your _health_." here the lip of the bereaved parent quivered with agitation, and lord mountgeorge turned mournfully away. my father then rejoined his party with evident agitation. "what new sorrow awaits me?" cried lady helen; "for i see it is for me you are affected, not for yourself." "no, my friend; these tears are tears of emotion, but of pleasure also." "pleasure!" "yes: lord seymour and your brother are in the next room, and eagerly long to see you." the feelings which now strove for victory in lady helen's breast were too much for her weakened frame to support; and shuddering and panting, she caught hold of my mother to save herself from falling, while the scream of the terrified seymour, as he beheld her nearly fainting on the sofa, was heard by the anxious expectants, who hastily entered the room. lady helen, who had not lost her senses, instantly sunk on one knee before her agitated parent, and pushing her son toward him, desired him to plead for his unhappy mother. "helen!" cried lord seymour, in a voice broken by sobs, "you need no advocate but my own heart!" and lady helen was once more clasped to his bosom. "and is this fine creature my grandson?" said he, gazing with delight on seymour, while he kissed his open forehead; then seating himself by his daughter on the sofa, while lord mountgeorge sat by her on the other side, he drew the wondering boy to his knee. my father now presented my mother and myself to lord seymour. "i am disappointed," said he, civilly: "i hoped, mrs. pendarves, that this lovely girl was my grandchild also." this was enough to conciliate my young heart; and i wondered to myself, i remember, why my lady mamma should have seemed so sorry at seeing such a good-natured old gentleman; nor could i conceive why lord seymour, as he kept looking on lady helen, should shed so many tears. "my poor helen!" cried he, "your face tells a tale of sad suffering--and augustus, too--both gone! but they fought bravely." "ay--but they _died_!" cried lady helen, clasping her hands convulsively. "and they shall both have a magnificent monument erected to their memory, my child," cried lord seymour. lady helen looked gratefully up in her father's face, as he said this. lord seymour now wrote to his friend, to say that he and his son were prevented paying him the promised visit; and the next day we all set forward for the seat of lord seymour. i forbear to describe poor lady helen's feelings when we reached seymour park, and what she endured, when she visited, at her own family vault, the remains of her beloved mother, after she had seen her husband and brother interred in that of the _latter_. but she had the consolation of knowing that lord seymour's resentment had made him unjust, as a mortal malady had long been preying on her existence. having only visited seymour park in order to witness the funeral solemnities, my father and mother soon took their leave, and, to my great agony, insisted that i should accompany them on their projected visit to pendarves castle, and also to my grandfather and grandmother; and i well recollect the violent sorrow which i experienced when i was torn from seymour and lady helen. i was told, however, that i should certainly come back to them, and not soon leave them again; and that pacified me. indeed, it was my father's intention to settle near lady helen pendarves, who meant to fit up a cottage in her park for their residence. when my father and his cousin first came over to england, they had found some property due to them in right of their father's will. this property was vested in the english funds, and there it had remained untouched, both principal and interest, for eight years. during this period, it had accumulated so much as to be sufficient for us to live upon, should the event of the war be such as to cause the confiscation of our american estates; and my mother had also to receive the legacy bequeathed by her grandmother. their present enjoyment, therefore, was not clouded over (to my parents) by the fear of pecuniary distress; and after their first arrival at pendarves castle, (that scene so fraught with grief in its results to friends most dear to them,) they looked forward with joyful anticipations to the future. they were speedily joined there by my mother's uncle and her parents. thither, too, lady helen had at last resolution to venture also; and i was again united to my brother seymour, as i always called him. on leaving her carriage, lady helen desired to be shown to my mother's apartment, in order to recover herself before she saw the rest of the family; for she dreaded to encounter the thoughtless mrs. pendarves, who would say things that wounded the feelings in the most susceptible part. on the third day, while she was administering a nervous medicine to her widowed guest, she could not help exclaiming, "poor dear! what will all the physic in the world do for you, cousin helen? as the man says in the play-- 'what can minister to a mind diseased?' and-- 'give physic to the dogs.'" here my mother, with a pathetic look, motioned her to be silent--but in vain. "nay, my dear julia!" said she, "i must speak: my dear cousin helen will not know else how i have cried and lain awake all night with thinking of her miseries." "she does not doubt your kind sympathy, dear aunt--she does not, indeed!" "but she cannot be sure of it, mrs. charles, unless i tell her of it, and tell her 'i cannot. but remember, such folks were, and were most dear to all.' oh! he had ----'an eye like mars!' and that is quite appropriate, you know, as he died in battle. i mean your poor husband, poor george pendarves! not your brother--i never saw him." my mother looked aghast. since the death of george pendarves, no one had ever ventured to name him to lady helen; "but fools rush in where angels dare not tread." and lady helen hid her face in agonizing surprise on my mother's shoulder. "ah! one may see by your eyes that you have shed many tears. why, they tell me you never knew what had happened till you saw the poor dear love lying dead and bleeding. there was a shock! oh! how i pity you, dearest soul! i have often thought it was a mercy that you did not fall over the balusters, and break your neck!" "it broke my heart!" screamed out lady helen, in the voice of frenzy, unable to support any longer the horrible picture thus coarsely brought before her; and in another moment the house resounded with her hysterical cries; while mrs. pendarves added, she could not but think lady helen was very bad still, as she could not bear to be pitied; though pity was said to be very soothing--and though she, ----"like pity on one side, her grief-subduing voice applied." as my mother expected, lady helen now conceived a terror of mrs. pendarves, which nothing could conquer; and her health became so visibly worse, that she quitted the place the following week, accompanied by my father and mother, and my mother's uncle, to london, leaving seymour and myself behind, to be spoiled by our too-indulgent relatives. in a short time, my father and mother had settled their pecuniary concerns, and purchased furniture for their new habitation, of which they now hastened to take possession; and there we soon joined them. i have detailed thus minutely the sentiments and sorrows of those with whom my earliest years were passed, as i believe that by them my character was in a great measure determined; and that i owe the merit which you attribute to me, and the crimes of which i am conscious, to having been the pupil of _lady helen_, and the daughter of _julia_ pendarves. the next three years passed quietly away; but my parents observed with pain that lady helen's visits to seymour park became more and more frequent, though lord seymour had married a young wife before his daughter's return, who was jealous to excess of lady helen's influence over her lord, and that she had evidently lost much of her enjoyment of their society. the truth was, that though lady helen did not envy the happiness of my parents, it was not always that she could bear to witness it; because it recalled painfully to her mind the period of her life when _she was equally_ happy; and she had no longer that sympathy with my mother which is the foundation and the cement of friendly intercourse; so true is it, that _equality of prosperity_, like _equality of situation_, is necessary to give _stability_ to friendship. my mother, though she felt this, was too delicate openly to repine. my intercourse with her, and the benefit which i derived from her instructions, remained the same, for i was always allowed to accompany lady helen to seymour park. but, alas! the tide of sympathy towards my poor mother, which had been checked in lady helen's bosom by happiness, now flowed again with increased fulness, when she was summoned to console her under a sorrow kindred with her own. my father had been saved from the dangers of war, to perish at home by a _violent death_. he was thrown from his horse, struck his head against a stone, and died upon the spot. lady helen having removed her to her own house, devoted her whole attention to the offices of a comforter. in proportion as my poor mother's sense of happiness had been keen, her sense of privation was overwhelming. but, so curiously, so mercifully are we fashioned, that we are sometimes able to derive medicine for our suffering from its very excess. my mother was, as you well know, a woman of _high aspirings_, and loved to be pre-eminent in all things. she was proud of her conjugal love; she was proud of the dangers which she had dared under its influence, and of the sufferings to which she rose superior, to prove the tender excess of that love; she was proud, also, of her good fortune, in having her husband's life so long preserved to her, and she gloried in his devoted and faithful affection. but now of this idolized husband she was bereaved in a moment, and without any alleviating circumstances. soothing, though painful, are the tears which we shed for those who fall in battle; and sweet, "like music in the dead of night," heard after distressing dreams, or while we are kept waking by mournful realities, falls the sound of a _nation's regret_ on the ear of those who weep over a _departed hero_. but my father died _ingloriously_, and yet my mother felt pride derived from that _very source_, for it made her, in her own estimation, _pre-eminent_ in trial; for how hard was it, after having shared her husband's dangers, and the struggles of war, to see him perish at home, the victim of an ignoble accident! "had he died in the field of glory, i might have found," she cried, "some solace in his renown; and i was prepared to see him fall, when others fell around him. but to perish _thus_! oh! never was woman's trial so severe!" and thus, while descanting on the pre-eminence of her misfortunes, she got rid of much of their severity. you remember with what eloquence my mother used to describe what she had endured in america; you have also, i believe, heard her speak of the manner of my poor father's death: but you never heard what i have often listened to, with the pity which i could not utter, lady helen's assertion of her _own_ trying sorrow, when my mother had harrowed up her feelings by the painful comparison. "you may remember, that _you_ were happy _many years_: but i" (here tears choked her voice) "remember, that while you were allowed to prove your love by soothing the sufferings of the being whom you adored, and had his smile to reward you, i was forced to prove mine only in the privacy of solitary and almost maddening recollections. till recently, _you_ have never known a _real affliction_, and i--oh! when have i _for years_ experienced an enjoyment?" this language used to _silence_, if it did not _convince_ my mother. but however they might dispute on the superiority of their trials, they loved each other the better for them, and were now scarcely ever separated. hence, seymour and i were in a measure educated together, till it was judged fit that he should go to a public school. this painful trial was imposed on lady helen by her relations, and approved by her own judgment against the suggestions of her feelings; when i was eleven, and seymour near fifteen years old; and when our mothers (as i was not long in discovering) had projected a union between us, and had promised each other to do all they could to ensure it. thus ends my _introduction_. * * * * * here begins, my dear friend, the history of seymour and helen pendarves. forgive me, if i introduce my narrative with a very vulgar but a most excellent proverb--which is, that "little pitchers have wide ears;" or, that children hear many things which they ought not to hear, and which they were certainly not intended to hear. now, to illustrate the truth of this proverb, and this explanation of it. it certainly could not be the intention of two such sensible women that i should know i was designed for the wife of seymour pendarves; and yet they talked of their plans so openly before me, that i was perfectly mistress of their designs; and that precocity of mind which they had often remarked in me was increased so much by this consciousness, that while they fancied i was thinking on my doll or my baby-house, i was in reality meditating on my destined husband, till my heart was prepared to receive the passion of love at an age when it would have been better for me to have been ignorant of its existence. and this passion i was authorized to feel, and for a most engaging object! i leave you to judge how pleasant i found this permission--how much, young as i was, the idea of seymour pendarves now mixed itself with every thing i thought, and did, and said. small was the chance, therefore, that even my highly honoured mother could ever succeed in changing the bent of those inclinations which she had herself given in the pliant hours of childhood and earliest youth. it was some time before lady helen recovered her spirits, after the departure of her son. i also gave myself the air of being very dejected; but as with me it was the season of "the tear forgot as soon as shed," and of the preponderating influence of animal spirits, i bounded over the lawn as usual, after the first three days were gone by, and at length won lady helen from her reveries and her gloom; but i had the satisfaction of hearing the mothers say to each other, "what sensibility! she really seemed to regret his absence with a sentimental dejection unusual at those years." this idea, so flattering to my self-love, i took care to keep alive, by frequently inquiring how long it was to the christmas vacation; and when that long-expected time arrived, and i found it settled that lady helen should meet her son at lord seymour's in london, and spend the holidays with him there, i gave way to the most violent lamentations, declaring that she should not go without me. nor in this instance did i at all exaggerate my feelings of disappointment; for seymour's absence made a sad void in my amusements, and i had looked forward to his return with the sincerest satisfaction. but my entreaties and my expostulations were equally vain. seymour, however, wrote to me twice at least from london. these letters i treasured up with the fondest care, and read them once every day; though i could not but think there was not quite love enough in them, and that i was too big to be called little helen, and to be told by my correspondent that he blew me a kiss. i remember, also, that when i showed my mother my answers, which were those of a little old woman, and not of an artless girl, she used to say, "i wonder where the child got those ideas." when the holidays were over, lady helen returned, and brought me a beautiful writing-box, as a present from her son, with a guitar, as a present from herself. we immediately began our practice upon this instrument; and i made a rapid progress, from the hope of being able to charm seymour when we next met. but again lady helen went to meet her son in london; and it was not till two years after his first departure, that he revisited the north. never shall i forget the flutter which i felt at the idea of his return; but i am very sure that i was more taken up, in spite of my sentimentality, with thinking what effect i was likely to have on him at our meeting, than with the idea of the pleasure which i should have in seeing him. two years had made a great improvement in my person; but i was not tall for my age, and i was so thin, that i looked much younger than i really was. my glass, however, and the injudicious praises of flattering visiters, had told me i was handsome; and i really believe i expected to take seymour's heart--of the actual possession of which i had some doubts--by a _coup de main_; for i had both heard and read of "love at first sight." never before had i been so difficult to please in the shape of my frocks, which i in vain tried to persuade my wiser mother to alter into _gowns_--as vainly did i try to persuade her to let me have my hair dressed, and wear ear-rings: she coolly told me simplicity was the beauty of a _child's dress_; and i, swallowing as i could that mortifying appellation, was obliged to let my auburn ringlets fall in natural glossy curls into my neck, unfrizzed and untormented. but unable to keep my vexation to myself, to the great amusement of my mother, i said, rather petulantly, as i was leaving the room one day, "well, i must do as you please, mamma; but i am sure mr. seymour pendarves, who is used to london young ladies, will think me a great fright." "mr. _who_, my dear?--whose opinion is of so much consequence to you?" "seymour pendarves," replied i blushing, and leaving out the _mr._ "oh! master pendarves! really, my dear, i can't think it matters much, what such a mere boy as that thinks; and it is enough for you that you are a good child, and obey your mamma." at length, seymour arrived, and the delighted lady helen brought her idol to our house; while i gazed with wonder as well as pleasure and embarrassment, on the change which two years had made in my youthful companion. he, though only seventeen, had assumed the dress of manhood: his throat was tied up with a large cravat--his hair was powdered, and worn in a club behind, according to the then fashion--his hat was set on one side, and he was dressed in a grass-green coat. nothing so smart had ever met my sight before; and what with his fine teeth, his dimpled cheek, and his sparkling eyes, i thought i had never even _read_ of any one so beautiful: and this lovely youth was intended to be my husband. but had he himself any such intentions? that i could not say; and i was both mortified and displeased at the way in which he first addressed me, even though i drew up my long neck as high as possible, to look as tall and womanly as i could. he flew up to me, calling me-- "dear _little_ helen! how are you? i am so glad to see you again!" and then, in spite of my dignity, he clasped me round the neck, gave me a kiss which might have been heard in the next room, and left the mark of his metal sleeve-buttons on my throat. my mother saw my confusion, and, as she did not approve such familiar and boisterous ways, coolly said, "my daughter is not used to such rough salutations, my dear seymour; and i did not expect such a remnant of the great romping boy from you." alas! all remnant of youthful unrestraint and of the boy now vanished; natural feeling, which the sight of his early companion and playfellow had called forth, disappeared, and the manners of the young men of the world _then_ and _for ever_ replaced them. but what provoked me was, though he seemed to consider himself as a _man_, he never even for a moment treated me as a _woman_. i was his "little helen," and his "chicken," and his "tiny pet;" and then, dreadful degradation! he used to chuck me under the chin: nay, once he asked me, pulling up his neck-cloth, and looking in the glass, whether the neighbourhood was improved, and whether there were any _fine women_ in it, who visited our mothers. i had a mind to answer, "what does it signify to you whether there are or not?" but as i dared not so reply, it was a relief to me when my mother came in, and put a stop to his inquiries. but never, indeed, have i since felt more jealousy than i experienced during seymour's residence at home, in various ways. soon after his return, i went with one of my cousins from pendarves castle, then on a visit to us, to a public walk in a neighbouring town, which was then much frequented, and seymour accompanied us: i, conscious that my straw hat and purple ribands became me, and that my young friend, who was remarkably plain, served only as a foil to my charms. "now, then," thought i, "his hour is come." while glorying in this imagined security, i was hurled down into the depths of despair; for we scarcely reached the mall, when we met some fine showy-looking women, whom i thought _old_, as they seemed past five-and-twenty. seymour, to my great consternation, inquired who these _lovely creatures_ were, declaring they were the handsomest women he had seen since he had left london. "my cousin can introduce you," said harriet pendarves. "i! not i, indeed!" "why not, dear helen!" cried seymour. "because--because i have only lately known them." "oh! that is quite enough," he hastily returned; but i still refused. however, the ladies returned, accompanied by a young man of seymour's acquaintance; and in a few minutes we beheld him laughing and talking with the party. my feelings at that moment still live in my memory as vividly as ever. i was thunder-struck. what! seymour pendarves, the friend of my childhood, to leave me for women whom he never saw before; and call them handsomer than any thing he had seen since he left london! it was in vain that two youths of my acquaintance--one of them a young lord--joined my deserted side: i was silent, absent, and unhappy; for seymour remained with his new acquaintance. it never occurred to me to talk and laugh with my beaux, for i was a stranger to coquetry, and the natural feelings of my heart were allowed to display themselves: still, an untaught delicacy made me try to hide the cause of my oddness from my companions; and a headache, which was not feigned, was my excuse. the ladies, however, at length left the walk, and seymour was forced to return to us. he immediately launched forth into rapturous praises of their charms and elegant manners, while i listened in angry silence, as i had expected him to apologize for leaving me; and nothing, i perceived, was further from his thoughts. "but what is the matter?" cried he. "are you not well, helen, that you do not speak?" "not quite." "helen has a headache," said my cousin. "poor child!" cried seymour kindly; "then let us go home directly; it grows late, and i believe you do not sit up to supper yet, helen, except on great occasions." here was an affront. i angrily replied, "indeed, mr. seymour pendarves, you seem to know very little about me, and to _care_ very little about me now." "_mr._, and a tossed-up chin, and a flushed face! why, really, helen, i find i did _not_ know much about you: i took you for a sweet-tempered girl; but i have often thought you captious and pettish of late, and i never could imagine why; but let me tell you, miss helen pendarves, that if you lose your good-temper, you will lose your greatest charm--_any_ woman's greatest _charm_." this reproach i could not bear from him; for i knew, if i was become pettish and captious, affection for him was the cause; and i burst into tears. but struggling with my feelings, i sobbed out, "and i suppose, sir, you think i _have_ no _other_ charm than my good-temper." "_i_, helen! no such thing: i think quite the contrary; and i do assure you, the ladies i have just left, they----" "o yes!" cried i, "they, i suppose, have every charm possible." "they have great charms, certainly, both of face and person; still, they are only _fine women_; but _you_, helen, are quite a _little beauty_--only you are as yet but a _child_, you know." away went my ill-humours, and even my jealousy; for i was sure, though the boy of seventeen thought it more manly to talk to women grown, i knew as he advanced in life, and i too, he would be of a different opinion; and i also knew a few years would fade the ladies whom he so much admired, while the same number of years would leave me still young, and _still a beauty_. yes, he thought me a beauty, and he had told me so; and i repeated his words to myself so often, that in a reverie i once spoke them aloud, and my mother asked, "child, what are you saying about helen and beauty?" "helen was a great beauty, mamma--was she not?" said i, blushing at my own duplicity; but the subterfuge weighed heavily on my mind, nor could i rest till i told the whole truth to my mother, who, in consideration of my ingenuousness, merely observed to me, that when, from the exaggeration to which even boys were much given, seymour called me a beauty, he only meant i was a pretty girl: but _i_ thought _differently_. seymour now remained at home full six months, with a private tutor, as he was too old to go back to school, and lady helen thought him too young for oxford. during that time, my mother, from (as i suspected) some private information, began to form an unfavourable opinion of his steadiness of conduct; and the anxieties of a mother for his future well-being clouded the still beautiful countenance of lady helen. once, as i was apparently engaged in reading, i overheard lady helen say to my mother, "do you not discern any symptoms yet of a growing attachment on his side? he may be on his guard before me." "none whatever: he seems to consider her still only as a beautiful child; and she is certainly not at all more womanly in her appearance this last year." "i am sorry for it," was the answer; "for there is no guard so good for the morals of a young man, as a virtuous attachment." "yes," said my mother; "and i had hoped, that by being so much with helen, he would have loved her, as it were, by anticipation." i never could find out whether they _meant_ me to hear this conversation or not; but the assurance which it conveyed, that seymour did not love me yet, was not lost upon me; and it was possible that all this was said for that purpose. the consequence was, that i put the strictest guard over my words and manners, lest seymour should discover the attachment which i had with much confidence indulged; and the attachment itself, i resolved to resist, with all the energy possible: for surely, thought i, if i am too young to inspire love, i ought to be too young to feel it; and i am too proud to love where i am not beloved. and i kept the former part of my resolution, for my attachment remained unsuspected; nor did its strength hold out entirely uninjured against the conviction of the utter indifference of its object. however, an affectionate grasp of my hand, and a respectful salute of my cheek, replaced the boisterous familiarity of his greeting, when we first met. "surely," said i to myself, "his feelings towards me have undergone a change;" and while hope was thus restored to my bosom, i felt that my former feelings would, on the slightest encouragement, return with undiminished force. i have since learnt--though not till long after the period in question--that lady helen had thought proper to have a conversation with her son on the subject nearest her heart; namely, a marriage between him and me, in the course of a few years. he listened to her, i found, with great surprise, but great complacency; only exclaiming, "but she is such a child at present, dear mother!" "but she will not always be a child," replied lady helen; "and though i believe she is quite indifferent to you _now_, i am much mistaken if that 'child,' as you call her, did not at your first arrival feel something resembling love and jealousy too." "is it possible!" exclaimed seymour, "and i not to be conscious of it! _dear_ little helen!" and then he recollected the scene in the walk, and my petulance, silence, and tears, for which he now accounted in a manner flattering to his vanity; and it was so new--so _piquant_, to be loved by a child, that he was charmed with the idea of his conquest. but then lady helen had told him he had lost this affection; and as none can bear to renounce the power which they have once possessed, he was resolved to pay me those attentions by the want of which i had been alienated. he was too conscious, however, to be able to act upon his resolves; and he had learnt to consider me in so new a light, that he felt embarrassed when he should have been assiduous; and though i saw a change in his manner during the last four days, it was far from being a favourable one. it was only on the last of the four days that he seemed to have shaken off the trammels which hung about him. that day, as i was drawing at the window, and he was reading aloud by his mother, i saw him lay down his book, and whisper in her ear. "helen," said she, "what do you think seymour says? he says, that he has now found that you are no longer a child." "indeed!" replied i, blushing, but in a tone of pique: "and since when? that is a discovery which i have long made." "and since when have you _yourself_ made it, dear helen?" said he, with that saucy smile of his which you have often said was irresistible. "these four years, at least," i answered, trying to avoid his eyes. "do not fib, helen," was his impertinent reply. "you make helen blush, my dear son." "so much the better; she never looks so beautiful as when she blushes, and i dare say some little time hence, we shall have some english priam exclaiming of this modern helen-- 'no wonder, britons, that such heavenly charms for ten long years have set the world in arms!' while _i_ shall sit and sing-- 'ah, chloris! could i now but sit as unconcern'd as when thy infant beauty could beget nor happiness nor pain!'" i was now so pleased, so confounded--yet so happy, that i knew not where to look or how to behave; but remembering that the "best part of valour is discretion," i fled from the danger i could not face, and had just presence of mind enough to run away. "what is the matter with helen?" cried seymour, when i was gone. "is she angry?" "no," replied lady helen, more skilled in the nature of woman's feelings; "she is only conscious of being too well pleased--that's all;" and from that time--had not seymour left us the next day--the chances are that we should soon have become lovers. i, meanwhile, had gone into my own chamber, where i found my mother. i threw myself into her arms, without saying a word, and hid my blushes and my tears in her bosom. my mother, untold, knew those tears were not tears of sorrow, and soon drew from me a part of the truth; for i told her seymour had been so full of his compliments that i came away. during the course of that day, seymour was continually exclaiming, "how provoking it is, that i should be forced to go away just now!" "ah!" cried i, pertly enough, and insincerely too, "what will poor miss salter do?" this was the name of one of the ladies with whom he had fancied himself charmed. "miss salter! 'i think not of miss salter---- my fancy has no image now but--'" here my mother rather pettishly interrupted him. "i think, for miss salter's sake, young man, it is well you are going, as you certainly took great pains to make her think you admired her; and i must say, i am no friend to coquetry, be it in man or woman." "nor i," said lady helen; "and i trust the next time my son makes love, he will do it with his whole heart, and not mistake the illusions of fancy for the dictates of attachment." "i trust so too, my dear mother," he replied, "and that the object will be one whom you approve." the next morning he set off, and every thing at first seemed a blank to me. he wrote frequently during the first weeks of his residence at oxford, but my mother discouraged my answering his letters, and he soon grew remiss in his correspondence even with lady helen, who found that his allowance, though handsome, was insufficient for his wants, and suspected that the life must be dissipated which required such an exorbitant expenditure. my mother knew that it was so; why she imparted what she heard to her friend, i cannot tell, because it made lady helen unhappy, and she wrote to her son in the language of expostulation. i was vexed to find that my mother gave such implicit credence to the stories of seymour's errors, as the accounts might be exaggerated; and when i had once admitted that he was the victim of misrepresentation, pity for seymour added force to my attachment. it seemed a very long time to me till the next vacation came; but seymour passed it in london, at his grandfather's; my mother was glad, but i was disappointed. nor did he come down into the country till half of the long vacation was expired; and after he had spent a week with lady helen, my mother took me to pay a visit to a relation of her's. in vain lady helen remonstrated, and seymour entreated; she replied she had put off her journey in the expectation of seeing him in june, and she could no longer delay her visit. he sighed, looked conscious and confused, and forbore to urge her again. my mother was certainly right in thus resolving; for she knew, though i did not, that lady helen had communicated to him her views and wishes with regard to me; and she left home with a firmness and decision of manner which promised ill for the success of her hopes. when we came back, seymour was returned to oxford. the following christmas, lady helen, whose health seemed evidently declining, went to london for the advice of physicians, and seymour attended her home; but he only stayed a week, as he was under an engagement, he said, to accompany some friends abroad. he departed, however, with evident dejection and reluctance, and seemed while with us to enjoy the quiet of our domestic scenes; but as his actions were not regulated by a steady principle of _right_, and under the restraint of moral and religious obligation, no sooner was he removed from our purifying influence, than he became again the follower of pleasure, while as he was driven backward and forward upon the ocean of the world, my image, which his poor mother thought would save him from temptation, appeared to him only as a beacon at a distance to remind him of that shore of safety which the waves forbad him, however much he wished it, to approach. during the next term, and in spite of his dissipation, seymour obtained a prize for writing the best prose essay; and he sent it to his mother just after some very unfavourable accounts of the society which he frequented in london, had reached her, and had been only too strongly confirmed by my mother's secret informant. these reports had not been communicated to me, but i happened to be present when lady helen received two copies of the essay, accompanied by a letter, in which he begged that his dearest friend helen, would not only accept, but do him the favour to criticise the little production which he had sent, as he knew no one whose praise he should so highly value, or to whose censures he should pay greater attention. methinks i still see the delight yet gleaming mournfully through tears, which beamed from lady helen's countenance when she received the essay and read the letter. alas! that renewed and increased brightness was but too like the flame of an expiring taper. "my dear julia!" cried she to my mother, in a voice almost inarticulate with emotion, "what a foolish thing is a fond mother's heart! now it is all fear, and now all hope; now it is broken, and now healed again. this boy, this dear, naughty good boy! it was but yesterday i cried for his weakness, and now i cry for his strength." "no one, i believe, ever doubted your son's talents," said my mother coldly, and i thought crossly. "true," replied lady helen meekly; "and this prize, i own, is not proof of amended conduct." "i know not," cried i eagerly, "what fault poor seymour has committed; but of this i am sure, that if he was so very idle as ill-natured people say he is, he could not have found time to write for a prize, and still less have been able to gain it." "thank you, my dearest girl, for being my poor boy's advocate; for what you say is very just: and seymour shall know how kindly you took his part." "i must beg he may not know," said my mother, angrily. "indeed!" answered lady helen mournfully. "but i cannot now blame your change of feeling on this subject, for i myself should hesitate to give my daughter to a youth such as seymour is said to be." i now turned round, and looked at lady helen with so alarmed and inquiring a countenance, that she could not withstand the appeal. she took my hand, and said-- "yes, helen, your mother and i had pledged our words to each other, to do all in our power to promote a union between my son and you, and to cherish every symptom in you of a mutual attachment; but now, owing to some too well-founded reports, i fear, of his faulty conduct, she wishes to retract her promise; and here, as one of my last acts and deeds, (for i feel that i shall not be with you long,) i solemnly give her back that promise in your presence! declaring to you, my beloved child, that unless your mother thinks seymour deserving of you, i cannot wish you to be his wife; and that it will be my parting injunction to you, helen, never, never to marry an immoral man." lady helen had scarcely said this, while i listened with downcast eyes, when my mother threw herself into her arms, sobbing out convulsively, "my own dear generous friend! for your sake i will try to think well of your son, and to believe he will reform--only don't talk of dying; i can't bear _that_!" "but i wish to prepare you for it." "prepare, helen! prepare. do you think anything can make me endure the idea of losing you? oh! it will be losing all i ever loved a second time!" lady helen shook her head, but did not speak; for she knew that her friend must soon undergo this dreaded trial--and _she_, too, felt that for _some_ blows there is no such thing as _preparation_. the night that followed was the first of real agonizing sorrow which i had ever known. i had heard that seymour was believed, even by his own mother, to be unworthy of me, and that mine was decidedly averse to that union which she had originally made the first desire of my heart; i had also heard from lady helen's own lips a solemn assurance that she was dying. at my time of life, however, the spirits are never long depressed, especially by an uncertain and remote sorrow; but as a captive butterfly, when the pressure on its wings is removed, flutters them again in air, with all their glittering dyes and buoyancy uninjured, so do the spirits of youth quickly resume their brilliancy and their elasticity. when i rose the next morning, i was _sure_ that lady helen would _recover_; i was sure that seymour would _reform_, even if the reports concerning him were _not_ exaggerated; and i was also sure that some time or other i should be his wife. but, alas! lady helen had not spoken from momentary dejection, and still less from the ungenerous wish to excite interest and alarm in the hearts that tenderly loved her: she spoke from her deep conviction--a conviction only too well founded. in less than two months, she was attacked by fever and inflammation of the brain, such as had before seized her on the death of her husband. she had, however, lucid intervals; and though my mother and myself felt our hearts wrung by her delirious ravings--during which she called upon her son's name in the most affecting language--still we suffered more, when, on recovering her senses, she asked for this darling son, and we were obliged to reply that he was not yet arrived. and where--oh! where was he, at a moment like that? we knew not. as soon as lady helen's attack was judged to be a dangerous one, my mother wrote to him at oxford, desiring him to set off immediately, or he might come too late; and as oxford was only a ten hours' journey from home, he might have been with us the next morning, had he been at college. it was also term time; but yet he came _not_, though on such an occasion, leave of absence was easily to be obtained. my mother was too angry to be as wretched as i was at this distressing circumstance--for indignation often swallows up every other feeling, and once she hinted to me that he must have received the letter, and that mere idle neglect kept him away; but the poor invalid, who, unsuspected by us, overheard our conversation, exclaimed-- "no, julia; whatever are his other faults, my poor boy loves me--tenderly loves me; and even from a sick-bed he would hasten to his dying mother. oh no! he has never received your letter--he is not in college." "then where is he? in college he ought to be." "true, julia; but he is young and thoughtless, and we ought to remember that we were so _once ourselves_. we ought not to have run away from our parents--yet we _did_ so, julia." "we did, indeed," cried my mother, abashed and silenced. "yes," continued lady helen; "and therefore i have always endeavoured to be mild in my judgment of other people--especially of the young." "helen," cried my mother, "forgive me, thou blessed spirit! i will be merciful to him, even though it makes me unjust to----" "no, your first duty is to your daughter: but listen to me, julia! be _sure_ to convince seymour, when i am no more, that i did not impute his absence to want of love, but merely to _accident_. be _sure_ you do; for he will feel only too much, when he comes and finds that he has no longer a mother!" the afflicting image thus presented to my mind, of what would be seymour's misery if he indeed arrived too late, was more than i could bear, and i was forced to leave the room. soon afterwards, lady helen's senses wandered again; but when i returned, she was sensible, though exhausted; and as i entered, she hastily put back the curtain, and said-- "oh! i hoped it was my dear, dear boy!" her breath now grew fainter, and she exclaimed, "oh! where, where is he? must i die without seeing him once more, and giving him my blessing? helen! julia! be sure to speak very kindly to him, and tell him that i blessed him! but thy will, o lord! be done!" still, as long as consciousness remained, her eyes were anxiously turned towards the door, as if looking for that beloved object whom she was never more to see, we thought, in this world. at that moment, however, my watchful ear heard a quick step on the stairs, and an exclamation of agony, not mistaken by me. "_he_ is _here_! i am _sure_ he is here!" cried i, bending over her pillow; and in another moment seymour was on his knees at the bedside. never shall i forget his look of speechless woe, when he found her last agony approaching: but it seemed as if _affection_ struggled successfully with death for a few short moments. she could not speak, but her eyes were eloquent; and as she laid her hand upon the head of her child, those eyes were raised to heaven in earnest supplication: they then turned on him, while she reclined her head on my mother's bosom, and her right hand was clasped in mine. i cannot go on: the scene is still too present to my view. * * * * * deep as was my affliction, it sunk into nothingness, compared with that of the bereaved and self-reproving son. it was really a _relief_ to me to see his sense of anguish suspended by his insensibility. when he recovered, there was something so full of woe, and yet of a woe so stern, in the look with which my mother ordered me away, that i had not the heart to resist it. it was near an hour before she came to me; and never before had i seen her so overpowered with affliction. she called upon lady helen by the tenderest names; talked of her patient gentleness--of the sweetness of that temper which she had so often tried--and reproached herself for having thus tried it. but she spoke not of seymour; and deep as my regret was for the dead, it was equalled by my anxiety for the living. i therefore ventured to say, "but how is poor seymour?" "unfeeling girl!" cried my mother; "you can think only of him when his angel mother lies dead!" "_she_ would have _thanked_ me for my anxiety," i replied, rendered courageous by distress. "i shall go and inquire after him." "hold, helen! he is extremely wretched; so much so, that i could not bear to listen to his self-upbraidings, nor to witness his caresses of that hand which replied no longer to his grasp; and then his wild entreaties, that she would speak to him once more, and say that she forgave him!" "and could you have the cruelty to leave him alone in such a state?" cried i. "do you think his mother would so have left _your_ child?" my mother started--"you are right!" said she: "i will return, and do my duty by him." "oh! let me go with you!" "no, helen; i must do my duty by you too--and the poor youth at this moment is only too dangerous." she was right, and i submitted; but i had gained my point, and she was gone back to the poor afflicted one. before she went, however, she insisted on my going to bed; where, wearied with three nights of watching, i fell into a heavy slumber. but, oh! that wretchedness on waking, which attends the recollection of a recent affliction! and i was giving way to all the misery i felt, when, soon after eight in the morning, my mother came into my room. she told me she had not been in bed all night, for that she dared not leave seymour. "how kind it was in you, my dearest mother!" "no, it was only right," she answered, in great agitation: "he was a bitter and penitent sufferer; and if my departed friend is conscious of what is passing here, i trust that she was satisfied with me, for i tried to do a mother's part by him. and now, my dear child, we must both return home: this, you know, is no place for you, helen." "and must i go without taking leave of poor seymour?" "what leave is there to take?" i had nothing to reply, and we came away. as my mother knew that seymour's sleep was likely to be long, she did not return to the house of death for some hours; but when she did, i earnestly conjured her to let me accompany her. i pleaded, however, and wept in vain: in vain did i urge, that seymour would think me unkind in forsaking him wholly at such a time as this was. my mother said she feared that seymour would only be too ready to attribute his not seeing me to her commands, rather than my own inclinations; and, disappointed and wretched, i threw myself on the bed in an agony of grief, and never rose from it, feeding my distress by every means in my power. i must own, however, that temper and contrivance had some share in this self-abandonment, or sensibility, which i thought would at once punish my mother for her obstinacy, (as i called it,) and induce her to give up her resolution. how often is grief, like love, made up of materials which we dream not of--and how often has temper much to do with it! but my seeming unmixed sorrow had no effect on my excellent parent, whose decisions, where i was concerned, were the result of firm principle. her first observation was-- "this excessive misery, helen, accompanied, as i see it is, with a degree of sullenness, is not likely to make me change my purpose, but rather to confirm me in it the more; because it proves to me the great extent of the danger to which my compliance would expose you, when you can thus, in spirit at least, be rebellious; and this at a time, too, when i want every comfort possible." these words subdued every particle of resentment in me: i threw myself on her neck, and assured her she should never have so to reproach me again; nor did i even venture to inquire for seymour--but she was generous enough to speak of him unasked. she told me he woke, after a long sleep, more composed than she expected; "though, on his first waking, he started me excessively," she said, "by asking for his mother, and wondering to see me instead of her. my tears seemed to force back his recollection; and in a faint voice, and with a look of wretchedness, he added, 'ah! i remember now;' and hiding his face in the pillow, he wept aloud. "and i--i was but a sad consoler, for i wept in silence by him. when he was calm again, i wished him to rise; and before i left him, in the fulness and tenderness of my heart, poor child! i stooped down, and kissed his burning forehead. but i soon repented; for he exclaimed, 'oh! that was so like _her_! but she never--no, never more----' and again he lay almost convulsed with his feelings. "when this fresh paroxysm was over, i left him." "but i am sure," said i, "that he will be soothed by that kind kiss in remembrance, though it affected him painfully at the time." "perhaps so: but his grief, violent though it be, will soon go off, and be after a time forgotten. lady helen was his mother, and he loved her; but she had not been the chosen playfellow of his childhood--the friend of his youth--the companion of his riper years--the sharer of every joy--the soother of every sorrow--and the being endeared to him by daily and confidential intercourse: and yet all these was she to _me_, helen." "but, dearest mother, the love and regrets of a child are _very_ strong." "i own it, helen, especially when, as in the case of this miserable boy, self-reproach mingles with them, and deepens every pang. helen, my child--my only treasure now," she added, speaking with difficulty, "never, never, when i shall be as she is now, may you have cause to shed such tears as his, helen! remember, there are no upbraidings so terrible as those of one's own heart; and for your own sake, if not for mine, be dutiful." i was too much affected to reply; and my mother continued--"yes, _he_ will recover his loss--you will recover _yours_, helen. but what can ever replace to me the loss of the friend of my whole life--the sole relic of the joys that are past? george--charles--helen! you are all gone now! and i," (here she raised her arms with a sort of appealing look to heaven,) "i stand alone, unsupported, and unsupporting, too, like the sole remaining pillar of a once-noble temple, to speak of former pride and present desolation." as my mother's imagination had now entered into play, my fears for her health in a great degree vanished; for i knew that the grief which can vent itself in imagery, however gloomy, is not of that sort which preys rapidly on life; for it is ----"the grief that doth not speak, falls on the burthen'd heart, and bids it break." taking advantage of a pause, during the first part of which my mother seemed engaged in fervent devotion, i now ventured to ask her if seymour had inquired why he did not see me. she told me that he had, and that he had been told in reply there were sufficient reasons for our not meeting: amongst the foremost of which, was the certainty that we should make each other _worse_, and with this reason he had seemed satisfied. she did not tell me, however, that he inquired for me every day; nor did she relate to me any of their conversation, except the one which took place the evening before the funeral; and _that_ she felt it to be her duty to disclose. "i have to inform you, my dear child," said she, "that when seymour and i stood together to take our last look and last kiss before the coffin was closed, he suddenly seized my hand, and, wildly addressing the unconscious dead, conjured that pale cheek, and that closed eye, to appeal to my heart in his favour, and to remind me of the promised pledge to his mother to promote his union with you. this was the language of passion, and there was a strange effect in it, i thought--neither of which, you know, can affect me. i therefore replied, though not without emotion, that it was a subject which i could not discuss in that room. accordingly, after he had taken many more last looks and leaves of the beloved dead, i led him from the chamber. "when he was calmed a little, i had resolution to resume the conversation; and to own the truth, helen, i was _glad_ to discuss it, without the presence of that mournful object which, spite of myself, armed my feelings against my judgment." here my mother walked about the room in considerable agitation; but she soon recovered herself. "i then related to him our conversation with lady helen." "and did you tell him how i defended him?" cried i. "no, certainly i did not," she coldly replied; "but i convinced him that his mother gave me back my promise, and that her last parting words to yourself should be, 'helen, never marry an immoral man.' on hearing this, he exclaimed-- "'did my mother say this? did she think me an immoral man? oh! insupportable agony! well, madam,' added he, turning fiercely round, 'and so i suppose you have said the same to your daughter, and have engaged her to combat the regard she once felt for me; for i know she loved me once, or would have done so, for so the lips that never deceived assured me: but mark me, madam, i will not take a refusal from any lips but hers.' "'if you wish to alienate my affection entirely from you, seymour,' i replied, 'you will make this appeal to helen; for neither by letter nor personal application will i sanction it, till i am convinced your improved conduct makes you more worthy of my daughter.' "'but you deny me the motive to improvement, by forbidding my addresses to her.' "'o seymour!' answered i, 'if you have no _better_ motive, such a change is not to be depended upon; nor would i entrust to you, under such a precarious alteration, the happiness of my child.' "he looked distressed, but rather proudly replied-- "'well, madam, we will talk further on this subject some other time. i cannot pursue it now.' and soon after i took my leave." "and will you not allow him to have one interview with me, before he returns to oxford?" "no, i will not expose you to his dangerous eloquence: as he is not really in love with you, he would have more self-possession, and plead his cause so much the better." "_not_ in love with me!" "no; his attachment is now irritated by obstacles, and also stimulated by fancied duty; but could he, if he really felt a virtuous passion, maintain a disgraceful connexion in london, as i know him to do? helen, my child! what ails you?" here her voice sounded like thunder in my ears, and i fainted. i had certainly been led to believe that seymour led a life of general dissipation, and i had not allowed myself to attempt to define the exact nature of the charges against him; but when i heard him positively accused of an improper attachment to one individual object, a mixed feeling of jealousy, disgust, misery, and indignation came over me, with the sickness of death, and for the first time in my life i lost all consciousness. how long i remained insensible, i know not; but when i recovered, i found my mother weeping over me--not because she _had_ feared for my life, but because she _did_ fear for my peace of mind. she was consoled, however, when i assured her, that from that moment i should think it my duty to drive seymour pendarves from my mind, and that i had no longer any difficulty in submitting to her wishes. she kissed me, called me her dear, good girl, and we parted for the night. the next morning was the morning of the funeral. lady helen had desired it might be a private one, and had she not, it could not have been otherwise; for lord seymour, though not an old man, was fallen into a state of imbecility; lord mountgeorge was at lisbon, attending his dying wife; and mr. pendarves, our great-uncle, was confined in cornwall by the gout. "poor seymour!" cried my mother, as she heard this account of the family; "there is much to be said in your excuse; for how completely has he been left to himself, amidst the dangers of a metropolis!" my mother, when she said this, was certainly _thinking aloud_; but my hearing her had, at that moment, no bad effect on me, as my jealousy remained unappeased, and my mortification unsoothed, and nothing could reinstate him as yet in my estimation: nay, i believed i should see him the next day without any emotion that could be attributed to him as the cause of it. when we reached the house of mourning, we found seymour anxiously expecting us. on seeing me, he seized my hand, and, unable to speak, kissed it repeatedly, then turned away in tears; and, i must own, at that moment i forgot his unworthiness and my own resolution, and remembered only his sorrow and his apparent affection. my mother _might_ be right, but i began to suspect she _might be wrong_. all these feelings, however, were soon swallowed up in those of deep and tender sorrow. the procession began; and, clinging to each other's arm for support, my mother and i followed the unsteady steps of the chief mourner. but why need i dwell on the details of a scene so common? suffice, that seymour did not return with us: he remained in the church, in order to give way to the lately suppressed agonies of his heart. my mother wished to do the same; but she respected the sacredness of his sorrow, and she could visit the vault at another time. the rest of the day was spent by seymour in visits to those who had been maintained or assisted by lady helen, in order that he might personally assure them that his intention was to do all she would have done, had life been spared to her. having thus performed his duty to the utmost, he appeared to my mother's eye to have recovered some of his usual brilliancy of countenance. the next night he was to return to oxford. in the afternoon of that day, he called at our house, and requested to see my mother and _me_. i rose involuntarily, in great perturbation. "tell mr. pendarves," said my mother, "that i will wait on him directly. helen, my child! it is but one struggle more, and all the difficulty will be over; for i conclude, you, not only in obedience to my will, but in compliance with your own wise _wishes_, refuse to see him!" what could i say? could i tell her that the meeting of yesterday, and his subsequent conduct towards his mother's dependants, had altered my feelings? i could not do it, and i remained above stairs. after a long conference, my mother came back to me, and i heard the hall-door close. till this moment, i had hoped she would relent, and allow me to see him! at least, i guess so, from the cold chill which i felt at my heart, when i heard the noise of the closed door. however, i saw him from the window--i myself unseen--and his handkerchief was held to his eyes. when my mother returned, i observed that she had been excessively moved, and the traces of recent tears were on her cheeks. "helen!" she at length said, "i trust i have done by seymour pendarves what i should wish a friend to do by a child of mine. and is he not _her_ child--the child of that lost, matchless being, whom i loved only second to yourself, since one dearer than either was removed from me? yes; i admonished him as a mother would have done; and though i refused his request, i did it--indeed i did--with gentleness and with anguish. helen," she resumed, "if ever you should doubt the affections of your mother, remember what, for your sake, she has undergone this day. she has, though her heart bled to do it, wounded that of one whom she loves now next to yourself, and that one, too, the child of her adored lady helen. but the sense of a mother's duty, aided by a higher power, has supported me through it." "and he is gone!" "yes; and he reproached me bitterly for my cruelty, helen; but if he could see me now, do you think he would censure me for hardness of heart?" mournful were the hours that followed, and we retired early to rest. but my mother rested not. i heard her walking backward and forward in her room till near day-break; and till she had ceased i was too uneasy to close my eyes. when i rose the next day, and was walking in the garden before breakfast, i found my mother's windows still shut, and it was very late before she came down stairs. i had previously felt disposed to indulge my own dejection; but as soon as i saw her, all thought of myself vanished. for never did i see the expression of hopeless grief stronger than in her speaking face. as she did not talk, i vainly tried to converse of indifferent things. she smiled; but every smile was succeeded by a sigh; and once she exclaimed, "no! they cannot come to _me_, but i shall go to _them_." "dearest mother," cried i, rising and looking up in her face, "you forget _me_. surely you do not wish to leave me?" "do not ask me," she cried, clasping me fondly to her bosom; "i fear i am ungrateful for my remaining blessing." from that time she struggled with her grief, and became, as you know, in _company_, at least, the agreeable companion; for about that time it was, i think, that your amiable husband succeeded to the living, and you came to enliven and adorn the rectory. however, as your friend, for whose inspection this is written, does not know any of the subsequent events, i shall proceed with the detail of my story. during the ensuing six weeks we had only one letter from seymour, but that was a pleasant one: for he told us that he had been studying very hard, and had gotten another prize, and he sent us his composition, adding in a very touching manner, that as the eye which he most wished to please by his production was for ever closed, his proudest desire now was to have it approved by those whom he and she best loved. my mother was gratified by this compliment as well as myself; for she augured favourably of his amendment from this close application, and she owned to me in the fulness of her heart, that she had informed him, his obtaining my hand depended entirely on _himself_. i have said that my mother appeared quite recovered in company; but such was the constant recurrence of one anxious subject to her mind in private, that every thing unconnected with it soon became uninteresting to her; this was the renewal of virtuous friendship in another world; and she read and tried to procure every thing in the shape of a sermon or essay that had ever been written on the subject. one sermon, and it was a most eloquent one, bearing the title, "the renewal of virtuous friendship in another world,"[ ] delighted her so much, that it was never out of her reach; and though she found it difficult to deduce from the scriptures any certain grounds for this consoling doctrine, still she delighted to indulge in it; and as she could never rest till she had tried to convert others to her own opinions, especially where those opinions were likely to increase individual happiness, those only with whom she was not intimate could avoid hearing her descant on this subject, with all that plausible and ingenious fluency which usually attends reasoning from analogy and imagination. while her mind was thus employed, it ceased to prey on its own peace; and though her system sometimes failed to satisfy her, she still found a soothing conviction in the thought, that should we not be permitted "to know and love our friends in heaven," we should be sure not to be _conscious_ of the want of those who had been the dearest to us when on earth, but should find all the "ways of god" vindicated "to man." [footnote : see a volume of sermons written by the rev. p. houghton.] it was now, while my mother was too constantly thinking of the regretted dead, and i of the still tenderly-remembered living, that a new acquaintance was introduced to us, who had power to withdraw our thoughts from these interesting speculations, and fix them for some time at least upon himself. methinks, my dear friend, i see you smile at this distance, and remark to your husband, "now we shall see what she says of the impression which count ferdinand de walden first made on her, for i never could understand how she could ever prefer another man to him." _you_ forget how very early in life my affections were turned towards pendarves, and how soon i learnt to look on constancy in love as a sort of virtue; you also forget the "fascinating graces," and the "irresistible archness," to use your own expression, of seymour's smile. but this is perhaps an ill-timed digression. where was i? oh! at the introduction of a new acquaintance. my parents had made an acquaintance in america with the count de walden, the elder, whom curiosity and the love of travelling had led thither. on the breaking out of the war, he returned to his native country, switzerland, by way of england; where he was so much pleased with the manners of the people and constitution of the government, that he resolved his nephew and heir, ferdinand de walden, who was like himself a protestant, should come over and enter himself at one of the universities. when the time for his admission arrived, the count remembered with renewed interest his acquaintance with my parents and their cousins; and that they now resided in england. nor was it difficult for him to obtain particulars of their present residence and situation. his uncle heard with pain that my mother, seymour, and myself, were the only survivors of that happy family which he had so much loved in the new world. to my mother, however, he was still anxious to introduce his nephew; and he hoped that in seymour he would find a durable friend at college; but in this expectation he could not be gratified, as he had resolved that ferdinand should go to the mathematical university, and seymour was of oxford. this impossibility my mother thought a fortunate circumstance for ferdinand. when de walden came, and showed, among other letters, one of recommendation to mr. seymour pendarves, she coldly observed, "that letter need not be delivered yet;" and certainly, the appearance of ferdinand de walden did not promise much congeniality of disposition and pursuit with seymour; for the latter, from the light gaiety of his manner and countenance, seemed as if he never thought at all; and the former, from the grave pensiveness and reserve of his, appeared at first sight as if he did nothing but think. the open eye of seymour invited confidence, the penetrating one of de walden repelled it; and as the one, when first seen, was sure to inspire admiration if not love, the other was as sure to excite alarm, if not a feeling resembling aversion. for myself, i must own that when de walden was presented to me by my mother, i experienced towards him a little of the first, though none of the second sensation; for i had been accustomed to look on seymour as my model for personal beauty and captivation; and the young swiss, therefore, had not a chance of charming me at first sight. i had not seen my mother so animated for years as she was on the arrival of her foreign guest; for she had greatly esteemed his uncle, and ferdinand strongly resembled him. with him of course were associated the ever-remembered hours of youth and friendship, wedded love and happiness; and de walden shone with a radiance not his own. but my mother, much to my annoyance, was not conscious of this: she insisted that his brilliancy was all self-derived; that if she had never known _his uncle_, she should still have admired _him_. by this admiration, i am ashamed to confess, i was piqued and mortified, because i fancied it interfered with the rights of seymour; and i suspected that, if he should repay the regard of the mother by loving the daughter, i could not without disobedience remain constant to my first attachment. as de walden was not to go to college till october, he had leave to stay with us till that time, since it was rather an unusual thing for a fine young man, unless he was a relation, to be the guest of a widow lady and her daughter for so long a period. i was therefore certain that my mother must have some particular point to carry, and that point was, i believed, the alienation of my heart from seymour pendarves. these suspicions certainly made me regard ferdinand the two first days of his arrival with prejudiced eyes, not unmixed with fear of his keenness of penetration. but, in spite of myself, my fear of him vanished, and much of my prejudice with it, when i found that this grave sententious personage, who talked theology with my mother, and tried, poor man! to explain to us some new german philosophy, could laugh as heartily as if he never read and never thought, and had a sense of the ridiculous, which he found sometimes dangerous and troublesome to his good-breeding. this welcome discovery happened to me at breakfast, while he was reading to us aloud some amusing extracts from a kind of periodical paper, published in france by the baron de grimm, one of which was so ludicrous, that he laid down the book to laugh at his ease, while i exclaimed, "is it possible?" "is what possible, my dear?" said my mother. "that mr. de walden," i repeated rather uncivilly, "can laugh so very heartily." "_n'est-il pas permis en angleterre, mademoiselle?_"[ ] was his answer. [footnote : is it not permitted in england?] "oh, yes!" said i, blushing, and looking very foolish, "only--" "oh! je comprends: apparemment c'est mademoiselle qui ne veut pas qu'on rit devant elle. hélas, belle helène! il faut rire tant qu'on le peut, quand on a le bonheur de jouir souvent de votre aimable société; car il me semble qu'en ce cas là, on pourroit bien avoir raison de pleurer bientôt, et peut-être pour la vie."[ ] [footnote : oh! i comprehend: you do not like any should laugh in your presence. alas! beautiful helen, one must laugh while one can, when one has the happiness of being in your society; for one runs the risk of crying very soon, and perhaps for life.] here was _gallantry_ too, and returning good for evil; though i was rude, he was polite. i was humbled and ashamed, while he with increasing archness said, "_mais qu'est-ce que vous voulez dire avec votre_--'is it possible?'[ ] what! you think me a disciple of crassus, and fancy me never laugh till i see an ass eat a thistle?" he added in his foreign english. [footnote : but what did you mean with your 'is it possible?'] "shall i tell you what i take you for now?" replied i, venturing to look up in his face, which, for the first time, animated as it now was by pleasantry and the consciousness of appearing to advantage, struck me with the conviction of its excessive physiognomical beauty; and i ceased to wonder at my mother's regard for him, not because he was possessed of great personal attractions, but because beauty of physiognomy cannot exist without corresponding beauty of mind, if not of heart. "well," he replied, "and what do you take me for?" speaking with that accent which in him i have often thought an additional charm. "a kind-hearted man and a good christian; for you returned good for evil, and repaid impertinence by making it the foundation of a compliment. still, i must presume again, and tell you that i believe your laughs are like _jours de fête_; they do not come _every_ day." "pour les jours de fête, non; ils ne me sont point venus tous les jours que depuis mon arrivée ici; mais à présent, mademoiselle, tous les jours sont pour moi des jours de fête, et ma sainte est sainte helène."[ ] [footnote : for holidays, no: they never came to me every day, till i came hither; but now, all days are holidays to me, and my saint is saint helen.] i was not yet old enough to know how to receive compliments like these without embarrassment; and to hide my awkwardness i exclaimed, "why, what can have become of them? i have lost them; they are quite gone." "_qu'avez-vous perdu, mademoiselle? permettez-moi de le chercher. dites donc._"[ ] [footnote : but what are you seeking? let me look for it. tell me.] "my fear and awe of you." "fear and awe of me! _oh! qu'ils s'en aillent tout de bon. ce ne sont pas les sentiments que je voudrais vous inspirer pour moi._"[ ] as he said this, there was an expression in his dark eyes which made me turn mine away; and addressing my mother, i told her that our guest reminded me of a little french paper toy which i had seen, called _deux têtes sous un bonnet_; that at first view, it was a monk with a cowl on, but that when the cowl was thrown off, there was a gay and smiling young man. so it was with mr. de walden: when he first came, he seemed a grave philosopher, and now he is an absolute lover of fun, and a laugher of the first order. [footnote : oh, let them go away entirely! these are not the sentiments with which i wish to inspire you.] "de grâce, mademoiselle, dites-moi lequel des deux caractères vous plait le plus; mais, ne me dites pas, je vous le demande en grâce, que je vous offense le moins dans mon rôle de philosophe; hélas! auprès de vous qui pourroit rester philosophe?"[ ] [footnote : in pity tell me, which of these two characters pleases you the most; but pray do not tell me that i offend you less as a philosopher, for who that is near you can long remain a philosopher?] "i wish you," said i, "to resemble democritus, who united the two characters of laugher and philosopher; and you, if you please, shall be the latter with my mother; you shall talk wisely and gravely with her, but laugh and talk nonsense now and then with me." "vous convenez donc de la justice de ma proposition, qu'auprès de vous on ne peut être philosophe?"[ ] [footnote : you agree then to the justice of my proposition, that near you no one can remain a philosopher?] i shook my head and held up my hand at him, not knowing exactly how to answer: he seized it, and pressed it fervently to his lips. my mother, i saw, enjoyed this dialogue; but my own heart reproached me for having allowed myself to be amused and flattered into a sort of infidelity to seymour, by a man too who would be, i foresaw, warmly encouraged by my mother. by this conversation, which has never been effaced from my memory, you will suspect that my flippancy and the evident pleasure with which i kept it up, were proofs that nothing but a prior attachment could have preserved my affections from the power of de walden, when he once displayed to me all the variety of his talents, and the graces of his mind. even as it was, they would have had a more certain effect, but for the injudicious eagerness with which my mother tried to force a conviction of them upon me; for then my alarmed feelings took the part of seymour, and i was piqued into underrating her idol, because she seemed to _overrate_ him. how very rarely is it that one can obtain or give an opinion uninfluenced by temper, prejudice, or interest! "is he not very handsome?" she used to say. "yes, but i have seen a handsomer man." "oh, you mean seymour; he is handsomer certainly, but then he is not near so tall." "no, but he is better made." "that _i_ never remarked; and i hope you will only impart the result of your observation to _me_: others might think it indelicate. what a fine countenance he has!" "yes, _sometimes_, but not always; and i prefer one that is always so: i like _perpetual_ rather than _occasional_ sun-shine.--it is disagreeable to have to watch the sun peeping out from behind clouds." "helen, helen!" replied my mother, "weak, foolish girl! to like what no one can on earth obtain--perpetual sun-shine in the moral world! and after all, when one considers what this life is, its _long pains_ and its _short pleasures_, the _riches_ of _one_ day succeeded by the _poverty_ of the _next_, the ties which are _firmly knit_ only to be _severed_ in _a moment_, and our _capacity_ and _cause_ for _enjoyment_ never equal to our _capability_ and _cause_ of suffering; my child, what a _poor, thoughtless, frivolous_ being must that be, whose _lip_ can always _smile_, and whose _eye_ can always _sparkle_, whom fears for _himself_ can never _depress_, nor fears for _time_ or for _eternity_, or anxiety for the welfare or the peace of others, can alarm into _self-government_!" you know that when my mother was roused into any mental emotion, she did not talk, she harangued, she spoke as if she read out of a book; it was, as you perceive, the case now. "my dear mother," replied i, "such a being as you describe would be as odious to me as he could be to you; and his vivacity either of manner or countenance must be the result of want of feelings, affections, or intellect. to _such_ perpetual sun-shine, i, like you, should object. but then the _clouds_ must not be occasioned by the absence of good-humour, or by the presence of sulkiness and ill-humour, or by hypochondriacal tendencies." "you do not suppose, helen," she cried, with quickness, "that de walden is grave only because he is cross, and thoughtful only because he is hypochondriacal?" "were we talking of individuals, mamma?" "if not, you know we were thinking of them, helen; and i feel only too sensible that the pique with which you answer when i praise ferdinand, springs from your still powerful attachment to seymour." i could not deny it: but my conscience reproached me for having, from a feeling of jealousy on poor seymour's account, not only seemed to insinuate an ill-opinion of ferdinand, which i did not entertain, but for having also given unnecessary pain to my mother. oh, my dear friend! how often since i lost her have i reproached myself with these little offences! and what i suffered for the more painful trials which i inflicted on her, no words can describe, no regret can atone. sad state of human blindness, and human infirmity, when one seems conscious of the duties which one owes to a parent, only after one is utterly deprived of the means to atone for the neglect of them! by what i have said of my jealousy of my mother's admiration of ferdinand, you will see how much i had forgiven seymour's imputed ill-conduct, and how little i adhered to my resolution of forgetting him. his letter and his new prize had much contributed to this. the latter was a proof that he had been leading a regular and studious life; and the former declared that my mother and myself were dearer to him than _any one else_ in existence, and that our approbation was what he most coveted.--alas! when one loves, one easily believes what the beloved object asserts. still, however, spite of my constancy, de walden, by his varied talents, his rational pursuits, his instructive conversation, and his active benevolence, gained on my esteem every day. he was constantly occupied himself, and his example stimulated us to equal industry.--weeks, therefore, fled as if they were days; and i felt raised in my own estimation, by seeing myself the constant object of interest to such a man, and also by feeling myself able to appreciate him. if seymour had not been able to write elegant prose, and gain prizes, my constancy would have been in great danger. but as it was, there was intellectuality on both sides; and i had only to weigh talent against strength of mind and extensive information, throwing a great many pleasant make-weights beside into the scale with the first. my feelings toward seymour were now called into fresh vigour by a letter from him, informing my mother that instead of having a monument made on purpose for his beloved parent, which would not have been ready for a considerable time, he had purchased one which had been nearly finished for a gentleman who died before it was completed, and who had intended it for his wife, and which the sculptor had been desired by the heir-at-law not to trouble himself to complete. this monument pendarves said had met all his ideas of simple and classical beauty, and it would soon be ready for the inscription. this, he added, he had also enclosed for the approbation of my mother and "his cousin helen," as he called me; considering the former as the representative of his mother, and _me_ as the only woman after her whom he wished to consult on any of his plans. we were excessively affected at the receipt of this letter; and de walden, who was present, appeared distressed at the sight of our emotion. "what do you think of the inscription, my dear!" asked my mother. "ask mr. de walden what he thinks of it," i replied. it was as follows: here lieth all that was mortal of the lady helen pendarves. reader, pity only her survivors. on the reverse side were to be the following words:-- this monument is erected to her memory as a token of love and gratitude, by her only child, whose proudest boast it will always be, that he was the son of such a woman. as i expected, he exclaimed in its praise; and as he was a great _theorizer_, he added much that delighted me, and much that consequently made my mother uncomfortable. "it is," cried he, "simple and comprehensive. oh! i must know him: simple virtues, simple manners, and simple heart. pompous writers not much real feeling--not _true_. i must know pendarves; a good son makes a good friend, good every thing. when shall i see him?" my mother looked grave, and i saw that the observant eye of de walden remarked our contrary emotions with surprise, if not with uneasiness. "then, i may tell pendarves that you like the inscription; may i, helen?" said my mother. "oh yes, that it is every thing i could wish;" and she retired to write. when she returned, it was evident that she had been weeping violently; and de walden, without saying a word, took her hand and pressed it respectfully to his lips. this action, though it was at once feeling and affectionate, displeased me; for it seemed to my oblique manner of viewing such things, an injury to pendarves, and in no very pleasant disposition of mind i left the room. nor can i doubt but that my absence gave my mother an opportunity of telling de walden all the circumstances of our situation with seymour; for on my rejoining them i found my mother looking agitated, though also much pleased, and de walden dejected, abstracted, and silent. need i add that i had long since had the pain of discovering that he had conceived an attachment for me? you may easily believe that this letter from seymour, and my mother's assurance that he would certainly come to see the monument put up, did not tend to further the suit which i foresaw in process of time would be urged to me by de walden. but the monument was sent down and erected, and yet pendarves did not arrive. consequently we thought he would not come at all; still, as precaution is wisdom, my mother with much earnestness conjured me to pledge my solemn word to her, that if he came i would not converse with him alone, should he be ever so desirous of an interview, and that i would avoid him when he called at our house. this was a trial of my filial duty for which i was not prepared, but my mother was so bent on carrying her point, and she so solemnly expressed her conviction that his conduct when in london was not amended, that i gave at last the promise which she requested. "now then," said i to myself, "i hope poor seymour will _not_ come down." lady helen's monument was placed next that of her husband, on which, by desire of lord seymour, an account of the two families and of the manner of his death, had been engraved in an ostentatious manner. consequently it had not been necessary for seymour to give any additional details. my mother likewise had found herself at liberty, when she hung up a beautiful tablet to the memory of her husband, to confine herself to the simplicity which she loved, and these last furnished a curious contrast to the pompous copiousness of the first. still it was not to enjoy the superiority of my mother's and seymour's taste, that i now so often visited the church, and resumed the custom which i had adopted in america, of strewing the graves i honoured with flowers. oh no! it was because the _mother of seymour pendarves_ and the _dearest friend of my youth_ slept beneath that spotless marble; and i not only gratified my own feelings, but was sure my tribute would be gratifying to those of pendarves. of _his_ father i had _no_ recollection, and of _my own_ not sufficient to make such a tribute, had i paid it to him, more than an act of coldly remembered duty; but my whole heart was interested when i performed it in honour of lady helen; and the chill and colourless marble looked warm and glowing, from the profusion of blooming flowers which i loved to scatter on it. one morning, after offering, as usual, my tribute on this precious monument, and while kneeling beside it, a deep sigh startled me, and i beheld seymour pendarves, who had entered at another door, standing in pleased contemplation of me; but the view which i allowed myself of him was short indeed; my promise to my mother forcibly recurred to my mind, and the shriek of surprise and even of alarm which i uttered on beholding him so unexpectedly, was succeeded by my flying with the speed of phrensy to the door behind me, before seymour, thunder-struck, mortified, and overcome by my seeming terror on observing him, could recover himself sufficiently to prevent or overtake me. alas! by the beating of my heart, and the trembling of my whole frame, i knew too well that on hiding myself from him depended my only chance of keeping my promise. i therefore took refuge in a cottage, the owner of which was well known to me, instead of hastening home along the park, where he must with ease have overtaken me. accordingly, i followed a sharp turning which led through a little lane to the cottage, and making my way through the first room into the back one, i threw myself on a bed, trembling and breathless. "what is the matter, my dear young lady?" cried the cottager. "ask no questions, but shut the door," was my answer. she obeyed me, and i listened for several minutes for the sound of rapid footsteps, but in vain. i felt mortified at finding that seymour did not trouble himself to pursue me; still i dared not go home, lest i should meet him on my road. i was therefore obliged to tell the cottager that i had a particular reason for wishing to avoid seeing mr. pendarves, and i would thank her to watch, if she could do it unsuspected, for his quitting the church, and inform me which way he went. "yes, yes," replied the woman, shaking her head, "he shall not see you if i can help it; for though to be sure i hear he is very good to the poor, folks say he is but a wild one, and they do say--" here, with an agonizing heart, and a gesture of indignant impatience, i bade her begone and do as i desired. when she had disappeared, i clasped my hands together convulsively. i sobbed aloud in the anguish of a wounded spirit; "and can it be," i cried, "that he whose sweet and pensive countenance so full of mournful tenderness i have just gazed upon for a moment, and shall never be able to forget again; can he be a man whose notoriously profligate habits make him the theme of abuse to a person like this?" no; there is not one pang in the catalogue of human suffering so acute as that which the heart feels from the consciousness of the decided depravity of a being tenderly beloved. the woman on her return told me, "mr. pendarves was certainly seeking me; that he had, on leaving the church, looked round, and then ran several yards at full speed down the park, after which he stopped and she thought it probable that he would soon be past the front window, but she would look out and see." she did so, and having told me in a whisper, adding that "through a hole in the little muslin curtain i could see him without being seen," i was weak enough to take advantage of the opportunity. he walked dejectedly and with folded arms; the glow on his cheek, which the sight of me had deepened, was now succeeded by a deadly paleness; and i felt a bitterness which not even my sense of his errors could assuage, that he was wretched, and that i had made him so. my spy watched him into his own house, and only then i ventured to return to mine. i must say that i look back on this morning, spite of the sufferings which i endured, with much self-satisfaction, as i had completely acted up to the dictates of filial duty under the strongest temptation of disobeying them, as my mother was gone with de walden to spend the day from home; and had i not conscientiously avoided seymour, i might even without any positive infringement of duty, have exposed myself to the risk of seeing him undisturbed by her presence. happily, however, my principles were too firm to allow me to be satisfied with this subterfuge, and, as i before said, i recall this day with satisfaction. every hour i expected that seymour would call, but he did not come: however, i saw his servant ride up to the gate, deliver a note, and wait for an answer. i gave it verbally to my own maid. it was, that mrs. pendarves was gone out for the whole day. shall i confess that i _hoped_ seymour would, on hearing this, make an attempt to see me, though i was resolved to refuse him attendance; and i was _mortified_ that he did not? just before i expected my mother and de walden would return, i saw seymour's servant come to the door again, and deliver another note, as it seemed; but when it was brought into the room, i found it was a letter to me! i was at once relieved, agitated, miserable and delighted; yet my hand trembled so much i thought i should never be able to open the letter. the following were its contents:-- "when this letter reaches you, miss pendarves, i shall be at a distance from that scene which to me can now never again be a home, but which is endeared to me by such tender recollections, that not even by the miserable ones which now must succeed to them can they be ever effaced. "oh, my beloved mother! could you have believed that your son could be refused admittance within the doors of your dearest friend, and forbidden even to speak to the playfellow and companion of his childhood, and the once appointed sharer of his heart and his fortunes? could you have thought that the friend who adored you would have gone from home purposely to avoid him, and to avoid his just reproaches; because, without any _new_ offence on his part, she had not only resolved never to allow him to address her daughter, but had pledged that daughter's hand, as he is informed, to another? and yet her parting words were, 'your marriage with helen depends wholly on yourself!' these words i never have forgotten; they regulated my conduct, they gave strength to my resolutions; i came hither full of hope, and i go hence overwhelmed with despair. for my claims, claims which i have _never resigned_, have been disregarded, and helen will be the wife of a stranger, the acquaintance of yesterday! "nay more, at sight of me, helen herself, the conscious helen, fled as from a pestilence! and at what a moment too, when i had surprised her in an office the most flattering to your memory, and the most precious to my heart! "cruel helen! what have you done? and what have _i_ done to be so treated? surely it was from your mother herself that i should first have heard of your intended marriage. but no: i refused to believe it till your flight and your countenance of terror on seeing me confirmed the horrible truth. "but though you might not be able to tell it me yourself, why did mrs. pendarves avoid me? why, when i wrote to tell her i was coming for a single day, did she not make a point of seeing me either at her own house or at mine? but i will not detain you much longer from your attention to the happy stranger. "oh, helen! had you continued to encourage my hopes, i might have been a happiness to myself and an ornament to society. but now--yes, now, it will be well if i am not a disgrace to it. but why do i continue to write? shall i tell you, helen? it is because i feel that i am addressing you for the _last time_; for the wife of the count de walden must not, i know, receive letters from "seymour pendarves." though i now think, and you will probably think so too, that this letter was written full as much from the head as from the heart, you will not wonder that it bent me to the earth in agony; and that when my mother entered the hall on her return, she heard my voice uttering the tones of loud lamentation, and found me in the arms of the terrified servants. never have i since suffered myself to be so weakly overpowered. i try to excuse such weakness by the state of my health at the time. indisposition, and a tendency to a severe feverish cold, had prevented me from accompanying my mother and de walden. nor did the sudden surprise of seeing pendarves steady my nerves, or decrease my fever; but these circumstances prepared the way for the letter to affect me as it did, and to excuse in some measure the state in which my mother beheld me. an open letter near me, in the hand-writing of pendarves, accounted for all that she saw. i was become more composed, though i did not speak, and she then eagerly inquired, but she soon desisted, to express her surprise at the charge of having gone out purposely to avoid him; for no such letter had ever reached her: in consequence of some accident it did not arrive till the next day. she declared she could not sleep till she had written to seymour to exonerate herself from so heavy a charge. i wished to say, "and to assure him, i hope, that i am not engaged to de walden, that, on the contrary, he is not even a declared lover:" but i _dared_ not say this; and my mother read on--but she read hastily, and wished, i saw, to conceal from me the painful emotions which the letter occasioned her. she therefore insisted on my forgetting these ill-founded reproaches, as she called them; she then left me, to write to seymour. the next morning seymour's servant came to say, he was going to rejoin his master, and wished to know if we had any commands for him. to him, therefore, was consigned the exculpatory letter. but of this i had no knowledge at the time; for when my mother and the servant entered the room next day, they found me in all the restlessness of fast-increasing illness, and my mother, before night, was assured by the medical attendants, that i was suffering under a very formidable attack of the scarlet fever. for three days and nights my life was despaired of; and as, according to the merciful dispensations of providence, "good always springs from evil," my mother learnt to know, from the danger of her only child, that life was not so valueless to her, as she was sometimes disposed to think it. but hope succeeding to fear, on the fourth morning from my seizure i was pronounced out of danger. yet a cloud, and that a dark one, still hung over my mother's prospects; for i had named seymour in my delirium, in such terms as convinced her that he was ever uppermost in my mind, and that my illness had been the consequence of misery endured on his account. de walden, during this time, was in a state of painful anxiety. scarcely could he be prevailed upon to keep out of the infected chamber; his nights were never once passed in bed, till i was declared to be in safety; and on my recovery, i had to experience the mortifying necessity of owing gratitude where i believed that i could never make an adequate return of affection. well, i recovered, though i remained for many weeks thin, languid, and afflicted with the disagreeable local complaints which often attend on the subsiding of a fever like mine, particularly inflammations of the eyelid, and i could not bear for some time to have my eyes uncovered. during this period of suffering, de walden devoted his whole time to amusing me. he read to me while i reclined upon the sofa, and i forgot my complaints while listening to his intelligent comments on what he read. it was therefore with considerable concern that i saw him depart for cambridge, in october; but my concern was joy to his. never did i see any one more agitated on such an occasion, and scarcely could the presence of my mother restrain the declaration of love which hovered on his lips, and which i dreaded to hear! but he did restrain it; for he had promised her that he would do so, on her assurance that the time was not come for its being favourably received. at christmas he returned to us, and the surprise which he showed at sight of me, convinced us of the great change which had taken place in my appearance, in consequence, as is sometimes the case at my age, (for i was not yet seventeen,) of a severe fever. i was become taller by several inches; that is, i had become from five feet five, full five feet eight, and from my upright carriage, as i have heard you remark, i look considerably taller. but i am quite sure, that had the attachment of de walden been founded on my personal appearance, it would, during his stay with us, have completely vanished; for my eyes were inflamed, my _embonpoint_ had not increased, and my colour was not only gone, but my complexion looked thick as well as pale. i perceived, however, no diminution in the ardent devotion which his manner expressed, and i sighed while i thought, that had seymour pendarves seen me, he perhaps would not have remained so constant. what an argument was this belief for me to try to conquer my attachment! but certain it is, that the example of lady helen and my mother influenced me even unconsciously to myself, and that i considered eternal constancy as praiseworthy, and not blameable. love had led my mother and my admirable friend and monitress to leave their parents and country, and they had wept the loss of husbands thus exclusively beloved, in sacred singleness of attachment. it was in vain, therefore, that my mother told me love was to be conquered, and that she insinuated it was even indelicate to pine after an object who was perhaps unworthy, and certainly negligent, if not faithless. her example, as i before said, had raised the passion in my estimation; the object of my love was one on whom my eyes had first opened, one who was associated with my earliest and happiest recollections, one too, who, she must remember, had at an early age saved my life at the hazard of his own (a story i shall tell by-and-by); and i could not but think she wished me to forget seymour, chiefly because she preferred ferdinand. i believe i have forgotten to mention, that seymour pendarves went abroad as soon as he left our village, and that he did not receive my mother's explanatory letter till several months after it was written. in january, de walden returned to college, and i was still so unwell, that my mother wished me to change the air; and as business required her to undertake a journey, we set off, in february, on a tour. i have never, i believe, during my whole narrative, mentioned some of my relations more than once, and this has been from a wish of not encumbering it with unnecessary characters. the uncle with whom my mother had lived previously to her marriage, who occasionally spent months at our house, and whom we visited in return, died suddenly, at a very advanced age, during my illness. it was this event which called my mother, as one of the executors, as well as residuary legatee, from her home. the weather was cold, dry, february weather, and the brightness of the road, from the effect of frost and sun, was so painful to my eyes, that my mother resolved to travel all night, and repose in the day, after our second stage from london; and we set off for oxford at one in the morning. from the ruggedness of the road, however, and the care which our coachman always took of our horses, we had full leisure to dwell on the possibility of our being robbed; when about three in the morning, two horsemen rode past the carriage, and one of them looked into the window next my mother, which she had just let down: but he rode on, and we were grasping each other's hand, in terrified silence, when he came back again, and desired the postilions to stop. our footman, who was on the box, was disposed to resist this command; when a faint voice, the voice of the other gentleman, who now rode slowly up, conjured them to stop for mercy's sake, for they were not highwaymen: the first now came up to the window, and begged to be heard. he and his friend, he said, were oxford students, who had been to london, without leave; and if they were missing another morning at chapel, they were liable to a punishment which they wished to avoid; but they should certainly have reached oxford in excellent time, had not his companion been taken extremely ill; and unless we would take him in, he must stop at the next house, at whatever risk. you may suppose that my mother did not hesitate: she instantly desired the footman to assist the gentleman into the coach, and mount his horse--a plan which was thankfully acceded to. his companion instantly galloped off at full speed for oxford. the invalid, unable to speak, sank back exhausted in one corner, and seemed most thankful, though he spoke almost inaudibly, for the use of my mother's smelling-bottle. the weather had now experienced such a change, that the frost was gone; though the night was so dark, that the stranger could not distinguish our faces, nor we his. indeed, he appeared to be insensible of external objects, and heedless of sounds, for he did not always answer my mother's kind inquiries. i, meanwhile, was as silent as the invalid, and sat back in the coach, to indulge in the feelings which agitated me at the idea, that before long i should be in the very place which probably contained pendarves, but without the remotest chance of seeing him. at length, we heard a village-clock strike four, and day began to dawn: my mother let down the glass, to feel, for a while, the refreshing breeze of morning. as she did this, desiring me to keep my thick veil wrapped close round my face, for fear of cold, the invalid said he would put his head out of the window, for he thought that the air would revive him. my mother drew back to make room for him; when, as the rays of the red and yellow dawn fell on his wan face, she recognized in this object of her kindness, seymour pendarves himself. he, too, as her veil was thrown back, knew her at the same moment; and faintly ejaculating-- "is it possible?" he turned his eyes eagerly toward me, then seized both her hands, and resting them on her knees, buried his face in them, and burst into tears; while, with the hand next me, he grasped mine, which was involuntarily extended towards him. a painful silence ensued--the result of most uncomfortable feelings, which, on the side of pendarves, were accompanied by the most distressing consciousness; for we had as it were detected him in a breach of college rules; and, but for us, his irregularity of conduct might, perhaps, have exposed him to the disgrace of expulsion; so much for that amendment on which _alone_ depended his union with me. that was an event, however, which, though we knew it not, he had ceased to make probable; for the report of my engagement to de walden was still current, wherever we were known; and if he had not known that mr. pendarves, the head of the family, knew nothing of this intended marriage, seymour would have been convinced it was a fact _himself_. my mother's tears now fell silently down her cheek, and in spite of herself she pressed her forehead on the head of seymour, as it still rested on her knees. certain it is, that she loved him with much of a mother's tenderness--loved him also because he resembled his father and mine--and loved him still more because he was all that remained to her of her ever-regretted friend. the opposition to our union, therefore, was the strongest proof possible of the strength of her principles, and of her affection for me; for, though she thus loved, she rejected him, because she was sure that he was not likely to make her daughter happy. my mother was the first to break silence. in a voice of great feeling, she said, "seymour! unhappy young man! why do i see you _here_, infringing college rules? and why do i see you thus? have you been ill long? have you had no advice?" it was now quite day; and, as he raised his head, the wild wanness of his look was terrible to us both, and it was with difficulty that i could prevent myself from sobbing audibly, while i anxiously expected his answer. "spare me! spare me!" cried he mournfully, "a painful confession of follies." "did not business carry you to london, seymour?" "no--nor kept me there. it was the search of pleasure; and i have scarcely been in bed for three nights. yet no; let me do myself some little justice: i was unhappy, and i _am_ unhappy. by denying me all hope of helen, you made me desperate, and i fled to riotous living, to get away from myself; therefore, do not reproach me; i am quite punished enough by seeing before me the intended wife of the count de walden--curses on the name! tell me," cried he wildly, seeing that my mother hesitated to speak, "am i not right? is not my helen, as i once thought her, betrothed to de walden?" "oh, no--no!" cried i, eagerly, and i caught my mother's eye rather sternly fixed upon me; but i regarded it not, for i felt at the very bottom of my heart the sudden change from misery to joy which seymour's face now exhibited. he could not speak--his heart was too full; but leaning back, overcome both with physical and moral exhaustion, he nearly fainted away. he was soon, however, roused to new energy by the indignation with which he listened to what my mother felt herself called upon to say. i shall not enter into a detail of her observations; suffice, that she candidly told him her objections to his being allowed to address me remained in full force, as did her ardent wish that i should marry de walden, who had offered himself as my lover, and who (she was certain) would as surely make me happy in marriage, as he would make me _miserable_. when she had ended, he thanked her for her candour, but coldly reminded her that he had always said he would never take a refusal from any lips but mine--and he retained his resolution. "and now," said he, "the opportunity is arrived. helen! such as i am--not worthy of you, i own, except as far as tender and constant love can make me so--i offer myself to your acceptance. speak--yes or no--and speak as your heart dictates!" i remained silent for a minute; then faltered out, sighing deeply as i spoke, "i have no will--can have no will--but my mother's." "enough!" replied he, in a tone and with a look which seemed to me to be the climax of despair. "hark!" cried he, "the oxford clocks are striking six--why do i linger here? for here i am sure i have no longer any business!" he let down the glass, and desired the postilions to stop, while the footman rode up to the door. this little exertion seemed too much for him, and he sunk back quite exhausted, while my mother tried to take one of his hands. "pshaw!" cried he, throwing her hand from him--"give me love or give me hate; no half-measures for me; nor hope, when you and your daughter have given me my death-blow, that i will accept of _emollients_. i thank you, madam, as i would a _stranger_, for your _courtesy_ in admitting me here, and i wish you both good morning." again his strength failed him, and he was forced to wipe the dews of weakness from his forehead. "go, i must--even if i die in the effort!" he then exclaimed. i could not bear this; and while my mother herself, greatly affected, held me back, i tried to catch him by the arm; and, in a voice which evinced the deep feeling of my soul, i exclaimed, "stay, dear seymour! you are not fit to go--you are not, indeed!" but i spoke in vain: he mounted his horse, assisted by the servant, while i broke from my mother, and stretched out my clasped hands to him in fruitless supplication; then giving me a look of such mixed expression, that i could not exactly say whether it most pained or gratified me, he was out of sight in a moment, while i looked after him till i could see him no longer; and even then i still looked, in hopes of seeing him again. i did see him again, just as we had entered oxford, and were passing magdalen; he _stood at the gate_; he had, therefore, _seen_ my long, earnest gaze, as if in search of him; and though i felt confused, i also felt comforted by it. in another moment we were near him, and his eyes met mine with an expression mournful, tender, and i thought, grateful, too, for the interest which i took in him. he kissed his hand to me, and then disappeared within the gates. "helen!" said my mother, "i meant to have stopped here, to refresh the horses and ourselves; but after what i have seen this morning, i shall proceed immediately." she left the footman, however, behind, to bring us word the next day how mr. pendarves was. oh! how i loved her for this kind attention! but then she was a rare instance of the union of strong feelings with unbending principle. methinks i hear you say, "i hope you were now convinced that seymour's attachment as well as ferdinand's, was founded on too good a basis to be shaken by your altered looks." no, indeed, i was not; for so conscious was i that my looks were altered, i _never once_ lifted up my veil before pendarves. i dare say, both he and my mother imputed this to the wish of hiding my emotion, whereas it was in fact only to hide my inflamed eyes, and my _ugliness_. but what a degrading confession for a heroine to make! to plead guilty of having bad eyes and a plain face! it is as bad as amelia's broken nose. but _n'importe_: my eyes, like her nose, will get well again; and, like her, i shall come out a complete beauty, when no one could expect it. we awaited with great impatience the return of the servant, from whom we learnt that mr. pendarves had been seized with an alarming fit on leaving the chapel, and was pronounced to be in an inflammatory fever. "o my dear mother!" cried i, wildly, "he has no one to nurse him now that loves him!" "but he _shall_ have," she replied; and in another hour we were on our road to oxford. my mother insisted on being admitted to the bedside of the unconscious sufferer, who in his delirium was ever blaming the cruelty of _her_ who was now watching and weeping beside his pillow. long was his illness, and severe his suffering: but he struggled through; and the first object whom he beheld on recovering his recollection, was my mother leaning over him with the anxiety of a real parent. never could poor seymour recall this moment of his life without tears of grateful tenderness. he was too much disappointed, however, to find that her resolution not to allow him to address me remained in full force; for the circumstances on which it was founded were added to, rather than diminished. nor could his assertion, that his dissipation was owing to the despair into which she had plunged him, at all excuse him in her eyes, for she could not admit that any sorrow could be an excuse for error. this, indeed, far from its being a motive to move her heart in his favour, closed it the more against him; as it proved she thought that from his weakness of character he never could deserve to be intrusted with the happiness of her child. bitter, therefore, was his mortification, when, on expressing the hopes to which her kindness had given birth, she assured him that her sentiments remained unaltered. "then, madam," cried he, "why were you so cruel as to save my life?" "young man," she gravely replied, "was it not my duty to try to save your life, that you might try to amend it? were you prepared to meet that terrible tribunal from which even the most perfect shrink back appalled?" on his complete recovery, my mother and i proceeded to the house of my uncle, now become our property; and thence we returned home. the following vacation seymour finally left college, and again went abroad. he wrote a farewell letter to my mother, as eloquent as gratitude and even filial affection could make it: she wept over it and exclaimed, "oh, that the generous-hearted creature who wrote this should not be all i wish him! he is like a beautiful but unsupported edifice, fair to behold, but dangerous to lean against!" there was one part of the letter, however, which my mother did not understand: i fancied that i did, though i did not own it. he assured her, that in spite of everything he carried more hope away in his heart than he had ever yet known: hope, and even a _precious conviction_ which he _had never known before_, and which he was sure his cousin helen would wish him to possess, as it would be to him the _strongest shield_ against _temptation_. "my dear," said my mother, after long consideration, "how stupid i have been not to understand this sooner! he certainly means that he is become very religious: and that this hope, this sweet conviction, are faith and another world. dear seymour, i am so glad! for though i do not choose you should marry a methodist, and one extreme is to me as unpleasant as another, still i believe methodists to be a very happy people; and i hope seymour, for his own sake, will not change again." i smiled, but said nothing; for i put a very different interpretation on his words. as it appeared to me, his _hope_ and _conviction_ were that he possessed _my love_, and that my compliance with my mother's will was wholly against my own; for i recollected the tone in which i had replied to his question concerning my engagement to de walden, "oh, no! no!" and also my scream of agony in spite of his alarming weakness when he persevered in leaving us, and the anxiety with which i looked at him at the gates of magdalen. yes, when we exchanged that look, i felt that our hearts understood each other, and i was sure that the shield to which seymour alluded was his conviction of my love. but alas! he was absent--de walden was present. he came to us at the beginning of the long vacation, and was to remain with us till he returned to college. my mother now urged me to admit the addresses of de walden, showing me at the same time a letter from his uncle, in which he expressed his earnest desire that his nephew should be a successful suitor, and offering to make a splendid addition to his fortune whenever he should become my husband. in short, could the prospect of rank and fortune, could manly beauty, superior sense, unspotted virtues, and uncommon acquirements, have made me unfaithful to my first attachment, unfaithful i should soon have become; but though the attentions of de walden could not annihilate, they certainly weakened it. no wonder that they should do so, when i was so little sure of the stability of seymour's affection, that i was fearful it would be weakened by any change in my external appearance, and as i had often heard him say, he did not admire tall women, i own i was weak enough to be uneasy at the growth consequent upon my fever; and i was glad, when we met in the coach, not only that my veil concealed my altered looks, but that, as i was seated, he could not discover my almost may-pole height. de walden, on the contrary, admired tall women; and declared that i had now reached the exact height which gave majesty to the female figure without diminishing its grace; and as i really thought myself too tall, his praise (for flattery it was not) was particularly welcome to me. whatever was the cause, whether i liked de walden so well, that i liked seymour so much less as to cease to be fretted by his absence, i cannot tell; but certain it is that i recovered my bloom, and that from the increase of my _embonpoint_, my mother feared i should become too fat for a girl of seventeen: my spirits too recovered all their former gaiety, so that october, the time for the departure of de walden, arrived before i was conscious that he had been with us half his accustomed time. my mother now naturally enough augured well for the success of his suit; and i owned that i was no longer averse to listen to his love, but that i would on no account engage myself to him till i was _quite sure_ i had conquered my attachment to pendarves. this was certainly conceding a great deal, and de walden left us full of hope for the first time; while i, who felt much of my affection for him vanish when i no longer listened to the deep persuasive tones of his voice, should have repented having gone so far, had i not seen happiness beaming in my beloved mother's face. at christmas de walden came to us again, and i then found that in such cases it is impossible (to use an expressive phrase) "_to say a without saying b_;" i had gone so far that i was expected to go further; and but for the secret misgivings of my own heart, and the firm dictates of my own judgment, de walden would have returned to college in january my betrothed husband. but, though we had not received any tidings from pendarves, and my mother felt assured of his inconstancy, i persevered firmly in my resolution not to _engage_ myself till i _had seen him again_, and could be assured, by seeing him with indifference, that my heart had really changed its master. you will wonder, perhaps, how a man of ferdinand's delicacy could wish to accept a heart which had been so long wedded to another, and that other a living object. but my mother had convinced herself, and had no difficulty in convincing him, that i was deceived in the strength of my former attachment; that she had originally, though unconsciously, directed my thoughts to him; that, like a romantic girl, i had thought it pretty to be in love, and that my fancied passion had been irritated by obstacles; but that, when once _his_ wife, i should find that _he alone_ had ever been the real possessor of my affections. it is curious to observe how easily even the most sensible persons can forget, and believe, according to their wishes. my mother had absolutely forgotten the proofs of my strong attachment to seymour, which she had once so much deplored. she forgot my illness, which if not caused was increased by his letter of reproach; she forgot the tell-tale misery which i had exhibited on the road to oxford, and she did not read in the firmness with which i still persisted to see seymour again, a secret suspicion of still lingering love. but the crisis of our fates was fast approaching: i received an invitation to spend the months of may and june in london, with a friend who had once resided near us, and who had gone to reside in the metropolis. i felt a great desire to accept this invitation; and my mother kindly permitted me to go, but declined going herself, saying that it was time _i_ should learn to live without _her_, and _she_ without _me_. accordingly, for the first time we were separated. but this separation was soon soothed to me by the charms of the life which i was leading. i was a new face: i was only seventeen, and i was _said_ to be the heiress of considerable property. this, you know, was an exaggeration; my fortune was handsome, but not very large: however, i was followed and courted, but none of my admirers were in my opinion at all equal to seymour or de walden: they gratified my vanity, but they failed to touch my heart. one day at an exhibition, i met a newly-married lady, who when single had been staying in the neighbourhood of my mother's uncle during our last visit, and was much admired both by my mother and myself. this meeting gave us great pleasure, and she hoped i would come and see her at her lodgings. i promised that i would. "but there is nothing like the time present: will you go home with me now, and spend a quiet day? you must come again when my husband is at home and i have a party; but he dines out to-day, and i shall be alone till evening." "but i am not dressed." "oh! i can send for your things and your maid; and such an opportunity as this of telling you all about my love and my marriage may never occur again." i was as eager to hear as she was to tell; my friend consented to part with me, and i accompanied her home. in the afternoon while we were expecting two or three ladies of her acquaintance, and were preparing to walk with them in the park, my friend received a little note from her husband. "that is so like ridley," said she. "however, this is an improvement; for he often goes out and invites half-a-dozen people to dinner without giving me any notice: but now he has only invited one man to supper, and has sent to let me know they are coming. his name i see is the same as yours, seymour pendarves: is he a cousin of yours?" "what!" cried i, almost gasping for breath, "seymour pendarves in england, and coming hither!" "yes; but what is the matter, or why are you so agitated?" "if you please i will go home, i had rather go home." mrs. ridley looked at me with wonder and concern, but she was too delicate to ask me for the confidence which she saw i was not disposed to give. she therefore mildly replied that if i must leave her, she would order her servant to attend me. a few moments had restored my self-possession: and i thought that as the time was now arrived when i could, by seeing pendarves, enable myself to judge of the real state of my heart, i should be wrong to run away from the opportunity. "but pray tell me," said i, "when you expect mr. ridley and his friends?" "oh not till it is dark, not till near supper-time." immediately (i am ashamed of my girlish folly) i had a strong desire to discover whether seymour would recognise my person, altered as it was in height and in size; and i also wished to get over the first flutter of seeing him without its being perceived by him. in consequence i told mrs. ridley that seymour was my cousin, but that he had not seen me _standing_ since i was grown so very tall; and i had a great wish to ascertain whether he would know me. "therefore," said i, "do not order candles till we have sat a little while." mrs. ridley smiled, fully persuaded that, though i might speak the truth, i did not speak _all_ the truth. i was at liberty in the mean time, during our walk in the park, to indulge in reverie, and to try to strengthen my agitated nerves against the approaching interview. but concerning what was i now anxious?--not so much to ascertain whether i loved _him_, but whether he loved _me_. alas! this anxiety was a certain proof that he was still the possessor of my heart, and that of course i ought not to be and could not be the wife of de walden. just as we stopped at the door, on our return from our walk, mr. ridley was knocking at it, accompanied by seymour. i felt myself excessively agitated, while i pulled my hat and veil over my face: to avoid a shower, we had crowded into a hackney-coach. luckily i had not to get out first; but judge how i trembled when i found seymour's hand presented to assist me. my foot slipped, and if he had not caught me in his arms, i should have fallen. mrs. ridley, however, good-naturedly observed, that she had been nearly falling herself, the step was so bad, and her friend _miss pen_ was also very short-sighted. i now walked up stairs, tottering as i went. "fanny," whispered mr. ridley to his wife, "who is she?" she told him i was a miss pen, and she would tell him more by and by. "pray, fanny, when do you mean to have candles?" said mr. ridley. "not yet; not till we go to take off our bonnets. i like this light, it is so pleasant to the eyes." "yes, and so cheap too," replied her husband. "but i wonder you should like this sort of light, fanny, for you are far removed yet from that period of life when _le petit jour_ is so favourable to beauty: you are still young enough to bear the searching light of broad-eyed day, and so i trust are all the ladies present; though i must own a _veil_ is always a suspicious circumstance," he added, coming up to me. "yes, yes," said his wife, "i always suspect a veil is worn to conceal something." "but it may be worn in mercy," he added; "and perhaps it is so here, if i may judge of what is hidden by what is shown: if i may form an opinion indeed from that hand and arm, on which youth and beauty are so legibly written, i--" here, confused and almost provoked, i drew on my gloves; and mrs. ridley, who loved fun, whispered her husband, "do not go on; she is quite ugly, scarred with the confluent small-pox, blear-eyed, and hideous: you will be surprised when you see her face." she then begged to speak to me; and as i walked across the room in which we sat to join her in the next, i saw ridley whisper pendarves. "may be so," he replied: "but her figure and form are almost the finest i ever saw." "and yet i am so very tall," said i to myself with a joy that vibrated through my frame. the conversation now became general; and on a lady's being mentioned who had married a second husband before the first had been dead quite a year, pendarves, to my consternation, began a violent philippic against women, declaring that scarcely one of us was capable of a persevering attachment; that the best and dearest of husbands might be forgotten in six months; and that those men only could expect to be happy who laid their plans for happiness independently of woman's love. it is strange, but true, that the indignation which this speech excited in me enabled me to conquer at once the agitation which had hitherto kept me silent. coming hastily forward, i exclaimed, while he rose respectfully, "is it for you, mr. seymour pendarves, to hold such language as this? have you forgotten lady helen, your own blessed mother, and her friend and yours?" so saying, while he stood confounded, self-judged, and full of wonder, for the voice and manner were mine, but the height and figure were no longer so,--i left the room; and a violent burst of tears relieved my oppressed heart. mrs. ridley then rang for a candle and considerately left me to myself. oh! the flutter of that moment when i re-entered the drawing-room, which i found brilliantly lighted up! seymour, who had i found now doubted, and now believed, the evidence of his ears in opposition to that of his sight, was standing at the window; but he turned hastily round at my entrance, and our eyes instantly met. "helen!" exclaimed he, springing forward to meet me, while my hand was extended toward him; and i believe my countenance was equally encouraging. that yielded hand was pressed by turns to his lips and his heart; but still we neither of us spoke, and seymour suddenly disappeared. mr. ridley, who was that _melancholy_ thing to other people a _professed joker_, to my great relief (as it enabled me to recover myself,) now came up to me bowing respectfully, and begged me to veil my face again; for he saw that my excessive ugliness had been too much for his poor friend, and he hoped for his sake, as well as that of the rest of mankind, i would conceal myself from sight. i told him, when his friend came back i would consider of his proposition, and if he approved it i would veil directly. before seymour returned, i asked mr. ridley whether he suspected who his presuming monitor was. "pray, madam," he archly replied, "say that word again. what are you to mr. pendarves?" "i said 'monitor.'" "oh--_monitor_! i thought you were _something_ to him, but did not exactly _know what_. no wonder he was so alarmed at sight of you, for monitors, i believe, have a right to chastise their pupils; and i begin now to fear he will not come back. do you use the ferule or the rod, miss pendarves?" "you have not yet answered my question, sir!" "oh! i forgot. 'heavens!' cried he, as you closed the door, 'is it possible? could that be my cousin, helen pendarves? yes, it could be no other; and yet'----is that like him, madam?" "oh! very!" "'well,' i, in the simplicity of my heart, replied, 'your cousin she may be; but my wife told me her name was pen.' "'oh yes, it must be helen--it was her own sweet voice and manner!' "'she is given to scolding, then--is she?' said i. "'oh!' said he, 'she is!' but i will spare your blushes, madam; though i must own that i could not believe you _were_ the lady in question, because my wife told me you were hideous to behold, and _he_ said you were a beauty: besides, when he last saw you, he added, you were thin and short; but then he eagerly observed, that a year and a half made a great difference sometimes, and you had not met during that period. but here comes the gentleman to answer your questions himself. what i further said did not at all please him." "no! what was it, sir?" "that, if you were indeed miss helen pendarves, you were a great nuisance, for that you had won and broken at least a dozen hearts; but that it was a comfort to know you would soon be removed from the power of doing further mischief, as you were going to be married to a swiss gentleman, and would soon leave the kingdom." "and you told him this?" cried i, turning very faint. "yes, i did; and he had just turned away from me, when you made your appearance." seymour now entered the room; and i was, from this conversation, at no loss to account for the gloom which overspread his countenance, while he hoped miss pendarves was well. "my dear fanny," said mr. ridley, who must have his joke, "i hope you will make proper apologies to this gentleman and me, for having exposed us to such a horrible surprise as the sight of that lady's face has given us. pray, was this ungenerous plan of concealment miss pendarves's or yours?" "her's, entirely." "but what was her motive?" "she wished to see whether her cousin would know her through her veil." "oh! she was acting clara in the duenna; you know she plays don ferdinand some such trick." "true; but ferdinand and clara were _lovers_, not cousins." "cannot cousins be lovers, fanny?" here the entrance of the servant with supper interrupted the conversation, and seymour and i sat down to it with what appetite we could. "it is astonishing," said mr. ridley, "what use and habit can effect; i have already conquered my horror at sight of your friend's face; and i see mr. pendarves has not only done the same, but i suspect he is meditating a drawing of it, to send to the royal society, as a _lusus naturæ_." in spite of himself, seymour smiled at this speech, and replied, while i looked very foolish, that he was gazing at me with wonder, as he could not conceive how i had gained so many inches in height since he saw me. "i grew several inches after my fever," i replied. "fever? when--where--what fever, helen? i never heard you were ill." "oh yes, i was--and my life was despaired of." "you in danger, helen, and i never knew it!" "it was really very unkind," said ridley, "to keep such a delightful piece of intelligence from you." "but _when_ was it, dear helen?" "when i saw you on the road to oxford, i was only just recovered." "only just recovered! you did not look ill; but i remember you had your veil down, so i really did not see your face." "so, so; wearing her veil down is a common thing with her--is it? i am glad she is so considerate." these jokes, however, had their use; for they tended to keep under the indulgence of feelings which required to be restrained in both of us, in the presence of others. "but, when were you first seized, helen? and what brought on your fever?" said seymour, as if urged by some secret consciousness. you will not wonder that i blushed, and even stammered, as i answered, "i was not quite well when i saw you in the church--and--and----" "and what?" "i was seized that night, and when my mother returned, she found me very ill indeed!" "that night!" here he started from his seat. "ah fanny!" cried mr. ridley, "you _would_ buy them! i always objected to them." "buy what, my dear ridley?" "these chairs; i always said they were such uneasy ones, no one could sit on them long--you see mr. pendarves can't endure them." i was very glad when seymour sat down again; when he did, he leaned his elbows on the table, and gazed in my face as if he would have read the very bottom of my soul. but hope seemed to have supplanted despair. mr. ridley now suddenly rose, and holding his hand to his side, cried, "oh!" in such a comic, yet pathetic manner, that though his wife really believed he was in pain, she could not help laughing; then, seizing a candle, he went _oh-ing_ and limping out of the room, leaning on her arm, and declaring he believed he must go to bed, if we would excuse him. there was no mistaking his motive, and seymour was not slow to profit by the opportunity thus good-naturedly offered him. "helen!" he exclaimed, seating himself by me, and seizing my hand, "is what i heard true--am i the most wretched of men--is this hand promised to de walden?" "no--not yet promised." "then you mean to give it to him?" "certainly not _now_." "why that emphasis on _now_?" "because i am sure i do not love him sufficiently." "and since when have you found this out?" i did not answer; but my tell-tale silence emboldened him to put his own interpretation on what i had said; and now, for the first time, unrestrained by any unwelcome witness, he passionately pleaded the interests of his own love, and drew from me an open confession of mine. nor was there long a secret of my heart which was withheld from him; and while he rejoiced over the certainty that his rival's hopes were destroyed by this interview, i rejoiced in hearing that the conviction he had received of my affection for him, had preserved him from temptations to which he would probably otherwise have yielded. "but they are returning," cried he; "tell me where you are, and promise to see me to-morrow, my own precious helen! never, never was i so happy before." "nor i," i could have added; but i believe my eyes spoke for me, and i promised to see him the next day at eleven. he had just time to resume his chair when mr. and mrs. ridley returned. "i have been very unwell," said ridley, "and am so still; but i would come back, as she would not leave me, because i was sure, what with the uneasy chairs, and miss pen's ugly face, you would be so fretted, mr. pendarves, that you would never come hither again. "'but then, my dear,' said fanny, 'you forget they are relations, and must love each other.' "'that i deny,' said i, 'if they are not both loveable.' "'and then,' says she, 'they have not met for so long a time, and have so much to say.' "'i don't believe that,' says i: 'if so, they would have taken care to meet sooner'----but pray what has happened to you both since we went away? well, i declare, such roses on cheeks, and diamonds in eyes! and, i protest, miss pen has learnt to look straight-forward, and is all dimples and smiles! and this, too, when, for aught you both knew, i might be dying!" seymour and i were now too happy not to be disposed to laugh at any absurdity which ridley uttered; and never before or since did i pass so merry an evening. seymour was as gay and delightful as nature intended him to be: you will own that the word "_fascinating_" seemed made on purpose to express him; and i, as he has since told me, appeared to him to exceed in personal appearance that evening (animated as i was with the consciousness of loving and being beloved) all the promises of my early youth; nor could he help saying-- "really, helen, i cannot but look at you!" "that is very evident," observed ridley. "yes, but i mean that i look at her because--because----" "you cannot help it, and it requires no apology. i have a tendency to the same weakness myself." "but i mean you are so surprisingly altered--so grown--so----" "say no more, my dear sir," cried ridley, interrupting him, "for it must mortify the young lady to see how much she has outgrown your knowledge and your liking! and she is such a disgrace to your family, that it is a pity there is no chance for her changing _her name_, poor thing! those blear eyes must prevent that. i see very clearly, indeed, she is likely to die _helen pendarves_." this observation, much to ridley's sorrow, evidently clouded over the brows of us both; for we both thought of my mother, and i of poor de walden. but the cloud soon passed away; for we were together, we were assured of each other's love, and _we were happy_.--nor did we hear the watchman call "past one o'clock," without as much surprise as pain. however, pendarves walked home with me, and that walk was not less interesting than the evening had been. but, alas! my mother's image awaited me on my pillow. i could not help mourning over the blighted hopes of de walden, nor could i drive from my startled fancy the suspicion that i had committed a breach of duty in receiving and returning vows unsanctioned by her permission, or satisfy my conscience that i had done right in allowing him to call on me the next day. but i quieted myself by resolving that i would instantly write to my mother, tell her what had passed, and see seymour only that once, till she gave me her permission to see him more frequently. he came at eleven, and i told him what i meant to do. he fully approved, but declared he would not consent to meet evil more than half way, and give up seeing me. on the contrary, he was resolved to see me every day till she came; and as mr. pendarves our uncle was just come to his house in town, he meant to tell him how we were situated, and he was very sure that he would approve our meeting as much as possible. on leaving me he proceeded to lay his case before our uncle, while i sat down to write to my mother. it was a long letter bathed with my tears; for was i not now pleading almost for life and death? if i loved pendarves when my affection was not fed by his professions of mutual love, how must that flame be now increased in fervour, when i had heard him plead his cause two days successively, and had enjoyed with him hours of the tenderest uninterrupted intercourse! wisely had my mother acted in forbidding us to meet, as she wished to annihilate our partiality; for absence and distance are the best preventives, if not the certain cures of love. my letter, which was full of passion, regrets, apologies and pity for de walden, was scarcely finished, when i was told that a gentleman who was going immediately into warwickshire, and would pass close by my mother's door, would take charge of it. i foolishly confided it to his care; i say "foolishly," because the post was a surer conveyance. however, i could not foresee that this gentleman would fall ill on the road; that he would not deliver my packet till ten days after it was written; and that i was therefore allowed to spend many hours with pendarves unprohibited; for my uncle approved our meeting, and desired our union, declaring that he had always thought my mother severe in her judgment of his nephew, and that while considering the fancied interests of her own child, she had disregarded his. "besides," added he, "i am the head of the family, and i command you to meet as often, and to love as much, as ever you choose." alas! i obeyed him only too well, though my judgment was not blinded to the certainty that he had no rights which could invalidate those of my mother; and though i rejoiced at not receiving her command to cease to receive pendarves, i was beginning to feel uneasy at her silence, when a letter from her reached me, saying, she was on her road to london, where she would arrive that night, and should take up her abode with our friend mr. nelson. never before had i been parted from my mother, and till i met pendarves i had longed for her every day during my stay in london; but now, self-reproved and ashamed, i felt that a yet dearer object had acquired possession of my thoughts and wishes, and the once devoted child dreaded, rather than desired, to be re-united to one of the best of mothers. she came; and we met again, as we had parted, with tears; but the nature of those tears was altered, and neither of us would have liked to analyze the difference. long and painful was the conversation we had together that night, before we attempted to sleep. i found my mother fully convinced that there was a necessity for my not marrying de walden, a necessity of which he was now himself convinced; for she had gone round by cambridge, in order to see him: but she was not equally convinced that there was a necessity for my marrying pendarves, as all her objections to that marriage remained in the fullest force. the next morning she opened her heart on the subject to mrs. nelson, who was seymour's warm advocate, and assured her, that if she made proper inquiries, she would find that the character of pendarves was universally spoken of as unexceptionable; and that whatever might have been the errors of _the youth_, they were forgotten by other people in the merits of _the man_. "ay, but a mother's heart can't forget them," she exclaimed, "when her child's happiness is at stake!" and she begged to have no private conversation with seymour till the next day. in consequence, she saw him only in a party at my uncle's, where she was struck with the great improvement both of his face and person, for both now wore the appearance of health; and the countenance which, when she last surveyed it, bore the stamp of sickness and sorrow, now beamed with all the vivacity of youth and hope. the party was a mixed one of cards and dancing; and as she gazed on pendarves when he stood talking to me, he recalled forcibly to her mind the image of my father, as she first beheld him in a similar scene, four-and-twenty years before. the next day seymour obtained the desired interview with my mother. she brought forward his former errors in array against him, his debts, his dissipations, and his love of play; and though she expressed her readiness to believe him reformed, still, as he ingenuously admitted that his improvement was chiefly owing to my influence over him, she could not deem it sufficiently well-founded to obviate her objections; and he was still pleading, and she objecting, when mr. pendarves insisted on entering. mrs. nelson and i accompanied him. "i tell you what, niece," said he, "you do not use this young man well: you bring up a parcel of old tales, and dwell upon the naughtiness of them, as if he was the only young man who ever erred. i know all his sins; he has made me his confessor. in the affair to which you allude he was much more to be pitied than censured, and yielded at seventeen to temptations which might have overcome seven-and-thirty. since then he has distinguished himself at college: he has paid all his old debts, and incurred no new ones; he has steered clear of the quicksands of foreign travel, shielded (as he says) by the hopes of one day possessing helen, and by the idea that he was the object of her love; and what would you have more? besides, helen tells me he once saved her life." "i did so," cried seymour, eagerly seizing her hands, "i did so, and you promised to be for ever grateful!" "how was it, my dear nephew?" "_i_ will tell you, sir," cried i, gathering hope from my mother's agitation. "it was at the isle of wight, soon after we came to england: he and i were playing on the shore, and i, not knowing the tide was coming in, paddled across a run of water to what i called a pretty little island, and there amused myself with picking up sea-weed, when the sea flowed in, and he saw that i must perish; no one was near us. luckily, he spied a boat on the dry land, which, with all his boyish strength, he pushed off to my assistance, and jumped into it. in one minute more it floated towards me, just as my cries had reached the ears of my mother, who was reading on the rock, and who now saw my situation." "helen! helen!" cried my mother, "i can't bear it--the scene was too horrible to recall." but i persevered. "seymour seized my hand just as i was sinking, and dragged me into the boat; but in another moment the waves came swelling round us, and, without oar or help, i and my preserver were both tossed to and fro upon the ocean." "helen!" cried seymour, with great feeling, and clasping me fondly to his heart, "i could almost wish we then had died, for then we should have died together!" "go on," said my uncle, "i hope you will live together yet!" "i have not much more to tell, except that my mother's screams had now procured assistance, and a boat was sent out to follow our uncertain course. when we were overtaken, they found seymour holding me on his lap, and crying over me in agony unutterable, for he thought that i was dead, and he had come too late. who can paint my mother's transports, when she received me safe and living in her arms?" "and how she embraced me, helen," cried seymour, "and called me her noble boy--the preserver of her child! (for she saw all i had done;) and how she owned she should ever love me as her own child--and vowed her gratitude should end but with her life!" "it never _will_ end but with my life!" cried my mother, throwing herself on seymour's neck. "but is your having saved my child's life an argument for my authorizing you to risk the happiness of that life?" "julia, julia, i am _ashamed_ of you!" cried my uncle. "was there ever a better or more devoted wife than yourself? yet, what did you do at helen's age? you ran away from your parents, out of an ungovernable passion for a handsome young man." "but is my error an excuse or justification of his?" "no; but you are a proof that error can be atoned for and never repeated, as you have been a model for wives and mothers. but beware, mrs. pendarves, of carrying things too far; beware, lest you tempt helen and seymour to copy your example, rather than conform to your precepts." "ha!" cried my mother, clasping her hands in agony. "now, then," said seymour, with every symptom of deep emotion, "the moment is come when i am authorized to obey the commands of the beloved dead, and fulfil the last injunctions of my mother." a pause which no one seemed inclined to break, followed this unexpected observation; and seymour, taking a letter from his bosom, kissed it, and presented it to my mother. "'tis helen's hand," cried she. "and her seal, too, you observe," said seymour: "the _envelope_, you perceive, is addressed to me, and i have therefore broken it; the other is entire." my mother read the _envelope_ to herself, and these were its contents:-- "my conscience reproaches me, my beloved son, with having too lightly surrendered your rights, and probably your wishes, in giving my friend back her promise to promote your union with her daughter, as i know julia's ability to act up to her strict sense of a mother's duty, even at the expense of her own happiness, and risk of her child's safety. but i have given up that promise, which might have pleaded for you, my poor child! when i was no more, and ensured to you opportunities of securing helen's affections, which may now, perhaps, be for ever denied to you. however, i may be mistaken; therefore, if helen's affections should ever be _yours_--_avowedly_ yours, and her mother still withhold her consent, give her the enclosed letter, and probably the voice of the dead may have more power over her than that of the living. "for your sake i have thus written, with a trembling hand, and with a dying pulse; but value it as a last proof of that affection which can end only with my life. "helen pendarves." the letter to my mother was as follows:-- "i speak to you from the grave, my dearest julia! and in behalf of that child on whom my soul doted while on earth. but this letter will not be given you till he is _assured_ he possesses the heart of your daughter; and when, if your consent is denied to their union, nothing but an act of disobedience can make them happy in each other. are you prepared, julia, to expose them to such a risk, and thus tempt the child you love to the crime of disobedience? that crime which, though it dwelt but lightly on your mind, weighed upon mine through the whole of my existence, as it helped to plunge my mother in an untimely tomb. perhaps you flatter yourself that helen's education has fortified her against indulging her passion at the expense of her duty. but remember, that your precepts are forcibly counteracted by your example. "anxious, however, as i am that helen should not err, i am still more anxious that my son should not lead her into error, as i feel that he is doubly armed against her filial piety, by the example of her mother and his own. "and must my crime be thus perpetuated by those whom i hold most dear? must the misery of my life be renewed, perhaps, in that of her whom i have loved as my own child? and must my son be the cause of wretchedness to the dearest of my friends, through the medium of her daughter? "forbid it heaven! i conjure you, my beloved julia! by our past love--by _tanta fede, e si, dolce memorie, e si lungo costume_, listen to this my warning, my supplicating voice; and let your consent give dignity and happiness to the union of our children. "helen pendarves." my mother, after having read this letter, covered her face with her hands, and rushed out of the room. it was in a state of anxious suspense that we awaited her return. when she appeared, her eyes were swelled, but her countenance was calm, her look resigned, and her deportment, as usual, dignified. her assumed composure, however, failed again, when her eyes met those of pendarves. "my son!" cried she, opening her arms to him, into which seymour threw himself, as much affected as she was; then, beckoning me to her, she put my hand in his, and prayed god to bless our union. little of this part of my life remains to be told. my mother had given her consent, and in two months from that period we were married. here ends my narrative of a woman's love. when next i treat of it, it will be as united to a wife's duty. generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [illustration: "auntee, i'll think of something--i promise you i will."] second edition grandfather's love pie by miriam gaines illustrations by john edward whiting john p. morton & company incorporated louisville, kentucky copyright, , by miss miriam gaines. to the memory of my beloved father, john thomas gaines, this little volume is dedicated. grandfather's love pie i. "o, auntee, what is it?" the awed young voice paused at the threshold. it was a sight the little girl had never witnessed before--she had seen auntee sad at occasional intervals, and a few times had looked upon tears in the usually merry eyes of her beloved chum, but never before had she beheld auntee sobbing in such an abandonment of grief. there was a very tender tie of love between these two--alsie, the dear little twelve-year-old daughter of an older sister of the family, and alice, the only remaining unmarried child of a household of many sons and daughters. the family circle had never been broken, however, and it was a household where love prevailed, for although several members lived in far-away homes, the flame of affection burned as brightly and the cord of love bound them together as strongly as did ever the same ties bind their sturdy scotch ancestors into clans. auntee (for that was alsie's baby name for the aunt, with whom so many happy hours had been spent) rose half way up from the bed with a somewhat startled movement, but the sight of the stricken little face at her side seemed to bring back afresh the reminder of her pain, and she again buried her face in the pillow with a sob. after a few moments, however, the young woman put her arm tenderly around the little namesake and tried to explain. "i did not intend to burden you, alsie dear, with my grief, but i feel so sad and somehow i just couldn't keep it shut in any longer--it _had_ to come out. but i thought you were playing with your little friend margaret, and i knew mother had started for the drug store on an errand which would surely keep her an hour." "auntee, are you so sad because dear uncle james has gone away? you know grandma said he had been called to his heavenly home, and there are lots of us left to make you bright and happy." "so there are, alsie, and i will try to take courage in that thought, for surely god wouldn't take another loved one away from us so soon--so soon." the last two words were spoken pensively and as though she was unconscious of the presence of the child. little alsie's face became white. "o, auntee, you don't mean that dear grandfather"--her voice faltered and she finished in a whisper--"is worse?" auntee regained her self-possession in a moment and said hastily, "no, dear child, no worse. but sit down with me and i will tell you all about it. you must promise not to mention it to grandmother, however, for we will have to be brave together." then, sitting side by side in the pretty little blue bedroom where only a few months before so many joyous hours had been spent in fixing everything up daintily to meet the gaze of returned travelers, aunt alice related to young alice the story of her trip to the doctor's that very day, and how he had told her that the chances were against the recovery of the beloved father and grandfather, lying so patiently on his bed of pain in the south bedchamber. his health had begun to fail in the spring, but grandfather, with his broad shoulders, military bearing, and six feet of noble manhood, had never been sick within the memory of either of these two, and it was hard for them--or, indeed, any other--to conceive that it was more than a passing ailment, and would soon disappear. the family became vaguely uneasy as the spring merged into the summer, and a plan was proposed for the plump little five-foot "wifey" to take her big husband, the captain, on a long trip to the seashore and mountains. the trip had been taken, but captain gordon's condition did not show the improvement that the anxious members of his family had so earnestly hoped to see, and after the return the busy little wife immediately set about securing a couch for his office, for the invalid insisted that he was able to resume his duties. she explained that "the captain might rest a little now and then from his labors," for the sturdy old soldier would not for a moment entertain the thought of giving up his work--the loved, chosen profession which he had followed so faithfully and successfully since he came out--a gallant young officer of twenty-three--from the civil war, the sole survivor of the four members of his household who had gone forth to fight for what was to be the lost cause. everything at the office was made especially comfortable, for how willingly would every one have spared the quiet, kind professor, who combined so wonderfully strength and manliness with gentleness and lovableness of disposition. the experiment lasted one week--he came home at the close of the sixth day and said quietly, "i must get a substitute until i am well enough to attend to my work as it should be done." so the substitute was secured and a consultation of doctors followed, with the result that a new line of treatment had been adopted. a few weeks failed to bring good results, so other treatments had been tried, until, a few weeks before, a skilled specialist had ordered him off to the infirmary for a period of several weeks. the days spent here were days of great suffering, but grandfather was a man of monumental patience, and no word of complaint passed his lips. it was just at this time that a crushing blow had been dealt the hopeful, cheery little wifey, who had always been laughingly termed "boss of the ranch," "head of the house," and suchlike terms, but whose right to these titles had never been disputed by the indulgent husband or devoted sons and daughters, for her ready hand always carried with it relief, and her merry laugh brought cheer and sunshine. her only brother had been stricken, and died within a few days, but the brave little wife and mother had hidden her deep sorrow in her bosom, and after a few days, only a smiling face was presented about the house. when the allotted time at the infirmary had expired, the young doctor, who had studied the case with such zeal and attended his patient with the tender care of a son, brought him back to his home. after having put her father to bed, to rest from the weariness of the trip, alice turned around to the waiting physician, a foreboding anxiety in her heart, and tried to make her question quite natural: "well, doctor, how soon can your friend, the specialist, have father well again?" after a pause dr. emerson replied, "he will not continue on the case, miss gordon." "o, doctor, what do you mean? he has not given it up? i can not relinquish hope--i won't." "and i do not wish you to, miss gordon. dr. helm did not find your father's condition to be what he had expected, but we are going to begin at once a treatment that has been practiced with great success in germany, in cases like his." nothing more was said at that time between them, but the memory of that conversation was indelibly printed on alice's mind, and a long night of the keenest anguish she had ever experienced, followed. she thought, and thought, and thought, until the sounds from the sick-chamber near by, would bring a flood of tender memories and her pillow would be wet with tears. it was thus that most of the night was spent. toward morning she sank into a deep slumber, but, when she wakened, a terrible leaden weight seemed to oppress her, and it was several hours before the buoyant cheerfulness, with which she was by nature endowed, could again assert itself. after several days and nights spent thus, alice came to the wise conclusion that the situation _must_ be faced, for obvious reasons. after this decision was reached, she became more calm, and the next day, without consulting any member of the family, slipped away to the doctor's downtown office, and waited patiently until he was at leisure to see her. dr. emerson seemed a little surprised at her appearance, but said, "what is it, miss gordon--what can i do for you?" "i only came, dr. emerson, to say to you that i am now ready to hear what you have to tell about my father. i want to know just how much we may hope for--or how little." her voice faltered, but she continued, "i could not listen a few days ago when you suggested that dr. helm was not able to relieve him, but tell me all now." perhaps it was because the kind physician felt sorry for the sorrowing daughter, or perhaps it was because, personally, he cherished a deep affection for the scholarly old gentleman on whom he was expending his most earnest efforts, but whatever the reason, he told her in the gentlest, kindest manner, enough to make her understand that the chances were against her father's recovery. his concluding remarks, however, were reassuring. "please do not understand for a moment, miss gordon, that i have given up hope. i do not agree altogether with dr. helm, and i feel that we have good ground for expecting favorable results from the treatment that we have recently begun." after hearing the news, alice returned home, to find a letter in which was a small check from one of the loving family circle, to be spent in a christmas present for the dear sick one. it had come to be a sort of habit in the family for a few of the far-away members to send little sums to alice at christmas time, in order that the presents should be such as would give service as well as pleasure. the carrying out of these commissions had always been a source of delight to both big and little alice, for did _they_ not know best of all the individual needs and hopes of each member of the household? who, then, could so well plan and shop for the merry christmas, which was _always_ a success in the gordon household? yes, a merry, happy season it had always been for, while all the comforts of a refined home had ever been theirs, the provision of these comforts had required constant economy and management on the part of the busy little "wifey" of the house. as the former children had grown up and flitted away from the home nest to establish families for themselves, they had gradually come to realize that it was because of _not having_ so many things that they were enabled to get such a degree of pleasure from those gifts which just fitted the need, or perhaps those gifts, for which the ordinary craving might be counted an extravagance. it had always been the custom for each one of the family to hang up his or her stocking, and when the grandchildren began to appear upon the scene, grandfather's big sock always held a conspicuous place among the stockings of all sizes. it was the remembrance of all these established customs that had caused the entire breakdown of alice's walls of self-control (which she thought had been so well built), and when little alsie found her there, alone in her chamber, in such deep distress, it was not surprising that the little maid was frightened. this was the first time that alice had ever confided to the child anything that was, even, in a remote degree, depressing, but her heart was so overwrought that she had poured out the whole sad story to the little girl before time could be taken for consideration of the wisdom of such a course. a flicker of doubt, however, came to her as she saw the troubled look of the child deepen into an expression of pain and perplexity, and she continued, half apologetically, "i ought not to feel so discouraged, dearie, i know. i ought to be brave, but when i tried to think what i _could_ get for dear father with the checks that will surely be coming in to me, within the next two or three weeks, i felt so utterly broken-hearted that i could do nothing but cry." the child put her arms tenderly around the neck of her beloved aunt, and gave her message of sympathy in mute kisses. "i am completely at a loss to know what to do," said alice, with emphasis. "here is christmas, only a month distant--i have made no preparation, for i have had no heart for it; we can not hang up the stockings after the usual merry fashion, for it would be only a farce; we should cry instead of laugh when we see them, so i feel almost desperate to know _what_ to do. o, alsie, can't we think of some plan by which we may give dear grandfather a merry christmas, especially if it is to be his last with us?" "auntee, i'll _think_ of something--i promise you i will--and it will be soon, too--perhaps by to-morrow--but anyhow by the day after, so trust to me and let us both hope that grandfather will get better." "i will, dear--i will. there! i feel more hopeful already. don't you remember, when you were a wee tot, and would come in and ask me for a piece of cake? when i would say, 'well, now, i wonder where grandma has put that cake?' you would reply, so eagerly, 'fink hard, auntee--fink hard.' you knew well that a real hard _think_ would bring results. now we must both 'think hard' and see if we can't produce a little genuine christmas cheer." they parted with this compact, and when alice, half an hour later, walked into captain gordon's sick-chamber, a pleasant smile was on her lips and her voice had regained its usual composure. ii. a day or two passed with little change in the condition of affairs, in the gordon household, but on the third afternoon, following the conversation between the two alices, the younger one came in rather suddenly, and announced, in a whisper, that she had an idea. in a little while aunt alice had suggested a walk "for a breath of fresh air," with the result that they were soon out together, alone, walking in the lovely park which was close by. "you see, auntee," began alsie, "it was this way--i tried and tried to think of some celebration, which would make us all cheerful and happy at christmas, but the more i thought, the harder the problem seemed to get. we couldn't have plays, for that would tire grandfather; a christmas tree would remind us all of last christmas, when dear uncle james had such a beautiful one at his country place. it would make grandma cry--and perhaps the rest of us, too--to remember that _that_ home had been broken up by the loss of the father and husband. altogether, i was beginning to feel real discouraged. mamma took me down town to lunch with her to-day, and the waiter brought in such a big, luscious piece of pie. you know, auntee, i have always loved pie 'most as much as grandfather. i began to think how long it had been since he had had a single taste of pie, and yet he has never complained. i began to wish--o, so much--that grandfather could enjoy that delicious bit of pie. the tears came into my eyes, auntee, and i said to mamma, 'if grandfather could just eat this one piece of pie, mamma, i would be willing to do without pie for the rest of my life.' "it was then, auntee, that the idea came to me. couldn't we have a christmas pie for grandfather which, instead of having a filling of rich custards or fruits, would contain all the cunning little presents that we grandchildren could make for him?" "why, alsie, what an idea! i've heard of the jack horner pie and other varieties, perhaps, but who would have thought of the idea of a christmas pie of that kind! we'll certainly carry it out, for your pretty idea was the offspring of an unselfish impulse, and a sympathetic tear, and it surely will thrive and bear fruit." "let's see, auntee--a pie must always be round, mus'n't it?" "and this one will have to be big, too," replied alice, "for there are lots of us who want to have a finger in it. those dear co-workers with father, who have kept his sick-room so fragrant and beautiful with flowers, must each be allowed a little space for a card of greeting. in fact, alsie, i think it would be a good idea to invite all his most beloved circle of friends to send a little message of love, for only the other day he said to me, 'there is nothing so acceptable to a man lying on a bed of sickness as an offering of love--be it a message, a flower, a visit, or a delicacy--it is delightful to be remembered.'" "well, auntee, i'll see all the cousins within reach and write to the others, and you do the same with the grown folks of the family, and the rule must be that each is to put into the pie something that will please grandfather or make him laugh." "fine, alsie, fine. it's a good rule to make, for it's a '_merry christmas_' we are striving for, and i don't believe our efforts will fail if we put into them all the love and energy which the family say you and i possess, in a like degree." "we haven't much time to lose, either, auntee, for we have lots to do in the three weeks that remain to us. now, as to business, what are we going to make the pie-crust of--i mean what material will take the place of the pie-crust, which you know is what holds the goodies?" "it must be considerably stronger than the crisp, brittle crust which aunt bettie brings to _our_ table," replied aunt alice with a laugh. after a moment she continued, "i wonder if we couldn't get hold of one of those hat-boxes which are made to hold the enormous 'creations' we see every day in the milliners' shops, and on the heads of so many pretty girls. we can make the effort, anyhow, and if we don't succeed in finding just what we want, needles and cardboard are plentiful and we can make a box to suit ourselves, for it must be at least twenty-five or thirty inches in diameter and six inches high to hold the filling." they walked slowly homeward, discussing various little points which occurred to them along the way, until, when alice walked back into the front door of her home, what was her surprise and delight to feel that the weight of the sorrow, which had so oppressed her, was lightened. she felt almost buoyant in her eagerness for christmas to come. and now a busy season began. it was hard to think of anything suitable for the invalid, for had not the loving hands of his wife and children provided everything that might add to the comfort of the beloved head of the household? there was one little feature that had been overlooked, however--grandfather possessed no foot-warmers. so alsie's energies were at once set to work on these articles, which were destined to be "real comforts" in the weeks which followed christmas. the story of grandfather's pie was soon spread, not only through the family, but also to a large circle of friends. everybody was cautioned, however, to keep the secret from mrs. gordon, for it was decreed that the faithful little "wifey" (no one had ever heard the captain address his wife by any other name than _that_, which he had bestowed upon her during their honeymoon) should share the surprise and pleasure with her husband. "mr. doctor, what are you going to put in the christmas pie?" exclaimed alice merrily one morning, after telling the physician of the plan. "i think i'll contribute the turkey," he answered with a smile. "a turkey, of course, which won't take up too much space, and the dressing i'll put in that turkey will be calculated to make any sick man well. do you understand?" alice didn't quite understand, but was willing to leave the matter in his hands. little jack was quite worried that he could think of nothing to make grandfather laugh, and one day when he was in the sick-chamber he blurted out, "grandfather, what would you rather have me give you for christmas than anything else?" the laugh came then--before time--for it explained to grandfather the uneasy, doubtful expression which had enveloped the little lad's face just previous to the asking of the question. "well, i'll tell you, jack, what would please me more than anything else--a perfect report from your teacher. if you could bring me this, on christmas day, i would know that it meant hard work for a boy, who is as fond of play and mischief as you." nothing more was said on the subject, but little jack passed out of the room with a stern resolution that that report should be forthcoming, and when aunt alice was told of it she exclaimed enthusiastically, "o, jacky boy, you _must_ get that perfect report, even if it does mean hard work, and we'll lay it in the very center of the pie, sealed up in the prettiest christmas envelope that i can paint." iii. "aunt bettie, what are _you_ going to put in the pie? for you know everybody must put in something to please grandfather or make him laugh," asked alsie, after detailing the plan to the dear old black mammy, who had been grandmother's maid when she was a young lady in the long years ago. aunt bettie was considerably beyond sixty, but not many young "niggers" could get around as lively as she, and no one, who had ever dined in that household, could doubt her ability to cook the best meal ever brought to a table. "nevah you min', honey--aunt bettie'll have somethin' fur de occasion--it's a shame dat doctah won't let captain gordon hab no pie nor nuthin', but makes him eat jest dem beat biscuits, when he likes de soft ones so much de best. i'll be ready, chile, on de day 'fore christmas, so don' you worry yourse'f 'bout me." "but you mus'n't make him anything that is bad for him, aunt bettie. he can't eat the plum pudding, and other rich goodies like the rest of us, you know, because he is too ill and the doctor won't allow it," answered alsie anxiously. "i'll 'member _all_ dat," laughed aunt bettie reassuringly, as the child departed from the kitchen, but a feeling of sadness came to the faithful old soul as she recalled the festivities of the year before, when christmas dinner had been prepared for the whole family of children and grandchildren, and the thought of how the dear head of the family had enjoyed that occasion brought tears to her eyes. * * * * * such conversations were being held every day, and the days were passing, too, with astonishing rapidity, just as they always do when one is deeply interested in some absorbing project. aunt alice had been receiving, daily, numerous letters--several containing checks--and little alsie's correspondence had suddenly grown to enormous proportions. uncle dick came in one evening, and slipping a gold piece into his sister's hand remarked, "_i_ can't think of a thing for that pie, alice. i'm sorry to be so stupid, but i'll have to ask you to take this and see what your clever brain can do with it." "o, dick, it will make a grand 'plum' for the pie. i'll put it in, just in this form, for i want all the money entrusted to me, as agent, to go toward providing for father, comforts and luxuries, such as we might not be able to afford under ordinary circumstances. and yet, it's almost impossible to know exactly how to spend it just now," replied alice. after a little pause she added, "i believe i'll just put the gold pieces and checks into a little box and label it, 'fruit for the pie.' my biggest check may truly be termed a _peach_, and i can convert one or two others into plums and raisins." "i think i know of several plums that will be forthcoming if that's your idea, sis--it's a capital one, too," answered dick. "i confess i'm getting quite interested in the contents myself, and two or three times i've come near asking about the progress of the pie, before mother, forgetting that she's to share in the great surprise." "o, dick, _do_ be careful, for we have arranged it all so nicely, and in another week we'll be making up that pie, so don't spoil our plans now, for how much more father will enjoy it if his dear little 'wifey' shares the pleasure also. and, by the way, dick, that reminds me of something that must go in for mother. a few days ago, when i was sitting with father, he directed me to get a trifling gift for mother, but with his old-time humor he said, 'i believe the most acceptable gift that i could make wifey would be all the receipts of the bills that have come in, for the little woman has worried considerably over the number and amounts. i got in a pretty good check several days ago, but i'll not give any gifts this year--the money must go to pay these extra expenses that have been inevitable. i wish you'd see to it that wifey has as big a bunch as possible of receipted bills. it's the best i can do this year, and you all understand.'" "wasn't it dear of him, dick, and who but father would have thought of making a joke of something, which might seem to some, only a trying duty?" "it just shows us again the sort of manly man father has always been; but alice, i had an idea that it would be a nice thing to take that little poem father wrote to mother last christmas--the one he presented with his gift--and have an illuminated copy made of it for mother's gift this christmas. it pleased her so much at the time, and, in this form, it could be framed prettily and hung over her bed. you remember the lines--i have them in my pocket now." he unfolded the sheet of paper, and handed it to alice, who read aloud: my best christmas gift. some two score years, and more ago, a father gave his child away: it was a christmas gift, you know, because 'twas done on christmas day. that little maid was given to me; i took her then for weal or woe. the years have passed so happily it does not seem so long ago. no other gift in any year has e'er excelled, or equaled this; the others evanescent were while this has shed perennial bliss. for it has multiplied with time and added blessings, year by year; she came to me in youthful prime and still remains, though in the sere. her children, and their children, too, in number, just about a score,-- i count, as blessings, to her due: may god repeat his gift once more. my little wifey, always dear, when christmas comes, i think back then and greet you with increasing cheer, my christmas gift, returned again. "it's a beautiful idea, dick, but it won't do now. there's too much pathos in it for this occasion. when i read the lines myself, i am blinded with tears, for i realize all too keenly that we may not have him another christmas. some time, it may be a great comfort to mother to have it. keep the idea in mind and work it out some day." so the little poem was folded up and laid away for another year. iv. several days passed and grandfather seemed to improve. the spirit of christmas pervaded everything, and even the invalid playfully asked alsie if she could give him a hint as to what he might find in his sock on the eventful morning. uncle dick had been instructed to bring home all the santa claus posters that might be found in the newspaper office or bookshop, and there was already quite a stack of colored pictures on hand, showing santa claus in every stage of his wonderful yearly trip round the earth. both alices had spent some time selecting the little white santa and sleigh for the top of the pie. the reindeer were hitched, tandem style, to the sleigh, harnessed and reined with the gayest red ribbon. the packages and letters began to come, in considerable numbers, during the next few days, and several more "plums" were given into alice's care, not to mention the _dates_, raisins, currants, and the like, for every check or coin was classified with the _fruit_, for the _filling_ of the pie. it began to look as if that pie was to be a very rich one after all. one morning, several days before christmas, mrs. gordon came out of the sick-chamber, to the breakfast table, with a beaming face, saying: "captain gordon spent the best night he has had in months, and he feels so bright and well that he wants to be brought into the library and rest awhile on the couch there." what joy this announcement brought to them all! the rolling chair was drawn forth, and little alsie led the way from one room to another with feet that fairly danced. no ill effects followed the experiment, and it was repeated the next day with even greater success. it really appeared that some of the most persistent features of captain gordon's illness were yielding, perhaps, to the treatment--at any rate, the beloved invalid was better, and the leaden weight of apprehension, which had so burdened the hearts of each one of them, was disappearing and a wonderful joy was taking its place. a white-winged, invisible guest had arrived, before time, to spend the christmastide with them. it was the angel of hope, sent by the pitying hand of the father in heaven, and with it came peace, joy, love, and merriment. what a host of christmas cards came in, on the morning mail, just preceding christmas day. little alsie was almost wild to begin work on the pie. after breakfast, aunt alice said calmly, "alsie, come with me, for i have an important errand, and would like to have company." "o, auntee, how _can_ you be so composed when there's such a big pile of bundles in your bedroom closet, and have you seen the lovely palm sent to grandfather by the members of his literary club? it's a beauty, and so big that it looks almost like a small tree!" they wended their way to alice's room, and locked the door. going to the closet, alice brought forth the largest round hat-box that any of them had ever seen. it must have been two feet or more in diameter, but it was only seven or eight inches high. the christmas paper was next brought out, and what a wonderful variety there was--santa claus, in all phases of his yearly trip, was pictured on some rolls, while festoons of holly and ribbon were outlined against a background of white on others. after considerable discussion and comparing of effects, it was finally decided that the outside crust of the pie should be of white paper, decorated in holly and ribbon, so the needles and pastepot were both used in preparing the lower portion of the box. the top was treated in an entirely different fashion. it was covered over with the whitest of white cotton batting, and the glistening little sleigh was securely fastened to the center of the top. fragments of the cotton fell over the edges, and when alice sprinkled over this, the "diamond dust," it looked as if real icicles were dropping from a bank of glistening snow. "auntee, it's the prettiest thing i've ever seen!" exclaimed alsie enthusiastically, after the lining had been neatly pasted in. then began the work of fixing up the packages to fill the pie. aunt bettie's contribution was unique--a beaten-biscuit gentleman, some twelve inches tall, who was certainly most "fearfully and wonderfully" made. the eyes, which had been so carefully put in with a fork, were a little too close together, and the dough nose, which had been so anxiously applied, had risen unduly in the baking, to the great detriment of the biscuit gentleman's appearance. the mouth was all right, however--big and smiling. his legs looked very much like he had a bad case of locomotor ataxia, but the buttons on his coat were quite regular and his arms hung at his sides like ramrods. after careful inspection which occasioned considerable laughter, the beaten-biscuit man was rolled up in tissue paper and placed in a christmas box "just his size." on the card was this message: "the bible says, 'love your enemies'--here is an enemy for you to conquer," for it was a well-known fact that grandfather found it hard to overcome his dislike of the "hardtack," as he denominated the beaten biscuit prepared for him. [illustration: aunt bettie's contribution was unique--a beaten-biscuit gentleman, some twelve inches tall.] the doctor's turkey was next inspected--a nice little brown roasted fowl in appearance, but in reality one of the cunning little pasteboard devices that alsie had so often seen in the confectioners' shops. there was plenty of stuffing too, for dr. emerson had filled it full of pills and capsules. there were pink pills and blue pills and green pills and lavender pills, and hidden among them was the prescription, with one end sticking out of the opening. it read: "for captain gordon--pills of every color, size, and variety, warranted to cure every known pain or ache--to be taken with your christmas pie." the little turkey was carefully wrapped in tissue paper and garnished with a spray of holly. next came the tiny basket of fresh eggs from the merry little next-door neighbor, whose big, fine chickens had been coaxed to lay a dozen eggs for the christmas pie. the basket would not hold the dozen--o no! for its greatest capacity was four; but the remaining eight were set away in a safe corner of the pantry. the four eggs were laid in a perfect nest of red and white tissue paper, and holly and ribbon were twined round the edges and handle of the basket. on the card was written the following bit of rhyme: "now, what can be nicer than for folks to remember the friends that they love with _fresh eggs_ in december?" "we shall have to get help, alsie--just look at the books to be put in, and half the presents sent by the children must be wrapped and tied up, for you know every single thing must have a ribbon attached, by which it is to be pulled out of the pie." so alsie was cautiously sent out to get her cousin emily, the oldest granddaughter in the family, a quiet young girl of fourteen, who was exceedingly fond of reading. "for goodness sake, let's get the books all in the pie before emily gets here, auntee, for she will want to read a little out of each one to see what it is like, and we'll get no help from her," exclaimed alsie. aunt alice laughed, and replied, "well, we must get through this work somehow, for uncle dick is coming out early this afternoon with the cedar, holly, and mistletoe, and will help us decorate the library. speaking of cedar, let me show you what dear aunt cecile has sent in her christmas box, besides the gifts." taking off the top, alice lifted out a huge bunch of beautiful galax leaves and another of the daintiest sprays of evergreen. "just a suggestion of the bracing mountain air which you are to enjoy with me as soon as you are well enough to travel," was the message that came with it, for aunt cecile lived far away in a mountain climate, and was deeply disappointed at not being able to spend this holiday season at home, as she had intended. all sorts of curiously shaped packages were taken out and laid aside for the various members of the household, but the largest share was to go in the pie. tiny bess had made a big shaving-ball at kindergarten, and this was sent to grandfather with a christmas greeting. bobby's contribution was a highly decorated three-layer blotter with grandfather's name and address in red ink on the top layer. it was not a thing of beauty, being the work of his own clumsy little hands, but he felt sure it would be appreciated, for he had heard grandfather wish so often that "somebody" wouldn't take away the blotters from his desk. "i have such a cute little lemon that i want to put in the pie, auntee, and yet i don't know exactly _how_ to work it in. it would be too unkind to say that anybody would 'hand out a lemon' to dear, sick grandfather, but it's so tiny and cunning--hardly bigger than a lime. the groceryman found it in a box of lemons and gave it to me, asking if i needed anything that size for the pie--you know i told him all about it. he said there was nothing in his christmas stock too good for the captain, and he'd like to send something, but it really seemed like all his goodies were forbidden fruit." "we'll put the message in with the lemon, alsie, and that will make it both funny and kind." so the tiny specimen was done up in a dainty box and on the large card was written: "the groceryman offered his choice stock of figs, dates, confections, and fruits for captain gordon's christmas pie, but found nothing acceptable but a small-sized lemon, which he presents with the hope that it will furnish all the tartness necessary." "have you opened aunt margie's box yet?" was the question asked by alsie as the work of filling the pie was drawing to a close. "i opened that some days ago," replied alice, with a smile. "there were a good many things in that box for general distribution, and, by the way, alsie, this goes into the pie, but i think it will interest you as much as father." she had stepped to her dresser, and opened a drawer while speaking, and now held up to view what seemed to be simply an envelope. on turning it over, however, a pretty little border of holly was disclosed, painted around the edges. "a reminiscence" was written in the center. "what is it, auntee?" exclaimed alsie, reaching out her hand. "we'll let you guess awhile, dearie. i am going to drop it in the pie now, and _that_ will be one of the surprises that you will enjoy with grandpa." alsie was quite curious over the reminiscence, and wondered what it could contain to be of such interest to her. "well, i won't have to wait long, anyhow," she finally exclaimed, with a laugh. "one of the presents will have to stay on ice until to-morrow morning," explained alsie to emily, "but we'll show you the card. it's from mr. mcdonald, the druggist. he's been on a little hunting trip and this morning sent over the finest, fattest little quail you ever saw. on the card was written: 'dear captain: i filled this prescription for you myself, independent of the doctors, but i think they will approve. take it to-morrow at one o'clock and see if you don't feel better.' isn't it a cunning idea? it is to be the last thing put in before grandfather is brought into the library, emily, so don't let us forget it." "i won't," promised emily; "but where are you going to put all those bottles of wine and brandy, aunt alice? do you think the pie will hold them?" "if that problem puzzles you, just _how_ do you suppose we are going to get _this_ in the pie?" replied alice, lifting from its position behind the bed a box so huge that the pie itself seemed almost diminutive in comparison. "o, auntee," cried alsie in astonishment, "do tell us what it is!" for answer alice set the box on the bed, untied the string, and lifted off the top. a dainty and beautiful silken comfort was disclosed to the view of the admiring group. the background was of white, and scattered over it were clusters of the most exquisitely colored pink roses and green leaves. the edges were prettily bound with satin ribbon of an old-rose shade, and a huge bow adorned the center. "it is made of the warmest and softest wool, and every stitch was put in by hand," murmured alice softly, smoothing the comfort caressingly. "it is beautiful to look at, but by far the most beautiful part to father will be the thought that every one of his teachers wished to have a hand in the giving of his christmas gift, and to this end they came together, with needles and thimbles, and the stitches were veritably put in with love." "but the pie won't hold it, aunt alice--what are you going to do about it?" inquired practical little emily. "this big box goes behind the piano, and any other packages that can't be accommodated inside the pie, will be hidden around in various other little corners of the room. my plan is to have the _cards_ in the pie, however, and as they are drawn out, the directions as to where the packages they represent are deposited, can be followed. is that a good idea, alsie, or do you think of something better?" "it can't be improved upon, auntee--you always think of the best plans. but let's hurry up now and finish, for the pie is about as full as it will hold." a half hour more of work, and the pie was finished. v. the workers were all quite ready to do justice to the lunch spread out for them by aunt bettie. uncle dick came in during the meal, exclaiming, "o, do save me a sandwich, alsie, for i'm almost starved!" "where's the holly? did you get any mistletoe? are there any wreaths? is there plenty of cedar?" were the questions poured out upon him before he had opportunity to sit down. "yes, to all the questions, and i'll begin work just as soon as i rest a bit and eat a bite," laughingly answered uncle dick. "does that satisfy all parties?" uncle dick was a great favorite with the children in the family--he loved them and seemed to find genuine pleasure in playing, talking, and romping with the "small fry," so it was not surprising that they should take almost complete possession of him whenever he came. "your father's improvement continues," said mrs. gordon with a happy smile, in reply to her son's question as to how the invalid was feeling. "he seems so bright and well to-day and sat in the invalid chair this morning for more than an hour. i think he is surely gaining strength at last." "he's looking forward toward to-morrow with lots of pleasure, too," said alsie. "yesterday, when i was in his room, he asked what i expected to find in my stocking, and playfully suggested that he and i would have to be careful not to get our stockings mixed. do you know, uncle dick, i had hardly given a moment's thought to what i was going to get, for i have been so busy----" alsie caught herself just in time to keep from disclosing the secret to the busy little grandmother, who, a few moments later, hurried out of the dining room to resume once more her position in the sick-chamber. "look out the window, alsie!" exclaimed emily at this point, "it looks like our hopes for a white christmas are going to be realized." sure enough, the snow was falling fast and the ground already began to look white. "if it just keeps up, auntee, won't we have a beautiful christmas?" exclaimed alsie enthusiastically. alice had been looking out, too, and the shadow of doubt pulled at her heart-strings. _could_ it be the last christmas--o, surely such a terrible sorrow was not in store for them all! what would the merry season be without him? these were the thoughts that flashed through her mind, but at the sound of the clear little voice beside her, she dismissed them and answered cheerily, "i think we are going to have a beautiful christmas--in every way--but it's time to be about our work now. ask uncle dick if he left the cedar out on the porch." the cedar was brought in--likewise the holly and mistletoe--and oh, how pretty the red berries looked, and how pretty the garlands of evergreen looked when tied up with the crimson ribbons! "how do you like these?" called uncle dick as he smoothed out a great roll of posters. "i picked them up around the office, and thought they would help in the decorations." alsie and emily were filled with delight at sight of the great colored newspaper sheets, covered with all manner of pictures of the dear old saint. there he was just ready to climb down the chimney--another poster pictured him on his annual journey driving his reindeer over the snowy ground. and so on--it seemed as if every stage of the christmas trip had been photographed in colors. "i will pin this life-sized portrait of santa claus over the fireplace here," said uncle dick, "and you two girlies may get busy at once making garlands of evergreen to drape about him, and also over these others, for they must all have a touch of green; isn't that so, alice?" "by all means," answered his sister, with a laugh. "it's really a very clever idea, dick, to bring all these posters out, for they give a festive touch to our decorations." after two hours of hard work, in which hammer, nails, and stepladder played a considerable part, the library was almost transformed in appearance. every window and picture was festooned with christmas green, and the merry face of santa claus was visible from the bookcases, the desk, and many other nooks about the room. "what about the pie, auntee? aren't we ready for it now?" questioned alsie and emily with impatience, as a general survey of the room was taken. "this is just the time where we will have to be very careful," was the reply. "alsie, suppose you and emily offer to walk out with grandmother when she goes to meet aunt martha and little james, on the five o'clock train, and as soon as you get her safely out of the house uncle dick can bring the pie and other things into the library, where we can all have a hand in fixing it up later. of course i shall carry the key to the library the rest of the evening, for after keeping the secret this long, i am determined that mother shall have as much of the surprise and pleasure as father." seeing a look of disappointment on the two little faces at the idea of being banished just at the most interesting stage of the fun, alice continued reassuringly, "it is almost train time now, chicks, and you know i can't go with grandmother to-day, so practice the golden rule and run along. after your return from the station, you may come again to the library for, as you know, grandmother will want to have a good hour's conversation with aunt martha before tea-time." no further urging was necessary. the two girls skipped away cheerfully, and a few minutes later were out in the snowstorm with the little grandmother between them, all three being well bundled up in coats and overshoes. in less than an hour they had returned, the greetings were over, grandmother had taken aunt martha off to her room for the predicted chat, and the two little girls were taking their cousin james to the library. he had been told about the pie and was curious to know what it really looked like, for james was not gifted with a vivid imagination. he soon found out, however. aunt alice had covered over the entire top of the old mahogany library table with soft cotton, and hanging from the edges was a deep border of the lovely christmas paper which is used so much in these latter days for decorations. around the edges were laid sprays of the rarer and more delicate evergreen sent from the south by the loving daughter. in the center rose the pie, and over all was sprinkled the glistening powder, which gave the whole an appearance of real snow. it was, in truth, a wonderful creation, and the children gazed at the lovely vision in speechless delight. "the big box, containing the comfort, is behind the piano, james, and there are lots of other things, too big to go in the pie, stowed away in the various corners of the room, but the cards are all in the pie, and each tells just where to find a package. some lovely flowers and plants have been sent in this afternoon, but we'll wait until morning to bring them into the library. there is the couch close beside the fireplace, and if dear father is just able to be brought in to-morrow i think he will fully enjoy the christmas we have had so much pleasure in preparing for him. suppose we go out now, for it is tea-time, and, besides, almost everything has been done." so saying, alice turned to the door. the little party hastened out, and its members were soon engaged in a romp with uncle dick in the sitting room. vi. a more beautiful christmas day could scarcely have been imagined than dawned the next morning. the earth was covered with a carpet of snow, and the trees seemed to glisten with diamonds as the sun rose, although the air was crisp and frosty. "merry christmas!" sounded in alice's ears before she had fully wakened, and looking round with a somewhat sleepy expression she beheld the form of her beloved pet, arrayed in pink dressing-gown and slippers. a beaming smile adorned the face of the little girl, although the greeting had been so subdued as to be scarcely more than a whisper. "i just couldn't wait to show you how well i look in them!" exclaimed alsie as she jumped into bed with alice, and almost smothered her with hugs and kisses. "you can always think of the prettiest things for me, dear auntee, and i do love pink so dearly," she continued with an affectionate glance at the pretty slippers, adorned with the daintiest of ribbon rosettes. "did grandfather have a good night? do you think he will be able to come into the library?" "one question at a time, dear. i rather think father had a good rest, for i heard the nurse only once during the night, and that is a good indication. if he is as well as he was yesterday, i feel sure dick can bring him into the library, and the couch is there, so that he can lie down if he gets tired." almost an hour was spent in showing the contents of alsie's stocking and discussing plans for the day. "perhaps we had better get dressed now, and be ready for breakfast when it comes, but of course we mustn't disturb father, even though it _is_ christmas morning," said alice with a smile, and she began to make haste with her toilet. "have you ever noticed what a long wait people have for breakfast on christmas morning, auntee?" "that's because some people rise at such unearthly hours," answered alice with a laugh, "but run along now, alsie, and let's see which will be dressed first." an hour later found the family grouped around the breakfast table. each member had been in to the sick-room and given his greeting to the dear invalid, who had appeared so bright and cheerful that he seemed almost like his old merry self. when alsie was recounting to him all the pretty things she had found in her stocking, he said, teasingly, "now don't get into mine, too--i'm going to wait until uncle dick and his little tots come before i take my allotted hour in the library." by ten o'clock uncle dick's family had arrived, and the big, stalwart son went into the sick-room to assist the pale, weak father into the library. a pang came to the heart of the former as he thought of what a contrast was this christmas with the one of a year before, when the now wasted form had been so vigorous and handsome. a feeling of misgiving came as to what the next christmas would bring to them. when the chair was rolled into the library, what a sight was displayed to the wondering eyes of the astonished old gentleman! the room was almost transformed in appearance with the elaborate decorations, and, added to this feast for the eyes, was the perfume of fresh flowers, for several boxes of roses and carnations had come in with christmas greetings during the early hours of the morning. grandfather's breath was almost taken away. he looked at the eager faces gathered all round him, and said helplessly, "what does it mean? i don't exactly understand." "it's _your_ christmas pie, grandfather, for we couldn't let the day go by without your having a taste. when you find all the good things that are in that pie i don't think you'll feel slighted, even if aunt bettie's _mince_ pie is denied," exclaimed alsie enthusiastically. "yes, light in," added uncle dick, "and i'm here to help you, so we'll station ourselves around the fire and all assist _you_ to enjoy it, slice by slice." for a little while, however, it was only inspected, as alice told the story of how the idea had come to little alsie, and how all of them had assisted in working it out. uncle dick finally lifted off the top and a perfect network of narrow christmas ribbons was disclosed. "each ribbon holds a dainty morsel," said emily, as grandfather reached forth his hand to grasp one. the first "draw" was a fortunate one, for it proved to be a tender note of love and greeting from one of his most faithful and valued friends. the next brought forth aunt bettie's biscuit man, which looked so funny that every one burst into laughter. then books and presents of many varieties followed. every few minutes a card would be drawn out bearing a message from some dear relative or friend in a distant city or state. these tender reminders that so many of his friends were thinking of him with affection and sending him such cordial good wishes and hopes for recovery seemed to please captain gordon greatly. as for the little "wifey"--she just sat at her husband's side and enjoyed the same measure of surprise and pleasure. the package of receipted bills--gorgeously done up in christmas style--was not forgotten, and brought forth the predicted satisfaction, even if there was considerable laughing also. "handle this with care," laughed uncle dick, as he gayly lifted out the tiny basket of eggs. "this is one slice of the pie at least that you can eat." the lemon was pulled out in the course of time and proved not to be too sour for enjoyment. alsie waited patiently for the envelope containing the "reminiscence," and at last, when it came forth, she drew very close to grandfather to watch him open it. a puzzled look was on his face as he unfolded several yellow sheets of paper and recognized his own handwriting. he began to read a few lines, however, and a kindly smile spread over his countenance. "i rather think this will interest somebody else, too. suppose you read it aloud, dick," remarked grandfather. it was dated ten years before, and proved to be one of the vivid, interesting letters that none could write so well as captain gordon. it was written at the time of alice's memorable year's trip abroad with some friends. alsie was then a tiny girl of two years. the letter gave a detailed account of one of baby's escapades. it read as follows: "the old kentucky home. "my dear alice: "it pleases me greatly to know that my young daughter is having such a glorious time abroad with her friends, even though i do miss her sorely at home. the letter written by me a day or two ago, which will probably reach you along with this, informs you that we are all well at home, and it contains as much neighborhood gossip as wifey was able to think of at the hour of my writing, along with considerable instruction about certain points in sightseeing. your letter this morning, telling the amusing little story of the italian baby, made me wonder if you wouldn't like a 'baby letter' in return. so here is the answer: "last sunday morning your little namesake was dressed up in her prettiest white dress, with an abundance of blue ribbon adornment, and seated on the front porch, with careful instruction not to soil her clothes but to wait for mother to get ready to escort her to sunday-school. it developed later that the first part of the injunction seemed to make an impression to the exclusion of the last order. at any rate, alsie's mamma was somewhat delayed in her preparations, and when, twenty minutes or half an hour later, she appeared on the porch, no baby was in sight. a number of calls brought forth no response; a messenger was dispatched to the back lot, where the dandelions grow, another to the north side of the house, where the little maiden has been so occupied recently picking violets, while still other couriers were hastily despatched to all the neighbors. the report came back from all--no baby girl had been seen by anybody. the situation began to be a little alarming. the messengers were again started out, with instructions to go farther and report at once if any trace was found. "ten or fifteen minutes passed, and by this time alsie's mamma was in a most excited state of mind, as you may well imagine, and felt perfectly sure that the little curly-headed damsel had been kidnaped. she was reproaching herself roundly for putting such a tempting morsel of humanity right into the hands of the cruel villians, when a sharp ring of the telephone brought the remnant of the family, who were not on searching duty, flying to the table in the hall, which as you know holds the receiver. "being the least agitated member of the group, i boldly called 'hello,' and was asked by a masculine voice if mrs. stratton's little daughter didn't have blue eyes and brown hair and if she wore a white dress with blue---- "it was not necessary to finish the description. my informant then stated that the little lady in question was at that moment occupying a high seat on top of the counter at the drug store, which you know is some five blocks away, and was surrounded by an admiring group of men and boys, to whom she was affably chatting. he said that she refused to be led away, but was quite happy to eat the candy, chew the gum, and play with the various other offerings that were handed out by the amused group of auditors. "of course i started at once, and a few moments later i walked in on the baby, who was sitting, according to description, on the counter, explaining, 'must keep dress kean--mamma take me sunny sool.' when i entered she held out her little hands to me with such an innocent, happy smile that i had not the heart to scold; but it was some time before i could persuade her to return to poor mamma, to whom the scant hour's parting seemed almost a year. "you can imagine the rest of the story, but to relieve your misgivings i'll assure you that the cunning little tot escaped the well-merited punishment. "this is quite a letter, so i'll wait a few days to write again. as you're probably in france by this time, i'll close my letter with an _au revoir_. yours, &c., r. a. gordon." alsie's cheeks glowed with excitement during the reading of this letter, and at its close she exclaimed, "o, auntee, have you had it all these years and never showed it to me?" "it was among my foreign letters, dear, and i had not thought of it for some time, but i well remember what a pleasure it was to read that letter and hear of the escapade of the dear little baby namesake at home. i have always meant to show it to you when you were old enough to enjoy it," answered alice. after a good deal of laughter and comments among the various members of the family, the card bearing the order to look behind the piano on the left side was pulled out of the pie, and uncle dick was dispatched for the package. it proved to be the huge box containing the silken coverlet. grandmother's enthusiasm was awakened at the sight, and she commented many times on its softness, warmth, and beauty. books, cards, and gifts of all descriptions from the little tots, were taken out, inspected and complimented, to the immense satisfaction of the younger members of the family and the entertainment of the older ones of the group. it really seemed impossible to empty that pie, but after an hour or more had been spent in the occupation the ribbons began to grow thin. "this is to be the last one," said alice, slipping her hand over a ribbon that captain gordon was just about to pick up. "all right--just as you like. there have been so many goodies in this pie that i hardly see how it would be possible for anything better to be saved for the last," answered captain gordon with a loving smile. the last ribbon was finally drawn, and tied to the end was the "box of fruit" that alice had taken such pains to make attractive. captain gordon slowly untied the ribbon and took the top off the box. he picked up a small sealed envelope bearing the inscription, "a plum from dick," and in it was a shining gold piece. each little envelope (and there were quite a number) contained a peach, a plum, a raisin, a currant, or a date. the "plums" were all gold pieces, but the checks were put in under other names--according to their value--and the silver pieces and bright pennies were all in the raisin and currant envelopes. one envelope, bearing the name "date," when opened disclosed a small card on which was written: christmas day. when i "call to see" you, this "date" will be exchanged for a "plum." harold. this occasioned a laugh, and mrs. gordon began at once to sum up the total. "it's to buy you anything you want--a comfort and luxury fund," explained alice, "and all the members of the family join together in giving it." "grandfather, we hardly knew what to call your pie. it was not a chicken pie, even though it did contain a bird and a turkey. it was not a lemon pie, even if there was a lemon in it. it could not be called an apple, peach, cherry or mince pie, though there _was_ plenty of fruit in that box, wasn't there?" said alsie, with a laugh, when everything had been examined. "i think i shall call it my 'love pie,' for never was a pie so highly seasoned or delightfully flavored with love as this has been," answered grandfather softly, "and i want the dear little girl who thought of it to know that i have enjoyed it more than any pie that i have ever eaten." the invalid was a little wearied with the unusual excitement of the morning, and was soon ordered back to his bed for a little rest. in the afternoon alice went into the sick-room for a chat, while her mother went out for a little walk in the fresh, crisp air. she told her father of how the silken comfort had been planned and made, and captain gordon, after a long pause, turned to her with what seemed to alice the most beautiful expression she had ever seen on his face, and said, "bring it to me, daughter." she brought it forth and held it out to him that he might smooth its folds and look again at its rosy color. "spread it over me, dear, and let it cover me--as long as i need it." * * * * * and it covered him for the six weeks that it was needed, when it was replaced with a coverlet of roses and lilies provided by the same loving hands. dead man's love by tom gallon _author of "tatterley," "jarwick the prodigal," "tinman," etc._ brentano's th avenue, and th street new york city contents. chapter page i.--i come to the surface of things ii.--i am hanged--and done for iii.--the missing man iv.--a little white ghost v.--i am drawn from the grave vi.--i behave disgracefully vii.--in the camp of the enemy viii.--misery's bedfellow ix.--a shooting party x.--i touch the skirts of happiness xi.--uncle zabdiel in pious mood xii.--an appointment with death xiii.--"that's the man!" xiv.--william capper comes to life xv.--i bid the doctor farewell xvi.--the boy with the long curls dead man's love. chapter i. i come to the surface of things. i came out of penthouse prison on a certain monday morning in may. let there be no misunderstanding about it; i came out by way of the roof. and the time was four in the morning; i heard the big clock over the entrance gates chime in a dull, heavy, sleepy fashion as i lay crouched on the roof under shadow of the big tower at the north end, and looked about me. looking back at it now, it seems like a dream, and even then i could not realise exactly how it had happened. all i know is that there had been an alarm of fire earlier in the night, and a great running to and fro of warders, and a battering at doors by frantic locked-in men, with oaths, and threats, and shrieks. the smell of burning wood had reached my nostrils, and little whiffs and wreaths of smoke had drifted in through the ventilator in my door, before that door was opened, and i found myself huddled outside in the long corridor with other fellow-captives. and at that time i had not thought of escaping at all, probably from the fact that i was too frightened to do anything but obey orders. but it came about that, even in that well-conducted prison, something had gone wrong with the fire-hose; and it became a matter of a great passing of buckets from hand to hand, and i, as a trusted prisoner, and a model one, too, was put at the end of the line that was the least guarded. smoke was all about me, and i could only see the faces of convicts and warders looming at me through the haze, indistinctly. i handed the buckets mechanically, as i had done everything else in that place during the few months i had been there. i heard an order shouted in the distance, and i lost the faces that had seemed to be so near to me; the fire had broken out in a fresh place, and there was a sudden call for help. i hesitated--the last of the line of men--for a moment; then i set down my bucket, and turned in the opposite direction and ran for it. i knew where there was a flight of stairs; i guessed that one particular door i had seen but once would be open; the rest i left to chance. with my heart thumping madly i fled up the stairs, and flung myself against the door; it yielded, and i stumbled through on to the roof of the prison. i could hear down below me a great hubbub, but the roar of the flames had subsided somewhat, and i knew that the fire had been conquered. that meant for me a shorter time in which to make good my escape. i went slipping and sliding along the roof, half wishing myself back inside the prison, and wondering how i should get from that dizzy height to the ground. fortunately i was young, and fit, and strong, and they had put me to the hardest work in the prison for those first months, thereby hardening my muscles to their own undoing; and i was active as a cat. after lying on the roof for what seemed a long time--until, in fact, the hubbub below had almost subsided entirely--i determined that i could afford to wait no longer. i raised my head where i lay and peered over the edge, as i have said, just as the great clock struck four. i looked straight into the open mouth of a rain-water pipe a few inches below me. it was almost full daylight by this time, but a hazy, misty morning. i worked my way to the very edge of the roof, and lay along it; then i got my arms over the edge and gripped the broad top of the pipe. there could be no half measures about such a matter; i threw myself over bodily, and dropped to the stretch of my arms, and hung there. then i quickly lowered one hand and gripped the smooth, round pipe, and began to slide down. i remember wondering if by some fatality i should drop into the arms of an expectant warder. but that didn't happen. i reached the ground in safety and crouched there, waiting; there was still the outer wall to scale. in that i was less fortunate, for although in the grey light i made the circuit of it inside twice over, i failed to discover anything by which i could mount. but at last i came upon a shed that was used for storing the oakum, picked and unpicked; it had a heavy padlock on the wooden door, and the roof of the shed inclined at an angle against the high wall. it was my only chance, and there was but one way to do it. i stepped back a few paces, and took a running leap for the edge of the roof, jumping for the padlock. i tried three times, and the third time i got my foot upon the padlock, and caught the gutter with my hands. exerting all my strength, i drew myself up until i lay flat upon the shelving roof of the shed, scrambled up that, and stood upright against the outer wall, with the topmost stones about a foot above the reach of my hands. that was the most ticklish work of all, because the first time i tried to make a jump for the top of the wall i slipped, and nearly rolled off the sloping roof altogether. the second time i was more successful, and i got my fingers firmly hitched on to the top of the wall. i hung there for a moment, fully expecting that i should have to let go; but i heard a shout--or thought i heard one--from the direction of the prison, and that urged me on as nothing else could have done. i drew myself up until i lay flat on the top of the wall, and then i rolled over into freedom. incidentally in my hurry i rolled over on to a particularly hard road, without much care how i fell. i picked myself up and looked about me, and began for the first time to realise my desperate situation. what earthly chance was there for me, clad as i was in convict garb, in a wild country place, at something after four o'clock in the morning? i was branded before all men; i was a pariah, to be captured by hook or by crook; the hand of the meanest thing i might meet would legitimately be against me. but then i was only five-and-twenty, and the coming day had in it a promise of sweetness and of beauty--and i was free! even while i cast about in my mind to know what i should do, i know that i rejoiced in my strength and in my young manhood; i know that i could have grappled almost gleefully with any adverse fate that might have risen up against me. but i recognised that the first thing to do would be to make for cover of some kind, until i could make shift to get a change of clothing, or to decide after my hurried flight what the next move was to be. after going some little way i dropped down into a ditch, and looked back at the prison. it stood up grim and silent against the morning sky, and there was now no sign of any disturbance about it. evidently for the present i had not been missed; only later would come a mustering of the prisoners, and my number would be called, and there would be no answer. that gave me time, but not time enough. i determined to make my way across country as quickly as i could before the world was astir, and so put as great a distance as possible between myself and the prison. but by the time i had run a few miles, and could see in the near distance the roofs of cottages, i began to realise that in the country people have a bad habit of rising at a most unearthly hour. it was but little after five o'clock, and yet already smoke was coming from cottage chimneys; more than once i had a narrow squeak of it, in coming almost face to face with some labourer trudging early to his work in the fields. daylight was not my time, it was evident; i must wait for the friendly darkness, even though i waited hungry. the record of a great part of that day is easily set down. i lay perdu in a little wood, where, by raising my head, i could see out on to the broad highway that was presently in some indefinite fashion to set me on the greater road for freedom. all day long the sun blazed down on that road, and all day long from my hiding-place i watched vehicles and pedestrians passing to and fro; i had much time for thought. once some little children toddled down hand-in-hand into the wood, and began to pick flowers near where i lay hidden; that was the first sight of anything beautiful i had had for a good long time, as you shall presently understand. despite the danger to myself, if they should have seen me and raised any alarm, i was sorry enough when they toddled away again. there was so much to be thought about, as i lay there on my face, plucking at the cool green grasses, and drinking in the beauty of the wood. for i was but five-and-twenty, and yet had never known really what life was like. i had been shut away all my days in a prison, almost as grim and as bad as that from which i had this day escaped; and i had left it for that greater prison where they branded men and set them to toil like beasts. my earliest recollections had been of my uncle--zabdiel blowfield. i seemed to have a vision of him when i was very, very small, and when i lay quaking in a big bed in a horrible great room, bending over me, and flaring a candle at me, as though with the amiable intention of starting my night's rest well with a personal nightmare. uncle zabdiel had brought me up. it seems that i was left on his hands when i was a mere child; i easily developed and degenerated into his slave. at the age of fourteen i knew no more of the world than a baby of fourteen months, and what smattering of education i had had was pressed then into my uncle's service; i became his clerk. he lived in a great house near barnet, and from there he conducted his business. it was a paying business, and although i touched at first only the fringe of it, i came to understand that zabdiel blowfield was something of a human spider, gathering into his clutches any number of fools who had money to lose, together with others who wanted money, and were prepared to pay a price for it. he taught me his business, or just so much of it as should make me useful in the drudgery of it; and, as it happened, he taught me too much. i had ten years of that slavery--ten years, during which i grew to manhood, and to strength and vigour. for while he thought he suppressed me, and while, as a matter of fact, he half-starved me, and dressed me in his own cast-off clothing, and kept my young nose to the grindstone of his business, i contrived, within the last year or so at least, to lead something of a double life. i was young, and that alone shall plead my excuse. if another excuse were wanted, it might be summed up in this: that the world called me--that world that was a glorious uncertainty, of which i knew nothing and longed to know a great deal. uncle zabdiel regarded me as very much of a poor fool; it never entered into his head for a moment to suspect the machine he had taught to do certain mechanical things. but i, who never had a penny for my own, constantly had gold passing through my fingers, and gold spelt a way out into the great world. i was tempted, and i fell; it was quite easy to alter the books. i had two years of it. they were two years during which i worked as hard as ever during the day, and escaped from that prison when darkness had fallen. i always contrived to get back before the dawn, or before my uncle had come into the place he called his office; and by that time i had changed back into the shabby, apparently broken, creature he knew for his slave. for the rest i did nothing very vicious; but i saw something of the world outside, and i spent what i could get of my uncle's money. the blow fell, as i might have expected--and that, too, by the merest chance. i had grown reckless; there seemed no possibility of my being found out. but my uncle zabdiel happened to light upon a something that made him suspicious, and from that he went to something else. without saying a word to me, he must have unwound the tangle slowly bit by bit, until it stood out before him clearly; and then he took to watching. i shall never forget the morning when he caught me. i got into my accustomed window, in those gayer clothes i affected in my brief holidays, and i came face to face with the old man in my room. he was sitting on the side of the bed, with his black skull-cap thrust on the back of his head, and with his chin resting on his stick; and for a long time after i knew the game was up he neither spoke nor moved. as for me, i had had my good time, and i simply wondered in a dull fashion what he was going to do. "you needn't say anything, norton hyde," said uncle zabdiel at last. "i know quite as much as you can tell me, and perhaps a little more. you're an ungrateful dog, and like other ungrateful dogs you shall be punished." "i wanted to live like other men," i said sullenly. "haven't i fed you, lodged you, looked after you?" he snapped out. "where would you have been, but for me?" "i might have been a better man," i answered him. "i've slaved for you for ten long years, and you've done your best to starve me, body and soul. i've taken your money, but it isn't as much as you'd have had to pay me in those ten years, if i'd been some poor devil of a clerk independent of you!" "we won't bandy words," said my uncle, getting up from my bed. "go to bed; i'll decide what to do with you in the morning." now, wisely speaking, of course, i ought to have made good my escape that night. but there was a certain bravado in me--a certain feeling, however wrong, that i was justified to an extent in what i had done--for the labourer is worthy of his hire. so i went to bed, and awaited the morning with what confidence i could. being young, i slept soundly. i was the only living relative of zabdiel blowfield, and one would have thought--one, at least, who did not know him--that he would have shown some mercy. but mercy was not in his nature, and i had wounded the man in that tenderest part of him--the pocket. incredible as it may seem, i was handed over to justice on a charge of forgery and falsification of books, and in due course i stood my trial, with my uncle as the chief witness against me. uncle zabdiel made a very excellent witness, too, from the point of view of the prosecution. i--norton hyde--stood in the dock, i flatter myself, rather a fine figure of a young man, tall, and straight, and dark-haired; the prosecutor--and a reluctant one at that--stood bowed, and old, and trembling, and told the story of my ingratitude. he had brought me up, and he had educated me; he had fed, and clothed, and lodged me; but for him i must have died ignominiously long before. and i had robbed him, and had spent his money in riotous living. he wept while he told the tale, for the loss of the money was a greater thing than most men would suppose. the limb of the law he had retained for the prosecution had a separate cut at me on his account. according to that gentleman i was a monster; i would have robbed a church; there was scarcely any crime in the calendar of which i would not have been capable. it was plainly suggested that the best thing that could happen to society would be to get me out of the way for as many years as possible. the judge took up the case on something of the same lines. he preached a neat little sermon on the sin of ingratitude, and incidentally wondered what the youth of the country were coming to in these degenerate days; he left me with confidence to a jury of respectable citizens, who were, i was convinced, every man jack of them, fathers of families. i was doomed from the beginning, and i refused to say anything in my own defence. so they packed me off quietly out of the way for ten years; and uncle zabdiel, i have no doubt, went back to his old house, and thereafter engaged a clerk at a starvation wage, and kept a pretty close eye upon him. i only know that, so far as i was concerned, he sidled up to me as i was leaving the dock, and whispered, with a leer-- "you'll come out a better man, norton--a very much better man." perhaps i had not realised the tragedy of the business at that time, for it must be understood that i had not in any sense of the word lived. such small excursions as i had made into life had been but mere dippings into the great sea of it; of life itself i knew nothing. and now they were to shut me away for ten years--or a little less, if i behaved myself with decorum--and after that i was to be given an opportunity to make a real start, if the gods were kind to me. however, it is fair to say that up to the actual moment of my escape from penthouse prison i had accepted my fate with some measure of resignation. i had enough to eat, and work for my hands, and i slept well; in that sense i was a young and healthy animal, with a past that had not been interesting, and a future about which i did not care to think. but as i lay in the wood all that long day better thoughts came to me; i had hopes and desires such as i had not had before. i saw in a mental vision sweet country places, and fair homes, and decent men and women; i was to meet and touch them all some day, when i had worked myself out of this present tangle. alas! i did not then know how much i was to go through first! i had lain so long, with but the smallest idea of where i actually was, and with a ravening hunger upon me, that i had actually seen men returning from their work to their homes in the late afternoon before i bestirred myself to think of what i was to do. more than once, as i lay there, i had seen, speeding along the great road above me, motor-cars that annihilated space, and were gone in a cloud of dust. i had a ridiculous feeling that if i were nimble enough i might manage to board one of those, and so get away beyond the reach of pursuit. for always the great prison menaced me, standing as it did within a mile or two of where i lay. i knew that the pursuit must already have started; i wondered that i had not yet seen a warder. and then came deliverance. you may say it was miraculous, if you will; i can only set down here the fact as it happened. i saw in the distance, winding down a long hill, a grey monster scarcely darker than the road over which it swept, and i knew without the telling that the grey monster was a racing car. as it drew nearer i saw that it had a sharpened front like an inverted boat, and behind that sharpened front crouched a man, with his hands upon the wheel and his face masked by hideous goggles. he swept down towards the place where i lay at a terrific pace, and, half in wonder at the sight, and half fascinated by it, i drew myself forward through the bushes until i lay at the very side of the road, with my chin uplifted and my face literally peering through the hedge. the grey monster came on and on, and the curious thing was that it slackened speed a little as it got near to me, so that i saw the dusty outlines of it, and the great bulk of it set low between its wheels, and caught the sound of its sobbing breath. and then it stopped at the side of the road, so near to me that i could almost have stretched out a hand and touched the nearest wheel. the man got down stiffly out of his seat, and thrust the goggles up over his cap and began to pull off his driving-gloves. something had gone wrong with the monster, and i heard the man heave a quick sigh as he bent down to examine the machinery. for a little time his head disappeared among the works, and then, with a grunt of relief, he straightened himself and began pulling on his gloves; and so, by a miracle, turning his head a little, looked down into my upturned face. he was a youngish man with a thin, keen, shaven face, tight-lipped and clear-eyed. he had on a long grey coat, buttoned close about him, and his appearance, with the cap drawn down over his ears and the goggles set on the front of it, was not altogether prepossessing. but the man looked a sportsman, and somehow or other i was attracted to him. scarcely knowing what i did, i glanced to right and left along the road, and then rose to my feet in the ditch. he gave a low whistle, and nodded slowly, finished pulling on his gloves, and set his gloved hands against his sides. "hullo, my friend," he said at last, "i heard about you on the hill up yonder. you're wanted badly." "i know that," i said huskily, for my throat was dry, alike from thirst and from a new fear that had sprung up in me. "perhaps you'd like to drive me back to meet them." "if you're anxious," he retorted, with a laugh. "only it happens that i'm not that sort. it would be playing it rather low down to do that, wouldn't it?" "i should think so," i said, answering his laugh with another that had something of a sob in it. "what's your particular crime?" he asked. "murder?" "nothing half so bad as that," i answered him. "i stole some money, and had a good time; now i've been paying the penalty. i've done nearly one out of my ten years." he turned away abruptly, and i heard him mutter something which sounded like "poor devil!" but i would not be sure of that. then, after bending for a moment again over his car, he said, without looking up at me, "i take it you'd like to get out of this part of the country, if possible?" "anywhere!" i exclaimed, in a shaking whisper. "i only want a chance." he looked along the lines of the grey monster, and laid his hand upon the machine affectionately. "then you can't do better than travel with me," he said. "i can swing you along at a pace that'll knock the breath out of you if you're not used to it, and i can drop you a hundred miles or so along the road. there's no one in sight; get in. here's a spare pair of goggles." i adjusted the goggles with a shaking hand, and tried to thank him. he had tossed a short grey coat to me, and that i put about my shoulders. almost before i was in the seat beside him the grey car began to move, and then i saw the landscape slipping past us in two streaks. i tried once or twice to speak, but the words were driven back into my mouth, and i could not get anything articulate out. my recollection of that journey is dim and obscure. i only know that now and then, as we flew along, the man jerked out questions at me, and so discovered that i had had nothing to eat all day, and was practically famished. he slowed down the car and showed me where, in a tin case under my feet, were some sandwiches and a flask; and i took in sandwiches and dust gratefully enough for the next few miles, and gulped down a little out of the flask. the houses were beginning to be more frequent, and we met more vehicles on the road, when presently he slowed down to light his lamps. "at what particular spot would you like to be dropped?" he asked, as he came round my side of the car and bent down over the lamp there. "choose for yourself." i told him i hardly knew; i think then, for the first time, i realised that i was in as bad a case as ever, and that, save for my short coat and the goggles, i was clad exactly as when i had dropped over my prison wall. i think i told him that all places were alike to me, and that i would leave it to him. so we went on again at a diminishing speed, with the motor horn sounding continuously; flashed through an outlying village or two, until i saw, something to my horror, that the man was drawing into london. i turned to him to protest, but he smiled and shook his head. "don't you worry; i'm going to see you through this--just for the sport of the thing," he said, raising his voice to a shout, so that he might be heard above the roar of the flying wheels. "i'm going to take you slap through london to my place, and i'm going to give you a change of clothes and some food. to-morrow, if you like, i'll whack you down to the coast, and ship you off somewhere. you're as safe as houses with me; i've taken an interest in you." i could only sit still, and wonder what good providence had suddenly tossed this man into my world to do this thing for me. i could have kissed his hands; i could have worshipped him, as one might worship a god. i felt that my troubles were over; for the first time in all my life i had someone to lean upon, someone willing and anxious to help me. and then as suddenly the whole thing came to an end. we had got through a village in safety, and had swung at a terrific pace round a corner, and there was a huge hay-waggon in the very middle of the road. there was no time to pull up, and the road was too narrow to allow the car free passage on either side. i heard the man beside me give a gasp as he bent over his wheel, and then we swerved to the right, and flew up the bank at the side of the road, in a mad endeavour to pass the waggon. we shot past it somehow, and i thought we should drop to the road again; instead, the car continued up the bank, seemed to hang there for a moment, even at the terrific pace we were going, and then began to turn over. i say began to turn over because in that fraction of a second events seemed to take hours to finish. i know i jumped, and landed all in a heap, and seemed to see, as i fell, the car before me turning over; and then for a moment or two i knew nothing. when i recovered consciousness i got slowly to my knees, and looked about me. my head ached fearfully, but i seemed to have no very great injuries. a dozen yards in front of me lay the grey monster, with three wheels left to it, and those three upreared helplessly in the air. my friend the driver i could not see anywhere. i staggered to my feet, relieved to find that i could walk, and went forward to the car; and there, on the other side of it, lay my friend, doubled up and unconscious. he, too, seemed to have escaped any very great injury as by a miracle. i straightened him out and touched him here and there, in the hope to discover if any bones were broken; he only groaned a little, and even that sound was cheering. the man was not dead. i had no thought of my own safety until i heard the rumble of wheels, and saw the cause of all the disaster--that hay-waggon--coming towards me. from the opposite direction, too, i heard the sharp toot-toot of a motor horn, and knew that help was coming. and then, for the first time, i realised that that help was not for me, and that i must not remain where i was a moment longer: for if my situation had been bad before, it was now truly frightful. i was somewhere in the neighbourhood of london--near to a northern suburb--and i was in convict garb, partially concealed by a short grey coat, and i was hatless. fortunately for me, by this time it was dark, and i had only seen that hay-waggon looming up, as it were, against the evening sky. knowing that my friend must soon receive better help than i could give him, i decided that that episode in my life at least was closed. i slipped off my goggles and dropped them beside him; then, after a momentary glance round, i decided to try for a fence at one side, opposite that bank that had been our undoing. it was not very high, just within reach of my hands. i made a jump for the top and scrambled over, and dropped among some undergrowth on the further side of it. there is a humorous side to everything; even in my plight i was compelled to laugh at what i now saw through a chink in the fence. i peered out to see what became of my friend, and as i did so i saw that another motor-car had stopped by the overturned one, and that the driver had got down. greatly to my relief i saw my friend sit up and stare about him; even saw him smile a little ruefully at the sight of his grey monster in its present condition. and then, although i could not hear what he said, i saw that he was asking questions eagerly about me. for he had lost me entirely; it was evident that the poor fellow was in a great state of perplexity. i sincerely hope that some day he may read these lines, and so may come to an understanding of what happened to me; i heartily wished, as i looked through the fence then, that i could have relieved his perplexity. it was evident that after his accident he was not at all sure whether he had left me on the road at some place or other, or whether by a miracle i had been in some fashion snatched off the earth, and so snatched out of my predicament. as i feared, however, that he and the other man, together with the driver of the waggon, might begin some regular search for me, i decided that i could no longer remain where i was. i began to walk away, through thick rank grass and among trees, going cautiously, and wondering where i was. in truth i was so shaken that i staggered and swayed a little as i walked. i tried to get my ideas into some order, that i might make myself understand what was the best thing for me to do. i came to the conclusion that i must first get a change of clothing; there was no hope for me unless i could do that. by this time telegraph wires would have carried messages to all parts describing me, and those messages would have travelled much faster even than that unfortunate racing car by which i had come so far. if i could break into a house, and by some great good chance find clothing that would fit me, all might be well. but at the moment i stood marked and branded for all men to discover. somewhat to my relief and also to my dismay, i found presently that i was walking in the grounds of a private house. i came upon a large artificial lake or pond, with stone seats dotted about here and there near the margin of it; the stone seats were green and brown with moss and climbing plants that had been allowed to work their will upon them. in fact, all the grounds had a neglected appearance, and so had the house, too, when presently i came to it. i was just making up my mind which was the best window by which i might effect an entry, when i heard voices quite near to me, and dropped at once on an instinct, and lay still. the two figures, i now discovered, were those of a man and woman, standing close together in a little clump of trees. they had been so still that i had walked almost up to them, and might indeed have blundered against them but for the voices. as i lay now i could hear distinctly every word they said. the man was speaking. "my dear, dear little friend," he said, "you know i would do anything in all the world to help you. you're not safe here; i dread that man, and for your sake i fear him. why don't you let me take you away from this dreadful house? you know i would be good to you." "yes, i know that, gregory," replied the girl softly. "but i can't make up my mind--i can't be sure of myself. i can't be sure even that i love you well enough to let you take care of me." "but you don't love anyone else?" he pleaded. and now, for the first time, as he turned his head a little, i saw the man's face. he was quite young, and i noticed that he was tall, and big, and dark, of about the same style and appearance, and even of the same age, i should conjecture, as myself. he was holding the girl's hands and looking down into her eyes. i could not see her face clearly, but i judged her to be small, and fair, and slight of figure. "no, there is no one else i love," she answered him. "perhaps, some day, gregory, i may make up my mind--some day, when things get too terrible to be borne any longer here. i'm not afraid; i have a greater courage than you think. and, after all, the man dare not kill me." "i'm not so sure of that, debora," said the man. they walked away in the direction of the house, and i lay still among the dank grasses, watching them as they went. they disappeared round a corner of it, and still i dared not move. after quite a long time i thought i heard in the house itself a sharp cry. perhaps i had been half asleep, lying there with my head on my arms, but the night was very still, and it had seemed to me that i heard the cry distinctly. at all events it roused me, and startled me to a purpose. i must get into that house, and i must get a change of clothing. i made straight for it now, and presently found a window at a convenient height from the ground, and some thick stems of creeper up which i could climb to reach it. i stood there on the window-sill for a moment or two, a grey shadow among grey shadows; then i opened the window, and, hearing nothing, stepped down into a room. i found myself in intense darkness. i left the window open so that i might make good my escape, and i began to fumble about for something by which i could get a light. i stumbled against a chair, and stood still to listen; there seemed to be no sound in the room. and then while i moved, in the hope to find a fireplace and some matches, i had that curious skin-stirring feeling that there was someone or something in the room with me, silent, and watchful, and waiting. i could almost have sworn that i heard someone breathing, and restraining their breathing at that. i failed to find the mantelshelf, but i stumbled presently against a table. i stretched out my hands cautiously about it, leaning well forward over it as i did so, and my forehead struck against something that moved away and moved back again--something swinging in mid-air above the table. i thought it might be a lamp, and i put out my hand to steady it. but that which i touched was so surprising and so horrifying that for a moment i held it, and stood there in the darkness fumbling with it, and on the verge of shrieking. for it was a man's boot i held, and there was a foot inside it. someone was hanging there above me. i made straight for the window at once; i felt i was going mad. needless to say, i failed to find the window at all, but this time i found the mantelshelf. there my hand struck against a match-box, and knocked over a candlestick with a clatter. after two or three tries i got a light, and stooped with the lighted match in my hands and found the candlestick, and set it upright on the floor. so soon as i had steadied my hands to the wick and had got a flame, i looked up at the dreadful thing above me. suspended from a beam that went across the ceiling was a man hanging by the neck, dead--and the distorted, livid face was the face of the man i had seen in the garden but a little time before--the face of the man who had talked with the girl! nor was that all. seated at the table was another man, with arms stretched straight across it, so that the hands were under the dangling feet of the other, and with his face sunk on the table between the arms. and this seemed to be an old man with grey hair. chapter ii. i am hanged--and done for. so soon as i could get my eyes away from that thing that swung horribly above the table, i forced them to find the window. but even then i could not move. it was as though my limbs were frozen with the sheer horror of this business into which i had blundered. you will own that i had had enough of sensations for that day; i wonder now that i was able to get back to sane thoughts at all. i stood there, with my teeth chattering, and my hands clutching at the grey coat i wore, striving to pull myself together, and to decide what was best to be done. to add to the horror of the thing, the man who lay half across the table began to stir, and presently sat up slowly, like one waking from a long and heavy sleep. he sat for some moments, staring in front of him, with his hands spread out palms downwards on the table. he did not seem to see me at all. i watched him, wondering what he would do when presently he should look round and catch sight of me; wondering, for my part, whether, if he cried out with the shock of seeing me, i should grapple with him, or make for the window and dash out into the darkness. he did a surprising thing at last. he raised his eyes slowly, until they rested upon what gyrated and swung above him, and then, as his eyes travelled upwards to the face, he smiled very slowly and very gently; and almost on the instant turned his head, perhaps at some noise i made, and looked squarely at me. "good evening, sir!" he said in a low tone. think of it! to be calmly greeted in that fashion, in a room into which i had blundered, clad grotesquely as i was, and with that dead thing hanging above us! idiotically enough i tried to get out an answer to the man, but i found my tongue staggering about among my teeth and doing nothing in the way of shaping words. so i stared at him with, i suppose, a very white face, and pointed to that which hung above us. "he's very quiet, sir," said the old man, getting to his feet slowly. "i was afraid at first--i didn't understand. i was afraid of him. think of that!" he laughed again with a laughter that was ghastly. "cut--cut him down!" i stammered in a whisper, holding on to the edge of the mantelshelf and beginning to feel a horrible nausea stealing over me. he shook his head. "i can't touch him--i'm afraid again," said the old man, and backed away into a corner. what i should have done within a minute or two i do not really know, if by chance i could have kept my reason at all, but i heard someone moving in the house, and coming towards the room in which i stood. i did not think of my danger; everything was so far removed from the ordinary that it was as though i moved and walked in some dream, from which presently, with a shudder and a sigh of relief, i should awake. therefore, even when i heard footsteps coming towards the room i did not move, nor did it seem strange that whoever came seemed to step with something of a jaunty air, singing loudly as he moved, with a rather fine baritone voice. in just such a fashion a man flung open the door and marched straight into the room, and stopped there, surveying the picture we made, the three of us--one dead and two alive--with a pair of very bright, keen eyes. he was a tall, thin man, with sleek black hair gone grey at the temples. he had a cleanly-shaven face, much lined and wrinkled at the corners of the eyes and of the mouth; and when he presently spoke i discovered that his lips parted quickly, showing the line of his white teeth, and yet with nothing of a smile. it was as though the lips moved mechanically in some still strong mask; only the eyes were very much alive. and after his first glance round the room i saw that his eyes rested only on me. "who are you? what do you want?" he demanded sharply. i did not answer his question; i pointed weakly to the hanging man. "aren't you going--going to do anything with him?" i blurted out. he shrugged his shoulders. "he's dead; and the other one,"--he let his eyes rest for a moment on the old man--"the other one is as good as dead for anything he understands. the matter is between us, and perhaps i'd better hear you first." "i can't--not with that in the room!" i whispered, striving to steady my voice. he shrugged his shoulders again, and drew from his pocket a knife. keeping his eyes fixed on the swaying figure above him, he mounted to a chair, and so to the table, deftly and strongly lifted the dead man upon one shoulder while he severed the rope above his head. then he stepped down, first to the chair and then to the floor, and laid the thing, not ungently, on a couch in the corner. i was able now to avert my eyes from it. "does that please you?" he asked, with something of a sneer. "get forward into the light a little; i want to see you." i stepped forward, and he looked me up and down; then he nodded slowly, and showed that white gleam of his teeth. "i see--a convict," he said. "from what prison?" "many miles from here," i answered him. "i escaped early this morning; someone brought me as far as this on a motor-car. i broke in--because i wanted food and a change of clothing. i was desperate." "i see--i see," he said, in his smooth voice. "a change of clothing, and food. perhaps we may be able to provide you with both." "you mean you'll promise to do so, while you communicate with the police, i suppose?" i answered sullenly. he smiled, and shook his head. "that is not my way of doing things at all," he said. "you are desperate, you tell me, and i have no particular interest in your recapture. if it comes to that, i have trouble enough of my own." he glanced for a moment at the body behind him. "i should like to know how it comes about that you are a convict--for what particular crime, i mean?" i told him, as briefly as i could, the whole story, not painting myself too black, you may be sure. he listened with deep attention until i had finished, and then for a minute or two he stood still, with his arms folded, evidently considering some point deeply. i waited, forgetful of all else but the man before me, for he seemed to hold my fate in his hands. all this time the old man i had found in the room stood in a corner, smiling foolishly, and nibbing his hands one over the other. the other man who dominated the situation took not the faintest notice of him. "how long have you been hanging about this place, waiting to break in?" demanded the man who had come into the room last. "speak the truth." "i don't exactly know," i answered. "i fell asleep while i lay in the grounds, and lost count of time. but i saw him,"--i nodded my head towards that prone figure on the couch--"i saw him in the grounds." "alone?" he jerked the word out at me. "no, there was a lady." "since you know that, you may as well know the rest," he replied. "this young man has had a most unhappy attachment for a young lady in this house, who is my ward. he has persecuted her with his attentions; he has come here under cover of the darkness, over and over again, against my wishes. she liked him----" "i heard her say that," i broke in, incautiously. "then you only confirm my words," he said, after a sharp glance at me. "perhaps you may imagine my feelings when to-night i discovered that the unhappy boy had absolutely taken his revenge upon me, and upon her, by hanging himself in this very room. so far i have been able to keep the knowledge from my ward,--i think there's a possibility that i may be able to keep it from her altogether." i did not understand the drift of his thought then, nor did i see in what way i was to be concerned in the matter. he came a little nearer to me, and seated himself on the table, and bent his keen glance on me before going on again. i think i muttered something, for my own part, about being sorry, but it was a feeble mutter at the best. "perhaps you may wonder why i have not sent at once, in the ordinary course, for a doctor," he went on. "that is quite easily explained when i tell you that i am a doctor myself. the situation is absurd, of course. perhaps i had better introduce myself. i am dr. bardolph just." he paused, as though expecting that i should supply information on my side. "my name is norton hyde," i said brusquely. "and you speak like a gentleman, which is a passport at once to my favour," he assured me, with a bow. "now, let us get to business. a young man comes here to-night and hangs himself in my house. i have a deep respect and liking for that young man, although i am opposed to the idea of his aspiring to the hand of my ward. he hangs himself, and at once scandal springs up, bell-mouthed, to shout the thing to the world. the name of an innocent girl is dragged in; my name is dragged in; innocent people suffer for the foolish act of a thoughtless boy. the question in my mind at once is: can the penalty be averted from us?" i must own the man fascinated me. i began to feel that i would do much to help him, and to help the girl i had seen that night in the grounds of the house. fool that i was then, i did not understand and did not know what deep game he was playing; indeed, had i known, how could i have stood against him? "i am, i trust, always a friend to the friendless and the helpless," he went on. "you are friendless, i take it, and very helpless, and although i am no opponent of the law, i have yet the instinct which tells me that i should help a fugitive. now let us understand one another." at this point we were interrupted, horribly enough, by a cry from the old man in the corner--a cry like nothing earthly. he advanced a few steps towards where we stood, and looked from one to the other of us, with his hands plucking nervously at his lips. "i don't understand, gentlemen--i don't understand," he said, in a feeble voice. "he was alive and well and strong this morning; he clapped me on the shoulder, and said--what was it that he said?" the man put one hand to his head and looked at me in a lost fashion. "i forget what it was; something seems to have gone here!" he struck his forehead sharply with his knuckles, and again looked at us with that feeble smile. "get out of the way!" said dr. just fiercely. "take no notice of him," he added to me. "he babbles about things he doesn't understand." the old man slunk away, and sat down on a chair in the corner and dropped his forehead in his hands. and from that time he did not move until my strange interview with dr. just was over. "now, what i suggest is this," the doctor said, leaning towards me and impressing his points upon me by stabbing one white forefinger into the palm of his other hand. "we will say that you have suffered for a crime which was not morally a crime at all. we will put it that you, by all the laws of humanity, had a right to escape from the hideous doom to which you had been consigned. you have escaped, and by the strangest chance you have found a friend at the very outset." he smiled at me, if that quick baring of his teeth could be called a smile, and i tried to thank him with broken words. then he went on again-- "before you can enter the world again it is necessary that you should have clothing which does not brand you as that dress does," he said. "therefore i want for a moment to put a case clearly to you--to let you see what is in my mind. suppose that this convict, fleeing from pursuit, haunted by the thought that he may be recaptured, and may have to serve a yet longer period for his escapade--starving, and fainting, and hopeless; suppose this convict enters a house, and, finding the means ready to his hand, puts an end to the business once for all, and throws up the sponge. in other words, suppose that convict hangs himself, and so gets the laugh of those who are hunting him down. do you follow me?" i was so far from following him that i shook my head feebly, and glanced first at my own clothes and then at the man who had hanged himself, and who now lay on the couch. then i shook my head again. the doctor seemed to lose patience. "i'm afraid you haven't a very quick brain," he exclaimed testily. "let me make myself more clear. a young man of good family and good standing in the world, comes in here to-night and commits suicide; soon after an outcast, flying from justice, follows him, and breaks in also. in appearance the two are something alike; both are tall, and strong, and dark; each man--the one from compulsion--has closely cropped dark hair. suppose i suggest that, to avoid a scandal, it is the convict who has hanged himself, and that the other man has not been here at all. in other words, as you need a change of clothing, i propose you change with that!" i gasped at the mere horror of the idea; i shuddered as i looked at the dead man. "i couldn't--i couldn't!" i whispered. "besides, what would become of me?" "i don't ask you to take the place of the other man; that would be too risky, and would, in fact, be impossible," he said quietly. "i am merely asking you to assist me to cover up this unfortunate business and at the same time to save yourself." there was no time for me to think; i was like a rat in a trap. nevertheless, on an impulse, i refused to have anything to do with so mad a notion. "i won't do it; it's impossible!" i said. "very good, my friend!" he shrugged his shoulders and moved quietly across the room towards the bell. "then my duty is clear--i give you up to those who must be anxious concerning your safety. i've given you your chance, and you refuse to take it." his hand was on the bell when i called to him, "stop! is there no other way?" he shook his head. "no other way at all," he replied. "come, be reasonable; i'm not going to land you into a trap. put the matter clearly to yourself. you are a pariah, outside the pale of civilised things; i offer you a fresh start. mr. norton hyde, the convict, commits suicide--i pledge my word to you that the fraud shall not be discovered. a certain young girl is saved from much trouble, and sorrow, and anxiety; i also am saved from the consequences of a very rash act, committed by our dead friend here. so far as you are concerned, you can start afresh, with your record wiped out. come--yes or no? "i don't trust you," i said. "what do you want to do with me? what purpose have you in this, apart from the hushing up of a scandal?" he became thoughtful at that; presently, looking up, he answered me with what seemed to be a charming frankness, "you have the right to ask, and although i might refuse to reply, i want to treat you fairly," he said. "in a certain business in which i am interested--a certain scheme i have on hand--i want help. you will be a man who has thrown everything, as it were, into the melting-pot of life: you will have everything to win, and nothing to lose. in other words, you are just the creature i want--the man ready to my hand, to do anything i may suggest. you haven't answered me yet; is it to be yes or no?" i said, "no!" quickly, and he moved towards the bell with an impatient frown. he had only three steps to take, but in that brief moment i had a vision of myself handcuffed and going back to my prison; i could not bear it. he was within an inch of the bell, when i cried out the word that was to change all my life, and was to set me upon the most desperate venture i had yet had anything to do with. i cried out, "yes." he smiled, and came back to me. "you should learn to make up your mind more quickly," he said. "now, let us see what we have to do. you've nothing to be afraid of, and you need take no notice of that creature in the corner there; he knows nothing, and will remember nothing. strip yourself to the skin." as i began to undress, i glanced at the old man in the corner; he sat in the same attitude, with his head sunk in his hands. "what is wrong with him?" i asked. dr. bardolph just was bending over the body of the man on the couch; he did not look round. "something snapped in his brain a little time ago," he answered me. "it is as though you had snapped the mainspring of a watch; the brain in him died at that moment." "what caused it?" i asked, still shedding my clothes. "shock. get your clothes off, and don't talk so much," he snapped. he tossed certain garments to me one by one, and i flung him my own in return. so the change was made, and i presently stood up and looked down at myself, and saw myself as that young man who had stood in the garden and had talked to the girl. for, indeed, i was something like him in figure, and height, and appearance. when the doctor moved away from the couch i gasped, for there i lay, in the dress i had worn for a year, branded and numbered--and dead. it was not a pretty sight; i turned away from it, shuddering. but the doctor laughed softly. "it is not given to every man to see himself as he will one day be," he said. "what was his name?" i whispered. "gregory pennington," he answered, looking at the body. "so you see at one stroke we get rid of gregory pennington, and of a certain unfortunate convict, named norton hyde. so far as your further christening is concerned, we must arrange that later, for this matter must be taken with a certain boldness, or weak spots may be discovered in it. i think you said you were hungry, and i daresay you've had enough of this room for the present." "more than enough," i replied. "then come along, and let us see if we can find something to put better courage into you," he said. and gratefully enough i followed him from the room in that new disguise. the house was a very large one. we traversed a number of corridors before coming to a room which seemed to be half-study and half-surgery. i should not have known as to the latter half of it, but for the fact that the doctor, who did not seem to care to summon any servants there may have been, left me there while he went in search of food. i peeped behind a screen at one end of the room, and saw an array of bottles, and test tubes in stands, and other paraphernalia. at the further end of the room were great book cases reaching to the ceiling, and a big desk with a reading-lamp upon it. but even here, though the furniture was handsome, the room had a neglected appearance, as, indeed, i afterwards found every room in that house had. bardolph just came back in a little while, carrying food and a decanter. after he had set the food out on a table, and i had fallen to with a relish, he laughed softly, and said that, after all, he had forgotten to bring me a glass. he declared, however, that that was a matter soon remedied, and he went behind the screen, and came out with a tall measuring-glass in his hand. it seemed an uncanny thing to drink wine out of; but i had no choice. he presently pulled open a drawer in the desk, and took out a cigar, and lighted it; as i had finished my meal, he tossed one to me, and i gratefully began to smoke. the man was evidently still turning over some matter in his mind, for he said nothing while he sat twisting the cigar round between his lips and looking at me. his back was turned towards the door of the room, and presently in that house of horror i saw the door begin slowly to open. i suppose i ought to have cried out, but once again i was fascinated by what might happen at any moment, and perhaps in sheer wonder as to what was coming in. it was nothing worse, as it turned out, than the little, old grey-haired man i had seen in the further room, and who had evidently followed us. he crept in now, step by step, with that curious smile upon his face, and when he was fairly in the room closed the door--i noticed that it closed with a sharp little click, as though it had a spring lock. dr. bardolph just did a curious thing. as the lock clicked he suddenly sat rigid, gripping the arms of his chair, and staring at me as though from my face he would learn what was behind him. seeing, i suppose, nothing in my expression to guide him, he suddenly swung sharply round and faced the little old man; and i thought at that moment that a quick sigh broke from him, as of relief. i wondered what he had expected to see. "what the devil do you want?" he demanded, in a voice raised but little above a whisper. "why do you follow me about?" the old man spread out his hands in a deprecating fashion, and shook his head. "nothing, sir," he said, "nothing at all. but he won't speak to me--and he has never been like that before. i don't understand it. i knelt beside him just now, and his dress was different--and--and--" i saw his hands go up to his lips, and pluck at them in that strange fashion--"and he won't speak to me." the doctor turned from him to me, and shrugged his shoulders. "this is a nice apparition to be following a man about," he said petulantly. "i can't make him out at all." "who is he?" i ventured to ask in a whisper. "the servant of the dead man--one of those faithful old fools that attach themselves to you, and won't be shaken off, i suppose. he came here to-night, following his unfortunate master. what the deuce am i to do with him?" "he seems harmless enough," i whispered. "but isn't it rather dangerous to have him about here, after the fraud that has been committed. won't he speak? won't he say that this dead man is not the escaped convict, but his master?" "there's no fear of that," replied the other. "i tell you something has snapped in his brain; he doesn't understand. if i turned him out into the world now, he would remember nothing, and would have no story to tell, even if he were questioned. but i don't want to turn him out--and yet he haunts me." "you say he changed in a moment?" i asked. dr. just nodded. "when he saw his master dead, he simply cried out, and afterwards remained as you see him now. i must dispose of him for the night, at least," he said, getting to his feet, and approaching the old man. "come, capper, i want you." the little old man looked round at him as he said that name, and i saw a faint fear come into his eyes. he shrank away a little, but the doctor grasped his arm quickly, and drew him towards the door. he went out in that grasp passively enough, and i was left alone again. i had almost fallen asleep, worn out with the excitements of the day, when the doctor came back again. i started to my feet drowsily, and faced him. "good-night!" he said, and held out his hand to me--a cold hand, but firm and strong in its touch. "you may see and hear strange things in this house," he added, "but it is not your business to take any notice of them. you will be, i hope, properly grateful to me--the man who has saved you, and given you a new lease of life." "yes, i shall be grateful," i promised him. he conducted me to a room in what seemed to be an outlying wing of the house, and left me to my own reflections. in truth, i was too tired to give much time to thought. i slipped off my clothes and got into bed, and was asleep in five minutes. but i was not destined to sleep well, after all. in the first place, i was troubled most unaccountably by dreams, in which i saw myself going through the most extraordinary adventures, and finally hanging to what seemed to be the roof of penthouse prison, with the little old man of the grey hair grinning up at me from the ground below. and through my dreams there appeared always to go the light, quick figure of that girl i had seen in the grounds of the house; and always she went searching for someone. i dreamed at last that she came straight to me, and took me by the arms, and stared at me, and cried out that she had found the man she wanted. and so i sat up in bed in the darkness, struggling with someone very real, who was gripping me. i almost shrieked, as i rolled out of bed, and tried to disengage myself from the arms of a man who was clinging to me. i contrived to drag him towards the window, where, by the faint light of the stars outside, i saw that it was the man capper--that seemingly half-witted creature who had been the servant of the dead man. "what do you want?" i ejaculated. "i've been dreaming," said capper. "well, what of that?" i demanded testily, "i've been dreaming, too." "yes, but not dreams like mine," whispered the old man, looking fearfully over his shoulder. "tell me, do you think they'll come true?" "i don't know what they were," i reminded him. he clutched me by the arm, and stared up in my face. there seemed almost a light of madness in his eyes. "i dreamed that it happened a long time ago--before my head went wrong. i dreamed of a blow struck in the dark; i thought someone (it might have been myself, but i'm not sure even of that)--i dreamed that someone screamed, 'murder!'" in a growing excitement he had raised his voice almost to a scream; i clapped my hand over his lips as he got out the dreadful word. i felt my hair stirring on my scalp. i wondered if by chance something dreadful had happened in that house, of which this old man knew, and the memory of which was locked away in that closed brain of his. "let me stay here to-night," he pleaded, clinging to me. "i'll be still as a mouse; i'll lie in this corner on the floor." so i let him lie there, and i went back to my bed. for a long time i lay awake, watching him and thinking about him; but gradually towards the morning i fell asleep, and slept heavily. when i awoke at last, with the sun shining in at my window, the man was gone, and my door stood open. that was to be a day of happenings. even now my mind holds but a confused memory of them, in which i seem to be now myself, and now some other man; now living on hope, and now sunk into the depths of fear and despair. for what i have to tell seems so incredible, that only by some knowledge of the man who carried the plot boldly through can any idea of how the business was arranged be arrived at. dr. bardolph just acted with promptness and decision that day. a messenger flew down towards london to summon the police; and a telegram sped over the wires back to penthouse prison. the missing convict had been found; all the world might come to the house of dr. bardolph just, and see this thing for themselves. at the last, when we actually expected the enemy to arrive at our gates, as it were, i nervously plucked the doctor's sleeve, and whispered a question. "what about his hair? they'll be sure to notice that." he smiled a little pityingly, i thought; but then, to the very end the man retained some contempt for me. "come and see for yourself," he said. so i went back with him into that room where we had left the dead man, and there i saw a miracle. for while i slept the doctor had been at work, and the head of poor gregory pennington was cropped as closely as my own. i shuddered and turned away. "how you ever contrived to escape puzzles me," said bardolph just. "you haven't half my courage." the man was certainly amazing. he met everything blandly; he was firm, and quiet, and dignified with this official and with that. he told me afterwards all that he did, and i had no reason to disbelieve him. for my own part, of course, i had to keep out of the way, and i spent most of my time in the spacious grounds surrounding the house. there was an old ruined summer-house at one corner, under a high wall; and there, fortified with a few of the doctor's cigars, i awaited quietly the turn of events. according to the doctor's description to me afterwards, what happened was this: in the first place, the puzzle fitted so neatly together that there was no feeling of suspicion. a tall, well-built, dark-haired man, in the clothes of a convict, was roaming over the country; by a miracle a man answering that description, and dressed in those clothes, and having the necessary number upon him, had got to this house on the northern heights above london, and there, in despair of escaping further, had hanged himself. dr. bardolph just was a man of standing in the scientific world--a man who had made discoveries; there was no thought of calling his word in question. this dead man was undoubtedly the escaped convict--norton hyde. a very necessary inquest was held, and twelve good men and true settled that matter once and for all. there had been one curious point in the evidence, but even that was a point that had been miraculously explained. the doctor spoke of it airily, and i wondered a little why he did not explain the matter with more exactitude. "it seems," he said, "that they discovered on the head of the unfortunate man the mark of a blow--a blow which had undoubtedly stunned him--or so, at least, they thought. it's impossible for me to say how the unfortunate gregory pennington came by such an injury, but at all events even that was accounted for in the case of norton hyde." "how?" i asked. dr. just laughed. "a certain motorist put in an appearance, and frankly explained that he had picked you up on the roadside near penthouse prison, and had given you a lift as far as this very house. then there was an accident, and he and his passenger were both pitched out; he was convinced that in that way you got your injury. the thing was as simple as possible--you had recovered consciousness before he did, and had scrambled over the fence here." "but did they swallow the story of my being in the house--of my breaking in?" i asked. "i had thought of that," said the doctor. "so my tale was that you had hanged yourself from a beam in an outhouse--probably because you failed in your purpose of breaking into my dwelling. as a doctor, the moment i discovered you i cut you down, and carried you in, and did my best to restore animation, but in vain. you will like to know, mr. norton hyde, that my humanity was warmly commended by the jury and coroner." i laughed in a sickly fashion. "but i am not norton hyde any longer," i reminded him. "true--and i have thought of a name for you that shall, in a fashion, mark your entry into another phase of existence. a nice name, and a short one. what do you say to the title of john new, a personal friend of my own?" i told him that any name would suit me that was not the old one, and so that matter was settled. he displayed so great an anxiety to see the matter ended, and was altogether so sympathetic with that poor convict who in his despair had hanged himself, that he even attended the funeral. which is to say, that he carried the fraud so far as to go to penthouse prison, what time that disguised body of godfrey pennington was carried there, and to see it interred with all due solemnity within the prison precincts; i believe he lunched with the governor of the prison on that occasion, and, altogether, played his part very well. it is left to me to record here one other happening of that time, and one which made a deep impression upon me. on the night of that strange finishing of the fraud, when dr. bardolph just returned, i was sitting smoking in the summer-house, and enjoying the evening air, when i heard what seemed to be the quick, half-strangled cry of a woman. i tossed aside my cigar and started to my feet and came out of the summer-house. it was very dark in that corner of the grounds, and the summer-house in particular had great deep shadows inside it. there came towards me, flying among the trees, and looking back in a scared fashion over her shoulder, the girl i had seen with gregory pennington--the girl he had called debora. she came straight at me, not seeing me; and in the distance i saw bardolph just running, and heard him calling to her. on an instinct i caught at her, and laid a finger on my lips, and thrust her into the summer-house. bardolph just came running up a moment later, and stopped a little foolishly on seeing me. and by that time i was stretching my arms and yawning. he made some casual remark, and turned back towards the house. when he had gone i called to the girl, and she came out; she was white-faced and trembling, and there were tears in her eyes. i felt that i hated bardolph just, with a hatred that was altogether unreasonable. "i saw you here yesterday," she said, looking at me earnestly. "i need friends badly--and you have a good, kind face. will you be my friend?" i do not know what words i said; i only know that there, in the dark garden, as i bent over her little hands and put them to my lips, i vowed myself in my heart to her service. chapter iii. the missing man. i find it difficult to write, in my halting fashion, of what my sensations were at that time. god knows what good was in me, and only god and time could bring that good out of me; for i had had no childhood, and my manhood had been a thing thwarted and blighted. you have to understand that in a matter of a few days i had lived years of an ordinary life; had been in prison, and had escaped; had come near to death; had found myself buried and done with, and yet enlisted on life under a new name; and, to crown it all, now come face to face with someone who believed in me and trusted me--broken reed though i was to lean upon. i stood in the dark grounds, holding the girl's hands and looking into her eyes: and that was a new experience for me. i remembered how someone else--dead, and shamefully buried in the precincts of a prison--had held her hands but a little time before, and had begged that he might help her. well, he was past all that now; and i, with my poor record behind me, stood, miraculously enough, in his place. yet there were things i must understand, if i would help her at all: i wanted to know why she had fled from her guardian, and why, in his turn, he had chased her through the grounds. "what were you afraid of?" i asked her gently; and it was pleasant to me that she should forget to take her hands out of mine. "of him," she said, with a glance towards the house; and i thought she shivered. "i wonder if you can understand what i feel, and of what i am afraid?" she went on, looking at me curiously. "i do not even know your name." i laughed a little bitterly. "you must indeed be in need of friends if you come to me," i answered. "but my name is john new, and i am a--a friend of dr. just." "oh!" she shrank away from me with a startled look. "i did not understand that." "i am a friend of dr. just," i repeated, "because it happens that i am very much in his power, and i must be his friend if i would live at all. if that is your case, too, surely we might form some small conspiracy together against him. you're not fond of the man?" i hazarded. she shook her head. "i hate him--and i'm afraid of him," she said vehemently. "and yet i have to look to him for everything in the world." "sit down, and tell me about it," i said; and i drew her into the summer-house, and sat by her side while she talked to me. she was like a child in the ease with which she gave me her confidence; and as i listened to her, years seemed to separate me from my prison and from the life i had led. for this was the first gentle soul with whom i had yet come in contact. "you must first tell me," she urged, "why you are in the doctor's power. who are you? and what have you done, that he should be able to hold you in his hands? you are a man; you're not a weak girl." it was difficult to answer her. "well," i began, after a pause, "i did something, a long time ago, of which the doctor knows; and he holds that knowledge over me. that's all i can tell you." she looked straight into my eyes, and i found, to my relief, that i was able to look at her with some frankness in return. "i don't believe it was anything very wrong," she said at last. "thank you," i answered, and i prayed that she might never know what my sin had been. "you see," she went on confidentially, while the shadows grew about us; "i am really all alone in the world, except for dr. just, who is my guardian. he was made my guardian by my poor, dear father, who died some two years ago; my father believed in the doctor very much. they had written a scientific treatise together--because the doctor is very clever, and father quite looked up to him. so when he died he left directions that i was to be taken care of by the doctor. that was two years ago, and i have lived in this house ever since, with one short interval." "and the interval?" i asked. "we went down to a country house belonging to the doctor--a place in essex, called green barn. it's a gloomy old house--worse than this one; the doctor goes there to shoot." "but you haven't told me yet why you were running away from him," i reminded her. she bent her head, so that i could not see her face. "lately," she said in a low voice, "his manner to me has changed. at first he was courteous and kind--he treated me as though i had been his daughter. but now it's all different; he looks at me in a fashion i understand--and yet don't understand. to-day he tried to put his arm round me, and to kiss me; then when i ran away he ran after me." i felt that i hated the doctor very cordially; i had an insane desire to be present if by any chance he should repeat his conduct. i felt my muscles stiffen as i looked at the girl; in my thoughts i was like some knight of old, ready to do doughty deeds for this fair, pretty girl, who was so ready to confide in me. i forgot all about who i was, or what had happened to me; i had only strangely come out into the world again--into a world of love. but the fact that it was a world of love reminded me that i had had a rival--another man who had held her hands and looked into her eyes, and pleaded that he might help her. i could not, of course, ask about him, because i held the key to his fate, and that fate intimately concerned my own safety; but i was consumed with curiosity, nevertheless. strangely enough, she voiced my thoughts by beginning to speak of him. "there is something else that troubles me," she said earnestly. "i have one friend--a dear, good, loyal fellow; but he has unaccountably gone away, and i can hear nothing of him." i felt myself turning hot and cold; i blessed the darkness of the summer-house. "what was his name?" i asked. "gregory pennington," she answered softly. "he was my friend before my father died; he followed me here when the doctor took charge of me. he was afraid of the doctor--not for himself, but on my account; he had a strange idea, and one that i have tried to laugh at, that the doctor wanted to kill me." she looked at me with smiling eyes, laughing at such a suggestion; but i, remembering the earnestness of gregory pennington's words to the girl on that first occasion of my coming to the house, seemed now to hear that warning as though it came indeed from the dead. and i could not answer her. "that was foolish, wasn't it?" she said, with a little laugh. "but then, i think poor gregory loves me, and that made him afraid for me. you have been in the house here for some days; have you seen nothing of him?" i was obliged to lie; there was nothing else for it. i shook my head, and lied stoutly. "no," i replied, "i have never seen him." "it's all so strange," she said, as she got to her feet. "the doctor did not like him, and had forbidden him the house, in spite of my remonstrances. as he was my friend, gregory and i used to meet secretly in these grounds in the evening." i remembered how i had seen them together; i remembered, with a shudder, all that had happened afterwards. but still i said nothing; for what could i say? "it was all so strange," she went on; and her voice sounded ghostly in the darkness. i had risen, and was standing opposite to her; i seemed to feel that the air had grown suddenly very chill. "the last time i saw him he told me that he would go to the house, and would see my guardian. i did all i could," she proceeded helplessly, "to dissuade him, but he would not listen. he said he must have an understanding with dr. just, and must take me away; although i think i should never have consented to that, in any case--because, you see, i did not really love him. he had always been like a good, kind brother to me, but nothing more." "and did he go to the house?" i asked, for the want of something better to say. she nodded. "i would not go in with him," she replied, "but i saw him go towards the doctor's study. i went off to my own room." "and you heard nothing, and saw nothing after that?" i asked breathlessly. "nothing at all," she whispered. "early the next morning the doctor sent me off to green barn, with a woman who is his housekeeper; i only came back to-day. i expected a letter from gregory--even expected to see him. it's all so funny; it is just as though he had walked into that study--and had disappeared from that time." "you mustn't think such things as that," i exclaimed hurriedly. "a dozen things may have happened; he may have been repulsed by the doctor, and so have decided to go away. if he knew you did not love him, he would feel pretty hopeless about the matter." "that is possible, perhaps," she said. then, suddenly, she held out her hand to me. "i have one friend at least," she said, "and his name is mr. john new. it's a curious name, and i shan't forget it. you tell me that you are in trouble, too: so that is a bond between us. good-night!" i watched her as she flitted away through the garden. even in my relief at the thought that she did not love gregory pennington, there was the dismal feeling that some day she must learn the truth--the ghastly thought that i stood there, actually in the clothes of the dead man. the whole business was a nightmare from beginning to end, in which alone she stood out as something bright, and fair, and unsullied. we were a curious household. there were one or two rather scared-looking servants, presided over by a woman to whom the doctor referred always as "leach"; in fact, he called her by that name when speaking to her. as she was destined to play rather an important part in that strange business upon which we were all entering, she deserves a word or two of description. she must have been about forty years of age, and had once been, and still was, in a way, astonishingly handsome. she was tall and very dark; she had hair of that blue-black quality that is so rarely seen. her eyes were as brilliant as those of dr. bardolph just himself, save that there was in hers a curious slumbrous quality, quite unlike the sparkle in the man's. i may best describe her by saying that she suggested to me that in the very soul of her was something lurking and waiting for expression--some smouldering fire that a touch or a word might start into flame. so far as i could gather, dr. just was exceedingly contemptible of her, and treated her with a sort of bitter playfulness. he seemed to take a delight in making her perform the most menial offices; and to me it was rather pitiful to see the eagerness with which she anticipated his every wish or command. i did not know at that time what bond there was between them; only, whenever i think of them in this later time one scene always rises before my memory. it was on a morning soon after i had arrived at the house, and the doctor was in a ferocious mood. everything had gone wrong, and i had seen the woman leach, who ordinarily waited behind his chair, and by quick signs directed the servants what to do, cower under the lash of his words more than once. it happened to be at the breakfast table, and i was seated at one end, facing the doctor. it was the morning after that memorable night when i had talked with the girl debora in the grounds; and now she sat on my right hand, at one side of the table, between the doctor and myself. absurd as the suggestion is, it almost seemed to me that the doctor was striking a balance between the two women for the mortification of them both. he pressed dishes upon the girl, with suave compliments at one moment, and in the next turned to leach behind him with what was almost a coarse threat. "why the devil don't you wait on your young mistress?" he snapped. "what do you think i keep you here for? what do i pay you for?" he turned to the table again, and, looking down the length of it, i saw the woman swiftly clench and unclench her hands behind him, as though she would have struck him. and if ever i saw murder in a face i saw it then; yet she looked not at the doctor, but at the bowed head of the girl beside me. "come--move--stir yourself!" cried the man, bringing down his fist with a bang on the table beside him. "don't wait for the servants to carry things; carry them yourself. take this dish to your mistress--miss debora matchwick." it was the first time i had heard the girl's name in full; but i took but little notice of it then, so interested was i in watching the little scene that was going forward. while the doctor sat looking at the girl, i saw the woman behind him draw herself up, and i saw her nostrils dilate; then she seemed to swoop to the table, and to catch up the dish he had indicated. she moved round slowly to where the girl sat, and purposely handed the dish from the wrong side. and down came bardolph just's fist again on the table. "the other side, you jade!" he roared; and with a glance at him she moved round, and presented it to the girl in the proper fashion. and the face that bent above the fair hair of the girl was the face of a devil--of a soul in torment. "i want nothing, thank you," said debora in a low voice. "come, my dear child, we shall have you pining away to a shadow if you don't eat," broke in the doctor, with a mocking smile. "is it possible that you are fretting over something--hungering for someone? we must have a private talk about this after breakfast; you must confide your troubles to me. and may i ask," he went on, with bitter politeness, as he turned to the other woman, "may i ask why you are standing in that absurd attitude, when your mistress tells you she wants nothing?" the woman leach turned away abruptly, and set down the dish. debora had risen from the table, as if to make her escape, and the other woman, after a quick glance at her, was preparing to go from the room also. but her humiliation was not yet completed; the doctor called her back. "wait, leach," he said, and she stopped on the instant. "you are in a tempestuous humour this morning, and that sort of humour must be quelled. ring the bell." she gave a quick, nervous glance at him, and then walked across the room and rang the bell. she waited, with her eyes cast on the ground, until a servant came in, carrying in his hand a pair of shoes. the doctor turned round in his chair, and the man carrying the shoes dropped on one knee, as if to put them on. but bardolph just waved him aside. "you needn't trouble; get up," he said; and the man rose from his knees, looking a little bewildered. "leach, come here!" the woman stood still for a moment, and then walked slowly across the floor, till she stood in front of him. he pointed to the shoes at his feet, and smiled; and i, who had risen in my place, stood helplessly, waiting to see what would happen. it took her quite a long time to get to her knees, but she did it at last, and began to put on the shoes. all this time the man-servant stood gaping, not knowing whether to go or stay. debora, too, had paused at the door, in amazement at the scene. and in that oppressive silence the woman leach fastened the shoes with fingers that seemed clumsy enough for that work. nor were the doctor's words likely to mend her confusion. "you're precious slow, i must say! what's the matter with you? are you getting past your work? you know what happens to people who are no longer fit to work, don't you? we have to cast them out into the street, to make a living as best they can--or to die. there--that'll do; you've been long enough to fasten a dozen pairs of shoes." i think he struck her with his foot as she was rising from her knees, but of that i cannot be sure. i know that she turned away abruptly, but not before i had had time to see that those great eyes of hers were blinded with tears. yet her gait, as she went from the room, was as stately as ever. but perhaps the strangest being in that strange house at that time was william capper. he wandered like a lost spirit, and one never knew quite where he would appear. knowing what i did as to what had become of the dead man, this man who looked for him and waited for him was as a ghost that would not be laid. more than that, he was a ghost who might suddenly spring into live flesh and blood, and tell what he knew. the doctor seemed as disconcerted by his presence as i was, and yet he made no effort to get rid of the man. capper wandered about the house and about the grounds just as he pleased, while those peering eyes of his seemed always to be searching for his master. but it happened that, as debora had been sent away on the very morning following the death of poor gregory pennington, and had only returned now, she had not yet come in contact with the man capper. i found myself wondering what would happen when she did. she was destined to meet him under curious circumstances. on that morning which had seen the degradation of the woman leach before us all, dr. bardolph just called me into that room that was half study and half surgery, and told me quite abruptly that he wanted me to go down into london for him. i suppose my startled face told its own tale, for he laughed a little contemptuously. "do you imagine anyone will be seeking you, or even expecting to find you above ground?" he asked. "can't you get into your mind the idea that norton hyde is dead and buried in his own prison, and that another man--john new--has come alive in his place? people only look for what they expect to find, my dear john new; you are as safe as though by a miracle you had changed your features. i merely want you to go down into holborn, to inquire about a certain scientific book which was promised to be sent to me and has not arrived. if it has not already been sent, you can bring it back with you." he gave me the address, and money wherewith to travel; and i felt my heart sink at the prospect of going down, in this bare-faced fashion, into the great world. in my heart of hearts i determined that i would not go; the book might arrive in my absence, and the doctor might forget that he had sent me at all. so i made a feint of going, but in reality did not pass beyond the grounds. it was a slumbrous day in early summer, and the grounds being very wide and extensive, i had rather an enjoyable forenoon of it. i determined that i would calculate to a nicety how long it should have taken me to get down to holborn and back again, allowing a margin for accidental delays. then i would put in an appearance at the house, and tell the doctor that i had reached the shop, only to find that the book had been sent off. it may have been some sentimental feeling that carried my feet in the direction of that dark and half-ruined summer-house; or, as i think now, some direct providence guiding me. believing that it would be deserted, and that i might kill time there with some comfort, i was making straight for it among the tangled grasses and dead leaves of the garden, when i stopped, and drew away from it. for i had heard voices. i make no attempt to excuse my conduct; i only urge that at that time i was surrounded by mysteries, and by trickery of every sort, and that i was, moreover, in hiding, in peril of my liberty. all the world might be conspiring against me--above all, those in this house, with one exception, might be only too glad to give me up to justice. i was fighting for myself; i make no excuse that i crept near to the summer-house, and listened. more than that, i looked in, for through a chink of the ruined boarding at the back of it i could see clearly all that happened. debora matchwick was seated in a corner, drawn up tense and still, with her hands gripping the seat on either side of her; and in the doorway, with his arms folded, completely blocking her way of escape, stood the doctor. it would seem that i had arrived at the very moment the man had discovered her, for his first words referred to the previous day. whatever other words i had heard had been but a mere skirmishing before the actual battle began. "i lost you in this direction yesterday, debora," said the man; "you managed to elude me rather cleverly. what makes you afraid of me?" "i--i'm not afraid of you," she said, with more bravery than she seemed to feel. he laughed at her, showing his white teeth. "you're very much afraid of me," he corrected her. "and yet you have no reason to be; we should never be afraid of those who love us." "you are my guardian, and you were my father's friend," she said quietly. "beyond that guardianship you have nothing to do with me, and i will not----" "you talk like a child, and you have a child's knowledge of the world," he broke in roughly. "i that am a man can teach you, as only a man can teach a woman, what life and the world hold for her. prudishly you step aside; with false modesty you refuse to look at facts as they are. you are a child no longer, in the ordinary sense of things; and i am a man that loves you. your father liked me----" "to my everlasting sorrow, he did!" she exclaimed passionately. "and he would have approved of the arrangement. above all things, the management of your extremely troublesome affairs are in my hands, and if you belonged to me the whole thing would be solidified. i have great power in regard to your fortune now; i should have greater powers then." "it's the fortune that tempts you!" she exclaimed, starting to her feet. "god forgive me for saying it, but my father must have been mad when he made up his mind to place me in your care. i hate you--but i'm not afraid of you. i hate you!" bardolph just stepped forward quickly, and took her prisoner in his arms. i had made a sudden movement, recklessly enough, to run round the summer-house and spring upon the man, as i heard her give a little gasping cry, when there came a strange interruption; and it came from outside and from inside the summer-house almost at the same moment. i had heard the doctor say, over and over again, with a sort of savage triumph, as he held her, "you shall love me! you shall love me! you shall love me!" and i had made that movement of which i speak, when there broke in the sound of someone singing, in a high querulous voice, and that someone was moving towards the summer-house. the girl heard the sound, and she broke away from the man who held her; she seemed literally to shriek out a name-- "capper!" all the rest happened in a flash. scarcely knowing what i did, i ran round and confronted them all--and that, too, at the moment that the girl, breaking from the summer-house, ran swiftly to where the little grey-headed old man was emerging from the trees. in her agitation she flung herself at his feet, and caught at his hands, and cried out her question: "capper, dear, good capper!--where's your master?" we stood there in silence, waiting to see what would happen. for both bardolph just and myself could have answered the question, but what was the man capper about to say? this was just such a crisis as i had been expecting and fearing; it seemed hours before the little grey-haired man, who had been looking down at her in a bewildered fashion, made any reply. "i don't--don't know," he said, and he smiled round upon us rather foolishly, i thought. "but, capper--you remember me, capper; i was your master's friend," went on the girl despairingly. "you remember that mr. pennington came to this house--oh!--oh, a week ago!" she had risen to her feet, and was staring into his eyes. he put a hand over those eyes for a moment, and seemed to ponder something; then he looked up, and slowly shook his head. "i can't--i can't remember," he said. "something has gone from me--here"--he laid the hand upon his forehead--"and i can't remember." the doctor drew a deep breath, and took a step towards the girl; of me he seemed to take but little notice. "don't worry the man, debora," he said in a gentle tone; "i can't make him out myself, sometimes. why he should remain here, where his master is not, i cannot understand." both just and the girl spoke of the old man in hushed tones, as they might have spoken of someone who was ill. but capper himself stood looking smilingly from one face to the other, as if his eyes would question them concerning this mystery in which he was involved. "has he been here ever since--since mr. pennington disappeared?" asked the girl. "i don't know what you're talking about," retorted the doctor, with a perplexed frown. "disappeared? how could gregory pennington disappear? i refused to allow him to come here; i have seen nothing of him for some time." i knew, of course, that the doctor was keeping from her the knowledge of the unfortunate young man's suicide--i realised that that knowledge must be kept from her, for my sake as well, unless disaster was to fall upon me. but the girl was looking at bardolph just keenly, and i wondered how he could meet her eyes as calmly as he did. "the night before i went to green barn with leach," she said slowly, "i was in these grounds with gregory. and that night he went into the house to see you." "to see me?" the doctor twisted about from one to the other of us in apparent perplexity. "to see me? i haven't seen the young man for months." "then what, in the name of all that's wonderful, is capper doing here?" demanded debora, pointing to that strange, smiling creature, who seemed the least interested of any of us. for a moment even the doctor was nonplussed, for that was a question to which there seemed to be no possible answer--or, at least, no answer that should prove satisfactory. it was, indeed, the strangest scene, to us, at least, who understood the true inwardness of it: that little grey-haired man, who might carry locked up in his numbed brain something that presently should leak out; the girl demanding to know the reason of his presence there; and the doctor and myself with the full knowledge of what had really happened, and of where gregory pennington lay hidden. bardolph just, however, was the last man to be placed at a disadvantage for any length of time. in a moment or two he laughed easily, and shrugged his shoulders. "'pon my word, i don't know!" he replied, in reference to the girl's question. "i can make neither head nor tail of him; but as his master is not here, i scarcely care to turn him out into the world in his present condition." "what's the matter with him?" asked debora. "i never saw him like this before." "can't say," retorted the doctor quickly. "but i should judge him to have had a stroke of some kind. at all events, debora, i don't want you to think that i'm a brute; and as gregory pennington was a friend of yours--i should say, is a friend of yours--the old man shall stay here until--until his master returns." i noticed that capper kept close beside the girl as she moved away towards the house; he looked up at her trustingly, as a child might have done who wanted a guide. as they walked away together, bardolph just stepped forward and laid a hand on the girl's arm. i heard what he said distinctly. "i have not said my last word, by any means," he said in his smooth voice; "nor is this the end." "it is the end so far as i am concerned," she retorted, without slackening her pace. "you shall be my guardian no longer; i'll arrange something, so that i can get out into the world and live for myself and in my own fashion." "we'll see about that," he retorted, between his teeth. "go to your room, and remain there." she gave him a glance of contempt, that had yet in it some spice of fear, as she turned away and made for the house, with old capper trotting dog-like beside her. then the doctor turned to me, and although i saw that there were certain white spots coming and going at the edges of his nostrils and on his cheek bones, he yet spoke calmly enough--indeed, a little amusedly. "what do you think of that for pretty defiance?" he asked; then, sinking his voice to a lower tone, and taking a step nearer to me, he went on--"she's getting suspicious about that boy; and the madman who's gone off with her now is likely to cause trouble. i don't know what to do with him, but i shall have to devise something. don't forget, my friend, that if the worst comes to the worst you're in the same boat with me--or in a worse boat. i've only cheated the authorities for your sake; i can plead human sympathy and kindliness, and all sorts of things--which you can't." "is that a threat?" i demanded, for now my gratitude was being fast swallowed up in a growing dislike of the man. "yes, and no," he replied, with a faint smile. "i'm only suggesting that you will find it wise, whatever happens, to fight on my side, and on mine only. i think you understand?" i answered nothing; i followed him, sullenly enough, to the house. by that time i had quite forgotten the errand on which i had been sent, and which i had made no effort to accomplish; only when we were near to the house he turned quickly, and startled me by referring to it. "by the way, you had your journey for nothing," he said. "the book arrived while you were gone. did you meet with any adventures?" "none at all," i answered curtly. i was destined for another adventure, and a more alarming one, that night. there was no ceremony used in the doctor's house, and he made no attempt to dress for dinner. for that matter, i had not as yet seen any guests, and the doctor, on one or two occasions at least, had had his meals carried up to his study. so far as dinner was concerned, it usually happened that in the recesses of the house someone clanged a dismal bell at the time the food was actually put upon the table, and i would go down, either to sit alone, or to find the doctor awaiting me. you will remember that the girl debora had been away for the whole of that eventful week. the dining-room was dimly lighted by a big, shaded lamp, standing on the centre of the table; so that when i went in on this night, and looked about me, i could see figures seated, but could not clearly distinguish faces. the doctor i saw in his usual place, stooping forward into the light of the lamp to sup at his soup; i saw the bent head of the girl at one side of the table. i moved round the table to reach my place, and as i did so saw that another man was seated opposite the girl, so making a fourth. i could not see his face, as it was in shadow. i wondered who he might be. the doctor bent forward, so as to look round the lamp at me, called me (god be praised for it!) by that new name he had given me-- "john new, let me introduce you to my friend, mr. harvey scoffold." i sat frozen in my chair, keeping my face in shadow, and wondering what i should do. for i knew the man--had known him intimately on those occasions when i had broken out of my uncle's house at night, and had gone on wild excursions. i saw him glance towards me; i knew that he knew my history, and what had become of me; and i wondered how soon he was to start up in his place, and cry out who i was, and demand to know who lay buried in my place. i left my soup untasted, and sat upright, keeping my face above the light cast by the lamp. "mr. harvey scoffold is an old friend of mine," said bardolph just, "although we have not met for some time. a worthy fellow--though he does not take quite so deep an interest in the serious things of life as i do." "not i," exclaimed the other man, squaring his shoulders, and giving vent to a hearty laugh that rang through the room. "i'm a very butterfly, if a large one; and life's the biggest joke that ever i tasted. i hope our new friend is of the same order?" i mumbled something unintelligible, and, after looking at me intently for a moment, he turned and began to speak to his host. i think i had just decided that i had better feign illness, and get up and make a run for dear life, when he staggered us all by a question, put in his hearty, careless fashion. "by the way," he said, looking from the doctor to the girl, and back again, "what's become of that youngster i used to see here--gregory pennington? i took quite a fancy to the boy. does anyone know where he is?" chapter iv. a little white ghost. with the putting of that most awkward question as to what had become of gregory pennington, it may be said that a sort of bombshell fell into our midst. i leaned further back, determined to gain what respite i could in the shadows of the room before the inevitable discovery should fall upon me; and of the four of us only the girl, debora matchwick, leaned forward eagerly, peering round the lamp at the man who had asked the question. "that's what we want to know," she said, in a quick, nervous voice. "gregory has disappeared." "nonsense!" it was the doctor who broke in testily, still keeping his face in shadow. "you mustn't get such ideas into your head, child. young men, strong, and well, and healthy, don't disappear in that fashion. i ordered him away from the house, and he has respected my wishes. don't let me hear such nonsensical talk again." the girl drew back, with a little quick sigh, and for a moment or two there was an abashed silence on the part of scoffold and myself. but scoffold was never the man to be abashed long by anything; in a moment or two he leaned his big body forward over the table, so that i saw his face fully in the light of the shaded lamp, and glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and began to put questions. and with each question it seemed that he probed the matter more deeply. "but tell me, what had my young friend done to be forbidden the house?" he asked. then, answered in a fashion by the silence about him, he shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his great hands deprecatingly. "oh, i'm sorry!" he went on. "i see that i'm prying into secrets, and that was never my way at all. only i was interested in gregory--a fine fellow, with a future before him. a little reckless, perhaps--a little given to the spending of money; but then, that is ever a fault of the young. if i did not wish to pry into secrets," he added a little maliciously, as he peered round the lamp at the girl, "i might suggest that perhaps his disappearance may have had something to do with miss debora here--eh? there are so many hearts to be broken in this world of pretty faces, miss debora." the girl sat rigid and silent; presently the man leaned back in his chair again, with a little laugh, as the servants entered with the next course. i saw the woman leach hovering about near the doorway; i wondered if we were to have another such scene as we had had that morning. but nothing happened until the servants had gone, with leach following last. then this unlucky guest had another word to say. "i see you still keep your faithful retainer," said harvey scoffold, with a jerk of his great head towards the door. "remarkable woman, that--and quite devoted to you, doctor." "servants are servants, and are kept in their places," retorted bardolph just coldly. "but, my dear just," broke in the irrepressible one again, "leach is surely more than a servant. how many years has she been with you?" "i haven't taken the trouble to count," replied the doctor. "shall we change the conversation?" mr. scoffold abruptly complied, by turning his attention to me, somewhat to my dismay. "do you belong to these parts, mr.--mr. john new?" he asked. i murmured in a low tone that i belonged to london, and as i spoke i saw him lean forward quickly, as if to get a better glimpse of me; but i obstinately kept my face in shadow. "ah!" he went on. "london's a fine place, but with temptations. i often think that it would be well if we could prevent young men from ever going to london at all--let 'em wait until they have reached years of discretion, and know what the world is like. i've seen so much in that direction--so many lives that have gone down into the shadows, and never emerged again. i could give you a case in point--rather an interesting story, if you would not be bored by it." he glanced round the table amid silence. now, i knew instinctively what story he was going to tell, before ever he said a word of it; i knew the story was my own. i sat there, spellbound; i strove to get a glimpse of bardolph just at the further end of the table, but he did not move, and the only face of the four of us that could be seen was the face, animated and smiling, of harvey scoffold. "the story is a little sad--and i detest sad things," the man began, "but it has the merit of a moral. you are to imagine a young man, of good education, and with a credulous and doting old man--an uncle, in fact--as his sole guardian. he rewards the credulous old man by robbing him right and left, and he spends the proceeds of his robberies in vicious haunts in london." i may here interpolate that the only vicious haunt i had known in london had been the house of mr. harvey scoffold, and that most of the money i had stolen had gone, in one way and another, into his pockets--but this by the way. "his name was norton hyde," went on scoffold. "i beg your pardon--did you speak?" this last was to the doctor, who had leaned forward, so that i saw his face clearly, and had uttered an exclamation. "no," he replied. "pray proceed with your story." he leaned sideways, under pretence of filling his glass, and gave me a warning glance down the length of the table. "well, this norton hyde paid the penalty, in due course, of his crime," went on scoffold, leaning back in his chair again. "he was sentenced to a certain term of penal servitude, served part of it, escaped from his prison----" "the story is well known, and we need hear no more, my dear scoffold," broke in the doctor. "i don't want to shock miss debora, nor to have her shocked." "but i am interested," said the girl, leaning forward. "please go on, mr. scoffold." "you hear--she's interested," said the man with a smile, as he leaned forward again, and looked round the lamp at the girl. "it's very dreadful, but very fascinating. you must know, then, miss debora, that the fellow broke prison, and made a desperate attempt to get back to london; reached a house somewhere on its outskirts; and then, being evidently hard pressed, gave up the game in despair, and committed suicide." "poor, poor fellow!" commented the girl, in a low tone; and i felt my heart go out to her in gratitude. "and that was the end of him," went on mr. scoffold, with a snap of the fingers. "they carried him back--dead--to his prison; and they buried him within its walls. so much for buckingham!" "now, perhaps, you can contrive to talk of something a little more pleasant," said the doctor testily. "you've given us all the horrors, with your talk of imprisonments, and suicides, and what not. you used to be pleasant company at one time, harvey." "and can be so still," exclaimed the other lightly. "but i'm afraid it's this dark room of yours that gave that turn to the conversation: one sits in shadow among shadows. may i move this lamp, or may i at least take the shade off?" he put a hand to it as he spoke. if ever i had trembled in my life, i trembled then; but i sat rigid, and waited, trusting in that stronger man at the further end of the table. nor was my trust in him betrayed. "leave the lamp alone," he said sharply. "it's not safe to be moved; it's rather an old one, and shaky. besides, i prefer this light." "you always were a queer fellow," said scoffold, dropping back into his seat again. "and to-night you're a dull one. i swear i couldn't endure your company," he proceeded with a laugh, "if it were not for the charming lady who faces me, and who is mostly hidden by your beast of a lamp. even our friend, mr. new here, hasn't a word to say for himself; but perhaps he'll come out stronger under the influence of one of your cigars presently." i vowed in my heart that there should be no cigars for me that night in his company; my brain was active with the thought of how best i could escape. i was perplexed to know how it was that he had not remembered that it was in this very house, according to the tale, that norton hyde had committed suicide; but for that point, he had the whole thing in chapter and verse. i was comforted, however, by the thought that it was to the interests of bardolph just to help me out of the scrape; i saw that he was as much astonished to learn that harvey scoffold knew me as i was to find the man in that house. but for my desperate strait, i must have been amused at the doctor's perplexity. i saw, just as surely as though he had stated it in words, that he was working hard at that puzzle: how to get norton hyde out of that room unobserved. fortunately for the solution of that problem, he must have known how eager i was to get away; and presently he contrived the business in the simplest fashion. we had come near to the end of the dinner, and it was about time for debora to leave us. i knew that he dreaded that if she got up it would mean a breaking-up of our relative positions at the table, and i must be discovered. i was dreading that, too, when relief came. "i say, new," he called to me down the length of the table, "i know you have that business of which you spoke to clear up to-night. we're all friends here, and we'll excuse you." i murmured my thanks, and got up, designing to pass behind harvey scoffold, and so escape observation. but, as ill luck would have it, debora saw in the movement an opportunity for her own escape; she rose quickly, and the inevitable happened. harvey scoffold blundered to his feet to open the door. and there we were in a moment, above the light of the lamp, and all making for the door together; for the doctor, in his consternation, had risen also. scoffold got to the door before me, and held it open for the girl; and for one disastrous moment i hesitated. for there was a light outside in the hall, and i dared not face it. properly, of course, i should have followed the girl with my face averted; but even in that i blundered, and so found myself suddenly looking into the eyes of harvey scoffold, as he stood there holding the door. it was as though he had seen a ghost. he gasped, and took a step back; and the next moment i was out of the room, and had pulled the door close after me. even as i did so, i heard his voice raised loudly and excitedly in the room, and heard the deeper tones of bardolph just. there was no time to be lost, and i looked about me for the quickest way of escape. i was groping in the dark, as it were, because i did not even know whether the man was a chance visitor, and i might safely hide in some other room of the house, or whether he was staying there, and so could leave me no choice but to get away altogether. and while i hesitated, my mind was made up for me, as it has been so often in my life, in the most curious fashion. i saw that debora had stopped at the foot of the stairs, and was looking back at me; and in a moment, in the thought of her, i forgot my own peril. i took a step towards her, and she bent her head towards mine, as she stood a step or two above me on the stairs, and whispered-- "for the love of god, don't leave me alone in this house to-night!" then she was gone, before i could make reply, and i was left there, standing helplessly looking after her. in that moment i lost my chance. the dining-room door was opened, and the two men came out quickly; it seemed to me that harvey scoffold was speaking excitedly, and that the doctor, who had a hand on his arm, was striving to soothe him. i made a dart for the stairs--too late, for the voice of scoffold called me back. "here, don't run away; i want to talk to you!" he cried. "there's a mystery here----" "not so loud!" exclaimed the doctor sternly, in a low tone. "if you've anything to say, don't shout it in the hall in that fashion. i trust we're gentlemen; let us go and talk quietly in my study. john, you know the way--lead on." so, knowing well what was to follow, i went on up the stairs, until i came to the door of that room that was half study and half surgery; i opened the door and went in. to gain time, i went to the further end of it, and stood looking out of the window into the darkness. i calculated that it might be a drop of twelve or fourteen feet, if he drove me too far and i had to take flight. i was prepared for everything, and had for the moment--god forgive me!--clean forgotten what the girl had said to me. the two other men came into the room, and the door was closed. i heard the doctor speak in his most genial tones. "now, my dear harvey, let's understand what bee you have in your bonnet. what's this about an escaped convict--and in my house? if i didn't know you better, i should suggest that my wine had been too much for you." "don't bluff, doctor: it would be far better to ask our friend there to show us his face clearly. if a man's honest he doesn't turn his back on his friends." at that i threw discretion to the winds; i faced round upon him savagely. "friends!" i exclaimed bitterly. "when were you ever a friend to me, harvey scoffold?" the man laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. "truly you are indiscreet," he said, with a triumphant glance at the doctor. "but youth is ever impatient, and one cannot expect that you, of all men, should be cautious. you never were. come--can't we sit down and talk quietly, and see what is to be done?" "there is nothing to be done--at least nothing that concerns you," said bardolph just quickly, as he stopped in the act of pulling open that drawer in his desk which held the cigars. "what in the world is it to do with you?" "oh-o! so _you_ are in the swim, too, eh?" exclaimed scoffold, turning upon him with raised eyebrows. "i thought it possible that you might have been deceived--that our friend here might have come upon you suddenly, and induced you to help him, without your knowing who he was." the doctor shrugged his shoulders, and took out a cigar. in the act of biting the end of it with his sharp white teeth he looked at the other man with a smile that was deadly--it was as though he snarled over the cigar. "i knew all about our friend here from the beginning," he said. "be careful, harvey; you know me by this time, and you know it's better to have me for a friend than an enemy. once more i warn you not to ask questions, and not to interfere in what does not concern you. take a cigar, and sit down and smoke." scoffold took the cigar, and stood for a moment or two, while he lighted it, looking from one to the other of us, as though weighing the matter carefully in his mind. he voiced his feelings as he put the match to the cigar, and puffed at it. "norton hyde escaped from prison"--puff--"norton hyde hangs himself"--puff--"norton hyde is duly sat upon by a coroner and a jury"--puff--"norton hyde is buried in a prison grave." he looked at the lighted end of his cigar carefully, and tossed the match from him. "and yet my dear friend, norton hyde, stands before me. any answer to that puzzle?" he looked at me and at the doctor, and laughed quietly. truly the game appeared to be in his hands, and i knew enough of him to know that he was a man to be feared. it was, of course, a mere coincidence that the man who had helped me to my ruin was a friend of this man upon whose hospitality i had so unceremoniously flung myself; nor did it mend matters to know that he was a friend of the dead boy. i think we both waited for his next remark, knowing pretty well what it would be. "a natural answer springs up at once to the puzzle," he went on, seeming literally to swell his great bulk at us in his triumph. "some man was buried as norton hyde--some man who must have been able to pass muster for him. what man could that have been?" "you're getting on dangerous ground: i tell you you'd better let it alone," broke in the doctor warningly. but the other man went on as though the doctor had not spoken. "some man lies in that grave, who has disappeared, and for whom no enquiry has been made. now, who can that man be? what man is there that hasn't been seen for some days--what man is there that is being looked for now?" in the tense silence of the room, while the man looked from one to the other of us, absolutely dominating the situation, there came an interruption that was so terrible, and so much an answer to what the man was asking, that i could have shrieked out like a frightened woman. behind him, where he stood, i saw the door of the study slowly opening, and then the smiling face of the little grey-haired man looked round it. scoffold did not see him; only the doctor and i turned our startled faces to the smiling face of capper. and capper spoke-- "forgive me, gentlemen"--and scoffold swung round on the words and faced him--"i'm looking for my master, mr. pennington." "gregory pennington, by the lord!" shouted harvey scoffold, with a great clap of his hands together. the doctor turned quickly to the door. i saw him thrust capper outside, and close the door, and turn the key in it. he put the key in his pocket, and his eyes looked dangerous; he was as a man driven at bay. "well, you think you've made some great and wonderful discovery," he snapped. "perhaps you have--at all events, you shall know the truth of the matter from beginning to end. i'll keep nothing back." "you can't, you know," sneered the other, dropping his great bulk into an arm-chair, and puffing luxuriously at his cigar. i stood with my back to the window while the doctor told the story. he told it from beginning to end, and quite clearly. of the coming of the disappointed gregory pennington to the house, after an interview with the girl; of that mad, rash act of the unsuccessful lover; of the finding of him hanging dead. he told of my coming, and painted a little luridly my desperate threats and pleadings; told of how he had given way, and had dressed poor gregory pennington in my shameful clothes. when he had finished the narrative harvey scoffold nodded, as if satisfied with that part of it, and sat for a time smoking, while we awaited what he had to say. "it never struck me that it was in this house the convict (as the newspapers called him) hanged himself," he said at last. "upon my word, the puzzle fits together very neatly. but what happens, my friends, when someone enquires for young pennington? for instance, myself." "you've no purpose to serve," i broke in quickly. he laughed, and shook his head gaily. "not so fast, my young friend, not so fast!" he answered me. "i may have an axe to grind--i have ground many in my time. besides--putting me right out of the question--what of the girl? how do you silence her?" "i can find a way even to do that," replied the doctor in a low voice. "only let me warn you again, harvey scoffold, we are desperate men here--or at least one of us--fighting for something more even than liberty. i am fighting to keep this innocent girl's name out of the business, and to keep scandal away from this house. let norton hyde rest in his grave; gregory pennington is not likely to be enquired for. he was young and restless; he may have gone abroad--enlisted--anything. that's our tale for the world, if questions are asked." "it only occurs to me that the virtuous uncle of our young friend here--the man who was robbed so audaciously--would give a great deal to know that the nephew who robbed him was at large," suggested harvey scoffold musingly over his cigar. i took a quick step towards him. "you wouldn't dare!" i exclaimed threateningly. he held up a large protesting hand. "my dear boy, i am your friend; i was always your friend. you are quite safe with me," he said. yet i knew that he lied. he made one other comment on the matter before wisely leaving the subject alone. "it seems to me strange," he observed, with a furtive look at the doctor, "that you should be so willing to help our young friend here--a man you have never seen." "i do that," replied the other quickly, "because in that way i can cover up the miserable business of young pennington. unless you speak, it is scarcely likely that anyone else will ever drag that business into the light of day. both gregory pennington and our friend here happen to have been particularly alone in the world: in neither case is there anyone who is likely to make awkward inquiries." "always excepting the girl," harvey scoffold reminded him. "so far as i am concerned, you have nothing to fear from me; i shall merely be an amused spectator of the little comedy; i don't know yet exactly how it's going to end." he was tactful enough to say nothing more then, and we presently drifted, almost with cheerfulness, into some more ordinary conversation. yet i saw that the man watched us both from between half-closed eyelids while he smoked and lounged in his chair; and i was far from comfortable. it was late when the doctor rose, and with a glance at the clock said that he had still much work to do before he could sleep. he unlocked the door; at which hint harvey scoffold and i left him for the night. the excitement of the meeting had quite thrust out of my mind the question whether the man was stopping in the house or had merely come there as a chance visitor; but the question was answered now, when harvey scoffold told me that he had a long walk before him, and was glad that the night was fine. i felt some sudden uplifting of the heart at the thought that at least i should be relieved of his presence, only to feel that heart sinking the next moment, at the remembrance that he would be free to spread his news in the outer world, if he cared to do so. for it must be understood that my public trial, and all the disclosures thereat, had given to the world the address of my uncle, and my own movements on those secret expeditions of mine; it was possible for harvey scoffold to put that veiled threat of his into instant execution. i knew, moreover, that he was a dangerous man, by reason of the fact that he was chronically in want of money, and had never hesitated as to the methods employed to obtain it. however, there was no help for it now; the murder was out, and i could only trust to that extraordinary luck that had befriended me up to the present. i walked with him out into the grounds, and he shook hands with me at parting, with some cordiality. "you have had a miraculous escape, dear boy," he said, in his jovial fashion, "and you are quite a little romance in yourself. i shall watch your career with interest. and you have nothing to fear--i shall be as silent as the grave in which you ought to be lying." he laughed noisily at that grim jest, and took his way down the road in the direction of london. i went back into the house and went to my room, and slept heavily until late the next morning. the doctor had left the house when i went down to breakfast, and i had a dim hope that i might see the girl alone. but she did not put in an appearance, nor did i see anything of her until the evening, when the doctor had returned, and the three of us sat down to dinner. i had been roaming desolately about the grounds, smoking the doctor's cigars, and inwardly wondering what i was going to do with the rest of the life that had been miraculously given back to me; and i did not know at what hour bardolph just had returned. yet i had a feeling that there had been some strange interview between the doctor and the girl before i had come upon the scene--and a stormy interview at that. bardolph just sat at his end of the table, grim and silent, with his brows contracted, and with his habitual smile gone from his lips; the girl sat white and silent, sipping a little wine, but touching no food. during the course of a melancholy meal no single word was heard in the room, for the doctor did not even address the servants. at the end of the meal, however, when the girl rose to quit the room, the doctor rose also, and barred her way. "stop!" he said quickly. "i've got to speak to you. we'll have this matter cleared up--once and for all." "i have nothing more to say," she replied, looking at him steadily. "my answer is what it has always been--no!" "you can go, john new," said the man harshly, turning towards me. "i want to talk to miss matchwick alone." "no, no!" exclaimed the girl, stretching out her hands towards me; and on the instant i stopped on my way to the door, and faced about. but the doctor took a quick step towards me, and opened the door, and jerked his head towards the hall. "i am master here," he said. "go!" i saw that i should not mend matters by remaining, but i determined to be within call. i passed quickly along the hall after the door was closed; i knew that just within the great hall door itself was another smaller door, opening to a verandah which ran round the front of the dining-room windows, on the old-fashioned early victorian model. i knew that the windows were open, and i thought that i might by good fortune both see and hear what went on in the room. and so it turned out. i slipped through that smaller door, and came on to the verandah; and so stood drawn up in the shadows against the side of the window, looking in and listening. "i have given you the last chance," the doctor was saying, "and now i shall trouble you no more. there is another way, and perhaps a better one. i have treated you well. i have offered to make you my wife--to place you in the position your father would have been glad to see you occupy. now i have done with you, and we must try the other way. look into my eyes!" then i saw a curious thing happen. at first, while the man looked intently at her with those extraordinarily bright eyes of his, she covered her own with her hands, and strove to look away; but after a moment or two she dropped her hands helplessly, and shivered, and looked intently at him full. it was like the fascination of some helpless bird by a snake. i saw her sink slowly into a chair behind her; and still she never took her eyes from those of the doctor, until at last her lids fell, and she seemed to lie there asleep. then i heard the man's voice saying words that had no meaning for my ears at that time. "you will not sleep well to-night, little one," he said, in a curious crooning voice. "you will rise from your bed, and you will come out in search of something. is it not so?" very softly she answered him: "yes, i understand." "you will be restless, and you will seek to get out into the air. but all the doors will be bolted, and the windows fastened. so you will turn to the eastern corridor and will pass along there to the end wall. do you understand?" and again she murmured: "yes, i understand." "and then you will walk on--into the air. you will do this at midnight." she murmured, "at midnight"; and on a sudden he snapped his fingers violently three times before her eyes, and she sprang up, wide awake, and stared at him, looking at him in perplexity. "you've been asleep for ever so long," he said, with a smile. "you must be tired; go to your room." she looked at him in a dazed fashion, and passed her hand across her forehead. "what were we speaking of?" she asked him, as though referring to the conversation they had had before he had sent her into that species of trance. "nothing--nothing that matters now," he said, moving towards the door. fearing that he might come in my direction after he had sent her from the room, i vaulted over the railing of the verandah, which was only raised a few feet above the level of the ground. and so presently came round by the side entrance into the house, and, as was my custom, went up to the doctor's study to smoke with him. i found him pacing up and down, chewing the butt of a cigar that had long gone out. he glanced up quickly when i entered, and jerked his head towards the open drawer in the desk where the cigars were. "i must ask you to take your cigar and smoke it elsewhere to-night," he said. "i have work to do, and i am very busy. good-night." i longed to stop and talk with him--cursed my own impotent position, which gave me no chance of trying conclusions with him and befriending the girl. i remembered bitterly the words she had said to me at the foot of the staircase on the previous night, when she had begged me not to leave her alone in that house. so i went away, reluctantly enough, to smoke my cigar elsewhere. i wandered down into the dining-room, and dropped into a chair, and closed my eyes. suddenly i remembered that it was that chair into which the girl had dropped when the doctor had said those words i did not understand. i sat up, very wide awake, remembering. she was to walk along the eastern corridor, and was to come to a wall at the end. and yet she was to walk out into the air! what did it all mean? what trick was the man about to play upon her? what devilry was afoot? i got up at once, and threw away my cigar, and set off to explore the house. i wanted to know where this eastern corridor was, if such a place existed, and what was meant by the doctor's words. i went up to my own room first, and made out, as well as i could, by remembering which way the sun rose, and other matters, in what direction the house was situated; and so came to the conclusion that the room to which i had been assigned was at the end of the eastern corridor, nearest to the great bulk of the house. which is to say, that if i stood in the doorway of my room, and faced the corridor, the other rooms of the house would be on my right hand, while on my left the corridor stretched away into darkness, past rooms that, so far as i knew, were unoccupied. lest by any chance my windows should be watched, i lit the lamp in my room and left it; then i came out into the corridor, and closed the door. i looked over the head of the great staircase; the house was in complete silence, though not yet in darkness. listening carefully, i moved away swiftly into the gathering darkness to the left, until at last, at the end of the corridor, my outstretched hand touched the wall. this was exactly as it should be, according to the doctor's words. i now turned my attention to the wall itself, and found that it was recessed--much as though at some time or other it had been a window that had been bricked up. i could make nothing of it, and i went back to my room, sorely puzzled. i must have a torpid brain, for i was ever given to much sleeping. on this occasion i sank down into a chair, intending to sit there for a few minutes and think the matter out. in less than five, i was asleep. when i awoke i felt chilled and stiff, and i blamed myself heartily for not having gone to bed. while i yawned and stretched my arms, i became aware of a curious noise going on in the house. with my arms still raised above my head, i stopped to listen. whatever noise it was came from the end of the corridor where i had found that blank wall. some instinct made me put out the light; then in the darkness i stole towards the door, and cautiously opened it. outside the corridor was dark, or seemed to be at my first glance; i dropped to my knees, and peered round the edge of the door, looking to right and left. to the right all was in darkness; the servants had gone to bed, after extinguishing the lights and locking up. to the left, strangely enough, a faint light shone; and as i turned my eyes in that direction i saw that a small hand-lamp was standing on the floor, and that above it loomed the figure of a man, casting a grotesque shadow on the walls and ceiling above him. i made enough of the figure to know that it was the doctor, and that he was working hard at that end wall. i was puzzling my brains to know what he was doing, and was striving hard to connect his presence there with what he had said to the girl, when i heard a grinding and a creaking, and suddenly the lamp that stood beside him was blown out in a gust of wind that came down the corridor and touched my face softly as i knelt there. then, to my utter amazement, i saw the night sky and the stars out beyond where that end wall had been. i had just time to get back into my room and to close the door, when the doctor came tiptoeing back along the corridor, and vanished like a shadow into the shadows of the house. i waited for a time, and then struck a match, and looked at the little clock on the mantelpiece. it wanted four minutes of midnight. i opened the door again, and looked out into the corridor; then, on an impulse, i stole along towards that newly-opened door, or whatever it was, and, coming to it, looked out into the night. it was at a greater height from the ground than i had thought possible, because on that side of the house the ground shelved away sharply, and there was in addition a deep, moat-like trough, into which the basement windows looked. more than ever puzzled, i was retracing my steps, when i heard a slight sound at the further end, like the light rustle of a garment mingled with the swift patter of feet. i will confess that my nerves were unstrung, and they were therefore scarcely prepared for the shock they had now to endure. for coming down the corridor, straight towards where i stood drawn up against the wall, was a little figure in a white garment, and with fair flowing hair over its shoulders; and that figure came swiftly straight towards that new door which opened to the floor. while i stood there, paralysed by the sight, certain words floated back to my mind. "you will be restless, and you will seek to get out into the air. but all the doors will be bolted, and the windows fastened. so you will turn to the eastern corridor, and will pass along there to the end wall ... and then you will walk on into the air.... you will do this at midnight!" with a great horror upon me, i leapt in a moment, though dimly, to what was meant. the girl was walking to her death, and walking in her sleep. in what devilish fashion bardolph just had contrived the thing, or what ascendency he had gained over her that he could suggest the very hour at which she should rise from her bed and do it, i did not understand; but here was the thing nearly accomplished. she was within a couple of feet of the opening, and was walking straight out into the air at that giddy height, when i sprang forward and caught her in my arms. she shrieked once--a shriek that seemed to echo through the night; then, with a long sobbing cry, she sank into my arms, and hid her face on my shoulder. and at the same moment i heard a door open down below in the house, and heard running footsteps coming towards me. i knew it was the doctor, and i knew for what he had waited. chapter v. i am drawn from the grave. you are to picture me, then, standing in that wind-swept corridor, open at one end to the stars, and holding in my arms the sobbing form of debora matchwick, and waiting the coming of dr. bardolph just. i awaited that coming with no trepidation, for now it seemed as though i stood an equal match for the man, by reason of this night's work; for if someone had shouted "murder!" in the silence of the house, the thing could not have been proclaimed more clearly. i saw now that in that trance into which he had thrown her he had by some devilish art suggested to the girl what she should do, and at what hour, and then had thrown open the end of the corridor, that she might step out to her death. exactly how much she suspected herself, or how much she had had time to grasp, since the moment when i had so roughly awakened her, i could not tell; but she clung to me, and begged me incoherently not to let her go, and not to let the man come near her. feeling that the thing must be met bravely, i got my arm about her, and advanced with her down the corridor to meet the doctor. he came with a light held above his head; he was panting from excitement and hurry. i know that he expected to run to the end of that corridor, and to look out, and to see what should have lain far below him; but he came upon us advancing towards him instead, and he stopped dead and lowered his light. "what's the matter?" he stammered. "you should know that best," i answered him boldly. "death might have been the matter. with your leave, i'll take this lady to her room." he stood back against the wall, and watched us as we went past him. his brows were drawn down, and his eyes were glittering, and the faint white line of his teeth showed between his lips. in that attitude he remained, like some figure turned to stone, while i drew the girl along, and down the stairs; i had to ask her the way to her room, for, of course, i did not know it. coming to it at last, i took her cold hands in mine and held them for a moment, and smiled as cheerfully as i could. "this is not the time for explanations," i said; "leave all that till the morning. go to bed, and try not to remember anything that has happened; and lock your door." i heard the key turn in the lock before i came away; not till then did i retrace my steps back to the corridor. i was scarcely surprised to find the man standing almost in the same attitude--only now his head had lowered a little, and he seemed to be musing. without moving he looked up at me, and a queer sort of grin spread over his features. "smart man!" he whispered, with a sneer. "how did it happen? how much do you know?" "more than you would have me know?" i replied. "would it not be well to fasten up that door again?" i jerked my head in the direction of the end of the corridor. without a word he handed the lamp to me, and started towards the opening. he went so quickly that i thought for the moment he meant to hurl himself upon that death he had intended for the girl; but he stopped at the end, and seemed to be fumbling with the doors. by that time i had reached him, and, with the aid of the lamp, i could see that there were two heavy doors opening inwards and fastened with a great bar that dropped across them, and with bolts at the top and at the bottom. quite as though he had forgotten the incidents of the night, he turned to me, and gave an explanation of the doors. "there used to be an iron staircase against the wall of the house, leading down from here at one time," he said. "it was the whim of some former owner. i found these doors by accident." "and opened them with a purpose," i reminded him. he said nothing in reply. having secured the doors, he motioned to me to go in front, which i did, carrying the light, and in that order we came to my room. i would have handed him the lamp at the door, but he motioned to me to go in, and, following himself, closed the door. i set down the lamp, and waited for what he had to say. he was a long time coming to it; he wandered about the room for a time, stopping now and then, with his back to me, and with his finger tracing out the pattern of the wall paper. when at last he spoke he was still tracing that pattern, and he did not look round. "you have done me a service to-night, and one i'm not likely to forget," he said. "a service?" i asked in amazement. "i should scarcely have thought you'd call it that." "i do--i do!" he exclaimed, swinging round upon me suddenly. "i meant to kill her, and you've saved me from that. i thank my god for it!" "i don't believe you," i said doggedly. "you planned the thing too well for that." "i did not plan it, except by the opening of the doors," he said. "i knew that she walked in her sleep sometimes, and i thought----" "you lie!" i exclaimed fiercely. "i watched you, and heard you while you suggested to her that she should walk in this eastern corridor at midnight, and should come to the end wall. and you knew that there would be no wall there." he looked at me in a bewildered fashion for what seemed a long time; then he nodded slowly twice. "so you heard that, did you? well, i suppose there's nothing for it but confession. i did plan the thing; it was by a method you don't understand--what we call hypnotic suggestion. that means that you tell a person that they are to do a certain thing at a certain hour, and when that hour arrives they must inevitably set about to do it." "why did you want to kill her?" "why do we always desire to crush the thing that we can't possess?" he snapped back at me. "because i love her--because i would sell my immortal soul--if i have one--to bend her or break her to my will. you are a sleepy dolt, understanding nothing of passions such as sway stronger men; you are not likely to understand this. but she maddens me when she sticks that pretty chin of hers in the air, and i see the contempt flash out of her eyes. if you saw so much, you probably saw the beginning of it, when she said she would have nothing further to do with me, and threatened to get away out of the house. then the thought came over me that i would put an end to it all; and i made that suggestion to her that she should walk here to-night; and i came first, and opened the old doors. i thank god you saved her!" he suddenly dropped his head in his hands and groaned aloud; and my heart melted a little with pity for him. i guessed something of what a stormy nature was hidden in the man; and i, who thought i had read something of love in her eyes for me, could afford to pity the man to whose pleadings she turned a deaf ear. fool that i was, i did not realise the cunning of the creature who stood with hidden face before me; i did not understand that this was but a bit of play-acting, to put me off my guard. i was to learn all that later. "do you think you'll help your case by such a business as this of to-night?" i asked. "it's a poor way to make love, to strive to kill the woman." "she won't know anything about it; she won't guess," he exclaimed eagerly, looking up at me. "she does not know that i suggested to her what to do; she will only wonder at finding the doors open. i can give some explanation of that, if necessary." "and what will you do now?" i asked him, as i lighted my own lamp and put his into his hand. "give up the game," he replied, with a faint smile. "this has taught me a lesson to-night; it has shown me how near the best of us may come to a crime. i am sincere in that; i thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you've done. the lover in me is gone; henceforth i'm her guardian and the friend of her dead father. there's my hand on it!" i looked into his eyes, and once again i believed him; i began to feel that i had misjudged the man. true, his hand was cold enough in my grasp, but i paid no heed to that; i seemed to see only before me a changed and humbled man. he wished me "good-night!" with much cordiality, and went off to his own room. for my part, i felt something of a missionary, and congratulated myself upon the night's work. i had made up my mind that i would see debora as early as possible on the following morning. i was anxious to know what impression that startling occurrence of the previous night had made upon her. i wanted to see her before there was any possibility of bardolph just confronting her; and in that i was successful. it was a very fine morning, and i supposed that i should find her in the grounds. i felt that i might reasonably expect that she would make her way to that summer-house in which we had met and talked before; and in that also i was right. quite early, before breakfast was announced, i came upon her in the morning sunlight; and for a long time, as it seemed, we held hands without a word. "you slept well?" i asked her. she nodded brightly. "better than i should have done, i suppose," she said, with a smile; "but then, i was sure of my friend--certain that no harm could come to me. how much have you to tell me of last night?" "nothing," i said, shaking my head. "there is nothing that you need be told, now that everything is ended. for the future you have to trust to me--just as you trusted last night. you said i was your friend; and i am going to look after you." "that makes me very happy. by the way, what am i to call you?" she asked artlessly. i felt the colour mounting in my cheeks. "you know my name," i said. "yes--john," she replied, and we both laughed. now this is, of course, all very shameful, and i had no right to be standing there, holding her hands, and letting her talk to me in that fashion; but i did not remember then what i was, or from what i had come. indeed, it is more than possible that if i had remembered i should scarcely have changed my attitude, for but little joy had ever come into my life. i merely set this down here, in order to record the fact that, save for one lamentable lapse, we were "john" and "debora" to each other from that day forward. but i had some instructions to give her for her own safety. she listened attentively while i gave them. "you had better not refer to last night at all," i said. "let the doctor imagine that you have forgotten about it, or at least have believed that it was some ugly dream. meet him as usual--show him, if anything, a little more kindness than you have done." "i can't do that," she said hastily. "you must; it is imperative," i urged. "i can tell you this, at least: i have his promise that he will not molest you again, and that he will be for the future simply your guardian, and nothing else." "he said that?" she asked in astonishment. "yes, and i believe he means it," i answered steadily. "i don't believe it, john; it's a trick," she said, shaking her head. "i've seen too much of him; i know him too well. he is trying to throw you off the scent. don't you understand how helpless we both are? you tell me that you are in his power, because he knows something about your past life: how can you fight against him, or help me?" "i can, and i will," i assured her. "and you can help, by being discreet, and by waiting until we have an opportunity to do something in concert." she promised faithfully that she would do that, and she left me, with a smile and a wave of the hand. i followed her slowly to the house, and found the doctor in his usual place at the breakfast table, talking quietly to her. the woman leach was behind him, as usual. it became obvious, in a minute or two, that bardolph just was anxious to find out how much she remembered, or how much she understood, of the events of the previous night; he had already begun to question debora cautiously. he appeared to be in a genial mood, and yet in a softened mood; he gave me a smile as i took my place. "so you slept well?" said bardolph just to the girl, as he leaned towards her. "not disturbed by anything?" she shook her head, and looked at him with raised eyebrows of perplexity; truly i felt that she had learnt her lesson well. "what should disturb me?" "nothing, nothing!" he replied, evidently at a loss. "only i thought that there was some noise in the house last night; i almost went out to investigate. but, of course, if you heard nothing----" it happened that at that moment i glanced up over his head, and i saw the woman behind him turn a swift glance out of those dark eyes of hers at the girl; it was but a momentary thing, and then her eyes were cast down in the usual humble fashion; but in that instant i had read something that i had not understood before. i read not only hatred of the girl, and defiance of her; i saw, as clearly as though it had been written, that she knew of the events of the night before, and that she knew that the girl was not speaking the truth. i wondered exactly what had happened, or in what way she had gained her knowledge: i was to learn that swiftly enough. somewhat later in the forenoon, i was practically alone in the house. i knew that debora had gone off into the grounds with a book, and i did not care to disturb her. bardolph just had gone down into london on business. i was lounging at my full length in an easy chair in the dining-room, smoking, and reading the newspaper, when the door opened softly, and martha leach came in. i did not turn my head, but i saw her moving round the room in a large mirror hanging on the wall opposite my chair. indeed, our eyes met in that mirror, before they met elsewhere. she stopped, and, somewhat to my surprise, spoke. "you are a very brave man," she said, with a quick glance at the long windows, as though fearing interruption. "and a strong man, too." "who told you that?" i asked, without shifting my position. "no one tells me anything, and i don't need to be told," she answered. "i find out things for myself; i watch, and discover." i seemed to have a dim inkling of what was coming, but i think my face betrayed nothing. i lowered the newspaper to my knee, and went on smoking, and watching her in the mirror. "i saw you last night in the eastern corridor; i saw you catch that girl just in time," she went on, in the same breathless sort of whisper. "a moment later, and that would have been death." "you seem to know a great deal about it," i answered. "perhaps you can tell me something else." she laughed insolently, and shrugged her shoulders. i kept my eyes upon her in the mirror. "anything you like," she replied. "then tell me how you could see anything that happened in the eastern corridor last night," was my answer. "i was in the grounds--i had been there a long time," she whispered, her eyes growing more excited. "i did not know about the door; i only knew that something was going to happen, because the doctor kept moving about all the evening. i watched him go out of his room--i mean that i saw the light disappear, and knew that he had not put it out; i saw it go across the windows as he moved. i thought he was going to your room, and so i went round there; and then i saw your light go out. and then, as by a miracle, i saw that wall open, and the doctor stood there, like a spirit. i saw him before the light was puffed out. then i waited to see what would happen." "well, i hope you were satisfied with what you saw?" i said carelessly. she snapped her fingers quickly, and laughed. "bah! you think you will put me off; you think i don't understand," she said. "i tell you i saw you come to that door and look out; i saw you in the starlight. and then i saw her come; heard the shriek; saw you catch her in your arms. after that, the fastening of the door by the doctor, while you held the lamp. and yet this morning"--her voice changed to a tone of bitter irony--"this morning, if you please, no one knows anything about it, and everyone has slept well. bah!" she snapped her fingers again, and it seemed almost as if she waited to know what i should say. but i realised that this woman was an intimate of the doctor; and it was my business, then, to fear everyone in that house, save debora. so i went on smoking, and, still without turning my head, talked to the woman i saw in the mirror. "have you anything else to say?" i asked calmly. "oh! a great deal," she flashed back at me, forgetting the cautious voice in which she had spoken. "i want, first of all, to know who you are, and how you come to be in this house so mysteriously and so suddenly; for who saw you arrive? that i shall discover some day for myself. i discover everything in time. and i want to tell you something." she moved a step nearer to my chair, and now i turned my head and looked into her eyes. "he did not succeed last night; but perhaps the next time he will not fail. so surely as i stand here, so surely do i know that he will kill her." she nodded her head with incredible swiftness two or three times, and drew back from me, with her lips tightly pursed. i lost control of myself in the sudden shock of her words; i sprang to my feet. "what do you mean?" i asked in horror. "what do you know?" "only what i have said," she mocked at me, as she made for the door. "i would advise you, mr. mysterious, to look well after this girl you love--this frail thing of prettiness. for the doctor will surely kill her!" then she was gone, and i was left staring helplessly at the closed door. so much had that thought been in my own mind that her words seemed but an echo. i thought i saw that this man, bardolph just, cheated of his purpose in securing the girl, had made up his mind to get rid of her--out of some insane jealousy that prompted him not to allow her to go to the arms of another man. yet, when i came to think over the problem, it occurred to me that if, as he had faintly suggested, he wanted control of her fortune, this would be but the act of a madman. the only possibility was that the fortune might in some way be secured by him without her. but now that the matter had been confirmed in this startling fashion i knew that it was imperative that i should keep a stricter watch than ever upon debora. for suddenly it seemed to me that my absurd belief in the man was no longer justified. i saw that the doctor had merely adopted that attitude of penitence, the better to put me off my guard. yet, even while i promised myself that i would do valiant things, i could only remember my own helplessness, in being entirely dependent upon the very man against whom i wished to arm myself. i had in my pocket but a shilling or two, which he had given me for my journey down into london--that journey which i had never taken. as for any future that might once have seemed bright before me--what future had i? i was practically in hiding under another name, and i had no resources save those i might derive from one who knew my secret, and was, in a great sense, my enemy. i was in love--surely more hopelessly than mortal man had ever been before; and i was liable at any moment to be betrayed by the man harvey scoffold, who had penetrated my story. altogether, as i came to review the position, i could have heartily wished myself back in my prison again, save for one element in the business. that element was debora matchwick, and i knew that in the strange game i was playing fate had destined me to fight on her side, in a matter of life and death. bardolph just returned early in the afternoon, and went straight to his study. debora i had seen for an instant as she crossed the hall; she gave me a quick smile, and that was all. there seemed to be brooding over the whole house an atmosphere of expectancy--quite as though we waited for something that was to happen, and faced it each in his or her particular way. i found myself listening for the doctor's step in the house, while i felt equally certain that for his part he was wondering what move i should take, and was calmly preparing to meet such a move, whatever it might be. the long day drew to a close, and presently the harsh bell clanged through the house as a summons to dinner. i happened to be in my room at the time, and as i stepped out of it to go down the stairs, i saw that the doctor was waiting at the head of the stairs, and was peering over into the hall below. he turned his head when he heard my step behind him, and spoke in a whisper. he spoke as though we were on the friendliest terms, and almost as if there were some secret understanding between us. as i stepped up to him he put his hand on my shoulder, and, laughable as it may seem, i felt a little thrill of gratitude and tenderness for the man run through me--such was the fascination of him. all my suspicions of him seemed to go to the wind. "i thought i ought to prepare you, john, in case you didn't know," he whispered. "two bits of news--harvey scoffold has come to dinner, which may mean mischief; and capper's missing." he imparted that last scrap of information with something so like a chuckle that i looked at him quickly, with a new suspicion in my mind. oddly enough, he must have guessed what i meant, for he shook his head and grinned. "oh, nothing to do with me, i assure you," he said. "only he has gone off without a word to anyone--and i don't quite like it. of course, i'm relieved to know that he has gone; the old fool was like a ghost wandering about the place. but still, i'd like to know where he is." "i don't see that it matters very much," i replied. "but what makes you think that scoffold may mean mischief?" still keeping his hand on my shoulder, he turned me about, and began to walk with me down the stairs. "because it's a long time since he has visited me until the other night, and now he comes again. you see, he knows our story, and he's utterly unscrupulous. more than that, he's always in want of money." "i'll try what personal violence will do, if he tries any tricks with me," i muttered savagely. and once again i heard the doctor chuckle. harvey scoffold was in the dining-room when we entered, and was talking to debora. he was flourishing about in his big, bullying way, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and his feet wide apart. he turned round to greet us at once. i noticed that he looked sharply from the doctor to me, and back again, as though he suspected we had been discussing him; but the next moment he gripped our hands warmly, and began to pour out apologies. "i hope you don't mind a lonely man coming in, and taking advantage of your hospitality in this fashion," he began to the doctor. "but it suddenly occurred to me that i might run over to see you--and i acted on the impulse of a moment." "delighted, i'm sure," murmured bardolph just. yet he scarcely looked delighted. "you know you're always welcome, harvey." "thanks--a thousand thanks!" exclaimed the big man. "you fellows interested me so much the other night while we smoked our cigars, that i rather wanted to have that little discussion out with you. you don't mind?" we were seated at the table by this time, and i saw the doctor look up quickly at him, with something of a scowl on his face. "i mind very much," he said sharply. "drop it." a little startled, harvey scoffold sat upright, looking at him for a moment; then he nodded slowly. "very good--then the subject is dropped," he said. "it would not have been mentioned again by me, but that i thought i might be of some assistance in the matter." there was no reply to that, and we presently drifted into other topics of conversation. but after a time it seemed as though harvey scoffold, in sheer venom, must get back to that subject, if only by a side door, for he presently asked a question casually that bore straight upon it. "by the way, that quaint old servant, capper--is he any better?" the doctor slowly finished the wine he was drinking, and set the glass down, and wiped his lips; then, without looking at his questioner, he answered-- "capper is gone!" he said. two persons at the table echoed that last word together--harvey scoffold and debora exclaimed, as in one voice, "gone!" "having had enough of our society, the man has taken himself off as mysteriously as he came," went on the doctor calmly. "i never understood his coming; still less do i understand his going, although i confess that the latter movement is the more reasonable. perhaps he has remembered where his master is, and has gone to join him." i stole a glance at the startled face of the girl. she seemed strangely excited. harvey scoffold, evidently at a loss for conversation, hummed the mere shred of an air between his lips, and looked at the ceiling. the doctor's face i could not see, because he was behind the lamp. i longed for the dinner to pass, because i wanted to get at my man, and find out just what game was afoot; i was in a mood to choke whatever news he had out of him, if necessary. debora rose at last, and went out of the room. no sooner was the door closed than the doctor shifted his chair a little, so as to bring him clear of the lamp, and brought a fist down on the table with a bang. "now, scoffold," he said violently, "what's the move?" "yes, what's the move?" i echoed, leaning towards the man also. he glanced from one to the other of us with a look of smiling innocence on his face. "the move?" he said. "i'm afraid i don't understand. in the name of all that's marvellous, can't a man come to dinner with friends without being asked what the move is?" "you're not the man to do anything without a purpose," cried bardolph just. "you discovered something the last time you were here, and you evidently want to discover something else. let me warn you----" "stop! stop!" broke in harvey scoffold, raising his hands protestingly. "i need no threats and no warnings, because there is nothing to threaten about, nor to warn about. my hands are clean, and i trust they may remain so. if i referred to the matter at all to-night, it was simply because i was naturally very deeply interested in the story i heard, and i wanted to know what further developments there might be, that is all." "well, there are no further developments," growled the doctor. "i doubt if there will be any further developments." "i'm delighted to hear it, and i'm only worried about one thing--that's the man capper. he may make mischief, and he may get himself into trouble--poor old fellow!--wandering about the world friendless. i'm quite sorry for capper." the doctor excused himself almost immediately, and went to his study. to my surprise, scoffold linked his arm in mine, and drew me with him towards the door of the house. "it's a fine night, and a walk will do you good," he said. "walk back with me to my place." "that's rather too far," i said, for i remembered that he had chambers in the west-end of london. "i've taken another lodging," he said, without looking at me. "it's about a mile from here--or perhaps a little more--in a sort of rural cottage, where i can smell the roses when i wake in the morning. cheap and wholesome, and all that sort of thing. come along." it was still quite early, and i reflected that no harm was likely to come to the girl in the short time i should be away. besides, in a fashion, this man drew me to him, by reason of the fact that i was afraid of him, and of what he might do or say. so we went out of the house together, and traversed the dark grounds, and so came arm-in-arm into the open road. smoking our cigars like two gentlemen at ease, we strolled along under the stars. i found that he had taken a lodging in a quaint little cottage, with a long garden in front of it, in a queer little back street in highgate--i should scarcely have believed that such a place existed in what was really london. he fitted his key into the door, and we went into a tiny passage and up some stairs. as we reached the top of the stairs, a clean-looking old woman came out of the room below, and called to him. "your servant is waiting up for you, sir," she said. "thank you very much indeed," replied harvey scoffold blandly, and the woman retired. i found myself wondering a little what sort of servant he had brought to such a place as this. i followed him into a little clean sitting-room, with two doors opening out of it into what were evidently bedrooms. at one side of the room a little table was set out with decanters, and glasses, and syphons: he proceeded to mix for himself and for me. looking about him in search of something which he could not find, he struck his hand on a little bell, and i saw one of the doors open, and someone come in. i stared with a dropping jaw when i saw that the mysterious servant who now came in smiling was capper! capper did not look at me. he received his instructions, and went out of the room in search of what was wanted. he came noiselessly back in a moment or two, and during his absence no word was spoken. when the door was finally closed again, i spoke in a tone i vainly endeavoured to control. "what is the meaning of this?" i demanded. "of what?" asked harvey scoffold innocently. "oh! you mean capper? purely an act of charity, my dear boy. i wouldn't have wished the old man to starve." "you're lying," i said hotly. "you asked all those questions to-night during dinner, knowing well that the old man was here. come, what's the motive?" he took a long drink and set down his glass with a sigh of satisfaction. "the motive is this," he said, with a curious grin stealing over his features. "while i wish no direct harm to you, my dear boy, i always like to be prepared for anything that may happen. i am in possession of your story--i know practically all that i want to know. but in the fulness of time that story must change and move; something's got to happen to you at some time or other. now this man capper--this creature of the lost memory--may be a mere pawn in the game, or he may be something more. who shall say what is locked away in that numbed brain of his?--who shall say when or under what circumstances he may wake up? i shall be curious to know what he will say when he wakes--curious to understand what the shock was that drove him into his present condition." "why should you concern yourself about the matter at all?" i demanded. "because i wish to concern myself on your account, my dear fellow," he said blandly. "really you ought to be very much obliged to me. bardolph just would have sent the man packing, or would have let him drift out into the world, with the possibility that at some time or other capper would wake up and tell his story, and demand sanely to know where his master was. here i have him safely, and if he blurts out the story at all--always supposing that he has one to blurt out--he can only tell it to a friend. don't be hasty, and don't misjudge people." nevertheless, i did not like it. i knew that i was in the power of this man scoffold, and i saw, in the line of conduct he was taking, so many steps towards using me for his own ends. the coming to dinner, the taking of this lodging so near to where i lived, the securing of the man capper. i felt that he was drawing a net about me, out of which i might not be able to struggle. we sat talking for a long time, and gradually, with his plausible tongue, he persuaded me that he was my friend, and that he meant to help me. he suspected the doctor, he told me, and his real motive in coming to that lodging was to be near me in case of necessity. "trust me," he said, "and i will stand your friend. more than that, i want to show you now that my help shall be of a practical nature. i take it that you have no money; that you are dependent upon bardolph just for everything?" as i was silent, he nodded, and went on, "just as i thought. well, we'll remedy that; you must let me lend you a little money." i protested feebly for a time, but he was insistent, and at last i yielded. i took only a few shillings, because i really needed them, and i did not know at what moment i might be thrown on my own resources, and left to face the world once more. then, with something amounting to friendliness, i left harvey scoffold at the little gate in the fence, at the end of the long garden which led to the cottage, and took my way back towards the doctor's house. it was very late, and very dark. i was going along at a swinging pace, when i saw a man rise from beside the road and come hobbling towards me, pleading volubly as he came. having nothing for beggars, i was pressing on, while he jogged along beside me, about a foot in my rear, still pleading. "s'welp me, guv'nor, yer might spare a tanner to 'elp a pore bloke to a night's lodging. i've bin trampin' it all day, an' i've scarcely 'ad a mouthful of food; it wouldn't 'urt yer to give me a tanner. i wouldn't be like this 'ere if i 'adn't bin unfort'nit; but wot's a pore bloke to do wot's been in jail--an' gits chivied abaht----" i stopped and wheeled round on him. "you say you've been in prison?" i asked. "what prison was it?" "pent'ouse," he replied; and on that i thrust the money i had ready in my hand into his, and turned abruptly and made off. but, as ill-luck would have it, we had been standing squarely under a lamp, and as i turned round i saw the man give a start of surprise. i was in a mood to run, knowing well that i could out-distance him easily, but as i went striding away, i heard him come pounding after me, and heard him shouting something. the mischief was done; there was nothing for it but to meet him. so i turned back slowly and then stood still, and waited for him. chapter vi. i behave disgracefully. the man i now faced on that solitary road had all the appearance of a tramp. by the light of the lamp above us i saw that he was clad in a dingy old tweed suit, very much frayed at the cuffs and the trouser-ends, while upon his head was a cap much too large for him, the peak of which was worn over one ear. and this not from any rakishness, but rather, as it seemed, as a sullen protest against the more orderly habits of his fellows. as the game was in his hands for the moment, i left the first move to him. "well, strike me pink!" he exclaimed under his breath, as he looked me up and down. "wot's walkin' to-night--live men or spooks? jail-bird or gent--w'ich is it?" "i don't know what you mean," i said lamely. "i know nothing about you----" "come orf it!" he exclaimed, with a disgusted shrug. "if you don't know nothink abaht me, wot did yer come back for w'en i 'ollered? w'y--we worked in the same gang!" "i never saw you in my life before," i said, feeling now that all was up with me. "oh, yus, yer did!" he retorted. "you an' me worked in the same gang, an' slep' at night in cells wot was next to each uvver. an' then one day you cut yer lucky, an' they brought you back a dead 'un. 'ere, ketch 'old of my 'and!" he stretched out a grimy hand to me as he spoke and quite mechanically i put my own into it. he gripped it for a moment, and then tossed it from him with a laugh. "you ain't no spook," he said, "an' you ain't no bloomin' twin brother. you won't kid old george rabbit." "i don't want to kid anybody," i said. "and i shouldn't think you'd be the sort to go back on a pal. why, you're free yourself!" "yes, in a proper sort o' way," he retorted. "got my discharge reg'lar, an' a nice little pat on the back w'en i come out fer bein' a good boy. not that that does yer much good--'cos 'ere i am starving, w'ile the bloke that comes out through the roof, an' cuts his lucky, dresses like a toff, an' smokes a cigar you could smell a mile orf. as fer me, it don't 'ardly run to 'alf a hounce an' a inch of clay." "well, at any rate you're better off now, and as to freedom--well, we can cry quits as to that," i said. "here's some more money for you, all i can spare. i'll wish you good-night." "'arf a mo'--'arf a mo'!" he cried, catching at my sleeve and detaining me. "do yer fink i'm goin' to let yer go like that? w'y, there's lots of fings wants explainin'. 'ow do you come to be walkin' at large like this 'ere, after they've tolled the bloomin' bell for yer at pent'ouse?" "i can't explain everything to you; it would take too long," i said. "suffice it that i've found friends who have helped me; there was another man buried in my place. and now, mr. george rabbit," i added fiercely, "you'll please to understand that norton hyde, convict, lies buried in a certain grave you know of, and quite another man has given you money to-night. get that into your thick head, and once more 'good-night' to you." i turned away abruptly to resume my walk. after all, i felt that i was pretty safe; such a shifty, shambling creature as this would only be regarded as a madman if he told any tale about me, especially any tale that would seem as absurd as this one of a man alive that should properly be dead. so i strode away, whistling. but after a moment or two, glancing furtively over my shoulder, i saw that he was following, coming along on the other side of the road at a sort of hobbling trot that carried him over the ground as fast as my longer stride. i stopped, and looked back at him; and in a moment he stopped too, and waited. "you'd better go back," i called across to him threateningly, but he did not answer. on i went again, and once more, as i glanced over my shoulder, i saw him coming along in the same way, like a grim fate that would not be shaken off. i had just made up my mind to try conclusions with him in the shape of personal violence, and had stopped with that purpose in my mind, when a voice broke in out of the darkness that startled me even more than it could have startled mr. rabbit. "is that man following you, sir?" it was a constable, standing in the shadow of a doorway, and he had evidently been watching our approach. i knew by the fact that george rabbit stood his ground, and even edged a little nearer, that he felt he had nothing to fear; while, for my part, the mere sight of the uniformed constable, coming at that juncture, had thrown me into such a sweat of terror that i could scarcely speak. however, i managed to jerk out some words which were perhaps the most stupid i could have used, because i doubt not that had i braved the matter out, george rabbit would have taken to his heels, and so have left me in peace. but my words only strengthened whatever ties the man meant to bind me with. "it's all right, constable," i blurted out; "the man's a friend of mine in--in reduced circumstances. i'm going to find him a lodging." so we shuffled on in our original order past the constable, and now i began to feel that i had indeed taken a load upon me that was more than i could support. by this time george rabbit had drawn nearer to me, and was shuffling along contentedly at my side, and with each step i was coming nearer to the house of dr. bardolph just. in desperation at last i turned about, and caught him suddenly by the throat and shook him. i remember now that he tumbled about in my hands as though he had been the mere bundle of rags he looked, so that i was a little ashamed of my violence. "you dog!" i exclaimed savagely, "what the devil do you mean by following me like this? what do you think you'll gain?" "i dunno, yet," he said shakily, while his head rolled from side to side. "i can't be much worse off than wot i am, an' i may be a deal better." "i'll give you all i have in my pockets if you'll turn back now, and forget you've ever seen me," i said, releasing him. he grinned at me. "i've got sich a 'orrible good memory," he said. "besides, i couldn't fergit that face under any circs." "what do you think you'll get?" i demanded again. "i'll put it plain, guv'nor," he said, standing in the road before me, and looking at me with his head on one side. "i've bin out o' luck a long time; even my pals don't seem to cotton to me some'ow. nah, you've got friends--real tip-toppers, i'll be bound--wot spells it in quids w'ere i spells it in brown 'uns. also likewise you don't want it blowed about that you ain't wot you seem, an' that your proper place fer the next few years is pent'ouse, to say nothink of awkward enquiries about somebody else wot was buried by mistake. in case there's any questions asked, you want a pal wot'll s'welp 'is never that 'e don't know any more abaht yer than the king on 'is golding throne. an' that's me--that's george rabbit!" "i don't want your help," i said. "but you've got to 'ave it, all the same," he remarked cheerfully. so it happened that i had to go on again, with this ragged retainer trailing behind. in that order we came to the gate leading into the grounds, and i went in, still puzzled to know what to do with the man. by this time i realised that, however much the doctor might resent his appearance, it was vitally necessary that for his own sake, as well as for mine, bardolph just should assist me in silencing that too free tongue which wagged in the head of george rabbit. while i was debating what to do with the man, he settled that question for himself. "it's a nice warm night, guv'nor; if you could give me some place w'ere i could jist lay meself dahn, an' do a snooze, i should be as comfy as comfy. only if i could git summink to eat, an' a drop o' drink fust, i should be 'appier still." "you'd better wait here while i go to the house," i replied. "i'll bring you out something to eat, and i'll show you where to sleep." i left him standing under the trees, and, greatly perturbed in mind, made my way to the house. i had seen a light in the doctor's study, and i now made straight for it, for this was a matter in which i must have advice. without troubling to knock at the door, i opened it and walked straight in. at first i thought the room was empty, and i was withdrawing again when i heard voices at the further end of it. the voices proceeded from behind the screen which hid that part of the room which was the surgery, and it was evident that whoever was there, believing that they had the place to themselves, were at no pains to mask their voices. the first voice i heard was one which i recognised easily as that of the woman martha leach. she was evidently greatly excited, and labouring under strong emotion. "god help me! why have i clung to you all these years--for you to make a mock of me now, and to try to fling me aside? what has my life been that i should stand calmly by and be slighted, and treated like the dirt under your feet?" it was the doctor's voice that broke in, sharply and angrily. "you've remained with me because it suited your purpose to do so," he said. "years ago i befriended you--you know under what circumstances. you know how i imperilled my position to do it; you know that, but for me, you would have stood in a criminal dock----" "i know--i know!" she cried. "and after that my life was given to you. i became as something that did not exist for myself, but for another. and now--now all that is forgotten." "it was forgotten years ago, and will never be remembered now," he said. "if you are not content with your position here, the remedy lies in your own hands: you can leave the house, and start somewhere again for yourself." "you know i can't do that," she said, in a lower tone. "only you might be fair to me; you might let me understand that even if i am nothing, this girl is less. why should you degrade me before her?" "because you were growing insolent," he said. "leave miss matchwick's name out of the question." "you tried to kill her," said the woman, sinking her voice yet more. "i saw that; i know why you opened those doors last night." there was a long pause, and then i heard the doctor give a quick laugh. "well, doesn't that satisfy you?" he asked. she seemed to laugh in response. "but you won't have the courage again," she taunted him. "won't i?" i heard him move as though he took a step towards her. "i shall. and next time it will be something more subtle than any such bungling business of an accident at night. i gave a certificate once, in the case of a certain martha leach, concerning the death----" "don't speak of that!" she exclaimed. "and i can give one in the case of the death of a certain debora----what's that?" i had been so startled that i had stumbled back against the door, closing it noisily. i had the sense now to open it quickly, and apparently to march into the room, cheerily whistling. as i did so the doctor came quickly round the screen and confronted me. "hullo!" i exclaimed. "forgive my bursting in like that; i wanted to see you." he drew a breath of relief, and smiled in a ghastly fashion; he seemed strangely shaken. "you did startle me rather," he said. "what's the matter?" now i knew that the woman leach was still behind the screen, and that she must hear every word that i might have to say, and bardolph just knew that also. yet we must play the game of pretences in such a fashion as to make each believe that we were certain we were the only two persons in the room. more than that, having had a sample of the woman's curiosity that morning, i was in no mood to talk about myself, or of that fellow jail-bird i had met, within her hearing. yet i could not suggest talking with the doctor elsewhere, because that must at once show him that i knew we had a listener. there was nothing for it but to speak as vaguely as possible, and to try and get him away from that room. "i've had an adventure to-night, and i rather want to tell you about it," i said. "i've met a man, by the merest accident, whom i know." he glanced quickly at the screen, and then looked again at me. "won't your news keep till the morning?" he asked. "well, hardly," i replied, with a laugh. "the friend of whom i speak is here now." "here?" the doctor looked puzzled. "yes," i said. "you see, it happens that he was with me in a certain place of which you know, and he is rather anxious to renew an acquaintance so auspiciously begun." the doctor whistled softly, and once more glanced at the screen. "we'll go downstairs and talk about this," he said. "this room is intolerably hot." he opened the door for me to pass out, and as i preceded him murmured an excuse that he had forgotten something, and went quickly back. i went downstairs, and in a moment or two he joined me in the dining-room. i could scarcely refrain from smiling at my secret knowledge of what had taken place in the other room, even though i was agitated by dreadful fears concerning debora. i had gleaned but a dim notion of what the pair had been talking about, but it had been enough to show me that bardolph just had by no means repented of his purpose. i shuddered at the connection of debora's name with death. moreover, guessing something of the character of the woman leach, and adding to that the remembrance of what she had said to me that morning, i saw that matters were indeed desperate. and, to add to my perplexities, there was the man george rabbit, waiting all this time under the trees for my reappearance. "now, what has happened?" asked the doctor sharply. "i met a man to-night, by the greatest ill-fortune, who worked in the same gang with me in penthouse prison," i answered him. "a mean dog, who intends to trade on the knowledge, and to get what he can out of me. i tried to shake him off, but he stuck to me like wax." "what have you done with him?" he asked. "i left him in the grounds; i promised to take food and drink to him," i said. he paced about the room for a moment or two, with his arms folded, and his chin in the hollow of one hand. "i don't like the look of things at all; it seems almost as if a net were closing in about us," he said at last. "harvey scoffold was bad enough; now comes someone who, according to your description, is scarcely likely to prove as reasonable even as scoffold might be. this dog scents money, i take it?" "he scents everything that means easy living, and no work, and safety," i answered. "bring him in here; perhaps i may be able to deal with him better than you," said the doctor suddenly. "we'll feed him, and we'll see what he has to say for himself. that's the ticket; bring him in here." i went out at once into the grounds, and was relieved to see george rabbit slouch out from the shadows of the trees, and come towards me. "bin a bloomin' long time, you 'ave," he growled resentfully. "don't be impudent," i said sharply. "come into the house, and i'll give you a meal." he drew back and shook his head. "not me," he replied. "i ain't goin' to run into no traps. 'ow do i know who's inside, or wot's goin' to 'appen to me? i'm safe 'ere, an' 'ere i'll stop." "what's to harm you?" i asked him. "you've nothing to fear; you've worked out your time, and are a free man. if anyone has to be afraid of what's going to happen, i think i'm the man." "never mind abaht that; i tell yer i ain't goin' in," he said doggedly. i shrugged my shoulders and turned away. "then stop outside; you'll get nothing," was my reply. as i expected, i had not gone a dozen yards when he came limping after me. "all right, guv'nor, i'll risk it," he said eagerly, "i'm down on my luck, an' i must have a bite an' a drink. an' after all, w'en yer come to think of it, i'm top dog, ain't i?" in my own mind i had to acknowledge as much, though i wondered what his attitude would be when he came face to face with that stronger man, bardolph just. i made my way into the house and into the dining-room, while george rabbit shuffled along behind me. he had pulled off his cap, and now revealed the thin stubble of hair with which his head was covered. as he shuffled in after me into the dining-room he caught sight of the doctor, standing up with his hands in his pockets, looking at him. he drew back instantly, and looked very much as though he meant to make a bolt for it, after all. "you can come in, my friend," said the doctor, regarding him steadily. "i know all about you." "i said it was a bloomin' trap," muttered rabbit, as he shuffled into the room. i saw that the doctor had been busy in my absence. apparently he had visited the larder, and had brought therefrom the remains of a pie and some bread and cheese, all of which were set out on a tray, together with a bottle and a glass. our new guest eyed these things hungrily, forgetful of everything else. at a sign from the doctor he seated himself at the table, and fell to like a ravening wolf. "i thought it better not to disturb the servants," said bardolph just to me in a low tone, "so i foraged for myself. he'll be more amenable when he's taken the edge off his appetite." mr. george rabbit feeding was not a pretty sight. making all allowances for a tremendous hunger, it was not exactly nice to see him cramming food into himself with the aid of his knife as well as his fork, and with an occasional resort to his more primitive fingers; nor did he forget to apply himself to the bottle at intervals. and all the time he eyed us furtively, as though wondering what would happen when his meal was finished. but at last even he was satisfied--or perhaps i should put it that the pie had given out. he sat back in his chair, and wiped his lips with the lining of his deplorable cap, and heaved a huge sigh of satisfaction. "that's done me a treat, guv'nors both," he murmured hoarsely. "we're pleased, i'm sure," replied bardolph just. "now we can get to business. it seems that you've got a sort of idea in your head that you are acquainted with this gentleman?" he indicated me as he spoke. george rabbit winked impudently. "never forgot a pal in my life, an' i 'ope i never shall," he said. "w'y, me an' norton 'ide was unfort'nit togevver, an' now 'e's struck it rich, it ain't likely i wouldn't stick to 'im. see?" "now listen to me, my man," said bardolph just, coming to the other end of the table, and leaning his hands on it, and staring down at the other man. "a great many things happen in this world that it's well to know nothing about. you've made a mistake; the gentleman you think is norton hyde is not norton hyde at all. what do you say to that?" "wot i say to that is--try summink else," answered rabbit. "you fink you'll kid me; you fink you'll git rid of me jist fer a supper? not much. i know a good thing w'en i see it, an' i'm goin' to freeze on to it." "you will not only have a good supper, but you'll have somewhere to sleep as well," said the doctor. "more than that, you'll have money." "i'll lay i do!" exclaimed the man boisterously. bardolph just laid a sovereign on the edge of the table, and pushed it gently towards the man. "you've never seen this gentleman before?" he hinted. george rabbit shook his head. "not 'arf enough," he said disdainfully. the process was repeated until five sovereigns lay in a little shining row along the edge of the table. it was too much for george rabbit; he leaned forward eagerly. "i don't know the gent from adam!" he exclaimed. "ah!" the doctor laughed, and drew a deep breath, and then suddenly dropped his hand down so that the coins were covered. "but not so fast; there's something else. this money is yours--and you will have a shakedown for the night--only on condition that you stick to what you've said. if you give any trouble, or if you start any ridiculous story such as you hinted at to-night, i shall find a way of dealing with you. do you understand?" the man looked up at him suspiciously. "you could do a precious lot, i don't fink!" he exclaimed. "i'd do this," said the doctor viciously. "i'd hunt you out of the country, my friend; i'd look up past records and see what took you into prison; i'd see if you couldn't be got back there again. how do you think your word would stand against mine, when it came to a cock-and-bull story of the wrong man buried and the right man alive? think yourself lucky you've been treated as well as you have." george rabbit eyed him resentfully, and had a long look at me; then he slowly shuffled to his feet. "give us the rhino, an' show me w'ere i'm to sleep," he said. "i shall keep me face shut; you needn't be afraid." the doctor pushed the coins towards him, and he was in the very act of gathering them up with some deliberateness, when the door was opened, and martha leach walked in. what she had expected to find, or whether she had anticipated discovering the doctor alone, it is impossible to say; certain it is that she stopped dead, taking in the little picture before her, and something of its meaning. george rabbit swept the coins into his hand, and jingled them for a moment, and dropped them into his pocket. "what do you want?" snarled bardolph just. "nothing," replied the woman, in some dismay. "i only thought--i only wondered if you wanted anything more to-night. i'm very sorry." "i want nothing. go to bed," he said curtly; and with another swift glance round the room that seemed to embrace us all, she walked out of the room and closed the door. "now, show this man where he can sleep," he said, turning to me. "there's a loft over the stable, with plenty of straw in it; if he doesn't set fire to himself he'll be comfortable enough. you know where it is?" i nodded, and signed to george rabbit to follow me. he made an elaborate and somewhat ironical bow to the doctor in the doorway of the room. the doctor called him back for a moment. "you can slip away in the morning when you like," he said. "and don't let us see your ugly face again." "not so much about my face, if yer don't mind," said mr. rabbit. "an' i shan't be at all sorry ter go; i don't 'alf like the company you keep!" with this doubtful compliment flung at me, mr. george rabbit shuffled out of the room, with a parting grin at the doctor. i took him out of the house and across the grounds towards the stable, showed him where, by mounting a ladder, he could get to his nest among the straw in the loft. "and don't smoke there," i said, "if only for your own sake." "i 'aven't got anythink to smoke," he said, a little disgustedly. "i never thought of it. i 'aven't so much as a match on me." i knew that the stable was deserted, because i had never seen any horses there, and i knew that the doctor kept none. i left george rabbit in the dark, and retraced my steps to the house. i met the doctor in the hall; he had evidently been waiting for me. "well?" he asked, looking at me with a smile. "i don't think he'll trouble us again," i said. "as you suggested, he won't get anyone to believe his story, even if he tells it, and a great many things may happen before he gets rid of his five pounds. take my word for it, we've seen the last of him." i went to my room and prepared for bed. at the last moment it occurred to me that i had said nothing to the doctor about capper, or about the treachery of harvey scoffold, and i decided that that omission was perhaps, after all, for the best. the business of the man capper was one which concerned debora, in a sense, and i knew that the doctor was no friend to debora. i determined to say nothing at present. it was a particularly warm night, with a suggestion in the air of a coming storm. i threw back the curtains from my window, and flung the window wide, and then, as there was light enough for me to undress by without the lamp, i put that out, and sat in the semi-darkness of the room, smoking. i was thinking of many things while i slipped off my upper garments, and only gradually did it dawn upon me that across the grounds a light was showing where no light should surely be. taking my bearings in regard to the position of the house itself, i saw that that light would come from the loft above the disused stable. i cursed george rabbit and my own folly for trusting him. at the same time it occurred to me that i did not want to make an enemy of the man, and that i might well let him alone, to take what risks he chose. the light was perfectly steady, and there was no suggestion of the flicker of a blaze; i thought it possible that he might have discovered some old stable lantern, with an end of candle in it, and so have armed himself against the terrors of the darkness. nevertheless, while i leaned on the window-sill and smoked i watched that light. presently i saw it move, and then disappear; and while i was congratulating myself on the fact that the man had probably put out the light, i saw it appear again near the ground, and this time it was swinging, as though someone carried it. i drew back a little from the window, lest i should be seen, and watched the light. whoever carried it was coming towards the house, and as it swung i saw that it was a lantern, and that it was knocking gently, not against the leg of a man, as i had anticipated, but against the skirts of a woman; so much i made out clearly. when the light was so close as to be almost under my window i craned forward, and looked, for it had stopped. the next moment i saw what i wanted to see clearly. the lantern was raised, and opened; a face was set close to it that the light might be blown out. in the second before the light was puffed out i saw that face clearly--the face of martha leach! long after she had gone into the house i stood there puzzling about the matter, wondering what she could have had to say to george rabbit. i remembered how she had come into the room when he was taking the money from the table; i remembered, too, her threat to me, at an earlier time, that she would find out how i came into the house and all about me. and i knew that, whether she had succeeded or not, she had paid that nocturnal visit to george rabbit to find out from him what he knew. i found myself wondering whether the man had stood firm, or whether he had been induced to tell the truth. i knew that in the latter case i had an enemy in the house more powerful than any i had encountered yet; so much justice at least i did her. at breakfast the next morning the doctor was in a new mood. something to my surprise, i found both him and debora at the breakfast table when i entered; i may say that i had been to that loft over the stable, only to find, as i had hoped, that my bird was flown. now i murmured a word of apology as i moved round to my place, and was laughingly answered by bardolph just. "you should indeed apologise, my dear john, on such an occasion as this," he said. "and not to me, but to the lady. don't you know what to-day is?" i think i murmured stupidly that i thought it was tuesday, but the doctor caught me up on the word, with another laugh. "yes, but what a tuesday! it is debora's birthday!" "all my good wishes," i said, turning to her at once; and i was rewarded by a quick shy glance and a smile. "come, show john what i've given you; let him see it," exclaimed the doctor. "or stay--let me put it on!" i saw then that there was lying beside her plate a little red morocco case. without looking at him, she pushed it along the table until his hand could reach it, and let her own arm lie passive there afterwards. he unfastened the case, and displayed a glittering and very beautiful bracelet. "what do you think of that?" he cried. "fit to adorn the prettiest and whitest arm in the world." it was curious that, while her arm lay along the table, and he took his time in fitting the bracelet round the wrist, she kept her eyes fixed on me, so that her head was averted from him. even when he had finished the business, and had put her hand to his lips for a moment, she did not look round; she only withdrew the hand quickly, and put it in her lap under the table. i saw his face darken at that, and those white dots come and go in his nostrils. "a great day, i assure you, john, and we'll make a great day of it. we're having a little dinner-party to-night in honour of the event. debora doesn't seem to care for pretty things much," he added a little sourly. "thank you; it is very kind of you," she murmured in a constrained voice; and put the arm that held the bracelet on the table. i felt a poor creature, in more senses than one, in being able to give her nothing, and i felt that i wanted to tell her that. so i contrived a meeting in the grounds, out of sight of the house, and there for a moment i held her hand, and stumbled over what was in my heart. "you know all the good things i wish you, dear debora," i said. "i have no gift for you, because i'm too poor; besides, i didn't know what day it was. but my heart goes out to you, in loyalty and in service." "i know--i know," she answered simply. "and that is why i want to say something to you--something that you must not laugh at." "i should never do that," i assured her earnestly. "john, i am growing desperately afraid," she said, glancing over her shoulder as she spoke, and shuddering. "it is not that anything fresh has happened; it is only that i feel somehow that something is hanging over me. it is in the air--in the doctor's eyes--in the looks of the woman leach; it is like some storm brewing, that must presently sweep down upon me, and sweep me away. i know it--i know it." in sheer blind terror at what was in her own thoughts she clung to me, weeping hysterically, and for my own part i was more shaken than i dared to say. for that thought had been in my mind, too; and now instantly i recalled what i had heard behind the screen in the study the night before. but i would not let her see that i agreed with her; i did my best to laugh her out of that mood, and to get her into a more cheerful one. in part, at least, i succeeded; i assured her over and over again that no harm should come to her while i was near. yet even as i said it i realised my own helplessness, and how difficult a task i had to fight against those who were her enemies. for i was convinced that the woman leach was, if anything, the greater enemy of the two, by reason of that mad jealousy to which she had already given expression. in the strangest way it was martha leach who precipitated matters that night, as i shall endeavour to explain, in the order of the strange events as they happened. in the first place, you are to know that harvey scoffold, having doubtless been duly warned, put in an appearance that night, resplendent in evening dress, while the doctor did equal honour to the occasion. i had a tweed suit which the doctor had procured for me; and glad enough i had been, i can assure you, to discard the garments of the dead man. i thought but little of my dress, however, that night, so intent was i upon watching what was taking place at the table. harvey scoffold took a great quantity of champagne, and the doctor appeared to do so also; in reality, however, i saw that he drank very little. he pressed wine upon debora again and again, and martha leach, who stood behind his chair, was constantly at the girl's elbow with a freshly-opened bottle. debora did no more than sip the wine, however, despite the doctor's entreaties. in a lull in the conversation, while the servants were out of the room and only martha leach was present behind the doctor's chair, i distinctly saw him noiselessly snap his fingers, and whisper something to her, and glance towards the girl. it was as though there was a secret understanding between the man and the woman. then it was that i came to my resolution; then it was that, to the astonishment of everyone, i began to get noisy. i had all my wits about me, for i had drunk but little, and my head was clear; but at my end of the table it was impossible for them to tell how much i had really taken. i made a pretence of staggering to my feet and proposing a toast, only to be pushed down into my seat again by harvey scoffold. "be careful," he whispered, with a laugh. "you're not used to this sort of drink; you've taken too much already." i staggered to my feet again, demanding to know what he meant by it, and asserting my ability, drunkenly, to carry as much as any gentleman. i saw debora, with a distressed face, rise from the table and go, and desperately enough i longed to be able to explain to her what i was doing. i insisted, with threats, upon having more wine, until at last the doctor and scoffold got up and made their way upstairs. there, in the study, scoffold said that he had a walk before him, and must be going. "well, we'll have debora in, and you shall wish her many happy returns of the day once more before you go," said the doctor, as he rang the bell. "john looks as if he were asleep." i was not asleep by any means; but i was sunk all of a heap in an arm-chair, snoring, and with my eyes apparently shut. it did not escape me that, on the ringing of that bell, martha leach appeared at once, with a bottle and glasses on a tray; and once again i saw that meaning glance flash from her to the doctor, and back again. then, very slowly, the door opened, and debora came in, looking about her. and i lay in that apparent drunken sleep, with every sense attuned to what was about to happen, and with my eyes watching through their half-closed lids. chapter vii. in the camp of the enemy. as i lay huddled up in that deep arm-chair, watching what was going on, i noticed with satisfaction that they took no more notice of me than if i had really been in the drunken slumber in which they assumed me to be--which was well for my purpose. so carefully and deliberately had i thought the matter out, that i had even arranged my position in the room with a view to the proving of my suspicions; for i had seen, in the bringing of this quite unnecessary bottle of wine, something about to be done which should concern the girl. and everything in the attitude of the doctor and martha leach seemed to scream "danger" to my ears. the position i had chosen was such that i could see not only the room in which harvey scoffold, the doctor, and debora were standing grouped about the table, but also behind the screen which hid the many bottles in that part of the room i have called the surgery. the better to keep up the illusion of my drunkenness, i now began feebly to wave my arms, and to croon a song, as i lay doubled up with my chin sunk on my breast; and i saw the doctor look at me with some contempt, and shrug his shoulders, and then glance at martha leach, who had remained waiting as though to assist with the bottle and glasses. the glance he gave her spoke as plainly as words could do his satisfaction in my condition--debora's protector was inert and useless. what now happened was this. harvey scoffold, who i am convinced had nothing whatever to do with the business in hand, had engaged the girl in conversation, and had interposed his broad bulk between her and the doctor and leach. he had his legs set wide apart, and his hands were clasped behind his back, and he was talking in a loud tone to debora, who seemed somewhat mystified by the whole proceedings. and the doctor and martha leach had drawn close together, and while the doctor watched the broad back of harvey scoffold, he covertly whispered to the woman. "and so, my dear young lady, i am to have the pleasure of toasting you in a special glass before i retire to my humble bachelor quarters--eh?" harvey scoffold was saying in his loud tones. "this is a new experience for me--bright eyes--sparkling wine--merry hearts!" "i don't think anyone wants any more wine to-night," i heard debora say quickly. "one, at least, of us has had more than enough." i knew that was meant for me, and my heart was bitter at the thought of what she must be thinking of the man who had called himself her friend. but there was no help for it; i had to play the game out to the end, for her sake. the doctor had made a quick sign to leach, and she had gone behind the screen. from where i lay, with my hands foolishly and feebly waving, and my lips crooning out the song, i could see her distinctly; and what i saw caused my heart almost to stand still. she picked up a small phial from the corner of a shelf, and slipped it within the folds of her dress; and the next moment was standing beside the doctor again. i saw their hands meet, and i saw the phial pass from the one to the other. then the doctor slipped both hands into his pockets, and moved towards the table, which, as it happened, stood between him and harvey scoffold. he kept his eyes fixed on scoffold and the girl, and very quietly and very stealthily drew the phial from his pocket, and opened it. moving his hand a little to the right, he dropped the contents of the phial into the glass nearest to me. it was a mere colourless liquid, and would not have been noticed in the bottom of the glass. then the phial was slipped back into his pocket, and somewhat boisterously he picked up the bottle and proceeded to open it. martha leach, with one long glance at the girl, passed silently out of the room, and closed the door. "come--just one glass of wine before this merry party separates!" cried bardolph just as the cork popped out. "and we'll have no heel-taps; we'll drain our glasses. i insist!" harvey scoffold turned round and advanced to the table. bardolph just had filled that glass into which he had dropped the contents of the phial, and was filling the second glass. i felt that the time for action had arrived. just as he got to the third glass i staggered to my feet, apparently tripped on the carpet, and went headlong against him and the table. i heard him splutter out an oath as the table went over and the glasses fell with a crash to the floor. he swung round upon me menacingly, but before he could do anything i had wrenched the bottle from his hand, and with a wild laugh had swung it round my head, spilling the wine over me as i did so. then, with a last drunken hiccough, i flung the bottle clean against the window, and heard it crash through, and fall to the ground below. "to the devil with all drink!" i exclaimed thickly, and dropped back into my chair again. for a moment the two men stared blankly at each other, and at the wreck of glass and wine upon the carpet. i was waiting for an attack from the doctor, and bracing myself for it; but the attack did not come. true, he made one step towards me, and then drew himself up, and turned with a smile to debora. "i'm sorry, my child," he said, in his most winning tones. "i did not mean to have had your pleasure spoilt like this. if you will go to your room, i will try to get rid of this fellow. harvey," he added in a lower tone to scoffold, "give an eye to him for a moment." he followed debora out of the room, closing the door behind him. i had determined by this time to show my hand, and harvey scoffold gave me the opportunity. he strode across to me, and took me by the shoulder, and shook me violently. "come, pull yourself together; it's time you were in bed," he said. i sprang to my feet, and thrust him aside. i think i never saw a man so astonished in all his life as he was, to see me alert and quick and clear-eyed. "that's all you know about the business," i said. "i'm more sober than either of you. now, hold your tongue, and wait; i've a word to say to bardolph just, and it won't keep." bardolph just opened the door at that moment, and came in. by that time i was standing, with my hands in my pockets, watching him, and something in my face and in my attitude seemed to give him pause; he stopped just inside the door, staring at me. harvey scoffold looked from one to the other of us, as though wondering what game was afoot. "now, dr. bardolph just," i said, "i'll trouble you for that phial. it's in your right-hand trouser pocket. pass it over." instead of complying with that request, he suddenly sucked in a deep breath, and made a rush at me. but he had mistaken his man; i caught him squarely on the jaw with my fist, and he went down at my feet. after a moment or two he looked up at me, sitting there foolishly enough on the floor, and began to tell me what he thought of me. "you dog! so this is the way you repay my kindness to you, is it?" he muttered. "you scum of a jail!--this is what i get for befriending you." "never mind about me," i retorted, "we'll come to my case presently. just now i want to talk about miss debora matchwick, and i want to know exactly what it was you put into the wine destined for her to-night." "you're mad!" he said, getting slowly to his feet, and looking at me in a frightened way. "no, i'm not mad; nor am i drunk," i retorted. "you and the woman leach thought you were safe enough; look at me now, and tell me how much you think i have seen. your fine words mean nothing; murder's your game, and you know it!" all this time harvey scoffold had said nothing; he had merely looked from one to the other of us, with something like a growing alarm in his face. but now he stepped forward as though he would understand the matter better, or would at least put an end to the scene. "my dear just, and you, norton hyde, what does all this mean? can't you be reasonable, and talk over the matter like gentlemen. what's this talk of phials and stuff put into wine, and murder, and what not?" "it's true!" i exclaimed passionately. "this is the second time that man has tried to kill her, but it shall be the last. the thing is too bare-faced--too outrageous!" "well, my fine jail-bird, and what are you going to do?" demanded the doctor, having now regained the mastery over himself. "fine words and high sentiments; but they never broke any bones yet. tell me your accusation clearly, and i shall know how to meet it." so i gave it them then and there, in chapter and verse; thus letting harvey scoffold know, for the first time, of that business of the eastern corridor, and of the mysterious door that opened only once to the road to death; moreover, i put it plainly now, that i had seen the woman martha leach take the phial and hand it to him; that i had pretended drunkenness to lull his suspicions of me, and to be ready when he least expected me to upset his plot. he listened in silence, with his teeth set firmly, and his dark eyes glittering at me; then he nodded slowly, and spoke. "and the man you accuse is one holding a big position in the world--a man against whom no breath of scandal or suspicion has ever been sent forth," he said. "a man known in many countries of the world--member of learned societies--a man with a name to conjure with. and what of his accuser?" i knew that he would say that; i knew before-hand the helplessness of my position. but i was reckless, and i did not care what i said or what i did. "your accuser is a fugitive from the law; a man who lives under an assumed name, and who has taken advantage of the death of an innocent man to begin life again on his own account. you need not remind me of that," i went on, "because i admit it all. so far, i am in your power; but my position, as something outside the pale of ordinary society, gives me a greater power than you think. i have everything to win; i have nothing to lose. if you had chosen a better man, and had given him the chance to pry into your secrets, you might have had some hold upon him. so far as i am concerned, i am utterly reckless, and utterly determined to save this girl." "brave words--very brave words!" he said, with a sneer. "and how do you propose to set about it?" "i intend to get her out of this house. i intend to look after her, if i have to steal to do it. i'm an adept at that, you will remember," i said bitterly, "only this time i shall do it in a good cause. i mean to get her out of this house, and it will go ill with you if you try to prevent me." he laughed and shrugged his shoulders; then he turned to scoffold. "if he were not so mad he would be amusing, this fellow," he said. but harvey scoffold, somewhat to my surprise, was silent, and did not look at him. i saw a frown come quickly upon the face of bardolph just. "and pray what's the matter with _you_?" snapped the doctor at him. "nothing--nothing at all!" said scoffold, in a constrained tone. "i'll say good-night!" he turned towards the door, and i noticed that his head was bowed, and that he looked at the carpet as he moved. bardolph just stepped suddenly in front of him. "look here, you're not going like that?" he said. "i'll have some word from you about this affair before you leave my house." harvey scoffold looked up quickly. "then here's the word," he said aggressively. "i'm rather inclined to believe your friend here, and i don't like the business. it's a dirty business, and i've seen enough of it, and of you. good-night!" he thrust his way past the other man, and swaggered out of the room. i was so surprised and so relieved that i was in a mood to run after him, and hug him, in sheer joy at finding an honest man; but i refrained. with the closing of the door the doctor stood for a moment, dazed; then he opened the door again, and ran out after the other. i pitied him for his weakness in doing that, because i felt absolutely certain in my own mind that he would not change harvey scoffold's opinion of him. i had hated harvey scoffold pretty cordially on my own account, and by reason of my misfortunes; now i began to see (as, alas! i had seen so often with other men, and all to my own undoing) that i had cruelly misjudged him. however, i had said all i wanted to say to the doctor, and i started off to my room. now, had i been of a suspicious nature, i must have been disturbed at the sight of the doctor and harvey scoffold engaged in earnest talk at the end of the corridor which led from the study; but as, the moment i appeared, scoffold shook himself angrily free of the other's clutch, and burst out with a shout, i was more than ever convinced that the doctor had been pleading with him in vain. "i tell you i'll have nothing to do with you!" exclaimed scoffold. "i wish i'd never come into the house. not another word; i've done with you!" i heard the great hall door bang, and i knew that scoffold was gone; the doctor, retracing his steps, favoured me with a scowl as he went past, but said never a word; while i, greatly elated at having found a friend in this business, went off to my room, determined that in some vague fashion i would put matters right in the morning, and defy bardolph just to do his worst. as ill luck would have it, i had forgotten one important point. in the eyes of debora i had disgraced myself; she had every reason to believe me the drunken madman who had hurled bottles, and broken windows, and upset furniture the night before. i had forgotten that when i entered the breakfast-room in the morning, and found her standing by the window. i made my way eagerly to her. to my momentary surprise, she drew back, as though fearing contact with me. "debora!" i began eagerly; but she drew herself up and looked at me haughtily. "mr. new, your memory is a poor one," she said. "i'm afraid you don't remember what happened last night." "my dear debora," i exclaimed eagerly, "i can explain all that--i can show you----" i heard the door open behind me, and i stopped. bardolph just came into the room, and stopped on seeing me, looking at me frowningly. it was with a very virtuous air that he addressed me. "i'm glad to see you are striving to make your peace with miss matchwick," he said. "she has been in the habit of dealing with gentlemen, and is not used to such scenes as she witnessed last night." i gave him a look which showed him i understood his drift; he was silent for the moment or two that it took us to get to our places at the table. but he evidently felt that he must labour the point, for he was at me again before ever i had tasted a mouthful. "i expect you'll have but a poor appetite this morning, john new," he said, "therefore i won't trouble you with food. take mr. new a cup of tea," he added to martha leach, who stood behind him. i felt that that was rather petty, but somehow worthy of the man. i drank my tea, and went without the substantial breakfast i should have been glad to have eaten. after all, i felt that the game was in my hands, and that i could well afford to let him wreak such petty vengeance as this upon me. i waited eagerly until the meal was finished; i meant to get speech with the girl, by hook or by crook, at the earliest opportunity. i knew how pressing was the need; i knew how relentless the man at the head of the table and the apparently docile woman behind him would be in regard to debora, and how powerless i, a creature of no real name or position, would be in the matter, unless i could win the girl to believe me. i found that a more difficult task even than i had anticipated. indeed, she avoided me for some time, and when at last i came in touch with her, she drew herself up, with that pretty little lift of her chin i had noticed before, and warned me away. "i want nothing to do with you, mr. new," she began. but i was not to be repulsed; the matter was much too urgent for that. i walked close up to her, determined that i would have the matter out then and there. "you must let me explain," i said. "if you don't you will regret it all your life. you thought i was drunk last night, but i was not." i waited for some response from her, but she said nothing. i went on again eagerly. "i was shamming, and with a purpose. only by that means--only by making the doctor think that i was practically unconscious of what he was doing, was i able to observe him clearly. they tried to poison you last night." i suppose she saw the truth in my face; she came suddenly to me, and laid her hands on my arm, and looked at me with startled eyes. "to poison me?" she echoed breathlessly. "yes, the doctor and martha leach. that was why i upset the table and flung the wine away. if you had seen me five minutes after you left the room, you would have known what my real condition was. the doctor knew it, i can assure you!" i laughed at the recollection. debora looked quickly all round about her, with the frightened air of one who would escape, but sees no way; there was a hunted look in her eyes that appalled me. "what shall i do?" she whispered. "i am more frightened than i care to say, because i know dr. just, and i know how relentless he can be. don't you understand, john," she went on piteously, "how utterly powerless i am? anything may happen to me in this dreadful house. i may be killed in any one of a dozen ways; and this well-known physician and scientist, against whom no word of suspicion would be spoken, can give an easy account of my death. what am i to do?" "i can't for the life of me understand why he should wish to kill you," i said, "unless it be a mere matter of revenge." "it isn't that," she answered me slowly. "you see, my poor father trusted him so completely, and believed in him so much, that in addition to placing me under his guardianship he put a clause in his will which, in the event of my death, leaves the whole of my property to dr. bardolph just." now, for the first time, i saw into the heart of this amazing business; i had probed the motive. he would have secured the girl if he could; failing that, he would secure her property. as he knew that she might, in any ordinary event, pass out of his life, if only by the common gate of marriage, he had determined to get rid of her, and so secure easily what was hers. the whole thing was explained now clearly enough. "what you must do," i answered steadily, wondering a little at my own bravery in suggesting it, "is to come away from this house with me. you must trust me to look after you." i realise now how mad a proposition that was; but i did not see it in that light then. i loved her, and i dreaded what might happen to her; more than all else, i saw no greater happiness than in gaining for myself the dear privilege of watching over her. you may imagine what my feelings were when i heard her glad and eager assent. "yes, yes, i will come willingly," she said. "where will you take me?" "i don't know," i said a little ruefully, "but we can settle that matter afterwards. far better for us to tramp the roads, side by side, in safety, than for you to remain in this place a day longer. now listen to me, while i tell you what my plan is." we were pacing up and down a grass-grown walk while we talked; we were well out of sight of the house. while i write this i seem to see again her glowing face turned towards mine; to feel the touch of her hands in mine; to hear the quick, eager whisper with which she answered me. i had cause to remember that afterwards, with bitterness, as you shall presently hear. "the chances are that we shall be watched," i began, "because i was foolish enough last night to tell the doctor of my intention. consequently, we must not be seen together during the day; we must escape under cover of darkness. at ten o'clock to-night walk quietly out of the house, as though you were going for a stroll in the grounds; when you come to the gate, go out into the road, where i shall be waiting. after that we must leave the rest to whatever good or ill fortune awaits us. at some convenient time during the day put whatever you need to take with you in the old summer-house where we first met; no one visits that, and you can easily take the things from there when you finally leave the house." so it was settled; and for that time i knew that we should both wait eagerly. i laughed a little ruefully to myself at the thought of how little money i had in my pocket; but that matter did not greatly trouble me. the future must take care of itself; i liked to think that debora and i were two waifs, setting out alone together, to explore a great unknown world in which as yet we had neither of us had any real chance of living. i painted a wholly impossible future for us both; for my own part, i think i felt capable of conquering worlds, and carving out a position for myself and for her. the doctor chose to shut himself up in his study during the day, and although debora and i had lunch and dinner together in the big dining-room, the woman martha leach never left us for a moment, and our conversation was, perforce, confined to the most trivial things. to any outside observer martha leach would have appeared to be merely a highly-trained servant, devoted to us, and anxious to anticipate our every want; to my clearer understanding she was a spy, eager to bring about that which the doctor wished, at all costs. i seemed to see her again slipping the phial into the doctor's hand. so closely were we watched during the progress of those meals, and so careful did we deem it necessary to be in our behaviour towards each other, that i had no opportunity of learning whether debora had succeeded in getting her hat and coat and such things as she might need, into the safe shelter of the summer-house. therefore i determined, about an hour before the time arranged for the girl to meet me, that i would saunter down to the place, to see for myself that all was well. my preparations were soon made; i had merely to put my cap in my pocket, and so saunter out of the house, as though about to stroll in the grounds. so i came to the summer-house, and, walking quickly into it quite unsuspiciously, came face to face with mr. harvey scoffold, seated on the bench, with his head leaning back against the wall, and his eyes closed. he had a cigar between his lips, at which he was lazily puffing. and beside him on the seat was a little bag, and debora's hat and coat. here, i felt, was an end of the game--so far, at least, as that day was concerned. how he had contrived to blunder upon the affair i could not tell; i only knew that the mere presence of those things there at his side must have given away the little plot at once. while i stared at him he opened his eyes, and looked at me with a smile. "well, dear boy, so here you are at last!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "i've been waiting for you." "much obliged to you," i retorted curtly. "what are you doing here at all?" he shook his head at me, with an air almost of whimsical sadness. "my dear boy--my poor, misguided boy!" he said, "why will you always blunder so infernally over your friends and your enemies?" "i can distinguish pretty well between them, thank you," i assured him with meaning. he shook his head again and laughed. "indeed you can't," he answered. "now, at the present moment, you never needed a friend so much in all your life; and yet you endeavour to insult one who stands waiting to help you. didn't i show last night what my real feelings were in regard to this business?" i hesitated, for i remembered how loyal he had seemed to be to debora, and how much repugnance he had shown to what the doctor had endeavoured to do. i suppose now he saw his opportunity, for he began to push the matter home. "my dear boy," he said eagerly, leaning forward towards me, "what earthly chance will you have of helping this girl, if you set out on a wild goose-chase through the world with her, without enough to pay even for a night's lodging? think for one moment: she has been used to every comfort, she is a lady in every sense of the word." "god knows that's true!" i exclaimed fervently. "very well, then; don't you see how mad it is?" he pleaded. "nevertheless, i mean to do it," i said doggedly. "besides, how comes it that you know what we're going to do?" he shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. "my dear boy, the thing is so transparent! i know enough of you to guess that you wouldn't allow her to stay in this place; and then, by the merest chance, i saw her creeping through the grounds this evening, and making for this summer-house. later i discovered these things which she had left. there's the whole matter in a nutshell." "and i suppose you think you'll prevent our going--or warn the doctor?" i said, in a threatening tone. he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, and seemed to appeal to the very trees and the stars against me. "look at this fellow!" he exclaimed. "what is one to make of him? as if i had suggested trying to stop you--or suggested warning bardolph just! on the contrary, i swear to you that i am here to help you." he seemed so honest about the matter, and had taken my suspicions so good-temperedly, that i was disarmed. "tell me," i said, "what do you mean to do? how will you help us?" he sprang to his feet, and spread out his arms; and then suddenly touched me lightly with his fingers on each shoulder--almost as though he would embrace me. "my dear boy," he said in his eager fashion, "i am all for romance. when i see a boy and a girl taking their way out on to the great highway of life, ready to walk hand in hand together to the very end of the road, my heart leaps out towards them. consequently, when i guessed your secret, i asked myself what i could do to help you. and i have found a way." "what is the way?" i asked. "our common foe is dr. bardolph just," he said, lowering his voice, and looking about him as though he feared that even in that secluded spot we might be overheard. "now, dr. bardolph just does not know that i have changed my abode; he is totally unaware of the fact that i reside within a mile or so of this house. consequently, what is to prevent your bringing the young lady to that little cottage of which we both know, and where there is a decent woman to look after her? let the future take care of itself, if you like--but be careful of the present. i will provide you with what money is necessary, so that while the doctor is eating his heart out with rage, and is moving heaven and earth to discover the runaways, you will be lying snug at my place, making your arrangements for the time to come." i began to think that it was a good enough plan. i would, of course, infinitely have preferred to start off with debora on some journey of which we did not even know the end; but that was, perhaps, a foolish idea, and not one to be encouraged with a young girl to be considered. more than that, as harvey scoffold had blundered upon the story, it was quite impossible to keep him out of it; and i knew that he was a man of that temper that, if i curtly refused his offer, he might well betake himself to bardolph just at once, and let him into the whole secret. there were many reasons urging me to close with his offer, and, although with reluctance, i did so. "very well, then; i accept," i said. "only, heaven help you if you play any tricks with us!" he shrugged his shoulders, and laughed again. "i hope some day to be able to convince you that i am not a scoundrel," he replied lightly. that debora might not be disconcerted by coming upon the man unexpectedly, i persuaded him to walk on a little towards his house. i would meet the girl, and follow him. to that he consented, and together we walked to the gate leading into the road. mindful of what i had promised debora, i stepped out into the road myself, and watched the man as he strode rapidly away. then i set myself to wait, with what patience i could muster, for the coming of debora. it was a fine night, and as i leaned against the wall, waiting, i heard a clock in the distance chime the hour of ten. then i heard the click of the gate, and my heart gave a little leap as i thought of who was coming. imagine my surprise when, on turning my head, i saw a man advancing towards me through the shadows. i was turning abruptly away, not desiring to be seen by anyone then, when the man quickened his steps and came after me. "'ere, 'old 'ard!--'old 'ard a bit!" he called; and i stopped and faced about. the man was george rabbit, and he was in altogether different trim from anything i had seen before. the shabby clothes were replaced by a suit of tweeds of a rather smart cut, and a billycock hat of a sporting type was perched on his head. he nodded impudently, and held out his hand. of that i took no notice. "too proud to shake 'ands with a pal--eh?" he said. "there's some people wants to be learnt a lesson, it seems to me. i've jist bin up to the 'ouse, and 'is nibs there says 'e don't know me, an' don't want anythink to do wiv me. an' i on'y wanted to touch 'im fer a quid." "you've had all the money you'll get out of either of us," i said sternly. "and you'd better go away now; i don't want to talk to you." "that's w'ere we differ, guv'nor," said mr. rabbit impudently. "i'm goin' to stick to you fer a bit, an' see if i can't make summink out of yer." i wondered what i was to do. i knew that in another moment that gate might open again, and debora come out; and i was quite certain that george rabbit would be only too eager to follow us, and to make capital out of our adventure. i thought i would try something more than threats; so i advanced upon the man, and suddenly took him by the throat, and banged his head lustily with the flat of my hand. "when i tell you i want you to go away i mean it," i said between my teeth, as i towered over him in my wrath. "if you don't get out of this i'll kick you into the middle of next week." he wriggled out of my grasp, and picked up his billycock hat, which had fallen into the road. he gave me an ugly scowl as he backed away. "i'll knife yer one of these days," he whimpered--"see if i don't. you know wot i could say if i'd a mind to say it--an' i----" the door in the wall had clicked again, and i saw debora coming swiftly towards me. the voice of george rabbit died away as he gazed on this new apparition; he stood still at the other side of the road. i took the bag from debora's hand, and turned, and hurried away with her without a word; but i had an uneasy feeling that rabbit was following. i stopped once in the darkness, and looked back; and i was certain that he stopped, too, and waited. i did not wish to alarm the girl by calling out to him; i could only hope that we might manage to elude him before coming to harvey scoffold's cottage. on the way i told debora exactly what had happened, and explained to her that this seemed the best and the only thing for us to do. she was a little disconcerted, and urged me to remember that harvey scoffold was a personal friend of the doctor; but on that point i endeavoured to re-assure her, by telling her of the scene in the study the night before, and of the attitude scoffold had taken. looking back on the matter now, i wish with all my heart that i had adopted her suggestion, and had flung caution to the winds, and had gone off with her in some new direction; how much sorrow and misery might have been spared us if we had done that you shall know hereafter. we came at last to the cottage where harvey scoffold was lodging, and there i found the man awaiting us. he was courtesy itself to debora; put a finger on his lips mysteriously when she would have thanked him; and introduced us both to the old woman who kept the house. i was beginning to think that all was very right, when i heard a knock at the door of the cottage, and the old woman, who had been preparing supper, came out of some room at the back to answer the summons. and then for the first time i remembered george rabbit. it was his voice, sure enough; he wanted to speak to "the gent 'oo'd jist gorn in." i gave a glance at harvey scoffold, and went out into the passage to speak to the man; for i felt that i was in a tight place. "nah then," said george rabbit loudly--"you an' me 'as got to come to some sort of unnerstandin'. i'm a honest man, i am, wot's worked out 'is time, and done 'is little bit right an' proper; i ain't no blooming jail-bird, wot's cut 'is lucky afore 'is time." i clapped a hand over his mouth; but it was too late. even as i struggled with him, i saw the door of the room in which harvey scoffold and the girl were slowly opening, and the face of harvey scoffold looked out. george rabbit slipped out of my grasp like an eel, and rushed to the door of the room, and forced his way in. he was absolutely mad with rage, and not responsible for anything he said. "what's to do here--what's to do?" asked scoffold mildly; yet i thought he watched debora as he asked the question. "ask that man 'is name!" cried rabbit, pointing fiercely to me. "ask 'im 'is name--an' w'ere 'e come from--an' wot jail 'e broke out of!" i stood still, watching debora; my fate lay in her hands. very slowly she came across to me, and looked into my face, and asked me a question. "what does the man mean, john?" she asked. "you must please tell me." i glanced appealingly at harvey scoffold; and in a moment i read in his grimly set lips that he meant that the exposure should be carried through. i knew that if i did not tell the tale he would, in some more garbled fashion. therefore when i spoke it was to him. "if you'll take this man away," i said slowly--"i'll tell her the truth." "the truth is always best, dear boy," he said, with a grin. so i waited in a horrible silence, while the two men went out of the room. then when the door was closed i turned to the girl, who was more to me than life itself; and my heart sank at the thought of what i had to say to her. chapter viii. misery's bedfellow. for what seemed a long time, but was after all but a matter of moments, we stood in that room, facing each other; and perhaps the bitterest thing to me then, with the knowledge in my mind of what i had to say, was that when at last she broke silence she should speak to me with tenderness. "john, dear," she said softly, "there is some mystery here that i don't understand; i want to know all about it--all about you. i trust you as i trust no other man on earth; there can be nothing you are afraid to tell me." having struck me that unconscious blow, she sat down calmly, and smiled at me, and waited; i thought that never had poor prisoner trembled before his judge as i trembled then. "i want you to throw your mind back," i began at last, seeing that i must get the business over, "to the night when last you saw gregory pennington." she started, and looked at me more keenly; leaned forward over the table beside her, and kept her eyes fixed on my face. "i remember the evening well," she said. "we stood together in the grounds of the house; he left me to go into that house to see my guardian. and i have never seen him since." "when you met gregory pennington that night," i went on, "i lay in the darkness quite near to you, a forlorn and hunted wretch, clad in a dress such as you have never seen--the dress of a convict." she got up quickly from her chair, and retreated from me; yet still she kept her eyes fixed on my face. and now i began to see that my cause was hopeless. "i had broken out of my prison that day, a prison far away in the country. i was hunted, and hopeless, and wretched; the hand of every man was against me. i had taken money that did not belong to me, and i had received a savage sentence of ten years' imprisonment. i had served but one, when the life and the manhood in me cried aloud for liberty; and on that night when you met pennington in the garden i was free." "why were you in that place at all?" she whispered. "that place was as good as any other, if it could provide me with that i wanted, food and clothing," i answered her. "i saw young pennington go into the house; a little later i followed him. only, as you will understand, i could not enter by the door; i broke into the place like the thief i was." "i understand that that was necessary," she said, nodding slowly. "i do not judge you for that." "when i got into the house," i went on hurriedly, "i found that a tragedy had taken place. i implore you to believe that i am telling the truth and nothing but the truth; i could not lie to you. your friend gregory pennington had met with an accident." she read what was in my face; she drew a deep breath, and caught at the back of the chair by which she stood. "you mean that he was dead?" she whispered. i nodded. "for what reason i know not, although i can guess; but gregory pennington had hanged himself." she closed her eyes for a moment, and i thought as she swayed a little that she was going to faint. i had taken a step towards her when she opened her eyes suddenly, and i saw a great anger and indignation blazing in them. "it's a lie!" she exclaimed, "he was the last person to do such a thing. he was the brightest, and best, and sweetest lad that ever loved a girl, and loved her hopelessly." "there you have it," i suggested. "had you not told him that night that you could not love him?" "yes, but that would not have sent him to his death," she retorted. "but go on; i want to know what was done, and why i never heard about this until now." "i want you to understand, if you can, two things," i went on steadily. "first, there was a dead man and a living one; and the living one was a hunted fugitive. second, there was, in a slight degree, a faint resemblance between the dead man and the living, in colouring, and height, and general appearance." she looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then she nodded her head. "yes, i see that now," she answered, "although i never noticed it before." "while i was in the room with the dead man, dr. just put in an appearance. to be brief, he wanted to keep the matter from you, because he knew the boy had been your friend; he took pity on me, and wanted to save me. he knew that they were hunting for a convict, who might perhaps be thought to be something like the dead man; at his suggestion i changed clothes with gregory pennington, and started under another name." i turned away from her then; i dared not look at her. for a time there was a dead silence in the room, broken only by the curious slow ticking of an old eight-day clock in the corner. i remember that i found myself mechanically counting the strokes while i waited for her to speak. when at last i could bear the tension no longer i looked round at her. she stood there, frozen, as it were, in the attitude in which i had seen her, looking at me with a face of horror. then at last, in a sort of broken whisper, she got out a sentence or two. "you--you changed clothes? then he--he became the convict--dead? what--what became of him?" "he lies buried--in my name--within the walls of penthouse prison." she stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; seemed to murmur the words under her breath. then she clapped her hands suddenly over her face. "oh--dear god!" she cried out. i began to murmur excuses and pleadings. "the fault was not mine, the boy was dead, and no further harm could come to him. i wanted to live--i was so young myself, and i wanted to begin life again. i never thought----" she dropped her hands, and faced me boldly; i saw the tears swimming in her eyes. "you never thought!" she cried. "you never thought of what it meant for him, with no sin upon him, to lie in a felon's grave! you never thought that there was anyone on earth might miss him, and sorrow for him, and long for him! you wanted to live--you, that had broken prison--you, a common thief! you coward!" i said no more; it seemed almost as if the solid earth was slipping away from under my feet. i cared nothing for what might happen to me; i knew that i had lost her, and that i should never touch her hand again in friendship. i stood there, waiting, as though for the sentence she must pronounce. "i never want to see your face again," she said at last, in a low voice. "i do not know yet what i shall do; i have not had time to think. but i want you to go away, to leave me; i have done with you." "i will not leave you," i said doggedly. "you are in danger!" she laughed contemptuously. "then i won't be saved by you!" she exclaimed. "there are honest men in the world; i would not trust you, nor appeal to you, if i had no other friend on earth." "i know the danger better than you do," i answered, "and i will not leave you." "that man who burst into the house just now, he seemed to know you," she said, after a moment's pause. "who is he?" "a fellow jail-bird of mine," i answered bitterly. "then go to him," she said. "are you so dense that you don't understand what i think of you, you thing without a name! will nothing move you?" "nothing, until i know that you are safe," i answered. there was a light cane lying on the table with harvey scoffold's hat and gloves. in a very fury of passion she suddenly dropped her hand upon it, and caught it up. i know that my face turned darkly red as i saw what her intention was; but i did not flinch. she struck me full across the face with it, crying as she did so, "now go!" dropped the cane, and burst into tears at the same moment. i could bear no more; i turned about, and walked out of the room, and out of the house. i did not seem to remember anything until i found myself walking at a great rate under the stars, down towards london. my feelings then i will not attempt to describe. i seemed to be more utterly lost than ever; the sorry comedy was played out, and i walked utterly friendless and alone, caring nothing what became of me. if i remembered that debora stood in peril of her life, and had but small chance of escape from some horrible death, i tried to thrust that thought away from me; for the blow she had struck me seemed to have cut deep into my soul. of all the homeless wretches under the stars that night, surely i was the one most to be pitied! i found myself after a time on hampstead heath, and lay down there in a quiet spot under the trees, and stared up at the stars, wondering a little, perhaps, why fate had dealt so hardly with me, and had never given me a real chance. i remembered my unhappy boyhood, and my long years of drudgery in my uncle's house; i remembered with bitterness that now to-night i was a creature with no name and no place in the world, with no hopes and no ambitions. tears of self-pity sprung to my eyes as i lay there in the darkness, wondering what the day was to bring me. i had a few shillings in my pocket, and when i knew the dawn was coming i started off down into london, in the hope to lose myself and my miseries in the crowded streets. but there i found that apparently everyone had some business to be engaged upon; everyone was hurrying hither and thither, far too busy to take note of me or of my downcast face. the mere instinct to live kept me clear of the traffic, or i must have been run over a hundred times in the day, so little did i trouble where i walked, or what became of me. when my body craved for food i went into an eating-house, and sat shoulder to shoulder with other men, who little suspected who i was, or what was my strange story. but then everyone against whom one rubs shoulders in a great city must have some strange story of their own to tell, if they cared to say what it was. i spent the long day in the streets; but at night a curious fascination drew me across hampstead heath, and so in the direction of the cottage in which harvey scoffold lived. i had no hope of seeing the girl; i only felt it would be some poor satisfaction to me to see the house in which she was; perhaps my very presence there might serve in some vague way to shield her from harm; for by this time i had come to the conclusion that scoffold was as much her enemy and mine as anyone else by whom she was surrounded. i wandered about unhappily there for more than an hour; i was just turning away, when the old woman i had seen on the previous night came out of the door of the cottage, and advanced down the garden to the little gate in the fence. i think a cat must have got astray; for she called to some animal fretfully more than once. she was just turning away again, when i ventured to step up to the gate. "i hope the young lady is quite well?" i said, in a low tone. she looked at me curiously; looked especially, i thought, at the long livid weal across my face. "ah! i remember you now, sir," she said; "i didn't recognise you for a moment. but, bless you, sir, they've all gone away." "gone away?" i echoed. "yes, sir. mr. scoffold and the young lady went off early this morning, sir; mr. scoffold said that letters were to be addressed to him at the house of dr. bardolph just. i've got the address inside, sir, if you should want it." i told her i did not want it, and i turned away abruptly. i could not understand the position at all; i wondered how harvey scoffold had persuaded her to go back to that house, and to the man she so much dreaded. i saw how badly i had blundered in the matter, and how i had done the very thing i had striven not to do. she would trust harvey scoffold; she would believe in his honesty, as i had believed in it; and i was convinced now that he was working hand in glove with bardolph just. i stood out there in the darkness, cursing myself, and the world, and everyone, with the solitary exception of debora matchwick. on one point i was resolute; i would go on to the house of the doctor, and would be near at hand in case the girl wanted me. it was a mad idea, and i now recognise it as such; but at the time it seemed that i might be able to do some good. i set off at once, tired out as i was, for bardolph just's house. it was not yet late, and the house was still lighted up when at last i came to it. i opened the gate in the wall noiselessly, and went in; crept forward among the trees, until i was quite near to the house. i think i had a sort of vague idea that i would get in somehow, and confront the doctor; for, after all, nothing much worse could happen to me than had already befallen me. while i waited irresolutely in the grounds, a door opened at one side of the house, letting out a little flood of light for a moment; then the door was closed again, and i saw a figure coming swiftly towards me through the trees. i drew back behind one of the trees, and watched; presently the figure passed so close to me, going steadily in the direction of the gate, that i could see the face clearly. it was martha leach, habited for a journey. there was such a grim, set purpose in the face that, after she had gone a yard or two, i turned on an instinct and followed her. i heard the latch of the gate click, as she went out, closing the gate after her; unfortunately it clicked again a moment or two later, when i in turn passed out in her wake. i flattened myself against the wall, because martha leach had stopped in the road, and had looked back. fortunately for me she did not return; after a momentary pause she went on again rapidly, taking a northern direction. now, by all the laws of the game i ought to have returned to the house to keep my vigil there; for what earthly purpose could i hope to serve in chasing this woman about the northern suburbs of london, at something near to nine o'clock on a summer's evening? but i felt impelled to go on after her; and my heart sank a little when presently i saw her hail a four-wheeled cab, and range herself up beside the front wheel, to drive a bargain with the cabman. without her knowledge i had come to the back of the cab, and could hear distinctly what she said. i felt at first that i was dreaming when i heard her asking the man if he could drive her to an address near barnet; and that address was the house of my uncle zabdiel! after some demur the man agreed; and the woman got inside, and the cab started. and now i was determined that i would follow this thing out to the bitter end; for i began to understand vaguely what her mission was to my uncle. as i ran behind the cab, now and then resting myself by perching perilously on the springs, i had time to think of the events that had followed the coming of george rabbit to the doctor's house, and his discovery of me. i remembered that light i had seen in the loft; i remembered how martha leach had come from that loft, carrying a lantern; i remembered how she had threatened to find out who i was, and from whence i came. and i knew now with certainty that she was on her way to my uncle, with the purpose of letting him know the exact state of affairs. i own that i was puzzled to know why she should be concerning herself in the matter at all. that she hated debora i knew, and i could only judge that she felt i might be dangerous, and had best be got rid of in some fashion or other. the newspaper reports of my trial and sentence had made my life, of necessity, common property; she would be able easily to discover the address of uncle zabdiel. that she was working, as she believed, in the interests of the doctor i could well understand; but whether by his inspiration or not it was impossible for me to know. the cab stopped at last outside that grim old house i remembered so well, that house from which i had been taken on my uncle's accusation. by that time, of course, i was some yards away from it, watching from the shelter of a doorway; but i heard the bell peal in the great, hollow old place, and presently saw the gate open, and martha leach, after some parley, pass in. then the gate was closed again, and i was left outside, to conjecture for myself what was happening within. i determined at last that i would get into the place myself; it might be possible for me to forestall martha leach, and take some of the wind out of her sails. moreover, the prospect of appearing before my uncle in a ghostly character rather appealed to me than not; he had given me one or two bad shocks in my life, and i might return the compliment. for, of course, i was well aware that he must long since have believed that i was dead and buried, as had been reported. i went near to the house, and tried the gate; found, somewhat to my relief, that it was not fastened. i slipped in, and closed the gate after me, and found myself standing in the narrow garden that surrounded the house. strange memories came flocking back to me as i stood there looking up at the dark house. how much had i not suffered in this place, in what terror of the darkness i had lain, night after night, as a boy, dreading to hear the footsteps of uncle zabdiel, and yet feeling some relief at hearing them in that grim and silent place! i thought then, as i stood there, how absolutely alone i was in the great world--how shut out from everything my strength and manhood seemed to have a right to demand. and with that thought came a recklessness upon me, greater even than i had felt before, almost, indeed, a feeling of devilry. i had been questioning myself as to my motive in coming there at all; now i seemed to see it clearly. the woman now in the house was doubtless giving my uncle chapter and verse concerning my strange coming to life; left in her hands, i was as good as done for already. i felt sure that the first thought in uncle zabdiel's mind, if he realised the truth of what she said, would be one of deadly fear for his own safety; for he believed me reckless and steeped in wickedness, and he knew that i had no reason to love him. he would seek protection; and in seeking it would give me up to those who had the right to hold me. nor was this all. in giving me up he must perforce open a certain grave wherein lay poor gregory pennington, and show what that grave contained. he must drag that miserable story into the light, and must drag debora into the light with it. i could see uncle zabdiel, in imagination, rubbing his hands, and telling the whole thing glibly, and making much of it; and i determined that uncle zabdiel's mouth must be closed. if in no other fashion, then i felt that i must silence him by threats. i was an outlaw, fighting a lone hand in a losing cause; he would know at least that i was scarcely likely to be over-scrupulous in my dealing with him or anyone else. but the first thing to do was to get into the house. now, i knew the place well, of course, and, moreover, it will be remembered that in those night excursions of mine which had led to so much disaster i had been in the habit of coming and going without his knowledge. it seems to me that i was born to make use more of windows than of doors; but then, as you will have gathered by this time, i was never one for ceremony. on this occasion i recalled old times, and made my way to a certain window, out of which and into which i had crept many a night and many a morning. it was a window at the end of a passage which led to my own old room, in which for so many years i had slept. i got in in safety, and crept along the passage; and then, out of sheer curiosity, opened the door of that old room, and went in. and then, in a moment, i was grappling in the semi-darkness with what seemed to be a tall man, who was buffeting me in the wildest fashion with his fists, and shrieking the very house down with a high, raucous voice. indeed, he let off a succession of yells, in which the only words i could discover were, "murder!" "fire!" "thieves!" and other like things. and all the while i fought for his mouth with my hands in the darkness, and threatened all manner of horrible things if he would not be silent. at last i overmastered him, and got him on his back on the floor, and knelt upon him there, and glared down into his eyes, which i could see dimly by the light which came through the uncurtained window. "now, then," i panted, "if you want to live, be quiet. i can hear someone coming. if you say a word about me, i'll blow your brains out. i'm armed, and i'm desperate." he assured me earnestly, as well as he could by reason of my weight upon him, that he would say not a word about me; and as i heard the steps coming nearer, i made a dart for the head of the old-fashioned bedstead, and slipped behind the curtains there. the next moment the room was filled with light, and i heard uncle zabdiel's voice. "what's the matter? what's the matter? what the devil are you making all that bother about? i thought someone was murdering you." peering through a rent in the curtain, i could see that the man i had grappled with, and who now faced my uncle tremblingly, was a tall, ungainly youth, so thin and weedy-looking that i wondered he had resisted me so long. he was clad only in a long white night-shirt, which hung upon him as though he had been mere skin and bone; he had a weak, foolish face, and rather long, fair hair. he stood trembling, and saying nothing, and he was shaking from head to foot. "can't you speak?" snapped uncle zabdiel (and how well i remembered those tones!). "i had--had the nightmare," stammered the youth. "woke myself up with it, sir." "i never knew you have that before," was my uncle's comment. "get to bed, and let's hear no more of you. what did you have for supper?" "didn't have any supper," replied the youth. "you know i never do." "then it couldn't have been that," retorted uncle zabdiel. "come, let's see you get into bed." now, the unfortunate fellow knew that a desperate ruffian was concealed behind the curtains of the bedstead; yet his dread of that ruffian was so great that he dared not cry out the truth. more than that, i saw that he dared not disobey my uncle; and between the two of us he was in a nice quandary. at last, however, with a sort of groan he made a leap at the bed, and dived in under the bedclothes and pulled them over his head. without a word, uncle zabdiel walked out of the room, and closed the door, leaving us both in the dark. and for quite a long minute there was no sound in the room. i began to feel sorry for the youth in the bed, because i knew what he must be suffering. i moved to come out into the room, and he gave a sort of muffled shriek and dived deeper under the clothes. i stood beside him, and i began to talk to him as gently as i could. "now, look here," i whispered. "i'm not going to hurt you if you keep quiet. come out from under those clothes, and let me have a look at you, and tell me who you are." very slowly he came out from his refuge, and sat up in bed, and looked at me fearfully; and very ghostly he looked, with his fair hair, and his white face, and his white garment, against the dark hangings of the bed. "i'm old zabdiel blowfield's clerk," he said slowly. "well, you're not a very respectful clerk, at all events," i retorted with a laugh, as i seated myself on the side of the bed. "and you don't look a very happy one." "this ain't exactly a house to be happy in," he said. "it's grind--grind--grind--from morning till night, and nothing much to eat--and that not very good. and i'm growing so fast that i seem to need a lot more than what he does." "i know," i responded solemnly. "i've been through it all myself. i was once old zabdiel blowfield's clerk, and i also had the misfortune to be his nephew." "oh, lord!" the boy stared at me as though his eyes would drop out of his head. "are you the chap that stole the money, and got chokey for it?" i nodded. "i'm that desperate villain," i said, "and i've broken out of 'chokey,' as you call it, and have come back to revisit the glimpses of the moon. therefore you see how necessary it was that uncle zabdiel should not see me. do you tumble to that?" he looked me up and down wonderingly, much as though i had been about eight feet high. "old blowfield told me about you when i first came," he said. "he said it would be a warning to me not to do likewise. but he put in a bit too much; he said that you were dead." "he wanted to make the warning more awful," i suggested, for i did not feel called upon to give him an explanation concerning that most mysterious matter. "and don't think," i added, "that i am in any sense of the word a hero, or that i am anything wonderful. at the present time i've scarcely a coin in my pocket, and i don't know where i'm to sleep to-night. it's no fun doing deeds of darkness, and breaking prison, and all that sort of thing, i can assure you." the youth shook his head dismally. "i ain't so sure of that," he said. "at any rate, i should think it would be better than the sort of life i lead. there's something dashing about you--but look at me!" he spread out his thin arms as he spoke, and looked at me with his pathetic head on one side. i began to hate my uncle with fresh vigour, and to wonder when some long-sleeping justice would overtake him. for i saw that this boy was not made of the stuff that i had been made of; this was a mere drudge, who would go on being a drudge to the end of his days. "what's your name?" i asked abruptly. "andrew ferkoe," he replied. "well, mr. andrew ferkoe, and how did you come to drop into this place?" i asked. "my father owed old blowfield a lot of money; and my father died," he said slowly. "and you were taken in exchange for the debt," i said. "i think i understand. well, don't be downhearted about it. by the way, are you hungry?" "i'm never anything else," he replied, with a grin. "then we'll have a feast, for i'm hungry, too." i started for the door, with the full determination to raid the larder; but he called after me in a frightened voice-- "come back, come back!" i turned about, and looked at him. "he'll kill me if i take anything that doesn't belong to me, or have me locked up." "oh, he'll put it down to me," i assured the boy. "i'm going to interview him in the morning, and i'll see that you don't get into trouble." i left him sitting up in bed, and i went out into the house, knowing my way perfectly, in search of food. i knew that in that meagre household i might find nothing at all, or at all events nothing worth having; but still, i meant to get something, if possible. i got down into the basement, and found the larder, and, to my surprise, found it better stocked than i could have hoped. i loaded my arms with good things, and started to make my way back to my old room. and then it was that i saw martha leach and my uncle. the door of the room in which my uncle used always to work was opened, and the woman came out first. i was below, in an angle of the stairs leading to the basement, and i wondered what would have happened if they had known that i was there. uncle zabdiel, looking not a day older than when he had spoken to me in the court after my sentence, followed the woman out, bearing a candle in his hand. he had on an ancient dressing-gown, and the black skull cap in which i think he must always have slept--certainly i never saw him without it. "i'm much obliged to you, my good woman," he said in a low voice--"much obliged to you, indeed, for your warning. it's upset me, i can assure you, to hear that the fellow's alive; but he shall be hunted down, and given back to the law." i set my teeth as i listened, and i felt that i might be able to persuade uncle zabdiel to a different purpose. "the difficulty will be to get hold of him," said martha leach. "i only heard the real story, as i have told you, from the lips of his fellow-prisoner--the man they call george rabbit." "then the best thing you can do," said uncle zabdiel, touching her for a moment on the arm, "the wisest thing you can do, is to get hold of george rabbit and send him to me. tell him i'll pay him well; it'll be a question of 'set a thief to catch a thief.' he'll track the dog down. tell him i'll pay him liberally--i'm known as a liberal man in my dealings." while he went to the door to show the woman out, i crept round the corner of the stairs, and up to the room where i had left the boy. i found him awaiting me eagerly; it was pleasant to see the fashion in which his gaunt face lighted up when i set out the food upon the bed. he was so greedy with famine that he began to cram the food into his mouth--almost whimpering over the good things--before i had had time to begin. we feasted well, sitting there in the dark; we were very still as we heard zabdiel blowfield pause at the door on his way upstairs, and listen to be sure that all was silent. fortunately for us, he did not come in; we heard his shuffling feet take their way towards his own room. "safe for the night!" i whispered. "and now i suppose you feel better--eh?" he nodded gratefully. "i wish i'd got your courage," he answered wistfully. "but when he looks at me i begin to tremble, and when he speaks i shake all over." "go to sleep now," i commanded him, "and comfort yourself with the reflection that in the morning he is going to do the shaking and the trembling for once. bless your heart!" i added, "i was once like you, and dared not call my soul my own. i'll have no mercy on him, i promise you." he smiled and lay down, and was asleep in no time at all. i had removed the dishes from the bed, meaning to take them downstairs so soon as i could be sure that uncle zabdiel was asleep. i sat down on a chair by the open window, and looked out into the night, striving perhaps to see some way for myself--some future in which i might live in some new and wholly impossible world. most bitterly then did i think of the girl who was lost to me for ever. my situation had not seemed to be so desperate while i carried the knowledge in my heart that she believed in me and trusted me; but now all that was past and done with. in the morning i must begin that fight with my ancient enemy as to whether i should live, or whether i should be condemned to that living death from which i had escaped; and i knew enough now, in this calmer moment, to recognise the cunning of the man with whom i must fight, and that the power he held was greater than mine. sitting there, i must at last have fallen asleep, with my head upon the window sill; it was hours later when i awoke. the dawn was growing in the sky, and the boy still slept heavily. i gathered up the dishes silently, and crept out of the room, and put them back in some disorder into the larder; for to the consumption of that meal i meant to confess solely on my own account. then i began to mount the stairs again, to get back to the room i had left. i heard a noise above me in the house, and i knew instinctively that my uncle had been roused, and was coming down. there was no chance for me to hide, and above all things i knew that he would search the place from top to bottom until he found the intruder. more than that, the inevitable meeting must take place at some time, and this time was as good as, if not better than, any other. so i mounted the stairs, until at last i saw him on a landing above me, standing in the grey light of the morning, with a heavy stick poised in his hands, ready to strike. "it's all right, uncle," i said cheerfully, "i was coming to meet you." he lowered the stick slowly, and looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then i heard him chuckle ironically. "good-morning, nephew," he said; "welcome home again!" chapter ix. a shooting party. now, my uncle zabdiel had known me always as something subservient to his will, and apparently anxious to please him; he was to meet me now in a different mood. as we stood facing each other, in the grey light of the morning which filtered through a high window on to the staircase where we had met, i was able to realise that he would once more play the bully with me, if he felt it possible to do so, and that it behoved me to get the upper hand at once if i would bring myself with any credit out of the tangle. so i spoke sharply after that first ironical greeting of his; i wanted the man to understand that he had not to deal with the milk-and-water boy he had known something over a year before. "i want a word with you," i said, "and i'll say it where it suits you best to hear it." "by all means, my dear nephew," he said suavely. "if you will allow me to pass you, i will show you where we can talk in comfort." i did not like his tone in the least; i began to understand that he had had the night in which to think over matters, and had doubtless made good use of the time. however, i followed him into that room from which not so long before i had seen martha leach emerge; and there i faced him, with the door shut behind me. "you're only partly surprised to see me," i began at once. "you heard last night that i was alive, and almost in your neighbourhood. a woman told you." that seemed to stagger him a little; he looked at me keenly and with a new interest. "how do you know that?" he demanded. i laughed. "i know the woman who told you; she is no friend of mine, as you may imagine," i answered him. "it must have been rather a shock to you to know that the nephew of whom you had got rid so easily, and who had even apparently had the good sense to put an end to his miserable existence, was very much alive, and likely to trouble you again. therefore i thought i'd follow up the tale by putting in an appearance at once, the better to relieve your pardonable anxiety." he grinned at me in a fashion that would have been disconcerting to anyone else; but i was no longer afraid of him. "and what are your demands now?" he asked. "i'm glad you use the right word," i retorted. "i do demand one or two things, and i'm sure that you'll see that it is best to comply with them. in the first place, i demand your silence as to myself." "and if i refuse?" he had seated himself by this time in his usual chair, and he sat looking at me, with the heavy stick he carried laid across his knees. "what then?" i had made up my mind what to say, and i said it at once, though with no real intention of ever putting my threat into execution; i merely wanted to frighten him. "then i shall kill you," i said quietly. "that is no idle threat, as you may perhaps understand. you're a cleverer man than i am, because i was never blessed with much brains; and you will see for yourself that, hunted wretch as i am, it does not matter very much what becomes of me. nevertheless, i have the natural desire to live, and i only ask to be let alone. the norton hyde you knew is buried in the prison to which you sent him; let him rest there. a certain other man, who bears a resemblance to him, finds it necessary to pay you a visit----" "to break into my house, you mean!" he exclaimed violently. "your own action is the best answer that can be given to any such suggestion as you make in regard to secrecy. what safety is there for me while you are at large in the world? i'm an old and feeble man; you come here with threats on your lips to begin with." "i threaten you only because i know what you intend to do," i replied. "i overheard you last night, promising the woman that i should be hunted down; even making arrangements with her as to how best to set about that hunting down. consequently i have to protect myself." he looked at me sourly for a moment or two, as though making up his mind how best to work round me. "so you've been in the house all night, have you?" he said. "i shouldn't have slept quite so soundly if i'd known that, i can assure you. my duty is clear; respectable citizens must be protected against escaped jail-birds and vagrants of your order." he sprang from his chair, and made a movement towards a great bell rope that hung at the side of the fireplace. but i was too quick for him; i caught him by the arm, and swung him away from it, so that he lurched and staggered towards the other side of the room. there, panting, and with his stick half raised as though to strike me down, he stood watching me. "now, i don't want to hurt you," i said; "but in this matter i am desperate. there is more hangs to it than you can understand. you've done evil enough; the money i stole from you has been paid for in one long year of bitter bondage--paid for doubly, by reason of the fact that i have no name, and no place in the world, and no hope, and no future. you've taken your toll out of me; all i ask now is to be let alone." "i won't do it!" he almost shrieked at me. "you shall go back to your prison; you shall rot there for just so many years as they will add to your original sentence. you shan't live among honest men; you shall go back to your prison." i think no shame even now of what i did. my rage against the vindictive old man was so great that i wonder i did not strike the feeble life out of him where he stood mouthing at me. i strode up to him and wrenched the stick out of his hands, took him by the collar of his dressing-gown and shook him backwards and forwards, until at last, half in terror and half in weakness, he dropped upon his knees before me. "don't--don't kill me, norton," he whimpered. "then you must swear to me to let me alone," i said. "promise that, and i'll never come near you again, and you shall never hear of me again. it's an easy thing to do; surely you must see for yourself that i can't rush into the light of day; i should never have come near you to-night, but that by the merest chance i found out that the woman martha leach was coming to you, and so guessed what her errand was. come--swear to leave me alone!" "i swear--i do truly swear!" he said; and i took my hands from him and let him stagger to his feet. he got back to his chair again, and sat there, breathing hard, with his lips opening and shutting; i saw that he had had a bad fright. i do not think, after all, that even in my rage i could have killed him, badly as he had served me; but i was relieved now to see that i had effected my purpose. i did not think he would be likely to trouble me again with any threats of exposure; for the first time in his life he appeared to have a very wholesome dread of me. indeed, now he began, as soon as he had got his breath, to seek in some measure to propitiate me. "i was excited--annoyed," he said. "of course, my dear boy, i should never have done anything against you--not really, you know. but it was a great shock to me, when that woman came and told me that you were alive and in the neighbourhood--that was a horrible shock. not but what, norton, i was glad, in a way--glad to know that you were alive again." "we'll take that for granted," i said with a laugh. "we have no reason to love each other, you and i, uncle zabdiel; and all i ask is that you shall forget that you ever saw me after i disappeared into my prison. to you, and to anyone else in the world who may be interested in the information, i am john new." "is that the name you have given yourself?" he asked sharply. "the name that has been given to me by a certain friend i have found," i replied. "i spoke just now of a second matter about which i wanted to talk to you--a matter of serious moment to myself, and one in which you can do a kindly action." he looked at me in the old suspicious manner; yet i saw that in his fear of me he was anxious to please me. "what is it?" he demanded. "and why should i do it? i don't believe in kindly actions." i seated myself on the table beside him, and laid the heavy stick behind me. "uncle zabdiel," i began, leaning down so as to look into his eyes, "you're an old man, and, in the ordinary course of things, you can't have very long to live." "what the devil are you talking about?" he exclaimed angrily. "there's nothing the matter with me; i'm younger and stronger, in my feelings at least, than i ever was. i'm hale and hearty." "you're a weak and defenceless old man, living all alone, with no one in the world to care for you--with no one to trouble much whether you live or whether you die," i went on persistently. "god knows you might have made something of me, if you'd ever set about it in any other fashion than that you chose to adopt; but you killed norton hyde, and he's done with and forgotten. and you're going on in the same hard, grinding fashion for the rest of your days, until some day, if nothing happens to you----" he looked at me with gaping mouth. "what should happen to me?" he asked in a whisper. i shrugged my shoulders. "how can i possibly tell?" i answered. "i say that if nothing happens to you, some fine morning you'll be found lying out stark and stiff on that great bed of yours upstairs, with your eyes open or shut, as the case may be; and you'll be just the husk of a poor old creature who couldn't take his gold with him, and has slipped away in the night to meet the god whose laws of humanity and tenderness he had outraged from the beginning. yes, uncle zabdiel, you'll be just a dead old man, leaving behind you certain property, to be squabbled over and fought over. and that will be the end of you." "you're trying to frighten me," he said, with nervous fingers plucking at his lips. "i'm very well, and i'm very strong." "i'm not trying to frighten you; i'm telling you facts. it is just left for you to set against all the wrong you have done one little good deed that may help to balance matters at the finish. and you won't do it." "i never said i wouldn't do it," he pleaded. "you take me up so suddenly, norton; you've no patience. i am an old man, as you say, and sometimes my health and strength are not what they were; but, then, doctors are so infernally expensive. tell me what you want me to do, my boy; i'll do it if i can." i was so certain that i had absolutely subdued him that i did not hesitate to lay my plan before him: it was a plan i had had in my mind all the day before, and for some part at least of that night i had spent in the house. "there is a young lady whom i have met under curious circumstances," i began earnestly, "and that young lady is in great danger." "what's that to do with me?" he snapped, with something of his old manner. "will you listen?" i asked impatiently. "just understand that this young lady is nothing to me, and never can be anything; but i want to help her. she hasn't a friend in the world except myself, and i want to find some place to which, in an emergency, i can bring her, and where she will be safe. i tell you frankly i wouldn't suggest this to you if there were any other place on earth to which i could take her; but every other way of escape seems barred. if i can persuade her to trust me, will you give her shelter here?" he looked up at me for a moment or two. i saw that it was in his mind to refuse flatly to have anything to do with the matter. but he had been more shaken that night even than i suspected, and he was afraid to refuse me anything. nevertheless, he began to beat round the question, in the hope of evading a direct answer to it. "what should i do with a girl here?" he asked. "there's only one old woman who comes to the house to look after me. this is no place for a girl; besides, if she's a decent sort of girl, she ought to have a mother or a father, or some sort of relative, to look after her." "i've told you that she's absolutely alone in the world," i replied to that. "and what's her danger?" he asked. "we live in the twentieth century, and there are the police----" "can _i_ apply to the police?" i asked him. "no, i suppose you can't," he acknowledged. "well, at any rate, let me know what you want me to do, and how long the girl will stop--and i'll do the best i can. after all, perhaps what you said about me being an old man, and being found dead, and all that sort of thing--perhaps it may have some truth in it. and i've not been so very hard on people, and even if i have, you seem to think that this kindness to the young lady will make it all right for me. because, you know," he added, with a shake of the head, "it's a great deal to ask anyone to do. girls are more nuisance than they're worth. boys are bad enough--but girls!" he held up his hands in horror at the mere thought of them. i felt very grateful to him, and quite elated at my success. i took one of his feeble old hands, which he yielded with reluctance, and shook it warmly. "you're doing a greater kindness than you can imagine," i said. "i'll let you know if i can persuade the girl to come here; i won't take you by surprise again." "i'm glad to know that, at least," he said. "you've given me an awful shock as it is. now i suppose you'll go away again quietly?" "yes," i said, getting down from the table, "i'll go away again. but let me give you a word of warning, uncle zabdiel: even the best of us are inclined to forget promises in this world. you have sworn that you will not tell any one my secret." "my dear boy," he whined, "do you seriously think that i should betray you?" "no," i answered, "i don't think you would. it would be bad for you if you did; my vengeance would reach quite a long way." "all right, my boy," he replied hastily, as he got to his feet and moved away from me. "no threats; no threats; they are quite unnecessary." when i left him it was fully daylight. i came out of the house into the narrow, high-walled garden, and left him standing at the door in his black skull-cap and dressing-gown, peering out at me; then the door was closed, and the dark house swallowed him up. i was now quite determined that i would go back to the house of bardolph just, and would find out for myself what was happening there. i had no real hope of meeting debora, save by accident; i knew that since my disclosure i was less to her than any common tramp she might meet upon the roadside. but when i thought of her, without a friend, in that great house, and with one man and one woman at least bent upon her death, i felt that private considerations must be tossed aside, and that i must swallow my pride and my sense of injury, and must go to her help. if by some good fortune i could persuade her that the jail-bird she knew me to be was swallowed up in the man who hopelessly loved her, and was eager to help her, i might yet be able to perform that miracle of saving her. i felt that i had conquered the man i had least hope of conquering--uncle zabdiel; i was less afraid of others than i had been of him. the thought of martha leach troubled me most; there was something so implacable about her enmity. that she meant to destroy the girl, i knew; and i felt certain, from what i had heard, that she was equally bent on destroying me. i chuckled to myself at the thought that in that second business i had defeated her; i was equally confident that i should defeat her in the first. for in defeating her i knew that my surest weapon would be the doctor himself, because anything that happened to me in the way of exposure must bring that dead man from his grave, and must revive that scandal he was so anxious to cover up. i made a shrewd guess that the woman, in rushing full tilt against me, was doing so blindly, and without consulting bardolph just. knowing the power of that man over her, i thought that i could stop her even more easily than i had stopped my uncle. however, i had blundered badly once or twice by plunging headlong into matters that required careful consideration; with a new wisdom that was coming to me, i determined to reform that trait in my character, and to weigh what i purposed doing for a few hours before setting about it. i would marshal my facts, and so have them ready at my tongue's end when i wanted them. thus it happened that i spent a large part of the day wandering about, and striving to arrive at some definite plan of action. it was late in the afternoon when i went at last to the house of bardolph just, and opened the outer gate and walked into the grounds. i will confess that my heart was beating a little heavily, because i knew that i might at any moment meet debora, and i could guess what her attitude would be. however, i came to the house, and rang the bell, and waited to be admitted. the servant who came to the door at last looked at me in some little surprise, i thought, but greeted me civilly enough. i enquired for the doctor as i stood in the hall; i thought the man seemed astonished that i should ask the question. "dr. just is away, sir. everybody's away, sir," he said. "away?" i stared at the man in a dazed fashion, wondering what he meant. "everybody?" "yes, sir. dr. just, and mr. scoffold, and miss debora. they've all gone down to green barn, in essex, sir. quite a large party, sir," went on the man garrulously. "mrs. leach has gone with them." i kept my head lowered, that the man might not see the expression on my face. "when did they go?" i asked slowly. "yesterday, sir. dr. just said they would go down for some shooting." the man spoke glibly enough as he told his news, and i stood awkwardly in front of him, wondering what i should do. after a long pause i looked up, and asked, "is there no one here at all, except yourself and the other servants?" "oh, yes, sir! i quite forgot," said the man. "old capper is here, and another party that the doctor left behind to look after him. rather a rough sort of party, sir--name of rabbit." "where are they?" i asked quickly. "i want to see them." the man told me that they were in a little room at the back of the house, and i went there at once. i was more disturbed in my mind about this than about anything else; filled with perplexity that capper should have been brought back to that house, as i guessed he must have been by harvey scoffold; still more puzzled to know why george rabbit had appeared on the scene, and what the purpose could be in putting him in charge of that amiable old madman, capper. i opened the door of the room and walked in. george rabbit was lounging on a window-seat by an open window, smoking a pipe; capper sat upright on a chair, looking at the other man with that curious half-wistful, half-puzzled expression that i had seen on his face before. mr. rabbit did not take the trouble to move when i entered; he merely waved a hand nonchalantly, and went on smoking. "what are you doing here?" i demanded of him. "got a noo job--an' a rummy sort o' job at that," he replied, with a jerk of his head in the direction of capper. "plenty to eat an' drink, 'an a nice fevver bed to sleep in, 'an on'y him to keep a eye on. rum ole cove, ain't 'e?" "i thought i warned you to keep away from this place, and to keep away from me," i said sternly. "you did, 'an you wasn't too nice about the language you put it in," he said complacently, as he puffed out a huge volume of smoke. "but, yer see, i wasn't goin' to be ordered abaht by the likes o' you, an' so i jist made up my mind i'd come along, an' 'ave a little talk wiv the doctor. nice man, the doctor--real tip-top gent." "but dr. just warned you to keep away from here," i reminded him. "yus, but, yer see, i put it plain to the doctor that i might be a bit useful to 'is nibs--a deal more useful inside, w'ere i couldn't talk, than outside, w'ere i could. the doctor seemed to see it in the same way, an' so 'e left me in charge of this ole chap, wot seems to 'ave a tile loose; an' 'e's gorn orf into the country to 'ave a pot at the dicky birds, an' the rabbits an' fings." "and are you to stop here until he comes back?" i asked. "that's the ticket," he replied. "an' wot's yer 'ighness goin' to do?" "i don't know; at all events, nothing that concerns you," i answered. "perlite and haffable as ever!" commented mr. rabbit. "by the way, i unnerstood that you'd gorn, an' that we wasn't goin' to see any more of yer. you might let me know w'ere you're goin' to live--fer the sake of ole times." i guessed why he wanted to know my movements. i shrewdly suspected that the woman martha leach had already given him zabdiel blowfield's message. therefore, although my mind was pretty firmly made up as to what i must do, i determined to put him off the scent. "oh, in all probability, i shall remain here for the present," i said. "good!" exclaimed mr. rabbit heartily. "then i shall 'ave company. between you an' me, i'm a little tired of ole waxworks 'ere, wot sits smilin' an' never syin' a word, except to ask about 'is young master. i tell yer, 'e fair gits on my nerves." "i'll go and see if my room's ready," i said; and walked out of the room. going into the dining-room, i rang the bell, and waited until the servant who had admitted me put in an appearance; then i asked a question quite casually. "by the way, what place did you say the doctor had gone to? was it green barn?" "yes, sir. i was down there myself last year. very pretty place, sir. comerford is the station. essex, sir." "oh, i see!" i answered with a yawn. "by the way, i shall stay here to-night. is my room ready?" "just as you left it, sir," said the man. i dismissed him, and then proceeded to empty my pockets, to discover what money i had. i knew that i must get to comerford that night; i began to be oppressed with dreadful fears of what might happen in a lonely country house, with the girl at the mercy of these three people, all conspiring against her. for by this time i reckoned harvey scoffold as being shoulder to shoulder with the other two in the business. i found that i had exactly two shillings and threepence, and there seemed no prospect of my getting any more. i was desperate by this time, and i knew that every moment was precious; if i missed the last train i might as well not go at all. i determined that in such a cause as this any scruples of conscience i might have must go to the winds; i must resume my old trade which had once brought me into disaster. i looked about for the most valuable article i could discover, and presently found it, in a beautiful old-fashioned watch, lying upon a cabinet merely as an ornament; it was a wonderful piece of workmanship, in three exquisitely engraved and pierced cases. i slipped it into my pocket, and got my cap and a walking-stick from the hall, and slipped unobserved out of the house. in an old curiosity shop in heath street, hampstead, i sold the watch--after some haggling i got six pounds for it. coming out of the place the richer by that sum, i found a cab, and drove at once to liverpool street station. there i found, by great good fortune, that a train was to leave for comerford in less than a quarter of an hour. i took my seat, and in due course alighted without further adventure at the little out-of-the-way station bearing that name. not wishing to attract attention in a place where, doubtless, the doctor was well known, i strolled out of the station into the quiet dusk of the summer evening, and took my way down into the village. you may be sure that i kept a sharp look-out, lest by any chance i should stumble upon anyone from green barn; and i determined that when i made enquiries for the place it should be from someone not likely to pay much attention to me or to note my appearance. i meant to move slowly but steadily, making as few false steps as possible; and i knew that the first thing to be done was to get to the house and find out what was happening there. in the first place, however, i made up my mind that i would procure a bed for the night. i chose a little clean inn in a back street, and for a matter of a shilling or two settled to keep the room as long as i wanted it. lounging in the doorway of it with the landlord, i made a casual enquiry as to what places of interest there were in the neighbourhood; and the man, after reeling off a long catalogue of places about which i cared nothing, came at last to green barn, and told me where it lay. i stored that information in my mind, and a little later strolled out to find the place. i found that it lay some little distance from the village, and was surrounded by very considerable grounds and fields, and a great growth of trees that might, perhaps, by a stretch be called a wood. in the twilight i saw rabbits hopping about, and heard the cries of birds among the trees and bushes. i gathered that there would be there what i believe is known as "good mixed shooting." the house itself stood in a hollow, and i set it down at once as being decidedly lonely and damp. it had unwholesome-looking green lichens stuck about it here and there, and the outhouses were in a bad state of repair. as i moved cautiously round it, keeping well within shelter, i saw no dogs, nor did i observe any stir of life about it, as one might expect to see about the country house of a prosperous man. a few lights were showing in the windows, and when presently i came to the front of the house, i saw that the great hall door was standing wide open. once or twice i saw a servant cross this, and disappear, as though going from one room to the other. presently, as i lay hidden, i saw harvey scoffold come out with a big cigar between his lips, and his arms swaying about lazily above his head, as he stretched himself. he seated himself in a creaking wicker chair on the porch, and i lay watching the glowing end of his cigar for a long time. bardolph just came out presently, and joined him. they sat knee to knee for a while, with their heads bent forward, talking in low tones; i could not distinguish what was said. presently both the heads turned, and the men glanced towards the lighted hall behind them; then the doctor sprang up, and pushed back his chair. then i saw debora come slowly down the hall to the porch. the doctor spoke to her, and i saw her shake her head. my heart was thumping so that i had a foolish feeling that they must hear it, and discover me where i lay hidden. the girl came down the few steps from the porch, and turned off into the grounds. bardolph just, after standing looking after her for a long minute, sat down again, and went on talking to scoffold. so far as debora was concerned, she confined her walk to an avenue among the trees, up and down which she paced for half an hour, with her hands hanging loosely at her sides, and with an air of utter desolation and dejection upon her. during all that time she only stopped once. it was at the end of the avenue furthest from the house, and nearest to where i lay among the bushes. she stopped, and laid an arm against the trunk of a tree, and put her head against the arm; and so stood for a long time, as i felt sure, weeping softly. what i suffered in that time i will not try to explain; i would have given anything and everything to be able to steal up to her, and to put my arms about her, and to comfort her. but that was, of course, clearly impossible. she went back into the house at last, passing between the two men and leaving them together on the porch. i determined that i would keep my vigil as long as they did, even though i could not overhear what was said. i could see that the doctor was laying down the law upon some matter to harvey scoffold. i could see every now and then first one and then the other turn sharply and glance into the lighted hall, as though fearing to be overheard. at last scoffold, with a gesture of impatience, got up and came down the steps; the great bulk of him blotted out the other man for a moment. immediately afterwards the doctor rose, and marched down the steps also, until he came to where harvey scoffold was standing. they moved off arm-in-arm into that avenue in which but a little time before the girl had walked so long; and now i strained my ears, in the hope that i might catch what they said. but only scraps of conversation floated to me. "don't be a fool, harvey," i heard the doctor say, "there is absolutely no danger ... the merest accident." "i can't say i like it at all; it may seem suspicious. lonely country place, and you with an interest in the girl's death. i consider it much too risky." they passed me, and came slowly back again. and what i heard then was startling enough, in all conscience. it was the doctor who spoke. "gun accidents have happened before to-day, and will happen again, especially over such land as this." i remembered then what i had been told about this shooting party that had been organised; i wondered what they meant to do. i could only shrewdly guess that in some fashion the girl was to be drawn into the matter, and that the doctor had plotted with harvey scoffold that an apparent accident of some sort should take place. i did not need to be told who the victim was to be. i lay there, long after they had gone into the house and the door had been closed, wondering what i should do, and realising more and more with every minute how utterly helpless i was. to warn the girl was impossible, because, even if i got speech with her, she would in all probability refuse to believe anything i said. to set myself face to face with harvey scoffold and the doctor would be absurd, because they would, of course, deny that any such conversation had taken place, or at least deny the construction i had put upon their words. i lay there until very late, debating the matter, and at last came to a desperate resolve. if they meant murder, then i determined that murder should be met with murder. in some way that was at present vague in my mind i determined that i would follow the party on the morrow, if that was the time arranged, and if i could only secure some weapon, even if i were not in time to save her, her death should be avenged. i went home with my head singing, and with, as it seemed, the sky blood-red above me. i thought at first that i would borrow a gun from the landlord of the inn, but as i looked a peaceful sort of fellow, i came to the conclusion that that must at once throw suspicion upon me. i determined, just before i went to bed, that i would go very early to green barn in the morning, and there would let fate decide for me at the last moment. i undressed and went to bed, but it was long before my eyes closed in sleep. i was abroad early, and was actually in the grounds before the house was astir. i guessed that if this was the date on which they meant to put their plan into execution, they would make for that more secluded wood i had observed the night before, and i determined that when the time came i would take my station there. but first i made up my mind that i must have a weapon, and boldly enough i decided that i would get that, if the worst came to the worst, from the house itself. with that purpose in mind, i crept as near to the house as i could, with a view to observing how the rooms were placed, and in the hope that i might discover the gun-room, if such a place existed. fortune favoured me. i worked my way gradually round towards the back of the house, and judged that the party were at breakfast, by the fact that now and then a servant crossed a small paved yard, bearing dishes. i counted the number of times she went, and i reckoned my chances on two things. first, i guessed that some of the servants would be in the dining-room, and the others in the kitchens, which were detached from the house; the servant i saw pass to and fro was the messenger between both. and while i noted that fact, i saw that the gun-room was just off the small hall into which she went each time she carried anything across. i could see the shining barrels against the walls distinctly. what i purposed doing was this. counting the time carefully, i would wait for her to cross the yard and to go into the house; then, when she had disappeared, i would follow, and would get into the gun-room. before she came out of the house again i should have time to select a weapon and to load it; to remain concealed in the gun-room, into which she was not likely to look; and to come out and make my way into the grounds after she had disappeared into the kitchens. my plan prospered as well as i had hoped. i slipped into the gun-room as the girl disappeared into the house, and in a moment i had a gun down from its place, and had slipped the cartridges into position. making sure that all was right, i crouched behind the door, and saw the girl pass and cross the yard, and disappear; then i stole out, and, getting clear of the house, ran hard for the woods. there i dropped down into a little hollow in the thickest part of the trees, and waited. in something less than half an hour i saw them coming towards me from the direction of the house; harvey scoffold and the doctor, with debora walking between. she was dressed smartly in a shooting costume, and carried a light gun over her shoulder, as did the others. they made straight for the woods; and i lay there, with murder in my heart and the gun gripped in my fingers. chapter x. i touch the skirts of happiness. my feeling of horror at what i instinctively knew was soon to happen was perhaps increased by the fact that this morning the girl seemed to be in the brightest possible humour. she was laughing and chatting, turning first to one man and then to the other, as she stepped gaily along between them. nor were harvey scoffold and bardolph just lacking in apparent good humour; harvey scoffold, in particular, was laughing boisterously. every now and then the two men would exchange glances behind the unconscious girl, as though assuring each other that they were ready for some signal to pass from one to the other. they came straight on down through the wood, with one figure now hidden for a moment by the trees, and then the three of them fully in sight again. in the hollow where i lay i now and then heard a quick rustling, and saw a rabbit dart across and disappear; i realised that i might be in some danger if the party fired in my direction. but concerning that i was quite reckless. debora proved to be a capital shot, and harvey scoffold was second only to her. the doctor fired only once, and then he missed; i saw the girl turn and look at him, and laugh. and his face was not pleasant to see. at last i saw what i had expected. harvey scoffold and the girl moved forward a little, and the doctor stopped. i saw scoffold look back, with a sharp turn of the head for a moment; saw him glance sideways at the girl. i raised myself a little, and, with my heart thumping against my ribs, levelled the gun i held, and looked along the smooth, shining barrel of it until i had bardolph just squarely at the end of it. a rabbit darted across, straight in front of harvey scoffold and the girl; i saw it out of the tail of my eye as i watched the doctor. both guns spoke, and even as they did so i saw bardolph just with his gun to his shoulder, and the barrel pointing straight at the girl's back, not five yards in front of him. it was all so sudden--first the bark of the two guns in front--then my own weapon seemed to go off at the same moment. in my excitement i let him have both barrels; i saw his own gun explode harmlessly in the air, and then fall from his hands. he dropped to his knees with a cry, and held his left wrist with the fingers of his right hand locked round it. his face was very white, and he rocked himself backwards and forwards as he knelt there, and bit his lower lip until i saw a faint trickle of blood down his chin. i knew that i had in all probability shattered his wrist; so much at least i hoped. the others had run back, and the girl was kneeling beside him, while scoffold stood staring at him in very genuine amazement. i saw the doctor turn his head swiftly and look sharply in my direction; then he said something in a low tone to scoffold. i could not hear what was said, but i saw him stagger to his feet, with the help of the girl, and saw them go slowly towards the house. harvey scoffold stood still, looking after them for a moment; then he turned sharply and faced towards where i was. i saw him open the breech of his gun and slip a cartridge in; then he walked straight towards me. my gun was of course empty, but when he first caught sight of me i was kneeling in a very business-like attitude, with the weapon levelled. he looked straight down the barrels of it. he stopped, and i saw him fumbling with the trigger of his own. "have a care, mr. scoffold," i said quietly. "i have you covered." "what are you doing there?" he stammered. "i'll tell you presently," i answered him, still keeping my gun raised. "now, reverse that gun of yours; come a little nearer. that's it; now lay it on the grass. go back a pace or two; now stand still. and remember that if you play any tricks i'm in a mood to blow your brains out. i shall shoot _you_ through the head, mr. harvey scoffold--not through the arm." by this time he was standing some paces away, his arms hanging by his sides. i got up, and stepped forward to where his gun lay, and picked it up. i dropped my own behind me. "perhaps you'd like to know," i said, after i had made sure that the gun i had taken from him was loaded, "that my own weapon was unloaded. the doctor had both barrels." i heard him mutter something under his breath, and i guessed pretty accurately what it was. he kept his eyes on me, evidently watching for a way of escape; he shifted his feet uneasily, as he stood there covered by his own gun. "now, harvey scoffold, i'll have a little explanation with you before i go up to the house," i said. "you were in the plot to murder this young girl. be careful how you answer me, for my temper is such at this moment that my fingers itch for this trigger." "my dear fellow--i do assure you----" he began; but at the look in my eyes he hung his head, and blurted out the truth. "what could i do?" he muttered. "i did my best to stop it--to persuade the doctor to abandon the idea. i only came out this morning because i thought--because i hoped i might be able to prevent it." "you are lying, harvey scoffold," i told him. "i have been here both last night and since early this morning; i have seen everything, and heard a great deal. you were in the plot; you were to hold the attention of the girl while murder was done. if i had not been here she would be lying dead now." "it's true," he said. "i'm bound to confess it's true. but i thank god you came in time!" "bah!" i ejaculated contemptuously. "i don't like your penitence, mr. scoffold. now turn about and go up to the house. i'll follow you." he hesitated for a moment, and then turned and walked towards the house. i picked up the other gun and followed him, and in that order we came to the house, and marched up the steps and into the hall. he looked back at me over his shoulder then. "which way?" he asked sulkily. "i want to see the doctor," i replied, setting the guns down in a corner. "lead the way; i'll follow you." he turned into a room on the right, crossed it, and came to a door at the other side. opening this, he passed through, and i followed him. directly i got into the room i saw before me a curious little scene, and one that, even now, in the recollection of it, sends a thrill at once of pity and of admiration through me, however unwillingly. the doctor was seated by a table, on which was spread a white cloth; an open case of surgical instruments was by his side. leaning across the table was martha leach, doing something with a bowl of water and a small sponge. very slowly and calmly bardolph just was cleaning the broken flesh and bone, quite as calmly, save for an occasional spasm of pain that crossed his face, as though he had been operating on a patient. he turned his head for a moment as we came into the room, and stopped what he was doing. "take that fellow away!" he shouted. but i stood my ground. "thanks," i replied, "i prefer to remain. there is a word or two to be said between us, doctor; but pray don't let me interrupt what you are doing. your injury is not quite as bad as i had hoped; but then i am not much good behind a gun. i hoped to hit a vital spot." "why did you shoot me?" he asked sullenly. "don't ask idle questions," i retorted. "get on with your work." he rewarded me for that remark with a scowl, and went on again with the work in hand. now and then he gave a quick order, half under his breath, to the obedient martha leach, who waited upon him slavishly; under his direction she presently bound up the arm, after cutting splints for it according to a fashion he told her. then, in obedience to a sign from him, she brought him a small glass of spirits, which he drank quickly; i saw the colour begin to come back into his white face. "that was an ordeal, harvey," he said. "upon my word, i didn't think i had the courage. i think it'll mend all right now; both bones were shattered." he took not the faintest notice of me, as he presently laid his hand in a sling which the woman leach dexterously twisted round his neck. he nodded to her in token that she should go; and she went slowly out of the room, carrying the cloth and basin with her; she gave me a deadly look as she passed me. but for her looks i no longer cared. perhaps the least composed of the three of us was harvey scoffold; he fidgeted about from one foot to the other, and strove to whistle a tune; and all the while glanced furtively at bardolph just or at myself. bardolph just, for his part, stood like a man slowly making up his mind to something; i saw, besides, that he was raging within himself with pain, and mortification, and chagrin, and could with difficulty control his feelings. when at last he looked up he repeated that question he had asked before. "why did you shoot me?" "i preferred to shoot you rather than see murder done; i meant to kill you, if i could, because i counted your life more worthless than that of miss debora matchwick." "i was not going to kill her," he said sullenly. "no," i answered him, "there was to be an accident, and no one would have been more sorry than her dear, devoted guardian at the deplorable result of that accident! you need not lie to me, dr. just; your accomplice has already given the game away." he glanced quickly at harvey scoffold, and that gentleman merely shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands protestingly; but i saw that the doctor believed that scoffold had been made to speak. the doctor walked across to the window, and stood there looking out for some time. he spoke at last, without turning his head. "you constitute yourself judge and executioner both," he said. "if you had killed me i think it must have proved a hanging matter for you, mr. jail-bird." "but i should have saved the girl," i answered. "what is my life worth, that i should weigh it in the balance when there is a question of her safety?" "what are you going to do?" he asked, turning his head a little. "i am going to see miss matchwick, and i am going to put the case fairly before her," i replied steadily. "i intend to tell her of the three attempts you have made upon her life; i intend to let her understand that your game, dr. just, is murder." "very fine, and very brave," he remarked; then he suddenly swung round on me, and barked out a question. "if you are so certain of your facts, why not go to the police--why not stop this game of murder, as you call it?" "you know i can't do that," i said. "in the first place i cannot even declare who i am, nor why i'm in your house; and in the second, as you know, i have no proof." he walked across to where harvey scoffold was standing, and nudged him with his free arm in the ribs. "hark to him, harvey--hark to this fine talker! he has no proof--and he dare not show himself as other men might. this thing without a name is going to do doughty deeds for the sake of a young girl; he claims already to have saved her three times from death. what is anybody to make of it, if he chooses to tell his story?" "i make this of it," i broke in hotly. "i am here to see miss matchwick; i will put the thing fairly before her. if i can do nothing else, i can at least show her where her danger lies, so that she may not walk into it without her eyes open." i never understood the man until long afterwards--at least, i never understood him fully; perhaps if i had i should have been prepared for the desperate chances he took, and for the sheer recklessness with which he carried matters through. he turned now to scoffold, and said quickly-- "that's a good notion, harvey; that's a fair and just thing to say. we've had enough of this fellow, who brags and boasts, and shoots men from behind bushes. the young lady shall judge for us, and shall give him his dismissal. it's a good idea, and one that we will see carried out. fetch debora here." "stop!" i cried, as harvey scoffold was moving towards the door. "we'll have no underhand tricks, and no warnings. ring the bell, and send a servant for miss matchwick." scoffold stopped and looked at the doctor; the latter slowly nodded his head. so it came about that scoffold rang the bell, and on the coming of the servant requested that miss debora should be asked to step that way. after the man had retired, and while we waited in a grim silence for the coming of debora, i felt my cheeks begin to flame; almost it seemed as though i felt again the sharp tingling pain where she had lashed me across the face. when the door opened at last the girl came in quickly. she walked straight towards where the doctor stood, and spoke at once impulsively. "oh, i am so sorry--so very sorry!" she said. "how did it happen? have you found out who did it?" bardolph just did not speak; he simply looked at me. following the direction of his eyes, she turned also and looked at me. i saw her draw herself up with that quick little lift of her chin; i saw a dawning smile in the doctor's eyes. "what is that man doing here?" she asked. "he came, my dear debora, with a purpose--a purpose which he has partly accomplished. my broken wrist tells its own tale; had he had his way, i should probably not be speaking to you now." "had he had his way, miss debora," i blurted out, "you would be lying dead somewhere in this house--as the result of an accident!" i saw her face blanch; she turned furtive, frightened eyes for a moment on the doctor. he shook his head, with a lifting of the eyebrows which seemed to suggest that he left such a mad accusation to be judged properly by her; and she flashed round on me. "i don't believe it--i don't believe a word of it!" she said. "thank you, my dear child," said bardolph just. "i might have known what your answer would be." "very satisfactory--quite what might have been expected," murmured scoffold. the girl had turned her head, and was looking at me steadily. what was in her mind i could not tell, for her face told me nothing. scorn of me i could read, and contempt; i felt my heart sink, even while i nerved myself for the task before me. "is that why i am sent for?" she said. "is it to hear such an accusation as this? is this what you had to say to me?" still her eyes looked contemptuously into mine, where i stood half abashed before her; still i felt that the doctor was growing momentarily more sure of his victory. "i asked that you might be sent for," i said, beginning my reply steadily, "in order that you might understand what is being done, and that you might guard yourself against it. if you think me so poor a thing that i may not help you, then for god's sake set me aside out of the matter; get someone else more worthy to assist you. but wake up--open your eyes--face this death that is waiting for you at every turn!" she might have been a figure of stone, so little movement did she make. and now i saw that both harvey scoffold and the doctor were watching her, and not me. "i have pleaded with you before; i have told you what i know is being done against you and against your life," i went on, speaking more eagerly with every word. "that man has tried to kill you three several times. he tried to make you walk out of that door at dead of night; he tried to poison you--of those things i have already told you. i was able to save you on those two occasions, but after that he sent me away from you, and i had to leave you to the mercy of these men. only by the merest chance did i find out that you had come down here, and were going on this apparently innocent expedition this morning. will you not believe me when i tell you that i heard the whole thing plotted between them last night?" she gave me no answer, although i waited for one. after a pause i went on-- "there was to be an accident this morning; gun accidents have happened frequently. mr. scoffold there received his instructions----" "i protest against this madman!" broke in harvey scoffold. "i assure you----" "hold your tongue!" snapped the doctor unexpectedly. "let him say what he has to say." "so i got a gun from the house," i went on; "for i meant to kill dr. just, if by chance i was quick enough to prevent him carrying out his scheme. i lay in the woods over there, and i waited; then i saw harvey scoffold walk in front with you, and i saw the doctor step back. as god is my witness i saw the man raise his gun and point it direct at you; then i raised my own and fired." very slowly she turned her head, and stole a look at the doctor's face. i saw him repeat his former gesture, as though it were not worth while for him to deny the matter; the thing was so absurd. i saw debora also glance at harvey scoffold, who smiled gaily and shook his head; then she looked back towards me. i did not understand her; i could not read into that mind that was behind her unfathomable eyes. if, while i waited for her judgment, i looked at her with any look of pleading, it was only that she might, for her own sake, judge me fairly, and judge me to be honest. "i won't trouble to remember the absurd name you bear, a name which is not your own," she began very quietly. "i will only remember that you are nobody, and that you forced your way into dr. just's house while you were a criminal flying from the law. do you think it likely that i should take your word in such a matter as this?" i saw bardolph just exchange a quick look with harvey scoffold, a look compounded of gratification as well as amazement. scoffold, for his part, was openly grinning. "your zeal for me and for my welfare is quite misplaced, and quite unnecessary," went on debora. "i'm sorry you should have thought it necessary to try and kill my guardian; it is a merciful thing that you have only injured him. that is all i have to say to you." "debora," i said, looking at her earnestly, "i entreat you to believe that what i have said is true. i know these men; i know what their purpose is; i know what must inevitably happen if you will not realise your own danger." "come--we've had enough of this!" broke in bardolph just. "it's quite time we told this fellow that he'd best get away from the place, and be seen here no more. he's had his answer, and i hope he's pleased with it." "debora," i went on, ignoring the man altogether, "i will take you away from this place, and will put you with friends who will be good to you. debora, won't you listen to me?" "i have given you my answer, and it is a final one," she said. "had the warning come from anyone else i might have been troubled by it--mystified by it; coming from a man with your record it is worthless. when i listened to you first i did not understand who you were; now i know. that is the end of it." "it is not the end of it!" i cried fiercely, as she turned away from me. "i will save you in spite of yourself; i will make you understand your danger, even if you do not see it now. i shall ask no thanks and seek no reward. i shall have done it for another reason." i turned to the doctor, and pointed a finger at him. "as for you, sir, such a retribution is preparing for you as shall not be long delayed. you think you have seen the last of me--you have not done that by any means. don't forget that i am a desperate man, with nothing to lose in this world save my liberty; and i shall not count that, if it becomes necessary for me to declare who i am, and to come forward into the light of day to protect this girl. that's my last word on the matter." "i'm glad to hear it!" retorted the doctor. "open the door, harvey, please." mr. harvey scoffold obeyed with alacrity, and, thus dismissed, i went out of the house, and made my way towards the village. i was sent upon my way more quickly, perhaps, from hearing a peal of laughter from the room i had left. i went away with rage and bitterness in my heart. i went back to my lodging at the little inn, more perplexed than ever as to what i should do. i knew that this was a new danger which threatened the girl, because she would prove an easier victim in any new scheme which might be maturing, by reason of her belief in the man who meant to kill her; her trust in him would make her utterly unsuspicious. the thought of that drove me almost frantic, and i raged up and down my little room in the inn, tormented by doubts and fears, and seeing my own helplessness loom more largely before me with every moment. late in the afternoon i went out into the village of comerford, undecided whether to go back to london, or whether to remain in that place. i wandered aimlessly about the streets, and finally seated myself on a gate a little way out, and propped my chin in my hands and gave myself up to the gloomiest thoughts. i became aware, in a curious, detached fashion, of a small country boy, with a very freckled face and very light hair, who had walked past me twice, and had observed me narrowly; now i came to think of it, i had seen him loitering along on the other side of the street some half-hour previously. i looked at him with a frown now, and asked him what he wanted. to my surprise he asked me if i was mr. john new. i sat up and looked at him, and said that i was. from one of his pockets the boy drew out a twisted piece of paper, flattened it with one grubby hand upon the other, and spelled out the name. then to my amazement, he handed the note to me. "where did you get this from?" i demanded. he told me that a lady had given it to him, and had given him also a shilling to find me. she had told him what i was like, and that i was a stranger in the village; my aimlessly wandering about the streets had done the rest, and had shown me to him. i added another shilling to the boy's new wealth on the spot, and he went away happy. then i untwisted the note, and read what was written on it. "_i want to see you, and i must see you to-day. there is a place at the other side of the wood where you lay this morning--an old chalk-pit, half filled with water. at one side of that is a little ruined hut. i shall be there this evening at a little after six. i beg, that you will not fail me._ "_debora._" so much had i been tricked, and so little faith had i in man or woman then, that for a moment i believed that this was another trap set, into which my feet should stumble. but the next moment, i told myself that surely this village boy would not have lied to me over the matter. a woman had sent the note, and it could be but one woman. i thrust the precious paper into my pocket, and set off then and there, with my heart singing within me, to the place appointed. i came to it well before the time, and found it to be just as the note described. i had kept well away from the wood, and i came easily to the old disused chalk-pit, which had in it a small pond of stagnant water, formed by the rains of many seasons. half-way up one side of it was the little hut to which debora had referred. i made my way to it at once. sitting down on an old bench, i looked through the open door, and so could command the way by which she would come. the time drew on, and still i saw nothing of her. i was beginning to think that some one had discovered that she had communicated with me, or else that, after all, this might be a trap set for me. i blamed myself that i was here in this lonely place without a weapon. and then suddenly, far off, i saw what it was that had delayed her. the evening was very still and very fine; i could see a long way. presently, in the distance, i made out a figure walking backwards and forwards on the edge of the wood; after quite a long time i made it out to be the doctor. i knew in a moment that the man stood as a barrier between the girl in the house and me in the hut, and that while he kept unconscious guard there it was impossible for us to meet. yet i was as helpless as she must be, and i could only wait until it pleased the man to go back to the house. he must have walked there backwards and forwards for more than half an hour before i suddenly saw him in the clear light stop, and snap the fingers of his uninjured hand together, with the action of a man coming to a sudden quick resolution; then he turned, and went off with long strides in the direction of the house. i wondered what he was going to do. i endured another period of waiting that seemed interminable; and then i saw her coming quickly through the wood and down towards the chalk-pit. she skirted the edge of it, and came on quickly towards where i stood in the doorway of the hut waiting for her. after her declaration in the house, in the presence of the two men, i could not know in what mood she came, and i was puzzled how i should greet her. about that, however, i need not have thought at all, for the miracle of it was that she came straight towards me, with her eyes shining, and her hands stretched out towards me, so that in the most wonderful way, and yet in a way most natural, i took her suddenly in my arms. and she broke at once into a torrent of prayers and excuses. "oh, my dear! my dear! i was so afraid you would not meet me. i have not deserved that you should; it might have happened that you would not understand, and would believe that all the hateful things i said were meant by me. you didn't believe that, did you?" "well--yes, i did," i stammered. "what else could i believe?" "don't you understand that i should have had no chance at all with those men, unless i had thrown them off their guard? i hated myself afterwards, when they laughed and joked about you; i could have killed them. then i made up my mind that i must send and find you." "it was wonderful that the boy should know me so easily," i answered. "how did you describe me?" she hung her head, and i saw the colour mount from neck to brow. "i told the boy to look for a man with the mark of a blow across his face," she whispered; and then, before i could prevent her, even had i wished, she had put her arms about my neck and had drawn my head down, and was kissing me passionately on the mark itself. "that's to heal it--and that--and that--and that!" she whispered. we were both more composed presently, and were seated side by side on the old bench inside the hut. we had no fear of being surprised by anyone; the side of the chalk-pit went up sheer behind the hut, and from the edge of it all was open country. before us, as i have said, stretched the chalk-pit itself, and the wood, and beyond that the grounds of the house. so we sat contentedly, and looked into each other's eyes, and said what we wanted to say. "it came upon me suddenly," began debora, "this morning when i turned and saw dr. just on his knees, holding his wrist. i seemed to know instinctively that you had shot him. i knew, dear, that you would not run away, and i had time before they sent for me to make up my mind what to do. i had not quite realised what he had meant to do. i did not think he would be daring enough to shoot me in that fashion. but i am glad, for your sake, that you did not kill him." "so am i--now," i replied. "and you do believe, my dearest girl, that he has really tried on these three occasions to take your life?" "i know it," she answered, with a little shiver. "but it is for the last time. see"--she placed her hands in mine, and looked fearlessly into my eyes--"for the future you shall look after me--you shall take care of me. is that too bold a thing to say?" i drew her close to me. "no, debora mine," i whispered, "because i love you. i am what you called me--a thing without a name, but in my heart i am honest; in my heart i love the name that has been given me, because by that you first knew me." i told her of my plans: that we should go away then and there, and that for that night i would give her the room i had taken at the inn, and would find a lodging in another place. then, quite early, before anyone we need fear was awake, we would start off into the world, on some impossible mission of making a fortune, and living happily for ever afterwards. "but you forget, john dear--i have a fortune already," she reminded me. "that belongs to me--that we must get." i was troubled at the thought of that, troubled lest she might believe, even for one fleeting moment, that i set that fortune as of greater value than herself. i was about to speak of it when she suddenly turned to me, and began to speak with the deepest earnestness of quite another matter. "there is something i must say to you--now, before we leave this place," she said. "i want first of all to tell you that i never loved gregory pennington; he was only my dear friend--my brother." "i am glad," i answered simply. "and i want to tell you now that i am absolutely certain in my own mind that the boy never killed himself." i was so startled that for a moment i could not answer her. she glanced out of the door of the hut, as though fearing that even in that place she might be overheard, and then went on speaking at a great rate: "it was the last thing he would have done; there was no reason for it at all. he was happy, because he had always the mistaken hope that he might persuade me to love him. on the very night of his death--the night when you came there--he, too, had tried to persuade me to leave the house, and go away with him; like yourself, he believed that i was not safe with dr. just. do you believe for a moment that, having said that to me, he would walk into the house and put a rope about his neck? no, i won't believe it!" "but, my darling, how else could he have died?" i asked. she answered me quite solemnly, and with the same deep earnestness i had heard in her tones before. "he was killed--murdered--by dr. just!" "but why?" i asked stupidly. "for the same reason that would prompt the man to seek your death, if he could," she said. "bardolph just knew that gregory pennington wanted to get me to go away; gregory probably told him so that night. if i went away and married anyone, my fortune went with me, and it is my horrible fortune that has come near to losing me my life. i know, as surely as if i had seen it done, that the doctor killed gregory pennington. that he hanged him afterwards, to give colour to the idea of suicide, i quite believe; that would account for his anxiety to let you change places with the dead man." "another thought occurs to me," i said, after a pause. "poor gregory pennington's servant--the man capper--must have seen what happened; the shock of it has left his mind a blank." "i wonder," said debora slowly, "i wonder if capper will ever speak!" that thought had been in my mind too, but i had been too startled at what i had heard to speak of it. we left the matter where it was, and as the twilight was now coming on, came out of the hut and took our way by a circuitous route back towards the village. i took the girl to the inn, and left her in charge of the kindly landlady, giving the woman instructions that under no circumstances was she to let anyone know that the girl was there. i think the landlady scented a runaway match, for she smiled and nodded, and put a finger on her lips in token of silence. nothing happened, however, during that night; and in the morning quite early debora stepped out of the little inn into the village street, and we went off happily together to the railway station. there, by an early market train, we got to london, coming to it just as all the people were pouring into the busy city for the day. i took debora to a little, old-fashioned hotel that i had heard of near the charterhouse, and left her there while i set off on a mission of my own. i had determined that, before ever i saw my uncle, or availed myself of his promise to look after the girl, i would go again to that solitary house in which gregory pennington had died, and would find the man capper. for now i had the threads of the thing strongly in my fingers; i knew from what point to start, and i could put certain questions to capper that he might be able to answer. i came to the house soon after mid-day, and opened the gate in the fence and went in. lest i should be refused admission for any reason, i determined that i would, if possible, slip into the house by the back way; and i made my way cautiously round there. so it happened that i came in sight of that open window, on the window-seat of which i had left mr. george rabbit reclining while he kept guard over the little grey-headed man called capper. and i was in time to see a curious scene enacted before my eyes at that very window, just as though it had been a scene in some play. i was hidden among the trees, so that no one saw me, but i could both see and hear distinctly. standing with his back to the window, and with his arms folded, was george rabbit, and his attitude was evidently one of defiance. leaning against the side of the window-frame, watching him, and glancing also at someone else within the room, stood capper, with nervous fingers plucking at his lips, and with that vacant smile upon his face. the man rabbit was speaking. "i know too much to be turned aht, or to be told to do this or to do that. i'm much too fly for that, guv'nor, an' so i tell yer. money's my game, 'an money i mean to 'ave." the voice that replied, to my very great surprise, was the voice of bardolph just. "we'll see about that, you dog!" he shouted. and with that i ran round at once through the back door, into the house, and made for the room. i darted in, in time to see the doctor with a heavy stick raised in his right hand; he was in the very act of bringing it down with all his force, in a very passion of rage, on the head of george rabbit. the man put up his arm in time to save his head, and drew back with a cry of pain, and stopped dead on seeing me. the doctor swung round, too, and lowered the stick. but the strangest thing of all was the sight of the man capper. as that blow had fallen, his eyes had been fixed upon the doctor; and i had seen a great change come suddenly over his face. it was as if the man had been turned into another being, so strangely had the face lighted up. he gave what was nothing more nor less than a scream, and leapt straight for the doctor. as the doctor swung about at the sound, the man capper caught him by the throat, and held on, and swayed about with him, and seemed to be striving to choke him. "murder!" he shrieked, and again yet louder, "murder!" chapter xi. uncle zabdiel in pious mood. dr. bardolph just, big, powerful man though he was, seemed practically helpless in the grasp of william capper, who hung on to him, and worried him as some small terrier might worry a dog of larger size. moreover, the doctor was hampered with his broken wrist; while george rabbit and myself, for the matter of that, were so thunderstruck by the sudden onslaught of that mild, quiet, little creature, who had hitherto seemed so harmless, that we stood staring and doing nothing. and the doctor battled with his one free arm, and shouted to us for help. "pull him off, can't you?" he shouted. "devil take the man! what is he at? let go, i say; do you want to kill me?" by that time i had recovered my senses so far as to fling myself upon capper, and to drag him off by main force. so soon as i had got hold of him, he seemed to collapse in the strangest way--dropped into my arms, and shuddered, and stared from one to the other of us, as though awakening from some terrible nightmare. his teeth were chattering, and he looked wildly round, as though wondering what had been happening. the doctor was arranging his collar and tie, and looking amazedly at capper. "what's the matter with the fellow?" he panted. "what set him off like that?" he stamped his foot, and looked at the trembling man. "answer me--you! what roused you like that?" capper shook his head in a dull way; then pressed the palms of his hands to his forehead. "i--i don't know," he answered, in something of the same fashion in which i had always heard him answer questions; "i didn't mean--" his voice trailed off, and he stood there, a drooping, pathetic figure, staring at the floor. for my part, i could not take my eyes from the man. i found myself wondering whether that outburst had been the mere frenzy of a moment, or whether behind it lay something i did not then understand. in the silence that had fallen upon us the doctor looked at the man in a queer, puzzled way; i thought he seemed to be asking himself the same questions that were in my own mind. after a moment or two he turned his glance resentfully on me, seeming to become aware, for the first time, of my presence. "and what brings _you_ here?" he demanded. i was at a loss how to answer him. i had had a vague hope that i might be able to see capper alone, or, at all events, only in the company of george rabbit; i could not now declare my intention of questioning the man. i resorted to subterfuge; i shrugged my shoulders and made what reply i could. "what is a poor wretch to do who has no home, no money, and no prospects? you turn me out of one place, so i come to the other." "well, you can leave this one, too," he replied sourly. "how did you get back from essex? did you tramp?" i saw at once that he must have left the place and come to london on the previous day; it was obvious that he knew nothing of debora's disappearance. nor had he yet discovered the theft of that old-fashioned watch. he could have no suspicion that i had money in my pockets. i answered as carelessly as i could. "yes," i said, "i tramped most of the way. i should not have come in now, but that i saw some trouble going on with rabbit here, and thought i might be of use." "i can look after meself, thank you for nothink," retorted mr. rabbit politely. "seems to me that i'm given all the dirty work to do, an' i don't git nuffink but thumps for it. if it 'adn't bin fer that plucky little chap there, i shouldn't 'ave stood much charnce," he added, scowling at the doctor. "he went for you a fair treat, guv'nor." "you must have made him precious fond of you, to take your part like that," said the doctor, with a glance at capper. "did he think i was going to kill you?" i saw that capper was standing in the old attitude, with his hands hanging beside him, and his eyes cast to the floor; then i had a curious feeling that he was listening. so still was he, and so meek and broken, that it seemed incredible that but a minute or two before he had been tearing like a demon at the throat of the doctor. now, while he stood there, he suddenly began to speak, in a quiet, level voice, but little raised above a whisper. "i hope, sir, that you won't send me away," he said. "i forgot myself; i wouldn't harm you for the world, sir. if you will let me stay--if you will let me keep near you--if i might even be your servant? i don't want to be sent away from you, sir." all this without raising his head, and with the air of a shamed boy pleading for forgiveness. it was the more pitiful because of the meekness of the figure, and of the thin grey hair that covered the man's head. to do him justice, the doctor behaved magnanimously. "well, we'll say no more about it, capper," he replied. "perhaps you're not quite yourself. we'll overlook it. for the rest, you shall remain here, if you behave yourself. you seem a good, faithful sort of fellow, but you mustn't fly into passions because rogues like this get what they deserve." he pointed sternly to george rabbit. "rogues!" mr. rabbit looked properly indignant, and lurched forward from the window towards the doctor. "i ain't so sure as you've put that boot on the right leg, guv'nor," he said. "i've 'ad enough of this 'ere--this keepin' me mouf shut, an' not gettin' anyfink for it. wot's the good of five quid--you can on'y dream abaht it w'en it's gorn. i'm goin' to take wot i know w'ere i shall git summink for it--w'ere i shall be paid 'andsome, an' patted on the back, an' told i'm a good boy. i'm a honest man--that's wot i am; an' i've 'ad enough of seem' jail-birds walking about in good clobber, an' 'ighly respectable gents givin' 'em shelter, an' payin' me not 'alf enough not to blab. yus, mr. norton 'yde, it's you what i'm talkin' about--an' 'ere goes to make an endin' of it!" before anyone could stop him he had made a run for the window, and had vaulted over the sill, and was gone. i made a step to go after him, but the doctor detained me with a gesture. "it's no use; if he has made up his mind to speak you can't stop him. take my advice, and keep away from here, and away from green barn, too. there's a chance, of course, that the man will say nothing; he may come whining back here, to try and get money out of me. in any case, mr. norton hyde, i've had enough of the business; you can shift for yourself. it may interest you to know that i am winding up my affairs, and i'm going abroad. and in this instance i shall not go alone." i could afford not to notice that sneer, because i knew that i held the winning hand, and that debora was mine. so i made no answer; i knew that there were cards i could play when the time came--cards of which he knew nothing. my only doubt was as to the man capper; because, if debora's suspicions were true, it was vitally necessary that we should get hold of the man, and should question him. more than that, i knew that debora had in her the spirit to move heaven and earth over the matter of her dead friend, gregory pennington, to discover the manner of his death. yet here was william capper, for some strange reason, swearing devotion to the doctor, and begging to be allowed to remain with him. even if i could get hold of the man, i knew that in his present state of mind i could do no good with him; he might in all innocence go to the doctor, and tell him what my questions had been. there was nothing for it but to leave the matter alone, and to return to debora. accordingly i took my leave, if such a phrase can be used to describe my going. "i shan't trouble you again," i said to bardolph just. "for your own sake, i think you will do your best to ensure that the secret of gregory pennington's death is kept." i glanced quickly at the man capper as i spoke; but my words seemed to have no effect upon him, save that once again i thought he seemed to be listening, and that, too, with some intentness. but i felt, even in that, that i might be wrong. "what do you mean by that?" snapped the doctor, turning upon me in answer to my remark. "you told me once that you were anxious to keep the matter a secret, in order to avoid giving pain, and to prevent any scandal touching your house," i answered steadily. "what other meaning should i have?" "none, of course," he answered, and looked at me broodingly for a moment, as though striving to see behind my words. "however, in that matter you are right; i don't want that business all raked over again. for both our sakes, you'd better keep out of the way of mr. george rabbit." there was nothing else to be done, and without any formal words i turned and walked out of the house by the way i had come. i felt that i had finished with dr. bardolph just; i could afford to laugh at him, and could leave him to settle matters with george rabbit. i went back to that hotel near the charterhouse in which i had left debora; there were many things about which i must talk to her. in the first place, we had to consider the great question of ways and means; above all, we had to remember--or perhaps i should say that _i_ had to remember, for she was utterly trustful of me--that she was in my hands, and that i had to be careful of her until such time as i could make her my wife. i had a sort of feeling that i could not go on in this indefinite way, leaving her in hotels and such-like places. besides, i felt absolutely certain that the one person to whom in my dilemma i must apply was my uncle zabdiel, for had i not already prepared him for her coming? while i had no great faith in uncle zabdiel, i yet felt that, from sheer dread of me, he would hesitate before playing tricks. in his eyes i was a most abandoned villain, capable of anything; he had hanging over him that threat of mine to kill him--a threat which would remain a threat only, but a very powerful deterrent if he had any hopes of betraying me. this scheme i now laid before debora, telling her the pros and cons of it all, and trying to induce her to see it as i saw it. there was but one flaw in it, and that was that martha leach had been to my uncle, and would therefore know where he was to be found. yet, on the other hand, i felt that that made for safety, because the very daring of the scheme gave it the greatest chance of success. no one would dream that i should go back to the house that had seen the beginning of all my misfortunes, still less would anyone dream of looking for debora matchwick there. "you see, my dearest girl," i pointed out to debora, "my money won't last for ever; already it is dwindling alarmingly. i see no prospect of getting any more at present, unless i hold horses, or sell matches in the street. more than that, i believe that i have my uncle so much under control, and so much in dread of me, that he will do nothing against me; and that great house of his is a very warren of old rooms, in which you can safely hide. more than that, i think there is a prospect that uncle zabdiel will help me; he seemed to regard me in quite another light when i saw him recently." in all this it will be seen, i fear, that my original simplicity had not entirely been knocked out of me by rough contact with the world; it will also be seen that i had a colossal belief in my own powers of persuasion, moral and otherwise. perhaps also it is scarcely necessary for me to say that debora very willingly believed in me, and seemed to regard my uncle as a man who might be won round to a better belief in the goodness of human nature. i did not contradict that suggestion, but i had my doubts. i thought it best, however, to let uncle zabdiel know of his intended visitor; it would never do to take him by surprise. with many promises of speedy return i set off then and there for that house near barnet, wherein so many years of my own life had been passed. i was feeling more cheerful than i had done for many a long day; i began to realise that perhaps, after all, my troubles were coming to an end, and some small measure of happiness was to be mine. moreover, despite all my difficulties, it has to be remembered that i was young and in love; and, i suppose, under those circumstances mere outside troubles sit lightly on one's shoulders. i rang at the bell for a long time before anyone answered, and then it was the grim old woman who came in by the day to look after my uncle who answered it. i feared for a moment that she might recognise me, but she was evidently one of those people to whom the mere duties of the day are everything; it is probable that had i been the archbishop of canterbury in full rig she would have taken no notice of my appearance. i asked for mr. blowfield, and was left in the dark hall while she went in search of him. i gave my name as john new. in a minute or two she came back, and beckoned to me in a spiritless way, and without speaking. i went at once by the way i knew so well into my uncle's room--that room that was half sitting-room and half office, and there discovered him standing before the empty fireplace waiting for me. he was not alone in the room; that unfortunate youth, andrew ferkoe, was seated in my old place, at my old desk, scribbling away as if for dear life. even before my uncle spoke i intercepted a furtive look out of the tail of the youth's eye; i strove to give him a warning glance in response. "good morning, mr. new," said my uncle, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "glad to see you, i'm sure. do you object to the presence of my clerk?" "it is a matter of indifference to me, mr. blowfield," i replied. "of course i should have preferred to have had a private interview with you, but if any words of mine on a previous occasion have made you cautious, by all means let him remain." i saw that the old man was absolutely afraid of me; i guessed that he meant to keep andrew ferkoe there, to save even a threat of violence. at the same time i was relieved to see what i thought was a new and more kindly light in his eyes. i felt that he might, after all, prove to have a heart of flesh and blood, and that debora might move it. "then you can go on with your work, ferkoe," snapped my uncle; and the boy, whose pen had been straying, started violently, and went on writing again. it was curious to note during our interview how frequently andrew ferkoe's pen stopped, and how his eyes slowly turned round to feast on me, and how, at a movement from his master, he brought the pen back to its proper place and started writing again. i became quite fascinated with watching him. "sit down, my dear new, sit down," said my uncle smoothly. "tell me what i can do for you; i've been expecting to see you." i sat down, and asked permission to smoke. my uncle grunted in response, and frowned; but i took the grunt for permission, and lighted a cigar. the old man gave a plaintive cough, as though suggesting that this was a martyrdom to which he must submit, and subsided into his own chair. i answered his question. "i want you to do what you promised to do, mr. blowfield," i said. "i promised under threats," he broke in grudgingly. "and a promise extorted under threats isn't binding." "this one's got to be," i intimated sharply. "i want the young lady of whom i spoke to come here, and to find a refuge in this house; i want her to come to-day. i have not the means to keep her, and she is in danger of being traced by those who are her enemies. i have chosen you," i added, with a touch of sarcasm i could not avoid, "because i know your kindness of heart, and i know how eager you are to do me a service." he grinned a little maliciously, then chuckled softly, and rubbed his bony hands together. "very well, call it a bargain," he said. "after all, i'm quite pleased, my dear boy, to be able to help you; if i seem to have a gruff exterior, it's only because i find so many people trying to get the better of me." i saw andrew ferkoe slowly raise his head, and stare at my uncle with a dropping jaw, as though he had suddenly discovered a ghost. my uncle, happening to catch him at it, brought his fist down with a bang upon the desk that caused the youth to spring an inch or two from his stool, and to resume his writing in such a scared fashion that i am convinced he must have written anything that first came into his mind. "and what the devil is it to do with you?" roared my uncle, quite in his old fashion. "what do you think i pay you for, and feed you for, and give you comfortable lodging for? one of these days, ferkoe, i'll turn you out into the world, and let you starve. or i'll have you locked up, as i once had a graceless nephew of mine locked up," he added, with a contortion of his face in my direction that i imagine to have been intended for a wink. the boy stole a look at me, and essayed a grin on his own account; evidently he congratulated himself on his secret knowledge of who i really was. uncle zabdiel, having relieved himself with his outburst, now turned to me again, still keeping up that pretty fiction of my being but a casual acquaintance, knowing nothing of any graceless nephew who had been very properly punished in the past. "he's a thankless dog, this clerk of mine," he growled, with a vicious look at the boy. "he must have starved but for me, and see what thanks i get. well, as i was saying, i shall be very pleased--delighted, in fact--to welcome the young lady here. i've got a soft corner in my heart for everybody, mr. new, if i'm only treated fairly. i don't like girls as a rule; i've no place for 'em in my life; but i've made up my mind to make the best of it. you see, i haven't very long to live--not as long as i should like; and i understand you've got to be so very particular in doing the right sort of thing towards the end. not that i've done anything particularly to be ashamed of," he added hastily, "but a great many people have made it their business to speak ill of me." "it's a censorious world," i reminded him. "it is, my dear boy, it is," he replied. "besides," he went on, lowering his voice a little, "i've dreamt three nights running that i went up into my old room, and saw myself lying dead--not dead as you described--but all broken and bloody." he shuddered, and sucked in his breath hard for a moment, and glanced behind him. i did not mind encouraging that thought, because it was all to my advantage; i knew that unless he remained properly frightened there would be small chance of his keeping faith with me in the matter of debora. therefore i said nothing now. but once again i saw the youth at the desk raise his head, and stare at the old man in that startled fashion, and then drop his eyes suddenly to his work. "not a pleasant dream--not a pleasant dream, by any means," muttered my uncle, getting up and striding about. "i lay on the floor, with the bed clothes pulled across me, as if to hide me. and i was all broken and bloody!" "and you've dreamed that three times?" i asked mercilessly. "that's unlucky." "why, what do you mean?" he whispered in a panic, as he stopped and looked round at me. "oh! they say if you dream a thing three times, it's bound to come true," i said. "stuff and nonsense!" he ejaculated. "dreams go always by contraries; everybody knows that. i shouldn't have mentioned the thing, only i can't somehow get it out of my head. it was just as though i were another person; i stood there looking down at myself. there, there, let's forget it. in all probability, if i do this thing for you, out of pure kindness of heart, i shall live quite a long time, and die naturally a good many years hence. now, when is the young lady coming?" he seemed so perturbed by the recollection of his dream that he listened only in a dazed fashion while i told him that i intended to bring her there that day; he might expect her some time that evening. andrew ferkoe seemed interested at the news that anyone was coming to that dreary house; he kept on glancing up at me while i spoke. and it was necessary, too, for me to say all over again, because my uncle had evidently not been listening. "yes, yes, yes, i understand!" he said, rousing himself at last. "besides, it'll be better to have someone else in the house--safer for me, you understand. nobody will dare come to the place if they know that i'm not a lonely old man, with only a fool of a boy in the house with him--a boy that you can't wake for love or money." i suppressed a grin. my experience of andrew ferkoe had been that he woke rather too easily. i rose to take my leave, and uncle zabdiel, in his anxiety to please me, came out into the hall with me, and seemed inclined to detain me even longer. "i'll be very good to her," he said; then, suddenly breaking off, he gripped my arm, and pointed up the dark, uncarpeted stairs behind us. "you remember my old room," he whispered. "well, i saw the room, and everything in it, quite clearly, three separate times, and i lying there----" "you're thinking too much about it," i broke in hastily. for his face was ghastly. "you be kind to debora, and you'll find she'll soon laugh some of your fears out of you. good-bye for the present; you'll see us both later in the day." he shook my hand quite earnestly, and let me out of the house. i saw him, as i had seen him before, standing in the doorway, peering out at me; in that moment i felt a little sorry for him. so much he had missed--so much he had lost or never known; and now, towards the end of his days, he was racked by fears of that death that he knew must be approaching rapidly. i started back for london, meaning to fetch debora to my uncle's house that night. i was fortunate enough not to have to wait long at the station for a train, and i presently found myself in an empty compartment. i was tired out, and excited with the events of the day. i settled myself in a corner, and closed my eyes, as the train sped on its way. and presently, while i sat there, i became aware of a most extraordinary commotion going on in the compartment on the other side of the partition against which i leaned. there was a noise as of the stamping of feet, and shouts and cries--altogether a hideous uproar. i thought at first that it must be some drunken men, uproarious after a debauch; but i presently came to the conclusion that some severe struggle was going on in the next compartment; i distinctly heard cries for help. i leaned out of the window, in the hope that i might be able to see into the next carriage; then, on an impulse, i opened the door, and got out on to the footboard. it was not a difficult matter, because the train was travelling comparatively slow. i closed the door of the compartment i had been in, and stepped along the footboard to the next. clinging on there, i looked in, and beheld an extraordinary sight. two men were battling fiercely in the carriage; and i saw that the further door of the carriage was open. as the men wrenched and tugged at each other, i could not for a moment or two see their faces; but i could make out clearly that the smaller man of the two was working strenuously to force the other man out on to the line through the open door. i saw, too, that the bigger man appeared to be using only one arm to defend himself; and it was suddenly borne in upon me that i knew with certainty who the two men were. i tore open the door on my side, and slipped into the carriage, and shut the door again. then i flung myself upon the smaller man, who was no other than william capper. as it happened, i was only just in time. the other man had been driven to the open door, until he was absolutely half in and half out; he had dug his nails into the cushions on one side, in a desperate effort to save himself from falling. and as i pulled capper off, and flung him to the other end of the carriage, i naturally pulled his intended victim with him--and that intended victim was dr. bardolph just! how narrow his escape had been was brought home to me the next moment, when, as i leaned out to close the door, another train tore past on the next track, going in the opposite direction. i banged the door, and stood against it, and looked at the two men. the doctor had sunk down into a corner, and was nursing his wounded arm, and staring in a frightened way at capper. capper, i noticed, had suddenly lost all his frenzy, precisely in the same fashion as he had lost it on that other occasion when he had attacked the same man. he now sat in the corner into which i had flung him, with his head bowed, and his hands plucking at his lips, exactly in the attitude of a naughty boy who had been caught in some wickedness and stopped. he glanced at me furtively, but said nothing. "he--he tried--tried to kill me!" panted the doctor. "he tried--tried to throw me out of the train! you saw for yourself!" "but why?" i asked. "what had you done?" "nothing--absolutely nothing!" he stammered, striving to rearrange his dress and to smooth his hair. "he suddenly said something--and then opened the door--and sprang at me." "but what did he say?" i insisted. and it was curious that we both spoke of the man at the other end of the carriage as someone not responsible for what he had done. "never mind what he said!" exclaimed the doctor pettishly. "you just came in time. he'd have had me out in another moment." in the surprise of his escape, the doctor did not seem astonished at finding me there so opportunely he merely looked at the dejected capper in that frightened way, and kept the greatest possible distance from him. "why do you take the man about with you, if he's liable to these fits?" i asked. "i don't take him about!" he exclaimed. "he follows me. i can't get rid of him. he sticks to my heels like a dog. i don't like it; one of these days it may happen that there's no one there in time--and that'll be the end of the matter." all this in a whisper, as he leaned forward towards where i sat. "give him the slip," i suggested; and now i watched the doctor's face intently. "don't i tell you i can't," he snapped at me. "besides, i don't want to lose sight of him; i'm sorry for the poor old fellow. he'd only drift into some madhouse or workhouse infirmary. i don't know what to do." the doctor was dabbling nervously at his forehead with a handkerchief; he was in a very sweat of terror. and at the further end of the carriage--huddled up there, listening--sat the little grey-haired man, like some grim fate that must dog the steps of the other man to an end which no one could see. a sudden ghastly theory had entered into my mind; i determined to probe the matter a little further. "you suggest," i said in a whisper, "that he has twice tried to kill you; surely it is an easy matter to give him into the hands of the police? if he's insane, he'll be properly looked after; if he is not, he will be properly punished. and you will be safe." bardolph just looked out of the window, and slowly shook his head. "you don't understand; i can't do that," he replied. "i can't explain; there's a reason." we left the matter at that, and presently, when the train drew into the london station, we all got out. the doctor and i walked away side by side, and i knew that capper was following. i knew something else, too--that i must get away as quickly as possible, back to debora. for i realised that as yet the doctor had not been informed that debora was missing from green barn. "well, you don't want me any more," i said to him, stopping and turning about. "i'll take my leave." "look here!" he exclaimed, suddenly seizing me with his uninjured hand, and giving a sideways glance at capper, "i'll forget everything and forgive everything if you'll only stick to me. i don't want to be left alone with this man." "i have work of my own to do," i answered him, "and my way is not your way. pull yourself together, man; you're in london, among crowds. what harm can a feeble old creature like that do to you?" "you've seen for yourself--twice," he whispered. "i'll do anything you like--pay you anything you like!" i shook myself free. "it's impossible," i said; and a moment later i was walking rapidly away; i had no desire that the doctor should follow me. looking back, i saw the man with his arm in a sling going at a great rate across the station, and as he went he glanced back over his shoulder. and always behind him, going at a little trot to keep up with him, went william capper, not to be shaken off. i found debora awaiting me, but i said nothing to her of my startling encounter in the train. i only told her that all was ready for her reception at the house of uncle zabdiel, and we set off at once, after settling the score at the hotel. our journey was without incident, and in due course i rang the bell at my uncle's gate, and saw the door open presently to receive the girl. i went in with her for the necessary introductions. to my delight i found uncle zabdiel rubbing his hands, and evidently pleased to have her there. he went so far as to imprint a cold salute on her cheek, and even to touch her under her soft rounded chin with his bony finger. "it's a pretty bird you've captured," he said, grimacing at me. "i'll take care of her, never fear." i thanked him, and then told him of my intention to seek a lodging elsewhere. he seemed surprised, as did debora. i merely told him that i had business to attend to, and that i could not very well be so far from london for the next few days at least. my real reason was, however, a very different one. i had made up my mind to pursue this matter of capper to the very end; the thing fascinated me, and i could not let it alone. so that, after i had seen the dark house swallow up my darling, i went off, designing to find a lodging for myself between that house and the one in which bardolph just lived. it was very late, but i was not over particular as to where i slept, and i knew that i could easily find a room. but i was restless, and had many things to think about; so that it ended finally in my walking that long distance back to the doctor's house, and finding myself, something to my surprise, outside its gates at a little after two o'clock in the morning. all the house was silent, and the windows darkened. i was turning away, when i almost stumbled over someone sitting on the high bank at the side of the road opposite the gate. as i drew back with a muttered apology the man looked up, and i knew him. it was william capper. in the very instant of his raising his head i had seen a quick bright look of intelligence come over his face, but now the mask he habitually wore seemed to be drawn down over his features, and he smiled in that vacuous way i had before noted. "what are you doing here?" i asked. "he's turned me out," he said, in the old feeble voice. "i don't know why." i saw his plucking fingers go up to his lips again, as he feebly shook his head. "yes, you do," i said sternly. "come, capper, you've nothing to fear from me; why don't you speak the truth? you've twice tried to kill the man. what is your reason?" he shook his head, and smiled at me in the same vacant fashion. "i don't know--i don't understand," he said. "so much that i've forgotten--so much that i can't remember, and never shall remember. something snapped--here." he touched his forehead, and shook his head in that forlorn way; and presently sank down on the bank again, and put his head in his hands, and seemed to go to sleep. when i came away at last, in despair of finding out anything from him, he was sitting in the same attitude, and might have appeared, to any casual observer, as a poor, feeble old creature with a clouded mind. yet i knew with certainty that something had happened to the man, and that he was alive and alert; i knew, too, that grimly enough, and for some reason unknown to me, he had set out to kill dr. bardolph just. and i knew that he would succeed. chapter xii. an appointment with death. it will readily be understood that, by the movements of the various players in the game in which, in a sense, i was merely a pawn, i had been placed in such a position that i was to an extent no longer master of my own actions. i had been compelled, by the turn of events, to place debora in the hands of my uncle, and i knew that at any moment now news might come from green barn that the girl was gone. i marvelled that that news had not arrived ere this. upon that latter point the only conjecture i could arrive at was that the woman martha leach had not yet dared to send her news to bardolph just, and in that act of cowardice she would probably be supported by harvey scoffold. moreover, i knew that the doctor was too fully occupied with his own fears concerning the man capper to give much attention to anything else. nor, on the other hand, did i feel that i had advanced matters as rapidly as i could have wished. true, i had got debora out of the hands of the doctor and harvey scoffold; true again, i had hidden her in the house of uncle zabdiel. but there the matter stood, and i was relying, in a sense, solely on the help of one whom every instinct taught me to distrust: i mean, of course, zabdiel blowfield. moreover, i was no further advanced in regard to any future status on my own account. i had no prospect of making my way in the world, or of doing anything to help the girl i loved. it seemed as though i stood in the midst of a great tangle, twisting this way and that in my efforts to free myself, and getting more hopelessly involved with each movement. in my doubts and perplexities i turned naturally to debora; i may be said to have haunted that house wherein she lived. uncle zabdiel appeared to be very friendly, and for two days i came and went as i liked, seeing debora often. and even in that short time i came to see that the deadly old house was having its effect upon the girl, just as it had upon every one that came within its walls; she began to droop, and to wear a frightened look, and not all my reassurances would bring any brightness into her eyes. "i'm afraid of the place," she whispered the second day, clinging to me. "that tall boy creeps about like a ghost----" "and looks like one," i broke in with a laugh. "he's the best fellow in the world, is andrew ferkoe; you've nothing to fear from him." "and mr. blowfield: he looks at me so strangely, and is altogether so queer," went on debora. "last night he begged me to sit up with him in his study until quite late--kept on asking me if i didn't hear this noise and that, and was i sure that nothing stirred in the shadows in the corner? i felt at last as if i should go mad if i wasn't allowed to scream." "my darling girl, it won't be very long now before i'm able to take you away," i said, more hopefully than i felt. "my uncle's a good fellow, in his way, but he has lived a lonely life so long that he's not like other men. have a little more patience, debora dear; the sun will shine upon us both before long, and we shall come out of the shadows." "but there is something else," she said. "i was in my room last night, at the top of the house here, sitting in the dark, thinking. everything was very silent; it was as if all the world lay asleep. and then i saw a curious thing--something that frightened me." "what was it?" i asked quickly. "on the other side of the road facing the house is a long wall," she began in a whisper, "and just outside the gate, as you know, is a lamp-post. from where i sat in my window i could see that the wall was lit up, and across it again and again, while i watched for more than an hour, went two shadows." "what sort of shadows?" i asked, as lightly as i could; yet i'll own i was startled. "shadows of men," she replied. "it was evident that they were walking up and down in the road, watching the house. the shadows were curious, because one was a very big one, walking stiffly, while the other was small, and seemed to creep along behind the first. and i know whose the shadows were--at least, i know one of them." "how do you know?" i asked. "i know the one man was dr. just," she answered me confidently, with a little quick nod. "my dearest girl, how could you possibly know that?" i asked. "because the man walked with an easy stride, and yet his shadow showed only one arm swinging," she said. "don't you see what i mean? the other arm was fastened to him in some way, held close against him." i whistled softly, and looked into her eyes. "i see," i said; "that would be the sling. now, what in the world has brought him here?" "he's come to find you," said debora quickly. "he will have heard from green barn that i am gone, and that you are gone; he will guess that if he finds you he may find me. the reason for his waiting outside would be that he might intercept you going in or coming out." "there's something in that," i admitted. "however, of one thing i am certain in my own mind. uncle zabdiel won't give you up, nor will he admit the man into the house if he can avoid it. i'm not taking any stand by uncle zabdiel's integrity," i added. "i am only certain that he has a wholesome dread of me, and will not offend me. rest easy; nothing will happen to you, my darling." just before my departure i was met by my uncle at the door of his study. he mysteriously beckoned me in, and closed the door. then, something to my surprise, he buttonholed me, and pulled me further into the room, and stared up into my face with a pathetic expression of entreaty in his eyes. "what's the matter?" i asked. "my dear boy--my only nephew--i want you to believe that i'm being honest with you as far as i can; i don't want you to judge me hastily," he began. "people get such wrong notions in their heads, and you might hear something that would bring you rushing back here, and would leave me no time for explanation. will you believe what i'm going to tell you?" he was fumbling me all over. i saw that he had been troubled by something, and that his dread of me had been strongly revived. i was playing for too great a stake then to make the blunder of being smooth with him. i frowned and folded my arms, and looked down at him sternly. "come, out with it!" i said. "there, now you're beginning to lose your temper before ever i've begun to say a word," he said, backing away from me. "do be reasonable!" "i don't know what the word is yet," i answered him. "let's hear it." "well, to put it briefly, that woman leach has been here." he blurted out the words, and stood looking at me as though wondering how i should take the news. "well, what then?" i asked him gravely. "what did you do?" "everything you would have wished me to do," he replied quickly. "i told her nothing; i sent her away again." "did she enquire about me, or about debora?" i asked. "about you first, and then about debora," he whispered. "but, oh, i put her off the scent. i was sharp with her. i asked what sort of man she took me to be, to admit any minx to my house. and she went away, knowing nothing." "that's good, and i'm very grateful to you," i assured him, now feeling that i could give him all my confidence. "they'll leave no stone unturned to get hold of the girl." "they?" he looked at me questioningly. "yes, the woman as well as her master. i have just heard that dr. just has been seen hanging about outside the house late last night, with another man." i saw his face blanch, i saw him moisten his lips with his tongue and clutch with one feeble hand at the back of his chair. i took no particular notice of that, although long after i wished i had done; i knew how easily startled he was. "you say that two men--two men watched this house last night, very late?" he muttered. "yes," i answered carelessly. "and one of them at least--this bardolph just--will stick at nothing to get what he wants. he's of the sort that snaps his fingers at a small matter of death." my uncle zabdiel twisted the chair round with a nervous movement, and sank into it. i saw that he was trembling from head to foot. he seemed to be brooding heavily upon something. looking at him, i caught his eyes more than once wandering covertly in my direction. "and you think that he would do anything to get hold of this girl?" he asked. "there is not only the girl to be considered by him, but the very large fortune which belongs to her, and which he also wishes to get hold of. i tell you he will stick at nothing," i assured him earnestly. "he will stick at nothing!" he echoed, drawing a deep breath. "by the way, uncle zabdiel, have you been troubled with that dream of yours again?" i asked carelessly. to my surprise he started to his feet with what was almost a cry. "no, no! why should i dream that again?" he stammered, staring at me. "haven't i tried to forget it--haven't i persuaded myself that i had forgotten it. oh, dear god! that these things should be sent to trouble a poor old man who has done his best always for everybody!" he moaned. "there, there--go away; leave me alone! i want time to think--or rather time not to think." i went away and left him, closing the door after me. just as i reached the hall door i came upon that tall youth, andrew ferkoe. he grinned amiably. a sudden thought occurring to me, i drew him aside, and whispered to him-- "look here," i said, "i believe you're a friend of mine, aren't you?" "rather!" he said. "you're so wonderful; you've seen such things, and done such things." "never mind about that," i said hastily. "i want you to promise to come to me, if you think miss matchwick is in any danger, or if you think anyone is plotting against her. see, here is my address"--i scribbled it on a scrap of paper and thrust it into his hands--"and i shall rely upon you to be faithful, to her as well as to me. will you?" he seemed quite elated at his commission. "do you really trust me?" he asked gleefully. "i'd do anything for you, and for her. i feel somehow that i'm getting braver and stronger. i shan't put up much longer with old blowfield's bullying. i feel sometimes when i look at him that i could do murder!" i laughed as i went out of the house. the idea of this weak-kneed, lanky youth, of all others, "doing murder" seemed too ridiculous. i went on my way feeling pretty well satisfied with the turn of events, and firmly convinced that the very fears under which uncle zabdiel laboured were the greatest safeguard debora and i could have. moreover, i had gained one other friend in that strange house, and that was andrew ferkoe. my lodging was in a little house not very far, as you may have guessed, from that house belonging to uncle zabdiel in which debora had so opportunely found shelter. on this particular evening i was in no hurry to retire to the one little room i had rented. on a sudden impulse i made up my mind that i would linger a little while in the neighbourhood, and would see, if possible, for myself whether or not those two shadows on the wall really belonged to the doctor and to william capper. so i took up my station not very far from the house, but in a position from which i could observe it easily; and there i waited. i will not describe my long wait, nor the shadows i saw, which might have been the shadows of the doctor and capper, but which were not. i was disappointed fifty times at least, felt my heart jump as many times when two men, or even one man, came anywhere in my direction, or happened by the merest chance to glance towards that house. i had not fully made up my mind what to do should either man put in an appearance, and indeed i was saved the trouble of putting into execution any plan i might have evolved, by reason of the fact that no one i knew came near the house. once, it is true, from where i watched, i saw an upper window open, and the head of uncle zabdiel, like some extremely ugly gargoyle, obtrude itself into the night. i guessed, with an inward chuckle, that he might be looking for those shadows for which i also was on the watch. but soon afterwards that window was closed, and the house was wrapped in silence and darkness. i kept my vigil until something towards three in the morning, and then went off to my lodging. in five minutes i was undressed and in bed; the rest was a dreamless sleep. lest i should be watched, i determined that i would not go near zabdiel blowfield's house in daylight, or without taking due precautions. i thought it possible that the woman martha leach might make a further attempt, for the sake of her master, to discover something about me or about debora. i determined that i would not play into their hands. i remembered what bardolph just had said about going abroad; i had great hopes that he might carry that into effect, and so rid us all of his presence. perhaps in a saner moment i reflected that he was scarcely the type of man to give up the game so lightly; but then when one is in love one is usually optimistic. however, there was nothing for it but to wait, and to possess my soul in patience. i was taking things very easily indeed that evening, lounging in the window of my room, and smoking, and looking at the early stars that were peeping out above me, when i became aware of a strange-looking figure coming slowly up the deserted little street. without troubling very much about it, i became interested in the figure, which was that of a tall, ungainly young man, whose face and head, from my elevated position, were hidden by a hat which appeared to be many sizes too large for him. he was craning his neck this way and that, apparently looking for some particular house; every now and then he referred to a scrap of paper which he held in his fingers. i was watching him idly, when all at once i woke from my half-dream and started to my feet; with my hands leaning on the window-sill i stared down at him intently. at that same moment he happened to look up towards me and i recognised him. it was andrew ferkoe. i waved my hand, and nodded to him, and with every extravagant sign of precaution he looked to right and to left, and then came to the door of the house. i ran down and admitted him myself; then i took him up to my room before permitting him to say a word. once in the room, with the door shut, i saw to my horror that he was shaking from head to foot, and was alternately slapping his breast, and striving to get some words out. "what's the matter?" i asked. "take your time about it; there's nothing to get excited about." he gasped again in that inarticulate fashion once or twice; then he blurted out his message. "she--she's gone!" i pushed him into a chair and stood over him, with my hands on my hips, striving by my own steadiness to put some steadiness into him. for a time he only moaned, and shook his head and gaped at me, but at last, by dint of threats and even some coaxing, i got his story out of him. "early this morning old blowfield sent me with a telegram addressed to a dr. just; it was written out on a piece of paper, and i had to copy it at the post-office. it was addressed to dr. just at a house in highgate. "well, well, what did it say?" i asked impatiently. "i'm coming to it as fast as i can," said andrew ferkoe resentfully. "you forget i ain't used to this sort of thing. it simply said, 'come at once; can give you news of the runaway,' and it was signed 'z. blowfield,' with the address." i strangled an oath in my throat; i vowed that uncle zabdiel should pay dearly for his treachery. "and what happened after that?" i demanded. "about mid-day a tall, dark man drove up in a great hurry and asked for old blowfield--at least, he asked for mr. blowfield," went on ferkoe. "i was turned out of the room, but they talked together for a long time. then the bell was rung, and i was told to go and find the young lady, and tell her she was wanted. after she'd gone into the room i did what i'd never done before," he added with a chuckle. "i listened outside." "good lad!" i murmured. he went on again, seemingly elated at my praise of him. "they kept on talking, all three of them, and i heard the young lady say over and over again, 'i won't! i won't!' and the dark man kept on threatening, and saying what he would do, and old blowfield kept on telling her that it was for the best, and that she'd better go back, though i don't know in the least where he meant her to go. the door was open just the least little bit, and i saw and heard everything, because old blowfield would never dream that i should dare to do a thing like that." "you're very slow!" i cried impatiently. "tell me what happened then; what did the young lady do? did she refuse to leave the house?" "yes, she kept on saying she wouldn't. and i'm being as fast as i can, only there's such a lot to tell. i should get on faster if you weren't so impatient." i subdued my wrath as best i could. i decided to let him go on in his own fashion. "and then the funniest thing happened," he said, sitting upright in his chair in his excitement, and staring at me round-eyed. "the dark man--dr. just, i suppose--began to spread out his hands--like this"--he made a curious fluttering movement with his hands before my face, so grotesque a movement that i should have laughed under any other circumstances--"and began to talk in a very low, smooth voice to the young lady. at first she cried out to him to keep away from her, and covered up her face with her hands, but after a time she dropped the hands and stared at him. i saw her drop down into a chair and shut her eyes. he never left off talking; he seemed to be telling her something she was to do. he spoke so softly that i couldn't catch everything, but he said something about a carriage, and about four o'clock in the afternoon. then suddenly he clapped his hands, and she jumped up, and looked at him as if she was frightened." "you dolt!" i shouted, shaking him. "this devilish business happened at mid-day, and here's night, and you've only just arrived to tell the tale." "it wasn't my fault," he whimpered. "you ought to know what that house is like; i'm watched every minute. i tried over and over again to slip out, and couldn't; i only managed it, as it was, after it got dark. i've done my best." "i beg your pardon," i said penitently. "i'm quite sure you have. now tell me what else happened." "dr. just went away, and the young lady went off to her room. i went back to work, and old blowfield kept on walking up and down the room, and muttering to himself. once he stopped, in order to ask me about you. he wanted to know if i'd seen you." "yes, i should think he would want to know that!" i muttered between my teeth. "he said if you came near the house i wasn't to let you in; i was to go for the police, or do something else to keep you away. above all, i was to give him warning, so that he could lock himself in somewhere." i laughed grimly. i knew that i had already secured the allegiance of this poor warder, and could get at my man when i wanted to do so. i urged him to go on with his tale. "then, just as four o'clock was striking, and i was working, old blowfield gave me an awful fright; he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. 'do you hear that?' he said; and i wondered what he meant. and then i heard someone coming downstairs, singing as they came." i could scarcely contain myself, but i determined i would wait for the end. in his excitement andrew ferkoe had risen to his feet, and was staring at me in the wildest fashion. "old blowfield went to the door and opened it, and i had a look out, too. and there was the young lady," he went on, lowering his voice, "going along the hall, and taking not the slightest notice of anybody. she opened the door, and left it open; she walked across the garden; she opened the gate, and left that open. old blowfield and me walked after her, never so much as saying a word. there was a carriage waiting at the gate, and she got into it and shut the door; then the carriage drove away. and all the time she had never said a word. old blowfield laughed, and shut the door, and went back to his room, and i went back too. and that's the end of it." i sank down into a chair, and hid my face in my hands, and gave myself up to my own bitter thoughts. what power had i against such arts as these? what could i do, when a man could so steal the very soul out of a woman and make her do his bidding in this fashion? what might not have happened in all these hours during which i, drugged into a false security, had stayed in this place, doing nothing but dream dreams? i sprang to my feet at last, for i felt that this was no time for idle dreaming. the time had come for action, and i would step now into the matter, with no thought for myself, or for what might happen to me. it must be debora first, and debora always; i would save her, if i dipped my hands in blood to do it. "what are you going to do?" asked andrew, staring at me. "i don't know yet," i answered him. "it depends on whether i can get what i want by peaceful means; i'm going to try that first. after that, i'm going to surprise certain friends of ours--give them such a shaking-up as they'll remember to the end of their days." "and what are you going to do to old blowfield?" he asked; and i thought i saw in his face that he would relish anything that might happen to his master. "what i'm going to do to old blowfield, as you call him, won't bear thinking about," i said. "now, i don't want you to get into trouble; you'd better cut off. i'm very grateful to you; i'm sorry if i seemed impatient. good-night!" he gripped my hand, and went downstairs. i followed him and let him out into the silent street; saw him flutter off round the corner like a long, awkward ghost. then i closed the door and went upstairs again. i own i was puzzled what to do. my own crude methods had failed hitherto; i must, if possible, meet subtlety with subtlety. of what use was it for me to induce debora to come willingly to me, if all my plans could be upset in a moment by dr. just, as they had been this day? yet i knew that i must first go to that house in which she was imprisoned; my business with zabdiel blowfield could wait, i told myself fiercely. i got a tram down to highgate, cursing its slowness all the way; and so at last stood outside the house, not having yet made up my mind what to do. i opened the gate cautiously, and went into the grounds. i saw that the house, so far as the front, at least, was concerned, was in darkness. i knew that it would be madness to attempt to obtain admittance in the usual fashion; i determined to break into the house, as i had done once before. i was on the very point of selecting my window, when i heard a rustling among the leaves close to me; i drew back and waited. there came into sight out of the shadows william capper; but not the william capper i seemed to have known. for this man stood alert and ready, and the face i saw in the light of the stars was the keen, watchful face i had surprised before. he seemed to be waiting for something; he, too, was watching the house. determined to put the matter to the test, i stepped out quickly from my hiding-place and confronted him. the instant change in the man was surprising; but this time it did not deceive me. i gripped the now drooping figure by the shoulder and shook him. he looked up at me with that vacant smile on his face, but said nothing. "what's the game, capper?" i asked quickly in a whisper. "why are you pretending you don't understand things, and can't remember things? i hate this man just, quite as much as you do; why won't you confide in me?" for a moment i thought he was going to do so; he kept very still under my grip, and i knew that he was thinking the matter over carefully. it was almost as though i could see into his mind. but a moment later he seemed to come to some resolution; he looked up quickly, and shook his head, with that lost look again in his eyes. "i don't understand," he whispered. "i don't remember." "yes, you do," i retorted roughly. "you're as sane as i am; and you've got some purpose in your mind--and i can guess what it is." "you frighten me, sir," he said in a whisper. "i am old and feeble, and i have forgotten so many things. please let me alone." he did it so well, that for a moment i believed that i had not seen that change in him; at all events, i saw that i could do nothing with him, and i watched him as he drifted away among the trees and was lost to my sight. then i turned my attention to the house. but i found that every door and every window was strongly fastened and shuttered; evidently they had been expecting a visit from me. i had nothing with which i could effect an entrance, so that i merely raged round the place, in a futile fashion, in the darkness, wondering what i should do. every now and then i thought i caught sight of the man capper, dodging about in the shadows; but even of that i could not be sure. at last, in desperation, i went to the big hall-door and boldly rang the bell. i waited for a long time, while i heard slight movements within the house; then there was a whispering behind the closed door. i had made up my mind that the moment that door was opened i would force my way in, at whatever risk. i prepared to rush the citadel now, by drawing back a little, where no light could reach me as the door was opened, so that i could force anyone who had answered my ringing to peer out. while i waited, i was certain that i saw capper waiting, too, a few yards away. my ruse succeeded. the door was opened a little way, and the voice of martha leach demanded to know who was there; then there was more whispering, and the door was opened a little further, and martha leach stepped out under the porch. i made one leap at her, and caught her in my arms; and before she quite knew what was happening, had literally rolled with her into the hall, keeping a tight clutch of her. in the confusion someone slammed the door, and i put my back against it. i saw that it would be a matter of three to one, at the least, even though one of the three was partly disabled. the doctor had backed away as he saw us come flying in, and i think it must have been harvey scoffold who shut the door. i blurted out at once what i had to say. "there's a young lady here--miss matchwick--detained against her will. where is she?" "turn that fellow out!" shouted the doctor. "two of you ought to be able to manage him, i should think. turn him out!" now, it is a most undignified thing to be tackled by a woman; yet i am bound to confess that in the rough and tumble that ensued, martha leach did more than her full share. bardolph just had run back into the house, and had set a bell ringing; a couple of men-servants came rushing up. i did not want to hit the woman; but i longed for one blow at harvey scoffold, and as a matter of fact i contrived to get one or two really serviceable ones in on his rotund person. but by this time, while we were all scrambling about together, and while i was raising my voice in repeated shouts of "debora," in the hope that i might attract her attention, the woman had literally wound herself about me, so that i was powerless. the door was pulled open, and this time we tumbled out instead of in. and as martha dexterously released me only when i was outside, and contrived to trip me up very neatly down the steps, she was inside again, and the door closed, before i could get to my feet. then i heard the bolts shooting into place, and knew that the victory was with them. i had a mind to set the bell ringing again, in the hope to force them to open the door. but i had the good sense to understand that i should serve no good purpose in that way; i should, in all probability, bring some night policeman down upon me, when explanations would be difficult. for after all, on the face of it, you cannot very well demand that a young lady shall be fetched out at night from the house of a highly-respectable guardian by a stranger who can give no really good account of himself. and that, as you will acknowledge, was exactly the position of affairs. baffled, i went away again, and was fortunate enough to be able to get back to barnet in the same fashion as before. you may imagine my frame of mind by the time i got to uncle zabdiel's house; i was in a state of ungovernable fury. i marched into the garden, and rang the bell violently, and waited. after a minute or two, during which i had repeated the summons, i heard a window raised above me, and, looking up, saw uncle zabdiel's wicked old head looking out. all about me was very quiet, for the house stood somewhat retired from an unfrequented road, and i could hear his voice distinctly. "who is it? what do you want?" he demanded. "i want to come in," i said, stepping back a little from the door so that he could see me. "you know me, uncle zabdiel." "i should think i do," he sneered. "do you think i should be fool enough to let you in--you wild beast!--you bully!--i've too great a care for my own safety for that." "you'd better let me in quietly," i warned him. "i won't--i won't!" he almost shouted. "i mean to protect myself. and i'll tell you something else, my young friend," he went on, leaning further out of the window, and shaking a fist at me. "i've made up my mind to see you comfortably put away again." "indeed?" i retorted, "and how are you going to manage that?" "i've written to the authorities, telling them that if they come here to-morrow night i can give them a full and true account of a certain convict called norton hyde, supposed to be buried in penthouse prison, but really very much alive. put that in your pipe and smoke it! i've cooked your goose, my boy, and i shall sleep peaceful o' nights in future." he slammed down the window, leaving me standing in the darkness, thinking long thoughts. i saw that it was as hopeless for me to get in here as it had proved to be at the house of bardolph just; i went sorrowfully out of the gate, realising that all was over. as i turned into the road, i almost cannoned against a man who seemed to be lounging there. he turned away his face quickly, and although for a moment i had a feeling that it was a face that was familiar to me, the thought merely flitted through my mind for a moment, and was gone as the man lurched away. i saw that he was dressed roughly, like a labouring man. you may be sure that i did not sleep that night. i paced my room, wondering what i should do; i varied that only by seating myself at the window, and staring out at the sky, telling myself over and over again that all i had striven to do had come to naught. to-morrow the true story would be told to the world; to-morrow norton hyde would be a hunted man again, with three or four people interested in his capture, who would know all his movements, and could supply a dozen clues towards finding him. it was impossible for me to do anything to help debora, because bardolph just's house would be one of the first places to be watched, if it came to a hunt for me. i was done. and then it was that i came to a desperate resolution. i was homeless and hopeless, and i had failed; i determined that i would keep the appointment that night, and would meet those who were to see my uncle. i would give myself up to the authorities, and so end the miserable business by going back to my prison. there was nothing else for it; i felt that it was far better to close the matter once and for all time. i got to uncle zabdiel's house after darkness had set in. just as i turned into the road leading to it, i saw two men, respectably dressed in dark clothing, and with bowler hats, going along in front of me; my heart gave a little jump, for i thought i knew their errand. they came to the gate in the wall and opened it. i had determined by this time that i would waste no time, and so i came up with them as they passed into the garden. one of them turned and looked at me. "what do you want, sir?" he asked. "i've come to see mr. blowfield," i replied; for i had made up my mind to see the matter out in my uncle's presence. the man said nothing, but joined his companion, who was standing before the door of the house, and who had just rung the bell. there was no answer to the summons, and after a time he tugged at the bell-pull again. in moving to do this he made a discovery. "why, the door's open," he murmured; then he pushed it, and stepped into the dark hall. "hadn't you better call out?" said the other man. the first man lifted his voice, and called out sharply, "mr. blowfield! mr. blowfield!" his voice echoed in a dreary fashion through the house, and seemed to come back at us. the first man had by this time touched a shelf which stood in the hall, and on which was a lamp. looking about him sharply while he did so, he dexterously got a light and lit the lamp; then, with a glance at his companion, he stepped into the room which was the dining-room. it was empty. i followed them from that room into the study, which again was empty. then the first man, still carrying the lamp, after muttering something to his companion which i did not hear, began to ascend the stairs. i was the last of the trio, and i suddenly heard the first man cry out in an excited voice. "here, catch hold of this!" he exclaimed, passing the lamp down to the other man. "there's been an accident!" i pressed forward then, and looked. lying prone upon the staircase, with his head and shoulders hanging down over the top stairs, lay uncle zabdiel. beside him was a heavy stick--that stick with which he had once threatened me--and his head and face were cruelly beaten in. whoever had killed him had not been able to bear the sight of him afterwards, for the clothes from his bed had been dragged out of the room and pulled across him. uncle zabdiel's dream had come true. chapter xiii. "that's the man!" half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sight of uncle zabdiel lying dead. the first--that he had tried to drive too hard a bargain with bardolph just, and had been caught in his own net; the next, that that badly-used youth, andrew ferkoe, had turned at last and killed his oppressor. i thought, too, that perhaps some poor creature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his money mill, had chosen this way to pay his debts. one of the men ran off in what i thought was an absurd search for a doctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as i thought, a watchful eye upon me. in truth, i was not altogether comfortable, for although uncle zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, i thought it possible that he might have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew was alive, in writing to the authorities. in which case, it might go hard with me that i should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in which he had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front door open. the man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lighted up the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me. "had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice. "yes, i had," i answered. "an appointment on a matter of business. i was coming to the house, when i saw you and the other man on your way here. may i ask who you are?" for i thought it better to pretend ignorance, although i knew well that these must be the men for whom uncle zabdiel had sent. "we are police officers," said the man, "and _we_ had an appointment with mr. blowfield for this evening. it seems a pity that we were not a little earlier," he added. "you might have been useful," i added drily. "what should mr. blowfield want with you?" the man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. he turned to look at the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "this is the sort of case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," he said. "a lonely old man--probably without a soul in the house--pretty well off, i expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among the sort of people to whom it's of interest. of course, i couldn't say off-hand; but i should judge that robbery was the business here, and that whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they would scarcely have left the door as we found it. it's been a touch-and-go business, and, as i say, if we had been a little earlier the old gentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us." now, although i had been resolute in my determination to end the matter, and to go back to my prison, i found myself thanking my stars that the old gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. not that i should ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my own account, and, indeed, i was a little horrified to find him done to death in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it was for me. by this time the second man had come back, bringing with him a young doctor. the latter glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and then knelt down on the stairs to make his examination. the first police officer stood near to him, holding the lamp; i, with the other man, stood below. in a moment or two the doctor looked up, with pursed lips, and nodded quickly to the man with the lamp. "nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "he's been dead about half an hour--scarcely more, i should think. a weak old man like this wouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong man armed with that stick. he's had two blows--one clean in front, and the other at the side. he must have died almost on the instant. anyone suspected?" the man with the lamp shook his head. "we've only arrived here a matter of minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman to call here to-night." "what for?" the doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the question sharply. "this mr. blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has written to scotland yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he could give them information concerning a nephew of his--a man called norton hyde. this nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penal servitude. he escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; so that i don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us." i determined that i would strike in boldly for myself; it would seem less suspicious than keeping silence. "oh, yes!" i exclaimed, a little scornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time--he was always talking about it." "what idea?" asked the doctor. "the idea that his nephew was alive," i said. "i daresay you may remember the case of the young man?" i added. "perfectly," said the doctor. "i wonder where the old chap got that notion from?" "we'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed," said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. then suddenly, after a whispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "were you a friend of mr. blowfield?" he asked, and this time i saw the doctor also looking at me curiously. "oh, yes! i knew him well," i answered readily. "believe me," i said, with a little laugh, "i am quite willing to give you every information in my power concerning myself. my name is john new, and i am lodging quite near here. i have been in the habit of coming backwards and forwards on various occasions; as you know, i came in just behind you to-night." "that's true enough, sir," said the other man. now all this time i had quite forgotten the boy andrew ferkoe; and suddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as he should properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. my heart sank at that remembrance, for i liked the boy, and had been sorry to think how badly he was treated. i could sympathise with him more than anyone else could well do, for had i not suffered just as he had suffered, and had not i made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone to his account? i felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; andrew ferkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death, and then had fled out of the house. the man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back at me over his shoulder. "did you know anything about his habits, sir?" he asked. "did he live alone?" i determined to lie. after all, they might not discover anything about the wretched boy if i held my peace. "quite alone, i believe," i said. "there was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cook his meals; but only for an hour or two a day." "just as i thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!" he exclaimed. we found the place in great disorder. drawers had been wrenched open, and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, and cupboards burst open. so far as we could judge, my uncle zabdiel must have been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have heard a noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. there could not have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick from his grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as the doctor had suggested. the robbery afterwards had been a hurried business, bunglingly done. the great safe in the corner of the study--that room in which i had toiled so many years--was untouched; and, from what i knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, i judged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of his neck. that he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight was obvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, and so have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim. "we'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and i suddenly leapt to the remembrance that they must discover andrew ferkoe's room, and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. i was on the point of suggesting that i believed the other rooms to be empty; but, on second thoughts, i felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trust that the boy might yet escape. so the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with the lamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. he stopped with a gasp, and looked back at us. "there's someone here!" he whispered. "in bed--and asleep!" wonderingly we went forward into the room. the man with the lamp bent over the bed and turned back the clothes. andrew ferkoe seemed to rouse himself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us. for my part, i felt that he rather overdid the thing. his face was white and drawn; but then, it was always that. i confess i was a little contemptuous of the cunning he displayed; i was not quite so sorry for him as i had been. there we stood, grouped about his bed, while he sat up and looked round from one to the other of us. "what's the matter?" he asked. the doctor gave a short laugh. "matter enough!" he ejaculated. "do you mean to say you've been asleep?" "of course," said andrew ferkoe. "what else should i go to bed for?" "do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked the man with the lamp sharply. "no struggling--no crying out?" andrew ferkoe slowly shook his head. "i don't know what you're talking about," he said. "who are you? i know that gentleman," he added, pointing to me. "what do they want, mr. new?" i began to have a sneaking admiration for the boy, even though i shuddered at him; i thought how wonderfully he played the game. i answered as calmly as i could. "your master has been murdered, andrew," i said--"brutally done to death. have you really been asleep?--have you heard nothing?" "nothing at all, sir," he said, scrambling out of bed, and standing ghostlike amongst us in his long night-shirt, and with his thin, bare feet and ankles showing. "i don't know anything about it." he began to whimper, looking from one to the other of us in a terrified way; i began to have my doubts whether, after all, he was not sincere, and had not really slept through the horrible business. "i thought you said that the old gentleman lived alone?" asked the police officer, turning to me. "when i said that i'd clean forgotten the boy," i answered easily. "you see, i've never been here except by daylight; how should i know that anyone else slept in the house?" that explanation seemed simple enough, and, in a fashion, satisfactory. i suggested to the man that andrew ferkoe should be allowed to dress; i pledged my word to look after him. "you see, you can hardly leave the boy in the house alone, after what has occurred," i urged. "you have my address, and you can verify it if you like. let me take the boy with me, and i will undertake to produce him for any enquiry at any time." i saw that they hesitated; it was the doctor who put in the final word on andrew ferkoe's behalf. he had been looking at the youth curiously, had even put a hand on his shoulder, and had twisted him about to look into his eyes. "i shouldn't think much suspicion would attach to our young friend here," he said. "a bit of a weakling, i should imagine, not very likely to do any harm to anyone. certainly it won't do to leave him in this place. get dressed, my lad," he added to andrew. as he turned away i heard him whisper to the man with the lamp, "he's been asleep fast enough. i doubt if the old man even cried out. the whole attack would be too sudden." i waited with andrew ferkoe while he got dressed; the others went downstairs to move the body of uncle zabdiel. once or twice i noticed that the boy looked at me in a furtive way. i began to think that if he had been innocent he would in all probability have said something, or have asked some question. he got into his clothes rapidly, fumbling a great deal with the buttons, as though his fingers trembled. once he looked up, and opened his mouth as if to speak. i shook my head at him. "better not say anything, andrew," i said in a whisper. he looked at me in a startled way, but finished his dressing without a word. we went out of the room together, and on the stairs i met the doctor and the two men, who were waiting for us. it seemed that one man was to remain in charge of the house, while the other walked with me to my lodging to see that the address i had given was a correct one. in a few minutes andrew ferkoe and i were walking along in silence, side by side, with the police officer a little in the rear. in due course we came to my lodgings, and there the man left us. i roused up the landlady, something to her surprise, and told her that i must have another bed put into my room. i did not mean to lose sight of the youth until i had decided what to do with him. the woman very obligingly got out a little camp bedstead that was stowed away in an attic, and i assisted her to rig it up in a corner of my room. then she bade us "good-night," and andrew ferkoe and i were left alone. and for a time there was silence, while i sat on the side of my bed and smoked, and looked at him. "why do you look at me in that queer way?" he asked at last, in a trembling voice. "look here, andrew," i said solemnly, "let me say quite reverently that at the present moment there's just god and you and me in this room, and god understands a great deal better even than i do what you have had to put up with. don't speak until i've finished," i exclaimed sternly, "because i want to give you a word of warning. if you want to tell me anything, let's hear it; if you don't want to tell me anything, go to bed, and try to sleep. but if you do speak--speak the truth." he looked at me round-eyed, and with his mouth wide open, for nearly a minute; then he gasped out a question. "do you--do you really think i did it?" he asked. "i don't think about it at all," i answered. "i'm waiting for you to tell me--if you feel you want to." "i didn't do it--i never touched him. i should never have had the strength or the courage," he began, in a shaking whisper. "but you were shamming sleep," i reminded him. "of course i was," was his surprising answer. "what else could i do? i didn't know who you were, or who was coming into the place, and i'd seen enough in the way of horrors for one night to last me all my life." he shuddered, and covered his face with his hands, and dropped down on to his bed. "seen enough horrors!" i echoed. "what had you seen?" he looked up at me, and began his extraordinary story. "i went to bed a long time before old blowfield," he said. "i think i went to sleep almost at once; i generally do, you know. at all events i didn't hear the old man come up to his room. when i first woke up i heard a noise down below in the house, just like somebody wrenching open a shutter. i got horribly frightened, and i put my head under the bedclothes, and kept very still; it was just like that night when you broke in and came to my room. after a time the noise stopped, and i began to wonder whether someone had tried to get in and couldn't, or whether they had really got into the house. it must have been about a quarter of an hour after that--only it seemed ever so much longer--that i first heard old blowfield cry out." i felt certain now that he was speaking the truth. watching him narrowly, i saw the terror grow in his eyes at the recollection of what he had heard and seen in that grim old house. i nodded to him to go on. "i heard old blowfield shout out, 'who's there?'" went on the youth. "he shouted that twice, and i got so excited that i crept out of my room in the dark, and leaned over the rail at the top of the staircase. i saw old blowfield standing there, and just below him was a man, and the man was crouching as if he was going to spring. old blowfield struck at him with the stick--he was holding a candle in his left hand, so that he could see what he was doing--and the man dodged, and caught the stick, and pulled it out of his hand. the man struck old blowfield once, and he went down and lay still; and then he struck him again." "why didn't you raise an alarm?" i asked, somewhat needlessly. "what good would that have been?" murmured andrew ferkoe resentfully. "i could see that the man didn't think there was anyone else in the house. what chance should i have had if he'd caught sight of me? i don't know whether i made any noise, but while he stood there with the stick in his hands he looked up towards where i was, but he didn't see me. then he went back into the bedroom and came out, dragging the bedclothes; he threw them on top of the old man. when he went down into the house i slipped back into my room and got into bed; i simply dared not move or make a sound." "how long did you stop like that?" i asked. "i don't rightly know," was his reply, as he shook his head. "it seemed a long time, and at first i could hear him moving about the house here and there, and then there was a silence. i had just got out of bed, meaning to go down, when i heard another movement in the house, and then voices. and i lay there, trembling so that i could feel the bed shaking under me, until at last, after what seemed hours, i heard people coming up the stairs, and coming into my room. and then i gave myself up for lost, and tried hard to pray. i thought if i pretended to be asleep they wouldn't kill me, and so i pretended. you may imagine how relieved i felt when i opened my eyes and saw you." "that's all very well, my young friend," i said, "but why in the world didn't you tell the truth at once, and say what you'd seen? why did you lie, and say that you had been asleep and had heard nothing?" he looked at me with an expression of cunning on his lean face. "who was going to believe me?" he asked. "even you had heard me say how badly the old man had treated me, and how i wished i had the courage to kill him; even you believed to-night, first of all, that i had done it. if i had told any story about a man coming into the place and killing old blowfield, and going again, they would have laughed at me. i was in a tight corner, and the only thing i could do was to pretend that i had slept through it all." i saw the reasonableness of that argument; it might have gone hard with the boy if for a moment suspicion had fallen upon him. "did you see the face of the man clearly?" i asked, after a pause. "what was he like?" "he was a small man, stooping a little," said andrew ferkoe. "i should think he would be about forty-five or fifty years of age. he was dressed like a labourer." instantly i remembered the man i had seen on the previous evening lurking outside the house; i wished now that i had taken more note of him. i began to wonder who it could be, and whether it was only some chance loafer who had selected that house as one likely to suit his purpose for burglary. it could scarcely have been anyone who knew uncle zabdiel's habits well, or he would not have been surprised on the stairs as he had been; for the fact that he had to snatch a weapon from the hand of the old man proved, i thought, that he had not gone there meaning to kill. for the matter of that, few men enter a place with that deliberate intention; it is only done in the passion of the moment, when they must strike and silence another, or suffer the penalty for what they have done. long after the boy was in bed and asleep i sat there watching him. even now my mind was not clear of doubts concerning andrew ferkoe, smooth though his tale was. i wondered if all he had told me was true, or if, after all, he had seized that occasion to strike down the old man, and so pay off old scores. i knew that for the present i must leave the matter, and must wait for time or chance to elucidate the mystery. it must have been about the middle of the night when i found myself sitting up in bed, very wide awake, with one name seeming to din itself into my ears. i wondered why i had not thought of it before. "william capper!" it had been a little man, who walked with drooping shoulders, a man who might be forty-five or fifty years of age. well, capper was older than that, but then andrew ferkoe had only seen the man in the dim light of a candle. and the motive? that was more difficult to arrive at, although even i thought there i saw my way. capper i knew was determined to kill bardolph just if he could, and he would know that bardolph just had gone to the house of zabdiel blowfield. what more natural than that he should have seen him arrive, but should have missed him when he went away; that would explain the man in labouring clothes i had seen hanging about near the house. capper would know that he must put on some sort of disguise in order to bring himself into the presence of the doctor, and in order to lull the other's dread of him. i was convinced now that it was capper who had forced his way into the house late at night, and, finding himself suddenly confronted by a man who demanded his business, had aimed a blow at him at the same time, and killed zabdiel blowfield on the impulse of the moment. i lay down again, firmly convinced that i had arrived at a proper solution of the matter. i further questioned ferkoe in the morning, and all that he told me served the more to settle the thing in my mind. i wondered if by any chance capper would be discovered; i wondered also whether, after all, i had been mistaken in my estimate of him, and whether the sudden gusts of passion that had swept over him on the two occasions in regard to bardolph just might not have been real madness, and might, in this last case, have found their victim in a man with whom capper had nothing to do. in that case he was merely a harmful lunatic, dangerous to anyone when those gusts of passion swept him. i found that during the next day or two i was pretty closely watched and interrogated by one and another, and more than once i trembled for my liberty, and even for my life. for you will understand that i was surrounded now, more than ever, by dangers of every sort; if it could once have been proved or even suggested that i was that convict nephew of the dead man, it would have gone hard with me. for here was i, masquerading under another name, and actually walking up to the house on the night of the murder. and had not zabdiel blowfield actually stated in writing that he could tell the authorities something concerning his nephew, norton hyde? the motive was clear; it had been vitally necessary that i should silence uncle zabdiel at all costs. so i argued the matter, and i remembered uneasily enough that that weakling, andrew ferkoe, knew who i really was, and might, in case of extremity, give my secret away. on the other hand it turned out that the police had found a scrap of writing in the house, which gave the name and address of dr. bardolph just, so that that gentleman was brought into the business, in order that questions might be asked of him. i had gone down to the house, and there we came face to face. there was no necessity for me to ask him what he thought about the matter; i read in his face that he was certain in his own mind that i was the man. i should not have spoken to him at all, because when next i fought him i meant to fight with other weapons than my tongue, but he came up to me, and looked at me with that evil grin of his. "this is a bad business," he said. "i understand that you were here almost immediately after the thing was done, eh?" "yes, and not before," i replied in a whisper. "you're on the wrong track, i assure you. i've had nothing to do with the matter." i saw that he had something more to say to me. when presently i left the house he strolled along by my side. his first words were startling enough, in all conscience. "well, so for the moment you have succeeded," he said quietly. i turned and stared at him; i did not understand in the least what he meant. "in what have i succeeded?" i asked. "don't i tell you that i'm not responsible for the business we've just been talking about." "you know what i'm referring to," he said, harshly. "i'm speaking of the girl." i had learnt wisdom, and i controlled myself with an effort. "what of her?" i asked carelessly. i saw his eyes flash, and noticed that his teeth were clenched hard as he strode along beside me. "you've got her!" he burst out at last, "but you shan't keep her. you've been wise enough, too, to hide her away somewhere where you don't go yourself. i've had you watched, and i know that. but i'll find her, and if i don't find her within a certain time, determined on by myself, i'll tell my story, and you shall hang!" i was on the point of blurting out that i knew nothing about the matter, but on second thoughts i held my tongue. i guessed in a moment that debora must have made her escape from the house, and must be somewhere in hiding, and, of course, she would not know where to communicate with me. my heart leapt at the thought that she was free; it sank again at the thought that she might be penniless and unprotected amongst strangers. at the same time i decided that i would not give him any undue advantage over me, by letting him understand that i did not know where the girl was. i merely shrugged my shoulders and laughed. "you can take my warning, and make the most of it," he said abruptly. "if debora does not return to me within the time i have mapped out--and i shall not even tell you what that time is--i tell what i know to the right people." i remembered what debora had said to me about her certainty that this man had caused the death of gregory pennington; i had a shot at that matter now. "and some explanation will be needed regarding the man you allowed to be shut away in a grave in penthouse prison," i said quietly. he turned his head sharply, and looked at me. i regarded him steadily. "that's a matter you'll have to explain," he said, with a grin. "i?" it was my turn to look amazed. "yes--you," he said. "i've got my story ready when the time comes, i assure you. all i've had to do with it has been the covering up of your traces; that was only pity for a forlorn wretch, hunted almost to death. the changing of the clothes was your business. i don't see how it affects me." we had come to a point where he was turning off in one direction and i going in another. i gave him my final shot at parting. "not if gregory pennington really committed suicide," i said. i looked back when i had gone a little way, and saw bardolph just in the same attitude in which i had left him, looking after me. it was as though i had stricken him dumb and motionless with what i had said, and i was now more than ever convinced that debora had been right in her conjecture. i had done one good thing, at least; he would scarcely dare to carry out his threat of exposing me; he might think that i had some inside knowledge of which he was ignorant. meanwhile i was seriously troubled about debora. it was impossible for me to know what had become of her, or where she was; my only hope was that there might be an accidental meeting between us. the various places known to us both were known also to our enemies; if debora had gone to the house of uncle zabdiel she would in all probability have been seen there by bardolph just, or by some one in his pay. similarly, she would, of course, keep as far away as possible from his house and from the cottage where once i had left her with harvey scoffold. i roamed the streets, looking into every face that passed me, yet never seeing the face for which i longed. an inquest on uncle zabdiel took place in the ordinary course, and a certain john new gave evidence of his slight acquaintance with the murdered gentleman, and of what he had seen on the night of the murder. the astounding fact that andrew ferkoe had slept through the whole business came out in court, and was the immediate cause of some extraordinary newspaper headlines, in which more than one reporter developed a hitherto undiscovered talent for wit at andrew's expense. it may be wondered at, perhaps, that i should have persuaded the boy to stick to his original story, but, apart from anything else, i had strong reasons for preventing any suspicion falling upon the man capper, and, above all, i did not for a moment believe that andrew ferkoe's real story would be believed. i had grown to believe it myself, but i thought that for many reasons it might be well if ferkoe left it to be imagined that he had really slept, and had seen nothing. so the matter remained a mystery, with only one curious element in it, for me at least, and that was a little point that came out in the evidence. it seemed that no finger prints had been discovered anywhere, although many things in the house had been handled. it was obvious that the murderer had worn gloves. that seemed to point to a more professional hand than that of poor capper, and served a little to upset my theory, but on the whole i believed it still. i was to be undeceived, nevertheless, and that within a little time. on the very day of the inquest, when andrew ferkoe and myself were walking away, we turned, with almost a natural impulse, towards the house which had been the scene of the tragedy--perhaps you may call that a morbid impulse. it was a place that would always have a curious attraction for me, by reason of the fact that the greater part of my life had been spent there, and that i had seen many curious things occur there, and that once poor debora had taken refuge in it. it was all ended now with the death of the man who had worked so much harm to me; i was thinking about it all as i stood outside the place, when i felt my arm clutched convulsively, and looked round, to see that andrew ferkoe, with a dropping jaw, was staring at a man who was standing at a little distance from us, also watching the house--a man dressed as a labourer. "what's the matter?" i whispered. i could not see the man's face from where i stood; his cap was drawn down at one side, so as partially to conceal it. "that's the man!" whispered andrew, in a shaking voice. "i know the clothes, and i saw his face for a moment when he turned this way." "pull yourself together, and don't look as if you'd seen a ghost," i whispered sharply. "we'll follow the man, and see where he goes. as he hasn't seen you, go on ahead a bit, and then turn so that you can see his face; then come back to me." the youth hurried away; walked past the man with his long stride; then came back. i saw the man glance at him for a moment sharply as he came past; then andrew came up to me, his face white with excitement. "that's the man! i'm certain of it," he said. we walked for a long way after the man, until at last he seemed to have some suspicion concerning us. once or twice he stopped, and, of course, we stopped also; then at last he turned about, and came straight back towards where we waited. he carried his head low, but i thought i knew the bend of his shoulders; i was convinced that in a moment he would look up, and i should see william capper looking at me. but i was wrong. for when he looked up, with a sullen glance of defiance, i saw that it was george rabbit! chapter xiv. william capper comes to life. mr. george rabbit looked me up and down with a new expression of countenance. i noticed, too, that some of his alertness was gone, and that his narrow, shifty eyes avoided mine. he had no reason to think that i should suspect him of the murder of my uncle zabdiel; nevertheless, he looked at me resentfully, as though, before even i had spoken, he knew i was going to accuse him of it. "wotjer mean by follerin' a honest man about like this 'ere?" he demanded savagely. "if i 'ad my rights, i ought to be follerin' you, mr. jail-bird--seein' wot i know abaht yer." then, as i said nothing, but looked at him steadily, he broke out more fiercely: "w'y don't yer speak? wot 'ave yer got against me, eh?" i took him by the arm, and suddenly wrenched his hand round, so that i could look at the palm of it; then i bent forward, and whispered to him swiftly: "there's blood on your hands!" he struggled faintly for a moment to get free; his face had gone to a sickly green colour. "you're mad--stark, starin', ravin' mad!" he exclaimed. "don't you say sich things against me, or i'll blab--sure as death!" "death's the word," i retorted. "now, george rabbit, we've got to talk over this thing, and we may as well do it quietly. take me to some place where i can say what i have to say." he hesitated for a moment, undecided whether to treat the matter with defiance, or to accede to my demands; at last he shrugged his shoulders, spat emphatically on the ground, and turned to lead the way. he turned back again a moment later, and looked at andrew ferkoe with a new resentment. "wot's this chap got to do wiv it?" he asked. "'ave you bin blabbin' to 'im abaht it?" "there was no necessity to do that," i replied quietly. "he saw you do it. now, don't stand talking here; it might be dangerous." he stood in an amazed silence for a moment, and then turned and walked away. we followed him rapidly, noticing that every now and then he turned to look back over his shoulder, as if undecided whether, after all, he would not turn back altogether, and refuse to go further. but he went on, nevertheless, and at last brought us to a little public house in a side street. thrusting open a door with his shoulder, he went in, leaving us to follow; and we presently found ourselves in a little room with a sanded floor--a species of bar parlour. there the three of us sat down round a little beer-stained table, and after i had ordered refreshments (with a double quantity for george rabbit, because he took the first at a gulp), i began to say what was in my mind. "when i saw you first to-day you were looking at a house where an old man was murdered a few days back," i began. "wot of it?" he demanded. "a lot of people 'ave bin lookin' at that 'ouse; they always does w'en anythink like that's 'appened." "you were obliged to go back to it--the man who commits a murder always must, you know. you wanted to see if any one had suspected you." the man glanced nervously round the room, and then thrust his face towards mine across the table. "wot's this 'ere talk abaht a murder?" he whispered. "wot's this 'ere talk abaht this chap 'aving seen me do it? wot's this business abaht takin' away a honest man's character?" "when you broke into the house the other night, and came face to face with zabdiel blowfield, and got the stick out of his hand and killed him, someone was watching you," i answered steadily. "watchin' me! w'y, the ole chap lived alone!" he exclaimed incautiously. then, seeing the smile on my face, he went on hurriedly, "leastways, so i've bin told, on'y i don't know nothink abaht it." "you were sent there first by martha leach. my uncle wanted to see you, because he thought your evidence might be useful in getting me back to my prison," i went on remorselessly. "that gave you the idea of robbing the old man; you didn't stick at murder when you were pushed to it. this lad here"--i indicated andrew ferkoe as i spoke--"was asleep in the house at the time, as you would have heard, if you had been at the inquest. he got out of bed and saw you. how else do you suppose he was able to point you out to-day as the man he saw in the house?" george rabbit looked from one to the other of us narrowly; then he began to speak almost as if to himself. "now i comes to think of it, i did 'ear a noise up above in the 'ouse. so it was you, was it?" he said, turning wrathfully on andrew ferkoe. "my god! it's a lucky thing for you i didn't find you; i'd 'ave put your light out!" "i know that," answered andrew quietly. "that was why i didn't make a noise." "well, an' wot's the little game now?" asked rabbit impudently, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "mr. jail-bird, let's 'ear wot you've got to say. you can't bring a charge like this against a honest man without some proof. i 'ave 'eard that no finger prints 'ave bin discovered, so that you won't git much that way." "i can find a dozen ways of running you to earth," i replied. "on the other hand, it may not pay me to do so." "yus, that's the trouble, ain't it?" he said with a sneer. "they might ask you awkward questions, or i might 'ave a word to say abaht the gent wot's takin' my character away. then again, wot's 'is nibs 'ere bin sayin' at the inquest?" i was bound to confess that andrew had stated that he had slept soundly on the night of the murder, and had heard nothing and seen nothing. george rabbit, growing more confident with every moment, grinned and kissed his grimy finger-tips in the direction of andrew. "an' now 'e'll 'ave to tell anuvver tale!" he exclaimed. "if it comes to that, 'oo's to say 'e didn't do the job 'imself; 'e was in the 'ouse." it was not my purpose to bring the man to justice; it would go hard with me, as well, perhaps, with andrew ferkoe, if i made any attempt to slip a noose about the fellow's neck. yet, much as i loathed the man, i realised that the killing of my uncle zabdiel had not been any premeditated affair; it had been a blow struck, brutally enough, for his own liberty by this man who now sat before me. my purpose was to use him, if possible, as an instrument for myself, to trade upon my knowledge of what he had done, and so bind him first to silence about myself and who i was, and next to assist me in the finding of debora and the destruction of bardolph just's plans. i set about that now without more ado. "as i have said, it would be easy enough to prove the matter," i answered, "and i should have the satisfaction of seeing you hang; but that's not my plan. we are the only people who know the truth, and we shall not speak." i saw andrew ferkoe glance at me swiftly for a moment; as for rabbit, he sat gaping at me as though he had not heard aright. "you mean it?" he gasped. "of course i do; i'm a man of my word," i answered him. "but there is a condition attaching to it, and that condition must be respected. i'm not the man to be played with, and i've got you in a tighter place than you think. play with me, and you'll play with fire; of that i warn you." "now, look 'ere, guv'nor," answered the man in an altered tone, "am i likely to play any tricks, seein' 'ow i'm placed? gents both, i give yer my solemn word i never meant to put the old gent's light out. i jist meant to git wot i could quietly. i 'ad a sort of idea that 'e might keep money on the premises. as it was, i got next to nuffink, an' wot i did git i don't dare part wiv, for fear i should be nabbed. i never thought 'e'd wake up, but w'en 'e come out there, an' tried to 'it me wiv the stick, i jist jerked it out of 'is 'and, an' gave 'im one for 'imself to keep 'im quiet. i ain't excusin' meself; i know i done it, an' that's all there is to it." "in the first place, you will know me, if you know me at all, always as john new; the other man, once a fellow-prisoner of yours, lies buried in that prison. am i right?" i asked the question sternly. "i'll take my oath of it," he asserted solemnly. "w'y, now i come to look at yer," he added, with a grin, "you ain't no more like norton 'yde than wot i am." "don't overdo it," i suggested. "now, in the second place, you remember a young lady--a ward of dr. just?" "yus, i know 'er; wot of it?" he asked. "she has left the doctor's house--has run away," i answered. "she doesn't know where to find me, and i don't know where to find her. she may be wandering about london friendless and without money. can you help me to find her?" "do yer mean it?" he asked incredulously. i nodded. "under ordinary circumstances you are the last man in the world that i would select for such work, but i must use the tools ready to my hand," i said. "if you play tricks with me, you'll know what to expect, because our friend here"--i indicated andrew--"will be only too ready to speak and to tell what he knows, without bringing me into the matter at all. but i think, for your own sake, you'll play the game fairly." in his eagerness he began to take all manner of strange oaths as to what he meant to do, and as to the absolute dependence that was to be placed upon his word. i interrupted him sharply by telling him that i looked for deeds, and not words, and quite humbly and gratefully he promised to do all in his power. i gave him an address at which i could be found, and presently saw him go lurching away, with his head turned every now and then to look back at me. i seemed to picture him going through life like that, remembering always the dead thing he had left lying on certain stairs in a dismal old house. and now i come to that point in my story when my own helplessness was, for a time at least, borne in upon me more strongly than ever. i had no very great hopes that where i had failed george rabbit would succeed, and i blamed myself for having placed any reliance on him. i wandered about london restlessly for a day or two, as i had done before, hoping always that any slight girlish figure going on before me might in a moment turn its head and show me the face of debora; but that never happened. what did happen was that i had an unexpected meeting with bardolph just. the newspapers had, of course, given my address, as an important witness at the inquest on uncle zabdiel, so that i was not altogether surprised to find, one evening when i went back to my little lodging, tired out, and weary, and dispirited, that bardolph just was waiting for me. i was aware of his presence in my room before ever i got to the house, for as i came up the street i happened to raise my eyes to the window, and there he was, lounging half out of it, smoking a cigar and surveying me. i wondered what his visit might portend. i hoped that he might have discovered something about debora, and that i might get the information from him. on opening the door of the room and going in i saw that he was not alone; harvey scoffold sat there, quite as though he had come, in a sense, as a protector for his patron. i put my back against the closed door, and looked from one man to the other, and waited for what they had to say. harvey scoffold smiled a little weakly, and waved a hand to me; bardolph just said nothing, but looked me up and down with a fine air of contempt. i judged that he had news for me, and that, for the moment at least, he felt that he had triumphed. almost i seemed to read into his mind, and to know what that news was. but though i thought i knew the man well, i was not prepared for the vindictiveness he now displayed. "you must excuse this intrusion," he said quietly, "but i felt sure that you would be anxious concerning my ward, and i thought it best to let you know at once that she is quite safe. i did you an injustice in suggesting that she was with you; for that i apologise most humbly." "where is she?" i asked. he shrugged his shoulders. "is it likely that i shall tell you?" he asked. "i won't tell you where she is; for your satisfaction, however, you may understand that you have been the cause of her passing several miserable nights and days penniless in london----" "you were the cause of that!" i broke in hotly. "pardon me; had you never appeared upon the scene she would have been quite content to remain under my care," he retorted. "had i never appeared upon the scene, she would before this have been in her grave," i said. he showed his teeth for a moment in a grin, but said nothing to that. "she was discovered in almost a dying condition. i was communicated with and went to her at once," he proceeded. "she is now in a private nursing home, and so soon as she has recovered i intend to take her abroad. i need not assure you that she is receiving, and will receive, every possible attention and luxury that money can command." "and you came to tell me this?" i enquired bitterly. "out of pure kindness," he answered with a grin. "i knew you would be anxious, and i knew that you took a deep interest in the young lady." he rose to his feet, and carefully polished his hat upon his sleeve, holding the hat in his right hand, and turning it dexterously round and round against the arm he still carried in a sling. "but i came also to say," he went on in a sterner tone, "that with this ends your connection with her and with me. i am not to be trifled with again; keep out of my way." "one moment, dr. just," i interposed, keeping my place before the door. "as you have been so frank with me, it is fair that i should be as frank with you. i warn you that i shall take not the faintest notice of your request, and that i shall, if possible, discover the lady. my power is a greater one than yours, because my power is from the heart. i shall beat you yet; i shall save her yet!" he laughed and raised his eyebrows, and turned towards harvey scoffold. "did you ever see such a fellow?" he asked. "he is as full of words as ever, although he knows that he can do nothing." i opened the door, and saw the two men pass out and go down the street. i watched them gloomily for a moment or two from the open window. i was almost in a mood to follow them, but i realised that they were scarcely likely to lead me to debora. i must be patient; i must hope for a miracle to happen to show me the way to debora. after all, it was no miracle that happened, for one could scarcely connect a miracle with the prosaic figure of andrew ferkoe. as i looked from my window i saw andrew coming down the street, reading a newspaper, and reading it so intently that he was continually knocking against people on the same pavement, and continually, as i could see, muttering apologies, and then resuming his reading. i was not best pleased to see him at that time; for although he still lodged with me until such time as i could decide what to do with him, he spent a great part of the day abroad in the streets. now, however, after knocking at the door and being admitted, he came upstairs at a great rate, and burst into my room with the newspaper in his hand. "i've found her!" he exclaimed, excitedly waving the paper. "i've found her!" i snatched the paper from him, and began to read it eagerly at the place where his trembling finger had pointed. the paragraph was headed, "strange loss of memory," and referred to a young lady bearing the name of debora matchwick, who had been found in an almost unconscious condition from privation, on a seat in a public park, and had been conveyed to the great southern hospital. for a time it had been impossible to discover who she was, as she appeared to have entirely forgotten any of the past events of her life, or even her own name; but at last she had given the name, and enquiries had elicited the fact that she had a guardian living in the neighbourhood of highgate. this gentleman--the famous scientist and retired physician, dr. bardolph just--had been communicated with, and had at once visited the young lady. so soon as she had recovered she would go abroad for rest and change. there seemed to be no doubt that she would ultimately recover completely. i almost hugged andrew ferkoe in my delight. i laughed to think how easily the discovery had been made. i laughed also at the remembrance of how dr. just had spoken of the "private nursing home," and how now i was, after all, to take the wind out of his sails. i rushed off at once to the great southern hospital. every sort of difficulty was placed in my way. it was not an ordinary visiting day, and i could not be admitted. the young lady had been placed in a private ward, it was true, but the regulations were very strict. more than that, it was imperative that she should not be excited in any way. "i will not excite her; i am her greatest friend, and i know that she has been longing to see me," i pleaded. "but she has a visitor with her now," the young doctor urged. "that visitor is her guardian." i was now more than ever determined that i would see debora; i pleaded again that one extra visitor, under the circumstances, could surely make no difference. "besides," i added, "i know dr. just very well." so at last i had my way, and i followed the young doctor through the quiet place until i came to the little private room where debora lay--a room formed by raising walls nearly to the ceiling in a great ward, leaving a corridor down the centre. i went in, with my heart beating heavily; and the first person i faced was dr. just. i never saw a man so astonished in all my life; i was afraid he was going to lose his presence of mind, and have me bundled out then and there, after making something of a scene. but i will do him the justice to say that his conduct was admirable; he accepted the inevitable, and bowed slightly in my direction as the doctor left me inside the little room and closed the door. then, for the first time, i saw debora, lying white-faced among her pillows. i noted with gratitude how her eyes lighted up as she turned slightly in my direction, and held out a white hand towards me. i could not help it; i fell on my knees beside the bed, and put the hand to my lips as the tears sprang to my eyes. "thank god!" i said, "thank god!" "so you don't heed warnings," said the doctor, in a sarcastic tone. "it is only for the sake of this dear girl that i have not had you turned out of the place; i can't understand how in the world you found out where she was." i took no notice of him. i turned to the girl, and, still holding her hands, began to speak earnestly. "debora," i said, "my sweet debora, i want you to listen to me, and not to this man. i have found you, and i do not mean to lose sight of you again. you will soon be well and strong, and then you will go away from this place--with me." "yes, with you," she answered, with her eyes turned to mine, and her hands gripping mine convulsively. "with you!" i knew that the time was short, and that at any moment the young doctor or a nurse might appear, and might cut short our interview. i saw, too, that debora was getting excited, and i judged that bardolph just might take it upon himself to act the part of doctor as well as guardian, and have me turned away. therefore i said what i had to say quickly. "you will wait for me here, debora; you will not let anyone take you away without letting me know. see, i am writing my address here, and that i will give to the doctor i saw just now--he can send for me if necessary. you are not to go away with anyone else." "i promise," she said, weakly. "and now listen to me," broke in the harsh voice of bardolph just. "this is a crisis in the lives of the three of us, and i am not to be set aside. when the time comes that you can be removed, debora, you are going away with me!" "i am not! i am not!" she cried, still clinging to my hand. "you are going away with me, or else your friend there goes back to his prison. choose!" he stood looking at her, and i saw as well as she did that now his mind was made up. "you wouldn't do that?" she said breathlessly. "i would," he said. "you go away with me, or i follow this man when he leaves this place, and i give him in charge to the first constable i meet, as the escaped convict, norton hyde. and i follow that charge up until i see him back within his prison walls, with something more than nine years of servitude before him. if you want him to keep his liberty, send him away now." she began to weep despairingly, while i, on the horns of this new dilemma, did my best to comfort her. and suddenly, with all her heart set on my welfare, she announced her decision. "i promise that i will go with you," she said to bardolph just in a whisper. "no--no! you must not promise that!" i urged, springing to my feet, and facing the other man. "you shall not!" "i must, i must, for your sake!" she answered. "my dear, it will all come right in time, if you will be patient. we shall meet when all this is over and done with. good-bye!" i would have said more then, but at that moment the door opened, and the young doctor came in. one glance at the girl was sufficient; with an impatient gesture he ordered bardolph just and myself to go, and hastily summoned the nurse. so we marched out, side by side, without a word until we reached the street. "understand me," said bardolph just quietly, "i shall keep my word." "and i shall keep mine," i retorted, as i turned on my heel and left him. brave words, as you will doubtless think; yet even as i said them i realised how helpless i was. debora, for my sake, would go back to that horrible house, there to live, perhaps, in safety for a time, until the doctor could devise some cunning death for her. and i supposed that in due course i should hear of that; and should know the truth, and yet should be able to say nothing. almost i was resolved to risk my own neck in saving her; almost i determined to put that old threat into execution, and kill the man. but i had no stomach for murder when i came to think of the matter: i could only beat my brains in a foolish attempt to find some way out of the tangle. thus nearly a week went by--a miserable week, during which i haunted the neighbourhood of the hospital and wandered the streets aimlessly, turning over scheme after scheme, only to reject each one as useless. then, at last, one day i went to the hospital, and enquired for miss debora matchwick, and asked if i might see her. i was told that she was gone. her guardian had called on the previous day with a carriage, and had taken her home; he had made a generous donation to the funds of the hospital, in recognition of his gratitude for the kindness the young lady had received. so i understood that he had succeeded, and that i had failed. the man had succeeded, too, in putting the strongest possible barrier between the girl and myself, in invoking that bogey of my safety. i knew that he could hold her more strongly with that than with anything else; i felt that she would refuse, for my sake, to have anything to do with me. nevertheless, i came to the conclusion that i must make one last desperate effort to see her, or to see bardolph just. in a sense, i was safe, because i knew i was always a standing menace to the man, and that he feared me. i went straight from the hospital to the house at highgate. i had no definite plan in my mind; i determined to act just as circumstances should suggest. i rang the bell boldly, and a servant whom i knew appeared at the door. he was in the very act of slamming it again in my face, when i thrust my way in and closed the door behind me. "don't try that game again," i said sternly, "or you'll repent it. where's your master?" "i have my orders, sir," he began, "and i dare not----" "i'll see you don't get into trouble," i broke in. "i want to see dr. just." "but he's not here, sir," said the man, and i saw that he was speaking the truth. "dr. just and the young lady have gone away, sir." "do you know where they've gone?" i asked; but the man only shook his head. i stood there debating what to do, and wondering if by chance the doctor might have carried out his original intention of going abroad. then a door opened at the end of the hall, and martha leach came out and advanced towards me. she stopped on seeing who the intruder was; then with a gesture dismissed the servant, and silently motioned to me to follow her into another room. it was the dining-room, and when i had gone in she shut the door, and stood waiting for me to speak. i noticed that she seemed thinner than of old, and that there were streaks of grey in her black hair. she stood twisting her white fingers over and over while she watched me. "i came to see the doctor," i said abruptly. "where is he?" "why do you want to know?" she demanded. "you've been turned out of this place; you ought not to have been admitted now." "i do not forget the assistance you rendered in turning me out," i said. "nevertheless i am here now, and i want an answer to my question. i want to find the girl debora matchwick." she stood for a long time, as it seemed to me, in a rigid attitude, with her fingers twining and twisting, and with her eyes bent to the floor. then suddenly she looked up, and her manner was changed and eager. "i wonder if you would help me?" was her astonishing remark. "try me," i said quietly. "i suppose you love this slip of a girl--in a fashion _you_ call love," she flashed out at me. "i can't understand it myself--but then, my nature's a different one. you would no more understand what rages here within me"--she smote herself ruthlessly on the breast with both hands--"than i can understand how any man can be attracted by a bread-and-butter child like that. but, perhaps, you can grasp a little what i suffer when i know that that man and that girl are together--miles away from here--and that i am here, tied here by his orders." "i think i can understand," i said quietly, determined in my own mind to play upon that mad jealousy for my own ends. "and i am sorry for you." "i don't want your sorrow, and i don't want your pity!" she exclaimed, fiercely brushing away tears that had gathered in her eyes. "only i shall go mad if this goes on much longer; i can't bear it. he insulted me to my face before her on the day they left for green barn together--yesterday that was." "and yet you love him--you would get this girl out of his hands if you could?" "i would kill her if i could," she snarled. "i would tear her limb from limb; i would mark her prettiness in such a fashion that no man would look at her again. that's what i'd do." "you want me to help you," i reminded her. "why don't you have some pluck?" she demanded fiercely. "why don't you tear her out of his hands, and take her away?" "there are reasons why i cannot act as i would," i said. "but i'll do this; i'll go down to green barn, and i'll try to persuade her to go away with me. you've fought against that all the time, or i might have succeeded before." "i know--i know!" she said. "i hoped to please him by doing that; i hoped that some day he might get tired of her, and might look at me again as he looked at me in the old days. but now i'm hopeless; i can do nothing while she is with him. i'm sorry--sorry i fought against you," she added, in a lower tone. "i'll do my best to help you--and the girl," i said. "it may happen that you may get your wish sooner than you anticipated; i believe that bardolph just means to kill her." "if he doesn't, i shall!" she snapped at me as i left the house. so far i had done no good, save in discovering where bardolph just and debora had gone. it was a relief to me to know that they had not gone abroad; for then i should have been helpless indeed. i determined that i would go at once down into essex; it would be some satisfaction at least to be near her. i was walking rapidly away from the house when i heard someone following me; i turned suspiciously, and saw that it was the man capper. he came up to me with that foolish smile hovering over his face, and spoke in that strange, querulous whisper i had heard so often. "forgive an old man speaking to you, sir," he said--"an old man all alone in the world, and with no friends. i saw you come from dr. just's house--good, kind dr. just!" i felt my suspicions of him beginning to rise in my mind again, despite the fact that the face he turned to me was that of a simpleton. i recalled debora's words to me when she had wondered if this man would ever speak. "what do you want?" i asked him, not ungently. "i want to find dr. just--good, kind dr. just," he whispered. "i have followed him a long time, but have been so unfortunate as to miss him. i missed him in a crowd in a street; now i find that he is not at his house." "you are very devoted to dr. just," i observed. "what do you hope to gain by it?" "to gain?" he stared at me with that curious smile on his face. "what should i gain?" "i don't know," i answered him, "but it seems to me that you may some day gain what you want." "god grant i may!" the answer was given in an entirely different voice, and i looked at him in a startled way as i realised at last the truth that for some time at least he had been shamming. i dropped my hand on his shoulder, and spoke sternly enough. "come now, let this pretence be ended," i said. "you're as sane as i am--you have all your wits about you. your brain is clear; you remember everything." we were in a quiet lane near the house, and there was no one in sight. he clasped his hands, and raised his face--a changed face, stern-set, grim and relentless--to the sky. "dear god!" he exclaimed passionately, "i do remember! i do remember!" "what?" i asked. he looked at me for a moment intently, as if debating within himself whether to trust me; then at last he laid a hand tremulously on my arm, and stared up into my face. "i have shammed, sir," he said. "i have lied; i have plotted. i shall not fail now; i have come out of the darkness into the light. i have come to life!" his excitement, now that he had once let himself go, was tremendous; he seemed a bigger and a stronger man than i had imagined. he stood there, shaking his clenched fists above his head, and crying out that he was alive, and almost weeping with excitement. "what are you going to do?" i asked him, breathlessly. "i am going to kill bardolph just, as he killed my young master, mr. gregory pennington! i have tried twice; the third time i shall succeed!" he replied. chapter xv. i bid the doctor farewell. i did my best to calm the man capper. i feared that in his excitement he might betray his purpose to someone else, and someone not so well disposed towards him. i soothed him as well as i could, and presently got him by the arm and walked him away. for a long way we went in silence, until at last, having climbed to hampstead heath, i led him into a by-path there, and presently sat beside him on a seat, prepared to listen to his story. he was calmer by this time; the only evidence of the passions, so long suppressed and now working in him, was shown when, every now and then, he ground his right fist into the palm of his other hand, as though in that action he ground the face of his enemy. "i want you to tell me, if you will, sir," he said at last, "where the man has gone. i was a fool when i lost him; i have not done my work well." "i will tell you presently, when i have heard your story," i said. "you have made a threat of murder. i don't think it would be quite wise on my part to let you loose on anyone in your present frame of mind." "then hear me, and judge for yourself, sir," he answered solemnly. "what i know is this," i said. "i know that mr. gregory pennington went to the doctor's house on one particular night, and that he hanged himself in a room there. i, who found him hanging, found you in the room, apparently dazed." "i have to think back a long way," said capper, leaning forward on the seat, and resting his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. "it's all so much like a dream, and yet all so clear. let me try to tell you, sir, what happened that night." he sat for a long time in that attitude, as though striving to piece together all his recollections of that time; as though even yet he feared that his memory might play him false. "i don't need to say anything about myself, sir, except just this: that mr. pennington picked me out of the gutter, and made a man of me. if ever one man worshipped another on this earth, i worshipped him; i would have died for him. he made me his servant, and yet his friend. he knew that i had been something better in the days before he found me; he made me something better again. he was quite alone in the world, and his income was administered by a trustee, a lawyer. that's all you need know about it. we wandered about all over the world. he thought nothing of starting off for the other side of the world, taking me with him always, at a moment's notice--which, perhaps, accounts for the fact that no one has made any enquiries about him.'" i did not answer that; perhaps the time was coming when i should have to tell him the sequel to what he was now telling me. "then he met the young lady--miss debora matchwick--and he used often to go and see her. one night he came home raging, and told me that dr. just had turned him out of the house, and had told him he was not to go there again. he was very much in love with the young lady, and the affair upset him a lot. but he told me that he had made up his mind to go there as often as he thought fit; he meant to defy the doctor." he paused so long again that i was almost minded to speak to him; he seemed to be brooding. all at once he sat upright, and folded his arms, and went on again. his voice had taken on a new sternness. "i took to going with him--or rather following him without his knowledge," he said slowly. "i didn't like the look of the doctor; i knew that he meant mischief. night after night, when mr. pennington went to the house, i hid myself in the grounds, and waited and watched; then i followed him home again. you see, sir, he was everything to me, all i had in the world; it drove me mad almost to think that anything might happen to him. so the time went on, until at last that night arrived when, as it seemed, i fell asleep and forgot everything. but i remember that night now perfectly." in his rising excitement he got up, and began to pace about, stopping every now and then to clap his hands together softly, and to nod his head as some point in the story recurred to his memory. at last he came back to me, and sat down, and faced me. "he had told me before he went out that he intended to see the doctor that night. 'i'll have a turn-up with him,' he said to me, and laughed. i dreaded that; i made up my mind that i would be very near to him, indeed, that night. it was difficult, because if once he had discovered that i was following him, and watching him like that, he might have been angry, and might have ordered me to remain at home. so, you see, i had to be discreet. i went ahead of him on that occasion, and i concealed myself in the grounds quite near to the house. there i waited, and waited so long that i came almost to think that he had changed his mind, and would not come at all." "did you see no one else in the grounds?" i asked, thinking of my own unceremonious coming on that wonderful night. he stared at me, and shook his head. "no one," he said. "presently mr. pennington arrived, and the young lady crept out of the house to meet him; i saw them talking together for a long time. then i saw mr. pennington go towards the house, and enter it." i remembered how i had lain in the grass that night, and had seen the same scene he now described, although from a different point of view. i knew that capper must have been between them and the house, whilst i, for my part, had been on the other side of them, so that they were between me and this man. "now, i will tell you, as well as i can recollect, exactly what happened," he said, speaking slowly, and ticking off his points one by one on his fingers. "i was so nervous that night--nervous for him, i mean--that i thought, sir, i would go into the house, so as to see that all was well with him. everything was very silent, except that i could hear the murmur of voices--of men talking. you will understand, sir, that i did not know what the house was like, nor my way about it; but i found a door unfastened at the back, and i went in. i went towards where the voices were sounding, and i recognised mr. pennington's voice, and then the doctor's. both the voices were loud and angry; i guessed that they were quarrelling." "and what did you do then?" i asked him quickly. "god help me!" he cried, wringing his hands. "i could not find the room. the place was in darkness, and i was afraid to make a noise, lest i should disturb some of the servants, and perhaps be turned out. i groped my way about among the passages, opening first one door and then another, and hearing the voices now near to me, and now further away; it was as though i had been in a maze. and then the voices ceased suddenly, and i heard the sound of a blow." "what sort of blow?" i asked him breathlessly. "it was like the sound of a weapon striking a man's head. it was followed by a sort of quick cry; and then there was silence. in my agitation i must have turned away from the spot; and i had now nothing to guide me, as the voices had guided me before. i could only stand there, waiting, and hoping to hear something. it was all so horrible, and i so helpless, that i wonder i did not go mad then. i was near to it when presently i heard a sound as though someone were dragging a heavy body across a room. i began again to move in the direction of that sound, and presently came to a door, and after listening to another sound i did not understand, opened it, and went in. i must be quick now to tell you what i saw, for it is at this point that the darkness falls upon me, and i seem to sink down and down into the depths that swallowed me up for so long a time." i was really afraid that he might, indeed, forget before he could tell me; i watched him eagerly. after but a little pause he went on again, and now the horror was growing in his face, and stamping it, so that i could not take my eyes from him. "as i opened the door of the room the doctor had his back to me, and he was hauling on something. i did not understand at first, until i saw that he was pulling on a rope that ran over a hook in the ceiling. that which he pulled was hidden from me by himself; i could not see what it was. it all happened in a second, because as i opened the door he swung away from me, still clinging to the rope--and then, dear god!--i saw what it was. only for a flash did i see up there before me the dead face of my master--the master i loved, and for whom i would have given my life; then, as i put up my hand to hide the sight, everything went from me; and i seemed to fall, as i have said, into some great blackness, with all my life blotted out! that," he said, with a little, quick, helpless gesture of the hands--"that is all." i felt my blood run cold at the horror of his tale; the whole scene seemed to be enacted before me, as though i had myself been present. "and did you really forget everything until a little time ago?" i asked. "everything, sir," he assured me solemnly. "i was like one groping in the dark. people i had known i knew again--as with miss debora; but i could not remember anything else. i had a vague idea that i had lost my master somewhere about that house; that made me cling to it. the rest was a blank. and then one day, when i saw the doctor raise his stick to strike a man down, it was as though something had been passed across my brain, and i remembered. if i can make myself clear, sir," went on capper eagerly, "it was as though i had gone back to that night; that was why i sprang at the doctor, and wanted to kill him." "and you tried again in the train," i reminded him. "but why on each occasion did you sham madness?--why did you pretend you were still the simple creature everyone supposed you to be?" "because i knew that if once dr. just guessed that i remembered the events of that night, he would take means to have me shut up; i might have been taken for a lunatic, and disposed of for the rest of my life. i knew that if i could once deceive him into believing that my mind was gone, he would not be suspicious of me. unfortunately for my plan, i gave the game away when i tried to throw him out of that train." "how was that?" i asked. "i had managed things very well up to that point," he said. "i knew pretty well how the trains ran, and i knew that if i could throw him out on the line at a certain spot between the stations it would look like an accident, and the train on the other line would cut him to pieces. i was so sure of success that i threw off that disguise i had worn so long, and i cried out to him that i remembered he had killed my master, and that i meant to kill him. i dare say you remember, sir, that you asked him what i had said, and he would not tell you." i remembered it distinctly, and i remembered how the doctor had watched that little drooping figure in the corner of the railway carriage, and how he had refused to tell me what the man had said before attacking him. "after that, you see, there was no more chance of doing the thing secretly," went on capper, speaking of the appalling business in the most easy and natural fashion. "he shut me out of the house; he would not let me come near him. twice i followed him, and the second time i lost him. now, sir,"--he clasped his hands, and looked at me with an agony of entreaty in his eyes--"now, sir, will you let me know where i can find him?" "answer me one question first," i said, looking into his eager eyes. "if you kill this man, what will become of you?" he spread out his hands, and smiled the strangest smile i have ever seen. "what does that matter?" he asked simply. "if i am found out they may say that i am a madman; they may shut me away for life. they may even hang me. it will not matter--my life finished when the man who saved me from myself died." i did not hesitate any further; i told capper that dr. bardolph just was living down at a place called green barn, near comerford, in essex. he thanked me in the strangest fashion, with the tears in his eyes; he asked if he might shake hands with me. i had a weird feeling that he felt he might be going to his own death as i gripped his hand and let him go. i watched him for a long time while he went across the heath; he walked quickly, and without once looking to right or left, or even looking back at me. and i wondered what manner of death was preparing for dr. just. let it be understood clearly that i was so amazed by the whole business that for some time i could not decide what to do. there was no thought in my mind of saving bardolph just, or of warning him; i felt that in this grim business i had no right to interfere. the man who had meted out death to another man, and had striven so hard to kill an innocent girl, was no subject for pity. if i had desired to do anything to stop the business, it would have been on account of the man capper; and so far as he was concerned, i knew that i might as well try to turn some strong river from its course as hold him back. but i thought now of debora. strange as it may appear, in my own mind i regarded the death of dr. just as something inevitable--something arranged and settled. capper had given away his secret to me; i knew that in some fashion dr. just would meet his death at green barn, unless by a miracle it happened that he had already gone away. and even then capper was capable of following him, in that deadly hunt, to the other side of the world. i determined that i must go to green barn--not with any intention of standing between capper and his intended victim, but in the hope to be of service to debora. debora would be alone with bardolph just, and bardolph just was marked for death! i hurried back to my lodging, in the hope to find andrew ferkoe, and to let him know what i was doing; but i found that he had not yet returned to the house, and the landlady had no knowledge of his movements. there was nothing for it but for me to leave a message, saying that i was called away into the country, and hoped to be back within a day or so. i said nothing more definite than that. i got out at comerford station in a heavy fall of summer rain. i had no knowledge of whether capper was in front of me, or behind me in london; whether he had yet come face to face with the doctor, or whether that was still to happen. i was passing rapidly through the little booking-hall when i saw a big man lounging on a seat there, with his arms folded and his legs stretched out before him. it was harvey scoffold, and half involuntarily i stopped. he looked up at me with a scowl, which changed the next moment to a grin. "hullo!" he said, with an attempt at joviality, "what brings you down here?" "you should be able to guess," i reminded him. "there's no welcome for you--nor for anyone else," he said sourly. "look at me, my boy; i'm turned out. simply given my marching orders, if you please, and sent packing." "have you been to green barn?" i asked him. he nodded. "went down in the friendliest fashion, to see a man i've been devilish useful to--and what do i get? a meal, of course; then i'm calmly told that the doctor is in retirement, and is not receiving guests. more than that, i'll tell you something else that may not be to your liking." he leaned forward, thrusting his heavy face towards me, and dropping a hand on each knee. i had always disliked the man; i could have struck him full in his smiling face now for the look it wore. "i don't suppose it'll be a bit to your liking, mr. john new, or whatever your confounded name is," he said. "but the doctor has sent everyone away--servants and all--sent 'em packing to-day. he's a bit mad, i think, over that girl--or else he really means to kill her. but there they are--just the pair of 'em--alone together in that house. if you ask me," he added with a leer, "i wouldn't mind changing places with him, and i should say----" i waited for no more; i left the man, and almost ran out of the station in my excitement. i heard him call after me, but could not know what the words were; nor did i greatly care. one picture, and one only, possessed my mind, to the exclusion of everything else. the figure of capper was blotted out by that more tragic figure of debora, at the mercy of bardolph just, in that lonely essex house. more than all else, i realised that my hands would be in a sense tied by debora, because she would believe that my liberty would be endangered if she left the doctor. i found that to be true enough. so confident was the man of his power over her that he had given her a certain amount of liberty; so that, to my surprise and my delight, i suddenly came face to face with her within an hour of my reaching green barn--and that, too, near to the little hut at the edge of the abandoned chalk pit. the meeting was so surprising to both of us that for a time we could only hold hands, and talk incoherently, each in a great relief at finding the other safe and well. but at last we came down to more prosaic things, and she told me something of what was happening. bardolph just had sworn to carry his threat into execution if she saw me again, or had anything further to do with me; he had determined to risk everything, and to give me up to the authorities. i tried to show her that the man would never dare proceed to that extremity, because of the danger in which he would place himself by so doing. and then i told her about capper, and about capper's threat. "capper is here!" she exclaimed, startlingly enough. "have you seen him?" i demanded. she nodded quickly. "i was walking in the grounds a little while ago, and i saw him. he came up to me, and said how glad he was to see me, and asked about the doctor--all quite innocently and simply, i thought." "there is no innocence and no simplicity about him," i said. "he means murder. i don't think anything will turn him from it. that's why i want you to leave all this behind and to go away." "with you?" she asked. "no, not with me," i said, reluctantly enough. i could not tell her then all that was in my mind; i might have broken down in the telling. "i must remain here until i know what capper means to do. i must, if possible, dissuade him from that, if only for his own sake. tell me, my dear girl," i went on earnestly, "is there no one to whom you could go, and who would befriend you? set the doctor out of your mind altogether; i have a presentiment that, whatever happens, he will not trouble you again. is there no one to whom you could turn?" "no one but you in all the world," she said, looking at me curiously. "your father must have had some lawyer--some friend," i suggested. "the same lawyer that dr. just employs," she said. "he looks after my money, as well as that of the doctor." "i want you to promise, debora, that if anything happens to me you will go to that man, and will see to it that he makes proper provision for you out of your money, and provides you with a settled home. he will do that for his own sake." "but what should happen to you?" she whispered, clinging to me. "and in any case how will anyone help me if the doctor is here to interfere?" "i am only asking you to promise something, in case something else--something quite impossible, if you like--should happen," i assured her lightly. "very well then, i promise," she answered. it was a more difficult matter to persuade her to run away, and especially to run away and leave me in that place. for i could not tell her my reasons, and i saw that she did not think it possible that that weak little creature capper could carry out his threat against the stronger man bardolph just; the thing was a sheer impossibility. nevertheless, i so worked upon her terrors of the house, and of the man who had her prisoner there, that at last she consented to go. i pressed what money i had upon her, and arranged that she should go back to london that night, and should make her way to the little quiet hotel near the charterhouse where she was known; there she could await a letter from me. i was to keep out of the way until she was gone, that i might not seem to be connected with her flight. the rest was a matter on my part of vague promises as to the future. and then it was that i held her in my arms as i had never held her before, and as though i could never let her go. for i had made up my mind that i would not see her again; it was my purpose to keep away from her, and to take myself out of her life from that hour. it seemed to me then as though all the strange business that had brought us together was closing, and i felt now, as i had not clearly felt before, that mine was no life to link with hers. she was rich, and she was young, and she was fair; any love she might have felt for me was more a matter of gratitude than anything else. i had been able to stand her friend when no other friend was near, but i was that creature without a name, who might some day by chance be sent back to his prison. i must not link my name with hers. however, i would not let her suspect that this was the parting of the ways. i made her repeat her promise to me to go to this lawyer, an elderly man, as i understood, and one who had dealt honestly with her father; and with that we parted. i knew that she would slip out of the house, and would go off to london. from some other place i would write to her, and would tell her of my decision. i felt also that i might have news to tell of dr. bardolph just. and now i come to that strangest happening of all--the death of that celebrated physician and scientist, dr. bardolph just. of all that was written about it at the time, and the many eulogies that were printed concerning the man, you will doubtless have heard; but the true story of it is given here for the first time, and it is only given now because the man who killed him is dead also, and is beyond the reach of everyone. the thing is presented to me in a series of scenes, so strange and weird in their character that it is almost as though i had dreamt them, when now, after years, i strive to recollect them. the gaunt old house, standing surrounded by its grounds; the solitary man shut up alone in it, not dreaming that debora had gone, and that i was so near at hand; and above all and before all, that strange figure of william capper. i find myself shuddering now when i remember all the elements of the story, and how that story ended. i was a mere spectator of the business--something outside it--and i looked on helplessly through the amazing scenes, with always that feeling that i was in a dream. long after debora had stolen away from the house that night, i wandered restlessly about the place, wondering a little at the silence, and remembering always that somewhere among the shadows lurked capper, watching this man he had come to kill. i remembered also that in the strangest fashion bardolph just had prepared the way for him by actually sending everyone who might have protected him out of the house. exactly how capper got into the place i was never able to discover. whether bardolph just had grown careless, and did not think it likely that the man would discover where he was, or whether capper, with cunning, forced an entrance somewhere, i never knew. but it was after midnight when i heard a cry in the house, and knew that what i dreaded had begun to happen. a minute or two afterwards the door opened, and bardolph just came out, staggering down the steps, and looking back into the lighted house. he seemed frightened, and i guessed what had frightened him. he stopped still at a little distance from the house, and then turned slowly, and retraced his steps. capper stood framed in the lighted doorway, looking out at him, but i saw that he appeared to have no weapon. in the dead silence all about us i heard bardolph just's words clearly. "where the devil did you come from?" he asked in a shrill voice. "from my dead master!" came capper's answer, clear and strong. "get out of my house, you madman!" exclaimed the doctor, taking a step towards him; but the other did not move. "what do you want with me?" "i want to remain near you; i never mean to leave you again on this side of the grave," said capper. "are you going to kill me?" asked the other. "do you mean murder?" "i don't mean to kill you--yet," replied the other. in the strangest fashion he seated himself on the top step, and folded his arms and waited. bardolph just walked away a little, and then came back. i could see that, apart from his dread of the other man, he did not know what to do, nor how to meet this amazing situation. he took out a cigar from his case and lighted it, and strolled up and down there, alternately watching the little man seated above him, and studying the ground as though seeking for a solution of the difficulty. at last he decided to drop threatening, and to try if he might not win the man over. "look here, my good capper," he said, "i've no reason to love you, but i think you're merely a poor, half-witted creature, who should be more pitied than blamed. i don't want to have any trouble with you, but most decidedly i don't want to be subjected to your violence. i want to come into my house.'" "come in by all means," said the little man, getting to his feet; "and i will not use violence." seeing that the doctor still hesitated, i thought i might at least show myself. i was, above all things, anxious to see the end of the business. my concern was with capper chiefly. i could not see for the life of me what he would do in trying conclusions with a man of the physique of bardolph just. above all things, i did not want it to happen that the doctor should gain a victory. "you're not afraid of the man?" was my somewhat contemptuous greeting of him. "what are _you_ doing here?" he demanded. "are you in the plot?" "i've done with plots," i said. "i am merely a spectator." he said nothing about debora, and i rightly guessed that he had not yet discovered her absence, but had merely concluded that she had retired for the night. after looking at me for a moment or two doubtfully, he took a step or two in my direction, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "look here," he said, with a nervous glance towards the man in the doorway, "i'm all alone in this house except for a weak girl, and i'm afraid of this fellow. what shall i do?" "he's smaller than you are," i reminded him. "turn him out!" "i'm half afraid to go near him," he said. "you've seen him fly at me on two occasions; he can be like a wild beast when he likes." "he has said that he will offer you no violence," i replied. "i don't know what he's got in his mind, but it seems to me, if you're afraid to turn him out, you've got to put up with him. he seems very fond of you," i added caustically. he shot a glance at me, as though wondering what i meant; then turned and walked towards the house. i saw capper retreat before him, so as to give him free entry to the place. on the door-step he turned, and called out into the darkness to me. "you, at any rate, can stop outside; one madman is bad enough." then the door was shut, and i was left to wonder what was going on inside. i was not to be left long in doubt. in something less than half an hour, while i was hesitating whether to go, or whether to stay, the door was pulled open again, and a voice so querulous and nervous that i scarcely recognised it for that of the doctor called out into the darkness, "john new! john new, are you there?" i showed myself at once, and he ran down the steps to me. i saw that he was shaking from head to foot; the hand with which he gripped me, while he stared over his shoulder back into the house, was a hand of ice. "for the love of god," he whispered, "come into the house with me! i shall go mad if this goes on. i can't shake him off." "lock yourself in your room, and go to bed," i said disdainfully. "i can't; he's taken every key of every lock in the house and hidden them. i can't shut a door against him anywhere; upstairs and downstairs, wherever i go he is there, just behind me. will you come in?" i went in; the sheer fascination of the thing was growing on me. capper took not the faintest notice of me; he was waiting just inside the door, and he followed us into a room. there he seated himself, with his hands on his knees, and waited. the doctor made a pretence of drinking, and even of lighting a cigar, but he set the glass down almost untasted, and allowed the cigar to go out. no words were exchanged between us, and still capper kept up that relentless watch. at last bardolph just sank down into a chair, and closed his eyes. "if he won't let me go to bed, i'll sleep here," he murmured. but in a moment capper had sprung up, and had gone to the man and shaken him roughly by the shoulder. "wake up!" he ordered. "you'll sleep no more until you sleep at the last until the judgment day." i saw then with horror what his purpose was. i knew not what the end was to be, but i saw that his immediate purpose was to wear the other man down until he could do what he liked with him. i thought he was a fool not to understand that in striving to break down the strength of the other he was breaking himself down too; but that never seemed to occur to him. for the whole of that night he kept bardolph just awake, followed him from room to room in that house where no door would lock, and where he gave his victim no time to barricade himself in; he never left him for a moment. more than once bardolph just turned on him, and then the eyes of capper flashed, and he drew back as if about to spring; and the doctor waited. he threw himself on his bed once, in sheer exhaustion, and capper made such a din in the room by overturning tables and smashing things that the wretched man got up and fled downstairs, and out into the grounds. but capper fled with him. for my part, i slept at intervals, dropping on to a couch, or into a deep chair, and closing my eyes from sheer weariness. i found myself murmuring in my sleep sometimes, incoherently begging capper to give the game up, and to let the man alone; but he took no notice of me, and i might indeed have been a shadow in the house, so little did he seem to be aware of my presence. when i could, after waking from a fitful sleep, i would stumble about the house in a search for them, and even out into the grounds; and always there was the man striving for rest, and the other man keeping him awake. once bardolph just armed himself with a stick, and ran out of the house; capper snatched up another, and ran after him. i thought that this was the end; i ran out too, crying to capper to beware what he did. when i got to them--and this was the noon of the following day--bardolph just had flung aside his stick, and stood there in a dejected attitude, looking at his persecutor. "it's no good," he said hoarsely, "i give in. do what you will with me; ask what you will; this is the end." "not yet," said capper, leaning upon the stick and watching him. "not yet." that strange hunt went on for the whole of that day, and during the next night. i only saw part of it all, because, of course, i fell asleep, and slept longer than i had done at first. but i saw once the wretched man fall upon his knees before capper, and beg for mercy; saw him struggle with capper with his uninjured arm, so that the two of them swayed about, dazed with want of sleep; saw him fall to the ground, and try to sleep, and the other kick him viciously into a wakeful state again. and at last came the end, when the doctor went swaying and stumbling up the stairs towards his bedroom, muttering that the other man could do his worst, but that he must sleep. so utterly worn out was he that he got no further than the landing; there he fell, and lay as one dead. the sun was streaming in through a high window; it fell upon the exhausted man, and upon capper standing beside him. capper was swaying a little, but otherwise seemed alert enough. "this will serve," he muttered as if to himself. "this is the end." he went away, and after a little time came back with a rope and a hatchet. in my horror at what he might be going to do, i would have taken the hatchet from him; but now he threatened me with it, with a snarl like that of a wild beast; and i drew away from him, and watched. he proceeded to hack away the rails of the landing, leaving only the broad balustrade; he cut away six rails, and tossed them aside. then he made a running noose in the rope, and fastened the other end of it securely to the balustrade. there was thus left a space under where the rope was fastened, and sheer down from that a drop into the hall below. he knelt down beside the unconscious man, and lifted his head, and put the noose about his neck. he tightened it viciously, but the sleeping man never even murmured. then i saw him begin to push the sleeping man slowly and with effort towards the gap he had made in the staircase rail. * * * * * when i could look (and it was a long time before i could make up my mind to do so), the body of bardolph just swung high above me, suspended by the neck. on the landing, prone upon the floor, lay william capper, sleeping soundly. chapter xvi. the boy with the long curls. the suicide of that brilliant and cultured man, dr. bardolph just, caused, as you will remember, a very great sensation at the time, and there was much wonder expressed as to why the man had hanged himself at all. but there was no doubt about the question of suicide, because the whole thing had been so deliberately and carefully planned. he had taken care to send everyone away from him--even an old and trusted friend like mr. harvey scoffold--and had left himself absolutely alone in that great house. various theories were put forward as to how he had managed to tie the knot so successfully, in making that running noose for his neck; but it was universally agreed that that had been a matter of teeth and his one uninjured hand. shuddering accounts, wholly imaginary, were given of what the man's last hours must have been, and in what determined fashion he must have hacked away the rails, in order to make a space through which he could push his way. everyone seemed to be perfectly agreed on that matter, and there it ended. for the rest, let me say that i waited in that house until, in due course, william capper woke up. he went about what he had to do after that in the most methodical way, restoring all the keys to the doors, and putting in order such things as had been disturbed during those long, weary hours when he had followed the other man round the house. he said but little to me, and at last we came out of the place, and stood together, with the doors of the house closed upon us. only when we had gone through the grounds, and had come out upon the high road did he speak again, and then without looking at me. "this is where we part, sir," he said quietly. "you will be making for london, and i----" "where will you go?" i asked him as he hesitated. "i don't know, and it doesn't matter," he replied, looking out over the landscape that stretched before him. "i'm an old man, and there may not be many years for me. it does not matter much where or how i spend them. if," he added whimsically, "i could be sure that they would send me to that prison from which you came"--for i had told him that part of the story--"i would do something that would cause me to be sent there; but it might be another prison, and that wouldn't do. i should like to be near him." i stretched out my hand to him, on an impulse, in farewell, but he shook his head. "you might not like to think afterwards that you took my hand, after what i have done," he said quietly. then, with a quick nod, this singular creature turned away and walked off down the road. i lost him at a turn of it, and i saw him no more. i went back to london that night, and at my old lodging found andrew ferkoe awaiting me. i had the task before me of writing to debora, and that task, as you may suppose, was not an easy one. nevertheless i contrived to put my case before her clearly and without brutality. i told her that i should love her all my life; i blessed her for all she had unconsciously done for me; i told her i was grateful for the sweet memory of herself that she had left with me. but i reminded her that i had no name, and no position, and no hopes, and if by any unfortunate chance my real name was thrust upon me in the future, it would only be to bring shame and degradation upon me and upon any one with whom i was associated. and i added that she would have news very soon concerning the doctor, and i thought it improbable that he would ever trouble her again. i sealed the letter and directed it, and gave it to andrew ferkoe. "run out and post that," i said. "and never speak to me about the matter again. you and i are alone together in the world, andrew, and we shall have to be sufficient for each other." the lad weighed the letter in his hand, studying the address, and looking from it to me and back again. "i know what you've done," he said; "you've had a row with the young lady--that's what you've done." "you simpleton!" i laughed; "what do you know about such matters? i've had no row with the young lady, as you express it. i'm only trying to do the right thing." "isn't she fond of you?" he asked wistfully. "i believe she's very fond of me," i replied. "only there are such things in this world as honour, and justice, and truth, and it is written among the laws that men should obey, but do not, that you mustn't take advantage of a woman's fondness for you. in other words, andrew, you must play the game. so that it happens that, as i'm a rank outsider and a bad lot, and as i have the stain of the prison on me, i've got to steer clear of a young girl who is as high above me as the stars. in a little time she will come to think of me with friendly feelings, but no more than that. so off with you, my boy, and post that important letter." andrew hesitated a moment or two longer, and shook his head, but at last he sallied forth on his errand. i had lighted a cigar, and was on the point of sitting down to enjoy it, and to ruminate luxuriously over my miseries, when there came a knock at the door, and my landlady put her head in to announce that a gentleman had come to see me. i was rapidly running over the names of the extremely few people who even knew of my whereabouts as the man entered, and disclosed himself as an utter stranger. he was a little man, dressed in black, and of a precise manner of speech and action. the landlady withdrew, and the visitor stood looking at me, as though taking stock of me generally, while he removed his gloves. "haven't you made a mistake, sir?" i asked. "i think not," he replied. "you are mr. john new, are you not?" i told him that i was, and i began to have an unpleasant sensation that he must be connected with the police in some way. however, he smiled with satisfaction at this proof that he was right, and took from his breast pocket a little bundle of papers. "you were, i believe, a friend of the late mr. zabdiel blowfield, who was brutally murdered a short time ago?" he asked, looking up at me. "yes," i said, in some amazement. "i knew him slightly." "as you are doubtless aware, mr. new, the old gentleman was very eccentric, and took very sudden likes and dislikes. he had no one in the world belonging to him, his one nephew, after a somewhat disgraceful career, having died shamefully. it seems, however, that, slight as your acquaintance with him was, he took a decided liking for you." "he never displayed it in life," i said grimly. "then he has made up for any lack in that respect now," said the man. "perhaps i should introduce myself, mr. new. my name is tipping--james tipping--and i was mr. blowfield's solicitor for many years. i should like, mr. new, to congratulate you; your poor old friend has left you everything he possessed in the world." for a moment or two i gaped at him, not understanding. i tried to frame words in which to answer, tried to get some grasp of his meaning. while i stood there, staring stupidly, he smiled indulgently, and went on speaking. "the will in which he left everything to you, and which was duly witnessed at my office, was prepared only a few days--a few hours almost--before his death. it was prepared under curious circumstances. he seemed to have an idea that he had not treated his dead nephew very well, and he wanted to make amends in some way. he told me that was the reason that he wanted to leave the money to you, a young man, with his way to make in the world." i own i felt bitterly ashamed. i seemed to see this strange old man doing what he thought was some tardy act of justice at the very end, and doing it in such a fashion that my identity should not be revealed. true, i remembered that in sheer panic he had tried to destroy me afterwards, but he had not revoked the will. "how much is it?" i contrived to ask. "considerably over eighty thousand pounds," said mr. tipping unctuously. "mr. blowfield lived very simply, as you are aware, and was extremely successful in his investments generally. i congratulate you, mr. new, with all my heart; i regret if i have been somewhat abrupt, and so have startled you." "it is a little staggering, certainly," i said weakly. the man made an appointment for me to see him at his office on the following day, but meanwhile left a substantial sum in my hands. when andrew ferkoe came back, as he did presently, i told him the great news. "now, look here, andrew," i said solemnly, "i regard this money as belonging almost as much to you as it does to me. there's not the slightest doubt that my uncle zabdiel made your father poor, and you know well enough that he ground you pretty hard afterwards. you toiled, just as i toiled before you; and now we've got our great reward. you shall join forces with me; we'll start life together, in a better fashion than any we have yet enjoyed. come down with me to see the lawyer to-morrow, and i'll settle a certain amount on you, and tie it up tight, so that you can get at it only in instalments; because money's a dreadful temptation. after that we'll decide what we shall do with our lives." "i wish my poor father had been alive to know you," said the boy tearfully. i slept but little that night; my brain was awhirl with many thoughts. now, more than ever, there entered into me the temptation to remember only that i was a rich man, and by that right, at least, i might approach debora. i weighed that aspect of the case carefully through the long hours of the night--almost making up my mind at times that i would throw everything else to the winds, and would go to the girl and beg her now to start life with me in a newer and a better fashion than any she or i had known. but with the cold light of the dawn hard facts asserted themselves; and i knew that the brand of my prison was on me, and could not well be washed out. i rose from my bed, determined that for the future love or thoughts of love was not for me. in due course we called upon mr. james tipping, and i listened with what patience i might to a lecture from that gentleman on the sin of mistaken generosity. in the end, of course, i had my way, and andrew ferkoe found himself with an income, and with mr. james tipping as his legal guardian. i will not tell you the amount, lest you should regard me either as too generous or not generous enough; suffice it that andrew could look forward to the prospect of passing his days in comfort, no matter what might happen to me. a few days of splendid idleness supervened on that, and i saw london under a new aspect, and with a heart almost at peace--almost, because it was utterly impossible for me to shut out of my mind what might have been and what never could be. so difficult was it, indeed, that at last my resolution broke down; and one evening i drove straight to the little hotel near the charterhouse where i had left debora. i rehearsed speeches as i went along, telling myself that she should understand clearly what the position was, and what she risked, and all the rest of it; i was very full of the matter by the time the cab stopped outside the hotel. but she was gone. so little had i expected that, that i stared in blank amazement at the porter, and asked him if he was quite sure. yes, he was quite sure; the lady had left two days before, and had not stated where she was going. that was a knock-down blow, and one from which i found it difficult to recover. my pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; i had never expected that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very forcible arguments i had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter to her. i had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; i had pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very different view of the matter before me. this calm acceptance of my ideas was not what in my heart i had really anticipated. foolishly enough, i went back again and again to the hotel; but there was no news of her. i did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom i had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or to the doctor. i began to see with bitterness that this young lady regarded me merely as an episode--merely as a highly undesirable escaped convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done with. for my part, i had done with london, and i had done with england. i made up my mind that i would go abroad, and would start again in a new country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable existence. so set was i upon the idea that in a matter of days i had decided everything, and was buying my outfit. i put the matter before andrew ferkoe; i expected that he would raise objections to our parting. he seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the question. he had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view to training. i applauded the idea, for i had not liked to think that the lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income. judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up our quarters, and announced quite another decision. he announced it firmly, too, and with more daring than i should have given him credit for. "i'm coming with you," he said. "you're making a great mistake if you think of doing that," i assured him. "here in london you can settle down, and become a great and clever man; with me you'll probably lead a useless, wandering sort of existence, and accomplish nothing. be wise, and stay where you are." "i'm coming with you," said andrew obstinately. "you've been awfully good to me, and i should be a beast to let you go on alone, to knock about the world. i've been selfish even to think of it." nor could i shake his determination. i had booked my passage, and i now had to take another for him. he was nervous of going, he told me, and would greatly prefer to have a cabin to himself, if that could be secured. as there were not many passengers by that particular boat, i was able to arrange that he should be alone in a small cabin. i settled the matter then and there, and paid his passage money. and so we came to the last night we were to spend in england. "i want to have a run round to-morrow," he said, as we were about to retire to our rooms. "it'll be the last time i shall see london, i expect, and i want to make the most of every hour. the vessel doesn't sail until quite late, and i shall go on board and turn in at once. i'm dreadfully afraid i shall be ill, and i don't want to wake up until i'm miles away from the shore; then perhaps i can face it better." having settled that point, the boy prepared to go to bed. when he got to the door of the room, however, he turned back, and slowly retraced his steps to where i stood. he seemed bashful and nervous; he did not look into my eyes. "there's never been anyone in the world that's behaved as well to me as you have," he said. "i shall never be able to thank you enough." "shut up, andrew, and go to bed!" i broke in. "i don't intend to speak about it again, but i must, just this last time. god bless you, jack"--i had taught him to call me that--"and may you be the happiest man in the world, wherever you are." before i could prevent him he had caught my hand in both of his, and had kissed it passionately; then, with a sound suspiciously like a sob, he turned and bolted from the room. i had known him always for an odd, strange creature, but i confess i was moved more strongly then than perhaps i had ever been moved before. evidently he had made up his mind to make the most of the day; he was gone from the hotel when i came down in the morning. i took my last look at london on my own account, feeling not too cheerful at the prospect of going so far away. then, towards the hour for sailing, i started for the ship. my luggage had gone on, and i had nothing to do but to put myself on board. "the young gentleman came on board, and turned in about half an hour ago, sir," the steward told me. "dreadful afraid of being seasick, sir; said he wasn't to be disturbed on any account." "let him alone by all means," i said laughing. i felt relieved to know that andrew had got safely out of his adventures of the day. i turned in, and slept until the morning, by which time we were well out to sea. andrew did not put in an appearance all that day. he sent messages to me by the steward, to say that he was very ill, and did not want to see anyone; a little later, that he was getting better. it was quite late in the evening when i put the steward aside and insisted on seeing the boy. i was anxious about him. the cabin was not particularly well lighted as i stumbled into it. i saw the boy sitting on the side of his bunk, with his face partly turned from me. curiously enough, he was wearing his hat, a soft felt i had noticed him with the day before we left london. "well, andrew," i said cheerily, "i'm sorry to see you like this. much better for you to put a good face on it, and come on deck." "won't this face do?" i started, and stared at the figure of the boy. in a moment the boy rose to his feet and tossed aside the felt hat; a great mass of curls came tumbling down on to his shoulders. i uttered a cry of amazement. it was debora! "andrew knew all about it all the time," she whispered to me, when presently we were coherent, and when she had blushingly apologised for her boy's dress. "he came to me after he had posted the letter you sent me; then, when i knew that you were going to sail, i made up my mind to come with you. you foolish fellow! you would only have run away from me again if i had tried to meet you in any other way; and i wanted to follow you all over the world." "all my world is here!" i whispered, as i kissed her. the end. ward, lock & co., limited, london. love and moondogs by richard mckenna "_the true dog, madame, was originally the golden jackal_, canis aureus.... _he must love and be loved, or he dies._" [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the headline on the newspapers stacked in front of the drugstore read "russ dog reaches moon alive." a man in a leather jacket stopped to scan it. across the street, frost lay crisp on the courthouse lawn, and the white and tan spotted hound put up his forepaws on the kitchen stool as if to warm them. the four women were too busy hauling down the flag to notice. martha stonery in the persian lamb coat paid out the halyard. monica flint in the reddish muskrat and paula hart in the brown fox caught the flag and folded it, careful not to let it touch the wet cement. a postman and the man in the leather jacket stopped on the sidewalk to watch. martha, plump face grim under pinchnose spectacles, fastened one halyard snap to a metal ring taped and wired to the dog's right hind leg. "hoist away, girls." monica, paula and abigail silax in nutria hauled in unison while martha held the flag. the hound scrabbled with his forepaws and barked frantically. as he went struggle-twisting upward he began to howl in a bell-like voice. the women grunted with effort. people were coming across the lawn and pale faces moved behind the courthouse windows. "two block," martha said. "vast hauling and belay." she pulled the kitchen stool nearer the flagpole and climbed on it to face the small crowd across the shelf of her bosom. cars were stopping, people streaming in from all sides. martha patted her piled gray hair and made her thin lips into a parrot beak. "fellow americans!" she cried above the howling. "our leaders are cowards and it is time for the people to act before the russians come and murder us all in our beds! we, the united dames of the dog, hereby protest the russian crime of putting a trusting, loving dog on the moon to starve and freeze and smother and die of loneliness! this dog above our heads cries out to the world against the russian breach of faith between dog and man. he will stay there until the russians bring their dog home safely or make amends for their crime!" "like hell!" said the man in the leather jacket, moving in. "_martha!_" abigail shrieked. "he's taking it down!" monica pulled at his wrists. paula slapped and scratched at his face. "you brute! you coward!" they shrilled. martha jumped off the stool and kicked him. he backed away, bent and holding himself. "look, ladies," he gasped, "for god's sake--" "here now, here now, this is county property," said a fat man in shirtsleeves with pink sleeve garters, pushing through the crowd. "what's all this? take that dog down, somebody!" "never!" martha snapped. she put her back against the halyard cleat, unfolded the flag and draped it around herself. a loose strand of gray hair fell across her face. "if you're so big and brave, go bring down the russian dog," she told the fat man coldly. "now _listen_, lady," the fat man said. the _clarion_ press photographer was sprinting across the lawn. * * * * * george stonery was tall, thin, stooped and anxious in a gray business suit. "i came as soon as i could," he told sheriff breen across the scarred, paper-littered wooden desk. "i was away checking one of our warehouses." "you can make bail for her in two minutes, right across the hall," the sheriff said, scratching his jowl. "she wouldn't make it for herself, said we had to lock her in our sputnik." "where is she now?" "in the sputnik." the desk phone rang and the sheriff growled into it, "hell you say. state forty-three just past roy farm? right. i s'pose you already heard what we had on the lawn here this morning?" the phone gave forth an excited gobbling. the sheriff's red eyebrows rose in disbelief and his heavy jaw dropped in dismay. he put down the phone. "that was city," he told stonery. "complaint about a dog hanging by one leg from a tree just outside city limits. but it's going on all over town too--dogs hanging on trees, out of windows, off clotheslines--every squad car is out. your old lady sure started something!" "what did she _do_?" stonery asked in anguish. the sheriff told him. "kicked a big fat deputy where it hurts, too. maybe we ought to hold her after all. she says she's president of the united dogs of something." "united dames of the dog," the thin man corrected. "they hold meetings and things. she started it when the russians put up their second sputnik." "well, i hope none of them dames lives out in the county," the sheriff said, rising. "you fix up bail, mr. stonery. i got to send out a deputy." walking past the flagpole with her husband, martha stonery wore an exalted look. "all over america dogs will cry out in protest against the russian crime," she said. "i have kindled a flame, george, that will sweep away the kremlin. i, a weak woman...." she insisted on driving herself home in her new station wagon. * * * * * sirening police cars passed stonery three times as he drove home in the evening. outside the tan stucco ranch-style house on euclid avenue, cars blocked the driveway and a crowd milled on the lawn. stonery parked under the oak tree at the curb and got out. martha stood in the living room by the picture window and harangued the crowd through a screened side panel. centered in the window her spaniel fiffalo writhed, hanging by a hind leg from the massive gilt floor lamp and yipping piteously. martha had on her suit of gray harris tweed and her diamond brooch. "... moral pressure the russians simply _cannot_ resist," stonery heard her shouting as he joined the crowd. "the men talk, but the united dames of the dog are not afraid to act. putting a dear little dog on the moon to die of heart-break!" several young men near the window scribbled on white pads. "how many members do you have, mrs. stonery?" one asked. "the u.d.d. is bigger than you think, young man. bigger than the russians think, for all their spies and traitors!" stonery sidled in and tried the front door. "she locked it," one of the reporters told him. "the cops went back for a warrant. say! you're stonery!" "yes," the thin man said, flushing. a press camera flashed and he put up his hands too late to shield his face. "give us a statement, mr. stonery, before the cops come back," the reporters clamored. stonery backed off, waving his hands. "please, please," he said. "she cracked?" a reporter asked. "when did you first notice?" "please," stonery said. "yes, she's upset. her oldest son went into the state penitentiary in california last week. she's very upset about it." "he kill somebody?" the same reporter asked. "no, oh no ... just armed robbery ... please don't print that, boys." "here come the cops back!" someone shouted. two policemen crossed the lawn, one waving a paper. "here is our warrant of forcible entry, mrs. stonery," he called out. he began reading it aloud. "the u.d.d. will not shrink from any extremes of police brutality," martha cried sharply. fiffalo struggled and yelped louder. the second policeman smashed the lock with a ten-pound sledge. the reporters swept stonery into the house with them. one policeman untied fiffalo and held him in his arms. he strained his head back and away from the spaniel's whimpering kisses. martha glared selflessly while flash bulbs popped. stonery pulled gently at the other policeman's sleeve. "may i come along, officer?" he asked. "i'm her husband. i'll have to arrange bail." "not taking her," the policeman said. "no room left in the pokey. since two o'clock we been arresting the dogs." * * * * * the bellboy put down the silver bucket of ice cubes, pocketed the quarter and went out. the skinny secretary put a bottle of whisky beside it and turned to that fat adjutant sprawled shoeless on the bed. "looks like governor bob'll be a while yet, sam," the secretary said. "shall we drink without him?" "hell yes, i need one, dave," the adjutant said in his frog voice, wiggling his toes. "bob must be having himself a time with that stonery dame." he chuckled and slapped his belly. the secretary tore wrappers off two tumblers and clinked ice into them. his rabbit face with its spectacles framed in clear plastic expressed a rabbity concern. "it ain't for laughs, sam," he said. "it's like the dancing mania of the middle ages, ever hear of it?" "no. d'they string up dogs by a hind leg too?" "no, only danced. but it was catching, like this is. my god, sam, it's all over the state now, u.d.d. women running in packs at night, singing, hanging up every dog they can catch. sam, it _scares_ me." he splashed whisky into the two glasses. the adjutant belched, sat up in a creaking of bed springs, and scratched his heavy jaw. "you're thinking they might start hanging up us poor sons of bitches, ain't you?" he asked. "hell, call out the guard. clamp on a curfew." he reached for a glass. "yes, and the russians'll fake pictures of your boys sticking old women with bayonets," the secretary said. "governor bob couldn't get reelected as dogcatcher, even." the adjutant drained his glass, lipping back the ice, and whistled his breath out through pouting lips. "good! needed that," he grunted. "dave, bob's got that stonery dame by the short hairs, he'll swing her into line. just that about her boy in the state pen out in california is enough. brown would do bob a favor and spring him. or the papers here would splash it. either way." "i know, i know," the secretary said, sipping at his drink. "we'll see, when bob gets here. meanwhile, as of yesterday we had thirty-three thousand seven hundred twenty-six dogs in protective custody and god knows how many more under house arrest. sixteen thousand bucks a day it's costing us--" he broke off as a knock sounded on the door. he hastily tore the wrapper off another glass and splashed it full of ice and bourbon. the adjutant padded to the door and opened it. the governor, a stout, florid man in a gray sports coat, came in and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. the secretary handed him the drink and he gulped half of it before speaking. "no smoke, boys," he said finally. "she give it to me just like she does to the papers. we got to go to the moon, or make the russians do it, and bring that poor, dear, sweet, trusting, cuddly little dog back to earth again." "how about her kid out on the coast?" the adjutant asked. "she spit in my eye, sam. said she was just as brave to be a martyr as the dogs they string up. why, she even told me about another boy of hers, living in sin with a black woman down in cuba, and dared me to give that to the papers too." "she sounds tough as she looks." "she's tougher," the governor groaned. "like blue granite. i felt like i was back in the third grade." he handed his empty glass to the secretary. "what did you finally do?" the secretary asked. "what the hell _could_ i do? i want that u.d.d. vote, it must be a whopper. i wagged my tail and barked for her and said i had an idea." "and now i got to think up the idea," the secretary said, still holding the empty glass. "no, i thought it up on my way back," the governor said. "i'm going to fly to washington this afternoon." "not the army, for god's sake," pleaded the adjutant. "no, i'm going to dump it on the russian embassy. damn their black hearts, they started this. hurry up with that drink!" "watch out you don't lose your donkey for sure and all," the adjutant said. "them russians are smart cookies." "they'll have to be," the governor said, reaching for the fresh drink. "they sure ... as ... _hell_ ... will have to be!" * * * * * all the folding chairs were taken. extra women stood in the aisles and along the side of the hall. martha stonery bulged over the rostrum in blue knitted wool and a pearl necklace. seated around a half-circle of chairs behind her, pack leaders and committee chairwomen smoothed at their skirts. monica flint in dove gray sat at the organ. martha pounded with her gavel so hard that her pearls rattled. "everyone will please stand while we sing our hymn," she said into the resultant hush. she nodded to monica, who began to play. "_i did not raise my dog to ride a sputnik, i will not let him wander to the moon...._" the song was a shrill thundering. martha beamed across her bosom as the crowd settled itself again. "i have a most thrilling announcement to make before we adjourn, girls," she said, "but first we will have committee reports. paula hart, will you begin?" she yielded the rostrum. all the reports were favorable. the u.d.d. was getting four times as many column-inches in the state press as the russian moonship. it was on tv and radio. a _life_ team was coming. changes were recommended. vigilante packs were not to carry hat pins any more. two policemen had lost eyes and the police were being ugly about it. a bar of soap in a man's sock was to be substituted. more practice on the clove hitch was needed. too often, in their excitement, the pack ladies were only putting two half hitches around the leg and the dog could struggle out of it. martha came back to the rostrum to read the honor roll of those whom dogs had bitten or policemen had insulted. each heroine came forward amid cheers and clapping to receive a certificate exchangeable for the bleeding heart medal as soon as the honors committee could agree on a design and have a supply made up. martha shook the hands, some of them bandaged, and wept a few tears. "and now, fellow u.d.d. members," she said, "i will tell you my surprise. tomorrow morning i have an appointment with someone coming from washington!" a sighing murmur swept through the hall. "no, not _eisenhower_," martha said scornfully. "a man from the russian embassy, a mr. cherkassov." applause crashed shrilly. women wept and hugged each other. "they want to make peace," martha shouted ringingly into the tumult. "we've won, girls! sally out tonight and don't come in until the last dog is hung! we'll show them what it means to challenge the massed u.d.d.-ers of america!" * * * * * the state police cordon kept the block of euclid avenue free of reporters and idle gapers. the state car drove up at : a.m. and parked under the oak tree. mr. cherkassov and the two tass men got out. mr. cherkassov was stocky and crop-haired in a blue suit. his broad, high-cheekboned face, with snub nose and an inward tilt about the eyes, managed to seem both alert and impassive. carrying a pig-skin briefcase, he led the way to the stonery front door. he stepped on the doormat and pressed the bell. the doormat whirred and writhed under his feet and he stepped back hastily. martha stonery, regal in maroon silk, four-inch cameo and piled gray hair, opened the door. "don't be afraid of the doormat, mr. cherkassov--you _are_ mr. cherkassov, aren't you?" she asked sweetly. he nodded, looking from her to the doormat. "your weight presses something and the little brushes spin around and clean your shoes," she explained. "i expect you don't have things like that in russia. but _do_, please, come in and sit down." the three men stepped carefully across the mat on entering. in the oak-paneled living room, paula hart waited in black wool and pearls with monica flint, who wore white jade and green jersey. martha and mr. cherkassov made introductions back and forth and the men bowed stiffly. then martha sat down flanked by her aides on the gray sofa facing the picture window. the men sat in single chairs and rubbed their polished black shoes uneasily against the deep-pile gray rug. "madame stonery, i have come to justify moondog," mr. cherkassov said. his voice was deep and controlled. "two wrongs don't make a right, mr. cherkassov," martha said, raising her head. "you needn't bring up hiroshima. we already know about those thousands of little black and white spaniels. besides, i saw a _life_ picture where you sewed a little dog's head to the side of a big dog's neck." mr. cherkassov looked at his stubby fingers and hid them under his briefcase. paula and monica nodded accusingly and one tass man made a note. "we do not believe it is a wrong when a greater value prevails over a lesser," mr. cherkassov said. "moondog sends us information that will hasten the time of safe space-travel for humans." "and who might _you_ be, to say which value is greatest? space travel is moonshine, just _moonshine_!" "i do not understand your word, madame. if you mean impossible, i must point out that moondog has already crossed space." martha clasped her hands in her lap. "that's what i mean, grown men and such _silliness_, and the poor little dog has to pay." mr. cherkassov spoke earnestly. "forgive me if my ignorance of your language causes me to misunderstand, madame. we believe because man now has the ability to cross space he therefore has a _duty_ to all life on earth to help it reach other planets. earth is overcrowded with men, not to speak of the wild life that soon must all die. we believe that around other suns we will find earth-like planets where we can plough and harvest and build homes. i cannot agree that it is silly." martha flung her head back. "well, it _is_ silly. who'll go? all the men who do things will run away to them and then where will we be? oh no, mr. cherkassov, that gets you nowhere!" "your pardon, madame," a tass man interrupted. "what kind of men will run away?" "the sour-faced men who fix pipes and tv and make a-bombs and electricity and things." "oh," said mr. cherkassov. he drummed on his briefcase. then, "perhaps only russians will go, madame. you could pass a law. i must confess to you, we might have sent a man to the moon, but we feared the propaganda use your country might make of it." martha made her parrot mouth. "you should have sent a _man_!" she chomped the last word off short. paula and monica nodded vigorously. mr. cherkassov stroked his briefcase. "moondog's mistress wished greatly to go. one might say moondog saved her mistress' life. is not that a value to you?" martha stared. "did you dare think of sending a poor weak _woman_ to the ... to the _moon_?" "russian women are coarse and strong," mr. cherkassov said soothingly. "a large number of them, among the scientists, did volunteer." * * * * * martha sat bolt upright and made her parrot beak again. her fat cheeks flushed under the powder. "no!" she snapped. "i see where you're trying to lead me and i won't go! you should have sent the hussy! it is _immoral_ to sacrifice a loving little dog just for a careless whim." her two aides gazed admiringly at their chieftainess. "think of it, just for a whim!" paula echoed. mr. cherkassov's fingers traced an aimless, intricate pattern on the briefcase and he crossed his ankles. "all dogs are not loving in the same way, madame. tell me, how do you know when a dog loves you?" "you just know," martha said. "take my little fiffalo--and i just know he's so miserable now away from me in that dreadful concentration camp and it's all your fault, really, mr. cherkassov--when i pet fiffalo he jumps in my lap and kisses me and just _wiggles_ all over. that's real love!" "ah ... i perhaps understand. what does he do when you speak sharply to him?" "he lies on his back with his paws waving and looks so sad and pitiful and defenseless that my heart melts and i feel good all over. you just _know_ that's love, when it happens to you." monica dabbed at a tear. both tass men scribbled. "i think i may see a way to resolve our differences," mr. cherkassov said. he put his feet side by side and leaned slightly forward, gripping the briefcase on his knees. "what do you know of the history of the dog?" he asked. "well, he's always been man's best friend and the savage indians used to eat him and ... and...." "the true dog, madame, was domesticated about twenty thousand years ago. he was originally the golden jackal, _canis aureus_, which still exists in a wild state. selective breeding for submissiveness and obedience over that long time has resulted in the retention through maturity of many traits normal only to puppyhood. the modern pureline golden jackal dog no longer develops a secret life of his own, with emotional self-sufficiency. he must love and be loved, or he dies." monica sniffed. "what a beautiful name," paula murmured. martha nodded warily. "but, madame, there is also a kind of false dog. certain siberian tribes slow to reach civilized status also domesticated the northern wolf, _canis lupus_. this was many thousands of years later, of course, and in the false dog the effect of long breeding is not so evident. he is loving as a puppy, but when he matures he is aloof and reserves his loyalty to one master. he is intensely loyal and will die for his master, but even to him he will display little outward affection. perhaps a wag of the tail or a head laid on the knee, not too often. no others except quite young children may pet him at all. to all but his master he displays a kind of tolerant indifference unless he is molested, and then he defends himself." "what a horrible creature, not a dog at all!" martha exclaimed. "not culturally, you are quite correct, madame," mr. cherkassov agreed, shifting his hold on the briefcase and leaning further forward, "but unfortunately he is a dog biologically. some wolf blood has crept into most of the jackal-derived breeds, you know. it betrays itself in high cheekbones and slanting eyes and in the _personality_ of the breed. the chow, for instance, has considerable wolf blood." "chows!" martha beaked her lips again. "i despise them! no better than cats!" paula nodded emphatic agreement. "but your little fiffalo, as you describe him, is probably of pure _canis aureus_ descent and very highly bred." "i'm sure he is. blood will tell. monica, haven't i always said blood will tell?" monica nodded, her eyes shining. mr. cherkassov shifted his position slightly, nearer to the chair edge. "now moondog, madame stonery, is of the _lajka_ breed and has even more wolf blood than the chow. if you brought her back to earth she would just walk away from you with cold indifference." "not _really_?" "madame, you know the wolf traits only as you find them tempered with the loving jackal traits in such dogs as the chow. but a _russian_ dog! if you were to hand moondog a piece of meat, do you know what she would do?" "no. tell me." mr. cherkassov leaned forward, his slanting gray eyes opening wide, and dropped his voice almost to a whisper. "madame, she would _bite_ your hand!" "then she doesn't deserve to be rescued!" martha said sharply. mr. cherkassov straightened up and began stroking his briefcase. "in one sense she is not even a dog," he suggested. "no, she's an old wolf-thing. like a cat. dogs are _loving_!" "perhaps not morally worthy of your campaign?" "no, of _course_ not. mr. cherkassov, you have given me a new thought.... i hadn't realized...." mr. cherkassov waited attentively, his fingers tracing another pattern. paula and monica looked at martha and held their breaths. "... hadn't realized how that subversive wolf blood has been creeping into our loving dogs all this long time. why ... why it's miscegenation! it's _bestiality_! confess it, mr. cherkassov--that's one way you russians have been infiltrating us, now isn't it?" mr. cherkassov raised his sandy eyebrows, and a frosty twinkle shone in his tilted eyes. "you must realize that i could hardly admit to such a thing, even if it were true, madame stonery," he said judiciously. "it _is_ true! go back to your kremlin, mr. cherkassov, and shoot every wolf in russia to the moon. i'm sure the u.d.d. won't mind!" mr. cherkassov and the tass men stood up and bowed. martha rose and sailed ahead of them to the door. hand on knob, she turned to face them. "our meeting will be historic, mr. cherkassov," she said. "i have forced you to betray your country's plot to undermine our loving dogs. you may expect from the u.d.d. instant and massive retaliation! an aroused america will move at once, to set up miscegenation and segregation barriers against your despicable wolf blood!" paula and monica stood up, each with her hands clasped under her flushed and excited face. mr. cherkassov bowed again. martha opened the door. "goodbye, mr. cherkassov," she said. "you will, no doubt, be liquidated in a few days." mr. cherkassov stepped carefully across the doormat. google books (harvard college library) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id= xsnaaaayaaj (harvard college library) when love calls by stanley j. weyman author of "a gentleman of france," "the castle inn," etc., etc. boston brown and company purchase street _copyright, _ by brown and company university press john wilson and son, cambridge, u. s. a. contents when love calls i. her story ii. his story a strange invitation the invisible portraits along the garonne when love calls i. her story "clare," i said, "i wish that we had brought some better clothes, if it were only one frock. you look the oddest figure." and she did. she was lying head to head with me on the thick moss that clothed one part of the river-bank above breistolen near the sogn fiord. we were staying at breistolen, but there was no moss thereabouts, nor in all the sogn district, i often thought, so deep and soft, and so dazzling orange and white and crimson as that particular patch. it lay quite high upon the hills, and there were great gray boulders peeping through the moss here and there, very fit to break your legs if you were careless. little more than a mile higher up was the watershed, where our river, putting away with reluctance a first thought of going down the farther slope towards bysberg, parted from its twin brother who was thither bound with scores upon scores of puny green-backed fishlets; and instead, came down our side gliding and swishing, and swirling faster and faster, and deeper and wider, every hundred yards to breistolen, full of red-speckled yellow trout all half-a-pound apiece, and very good to eat. but they were not so sweet or toothsome to our girlish tastes as the tawny-orange cloud-berries which clare and i were eating as we lay. so busy was she with the luscious pile we had gathered that i had to wait for an answer. and then, "speak for yourself," she said. "i'm sure you look like a short-coated baby. he is somewhere up the river too." munch, munch, munch! "who is, you impertinent, greedy little chit?" "oh, you know," she answered. "don't you wish you had your gray plush here, bab?" i flung a look of calm disdain at her; but whether it was the berry juice which stained our faces that took from its effect, or the free mountain air which papa says saps the foundations of despotism, that made her callous, at any rate she only laughed scornfully and got up and went off down the stream with her rod, leaving me to finish the cloud-berries, and stare lazily up at the snow patches on the hillside--which somehow put me in mind of the gray plush--and follow or not as i liked. clare has a wicked story of how i gave in to papa, and came to start without anything but those rough clothes. she says he said--and jack buchanan has told me that lawyers put no faith in anything that he says she says, or she says he says, which proves how much truth there is in this--that if bab took none but her oldest clothes, and fished all day and had no one to run upon her errands--he meant jack and the others, i suppose--she might possibly grow an inch in norway. just as if i wanted to grow an inch! an inch indeed! i am five feet one and a half high, and papa, who puts me an inch shorter, is the worst measurer in the world. as for miss clare, she would give all her inches for my eyes. so there! after clare left, it began to be dull and chilly. when i had pictured to myself how nice it would be to dress for dinner again, and chosen the frock i would wear upon the first evening, i grew tired of the snow patches, and started up stream, stumbling and falling into holes, and clambering over rocks, and only careful to save my rod and my face. it was no occasion for the gray plush, but i had made up my mind to reach a pool which lay, i knew, a little above me, having filched a yellow-bodied fly from clare's hat with a view to that particular place. our river did the oddest things hereabouts--pleased to be so young, i suppose. it was not a great churning stream of snow water foaming and milky, such as we had seen in some parts, streams that affected to be always in flood, and had the look of forcing the rocks asunder and clearing their path even while you watched them with your fingers in your ears. our river was none of these: still it was swifter than english rivers are wont to be, and in parts deeper, and transparent as glass. in one place it would sweep over a ledge and fall wreathed in spray into a spreading lake of black, rock-bound water. then it would narrow again until, where you could almost jump across, it darted smooth and unbroken down a polished shoot with a swoop like a swallow's. out of this it would hurry afresh to brawl along a gravelly bed, skipping jauntily over first one and then another ridge of stones that had silted up weir-wise and made as if they would bar the channel. under the lee of these there were lovely pools. to be able to throw into mine, i had to walk out along the ridge on which the water was shallow, yet sufficiently deep to cover my boots. but i was well rewarded. the "forellin"--the norse name for trout, and as pretty as their girls' wavy fair hair--were rising so merrily that i hooked and landed one in five minutes, the fly falling from its mouth as it touched the stones. i hate taking out hooks. i used at one time to leave the fly in the fish's mouth to be removed by papa at the weighing house; until clare pricked her tongue at dinner with an almost new, red tackle, and was so mean as to keep it, though i remembered then what i had done with it, and was certain it was mine--which was nothing less than dishonest of her. i had just got back to my place and made a fine cast, when there came--not the leap, and splash, and tug which announced the half-pounder--but a deep, rich gurgle as the fly was gently sucked under, and then a quiet, growing strain upon the line, which began to move away down the pool in a way that made the winch spin again and filled me with mysterious pleasure. i was not conscious of striking or of anything but that i had hooked a really good fish, and i clutched the rod with both hands and set my feet as tightly as i could upon the slippery gravel. the line moved up and down, and this way and that, now steadily and as with a purpose, and then again with an eccentric rush that made the top of the rod spring and bend so that i looked for it to snap each moment. my hands began to grow numb, and the landing-net, hitherto an ornament, fell out of my waist-belt and went i knew not whither. i suppose i must have stepped unwittingly into deeper water, for i felt that my skirts were afloat, and altogether things were going dreadfully against me, when the presence of an ally close at hand was announced by a cheery shout from the far side of the river. "keep up your point! keep up your point!" some one cried briskly. "that is better!" the unexpected sound--it was a man's voice--did something to keep my heart up. but for answer i could only shriek, "i can't! it will break!" watching the top of my rod as it jigged up and down, very much in the fashion of clare performing what she calls a waltz. she dances as badly as a man. "no, it will not," he cried back, bluntly. "keep it up, and let out a little line with your fingers when he pulls hardest." we were forced to shout and scream. the wind had risen and was adding to the noise of the water. soon i heard him wading behind me. "where's your landing net?" he asked, with the most provoking coolness. "oh, in the pool! somewhere about. i am sure i don't know," i answered wildly. what he said to this i could not catch, but it sounded rude. and then he waded off to fetch, as i guessed, his own net. by the time he reached me again i was in a sad plight, feet like ice, and hands benumbed, while the wind, and rain, and hail, which had come down upon us with a sudden violence, unknown, it is to be hoped, anywhere else, were mottling my face all sorts of unbecoming colors. but the line was taut. and wet and cold went for nothing five minutes later, when the fish lay upon the bank, its prismatic sides slowly turning pale and dull, and i knelt over it half in pity and half in triumph, but wholly forgetful of the wind and rain. "you did that very pluckily, little one," said the on-looker; "but i am afraid you will suffer for it by and by. you must be chilled through." quickly as i looked up at him, i only met a good-humored smile. he did not mean to be rude. and, after all, when i was in such a mess it was not possible that he could see what i was like. he was wet enough himself. the rain was streaming from the brim of the soft hat which he had turned down to shelter his face, and trickling from his chin, and turning his shabby norfolk jacket a darker shade. as for his hands, they looked red and knuckly enough, and he had been wading almost to his waist. but he looked, i don't know why, all the stronger and manlier and nicer for these things, because, perhaps, he cared for them not one whit. what i looked like myself i dared not think. my skirts were as short as short could be, and they were soaked: most of my hair was unplaited, my gloves were split, and my sodden boots were out of shape. i was forced, too, to shiver and shake from cold; which was provoking, for i knew it made me seem half as small again. "thank you, i am a little cold, mr.----, mr.----," i said, grave, only my teeth would chatter so that he laughed outright as he took me up with-- "herapath. and to whom have i the honor of speaking?" "i am miss guest," i said, miserably. it was too cold to be frigid to advantage. "commonly called bab, i think," the wretch answered. "the walls of our hut are not soundproof, you see. but, come, the sooner you get back to dry clothes and the stove, the better, bab. you can cross the river just below, and cut off half-a-mile that way." "i can't," i said, obstinately. bab, indeed! how dared he? "oh, yes, you can," with intolerable good-temper. "you shall take your rod and i the prey. you cannot be wetter than you are now." he had his way, of course, since i did not foresee that at the ford he would lift me up bodily and carry me over the deeper part without a pretence of asking leave, or a word of apology. it was done so quickly that i had no time to remonstrate. still i was not going to let it pass, and when i had shaken myself straight again, i said, with all the haughtiness i could assume, "don't you think, mr. herapath, that it would have been more--more--" "polite to offer to carry you over, child? no, not at all. it will be wiser and warmer for you to run down the hill. come along!" and without more ado, while i was still choking with rage, he seized my hands and set off at a trot, lugging me through the sloppy places much as i have seen a nurse drag a fractious child down constitution hill. it was not wonderful that i soon lost the little breath his speech had left me, and was powerless to complain when we reached the bridge. i could only thank heaven that there was no sign of clare. i think i should have died of mortification if she had seen us come down the hill hand-in-hand in that ridiculous fashion. but she had gone home, and at any rate i escaped that degradation. a wet stool-car and wetter pony were dimly visible on the bridge; to which, as we came up, a damp urchin creeping from some crevice added himself. i was pushed in as if i had no will of my own, the gentleman sprang up beside me, the boy tucked himself away somewhere behind, and the little "teste" set off at a canter, so deceived by the driver's excellent imitation of "pss," the norse for "tchk," that in ten minutes we were at home. "well, i never!" clare said, surveying me from a respectful distance, when at last i was safe in our room. "i would not be seen in such a state by a man for all the fish in the sea!" and she looked so tall, and trim, and neat, that it was the more provoking. at the moment i was too miserable to answer her, and had to find comfort in promising myself, that when we were back in bolton gardens i would see that fräulein kept miss clare's pretty nose to the grindstone though it were ever so much her last term, or jack were ever so fond of her. papa was in the plot against me, too. what right had he to thank mr. herapath for bringing "his little girl" home safe? he can be pompous enough at times. i never knew a stout queen's counsel--and papa is stout--who was not, any more than a thin one, who did not contradict. it is in their patents, i think. mr. herapath dined with us that evening--if fish and potatoes and boiled eggs, and sour bread and pancakes, and claret and coffee can be called a dinner--but nothing i could do, though i made the best of my wretched frock and was as stiff as clare herself, could alter his first impression. it was too bad: he had no eyes! he either could not or would not see any one but the draggled bab--fifteen at most and a very tom-boy--whom he had carried across the river. he styled clare, who talked baedeker to him in her primmest and most precocious way, miss guest, and once at least during the evening dubbed me plain bab. i tried to freeze him with a look then, and papa gave him a taste of the pompous manner, saying coldly that i was older than i seemed. but it was not a bit of use: i could see that he set it all down to the grand airs of a spoiled child. if i had put my hair up, it might have opened his eyes, but clare teased me about it and i was too proud for that. when i asked him if he was fond of dancing, he said good-naturedly, "i don't visit very much, miss bab. i am generally engaged in the evening." here was a chance. i was going to say that that no doubt was the reason why i had never met him, when papa ruthlessly cut me short by asking, "you are not in the law?" "no," he replied. "i am in the london fire brigade." i think that we all upon the instant saw him in a helmet sitting at the door of the fire station by st. martin's church. clare turned crimson and papa seemed on a sudden to call his patent to mind. the moment before i had been as angry as angry could be with our guest, but i was not going to look on and see him snubbed when he was dining with us and all. so i rushed into the gap as quickly as surprise would let me with "good gracious, how nice! do tell me all about a fire!" it made matters--my matters--worse, for i could have cried with vexation when i read in his face next moment that he had looked for their astonishment; while the ungrateful fellow set down my eager remark to mere childish ignorance. "some time i will," he said with a quiet smile _de haut en bas_; "but i do not often attend one in person. i am captain ----'s private secretary, aide-de-camp, and general factotum." and it turned out that he was the son of a certain canon herapath, so that papa lost sight of his patent box altogether, and they set to discussing mr. gladstone, while i slipped off to bed feeling as small as i ever did in my life and out of temper with everybody. it was a long time since i had been used to young men talking politics to papa, when they could talk--politics--to me. possibly i deserved the week of vexation which followed; but it was almost more than i could bear. he--mr. herapath, of course--was always about fishing or lounging outside the little white posting-house, taking walks and meals with us, and seeming heartily to enjoy papa's society. he came with us when we drove to the top of the pass to get a glimpse of the sulethid peak; and it looked so brilliantly clear and softly beautiful as it seemed to float, just tinged with color, in a far-off atmosphere of its own, beyond the dark ranges of nearer hills, that i began to think at once of the drawing-room in bolton gardens with a cosy fire burning, and afternoon tea coming up. the tears came into my eyes, and he saw them before i could turn away from the view; and said to papa that he feared his little girl was tired as well as cold--and so spoiled all my pleasure. i looked back afterwards as papa and i drove down: he was walking by clare's carcole and they were laughing heartily. and that was the way always. he was such an elder brother to me--a thing i never had and do not want--that a dozen times a day i set my teeth viciously together and said to myself that if ever we met in london--but what nonsense that was, because, of course, it mattered nothing to me what he was thinking, only he had no right to be so rudely familiar. that was all; but it was quite enough to make me dislike him. however, a sunny morning in the holidays is a cheerful thing, and when i strolled down stream with my rod on the day after our expedition, i felt i could enjoy myself very nearly as much as i had before his coming spoiled our party. i dawdled along, now trying a pool, now clambering up the hillsides to pick raspberries, and now counting the magpies that flew across, feeling altogether very placid and good and contented. i had chosen the lower river because mr. herapath usually fished the upper part, and i would not be ruffled this nice day. so i was the more vexed to come suddenly upon him fishing; and fishing where he had no right to be. papa had spoken to him about the danger of it, and he had as good as said he would not do it again. yet there he was, thinking, i dare say, that we should not know. it was a spot where one bank rose into quite a cliff, frowning over a deep pool at the foot of some falls. close to the cliff the water still ran with the speed of a mill-race, so fast as to endanger a good swimmer. but on the far side of this current there was a bit of slack water which was tempting enough to have set some one's wits to work to devise means to fish it, which from the top of the cliff was impossible. just above the water was a ledge, a foot wide, perhaps, which might have done, only it did not reach to this end of the cliff. however, that foolhardy person had espied this, and got over the gap by bridging the latter with a bit of plank, and then had drowned himself or gone away, in either case leaving his board to tempt others to do likewise. and there was mr. herapath fishing from the ledge. it made me giddy to look at him. the rock overhung the water so much that he could not stand upright; the first person who got there must surely have learned to curl himself up from much sleeping in norwegian beds, which were short for me. i thought of this oddly enough as i watched him, and laughed, and was for going on. but when i had walked a few yards, meaning to pass round the rear of the cliff, i began to fancy all sorts of foolish things would happen. i felt sure that i should have no more peace or pleasure if i left him there. i hesitated. yes, i would. i would go down, and ask him to leave the place; and, of course, he would do it. i lost no time, but ran down the slope smartly and carelessly. my way lay over loose shale mingled with large stones, and it was steep. it is wonderful how quickly an accident happens; how swiftly a thing that cannot be undone is done, and we are left wishing--oh, so vainly--that we could put the world, and all things in it, back by a few seconds. i was checking myself near the bottom, when a big stone on which i stepped moved under me. the shale began to slip in a mass, and the stone to roll. it was all done in a moment. i stayed myself, that was easy enough, but the stone took two bounds, jumped sideways, struck the piece of board which was only resting lightly at either end, and before i could take it all in the little bridge plunged end first into the current, which swept it out of sight in an instant. he threw up his hands in affright, for he had turned, and we both saw it happen. he made indeed as if he would try to save it, but that was impossible; and then, while i cowered in dismay, he waved his arm to me in the direction of home--again and again. the roar of the falls drowned what he said, but i guessed his meaning. i could not help him myself, but i could fetch help. it was three miles to breistolen, rough, rocky ones, and i doubted whether he could keep his cramped position with that noise deafening him, and the endless whirling stream before his eyes, while i was going and coming. but there was no better way i could think of; and even as i wavered, he signalled to me again imperatively. for an instant everything seemed to go round with me, but it was not the time for that yet, and i tried to collect myself, and harden my heart. up the bank i went steadily, and once at the top set off at a run homewards. i cannot tell at all how i did it; how i passed over the uneven ground, or whether i went quickly or slowly save by the reckoning papa made afterwards. i can only remember one long hurrying scramble; now i panted uphill, now i ran down, now i was on my face in a hole, breathless and half-stunned, and now i was up to my knees in water. i slipped and dropped down places i should at other times have shrunk from, and hurt myself so that i bore the marks for months. but i thought nothing of these things: all my being was spent in hurrying on for his life, the clamor of every cataract i passed seeming to stop my heart's beating with very fear. so i reached breistolen and panted over the bridge and up to the little white house lying so quiet in the afternoon sunshine, papa's stool-car even then at the door ready to take him to some favorite pool. somehow i made him understand in broken words that herapath was in danger, drowning already, for all i knew, and then i seized a great pole which was leaning against the porch, and climbed into the car. papa was not slow either; he snatched a coil of rope from the luggage, and away we went, a man and boy whom he had hastily called running behind us. we had lost very little time, but so much may happen in so little time. we were forced to leave the car a quarter of a mile from that part of the river, and walk or run the rest of the way. we all ran, even papa, as i had never known him run before. my heart sank at the groan he let escape him when i pointed out the spot. we came to it one by one and we all looked. the ledge was empty. jem herapath was gone. i suppose it startled me. at any rate i could only look at the water in a dazed way, and cry quietly without much feeling that it was my doing; while the men, shouting to one another in strange, hushed voices, searched about for any sign of his fate--"jem! jem herapath!" so he had written his name only yesterday in the travellers' book at the posting-house, and i had sullenly watched him from the window, and then had sneaked to the book and read it. that was yesterday, and now! oh, jem, to hear you say "bab" once more! "bab! why, miss bab, what is the matter?" safe and sound! yes, there he was when i turned, safe, and strong, and cool, rod in hand, and a quiet smile in his eyes. just as i had seen him yesterday, and thought never to see him again; and saying "bab" exactly as of old, so that something in my throat--it may have been anger at his rudeness, but i do not think it was--prevented me saying a word until all the others came round us, and a babel of norse and english, and something that was neither, yet both, set in. "but how is this?" objected my father when he could be heard, "you are quite dry, my boy?" "dry! why not, sir? for goodness' sake, what is the matter?" "the matter! didn't you fall in, or something of the kind?" papa asked, bewildered by this new aspect of the case. "it does not look like it, does it? your daughter gave me a very uncomfortable start by nearly doing so." every one looked at him for an explanation. "how did you manage to get from the ledge?" i said feebly. where was the mistake? i had not dreamed it. "from the ledge? why, by the other end, to be sure, so that i had to walk back round the hill. still i did not mind, for i was thankful that it was the plank and not you that fell in. "i--i thought--you could not get from the ledge," i muttered. the possibility of getting off at the other end had never occurred to me, and so i had made such a simpleton of myself. it was too absurd, too ridiculous. it was no wonder that they all screamed with laughter at the fool's errand they had come upon, and stamped about and clung to one another. but when he laughed too--and he did until the tears came into his eyes--there was not an ache or pain in my body--and i had cut my wrist to the bone against a splinter of rock--that hurt me one-half as much. surely he might have seen another side to it. but he did not; and so i managed to hide my bandaged wrist from him, and papa drove me home. there i broke down entirely, and clare put me to bed, and petted me, and was very good to me. and when i came down next day, with an ache in every part of me, he was gone. "he asked me to tell you," said clare, not looking up from the fly she was tying at the window, "that he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever met." so he understood now, when others had explained it to him. "no, clare," i said coldly, "he did not say that exactly; he said 'the bravest little girl.'" for indeed, lying upstairs with the window open, i had heard him set off on his long drive to laerdalsören. as for papa, he was half-proud and half-ashamed of my foolishness, and wholly at a loss to think how i could have made the mistake. "you've generally some common-sense, my dear," he said that day at dinner, "and how in the world you could have been so ready to fancy the man was in danger, i--can--not--imagine!" "papa," put in clare, suddenly, "your elbow is upsetting the salt." and as i had to move my seat just then to avoid the glare of the stove which was falling on my face, we never thought it out. ii his story i was not dining out much at that time, partly because my acquaintance in town was limited, and something too because i cared little for it. but these were pleasant people, the old gentleman witty and amusing, the children, lively girls, nice to look at and good to talk with. the party had too a holiday flavor about them wholesome to recall in scotland yard: and as i had thought, play-time over, i should see no more of them, i was proportionately pleased to find that mr. guest had not forgotten me, and pleased also--shrewdly expecting that we might kill our fish over again--to regard his invitation to dinner at a quarter-to-eight as a royal command. but if i took it so, i was sadly wanting in the regal courtesy to match. what with one delay owing to work that would admit of none, and another caused by a cabman strange to the ways of town, it was twenty-five minutes after the hour named, when i reached bolton gardens. a stately man, so like the queen's counsel, that it was plain upon whom the latter modelled himself, ushered me straight into the dining-room, where guest greeted me very kindly, and met my excuses by apologies on his part--for preferring, i suppose, the comfort of eleven people to mine. then he took me down the table, and said, "my daughter," and miss guest shook hands with me and pointed to the chair at her left. i had still, as i unfolded my napkin, to say "clear, if you please," and then i was free to turn and apologize to her, being a little shy, and, as i have said, a somewhat infrequent diner out. i think that i never saw so remarkable a likeness--to her younger sister--in my life. she might have been little bab herself, but for her dress and some striking differences. miss guest could not be more than eighteen, in form almost as fairy-like as the little one, with the same child-like, innocent look on her face. she had the big, gray eyes, too, that were so charming in bab; but in her they were more soft and tender and thoughtful, and a thousand times more charming. her hair too was brown and wavy: only, instead of hanging loose or in a pig-tail anywhere and anyhow in a fashion i well remembered, it was coiled in a coronal on the shapely little head, that was so greek, and in its gracious, stately, old-fashioned pose, so unlike bab's. her dress, of some creamy, gauzy stuff, revealed the prettiest white throat in the world, and arms decked in pearls, and, so far, no more recalled my little fishing-mate than the sedate self-possession and assured dignity of this girl, as she talked to her other neighbor, suggested bab making pancakes and chattering with the landlady's children in her strangely and wonderfully acquired norse. it was not bab in fact: and yet it almost might have been: an etherealized, queenly, womanly bab. who presently turned to me-- "have you quite settled down after your holiday?" she asked, staying the apologies i was for pouring into her ear. "i had until this evening, but the sight of your father is like a breath of fiord air. i hope your sisters are well." "my sisters?" she murmured wonderingly, her fork half-way to her pretty mouth and her attitude one of questioning. "yes," i said rather puzzled. "you know they were with your father when i had the good fortune to meet him. miss clare and bab." "eh?" dropping her fork on the plate with a great clatter. "yes, miss guest, miss clare and miss bab." i really began to feel uncomfortable. her color rose, and she looked me in the face in a half-proud, half-fearful way as if she resented the inquiry. it was a relief to me, when, with some show of confusion, she at length stammered, "oh, yes, i beg your pardon, of course they were! how very foolish of me. they are quite well, thank you," and so was silent again. but i understood now. mr. guest had omitted to mention my name, and she had taken me for some one else of whose holiday she knew. i gathered from the aspect of the table and the room that the guests saw a good deal of company, and it was a very natural mistake, though by the grave look she bent upon her plate it was clear that the young hostess was taking herself to task for it: not without, if i might judge from the lurking smile at the corners of her mouth, a humorous sense of the slip, and perhaps of the difference between myself and the gentleman whose part i had been unwittingly supporting. meanwhile i had a chance of looking at her unchecked; and thought of dresden china, she was so frail and pretty. "you were nearly drowned, or something of the kind, were you not?" she asked, after an interval during which we had both talked to others. "well, not precisely. your sister fancied i was in danger, and behaved in the pluckiest manner--so bravely that i can almost feel sorry that the danger was not there to dignify her heroism." "that was like her," she answered in a tone just a little scornful. "you must have thought her a terrible tomboy." while she was speaking there came one of those dreadful lulls in the talk, and mr. guest overhearing, cried, "who is that you are abusing, my dear? let us all share in the sport. if it's clare, i think i can name one who is a far worse hoyden upon occasion." "it is no one of whom you have ever heard, papa," she answered, archly. "it is a person in whom mr.--mr. herapath--" i had murmured my name as she stumbled--"and i are interested. now tell me, did you not think so?" she murmured, graciously leaning the slightest bit towards me, and opening her eyes as they looked into mine in a way that to a man who had spent the day in a dusty room in great scotland yard was sufficiently intoxicating. "no," i said, lowering my voice in imitation of hers. "no, miss guest, i did not think so at all. i thought your sister a brave little thing, rather careless as children are apt to be, but likely to grow into a charming girl." i wondered, marking how she bit her lip and refrained from assent, whether, impossible as it must seem to any one looking in her face, there might not be something of the shrew about my beautiful neighbor. her tone when she spoke of her sister seemed to impart no great goodwill. "so that is your opinion?" she said, after a pause. "do you know," with a laughing glance, "that some people think i am like her." "yes?" i answered, gravely. "well, i should be able to judge, who have seen you both and yet am not an old friend. and i think you are both like and unlike. your sister has very beautiful eyes"--she lowered hers swiftly--"and hair like yours, but her manner and style were very different. i can no more fancy bab in your place than i can picture you, miss guest, as i saw her for the first time--and on many after occasions," i added, laughing as much to cover my own hardihood as at the queer little figure i had conjured up. "thank you, mr. herapath," she replied, with coldness, though she had blushed darkly to her ears. "that, i think, must be enough of compliments, for to-night--as you are not an old friend." and she turned away, leaving me to curse my folly in saying so much, when our acquaintance was as yet in the bud, and as susceptible to over-warmth as to a temperature below zero. a moment later the ladies left us. the flush i had brought to her cheek still lingered there, as she swept past me with a wondrous show of dignity in one so young. mr. guest came down and took her place, and we talked of the "land of berries," and our adventures there, while the rest--older friends--listened indulgently or struck in from time to time with their own biggest fish and deadliest flies. i used to wonder why women like to visit dusty chambers; why they get more joy--i am fain to think they do--out of a scrambling tea up three pairs of stairs in pump court, than from the very same materials--and comfort withal--in their own house. i imagine it is for the same reason that the bachelor finds a singular charm in a lady's drawing-room, and there, if anywhere, sees her with a reverent mind. a charm and a subservience which i felt to the full in the guests' drawing-room--a room rich in subdued colors and a cunning blending of luxury and comfort. yet it depressed me. i felt alone. mr. guest had passed on to others and i stood aside, the sense that i was not of these people troubling me in a manner as new as it was absurd: for i had been in the habit of rather despising "society." miss guest was at the piano, the centre of a circle of soft light, which showed up also a keen-faced, dark-whiskered man leaning over her with the air of one used to the position. every one else was so fully engaged that i may have looked, as well as felt, forlorn, and meeting her eyes could have fancied she was regarding me with amusement--almost triumph. it must have been mere fancy, bred of self-consciousness, for the next moment she beckoned me to her, and said to her cavalier: "there, jack, mr. herapath is going to talk to me about norway now, so that i don't want you any longer. perhaps you won't mind stepping up to the schoolroom--fräulein and clare are there--and telling clare, that--that--oh, anything." there is no piece of ill-breeding so bad to my mind as for a man who is at home in a house to flaunt his favor in the face of other guests. that young lawyer's manner as he left her, and the smile of perfect intelligence which passed between them, were such a breach of good manners as would have ruffled any one. they ruffled me--yes, me, although it was no concern of mine what she called him, or how he conducted himself--so that i could do nothing but stand by the piano and sulk. one bear makes another, you know. she did not speak; and i, content to watch the slender hands stealing over the keys, would not, until my eyes fell upon her right wrist. she had put off her bracelets and so disclosed a scar upon it, something about which--not its newness--so startled me that i said abruptly: "that is very strange! pray tell me how you did it?" she looked up, saw what i meant, and stopping hastily, put on her bracelets; to all appearance so vexed by my thoughtless question, and anxious to hide the mark, that i was quick to add humbly, "i asked because your sister hurt her wrist in nearly the same place on the day when she thought i was in trouble, and the coincidence struck me." "yes, i remember," looking at me, i thought, with a certain suspicion, as though she were not sure that i was giving the right motive. "i did this much in the same way. by falling, i mean. isn't it a hateful disfigurement?" no, it was no disfigurement. even to her, with a woman's love of conquest, it must have seemed anything but a disfigurement had she known what the quiet, awkward man at her side was thinking, who stood looking shyly at it and found no words to contradict her, though she asked him twice, and thought him stupid enough. a great longing to kiss that soft, scarred wrist was on me--and miss guest had added another to the number of her slaves. i don't know now why that little scar should have so touched me any more than i then could guess why, being a commonplace person, i should fall in love at first sight, and feel no surprise at my condition, but only a half consciousness (seeming fully to justify it) that in some former state of being i had met my love, and read her thoughts, and learned her moods; and come to know the bright womanly spirit that looked from her frank eyes as well as if she were an old, old friend. and so vivid was this sensation, that once or twice, then and afterwards, when i would meet her glance, another name than hers trembled on my tongue and passed away before i could shape it into sound. after an interval, "are you going to the goldmace's dance?" "no," i answered her, humbly. "i go out so little." "indeed," with an odd smile not too kindly; "i wish--no i don't--that we could say the same. we are engaged, i think--" she paused, her attention divided between myself and boccherini's minuet, the low strains of which she was sending through the room--"for every afternoon--this week--except saturday. by the way, mr. herapath--do you remember what was the name--bab told me you teased her with?" "wee bonnie bab," i answered absently. my thoughts had gone forward to saturday. "we are always dropping to-day's substance for the shadow of to-morrow; like the dog--a dog was it not?--in the fable." "oh, yes, wee bonnie bab," she murmured softly. "poor bab!" and suddenly cut short boccherini's music and our chat by striking a terrific discord and laughing merrily at my start of discomfiture. every one took it as a signal to leave. they all seemed to be going to meet her again next day, or the day after that; they engaged her for dances, and made up a party for the law courts, and tossed to and fro a score of laughing catch-words, that were beyond my comprehension. they all did this, except myself. and yet i went away with something before me--that call upon saturday afternoon. quite unreasonably i fancied i should see her alone. and so when the day came and i stood outside the opening door of the drawing-room, and heard voices and laughter within, i was hurt and aggrieved beyond measure. there was quite a party, and a merry one, assembled, who were playing at some game, as it seemed to me, for i caught sight of clare whipping off an impromptu bandage from her eyes, and striving by her stiffest air to give the lie to a pair of flushed cheeks. the black-whiskered man was there, and two men of his kind, and a german governess, and a very old lady in a wheel-chair, who was called "grandmamma," and miss guest herself looking, in the prettiest dress of silvery plush, to the full as bright and fair and graceful as i had been picturing her each hour since we parted. she dropped me a stately courtesy. "will you play the part of miss carolina wilhelmina amelia skeggs, mr. herapath, while i act honest burchell, and say 'fudge!' or will you burn nuts and play games with neighbor flamborough? you will join us, won't you? clare does not so misbehave every day, only it is such a wet afternoon and so cold and wretched, and we did not think there would be any more callers--and tea will be up in five minutes." she did not think there would be any more callers! something in her smile belied the words and taught me that she had thought--she had known--that there would be one more caller--one who would burn nuts and play games with her, though rome itself were afire, and tooley street and the mile end road to boot. it was a simple game enough, and not likely, one would say, to afford much risk of that burning the fingers, which gave a zest to the vicar of wakefield's nuts. one sat in the middle blindfolded, while the rest disguised their own or assumed each other's voices, and spoke one by one some gibe or quip at his expense. when he succeeded in naming the speaker, the detected satirist put on the poke, and in his turn heard things good--if he had a conceit of himself--for his soul's health. now this _rôle_ unhappily soon fell to me, and proved a heavy one, because i was not so familiar with the others' voices as were the rest; and miss guest--whose faintest tones i thought to have known--had a wondrous knack of cheating me, now taking off clare's voice, and now--after the door had been opened to admit the tea--her father's. so i failed again and again to earn my release. but when a voice behind me cried with well-feigned eagerness-- "how nice! do tell me all about a fire!" though no fresh creaking at the door had reached me, nor warning been given of an addition to the players, i had not the smallest doubt who was the speaker; but exclaimed at once, "that is bab! now i cry you mercy. i am right this time. that was bab!" i looked for a burst of applause and laughter, such as had before attended a good thrust home, but none came. on the contrary, with my words so odd a silence fell upon the room that it was clear that something was wrong, and i pulled off my handkerchief in haste, repeating, "that was bab, i am sure." but if it was, i could not see her. what had come over them all? jack's face wore a provoking smile, and his friends were clearly bent upon sniggering. clare looked horrified, and grandmamma gently titillated, while miss guest, who had risen and half turned away towards the windows, seemed to be in a state of proud confusion. what was the matter? "i beg every one's pardon by anticipation," i said, looking round in a bewildered way: "but have i said anything wrong?" "oh, dear no," cried the fellow they called jack, with a familiarity that was in the worst taste--as if i had meant to apologize to him! "most natural thing in the world!" "jack, how dare you?" exclaimed miss guest, stamping her foot. "well it seemed all right. it sounded very natural, i am sure." "oh, you are unbearable! why don't you say something, clare?" "mr. herapath, i am sure that you did not know that my name was barbara." "certainly not," i cried. "what a strange thing!" "but it is, and that is why grandmamma is looking so shocked, and mr. buchanan is wearing threadbare an old friend's privilege of being rude. i freely forgive you if you will make allowance for him. and you shall come off the stool of repentance and have your tea first, since you are the greatest stranger. it is a stupid game after all!" she would hear no apologies from me. and when i would have asked why her sister bore the same name, and thus excused myself, she was intent upon tea-making, and the few moments i could with decency add to my call gave me scant opportunity. i blush to think how i eked them out, by what subservience to clare, by what a slavish anxiety to help even jack to muffins--each piece i hoped might choke him. how slow i was to find hat and gloves, calling to mind with terrible vividness, as i turned my back upon the circle, that again and again in my experience, an acquaintance begun by a dinner had ended with the consequent call. and so i should have gone--it might have been so here--but that the door-handle was stiff, and miss guest came to my aid, as i fumbled with it. "we are always at home on saturdays, if you like to call, mr. herapath," she murmured carelessly, not lifting her eyes--and i found myself in the street. so carelessly she said it, that with a sudden change of feeling i vowed i would not call. why should i? why should i worry myself with the sight of those other fellows parading their favor? with the babble of that society chit-chat, which i had so often scorned, and--and still scorned, and had no part or concern in. they were not people to suit me, or do me good. i would not go, i said, and repeated it firmly on monday and tuesday; on wednesday only so far modified it that i thought at some distant time to leave a card--to avoid discourtesy;--on friday preferred an earlier date as wiser and more polite, and on saturday walked shame-faced down the street and knocked and rang, and went upstairs--to taste a pleasant misery. yes, and on the next saturday too, and the next, and the next; and that one on which we all went to the theatre, and that other one on which mr. guest kept me to dinner. ay, and on other days that were not saturdays, among which two stand high out of the waters of forgetfulness--high days indeed--days like twin pillars of hercules, through which i thought to reach, as did the seamen of old, i knew not what treasures of unknown lands stretching away under the setting sun. first that one on which i found barbara guest alone and blurted out that i had the audacity to wish to make her my wife; and then heard, before i had well--or badly--told my tale, the wheels of grandmamma's chair outside. "hush!" the girl said, her face turned from me. "hush, mr. herapath. you don't know me, indeed. you have seen so little of me. please say nothing more about it. you are completely under a delusion." "it is no delusion that i love you, barbara!" i cried. "it is, it is," she repeated, freeing her hand. "there, if you will not take an answer--come--come at three to-morrow. but mind, i promise you nothing--i promise you nothing," she added feverishly, and fled from the room, leaving me to talk to grandmamma as best, and escape as quickly as, i might. i longed for a great fire that evening, and failing one, tired myself by tramping unknown streets of the east-end, striving to teach myself that any trouble to-morrow might bring was but a shadow, a sentiment, a thing not to be mentioned in the same breath with the want and toil of which i caught glimpses up each street and lane that opened to right and left. in the main, of course, i failed: but the effort did me good, sending me home tired out, to sleep as soundly as if i were going to be hanged next day, and not--which is a very different thing--to be put upon my trial. "i will tell miss guest you are here, sir," the man said. i looked at all the little things in the room which i had come to know well--her workbasket, the music upon the piano, the table-easel, her photograph--and wondered if i were to see them no more, or if they were to become a part of my every-day life. then i heard her come in, and turned quickly, feeling that i should learn my fate from her greeting. "bab!" the word was rung from me perforce. and then we stood and looked at one another, she with a strange pride and defiance in her eyes, though her cheek was dark with blushes, and i with wonder and perplexity in mine,--wonder and perplexity that quickly grew into a conviction, a certainty that the girl standing before me in the short-skirted brown dress with tangled hair and loose neck-ribbon was the bab i had known in norway; and yet that the eyes--i could not mistake them now, no matter what unaccustomed look they might wear--were barbara guest's! "miss guest--barbara," i stammered, grappling with the truth, "why have you played this trick upon me?" "it is miss guest and barbara now," she cried, with a mocking courtesy. "do you remember, mr. herapath, when it was bab? when you treated me as a kind of toy, and a plaything, with which you might be as intimate as you liked; and hurt my feelings--yes, it is weak to confess it, i know--day by day, and hour by hour?" "but surely, that is forgiven now?" i said, dazed by an attack so sudden and so bitter. "it is atonement enough that i am at your feet now, barbara!" "you are not," she retorted hotly. "don't say you have offered love to me, who am the same with the child you teased at breistolen. you have fallen in love with my fine clothes, and my pearls and my maid's work, not with me. you have fancied the girl you saw other men make much of. but you have not loved the woman who might have prized that which miss guest has never learned to value." "how old are you?" i said, hoarsely. "nineteen!" she snapped out. and then for a moment we were both silent. "i begin to understand now," i answered slowly as soon as i could conquer something in my throat. "long ago when i hardly knew you, i hurt your woman's pride; and since that you have plotted----" "no, you have tricked yourself!" "and schemed to bring me to your feet that you might have the pleasure of trampling on me. miss guest, your triumph is complete, more complete than you are able to understand. i loved you this morning above all the world--as my own life--as every hope i had. see, i tell you this that you may have a moment's keener pleasure when i am gone." "don't! don't!" she cried, throwing herself into a chair and covering her face. "you have won a man's heart and cast it aside to gratify an old pique. you may rest content now, for there is nothing wanting to your vengeance. you have given me as much pain as a woman, the vainest and the most heartless, can give a man. good-by." and with that i was leaving her, fighting my own pain and passion, so that the little hands she raised as though they would ward off my words were nothing to me. i felt a savage delight in seeing that i could hurt her, which deadened my own grief. the victory was not all with her lying there sobbing. only where was my hat? let me get my hat and go. let me escape from this room wherein every trifle upon which my eye rested awoke some memory that was a pang. let me get away, and have done with it all. where was the hat? i had brought it up. i could not go without it. it must be under her chair, by all that was unlucky, for it was nowhere else. i could not stand and wait, and so i had to go up to her, with cold words of apology upon my lips, and being close to her and seeing on her wrist, half hidden by fallen hair, the scar she had brought home from norway, i don't know how it was that i fell on my knees by her and cried: "oh, bab, i loved you so! let us part friends." for a moment, silence. then she whispered, her hand in mine, "why did you not say bab to begin? i only told you that miss guest had not learned to value your love." "and bab?" i murmured, my brain in a whirl. "learned long ago, poor girl!" and the fair, tear-stained face of my tyrant looked into mine for a moment, and then came quite naturally to its resting place. "now," she said, when i was leaving, "you may have your hat, sir." "i believe," i replied, "that you sat upon this chair on purpose." and bab blushed. i believe she did. a strange invitation i have friends who tell me that they seldom walk the streets of london without wondering what is passing behind the house-fronts; without picturing a comedy here, a love-scene there, and behind the dingy cane blinds a something ill-defined, a something odd and _bizarre_. they experience--if you believe them--a sense of loneliness out in the street, an impatience of the sameness of all these many houses, their dull bricks and discreet windows, and a longing that some one would step out and ask them to enter and see the play. well, i have never felt any of these things; but as i was passing through fitzhardinge square about half-past ten o'clock one evening in last july, after dining, if i remember rightly, in baker street, something happened to me which i fancy may be of interest to such people. i was passing through the square from north to south, and to avoid a small crowd, which some reception had drawn together, i left the pavement and struck across the road to the path round the oval garden; which, by the way, contains a few of the finest trees in london. this part was in deep shadow, so that when i presently emerged from it and recrossed the road to the pavement near the top of fitzhardinge street, i had an advantage over any persons on the pavement. they were under the lamps, while i, coming from beneath the trees, was almost invisible. the door of the house immediately in front of me as i crossed was open, and an elderly manservant out of livery was standing at it, looking up and down the pavement by turns. it was his air of furtive anxiety that drew my attention to him. he was not like a man looking for a cab, or waiting for his sweetheart; and i had my eye upon him as i stepped upon the pavement before him. but my surprise was great when he uttered a low exclamation of dismay at sight of me and made as if he would escape; while his face, in the full glare of the light, grew so pale and terror-stricken that he might before have been completely at his ease. i was astonished and instinctively stood still returning his gaze; for perhaps twenty seconds we remained so, he speechless, and his hands fallen by his side. then, before i could move on, as i was in the act of doing, he cried, "oh! mr. george! oh! mr. george!" in a tone that rang out in the stillness rather as a wail than an ordinary cry. my name, my surname i mean, is george. for a moment i took the address to myself, forgetting that the man was a stranger, and my heart began to beat more quickly with fear of what might have happened. "what is it?" i exclaimed. "what is it?" and i shook back from the lower part of my face the silk muffler i was wearing. the evening was close, but i had been suffering from a sore throat. he came nearer and peered more closely at me, and i dismissed my fear; for i thought that i could see the discovery of his mistake dawning upon him. his pallid face, on which the pallor was the more noticeable as his plump features were those of a man with whom the world as a rule went well, regained some of its lost color, and a sigh of relief passed his lips. but this feeling was only momentary. the joy of escape from whatever blow he had thought imminent gave place at once to his previous state of miserable expectancy of something or other. "you took me for another person," i said, preparing to pass on. at that moment i could have sworn--i would have given one hundred to one twice over--that he was going to say yes. to my intense astonishment, he did not. with a very visible effort he said, "no!" "eh! what?" i exclaimed. i had taken a step or two. "no, sir." "then what is it?" i said. "what do you want, my good fellow?" watching his shuffling, indeterminate manner, i wondered if he were sane. his next answer reassured me on that point. there was an almost desperate deliberation about its manner. "my master wishes to see you, sir, if you will kindly walk in for five minutes," was what he said. i should have replied, "who is your master?" if i had been wise; or cried, "nonsense!" and gone my way. but the mind when it is spurred by a sudden emergency often overruns the more obvious course to adopt a worse. it was possible that one of my intimates had taken the house, and said in his butler's presence that he wished to see me. thinking of that i answered, "are you sure of this? have you not made a mistake, my man?" with an obstinate sullenness that was new in him he said, no, he had not. would i please to walk in? he stepped briskly forward as he spoke, and induced me by a kind of gentle urgency to enter the house, taking from me with the ease of a trained servant my hat, coat, and muffler. finding himself in the course of his duties he gained more composure; while i, being thus treated, lost my sense of the strangeness of the proceeding, and only awoke to a full consciousness of my position when he had softly shut the door behind us and was in the act of putting up the chain. then i confess i looked round a little alarmed at my precipitancy. but i found the hall spacious, lofty, and dark-panelled, the ordinary hall of an old london house. the big fireplace was filled with plants in flower. there were rugs on the floor and a number of chairs with painted crests on the backs, and in a corner was an old sedan chair, its poles upright against the wall. no other servants were visible, it is true. but apart from this all was in order, all was quiet, and any idea of violence was manifestly absurd. at the same time the affair seemed of the strangest. why should the butler in charge of a well-arranged and handsome house--the house of an ordinary wealthy gentleman--why should he loiter about the open doorway as if anxious to feel the presence of his kind? why should he show such nervous excitement and terror as i had witnessed? why should he introduce a stranger? i had reached this point when he led the way upstairs. the staircase was wide, the steps were low and broad. on either side at the head of the flight stood a beautiful venus of white parian marble. they were not common reproductions, and i paused. i could see beyond them a hercules and a meleager of bronze, and delicately tinted draperies and ottomans that under the light of a silver hanging-lamp?--a gem from malta--changed a mere lobby to a fairies' nook. the sight filled me with a certain suspicion; which was dispelled, however, when my hand rested for an instant upon the reddish pedestal that supported one of the statues. the cold touch of the marble was enough for me. the pillars were not of composite; of which they certainly would have consisted in a gaming-house, or worse. three steps carried me across the lobby to a curtained doorway by which the servant was waiting. i saw that the "shakes" were upon him again. his impatience was so ill-concealed that i was not surprised--though i was taken aback--when he dropped the mask altogether, and as i passed him--it being now too late for me to retreat undiscovered, if the room were occupied--laid a trembling hand upon my arm and thrust his face close to mine. "ask how he is! say anything," he whispered trembling, "no matter what, sir! only, for the love of heaven, stay five minutes!" he gave me a gentle push forward as he spoke--pleasant all this!--and announced in a loud, quavering voice, "mr. george!"--which was true enough. i found myself walking round a screen at the same time that something in the room, a long, dimly-lighted room, fell with a brisk, rattling sound, and there was the scuffling noise of a person, still hidden from me by the screen, rising to his feet in haste. next moment i was face to face with two men. one, a handsome, elderly gentleman, who wore gray moustaches and would have seemed in place at a service club, was still in his chair regarding me with a perfectly calm, unmoved face, as if my entrance at that hour were the commonest incident of his life. the other had risen and stood looking at me askance. he was five-and-twenty years younger than his companion and as good-looking in a different way. but now his face was white and drawn, distorted by the same expression of terror--ay, and a darker and fiercer terror than that which i had already seen upon the servant's features; it was the face of one in a desperate strait. he looked as a man looks who has put all he has in the world upon an outsider--and done it twice. in that quiet drawing-room by the side of his placid companion, with nothing whatever in their surroundings to account for his emotion, his panic-stricken face shocked me inexpressibly. they were in evening dress; and between them was a chess-table, its men in disorder: almost touching this was another small table bearing a tray of apollinaris water and spirits. on this the young man was resting one hand as if but for its support he would have fallen. to add one more fact, i had never seen either of them in my life. or wait; could that be true? if so, it must be indeed a nightmare i was suffering. for the elder man broke the silence by addressing me in a quiet ordinary tone that exactly matched his face. "sit down, george," he said, "don't stand there. i did not expect you this evening." he held out his hand, without rising from his chair, and i advanced and shook it in silence. "i thought you were in liverpool. how are you?" he continued. "very well, i thank you," i muttered mechanically. "not very well, i should say," he retorted. "you are as hoarse as a raven. you have a bad cold at best. it is nothing worse, my boy, is it?" with anxiety. "no, a throat cough; nothing else," i murmured, resigning myself to this astonishing reception--this evident concern for my welfare on the part of a man whom i had never seen in my life. "that is well!" he answered cheerily. not only did my presence cause him no surprise. it gave him, without doubt, actual pleasure! it was otherwise with his companion; grimly and painfully so indeed. he had made no advances to me, spoken no word, scarcely altered his position. his eyes he had never taken from me. yet in him there was a change. he had discovered, exactly as had the butler before him, his mistake. the sickly terror was gone from his face, and a half-frightened malevolence not much more pleasant to witness had taken its place. why this did not break out in any active form was part of the general mystery given to me to solve. i could only surmise from glances which he later cast from time to time towards the door, and from the occasional faint creaking of a board in that direction, that his self-restraint had to do with my friend the butler. the inconsequences of dreamland ran through it all: why the elder man remained in error; why the younger with that passion on his face was tongue-tied; why the great house was so still; why the servant should have mixed me up with this business at all--these were questions as unanswerable, one as the other. and the fog in my mind grew denser when the old gentleman turned from me as if my presence were a usual thing, and rapped the table before him impatiently. "now, gerald!" cried he in sharp tones, "have you put those pieces back? good heavens! i am glad that i have not nerves like yours! don't remember the squares, boy? here, give them to me!" with a hasty gesture of his hand, something like a mesmeric pass over the board, he set down the half-dozen pieces with a rapid tap! tap! tap! which made it abundantly clear that he, at any rate, had no doubt of their former positions. "you will not mind sitting by until we have finished the game?" he continued, speaking to me, and in a voice i fancied more genial than that which he had used to gerald. "you are anxious to talk to me about your letter, george?" he went on when i did not answer. "the fact is that i have not read the inclosure. barnes, as usual, read the outer letter to me, in which you said the matter was private and of grave importance; and i intended to go to laura to-morrow, as you suggested, and get her to read the news to me. now you have returned so soon, i am glad that i did not trouble her." "just so, sir," i said, listening with all my ears; and wondering. "well, i hope there is nothing very bad the matter, my boy?" he replied. "however--gerald! it is your move!--ten minutes more of such play as your brother's, and i shall be at your service." gerald made a hurried move. the piece rattled upon the board as if he had been playing the castanets. his father made him take it back. i sat watching the two in wonder and silence. what did it all mean? why should barnes--doubtless behind the screen listening--read the outer letter? why must laura be employed to read the inner? why could not this cultivated and refined gentleman before me read his--ah! that much was disclosed to me. a mere turn of the hand did it. he had made another of those passes over the board, and i learned from it what an ordinary examination would not have detected. he, the old soldier with the placid face and light-blue eyes, was blind! quite blind! i began to see more clearly now, and from this moment i took up, at any rate in my own mind, a different position. possibly the servant who had impelled me into the middle of this had had his own good reasons for doing so, as i now began to discern. but with a clue to the labyrinth in my hand i could no longer move passively at any other's impulse. i must act for myself. for a while i sat still and made no sign. my suspicions were presently confirmed. the elder man more than once scolded his opponent for playing slowly; in one of these intervals he took from an inside pocket of his dress waistcoat a small packet. "you had better take your letter, george," he said. "if there are, as you mentioned, originals in it, they will be more safe with you than with me. you can tell me all about it, _viva voce_, now you are here. gerald will leave us alone presently." he held the papers towards me. to take them would be to take an active part in the imposture, and i hesitated, my own hand half outstretched. but my eyes fell at the critical instant upon master gerald's face, and my scruples took themselves off. he was eyeing the packet with an intense greed, and a trembling longing--a very itching of the fingers and toes, to fall upon the prey--that put an end to my doubts. i rose and took the papers. with a quiet, but i think significant, look in his direction, i placed them in the breast-pocket of my evening coat. i had no safer receptacle about me, or into that they would have gone. "very well, sir," i said. "there is no particular hurry. i think the matter will keep, as things now are, until to-morrow." "to be sure. you ought not to be out with such a cold at night, my boy," he answered. "you will find a decanter of the scotch whiskey you gave me last christmas on the tray. will you have some hot water and a lemon, george? the servants are all at the theatre--gerald begged a holiday for them--but barnes will get you the things in a minute." "thank you; i won't trouble him. i will take some with cold water," i replied, thinking i should gain in this way what i wanted--time to think: five minutes to myself, while they played. but i was out in my reckoning. "i will have mine now too," he said. "will you mix it, gerald?" gerald jumped up to do it with tolerable alacrity. i sat still, preferring to help myself, when he should have attended to his father--if his father it was. i felt more easy now that i had those papers in my pocket. the more i thought of it, the more certain i became that they were the object aimed at by whatever devilry was on foot; and that possession of them gave me the whip-hand. my young gentleman might snarl and show his teeth, but the prize had escaped him. perhaps i was a little too confident: a little too contemptuous of my opponent; a little too proud of the firmness with which i had taken at one and the same time the responsibility and the post of vantage. a creak of the board behind the screen roused me from my thoughts. it fell upon my ear trumpet-tongued: a sudden note of warning. i glanced up with a start, and a conviction that i was being caught napping, and looked instinctively towards the young man. he was busy at the tray, his back to me. relieved of my fear of i did not know what--perhaps a desperate attack upon my pocket, i was removing my eyes, when, in doing so, i caught sight of his reflection in a small mirror beyond him. ah! what was he busy about? nothing. absolutely nothing, at the moment. he was standing motionless--i could fancy him breathless also--a strange listening expression on his face; which seemed to me to have faded to a grayish tinge. his left hand was clasping a half-filled tumbler: the other was at his waistcoat pocket. so he stood during perhaps a second or two, a small lamp upon the tray before him illumining his handsome figure; and then his eyes, glancing up, met the reflection of mine in the mirror. swiftly as the thought itself could pass from brain to limb, the hand which had been resting in the pocket flashed with a clatter among the glasses; and turning almost as quickly, he brought one of the latter to the chess-table, and set it down unsteadily. what had i seen! nothing; actually nothing. just what gerald had been doing. yet my heart was going as many strokes to the minute as a losing crew. i rose abruptly. "wait a moment, sir," i said, as the elder man laid his hand upon the glass, "i don't think that gerald has mixed this quite as you like it." he had already lifted it to his lips. i looked from him to gerald. that young gentleman's color, though he faced me hardily, shifted more than once, and he seemed to be swallowing a succession of over-sized fives-balls; but his eyes met mine in a vicious kind of smile that was not without its gleam of triumph. i was persuaded that all was right even before his father said so. "perhaps you have mixed for me, gerald?" i suggested pleasantly. "no!" he answered in sullen defiance. he filled a glass with something--perhaps it was water--and drank it, his back towards me. he had not spoken so much as a single word to me before. the blind man's ear recognized the tone now. "i wish you boys would agree better," he said wearily. "gerald, go to bed. i would as soon play chess with an idiot from earlswood. generally you can play the game if you are good for nothing else; but since your brother came in, you have not made a move which any one not an imbecile would make. go to bed, boy! go to bed!" i had stepped to the table while he was speaking. one of the glasses was full. i lifted it with seeming unconcern to my nose. there was whiskey in it as well as water. then _had_ gerald mixed for me? at any rate, i put the tumbler aside, and helped myself afresh. when i set the glass down empty, my mind was made up. "gerald does not seem inclined to move, sir, so i will," i said quietly. "i will call in the morning and discuss that matter, if it will suit you. but to-night i feel inclined to get to bed early." "quite right, my boy. i would ask you to take a bed here instead of turning out, but i suppose that laura will be expecting you. come in any time to-morrow morning. shall barnes call a cab for you?" "i think i will walk," i answered, shaking the proffered hand. "by the way, sir," i added, "have you heard who is the new home secretary?" "yes, henry matthews," he replied. "gerald told me. he had heard it at the club." "it is to be hoped that he will have no womanish scruples about capital punishment," i said, as if i were incidentally considering the appointment. and with that last shot at mr. gerald--he turned green, i thought, a color which does not go well with a black moustache--i walked out of the room, so peaceful, so cosy, so softly lighted, as it looked, i remember; and downstairs. i hoped that i had paralyzed the young fellow, and might leave the house without molestation. but as i gained the foot of the stairs he tapped me on the shoulder. i saw then, looking at him, that i had mistaken my man. every trace of the sullen defiance which had marked his manner throughout the interview upstairs was gone. his face was still pale, but it wore a gentle smile as we confronted one another under the hall lamp. "i have not the pleasure of knowing you, but let me thank you for your help," he said, in a low voice, yet with a kind of frank spontaneity. "barnes's idea of bringing you in was a splendid one, and i am immensely obliged to you." "don't mention it," i answered stiffly, proceeding with my preparations for going out, as if he were not there; although i must confess that this complete change in him exercised my mind no little. "i feel so sure that we may rely upon your discretion," he went on, ignoring my tone, "that i need say nothing about that. of course we owe you an explanation, but as your cold is really yours and not my brother's, you will not mind if i read you the riddle to-morrow instead of keeping you from your bed to-night?" "it will do equally well--indeed better," i said, putting on my overcoat, and buttoning it carefully across my chest, while i affected to be looking with curiosity at the sedan chair. he pointed lightly to the place where the packet lay. "you are forgetting the papers," he reminded me. his tone almost compelled the answer, "to be sure." but i had pretty well made up my mind, and i answered instead, "not at all. they are quite safe, thank you." "but you don't--i beg your pardon--" he said, opening his eyes very wide, as if some new light were beginning to shine upon his mind and he could scarcely believe its revelations. "you don't really mean that you are going to take those papers away with you?" "certainly." "my dear sir!" he remonstrated earnestly. "this is preposterous. pray forgive me the reminder, but those papers, as my father gave you to understand, are private papers, which he supposed himself to be handing to my brother, george." "just so!" was all i said. and i took a step towards the door. "you really mean to take them?" he asked seriously. "i do; unless you can satisfactorily explain the part i have played this evening. and also make it clear to me that you have a right to the possession of the papers." "confound it! if i must do so to-night, i must!" he said reluctantly. "i trust to your honor, sir, to keep the explanation secret." i bowed, and he resumed. "my elder brother and i are in business together. lately we have had losses which have crippled us so severely that we decided to disclose them to sir charles and ask his help. george did so yesterday by letter, giving certain notes of our liabilities. you ask why he did not make such a statement by word of mouth? because he had to go to liverpool at a moment's notice to make a last effort to arrange the matter. and as for me," with a curious grimace, "my father would as soon discuss business with his dog! sooner!" "well?" i said. he had paused, and was absently flicking the blossoms off the geraniums in the fireplace with his pocket-handkerchief, looking moodily at his work the while. i cannot remember noticing the handkerchief, yet i seem to be able to see it now. it had a red border, and was heavily scented with white rose. "well?" "well," he continued, with a visible effort, "my father has been ailing lately, and this morning his usual doctor made him see bristowe. he is an authority on heart-disease, as you doubtless know; and his opinion is," he added in a lower voice and with some emotion, "that even a slight shock may prove fatal." i began to feel hot and uncomfortable. what was i to think? the packet was becoming as lead in my pocket. "of course," he resumed more briskly, "that threw our difficulties into the shade at once; and my first impulse was to get these papers from him. don't you see that? all day i have been trying in vain to effect it. i took barnes, who is an old servant, partially into my confidence, but we could think of no plan. my father, like many people who have lost their sight, is jealous, and i was at my wits' end, when barnes brought you up. your likeness," he added in a parenthesis, looking at me reflectively, "to george put the idea into his head, i fancy? yes, it must have been so. when i heard you announced, for a moment i thought you were george." "and you called up a look of the warmest welcome," i put in dryly. he colored, but answered almost immediately, "i was afraid that he would assume that the governor had read his letter, and blurt out something about it. good lord! if you knew the funk in which i have been all the evening lest my father should ask either of us to read the letter!" and he gathered up his handkerchief with a sigh of relief, and wiped his forehead. "i could see it very plainly," i answered, going slowly in my mind over what he had told me. if the truth must be confessed, i was in no slight quandary what i should do, or what i should believe. was this really the key to it all? dared i doubt it, or that that which i had constructed was a mare's nest,--the mere framework of a mare's nest. for the life of me i could not tell! "well?" he said presently, looking up with an offended air. "is there anything else i can explain? or will you have the kindness to return my property to me now?" "there is one thing about which i should like to ask a question," i said. "ask on," he replied; and i wondered whether there was not a little too much of bravado in the tone of sufferance he assumed. "why do you carry--" i went on, raising my eyes to his, and pausing on the word an instant--"that little medicament--you know what i mean--in your waistcoat pocket, my friend?" he perceptibly flinched. "i don't quite--quite understand," he began to stammer. then he changed his tone and went on rapidly, "no! i will be frank with you, mr.-- mr.--" "george," i said, calmly. "ah, indeed?" a trifle surprised, "mr. george! well, it is something bristowe gave me this morning to be administered to my father--without his knowledge, if possible--whenever he grows excited. i did not think that you had seen it." nor had i. i had only inferred its presence. but having inferred rightly once, i was inclined to trust my inference farther. moreover while he gave this explanation, his breath came and went so quickly that my former suspicions returned. i was ready for him when he said, "now i will trouble you, if you please, for those papers!" and held out his hand. "i cannot give them to you," i replied, point blank. "you cannot give them to me now?" he repeated. "no. moreover the packet is sealed. i do not see, on second thoughts, what harm i can do you--now that it is out of your father's hands--by keeping it until to-morrow, when i will return it to your brother, from whom it came." "he will not be in london," he answered doggedly. he stepped between me and the door with looks which i did not like. at the same time i felt that some allowance must be made for a man treated in this way. "i am sorry," i said, "but i cannot do what you ask. i will do this, however. if you think the delay of importance, and will give me your brother's address in liverpool, i will undertake to post the letters to him at once." he considered the offer, eyeing me the while with the same disfavor which he had exhibited in the drawing-room. at last he said slowly, "if you will do that?" "i will," i repeated. "i will do it immediately." he gave me the direction--"george ritherdon, at the london and north-western hotel, liverpool," and in return i gave him my own name and address. then i parted from him, with a civil good-night on either side--and little liking i fancy--the clocks striking midnight, and the servants coming in as i passed out into the cool darkness of the square. late as it was, i went straight to my club, determined that as i had assumed the responsibility there should be no laches on my part. there i placed the packet, together with a short note explaining how it came into my possession, in an outer envelope, and dropped the whole duly directed and stamped into the nearest pillar box. i could not register it at that hour, and rather than wait until next morning, i omitted the precaution, merely requesting mr. ritherdon to acknowledge its receipt. well, some days passed during which it may be imagined that i thought no little about my odd experience. it was the story of the lady and the tiger over again. i had the choice of two alternatives at least. i might either believe the young fellow's story, which certainly had the merit of explaining in a fairly probable manner an occurrence of so odd a character as not to lend itself freely to explanation. or i might disbelieve his story, plausible in its very strangeness as it was, in favor of my own vague suspicions. which was i to do? well, i set out by preferring the former alternative. this notwithstanding that i had to some extent committed myself against it by withholding the papers. but with each day that passed without bringing me an answer from liverpool, i leaned more and more to the other side. i began to pin my faith to the tiger, adding each morning a point to the odds in the animal's favor. so it went on until ten days had passed. then a little out of curiosity, but more, i gravely declare, because i thought it the right thing to do, i resolved to seek out george ritherdon. i had no difficulty in learning where he might be found. i turned up the firm of ritherdon brothers (george and gerald), cotton-spinners and india merchants, in the first directory i consulted. and about noon the next day i called at their place of business, and sent in my card to the senior partner. i waited five minutes--curiously scanned by the porter, who no doubt saw a likeness between me and his employer--and then i was admitted to the latter's room. he was a tall man with a fair beard, not one whit like gerald, and yet tolerably good-looking; if i say more i shall seem to be describing myself. i fancied him to be balder about the temples, however, and grayer and more careworn than the man i am in the habit of seeing in my shaving-glass. his eyes, too, had a hard look, and he seemed in ill-health. all these things i took in later. at the time i only noticed his clothes. "so the old gentleman is dead," i thought, "and the young one's tale is true after all!" george ritherdon was in deep mourning. "i wrote to you," i began, taking the seat to which he pointed, "about a fortnight ago." he looked at my card, which he held in his hand. "i think not," he said slowly. "yes," i repeated. "you were then at the london and north-western hotel, at liverpool." he was stepping to his writing-table, but he stopped abruptly. "i was in liverpool," he answered in a different tone, "but i was not at that hotel. you are thinking of my brother, are you not?" "no," i said, "it was your brother who told me you were there." "perhaps you had better explain what was the subject of your letter," he suggested, speaking in the weary tone of one returning to a painful matter. "i have been through a great trouble lately, and this may well have been overlooked." i said i would, and as briefly as possible i told the main facts of my strange visit in fitzhardinge square. he was much moved, walking up and down the room as he listened, and giving vent to exclamations from time to time, until i came to the arrangement i had finally made with his brother. then he raised his hand as one might do in pain. "enough!" he said abruptly. "barnes told me a rambling tale of some stranger. i understand it all now." "so do i, i think!" i replied dryly. "your brother went to liverpool, and received the papers in your name?" he murmured what i took for "yes." but he did not utter a single word of acknowledgement to me, or of reprobation of his brother's deceit. i thought some such word should have been spoken; and i let my feelings carry me away. "let me tell you," i said warmly, "that your brother is a--" "hush!" he said, holding up his hand again. "he is dead." "dead!" i repeated, shocked and amazed. "have you not read of it in the papers? it is in all the papers," he said wearily. "he committed suicide--god forgive me for it!--at liverpool, at the hotel you have mentioned, and the day after you saw him." and so it was. he had committed some serious forgery--he had always been wild, though his father, slow to see it, had only lately closed his purse to him--and the forged signatures had come into his brother's power. he had cheated his brother before. there had long been bad blood between them, the one being as cold, business-like, and masterful as the other was idle and jealous. "i told him," the elder said to me, shading his eyes with his hand, "that i should let him be prosecuted--that i would not protect or shelter him. the threat nearly drove him mad; and while it was hanging over him, i wrote to disclose the matter to sir charles. gerald thought his last chance lay in recovering this letter unread. the proofs against him destroyed, he might laugh at me. his first attempts failed; and then he planned with barnes's cognizance to get possession of the packet by drugging my father's whiskey. barnes's courage deserted him; he called you in, and--and you know the rest." "but," i said softly, "your brother did get the letter--at liverpool." george ritherdon groaned. "yes," he said, "he did. but the proofs were not enclosed. after writing the outside letter i changed my mind, and withheld them, explaining my reasons within. he found his plot laid in vain; and it was under the shock of this disappointment--the packet lay before him re-sealed and directed to me--that he--that he did it. poor gerald!" "poor gerald!" i said. what else remained to be said? it may be a survival of superstition, yet when i dine in baker street now, i take some care to go home by any other route than that through fitzhardinge square. the invisible portraits. on a certain morning in last june i was stooping to fasten a shoe-lace, having taken advantage for the purpose of the step of a corner house in st. james's square, when a man passing behind me stopped. "well!" said he, aloud, after a short pause during which i wondered--i could not see him--what he was doing, "the meanness of these rich folk is disgusting! not a coat of paint for a twelvemonth! i should be ashamed to own a house and leave it like that!" the man was a stranger to me, and his words seemed as uncalled for as they were ill-natured. but being thus challenged i looked at the house. it was a great stone mansion with a balustrade atop, with many windows and a long stretch of area railings. and certainly it was shabby. i turned from it to the critic. he was shabby too--a little red-nosed man wearing a bad hat. "it is just possible," i suggested, "that the owner may be a poor man and unable to keep it in order." "ugh! what has that to do with it?" my new friend answered contemptuously. "he ought to think of the public." "and your hat?" i asked with winning politeness. "it strikes me, an unprejudiced observer, as a bad hat. why do you not get a new one?" "cannot afford it!" he snapped out, his dull eyes sparkling with rage. "cannot afford it? but, my good man, you ought to think of the public." "you tom-cat! what have you to do with my hat? smother you!" was his kindly answer; and he went on his way muttering things uncomplimentary. i was about to go mine, and was first falling back to gain a better view of the house in question, when a chuckle close to me betrayed the presence of a listener, a thin, gray-haired man, who, hidden by a pillar of the porch, must have heard our discussion. his hands were engaged with a white tablecloth, from which he had been shaking the crumbs. he had the air of an upper servant of the best class. as our eyes met he spoke. "neatly put, sir, if i may take the liberty of saying so," he observed with a quiet dignity it was a pleasure to witness, "and we are very much obliged to you. the man was a snob, sir." "i am afraid he was," i answered; "and a fool too." "and a fool, sir. answer a fool after his folly. you did that, and he was nowhere; nowhere at all, except in the swearing line. now might i ask," he continued, "if you are an american, sir?" "no, i am not," i answered; "but i have spent some time in the states." i could have fancied that he sighed. "i thought--but never mind, sir," he began. "i was wrong. it is curious how very much alike gentlemen, that are real gentlemen, speak. now, i dare swear, sir, that you have a taste for pictures." i was inclined to humor the old fellow's mood. "i like a good picture, i admit," i said. "then perhaps you would not be offended if i asked you to step inside and look at one or two," he suggested timidly. "i would not take a liberty, sir, but there are some van dycks and a rubens in the dining-room that cost a mint of money in their day, i have heard; and there is no one else in the house but my wife and myself." it was a strange invitation, strangely brought about. but i saw no reason for myself why i should not accept it, and i followed him into the hall. it was spacious, but sparely furnished. the matted floor had a cold look, and so had the gaunt stand which seemed to be a fixture, and boasted but one umbrella, one sunshade, and one dog-whip. as i passed a half-open door i caught a glimpse of a small room prettily furnished, with dainty prints and water-colors on the walls. but these were of a common order. a dozen replicas of each and all might be seen in a walk through bond street. even this oasis of taste and comfort told the same story as had the bare hall and dreary exterior, and laid as it were a finger on one's heart. i trod softly as i followed my guide along the strip of matting towards the rear of the house. he opened a door at the inner end of the hall, and led me into a large and lofty room, built out from the back, as a state dining-room or ball-room. at present it rather resembled the latter, for it was without furniture. "now," said the old man, turning and respectfully touching my sleeve to gain my attention, "now you will not consider your labor lost in coming to see that, sir. it is a portrait of the second lord wetherby by sir anthony van dyck, and is judged to be one of the finest specimens of his style in existence." i was lost in astonishment; amazed, almost appalled. my companion stood by my side, his face wearing a placid smile of satisfaction, his hand pointing slightly upwards to the blank wall before us. the blank wall! of any picture, there or elsewhere in the room, there was no sign. i turned to him and then from him, and i felt very sick at heart. the poor old fellow was--must be--mad. i gazed blankly at the blank wall. "by van dyck?" i repeated mechanically. "yes, sir, by van dyck?" he replied, in the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable. "so, too, is this one;" he moved as he spoke a few feet to his left. "the second peer's first wife in the costume of a lady-in-waiting. this portrait and the last are in as good a state of preservation as on the day they were painted." oh, certainly mad! and yet so graphic was his manner, so crisp and realistic were his words, that i rubbed my eyes; and looked and looked again, and almost fancied that lord walter and anne, his wife, grew into shape before me on the wall. almost, but not quite; and it was with a heart full of wondering pity that i accompanied the old man, in whose manner there was no trace of wildness or excitement, round the walls; visiting in turn the cuyp which my lord bought in holland, the rubens, the four lawrences, and the philips--a very barmecide feast of art. i could not doubt that the old man saw the pictures. but i saw only bare walls. "now i think you have seen them, family portraits and all," he concluded, as we came to the doorway again; stating the fact, which was no fact, with complacent pride. "they are fine pictures, sir. they, at least, are left, although the house is not what it was." "very fine pictures," i remarked. i was minded to learn if he were sane on other points. "lord wetherby," i said, "i should suppose that he is not in london?" "i do not know sir, one way or the other," the servant answered with a new air of reserve. "this is not his lordship's house. mrs. wigram, my late lord's daughter-in-law, lives here." "but this is the wetherbys' town house," i persisted. i knew so much. "it was my late lord's house. at his son's marriage it was settled upon mrs. wigram, and little enough besides, god knows!" he exclaimed querulously. "it was mr. alfred's wish that some land should be settled upon his wife, but there was none out of the entail, and my lord, who did not like the match, though he lived to be fond enough of the mistress afterwards, said, 'settle the house in town!' in a bitter kind of joke like. so the house was settled, and five hundred pounds a year. mr. alfred died abroad, as you may know, sir, and my lord was not long in following him." he was closing the shutters of one window after another as he spoke. the room had sunk into deep gloom. i could imagine now that the pictures were really where he fancied them. "and lord wetherby, the late peer," i asked, after a pause, "did he leave his daughter-in-law nothing?" "my lord died suddenly, leaving no will," he replied sadly. "that is how it all is. and the present peer, who was only a second cousin--well, i say nothing about him." a reticence which was well calculated to consign his lordship to the lowest deep. "he did not help?" i asked. "devil a bit, begging your pardon, sir. but there! it is not my place to talk of these things. i doubt i have wearied you with talk about the family. it is not my way," he added, as if wondering at himself, "only something in what you said seemed to touch a chord like." by this time we were outside the room, standing at the inner end of the hall, while he fumbled with the lock of the door. short passages ending in swing doors ran out right and left from this point, and through one of these a tidy, middle-aged woman wearing an apron suddenly emerged. at sight of me she looked greatly astonished. "i have been showing the gentleman the pictures," said my guide, who was still occupied with the door. a quick flash of pain altered and hardened the woman's face. "i have been very much interested, madam," i said softly. her gaze left me to dwell upon the old man with infinite affection. "john had no right to bring you in, sir," she said primly. "i have never known him do such a thing before, and--lord a mercy! there is the mistress's knock. go, john, and let her in; and this gentleman," with an inquisitive look at me, "will not mind stepping a bit aside, while her ladyship goes upstairs." "certainly not," i answered. i hastened to draw back into one of the side passages, into the darkest corner of it, and there stood leaning against the cool panels, my hat in my hand. in the short pause which ensued before john opened the door she whispered to me, "you have not told him, sir?" "about the pictures?" "yes, sir. he is blind, you see." "blind?" i exclaimed. "yes, sir, this year and more; and when the pictures were taken away--by the present earl--that he had known all his life, and been so proud to show to people just the same as if they had been his own, why, it seemed a shame to tell him. i have never had the heart to do it, and he thinks they are there to this day." blind! i had never thought of that; and while i was grasping the idea now, and fitting it to the facts, a light footstep sounded in the hall, and a woman's voice on the stairs; such a voice and such a footstep that, as it seemed to me, a man, if nothing else were left to him, might find home in them alone. "your mistress," i said presently, when the sounds had died away upon the floor above, "has a sweet voice; but has not something annoyed her? "well, i never should have thought that you would have noticed that!" exclaimed the housekeeper, who was, i dare say, many other things besides housekeeper. "you have a sharp ear, sir; that i will say. yes, there is a something has gone wrong; but to think that an american gentleman should have noticed it!" "i am not an american," i said, perhaps testily. "oh, indeed, sir! i beg your pardon, i am sure. it was just your way of speaking made me think it," she replied; and then there came a second louder rap at the door as john, who had gone upstairs with his mistress, came down in a leisurely fashion. "that is lord wetherby, drat him!" he said, on his wife calling to him in a low voice. he was ignorant, i think, of my presence. "he is to be shown into the library, and the mistress will see him there in five minutes; and you are to go to her room. oh, rap away!" he added, turning towards the door, and shaking his fist at it. "there is many a better man than you has waited longer at that door." "hush, john. do you not see the gentleman?" interposed his wife, with the simplicity of habit. "he will show you out," she added rapidly to me, "as soon as his lordship has gone in, if you do not mind waiting another minute." "not at all," i said, drawing back into the corner as they went on their errands; but though i said, "not at all," mine was an odd position. the way in which i had come into the house, and my present situation in a kind of hiding, would have made most men only anxious to extricate themselves. but i, while listening to john parleying with some one at the door, conceived a strange desire, or a desire which would have been strange in any other man, to see this thing to the end--conceived it and acted upon it. the library? that was the room on the right of the hall, opposite to mrs. wigram's sitting-room. probably, nay i was certain, it had another door opening on the passage in which i stood. it would cost me but a step or two to confirm my opinion. when john ushered in the visitor by one door i had already, by way of the other, ensconced myself behind a screen, that i seemed to know would face it. i was going to listen. perhaps i had my reasons. perhaps--but there, what matter? i, as a fact, listened. the room was spacious, but sombre, wainscoted and vaulted with oak. its only visible occupant was a thin, dark man of middle size, with a narrow face, and a stubborn feather of black hair rising above his forehead; a man of welsh type. he was standing with his back to the light, a roll of papers in one hand. the fingers of the other, drumming upon the table, betrayed that he was both out of temper and ill at ease. while i was still scanning him stealthily--i had never seen him before--the door was opened, and mrs. wigram came in. i sank back behind the screen. i think some words passed, some greeting of the most formal, but though the room was still, i failed to hear it, and when i recovered myself he was speaking. "i am here at your wish, mrs. wigram, and your service, too," he was saying, with an effort at gallantry which sat very ill upon him, "although i think it would have been better if we had left the matter to our solicitors." "indeed." "yes. i fancied you were aware of my opinion." "i was; and i perfectly understand, lord wetherby, your preference for that course," she replied, with sarcastic coldness, which did not hide her dislike for him. "you naturally shrink from telling me your terms face to face." "now, mrs. wigram! now, mrs. wigram! is not this a tone to be deprecated?" he answered, lifting his hands. "i come to you as a man of business upon business." "business! does that mean wringing advantage from my weakness?" she retorted. he shrugged his shoulders. "i do deprecate this tone," he repeated. "i come in plain english to make you an offer; one which you can accept or refuse as you please. i offer you five hundred a year for this house. it is immensely too large for your needs, and too expensive for your income, and yet you have in strictness no power to let it. very well, i, who can release you from that restriction, offer you five hundred a year for the house. what can be more fair?" "fair? in plain english, lord wetherby, you are the only possible purchaser, and you fix the price. is that fair? the house would let easily for twelve hundred." "possibly," he retorted, "if it were in the open market. but it is not." "no," she answered rapidly. "and you, having the forty thousand a year which, had my husband lived, would have been his and mine; you who, a poor man, have stepped into this inheritance--you offer me five hundred for the family house! for shame, my lord! for shame!" "we are not acting a play," he said doggedly, showing that her words had stung him in some degree. "the law is the law. i ask for nothing but my rights, and one of those i am willing to waive in your favor. you have my offer." "and if i refuse it? if i let the house? you will not dare to enforce the restriction." "try me," he rejoined, again drumming with his fingers upon the table. "try me, and you will see." "if my husband had lived----" "but he did not live," he broke in, losing patience, "and that makes all the difference. now, for heaven's sake, mrs. wigram, do not make a scene! do you accept my offer?" for a moment she had seemed about to break down, but her pride coming to the rescue, she recovered herself with wonderful quickness. "i have no choice," she said with dignity. "i am glad you accept," he answered, so much relieved that he gave way to an absurd burst of generosity. "come!" he cried, "we will say guineas instead of pounds, and have done with it!" she looked at him in wonder. "no, lord wetherby," she said, "i accepted your terms. i prefer to keep to them. you said that you would bring the necessary papers with you. if you have done so i will sign them now, and my servants can witness them." "i have the draft and the lawyer's clerk is no doubt in the house," he answered. "i left directions for him to be here at eleven." "i do not think he is in the house," the lady answered. "i should know if he were here." "not here!" he cried angrily. "why not, i wonder! but i have the skeleton lease; it is very short, and to save delay i will fill in the particulars, names, and so forth myself, if you will permit me to do so. it will not take me twenty minutes." "as you please. you will find a pen and ink on the table. if you will kindly ring the bell when you are ready, i will come and bring the servants." "thank you. you are very good," he said smoothly; adding, when she had left the room, "and the devil take your impudence, madam! as for your cursed pride--well, it has saved me twenty-five pounds a year, and so you are welcome to it. i was a fool to make the offer." and with that, now grumbling at the absence of the lawyer's clerk, and now congratulating himself on the saving of a lawyer's fee, my lord sat down to his task. a hansom cab on its way to the east india club rattled through the square, and under cover of the noise i stole out from behind the screen, and stood in the middle of the room looking down at the unconscious worker. if for a minute i felt strongly the desire to raise my hand and give my lordship such a surprise as he had never in his life experienced, any other man might have felt the same; and as it was i put it away and only looked quietly about me. some rays of sunshine piercing the corner pane of a dulled window fell on and glorified the wetherby coat-of-arms blazoned over the wide fireplace, and so created the one bright spot in the bare, dismantled room, which had once, unless the tiers of empty shelves and the yet lingering odor of russia lied, been lined from floor to ceiling with books. my lord had taken the furniture; my lord had taken the books; my lord had taken--nothing but his rights. retreating softly to the door by which i had entered, and rattling the handle, i advanced afresh into the room. "will your lordship allow me?" i said, after i had in vain coughed twice to gain his attention. he turned hastily and looked at me with a face full of suspicion. some surprise on finding another person in the room and close to him was natural; but possibly also there was something in the atmosphere of that house which threw his nerves off their balance. "who are you?" he cried in a tone which matched his face. "you left orders, my lord," i explained, "with messrs. duggan and poole that a clerk should attend here at eleven. i very much regret that some delay has unavoidably been caused." "oh, you are the clerk!" he replied ungraciously. "you do not look much like a lawyer's clerk." involuntarily i glanced aside, and saw in a mirror the reflection of a tall man with a thick beard and moustaches, gray eyes, and an ugly scar seaming the face from nose to ear. "yet i hope to give you full satisfaction, my lord," i murmured, dropping my eyes. "it was understood that you needed a confidential clerk." "well, well, sir, to your work!" he replied irritably. "better late than never; and after all it may be preferable for you to be here and see it duly executed. only you will not forget," he continued hastily, with a glance at the papers, "that i have myself copied four-well, three--three full folios, sir, for which an allowance must be made. but there! get on with your work. the handwriting will speak for itself." i obeyed, and wrote on steadily, while the earl walked up and down the room, or stood at a window. upstairs sat mrs. wigram, schooling herself, i dare swear, to take this one favor that was no favor from the man who had dealt out to her such hard measure. outside a casual passer through the square glanced up at the great house, and seeing the bent head of the secretary and the figure of his companion moving to and fro, saw, as he thought, nothing unusual; nor had any presentiment--how should he?--of the strange scene which the room with the dingy windows was about to witness. i had been writing for perhaps five minutes when lord wetherby stopped in his passage behind me and looked over my shoulder. with a jerk his eye-glasses fell, touching my shoulder. "bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "i have seen your handwriting somewhere; and lately too. where could it have been?" "probably among the family papers, my lord," i answered. "i have several times been engaged in the family business in the time of the late lord wetherby." "indeed." there was both curiosity and suspicion in his utterance of the word. "you knew him?" "yes, my lord. i have written for him in this very room, and he has walked up and down, and dictated to me, as you might be doing now," i explained. his lordship stopped his pacing to and fro, and retreated to the window on the instant. but i could see that he was interested, and i was not surprised when he continued with transparent carelessness. "a strange coincidence. and may i ask what it was upon which you were engaged?" "at that time?" i answered, looking him full in the face. "it was a will, my lord." he started and frowned, and abruptly resumed his walk up and down. but i saw that he had a better conscience than i had given him the credit of possessing. my shot had not struck fairly where i had looked to place it; and finding this was so, i turned the thing over afresh, while i pursued my copying. when i had finished, i asked him--i think he was busy at the time cursing the absence of tact in the lower orders--if he would go through the instrument; and he took my seat. where i stood behind him, i was not far from the fireplace. while he muttered to himself the legal jargon in which he was as well versed as a lawyer bred in an office, i moved to it; and, neither missed nor suspected, stood looking from his bent figure to the blazoned shield, which formed part of the mantelpiece. if i wavered, my hesitation lasted but a few seconds. then, raising my voice, i called sharply, "my lord, there used to be here--" he turned swiftly, and saw where i was. "what the deuce are you doing there, sir?" he cried in boundless astonishment, rising to his feet and coming towards me, the pen in his hand and his face aflame with anger. "you forget--" "a safe--a concealed safe for papers," i continued, cutting him short in my turn. "i have seen the late lord wetherby place papers in it more than once. the spring worked from here. you touch this knob." "leave it alone, sir!" cried the peer furiously. he spoke too late. the shield had swung gently outwards on a hinge, door-fashion, and where it had been, gaped a small open safe lined with cement. the rays of sunshine, that a few minutes before had picked out so brightly the gaudy quarterings, now fell on a large envelope which lay apart on a shelf. it was as clean as if it had been put there that morning. no doubt the safe was air-tight. i laid my hand upon it. "my lord!" i cried, turning to look at him with ill-concealed exultation, "here is a paper--i think, a will!" a moment before the veins of his forehead had been swollen, his face dark with the rush of blood. his anger died down, at sight of the packet, with strange abruptness. he regained his self-control, and a moment saw him pale and calm, all show of resentment confined to a wicked gleam in his eye. "a will!" he repeated, with a certain kind of dignity, though the hand he stretched out to take the envelope shook. "indeed, then it is my place to examine it. i am the heir-at-law, and i am within my rights, sir." i feared that he was going to put the parcel into his pocket and dismiss me, and i was considering what course i should take in that event, when instead he carried the envelope to the table by the window and tore off the cover without ceremony. "it is not in your handwriting?" were his first words; and he looked at me with a distrust that was almost superstitious. no doubt my sudden entrance, my ominous talk, and my discovery seemed to him to savor of the devil. "no," i replied unmoved. "i told your lordship that i had written a will at the late lord wetherby's dictation. i did not say--for how could i know?--that it was this one." "ah!" he hastily smoothed the sheets, and ran his eyes over their contents. when he reached the last page there was a dark scowl on his face, and he stood a while staring at the signatures; not now reading, i think, but collecting his thoughts. "you know the provisions of this?" he presently burst forth with violence, dashing the back of his hand against the paper. "i say, sir, you know the provisions of this?" "i do not, my lord," i answered. nor did i. "the unjust provisions of this will," he repeated, passing over my negative as if it had not been uttered. "fifty thousand pounds to a woman who had not a penny when she married his son! aye, and the interest on another hundred thousand for her life! why, it is a prodigious income, an abnormal income--for a woman! and out of whose pocket is it to come? out of mine, every stiver of it! it is monstrous! i say it is! how am i to keep up the title on the income left to me, i should like to know?" i marvelled. i remembered how rich he was. i could not refrain from suggesting that he had still remaining all the real property. "and," i added, "i understood, my lord, that the testator's personalty was sworn under four hundred thousand pounds." "you talk nonsense!" he snarled. "look at the legacies! five thousand here, and a thousand there, and hundreds like berries on a bush! it is a fortune, a decent fortune, clean frittered away! a barren title is all that will be left to me!" what was he going to do? his face was gloomy, his hands were twitching. "who are the witnesses, my lord?" i asked in a low voice. so low--for under certain conditions a tone conveys much, very much--that he shot a stealthy glance towards the door before he answered, "john williams." "blind," i replied in the same low tone. "william williams." "he is dead. he was mr. alfred's valet. i remember reading in the newspaper that he was with his master, and was killed by the indians at the same time." "true. i remember that that was the case," he answered huskily. "and the handwriting is lord wetherby's." i assented. then for fully a minute we were silent, while he bent over the will, and i stood behind him looking down at him with thoughts in my mind which he could as little fathom as could the senseless wood upon which i leaned. yet i too mistook him. i thought him, to be plain, a scoundrel; and--well, so he was--but a mean one. "what is to be done?" he muttered at length, speaking rather to himself than to me. i answered softly, "i am a poor man, my lord," while inwardly i was quoting "_quem deus vult perdere_." my words startled him. he answered hurriedly, "just so! just so! so shall i be when this cursed paper takes effect. a very poor man! a hundred and fifty thousand gone at a blow! but there, she shall have it! she shall have every penny of it; only," he concluded slowly, "i do not see what difference one more day will make." i followed his downcast eyes, which moved from the will before him to the agreement for the lease of the house; and i did see what difference a day would make. i saw and understood and wondered. he had not the courage to suppress the will; but if he could gain a slight advantage by withholding it for a few hours, he had the mind to do that. mrs. wigram, a rich woman, would no longer let the house; she would be under no compulsion to do so; and my lord would lose a cheap residence as well as his hundred and fifty thousand pounds. to the latter loss he could resign himself with a sigh; but he could not bear to forego the petty gain for which he had schemed. "i think i understand, my lord," i replied. "of course," he resumed nervously, "you must be rewarded for making this discovery. i will see that it is so. you may depend upon me. i will mention the case to mrs. wigram, and--and, in fact, my friend, you may depend upon me. "that will not do," i said firmly. "if that be all, i had better go to mrs. wigram at once, and claim my reward a day earlier." he grew very red in the face at receiving this check. "you will not in that event get my good word," he said. "which has no weight with the lady," i answered politely but plainly. "how dare you speak so to me?" his lordship cried. "you are an impertinent fellow! but there! how much do you want?" "a hundred pounds." "a hundred pounds for a mere day's delay, which will do no one any harm!" "except mrs. wigram," i retorted dryly. "come, lord wetherby, this lease is worth a thousand a year to you. mrs. wigram, as you well know, will not voluntarily let the house to you. if you would have wetherby house you must pay me. that is the long and the short of it." "you are an impertinent fellow!" he repeated. "so you have said before, my lord." i expected him to burst into a furious passion, but i suppose there was a something of power in my tone, beyond the mere defiance which the words expressed; for, instead of doing so, he eyed me with a thoughtful, malevolent gaze, and paused to consider. "you are at poole and duggan's," he said slowly. "how was it that they did not search this cupboard, with which you were acquainted?" i shrugged my shoulders. "i have not been in the house since lord wetherby died," i said. "my employers did not consult me when the papers he left were examined." "you are not a member of the firm?" "no, i am not," i answered. i was thinking that, so far as i knew those respectable gentlemen, no one of them would have helped my lord in this for ten times a hundred pounds. my lord! faugh! he seemed satisfied, and taking out a note-case laid on the table a little pile of notes. "there is your money," he said, counting them over with reluctant fingers. "be good enough to put the will and envelope back into the cupboard. tomorrow you will oblige me by rediscovering it--you can manage that, no doubt--and giving information at once to messrs. duggan and poole, or mrs. wigram, as you please. now," he continued, when i had obeyed him, "will you be good enough to ask the servants to tell mrs. wigram that i am waiting?" there was a slight noise behind us. "i am here," said some one. i am sure that we both jumped at the sound, for though i did not look that way, i knew that the voice was mrs. wigram's, and that she was in the room. "i have come to tell you, lord wetherby," she went on, "that i have an engagement from home at twelve. do i understand, however, that you are ready? if so, i will call in mrs. williams." "the papers are ready for signature," the peer answered, betraying some confusion, "and i am ready to sign. i shall be glad to have the matter settled as agreed." then he turned to me, where i had fallen back, as seemed becoming, to the end of the room, and said, "be good enough to ring the bell if mrs. wigram permit it." as i moved to the fireplace to do so, i was conscious that the lady was regarding me with some faint surprise. but when i had regained my position and looked towards her, she was standing near the window gazing steadily out into the square, an expression of disdain rendered by face and figure. shall i confess that it was a joy to me to see her fair head so high, and to read even in the outline of her girlish form a contempt which i, and i only, knew to be so justly based? for myself, i leant against the edge of the screen by the door, and perhaps my hundred pounds lay heavily on my heart. as for him, he fidgeted with his papers, although they were all in order, and was visibly impatient to get his bit of knavery accomplished. oh! he was a worthy man! and welshman! "perhaps," he presently suggested, for the sake of saying something, "while your servant is coming, you will read the agreement, mrs. wigram. it is very short, and, as you know, your solicitors have already seen it in the draft." she bowed, and took the paper negligently. she read some way down the first sheet with a smile, half careless, half contemptuous. then i saw her stop--she had turned her back to the window to obtain more light--and dwell on a particular sentence. i saw--god! i had forgotten the handwriting!--i saw her gray eyes grow large and fear leap into them as she grasped the paper with her other hand, and stepped nearer to the peer's side. "who," she cried, "who wrote this? tell me! do you hear? tell me quickly!" he was nervous on his own account, wrapt in his own piece of scheming, and obtuse. "i wrote it," he said, with maddening complacency. he put up his glasses and glanced at the top of the page she held out to him. "i wrote it myself, and i can assure you that it is quite right, and a faithful copy. you do not think--" "think! think! no, no! this, i mean! who wrote this?" she cried, awe in her face, and a suppliant tone,--strange as addressed to that man,--in her voice. he was confounded by her vehemence, as well as hampered by his own evil conscience. "the clerk, mrs. wigram, the clerk," he said petulantly, still in his fog of selfishness. "the clerk from messrs. duggan and poole's." "where is he?" she cried out breathlessly. i think she did not believe him. "where is he?" he repeated in querulous surprise. "why here, of course. where should he be, madam? he will witness my signature." would he? signatures! it was little of signatures i recked at that moment. i was praying to heaven that my folly might be forgiven me, and that my lightly planned vengeance might not fall on my own head. "joy does not kill," i was saying to myself, repeating it over and over again, and clinging to it desperately. "joy does not kill!" but oh! was it true in the face of that white-lipped woman? "here!" she did not say more, but gazing at me with great dazed eyes, she raised her hand, and beckoned to me. and i had no choice but to obey--to go nearer to her, out into the light. "mrs. wigram," i said hoarsely, my voice sounding to me only as a whisper, "i have news of your late--of your husband. it is good news." "good news?" did she faintly echo my words? or, as her face from which all color had passed peered into mine, and searched it in infinite hope and infinite fear, did our two minds speak without need of physical lips? "good news?" "yes," i whispered, "he is alive. the indians did not--" "alfred!" her cry rang through the room, and with it i caught her in my arms as she fell. beard and long hair, and scar and sunburn, and strange dress--these which had deceived others--were no disguise to her--my wife. i bore her gently to the couch, and hung over her in a new paroxysm of fear. "a doctor! quick! a doctor!" i cried to mrs. williams, who was already kneeling beside her. "do not tell me," i added piteously, "that i have killed her." "no! no! no!" the good woman answered, the tears running down her face. "joy does not kill!" an hour later this fear had been lifted from me, and i was walking up and down the library alone with my thankfulness; glad to be alone, yet more glad, more thankful still, when john came in with a beaming face. "you have come to tell me--" i cried eagerly, pleased that the tidings had come by his lips--"to go to her? that she will see me?" "her ladyship is sitting up," he replied. "and lord wetherby?" i asked, pausing at the door to put the question. "he left the house at once?" "yes, my lord, mr. wigram has been gone some time." along the garonne. we ascend the valley of the garonne on our way to pau, which we intended to use as a base of operations against the pyrenees. our route, as originally mapped out, lay by sea to bordeaux, which is three days from liverpool; and thence by rail to our destination, a journey merely of hours. but at the last moment we determined to postpone our stay at pau, and instead to wander along the banks of the garonne for a time, familiarizing ourselves with the ways of the country. then, when we had rubbed off our insular corners against the great french politeness, and perfected our grasp of the language in talk with the agenois villagers, we proposed to drop gently into pau, armed at all points, and scarcely distinguishable from frenchmen. so we planned: and so it came about that we were free to enjoy ourselves and look about us critically, as the smoky little tender bore us up the wide channel of the gironde from pauillac, where our ship bound for south america had contemptuously dropped us, to bordeaux itself. a little below the city, the gironde, which is really the estuary of the garonne and dordogne, shrinks to the garonne pure and simple, but under either name it seems equally a waste of turbid clay-laden waters. on our left hand a bright sun--the month was november--shone warmly on a line of low hills, formed of reddish earth, and broken by great marl quarries. woods climbed about these, and here and there a village or a little town nestled under them. on our right the bank lay low, and was fringed with willows, the country behind it being flattish, planted as it seemed to us with dead thorn-bushes, and dotted sparely with modern castellated houses. nevertheless it was towards this modest, almost dreary landscape that we gazed; it was of it we all spoke, and to it referred, as we named names famous as austerlitz or waterloo, names familiar in our mouths--and our butlers'--as household words. for are not more people versed in claret than in history? and this commonplace landscape, this western bank of the gironde, a mere peninsula lying between the river and the low atlantic coast, is called medoc, and embraces all the best known bordeaux vineyards in the world. it seems as if a single parish--say st. george's, hanover square, for that is a big one--might hold them all. there, see, is château lafitte. the vineyards of st. estéphe and st. julien we have just passed. léoville and latour are not far off. and now we are passing the château of margaux itself, and gaining experience, are beginning to learn that all those little thorn-bushes stuck about the fallows, as though to protect the ground-game from poachers' nets, are vines--vines of the _premier crû!_ the vintage is over. the grapes, black, sour things, about the size of currants, have all been picked. where we had looked to see the endless interlacings of greenery, and swelling clusters dropping fatness on a carpet of turf, we find only reddish fallows, and rows of dead gooseberry bushes. but never mind, even though this be but the first of many disillusions, and though the "sunny south" become hourly a more humorous catchword. to-day the sun _is_ warm, the breeze is soft, the custom-house officers are civil. we air--but with the caution due to convalescents, or those of tender years--our shaky, tottering french, and get english answers. so we stride across the broad quays of bordeaux, our hearts before us, our luggage behind, and ourselves in the best of spirits and tempers. bordeaux, as we saw it, was a cheerful, busy city, full of wide streets and open spaces and handsome buildings; a bright clean, airy, city with little smoke, an immense water frontage, and one very fine bridge: a pleasant etherealized liverpool, in fact. the white blouses and blue trousers of the workmen, the soldiers' uniforms, the bare heads of some women and the gay 'kerchiefs, worn chignon-wise, of others, gave picturesqueness to the crowds circling about the kiosques, and reminded us, from time to time, that we were in a southern city. not unnecessarily; for the thermometer fell on the day after our arrival to fifty degrees; and rain fell too, and we were quick to discover the true cause of french vivacity. the french have no fires at home. consequently, when it is cold--and it often is very cold, even as far south as bordeaux--their only resource is to go out, and jump about in such faint sunshine as they can find, and so make believe to be warm. every one in bordeaux seemed to be doing this that day. we saw a number of churches, but i have jumbled them together in my mind, and dare not distinguish between the beauties of st. seurin and st. croix, st. michel or the cathedral. only i attended a service on sunday morning, and, having heard that no frenchmen now went to church, noted with interest that of a large congregation one in every four was a man. but then bordeaux is perhaps the most orthodox city in france, and primitive ideas, good and bad, still prevail in this southwestern province, peopled by descendants of the huguenots and albigenses, by devout basques and simple navarrese. and two things also in bordeaux i remember--the semi-circular remains of a roman amphitheatre, which no one visiting bordeaux should omit to see; and, secondly, a lofty, detached spire of singular lightness and grace. it is called the peyberland, and was built by pierre berland, who must have been an english subject. his name strikes the vein of thought which was uppermost in my mind at bordeaux. i found it impossible to forget that it had been for three centuries a half english city, and the capital of a half english province, ruled by an english king; or that up the wide gironde, between the marly banks, edward the black prince must many a time have sailed in state. sir john chandos and sir walter manny, and many another english worthy, knew these streets as well as they knew eastcheap or aldgate. john of gaunt and talbot of shrewsbury dwelt here, as much at home and at their ease as in york or leicester. it is impossible not to wonder at those old englishmen; not to think of them with pride, as we remember how firmly, the roving blood of dane and norman young in their veins, they grasped this prize; how long they clung to it, how boldly they flaunted the french lilies in the eyes of france; how cheerfully they crowded year by year to cross the bay in open boats! and then what cosmopolitans they were, with their manors in devon and aquitane, their houses in london and bordeaux; with perhaps a snug little box at calais, and a farm or two in maine. how trippingly french and provençal, and the rougher english, passed over their tongues. they founded no empire--on the contrary they lost one. but they were the immediate ancestors of elizabeth's sea-dogs, for all that. in holding guienne through those three centuries their strength was wasted. when they lost it ( ), they turned upon one another, and the wars of the roses took up half a century. after that they needed half-a-century's holiday to recruit themselves; and then out flashed the vikings' spirit again--this time to better purpose--and under drake and grenville and hawkins, they, the men of poitiers and sluys, made the greater england. even in bordeaux they have left some traces of their work. they built this cathedral which stands here, in the third city of france. their leopards are not yet effaced from the walls of yonder castle. their dogs--_les dogues des anglais_, our waiter dubbed them, on seeing us fondle them--play about the streets, and sniff with a special friendliness at english calves. indeed, i never saw such a place for bull-dogs--chiefly brindled ones--as bordeaux. we drank a toast after dinner the evening before we left. it was, _les dogues des anglais!_ bordeaux, being like london too high on the river to get the sea-breeze, has its brighton at arcachon. to reach the latter from the city, a railway passes some thirty miles westward across a tract of light, sandy soil, thinly clothed with woods. as you glide through these, now in sunshine, now in shade, you catch a glimpse here and there of clearings and wooden shanties, and groups of peasants leaning on axes. then, scarcely descending, you find yourself on the seashore, with the bay of biscay before you. nearer, a basin of deepest blue, almost cut off from the outer sea by a reef of the dunes, forms a glorified harbor. along this basin runs a broad beach, backed by a row of magnificent hotels with spacious terraces; and behind these lie two or three streets of rather paltry shops and restaurants. having seen all this--the _plage_, the hotels, the terraces, the streets--you fancy you have seen arcachon, and are inclined to be disappointed. but this is not arcachon proper, which lies at the back of all this, and at the back even of that fairy-like casino that rises on the abrupt slope of the sand-dunes behind us, and seemed the rear of all things. for on the land-side of the casino is a forest of pines and larches, wild, far stretching, and apparently illimitable: a forest that is perpetually running up one sand-hill and down another, as if it were trying to get a view of the sea, and were not easily satisfied. and amid the vivid greens and dull blues of the foliage, glitter here and there and everywhere the daintiest of swiss chalets or indian bungalows, bright boxes of wood and stucco, colored and painted, and fretted and carved so delicately that one would infer that rain never fell here; or else that these were not intended for out-of-door wear. mere toys they seem, set in smooth lawns. flowers glow about them, and the scent of the pines is everywhere, and everywhere are shady aisles of trees hung with white mosses, and leading into the gloom of the forest. nature and luxury have come together here; the result is that soft, languid, southern beauty, mademoiselle arcachon--of the théâtre des folies bordelaises. yet is her constitution tolerably strong--thanks to the atlantic breezes, though the sun was bright on the day we visited her, the wind was cold and the thermometer scarcely above forty degrees. this in early november. the next evening saw us enter a very different place in a different way. for leaving bordeaux we reached la réole on foot and at dusk, welcomed only by the fantastic rays of a few swinging oil lamps. la réole is the antipodes to arcachon. it is a small, ancient town, which, small as it is, has a great place in froissart and davila, and still frowns bravely down upon the rich plain of the garonne. it stands on a steep, cloven hill that rises sheer from the wide, yellow, rush-bordered river about forty miles above bordeaux. on the crest above the garonne stands a castle once english, and in size and position not unlike that at chepstow. beside it are a church, a modern château, and a _place_ of modern houses. upon the second crest, and in the cleft between the two, are huddled together the steep alleys and crazy tottering houses, all corners and gables, of the old town. a stream on which are several mills pours through the ravine, being overhung by tall, delapidated houses of three stories, with as many sets of wooden balconies and outside stairs. one might almost step across the water from one balcony to another, so much do the houses bulge. we took infinite delight in the old-world quaintness of this scene, in the air of decay that hung about all things, in the crumbling coats of arms, the wavy, tiled roofs, the sinking houses, the swinging lanterns; above all in the gray walls of the castle, brightened here and there by the pure discs of a rose bush, or the green of ivy. froissart has a very pretty story--and a strange story too--to tell of la réole. he says that sir walter manny being with the english besieging it, "was reminded of his father;" that he had heard in his infancy that he had been buried there, or in that neighborhood. (is there not a pleasant smack about that "was reminded of," and that dubious "he had heard in his infancy"?) the elder manny, the chronicler explains, had unluckily wounded to death in a tournament at cambray a gascon knight; and by way of penance had agreed to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of st. james of compostella, at santiago in spain. on his return he passed near la réole, and hearing that the brother of the king of france was besieging it, stayed to visit him; and going home one night from the royal hotel to his lodgings, was waylaid and murdered. the gascon's kinsmen were strongly suspected of the foul deed; but they were powerful, "and none took the part of the lord of manny." so he was buried in a small chapel outside la réole; and was almost forgotten when his son, being in the neighborhood, raked up the old story, and offered a reward of a hundred crowns to any one who could show him the grave. this an old man volunteered to do, and took sir walter to a tomb which was further identified by a latin inscription. thereupon, the son, as pious as brave--a subject of queen philippa of hainault, i fear, and not a trueborn englishman, though he died in london, was buried in the charter house, and left his lands "on either side of the sea" to the earl of pembroke--had the remains conveyed to valenciennes in hainault, and buried there. and so the story ends. but is it not a quaint and pretty story, and does it not smack of the times when the knight errant was one day tourneying at cambray, and the next kneeling at santiago, and on the third was waylaid at la réole? and does it not plaintively suggest how, after long days of waiting, the news, still dim and uncertain, came through to the quiet castle in hainault, news so dim, so uncertain, that the good son, when chance brought him to the scene of his father's death, could but faintly remember that it had happened there or thereabouts? we seemed to be for a few days in a world of dying things. if la réole was old and decadent, and showed few signs of former strength, the next place to which we came was still farther gone in decay. port st. marie is a straggling town lying low in a bend of the river. most of its houses--they are large, with heavy doorways--are built in frameworks of wood after the style of our black and white houses, and have the spaces between the beams filled with bricks; long, thin bricks of close texture and the old roman shape, set sometimes on end, sometimes lengthwise, more often aslant; any way so that they may fill the interstices. a large number of these houses are of three stories; and each upper story projecting two or three feet beyond the one below it, the buildings seem really nodding to their fall. many were empty, with unglazed windows, and flapping shutters, and sinking corners; and yet the stout timbers, seasoned perhaps when simon de montfort was governor of guienne and had his court in bordeaux, held together, and bound up the crumbling clay. above one door ran the legend "_le couronné dut devoir_," a sufficiently chivalrous motto. above others were battered stone shields. on all was the stamp of assured ruin. neglect and poverty were written large everywhere. time had touched the place with no caressing hand, such as makes old bareness picturesque, and tufts with grass a feudal tower, but with mean and sordid fingers; and the result was pitifully dreary. it made our hearts ache. the very people we saw in the streets looked pallid and hopeless, like people going down the hill. such a town, so desolate, so moribund, does not exist, thank heaven, in our more populous england. yet in our way we enjoyed it. we gloated with something of the zest of ghouls over its decay, until having cloyed our souls with sadness, we got hurriedly away into the sunshine and the fields, where the patient, fawn-colored oxen were dragging the plough, and the countryman stood leaning on his goad to see us pass between the rows of poplars. no doubt he thought us mad to be toiling out of st. marie with our faces set countrywards, when no great distance off lay the railway, which would take us in a few hours to bordeaux, to the delights of café and boulevard. "oh! but they are droll, these english!" any one leaving st. marie must remark a singular, conical hill which rises abruptly from the plain before him. it is topped by a wooden steeple, while the dark outlines of walls and towers form a crown about its summit, and a row of cypresses rising solemnly above the lower buildings impart something of mystery to the place. it seemed to me like nothing so much as mont st. michel. in vain we ransacked our guide books. we could find no word of this fortress town which looked down on road and river; only in our map we discovered that its name was clermont dessus. nothing daunted, however, we discovered a field path, and, climbing the hill, passed through a ruined gateway into the silence of the place. on three sides the walls were yet fairly perfect, and within them stood some fifty houses, many in ruins, more empty, a few inhabited. the floor of one was on a level with the roof of another, and the only means of access was by steep, tortuous alleys. the church had been partially restored, but was old and still bore marks of violent usage. the graveyard on a terrace displayed twenty-four cypresses, and an ancient stone cross. above all this rose the ruins of a castle, smaller than that at la réole and with traces of more recent occupation. woodwork and iron still remained adhering to the walls. what, we wondered, had been its history. a few women and children were the only human creatures it held, and we could gather nothing from them save that it belonged, or had belonged, to the "seigneur." for our climb, however, we felt amply rewarded by the view over the valley of the garonne, and so ran quickly down the hill and stepped out stubbornly for agen, which we reached after twice losing our way through a too ardent desire to cling to a pleasant green path by the river. it was dark when, footsore and tired, we gained the principal street; and we failed to discover our hotel. "would you direct us to the hôtel de st. jean?" i asked a decent-looking man who was passing. "how, monsieur?" he replied, after so long a pause that i feared he did not understand me; "the hôtel de st. jean no longer exists. it has been closed a year and more." we looked at each other in silent disgust; and he looked at us. we were fairly tired out. "would you have the kindness, then, to tell us which is the best hotel?" i said with resignation. "i will conduct you to the hôtel de st.----," he answered, quickly. "it is an hotel of the first class." but when i saw the hôtel de st. ----, we knew him for a swindler. it was a miserable place, and we would have none of it. we courteously said that we did not like it. he insisted. we broke away from him, and in a few minutes came upon the hôtel de st. jean, its doors open to welcome us, and the light pouring ruddily from its windows. the story is trivial: i tell it because it was my ill-luck more than once to fall into the hands of this kind of tout, and be deceived by the tale that the house to which i had been advised to go was shut. on one occasion, at guelmah, in algeria, i was lured while inquiring for the hôtel d'orient into the hôtel auriol, a miserable place. in the morning i looked out of my window, and to my astonishment saw the name of the hotel in which i believed myself to be staring me in the face, painted up in large letters over the door of a house on the farther side of the square. i rubbed my eyes and wondered, and it was not until i stood in the open, and read the name of one and the other, that i recognized with a hearty laugh how i had been taken in. from agen, on a fine, sunny morning, we went by rail to moissac. here, attached to the church, is the most delightful cloister in the world, a cloister rich in arches and capitals of delicate tracery poised on slender shafts, and half hidden by luxuriant creepers, through which the light falls soft and green-tinged, as in some sea-grotto. it is a place for rest and reflection, perfectly adapted to a hot climate; whereas, he who has only seen the dull, dank portico enclosing danker grave-stones, the play-ground of cats--which in england we call a cloister--does not know what the thing is. this church boasted also a quaint doorway enriched with the more or less coarse designs in which the monks of yore took pleasure: a doorway reputed to be one of the most curious in france. from moissac we went on foot to castel sarrasin, sometimes by the tarn, but for the most part by the side of the great canal; and always, whether by the latter or the river, moving in a soft symphony of various greens, green streams, green poplars--and oh! such vistas of them!--green willows, green banks--all mingled together and fading into one another, and harmoniously blending as the evening fell with the pale pea-green of the eastern sky. it was a peaceful and silent walk through a world of restful hues. from castel sarrasin, once no doubt a stronghold of the moors, to montauban we went by train. montauban, on the tarn, is a busy place, but a picturesque one also. standing on a rough, steep hill, the town is seamed and cleft by strange, deep valleys with precipitous sides. crazy houses with roofs of tiles, so time-stained that they have the precise appearance of strips of bark, fill these ravines and lean against their walls. gardens cling to the ledges of the rocks. shrubs and flowers clothe the crannies. wooden balconies hang everywhere--and clothes-lines. we were there on market-day, and watched with amusement the teams of oxen--all fawn-colored--coming in for sale, or dragging into town the lumbering carts (much like timber-wagons, with boxes about the middle) in which madame sat with her produce about her. monsieur walked before the oxen, his goad on his shoulder, and a white nightcap on his head. oxen push, they do not pull. they shove inwards against one another, the near legs of the near ox and the off legs of the off ox being protruded at a considerable angle to get a good purchase. very frequently only the feet so used are shod. the driver always goes before them, and as they follow with lowered heads, they are perfect images of patient resignation. an old farmer, stout and jolly-looking, presently met us loitering on the bridge, and after a long period of staring, spoke to us. "are you germans?" he asked. "no," i replied with courteous determination, "we are english." he still eyed us with some suspicion, and after a pause fell to questioning us about our country. had we bread, and what kind of bread? had we any railways? "yes," i answered proudly to this last, "we have trains that travel at the rate of a hundred _kilomètres_ an hour!" a trifling exaggeration it may be, but human and pardonable. he gravely nodded his head, however, as if he believed it, and meant to pose his wife and neighbors with it when he reached home. "you have grapes and wine?" he continued. "we grow grapes under glass," i explained, "in glass houses. in the open air it is generally too cold for them." "what!" he exclaimed, his jovial face clouding over as it occurred to him that i was not in earnest. "will you kindly say that again?" i did as he wished. but when i had made the matter as clear as i could, he answered stoutly, "no! it is impossible! either i do not understand you, or you do not understand me!" and he went on his way in a passion. he could believe in the irish mail; but the cultivation of vines under glass was a thing outside his ideas of the world's economy. from the _place_ at montauban, an open space pleasantly laid out on the brow of the hill, it is said that the pyrenees can be seen on a fine day. we had a fine day, but we saw no sign of the mountains--our land at beulah--though we looked long and lingeringly. attracted by a name which seemed familiar to us, and had a ring about it as of feudal and knightly times, we made a diversion from here to cahors on the lot, an old city standing in a fertile basin, among bare, brown hills. we were disappointed in the first appearance of the town. the river still runs round three sides of it, but the ramparts have been turned into gardens where they have not been levelled; only one tower of the castle survives; and though there are some picturesque houses, the town is for the most part modern, and devoted to gambetta who was born in it. the cathedral, surmounted by one heavy tower, backed by three domes in a row, is imposing in its bulky ugliness. its floor is much lower than the marketplace without: so that on entering through the west door you find a flight of steps before you, and the congregation at your feet immersed in candlelit gloom. these steps at the sunday morning service were crowded by kneeling hucksters and market-women with their baskets, who had quietly entered as a matter of course from the market, which was in full swing without, and were devoutly telling their beads, or listening to a sermon preached by a bishop--a count-bishop, too, whose pastoral ring was still a prominent feature in the scene, so skilfully did he wave and display it. at cahors we were much pleased with one of the bridges, from which rise three flemish-looking towers. they form as many gateways, and from every point of view are singularly picturesque. this bridge may have stood there in its present state when henry of navarre did at cahors his most famous deed. a strong garrison was at the time holding the city for the catholic party, but henry, smarting under the loss of la réole, which had been betrayed by its governor, determined to seize cahors. accordingly he came to it with fourteen hundred men, and leaving one half of this force outside to cover his night attack, blew in a gate with a petard and entered with the rest, being himself the seventh to pass in. a furious battle in the streets ensued, but when day broke, the huguenots had mastered a small part of the city only, and reinforcements for the enemy arriving, henry's followers begged him to retire. "no!" he answered, fighting on with his back to a shop, "i will not retire! my only retreat from this town shall be the retreat of my soul from my body!" he kept his word. street by street and house by house, he reduced the town, neither side asking or giving quarter. but it was not until the fifth night after his entrance that he completely mastered the place, a feat which is generally allowed to stand highest among his warlike exploits. at cahors it was that we first came under the influence of his name; but thereafter it grew and grew, a bigger factor in the past, a more prominent object in our thoughts in the present, the farther south we travelled; until at pau, his birthplace and capital, the son of jeanne d'albret, _the béarnais_, the navarrese, the protector of the religion, _henri quatre_, henry the great, seemed to fill all past history, and dwarf all other figures. we have in english story no royal personage, no prominent life even, at once so picturesque, so rich in surprises, so lovable, and so blameworthy. hot-blooded and cool-headed, daring to rashness, astute to meanness, a professor and a profligate, merciful, affectionate, yet letting nothing intervene between him and his aims--who that is man shall judge him? surely the wine which henry's father raised to his new-born lips, the cold water which was dashed in his hour-old face, the national song his mother sang at his birth, did really reproduce themselves in his life. leaving cahors in the evening, we slept at a small village called lelbenque, and were on foot before eight next day, and on our way across the hills to caylus. the country through which we passed in the fresh morning air, a range of bleak lime-stone heights sparsely covered with oak trees, seemed thinly peopled, and little tilled. here and there in the wooded depths of a valley, we came upon a sparkling brook and a few comfortable farm-houses nestling among fruit trees, and protected by abrupt limestone walls from the cold winds which swept across the uplands. the distance to caylus was sixteen miles. there were no inns, and as we had breakfasted rather meagrely on coffee and bread, we were driven to beg something at one of the farm-houses. there were only women at home, and these were with reason astonished to see foreign tramps in that out-of-the-way district. they seemed even a little afraid of us, but we got what we wanted notwithstanding the growling of the dogs; and our offer of payment was declined with suspicious abruptness. i fancy that they suspected us of wanting change. about mid-day we passed over the last ridge of the uplands, and saw below us a narrow fertile valley squeezed in between mountain-walls. halfway through this gorge and in the middle of it, a hill or rock rose abruptly almost to the height of a thousand feet. on this, lording it over the road, stood caylus, its houses and gardens descending terrace by terrace from the castle-nucleus on the crest almost to the road. very old was the church, about the porch of which are carved green animals in the act of nibbling one another's tails under the superintendence of st. michael. we took it for st. michael. old, too, seemed the great stone house opposite, known as the _maison du loup_, and bearing uncouth masks and figures of wolves in high relief on its front. older still we judged the market-place to be, which built of wood rests on stone pillars; and the heavy arcade or "row" which stands in the same tiny square with it, and the beetle-browed wynds that lead to it--all old, gray, heavy, time-stained, but still solid. in the market hall we noticed three ancient corn-measures; hollows scooped out in stones that formed part of the fabric of the hall, with to each a horizontal outlet or spout at the side, through which the grain when measured might escape into bag or basket. even while we were examining these we remarked women sitting outside the doors about us, removing the grain from stalks of maize, and plaiting various articles with the straw. the weather-beaten castle belongs to madame st. cyr, but was occupied when we visited it by mr. wilton, an englishman, who was not at home. his housekeeper, however, kindly allowed us to go over the building, and we found the view from the leads of the keep--used, i suspect, as a smoking-room--very charming. caylus, to sum up, is difficult of access and is not even named in "murray," but i can highly recommend it as a quaint example of a mediæval town, such as cannot now be found in england without much searching. from it we passed by means of a top-heavy, jingling country coach to st. anthonin, and so by rail to albi on the tarn, albi of the albigenses, the unhappy sect whose fate confutes the saying that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the church. about albi, from which place they took their name, they grew and flourished in the latter half of the twelfth century. but seventy years later, notwithstanding the attempt which their feudal lord, raymond of toulouse, made to protect them, they were virtually extinct. save that they dissented from the romish church, their very doctrines are now unknown or to be found only in the writings of their enemies, and their story and fortunes are too often confounded with those of the waldenses. simon de montfort, the father of our simon de montfort, took a conspicuous part in the cruel deeds which attended their suppression. at the fall of beziers, heretic and churchman were put to the sword together. "slay all--god will know his own," said the gentle abbot arnold. and in a sense wisely: for it is only the man of half measures who fails as a persecutor. to be perfectly ruthless, perfectly thorough in the work, is to be successful also. at any rate at albi, which, like cahors, stands among hills, there are no traces of the albigenses left; not even such a story as rings about the name of beziers with fire. rather the great cathedral proclaims rome's victory. built externally of bricks, it is a huge blind oblong with an apsidal end. a swelling base and rounded buttresses add to its heavy appearance. yet it is very lofty. the monstrous red tower hung about with giddy balconies rises nearly to the height of three hundred feet, while the church itself, the lower part of which has no openings or windows, seems half that height. in a word, the whole is as much a fortress as a cathedral. lofty flights of steps lead to a raised porch, formed by three arches decorated with carvings lately and successfully restored. entering the church through this we find the interior a striking sight. in shape it is a vast hall surrounded by chapels in two stories, and with a choir screened off at one end. the interior still remains in the state to which our puritans objected, the state probably characterized more churches than we now imagine. it is covered from ceiling to floor with frescoes and paintings and scrollwork, some gaudy, some subdued, some good, some bad. the very statues are painted and gilded, and although here and there the effect is garish and unpleasing, i do not agree that the appearance of the whole, as the vast mass of color presents itself to the eyes, broken by the exquisite carvings of the stone screen or a bevy of tinted marbles, is absolutely unharmonious. i found it more pleasing than i expected. and then what would have been the effect of these plain walls in their naked monotony? the paintings are mainly of the date of francis i., say about . two frescoes of hell and the passions, done by italian artists, cover the west end--cover acres of it as it seems; and in a chapel, among other anachronisms is a notable picture of christ, in which he is figured in a hat and feather and the dress of a courtier of the time in the midst of roman soldiers who are kicking him along. a great store of information as to the dresses and customs of the early part of the sixteenth century is laid up here, to be ransacked by any one who will take the trouble to closely inspect this huge interior. the groups painted upon the walls, groups of people fighting, tourneying, feasting, dancing, dying--ay, and doing many things scarcely adapted to church decoration--are to be counted by thousands; as are the gold stars that stud the bright blue ceiling. there is something suggestive in the portrayal of these things in this place; they seem to tell of a faith which, with all its scandals, abuses, and laxity, was bound up intimately with the life of the people, with their joys as well as their griefs; and so smacked of one who did not consider the price of sparrows as beneath knowledge. at any rate we were pleased with these things. the interior of albi cathedral may not be in the best taste. it may be meretricious, it may be gilt rather than of gold. but it is curious; it is almost unique; it is a museum in itself; and to an englishman accustomed to the cold if correct lines of a gothic church, its warmth and color afford a not unwelcome change. at auch we arrived at night, and found it to be an old-fashioned archiepiscopal city on the summit and southern slope of a precipitous hill. here we came upon the first traces--a spanish pedler, a navarrese bonnet--of that strange borderland between spain and western france in which three languages and a dozen _patois_, french, spanish, basque, the langue d'oc, the langue d'or, and gascon and provençal and the tongue of andorra, and i know not what others, are fighting for the mastery: where two great nations now peaceably march, dividing between them the wild country where the kingdom of navarre once sat enthroned on hills with the free basque communities about her. it is a country rich in memories of independence, of strife; of brigandage, of romance; of the free life of the hunter; a land of snow-clad peaks and deep valleys, and rolling, wooded hills full of creatures elsewhere extinct, bears, and izards, and, shall i add, basques. here are roncesvalles and the bidassoa, fontarabia and orthez, san sebastian and the isle of peacocks. moor and paladin, scot and spaniard, charlemagne and wellington, have all passed this way and left deep foot-prints. and auch stands on the verge of this strange country; an old city, but full of energy and with no trace of decay. from the river, flights of wide steps with spacious landings, gay with flowers and fountains, climb the southern face of the hill, which the best road-maker would find impracticable. at the head of these steps and commanding extensive prospects stands the cathedral, a beacon to all the country between it and the skirts of the mountains. the building is fine, but its pride lies in the wood carvings of the unrivalled choir. my guide, an ex-soldier, also pointed out with pride some cymbals presented to the cathedral by the first napoleon: trophies, so he told me, of the egyptian campaign. we wandered out in the afternoon to the brow of a ridge of hills lying on the far side of the river, and throwing ourselves down upon some heather and bracken--it was a warm and sunny but not very clear day--began to cast speculative glances towards spain. but while we thought that we were looking southwards our eyes were really turned too much to the east. and presently we discovered this in a strange way. for glancing by chance towards the skyline on our right, we saw, first, a brown autumnal landscape of woods and hills, and beyond this a long, gray cloud, the horizon, as we thought; and above that--ah! what was it we saw above that? a line of silvery peaks, gleaming in a gray, sheeny atmosphere of their own, so pure, so soft, so far above this world of ours, that as the words "the pyrenees!" broke the first moments of astonished silence, we felt that for once the thing long looked for had passed our expectations! our hearts fastened upon the distance. the pleasant landscape spread out before us lost its charms. it was homely, it was flat, it was commonplace, it was of the earth earthy, beside the serene beauty of the snowy crests and untrodden wastes that shone and sparkled in that far distance, and anon grew cold and dim as the veil of cloud was drawn before them even while we watched. when they were gone, we felt that nothing save the mountains would now satisfy us. we had a craving for them, such as i have sometimes felt for the sea. a sudden conviction that we were wasting our time in a world of small things, while the wonders of the hills lay close at hand, overwhelmed us. we hurried homewards, talking of peaks, and glaciers, and passes, of cauteret and gavarnie, mont perdu and the pic du midi; and packed in the same state of pleasant excitement. the next morning saw us passing through the same country, rich in autumn tints, in leafy bottoms, and rippling streams, which we had seen stretched out before us. and the evening saw us stand on the famous place royale, hard by the castle where henry of navarre was born, feasting our eyes on the cold, bright tints of the great mountains, seen sharp and clear above the jurance hills, and listening to the rushing waters of the gave. our garonne pilgrimage was over. janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ the set of page scans that was used to create this version of the book was as dirty as it is possible to be, while still making it just about possible to do the ocr and subsequent editing. this latter was very hard work. the scans came from the canadiana online collection. no doubt there is a reason for this lack of quality. but there was a reason for persevering with the editing process, endless as it seemed to be for several weeks, and that was that i do believe this book to be very great literature, even though it has not hitherto been recognised as such by the world in general. to be truthful, the book's first quarter, and perhaps the last quarter, are more dramatic than the two middle quarters. but it is all well worth reading and thinking about, for there are many things in the book that we should all think deeply about, living as we do in a very different world than the one that surrounded the author and her fictional characters almost a hundred and fifty years ago. that the author had very great skill is undoubted, and can be seen from her other works. i hope you will read it and see if you agree with me that the hard work involved on bringing this book to the web has been worthwhile. nh. ________________________________________________________________________ janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. chapter one. the longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of clayton. there were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square--it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. but these soon ceased. the wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night. in the primitive village of clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. but to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, and in other parts of the house as well. lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman's anxious face looked out. "what can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "it's no' like him to linger at a time like this. god send he was at home." another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and the door was again opened. "well, janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neck and pausing as he went in. the woman curtseyed with a very relieved face. "they'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. the minister's no' long home." she lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. in a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers. "has my father come, janet?" said a voice out of the darkness. "yes, he's come. he's gone up the stairs. i'll put on the kettle. i dare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride." sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. she had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of janet's candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of janet's sight. but she need not have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. then she went softly out and closed the door behind her. the girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. as the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that "janet had'na sent her to her bed." "it's quite time i dare say," she added, in a little, "and i'm tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. i'll go whenever papa comes down." she listened for a minute. then her thoughts went away to other things--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. then she thought of other things-- of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. not a shadow crossed her brow. not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. so she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again. "i might see by the fire," she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page. "miss graeme," said janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, "your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee rosie wakened, and wantin' her. you'll need to take her, for i maun awa'." the book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightened face. "what ails mamma, janet? is she very ill?" "what should ail her but the one thing?" said janet, impatiently. "she'll be better the morn i hae nae doubt." graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her. "i must go to her, janet." "indeed, miss graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. mrs burns is with her, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now. bide still where you are, and take care o' wee rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma the night." graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. janet went out, and graeme heard her father's voice in the passage. she held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. she heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to graeme a long time before she heard another sound. then janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound. "janet!--tell me!--my mother." "save us lassie! i had no mind of you. bide still, miss graeme. you munna go there," for graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. "your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. it's only me that doesna ken about the like o' you. the minister keeps up a gude heart. gude forgie him and a' mankind." graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at janet's unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. but janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door. "no' ae step, miss graeme. the auld fule that i am; 'gin the lassie had been but in her bed. no, i'll no' take the bairn, sit down there, you'll be sent for if you're needed. i'll be back again soon; and you'll promise me that you'll no leave this till i bid you. miss graeme, i wouldna deceive you if i was afraid for your mamma. promise me that you'll bide still." graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. then she sat down again to listen and to wait. how long the time seemed! the lids fell down over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still. the flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. the red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. the baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till janet's voice aroused her. there were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed. "miss graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she's wantin' you. but mind you are to be quiet, and think o' your father." taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at janet's arm. "mamma is better janet," she asked eagerly. janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,-- "ay, she'll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. but, mind, you are to be quiet, miss graeme." chilled and trembling, graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother's room. the curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. but the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. there were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. they moved away as she drew near. then graeme saw her mother's white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly,-- "mother." the dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling's face, and the white lips opened with a smile. "graeme--my own love--i am going away--and they will have no one but you. and i have so much to say to you." so much to say! with only strength to ask, "god guide my darling ever!" and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. her father and his motherless children had none but her to care for them now. chapter two. "it's a' ye ken! gotten ower it, indeed!" and janet turned her back on her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: "the minister no' being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? it's a' they ken!" "janet, woman," said her visitor, "i canna but think you are unreasonable in your anger. i said nothing derogatory to the minister; far be it from me! but we can a' see that the house needs a head, and the bairns need a mother. the minister's growing gey cheerful like, and the year is mair than out; and--" "whisht, woman. dinna say it. speak sense if ye maun speak," said janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger. "wherefore should i no' say it?" demanded her visitor. "and as to speaking sense--. but i'll no' trouble you. it seems you have friends in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your pleasure. good-day to you," and she rose to go. but janet had already repented her hot words. "bide still, woman! friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. and what with ae thing and anither i dinna weel ken what i'm saying or doing whiles. sit down: it's you that's unreasonable now." this was mistress elspat smith, the wife of a farmer--"no' that ill aff," as he cautiously expressed it--a far more important person in the parish than janet, the minister's maid-of-all-work. it was a condescension on her part to come into janet's kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. but they had been friends all their lives; and janet "kenned hersel' as gude a woman as elspat smith, weel aff or no' weel aff;" so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying: "hoot, woman! what would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? and i want to consult you." "but you should speak sense yourself, janet," said her friend. "folk maun speak as it's given them to speak," said janet; "and we'll say nae mair about it. no' but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. she wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, i can tell you. no that they're ill bairns--" "we'll say no more about it, since that is your will," said mrs smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,-- "you have a full handfu' with the eight of them, i'm sure." "seven only," said janet, under her breath. "she got one of them safe home with her, thank god. no' that there's one ower many," added she quickly; "and they're no' ill bairns." "you have your ain troubles among them, i dare say, and are muckle to be pitied--" "me to be pitied!" said janet scornfully, "there's no fear o' me. but what can the like o' me do? for ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o' doctrine, he's a verra bairn about some things. _she_ aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang--having something to lay by at the year's end as well. now, if we make the twa ends meet, it's mair than i expect." "but miss graeme ought to have some sense about these things. surely she takes heed to the bairns?" "miss graeme's but a bairn herself, with little thought and less experience; and its no' to be supposed that the rest will take heed to her. the little anes are no' so ill to do with; but these twa laddies are just spirits o' mischief, for as quiet as norman looks; and they come home from the school with torn clothes, till miss graeme is just dazed with mending at them. and miss marian is near as ill as the laddies; and poor, wee rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till you would think the wind would blow her awa. master arthur is awa at his eddication: the best thing for a' concerned. i wish they were a' safe unto man's estate," and janet sighed. "and is miss graeme good at her seam?" asked mistress elspat. "oh ay; she's no' that ill. she's better at her sampler and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. but there's no fear but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but hae patience with herself. miss graeme is none of the common kind." "and has there been no word from _her_ friends since? they say her brother has no bairns of his own. he might well do something for hers." janet shook her head. "the minister doesna think that i ken; but when mr ross was here at the burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, norman or harry, and wee marian. she's likest her mamma. but such a thing wasna to be thought of; and he went awa' no' weel pleased. whether he'll do onything for them in ony ither way is more than i ken. he might keep master arthur at the college and no' miss it. how the minister is ever to school the rest o' them is no' easy to be seen, unless he should go to america after all." mistress smith lifted her hands. "he'll never surely think o' taking these motherless bairns to yon savage place! what could ail him at mr ross's offer? my patience! but folk whiles stand in their ain light." "mr ross is not a god-fearing man," replied janet, solemnly. "it's no' what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by him. the minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. and besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them behind." "but what need to cross the sea?" cried mrs smith; "it's a pity but folk should ken when they're weel aff. what could the like o' him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?" "it's for the bairns' sake he's thinking of it. they say there's fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin' rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. and there's room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. i'm no' sure but it's just the best thing the minister can do. they had near made up their minds afore, ye ken." "hoot, woman, speak sense," entreated her friend. "is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the indians? that's what they do in yon country, as i've read in a book myself. whatna like way is that to bring up a family?" "losh, woman, there's other folk there beside red indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in britain, no' less. you should read the newspapers, woman. there's one john caldwell there, a friend o' the minister's, that's something in a college, and he's aye writing him to come. he says it's a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca' institutions, that he seems to think muckle o', though what _they_ may be i couldna weel make out. the minister read a bit out o' a letter the ither night to miss graeme and me." "janet," said her friend, "say the truth at once. the minister is bent on this fule's errand, and you're encouraging in it." "na, na! he needs na encouragement from the like o' me. i would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it's easy seen he'll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er their heads. and they say yon's a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. i'm no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. i ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought," and janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. her friend shook her head gravely. "it might have done, with her to guide them; but it's very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than i can tell you. it would be little else than a temptin' o' providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o' the sea, and then to those o' a strange country. he'll never do it. he's restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he'll think better of it, and bide where he is." janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. she knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. these might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. they might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the new world than in the old. the decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. it was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone. for janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. that very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,-- "janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?" and she had vowed to god, and to him, that she would never leave them while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. but the after thought had come. she had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his motherless children. a mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a long time been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. more than half required for their maintenance janet provided. could she forsake them? could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right for her to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? true, her mother was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpful lad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. her mother had another daughter too, but janet knew that her sister could never supply her place to her mother. though kind and well-intentioned, she was easy minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at her fireside, should its shelter come to be needed. day after day janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind. "if it were not so far," she thought, or "if her mother could go with her." but this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if her mother could be brought to consent to such a plan. and janet asked herself, "what would my mother do if sandy were to die? and what would sandy do if my mother were to die? and what would both do if sickness were to overtake them, and me far-away?" till she quite hated herself for ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her. there had been few pleasures scattered over janet's rough path to womanhood. not more than two or three mornings since she could remember had she risen to other than a life of labour. even during the bright brief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil, for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before her son was born. with few words spoken, and few tears shed, save what fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother's care, and gone back again to a servant's place in the minister's household. there she had been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend and mistress, "working the work of two," as they told her, who would have made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year's end to year's end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in which god had placed her. but far-away into the future--it might be years and years hence--she looked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herself entirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. in this hope she was content to strive and toil through the best years of her life, living poorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to the good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patient labour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call her most striking characteristics by less honourable names. she had never, during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, but their fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none the less dear to her because of that. could she give this up? could she go away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be content to see no respite from her labour till the end? yes, she could. the love that had all these years been growing for the children she had tended with almost a mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible-- even easy to her. but her mother? how could she find courage to tell her that she must leave her alone in her old age? the thought of parting from her son, her "bonny sandy," loved with all the deeper fervour that the love was seldom spoken--even this gave her no such pang as did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. he was young, and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring, she could at least hope to see him again. but her mother, already verging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when once the broad atlantic rolled between them. and so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, janet's words grew fewer and sharper as the days wore on. with strange inconsistency she blamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered no one else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise than what was wisest and best for all. it was a sore subject, this anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in clayton besides her, and much was it discussed by all. but it was a subject on which janet would not be approached. she gave short answers to those who offered their services in the way of advice. she preserved a scornful silence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsake her master and his children in their time of need, nor was she better pleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes. and so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till she dazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think and plan no more. "i'll leave it to my mother herself to decide," she said, at last; "though, poor body, what can she say, but that i maun do what i think is my duty, and please myself. the lord above kens i hae little thought o' pleasin' myself in this matter." and in her perplexity janet was ready to think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to all experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once. chapter three. the time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. the minister was away from home, and before his return it would be made known formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after that the sooner his departure took place it would be the better for all concerned, and so janet must brace herself for the task. so out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into the pleasant light of may, knowing that before she entered it again, she would have made her mother's heart as sore as her own. all day, and for many days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt that it must be farewell. "if you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will be the right one," said she to herself. "i read that in a book once, but it's ill choosing when both are rough, and i know not what to do." out into the brightness of the spring day she came, with many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand. "it's a bonny day, bairns," said she, and her eye wandered wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills that rose dimly in the distance. the mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden from her. "i mun hae it ower," she muttered to herself as she went on. in each hand she held firmly the hand of a child. marian and little will were to go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in her absence graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little rose. "oh, janet!" she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them; "i wish i were going with you, it's such a bonny day." but janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said without her presence, so she shook her head. "you know miss graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we would weary carrying wee rosie, and she could never go half the distance on her feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short and ceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o' my bonny wee lily," added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. "but i needna tell you that, and we'll soon be back again." the children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her own thoughts, janet answered them without knowing what she said. down the lane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossed their path again they went, "the near way," and soon the solitary cottage in the glen was in sight. it was a very humble home, but very pleasant in its loneliness, janet thought, as her eye fell on it. the cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came the hum of the mother's busy wheel. drawing a long breath, janet entered. "weel, mother," said she. "weel, janet, is this you, and the bairns? i doubt you hadna weel leavin' hame the day," said her mother. "i had to come, and this day's as good as another. it's a bonny day, mother." "ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank god. come in by, bairns, i sent sandy over to fernie a while syne. it's near time he were hame again. i'll give you a piece, and you'll go down the glen to meet him," and, well pleased, away they went. "i dare say you'll be none the waur of your tea, janet, woman," said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal into her preparations. janet strove to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still listening to her mother's talk, asking and answering questions on indifferent subjects. there was no pause. janet had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself her mother's need of her. "the thought ought to give me pleasure," she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believed claimed her. in the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother at random. had she been less occupied, she might have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed for many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter's face, and now and then a sigh escaped her. they were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. the mother had been "bonnier in her youth, than ever janet had," she used to say herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. she was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many a woman of half her years. she was smaller than janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strength of body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still striking. she had seen many trials, as who that has lived for sixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. when they were fairly seated, with the little table between them, she startled janet, by coming to the point at once. "and so they say the minister is for awa' to america after all. is that true?" "oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is," said janet, gravely. "he spoke to me about it before he went away. it's all settled, or will be before he comes hame the morn." "ay, as you say, it's ill news to them that he's leaving. but i hope it may be for the good o' his young family. there's many a one going that road now." "ay, there's more going than will better themselves by the change, i doubt. it's no like that all the fine tales, we hear o' yon country can be true." "as you say. but, it's like the minister has some other dependence, than what's ca'ed about the country for news. what's this i hear about a friend o' his that's done weel there?" janet made a movement of impatience. "wha' should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in a college there awa'. i dare say there would be weel pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o' books, and a house to hold them in. but what can the like o' him ken o' a young family and what's needed for them. if he had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, i'm sure." janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrong side of the question. her mother said nothing, and in a minute she added,-- "there's one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o' the plan. oh! if she had been but spared to them," and she sighed heavily. "you may weel say that," said her mother, echoing her sigh. "but i'm no sure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. and janet, woman, there's aye a kind providence. he that said, `leave thy fatherless children to me,' winna forsake the motherless. there's no fear but they'll be brought through." "i hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and i believe it surely. but oh, mother," janet's voice failed her. she could say no more. "i ken weel, janet," continued her mother, gravely, "it will be a great charge and responsibility to you, and i dare say whiles you are ready to run away from it. but you'll do better for them than any living woman could do. the love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there's no fear but you'll get it. the back is aye fitted for the burden. let them gang or let them bide, you canna leave them now." she turned her face away from her mother, and for her life janet could not have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. there was to be no struggle between her and her mother. that was well; but with the feeling of relief the knowledge brought, there came a pang--a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. by a strong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say,-- "i shall never leave them while they need me. i could be content to toil for them always. but, ah! mother, the going awa' over the sea--" her voice failed her for a minute, then she added,-- "i hae wakened every mornin' with this verse of jeremiah on my mind: `weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.'" janet made no secret of her tears now. "hoot fie, janet, woman," said her mother, affecting anger to hide far other feelings. "you are misapplyin' scripture altogether. that was spoken o' them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, and no' o' honest folk, followin' the leadings o' providence. if there's ony application it's to me, i'm thinkin'. it's them that bide at hame that are bidden weep sore;" and she seemed much inclined to follow the injunction. she recovered in a minute, however, and added,-- "but i'm no' going to add to your trouble. you dinna need me to tell you i'll have little left when you're awa'. but, if it's your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. you winna lose your reward striving in behalf o' these motherless bairns, and the lord will hae me and sandy in his keeping, i dinna doubt." there was a long silence after this. each knew what the other suffered. there was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word; janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; her mother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. each shrunk, for the other's sake, from putting their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. the mother's heart ached for the great wrench that must sever janet from her child and her home, and janet's heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter's hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace. the mother spoke first. "when will it be?" "it canna be long now. the sooner the better when once it's really settled. there are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go." "it's for none to say what's right, and what's wrang, in the matter," said the mother, gravely. "i hae nae doubt the lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me." "he's bent on it. go he will, and i trust it may be for the best," but janet sighed drearily. "and how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" asked her mother. "ah! they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' a change. miss graeme has her doubts, i whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. she's ower like her father with her ups and downs. she hasna her mother's cheerful spirit." "her mother's death was an awfu' loss to miss graeme, poor thing," said the mother. "aye, that it was--her that had never kent a trouble but by readin' o' them in printed books. it was an awfu' wakening to her. she has never been the same since, and i doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. she tries to fill her mother's place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. but i hae great hope o' her. she has the `single eye,' and god will guide her. i hae nae fear for miss graeme." and then they spoke of many things--settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. nothing was forgotten or omitted; for janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother's use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send sandy over the sea. it was all done very quietly and calmly. i will not say that janet's voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother's eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. but there was no sign given. a strong sense of duty sustained them. a firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much. at length the children's voices were heard, and at the sound, janet's heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang. "weel, sandy, lad, is this you," said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother's bidding. he was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. there was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. to his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. but there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered,-- "sandy is going with us too, janet. there will be plenty of room for us all." "i've been telling menie that i canna leave grannie," said sandy, turning gravely to his mother. "you'll hae norman and harry, and them a', but grannie has none but me." "and wouldna you like to go with us too, sandy, man?" asked his mother, with a pang. "to yon fine country john ferguson tells us about?" said sandy, with sparkling eyes. "that i would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she's ower old to go so far-away--and over the great sea too." "nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you'll need to bide here. think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you." "and are you goin' mother?" asked sandy, gravely. "i doubt i'll need to go, sandy lad, with the bairns. but i think less of it, that i can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. i'm sure i needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--" it needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart. "and will you never come back again, mother?" "i dinna ken, sandy. maybe no. but that's no' for us to consider. it is present duty we maun think o'. the rest is in the lord's hands." what else could be said? that was the sum. it was duty and the lord would take care of the rest. and so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greet mair." and janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it. chapter four. it was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father's coming. it was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. it was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. they were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to america. arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. he was sitting with the sleepy will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. he could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in scotland till his studies were finished at the college. "but there's no use to vex the lads and graeme to-night," he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. the thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. but he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. it cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming. there was one sad face among them; for even arthur's home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. it was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. she was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. and yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed her, arthur thought, as he sat watching her. the change had come to her through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to graeme. he had suffered too more than words could ever tell. many a time his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead mother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground. graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing of her mother's counsel and care. not one day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she had striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, and her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. "as how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to herself, "so weak, so foolish, so impatient." and yet through all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her mother's place still. some thought of all this came into arthur's mind, as she sat there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time the cradle at her side. never before had he realised how sad it was for them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been all the year. "poor graeme! and poor wee rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over the cradle. "how old is rosie?" asked he, suddenly. "near three years old," said janet. "she winna be three till august," said graeme in the same breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on janet. for this was becoming a vexed question between them--the guiding of poor wee rosie. janet was a disciplinarian, and ever declared that rosie "should go to her bed like ither folk;" but graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for rosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers. but graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. janet's mind was full of other thoughts. one cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no sign; and janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the bible in her hand. on common occasions the bairns would not have let janet's silence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, "whist, bairns! your father will be here!" she sat without a word. there was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. it was not fear that quieted them. there was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. his was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and mild. in his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. the calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. his words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of god in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb. "the minister is changed--greatly changed." janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. but with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. he had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into janet's mind the promise, "all things shall work together for good to them that love god." her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. if that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her? "it will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "i'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but i humbly hope that i am one of those who love the lord." "well, bairns!" said the father. there was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for graeme had already set her father's chair and opened the bible at the place. she pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them. "we'll take a psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the leaves from a "namey chapter" in chronicles, the usual place. he chose the forty-sixth. "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. "therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea." and thus on through the next. "he shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of jacob, whom he loved." and still on through the next till the last verse,-- "this god is our god for ever and ever. he will be our guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise. then there was a momentary hush and pause. never since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship time. they had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. but janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at arthur's side. in the silence that followed the reading graeme looked from him to them, but arthur shook his head. he was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still-- there was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but when arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. he was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. but a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms. up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the burden light. the house was quiet at last. the boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. this had been one of rosie's "weary nights." the voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. but she did sleep at last, and just as janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. the red embers still glowed on the hearth, but janet was in the very act of "resting the fire" for the night. "oh! janet," said graeme, "put on another peat. i'm cold, and i want to speak to you." "miss graeme! you up at this time o' the night! what ails yon cankered fairy now?" "oh, janet! she's asleep long ago, and i want to speak to you." and before janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over janet's knee. "janet, what did your mother say? and oh! janet, arthur says my father--" turning with a sudden movement, graeme let her head fall on janet's lap, and burst into tears. janet tried to lift her face. "whist! miss graeme! what ails the lassie? it's no' the thought of going awa', surely? you hae kenned this was to be a while syne. you hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going altogether." "janet, arthur is to bide in scotland." "well, it winna be for long. just till he's done at the college. i dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. but who told you?" "arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. and, oh! janet! what will i ever do without him?" "miss graeme, my dear! you hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in scotland, you would hae to do without him still. he could na' be here and at the college too. and when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. families canna aye bide together. bairns maun part." "but, janet, to go so far and leave him! it will seem almost like death." "but, lassie it's no' death. there's a great difference. and as for seeing him again, that is as the lord wills. anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. do you no' think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?" "but, janet, why need he part from him? think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if arthur should go with us. arthur is almost a man." "na, lass. he'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. and as for his goin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o' the matter. it might be better--more cheery--for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o' that." there was a long silence. graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again. "miss graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brother can make no real difference. you must seek to see the rights o' this. if your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things, the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to disappoint him. you hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. there's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soon follow, you may be sure. oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!" graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on janet's lap. "janet, what did your mother say?" janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,-- "oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. i told your father i would go, and i will. my mother doesna object." "and sandy?" said graeme, softly, for there was something working in janet's face, which she did not like to see. "sandy will aye hae my mother, and she'll hae sandy. but, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. gang awa' to your bed." graeme rose; but did not go. "but couldna sandy go with us? it would only be one more. surely, janet--" janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, graeme did not know which, but it stopped her. "na, na! sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. there's no more to be said about that." and in spite of herself, janet's tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron. "you see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, i'm weary, and vexed to-night, and no' just myself. matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. there's one thing certain. both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. what with the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa' to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn." graeme still lingered. "oh, janet! if my mother were only here! how easy it all would be." "ay, lass! i hae said that to myself many a time this while. but he that took her canna do wrong. there was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. you maun aye strive to fill her place to them all." graeme's tears flowed forth afresh. "oh, janet! i think you're mocking me when you say that. how could _i_ ever fill her place?" "no' by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. but it would be limiting his grace to say he canna make you all you should be--all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. but now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. there's no fear but you will be in god's keeping wherever you go." janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. when janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. but she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and graeme was little better. many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose. but, with the aid of mrs smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction. the minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. but it was the fairest of summer mornings--the mist just lifting from the hills--and the sweet air filled with the laverock's song, when janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home. chapter five. they found themselves on board the "steadfast" at last. the day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance. "oh! how dismal!" murmured graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. all the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even norman and harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. another hour in the close cabin, and graeme felt she must yield too--and then what would become of rose? so into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. for a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister's lap. soon the cheerful voice of the captain, startled graeme. "touch and go with you i see, miss elliott. i am afraid you will have to give in like the rest." graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough. "not if i can help it," said she. "well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. it will do you good. set down the bairn," for graeme was rising with rose in her arms. "no harm will come to her, and you don't look fit to carry yourself. sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. here, ruthven," he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, "come and try your hand at baby tending. that may be among the work required of you in the backwoods of canada, who knows?" the young man came forward laughing, and graeme submitted to be led away. the little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she was always made to feel herself to be. but she took a look into the face of her new friend and thought better of it. his face was a good one, frank and kindly, and rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed upon his knee, and when graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and "ill to do with," laughing merrily in the stranger's arms. she would have taken her, but rose was pleased to stay. "you are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to," said she, gratefully. looking up, she did not wonder at rosie's fancy for the face that smiled down upon her. "i ought to feel myself highly honoured," said he. "i think we'll give him the benefit of little missy's preference," said captain armstrong, who had been watching graeme with a little amused anxiety since her walk was ended. the colour that the exercise had given her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew white with the deadly sickness that was coming over her. "you had best go to the cabin a wee while. you must give up, i think," said he. graeme rose languidly. "yes, i'm afraid so. come rosie." "leave the little one with me," said mr ruthven. and that was the last graeme saw of rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. it passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. they came with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea air soon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began. but alas! for janet. the third day, and the tenth found her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that held her. in vain she struggled against it. the "steadfast's" slightest motion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. on the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helped up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabin below. "it was just a judgment upon her," she said, "to let her see what a poor conceited body she was. she, that had been making muckle o' herself, as though the lord couldna take care o' the bairns without her help." it was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. this aggravated her trouble. "useless body that i am." and janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again. the lads and marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. it would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. "and, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads," their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last. before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by arthur for the purpose. a full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but i forbear. norman or harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. there are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. there are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. the history of each sailor in the ship is given, from "handsome frank, the first yankee, and the best-singer" the boys ever saw, to father abraham, the dutchman, "with short legs and shorter temper." graeme writes often, and daily bewails janet's continued illness, and rejoices over "wee rosie's" improved health and temper. with her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes "that they had more sense," but on the whole they are satisfactory. she has much to say of the books she has been reading--"a good many of sir walter scott's that papa does not object to," lent by allan ruthven. there are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and graeme declares she "has no patience" with allan. for his favourites in sir walter's books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the old puritans--men whom graeme delights to honour. but on the whole it is to be seen, that allan is a favourite with her and with them all. the beautiful bay of boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party--including the restored janet-- regarded the city to which they were drawing near. their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. far more familiar with the early history of new england--with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of roger williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. but they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay. "and this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all," said allan. "they have left unstained what there they found. freedom to worship god," murmured graeme, softly. "i'm sure i shall like the american people." but allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time. "you must write and tell me about your new home," said he. "yes--the boys will write; we will all write. i can hardly believe that six weeks ago we had never seen you. oh! i wish you were going with us," said graeme. "allan will see arthur when he comes. arthur will want to see all the country," said norman. "and maybe he will like the queen's dominions best, and wish to settle there," said allan. "oh! but we shall see you long before arthur comes," said graeme. "is it very far to canada?" "i don't know--not very far, i suppose. i don't feel half so hopeful now that i am about to know what my fate is to be. i have a great dread on me. i have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here." "but your mother wouldna be pleased," said graeme, gravely. "no. she has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. but it would be more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. i should like to look about me a little, before i get fairly into the treadmill of business." in her heart graeme thought it an excellent thing for allan that he had his uncle to go to. she had her own ideas about young people's looking about them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with janet and dr watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. but she thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off at once for canada, allan might have gone with them for a little while. before she could say this, however, janet spoke. "ay, that's bairn-like, though you hae a man's stature. i dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody's bidding; but, my lad, it's ae' thing to hae a friend's house, and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it's anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain will. if you're like the lads that i ken' maist about, you'll be none the worse of a little wholesome restraint. be thankful for your mercies." allan laughed good-humouredly. "but really, mrs nasmyth, you are too hard on me. just think what a country this is. think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and prairies that norman reads about, and is it strange that i should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these things to enjoy? it is not the thought of the restraint that troubles me. i only fear i shall become too soon content with the routine, till i forget how to enjoy anything but the making and counting of money. i am sure anything would be better than to come to that." "you'll hae many things between you and the like o' that, if you do your duty. you have them you are going to, and them you hae left--your mother and brother. and though you had none o' them, you could aye find some poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. are you to bide in your uncle's house?" "i don't know. mrs peter stone, that was home last year, told us that my uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywhere they like. i shall do as the rest do i suppose. all the better--i shall be the more able to do what i like with my leisure." "ay, it's aye liberty that the like o' you delight in. weel, see that you make a good use of it, that's the chief thing. read your bible and gang to the kirk, and there's no fear o' you. and dinna forget to write to your mother. she's had many a weary thought about you 'ere this time, i'll warrant." "i daresay i shall be content enough. but it seems like parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. my bonnie wee rosie, what shall i ever do without you?" said allan, caressing the little one who had clambered on his knee. "and what shall we do without you?" exclaimed a chorus of voices; and norman added,-- "what is the use of your going all the way to canada, when there's enough for you to do here. come with us, allan, man, and never mind your uncle." "and what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up for you?" demanded janet, sharply. "oh! he'll get just what we'll get ourselves, a chance to make his own way, and i doubt whether he'll get more where he's going. i've no faith in rich uncles." allan laughed. "thank you, norman, lad. i must go to canada first, however, whether i stay there or not. maybe you will see me again, sooner than i think now. surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me." far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. in another day they would be among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. what awaited them there? not that they feared the future, or doubted a welcome. indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. a new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made her excited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend made her sad. as for janet, she was herself again. her courage returned when the sea-sickness departed, and now she was ready "to put a stout heart to a stiff brae" as of old. "disjaskit looking" she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able to keep her feet again. "she had been busy all the morning," overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. all the morning graeme had submitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the "guiding" of this and that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision to family matters. thankful to see her at her post again, graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. there were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than janet considered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were missing, after due search made. in vain graeme begged her never to mind just now. they were in the big blue chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, but of course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened. "maybe no," said janet. "there are some long fingers, i doubt, in the steerage yonder. miss graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu'. if i'm no' mistaken, i saw one o' norman's spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o' yon lang johnny heeman, and yon little irish lassie ga'ed past me the day, with a pinafore very like one o' menie's. i maun ha' a look at it again." "oh, janet! never mind. i gave wee norah the pinafore, and the old brown frock besides. she had much need of them. and poor johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and norman gave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa's,--and--" janet's hands were uplifted in consternation. "keep's and guide's lassie--that i should say such a word. your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. what for did you do the like o' that? the like o' norman or menie might be excused, but you that i thought had some sense and discretion. your father's waistcoat! heard anybody ever the like? you may be thankful that you hae somebody that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them--" "oh! i'm thankful as you could wish," said graeme, laughing. "i would rather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to see the queen on her throne. i confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, i'm responsible no longer. i resign my office of general caretaker to you. success to you," and graeme made for the cabin stairs. she turned again, however. "never heed, janet, about the things. think what it must be to have no change, and we had so many. poor wee norah, too. her mother's dead you ken, and she looked so miserable." janet was pacified. "weel, miss graeme, i'll no' heed. but my dear, it's no' like we'll find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. and we had need to be careful. i wonder where a' the strippet pillow slips can be? i see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them." but graeme was out of hearing before she came to this. they landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. they had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the ship. eager and excited, the whole party were, but not after the anticipated fashion. graeme was surprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the puritans had rendered sacred. indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had too much trouble to keep the umbrella over marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the sufferings of the pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. mr elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms for them in a quiet street, and thither allan ruthven, carrying little rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the proper bestowment of their baggage. this duty janet fain would have shared with him. her reverence for the minister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she expressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, "yon sharp-looking lad could carry it off from beneath the minister's nose." dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts by present necessities. the din and bustle of the crowded wharf, would have been sufficient to "daze" the sober-minded country-woman, without the charge of little will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two "daft laddies forby." on their part, norman and harry scorned the idea of being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewildered janet. "bide a wee, norman, man. harry, you daft laddie, where are you going? now dinna throw awa' good pennies for such green trash." for harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling. "saw ever anybody such cheatry," exclaimed janet, as the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. "harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. and look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister's bed gowns will be all wet. man! hae you no sense?" "nae muckle, i doubt, janet," said harry, with an exaggerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. "it's awfu' like scotch dubs, now isn't it? never mind, i'll give it a wash at the next pump, and it 'ill he none the worse. give me will's hand, and i'll take care of him." "take care o' yourself, and leave will with me. but, dear me, where's mr allan?" for their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys in the rainy street. before her consternation had reached a climax, however, ruthven reappeared, having safely bestowed the others in their lodgings. like a discreet lad, as janet was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of will, and some of the bundles, and led the way. at the door stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them. if their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her new lodgers, there was little wonder. such a confusion of tongues her american ears had not heard before. graeme condoled with will, who was both wet and weary. janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general. marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and allan was tossing rosie up to the ceiling, while norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the "brave new world" which was to be the scene of his wonderful achievements and triumphs. the next day rose bright and beautiful. mr elliott had gone to stay with his friend mr caldwell, and janet was over head and ears in a general "sorting" of things, and made no objections when it was proposed that the boys and graeme should go out with allan ruthven to see the town. it is doubtful whether there was ever so much of boston seen in one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. it was a day never to be forgotten by the children. the enjoyment was not quite unmixed to graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures at his finger ends for their amusement. the crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by allan ruthven on their way home. they were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. there was never such fruit--there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. as for the ice cream, it was-- inexpressible. in describing the feast afterwards, marian could never get beyond the ice cream. she was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. it was like the manna that the children of israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it. graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. she had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in allan's purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance. "never mind, graeme, dear," said norman; "allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when i am mayor of boston, i'll give him manna and quails too." they came home tired, but they had a merry evening. even graeme "unbent," as harry said, and joined in the mirth; and janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came. "one would think when mr allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while's peace," said she. if the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of allan ruthven. chapter six. "but where's the town?" the bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. the meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, "the trees under which the red indians used to wander," graeme whispered. there were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. over all the great magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land. there were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the october sunshine. they could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in harry's voice as he asked,-- "where's the town?" they had been greatly impressed by the description given them of merleville by mr sampson snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home. "i was the first white child born in the town," said sampson. "i know every foot of it as well as i do my own barn, and i don't want no better place to live in than merleville. it don't lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. right in the centre, perhaps a _leetle_ south, there's about the prettiest pond you ever saw. there are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. i shouldn't wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they've used up all the other water privileges in the state. there's quite a fall in the merle river, just before it runs into the pond. we've got a fullin'-mill and a grist-mill on it now. they'd think everything of it in your country." "there's just one meetin'-house in it. that's where your pa'll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. the land's about all taken up, though it hain't reached the highest point of cultivation yet. the town is set off into nine school-districts, and i consider that our privileges are first-rate. and if it's nutting and squirrel-hunting you're after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to uncle sampson, and he'll arrange your business for you." "ten miles square and nine school-districts!" boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. the inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined merleville to be, did not strike them. this was literally their first glimpse of merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves. "but norman! harry! i think this is far better than a town," said marian, eagerly. "eh, graeme, isna yon a bonny water?" "ay, it's grand," said graeme. "norman, this is far better than a town." the people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. with an interest that was half wonder, half delight, graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. it might be the "bonny day"--the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of marian's hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of will's golden hair. she did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most. "yon's merle river, i suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees." "and yonder is the kirkyard," said marian, gravely. "it's no' a bonny place." "it's bare and lonely looking," said harry. "they should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is," said marian. "but this is a new country; things are different here," said norman. "but surely they might have trees." "and look, there are cows in it. the gate is broken. it's a pity." "look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. that's bonny, i'm sure." "and there's a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. i would like to live there." "yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side." and so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. their friend mr snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. he had been watching them for some time. "well how do you like the looks of things?" "it's bonny here," said marian. "where's the town?" asked harry, promptly. mr snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them. "lacks a fraction of being ten miles square." "it's all trees," said little will. "wooden country, eh, my little man?" "country! yes, it's more like the country than like a town," said harry. "well, yes. on this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks' countries," said mr snow, gravely. "but it's like no town i ever saw," said norman. "there are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town." "there's freedom on them hills," said mr snow, waving his hand with an air. during the journey the other day, mr snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and mr snow had, as he expressed it, "set their british blood to bilin'," by hints about "aristocracy", "despotism," and so on. "he never had had such a good time," he said, afterwards. they were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. he meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. the boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of graeme. "whist, norman. harry, mind it is the sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with judge merle," and turning smilingly to mr snow, she added, "we like the place very much. it's beautiful everywhere. it's far bonnier than a town. i'm glad there's no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first." "no town?" repeated mr snow. but there was no time for explanations. their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the judge. judge merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in merleville, if not in the country. the children had made his acquaintance on saturday. he had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. the children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when mr snow gave him a familiar nod, and a "morning judge," graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. the judge did not resent it, however. on the contrary, when mr snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, "he guessed the folks would get about fitted this time," he nodded as familiarly back, and said, "he shouldn't wonder if they did." there are no such churches built in new england now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the judge. it was very large and high, and full of windows. it was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the sabbath worship, the dimness of their father's little chapel in clayton. norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin. how many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. so many, that graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal. afterwards--years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father's face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in merleville. there was a charm in the scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. it was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by god's grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. he spoke as one whom god had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. he spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. so earnestly that deacon fish forgot to hear for deacon slowcome, and deacon slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. deacon sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister's lips, as the very word of god. "he means just as he says," said mr snow to young mr greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. "he wasn't talking just because it was his business to. when he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of god can do, he believed it himself, i guess." "they all do, don't they?" said mr greenleaf. "well, i don't know. they all say they do. but there's deacon fish now," said mr snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, "he don't begin to think that grace or anything else, could make _me_ such a good man as he is." mr greenleaf laughed. "if the vote of the town was taken, i guess it would be decided that grace wouldn't have a great deal to do." "well, the town would make a mistake. deacon fish ain't to brag of for goodness, i don't think; but he's a sight better than i be. but see here, squire, don't you think the new minister'll about fit?" "he'll fit _me_," said the squire. "it is easy to see that he is not a common man. but he won't fit the folks here, or they won't fit him. it would be too good luck if he were to stay here." "well, i don't know about that. there are folks enough in the town that know what's good when they hear it, and i guess they'll keep him if they can. and i guess he'll stay. he seems to like the look of things. he is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and i guess he won't want much in the way of pay. i guess you had better shell out some yourself, squire. _i_ mean to." "you are a rich man, mr snow. you can afford it." "come now, squire, that's good. i've worked harder for every dollar i've got, than you've done for any ten you ever earned." the squire shook his head. "you don't understand my kind of work, or you wouldn't say so. but about the minister? if i were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, i should feel just as though i were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. anything i have to do with, i want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won't be so in this matter." "yes, i shouldn't wonder if there would be a hitch before long. but i guess you'd better think before you say no. i guess it'll pay in the long run." "thank you, mr snow. i'll take your advice and think of it," said mr greenleaf, as sampson stopped at his own gate. he watched him going up the hill. "he's goin' along up to the widow jones' now, i'll bet. i shouldn't wonder if he was a goin' to lose me my chance of getting her place. it kind o' seems as though i ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. and they say old skinflint is going to foreclose right off. i'll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if i have to raise the cash. but it does seem as if i ought to have it. maybe it's celestia the squire wants, and not the farm." he came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it. "well, now, it does beat all. here have i been forgetting all about what i have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. deacon sterne needn't waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. i've got to know it pretty well by this time;" and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house. chapter seven. the next week was a busy one to all. mr elliott, during that time, took up his residence at judge merle's, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. there was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. the lads broke sticks and carried water, and janet's mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home. a great deal besides was accomplished this week. it was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and harry shot as many with mr snow's wonderful rifle. they and marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. they came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that graeme and janet had not been with them. it was saturday night, after a very busy week, and janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for "their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon." but the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. for to tell the truth, janet's patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of "torn clothes and ruined shoon." the next week was hardly so successful. it was cold and rainy. the gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. the inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. it had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. a wretched place it looked. the windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and graeme. a very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. but this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. the house occupied by mr elliott's predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. when winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it. the people were wonderfully kind. one man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. orrin green spent two days in banking up the house. deacons fish and slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people. there were some drawbacks. the wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and janet mortally offended mr green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year's salary, at prices which made janet's indignation overflow. this latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind. in the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. with warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all. the rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of november was a long and lovely indian-summer. then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. graeme and rosie and will went with the rest, and even janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. she enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. it was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. it was a fine country, nobody could deny; but janet's eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart. in this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. and a happy month it was for them all. one night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold "the beauty and mystery of the snow." far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. how strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes. "it 'minds me of white grave-clothes," said marian, with a shudder. "whist, menie," said her sister. "it makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air." "but, graeme, the angels will be going up, and--" "well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. they mind me of beautiful and peaceful things." "but, graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark." "menie! there are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. and, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again," and graeme sighed. but it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was "perfect ruination to their clothes;" and yet janet had not the heart to forbid it. it was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, mr snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. there was room for them all, and for mr snow's little emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? even graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road. "the bonnie creatures!" she exclaimed; and mr snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white "like brides." marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. they came home again the other way, past judge merle's and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. the people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith's shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. all were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except mr snow's little emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. but none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. none of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. it was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little emily. "isna she a queer little creature?" whispered harry to graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder. "she's a bonnie little creature," said graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, "and good, too, i'm sure." "grandma don't think so," said the child, gravely. "no!" exclaimed harry. "what bad things do you do?" "i drop stitches and look out of the window, and i hate to pick over beans." harry whistled. "what an awful wee sinner! and does your grandma punish you ever? does she whip you?" the child's black eyes flashed. "she daren't. father wouldn't let her. she gives me stints, and sends me to bed." "the turk!" exclaimed harry. "run away from her, and come and bide with us." "hush, harry," said graeme, softly, "grandma is mr snow's mother." there was a pause. in a little emily spoke for the first time of her own accord. "there are no children at our house," said she. "poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes," said graeme. "yes; when father's gone and mother's sick. then there's nobody but grandma." "have you a doll?" asked menie. "no: i have a kitten, though." "ah! you must come and play with my doll. she is a perfect beauty, and her name is flora macdonald." menie's doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little merleville girls. "will you come? mr snow," she said, climbing upon the front seat which norman shared with the driver, "won't you let your little girl come and see my doll?" "well, yes; i guess so. if she's half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing." menie was down again in a minute. "yes, you may come, he says. and bring your kitten, and we'll play all day. graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. will you like to come?" "yes," said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever. they stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and janet out to see. all sprang lightly down. little emily stayed alone in the sleigh. "is this your little girl, mr snow?" said mr elliott, taking the child's hand in his. emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon. "yes; she's your marian's age, and looks a little like her, too. don't you think so mrs nasmyth?" janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child. "she might, if she had any flesh on her bones," said she. "well, she don't look ragged, that's a fact," said her father. the cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little elliotts, had given emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father's heart ache to see. "the bairn's cold. let her come in and warm herself," said janet, promptly. there was a chorus of entreaties from the children. "well, i don't know as i ought to wait. my horses don't like to stand much," said mr snow. "never mind waiting. if it's too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening." emily looked at her father wistfully. "would you like to stay, dear?" asked he. "yes, sir." and she was lifted out of the sleigh by janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down. "i'll be along down after dark, sometime," said mr snow, as he drove away. little emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. mr elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride. "and hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?" said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. "what is your name, little one?" "emily snow arnold," answered she, promptly. "emily arnold snow," said menie, laughing. "no; emily snow arnold. grandma says i am not father's own little girl. my father is dead." she looked grave, and so did the rest. "but it is just the same. he loves you." "oh, yes!" there was a bright look in the eyes for once. "and you love him all the same?" "oh, yes." so it was. sampson snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. but they did not have "good times" up at their house the little girl confided to graeme. "mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn't for father, i don't know what we _should_ do." indeed, they did not have good times. old mrs snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of "nerves," and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son's sickly wife. she had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. so old mrs snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son's wife and her little girl. if there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son's warm affection for his little step-daughter. at any rate she was determined that little emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when _she_ was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and "good times" were few and far between at their house. her acquaintance with the minister's children was the beginning of a new life to emily. her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into janet's bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. if anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and mrs nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in mr snow. chapter eight. from the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excited great curiosity and interest among the good people of merleville. the minister himself, as mr snow told mrs nasmyth, was "popular." not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless mr snow himself did. every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. indeed, they were more unanimous, with regard to the minister's faults, than old ladies generally are on important subjects. the matter was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewing-circles, and when mrs page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, "that though the minister was a good man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man a good pastor," there was scarcely a dissenting voice. mrs merle had ventured to hint that, "they could not expect everything in one man," but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister's offences was, having been several times in at the judge's, while he sinfully neglected others of his flock. "it's handy by," ventured mrs merle, again. but the judge's wife was no match for the blacksmith's lady, and it was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might be, he was "no hand at visiting." true he had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. but that of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like the affectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and his people. "he might preach like paul," said mrs page, "but unless on week days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would never be gathered in. the minister's face ought to be a familiar sight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into the fold," and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of merleville. the minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in this respect. "and what did he say?" asked some one. "oh! he didn't say much, but i could see that his conscience wasn't easy. however, there has been no improvement yet," she added, with grave severity. "he hain't got a horse, and i've heard say, that deacon fish charges him six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. he couldn't afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year." this bold speech was ventured by miss rebecca pettimore, mrs captain liscome's help, who took turns with that lady, in attending the sewing-circle. but it was well known, that she was always "on the off side," and mrs page deigned no reply. there was a moment's silence. "eli heard mr snow say so, in page's shop yesterday," added rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. mrs fish took her up sharply. "sampson snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it for nothing. mr fish can't." "my goodness, mis' fish, i wouldn't have said a word, if i'd thought you were here," said rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh. "mr snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, just to have a talk with him," said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to cover rebecca's retreat. but rebecca wouldn't retreat. "i didn't mean any offence, mis' fish, and if it ain't so about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther." but it was not to be contradicted, and that mrs fish well knew, though what business it was of anybody's, and why the minister, who seemed to be well off, shouldn't pay for the use of a horse and cutter, she couldn't understand. the subject was changed by mrs slowcome. "he must have piles and piles of old sermons. it don't seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, as mrs nasmyth tells about." here there was a murmur of dissent. would sermons made for the british, be such as to suit free-born american citizens? the children of the puritans? the prevailing feeling was against such a supposition. "old or new, i like them," said celestia jones, the pretty black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. "and so do others, who are better judges than i." "squire greenleaf, i suppose," said ruby fox, in a loud whisper. "he was up there last sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all the afternoon." celestia's black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly ruby said no more. indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for that they were something for the merleville people to be proud of, all agreed. mr elliott's preaching had filled the old meeting-house. people who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out of the town, even. young squire greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospect of succeeding judge merle, as the great man of merleville, had brought over the judges from rixford, and they had dined at the minister's, and had come to church on sunday. young squire greenleaf was a triumph of himself. he had never been at meeting "much, if any," since he had completed his legal studies. if he ever did go, it was to the episcopal church at rixford, which, to the liberal mrs page, looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. now, he hardly ever lost a sunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and making frequent visits to the minister's house. having put all these things together, and considered the matter, mrs page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wont to suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity of rejoicing over. the rest rejoiced too. there was a murmur of dissent from miss pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. there was a gleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of miss celestia, which said more plainly than miss pettimore's words could have done, that the squire was better now, than the most in merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing. the minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the other members of the family were discussed, with equal interest. upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. but mrs page and her friends were not quite satisfied with graeme. as the minister's eldest daughter, and "serious," they were disposed to overlook her youthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. but graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour to herself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. but she was kindly dealt with, even by mrs page, for her loving care of the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherly heart among these kind people. and she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen. there were numberless stories afloat about the boys,--their mirth, their mischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. the boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won for themselves a welcome. it is true, there had been one or two rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other lads of the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner than the mirth, and norman and harry were very popular among old and young. but the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomaly in merleville society was janet, or mrs nasmyth, as she was generally called. in refusing one of the many invitations which she had shared with the minister and graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece of her mind. she was, she said, the minister's servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him in any strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same. "servant!" echoed mrs sterne's help, who was staying to pass the evening, while her mistress went home, "to see about supper." and, "servant!" echoed the young lady who assisted mrs merle in her household affairs. "i'll let them see that i think myself just as good as queen victoria, if i do live out," said another dignified auxiliary. "she must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature." "why, they do say she'll brush them great boys' shoes. i saw her myself, through the study-door, pull off mr elliott's boots as humble as could be." "to see that little girl pouring tea when there's company, and mrs nasmyth not sitting down. it's ridiculous." "i wouldn't do so for the president!" "well, they seem to think everything of her," said miss pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection. "why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. and the way them children hang about her, and fuss over her, i never see. they tell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father." "and if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's always, `ask mrs nasmyth,' or, `mrs nasmyth will tell you.'" "they couldn't get along without her. if i was her i'd show them that i was as good as them, and no servant." "she's used to it. she's been brought up so. but now that she's got here, i should think she'd be sick of it." "i suppose `servant' there, means pretty much what `help' does here. there don't seem to be difference enough to talk about," said rebecca. "i see considerable difference," said mrs merle's young lady. "it beats all," said another. yes, it did beat all. it was incomprehensible to these dignified people, how janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. and that "mrs nasmyth thought considerable of herself," many of the curious ladies of merleville had occasion to know. the relations existing between her and "the bairns," could not easily be understood. she acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. she enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking to dispute her right. they went to her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, or consoled them, as the case might need. that they were as the very apple of her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see. there were stories going about in the village to prove that she had a sharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek to deny. of course, it was the duty of all the female part of the congregation to visit at the minister's house, and to give such advice and assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to be required of them. it is possible they took more interest in the matter than if there had been a mistress in the house. "more liberties," janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the answering of impertinent questions. according to her own confession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed without due discretion, a "downsetting," and graeme and the boys, and even mr elliott, had an idea that a downsetting from janet must be something serious. it is true her victims' ignorance of the scottish tongue must have taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upsettin' bodies," and "meddlesome bodies," that bestowed too much time on their neighbours' affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on the subject. but she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and soft came very naturally to janet's lips when her heart was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willing hands relieved. for every sharp word brought up against her, there could be told a kindly deed, and janet's friends were the most numerous at the sewing-circle that night. merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, it seemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. but between the hills lay many a fertile valley. except toward the west, where the hills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of which were occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. the village was not large enough to have a society within itself independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even to the borders of the "ten miles square," considered themselves neighbours. they were very socially inclined, for the most part, and merleville was a very pleasant place to live in. winter was the time for visiting. there was very little formality in their entertainments. nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, was usually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal invitations were given. then, it must be confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass all others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. but for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they dropped in on one another in a friendly way. the minister's family were not overlooked. scarcely an evening passed but some of their neighbours came in. indeed, this happened too frequently for janet's patience, for she sorely begrudged the time taken from the minister's books, to the entertainment of "ilka idle body that took leave to come in." it gave her great delight to see him really interested with visitors, but she set her face against his being troubled at all hours on every day in the week. "if it's anything particular i'll tell the minister you're here," she used to say; "but he bade the bairns be quiet, and i doubt he wouldna like to be disturbed. sit down a minute, and i'll speak to miss graeme, and i dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly." generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her bright kitchen for a chat with her and the children. it was partly these evening visits that won for mrs nasmyth her popularity. even in her gloomy days--and she had some days gloomy enough about this time--she would exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young people the visitor was generally well entertained. such singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in the pleasant firelight! there was no such thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o'clock worship came before the visitor was aware. even judge merle and young squire greenleaf were sometimes detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the minister was more than usually engaged. "for you see, sir," said she, on one occasion, "what with ae thing and what with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this week already, that i dinna like to disturb him. but if you'll sit down here for a minute or two, i daresay he'll be ben and i'll speak to miss graeme." "mr elliott seems a close student," said the judge, as he took the offered seat by the fire. "ay, is he. though if you are like the lave o' the folk, you'll think no more o' him for that. folk o' my country judge o' a minister by the time he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of his duty, unless he's ca'ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife's tale." "but," said the judge, much amused, "the minister has been studying all his life. it seems as though he might draw on old stores now." "ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. the minister's no one that puts his people off with `cauld kail het again,' and he canna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time." "and he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. that would be to the point at present," said the judge, laughing, "i think i'll be going." "'deed, no, sir," said janet, earnestly, "i didna mean you. i'm aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. it cheers him. but this week it's been worse than ever. he has hardly had an unbroken hour. but sit still, sir. he would be ill-pleased if you went away without seeing him." "i'll speak to papa, judge merle," said graeme. "never mind, my dear. come and speak to me yourself. i think mrs nasmyth is right. the minister ought not to be disturbed. i have nothing particular to say to him. i came because it's a pleasure to come, and i did not think about its being so near the end of the week." graeme looked rather anxiously from him to janet. "my dear, you needna trouble yourself. it's no' folk like the judge and young mr greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while here. it's folk like the 'smith yonder, or orrin green, the upsettin' body. but you can go in now and see if your papa's at leisure, and tell him the judge is here." "we had mr greenleaf here awhile the ither night," she continued, as graeme disappeared. "a nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no' ae bit o' a yankee." the judge opened his eyes. it was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. but he was not one of the kind to take offence, as janet justly said. chapter nine. other favourites of mrs nasmyth's were mr snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. mr snow had been their friend from the very first. he had made good his promise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. he had taught them to skate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pockets full of rosy apples to the little ones. they made many a day pleasant for his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thought nothing too much to do for those who were kind to emily. janet's kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energies exercised in behalf of mr snow's melancholy, nervous wife. in upon the monotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine into her room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. during a long and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after the minister's arrival in merleville, janet had watched with her a good many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was at the minister's, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness of them all. but it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm room in wintry weather, and sampson's visits were made alone, or in company with little emily. the schoolmaster, mr isaac newton foster, came often, partly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. the night of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to grow weary. graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soon became interested in their studies for their own sake, and mr foster had not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. janet had her doubts about her "taking up with books that were fit only for _laddies_," but mr foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were altogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did not object, and graeme herself had great delight in it, she made no objections. her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. but by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect for mr foster. but all the evenings when mr foster was with them were not given up to lessons. when, as sometimes happened, mr snow or mr greenleaf came in, something much more exciting took the place of algebra. mr greenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even graeme and janet, in the discussion of some exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institutions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to the willing mr foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. they seldom lost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favoured occasions. for janet and janet's bairns were prompt to do battle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though mr foster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. he could not conscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. mr snow was ready too with his hints about "despotism" and "aristocracy," and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things in general, and yankee institutions in particular. it is to be feared the disputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used; but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot words spoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came. a chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one night when mr snow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. the lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due to mr foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resent it, and mr snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of this particular occasion. the strife was getting warm when mr greenleaf's knock was heard. norman was in the act of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster's devoted head, while mr foster strove hard to shield himself by holding up "britain's wretched operatives and starving poor." "come along, squire," said mr snow. "we want you to settle this little difficulty. mrs nasmyth ain't going to let you into the study just now, at least she wouldn't let me. the minister's busy to-night." mr greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew marian to his knee. neither norman nor mr foster was so eager to go on as mr snow was to have them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, they were soon in "full blast," as he whispered to his friend. the discussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. it was not confined to norman and mr foster. all the rest had something to say; even janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. but norman was the chief speaker on his side. the subject had been discussed in the village school lyceum, and norman had distinguished himself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of his arguments--certainly not by their originality. but he thundered forth the lines beginning "i would not have a slave," etcetera, to the intense delight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of the other. to-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and mr foster complained at last. "but, norman, you don't keep to the point." "talks all round the lot," said mr snow. "i'm afraid that is not confined to norman," said mr greenleaf. "norman is right, anyway," pronounced menie. "he reasons in a circle," said the master. "and because slavery is the only flaw in--" "the only flaw!" said norman, with awful irony. "well, yes," interposed mr snow. "but we have had enough of the constitution for to-night. let's look at our country. _it_ can't be beaten any way you take it. physically or morally," pursued he, with great gravity, "it can't be beaten. there are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. our laws and our institutions generally are just about what they ought to see. even foreigners see that, and prove it, by coming to share our privileges. where will you find such a general diffusion of knowledge among all classes? classes? there is only one class. all are free and equal." "folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal," said mrs nasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. "for my part, i never saw pride--really to call pride--till i saw it in this fine country o' yours--ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour." "well--so they be. liberty and equality is our ticket." "but ye're no' a' equal. there's as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. there are folk coming and going here, that in my country i would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. gentlemen like the judge, or like mr greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister's time; but upsettin' bodies such as i could name--" "well, i wouldn't name them, i guess. general principles are best in such a case," said mr snow. "and i am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. your friend the judge belongs to that and your father, miss graeme; and i expect squire greenleaf will, too, when he goes to congress. but no man is great here just because his father was before him. everybody has a chance. now, on your side of the water, `a man must be just what his father was.' folks must stay just there. that's a fact." "you seem to be weel informed," said janet drily. "ah! yes; i know all about it. anybody may know anything and everything in this country. we're a great people. ain't that so, mr foster?" "it must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that britain has produced some great men," said mr foster, breaking out in a new spot as mr snow whispered to the squire. "surely that would be granting too much," said norman. "but," pursued mr foster, "britons themselves confess that it is on this western continent that the anglo-saxon race is destined to triumph. descended from britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall--which must--which--" "sounds considerable like the glorious fourth, don't it?" whispered mr snow. "which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet," said the literal mrs nasmyth. "i was about to say that--that--" "that the british can lick all creation, and we can lick the british," said mr snow. "any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority," said mr foster, taking a new start. "that's been proved already," said mr snow, watching the sparkle in graeme's eye. she laughed merrily. "no, mr snow. they may fight it out without me to-night." "i am glad you are growing prudent. mrs nasmyth, you wouldn't believe how angry she was with me one night." "angry!" repeated graeme. "ask celestia." "well, i guess i shouldn't have much chance between celestia and you. but i said then, and i say now, you'll make a first-rate yankee girl yourself before seven years." "a yankee!" repeated her brothers. "a yankee," echoed menie. "hush, menie. mr snow is laughing at us," said graeme. "i would rather be just a little scotch lassie, than a yankee queen," said menie, firmly. there was a laugh, and menie was indignant at her brothers for joining. "you mean a president's wife. we don't allow queens here--in this free country," said mr snow. "but it is dreadful that you should hate us so," said the squire. "i like you, and the judge. and i like mrs merle." "and is that all?" asked mr snow, solemnly. "i like emily. and i like you when you don't vex graeme." "and who else?" asked mr greenleaf. "i like celestia. she's nice, and doesna ask questions. and so does graeme. and janet says that celestia is a lady. don't you like her?" asked menie, thinking her friend unresponsive. "you seem to be good at asking questions yourself, menie, my woman," interposed mrs nasmyth. "i doubt you should be in your bed by this time." but mr snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy. "and don't cousin celestia like me?" asked he. "yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?" "well, not exactly--we're not very near cousins. but i see to her some, and mean to. i like her." the study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as mr snow went up the hill he said to himself: "yes, i shall see to her. she is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to congress." chapter ten. "i like the wood fires," said graeme. "they are far clearer than the peat fires at home." they were sitting, graeme and janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. the study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again. graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: the fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. it was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight. without, the rude march winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. for though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of march swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. it roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through graeme's dream and disturbed it at last. looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. she drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly: "the winter's near over now, janet." "ay, thank the lord for that, any way," said janet. she knew that graeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to graeme or to any one. as she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. and the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. for the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to janet. to the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. the lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. none had enjoyed the winter more than graeme. the change had been altogether beneficial to rose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. there was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. she had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. at all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, mr elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years. but to janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces. the first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. arthur's letters to his father and graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, "so like a printed book," made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. she had of old justly prided herself on sandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition. poor sandy! he had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. in wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. there was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! mr more of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that mrs smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at saughless for the winter after all. there were other troubles too, that janet had to bear alone. the cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the new england winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. she could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. stove-heat was unbearable to her. an hour spent in mrs snow's hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "steadfast" had been. to say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. she was angry at her folly, and called herself "silly body" and "useless body," striving with all her might to throw the burden from her. then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. they were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written," self-satisfied and curious. the fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in merleville. she never could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves. mrs judge merle had made her first visit to the minister's in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them mrs page evidently believed it to be herself. mrs merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while mrs page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. she was out of her element. things were quite different from anything she had been used with. she grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her. some thought of all this came into graeme's mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. she had been thinking little of janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father's study. she blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. in the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. but she did not know what to say. janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. graeme drew nearer. "what is it, janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. "winna you tell me?" janet gave a startled look into her face. "what is what, my dear?" "something is vexing you, and you winna tell me," said graeme, reproachfully. "hoot, lassie! what should ail me. i'm weel enough." "you are wearying for a letter, maybe. but it's hardly time yet, janet." "i'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. and if i got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort." "then something ails you, and you winna tell me," said graeme again, in a grieved voice. "my dear, i hae naething to tell." "is it me, janet? hae i done anything? you ken i wouldna willingly do wrong?" pleaded graeme. janet put her fingers over the girl's lips. "whist, my lammie. it's naething--or naething that can be helpit," and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it. "lassie, lassie! i canna help it," and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on graeme's bent head like rain. graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that god would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted. "i am an auld fule, i believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it's ain mind, and i think i'm growing waur ilka day," and she paused to wipe the tears from her face. "but what is it, janet?" asked graeme, softly. "it's naething, dear, naething that i can tell to mortal. i dinna ken what has come ower me. it's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, and move i canna. but surely i'll be set free in time." there was nothing graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it. "now dinna do that, miss graeme," cried janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. "what will come o' us if you give way. there's naething ails me but that i'm an auld fule, and i canna help that, you ken." "janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and sandy to come with us. i never thought till to-night how great it must have been." "ay, lassie. i'll no deny it, but dinna think that i grudge it now. it wasna made in a right sperit, and that the lord is showing me. i thought you couldna do without me." "we couldna, janet." "and i aye thought if i could be of any use to your father and your father's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. and i hae gotten my wish. you're a' weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. god help me." "god will help you," said graeme, softly. "it is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by babel stream. but the lord never brought you here in anger, and, janet, it will pass away." "weel, it may be. that's what my mother said, or something like it. he means to let me see that you can do without me. but i'll bide still awhile, anyway." graeme's face was fall of dismay. "janet! what could we ever do without you?" "oh, you could learn. but i'm not going to leave you yet. the giant shallna master me with my will. but, oh! lassie, whiles i think the lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride." "but, janet," said graeme, gravely, "the lord never turns against his own people. and if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. it is for us you are living, and not for yourself." janet shook her head. "and, janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. the weight will be lifted off, i'm sure it will. and, janet, about sandy--. you may be sure o' him. if you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. but now the lord will have him in his keeping, for, janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the lord, you left sandy for our sakes, and he will never forsake him--never, _never_!" janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens. "and, janet, we all love you dearly." graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. "sometimes the boys are rough, and don't seem to care, but they do care; and i'm thoughtless, too, and careless," she added, humbly, "but i was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken i loved her dearly." and the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. janet held her close. "and, janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. when i get a book, you ken i forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother's sake. we have no mother, janet, and what could we do without you? and all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again." and so it was. the worst was over after that night. much more was said before they separated, and graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as janet was concerned. housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. the produce system was a great embarrassment to her. this getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "a corn tawties" from another, she could not endure. it was "living from hand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the least delicate among the people called it. "and, my dear, i just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. for i hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things." graeme looked grave. "i wonder what my father thinks," said she. janet shook her head. "we mauna trouble your father if we can help it. the last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. i'm no' feared but we'll be provided for. and, miss graeme, my dear, you'll need to begin and keep an account again." janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mind easy, and the household accounts straight. weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. the letter that harry brought in with a shout before march was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad november, though sandy was the writer still. the two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. a new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with sandy, "as you will see by this letter, mother," he wrote, "i hope it will be better worth reading than the last." if mrs smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of saughless. and sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. and so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them. and her heart was set at rest; and janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again. chapter eleven. "miss graeme," said janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. graeme was at her side in a moment. "never mind putting by your book, i only want to tell you, that i'm going up the brae to see mrs snow awhile. it's no' cold, and i'll take the bairns with me. so just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. i winna bide late." graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones. "i wish i could up with you, janet. how mild and bright it is to-day." "but your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. you winna think long with your book, you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark." "think long!" echoed graeme. "not if i'm left at peace with my book--i only hope no one will come." "my dear!" remonstrated janet, "that's no' hospitable. i daresay if anybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. you maun try and make friends with folk, like menie here." graeme laughed. "it's easy for menie, she's a child. but i have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. i would far rather have the afternoon to myself." she watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. life was very pleasant to graeme, these days. she did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother's death. but it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with janet, or merry play with the little ones. janet's returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear. she was fast growing into companionship with her father. she knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. in all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. in other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years. and it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. she was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. not that she would have confessed this. not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. indeed, she was wont to declare to janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. but it was agreeable to her all the same. she had her wish that afternoon. nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of janet, and the tea-kettle. then there came a knock at the door, and graeme opened it to mr greenleaf. if she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. he did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in. what the charm was, that beguiled mr greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister's study, the good people of merleville found it difficult to say. the squire's ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. for once, mrs page had been too charitable. he was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of mrs page's standard of excellence. but to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest. "if i am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he shook hands with mr elliott, over a table covered with books and papers. "you can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. "i am nearly done for the night. excuse me, for a minute only." graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty. "i have something for you," said mr greenleaf, in a minute. graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. it was a note this time. "from celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little. graeme did not aspire to the honour of celestia's confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and mr greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands. "read it," said he. graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. the note was very brief. celestia was going away, and wished graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. mr greenleaf would fetch her. "celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up. "yes," said he, "have you not heard it?" "i heard the farm was to be sold, but i hoped they would still stay in merleville." "so did i," said mr greenleaf, gravely. "when will they go?" "miss jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at rixford. they are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go." "to her uncle?" "no, celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. they will live by themselves, with the children." "how sorry celestia will be to go away," said graeme, sadly. "she will not be persuaded to stay," said mr greenleaf. graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "have you asked her?" he answered her in words. "yes, i have tried, and failed. she does not care to stay." there was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. there was none of the bitterness which, while it made celestia's heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right. "oh! it's not that," said graeme, earnestly, "i'm sure she cares. i mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it." "is it right to make herself and me unhappy?" "but her mother and the rest. they are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them." "it need not. they might stay with her." "i think, perhaps--i don't think--" graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly,-- "are you rich, mr greenleaf?" he laughed. "i believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. so i think, to you i may safely answer, yes. i have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes." "yes; but--i think,--oh, i can't say what i think; but i'm sure celestia is right. i am quite sure of that." mr greenleaf did not look displeased, though graeme feared he might, at her bold speech. "i don't believe i had better take you to see her to-morrow. you will encourage her to hold out against me." "not against you. she would never do that. and, besides, it would make no difference. celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right." "wise and strong," repeated mr greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. mr elliott made a movement to join them, and graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away. "never mind," she whispered, "it will all end well. things always do when people do right." mr greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. he had more than once that very afternoon grieved celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the "strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by graeme to her friend. so that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him. they had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by graeme, and before tea was over, janet and the bairns came home. the boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in mr snow's sleigh. to escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, mr greenleaf and the minister went into the study again. during the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into mr greenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. it was a source of wonder to him that a man of mr elliott's intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. mr elliott smiled. "i don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. indeed, i should say, far less wonderful. you are young and have the world before you." "but my case is quite different. i settle here to get a living, and i mean to get a good one too, and besides," added he, laughing, "merleville is as good a place as any other to go to congress from; there is no american but may have that before him you know." "as for the living, i can get here such as will content me. for the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. i am thankful for my field of labour." mr greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "for what they were worth," as a correct thing for a minister to say. but the quiet earnestness and simplicity of mr elliott's manner struck him as being not just a matter of course. "he is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. there must be something in it." he did not answer him, however. "there is one thing which is worth consideration," continued mr elliott, "you may be disappointed, but i cannot be so, in the nature of things." "about getting a living?" said mr greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of deacons fish and slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair. "that is not what i was thinking of, but i suppose i may be sure of that, too. `your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.' and there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which i really am labouring, the glory of god, and the good of souls." "well," said mr greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it that i don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. it is by no means impossible that i may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine--i may say it without vanity--have risen higher than to the congress of our country. i don't look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. but the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in merleville made straight! well, to say the least, i don't see how you can be very sanguine about it." "well, i don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of him whom i serve to accomplish. but though i may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that i am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the congress of this great nation, or rule in the white house even, which is not beyond your ambition either, i suppose. you know how a promise may be `kept to the ear and broken to the heart,' as somebody says." "i know it is the fashion to speak in that way. we learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. but even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. and, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain." mr elliott smiled. "i suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. the promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. i am not afraid." "and, certainly," thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopeful enough." "and," added mr elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, i think mine may well bear comparison to yours." "yes, in one sense, i suppose--though i don't understand it. i can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement--a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but--i was not looking at the matter from your point of view." "but from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen," said mr elliott, quietly. "well, i have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. one ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and i fancy that can be said of few." "i don't understand you," said mr elliott. "do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer." "by no means. my thoughts were altogether in another direction. in fact, i was thinking of the great `bread and butter' struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession." mr elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. mr greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on. "constituted as we are, i don't see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. the shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. but i see i fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. i don't know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. i don't mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. there is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. it is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. and what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. no, really, i cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one." "i should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it," said mr elliott. "i wish i could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but i cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves--might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. how they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. they will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years." "unless they have some charm against it--which may very well be," said mr elliott, quietly. "i see you do not agree with me. take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. he was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. but if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. he has since gone west, i hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. the circumstances of his predecessor were no better. he died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. she was brought back to merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. there is something wrong in the matter somewhere." there was a pause, and then mr greenleaf continued. "it may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in merleville. still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what i fear awaits you. otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all." "i shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture," said mr elliott. "pray do. and, indeed, i am. i may have said more than enough in my earnestness. i am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise." "i like you already," said mr elliott, smiling. "i assure you i had a great respect for you as the children of the puritans, before ever i saw you." "yes, but i am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. we are the children of the puritans, but very little, i daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. mind, i don't allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers' sakes. but we are different. it is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence--one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us." "well," said mr elliott, as his friend paused. "oh! i have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in merleville. you have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker." "i think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen," said the minister. "earnestness!" said mr greenleaf. "no, we are earnest enough here in merleville. but the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. it is wealth they seek. not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form--the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. at least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it." "you are severe," said the minister, quietly. "not too severe. this seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. and such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. there are not many men among us here--i don't know more than two or three--who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends--even by shaving closely in matters of business." "and yet you say their standard is a high one?" "high or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt their own christianity on account of these things. and what is more, they don't seem to lose faith in each other. but how it will all seem to you is another matter." "how does it seem to you?" "oh, i am but a spectator. being not one of the initiated, i am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, i am disposed to think little of the whole matter. with you it is different." "yes, with me it is indeed different," said the minister, gravely--so gravely, that mr greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject. "it must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations," said he, in a little. mr elliott started,-- "no, the wrench came before. it would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers." fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, mr greenleaf said no more. in a little mr elliott went on,-- "it was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. we had always looked forward to it sometime. and when i was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and the longing to get away--anywhere--brought me here." he paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. "perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. there was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. i thought it would be better for my children when i left them to leave them here. but god knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to america." "we can live on little. i trust you will be mistaken in your fears. but if these troubles do come, we must try, with god's grace, and mrs nasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. we might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one." "the love and pursuit of the `almighty dollar,' is most certainly a national characteristic. as to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course i have not the means of judging. here i know it has been bad enough in the past." "well, i can only say i have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto," said mr elliott. "have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind. "no, i have not yet. but as the half-year is nearly over, i suppose it will come soon. still i have no fears--i think i need have none. it is not _theirs_ but _them_ i seek." "do you remember the sabbath i first came among you? i saw you there among the rest. if my heart rose up in thankfulness to god that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. god is my witness that i saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls-- living souls to be encouraged--slumbering souls to be aroused--dead souls to be made alive in christ, through his own word, spoken by me and blessed by him. "no, i do not think i can possibly be disappointed in this matter. i may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to god's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but god _will bless his word_. and even if i do not live to see it, i can rest in the assurance that afterward, `both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.'" he paused. a momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful. "the peace that passeth understanding," thought the young man, with a sigh. for he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that mr elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. it came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. so he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. the minister looked up and met his eye. "and so, my friend, i think we must end where we begun. you may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. but for me, all must end well--let the end be what it may." chapter twelve. the time of settlement came at last. the members of the church and congregation were requested to bring to deacon sterne and his coadjutors an account of money and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister's support during the ensuing half year. after a delay which, considering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and the different accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval. this was done by deacons fish and slowcome alone. deacon sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to mrs nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. deacon fish "expected" that brother sterne had got into trouble. it had been coming on for some time. his son, the only boy he had left, had been over to rixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. deacon sterne was janet's favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regret that he should not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly concerned for him on his own account. "dear me!" said she, "i saw him at the kirk on the sabbath-day, looking just as usual." "well, yes, i expect so," said mr fish. "brother sterne looks always pretty much so. he ain't apt to show his feelin's, if he's got any. he'll have something to suffer with his son william, i guess, whether he shows it or not." janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the town that there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. the minister awaited them, and business began. first was displayed the list of subscriptions for the coming half-year. this was quite encouraging. three hundred and fifty and odd dollars. this looked well. there had never been so much subscribed in merleville before. the deacons were elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, too. he would be well off now, said they. but the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year's settlement was turned to. there were several sheets of it. the minister in danger of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. "two hundred and seventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents." he was a little mystified still, and looked so. "if there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be put right," said deacon slowcome. deacon fish presumed, "that when mr elliott should have compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be all right." mr elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. he supposed it was all it should be. he really could say nothing with regard to it. he left the management of household affairs entirely to his daughter and mrs nasmyth. it was suggested that mrs nasmyth should be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her. "if there's anything you don't seem to understand or remember," prefaced the accommodating deacon slowcome, "don't feel troubled about saying so. i expect we'll make things pretty straight after a while." mrs nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look at her, and the reading began. after the name of each person, came the days' work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. deacon fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. the former had carried the minister on two or three of his most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. it was overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of. "there ain't no matter about it. it can go right on to the next half year. it ain't no matter about it anyhow," said he, in liberal mood. he had an attentive listener. mrs nasmyth listened with vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when mr slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say interrogatively,-- "you remember?" it dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up the subscription for the half year that was over; but except that her face changed a little, she gave no sign. it is possible the deacon had had some slight misgiving as to how mrs nasmyth might receive the statement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at last read the sum total: "two hundred and seventy-two dollars sixty-two and a-half cents." again janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he did not avoid her look. the rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. intense amusement at janet's changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for a moment, every other feeling. but that passed, and by the look that followed janet knew that she must keep back the words that were rising to her lips. it required an effort, however, and a rather awkward silence followed. deacon slowcome spoke first: "well, i suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. and i, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things." "i doubt, sirs," said janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, "there are some things that haena been put down on yon paper. there was a cum apples, and a bit o' unco spare rib, and--" "well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in their accounts yet. that can be seen to another time." janet paid no attention to the interruption. "there were some eggs from mrs sterne--a dozen and three, i think--and a goose at the new year from somebody else; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that judge merle brought over when first we came here--" "ah! the pie was a present from my wife," said deacon fish, on whom mrs nasmyth's awful irony was quite lost. "and i presume judge merle didn't mean to charge for the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was," said deacon slowcome. "and what for no'?" demanded janet, turning on him sharply. "i'm sure we got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o' your bloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. things should stand on your papers at their true value." deacon slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreak than he had been when his "fore-quarter of bloody beef" had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed janet's remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the impropriety of "looking a gift horse in the mouth" to pass unanswered. "you were at liberty to return the beef if you didn't want it," said he, with an injured air. "weel, i'll mind that next time," said she in a milder tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. deacon fish made a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the new subscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that "didn't look well." "ay, on paper," said janet, dryly. "figures are no' dollars. and if your folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae been living only on the bits o' things written down on your paper you are mistaken. the gude money that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o' that, as i ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it; but i daresay you're no' needing me longer, sir," she added, addressing the minister, and she left the room. this matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did janet a deal of good to think about it. she had no time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. she "was nettled at herself beyond all patience" that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many of the things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good-will. "two hundred and seventy dollars and more," she repeated. "things mount up, i ken weel; but i maun take another look at it. and i'll hae more sense anither time, i'm thinking." she did not speak to graeme. there would be no use to vex her; but she would fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce the subject. a circumstance soon occurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed. march was nearly over. the nights were cold still, but the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of her children. "and time for her," sighed janet, taking a retrospective view of all that had happened since she saw her face. the boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposal made to them by their friend mr snow. he had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. they were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see the ground and make a beginning. graeme and the other girls went with them as far as mr snow's house, and janet was left alone. the minister was in his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. she had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, however. a sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare street, and its occupant, mr silas spears, not one of her favourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in "hitching" his horse to the post. janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him. "the body has some sense and discretion," said janet to herself, as he announced instead that he "wa'ant a going to stay but a minute, and it wouldn't be worth while troubling the minister." he did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which was tolerable to janet in her solitude. he rose to go at last. "i've got a bucket of sugar out here," said he. "our folks didn't seem to want it, and i thought i'd fetch it along down. i took it to cook's store, but they didn't want it, and they didn't care enough about it at sheldon's to want to pay for it, so i thought i might as well turn it in to pay my minister's tax." so in he came within a minute. "there's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. sugar's been sellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and i guess i ought to have that for it, then we'll be about even, according to my calculation." "sugar!" ejaculated janet, touching the solid black mass with her finger. "call you _that_ sugar?" "why, yes, i call it sugar. not the best, maybe, but it's better than it looks. it'll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, i expect." "and weigh considerable lighter, i expect," said mrs nasmyth, unconsciously imitating mr spears' tone and manner in her rising wrath. "i'm very much obliged to you, but we're in no especial need o' sugar at this time, and we'll do without a while before we spend good siller on staff like that." "well i'll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin' time is 'most here. it _ain't_ first-rate," he added, candidly. "it mightn't just do for tea, but it's as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes." "many thanks to you. but we're no' given to the makin' o' pies and cakes in this house. plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does for us, and it's mair than we're like to get, if things dinna mend with us. so you'll just take it with you again." "well," said mr spears, slightly at a loss, "i guess i'll leave it. i ain't particular about the price. mr elliott can allow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no' leave it with my consent. deacon slowcome said the minister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o' that we could make no use of." "the deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but i rather guess he didn't mean you to take him up so. i've been calculating to pay my minister's tax with that sugar, and i don't know as i've got anything else handy. i'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keep it, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he'll give you the money for it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no leave it here," exclaimed mrs nasmyth, whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished mr spears quite realised her intention. "you'll no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as i hae done before," exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. "if the minister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been used wi', he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. so dinna bring here again what ither folk winna hae from you, for i'll hae none o' it." "i should like to see the minister a minute," said mr spears, seating himself with dignity. "i don't consider that you are the one to settle this business." "there's many a thing that you dinna consider that there's sense in, notwithstanding. it's just me that is to decide this business, and a' business where the minister's welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. so dinna fash yourself and me mair about it." "i'd like to see him, anyhow," said he, taking a step towards the study-door. "but you'll no' see him about any such matter," and janet placed herself before him. "i'm no' to hae the minister vexed with the like o' that nonsense to-night, or any night. i wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your face to me, forby the minister. what kens the minister about the like o' that? he has other things to think about. it's weel that there's aye me to stand between him and the like o' your `glegs and corbies'."--and janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated into scotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonishment, and listened in silence. janet was successful. mr spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no means sure that he hadn't been abused! "considerable beat, anyhow." scarcely had he taken his departure, when mr elliott made his appearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been going on. though loth to do so, janet thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken place. he laughed heartily at her success and mr spears' discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his ease about the matter. "i am at a loss to know how all this will end," he said, gravely, after a minute. "indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. it will end in a `toom pantry' for us, and that before very long." this was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. much earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, when most of the members of the church were present, the result of his meditations was given to the public. he did not use many words, but they were to the point. he told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for the future. he told them that the value to his family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, as named in the subscription-lists, their real value he supposed. they could not live in comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. he had a proposal to make to them. the deacon had estimated that an annual amount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. let each subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. this would be the means of avoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would think it wise to remain in merleville. he alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his having money invested in scotland. in the hand of a friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his education should be completed. he had no more. the comfort of his family must depend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to be paid, must be decided without loss of time. he said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. he had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to live and die among them. but no real union or confidence could be maintained between them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. he added, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them. there was quite a gathering that night. judge merle was there, and the deacons, and the pages, and mr spears, and a great many besides. behind the door, in a corner seat, sat mr snow, and near him, mr greenleaf. he evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, but sampson laid his hand on his arm. "hold on, squire," he whispered; "as like as not they'd spare us, but i'm bound to see this through." there was a long pause. then deacon fish got up and cleared his throat, and "felt as though he felt," and went over much ground, without accomplishing much. deacon slowcome did pretty much the same. judge merle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a movement behind the door, and sampson snow rose, and stepped out. he laid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened his lips. "i expect you'll all think it ain't my place to speak in meetin', and i ain't goin' to say a great deal. it's no more than two hours or so since i got home from rixford, and squire stone, he told me that their minister had given notice that he was goin' to quit. goin' to boston, i guess. and the squire, says he to me, `we've a notion of talking a little to your mr elliott,' and says he, `we wouldn't begrudge him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.' so now don't worry any about the minister. _he's_ all right, and worth his pay any day. that's all i've got to say," and mr snow opened the door and walked out. sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, and told. that night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested by mr elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. and the good people of merleville did not regret their promptitude, when the very next week there came a deputation from rixford, to ascertain whether mr elliott was to remain in merleville, and if not, whether he would accept an invitation to settle in the larger town. mr elliott's answer was brief and decided. he had no wish to leave merleville while the people wished him to remain. he hoped never to leave them while he lived. and he never did. chapter thirteen. spring came and went. the lads distinguished themselves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work besides. the free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. mr foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. in future they were to devote themselves to agriculture. in vain janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads," and warned them that they were deciding too soon. in vain mr snow said that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a farmer's life. harry quoted cincinnatus, and norman proved to his own satisfaction, if not to mr snow's, that on scientific principles every farm in merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double the profits. even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of merleville. an opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. early in may a letter was received from mr ross, in which he offered to take the charge of arthur's education on himself, and, as he was well able to do so, mr elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. the money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain or valley. it came, about this time, to the worst, with mrs jones and her daughter celestia. the mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and squire skinflint had foreclosed. nothing remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for herself and her children. on the homestead she was about to leave, the heart and eyes of mr snow had long been fixed. as a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, sampson would fain have it pass into his. but the only condition of sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had been some failure in squire skinflint's western land speculation, and money must be had. if the widow could have held it still, mr snow would never have desired to have the land; but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put into one. just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law's generosity had placed at his disposal. a very few words settled the matter. the minister lent the money to mr snow, and for the annual interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. the arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and before may was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds of janet and the bairns. and a very pleasant home it promised to be. even in that beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier spot. sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around it. close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay merle pond, the very loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these mountains. over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that fringed the village street. close by the farm-house, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran carson's brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of the name of river as the merle itself. before the house was a large grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led to the door. there were shade trees, too. once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large garden. some of these had been injured because of the insufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the name of trees. there were elms whose branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been clipped and cared for by experienced hands. there had been locusts once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look upon as home. formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and borders now. there were a few perennials easy to cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. there was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. but, though it looked like a wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, janet's quick eye foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, janet saw clearly. there was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. it was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. much of it had been little used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. but all this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these disappeared in time. for, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident landlord's own hands. he had no mind to pay out money for what he could do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. a good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home were being told over by the children, the living so near to mr snow and little emily was never left till the last. a very pleasant summer thus began to them all. it would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. but janet's prophecy came true. the _newness_ of farming proved to be its chief charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would not have been much to show for the summer's work. but their father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of mr snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously. not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. there was not a lazy bone in their bodies, mr snow declared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than he. but their strength and energy were not exerted always in a direction that would _pay_, according to mr snow's idea of remuneration. much time and labour were expended on the building of a bridge over carson's brook, between the house and pine grove hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. even mr snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. when the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine grove at the top. then, among the pines, there was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and creeping plants. the grotto, the children called it, mr snow called it the cave. a wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. to be sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their labours. the lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. the girls helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as well. even graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even graeme would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again. as for janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the brae. with the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace of mind. the first basket of eggs collected by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. not that she valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they brought to the household. she had a natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned to know and love her in return. all helpless creatures seemed to come to her naturally. a dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship again. the very bees, at swarming time, did not sting janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. and so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange--"unco like" in her new home. her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to "fleckie" or "blackie," now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. but "brindle and spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name," and many a child in merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old mrs snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. and when in the fall mr snow went to boston with the produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of janet's butter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price," and other things besides, which at merleville and at merleville prices, could not be easily obtained. the indian-summer had come again. its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. the minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utter despairing home-sickness. she could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. so she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when mr snow appeared at the open door. he did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep. "your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he. "the minister is in his study, and miss graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. your emily's with them." "yes, i reckoned so. i've just got home from rixford. it wouldn't amount to much, all i could do to-night, so i thought i'd come along up a spell." janet repeated her kindly welcome. "the minister's busy, i presume," said he. "yes,--as it's saturday,--but he winna be busy very long now. if you'll bide a moment, he'll be out, i daresay." "there's no hurry. it's nothing particular." but mr snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face. "are you no' weel the night?" she asked. "sartain. i never was sick in my life." "and how are they all down-by?" meaning at mr snow's house, by "down-by." "well, pretty much so. only just middling. nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness." there was a long silence after that. mr snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them. "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last. "ay," said janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. he sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure carson's brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. he was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. but it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. at last, a thought struck her. "what for wasna you at the lord's table, on the sabbath-day?" asked she. sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh. "well, i guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if i had undertook to go there." janet looked at him in some surprise. "and what for no? i ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their lord, is more than i can understand. what hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?" there was a pause, and then sampson looked up and said, gravely. "mis' nasmyth, i ain't a professor. i'm one of the world's people deacon fish tells about." janet looked grave. "come now, mis' nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought i was one of the good ones?" "you ought to be," said she, gravely. "well,--yes, i suppose i ought to. but after all, i guess there ain't a great sight of difference between folks,--leastways, between merleville folks. i know all about _them_. i was the first white child born in the town, i was raised here, and in some way or other, i'm related to most folks in town, and i ought to know them all pretty well by this time. except on sundays, i expect they're all pretty much so. it wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people, that i'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. now that's a fact." "you're no' far wrong _there_, i daresay," said janet, with emphasis. "but that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken." "no,--i don't know as it is. but it kind o' makes me feel as though there wasn't much in religion, anyway." janet looked mystified. mr snow continued. "well now, see here, i'll tell you just how it is. there ain't one of them that don't think i'm a sinner of the worst kind--gospel hardened. they've about given me up, i know they have. well now, let alone the talk, i don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the lord knows i'm bad enough. and so you see, i've about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, i haven't never come across the real article." "that's like enough," said janet, with a groan. "i canna say that i have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. but i canna see that that need be any excuse to you. you have aye the word." "well, yes. i've always had the bible, and i've read it considerable, but i never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. and it ain't because i ain't tried, either. there was one spell that i was dreadful down, and says i to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, i'm bound to have it. so i began at the beginning about the creation, and adam and eve, but i didn't seem to get much comfort there. there was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that i could see nothing to. some of the psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the proverbs _are_ first-rate. i tell _you_ he knew something of human nature, that wrote _them_." "there's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in genesis," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner. you should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to look for comfort." "yes. i knew that before, but i couldn't seem to make it go. then i thought, maybe i didn't understand it right, so i talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best i could, thinking surely what other folks had got, and i hadn't, would come sometime. but it didn't. the talking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me. "now there's deacon sterne; he'd put it right to me. he'd say, says he, `sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. you've got to give up, and bow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke.' well, `i'd say, i'd be glad to, if i only knew how to.' then he'd say, `but you can't do it yourself, no how. you're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'll have to perish, if the lord don't take right hold to save you.' then says i, `i wish to mercy he would.' then he'd talk and talk, but it all came to about that, `i must, and i couldn't,' and it didn't help me a mite. "that was a spell ago, after captain jennings' folks went west. i wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she wouldn't hear a word of it. i was awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and i tell _you_, i'd ha' given most anything, to have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to." mr snow paused. there was no doubting his earnestness now. janet did not speak, and in a little while he went on again. "i'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in getting religion. sometimes i seem to see that there is, and then again i think, why don't it help folks more. now, there's deacon sterne, he's one of the best of them. he wouldn't swerve a hair, from what he believed to be right, not to save a limb. he is one of the real old puritan sort, not a mite like fish and slowcome. but he ain't one of the meek and lowly, i can tell you. and he's made some awful mistakes in his lifetime. he's been awful hard and strict in his family. his first children got along pretty well. most of them were girls, and their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their father's hardness. and besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards keeping things straight. but his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. they both went, as soon as ever they were of age. silas came home afterwards, and died. joshua went west, and i don't believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. the girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married again, abby sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought to have married him. she was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. she has changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. her children all died when they were babies, except william, the eldest,--wilful will, they call him, and i don't know but he'd have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course with him, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother's heart to boot. now, what i want to know is--if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes in life?" janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and sampson did not give her time to consider. "now there's becky pettimore, she's got religion. but it don't keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall--" "whist, man!" interrupted janet. "it ill becomes the like o' you to speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon--one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and many another trial. she's a worthy woman, and her deeds prove it, for all her sourness. there's few women in the town that i respect as i do her." "well, that's so. i know it. i know she gets a dollar a week the year round at captain liscome's, and earns it, too; and i know she gives half of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. but it's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant." "one mustna judge another," said mrs nasmyth, gently. "no, and i don't want to. only i wish--but there's no good talking. still i must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't take more comfort out of it. now there's mother; she's a pillar in the church, and a good woman, i believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. now it seems to me, if i had all they say a christian has, and expects to have, i'd let the rest go. they don't half of them live as if they took more comfort than i do, and there are spells when i don't take much." janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. there was some surprise in them, too. mr snow continued-- "yes, i do get pretty sick of it all by spells. after father died--and other things--i got over caring about going out west, and i thought it as good to settle down on the old place as any where. so i fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, and made believe happy. and i don't know but i should have stayed so, only i heard that joe arnold had died out west--he had married rachel jennings, you know; so i got kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. rachel had changed considerable. she had seen trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but i brought her right home--her and little emily. well--it didn't suit mother. i hadn't said anything to her when i went off. i hadn't anything to say, not knowing how things might be with rachel. come to get home, things didn't go smooth. mother worried, and rachel worried, and life wasn't what i expected it was going to be, and i worried for a spell. and mis' nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, i should have got it then, for i tried hard, and i wanted something to help me bad enough. there didn't seem to be anything else worth caring about any way. "well, that was a spell ago. emily wasn't but three years old when i brought them home. we've lived along, taking some comfort, as much as folks in general, i reckon. i had got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me as discontented with myself and everything else as well." "you should thank the lord for that," interrupted janet, devoutly. "well, i don't know about that. sometimes when he has been speaking, i seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and make property. but then again, i don't see but it's just what folks do who have got religion. most of the professors that i know--" "man!" exclaimed janet, hotly, "i hae no patience with you and your professors. what need you aye to cast them up? canna you read your bible? it's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last." "just so, mis' nasmyth," said mr snow, deprecatingly, and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. "but it does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world; now don't it?" "there's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your fishes and your slowcomes. it's no breach o' charity to say that _they_ dinna adorn the doctrine. but there are other folk that i could name, that are both light and salt on the earth." "well, yes," admitted sampson; "since i've seen your folks, i've about got cured of one thing. i see now there is something in religion with some folks. your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. he's a good man." "you may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as i have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters." "yes, i expect he's just about what he ought to be. but then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten." "man! it never fails!" exclaimed janet, with kindling eye. "it never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. and lad! take heed to yourself. that's satan's net spread out to catch your unwary soul. it may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a time coming when it will fail you. it will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the lord in `that day.' you have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the fishes and slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you." sampson opened his eyes. "but you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. i ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, i'm grieving for myself. if religion ain't changed them, how can i expect that it will change me; and i need changing bad enough, as you say." "if it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said mrs nasmyth, earnestly. "a christian, and no' a changed man! is he no' a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? has he not the spirit of god abiding in him? and no' changed!--no' that i wish to judge any man," added she, more gently. "we dinna ken other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. we have all reason to be thankful that it's the lord and no' man that is to be our judge. maybe i have been over hard on those men." here was a wonder! mrs nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. he was more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show. "well, i expect there's something in it, whether i ever see it with my own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go. "ay, is there," said mrs nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened." "mis' nasmyth," said sampson, quietly and solemnly, "i may be deceiving myself in this matter. i seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over these things. but i do think i am in earnest. surely i'll get help some time?" "ay--that you will, as god is true. but oh man! go straight to _him_. it's between you and him, this matter. but winna you bide still? i daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now." "i guess not. i hadn't much particular to say to him. i can just as well come again." and without turning his face toward her, he went away. janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,-- "if the lord would but take him in hand, just to show what he could make of him. something to his praise, i hae no doubt--yankee though he be. god forgive me for saying it. i daresay i hae nae all the charity i might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies." chapter fourteen. even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. but the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant. the trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. the tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill. the people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. judge merle has grown older. his hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. his kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. she, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfilment. deacon sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. his hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. he looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. and yet i am not sure. they say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. it comes at other times, too. his patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful william's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. by the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, will's bride that was, will's sorrowing widow now. but though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet. deacon slowcome has gone west, but, "yearning for the privileges he left behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. deacon fish has gone west and has prospered. content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to "come over and help us." but on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, deacon fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper. mr page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. his nephew, timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, mr page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. mrs page enjoys it well, and goes often to rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young mrs merle, and young mrs greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends-- which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace. becky pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. and so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. but it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring becky's enjoyment of it. it may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but becky's own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give. behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. it is neat without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and little shoes upon the floor. at this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits arthur elliott greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. and no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits celestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. for celestia is "ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home. the squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. he is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the capitol and the white house in the distance still. "he is growing old while he is young," as mrs nasmyth says, "yankees have a knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more." but despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has celestia to enjoy it with him. as for her, seven years have failed to convince her that mr greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. and as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. at this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says: "see, here, celestia. listen to what daniel webster says," and then goes on to read. "now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got to boston." "see here, elliott, my son. ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently. "ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "i wouldn't make quite so much noise, dear." "why, mother, i'm the cars," says elliott. "but hadn't you better go out into the yard? carlo! where's carlo? i haven't seen carlo for a long time. where's carlo?" it is evident solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. moral suasion is the order of the day. they often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. they would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. they do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little elliott. it is a happy home, the greenleaf's. there are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. there are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. there are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of mr snow's declaration, that "the greenleafs take their comfort as they go along." but no change has come to anyone in merleville, so great as the change that has come to mr snow himself. death has been in his dwelling once--twice. his wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. the house to which sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now. but a change greater than death can make, had come to sampson first, preparing him for all changes. it came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. it came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. it found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is abiding. with its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. the promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him. "he that loveth me shall be loved of my father, and we will come and make our abode with him." that wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny-- the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. he has learned of the "meek and lowly." he is a christian at last. he has "experienced religion," the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be. sampson snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. he "stood it" through "a season of interest," when deacons fish and slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. some were gathered into the church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. and through all, the interested attention of mr snow never flagged. he attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of deacon fish, and the entreaties of deacon slowcome. he heard himself told by mr page that he was on dangerous ground, "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." he was formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old ladies in merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. then when deacons fish and slowcome, and all merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that sampson snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the church of merleville. after that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. different from other folks before, he was different from them still. he did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the sunday evening. indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. he did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. he did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. his gift lay in helping them. "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me," were words that sampson seemed to believe. "he does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not," said the widow lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know. as for the poor, weak, nervous rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens god had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, god took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more. if his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor rachel was borne away forever. she must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for. "sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. she did not even begrudge his turning to emily with a tender love. she found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. and little emily, growing every day more like the pretty rachel who had taken captive poor sampson's youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him. but no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for emily. it cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. for he could not but see that emily's happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. she could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother's room. she was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old mrs snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. to be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks around her." and, besides, "what was the use of emily arnold?" and so, what with one thing and another, little emily's cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming, came back to her eyes again. "there is no kind o' use for emily's being kept at work," said her father. "she ain't strong; and there's hannah lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and i'd be glad to pay her for it. emily may have a good time as well as not." but his mother was not to be moved. "girls used to have a good time and work too, when i was young. emily arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put notions in her head. and as for hannah, i'll have none of her." so mr snow saw that if emily was to have a good time it must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have done for her. he fitted her out, and sent her to mount holyoke seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions new england girls. and a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. there were the first inevitable pangs of home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his darling after all. but, in a little, her letters were merry and healthful enough. one would never have found out from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on recreation day. pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home at the close of the year, mrs snow had gone, where the household work is done without weariness. her father would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of hannah lovejoy in the deserted home again. by the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the departure of deacons fish and slowcome, elected to fill the place of one of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. he was "lonesome, awful lonesome," at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and at many another house, than he. there have been changes in the minister's household, too. when his course in college was over, arthur came out to the rest. he lingered one delightful summer in merleville, and then betook himself to canada, to study his profession of the law. for arthur, wise as the merleville people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. he could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a yankee; so, for the sake of living in the queen's dominions, he went to canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as a place of residence than greenland or kamtschatka. that was five years ago. arthur has had something of a struggle since then. by sometimes teaching dull boys latin, sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt; and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. he has visited merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy. norman and harry have both left home, too. mr snow did his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. to college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. norman writes hopefully from the far west. he is an engineer, and will be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe him with a difference. "he will make money enough," janet says, "but as to his keeping it, that's another matter." harry went to canada with the intention of following arthur's example and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that he is very rich indeed. those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home. chapter fifteen. the indian-summer-time was come again. the gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. there was no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. the very pines were silent. the yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. the frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which graeme elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her. she was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. the glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. it looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills. "there is no place like merleville," graeme thinks in her heart. it is home to them all now. there were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. it came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. yes; merleville was home to graeme. not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. but the thought of it came with no painful longing. even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all. and yet, as graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away. "it is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. "i won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?" "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. it was only mr snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road. mr snow had changed a good deal within these few years. he had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. and yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house. there was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls: "mrs nasmyth." for janet is oftener called mrs nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is janet, the bairn's own janet still. there was no coaxing echo in graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs. "are you not going to sit down?" asked graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. "i wonder where the bairns are?" "the bairns are gone down the brae," said mrs nasmyth; "and i'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while." but she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room. "janet," said she, at last, "what brings deacon snow so often up here of late?" janet's back was toward graeme, and, without turning round, she answered: "i dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. he never stayed long away. he was ben the house with the minister. i didna see him." there was another pause. "janet," said graeme again, "what do you think mrs greenleaf told me all merleville is saying?" janet expressed no curiosity. "they say deacon snow wants to take you down the brae." still mrs nasmyth made no answer. "he hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed graeme interrogatively. "no' to me," said janet, quietly, "but the minister." "the minister! he's no' blate! to think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! and what did my father say?" "i dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and--" "janet!" graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, mrs nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning. "janet! if you think of such a thing for a moment, i declare i'll take second thoughts and go away myself." "weel, i aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave mr foster his answer," said janet, not heeding graeme's impatient answer. "janet! a sticket minister!" "my dear, he's no' a sticket minister. he passed his examinations with great credit to himself. you hae your father's word for that, who was there to hear him. and he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. and they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. i aye thought you might do worse than go with him. he's a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him." "thank you. but when i marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. i'm content with the home i have." "ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said janet, with a sigh; "but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day." "the deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems," said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. if i'm worth the keeping here, i'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and deacon snow has as good a right as another." "right, indeed! nobody has any right to you but ourselves. you are ours, and we'll never, never let you go." "it's no' far down the brae," said janet, gently. "janet! you'll never think of going! surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. and for a stranger, too! when you gave up your own mother and sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us--!" graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back. "miss graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. nae, hae patience, and let me speak. you are not needing me now in the same way. i sometimes think it would be far better for you if i wasna here." graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words. "it's true though, my dear. you can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while i manage all things, as i do." but graeme had no desire to have it otherwise. "you can manage far best," said she. "that's no to be denied," said mrs nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. miss graeme, you are no' to think that i am taking upon myself to reprove you. but do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? it's a pleasant life, i ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? it wouldna be so easy for you if i were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!" there was nothing graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms. "and if i should go," continued janet, "and there's many an if between me and going--but if i should go, i'll be near at hand in time of need--" "i know i am very useless," broke in graeme. "i don't care for these things as i ought--i have left you with too many cares, and i don't wonder that you want to go away." "whist, lassie. i never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. and if i could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. but i canna. miss graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. think of the cares she had, and how she met them." graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence. "and, dear," said janet, in a little, "your father tells me that mr snow has offered to send for my mother and sandy. and oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again." she had no power to add more. "but, janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago." "my dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. but she would gladly come now, if i had a home to give her." there was silence for a while, and then graeme said,-- "it's selfish in me, i know, but, oh! janet, we have been so happy lately, and i canna bear to think of changes coming." mrs nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute marian entered. "where have you been, dear? i fear you have wearied yourself," said janet, tenderly. "we have only been down at mr snow's barn watching the threshing. but, indeed, i have wearied myself." and sitting down on the floor at janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. a kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns. "you mustna sit down here, my dear. lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. have you taken your bottle to-day?" marian made her face the very picture of disgust. "oh! janet, i'm better now. i dinna need it. give it to graeme. she looks as if she needed something to do her good. what ails you, graeme?" "my dear," remonstrated janet, "rise up when i bid you; and go to the sofa, and i'll go up the stair for the bottle." marian laid herself wearily down. in a moment mrs nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck graeme as strange; for though janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. in a little, marian slept. janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. at length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again. "miss graeme," said she, in a little, "i dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from god, and as though he hadna a right to send them to his people when he pleases." "i canna help it, janet. no change that can come to us can be for the better." "that's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. you mind what the word says, `as an eagle stirreth up her nest.' and you may be sure, if we are among the lord's children, he'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. he is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves." a restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly. "how lovely she is!" whispered she. a crimson flush was rising on marian's cheeks as she slept. "ay, she was aye bonny," said janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now." graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little janet spoke again. "miss graeme, you canna mind your aunt marian?" no, graeme could not. "menie is growing very like her, i think. she was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. you ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till miss marian grew ill. they would fain have had her away to italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. that was just after i came back again, after sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was. "for a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. but one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. she never spoke again." janet paused to wipe the tears from her face. "she was good and bonny, and our menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. she 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. miss marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. her hair wasna so dark as our menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers." mrs nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward graeme, as she ceased speaking. graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale. "janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? it wasna that you meant about changes! menie's not going to die like our bonny aunt marian!" her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on. "i cannot tell. i dinna ken--sometimes i'm feared to think how it may end. but oh! miss graeme--my darling--" "but it is quite impossible--it can't be, janet," broke in graeme. "god knows, dear." janet said no more. the look on graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. she must be left to herself a while, and janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. but she could not bear it for her--she could not even help her to bear it. she could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day. there are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it could never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. she tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. when she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in god's hands, whatever his will might be, the words would not come to her. it was, "no, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. the darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream. "what could have made janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face. "graeme, tea's over. where have you been all this time?" asked rose. "my father was asking where you were. he wants to see you," said will. "i'll go ben now," said graeme, rising. the study lamp was on the table unlighted. the minister was sitting in the firelight alone. he did not move when the door opened, until graeme spoke. "i'm here, papa. did you want me?" "graeme, come in and sit down. i have something to say to you." she sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. he was looking troubled and anxious, graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. the hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. it came into graeme's mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that janet's words had implied. "my dear," said the minister, at last, "has mrs nasmyth been speaking to you?" "about--" menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word. "about mr snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. graeme started. she had quite forgotten. "mrs greenleaf told me something--and--" "i believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said the minister. "he seems bent on taking janet from us, graeme." "papa! it is too absurd," said graeme, all her old vexation coming back. mr elliott smiled. "i must confess it was in that light i saw it first, and i had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. but we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for mrs nasmyth's advantage." "but, papa, she has been content with us all these years. why should there be a change now?" "if the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. but, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, i fear it will be a difficult matter." "but, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment." "my dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. she only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us." "but she has been quite happy with us." "yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. i have been thinking of her to-night, graeme. what a self-denying life janet's has been! she must be considered first in this matter." "yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--" "graeme, mr snow is to send for her mother and her son. i could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. it will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. and she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers." graeme sighed, and was silent. "if we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life." "but, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one." "i know, dear, while we have a home. you need not tell me that; but graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. not that i fear for you. you are all young and strong, and the god whom i have sought to serve, will never leave my children. but janet is growing old, graeme, and i do think this way has been providentially opened to her." "if it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" graeme hesitated and coloured. her father smiled. "mrs nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. she will see things differently. and besides, she always liked and respected mr snow. i have no doubt she will be very happy with him." "we all liked him," said graeme, sighing. "but oh! i dread changes. i can't bear to break up our old ways." "graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. we have been very happy of late--so happy that i fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. we may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us." the thought of menie came back to graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak. "i know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon you. it will add greatly to your cares to have mrs nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and--" "oh, papa! it is not that--i mean it is not that altogether, but--" graeme paused. she was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. in a little, she asked. "when is it to be?" "i don't know, indeed, but soon, i suppose; and my dear child, i trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. the change you dread so much, will not be very great. our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. i have no doubt, it will be for the best." "shall i light your lamp, papa?" said graeme, in a little while. "no, love, not yet. i have no mind for my book to-night." graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. when she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. so she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too. "only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said. it seemed to graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. they had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again. "as an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "well, i ought no' to fear the changes he brings--but, oh! i am afraid." chapter sixteen. the rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going to take place among them, in a very different way from graeme. their astonishment at the idea of janet's marriage was great, but it did not equal their delight. graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to keep quiet. but then janet was in the minority, too, and mr snow's suit was anything but prosperous for some time. indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minister's house, mrs nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. her unhappiness was manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff would have been; and while mrs nasmyth's silence grieved mr snow, the elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that "she would get over it," that "it would all come right in the end," were more than she could sometimes patiently endure. "he's like the lave o' them," said she to graeme one day, after having closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all necessary. "give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. because i didna just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but `when will it be?' and `when will it be?' till i have no peace of my life with him." graeme could not help laughing at her excitement. "but, when will it be?" asked she. "my dear, i'm no sure that it will ever be." "janet!" exclaimed graeme. "what has happened?" "nothing has happened; but i'm no' sure but i ought to have put a stop to the matter at the very first. i dinna weel ken what to do." "janet," said graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so--so strange as it did at first--and you should speak to mr snow about it, at any rate." "to put him out o' pain," said janet, smiling grimly. "there's no fear o' him. but i'll speak to him this very night." and so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. but janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. with tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for marian, and said, "it would seem like forsaking the bairns in their trouble, to leave them now." mr snow's kind heart was much shocked at the thought of marian's danger. she had been his favourite among the bairns, and emily's chief friend from the very first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason for her stay. "so you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. he winna ask any questions, i dare say." but in this janet was mistaken. he did ask a great many questions, and failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the marriage. in vain janet protested and held back. he said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to think and decide for her. as to marian's illness being an excuse, it was quite the reverse. if she was afraid marian would not be well cared for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she went away. and then he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words. "and, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "i shall feel, when i am to be taken away, i shall not leave my children desolate, while they have you to care for them." so for mrs nasmyth there was no help. but on one thing she was determined. the day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. they might come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. she would fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she gave the minister. to mr snow, who doubted whether "them boys" would care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear. "if they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. they must be asked, any way." and so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying that both harry and arthur would be home for a week at the time appointed. from norman there came no letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, norman came himself. his first greeting to janet was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking her "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a crisis much sooner. he rejoiced mr snow's heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if mrs snow was not henceforth the happiest woman in merleville. norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than either of his brothers, the sisters thought. arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and harry was a boy with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. but, with norman's brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance. but, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. he was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all. norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. if his active and exposed life as an engineer at the west had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. his "once upon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to norman's rambling stories. nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in norman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero begun. there was one story which they were never tired of hearing. it needed none of norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. it was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little hilda bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family of eight. father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue that she could not understand. it would, perhaps, have been wiser in norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents in their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clung to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could not bear to send her away. "these people were poor, and had many children of their own," said norman. "i would have thought it a hard lot for menie or rosie to go with them; and when she begged to stay with me, i could not send her with them. if it had not been so far, i would have sent her to you, graeme. but as i could not do that, i kept her with me while i stayed in c, and there i sent her to school. they say she bids fair to be a learned lady some day." this was an item of news that norman's letters had not conveyed. they only knew that he had saved hilda from the burning boat, and that he had been kind to her afterwards. "but norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent mrs nasmyth, "you havena surely run yourself in debt?" norman laughed. "no; but it has been close shaving sometimes. however, it would have been that anyway. i am afraid i have not the faculty for keeping money, and i might have spent it to worse purpose." "and is the little thing grateful?" asked graeme. "oh! yes; i suppose so. she is a good little thing, and is always glad to see me in her quiet way." "it's a pity she's no' bonny," said marian. "oh! she is bonny in german fashion; fair and fat." "how old is she?" asked mrs nasmyth. norman considered. "well, i really can't say. judging by her inches, i should say about rosie's age. but she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be rosie's grandmother. she's a queer little thing." "tell us more," said rose; "do you go to see her often?" "as often as i can. she is very quiet; she was the only girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. you should hear her talk about her little business matters. my dear mrs nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to account. "i have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, graeme. it seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home but a school. she seems happy enough, however." "and would she like to come?" "she says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she were once here. i must see about it in the spring." the wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was rather a sad day to them all. it found janet still "in a swither." she could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "the bairns." "and, oh! miss graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing my mother and sandy, my heart would fail me quite. and are you quite sure that you are pleased now, dear?" "janet, it was because i was selfish that i wasna pleased from the very first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the brae." graeme did not look very glad, however. but if the wedding-day was rather sad, thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. it was spent at the deacon's. miss lovejoy distinguished herself forever by her chicken-pies and fixings. mr and mrs snow surpassed themselves as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at a loss how to take the change, menie's delight decided her, and she was delighted, too. they grew quiet in the evening but not sad. seated around the fire in the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to merleville. and then, they went further back, and spoke about their old home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "steadfast." "i wonder what has become of allan ruthven," said marian. "it's strange that you have never seen him, arthur." "i may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. you mind, i was not on the `steadfast' with you." "but harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw him." "and do you know no one of the name?" asked graeme. "i have heard of several ruthvens in canada west. and the house of elphinstone and gilchrist have a western agent of that name. do you know anything about him, harry? who knows but he may be allan ruthven of the `steadfast.'" "no, i thought he might be, and made inquiries," said harry. "but that ruthven seems quite an old fogey. he has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood,--at least, a long time. do you mind allan ruthven, menie?" "mind him!" that she did. menie was very quiet to-night, saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on graeme's knee. "allan was the first one i heard say our menie was a beauty," said norman. "menie, do you mind?" menie laughed. "yes, i mind." "but i think rosie was his pet. graeme, don't you mind how he used to walk up and down the deck, with rosie in his arms?" "but that was to rest graeme," said harry. "miss rosie was a small tyrant in those days." rosie shook her head at him. "eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said norman, taking rosie's fair face between his hands. "graeme had enough ado with you, i can tell you." "and with you, too. never heed him, rosie," said graeme, smiling at her darling. "i used to admire graeme's patience on the `steadfast'," said harry. "i did that before the days of the `steadfast,'" said arthur. rosie pouted her pretty lips. "i must have been an awful creature." "oh! awful," said norman. "a spoilt bairn, if ever there was one," said harry. "i think i see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us." "i never thought graeme could make anything of you," said norman. "graeme has though," said the elder sister, laughing. "i wouldna give my bonny scottish rose, for all your western lilies, norman." and so they went on, jestingly. "menie," said arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in the fire?" menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. she started when her brother spoke. "i see--oh! many things. i see our old garden at home,--in clayton, i mean--and--" "it must be an imaginary garden, then. i am sure you canna mind that." "mind it! indeed i do. i see it as plainly as possible, just as it used to be. only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. i see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall white rose-bushes blossoming to the very top." "and the broad green walk," said harry. "and the summer-house." "and the hawthorn hedge." "and the fir trees, dark and high." "and the two apple trees." "yes,--the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, i used to think them," said norman. "and i, too," said menie. "whenever i think of the garden of eden, i fancy it like our garden at home." "your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get beyond _that_ for paradise," said arthur, laughing. "well, maybe not, but i always do think of it so. oh! it was a bonny place. i wish i could see it again." "well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two," said norman. "you needna laugh, graeme, i am going home as soon as i get rich." "in a year or two! you're nae blate!" "oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. we'll come back again. it will be time enough to make our fortune then. so be ready, menie, when i come for you." "many a thing may happen, before a year or two," said marian, gravely. "many a thing, indeed," said graeme and norman, in a breath. but while graeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister's flushed face, norman added, laughingly. "i shouldn't wonder but you would prefer another escort, before that time comes. i say, menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you are growing?" menie laughed, softly. "oh! yes. emily told me when she came home; and so did harry. and you have told me so yourself to-day, already." "you vain fairy! and do you really think you're bonny?" "janet says, i'm like aunt marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma." "like aunt marian!" graeme remembered janet's words with a pang. but she strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright faces round her, it was not difficult to do to-night. surely if marian were ill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. and even janet's anxiety had been at rest for a while. menie was better now. how merry she had been with her brothers for the last few days. and though she seemed very weary to-night, no wonder. so were they all. even rosie, the tireless, was half asleep on arthur's knee, and when all the pleasant bustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister would be herself again. nothing so terrible could be drawing near, as the dread which janet had startled herewith that day. "emily," said harry, "why do you persist in going back to that horrid school? why don't you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?" "i'm not going to any horrid school," said emily. "you can't make me believe that you would rather be at school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good time with rose and menie here." emily laughed. "i would like that; but i like going back to school too." "but you'll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking to you, if you stay much longer." "in that case, it might do you good to listen," said emily, laughing. "but you are altogether too wise already," harry persisted. "i really am quite afraid to open my lips in your presence." "we have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it," said arthur. "but, indeed, i must have a word with the deacon about it," said harry. "i can't understand how he has allowed it so long already. i must bring my influence to bear on him." "you needn't," said emily. "i have almost prevailed upon graeme, to let menie go back with me. there will be two learned ladies then." graeme smiled, and shook her head. "not till summer. we'll see what summer brings. many things may happen before summer," she added, gravely. they all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. they grew quiet after that, and each sat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow's parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meet on earth again. chapter seventeen. they all went away--the lads and emily, and quietness fell on those that remained. the reaction from the excitement in which they had been living for the last few weeks was very evident in all. even will and rosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoyment of their old pleasures; and so graeme did not wonder that marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. the weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. so marian occupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to her were, for a time, at rest. for she did not look ill; she was as cheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which janet's departure rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy with heavier matters. there was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyes of mrs snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of two households, and though no longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in their domestic affairs. with her usual care for the welfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced hannah lovejoy up the brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" sephronia, hannah's less helpful younger sister. there was a great difference between the service of love that had all their life long shielded them from trouble and annoyance, and miss lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. but hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "a treasure," in these days of destitution in the way of help; and if her service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, while her wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities were not so disagreeable to graeme as she had feared. indeed, by the time the first letter from norman came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest. her faith in hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some expostulations from mrs snow to prevent her from letting the supreme power, as to household matters, pass into the hands of her energetic auxiliary. "my dear," said she, "there's many a thing that hannah could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. it's better for her, and it's better for you, too. every woman should take pleasure in these household cares. if they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used to them; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. there is great comfort in it sometimes." graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but mrs snow was not to be moved. "my dear, that may be all true. i ken books are fine things to keep folk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away that way comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing their duty that the lord gives them abiding comfort. i ken by myself. there have been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or my brain grown crazed, if i hadna needed to do this and to do that, to go here and to go there. my dear, woman's work, that's never done, is a great help to many a one, as well as me. and trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought to know and do in your father's house." so graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way that excited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable hannah. so a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to grow long again, before the old dread was awakened in graeme. for only in one way was marian different from her old self. she did not come to exert herself. she was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and in the affairs of the village. almost every day, after the sleighing became good, she enjoyed a drive with graeme or her father, or with mr snow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys." they paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at judge merle's or mr greenleaf's, or at some other friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long time come into graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that was invisible as yet to hers. so the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy household knew that each day that passed so peacefully over them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow. the first fear was awakened in graeme by a very little thing. after several stormy sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out. "i am very sorry not to go, graeme," said she; "but i was so weary last time. let me stay at home to-day." so she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. nor was the shadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she seemed to-day. it was well that the sunshine, coming in on the corner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. when the services were over, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering more inquiries about marian, and hastened away, though she knew that mrs merle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that mrs greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy till she should speak a word with her. but she could not trust herself to meet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. so she went home again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, till menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both pain and darkness away. but when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the sabbath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a little marian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the bible that she held in her hand. as graeme listened to her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. but she put the thought from her. it was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herself for always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and told herself that she must change in this respect. with all her might she strove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief it was that menie could be going to die--menie, who had always been so well and so merry. she was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to some quiet place by the sea-shore, and run about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again. "if spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. but first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and graeme could not reason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chase it away. after this, for a few days, graeme grow impatient of her sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. she would have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. but this was not for long. menie yielded always, and tried with all her might to seem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again. "i will speak to doctor chittenden, and know the worst," said graeme, to herself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst might be. by and by there came a mild bright day, more like april than january. mr elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, and had taken will and rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone. graeme would have gladly availed herself of deacon snow's offer to lend them grey major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. the day was so fine, she said to menie; but she was loth to go. it would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. or, if graeme liked, they might send down for janet in the afternoon. graeme sighed, and urged no more. "we can finish our book, you know," went on menie. "and there are the last letters to read to mrs snow. i hope nobody will come in. we shall have such a quiet day." but this was not to be. there was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath the window, and graeme looked out. "it is doctor chittenden," said she. marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the doctor came, to look strong and well. she did not take his visits to herself. doctor chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him. "my child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, "are you quite well to-day?" "quite well," said graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his. "you are quite well, i see," said he, as marian came forward to greet him. "i ought to be," said marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece. "i see. we must have it replenished." "don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said marian, making a pitiful face. "graeme don't think it does me much good." "miss graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. but, i'll see. i have some doubts about them myself. you ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and i'm afraid you are not," said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. he looked up, and met graeme's look fixed anxiously upon him. he did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. the gravity of his look deepened as he met hers. "where has your father gone?" asked he. "to the bell neighbourhood, for the day. the children have gone with him, and graeme and i are going to have a nice quiet day," said marian. "_you_ are going with me," said the doctor. "with you!" "yes. have you any objections?" "no. only i don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, without having anywhere to go." "but, i am going to take you somewhere. i came for that purpose. mrs greenleaf sent me. she wants you to-day." "but, i can go there any time. i was there, not long ago; i would rather stay at home to-day with graeme, thank you." "and what am i to say to mrs greenleaf? no, i'm not going without you. so, get ready and come with me." menie pouted. "and graeme had just consented to my staying at home quietly for the day." "which does not prove miss graeme's wisdom," said the doctor. "why, child, how many april days do you think we are going to have in january? be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if i am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. miss graeme, get your sister's things. it is health for her to be out in such a day." graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said,-- "there is no haste. i am going farther, and will call as i come back. lie down, dear child, and rest just now." graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study. "you don't mean to tell me that menie is in danger?" said she, with a gasp. "i am by no means sure what i shall say to you. it will depend on how you are likely to listen," said the doctor, gravely. graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly. "anything is better than suspense." then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "she is not worse! surely you would have told us!--" "my dear young lady, calm yourself. she is not worse than she has been. the chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. the indications of disease are comparatively slight--that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. if the month of march were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. your mother did not die of consumption?" "no, but--" the remembrance of what janet had told her about their "bonny aunt marian" took away graeme's power to speak. "well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful." "she is always cheerful." "well--that's well. you must not let her do anything to weary herself. i don't like the stove-heat for her. you should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. when the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and i will send her something. my dear, you have no occasion for despondency. the chances are all in her favour." he went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to graeme. "and if it were not so, my child, you are a christian. if the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?" a strong shudder passed over graeme. the doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face. "nay, my child--if you could keep her here and assure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the `rest that remaineth?' for her it would be far better to go, and for you--when your time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?" graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. her friend did not seek to check them. "i know the first thought is terrible. but, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. mine are nearly all there. i would not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. you will be glad for yourself by and by. you should be glad for your sister now." "if i were sure--if i were quite sure," murmured graeme through her weeping. "sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. "i think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such a case! it is a great mystery. your father will know best. god is good. pray for her." "my father! he does not even think of danger." graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion. "miss graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your father yet. marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. a sudden shock might--" he paused. "is not my father well? has he not quite recovered?" asked graeme. "quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. but it will do no good to disturb him now. i will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. in the meantime you must be cheerful. you have no cause to be otherwise." it was easy to say "be cheerful." but graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. often and often she repeated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. the great dread was always upon her. she never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's state, till her friends--and even the faithful janet, who knew her so well--doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. but she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strove successfully. but these quiet, cheerful hours in marian's room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to him who is full of compassion, even when his chastisements are most severe. chapter eighteen. no. none knew so well as graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. as far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. the children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. still, she hardly called herself ill. she suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, graeme could not bear to put it away. their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. one by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. within reach of her hand lay always menie's little bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. and the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise. very quietly passed these last days and nights. many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to mrs snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them. "graeme," said marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. come and lie down beside me and rest, before will and rosie come home." weary graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. but she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence. "graeme," said marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?" "what love?" "that i am going soon. you know it, graeme?" graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. there was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,-- "you're no' feared, menie?" "no," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "do you think i need to fear, graeme?" if she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it. "none need fear who trust in jesus," said she, softly. "no. and i do trust him. who else could i trust, now that i am going to die? i know he is able to save." "all who come to him," whispered graeme. "my darling, have you come?" "i think he has drawn me to himself. i think i am his very own. graeme, i know i am not wise like you--and i have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often--but i know that i love jesus, and i think he loves me, too." she lay quietly down again. "graeme, are you afraid for me?" "i canna be afraid for one who trusts in jesus." it was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy. "there is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said marian, again. "my life has been such a happy life. i have had no tribulation that the bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. i have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. it seems hardly fair, graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering." "god has been very good to you, dear." "and you'll let me go willingly, graeme?" "oh! menie, must you go. could you no' bide with us a little while?" said graeme, her tears coming fast. a look of pain came to her sister's face. "graeme," said she, softly; "at first i thought i couldna bear to go and leave you all. but it seems easy now. and you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?" "no, no! my darling." "at first you'll all be sorry, but god will comfort you. and my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have rosie and will--and, graeme, you will tell papa?" "yes, i will tell him." "he'll grieve at first, and i could not bear to see him grieve. after he has time to think about it, he will be glad." "and arthur, and all the rest--" murmured graeme. a momentary shadow passed over marian's face. "oh! graeme, at first i thought it would break my heart to leave you all--but i am willing now. god, i trust, has made me willing. and after a while they will be happy again. but they will never forget me, will they, graeme?" "my darling! never!" "sometimes i wish i had known--i wish i had been quite sure, when they were all at home. i would like to have said something. but it doesna really matter. they will never forget me." "we will send for them," said graeme, through her tears. "i don't know. i think not. it would grieve them, and i can bear so little now. and we were so happy the last time. i think they had best not come, graeme." but the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer. "sometimes i dream of them, and when i waken, i do so long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "but it is as well as it is, perhaps. i would rather they would think of me as i used to be, than to see me now. no, graeme, i think i will wait." in the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times. "it won't be long. and, graeme--i shall see our mother first--and you must have patience, and wait. we shall all get safe home at last--i am quite, _quite_ sure of that." a step was heard at the door, and mrs snow entered. "weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. she saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting. "have the bairns come?" asked menie. "no, dear, i bade them bide till i went down the brae again. do you want them home?" "oh no! i only wondered why i didna hear them." the wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence. "it's no' like spring to-night, janet," said menie. "no, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. but the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again." "yes; i hope so," said menie, softly. "are you wearying for the spring, dear?" "whiles i weary." but the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, janet well knew. "i aye mind the time when i gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. it was long before this time of the year--and it seems long to wait for spring." "ay, i mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the ebba. there were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in scotland then more than here. you mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. you'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary." menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of graeme. the same thought was on the mind of all the three. when menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever. "janet, when will sandy come? have you got a letter yet?" "yes; i got a letter to-day. it winna be long now." "oh! i hope not. i want to see him and your mother. i want them to see me, too. sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. it will rest you, and i'll bide with menie here." graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the march wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. conscious only of one thought, that menie must die, and that the time was hastening. yes. it was coming very near now. god help them all. weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. she bowed herself utterly down. "so let it be! god's will be done!" and leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. god gives power to his children to pray--face to face--in his very presence. giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "i am thine. save me." between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. no foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her lord revealed. in that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places. she started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met mr snow's look, so grave in its kindliness. "miss graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?" "no," said graeme, humbly. "i am going in." but she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand. "miss graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the lord do as he's a mind to about it?" "yes," said graeme, "i give up. his will be done." "amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, deacon snow's prayer for her found a place. she opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into hannah's bright kitchen. "will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke. "well, i guess i'll sit down here. it won't be long before mis' snow'll be going along down. but don't you wait. go right in to your father." graeme opened the study-door and went in. "i will tell him to-night," said she. "god help us." her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand. "graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen janet?" "yes, papa. i left her with marian, a little ago." "poor janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. no one was so particular as the minister in giving janet her new title. it was always "mistress snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and graeme wondered to-night. "has anything happened?" asked she. "have you not heard? she has had a letter from home. here it is. her mother is dead." the letter dropped from graeme's outstretched hand. "yes," continued her father. "it was rather sudden, it seems--soon after she had decided to come out here. it will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. i must speak to her, poor janet!" graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. "poor janet!" well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. it was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. it did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend. mr snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, graeme found when she entered her sister's room. marian was asleep, and coming close to mrs snow, who sat gazing into the fire, graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm's about her neck without a word. at first graeme thought she was weeping. she was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "you see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans." "oh, janet! there's nothing in all the world that we can trust in." "ay, you may weel say that. but it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the lord winna let us forget." there was a pause. "when was it?" asked graeme, softly. "six weeks ago this very night, i have been thinking, since i sat here. her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go." "and would she have come?" "ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as i might have kenned from the beginning. i thought i asked god's guiding, and i was persuaded into thinking i had gotten it. but you see my heart was set on it from the very first--guiding or no guiding--and now the lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking." "oh, janet!" said graeme, remonstratingly. "my dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. i have more need to take the lesson to heart. may the lord give me grace to do it." graeme could say nothing, and janet continued-- "it's ill done in me to grieve for her. she is far better off than ever i could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--i must submit." "you have sandy still." "aye, thank god. may he have him in his keeping." "and he will come yet." "yes, i have little doubt. but i'll no' set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. the lord kens best." after that night mrs snow never left the house for many hours at a time till menie went away. graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. as the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. he was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. but to graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near the very last. they were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. they had been sitting thus a long time--so long that graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. she looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father's eyes were upon her. "you are tired to-night, graeme," said he, at last. graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. her father sighed. "it will not be long now." graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak. "we little thought it was our bonny menie who was to see her mother first. think of the joy of that meeting, graeme!" graeme's head drooped down on the table. if she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. she trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. her father watched her for a moment. "graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?" "not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "i am almost willing now." "what is the happiest life here--and menie's has been happy--to the blessedness of the rest which i confidently believe awaits her, dear child?" "it is not that i grudge to let her go, but that i fear to be left behind." "ay, love! but we must bide god's time. and you will have your brothers and rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts." graeme's head drooped lower. she was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. her father went on-- "and afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. i used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. if it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, i might have borne it better, i thought. but god knows. there are some things for which we cannot prepare." there was a long silence. "graeme, i have something which i must say to you," said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "if the time comes--when the time comes--my child, i grieve to give you pain, but what i have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. my child, i have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together--" graeme did not move. "my child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. i stand now, and see all the way by which god has led me, with a grieved wonder, that i should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. the dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--mounts of god, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. and yet, i mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable. "my child, are you hearing me? oh! if my experience could teach you! i know it cannot be. the blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and i need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of god, for which there is no balm. you are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. but there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that he will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. are you hearing me, my child?" graeme gave a mute sign of assent. "menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. god make us patient in it,--patient and helpful. short as your sister's life has been, it has not been in vain. she has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness--and to you graeme, most of all." graeme's lips opened with a cry. turning, she laid her face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little. "hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "nay," he added, as she would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired graeme, my child, my best comforter always." graeme's frame shook with sobs. "don't papa--i cannot bear it--" she struggled with herself, and grew calm again. "forgive me, papa. i know i ought not. and indeed, it is not because i am altogether unhappy, or because i am not willing to let her go--" "hush, love, i know. you are your mother's own patient child. i trust you quite, graeme, and that is why i have courage to give you pain. for i must say more to-night. if anything should happen to me--hush, love. my saying it does not hasten it. but when i am gone, you will care for the others. i do not fear for you. you will always have kind friends in janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, i am sure. but graeme, i would like you all to keep together. be one family, as long as possible. so if arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. he may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. and it will be best for all, that you should keep together." the shock which her father's words gave, calmed graeme in a moment. "but, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?" "no, love, i am better, much better. still, i wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. that is all i had to say, love." but he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,-- "i trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your mother and me." it was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. they were all together in marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. it was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. not that any of them thought it would be to-night. mrs snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. she had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as mrs snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,-- "janet, is it to be to-night? are they all here? papa, graeme. where is graeme?" they were with her in a moment, and graeme's cheek was laid on her sister's wasted hand. "well, my lammie!" said her father, softly. "papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?" her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek. "you are not afraid, my child?" afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the king's messenger was come. murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but janet's toil-worn hand laid over them. graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move. "there is no need. let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank god for the momentary forgetfulness which he has given her." chapter nineteen. that night, graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or mrs snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still. "she is weary," they said, in whispers. "let her rest." kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. "let her rest," said all. but when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, mrs snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to mrs snow's question whether she felt rested, she said, "oh! yes," but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. just then, her husband came in. "is anything the matter?" asked he, anxiously. "no," said his wife, rousing herself. "only, i dinna ken weel what to do." "is miss graeme sick? or is she asleep?" "i hope she's no' sick. i ken she's no sleeping. but she ought to be roused, and when i think what she's to be roused to--. but, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before--before she's laid in--" a strong shudder passed over her. "oh! man! it's awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin--" "need she see her again?" asked mr snow. "oh! yes, i doubt she must. and the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now." "her father," suggested mr snow. "he has seen her. he was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. but he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. i canna disturb him." "couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed--to her father or the little ones? she would rouse herself if they needed her." "that's weel said," said mrs snow, gratefully. "go you down the brae for the bairns, and i'll go and speak to her again." "miss graeme, my dear," said she, softly; "could you speak to me a minute?" her manner was quite calm. it was so like the manner in which graeme had been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the time or circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly,-- "well, what is it, janet?" "my dear, it is the bairns. there is nothing the matter with them," added she hastily, as graeme started. "they have been down the brae with emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben yonder, and i think they should see her before--before she's moved, and i dinna like to disturb your father. my bairn, are you able to rise and take will and wee rosie ben yonder." graeme raised herself slowly up. "janet, i have been forgetting the bairns." mrs snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully: "my dear, you were weary, and they have had emily." she would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. she was ready at last. "are they come?" asked graeme, faintly. "no, dear. there's no haste. rest yourself a wee while. my dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as graeme rose. "yes, i think so. but i would like to go alone, first." "my poor lamb! if i were but sure that i have been right," thought janet, as she sat down to wait. an hour passed, and when the door opened, and graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest. "she hasna' been alone all this time, as i might have known," said janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "i'm faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but i needna fear for them. the worst is over now." and was the worst over? after that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. there was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. there was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,--the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone. by and by, came letters from the lads; those of norman and harry full of bitter regrets, which to graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again. the coming of the "bonny spring days" for which norman had so wished, wakened "vain longings for the dead." the brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with menie's voice. the flowers which she had planted,--the may-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with menie's eyes. the odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and menie was a happy child. all these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. it was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content. and mrs snow, watching both the minister and graeme, "couldna be thankful enough" for what she saw. but as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. "as though the lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful," she said to herself, many a time. at last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen. "it's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't it?" said mr snow, but his face was grave, too. "i dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. she wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder," said mrs snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. "and no wonder. even emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. i dare say i'm troubling myself when there is no need." "the children, will, and rosie, don't worry her with their lessons, do they?" "i dinna ken. sometimes i think they do. but she would weary far more without them. we must have patience. it would never do to vex the minister with fears for her." "no, it won't do to alarm him," said mr snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. in a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind. "it ain't worth while to worry her with it. i don't more than half believe it myself. doctors don't know everything. it seems as though it couldn't be so--and if it is so, it's best to keep still about it-- for a spell, anyhow." and mr snow vaguely wished that doctor chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms. "and the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought to keep still. can't nothing be done for him? i'll have a talk with the squire, anyhow." that night mr and mrs snow were startled by a message from graeme. her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seized with illness. the doctor looked very grave this time, but seeing graeme's pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was something more than the indigestion which it had been called--severe but not dangerous. the worst was over for this time, and graeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by. the minister was better, but his recovery was very slow--so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two sabbaths in succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. it was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow dark. she roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts. "shall i read to you, papa? you have hardly looked at the book that mr snow brought. i am sure you will like it. shall i read awhile." "yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. there is no haste. i have been thinking as i sat here, graeme--and i shall find no better time than this to speak of it to you--that--" but what he had been thinking graeme was not to hear that night, for a hand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to graeme's invitation, mr and mrs snow came in, "just to see how the folks were getting along," said mr snow, as graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. but there was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather abruptly after a little. "they've been talking things over, down there to the village, and they've come to the conclusion that they'd better send you off--for a spell--most anywhere--so that you come back rugged again. some say to the seaside, and some say to the mountains, but _i_ say to canada. it's all fixed. there's no trouble about ways and means. it's in gold, to save the discount," added he, rising, and laying on the table something that jingled. "for they do say they are pretty considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in canada, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper," and he sat down again, as though there was enough said, and then he rose as if to go. graeme was startled, and so was her father. "sit down, deacon, and tell me more. no, i'm not going to thank you-- you need not run away. tell me how it happened." "they don't think papa so very ill?" said graeme, alarmed. "well--he ain't so rugged as he might be--now is he?" said mr snow, seating himself. "but he ain't so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him--i don't suppose he'd care about going by himself. and mis' snow, and me--we'll take care of the children--" "and what about this, deacon?" asked mr elliott, laying his hand on the purse that sampson had placed on the table. but mr snow had little to say about it. if he knew where the idea of the minister's holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and graeme. "but that matters little, as long as it is to be," said mrs snow, coming to the deacon's relief. "and it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives," added she, looking anxiously from graeme to her father. "you need not be afraid, my kind friends," said mr elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. "the gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. it gives me great pleasure." "and, miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, earnestly, "you needna look so grave about it. it is only what is right and just to your father--and no favour--though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. and surely, if i'm satisfied, you may be." sampson gave a short laugh. "she's changed her mind about us merleville folks lately--" "whist, man! i did that long ago. and, miss graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that harry tells us of! it will be almost like seeing scotland again, to be in the queen's dominions. my dear, you'll be quite glad when you get time to think about it." "yes--but do they really think papa is so ill?" she had risen to get a light, and mrs snow had followed her from the room. "ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him from home? but he needs a rest, and a change--and, my dear, you do that yourself, and i think it's just providential. not but that you could have gone without their help, but this was done in love, and i would fain have you take pleasure in it, as i do." and graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and "though it wasna just the thing for the sabbath night," as janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. they returned to the study with the light just as mr elliott was saying,-- "and so, i thought, having the prospect of but few sabbaths, i would like to spend them all at home." janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether graeme had heard her father's words. she evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. there was nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband's face, mrs snow thought, but his words were cheerful. "well, yes, i vote for canada. we ain't going to believe all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys." graeme laughed softly. the boys would not have been the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring canada as the scene of their summer wanderings. she did not join in the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyful. if mrs snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to the true state of the minister's health, she said nothing of it to graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where half the number would have served. her affairs were made a personal matter by all her friends. each vied with the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble; and if the reputation of merleville, for all future time, had depended on the perfect fit of graeme's one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as mrs snow rather sharply remarked, "have been more fuss made about it." and she had a chance to know, for the deacon's house was the scene of their labours of love. for mrs snow declared "she wouldna have the minister and miss graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be done at all." but mrs snow's interest and delight in all the preparations were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offended at her sharpness. in her heart mrs snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, but in public, "saw no good in making a work about it," and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the kindness of the people as their proper right and due. when mrs page identified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest boston fashion for sleeves, before graeme's dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which that lady's advances were always met; and listened rather coldly to graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same lady presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warm enough in her thanks to becky pettimore--i beg her pardon, mrs eli stone--for the soft lamb's wool socks, spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her regrets that her baby's teeth would not permit her to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than were mrs page's profuse offers of assistance. on the whole, it was manifest that mrs snow appreciated the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment of thanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the "deacon's wife," and her appreciation of them and their favours. nothing could be more easily seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed her mind about many things, since the minister's janet used "to speak her mind to the merleville folk," before they were so well known to her. as for graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no means arduous. she was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. it was some time before will and rosie could be persuaded that it was right for graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogether delightful to live all the time at mr snow's, and go to school in the village--to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of merleville. but they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that graeme should afterward have nothing to teach them. about the little ones, the elder sister's heart was quite at rest. it was not the leaving them alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who had cared for them all their lives. graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. she never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow lovejoy, and her father's voice repeating,-- "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow's groans had risen, graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face--the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond-- the very shadows of the maples on the grass. then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon--the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her. afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. he had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to graeme, of the early days of their married-life--of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. and more than once he said,-- "you are like your mother, graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. you must be more hopeful and courageous, my child." he spoke of marian, graeme remembered afterward. not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. of the lads far-away, he always spoke as "your brothers, graeme." he spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too. "for many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and i know not whether they have all found it yet. not that i am afraid of them. i believe it will be well with them at last. but in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. you must be patient with your brothers, graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother's sake and mine." he spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, "of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon." "we might have come here, love, had your mother lived. and yet, i do not know. the ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. her departure made all the rest easy for me, and i am quite convinced our coming was for the best. there is only one thing that i have wished, and i know it is a vain thing." he paused a moment. "of late i have sometimes thought--i mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden--that i would like to rest beside her at last. but it is only a fancy. i know it will make no difference in the end." if graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. if it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. she saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. the peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "feared no evil." afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought--forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them. they all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. the preparations for the journey were all made. the good-byes were said to all except to mrs snow and emily. the last night was come, and graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. she was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. the shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as menie's resting-place. how peaceful it looked! graeme thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by menie's side. she thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. she thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that god suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on him, for which he does not also provide a balm. "i will trust and not be afraid," she murmured. she thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams. at least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. she did not hear it when she listened for it again. she did not think of rosie or will, but went straight to her father's room. through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. the lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. the moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. there was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more. chapter twenty. it was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when arthur took them home with him to montreal. a very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. home! could it ever seem like home to them? think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning. before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. from the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as harry's grand river. on the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. the brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. from graeme's room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden. it was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. there was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it--many panes of glass when the sun was gone. the garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. but even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home. for it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. there was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. yes; there was the long streak of blue, which harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times. how changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of merleville. "if there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden." for rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. it seemed like ingratitude to arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. they seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. harry's hours were long, and arthur's business was increasing so as to require close attention. this was a matter of much rejoicing to graeme, who did not know that all arthur's business was not strictly professional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake. graeme and rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. for a while they were too busy--too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. but when the first arrangements were made--when the taste and skill of graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, nelly anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. then came upon graeme that which janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from merleville till the summer was over. her fictitious strength failed her. the reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. she did not give up willingly. indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. she was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. she either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by rose. all her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home. some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. for though nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. it was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of hannah lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught nelly. her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu' at the making of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. if it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without graeme's special overlooking. she would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her. but whatever happened through the day, for the evening graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. it was easy enough to do when harry was at home, or when arthur was not too busy to read to them. then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. but when any effort was necessary--when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. she might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless. oh, how miserable some of these sultry august nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. now it was the swift spring-time rush of carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. the wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. it was always the same. if the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. all this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left merleville, but it did not seem so to her. it was always of _home_ she thought. she rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. she started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. she struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. health and courage failed. of course, this state of things could not continue long. they must get either better or worse, graeme thought, and worse it was. arthur and harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. she rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh. "graeme!" exclaimed harry, "what ails you! such a face! look here, i have something for you. guess what." "a letter," said rose. "oh! graeme look!" but graeme was past looking by this time. her brothers were startled and tried to raise her. "don't, arthur," said rose; "let her lie down. she will be better in a little. harry get some water." poor, wee rosie! her hands trembled among the fastenings of graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do. "you don't mean that she has been like this before?" said arthur, in alarm. "yes, once or twice. she is tired, she says. she will soon be better, now." in a minute graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. it was nothing, she said, and arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened arthur was, and in a little while graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. it was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. when graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. rose followed them, and when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,-- "please, arthur, may i say something to the doctor? i think it is partly because graeme is homesick." "homesick!" repeated the doctor and arthur in a breath. "perhaps not homesick exactly," said rose, eagerly addressing her brother. "she would not go back again you know; but everything is so different--no garden, no hills, no pond. and oh! arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no janet nor anything here." rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. the doctor sat down, too. "why, rosie! my poor, wee rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?" "i thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell graeme. she does not think that i know." "know what?" asked arthur. "that she is so sad, and that the time seems long. but i have watched her, and i know." "well, i fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said arthur, anxiously. but the doctor thought differently. there was more the matter with graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,-- "her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness." arthur hesitated a moment. "there was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister's first, and then my father's. and then i brought the rest here." it was not easy for arthur to say all this. in a little he added with an effort,-- "i fear i have not done well in bringing them. but they wished to come, and i could not leave them." "you did right, i have no doubt," said the doctor. "your sister might have been ill anywhere. she might have been worse without a change. the thing is to make her well again--which, i trust, we can soon do-- with the help of miss rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, i am sure." "yes," said rose, gravely. "i will try." arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town. "yes," said the doctor. "the heat is bad. but it will not last long now, and on the whole, i think she is better where she is, at present. there is no danger. she will soon be as well as usual, i think." but it was not very soon. indeed, it was a long time before graeme was as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered and grey, and the summer had quite gone. not until kind doctor mcculloch had come almost daily for many weeks--long enough for him to become much interested in both patient and nurse. a wonderful nurse rose proved herself to be. at first something was said about introducing a more experienced person into graeme's chamber, but both rose and nelly anderson objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that rosie kept well and cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. she kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected during the day, rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while the other stayed with graeme, and by this means the health and spirits of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. for indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the rest depended upon her. but she bore the trial well, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with by her brothers. she quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that this time did rose no harm, but a great deal of good. as for nelly anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a most extraordinary manner--not as a nurse, however. her efforts in that line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to graeme not to lose heart. but in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment of the household, and her own most of all. when arthur had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be made to graeme in household matters, nelly had helplessly betaken herself to rose, and rose had as helplessly betaken herself to "catherine beecher." nothing short of the state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced nelly to put faith in a "printed book," in any matter where the labour of her hands was concerned. but her accomplishments as a cook did not extend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes," and more was required. so with fear and trembling, rose and she "laid their heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexperienced housekeepers, and the result was success--indeed a series of successes. for emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, nelly want on and prospered; and rose, content that she should have all the honour of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also. almost every morning rose had a walk, either with harry to his office, or with will, to the school, while arthur stayed with graeme. the walk was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time if harry was with her, and then she was ready for her long day at home. she sometimes lingered on the way back. on the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their play. she used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. and whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. she was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have considered advisable. one bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. for the first time she found the large gate wide open. there was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. she had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. this time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given. the garden belonged to mr elphinstone, a great man--at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. one of rose's amusements during the time she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than rose herself. sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will. "how happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. "if she is a nice young lady, as i am almost sure she is, she would rather that i enjoyed her flowers than not. at any rate i am going to walk round just once--and then go." but it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. it was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. it took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. it was not quite a stranger. she had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her-- "you should have soon it a while ago. it is past its best now." rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. but he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder. "if you'll come, round this way i'll show you flowers that are worth looking at," said he. "he thinks i am a visitor," said rose to herself. "i'm sure i admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. it won't trouble him much to show them to me, and i'll just go with him." so picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. she did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. he stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! such colouring! such depth and richness! what verbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight. at last it was time to go, and rose sighed as she said it. but she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly-- "i am not a visitor here. i saw the gate open and came in. i couldn't help it." it was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at the great house or not. "you ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can be said of some of the visitors here." he led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever rose had seen before. "it was just like what a bower ought to be," she told graeme, afterwards. "it was just like a lady's bower in a book." there was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close by grew a great many flowers. not rare flowers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. it was miss elphinstone's own bower, the gardener said, and these were her favourite flowers. rose bent over a pale little blossom near the path-- "what is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name. "surely you have seen that--and you from scotland? that's a gowan." "a gowan!" she was on her knees beside it in a moment. "is it the real gowan, `that glints on bank and brae'? no, i never saw one; at least i don't remember. i was only a child when i came away. oh! how graeme would like to see them. and i must tell janet. a real gowan! `wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower'--you mind? and here is a white one, `with silver crest and golden eye.' oh! if graeme could only see them! give me just one for my sister who is ill. she has gathered them on the braes at home." "ahem! i don't know," said her friend, in a changed voice. "these are miss elphinstone's own flowers. i wouldna just like to meddle with them. but you can ask her yourself." rose turned. the pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing beside her. rose's confusion was too deep for words. she felt for a minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing to intrude. the young lady's answer was to stoop down and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. when she gave them into rose's hand she asked,-- "is your sister very ill? i have seen the doctor going often to your house." "she is getting better now. she has been very ill. the doctor says she will soon be well." "and have you taken care of her all the time? is there no one else?" "i have taken care of her, nelly anderson and i, all the day, and our brothers are home at night." "i am glad she is getting better. is she fond of flowers. mr stirling is thinking i haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you put them in water, you know." "oh! thank you. they are beautiful. yes, graeme is very fond of flowers. this will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the country, i mean. and besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at home." "i am a canadian," said the young lady. "i never saw the `gowany braes,' but i shall see them soon." they had reached the gate by this time. "come again, soon. come into the garden, whenever you like. i am sure mr stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. i think a few of his would improve your bouquet." mr stirling touched his hat to his young lady. "i shall be proud to show the flowers to miss rose, and i shall have the honour of making her a bouquet soon." the young lady laughed. "you are to be a favourite. is your name rose," added she, lingering by the gate. "yes, rose elliott. i am the youngest. we all live over there, my brothers, and graeme and i. it would be a dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your garden. look, there is nelly looking for me. i am afraid i have hindered arthur. thank you very much, and good-bye." rose shyly put forth her hand. the young lady took it in both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go. "stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you know the young lady's name is rose? is she a friend of yours? do you know her?" "i know her face, that is all i have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. and whiles she looks through the gate. i heard her brothers calling her rose. she's a bonny lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it." that night, nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into graeme's room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, "maybe a gentleman," nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his compliments to miss rose elliott. a bouquet! it would have won the prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. even when the autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlour, where by that time graeme was able to appear. "for," said mr stirling, to the admiring nelly, "such were miss elphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty." the autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. as graeme grew strong, she grew content. the children were well and happy, and arthur's business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and means, might be put aside for the present. they often heard from norman, and from their friends in merleville, and graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise. in the spring, they removed to another house. it was in town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the country. for the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the transforming hands of rose and her brothers. there was a green field behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. the house itself, seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. it was larger than they needed, graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with everything else. it was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and a never failing source of delight besides. their new home was quite away from mr stirling's end of town, but he found time to come and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invaluable. this was a short and pleasant summer to them all. it is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. to will and rosie everything was delightful. the early marketing with nelly, to which graeme and arthur, and sometimes even harry was beguiled, never lost its charm for them. harry had lived in town, long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over rosie's penchant for making acquaintance with the old french woman and little children whom they met. he mystified rose and her friends by his free interpretation of both french and english, and made the rest merry too; so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough to go with them. sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of nelly and miss beecher. sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole family, nelly and all, at lachine or the back river, or on the top of the mountain. all this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the elliotts were able to find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times. they had pleasures of another kind, too. arthur's temporary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or other of them. they had not many acquaintances at this time. in janet's estimation, the averseness of graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her character. it was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to be in the country, graeme found. besides, she had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister's daughter, and was inclined for quietness. once or twice she made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" of the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a lane near their house, and stayed at home. she was by no means sure that she did right. for everybody knows, or ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments for those who have none. but then, though the "sewing-circle" is the generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear ladies who _love to do good_, but who are apt to be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. one thing is certain, though graeme did not find it easy for a while to satisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept her at home, the little finlays were all the happier and better for the time she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs. they made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, a friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or lawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the city made him wish to show kindness. there were two or three gay french lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great liking to the grave and steady arthur, and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fireside. graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the french as a people, and as for rose, the very sight of these polite moustached gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all comfortable to think about. but those light-hearted canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though english had been their mother tongue. very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better subjects for the exercise of rosie's french than the old market women were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly welcomed. this was a busy time, too. graeme taught rosie english, and they studied together french and german, and music; and were in a fair way, harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. very busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater importance. and if sometimes it came into graeme's mind that the life they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful of life's true end. chapter twenty one. "it is just three years to-night since we came to m. did you remember it, arthur?" said graeme, looking up from her work. "is it possible that it can be three years?" said arthur, in surprise. "it has been a very happy time," said graeme. rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother's chair. arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister's face. rose did not heed it. "three years!" repeated she. "i was quite a child then." the others laughed, but rose went on without heeding. "it rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. how well i remember the time! graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for janet." "that was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper," said graeme; "and you were not at all homesick yourself, i suppose?" "perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days," said rose, gravely; "but i was not homesick very long." "i am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time--more than you let me know about," said arthur. graeme smiled and shook her head. "i am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. if i had known how hard you would have to work, i think i would have stayed in merleville after all." "pooh! nonsense! hard work is wholesome. and at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in merleville." "but that was quite different--" "did i tell you that i have got a new client? i have done business for mr stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth i am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of `grove & stone.' it will add something to our income, little woman." rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother's ear. "don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of `grove & stone.' you know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated," said graeme. "to the merleville visit. but this is not at all an extravagance, is it, arthur?" said rose. "that depends--. i am afraid graeme is the best judge. but we won't tell her to-night. we must break the matter to her gently," said arthur. "graeme is so dreadfully prudent," sighed rose. graeme laughed. "it is well there is one prudent one among us." "i don't believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. they are nicer than usual, are they not?" said rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother's case. "yes. i treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of grove & stone. they are very nice. have one?" rose took it with great gravity. "suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards," said she, coaxingly. arthur made a grimace. "and where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?" "there is no telling, indeed," said rose. "graeme, i am going to put on my new hat. when mr elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know." "but, arthur, you have an engagement to-night. don't you remember?" asked graeme. "to mrs barnes'," said rose. "miss cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. her sister is nurse there. the party is to be quite a splendid affair. it is given in honour of miss grove, who has just come home. i wish i were going with you." "you may go without me! i will give you my invitation. it is a great bore, and i don't believe i shall go. i don't see the good of it." "but you promised," said graeme. "well, i suppose i must go for a while. but it is very stupid." "just as if you could make us believe that. it must be delightful. i think it's very stupid of you and graeme, not to like parties." "you forget. i was not asked," said graeme. "but you might have been, if you had returned mrs barnes' call soon enough. how nice it would have been! i wish i were miss grove, to have a party given for me. she is a beauty, they say. you must notice her dress, arthur, and tell me all about it." "oh! certainly," said arthur, gravely. "i'll take particular notice. but come, get your hats. there is time enough for a walk before i go. haste, rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. are you coming, will? man! you shouldna read by that light. you will blind yourself. put away your book, you'll be all the better for a walk." they lingered a moment at the gate. "here is harry!" exclaimed rose. "and some one with him. charlie millar, i think." "we will wait for them," said arthur. the look that came to graeme's face, as she stood watching her brother's coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. she stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at harry with anxious eyes. "are you going out, graeme?" asked he, coming within the gate. "only to walk. will you go with us? or shall i stay?" "miss elliott," interposed charlie millar, "i beg you will not. he doesn't deserve it at your hands. he is as cross as possible. besides, we are going to d street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. he came yesterday. did harry tell you?" "harry did not come home last night. what kept you, harry?" asked rose. "we were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and harry stayed with me last night," said charlie. "and of course graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me," said harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice. "of course she did no such foolish thing. i saw to that," said arthur. "but which is it to be? a walk, or a quiet visit at home?" "oh! a walk, by all means," said charlie millar. "i have a great mind not to go," said harry. "nonsense, man! one would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. i refer to you, miss elliott. would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?" "bother the new firm," said harry, impatiently. "the new partner, you mean. he has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight--calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers." "shy! a six-footer, with a beard enough for three. after that i'll vanish," said harry. "i don't think harry is very polite," said rose. "never mind. there are better things in the world than politeness. he will be more reasonable by and by," said harry's friend. "so your brother has come," said graeme. "how long is it since you have seen him?" "oh! not for ten years. he was home once after he came out here, but i was away at school, and did not see him. i remembered him quite well, however. he is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;" then he added, as harry reappeared, "the fact is, miss elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. we must overlook his ill-temper." "by all means," said graeme, laughing. "thank you," said harry. "and i'll try to be patient." "well, shall we go now?" said arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. the others followed him and will. "is your brother going to remain here?" asked graeme. "that will be nice for you." "yes, on some accounts it would be nice. but if they send harry off to fill his place at the west, i shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. and i am not sure i should like that long." "send harry!" exclaimed graeme. "nonsense, graeme!" said harry. "that is some of charlie's stuff." "i hope so; but we'll see," said charlie. "miss elliott, i had a letter from my mother to-day." the lad's eyes softened, as he turned them on graeme. "have you?" said graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. "is she quite well?" "yes, she is much better than she was, and, miss elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks." "for what?" said graeme, smiling. "oh! you know quite well for what. what should i have done, if it had not been for you and harry? i mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes." "stuff!" said harry. "truth!" said charlie. "i never shall forget the misery of my first months, till harry came into our office. it has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again." "that was no great self-denial on our part," said graeme, smiling. "you minded graeme on some one she used to know long ago," said rose. "and, besides, you are from scotland." both lads laughed. "and graeme feels a motherly interest in all scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be," said harry. and so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of mr elphinstone's garden, beyond which arthur and will were loitering. "how pretty the garden is!" said rose. "look, graeme, at that little girl in the window. i wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me." "i am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get," said graeme. "come in and let me gather you some," said charlie. "no, indeed. i should not venture. though i went in the first time without an invitation. and you dare not pick mr stirling's flowers." "dare i not?" said charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall. "oh! don't. oh! thank you," said rose. as far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel. "look," said rose, drawing back. "the new partner," said harry, with a whistle. "a double partnership-- eh, charlie?" "i shouldn't wonder," said charlie, looking wise. "he knows what he's about, that brother of yours. he's cute. he knows a thing or two, i guess." "harry," said rose, gravely, "don't talk slang. and i don't think it very polite to speak that way to mr millar about his brother." "my dear rosie, i am not talking slang, but the pure american language; and i think you are more considerate about other people's brothers than you are of your own. twice this night i have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke." "you deserved it," said rose, laughing. "miss rose," said charlie, "let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the evening." rose turned her laughing face to her brother. "be a good boy, harry. good bye." as they returned, will and rose went on before, while graeme lingered with arthur. "did you hear what mr millar said about the possibility of harry's being sent west? it must be to take the new partner's place, i suppose," said graeme, after a little. "no; did he say so? it would be a capital good thing for harry." "do you think so? he would have to leave home." "yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. i doubt whether there is much in it, however. harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. still, it may be. i know they have great confidence in him." there was a pause, and they walked slowly on. "arthur," said graeme, in a low voice. "do you think harry is--quite steady?" "steady," repeated arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. "why should you doubt it?" graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother's arm, and he knew it cost her an effort. "i dare say there is no cause for doubt. still, i thought i ought to speak to you. you will know better than i; and you must not think that i am unkind in speaking thus about harry." "you unkind! no; i should think two or three things before i thought that. but tell me why you have any fears?" "you know, arthur, harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. and once or twice-- more indeed--he has been excited, more than excited--and--" graeme could not go on. "still, graeme, i do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. he is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after--too much for his good, i dare say. but he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. why, graeme, in p street harry is thought much of for his sense and talent." graeme sighed. there came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. but she did not speak. "shall i speak to him, graeme? what would you like me to do? i don't think there is much to fear for him." "well, i will think so, too. no; don't speak to him yet. it was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. i dare say i am foolish." they walked on in silence for a little, and then graeme said,-- "i hope it is only that i am foolish. but we have been so happy lately; and i mind papa and janet both said to me--it was just when we were beginning to fear for menie--that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. it proved so then." "yes; i suppose so," said arthur, with a sigh. "we must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. but, graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. and i am quite sure that after all your care for harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. that would be too sad." they said no more till they overtook the children,--as rose and will were still called in this happy household. "i have a good mind not to go, after all. i would much rather stay quietly at home," said arthur, sitting down on the steps. "but you promised," said graeme. "you must go. i will get a light, and you need not stay long." "you must go, of course," said rose. "and graeme and i will have a nice quiet evening. i am going to practise the new music you brought home." "a quiet evening," said will. "yes; i have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. i'm sure, i don't know where the time goes to. i wish i were going with you, arthur." "you are far better at home." "yes, indeed," said graeme; and will added,-- "a child like rosie!" "well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially miss grove's, and tell me all about them." "yes; especially miss grove, if i get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful." "well, good-night," said rose. "i don't believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you." arthur bowed low. "i suppose i ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. and i would, if i could conscientiously. but `fine feathers make fine birds,' and miss grove aspires to be a belle it seems,--and, many who don't aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little scottish rose of our garden. good-night to you all--and graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time." he went away, leaving rose to her practising, will to his books, and graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. they were not very sad thoughts, though arthur feared they might be. her brother's astonishment at her fears for harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for harry, arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all. "arthur will think i am foolish. he will think that i have lost confidence in harry, which is not true. i wish i were more hopeful. i wish i did not take fright at the very first shadow. janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our harry! i won't think about it. and even if harry has to go away, i will believe with arthur, that will be for the best. he will be near norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. norman will be glad. and i will not fear changes. why should i? they cannot come to us unsent. i will trust in god." but quite apart from the thought of harry's temptation or prospects, there was in graeme's heart a sense of pain. she was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. she feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. except the thought about harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. she had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. even household care, nelly's skill and will had put far from her. and now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and janet had always spoken of life as a warfare--a struggle, and the bible so spoke of it, too. she thought of janet's long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by god. she thought of her father--how, even in the most tranquil times of his life--the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. yes, life was a warfare. not always with outward foes. the struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained--the struggle must only cease with life. it had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with christ in god,--constant warfare-- and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. and what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days? it was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father's and her mother's would have been? they had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger christian men, because of her? and if, as she had sometimes feared, harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame? the friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. and yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for harry. she always came back to harry in her thoughts. "but i will not fear for him," she repeated often. "i will trust god's care for harry and us all. surely i need not fear, i think i have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. if we are humble and trustful god will guide us." and busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present. chapter twenty two. the shining boots crashed the gravel, and the white dress gleamed through the darkness, some time after the young men were seated in mr elphinstone's handsome drawing-room. the master of the mansion sat alone when they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the grate. for mr elphinstone was an invalid, with little hope of being other than an invalid all his life, though he was by no means an old man yet. if he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for they had come quite close to him before he looked up, and he quite started at the sound of mr millar's voice. he rose and received them courteously and kindly, however. mr elphinstone in his own drawing-room was a different person, or rather, he showed a different manner from mr elphinstone in his counting-room in intercourse with his clerks; and harry, who had had none but business intercourse with him, was struck with the difference. it required an effort for him to realise that the bland, gentle voice was the same that he had so often heard in brief and prompt command. business was to be ignored to-night, however. their talk was of quite other matters. there was an allusion to the new partnership, and to mr millar's half-brother, the new partner, who at the moment, as they all knew, was passing along the garden walk with a little white hand on his coat-sleeve. this was not alluded to, however, though each thought his own thoughts about it, in the midst of their talk. that those of mr elphinstone were rather agreeable to himself, the lads could plainly see. he had no son, and that his partner and nephew should fall into a son's place was an idea that pleased him well. indeed, it had cost him some self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after the pretty lilias had withdrawn, and the smile that harry was stealthily watching on his face, was called up by the remembrance of the admiration which his daughter had evidently called forth. harry watched the smile, and in his heart called the new partner "lucky," and "cute," and looked at charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that would have excited some grave astonishment to their host, if by any chance he had looked up to see. though why charlie should look discontented about it, harry could not well see. they talked about indifferent matters with a little effort till the white dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice said-- "what, still in the dark, papa!" the lights came in, and harry was introduced to miss elphinstone. he had shared rosie's interest in the lady of the pony-carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen her since her return from scotland, where her last three years had been spent. a very sweet-looking and graceful little lady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps in sympathy, harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman who had come in with her. it was evidently harry's interest to be on good terms with the new partner, and common politeness might have suggested the propriety of some appearance of interest in him and his conversation. but he turned his back upon the group by the fire, and devoted himself to the entertainment of their young hostess who was by this time busy with her tea-cups in another part of the room. there was some talk about the weather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in the first little pause that came, the young lady looked up and said,-- "you don't live in the house opposite now, i think." it was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thankful for a new opening, harry said,-- "no; my sisters were never quite contented there. we left it as soon as possible; and we are quite at the other end of the town now." "and is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever?" "rose? oh, yes! she has a garden of her own now, and aspires to rival the pansies and verbenas of mr stirling, even." miss elphinstone smiled brightly. "i remember the first time she came into the garden." "yes, that was a bright day in rosie's life. she has the gowans you gave her still. the garden was a great resource to her in those days." "yes; so she said. i was very glad. i never gathered gowans among the hills at home, but i seemed to see that pretty shy face looking up at me." "yes," said harry, meditatively, "rose was a very pretty child." mr millar had drawn near by this time. indeed, the other gentlemen were listening too, and when miss elphinstone looked up it was to meet a very wondering look from the new partner. "by the by, mr elliott," said her father, breaking rather suddenly into the conversation, "whom did your elder brother marry?" "marry!" repeated charles. "he is not married," said harry. "no? well he is to be, i suppose. i saw him walking the other day with a young lady. indeed, i have often seen them together, and i thought--" "it was my sister, i presume," said harry. "perhaps so. she was rather tall, with a pale, grave face--but pretty-- quite beautiful indeed." "it was graeme, i daresay. i don't know whether other people think her beautiful or not." harry did not say it, but he was thinking that his sister seemed beautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took the tender look of graeme's own as he thought. it vanished quickly as a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the look of the new partner. "you don't mean that you are the harry elliott that sailed with me in the `steadfast,' ten years ago." "yes, i am harry elliott, and i crossed the sea in the `steadfast' ten years ago. i knew _you_ at the first glance, mr ruthven." "i never should have known you in the least," said mr ruthven. "why, you were quite a little fellow, and now you can nearly look down on me." "i never thought of that," said harry, looking foolish. "and you thought the new partner fancied himself too big a man to know you," said charlie. "and that's the reason you took umbrage at him, and told your sister he was--ahem, harry?" miss elphinstone's laugh recalled charlie to a sense of propriety, and harry looked more foolish than ever. but mr ruthven did not seem to notice what they were saying. "i never should have known you. i see your father's look in you now-- and you have your elder sister's eyes. why did you not write to me as you promised?" "we did write--norman and i both, and afterwards graeme. we never heard a word from you." "you forget, it was not decided where you were to settle when i left you. you promised to write and tell me. i wrote several times to your father's friend in c---, but i never heard from him." "he died soon after we arrived," said harry. "and afterward i heard of a reverend mr elliott in the western part of new york, and went a day's journey thinking i had found you all at last. but i found this mr elliott was a very young man, an englishman--a fine fellow, too. but i was greatly disappointed." harry's eyes grew to look more like graeme's than ever, as they met allan's downward gaze. "i can't tell you how many mr elliotts i have written to, and then i heard of your father's death, harry, and that your sisters had gone home again to scotland. i gave up all hope then, till last winter, when i heard of a young elliott, an engineer--norman, too--and when i went in search of him, he was away from home; then i went another fifty miles to be disappointed again. they told me he had a sister in a school at c---, but rose never could have grown into the fair, blue-eyed little lady i found there, and i knew it could not be either of the others, so i only said i was sorry not to see her brother, and went away." harry listened eagerly. "i daresay it was our norman, and the little girl you saw was his adopted sister, hilda. if norman had only known--" said harry. and then he went on to tell of how norman had saved the little girl from the burning boat, and how he had cared for her since. by and by they spoke of other things and had some music, but the new partner said little, and when it was time for the young men to go, he said he would walk down the street with them. "so, charlie, you have found the friends who were so kind to me long ago," said his brother, as they shut the gate. "yes," said charlie, eagerly, "i don't know how i should have lived in this strange land without them. it has been a different place to me since harry came to our office, and took me home with him." "and i suppose i am quite forgotten." "oh, no, indeed!" said harry, and charlie added-- "don't you mind, harry, your sister rose said to-night that i reminded miss elliott of some one she knew long ago. it was allan, i daresay, she meant. my mother used to say i looked as allan did when he went away." they did not speak again till they came near the house. then charlie said,-- "it is not very late, harry. i wonder whether they are up yet. there is a light." "allan," said harry, lingering behind, "marian died before my father. don't speak of her to graeme." graeme was still sitting on the steps. "miss elliott," whispered charlie, eagerly, "who is the new partner, do you think? did i ever tell you my half-brother's name? it is allan ruthven." graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward holding out her hands to the tall figure who came forward with an arm thrown over harry's shoulder. they were clasped in his. "i knew you would come. i was quite sure that some time we should see you again," said graeme, after a little. "and i--i had quite lost hope of ever finding you," said allan. "i wonder if you have missed me as i have missed you?" "we have been very happy together since we parted from you," said graeme, "and very sorrowful, too. but we never forgot you, either in joy or sorrow; and i was always sure that we should see you again." they went into the house together. rose, roused from the sleep into which she had fallen, stood very much amazed beneath the chandelier. "you'll never tell me that my wee white rose has grown into a flower like this!" said allan. it was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that rose was nearly as tall as her sister; but he clasped her in his arms and kissed her "cheek and chin" as he had done that misty morning on the deck of the "steadfast" so many years ago. "rose," said graeme, "it is allan--allan ruthven. don't you remember. i was always sure we should see him again." they were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one another in many words. the names of the dead were on their lips, making their voices trembling and uncertain. "arthur," said rose, as they were all sitting together a day or two after, "you have forgotten to tell us about the party." "you have forgotten to ask me, you mean. you have been so taken up with your new hero that i have had few of your thoughts." mr ruthven smiled at rose from the other side of the table. "well, tell us about it now," said she. "you must have enjoyed it better than you expected, for more than one of the `small-hours' had struck before you came home." "oh, yes, i enjoyed it very well. i met young storey, who has just returned from europe. i enjoyed his talk very much. and then mrs gridley took me under her protection. she is a clever woman, and handsome, too." "handsome!" echoed rose. "why she is an old woman, with grown-up daughters. and if you were to see her by daylight!" they all laughed. "well, that might make a difference. but she says very clever, or maybe very sharp, things about her neighbours, and the time passed quickly till supper. it was rather late but i could not leave before supper-- the event of the evening." "i should think not," said harry. "well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might make harry discontented with his own. and what happened after supper?" "oh! after supper mr grove and his friend barnes began to discuss the harbour question, and i very foolishly allowed myself to be drawn into the discussion. mr green was there, the great western merchant. he is a long-headed fellow, that. you must know him, mr ruthven." "i know him well. he is a remarkably clever business-man, and a good fellow; though, i suppose, few know it so well as i do. i had a long illness in c once, and he nursed me as if i had been a brother. i might have known him for years in the way of business, without discovering his many excellent qualities. he has the name of being rather hard in the way of business, i believe?" "he has a clear head of his own," said arthur; "i enjoyed a talk with him very much. he intends visiting europe, he tells me." "well, what next?" said rose, to whom mr green and his good qualities were matters of indifference. "then i came home. mr green walked down the street with me." "and didn't you see miss grove, the belle of the evening!" exclaimed rose. "oh, yes! i had the honour of an introduction to her. she is a pretty little thing." "pretty! is that all you can say for the belle? how does she look? is she fair or dark? what colour are her eyes?" "i can hardly say. she would be called fair, i think. i can't say about her eyes. she has a very pretty hand and arm, and--is aware of it." "don't be censorious, arthur! does she wear curls? and what did she say to you?" "curls! i cannot say. i have the impression of a quantity of hair, not in the best order toward the end of the evening. she seemed to be dancing most of the time, and she dances beautifully." "but she surely said something to you. what did you talk about?" demanded rose, impatiently. "she told that if she were to dance all the dances for which she was engaged, she wouldn't get home till morning." "you don't mean to say you asked her to dance?" "oh, no! she volunteered the information. i could have waited so long as to have the honour." "and, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress?" "i beg your pardon," said arthur, searching his pocket. "it must be in my other vest. i asked mrs gridley what the young lady's dress was made of, and put it down for your satisfaction. rosie, i hope i haven't lost it." "arthur! what nonsense!" said graeme, laughing. "i am sure mrs gridley was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time." "she hadn't any sleeve to laugh in. but when i told her that i was doing it for the benefit of my little sister rosie, she smiled in her superior way." "i think i see her," said rosie, indignantly. "but what was her dress, after all? was it silk or satin?" "no, nothing so commonplace as that. i could have remembered silk or satin. it was--" "was it lace, or gauze, or crape?" suggested rose. "or tarltan or muslin?" said graeme, much amused. "or damask, or velvet, or cloth of gold, or linsey-woolsey?" said harry. arthur assumed an air of bewilderment. "it was gauze or crape, i think. no; it had a name of three syllables at least. it was white or blue, or both. but i'll write a note to mrs gridley, shall i, rosie?" "it would be a good plan. i wonder what is the use of your going to parties?" "so do i, indeed," said her brother. "i am quite in the dark on the subject. but i was told in confidence that there are cards to be issued for a great entertainment in grove house, and i should not wonder if my `accomplished sisters'--as mrs gridley in her friendly way calls them-- were to be visited in due form by the lady of the grove preparatory to an invitation to the same. so be in readiness. i think i should write the note to mrs gridley, rosie; you'll need a hint." graeme laughed, while rose clapped her hands. "i am not afraid of the call or the invitation," said graeme. but they came--first the call, which was duly returned, and then the invitation. that was quite informal. mrs grove would be happy if miss elliott and her sister would spend the evening at her house to meet a few friends. to their surprise, harry, as well as arthur, came home with a little pink note to the same effect. "i didn't know that you knew the groves, harry," said arthur. "oh, yes, i know mr grove in a general way; but i am invited through a mistake. however, i shall go all the same. i am not responsible for other people's mistakes. nothing can be plainer than that." "a mistake!" repeated several voices. "yes; mrs grove thinks i am a rising man, like the squire here; and why undeceive her? i shall add to the brilliancy of her party, and enjoy it mightily myself. why undeceive her, i ask?" "don't be nonsensical, harry," said rose. "how came mrs grove to make such an absurd mistake?" said arthur, laughing. "she's _cute_, i know; still it was not surprising in the circumstances. i met her on the street yesterday, and i saw the invitation in her eyes as plainly as i see this little pink concern now;" and he tossed the note to rose. "i think i should send the acceptance to miss elphinstone. it was she who obtained the invitation for me." "miss elphinstone!" "yes, or jack, or both, i should perhaps say. for if jack had been at his post, i should not have been politely requested to call a carriage for miss elphinstone, and mrs grove would not have seen me escorting her down the street as she sat in her carriage at alexander's door. i know she was thinking i was very bold to be walking on n street with my master's daughter. of course she didn't know that i was doing the work of that rascal jack. and so i am going to the grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to our going _en masse_. eh, graeme?" "it is not a party, only a few friends," said rose, eagerly. "certainly, we'll all go," said arthur. "if they had not wanted us all, they would not have asked us. of course, we'll all go for once." "but, graeme," said harry, coming back after he had left to go away, "don't let the idea of `a few friends' delude you. make yourselves as fine as possible. there will be a great crowd, you may be sure. miss elphinstone and mr ruthven are invited, and they are not among the intimate friends of such people as the groves. shall i send you home a fashion book, rosie?" "or write a note to mrs gridley," said arthur. rose laughed. she was pleasantly excited at the prospect of her first large party, there was no denying it. indeed, she did not seek to deny it, but talked merrily on, not seeing, or not seeming to see, the doubtful look on graeme's face. she alone, had not spoken during the discussion. she had not quite decided whether this invitation was so delightful as rosie thought, and in a little when her sister had left the room, she said-- "shall i accept the invitation then for rose and me?" "have you not accepted yet? you need not of course, unless you wish. but i think you will enjoy it, and rosie, too." "yes, but i am by no means sure, that i like mrs grove," said she, hesitating. "are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "well, i have got much farther than you. i am sure that i don't like her at all. but, what of that?" "only that i don't fancy accepting kindness, from a person i don't like, and to whom i don't think it would be pleasant to repay in kind." "oh! nonsense. the obligation is mutual. her kindness will be quite repaid, by having a new face in her splendid rooms. and as for repaying her in kind, as you call it, that is quite out of the question. there are not a dozen people in town who do the thing on the scale the groves attempt. and besides, rosie would be disappointed." graeme did not believe that it was the best thing that could happen to rosie, to be gratified in this matter, but she did not say so. "after all," thought she, "i daresay there is no harm in it. i shall not spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming to enjoy it. but i don't like mrs grove." the last words were emphatically repeated. she did not like her. she did not wish to see her frequently, or to know her intimately. she wished she had neither called, nor invited them. she wished she had followed her first impulse, which had been to refuse at once without referring to her brothers. now, however, she must go with a good grace. so they all went, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as they found on comparing notes around the bright little fire, which nelly had kept burning, against their return. "only," said rosie, with a little shamefacedness, "i am not sure that graeme liked me to dance quite so much." graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the best time to speak about it. so she did not. "but how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me," said arthur, "and harry too, i saw him carrying off miss elphinstone, with all the coolness imaginable. really, the young people of the present day amaze me." "oh! one can dance without learning," said rose, laughing. "the music inspires it." "and i have danced many a time before," said harry. "you are not sorry you went, are you graeme?" "sorry! no indeed! i have had a very pleasant evening." and so had they all. mrs grove had made a great effort to get a great many nice and clever people together, and she had succeeded. it had required an effort, for it was only lately, since his second marriage, that mr grove had affected the society of clever people, or indeed, any society at all. there were people who fancied that he did not affect it yet, and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in corners among the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to bring together. he did not enjoy society much, but that was a small matter in the opinion of his wife. he was as little of a drawback to the general enjoyment, as could be expected in the circumstances. if he was not quite at his ease, at least he was seldom in anybody's way, and mrs grove was quite able to do the honours for both. mr grove was a man whom it was not difficult to ignore, even in his own dining-room. indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown to the poor little man in the circumstances, was to ignore him, and a great deal of this sort of kind feeling was manifested towards him by his guests. on the first entrance of arthur and graeme, their host fastened on the former, renewing with great earnestness a conversation commenced in the morning in the young man's office. this did not last long, however. the hostess had too high an opinion of mr elliott's powers of pleasing, to permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly carried him off, leaving mr grove, for the present, to the tender mercies of graeme. he might have had a worse fate; for graeme listened and responded with a politeness and interest, to which he was little accustomed from his wife's guests. before he became unbearably tedious, she was rescued by mr ruthven, and mr grove went to receive mr elias green, the great western merchant, a guest far more worthy of his attention than any of the fine ladies and gentlemen, who only knew him in the character of feast-maker, or as the stupid husband of his aspiring wife. graeme had seen allan ruthven often since that first night. they had spoken of the pleasant and painful things that had befallen them, since they parted so long ago, or they might not have been able to walk so quietly up and down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. then they found a quiet, or rather a noisy, corner in the music room, where they pursued their conversation unmolested, till harry brought miss elphinstone to be introduced to graeme. this was a mutual pleasure, for graeme wished to know the young lady who had long been rosie's ideal of all that was sweet and beautiful, and miss elphinstone was as pleased to become the friend of one whom her cousins allan and charlie admired so much. and when she begged permission to call upon her and rose, what could graeme do, but be charmed more and more. then miss elphinstone was claimed for another dance, and who should present himself again but their host, and with him the guest of the evening, the great western merchant! then there were a few minutes not so pleasant, and then mr green proposed that they "should make the tour of the rooms." but graeme had not the courage for such an ordeal, and smilingly begged to be excused; and so he sat down beside her, and by and by, graeme was surprised to find herself interested in his conversation. before he had been a great merchant. mr green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of vermont, and when he knew that miss elliott had passed seven happy years in a new england village, he found enough to say to her; and graeme listened and responded, well pleased. she had one uncomfortable moment. it was when the supper movement began to be made, and the thought flashed upon her, that she must be led to the supper room, by this western giant. mr ruthven saved her from this, however, to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engaged in talking and listening, as not to have perceived that something interesting was about to take place. the sight of the freely flowing champagne gave graeme a shock, but a glance at harry reassured her. there was no danger for him to-night. yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as they lingered over the fire after their return. "but, arthur," said graeme, "i was disappointed in miss grove. she is pretty, certainly, but there is something wanting--in expression i mean. she looks good tempered, but not intellectual." "intellectual!" repeated arthur. "no. one would hardly make use of that word in describing her. but she is almost the prettiest little thing i ever saw, i think." "and she certainly is the silliest little thing i ever saw," said harry. "rosie, if i thought you capable of talking such stuff, as i heard from her pretty lips to-night, _i_ would--" arthur laughed; less, it seemed, at what harry had said, than at what it recalled. "she is not likely to astonish the world by her wisdom, i should think," said he, as he rose to go up-stairs. "nor rosie either, for that matter," he added, laughing, and looking back. "none of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, i think," said graeme. "come, rosie, nelly will lose patience if breakfast is kept waiting. good-night, harry. don't sit long." chapter twenty three. whether nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, rosie did not make her appearance at it. graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. the late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, rosie's lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. all were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another. this did not last long, however. the drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from mrs gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. mrs gridley had promised some friends from toronto, a treat of scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. but the consolation of mrs gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. arthur was to be out of town, but will was to go in his place. they went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable. mrs gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same--the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. she would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. so there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. graeme and rosie, and will too, enjoyed it well. harry professed to have been bored. out of these parties sprang others. graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by arthur, with the long-established firm of black & company. they certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. regular reading was interfered with or neglected. household matters must have fallen into confusion, if nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. the long quiet evening at home became the exception. they went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. there were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time. graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. the novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child's sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. for a time, graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. she determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. she only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved. christmas and new year's day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till nelly had taken it from his hand. she just noticed that it was addressed to graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it. "what is it, graeme?" asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. "i am almost sure it was left by mrs roxbury's servant. see, there is their crest. what is it? an invitation?" "yes," said graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "for the twenty-seventh." "such a long time! it will be a grand affair. we must have new dresses, graeme." she took up the note and read: "mrs roxbury's compliments to miss elliott." "miss elliott!" she repeated. "why, graeme! i am not invited." "so it seems; but never mind, rosie. i am not going to accept it." rose was indeed crestfallen. "oh, you must go, of course. you must not stay at home on my account." "no; certainly. that is not the reason. your being invited would have made no difference." "i could hardly have gone without you," said rose, doubtfully. "certainly not. neither of us would have gone. if i don't accept this invitation our acquaintance with the roxburys will perhaps go no further. that would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others." "a sufficient reason for not refusing, i should rather say," said rose. "no. there is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. there is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter." "but arthur wishes it. he thinks it right." "yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. i don't mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. but so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. i am tired of it. we won't speak of it now, however; i must finish my letter." for to tell the truth, rosie's face did not look promising. "don't send a refusal till you have spoken to arthur, graeme. if he wishes you to go, you ought, you know." "i am by no means sure of that. arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. he does not enjoy them, and i see no reason why i should deny myself, in so bad a cause." "but graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. i am sure i have always enjoyed them." "yes, i have enjoyed some of them, but i am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. i mean, it may be too dearly bought. and besides, it is not the party, as a party, that i ever enjoy. i have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only--only one or two friends, than i ever had at a party, and--, but we won't talk about it now," and she bent over her letter again. she raised her head almost immediately, however. "and yet, rosie, i don't know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, i have meant to say. we have not been living a good or wise life of late. do you mind, love, what janet said to us, the night before we came away? do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be-- more fit to meet them where they are?" graeme spoke very earnestly. there were tears in her eyes. "graeme," said rose, "do you think it wrong to go to parties--to dance? many good people do not." "i don't know, love. i cannot tell. it might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. i am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately." rosie looked grave, but did not reply. in a little, graeme added,-- "i am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to mrs snow, rosie. she seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." "but, graeme, everything is so different in merleville, janet cannot know. and, besides--" "i know, dear; and i would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. if we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, i daresay it would do us no harm. but, rosie, i am afraid for myself, that i may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and i am afraid for you, too, dear rose." "i enjoy parties very much, and i can't see that there is any harm in it," said rosie, a little crossly. "no, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. but, rose, think how dreadful, to become `a lover of pleasure.' is there no danger do you think, love?" rose hung her head, and was silent. graeme went on,-- "my darling, there is danger for you--for me--for us all. how can we ever hope to win harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?" "but, graeme, it is better that we should all go together--i mean harry is more with us than he used to be. it must be better." "i don't know, dear. i fear it is only a change of evils. harry's temptation meets him even with us. and, oh! rosie, if our example should make it easier for harry to go astray! but we won't speak about harry. i trust god will keep him safe. i believe he will." though graeme tried to speak calmly, rose saw that she trembled and grew very white. "at any rate, rose, we could not hope that god would hear our prayers for harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to him. for it is not well with us, dear. we need not try to hide it from ourselves. we must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. yes, we must go farther back than that, rosie," said graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. "do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? how little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. rosie! i could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. my darling! we must begin again." there were tears on rose's cheeks, as well as graeme's, by this time. but in a little graeme sat down again. "it is i who have been most to blame. these gay doings never should have commenced. i don't think arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. and if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change." it was not difficult to reconcile arthur to the change. "graeme must do as she thought right," he said. "it must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance--a loss of time to little purpose," and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if harry had not discovered mrs roxbury's note. "i declare mrs gridley is right," said he. "we are a rising family. i hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. but how is this? miss elliott. have you one, rosie?" rose shook her head. "no. have you, harry?" "have i? what are you thinking of, rose? do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? it is only for such commercial successes as mr green, or allan ruthven, that that honour is reserved. but never mind, rosie. we shall find something to amuse us that night, i have no doubt." "graeme is not going," said rose. "not going! oh! she'll think better of it." "no, she has sent her refusal." "and why, pray?" "oh! one can't go everywhere, as mrs gridley says," replied graeme, thus appealed to. "yes; but mrs gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, willie birnie, the tailor. i can understand how she should not find time to go there. but how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for mrs roxbury's select affair, is more than i can comprehend." "don't be snobbish, harry," said will. "i think the reasons are obvious," said arthur. "yes," said graeme, "we knew willie birnie when we were children. he was at the school with you all. and i like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, i enjoyed it well." "oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, i have nothing to say. and willie is a fine fellow; i don't object to willie, or the new wife either--quite the contrary. but of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of mrs roxbury and her set." "graeme is not like people generally," said rose. "i hope not," said will. "and, harry, what do you suppose mrs roxbury cares about any of us, after all?" "she cares about graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her." "i am not sure of that," said graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. "i suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. they are connected with the blacks, in some way. now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, i daresay she will be just as well pleased that i should stay at home." "that is not the least bit uncharitable, is it graeme?" "no. i don't think so. it certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. i really think she asks me from a sense of duty--or rather, i ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the blacks. it is very well that she should do so, and if i cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though i stay away." "well, i can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. i should think the roxbury's would be the very house you would like to go to." "oh! one has to make a beginning. and i am tired of so much gaiety. it makes no difference about its being mrs roxbury." "very well. please yourself and you'll please me," said harry, rising. "are you going out to-night, harry?" said graeme, trying not to look anxious. "yes; but pray don't wait for me if i should not be in early," said harry, rather hastily. there was nothing said for some time after harry went out. will went to his books, and rose went to the piano. graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious. "what can make harry so desirous that you should go to mrs roxbury's?" said arthur, at last. "have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?" "do you think harry really cared? no; i have no reason for not wishing to go there. but, arthur, we have been going out too much lately. it is not good for rosie, nor for me, either; and i refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, i might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her--as she would have been eager to go. but it is not good for her, all this party-going." "i dare say you are right. she is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. she is a very pretty girl." "pretty! who can compare with her?" said graeme. "but she must not be spoiled. she is best at home." "proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend ruthven, and miss elphinstone," said arthur. "it seems the wedding is to come off soon. proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know." "no; i did not know it," said graeme; and in a little she added, "ought that to make any difference about my going? my note is written but not sent." "i should think not. you are not supposed to know anything about it. it is very likely not true. and it is nothing to us." "no; that is true," said graeme. "rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. that should be quite otherwise at the close," and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. they played a long time together, and it was rose who was tired first `for a wonder.' "graeme, why did you not tell harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to mrs roxbury's?" said rose, when they went up-stairs together. "the true reason?" repeated graeme. "i mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?" "i don't know, dear. perhaps i ought to have done so. but it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. i am afraid harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one i gave." "i don't know, graeme. he was not satisfied; and don't you think it would have been better just to say you didn't think it right to go out so much--to large parties, i mean." "perhaps it would have been better," said graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her bible in her hand for the nightly reading. rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,-- "graeme, you are not afraid for harry now? i mean not more afraid?" graeme started. her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of harry. "i don't know, love. i hope not. i pray god, no harm may come to harry. oh! rosie, rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. we have been dreaming, i think. we must waken up, and begin again." chapter twenty four. graeme's first judgment of allan ruthven, had been, "how these ten years have changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same, the very same." but her first judgment was the true one. he was changed. it would have been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for the better. in the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new acquaintance he made with his brother charlie, he came to know himself that he had changed greatly. he remembered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he had not always withstood. he knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him. yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest an the deck of the "steadfast," watching the gleaming lights of a strange city. standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its attainment; and reading in graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very same," his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving her. he was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten years had not changed him more. the lonely life he had pictured to his friends, that last night on the "steadfast," fell far short of the reality that awaited him. removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the turmoil of a western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that seemed opening before him. his native place, humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. a few months ago the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. between gigantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay undisturbed still. the air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation is one of mistrust and doubt. all his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. if business men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest portion. the feverish activity and energy which were fast changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end-- the getting of wealth. wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. there was no respite, no repose. one must go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. fortune was daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till a new chance could be grasped at. "honest labour! patient toil!" allan wondered within himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle. allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by old standards. but there were among the swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish feet had wandered over english meadows, or trod the heather on scottish hills. men whose fathers had spent their lives content in mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, patient, god-fearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. the very diggers of ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of the new world. that there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. he never could associate the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at every corner. he could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting the smiling mouth of a little child. home! why, all the world seemed at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. even the children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. they troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future might be. looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeter words, ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. he fancied he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the daily strife. ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the first part of his residence in c. he changed his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became changed at last. by and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then pleasant to him. at first his duties were merely mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his time was his own. but this did not continue long. trusted always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good service to his employers. his skill and will guided their affairs through more than one painful crisis. his integrity kept their good name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their credit. he thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. he did his duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. so passed the first years of his commercial life. in default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from those who were about him. those who came into close contact with him called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above them, was willing so to be called. but as one cannot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. so it came to pass that, as the years went on, allan ruthven was greatly changed. it need not have been so. it doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of the christian faith and the christian life. there were those over whom the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman they held, the "constraining love of christ," in them. those walked through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. but ruthven was not one of them. he had the name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his heart. he was a christian only in name; and so, when the influence of early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way," at the "lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the questionable maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last. not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own sake. he never sank so low as that. but in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from degenerating into a character so despicable. if he was not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. another ten years of such a life would have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly--all that in his youth he had most despised. this may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely--that he could not open his hand and let it go. he had been pleasing himself all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him-- content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these he could not be content. it was a great shock and surprise to him to be forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here. ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin lilias, who was then a child. indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to m, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. i am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. for what a child lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still! but the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to allan ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. he could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. the new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. it was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. he was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well--conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. he knew that this wealth had not bought him. he loved his cousin lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. the thought _did_ come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. he did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won. he was happy--they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when allan clasped the trembling hand of graeme elliott. indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. the pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. around the heiress and only child of mr elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. but there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in graeme's quiet parlour. the mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet. the pleasant intercourse was good for lilias. she brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side. her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like rose elliott must be good for her. graeme he seldom saw. the long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were rosie's delight, graeme seldom shared. but she was quite as much the friend of lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about graeme, claiming a right to share with rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. he did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which lilias shared so happily. he was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future. but he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. in the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule--or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. these days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. it was not always a pleasant retrospect. there were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. these were moments when he could not meet graeme's truthful eyes, as with "don't you remember?" she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. he knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth--a strong desire to begin anew--a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed. but these pleasant days came to an end. business called allan, for a time, to his old home in c, and to his uncongenial life there. it was not pleasant business. there was a cry, louder than usual, of "hard times" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the west had become, allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. he was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him. a letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. the letter was brief. knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated allan's immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's right to protect and console her. it was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. but the words smote on allan's heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to mr elphinstone's half-expressed ideas, concerning lilias and her future. there was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved graeme elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. but the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face. it was not a hopeful future. as for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. but this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. he knew it was a son's place that he had got in the firm. he could only claim it as a son. if his relations to lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. the past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. he must begin life again a poor man. but let me not be unjust to him. it was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when mr elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. but now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss--possible ruin--lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? he knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances. he was very wretched. he could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. there was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. he did not hasten home. he had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. but it was only for the time. he knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision. if his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the word to him. but his honour was involved--his honour as a man, and as a merchant. he could not leave his uncle to struggle with misfortune in his old age. he could not let the name, so long honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. he was responsible for the stability or the failure of the house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. more than this. his own reputation as a wise and successful man of business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a juncture so perilous. and then, lilias. nothing but her own spoken word could free him from the tacit engagement that existed between them. in honour he could never ask her to speak that word. through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the future. he met his uncle's eager greeting with no word of change. his face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but not more so than hers. but that might very well be said each of the other. lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew; and allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him for her sad looks. after the first clasp of their hands he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled. chapter twenty five. graeme did go to mrs roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. the invitations had been sent out before mr elphinstone's short, sharp illness, and lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. she had not been consulted about the sending of graeme's invitation, or probably rose would have had one too, but by good fortune, as she declared, graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. she put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that night by the elliott's, ventured to expostulate. "first, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note. graeme looked grave. "now you must not be angry with me. rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. but i am sure you will not be so cruel. i can't tell you any reason, except that i have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to please me, will you not?" "to please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, i know," said graeme, smiling. and lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. she saw the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of mrs roxbury. she did not say much to graeme about it, but to rosie, she triumphed. "i want aunt roxbury to see graeme looking her very best. graeme will look like a queen among us. aunt will see that allan and i have good reasons for our admiration. fancy any of these trumpery people patronising graeme! but you are not to tell her what i say. you don't think she was really vexed with me, do you? and she must wear her new peach-blossom silk. i am so glad." but poor little lilias went through deep waters, before the peach-blossom silk was worn by graeme. mr elphinstone was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his daughter at his bedside. mrs roxbury would have recalled her invitations, and lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for her to go. "and so, my love," said mrs roxbury, "as your father and i see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. you are tired now." "impropriety! it is not that i don't wish to go. i cannot bear the thought of going." "nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. and mr ruthven will be here by that time, and i depend on you to bring him." but if allan's presence had depended on lilias, mrs roxbury would not have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. it was mr elphinstone that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or two, at the party. and they went together, a little constrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. graeme saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance exchanged, as they made their way together to mrs roxbury. lilias saw graeme almost as soon. she was standing near the folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what mr proudfute, her brother's friend, was saying to her. "there, aunt," said lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did i not tell you that my friend miss elliott would eclipse all here to-night? look at her now." "my dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. she is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all hearts." lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch her look. "my dear," continued mrs roxbury, "i have news for you, but perhaps it is no news to you. ah! he has found her." mr elias green was at the moment, making his bow to graeme. "there was no truth in the rumour, about him and little miss grove. mr green has more sense. your friend is fortunate, lilias." lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed. "aunt roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her cousin, as he led her away. "the idea of mr green's daring to lift his eyes to graeme elliott. she would not look at him." "mr green is a great man in his own circle, i can assure you," said mr ruthven. "miss elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally." "do you think so? you know very little about her, if you think that," said lilias, impatiently. "i know mr green better than most people do, and i respect him--and he is very rich--" "oh! don't talk folly," cried lilias. "i have no patience with people who think, because a man is rich--. but you don't know graeme, cousin allan--i thought--" they were very near graeme by this time. she turned at the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. she noticed the cloud on lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at the return of mr ruthven too, but she did not meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother norman at a station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had sent. he had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the words of mrs roxbury and lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. but he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. it was not a pleasant moment, it was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of mr green, and walked away "like a queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said-- "my friend will be a very happy man, and _your_ friend may be happy too, let us hope." but lilias never answered a word. she followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and then she said only,-- "i have made a great mistake." had she made a mistake or had he? a mistake never to be undone, never outlived--a mistake for graeme, for himself, perhaps for lilias too. it was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he was very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in the future, if his loving care for her could avail. about this time will was threatened with a serious illness. it did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. in the silence of her brother's sick-room, graeme looked a great sorrow in the face. in other circumstances, with the necessity laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is too bitter to be accepted willingly. but the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her. in the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. she was hard and bitter to herself. she might have known, she thought, how it was with allan and his cousin. during all those years in which she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. it was natural that it should be so, and right. what was she, to think to come between them with her love? she was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her feeling changed. her heart rebelled against her own verdict. she had not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. she had never thought of harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months--the renewal of their old friendship. if she had sinned against lilias, it had been unconsciously. she had never thought of these things in those days. if she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at all! how should she ever be able to see them again in the old unrestrained way? how should she be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure? then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. would not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and sister, as ever? hitherto their love had sufficed for her happiness, and it should still suffice. the world need not be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. she could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her. as she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to her one of janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild mr foster had aspired to be more to her than a friend. "my dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. you are but a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may bring. love! ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. and if you get love for love, you'll thank god humbly for one of his best gifts; and if you do not well, he can bring you through without it, as he has done many a one before. but never think you can escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes." "and so my fate has found me," murmured graeme to herself. "this is part of my life, and i must make the best of it. well, he can bring me through, as janet said." "graeme," said will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?" graeme started painfully. she had quite forgotten will. those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was asleep. "what were you thinking about? you smiled first, then you sighed." "did i? well, i was not aware that i was either smiling or sighing. i was thinking about janet, and about something that she said to me once." she rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly,-- "i am afraid you are not much better to-night, will." "yes; i think i am better. my head is clearer. i have been watching your face, graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look." "i am tired, will, but not ill." graeme did not like the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully. "i have been a great trouble to you," said will. "yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. i hope you are not going to try my patience much longer." "i don't know. i hope not, for your sake." and then in a little will added, "do you know, graeme, i am beginning to be glad of this illness after all." graeme laughed. "well, if you are glad of it, i will try and bear it patiently a little longer. i daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it chattering at this unreasonable hour." "i am not sleepy," said will, "and i am not restless either. i think i am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you are tired." "i am tired, but i am not sleepy. besides, if you are really better, i can sleep for a week, if i like. so, if it be a pleasure to you, speak on." "what was it that janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?" asked will. graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather than that, but she said, gently,-- "i think my smile must have been for what janet said. i am sure i laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. i suppose i sighed to think that what she said has come true." "what was it, graeme?" "oh! i can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate." "our fate?" repeated will. "oh, yes! i mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can't foresee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of them when they come." "i don't think i quite understand you, graeme." "no, i daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you should,--in the connection. but i am sure a great many pleasant things that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here." "and was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked will. "no. i am afraid i was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and i daresay i had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. we can't tell our trials at first sight, will, nor our blessings either. time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. at any rate, janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come." "yes;" said will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet. "for instance, will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear." will made a face at the gruel she presented. "i dare say it is good for me, though i can't say i like it, or the headache. but, graeme, i did not get this check before i needed it. it is pleasant to be first, and i was beginning to like it. now this precious month taken from me, at the time i needed it most, will put me back. to be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. but as janet used to say, pride is an ill weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end." "yes," said graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember." but it came into will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. in a little he said,-- "graeme; i should like very much to go home to scotland." graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,-- "yes, i have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, i doubt." "but i mean i should like to go home soon. not for the sake of clayton and our friends there. i would like to go to fit myself better for the work i have to do in the world." "you mean, you would like to go home to study." "yes. one must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be `thoroughly furnished'." there was a pause, and then he added, "if i go, i ought to go soon--within a year or two, i mean." "oh, will, how could i ever let you go away?" "why, graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. but i have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go." "but why?" asked graeme. "partly because it would be so pleasant. don't you remember how janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. perhaps i desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. and then the expense. it would be too much to expect from arthur." "but there is the merleville money. it was meant for arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours." "no, that belongs to you and rose. it would not be right to take that." "nonsense, will. what is ours is yours; if the expense were all! but i cannot bear to think of you going away, and harry, too, perhaps." "rose tells me that harry is more bent on going west than ever." "yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. i cannot understand why he should be so. oh, i cannot feel hopeful about it." "arthur thinks it may be a good thing for harry," said will. "yes, for some things i suppose so. but, oh! will, i could not let harry go as i could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--" graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. she had never spoken to will of her fears for harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. she struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak. "graeme," said will, softly, "we cannot keep harry safe from evil, and he who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here." "i know it; i say it to myself twenty times a day. that is, i say it in words; but i do not seem to get the comfort i might from them." "but, graeme, harry has been very little away this winter, and i had thought--" "i know, dear, and i have been quite hopeful about him till lately. but, oh, will! it won't bear talking about. we can only wait patiently." "yes, graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself harry's danger, i think. what has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?" "what should have happened, will? i am tired--for one thing--and something is wrong i know." she paused to struggle with her tears. "somehow, i don't feel so anxious about harry as you do, graeme. he will come back again. i am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you." he paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,-- "i have had many thoughts since i sat down here, graeme. i think one needs--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change god never changes. we get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with god and them." still graeme said nothing, and will added,-- "graeme, you must take hope for harry. and there is nothing else, is there?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?" she did not answer for a minute. "no, will, i hope not. i think not. i daresay--i am quite sure that all will be for the best, and i shall see at some time." not another word was said till graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak march morning. in a few more days will was down-stairs again. not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by rose and them all. it seemed a long time since he had been among them. a good many things had happened during the month that graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. march, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. the snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. but the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having april in march would ensure march weather when april came, or it might be even in may. so it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to will and graeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began. harry had quite decided to go west now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. that he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. that was at first, for it did not take graeme long to discover that harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. but her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans. perhaps it was in contrast to harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend charlie millar seemed so very grave on the first night that will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in harry's mirth. charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. even harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands. "i am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to harry." graeme forced herself to say it. allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. so, looking into charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. but charlie did not answer, or graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,-- "is mr ruthven still in town?" "oh! yes. it is not likely he will leave again soon." "and your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? what on anxious time miss elphinstone must have had!" "yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely to live for some time yet. but his mind is much affected. at least it seems so to me." "poor lilias!" said graeme, "is she still alone?" "oh, no. there is a houseful of them. her aunt mrs roxbury is there, and i don't know how many besides. i declare, i think those women enjoy it." graeme looked shocked. "charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said rose. "it is to take place soon, is it not?" "within the month, i believe," said charlie, gravely. "so soon!" said graeme; and in a little she added, "is it not sudden?" "no--yes, i suppose so. they have been engaged, or something like it for some time; but the haste is because of mr elphinstone. he thinks he cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of her husband. just as if allan would not be her friend all the same. it seems to me like madness." "and lilias," said rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?" "on the whole, i suppose so. but this haste and her father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. she looks ill, and anything but cheerful." "we have not seen your brother for a long time," said will. "i have scarcely seen him, either. he did not find matters much to his mind in c, i fear. harry will have to keep his eyes open among those people." "how soon will harry have to go?" asked rose. "the sooner the better, i suppose," said charlie, rising and walking about. "oh! dear me. this is a miserable overturning that has come upon us--and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly." "harry will not have to go before arthur comes back, i hope," said rose. "i don't know, indeed. when does he come?" "charlie, man," said harry, rising suddenly, "did i not hear you promising crofts to meet him to-night? it is eight o'clock." "no. i don't care if i never see crofts, or any of his set again. you had much better stay where you are harry." "charlie, don't be misanthropical. i promised if you didn't. come along. no? well, good-night to you all. will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. don't sit up for me, graeme." graeme had no heart to remonstrate. she felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. charlie lingered. when graeme came down-stairs after seeing will in his room she found him still sitting opposite rose, silent and grave. he roused himself as she entered. graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. it was not an easy matter, though charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and graeme tried to respond. she did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which graeme would not respond. one angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger. "these foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about allan and me,--and i must undeceive them--or deceive them--" "graeme," said rose, softly, "if either of us wait for harry it must be me, for you are very tired." "yes, i am very tired." "charlie said, perhaps he would take harry home with him. should we wait?" said rose. "no. he may not come. we will not wait. i shall sleep near will. he cannot spare me yet. now go, love." she kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer no lingering over the good-night. she was in no haste to go herself, however. she did not mean to wait for harry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where rose had left her, and then harry came. but oh! the misery of that home-coming. graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then she heard harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and then stupidly insisting on refusing all further help. "never mind, gentlemen--i can manage--thank you." there were two persons with him, charlie millar was one of them. "hush, harry. be quiet, man. are you mad? you will waken your sister." the light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment on graeme's pale face. "oh! miss elliott," said charles, "i tried to keep him with me. he is mad, i think. be quiet, harry." harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself and staggered toward his sister. "i knew you would sit up, graeme--though i told you not--and so i came home." "of course, you did right to come home. but hush, harry! you will waken will." "oh! yes! poor will!" he mumbled. "but graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?" "miss elliott," entreated charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night." she went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of will's door till they passed. she stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. poor harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. when she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond. "oh harry! harry! harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face. it was a dark hour. her hope, her faith, her trust in god--all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. the bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed. "oh papa! mamma! oh harry! oh! my little brothers." "miss elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand still, "graeme, you must let me help you now." she rose and turned toward him. "mr ruthven! i was not aware--" said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour. "miss elliott, forgive me. i did not mean to intrude. i met your brother and mine by chance, and i came with them. you must not think that i--" "thank you, you are very kind." graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately. "you are very kind," repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said. "graeme," said mr ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. tell me what you wish. must harry stay or go?" graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands. "oh! harry! harry!" mr ruthven made one step toward her. "miss elliott, i dare not say to you that you think too severely of harry's fault. but he is young, and i do not really fear for him. and you have more cause to be hopeful than i. think of your father, and your father's god. graeme, be sure harry will come back to you again." graeme sat still with her head bowed down. "graeme--miss elliott. tell me what you would have me do?" graeme rose. "you are very kind," she repeated. "i cannot think to-night. we must wait--till arthur comes home." he went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood by her side again. "graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that you believe me to be your true and faithful friend." "why should i not say it, allan. you are my true and faithful friend, as i am yours." her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. he turned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his hand and said,-- "good-night." "good-night," said graeme. "and you will see about harry--what you wish for him?" "yes. good-bye." he raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "good-bye." chapter twenty six. the next few days were weary ones to all. will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, graeme's spirits flagged sadly. she looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that will must be left to the tender mercies of rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. it is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did graeme less good than attendance on will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. at any rate, graeme was thankful for a few days' quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time rose and will got on very well without her. and harry--poor, unhappy, repentant harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night--these were dreary days to him. graeme never spoke to him about that night. she had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. the preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go west after all. he said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for graeme to hear. much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of harry, mr ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return. "he does not trust me. he does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs," said harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of allan's share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. however, he forced himself to wait a little. "if i am sent west after all, well and good. if not i shall remain no longer. the change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least i will make it so. i can't stay, and i won't. if he would but come back and put an end to it all." and harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of mr ruthven. poor mr elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for allan's untimely devotion to business. poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of mrs roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. she considered it a very equivocal proof of lilias' love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. there had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and mrs roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. so, at last, lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father's room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near. "graeme," said harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, "don't you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? don't you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? i think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. it would to me, at any rate." graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. then she said something about being tired and not very well--and about its being impossible always to help one's looks. "why don't you say at once that it is i who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me--that i am going straight to ruin. that is what you mean to say--you know very well." "harry," said she, gently, "i did not mean to say anything unkind." harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan. "if you would only rate a fellow soundly, graeme! if you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! i could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, i cannot bear." "i cannot say i think you weak or pitiful, harry. it would not be true. and i am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. i can only say, i have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night." harry groaned. "oh! well; don't bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. the chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation." "have you seen--has mr ruthven returned?" "mr ruthven has returned, and i have seen him, but i have not spoken with him. it was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. he was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. well, it does not matter. i shall take the decision into my own hands." "what do you mean, harry?" "i mean, i shall give up my situation if he does not send me west--if he hesitates a moment about sending me, i shall leave his employment." "but why, harry?" "because--because i am determined. ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, i suppose." "harry," said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he does not?" "well, if i am not to be trusted there, neither am i to be trusted here, and i leave. graeme, you don't know what you are talking about. it is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to allan ruthven. you think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. if he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate." "then, why do you say he does not trust you?" "i shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. not that i care much. i would rather be in the employment of some one else. i shall not stay here." "harry," said graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, "what has happened between you and allan ruthven." "happened! what should have happened? what an absurd question to ask, graeme." "harry, why are you so determined to leave him? it was not so a little while ago." "was it not? oh, well! i daresay not. but one wants a change. one gets tired of the same dull routine, always. now, graeme," added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, "don't begin to fancy any mystery. that would be too absurd, you know." graeme came and knelt close beside him. his face was turned away so that she could not see it. her own was very pale. "harry, speak to me. do you believe that allan ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and--in other matters? tell me, harry." "oh, yes! as gentlemen go. no, graeme, that is not right. i believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. i think more highly of him than i did at first. it is not that." the colour came slowly back to graeme's face. it was evident that harry had no foolish thoughts of her and allan. in a little she said,-- "and you, harry--you have not--you are--" "i hope i am an honourable man, graeme," said harry, gravely. "there is nothing between mr ruthven and me. i mean, he does not wish me to leave him. but i must go, graeme. i cannot stay here." "harry, why? tell me." graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair. "it is nothing that i can tell," said harry, huskily. "harry--even if i cannot help it, or remove it--it is better that i should know what is making you so unhappy. harry, is it--it is not lilias?" he did not answer her. "harry, harry! do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too." she drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. in a little she said,-- "brother, speak to me. what shall i say to you, my poor harry?" but harry was not in a mood to be comforted. he rose and confronted her. "i think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that i am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. you had better say that to me, graeme." but something in his sister's face stopped him. his lips trembled, and he said,-- "at any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable about." "hush, harry," whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. "and lilias?" "graeme, i do not know. i never spoke to her, but i hoped--i believed till lately--." he laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. in a little he roused himself and said,-- "but it is all past now--all past; and it won't bear talking about, even with you, graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. it was only a dream, and it is past. but i cannot stay here--at least it would be very much better--" graeme sighed. "yes, i can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet-- but you are right. it won't bear talking about. i have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less." no, there was nothing that graeme could say, even if harry would have listened to her. her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. it seemed to graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for harry was pressing with tenfold weight. why had this new misery come upon her? she had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears. in her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. she judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man--between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him. sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. she took no such consolation to herself as that. she knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. she accepted the lot. she thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with god's help, to be contented. but harry--poor harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. the commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister's lips, and it was all the better that graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. after the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and i am afraid, if the truth must be told, that graeme that night suffered more for harry than harry suffered for himself. if she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. if from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. she could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. how gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. she felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? remembering her own impulse to be away--anywhere--to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. that the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. best give him into god's keeping and let him go, she thought. "but he must not leave mr ruthven. that will make him no better, but worse. he must not go from us, not knowing whither. oh, i wish i knew what to do!" the next day the decision was made. it would not be true to say that harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into mr ruthven's private room. there was more need for charlie's "keep cool, old fellow," than charlie knew, for harry had that morning told graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. in spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend allan, but mr ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. he was busy with some one else when harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him. there was a good deal said about matters that harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. there were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him. there came a pause at last. mr ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,-- "mr ruthven, may i trespass a moment on your valuable time _now_?" mr ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that mr elliott might have to say. "it is a matter of great importance to _me_, and i have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. the western agency--" "you are right. it is of great consequence to the firm. there is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding--" "i beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that i should be employed in it." "will a single day make much difference to you?" said mr ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be. "excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. but, mr ruthven, it is better i should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. allow me, then, to inform you that i wish-- that i no longer wish to remain in your employment." "harry," said mr ruthven, gravely, "does your brother--does your sister know of your desire to leave me? would they approve, if you were sent west?" "pardon me, mr ruthven, that question need not be discussed. i must be the best judge of the matter. as for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you--drew back." mr ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. he took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now. "i understand you, sir," said harry, with a very pale face. "allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place--or at once, if you like--i must go." but mr ruthven was not listening to him. he had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. he broke the seal, and read it while harry was speaking. it was very brief, only three words and one initial letter. "let harry go. g." he read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. then he turned to harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door. "what is it, harry? i did not hear what you were saying." "i merely said, sir," said harry, turning round and facing him, "that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, i shall consider myself at liberty to go." "but why should you wish to go?" "there are several reasons. one is, i shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. if i am not to be trusted at a distance, i shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me." his own eye flashed as he spoke. "but, harry, man, that is nonsense, you know." it was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone. "i do not think it is nonsense," said he. "harry, i have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. let me say, once for all, that i should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. harry, the world would look darker to me the day i could not trust your father's son." harry made no answer. "it is of you i have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. harry, when i think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish-- wrong to wish to send you away." harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home. "i know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home--such a home as yours--the better. when i think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil i have seen since--. well, there is no use in going over all that. but, harry, it would break your sister's heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us." there was nothing harry could say to this. "so many fail in the struggle--so many are changed or ruined. and, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. don't be angry, harry," for harry started and grew red. "even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. i have known and proved the world. what we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister's lips. and if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should i ever answer to her?" he walked up and down the room two or three times. "don't go, harry." for harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. "you said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. but, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. as for the interests of the firm, i have no fear." "i may consider it settled then," said harry, huskily. "arthur was always of opinion that i should go, and graeme is willing now. and the sooner the better, i suppose?" "the sooner the better for us. but there is time enough. do not be hasty in deciding." "i have decided already, i thank you, sir--" he hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more. "i hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. remember, harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. i do not believe i shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me." harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn. and so the decision was made. after this the preparations did not occupy a long time. the second day found harry ready for departure. "graeme," said harry, "i cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. i shall begin to think you are not willing that i should go after all." "you need not think so, harry. i am sure it is best since you are determined. but i cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. you would not have me look joyful, when i am going to lose my brother?" "no--if that were all. but you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. it is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. i shall be home often--once a year at the least; perhaps oftener." "yes, dear, i know." "well, then, i think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if i were worthy of it, which i very much doubt." graeme's face did not brighten. in a little while her tears were falling fast. "graeme, what is it? there is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. you do not trust me, graeme, you are afraid." graeme made an effort to quiet herself. "yes, harry, i am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. you have hardly been our own harry for a while, as you know, dear. and what will you be when you are far from us all? i am afraid to let you go from me, harry, far more afraid than i should be for will." harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again. "i wish i could make you quite satisfied about me, graeme." "i wish you could, dear. i will try to be so. i daresay you think me unreasonable, harry. i know i am tired, and foolish, and all wrong," said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears. "you look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything," said harry, with a touch of bitterness. "do i? well, i am all wrong, i know. there ought to be hope and comfort too, if i sought them right. i will try to leave you in god's keeping, harry, the keeping of our father's and our mother's god." harry threw himself on his knees beside her. "graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. if you only knew! such things are thought nothing of. if i disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced." graeme put her hand upon his lips. "but, graeme, it is true. i must speak, i can't bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. even allan ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he--" "hush, harry, you do not need mr ruthven to be a conscience to you. and it is not of the past i am thinking, but the future! how can i bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. i am afraid for you, harry." it was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. the words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor harry's temptation. so she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. by and by he came back to her side, again. "graeme," said he, gravely. "indeed, you may trust me. the shame of that night shall never be renewed. you shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again." she put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. it was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but harry understood it so. "graeme, what shall i say to you? how shall i give you courage--faith to trust me? graeme, i promise, that till i see you again i shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. i solemnly promise before god, graeme." "harry," said his sister, "it is a vow--an oath, that you have taken." "yes, and it shall be kept as such. do you trust me, graeme? give me that comfort before i go away." "i trust you, harry," was all she had voice to say. she clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed god to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. and harry vowed, with god's help, to be true to himself and her. he did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in heaven. that was the real farewell between the brother and sister. next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by graeme, but the last glimpse harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,-- "harry, i trust you quite." chapter twenty seven. the brilliant sunlight of a september morning was shining full into the little breakfast-room, where graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. the morning paper was near her, but she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. she was grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. indeed, more than once, as the voices of rose and arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. presently, arthur entered, and graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers. "your trip has done you good, graeme," said arthur, as he sat down opposite to her. "yes, indeed. there is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. i hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away in june." graeme, rose, and will, had passed the summer at cacouna. nelly had gone with them as housekeeper, and arthur had shut the house, and taken lodgings a little out of town for the summer. "i am only afraid," added graeme, "that all our pleasure has been at the expense of some discomfort to you." "by no means, a change is agreeable. i have enjoyed the summer very much. i am glad to get home again, however." "yes, a change does one good. if i was only quite at ease about one thing, we might have gone to merleville, instead of cacouna, and that would have given janet and a good many others pleasure." "oh! i don't know," said arthur. "the good people there must have forgotten us by this time, i fancy. there are no sea-breezes there, and they were what you needed." "arthur! janet forgotten us! never, i am quite sure of that. but at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, i mean. i quite shrunk from the thought of merleville. indeed, if you had not been firm, i fear i should not have had the sea-breezes." "yes. you owe me thanks. you needed the change. what with will's illness, and harry's going away, and one thing and another; you were quite in need of a change." "i was not well, certainly," said graeme. "will has gone to the post, i suppose?" "yes," said rose, who entered at the moment. "i see him coming up the street." "as for rosie," said arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. "she has utterly ruined her complexion. such freckles! such sunburning! and how stout she has grown!" rose laughed. "yes, i know i'm a fright. you must bring me something, arthur. toilette vinegar, or something." "oh! it would not signify. you are quite beyond all that." "here comes will, with a letter for each of us, i declare." arthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. graeme's was laid down beside her, while she poured will's coffee. rose read hers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight. "listen all. no, i won't read it just yet. arthur, don't you remember a conversation that you and i had together, soon after sandy was here?" "conversation," repeated arthur. "we have talked, that is, you have talked, and i have listened, but as to conversation:--" "but arthur, don't you remember saying something about emily, and i did not agree with you?" "i have said a great many times, that i thought emily a very pretty little creature. if you don't agree, it shows bad taste." "i quite agree. i think her beautiful. she is not very little, however. she is nearly as tall as i am." "what is it, rose?" asked graeme, stretching out her hand for the letter. "you'll spoil your news, with your long preface," said will. "no, but i want arthur to confess that i am wisest." "oh! i can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but i should like to hear of this particular case." "well, don't you remember saying that you did not think sandy and emily would ever fall in love?" "i remember no such assertion, on my part. on the contrary, i remember feeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far as sandy was concerned, poor fellow; and i remember saying, much to your indignation, more's the pity." "yes; and i remember you said it would be just like a sentimental little blue, like emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced yankee professor." "you put the case a little strongly, perhaps," said arthur, laughing. "but, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. that was my opinion, i confess." "and they are going to be married!" exclaimed graeme and will in a breath. "how glad janet will be!" "emily does not say so, in so many words. it won't be for a long time yet, they are so young. but i am to be bridesmaid when the time comes." "well, if that is not saying it!" said will laughing. "what would you have, rosie?" graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, looking a little pale and anxious. "what is it, graeme? nothing wrong, i hope." "no; i hope not. i don't know, i am sure. norman says he is going to be married." "married!" cried rose and will. "to hilda?" said arthur. "yes; but how could you have guessed?" said graeme, bewildered. "i did not guess. i saw it. why it was quite easy to be seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. it is all very fine, this brother and sister intercourse; but i have been quite sure about them since harry wrote about them." "well, norman seems surprised, if you are not. he says, `you will be very much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished than i was myself. i did not think of such a thing; at least, i did not know that i was thinking of such a thing till young conway, my friend, asked permission to address my sister. i was very indignant, though, at first, i did not, in the least, know why. however, hilda helped me to find out all about it. at first i meant she should spend the winter with you all i want very much that you should know each other. but, on the whole, i think i can't spare her quite so long. expect to see us therefore in november--one flesh!'" there was much more. "well done, norman!" cried arthur. "but, graeme, i don't see what there is to look grave about. she seems to be a nice little thing, and norman ought to know his own mind by this time." "she's a great deal more than a nice little thing," said graeme earnestly. "if one can judge by her letters and by harry's description of her--to say nothing of norman's opinion--she must be a very superior person, and good and amiable besides. but it seems so strange, so sudden. why, it seems only the other day since norman was such a mere boy. i wish she could have passed the winter with us. i think, perhaps, i should write and say so." "yes, if you like. but norman must judge. i think it is the wisest thing for him. he will have a settled home." "i do believe it is," said graeme, earnestly. "i am very glad--or i shall be in a little. but, just at first, it seems a little as though norman would not be quite so much one of us--you know--and besides there really is something odd in the idea of norman's being married; now, is there not?" "i confess i fail to see it," said arthur, a little sharply. graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. an exclamation from will startled her. "what is it, will?" said rose: "another wedding?" "you'll never guess, rosie. never. you need not try." "is it harry this time?" said arthur, looking in from the hall with his hat on. "no. listen, arthur! harry says, `what is this that mr green has been telling me about arthur and little miss grove? i was greatly amused at the idea _their_ mutual admiration. mr green assures me that he has the best authority for saying that arthur is to carry off the heiress. charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. tell graeme, when that happens, i shall expect her to come and keep my house.'" "they said mr green was going to carry off the heiress himself!" exclaimed rose. "listen!" continued will. "`unless, indeed, graeme should make up her mind to smile on mr green and take possession of the "palatial residence," of which he has just laid the foundation near c---.'" "here is a bit for you, graeme. nobody is to be left out, it seems. it will be your turn next, rosie," said arthur, as he went away laughing. "but that is all nonsense about arthur and little miss grove?" said rose, half questioningly. "i should think so, indeed! fancy arthur coming to that fate," said graeme. "that would be too absurd." and yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and her repetitions of "too absurd," became very energetic in her attempts to drive it quite away. the thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the grove carriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the pretty fanny that she and rose passed quite close to them unobserved. it was recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of mrs gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. the grove carriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly toward it, she said: "i don't know whether i ought to congratulate you or sympathise with you." graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, as she answered: "there is no haste. when you make up your mind as to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time." "ah! you are not to commit yourself, i see. well, you are quite right. she is a harmless little person, i believe, and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother." something in graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady more effectually than words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to the conversation. but graeme could not forget it. not that she believed in the truth of what mrs gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help being annoyed at it. it was rather foolish, she thought, for arthur to give occasion for such gossip. it was so unlike him, too. and yet so little was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind a friend as mrs gridley to keep the ball rolling. very likely arthur knew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passed through her mind, graeme determined to tell him about it. but she did not; she could not do so--though why she could not was a mystery to herself. sometimes she fancied there was that in arthur's manner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer. when he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of grove mentioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the grove carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of the mansion was in it. she never failed to lean forward and bow to them with the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once graeme was left standing looking in at a shop-window, while arthur obeyed the beckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. sometimes the pretty fanny was there; sometimes she was not. but her absence did not set graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother. and yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousand times. what right had she to interfere, even in thought, with her brother's friendship? if he admired miss grove, if even he were attached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere--nothing to which she could even allude--until he should speak first. but then, of course, that was quite absurd! miss grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be arthur's wife--than-- oh! of course it was all nonsense. no one had ever heard three words of common sense from those pretty lips. she had heard arthur say as much as that himself. miss grove could dance and flirt and sing a little; that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that arthur would ever-- and yet graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in savage's window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors down the street. she had time to go over the same thoughts a good many times, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinent of mrs grove, and exceedingly foolish of arthur, and exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother's voice from her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her. "mrs grove wanted to speak to you, graeme," said he, with a little embarrassment. "i could hardly be expected to know that by intuition," said graeme, coldly. "she beckoned. did you not see?" "she beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty with me. there is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, and never will be, unless i have greatly mistaken her character." "oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very little about her. she thinks very highly of you, i can assure you." "stuff!" pronounced graeme, with such emphasis that she startled herself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother. "i declare, graeme, i thought for the moment it was harry that spoke for mrs gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. it did not sound the least like you." graeme laughed, too. "well, i was thinking of harry at the minute, and as for mrs gridley--i didn't mean to be cross, arthur, but something disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my mind at the moment, i must confess." "well, i wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your way home," said arthur. "wait till i see if there are any letters. none, i believe. good-bye." mrs gridley did not occupy graeme's thoughts on her way home, yet they were not very pleasant. all the way along the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, "so absurd", "so foolish", "so impertinent of mrs grove", "so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip," and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh start again. the lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed and smiled most sweetly. but her smiles did not soothe graeme's ruffled temper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. for, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than to call arthur foolish, and mrs grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any more. so she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about it more than was either pleasant or needful. one night, charlie millar paid them a visit. he made no secret of his delight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to do with himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat in graeme's arm-chair three months ago. "one would not think so from the visits you have made us since we came home," said graeme, smiling. "you have only looked in upon us. we were thinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside." "business, business," repeated charlie, gravely. "i assure you that harry out there, and i here, have had all that we have been able to attend to during the last three months. it is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that i owe the leisure of this evening." "you expect us to believe all that, i suppose," said graeme, laughing. "indeed, you may believe me, miss elliott. it is quite true. i can't understand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long just now. if he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want of telling, i assure you." "you hear often from him, i suppose?" "yes. i had a note from lilias the other day, in a letter i got from my mother. she sent `kind regards' to the misses elliott, which i take the present opportunity of delivering." "business having hitherto prevented," said rose. "you don't seem to have faith in my business engagements, miss rose; but i assure you that harry and i deserve great credit for having carried on the business so successfully for the last three months." "where is mr gilchrist?" asked arthur. "oh, he's here, there, and everywhere. but mr gilchrist is an `old fogey,' and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. it is not easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; i can't understand how allan used to manage him so well. however, he had unbounded confidence in allan's powers, and let him do as he pleased." "and the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in the powers of you and harry?" said arthur, laughing. "upon the whole i think, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two lads should have some check upon you, now and then." "not at all, i assure you," said charlie. "as for harry--miss elliott, i wish i could tell you half the kind things i hear about harry from our correspondents out there." graeme smiled brightly. she was permitting herself to rely entirely upon harry now. "but, charlie," said will from his corner, "what is this nonsense you have been telling harry about arthur and the beautiful miss grove?" charlie started and coloured, and so did graeme, and both glanced hastily at arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as graeme was very glad to perceive. "nonsense!" said charlie, with a great show of astonishment and indignation. "i don't understand you, will." "will," said rose, laughing, "you are mistaken. it was mr green who had been hinting to harry something you remember; you read it to us the other morning." "yes, but harry said that charlie had been saying something of the same kind," persisted simple will, who never dreamed of making any one feel uncomfortable. "hinting!" repeated charlie. "i never hint. i leave that to mrs gridley and her set. i think i must have told harry that i had seen arthur in the grove carriage one morning, and another day standing beside it talking to miss fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at alexander's." graeme laughed, she could not help it. "oh, that terrible carriage!" said rose. "a very comfortable and convenient carriage i found it, many a time, when i was staying at mrs smith's," said arthur, coolly. "mrs grove was so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, and much obliged i was to her, some of those warm august mornings." "so you see, will," said charlie, triumphantly, "i was telling harry the simple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting `nonsense,' as you call it." "i suppose that is what mrs gridley meant the other day when she nodded so significantly toward the grove carriage, and asked whether she was to congratulate us." rose spoke with a little hesitation. she was not sure that her brother would be quite pleased by mrs gridley's congratulations, and he was not. "oh! if we are to have mrs gridley's kind concern and interest in our affairs, we shall advance rapidly," said he, a little crossly. "it would of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with that prudent and charitable lady." "but as i did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters to discuss there was no discussion," said graeme, by no means unwilling that her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner and tone to rose. "oh! never mind, graeme," said rose, laughing, "we shall have another chance of being congratulated, and i only hope arthur may be here himself. mrs gridley was passing when the grove carriage stood at our door this morning. i saw her while i was coming up the street. she will be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her sympathy." "was mrs grove here this morning?" enquired arthur. "she must have given you her own message then, i suppose." "she was at the door, but she did not get in. i was out, and graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was engaged." "yes," said graeme, "i was helping nelly, and i was in my old blue wrapper." "now, graeme," said will, "that is not the least like you. what about a wrapper?" "nothing, of course. but a call at that hour is not at all times convenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate." "but perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship," said charlie. graeme laughed. "i am very much obliged to her. but i think we could each make a happier choice of friends." "she is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you," said arthur; "and she can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses." "well, i cannot imagine ever being charmed by her," said graeme, hastily. "there is something--a feeling that she is not sincere--that would spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as i am concerned." "smooth and false," said charlie. "no, charlie. you are much too severe," said arthur. "graeme's idea of insincerity is better, though very severe for her. and, after all, i don't think that she is consciously insincere. i can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. i think it must be her taste for management, as miss fanny calls it. she does not seem to be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her desires. after all, her manoeuvring is very transparent, and therefore very harmless." "transparent! harmless!" repeated charlie. "you must excuse me if i say i think you do the lady's talents great injustice. not that i have any personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if i were to repeat the current reports, miss elliott would call them gossip and repudiate them, and me too, perhaps. she has the reputation of having the `wisdom of the serpent;' the slyness of the cat, i think." they all laughed, for charlie had warmed as he went on. "i am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do with such a person," said rose. "i should feel as though i must be always on the watch for something unexpected." "to be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be rather uncomfortable--`for a continuance,' as janet would say. but i don't see the necessity of that with mrs grove. i think it must be rather agreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. you should hear miss fanny, when in some difficult conjunction of circumstances--she resigns herself to superior guidance. `mamma will manage it.' certainly she does manage some difficult matters." there was the faintest echo of mimicry in arthur's tone, as he repeated miss fanny's words, which graeme was quite ashamed of being glad to hear. "it was very stupid of me, to be sure! such folly to suppose that arthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. no; arthur's wife must be a very different woman from pretty little fanny grove. i wish i knew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. but there is no haste about it. ah, me! changes will come soon enough, we need not seek to hasten them. and yet, we need not fear them whatever they may be. i am very sure of that. but i am very glad that there is no harm done." and yet, the harm that graeme so much dreaded, was done before three months were over. before that time she had it from arthur's own lips, that he had engaged himself to fanny grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. she never quite knew how to receive his announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of norman's stay. for norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. she had expected to find her an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so charming and lovable a little lady. they all loved her dearly from the very first; and graeme satisfied norman by her unfeigned delight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as well. and graeme rejoiced over norman even more than over hilda. he was just what she had always hoped he might become. contact with the world had not spoiled him. he was the same norman; perhaps a little graver than he used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and earnest, as the merleville school-boy had been. how they lived over those old times! there was sadness in the pleasure, for norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; and the names of the dead were spoken softly. but the bitterness of their grief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now. there was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of their stay. "if harry were only here!" was said many times. but harry was well, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which lay not very far before them. their visit came to an end too soon for them all; but norman was a busy man, and they were to go home by merleville, for norman declared he should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till janet had pronounced upon her. graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to merleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and the hope that they might go to emily's wedding soon, decided her to remain at home. yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very day of their departure brought upon graeme the pain which she had almost ceased to fear. arthur told her of his engagement to miss grove. his story was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at all natural for a triumphant lover. it did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. from the first shock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, graeme roused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a little impatiently-- "of course, this will make no difference with us at home? you will never _think_ of going away because of this, rose and you?" by a great effort graeme forced herself to speak-- "of course not, arthur. what difference could it make? where could we go?" when arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his tone showed how much he was relieved by his sister's words. it was very gentle and tender too, graeme noticed. "of course not. i was quite sure this would make no change. rather than my sisters should be made unhappy by my--by this affair--i would go no further in it. my engagement should be at an end." "hush, arthur! it is too late to say that now." "but i was quite sure you would see it in the right way. you always do, graeme. it was not my thought that you would do otherwise. and it will only be a new sister, another rosie to care for, and to love, graeme. i know you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to rose and to us all." graeme pressed the hand that arthur laid on hers, but she could not speak. "if it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child," thought she. she almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, when arthur said,-- "you must not be hard on her, graeme. you do not know her yet. she is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding little thing; and removed from her stepmother's influence and placed under yours, she will become in time all that you could desire." she would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. her heart refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not have uttered them. she sat silent and grave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy. that night graeme's head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. she shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, "how could he be so blind, so mad?" to her it was incomprehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up with no fear of god before her eyes--one whose highest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions and fancies of the world. he might dream, of happiness now, but how sad would be the wakening. if there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against her brother's choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of years might come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was not till afterwards. none of these mingled with the bitter sadness and compassion of that night. her brother's doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that might be wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was well nigh lost. it was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. she repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister's side in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows might darken her brother's future, he should find her love and trust unchanged for ever. chapter twenty eight. arthur elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect--common sense. he remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. she had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of god's saints besides. living for years in daily intercourse with his sister graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. yet in the choice of one who was to be "till death did them part" more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life's happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child. one who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that arthur elliott's is by no means a singular case. quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. if, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. a woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her _solitary_ way through life content. but if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. for then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. what god has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss. but it _is_ possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. it is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. the rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. but when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. he grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. when he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. the voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. the tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part. but this is a digression, and i daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. indeed, i am not sure that i quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. there are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness. charlie millar's private announcement to his friend harry of his brother arthur's engagement, was in these words: "the efforts of the maternal grove have been crowned with success. your brother is a captive soon to be chained--" charlie was right. his clear eye saw, that of which arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. and what charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy mr green, the great western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. had the interesting fact transpired, that the great elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, "wriggled himself clear," it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. but mr green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as mrs grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. she acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it. when the pretty fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. mr elliott was by no means mr green's equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,--except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. and then fanny, though very pretty, was "a silly little thing," she said to herself with great candour. her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. the chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma's own darlings; charlotte twelve and victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have fanny well away. and so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the grove mansion, and roamed with the fair fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. he made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. there were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests--parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town--but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which mrs grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. very charming little fetes her guests generally pronounced them to be. arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. he enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. he enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things. everything went on naturally and quietly. there was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. quite the contrary. if any watchful fairy had suggested to arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. did not mamma keep watchful eyes on fanny always? had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest? and if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of mrs grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. if it had been averred that mamma's faith, in her daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma's faithlessness was not surprising. as to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter. but there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till graeme came home from cacouna, to play, in mrs grove's opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. she was mistaken, however. graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother's short intimacy with the groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. so, if there came a pause in the lady's operations, if arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of graeme. if he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and graeme's influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to mrs grove, or her schemes. but that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. she could not conceal from herself or miss fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. not that this defection on arthur's part was ever discussed between them. mrs grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. but mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. besides she fancied that mr elliott's attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and "mar dear fanny's prospects." and so mrs grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. another invitation was given, and it was accepted. in the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. with a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her "dear friend" for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible fanny. "fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. but oh! mr elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?" in vain arthur looked the astonishment he felt. in vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society--that he did not understand--that she must be mistaken. the tender mother's volubility was too much for him. he could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on. mr elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. she quite freed him from all intention of wrong. and after all, it might not be so bad. a mother's anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to--in short mr elliott must understand--. and mrs grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation. but "pique and wounded pride!" he had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. mrs grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. the motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. how she could look her dear fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so--so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. if, indeed, miss fanny had a secret. he wished very much not to believe it. secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months' acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed. not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to miss grove and the epaulets. the result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. he was listened to with politeness, but not with miss fanny's usual amiability and interest, that was evident. by and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here miss fanny was distant and dignified still. she gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom mrs grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. arthur approached the centre-table, but mrs grove was too much occupied with captain starr to include him in the conversation. mr grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and arthur felt there was no help for him. miss fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. miss grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that captain starr had sent her. she did sing it, very prettily, too. she had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. then she played a brilliant piece or two; then mrs grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of mr elliott's, also. then there were more scottish airs, and french airs, and then there was a duet with captain starr, and mamma withdrew mr elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the captain's handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. then, when there had been enough of music, miss grove returned to her embroidery, and captain starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that miss fanny listened from "pique or wounded pride," or something else, not certainly because she liked it. not but that she seemed to like it. she smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to mr elliott a single glance. by and by mr grove came in and withdrew mr elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. it was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. it was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature. it is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which miss fanny's working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary point saint charles, past an imaginary griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. it is quite possible that mr grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of mount royal city, and of canada. and if mr grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it. it was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over miss fanny's white hand when he said good-night. he had one uncomfortable moment. it was when mrs grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,-- "it would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite." he was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on miss grove's "good points," and wondered "whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made." he was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. what if "pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection" should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! it would be sad, indeed. and then he wondered if miss grove really cared for him in that way. surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. as he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, miss fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. he visited grove house a good many times--not to seem odd--and saw a good deal of miss fanny. mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about i cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady's smiles, and the old lady's management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that graeme had of it was given by arthur on the night that norman went away. time passed on. the wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. she had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. there were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when miss grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and graeme took hope for arthur. this was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. at such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother's choice. but there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. on more than one occasion graeme had dispatched nelly as a messenger to arthur, to tell him that fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. for fanny never appeared agreeable to her in arthur's presence; and what was worse to bear still, arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, in the presence of miss grove. the coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one's authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but _really_ as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than graeme could patiently endure. it was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. the lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them. and almost as disagreeable were the visits which fanny made with her stepmother. these became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than graeme thought at all necessary. they used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made graeme and rose uncomfortable. the little airs of superiority, with which miss fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. how would it be when fanny's marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? at present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by rose, and sometimes even by graeme. but it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time. it must be confessed that graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of fanny's clever stepmother. sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. more than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by mrs grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. it is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. as miss fanny said on one occasion, "one could never tell what mamma meant by what she said," and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. they were not so deep as to be dangerous. the little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. so graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still. the respect and admiration which mrs grove professed for miss elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. they were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. her joy that the elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister's longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. it was so dear in miss elliott to consent to it. another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother's house. and then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. miss elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. how could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! she only hoped that fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed. graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her "wayward daughter" tended rather to the encouragement of a "judicious resistance" than of "a proper and amiable submission" to the anticipated rule. but as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of graeme's trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. she was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady's declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made arthur a little uncomfortable too. he had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to mrs grove. he had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured. "however, it is all right now," said arthur, congratulating himself. "graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma's twaddle, and there is no fear as far as fanny and she are concerned." the extent to which "mamma's twaddle" and other matters "put graeme about" at this time she concealed quite, as far as arthur was concerned. the best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on. but her feelings changed somewhat. she did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call arthur's mistake in the choice he had made. but now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. there seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. she was quite sure that arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of miss grove, had he seen them in any one else. she remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. _now_ how blind he was! all her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. she was very amiable and charming in his eyes. there were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on. graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this--that it was better so. if it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other's faults. somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. if they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. at any rate, there was no use vexing herself about arthur now. if he was content, why should not she be so? her brother's happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now. but as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. she called herself foolish and faithless--selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. when arthur should come quite to see with fanny's eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed! and so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. as a part of her marriage-portion, mr grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of columbus square, and there the young lady's married-life was to commence. the house was quite a little fortune in itself, mrs grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the elliotts. it is just possible that arthur's intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law's affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. the troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of elphinstone & company, had been felt more seriously still by mr grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter's benefit, could not but suggest itself to arthur. he was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. but the state of mr grove's affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and arthur might well look grave. not that he troubled himself about it, however. he had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. he knew that miss grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. so, if to mrs grove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of fanny's father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. his remarks were reserved for mr grove's private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness. as for graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. if she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? they might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. but there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for fanny's handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future. "fanny's house!" could it ever seem like home to them? her thoughts flew back to janet and merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible--nay best and wisest, for her and rose to go away. "however, we must wait a while; we must have patience. things may adjust themselves in a way that i cannot see just now." in the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "we must wait-- we must have patience." and she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?" chapter twenty nine. "are you quite sure that you are glad, graeme." "i am very glad, will. why should you doubt it? you know i have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as rosie has." "no. i don't know any such thing. i can't be quite glad myself, till i am sure that you are glad, too." "well, you may be quite sure, will. it is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. it will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, will." "less like home than ever!" repeated will. "why, graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs." "does it?" said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "but, graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. fanny is very nice, and--" "yes, indeed," said graeme, heartily. "everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. i remember the time when i was quite afraid of fanny and her fine house--my old perversity, you see." "i remember," said will, gravely. "i was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. mamma grove was a perfect night-mare to me. and really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all." "well, on the whole, i think we could dispense with mamma grove," said will, with a shrug. "oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of master tom. you will have to take him, will." "of course. but then, i would do a great deal more than that for fanny's brother, without all this talk." "but then, without `all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her english friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy." "oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. let her rest." "yes, let her rest. and, will, you are not to think i am not glad that you are going home. i would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. only i am afraid i would stipulate that the field should be a canadian one." "of course. canada is my home." "or merleville. deacon snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called." "but that is a long day hence. perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that i am going home to learn from the `british.'" "there is no fear. sandy has completed the work which my father and janet began. mr snow is tolerant of the north british, at any rate. what a pleasant life our merleville life was. it seems strange that none of us, but norman, has been back there. it won't belong now, however." "i am afraid i cannot wait for emily's wedding. but i shall certainly go and see them all, before i go to scotland." "if you do, i shall go with you, and spend the summer there." "and leave rose here?" said will, in some surprise. "no. i wish to go for rose's sake, as much as for my own. it seems as though going to merleville and janet, would put us all right again." "i hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said will. "do you know, will, i sometimes wonder whether i can be the same person who came here with rose and you? circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. i think i should come back to my old self again, with janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way." "i don't think i understand you, graeme." "don't you? well, that is evidence that i have changed; and that i have not improved. but i am not sure that i understand myself." "what is wrong with you, graeme." "i cannot tell you, will. i don't know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. but there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it." "if i knew what is wrong i might try," said will, gravely. "then, tell me, what possible good i shall be able to do in the world, when i shall no longer have you to care for?" "if you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty." "i know it, will. but useless as my way of life is, i cannot change it. next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and fanny in hers, i have done nothing worth naming as work." "that same nursing was not a little. and do you call the housekeeping nothing? it is all very well, fanny's jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. if last year has nothing to show for work, i think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. it is not that you are getting weary of the `woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?" "no, will. i hope not. i think not. but this last year has been very different from all former years. i used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. i cannot explain it. you would laugh at the trifles that make the difference." "i see one difference," said will. "you have the trouble, and fanny has the credit." "no, will. don't say that i don't think that troubles me. it ought not; but it is not good for fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. and it is not fair to her. when the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. and she is learning nothing. she is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, i must say, nelly is very tolerant of the `whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. but will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with fanny, and indeed, i don't wish to do anything so disagreeable." "i am sure you do not, graeme. i think i can understand your troubles, but i am afraid i cannot tell you how to help them." "no, will. the kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. what i want for myself is some kind of real work to do. and i want it for rose." "but, graeme, you would never surely think of going away,--i mean, to stay always?" "why not? we are not needed here, rose and i. no, will, i don't think it is that i am growing tired of `woman's work.' it was very simple, humble work i used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. but of such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than i am; and i was content with it. it helped to make a happy home, and that was much." "you have forgotten something in your list of trifles, graeme,--your love and care for us all." "no, will. these are implied. it is the love and care that made all these trifles really `woman's work.' a poor dreary work it would be without these." "and, graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?" said will. "there is, indeed, will. if i were only sure that it is my work. but, i am not sure. and it seems as though--somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do." and letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond. "oh! will," she went on in a little, "you do not know. you who have your life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. you know the work before you is your work--given you by god himself. you need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. and look at the difference. think of all the years i may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. and all the time not knowing whether i ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all--never sure but that elsewhere, i might find wholesome work for god and man." very seldom did graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. but will said,-- "even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate `woman's work' to do,--love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on fanny's domain." he began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. she did not laugh. "i have thought of that, too. it seems so natural and proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman should marry. and there have been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, i have thought that any change would be for the better. but it would not be right, unless--" she hesitated. "no, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not reasonably hope that the right person may come?" "we won't talk about it, will. there must be some other way than that. many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. i wish i could do as the merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school." "but they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. and as for school-keeping--" "it would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with god's help, i might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better for my labour." "but you could not part from rose, and arthur could never be made to see it right that you should go away," said will. "rose should go with me. and arthur would not like it at first, nor fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. and as to the school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more's the pity." "there is work enough of the best kind. it is the remuneration that is scant. and the remuneration could not be made a secondary consideration; if you left home." "in one sense, it ought to be secondary. but i think it must be delightful to feel that one is `making one's living,' as mr snow would say. i _should_ like to know how it feels to be quite independent, will, i must confess." "but graeme, there is no need; and it would make arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent." "does it, will. that is dreadful. it is quite possible that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. we won't speak any more about it, will." "but, why should we not speak about it? you may be quite right. at any rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself." but, if graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just now. there was a knock at the door, and sarah, the housemaid, presented herself. "if you please, miss graeme, do you think i might go out as usual. it is wednesday, you know." wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in sarah's kirk. she was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young preacher of the day. "if nelly thinks she can manage without you," said graeme. "it was nelly proposed it. she can do very well, unless mrs elliott brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late." "well, go then, and don't be late. and be sure you come home with the shaws' sarah," said miss elliott. "they are late," said will. "i am afraid i cannot wait for dinner. i promised to be with doctor d at seven." they went down-stairs together. nelly remonstrated, with great earnestness against will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner." "though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiled already. the fowls werena much to begin with. it needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things overdone, or else in the dead thraw." "i am very sorry will should lose his dinner," said graeme; "but they cannot be long in coming now." "there's no saying. they may meet in with folk that may keep them to suit their ain convenience. it has happened before." more than once, when fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone for arthur and dined at grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. to have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, was a trial to nelly at any time. and if mrs grove had anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater. for nelly--to use her own words--had no patience with that "meddlesome person." any interference on her part in household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies before mrs arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. all hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were utterly ignored by nelly, when it could be done without positive disobedience to miss graeme or mrs elliott. if direct orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of availing herself of mrs grove's experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time irritating and amusing. she had no reason to suppose that mrs grove had anything to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following graeme into the dining-room, where will sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she said,-- "as there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, miss graeme." "we will wait a few minutes longer. there is no haste," said graeme, quietly. graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came--so long that nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she went,-- "i'll no vex her. she has her ain troubles, i daresay, with her young brother going away, and many another thing that i ken nothing about. it would ill set me to add to her vexations. she is not at peace with herself, that's easy to be seen." chapter thirty. graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled will's pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease. "for there is no good vexing him. he cannot even advise me; and, indeed, i am afraid i have not the courage really to go away." but she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness. they came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied--to nelly's indignant satisfaction--by mrs grove. graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. rose came first, and her sister's question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face. "graeme, i have something to tell you. what is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?" graeme shook her head. "i should have to consider a while first--i am not good at guessing. but won't it keep? nelly is out of all patience." but rose was too excited to heed her. "no; it won't keep. guess who is coming--janet!" graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise. "arthur got a letter from mr snow to-day. read it." graeme read, rose looking over her shoulder. "i am very glad. but, rosie, you must make haste. fanny will be down in a minute, and nelly is impatient." "no wonder! but i must tell her about mrs snow." and with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations. "nelly! who do you think is coming? you will never guess. i may as well tell you. mrs snow!" "eh, me! that's news, indeed. take care of the gravy, miss rose, dear. and when is she coming?" there was not the faintest echo of rebuke in nelly's tone. there was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. she looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more. "and when will she be coming?" she asked. "some time in june. and, nelly, such preparations as we shall have! but it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. we could not help it, indeed." "you dinna need to tell me that. i heard who came with you. carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly." "and so your old nurse is coming?" said mrs grove, after they had been some time at the table. "how delightful! you look quite excited, rose. she is a very nice person, i believe, miss elliott." graeme smiled. mrs grove's generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, mrs grove continued. "we must think of some way of doing her honour. we must get up a little _fete_--a pic-nic or something. will she stay here or at mr birnie's. she is a friend of his, i suppose, as rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. it is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. they are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one's time--" rose sent her a glance of indignation; graeme only smiled. arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first. "i doubt such things would hardly be in mrs snow's way. mrs grove could hardly make a lion of our janet, i fancy, graeme." "i fancy not," said graeme, quietly. "oh! i assure you, i shall be willing to take any trouble. i truly appreciate humble worth. we so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. you must tell me all about her some day, rose." rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. mrs grove went on. "didn't she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded--" "by a pic-nic," said rose, as mrs grove hesitated. "rose, don't be satirical," said arthur, trying not to laugh. "i am sure you must be delighted, fanny--arthur's old nurse you know. it need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. it is not you she comes to see." "i am not so sure of that," said arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. "i fancy fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. she will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, i can assure her." "and janet was not arthur's nurse," said rose. "graeme was baby when she came first." "and i fancy nursing was but a small part of janet's work in those days," said arthur. "she was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. eh, graeme?" "ay, and more than that--more than could be told in words," said graeme, with glistening eyes. "and i am sure you will like her," said rose, looking straight into mrs grove's face. "her husband is very rich. i think he must be almost the richest man in merleville." arthur did not reprove rose this time, though she well deserved it. she read her reproof in graeme's look, and blushed and hung her head. she did not look very much abashed, however. she knew arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther. "do you know, fanny," said mrs grove, in a little, "i saw mrs tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. she has seen better days. it is sad to see a lady--for she seems to have been quite a lady--so reduced." "and who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on. "she is a person mrs gridley was speaking to fanny about--a very worthy person indeed." "she was speaking to you, you mean, mamma," said fanny. "was it to me? well, it is all the same. she is a widow. she lived in q---a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in haughton place. i don't know why she left. some one married, i think. since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn't agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel." "she seems to have experienced vicissitudes," said arthur, for the sake of saying something. "has she not? and a very worthy person she is, i understand, and an admirable cook. she markets, too--or she did at haughton house--and that is such a relief. she must be an invaluable servant." "i should think so, indeed," said arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything. graeme and rose were speaking about janet and her expected visit, and fanny sat silent and embarrassed. but nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and mrs grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. an uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and nelly "could put this and that together as well as another." the operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as nelly shut the door mrs grove said,-- "she is out of place now, fanny, and would just suit you. but you must be prompt if you wish to engage her." "oh! there is no hurry about it, i suppose," said fanny, glancing uneasily at graeme. but graeme took no notice. mrs grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving graeme out of the conversation. she was very willing to be left out. besides, she never thought of influencing fanny in the presence of her stepmother. "oh! but i assure you there is," said mrs grove. "there are several ladies wishing to have her. mrs ruthven, among the rest." "oh! it is such a trouble changing," said fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly. "not at all. it is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome," said mrs grove, and she had a right to know. "i advise you not to let this opportunity pass." "but, after all, nelly does very well. she is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, i suppose," said fanny. "you are quite right, fanny," said arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. "i daresay nelly is a better servant--notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know--than the decayed gentlewoman. she will be a second janet, yet--an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. we couldn't do without nelly. eh, graeme?" graeme smiled, and said nothing. rose answered for her. "no, indeed i am so glad nelly will see mrs snow." "very well," said mrs grove. "since miss elliott seems to be satisfied with nelly, i suppose she must stay. it is a pity you had not known sooner, fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. but she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate." her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure. "what is it all about! who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. "some one mrs grove has seen," said graeme, evasively. "but what about nelly? surely you are not thinking of changing servants, graeme?" "oh! i hope not; but nelly has been out of sorts lately--grumbled a little--" "out of sorts, grumbled!" exclaimed fanny, vexed that mrs grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that arthur should have addressed his question to graeme. "she has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and i shall not bear it any longer." poor little fanny could hardly keep back her tears. "impertinent to you, fanny," cried graeme and arthur in a breath. "well, to mamma--and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says nelly has been long enough here. servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon graeme as mistress rather than me. she quite treats me like a child," continued fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded. "and, besides," she added, after there had been a moment's uncomfortable silence, "nelly wishes to go." "is barkis willing at last?" said arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment. rose laughed too. it had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified mr stirling. nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener's attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged. "nonsense, arthur! that has nothing to do with it," said fanny. "then, she must be going to her sister--the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. she has spoken about that every summer, more or less. her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. but she will get over it. it is all nonsense about her leaving." "but it is not nonsense," said fanny, sharply. "of course graeme will not like her to go, but nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says i shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. and i think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance." "but how good a servant is she?" asked arthur. "didn't you hear what mamma said about her? and, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing." "well, i think we may as well `sleep upon it,' as janet used to say. there will be time enough to decide after to-night," said arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess. the rest sat silent. rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. graeme was indignant, but not surprised. indeed, nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing. she was not indignant with fanny, but with her mother. she felt that there was some truth in fanny's declaration, that nelly looked upon her as a child. she had nelly's own word for that. she considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and "no' heeded" when any serious business was going on. but fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it. the easiest and most natural thing for graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. she felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of mrs grove. besides, it would be so ungrateful to nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. and yet, as she looked at fanny's pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,-- "we must have patience and wait." and the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. before a week, nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister's cows and children, and the estimable mrs tilman was installed in her place. it was an uncomfortable time for all. rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to mrs elliott as she ought to have done. if half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, nelly would have been content. but graeme would not compromise fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of mrs grove in their affairs. and yet she could not bear that nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes. "will you stay with your sister, nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? there are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you." "i'm no' sure, miss elliott. i have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. and as to another place--" nelly stopped suddenly. if she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. but she said nothing, and went away--ran away, indeed. for when she saw the sorrowful tears in graeme's eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when graeme said: "you'll let us hear from you, nelly. you'll surely let us hear from you soon?" there was very little said about the new order of affairs. the remonstrance which fanny expected from graeme never came. mrs grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. mrs tilman was a very respectable-looking person. a little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. she was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week's trial; and fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. mrs tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer's book and the butcher's book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. she was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of mrs tilman's magnificent experiences. but the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner. to be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to sarah. but fortunately for her and the household generally, graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people's duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. not that nelly's departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life. for graeme had set her heart on two things. first, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of mrs snow's visit; and second, that mrs snow should admire and love arthur's wife. she had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother's choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. at any rate, she could not bear to think that janet should not be quite content. not that she was very much afraid. for graeme's feelings toward fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. she was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which fanny was not long recovered. her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. this influence would grow weaker in time, and fanny would improve in consequence. the vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire. but she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. so mrs tilman's administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on fanny's part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which rose was inclined to resent. graeme did not resent it, and rose was ready to forgive fanny's triumph, since fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of mrs snow's visit. as for will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the mcintyre children and cows had proved irresistible to nelly at last. and arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency. chapter thirty one. they came at last. arthur and will met them on the other side of the river, and graeme and rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go. it was a very quiet meeting--a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and janet's eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. they had all changed, she said. arthur was like his father; will was like both father and mother. as for rosie-- "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, "i think rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister marian," and her eye rested on the girl's blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, graeme had not changed more than any of them. as for fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. she need not have been afraid. her time was coming. even now she encountered an odd glance or two from mr snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. that there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and fanny relented. what might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. they were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, mr snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities--good--and not so good--of the pretty little housekeeper. after dinner all were more at their ease. mr snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and arthur sat there beside him. they were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside graeme; and janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. graeme grew silent too. indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak. she was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. rose's extraordinary restlessness prevented that. she seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with fanny or will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between mr snow and arthur outside. at one moment she was hanging over graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at mrs snow's side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight. the truth was, rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. she would not have confessed it to graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of mrs snow's visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. she had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. but she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing--not to themselves. janet would always be janet to them-- the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as mrs grove. but rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals. but that was all past now. and seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, rose's misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. she had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little. "a soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn--is not little emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? and such a beauty of a shawl!--that's the one sandy brought." and so rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. all rosie's admiration was for mrs snow. "is she not just like a picture sitting there?" she whispered to will, as she passed him. and indeed rosie's admiration was not surprising; she was the very janet of old times; but she sat there in fanny's handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been "used with" fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes. and yet there was no real cause for surprise. for janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth. that mr snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. the deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, "had the faculty of doing 'most anything," had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. the hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. a judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. so one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that will should show him canada. up to a comparatively recent period, all mr snow's ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old "history of the french and indian war." of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the aborigines. still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of will and the indignation of rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the queen's dominions. so when he proposed that will should show him canada, rose looked gravely up and asked,-- "where will you go first, will? to the red river or hudson's bay or to nova scotia? you must be back to lunch." they all laughed, and arthur said,-- "oh, fie, rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of canada!--such ignorance!" "they are in the queen's dominions, though, and mr snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on british soil." "well, i guess we can make out a full day's work in canada, can't we? it is best to take it moderate," said mr snow, smiling benignly on rose. he was tolerant of the young lady's petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see. he was changed in other respects as well. indeed, it must be confessed that just at first arthur was a little disappointed in him. he had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the "sharp yankee deacon." for harry had a good story about "uncle sampson" ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. but harry's acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their merleville life, and mr snow had changed much since then. he saw all things in a new light. wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. the charity which "believeth and hopeth all things," and which "thinketh no evil," lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of "showing him canada," but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw. the first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. with the town itself he was greatly pleased. the great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. but as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. all these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the montrealers "a _leetle_ behind the times." on the whole, however, his appreciation of british energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances. "you've got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one's ideas of what a river ought to be--broad and deep and full," he said to arthur one day. "it kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea." "yes, it is like your father of waters," said arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner. "one wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. i didn't see it the day when i crossed it, for the mist and rain. to-day, as we stood looking down upon it, i couldn't but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, i suppose, or ever since the time of adam and eve--if the date ain't the same, as some folks seem to think." "i always think how wonderful it must have seemed to jacques cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore," said rose. "no wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the china seas." "a wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that," said arthur. "the sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year." "if ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too." "oh! the bridge will be built, i suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. the western trade will be benefited as well. what do you think of your massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? this communication with the more northern cotton growing states is more direct by this than any other way." "well, i ain't prepared to say much about it. some folks wouldn't think much of that. but i suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow." but to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain. "a mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! why, our sheep pasture at merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. it is only a hill, and moderate at that. you must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call _that_ one. you've forgotten all about merleville, rosie, to be content with that for a mountain." while, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content "to putter along" as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. in merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. if the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony new england hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the saint lawrence, what a garden it might become! and the yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers. one afternoon he and will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. they had a fair day for a fair sight, and when mr snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon. beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which june loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. there were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses. up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them. "i suppose the land that moses saw from pisgah, must have been like this," said mr snow, as he gazed. "yes, the promised land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water," said will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. could they ever gaze enough? could they ever weary themselves of the sight? the shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go. "i wouldn't have missed _that_ now, for considerable," said mr snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. "no, i wouldn't have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team'll cost," added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. will smiled, and made no answer. he was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. to will's imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. he was one of them. he fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. in imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. and coming back to actual life, with an effort--a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his. but will was mistaken. in the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. he passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of beulah. looking over the blue line of the ottawa, as over the river of death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the divine companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the divine exemplar. will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad's heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of god's face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend's eyes saw. a word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. and so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight. that night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, mr snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. it was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than mr snow had ever known him. it had belonged to a friend in scotland, and had been sent to arthur, at his death, about a year ago. the likeness had been striking, and to janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. she was never weary of looking at it, and even mr snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. that night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. in a little, rose came and stood beside him. "do you think it is very like him?" asked she. "well," said mr snow, meditatively, "it's like him and it ain't like him. i love to look at it, anyhow." "at first it puzzled me," said rose. "it seemed like the picture of some one i had seen in a dream; and when i shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father's face as it used to be in merleville, it would not come--the face of the dream came between." "well, there is something in that," said mr snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. "no, it won't do that for me. it would take something i hain't thought of yet, to make me forget his face." "it does not trouble me now," said rose. "i can shut my eyes, and see him, oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin--" she was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. mr snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,-- "yes, dear, and so can i, if we didn't know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. but i shall never forget him-- never. he did too much for me, for that. he was the best friend i ever had, by all odds--the very best." rose smiled through her tears. "he brought you mrs snow," said she, softly. "yes, dear. that was much, but he did more than that. it was through him that i made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even _she_ is--and that is saying considerable," added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair. "were you speaking?" said mrs snow, looking up at the sound of his voice. "yes, i was speaking to rosie, here. how do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to merleville with us?" "she is going with us, or she will soon follow us. what would emily say, if she didna come?" "yes, i know. but i meant to stay for good and all. graeme, won't you give us this little girl?" graeme smiled. "yes. on one condition--if you will take me too." mr snow shook his head. "i am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. we should have other conditions to add to that one." "yes," said arthur, laughing. "you would have to take fanny and me, as well, in that case. i don't object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them--that would never do." "but it must be both or neither," said graeme, eagerly, "i couldna' trust rosie away from me. i havena these sixteen years--her whole life, have i, janet? if you want rosie, you must have me, too." she spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. the others saw it, and were silent, but fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,-- "but what could we do without you both? that would not be fair--" "oh! you would have arthur, and arthur would have you. at any rate, rosie is mine, and i am not going to give her to any one who won't have me, too. she is all i shall have left when will goes away." "graeme would not trust rosie with arthur and me," said fanny, a little pettishly. "there are so many things that graeme don't approve of. she thinks we would spoil rose." janet's hand touched hers, whether by accident or design graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,-- "mrs snow thinks that you and arthur are spoiling us both, fanny." janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking graeme's bowed head,-- "i dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but i have seen worse bairns." after this, mr snow and will began the survey of canada in earnest. first they went to quebec, where they lingered several days. then they went farther down the river, and up the saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. this part of the trip will enjoyed more than his friend, but mr snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. they did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though mr snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. they shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire. though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. that a "live yankee," cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. will's frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and mr snow's kindly advances were seldom long withstood. but there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention--perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. as for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. if he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than "so had their fathers said and done before them," and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the american frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five. will was greatly amused and interested by all this. he was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other's point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. this power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other's theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. by this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. they would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening. before returning home, they visited niagara, that wonderful work of god, too great and grand, as mr snow told rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. this part of the trip was for will's sake. mr snow had visited them on his way west many years ago. indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for will's benefit, but those were not the parts which mr snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards. "it paid well. i had my own share of the pleasure, and will's, too. if ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. it was worth going, just to see his pleasure." when the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of canada, known as the eastern townships. arthur went with them there. it was but a glimpse they could give it. passing in through missisquoi county to the head of the lovely lake memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the county of stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what mr snow declared to be "as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see." this "seeing canada" was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, mr snow acknowledged to the delighted rose. it could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was. "canada will be heard from yet, i expect," said he, one night when they had returned home. "by the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you'll be ready to go ahead. i don't see but you have as good a chance as ever we had--better, even. you have got the same elements of prosperity and success. you have got the bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. then for inhabitants, you've got the scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you've got the englishman, who'll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you've got frenchmen, germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you've got what we didn't have to begin with, you've got the yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, rosie." rose laughed and shook her head. she was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night. "yes," continued he, "the real live yankee is about as complete a man as you'll generally meet anywhere. he has the caution of the scot, to temper the fire of the irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the englishman has. he'll keep things going among you. he'll bring you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let you fall back again. yes; if ever canada is heard from, the yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake." chapter thirty two. in the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in mrs tilman's department. graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for emily. and through all, mrs snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to canada. through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be. the years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made janet older than they ought to have done, graeme thought. it was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. the dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's death, followed so soon by the loss of marian and the minister, had been too much for janet. it might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. for weeks she had been utterly prostrate. the letters, which told the bairns, in their canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. the misery that had darkened her first winter in merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. that she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others--that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. she knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. she knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. oh! the misery of that time! the fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. the very light grew hateful to her. her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair. and, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to heaven, that the void might be filled, that in god's good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart. and this came after long waiting. slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. the sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the healer. again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her god-given work, that might not be left undone. but she was never quite the same. there was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. she was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. and much love did janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of marian, now in heaven. and so god's peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. but she never forgot them. her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. and so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be. had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. if happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to--if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw. but she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. she knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "for," said she to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them-- and no help." she was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. she saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. she smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. and so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less. for will she had no fear. he was his father's own son, with his father's work awaiting him. all would be well with will. and for arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother--the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. it would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked. "he has a leaven of worldliness in him, i'll no deny," said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. "and there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. he'll maybe get them, and maybe no'. but if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he'll get something better. i have small fear for the lad. he minds his father's ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. it's a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it. there is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father's son." and in her quiet waiting and watching, janet grew assured for them all at last. not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of god grew stronger every day; and to be ever in god's keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. it left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of rose, and waited patiently till graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat. as to fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. there were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. a duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. but fanny was arthur's wife, and arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in janet's admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. so she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put fanny's beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though arthur's wife was not like arthur's mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh. "i needna wonder at it. love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and mr arthur is no' above making a mistake. though how he should--minding his mother as he does--amazes me. but he's well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and miss graeme is no' ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. still i canna but wonder after all is said." and she still wondered. there were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, janet's candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. she could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as mrs grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of fanny's future worth or wisdom. that is, she would have had little hope but for one thing--graeme had faith in fanny, that was clear. love might blind arthur's eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for graeme; and graeme was tolerant of fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. she was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which rose openly, and even in arthur's presence, never failed to resent. indeed, graeme refused to see fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister. and that fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted graeme was very evident. there was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, janet took courage to hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it was given her to see, and to hope also that arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. she was slow to commit herself to graeme, and graeme was in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife. they had plenty of other subjects to discuss. all their merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days. the talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. and mrs snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among them again; and then sandy and emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. rose and fanny never wearied of that, and mrs snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear. and when rose and fanny were away, as they often were, and graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. she told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden arthur. she told her of harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. they rejoiced together over hilda, and norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little german girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. this was all to be rejoiced over now. no doubt the care and pains which norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. so they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all. and will, who seemed to be graeme's own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to his future. graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow. and now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over graeme's life, but she was never sure. it was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that. "for a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift of itself without help in a while. and if it is no' a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. and time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. and god is good." but all this was said in janet's secret prayer. not even her husband shared her thoughts about graeme. "what a dismal day it is!" said fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain. it was dismal. it must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which fanny looked, it was worse. now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any. it was dismal within doors, too, fanny thought. it was during the time of mr snow and will's first trip, and arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. a household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind. graeme and rose were not uncomfortable. rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all fanny's exclamations of discontent were lost on her. graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and mrs snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear fanny exclaim petulantly,-- "and we were very foolish to have an early dinner. that would have been something to look forward to. and no one can possibly call. even mr green would be better than nobody--or even charlie millar." "these gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you," said rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to mrs snow. "are you not tired playing rose," said fanny, fretfully. "by no means. i hope my playing does not disturb you. i think this march is charming. come and try it." "no, i thank you. if the music does not disturb mrs snow, _i_ don't mind it." "i like it," said mrs snow. "the music is cheerful this dull day. though i would like a song better." "by and by you shall have a song. i would just like to go over this two or three times more." "two or three times! two or three hundred times, you mean," said fanny. "there's no end to rose's playing when she begins." then she wandered into the back parlour again. "are you going to write all day, graeme?" "not all day. has mrs snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "i have been neglecting harry lately, and i have so much to tell him, but i'll soon be done now." "my dear," said mrs snow, "dinna heed me; i have my knitting, and i enjoy the music." "oh! dear! i wish it didn't rain," said fanny. "my dear, the earth was needing it," said mrs snow, by way of saying something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over." "i believe graeme likes a rainy day," said fanny. "it is very stupid, i think." "yes, i sometimes like a rainy day. it brings a little leisure, which is agreeable." fanny shrugged her shoulders. "it is rather dismal to-day, however," said graeme. "you look cold with that light dress on, fanny, why don't you go and change it?" "what is the use? i wish arthur were coming home. he might have come, i'm sure." "you may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said graeme; turning to her letter again. "and my dear, might you no' take a seam? it would pass the time, if it did nothing else," said mrs snow. but the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, mrs snow knitted on in silence. "make something nice for tea," suggested rose, glancing over her shoulder. "that is not necessary _now_," said fanny, shortly. "oh! i only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time," said rose. it lasted a good while longer. it lasted till graeme, catching mrs snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about "mrs arthur." she rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where fanny was standing, said with a shiver:-- "it _is_ dismal, indeed. fanny, look at that melancholy cat. she wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. poor wee pussy." "graeme, don't you wish arthur were coming home," said fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then. "yes, indeed. but we must not tell him so. it would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. go and change your dress, dear, and we'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won't miss him so much." "fire!" repeated rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. "who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?" but rose was overruled. they had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had "wearied for them" when they first left merleville, and by and by rose said,-- "but that was all over when sandy came." "it was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'll mind yourselves. i was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my sandy." "oh! how glad you must have been!" said rose. "i wish i had been there to see. tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you." "i dinna mind what i said to him, or if i said anything at all. and he just said, `well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e'en," said janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever i carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, i did that night." "and would you have known him?" asked rose, gently. "oh! ay, would i. no' but what he was much changed. i wouldna have _minded_ him, but i would have kenned him anywhere." janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on. "i had had many a thought about his coming, and i grew afraid as the time drew near. either, i thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, i thought. you see i had so set my heart on seeing him, that i was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than i could hope that he should be to me all that i desired. but when he came, my fears were set at rest. he is an honest, god fearing lad, my sandy, and i need say nae mair about him." "and so clever, and handsome! and what did mr snow say?" "oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with sandy's heartsome, kindly ways. it made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. all my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that i may have a thankful heart." "and how did sandy like merleville, and all the people?" "oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. it would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him--mr and mrs greenleaf, especially, and the merles, and plenty besides. he made himself very useful to mr greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my sandy. it's on his business that he's west now. but he'll soon be home again." "and emily! tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other." "i canna do that, for i wasna there to hear. emily saw my sandy before i saw him myself, as you'll mind i told you before." "and was it love at first sight?" asked fanny. "and did the course of true love for once run smooth," said rose. mrs snow smiled at their eagerness. "as for the love at first sight--it came very soon to my sandy. i am no' sure about emily. as for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. they had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. but, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. i saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, i think. it was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when i was young--the sweet old scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, i fear. i never saw the two together in our garden, but i thought of the song that begins,--" "ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew, garred ilka thing look bonny--" "ah! well, god has been good to them, and to us all." "and mr snow was well pleased, of course," said fanny. "pleased is hardly the word for it. he had just set his heart on it from the very first, and i had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. oh ay, he was well pleased." "and it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. i daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved." "it is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. it was ay a bonny place, you'll mind. and it _is_ improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for emily." "and oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. if we trust our affairs in god's hand, he'll `bring it to pass,' as he has said. and if we are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end." chapter thirty three. "who is is mr green, anyhow?" the question was addressed by mr snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. his manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. as his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute. "who is mr green, that i hear tell so much about?" he repeated impressively, fixing will with his eye. "mr green? oh! he is an american merchant from the west," said the literal will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired. "he is a green mountain boy. he is the most perfect specimen of a real live yankee ever encountered in these parts,--cool, sharp, far-seeing,--" charlie millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real live yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company. "is that all you can say for your real live yankee, charlie, man?" said arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars." "and a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content," said charlie, with laughing defiance at rose. "quite true, charlie," said arthur; "if mr green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the `ultimate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith." "yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral," said charlie. "when he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it--the carpet and curtains--the books and pretty things--even the ladies--" "yes," continued arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it would be--mrs snow worth so much--naming the sum; miss elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; mrs elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! as for rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head." "the possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself," interposed charlie. "yes, to be sure. and imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. no, rosie wouldn't have a chance with him. you needn't frown, rosie, you haven't. whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, i can't say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him." "a circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron," said charlie. "arthur, i am shocked and astonished at you," said rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. "you have forgotten, charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. and harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. he has a very kind heart." "oh! if you come to his heart, miss rose, i can't speak for that. i have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. i didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not harry's authority and yours." "you see, rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, charlie gets beyond his depth. he has nothing to say." "especially tender hearts," said charlie; "i have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort." "charlie, i won't have you two quarrelling," said graeme, laughing. "rose is right. there is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to mr snow. "mr green is a real live yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. a little hard perhaps, a little worldly. but you should hear him speak of his mother. you would sympathise with him then, charlie. he told me all about his mother, one evening that i met him at grove house, i think. he told me about the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money." "but, who is he?" asked mr snow, with the air of one much interested; his question was this time addressed to fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,-- "oh, he is a rich merchant--ever so rich. he is going to give up business, and travel in europe." "for the improvement of his mind," said arthur. "i don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. he has built the handsomest house in the state, miss smith tells me. oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor." "i want to know?" said mr snow, accepting fanny's triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity. "he is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of miss elliott," said mrs grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more. "do tell?" said mr snow. "a singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said will. "a paradoxical specimen of a live yankee. don't frown, miss rose. mrs grove's statement proves my assertion," said charlie. "if you would like to meet him, mr snow, dine with us on friday," said mrs grove. "i am quite sure you will like and admire each other. i see many points of resemblance between you. well, then, i shall expect you _all_. miss elliott, you will not disappoint me, i hope." "but so large a party! mrs grove, consider how many there are of us," said graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table. "pray, don't mention it. we are to have no one else. quite a family party. i shall be quite disappointed if i don't see you all. the garden is looking beautifully now." "and one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. miss rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered charlie. "thank you," said graeme, in answer to mrs grove. "i have been longing to show mrs snow your garden. i hope the roses are not quite over." "oh, no!" said arthur. "there are any number left; and charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. it will be delightful by moonlight, won't it, rosie?" mrs grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by arthur. "so unlike him," she thought. mr millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. however, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "and have it over," as she said. so she smiled sweetly, and said,-- "pray do, mr millar. we shall expect you with the rest." charlie would be delighted, and said so. "but the flute," added he to rose. "well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. and a family party will be indeed charming." dining at grove house was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was mrs grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which fanny declared to be anything but polite. but, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often. a dinner _en famille_, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. it was not merely endurable, it was delightful. so rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of mrs snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. graeme and rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. there was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale. "if she has spoiled janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered rose. it was not so bad as that, however. of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only mr proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and fanny's old admirer, captain starr, came. as to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. mr snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could mr green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed. it was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. the garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of mr and mrs snow, and it was with their eyes that graeme looked at it to-night. they left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and rose and fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. the garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. they did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of mr snow. nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. mrs snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. she lingered with an interest, which to graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year. "it minds me of the ebba gardens," said she, after a little. "not that it is like them, except for the flowers. the ebba gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. you winna mind the ebba gardens, miss graeme." they had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below. "no," said graeme, "i was not at the ebba often. but i remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. i am not sure whether i remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful." "it is only fancy to you, i doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight." "perhaps so. but i don't think it can all be fancy. i am sure i mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. don't you mind?" "yes, i mind well. it was a bonny place," said janet, with a sigh. "but, what a tiny lake it must have been! i remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. it could not have been half so large as merleville pond." "it wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said mr snow. "it did for want of a bigger, you know," said graeme, laughing. "it made up in beauty what it wanted in size." "it was a bonny spot," said mrs snow. "and the birds! whenever i want to imagine bird music in perfection, i shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. i wonder what birds they were that sang there? i have never heard such singing of birds since then." "no, there are no such singing birds here," said mrs snow. "i used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. there are no birds like them here." "ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, miss graeme," said mr snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." graeme laughed, and mrs snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and mrs snow said,-- "no, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from sandy. there are no birds like them here; but i have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the american birds--not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding." "the birds were real birds, and the music was real music. oh! i wonder if i ever shall hear it again!" said graeme, with a sigh. "you will hear it, will, and see the dear old place. oh! how i wish you could take me too." will smiled. "i shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. but i don't remember the ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, mrs snow. i mind the last time we were there well." "i mind it, too," said mrs snow, gravely. "and yet, i should be almost sorry to go back again, lest i should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what i have been fancying them all this time. all those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. i have read of such things," said graeme. "i wouldna fear anything of that kind," said mrs snow; "i mind them all so well." "do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said will. "would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?" "no, lad," said mrs snow, emphatically. "i have no wish ever to go back." "you are afraid of the sea? but the steamers are very different from the old `steadfast'." "i was not thinking of the sea, though i would dread that too. but why should i wish to go back? there are two or three places i would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. and when i shut my eyes i can see them here. no, i have no wish to go back." there was a moment's silence, and then mrs snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,-- "i like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. but i am quite content with all things as they are. i wouldna go back, and i wouldna change my lot if i might. i am quite content." mr snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. there could be no doubt of _his_ content, or mrs snow's either, graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when janet's lot had been so different. she thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. and yet, janet was not changed. she was the very same. the qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. no one could doubt that. and graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? she prayed that it might be so. she longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. how long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! would she ever be so again? it did not seem possible. she tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. and yet, here was janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! and yet she had grown content? "what are you thinking about, graeme?" said will, who, as well as mr snow, had been watching her troubled face, graeme started. "oh! of a great many things. i don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but i was thinking of a day in merleville, long ago--an indian-summer day. i remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, i suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. how lovely it was that day!" "and then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as i passed out. i mind it, very well," said mr snow. "i was not friends with you that day. but how should you remember it? how should you know it was that day, of which i was thinking?" "i saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. that is how i came to think of it." "and then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. you werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said mrs snow. "oh! i was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt marian, and of our own menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. ah, me! i don't think i have been quite at peace with myself since that night." "miss graeme! my dear," expostulated mrs snow. "no, i have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. but i am glad of one thing, though i did not think that day it would ever make me glad. uncle sampson, did i ever tell you--i am afraid i never did--how glad i am now, that you were stronger than i was, and prevailed--in taking janet from us, i mean?" she was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. he did not turn round, or try to see it. he looked towards his wife, with a grave smile. "i don't think you ever told me in words." "no, because it is only a little while that i have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happier with you and emily and sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be." "i reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said mr snow, gravely. "no, i know that--i am sure of that. and i am glad--so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much." "ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" said mr snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. they were quite alone by this time. will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away. "no, i am not afraid. she knows i would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad i am we lost her, for her sake. and when i remember all that she has lived through--all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid." his eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to graeme. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "is there anything i may not know?" "no. only i am glad for janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because--" it would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be mrs grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. she did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be mrs grove's first remark. "ah! i see you have an eye for the beautiful." she had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. it was varied a little, this time. "you see, mr green, miss elliott has an eye for the beautiful. i knew we should find her here, with her friends." the rest was as usual. "observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. there is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. the scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. can you imagine anything more tranquil? it seems the very domain of silence and repose." the last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by charlie millar and will, and the young groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight. "it is a bonny, quiet place," said mrs snow. "the garden is not seen at its best now," continued mrs grove. "the beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season." "it looks first-rate," said mr snow. "it costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept," continued mrs grove. "i sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye." mrs grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought "the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience. "there is something in that," said mr snow, meditatively; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, i think." "oh! i expect it pays," said mr green. "to people who are fond of such things, i expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most any other thing." "to say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk--to one's friends," suggested mrs snow. "i was calculating that, too," said mr green. "the pleasure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. _that_ pays." "if we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things god has made, the better and the happier we will be," said mr snow. "it will pay in that way, i guess." he turned an inquiring look on mr green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife. "yes," said, she, softly, "the more we see of god's love and wisdom in the beautiful things he has made, the more we shall love him, and in loving him we shall grow like him." mr snow nodded. mr green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke. "i suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, mr green," said mrs grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. she flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of mr and mrs snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views and opinions. whether mr green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,-- "miss elliott, mr green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. it must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire." thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in graeme that she should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating "indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped. "there must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. it must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don't you think so, miss elliott?" "i don't know," said graeme, hesitatingly. "for a place of residence, i should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried." "of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as mr green's--i forget what style of architecture it is." but mr green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. he only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would "pay." "oh! you cannot tell yet," said mrs grove. "that will depend altogether on circumstances. it is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. you have been roaming about the world quite long enough. i don't at all approve of the european trip, unless, indeed--" she paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that mr green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps. "miss elliott," continued mrs grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing graeme into the conversation, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?" "accompanying will? oh! i have never for a moment thought of such a thing. the expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it." "indeed, then i must have misunderstood you when i fancied i heard you say how much you would like to go. i thought you longed for a chance to see scotland again." "i daresay you heard me say something of the kind. i should like to visit scotland very much, and other countries, too. and i intend to do so when i have made my fortune," added she, laughing. "or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?" asked mrs grove. "oh, yes! a great deal better. when some one makes my fortune for me, i shall visit europe. i think i may promise that." "have you ever been west, yet, miss elliott? you spoke of going at one time, i remember," said mr green. "never yet. all my travelling has been done at the fireside. i have very much wished to visit my brother norman. i daresay rose and i will find ourselves there some day," added she, turning to mr snow. "unless we keep you in merleville," said he, smiling. "oh! well, i am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know." "how do you suppose fanny could ever do without you?" asked mrs grove, reproachfully. "oh! she would miss us, i daresay. but i don't think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness." "of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. we cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, i know." "especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion," said graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to mrs snow. "let us walk, again. what can will and the children be doing? something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise." mrs grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to mr snow on the exceeding loveliness of miss elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend. "and with you, too," she added; "i scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel." "there," said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "i have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. one can see what _he_ wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance." chapter thirty four. why mrs grove thought mr green might need an opening for anything he had to say to mr snow did not appear, as he did not avail himself of it. it was mr snow who spoke first, after a short silence. "going to give up business and settle down. eh?" "i have thought of it. i don't believe i should enjoy life half as well if i did, however." "how much do you enjoy it now?" inquired mr snow. "well, not a great deal, that is a fact; but as well as folks generally do, i reckon. but, after all, i do believe to keep hard to work is about as good a way as any to take comfort in the world." mr green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and plucking a twig from the root of a young cedar, began fashioning it into an instrument slender and smooth. "that is about the conclusion i have come to," repeated he; "and i expect i will have to keep to work if i mean to get the good of life." "there are a good many kinds of work to be done in the world," suggested mr snow. mr green gave him a glance curious and inquiring. "well, i suppose there are a good many ways of working in the world, but it all comes to the same thing pretty much, i guess. folks work to get a living, and then to accumulate property. some do it in a large way, and some in a small way, but the end is the same." "suppose you should go to work to spend your money now?" suggested mr snow, again. "well, i've done a little in that way, too, and i have about come to the conclusion that that don't pay as well as the making of it, as far as the comfort it gives. i ain't a very rich man, not near so rich as folks think; but i had got a kind of sick of doing the same thing all the time, and so i thought i would try something else a spell. so i rather drew up, though i ain't out of business yet, by a great deal. i thought i would try and see if i could make a home, so i built. but a house ain't a home--not by a great sight. i have got as handsome a place as anybody need wish to have, but i would rather live in a hotel any day than have the bother of it. i don't more than half believe i shall ever live there long at a time." he paused, and whittled with great earnestness. "it seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a man has worked hard half his life and more to make property, that he shouldn't be able to enjoy it when he has got it." "what do you suppose is the reason?" asked mr snow, gravely, but with rather a preoccupied air. he was wondering how it was that mr green should have been betrayed into giving his dreary confidences to a comparative stranger. "well, i don't know," replied mr green, meditatively. "i suppose, for one thing, i have been so long in the mill that i can't get out of the old jog easily. i should have begun sooner, or have taken work and pleasure by turns as i went along. i don't take much comfort in what seems to please most folks." there was a pause; mr snow had nothing to say in reply, however, and in a little mr green went on: "i haven't any very near relations; cousins and cousin's children are the nearest. i have helped them some, and would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to be helped, but they don't seem very near to me. i enjoy well enough going to see them once in a while, but it don't amount to much all they care about me; and, to tell the truth, it ain't much i care about them. if i had a family of my own, it would be different. women folks and young folk enjoy spending money, and i suppose i would have enjoyed seeing them do it. but i have about come to the conclusion that i should have seen to that long ago." without moving or turning his head, he gave his new friend a look out of the corner of his eyes that it might have surprised him a little to see; but mr snow saw nothing at the moment. to wonder as to why this new acquaintance should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding a feeling of pity for him--a desire to help him--and he was considering the propriety of improving the opportunity given to drop a "word in season" for his benefit. not that he had much confidence in his own skill at this sort of thing. it is to be feared the deacon looked on this way of witnessing for the truth as a cross to be borne rather than as a privilege to be enjoyed. he was readier with good deeds than with good words, and while he hesitated, mr green went on: "how folks can hang round with nothing particular to do is what i can't understand. i never should get used to it, i know. i've made considerable property, and i expect i have enjoyed the making more than i ever shall enjoy the spending of it." "i shouldn't wonder if you had," said mr snow, gravely. "i _have_ thought of going right slap into political life. i might have got into the legislature, time and again; and i don't doubt but i might find my way to congress by spending something handsome. that might be as good a way to let off the steam as any. when a man gets into politics, he don't seem to mind much else. he has got to drive right through. i don't know how well it pays." "in the way of comfort, i'm afraid it _don't_ pay," said mr snow. "i expect not. i don't more than half think it would pay _me_. politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our country. i don't believe i should ever get to see my way clear to go all lengths; and i don't believe it would amount to anything if i could. besides, if a man expects to get very far along in _that_ road, he has got to take a fair start in good season. i learnt to read and cypher in the old log school-house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on sunday afternoons, and that is about all the book-learning i ever got. i shouldn't hardly have an even chance with some of those college-bred chaps, though there are _some_ things i know as well as the best of them, i reckon. have you ever been out west?" "i was there once a good many years ago. i had a great notion of going to settle there when i was a young man. i am glad i didn't, though." "money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it used to be," said mr green. "but there is chance enough, if a man has a head for it. i have seen some cool business done there at one time and another." the chances in favour of mr snow's "word in season" were becoming fewer, he saw plainly, as mr green wandered off from his dissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of his business-life; so, with a great effort, he said: "ain't it just possible that your property and the spending of it don't satisfy you because it is not in the nature of such things to give satisfaction?" mr green turned and looked earnestly at him. "well, i have heard so, but i never believed it any more for hearing it said. the folks that say it oftenest don't act as if they believed it themselves. they try as hard for it as any one else, if they are to be judged by their actions. it is all right to say they believe it, i suppose, because it is in the bible, or something like it is." "and you believe it, not because it is in the bible, but because you are learning, by your own experience, every day you live." mr green whistled. "come, now; ain't that going it a little too strong? i never said i didn't expect to enjoy my property. i enjoy it now, after a fashion. if a man ain't going to enjoy his property, what is he to enjoy?" "all that some people enjoy is the making of it. you have done that, you say. there is less pleasure to be got from wealth, even in the most favourable circumstances, than those who haven't got it believe. they who have it find that out, as you are doing. "but i can fancy myself getting all the pleasure i want out of my property, if only some things were different--if i had something else to go with it. other folks seem to take the comfort out of theirs as they go along." "they seem to; but how can you be sure as to the enjoyment they really have? how many of your friends, do you suppose, suspect that you don't get all the satisfaction out of yours that you seem to? do you suppose the lady who was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has any idea that it is only a weariness to you?" "i was telling her so as we came along. she says the reason i don't enjoy it is because there is something else that i haven't got, that ought to go along with it and i agreed with her there." again a furtive glance was sent towards mr snow's thoughtful face. he smiled and shook his head. "yes, it is something else you want. it is always something else, and ever will be till the end comes. that something else, if it is ever yours, will bring disappointment with it. it will come as you don't expect it or want it, or it will come too late. there is no good talking. there is nothing in the world that it will do to make a portion of." mr green looked up at him with some curiosity and surprise. this sounded very much like what he used to hear in conference meeting long ago, but he had an idea that such remarks were inappropriate out of meeting, and he wondered a little what could be mr snow's motive for speaking in that way just then. "as to making a portion of it, i don't know about that; but i do know that there is considerable to be got out of money. what can't it get? or rather, i should say, what can be got without it? i don't say that they who have the most of it are always best off, because other things come in to worry them, maybe; but the chances are in favour of the man that has all he wants to spend. you'll never deny that." "that ain't just the way i would put it," said mr snow. "i would say that the man who expects his property to make him happy, will be disappointed. the amount he has got don't matter. it ain't in it to give happiness. i know, partly because i have tried, and it has failed me, and partly because i am told that `a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he possesseth.' "well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't one man in ten thousand who believes it, or at least who acts as if he believed it? why is all the world chasing after wealth, as if it were the one thing for body and soul? if money ain't worth having, why hasn't somebody found it out, and set the world right about it before now?" "as to money not being worth the having, i never said that. what i say is, that god never meant that mere wealth should make a man happy. that has been found out times without number; but as to setting the world right about it, i expect that is one of the things that each man must learn by experience. most folks do learn it after a while, in one way or other." "well," said mr green, gravely, "you look as if you believed what you say, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty well too. if it ain't your property that makes you happy, what is it?" "it ain't my property, _sartain_," said mr snow, with emphasis. "i know i shouldn't be any happier if i had twice as much. and i am sure i shouldn't be less happy if i hadn't half as much; my happiness rests on a surer foundation than anything i have got." he paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right word to say--something that might be as "a fire and a hammer" to the softening and breaking of that world-hardened heart. "he _does_ look as if he believed what he was saying," mr green was thinking to himself. "it is just possible he might give me a hint. he don't look like a man who don't practise as he preaches." aloud, he said,-- "come, now, go ahead. what has cured one, may help another, you know. give us your idea as to what is a sure foundation for a man's happiness." mr snow looked gravely into his face and said, "blessed is the man who feareth the lord." "blessed is the man whose trust the lord is." "blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." "blessed is the man to whom the lord imputeth not iniquity, in whose spirit there is no guile." mr green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. it came into his mind that if there was happiness to be found in the world, this man had found it. but it seemed a happiness very far-away from him--quite beyond his reach--something that it would be impossible for him ever to find now. the sound of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of a sabbath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to him, and just for a moment he realised their unchangeable truth, and for that moment he knew that his life had been a failure. a pang of regret, a longing for another chance, and a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for an instant and then passed away. he rose from his seat, and moved a few paces down the walk, and when he came back he did not sit down again. his cedar twig was smoothed down at both ends to the finest possible point, and after balancing it for a minute on his forefingers, he tossed it over his shoulder, and shutting his knife with a click, put it in his pocket before he spoke. "well, i don't know as i am much better off for that," said he, discontentedly. "i suppose you mean that i ought to get religion. that is no new idea. i have heard _that_ every time i have gone to meeting for the last thirty years, which hasn't been as often as it might have been, but it has been often enough for all the good it has done me." he looked at mr snow as if he expected him to make some sort of a reply, but he was silent. he was thinking how vain any words of his would be to convince him, or to show him a more excellent way. he was thinking of the old time, and of the talk wasted on him by the good people who would fain have helped him. at last he said, gravely: "it wouldn't amount to much, all i could say to you, even if i was good at talking, which i ain't. i can only tell you that i never knew what it was to be satisfied till i got religion, and i have never been discontented since, and i don't believe i ever shall again, let what will happen to me." he paused a moment, and added,-- "i don't suppose anything i could say would help you to see things as i wish you did, if i were to talk all night. talk always falls short of the mark, unless the heart is prepared for it, and then the simplest word is enough. there are none better than the words i gave you a minute ago; and when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just you try what trust in the lord will do." nothing more was said. the sound of approaching footsteps warned them that they were no longer alone, and in a little mrs elliott and rose were seen coming up the walk, followed by arthur and captain starr. they were discussing something that interested them greatly, and their merry voices fell pleasantly on the ear. very pretty both young ladies looked, crowned with the roses they had been weaving into wreaths. the grave look which had settled on mr green's face, passed away as he watched their approach. "pretty creatures, both of them," remarked he. "mrs elliott appears well, don't she? i never saw any one improve so much as she has done in the last two years. i used to think her--well not very superior." "she is a pretty little thing, and good tempered, i think," said mr snow, smiling. "i shouldn't wonder if our folks made something of her, after all. she is in better keeping than she used to be, i guess." "she used to be--well, a little of a flirt, and i don't believe she has forgot all about it yet," said mr green, nodding in the direction of captain starr, with a knowing look. the possibility of a married woman's amusing herself in that way was not among the subjects to which mr snow had given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply. "and the other one--she understands a little of it, too, i guess." "what, rosie? she is a child. graeme will teach her better than that. she despises such things," said mr snow, warmly. "she don't flirt any herself, does she?" asked mr green, coolly. "miss elliott, i mean." mr snow turned on him astonished eyes. "i don't know as i understand what you mean by flirting. i always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, something unbecoming in any woman, married or single. graeme ain't one of that sort." mr green shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "oh! as to its being wrong, and so forth, i don't know. they all do it, i guess, in one way or other. i don't suppose miss graeme would go it so strong as that little woman, but i guess she knows how." the voice of rose prevented mr snow's indignant reply. "but, arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. of course you would admire fanny's most, and as for captain starr, he is--" "he is like the ass between two bundles of hay." "nonsense, arthur. fanny, let us ask mr snow," said rose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. "now, uncle sampson, which is prettiest? i'll leave the decision to you." "uncle sampson" was a very pleasant sound in mr snow's ears, and never more so, than when it came from the lips of rose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring look that he answered-- "well i can't say which is the prettiest. you are both as pretty as you need to be. if you were as good as you are pretty!" rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited. "i mean our wreaths. look, mine is made of these dear little scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. fanny's, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. now, which is the prettiest?" she took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly. "yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. i think, now, i should admire mrs elliott's most," said mr green, gravely. they both curtseyed to him. "you see, rosie, mr green has decided in my favour," said fanny, triumphantly. "yes, but not in favour of your wreath. the others thought the same, but i don't mind about that. it is our wreaths i want to know about. let us ask graeme." but graeme did not come alone. the little groves came with her, and will and charlie followed, a rather noisy party. the little girls were delighted, and danced about, exclaiming at the beauty of the flowery crowns; and in a little, miss victoria was wearing that of rose, and imitating the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that must have encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate success in life. the other begged piteously for fanny's, but she was too well aware of its charming effect on her own head to yield at once to her entreaties, and, in the midst of the laughing confusion that accompanied the carrying of the child's point, graeme and mrs snow, who confessed herself a little tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. mrs grove and mr proudfute entered with them, and the others disposed, themselves in groups about the door. mr green stood leaning on the door-post looking in upon them. "miss elliott," said mr proudfute, presently, "what has become of you for a long time? i have hardly seen you for years--for a year at least--and we used to meet so often." graeme laughed. "i have seen you a great many times within a year. i am afraid my society doesn't make the impression on you it ought. have you forgotten your new year's visit, and a visit or two besides, to say nothing of chance meetings in the street and in the market?" "oh, but excuse me. i mean we have not met in society. you have been making a hermit of yourself, which is not very kind or very complimentary to your friends, i assure you." "i am very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed mrs grove. "that is a subject on which miss elliott and i never agree--i mean the claims society has upon her. if she makes a hermit of herself, i assure you she is not permitted to do so without remonstrance." "your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally held," said graeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conversation, and more vexed still with mrs grove's interference. "what does the ballad say? "`a scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, and water from the spring.' "i am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me." "oh! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion," said mrs grove. "still, as ladies are supposed to have a fancy for going to extremes, miss elliott's taste for quietness is the most desirable extreme of the two." the remark was addressed to mr green, who was an interested listener, but mr proudfute answered it. "i am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. i can understand how those who have an opportunity of daily or frequent intercourse with miss elliott should be content to think so; but that she should withdraw herself altogether from society, should not be permitted. what charming parties, i remember, we used to enjoy." "mr proudfute," said graeme, gravely, "look at mrs snow's face. you are conveying to her the idea that, at one time, i was quite given up to the pursuit of pleasure, and she is shocked, and no wonder. now, my own impression is, that i was never very fond of going into society, as you call it. i certainly never met you more than two or three times--at large parties, i mean." mr proudfute bowed low. "well, that shows how profound was the impression which your society made on me, for on looking back i uniformly associate you with all the pleasant assemblies of the season. you went with us to beloeil, did you not?" graeme shook her head. "well, no wonder i forget, it is so long ago, now. you were at mrs roxbury's great affair, were you not? it happened not long before mr elphinstone's death. yes, i remember you were there." "yes, i remember you were kind enough to point out to me the beauties of that wonderful picture, in the little room up-stairs," said graeme, smiling. "yes, you were ill, or slightly unwell, i should say, for you recovered immediately. you were there, mr green, i remember. it was a great affair, given in honour of miss elphinstone and your friend ruthven. by-the-by, miss elliott, they lay themselves open to censure, as well as you. they rarely go out now, i hear." "i am to be censured in good company, it seems," said graeme, laughing. "i suppose you see them often," continued he. "you used to be quite intimate with my pretty cousin--i call her cousin, though we are only distantly connected. she is a very nice little woman." "yes. i believe you used to be very intimate with them both," said mrs grove, "and there has hardly been any intercourse since fanny's marriage. i have often wondered at and regretted it." "have you?" said graeme, coldly. "we have had little intercourse with many old friends since then." "oh! yes, i daresay, but the ruthvens are very different from most of your old friends, and worth the keeping. i must speak to fanny about it." "we saw miss elphinstone often during the first winter after her return. that was the winter that mr proudfute remembers as so gay," said graeme. "did i ever tell you about the beginning of rosie's acquaintance with her, long before that, when she wandered into the garden and saw the gowans?" "yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter," said mrs snow. "i never shall forget the first glimpse i got of that bunch of flowers," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "rose has it yet among her treasures. she must show it you." but mrs grove did not care to hear about rosie's flowers just then, and rather perversely, as graeme thought, reverted to the falling away of their old intimacy with the ruthvens, and to wonder at its cause; and there was something in her tone that made mrs snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon her, and helped graeme to answer very quietly and coldly to her remark: "i can easily see how marriage would do something towards estranging such warm friends, when only one of the parties are interested; but you were very intimate with mr ruthven, as well, were you not?" "oh! yes; more so than with miss elphinstone. mr ruthven is a very old friend of ours. we came over in the same ship together." "i mind him well," interposed mrs snow; "a kindly, well-intentioned lad he seemed to be. miss rose, my dear, i doubt you shouldna be sitting there, on the grass, with the dew falling, nor mrs arthur, either." a movement was made to return to the house. "oh! janet," whispered graeme, "i am afraid you are tired, mind as well as body, after all this foolish talk." "by no means, my dear. it wouldna be very edifying for a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. he seems a decent, harmless body, that mr proudfute. i wonder if he is any friend of dr proudfute, of knockie?" "i don't know, indeed," said graeme, laughing; "but if he is a great man, or connected with great folk, i will ask him. it will be an easy way of giving him pleasure." they did not make a long evening of it. mr green was presented by mrs grove with a book of plates, and graeme was beguiled to a side-table to admire them with him. mr proudfute divided his attention between them and the piano, to which rose and fanny had betaken themselves, till at the suggestion of mrs grove, arthur challenged him to a game of chess, which lasted all the evening. mrs grove devoted herself to mrs snow, and surprised her by the significant glances she sent now and then in the direction of graeme and mr green; while mr grove got mr snow into a corner, and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on the harbour question to a new and interested auditor. "rose," said fanny, as they sat together the next day after dinner, "what do you think mamma said to me this morning? shall i tell you?" "if it is anything particularly interesting you may," said rose, in a tone that implied a doubt. "it was about you," said fanny, nodding significantly. "well, the subject is interesting," said rose, "whatever the remark might be." "what is it, fanny?" said arthur. "rose is really very anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent. i daresay it was some appropriate remark's on her flirtation with the gallant captain, last night." "mamma didn't mention captain starr, but she said she had never noticed before that rose was so fond of admiration, and a little inclined to flirt." rose reddened and bit her lips. "i am much obliged to mrs grove, for her good opinion. were there any other appropriate remarks?" "oh! yes; plenty more," said fanny, laughing. "i told mamma it was all nonsense. she used to say the same of me, and i reminded her of it. i told her we all looked upon rose as a child, and that she had no idea of flirting--and such things." "i hope you did not do violence to your conscience when you said it," said arthur, gravely. "of course not. but still when i began to think about it, i could not be quite sure." "set a thief to catch a thief," said her husband. fanny shook her finger at him. "but it wasn't captain starr nor charlie millar mamma meant. it was mr green." the cloud vanished from rosie's face. she laughed and clapped her hands. her brothers laughed, too. "well done, rosie," said arthur. "but from some manoeuvring i observed last night, i was led to believe that mrs grove had other views for the gentleman." "so she had," said fanny, eagerly. "and she says rose may spoil all if she divides his attention. it is just what a man of his years is likely to do, mamma says, to fall in love with a young girl like rosie, and graeme is so much more suitable. but i told mamma graeme would never have him." "allow me to say, fanny, that i think you might find some more suitable subject for discussion with mrs grove," said rose, indignantly. arthur laughed. "you ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken in your welfare, and for graeme's, too. i am sure mr green would be highly flattered if he could be aware of the sensation he is creating among us." "mr green admires graeme very much, he told mamma; and mamma says he would have proposed to her, when he was here before, if it had not been for mr ruthven. you know he was very intimate here then, and everybody said he and graeme were engaged. mamma says it was a great pity he did not. it would have prevented the remarks of ill-natured people when mr ruthven was married--about graeme, i mean." "it is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat anything of that sort in graeme's hearing," said arthur, very much annoyed. "oh! don't be alarmed. graeme is too well accustomed by this time, to mrs grove's impertinences, to allow anything she says to trouble her," said rose, with flashing eyes. mrs snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young girl, who had risen in her indignation. "sit down, my dear," she whispered. "nonsense, rosie," said her brother; "there is nothing to be vexed about. how can you be so foolish?" "indeed," said fanny, a little frightened at the excitement she had raised, "mamma didn't mean anything that you wouldn't like. she only thought--" "we had better say nothing more about it," said arthur, interrupting her. "i dare say graeme can manage her own affairs without help from other people. but there is nothing to be vexed about, rosie. don't put on a face like that about it, you foolish lassie." "what is the matter here, good people?" said graeme, entering at the moment. "what are you quarrelling about? what ails rosie?" "oh! mrs grove has been giving her some good advice, which she don't receive so meekly as she might," said arthur. "that is very ungrateful of you, rosie," said her sister. mrs grove's interference didn't seem a sufficient matter to frown about. "how is she now, my dear?" inquired mrs snow, by way of changing the subject. _she_ was mrs tilman, who had of late become subject to sudden attacks of illness, "not dangerous, but severe," as she herself declared. they had become rather frequent, but as they generally came on at night, and were over before morning, so that they did not specially interfere with her work, they were not alarming to the rest of the household. indeed, they seldom heard of them till they were over; for the considerate mrs tilman was wont to insist to sarah, that the ladies should not be disturbed on her account. but sarah had become a little uncomfortable, and had confessed as much to graeme, and graeme desired to be told the next time she was ill, and so it happened that she was not present when a subject so interesting to herself was discussed. "is mrs tilman ill again?" asked fanny. "how annoying! she is not very ill, i hope." "no," said graeme, quietly; "she will be better to-morrow." that night, in the retirement of their chamber, mr and mrs snow were in no haste to begin, as was their custom, the comparing of notes over the events of the day. this was usually the way when anything not very pleasant had occurred, or when anything had had been said that it was not agreeable to recall. it was mr snow who began the conversation. "well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles in boxes and drawers. "oh! i think little of it--just what i have ay thought--that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. it is a pity her daughter hasna the sense to see it." "oh! i don't think the little thing meant any harm. but rosie flared right up, didn't she?" "i shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth in the accusation--about her love of admiration, i mean. but mrs arthur is not the one that should throw stones at her for that, i'm thinking." "but about graeme! she will never marry that man, will she?" "he'll never ask her," said mrs snow, shortly. "at least i think he never will." "well, i don't know. it looked a little like it, last night and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too." "he is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask in vain. he may, but i dinna think it." "well, perhaps not. of course, i could see last night, that it was all fixed, their being together. but i thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn't liked it." "hoot, man! she thought nothing about it. her thoughts were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes," said mrs snow, with a sigh. "as a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out when a man cares for them, and he showed it plainly to me. i guess she mistrusts." "no, a woman kens when a man his lost his heart to her. he lets her see it in many ways, when he has no thought of doing so. but a woman is not likely to know it, when a man without love wishes to marry her, till he tells her in words. and what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of his fellow men left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a thought on a worldling like him?" mr snow was silent. his wife's tone betrayed to him that something was troubling her, or he would have ventured a word in his new friend's defence. not that he was inclined to plead mr green's cause with graeme, but he could not help feeling a little compassion for him, and he said: "well, i suppose i feel inclined to take his part, because he makes me think of what i was myself once, and that not so long ago." the look that mrs snow turned upon her husband was one of indignant astonishment. "like you! you dry stick!" "well, ain't he? you used to think me a pretty hard case. now, didn't you?" "i'm no' going to tell you to-night what i used to think of you," said his wife, more mildly. "i never saw you on the day when you didna think more of other folks' comfort than you thought of your own, and that couldna be said of him, this many a year and day. he is not a fit mate for my bairn." "well--no, he ain't. he ain't a christian, and that is the first thing she would consider. but he ain't satisfied with himself, and if anybody in the world could bring him to be what he ought to be, she is the one." and he repeated the conversation that had taken place when they were left alone in the summer-house. "but being dissatisfied with himself, is very far from being a changed man, and that work must be done by a greater than graeme. and besides, if he were a changed man to-night, he is no' the man to win miss graeme's heart, and he'll no ask her. he is far more like to ask rosie; for i doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amusement." "oh! come now, ain't you a little too hard on rosie," said mr snow, expostulatingly. he could not bear that his pet should be found fault with. "i call _that_ as cruel a thing as a woman can do, and rosie would never do it, i hope." "not with a conscious desire to give pain. but she is a bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they all do sooner or later; and few make so good a use of such power as they might do;" and mrs snow sighed. "you don't think there is anything in what mrs grove said about graeme and her friend i have heard so much about?" asked mr snow, after a pause. "i dinna ken. i would believe it none the readier that yon foolish woman said it." "she seems kind of down, though, these days, don't she? she's graver and quieter than she used to be," said mr snow, with some hesitation. he was not sure how his remark would be taken. "oh! well, maybe. she's older for one thing," said his wife, gravely. "and she has her cares; some of them i see plainly enough, and some of them, i daresay, she keeps out of sight. but as for allan ruthven, it's not for one woman to say of another that, she has given her heart unsought. and i am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is one of those that need fear no evil." chapter thirty five. "it is a wonder to me, miss graeme," said mrs snow, after one of their long talks about old times--"it is a wonder to me, that minding merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us." "worth our while!" repeated graeme. "it was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. i wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. when we first came here, how will, and rosie, and i, used to plan and dream about it! i may confess, now, how very homesick we all were--how we longed for you. but, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. we were very near going once or twice." "and when was that?" asked mrs snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over graeme. she did not answer immediately. "once was with norman and hilda. oh! i did so long to go with them! i had almost made up my mind to go, and leave rosie at home. i was glad i didn't, afterward." "and why did you not?" demanded her friend. "for one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and i did not like to leave home again; arthur did not encourage me to go. it was on the very night that norman went away that arthur told me of his engagement." "i daresay you did right to bide at home, then." "yes, i knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. i had the greatest desire to go to you. i had no one to speak to. i daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if i could have told you all about it." "my dear, you had your sister." "yes, but rosie was as bad as i was. it seemed like the breaking up of all things. i know now, how wrong and foolish i was, but i could not help being wretched then." "it was a great change, certainly, and i dinna wonder that the prospect startled you." mrs snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, graeme went on rapidly,-- "if it only had been any one else, i thought. we didn't know fanny very well, then--hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what i thought arthur's wife should be; and i disliked her stepmother so much more than i ever disliked any one, i think, except perhaps mrs page, when we first came to merleville. do you mind her first visit with mrs merle, janet?" "i mind it well," said mrs snow, smiling. "she was no favourite of mine. i daresay i was too hard on her sometimes." graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "the smith's wife" had experienced at janet's hands in those early days. the pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from arthur and his marriage to merleville and the old times. janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,-- "and when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?" "oh! that was before, in the spring. arthur proposed that we should go to merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. it was on my account; i was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what i needed." "the breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, i daresay. i wonder you didn't come then." "oh! i could not bear the thought of going then. i was ill, and good for nothing. it would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. i think i should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too." unconsciously graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart. "but what ailed you?" asked mrs snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend. "what ailed you?" repeated mrs snow. "i can't tell you. an attack of the nerves, nelly called it, and she was partly right. i was tired. it was just after will's long illness, and harry's going away, and other things." "i daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder," said mrs snow, tenderly. "yes, about harry. i was very anxious. there were some doubts about his going, for a while. mr ruthven hesitated, and harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last," added graeme, with a great sigh. "did mr ruthven ken of harry's temptation? was it for that he hesitated?" asked mrs snow. "i cannot say. oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. but i don't think he hesitated altogether because of that. as soon as he knew that we were quite willing--arthur and i--he decided at once. mr ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, with some hesitation, "did you ever think there was anything between your brother harry and his master's daughter--the young lady that allan ruthven married--or was it only sandy's fancy?" graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend. "sandy! did he see it? i did not think about it at the time; but afterward i knew it, and, oh! janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about harry." "my bairn! there have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. no wonder your feet get weary, whiles." graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend's lap. in a little she said,-- "how i longed for this place! i had no one to speak to. i used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little." she did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,-- "and so sandy saw poor harry's secret? i did not, at first. i suppose little emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then." "yes, sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. sandy never thought of allan ruthven and his cousin coming together." graeme rose and took her work again. it was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it. "was it for her money--or why was it?" "oh! no. i never could think so. she was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, rose and i. they had been engaged a long time, i believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. that was because of her father's illness. he died soon after, you remember." "yes, i remember. well, i didna think that allan ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. but folk change. i didna ken." "oh! no, it was not that," said graeme, eagerly. "indeed, at that time mr elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. he had met with great losses, harry says, and arthur thought that nothing but mr ruthven's high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. oh! no; it was not for money." "well, my dear, i am glad to hear you say it. i am glad that allan ruthven hasna changed. i think you said he hasna changed?" "at first i thought him changed, but afterwards i thought him just the same." "maybe it was her that wanted the money? if her father was in trouble--" "no, oh! no! you could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. i don't know how it happened. as all marriages happen, i suppose. it was very natural; but we won't speak about it." "they seem to have forgotten their friends. i think you said you seldom see them now." "we don't see them often. they have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. but we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since arthur's marriage--friends of fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. if mr ruthven knew you were in town, i am sure he would have been to see you before now." "i am no' wearying to see him," said mrs snow, coldly. "but, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?" graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. so she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. janet watched her silently. the shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. when there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room. "my dear," said mrs snow, in a little, "how old are you now?" graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat. "oh! janet, you must not ask. i have come to the point when ladies don't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute." "and what point may that be, if i may ask?" "oh! it is not to be told. do you know fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid." "ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said janet, scornfully. "there must be near ten years between you and rose." "yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. i _am_ growing old." "what a wee white rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?" "is she not lovely? and not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?" "i mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said mrs snow, laying her hand tenderly on graeme's bowed head. "i was weary and impatient often. what a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." and graeme sighed. "were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said mrs snow, softly. "no, rather because so many of them lie before me," said graeme, slowly. "unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past." "we may all say that, dear," said mrs snow, gravely. "none of us have done all that we might have done. but, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. you may not have time to grow weary of them." "that is true," said graeme. "and i ought not to grow weary, be they many or few." there was a long pause, broken at last by graeme. "janet," said she, "do you think i could keep a school?" "a school," repeated mrs snow. "oh, ay, i daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. what would binder you? it would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, i daresay." "you know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. it is the only thing i could do. i don't mean that i could take charge of a school; i am afraid i am hardly fit for that. but i could teach classes. i know french well, and music, and german a little." "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? have you spoken to your brother about it? what does he say?" "to arthur? no, i haven't spoken to him. he wouldn't like the idea at first, i suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time." "you speak about getting your livelihood. is there any need for it? i mean, is there more need than there has been? is not your brother able, and willing--" "oh! yes, it is not that i don't know. our expenses are greater than they used to be--double, indeed. but there is enough, i suppose. it is not that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly." "what is it then, dear child?" asked her friend. but graeme could not answer at the moment. there were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. they were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of janet, even. she had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. but with janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. to herself she was willing to confess it. long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "with god's help i can bear it." she declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. but, that janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told. "what is it my dear?" said mrs snow. "is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" graeme laughed a little bitterly. "can anything be worse than these?" "is it that your brother is wearying of you?" "no, no! i could not do him the wrong to think that. it would grieve him to lose us, i know. even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain." "and you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?" graeme was silent a moment. she did not care to enter upon the subject of arthur's wife just at this time. "i don't think you quite understand fanny, janet," said she, hesitating. "weel, dear, maybe no. the bairns that i have had to deal with have not been of her kind. i have had no experience of the like of her." "but what i mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. i love her dearly. and, janet, i don't think it is quite kind in you to think that i grudge fanny her proper place in her own house. i only wish that--" "you only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. i wish that, too. and i am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have." "oh! janet," said graeme, with a sigh, "i shall never be able to make you understand." "you might try, however. you havena tried yet," said janet, gently. "it is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?" "i don't think it is pride. i know that arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. but, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that i should eat bread of my own winning than of his. everybody has something to do in the world. even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. an idle life like mine is not natural nor right. no wonder that i weary of it. i ought not to be idle." "idle! i should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. you used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but i see none of it now. you are ay busy at something." "yes, busy about something," repeated graeme, a little scornfully. "but about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well." "and i daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. but that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. but it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, i'll allow." "will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that i may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone. "my dear, i am bringing no such accusation against you. i am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. i daresay mrs arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. she persuades her husband of it, at any rate." "fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. but that is one more reason why i ought to go. she ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time." "miss graeme, my dear, i think i must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away." "about our all staying together while we could. yes, you told me." "yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. my dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you." "but, janet, it is so different now. when we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. i knew it was better for him and for harry, as well as for us. but it is different now. arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be will's home again. it may never be his home, nor harry's either." "my dear, it will be harry's home, and will's, too, while it is yours. their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. and as for mr arthur, miss graeme, i put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?" "it ought to do so. a man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, `a man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' married people ought to suffice for one another." "well, it may be. and if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, i would think it different. not that i am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. for your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. she loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you." graeme was silent. what could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. where could she turn now? she rose with a sigh. "it is growing dark. i will get a light. but, janet, you must let me say one thing. you are not to think it is because of fanny that i want to go away. at first, i was unhappy--i may say so, now that it is all over. it was less for myself and rose than for arthur. i didn't think fanny good enough for him. and then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about nelly, and all that. arthur saw nothing, and rosie got vexed sometimes. will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. i don't think fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. arthur saw nothing wrong. it was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. but it was far better he did not. i can see that now." "well, we went on in this way a while. i daresay a good deal of it was my fault. i think i was patient and forbearing, and i am quite sure i gave fanny her own place from the very first. but i was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. and i am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like rosie, you know. fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with rosie, and, by and by, with me too. and now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. there is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of fanny i must go away." she paused, and began to arrange the lamp. "never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said mrs snow; and in a little graeme came and sat down again. "and about fanny's not being good enough for arthur," she went on. "if people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. arthur is contented. and janet, i don't think i am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. it is not entirely for my own sake. i think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. if fanny has faults, it is better that arthur should know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. it is partly for them, as well as for rose and me. for myself, i must have a change." "you didna use to weary for changes. what is the reason now? you may tell me, dear, surely. there can be no reason that i may not know?" janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of graeme. "oh! i don't know: i cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "the very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. i am tired doing nothing, i suppose. i want real earnest work to do, and have it i will." she rose hastily, but sat down again. "and so you think you would like to keep a school?" said mrs snow, quietly. "oh! i don't know. i only said that, because i did not know what else i could do. it would be work." "ay. school-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. and i daresay it is no better than it is called. but, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the lord, and for his people. have you never thought about working in that way, dear?" graeme had thought of it many a time. often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. there were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. but these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. this was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for god and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. so she only said, quietly,-- "it is not much that one can do. and, indeed, i have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. i cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. i don't know how i could make it otherwise. my time is not at my own disposal." mrs snow assented, and graeme went on. "i suppose i might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, i mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but i don't think i am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. however, i daresay, that is a mere excuse. don't you mind, janet, how mrs page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings." "yes, i mind," said mrs snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. in a little she said, hesitatingly: "miss graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep." graeme laughed. "will said that to me once. yes, i have thought about it. but the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future." "and wherefore not?" demanded mrs snow. "wherefore not?" echoed graeme. "i can only say, that here i am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. fanny's fears on my account have some foundation. janet, do you mind the song foolish jean used to sing? "`the lads that cast a glance at me i dinna care to see, and the lads that i would look at winna look at me.' "well, dear, you mustna be angry though i say it, but you may be ower ill to please. i told you that before, you'll mind." "oh! yes, i mind. but i convinced you of your error. indeed, i look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for i am going to prove to you and fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. quite the contrary." "but, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. it is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but--" "but, janet, you are mistaken. i am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what i canna help? and, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. they say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her." "but, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--him that rosie was telling me of?" "rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. nothing particular ailed me at him. i liked him very well till--. but we won't speak of it." "was he not good enough? he was a christian man, and well off, and well-looking. what said your brother to your refusal?" persisted janet. "oh! he said nothing. what could he say? he would have known nothing about it if i had had my will. a woman must decide these things for herself. i did what i thought right. i could not have done otherwise." "but, my love, you should consider--" "janet, i did consider. i considered so long that i came very near doing a wrong thing. because he was arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because i was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, i was very near saying `yes,' and going with him, though i cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. what do you think of that for consideration?" "that would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. i canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. but, my dear, you might mistake. there are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. you have too much sense for the like of that." "have i?" said graeme. "i ought to have at my age." it was growing quite dark--too dark for mrs snow to see graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token. "my dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. i am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as i mind well, and as you have heard yourself. but it doesna always bring happiness. the lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to `thole it,' as they say." she paused a moment, but graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply. "mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of god before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken." "it is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, janet. but i'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken." she spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,-- "my dear, you are not to be vexed with what i have said. do you think i can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? you surely dinna doubt me, dear?" "i am not vexed, janet," said she. "and who could i trust if i doubted you?" "and you are not to think that i am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if i say it is no wonder that i dinna find you quite content here. and when i think of the home that your mother made so happy, i canna but wish to see you in a home of your own." "but happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world," graeme forced herself to say. "no, love, nor the chief thing--that is true," said mrs snow. "and even if it were," continued graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. it seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed." "you mayna be the best judge of that," said mrs snow, gravely. "no, i suppose not," said graeme, with a laugh. "but i have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. in this very room i have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for god and man in the world." "my dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. why should you be surprised at that?" "but, janet, more do it than these people. don't you mind, the other day, when mrs grove was repeating that absurd story about miss lester, and i said to her that i did not believe miss lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer." "but, miss graeme, i meant no reflection on your friend, though i said that. i saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and i thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman." "well," said graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong." "that is but a small matter. and, my dear, i am no' sure, and you canna be sure either, that mrs grove was altogether wrong. if, in her youth, some good man--not to say the best man on the face of the earth--had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?" "there!--that is just what i dislike so much. that is just what mrs grove was hinting with regard to miss lester. if a woman lives single, it is from necessity--according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. i _know_ that is not the case with regard to miss lester. but even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her--if she were an old maid from dire necessity-- does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?--that life has been to her a failure? "if she has failed in life; so do god's angels. janet, if i could only tell you half that she has done! i am not intimate with her, but i have many ways of knowing about her. if you could know all that she has done for her family! she was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. she helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. and she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. and to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! it incenses me!" "my dear, i thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say." "but she is not the only one. even arthur sometimes provokes me. because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. and because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. it is despicable." "but, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. she has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. why should she not marry?" "don't speak of it," said graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, as you say, why should she not? but that is not the question. what i declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one--and a happy one too. who can doubt it? there is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. and the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as mrs dale, though she were to marry the reverend doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that god has given her in her work as a single woman." "i believe you, dear," said mrs snow, warmly. "and she is not the only one i could name," continued graeme. "she is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. but i know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens or nurseries--women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of `old maid,' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. why should such a woman be pitied or despised, i wonder?" "miss graeme, you look as though you thought i was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. but that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal." "it goes far to prove it--the chances of usefulness, at any rate." "no, my dear, because i dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she _does_ fail in life, who falls short of that. in a certain sense, i say." "but it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!" "whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. that depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. but, my dear, what i say is this: as the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. and though it is a single woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with god's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. my saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. was it their own free choice that put them where they are? if they speak the truth, they will say `no.' either no man asked them--though that is rare--or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. they had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past--that she is an `old maid.' and if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her--so feared is she of the solitary life before her." "and," said graeme, in a low voice, "god is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon." "it is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what i was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she finds herself alone in life. sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. it is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. it is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. but does that end the pain? does it make her strong to say it? may not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? i am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. my dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission--and great nonsense they have spoken of late--but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. there are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. though why i should be saying all this to you, miss graeme, my dear, is mair than i ken." there was a long silence after this. mrs snow knew well that graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. but her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid. "we were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. it is a great work, and she is a noble woman. god bless her! and, dear, though i dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother's house, it is not because i dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. i am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for god and man. it is partly that i am shy of new schemes, and partly because i am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because i think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you. "i'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. the change would do you good. you will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. but this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. and, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. but it will pass. whist! my darling," for graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "whist, love; i am not asking about its coming or its causes. i am only bidding you have patience till it pass away." graeme sat down again without a word. they sat a long time quite silent, and when graeme spoke, it was to wonder that arthur and the others were not come home. "they must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. they will be as hungry as hawks. i must go and speak to sarah." and she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need. "but i must go all the same. i cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. oh me! and i thought the worst was past, and janet says it will never be quite past, till i am grown old." and janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. she knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. she knew that graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her. "for, what could i say? i couldna bid her go. what good would that do, when she carries her care with her? and it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. i ken her better than she kens herself. oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort i can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. well, there is one she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and he can comfort her." chapter thirty six. the only event of importance that occurred before mrs snow went away, was the return of nelly. she came in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily accounted for at the first moment. and then she told them she was married. her sudden departure had been the means of bringing mr stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister's, and "married her out of hand." of course, she was properly congratulated by them all, but rose was inclined to be indignant. "you promised that i was to be bridesmaid, and i think it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me," said she. "yes, i know i promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. i thought your own turn might come first, miss rose, he didna seem in a hurry about it. but his leisure was over when i was fairly away out of reach. so he came after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, but back i must go with him. he couldna see what difference a month or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister and the rest up there--they sided with him. and there was reason in it, i couldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. he made small count of any preparations; so you see, miss rose, i couldna well help myself; and i hope it will all be for the best." they all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. but, though congratulating mrs stirling heartily, graeme was greatly disappointed for themselves. she had been looking forward to the time when, mrs tilman's temporary service over, they should have nelly back in her old place again; but the best must be made of it now, and nelly's pleasure must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. so she entered, with almost as much eagerness as rose, into a discussion of the plans of the newly married pair. "and is the market garden secured?" asked she. "or is that to come later?" "it will not be for a while yet. he is to stay where he is for the present. you will have heard that mr ruthven and his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in the house. i am to have the charge. it will be something coming in through my own hands, which will be agreeable to me," added the prudent and independent nelly. the meeting of mrs snow and mrs stirling was a great pleasure to them both. they had much to say to one another before the time of mrs snow's departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance with fanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. she came to have a great respect for mrs stirling's sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. one of the few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, and rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and "good property to have," as mr snow justly remarked, whether they used them or not. the day of departure came at last. will, graeme, and rose went with them over the river, and fanny would have liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with mrs grove, and was obliged to stay at home. arthur was to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but that was doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he went away. there was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and graeme made haste to get a seat with mrs snow, in a quiet corner out of the way. "look, graeme," said rose. "there is mr proudfute, and there are the roxburys, and ever so many more people. and there is mr ruthven. i wonder if they are going away to-day." "i don't know. don't let us get into the crowd," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "we shall lose the good of the last minutes. stay here a moment, will, and see whether arthur comes. i will find a seat for mrs snow. let us get out of the crowd." it was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quite close by the party towards which rose had been looking, and which graeme had intended to avoid. "who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?" asked mrs snow, with much interest. "you bowed to her, i think." "yes. that is mrs ruthven. i suppose they are going away to-day. i should like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people with her, and i am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. ah! she has seen rosie. they are coming over here." she rose and went to meet them as they came near. "you have never seen my baby," said mrs ruthven, eagerly. "and i want to see mrs snow." graeme took the little creature in her arms. "no, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more than once--and now you are going away." "yes, we are going away for a little while. i am so glad we have met to-day. i only heard the other day that mrs snow had come, and i have not been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, i am so very glad to see you," added she, as she took janet's hand. "i have heard your name so often, that i seem to know you well." mrs snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers. "i have heard about you, too," said she, gravely. "and i am very glad that we chanced to meet to-day. and you are going home to scotland?" "yes, for a little while. i have not been quite well, and the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, i hope, or at the latest, in the spring." there was not time for many words. arthur came at the last minute, and with him charlie millar. he held out his arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and clung to graeme, who clasped her softly. "she has discrimination, you see," said charlie. "she knows who is best and wisest." "she is very like what rosie was at her age," said mrs snow. "don't you mind, miss graeme?" "do you hear that, baby!" said charlie. "take heart. the wee white lily may be a blooming rose, yet--who knows?" "you have changed," said mrs snow, as mr ruthven came up to her with will. "yes, i have changed; and not for the better, i fear," said he, gravely. "i do not say that--though the world and it's ways do not often change a man for the better. keep it out of your heart." there was only time for a word or two, and graeme would not lose the last minutes with their friend. so she drew her away, and turned her face from them all. "oh, janet! must you go? oh! if we only could go with you! but that is not what i meant to say. i am so glad you have been here. if you only knew how much good you have done me!" "have i? well, i am glad if i have. and my dear, you are soon to follow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. god has been very good to you all." "yes, and janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. forget all the discontented foolish things i have said. god _has_ been very good to us all." "yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust him. and you must watch over your sister, your sisters, i should say. and rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister's judgment in anything. and my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. god be with you." mr snow and will made a screen between them and the crowd, and janet kissed and blessed them with a full heart. there were only a few confused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. and then graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of lilias ruthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the many friends who were watching them as they went away. and then they turned to go home. there was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. but graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and she was saying to herself,-- "i _will_ take heart and trust him, as janet said. he _has_ been good to us all i will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull and profitless to me. god will accept the little i can do, and i _will_ be content." will and charlie millar left them, after they had passed through a street or two. "we might just as well have gone to merleville with them, for all the difference in the time," said rose. "but then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment of janet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. it was a much better way for us to wait." "yes. and for some things it will be better to be there after the wedding, rather than before. but i don't at all like going back to an empty house. i don't like people going away." "but people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away," said graeme. but the quiet was not for that day. on that day, two unexpected events occurred. that is, one of them was unexpected to graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the rest. mr green proposed that miss elliott should accompany him on his contemplated european tour; and mrs tilman's time of service came to a sudden end. as graeme and rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the grove carriage standing at their door. "_that_ does not look much like quiet," said rose. "however, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be; don't you remember, graeme?" rose's fears were justified. they found fanny in a state of utter consternation, and even mrs grove not quite able to conceal how much she was put about. mrs tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, and even the undiscerning fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying on the bed beside her. mrs grove was inclined to make light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in a fault, on occasion; but graeme put her very charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper's former illnesses. this was not the first fault of the kind, by many. there were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it would be wise to record. mrs grove professed indignation that the "mistress of the house" should have been kept in ignorance of the state of affairs, and resented the idea of fanny's being treated as a child. but fanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future she would leave her to the management of her own household affairs; and graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doing this, she would be quite safe and right. of course, after all this, fanny could not think of going out to pass the afternoon, and graeme had little quiet that day. there were strangers at dinner, and arthur was busy with them for some time after; and when, being at liberty at last, he called to graeme that he wanted to see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered with impatience. "oh! arthur, i am very tired. won't it keep till morning? do let mrs tilman and domestic affairs wait." "mrs tilman! what can you mean, graeme? i suppose mrs grove has been favouring the household with some advice, has she?" "has not fanny told you about it?" asked graeme. "no. i saw fanny was in tribulation of some kind. i shall hear it all in good time. it is something that concerns only you that i wish to speak about. how would you like to visit europe, graeme?" "in certain circumstances i might like it." "mr green wished me to ask the question--or another--" "arthur, don't say it," said graeme, sitting down and turning pale. "tell me that you did not expect this." "i cannot say that i was altogether taken by surprise. he meant to speak to you himself, but his courage failed him. he is very much in earnest, graeme, and very much afraid." "arthur," said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think this is my fault? if i had known it should never have come to this." "he must have an answer now." "yes, you will know what to say to him. i am sorry." "but, graeme, you should take time to think. in the eyes of the world this would be a good match for you." graeme rose impatiently. "what has the world to do with it? tell me, arthur, that you do not think me to blame for this." "i do not think you intended to give mr green encouragement. but i cannot understand why you should be so surprised. i am not." "you have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement has not been from _me_. it cannot be helped now. you will know what to say. and, arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me." "then, there is nothing more to be said?" "nothing. good-night." arthur was not surprised. he knew quite well that mr green was not good enough for graeme. but, then, who was? mr green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young now. if she was ever to marry, it was surely time. and why should she not? he had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he had not found it easy to do. well, she was old enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without the help of his position and his great wealth, mr green was certainly not a very interesting person; and probably graeme had done well to refuse him. he pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but when he went up-stairs, fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager. "well, what did graeme say? has she gone to bed?" arthur was rather taken aback. he was by no means sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister's affairs with his wife. fanny would never be able to keep his news to herself. "you ought to be in bed," said he. "yes, i know i ought. but is she not a wretch?" "graeme, a wretch!" "nonsense, arthur! i mean mrs tilman. you know very well." "mrs tilman! what has she to do with it?" "what! did not graeme tell you?" and then the whole story burst forth--all, and a good deal more than has been told, for fanny and rose had been discussing the matter in private with sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long. "the wretch!" said arthur. "she might have burned us in our beds." "just what i said," exclaimed fanny, triumphantly. "but then, sarah was there to watch her, and graeme knew about it and watched too. it was very good of her, i think." "but why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary to wait and watch, as you call it? why was she not sent about her business? why was not i told?" "sarah told us, it was because miss elliott would not have mrs snow's visit spoiled; and _rose_ says she wanted everything to go smoothly, so that she should think i was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. i am very much afraid i am not." arthur laughed, and kissed her. "live and learn," said he. "yes, and i shall too, i am determined. but, arthur, was it not very nice of graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? especially when mamma had got nelly away and all." "it was very nice of her," said arthur. "and mamma was very angry to-day, and graeme said--no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and graeme said that would be much the best way." "i quite agree," said her husband, laughing. "but, arthur, i am afraid if it had not been for graeme, things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. i am afraid, dear, i _am_ rather foolish." "i am sure graeme does not say so," said arthur. "no. she does not say so. but i am afraid it is true all the same. but, arthur, i do mean to try and learn. i think rose is right when she says there is no one like graeme." her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these things much more than he said to his wife. it would be a different home to them all. without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret graeme's decision with regard to mr green and his european tour. in the meantime, graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with her sister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night. that was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained in her mind. she was annoyed that mr green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of mr green and his hopes. she saw now, that from various causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, and fallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time was passing, and she could see where he might have taken encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had been so. but she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself to pity him very much. "he will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than i could ever have done; and, so that arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done." so she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. and there was something else quite past and done with. "i am afraid i have been very foolish and wrong," she said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. she said it over and over again, and it was true. she had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought harry home, had graeme touched the hand or met the eye of allan ruthven. she had frequently seen lilias, and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. in those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grown morbid over the fear. to-day she had seen him. she had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. they were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always. she did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of allan and lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. she told herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home again the old glad time would come back. "i am glad that i have seen them again, very glad. and i am glad in their happiness. i know that i am glad now." it was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, of all that the future might bring. her thoughts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating janet's words, and making them her own. "i will take heart and trust. if the work i have here is god-given, he will accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and i will take heart and trust." chapter thirty seven. if, on the night of the day when janet went away, graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. and yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. they had not been eventful years--that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. but graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked god, for contentment and a quiet heart. that which outwardly characterised the time to graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. at first all things had happened as had been planned. they made their preparations for their long talked of visit to merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of fanny's illness--an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and graeme did not need her brother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. the summons came during a brief absence of rose from merleville, and was too imperative to admit of graeme's waiting for her return, so she was left behind. afterwards, when fanny's danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over graeme's unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. the hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled graeme to the thought, but when spring came, fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would norman consent to the return of rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. they were not unhappy years to graeme. many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last. the winter that followed her return from merleville, was rather a dreary one. the restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to fanny; and graeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. but all this changed as the hour of fanny's trial approached--the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. all this was changed. out of the entire trust which fanny had come to place in her sister graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. the love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object-- a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. and so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near. graeme was set at rest about one thing. if there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in fanny's keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. one does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind, growing worthier of it every day. graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. the small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. these hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. the confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days. they helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and graeme helped them both. these were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. in caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own. this quiet time came to an end. the little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before. that summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to merleville, where arthur joined them. it was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. it did arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. they spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. viewed in the light which shone from his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to arthur mean and worthless. truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him. janet never spoke to graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "it is all coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. and as the days went on, and she saw arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,--a fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "it is coming right with them all." another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to arthur and fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. to graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but arthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. will was still in scotland, to stay for another year, at least harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. a great change had taken place in his affairs. the firm of elphinstone and company no longer existed. it was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of elliott, millar and company. mr ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. he lived in scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. he had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again. harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. when he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. he was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. he was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place. graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, mr elias green, in more than in success. "he is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, i am afraid. but it will pay. in the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a `palatial residence', and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. you seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, graeme." "discontented!" echoed graeme. "it is with you, that i am discontented. how can you speak of anything so horrible? you don't know harry." "i know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as harry's. success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. no, you need not look at harry's friend and partner. he is `tarred with the same stick,' as mrs snow would say." harry's friend and partner, laughed. "mrs snow would never say that about mr millar," said graeme indignantly, "nor about harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that." "they may fail, or they may marry. i was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion." "harry will never grow to be like mr green," said fanny, gravely. "graeme will not let him." "there is something in that," said arthur. "there is a great deal in that," said mr millar. "there are a great many to keep harry from a fate like that, besides me," said graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature." she was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for. "graeme," said fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose arthur is in earnest. he thinks there is no one like harry." arthur laughed. "i don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, i am afraid." "if that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago," said graeme, laughing. "oh! that is quite another matter; but as to harry, it is a good thing that rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while," added he, as his brother came into the room. "and you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteract your influence." "what is it all about?" said harry. "are you spoiling your son, fanny? is that the matter under discussion?" "no. it is you that we are spoiling, graeme and i. we admire you quite too much, arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for rose." "as for rose, i am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it," said harry. "if one is to believe what norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there." "so that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," said graeme, with a little vexation. it was not harry's words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. he shrugged his shoulders. "oh! as to that, i am not sure. i don't think she tried to help it. why should she? it is her natural and proper sphere of labour--her vocation. i think she enjoyed it, rather." "harry, don't! i can't bear to hear you speak of rose in that way." "oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if you don't believe me, you can ask charlie. he is my authority for the last bit of news of rosie." charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met graeme's eye. "i don't understand you, harry--the least in the world," said he. "do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript i saw in rowland's letter about mr green and his hopes and intentions? come, now, charlie, that is a little too much." "mr green!" repeated arthur and fanny, in a breath. "are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said graeme, indignantly. "the idea of rose ever looking at him!" said fanny. "oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm," said harry. "she might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation--" "harry," said fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the english language that graeme hates it is that. don't say it again, i beg." harry shrugged his shoulders. graeme looked vexed and anxious. "miss elliott," said charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "i hope you don't think me capable of discussing--or permitting--. i mean, in the letter to which harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. you have received a wrong impression. i am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way." "charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, graeme, you are as bad. of course, rosie's name was not mentioned; but i know quite well, and so do you, who `la belle canadienne' was. but no harm was meant, and none was done." "it would be rather a good joke if rosie were to rule in the `palatial residence' after all, wouldn't it?" said arthur, laughing. "arthur, don't! it is not nice to have the child's name coupled with-- with any one," said graeme. "it may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said harry. "it is the penalty that very pretty girls, like rose, have to pay for their beauty--especially when they are aware of it--as rose has good right to be by this time. small blame to her." "and i don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, graeme," said arthur. "a great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you." "of course. we are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it," said graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. by and by harry and his friend and partner rose to go. they lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which rose had taken such pleasure in watching. it was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office. harry had some last words to exchange with arthur, and then mr millar approached graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,-- "i ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. i don't think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. won't you just say so to me?" "charlie! i know you could not. you are one of ourselves." charlie's face brightened. of late it had been "mr millar," mostly-- not that graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. but this time it was, "charlie," and he was very much pleased. "you have been quite a stronger, lately," she went on; "but now that mrs elliott is better and rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. we cannot bring the old times quite back, even with harry and rose, but we shall always be glad to see you." she spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words. "i hope there is nothing wrong," said graeme, observing his changing look. "nothing for which there is any help," said he. "no there is nothing wrong." "i am ready, charlie," said harry, coming forward. "and graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about rose's conquests. when she goes to her own house--`palatial' or otherwise--and the sooner the better for all concerned--you are coming to take care of charlie and me." "there may be two or three words to be said on that subject," said arthur, laughing. "i am sure neither you nor fanny will venture to object; you have had graeme all your life--at least for the last seven years. i should like to hear you, just. i am not joking, graeme." graeme laughed. "there is no hurry about it, is there? i have heard of people changing their minds; and i won't set my heart on it, in case i should be disappointed." chapter thirty eight. so rose came home at last. not just the rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. she was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away. she would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. but arthur declared that she had become americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for harry admired the american ladies, and took in good part rose's hints and congratulations with regard to a certain miss cora snider, an heiress and a beauty of c---. "a trifle older than harry," explained she, laughing, aside to graeme; "but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things `being agreeable.'" "of course," said harry, with a shrug that set graeme's fancy at rest about miss cora snider. in less time than graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. rose's dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. with graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away--a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister's loving eyes. she was glad to be at home again. she was very fond of norman and hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like graeme, and there was no place like home. so she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the rosie of old times, that graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. it was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on. "it amuses me very much to hear arthur say i am changed," said rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. "why, if i had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in fanny, which i daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. but what have you being doing to fanny, graeme?" "rose, my dear," said graeme, gravely, "fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, i am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?" "well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as fanny is concerned. for the better! i should think so. but then i fancied that fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as janet would say; and i confess, when i heard of the arrival of young arthur, i was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with." "now, rosie, that is not quite kind." "but it is quite true. that is just what i thought first, and what i said to norman. i know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but i thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first." graeme shook her head. "i think you must have forgotten about the very first. we were both foolish and faithless, then. it has all come right; arthur is very happy in his wife, though i never thought it could be in those days." there was a long pause after that, and then rose said,-- "you must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. i ought to have been here to help you, and i should have been, if i had known." "i wished for you often, but i did not have too much to do, or to endure. i am none the worse for it all." "no," said rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,-- "i think you have changed--improved--almost as much as fanny, though there was not so much need." graeme laughed, too. "there was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. i am glad you see any." "i am anxious about one thing, however, and so is fanny, i am sure," said rose, as fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "i think i see an intention on your part to become stout. i don't object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided." "graeme too stout! how can you say such things, rosie?" said fanny, indignantly. "she is not so slender as when i went away." "no, but she was too slender then. arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do i." "well, perhaps," said rose, moving believe to examine graeme critically; "still i must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness--and other things." "it is not the stoutness that displeases her, fanny," said graeme, laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with." "fanny," said rose, "don't contradict her. she says that on purpose to be contradicted. a middle-aged look, is it? i dare say it is!" "a look of contentment with things as they are," said graeme. "there is a look of expectation on most _young_ faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. i mean, of course, with single women. i suppose it is that with me; or, do i look as if i were settling down content with things as they are?" "graeme," said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, i should say it sounded a little like affectation." "i hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?" "but it is all nonsense, graeme dear," said fanny. "how old are you, graeme?" said rose. "middle-aged, indeed!" "rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?" "certainly not; by no means; i have no such intention, unless, indeed--. but we won't speak about such unpleasant things. fanny, shan't i take the baby while you do that?" "if you would like to take him," said fanny, with some hesitation. baby was a subject on which rose and fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as fanny thought she ought to be. even graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. but rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after hilda's strong, beautiful boys, fanny's little, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. but now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. fanny was delighted. happily graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,-- "well done, rosie! if only harry could hear you!" "i have often wished that hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. you should see hilda. does not she preserve her equanimity? fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission." "i thought--i am sure you have always spoken about hilda as a model mother," said fanny, doubtfully. "and a fond mother," said graeme. "she _is_ a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise," said rose, nodding her head. "i say no more." "fanny dear, we shall have to learn of rose. we are very inexperienced people, i fear," said graeme, smiling. "well, i daresay even i might teach you something. but you should see hilda and her babies. her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?" and then rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his aunt graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. graeme listened, smiling, but fanny looked anxious. "rose," said she, "tell me about hilda's way. i want to have the very best way with baby. i know i am not very wise, but i do wish to learn and to do right!" her words and her manner reminded rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child's clasping fingers. "she thinks i will never be like hilda," said fanny, dolefully, to graeme. rose shook her head. "there are not many like hilda; but i don't see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. you have as good a teacher. no, don't look at graeme. i know what you mean. she has taught you all the good that is in you. there are more of us who could say the same--except for making her vain. it is this young gentleman, i mean, who is to teach you." and she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till graeme and fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense. "i'll tell you what, fanny," said she, looking up in a little. "it is the mother-love that makes one wise, and solomon has something to do with it. you must take him into your confidence. but, dear me! think of my venturing to give you good advice, i might be janet herself." "but, rosie, dear," said graeme, still laughing, "solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one." "has he not? well, that is hilda's mistake, then. she is responsible for my opinions. i know nothing. the wisdom i am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. you must go and see hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it." "i mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply." "yes, it _is_ wonderful. but you will be in no hurry about going, will you? two or three years hence will be time enough, i should think. i mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. that is quite decided, whatever arrangements norman may have made." "i don't think he will object to your going with me, if arthur doesn't, and fanny," said graeme, smiling. "possibly not. but i am not going yet. and no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper," said rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,-- "i remember saying almost these very words before we went to merleville, to emily's wedding. but you know how differently it turned out for you and me. we will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness." "well, i suppose that is the right way to look at it. but i am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine." "graeme," said fanny, earnestly, "i don't think rose is spoiled in the least." fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other. "i hope you did not think hilda was going to spoil me. did you?" said rose, laughing. "no, not hilda; and it was not i who thought so, nor graeme. but harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--" rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! harry is too wise for anything. i had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at norman's. you must not mind what harry says about me, fanny, dear." "but, rose, you are not to think that harry said anything that was not nice. it was one night when mr millar was here, and there was something said about mr green. and he thought--one of them thought that you--that he--i have forgotten what was said. what was it, graeme? you were here as well as i." "i am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said graeme. "i don't quite remember about it. there was nothing worth remembering or repeating." "i daresay harry told you i was a flirt. he told me so, myself, once," said rose, tossing her head in a way graeme did not like to see. "hush, dear. he said nothing unkind, you may be sure." "and, now i remember, it was not harry but mr millar who spoke about mr green," said fanny, "and about the `palatial residence,' and how rose, if she liked, might--" rose moved about impatiently. "i must say i cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily. "my dear, you are speaking foolishly. there was no such discussion. and if you say anything more on the subject, i shall think that harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. here comes nurse for baby. i suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?" fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, rose said, with an effort,-- "now, graeme, please tell me what all this is about." "dear, there is nothing to tell. i fancy harry used to think that i was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. but he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. it would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in mr millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. but harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear." "it seems it was he who had most to say." "no. you are mistaken. fanny did not remember correctly. it was either arthur or harry who had something to say about mr green. i don't think charlie had anything to say about it. i am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. and, really, i don't see why you should be angry about it, dear rosie." "i am not angry. why should i be angry?" but she reddened as she met graeme's eye. graeme looked at her in some surprise. "harry is--is unbearable sometimes," said rose. "fancy his taking me to task about--about his friend--oh! there is no use talking about it. graeme, are you going out?" "yes, if you like. but, rose, i think you are hard upon harry. there must be some misunderstanding. why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. you must not be vain when i say so." "that does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. however, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. don't let us speak any more about it, graeme, or think about it either." but graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning harry with regard to rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. nor did she ever speak about it again to rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard harry say something to rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends. how exactly like the old time before arthur's marriage, and before will or harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of rose. they seemed like the days even longer ago, graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. for the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. the peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. and, besides, the content that comes to us from god, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is god-given, and we need fear no evil. so these were truly peaceful days to graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. they were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. these had to be returned, and graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during rose's absence, and fanny's illness, took pleasure in going with her. she took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. the new way in which the character and manner of rose came out never failed to amuse her. at home, and especially in her intercourse with her, rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. but it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. she had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. there was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. the quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. and her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its cause was best of all to graeme. arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. for graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of mrs arthur that rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. not that there were very many of these. fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. so the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and graeme and rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal. for true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother's household, graeme, as fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on arthur's wife. not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. it was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. it was right that it should be so, for many reasons. the responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were fanny's. these could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. the honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. all this graeme tried to make fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. for fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching: it was the same where the child was concerned. while she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. and every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. and besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem. though harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. mr millar did not quite fall into the place which harry's friend charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. he had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. his brother's determination not to return to canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. charlie had hoped for a long time that allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. he was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. but will, who had visited allan lately, assured charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again. "i should think not, indeed," said arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with will's last letter. "you don't display your usual good judgment, charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. why should he return? he is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour--a competency in society congenial to him. why should he wait for this longer than he need?" "twenty or thirty years!" said harry. "not if i know it. you are thinking of old times. but i must say i agree with charlie. it is strange that mr ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. and to tell you the truth, i never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. i thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man--a great merchant." "it would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, harry," said rose, "but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects." "i don't think allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman--in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. his place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors." "oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. it is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, rose thinks," said arthur. "his father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. it was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by allan's uncle within ten years." "yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said harry. "and did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said arthur. "no, i think not. allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother." "still he may think it his duty to live there." "i don't know. it is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. i think the life suits him. my mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. he did not object decidedly. there seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. so he came to canada." "i daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. i wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, charlie." "i daresay it is selfishness in me. and yet i don't think it is so altogether. i know, at least i am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. he might always have the going home to look forward to." "i cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there," said harry. "but i think you are hard on yourself, mr millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you," said graeme, smiling. "i could find a much nicer name for it than that." "i would like him to come for his own sake," said charlie. "as for me, i was just beginning to know him--to know how superior he is to most men, and then i lost him." he paused a moment-- "i mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. i shall see him if i go home next summer, and i don't despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least." "will says he means to come some time. perhaps he will come back with you, or with will himself, when he comes," said rose. "oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less," said arthur. "it is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. of course he may come any month. i don't understand your desolation, charlie." charlie laughed. "when is will coming?" "it does not seem to be decided yet," said graeme. "he may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. it seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly." "what if will should think like mr ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? how would you like that, girls?" said harry. "oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. there is no family estate in his case," said rose, laughing. "who knows?" said arthur. "there may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. that would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father's youngest son. what would you say to that graeme?" "i would rather say nothing--think nothing about it," said graeme, hastily. "it is not likely that could ever happen. it will all be arranged for us, doubtless." "it was very stupid of you, harry, to say anything of that sort to graeme," said rose. "now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. he never will, i know." "i shall not vex myself, indeed, rosie--at least i shall not until i have some better reason for doing so, than harry's foolish speeches. mr millar, you said you might go home next summer. is that something new? or is it only new to us?" "it is possible that i may go. indeed, it is very likely. i shall know soon." "it depends on circumstances over which he has no control," said harry, impressively. "he has my best wishes, and he would have yours, graeme, i think, if you knew about it." "he has them, though i don't know about it," said graeme. "i have confidence in him that he deserves success." "yes, it is safe to wish him success--if not in one thing, in another. i am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but i think i know what is good for him." "rosie," said fanny, suddenly, "mr millar can set us right now. i am glad i thought of it. mr millar, is mrs roxbury your aunt, or only your brother's?" "i am afraid it is only allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. i don't think i can claim any relationship at all. i should have to consider, before i could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected." "it is much better not to consider the subject, then," said arthur, "as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go." "but at any rate she is not your aunt, and amy roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over rose and me the other day. i told you so, rosie." "did you?" said rose, languidly. "i don't remember." "it was mrs gridley, i think, and she said--no, it must have been some one else--she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances." "very true, too, eh, charlie," said arthur, laughing. "i should scarcely venture to call miss roxbury cousin," said charlie. "she is very nice, indeed," pursued fanny. "rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, i think." rose shrugged her shoulders. "that is, perhaps, a little strong, fanny, dear. she is very charming, i have no doubt, but i am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as i used to be." "but you admired her very much. and you said she was very like lily elphinstone, when you first saw her. i am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did graeme." "did i?" said rose. "she is very like her," said mr millar. "i did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. she is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. she is stronger than lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady." "fast, a little, perhaps," said arthur. "oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. she is self-reliant. she has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma's. but she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. such a number there are of them, too." charlie spoke eagerly, looking at graeme. "you seem deeply interested in her," said arthur, laughing. harry rose impatiently. "we should have mrs gridley here. i never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. your _cousin_ would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, i have no doubt, charlie." "but she is not his cousin," said fanny. "and harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of mr millar. of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross." and rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke. harry did look cross, and charlie looked astonished. graeme did not understand it. "was that young roxbury i saw you driving with the other day?" asked arthur. "he is going into business, i hear." "it was he," said charlie. "as to his going into business, i cannot say. he is quite young yet. he is not of age. are you going, harry? it is not very late yet." they did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. he was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate harry, graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. then they had some music. rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still. "what put harry out of sorts to-night?" asked arthur. "was he out of sorts?" asked graeme, a little anxiously. rose laughed. "i shall have to give harry some good advice," said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said "good-night." "there is something wrong," said graeme to herself, "though i am sure i cannot tell what it is. in old times, rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. but it is nothing that can trouble her, i am sure. i hope it is nothing that will trouble her. i will not fret about it beforehand. we do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. it ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. but, oh! rosie, i am afraid i have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again." chapter thirty nine. graeme had rejoiced over her sister's return, "heart-free and fancy-free," rather more than was reasonable, seeing that the danger to her freedom of heart and fancy was as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable anywhere, and, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. a very little thing had disturbed her sense of security before many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingling of anxiety and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain and foolish her feeling of security had been. it was the look that had come into charlie millar's face one day, as his eye fell suddenly on the face of rose. graeme's heart gave a sudden throb of pain and doubt, as she saw it, for it told her that a change was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made it seem to her a change to be dreaded. there had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, in which they were all supposed to be much interested, because master albert grove was one of the runners, and had good hope of winning a silver medal which was to be the prize of the foremost in the race. graeme and rose had come with his little sisters to look, on, and rose had grown as eager and delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious of the admiration in charlie's eyes, and of the shock of pain that thrilled at her sister's heart. it was more than admiration that graeme saw in his eyes, but the look passed, and he made no movement through the crowd toward them, and everything was just as it had been before, except that the thought had come into graeme's mind, and could not quite be forgotten again. after that the time still went quietly on, and charlie came and went, and was welcomed as before; but graeme looking on him now with enlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw, more and more clearly every day, the secret that he did not seem in haste to utter. and every day she saw it with less pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, for the time when the lover's word should change her sister's shy and somewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what could not but be precious, graeme thought, though still unknown or unacknowledged. and then the mention of amy roxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into the knowledge that she had been dreaming. "rose," said she, after they had been up-stairs for some time, and were about to separate for the night, "what was the matter with harry this evening?" "what, indeed?" said rose, laughing. "he was quite out of sorts about something." "i did not think he knew the roxburys. he certainly has not known them long," said graeme. "no, not very long--at least, not miss amy, who has only just returned home, you know. but i think she was not at the root of his trouble; at least, not directly. i think he has found out a slight mistake of his, with regard to `his friend and partner.' that is what vexed him," said rose. "i don't know what you mean?" said graeme, gravely. "i should think harry could hardly be seriously mistaken in his friend by this time, and certainly i should not feel inclined to laugh at him." "oh! no. not _seriously_ mistaken; and i don't think he was so much vexed at the mistake, as that i should know it." "i don't understand you," said graeme. "it does not matter, graeme. it will all come out right, i daresay. harry was vexed because he saw that i was laughing at him, and it is just as well that he should be teased a little." "rose, don't go yet. what is there between you and harry that i don't know about? you would not willingly make me unhappy, rose, i am sure. tell me how you have vexed each other, dear. i noticed it to-night, and i have several times noticed it before. tell me all about it, rose." "there is nothing to tell, graeme, indeed. i was very much vexed with harry once, but i daresay there was no need for it. graeme, it is silly to repeat it," added rose, reddening. "there is no one to hear but me, dear." "it was all nonsense. harry took it into his head that i had not treated his friend well, when he was out west, at norman's, i mean. of course, we could not fall into home ways during his short visit there; everything was so different. but i was not `high and mighty' with him, as harry declared afterwards. he took me to task, sharply, and accused me of flirting, and i don't know what all, as though that would help his friend's cause, even if his friend had cared about it, which he did not. it was very absurd. i cannot talk about it, graeme. it was all harry's fancy. and to-night, when mr millar spoke so admiringly of amy roxbury, harry wasn't pleased, because he knew i remembered what he had said, and he knew i was laughing at him. and i fancy he admires the pretty little thing, himself. it would be great fun to see the dear friends turn out rivals, would it not?" said rose, laughing. "but that is all nonsense, rose." "of course, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end. that is just what i think, and what i have been saying to you. so don't let us say or think anything more about it. good-night." "good-night. it will all come right, i daresay;" and graeme put it out of her thoughts, as rose had bidden her do. after this, harry was away for a while, and they saw less of mr millar, because of his absence, graeme thought. he must have more to do, as the busy time of the coming and going of the ships was at hand. so their days passed very quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, but they were happy days for all that; and graeme, seeing her sister's half-veiled pleasure when charlie came, and only half conscious impatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself as she repeated, "it will all come right." it was a fair april day; a little colder than april days are generally supposed to be, but bright and still--just the day for a long walk, all agreed; and rose went up-stairs to prepare to go out, singing out of a light heart as she went. graeme hastened to finish something that she had in her hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, and before rose came down with her hat on, another came; and the one that came last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, and harry's aversion, mrs gridley. rose had reconciled herself to the loss of her walk, by this time, and listened amused to the various subjects discussed, laying up an item now and then, for harry's special benefit. there was variety, for this was her first visit for a long time. after a good many interesting excursions among the affairs of their friends and neighbours, she brought them back in her pleasant way to their own. "by the by, is it true that young roxbury is going into business with mr millar and your brother?" "we have not bees informed of any such design," said rose. "your brother is away just now, is he not? will he return? young men who have done business elsewhere, are rather in the habit of calling our city slow. i hope your brother harry does not. is young roxbury to take his place in the firm, or are all three to be together?" "harry does not make his business arrangements the subject of conversation very often," said graeme, gravely. "he is quite right," said mrs gridley. "and i daresay, young roxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father's money might. however, some of _that_ may be got in a more agreeable way. mr millar is doing his best, they say. but, amy roxbury is little more than a child. still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out very well. am i not to see mrs elliott, to-day? she is a very devoted mother, it seems." "she would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home." "and she is quite well again? what a relief it must be to you," said mrs gridley, amiably. "and you are all quite happy together! i thought you were going to stay at the west, rose?" "i could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me." "and are you going to keep house for harry, at elphinstone house, or is mr millar to have that?" and so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away. "what nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!" said rose. "worse than nonsense, i am afraid, sometimes," said graeme. "really, harry's terror of her is not surprising. nobody seems safe from her tongue." "but don't let us lose our walk, altogether. we have time to go round the square, at any rate. it is not late," said rose. they went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of mrs gridley and her news behind them. they met fanny returning home, before they had gone far down the street. "come with us, fanny. baby is all right. are you tired?" said rose. "no, i am not tired. but is it not almost dinner time? suppose we go and meet arthur." "well--only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer up toward s street. however, we can go home that way. there will be time enough. how delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in the house!" "and after mrs gridley," said graeme, laughing. "have you had mrs gridley?" said fanny. "yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. is it not nice to be out? i would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, and go up the street as she does." fanny laughed. "wouldn't all the people be amazed? tell me what news mrs gridley gave you." rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily. "all that, and more besides, which graeme will give you, if you are not satisfied. there is your husband. i hope he may be glad to see us all." "if he is not, he can go home by himself." arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might last longer. "very well, one at a time be it," said rose. "come, fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good thing. let him have graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves." they went away together, and arthur and graeme followed, and so it happened that graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she saw something that brought some of mrs gridley's words unpleasantly to her mind. they had turned into s street, which was gay with carriages, and with people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance before them under the trees, when arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, she saw miss roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode mr millar. she was startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return miss roxbury's bow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before she noticed that her brother was speaking to her. he was saying something about the possible admission of young roxbury into the new firm, apropos of the encounter of mr millar and amy. "harry is very close about his affairs," said graeme, with a little vexation. "mrs gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. i am not sure that i did not deny it, decidedly. it is rather awkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know them ourselves." "awkward, indeed!" said arthur, laughing. "but then this partnership is hardly our affair, and mrs gridley is not all the town, though she is not to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and she tells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. it would do well for some things." but graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. she was wondering whether rose had seen charles millar and miss roxbury, and hoping she had not. and then she considered a moment whether she might not ask arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she could not do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying her sister. and yet, how foolish such a thought was; for rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. she repeated it more firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street where fanny and rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. if rose felt any vexation, she hid it well. "i will ask fanny whom they met. no, i will not," said graeme, to herself, again. "why should rose care. it is only i who have been foolish. they have known each other so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to happen. it would have been very nice for some things. and it might have been, if rose had cared for him. he cared for her, i am quite sure. who would not? but she does not care for him. i hope she does not care for him. oh! i could not go through all that again! oh, my darling, my darling!" it was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed what graeme was thinking. she started a little when her sister said,-- "graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a new velvet jacket?" "not very extravagant just to wish for one," said graeme, dubiously. rose laughed. "i might as well wish for a gown, too, while i am wishing, i suppose, you think. no, but i do admire those little jackets so much. i might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. it wouldn't take much, they are worn so small. what do you think about it, graeme?" "if you can afford it. they are very pretty, certainly." "yes, are they not? but, after all, i daresay i am foolish to wish for one." "why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, i daresay we can manage it between us." "oh! as to setting my heart on it, i can't quite say that. it is not wise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of getting--or on things that perish with the using--which is emphatically true of jackets. this one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost," added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve. there was no time for more. "here we are," said fanny, as they all came up to the door. "how pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. we will all come to meet you again, dear. i only hope baby has been good." "she did not see them," said graeme, to herself, "or she does not care. if she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless--. i will watch her. i shall see if there is any difference. but she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. i am quite sure of that." if there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not rose. she was just what she always was. she was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. she was just as usual. she came into graeme's room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. she did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. and then graeme said to herself, again, that rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful. glad and thankful! yet, graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even fanny could see were wistful and anxious. rose did not see it, or she did not say so. she was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. she was just as usual, graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see. when mr millar called the first time after the night when graeme had met him with miss roxbury, rose was not at home. he had seen her going into the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told mrs elliott, when she wondered what had become of her. she did not come in till late. she had been beguiled into playing and singing any number of duets and trios with the young gilberts, she said, and she had got a new song that would just suit fanny's voice, and fanny must come and try it. and then, she appealed to arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wanted mamma. she was just as friendly as usual with mr millar during the short time he stayed after that--rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. he brought it the very next night, but rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. she was not "making believe," graeme assured herself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. in a day or two harry came home, and mr millar came and went with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went on as before. "graeme," said fanny, confidentially, one night when all but rose were sitting together, "i saw the _prettiest_ velvet jacket to-day! it was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. i asked the price." "and were astonished at its cheapness," said harry. "for baby, i suppose?" said arthur. "for baby! a velvet jacket! what are you thinking of, arthur?" said fanny, answering her husband first. "no, harry, i was not astonished at the cheapness. but it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering." "and it is for baby's mamma, then," said arthur, making believe to take out his pocket book. fanny shook her head. "i have any number of jackets," said she. "but, then, you have worn them any number of times," said harry. "they are as good as new, but old-fashioned? eh, fanny?" said her husband. "three weeks behind the latest style," said harry. "nonsense, arthur! what do you know about jackets, harry? but, graeme, rosie ought to have it. you know, she wants one so much." "she spoke about it, i know; but i don't think she really cares for one. at any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one." "of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get," said fanny, wisely. "but she would like it, all the same, i am sure." the velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with much interest; but rose had given up all thought of it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. judging from what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, fanny doubted the sincerity of rose's resignation. "i believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she says nothing," continued she. "vexing her," repeated graeme. "what do you mean, fanny? what have you seen?" "oh! i have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. but i know i should be vexed if i wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; at least i should have been when i was a young girl like rose," added fanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the folly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. the others laughed. "and even later than that--till baby came to bring you wisdom," said her husband. "and it would be nice if rosie could have it before the convocation," continued fanny, not heeding him. "it would just be the thing with her new hat and grey poplin." "yes," said graeme, "but i don't think rosie would enjoy it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. i don't really think she cares about it much." "i know what you mean, graeme. she would not like me to interfere about it, you think. but if arthur or harry would have the sense to make her a present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice." "upon my word, fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma," said harry. "a regular manager." fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma's wisdom and management were not admired. graeme hastened to interfere. "it is very nice of you to care so much about it, fanny. you know rose is very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. i am not sure, however. i have my misgivings." and not without reason. rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but not too liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. but more than once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to fanny, in her attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, or by drawing on her own means. even from graeme, she would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on the little shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to the utmost limit. but there was no difficulty this time. it all happened naturally enough, and rose thanked harry with more warmth than was necessary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of graeme. "i saw one on miss roxbury," said harry, "or, i ought to say, i saw miss roxbury wearing one; and i thought it looked very well, and so did charlie." "oh!" said rose, with a long breath. "but then you know, harry dear, that i cannot pretend to such style as miss roxbury. i am afraid you will be disappointed in my jacket." "you want me to compliment you, rosie. you know you are a great deal prettier than little amy roxbury. but she is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know her. you would win her heart directly, if you were to try." "but then i should not know what to do with it, if i were to win it, unless i were to give it away. and hearts are of no value when given by a third person, as nobody should know better than you, harry, dear. but i shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more good brothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well i look in mine. it is very nice, and i thank you very much." but she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, graeme could not help thinking. "of course, she did not really care much to have it. she does not need to make herself fine. i daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. it is well she can enjoy something else besides finery." they all went to the convocation, and rose wore her new jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. the ladies went early with arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. fanny enjoyed this part of the affair very much, and rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, fanny whispered that there was harry, with miss roxbury. "i thought harry was not coming," said she. "i suppose, he was able to get away after all," said graeme, and she looked round for mr millar. he was not to be seen, but by and by harry came round to them, to say that there were several seats much better than theirs, that had been reserved for the roxbury party, because mr roxbury had something to do with the college, and mrs roxbury wanted them to come round and take them, before they were filled. "oh! how charming!" said rose. "if we only could. we should be quite among the great people, then, which is what i delight in." "i thought you were not coming, harry," said graeme. "i was afraid i could not get away, but i made out to do so. no, not at charlie's expense. there he is now, speaking to mrs roxbury, and looking about for us, i daresay." "well, fanny, you go on with harry, and graeme and i will follow," said rose. "it would not do to separate, i suppose? are you sure there is room for all, harry?" "quite sure. no fear; we will make room." so harry gave his arm to fanny, and graeme rose to follow them, though she would much rather have stayed where she was. when she reached the other end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but rose had not moved. she could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and graeme could not linger without losing sight of harry and fanny, for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students were left vacant. so she was obliged to hasten on. "i will send harry back for her," said graeme, to herself. "or, perhaps, when arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. we have made a very foolish move for all concerned, i think. but rosie seemed to like the idea, and i did not care. i only hope we are not separated for the whole affair." but separated for the whole affair they were. arthur returned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away again. so as he could see and hear very well where he was, and as rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with the companionship of her little friend, miss etta goldsmith, he contented himself where he was. miss goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till "dear dick," had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. and after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had bidden farewell to each and all, in english so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmates for the applause, which they did not spare. rose sat beside the eager little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that arthur leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. then she brightened. "there is great deal more of it, is there not? i must not be tired yet. why don't you find your way over to fanny and graeme?" "where are they? ah! yes, i see them over there among the great folks-- and harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. and that bonny little amy is not far-away, i'll venture to say. no. i shall stay where i am for the present." miss goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. and so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy herself. and to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, there was a great deal worth seeing. "how beautifully the ladies are dressed! how pretty the spring fashions are! i feel like an old dowdy! who is that lady in blue? what a love of a hat! and your jacket! it is a beauty!" it was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations that rose listened to all that was going on. there was a good deal more to be said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. then they had some latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery english. and "will it ever be done?" thought rose, with a sigh. it was not "just the thing," all this discussion of hats and fashions; but little miss goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and rose answered as silently, with a nod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were not the only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the dean, and the prosing of the chancellor, rose thought to herself; as she glanced about. arthur whispered that the chancellor surpassed himself on the occasion, and that even the dean was not very prosy, and rose did not dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? she brightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go. "go and find fanny and graeme," said she to her brother. "dr goldsmith will take care of his sister and me." dr goldsmith was nothing loth, and rose was so engaged in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, that she did not notice that graeme and mr millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. there was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. the roxbury carriage was among the rest, and miss roxbury was sitting in it, though rose could not help thinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on with the rest, as harry was so bold as to propose. they were waiting for mr roxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words. "i will walk on with the goldsmiths. i have something to say to etta," said rose, and before graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. the carriage passed them, and miss roxbury leaned forward and bowed and smiled, and charmed miss goldsmith with her pretty manner and perfect hat. in a little, harry overtook them. rose presented him to miss goldsmith, and walked on with the doctor. at the gate of the college grounds, their ways separated. "mr elliott," said miss goldsmith, "your sister has almost promised to come and visit us when i go home. i do so want papa and mamma to see her. brother dick goes home to-morrow, but i am going to stay a day or two, and then i want rose to go with me. do try and persuade miss elliott to let her go." harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had no doubt graeme would be happy to give rose the pleasure, and then they got away. "papa, and mamma, and brother dick. i declare it looks serious. what are you meditating, now, rosie, if i may ask?" "my dear harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. the idea of your taking graeme and fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! i don't know what i should have done if arthur had not come back. to be sure i had etta goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. i don't think her big brother is so very ugly if he hadn't red hair. and he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. his papa and mamma must be delighted. but it was very shabby of you, harry, to go and leave me alone; was it not, arthur?" "but, you might have come, too," said fanny. "i thought you were following us." "and so did i," said graeme. "well, dear little etta goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. i did not feel sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd alone, or i might have followed you." "i did not miss you at first," said harry, "and then i wanted charlie to go for you, but--" "he very properly refused. don't excuse yourself, harry. and i had set my heart on comparing jackets with miss roxbury, too." "why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?" said harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister's reproaches. he had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself,-- "why didn't you wait and speak to her at the door?" "oh! you know, i could not have seen it well then, as she was in the carriage. it is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don't you think? and, besides, it would not have been quite polite to the goldsmiths," added she, severely. "you know they befriended me when i was left alone." "befriended you, indeed. i expected every minute to see your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. i felt like giving him a beating," said harry, savagely. rose laughed merrily. "my dear harry! you couldn't do it. he is so much bigger than you. at least, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say." "but it is all nonsense, rose. i don't like it. it looked to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big--big--" "doctor," suggested rose. "and we shall have all the town, and mrs gridley, telling us next, that you--" "harry, dear, i always know when i hear you mention mrs gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent. _i_ leave _you_. quite the contrary. and please don't use that naughty word in connection with my name again, or i may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agreeable to you. dear me, i thought you were growing to be reasonable by this time. don't let graeme see us quarrelling." "you look tired, dear," said graeme, as they went up-stairs together. "well, it was a little tedious, was it not? of course, it wouldn't do to say so, you know. however, i got through it pretty well, with little etta's help. did you enjoy the roxbury party much?" "i kept wishing we had not separated," said graeme. "oh! yes, i enjoyed it. they asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. it is not to be a party. harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is mr millar." "it will be very nice, i daresay, only i am so very tired. however, we need not decide till after dinner," said rose. after dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, and she had a headache, besides. "i noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon," said arthur. "don't go if you are tired. graeme, what is the use of her going if she does not want to?" "certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. but i think you would enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might come home early." "oh! i enjoy regular parties only too well. i will go if you wish it, graeme, only i am afraid i shall not shine with my usual brilliancy-- that is all!" "i hope you are really ill," said harry. "i mean, i hope you are not just making believe to get rid of it." "my dear harry! why, in all the world, should i make believe not well `to get rid of it,' as you so elegantly express it? such great folks, too!" "harry, don't be cross," said fanny. "i am sure i heard you say, a day or two since, that rose was looking thin." "harry, dear!" said rose, with effusion, "give me your hand. i forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment. i have had horrible fears lately that i was getting stout--middle-aged looking, as graeme says. are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only making believe?" "i didn't intend it as a compliment, i assure you. i didn't think you were looking very well." "did you not? what would you advise? should i go to the country; or should i put myself under the doctor's care? not our big friend, whom you were going to beat," said rose, laughing. "i think you are a very silly girl," said harry, with dignity. "you told me that once before, don't you remember? and i don't think you are at all polite,--do you, fanny? come up-stairs, graeme, and i will do your hair. it would not be proper to let harry go alone. he is in a dreadful temper, is he not?" and rose made a pretence of being afraid to go past him. "mr millar, cannot you do or say something to soothe your friend and partner?" harry might understand all this, but graeme could not, and she did not like this mood of rose at all. however, she was very quiet; as she dressed her sister's hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. but she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if graeme could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then she went away. she did not go very cheerfully. she had had two or three glimpses of her sister's face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall with harry, before miss goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences to rose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there was something troubling her darling. she was not able to put it away again. the foolish, light talk between rose and harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by her words. but she only said, "good-night, and go to sleep," and then went down-stairs with a heavy heart. she wanted to speak with harry about the sharp words that had more than once passed between him and rose of late; but mr millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered mr roxbury's house. the drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. yet when graeme stood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. it was only for a moment, and it was not for herself. the pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her own life, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of that troubled time. she had known this before, and the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden of dread of what might lie in the future for her sister. it did not leave her all the evening. she watched the pretty, gentle amy, flitting about among her father's guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl's face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. she watched her ways and words with mr millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from rose. but she watched in vain. amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still. "she is very like lily elphinstone, is she not?" said her brother harry in her ear. she started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl's face. "she is very like lily--in all things," said graeme; and to herself she added, "and she will steal the treasure from my darling's life, as lily stole it from mine--innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still-- and from harry's, too, it may be." and, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's face; but harry was no longer at her side. mr millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as harry's had been. "she is very sweet and lovely--very like lily, is she not?" he whispered. "very like her," repeated graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness. "you are very tired of all this, i am afraid," said he. "very tired! if harry only would take me home!" "shall i take you home? at least, let me take you out of the crowd. have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? shall i take you up-stairs for a little while." graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. it was all so like what had been before--the lights, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now for rose, and so much worse to bear. still in a dream, she went from picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed with all her heart, for it was rosie's face that looked down at her from the canvas; it was rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes. "anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. not very far, however. at the first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again. "that is a very sad picture, i think," she said, coming back with an effort to the present. "i have seen it once before." charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. an impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his lips. "miss elliott," murmured he, "_you_ will never take your friendship from me, whatever may happen?" she was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the crowd again. what was he thinking of! of allan and the past, or of rose and amy and the future? a momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, and then little amy was looking up in her face, rather anxiously and wistfully, graeme thought. "you are not going away, miss elliott, are you?" said she. "i am very tired," said graeme. "oh! here is my brother. i am very sorry to take you away, harry, but if you don't mind much, i should like to go home. will you make my adieux to your mother, miss roxbury?--no, please do not come up-stairs. i would much rather you did not. good-night." "you might at least have been civil to the little thing," growled harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. graeme laughed. "civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "oh! harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to know. but, indeed, i did not mean to be uncivil to the child." "then you were uncivil without meaning it," said harry, sharply. graeme was silent a moment. "i do not choose to answer a charge like that," said she. "i beg your pardon, graeme, but--" "harry, hush! i will not listen to you." they did not speak again till they reached home. then graeme said,-- "i must say something to you, harry. let us walk on a little. it is not late. harry, what is the trouble between you and rose?" "trouble!" repeated harry, in amazement. "do you mean because she fancied herself left alone this afternoon?" "of course i do not mean that. but more than once lately you have spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which i am ignorant--something that must have happened when you were away from home--at the west, i mean--something which i have not been told." "graeme, i don't understand what you mean. what could possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? why don't you ask rose?" "because i have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and now i prefer to ask you. harry, dear, i don't think it is anything very serious. don't be impatient with me." "has rose been saying anything to you?" "nothing that i have not heard you say yourself. you accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of--of flirting, in short--" "my dear graeme! i don't think i ever made any such assertion--at least in a way that you or rose need to resent--or complain of." "rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. harry, dear, what is it? don't you remember one night when something was said about mrs gridley--no, don't be impatient. you were annoyed with rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least i thought not. i don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns rose is a great matter to me. she is more to me than any one." "graeme," said harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that i love rose less than you do. i think i know what you mean, however. i annoyed her once by something i said about charlie, but it was only for the moment. i am sure she does not care about that now." "about charlie!" repeated graeme. "yes; you did not know it, i suppose, but it was a serious matter to charlie when you and rose went away that time. he was like a man lost. and i do believe she cared for him, too--and i told him so--only she was such a child." "you told him so!" repeated graeme, in astonishment. "i could not help it, graeme. the poor fellow was in such a way, so--so miserable; and when he went west last winter, it was more to see rose than for anything else. but he came back quite downhearted. she was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. not that he said very much about it. but when i went out there afterwards, i took her to task sharply about it." "harry! how could you?" "very easily. it is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose with a man's heart, and such a man as charlie. and i told her so roundly." "and how did she take it?" asked graeme, in a maze between astonishment and vexation. "oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended princess--and i rather think i had the worst of it," added harry, laughing at the remembrance. "but i don't bear malice, and i don't think rose does." "of course, she does not. but harry, dear, though i should not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, i must say it was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. i don't believe mr millar ever said a word to her about--about his feelings, and you don't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her about--any one." "now; graeme, don't be missish! `never said a word!'--why, a blind man might have seen it all along. i know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her." "no wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so in words; at least she ought not," said graeme, gravely. "oh, well!--there is no use talking. perhaps i was foolish; but i love charlie, dearly. i daresay rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you may agree with her. but i tell you, graeme, charlie is pure gold. i don't know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded--unless it is our own will; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may be changed by this time. but i can swear for charlie." "you don't need to swear to me, harry. you know well i have always liked charlie." "well, it can't be helped now. charlie has got over it. men _do_ get over these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time," added harry, meditatively. "i was rather afraid of rosie's coming home, and i wanted charlie to go to scotland, then, but he is all right now. of course you are not to suppose that i blame rose. such things will happen, and it is well it is no worse. it is the way with those girls not to know or value true worth because they see it every day." "poor charlie!" said graeme, softly. "oh, don't fret about charlie. he is all right now. he is not the man to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her own mind. `there's as good fish in the sea,' you know. if you are going to be sorry for any one, let it be for rosie. she has lost a rare chance for happiness in the love of a good man." "but it may not be lost," murmured graeme. "i am afraid it is," said harry, gravely. "it is not in rose to do justice to charlie. even you don't do it, graeme. because he lives just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. as for rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it is laid at her feet. i only hope she won't wait for the `hats till the blue-bonnets go by,' as janet used to say." "as i have done, you would like to add," said graeme, laughing, for her heart was growing light. "and harry, dear, rosie never had anybody's heart laid at her feet. it is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend." "oh! well. it doesn't matter. she will never have it now. charlie is all right by this time. her high and mighty airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admiration. fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring mrs roxbury and her daughter, when they--miss roxbury, at least--wanted to see her to engage her for this evening." "he is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "the goldsmiths might have called her `high and mighty' if she had left them and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those `fine carriage people.' she could only choose between the two parties, and i think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to suppose." "she need not have been rude to the roxburys, however. charlie noticed it as well as i." "i think you are speaking very foolishly, harry," said graeme. "what do the roxburys care for any of us? do you suppose mrs roxbury would notice a slight from a young girl like rose. and she was not rude." "no, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that i was amazed, and so was charlie, i know, though he did not say so." "nonsense, harry! rose knows them, but very slightly. and what has mr millar to do with it?" "mr millar!" exclaimed harry. "do be reasonable, graeme. is it not of mr millar that we have been speaking all this time? he has everything to do with it. and as for not knowing them. i am sure rose was at first delighted with miss roxbury. and amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, i know. but rose is such a flighty, flippant little thing, that--" "that will do, harry. such remarks may be reserved for mr millar's hearing. i do not choose to listen to them. you are very unjust to rose." "it is you who are unjust, graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. i am sure i don't understand it." graeme laughed. "well, perhaps i am a little out of temper, harry. i know i am dreadfully tired. we won't say anything more about it to-night, except that i don't like to have rose misunderstood." "i was, perhaps, a little hard on rosie, once, but i don't think i misunderstand her," said harry, wisely. "she is just like other girls, i suppose; only, graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. and i shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all right with charlie." but was it all right with charlie? graeme's talk with harry had not enlightened her much. had pretty, gentle amy roxbury helped charlie "to get over it;" as harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? or did charlie still care for rose? and had rose ever cared for him "in that way?" was rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as harry declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful life? was it this that had brought over her the change which could not be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very sad? or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow over the life of her young sister? even in her thoughts, graeme shrunk from admitting that rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late for her happiness. "i will not believe that she has all that to pass through. it cannot be so bad as that. i will have patience and trust. i cannot speak to her. it would do no good. i will wait and trust." graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her mind, could only end in this: "i will wait and trust." chapter forty. graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the may morning, smiling down upon her. rose disappointed and sad! rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! she listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. she laughed, as rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning. "i could not have borne it," she said to herself. "i am afraid i never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. i am content with my own lot. i think i would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. but rosie--. ah! well, i might have known! i know i ought to trust for rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. but oh! i am very glad and thankful for her sake." she was late in the breakfast-room, and she found harry there. "`the early bird,' you know, graeme," said he. "i have been telling rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home." "but he won't tell me what it was all about," said rose. "i cannot. i don't know myself. i have an idea that you had something to do with it, rosie. but i can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say." "it is not absolutely necessary that you should," said graeme, smiling. "i hope you are in a much better humour this morning, graeme." "i think i am in a pretty good humour. not that i confess to being very cross last night, however." "it was he who was cross, i daresay," said rose. "you brought him away before supper! no wonder he was cross. are you going to stay very long, harry?" "why? have you any commands for me to execute?" "no; but i am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. i am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one." harry shrugged his shoulders. "now, graeme, don't you call that flippant? is it anything about the big doctor, rosie?" "you won't beat him, will you harry? no. it is only about his sister. graeme, fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. she cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. she is very easily amused. she makes pleasure out of everything. mayn't she come?" "certainly, if you would like her to come; i should like to know her very much." "and is the big brother to come, too?" asked arthur. "no. he leaves town to-day. will you go with me, harry, to fetch her here?" "but what about `papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? the cunning, little thing has some design upon you, rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us." rose laughed. "don't be frightened, harry. you are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. and i intend to show myself to `papa and mamma' later, if you don't object." "there! look at graeme. she thinks you and i are quarrelling, rosie. she is as grave as a judge." "tell us about the party, harry," said fanny. "it was very pleasant. i don't think graeme enjoyed it much, however. i wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. it was more than usually agreeable, i thought." "you are degenerating, harry," said his brother. "i thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. i should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least." "and then to make him lose the supper! it was too bad of you, graeme," said rose. "oh! she didn't. i went back again." they all exclaimed. only harry laughed. "can i do anything for you and your friend, rosie?" asked he. "yes, indeed you can. i intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. we are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all." "it is very kind of you, harry, to offer," said graeme. "hem! not at all. i shall be most happy," said harry. "oh! we shall not be exacting. we are easily amused, little etta and i." miss goldsmith's visit was a success. she was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. it might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. but by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, etta added gravely. dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, etta thought. he was her only own brother. all the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. but notwithstanding the hard times to which etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed. everything was made pleasure by this little girl. it was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. an hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. the churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. they spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. they paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. she taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in berlin wool. she even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. in short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. not a moment but was occupied in some way. of course, graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home. "i hope i shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. i think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. i mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but i know i am only a silly little thing. oh! rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!" "i should like it very much, indeed," said rose. "of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't mind that. miss elliott, don't you think you could spare rose to me for a few days?" graeme shook her head. "i think i have spared her to you a good many days. i have seen very little of her for a long time, i think." miss goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "nonsense, etta," said rose; "she is only laughing at you. she has had you and me, too. and i should like very much to go with you. this is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, i think. what do you say, graeme?" little etta clasped her hands, and looked at graeme so entreatingly, that rose laughed heartily. but graeme said nothing encouraging. however, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first june days, and, because of the heat, graeme thought rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. she is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. etta was enchanted. "i am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for i know i am a foolish girl. but with rose to help me, just at first, i shall succeed i know." "don't be silly, etta," said rose. "you are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever i was, or am like to be. all my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. if they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don't make me blush before graeme and fanny, who know me so well." no time had to be lost in preparations. the decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid miss goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of rose's intention to go with her. harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. there was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that graeme disliked so much, and then rose went away for a few minutes. "graeme," said harry, "what is all this about? it seems to me rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. what freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?" "if it is a freak, it is mine," said graeme, quietly. "rose needs a change. she is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and i am very glad she is to go with miss goldsmith." "a change," repeated harry. "why could she not go with fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?" "but fanny is not going for several weeks yet. rose will be home before that time. she will not be away more than a fortnight, i hope." "a fortnight, indeed! what has the time to do with it? it is the going at all that is so foolish: you astonish me, graeme." "you astonish me, harry! really i cannot understand why you should care so much about it." "well, well! if you are pleased, and she is pleased, i need not trouble myself about it," said harry, sulkily. "what has happened to you, harry?" said fanny. "you are not like yourself, to-night." "he is a great deal more like the harry of old times," said graeme. "like the harry you used to know long ago, mr millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately." "i was just thinking so," said mr millar. "why should not rosie go?" persisted fanny. "i think it must be a very stupid place, from all that etta says; still, if rose wishes it, why should she not go?" "i believe it is the big brother harry is afraid of," said arthur, laughing. graeme and fanny laughed, too. "i don't think it is a laughing matter," growled harry. "how would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?" arthur and fanny laughed, still, but graeme looked grave. "it would be just like a silly girl like rose," continued harry, gloomily. "harry," said graeme, "i think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. you should be the last person to couple rose's name with that of any gentleman." "of course, it is only among ourselves; and, i tell you, graeme, you are spoiling rosie--" "harry! be quiet. i don't choose to listen to you on that subject." "i declare, harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of rosie's conquests. it is the greatest folly imaginable," said arthur. "well, it may be so. at any rate, i shall say no more. are you coming, charlie? i must go." he went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "rose, are you coming down again? i must go." rose came flying down. "must you go, harry? i am just done with what i needed to do. don't be cross with me, harry." and greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek. "why, rosie, what ails you? i didn't mean to be cross, rosie, my darling." but, in a minute, rose was smiling through her tears. "rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. i think you are the very silliest girl i know. i wish--" rose wiped her eyes. "don't go yet, harry. i will come in immediately; and please don't tell graeme that i am so silly. she wouldn't like it at all." "graeme is as silly as you are," growled harry. rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with miss goldsmith. harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said: "i hope you are not afraid to trust rose with us? we will take great care of her, i assure you." "since i am too silly to take care of myself," said rose. they had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before harry and his friend went away. "i must say good-bye for a long time, miss rose," said mr millar. "i shall have sailed before you are home again, i suppose." "you go in the first steamer, then?" "i don't know, i am not quite sure yet. i have not quite decided." "of course, he goes by the first steamer," said harry. "he should have gone long ago. there is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter." rose opened her eyes very wide. "is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said fanny. "really, harry, i am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said rose. "i think mr millar is very good not to mind you." "i understand harry," said his friend. "you don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. good-bye, dear, silly, little rose." "good-bye, harry. don't be cross." "rose," said graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "i think it is the big brother that put harry out of temper to-night." rose laughed. "he seems quite afraid of him," continued graeme. "and you are a little bit afraid of him, too, graeme, or you never would have told me about harry." "no. but i am just a little afraid for him." "you need not be. harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, i know, but it is too bad of you, graeme, to intimate as much. i have a great mind to tell you a secret, graeme. but you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet." "well," said graeme. "if i should stay away longer than i mean to do at present, and harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. harry thinks i cannot manage my own affairs," added rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. "and he has a mind to help me. he has not helped me much, yet. ah! well, there is no use going over all that." "what is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked graeme. "i don't know whether i ought to tell. but it will be safe with you. graeme, the big doctor is engaged." "well," said graeme. "it is not all smooth sailing, yet. i am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as etta has always been hoping he might do. but she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. see that you don't tell harry." "well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister. "graeme! i do believe you are as bad as harry. do you fancy that it is i to whom dr goldsmith is engaged? by no means. i am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. she is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. no. it is very foolish of harry to fancy things. he is very stupid, i think. but you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, i have another reason. good-night, dear." and so they went away in the morning. rose's visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been miss goldsmith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. the country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. she kept a journal for graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it. at last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. they were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and mr and mrs goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. this was the last letter. rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither graeme and rose, perhaps, might go, later. mr millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. if rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, harry told her; and rose said, "what a pity! if i had only known, i could so easily have come!" that was all. how quiet the house was during those long summer days! it was like the coming again of the old time, when they and nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home. "what happy, happy days they were!" said rose, with a sigh. "they _were_ happy days," said graeme. "very happy days." she did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. what was to be said? the doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or rose of her own free will, should tell. for graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. she would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. and when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting; and graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her. and, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and "ill to do with," as janet would have said, graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. she went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her. it was an anxious time to graeme. when their brothers were with them, rose was little different from the rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. but another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. but, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her. for, indeed, what could she say? even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? there were no words to be spoken, however it might be. that was plain enough, graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all. not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon rose. that was never for a moment to be believed. nothing that had happened to rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as janet had said, "of a lighter nature." graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. she did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world. "graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see norman and hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose." "would you like it?" asked graeme, a little surprised. "yes. for some things i would like it;" and graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. "it is a better season to go, for one thing--a better season for health, i mean. one bears the change of climate better, they say." "but you have been here so short a time. what would arthur say, and fanny? it would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as if your home was with norman." rose shrugged her shoulders. "well! neither arthur nor fanny would be inconsolable. the chances are it may be my home. it is worth taking into consideration. indeed, i have been considering the matter for some time past." "nonsense! don't talk foolishly, rose. it is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and i have no thought of going west to stay very long." "and why not? i am sure norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long." "not at you, rosie." "no. not at me. and, besides, i was not thinking of norman, altogether. i was thinking of making a home for myself out there. why not?" graeme looked up, a little startled. "i don't understand you, rose." rose laughed. "no, you don't. but you think you do. of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. it must be made for her. but one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, graeme," added rose, a little scornfully. graeme said nothing, and rose went on. "it would not be easy here, i know; but out there you and i could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. it is so different there. you ought to go there just to understand how very different it is." "if we needed a home," said graeme. "but, rose, i am content with the home we have." "content!" repeated rose, impatiently. "there is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and walked about the room. "content is a very good thing to have," said graeme, quietly. "yes, if one could have it. but now, graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?--as i am living, i ought to say. your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say i often wonder it contents you. think of it, graeme! what does it all amount to, as far as i am concerned, i mean? a little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. i am sick of the thought of it all." graeme did not answer her. she was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent. "of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "but _you_ ought to know better, graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful. "but, rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. and what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? have you any plan?" rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience. "there is surely something that we could do, you and i together. i can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--" instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. however it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts. "what is it, rose? i am afraid i was thinking about something else. i don't think i quite understand what you were saying last," said graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes. "for i must not let her see that i know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. if she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as janet had not dared to do. she would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes. but this she could not do. even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. so, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,-- "and, then, there are so few things that a woman can do." the words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that rose could not understand. "you are not thinking of what i have been saying. why do you look at me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly. "i am thinking of it, indeed. and i did not know that i was looking any other than my usual way. i was saying to myself, `has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as i have done?' oh! rosie, dear! if i could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!" "well, why not? that is just what i want. only, don't begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. i know all that, already." "we might go to norman for a while together, at any rate," said graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them. "yes. that is just what i said, at first. and we could see about it there. we could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. and, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in hilda's house with the children and all the rest. i wish we could go soon." and then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother norman's house--hilda's housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. it grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, rose said, suddenly: "i am sure you used to think about all this, graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, `waiting at the pool,' as hannah lovejoy used to say. i declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's heads, as though--. it would be different, if we were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. you used to think so, yourself, graeme. why should arthur and harry do everything for us?" "yes, i remember. when fanny first came, i think i had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. i was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. i talked to janet about it one night." "and she convinced you that you were all wrong, i suppose," said rose. "and you were content ever after." "no. i don't think she helped me much, at the time. but her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that i did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. i found it ready at my hand, though i could not see it then. her wisdom was higher than mine. she said that out of it all would come content, and so it has." "that was not saying much!" said rose. "no. it did not seem to me, much, when she said it. but she was right, all the same, and i was wrong. and it has all happened much better than if i had got my own way." "but, graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. that is begging the question, as harry would say." "but i am not speaking of women in general; i am speaking about myself, and my own work; and i say janet was wise, though i was far from thinking it that night, as i mind well." there was a pause, and then rose said, in a low voice. "it may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and i think with you, too. and how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. and it is right that it should be so; and graeme, we might try." instead of answering her directly, graeme said, after a little while,-- "did i ever tell you rose, dear, about that night, and all that janet said to me? i told her how i wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. did i ever tell you all she said to me? i don't think i ever did. i felt then, just as you do now. i think i can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and i opened my heart to janet--i mean, i told her how sick i was of it all, and how good-for-nothing i felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only i could find real work to do--" and graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. but neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister's face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness. "i could not make janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me," she went on. "i could not make her understand, or, at least, i thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that fanny's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that i must fulfil papa's last wish, and stay with the rest. i thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for _me_, certainly; and i thought for arthur and fanny, too, and for you, rosie. but, oh! how much wiser janet was than i, that night. but i did not think so at the time. i was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. it was well that circumstances were too strong for me. it has come true, as janet said. i think it is better for us all that i have been at home all those years. fanny and i have done each other good. it has been better for us all." she paused a moment, and then added,-- "of course, if it had been necessary that i should go out into the world, and make my own way, i might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. and so we might still, you and i together, rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. there is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for god's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. without separating from the others, i mean." but rose's face clouded again. "there need be no question of separating from the others, graeme. norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them--the necessity of making a living, i mean. there are other necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, i suppose. it is an idle, foolish, vain life that i am living. i know that i have not enough to fill my life, graeme. i know it, though i don't suppose i can make you understand it. i am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. i mean, i am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. it is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for arthur and fanny, and us all. and, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! i know there is no use talking. i could never make you understand--there, i don't want to be naughty, and vex you--and we will say no more to-night. shall i get a light?" she stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,-- "only one word more, rosie. i think i can understand you better than you believe, as janet understood me that night, though i did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. my darling, i believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if i am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--i mean, if it is right--circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. we shall keep together, at any rate, and i am not afraid. and, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, i know. but we will wait till will comes home. we must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. i don't like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which will must be left. and so many things may happen before a year is over. i remember how restless and troubled i was at that time. i don't like to think of it even now--and it is all past--quite past. and we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience." all this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then rose said,-- "well--yes--i suppose we must wait for will." but she did not say it cheerfully, and graeme went on, after a little: "and, dear, i have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of god's will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. it will all come right, love, you may be sure of that." the last words were spoken hastily, for harry's voice was heard, and rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise. "so you are here at last, harry? are there any letters to-night?" yes, there were letters. harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. his friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to paris, perhaps even to rome. "with whom do you think, graeme?" added he, his face clearing up suddenly. "with his brother allan, and our will. won't they help one another to have a good time? charlie takes it quite coolly, however, i must say. it was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. that is always the way. i wonder when i shall have my holiday? `the willing horse,' you know, rosie." "it is very hard on you, harry, dear. but i fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. was that in the interest of your friend?" "hem! yes--indirectly. i did enjoy it. fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, rosie, it is time you were going. they seem to have a very nice set of people there. i think if you were to go at once, i would take a run down with you--next week, perhaps. i think you would enjoy it." "i thank you, harry, dear. but, you know, fanny's taste and mine are different. i don't always fancy _her_ pleasant people. and i should not think of taking you away on my account." "not at all. i shall go, at any rate. but i want you to go, rosie, for a reason i have. and i promise you won't regret it. i wish graeme would go, too." "it would be charming if we could all go together," said rose. "but it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now." "i enjoyed it very much," said harry. "one gets to know people so much better in such a place, and i am sure you would like the roxburys, rosie, if you would only take pains to know them." "my dear harry! think what you are saying! would they take pains to know me? they are fanny's nice people, are they? yes, i suppose so. however, i don't believe graeme will care to go." graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter. "it is from. mr snow," said she, with a pale face. "bad news?" asked harry. it was bad news, indeed. it told, in mr snow's brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result. "it gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _she_ says it will be all right whichever way it turns. god bless you all. emily will tell you more." "harry," said graeme, as he laid down the letter. "i must go to janet." "it would be a comfort to her if you could," said harry, gravely. "and to me," said graeme. "i shall go early to-morrow." there was not much more said about it. there was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then harry went away. rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,-- "harry does not think that i am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. and, graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as janet says. you will let me go with you, graeme?" she pleaded; "you will never go and leave me here?" so whatever harry thought, graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. chapter forty one. september was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming autumn on the hills and valleys of merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on mrs snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of june. the wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. in the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. there were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and mrs snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands. it showed in mr snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. he was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of _the puritan_, but the look that was coming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the county association of ministers, mr snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand. "well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said mrs snow, her attention recalled by the silence. mr snow smiled. "oh! pretty much so. their discussions will keep a spell, i guess," said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window. "it is a bonny day," said mrs snow, softly. "yes, it is kind of pleasant." there was nothing more said for a long time. many words were not needed between these two by this time. they had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day. but that was past now. very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. as for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy. "i never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. we live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it." "it is good to see you sitting there," said mr snow, for answer. "well, i am content to be sitting here. i doubt i shall do little else for the rest of my life. i must be a useless body, i'm afraid," added she, with a sigh. mr snow smiled. "you know better than that," said he. "i don't suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at." "i am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as god wills," said his wife, gravely: "i was willing you should go--yes, i do think i was willing you should go. it was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. "it makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising and moving about. "i believe i was willing, but i am dreadful glad to see you sitting there." "i am glad to be here, since it is god's will. it is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. i think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. but i am content to be here, and to serve him, whether it be by working or by waiting." "on the very brink," repeated mr snow, musingly. "well, it _did_ look like that, one while. i wonder if i was really willing to have you go. it don't seem now as if i could have been--being so glad as i am that you did not go, and so thankful." "i don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as i do, and myself as well, i wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness." this needed further consideration, it seemed, for mr snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till mrs snow spoke again. "i thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, i feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and i am more glad to live than i have been any day yet." mr snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. it was not easy for him to speak at the moment. "if it were only may, now, instead of september! you always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. i do dread the winter for you." "maybe it winna be so hard on me. we must make the best of it anyway. i am thankful for ease from pain. that is much." "yes," said mr snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank god for that. i ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if i can help it. i am going to live, if i can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if i _could_ fix it so that graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, i should find it considerable easier, i expect." "but she has said nothing about going away yet," said mrs snow, smiling at his way of putting it. "you must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure." "we never can tell how things are going to turn," said mr snow, musingly. "there is that good come out of your sickness. they are both here, and, as far as i see, they are content to be here. if we could prevail on will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, i don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always--right here in this house, i mean--only it would be 'most too good a thing to have in this world, i'm afraid." "we must wait for the leadings of providence," said his wife. "this field, as you call it, is no' at will's taking yet. what would your friend, mr perry, think if he heard you? and as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. but, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than i can put in words; and i know you are as pleased as i am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," added mrs snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "it might have been so different." "oh! come, now. it ain't worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. i don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but i do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. i really do." "that's saying much, but i'll no' gainsay it," said mrs snow, smiling. "they are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. but i doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us." "it is amazing to me. i can't seem to understand it, or reconcile it to--." mr snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added: "however, she don't worry about it. she is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and i rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last." "about miss graeme, was it?" said mrs snow, with a smile; "maybe i did. i was as good at that as at most things. yes, she is content with life, now. god's peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. i need not have been afraid." "rosie's sobered down some, don't you think?" said mr snow, with some hesitation. "she used to be as lively as a cricket. maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different." "she's older and wiser, and she'll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do," said mrs snow. "i have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. but i have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, i may not have taken notice. her sister is not anxious about her; i would have seen that. the bairn is gathering sense--that is all, i think." "well! yes. it will be all right. i don't suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and i might have known better than to vex you with it." "indeed, you have not vexed me, and i am not going to vex myself with any such thought. it will all come right, as you say. i have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. `and hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,'" added mrs snow, softly. "that is the way with my bairn, i believe. thank god. and they'll both be the better for this quiet time, and we'll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. see, they are coming down the brae together. it is good to see them." the first weeks of their stay in merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, mrs snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. to mr snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds. by a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide god's time. after that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. to graeme it was a very peaceful time. watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. graeme was, in janet's eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. if she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. she was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own--the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love. "and yet who knows?" said she to herself. "one can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that god has not given her. `a contented mind is a continual feast,' says the book. she has that. and `blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.' what would i have? i'll make no plans, and i'll make no wishes. it is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, i am sure of that. as for her sister--. well, i suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love, to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. and it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest." still, after her husband's words, mrs snow regarded rose's movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. it was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. she was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. it was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. it was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. she was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house. she was cheerful and busy too, mrs snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. she took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented mr snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all. by and by mrs snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. more than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in graeme's eyes as they followed her sister's movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both. they were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and mrs snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to graeme about her sister. before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by hannah's voice coming round the corner-- "rose," it said, "hadn't you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? 'cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to emily's and borrow some yeast. i don't calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat's been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and i want a little to set some more to rising." "hannah," said rose, with a penitent face, "i am afraid it was my fault. i left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as i ought. i am very sorry." "well, i thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn't me," said hannah, grimly. "that jug has held the yeast in this house since grandma snow's time, and now it's broke to forty pieces." "oh, i am so sorry!" said rose. "well, i guess it don't matter a great sight. nobody will worry about it, if i don't, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. but i guess you'd better tell emily how it happened. i'd a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t'other side. i wouldn't have asked you, only i thought you'd rather go than not. that walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. but don't you go if you don't want to." rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! i'll go, and i'll tell mrs nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat's. mrs snow," said she, presenting herself at the window, "did you hear what hannah has been saying? i have broken grandma snow's yeast jug into forty pieces, and i am to go and confess to emily, and get some yeast." "i thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. however, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to hannah." "and let emily know that it is my fault and not hannah's that more yeast is needed. graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?" "you can go and do hannah's errand, now, and i will stay with mrs snow, and we will walk together later," said graeme. "and you might bring wee rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. but there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you." "is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e'en?" asked mrs snow, after a moment's silence. "troubled e'en!" repeated graeme. "no, i don't think there is anything the matter with her. do you? why should you think there is anything the matter with her, janet?" "my dear, i was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her--a look that contradicts your words--a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said." "did i look troubled? i don't think there is any reason for it on rosie's account--any that can be told. i mean i can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. just for a minute, now and then, i have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because i think there is anything seriously wrong with rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. but oh, janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love." "i canna agree with you, my dear. it would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. but well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful." "but i do not, indeed. just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. i am foolish, i suppose, but it always does." "i daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles," said mrs snow, gravely. "i mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. but if you don't like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner." "hannah has done it for me this time--i am not sure, however." for rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, "thinking her own thoughts, doubtless," graeme said to herself. "she's waiting for some one, maybe. i daresay sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come." "miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, in a little, "it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you'll be expected to do, now that i am better. it will be a while, before you'll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked." "oh, i don't know!" said graeme. "it is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. and we have seen almost everybody already. and i like this quiet time much best." "but, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. and it will be good for rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your merleville friends, dear! that would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you." "no, indeed! i have not lost interest in my merleville friends. there will never be any place just like merleville to me. our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. i can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, janet--till the very end." "my dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. there was the going away of the lads, for one thing. i mind well you thought those partings hard to bear." "yes, i remember," said graeme, gravely, "but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid." "my dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. if you mean for rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, _you_ have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. and looking at you, love, and knowing that the `great peace,' the book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, i have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you." graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,-- "i am not afraid. i cannot think what i have said, janet, to make you think i am afraid for rosie." "my dear, you have said nothing. it was the wistful look in your e'en that made me speak to you about her. and besides, i have noticed rosie myself. she is not so light of heart as she used to be. it may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. but whatever it is, i am not afraid for rose. i am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. there can be no good in that, you know well." "but i am not vexing myself, janet, indeed. i will tell you what i know about it. do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that i must go away? well, rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. it has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, i suppose, and i hope it may pass away. for, oh! janet, i shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and i have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one's hand to do, seeing they are sent by god, as well as nobler work. but it is not so with rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, janet, that i follow her with anxious eyes." there was no more said for a moment. they were both watching rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill. "she doesna look like one that has much the matter with her," said mrs snow. "miss graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that i ought to ask?" "janet, i cannot tell you. i do not know. i can but guess at it myself, and i may be all wrong. and i think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. sometimes i have thought it might all be set right, if rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and i think, janet, we can only wait and see. i don't believe there is much cause for fear, if only rose will have patience." "then, wherefore should you look so troubled? nothing but wrong-doing on your sister's part should make you look like that." for there were tears in graeme's eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid. "wrong-doing," repeated she, with a start. then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. was it "wrong-doing" in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? if this was indeed the thing that had happened to rose? or was it "wrong-doing" to come to the knowledge of one's heart too late, as harry had once hinted might be the end of rosie's foolish love of admiration? "wrong-doing," she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. "no, that must never be said of rose. it must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself janet, a little ago. and it won't do to discuss it, anyway. see, rose has opened the gate for some one. who is coming in?" "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that i should not. it is sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee rosie. he has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well." "but, janet," said graeme, eagerly, "you know i could not mean that i could not tell you if i were ever so willing. i do not know. i can only guess; but as for `wrong-doing'--" "my dear, you needna tell me that. sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you--you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. is it safe for the bairn, think you? do you like that way of riding, my wee rosie?" "yes, gamma, i 'ike it," lisped the two years old rosie, smiling brightly. "it is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. and as for what the village folk may think, that's a new thing for you to ask. it is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both rosie and me." and looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted. "it must be delightful," said rose, laughing. "i should like a ride myself, wee rosie." "and why not?" said mrs snow. "sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. have you your habit here, my dear? why should you no' bring young major or dandy over, saddled for miss rose? it would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this." "there is no reason in the world why i should not, if miss rose, would like it." "i would like it very much. not that i need the good of it especially, but i shall enjoy the pleasure of it. and will you let wee rosie come with me." "if grandma has no objections," said sandy, laughing. "but it must be _old_ major, if you take her." "did ever anybody hear such nonsense?" said mrs snow, impatiently. "but you'll need to haste, sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away." "yes, i should not wonder. i saw mr perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. but i could bring young major and dandy too, and miss rose needn't be kept at home then." rose laughed merrily. "who? the minister? oh! fie, sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. wee rosie, are you no' going to stay the day with miss graeme and me?" said mrs snow. graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move. "will you bide with grannie, wee rosie?" asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face. "tum adain grannie," said the little girl, gravely. she was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. her father laughed. "she shall come when i bring over dandy for miss rose. in the meantime, i have something for some one here." "letters," said graeme and rose, in a breath. "one a piece. good news, i hope. i shall soon be back again, miss rose, with dandy." graeme's letter was from will, written after having heard of his sisters being in merleville, before he had heard of mrs snow's recovery. he had thought once of coming home with mr millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. he was staying at present with mrs millar, who was "one of a thousand," wrote will, with enthusiasm, "and, indeed, so is, her son, mr ruthven, but you know allan, of old." and then he went on to other things. graeme read the letter first herself, and then to mrs snow and rose. in the midst of it mr snow came in. rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss will's. "it is from fanny," said she, at last. "you can read it to mrs snow, if you like, graeme. it is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. i will go and put on my habit for my ride. uncle sampson come with me, won't you? have you anything particular to do to-day?" "to ride?" said mr snow. "i'd as lieve go as not, and a little rather--if you'll promise to take it moderate. i should like the chaise full better than the saddle, i guess, though." rose laughed. "i will promise to let _you_ take it moderate. i am not afraid to go alone, if you don't want to ride. but i shouldn't fancy the chaise to-day. a good gallop is just what i want, i think." she went to prepare for her ride, and graeme read fanny's letter. it was, as rose had said, a record of her darling's pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. then there were a few words at the end. "harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see norman and hilda, before you see home again. harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. i hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. he has been quite too much taken up with his little amy, to think of us. however, i promised mr millar i would say nothing of that bit of news. he must tell you about it himself. he has a great deal of scottish news, but i should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and i think it is quite possible that harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. but i suppose he will give you fair warning," and so on. graeme closed the letter, saying nothing. "it is not just very clear, i think," said mrs snow. "is it not?" said graeme. "i did not notice. of course, it is all nonsense about harry coming to take us home." "and who is little miss amy, that she speaks of? is she a friend of your brother harry? or is she mr millar's friend? mrs arthur doesna seem to make it clear?" "miss amy roxbury," said graeme, opening her letter again. "does she not make it plain? oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. i suppose harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if mr millar goes elsewhere. indeed, i don't understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon, i daresay. ah! here is rosie." "and here is dandy," said rose, coming in with her habit on. "and here is wee rosie come to keep you company while i am away. and here is mr snow, on old major. don't expect us home till night. we shall have a day of it, shall we not?" they had a very quiet day at home. wee rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. she was a bonny little creature, with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that graeme remembered in her mother as a child. in the afternoon, emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. at least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. but, when graeme read the letters again to emily, mrs snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going west, or about little amy, or about harry's coming to take them home. but her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child's play with the little ones. but never a word was spoken about anything sad. and, by and by, visitors came, and mrs snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. but when rose and mr snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them. chapter forty two. "i want to know! now do tell; if there ain't mother standing at the gate, and opening it for us, too," exclaimed mr snow, in astonishment and delight. "that is the farthest she's been yet, and it begins to look a little like getting well, now, don't it?" "i hope nothing has happened," said rose, a little anxiously. "i guess not--nothing to fret over. her face don't look like it. well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don't you? you look first-rate." "i am just as usual," said mrs snow, quietly. "but what has kept you so long? we were beginning to wonder about you." "has anything happened?" said rose, looking over mrs snow's head, at a little crowd of people coming out at the door. "we have visitors, that is all. the minister is here, and a friend of yours--your brother harry's partner. he has brought news--not bad news, at least he doesna seem to think so, nor miss graeme. i have hardly heard it myself, yet, or seen the young man, for i was tired and had to lie down. but you'll hear it yourself in due time." rose reined her horse aside. "take care, dear," said mrs snow, as she sprung to the ground without assistance. "there is no need for such haste. you might have waited for sandy or some one to help you, i think." "what is it, graeme?" said rose, for her sister looked flashed and excited, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks she was sure. but she did not look anxious--certainly not unhappy. "rosie, dear, charlie has come." "oh! charlie has come, has he? that is it, is it?" said rose, with a long breath. yes, there was mr millar, offering his hand and smiling--"exactly like himself," rose thought, but she could not tell very well, for her eyes were dazzled with the red light of the setting sun. but she was very glad to see him, she told him; and she told the minister she was very glad to see _him_, too, in the very same tone, the next minute. there was not much time to say anything, however, for hannah--whose patience had been tried by the delay--announced that tea was on the table, in a tone quite too peremptory to be trifled with. "rose, you are tired, i am sure. never mind taking off your habit till after tea." rose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride. "for i left mr snow at major spring's, and went on a long way by myself, and it is just possible, that, after all, you are right, and i have gone too far for the first ride; for see, i am a little shaky," added she, as the teacup she passed to mr snow trembled in her hand. then she asked mr millar about the news he had brought them, and whether all were well, and a question or two besides; and then she gave herself up to the pleasure of listening to the conversation of the minister, and it came into graeme's mind that if harry had been there he would have said she was amusing herself with a little serious flirtation. graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not make her angry as it would have made harry; for though she said little, except to the grave wee rosie nasmyth, whom she had taken under her care, she looked very bright and glad. rose looked at her once or twice, a little startled, and after a while, in watching her, evidently lost the thread of the minister's entertaining discourse, and answered him at random. "i have a note from harry," said graeme, as they left the tea-table. "here it is. go and take off your habit. you look hot and tired." in a little while the visitors were gone and mr millar was being put through a course of questions by mr snow. graeme sat and listened to them, and thought of rose, who, all the time, was sitting up-stairs with harry's letter in her hand. it was not a long letter. rose had time to read it a dozen times over, graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason she could not have told to any one, which she did not even care to make very plain to herself. mr snow was asking, and mr millar was answering, questions about scotland, and will, and mr ruthven, and every word that was said was intensely interesting to her; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and put in a word now and then that showed how much she cared, she was conscious all the time, that she was listening for the sound of a movement overhead, or for her sister's footstep on the stair. by and by, as charlie went on, in answer to mr snow's questions, to tell about the state of agriculture in his native shire, her attention wandered altogether, and she listened only for the footsteps. "she may perhaps think it strange that i do not go up at once. i daresay it is foolish in me. very likely this news will be no more to her than to me." "where is your sister?" said mrs snow, who, as well as graeme, had been attending to two things at once. "i doubt the foolish lassie has tired herself with riding too far." "i will go and see," said graeme. before she entered her sister's room rose called to her. "is it you, graeme? what do you think of harry's news? he has not lost much time, has he?" "i was surprised," said graeme. rose was busy brushing her hair. "surprised! i should think so. did you ever think such a thing might happen, graeme?" this was harry's letter. "my dear sisters,--i have won my amy! you cannot be more astonished than i am. i know i am not good enough for her, but i love her dearly, and it will go hard with me if i don't make her happy. i only want to be assured that you are both delighted, to make my happiness complete." throwing her hair back a little, rose read it again. this was not quite all. there was a postscript over the page, which rose had at first overlooked, and she was not sure that graeme had seen it. besides, it had nothing to do with the subject matter of the note. "did the thought of such a thing ever come into your mind?" asked she again, as she laid the letter down. "yes," said graeme, slowly. "it did come into my mind more than once. and, on looking back, i rather wonder that i did not see it all. i can remember now a good many things that looked like it, but i never was good at seeing such affairs approaching, you know." "are you glad, graeme?" "yes, i am glad. i believe i shall be very glad when i have had time to think about it." "because harry's happiness won't be complete unless you are, you know," said rose, laughing. "i am sure harry is quite sincere in what he says about it," said graeme. "it is not to be doubted. i daresay she is a nice little thing; and, after all, it won't make the same difference to us that fanny's coming did." "no, if we are to consider it with reference to ourselves. but i think i am very glad for harry's sake." "and that is more than we could have said for arthur. however, there is no good going back to that now. it has all turned out very well." "things mostly do, if people will have patience," said graeme, "and i am sure this will, for harry, i mean. i was always inclined to like little amy, only--only, we saw very little of her you know--and--yes, i am sure i shall love her dearly." "well, you must make haste to tell harry so, to complete his happiness. and he is very much astonished at his good fortune," said rose, taking up the letter again. "`not good enough for her,' he says. that is the humility of true love, i suppose; and, really, if he is pleased, we may be. i daresay she is a nice little thing." "she is more than just a nice little thing. you should hear what mr millar says of her." "he ought to know! `poor charlie,' as harry calls him in the pride of his success. go down-stairs, graeme, and i will follow in a minute; i am nearly ready!" the postscript which rose was not sure whether graeme had seen, said, "poor charlie," and intimated that harry's sisters owed him much kindness for the trouble he was taking in going so far to carry them the news in person. not harry's own particular news, rose supposed, but tidings of will, and of all that was likely to interest them from both sides of the sea. "i would like to know why he calls him `poor charlie,'" said rose, with a shrug. "i suppose, however, we must all seem like objects of compassion to harry, at the moment of his triumph, as none of us have what has fallen to him." graeme went down without a word, smiling to herself as she went. she had seen the postscript, and she thought she knew why harry had written "poor charlie," but she said nothing to rose. the subject of conversation had changed during her absence, it seemed. "i want to know! do tell!" mr snow was saying. "i call that first-rate news, if it is as you say, mr millar. do the girls know it? graeme, do you know that harry is going to be married." "yes, so harry tells me." "and who is the lady? is it anyone we know about? roxbury," repeated mr snow, with a puzzled look. "but it seems to me i thought i heard different. i don't seem to understand." he looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she could help him. "that's not to be wondered at," said she, smiling. "it seems miss graeme herself has been taken by surprise. but she is well pleased for all that. harry has been in no great hurry, i think." "but that ain't just as i understood it," persisted mr snow. "what does rose say? she told me this afternoon, when we were riding, something or other, but it sartain wa'n't that." "it could hardly be that, since the letter came when you were away, and even miss graeme knew nothing of it till she got the letter," said mrs snow, with some impatience. "rosie told me," went on mr snow. "here she is. what was it you were telling me this afternoon about--about our friend here?" "oh! i told you a great many things that it would not do to repeat," and though rose laughed, she reddened, too, and looked appealingly at graeme. "wasn't roxbury the name of the lady, that you told me was--" "oh! uncle sampson! never mind." "dear me," said mrs snow, "what need you make a mystery out of such plain reading. miss graeme has gotten a letter telling her that her brother harry is going to be married; and what is there so wonderful about that?" "just so," said mr snow. he did not understand it the least in the world, but he understood that, for some reason or other, mrs snow wanted nothing more said about it, so he meant to say no more; and, after a minute, he made rose start and laugh nervously by the energy with which he repeated, "just so;" and still he looked from graeme to mr millar, as though he expected them to tell him something. "harry's letter gives the news, and that is all," said graeme. "but i cannot understand your surprise," said mr millar, not to mr snow, but to graeme. "i thought you must have seen it all along." "did you see it all along?" asked mr snow, looking queer. "i was in harry's confidence; but even if i had not been, i am sure i must have seen it. i almost think i knew what was coming before he knew it himself, at the very first." "the very first?" repeated graeme. "when was that? in the spring? before the time we went to mrs roxbury's, on the evening of the convocation?" "oh! yes! long before that--before miss rose came home from the west. indeed, i think it was love at first sight, as far as harry was concerned," added mr millar, with an embarrassed laugh, coming suddenly to the knowledge of the fact that mr snow was regarding him with curious eyes. but mr snow turned his attention to rose. "what do _you_ say to that?" asked he. "i have nothing to say," said rose, pettishly. "i was not in harry's confidence." "so it seems," said mr snow, meditatively. "i am sure you will like her when you know her better," said mr millar. "oh! if harry likes her that is the chief thing," said rose, with a shrug. "it won't matter much to the rest of us--i mean to graeme and me." "it will matter very much to us," said graeme, "and i know i shall love her dearly, and so will you, rosie, when she is our sister, and i mean to write to harry to-morrow--and to her, too, perhaps." "she wants very much to know you, and i am sure you will like each other," said mr millar looking deprecatingly at rose, who was not easy or comfortable in her mind any one could see. "just tell me one thing, rose," said mr snow. "how came you to suppose that--" but the question was not destined to be answered by rose, at least not then. a matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and hannah put in her head. "where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, rose? i have taken as many steps as i want to after it; if you had put it back in its place it would have paid, i guess. it would have suited _me_ better, and i guess it would have suited better all round." her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decided crossness. rose was a little hysterical, graeme thought, or she never would have laughed about such an important matter in hannah's face. for hannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and she was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as no one knew better than rose. and before company, too!--company with whom hannah had not been "made acquainted," as hannah, and the sisterhood generally in merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. it was dreadful temerity on rose's part. "oh! hannah, i forgot all about it." but the door was suddenly closed. rose hastened after her in haste and confusion. mr snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware that anything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to mr millar, and said,-- "i understood that it was you who was--eh--who was--keeping company with miss roxbury?" "did you think so, miss elliott," said charlie, in some astonishment. "mr snow," said his wife, in a voice that brought him to her side in an instant. "you may have read in the book, how there is a time to keep silence, as well as a time to speak, and the bairn had no thought of having her words repeated again, though she might have said that to you." she spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and mr snow would have looked penitent, if he had not looked so bewildered. raising her voice a little, she added,-- "you might just go out, and tell hannah to send jabez over to emily's about the yeast, if she has taken too many steps to go herself; for miss rose is tired, and it is growing dark;--and besides, there is no call for her to go hannah's messages--though you may as well no' say that to her, either." but the door opened, and rose came in again. "i can't even find the jug," she said, pretending great consternation. "and this is the second one i have been the death of. oh! here it is. i must have left it here in the morning, and wee rosie's flowers are in it! oh! yes, dear, i must go. hannah is going, and i must go with her. she is just a little bit cross, you know. and, besides, i want to tell her the news," and she went away. mr snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compromising himself, went and sat down beside his wife, to be out of the temptation to do it again, and mr millar said again, to graeme, very softly this time,-- "did you think so, miss elliott?" graeme hesitated. "yes, charlie. i must confess, there did, more than once, come into my mind the possibility that harry and his friend and partner might find themselves rivals for the favour of the sweet little amy. but you must remember, that--" but charlie interrupted her, eagerly. "and did--did your sister think so, too? no, don't answer me--" added he, suddenly rising, and going first to the window to look out, and then, out at the door. in a little graeme rose, and went out too, and followed him down the path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. there was no time to speak, however, before they heard the voices of rose and hannah, coming toward them. hannah was propitiated, graeme knew by the sound of her voice. mr millar opened the gate for them to pass, and graeme said, "you have not been long, rosie." "are you here, graeme," said rose, for it was quite dark, by this time. "hannah, this is mr millar, my brother harry's friend and partner." and then she added, with great gravity, according to the most approved merleville formula of introduction, "mr millar, i make you acquainted with miss lovejoy." "i am pleased to make your acquaintance, mr millar. i hope i see you wed," said miss lovejoy, with benignity. if mr millar was not quite equal to the occasion, miss lovejoy was, and she said exactly what was proper to be said in the circumstances, and neither graeme nor rose needed to say anything till they got into the house again. "there! that is over," said rose, with a sigh of relief. "the getting of the yeast?" said graeme, laughing. "yes, and the pacification of miss lovejoy." it was not quite over, however, graeme thought in the morning. for rose seemed to think it necessary to give a good deal of her time to household matters, whether it was still with a view to the good humour of hannah or not, was not easy to say. but she could only give a divided attention to their visitor, and to the account of all that he and will had done and enjoyed together. graeme and he walked up and down the garden for a while, and when mrs snow had risen, and was in the sitting-room, they came and sat down beside her, and, after a time, rose came too. but it was graeme who asked questions, and who drew mr millar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, and how will had improved in all respects, and how like his father all the old people thought him. even mrs snow had more to say than rose, especially when he went on to tell about clayton, and the changes that had taken place there. "will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the places distinctly; and was very loth to confess that he had been mistaken. i suppose, that his imagination had had as much to do with his idea of his native place, as his memory, and when, at last, we went down the glen where your mother used to live, and where he distinctly remembered going to see her with you, not long before you all came away, he acknowledged as much. he stepped across the burn at the widest part, and then he told me, laughing, that he had always thought of the burn at that place, as being about as wide as the merle river, just below the mill bridge, however wide that may be. it was quite a shock to him, i assure you. and then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, looked old, and small, and queer, when he came to compare them with the pictures of them he had kept in his mind, all these years. the garden he remembered, and the lane beyond it, but i think the only things he found quite as he expected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane," and on charlie went, from one thing to another, drawn on by a question, put now and then by graeme, or mrs snow, whenever he made a pause. but all that was said need not be told here. by and by, he rose and went out, and when he came back, he held an open book on his hand, and on one of its open pages lay a spray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spot where their mother lay. and when he had laid it down on graeme's lap, he turned and went out again. "i mind the spot well," said mrs snow, softly. "i mind it, too," said graeme. rose did not "mind" it, nor any other spot of her native land, nor the young mother who had lain so many years beneath the drooping ivy. but she stooped to touch with her lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her cheek down on graeme's knee, and did not speak a word, except to say that she had quite forgotten all. by and by, mr snow came in, and something was said about showing merleville to their visitor, and so arranging matters that time should be made to pass pleasantly to him. "oh! as to that, he seems no' ill to please," said mrs snow. "miss graeme might take him down to the village to mr greenleaf's and young mr merle's, if she likes; but, as to letting him see merleville, i think the thing that is of most importance is, that all merleville should see him." "there is something in that. i don't suppose merleville is any more to him than any other place, except that harry and the rest had their home here, for a spell. but all the merleville folks will want to see _him_, i expect." rose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be called for the purpose. "well, i calculate that won't be necessary. if he stays over sunday, it will do as well. the folks will have a chance to see him at meeting, though, i suppose it won't be best to tell him so, before he goes. do you suppose he means to stay over sunday, rosie?" "i haven't asked him," said rose. "it will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long he stays," said mrs snow. "i daresay he will be in no hurry to get home, for a day or two. and rosie, my dear, you must help your sister to make it pleasant for your brother's friend." "oh! he's no' ill to please, as you said yourself," answered rose. it was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part in the way of amusing him, might have sooner fallen under general notice. they walked down to the village in the afternoon, first to mr merle's, and then to mr greenleaf's. here, master elliott at once took possession of rose, and they went away together, and nothing more was seen of them, till tea had been waiting for some time. then they came in, and mr perry came with them. he stayed to tea, of course, and made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when they went home, he said he would walk with them part of the way. he had most of the talk to himself, till they came to the foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good-night. they were very quiet the rest of the way, and when they reached home, the sisters went up-stairs at once together, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seemed in a great hurry to go down again. "rose," said graeme, in a little, "where ever did you meet mr perry this afternoon? and why did you bring him to mr greenleaf's with you?" "i did not bring him to mr greenleaf's. he came of his own free will. and i did not meet him anywhere. he followed us down past the mill. we were going for oak leaves. elliott had seen some very pretty ones there, and i suppose mr perry had seen them, too. are you coming down, graeme?" "in a little. don't wait for me, if you wish to go." "oh! i am in no haste," said rose, sitting down by the window. "what are you going to say to me, graeme?" but if graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say it then. "i suppose we ought to go down." rose followed her in silence. they found mr and mrs snow alone. "mr millar has just stepped out," said mr snow. "so you had the minister to-night, again, eh, rosie? it seems to me, he is getting pretty fond of visiting, ain't he?" rose laughed. "i am sure that is a good thing. the people will like that, won't they?" "the people he goes to see will, i don't doubt." "well, we have no reason to complain. he has given us our share of his visits, always," said mrs snow, in a tone that her husband knew was meant to put an end to the discussion of the subject. graeme was not so observant, however. "it was hardly a visit he made at mr greenleaf's to-night. he came in just, before tea, and left when we left, immediately after. he walked with us to the foot of the hill." "he was explaining to elliott and me the chemical change that takes place in the leaves, that makes the beautiful autumn colours we were admiring so much," said rose. "he is great in botany and chemistry, elliott says." and then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, and found them under the oak trees behind the mill, and what talk there had been about the sunset and the leaves, and a good deal more. mr snow turned an amused yet doubtful look from her to his wife; but mrs snow's closely shut lips said so plainly, "least said soonest mended," that he shut his lips, too. it would have been as well if graeme had done so, also she thought afterwards; but she had made up her mind to say something to her sister that night, whether she liked it or not, and so standing behind her, as she was brushing out her hair, she said,-- "i think it was rather foolish in mr perry to come to mr greenleaf's to-night, and to come away with us afterwards." "do you think so?" said rose. "yes. and i fancied mr and mrs greenleaf thought so, too. i saw them exchanging glances more than once." "did you? it is to be hoped the minister did not see them." "merleville people are all on the watch--and they are so fond of talking. it is not at all nice, i think." "oh, well, i don't know. it depends a little on what they say," said rose, knotting up her hair. "and i don't suppose mr perry will hear it." "i have commenced wrong," said graeme to herself. "but i must just say a word to her, now i have began. it was of ourselves i was thinking, rose--of you, rather. and it is not nice to be talked, about. rosie, tell me just how much you care about mr perry." "tell me just how much _you_ care about him, dear," said rose. "i care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not be annoyed or made unhappy. do you really care for him, rosie?" "do you, graeme?" "rose, i am quite in earnest. i see--i am afraid the good foolish man wants you to care for him, and if you don't--" "well, dear--if i don't?" "if you don't, you must not act so that he may fancy you do, rose. i think there is some danger in his caring for you." "he cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, graeme, and with better reason." "dear, i have not thought about his caring for either of us till lately. indeed, i never let the thought trouble me till last night, after mr millar came, and again, to-night. rosie, you must not be angry with what i say." "of course not. but i think you must dispose of mr perry, before you bring another name into your accusation; graeme, dear, i don't care a pin for mr perry, nor he for me, if that will please you. but you are not half so clever at this sort of thing as harry. you should have began at once by accusing me of claiming admiration, and flirting, and all that. it is best to come to the point at once." "you said you would not be angry, rose." "did i? well, i am not so sore about it as i was a minute ago. and what is the use of vexing one another. don't say any more to-night." indeed, what could be said to rose in that mood. so graeme shut her lips, too. in the mean time mr snow had opened his, in the privacy of their chamber. "it begins to look a little like it, don't it?" said he. he got no answer. "i'd a little rather it had been graeme, but rosie would be a sight better than neither of them." "i'm by no means sure of that," said mrs snow, sharply. "rosie's no' a good bairn just now, and i'm no' weel pleased with her." "don't be hard on rosie," said mr snow, gently. "hard on her! you ought to have more sense by this time. rosie's no' thinking about the minister, and he hasna been thinking o' her till lately--only men are such fools. forgive me for saying it about the minister." "well, i thought, myself, it was graeme for a spell, and i'd a little rather it would be. she's older, and she's just right in every way. it would be a blessing to more than the minister. it seems as though it was just the right thing. now, don't it?" "i canna say. it is none the more likely to come to pass because of that, as you might ken yourself by this time," said his wife, gravely. "oh, well, i don't know about that. there's aleck and emily." "hoot, fie, man! they cared for one another, and neither miss graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man--for the minister, i mean." "you don't think him good enough," said mr snow, discontentedly. "nonsense! i think him good enough for anybody that will take him. he is a very good man--what there is o' him," added she, under her breath. "but it will be time enough to speak about it, when there is a chance of its happening. i'm no weel pleased with rosie. if it werena that, as a rule, i dinna like to meddle with such matters, i would have a word with her myself. the bairn doesna ken her ain mind, i'm thinking." the next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent mr snow from fulfilling his promise to take mr millar to see some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make mr nasmyth's a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home again, mrs snow took the opportunity to say a word, not to rose, but to graeme, with regard to her. "what ails rosie at your brother's partner, young mr millar?" asked she. "i thought they would have been friends, having known one another so long." "friends!" repeated graeme. "are they not friends? what makes you speak in that way, janet?" "friends they are not," repeated mrs snow, emphatically. "but whether they are less than friends, or more, i canna weel make out. maybe you can help me, dear." "i cannot, indeed," said graeme, laughing a little uneasily. "i am afraid charlie's visit is not to give any of us unmingled pleasure." "it is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and i canna but think--my dear, you should speak to your sister." "but, janet, rosie is not an easy person to speak to about some things. and, besides, it is not easy to know whether one may not do harm, rather than good, by speaking. i _did_ speak to her last night about--about mr perry." "about the minister! and what did she answer? she cares little about him, i'm thinking. it's no' pretty in her to amuse herself so openly at his expense, poor man, though there's some excuse, too--when he shows so little discretion." "but, amusing herself, janet! that is rather hard on rosie. it is not that, i think." "is it not? what is it, then? the bairn is not in earnest. i hope it may all come to a good ending." "oh! janet! i hope it may. but i don't like to think of endings. rosie must belong to some one else some day, i suppose. the best thing i can wish for her is that i may lose her--for her sake, but it is not a happy thing to think of for mine." "miss graeme, my dear, that is not like you." "indeed, janet, it is just like me. i can't bear to think about it. as for the minister--" graeme shrugged her shoulders. "you needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. it will no' be him. if your friend yonder would but take heart of grace--i have my own thoughts." "oh! i don't know. we need not be in a hurry." "but, dear, think what you were telling me the other day, about your sister going out by herself to seek her fortune. surely, that would be far worse." "but she would not have to go by herself. i should go with her, and janet, i have sometimes the old dread of change upon me, as i used to have long ago." "but, my dear, why should you? all the changes in our lot are in good hands. i dinna need to tell you that, after all these years. and as for the minister, you needna be afraid for him." graeme laughed; and though the entrance of rose prevented any more being said, she laughed again to herself, in a way to excite her sister's astonishment. "i do believe janet is pitying me a little, because of the minister's inconstancy," she said to herself. "why am i laughing at it, rosie? you must ask mrs snow." "my dear, how can i tell your sister's thoughts? it is at them, she is laughing, and i think the minister has something to do with it, though it is not like her, either, to laugh at folk in an unkindly way." "it is more like me, you think," said rose, pouting. "and as for the minister, she is very welcome to him, i am sure." "nonsense, rose! let him rest. i am sure deacon snow would think us very irreverent to speak about the minister in that way. tell me what you are going to do to-day?" rosie had plenty to do, and by and by she became absorbed in the elaborate pattern which she was working on a frock for wee rosie, and was rather more remiss than before, as to doing her part for the entertainment of their guest. she had not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and preoccupation were more apparent, because the rain kept them within doors. graeme saw it, and tried to break through it or cover it as best she might. mrs snow saw it, and sometimes looked grave, and sometimes amused, but she made no remarks about it. as for mr millar, if he noticed her silence and preoccupation, he certainly did not resent them, but gave to the few words she now and then put in, an eager attention that went far beyond their worth; and had she been a princess, and he but a humble vassal, he could not have addressed her with more respectful deference. and so the days passed on, till one morning something was said by mr millar, about its being time to draw his visit to a close. it was only a word, and might have fallen to the ground without remark, as he very possibly intended it should do; but mr snow set himself to combat the idea of his going away so soon, with an energy and determination that brought them all into the discussion in a little while. "unless there is something particular taking you home, you may as well stay for a while longer. at any rate, it ain't worth while to go before sunday. you ought to stay and hear our minister preach, now you've got acquainted with him. oughtn't he, graeme?" graeme smiled. "oh! yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as that is." "there are worse preachers than mr perry," said mrs snow, gravely. "oh! come now, mother. that ain't saying much. there ain't a great many better preachers in our part of the world, whatever they may be where you live. to be sure, if you leave to-night after tea, you can catch the night cars for boston, and stay there over sunday, and have your pick of some pretty smart men. but you'd better stay.--not but what i could have you over to rixford in time, as well as not, if it is an object to you. but you better stay, hadn't he, girls? what do you say, rose?" "and hear mr perry preach? oh! certainly," said rose, gravely. "oh! he will stay," said graeme, laughing, with a little vexation. "it is my belief he never meant to go, only he likes to be entreated. now confess, charlie." chapter forty three. "eh, bairns! is it no' a bonny day!" said mrs snow, breaking into scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a little moved. "i ay mind the first look i got o' the hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. we all came round the water on a saturday afternoon like this; and norman and harry took turns in carrying wee rosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. eh, bairns! if i could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all the `goodness and mercy' that has passed before us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been rebuked!" they were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at mr nasmyth's, and mr millar was with them. nothing more had been said about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, "his looks belied him," as miss lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched them, all going up the hill together. they were going very slowly, because of mrs snow's lingering weakness. one of the few of the "scotch prejudices!" that remained with her after all these years, was the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of mr snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon. "it is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the bairns," said she, and she got her own way. it was a "bonny day," mild, bright, and still. the autumnal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though october was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. they had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing over the pond to the hills beyond, as mrs snow spoke. "yes, i mind," said graeme. "and i mind, too," said rose, softly. "it's a bonny place," said mrs snow, in a little, "and it has changed but little in all those years. the woods have gone back a little on some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes." "the old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used," said rose, regretfully. "ay, it has that. i mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when i first saw it from the side of the water. that was before i had been in it, or very near it. but i learnt to love it for better things than stateliness, before very long. i was ill-pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better." "yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with wallflowers and ivy growing over it," said graeme. "yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful things. the old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now." "yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering shingles. but i wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. we shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red brick affair that the merleville people are so proud of." and so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly old meeting-house--things that had happened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. those happy, happy days! "oh! well," said mrs snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, "it's a bonny place, and i have learnt to love it well. but if any one had told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in my ears." "ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me," said graeme. "it would have comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you now, and with sandy." "i am not so sure of that, my dear. we are untoward creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like brightness then. no, love, the changes that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have dismayed me, could i have seen them before me. it is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings." "ah! if we could always do that!" said graeme, sighing. "my bairn, we can. though i mind, even in those old happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow's burden to the burden of to-day. but that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the lord's goodness, to you and yours. what would you wish changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we looked on the bonny hills and valleys of merleville?" "janet," said graeme, speaking low, "death has come to us since that day." "ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be grieved for least of all. think of them all these years, among the hills of heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. and think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his having speech with david, and paul, and with our lord himself--" janet's voice faltered, and graeme clasped softly the withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered sandy and emily's joyful greeting at the door. rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves beneath the elms. graeme came down again, there, and mr nasmyth came to speak to them, and so did emily, but they did not stay long; and by and by rose was left alone with mr millar, for the very first time during his visit. not that she was really alone with him, for all the rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright october sunshine. she could join them in a moment, she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. all this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen leaves toward the gate on which mr millar was leaning; and then she saw that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him to let her pass. but, of course, there could be no occasion for that. "how clearly we can see the shadows in the water," said she, for the sake of saying something. "look over yonder, at the point where the cedar trees grow low. do you see?" "yes, i see," said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. "rose, do you know why i came here?" rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all sitting so quietly. "it was to bring us news of will, wasn't it? and to see merleville?" said she. did she say it? or had she only thought of it? she was not sure, a minute after, for mr millar went on as if he had heard nothing. "i came to ask you to be my wife." did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the time? she did not know. she was not sure; but she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word. "you know i have loved you always--since the night that harry took me home with him. my fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. rose, you must know i love you, dearly. i have only that to plead. i know i am not worthy of you, except for the love i bear you." he had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated,-- "i know i am not worthy." "oh! charlie, don't say such foolish words to me." and rose gave him a single glimpse of her face. it was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which separated them trembled, though rose did not look up to see it. "rosie," he whispered, "come down to the brook and show me harry's waterfall." rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in it; and when charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did not withdraw it, and they went over the field together. graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward mrs snow, with a long breath. "it has come at last, janet," said she. "i shouldna wonder, dear. but it is no' a thing to grieve over, if it has come." "no. and i am not going to grieve. i am glad, even though i have to seek my fortune, all alone. but i have will, yet," added she, in a little. "there is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. i am sure of will, at least." mrs snow smiled and shook her head. "will's time will come, doubtless. you are not to build a castle for yourself and will, unless you make room for more than just you two in it, dear." emily listened, smiling. "it would be as well to leave the building of will's castle to himself," said she. "ah! yes, i suppose so," said graeme, with a sigh. "one must build for one's self. but, emily, dear, i built rosie's castle. i have wished for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long long time. i have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble down about my ears, but charlie has put his hand to the work, now, in right good earnest, and i think my castle will stand." "see here, emily," said mr snow, coming in an hour or two later, "if mr millar thinks of catching the cars for boston, this evening, you'll have to hurry up your tea." "but he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing," said mrs snow. "dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for boston." "why no, mother, i ain't. he spoke about it this morning, himself, or i'm pretty sure i shouldn't. i'll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad." "he is going to stay and hear the minister preach," said graeme. "you know you asked him, and i'm sure he will enjoy it." "he is a good preacher," said mr snow, gravely. "and he's a good practiser, which is far better," said his wife. "but i doubt, deacon, you'll need to put him out of your head now. look down yonder, and tell me if you think rosie is likely to bide in merleville." and the deacon, looking, saw mr millar and rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than mr snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. mr millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for rose, mr snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment. "well," said his wife, softly. "well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see," said mr snow. he nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on graeme. his wife smiled. "no, i am afraid not. every one must build his own castle, as i heard her saying--or was it emily? this very afternoon. but we needna trouble ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. it is all in good hands." "and, rosie dear, all this might have happened at norman's last year, if only charlie had been bolder, and harry not so wise." the sisters were in their own room together. a good deal had been said before this time that need not be repeated. graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, rose was as happy, as happy could be. but when graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face. "i don't know, graeme. perhaps it might; but i am not sure. i did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is." "harry will be glad," said graeme. indeed, she had said that before. rose laughed. "dear, wise harry! he always said charlie was pure gold." "and so he is," said graeme. "i know it, graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me." and rose laid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, with a little sob. "ah! if he only knew, i am afraid--" "dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about harry. you love one another, and you need not be afraid." they were silent for a long time after that, and then rose said, flushing a little,-- "and, graeme, dear, charlie says--but i promised not to tell--" "well, you must not, then," said graeme, smiling, with just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, rose, and her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to her. "not that it is a secret, graeme," said her sister, eagerly. "it is something that charlie has very much at heart, but i am not so sure myself. but it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. graeme, charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you." graeme laughed. "except you, rosie." "i am not good, graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you know. but i will try and be good, now, indeed i will." "my darling," murmured graeme, "i am so glad for you--so glad and thankful. we ought to be good. god has been very good to us all." of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters to their old friend. mr millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the winter had quite set in before they went home. mrs snow was well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again. "but, whether or not," said she, cheerfully, "i shall ay be glad and thankful for the quiet time we have had together. there are few who can say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or their lot; but i do say that of all your father's bairns. no' but that there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that i canna see, and maybe some that i can see; but when the face is set in the right airt [direction] all winds waft onward, and that, i trust, is true of you all. and, rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full cup, as i have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, `except the lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,' and, `the foundation of god standeth sure.' miss graeme, my dear, `they that wait on the lord shall renew their strength,' as you have learnt yourself long syne. god bless you both, and farewell." they had a very quiet and happy winter. they had to make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made plain to him by mrs roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought of. her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted at least one season to see something of society before her marriage. she was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a _gentleman_, and she had other daughters growing up. still it was right that amy should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the irrevocable step was taken. if mrs roxbury could have had her way about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding. and so the pretty amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. as for harry, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which amy's constancy was exposed. but they were not afraid for her. every visit she made them--and many quiet mornings she passed with them--they became more assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, and so they thought harry unreasonable in his impatience, and told him so, sometimes. "a little vexation and suspense will do harry no harm," said arthur. "events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. in he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to miss roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every particular. a little suspense will do him good." which was very hard-hearted on arthur's part, as his wife told him. "and, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling harry," said rose. "he knows quite well how it is to end. it is only a momentary vexation. and i don't say, myself, it will do harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. one values what it costs one some trouble to have and to hold." "rose, you are as bad as arthur," said fanny. "am i? oh! i do not mean that harry doesn't value little amy enough; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much." "it is you who are foolish, now, rose," said her sister. "harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. no wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. but it will soon be over now." "who knows? `there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you know," said arthur. "who knows but harry may be the victim among us? our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. witness rosie's success. it would make a little variety to have an interruption." but harry was not destined to be a victim. as the winter wore over, mrs roxbury relented, and "listened to reason on the subject," harry said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual occupation in the roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to throw rosie's modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. but rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of harry's bride. as for little amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very coolly. mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little bride than she. at first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. it would be inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be shortened. and besides, the magnificence of the roxbury plans, would involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient; and rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the home charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that harry's marriage should take place in the latter part of april, and the other early in the summer. but before april, bad news came from will. they heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from mr ruthven to graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing. the next letter and the next, brought no better news. it was a time of great anxiety. to graeme it was worst of all. as the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. it was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at the last." he would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. if she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful graeme thought. her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days. she did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from mrs snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her. "my bairn," she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm? _absolutely nothing_! whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for yourself. i think he will be spared to do god's work for a while yet. but dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor i would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass." their suspense did not last very long after this. mr ruthven's weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where mrs millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. there was no hope of his being able to be home to harry's marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of rosie elliott, and the first of his new brother charlie. there were a few words meant for graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, "brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. i am glad to come back again, for your sake graeme, and for the sake of the work that i trust i may be permitted to do." after this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. it was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. there were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and saint andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. the breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride's travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself. harry behaved very well through it all, as arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. but harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. as for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked god in her heart, for the happiness of her brother harry. yes, and for the happiness of her brother arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. they were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but arthur. "graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased. after this they had a few happy weeks. rosie's preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. letters came weekly from will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. they were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generally given by will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified mr ruthven, whom, till lately, all but charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. still the end of may was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. but before that time, great news had come from another quarter. norman and his family were coming east. a succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. graeme was to go with them. as many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the west, when their summer holiday should be over. this was norman's view of the matter. graeme's plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. in the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding. "and if only will comes, we shall all be together again once more," said she, with a long breath. "to say nothing of norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, and fanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, i think," said rose. "we will have a house full and a merry wedding," said arthur. "though it won't be as grand as the other one, rosie, i'm afraid. if we only could have mrs snow here, graeme?" graeme shook her head. "i am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. not that she is ill, but mr snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. i am afraid it is not to be thought of?" "never mind--charlie and rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. that will be the next best thing to having her here. and by the time you are ready for the altar, graeme, janet will come, you may be sure of that." june had come, warm and beautiful. harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. it would all have to be gone over again in rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time--norman's coming, and will's. they might come any day now. she had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that will's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. she quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. but in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed. "there will be no more letters after will comes home, at least there will be none for me," she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "what would i have? surely that will be a small matter when i have him safe and well at home again." but she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. she laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. and then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of norman and hilda and their boys. "i hope they will be in time. it would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. and yet we could hardly blame charlie were he to refuse to wait after will comes. oh, if he were only safe here! i should like a few quiet days with will before the house is full. my boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all that i have, for my very own, now that rosie is going from me. how happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! and as to my going home with norman and hilda--that must be decided later, as will shall make his plans. my boy!--how can i ever wait for his coming?" it was growing dark as she drew near the house. although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that arthur and fanny were not alone. "i hope i am not cross to-night, but i really don't feel as though i could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. i wish sarah may let me quietly in; and i will go up-stairs at once. i wonder who they are!" sarah's face was illuminated. "you have come at last, miss elliott," said she. "yes; was i expected sooner? who is here? is it you, charlie? _you_ are expected elsewhere." it was not charlie, however. a voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,-- "graeme, i have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand was clasped in that of allan ruthven. chapter forty four. the pleasant autumn days had come round again, and mr and mrs snow were sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together. mr snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in the hands of his "son," as he never failed to designate sandy, and partly because those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took. for that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to good people, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. with his eyes fixed on "the things which are before," other things were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus falling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room so pleasant to them both. but the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on this particular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of his wife. she was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husband could see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene without. but she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a little surprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the table beside him. "it ain't hard to see how all _that_ will end," said he, in a little. "but," said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, "you say it as if it were an ending not to be desired." "ah, well!--in a general way, i suppose it _is_, or most folks, would say so. what do you think?" "if _they_ are pleased, we needna be otherwise." "well!--no--but ain't it a little sudden? it don't seem but the other day since mr ruthven crossed the ocean." "but that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. the first time they crossed it together. allan ruthven is an old friend, and miss graeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly to any man." "well! no, she ain't. but, somehow, i had come to think that she never would change her state; and--" "it's no' very long, then," said his wife, laughing. "you'll mind that it's no' long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her to it." "and does it please you that mr ruthven has had better luck?" "the minister never could have persuaded her. he never tried very much, i think. and if allan ruthven has persuaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared for any other man. and from all that will says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and i am glad for her sake, glad and thankful. god bless her." "why, yes, if she must marry," said mr snow, discontentedly; "but somehow it don't seem as though she could fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. i know it don't sound well to talk about old maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; but graeme did seem one that would `adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, and redeem the name." "that has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; and miss graeme will `adorn the doctrine' anywhere. she has ay had a useful life, and this while she has had a happy one. but oh, man!" added mrs snow, growing earnest and scotch, as old memories came over her with a sudden rush, "when i mind the life her father and her mother lived together--a life of very nearly perfect blessedness--i canna but be glad that miss graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comes with a home of one's own, where true love bides and rules. i ay mind her father and her mother. they had their troubles. they were whiles poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. and god's blessing was upon them through all. but i have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as i am, of miss graeme." yes, mr snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and said,-- "and graeme is like her mother?" "yes, she's like her, and she's not like her. she is quieter and no' so cheery, and she is no' near so bonny as her mother was. rose is more like her mother in looks, but she doesna 'mind me of her mother in her ways as her sister does, because, i suppose, of the difference that the age and the country make on all that are brought up in them. there is something wanting in all the young people of the present day, that well brought up bairns used to have in mine. miss graeme has it, and her sister hasna. you'll ken what i mean by the difference between them." mr snow could not. the difference that he saw between the sisters was sufficiently accounted for to him by the ten year's difference in their ages. he never could be persuaded, that, in any undesirable sense, rose was more like the modern young lady than her sister. graeme was perfect, in his wife's eyes, and rose was not quite perfect. that was all. however, he did not wish to discuss the question just now. "well! graeme is about as good as we can hope to see in _this_ world, and if he's good enough for her that is a great deal to say, even if he is not what her father was." "there are few like him. but allan is a good man, will says, and he is not one to be content with a false standard of goodness, or a low one. he was a manly, pleasant lad, in the days when i kenned him. i daresay his long warstle with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless; but he's out of the world's grip now, i believe. god bless my bairn, and the man of her choice." there was a moment's silence. mrs snow turned to the window, and her husband sat watching her, his brow a little clearer, but not quite clear yet. "she _is_ pleased. she ain't making believe a mite. she's like most women folks in _that_," said mr snow, emphasising to himself the word, as though, in a good many things, she differed from "women folk" in general. "they really do think in their hearts, though they don't always say so, that it is the right thing for girls to get married, and she's glad graeme's going to do so well. but, when she comes to think of it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing much of her again, i am afraid she'll worry about it--though she sartain don't look like it now." certainly she did not. the grave face looked more than peaceful, it looked bright. the news which both rose and will had intimated, rather than announced, had stirred only pleasant thoughts as yet, that was clear. mr snow put on his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting them down, said, gravely,-- "she'll have her home a great way off from here. and maybe it's foolish, but it does seem to me as though it was a kind of a come down, to go back to the old country to live after all these years." mrs snow laughed heartily. "but then, it is no' to be supposed that she will think so, or he either, you ken." "no, it ain't. if they did, they'd stay here, i suppose." "well, it's no' beyond the bounds of possibility, but they may bide here or come back again. but, whether they bide here or bide there, god bless them both," said mrs snow, with moistening eyes. "god bless them both!" echoed her husband. "and, which ever way it is, you ain't going to worry the least mite about it. be you?" the question was asked after a pause of several seconds, and mr snow looked so wistfully and entreatingly into his wife's face, that she could not help laughing, though there were tears in her eyes. "no, i am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. it is borne in upon me that this change is to be for the real happiness of my bairn, and it would be pitiful in me to grudge her a day of it. and, to tell you the truth, i have seen it coming, and have been preparing myself for it this while back, and so i have taken it more reasonably than you have done yourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, i must confess." "seen it coming! preparing for it!" repeated mr snow; but he inquired no farther, only looked meditatively out of the window, and nodded his head a great many times. by and by he said, heartily,-- "well, if you are pleased, i am. god bless them." "god bless all the bairns," said his wife, softly. "oh, man! when i think of all that has come and gone, i am ready to say that `the lord has given me the desire of my heart.' i sought his guidance about coming with them. i had a sore swither ere i could think of leaving my mother and sandy for their sakes, but he guided me and strengthened me, though whiles i used to doubt afterwards, with my sore heart wearying for my own land, and my own kin." mr snow nodded gravely, but did not speak, and in a little she went on again: "i sought guidance, too, when i left them, and now, looking back, i think i see that i got it; but, for a while, when death came, and they went from me, it seemed as though the lord had removed the desire of my eyes with a stroke, because of my self-seeking and unfaithfulness. oh, man! yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. but he didna let me fall altogether--praise be to his name!" her voice shook, and there was a moment's silence, and then she added,-- "but, as for grieving, because miss graeme is going farther away, than is perhaps pleasant to think about, when she is going of her own free will, and with a good hope of a measure of happiness, that would be unreasonable indeed." "now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, `now, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,' it would seem about the right thing to do," said mr snow, to himself, with a sigh. "when it comes to giving the bairns up, willing never to see them again, it looks a little as if she was done with most things, and ready to go--and i ain't no ways ready to have her, i'm afraid." the next words gave him a little start of surprise and relief. "and we'll need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she will be far-away." "sartain!" said mr snow, eagerly. "not that i think she'll be likely to forget us," added his wife, with a catch in her breath. "she's no of that nature. i shouldna wonder if she might have some homesick thoughts, then, even in the midst of her happiness, for she has a tender heart! but, if they love one another, there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing they have the fear of god before their eyes. and, she may come back and end her days on this side of the sea, yet, who knows?" "i shouldn't wonder a mite," said mr snow. "but, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and good, that is the main thing. and whiles i think it suits my weakness and my old age better to sit here and hear about the bairns, and think about them, and speak to you about them and all that concerns them, than it would to be among them with their youth and strength, and their new interests in life. and then, they dinna need me, and you do," added mrs snow, with a smile. "that's so," said he, with an emphasis that made her laugh. "well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about miss graeme and the bairns. that is the last thing i am thinking of. sitting here, and looking over all the road we have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, i can see plainly that we were never left to choose, or to lose our way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the angel of the covenant, unseen then, and, god forgive us, maybe unthought of, but ever there, watching over us, and having patience with us, and holding us up when we stumbled with weary feet. and knowing that their faces are turned in the right way, as i hope yours is, and mine, it is no' for me to doubt but that he is guiding them still, and us as well, and that we shall all come safe to the same place at last." she paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver in her voice, and then she added,-- "yes. `the lord hath given me the desire of my heart' for the bairns. praise be to his name." none the price of love a tale by arnold bennett contents chapter i. money in the house ii. louis' discovery iii. the feast iv. in the night v. news of the night vi. theories of the theft vii. the cinema viii. end and beginning ix. the married woman x. the chasm xi. julian's document xii. runaway horses xiii. dead-lock xiv. the market xv. the changed man xvi. the letter xvii. in the monastery xviii. mrs. tams's strange behaviour xix. rachel and mr. horrocleave chapter i money in the house i in the evening dimness of old mrs. maldon's sitting-room stood the youthful virgin, rachel louisa fleckring. the prominent fact about her appearance was that she wore an apron. not one of those white, waist-tied aprons, with or without bibs, worn proudly, uncompromisingly, by a previous generation of unaspiring housewives and housegirls! but an immense blue pinafore-apron, covering the whole front of the figure except the head, hands, and toes. its virtues were that it fully protected the most fragile frock against all the perils of the kitchen; and that it could be slipped on or off in one second, without any manipulation of tapes, pins, or buttons and buttonholes--for it had no fastenings of any sort and merely yawned behind. in one second the drudge could be transformed into the elegant infanta of boudoirs, and _vice versa_. to suit the coquetry of the age the pinafore was enriched with certain flouncings, which, however, only intensified its unshapen ugliness. on a plain, middle-aged woman such a pinafore would have been intolerable to the sensitive eye. but on rachel it simply had a piquant and perverse air, because she was young, with the incomparable, the unique charm of comely adolescence; it simply excited the imagination to conceive the exquisite treasures of contour and tint and texture which it veiled. do not infer that rachel was a coquette. although comely, she was homely--a "downright" girl, scorning and hating all manner of pretentiousness. she had a fine best dress, and when she put it on everybody knew that it was her best; a stranger would have known. whereas of a coquette none but her intimate companions can say whether she is wearing best or second-best on a given high occasion. rachel used the pinafore-apron only with her best dress, and her reason for doing so was the sound, sensible reason that it was the usual and proper thing to do. she opened a drawer of the new sheraton sideboard, and took from it a metal tube that imitated brass, about a foot long and an inch in diameter, covered with black lettering. this tube, when she had removed its top, showed a number of thin wax tapers in various colours. she chose one, lit it neatly at the red fire, and then, standing on a footstool in the middle of the room, stretched all her body and limbs upward in order to reach the gas. if the tap had been half an inch higher or herself half an inch shorter, she would have had to stand on a chair instead of a footstool; and the chair would have had to be brought out of the kitchen and carried back again. but heaven had watched over this detail. the gas-fitting consisted of a flexible pipe, resembling a thick black cord, and swinging at the end of it a specimen of that wonderful and blessed contrivance, the inverted incandescent mantle within a porcelain globe: the whole recently adopted by mrs. maldon as the dangerous final word of modern invention. it was safer to ignite the gas from the orifice at the top of the globe; but even so there was always a mild disconcerting explosion, followed by a few moments' uncertainty as to whether or not the gas had "lighted properly." when the deed was accomplished and the room suddenly bright with soft illumination, mrs. maldon murmured-- "that's better!" she was sitting in her arm-chair by the glitteringly set table, which, instead of being in the centre of the floor under the gas, had a place near the bow-window--advantageous in the murky daytime of the five towns, and inconvenient at night. the table might well have been shifted at night to a better position in regard to the gas. but it never was. somehow for mrs. maldon the carpet was solid concrete, and the legs of the table immovably embedded therein. rachel, gentle-footed, kicked the footstool away to its lair under the table, and simultaneously extinguished the taper, which she dropped with a scarce audible click into a vase on the mantelpiece. then she put the cover on the tube with another faintest click, restored the tube to its drawer with a rather louder click, and finally, with a click still louder, pushed the drawer home. all these slight sounds were familiar to mrs. maldon; they were part of her regular night life, part of an unconsciously loved ritual, and they contributed in their degree to her placid happiness. "now the blinds, my dear!" said she. the exhortation was ill-considered, and rachel controlled a gesture of amicable impatience. for she had not paused after closing the drawer; she was already on her way across the room to the window when mrs. maldon said, "now the blinds, my dear!" the fact was that mrs. maldon measured the time between the lighting of gas and the drawing down of blinds by tenths of a second--such was her fear lest in that sinister interval the whole prying town might magically gather in the street outside and peer into the secrets of her inculpable existence. ii when the blinds and curtains had been arranged for privacy, mrs. maldon sighed securely and picked up her crocheting. rachel rested her hands on the table, which was laid for a supper for four, and asked in a firm, frank voice whether there was anything else. "because, if not," rachel added, "i'll just take off my pinafore and wash my hands." mrs. maldon looked up benevolently and nodded in quick agreement. it was such apparently trifling gestures, eager and generous, that endeared the old lady to rachel, giving her the priceless sensation of being esteemed and beloved. her gaze lingered on her aged employer with affection and with profound respect. mrs. maldon made a striking, tall, slim figure, sitting erect in tight black, with the right side of her long, prominent nose in the full gaslight and the other heavily shadowed. her hair was absolutely black at over seventy; her eyes were black and glowing, and she could read and do coarse crocheting without spectacles. all her skin, especially round about the eyes, was yellowish brown and very deeply wrinkled indeed; a decrepit, senile skin, which seemed to contradict the youth of her pose and her glance. the cast of her features was benign. she had passed through desolating and violent experiences, and then through a long, long period of withdrawn tranquillity; and from end to end of her life she had consistently thought the best of all men, refusing to recognize evil and assuming the existence of good. every one of the millions of her kind thoughts had helped to mould the expression of her countenance. the expression was definite now, fixed, intensely characteristic after so many decades, and wherever it was seen it gave pleasure and by its enchantment created goodness and goodwill--even out of their opposites. such was the life-work of mrs. maldon. her eyes embraced the whole room. they did not, as the phrase is, "beam" approval; for the act of beaming involves a sort of ecstasy, and mrs. maldon was too dignified for ecstasy. but they displayed a mild and proud contentment as she said-- "i'm sure it's all very nice." it was. the table crowded with porcelain, crystal, silver, and flowers, and every object upon it casting a familiar curved shadow on the whiteness of the damask toward the window! the fresh crimson and blues of the everlasting turkey carpet (turkey carpet being the _ne plus ultra_ of carpetry in the five towns, when that carpet was bought, just as sealskin was the _ne plus ultra_ of all furs)! the silken-polished sideboard, strange to the company, but worthy of it, and exhibiting a due sense of its high destiny! the sombre bookcase and corner cupboard, darkly glittering! the chesterfield sofa, broad, accepting, acquiescent! the flashing brass fender and copper scuttle! the comfortably reddish walls, with their pictures--like limpets on the face of precipices! the new-whitened ceiling! in the midst the incandescent lamp that hung like the moon in heaven!... and then the young, sturdy girl, standing over the old woman and breathing out the very breath of life, vitalizing everything, rejuvenating the old woman! mrs. maldon's sitting-room had a considerable renown among her acquaintance, not only for its peculiar charm, which combined and reconciled the tastes of two very different generations, but also for its radiant cleanness. there are many clean houses in the five towns, using the adjective in the relative sense in which the five towns is forced by chimneys to use it. but mrs. maldon's sitting-room (save for the white window-curtains, which had to accept the common grey fate of white window-curtains in the district) was clean in the country-side sense, almost in the dutch sense. the challenge of its cleanness gleamed on every polished surface, victorious in the unending battle against the horrible contagion of foul industries. mrs. maldon's friends would assert that the state of that sitting-room "passed" them, or "fair passed" them, and she would receive their ever-amazed compliments with modesty. but behind her benevolent depreciation she would be blandly saying to herself: "yes, i'm scarcely surprised it passes you--seeing the way you housewives let things go on here." the word "here" would be faintly emphasized in her mind, as no native would have emphasized it. rachel shared the general estimate of the sitting-room. she appreciated its charm, and admitted to herself that her first vision of it, rather less than a month before, had indeed given her a new and startling ideal of cleanliness. on that occasion it had been evident, from mrs. maldon's physical exhaustion, that the housemistress had made an enormous personal effort to _dazzle_ and inspire her new "lady companion," which effort, though detected and perhaps scorned by rachel, had nevertheless succeeded in its aim. with a certain presence of mind rachel had feigned to remark nothing miraculous in the condition of the room. appropriating the new ideal instantly, she had on the first morning of her service "turned out" the room before breakfast, well knowing that it must have been turned out on the previous day. dumbfounded for a few moments, mrs. maldon had at length said, in her sweet and cordial benevolence, "i'm glad to see we think alike about cleanliness." and rachel had replied with an air at once deferential, sweet, and yet casual, "oh, of course, mrs. maldon!" then they measured one another in a silent exchange. mrs. maldon was aware that she had by chance discovered a pearl--yes, a treasure beyond pearls. and rachel, too, divined the high value of her employer, and felt within the stirrings of a passionate loyalty to her. iii and yet, during the three weeks and a half of their joint existence, rachel's estimate of mrs. maldon had undergone certain subtle modifications. at first, somewhat overawed, rachel had seen in her employer the mrs. maldon of the town's legend, which legend had travelled to rachel as far as knype, whence she sprang. that is to say, one of the great ladies of bursley, ranking in the popular regard with mrs. clayton-vernon, the leader of society, mrs. sutton, the philanthropist, and mrs. hamps, the powerful religious bully. she had been impressed by her height (rachel herself being no lamp-post), her carriage, her superlative dignity, her benevolence of thought, and above all by her aristocratic southern accent. after eight-and-forty years of the five towns, mrs. maldon had still kept most of that southern accent--so intimidating to the rough, broad talkers of the district, who take revenge by mocking it among themselves, but for whom it will always possess the thrilling prestige of high life. and then day by day rachel had discovered that great ladies are, after all, human creatures, strangely resembling other human creatures. and mrs. maldon slowly became for her an old woman of seventy-two, with unquestionably wondrous hair, but failing in strength and in faculties; and it grew merely pathetic to rachel that mrs. maldon should force herself always to sit straight upright. as for mrs. maldon's charitableness, rachel could not deny that she refused to think evil, and yet it was plain that at bottom mrs. maldon was not much deceived about people: in which apparent inconsistency there hid a slight disturbing suggestion of falseness that mysteriously fretted the downright rachel. again, beneath mrs. maldon's modesty concerning the merits of her sitting-room rachael soon fancied that she could detect traces of an ingenuous and possibly senile "house-pride," which did more than fret the lady companion; it faintly offended her. that one should be proud of a possession or of an achievement was admissible, but that one should fail to conceal the pride absolutely was to rachel, with her five towns character, a sign of weakness, a sign of the soft south. lastly, mrs. maldon had, it transpired, her "ways"; for example, in the matter of blinds and in the matter of tapers. she would actually insist on the gas being lighted with a taper; a paper spill, which was just as good and better, seemed to ruffle her benign placidity: and she was funnily economical with matches. rachel had never seen a taper before, and could not conceive where the old lady managed to buy the things. in short, with admiration almost undiminished, and with a rapidly growing love and loyalty, rachel had arrived at the point of feeling glad that she, a mature, capable, sagacious, and strong woman, was there to watch over the last years of the waning and somewhat peculiar old lady. mrs. maldon did not see the situation from quite the same angle. she did not, for example, consider herself to be in the least peculiar, but, on the contrary, a very normal woman. she had always used tapers; she could remember the period when every one used tapers. in her view tapers were far more genteel and less dangerous than the untidy, flaring spill, which she abhorred as a vulgarity. as for matches, frankly it would not have occurred to her to waste a match when fire was available. in the matter of her sharp insistence on drawn blinds at night, domestic privacy seemed to be one of the fundamental decencies of life--simply that! and as for house-pride, she considered that she locked away her fervent feeling for her parlour in a manner marvellous and complete. no one could or ever would guess the depth of her attachment to that sitting-room, nor the extent to which it engrossed her emotional life. and yet she had only occupied the house for fourteen years out of the forty-five years of her widowhood, and the furniture had at intervals been renewed (for mrs. maldon would on no account permit herself to be old-fashioned). indeed, she had had five different sitting-rooms in five different houses since her husband's death. no matter. they were all the same sitting-room, all rendered identical by the mysterious force of her dreamy meditations on the past. and, moreover, sundry important articles had remained constant to preserve unbroken the chain that linked her to her youth. the table which rachel had so nicely laid was the table at which mrs. maldon had taken her first meal as mistress of a house. her husband had carved mutton at it, and grumbled about the consistency of toast; her children had spilt jam on its cloth. and when on sunday nights she wound up the bracket-clock on the mantelpiece, she could see and hear a handsome young man in a long frock-coat and a large shirt-front and a very thin black tie winding it up too--her husband--on sunday nights. and she could simultaneously see another handsome young man winding it up--her son. her pictures were admired. "your son painted this water-colour, did he not, mrs. maldon?" "yes, my son athelstan." "how gifted he must have been!" "yes, the best judges say he showed very remarkable promise. it's fading, i fear. i ought to cover it up, but somehow i can't fancy covering it up--" the hand that had so remarkably promised had lain mouldering for a quarter of a century. mrs. maldon sometimes saw it, fleshless, on a cage-like skeleton in the dark grave. the next moment she would see herself tending its chilblains. and if she was not peculiar, neither was she waning. no! seventy-two--but not truly old! how could she be truly old when she could see, hear, walk a mile without stopping, eat anything whatever, and dress herself unaided? and that hair of hers! often she was still a young wife, or a young widow. she was not preparing for death; she had prepared for death in the seventies. she expected to live on in calm satisfaction through indefinite decades. she savoured life pleasantly, for its daily security was impregnable. she had forgotten grief. when she looked up at rachel and benevolently nodded to her, she saw a girl of line character, absolutely trustworthy, very devoted, very industrious, very capable, intelligent, cheerful--in fact, a splendid girl, a girl to be enthusiastic about! but such a mere girl! a girl with so much to learn! so pathetically young and inexperienced and positive and sure of herself! the looseness of her limbs, the unconscious abrupt freedom of her gestures, the waviness of her auburn hair, the candour of her glance, the warmth of her indignation against injustice and dishonesty, the capricious and sensitive flowings of blood to her smooth cheeks, the ridiculous wise compressings of her lips, the rise and fall of her rich and innocent bosom--these phenomena touched mrs. maldon and occasionally made her want to cry. thought she: "_i_ was never so young as that at twenty-two! at twenty-two i had had mary!" the possibility that in spite of having had mary (who would now have been fifty, but for death) she had as a fact been approximately as young as that at twenty-two did not ever present itself to the waning and peculiar old lady. she was glad that she, a mature and profoundly experienced woman, in full possession of all her faculties, was there to watch over the development of the lovable, affectionate, and impulsive child. iv "oh! here's the paper, mrs. maldon," said rachel, as, turning away to leave the room, she caught sight of the extra special edition of the _signal_, which lay a pale green on the dark green of the chesterfield. mrs. maldon answered placidly-- "when did you bring it in? i never heard the boy come. but my hearing's not quite what it used to be, that's true. open it for me, my dear. i can't stretch my arms as i used to." she was one of the few women in the five towns who deigned to read a newspaper regularly, and one of the still fewer who would lead the miscellaneous conversation of drawing-rooms away from domestic chatter and discussions of individualities, to political and municipal topics and even toward general ideas. she seldom did more than mention a topic and then express a hope for the best, or explain that this phenomenon was "such a pity," or that phenomenon "such a good thing," or that about another phenomenon "one really didn't know what to think." but these remarks sufficed to class her apart among her sex as "a very up-to-date old lady, with a broad outlook upon the world," and to inspire sundry other ladies with a fearful respect for her masculine intellect and judgment. she was aware of her superiority, and had a certain kind disdain for the increasing number of women who took in a daily picture-paper, and who, having dawdled over its illustrations after breakfast, spoke of what they had seen in the "newspaper." she would not allow that a picture-paper was a newspaper. rachel stood in the empty space under the gas. her arms were stretched out and slightly upward as she held the _signal_ wide open and glanced at the newspaper, frowning. the light fell full on her coppery hair. her balanced body, though masked in front by the perpendicular fall of the apron as she bent somewhat forward, was nevertheless the image of potential vivacity and energy; it seemed almost to vibrate with its own consciousness of physical pride. left alone, rachel would never have opened a newspaper, at any rate for the news. until she knew mrs. maldon she had never seen a woman read a newspaper for aught except the advertisements relating to situations, houses, and pleasures. but, much more than she imagined, she was greatly under the influence of mrs. maldon. mrs. maldon made a nightly solemnity of the newspaper, and rachel naturally soon persuaded herself that it was a fine and a superior thing to read the newspaper--a proof of unusual intelligence. moreover, just as she felt bound to show mrs. maldon that her notion of cleanliness was as advanced as anybody's, so she felt bound to indicate, by an appearance of casualness, that for her to read the paper was the most customary thing in the world. of course she read the paper! and that she should calmly look at it herself before handing it to her mistress proved that she had already established a very secure position in the house. she said, her eyes following the lines, and her feet moving in the direction of mrs. maldon--"those burglaries are still going on ... hillport now!" "oh, dear, dear!" murmured mrs. maldon, as rachel spread the newspaper lightly over the tea-tray and its contents. "oh, dear, dear! i do hope the police will catch some one soon. i'm sure they're doing their best, but really--!" rachel bent with confident intimacy over the old lady's shoulder, and they read the burglary column together, rachel interrupting herself for an instant to pick up mrs. maldon's ball of black wool which had slipped to the floor. the _signal_ reporter had omitted none of the classic _clichés_ proper to the subject, and such words and phrases as "jemmy," "effected an entrance," "the servant, now thoroughly alarmed," "stealthy footsteps," "escaped with their booty," seriously disquieted both of the women--caused a sudden sensation of sinking in the region of the heart. yet neither would put the secret fear into speech, for each by instinct felt that a fear once uttered is strengthened and made more real. living solitary and unprotected by male sinews, in a house which, though it did not stand alone, was somewhat withdrawn from the town, they knew themselves the ideal prey of conventional burglars with masks, dark lanterns, revolvers, and jemmies. they were grouped together like some symbolic sculpture, and with all their fortitude and common sense they still in unconscious attitude expressed the helpless and resigned fatalism of their sex before certain menaces of bodily danger, the thrilled, expectant submission of women in a city about to be sacked. nothing could save them if the peril entered the house. but they would not say aloud: "suppose they came _here_! how terrible!" they would not even whisper the slightest apprehension. they just briefly discussed the matter with a fine air of indifferent aloofness, remaining calm while the brick walls and the social system which defended that bright and delicate parlour from the dark, savage universe without seemed to crack and shiver. mrs. maldon, suddenly noticing that one blind was half an inch short of the bottom of the window, rose nervously and pulled it down farther. "why didn't you ask me to do that?" said rachel, thinking what a fidgety person the old lady was. mrs. maldon replied--"it's all right, my dear. did you fasten the window on the upstairs landing?" "as if burglars would try to get in by an upstairs window--and on the street!" thought rachel, pityingly impatient. "however, it's her house, and i'm paid to do what i'm told," she added to herself, very sensibly. then she said, aloud, in a soothing tone-- "no, i didn't. but i will do it." she moved towards the door, and at the same moment a knock on the front door sent a vibration through the whole house. nearly all knocks on the front door shook the house; and further, burglars do not generally knock as a preliminary to effecting an entrance. nevertheless, both women started--and were ashamed of starting. "surely he's rather early!" said mrs. maldon with an exaggerated tranquillity. and rachel, with a similar lack of conviction in her calm gait, went audaciously forth into the dark lobby. v on the glass panels of the front door the street lamp threw a faint, distorted shadow of a bowler hat, two rather protruding ears, and a pair of long, outspreading whiskers whose ends merged into broad shoulders. any one familiar with the streets of bursley would have instantly divined that councillor thomas batchgrew stood between the gas-lamp and the front door. and even rachel, whose acquaintance with bursley was still slight, at once recognized the outlines of the figure. she had seen councillor batchgrew one day conversing with mrs. maldon in moorthorne road, and she knew that he bore to mrs. maldon the vague but imposing relation of "trustee." there are many--indeed perhaps too many--remarkable men in the five towns. thomas batchgrew was one of them. he had begun life as a small plumber in bursley market-place, living behind and above the shop, and begetting a considerable family, which exercised itself in the back yard among empty and full turpentine-cans. the original premises survived, as a branch establishment, and batchgrew's latest-married grandson condescended to reside on the first floor, and to keep a motor-car and a tri-car in the back yard, now roofed over (in a manner not strictly conforming to the building by-laws of the borough). all batchgrew's sons and daughters were married, and several of his grandchildren also. and all his children, and more than one of the grandchildren, kept motor-cars. not a month passed but some batchgrew, or some batchgrew's husband or child, bought a motor-car, or sold one, or exchanged a small one for a larger one, or had an accident, or was gloriously fined in some distant part of the country for illegal driving. nearly all of them had spacious detached houses, with gardens and gardeners, and patent slow-combustion grates, and porcelain bathrooms comprising every appliance for luxurious splashing. and, with the exception of one son who had been assisted to valparaiso in order that he might there seek death in the tankard without outraging the family, they were all teetotallers--because the old man, "old jack," was a teetotaller. the family pyramid was based firm on the old man. the numerous relatives held closely together like an alien oligarchical caste in a conquered country. if they ever did quarrel, it must have been in private. the principal seat of business--electrical apparatus, heating apparatus, and decorating and plumbing on a grandiose scale--in hanbridge, had over its immense windows the sign: "john batchgrew & sons." the sign might well have read: "john batchgrew & sons, daughters, daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren." the batchgrew partners were always tendering for, and often winning, some big contract or other for heating and lighting and embellishing a public building or a mansion or a manufactory. (they by no means confined their activities to the five towns, having an address in london--and another in valparaiso.) and small private customers were ever complaining of the inaccuracy of their accounts for small jobs. people who, in the age of queen victoria's earlier widowhood, had sent for batchgrew to repair a burst spout, still by force of habit sent for batchgrew to repair a burst spout, and still had to "call at batchgrew's" about mistakes in the bills, which mistakes, after much argument and asseveration, were occasionally put right. in spite of their prodigious expenditures, and of a certain failure on the part of the public to understand "where all the money came from," the financial soundness of the batchgrews was never questioned. in discussing the batchgrews no bank-manager and no lawyer had ever by an intonation or a movement of the eyelid hinted that earthquakes had occurred before in the history of the world and might occur again. and yet old batchgrew--admittedly the cleverest of the lot, save possibly the valparaiso soaker--could not be said to attend assiduously to business. he scarcely averaged two hours a day on the premises at hanbridge. indeed the staff there had a sense of the unusual, inciting to unusual energy and devotion, when word went round: "guv'nor's in the office with mr. john." the councillor was always extremely busy with something other than his main enterprise. it was now reported, for example, that he was clearing vast sums out of picture-palaces in wigan and warrington. also he was a religionist, being chairman of the local church of england village mission fund. and he was a politician, powerful in municipal affairs. and he was a reformer, who believed that by abolishing beer he could abolish the poverty of the poor--and acted accordingly. and lastly he liked to enjoy himself. everybody knew by sight his flying white whiskers and protruding ears. and he himself was well aware of the steady advertising value of those whiskers--of always being recognizable half a mile off. he met everybody unflinchingly, for he felt that he was invulnerable at all points and sure of a magnificent obituary. he was invariably treated with marked deference and respect. but he was not an honest man. he knew it. all his family knew it. in business everybody knew it except a few nincompoops. scarcely any one trusted him. the peculiar fashion in which, when he was not present, people "old jacked" him--this alone was enough to condemn a man of his years. lastly, everybody knew that most of the batchgrew family was of a piece with its head. vi now rachel had formed a prejudice against old batchgrew. she had formed it, immutably, in a single second of time. one glance at him in the street--and she had tried and condemned him, according to the summary justice of youth. she was in that stage of plenary and unhesitating wisdom when one not only can, but one must, divide the whole human race sharply into two categories, the sheep and the goats; and she had sentenced old batchgrew to a place on the extreme left. it happened that she knew nothing against him. but she did not require evidence. she simply did "not like _that man_"--(she italicized the end of the phrase bitingly to herself)--and there was no appeal against the verdict. angels could not have successfully interceded for him in the courts of her mind. he never guessed, in his aged self-sufficiency, that his case was hopeless with rachel, nor even that the child had dared to have any opinion about him at all. she was about to slip off the pinafore-apron and drop it on to the oak chest that stood in the lobby. but she thought with defiance: "why should i take my pinafore off for him? i won't. he shan't see my nice frock. let him see my pinafore. i am an independent woman, earning my own living, and why should i be ashamed of my pinafore? my pinafore is good enough for him!" she also thought: "let him wait!" and went off into the kitchen to get the modern appliance of the match for lighting the gas in the lobby. when she had lighted the gas she opened the front door with audacious but nervous deliberation, and the famous character impatiently walked straight in. he wore prominent loose black kid gloves and a thin black overcoat. looking coolly at her, he said-- "so you're the new lady companion, young miss! well, i've heard rare accounts on ye--rare accounts on ye! missis is in, i reckon?" his voice was extremely low, rich, and heavy. it descended on the silence like a thick lubricating oil that only reluctantly abandons the curves in which it falls. and rachel answered, faintly, tremulously--"yes." no longer was she the independent woman, censorious and scornful, but a silly, timid little thing. though she condemned herself savagely for school-girlishness, she could do nothing to arrest the swift change in her. the fact was, she was abashed, partly by the legendary importance of the renowned batchgrew, but more by his physical presence. his mere presence was always disturbing; for when he supervened into an environment he had always the air of an animal on a voyage of profitable discovery. his nose was an adventurous, sniffing nose, a true nose, which exercised the original and proper functions of a nose noisily. his limbs were restless, his boots like hoofs. his eyes were as restless as his limbs, and seemed ever to be seeking for something upon which they could definitely alight, and not finding it. he performed eructations with the disarming naturalness of a baby. he was tall but not stout, and yet he filled the lobby; he was the sole fact in the lobby, and it was as though rachel had to crush herself against the wall in order to make room for him. his glance at rachel now became inquisitive, calculating, it seemed to be saying: "one day i may be able to make use of this piece of goods." but there was a certain careless good-humour in it, too. what he saw was a naïve young maid, with agreeable features, and a fine, fresh complexion, and rather reddish hair. (he did not approve of the colour of the hair.) he found pleasure in regarding her, and in the perception that he had abashed her. yes, he liked to see her timid and downcast before him. he was an old man, but like most old men--such as statesmen--who have lived constantly at the full pressure of following their noses, he was also a young man. he creaked, but he was not gravely impaired. "is it mr. batchgrew?" rachel softly murmured the unnecessary question, with one hand on the knob ready to open the sitting-room door. he had flopped his stiff, flat-topped felt hat on the oak chest, and was taking off his overcoat. he paused and, lifting his chin--and his incredible white whiskers with it--gazed at rachel almost steadily for a couple of seconds. "it is," he said, as it were challengingly--"it is, young miss." then he finished removing his overcoat and thrust it roughly down on the hat. rachel blushed as she modestly turned the knob and pushed the door so that he might pass in front of her. "here's mr. batchgrew, mrs. maldon," she announced, feebly endeavouring to raise and clear her voice. "bless us!" the astonished exclamation of mrs. maldon was heard. and councillor batchgrew, with his crimson shiny face, and the vermilion rims round his unsteady eyes, and his elephant ears, and the absurd streaming of his white whiskers, and his multitudinous noisiness, and his black kid gloves, strode half theatrically past her, sniffing. to rachel he was an object odious, almost obscene. in truth, she had little mercy on old men in general, who as a class struck her as fussy, ridiculous, and repulsive. and beyond all the old men she had ever seen, she disliked councillor batchgrew. and about councillor batchgrew what she most detested was, perhaps strangely, his loose, wrinkled black kid gloves. they were ordinary, harmless black kid gloves, but she counted them against him as a supreme offence. "conceited, self-conscious, horrid old brute!" she thought, discreetly drawing the door to, and then going into the kitchen. "he's interested in nothing and nobody but himself." she felt protective towards mrs. maldon, that simpleton who apparently could not see through a john batchgrew!... so mrs. maldon had been giving him good accounts of the new lady companion, had she! vii "well, lizzie maldon," said councillor batchgrew as he crossed the sitting-room, "how d'ye find yourself?... sings!" he went on, taking mrs. maldon's hand with a certain negligence and at the same time fixing an unfriendly eye on the gas. mrs. maldon had risen to welcome him with the punctilious warmth due to an old gentleman, a trustee, and a notability. she told him as to her own health and inquired about his. but he ignored her smooth utterances, in the ardour of following his nose. "sings worse than ever! very unhealthy too! haven't i told ye and told ye? you ought to let me put electricity in for you. it isn't as if it wasn't your own house.... pay ye! pay ye over and over again!" he sat down in a chair by the table, drew off his loose black gloves, and after letting them hover irresolutely over the encumbered table, deposited them for safety in the china slop-basin. "i dare say you're quite right," said mrs. maldon with grave urbanity. "but really gas suits me very well. and you know the gas-manager complains so much about the competition of electricity. truly it does seem unfair, doesn't it, as they both belong to the town! if i gave up gas for electricity i don't think i could look the poor man in the face at church. and all these changes cost money! how is dear enid?" mr. batchgrew had now stretched out his legs and crossed one over the other; and he was twisting his thumbs on his diaphragm. "enid? oh! enid! well, i did hear she's able to nurse the child at last." he spoke of his grand-daughter-in-law as of one among a multiplicity of women about whose condition vague rumours reached him at intervals. mrs. maldon breathed fervently--"i'm so thankful! what a blessing that is, isn't it?" "as for costing money, elizabeth," mr. batchgrew proceeded, "you'll be all right now for money." he paused, sat up straight with puffings, and leaned sideways against the table. then he said, half fiercely-- "i've settled up th' brougham street mortgage." "you don't say so!" mrs. maldon was startled. "i do!" "when?" "to-day." "well--" "that's what i stepped in for." mrs. maldon feebly murmured, with obvious emotion-- "you can't imagine what a relief it is to me!" tears shone in her dark, mild eyes. "look ye!" exclaimed the trustee curtly. he drew from his breast pocket a bank envelope of linen, and then, glancing at the table, pushed cups and saucers abruptly away to make a clear space on the white cloth. the newspaper slipped rustling to the floor on the side near the window. already his gloves were abominable in the slop-basin, and now with a single gesture he had destroyed the symmetry of the set table. mrs. maldon with surpassing patience smiled sweetly, and assured herself that mr. batchgrew could not help it. he was a coarse male creature at large in a room highly feminized. it was his habit thus to pass through orderly interiors, distributing havoc, like a rough soldier. you might almost hear a sword clanking in the scabbard. "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty," he began in his heavily rolling voice to count out one by one a bundle of notes which he had taken from the envelope. he generously licked his thick, curved-back thumb for the separating of the notes, and made each note sharply click, in the manner of a bank cashier, to prove to himself that it was not two notes stuck together. "... five-seventy, five-eighty, five-ninety, six hundred. these are all tens. now the fives: five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five." he counted up to three hundred and sixty-five. "that's nine-sixty-five altogether. the odd sixty-five's arrear of interest. i'm investing nine hundred again to-morrow, and th' interest on th' new investment is to start from th' first o' this month. so instead of being out o'pocket, you'll be in pocket, missis." the notes lay in two irregular filmy heaps on the table. having carefully returned the empty envelope to his pocket, mr. batchgrew sat back, triumphant, and his eye met the delighted yet disturbed eye of mrs. maldon, and then wavered and dodged. mr. batchgrew with all his romantic qualities, lacked any perception of the noble and beautiful in life, and it could be positively asserted that his estimate of mrs. maldon was chiefly disdainful. but of mrs. maldon's secret opinion about john batchgrew nothing could be affirmed with certainty. nobody knew it or ever would know it. i doubt whether mrs. maldon had whispered it even to herself. in youth he had been the very intimate friend of her husband. which fact would scarcely tally with mrs. maldon's memory of her husband as the most upright and perspicacious of men--unless on the assumption that john batchgrew's real characteristics had not properly revealed themselves until after his crony's death; this assumption was perhaps admissible. mrs. maldon invariably spoke of john batchgrew with respect and admiration. she probably had perfect confidence in him as a trustee, and such confidence was justified, for the councillor knew as well as anybody in what fields rectitude was a remunerative virtue, and in what fields it was not. indeed, as a trustee his sense of honour and of duty was so nice that in order to save his ward from loss in connection with a depreciating mortgage security, he had invented, as a town councillor, the "improvement" known as the "brougham street scheme." if this was not said outright, it was hinted. at any rate, the idea was fairly current that had not councillor batchgrew been interested in brougham street property, the brougham street scheme, involving the compulsory purchase of some of that property at the handsome price naturally expected from the munificence of corporations, would never have come into being. mrs. maldon knew of the existence of the idea, which had been obscurely referred to by a licensed victualler (inimically prejudiced against the teetotaller in mr. batchgrew) at a council meeting reported in the _signal_. and it was precisely this knowledge which had imparted to her glance the peculiar disturbed quality that had caused mr. batchgrew to waver and dodge. the occasion demanded the exercise of unflinching common sense, and mrs. maldon was equal to it. she very wisely decided that she ought not to concern herself, and could not concern herself, with an aspect of the matter which concerned her trustee alone. and therefore she gave her heart entirely up to an intense gladness at the integral recovery of the mortgage money. for despite her faith in the efficiency of her trustee, mrs. maldon would worry about finance; she would yield to an exquisitely painful dread lest "anything should happen"--happen, that is, to prevent her from dying in the comfortable and dignified state in which she had lived. her income was not large--a little under three hundred pounds a year--but with care it sufficed for her own wants, and for gifts, subscriptions, and an occasional carriage. there would have been a small margin but for the constant rise in prices. as it was, there was no permanent margin. and to have cut off a single annual subscription, or lessened a single customary gift, would have mortally wounded her pride. the gradual declension of property values in brougham street had been a danger that each year grew more menacing. the moment had long ago come when the whole rents of the mortgaged cottages would not cover her interest. the promise of the corporation improvement scheme had only partially reassured her; it seemed too good to be true. she could not believe without seeing. she now saw, suddenly, blindingly. and her relief, beneath that stately deportment of hers, was pathetic in its simple intensity. it would have moved john batchgrew, had he been in any degree susceptible to the thrill of pathos. "i doubt if i've seen so much money all at once before," said mrs. maldon, smiling weakly. "happen not!" said mr. batchgrew, proud, with insincere casualness, and he added in exactly the same tone: "i'm leaving it with ye to-night." mrs. maldon was aghast, but she feigned sprightliness as she exclaimed-- "you're not leaving all this money here to-night?" "i am," said the trustee. "that's what i came for. evans's were three hours late in completing, and the bank was closed. i have but just got it. i'm not going home." (he lived eight miles off, near axe.) "i've got to go to a church meeting at red cow, and i'm sleeping there. john's ernest is calling here for me presently. i don't fancy driving over them moors with near a thousand pun in my pocket--and colliers out on strike--not at my age, missis! if you don't know what red cow is, i reckon i do. it's your money. put it in a drawer and say nowt, and i'll fetch it to-morrow. what'll happen to it, think ye, seeing as it hasn't got legs?" he spoke with the authority of a trustee. and mrs. maldon felt that her reputation for sensible equanimity was worth preserving. so she said bravely-- "i suppose it will be all right." "of course!" snapped the trustee patronizingly. "but i must tell rachel." "rachel? rachel? oh! _her_! why tell any one?" mr. batchgrew sniffed very actively. "oh! i shouldn't be easy if i didn't tell rachel," insisted mrs. maldon with firmness. before the trustee could protest anew she had rung the bell. viii it was another and an apronless rachel that entered the room, a rachel transformed, magnificent in light green frock with elaborate lacy ruchings and ornamentations, and the waist at the new fashionable height. her ruddy face and hands were fresh from water, her hair very glossy and very neat: she was in high array. this festival attire mrs. maldon now fully beheld for the first time. it, indeed, honoured herself, for she had ordained a festive evening: but at the same time she was surprised and troubled by it. as for mr. batchgrew, he entirely ignored the vision. stretched out in one long inclined plane from the back of his chair down to the brass fender, he contemplated the fire, while picking his teeth with a certain impatience, and still sniffing actively. the girl resented this disregard. but, though she remained hostile to the grotesque old man with his fussy noises, the mantle of mrs. maldon's moral protection was now over councillor batchgrew, and rachel's mistrustful scorn of him had lost some of its pleasing force. "rachel--" mrs. maldon gave a hesitating cough. "yes, mrs. maldon?" said rachel questioningly deferential, and smiling faintly into mrs. maldon's apprehensive eyes. against the background of the aged pair she seemed dramatically young, lithe, living, and wistful. she was nervous, but she thought with strong superiority: "what are those old folks planning together? why do they ring for me?" at length mrs. maldon proceeded--"i think i ought to tell you, dear, mr. batchgrew is obliged to leave this money in my charge to-night." "what money?" asked rachel. mr. batchgrew put in sharply, drawing up his legs--"this!... here, young miss! step this way, if ye please. i'll count it. ten, twenty, thirty--" with new lickings and clickings he counted the notes all over again. "there!" when he had finished his pride had become positively naïve. "oh, my word!" murmured rachel, awed and astounded. "it is rather a lot, isn't it?" said mrs. maldon, with a timid laugh. at once fascinated and repelled, the two women looked at the money as at a magic. it represented to mrs. maldon a future free from financial embarrassment; it represented to rachel more than she could earn in half a century at her wage of eighteen pounds a year, an unimaginable source of endless gratifications; and yet the mere fact that it was to stay in the house all night changed it for them into something dire and formidable, so that it inspired both of them--the ancient dame and the young girl--with naught but a mystic dread. mr. batchgrew eyed the affrighted creatures with satisfaction, appearing to take a perverse pleasure in thus imposing upon them the horrid incubus. "i was only thinking of burglars;" said mrs. maldon apologetically. "there've been so many burglaries lately--" she ceased, uncertain of her voice. the forced lightness of her tone was almost tragic. "there won't be any more," said mr. batchgrew condescendingly. "why?" demanded mrs. maldon with an eager smile of hope. "have they caught them, then? has superintendent snow--" "they have their hands on them. to-morrow there'll be some arrests," mr. batchgrew answered, exuding authority. for he was not merely a town councillor, he was brother-in-law to the superintendent of the borough police. "caught 'em long ago if th' county police had been a bit more reliable!" "oh!" mrs. maldon breathed happily. "i knew it couldn't be mr. snow's fault. i felt sure of that. i'm so glad." and rachel also was conscious of gladness. in fact, it suddenly seemed plain to both women that no burglar, certain of arrest on the morrow, would dare to invade the house of a lady whose trustee had married the sister of the superintendent of police. the house was invisibly protected. "and we mustn't forget we shall have a man sleeping here to-night," said rachel confidently. "of course! of course! i was quite overlooking that!" exclaimed mrs. maldon. mr. batchgrew threw a curt and suspicious question--"what man?" "my nephew julian--i should say my grand-nephew." mrs. maldon's proud tone rebuked the strange tone of mr. batchgrew. "it is his birthday. he and louis are having supper with me. and julian is staying the night." "well, if you take my advice, missis, ye'll say nowt to nobody. lock the brass up in a drawer in that wardrobe of yours, and keep a still tongue in your head." "perhaps you're right," mrs. maldon agreed--"as a matter of general principle, i mean. and it might make julian uneasy." "take it and lock it up," mr. batchgrew repeated. "i don't know about my wardrobe--" mrs. maldon began. "anywhere!" mr. batchgrew stopped her. "only," said rachel with careful gentleness, "please don't forget where you _have_ put it." but her precaution of manner was futile. twice within a minute she had employed the word "forget." twice was too often. mrs. maldon's memory was most capriciously uncertain. its lapses astonished sometimes even herself. and naturally she was sensitive on the point. she nourished the fiction, and she expected others to nourish it, that her memory was quite equal to younger memories. indeed, she would admit every symptom of old age save an unreliable memory. composing a dignified smile, she said with reproving blandness-- "i am not in the habit of forgetting where i put valuables, rachel." and her prominently veined fingers, clasping the notes as a preliminary to hiding them away, seemed in their nervous primness to be saying to rachael: "i have deep confidence in you, and i think that to-night i have shown it. but oblige me by not presuming. i am mrs. maldon and you are rachel. after all, i have not yet known you for a month." ix a very loud rasping noise, like a vicious menace, sounded from the street, shivering instantaneously the delicate placidity of mrs. maldon's home. mrs. maldon gave a start. "that'll be john's ernest with the car," said mr. batchgrew, amused; and he began to get up from the chair. as soon as he was on his feet his nose grew active again. "you've nothing to be afraid of, missis," he added in a tone roughly reassuring and good-natured. "oh no! of course not!" concurred mrs. maldon, further enforcing intrepidity on herself. "of course not! i only just mentioned burglars because they're so much in the paper." and she stooped to pick up the _signal_ and folded it carefully, as if to prove that her mind was utterly collected. councillor batchgrew, leaning over the table, peered into various vessels in search of his gloves. at length he took them finickingly from the white slop-basin as though fishing them out of a puddle. he began to put them on, and then, half-way through the process, abruptly shook hands with mrs. maldon. "then you'll call in the morning?" she asked. "aye! ye may count on me. i'll relieve ye on [of] it afore ten o'clock. it'll be on my way to hanbridge, ye see." mrs. maldon ceremoniously accompanied her trustee as far as the sitting-room door, where she recommended him to the careful attention of rachel. no woman in the five towns could take leave of a guest with more impressive dignity than old mrs. maldon, whose fine southern accent always gave a finish to her farewells. in the lobby mr. batchgrew kept rachel waiting with his overcoat in her outstretched hands while he completed the business of his gloves. as, close behind him, she coaxed his stiff arms into the overcoat, she suddenly felt that after all he was nothing but a decrepit survival; and his offensiveness seemed somehow to have been increased--perhaps by the singular episode of the gloves and the slop-basin. she opened the front door, and without a word to her he departed down the steps. two lamps like lighthouses glared fiercely along the roadway, dulling the municipal gas and giving to each loose stone on the macadam a long shadow. in the gloom behind the lamps the low form of an open automobile showed, and a dim, cloaked figure beside it. a boyish voice said with playful bullying sharpness, above the growling, irregular pulsation of the engine--"here, grandad, you've got to put this on." "have i?" demanded uncertainly the thick, heavy voice of the old man. "yes, you have--on the top of your other coat. if i don't look after you i shall get myself into a row!... here, let me put your fist in the armhole. it's your blooming glove that stops it.... there! now, up with you, grandad!... all right! i've got you. i sha'n't drop you." a door snapped to; then another. the car shot violently forward, with shrieks and a huge buzzing noise, and leaped up the slope of the street. rachel, still in the porch, could see mr. batchgrew's head wagging rather helplessly from side to side, just above the red speck of the tail-lamp. then the whole vision was swiftly blotted out, and the warning shrieks of the invisible car grew fainter on the way to red cow. it pleased rachel to think of the old man being casually bullied and shaken by john's ernest. she leaned forward and gazed down the street, not up it. when she turned into the house mrs. maldon was descending the stairs, which, being in a line with the lobby, ended opposite the front door. judging by the fixity of the old lady's features, rachel decided that she was not yet quite pardoned for the slight she had put upon the memory of her employer. so she smiled pleasantly. "don't close the front door, dear," said mrs. maldon stiffly. "there's some one there." rachel looked round. she had actually, in sheer absent-mindedness or negligence or deafness, been shutting the door in the face of the telegraph-boy! "oh, dear! i do hope--!" mrs. maldon muttered as she hastily tugged at the envelope. having read the message, she passed it on to rachel, and at the same time forgivingly responded to her smile. the excitement of the telegram had sufficed to dissipate mrs. maldon's trifling resentment. rachel read-- "train hour late. julian." the telegraph boy was dismissed: "no answer, thank you." x during the next half-hour excitement within the dwelling gradually increased. it grew out of nothing--out of mrs. maldon's admirable calm in receiving the message of the telegram--until it affected like an atmospheric disturbance the ground floor--the sitting-room where mrs. maldon was spending nervous force in the effort to preserve an absolutely tranquil mind, the kitchen where rachel was "putting back" the supper, the lobby towards which rachel's eye and mrs. maiden's ear were strained to catch any sign of an arrival, and the unlighted, unused room behind the sitting-room which seemed to absorb and even intensify the changing moods of the house. the fact was that mrs. maldon, in her relief at finding that julian was not killed or maimed for life in a railway accident, had begun by treating a delay of one hour in all her arrangements for the evening as a trifle. but she had soon felt that, though a trifle, it was really very upsetting and annoying. it gave birth to irrational yet real forebodings as to the non-success of her little party. it meant that the little party had "started badly." and then her other grand-nephew, louis fores, did not arrive. he had been invited for supper at seven, and should have appeared at five minutes to seven at the latest. but at five minutes to seven he had not come; nor at seven, nor at five minutes past--he who had barely a quarter of a mile to walk! there was surely a fate against the party! and rachel strangely persisted in not leaving the kitchen! even after mrs. maldon had heard her fumbling for an interminable time with the difficult window on the first-floor landing, she went back to the kitchen instead of presenting herself to her expectant mistress. at last rachel entered the sitting-room, faintly humming an air. mrs. maldon thought that she looked self-conscious. but mrs. maldon also was self-conscious, and somehow could not bring her lips to utter the name of louis fores to rachel. for the old lady had divined a connection of cause and effect between louis fores and the apparition of rachel's superlative frock. and she did not like the connection; it troubled her, and offended the extreme nicety of her social code. there was a constrained silence, which was broken by the lobby clock striking the first quarter after seven. this harsh announcement on the part of the inhuman clock seemed to render the situation intolerable. fifteen minutes past seven, and louis not come, and not a word of comment thereon! mrs. maldon had to admit privately that she was in a high state of agitation. then rachel, bending delicately to sweep the hearth with the brass-handled brush proper to it, remarked with an obvious affectation of nonchalance-- "your other guest's late too." if mrs. maldon had not been able to speak his name, neither could rachel! mrs. maldon read with painful certainty all the girl's symptoms. "yes, indeed!" said mrs. maldon. "it's like as if what must be!" rachel murmured, employing a local phrase which mrs. maldon had ever contemned as meaningless and ungrammatical. "fortunately it doesn't matter, as julian is late too," said mrs. maldon insincerely, for it was mattering very much. "but still--i wonder--" rachel broke out upon her hesitation in a very startling manner-- "i'll just see if he's coming." and she abruptly quitted the room, almost slamming the door. mrs. maldon was dumbfounded. scared and attentive, she listened in a maze for the sound of the front door. she heard it open. but was it possible that she heard also the creak of the gate? she sprang to the bow window with surprising activity, and pulled aside a blind, one inch.... there was rachel tripping hatless and in her best frock down the street! inconceivable vision, affecting mrs. maldon with palpitation! a girl so excellent, so lovable, so trustworthy, to be guilty of the wanton caprice of a minx! supposing louis were to see her, to catch her in the brazen act of looking for him! mrs. maldon was grieved; and her gentle sorrow for rachel's incalculable lapse was so dignified, affectionate, and jealous for the good repute of human nature that it mysteriously ennobled instead of degrading the young creature. xi going down bycars lane amid the soft wandering airs of the september night, rachel had the delicious and exciting sensation of being unyoked, of being at liberty for a space to obey the strong, free common sense of youth instead of conforming to the outworn and tiresome code of another age. mrs. maldon's was certainly a house that put a strain on the nerves. it did not occur to rachel that she was doing aught but a very natural and proper thing. the non-appearance of louis fores was causing disquiet, and her simple aim was to shorten the period of anxiety. nor did it occur to her that she was impulsive. something had to be done, and she had done something. not much longer could she have borne the suspense. all that day she had lived forward towards supper-time, when louis fores would appear. over and over again she had lived right through the moment of opening the front door for him at a little before seven o'clock. the moments between seven o'clock and a quarter past had been a crescendo of torment, intolerable at last. his lateness was inexplicable, and he was so close to that not to look for him would have been ridiculous. she was apprehensive, and yet she was obscurely happy in her fears. the large, inviting, dangerous universe was about her--she had escaped from the confining shelter of the house. and the night was about her. it was not necessary for her to wear three coats, like the gross batchgrew, in order to protect herself from the night! she could go forth into it with no precaution. she was young. her vigorous and confident body might challenge perils. when she had proceeded a hundred yards she stopped and turned to look back at the cluster of houses collectively called bycars. the distinctive bow-window of mrs. maldon's shone yellow. within the sacred room was still the old lady, sitting expectant, and trying to interest herself in the paper. strange thought! bycars lane led in a north-easterly direction over the broad hill whose ridge separates the lane from the moorlands honeycombed with coal and iron mines. above the ridge showed the fire and vapour of the first mining villages, on the way to red cow, proof that not all colliers were yet on strike. and above that pyrotechny hung the moon. the municipal park, of which bycars lane was the north-western boundary, lay in mysterious and forbidden groves behind its spiked red wall and locked gates, and beyond it a bright tram-car was leaping down from lamp to lamp of moorthorne road towards the town. between the masses of the ragged hedge on the north side of the lane there was the thin gleam of bycars pool, lost in a vague, unoccupied region of shawdrucks and dirty pasture--the rendezvous of skaters when the frost held, louis fores had told her, and she had heard from another source that he skated divinely. she could believe it, too. she resumed her way more slowly. she had only stopped because, though burned with the desire to see him, she yet had an instinct to postpone the encounter. she was almost minded to return. but she went on. the town was really very near. the illuminated clock of the town hall had dominion over it; the golden shimmer above the roofs to the left indicated the electrical splendour of the new cinema in moorthorne road next to the new primitive methodist chapel. he had told her about that, too. in two minutes, in less than two minutes, she was among houses again, and approaching the corner of friendly street. he would come from the moorthorne road end of friendly street. she would peep round the corner of friendly street to see if he was coming.... but before she reached the corner, her escapade suddenly presented itself to her as childish madness, silly, inexcusable; and she thought self-reproachfully, "how impulsive i am!" and sharply turned back towards mrs. maldon's house, which seemed to be about ten miles off. a moment later she heard hurried footfalls behind her on the narrow brick pavement, and, after one furtive glance over her shoulder, she quickened her pace. louis fores in all his elegance was pursuing her! nothing had happened to him. he was not ill; he was merely a little late! after all, she would sit by his side at the supper-table! she had a spasm of shame that was excruciating. but at the same time she was wildly glad. and already this inebriating illusion of an ingenuous girl concerning a common male was helping to shape monstrous events. chapter ii louis' discovery i louis fores was late at his grand-aunt's because he had by a certain preoccupation, during a period of about an hour, been rendered oblivious of the passage of time. the real origin of the affair went back nearly sixty years, to an indecorous episode in the history of the maldon family. at that date--before mrs. maldon had even met austin maldon, her future husband--austin's elder brother athelstan, who was well established as an earthenware broker in london, had a conjugal misfortune, which reached its climax in the matrimonial court, and left the injured and stately athelstan with an incomplete household, a spoiled home, and the sole care of two children, a boy and a girl. these children were, almost of necessity, clumsily brought up. the girl married the half-brother of a lieutenant-general fores, and louis fores was their son. the boy married an american girl, and had issue, julian maldon and some daughters. at the age of eighteen, louis fores, amiable, personable, and an orphan, was looking for a career. he had lived in the london suburb of barnes, and under the influence of a father whose career had chiefly been to be the stepbrother of lieutenant-general fores. he was in full possession of the conventionally snobbish ideals of the suburb, reinforced by more than a tincture of the stupendous and unsurpassed snobbishness of the british army. he had no money, and therefore the liberal professions and the higher division of the civil service were closed to him. he had the choice of two activities: he might tout for wine, motor-cars, or mineral-waters on commission (like his father), or he might enter a bank; his friends were agreed that nothing else was conceivable. he chose the living grave. it is not easy to enter the living grave, but, august influences aiding, he entered it with _éclat_ at a salary of seventy pounds a year, and it closed over him. he would have been secure till his second death had he not defiled the bier. the day of judgment occurred, the grave opened, and he was thrown out with ignominy, but ignominy unpublished. the august influences, by simple cash, and for their own sakes, had saved him from exposure and a jury. in order to get rid of him his protectors spoke well of him, emphasizing his many good qualities, and he was deported to the five towns (properly enough, since his grandfather had come thence) and there joined the staff of batchgrew & sons, thanks to the kind intervention of mrs. maldon. at the end of a year john batchgrew told him to go, and told mrs. maldon that her grand-nephew had a fault. mrs. maldon was very sorry. at this juncture louis fores, without intending to do so, would certainly have turned mrs. maldon's last years into a tragedy, had he not in the very nick of time inherited about a thousand pounds. he was rehabilitated. he "had money" now. he had a fortune; he had ten thousand pounds; he had any sum you like, according to the caprice of rumour. he lived on his means for a little time, frequenting the municipal school of art at the wedgwood institution at bursley, and then old batchgrew had casually suggested to mrs. maldon that there ought to be an opening for him with jim horrocleave, who was understood to be succeeding with his patent special processes for earthenware manufacture. mr. horrocleave, a man with a chin, would not accept him for a partner, having no desire to share profits with anybody; but on the faith of his artistic tendency and mrs. maldon's correct yet highly misleading catalogue of his virtues, he took him at a salary, in return for which louis was to be the confidential employee who could and would do anything, including design. and now louis was the step-nephew of a lieutenant-general, a man of private means and of talent, and a trusted employee with a fine wage--all under one skin! he shone in bursley, and no wonder! he was very active at horrocleave's. he not only designed shapes for vases, and talked intimately with jim horrocleave about fresh projects, but he controlled the petty cash. the expenditure of petty cash grew, as was natural in a growing business. mr. horrocleave soon got accustomed to that, and apparently gave it no thought, signing cheques instantly upon request. but on the very day of mrs. maldon's party, after signing a cheque and before handing it to louis, he had somewhat lengthily consulted his private cash-book, and, as he handed over the cheque, had said: "let's have a squint at the petty-cash book to-morrow morning, louis." he said it gruffly, but he was a gruff man. he left early. he might have meant anything or nothing. louis could not decide which; or rather, from five o'clock to seven he had come to alternating decisions every five minutes. ii it was just about at the time when louis ought to have been removing his paper cuff-shields in order to start for mrs. maldon's that he discovered the full extent of his debt to the petty-cash box. he sat alone at a rough and dirty desk in the inner room of the works "office," surrounded by dust-covered sample vases and other vessels of all shapes, sizes, and tints--specimens of horrocleave's "art lustre ware," a melancholy array of ingenious ugliness that nevertheless filled with pride its creators. he looked through a dirt-obscured window and with unseeing gaze surveyed a muddy, littered quadrangle whose twilight was reddened by gleams from the engine-house. in this yard lay flat a sign that had been blown down from the façade of the manufactory six months before: "horrocleave. art lustre ware." within the room was another sign, itself fashioned in lustre-ware: "horrocleave. art lustre ware." and the envelopes and paper and bill-heads on the desk all bore the same legend: "horrocleave. art lustre ware." he owed seventy-three pounds to the petty-cash box, and he was startled and shocked. he was startled because for weeks past he had refrained from adding up the columns of the cash-book--partly from idleness and partly from a desire to remain in ignorance of his own doings. he had hoped for the best. he had faintly hoped that the deficit would not exceed ten pounds, or twelve; he had been prepared for a deficit of twenty-five, or even thirty. but seventy-three really shocked. nay, it staggered. it meant that in addition to his salary, some thirty shillings a week had been mysteriously trickling through the incurable hole in his pocket. not to mention other debts! he well knew that to shillitoe alone (his admirable tailor) he owed eighteen pounds. it may be asked how a young bachelor, with private means and a fine salary, living in a district where prices are low and social conventions not costly, could have come to such a pass. the answer is that louis had no private means, and that his salary was not fine. the thousand pounds had gradually vanished, as a thousand pounds will, in the refinements of material existence and in the pursuit of happiness. his bank-account had long been in abeyance. his salary was three pounds a week. many a member of the liberal professions--many a solicitor, for example--brings up a family on three pounds a week in the provinces. but for a lieutenant-general's nephew, who had once had a thousand pounds in one lump, three pounds a week was inadequate. as a fact, louis conceived himself "art director" of horrocleave's, and sincerely thought that as such he was ill-paid. herein was one of his private excuses for eccentricity with the petty cash. it may also be asked what louis had to show for his superb expenditure. the answer is, nothing. with the seventy-three pounds desolatingly clear in his mind, he quitted his desk in order to reconnoitre the outer and larger portion of the counting-house. he went as far as the archway, and saw black smoke being blown downwards from heaven into friendly street. a policeman was placidly regarding the smoke as he strolled by. and louis, though absolutely sure that the officer would not carry out his plain duty of summoning horrocleave's for committing a smoke-nuisance, did not care for the spectacle of the policeman. he returned to the inner office, and locked the door. the "staff" and the "hands" had all gone, save one or two piece-workers in the painting-shop across the yard. the night watchman, fresh from bed, was moving fussily about the yard. he nodded with respect to louis through the grimy window. louis lit the gas, and spread a newspaper in front of the window by way of blind. and then he began a series of acts on the petty-cash book. the office clock indicated twenty past six. he knew that time was short, but he had a natural gift for the invention and execution of these acts, and he calculated that under half an hour would suffice for them. but when he next looked at the clock, the acts being accomplished, one hour had elapsed; it had seemed to him more like a quarter of an hour. yet as blotting-paper cannot safely be employed in such delicate calligraphic feats as those of louis', even an hour was not excessive for what he had done. an operator clumsier, less cool, less cursory, more cautious than himself might well have spent half a night over the job. he locked up the book, washed his hands and face with remarkable celerity in a filthy lavatory basin, brushed his hair, removed his cuff-shields, changed his coat, and fled at speed, leaving the key of the office with the watchman. iii "i suppose the old lady was getting anxious?" said he brightly (but in a low tone so that the old lady should not hear), as he shook hands with rachel in the lobby. he had recognized her in front of him up the lane--had, in fact, nearly overtaken her; and she was standing at the open door when he mounted the steps. she had had just time to prove to mrs. maldon, by a "he's coming" thrown through the sitting-room doorway, that she had not waited for louis fores and walked up with him. "yes," rachel replied in the same tone, most deceitfully leaving him under the false impression that it was the old lady's anxiety that had sent her out. she had, then, emerged scathless in reputation from the indiscreet adventure! the house was animated by the arrival of louis; at once it seemed to live more keenly when he had crossed the threshold. and louis found pleasure in the house--in the welcoming aspect of its interior, in rachel's evident excited gladness at seeing him, in her honest and agreeable features, and in her sheer girlishness. a few minutes earlier he had been in the sordid and dreadful office. now he was in another and a cleaner, prettier world. he yielded instantly and fully to its invitation, for he had the singular faculty of being able to cast off care like a garment. he felt sympathetic towards women, and eager to employ for their contentment all the charm which he knew he possessed. he gave himself, generously, in every gesture and intonation. "office, auntie, office!" he exclaimed, elegantly entering the parlour. "sack-cloth! ashes! hallo! where's julian? is he late too?" when he had received the news about julian maldon he asked to see the telegram, and searched out its place of origin, and drew forth a pocket time-table, and remarked in a wise way that he hoped julian would "make the connection" at derby. lastly he predicted the precise minute at which julian "ought" to be knocking at the front door. and both women felt their ignorant, puzzled inferiority in these recondite matters of travel, and the comfort of having an omniscient male in the house. then slightly drawing up his dark blue trousers with an accustomed movement, he carefully sat down on the chesterfield, and stroked his soft black moustache (which was estimably long for a fellow of twenty-three) and patted his black hair. "rachel, you didn't fasten that landing window, after all!" said mrs. maldon, looking over louis' head at the lady companion, who hesitated modestly near the door. "i've tried, but i couldn't." "neither could i, mrs. maldon," said rachel. "i was thinking perhaps mr. fores wouldn't mind--" she did not explain that her failure to fasten the window had been more or less deliberate, since, while actually tugging at the window, she had been visited by the sudden delicious thought: "how nice it would be to ask louis fores to do this hard thing for me!" and now she had asked him. "certainly!" louis jumped to his feet, and off he went upstairs. most probably, if the sudden delicious thought had not skipped into rachel's brain, he would never have made that critical ascent to the first floor. a gas-jet burned low on the landing. "let's have a little light on the subject," he cheerfully muttered to himself, as he turned on the gas to the full. then in the noisy blaze of yellow and blue light he went to the window and with a single fierce wrench he succeeded in pulling the catch into position. he was proud of his strength. it pleased him to think of the weakness of women; it pleased him to anticipate the impressed thanks of the weak women for this exertion of his power on their behalf. "have you managed it so soon?" his aunt would exclaim, and he would answer in a carefully offhand way, "of course. why not?" he was about to descend, but he remembered that he must not leave the gas at full. with his hand on the tap, he glanced perfunctorily around the little landing. the door of mrs. maldon's bedroom was in front of him, at right angles to the window. by the door, which was ajar, stood a cane-seated chair. underneath the chair he perceived a whitish package or roll that seemed to be out of place there on the floor. he stooped and picked it up. and as the paper rustled peculiarly in his hand, he could feel his heart give a swift bound. he opened the roll. it consisted of nothing whatever but bank-notes. he listened intently, with ear cocked and rigid limbs, and he could just catch the soothing murmur of women's voices in the parlour beneath the reverberating, solemn pulse of the lobby clock. iv louis fores had been intoxicated into a condition of poesy. he was deliciously incapable of any precise thinking; he could not formulate any theory to account for the startling phenomenon of a roll of bank-notes loose under a chair on a first-floor landing of his great-aunt's house; he could not even estimate the value of the roll--he felt only that it was indefinitely prodigious. but he had the most sensitive appreciation of the exquisite beauty of those pieces of paper. they were not merely beautiful because they stood for delight and indulgence, raising lovely visions of hosiers' and jewellers' shops and the night interiors of clubs and restaurants--raising one clear vision of himself clasping a watch-bracelet on the soft arm of rachel who had so excitingly smiled upon him a moment ago. they were beautiful in themselves; the aspect and very texture of them were beautiful--surpassing pictures and fine scenery. they were the most poetic things in the world. they transfigured the narrow, gaslit first-floor landing of his great-aunt's house into a secret and unearthly grove of bliss. he was drunk with quivering emotion. and then, as he gazed at the divine characters printed in sable on the rustling whiteness, he was aware of a stab of ugly, coarse pain. up to the instant of beholding those bank-notes he had been convinced that his operations upon the petty-cash book would be entirely successful and that the immediate future of horrocleave's was assured of tranquillity; he had been blandly certain that horrocleave held no horrid suspicion against him, and that even if horrocleave's pate did conceal a dark thought, it would be conjured at once away by the superficial reasonableness of the falsified accounts. but now his mind was terribly and inexplicably changed, and it seemed to him impossible to gull the acute and mighty horrocleave. failure, exposure, disgrace, ruin, seemed inevitable--and also intolerable. it was astonishing that he should have deceived himself into an absurd security. the bank-notes, by some magic virtue which they possessed, had opened his eyes to the truth. and they presented themselves as absolutely indispensable to him. they had sprung from naught, they belonged to nobody, they existed without a creative cause in the material world--and they were indispensable to him! could it be conceived that he should lose his high and brilliant position in the town, that two policemen should hustle him into the black van, that the gates of a prison should clang behind him? it could not be conceived. it was monstrously inconceivable.... the bank-notes ... he saw them wavy, as through a layer of hot air. a heavy knock on the front door below shook him and the floor and the walls. he heard the hurried feet of rachel, the opening of the door, and julian's harsh, hoarse voice. julian, then, was not quite an hour late, after all. the stir in the lobby seemed to be enormous, and very close to him; mrs. maldon had come forth from the parlour to greet julian on his birthday.... louis stuck the bank-notes into the side pocket of his coat. and as it were automatically his mood underwent a change, violent and complete. "i'll teach the old lady to drop notes all over the place," he said to himself. "i'll just teach her!" and he pictured his triumph as a wise male when, during the course of the feast, his great-aunt should stumble on her loss and yield to senile feminine agitation, and he should remark superiorly, with elaborate calm: "here is your precious money, auntie. a good thing it was i and not burglars who discovered it. let this be a lesson to you!... where was it? it was on the landing carpet, if you please! that's where it was!" and the nice old creature's pathetic relief! as he went jauntily downstairs there remained nothing of his mood of intoxication except a still thumping heart. chapter iii the feast i the dramatic moment of the birthday feast came nearly at the end of the meal when mrs. maldon, having in mysterious silence disappeared for a space to the room behind, returned with due pomp bearing a parcel in her dignified hands. during her brief absence louis, rachel, and julian--hero of the night--had sat mute and somewhat constrained round the debris of the birthday pudding. the constraint was no doubt due partly to julian's characteristic and notorious grim temper, and partly to mere anticipation of a solemn event. julian maldon in particular was self-conscious. he hated intensely to be self-conscious, and his feeling towards every witness of his self-consciousness partook always of the homicidal. were it not that civilization has the means to protect itself, julian might have murdered defenceless aged ladies and innocent young girls for the simple offence of having seen him blush. he was a perfect specimen of a throw-back to original ancestry. he had been born in london, of an american mother, and had spent the greater part of his life in london. yet london and his mother seemed to count for absolutely nothing at all in his composition. at the age of seventeen his soul, quitting the exile of london, had come to the five towns with a sigh of relief as if at the assuagement of a long nostalgia, and had dropped into the district as into a socket. in three months he was more indigenous than a native. any experienced observer who now chanced at a week-end to see him board the manchester express at euston would have been able to predict from his appearance that he would leave the train at knype. he was an undersized man, with a combative and suspicious face. he regarded the world with crafty pugnacity from beneath frowning eyebrows. his expression said: "woe betide the being who tries to get the better of me!" his expression said: "keep off!" his expression said: "i am that i am. take me or leave me, but preferably leave me. i loathe fuss, pretence, flourishes--any and every form of damned nonsense." he had an excellent heart, but his attitude towards it was the attitude of his great-grandmother towards her front parlour--he used it as little as possible, and kept it locked up like a shame. in brief, he was more than a bit of a boor. and boorishness being his chief fault, he was quite naturally proud of it, counted it for the finest of all qualities, and scorned every manifestation of its opposite. to prove his inward sincerity he deemed it right to flout any form of external grace--such as politeness, neatness, elegance, compliments, small-talk, smooth words, and all ceremonial whatever. he would have died in torment sooner than kiss. he was averse even from shaking hands, and when he did shake hands he produced a carpenter's vice, crushed flesh and bone together, and flung the intruding pulp away. his hat was so heavy on his head that only by an exhausting and supreme effort could he raise it to a woman, and after the odious accident he would feel as humiliated as a fox-terrier after a bath. by the kind hazard of fate he had never once encountered his great-aunt in the street. he was superb in enmity--a true hero. he would quarrel with a fellow and say, curtly, "i'll never speak to you again"; and he never would speak to that fellow again. were the last trump to blow and all the british isles to be submerged save the summit of snowdon, and he and that fellow to find themselves alone and safe together on the peak, he could still be relied upon never to speak to that fellow again. thus would he prove that he was a man of his word and that there was no nonsense about him. strange though it may appear to the thoughtless, he was not disliked--much less ostracised. codes differ. he conformed to one which suited the instincts of some thirty thousand other adult males in the five towns. two strapping girls in the warehouse of his manufactory at knype quarrelled over him in secret as the prince charming of those parts. yet he had never addressed them except to inform them that if they didn't mind their p's and q's he would have them flung off the "bank" [manufactory]. rachel herself had not yet begun to be prejudiced against him. this monster of irascible cruelty regarded himself as a middle-aged person. but he was only twenty-five that day, and he did not look more, either, despite a stiff, strong moustache. he too, like louis and rachel, had the gestures of youth--the unconsidered, lithe movements of limb, the wistful, unteachable pride of his age, the touching self-confidence. old mrs. maldon was indeed old among them. ii she sat down in all her benevolent stateliness and with a slightly irritating deliberation undid the parcel, displaying a flattish leather case about seven inches by four, which she handed formally to julian maldon, saying as she did so-- "from your old auntie, my dear boy, with her loving wishes. you have now lived just a quarter of a century." and as julian, awkwardly grinning, fumbled with the spring-catch of the case, she was aware of having accomplished a great and noble act of surrender. she hoped the best from it. in particular, she hoped that she had saved the honour of her party and put it at last on a secure footing of urbane convivial success. for that a party of hers should fail in giving pleasure to every member of it was a menace to her legitimate pride. and so far fate had not been propitious. the money in the house had been, and was, on her mind. then the lateness of the guests had disturbed her. and then julian had aggrieved her by a piece of obstinacy very like himself. arriving straight from a train journey, he had wanted to wash. but he would not go to the specially prepared bedroom, where a perfect apparatus awaited him. no, he must needs take off his jacket in the back room and roll up his sleeves and stamp into the scullery and there splash and rub like a stableman, and wipe himself on the common rough roller-towel. he said he preferred the "sink." (offensive word! he would not even say "slop-stone," which was the proper word. he said "sink," and again "sink.") and then, when the meal finally did begin mrs. maldon's serviette and silver serviette-ring had vanished. impossible to find them! mr. batchgrew had of course horribly disarranged the table, and in the upset the serviette and ring might have fallen unnoticed into the darkness beneath the table. but no search could discover them. had the serviette and ring ever been on the table at all? had rachael perchance forgotten them? rachael was certain that she had put them on the table. she remembered casting away a soiled serviette and replacing it with a clean one in accordance with mrs. maldon's command for the high occasion. she produced the soiled serviette in proof. moreover, the ring was not in the serviette drawer of the sideboard. renewed search was equally sterile.... at one moment mrs. maldon thought that she herself had seen the serviette and ring on the table early in the evening; but at the next she thought she had not. conceivably mr. batchgrew had taken them in mistake. yes, assuredly, he had taken them in mistake--somehow! and yet it was inconceivable that he had taken a serviette and ring in mistake. in mistake for what? no!... mystery! excessively disconcerting for an old lady! in the end rachel provided another clean serviette, and the meal commenced. but mrs. maldon had not been able to "settle down" in an instant. the wise, pitying creatures in their twenties considered that it was absurd for her to worry herself about such a trifle. but was it a trifle? it was rather a denial of natural laws, a sinister miracle. serviette-rings cannot walk, nor fly, nor be annihilated. and further, she had used that serviette-ring for more than twenty years. however, the hostess in her soon triumphed over the foolish old lady, and taken the head of the board with aplomb. and indeed aplomb had been required. for the guests behaved strangely--unless it was that the hostess was in a nervous mood for fancying trouble! julian maldon was fidgety and preoccupied. and louis himself--usually a model guest--was also fidgety and preoccupied. as for rachel, the poor girl had only too obviously lost her head about louis. mrs. maldon had never seen anything like it, never! iii julian, having opened the case, disclosed twin brier pipes, silver-mounted, with alternative stems of various lengths and diverse mouthpieces--all reposing on soft couches of fawn-tinted stuff, with a crimson, silk-lined lid to serve them for canopy. a rich and costly array! everybody was impressed, even startled. for not merely was the gift extremely handsome--it was more than a gift; it symbolized the end of an epoch in those lives. mrs. maldon had been no friend of tobacco. she had lukewarmly permitted cigarettes, which louis smoked, smoking naught else. but cigars she had discouraged, and pipes she simply would not have! now, julian smoked nothing but a pipe. hence in his great-aunt's parlour he had not smoked; in effect he had been forbidden to smoke there. the theory that a pipe was vulgar had been stiffly maintained in that sacred parlour. in the light of these facts did not mrs. maldon's gift indeed shine as a great and noble act of surrender? was it not more than a gift, and entitled to stagger beholders? was it not a sublime proof that the earth revolves and the world moves? mrs. maldon was as susceptible as any one to the drama of the moment, perhaps more than any one. she thrilled and became happy as julian in silence minutely examined the pipes. she had taken expert advice before purchasing, and she was tranquil as to the ability of the pipes to withstand criticism. they bore the magic triple initials of the first firm of brier-pipe makers in the world--initials as famous and as welcome on the plains of hindustan as in the home counties or the frozen zone. she gazed round the table with increasing satisfaction. louis, who was awkwardly fixed with regard to the light, the shadow of his bust falling always across his plate, had borne that real annoyance with the most charming good-humour. he was a delight to the eye; he had excellent qualities, especially social qualities. rachel sat opposite to the hostess--an admirable girl in most ways, a splendid companion, and a sound cook. the meal had been irreproachable, and in the phrase of the _signal_ "ample justice had been done" to it. julian was on the hostess's left, with his back to the window and to the draught. a good boy, a sterling boy, if peculiar! and there they were all close together, intimate, familiar, mutually respecting; and the perfect parlour was round about them: a domestic organism, honest, dignified, worthy, more than comfortable. and she, elizabeth maldon, in her old age, was the head of it, and the fount of good things. "thank ye!" ejaculated julian, with a queer look askance at his benefactor. "thank ye, aunt!" it was all he could get out of his throat, and it was all that was expected of him. he hated to give thanks--and he hated to be thanked. the grandeur of the present flattered him. nevertheless he regarded it as essentially absurd in its pretentiousness. the pipes were a , but could a man carry about a huge contraption like that? all a man needed was an a pipe, which, if he had any sense, he would carry loose in his pocket with his pouch--and be hanged to morocco cases and silk linings! "stoke up, my hearties!" said louis, drawing forth a gun-metal cigarette-case, which was chained to his person by a kind of cable. undoubtedly the case of pipes represented for julian a triumph over louis, or, at least, justice against louis. for obvious reasons julian had not quarrelled with a rich and affectionate great-aunt because she had accorded to louis the privilege of smoking in her parlour what he preferred to smoke, while refusing a similar privilege to himself. but he had resented the distinction. and his joy in the spectacular turn of the wheel was vast. for that very reason he hid it with much care. why should he bubble over with gratitude for having been at last treated fairly? it would be pitiful to do so. leaving the case open upon the table, he pulled a pouch and an old pipe from his pocket, and began to fill the pipe. it was inexcusable, but it was like him--he had to do it. "but aren't you going to try one of the new ones?" asked mrs. maldon, amiably but uncertainly. "no," said he, with cold nonchalance. upon nobody in the world had the sweet magic of mrs. maldon's demeanour less influence than upon himself. "not now. i want to enjoy my smoke, and the first smoke out of a new pipe is never any good." it was very true, but far more wanton than true. mrs. maldon in her ignorance could not appreciate the truth, but she could appreciate its wantonness. she was wounded--silly, touchy old thing! she was wounded, and she hid the wound. rachel flushed with ire against the boor. "by the way," mrs. maldon remarked in a light, indifferent tone, just as though the glory of the moment had not been suddenly rent and shrivelled. "i didn't see your portmanteau in the back room just now, julian. has any one carried it upstairs? i didn't hear any one go upstairs." "i didn't bring one, aunt," said julian. "not bring--" "i was forgetting to tell ye. i can't sleep here to-night. i'm off to south africa to-morrow, and i've got a lot of things to fix up at my digs to-night." he lit the old pipe from a match which louis passed to him. "to south africa?" murmured mrs. maldon, aghast. and she repeated, "south africa?" to her it was an incredible distance. it was not a place--it was something on the map. perhaps she had never imaginatively realized that actual people did in fact go to south africa. "but this is the first i have heard of this!" she said. julian's extraordinary secretiveness always disturbed her. "i only got the telegram about my berth this morning," said julian, rather sullenly on the defensive. "is it business?" mrs. maldon asked. "you may depend it isn't pleasure, aunt," he answered, and shut his lips tight on the pipe. after a pause mrs. maldon tried again. "where do you sail from?" julian answered-- "southampton." there was another pause. louis and rachel exchanged a glance of sympathetic dismay at the situation. mrs. maldon then smiled with plaintive courage. "of course if you can't sleep here, you can't," said she benignly. "i can see that. but we were quite counting on having a man in the house to-night--with all these burglars about--weren't we, rachel?" her grimace became, by an effort, semi-humorous. rachel diplomatically echoed the tone of mrs. maldon, but more brightly, with a more frankly humorous smile-- "we were, indeed!" but her smile was a masterpiece of duplicity, somewhat strange in a girl so downright; for beneath it burned hotly her anger against the brute julian. "well, there it is!" julian gruffly and callously summed up the situation, staring at the inside of his teacup. "propitious moment for getting a monopoly of door-knobs at the cape, i suppose?" said louis quizzically. his cousin manufactured, among other articles, white and jet door-knobs. "no need for you to be so desperately funny!" snapped julian, who detested louis' brand of facetiousness. it was the word "propitious" that somehow annoyed him--it had a sarcastic flavour, and it was "louis all over." "no offence, old man!" louis magnanimously soothed him. "on the contrary, many happy returns of the day." in social intercourse the younger cousin's good-humour and suavity were practically indestructible. but julian still scowled. rachel, to make a tactful diversion, rose and began to collect plates. the meal was at an end, and for mrs. maldon it had closed in ignominy. from her quarter of the table she pushed crockery towards rachel with a gesture of disillusion; the courage to smile had been but momentary. she felt old--older than she had ever felt before. the young generation presented themselves to her as almost completely enigmatic. she admitted that they were foreign to her, that she could not comprehend them at all. each of the three at her table was entirely free and independent--each could and did act according to his or her whim, and none could say them nay. such freedom seemed unreal. they were children playing at life, and playing dangerously. hundreds of times, in conversation with her coevals, she had cheerfully protested against the banal complaint that the world had changed of late years. but now she felt grievously that the world was different--that it had indeed deteriorated since her young days. she was fatigued by the modes of thought of these youngsters, as a nurse or mother is fatigued by too long a spell of the shrillness and the _naïveté_ of a family of infants. she wanted repose.... was it conceivable that when, with incontestable large-mindedness, she had given a case of pipes to julian, he should first put a slight on her gift and then, brusquely leaving her in the lurch, announce his departure for south africa, with as much calm as though south africa were in the next street?... and the other two were guilty in other ways, perhaps more subtly, of treason against forlorn old age. and then louis, in taking the slop-basin from her trembling fingers, to pass it to rachel, gave her one of his adorable, candid, persuasive, sympathetic smiles. and lo! she was enheartened once more. and she remembered that dignity and kindliness had been the watchwords of her whole life, and that it would be shameful to relinquish the struggle for an ideal at the very threshold of the grave. she began to find excuses for julian. the dear lad must have many business worries. he was very young to be at the head of a manufacturing concern. he had a remarkable brain--worthy of the family. allowances must be made for him. she must not be selfish.... and assuredly that serviette and ring would reappear on the morrow. "i'll take that out," said louis, indicating the tray which rachel had drawn from concealment under the chesterfield, and which was now loaded. mrs. maldon employed an old and valued charwoman in the mornings. rachel accomplished all the rest of the housework herself, including cookery, and she accomplished it with the stylistic smartness of a self-respecting lady-help. "oh no!" said she. "i can carry it quite easily, thanks." louis insisted masculinely-- "i'll take that tray out." and he took it out, holding his head back as he marched, so that the smoke of the cigarette between his lips should not obscure his eyes. rachel followed with some oddments. behold those two away together in the seclusion of the kitchen; and mrs. maldon and julian alone in the parlour! "very fine!" muttered julian, fingering the magnificent case of pipes. now that there were fewer spectators, his tongue was looser, and he could relent. "i'm so glad you like it," mrs. maldon responded eagerly. the world was brighter to her, and she accepted julian's amiability as heaven's reward for her renewal of courage. iv "auntie-" began louis, with a certain formality. "yes?" mrs. maldon had turned her chair a little towards the fire. the two visitants to the kitchen had reappeared. rachel with a sickle-shaped tool was sedulously brushing the crumbs from the damask into a silver tray. louis had taken the poker to mend the fire. he said, nonchalantly-- "if you'd care for me to stay the night here instead of julian, i will." "well--" mrs. maldon was unprepared for this apparently quite natural and kindly suggestion. it perturbed, even frightened her by its implications. had it been planned in the kitchen between those two? she wanted to accept it; and yet another instinct in her prompted her to decline it absolutely and at once. she saw rachel flushing as the girl industriously continued her task without looking up. to mrs. maldon it seemed that those two, under the impulsion of fate, were rushing towards each other at a speed far greater than she had suspected. julian stirred on his chair, under the sharp irritation caused by louis' proposal. he despised louis as a boy of no ambition--a butterfly being who had got no farther than the adolescent will-to-live, the desire for self-indulgence, whereas he, julian, was profoundly conscious of the will-to-dominate, the hunger for influence and power. and also he was jealous of louis on various counts. louis had come to the five towns years after julian, and had almost immediately cut a figure therein; julian had never cut a figure. julian had been the sole resident great-nephew of a benevolent aunt, and louis had arrived and usurped at least half the advantages of the relationship, if not more; louis lived several miles nearer to his aunt. julian it was who, through his acquaintance with rachel's father and her masterful sinister brother, had brought her into touch with mrs. maldon. rachel was julian's creation, so far as his aunt was concerned. julian had no dislike for rachel; he had even been thinking of her favourably. but louis had, as it were, appropriated her ... from the steely conning-tower of his brows julian had caught their private glances at the table. and louis was now carrying trays for her, and hobnobbing with her in the kitchen! lastly, because julian could not pass the night in the house, louis, the interloper, had the effrontery to offer to fill his place--on some preposterous excuse about burglars! and the fellow was so polite and so persuasive, with his finicking eloquence. by virtue of a strange faculty not uncommon in human nature julian loathed louis' good manners and appearance--and acutely envied them. he burst out with scarcely controlled savagery-- "a lot of good you'd be with burglars!" the women were outraged by his really shocking rudeness. rachel bit her lip and began to fold up the cloth. mrs. maldon's head slightly trembled. louis alone maintained a perfect equanimity. it was as if he were invulnerable. "you never know!" he smiled amiably, and shrugged his shoulders. then he finished his operation on the fire. "i'm sure it's very kind and thoughtful of you, louis," said mrs. maldon, driven to acceptance by julian's monstrous behaviour. "moreover," louis urbanely continued, smoothing down his trousers with a long perpendicular caress as he usually did after any bending--"moreover, there's always my revolver." he gave a short laugh. "revolver!" exclaimed mrs. maldon, intimidated by the mere name. then she smiled, in an effort to reassure herself. "louis, you are a tease. you really shouldn't tease me." "i'm not," said louis, with that careful air of false blank casualness which he would invariably employ for his more breath-taking announcements. "i always carry a loaded revolver." the fearful word "loaded" sank into the heart of the old woman, and thrilled her. it was a fact that for some weeks past louis had been carrying a revolver. at intervals the craze for firearms seizes the fashionable youth of a provincial town, like the craze for marbles at school, and then dies away. in the present instance it had been originated by the misadventure of a dandy with an out-of-work artisan on the fringe of hanbridge. nothing could be more correct than for a man of spirit and fashion thus to arm himself in order to cow the lower orders and so cope with the threatened social revolution. "you _don't_, louis!" mrs. maldon deprecated. "i'll show you," said louis, feeling in his hip pocket. "_please_!" protested mrs. maldon, and rachel covered her face with her hands and drew back from louis' sinister gesture. "please don't _show_ it to us!" mrs. maiden's tone was one of imploring entreaty. for an instant she was just like a sentimentalist who resents and is afraid of hearing the truth. she obscurely thought that if she resolutely refused to see the revolver it would somehow cease to exist. with a loaded revolver in the house the situation seemed more dangerous and more complicated than ever. there was something absolutely terrifying in the conjuncture of a loaded revolver and a secret hoard of bank-notes. "all right! all right!" louis relented. julian cut across the scene with a gruff and final-- "i must clear out of this!" he rose. "must you?" said his aunt. she did not unduly urge him to delay, for the strain of family life was exhausting her. "i must catch the . ," said julian, looking at the clock and at his watch. herein was yet another example of the morbid reticence which so pained mrs. maldon. he must have long before determined to catch the . ; yet he had said nothing about it till the last moment! he had said nothing even about south africa until the news was forced from him. it had been arranged that he should come direct to bursley station from his commercial journey in yorkshire and derbyshire, pass the night at his aunt's house, which was conveniently near the station, and proceed refreshed to business on the morrow. a neat arrangement, well suiting the fact of his birthday! and now he had broken it in silence, without a warning, with the baldest possible explanation! his aunt, despite her real interest in him, could never extract from him a clear account of his doings and his movements. and this south african excursion was the last and worst illustration of his wilful cruel harshness to her. nevertheless, the extreme and unimaginable remoteness of south africa seemed to demand a special high formality in bidding him adieu, and she rendered it. if he would not permit her to superintend his packing (he had never even let her come to his rooms!), she could at least superintend the putting on of his overcoat. and she did. and instead of quitting him as usual at the door of the parlour, she insisted on going to the front door and opening it herself. she was on her mettle. she was majestic and magnificent. by refusing to see his ill-breeding she actually did terminate its existence. she stood at the open front door with the three young ones about her, and by the force of her ideal the front door became the portal of an embassy and julian's departure a ceremony of state. he had to shake hands all round. she raised her cheek, and he had to kiss. she said, "god bless you!" and he had to say, "thank you." as he was descending the outer steps, the pipe-case clipped under his arm, louis threw at him-- "i say, old man!" "what?" he turned round with sharp defiance beneath the light of the street-lamp. "how are you going to get to london to-morrow morning in time for the boat-train at waterloo, if you're staying at knype to-night." louis travelled little, but it was his foible to be learned in boat-trains and "connections." "a friend o' mine's motoring me to stafford at five to-morrow morning, if you want to know. i shall catch the scotch express. anything else?" "oh!" muttered louis, checked. julian clanked the gate and vanished up the street, mrs. maldon waving. "what friend? what motor?" reflected mrs. maldon sadly. "he is incorrigible with his secretiveness." "mrs. maldon," said rachel anxiously, "you look pale. is it being in this draught?" she shut the door. mrs. maldon sighed and moved away. she hesitated at the parlour door and then said-- "i must go upstairs a moment." chapter iv in the night i louis stood hesitant and slightly impatient in the parlour, alone. a dark blue cloth now covered the table, and in the centre of it was a large copper jar containing an evergreen plant. of the feast no material trace remained except a few crumbs on the floor. but the room was still pervaded by the emotional effluence of the perturbed souls who had just gone; and louis felt it, though without understanding. throughout the evening he had of course been preoccupied by the consciousness of having in his pocket bank-notes to a value unknown. several times he had sought for a suitable opportunity to disclose his exciting secret. but he had found none. in practice he could not say to his aunt, before julian and rachel: "auntie, i picked up a lot of bank-notes on the landing. you really ought to be more careful!" he could not even in any way refer to them. the dignity of mrs. maldon had intimidated him. he had decided, after julian's announcement of departure, that he would hand them over to her, simply and undramatically and with no triumphant air, as soon as he and she should for a moment be alone together. then mrs. maldon vanished upstairs. and she had not returned. rachel also had vanished. and he was waiting. he desired to examine the notes, to let his eyes luxuriously rest upon them, but he dared not take them from his pocket lest one or other of the silent-footed women might surprise him by a sudden entrance. he fingered them as they lay in their covert, and the mere feel of them, raised exquisite images in his mind; and at the same time the whole room and every object in the room was transformed into a secret witness which spied upon him, disquieted him, and warned him. but the fact that the notes were intact, that nothing irremediable had occurred, reassured him and gave him strength, so that he could defy the suspicions of those senseless surrounding objects. within the room there was no sound but the faint regular hiss of the gas and an occasional falling together of coal in the weakening fire. overhead, from his aunt's bedroom, vague movements were perceptible. then these ceased, absolutely. the tension, increasing, grew too much for him, and with a curt gesture, and a self-conscious expression between a smile and a frown, he left the parlour and stood to listen in the lobby. not for several seconds did he notice the heavy ticking of the clock, close to his ear, nor the chill draught that came under the front door. he gazed up into the obscurity at the top of the stairs. the red glow of the kitchen fire, in the distance to the right of the stairs, caught his attention at intervals. he was obsessed, almost overpowered, by the mysteriousness of the first floor. what had happened? what was happening? and suddenly an explanation swept into his brain--the obvious explanation. his aunt had missed the bank-notes and was probably at that very instant working herself into an anguish. what ought he to do? should he run up and knock at her door? he was spared a decision by the semi-miraculous appearance of rachel at the top of the stairs. she started. "oh! how you frightened me!" she exclaimed in a low voice. he answered weakly, charmingly-- "did i?" "will you please come and speak to mrs. maldon? she wants you." "in her room?" rachel nodded and disappeared before he could ask another question. with heart beating he ascended the stairs by twos. through the half-open door of the faintly lit room which he himself would occupy he could hear rachel active. and then he was at the closed door of his aunt's room. "i must be jolly careful how i do it!" he thought as he knocked. ii he was surprised, and impressed, to see mrs. maldon in bed. she lay on her back, with her striking head raised high on several pillows. nothing else of her was visible; the purple eider-down covered the whole bed without a crease. "hello, auntie!" he greeted her, instinctively modifying his voice to the soft gentleness proper to the ordered and solemn chamber. mrs. maldon, moving her head, looked at him in silence. he tiptoed to the foot of the bed and leaned on it gracefully. and as in the parlour his shadow had fallen on the table, so now, with the gas just behind him, it fell on the bed. the room was chilly and had a slight pharmaceutical odour. mrs. maldon said, with a weak effort-- "i was feeling faint, and rachel thought i'd better get straight to bed. i'm an old woman, louis." "she hasn't missed them!" he thought in a flash, and said, aloud-- "nothing of the sort, auntie." he was aware of the dim reflection of himself in the mirror of the immense victorian mahogany wardrobe to his left. mrs. maldon again hesitated before speaking. "you aren't ill, are you, auntie?" he said in a cheerful, friendly whisper. he was touched by the poignant pathos of her great age and her debility. it rent his heart to think that she had no prospect but the grave. she murmured, ignoring his question-- "i just wanted to tell you that you needn't go down home for your night things--unless you specially want to, that is. i have all that's necessary here, and i've given orders to rachel." "certainly, auntie. i won't leave the house. that's all right." no, she assuredly had not missed the notes! he was strangely uplifted. he felt almost joyous in his relief. could he tell her now as she lay in her bed? impossible! he would tell her in the morning. it would be cruel to disturb her now with such a revelation of her own negligence. he vibrated with sympathy for her, and he was proud to think that she appreciated the affectionate, comprehending, subdued intimacy of his attitude towards her as he leaned gracefully on the foot of the bed, and that she admired him. he did not know, or rather he absolutely did not realize, that she was acquainted with aught against his good fame. he forgot his sins with the insouciance of an animal. "don't stay up too late," said mrs. maldon, as it were dismissing him. "a long night will do you no harm for once in a way." she smiled. "i know you'll see that everything's locked up." he nodded soothingly, and stood upright. "you might turn the gas down, rather low." he tripped to the gas-bracket and put the room in obscurity. the light of the street lamp irradiated the pale green blinds of the two windows. "that do?" "nicely, thank you! good-night, my dear. no, i'm not ill. but you know i have these little attacks. and then bed's the best place for me." her voice seemed to expire. he crept across the wide carpet and departed with the skill of a trained nurse, and inaudibly closed the door. from the landing the whole of the rest of the house seemed to offer itself to him in the night as an enigmatic and alluring field of adventure ... should he drop the notes under the chair on the landing, where he had found them?... he could not! he could not!... he moved to the head of the stairs, past the open door of the spare bedroom, which was now dark. he stopped at the head of the stairs, and then descended. the kitchen was lighted. "are you there?" he asked. "yes," replied rachel. "may i come?" "why, of course!" her voice trembled. he went towards the other young creature in the house. the old one lay above, in a different world remote and foreign. he and rachel had the ground floor and all its nocturnal enchantment to themselves. iii mechanically, as he went into the kitchen, he drew his cigarette-case from his pocket. it was the proper gesture of a man in any minor crisis. he was not a frequenter of kitchens, and this visit, even more than the brief first one, seemed to him to be adventurous. mrs. maldon's kitchen--or rather rachel's--was small, warm (though the fire was nearly out), and agreeable to the eye. on the left wall was a deal dresser full of crockery, and on the right, under the low window, a narrow deal table. in front, opposite the door, gleamed the range, and on either side of the range were cupboards with oak-grained doors. there was a bright steel fender before the range, and then a hearth-rug on which stood an oak rocking-chair. the floor was a friendly chequer of red and black tiles. on the high mantelpiece were canisters and an alarm-clock and utensils; sundry other utensils hung on the walls, among the coloured images of sweet girls and norse-like men offered by grocers and butchers under the guise of almanacs; and cupboard doors ajar dimly disclosed other utensils still, so that the kitchen had the effect of a novel, comfortable kind of workshop; which effect was helped by the clothes-drier that hung on pulley-ropes from the ceiling, next to the gas-pendant and to a stalactite of onions. the uncurtained window, instead of showing black, gave on another interior, whitewashed, and well illuminated by the kitchen gas. this other interior had, under a previous tenant of the property, been a lean-to greenhouse, but mrs. maldon esteeming a scullery before a greenhouse, it had been modified into a scullery. there it was that julian maldon had preferred to make his toilet. one had to pass through the scullery in order to get from the kitchen into the yard. and the light of day had to pass through the imperfectly transparent glass roof of the scullery in order to reach the window of the unused room behind the parlour; and herein lay the reason why that room was unused, it being seldom much brighter than a crypt. at the table stood rachel, in her immense pinafore-apron, busy with knives and forks and spoons, and an enamel basin from which steam rose gently. louis looked upon rachel, and for the first time in his life liked an apron! it struck him as an exceedingly piquant addition to the young woman's garments. it suited her; it set off the tints of her notable hair; and it suited the kitchen. without delaying her work, rachel made the protector of the house very welcome. obviously she was in a high state of agitation. for an instant louis feared that the agitation was due to anxiety on account of mrs. maldon. "nothing serious up with the old lady, is there?" he asked, pinching the cigarette to regularize the tobacco in it. "oh, _no_!" the exclamation in its absolute sincerity dissipated every trace of his apprehension. he felt gay, calmly happy, and yet excited too. he was sure, then, that rachel's agitation was a pleasurable agitation. it was caused solely by his entrance into the kitchen, by the compliment he was paying to her kitchen! her eyes glittered; her face shone; her little movements were electric; she was intensely conscious of herself--all because he had come into her kitchen! she could not conceal--perhaps she did not wish to conceal--the joy that his near presence inspired. louis had had few adventures, very few, and this experience was exquisite and wondrous to him. it roused, not the fatuous coxcomb, nor the lothario, but that in him which was honest and high-spirited. a touch of the male's vanity, not surprising, was to be excused. "mrs. maldon," said rachel, "had an idea that it was _me_ who suggested your staying all night instead of your cousin." she raised her chin, and peered at nothing through the window as she rubbed away at a spoon. "but when?" louis demanded, moving towards the fire. it appeared to him that the conversation had taken a most interesting turn. "when?... when you brought the tray in here for me, i suppose." "and i suppose you explained to her that i had the idea all out of my own little head?" "i told her that i should never have dreamed of asking such a thing!" the susceptible and proud young creature indicated that the suggestion was one of mrs. maldon's rare social errors, and that mrs. maldon had had a narrow escape of being snubbed for it by the woman of the world now washing silver. "i'm no more afraid of burglars than you are," rachel added. "i should just like to catch a burglar here--that i should!" louis indulgently doubted the reality of this courage. he had been too hastily concluding that what rachel resented was an insinuation of undue interest in himself, whereas she now made it seem that she was objecting merely to any reflection upon her valour: which was much less exciting to him. still, he thought that both causes might have contributed to her delightful indignation. "why was she so keen about having one of us to sleep here to-night?" louis inquired. "well, i don't know that she was," answered rachel. "if you hadn't said anything--" "oh, but do you know what she said to me upstairs?" "no." "she didn't want me even to go back to my digs for my things. evidently she doesn't care for the house to be left even for half an hour." "well, of course old people are apt to get nervous, you know--especially when they're not well." "funny, isn't it?" there was perfect unanimity between them as to the irrational singularity and sad weakness of aged persons. louis remarked-- "she said you would make everything right for me upstairs." "i have done--i hope," said rachel. "thanks awfully!" one part of the table was covered with newspaper. suddenly rachel tore a strip off the newspaper, folded the strip into a spill, and, lighting it at the gas, tendered it to louis' unlit cigarette. the climax of the movement was so quick and unexpected as almost to astound louis. for he had been standing behind her, and she had not turned her head before making the spill. perhaps there was a faint reflection of himself in the window. or perhaps she had eyes in her hair. beyond doubt she was a strange, rare, angelic girl. the gesture with which she modestly offered the spill was angelic; it was divine; it was one of those phenomena which persist in a man's memory for decades. at the very instant of its happening he knew that he should never forget it. the man of fashion blushed as he inhaled the first smoke created by her fire. rachel dropped the heavenly emblem, all burning, into the ash-bin of the range, and resumed her work. louis coughed. "any law against sitting down?" he asked. "you're very welcome," she replied primly. "i didn't know i might smoke," he said. she made no answer at first, but just as louis had ceased to expect an answer, she said-- "i should think if you can smoke in the sitting-room you can smoke in the kitchen--shouldn't you?" "i should," said he. there was silence, but silence not disagreeable. louis, lolling in the chair, and slightly rocking it, watched rachel at her task. she completely immersed spoons and forks in the warm water, and then rubbed them with a brush like a large nail-brush, giving particular attention to the inside edges of the prongs of the forks; and then she laid them all wet on a thick cloth to the right of the basin. but of the knives she immersed only the blades, and took the most meticulous care that no drop of water should reach the handles. "i never knew knives and forks and things were washed like that," observed louis. "they generally aren't," said rachel. "but they ought to be. i leave all the other washing-up for the charwoman in the morning, but i wouldn't trust these to her." (the charwoman had been washing up cutlery since before rachel was born.) "they're all alike," said rachel. louis acquiesced sagely in this broad generalization as to charwomen. "why don't you wash the handles of the knives?" he queried. "it makes them come loose." "really?" "do you mean to say you didn't know that water, especially warm water with soda in it, loosens the handles?" she showed astonishment, but her gaze never left the table in front of her. "not me!" "well, i should have thought that everybody knew that. some people use a jug, and fill it up with water just high enough to cover the blades, and stick the knives in to soak. but i don't hold with that because of the steam, you see. steam's nearly as bad as water for the handles. and then some people drop the knives wholesale into a basin just for a second, to wash the handles. but i don't hold with that, either. what i say is that you can get the handles clean with the cloth you wipe them dry with. that's what i say." "and so there's soda in the water?" "a little." "well, i never knew that either! it's quite a business, it seems to me." without doubt louis' notions upon domestic work were being modified with extreme rapidity. in the suburb from which he sprang domestic work--and in particular washing up--had been regarded as base, foul, humiliating, unmentionable--as toil that any slut might perform anyhow. it would have been inconceivable to him that he should admire a girl in the very act of washing up. young ladies, even in exclusive suburban families, were sometimes forced by circumstances to wash up--of that he was aware--but they washed up in secret and in shame, and it was proper for all parties to pretend that they never had washed up. and here was rachel converting the horrid process into a dignified and impressive ritual. she made it as fine as fine needlework--so exact, so dainty, so proud were the motions of her fingers and her forearms. obviously washing up was an art, and the delicate operation could not be scamped nor hurried ... the triple pile of articles on the cloth grew slowly, but it grew; and then rachel, having taken a fresh white cloth from a hook, began to wipe, and her wiping was an art. she seemed to recognize each fork as a separate individuality, and to attend to it as to a little animal. whatever her view of charwomen, never would she have said of forks that they were all alike. louis felt in his hip pocket for his reserve cigarette-case. and rachel immediately said, with her back to him-- "have you really got a revolver, or were you teasing--just now in the parlour?" it was then that he perceived a small unframed mirror, hung at the height of her face on the broad, central, perpendicular bar of the old-fashioned window-frame. through this mirror the chit--so he named her in his mind at the instant--had been surveying him! "yes," he said, producing the second cigarette-case, "i was only teasing." he lit a fresh cigarette from the end of the previous one. "well," she said, "you did frighten mrs. maldon. i was so sorry for her." "and what about you? weren't you frightened?" "oh no! i wasn't frightened. i guessed, somehow, you were only teasing." "well, i just wasn't teasing, then!" said louis, triumphantly yet with benevolence. and he drew a revolver from his pocket. she turned her head now, and glanced neutrally at the incontestable revolver for a second. but she made no remark whatever, unless the pouting of her tightly shut lips and a mysterious smile amounted to a remark. louis adopted an indifferent tone-- "strange that the old lady should be so nervous just to-night--isn't it?--seeing these burglars have been knocking about for over a fortnight. is this the first time she's got excited about it?" "yes, i think it is," said rachel faintly, as it were submissively, with no sign of irritation against him. with their air of worldliness and mature wisdom they twittered on like a couple of sparrows--inconsequently, capriciously; and nothing that they said had the slightest originality, weight, or importance. but they both thought that their conversation was full of significance; which it was, though they could not explain it to themselves. what they happened to say did not matter in the least. if they had recited the koran to each other the inexplicable significance of their words would have been the same. rachel faced him again, leaning her hands behind her on the table, and said with the most enchanting, persuasive friendliness-- "i wasn't frightened--truly! i don't know why i looked as though i was." "you mean about the revolver--in the sitting-room?" he jumped nimbly back after her to the revolver question. "yes. because i'm quite used to revolvers, you know. my brother had one. only his was a colt--one of those long things." "your brother, eh?" "yes. did you know him?" "i can't say i did," louis replied, with some constraint. rachel said with generous enthusiasm-- "he's a wonderful shot, my brother is!" louis was curiously touched by the warmth of her reference to her brother. in the daily long monotonous column of advertisements headed succinctly "money" in the _staffordshire signal_, there once used to appear the following invitation: "we never refuse a loan to a responsible applicant. no fussy inquiries. distance no objection. reasonable terms. strictest privacy. £ to £ , . apply personally or by letter. lovelace curzon, colclough street, knype." upon a day louis had chosen that advertisement from among its rivals, and had written to lovelace curzon. but on the very next day he had come into his thousand pounds, and so had lost the advantage of business relations with lovelace curzon. lovelace curzon, as he had learnt later, was reuben fleckring, rachel's father. or, more accurately, lovelace curzon was reuben fleckring, junior, rachel's brother, a young man in a million. reuben, senior, had been for many years an entirely mediocre and ambitionless clerk in a large works where julian maldon had learnt potting, when reuben, junior (whom he blindly adored), had dragged him out of clerkship, and set him up as the nominal registered head of a money-lending firm. an amazing occurrence! at that time reuben, junior, was a minor, scarcely eighteen. yet his turn for finance had been such that he had already amassed reserves, and--without a drop of jewish blood in his veins--possessed confidence enough to compete in their own field with the acutest hebrews of the district. reuben, senior, was the youth's tool. in a few years lovelace curzon had made a mighty and terrible reputation in the world where expenditures exceed incomes. and then the subterranean news of the day--not reported in the _signal_--was that something serious had happened to lovelace curzon. and the two fleckrings went to america, the father, as usual, hypnotized by the son. and they left no wrack behind save rachel. it was at this period--only a few months previous to the opening of the present narrative--that the district had first heard aught of the womenfolk of the fleckrings. an aunt--reuben, senior's, sister, it appeared--had died several years earlier, since when rachel had alone kept house for her brother and her father. according to rumour the three had lived in the simplicity of relative poverty, utterly unvisited except by clients. no good smell of money had ever escaped from the small front room which was employed as an office into the domestic portion of the house. it was alleged that rachel had existed in perfect ignorance of all details of the business. it was also alleged that when the sudden crisis arrived, her brother had told her that she would not be taken to america, and that, briefly, she must shift for herself in the world. it was alleged further that he had given her forty-five pounds. (why forty-five pounds and not fifty, none knew.) the whole affair had begun and finished--and the house was sold up--in four days. public opinion in the street and in knype blew violently against the two reubens, but as they were on the atlantic it did not affect them. rachel, with scarcely an acquaintance in the world in which she was to shift for herself, found that she had a streetful of friends! it transpired that everybody had always divined that she was a girl of admirable efficient qualities. she behaved as though her brother and father had behaved in quite a usual and proper manner. assistance in the enterprise of shifting for herself she welcomed, but not sympathy. the devotion of the fleckring women began to form a legend. people said that rachel's aunt had been another such creature as rachel. hence the effect on louis, who, through his aunt and his cousin, was acquainted with the main facts and surmises, of rachel's glowing reference to the vanished reuben. "where did your brother practise?" he asked. "in the cellar." "of course it's easier with a long barrel." "is it?" she said incredulously. "you should see my brother's score-card the first time he shot at that new miniature rifle-range in hanbridge!" "why? is it anything special?" "well, you should see it. five bulls, all cutting into each other." "i should have liked to see that." "i've got it upstairs in my trunk," said she proudly. "i dare say i'll show you it some time." "i wish you would," he urged. such loyalty moved him deeply. louis had had no sisters, and his youthful suburban experience of other people's sisters had not fostered any belief that loyalty was an outstanding quality of sisters. like very numerous young men of the day, he had passed an unfavourable judgment upon young women. he had found them greedy for diversion, amazingly ruthless in their determination to exact the utmost possible expensiveness of pleasure in return for their casual society, hard, cruelly clever in conversation, efficient in certain directions, but hating any sustained effort, and either socially or artistically or politically snobbish. snobs all! money-worshippers all!... well, nearly all! it mattered not whether you were one of the dandies or one of the hatless or fletcherite corps that lolled on foot or on bicycles, or shot on motor-cycles, through the prim streets of the suburb--the young women would not remain in dalliance with you for the mere sake of your beautiful eyes. because they were girls they would take all that you had and more, and give you nothing but insolence or condescension in exchange. such was louis' judgment, and scores of times he had confirmed it in private saloon-lounge talk with his compeers. it had not, however, rendered the society of these unconscionable and cold female creatures distasteful to him. not a bit! he had even sought it and been ready to pay for that society in the correct manner--even to imperturbably beggaring himself of his final sixpence in order to do the honours of the latest cinema. only, he had a sense of human superiority. it certainly did not occur to him that in the victimized young men there might exist faults which complemented those of the parasitic young women. and now he contrasted these young women with rachel! and he fell into a dreamy mood of delight in her.... her gesture in lighting his cigarette! marvellous! tear-compelling!... flippancy dropped away from him.... she liked him. with the most alluring innocence, she did not conceal that she liked him. he remembered that the last time he called at his aunt's he had remarked something strange, something disturbing, in rachel's candid demeanour towards himself. he had made an impression on her! he had given her the lightning-stroke! no shadow of a doubt as to his own worthiness crossed his mind. what did cross his mind was that she was not quite of his own class. in the suburb, where "sets" are divided one from another by unscalable barriers, she could not have aspired to him. but in the kitchen, now become the most beautiful and agreeable and romantic interior that he had ever seen--in the kitchen he could somehow perceive with absolute clearness that the snobbery of caste was silly, negligible, laughable, contemptible. yes, he could perceive all that! life in the kitchen seemed ideal--life with that loyalty and that candour and that charm and that lovely seriousness! moreover, he could teach her. she had already blossomed--in a fortnight. she was blossoming. she would blossom further. odd that, when he had threatened to pull out a revolver, she, so accustomed to revolvers, should have taken a girlish alarm! that queer detail of her behaviour was extraordinarily seductive. but far beyond everything else it was the grand loyalty of her nature that drew him. he wanted to sink into it as into a bed of down. he really needed it. enveloped in that loving loyalty of a creature who gave all and demanded nothing, he felt that he could truly be his best self, that he could work marvels. his eyes were moist with righteous ardour. the cutlery reposed in a green-lined basket. she had doffed the apron and hung it behind the scullery door. with all the delicious curves of her figure newly revealed, she was reaching the alarm-clock down from the mantelpiece, and then she was winding it up. the ratchet of the wheel clacked, and the hurried ticking was loud. in the grate of the range burned one spot of gloomy red. "your bedtime, i suppose?" he murmured, rising elegantly. she smiled. she said-- "shall you lock up, or shall i?" "oh! i think i know all the tricks," he replied, and thought, "she's a pretty direct sort of girl, anyway!" iv about an hour later he went up to his room. it was a fact that everything had been made right for him. the gas burned low. he raised it, and it shone directly upon the washstand, which glittered with the ivory glaze of large earthenware, and the whiteness of towels that displayed all the creases of their folding. there was a new cake of soap in the ample soap-dish, and a new tooth-brush in a sheath of transparent paper lay on the marble. "rather complete this!" he reflected. the nail-brush--an article in which he specialized--was worn, but it was worn evenly and had cost good money. the water-bottle dazzled him; its polished clarity was truly crystalline. he could not remember ever having seen a toilet array so shining with strict cleanness. indeed, it was probable that he had never set eyes on an absolutely clean water-bottle before; the qualities associated with water-bottles in his memory were semi-opacity and spottiness. the dressing-table matched the washstand. a carriage clock in leather had been placed on the mantelpiece. in front of the mantelpiece was an old embroidered fire-screen. peeping between the screen and the grate, he saw that a fire had been scientifically laid, ready for lighting; but some bits of paper and oddments on the top of the coal showed that it was not freshly laid. the grate had a hob at one side, and on this was a small, bright tin kettle. the bed was clearly a good bed, resilient, softly garnished. on it was stretched a long, striped garment of flannel, with old-fashioned pearl buttons at neck and sleeves. an honest garment, quite surely unshrinkable! no doubt in the sixties, long before the mind of man had leaped to the fine perverse conception of the decorated pyjama, this garment had enjoyed the fullest correctness. now, after perhaps forty years in the cupboards of mrs. maldon, it seemed to recall the more excellent attributes of an already forgotten past, and to rebuke what was degenerate in the present. louis, ranging over his experiences in the disorderly and mean pretentiousness of the suburban home, and in the discomfort of various lodgings, appreciated the grave, comfortable benignity of that bedroom. its appeal to his senses was so strong that it became for him almost luxurious. the bedroom at his latest lodgings was full of boot-trees and trouser-stretchers and coat-holders, but it was a paltry thing and a grimy. he saw the daily and hourly advantages of marriage with a loving, simple woman whose house was her pride. he had a longing for solidities, certitudes, and righteousness. musing delectably, he drew aside the crimson curtain from the window and beheld the same prospect that rachel had beheld on her walk towards friendly street--the obscurity of the park, the chain of lamps down the slope of moorthorne road, and the distant fires of industry still farther beyond, towards toft end. he had hated the foul, sordid, ragged prospects and vistas of the five towns when he came new to them from london, and he had continued to hate them. they desolated him. but to-night he thought of them sympathetically. it was as if he was divining in them for the first time a recondite charm. he remembered what an old citizen named dain had said one evening at the conservative club: "people may say what they choose about bursley. i've just returned from london and i tell thee i was glad to get back. i _like_ bursley." a grotesque saying, he had thought, then. yet now he positively felt himself capable of sharing the sentiment. rachel in the kitchen, and the kitchen in town, and the town amid those scarred and smoking hillocks!... invisible phenomena! mysterious harmonies! the influence of the night solaced and uplifted him and bestowed on him new faculties of perception. at length, deciding, after characteristic procrastination, that he must really go to bed, he wound up his watch and put it on the dressing-table. his pockets had to be emptied and his clothes hung or folded. his fingers touched the notes in the left-hand outside pocket of his coat. not for one instant had the problem of the bank-notes been absent from his mind. throughout the conversation with rachel, throughout the interval between her retirement and his own, throughout his meditations in the bedroom, he had not once escaped from the obsession of the bank-notes and their problem. he knew now how the problem must be solved. there was, after all, only one solution, and it was extremely simple. he must put the notes back where he had found them, underneath the chair on the landing. if advisable, he might rediscover them in the morning and surrender them immediately. but they must not remain in his room during the night. he must not examine them--he must not look at them. he approached the door quickly, lest he might never reach the door. but he was somehow forced to halt at the wardrobe, to see if it had coat-holders. it had one coat-holder.... his hand was on the door-knob. he turned it with every species of precaution--and it complained loudly in the still night. the door opened with a terrible explosive noise of protest. he gazed into the darkness of the landing, and presently, by the light from the bedroom, could distinguish the vague boundaries of it. the chair, invisible, was on the left. he opened the door wider to the nocturnal riddle of the house. his hand clasped the notes in his pocket. no sound! he listened for the ticking of the lobby clock and could not catch it. he listened more intently. it was impossible that he should not hear the ticking of the lobby clock. was he dreaming? was he under some delusion? then it occurred to him that the lobby clock must have run down or otherwise stopped. clocks did stop.... and then his heart bounded and his flesh crept. he had heard footsteps somewhere below. or were the footsteps merely in his imagination? alone in the parlour, after rachel had gone to bed, he had spent some time in gazing at the _signal_; for there had been absolutely nothing else to do, and he could not have thought of sleep at such an early hour. it is true that, with his intense preoccupations, he had for the most part gazed uncomprehendingly at the _signal_. the tale of the latest burglaries, however, had by virtue of its intrinsic interest reached his brain through his eyes, and had impressed him, despite preoccupations. and now, as he stood in the gloom at the door of his bedroom and waited feverishly for the sound of more footsteps, it was inevitable that visions of burglars should disturb him. the probability of burglars visiting any particular house in the town was infinitely slight--his common sense told him that. but supposing--just supposing that they actually had chosen his aunt's abode for their prey!... conceivably they had learnt that mrs. maldon was to have a large sum of money under her roof. conceivably a complex plan had been carefully laid. conceivably one of the great burglaries of criminal history might be in progress. it was not impossible. no wonder that, with bank-notes loose all over the place, his shockingly negligent auntie should have special qualms concerning burglars on that night of all nights! fortunate indeed that he carried a revolver, that the revolver was loaded, and that he had some skill to use it! a dramatic surprise--his gun and the man behind it--for burglars who had no doubt counted on having to deal with a mere couple of women! he had but to remove his shoes and creep down the stairs. he felt at the revolver in his pocket. often had he pictured himself in the act of calmly triumphing over burglars or other villains. then, with no further hesitation, he silently closed the door--on the inside!... how could there be burglars in the house? the suspicion was folly. what he had heard could be naught but the nocturnal cracking and yielding of an old building at night. was it not notorious that the night was full of noises? and even if burglars had entered!... better, safer, to ignore them! they could not make off with a great deal, for the main item of prey happened to be in his own pocket. let them search for the treasure! if they had the effrontery to come searching in his bedroom, he would give them a reception! let them try! he looked at the revolver, holding it beneath the gas. could he aim it at a human being?... or--another explanation--possibly rachel, having forgotten something or having need of something, had gone downstairs for it. he had not thought of that. but what more natural? sudden toothache--a desire for laudanum--a visit to a store cupboard: such was the classic order of events. he listened, secure within the four walls of his bedroom. he smiled. he could have fancied that he heard an electric bell ring ever so faintly at a distance--in the next house, in the next world. he laughed to himself. then at length he moved again towards the door; and he paused in front of it. there were no burglars! the notion of burglars was idiotic! he must put the notes back under the chair. his whole salvation depended upon his putting the notes back under the chair on the landing!... an affair of two seconds!... with due caution he opened the door. and simultaneously, at the very selfsame instant, he most distinctly heard the click of the latch of his aunt's bedroom door, next his own! now, in a horrible quandary, trembling and perspiring, he felt completely nonplussed. he pushed his own door to, but without quite closing it, for fear of a noise; and edged away from it towards the fireplace. had his aunt wakened up, and felt a misgiving about the notes, and found that they were not where they ought to be? no further sound came though the crack of his door. in the dwelling absolute silence seemed to be established. he stood thus for an indefinite period in front of the fireplace, the brain's action apparently suspended, until his agitation was somewhat composed. and then, because he had no clear plan in his head, he put his hand into the pocket containing the notes and drew them out. and immediately he was aware of a pleasant feeling of relief, as one who, after battling against a delicious and shameful habit, yields and is glad. the beauty of the notes was eternal; no use could stale it. their intoxicating effect on him was just as powerful now as before supper. and now, as then, the mere sight of them filled him with a passionate conviction that without them he would be ruined. his tricks to destroy the suspicions of horrocleave could not possibly be successful. within twenty-four hours he might be in prison if he could not forthwith command a certain sum of money. and even possessing the money, he would still have an extremely difficult part to play. it would be necessary for him to arrive early at the works, to change notes for gold in the safe, to erase many of his pencilled false additions, to devise a postponement of his crucial scene with horrocleave, and lastly to invent a plausible explanation of the piling up of a cash reserve. if he had not been optimistic and an incurable procrastinator and a believer in luck at the last moment, he would have seen that nothing but a miracle could save him if horrocleave were indeed suspicious. happily for his peace of mind, he was incapable of looking a fact in the face. against all reason he insisted to himself that with the notes he might reach salvation. he did not trouble even to estimate the chances of the notes being traced by their numbers. such is the magic force of a weak character. but he powerfully desired not to steal the notes, or any of them. the image of rachel rose between him and his temptation. her honesty, candour, loyalty, had revealed to him the beauty of the ways of righteousness. he had been born again in her glance. he swore he would do nothing unworthy of the ideal she had unconsciously set up in him. he admitted that it was supremely essential for him to restore the notes to the spot whence he had removed them.... and yet--if he did so, and was lost? what then? for one second he saw himself in the dock at the police-court in the town hall. awful hallucination! if it became reality, what use, then, his obedience to the new ideal? better to accomplish this one act of treason to the ideal in order to be able for ever afterwards to obey it and to look rachel in the eyes! was it not so? he wanted advice, he wanted to be confirmed in his own opportunism, as a starving beggar may want food. and in the midst of all this torture of his vacillations, he was staggered and overwhelmed by the sudden noise of mrs. maldon's door brusquely opening, and of an instant loud, firm knock on his own door. the silence of the night was shattered as by an earthquake. almost mechanically he crushed the notes in his left hand--crushed them into a ball; and the knuckles of that hand turned white with the muscular tension. "are you up?" a voice demanded. it was rachel's voice. "ye-es," he answered, and held his left hand over the screen in front of the fireplace. "may i come in?" and with the word she came in. she was summarily dressed, and very pale, and her hair, more notable than ever, was down. as she entered he opened his hand and let the ball of notes drop into the littered grate. v "anything the matter?" he asked, moving away from the region of the hearth-rug. she glanced at him with a kind of mild indulgence, as if to say: "surely you don't suppose i should be wandering about in the night like this if nothing was the matter!" she replied, speaking quickly and eagerly--"i'm so glad you aren't in bed. i want you to go and fetch the doctor--at once." "auntie ill?" she gave him another glance like the first, as if to say: "_i'm_ not ill, and _you_ aren't. and mrs. maldon is the only other person in the house--" "i'll go instantly," he added in haste. "which doctor?" "yardley in park road. it's near the corner of axe street. you'll know it by the yellow gate--even if his lamp isn't lighted." "i thought old hawley up at hillport was auntie's doctor." "i believe he is, but you couldn't get up to hillport in less than half an hour, could you?" "not so serious as all that, is it?" "well, you never know. best to be on the safe side. it's not quite like one of her usual attacks. she's been upset. she actually went downstairs." "i thought i heard somebody. did you hear her, then?" "no, she rang for me afterwards. there's a little electric bell over my bed, from her room." "and i heard that too," said louis. "will you ask dr. yardley to come at once?" "i'm off," said he. "what a good thing i wasn't in bed!" "what a good thing you're here at all!" rachel murmured, suddenly smiling. he was waiting anxiously for her to leave the room again. but instead of leaving it she came to the fireplace and looked behind the screen. he trembled. "oh! that kettle _is_ there! i thought it must be!" and picked it up. then, with the kettle in one hand, she went to a large cupboard let into the wall opposite the door, and opened it. "you know park road, i suppose?" she turned to him. "yes, yes, i'm off!" he was obliged to go, surrendering the room to her. as he descended the stairs he heard her come out of the room. she was following him downstairs. "don't bang the door," she whispered. "i'll come and shut it after you." the next moment he had undone the door and was down the front steps and in the solitude of bycars lane. he ran up the street, full of the one desire to accomplish his errand and be back again in the spare bedroom alone. the notes were utterly safe where they lay, and yet--astounding events might happen. was it not a unique coincidence that on this very night and no other his aunt should fall ill, and that as a result rachel should take him unawares at the worst moment of his dilemma? and further, could it be the actual fact, as he had been wildly guessing only a few minutes earlier, that his aunt had at last missed the notes? could it be that it was this discovery which had upset her and brought on an attack?... an attack of what? he swerved at the double into park road, which was a silent desert watched over by forlorn gaslamps. he saw the yellow gate. the yellow gate clanked after him. he searched in the deep shadow of the porch for the button of the night bell, and had to strike a match in order to find it. he rang; waited and waited, rang again; waited; rang a third time, keeping his finger hard on the button. then arose and expired a flickering light in the hall of the house. "that'll do! that'll do! you needn't wear the bell out." he could hear the irritated accents through the glazed front door. a dim figure in a dressing-gown opened. "are you dr. yardley?" louis gasped between rapid breaths. "what is it?" the question was savage. with his extraordinary instinctive amiability louis smiled naturally and persuasively. "you're wanted at mrs. maldon's, bycars. awfully sorry to disturb you." "oh!" said the dressing-gown in a changed, interested tone. "mrs. maldon's! right. i'll follow you." "you'll come at once?" louis urged. "i shall come at once." the door was curtly closed. "so that's how you call a doctor in the middle of the night!" thought louis, and ran off. he had scarcely deciphered the man's face. the return, being chiefly downhill, was less exhausting. as he approached his aunt's house he saw that there was a light on the ground floor as well as in the front bedroom. the door opened as he swung the gate. the lobby gas had been lighted. rachel was waiting for him. her hair was tied up now. the girl looked wise, absurdly so. it was as though she was engaged in the act of being equal to the terrible occasion. "he's coming," said louis. "you've been frightfully quick!" said she, as if triumphantly. she appeared to glory in the crisis. he passed within as she held the door. he was frantic to rush upstairs to the fireplace in his room; but he had to seem deliberate. "and what next?" he inquired. "well, nothing. it'll be best for you to sit in your bedroom for a bit. that's the only place where there's a fire--and it's rather chilly at this time of night." "a fire?" he repeated, incredulous and yet awe-struck. "i knew you wouldn't mind," said she. "it just happened there wasn't two drops of methylated spirits left in the house, and as there was a fire laid in your room, i put a match to it. i must have hot water ready, you see. and mrs. maldon only has one of those old-fashioned gas-stoves in her bedroom--" "i see," he agreed. they mounted the steps together. the grate in his room was a mass of pleasant flames, in the midst of which gleamed the bright kettle. "how is she now?" he asked in a trance. and he felt as though it was another man in his own body who was asking. "oh! it's not very serious, i hope," said rachel, kneeling to coax the fire with a short, wiry poker. "only you never know. i'm just going in again.... she seems to lose all her vitality--that's what's apt to frighten you." the girl looked wise--absurdly, deliciously wise. the spectacle of her engaged in the high act of being equal to the occasion was exquisite. but louis had no eye for it. chapter v news of the night i the next morning, mrs. tarns, the charwoman whom rachel had expressly included in the dogma that all charwomen are alike, was cleaning the entranceway to mrs. maldon's house. she had washed and stoned the steep, uneven flight of steps leading up to the front door, and the flat space between them and the gate; and now, before finishing the step down to the footpath, she was wiping the grimy ledges of the green iron gate itself. mrs. tarns was a woman of nearly sixty, stout and--in appearance--untidy and dirty. the wet wind played with grey wisps of her hair, and with her coarse brown apron, beneath which her skirt was pinned up. human eye so seldom saw her without a coarse brown apron that, apronless, she would have almost seemed (like eve) to be unattired. it and a pail were the insignia of her vocation. she was accomplished and conscientious; she could be trusted; despite appearances, her habits were cleanly. she was also a woman of immense experience. in addition to being one of the finest exponents of the art of step-stoning and general housework that the five towns could show, she had numerous other talents. she was thoroughly accustomed to the supreme spectacles of birth and death, and could assist thereat with dignity and skill. she could turn away the wrath of rent-collectors, rate-collectors, school-inspectors, and magistrates. she was an adept in enticing an inebriated husband to leave a public-house. she could feed four children for a day on sevenpence, and rise calmly to her feet after having been knocked down by one stroke of a fist. she could go without food, sleep, and love, and yet thrive. she could give when she had nothing, and keep her heart sweet amid every contagion. lastly, she could coax extra sixpences out of a pawnbroker. she had never had a holiday, and almost never failed in her duty. her one social fault was a tendency to talk at great length about babies, corpses, and the qualities of rival soaps. all her children were married. her husband had gone in a box to a justice whose anger mrs. tam's simple tongue might not soothe. she lived alone. six half-days a week she worked about the house of mrs. maldon from eight to one o'clock, for a shilling per half-day and her breakfast. but if she chose to stay for it she could have dinner--and a good one--on condition that she washed up afterwards. she often stayed. after over forty years of incessant and manifold expert labour she was happy and content in this rich reward. a long automobile came slipping with noiseless stealth down the hill, and halted opposite the gate, in silence, for the engine had been stopped higher up. mrs. tams, intimidated by the august phenomenon, ceased to rub, and in alarm watched the great thomas batchgrew struggle unsuccessfully with the handle of the door that imprisoned him. mrs. tams was a born serf, and her nature was such that she wanted to apologize to thomas batchgrew for the naughtiness of the door. for her there was something monstrous in a personage like thomas batchgrew being balked in a desire, even for a moment, by a perverse door-catch. not that she really respected thomas batchgrew! she did not, but he was a member of the sacred governing class. the chauffeur--not john's ernest, but a professional--flashed round the front of the car and opened the door with obsequious haste. for thomas batchgrew had to be appeased. already a delay of twenty minutes--due to a defective tire and to the inexcusable absence of the spanner with which the spare wheel was manipulated--had aroused his just anger. mrs. tarns pulled the gate towards herself and, crushed behind it, curtsied to thomas batchgrew. this curtsy, the most servile of all western salutations, and now nearly unknown in five towns, consisted in a momentary shortening of the stature by six inches, and in nothing else. mrs. tams had acquired it in her native village of sneyd, where an earl held fast to that which was good, and she had never been able to quite lose it. it did far more than the celerity of the chauffeur to appease thomas batchgrew. snorting and self-conscious, and with his white whiskers flying behind him, he stepped in his two overcoats across the narrow, muddy pavement and on to mrs. tarn's virgin stonework, and with two haughty black footmarks he instantly ruined it. the tragedy produced no effect on mrs. tams. and indeed nobody in the five towns would have been moved by it. for the social convention as to porticoes enjoined, not that they should remain clean, but simply that they should show evidence of having been clean at some moment early in each day. it mattered not how dirty they were in general, provided that the religious and futile rite of stoning had been demonstrably performed during the morning. mrs. tams adroitly moved her bucket, aside, though there was plenty of room for feet even larger than those of thomas batchgrew, and then waited to be spoken to. she was not spoken to. mr. batchgrew, after hesitating and clearing his throat, proceeded up the steps, defiling them. as he did so mrs. tams screwed together all her features and clenched her hands as if in agony, and stared horribly at the open front door, which was blowing to. it seemed that she was trying to arrest the front door by sheer force of muscular contraction. she did not succeed. gently the door closed, with a firm click of its latch, in face of mr. batchgrew. "nay, nay!" muttered mrs. tarns, desolated. and mr. batchgrew, once more justly angered, raised his hand to the heavy knocker. "dunna' knock, mester! dunna' knock!" mrs. tarns implored in a whisper. "missis is asleep. miss rachel's been up aw night wi' her, seemingly, and now her's gone off in a doze like, and miss rachel's resting, too, on th' squab i' th' parlor. doctor was fetched." apparently charging mrs. tarns with responsibility for the illness, mr. batchgrew demanded severely-- "what was it?" "one o' them attacks as her has," said mrs. tarns with a meekness that admitted she could offer no defence, "only wuss!" "hurry round to th' back door and let me in." "i doubt back door's bolted on th' inside," said mrs. tarns with deep humility. "this is ridiculous," said mr. batchgrew, truly. "am i to stand here all day?" and raised his hand to the knocker. mrs. tarns with swiftness darted up the steps and inserted a large, fat, wet hand between the raised knocker and its bed. it was the sublime gesture of a martyr, and her large brown eyes gazed submissively, yet firmly, at mr. batchgrew with the look of a martyr. she had nothing to gain by the defiance of a great man, but she could not permit her honoured employer to be wakened. she was accustomed to emergencies, and to desperate deeds therein, and she did not fail now in promptly taking the right course, regardless of consequences. somewhat younger than mr. batchgrew in years, she was older in experience and in wisdom. she could do a thousand things well; mr. batchgrew could do nothing well. at that very moment she conquered, and he was beaten. yet her brown eyes and even the sturdy uplifted arm cringed to him, and asked in abasement to be forgiven for the impiety committed. from her other hand a cloth dripped foul water on to the topmost step. and then the door yielded. thomas batchgrew and mrs. tarns both abandoned the knocker. rachel, pale as a lily, stern, with dilated eyes, stood before them. and mr. batchgrew realized, as he looked at her against the dark, hushed background of the stairs, that mrs. maldon was indeed ill. mrs. tams respectfully retired down the steps. a mightier than she, the young, naïve, ignorant girl, to whom she could have taught everything save possibly the art of washing cutlery, had relieved her of responsibility. "you can't see her," said rachel in a low tone, trembling. "but--but--" thomas batchgrew spluttered, ineffectively. "d'you know i'm her trustee, miss? let me come in." rachel would not take her hand off the inner knob. there was the thin, far-off sound of an electric bell, breaking the silence of the house. it was the bell in rachel's bedroom, rung from mrs. maldon's bedroom. and at this mysterious signal from the invalid, this faint proof that the hidden sufferer had consciousness and volition, rachel started and thomas batchgrew started. "her bell!" rachel exclaimed, and fled upstairs. in the large bedroom mrs. maldon lay apparently at ease. "did they waken you?" cried rachel, distressed. "who is there, dear?" mrs. maldon asked, in a voice that had almost recovered from the weakness of the night, rachel was astounded. "mr. batchgrew." "i must see him," said the old lady. "but--" "i must see him at once," mrs. maldon repeated. "at once. kindly bring him up." and she added, in a curiously even and resigned tone, "i've lost all that money!" ii "nay," said mrs. maldon to thomas batchgrew, "i'm not going to die just yet." her voice was cheerful, even a little brisk, and she spoke with a benign smile in the tranquil accents of absolute conviction. but she did not move her head; she waited to look at thomas batchgrew until he came within her field of vision at the foot of the bed. this quiescence had a disconcerting effect, contradicting her voice. she was lying on her back, in the posture customary to her, the arms being stretched down by the sides under the bed-quilt. her features were drawn slightly askew; the skin was shiny; the eyes stared as though mrs. maldon had been a hysterical subject. it was evident that she had passed through a tremendous physical crisis. nevertheless, rachel was still astounded at the change for the better in her, wrought by sleep and the force of her obstinate vitality. the contrast between the scene which thomas batchgrew now saw and the scene which had met rachel in the night was so violent as to seem nearly incredible. not a sign of the catastrophe remained, except in mrs. maldon's face, and in some invalid gear on the dressing-table, for rachel had gradually got the room into order. she had even closed and locked the wardrobe. on answering mrs. maldon's summons in the night, rachel had found the central door of the wardrobe swinging and the sacred big drawer at the bottom of that division only half shut, and mrs. maldon in a peignoir lying near it on the floor, making queer inhuman noises, not moans, but a kind of anxious, inarticulate entreaty, and shaking her head constantly to the left--never to the right. mrs. maldon had recognized rachel, and had seemed to implore with agonized intensity her powerful assistance in some nameless and hopeless tragic dilemma. the sight--especially of the destruction of the old woman's dignity--was dreadful to such an extent that rachel did not realize its effect on herself until several hours afterwards. at the moment she called on the immense reserves of her self-confidence to meet the situation--and she met it, assisting her pride with the curious pretence, characteristic of the five towns race, that the emergency was insufficient to alarm in the slightest degree a person of sagacity and sang-froid. she had restored mrs. maldon to her bed and to some of her dignity. but the horrid symptoms were not thereby abated. the inhuman noises and the distressing, incomprehensible appeal had continued. immediately rachel's back was turned mrs. maldon had fallen out of bed. this happened three times, so that clearly the sufferer was falling out of bed under the urgency of some half-conscious purpose. rachel had soothed her. and once she had managed to say with some clearness the words, "i've been downstairs." but when rachel went back to the room from dispatching louis for the doctor, she was again on the floor. louis' absence from the house had lasted an intolerable age, but the doctor had followed closely on the messenger, and already the symptoms had become a little less acute. the doctor had diagnosed with rapidity. supervening upon her ordinary cardiac attack after supper, mrs. maldon had had, in the night, an embolus in one artery of the brain. the way in which the doctor announced the fact showed to rachel that nothing could easily have been more serious. and yet the mere naming of the affliction eased her, although she had no conception of what an embolus might be. dr. yardley had remained until four o'clock, when mrs. maldon, surprisingly convalescent, dropped off to sleep. he remarked that she might recover. at eight o'clock he had come back. mrs. maldon was awake, but had apparently no proper recollection of the events of the night, which even to rachel had begun to seem unreal, like a waning hallucination. the doctor gave orders, with optimism, and left, sufficiently reassured to allow himself to yawn. at a quarter past eight louis had departed to his own affairs, on rachel's direct suggestion. and when mrs. tams had been informed of the case so full of disturbing enigmas, while rachel and she drank tea together in the kitchen, the daily domestic movement of the house was partly resumed, from vanity, because rachel could not bear to sit idle nor to admit to herself that she had been scared to a standstill. and now mrs. maldon, in full possession of her faculties, faced thomas batchgrew for the interview which she had insisted on having. and rachel waited with an uncanny apprehension, her ears full of the mysterious and frightful phrase, "i've lost all that money." iii mrs. maldon, after a few words had passed as to her illness, used exactly the same phrase again--"i've lost all that money!" mr. batchgrew snorted, and glanced at rachel for an explanation. "yes. it's all gone," proceeded mrs. maldon with calm resignation. "but i'm too old to worry. please listen to me. we lost my serviette and ring last evening at supper. couldn't find it anywhere. and in the night it suddenly occurred to me where it was. i've remembered everything now, almost, and i'm quite sure. you know you first told me to put the money in my wardrobe. now before you said that, i had thought of putting it on the top of the cupboard to the right of the fireplace in the back room downstairs. i thought that would be a good place for it in case burglars _did_ come. no burglar would ever think of looking there." "god bless me!" mr. batchgrew muttered, scornfully protesting. "it couldn't possibly be seen, you see. however, i thought i ought to respect your wish, and so i decided i'd put part of it on the top of the cupboard, and part of it underneath a lot of linen at the bottom of the drawer in my wardrobe. that would satisfy both of us." "would it!" exclaimed mr. batchgrew, without any restraint upon his heavy, rolling voice. "well, i must have picked up the serviette and ring with the bank-notes, you see. i fear i'm absent-minded like that sometimes. i know i went out of the sitting-room with both hands full. i know both hands were occupied, because i remember when i went into the back room i didn't turn the gas up, and i pushed a chair up to the cupboard with my knee, for me to stand on. i'm certain i put some of the notes on the top of the cupboard. then i came upstairs. the window on the landing was rattling, and i put the other part of the money on the chair while i tried to fasten the window. however, i couldn't fasten it. so i left it. and then i thought i picked up the money again off the chair and came in here and hid it at the bottom of the drawer and locked the wardrobe." "you thought!" said thomas batchgrew, gazing at the aged weakling as at an insane criminal. "was this just after i left?" mrs. maldon nodded apologetically. "when i woke up the first time in the night, it struck me like a flash: had i taken the serviette and ring up with the notes? i _am_ liable to do that sort of thing. i'm an old woman--it's no use denying it." she looked plaintively at rachel, and her voice trembled. "i got up. i was bound to get up, and i turned the gas on, and there the serviette and ring were at the bottom of the drawer, but no money! i took everything out of the drawer, piece by piece, and put it back again. i simply cannot tell you how i felt! i went out to the landing with a match. there was no money there. and then i went downstairs in the dark. i never knew it to be so dark, in spite of the street-lamp. i knocked against the clock. i nearly knocked it over. i managed to light the gas in the back room. i made sure that i must have left _all_ the notes on the top of the cupboard instead of only part of them. but there was nothing there at all. nothing! then i looked all over the sitting-room floor with a candle. when i got upstairs again i didn't know what i was doing. i knew i was going to be ill, and i just managed to ring the bell for dear rachel, and the next thing i remember was i was in bed here, and rachel putting something hot to my feet--the dear child!" her eyes glistened with tears. and rachel too, as she pictured the enfeebled and despairing incarnation of dignity colliding with grandfather's clocks in the night and climbing on chairs and groping over carpets, had difficulty not to cry, and a lump rose in her throat. she was so moved by compassion that she did not at first feel the full shock of the awful disappearance of the money. mr. batchgrew, for the second time that morning unequal to a situation, turned foolishly to the wardrobe, clearing his throat and snorting. "it's on one of the sliding trays," said mrs. maldon. "what's on one of the sliding trays?" "the serviette." rachel, who was nearest, opened the wardrobe and immediately discovered the missing serviette and ring, which had the appearance of a direct dramatic proof of mrs. maldon's story. mr. batchgrew exclaimed, indignant-- "i never heard such a rigmarole in all my born days." and then, angrily to rachel, "go down and look on th' top o' th' cupboard, thee!" rachel hesitated. "i'm quite resigned," said mrs. maldon placidly. "it's a punishment on me for hardening my heart to julian last night. it's a punishment for my pride." "now, then!" mr. batchgrew glared bullyingly at rachel, who vanished. in a few moments she returned. "there's nothing at all on the top of the cupboard." "but th' money must be somewhere," said mr. batchgrew savagely. "nine hundred and sixty-five pun. and i've arranged to lend out that money again, at once! what am i to say to th' mortgagor? am i to tell him as i've lost it?... no! i never!" mrs. maldon murmured-- "nay, nay! it's no use looking at me. i thought i should never get over it in the night. but i'm quite resigned now." rachel, standing near the door, could observe both mrs. maldon and thomas batchgrew, and was regarded by neither of them. and while, in the convulsive commotion of her feelings, her sympathy for and admiration of mrs. maldon became poignant, she was thrilled by the most intense scorn and disgust for thomas batchgrew. the chief reason for her abhorrence was the old man's insensibility to the angelic submission, the touching fragility, the heavenly meekness and tranquillity, of mrs. maldon as she lay there helpless, victimized by a paralytic affliction. (rachel wanted to forget utterly the souvenir of mrs. maldon's paroxysm in the night, because it slurred the unmatched dignity of the aged creature.) another reason was the mere fact that mr. batchgrew had insisted on leaving the money in the house. who but mr. batchgrew would have had the notion of saddling poor old mrs. maldon with the custody of a vast sum of money? it was a shame; it was positively cruel! rachel was indignantly convinced that he alone ought to be made responsible for the money. and lastly, she loathed and condemned him for the reason that he was so obviously unequal to the situation. he could not handle it. he was found out. he was disproved, he did not know what to do. he could only mouth, strut, bully, and make rude noises. he could not even keep decently around him the cloak of self-importance. he stood revealed to mrs. maldon and rachel as he had sometimes stood revealed to his dead wife and to his elder children and to some of his confidential, faithful employees. he was an offence in the delicacy of the bedroom. if the rancour of rachel's judgment had been fierce enough to strike him to the floor, assuredly his years would not have saved him! and yet mrs. maldon gazed at him with submissive and apologetic gentleness! foolish saint! fancy _her_ (thought rachel) hardening her heart to julian! rachel longed to stiffen her with some backing of her own harsh common sense. and her affection for mrs. maldon grew passionate and half maternal. iv thomas batchgrew was saying-- "it beats me how anybody in their senses could pick up a serviette and put it way for a pile o' bank-notes." he scowled. "however, i'll go and see snow. i'll see what snow says. i'll get him to come up with one of his best men--dickson, perhaps." "thomas batchgrew!" cried mrs. maldon with sudden disturbing febrile excitement. "you'll do no such thing. i'll have no police prying into this affair. if you do that i shall just die right off." and her manner grew so imperious that mr. batchgrew was intimidated. "but--but--" "i'd sooner lose all the money!" said mrs. maldon, almost wildly. she blushed. and rachel also felt herself to be blushing, and was not sure whether she knew why she was blushing. an atmosphere of constraint and shame seemed to permeate the room. mr. batchgrew growled-- "the money must be in the house. the truth is, elizabeth, ye don't know no more than that bedpost where ye put it." and rachel agreed eagerly-- "of course it _must_ be in the house! i shall set to and turn everything out. everything!" "ye'd better!" said thomas batchgrew. "that will be the best thing, dear--perhaps," said mrs. maldon, indifferent, and now plainly fatigued. every one seemed determined to be convinced that the money was in the house, and to employ this conviction as a defence against horrible dim suspicions that had inexplicably emerged from the corners of the room and were creeping about like menaces. "where else should it be?" muttered batchgrew, sarcastically, after a pause, as if to say, "anybody who fancies the money isn't in the house is an utter fool." mrs. maldon had closed her eyes. there was a faint knock at the door. rachel turned instinctively to prevent a possible intruder from entering and catching sight of those dim suspicions before they could be driven back into their dark corners. then she remembered that she had asked mrs. tams to bring up some revalenta arabica food for mrs. maldon as soon as it should be ready. and she sedately opened the door. mrs. tams, with her usual serf-like diffidence, remained invisible, except for the hand holding forth the cup. but her soft voice, charged with sensational news, was heard-- "mrs. grocott's boy next door but one has just been round to th' back to tell me as there was a burglary down the lane last night." as rachel carried the food across to the bed, she could not help saying, though with feigned deference, to mr. batchgrew-- "you told us last night that there wouldn't _be_ any more burglaries, mr. batchgrew." the burning tightness round the top of her head, due to fatigue and lack of sleep, seemed somehow to brace her audacity, and to make her careless of consequences. the trustee and celebrity, though momentarily confounded, was recovering himself now. he determined to crush the pert creature whose glance had several times incommoded him. he said severely-- "what's a burglary down the lane got to with us and this here money?" "us and the money!" rachel repeated evenly. "nothing, only when i came downstairs in the night the greenhouse door was open." (the scullery was still often called the greenhouse.) "and i'd locked it myself!" a troubling silence followed, broken by mr. batchgrew's uneasy grunts as he turned away to the window, and by the clink of the spoon as rachel helped mrs. maldon to take the food. at length mr. batchgrew asked, staring through the window-- "did ye notice the dust on top o' that cupboard? was it disturbed?" hesitating an instant, rachel answered firmly, without turning her head-- "i did ... it was ... of course." mrs. maldon made no sign of interest. mr. batchgrew's boots creaked to and fro in the room. "and what's julian got to say for himself?" he asked, not addressing either woman in particular. "julian wasn't here. he didn't stay the night. louis stayed instead," answered mrs. maldon, faintly, without opening her eyes. "what? what? what's this?" "tell him, dear, how it was," said mrs. maldon, still more faintly. rachel obeyed, in agitated, uneven tones. chapter vi theories of the theft i the inspiring and agreeable image of rachel floated above vast contending forces of ideas in the mind of louis fores as he bent over his petty-cash book amid the dust of the vile inner office at horrocleave's; and their altercation was sharpened by the fact that louis had not had enough sleep. he had had a great deal more sleep than rachel, but he had not had what he was in the habit of calling his "whack" of it. although never in a hurry to go to bed, he appreciated as well as any doctor the importance of sleep in the economy of the human frame, and his weekly average of repose was high; he was an expert sleeper. he thirsted after righteousness, and the petty-cash book was permeated through and through with unrighteousness; and it was his handiwork. of course, under the unconscious influence of rachel, seen in her kitchen and seen also in various other striking aspects during the exciting night, he might have bravely exposed the iniquity of the petty-cash book to jim horrocleave, and cleared his conscience, and then gone and confessed to rachel, and thus prepared the way for the inner peace and a new life. he would have suffered--there was indeed a possibility of very severe suffering--but he would have been a free man--yes, free even if in prison, and he would have followed the fine tradition of rectitude, exhorting the respect and admiration of all true souls, etc. he had read authentic records of similar deeds. what stopped him from carrying out the programme of honesty was his powerful worldly common sense. despite what he had read, and despite the inspiring image of rachel, his common sense soon convinced him that confession would be an error of judgment and quite unremunerative for, at any rate, very many years. hence he abandoned regretfully the notion of confession, as a beautifully impossible dream. but righteousness was not thereby entirely denied to him; his thirst for it could still be assuaged by the device of an oath to repay secretly to horrocleave every penny that he had stolen from horrocleave, which oath he took--and felt better and worthier of rachel. he might, perhaps, have inclined more effectually towards confession had not the petty-cash book appeared to him in the morning light as an admirably convincing piece of work. it had the most innocent air, and was markedly superior to his recollection of it. on many pages he himself could scarcely detect his own traces. he began to feel that he could rely pretty strongly on the cleverness of the petty-cash book. only four blank pages remained in it. a few days more and it would be filled up, finished, labelled with a gummed white label showing its number and the dates of its first and last entries, shelved and forgotten. a pity that horrocleave's suspicions had not been delayed for another month or so, for then the book might have been mislaid, lost, or even consumed in a conflagration! but never mind! a certain amount of ill luck fell to every man, and he would trust to his excellent handicraft in the petty-cash book. it was his only hope in the world, now that the mysterious and heavenly bank-notes were gone. his attitude towards the bank-notes was, quite naturally, illogical and self-contradictory. while the bank-notes were in his pocket he had in the end seen three things with clearness. first, the wickedness of appropriating them. second, the danger of appropriating them--having regard to the prevalent habit of keeping the numbers of bank-notes. third, the wild madness of attempting to utilize them in order to replace the stolen petty cash, for by no ingenuity could the presence of a hoard of over seventy pounds in the petty-cash box have been explained. he had perfectly grasped all that; and yet, the notes having vanished, he felt forlorn, alone, as one who has lost his best friend--a prop and firm succour in a universe of quicksands. in the matter of the burning of the notes his conscience did not accuse him. on the contrary, he emerged blameless from the episode. it was not he who first had so carelessly left the notes lying about. he had not searched for them, he had not purloined them. they had been positively thrust upon him. his intention in assuming charge of them for a brief space was to teach some negligent person a lesson. during the evening fate had given him no opportunity to produce them. and when in the night, with honesty unimpeachable, he had decided to restore them to the landing, fate had intervened once more. at each step of the affair he had acted for the best in difficult circumstances. persons so ill-advised as to drop bank-notes under chairs must accept all the consequences of their act. who could have foreseen that while he was engaged on the philanthropic errand of fetching a doctor for an aged lady rachel would light a fire under the notes?... no, not merely was he without sin in the matter of the bank-notes, he was rather an ill-used person, a martyr deserving of sympathy. and, further, he did not regret the notes; he was glad they were gone. they could no longer tempt him now, and their disappearance would remain a mystery for ever. so far as they were concerned, he could look his aunt or anybody else in the face without a tremor. the mere destruction of the immense, undetermined sum of money did not seriously ruffle him. as an ex-bank clerk he was aware that though an individual would lose, the state, through the bank of england, would correspondingly gain, and thus for the nonce he had the large sensation of a patriot. ii axon, the factotum of the counting-house, came in from the outer office, with a mien composed of mirth and apprehension in about equal parts. if axon happened to be a subject of a conversation and there was any uncertainty as to which axon out of a thousand axons he might be, the introducer of the subject would always say, "you know--sandy-haired fellow." this described him--hair, beard, moustache. sandy-haired men have no age until they are fifty-five, and axon was not fifty-five. he was a pigeon-flyer by choice, and a clerk in order that he might be a pigeon-flyer. his fault was that, with no moral right whatever to do so, he would treat louis fores as a business equal in the office and as a social equal in the street. he sprang upon louis now as one grinning valet might spring upon another, enormous with news, and whispered-- "i say, guv'nor's put his foot through them steps from painting-shop and sprained his ankle. look out for ructions, eh? thank the lord it's a half-day!" and then whipped back to his own room. on any ordinary saturday morning louis by a fine frigidity would have tried to show to the obtuse axon that he resented such demeanour towards himself on the part of an axon, assuming as it did that the art-director of the works was one of the servile crew that scuttled about in terror if the ferocious horrocleave happened to sneeze. but to-day the mere sudden information that horrocleave was on the works gave him an unpleasant start and seriously impaired his presence of mind. he had not been aware of horrocleave's arrival. he had been expecting to hear horrocleave's step and voice, and the rustle of him hanging up his mackintosh outside (horrocleave always wore a mackintosh instead of an overcoat), and all the general introductory sounds of his advent, before he finally came into the inner room. but, now, for aught louis knew, horrocleave might already have been in the inner room, before louis. he was upset. the enemy was not attacking him in the proper and usual way. and the next instant, ere he could collect and reorganize his forces, he was paralysed by the footfall of horrocleave, limping, and the bang of a door. and louis thought-- "he's in the outer office. he's only got to take his mackintosh off, and then i shall see his head coming through this door, and perhaps he'll ask me for the petty-cash book right off." but horrocleave did not even pause to remove his mackintosh. in defiance of immemorial habit, being himself considerably excited and confused, he stalked straight in, half hopping, and sat down in his frowsy chair at his frowsy desk, with his cap at the back of his head. he was a spare man, of medium height, with a thin, shrewd face and a constant look of hard, fierce determination. and there was louis staring like a fool at the open page of the petty-cash book, incriminating himself every instant. "hello!" said louis, without looking round. "what's up?" "what's up?" horrocleave scowled. "what d'ye mean?" "i thought you were limping just the least bit in the world," said louis, whose tact was instinctive and indestructible. "oh, _that_!" said horrocleave, as though nothing was farther from his mind than the peculiarity of his gait that morning. he bit his lip. "slipped over something?" louis suggested. "aye!" said horrocleave, somewhat less ominously, and began to open his letters. louis saw that he had done well to feign ignorance of the sprain and to assume that horrocleave had slipped, whereas in fact horrocleave had put his foot through a piece of rotten wood. everybody in the works, upon pain of death, would have to pretend that the employer had merely slipped, and that the consequences were negligible. horrocleave had already nearly eaten an old man alive for the sin of asking whether he had hurt himself! and he had not hurt himself because two days previously he had ferociously stopped the odd-man of the works from wasting his time in mending just that identical stair, and had asserted that the stair was in excellent condition. horrocleave, though napoleonic by disposition, had a provincial mind, even a five towns mind. he regarded as sheer loss any expenditure on repairs or renewals or the processes of cleansing. his theory was that everything would "do" indefinitely. he passed much of his time in making things "do." his confidence in the theory that things could indeed be made to "do" was usually justified, but the steps from the painting-shop--a gimcrack ladder with hand-rail, attached somehow externally to a wall--had at length betrayed it. that the accident had happened to himself, and not to a lad balancing a plankful of art-lustre ware on one shoulder, was sheer luck. and now the odd-man, with the surreptitious air of one engaged in a nefarious act, was putting a new tread on the stairs. thus devoutly are the napoleonic served! horrocleave seemed to weary of his correspondence. "by the by," he said in a strange tone, "let's have a look at that petty-cash book." louis rose, and with all his charm, with all the elegance of a man intended by nature for wealth and fashion instead of a slave on a foul pot-bank, gave up the book. it was like giving up hope to the last vestige, like giving up the ghost. he saw with horrible clearness that he had been deceiving himself, that horrocleave's ruthless eye could not fail to discern at the first glance all his neat dodges, such as additions of ten to the shillings, and even to the pounds here and there, and ingenious errors in carrying forward totals from the bottom of one page to the top of the next. he began to speculate whether horrocleave would be content merely to fling him out of the office, or whether he would prosecute. prosecution seemed much more in accordance with the napoleonic temperament, and yet louis could not, then, conceive himself the victim of a prosecution.... anybody else, but not louis fores! horrocleave, his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and began to examine the book. suddenly he looked up at louis, who could not move and could not cease from agreeably smiling. said horrocleave in a still more peculiar tone-- "just ask axon whether he means to go fetch wages to-day or to-morrow. has he forgotten it's saturday morning?" louis shot away into the outer office, where axon was just putting on his hat to go to the bank. alone in the outer office louis wondered. the whole of his vitality was absorbed in the single function of wondering. then through the thin slit of the half-open door between the top and the middle hinges, he beheld horrocleave bending in judgment over the book. and he gazed at the vision in the fascination of horror. in a few moments horrocleave leaned back, and louis saw that his face had turned paler. it went almost white. horrocleave was breathing strangely, his arms dropped downward, his body slipped to one side, his cap fell off, his eyes shut, his mouth opened, his head sank loosely over the back of the chair like the head of a corpse. he had fainted. the thought passed through louis' mind that stupefaction at the complex unrighteousness of the petty-cash records had caused horrocleave to lose consciousness. then the true explanation occurred to him. it was the pain in his ankle that had overcome the heroic sufferer. louis had desired to go to his aid, but he could not budge from his post. presently the colour began slowly to return to horrocleave's cheek; his eyes opened; he looked round sleepily and then wildly; and then he rubbed his eyes and yawned. he remained quiescent for several minutes, while a railway lorry thundered through the archway and the hoofs of the great horse crunched on shawds in the yard. then he called, in a subdued voice-- "louis! where the devil are ye?" louis re-entered the room, and as he did so horrocleave shut the petty-cash book with an abrupt gesture. "here, take it!" said he, pushing the book away. "is it all right?" louis asked. horrocleave nodded. "well, i've checked about forty additions." and he smiled sardonically. "i think you might do it a bit oftener," said louis, and then went on: "i say, don't you think it might be a good thing if you took your boot off. you never know, when you've slipped, whether it won't swell--i mean the ankle." "bosh!" exclaimed horrocleave, with precipitation, but after an instant added thoughtfully: "well, i dun'no'. wouldn't do any harm, would it? i say--get me some water, will you? i don't know how it is, but i'm as thirsty as a dog." the heroic martyr to the affirmation that he had not hurt himself had handsomely saved his honour. he could afford to relax a little now the rigour of consistency in conduct. with twinges and yawns he permitted louis to help him with the boot and to put an art-lustre cup to his lips. louis was in the highest spirits. he had seen the gates of the inferno, and was now snatched up to paradise. he knew that horrocleave had never more than half suspected him, and that the terrible horrocleave pride would prevent horrocleave from asking for the book again. henceforth, saved by a miracle, he could live in utter rectitude; he could respond freely to the inspiring influence of rachel, and he would do so. he smiled at his previous fears, and was convinced, by no means for the first time, that a providence watched over him because of his good intentions and his nice disposition--that nothing really serious could ever occur to louis fores. he reflected happily that in a few days he would begin a new petty-cash book--and he envisaged it as a symbol of his new life. the future smiled. he made sure that his aunt maldon was dying, and though he liked her very much and would regret her demise, he could not be expected to be blind to the fact that a proportion of her riches would devolve on himself. indeed, in unluckily causing a loss of money to his aunt maldon he had in reality only been robbing himself. so that there was no need for any kind of remorse. when the works closed for the week-end, he walked almost serenely up to bycars for news--news less of his aunt's condition than of the discovery that a certain roll of bank-notes had been mislaid. iii the front door was open when louis arrived at mrs. maldon's house, and he walked in. anybody might have walked in. there was nothing unusual in this; it was not a sign that the mistress of the house was ill in bed and its guardianship therefore disorganized. the front doors of bursley--even the most select--were constantly ajar and the fresh wind from off the pot-bank was constantly blowing through those exposed halls and up those staircases. for the demon of public inquisitiveness is understood in the five towns to be a nocturnal demon. the fear of it begins only at dusk. a woman who in the evening protects her parlour like her honour, will, while the sun is above the horizon, show the sacred secrets of the kitchen itself to any one who chooses to stand on the front step. louis put his hat and stick on the oak chest, and with a careless, elegant gesture brushed back his dark hair. the door of the parlour was slightly ajar. he pushed it gently open, and peeped round it with a pleasant arch expression, on the chance of there being some one within. rachel was lying on the chesterfield. her left cheek, resting on her left hand, was embedded in the large cushion. a large coil of her tawny hair, displaced, had spread loosely over the dark green of the sofa. the left foot hung limp over the edge of the sofa; the jutting angle of the right knee divided sharply the drapery of her petticoat into two systems, and her right shoe with its steel buckle pressed against the yielding back of the chesterfield. the right arm lay lissom like a snake across her breast. all her muscles were lax, and every full curve of her body tended downward in response to the negligent pose. her eyes were shut, her face flushed; and her chest heaved with the slow regularity of her deep, unconscious breathing. louis as he gazed was enchanted. this was not miss fleckring, the companion and household help of mrs. maldon, but a nymph, a fay, the universal symbol of his highest desire.... he would have been happy to kiss the glinting steel buckle, so feminine, so provocative, so coy. the tight rounded line of the waist, every bend of the fingers, the fall of the eye-lashes--all were exquisite and precious to him after the harsh, unsatisfying, desolating masculinity of horrocleave's. this was the divine reward of horrocleave's, the sole reason of horrocleave's. horrocleave's only existed in order that this might exist and be maintained amid cushions and the softness of calm and sequestered interiors, waiting for ever in acquiescence for the arrival of manful doers from horrocleave's. the magnificent pride of male youth animated louis. he had not a care in the world. even his long-unpaid tailor's bill was magically abolished. he was an embodiment of exulting hope and fine aspirations. rachel stirred, dimly aware of the invasion. and louis, actuated by the most delicate regard for her sensitive modesty, vanished back for a moment into the hall, until she should have fitted herself for his beholding. mrs. tams had come from somewhere into the hall. she was munching a square of bread and cold bacon, and she curtsied, exclaiming-- "it's never mester fores! that's twice her's been woke up this day!" "who's there?" rachel called out, and her voice had the breaking, bewildered softness of a woman's in the dark, emerging from a dream. "sorry! sorry!" said louis, behind the door. "it's all right," she reassured him. he returned to the room. she was sitting upright on the sofa, her arms a little extended and the tips of her fingers touching the sofa. the coil of her hair had been arranged. the romance of the exciting night still clung to her, for louis; but what chiefly seduced him was the mingling in her mien of soft confusion and candid, sturdy honesty and dependableness. he felt that here was not only a ravishing charm, but a source of moral strength from which he could draw inexhaustibly that which he had had a slight suspicion he lacked. he felt that here was joy and salvation united, and it seemed too good to be true. strange that when she greeted him at the door-step on the previous evening, he had imagined that she was revealing herself to him for the first time; and again later, in the kitchen, he had imagined that she was revealing herself to him for the first time; and again, still later, in the sudden crisis at his bedroom door, he had imagined that she was revealing herself to him for the first time. for now he perceived that he had never really seen her before; and he was astounded and awed. "auntie still on the up-grade?" he inquired, using all his own charm. he guessed, of course, that mrs. maldon must be still better, and he was very glad, although, if she recovered, it would be she and not himself that he had deprived of bank-notes. "oh yes, she's better," said rachel, not moving from the sofa; "but have you heard what's happened?" in spite of himself he trembled, awaiting the disclosure. "now for the bank-notes!" he reflected, bracing his nerves. he shook his head. she told him what had happened; she told him at length, quickening her speech as she proceeded. and for a few moments it was as if he was being engulfed by an enormous wave, and would drown. but the next instant he recollected that he was on dry land, safe, high beyond the reach of any catastrophe. his position was utterly secure. the past was past; the leaf was turned. he had but to forget, and he was confident of his ability to forget. the compartments of his mind were innumerable, and as separate as the dungeons of a mediaeval prison. "isn't it awful?" she murmured. "well, it is rather awful!" "nine hundred and sixty-five pounds! fancy it!" the wave approached him again as she named the sum. nevertheless, he never once outwardly blenched. as he had definitely put away unrighteousness, so his face showed no sign of guilt. like many ingenuous-minded persons, he had in a high degree the faculty of appearing innocent--except when he really was innocent. "if you ask me," said rachel, "she never took any of the notes upstairs at all; she left them all somewhere downstairs and only took the serviette upstairs." "yes," he agreed thoughtfully, wondering whether on the other hand, mrs. maldon had not taken all the notes upstairs, and left none of them downstairs. was it possible that in that small roll, in that crushed ball that he had dropped into the grate, there was nearly a thousand pounds--the equivalent of an income of a pound a week for ever and ever?... never mind! the incident, so far as he was concerned, was closed. the dogma of his future life would be that the bank-notes had never existed. "and i've looked _ev_'rywhere!" rachel insisted with strong emphasis. louis remarked, thoughtfully, as though a new aspect of the affair was presenting itself to him-- "it's really rather serious, you know!" "i should just say it was--as much money as that!" "i mean," said louis, "for everybody. that is to say, julian and me. we're involved." "how can you be involved? you didn't even know it was in the house." "no. but the old lady might have dropped it. i might have picked it up. julian might have picked it up. who's to prove--" she cut in coldly-- "please don't talk like that!" he smiled with momentary constraint. he said to himself-- "it won't do to talk to this kind of girl like that. she won't stand it.... why, she wouldn't even _dream_ of suspicion falling on herself--wouldn't dream of it." after a silence he began-- "well--" and made a gesture to imply that the enigma baffled him. "i give it up!" breathed rachel intimately. "i fairly give it up!" "and of course that was the cause of her attack?" he said suddenly, as if the idea had just occurred to him. rachel nodded--"evidently." "well," said he, "i'll look in again during the afternoon. i must be getting along for my grub." he was hoping that he had not unintentionally brought about his aunt's death. "not had your dinner!" she cried. "why! it's after half-past two!" "oh, well, you know ... saturday...." "i shall get you a bit of dinner here," she said. "and then perhaps mrs. maldon will be waking up. yes," she repeated, positively, "i shall get you a bit of dinner here, myself. mrs. maldon would not be at all pleased if i didn't." "i'm frightfully hungry," he admitted. and he was. when she had left the parlour he perceived evidences here and there that she had been hunting up hill and down dale for the notes; and he went into the back room with an earnest, examining air, as though he might find part of the missing hoard, after all, in some niche overlooked by rachel. he would have preferred to think that mrs. maldon had not taken the whole of the money upstairs, but reflection did much to convince him that she had. it was infinitely regrettable that he had not counted his treasure-trove under the chair. iv the service of his meal, which had the charm of a picnic, was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, whose report on the invalid, however, was so favourable that louis could quite dismiss the possibly homicidal aspect of his dealings with the bank-notes. the shock of the complete disappearance of the vast sum had perhaps brought mrs. maldon to the brink of death, but she had edged safely away again, in accordance with her own calm prophecy that very morning. when the doctor had gone, and the patient was indulged in her desire to be left alone for sleep, louis very slowly and luxuriously finished his repast, with rachel sitting opposite to him, in mrs. maldon's place, at the dining-table. he lit a cigarette and, gracefully leaning his elbows on the table, gazed at her through the beautiful grey smoke-veil, which was like the clouds of paradise. what thrilled louis was the obvious fact that he fascinated her. she was transformed under his glance. how her eyes shone! how her cheek flushed and paled! what passionate vitality found vent in her little gestures! but in the midst of this transformation her honesty, her loyalty, her exquisite ingenuousness, her superb dependability remained. she was no light creature, no flirt nor seeker after dubious sensations. he felt that at last he was appreciated by one whose appreciation was tremendously worth having. he was confirmed in that private opinion of himself that no mistakes hitherto made in his career had been able to destroy. he felt happy and confident as never before. luck, of course; but luck deserved! he could marry this unique creature and be idolized and cherished for the rest of his life. in an instant, from being a scorner of conjugal domesticity, he became a scorner of the bachelor's existence, with its immeasurable secret ennui hidden beneath the jaunty cloak of a specious freedom--freedom to be bored, freedom to fret, and long and envy, freedom to eat ashes and masticate dust! he would marry her. yes, he was saved, because he was loved. and he meant to be worthy of his regenerate destiny. all the best part of his character came to the surface and showed in his face. but he did not ask his heart whether he was or was not in love with rachel. the point did not present itself. he certainly never doubted that he was seeing her with a quite normal vision. their talk went through and through the enormous topic of the night and day, arriving at no conclusion whatever, except that there was no conclusion--not even a theory of a conclusion. (and the louis who now discussed the case was an innocent, reborn louis, quite unconnected with the louis of the previous evening; he knew no more of the inwardness of the affair than rachel did. of such singular feats of doubling the personality is the self-deceiving mind capable.) after a time it became implicit in the tone of their conversation that the mysterious disappearance in a small, ordinary house of even so colossal a sum as nine hundred and sixty-five pounds did not mean the end of the world. that is to say, they grew accustomed to the situation. louis, indeed, permitted himself to suggest, as a man of the large, still-existing world, that rachel should guard against over-estimating the importance of the sum. true, as he had several times reflected, it did represent an income of about a pound a week! but, after all, what was a pound a week, viewed in a proper perspective?... louis somehow glided from the enormous topic to the topic of the newest cinema--rachel had never seen a cinema, except a very primitive one, years earlier--and old batchgrew was mentioned, he being notoriously a cinema magnate. "i cannot stand that man," said rachel with a candour that showed to what intimacy their talk had developed. louis was delighted by the explosion, and they both fell violently upon thomas batchgrew and found intense pleasure in destroying him. and louis was saying to himself, enthusiastically, "how well she understands human nature!" so that when old batchgrew, without any warning or preliminary sound, stalked pompously into the room their young confusion was excessive. they felt themselves suddenly in the presence of not merely a personal adversary, but of an enemy of youth and of love and of joy--of a being mysterious and malevolent who neither would nor could comprehend them. and they were at once resentful and intimidated. during the morning councillor batchgrew had provided himself--doubtless by purchase, since he had not been home--with a dandiacal spotted white waistcoat in honour of the warm and sunny weather. this waistcoat by its sprightly unsuitability to his aged uncouthness, somehow intensified the sinister quality of his appearance. "found it?" he demanded tersely. rachel, strangely at a loss, hesitated and glanced at louis as if for succour. "no, i haven't, mr. batchgrew," she said. "i haven't, i'm sure. and i've turned over every possible thing likely or unlikely." mr. batchgrew growled-- "from th' look of ye i made sure that th' money had turned up all right--ye were that comfortable and cosy! who'd guess as nigh on a thousand pound's missing out of this house since last night!" the heavy voice rolled over them brutally. louis attempted to withstand mr. batchgrew's glare, but failed. he was sure of the absolute impregnability of his own position; but the clear memory of at least one humiliating and disastrous interview with thomas batchgrew in the past robbed louis' eye of its composure. the circumstances under which he had left the councillor's employ some years ago were historic and unforgettable. "i came in back way instead of front way," said thomas batchgrew, "because i thought i'd have a look at that scullery door. kitchen's empty." "what about the scullery door?" louis lightly demanded. rachel murmured-- "i forgot to tell you; it was open when i came down in the middle of the night." and then she added: "wide open." "upon my soul!" said louis slowly, with marked constraint. "i really forget whether i looked at that door before i went to bed. i know i looked at all the others." "i'd looked at it, anyway," said rachel defiantly, gazing at the table. "and when you found it open, miss," pursued thomas batchgrew, "what did ye do?" "i shut it and locked it." "where was the key?" "in the door." "lock in order?" "yes." "well, then, how could it have been opened from the outside? there isn't a mark on the door, outside _or_ in." "as far as that goes, mr. batchgrew," said rachel, "only last week the key fell out of the lock on the inside and slid down the brick floor to the outside--you know there's a slope. and i had to go out of the house by the front and the lamplighter climbed over the back gate for me and let me into the yard so that i could get the key again. that might have happened last night. some one might have shaken the key out, and pulled it under the door with a bit of wire or something." "that won't do," thomas batchgrew stopped her. "you said the key was in the door on the inside." "well, when they'd once opened the door from the outside, couldn't they have put the key on the inside again?" "they? who?" "burglars." thomas batchgrew repeated sarcastically-- "burglars! burglars!" and snorted. "well, mr. batchgrew, either burglars must have been at work," said louis, who was fascinated by rachel's surprising news and equally surprising theory--"either burglars must have been at work," he repeated impressively, "_or_--the money is still in the house. that's evident." "is it?" snarled batchgrew. "look here, miss, and you, young fores, i didn't make much o' this this morning, because i thought th' money 'ud happen be found. but seeing as it isn't, and _as_ we're talking about it, what time was the rumpus last night?" "what time?" rachel muttered. "what time was it, mr. fores?" "i dun'no'," said louis. "perhaps the doctor would know." "oh!" said rachel, "mrs. tams said the hall clock had stopped; that must have been when mrs. maldon knocked up against it." she went to the parlour door and opened it, displaying the hall clock, which showed twenty-five minutes past twelve. louis had crept up behind mr. batchgrew, who in his inapposite white waistcoat stood between the two lovers, stertorous with vague anathema. "so that was the time," said he. "and th' burglars must ha' been and gone afore that. a likely thing burglars coming at twelve o'clock at night, isn't it? and i'll tell ye summat else. them burglars was copped last night at knype at eleven o'clock when th' pubs closed, if ye want to know--the whole gang of three on 'em." "then what about that burglary last night down the lane?" rachel asked sharply. "oh!" exclaimed louis. "was there a burglary down the lane last night? i didn't know that." "no, there wasn't," said batchgrew ruthlessly. "that burglary was a practical joke, and it's all over the town. denry machin had a hand in that affair, and by now i dare say he wishes he hadn't." "still, mr. batchgrew," louis argued superiorly, with the philosophic impartiality of a man well accustomed to the calm unravelling of crime, "there may be other burglars in the land beside just those three." he would not willingly allow the theory of burglars to crumble. its attractiveness increased every moment. "there may and there mayn't, young fores," said thomas batchgrew. "did _you_ hear anything of 'em?" "no, i didn't," louis replied restively. "and yet you ought to have been listening out for 'em." "why ought i to have been listening out for them?" "knowing there was all that money in th' house." "mr. fores didn't know," said rachel. louis felt himself unjustly smirched. "it's scarcely an hour ago," said he, "that i heard about this money for the first time." and he felt as innocent and aggrieved as he looked. mr. batchgrew smacked his lips loudly. "then," he announced, "i'm going down to th' police-station, to put it i' snow's hands." rachel straightened herself. "but surely not without telling mrs. maldon?" mr. batchgrew fingered his immense whiskers. "is she better?" he inquired threateningly. this was his first sign of interest in mrs. maldon's condition. "oh, yes; much. she's going on very well. the doctor's just been." "is she asleep?" "she's resting. she may be asleep." "did ye tell her ye hadn't found her money?" "yes." "what did she say?" "she didn't say anything." "it might be municipal money, for all she seems to care!" remarked thomas batchgrew, with a short, bitter grin. "well, i'll be moving to th' police-station. i've never come across aught like this before, and i'm going to get to the bottom of it." rachel slipped out of the door into the hall. "please wait a moment, mr. batchgrew," she whispered timidly. "what for?" "till i've told mrs. maldon." "but if her's asleep?" "i must waken her. i couldn't think of letting you go to the police-station without letting her know--after what she said this morning." rachel waited. mr. batchgrew glanced aside. "here! come here!" said mr. batchgrew in a different tone. the fact was that, put to the proof, he dared not, for all his autocratic habit, openly disobey the injunction of the benignant, indifferent, helpless mrs. maldon. "come here!" he repeated coarsely. rachel obeyed, shamefaced despite herself. batchgrew shut the door. "now," he said grimly, "what's your secret? out with it. i know you and her's got a secret. what is it?" rachel sat down on the sofa, hid her face in her hands, and startled both men by a sob. she wept with violence. and then through her tears, and half looking up, she cried out passionately: "it's all your fault. why did you leave the money in the house at all? you know you'd no right to do it, mr. batchgrew!" the councillor was shaken out of his dignity by the incredible impudence of this indictment from a chit like rachel. similar experiences, however, had happened to him before; for, though as a rule people most curiously conspired with him to keep up the fiction that he was sacred, at rare intervals somebody's self-control would break down, and bitter, inconvenient home truths would resound in the ear of thomas batchgrew. but he would recover himself in a few moments, and usually some diversion would occur to save him--he was nearly always lucky. a diversion occurred now, of the least expected kind. the cajoling tones of mrs. tams were heard on the staircase. "nay, ma'am! nay, ma'am! this'll never do. must i go on my bended knees to ye?" and then the firm but soft voice of mrs. maldon-- "i must speak to mr. batchgrew. i must have mr. batchgrew here at once. didn't you hear me call and call to you?" "that i didn't, ma'am! i was beating the feather bed in the back bedroom. nay, not a step lower do you go, ma'am, not if i lose me job for it." thomas batchgrew and louis were already out in the hall. half-way down the stairs stood mrs. maldon, supporting herself by the banisters and being supported by mrs. tams. she was wearing her pink peignoir with white frills at the neck and wrists. her black hair was loose on her shoulders like the hair of a young girl. her pallid and heavily seamed features with the deep shining eyes trembled gently, as if in response to a distant vibration. she gazed upon the two silent men with an expression that united benignancy with profound inquietude and sadness. all her past life was in her face, inspiring it with strength and sorrow. "mr. batchgrew," she said. "i've heard your voice for a long time. i want to speak to you." and then she turned, yielded to the solicitous alarm of mrs. tams, climbed feebly up the stairs, and vanished round the corner at the top. and mrs. tams, putting her frowsy head for an instant over the hand-rail, stopped to adjure mr. batchgrew-- "eh, mester; ye'd better stop where ye are awhile." from the parlour came the faint sobbing of rachel. the two men had not a word to say. mr. batchgrew grunted, vacillating. it seemed as if the majestic apparition of mrs. maldon had rebuked everything that was derogatory and undignified in her trustee, and that both he and louis were apologizing to the empty hall for being common, base creatures. each of them--and especially louis--had the sense of being awakened to events of formidable grandeur whose imminence neither had suspected. still assuring himself that his position was absolutely safe, louis nevertheless was aware of a sinking in the stomach. he could rebut any accusation. "and yet ...!" murmured his craven conscience. what could be the enigma between mrs. maldon and rachel? he was now trying to convince himself that mrs. maldon had in fact divided the money into two parts, of which he had handled only one, and that the impressive mystery had to do with the other part of the treasure, which he had neither seen nor touched. how, then, could he personally be threatened? "and yet!..." said his conscience again. in about a minute mrs. tarns reappeared at the head of the stairs. "her _will_ have ye, mester!" said she to the councillor. thomas batchgrew mounted after her. louis made a noise with his tongue as if starting a horse, and returned to the parlour. rachel, still on the sofa, showed her wet face. "i've got no secret," she said passionately. "and i'm sure mrs. maldon hasn't. what's he driving at?" the natural freedom of her gestures and vehement accent was enchanting to louis. she jumped from the chesterfield and ran away upstairs, flying. he followed to the lobby, and saw her dash into her own room and feverishly shut the door, which was in full view at the top of the stairs. and louis thought he had never lived in any moment so exquisite and so alarming as that moment. he was now alone on the ground floor. he caught no sound from above. "well, i'd better get out of this," he said to himself. "anyhow, i'm all right!... what a girl! terrific!" and, lighting a fresh cigarette, he left the house. v "and now what's amiss?" thomas batchgrew demanded, alone with mrs. maldon in the tranquillity of the bedroom. mrs. maldon lay once more in bed; the bedclothes covered her without a crease, and from the neat fold-back of the white sheet her wrinkled ivory face and curving black hair emerged so still and calm that her recent flight to the stairs seemed unreal, impossible. the impression her mien gave was that she never had moved and never would move from the bed. thomas batchgrew's blusterous voice frankly showed acute irritation. he was angry because nine hundred and sixty-five pounds had monstrously vanished, because the chance of a good investment was lost, because mrs. maldon tied his hands, because rachel had forgotten her respect and his dignity in addressing him; but more because he felt too old to impose himself by sheer rough-riding, individual force on the other actors in the drama, and still more because he, and nobody else, had left the nine hundred and sixty-five pounds in the house. what an orgy of denunciation he would have plunged into had some other person insisted on leaving the money in the house with a similar result! mrs. maldon looked up at him with a glance of compassion. she was filled with pity for him because he had arrived at old age without dignity and without any sense of what was fine in life; he was not even susceptible to the chastening influences of a sick-room. she knew, indeed, that he hated and despised sickness in others, and that when ill himself he became a moaning mass of cowardice and vituperation. and in her heart she invented the most wonderful excuses for him, and transformed him into a martyr of destiny who had suffered both through ancestry and through environment. was it his fault that he was thus tragically defective? so that by the magic power of her benevolence he became dignified in spite of himself. she said-- "mr. batchgrew, i want you to oblige me by not discussing my affairs with any one but me." at that moment the front door closed firmly below, and the bedroom vibrated. "is that louis going?" she asked. batchgrew went to the window and looked downward, lowering the pupils as far as possible so as to see the pavement. "it's louis going," he replied. mrs. maldon sighed relief. mr. batchgrew said no more. "what were you talking about downstairs to those two?" mrs. maldon went on carefully. "what d'ye suppose we were talking about?" retorted batchgrew, still at the window. then he turned towards her and proceeded in an outburst: "if you want to know, missis, i was asking that young wench what the secret was between you and her." "the secret? between rachel and me?" "aye! ye both know what's happened to them notes, and ye've made it up between ye to say nowt!" mrs. maldon answered gravely-- "you are quite mistaken. i know nothing, and i'm sure rachel doesn't. and we have made nothing up between us. how can you imagine such things?" "why don't ye have the police told?" "i cannot do with the police in my house." mr. batchgrew approached the bed almost threateningly. "i'll tell you why ye won't have the police told. because ye know louis fores has taken your money. it's as plain as a pikestaff. ye put it on the chair on the landing here, and ye left it there, and he came along and pocketed it." mrs. maldon essayed to protest, but he cut her short. "did he or did he not come upstairs after ye'd been upstairs yourself?" as mrs. maldon hesitated, thomas batchgrew began to feel younger and more impressive. "yes, he did," said mrs. maldon at length. "but only because i asked him to come up--to fasten the window." "what window?" "the landing window." mr. batchgrew, startled and delighted by this unexpected confirmation of his theory, exploded-- "ha!... and how soon was that after ye'd been upstairs with the notes?" "it was just afterwards." "ha!... i don't mind telling ye i've been suspecting that young man ever since this morning. i only learnt just now as he was in th' house all night. that made me think for a moment as he'd done it after ye'd all gone to bed. and for aught i know he may have. but done it some time he has, and you know it as well as i do, elizabeth." mrs. maldon maintained her serenity. "we may be unjust to him. i should never forgive myself if i was. he has a very good side to him, has louis!" "i've never seen it," said mr. batchgrew, still growing in authority. "he began as a thief and he'll end as a thief, if it's no worse." "began as a thief?" mrs. maldon protested. "well, what d'ye suppose he left the bank for?" "i never knew quite why he left the bank. i always understood there was some unpleasantness." "if ye didn't know, it was because ye didn't want to know. ye never do want to know these things. 'unpleasantness!' there's only one sort of unpleasantness with the clerks in a bank!... _i_ know, anyhow, because i took the trouble to find out for myself, when i had that bother with him in my own office. and a nice affair that was, too!" "but you told me at the time that his books were all right with you. only you preferred not to keep him." mrs. maiden's voice was now plaintive. thomas batchgrew came close to the bed and leaned on the foot of it. "there's some things as you won't hear, elizabeth. his books were all right, but he'd made 'em all right. i got hold of him afore he'd done more than he could undo--that's all. there's one trifle as i might ha' told ye if ye hadn't such a way of shutting folks up sometimes, missis. i'll tell ye now. louis fores went down on his knees to me in my office. on his knees, and all blubbing. what about that?" mrs. maldon replied-- "you must have been glad ever since that you did give the poor boy another chance." "there's nothing i've regretted more," said thomas batchgrew, with a grimness that became him. "i heard last week he's keeping books and handling cash for horrocleave nowadays. i know how that'll end! i'd warn horrocleave, but it's no business o' mine, especially as ye made me help ye to put him into horrocleave's.... there's half a dozen people in this town and in hanbridge that can add up louis fores, and have added him up! and now he's robbed ye in yer own house. but it makes no matter. he's safe enough!" he sardonically snorted. "he's safe enough. we canna' even stop the notes without telling the police, and ye won't have the police told. oh, no! he's managed to get on th' right side o' you. however, he'll only finish in one way, that chap will, whether you and me's here to see it or not." mr. batchgrew had grown really impressive, and he knew it. "don't let us be hard," pleaded mrs. maldon. and then, in a firmer, prouder voice: "there will be no scandal in my family, mr. batchgrew, as long as i live." mr. batchgrew's answer was superb in its unconscious ferocity-- "that depends how long ye live." his meaningless eyes rested on her with frosty impartiality, as he reflected-- "i wonder how long she'll last." he felt strong; he felt immortal. exactly like mrs. maldon, he was convinced that he was old only by the misleading arithmetic of years, that he was not really old, and that there was a subtle and vital difference between all other people of his age and himself. as for mrs. maldon, he regarded her as a mere poor relic of an organism. "at our age," mrs. maldon began, and paused as if collecting her thoughts. "at our age! at our age!" he repeated, sharply deprecating the phrase. "at our age," said mrs. maldon, with slow insistence, "we ought not to be hard on others. we ought to be thinking of our own sins." but, although mrs. maldon was perhaps the one person on earth whom he both respected and feared, thomas batchgrew listened to her injunction only with rough disdain. he was incapable of thinking of his own sins. while in health, he was nearly as unaware of sin as an animal. nevertheless, he turned uneasily in the silence of the pale room, so full of the shy and prim refinement of mrs. maldon's individuality. he could talk morals to others in the grand manner, and with positive enjoyment, but to be sermonized himself secretly exasperated him because it constrained him and made him self-conscious. invariably, when thus attacked, he would execute a flank movement. he said bluntly-- "and i suppose ye'll let him marry this rachel girl if he's a mind to!" slowly a deep flush covered mrs. maldon's face. "what makes you say that?" she questioned, with rising agitation. "i have but just seen 'em together." mrs. maldon moved nervously in the bed. "i should never forgive myself if i stood by and let louis marry rachel," she said, and there was a sudden desperate urgency in her voice. "isn't she good enough for a nephew o' yours?" "she's good enough for any man," said mrs. maldon quietly. "then it's him as isna' good enough! and yet, if he's got such a good side to him as ye say--" mr. batchgrew snorted. "he's not suited to her--not at all." "now, missis," said mr. batchgrew in triumph, "at last we're getting down to your real opinion of young fores." "i feel i'm responsible for rachel, and--what ought i to do about it?" "do? what can a body do when a respectable young woman wi' red hair takes a fancy to a youth? nowt, elizabeth. that young woman'll marry louis fores, and ye can take it from me." "but why do you say a thing like that? i only began to notice anything myself last night." "she's lost her head over him, that's all. i caught 'em just now.... as thick as thieves in your parlour!" "but i'm by no means sure that he's smitten with her." "what does it matter whether he is or not? she's lost her head over him, and she'll have him. it doesn't want a telescope to see as far as that." "well, then, i shall speak to her--i shall speak to her to-morrow morning, after she's had a good night's rest, when i feel stronger." "ay! ye may! and what shalt say?" "i shall warn her. i think i shall know how to do it," said mrs. maldon, with a certain air of confidence amid her trouble. "i wouldn't run the risk of a tragedy for worlds." "it's no _risk_ of a tragedy, as ye call it," said thomas batchgrew, very pleased with his own situation in the argument. "it's a certainty. she'll believe him afore she believes you, whatever ye say. you mark me. it's a certainty." after elaborate preparations of his handkerchief, he blew his nose loudly, because blowing his nose loudly affected him in an agreeable manner. a few minutes later he left, saying the car would be waiting for him at the back of the town hall. and mrs. maldon lay alone until mrs. tams came in with a tray. "an' i hope that's enough company for one day!" said mrs. tarns. "now, sup it up, do!" chapter vii the cinema i that evening rachel sat alone in the parlour, reclining on the chesterfield over the _signal_. she had picked up the _signal_ in order to read about captured burglars, but the paper contained not one word on the subject, or on any other subject except football. the football season had commenced in splendour, and it happened to be the football edition of the _signal_ that the paper-boy had foisted upon mrs. maldon's house. despite repeated and positive assurances from mrs. maldon that she wanted the late edition and not the football edition on saturday nights, the football edition was usually delivered, because the paper-boy could not conceive that any customer could sincerely not want the football edition. rachel was glancing in a torpid condition at the advertisements of the millinery and trimming shops. she would have been more wakeful could she have divined the blow which she had escaped a couple of hours before. between five and six o'clock, when she was upstairs in the large bedroom, mrs. maldon had said to her, "rachel--" and stopped. "yes, mrs. maldon," she had replied. and mrs. maldon had said, "nothing." mrs. maldon had desired to say, but in words carefully chosen: "rachel, i've never told you that louis fores began life as a bank clerk, and was dismissed for stealing money. and even since then his conduct has not been blameless." mrs. maldon had stopped because she could not find the form of words which would permit her to impart to her paid companion this information about her grand-nephew. mrs. maldon, when the moment for utterance came, had discovered that she simply could not do it, and all her conscientious regard for rachel and all her sense of duty were not enough to make her do it. so that rachel, unsuspectingly, had been spared a tremendous emotional crisis. by this time she had grown nearly accustomed to the fact of the disappearance of the money. she had completely recovered from the hysteria caused by old batchgrew's attack, and was, indeed, in the supervening calm, very much ashamed of it. she meant to doze, having firmly declined the suggestion of mrs. tams that she should go to bed at seven o'clock, and she was just dropping the paper when a tap on the window startled her. she looked in alarm at the window, where the position of one of the blinds proved the correctness of mrs. maldon's secret theory that if mrs. maldon did not keep a personal watch on the blinds they would never be drawn properly. eight inches of black pane showed, and behind that dark transparency something vague and pale. she knew it must be the hand of louis fores that had tapped, and she could feel her heart beating. she flew on tiptoe to the front door, and cautiously opened it. at the same moment louis sprang from the narrow space between the street railings and the bow window on to the steps. he raised his hat with the utmost grace. "i saw your head over the arm of the chesterfield," he said in a cheerful, natural low voice. "so i tapped on the glass. i thought if i knocked at the door i might waken the old lady. how are things to-night?" in those few words he perfectly explained his manner of announcing himself, endowing it with the highest propriety. rachel's misgivings were soothed in an instant. her chief emotion was an ecstatic pride--because he had come, because he could not keep away, because she had known that he would come, that he must come. and in fact was it not his duty to come? quietly he came into the hall, quietly she closed the door, and when they were shut up together in the parlour they both spoke in hushed voices, lest the invalid should be disturbed. and was not this, too, highly proper? she gave him the news of the house and said that mrs. tams was taking duty in the sick-room till four o'clock in the morning, and herself thenceforward, but that the invalid gave no apparent cause for apprehension. "old batch been again?" asked louis, with a complete absence of any constraint. she shook her head. "you'll find that money yet--somewhere, when you're least expecting it," said he, almost gaily. "i'm sure we shall," she agreed with conviction. "and how are _you_?" his tone became anxious and particular. she blushed deeply, for the outbreak of which she had been guilty and which he had witnessed, then smiled diffidently. "oh, i'm all right." "you look as if you wanted some fresh air--if you'll excuse me saying so." "i haven't been out to-day, of course," she said. "don't you think a walk--just a breath--would do you good!" without allowing herself to reflect, she answered-- "well, i ought to have gone out long ago to get some food for to-morrow, as it's sunday. everything's been so neglected to-day. if the doctor happened to order a cutlet or anything for mrs. maldon, i don't know what i should do. truly i ought to have thought of it earlier." she seemed to be blaming herself for neglectfulness, and thus the enterprise of going out had the look of an act of duty. her sensations bewildered her. "perhaps i could walk down with you and carry parcels. it's a good thing it's saturday night, or the shops might have been closed." she made no answer to this, but stood up, breathing quickly. "i'll just speak to mrs. tams." creeping upstairs, she silently pushed open the door of mrs. maldon's bedroom. the invalid was asleep. mrs. tams, her hands crossed in her comfortable lap, and her mouth widely open, was also asleep. but mrs. tams was used to waking with the ease of a dog. rachel beckoned her to the door. without a sound the fat woman crossed the room. "i'm just going out to buy a few things we want," said rachel in her ear, adding no word as to louis fores. mrs. tams nodded. rachel went to her bedroom, turned up the gas, straightened her hair, and put on her black hat, and her blue jacket trimmed with a nameless fur, and picked up some gloves and her purse. before descending she gazed at herself for many seconds in the small, slanting glass. coming downstairs, she took the marketing reticule from its hook in the kitchen passage. then she went back to the parlour and stood in the doorway, speechless, putting on her gloves rapidly. "ready?" she nodded. "shall i?" louis questioned, indicating the gas. she nodded again, and, stretching to his full height, he managed to turn the gas down without employing a footstool as rachel was compelled to do. "wait a moment," she whispered in the hall, when he had opened the front door. these were the first words she had been able to utter. she went to the kitchen for a latch-key. inserting this latch-key in the keyhole on the outside, and letting louis pass in front of her, she closed the front door with very careful precautions against noise, and withdrew the key. "i'll take charge of that if you like," said louis, noticing that she was hesitating where to bestow it. she gave it up to him with a violent thrill. she was intensely happy and intensely fearful. she was only going out to do some shopping; but the door was shut behind her, and at her side was this magic, mysterious being, and the nocturnal universe lay around. only twenty-four hours earlier she had shut the door behind her and gone forth to find louis. and now, having found him, he and she were going forth together like close friends. so much had happened in twenty-four hours that the previous night seemed to be months away. ii instead of turning down friendly street, they kept straight along the lane till, becoming suddenly urban, it led them across tram-lines and turnhill road, and so through a gulf or inlet of the market-place behind the shambles, the police office, and the town hall, into the market-place itself, which in these latter years was recovering a little of the commercial prestige snatched from it half a century earlier by st. luke's square. rats now marauded in the empty shops of st. luke's square, while the market-place glittered with custom, and the electric decoy of its façades lit up strangely the lower walls of the black and monstrous town hall. innumerable organized activities were going forward at that moment in the serried buildings of the endless confused streets that stretched up hill and down dale from one end of the five towns to the other--theatres, empire music-halls, hippodrome music-halls, picture-palaces in dozens, concerts, singsongs, spiritualistic propaganda, democratic propaganda, skating-rinks, wild west exhibitions, dutch auctions, and the private séances in dubious quarters of "psychologists," "clair-voyants," "scientific palmists," and other rascals who sold a foreknowledge of the future for eighteenpence or even a shilling. viewed under certain aspects, it seemed indeed that the five towns, in the week-end desertion of its sordid factories, was reaching out after the higher life, the subtler life, the more elegant life of greater communities; but the little crowds and the little shops of bursley market-place were nevertheless a proof that a tolerable number of people were still mainly interested in the primitive elemental enterprise of keeping stomachs filled and skins warm, and had no thought beyond it. in bursley market-place the week's labour was being translated into food and drink and clothing by experts who could distinguish infallibly between elevenpence-halfpenny and a shilling. rachel was such an expert. she forced her thoughts down to the familiar, sane, safe subject of shopping, though to-night her errands were of the simplest description, requiring no brains. but she could not hold her thoughts. a voice was continually whispering to her--not louis fores' voice, but a voice within herself, that she had never clearly heard before. alternatively she scorned it and trembled at it. she stopped in front of the huge window of wason's provision emporium. "is this the first house of call?" asked louis airily, swinging the reticule and his stick together. "well--" she hesitated. "mrs. tams told me they were selling singapore pineapple at sevenpence-halfpenny. mas. maldon fancies pineapple. i've known her fancy a bit of pineapple when she wouldn't touch anything else.... yes, there it is!" in fact, the whole of the upper half of wason's window was yellow with tins of preserved pineapple. and great tickets said: "delicious chunks, / d. per large tin. chunks, / d. per large tin." customers in ones and twos kept entering and leaving the shop. rachel moved on towards the door, which was at the corner of the cock yard, and looked within. the long double counters were being assailed by a surging multitude who fought for the attention of prestidigitatory salesmen. "hm!" murmured rachel. "that may be all very well for mrs. tams...." a moment later she said-- "it's always like that with wason's shops for the first week or two!" and her faintly sarcastic tone of a shrewd housewife immediately set wason in his place--wason with his two hundred and sixty-five shops, and his racing-cars, and his visits to kings and princes. wason had emporia all over the kingdom, and in particular at knype, hanbridge, and longshaw. and now he had penetrated to bursley, sleepiest of the five. his method was to storm a place by means of electricity, full-page advertisements in news-papers, the power of his mere name, and a leading line or so. at bursley his leading line was apparently "singapore delicious chunks at - / d. per large tin." rachel knew wason; she had known him at knype. and she was well aware that his speciality was second-rate. she despised him. she despised that multitude of simpletons who, full of the ancient illusion that somewhere something can regularly be had for nothing, imagined that wason's bacon and cheese were cheap because he sold preserved pineapple at a penny less than anybody else in the town. and she despised the roaring, vulgar success of advertising and electricity. she had in her some tincture of the old nineteenth century, which loved the decency of small, quiet things. and in the prim sanity of her judgment upon wason she forgot for a few instants that she was in a dream, and that the streets and the whole town appeared strange and troubling to her, and that she scarcely knew what she was doing, and that the most seductive and enchanting of created men was at her side and very content to be at her side. and also the voice within her was hushed. she said-- "i don't see the fun of having the clothes torn off my back to save a penny. i think i shall go to malkin's. i'll get some cocoa there, too. mrs. tams simply lives for cocoa." and louis archly answered-- "i've always wondered what mrs. tams reminds me of. now i know. she's exactly like a cocoa-tin dented in the middle." she laughed with pleasure, not because she considered the remark in the least witty, but because it was so characteristic of louis fores. she wished humbly that she could say things just like that, and with caution she glanced up at him. they went into ted malkin's sober shop, where there was a nice handful of customers, in despite of wason only five doors away. and no sooner had rachel got inside than she was in the dream again, and the voice resumed its monotonous phrase, and she blushed. the swift change took her by surprise and frightened her. she was not in bursley, but in some forbidden city without a name, pursuing some adventure at once shameful and delicious. a distinct fear seized her. her self-consciousness was intense. and there was young ted malkin in his starched white shirt-sleeves and white apron and black waistcoat and tie, among his cheeses and flitches, every one of which he had personally selected and judged, weighing a piece of cheddar in his honourable copper-and-brass scales. he was attending to two little girls. he nodded with calm benevolence to rachel and then to louis fores. it is true that he lifted his eyebrows--a habit of his--at sight of fores, but he did so in a quite simple, friendly, and justifiable manner, with no insinuations. "in one moment, miss fleckring," said he. and as he rapidly tied up the parcel of cheese and snapped off the stout string with a skilled jerk of the hand, he demanded calmly-- "how's mrs. maldon to-night?" "much better," said rachel, "thank you." and louis fores joined easily in-- "you may say, very much better." "that's rare good news! rare good news!" said malkin. "i heard you had an anxious night of it.... go across and pay at the other counter, my dears." then he called out loudly--"one and seven, please." the little girls tripped importantly away. "yes, indeed," rachel agreed. the tale of the illness, then, was spread over the town! she was glad, and her self-consciousness somehow decreased. she now fully understood the wisdom of mrs. maldon in refusing to let the police be informed of the disappearance of the money. what a fever in the shops of bursley--even in the quiet shop of ted malkin--if the full story got abroad! "and what is it to be to-night, miss fleckring? these aren't quite your hours, are they? but i suppose you've been very upset." "oh," said rachel, "i only want a large tin of singapore delicious chunks, please." but if she had announced her intention of spending a thousand pounds in ted malkin's shop she would not have better pleased him. he beamed. he desired the whole shop to hear that order, for it was the vindication of honest, modest trading--of his father's methods and his own. his father, himself, and about a couple of other tradesmen had steadily fought the fight of the market-place against st. luke's square in the day of its glory, and more recently against the powerfully magnetic large shops at hanbridge, and they had not been defeated. as for ted malkin, he was now beyond doubt the "best" provision-dealer and grocer in the town, and had drawn ahead even of "holl's" (as it was still called), the one good historic shop left in luke's square. the onslaught of wason had alarmed him, though he had pretended to ignore it. but he was delectably reassured by this heavenly incident of the representative of one of his most distinguished customers coming into the shop and deliberately choosing to buy preserved pineapple from him at - / d. when it could be got thirty yards away for / d. rachel read his thoughts plainly. she knew well enough that she had done rather a fine thing, and her demeanour showed it. ted malkin enveloped the tin in suitable paper. "sure there's nothing else?" "not at this counter." he gave her the tin, smiled, and as he turned to the next waiting customer, called out-- "singapore delicious, eight and a half pence." it was rather a poor affair, that tin--a declension from the great days of mrs. maldon's married life, when she spent freely, knowing naught of her husband's income except that it was large and elastic. in those days she would buy a real pineapple, entire, once every three weeks or so, costing five, six, seven, or eight shillings--gorgeous and spectacular fruit. now she might have pineapple every day if she chose, but it was not quite the same pineapple. she affected to like it, she did like it, but the difference between the old pineapple and the new was the saddening difference, for mrs. maldon's secret heart, between the great days and the paltry, facile convenience of the twentieth century. it was to his aunt, who presided over the opposite side of the shop, including the cash-desk, that ted malkin proclaimed in a loud voice the amounts of purchases on his own side. miss malkin was a virgin of fifty-eight years' standing, with definite and unchangeable ideas on every subject on earth or in heaven except her own age. as rachel, followed by louis fores, crossed the shop, miss malkin looked at them and closed her lips, and lowered her eyelids, and the upper part of her body seemed to curve slightly, with the sinuosity of a serpent--a strange, significant movement, sometimes ill described as "bridling." the total effect was as though miss malkin had suddenly clicked the shutters down on all the windows of her soul and was spying at rachel and louis fores through a tiny concealed orifice in the region of her eye. it was nothing to miss malkin that rachel on that night of all nights had come in to buy singapore delicious chunks at - / d. it was nothing to her that mrs. maldon had had "an attack." miss malkin merely saw rachel and fores gadding about the town together of a saturday night while mrs. maldon was ill in bed. and she regarded ted's benevolence as the benevolence of a simpleton. between miss malkin's taciturnity and the voice within her rachel had a terrible three minutes. she was "sneaped"; which fortunately made her red hair angry, so that she could keep some of her dignity. louis fores seemed to be quite unconscious that a fearful scene was enacting between miss malkin and rachel, and he blandly insisted on taking the pineapple-tin and the cocoa-tin and slipping them into the reticule, as though he had been shopping with rachel all his life and there was a perfect understanding between them. the moral effect was very bad. rachel blushed again. when she emerged from the shop she had the illusion of being breathless, and in the midst of a terrific adventure the end of which none could foresee. she was furious against miss malkin and against herself. yet she indignantly justified herself. was not louis fores mrs. maiden's nephew, and were not he and she doing the best thing they could together under the difficult circumstances of the old lady's illness? if she was not to co-operate with the old lady's sole relative in bursley, with whom was she to co-operate? in vain such justifications!... she murderously hated miss malkin. she said to herself, without meaning it, that no power should induce her ever to enter the shop again. and she thought: "i can't possibly go into another shop to-night--i can't possibly do it! and yet i must. why am i such a silly baby?" as they walked slowly along the pavement she was in the wild dream anew, and louis fores was her only hope and reliance. she clung to him, though not with her arm. she seemed to know him very intimately, and still he was more enigmatic to her than ever he had been. as for louis, beneath his tranquil mien of a man of experience and infinite tact, he was undergoing the most extraordinary and delightful sensations, keener even than those which had thrilled him in rachel's kitchen on the previous evening. the social snob in him had somehow suddenly expired, and he felt intensely the strange charm of going shopping of a saturday night with a young woman, and making a little purchase here and a little purchase there, and thinking about halfpennies. and in his fancy he built a small house to which he and rachel would shortly return, and all the brilliant diversions of bachelordom seemed tame and tedious compared to the wondrous existence of this small house. "now i have to go to heath's the butcher's," said rachel, determined at all costs to be a woman and not a silly baby. after that plain announcement her cowardice would have no chance to invent an excuse for not going into another shop. but she added-- "and that'll be all." "i know master bob heath. known him a long time," said louis fores, with amusement in his voice, as though to imply that he could relate strange and titillating matters about heath if he chose, and indeed that he was a mine of secret lore concerning the citizens. the fact was that he had travelled once to woore races with the talkative heath, and that heath had introduced him to his brother stanny heath, a local book-maker of some reputation, from whom louis had won five pounds ten during the felicitous day. ever afterwards bob heath had effusively saluted louis on every possible occasion, and had indeed once stopped him in the street and said: "my brother treated you all right, didn't he? stanny's a true sport." and louis had to be effusive also. it would never do to be cold to a man from whose brother you had won--and received--five pounds ten on a racecourse. so that when louis followed rachel into heath's shop at the top of duck bank the fat and happy heath gave him a greeting in which astonishment and warm regard were mingled. the shop was empty of customers, and also it contained little meat, for heath's was not exactly a saturday-night trade. bob heath, clothed from head to foot in slightly blood-stained white, stood behind one hacked counter, and mrs. heath, similarly attired, and rather stouter, stood behind the other; and each possessed a long steel which hung from an ample loose girdle. heath, a man of forty, had a salute somewhat military in gesture, though conceived in a softer, more accommodating spirit. he raised his chubby hand to his forehead, but all the muscles of it were lax and the fingers loosely curved; at the same time he drew back his left foot and kicked up the heel a few inches. louis amiably responded. rachel went direct to mrs. heath, a woman of forty-five. she had never before seen heath in the shop. "doing much with the gees lately, mr. fores?" heath inquired in a cheerful, discreet tone. "not me!" "well, i can't say i've had much luck myself, sir." the conversation was begun in proper form. through it louis could hear rachel buying a cutlet, and then another cutlet, from mrs. heath, and protesting that five-pence was a good price and all she desired to pay even for the finest cutlet in the shop. and then rachel asked about sweetbreads. heath's voice grew more and more confidential and at length, after a brief pause, he whispered-- "ye're not married, are ye, sir? excuse the liberty." it was a whisper, but one of those terrible, miscalculated whispers that can be heard for miles around, like the call of the cuckoo. plainly heath was not aware of the identity of rachel fleckring. and in his world, which was by no means the world of his shop and his wife, it was incredible that a man should run round shopping with a woman on a saturday night unless he was a husband on unescapable duty. louis shook his head. mrs. heath called out in severe accents which were a reproof and a warning: "got a sweetbread, robert? it's for mrs. maldon." the clumsy fool understood that he had blundered. he had no sweetbread--not even for mrs. maldon. the cutlets were wrapped in newspaper, and louis rather self-consciously opened the maw of the reticule for them. "no offence, i hope, sir," said heath as the pair left the shop, thus aggravating his blunder. louis and rachel crossed duck bank in constrained silence. rachel was scarlet. the new cinema next to the new congregational chapel blazed in front of them. "wouldn't care to look in here, i suppose, would you?" louis imperturbably suggested. rachel did not reply. "only for a quarter of an hour or so," said louis. rachel did not venture to glance up at him. she was so agitated that she could scarcely speak. "i don't think so," she muttered. "why not?" he exquisitely pleaded. "it will do you good." she raised her head and saw the expression of his face, so charming, so provocative, so persuasive. the voice within her was insistent, but she would not listen to it. nobody had ever looked at her as louis was looking at her then. the streets, the town faded. she thought: "whatever happens, i cannot withstand that face." she was feverishly happy, and at the same time ravaged by both pain and fear. she became a fatalist. and she abandoned the pretence that she was not the slave of that face. her eyes grew candidly acquiescent, as if she were murmuring to him, "i am defenceless against you." iii it was not surprising that rachel, who never in her life had beheld at close quarters any of the phenomena of luxury, should blink her ingenuous eyes at the blinding splendour of the antechambers of the imperial cinema de luxe. eyes less ingenuous than hers had blinked before that prodigious dazzlement. even louis, a man of vast experience and sublime imperturbability, visiting the imperial on its opening night, had allowed the significant words to escape him, "well, i'm blest!"--proof enough of the triumph of the imperial! the imperial had set out to be the most gorgeous cinema in the five towns; and it simply was. its advertisements read: "there is always room at the top." there was. over the ceiling of its foyer enormous crimson peonies expanded like tropic blooms, and the heart of each peony was a sixteen-candle-power electric lamp. no other two cinemas in the five towns, it was reported, consumed together as much current as the imperial de luxe; and nobody could deny that the degree of excellence of a cinema is finally settled by its consumption of electricity. rachel now understood better the symbolic meaning of the glare in the sky caused at night by the determination of the imperial to make itself known. she had been brought up to believe that, gas being dear, no opportunity should be lost of turning a jet down, and that electricity was so dear as to be inconceivable in any house not inhabited by crass spendthrift folly. she now saw electricity scattered about as though it were as cheap as salt. she saw written in electric fire across the inner entrance the beautiful sentiment, "our aim is to please you." the "you" had two lines of fire under it. she saw, also, the polite nod of the official, dressed not less glitteringly than an admiral of the fleet in full uniform, whose sole duty in life was to welcome and reassure the visitor. all this in bursley, which even by knype was deemed an out-of-the-world spot and home of sordid decay! in hanbridge she would have been less surprised to discover such marvels, because the flaunting modernity of hanbridge was notorious. and her astonishment would have been milder had she had been in the habit of going out at night. like all those who never went out at night, she had quite failed to keep pace with the advancing stride of the five towns on the great road of civilization. more impressive still than the extreme radiance about her was the easy and superb gesture of louis as, swinging the reticule containing pineapple, cocoa, and cutlets, he slid his hand into his pocket and drew therefrom a coin and smacked it on the wooden ledge of the ticket-window--gesture of a man to whom money was naught provided he got the best of everything. "two!" he repeated, with slight impatience, bending down so as to see the young woman in white who sat in another world behind gilt bars. he was paying for rachel! exquisite experience for the daughter and sister of fleckrings! experience unique in her career! and it seemed so right and yet so wondrous, that he should pay for her!... he picked up the change, and without a glance at them dropped the coins into his pocket. it was a glorious thing to be a man! but was it not even more glorious to be a girl and the object of his princely care?... they passed a heavy draped curtain, on which was a large card, "tea-room," and there seemed to be celestial social possibilities behind that curtain, though indeed it bore another and smaller card: "closed after six o'clock"--the result of excessive caution on the part of a kill-joy town council. a boy in the likeness of a midshipman took halves of the curving tickets and dropped them into a tin box, and then next rachel was in a sudden black darkness, studded here and there with minute glowing rubies that revealed the legend: "exit. exit. exit." row after row of dim, pale, intent faces became gradually visible, stretching far back-into complete obscurity; thousands, tens of thousands of faces, it seemed--for the imperial de luxe was demonstrating that saturday night its claim to be "the fashionable rage of bursley." then mysterious laughter rippled in the gloom, and loud guffaws shot up out of the rippling. rachel saw nothing whatever to originate this mirth until an attendant in black with a tiny white apron loomed upon them out of the darkness, and, beckoning them forward, bent down, and indicated two empty places at the end of a row, and the great white scintillating screen of the cinema came into view. instead of being at the extremity it was at the beginning of the auditorium. and as rachel took her seat she saw on the screen--which was scarcely a dozen feet away--a man kneeling at the end of a canal-lock, and sucking up the water of the canal through a hose-pipe; and this astoundingly thirsty man drank with such rapidity that the water, with huge boats floating on it, subsided at the rate of about a foot a second, and the drinker waxed enormously in girth. the laughter grew uproarious. rachel herself gave a quick, uncontrolled, joyous laugh, and it was as if the laugh had been drawn out of her violently unawares. louis fores also laughed very heartily. "cute idea, that!" he whispered. when the film was cut off rachel wanted to take back her laugh. she felt a little ashamed of having laughed at anything so silly. "how absurd!" she murmured, trying to be serious. nevertheless she was in bliss. she surrendered herself to the joy of life, as to a new sensation. she was intoxicated, ravished, bewildered, and quite careless. perhaps for the first time in her adult existence she lived without reserve or preoccupation completely in and for the moment. moreover the hearty laughter of louis fores helped to restore her dignity. if the spectacle was good enough for him, with all his knowledge of the world, to laugh at, she need not blush for its effect on herself. and in another ten seconds, when the swollen man, staggering along a wide thoroughfare, was run down by an automobile and squashed flat, while streams of water inundated the roadway, she burst again into free laughter, and then looked round at louis, who at the same instant looked round at her, and they exchanged an intimate smiling glance. it seemed to rachel that they were alone and solitary in the crowded interior, and that they shared exactly the same tastes and emotions and comprehended one another profoundly and utterly; her confidence in him, at that instant, was absolute, and enchanting to her. half a minute later the emaciated man was in a room and being ecstatically kissed by a most beautiful and sweetly shameless girl in a striped shirtwaist; it was a very small room, and the furniture was close upon the couple, giving the scene an air of delightful privacy. and then the scene was blotted out and gay music rose lilting from some unseen cave in front of the screen. rachel was rapturously happy. gazing along the dim rows, she descried many young couples, without recognizing anybody at all, and most of these couples were absorbed in each other, and some of the girls seemed so elegant and alluring in the dusk of the theatre, and some of the men so fine in their manliness! and the ruby-studded gloom protected them all, including rachel and louis, from the audience at large. the screen glowed again. and as it did so louis gave a start. "by jove!" he said, "i've left my stick somewhere. it must have been at heath's. yes, it was. i put it on the counter while i opened this net thing. don't you remember? you were taking some money out of your purse." louis had a very distinct vision of his rachel's agreeably gloved fingers primly unfastening the purse and choosing a shilling from it. "how annoying!" murmured rachel feelingly. "i wouldn't lose that stick for a five-pound note." (he had a marvellous way of saying "five-pound note.") "would you mind very much if i just slip over and get it, before he shuts? it's only across the road, you know." there was something in the politeness of the phrase "mind _very much_" that was irresistible to rachel. it caused her to imagine splendid drawing-rooms far beyond her modest level, and the superlative deportment therein of the well-born. "not at all!" she replied, with her best affability. "but will they let you come in again without paying?" "oh, i'll risk that," he whispered, smiling superiorly. then he went, leaving the reticule, and she was alone. she rearranged the reticule on the seat by her side. the reticule being already perfectly secure, there was no need for her to touch it, but some nervous movement was necessary to her. yet she was less self-conscious than she had been with louis at her elbow. she felt, however, a very slight sense of peril--of the unreality of the plush fauteuil on which she sat, and those rows of vaguely discerned faces on her right; and the reality of distant phenomena such as mrs. maldon in bed. notwithstanding her strange and ecstatic experiences with louis fores that night in the dark, romantic town, the problem of the lost money remained, or ought to have remained, as disturbing as ever. to ignore it was not to destroy it. she sat rather tight in her place, increasing her primness, and trying to show by her carriage that she was an adult in full control of all her wise faculties. she set her lips to judge the film with the cold impartiality of middle age, but they persisted in being the fresh, responsive, mobile lips of a young girl. they were saying noiselessly: "he will be back in a moment. and he will find me sitting here just as he left me. when i hear him coming i shan't turn my head to look. it will be better not." the film showed a forest with a wooden house in the middle of it. out of this house came a most adorable young woman, who leaped on to a glossy horse and galloped at a terrific rate, plunging down ravines, and then trotting fast over the crests of clearings. she came to a man who was boiling a kettle over a camp-fire, and slipped lithely from the horse, and the man, with a start of surprise, seized her pretty waist and kissed her passionately, in the midst of the immense forest whose every leaf was moving. and she returned his kiss without restraint. for they were betrothed. and rachel imagined the free life of distant forests, where love was, and where slim girls rode mettlesome horses more easily than the girls of the five towns rode bicycles. she could not even ride a bicycle, had never had the opportunity to learn. the vision of emotional pleasures that in her narrow existence she had not dreamed of filled her with mild, delightful sorrow. she could conceive nothing more heavenly than to embrace one's true love in the recesses of a forest.... then came crouching indians.... and then she heard louis fores behind her. she had not meant to turn round, but when a hand was put heavily on her shoulder she turned quickly, resenting the contact. "i should like a word with ye, if ye can spare a minute, young miss," whispered a voice as heavy as the hand. it was old thomas batchgrew's face and whiskers that she was looking up at in the gloom. as if fascinated, she followed in terror those flaunting whiskers up the slope of the narrow isle to the back of the auditorium. thomas batchgrew seemed to be quite at home in the theatre; he wore no hat and there was a pen behind his ear. never would she have set foot inside the imperial de luxe had she guessed that thomas batchgrew was concerned in it. she thought she had heard once, somewhere, that he had to do with cinemas in other parts of the country, but it would not have occurred to her to connect him with a picture-palace so near home. she was not alone in her ignorance of the councillor's share in the imperial. practically nobody had heard of it until that night, for batchgrew had come into the new enterprise by the back door of a loan to its promoters, who were richer in ideas than in capital; and now, the harvest being ripe, he was arranging, by methods not unfamiliar to capitalists, to reap where he had not sown. shame and fear overcame rachel. the crystal dream was shivered to dust. awful apprehension, the expectancy of frightful events, succeeded to it. she perceived that since the very moment of quitting the house the dread of some disaster had been pursuing her; only she had refused to see it--she had found oblivion from it in the new and agitatingly sweet sensations which louis fores had procured for her. but now the real was definitely sifted out from the illusory. and nothing but her own daily existence, as she had always lived it, was real. the rest was a snare. there were no forests, no passionate love, no flying steeds, no splendid adorers--for her. she was rachel fleckring and none else. councillor batchgrew turned to the left, and through a small hole in the painted wall rachel saw a bright beam shooting out in the shape of a cone--forests, and the unreal denizens of forests shimmering across the entire auditorium to impinge on the screen! and she heard the steady rattle of a revolving machine. then batchgrew beckoned her into a very small, queerly shaped room furnished with a table and a chair and a single electric lamp that hung by a cord from a rough hook in the ceiling. a boy stood near the door holding three tin boxes one above another in his arms, and keeping the top one in position with his chin. these boxes were similar to that in which louis' tickets had been dropped. "did you want your boxes, sir?" asked the boy. "put 'em down," thomas batchgrew growled. the boy deposited them in haste on the table and hurried out. "how is mrs. maldon?" demanded mr. batchgrew with curtness, after he had snorted and sniffed. he remained standing near to rachel. "oh, she's very much better," said rachel eagerly. "she was asleep when i left." "have ye left her by herself?" mr. batchgrew continued his inquiry. his voice was as offensive as thick dark glue. "of course not! mrs. tams is sitting up with her." rachel meant her tone to be a dignified reproof to thomas batchgrew for daring to assume even the possibility of her having left mrs. maldon to solitude. but she did not succeed, because she could not manage her tone. she desired intensely to be the self-possessed, mature woman, sure of her position and of her sagacity; but she could be nothing save the absurd, guilty, stammering, blushing little girl, shifting her feet and looking everywhere except boldly into thomas batchgrew's horrid eyes. "so it's mrs. tams as is sitting with her!" rachel could not help explaining-- "i had to come down town to do some shopping for sunday. somebody had to come. mr. fores had called in to ask after mrs. maldon, and so he walked down with me." every word she said appeared intolerably foolish to her as she uttered it. "and then he brought ye in here!" batchgrew grimly completed the tale. "we came in here for ten minutes or so, as i'd finished my shopping so quickly. mr. fores has just run across to the butcher's to get something that was forgotten." mr. batchgrew coughed loosely and loudly. and beyond the cough, beyond the confines of the ugly little room which imprisoned her so close to old batchgrew and his grotesque whiskers, rachel could hear the harsh, quick laughter of the audience, and then faint music--far off. "if young fores was here," said mr. batchgrew brutally, "i should tell him straight as he might do better than to go gallivanting about the town until that there money's found." he turned towards his boxes. "i don't know what you mean, mr. batchgrew," said rachel, tapping her foot and trying to be very dignified. "and i'll tell ye another thing, young miss," batchgrew went on. "every minute as ye spend with young fores ye'll regret. he's a bad lot, and ye may as well know it first as last. ye ought to thank me for telling of ye, but ye won't." "i really don't know what you mean, mr. batchgrew!" she could not invent another phrase. "ye know what i mean right enough, young miss!... if ye only came in for ten minutes yer time's up." rachel moved to leave. "hold on!" batchgrew stopped her. there was a change in his voice. "look at me!" he commanded, but with the definite order was mingled some trace of cajolery. she obeyed, quivering, her cheeks the colour of a tomato. in spite of all preoccupations, she distinctly noticed--and not without a curious tremor--that his features had taken on a boyish look. in the almost senile face she could see ambushed the face of the youth that thomas batchgrew had been perhaps half a century before. "ye're a fine wench," said he, with a note of careless but genuine admiration. "i'll not deny it. don't ye go and throw yerself away. keep out o' mischief." forgetting all but the last phrase, rachel marched out of the room, unspeakably humiliated, wounded beyond any expression of her own. the cowardly, odious brute! the horrible ancient! what right had he?... what had she done that was wrong, that would not bear the fullest inquiry. the shopping was an absolute necessity. she was obliged to come out. mrs. maldon was better, and quietly sleeping. mrs. tarns was the most faithful and capable old person that was ever born. hence she was justified in leaving the invalid. louis fores had offered to go with her. how could she refuse the offer? what reason could there be for refusing it? as for the cinema, who could object to the cinema? certainly not thomas batchgrew! there was no hurry. and was she not an independent woman, earning her own living? who on earth had the right to dictate to her? she was not a slave. even a servant had an evening out once a week. she was sinless.... and yet while she was thus ardently defending herself she knew well that she had sinned against the supreme social law--the law of "the look of things." it was true that chance had worked against her. but common sense would have rendered chance powerless by giving it no opportunity to be malevolent. she was furious with rachel fleckring. that rachel fleckring, of all mortal girls, should have exposed herself to so dreadful, so unforgettable a humiliation was mortifying in the very highest degree. her lips trembled. she was about to burst into a sob. but at this moment the rattle of the revolving machine behind the hole ceased, the theatre blazed from end to end with sudden light, the music resumed, and a number of variegated advertisements were weakly thrown on the screen. she set herself doggedly to walk back down the slope of the aisle, not daring to look ahead for louis. she felt that every eye was fixed on her with base curiosity.... when, after the endless ordeal of the aisle, she reached her place, louis was not there. and though she was glad, she took offence at his delay. gathering up the reticule with a nervous sweep of the hand, she departed from the theatre, her eyes full of tears. and amid all the wild confusion in her brain one little thought flashed clear and was gone: the wastefulness of paying for a whole night's entertainment and then only getting ten minutes of it! iv she met louis fores high up bycars lane, about a hundred yards below mrs. maldon's house. she saw some one come out of the gate of the house, and heard the gate clang in the distance. for a moment she could not surely identify the figure, but as soon as louis, approaching, and carrying his stick, grew unmistakable even in the darkness, all her agitation, which had been subsiding under the influence of physical exercise, rose again to its original fever. "ah!" said louis, greeting her with a most deferential salute. "there you are. i was really beginning to wonder. i opened the front door, but there was no light and no sound, so i shut it again and came back. what happened to you?" his ingenuous and delightful face, so confident, good-natured, and respectful, had exactly the same effect on her as before. at the sight of it thomas batchgrew's vague accusation against louis was dismissed utterly as the rancorous malice of an evil old man. for the rest, she had never given it any real credit, having an immense trust in her own judgment. but she had no intention of letting louis go free. as she had been put in the wrong, so must he be put in the wrong. this seemed to her only just. besides, was he not wholly to blame? also she remembered with strange clearness the admiration in the mien of the hated batchgrew, and the memory gave her confidence. she said, with an effort after chilly detachment-- "i couldn't wait in the cinema alone for ever." he was perturbed. "but i assure you," he said nicely, "i was as quick as ever i could be. heath had put my stick in his back parlour to keep it safe for me, and it was quite a business finding it again. why didn't you wait?... i say, i hope you weren't vexed at my leaving you." "of course i wasn't vexed," she answered, with heat. "didn't i tell you i didn't mind? but if you want to know, old batchgrew came along while you were gone and insulted me." "insulted you? how? what was he doing there?" "how should i know what he was doing there? better ask him questions like that! all i can tell you is that he came to me and called me into a room at the back--and--and--told me i'd no business to be there, nor you either, while mrs. maldon was ill in bed." "silly old fool! i hope you didn't take any notice of him." "yes, that's all very fine, that is! it's easy for you to talk like that. but--but--well, i suppose there's nothing more to be said!" she moved to one side; her anger was rising. she knew that it was rising. she was determined that it should rise. she did not care. she rather enjoyed the excitement. she smarted under her recent experience; she was deeply miserable; and yet, at the same time, standing there close to louis in the rustling night, she was exultant as she certainly had never been exultant before. she walked forward grimly. louis turned and followed her. "i'm most frightfully sorry," he said. she replied fiercely-- "it isn't as if i didn't wait. i waited in the porch i don't know how long. then of course i came home, as there was no sign of you." "when i went back you weren't there; it must have been while you were with old batch; so i naturally didn't stay. i just came straight up here. i was afraid you were vexed because i'd left you alone." "well, and if i was!" said rachel, splendidly contradicting herself. "it's not a very nice thing for a girl to be left alone like that--_and all on account of a stick_!" there was a break in her voice. arrived at the gate, she pushed it open. "good-night," she snapped. "please don't come in." and within the gate she deliberately stared at him with an unforgiving gaze. the impartial lamp-post lighted the scene. "good-night," she repeated harshly. she was saying to herself: "he really does take it in the most beautiful way. i could do anything i liked with him." "good-night," said louis, with strict punctilio. when she got to the top of the steps she remembered that louis had the latch-key. he was gone. she gave a wet sob and impulsively ran down the steps and opened the gate. louis returned. she tried to speak and could not. "i beg your pardon," said louis. "of course you want the key." he handed her the key with a gesture that disconcertingly melted the rigour of all her limbs. she snatched at it, and plunged for the gate just as the tears rolled down her cheeks in a shower. the noise of the gate covered a fresh sob. she did not look back. amid all her quite real distress she was proud and happy--proud because she was old enough and independent enough and audacious enough to quarrel with her lover, and happy because she had suddenly discovered life. and the soft darkness and the wind, and the faint sky reflections of distant furnace fires, and the sense of the road winding upward, and the very sense of the black mass of the house in front of her (dimly lighted at the upper floor) all made part of her mysterious happiness. chapter viii end and beginning i "mrs. tams!" said mrs. maldon, in a low, alarmed, and urgent voice. the gas was turned down in the bedroom, and mrs. maldon, looking from her bed across the chamber, could only just distinguish the stout, vague form of the charwoman asleep in an arm-chair. the light from the street lamp was strong enough to throw faint shadows of the window-frames on the blinds. the sleeper did not stir. mrs. maldon summoned again, more loudly-- "mrs. tams!" and mrs. tams, starting out of another world, replied with deprecation-- "hey, hey!" as if saying: "i am here. i am fully awake and observant. please remain calm." mrs. maldon said agitatedly-- "i've just heard the front door open. i'm sure whoever it was was trying not to make a noise. there! can't you hear anything?" "that i canna'!" said mrs. tams. "no!" mrs. maldon protested, as mrs. tams approached the gas to raise it. "don't touch the gas. if anybody's got in let them think we're asleep." the mystery of the vanished money and the fear of assassins seemed suddenly to oppress the very air of the room. mrs. maldon was leaning on one elbow in her bed. mrs. tams said to her in a whisper-- "i mun go see." "please don't!" mrs. maldon entreated. "i mun go see," said mrs. tams. she was afraid, but she conceived that she ought to examine the house, and no fear could have stopped her from going forth into the zone of danger. the next moment she gave a short laugh, and said in her ordinary tone-- "bless us! i shall be forgetting the nose on my face next. it's miss rachel coming in, of course." "miss rachel coming in!" repeated mrs. maldon. "has she been out? i was not aware. she said nothing--" "her came up a bit since, and said her had to do some shopping." "shopping! at this time of night!" murmured mrs. maldon. said mrs. tams laconically-- "to-morrow's sunday--and pray god ye'll fancy a bite o' summat tasty." while the two old women, equalized in rank by the fact of mrs. maldon's illness, by the sudden alarm, and by the darkness of the room, were thus conversing, sounds came from the pavement through the slightly open windows--voices, and the squeak of the gate roughly pushed open. "that's miss rachel now," said mrs. tams. "then who was it came in before?" mrs. maldon demanded. there was the tread of rapid feet on the stone steps, and then the gate squeaked again. mrs. tams went to the window and pulled aside the blind. "aye!" she announced simply. "it's miss rachel and mr. fores." mrs. maldon caught her breath. "you didn't tell me she was out with mr. fores," said mrs. maldon, stiffly but weakly. "it's first i knew of it," mrs. tams replied, still spying over the pavement. "he's given her th' key. there! he's gone." mrs. maldon muttered-- "the key? what key?" "th' latch-key belike." "i must speak to miss rachel," breathed mrs. maldon in a voice of extreme and painful apprehension. the front door closing sent a vibration through the bedroom. mrs. tarns hesitated an instant, and then raised the gas. mrs. maldon lay with shut eyes on her left side and gave no sign of consciousness. light footsteps could be heard on the stairs. "i'll go see," said mrs. tams. in the heart of the aged woman exanimate on the bed, and in the heart of the aging woman whose stout, coarse arm was still raised to the gas-tap, were the same sentiments of wonder, envy, and pity, aroused by the enigmatic actions of a younger generation going its perilous, instinctive ways to keep the race alive. mrs. tarns lighted a benzolene hand-lamp at the gas, and silently left the bedroom. she still somewhat feared an unlawful invader, but the arrival of rachel had reassured her. preceded by the waving little flame, she passed rachel's door, which was closed, and went downstairs. every mysterious room on the ground floor was in order and empty. no sign of an invasion. through the window of the kitchen she saw the fresh cutlets under a wire cover in the scullery; and on the kitchen table were the tin of pineapple and the tin of cocoa, with the reticule near by. all doors that ought to be fastened were fastened. she remounted the stairs and blew out the lamp on the threshold of the mistress's bedroom. and as she did so she could hear rachel winding up her alarm-clock in quick jerks, and the light shone bright like a silver rod under rachel's door. "her's gone reet to bed," said mrs. tams softly, by the bedside of mrs. maldon. "ye've no cause for to worrit yerself. i've looked over th' house." mrs. maldon was fast asleep. mrs. tams lowered the gas and resumed her chair, and the street lamp once more threw the shadows of the window-frames on the blinds. ii the next day mrs. tams, who had been appointed to sleep in the spare room, had to exist under the blight of rachel's chill disapproval because she had not slept in the spare room--nor in any bed at all. the arrangement had been that mrs. tams should retire at a.m., rachel taking her place with mrs. maldon. mrs. tams had not retired at a.m. because rachel had not taken her place. as a fact, rachel had been wakened by a bang of the front door, at . a.m. only. her first glance at the alarm-clock on her dressing-table was incredulous. and she refused absolutely to believe that the hour was so late. yet the alarm-clock was giving its usual sturdy, noisy tick, and the sun was high. then she refused to believe that the alarm had gone off, and in order to remain firm in her belief she refrained from any testing of the mechanism, which might--indeed, would--have proved that the alarm had in fact gone off. it became with her an article of dogma that on that particular morning, of all mornings, the very reliable alarm-clock had failed in its duty. the truth was that she had lain awake till nearly three o'clock, turning from side to side and thinking bitterly upon the imperfections of human nature, and had then fallen into a deep, invigorating sleep from which perhaps half a dozen alarm-clocks might not have roused her. she arose full of health and anger, and in a few minutes she was out of the bedroom, for she had not fully undressed; like many women, when there was watching to be done, she loved to keep her armour on and to feel the exciting strain of the unusual in every movement. she fell on mrs. tams as mrs. tams was coming upstairs after letting out the doctor and refreshing herself with cocoa in the kitchen. a careless observer might have thought from their respective attitudes that it was mrs. tarns, and not rachel, who had overslept herself. rachel divided the blame between the alarm-clock and mrs. tams for not wakening her; indeed, she seemed to consider herself the victim of a conspiracy between mrs. tams and the alarm-clock. she explicitly blamed mrs. tams for allowing the doctor to come and go without her knowledge. even the doctor did not get off scot-free, for he ought to have asked for rachel and insisted on seeing her. she examined mrs. tams about the invalid's health as a lawyer examines a hostile witness. and when mrs. tams said that the invalid had slept, and was sleeping, stertorously in an unaccountable manner, and hinted that the doctor was not undisturbed by the new symptom and meant to call again later on, rachel's tight-lipped mien indicated that this might not have occurred if only mrs. tams had fulfilled her obvious duty of wakening rachel. though she was hungry, she scornfully repulsed the suggestion of breakfast. mrs. tams, thoroughly accustomed to such behaviour in the mighty, accepted it as she accepted the weather. but if she had had to live through the night again--after all, a quite tolerable night--she would still not have wakened rachel at a.m. rachel softened as the day passed. she ate a good dinner at one o'clock, with mrs. tams in the kitchen, one or the other mounting at short intervals to see if mrs. maldon had stirred. then she changed into her second-best frock, in anticipation of the doctor's sunday afternoon visit, strictly commanded mrs. tams (but with relenting kindness in her voice) to go and lie down, and established herself neatly in the sick-room. though her breathing had become noiseless again, mrs. maldon still slept. she had wakened only once since the previous night. she lay calm and dignified in slumber--an old and devastated woman, with that disconcerting resemblance to a corpse shown by all aged people asleep, but yet with little sign of positive illness save the slight distortion of her features caused by the original attack. rachel sat idle, prim, in vague reflection, at intervals smoothing her petticoat, or giving a faint cough, or gazing at the mild blue september sky. she might have been reading a book, but she was not by choice a reader. she had the rare capacity of merely existing. her thoughts flitted to and fro, now resting on mrs. maldon with solemnity, now on mrs. tams with amused benevolence, now on old batchgrew with lofty disgust, and now on louis fores with unquiet curiosity and delicious apprehension. she gave a little shudder of fright and instantly controlled it--mrs. maldon, instead of being asleep, was looking at her. she rose and went to the bedside and stood over the sick woman, by the pillow, benignly, asking with her eyes what desire of the sufferer's she might fulfil. and mrs. maldon looked up at her with another benignity. and they both smiled. "you've slept very well," said rachel softly. mrs. maldon, continuing to smile, gave a scarcely perceptible affirmative movement of the head. "will you have some of your revalenta? i've only got to warm it, here. everything's ready." "nothing, thank you, dear," said mrs. maldon, in a firm, matter-of-fact voice. the doctor had left word that food was not to be forced on her. "do you feel better?" mrs. maldon answered, in a peculiar tone-- "my dear, i shall never feel any better than i do now." "oh, you mustn't talk like that!" said rachel in gay protest. "i want to talk to you, rachel," said mrs. maldon, once more reassuringly matter-of-fact. "sit down there." rachel obediently perched herself on the bed, and bent her head. and her face, which was now much closer to mrs. maldon's, expressed the gravity which mrs. maldon would wish, and also the affectionate condescension of youth towards age, and of health towards infirmity. and as almost unconsciously she exulted in her own youth, and strength, delicate little poniards of tragic grief for mrs. maldon's helpless and withered senility seemed to stab through that personal pride. the shiny, veined right hand of the old woman emerged from under the bedclothes and closed with hot, fragile grasp on rachel's hand. within the impeccable orderliness of the bedroom was silence; and beyond was the vast sunday afternoon silence of the district, producing the sensation of surcease, re-creating the impressive illusion of religion even out of the brutish irreligion that was bewailed from pulpits to empty pews in all the temples of all the five towns. only the smoke waving slowly through the clean-washed sky from a few high chimneys over miles of deserted manufactories made a link between saturday and monday. "i've something i want to say to you," said mrs. maldon, in that deceptive matter-of-fact voice. "i wanted to tell you yesterday afternoon, but i couldn't. and then again last night, but i went off to sleep." "yes?" murmured rachel, duped by mrs. maldon's manner into perfect security. she was thinking: "what's the poor old thing got into her head now? is it something fresh about the money?" "it's about yourself," said mrs. maldon. rachel exclaimed impulsively-- "what about me?" she could feel a faint vibration in mrs. maldon's hand. "i want you not to see so much of louis." rachel was shocked and insulted. she straightened her spine and threw back her head sharply. but she dared not by force withdraw her hand from mrs. maldon's. moreover, mrs. maldon's clasp tightened almost convulsively. "i suppose mr. batchgrew's been up here telling tales while i was asleep," rachel expostulated, hotly and her demeanour was at once pouting, sulky, and righteously offended. mrs. maldon was puzzled. "this morning, do you mean, dear?" she asked. tears stood in rachel's eyes. she could not speak, but she nodded her head. and then another sentence burst from her full breast: "and you told mrs. tams she wasn't to tell me mr. batchgrew'd called!" "i've not seen or heard anything of mr. batchgrew," said mrs. maldon. "but i did hear you and louis talking outside last night." the information startled rachel. "well, and what if you did, mrs. maldon?" she defended herself. her foot tapped on the floor. she was obliged to defend herself, and with care. mrs. maldon's tranquillity, self-control, immense age and experience, superior deportment, extreme weakness, and the respect which she inspired, compelled the girl to intrench warily, instead of carrying off the scene in one stormy outburst of resentment as theoretically she might have done. mrs. maldon said, cajolingly, flatteringly-- "my dear, do be your sensible self and listen to me." it then occurred to rachel that during the last day or so (the period seemed infinitely longer) she had been losing, not her common sense, but her immediate command of that faculty, of which she was, privately, very proud. and she braced her being, reaching up towards her own conception of herself, towards the old invulnerable rachel louisa fleckring. at any cost she must keep her reputation for common sense with mrs. maldon. and so she set a watch on her gestures, and moderated her voice, secretly yielding to the benevolence of the old lady, and said, in the tone of a wise and kind woman of the world and an incarnation of profound sagacity-- "what do i see of mr. fores, mrs. maldon? i see nothing of mr. fores, or hardly. i'm your lady help, and he's your nephew--at least, he's your great-nephew, and it's your house he comes to. i can't help being in the house, can i? if you're thinking about last night, well, mr. fores called to see how you were getting on, and i was just going out to do some shopping. he walked down with me. i suppose i needn't tell you i didn't ask him to walk down with me. he asked me. i couldn't hardly say no, could i? and there were some parcels and he walked back with me." she felt so wise and so clever and the narrative seemed so entirely natural, proper, and inevitable that she was tempted to continue-- "and supposing we _did_ go into a cinematograph for a minute or two--what then?" but she had no courage for the confession. as a wise woman she perceived the advisability of letting well alone. moreover, she hated confessions, remorse, and gnashing of teeth. and mrs. maldon regarded her worldly and mature air, with its touch of polite condescension, as both comic and tragic, and thought sadly of all the girl would have to go through before the air of mature worldliness which she was now affecting could become natural to her. "my dear," said mrs. maldon, "i have perfect confidence in you." it was not quite true, because rachel's protest as to mr. batchgrew, seeming to point to strange concealed incidents, had most certainly impaired the perfection of mrs. maiden's confidence in rachel. rachel considered that she ought to pursue her advantage, and in a voice light and yet firm, good-natured and yet restive, she said-- "i really don't think anybody has the right to talk to me about mr. fores.... no, truly i don't." "you mustn't misunderstand me, rachel," mrs. maldon replied, and her other hand crept out, and stroked rachel's captive hand. "i am only saying to you what it is my duty to say to you--or to any other young woman that comes to live in my house. you're a young woman, and louis is a young man. i'm making no complaint. but it's my duty to warn you against my nephew." "but, mrs. maldon, i didn't know either him or you a month ago!" mrs. maldon, ignoring the interruption, proceeded quietly-- "my nephew is not to be trusted." her aged face slowly flushed as in that single brief sentence she overthrew the grand principle of a lifetime. she who never spoke ill of anybody had spoken ill of one of her own family. "but--" rachel stopped. she was frightened by the appearance of the flush on those devastated yellow cheeks, and by a quiver in the feeble voice and in the clasping hand. she could divine the ordeal which mrs. maldon had set herself and through which she had passed. mrs. maldon carried conviction, and in so doing she inspired awe. and on the top of all rachel felt profoundly and exquisitely flattered by the immolation of mrs. maiden's pride. "the money--it has something to do with that!" thought rachel. "my nephew is not to be trusted," said mrs. maldon again. "i know all his good points. but the woman who married him would suffer horribly--horribly!" "i'm so sorry you've had to say this," said rachel, very kindly. "but i assure you that there's nothing at all, nothing whatever, between mr. fores and me." and in that instant she genuinely believed that there was not. she accepted mrs. maldon's estimate of louis. and further, and perhaps illogically, she had the feeling of having escaped from a fatal danger. she expected mrs. maldon to agree eagerly that there was nothing between herself and louis, and to reiterate her perfect confidence. but, instead, mrs. maldon, apparently treating rachel's assurance as negligible, continued with an added solemnity-- "i shall only live a little while longer--a very little while." the contrast between this and her buoyant announcement on the previous day that she was not going to die just yet was highly disturbing, but rachel could not protest or even speak. "a very little while!" repeated mrs. maldon reflectively. "i've not known you long--as you say--rachel. but i've never seen a girl i liked more, if you don't mind me telling you. i've never seen a girl i thought better of. and i don't think i could die in peace if i thought louis was going to cause you any trouble after i'm gone. no, i couldn't die in peace if i thought that." and rachel, intimately moved, thought: "she has saved me from something dreadful!" (without trying to realize precisely from what.) "how splendid she is!" and she cast out from her mind all the multitudinous images of louis fores that were there. and, full of affection, and flattered pride and gratitude and childlike admiration, she bent down and rewarded the old woman who had so confided in her with a priceless girlish kiss. and she had the sensation of beginning a new life. iii and yet, a few moments later, when mrs. maldon faintly murmured, "some one at the front door," rachel grew at once uneasy, and the new life seemed an illusion--either too fine to be true or too leaden to be desired; and she was swaying amid uncertainties. perhaps louis was at the front door. he had not yet called; but surely he was bound to call some time during the day! of the dozen different rachels in rachel, one adventurously hoped that he would come, and another feared that he would come; one ruled him sharply out of the catalogue of right-minded persons, and another was ready passionately to defend him. "i think not," said rachel. "yes, dear; i heard some one," mrs. maldon insisted. mrs. maldon, long practised in reconstructing the life of the street from trifling hints of sound heard in bed, was not mistaken. rachel, opening the door of the bedroom, caught the last tinkling of the front-door bell below. on the other side of the front door somebody was standing--louis fores, or another! "it may be the doctor," she said brightly, as she left the bedroom. the coward in her wanted it to be the doctor. but, descending the stairs, she could see plainly through the glass that louis himself was at the front door. the rachel that feared was instantly uppermost in her. she was conscious of dread. from the breathless sinking within her bosom the stairs might have been the deck of a steamer pitching in a heavy sea. she thought-- "here is the louis to whom i am indifferent. there is nothing between us, really. but shall i have strength to open the door to him?" she opened the door, with the feeling that the act was tremendous and irrevocable. the street, in the sabbatic sunshine, was as calm as at midnight. louis fores, stiff and constrained, stood strangely against the background of it. the unusualness of his demeanour, which was plain to the merest glance, increased rachel's agitation. it appeared to rachel that the two of them faced each other like wary enemies. she tried to examine his face in the light of mrs. maldon's warning, as though it were the face of a stranger; but without much success. "is auntie well enough for me to see her?" asked louis, without greeting or preliminary of any sort. his voice was imperfectly under control. rachel replied curtly-- "i dare say she is." to herself she said-- "of course if he's going to sulk about last night--well, he must sulk. really and truly he got much less than he deserved. he had no business at all to have suggested me going to the cinematograph with him. the longer he sulks the better i shall be pleased." and in fact she was relieved at his sullenness. she tossed her proud head, but with primness. and she fervently credited to the full mrs. maldon's solemn insinuations against the disturber. louis hesitated a second, then stepped in. rachel marched processionally upstairs, and with the detachment of a footman announced to mrs. maldon that mr. fores waited below. "oh, please bring him up," said mrs. maldon, with a mild and casual benevolence that surprised the girl; for rachel, in the righteous ferocity of her years, vaguely thought that an adverse moral verdict ought to be swiftly followed by something in the nature of annihilation. "will you please come up," she invited louis, from the head of the stairs, adding privately--"i can be as stiff as you can--and stiffer. how mistaken i was in you!" she preceded him into the bedroom, and then with ostentatious formality left aunt and nephew together. nobody should ever say any more that she encouraged the attentions of louis fores. "what is the matter, dear?" mrs. maldon inquired from her bed, perceiving the signs of emotion on louis' face. "has mr. batchgrew been here yet?" louis demanded. "no. is he coming?" "yes, he's just been to my digs. came in his car. auntie, do you know that he's accusing me of stealing your money--and--and--all sorts of things! i don't want to hide anything from you. it's true i was with rachel at the cinematograph last night, but--" mrs. maldon raised her enfeebled, shaking hand. "louis!" she entreated. his troubled, ingenuous face seemed to torture her. "i know it's a shame to bother you, auntie. but what was i to do? he's coming up here. i only want to tell you i've not got your money. i've not stolen it. i'm absolutely innocent--absolutely. and i'll swear it on anything you like." his voice almost broke under the strain of its own earnestness. his plaintive eyes invoked justice and protection. who could have doubted that he was sincere in this passionate, wistful protestation of innocence? "louis!" mrs. maldon entreated again, committing herself to naught, taking no side, but finding shelter beneath the enigmatic, appealing repetition of his name. it was the final triumph of age over crude youth. "louis!" iv rachel stood expectant and watchful in the kitchen. she was now filled with dread. she wanted to go up and waken mrs. tams, but was too proud. the thought had come into her mind: "his coming like this has something to do with the money. perhaps he wasn't sulking with me after all. perhaps ..." but what it was that she dreaded she could not have defined. and then she caught the sound of an approaching automobile. the car threw its shadow across the glazed front door, which she commanded from the kitchen, and stopped. and the front-door bell rang uncannily over her head. she opened the door to councillor batchgrew, whose breathing was irregular and rapid. "has louis fores been here?" batchgrew asked. "he's upstairs now with mrs. maldon." without warning, thomas batchgrew strode into the house and straight upstairs. his long whiskers sailed round the turn of the stairs and disappeared. rachel was somewhat discomfited, and very resentful. but her dread was not thereby diminished. "they'll kill the old lady between them if they don't take care," she thought. the next instant louis appeared at the head of the stairs. with astounding celerity rachel slipped into the parlour. she could not bear to encounter him in the lobby--it was too narrow. she heard louis come down the stairs, saw him take his hat from the oak chest and heard him open the front gate. in the lobby he had looked neither to right nor left. "how do, ernest!" she heard him greet the amateur chauffeur-in-chief of the batchgrew family. his footfalls on the pavement died away into the general silence of the street. overhead she could hear old batchgrew walking to and fro. without reflection she went upstairs and hovered near the door of mrs. maldon's bedroom. she said to herself that she was not eavesdropping. she listened, while pretending not to listen, but there was no sign of conversation within the room. and then she very distinctly heard old batchgrew exclaim-- "and they go gallivanting off together to the cinema!" upon which ensued another silence. rachel flushed with shame, fury, and apprehension. she hated batchgrew, and louis, and all gross masculine invaders. the mysterious silence within the room persisted. and then old batchgrew violently opened the door and glared at rachel. he showed no surprise at seeing her there on the landing. "ye'd better keep an eye on missis," he said gruffly. "she's gone to sleep seemingly." and with no other word he departed. before the car had given its warning hoot rachel was at mrs. maldon's side. the old lady lay in all tranquillity on her left arm. she was indeed asleep, or she was in a stupor, and the peculiar stertorous noise of her breathing had recommenced. rachel's vague dread vanished as she gazed at the worn features, and gave place to a new and definite fright. "they have killed her!" she muttered. and she ran into the next room and called mrs. tams. "who's below?" asked mrs. tarns, as, wide awake, she came out on to the landing. "nobody," said rachel. "they've gone." but the doctor was below. mr. batchgrew had left the front door open. "what a good thing!" cried rachel. in the bedroom dr. yardley, speaking with normal loudness, just as though mrs. maldon had not been present, said to rachel-- "i expected this this morning. there's nothing to be done. if you try to give her food she'll only get it into the lung. it's very improbable that she'll regain consciousness." "but are you sure, doctor?" rachel asked. the doctor answered grimly-- "no, i'm not--i'm never sure. she _may_ recover." "she's been rather disturbed this afternoon." the doctor lifted his shoulders. "that's got nothing to do with it," said he. "as i told you, she's had an embolus in one artery of the brain. it lessened at first for a bit--they do sometimes--and now it's enlarging, that's all. nothing external could affect it either way." "but how long--?" asked rachel, recoiling. v her chief sensation that evening was that she was alone, for mrs. tams was not a companion, but a slave. she was alone with a grave and strange responsibility, which she could not evade. indeed, events had occurred in such a manner as to make her responsibility seem natural and inevitable, to give it the sanction of the most correct convention. between . and in the afternoon four separate calls of inquiry had been made at the house, thus demonstrating mrs. maldon's status in the town. one lady had left a fine bunch of grapes. to all these visitors rachel had said the same things, namely, that mrs. maldon had been better on the saturday, but was worse; that the case was very serious; that the doctor had been twice that day and was coming again, that councillor batchgrew was fully informed and had seen the patient; that mr. louis fores, mrs. maldon's only near relative in england, was constantly in and out; that she herself had the assistance of mrs. tams, who was thoroughly capable, and that while she was much obliged for offers of help, she could think of no way of utilizing them. so that when the door closed on the last of the callers, rachel, who a month earlier had never even seen mrs. maldon, was left in sole rightful charge of the dying-bed. and there was no escape for her. she could not telegraph--the day being sunday. moreover, except thomas batchgrew, there was nobody to whom she might telegraph. and she did not want mr. batchgrew. though mr. batchgrew certainly had not guessed the relapse, she felt no desire whatever to let him have news. she hated his blundering intrusions; and in spite of the doctor's statements she would insist to herself that he and louis between them had somehow brought about the change in mrs. maldon. of course she might fetch louis. she did not know his exact address, but he could be discovered. at any rate, mrs. tams might be sent for him. but she could not bring herself to make any advance towards louis. at a little after six o'clock, when the rare chapel-goers had ceased to pass, and the still rarer church-goers were beginning to respond to distant bells, mrs. tams informed her that tea was ready for her in the parlour, and she descended and took tea, utterly alone. mrs. tams had lighted the fire, and had moved the table comfortably towards the fire--act of astounding initiative and courage, in itself a dramatic proof that mrs. maldon no longer reigned at bycars. tea finished, rachel returned to the sick-room, where there was nothing whatever to do except watch the minutes recede. she thought of her father and brother in america. then mrs. tams, who had been clearing away the tea-things, came into the bedroom and said-- "here's mr. fores, miss." rachel started. "mr. fores! what does he want?" she asked querulously. mrs. tams preserved her blandness. "he asked for you, miss." "didn't he ask how mrs. maldon is?" "no, miss." "well, i don't want to see him. you might run down and tell him what the doctor said, mrs. tams." she tried to make her voice casually persuasive. "shall i, miss?" said miss tams doubtfully, and turned to the door. rachel was again full of fear and resentment. louis had committed the infamy of luring her into the cinematograph. it was through him that she had "got herself talked about." mrs. maldon's last words had been a warning against him. he and mr. batchgrew had desecrated the sick-room with their mysterious visitations. and now louis was come again. from what catastrophes had not mrs. maldon's warning saved her! "here! i'll go," said rachel, in a sudden resolve. "i'm glad on it," said mrs. tams simply. in the parlour louis stood in front of the fire. although the blinds were drawn, the gas had not been lighted; but the fire and the powerful street lamp together sufficed to give clearness to every object in the room. the table had been restored to its proper situation. the gift of grapes ornamented the sideboard. "good-evening," said rachel sullenly, as if pouting. she avoided looking at louis, and sat down on the chesterfield. louis broke forth in a cascade of words-- "i say, i'm most awfully sorry. i hadn't the faintest notion this afternoon she was any worse--not the faintest. otherwise i shouldn't have dreamt--i met the doctor just now in moorthorne road, and he told me." "what did he tell you?" asked rachel, still with averted head, picking at her frock. "well, he gave me to understand there's very little hope, and nothing to be done. if i'd had the faintest notion--" "you needn't worry about that," said rachel. "your coming made no difference. the doctor said so." and she asked herself why she should go out of her way to reassure louis. it would serve him right to think that his brusque visit, with mr. batchgrew's, was the origin of the relapse. "is there any change?" louis asked. rachel shook her head "no," she said. "we just have to sit and watch." "doctor's coming in again to-night, isn't he?" rachel nodded. "it seems it's an embolus." rachel nodded once more. she had still no conception of what an embolus was; but she naturally assumed that louis could define an embolus with exactitude. "i say," said louis, and his voice was suddenly charged with magical qualities of persuasion, entreaty, and sincerity--"i say, you might look at me." she flushed, but she looked up at him. she might have sat straight and remarked: "mr. fores, what do you mean by talking to me like that?" but she raised her eyes and her crimson cheeks for one timid instant, and dropped them. his voice had overcome her. with a single phrase, with a mere inflection, he had changed the key of the interview. and the glance at him had exposed her to the appeal of his face, more powerful than ten thousand logical arguments and warnings. his face proved that he was a sympathetic, wistful, worried fellow-creature--and miraculously, uniquely handsome. his face in the twilight was the most romantic face that rachel had ever seen. his gestures had a celestial charm. he said-- "i know i ought to apologize for the way i came in this afternoon. i do. but if you knew what cause i had ...! would you believe that old batch had come to my place, and practically accused me of stealing the old lady's money--_stealing_ it!" "never!" rachel murmured. "yes, he did. the fact is, he knew jolly well he'd no business to have left it in the house that night, so he wanted to get out of it by making _me_ suffer. you know he's always been down on me. well, i came straight up here and i told auntie. of course i couldn't make a fuss, with her ill in bed. so i simply told her i hadn't got her money and i hadn't stolen it, and i left it at that. i thought the less said the better. but i had to say that much. i wonder what julian would have said if he'd been accused. i just wonder!" he repeated the word, queerly evocative: "julian!" "what did mrs. maldon say?" rachel asked. "well, she didn't say much. she believed me, naturally. and then old batch came. i wasn't going to have a regular scene with him up there, so i left. i thought that was the only dignified thing to do. i wanted to tell you, and i've told you. don't you think it's a shame?" rachel answered passionately-- "i do." she answered thus because she had a tremendous desire to answer thus. to herself she said: "do i?... yes, i do." louis' eyes drew sympathy out of her. it seemed to her to be of the highest importance that those appealing eyes should not appeal in vain. "item, he made a fearful fuss about you and me being at the cinema last night." "i should like to know what it's got to do with him!" said rachel, almost savagely. the word "item" puzzled her. not understanding it, she thought she had misheard. "that's what i thought, too," said louis, and added, very gravely: "at the same time i'm really awfully sorry. perhaps i oughtn't to have asked you. it was my fault. but old batch would make the worst of anything." rachel replied with feverish conviction-- "mr. batchgrew ought to be ashamed. you weren't to blame, and i won't hear of it!" louis started forward with a sudden movement of the left arm. "you're magnificent," he said, with emotion. rachel trembled, and shut her eyes. she heard his voice again, closer to her, repeating with even greater emotion: "you're magnificent." tears were in her eyes. through them she looked at him. and his form was so graceful, his face so nice, so exquisitely kind and lovable and loving, that her admiration became intense, even to the point of pain. she thought of batchgrew, not with hate, but with pity. he was a monster, but he could not help it. he alone was responsible for all slanders against louis. he alone had put mrs. maldon against louis. louis was obviously the most innocent of beings. mrs. maiden's warning, "the woman who married him would suffer horribly," was manifestly absurd. "suffer horribly"--what a stinging phrase, like a needle broken in a wound! she felt tired and weak, above all tired of loneliness. his hand was on hers. she trembled anew. she was not rachel, but some new embodiment of surrender and acquiescence. and the change was delicious, fearful.... she thought: "i could die for him." she forgot that a few minutes before she had been steeling herself against him. she wanted him to kiss her, and waited an eternity. and when he had kissed her, and she was in a maze of rapture, a tiny idea shaped itself clearly in her mind for an instant: "this is wrong. but i don't care. he is mine"--and then melted like a cloud in a burning sky. and a sense of the miraculousness of destiny overcame her. in two days had happened enough for two years. it was staggering to think that only two days earlier she had been dreaming of him as of a star. could so much, indeed, happen in two days? she imagined blissfully, in her ignorance of human experience, that her case was without precedent. nay, her case appalled her in the rapidity of its development! and was thereby the more thrilling! she thought again: "yes, i could die for him--and i would!" he was still the star, but--such was the miracle--she clasped him. they heard mrs. tams knocking at the door. nothing would ever cure the charwoman's habit of knocking before entering. rachel arose from the sofa as out of a bush of blossoms. and in the artless, honest glance of her virginity and her simplicity, her eyes seemed to say to mrs. tams: "behold the phoenix among men! he is to be my husband." her pride in the strange, wondrous, incredible state of being affianced was tremendous, to the tragic point. "can ye hear, begging yer pardon?" said mrs. tams, pointing through the open door and upward. "her's just begun to breathe o' that'n [like that]." the loud, stertorous sound of mrs. maldon unconsciously drawing the final breaths of life filled the whole house. louis and rachel glanced at each other, scared, shamed, even horrified, to discover that the vast pendulum of the universe was still solemnly ticking through their ecstasy. "i'm coming," said rachel. chapter ix the married woman i wonderful things happen. if anybody had foretold to mrs. tams that in her fifty-eighth year she would accede to the honourable order of the starched white cap, mrs. tams could not have credited the prophecy. but there she stood, in the lobby of the house at bycars, frocked in black, with the strings of a plain but fine white apron stretched round her stoutness, and the cap crowning her grey hair. it was louis who had insisted on the cap, which rachel had thought unnecessary and even snobbish, and which mrs. tams had nervously deprecated. not without pleasure, however, had both women yielded to his indeed unanswerable argument: "you can't possibly have a servant opening the door without a cap. it's unthinkable." thus in her latter years of grandmotherhood had mrs. tams cast off the sackcloth of the charwoman and become a glorious domestic servant, with a room of her own in the house, and no responsibilities beyond the house, and no right to leave the house save once a week, when she visited younger generations, who still took from her and gave nothing back. she owed the advancement to rachel, who, quite unused to engaging servants, and alarmed by harrowing stories of the futility of registry offices and advertisements, had seen in mrs. tams the comfortable solution of a fearful problem. louis would have preferred a younger, slimmer, nattier, fluffier creature than mrs. tams, but was ready to be convinced that such as he wanted lived only in his fancy. moreover, he liked mrs. tams, and would occasionally flatter her by a smack on the shoulder. so in the april dusk mrs. tams stood in the windy lobby, and was full of vanity and the pride of life. she gazed forth in disdain at the little crowd of inquisitive idlers and infants that remained obstinately on the pavement hoping against hope that the afternoon's marvellous series of social phenomena was not over. she scorned the slatternly, stupid little crowd for its lack of manners. yet she ought to have known, and she did know as well as any one, that though in bursley itself people will pretend out of politeness that nothing unusual is afoot when something unusual most obviously _is_ afoot, in the small suburbs of bursley, such as bycars, no human or divine power can prevent the populace from loosing its starved curiosity openly upon no matter what spectacle that may differ from the ordinary. alas! mrs. tams in the past had often behaved even as the simple members of that crowd. nevertheless, all ceremonies being over, she shut the front door with haughtiness, feeling glad that she was not as others are. and further, she was swollen and consequential because, without counting persons named batchgrew, two visitors had come in a motor, and because at one supreme moment no less than two motors (including a batchgrew motor) had been waiting together at the curb in front of her cleaned steps. who could have foreseen this arrant snobbishness in the excellent child of nature, mrs. tams? a far worse example of spiritual iniquity sat lolling on the chesterfield in the parlour. ignorance and simplicity and a menial imitativeness might be an excuse for mrs. tams; but not for rachel, the mistress, the omniscient, the all-powerful, the giver of good, who could make and unmake with a nod. rachel sitting gorgeous on the chesterfield amid an enormous twilit welter and litter of disarranged chairs and tables; empty teapots, cups, jugs, and glasses; dishes of fragmentary remains of cake and chocolate; plates smeared with roseate ham, sticky teaspoons, loaded ash-trays, and a large general crumby mess--rachel, the downright, the contemner of silly social prejudices and all nonsense, was actually puffed up because she had a servant in a cap and because automobiles had deposited elegant girls at her door and whirled them off again. and she would have denied it and yet was not ashamed. the sole extenuation of rachel's base worldliness was that during the previous six months she had almost continuously had the sensations of a person crossing niagara on a tight-rope, and that now, on this very day, she had leaped to firm ground and was accordingly exultant. after mrs. maldon's death she had felt somehow guilty of disloyalty; she passionately regretted having had no opportunity to assure the old lady that her suspicions about louis were wrong and cruel, and to prove to her in some mysterious way the deep rightness of the betrothal. she blushed only for the moment of her betrothal. she had solemnly bound louis to keep the betrothal secret until christmas. she had laid upon both of them a self-denying ordinance as to meeting. the funeral over, she was without a home. she wished to find another situation; louis would not hear of it. she contemplated a visit to her father and brother in america. in response to a letter, her brother sent her the exact amount of the steerage fare, and, ready to accept it, she was astounded at louis' fury against her brother and at the accent with which he had spit out the word "steerage." her brother and father had gone steerage. however, she gave way to louis, chiefly because she could not bear to leave him even for a couple of months. she was lodging at knype, at a total normal expense of ten shillings a week. she possessed over fifty pounds--enough to keep her for six months and to purchase a trousseau, and not one penny would she deign to receive from her affianced. the disclosure of mrs. maldon's will increased the delicacy of her situation. mrs. maldon had left the whole of her property in equal shares to louis and julian absolutely. there were others who by blood had an equal claim upon her with these two, but the rest had been mere names to her, and she had characteristically risen above the conventionalism of heredity. mr. batchgrew, the executor, was able to announce that in spite of losses the heirs would get over three thousand five hundred pounds apiece. hence it followed that rachel would be marrying for money as well as for position! she trembled when the engagement was at length announced. and when louis, after consultation with mr. batchgrew, pointed out that it would be advantageous not merely to the estate as a whole, but to himself and to her, if he took over the house at bycars and its contents at a valuation and made it their married home, she at first declined utterly. the scheme seemed sacrilegious to her. how could she dare to be happy in that house where mrs. maldon had died, in that house which was so intimately mrs. maldon's? but the manifold excellences of the scheme, appealing strongly to her common sense, overcame her scruples. the dead are dead; the living must live, and the living must not be morbid; it would be absurd to turn into a pious monument every house which death has emptied; mrs. maldon, had she known all the circumstances, would have been only too pleased, etc., etc. the affair was settled, and grew into public knowledge. rachel had to emerge upon the world as an engaged girl. left to herself she would have shunned all formalities; but louis, bred up in barnes, knew what was due to society. naught was omitted. louis' persuasiveness could not be withstood. withal, he was so right. and though rachel in one part of her mind had a contempt for "fuss," in another she liked it and was half ashamed of liking it. further, her common sense, of which she was still proud, told her that the delicacy of her situation demanded "fuss," and would be much assuaged thereby. and finally, the whole thing, being miraculous, romantic, and incredible, had the quality of a dream through which she lived in a dazed nonchalance. could it be true that she had resided with mrs. maldon only for a month? could it be true that her courtship had lasted only two days--or at most, three? never, she thought, had a sensible, quiet girl ridden such a whirlwind before in the entire history of the world. could louis be as foolishly fond of her as he seemed? was she truly to be married? "i shan't have a single wedding-present," she had said. then wedding-presents began to come. "are we married?" she had said, when they were married and in the conventional clothes in the conventional vehicle. after that she soon did realize that the wondrous and the unutterable had happened to her too. and she swung over to the other extreme: instead of doubting the reality of her own experiences, she was convinced that her experiences were more real than those of any other created girl, and hence she felt a slight condescension towards all the rest. "i am a married woman," she reflected at intervals, with intense momentary pride. and her fits of confusion in public would end in recurrences of this strange, proud feeling. then she had to face the return to bursley, and, later, the at home which louis propounded as a matter of course, and which she knew to be inevitable. the house was her toy, and mrs. tams was her toy. but the glee of playing with toys had been overshadowed for days by the delicious dread of the at home. "it will be the first caller that will kill me," she had said. "but will anybody really come?" and the first caller had called. and, finding herself still alive, she had become radiant, and often during the afternoon had forgotten to be clumsy. the success of the at home was prodigious, startling. now and then when the room was full, and people without chairs perched on the end of the chesterfield, she had whispered to her secret heart in a tiny, tiny voice: "these are my guests. they all treat me with special deference. i am the hostess. _i am mrs. fores_." the batchgrew clan was well represented, no doubt by order from authority, mrs. yardley came, in surprising stylishness. visitors arrived from knype. miss malkin came and atoned for her historic glance in the shop. but the dazzlers were sundry male friends of louis, with kensingtonian accents, strange phrases, and assurance in the handling of teacups and the choosing of cake.... one by one and two by two they had departed, and at last rachel, with a mind as it were breathless from rapid flittings to and fro, was seated alone on the sofa. she was richly dressed in a dark blue taffeta dress that gave brilliance to her tawny hair. perhaps she was over-richly dressed, for, like many girls who as a rule are not very interested in clothes, she was too interested in them at times, and inexperienced taste was apt to mislead her into an unfitness. also her figure was too stiff and sturdy to favour elegance. but on this occasion the general effect of her was notably picturesque, and her face and hair, and the expression of her pose, atoned in their charm for the shortcomings and the luxuriance of the frock. she was no more the rachel that mrs. maldon had known and that louis had first kissed. her glance had altered, and her gestures. she would ask herself, could it be true that she was a married woman? but her glance and gestures announced it true at every instant. a new languor and a new confidence had transformed the girl. her body had been modified and her soul at once chastened and fired. fresh in her memory was endless matter for meditation. and on the sofa, in a negligent attitude of repose, with shameless eyes gazing far into the caverns of the fire, and an unreadable faint smile on her face, she meditated. and she was the most seductive, tantalizing, self-contradictory object for study in the whole of bursley. she had never been so interesting as in this brief period, and she might never be so interesting again. mrs. tams entered. with her voice mrs. tams said, "shall i begin to clear all these things away, _mam_?" but with her self-conscious eyes mrs. tams said to the self-conscious eyes of rachel, "what a staggering world we live in, don't we?" ii rachel sprang from the chesterfield, smoothed down her frock, shook her hair, and then ran upstairs to the large front bedroom, where louis, to whom the house was just as much a toy as to rachel, was about to knock a nail into a wall. out of breath, she stood close to him very happily. the at home was over. she was now definitely received as a married woman in a town full of married women and girls waiting to be married women. she had passed successfully through a trying and exhausting experience; the nervous tension was slackened. and therefore it might be expected that she would have a sense of reaction, the vague melancholy which is produced when that which has long been seen before is suddenly seen behind. but it was not so in the smallest degree. every moment of her existence equally was thrilling and happy. one piquant joy was succeeded immediately by another as piquant. to rachel it was not in essence more exciting to officiate at an at home than to watch louis drive a nail into a wall. the man winked at her in the dusk; she winked back, and put her hand intimately on his shoulder. she thought, "i am safe with him now in the house." the feeling of solitude with him, of being barricaded against the world and at the mercy of louis alone, was exquisite to her. then louis raised himself on his toes, and raised his left arm with the nail as high as he could, and stuck the point of the nail against a pencil-mark on the wall. then he raised the right hand with the hammer; but the mark was just too high to be efficiently reached by both hands simultaneously. louis might have stood on a chair. this simple device, however, was too simple for them. rachel said-- "shall i stand on a chair and hold the nail for you?" louis murmured-- "brainy little thing! never at a loss!" she skipped on to a chair and held the nail. towering thus above him, she looked down on her husband and thought: "this man is mine alone, and he is all mine." and in rachel's fancy the thought itself seemed to caress louis from head to foot. "supposing i catch you one?" said louis, as he prepared to strike. "i don't care," said rachel. and the fact was that really she would have liked him to hit her finger instead of the nail--not too hard, but still smartly. she would have taken pleasure in the pain: such was the perversity of the young wife. but louis hit the nail infallibly every time. he took up a picture which had been lying against the wall in a dark corner, and thrust the twisting wire of it over the nail. rachel, when in the deepening darkness she had peered into the frame, exclaimed, pouting-- "oh, darling, you aren't going to hang that here, are you? it's so old-fashioned. you said it was old-fashioned yourself. i did want that thing that came this morning to be put somewhere here. why can't you stick this in the spare room?... unless, of course, you _prefer_...." she was being deferential to the art-expert in him, as well as to the husband. "not in the least!" said louis, acquiescent, and unhooked the picture. taste changes. the rejected of rachel was a water-colour by the late athelstan maldon, adored by mrs. maldon. already it had been degraded from the parlour to the bedroom, and now it was to be pushed away like a shame into obscurity. it was a view of the celebrated vale of llangollen, finicking, tight, and hard in manner, but with a certain sentiment and modest skill. the way in which the initials "a.m." had been hidden amid the foreground foliage in the left-hand corner disclosed enough of the painter's quiet and proud temperament to show that he "took after" his mother. yet a few more years, and the careless observer would miss those initials altogether and would be contemptuously inquiring, "who did this old daub, i wonder?" and nobody would know who did the old daub, or that the old daub for thirty years had been an altar for undying affection, and also a distinguished specimen--admired by a whole generation of townsfolk--of the art of water-colour. and the fate of athelstan's sketch was symptomatic. mrs. maiden's house had been considered perfect, up to the time of her death. rachel had at first been even intimidated by it; louis had sincerely praised it. and indeed its perfection was an axiom of drawing-room conversation. but as soon as louis and rachel began to look on the house with the eye of inhabitants, the axiom fell to a dogma, and the dogma was exploded. the dreadful truth came out that mrs. maldon had shown a strange indifference to certain aspects of convenience, and that, in short, she must have been a peculiar old lady with ideas of her own. louis proved unanswerably that in the hitherto faultless parlour the furniture was ill arranged, and suddenly the sideboard and the chesterfield had changed places, and all concerned had marvelled that mrs. maldon had for so long kept the chesterfield where so obviously the sideboard ought to have been, and the sideboard where so obviously the chesterfield ought to have been. and still graver matters had come to light. the house had an attic floor, which was unused and the scene of no activity except spring cleaning. a previous owner, infected by the virus of modernity, had put a bath into one of the attics. now mrs. maldon, as experiments disclosed, had actually had the water cut off from the bath. eyebrows were lifted at the revelation of this caprice. the restoration of the supply of water and the installing of a geyser were the only expenditures which thrifty rachel had sanctioned in the way of rejuvenating the house. rachel had decided that the house must, at any rate for the present, be "made to do." that such a decision should be necessary astonished rachel; and mrs. maldon would have been more than astonished to learn that the lady help, by fortitude and determination, was making her perfect house "do." as regards the household inventory, rachel had been obliged to admit exceptions to her rule of endurance. perhaps her main reason for agreeing to live in the house had been that there would be no linen to buy. but truly mrs. maldon's notion of what constituted a sufficiency of--for example--towels, was quite too inadequate. louis protested that he could comfortably use all mrs. maldon's towels in half a day. more towels had to be obtained. there were other shortages, but some of them were set right by means of veiled indications to prospective givers of gifts. "you mean that 'garden of the hesperides' affair for up here, do you?" said louis. rachel gazed round the bedchamber. a memory of what it had been shot painfully through her mind. for the room was profoundly changed in character. two narrow bedsteads given by thomas batchgrew, and described by mrs. tarns, in a moment of daring, as "flighty," had taken the place of mrs. maldon's bedstead, which was now in the spare room, the spare-room bedstead having been allotted to mrs. tams, and rachel's old bedstead sold. bright crocheted and embroidered wedding-presents enlivened the pale tones of the room. the wardrobe, washstand, dressing-table, chairs, carpet, and ottoman remained. but there were razors on the washstand and boot-trees under it; the wardrobe had been emptied, and filled on strange principles with strange raiment; and the maldon family bible, instead of being on the ottoman, was in the ottoman--so as to be out of the dust. "perhaps we may as well keep that here, after all," said rachel, indicating athelsan's water-colour. her voice was soft. she remembered that the name of mrs. maldon, only a little while since a major notability of bursley and the very mirror of virtuous renown, had been mentioned but once, and even then apologetically, during the afternoon. louis asked, sharply-- "why, if you don't care for it? _i_ don't." "well--" said rachel. "as you like, then, dearest." louis walked out of the room with the water-colour, and in a moment returned with a photogravure of lord leighton's "the garden of the hesperides," in a coquettish gold frame--a gift newly arrived from louis' connections in the united states. the marmoreal and academic work seemed wonderfully warm and original in that room at bycars. rachel really admired it, and admired herself for admiring it. but when louis had hung it and flicked it into exact perpendicularity, and they had both exclaimed upon its brilliant effect even in the dusk, rachel saw it also with the eyes of mrs. maldon, and wondered what mrs. maldon would have thought of it opposite her bed, and knew what mrs. maldon would have thought of it. and then, the job being done and the progress of civilization assured, louis murmured in a new appealing voice-- "i say, louise!" "louise" was perhaps his most happy invention, and the best proof that louis was louis. upon hearing that her full christian names were rachel louisa, he had instantly said--"i shall call you louise." rachel was ravished, louisa is a vulgar name--at least it is vulgar in the five towns, where every second general servant bears it. but louise was full of romance, distinction, and beauty. and it was the perfect complement to louis. louis and louise--ideal coincidence! "but nobody except me is to call you louise," he had added. and thus completed her bliss. "what?" she encouraged him amorously. "suppose we go to llandudno on saturday for the week-end?" his tone was gay, gentle, innocent, persuasive. yet the words stabbed her and her head swam. "but why?" she asked, controlling her utterance. "oh, well! be rather a lark, wouldn't it?" it was when he talked in this strain that the inconvenient voice of sagacity within her would question for one agonizing instant whether she was more secure as the proud, splendid wife of louis fores than she had been as a mere lady help. and the same insistent voice would repeat the warnings which she had had from mrs. maldon and from thomas batchgrew, and would remind her of what she herself had said to herself when louis first kissed her--"this is wrong. but i don't care. he is mine." upon hearing of his inheritance from mrs. maldon, louis was for throwing up immediately his situation at horrocleave's. rachel had dissuaded him from such irresponsible madness. she had prevented him from running into a hundred expenses during their engagement and in connection with the house. and he had in the end enthusiastically praised her common sense. but that very morning at the midday meal he had surprised her by announcing that on account of the reception he should not go to the works at all in the afternoon, though he had omitted to warn horrocleave. ultimately she had managed, by guile, to dispatch him to the works for two hours. and now in the evening he was alarming her afresh. why go to llandudno? what point was there in rushing off to llandudno, and scattering in three days more money than they could save in three weeks? he frightened her ingrained prudence, and her alarm was only increased by his obvious failure to realize the terrible defect in himself. (for to her it was terrible.) the joyous scheme of an excursion to llandudno had suddenly crossed his mind, exciting the appetite for pleasure. hence the appetite must be immediately indulged!... rachel had been brought up otherwise. and as a direct result of louis' irresponsible suggestion she had a vision of the house with county-court bailiffs lodged in the kitchen.... she had only to say--"yes, let's go," and they would be off on the absurd and wicked expedition. "i'd really rather not," she said, smiling, but serious. "all serene. but, anyhow, next week's easter, and we shall have to go somewhere then, you know." she put her hands on his shoulders and looked close at him, knowing that she must use her power and that the heavy dusk would help her. "why?" she asked again. "i'd much sooner stay here at easter. truly i would!... with you!" the episode ended with an embrace. she had won. "very well! very well!" said louis. "easter in the coal-cellar if you like. i'm on for anything." "but don't you _see_, dearest?" she said. and he imitated her emphasis, full of teasing good humour-- "yes, i _see_, dearest." she breathed relief, and asked-- "are you going to give me my bicycle lesson?" iii louis had borrowed a bicycle for rachel to ruin while learning to ride. he said that a friend had lent it to him--a man in hanbridge whose mother had given up riding on account of stoutness--but who exactly this friend was rachel knew not, louis' information being characteristically sketchy and incomplete; and with his air of candour and good humour he had a strange way of warding off questions; so that already rachel had grown used to a phrase which she would utter only in her mind, "i don't like to ask him--" it pleased louis to ride this bicycle out of the back yard, down the sloping entry, and then steer it through another narrow gateway, across the pavement, and let it solemnly bump, first with the front wheel and then with the back wheel, from the pavement into the road. during this feat he stood on the pedals. he turned the machine up bycars lane, and steadily climbed the steep at rachel's walking pace. and rachel, hurrying by his side, watched in the obscurity the play of his ankles as he put into practice the principles of pedalling which he had preached. he was a graceful rider; every movement was natural and elegant. rachel considered him to be the most graceful cyclist that ever was. she was fascinated by the revolutions of his feet. she felt ecstatically happy. the episode of his caprice for the seaside was absolutely forgotten; after all, she asked for nothing more than possession of him, and she had that, though indeed it seemed too marvellous to be true. the bicycle lesson was her hour of magic; and more so on this night than on previous nights. "i must change my dress," she had said. "i can't go in this one." "quick, then!" his impatience could not wait. he had helped her. he undid hooks, and fastened others.... the rich blue frock lay across the bed and looked lovely on the ivory-coloured counterpane. it seemed indeed to be a part of that in her which was louise. then she was in a short skirt which she had devised herself, and he was pushing her out of the room, his hand on her back. and she had feigned reluctance, resisting his pressure, while laughing with gleeful eagerness to be gone. no delay had been allowed. as they passed through the kitchen, not one instant for parley with mrs. tams as to the domestic organization of the evening! he was still pushing her.... thus she had had to confide her precious house and its innumerable treasures to mrs. tams. and in this surrender to louis' whim there was a fearful joy. when louis turned at last into park road, and stepped from between the wheels, she exclaimed, a little breathless from quick walking level with him up the hill-- "i can't bear to see you ride so well. oh!" she crunched her teeth with a loving, cruel gesture. "i should like to hurt you frightfully!" "what for?" "because i shall never, never be able to ride as well as you do!" he winked. "here! take hold." "i'm not ready! i'm not ready!" she cried. but he loosed the machine, and she was obliged to seize it as it fell. that was his teasing. park road had been the scene of the lesson for three nights. it was level, and it was unfrequented. "and the doctor's handy in case you break your neck," louis had said. dr. yardley's red lamp shone amicably among yellow lights, and its ray with theirs was lost in the mysterious obscurities of the closed park. not only was it socially advisable for rachel to study the perverse nature of the bicycle at night--for not to know how to ride the bicycle was as shameful as not to know how to read and write--but she preferred the night for the romantic feeling of being alone with louis, in the dark and above the glow of the town. she loved the sharp night wind on her cheek, and the faint clandestine rustling of the low evergreens within the park palisade, and the invisible and almost tangible soft sky, revealed round the horizon by gleams of fire. she had longed to ride the bicycle as some girls long to follow the hunt or to steer an automobile or a yacht. and now her ambition was being attained amid all circumstances of bliss. and yet she would shrink from beginning the lesson. "the lamp! you've forgotten to light the lamp!" she said. "get on," said he. "but suppose a policeman comes?" "suppose you get on and start! do you think i don't know you? policemen are my affair. besides, all nice policemen are in bed.... don't be afraid. it isn't alive. i've got hold of the thing. sit well down. no! there are only two pedals. you seem to think there are about nineteen. right! no, no, _no_! don't--do not--cling to those blooming handle-bars as if you were in a storm at sea. be a nice little cat in front of the fire--all your muscles loose. now! are you ready?" "yes," she murmured, with teeth set and dilated eyes staring ahead at the hideous dangers of park road. he impelled. the pedals went round. the machine slid terribly forward. and in a moment louis said, mischievously-- "i told you you'd have to go alone to-night. there you are!" his footsteps ceased. "louis!" she cried, sharply and yet sadly upbraiding his unspeakable treason. her fingers gripped convulsively the handle-bars. she was moving alone. it was inconceivably awful and delightful. she was on the back of a wild pony in the forest. the miracle of equilibrium was being accomplished. the impossible was done, and at the first attempt. she thought very clearly how wondrous was life, and how perfectly happy fate had made her. and then she was lying in a tangle amid dozens of complex wheels, chains, and bars. "hurt?" shouted louis, as he ran up. she laughed and said "no," and sat up stiffly, full of secret dolours. yet he knew and she knew that the accidents of the previous two nights had covered her limbs with blue discolorations, and that the latest fall was more severe than any previous one. her courage enchanted louis and filled him with a sense of security. she was not graceful in these exercises. her ankles were thick and clumsy. not merely had she no natural aptitude for physical feats--apparently she was not lissom, nor elegant in motion. but what courage! what calm, bright endurance! what stoicism! most girls would have reproached him for betraying them to destruction, would have pouted, complained, demanded petting and apologies. but not she! she was like a man. and when he helped her to pick herself up he noticed that after all she was both lissom and agile, and exquisitely, disturbingly girlish in her short dusty skirt; and that she did trust him and depend on him. and he realized that he was safe for life with her. she was created for him. work was resumed. "now don't let go of me till i tell you," she enjoined lightly. "i won't," he answered. and it seemed to him that his loyalty to her expanded and filled all his soul. later, as she approached the other end of park road, near moorthorne road, a tram-car hurled itself suddenly down moorthorne road and overthrew her. it is true that the tram-car was never less than twenty yards away from her. but even at twenty yards it could overthrow. rachel sat dazed in the road, and her voice was uncertain as she told louis to examine the bicycle. one of the pedals was bent, and prevented the back wheel from making a complete revolution. "it's nothing," said louis. "i'll have it right in the morning." "who's that?" rachel, who had risen, gasping, turned to him excitedly as he was bending over the bicycle. conscious that somebody had been standing at the corner of the street, he glanced up. a figure was moving quickly down moorthorne road in the direction of the station. "i dun'no," said he. "it's not julian, is it?" in a peculiar tone louis replied-- "looks like him, doesn't it?" and then impulsively he yelled "hi!" the figure kept on its way. "seeing that the inimitable julian's still in south africa, it can't very well be him. and, anyhow, i'm not going to run after him." "no, of course it can't," rachel assented. presently the returning procession was re-formed. louis pushed the bicycle on its front wheel, and rachel tried to help him to support the weight of the suspended part. he had attempted in vain to take the pedal off the crank. "it's perhaps a good thing you fell just then," said louis. "because old batch is coming in to-night, and we'd better not be late." "but you never told me!" "didn't i? i forgot," he said blandly. "oh, louis!... he's not coming for supper, i hope?" "my child, if there's a chance of a free meal, old batch will be on the spot." the unaccustomed housewife foretold her approaching shame, and proclaimed louis to be the author of it. she began to quicken her steps. "you certainly ought to have let me know sooner, dearest," she said seriously. "you really are terrible." hard knocks had not hurt her. but she was hurt now. and louis' smile was very constrained. her grave manner of saying "dearest" had disquieted him. chapter x the chasm i it is true that rachel held councillor thomas batchgrew in hatred, that she had never pardoned him for the insult which he had put upon her in the imperial cinema de luxe; and that, indeed, she could never pardon him for simply being thomas batchgrew. nevertheless, there was that evening in her heart a little softening towards him. the fact was that the councillor had been flattering her. she would have denied warmly that she was susceptible to flattery; even if authoritatively informed that no human being whatever is unsusceptible to flattery, she would still have protested that she at any rate was, for, like numerous young and inexperienced women, she had persuaded herself that she was the one exception to various otherwise universal rules. it remained that thomas batchgrew had been flattering her. on arrival he had greeted her with that tinge of deference which from an old man never fails to thrill a girl. rachel's pride as a young married woman was tigerishly alert and hungry that evening. thomas batchgrew, little by little, tamed and fed it very judiciously at intervals, until at length it seemed to purr content around him like a cat. the phenomenon was remarkable, and the more so in that rachel was convinced that, whereas she was as critical and inimical as ever, old batchgrew had slightly improved. he behaved "heartily," and everybody appreciates such behaviour in the five towns. he was by nature far too insensitive to notice that the married lovers were treating each other with that finished courtesy which is the symptom of a tiff or of a misunderstanding. and the married lovers, noticing that he noticed nothing, were soon encouraged to make peace; and by means of certain tones and gestures peace was declared in the very presence of the unperceiving old brute, which was peculiarly delightful to the contracting parties. rachel had less difficulty with the supper than she feared, whereby also her good-humour was fostered. with half a cold leg of mutton, some cheeses, and the magnificent fancy remains of an at home tea, arrayed with the d'oyleys and embroidered cloths which brides always richly receive in the five towns, a most handsome and impressive supper can be concocted. rachel was astonished at the splendour of her own table. mr. batchgrew treated this supper with unsurpassable tact. the adjectives he applied to it were short and emphatic and spoken with a full mouth. he ate the supper; he kept on eating it; he passed his plate with alacrity; he refused naught. and as the meal neared its end he emitted those natural inarticulate noises from his throat which in persia are a sign of high breeding. useless for rachel in her heart to call him a glutton--his attitude towards her supper was impeccable. and now the solid part of the supper was over. one extremity of the chesterfield had been drawn closer to the fire--an operation easily possible in its new advantageous position--and louis as master of the house had mended the fire after his own method, and rachel sat upright (somewhat in the manner of mrs. maldon) in the arm-chair opposite mr. batchgrew, extended half-reclining on the chesterfield. and mrs. tams entered with coffee. "you'll have coffee, mr. batchgrew?" said the hostess. "nay, missis! i canna' sleep after it." secretly enchanted by the sweet word "missis," rachel was nevertheless piqued by this refusal. "oh, but you must have some of louise's coffee," said louis, standing negligently in front of the fire. already, though under a month old as a husband, louis, following the eternal example of good husbands, had acquired the sure belief that his wife could achieve a higher degree of excellence in certain affairs than any other wife in the world. he had selected coffee as rachel's speciality. "louise's?" repeated old batchgrew, puzzled, in his heavy voice. rachel flushed and smiled. "he calls me louise, you know," said she. "calls you louise, does he?" batchgrew muttered indifferently. but he took a cup of coffee, stirred part of its contents into the saucer and on to the chesterfield, and began to sup the remainder with a prodigious splutter of ingurgitation. "and you must have a cigarette, too," louis carelessly insisted. and mr. batchgrew agreed, though it was notorious that he only smoked once in a blue moon, because all tobacco was apt to be too strong for him. "you can clear away," rachel whispered, in the frigid tones of one accustomed to command cohorts of servants in the luxury of historic castles. "yes, ma'am," mrs. tams whispered back nervously, proud as a major-domo, though with less than a major-domo's aplomb. no pride, however, could have outclassed rachel's. she had had a full day, and the evening was the crown of the day, because in the evening she was entertaining privately for the first time. she was the one lady of the party; for these two men she represented woman, and they were her men. they depended on her for their physical well-being, and not in vain. she was the hostess; hers to command; hers the complex responsibility of the house. she had begun supper with painful timidity, but the timidity had now nearly vanished in the flush of social success. critical as only a young wife can be, she was excellently well satisfied with louis' performance in the role of host. she grew more than ever sure that there was only one louis. see him manipulate a cigarette--it was the perfection of worldliness and agreeable, sensuous grace! see him hold a match to mr. batchgrew's cigarette! now mr. batchgrew smoked a cigarette clumsily. he seemed not to be able to decide whether a cigarette was something to smoke or something to eat. mr. batchgrew was more ungainly than ever, stretched in his characteristic attitude at an angle of forty-five degrees; his long whiskers were more absurdly than ever like two tails of a wire-haired white dog; his voice more coarsely than ever rolled about the room like undignified thunder. he was an old, old man, and a sinister. it was precisely his age that caressed rachel's pride. that any man so old should have come to her house for supper, should be treating her as an equal and with the directness of allusion in conversation due to a married woman but improper to a young girl--this was very sweet to rachel. the subdued stir made by mrs. tams in clearing the table was for rachel a delicious background to the scene. the one flaw in it was her short skirt, which she had not had time to change. louis had protested that it was entirely in order, and indeed admirably coquettish, but rachel would have preferred a long train of soft drapery disposed with art round the front of her chair. "what you want here is electricity," said thomas batchgrew, gazing at the incandescent gas; he could never miss a chance, and was never discouraged in the pursuit of his own advantage. "you think so?" murmured louis genially. "i could put ye in summat as 'u'd----" rachel broke in a clear, calm decision-- "i don't think we shall have any electricity just yet." the gesture of the economical wife in her was so final that old batchgrew raised his eyebrows with a grin at louis, and louis humorously drew down the corners of his mouth in response. it was as if they had both said, in awe-- "she has spoken!" and rachel, still further flattered and happy, was obliged to smile. when mrs. tams had made her last tiptoe journey from the room and closed the door with due silent respect upon those great ones, the expression of thomas batchgrew's face changed somewhat; he looked round, as though for spies, and then drew a packet of papers from his pocket. and the expression of the other two faces changed also. for the true purpose of the executor's visit was now to be made formally manifest. "now about this statement of account--_re_ elizabeth maldon, deceased," he growled deeply. "by the way," louis interrupted him. "is julian back?" "julian back? not as i know of," said mr. batchgrew aggressively. "why?" "we thought we saw him walking down moorthorne road to-night." "yes," said rachel. "we both thought we saw him." "happen he is if he aeroplaned it!" said batchgrew, and fumbled nervously with the papers. "it couldn't have been julian," said louis, confidently, to rachel. "no, it couldn't," said rachel. but neither conjured away the secret uneasiness of the other. and as for rachel, she knew that all through the evening she had, inexplicably, been disturbed by an apprehension that julian, after his long and strange sojourn in south africa, had returned to the district. why the possible advent of julian should disconcert her, she thought she could not divine. mr. batchgrew's demeanour as he answered louis' question mysteriously increased her apprehension. at one moment she said to herself, "of course it wasn't julian." at the next, "i'm quite sure i couldn't be mistaken." at the next, "and supposing it was julian--what of it?" ii when batchgrew and louis, sitting side by side on the chesterfield, began to turn over documents and peer into columns, and carry the finger horizontally across sheets of paper in search of figures, rachel tactfully withdrew, not from the room, but from the conversation, it being her proper role to pretend that she did not and could not understand the complicated details which they were discussing. she expected some rather dazzling revelation of men's trained methods at this "business interview" (as louis had announced it), for her brother and father had never allowed her the slightest knowledge of their daily affairs. but she was disappointed. she thought that both the men were somewhat absurdly and self-consciously trying to be solemn and learned. louis beyond doubt was self-conscious--acting as it were to impress his wife--and batchgrew's efforts to be hearty and youthful with the young roused her private ridicule. moreover, nothing fresh emerged from the interview. she had known all of it before from louis. batchgrew was merely repeating and resuming. and louis was listening with politeness to recitals with which he was quite familiar. in words almost identical with those already reported to her by louis, batchgrew insisted on the honesty and efficiency of the valuer in hanbridge, a lifelong friend of his own, who had for a specially low fee put a price on the house at bycars and its contents for the purpose of a division between louis and julian. and now, as previously with louis, rachel failed to comprehend how the valuer, if he had been favourably disposed towards louis, as batchgrew averred, could at the same time have behaved honestly towards julian. but neither louis nor batchgrew seemed to realize the point. they both apparently flattered themselves with much simplicity upon the partiality of the lifelong friend and valuer for louis, without perceiving the logical deduction that if he was partial he was a rascal. further, thomas batchgrew "rubbed rachel the wrong way" by subtly emphasizing his own marvellous abilities as a trustee and executor, and by assuring louis repeatedly that all conceivable books of account, correspondence, and documents were open for his inspection at any time. batchgrew, in rachel's opinion, might as well have said, "you naturally suspect me of being a knave, but i can prove to you that you are wrong." finally, they came to the grand total of louis' inheritance, which rachel had known by heart for several days past; yet batchgrew rolled it out as a piece of tremendous news, and immediately afterwards hinted that the sum represented less than the true worth of louis' inheritance, and that he, batchgrew, as well as his lifelong friend the valuer, had been influenced by a partiality for louis. for example, he had contrived to put all the house property, except the house at bycars, into julian's share; which was extremely advantageous for louis because the federation of the five towns into one borough had rendered property values the most capricious and least calculable of all worldly possessions.... and louis tried to smile knowingly at the knowing trustee and executor with his amiable partiality for one legatee as against the other. louis' share, beyond the bycars house, was in the gilt-edged stock of limited companies which sold water and other necessaries of life to the public on their own terms. rachel left the pair for a moment, and returned from upstairs with a grey jacket of louis' from which she had to unstitch the black _crêpe_ armlet announcing to the world louis' grief for his dead great-aunt; the period of mourning was long over, and it would not have been quite nice for louis to continue announcing his grief. as she came back into the room she heard the word "debentures," and that single word changed her mood instantly from bland feminine toleration to porcupinish defensiveness. she did not, as a fact, know what debentures were. she could not for a fortune have defined the difference between a debenture and a share. she only knew that debentures were connected with "limited companies"--not waterworks companies, which she classed with the bank of england--but just any limited companies, which were in her mind a bottomless pit for the savings of the foolish. she had an idea that a debenture was, if anything, more fatal than a share. she was, of course, quite wrong, according to general principles; but, unfortunately, women, as all men sooner or later learn, have a disconcerting habit of being right in the wrong way for the wrong reasons. in a single moment, without justification, she had in her heart declared war on all debentures. and as soon as she gathered that thomas batchgrew was suggesting to louis the exchange of waterworks stock for seven per cent. debentures in the united midland cinemas corporation, limited, she became more than ever convinced that her instinct about debentures was but too correct. she sat down primly, and detached the armlet, and removed all the bits of black cotton from the sleeve, and never raised her head nor offered a remark, but she was furious--furious to protect her husband against sharks and against himself. the conduct and demeanour of thomas batchgrew were now explained. his visit, his flattery, his heartiness, his youthfulness, all had a motive. he had safeguarded louis' interests under the will in order to rob him afterwards as a cinematograph speculator. the thing was as clear as daylight. and yet louis did not seem to see it. louis listened to batchgrew's ingenious arguments with naïve interest and was obviously impressed. when batchgrew called him "a business man as smart as they make 'em," and then proved that the money so invested would be as safe as in a stocking, louis agreed with a great air of acumen that certainly it would. when batchgrew pointed out that, under the proposed new investment, louis would be receiving in income thirty or thirty-five shillings for every pound under the old investments, louis' eye glistened--positively glistened! rachel trembled. she saw her husband beggared, and there was nothing that frightened her more than the prospect of louis without a reserve of private income. she did not argue the position--she simply knew that louis without sure resources behind him would be a very dangerous and uncertain louis, perhaps a tragic louis. she frankly admitted this to herself. and old batchgrew went on talking and inveigling until rachel was ready to believe that the device of debentures had been originally invented by thomas batchgrew himself with felonious intent. an automobile hooted in the street. "well, ye'll think it over," said thomas batchgrew. "oh i _will_!" said louis eagerly. and rachel asked herself, almost shaking--"is it possible that he is such a simpleton?" "only i must know by tuesday," said thomas batchgrew. "i thought i'd give ye th' chance, but i can't keep it open later than tuesday." "thanks, awfully," said louis. "i'm very much obliged for the offer. i'll let you know--before tuesday." rachel frowned as she folded up the jacket. if, however, the two men could have seen into her mind they would have perceived symptoms of danger more agitating than one little frown. "of course," said thomas batchgrew easily, with a short laugh, in the lobby, "if it hadna been for _her_ making away with that nine hundred and sixty-odd pound, you'd ha' had a round sum o' thousands to invest. i've been thinking o'er that matter, and all i can see for it is as her must ha' thrown th' money into th' fire in mistake for th' envelope, or with th' envelope. that's all as i can see for it." louis flushed slightly as he slapped his thigh. "never thought of that!" he cried. "it very probably _was_ that. strange it never occurred to me!" rachel said nothing. she had extreme difficulty in keeping control of herself while old batchgrew, with numerous senile precautions, took his slow departure. she forgot that she was a hostess and a woman of the world. iii "hello! what's that?" rachel asked, in a self-conscious voice, when they were in the parlour again. louis had almost surreptitiously taken an envelope from his pocket, and was extracting a paper from it. on finding themselves alone they had not followed their usual custom of bursting into comment, favourable or unfavourable, on the departed--a practice due more to a desire to rouse and enjoy each other's individualities than to a genuine interest in the third person. nor had they impulsively or deliberately kissed, as they were liable to do after release from a spell of worldliness. on the contrary, both were still constrained, as if the third person was still with them. the fact was that there were two other persons in the room, darkly discerned by louis and rachel--namely, a different, inimical rachel and a different, inimical louis. all four, the seen and the half-seen, walked stealthily, like rival beasts in the edge of the jungle. "oh!" said louis with an air of nonchalance. "it came by the last post while old batch was here, and i just shoved it into my pocket." the arrivals of the post were always interesting to them, for during the weeks after marriage letters are apt to be more numerous than usual, and to contain delicate and enchanting surprises. both of them were always strictly ceremonious in the handling of each other's letters, and yet both deprecated this ceremoniousness in the beloved. louis urged rachel to open his letters without scruple, and rachel did the same to louis. but both--louis by chivalry and rachel by pride--were prevented from acting on the invitation. the envelope in louis' hand did not contain a letter, but only a circular. the fact that the flap of the envelope was unsealed and the stamp a mere halfpenny ought rightly to have deprived the packet of all significance as a subject of curiosity. nevertheless, the different, inimical rachel, probably out of sheer perversity, went up to louis and looked over his shoulder as he read the communication, which was a printed circular, somewhat yellowed, with blanks neatly filled in, and the whole neatly signed by a churchwarden, informing louis that his application for sittings at st. luke's church (commonly called the old church) had been granted. it is to be noted that, though applications for sittings in the old church were not overwhelmingly frequent, and might indeed very easily have been coped with by means of autograph replies, the authorities had a sufficient sense of dignity always to circularize the applicants. this document, harmless enough, and surely a proof of laudable aspirations in louis, gravely displeased the different, inimical rachel, and was used by her for bellicose purposes. "so that's it, is it?" she said ominously. "but wasn't it understood that we were to go to the old church?" said the other louis, full of ingenious innocence. "oh! was it?" "didn't i mention it?" "i don't remember." "i'm sure i did." the truth was that louis had once casually remarked that he supposed they would attend the old church. rachel would have joyously attended any church or any chapel with him. at knype she had irregularly attended the bethesda chapel--sometimes (in the evenings) with her father, oftener alone, never with her brother. during her brief employment with mrs. maldon she had been only once to a place of worship, the new chapel in moorthorne road, which was the nearest to bycars and had therefore been favoured by mrs. maldon when her limbs were stiff. in the abstract she approved of religious rites. theologically her ignorance was such that she could not have distinguished between the tenets of church and the tenets of chapel, and this ignorance she shared with the large majority of the serious inhabitants of the five towns. why, then, should she have "pulled a face" (as the saying down there is) at the old parish church? one reason, which would have applied equally to church or chapel, was that she was disconcerted and even alarmed by louis' manifest tendency to settle down into utter correctness. louis had hitherto been a devotee of joy--never as a bachelor had he done aught to increase the labour of churchwardens--and it was somehow as a devotee of joy that rachel had married him. rachel had been settled down all her life, and naturally desired and expected that an unsettling process should now occur in her career. it seemed to her that in mere decency louis might have allowed at any rate a year or two to pass before occupying himself so stringently with her eternal welfare. she belonged to the middle class (intermediate between the industrial and the aristocratic employing) which is responsible for the five towns' reputation for joylessness, the class which sticks its chin out and gets things done (however queer the things done may be), the class which keeps the district together and maintains its solidity, the class which is ashamed of nothing but idleness, frank enjoyment, and the caprice of the moment. (its idiomatic phrase for expressing the experience of gladness, "i sang 'o be joyful,'" alone demonstrates its unwillingness to rejoice.) she had espoused the hedonistic class (always secretly envied by the other), and louis' behaviour as a member of that class had already begun to disappoint her. was it fair of him to say in his conduct: "the fun is over. we must be strictly conventional now"? his costly caprices for llandudno and the pleasures of idleness were quite beside the point. another reason for her objection to louis' overtures to the old church was that they increased her suspicion of his snobbishness. no person nourished from infancy in chapel can bring himself to believe that the chief motive of church-goers is not the snobbish motive of social propriety. and dissenters are so convinced that, if chapel means salvation in the next world, church means salvation in this, that to this day, regardless of the feelings of their pastors, they will go to church once in their lives--to get married. at any rate, rachel was positively sure that no anxiety about his own soul or about hers had led louis to join the old church. "have you been confirmed?" she asked. "yes, of course," louis replied politely. she did not like that "of course." "shall i have to be?" "i don't know." "well," said she, "i can tell you one thing--i shan't be." iv rachel went on-- "you aren't really going to throw your money away on those debenture things of mr. batchgrew's, are you?" louis now knew the worst, and he had been suspecting it. rachel's tone fully displayed her sentiments, and completed the disclosure that "the little thing" was angry and aggressive. (in his mind louis regarded her at moments, as "the little thing.") but his own politeness was so profoundly rooted that practically no phenomenon of rudeness could overthrow it. "no," he said, "i'm not going to 'throw my money away' on them." "that's all right, then," she said, affecting not to perceive his drift. "i thought you were." "but i propose to put my money into them, subject to anything you, as a financial expert, may have to say." nervously she had gone to the window and was pretending to straighten a blind. "i don't think you need to make fun of me," she said. "you think i don't notice when you make fun of me. but i do--always." "look here, young 'un," louis suddenly began to cajole, very winningly. "i'm about as old as you are," said she, "and perhaps in some ways a bit older. and i must say i really wonder at you being ready to help mr. batchgrew after the way he insulted me in the cinema." "insulted you in the cinema!" louis cried, genuinely startled, and then somewhat hurt because rachel argued like a woman instead of like a man. in reflecting upon the excellences of rachel he had often said to himself that her unique charm consisted in the fact that she combined the attractiveness of woman with the powerful commonsense of man. in common with a whole enthusiastic army of young husbands he had been convinced that his wife was the one female creature on earth to whom you could talk as you would to a male. "oh!" he murmured. "have you forgotten it, then?" she asked coldly. to herself she was saying: "why am i behaving like this? after all, he's done no harm yet." but she had set out, and she must continue, driven by the terrible fear of what he might do. she stared at the blind. through a slit of window at one side of it she could see the lamp-post and the iron kerb of the pavement. "but that's all over long ago," he protested amiably. "just look how friendly you were with him yourself over supper! besides--" "besides what? i wasn't friendly. i was only polite. i had to be. nobody's called mr. batchgrew worse names than you have. but you forget. only i don't forget. there's lots of things i don't forget, although i don't make a song about them. i shan't forget in a hurry how you let go of my bike without telling me and i fell all over the road. i know i'm lots more black and blue even than i was." if rachel would but have argued according to his rules of debate, louis was confident that he could have conducted the affair to a proper issue. but she would not. what could he say? in a flash he saw a vista of, say, forty years of conjugal argument with a woman incapable of reason, and trembled. then he looked again, and saw the lines of rachel's figure in her delightful short skirt and was reassured. but still he did not know what to say. rachel spared him further cogitation on that particular aspect of the question by turning round and exclaiming, passionately, with a break in her voice-- "can't you see that he'll swindle you out of the money?" it seemed to her that the security of their whole future depended on her firmness and strong sagacity at that moment. she felt herself to be very wise and also, happily, very vigorous. but at the same time she was afflicted by a kind of despair at the thought that louis had indeed been, and still was, ready to commit the disastrous folly of confiding money to thomas batchgrew for investment. and as louis had had a flashing vision of the future, so did rachel now have such a vision. but hers was more terrible than his. louis foresaw merely vexation. rachel foresaw ruin doubtfully staved off by eternal vigilance on her part and by nothing else--an instant's sleepiness, and they might be in the gutter and she the wife of a ne'er-do-well. she perceived that she must be reconciled to a future in which the strain of intense vigilance could never once be relaxed. strange that a creature so young and healthy and in love should be so pessimistic, but thus it was! she remembered in in spite of herself the warnings against louis which she had been compelled to listen to in the previous year. "odd, of course!" said louis. "but i can't exactly see how he'll swindle me out of the money! a debenture is a debenture." "is it?" "do you know what a debenture is, my child?" "i don't need to know what a debenture is, when mr. batchgrew's mixed up in it." louis suppressed a sigh. he first thought of trying to explain to her just what a debenture was. then he abandoned the enterprise as too complicated, and also as futile. though he should prove to her that a debenture combined the safety of the bank of england with the brilliance of a successful gambling transaction, she would not budge. he was acquiring valuable and painful knowledge concerning women every second. he grew sad, not simply with the weight of this new knowledge, but more because, though he had envisaged certain difficulties of married existence, he had not envisaged this difficulty. he had not dreamed that a wife would demand a share, and demand it furiously, in the control of his business affairs. he had sincerely imagined that wives listened with much respect and little comprehension when business was on the carpet, content to murmur soothingly from time to time, "just as you think best, dear." life had unpleasantly astonished him. it was on the tip of his tongue to say to rachel, with steadying facetiousness-- "you mustn't forget that i know a bit about these things, having spent years of my young life in a bank." but a vague instinct told him that to draw attention to his career in the bank might be unwise--at any rate, in principle. "can't you see," rachel charged again, "that mr. batchgrew has only been flattering you all this time so as to get hold of your money? and wasn't it just like him to begin again harping on the electricity?>" "flattering me?" "well, he couldn't bear you before--if you'd only heard the things he used to say!--and now he simply licks your boots." "what things did he say?" louis asked, disturbed. "oh, never mind!" louis became rather glum and obstinate. "the money will be perfectly safe," he insisted, "and our income pretty nearly doubled. i suppose i ought to know more about these things than you." "what's the use of income being doubled if you lose the capital?" rachel snapped, now taking a horrid, perverse pleasure in the perilous altercation. "and if it's so safe why is he ready to give you so much interest?" the worst of women, louis reflected, is that in the midst of a silly argument that you can shatter in ten words they will by a fluke insert some awkward piece of genuine ratiocination, the answer to which must necessarily be lengthy and ineffective. "it's no good arguing," he said pleasantly, and then repeated, "i ought to know more about these things than you." rachel raised her voice in exasperation-- "i don't see it, i don't see it at all. if it hadn't been for me you'd have thrown up your situation--and a nice state of affairs there would have been then! and how much money would you have wasted on holidays and so on and so on if i hadn't stopped you, i should like to know!" louis was still more astonished. indeed, he was rather nettled. his urbanity was unimpaired, but he permitted himself a slight acidity of tone as he retorted with gentle malice-- "well, you can't help the colour of your hair. so i'll keep my nerve." "i didn't expect to be insulted!" cried rachel, flushing far redder than that rich hair of hers, and paced pompously out of the room, her face working violently. the door was ajar. she passed mrs. tams on the stairs, blindly, with lowered head. v in the conjugal bedroom, full of gas-glare and shadows, there were two old women. one was mrs. tams, ministering; the other was rachel fores, once and not long ago the beloved and courted girlish louise of a chevalier, now aged by all the sorrow of the world. she lay in bed--in her bed nearest the fireplace and farthest from the door. she had undressed herself with every accustomed ceremony, arranging each article of attire, including the fine frock left on the bed, carefully in its place, as is meet in a chamber where tidiness depends on the loyal cooperation of two persons, but through her tears. she had slipped sobbing into bed. the other bed was empty, and its emptiness seemed sinister to her. would it ever be occupied again? impossible that it should ever be occupied again! its rightful occupant was immeasurably far off, along miles of passages, down leagues of stairs, separated by impregnable doors, in another universe, the universe of the ground floor. of course she might have sprung up, put on her enchanting dressing-gown, tripped down a few steps in a moment of time, and peeped in at the parlour door--just peeped in, in that magic ribboned peignoir, and glanced--and the whole planet would have been reborn. but she could not. if the salvation of the human race had depended on it, she could not--partly because she was a native of the five towns, where such things are not done, and no doubt partly because she was just herself. she was now more grieved than angry with louis. he had been wrong; he was a foolish, unreliable boy--but he was a boy. whereas she was his mother, and ought to have known better. yes, she had become his mother in the interval. for herself she experienced both pity and anger. what angered her was her clumsiness. why had she lost her temper and her head? she saw clearly how she might have brought him round to her view with a soft phrase, a peculiar inflection, a tiny appeal, a caress, a mere dimpling of the cheek. she saw him revolving on her little finger.... she knew all things now because she was so old. and then suddenly she was bathing luxuriously in self-pity, and young and imperious, and violently resentful of the insult which he had put upon her--an insult which recalled the half-forgotten humiliations of her school-days, when loutish girls had baptized her with the name of a vegetable.... and then, again suddenly, she deeply desired that louis should come upstairs and bully her. she attached a superstitious and terrible importance to the tragical episode in the parlour because it was their first quarrel as husband and wife. true, she had stormed at him before their engagement, but even then he had kept intact his respect for her, whereas now, a husband, he had shamed her. the breach, she knew, could never be closed. she had only to glance at the empty bed to be sure that it was eternal. it had been made slowly yet swiftly; and it was complete and unbridgable ere she had realized its existence. when she contrasted the idyllic afternoon with the tragedy of the night, she was astounded by the swiftness of the change. the catastrophe lay, not in the threatened loss of vast sums of money and consequent ruin--that had diminished to insignificance!--but in the breach. and then mrs. tams had inserted herself in the bedroom. mrs. tams knew or guessed everything. and she would not pretend that she did not; and rachel would not pretend--did not even care to pretend, for mrs. tams was so unimportant that nobody minded her. mrs. tams had heard and seen. she commiserated. she stroked timidly with her gnarled hand the short, fragile sleeve of the nightgown, whereat rachel sobbed afresh, with more plenteous tears, and tried to articulate a word, and could not till the third attempt. the word was "handkerchief." she was not weeping in comfort. mrs. tams was aware of the right drawer and drew from it a little white thing--yet not so little, for rachel was rachel!--and shook out its quadrangular folds, and it seemed beautiful in the gaslight; and rachel took it and sobbed "thank you." mrs. tams rose higher than even a general servant; she was the soubrette, the confidential maid, the very echo of the young and haughty mistress, leagued with the worshipped creature against the wickedness and wile of a whole sex. mrs. tams had no illusions save the sublime illusion that her mistress was an angel and a martyr. mrs. tams had been married, and she had seen a daughter married. she was an authority on first quarrels and could and did tell tales of first quarrels--tales in which the husband, while admittedly an utterly callous monster, had at the same time somehow some leaven of decency. soon she was launched in the epic recital of the birth and death of a grandchild; rachel, being a married women like the rest, could properly listen to every interesting and recondite detail. rachel sobbed and sympathized with the classic tale. and both women, as it was unrolled, kept well in their minds the vision of the vile man, mysterious and implacable, alone in the parlour. occasionally mrs. tams listened for a footstep, ready discreetly to withdraw at the slightest symptom on the stairs. once when she did this, rachel murmured, weakly, "he won't--" and then lapsed into new weeping. and after a little time mrs. tams departed. vi mrs. tams had decided to undertake an enterprise involving extreme gallantry--surpassing the physical. she went downstairs and stood outside the parlour door, which was not quite shut. within the parlour, or throne-room, existed a beautiful and superior being, full of grace and authority, who belonged to a race quite different from her own, who was beyond her comprehension, who commanded her and kept her alive and paid money to her, who accepted her devotion casually as a right, who treated her as a soft cushion between himself and the drift and inconvenience of the world, and who occasionally, as a supreme favour, caught her a smart slap on the back, which flattered her to excess. she went into the throne-room if she was called thither, or if she had cleansing or tidying work there; she spoke to the superior being if he spoke to her. but she had never till then conceived the breath-taking scheme of entering the throne-room for a purpose of her own, and addressing the superior being without an invitation to do so. nevertheless, since by long practice she was courageous, she meant to execute the scheme. and she began by knocking at the door. although rachel had seriously warned her that for a domestic servant to knock at the parlour door was a grave sin, she simply could not help knocking. not to knock seemed to her wantonly sacrilegious. thus she knocked, and a voice told her to come in. there was the superior being, his back to the fire and his legs apart--formidable! she curtsied--another sin according to the new code. then she discovered that she was inarticulate. "well?" words burst from her-- "her's crying her eyes out up yon, mester." and mrs. tams also snivelled. the superior being frowned and said testily, yet not without a touch of careless toleration-- "oh, get away, you silly old fool of a woman!" mrs. tarns got away, not entirely ill-content. in the lobby she heard an unusual rapping on the glass of the front door, and sharply opened it to inform the late disturber that there existed a bell and a knocker for respectable people. a shabby youth gave her a note for "louis fores, esq.," and said that there was an answer. so that she was forced to renew the enterprise of entering the throne-room. in another couple of minutes louis was running upstairs. his wife heard him, and shook in bed from excitement at the crisis which approached. but she could never have divined the nature of the phenomenon by which the unbridgable breach was about to be closed. "louise!" "yes," she whimpered. then she ventured to spy at his face through an interstice of the bedclothes, and saw thereon a most queer, white expression. "some one's just brought this. read it." he gave her the note, and she deciphered it as well as she could-- dear louis,--if you aren't gone to bed i want to see you to-night about that missing money of aunt's. i've something i must tell you and rachel. i'm at the "three tuns." julian maldon. "but what does he mean?" demanded rachel, roused from her heavy mood of self-pity. "i don't know." "but what can he mean?" she insisted. "haven't a notion." "but he must mean something!" louis asked-- "well, what should _you_ say he means?" "how very strange!" rachel murmured, not attempting to answer the question. "and the 'three tuns'! why does he write from the 'three tuns'? what's he doing at the 'three tuns'? isn't it a very low public-house? and everybody thought he was still in south africa!... i suppose, then, it _must_ have been him that we saw to-night." "you may bet it was." "then why didn't he come straight here? that's what i want to know. he couldn't have called before we got here, because if he had mrs. tams would have told us." louis nodded. "didn't you think mr. batchgrew looked very _queer_ when you mentioned julian to-night?" rachel continued to express her curiosity and wonder. "no. i didn't notice anything particular," louis replied vaguely. throughout the conversation his manner was self-conscious. rachel observed it, while feigning the contrary, and in her turn grew uneasy and even self-conscious also. further, she had the feeling that louis was depending upon her for support, and perhaps for initiative. his glance, though furtive, had the appealing quality which rendered him sometimes so exquisitely wistful to her. as he stood over her by the bed, he made a peculiar compound of the negligent, dominant masculine and the clinging feminine. "and why didn't he let anybody know of his return?" rachel went on. louis, veering towards the masculine, clenched the immediate point-- "the question before the meeting is," he smiled demurely, "what answer am i to send?" "i suppose you must see him to-night." "nothing else for it, is there? well, i'll scribble him a bit of a note." "but i shan't see him, louis." "no?" in an instant rachel thought to herself: "he doesn't want me to see him." aloud she said: "i should have to dress myself all over again. besides, i'm not fit to be seen." she was referring, without any apparent sort of shame, to the redness of her eyes. "well, i'll see him by myself, then." louis turned to leave the bedroom. whereat rachel was very disconcerted and disappointed. although the startling note from julian had alarmed her and excited in her profound apprehensions whose very nature she would scarcely admit to herself, the main occupation of her mind was still her own quarrel with louis. the quarrel was now over, for they had conversed in quite sincere tones of friendliness, but she had desired and expected an overt, tangible proof and symbol of peace. that proof and symbol was a kiss. louis was at the door ... he was beyond the door ... she was lost. "louis!" she cried. he put his face in at the door. "will you just pass me my hand-mirror. it's on the dressing-table." louis was thrilled by this simple request. the hand-mirror had arrived in the house as a wedding-present. it was backed with tortoise-shell, and seemingly the one thing that had reconciled rachel the downright to the possession of a hand-mirror was the fact that the tortoise-shell was real tortoise-shell. she had "made out" that a hand-mirror was too frivolous an object for the dressing-table of a serious five towns woman. she had always referred to it as "the" hand-mirror--as though disdaining special ownership. she had derided it once by using it in front of louis with the mimic foolish graces of an empty-headed doll. and now she was asking for it because she wanted it; and she had said "my" hand-mirror! this revelation of the odalisque in his rachel enchanted louis, and incidentally it also enchanted rachel. she had employed a desperate remedy, and the result on both of them filled her with a most surprising gladness. louis judged it to be deliciously right that rachel should be anxious to know whether her weeping had indeed made her into an object improper for the beholding of the male eye, and rachel to her astonishment shared his opinion. she was "vain," and they were both well content. in taking it she touched his hand. he bent and kissed her. each of them was ravaged by formidable fears for the future, tremendously disturbed in secret by the mysterious word from julian; and yet that kiss stood unique among their kisses, and in their simplicity they knew not why. and as they kissed they hated julian, and the past, and the whole world, for thus coming between them and deranging their love. they would, had it been possible, have sold all the future for tranquillity in that moment. vii going downstairs, louis found mrs. tarns standing in the back part of the lobby between the parlour door and the kitchen; obviously she had stationed herself there in order to keep watch on the messenger from the "three tuns." as the master of the house approached with dignity the foot of the stairs, the messenger stirred, and in the classic manner of messengers fingered uneasily his hat. the fingers were dirty. the hat was dirty and shabby. it had been somebody else's hat before coming into the possession of the messenger. the same applied to his jacket and trousers. the jacket was well cut, but green; the trousers, with their ragged, muddy edges, yet betrayed a pattern of distinction. round his neck the messenger wore a thin muffler, and on his feet an exhausted pair of tennis-shoes. these noiseless shoes accentuated and confirmed the stealthy glance of his eyes. except for an unshaven chin, and the confidence-destroying quality that lurked subtly in his aspect, he was not repulsive to look upon. his features were delicate enough, his restless mouth was even pretty, and his carriage graceful. he had little of the coarseness of industrialism--probably because he was not industrial. his age was about twenty, and he might have sold _signals_ in the street, or run illegal errands for street-bookmakers. at any rate, it was certain that he was not above earning a chance copper from a customer of the "three tuns." his clear destiny was never to inspire respect or trust, nor to live regularly (save conceivably in prison), nor to do any honest daily labour. and if he did not know this, he felt it. all his movements were those of an outcast who both feared and execrated the organism that was rejecting him. louis, elegant, self-possessed, and superior, passed into the parlour exactly as if the messenger had been invisible. he was separated from the messenger by an immeasurable social prestige. he was raised to such an altitude above the messenger that he positively could not see the messenger with the naked eye. and yet for one fraction of a second he had the illusion of being so intimately akin to the messenger that a mere nothing might have pushed him into those vile clothes and endowed him with that furtive look and that sinister aspect of a helot. for one infinitesimal instant he was the messenger; and shuddered. then the illusion as swiftly faded, and--such being louis' happy temperament--was forgotten. he disappeared into the parlour, took a piece of paper and an envelope from the small writing-table behind rachel's chair, and wrote a short note to julian--a note from which facetiousness was not absent--inviting him to come at once. he rang the bell. mrs. tams entered, full of felicity because the great altercation was over and concord established. "give this to that chap," said louis, casually imperative, holding out the note but scarcely glancing at mrs. tams. "yes, sir," said mrs. tarns with humble eagerness, content to be a very minor tool in the hidden designs of the exalted. "and then you can go to bed." "oh! it's of no consequence, i'm sure, sir," mrs. tams answered. louis heard her say importantly and condescendingly to the messenger-- "here ye are, young man." she shut the front door as though much relieved to get such a source of peril and infection out of the respectable house. immediately afterwards strange things happened to louis in the parlour. he had intended to return at once to his wife in order to continue the vague, staggered conversation about julian's thunderbolt. but he discovered that he could not persuade himself to rejoin rachel. a self-consciousness, growing every moment more acute and troublesome, prevented him from so doing. he was afraid that he could not discuss the vanished money without blushing, and it happened rarely that he lost control of his features, which indeed he could as a rule mould to the expression of a cherub whenever desirable. so he sat down in a chair, the first chair to hand, any chair, and began to reflect. of course he was safe. the greatest saint on earth could not have been safer than he was from conviction of a crime. he might be suspected, but nothing could possibly be proved against him. moreover, despite his self-consciousness, he felt innocent; he really did feel innocent, and even ill-used. the money had forced itself upon him in an inexcusable way; he was convinced that he had never meant to misappropriate it; assuredly he had received not a halfpenny of benefit from it. the fault was entirely the old lady's. yes, he was innocent and he was safe. nevertheless, he did not at all like the resuscitation of the affair. the affair had been buried. how characteristic of the inconvenient julian to rush in from south africa and dig it up! everybody concerned had decided that the old lady on the night of her attack had not been responsible for her actions. she had annihilated the money--whether by fire, as batchgrew had lately suggested, or otherwise, did not matter. or, if she had not annihilated the money, she had "done something" with it--something unknown and unknowable. such was the acceptable theory, in which louis heartily concurred. the loss was his--at least half the loss was his--and others had no right to complain. but julian was without discretion. within twenty-four hours julian might well set the whole district talking. louis was dimly aware that the district already had talked, but he was not aware to what extent it had talked. neither he nor anybody else was aware how the secret had escaped out of the house. mrs. tarns would have died rather than breathe a word. rachel, naturally, had said naught; nor had louis. old batchgrew had decided that his highest interest also was to say naught, and he had informed none save julian. julian might have set the secret free in south africa, but in a highly distorted form it had been current in certain strata of five towns society long before it could have returned from south africa. the rough, commonsense verdict of those select few who had winded the secret was simply that "there had been some hanky-panky," and that beyond doubt louis was "at the bottom of it," but that it had little importance, as mrs. maldon was dead, poor thing. as for julian, "a rough customer, though honest as the day," he was reckoned to be capable of protecting his own interests. and then, amid all his apprehensions, a new hope sprouted in louis' mind. perhaps julian was acquainted with some fact that might lead to the recovery of a part of the money. had louis not always held that the pile of notes which had penetrated into his pocket did not represent the whole of the nine hundred and sixty-five pounds? conceivably it represented about half of the total, in which case a further sum of, say, two hundred and fifty pounds might be coming to louis. already he was treating this two hundred and fifty pounds as a windfall, and wondering in what most pleasant ways he could employ it!... but with what kind of fact could julian be acquainted?... had julian been dishonest? louis would have liked to think julian dishonest, but he could not. then what ...? he heard movements above. and the front gate creaked. as if a spring had been loosed, he jumped from the chair and ran upstairs--away from the arriving julian and towards his wife. rachel was just getting up. "don't trouble," he said. "i'll see him. i'll deal with him. much better for you to stay in bed." he perceived that he did not want rachel to hear what julian had to say until after he had heard it himself. rachel hesitated. "do you think so?... what have you been doing? i thought you were coming up again at once." "i had one or two little things--" a terrific knock resounded on the front door. "there he is!" louis muttered, as it were aghast. chapter xi julian's document i julian maldon faced louis in the parlour. louis had conducted him there without the assistance of mrs. tams, who had been not merely advised, but commanded, to go to bed. julian had entered the house like an exasperated enemy--glum, suspicious, and ferocious. his mien seemed to say: "you wanted me to come, and i've come. but mind you don't drive me to extremities." impossible to guess from his grim face that he had asked permission to come! nevertheless he had shaken louis' hand with a ferocious sincerity which louis felt keenly the next morning. he was the same julian except that he had grown a brown beard. he had exactly the same short, thick-set figure, and the same defiant stare. south africa had not changed him. no experience could change him. he would have returned from ten years at the north pole or at the equator, with savages or with uncompromising intellectuals, just the same julian. he was one of those beings who are violently themselves all the time. by some characteristic social clumsiness he had omitted to remove his overcoat in the lobby. and now, in the parlour, he could not get it off. as a man seated, engaged in conversation by a woman standing, forgets to rise at once and then cannot rise, finding himself glued to the chair, so was julian with his overcoat; to take it off he would have had to flay himself alive. "won't you take off your overcoat?" louis suggested. "no." with his instinctive politeness louis turned to improve the fire. and as he poked among the coals he said, in the way of amiable conversation-- "how's south africa?" "all right," replied julian, who hated to impart his sensations. if julian had witnessed napoleon's retreat from moscow he would have come to the five towns and, if questioned--not otherwise--would have said that it was all right. louis, however, suspected that his brevity was due to julian's resentment of any inquisitiveness concerning his doings in south africa; and he therefore at once abandoned south africa as a subject of talk, though he was rather curious to know what, indeed, julian had been about in south africa for six mortal months. nobody in the five towns knew for certain what julian had been about in south africa. it was understood that he had gone there as a commercial traveller for his own wares, when his business was in a highly unsatisfactory condition, and that he had meant to stay for only a month. the excursion had been deemed somewhat mad, but not more mad than sundry other deeds of julian. then julian's manager, foulger, had (it appeared) received authority to assume responsible charge of the manufactory until further notice. from that moment the business had prospered: a result at which nobody was surprised, because foulger was notoriously a "good man" who had hitherto been baulked in his ideas by an obstinate young employer. in a community of stiff-necked employers, julian already held a high place for the quality of being stiff-necked. jim horrocleave, for example, had a queer, murderous manner with customers and with "hands," but horrocleave was friendly towards scientific ideas in the earthenware industry, and had even given half a guinea to the fund for encouraging technical education in the district. whereas julian maldon not only terrorized customers and work-people (the latter nevertheless had a sort of liking for him), but was bitingly scornful of "cranky chemists," or "germans," as he called the scientific educated experts. he was the pure essence of the british manufacturer. he refused to make what the market wanted, unless the market happened to want what he wanted to make. he hated to understand the reasons underlying the processes of manufacture, or to do anything which had not been regularly done for at least fifty years. and he accepted orders like insults. the wonder was, not that he did so little business, but that he did so much. still, people did respect him. his aunt maldon, with her skilled habit of finding good points in mankind, had thought that he must be remarkably intelligent because he was so rude. beyond a vague rumour that julian had established a general pottery agency in cape town with favourable prospects, no further news of him had reached england. but of course it was admitted that his inheritance had definitely saved the business, and also much improved his situation in the eyes of the community ... and now he had achieved a reappearance which in mysteriousness excelled even his absence. "so you see we're installed here," said louis, when he had finished with the fire. "aye!" muttered julian dryly, and shut his lips. louis tried no more conversational openings. he was afraid. he waited for julian's initiative as for an earthquake; for he knew now at the roots of his soul that the phrasing of the note was misleading, and that julian had come to charge him with having misappropriated the sum of nine hundred and sixty-five pounds. he had, in reality, surmised as much on first reading the note, but somehow he had managed to put away the surmise as absurd and incredible. after a formidable silence julian said savagely-- "look here. i've got something to tell you. i've written it all down, and i thought to send it ye by post. but after i'd written it i said to myself i'd tell it ye face to face or i'd die for it. and so here i am." "oh!" louis murmured. he would have liked to be genially facetious, but his mouth was dried up. he could not ask any questions. he waited. "where's missis?" julian demanded. louis started, not instantly comprehending. "rachel? she's--she's in bed. she'd gone to bed before you sent round." "well, i'll thank ye to get her up, then!" julian pronounced. "she's got to hear this at first hand, not at second." his gaze expressed a frank distrust of louis. "but--" at this moment rachel came into the parlour, apparently fully dressed. her eyes were red, but her self-control was complete. julian glared at louis as at a trapped liar. "i thought ye said she was in bed." "she was," said louis. he could find nothing to say to his wife. rachel nonchalantly held out her hand. "so you've come," she said. "aye!" said julian gruffly, and served rachel's hand as he had served louis'. she winced without concealment. "was it you we saw going down moorthorne road to-night?" she asked. "it was," said julian, looking at the carpet. "well, why didn't you come in then?" "i couldn't make up my mind, if you must know." "aren't you going to sit down?" julian sat down. louis reflected that women were astonishing and incalculable, and the discovery seemed to him original, even profound. imagine her tackling julian in this fashion, with no preliminaries! she might have seen julian last only on the previous day! the odalisque had vanished in this chill and matter-of-fact housewife. "and why were you at the 'three tuns'?" she went on. julian replied with extraordinary bitterness-- "i was at the 'three tuns' because i was at the 'three tuns.'" "i see you've grown a beard," said rachel. "happen i have," said julian. "but what i say is, i've got something to tell you two. i've written it all down and i thought to post it to ye. but after i'd written it i says to myself, 'i'll tell 'em face to face or i'll die for it.'" "is it about that money?" rachel inquired. "aye!" "then mr. batchgrew did write and tell you about it. won't you take that great, thick overcoat off?" julian jumped up as if in fury, pulled off the overcoat with violent gestures, and threw in on the chesterfield. then he sat down again, and, sticking out his chin, stared inimically at louis. louis' throat was now so tight that he was nervously obliged to make the motion of swallowing. he could look neither at rachel nor at julian. he was nonplussed. he knew not what to expect nor what he feared. he could not even be sure that what he feared was an accusation. "i am safe. i am safe," he tried to repeat to himself, deeply convinced, nevertheless, against his reason, that he was not safe. the whole scene, every aspect of it, baffled and inexpressibly dismayed him. julian still stared, with mouth open, threatening. then he slapped his knee. "nay!" said he. "i shall read it to ye." and he drew some sheets of foolscap from his pocket. he opened the sheets, and frowned at them, and coughed. "nay!" said he. "there's nothing else for it. i must smoke." and he produced a charred pipe which might or might not have been the gift of mrs. maldon, filled it, struck a match on his boot, and turbulently puffed outrageous quantities of smoke. louis, with singular courage, lit a cigarette, which gave him a little ease of demeanour, if not confidence. ii and then at length julian began to read-- "'before i went to south africa last autumn i found myself in considerable business difficulties. the causes of said difficulties were bad trade, unfair competition, and price-cutting at home and abroad, especially in germany, and the modern spirit of unrest among the working-classes making it impossible for an employer to be master on his own works. i was not insolvent, but i needed capital, the life-blood of industry. in justice to myself i ought to explain that my visit to south africa was very carefully planned and thought out. i had a good reason to believe that a lot of business in door-furniture could be done there, and that i could obtain some capital from a customer in durban. i point this out merely because trade rivals have tried to throw ridicule upon me for going out to south africa when i did. i must ask you to read carefully'--you see, this was a letter to you," he interjected--"read carefully all that i say. i will now proceed." "'when i came to aunt maldon's the night before i left for south africa i wanted a wash, and i went into the back room--i mean the room behind the parlour--and took off my coat preparatory to going into the scullery to perform my ablutions. while in the back room i noticed that the picture nearest the cupboard opposite the door was hung very crooked. when i came back to put my coat on again after washing, my eye again caught the picture. there was a chair almost beneath it. i got on the chair and put the picture into an horizontal position. while i was standing on the chair i could see on the top of the cupboard, where something white struck my attention. it was behind the cornice of the cupboard, but i could see it. i took it off the top of the cupboard and carefully scrutinized it by the gas, which, as you know, is at the corner of the fireplace, close to the cupboard. it was a roll consisting of bank of england notes, to the value of four hundred and fifty pounds. i counted them at once, while i was standing on the chair. i then put them in the pocket of my coat which i had already put on. i wish to point out that if the chair had not been under the picture i should in all human probability not have attempted to straighten the picture. also--'" "but surely, julian," louis interrupted him, in a constrained voice, "you could have reached the picture without standing on the chair?" he interrupted solely from a tremendous desire for speech. it would have been impossible for him to remain silent. he had to speak or perish. "i couldn't," julian denied vehemently. "the picture's practically as high as the top of the cupboard--or was." "and could _you_ see on to the top of the cupboard from a chair?" louis, with a peculiar gaze, was apparently estimating julian's total height from the ground when raised on a chair. julian dashed down the papers. "here! come and look for yourself!" he exclaimed with furious pugnacity. "come and look." he jumped up and moved towards the door. rachel and louis followed him obediently. in the back room it was he who struck a match and lighted the gas. "you've shifted the picture!" he cried, as soon as the room was illuminated. "yes, we have," louis admitted. "but there's where it was!" julian almost shouted, pointing. "you can't deny it! there's the marks. are they as high as the top of the cupboard, or aren't they?" then he dragged along a chair to the cupboard and stood on it, puffing at his pipe. "can i see on to the top of the cupboard or can't i?" he demanded. obviously he could see on to the top of the cupboard. "i didn't think the top was so low," said louis. "well, you shouldn't contradict," julian chastised him. "it's just as your great-aunt said," put in rachel, in a meditative tone. "i remember she told us she pushed a chair forward with her knee. i dare say in getting on to the chair she knocked her elbow or something against the picture, and no doubt she left the chair more or less where she'd pushed it. that would be it." "did she say that to you?" louis questioned rachel. "it doesn't matter much what she said," julian growled. "that's how it _was_, anyway. i'm telling you. i'm not here to listen to theories." "well," said louis amiably, "you put the notes into your pocket. what then?" julian removed his pipe from his mouth. "what then? i walked off with 'em." "but you don't mean to tell us you meant--to appropriate them, julian? you don't mean that!" louis spoke reassuringly, good-naturedly, and with a slight superiority. "no, i don't. i don't mean i appropriated 'em." julian's voice rose defiantly. "i mean i stole them.... i stole them, and what's more, i meant to steal them. and so there ye are! but come back to the parlour. i must finish my reading." he strode away into the parlour, and the other two had no alternative but to follow him. they followed him like guilty things; for the manner of his confession was such as apparently to put his hearers, more than himself, in the wrong. he confessed as one who accuses. "sit down," said he, in the parlour. "but surely," louis protested, "if you're serious--" "if i'm serious, man! do you take me for a bally mountebank? do you suppose i'm doing this for fun?" "well," said louis, "if you _are_ serious, you needn't tell us any more. we know, and that's enough, isn't it?" julian replied curtly, "you've got to hear me out." and picking up his document from the floor, he resumed the perusal. "'also, if the gas hadn't been where it is, i should not have noticed anything on the top of the cupboard. i took the notes because i was badly in need of money, and also because i was angry at money being left like that on the tops of cupboards. i had no idea aunt maldon was such a foolish woman.'" louis interjected soothingly: "but you only meant to teach the old lady a lesson and give the notes back." "i didn't," said julian, again extremely irritated. "can't ye understand plain english? i say i stole the money, and i meant to steal it. don't let me have to tell ye that any more. i'll go on: 'the sight of the notes was too sore a temptation for me, and i yielded to it. and all the more shame to me, for i had considered myself an honest man up to that very hour. i never thought about the consequences to my aunt maldon, nor how i was going to get rid of the notes. i wanted money bad, and i took it. as soon as i'd left the house i was stricken with remorse. i could not decide what to do. the fact is i had no time to reflect until i was on the steamer, and it was then too late. upon arriving at cape town i found the cable stating that aunt maldon was dead. i draw a veil over my state of mind, which, however, does not concern you. i ought to have returned to england at once, but i could not. i might have sent to batchgrew and told him to take half of four hundred and fifty pounds off my share of aunt maldon's estate and put it into yours. but that would not have helped my conscience. i had it on my conscience, as it might have been on my stomach. i tried religion, but it was no good to me. it was between a prayer-meeting and an experience-meeting at durban that i used part of the ill-gotten money. i had not touched it till then. but two days later i got back the very note that i'd spent. a prey to remorse, i wandered from town to town, trying to do business.'" iii rachel stood up. "julian!" it was the first time in her life that she had called him by his christian name. "what?" "give me that." as he hesitated, she added, "i want it." he handed her the written confession. "i simply can't bear to hear you reading it," said rachel passionately. "all about a prey to remorse and so on and so on! why do you want to confess? why couldn't you have paid back the money and have done with it, instead of all this fuss?" "i must finish it now i've begun," julian insisted sullenly. "you'll do no such thing--not in my house." and, repeating pleasurably the phrase "not in _my_ house," rachel stuck the confession into the fire, and feverishly forced it into the red coals with lunges of the poker. when she turned away from the fire she was flushing scarlet. julian stood close by her on the hearth-rug. "you don't understand," he said, with half-fearful resentment. "i had to punish myself. i doubt i'm not a religious man, but i had to punish myself. there's nobody in the world as i should hate confessing to as much as louis here, and so i said to myself, i said, 'i'll confess to louis.' i've been wandering about all the evening trying to bring myself to do it.... well, i've done it." his voice trembled, and though the vibration in it was almost imperceptible, it was sufficient to nullify the ridiculousness of julian's demeanour as a wearer of sackcloth, and to bring a sudden lump into rachel's throat. the comical absurdity of his bellicose pride because he had accomplished something which he had sworn to accomplish was extinguished by the absolutely painful sincerity of his final words, which seemed somehow to damage the reputation of louis. rachel could feel her emotion increasing, but she could not have defined what her emotion was. she knew not what to do. she was in the midst of a new and intense experience, which left her helpless. all she was clearly conscious of was an unrepentant voice in her heart repeating the phrase: "i don't care! i'm glad i stuck it in the fire! i don't care! i'm glad i stuck it in the fire." she waited for the next development. they were all waiting, aware that individual forces had been loosed, but unable to divine their resultant, and afraid of that resultant. rachel glanced furtively at louis. his face had an uneasy, stiff smile. with an aggrieved air julian knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "anyhow," said louis at length, "this accounts for four hundred and fifty out of nine sixty-five. what we have to find out now, all of us, is what happened to the balance." "i don't care a fig about the balance," said julian impetuously. "i've said what i had to say and that's enough for me." and he did not, in fact, care a fig about the balance. and if the balance had been five thousand odd instead of five hundred odd, he still probably would not have cared. further, he privately considered that nobody else ought to care about the balance, either, having regard to the supreme moral importance to himself of the four hundred and fifty. "have you said anything to mr. batchgrew?" louis asked, trying to adopt a casual tone, and to keep out of his voice the relief and joy which were gradually taking possession of his soul. the upshot of julian's visit was so amazingly different from the apprehension of it that he could have danced in his glee. "not i!" julian answered ferociously. "the old robber has been writing me, wanting me to put money into some cinema swindle or other. i gave him a bit of my mind." "he was trying the same here," said rachel. the words popped by themselves out of her mouth, and she instantly regretted them. however, louis seemed to be unconscious of the implied reproach on a subject presumably still highly delicate. "but you can tell him, if you've a mind," julian went on challengingly. "we shan't do any such thing," said rachel, words again popping by themselves out of her mouth. but this time she put herself right by adding, "shall we, louis?" "of course not," louis agreed very amiably. rachel began to feel sympathetic towards the thief. she thought: "how strange to have some one close to me, and talking quite naturally, who has stolen such a lot of money and might be in prison for it--a convict!" nevertheless, the thief seemed to be remarkably like ordinary people. "oh!" julian ejaculated. "well, here's the notes." he drew a lot of notes from a pocket-book and banged them down on the table. "four hundred and fifty. the identical notes. count 'em." he glared afresh, and with even increased virulence. "that's all right," said louis. "that's all right. besides, we only want half of them." sundry sheets of the confession, which had not previously caught fire, suddenly blazed up with a roar in the grate, and all looked momentarily at the flare. "you've _got_ to have it all!" said julian, flushing. "my dear fellow," louis repeated, "we shall only take half. the other half's yours." "as god sees me," julian urged, "i'll never take a penny of that money! here--" he snatched up all the notes and dashed wrathfully out of the parlour. rachel followed quickly. he went to the back room, where the gas had been left burning high, sprang on to a chair in front of the cupboard, and deposited the notes on the top of the cupboard, in the very place from which he had originally taken them. "there!" he exclaimed, jumping down from the chair. the symbolism of the action appeared to tranquillize him. iv for a moment rachel, as a newly constituted housewife to whom every square foot of furniture surface had its own peculiar importance, was enraged to see julian's heavy and dirty boots again on the seat of her unprotected chair. but the sense of hurt passed like a spasm as her eyes caught julian's. they were alone together in the back room and not far from each other. and in the man's eyes she no longer saw the savage julian, but an intensely suffering creature, a creature martyrized by destiny. she saw the real julian glancing out in torment at the world through those eyes. the effect of the vibration in julian's voice a few minutes earlier was redoubled. her emotion nearly overcame her. she desired very much to succour julian, and was aware of a more distinct feeling of impatience against louis. she thought julian had been magnificently heroic, and all his faults of demeanour were counted to him for excellences. he had been a thief; but the significance of the word "thief" was indeed completely altered for her. she had hitherto envisaged thieves as rascals in handcuffs bandied along the streets by policemen at the head of a procession of urchins--dreadful rascals! but now a thief was just a young man like other young men--only he had happened to see some bank-notes lying about and had put them in his pocket and then had felt very sorry for what he had done. there was no crime in what he had done ... was there? she pictured julian's pilgrimage through south africa, all alone. she pictured his existence at knype, all alone; and his very ferocity rendered him the more wistful and pathetic in her sight. she was sure that his mother and sisters had never understood him; and she did not think it quite proper on their part to have gone permanently to america, leaving him solitary in england, as they had done. she perceived that she herself was the one person in the world capable of understanding julian, the one person who could look after him, influence him, keep him straight, civilize him, and impart some charm to his life. and she was glad that she had the status of a married woman, because without that she would have been helpless. julian sat down, or sank, on to the chair. "i'm very sorry i spoke like that to you in the other room--i mean about what you'd written," she said. "i suppose i ought not to have burnt it." she spoke in this manner because to apologize to him gave her a curious pleasure. "that's nothing," he answered, with the quietness of fatigue. "i dare say you were right enough. anyhow, ye'll never see me again." she exclaimed, kindly protesting-- "why not, i should like to know?" "you won't want me here as a visitor, after all this." he faintly sneered. "i shall," she insisted. "louis won't." she replied: "you must come and see me. i shall expect you to. i must tell you," she added confidentially, in a lower tone, "i think you've been splendid to-night. i'm sure i respect you much more than i did before--and you can take it how you like!" "nay! nay!" he murmured deprecatingly. all the harshness had melted out of his voice. then he stood up. "i'd better hook it," he said briefly. "will you get me my overcoat, missis." she comprehended that he wished to avoid speaking to louis again that night, and, nodding, went at once to the parlour and brought away the overcoat. "he's going," she muttered hastily to louis, who was standing near the fire. leaving the parlour, she drew the door to behind her. she helped julian with his overcoat and preceded him to the front door. she held out her hand to be tortured afresh, and suffered the grip of the vice with a steady smile. "now don't forget," she whispered. julian seemed to try to speak and to fail.... he was gone. she carefully closed and bolted the door. v louis had not followed julian and rachel into the back room because he felt the force of an instinct to be alone with his secret satisfaction. in those moments it irked him to be observed, and especially to be observed by rachel, not to mention julian. he was glad for several reasons--on account of his relief, on account of the windfall of money, and perhaps most of all on account of the discovery that he was not the only thief in the family. the bizarre coincidence which had divided the crime about equally between himself and julian amused him. his case and julian's were on a level. nevertheless, he somewhat despised julian, patronized him, condescended to him. he could not help thinking that julian was, after all, a greater sinner than himself. never again could julian look him (louis) in the face as if nothing had happened. the blundering julian was marked for life, by his own violent, unreasonable hand. julian was a fool. rachel entered rather solemnly. "has he really gone?" louis asked. rachel did not care for her husband's tone, which was too frivolous for her. she was shocked to find that louis had not been profoundly impressed by the events of the night. "yes," she said. "what's he done with the money?" "he's left it in the other room." she would not disclose to louis that julian had restored the notes to the top of the cupboard, because she was afraid that he might treat the symbolic act with levity. "all of it?" "yes. i'll bring it you." she did so. louis counted the notes and casually put them in his breast pocket. "oddest chap i ever came across!" he observed, smiling. "but aren't you sorry for him?" rachel demanded. "yes," said louis airily. "i shall insist on his taking half, naturally." "i'm going to bed," said rachel. "you'll see all the lights out." she offered her face and kissed him tepidly. "what's come over the kid?" louis asked himself, somewhat disconcerted, when she had gone. he remained smoking, purposeless, in the parlour until all sounds had ceased overhead in the bedroom. then he extinguished the gas in the parlour, in the back room, in the kitchen, and finally in the lobby, and went upstairs by the light of the street lamp. in the bedroom rachel lay in bed, her eyes closed. she did not stir at his entrance. he locked the bank-notes in a drawer of the dressing-table, undressed with his usual elaborate care, approached rachel's bed and gazed at her unresponsive form, turned down the gas to a pinpoint, and got into bed himself. not the slightest sound could be heard anywhere, either in or out of the house, save the faint breathing of rachel. and after a few moments louis no longer heard even that. in the darkness the mystery of the human being next him began somehow to be disquieting. he was capable of imagining that he lay in the room with an utter stranger. then he fell asleep. chapter xii runaway horses i rachel, according to her own impression the next morning, had no sleep during that night. the striking of the hall clock could not be heard in the bedroom with the door closed, but it could be felt as a faint, distinct concussion; and she had thus noted every hour, except four o'clock, when daylight had come and the street lamp had been put out. she had deliberately feigned sleep as louis entered the room, and had maintained the soft, regular breathing of a sleeper until long after he was in bed. she did not wish to talk; she could not have talked with any safety. her brain was occupied much by the strange and emotional episode of julian's confession, but still more by the situation of her husband in the affair. julian's story had precisely corroborated one part of mrs. maldon's account of her actions on the evening when the bank-notes had disappeared. little by little that recital of mrs. maldon's had been discredited, and at length cast aside as no more important than the delirium of a dying creature; it was an inconvenient story, and would only fit in with the alternative theories that money had wings and could fly on its own account, or that there had been thieves in the house. far easier to assume that mrs. maldon in some lapse had unwittingly done away with the notes! but mrs. maldon was now suddenly reinstated as a witness. and if one part of her evidence was true, why should not the other part be true? her story was that she had put the remainder of the bank-notes on the chair on the landing, and then (she thought) in the wardrobe. rachel recalled clearly all that she had seen and all that she had been told. she remembered once more the warnings that had been addressed to her. she lived the evening and the night of the theft over again, many times, monotonously, and with increasing woe and agitation. then with the greenish dawn, that the blinds let into the room, came some refreshment and new health to the brain, but the trend of her ideas was not modified. she lay on her side and watched the unconscious louis for immense periods, and occasionally tears filled her eyes. the changes in her existence seemed so swift and so tremendous as to transcend belief. was it conceivable that only twelve hours earlier she had been ecstatically happy? in twelve hours--in six hours--she had aged twenty years, and she now saw the rachel of the reception and of the bicycle lesson as a young girl, touchingly ingenuous, with no more notion of danger than a baby. at six o'clock she arose. already she had formed the habit of arising before louis, and had reconciled herself to the fact that louis had to be forced out of bed. happily, his feet once on the floor, he became immediately manageable. already she was the conscience and time-keeper of the house. she could dress herself noiselessly; in a week she had perfected all her little devices for avoiding noise and saving time. she finally left the room neat, prim, with lips set to a thousand responsibilities. she had a peculiar sensation of tight elastic about her eyes, but she felt no fatigue, and she did not yawn. mrs. tams, who had just descended, found her taciturn and exacting. she would have every household task performed precisely in her own way, without compromise. and it appeared that the house, which had the air of being in perfect order, was not in order at all, that indeed the processes of organization had, in young mrs. fores' opinion, scarcely yet begun. it appeared that there was no smallest part or corner of the house as to which young mrs. fores had not got very definite ideas and plans. the individuality of mrs. tams was to have scope nowhere. but after all, this seemed quite natural to mrs. tams. when rachel went back to the bedroom, about . , to get louis by ruthlessness and guile out of bed, she was surprised to discover that he had already gone up to the bathroom. she guessed, with vague alarm, from this symptom that he had a new and very powerful interest in life. he came to breakfast at three minutes to eight, three minutes before it was served. when she entered the parlour in the wake of mrs. tams he kissed her with gay fervour. she permitted herself to be kissed. her unresponsiveness, though not marked, disconcerted him and somewhat dashed his mood. whereupon rachel, by the reassurance of her voice, set about to convince him that he had been mistaken in deeming her unresponsive. so that he wavered between two moods. as she sat behind the tray, amid the exquisite odours of fresh coffee and ted malkin's bacon (for she had forgiven miss malkin), behaving like a staid wife of old standing, she well knew that she was a mystery for louis. she was the source of his physical comfort, the origin of the celestial change in his life which had caused him to admit fully that to live in digs was "a rotten game"; but she was also, that morning, a most sinister mystery. her behaviour was faultless. he could seize on no definite detail that should properly disturb him; only she had woven a veil between herself and him. still, his liveliness scarcely abated. "do you know what i'm going to do this very day as ever is?" he asked. "what is it?" "i'm going to buy you a bike. i've had enough of that old crock i borrowed for you. i shall return it and come back with a new 'un. and i know the precise bike that i shall come back with. it's at bostock's at hanbridge. they've just opened a new cycle department." "oh, louis!" she protested. his scheme for spending money on her flattered her. but nevertheless it was a scheme for spending money. two hundred and twenty-five pounds had dropped into his lap, and he must needs begin instantly to dissipate it. he could not keep it. that was louis! she refused to see that the purchase of a bicycle was the logical consequence of her lessons. she desired to believe that by some miracle at some future date she could possess a bicycle without a bicycle being bought--and in the meantime was there not the borrowed machine? suddenly she yawned. "didn't you sleep well?" he demanded. "not very." "oh!" she could almost see into the interior of his brain, where he was persuading himself that fatigue alone was the explanation of her peculiar demeanour, and rejoicing that the mystery was, after all, neither a mystery nor sinister. "i say," he began between two puffs of a cigarette after breakfast, "i shall send back half of that money to julian. i'll send the notes by registered post." "shall you?" "yes. don't you think he'll keep them?" "supposing i was to take them over to him myself--and insist?" she suggested. "it's a notion. when?" "well, on saturday afternoon. he'll be at home probably then." "all right," louis agreed. "i'll give you the money later on." nothing more was said as to the julian episode. it seemed that husband and wife were equally determined not to discuss it merely for the sake of discussing it. shortly after half-past eight louis was preparing the borrowed bicycle and his own in the back yard. "i shall ride mine and tow the crock," said he, looking up at rachel as he screwed a valve. she had come into the yard in order to show a polite curiosity in his doings. "isn't it dangerous?" "are you dangerous?" he laughed. "but when shall you go?" "now." "shan't you be late at the works?" "well, if i'm late at the beautiful works i shall be late at the beautiful works. those who don't like it will have to lump it." once more, it was the consciousness of a loose, entirely available two hundred and twenty-five pounds that was making him restive under the yoke of regular employment. for a row of pins, that morning, he would have given jim horrocleave a week's notice, or even the amount of a week's wages in lieu of notice! rachel sighed, but within herself. in another minute he was elegantly flying down bycars lane, guiding his own bicycle with his right hand and the crock with his left hand. the feat appeared miraculous to rachel, who watched from the bow-window of the parlour. beyond question he made a fine figure. and it was for her that he was flying to hanbridge! she turned away to her domesticity. ii it seemed to her that he had scarcely been gone ten minutes when one of the glorious taxicabs which had recently usurped the stand of the historic fly under the town hall porch drew up at the front door, and louis got out of it. the sound of his voice was the first intimation to rachel that it was louis who was arriving. he shouted at the cabman as he paid the fare. the window of the parlour was open and the curtains pinned up. she ran to the window, and immediately saw that louis' head was bandaged. then she ran to the door. he was climbing rather stiffly up the steps. "all right! all right!" he shouted at her. "a spill. nothing of the least importance. but both the jiggers are pretty well converted into old iron. i tell you it's all _right_! shut the door." he bumped down on the oak chest, and took a long breath. "but you are frightfully hurt!" she exclaimed. she could not properly see his face for the bandages. mrs. tams appeared. rachel murmured to her in a flash-- "go out the back way and fetch dr. yardley at once." she felt herself absolutely calm. what puzzled her was louis' shouting. then she understood he was shouting from mere excitement and did not realize that he shouted. "no need for any doctor! quite simple!" he called out. but rachel gave a word confirming the original order to mrs. tams, who disappeared. "first thing i knew i was the centre of an admiring audience, and fat mrs. heath, in her white apron and the steel hanging by her side, was washing my face with a sponge and a basin of water, and heath stood by with brandy. it was nearly opposite their shop. people in the tram had a rare view of me." "but was it the tram-car you ran into?" rachel asked eagerly. he replied with momentary annoyance-- "tram-car! of course it wasn't the tram-car. moreover, i didn't run into anything. two horses ran into me. i was coming down past the shambles into duck bank--very slowly, because i could hear a tram coming along from the market-place--and just as i got past the shambles and could see along the market-place, i saw a lad on a cart-horse and leading another horse. no stirrups, no saddle. he'd no more control over either horse than a baby over an elephant. not a bit more. both horses were running away. the horse he was supposed to be leading was galloping first. they were passing the tram at a fine rate." "but how far were they off you?" "about ten yards. i said to myself, 'if that chap doesn't look out he'll be all over me in two seconds.' i turned as sharp as i could away to the left. i could have turned sharper if i'd had your bicycle in my right hand instead of my left. but it wouldn't have made any difference. the first horse simply made straight for me. there was about a mile of space for him between me and the tram, but he wouldn't look at it. he wanted me, and he had me. they both had me. i never felt the actual shock. curious, that! i'm told one horse put his foot clean through the back wheel of my bike. then he was stopped by the front palings of the conservative club. oh! a pretty smash! the other horse and the boy thereon finished half-way up moorthorne road. he could stick on, no mistake, that kid could. midland railway horses. whoppers. either being taken to the vets' or brought from the vet's--_i_ don't know. i forget." rachel put her hand on his arm. "do come into the parlour and have the easy-chair." "i'll come--i'll come," he said, with the same annoyance. "give us a chance." his voice was now a little less noisy. "but you might have been killed!" "you bet i might! eight hoofs all over me! one tap from any of the eight would have settled yours sincerely." "louis!" she spoke firmly. "you must come into the parlour. now come along, do, and sit down and let me look at your face." she removed his hat, which was perched rather insecurely on the top of the bandages. "who was it looked after you?" "well," he hesitated, following her into the parlour, "it seems to have been chiefly mrs. heath." "but didn't they take you to a chemist's? isn't there a chemist's handy?" "the great greene had one of his bilious attacks and was in bed, it appears. and the great greene's assistant is only just out of petticoats, i believe. however, everybody acted for the best, and here i am. and if you ask me, i think i've come out of it rather well." he dropped heavily on to the chesterfield. what she could see of his cheeks was very pale. "open the window," he murmured. "it's frightfully stuffy here." "the window is open," she said. in fact, a noticeable draught blew through the room. "i'll open it a bit more." before doing so she lifted his feet on to the chesterfield. "that's better. that's better," he breathed. when, a moment later, she returned to him with a glass of water which she had brought from the kitchen, spilling drops of it along the whole length of the passage, he smiled at her and then winked. it was the wink that seemed pathetic to her. she had maintained her laudable calm until he winked, and then her throat tightened. "he may have some dreadful internal injury," she thought. "you never know. i may be a widow soon. and every one will say, 'how young she is to be a widow!' it will make me blush. but such things can't happen to me. no, he's all right. he came up here alone. they'd never have let him come up here alone if he hadn't been all right. besides, he can walk. how silly i am!" she bent down and kissed him passionately. "i must have those bandages off, dearest," she whispered. "i suppose to-morrow i'd better return them to mrs. heath." he muttered: "she said she always kept linen for bandages in the shop because they so often cut themselves. now, i used to think in my innocence that butchers never cut themselves." very gently and intently rachel unfastened two safety-pins that were hidden in louis' untidy hair. then she began to unwind a long strip of linen. it stuck to a portion of the cheek close to the ear. louis winced. the inner folds of the linen were discoloured. rachel had a glimpse of a wound.... "go on!" louis urged. "get at it, child!" "no," she said. "i think i shall leave it just as it is for the doctor to deal with. shall you mind if i leave you for a minute? i must get some warm water and things ready against the doctor comes." he retorted facetiously: "oh! do what you like! work your will on me.... doctor! any one 'ud think i was badly injured. why, you cuckoo, it's only skin wounds!" "but doesn't it _hurt_?" "depends what you call hurt. it ain't a picnic." "i think you're awfully brave," she said simply. at the door she stopped and gazed at him, undecided. "louis," she said in a motherly tone, "i should like you to go to bed. i really should. you ought to, i'm sure." "well, i shan't," he replied. "but please! to please me! you can get up again." "oh, go to blazes!" he cried resentfully. "what in thunder should i go to bed for, i should like to know? have a little sense, do!" he shut his eyes. he had never till then spoken to her so roughly. "very well," she agreed, with soothing acquiescence. his outburst had not irritated her in the slightest degree. in the kitchen, as she bent over the kettle and the fire, each object was surrounded by a sort of halo, like the moon in damp weather. she brushed her hand across her eyes, contemptuous of herself. then she ran lightly upstairs and searched out an old linen garment and tore the seams of it apart. she crept back to the parlour and peeped in. louis had not moved on the sofa. his eyes were still closed. after a few seconds, he said, without stirring-- "i've not yet passed away. i can see you." she responded with a little laugh, somewhat forced. after an insupportable delay mrs. tams reappeared, out of breath. dr. yardley had just gone out, but he was expected back very soon and would then be sent down instantly. mrs. tams, quite forgetful of etiquette, followed rachel, unasked, into the parlour. "what?" said louis loudly. "two of you! isn't one enough?" mrs. tams vanished. "heath took charge of the bikes," louis murmured, as if to the ceiling. over half an hour elapsed before the gate creaked. "there he is!" rachel exclaimed happily. after having conceived a hundred different tragic sequels to the accident, she was lifted by the mere creak of the gate into a condition of pure optimism, and she realized what a capacity she had for secretly being a ninny in an unexpected crisis. but she thought with satisfaction: "anyhow, i don't show it. that's one good thing!" she was now prepared to take oath that she had not for one moment been _really_ anxious about louis. her demeanour, as she stated the case to the doctor, was a masterpiece of tranquil unconcern. iii dr. yardley said that he was in a hurry--that, in fact, he ought to have been quite elsewhere at the time. he was preoccupied, and showed no sympathy with the innocent cyclist who had escaped the fatal menace of hoofs. when rachel offered him the torn linen, he silently disdained it, and, opening a small bag which he had brought with him, produced therefrom a roll of cotton-wool in blue paper, and a considerable quantity of sticking-plaster on a brass reel. he accepted, however, rachel's warm water. "you might get me some condy's fluid," he said shortly. she had none! it was a terrible lapse for a capable housewife. dr. yardley raised his eyebrows: "no condy's fluid in the house!" she was condemned. "i do happen to have a couple of tablets of chinosol," he said, "but i wanted to keep them in reserve for later in the day." he threw two yellow tablets into the basin of water. then he laid louis flat on the sofa, asked him a few questions, and sounded him in various parts. and at length he slowly, but firmly, drew off mrs. heath's bandages, and displayed louis' head to the light. "hm!" he exclaimed. rachel restrained herself from any sound. but the spectacle was ghastly. the one particle of comfort in the dreadful matter was that louis could not see himself. thenceforward dr. yardley seemed to forget that he ought to have been elsewhere. working with extraordinary deliberation, he coaxed out of louis' flesh sundry tiny stones and many fragments of mud, straightened twisted bits of skin, and he removed other pieces entirely. he murmured, "hm!" at intervals. he expressed a brief criticism of the performance of mrs. heath, as distinguished from her intentions. he also opined that the great greene might not perhaps have succeeded much better than mrs. heath, even if he had not been bilious. when the dressing was finished, the gruesome terror of louis' appearance seemed to be much increased. the heroic sufferer rose and glanced at himself in the mirror, and gave a faint whistle. "oh! so that's what i look like, is it? well, what price me as a victim of the inquisition!" he remarked. "i should advise you not to take exercise just now, young man," said the doctor. "d'you feel pretty well?" "pretty well," answered louis, and sat down. in the lobby the doctor, once more in a hurry, said to rachel-- "better get him quietly to bed. the wounds are not serious, but he's had a very severe shock." "he's not marked for life, is he?" rachel asked anxiously. "i shouldn't think so," said the doctor, as if the point was a minor one. "let him have some nourishment. you can begin with hot milk--but put some water to it," he added when he was half-way down the steps. as rachel re-entered the parlour she said to herself: "i shall just have to get him to bed somehow, whatever he says! if he's unpleasant he must _be_ unpleasant, that's all." and she hardened her heart. but immediately she saw him again, sitting forlornly in the chair, with the whole of the left side of his face criss-crossed in whitish-grey plaster, she was ready to cry over him and flatter his foolishest whim. she wanted to take him in her arms, if he would but have allowed her. she felt that she could have borne his weight for hours without moving, had he fallen asleep against her bosom.... still, he must be got to bed. how negligent of the doctor not to have given the order himself! then louis said: "i say! i think i may as well lie down!" she was about to cry out, "oh, you must!" but she forbore. she became as wily as old batchgrew. "do you think so?" she answered, doubtfully. "i've nothing else particular on hand," he said. she knew that he wanted to surrender without appearing to surrender. "well," she suggested, "will you lie down on the bed for a bit?" "i think i will." "and then i'll give you some hot milk." she dared not help him to mount the stairs, but she walked close behind him. "i was thinking," he said on the landing, "i'd stroll down and take stock of those bicycles later in the day. but perhaps i'm not fit to be seen." she thought: "you won't stroll down later in the day--i shall see to that." "by the way," he said, "you might send mrs. tams down to horrocleave's to explain that i shan't give them my valuable assistance to-day.... oh! mrs. tams"--the woman was just bustling out of the bedroom, duster in hand--"will you toddle down to the works and tell them i'm not coming?" "eh, mester!" breathed mrs. tams, looking at him. "it's a mercy it's no worse." "yes," louis teased her, "but you go and look at the basin downstairs, mrs. tams. that'll give you food for thought." shaking her head, she smiled at rachel, because the master had spirit enough to be humorous with her. in the bedroom, louis said, "i might be more comfortable if i took some of my clothes off." thereupon he abandoned himself to rachel. she did as she pleased with him, and he never opposed. seven bruises could be counted on his left side. he permitted himself to be formally and completely put to bed. he drank half a glass of hot milk, and then said that he could not possibly swallow any more. everything had been done that ought to be done and that could be done. and rachel kept assuring herself that there was not the least cause for anxiety. she also told herself that she had been a ninny once that morning, and that once was enough. nevertheless, she remained apprehensive, and her apprehensions increased. it was louis' unnatural manageableness that disturbed her. and when, about three hours later, he murmured, "old girl, i feel pretty bad." "i knew it," she said to herself. his complaint was like a sudden thunderclap in her ears, after long faint rumblings of a storm. towards tea-time she decided that she must send for the doctor again. louis indeed demanded the doctor. he said that he was very ill. his bruised limbs and his damaged face caused him a certain amount of pain. it was not, however, the pain that frightened him, but a general and profound sensation of illness. he could describe no symptoms. there were indeed no symptoms save the ebbing of vitality. he said he had never in his life felt as he felt then. his appearance confirmed the statement. the look of his eyes was tragic. his hands were pale. his agonized voice was extremely distressing to listen to. the bandages heightened the whole sinister effect. dusk shadowed the room. rachel lit the gas and drew the blinds. but in a few moments louis complained of the light, and she had to lower the jet. the sounds of the return of mrs. tams could be heard below. mrs. tams had received instructions to bring the doctor back with her, but rachel's ear caught no sign of the doctor. she went out to the head of the stairs. the doctor simply must be there. it was not conceivable that when summoned he should be "out" twice in one day, but so it was. mrs. tams, whispering darkly from the dim foot of the stairs, said that mrs. yardley hoped that he would be in shortly, but could not be sure. "what am i to do?" thought rachel. "this is a crisis. everything depends on me. what shall i do? shall i send for another doctor?" she decided to risk the chances and wait. it would be too absurd to have two doctors in the house. what would people say of her and of louis, if the rumour ran that she had lost her head and filled the house with doctors when the case had no real gravity? people would say that she was very young and inexperienced, and a freshly married wife, and so on. and rachel hated to be thought young or freshly married. besides, another doctor might be "out" too. and further, the case could not be truly serious. of course, if afterwards it did prove to be serious, she would never forgive herself. "he'll be here soon," she said cheerfully, to louis in the bedroom. "if he isn't--" moaned louis, and stopped. she gave him some brandy, against his will. then, taking his wrist to feel it, she felt his fingers close on her wrist, as if for aid. and she sat thus on the bed holding his hand in the gloom of the lowered gas. iv his weakness and his dependence on her gave her a feeling of kind superiority. and also her own physical well-being was such that she could not help condescending towards him. she cared for a trustful, helpless little dog. she thought a great deal about him; she longed ardently to be of assistance to him; she had an acute sense of her responsibility and her duty. yet, notwithstanding all that, her brain was perhaps chiefly occupied with herself and her own attitude towards existence. she became mentally and imaginatively active to an intense degree. she marvelled at existence as she had never marvelled before, and while seeming suddenly to understand it better she was far more than ever baffled by it. was it credible that the accident of a lad losing control of a horse could have such huge and awful consequences on two persons utterly unconnected with the lad? a few seconds sooner, a few seconds later--and naught would have occurred to louis, but he must needs be at exactly a certain spot at exactly a certain instant, with the result that now she was in torture! if this, if that, if the other--louis would have been well and gay at that very moment, instead of a broken organism humiliated on a bed and clinging to her like a despairing child. the rapidity and variety of events in her life again startled her, and once more she went over them. the disappearance of the bank-notes was surely enough in itself. but on the top of that fell the miracle of her love affair. her marriage was like a dream of romance to her, untrue, incredible. then there was the terrific episode of julian on the previous night. one would have supposed that after that the sensationalism of events would cease. but, no! the unforeseeable had now occurred, something which reduced all else to mere triviality. and yet what had in fact occurred? acquaintances, in recounting her story, would say that she had married her mistress's nephew, that there had been trouble between louis and julian about some bank-notes, and that louis had had a bicycle accident. naught more! a most ordinary chronicle! and if he died now, they would say that louis had died within a month of the wedding and how sad it was! husbands indubitably do die, young wives indubitably are transformed into widows--daily event, indeed!... she seemed to perceive the deep, hidden meaning of life. there were three rachels in her--one who pitied louis, one who pitied herself, and one who looked on and impartially comprehended. the last was scarcely unhappy--only fervently absorbed in the prodigious wonder of the hour. "can't you do anything?" louis murmured. "if dr. yardley doesn't come quick, i shall send for some other doctor," she said, with decision. he sighed. "better send for a lawyer at the same time," he said. "a lawyer?" "yes. you know i've not made my will." "oh, louis! please don't talk like that! i can't bear to hear you." "you'll have to hear worse things than that," he said pettishly, loosing her hand. "i've got to have a solicitor here. later on you'll probably be only too glad that i had enough common sense to send for a solicitor. somebody must have a little common sense. i expect you'd better send for lawton.... oh! it's friday afternoon--he'll have left early for his week-end golf, i bet." this last discovery seemed to exhaust his courage. in another minute the doctor, cheerful and energetic, was actually in the room, and the gas brilliant. he gazed at an exanimate louis, made a few inquiries and a few observations of his own, gave some brief instructions, and departed. the day was in truth one of his busy days. he seemed surprised when rachel softly called to him on the stairs. "i suppose everything's all right, doctor?" "yes," said he casually. "he'll feel mighty queer for a few days. that's all." "then there's no danger?" "certainly not." "but he thinks he's dying." dr. yardley smiled carelessly. "and do you?... he's no more dying than i am. that's only the effect of the shock. didn't i tell you this morning? you probably won't be able to stop him just yet from thinking he's dying--it is a horrid feeling--but you needn't think so yourself, mrs. fores." he smiled. "oh, doctor," she burst out, "you don't know how you've relieved me!" "you'll excuse me if i fly away," said dr. yardley calmly. "there's a crowd of insurance patients waiting for me at the surgery." v in the middle of the night rachel was awakened by louis' appeal. she was so profoundly asleep that for a few moments she could not recall what it was that had happened during the previous day to cause her anxiety. after the visit of the doctor, louis' moral condition had apparently improved. he had affected to be displeased by the doctor's air of treating his case as though it was deprived of all importance. he had said that the doctor had failed to grasp his case. he had stated broadly that in these days of state health insurance all doctors were too busy and too wealthy to be of assistance to private patients capable of paying their bills in the old gentlemanly fashion. but his remarks had not been without a touch of facetiousness in their wilful disgust. and the mere tone of his voice proved that he felt better. to justify his previous black pessimism he had of course been obliged to behave in a certain manner (well known among patients who have been taking themselves too seriously), and rachel had understood and excused. she would have been ready, indeed, to excuse for worse extravagances than any that could have occurred to the fancy of a nature so polite and benevolent as that of louis; for, in order to atone for her silly school-girlishness, she had made a compact with herself to be an angel and a serpent simultaneously for the entire remainder of her married life. then mrs. tams had come in, from errands of marketing, with a copy of the early special of the _signal_, containing a description of the accident. mrs. tams had never before bought such a thing as a newspaper, but an acquaintance of hers who "stood the market" with tripe and chitterlings had told her that mr. fores was "in" the _signal_, and accordingly she had bravely stopped a news-boy in the street and made the purchase. to rachel she pointed out the paragraph with pride, and to please her and divert louis, rachel had introduced the newspaper into the bedroom. the item was headed: "runaway horses in bursley market-place. providential escape." it spoke of mr. louis fores' remarkable skill and presence of mind in swerving away with two bicycles. it said that mr. louis fores was an accomplished cyclist, and that after a severe shaking mr. louis fores drove home in a taxicab "apparently little the worse, save for facial contusions, for his perilous adventure." lastly, it said that a representative of the midland railway had "assured our representative that the horses were not the property of the midland railway." louis had sardonically repeated the phrase "apparently little the worse," murmuring it with his eyes shut. he had said, "i wish they could see me." still, he had made no further mention of sending for a solicitor. he had taken a little food and a little drink. he had asked rachel when she meant to go to bed. and at length rachel, having first arranged food for use in the night, and fixed a sheet of note-paper on the gas-bracket as a screen between the gas and louis, had undressed and got into bed, and gone off into a heavy slumber with a mind comparatively free. in response to his confusing summons, she stumbled to her peignoir and slipped it on. "yes, dear?" she spoke softly. "i couldn't bear it any longer," said the voice of louis. "i just had to waken you." she raised the gas, and her eyes blinked as she stared at him. his bedclothes were horribly disarranged. "are you in pain?" she asked, smoothing the blankets. "no. but i'm so ill. i--i don't want to frighten you--" "the doctor said you'd feel ill. it's the shock, you know." she stroked his hand. he did indubitably look very ill. his appearance of woe, despair, and dreadful apprehension was pitiable in the highest degree. with a gesture of intense weariness he declined food, nor could she persuade him to take anything whatever. "you'll be ever so much better to-morrow. i'll sit up with you. you were bound to feel worse in the night." "it's more than shock that i've got," he muttered. "i say, rachel, it's all up with me. i _know_ i'm done for. you'll have to do the best you can." the notion shot through her head that possibly, after all, the doctor might have misjudged the case. suppose louis were to die in the night? suppose the morning found her a widow? the world was full of the strangest happenings.... then she was herself again and immovably cheerful in her secret heart. she thought: "i can go through worse nights than this. one night, some time in the future, either he will really be dying or i shall. this night is nothing." and she held his hand and sat in her old place on his bed. the room was chilly. she decided that in five minutes she would light the gas-stove, and also make some tea with the spirit-lamp. she would have tea whether he still refused or not. his watch on the night-table showed half-past two. in about an hour the dawn would be commencing. she felt that she had reserves of force against any contingency, against any nervous strain. then he said, "i say, rachel." he was too ill to call her "louise." "i shall make some tea soon," she answered. he went on: "you remember about that missing money--i mean before auntie died. you remember--" "don't talk about that, dear," she interrupted him eagerly. "why should you bother about that now?" in one instant those apparently exhaustless reserves of moral force seemed to have ebbed away. she had imagined herself equal to any contingency, and now there loomed a contingency which made her quail. "i've got to talk about that," he said in his weak and desperate voice. his bruised head was hollowed into the pillow, and he stared monotonously at the ceiling, upon which the paper screen of the gas threw a great trembling shadow. "that's why i wakened you. you don't know what the inside of my brain's like.... why did you say to them you found the scullery door open that night? you know perfectly well it wasn't open." she could scarcely speak. "i--i--louis don't talk about that now. you're too ill," she implored. "i know why you said it." "be quiet!" she said sharply, and her voice broke. but he continued in the same tone-- "you made up that tale about the scullery door because you guessed i'd collared the money and you wanted to save me from being suspected. well, i did collar the money! now i've told you!" she burst into a sob, and her head dropped on to his body. "louis!" she cried passionately, amid her sobs. "why ever did you tell me? you've ruined everything now. everything!" "i can't help that," said louis, with a sort of obstinate and defiant weariness. "it was on my mind, and i just had to tell you. you don't seem to understand that i'm dying." rachel jumped up and sprang away from the bed. "of course you're not dying!" she reproached him. "how can you imagine such things?" her heart suddenly hardened against him--against his white-bandaged head and face, against his feeble voice of a beaten martyr. it seemed to her disgraceful that he, a strong male creature, should be lying there damaged, helpless, and under the foolish delusion that he was dying. she recalled with bitter gusto the tone in which the doctor had said, "he's no more dying than i am!" all her fears that the doctor might be wrong had vanished away. she now resented her husband's illness; as a nurse, when danger is over, will resent a patient's long convalescence, somehow charging it to him as a sin. "i found the other half of the notes under the chair on the--" louis began again. "please!" she objected with quick resounding violence, and raised a hand. he said-- "you must listen." she answered, passionately-- "i won't listen! i won't listen! and if you don't stop i shall leave the room! i shall leave you all alone!... yes, i shall!" she moved a little towards the door. his gloomy and shifty glance followed her, and there was a short silence. "you needn't work yourself up into such a state," murmured louis at length. "but i _should_ like to know whether the scullery door was open or not, when you came downstairs that night?" rachel's glance fell. she blushed. the tears had ceased to drop from her eyes. she made no answer. "you see," said louis, with a half-sneering triumph, "i knew jolly well it wasn't open. so did old batchgrew know, too." she shut her lips together, went decisively to the mantelpiece, struck a match, and lit the stove. like the patent gas-burner downstairs, the stove often had to be extinguished after the first lighting and lighted again with a second and different kind of explosion. and so it was now. she flung down the match pettishly into the hearth. throughout the whole operation she sniffed convulsively, to prevent a new fit of sobbing. her peignoir being very near to the purple-green flames that folded themselves round the asbestos of the stove, she reflected that the material was probably inflammable, and that a careless movement might cause it to be ignited. "and not a bad thing, either!" she said to herself. then, without looking at all towards the bed, she lit the spirit-lamp in order to make tea. the sniffing continued, as she went through the familiar procedure. the water would not boil, demonstrating the cruel truth of proverbs. she sat down and, gazing into the stove, now a rich red, ignored the saucepan. the dry heat from the stove burnt her ankles and face. not a sound from the small saucepan, balanced on its tripod over the wavering blue flame of the spirit-lamp! at last, uncontrollably impatient, she lifted the teapot off the inverted lid of the saucepan, where she had placed it to warm, and peered into the saucepan. the water was cheerfully boiling! she made the tea, and sat down again to wait until it should be infused. she had to judge the minutes as well as she could, for she would not go across to the night-table to look at louis' watch; her own was out of order, and so was the clock. she counted two hundred and fifty, and then, anticipating feverishly the tonic glow of the tea in her breast, she poured out a cup. only colourless steaming water came forth from the pot. she had forgotten to put in the tea! misfortune not unfamiliar to dazed makers of tea in the night! but to rachel now the consequences of the omission seemed to amount to a tragedy. had she the courage to begin the interminable weary process afresh? she was bound to begin it afresh. with her eyes obscured by tears, she put the water back into the saucepan and searched for the match-box. the water boiled almost immediately, and by so doing comforted her. while waiting for the infusion, she realized little by little that for a few moments she must have been nearly hysterical, and she partially resumed possession of herself. the sniffing ceased, her vision cleared; she grew sardonic. all her chest was filled with cold lead. "this truly is the end," she thought. she had thought that julian's confession must be the end of the violent experiences which had befallen her in mrs. malden's house. then she had thought that louis' accident must be the end. each time she had been mistaken. but she could not be mistaken now. no conceivable event, however awful, could cap louis' confession that he had thieved--and under such circumstances! she did not drink the first cup of tea. no! she must needs carry it, spilling it, to louis in bed. he was asleep, or he was in a condition that resembled sleep. assuredly he was ill. he made a dreadful object in his bandages amid the disorder of the bed, upon which strong shadows fell from the gas and from the stove. no matter! if he was ill, he was ill. so much the worse for him! he was not dangerously ill. he was merely passing through a stress which had to be passed through. it would soon be over, and he would be the same eternal louis that he had always been. "here!" she said. he stirred, opened his eyes. "here's some tea!" she said coldly. "drink it." he gave a gesture of dissent. but it was useless. she had brewed the tea and had determined that he should drink a cup. whether he desired it or loathed it was a question irrelevant. he was appointed to drink some tea, and she would not taste until he had drunk. this self-sacrifice was her perverse pleasure. "come!... please don't make it any more awkward for me." with her right arm she raised the pillow and his head on it. he drank, his sick lips curling awkwardly upon the rim of the cup, which she held for him. when he had drunk, she put the cup down on the night-table, and tidied his bed, as though he had been a naughty child. and then she left him, and drank tea slowly, savouringly, by herself in a chair near the dressing-table, out of the same cup. vi she had lied about the scullery door being open when she went downstairs on the night of the disappearance of the bank-notes. the scullery door had not been open. the lie was clumsy, futile, ill-considered. it had burst out of the impulsiveness and generosity of her nature. she had perceived that suspicion was falling, or might fall, upon louis fores, and the sudden lie had flashed forth to defend him. that she could ultimately be charged with having told the lie in order to screen herself from suspicion had never once occurred to her. and it did not even occur to her now as she sat perched uncomfortably on the chair in the night of desolation. she was now deeply ashamed of the lie--and she ought not to have been ashamed, for it was a lie magnanimous and fine; she might rather have taken pride in it. she was especially ashamed of her repetition of the lie on the following day to thomas batchgrew, and of her ingenious embroidery upon it. she hated to remember that she had wept violently in front of thomas batchgrew when he had charged her with having a secret about the loss of the notes. he must have well known that she was lying; he must have suspected her of some complicity; and if later he had affected to ignore all the awkward aspects of the episode it was only because he wished to remain on good terms with louis for his own ends. had she herself all the time suspected louis? in the harsh realism of the night hours she was not able positively to assert that she had never suspected him until after julian's confession had made her think; but, on the other hand, she would not directly accuse herself of having previously suspected him. the worst that she could say was that she had been determined to believe him guiltless. she loved him; she had wanted his love; she would permit nothing to prevent their coming together; and so in her mind she had established his innocence apparently beyond any overthrowing. she might have allowed herself to surmise that in the early past he had been naughty, untrustworthy, even wicked--but that was different, that did not concern her. his innocence with regard to the bank-notes alone mattered. and she had been genuinely convinced of it. a few moments before he kissed her for the first time, she had been genuinely convinced of it. and after the betrothal her conviction became permanent. she tried to scorn now the passion which had blinded her. mrs. maldon, at any rate, must have known that he was connected with the disappearance of the notes. in the light of louis' confession rachel could see all that mrs. maldon was implying in that last conversation between them. so that she might win him she had been ready to throttle every doubt of his honesty. but now the indubitable fact that he was a thief seemed utterly monstrous and insupportable. and, moreover, his crime was exceptionally cruel. was it conceivable that he could so lightly cause so much distress of spirit to a woman so aged, defenceless, and kind? according to the doctor, the shock of the robbery had not been the originating cause of mrs. maldon's death; but it might have been; quite possibly it had hastened death.... louis was not merely a thief; he was a dastardly thief. but even that in her eyes did not touch the full height of his offence. the vilest quality in him was his capacity to seem innocent. she could recall the exact tone in which he had exclaimed: "would you believe that old batch practically accused me of stealing the old lady's money?... don't you think it's a shame?" the recollection filled her with frigid anger. her resentment of the long lie which he had lived in her presence since their betrothal was tremendous in its calm acrimony. a man who could behave as he had behaved would stop at nothing, would be capable of all. she contrasted his conduct with the grim candour of julian maldon, whom she now admired. it was strange and dreadful that both the cousins should be thieves; the prevalence of thieves in that family gave her a shudder. but she could not judge julian maldon severely. he did not appear to her as a real thief. he had committed merely an indiscretion. it was his atonement that made her admire him. though she hated confessions, though she had burnt his exasperating document, she nevertheless liked the manner of his atonement. whereas she contemned louis for having confessed. "he thought he was dying and so he confessed!" she reflected with asperity. "he hadn't even the pluck to go through with what he had begun.... ah! if i had committed a crime and once denied it, i would deny it with my last breath, and no torture should drag it out of me!" and she thought: "i am punished. this is my punishment for letting myself be engaged while mrs. maldon was dying." often she had dismissed as childish the notion that she was to blame for accepting louis just when she did. but now it returned full of power and overwhelmed her. and like a whipped child she remembered mrs. maldon's warning: "my nephew is not to be trusted. the woman who married him would suffer horribly." and she was the woman who had married him. it seemed to her that the warnings of the dying must of necessity prove to be valid. some mysterious phenomenon on the window-blind at her right hand attracted her attention, and she looked round, half startled. it was the dawn, furtive and inexorable. she had watched dawns, and she had watched them in that very bedroom. only on the previous morning the dawn had met her smarting and wakeful eyes, and she had imagined that no dawn could be more profoundly sad!... and a little earlier still she had been desolating herself for hours because louis was going to be careless about his investments, because he was unreliable and she would have to watch ceaselessly over his folly. she had imagined then that no greater catastrophe could overtake her than some material result of his folly!... what a trivial apprehension! what a child she had been! in the excitement and alarm of his accident she had honestly forgotten her suspicions of him. that disconcerted her. she rose from the chair, stiff. the stove, with its steady faint roar of imperfectly consumed gas, had thoroughly heated the room. in careful silence she put the tea-things together. then she ventured to glance at louis. he was asleep. he had been restlessly asleep for a long time. she eyed him bitterly in his bandages. only last night she had been tormented by that fear that his face might be marked for life. again the trivial! what did it matter whether his face was marked for life or not?... it did not occur to her to attempt to realize how intense must have been the spiritual tribulation which had forced him to confess. she knew that he was not dying, that he was in no danger whatever, and she was perfectly indifferent to the genuineness of his own conviction that he was dying. she simply thought: "he had to go through all that. if he fancied he was dying, can i help it?" ... then she looked at her own empty bed. he reposed; he slept. but she did not repose nor sleep. she drew aside one of the blinds, and as she did so she could feel the steady slight current of cold air entering the room from the window open at the top. the street seemed to be full of daylight. the dawn had been proceeding in its vast secrecy and was now accomplished. she drew up the blind slowly, and then the gas-flame over the dressing-table seemed so pale and futile that she extinguished it, from a sort of pity. in silence she pulled out the iron bolts in the window-sash that had been mrs. maldon's device for preventing burglars from opening further a window already open a little, thus combining security with good hygiene. louis had laughed at these bolts, but mrs. maldon had so instilled their use into both rachel and mrs. tams that to insert them at night was part of the unchangeable routine of the house. rachel gently pushed up the lower sash and looked forth. bycars lane, though free from mud, was everywhere heavily bedewed. the narrow pavement glistened. the roofs glistened. drops of water hung on all the edges of the great gas-lamp beneath her, which was still defying the dawn. the few miserable trees and bushes on the vague lands beyond the lane were dripping with water. the sky was low and heavy, in scarcely distinguishable shades of purplish grey, and bycars pool, of which she had a glimpse, appeared in its smooth blackness to be not more wet than the rest of the scene. nothing stirred. not the tiniest branch stirred on the leafless trees, nor a leaf on a grey rhododendron-bush in a front garden below. every window within sight had its blind drawn. no smoke rose from any house-chimney, and the distant industrial smoke on the horizon hung in the lower air, just under the clouds, undecided and torpid. the wet air was moveless, and yet she could feel it impinging with its cool, sharp humidity on her cheek. the sensation of this contact was delicious. she was surrounded, not by the slatternly five towns landscape and by the wretchedness of the familiar bedroom, but by the unanswerable, intimidating, inspiring mystery of life itself. a man came hurrying with a pole out of the western vista of the lane, and stopped in front of the gas-lamp, and in an instant the flame was reduced to a little fat worm of blue, and the man passed swiftly up the lane, looking straight ahead with bent shoulders, and was gone. never before had rachel actually seen the lamp put out. never before had she noticed, as she noticed now, that the lamp had a number, an identity-- . the meek acquiescence of the lamp, and the man's preoccupied haste, seemed to bear some deep significance, which, however, she could not seize. but the aspect of the man afflicted her, she did not know why. then a number of other figures, in a long spasmodic procession, passed up the lane after the man, and were gone out of sight. their heavy boots clacked on the pavement. they wore thick, dirty greyish-black clothes, but no overcoats; small tight caps in their hands, and dark kerchiefs round their necks: about thirty of them in all, colliers on their way to one of the pits on the moorthorne ridge. they walked quickly, but they did not hurry as their forerunner hurried. several of them smoked pipes. though some walked in pairs, none spoke; none looked up or aside. with one man walked stolidly a young woman, her overskirt raised and pulled round her head from the back for a shawl; but even these two did not converse. the procession closed with one or two stragglers. rachel had never seen these pilgrims before, but she had heard them; and mrs. maldon had been acquainted with all their footfalls. they were tragic to rachel; they infected her with the most recondite horror of existence; they left tragedy floating behind them in the lane like an invisible but oppressive cloud. their utterly incurious indifference to rachel in her peignoir at the window was somehow harrowing. the dank lane and vaporous, stagnant landscape were once more dead and silent, and would for a long time remain so, for though potters begin work early, colliers begin work much earlier, living in a world of customs of their own. at last a thin column of smoke issued magically from a chimney down to the left. some woman was about; some woman's day had opened within that house. at the thought of that unseen woman in that unknown house rachel could have cried. she could not remain at the window. she was unhappy; but it was not her woe that overcame her, for if she was unhappy, her unhappiness was nevertheless exquisite. it was the mere realization that men and women lived that rendered her emotions almost insupportable. she felt her youth. she thought, "i am only a girl, and yet my life is ruined already." and even that thought she hugged amorously as though it were beautiful. amid the full disaster and regret, she was glad to be alive. she could not help exulting in the dreadful moment. she closed the sash and began to dress, seldom glancing at louis, who slept and dreamed and muttered. when she was dressed she looked carefully in the drawer where he deposited certain articles from his pockets, in order to find the bundle of notes left by julian. in vain! then she searched for his bunch of keys (which ultimately she found in one of his pockets) and unlocked his private drawer. the bundle of notes lay there. she removed it, and hid it away in one of her own secret places. after she had made preparations to get ready some invalid's food at short notice, she went downstairs. vii she went downstairs without any definite purpose--merely because activity of some kind was absolutely necessary to her. the clock in the lobby showed dimly a quarter past five. in the chilly twilit kitchen the green-lined silver-basket lay on the table in front of the window, placed there by a thoughtful and conscientious mrs. tams. on the previous morning rachel had given very precise orders about the silver (as the workaday electro-plate was called), but owing to the astounding events of the day the orders had not been executed. mrs. tams had evidently determined to carry them out at an early hour. rachel opened a cupboard and drew forth the apparatus for cleaning. she was intensely fatigued, weary, and seemingly spiritless, but she began to clean the silver--at first with energy and then with serious application. she stood at the table, cleaning, as she had stood there when louis came into her kitchen on the night of the robbery; and she thought of his visit and of her lost bliss, and the tears fell from her eyes on the newspaper which protected the whiteness of the scrubbed table. she would not think of the future; could not. she went on cleaning, and that silver had never been cleaned as she cleaned it then. she cleaned it with every attribute of herself, forgetting her fatigue. the tears dried on her cheek. the faithful, scrupulous work either drugged or solaced her. just as she was finishing, mrs. tarns, with her immense bodice unfastened, came downstairs, apronless. the lobby clock struck six. "eh, missis!" breathed mrs. tams. "what's this?" rachel gave a nervous laugh. "i was up. mr. fores was asleep, and i had to do something, so i thought--" "has he had a good night, ma'am?" "fair. yes, pretty good. i must run up and see if he is awake." mrs. tams saw the stains on rachel's cheeks, but she could not mention them. rachel had an impulse to fall on mrs. tams' enormous breast and weep. but the conventions of domesticity were far too strong for her also. mrs. tams was the general servant; what louis occasionally called "the esteemed skivvy." once mrs. tams had been wife, mother, grandmother, victim, slave, diplomatist, serpent, heroine. once she had bent from morn till night under the terrific weight of a million perils and responsibilities. once she could never be sure of her next meal, or the roof over her head, or her skin, or even her bones. once she had been the last resource and refuge not merely of a house, but of half a street, and she had had a remedy for every ill, a balm for every wound. but now she was safe, out of harm's way. she had no responsibilities worth a rap. she had everything an old woman ought to desire. and yet the silly old woman felt a lack, as she impotently watched rachel leave the kitchen. perhaps she wanted her eye blacked, or the menace of a policeman, or a child down with diphtheria, to remind her that the world revolved. chapter xiii dead-lock i louis had wakened up a few minutes before rachel returned to the bedroom from that most wonderfully conscientious spell of silver-cleaning. he was relieved to find himself alone. he was ill, perhaps very ill, but he felt unquestionably better than in the night. he was delivered from the appalling fear of death which had tortured and frightened him, and his thankfulness was intense; and yet at the same time he was aware of a sort of heroical sentimental regret that he was not, after all, dead; he would almost have preferred to die with grandeur, young, unfortunate, wept for by an inconsolable wife doomed to everlasting widowhood. he was ashamed of his bodily improvement, which rendered him uncomfortably self-conscious, for he had behaved as though dying when, as the event proved, he was not dying. when rachel came in, this self-consciousness grew terrible. and in his weakness, his constraint, his febrile perturbation which completely destroyed presence of mind, he feebly remarked-- "did any one call yesterday to ask how i was?" as soon as he had said it he knew that it was inept, and quite unsuitable to the role which he ought to play. rachel had gone straight to the dressing-table, apparently ignoring him, though she could not possibly have failed to notice that he was awake. she turned sharply and gazed at him with a look of inimical contempt that aggrieved and scarified him very acutely. making no answer to his query, content solely to condemn it with her eyes as egotistic and vain, she said-- "i'm going to make you some food." and then she curtly showed him her bent back, and over the foot of the bed he could see her preparations--preliminary stirring with a spoon, the placing of the bright tin saucepan on the lamp, the opening of the wick, seizing of the match-box. as soon as the cooking was in train, she threw up the window wide and then came to the bed. "i'll just put your bed to rights again," she remarked, and seized the pillow, waiting implacably for him to raise his head. he had to raise his head. "i'm very ill," he moaned. she replied in a tone of calm indifference-- "i know you are. but you'll soon be better. you're getting a little better every hour." and she finished arranging the bed, which was presently in a state of smooth geometrical correctness. he could find no fault with her efficiency, nor with her careful handling of his sensitive body. but the hard, the marmoreal cruelty of his wife's spirit exquisitely wounded his soul, which, after all, was at least as much in need of consolation as his body. he was positively daunted. ii he had passed through dreadful moments in the early part of the night while rachel slept. when he had realized that he was doomed--for the conviction that death was upon him had been absolutely sincere and final for a long time--he was panic-stricken, impressed, and strangely proud, all at once. but the panic was paramount. he was afraid, horribly afraid. his cowardice was ghastly, even to himself, shot through though it was by a peculiar appreciation of the grandiosity of his fate as a martyr to clumsy chance. he was reduced by it to the trembling repentant sinner, as the proud prisoner is reduced to abjection by prolonged and secret torture in oriental prisons. he ranged in fright over the whole of his career, and was obliged to admit, and to admit with craven obsequiousness, that he had been a wicked man, obstinate in wickedness. he remembered matters which had utterly vanished from his memory. he remembered, for example, the excellence of his moral aspirations when he had first thought of rachel as a wife, and the firm, high resolves which were to be carried out if he married her. forgotten! forgotten! as soon as he had won her he had thought of nothing but self-indulgence, pleasure, capricious delights. his tailor still languished for money long justly due. he had not even restored the defalcations in horrocleave's petty cash. of course it would have been difficult to restore a sum comparatively so large without causing suspicion. to restore it would have involved a long series of minute acts, alterations of alterations in the cash entries, and constant ingenuity in a hundred ways. but it ought to have been done, and might have been done. it might have been done. he admitted that candidly, fully, with despicable tremblings.... and the worst of all, naturally, was the theft from his aunt. theft? was it a theft? he had never before consented to define the affair as a theft; it had been a misfortune, an indiscretion. but now he was ready to call it a theft, in order to be on the safe side. for the sake of placating omnipotence let it be deemed a theft, and even a mean theft, entailing dire consequences on a weak old woman! let it be as bad as the severest judge chose to make it! he would not complain. he would accept the arraignment (though really he had not been so blameworthy, etc....). he knew that with all his sins he, possessed the virtues of good nature, kindness, and politeness. he was not wholly vile. in some ways he honestly considered himself a model to mankind. and then he had recalled certain information received in childhood from authoritative persons about the merciful goodness of god. his childhood had been rather ceremoniously religious, for his step-uncle, the lieutenant-general, was a great defender of christianity as well as of the british empire. the lieutenant-general had even written a pamphlet against a ribald iconoclastic book published by the rationalist press association, in which pamphlet he had made a sorry mess of herbert spencer. all the lieutenant-general's relatives and near admirers went to church, and they all went to precisely the same kind of church, for no other kind would have served. louis, however, had really liked going to church. there had once even been a mad suggestion that he should become a choir-boy, but the lieutenant-general had naturally decided that it was not meet for a child of breeding to associate with plebeians in order to chant the praises of the almighty. louis at his worst had never quite ceased to attend church, though he was under the impression that his religious views had broadened, if not entirely changed. beneath the sudden heavy menace of death he discovered that his original views were, after all, the most authentic and the strongest. and he had much longed for converse with a clergyman, who would repeat to him the beautiful reassurances of his infancy. even late in the afternoon, hours before the supreme crisis, he would have welcomed a clergyman, for he was already beginning to be afraid. he would have liked a clergyman to drop in by accident; he would have liked the first advances to come from the clergyman. but he could not bring himself to suggest that the rector of st. luke's, of whose flock he now formed part, should be sent for. he had demanded a lawyer, and that was as near to a clergyman as he could get. he had been balked of the lawyer. further on in the evening, when his need was more acute and his mind full of frightful secret apprehensions, he was as far as ever from obtaining a clergyman. and he knew that, though his eternal welfare might somehow depend on the priest, he could never articulate to rachel the words, "i should like to see a clergyman." it would seem too absurd to ask for a clergyman.... strangeness of the human heart! it was after rachel had fallen asleep that the idea of confession had occurred to him as a means towards safety in the future life. the example of julian had inspired him. he had despised julian; he had patronized julian; but in his extremity he had been ready to imitate him. he seemed to conceive that confession before death must be excellent for the soul. at any rate, it prevented one from going down to the tomb with a lie tacit on the lips. he was very ill, very weak, very intimidated. and he was very solitary and driven in on himself--not so much because rachel had gone to sleep as because neither rachel nor anybody else would believe that he was really dying. his spirit was absorbed in the gravest preoccupations that can trouble a man. his need of sympathy and succour was desperate. thus he had wakened rachel. at first she had been as sympathetic and consoling as he could desire. she had held his hand and sat on the bed. the momentary relief was wonderful. and he had been encouraged to confess. he had prodded himself on to confession by the thought that rachel must have known of his guilt all along--otherwise she would never have told that senseless lie about the scullery door being open. hence his confession could not surprise her. she would receive it in the right, loving, wifely attitude, telling him that he was making too much of a little, that it was splendid of him to confess, and generally exonerating and rehabilitating him. then he had begun to confess. the horrible change in her tone as he came to the point had unnerved him. her wild sobs when the confession was made completed his dismay. and then, afterwards, her incredible harshness and cruelty, her renewed refusal, flat and disdainful, to believe that he was dying--these things were the most wounding experience of his entire existence. as for her refusal to listen to the rest of his story, the important part, the exculpatory part--it was monstrously unjust. he had had an instant's satisfaction on beholding her confusion at being charged with the lie about the scullery door, but it was a transient advantage. he was so ill.... she had bullied him with the lacerating emphasis of her taciturn remarks.... and at last she had requested him not to make it any more awkward for _her_!... iii when he had obediently taken the food and thanked her for it very nicely, he felt much better. the desire for a clergyman, or even for a lawyer, passed away from his mind; he forgot the majority of his sins and his aspirations, and the need for restoring the defalcations to jim horrocleave seemed considerably less urgent. rachel stayed by him while he ate, but she would not meet his glance, and looked carefully at the window. "as soon as i've tidied up the room, i'll just sponge your hands," said she. "the doctor will be here early. i suppose i mustn't touch your face." louis inquired-- "how do you know he'll be here early?" "he said he should--because of the dressings, you know." she went to work on the room, producing a duster from somewhere, and ringing for mrs. tams, who, however, was not permitted to enter. louis hated these preparations for the doctor. he had never in his life been able to understand why women were always so absurdly afraid of the doctor's eye. as if the doctor would care! moreover, the room was being tidied for the doctor, not for the invalid! the invalid didn't matter! when she came to him with a bowl of water, soap, and a towel, he loathed the womanish scheme of being washed in bed. "i'll get up," he said. "i'm lots better." he had previously intended to feign extreme illness, but he forgot. "oh no, you won't," she replied coldly. "first you think you're dying, and then you think you're all right. you won't stir out of that bed till the doctor's been, at any rate." and she lodged the bowl dangerously between his knees. he pretended to be contemptuous of her refusal to let him get up, but in fact he was glad of an excuse for not making good his boast. his previous statement that he was very ill was much nearer to the truth than the fine talking about being "lots better." if not very ill, he was, at any rate, more ill than he now thought he was, and eating had fatigued him. nevertheless, he would wash his own hands. rachel yielded to him in this detail with cynical indifference. she put the towel by the bowl, and left him to balance the bowl and keep the soap off the counterpane as best he could, while she rummaged in one of the drawers of the wardrobe--obviously for the simple sake of rummaging. her unwifeliness was astounding; it was so astounding that louis did not all at once quite realize how dangerously he was wounded by it. he had seen that hard, contumelious mask on her face several times before; he had seen it, for instance, when she had been expressing her views on councillor batchgrew; but he had not conceived, in his absurd male confidence, that it would ever be directed against himself. he could not snatch the mask from her face, but he wondered how he might pierce it, and incidentally hurt her and make her cry softly. ah! he had seen her in moods of softness which were celestial to him--surpassing all dreams of felicity! the conviction of his own innocence and victimhood strengthened in him. amid the morbid excitations of the fear of death, he had forgotten that in strict truth he had not stolen a penny from his great-aunt, that he was utterly innocent. he now vividly remembered that his sole intention in taking possession of the bank-notes had been to teach his great-aunt a valuable lesson about care in the guarding of money. afterwards he had meant to put the notes back where he had found them; chance had prevented; he had consistently acted for the best in very sudden difficulties, and after all, in the result, it was not he who was responsible for the destruction of the notes, but rachel.... true, that in the night his vision of the affair had been less favourable to himself, but in the night illness had vitiated his judgment, which was not strange, seeing the dreadful accident he had experienced.... he _might_ have died, and where would rachel have been then?... was it not amazing that a young wife who had just escaped widowhood so narrowly could behave to a husband, a seriously sick husband, as rachel was behaving to him? he wished that he had not used the word "collar" in confessing to rachel. it was equal to "steal." its significance was undebatable. yes, "collar" was a grave error of phrasing. "i'm about done with this basin thing," he said, with all possible dignity, and asked for brushes of various sorts for the completion of his toilet. she served him slowly, coolly. her intention was clear to act as a capable but frigid nurse--not as a wife. he saw that she thought herself the wife of a thief, and that she was determined not to be the wife of a thief. he could not bear it. the situation must be changed immediately, because his pride was bleeding to death. "i say," he began, when she had taken away the towel and his tooth-powder. "what?" her tone challenged him. "you wouldn't let me finish last night. i just wanted to tell you that i didn't--" "i've no wish to hear another word." she stopped him, precisely as she had stopped him in the night. she was at the washstand. "i should be obliged if you'd look at me when you speak to me," he reproached her manners. "it's only polite." she turned to him with face flaming. they were both aware that his deportment was better than hers; and he perceived that the correction had abraded her susceptibility. "i'll look at you all right," she answered, curtly and rather loudly. he adopted a superior attitude. "of course i'm ill and weak," he said, "but even if i am i suppose i'm entitled to some consideration." he lay back on the pillow. "i can't help your being ill," she answered. "it's not my fault. and if you're so ill and weak as all that, it seems to me the best thing you can do is to be quiet and not to talk, especially about--about that!" "well, perhaps you'll let me be the best judge of what i ought to talk about. anyhow, i'm going to talk about it, and you're going to listen." "i'm not." "i say you're going to listen," he insisted, turning on his side towards her. "and why not? why, what on earth did i say last night, after all, i should like to know?" "you said you'd taken the other part of the money of mrs. maldon's--that's what you said. you thought you were dying, and so you told me." "that's just what i want to explain. i'm going to explain it to you." "no explanations for me, thanks!" she sneered, walking in the direction of the hearth. "i'd sooner hear anything, anything, than your explanations." she seemed to shudder. he nerved himself. "i tell you i _found_ that money," he cried, recommencing. "well, good-bye," she said, moving to the door. "you don't seem to understand." at the same moment there was a knock at the door. "come in, mrs. tarns," said rachel calmly. "she mustn't come in now," louis protested. "come in, mrs. tams," rachel repeated decisively. and mrs. tams entered, curtsying towards the bed. "what is it?" rachel asked her. "it's the greengrocer's cart, ma'am." the greengrocer usually did send round on saturday mornings. "i'll go down. just clear up that washstand, will you?" it was remarkable to louis how chance would favour a woman in an altercation. but he had decided, even if somewhat hysterically, to submit to no more delay, and to end the altercation--and moreover, to end it in his own way. "rachel!" he called. several times he called her name, more and more loudly. he ignored what was due to servants, to greengrocers, and to the dignity of employers. he kept on calling. "shall i fetch missis, sir?" mrs. tams suggested at length. he nodded. mrs. tams departed, laden. certainly the fat creature, from whom nothing could be hid by a younger generation, had divined that strife had supervened on illness, and that great destinies hung upon the issue. neither mrs. tams nor rachel returned to the bedroom. louis began again to call for rachel, and then to yell for her. he could feel that the effort was exhausting him, but he was determined to vanquish her. iv without a sound she startlingly appeared in the room. "what's the matter?" she inquired, with her irritating assumption of tranquillity. "you know what's the matter." "i wish you wouldn't scream like a baby," she said. "you know i want to speak to you, and you're keeping out of the way on purpose." rachel said-- "look here, louis! do you want me to leave the house altogether?" he thought-- "what is she saying? we've only been married a few weeks. this is getting serious." aloud he answered-- "of course i don't want you to leave the house." "well, then, don't say any more. because if you do, i shall. i've heard all i want to hear. there are some things i can bear, and some i can't bear." "if you don't listen--!" he exclaimed. "i'm warning you!" she glanced at the thief in him, and at the coward penitent of the night, with the most desolating disdain, and left the room. that was her answer to his warning. "all right, my girl! all right!" he said to himself, when she had gone, pulling together his self-esteem, his self-pity, and his masculinity. "you'll regret this. you see if you don't. as to leaving the house, we shall see who'll leave the house. wait till i'm on my legs again. if there is to be a scandal, there shall be a scandal." one thing was absolutely sure--he could not and would not endure her contumely, nor even her indifferent scorn. for him to live with it would be ridiculous as well as impossible. he was weak, but two facts gave him enormous strength. first, he loved her less than she loved him, and hence she was at a disadvantage. but supposing her passion for him was destroyed? then the second fact came into play. he had money. he had thousands of pounds, loose, available! to such a nature as his the control of money gives a sense of everlasting security. already he dreamt of freedom, of roaming the wide world, subject to no yoke but a bachelor's whim. chapter xiv the market i rachel thought she understood all louis' mental processes. with the tragic self-confidence of the inexperienced wife, she was convinced that she had nothing to learn about the secret soul of the stranger to whom she had utterly surrendered herself, reserving from him naught of the maiden. each fresh revelation of him she imagined to be final, completing her studies. in fact, it would have taken at least ten years of marriage to prove to her that a perception of ignorance is the summit of knowledge. she had not even realized that human nature is chiefly made up of illogical and absurd contradictions. thus she left the house that saturday morning gloomy, perhaps hopeless, certainly quite undecided as to the future, but serene, sure of her immediate position, and sure that louis would act like louis. she knew that she had the upper hand, both physically and morally. the doctor had called and done his work, and given a very reassuring report. she left louis to mrs. tams, as was entirely justifiable, merely informing him that she had necessary errands, and even this information she gave through her veil, a demure contrivance which she had adapted for the first time on her honeymoon. it was his role to accept her august decisions. the forenoon was better than the dawn. the sun had emerged; the moisture had nearly disappeared, except in the road; and the impulse of spring was moving in the trees and in the bodies of young women; the sky showed a virginal blue; the wandering clouds were milky and rounded, the breeze infinitely soft. it seemed to be in an earlier age that the dark colliers had silently climbed the steep of bycars lane amid the dankness and that the first column of smoke had risen forlornly from the chimney. in spite of her desolated heart, and of her primness, rachel stepped forward airily. she was going forth to an enormous event, namely, her first apparition in the shopping streets of the town on a saturday morning as mrs. louis fores, married woman. she might have postponed it, but into what future? moreover, she was ashamed of being diffident about it. and, in the peculiar condition of her mind, she would have been ashamed to let a spiritual crisis, however appalling, interfere with the natural, obvious course of her duties. so far as the world was concerned, she was a happy married woman, who had to make her debut as a shopping housewife, and hence she was determined that her debut should be made.... and yet, possibly she might not have ventured away from the house at all, had she not felt that if she did not escape for a time from its unbreathable atmosphere into the liberty of the streets, she would stifle and expire. wherever she put herself in the house she could not feel alone. in the streets she felt alone, even when saluting new acquaintances and being examined and probed by their critical stare. the sight of these acquaintances reminded her that she had a long list of calls to repay. and then the system of paying calls and repaying, and the whole system of society, seemed monstrously fanciful and unreal to her. there was only one reality. the solid bricks of the pavement suddenly trembled under her feet as though she were passing over a suspension-bridge. the enterprise of shopping became idiotic, humorous, incredibly silly in the face of that reality. nevertheless, the social system of bursley, as exemplified in wedgwood street and the market-place, its principal shopping thoroughfares, was extremely alluring, bright, and invigorating that morning. it almost intoxicated, and had, indeed, a similar effect to that of a sparkling drink. rachel had never shopped at large with her own money before. she had executed commissions for mrs. maldon. she had been an unpaid housekeeper to her father and brother. now she was shopping as mistress of a house and of money. she owed an account of her outlay to nobody, not even to louis. she recalled the humble and fantastic saturday night when she had shopped with louis as reticule-carrier ... centuries since. the swiftness and unforeseeableness of events frightened the girl masquerading as a wise, perfected woman. her heart lay like a weight in her corsage for an instant, and the next instant she was in the bright system again, because she was so young. here and there in the streets, and in small groups in the chief shops, you saw prim ladies of every age, each with a gloved hand clasped over a purse. (but sometimes the purse lay safe under the coverlet of a perambulator.) these purses made all the ladies equal, for their contents were absolutely secret from all save the owners. all the ladies were spending, and the delight of spending was theirs. and in theory every purse was inexhaustible. at any rate, it was impossible to conceive a purse empty. the system wore the face of the ideal. manners were proper to the utmost degree; they neatly marked the equality of the shoppers and the profound difference between the shoppers and the shopkeepers. all ladies were agreeable, all babies in perambulators were darlings. the homes thus represented by ladies and babies were clearly polite homes, where reigned suavity, tranquillity, affection, and plenty. civilization was justified in wedgwood street and the market-place--and also, to some extent, in st. luke's square.... and rachel was one of these ladies. her gloved hand closed over a purse exactly in the style of the others. and her purse, regard being had to the inheritance of her husband, was supposed to hide vast sums; so much so that ladies who had descended from distant heights in pony-carts gazed upon her with the respect due to a rival. all welcomed her into the exclusive, correct little world--not only the shopkeepers but the buyers therein. she represented youthful love. her life must be, and was, an idyll! true, she had no perambulator, but middle-aged ladies greeted her with wistfulness in their voices and in their eyes. she smiled often as she told and retold the story of louis' accident, and gave positive assurances that he was in no danger, and would not bear a scar. she blushed often. she was shyly happy in her unhappiness. the experience alternated between the unreal and the real. the extraordinary complexity of life was beginning to put its spell on her. she could not determine the relative values of the various facets of the experience. when she had done the important parts of her business, she thought she would go into the covered market, which, having one entrance in the market-place and another in wedgwood street, connects the two thoroughfares. she had never been into the covered market because mrs. maldon had a prejudice against its wares. she went out of mere curiosity, just to enlarge her knowledge of her adopted town. the huge interior, with its glazed roof, was full of clatter, shouting, and the smell of innumerable varieties of cheese. she passed a second-hand bookstall without seeing it, and then discerned admirable potatoes at three-halfpence a peck less than she had been paying--and mrs. maldon was once more set down as an old lady with peculiarities. however, by the time rachel had made a critical round of the entire place, with its birds in cages, popular songs at a penny, sweetstuffs, cheap cottons and woollens, bright tinware, colonial fleshmeat, sausage displays, and particularly its cheeses, mrs. maldon was already recovering her reputation as a woman whose death was an irreparable loss to the town. as rachel passed the negligible second-hand bookstall again, it was made visible to her by the fact that councillor thomas batchgrew was just emerging from the shop behind it, with a large volume in his black-gloved hands. thomas batchgrew came out of the dark bookshop as a famous old actor, accustomed to decades of crude public worship, comes out of a fashionable restaurant into a fashionable thoroughfare. his satisfied and self-conscious countenance showed that he knew that nearly everybody in sight was or ought to be acquainted with his identity and his renown, and showed also that his pretence of being unaware of this tremendous and luscious fact was playful and not seriously meant to deceive a world of admirers. he was wearing a light tweed suit, with a fancy waistcoat and a hard, pale-grey hat. as he aged, his tendency to striking pale attire was becoming accentuated; at any rate, it had the advantage of harmonizing with his unique whiskers--those whiskers which differentiated him from all the rest of the human race in the five towns. rachel blushed, partly because he was suddenly so close to her, partly because she disapproved of the cunning expression on his red, seamed face and was afraid he might divine her thoughts, and partly because she recalled the violent things she had said against him to louis. but as soon as thomas batchgrew caught sight of her the expression of his faced changed in an instant to one of benevolence and artless joy; the change in it was indeed dramatic. and rachel, pleased and flattered, said to herself, almost startled-- "he really admires me. and i do believe he always did." and since admiration is a sweet drug, whether offered by a rascal or by the pure in heart, she forgot momentarily the horror of her domestic dilemma. ii "eh, lass!" thomas batchgrew was saying familiarly, after he had inquired about louis, "i'm rare glad for thy sake it was no worse." his frank implication that he was glad only for her sake gratified and did not wound her as a wife. the next moment he had dismissed the case of louis and was displaying to her the volume which he carried. it was a folio bible, printed by the cornishman tregorthy in the town of bursley, within two hundred yards of where they were standing, in the earliest years of the nineteenth century--a bibliographical curiosity, as thomas batchgrew vaguely knew, for he wet his gloved thumb and, resting the book on one raised knee, roughly turned over several pages till he came to the title-page containing the word "bursley," which he showed with pride to rachel. rachel, however, not being in the slightest degree a bibliophile, discerned no interest whatever in the title-page. she merely murmured with politeness, "oh, yes! bursley," while animadverting privately on the old man's odious trick of wetting his gloved thumb and leaving marks on the pages. "the good old book!" he said. "i've been after that volume for six months and more. i knew i should get it, but he's a stiff un--yon is," jerking his shoulder in the direction of the second-hand bookseller. then he put the folio under his arm, delighted at the souvenir of having worsted somebody in a bargain, and repeated, "the good old book!" rachel reflected-- "you unspeakable old sinner!" still, she liked his attitude towards herself. in addition to the book he insisted on carrying a small white parcel of hers which she had not put into the reticule. they climbed the steps out of the covered market and walked along the market-place together. and rachel unmistakably did find pleasure in being seen thus with the great and powerful, if much criticized, thomas batchgrew, him to whom several times, less than a year earlier, she had scathingly referred as _that man_. his escort in the thoroughfare, and especially his demeanour towards herself, gave her a standing which she could otherwise scarcely have attained. moreover, people might execrate him in private, but that he had conquered the esteem of their secret souls was well proved by their genuine eagerness to salute him as he walked sniffing along. he counted himself one of the seven prides of the district, and perhaps he was not far out. "come in a minute, lass," he said in a low, confidential voice, as they reached his branch shop, just beyond malkin's. "i'll--" he paused. a motor, apparently enormous, was buzzing motion-less in the wide entry by the side of the shop. it very slowly moved forward, crossed the footpath and half the street opposite the town hall, impeding a tram-car, and then curved backward into a position by the kerbstone. john's ernest was at the steering-wheel. councillor batchgrew stood still with his mouth open to watch the manoeuvre. "this is john's ernest--my son john's eldest. happen ye know him?" said batchgrew to rachel. "he's a good lad." john's ernest, a pleasant-featured young man of twenty-five, blushed and raised his hat. and rachel also blushed as she nodded. it was astonishing that old batchgrew could have a grandson with so honest a look on his face, but she had heard that son john, too, was very different from his father. "dunna go till i've seen thee," said mr. batchgrew to john's ernest, and to rachel, "come in, mrs. fores." john's ernest silenced the car, and extricated himself with practised rapidity from the driver's seat. "where are ye going?" asked his grandfather. "i'm going to lock the garage doors," said john's ernest, with a humorous smile which seemed to add, "unless you'd like them to be left open all saturday afternoon." rachel vividly remembered the playful, boyish voice which she had heard one night when the motor-car had called to take mr. batchgrew to red cow. the councillor nodded. in the small, untidy, disagreeable, malodorous shop, which in about half a century had scarcely altered its aspect, thomas batchgrew directed rachel to a corner behind the counter and behind a partition, with a view of a fragment of the window. as she passed she saw one of the batchgrew women (the wife of another grandson) and three little girls of various sizes flash in succession across an open doorway at the back. the granddaughter-in-law, who had an abode full of costly wedding-presents over the shop, had been one of her callers, but when they flashed across that doorway the batchgrew women made a point of ignoring all phenomena in the shop. "has louis decided about them debentures?" thomas batchgrew asked, still in a very low and confidential tone, as the two stood together in the corner. he had put the book and the parcel down on a very ragged blotting-pad that lay on a chipped and ink-stained deal desk, and began to finger a yellow penholder. there was nobody else in the shop. rachel had foreseen his question. she answered calmly: "yes. he's quite decided that on the whole it'll be better if he doesn't put his money into debentures." there was no foundation whatever for this statement; yet, in uttering the lie, she was clearly conscious of a feeling of lofty righteousness. she faced thomas batchgrew, though not with a tranquillity perfectly maintained, and she still enjoyed his appreciation of her, but she did not seem to care whether he guessed that she was lying or not. "i'm sorry, lass!" he said simply, sniffing. "the lad's a fool. it isn't as if i've got to go hawking seven per cent. debentures to get rid of 'em--and in a concern like that, too! they'd never ha' been seven per cent if it hadna been for me. but it was you as i was thinking of when i offered 'em to louis. i thought i should be doing ye a good turn." the old man smiled amid his loud sniffs. he was too old to have retained any save an artistic interest in women. but an artistic interest in them he certainly had; and at an earlier period he had acquainted himself with life, as his eye showed. rachel blushed a third time that morning, and more deeply than before. he was seriously nattering her now. endearing qualities that had expired in him long ago seemed to be resuscitated and to animate his ruined features. rachel dimly understood how it was that some woman had once married him and borne him a lot of children, and how it was that he had been so intimate and valued a friend of the revered husband of such a woman as mrs. maldon. she was, in the five towns phrase, "flustered." she almost believed what thomas batchgrew had said. she did believe it. she had misjudged him on the thursday night when he spread the lure of the seven per cent. in front of louis. at any rate, he assuredly did not care, personally, whether louis accepted the debentures or not. "however," the councillor went on, "he's got to know his own business best. and i don't know as it's any affair o' mine. but i was just thinking of you. when the husband has a good investment, th' wife generally comes in for something.... and what's more, it 'ud ha' stopped him from doing anything silly with his brass! _you_ know." "yes," she murmured. "i'm talking to ye because i've taken a fancy to ye," said the councillor. "i knew what you were the first time i set eyes on ye. oh, i don't mind telling ye now--what harm is there in it? i'd a sort of a fancy as one day you and john's ernest might ha' hit it off. i had it in my mind like." a crude compliment, possibly in bad taste, possibly offensive; but rachel was singularly moved by the revelation thus made. before she could find a reply john's ernest came into the shop, followed by an aproned assistant. iii then she was sitting by john's ernest's side in the big motor-car, with her possessions at her feet. the enthronement had happened in a few moments. john's ernest was going to hanbridge. "ye can run mrs. fores up home on yer way," thomas batchgrew had suggested. "but bycars lane is miles out of your way!" rachel had cried. both men had smiled. "won't make a couple of minutes' difference in the car," john's ernest had modestly murmured. she had been afraid to get into the automobile--afraid with a sort of stage-fright; afraid, as she might have been had she been called upon to sing at a concert in the town hall. she had imagined that all bursley was gazing at her as she climbed into the car. over the face of england automobiles are far more common than cuckoos, and yet for the majority, even of the proud and solvent middle class, they still remain as unattainable, as glitteringly wondrous, as a title. rachel had never been in an automobile before; she had never hoped to be in an automobile. a few days earlier, and she had been regarding a bicycle as rather romantic! louis had once mentioned a motor-cycle and side-carriage for herself, but she had rebuffed the idea with a shudder. the whole town slid away behind her. the car was out of the market-place and crossing the top of duck bank, the scene of louis' accident, before she had settled her skirts. she understood why the men had smiled at her; it was no more trouble for the car to go to bycars than it would be for her to run upstairs. the swift movement of the car, silent and arrogant, and the occasional deep bass mysterious menace of its horn, and the grace of john's ernest's gestures on the wheel as he curved the huge vehicle like a phantom round lumbering obstacles--these things fascinated and exalted her. in spite of the horrible secret she carried all the time in her heart, she was somehow filled with an instinctive joy. and she began to perceive changes in her own perspective. the fine louis, whom she had regarded as the summit of mankind, could never offer her an automobile; he existed entirely in a humbler world; he was, after all, a young man in a very small way of affairs. batchgrew's automobile would swallow up, week by week, more than the whole of louis' income. and further, john's ernest by her side was invested with the mighty charm of one who easily and skilfully governs a vast and dangerous organism. all the glory of the inventors and perfecters of automobiles, and of manufacturing engineers, and of capitalists who could pay for their luxurious caprices, was centred in john's ernest, merely because he directed and subjugated the energy of the miraculous machine. and john's ernest was so exquisitely modest and diffident, and yet had an almost permanent humorous smile. but the paramount expression on his face was honesty. she had never hitherto missed the expression of honesty on louis' face, but she realized now that it was not there.... and she had been adjudged worthy of john's ernest! the powerful of the world had had their eyes on her! not louis alone had noted her! had fate chosen, and had she herself chosen, that very motor-car might have been hers, and she at that instant riding in it as the mistress thereof! strange thoughts, which intensely flattered and fostered her self-esteem. but she still had the horrible secret to carry with her. when the car stopped in front of her gate, she forced open the door and jumped down with almost hysterical speed, said "good-bye" and "thank you" to john's ernest, who becomingly blushed, and ran round the back of the car with her purchases. the car went on up the lane, the intention of john's ernest being evident to proceed along park road and the moorthorne ridge to hanbridge rather than turn the car in the somewhat narrow lane. rachel, instead of entering the house, thrust her parcels frantically on to the top step against the front door, and rushed down the steps again and down the lane. in a minute she was overtaking a man. "louis!" she cried. from the car she had seen the incredible vision of louis walking down the lane from the house. he and john's ernest had not noticed each other, nor had louis noticed that his wife was in the car. louis stopped now and looked back, hesitant. there he was, with his plastered, pale face all streaked with greyish-white lines! really rachel had difficulty in believing her eyes. she had left him in bed, weak, broken; and he was there in the road fully dressed for the town and making for the town--a dreadful sight, but indubitably moving unaided on his own legs. it was simply monstrous! fury leaped up in her. she had never heard of anything more monstrous. the thing was an absolute outrage on her nursing of him. "are you stark, staring mad?" she demanded. he stood weakly regarding her. it was clear that he was already very enfeebled by his fantastic exertions. "i wonder how much farther you would have gone without falling!" she said. "i'll thank you to come back this very instant!... this very instant!" he had no strength to withstand her impetuous anger. his lower lip fell. he obeyed with some inarticulate words. "and i should like to know what mrs. tams was doing!" said rachel. she neither guessed nor cared what was the intention of louis' shocking, impossible escapade. she grasped his arm firmly. in ten minutes he was in bed again, under control, and rachel was venting herself on mrs. tams, who took oath that she had been utterly unaware of the master's departure from the house. chapter xv the changed man i exactly a week passed, and easter had come, before rachel could set out upon an enterprise which she both longed and hated to perform. in the meantime the situation in the house remained stationary, except that after a relapse louis' condition had gradually improved. she nursed him; he permitted himself to be nursed; she slept near him every night; no scene of irritation passed between them. but nothing was explained; even the fact that rachel on the saturday morning had overtaken louis instead of meeting him--a detail which in secret considerably puzzled louis, since it implied that his wife had been in the house when he left it--even this was not explained; as for the motor-car, louis, absorbed, had scarcely noticed it, and rachel did not mention it. she went on from one day into the next, proud, self-satisfied, sure of her strength and her position, indifferently scornful of louis, and yet fatally stricken; she knew not in the least what was to be done, and so she waited for destiny. louis had to stop in bed for five days. his relapse worried dr. yardley, who, however, like many doctors, was kept in complete ignorance of the truth; rachel was ashamed to confess that her husband had monstrously taken advantage of her absence to rise up and dress and go out; and louis had said no word. on the friday he was permitted to sit in a chair in the bedroom, and on saturday he had the freedom of the house. it surprised rachel that on the saturday he had not dashed for the street, for after the exploit of the previous saturday she was ready to expect anything. had he done so she would not have interfered; he was really convalescent, and also the number of white stripes over his face and hair had diminished. in the afternoon he reclined on the chesterfield to read, and fell asleep. then it was that rachel set out upon her enterprise. she said not a word to louis, but instructed mrs. tams to inform the master, if he inquired, that she had gone over to knype to see mr. maldon. "are you a friend of mester maldon's?" asked the grey-haired slattern who answered her summons at the door of julian's lodgings in granville street, knype. there was a challenge in the woman's voice. rachel accepted it at once. "yes, i am," she said, with decision. "well, i don't know as i want any o' mester maldon's friends here," said the landlady loudly. "mester maldon's done a flit from here, mester maldon has; and," coming out on to the pavement and pointing upward to a broken pane in the first-floor window, "that's a bit o' his fancy work afore he flitted!" rachel put her lips together. "can you give me his new address?" "can i give yer his new address? pr'aps i can and pr'aps i canna, but i dunna see why i should waste my breath on mester maldon's friends--that i dunna! and i wunna!" rachel walked away. before she reached the end of the frowsy street, whose meanness and monotony of tiny-bow-windows exemplified intensely the most deplorable characteristics of a district where brutish licence is decreasing, she was overtaken by a lanky girl in a pinafore. "if ye please, miss, mester maldon's gone to live at birches street, 'anbridge." having made this announcement, the girl ran off, with a short giggle. rachel, had to walk half a mile to reach the tram-route. this re-visiting of her native town, which she had quitted only a few weeks earlier, seemed to her like the sad resumption of an existence long forgotten. she was self-conscious and hoped that she would not encounter the curiosity of any of her knype acquaintances. she felt easier when she was within the sheltering car and rumbling and jerking through the gloomy carnival of easter saturday afternoon in knype and cauldon on the way to hanbridge. after leaving the car in crown square, she had to climb through all the western quarter of hanbridge to the very edge of the town, on the hummock that separates it from the axe moorlands. birches street, as she had guessed, was in the suburb known as birches pike. it ran right to the top of the hill, and the upper portion consisted of new cottage-houses in groups of two or three, with vacant lots between. why should julian have chosen birches street for residence, seeing that his business was in knype? it was a repellent street; it was out even of the little world where sordidness is at any rate dignified by tradition and anaemic ideals can support each other in close companionship. it had neither a past nor a future. the steep end of it was an horizon of cloud. the april east wind blew the smoke of hanbridge right across it. in this east wind men in shirt-sleeves, and women with aprons over their heads, stood nonchalantly at cottage gates contemplating the vacuum of leisure. on two different parcels of land teams of shrieking boys were playing football, with piles of caps and jackets to serve as goal-posts. to the left, in a clough, was an enormous yellow marlpit, with pools of water in its depths, and gangways of planks along them, and a few overturned wheelbarrows lying here and there. a group of men drove at full speed up the street in a dogcart behind a sweating cob, stopped violently at the summit, and, taking watches from pockets, began to let pigeons out of baskets. the pigeons rose in wide circles and were lost in the vast dome of melancholy that hung over the district. ii no. was the second house from the top, new, and already in decay. it and its attached twin were named "prospect villas" in vermilion tiles on the yellowish-red bricks of the façade. hot, and yet chilled by the wind, rachel hesitated a moment at the gate, suddenly realizing the perils of her mission. and then she saw julian maldon standing in the bay-window of the ground floor; he was eating. simultaneously he recognized her. she thought, "i can't go back now." he came sheepishly to the front door and asked her to walk in. "who'd have thought of seeing you?" he exclaimed. "you must take me as i am. i've only just moved in." "i've been to your old address," she said, smiling, with an attempt at animation. "a rare row i had there!" he murmured. she understood, with a pang of compassion and yet with feminine disdain, the horrible thing that his daily existence was. no wonder he would never allow mrs. maldon to go and see him! the spectacle of his secret squalor would have desolated the old lady. "don't take any notice of all this," he said apologetically, as he preceded her into the room where she had seen him standing. "i'm not straight yet.... not that it matters. by the way, take a seat, will you?" rachel courageously sat down. just as there were no curtains to the windows, so there was no carpet on the planked floor. a few pieces of new, cheap, ignoble furniture half filled the room. in one corner was a sofa-bedstead covered with an army blanket, in the middle a crimson-legged deal table, partly covered with a dirty cloth, and on the cloth were several apples, an orange, and a hunk of brown bread--his meal. although he had only just "moved in," dust had had time to settle thickly on all the furniture. no pictures of any kind hid the huge sunflower that made the pattern of the wall-paper. in the hearth, which lacked a fender, a small fire was expiring. "ye see," said julian, "i only eat when i'm hungry. it's a good plan. so i'm eating now. i've turned vegetarian. there's naught like it. i've chucked all that guzzling an swilling business. it's no good. i never touch a drop of liquor, nor a morsel of fleshmeat. nor smoke, either. when you come to think of it, smoking's a disgusting habit." rachel said, pleasantly, "but you were smoking last week, surely?" "ah! but it's since then. i don't mind telling you. in fact, i meant to tell you, anyhow. i've turned over a new leaf. and it wasn't too soon. i've joined the knype ethical society. so there you are!" his voice grew defiant and fierce, as in the past, and he proceeded with his meal. rachel knew nothing of the knype ethical society, except that in spite of its name it was regarded with unfriendly suspicion by the respectable as an illicit rival of churches and chapels and a haunt of dubious characters who, under high-sounding mottoes, were engaged in the wicked scheme of setting class against class. she had accepted the general verdict on the knype ethical society. and now she was confirmed in it. as she gazed at julian maldon in that dreadful interior, chewing apples and brown bread and sucking oranges, only when he felt hungry, she loathed the knype ethical society. it was nothing to her that the knype ethical society was responsible for a religious and majestic act in julian maldon--the act of turning over a new leaf. "and why did you come up here?" "oh, various reasons!" said julian, with a certain fictitious nonchalance, beneath which was all his old ferocious domination. "you see, i didn't get enough exercise before. lived too close to the works. in fact, a silly existence. i saw it all plain enough as soon as i got back from south africa.... exercise! what you want is for your skin to act at least once every day. don't you think so?" he seemed to be appealing to her for moral support in some revolutionary theory. "well--i'm sure i don't know." julian continued-- "if you ask me, i believe there are some people who never perspire from one year's end to another. never! how can they expect to be well? how can they expect even to be clean? the pores, you know. i've been reading a lot about it. well, i walk up here from knype full speed every day. everybody ought to do it. then i have a bath." "oh! is there a bathroom?" "no, there isn't," he answered curtly. then in a tone of apology: "but i manage. you see, i'm going to save. i was spending too much down there--furnished rooms. here i took two rooms--this one and a kitchen--unfurnished; very much cheaper, of course. i've just fixed them up temporarily. little by little they'll be improved. the woman upstairs comes in for half an hour in the morning and just cleans up when i'm gone." "and does your cooking?" "not much!" said julian bravely. "i do that myself. in the first place, i want very little cooking. cooking's not natural. and what bit i do want--well, i have my own ideas about it, i've got a little pamphlet about rational eating and cooking. you might read it. everybody ought to read it." "i suppose all that sort of thing's very interesting," rachel remarked at large, with politeness. "it is," julian said emphatically. neither of them felt the necessity of defining what was meant by "all that sort of thing." the phrase had been used with intention and was perfectly understood. "but if you want to know what i really came up here for," julian resumed, "i'll show you." "where?" "outside." and he repeated, "i'll show you." iii she followed him as, bareheaded, he hurried out of the room into the street. "shan't you take cold without anything on your head in this wind?" she suggested mildly. he would have snapped off the entire head of any other person who had ventured to make the suggestion. but he treated rachel more gently because he happened to think that she was the only truly sensible and kind woman he had ever met in his life. "no fear!" he muttered. at the front gate he stopped and looked back at his bay-window. "now--curtains!" he said. "i won't have curtains. blinds, at night, yes, if you like. but curtains! i never could see any use in curtains. fallals! keep the light out! dust-traps!" rachel gazed at him. despite his beard, he appeared to her as a big schoolboy, blundering about in the world, a sort of leviathan puppy in earnest. she liked him, on account of an occasional wistful expression in his eyes, and because she had been kind to him during his fearful visit to bycars. she even admired him, for his cruel honesty and force. at the same time, he excited her compassion to an acute degree. as she gazed at him the tears were ready to start from her eyes. what she had seen, and what she had heard of the new existence which he was organizing for himself made her feel sick with pity. but mingled with her pity was a sharp disdain. the idea of julian talking about cleanliness, dust-traps, and rationality gave her a desire to laugh and cry at once. all the stolid and yet wary conservatism of her character revolted against meals at odd hours, brown bread, apples, orange-sucking, action of the skin, male cooking, camp-beds, the frowsiness of casual charwomen, bare heads, and especially bare windows. if rachel had been absolutely free to civilize julian's life, she would have begun by measuring the bay-window. she said firmly-- "i must say i don't agree with you about curtains." his gestures of impatience were almost violent; but she would not flinch. "don't ye?" "no." "straight?" she nodded. he drew breath. "well, i'll get some--if it'll satisfy you." his surrender was intensely dramatic to her. it filled her with happiness, with a consciousness of immense power. she thought: "i can influence him. i alone can influence him. unless _i_ look after him his existence will be dreadful--dreadful." "you'd much better let me buy them for you." she smiled persuasively. "have it your own way!" he said gloomily. "just come along up here." he led her up to the top of the street. "ye'll see what i live up here for," he muttered as they approached the summit. the other half of the world lay suddenly at their feet as they capped the brow, but it was obscured by mist and cloud. the ragged downward road was lost in the middle distance amid vaporous grey-greens and earthy browns. "no go!" he exclaimed crossly. "not clear enough! but on a fine day ye can see axe and axe edge.... finest view in the five towns." the shrill cries of the footballers reached them. "what a pity!" she sympathized eagerly. "i'm sure it must be splendid." his situation seemed extraordinarily tragic to her. his short hair, ruffled by the keen wind, was just like a boy's hair and somehow the sight of it touched her deeply. he put his hands far into his pockets and drummed one foot on the ground. "what brought ye up here?" he demanded, with his eyes on an invisible town of axe. she opened her hand-bag. "i came to bring you this," she said, and offered him an envelope, which he took, wonderingly. then, when he had it in his hands, he said abruptly, angrily, "if it's that money, i won't take it." "yes you will." "has louis sent ye?" this was the first mention of louis, though he was well aware of the accident. she shook her head. "well, let him keep his half, and you can keep mine." "it's all there." "how--all there?" "all that you left the other night." "but--but--" he seemed to be furious as he faced her. rachel went on-- "the other part of the missing money's been found ... louis had it. so all this belongs to you. if some one hadn't told you it wouldn't have been fair." she flushed slowly, trembling, but looking at him. "well!" julian burst out with savage solemnity, "there's not many of your sort knocking about. by g---- there isn't!" she walked quickly away from his passionate homage to her. "here!" he shouted, fingering the envelope. but she kept on at a swift pace towards hanbridge. about a quarter of a mile down the road the pigeon-flyer's dogcart stood empty outside a public-house. chapter xvi the letter i rachel stood at her own front door and took off her glove in order more easily to manipulate the latch-key, which somehow, since coming into frequent use again, had never been the same manageable latch-key, but a cantankerous old thing, though still very bright. she opened the door quietly, and stepped inside quietly, lest by chance she might disturb louis, the invalid--but also because she was a little afraid. the most contradictory feelings can exist together in the mind. after the desolate discomfort of julian maldon's lodging and the spectacle of his clumsiness in the important affair of mere living, rachel was conscious of a deep and proud happiness as she re-entered the efficient, cosy, and gracious organism of her own home. but simultaneously with this feeling of happiness she had a dreadful general apprehension that the organism might soon be destroyed, and a particular apprehension concerning her next interview with louis, for at the next interview she would be under the necessity of telling him about her transaction with julian. she had been absolutely determined upon that transaction. she had said to herself, "whatever happens, i shall take that money to julian and insist on his keeping all of it." she had, in fact, been very brave--indeed, audacious. now the consequences were imminent, and they frightened her; she was less brave now. one awkward detail of the immediate future was that to tell louis would be to reopen the entire question of the theft, which she had several times in the most abrupt and arrogant manner refused to discuss with him. as soon as she had closed the front door she perceived that twilight was already obscuring the interior of the house. but she could plainly see that the parlour door was about two inches ajar, exactly as she had left it a couple of hours earlier. probably louis had not stirred. she listened vainly for a sign of life from him. probably he was reading, for on rare occasions when he read a novel he would stick to the book with surprising pertinacity. at any rate, he would be too lofty to give any sign that he had heard her return. under less sinister circumstances he might have yelled gaily: "i say, rache!" for in a teasing mood he would sometimes prefer "rache" to "louise." rachel from the lobby could see the fire bright in the kitchen, and a trayful of things on the kitchen table ready to be brought into the parlour for high tea. mrs. tams was out. it was not among mrs. tams's regular privileges to be out in the afternoon. but this was easter saturday--rather a special day--and, further, one of her daughters had gone away for easter and left a child with one of her daughters-in-law, and mrs. tams had desired to witness some of the dealings of her daughter-in-law with her grandchild. not without just pride had mrs. tams related the present circumstances to rachel. in mrs. tams's young maturity parents who managed a day excursion to blackpool in the year did well, and those who went away for four or five days at knype wakes in august were princes and plutocrats. but nowadays even a daughter of mrs. tams, not satisfied with a week at knype wakes, could take a week-end at easter just like great folk such as louis. which proved that the community at large, or mrs. tams's family, had famously got up in the world. rachel recalled louis' suggestion, more than a week earlier, of a trip to llandudno. the very planet itself had aged since then. she looked at the clock. in twenty minutes mrs. tams would be back. she and louis were alone together in the house. she might go straight into the parlour, and say, in as indifferent and ordinary a voice as she could assume: "i've just been over to julian maldon's to give him that money--all of it, you know," and thus get the affair finished before mrs. tams's reappearance. louis was within a few feet of her, hidden only by the door which a push would cause to swing!... yes, but she could not persuade herself to push the door! the door seemed to be protected from her hand by a mysterious spell which she dared not break. she was, indeed, overwhelmed by the simple but tremendous fact that louis and herself were alone together in the darkening house. she decided, pretending to be quite calm: "i'll just run upstairs and take my things off first. there's no use in my seeming to be in a hurry." in the bedroom she arranged her toilet for the evening, and established order in every corner of the chamber. under the washstand lay the long row of louis' boots and shoes, each pair in stretchers. she suddenly contrasted julian's heavy and arrogant dowdiness with the nice dandyism of louis. she could not help thinking that julian would be a terrible person to live with. this was the first thought favourable to louis which had flitted through her mind for a long time. she dismissed it. nothing in another man could be as terrible to live with as the defects of louis. she set herself--she was obliged to set herself--high above louis. the souvenir of the admiration of old batchgrew and john's ernest, the touching humility before her of julian maldon, once more inflated her self-esteem--it could not possibly have failed to do so. she knew that she was an extraordinary woman, and a prize. invigorated and reassured by these reflections, she descended proudly to the ground floor. and then, hesitating at the entrance to the parlour, she went into the kitchen and poked the fire. as the fire was in excellent condition there was no reason for this act except her diffidence at the prospect of an encounter with louis. at last, having examined the tea-tray and invented other delays, she tightened her nerves and passed into the parlour to meet the man who seemed to be waiting for her like the danger of a catastrophe. he was not there. the parlour was empty. his book was lying on the chesterfield. she felt relieved. it was perhaps not very wise for him to have gone out for a walk, but if he chose to run risks, he was free to do so, for all she cared. in the meantime the interview was postponed; hence her craven relief. she lit the gas, but not by the same device as in mrs. maldon's day; and then she saw an envelope lying on the table. it was addressed in louis' handwriting to "mrs. louis fores." she was alone in the house. she felt sick. why should he write a letter to her and leave it there on the table? she invented half a dozen harmless reasons for the letter, but none of them was the least convincing. the mere aspect of the letter frightened her horribly. there was no strength in her limbs. she tore the envelope in a daze. the letter ran-- dear rachel,--i have decided to leave england. i do not know how long i shall be away. i cannot and will not stand the life i have been leading with you this last week. i had a perfectly satisfactory explanation to give you, but you have most rudely refused to listen to it. so now i shall not give it. i shall write you as to my plans. i shall send you whatever money is necessary for you. by the way, i put four hundred and fifty pounds away in my private drawer. on looking for it this afternoon i see that you have taken it, without saying a word to me. you must account to me for this money. when you have done so we will settle how much i am to send you. in the meantime you can draw from it for necessary expenses. yours, l.f. ii rachel stared at the letter. it was the first letter she had seen written on the new note-paper, embossed with the address, "bycars, bursley." louis would not have "bycars lane" on the note-paper, because "bycars" alone was more vague and impressive; distant strangers might take it to be the name of a magnificent property. her lips curled. she violently ripped the paper to bits and stuck them in the fire; a few fragments escaped and fluttered like snow on to the fender. she screwed up the envelope and flung it after the letter. her face smarted and tingled as the blood rushed passionately to her head. she thought, aghast: "everything is over! he will never come back. he will never have enough moral force to come back. we haven't been married two months, and everything is over! and this is easter saturday! he wanted us to be at llandudno or somewhere for easter, and i shouldn't be at all surprised if he's gone there. yes, he would be capable of that. and if it wasn't for the plaster on his face, he'd be capable of gallivanting on llandudno pier this very night!" she had no illusion as to him. she saw him as objectively as a god might have seen him. and then she thought with fury: "oh, what a fool i've been! what a little fool! why didn't i listen to him? why didn't i foresee?... no, i've _not_ been a fool! i've not! i've not! what did i do wrong? nothing! i couldn't have borne his explanations!... explanations, indeed! i can imagine his explanations! did he expect me to smile and kiss him after he'd told me he was a thief?" and then she thought, in reference to his desertion: "it's not true! it can't be true!" she wanted to read the letter again, so that perhaps she might read something into it that was hopeful. but to read it again was impossible. she tried to recall its exact terms, and could not. she could only remember with certainty that the final words were "yours, l.f." nevertheless, she knew that the thing was true; she knew by the weight within her breast and the horrible nausea that almost overcame her self-control. she whispered, alone in the room-- "yes, it's true! and it's happened to me!... he's gone!" and not the ruin of her life, but the scandal of the affair, was the first matter that occupied her mind. she was too shaken yet to feel the full disaster. her mind ran on little things. and just as once she had pictured herself self-conscious in the streets of bursley as a young widow, so now she pictured herself in the far more appalling role of deserted wife. the scandal would be enormous. nothing--no carefully invented fiction--would suffice to stifle it. she would never dare to show her face. she would be compelled to leave the district. and supposing a child came! fears stabbed her. she felt tragically helpless as she stood there, facing a vision of future terrors. she had legal rights, of course. her common sense told her that. she remembered also that she possessed a father and a brother in america. but no legal rights and no relatives would avail against the mere simple, negligent irresponsibility of louis. in the end, she would have to rely on herself. all at once she recollected that she had promised to see after julian's curtains. she had almost no money. and how could the admiration of three men other than her husband (so enheartening a few minutes earlier) serve her in the crisis? no amount of masculine admiration could mitigate the crudity of the fact that she had almost no money. louis' illness had interrupted the normal course of domestic finance--if, indeed, a course could be called normal which had scarcely begun. louis had not been to the works. hence he had received no salary. and how much salary was due to him, and whether he was paid weekly or monthly, she knew not. neither did she know whether his inheritance actually had been paid over to him by thomas batchgrew. what she knew was that she had received no house-keeping allowance for more than a week, and that her recent payments to tradesmen had been made from a very small remaining supply of her own prenuptial money. economically she was as dependent on louis as a dog, and not more so; she had the dog's right to go forth and pick up a living.... of course louis would send her money. louis was a gentleman--he was not a cad. yes, but he was a very careless gentleman. she was once again filled with the bitter realization of his extreme irresponsibility. she heard a noise in the back lobby, and started. it was mrs. tams, returned. mrs. tams had a key of her own, of which she was proud--an affair of about four inches in length and weighing over a quarter of a pound. it fitted the scullery door, and was, indeed, the very key with which rachel had embroidered her lie to thomas batchgrew on the day after the robbery. mrs. tams always took pleasure in entering the house from the rear, without a sound. she was now coming into the parlour with the tray for high tea. no wonder that rachel started. here was the first onset of the outer world. mrs. tams came in, already perfectly transformed from a mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother into a parlour-maid with no human tie. "good-afternoon, mrs. tams." "so ye've got back, ma'am!" while mrs. tams laid the table, with many grunts and creakings of the solid iron in her stays, rachel sat on a chair by the fire, trying to seem in a casual, dreamy mood, cogitating upon what she must say. "will mester be down for tea, ma'am?" asked mrs. tams, who had excusably assumed that louis was upstairs. and rachel, forced now to defend, instead of attacking, blurted out-- "oh! by the way, i was forgetting; mr. fores will not be in for tea." mrs. tams, forgetting she was a parlour-maid, vociferated in amazement and protest-- "not be in for tea, ma'am? and him as he is!" all her lately gathering suspicions were strengthened and multiplied. rachel had to continue as she had begun: "he's been called away on very urgent business. he simply had to go." mrs. tams, intermitting her duties, stood still and gazed at rachel. "was it far, ma'am, as he had for to go?" a simple question, and yet how difficult to answer plausibly! "yes--rather." "i suppose he'll be back to-night, ma'am?" "oh yes, of course!" replied rachel, in absurd haste. "but if he isn't, i'm not to worry, he said. but he fully expects to be. we scarcely had time to talk, you see. he was getting ready when i came in." "a telegram, ma'am, i suppose it was?" "yes.... that is, i don't know whether there was a telegram first, or not. but he was called for, you see. a cab. i couldn't have let him go off walking, not as he is." mrs. tarns gave a gesture. "i suppose i mun alter this 'ere table, then," said she, putting a cup and saucer back on the tray. "idiot! idiot!" rachel described herself to herself, when mrs. tams, very much troubled, had left the room. "'by the way, i was forgetting'--couldn't i have told her better than that? she's known for a week that there's been something wrong, and now she's certainly guessed there's something dreadfully wrong.... just look at all the silly lies i've told already! what will it be like to-morrow--and monday? i wonder what my face looked like while i was telling her!" she rushed upstairs to discover what luggage louis had taken with him. but apparently he had taken nothing whatever. the trunk, the valise, and the various bags were all stacked in the empty attic, exactly as she had placed them. he must have gone off in a moment, without any reflection or preparation. and when mrs. tams served the solitary tea, rachel was just as idiotic as before. "by the way, mrs. tams," she began again, "did you happen to tell mr. fores where i'd gone this afternoon?... you see, we'd no opportunity to discuss anything," she added, striving once more after verisimilitude. "yes'm. i told him when i took him his early cup o' tea." "did he ask you?" "now ye puzzle me, ma'am! i couldn't swear to it to save my life. but i told him." "what did he say?" rachel tried to smile. "he didna say aught." rachel remained alone, to objurgate rachel. it was indeed only too obvious from mrs. tams's constrained and fussy demeanour that the old woman had divined the existence of serious trouble in the fores household. iii some time after the empty ceremony of tea, rachel sat in state in the parlour, dignified, self-controlled, pretending to sew, as she had pretended to eat and drink and, afterwards, to have an important enterprise of classifying and rearranging her possessions in the wardrobe upstairs. let mrs. tams enter ever so unexpectedly, rachel was a fit spectacle for her, with a new work-basket by her side on the table, and her feet primly on a footstool, quite in the style of the late mrs. maldon, and a serious and sagacious look on her face that the fire and the gas combined to illuminate. she did not actually sew, but the threaded needle was ready in her hand to move convincingly at a second's notice, for mrs. tams was of a restless and inquisitive disposition that night. apparently secure between the drawn blinds, the fire, the chesterfield, and the sideboard, rachel was nevertheless ranging wide among vast, desolate tracts of experience, and she was making singular discoveries. for example, it was not until she was alone in the parlour after tea that she discovered that during the whole of her interview with julian maldon in the afternoon she had never regarded him as a thief. and yet he was a thief--just as much as louis! she had simply forgotten that he was a thief. he did not seem to be any the worse for being a thief. if he had shown the desire to explain to her by word of mouth the entire psychology of his theft, she would have listened with patience and sympathy; she would have encouraged him to rectitude. and yet julian had no claim on her; he was not her husband; she did not love him. but because louis was her husband, and had a claim on her, and had received all the proofs of her affection--therefore, she must be merciless for louis! she perceived the inconsistency; she perceived it with painful clearness. she had the impartial logic of the self-accuser. at intervals the self-accuser was flagellated and put to flight by passionate reaction, but only to return stealthily and irresistibly.... she had been wrong to take the four hundred and fifty pounds without a word. true, louis had somewhat casually authorized her to return half of the sum to julian, but the half was not the whole. and in any case she ought to have told louis of her project. there could be no doubt that, immediately upon mrs. tams's going out, louis had looked for the four hundred and fifty pounds, and, in swift resentment at its disappearance, had determined to disappear also. he had been stung and stung again, past bearing (she argued) daily and hourly throughout the week, and the disappearance of the money had put an end to his patience. such was the upshot, and she had brought it about! she had imagined that she was waiting for destiny, but in fact she had been making destiny all the time, with her steely glances at louis and her acrid, uncompromising tongue!... and did those other men really admire her? how, for instance, could thomas batchgrew admire her, seeing that he had suspected her of lies and concealment about the robbery? if it was on account of supposed lies and concealment that he admired her, then she rejected thomas batchgrew's admiration.... the self-accuser and the self-depreciator in her grew so strong that louis' conduct soon became unexceptionable--save for a minor point concerning a theft of some five hundred pounds odd from an old lady. and as for herself, she, rachel, was an over-righteous prig, an interfering person, a blundering fool of a woman, a cruel-hearted creature. and louis was just a poor, polite martyr who had had the misfortune to pick up certain bank-notes that were not his. then the tide of judgment would sweep back, and rachel was the innocent, righteous martyr again, and louis the villain. but not for long. she cried passionately within her brain: "i must have him. i must get hold of him. i _must_!" but when the brief fury of longing was exhausted she would ask: "how can i get hold of him? where is he?" then more forcibly: "what am i to do first? yes, what ought i to do? what is wisest? he little guesses that he is killing me. if he had guessed, he wouldn't have done it. but nothing will kill me! i am as strong as a horse. i shall live for ages. there's the worst of it all!... and it's no use asking what i ought to do, either, because nothing, nothing, nothing would induce me to run after him, even if i knew where to run to! i would die first. i would live for a hundred years in torture first. that's positive." the hands of the clock, instead of moving slowly, seemed to progress at a prodigious rate. mrs. tams came in-- "shall i lay mester's supper, ma'am?" the idea of laying supper for the master had naturally not occurred to rachel. "yes, please." when the supper was laid upon one half of the table, the sight of it almost persuaded rachel that louis would be bound to come--as though the waiting supper must mysteriously magnetize him out of the world beyond into the intimacy of the parlour. and she thought, as she strove for the hundredth time to recall the phrases of the letter-- "'perfectly satisfactory explanation!' suppose he _has_ got a perfectly satisfactory explanation! he must have. he must have. if only he has, everything would be all right. i'd apologize. i'd almost go on my knees to him.... and he was so ill all the time, too!... but he's gone. it's too late now for the explanation. still, as soon as i hear from him, i shall write and ask him for it." and in her mind she began to compose a wondrous letter to him--a letter that should preserve her own dignity while salving his, a letter that should overwhelm him with esteem for her. she rang the bell. "don't sit up, mrs. tams." and when she had satisfied herself that mrs. tams with unwilling obedience had retired upstairs, she began to walk madly about the parlour (which had an appearance at once very strange and distressingly familiar), and to whisper plaintively, and raging, and plaintively again: "i must get him back. i cannot bear this. it is too much for me. i _must_ get him back. it's all my fault!" and then dropped on the chesterfield in a collapse, moaning: "no. it's no use now." and then she fancied that she heard the gate creak, and a latch-key fumbling into the keyhole of the front door. and one part of her brain said on behalf of the rest: "i am mad. i am delirious." it was a fact that louis had caused to be manufactured for his own use a new latch-key. but it was impossible that this latch-key should now be in the keyhole. she was delirious. and then she unmistakably heard the front door open. her heart jumped with the most afflicting violence. she was ready to fall on to the carpet, but seemed to be suspended in the air. when she recognized louis' footsteps in the lobby tears burst from her eyes in an impetuous torrent. chapter xvii in the monastery i when mrs. tams brought in his early cup of tea that easter saturday afternoon, louis had no project whatever in his head, and he was excessively, exasperatingly bored. a quarter of an hour earlier he had finished reading the novel which had been mitigating the worst tedium of his shamed convalescence, and the state of his mind was not improved by the fact that in his opinion the author of the novel had failed to fulfil clear promises--had, in fact, abused his trust. on the other hand, he felt very appreciably stronger, and his self-esteem was heightened by the complete correctness of his toilet. on that morning he had dressed himself with art and care for the first time since the accident. he enjoyed a little dandyism; dandified, he was a better man; the "fall" of a pair of trousers over the knee, the gloss of white wristbands, just showing beneath the new cloth of a well-cut sleeve--these phenomena not only pleased him but gave him confidence. and herein was the sole bright spot of his universe when mrs. tams entered. he was rather curt with mrs. tams because she was two minutes late; for two endless minutes he had been cultivating the resentment of a man neglected and forgotten by every one of those whose business in life it is to succour, humour, and soothe him. mrs. tams comprehended his mood with precision, and instantly. she hovered round him like a hen, indeed like a whole flock of hens, and when he savagely rebuffed her she developed from a flock of hens into a flight of angels. "missis said as i was to tell you as she'd gone to see mr. julian maldon, sir," said mrs. tams, in the way of general gossip. louis made no sign. "her didna say how soon her'd be back. i was for going out, sir, but i'll stop in, sir, and willing--" "what time are you supposed to go out?" louis demanded, in a tone less inimical than his countenance. "by rights, now, sir," said mrs. tams, looking backward through the open door at the lobby clock. "well," louis remarked with liveliness, "if you aren't outside this house in one minute, in sixty seconds, i shall put you out, neck and crop." mrs. tams smiled. his amiability was returning, he had done her the honour to tease her. she departed, all her "things" being ready in the kitchen. even before she had gone louis went quickly upstairs, having drunk less than half a cup of tea, and with extraordinary eagerness plunged into the bedroom and unlocked his private drawer. he both hoped and feared that the money which he had bestowed there after julian's historic visit would have vanished. it had vanished. the shock was unpleasant, but the discovery itself had a pleasant side, because it justified the theory which had sprung complete into his mind when he learnt where rachel had gone, and also because it denuded rachel of all reasonable claim to consideration. he had said to himself: "she has gone off to return half of that money to julian--that's what it is. and she's capable of returning all of it to him!" ... and she had done so. and she had not consulted him, louis. he, then, was a nobody--zero in the house! she had deliberately filched the money from him, and to accomplish her purpose she had abstracted his keys, which he had left in his pocket. she must have stolen the notes several days before, perhaps a week before, when he was really seriously ill. she had used the keys and restored them to his pocket. astounding baseness! he murmured: "this finishes it. this really does finish it." he was immensely righteous as he stood alone in the bedroom in front of the rifled drawer. he was more than righteous--he was a martyr. he had done absolutely nothing that was wrong. he had not stolen money; he had not meant to steal; the more he examined his conduct, the more he was convinced that it had been throughout unexceptionable, whereas the conduct of rachel ...! at every point she had sinned. it was she, not he, who had burnt mrs. maldon's hoard. was it not monstrous that a woman should be so careless as to light a fire without noticing that a bundle of notes lay on the top of the coal? besides, what affair was it of hers, anyway? it concerned himself, mrs. maldon, and julian, alone. but she must needs interfere. she had not a penny to bless herself with, but he had magnanimously married her; and his reward was her inexcusable interference in his private business. his accident was due solely to his benevolence for her. if he had not been wheeling a bicycle procured for her, and on his way to buy her a new bicycle, the accident would never have occurred. but had she shown any gratitude? none. it was true that he had vaguely authorized her to return half of the money replaced by the contrite julian; but no date for doing so had been fixed, and assuredly she had no pretext whatever for dealing with all of it. that she should go to julian maldon with either the half or the whole of the money without previously informing him and obtaining the ratification of his permission was simply scandalous. and that she should sneakingly search his pockets for keys, commit a burglary in his drawer, and sneakingly put the keys back was outrageous, infamous, utterly intolerable. he said, "i'll teach you a lesson, my lady, once for all." then he went downstairs. the kitchen was empty; mrs. tams had gone. but between the kitchen and the parlour he changed his course, and ran upstairs again to the drawer, which he pulled wide open. at the back of it there ought to have been an envelope containing twenty pounds in notes, balance of an advance payment from old batchgrew. the envelope was there with its contents. rachel had left the envelope. "good of her!" he ejaculated with sarcasm. he put the money in his pocket-book, and descended to finish his tea, which he drank up excitedly. a dubious scheme was hypnotizing him. he was a man well acquainted with the hypnotism of dubious schemes. he knew all the symptoms. he fought against the magic influence, and then, as always, yielded himself deliberately and voluptuously to it. he would go away. he would not wait; he would go at once, in a moment. she deserved as much, if not more. he knew not where he should go; a thousand reasons against going assailed him; but he would go. he must go. he could no longer stand, even for a single hour, her harshness, her air of moral superiority, her adamantine obstinacy. he missed terribly her candid worship of him, to which he had grown accustomed and which had become nearly a necessity of his existence. he could not live with an eternal critic; the prospect was totally inconceivable. he wanted love, and he wanted admiring love, and without it marriage was meaningless to him, a mere imprisonment. so he would go. he could not and would not pack; to pack would distress him and bore him; he would go as he was. he could buy what he needed. the shops--his kind of shops--were closed, and would remain closed until tuesday. nevertheless, he would go. he could buy the indispensable at faulkner's establishment on the platform at knype railway-station, conveniently opposite the five towns hotel. he had determined to go to the five towns hotel that night. he had no immediate resources beyond the twenty pounds, but he would telegraph to batchgrew, who ad not yet transferred to him the inheritance, to pay money into his bank early on tuesday; if he were compelled to draw a cheque he would cross it, and then it could not possibly be presented before wednesday morning. at all costs he would go. his face was still plastered; but he would go, and he would go far, no matter where! the chief thing was to go. the world was calling him. the magic of the dubious scheme held him fast. and in all other respects he was free--free as impulse. he would go. he was not yet quite recovered, not quite strong.... yes, he was all right; he was very strong! and he would go. he put on his hat and his spring overcoat. then he thought of the propriety of leaving a letter behind him--not for rachel's sake, but to insist on his own dignity and to spoil hers. he wrote the letter, read it through with satisfaction, and quitted the house, shutting the door cheerfully, but with a trembling hand. lest he might meet rachel on her way home he went up the lane instead of down, and, finding himself near the station, took a train to knype--travelling first class. the glorious estate of a bachelor was his once more. ii the five towns hotel stood theoretically in the borough of hanbridge, but in fact it was in neither hanbridge nor knype, but "opposite knype station," on the quiet side of knype station, far away from any urban traffic; the gross roar of the electric trams running between knype and hanbridge could not be heard from the great portico of the hotel. it is true that the hotel primarily existed on its proximity to the railway centre of the five towns. but it had outgrown its historic origin, and would have moderately flourished even had the north staffordshire railway been annihilated. by its sober grandeur and its excellent cooking it had taken its place as the first hotel in the district. it had actually no rival. heroic, sublime efforts had been made in the centre of hanbridge to overthrow the pre-eminence of the five towns hotel. the forlorn result of one of these efforts--so immense was it!--had been bought by the municipality and turned into a town hall--supreme instance of the five towns' habit of "making things do!" no effort succeeded. men would still travel from the ends of the five towns to the bar, the billiard-rooms, the banqueting-halls of the five towns hotel, where every public or semi-public ceremonial that included conviviality was obliged to happen if it truly respected itself. the five towns hotel had made fortunes, and still made them. it was large and imposing and sombre. the architect, who knew his business, had designed staircases, corridors, and accidental alcoves on the scale of a palace; so that privacy amid publicity could always be found within its walls. it was superficially old-fashioned, and in reality modern. it had a genuine chef, with sub-chefs, good waiters whose sole weakness was linguistic, and an apartment of carven oak with a vast counterfeit eye that looked down on you from the ceiling. it was ready for anything--a reception to celebrate the nuptials of a maid, a lunch to a cabinet minister with an axe to grind in the district, or a sale by auction of house-property with wine _ad libitum_ to encourage bids. but its chief social use was perhaps as a retreat for men who were tired of a world inhabited by two sexes. sundry of the great hotels of britain have forgotten this ancient function, and are as full of frills, laces, colour, and soft giggles as a london restaurant, so that in manchester, liverpool, and glasgow a man in these days has no safe retreat except the gloominess of a provincial club. the five towns hotel has held fast to old tradition in this respect. ladies were certainly now and then to be seen there, for it was a hotel and as such enjoyed much custom. but in the main it resembled a monastery. men breathed with a new freedom as they entered it. commandments reigned there, and their authority was enforced; but they were not precisely the tables of moses. the enormous pretence which men practise for the true benefit of women was abandoned in the five towns hotel. domestic sultans who never joked in the drawing-room would crack with laughter in the five towns hotel, and make others crack, too. old men would meet young men on equal terms, and feel rather pleased at their own ability to do so. and young men shed their youth there, displaying the huge stock of wisdom and sharp cynicism which by hard work they had acquired in an incredibly short time. indeed, the hotel was a wonderful institution, and a source of satisfaction to half a county. iii it was almost as one returned from the dead that louis fores entered the five towns hotel on easter saturday afternoon, for in his celibate prime he had been a habitué of the place. he had a thrill; and he knew that he would be noticed, were it only as the hero and victim of a street accident; a few remaining plasters still drew attention to his recent history. at the same time, the thrill which affected him was not entirely pleasurable, for he was frightened by what he had done: by the letter written to rachel, by his abandonment of her, and also by the prospect of what he meant to do. the resulting situation would certainly be scandalous in a high degree, and tongues would dwell on the extreme brevity of the period of marriage. the scandal would resound mightily. and louis hated scandal, and had always had a genuine desire for respectability.... then he reassured himself. "pooh! what do i care?" besides, it was not his fault. he was utterly blameless; rachel alone was the sinner. she had brought disaster upon herself. on the previous saturday he had given her fair warning by getting up out of bed in his weakness and leaving the house--more from instinct than from any set plan. but she would not take a hint. she would not learn. very good! the thought of his inheritance and of his freedom uplifted him till he became nearly a god. owing to the easter holidays the hotel was less bright and worldly than usual. moreover, saturday was never one of its brilliant days of the week. in the twilight of a subsidiary lounge, illuminated by one early electric spark, a waiter stood alone amid great basket-chairs and wicker-tables. louis knew the waiter, as did every man-about-town; but louis imagined that he knew him better than most; the waiter gave a similar impression to all impressionable young men. "how do you do, krupp!" louis greeted him, with kind familiarity. "good afternoon, sir." it was perhaps the hazard of his name that had given the waiter a singular prestige in the district. krupp is a great and an unforgettable name, wherever you go. and also it offers people a chance to be jocose with facility. a hundred habitué's had made the same joke to krupp about krupp's name, and each had supposed himself to be humorous in an original manner. krupp received the jocularities with the enigmatic good-fellow air with which he received everything. none knew whether krupp admired or disdained, loved or hated, the five towns and the english character. he was a foreigner from some vague frontier of switzerland, possessing no language of his own but a patois, and speaking other languages less than perfectly. he had been a figure in the five towns hotel for over twenty years. he was an efficient waiter; yet he had never risen on the staff, and was still just the lounge or billiard-room waiter that he had always been--and apparently content with destiny. louis asked brusquely, as one who had no time to waste, "will faulkner's be open?" krupp bent down and glanced through an interstice of a partition at a clock in the corridor. "yes, sir," said krupp with calm certainty. louis, pleased, thought, "this man is a fine waiter." somehow krupp made it seem as if by the force of his will he had forced faulkner's to be open--in order to oblige mr. fores. "because," said louis casually, "i've no luggage, not a rag, and i want to buy a few things, and no other place'll be open." "yes, sir," said krupp, mysterious and quite incurious. he did not even ask, "do you wish a room, sir?" "heard about my accident, i suppose?" louis went on, a little surprised that krupp should make no sympathetic reference to his plasters. krupp became instantly sympathetic, yet keeping his customary reserve. "yes, sir. and i am pleased to see you are recovered," he said, with the faint, indefinable foreign accent and the lack of idiom which combined to deprive his remarks of any human quality. "well," said louis, not quite prepared to admit that the affair had gone so smoothly as krupp appeared to imply, "i can tell you i've had a pretty bad time. i really ought not to be here now, but--" he stopped. "strange it should happen to you, sir. a gentleman who was in here the other day said that in his opinion you were one of the cleverest cyclists in the five towns." louis naturally inquired, "who was that?" "i could not say, sir. not one of our regular customers, sir," with a touch of mild depreciation. "a dark gentleman, with a beard, a little lame, i fancy." as krupp had invented the gentleman and his opinion to meet the occasion, he was right in depriving him of the rank of a regular customer. "oh!" murmured louis. "by the way, has mr. gibbs come yet?" "mr. gibbs, sir?" "yes, an american. i have an appointment with him this afternoon. if he comes in while i am over at faulkner's just tell him, will you? i think he's stopping at the majestic." the majestic being the latest rival hotel at hanbridge, krupp raised his eyebrows in a peculiar way and nodded his head. just as krupp had invented a gentleman, so now louis was inventing one. neither krupp nor louis guessed the inventive act of the other. krupp's act was a caprice, a piece of embroidery, charming and unnecessary. but louis was inventing with serious intent, for he had to make his presence at the five towns hotel on easter saturday seem natural and inevitable. "and also i want the cunard list of sailings, and the white star, too. there's a cunard boat from liverpool on monday, isn't there?" "i don't _think_ so, sir," said krupp, "but i'll see." "i understood from mr. gibbs there was. and i'm going to liverpool by that early train to-morrow." "sunday, sir?" "yes, i must be in liverpool to-morrow night." louis went across to the station to faulkner's. he considered that he was doing very well. and after all, why not go to america--not on monday, for he was quite aware that no boat left on monday--but in a few days, after he had received the whole sum that thomas batchgrew held for him. he could quite plausibly depart on urgent business connected with new capitalistic projects. he could quite plausibly remain in america as long as convenient. america beckoned to him. he remembered all the appetizing accounts that he had ever heard from american commercial travellers of broadway and fifth avenue--incredible streets. in america he might treble, quadruple, his already vast capital. the romance of the idea intoxicated him. iv when he got back from faulkner's with a parcel (which he threw to the cloak-room attendant to keep) he felt startlingly hungry, and, despite the early hour, he ordered a steak in the grill-room; and not a steak merely, but all the accoutrements of a steak, with beverages to match. and to be on the safe side he paid for the meal at once, with a cheque for ten pounds, receiving the change in gold and silver, and thus increasing his available cash to about thirty pounds. then in the lounge, with cuban cigar-smoke in his eyes, and krupp discoursing to him of all conceivable atlantic liners, he wrote a letter to thomas batchgrew and marked it "very urgent"--which was simple prudence on his part, for he had drawn a cheque for ten pounds on a non-existent bank-balance. at last, as mr. gibbs had not arrived, he said he should stroll up to the majestic. he had not yet engaged a room; he seemed to hesitate before that decisive act.... then it was that, in the corridor immediately outside the lounge, he encountered jim horrocleave. the look in jim horrocleave's ferocious eye shocked him. louis had almost forgotten his employer, and the sudden spectacle of him was disconcerting. "hello, fores!" said horrocleave very sardonically, with no other greeting. "i thought ye were too ill to move." no word of sympathy in the matter of the accident! simply the tone of an employer somehow aggrieved! "i'm out to-day for the first time. had to come down here on a matter--" horrocleave spoke lower, and even more sardonically. "i hear ye're off to america." louis looked through the fretted partition at the figure of krupp alone in the lounge. and horrocleave also looked at krupp. and krupp looked back with his enigmatic gaze, perhaps scornful, perhaps indifferent, perhaps secretly appreciative--but in any case profoundly foreign and aloof and sinister. "well--" louis began at a disadvantage. "who says i'm off to america?" horrocleave advanced his chin and clenched a fist. "don't you go!" said he. "if ye did, ye might be brought back by the scruff o' the neck. you mark my words and come down to the works to-morrow morning--_to-morrow_, ye understand!" he was breathing quickly. then a malicious grin seemed to pass over his face as his glance rested for an instant on louis' plasters. the next instant he walked away, and louis heard him at the cloak-room counter barking the one word, "mackintosh." louis understood, only too completely. during his absence from the works horrocleave had amused himself by critically examining the old petty-cash book. that was all, and it was enough. good-bye to romance, to adventure, to the freedom of the larger world! the one course to pursue was to return home, to deny (as was easy) that the notion of going to america had ever occurred to him, or even the notion of putting up at the hotel, and with such dignity as he could assume to restore to horrocleave the total sum abstracted. with care and luck he might yet save his reputation. it was impossible that horrocleave should prosecute. and what was seventy odd pounds, after all? he was master of thousands. if he could but have walked straight out of the hotel! but he could not. his dignity, the most precious of all his possessions, had to be maintained. possibly krupp had overheard the conversation, or divined its nature. he strolled back into the lounge. "a benedictine," he ordered casually, and, neatly pulling up his trousers at the knee, sank into a basket-chair and crossed his legs, while blowing forth much smoke. "yes, sir." when krupp brought the tiny glass, louis paid for it without looking at him, and gave a good tip. ah! he would have liked to peer into krupp's inmost mind and know exactly how krupp had been discussing him with jim horrocleave. he would have liked to tell krupp in cutting tones that waiters had no right to chatter to one customer about another. and then he would have liked to destroy krupp. but he could not. his godlike dignity would not permit him to show by even the slightest gesture that he had been inconvenienced. the next moment he perceived that providence had been watching over him. if he had gone to america unknown to horrocleave, horrocleave might indeed have proved seriously awkward.... extradition--was there such a word, and such a thing? he finished the benedictine, went to the cloak-room and obtained his hat, coat, stick, and parcel; and the hovering krupp helped him with his overcoat; and as destiny cast him out of the dear retreat which a little earlier he had entered with such pleasurable anticipations, he was followed down the corridor by the aloof, disinterested gaze of the swiss whose enigma no staffordshire man had ever penetrated. chapter xviii mrs. tams's strange behaviour i in the house at bycars, where he arrived tardily after circuitous wanderings, louis first of all dropped the parcel from faulkner's into the oak chest, raising and lowering the lid without any noise. once, in the train in bleakridge tunnel, he had almost thrown the parcel out of the carriage on to the line, as though it were in some subtle way a piece of evidence against him; but, aided by his vanity, he had resisted the impulse. why, indeed, should he be afraid of a parcel of linen? had he not the right to buy linen when and how he chose? then he removed his hat and coat, hung them carefully in their proper place, smoothed his hair, and walked straight into the parlour. he had a considerable gift of behaving as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened when the contrary was the case. nobody could have guessed from his features that he was calculating and recalculating the chances of immediate imprisonment, and that each successive calculation disagreed with the previous one; at one moment the chances were less than one in a hundred, less than one in a million; at another they increased and multiplied themselves into tragic certainty. when rachel heard him in the lobby her sudden tears were tears of joy and deliverance. she did not try to restrain them. as she stole back to her chair she ignored all her reasonings against him, and lived only in the fact that he had returned. and she was triumphant. she thought: "now that he is in the house, he is mine. i have him. he cannot escape me. in a caress i shall cancel all the past since his accident. so long as i can hold him i don't care." her soul dissolved in softness towards him; even the body seemed to melt also, till, instead of being a strong, sturdy girl, she was a living tentacular endearment and naught else. but when, with disconcerting quickness, he came into the room, she hardened again in spite of herself. she simply could not display her feelings. upbringing, habit, environment were too much for her, and spontaneity was checked. had she been alone with a dog she would have spent herself passionately on the dog, imaginatively transforming the dog into louis; but the sight of louis in person congealed her, so that she became a hard mass with just a tiny core of fire somewhere within. "why cannot i jump up and fall on his neck?" she asked herself angrily. but she could not. she controlled her tears, and began to argue mentally whether louis had come home because he could not keep away from her, or for base purposes of his own. she was conscious of a desire to greet him sarcastically with the remark, "so you've come back, after all!" it was a wilful, insensate desire; but there it was. she shut her lips on it, not without difficulty. "i've kept some supper for you," she said, with averted head. she wanted to make her voice kind, but it would not obey her. it was neither kind nor unkind. there were tears in it, however. they did not look at each other. "why did you keep supper for me?" he mumbled. "i thought you might find you weren't well enough to travel," she answered thoughtfully, with her face still bent over the work which she was spoiling with every clumsy, feverish stitch. this surprising and ingenious untruth came from her without the slightest effort. it seemed to invent itself. "well," said louis, "i don't happen to want any supper." his accent was slightly but definitely inimical. he perceived that he had an advantage, and he decided to press it. rachel also perceived this, and she thought resentfully: "how cruel he is! how mean he is!" she hated and loved him simultaneously. she foresaw that peace must be preceded by the horrors of war, and she was discouraged. though determined that he should not escape from the room unreconciled, she was ready to inflict dreadful injuries on him, as he on her. they now regarded each other askance, furtively, as dire enemies. louis, being deficient in common sense, thought of nothing but immediate victory. he well knew that, in case of trouble with jim horrocleave, he might be forced to humble himself before his wife, and that present arrogance would only intensify future difficulties. also, he had easily divined that the woman opposite to him was a softer rachel than the one he had left, and very ready for pacific compromise. nevertheless, in his polite, patient way, he would persist in keeping the attitude of an ill-used saint with a most clear grievance. and more than this, he wanted to appear absolutely consistent, even in coming home again. could he have recalled the precise terms of his letter, he would have contrived to interpret them so as to include the possibility of his return that night. he fully intended to be the perfect male. drawing his cigarette-case and match-box from his hip pocket, by means of the silver cable which attached them to his person, he carefully lit a cigarette and rose to put the spent match in the fire. while at the hearth he looked at his plastered face in the glass, critically and dispassionately, as though he had nothing else in the world to do. then his eye caught some bits of paper in the fender--fragments of his letter which rachel had cast into the fire and on to the hearth. he stooped, picked up one white piece, gazed at it, dropped it, picked up another, gazed at it, dropped it fastidiously. "hm!" he said faintly. then he stood again at his full height and blew smoke profusely about the mantelpiece. he was very close to rachel, and above her. he could see the top of her bent, mysterious head; he could see all the changing curves of her breast as she breathed. he knew intimately her frock, the rings on her hand, the buckle on her shoe. he knew the whole feel of the room--the buzz of the gas, the peculiarities of the wall-paper, the thick curtain over the door to his right, the folds of the table-cloth. and in his infelicity and in his resentment against rachel he savoured it all not without pleasure. the mere inviolable solitude with this young, strange, provocative woman in the night beyond the town stimulated him into a sort of zest of living. there was a small sound from the young woman; her breathing was checked; she had choked down a dry sob. this signal, so faint and so dramatic in the stillness of the parlour, at once intimidated and encouraged him. "what have you done with that money?" he asked, in a cold voice. "what money?" rachel replied, low, without raising her head. her hand had ceased to move the needle. "you know what money." "i took it to julian, of course." "why did you take it to julian?" "we agreed i should, last week--you yourself said so--don't you remember?" her tones acquired some confidence. "no, i don't remember. i remember something was said about letting him have half of it. did you give him half or all of it?" "i gave him all of it." "i like that! i like that!" louis remarked sarcastically. "i like your nerve. you do it on the sly. you don't say a word to me; and not content with that, you give him all of it. why didn't you tell me? why didn't you ask me for the money?" rachel offered no answer. louis proceeded with more vivacity. "and did he take it?" "i made him." "what? all of it? what reason did you give? how did you explain things?" "i told him you'd had the rest of the money, of course, so it was all right. it wouldn't have been fair to him if some one hadn't told him." louis now seriously convinced himself that his grievance was tremendous, absolutely unexampled in the whole history of marriage. "well," said he, with high, gloomy dignity, "it may interest you to know that i didn't have the rest of the money.... if i'd had it, what do you suppose i've done with it?... over five hundred pounds, indeed!" "then what--?" "i don't think i want any of your 'then what's.' you wouldn't listen before, so why should you be told now? however, i expect i must teach you a lesson--though it's too late." rachel did not move. she heard him say that he had discovered the bank-notes at night, under the chair on the landing. "i took charge of them. i collared them, for the time being," he said. "i happened to be counting them when you knocked at my bedroom door. i admit i was rather taken aback. i didn't want you to see the notes. i didn't see any reason why you should know anything about my aunt's carelessness. you must remember you were only a paid employee then. i was close to the fireplace. i just scrunched them up in my hand and dropped them behind the fire-screen. of course i meant to pick them up again instantly you'd gone. well, you didn't go. you seemed as if you wouldn't go. i had to run for the doctor. there was no help for it. even then i never dreamt you intended to light the fire in that room. it never occurred to me for a second.... and i should have thought anybody lighting a fire couldn't have helped seeing a thing like a ball of bank-notes on the top of the grate. i should have thought so. but it seems i was wrong. when i got back of course the whole blooming thing was up the chimney. well, there you are! what was i to do? i ask you that." he paused. rachel sobbed. "of course," he continued, with savage quietude, "you may say i might have forced you to listen to me this last week. i might. but why should i? why should i beg and pray? if you didn't know the whole story a week ago, is it my fault? i'm not one to ask twice. i can't go on my knees and beg to be listened to. some fellows could perhaps, but not me!" rachel was overwhelmed. the discovery that it was she herself, pharisaical and unyielding, who had been immediately responsible for the disappearance of the bank-notes almost dazed her. and simultaneously the rehabilitation of her idol drowned her in bliss. she was so glad to be at fault, so ravished at being able to respect him again, that the very ecstasy of existing seemed likely to put an end to her existence. her physical sensations were such as she might have experienced if her heart had swiftly sunk away out of her bosom and left an empty space there that gasped. she glanced up at louis. "i'm so sorry!" she breathed. louis did not move, nor did his features relax in the slightest. with one hand raised in appeal, surrender, abandonment and the other on the arm of her chair, and her work slipping to the floor, she half rose towards him. "you can't tell how sorry i am!" she murmured. her eyes were liquid. "louis!" "and well you may be, if you'll excuse me saying so!" answered louis frigidly. he was confirmed in his illusory but tremendous grievance. the fundamental lack of generosity in him was exposed. inexperienced though he was in women, he saw in rachel then, just as if he had been twenty years older, the woman who lightly imagines that the past can be wiped out with a soft tone, an endearment, a tear, a touching appeal. he would not let her off so easily. she had horribly lacerated his dignity for a week--he could recall every single hurt--and he was not going to allow himself to recover in a minute. his dignity required a gradual convalescence. he was utterly unaffected by her wistful charm. rachel moved her head somewhat towards his, and then hesitated. the set hardness of his face was incredible to her. her head began to swim. she thought, "i shall really die if this continues." "louis--don't!" she besought him plaintively. he walked deliberately away and nervously played with an "ornament" on the sideboard. "and let me tell you another thing," said he slowly. "if you think i came back to-night because i couldn't do without you, you're mistaken. i'm going out again at once." she said to herself, "he has killed me!" the room circled round her, gathering speed, and louis with it. the emptiness in her bosom was intolerable. ii louis saw her face turning paler and paler, till it was, really, almost as white as the table-cloth. she fell back into the chair, her arms limp and lifeless. "confound the girl!" he thought. "she's going to faint now! what an infernal nuisance!" compunction, instead of softening him, made him angry with himself. he felt awkward, at a loss, furious. "mrs. tams!" he called out, and hurried from the room. "mrs. tams!" as he went out he was rather startled to find that the door had not been quite closed. in the lobby he called again, "mrs. tams!" the kitchen gas showed a speck of blue. he had not noticed it when he came into the house: the kitchen door must have been shut, then. he looked up the stairs. he could discern that the door of mrs. tams's bedroom, at the top, was open, and that there was no light in the room. puzzled, he rushed to the kitchen, and snatched at his hat as he went, sticking it anyhow on his head. "eh, mester, what ever's amiss?" with these alarmed words mrs. tams appeared suddenly from behind the kitchen door; she seemed a little out of breath, as far as louis could hear; he could not see her very well. the thought flashed through his mind. "she's been listening at doors." "oh! there you are," he said, with an effort at ordinariness of demeanour. "just go in to mrs. fores, will you? something's the matter with her. it's nothing, but i have to go out." mrs. tams answered, trembling: "nay, mester, i'm none going to interfere. i go into no parlour." "but i tell you she's fainting." "ye'd happen better look after her yerself, mr. louis," said mrs. tams in a queer voice. "but don't you understand i've got to go out?" he was astounded and most seriously disconcerted by mrs. tams's very singular behaviour. "if ye'll excuse me being so bold, sir," said mrs. tams, "ye ought for be right well ashamed o' yeself. and that i'll say with my dying breath." she dropped on to the hard windsor chair, and, lifting her apron, began to whimper. louis could feel himself blushing. "it seems to me you'd better look out for a fresh situation," he remarked curtly, as he turned to leave the kitchen. "happen i had, mester," mrs. tams agreed sadly; and then with fire: "but i go into no parlour. you get back to her, mester. going out again at this time o' night, and missis as her is! if you stop where a husband ought for be, her'll soon mend, i warrant." he went back, cursing all women, because he had no alternative but to go back. he dared not do otherwise.... it was only a swoon. but was it only a swoon? suppose ...! he was afraid of public opinion; he was afraid of mrs. tams's opinion. mrs. tams had pierced him. he went back, dashing his hat on to the oak chest. iii rachel was lying on the hearth-rug, one arm stretched nonchalantly over the fender and the hand close to the fire. her face was whiter than any face he had ever seen, living or dead. he shook; the inanimate figure with the disarranged clothes and hair, prone and deserted there in the solitude of the warm, familiar room, struck terror into him. he bent down; he knelt down and drew the arm away from the fire. he knew not in the least what was the proper thing to do; and naturally the first impulse of his ignorance was to raise her body from the ground. but she was so heavy, so appallingly inert, that, fortunately, he could not do so, and he let her head subside again. then he remembered that the proper thing to do in these cases was to loosen the clothes round the neck; but he could not loosen her bodice because it was fastened behind and the hooks were so difficult. he jumped to the window and opened it. the blind curved inward like a sail under the cold entering breeze. when he returned to rachel he thought he noticed the faintest pinky flush in her cheeks. and suddenly she gave a deep sigh. he knelt again. there was something about the line of her waist that, without any warning, seemed to him ineffably tender, wistful, girlish, seductive. her whole figure began to exert the same charm over him. even her frock, which nevertheless was not even her second best, took on a quality that in its simplicity bewitched him. he recalled her wonderful gesture as she lighted his cigarette on the night when he first saw her in her kitchen; and his memory of it thrilled him.... rachel opened her eyes and sighed deeply once more. he fanned her with a handkerchief drawn from his sleeve. "louis!" she murmured in a tired baby's voice, after a few moments. he thought: "it's a good thing i didn't go out, and i'm glad mrs. tarns isn't here blundering about." "you're better?" he said mildly. she raised her arms and clasped him, dragging him to her with a force that was amazing under the circumstances. they kissed; their faces were merged for a long time. then she pushed him a little away, and, guarding his shoulders with her hands, examined his face, and smiled pathetically. "call me louise," she whispered. "silly little thing! shall i get you some water?" "call me louise!" "louise!" chapter xix rachel and mr. horrocleave i the next morning, sunday, rachel had a fancy to superintend in person the boiling of louis' breakfast egg. for a week past louis had not been having his usual breakfast, but on this morning the ideal life was recommencing in loveliest perfection for rachel. the usual breakfast was to be resumed; and she remembered that in the past the sacred egg had seldom, if ever, been done to a turn by mrs. tams. mrs. tams, indeed, could not divide a minute into halves, and was apt to regard a preference for a certain consistency in a boiled egg as merely finicking and negligible. to mrs. tams a fresh egg was a fresh egg, and there was no more to be said. rachel entered the kitchen like a radiance. she was dressed with special care, rather too obviously so, in order that she might be worthy to walk by louis' side to church. she was going with him to church gladly, because he had rented the pew and she desired to please him by an alert gladness in subscribing to his wishes; it was not enough for her just to do what he wanted. her eyes glittered above the darkened lower lids; her gaze was self-conscious and yet bold; a faint languor showed beneath her happy energy. but there was no sign that on the previous evening she had been indisposed. mrs. tams was respectfully maternal, but preoccupied. she fetched the egg for rachel, and rachel, having deposited it in a cooking-spoon, held it over the small black saucepan of incontestably boiling water until the hand of the clock precisely covered a minute mark, whereupon she deftly slipped the egg into the saucepan; the water ceased to boil for a few seconds and then bubbled up again. and amid the heavenly frizzling of bacon and the odour of her own special coffee rachel stood sternly watching the clock while mrs. tams rattled plates and did the last deeds before serving the meal. then mrs. tarns paused and said-- "i don't hardly like to tell ye, ma'm--i didn't hardly like to tell ye last night when ye were worried like--no, and i dunna like now like, but its like as if what must be--i must give ye notice to leave. i canna stop here no longer." rachel turned to her, protesting-- "now, mrs. tams, what _are_ you talking about? i thought you were perfectly happy here." "so i am, mum. nobody could wish for a better place. i'm sure i've no fault to find. but it's like as if what must be." "but what's the matter?" "well, ma'am, it's emmy." (emmy was mrs. tams's daughter and the mother of her favourite grandchild.) "emmy and all on' em seem to think it'll be better all round if i don't take a regular situation, so as i can be more free for 'em, and they'll all look after me i' my old age. i s'll get my old house back, and be among 'em all. there's so many on 'em." every sentence contained a lie. and the aged creature went on lying to the same pattern until she had created quite a web of convincing detail--more than enough to persuade her mistress that she was in earnest, foolishly in earnest, that she didn't know on which side her bread was buttered, and that the poorer classes in general had no common sense. "you're all alike," said the wise rachel. "i'm very sorry, ma'm." "and what am i to do? it's very annoying for me, you know. i thought you were a permanency." "yes, ma'am." "i should like to give your daughters and daughters-in-law a piece of my mind.... good heavens! give me that cooking-spoon, quick!" she nipped the egg out of the saucepan; it was already several seconds overdone. "it isn't as if i could keep you on as a charwoman," said rachel. "i must have some one all the time, and i couldn't do with a charwoman as well." "no, ma'am! it's like as if what must be." "well, i hope you'll think it over. i must say i didn't expect this from you, mrs. tams." mrs. tams put her lips together and bent obstinately over a tray. rachel said to herself: "oh, she really means to leave! i can see that. she's made up her mind.... i shall never trust any servant again--never!" she was perhaps a little hurt (for she considered that she had much benefited mrs. tams), and a little perturbed for the future. but in her heart she did not care. she would not have cared if the house had fallen in, or if her native land had been invaded and enslaved by a foreign army. she was at peace with louis. he was hers. she felt that her lien on him was strengthened. ii the breakfast steaming and odorous on the table, and rachel all tingling in front of her tray, awaited the descent of the master of the house. the sunday morning post, placed in its proper position by mrs. tams, consisted of a letter and a post-card. rachel stretched her arm across the table to examine them. the former had a legal aspect. it was a foolscap envelope addressed to mrs. maldon. rachel opened it. a typewritten circular within respectfully pointed out to mrs. maldon that if she had only followed the writers' advice, given gratis a few weeks earlier, she would have made one hundred and twenty-five pounds net profit by spending thirty-five pounds in the purchase of an option on canadian pacific railway shares. the statement was supported by the official figures of the stock exchange, which none could question. "can you afford to neglect such advice in future?" the writers asked mrs. maldon, and went on to suggest that she should send them forty-five pounds to buy an option on "shells," which were guaranteed to rise nine points in less than a month. mystified, half sceptical, and half credulous, rachel reflected casually that the world was full of strange phenomena. she wondered what "shells" were, and why the writers should keep on writing to a woman who had been dead for ages. she carefully burnt both the circular and the envelope. and then she looked at the post-card, which was addressed to "louis fores, esq." as it was a post-card, she was entitled to read it. she read: "shall expect you at the works in the morning at ten. jas. horrocleave." she thought it rather harsh and oppressive on the part of mr. horrocleave to expect louis to attend at the works on bank holiday--and so soon after his illness, too! how did mr. horrocleave know that louis was sufficiently recovered to be able to go to the works at all? louis came, rubbing his hands, which for an instant he warmed at the fire. he was elegantly dressed. the mere sight of him somehow thrilled rachel. his deportment, his politeness, his charming good-nature were as striking as ever. the one or two stripes (flesh-coloured now, not whitish) on his face were not too obvious, and, indeed, rather increased the interest of his features. the horrible week was forgotten, erased from history, though rachel would recollect that even at the worst crisis of it louis had scarcely once failed in politeness of speech. it was she who had been impolite--not once, but often. louis had never raged. she was contrite, and her penitence intensified her desire to please, to solace, to obey. when she realized that it was she who had burnt that enormous sum in bank-notes, she went cold in the spine. not that she cared twopence for the enormous sum, really, now that concord was established! no, her little flutters of honest remorse were constantly disappearing in the immense exultant joy of being alive and of contemplating her idol. louis sat down. she smiled at him. he smiled back. but in his exquisite demeanour there was a faint reserve of melancholy which persisted. she had not yet that morning been able to put it to flight; she counted, however, on doing so very soon, and in the meantime it did not daunt her. after all, was it not natural? she began-- "i say, what do you think? mrs. tams has given me notice." she pretended to be aggrieved and to be worried, but essential joy shone through these absurd masks. moreover, she found a certain naïve satisfaction in being a mistress with cares, a mistress to whom "notice" had to be given, and who would have to make serious inquiry into the character of future candidates for her employment. louis raised his eyebrows. "don't you think it's a shame?" "oh," said he cautiously, "you'll get somebody else as good, _and_ better. what's she leaving for?" rachel repeated mrs. tams's rigmarole. "ah!" murmured louis. he was rather sorry for mrs. tams. his good-nature was active enough this morning. but he was glad that she had taken the initiative. and he was content that she should go. after the scene of the previous night, their relations could not again have been exactly what the relations between master and servant ought to be. and further, "you never knew what women wouldn't tell one another," even mistress and maid, maid and mistress. yes, he preferred that she should leave. he admired her and regretted the hardship on the old woman--and that was an end of it! what could he do to ease her? the only thing to do would be to tell her privately that so far as he was concerned she might stay. but he had no intention of doing aught so foolish. it was strange, but he was entirely unconscious of any obligation to her for the immense service she had rendered him. his conclusion was that some people have to be martyrs. and in this he was deeply right. rachel, misreading his expression, thought that he did not wish to be bothered with household details. she recalled some gratuitous advice half humorously offered to her by a middle-aged lady at her reception, "never talk servants to your men." she had thought, at the time, "i shall talk everything with _my_ husband." but she considered that she was wiser now. "by the way," she said in a new tone, "there's a post-card for you. i've read it. couldn't help." louis read the post-card. he paled, and rachel noticed his pallor. the fact was that in his mind he had simply shelved, and shelved again, the threat of james horrocleave. he had sincerely desired to tell a large portion of the truth to rachel, taking advantage of her soft mood; but he could not; he could not force his mouth to open on the subject. in some hours he had quite forgotten the danger--he was capable of such feats--then it reasserted itself and he gazed on it fascinated and helpless. when rachel, to please him and prove her subjugation, had suggested that they should go to church--"for the easter morning service"--he had concurred, knowing, nevertheless, that he dared not fail to meet horrocleave at the works. on the whole, though it gave him a shock, he was relieved that horrocleave had sent the post-card and that rachel had seen it. but he still was quite unable to decide what to do. "it's a nice thing, him asking you to go to the works on a bank holiday like that!" rachel remarked. louis answered: "it's not to-morrow he wants me. it's to-day." "sunday!" she exclaimed. "yes. i met him for a second yesterday afternoon, and he told me then. this was just a reminder. he must have sent it off last night. a good thing he did send it, though. i'd quite forgotten." "but what is it? what does he want you to go on sunday for?" louis shrugged his shoulders, as if to intimate that nothing that horrocleave did ought to surprise anybody. "then what about church?" louis replied on the spur of the moment-- "you go there by yourself. i'll meet you there. i can easily be there by eleven." "but i don't know the pew." "they'll show you your pew all right, never fear." "i shall wait for you in the churchyard." "very well. so long as it isn't raining." she kissed him fervently when he departed. long before it was time to leave for church she had a practical and beautiful idea--one of those ideas that occur to young women in love. instead of waiting for louis in the churchyard she would call for him at the works, which was not fifty yards off the direct route to st. luke's. by this means she would save herself from the possibility of inconvenience within the precincts of the church, and she would also prevent the conscienceless mr. horrocleave from keeping louis in the office all the morning. she wondered that the idea had not occurred to louis, who was very gifted in such matters as the arrangement of rendezvous. she started in good time because she wanted to walk without hurry, and to ponder. the morning, though imperfect and sunless, had in it some quality of the spring, which the buoyant youth of rachel instantly discovered and tasted in triumph. moreover, the spirit of a festival was abroad, and visible in the costume and faces of passers-by; and it was the first festival of the year. rachel responded to it eagerly, mingling her happiness with the general exultation. she was intensely, unreasonably happy. she knew that she was unreasonably happy; and she did not mind. when she turned into friendly street the big black double gates of the works were shut, but in one of them a little door stood ajar. she pushed it, stooped, and entered the twilight of the archway. the office door was shut. she walked uncertain up the archway into the yard, and through a dirty window on her left she could dimly discern a man gesticulating. she decided that he must be horrocleave. she hesitated, and then, slightly confused, thought, "perhaps i'd better go back to the archway and knock at the office door." iii in the inner office, among art-lustre ware, ink-stained wood, dusty papers, and dirt, jim horrocleave banged down a petty-cash book on to louis' desk. his hat was at the back of his head, and his eyes blazed at louis, who stood somewhat limply, with a hesitant, foolish, faint smile on his face. "that's enough!" said horrocleave fiercely. "i haven't had patience to go all through it. but that's enough. i needn't tell ye i suspected ye last year, but ye put me off. and i was too busy to take the trouble to go into it. however, i've had a fair chance while you've been away." he gave a sneering laugh. "i'll tell ye what put me on to ye again, if you've a mind to know. the weekly expenses went down as soon as ye thought i had suspicions. ye weren't clever enough to keep 'em up. well, what have ye got to say for yeself, seeing ye are on yer way to america?" "i never meant to go to america," said louis. "why should i go to america?" "ask me another. then ye confess?" "i don't," said louis. "oh! ye don't!" horrocleave sat down and put his hands on his outstretched knees. "there may be mistakes in the petty-cash book. i don't say there aren't. any one who keeps a petty-cash book stands to lose. if he's too busy at the moment to enter up a payment, he may forget it--and there you are! he's out of pocket. of course," louis added, with a certain loftiness, "as you're making a fuss about it i'll pay up for anything that's wrong ... whatever the sum is. if you make it out to be a hundred pounds i'll pay up." horrocleave growled: "oh, so ye'll pay up, will ye? and suppose i won't let ye pay up? what shall ye do then?" louis, now quite convinced that horrocleave was only bullying retorted, calmly: "it's i that ought to ask you that question." the accuser was exasperated. "a couple o' years in quod will be about your mark, i'm thinking," he said. whereupon louis was suddenly inspired to answer: "yes. and supposing i was to begin to talk about illicit commissions?" horrocleave jumped up with such ferocious violence that louis drew back, startled. the recent act of parliament, making a crime of secret commissions to customers' employees, had been a blow to the trade in art-lustre ware, and it was no secret in the inner office that horrocleave, resenting its interference with the natural course of business, had more than once discreetly flouted it, and thus technically transgressed the criminal law. horrocleave used to defend and justify himself by the use of that word "technical." louis' polite and unpremeditated threat enraged him to an extreme degree. he was the savage infuriate. he cared for no consequences, even consequences to himself. he hated louis because louis was spick and span, and quiet, and because louis had been palmed off on him by louis' unscrupulous respectable relatives as an honest man. "now thou'st done for thyself!" he cried, in the dialect. "thou'st done for thyself! and i'll have thee by the heels for embezzlement, and blackmail as well." he waved his arms. "may god strike me if i give thee any quarter after that! i'll--" he stopped with open mouth, disturbed by the perception of a highly strange phenomenon beyond the window. he looked and saw rachel in the yard. for a moment he thought that louis had planned to use his wife as a shield in the affair if the worst should come to the worst. but rachel's appearance simultaneously showed him that he was wrong. she was the very mirror of happy confidence. and she seemed so young, and so obviously just married; and so girlish and so womanish at the same time; and her frock was so fresh, and her hat so pert against the heavy disorder of the yard, and her eyes were unconsciously so wistful--that horrocleave caught his breath. he contrasted rachel with mrs. horrocleave, her complete antithesis, and at once felt very sorry for himself and very scornful of mrs. horrocleave, and melting with worshipful sympathy for rachel. "yer wife's in the yard," he whispered in a different tone. "my wife!" louis was gravely alarmed; all his manner altered. "hast told her anything of this?" "i should think i hadn't." "ye must pay me, and i'll give ye notice to leave," said horrocleave, quickly, in a queer, quiet voice. the wrath was driven out of him. the mere apparition of rachel had saved her husband. a silence. rachel had disappeared. then there was a distant tapping. neither of the men spoke nor moved. they could hear the outer door open and light footfalls in the outer office. "anybody here?" it was rachel's voice, timid. "come in, come in!" horrocleave roared. she entered, blushing, excusing herself, glancing from one to the other, and by her spotless easter finery emphasizing the squalor of the den. in a few minutes horrocleave was saying to rachel, rather apologetically-- "louis and i are going to part company, mrs. fores. i can't keep him on. his wages are too high for me. it won't run to it. th' truth is, i'm going to chuck this art business. it doesn't pay. art, as they call it, 's no good in th' pottery trade." rachel said, "so that's what you wanted to see him about on a sunday morning, is it, mr. horrocleave?" she was a little hurt at the slight on her husband, but the wife in her was persuaded that the loss would be mr. horrocleave's. she foresaw that louis would now want to use his capital in some commercial undertaking of his own; and she was afraid of the prospect. still, it had to be faced, and she would face it. he would probably do well as his own master. during a whole horrible week her judgment on him had been unjustly severe, and she did not mean to fall into the same sin again. she thought with respect of his artistic gifts, which she was too inartistic to appreciate. yes, the chances were that he would succeed admirably. she walked him off to church, giving horrocleave a perfunctory good-bye. and as, shoulder to shoulder, they descended towards st. luke's, she looked sideways at louis and fed her passion stealthily with the sight. true, even in those moments, she had heart enough left to think of others besides. she hoped that john's ernest would find a suitable mate. she remembered that she had julian's curtains to attend to. she continued to think kindly of thomas batchgrew, and she chid herself for having thought of him in her distant inexperienced youth, of six months earlier, as _that man_. and, regretting that mrs. tams--at her age, too!--could be so foolish, she determined to look after mrs. tams also, if need should arise. but these solicitudes were mere downy trifles floating on the surface of her profound absorption in louis. and in the depths of that absorption she felt secure, and her courage laughed at the menace of life (though the notion of braving a church full of people did intimidate the bride). yet she judged louis realistically and not sentimentally. she was not conspicuously blind to any aspect of his character; nor had the tremendous revulsion of the previous night transformed him into another and a more heavenly being for her. she admitted frankly to herself that he was not blameless in the dark affair of the bank-notes. she would not deny that in some ways he was untrustworthy, and might be capable of acts of which the consequences were usually terrible. his irresponsibility was notorious. and, being impulsive herself, she had no mercy for his impulsiveness. as for his commonsense, was not her burning of the circular addressed to mrs. maldon a sufficient commentary on it? she was well aware that louis' sins of omission and commission might violently shock people of a certain temperament--people of her own temperament in particular. these people, however, would fail to see the other side of louis. if she herself had merely heard of louis, instead of knowing him, she would probably have set him down as undesirable. but she knew him. his good qualities seemed to her to overwhelm the others. his charm, his elegance, his affectionateness, his nice speech, his courtesy, his quick wit, his worldliness--she really considered it extraordinary that a plain, blunt girl, such as she, should have had the luck to please him. it was indeed almost miraculous. if he had faults--and he had--she preferred them (proudly and passionately) to the faults of scores of other women's husbands. he was not a brute, nor even a boor nor a savage--thousands of savages ranged free and terror-striking in the five towns. even when vexed and furious he could control himself. it was possible to share his daily life and see him in all his social moods without being humiliated. he was not a clodhopper; watch him from the bow-window of a morning as he walked down the street! he did not drink; he was not a beast. he was not mean. he might scatter money, but he was not mean. in fact, except that one sinister streak in his nature, she could detect no fault. there was danger in that streak.... well, there was danger in every man. she would accept it; she would watch it. had she not long since reconciled herself to the prospect of an everlasting vigil? she did not care what any one said, and she did not care! he was the man she wanted; the whole rest of the world was nothing in comparison to him. he was irresistible. she had wanted him, and she would always want him, as he was. she had won him and she would keep him, as he was, whatever the future might hold. the past was the past; the opening chapter of her marriage was definitely finished and its drama done. she was ready for the future. one tragedy alone could overthrow her--louis' death. she simply could not and would not conceive existence without him. she would face anything but that.... besides, he was not _really_ untrustworthy--only weak! she faltered and recovered. "he's mine and i wouldn't have him altered for the world. i don't want him perfect. if anything goes wrong, well, let it go wrong! i'm his wife. i'm his!" and as, slightly raising her confident chin in the street, she thus undertook to pay the price of love, there was something divine about rachel's face. love, the fiddler by lloyd osbourne to lewis vanuxem contents the chief engineer, ffrenches first, the golden castaways, the awakening of george raymond, the mascot of battery b, the chief engineer i frank rignold had never been the favoured suitor, not at least so far as anything definite was concerned; but he had always been welcome at the little house on commonwealth street, and amongst the neighbours his name and that of florence fenacre were coupled as a matter of course and every old lady within a radius of three miles regarded the match as good as settled. it was not frank's fault that it was not, for he was deeply in love with the widow's daughter and looked forward to such an end to their acquaintance as the very dearest thing fate could give him. but in these affairs it is necessary to carry the lady with you--and the lady, though she had never said "no," had not yet been prevailed upon to say "yes." in fact she preferred to leave the matter as it was, and boldly forestalling a set proposal, had managed to convey to frank rignold that it was her wish he should not make one. "let us be good friends," she would say, "and as for anything else, frank, there's plenty of time to consider that by and by. isn't it enough already that we like each other?" frank did not think it was enough, but he was not without intuition and willing to accept the little offered him and be grateful--rather than risk all, and almost certainly lose all, by too exigent a suit. for florence fenacre was the acknowledged beauty of the town, with a dozen eligible men at her feet, and was more courted and sought after than any girl in the place. the place, to give it its name, was bridgeport, one of those dead- alive little ports on the atlantic seaboard, with a dozen factories and some decaying wharves and that tranquil air of having had a past. the widow and her pretty daughter lived in a low-roofed, red-brick house that faced the street and sheltered a long deep shady garden in the rear. land and house had been bought with whale oil. their little income, derived from the rent of three barren and stony farms and amounting to not more than sixty dollars a month, represented a capitalisation of whale oil. even the old grey church whither they went twice of a sunday, was whale oil too, and had been built in bygone days by the sturdy captains who now lay all around it under slabs of stone. there amongst them was florence's father and her grandfather and her great-grandfather, together with the macys and the coffins and the cabotts with whom they had sailed and quarrelled and loved and intermarried in the years now gone. the wide world had not been too wide for them to sail it round and reap the harvests of far-off seas; but in death they lay side by side, their voyages done, their bones mingling in the new england earth. frank rignold too was a son of bridgeport, and the sea which ran in that blood for generations bade him in manhood to rise and follow it. he had gone into the engine-room, and at thirty was the chief engineer of a cargo boat running to south american ports. he was a fine-looking man with earnest grey eyes; a reader, a student, an observer; self-taught in spanish, latin, and french; a grave, quiet gentlemanly man, whose rare smile seemed to light his whole face, and who in his voyages south had caught something of spanish grace and courtliness. he returned as regularly to bridgeport as his ship did to new york; and when he stepped off the train his eager steps took him first to the fenacres' house, his hands never empty of some little present for his sweetheart. on the occasion of our story his step was more buoyant than ever and his heart beat high with hope, for she had cried the last time he went away, and though no word of love had yet been spoken between them, he was conscious of her increasing inclination for him and her increasing dependence. having already won so much it seemed as though his passionate devotion could not fail to turn the scale and bring her to that admission he felt it was on her lips to make. so he strode through the narrow streets, telling himself a fairy story of how it all might be, with a little house of their own and she waiting for him on the wharf when his ship made fast; a story that never grew stale in the repetition, but which, please god, would come true in the end, with florence his wife, and all his doubtings and heart-aches over. florence opened the door for him herself and gave a little cry of surprise and welcome as they shook hands, for in all their acquaintance there had never been a kiss between them. it was all he could do not to catch her in his arms, for as she smiled up at him, so radiant and beautiful and happy, it seemed as if it were his right and that he had been a fool to have ever questioned her love for him. he followed her into the sitting-room, laughing like a child with pleasure and thrilled through and through with the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand and the vague, subtle perfume of her whole being. his laughter died away, however, as he saw what the room contained. over the chairs, over the sofa, over the table, in the stacked and open pasteboard boxes on the floor, were dresses and evening gowns outspread with the profusion of a splendid shop, and even to his unpractised eyes, costly and magnificent beyond anything he had ever seen before. florence swept an opera cloak from a chair and made him sit down, watching him the while with a charming gaiety and excitement. at such a moment it seemed to him positively heartless. "florence," he said, almost with a gasp, "does this mean that you are going to be--" he stopped short. he could not say that word. "i'm never going to marry anybody," she returned. "but--" he began again. "then you haven't heard!" she cried, clasping her hands. "oh, frank, you haven't heard!" "i have only just got back," he said. "i've been left heaps of money," she exclaimed, "from my uncle, you know, the one that treated father so badly and tricked him out of the old manor farm. i hardly knew he existed till he died. and it's not only a lot, frank, but it's millions!" he repeated the word with a kind of groan. "they are probating the will for six," she went on, not noticing his agitation, "but i'm sure the lawyers are making it as low as they can for the taxes. and it's the most splendid kind of property--rows of houses in the heart of new york and big broadway shops and skyscrapers! frank, do you realise i own two office buildings twenty stories high?" frank tried to congratulate her on her wonderful good fortune, but it was like a voice from the grave and he could not affect to be glad at the death-knell of all his hopes. "that lets me out," he said. "my poor frank, you never were in," she said, regarding him with great kindness and compassion. "i know you are disappointed, but you are too much a man to be unjust to me." "oh, i haven't the right to say a word!" he exclaimed quickly. "on your side it was friends and nothing more. i always understood that, florence." he was shocked at her almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "of course, this changes everything," she said. "yet it would have come if it hadn't been for this," he said. "you were getting to like me better and better. you cried when i last went away. yes, it would have come, florence," he repeated, looking at her wistfully. "i suppose it would, frank," she said. "oh, florence!" he exclaimed, and could not go on lest his voice should betray him. "and we should have lived in a poky little house," she said, "and you would have been to sea three-quarters of the time, leaving me to eat my heart out as mother did for father--and it would have been a horrible, dreadful, irrevocable mistake." "i didn't have to go to sea," he said, snatching at this crumb of hope. "there are other jobs than ships. why, only last trip i was offered a refrigerating plant in chicago!" he did not tell her it bore a salary of four hundred dollars a month and that he had meant to lay it at her feet that morning. in the light of her millions that sum, so considerable an hour before, had suddenly shrunk to nothing. how puny and pitiful it seemed in the contrast. he had a sense that everything had shrunk to nothing--his life, his hopes, his future. "i know you think i am cruel," she said, in the same calm, considerate tone she had used throughout. "but i never gave you any encouragement, frank--not in the way you wanted or expected. you were the only person i knew who was the least bit cultivated and nice and travelled and out of the commonplace. i can't tell you how much you brightened my life here, or how glad i was when you came or how sorry i was when you went away--but it wasn't love, frank--not the love you wished for or the love i feel i have the power to give." "why did you let me go on then?" he broke out, "i getting deeper and deeper into it and you knowing all the time it never could come to anything? just because no words were said, did that make you blind? if you were such a friend of mine as you said you were, wouldn't it have been kinder to have shown me the door and tell me straight out it was hopeless and impossible? oh, florence, you took my love when you wanted it, like a person getting warm at a fire, and now when you don't need it any longer you tell me quite unconcernedly that it is all over between us!" "it would sound so heartless to tell you the real truth, frank," she said. "oh, let me hear it!" he said. "i'm desperate enough for anything --even for that, i suppose." "i knew it would end the way you wanted it, frank," she said. "you were getting to mean more and more to me. i did not love you exactly and i did not worry a particle when you were away, but i sort of acquiesced in what seemed to be the inevitable. i know i am horribly to blame, but i took it for granted we'd drift on and on--and this time, if you had asked me, i had made up my mind to say 'yes.'" she said this last word in almost a whisper, frightened at the sight of frank's pale face. she ran over to him, and throwing her arms around his neck kissed him again and again. "we'll always be friends, frank," she said. "always, always!" he made no movement to return her caresses. her kisses humiliated him to the quick. he pushed her away from him, and when he spoke it was with dignity and gentleness. "i was wrong to reproach you," he said. "i can appreciate what a difference all this money makes to you. it has lifted you into another world--a world where i cannot hope to follow you, but i can be man enough to say that i understand--that i acquiesce-- without bitterness." "i never liked you so well as i do now, frank," she said. "we will say nothing more about it," he said. "i couldn't blame you because you don't love me, could i? i ought rather instead to thank you--thank you for so much you have given me these two years past, your friendship, your intimacy, your trust. that it all came to nothing was neither your fault nor mine. it was your uncle's for dying and leaving you sky-scrapers!" they both laughed at this, and frank, now apparently quite himself again, brought forth his presents: a large box of candy, a beautifully bound little volume of pierre loti, and a lace collar he had picked up at buenos ayres. this last seemed a trifling piece of finery in the midst of all those dresses, though he had paid sixteen dollars for it and had counted it cheap at the price. florence received it with exaggerated gratitude, genuine enough in one way, for she was touched; but, in spite of herself, her altered fortunes and the memory of those great new york shops, where she had ordered right and left, made the bit of lace seem common and scarce worth possessing. even as she thanked him she was mentally presenting it to one of the poor miss browns who sang in the church choir. they spent an hour in talking together, eluding on either side any further reference to the subject most in their thoughts and finding safety in books and the little gossip of the place and the news of the day. it might have been an ordinary call, though frank, as a special favour, was allowed to smoke a cigar, and there was a strained look in florence's face that gave the lie to her previous professions of indifference. she knew she was violating her own heart, but her character was already corrupting under the breath of wealth, and her head was turned with dreams of social conquests and of a great and splendid match in the roseate future. she kept telling herself how lucky it was that the money had not come too late, and wondering at the same time whether she would ever again meet a man who had such a compelling charm for her as frank rignold, and whose mellow voice could move her to the depths. at last, after a decent interval, frank said he would have to leave, and she accompanied him to the door, where he begged her to remember him to her mother and added something congratulatory about the great good fortune that had befallen her. "and now good-bye," he said. "but you will come back, frank?" she exclaimed anxiously. "oh, no!" he said. "i couldn't, florence, i couldn't." "i cannot let you go like this," she protested. "really i can't, frank. i won't!" "i don't see very well how you can help it," he said. "surely my wish has still some weight with you," she said. "florence," he returned, holding her hand very tight, "you must not think it pique on my part or anything so petty and unworthy; but i'd rather stop right here than endure the pain of seeing you get more and more indifferent to me. it is bound to come, of course, and it would be less cruel this way than the other." "you never can have loved me!" she exclaimed. "didn't i say i wanted to be friends? didn't i kiss you?" "yes," he said slowly, "as you might a child, to comfort him for a broken toy. florence," he went on, "i have wanted you for the last two years and now i have lost you. i must face up to that. i must meet it with what fortitude i can. but i cannot bear to feel that every time i come you will like me less; that others will crowd me out and take my place; that the gulf will widen and widen until at last it is impassable. i am going while you still love me a little and will miss me. good-bye!" she leaned her head on his shoulder and sobbed. she had but to say one word to keep him, and yet she would not say it. her heart seemed broken in her breast, and yet she let him go, sustained in her resolve by the thought of her great fortune and of the wonderful days to come. "good-bye," she said, and stood looking after him as he walked slowly away. "oh, that money, i hate it!" she exclaimed to herself as she went in. "i wish he had never left it to me. i didn't want it or expect it or anything, and i should have been happy, oh, so happy!" then, with a pang, she recalled the refrigerating plant, and the life so quiet and poor and simple and sweet that she and frank would have led had not her millions come between them. "her millions!" it was inspiriting to repeat those two words to herself. it strengthened her resolve and made her feel how wise she had been to break with frank. perhaps, after all, it were better for him not to come back. he was right about the gulf between them, and even since his departure it was widening appreciably. then she realised what all rich people realise sooner or later. "i don't own all that money," she said to herself. "it owns me!" and with that she went indoors and cried part of the forenoon and spent the rest of it in trying on her new clothes. wealth, if it did not bring happiness, at least brought some pleasant distractions. ii it was fully a year before frank saw her again; a long year to him, soberly passed in his shipboard duties, with recurring weeks ashore at new york and buenos ayres. he had grown more reserved and silent than before; fonder of his books; keener in his taste for abstract science. he avoided his old friends and made no new ones. the world seemed to be passing him while he stood still. he wondered how others could laugh when his own heart was so heavy, and he preferred to go his own way, solitary and unnoticed, taking an increasing pleasure in his isolation. he continued to write to bridgeport, for there were a few old friends whom he could not disregard altogether, though he made his letters as infrequent as he could and as short. in return he was kept informed of florence's movements; of the sensation she made everywhere; of the great people who had taken her under their wing; of her rumoured engagements; of her triumphs in paris and london; of her yachts and horses and splendour and beauty. his correspondents showed an artless pride in the recital. it was becoming their only claim to consideration that they knew florence fenacre. her dazzling life reflected a sort of glory upon themselves, and their letters ran endlessly on the same theme. it was all a modern fairy tale, and they fairly bubbled with satisfaction to think that they knew the fairy princess! frank read it all with exasperation. it tormented him to even hear her name; to be reminded of her in any way; to realise that she was as much alive as he himself, and not the phantom he would have preferred to keep her in his memory. yet he was inconsistent enough to rage when a letter came that brought no news of her. he would tear it into pieces and throw it out of his cabin window. the fools, why couldn't they tell him what he wanted to know! he would carry his ill-humour into the engine-room and revenge himself on fate and the loss of the woman he loved by a harsh criticism of his subordinates. a defective pump or a troublesome valve would set his temper flaming; and then, overcome at his own injustice, he would go to the other extreme; and, roundly blaming himself, would slap some sullen artificer on the back and tell him that it was all a joke. his men, amongst themselves, called him a wild cracked devil, and it was the tattle of the ship that he drank hard in secret. they knew something was wrong with him, and fastened on the likeliest cause. others said out boldly that the chief engineer was going crazy. one morning as they were running up the sound, homeward-bound, they passed a large steam yacht at anchor. frank happened to be on deck at the time, and he joined with the rest in the little chorus of admiration that went up at the sight of her. "that's the minnehaha," said the second mate. "she belongs to the beautiful heiress, miss fenacre!" "ready for a mediterranean cruise," said the purser, who had been reading one of the newspapers the pilot had brought aboard. frank heard these two remarks in silence. the sun, to him, seemed to stop shining. the morning that had been so bright and pleasant all at once overcame him with disgust. the might-have-been took him by the throat. he descended into the engine-room to hide his dejected face in the heated oily atmosphere below; and seating himself on a tool-chest he watched, with hardly seeing eyes, the ponderous movement of his machinery. it was the anodyne for his troubles, to feel the vibration of the engines and hear the rumble and hiss of the jacketed cylinders. it always comforted him; he found companionship in the mighty thing he controlled; he looked at the trembling needle in the gauge, and instinctively noted the pressure as he thought of the trim smart vessel at anchor and of his dear one on the eve of parting. he wondered whether they would ever pass again, he and she, in all the years to come. the thought of the yacht haunted him all that day. he took a sudden revulsion against the grinding routine of his own life. it came over him like a new discovery, that he was tired of south america, tired of his ship, tired of everything. he contrasted his own voyages in and out, from the same place to the same place, up and down, up and down, as regular as the swing of a pendulum with that gay wanderer of the raking masts who was free to roam the world. it came over him with an insistence that he, too, would like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands with precipices and beaches and palm trees. almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to miss fenacre. it was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a position in the engine-room staff. he knew, he said, that the quota was probably made up, and that he could not hope for an important place. but if she would take him as a first-class artificer he would be more than grateful, and ventured on the little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed in as a supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and keep a good many times over. he got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a fashionable new york hotel and granting him an interview. she called him "dear frank," and signed herself "ever yours," and said that of course she would give him anything he wanted, only that she would prefer to talk it over first. he put on his best clothes and went to see her, being shown into a large suite on the second floor, where he had to wait an hour in a lofty anteroom with no other company but a statue of pocahontas. he was oppressed by the gorgeousness of the surroundings--by the frowning pictures, the gilt furniture, the onyx-topped tables, the vases, the mirrors, the ornate clocks. he was in a fever of expectation, and could not fight down his growing timidity. he had not seen florence for a year, and his heart would have been as much in his mouth had the meeting been set in the old brick house at bridgeport. at least he said so to himself, not caring to confess that he was daunted by the magnificence of the apartment. at length the door opened and she came in. she stood for a moment with her hand on the knob and looked at him; then she came over to him with a little rush and took his outstretched hand. he had forgotten how beautiful she was, or probably he had never really known, as he had never beheld her before in one of those wonderful french creations that cost each one a fortune. he stumbled over his words of greeting, and his hand trembled as he held hers. "oh, frank," she said, noticing his agitation. "are you still silly enough to care?" "i am afraid i do, florence," he said, blushing like a boy at her unexpected question. "what's the good of asking me that?" "you are looking handsome, frank," she ran on. "i am proud of you. you have the nicest hair of any man i know!" "i daren't say how stunning you look, florence," he returned. "frank," she said, slowly, fixing her lustrous eyes on his face, "you usen't to be so grave. ... i don't think you have smiled much lately ... you are changed." he bore her scrutiny with silence. "poor boy!" she exclaimed, impulsively taking his hand. "i'm the most heartless creature in the whole world. do you know, frank, though i look so nice and girlish, i am really a brute; and when i die i am sure to go to hell." "i hope not," he said, smiling. "oh, but i know!" she cried. "all i ever do is to make people miserable." "perhaps it's the people's fault, for--for loving you, florence," he said. "it's awfully exciting to see you again," she went on. "you came within an ace of being my husband. i might have belonged to you and counted your washing. it's queer, isn't it? thrilling!" "why do you bring all that up, florence?" he said. "it's done. it's over. i--i would rather not speak of it." "but it was such an awfully near thing, frank," she persisted. "i had made up my mind to take you, you know. i had even looked over my poor little clothes and had drawn a hundred dollars out of the savings bank!" "you don't take much account of a hundred dollars now," he returned, trying to smile. "i know you don't want to talk about it," she said, "but i do. i love to play with emotions. i suppose it's a habit, like any other," she continued, "and it grows on one like opium or morphine. that's why i'll go to hell, frank. it wasn't that way at all when you used to know me. i think i must have been nice then, and really worth loving!" "oh, yes!" he returned miserably. "oh, yes!" "i have a whole series of the most complicated emotions about you," she said, "only a lot of them are unexploded, like fire crackers before they are touched off. if i lost all my money i'd be in a panic till you came and took me; but as long as i have it i don't think of you more than once a week. yet, do you know, frank, if you got a sweetheart, i believe i'd scratch her eyes out. it's rather fine of me to tell you all that," she went on, with a smile, "for i'm giving you the key of the combination, and you might take advantage of it!" "florence," he said, "i thought at first you were just laughing at me, but i see that you are right. you are heartless. you oughtn't to talk like that." she looked a shade put out. "well, frank, it's the truth, anyway," she said, "and in the old days we were always such sticklers for the truth--for sincerity, you know--weren't we?" "i have no business to correct you," he said humbly. "i resigned all my pretensions that morning in the old house." "well, so long as you love me still!" she exclaimed, with a little mocking laugh. "that's the great thing, isn't it? i mean for me, of course. i am greedy for love. it makes me feel so safe and comfortable to think there are whole rows of men that love me. when you have a great fortune you begin to appreciate the things that money cannot buy." "oh, your money!" he said. that word in her mouth always stung him. "well, you ought to hate my money," she remarked cheerfully. "it queered you, didn't it? and then all rich people are detestable, anyway--selfish to the core, and horrid. do you know that sometimes when i have flirted awfully with a man at a dinner or somewhere, and the next day he telephones--and the telephone is in the next room--i've just said: 'oh, bother! tell him i'm out,' rather than take the trouble to get up from my chair. and a nice man, too!" "i thought i might be treated the same way," he said. "then you thought wrong, frank," she returned, with a sudden change from her tone of flippancy and lightness. "i haven't sunk quite as low as that, you know. i meant other people--i didn't mean you, frank, dear." this was said with such a little ring of kindness that frank was moved. "then the old days still count for something?" he said. "oh, yes!" she said. "but not enough to hurt?" he ventured. "sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," she returned. "it depends on how good a time i'm having. but i hate to think i'm weak and selfish and vain, and that the only person i really care for is myself. i value my self-esteem, and it often gets an awful jar. sometimes i feel like a girl that has run away from home-- diamonds and dyed hair, you know--and then wakes up at night and cries to think of what a price she has paid for all her fine things!" florence waved her hand towards the alabaster statue of pocahontas, with a little ripple of self-disdain. she was in a strange humour, and beneath the surface of her apparent gaiety there ran an undercurrent of bitterness and contempt for herself. her eyes were unusually brilliant, and her cheeks were pink enough to have been rouged. the sight of her old lover had stirred many memories in her bosom. "and what about my job, florence?" he said, changing the conversation. "i've caught the yachting idea, too. can it be managed?" "oh, i want to talk to you about that," she said. "well, go on," he said, as she hesitated. "i am so afraid of hurting your feelings, frank," she said with a singular timidity. "my feelings are probably tougher than you think," he returned. "you will think so badly of me," she said. "you will be affronted." "it sounds as though you wanted to engage me for your butler," he said. then, as she still withheld the words on her lips, he went on: "don't be uneasy about saying it, florence. if it's impossible--why, that's the end of it, of course, and no harm done." "i want you to come," she said simply. "then, what's the trouble?" he demanded, getting more and more mystified. "i don't mind being an artificer the least bit. i like to work with my hands. i'm a good mechanic, and i like it." "i want you for my chief engineer," she said. this was news, indeed. frank's face betrayed his keen pleasure. he had never soared to the heights of asking or expecting that. "i had to dismiss the last one," she went on. "that's the reason why i'm still here, and not two days out, as i had expected. he locked himself in his cabin and shot at people through the door, and told awful lies to the newspapers." "if it's anything about my qualifications," he said, thinking he had found the reason of her backwardness, "i don't fancy i'll have any trouble to satisfy you. i don't want to toot my own horn, florence, but really, you know, i am rated a first-class man. i'll prove that by my certificates and all that, or give me two weeks' trial, and see for yourself." "oh, it isn't that," she said. "then, what is it?" he broke out. "only the other day they offered me a western ocean liner, and, if you like, i'll send you the letter. if i am good enough for a big passenger ship, i guess i can run the minnehaha to please you!" "frank," she returned, "it is not a question of your competency at all. you know very well i'd trust my life to you, blindfold. it's --it's the social side, the old affair between us, the first names and all that kind of thing." "oh, i see!" he said blankly. "as an officer on my ship," she said, "you could easily put yourself and me in a difficult position. in a way, we'll really be further apart than if you were in south america and i in monte carlo, for, though we'd always be good friends, and all that, the formalities would have to be observed. now, i have offended you?" she added, putting out her hand appealingly. "i think you might have known me better, florence," he returned. "i am not offended--what right have i to be offended--only a little hurt, perhaps, to think that you could doubt me for a single moment in such a matter. i understand very well, and appreciate the need for it. did you expect me to call you florence on the quarterdeck of your own vessel, and presume on our old friendship to embarrass you and set people talking? good heavens, what do you take me for?" "don't be angry with me, frank," she pleaded. "it had to be said, you know. i wanted you so much to come; i wanted to share my beautiful vessel with you; and yet i dreaded any kind of a false position." "i shall treat you precisely as i would any owner of any ship i sailed on," he said. "that is, with respect and always preserving my distance. i will never address you first except to say good- morning and good-evening, and will show no concern if you do not speak to me for days on end." "oh, frank, you are an angel!" she cried. "no," he returned, "only--as far as i can--a gentleman, miss fenacre." "we needn't begin now, frank," she exclaimed, almost with annoyance. "am i in your service?" he asked. "from to-day," she answered, "and i will give you a note to captain landry." "then you will be miss fenacre to me from now on," he said. "you must say good-bye to florence first," she said, smiling. "you may kiss my hand," she said, as she gave it to him. "you used to do it so gallantly in the old days--such a spaniard that you are, frank--and i liked it so much!" he did so, and for the first time in his life with a kind of shame. "i hope we are not both of us making a terrible mistake, florence," he said. "oh, i couldn't want a better chief!" she said, "and, as for you, it's the wisest thing you ever did. it's me, after all, who is making the sacrifice, for, in a month or two, all the gilt will wear off, and you will see me as i really am. you will find it very disillusioning to go to sea with your divinity," she added. "you will discover she is a very flesh-and-blood affair, after all, frank, and not worth the tip of your little finger." "i had a good many opportunities of judging before," he replied, "and the more i knew her the more i loved her." "well, i am changed now," she said. "i suppose all the bad has come to the surface since--like the slag when they melt iron and skim it off with dippers--only with me there's nobody to dip. if _i_ am astounded at the difference, what do you suppose you'll be?" "there never could be any difference to me," he said. "that's the only kind of love worth talking about," she said, going to the window and looking out. for a while neither of them spoke. frank rose and stood with his hat in his hand, waiting to take his departure. florence turned, and going to an escritoire sat down and wrote a few lines on a card. "present this to captain landry," she said, "and, now, my dear chief engineer, i will give you your conge." he thanked her, and put the card carefully in his pocketbook. "what a farce it all is, frank!" she broke out. "there's something wrong in a system that gives a girl millions of dollars to do just as she likes with. i don't care what they say to the contrary; i believe women were meant to belong to men, to live in semi-slavery and do what they are told, to bring up children and travel with the pots and pans, and find their only reward in pleasing their husbands." "i wouldn't care to pass an opinion," said frank. "some of them are happy that way, no doubt." "what does anybody want except to be happy?" she continued, in the same strain of resentment. "isn't that what all are trying for as hard as they can? i'd like to go out in the street and stop people as they came along and ask them, the one after the other: 'would you tell me if you are happy?' and the one that said 'yes' i'd give a hundred dollars to!" "as like as not it would be some shabby fellow with no overcoat," said frank. "now you can go away!" she exclaimed suddenly. "i don't know what's the matter with me, frank. i think i'm going to cry! go, go!" she cried imperiously, as he still stood there. frank bowed and obeyed, and his last glimpse, as he closed the door, was of her at the window, looking down disconsolately into the street below. iii spring was well begun when the minnehaha sailed for europe to take her place in the mimic fleets that were already assembling. as like seeks like, so the long, swift white steamer headed like a bird for her faraway companions, and arrived amongst them with colours flying, and her guns roaring out salutes. by herself she was greedy for every pound of steam and raced her engines as though speed were a matter of life and death; but, once in company, she was content to lag with the slowest, and suit her own pace to the stately progress of the schooners and cutters that moved by the wind alone. she found friends amongst all nations, and, in that cosmopolitan society of ships, dipped her flag to those of england, france, holland, belgium, and germany. it was a wonderful life of freedom and gaiety. a great yacht carries her own letter of introduction, and is accorded everywhere the courtesies of a man-of-war, to whom, in a sense, she is a sister. official visits are paid and returned; naval punctilio reigns; invitations are lavished from every side. there is, besides, a freemasonry amongst those splendid wanderers of the sea, a transcendent bohemianism, that puts them nearly all upon a common footing. a holiday spirit is in the air, and kings and princes who at home are hidden within walls of triple brass, here unbend like children out of school, and make friends and gossip about their neighbours and show off their engine-rooms and their ice plant and some new idea in patent boat davits after the manner of very ordinary mortals. not of course that kings and princes predominate, but the same spirit prevailed with those who on shore held their heads very high and practised a jealous exclusiveness. amongst them all florence fenacre was a favourite of favourites. young, beautiful, and the mistress of a noble fortune, there was everything to cast a glamour about this charming american who had come out of the unknown to take all hearts by storm. her haziness about distinctions of rank filled these europeans with an amused amazement. there was to them something quite royal in her naivety and lack of awe; in her high spirit, her vivacity, and her absolute disregard of those who failed to please her. she convulsed one personage by describing another as "that tiresome old man who's really too disreputable to have tagging around me any longer"; and had a quarrel and a making up with a reigning duke about a lighter of coal that their respective crews had come to blows over. everybody adored her, and she seldom put to sea without a love-sick yacht in her wake. of course, here as elsewhere, every phase of human character was displayed, and most conspicuous of all amongst the evil was the determination of many to win florence's millions for themselves. amid that noble concourse of vessels, every one of which stood for a princely income, there were adventurers as needy and as hungry as any sharper in the streets of new york. there is an aristocratic poverty, none the less real because three noughts must be added to all the figures, that first surprised and then disgusted the pretty american. her first awakening to the fact was when, as a special favour, she sold her best steam launch to a french marquise at the price it had cost her. though that lady was very profuse with little pink notes and could purr over florence by the hour, her signature on a cheque was never forthcoming, and our heroine had a fit of fury to think of having been so deceived. "it was a downright confidence trick," she burst out to the comte de souvary, firing up afresh with the memory of her wrongs. "i loved my launch. it was a beauty. it never went dotty at the time you needed it most and it was a vertical inverted triple-expansion direct-acting propeller!' (florence could always rattle off technical details and showed her americanism in her catalogue-like fluency in this respect.) "and i miss it and i want it back, and the horrid old woman never means to pay me a penny!" "oh, my child!" said the count, "she never pays anybody ze penny. she is a stone from which one looks in vain for blood. your launch is--what do you call it in ze far vest--a goner!" "but she's descended from charlemagne," cried florence. "she has the entree to all the courts. she ought to be exposed for stealing my boat!" "what does anybody do when he is robbed?" said the count philosophically. he could afford to be philosophical: it wasn't his vertical inverted triple-expansion direct-acting propeller. "smile and be more careful ze next time," he went on. "the marquise's reputation is international for what is charitably called her eccentricity." "in america they put people in jail for that kind of eccentricity!" exclaimed florence. "oh, the best way in europe is money-with-order," said the count, "what i remember once a friend seeing in that great country of which you are ze ornament--in god we trust: all others cash!" "well, it's a shame," said florence, "and if i ever get the chance of a dark night i'll ram her with the minnehaha!" florence's mother, a dear little old lady who did tatting and read the christian herald, was always the particular target of the fortune-hunters who pursued her daughter. it seemed such a brilliant idea to capture the mother first as the preparatory step of getting into the good graces of the heiress; and the old lady, who was one of the most guileless of her sex, never failed to fall into the trap and take the attentions all in earnest. comte de souvary used to say that if you wished to find the wickedest men in europe you had only to cast your eyes in the direction of florence's mother; and she would be trotted off to church and driven in automobiles and lunched in casinos by the most notorious and unprincipled scapegraces of the old world. florence, who, like all heiresses, had developed a positive instinct for the men who meant her mischief, was always delighted at the repeated captures of the old lady; and it was an endless entertainment to her when her mother was induced to champion the cause of some aristocratic ne'er-do-well. "but, mamma," she would say, "i hate to call your friends names, but really he's a perfect scamp, and underneath all his fine manners he is no better than a wolf ravening for rich young lambs!" "oh, florence, how can you be so uncharitable!" her mother would retort. "if you could only hear the way he speaks of his mother and his ruined life, and how he is trying to be a better man for your sake--" "always the same old story," said florence. "it's wonderful the good i do just sailing around and radiating moral influence. the count says i ought to get a medal from the government with my profile on one side and a composite picture of my admirers on the other! and if i do, mamsey, i'll give it to you to keep!" frank rignold was sometimes tempted to curse the day that had ever brought him aboard the minnehaha. to be a silent spectator of gaieties and festivities he could not share; to be condemned to stand aloof while he saw the woman he loved petted and sought after by men of exalted position--what could be imagined more detestable to a lover without hope, without the shadow of a claim, with nothing to look forward to except the inevitable day when a luckier fellow would carry her off before his eyes. he moped in secret and often spent hours locked in his cabin, sitting with his face in his hands, a prey to the bitterest melancholy and dejection. in public, however, he always bore himself unflinchingly, and was too proud a man and too innately a gentleman to allow his face to be read even by her. it was incumbent on him, so long as he drew her pay and wore her uniform, to act in all respects the part he was cast to play; and no one could have guessed, except perhaps the girl herself, that he had any other thought save to do his duty cheerfully and well. captain landry sat in the saloon at the bottom of the table, florence herself taking the head; but the other officers of the ship had a cosey messroom of their own, presided over by frank rignold as the officer second in rank on board. thus whole days might pass with no further exchange between himself and florence than the customary good-morning when they happened to meet on deck. except on the business of the ship it was tacitly understood that no officer should speak to her without being first addressed. the discipline of a man-of-war prevailed; everything went forward with stereotyped precision and formality; the officers were supposed to comport themselves with impassivity and self- effacement. florence had no more need of being conscious of their presence than if they had been so many automatons. her life and theirs offered a strange contrast. she in her little court of idlers and merry-makers; they, the grave men who were answerable for her safety, the exponents of a rigid routine, to whom the clang of the bells brought recurring duties and the exercise of their professional knowledge. to her, yachting was a play: to them, a business. "i often remark your chief engineer," said the comte de souvary to florence. "a handsome man, with an air at once sad and noble--one of zoze extraordinary americans who keep for their machines the ardour we europeans lavish on the women we love--and whose spirits when zey die turn without doubt into petrole or electricity." "i have known mr. rignold ever since i was a child," said florence, pleased to hear frank praised. "i regard him as one of my best and dearest friends." "the more to his credit," said the count, astonished. "many in such a galere would prove themselves presumptuous and troublesome." "he is almost too much the other way," said florence, with a sigh. "ah, that appeals to me!" said the count. "i should be such anozzer in his place. proud, silent, unobtrusive, who gives dignity to what otherwise would be a false position." "i came very near being his wife once," said florence, impelled, she hardly knew why, to make the confession. the count was thunderstruck. "his wife!" he exclaimed. "before i was rich, you know," explained florence. "a million years ago it seems now, when i lived in a little town and was a nobody." "anozzer romance of the far vest!" cried the count, to whom this term embraced the entire continent from maine to san francisco. florence was curiously capricious in her treatment of frank rignold. often she would neglect him for weeks together, and then, in a sort of revulsion, would go almost to the other extreme. sometimes at night, when he would be pacing the deck, she would come and take his arm and call him frank under her breath and ask him if he still loved her; and in a manner half tender, half mocking, would play on his feelings with a deliberate enjoyment of the pain she inflicted. her greatest power of torment was her frankness. she would talk over her proposals; weigh one against the other; revel in her self-analysis and solemnly ask frank his opinion on this or that part of her character. she talked with equal freedom of her regard for himself, and was almost brutal in confessing how hard it was to hold herself back. "i think i must be awfully wicked, frank," she said to him once. "i love you so dearly, and yet i wouldn't marry you for anything!" and then she ran on as to whether she ought to take souvary and live in paris or lord comyngs and choose london. "it's so hard to decide," she said, "and it's so important, because one couldn't change one's mind afterwards." "not very well," said frank. "you mustn't grind your teeth so loud," she said. "it's compromising." "i wish you would talk about something else or go away," he said, goaded out of his usual politeness. "oh, i love my little stolen tete-a-tetes with you!" she exclaimed. "all those other men are used up, emotionally speaking. the count would turn a neat phrase even if he were to blow his brains out the next minute. they think they are splendidly cool, but it only means that they have exhausted all their powers of sensation. you are delightfully primitive and unspoiled, and then i suppose it is natural to like a fellow-countryman best, isn't it? now, honest--have you found any girls over here you like as well as me?" "i haven't tried to find any," said frank. "you aren't a bit disillusioned, are you?" she said. "you simply shut your eyes and go it blind. a woman likes that in a man. it's what love ought to be. it's silly of me to throw it away." "perhaps it is, florence," he said. "who knows but what some day you may regret it?" "i often think of that," she returned. "i am afraid all the good part of me loves you, and all the bad loves the counts and dukes and earls, you know. and the good is almost drowned in all the rest, like vegetables in vegetable soup." she excelled in giving such little dampers to sentiment, and laughed heartily at frank's discomfiture. "you can be awfully cruel," he said. "i wonder you can be so beautiful when you can think such things and say them. you treat hearts like toys and laugh when you break them." "well, there's one thing, frank," she said seriously. "i have never pretended to you or tried to appear better than i am; and you are the only man i can say that to and not lie!" iv the comte de souvary, towards whom florence betrayed an inclination that seemed at times to deserve a warmer word, was a french gentleman nearing forty. he was a man of distinguished appearance, with all the gaiety, grace, and charm that, in spite our popular impression to the contrary, are not seldom found amongst the nobles of his country. his undoubted wealth and position redeemed his suit from any appearance of being inspired by a mercenary motive. indeed, he was accustomed himself to be pursued, and florence and he recognised in each other a fellowship of persecution. "we are ze pale faces," he would say, "and ze ozzers zey are indians closing in from every corner of ze far vest for our scalps!" he was, in many ways, the most accomplished man that florence had ever known. he was a violinist, a singer, a poet, and yet these were but a part of his various gifts; for in everything out of doors he was no less a master and took the first place as though by right. he was the embodiment of everything daring and manly; it seemed natural for him to excel; he simply did not know what fear was. he was always ready to smile and turn a little joke, whether speeding in his automobile at a breakneck pace or ballooning above the clouds in search of what was to him the breath of life: "ze sensation." he could never see a new form of "ze sensation" without running for it like a child for a new toy. his whole attitude towards the world was that of a furious curiosity. he could not bear to leave it, he said, until all he had learned how all the wheels went round. he had stood on the matterhorn. he had driven the sud express. he had exhausted lions and tigers. in moods of depression he would threaten to follow andree to the pole and figure out his plans on the back of an envelope. "magnificent!" he would cry, growing instantly cheerful at the prospect. "think of ze sensation!" he spoke english fluently, though shaky on the th and the w, and it was first hand and not mentally translated. his pronunciation of far west, two words that were constantly on his lips, was an endless entertainment to florence, and out of a sense of humour she forebore to correct him. it was typical, indeed, of his ignorance of everything american. europe was at his fingers' ends; there was not a country in it he was not familiar with; intimately familiar, knowing much of what went on behind the scenes, and the lives and characters of the men, and not less the women, who shaped national policies and held the steering-wheels of state. "muravief would never do that," he would say. "he is constitutionally inert, and his imagination has carried him through too many unfought wars for him to throw down the gage now. he smokes cigarettes and dreams of endless peace. i had many talks with him last year and found him impatient of any subject but the redemption of the paper rouble!" but his mind had never crossed the atlantic ocean. he still thought that the civil war had been between north and south america. to him the united states was a vague region peopled with miners, pork-packers, and indians; a jumble of factories, forests, and red-shirted men digging for gold, all of it fantastically seen through the medium of buffalo bill's show. it was a constant wonder to him that such conditions had been able to produce a woman like florence fenacre. "you are the flower of ze prairie," he would say, "an atavism of type, harking back a dozen generations to aristocratic progenitors, having nothing in common with the pathfinder your papa!" "he wasn't a pathfinder," said florence, "he was a whaler captain." but this to the count seemed only the more remarkable. he raised the fabric of a fresh romance on the instant, especially (on florence telling him more about her forebears) when he began to mix up the pilgrim fathers, the revolutionary war, and the alabama in one brisk panorama of his ever dear "far vest"! florence's acquaintance with the comte de souvary went back to majorca, where, in the course of one of those sudden blows, so common on the mediterranean, their respective yachts had fled for shelter. his own was a large auxiliary schooner called the paquita, a lofty, showy vessel which he sailed himself with his usual courage and audacity. he had the reputation of scaring his unhappy guests--when any were bold enough to accept his invitations--to within the proverbial inch of their lives; and they usually changed "ze sensation" for the nearest mail-boat home. florence and he had struck up a warm friendship from the start, and for the whole summer their vessels were inseparable, sailing everywhere in company and anchoring side by side. the count had a way of courtship peculiarly his own. he made it apparent from the first how deeply he had been stirred by florence's beauty and how ready he was to offer her his hand; but as a matter of fact he never did so in set terms, and treated her more as a comrade than a divinity. he talked of his own devotion to her as something detached and impersonal, willing as much as she to laugh over it and treat it lightly. he was never jealous, never exacting, and seemed to be as happy to share her with others as when he had her all alone in one of their tete-a-tetes. what he coveted most of all was her intimacy, her confidence, the frank expression of her own true self; and in this exchange he was willing to give as much as he received and often more. sometimes she was piqued at his apparent indifference--at his lack of any stronger feeling for her--seeming to detect in him something of her own insouciance and coldness. "you really don't care for me a bit," she said once. "i am only another form of 'ze sensation'--like going up in a balloon or riding on the cow-catcher." "i keep myself well in hand," he returned. "i am not approaching the terrible age of forty without knowing a little at least about women and their ways." "a little!" she exclaimed ironically. "you know enough to write a book!" "zat book has taught me to go very slow," he said. "were i in my young manhood i'd come zoop, like that, and carry you off in ze far vest style. but i can never hope to be that again with any woman; my decreasing hair forbids, if nozing else--but my way is to make myself indispensable--ze old dog, ze old standby, as you americans say--the good old harbour to which you will come at last when tired of ze storms outside!" "your humility is a new trait," said florence. "it's none ze less real because it is often hid," said the count. "i watch you very closely, more closely than perhaps you even think. you have all the heartlessness of youth and health and beauty. i would be wrong to put my one little piece of money on the table and lose all; and so i save and save, and play ze only game that offers me the least chance--ze waiting game!" "i believe that's true," said florence. "were i to act ze distracted lover, you would laugh in my face," he went on earnestly. "were i to propose and be refused, my pride would not let me--my instinct as gentleman would not let me--go trailing after you with my long face. the idyll would be over. i would go!" "there are times when i think a heap of you," said florence encouragingly. "oh, i know so well how it would be," he continued. "a week of doubt--of fever; a rain of little notes; and then with your good clear honest far vest sense you would say: no, mon cher, it is eempossible!" "yes, i suppose i would," said florence. "i would rather be your friend all my life," said the count, "than to be merely one of the rejected. i have no ambition to place my name on that already great list. i have never yet asked a woman to marry me, and when i do i care not for the expectation of being refused!" "you are like all europeans," said florence, "you believe in a sure thing." "my heart is not on my sleeve," he returned, "and i value it too highly to lose it without compensation." "it is interesting to hear all your views," said florence. "i am sure i appreciate the compliment highly. it's a new idea, this of the wolf making a confidant of the lamb." "oh, my dear!" he broke out, "i am only a poor devil holding back from committing a great stupidity." "is that how you describe marrying me?" she said lightly. "ze day will come," he said, disregarding her question, "i think it will--i hope it will--when you will say to me: my dear fellow, i am tired of all this fictitious gaiety; of all this rush and bustle and flirtation; of this life of fever and emptiness. i long for peace and do not know where to find it. i am like a piece of music to whom one waits in vain for the return to the keynote. tell me where to find it or else i die!" "rather forward of me to say all that, count," observed the girl. "but suppose i did--what then?" the count opened wide his arms. "i would answer: here!" he said. v thus the bright days passed, amid animating scenes, with memories of sky and cloud and noble headlands and stately, beautiful ships. like two ocean sweethearts the minnehaha and the paquita took their restless way together, side by side in port, inseparable at sea. at night the one lit the other's road with a string of ruby lanterns and kept the pair in company across the dark and silent water. their respective crews, not behindhand in this splendid camaraderie of ships, fraternised in wine-shops and strolled through the crooked foreign streets arm in arm. breton and american, red cap and blue, sixty of the one and eighty of the other--they were brothers all and cemented their friendship in blood and gunpowder, in tattooed names, flags and mottoes, after the time-honoured and artless manner of the sea. in the drama of life it is often the least important actors who are happiest, and the stars themselves are not always to be the most envied. florence, torn between her ambition and her love, knew what it was to toss all night on her sleepless bed and wet the pillow with her tears. de souvary, who found himself every day deeper in the toils of his ravishing american, chafed and struggled with unavailing pangs; and as for frank rignold, he endured long periods of black depression as he watched from afar the steady progress of his rival's suit; and his moody face grew moodier and exasperation rose within him to the rebellion point. by september the two yachts were lying in cowes, and already there was some talk of winter plans and a possible voyage to india. the count was enthusiastic about the project, as he was about anything that could keep him and florence together, and he had ordered a stack of books and spent hours at a time with the mistress of the minnehaha reading over indian ocean directories and plotting imaginary courses on the chart. with the prospect of so extended a trip before him, frank found much to be done in the engine-room, for their suggested cruise would be likely to carry them far out of the beaten track, and he had to be prepared for all contingencies. a marine engine requires to be perpetually tinkered, and an engineer's duty is not only to run it, but to make good the little defects and breakdowns that are constantly occurring. frank was a daily visitor at the local machine-shop, and his business engagements with mr. derwent, the proprietor, led insensibly to others of the social kind. derwent's house was close by his works, and frank's trips ashore soon began to take in both. derwent had a daughter, a black- haired, black-eyed, pink-cheeked girl, named cassie, one of those vigorous young english beauties that men would call stunning and women bold. she did not wait for any preliminaries, but straightway fell in love with the handsome american engineer that her father brought home. she made her regard so plain that frank was embarrassed, and was not a bit put off at his reluctance to play the part she assigned to him. "that's always my luck," she remarked with disarming candour, "a poor silly fool who always likes them that don't like me and spurns them that do!" and then she added, with a laugh, that he ought to be tied up, "for you are a cruel handsome man, frank, and my heart goes pitapat at the very sight of you!" she called him frank at the second visit; and at the third seated herself on the arm of his chair and took his hand and held it. "can't you ever forget that girl in yankee-land?" she said. "she ain't here, is she, and why shouldn't you steal a little harmless fun? there's men who'd give their little finger to win a kiss from me--and you sit there so glum and solemn, who could have a bushel for the asking!" for all frank's devotion to florence he could not but be flattered at being wooed in this headlong fashion. he was only a man after all, and she was the prettiest girl in port. he did not resist when she suddenly put her arms around him and pressed his head against her bosom, calling him her boy and her darling; but remained passive in her embrace, pleased and yet ashamed, and touched to the quick with self-contempt. "you mustn't," he said, freeing himself. "cassie, it's wrong--it's dreadful. you mustn't think i love you, because i don't." "yes, but i am going to make you," she said with splendid effrontery, looking at herself in the glass and patting her rumpled hair. "see what you have done to me, you bad boy!" had she been older or more sophisticated, frank would have been shocked at this reversal of the sexes. but in her self-avowed and unashamed love for him she was more like a child than a woman; and her good-humour and laughter besides seemed somehow to belittle her words and redeem the affair from any seriousness. frank tried to stay away, for his conscience pricked him and he did not care to drift into such an unusual and ambiguous relation with derwent's handsome daughter. but cassie was always on the watch for him and he could not escape from the machine-works without falling into one of her ambushes. she would carry him off to tea, and he never left without finding himself pledged to return in the evening. in his loneliness, hopelessness, and desolation he found it dangerously sweet to be thus petted and sought after. cassie made no demands of him and acquiesced with apparent cheerfulness in the implication that he loved another woman. she humbly accepted the little that was left over, and, though she wept many hot tears in secret, outwardly at least she never rebelled or reproached him. she knew that to do either would be to lose him. in fact she made it very easy for him to come, and gave up her girlish treasure of affection without any hope of reward. frank, by degrees, discovered a wonderful comfort in being with her. it was balm to his wounds and bruises; and, like someone who had long been out in the cold, he warmed himself, so to speak, before that bright fire, and found himself growing drowsy and contented. it must not be supposed that all this went on unremarked, or that in the gossip of the yacht frank and cassie derwent did not come in for a considerable share of attention. it passed from the officers' mess to the saloon, and florence bit her lip with anger and jealousy when the joke went round of the chief engineer's "infatuation." in revenge she treated frank more coldly than ever, and went out of her way to be agreeable to de souvary, especially when the former was at hand and could be made a spectator of her lover-like glances and a warmth that seemed to transcend the limits of ordinary friendship. she made herself utterly unhappy and frank as well. the only one of the trio to be pleased was the count. she made no objection when frank asked her permission to show the ship to derwent and his daughter. "you must be sure and introduce me," she said, with a sparkle of her eyes that frank was too unpresumptuous to understand. "they say that she is a raving little beauty and that you are the happy man!" frank hurriedly disclaimed the honour. "oh, no!" he said. "but she is really very sweet and nice, and i think we owe a little attention to her father." "oh, her father!" said florence, sarcastically emphasising the word. "i hope you don't think there is anything in it," he exclaimed very anxiously. "i suppose there has been some tittle-tattle--i can read it in your face--but there's not a word of truth in it, not a word, i assure you." "i don't care the one way or other, frank," she said. "you needn't explain so hard. what does it matter to me, anyway?" and with that she turned away to cordially greet the count as he came aboard. the two women met in the saloon. florence at once assumed the great lady, the heiress, the condescending patrician; cassie flushed and trembled; and in a buzz of commonplaces the stewards served tea while the two women covertly took each other's measure. florence grew ashamed of her own behavior, and, unbending a little, tried to put her guests at ease and led cassie on to talk. then it came out about the dance that derwent and his daughter were to give the following night. "frank and me have been arranging the cotillon," said cassie, and then she turned pink to her ears at having called him by his first name before all those people. "i mean mr. rignold," she added, amid everyone's laughter and her own desperate confusion. florence's laughter rang out as gaily as anyone's, and apparently as unaffectedly, and she rallied cassie with much good humour on her slip. "so it's frank already!" she exclaimed. "oh, miss derwent! don't you trust this wicked chief of mine. he is a regular heart- breaker!" cassie cried when frank and she returned home and sat together on the porch. "she's a proud, haughty minx," she burst out, "and you love her-- and as for me i might as well drown myself." frank attempted to comfort her. "oh, you needn't try to blind me," she said bitterly. "i--i thought it was a girl in america, frank, a girl like me--just common and poor and perhaps not as nice as i am. and you know she wouldn't wipe her feet on you," she went on viciously--"she so grand with her yachts and her counts and 'oh, i think i'll run over to injya for the winter, or maybe it's cairo or the nile,' says she! what kind of a chance have you got there, frank, you in your greasy over-alls and working for her wages? won't you break your heart just like i am breaking mine, i that would sell the clothes off my back for you and follow you all over the world!" frank protested that she was mistaken; that it wasn't miss fenacre at all; that it was absurd to even think of such a thing. "oh, frank, it's bad enough as it is without your lying to me," she said, quite unconvinced. "you've set your eyes too high, and unhappiness is all that you'll ever get from the likes of her. you're a fool in your way and i'm a fool in mine, and maybe when she's married to the count and done for, you'll mind the little girl that's waiting for you in cowes!" she took his hand and kissed it, telling him with a sob that she would ever remain single for his sake. "but i don't want you to, cassie," he said. "you're talking like a baby. what's the good of waiting when i am never coming back?" "you say that now," she exclaimed, "but my words will come back to you in injya when you grow tired of her ladyship's coldness and disdain; and i'm silly enough to think you'll find them a comfort to you out there, with nothing to do but to think and think, and be miserable." vi the next day he found cassie in a more cheerful humour and excited about the dance. the house was all upset and she was busy with a dozen of her girl friends in decorating the hall and drawing-room, taking up the carpets, arranging for the supper and the cloakrooms, and immersed generally in the thousand and one tasks that fall on a hostess-to-be. frank put himself at her orders and spent the better part of the afternoon in running errands and tacking up flags and branches; and after an hilarious tea, in the midst of all the litter and confusion, he went back to the ship somewhat after five o'clock. as he was pulled out in a shore boat he was surprised to pass a couple of coal lighters coming from the minnehaha, and to see her winches busily hoisting in stores from a large launch alongside. he ran up the ladder, and seeing the captain asked him what was up. "sailing orders, chief," said captain landry, enjoying his amazement. "we'll be off the ground in half an hour, eastward bound!" "but i wasn't told anything," cried frank. "i never got any orders." "the little lady said you wasn't to be disturbed," said the captain, "and she took it on herself to order your staff to go ahead. i guess you'll find a pretty good head of steam already!" frank ran to the side and called back his boat, giving the man five shillings to take a note at once to cassie. he had no time for more than a few lines, but he could not go to sea without at least one word of farewell. they were cutting the anchor and were already under steerage way when cassie came off herself in a launch and passed up a letter directed to the chief engineer. it reached him in the engine-room, where he, not knowing that she was but a few feet distant, was spared the sight of her pale and despairing face. the letter itself was almost incoherent. she knew, she said, whom she had to thank for his departure. that vixen, that hussy, that stuck-up minx, who treated him like a dog and yet grudged him to another, who, god help her, loved him too well for her own good-- it was her ladyship she had to thank for spoiling everything and carrying him away. was he not man enough to assert himself and leave a ship where he was put upon so awful? let him ask her mightiness in two words, yes or no; and then when he had come down from the clouds and had learned the truth, poor silly fool--then let him come back to his cassie, who loved him so dear, and who (if she did say it herself) had a heart worth fifty of his mistress and didn't need no powder to set off her complexion. it ended with a piteous appeal to his compassion and besought him to write to her from the nearest port. frank sighed as he read it. everything in the world seemed wrong and at cross-purposes. those who had one thing invariably longed for something else, and there was no content or happiness or satisfaction anywhere. the better off were the acquiescent, who took the good and the bad with the same composure and found their only pleasure in their work. best off of all were the dead whose sufferings were over. but after all it was sweet to be loved, even if one did not love back, and frank was very tender with the little letter and put it carefully in his pocket-book. yes, it was sweet to be loved. he said this over and over to himself, and wondered whether florence felt the same to him as he did to cassie. it seemed to explain so much. it seemed the key to her strange regard for him. he asked himself whether it could be true that she had wilfully ordered the ship to sea in order to prevent him going to the dance. the thought stirred him inexpressibly. what other explanation was there if this was not the one? and she had deserted the count, who was away in london on a day's business; deserted the paquita at anchor in the roads! he was frightened at his own exultation. suppose he were wrong in this surmise! suppose it were just another of her unaccountable caprices! they ran down channel at full speed and at night were abreast of the scilly lights, driving towards the bay of biscay in the teeth of an equinoctial gale. at the behest of one girl eighty men had to endure the discomfort of a storm at sea, and a great steel ship, straining and quivering, was flung into the perilous night. it seemed a misuse of power that, at a woman's whim, so many lives and so noble and costly a fabric could be risked--and risked for nothing. from the captain on the bridge, dripping in his oil- skins, to the coal-passers and firemen below who fed the mighty furnaces, to the cooks in the galley, the engineers, the electrician on duty, the lookout man in the bow clinging to the life-line when the minnehaha buried her nose out of sight--all these perforce had to endure and suffer at florence's bidding without question or revolt. frank's elation passed and left him in a bitter humour towards her. it was not right, he said to himself, not right at all. she ought to show a little consideration for the men who had served her so well and faithfully. besides, it was unworthy of her to betray such pettiness and spoil cassie's dance. he felt for the girl's humiliation, and, though not in love with her, he was conscious of a sentiment that hated to see her hurt. he would not accept florence's invitation to dine in the saloon, sending word that he had a headache and begged to be excused; and after dinner, when she sought him out on deck and tried to make herself very sweet to him, he was purposely reserved and distant, and look the first opportunity to move away. he was angry, disheartened, and resentful, all in one. towards eleven o'clock at night as frank was in the engine-room, moodily turning over these reflections in his mind and listening to the race of the screws as again and again they were lifted out of the water and strained the shafts and engines to the utmost, he was surprised to see florence herself descending the steel ladder into that close atmosphere of oil and steam. he ran to help her down, and taking her arm led her to one side, where they might be out of the way. here, in the glare of the lanterns, he looked down into her face and thought again how beautiful she was. her cheek was wet with spray, and her hair was tangled and glistening beneath her little yachting cap. she seemed to exhale a breath of the storm above and bring down with her something of the gale itself. she held fast to frank as the ship laboured and plunged, smiling as their eyes met. "you are the last person i expected down here," said frank. "i was beginning to get afraid," she returned. "it's blowing terribly, frank--and i thought, if anything happened, i'd like to be with you!" "oh, we are all right!" said frank, his professional spirit aroused. "with twin screws, twin engines, and plenty of sea-room-- why, let it blow." his confidence reassured her. he never appeared to her so strong, so self-reliant and calm as at that moment of her incipient fear. amongst his engines frank always wore a masterful air, for he had that instinct for machinery peculiarly american, and was competent almost to the point of genius. "besides, i wanted to ask you a question," said florence. "i had to ask it. i couldn't sleep without asking it, frank." "i would have come, if you had sent for me," he said. "i couldn't wait for that," she returned. "i knew it might be hard for you to leave--or impossible." "what is it, florence?" he asked. the name slipped out in spite of him. she looked at him strangely, her lustrous eyes wide open and bright with her unsaid thoughts. "are you very fond of her, frank?" she asked. "her? who?" he exclaimed. "you don't mean cassie derwent?" "yes," she said. "of course i'm fond of her," he said. "more than you are of me, frank?" she persisted. "oh, it isn't the same sort of thing, florence," he said. "i never even thought of comparing you and her together. surely you know that? surely you understand that?" "you used to--to love me once, frank," she said, with a stifled sob. "has she made it any less? has she robbed me, frank? have i lost you without knowing it?" "no," he said, "no, a thousand times, no!" "tell me that you love me, frank," she burst out. "tell me, tell me!" then, as he did not answer, she went on passionately: "that's why i went to sea, frank. i was mad with jealousy. i couldn't give you up to her. i couldn't let her have you!" she pressed closer against him, and tiptoeing so as to raise her mouth to his ear, she whispered: "i always liked you better than anybody else in the world, frank. i love you! i love you!" for the moment he could not realise his own good fortune. he could do nothing but look into her eyes. it was her reproach for years afterwards that she had to kiss him first. "i suppose it had to come, frank," she said. "i fought all i could, but it didn't seem any use!" "it was inevitable," he returned solemnly. "god made you for me, and me for you!" "amen," she said, and in an ecstasy of abandonment whispered again: "i love you, frank. i love you!" ffrenches first i suppose if i had been a hero of romance, instead of an ordinary kind of chap, i would have steamed in with the tallahassee, fired a gun, and landed in state, instead of putting on my old clothes and sneaking into the county on an automobile. however, i did my little best, so far as making a date with babcock was concerned, and as it turned out in the end i dare say the hero of romance wouldn't have managed it much better himself. it was late when i got into forty fyles (as the village was called), and put up at one of those quaint, low-raftered, bulging old inns which still remain, thank heaven, here and there, in the less travelled parts of england. if i were dusty and dirty when i arrived, you ought to have seen me the next day after a two-hours' job with the differential gears. by the time i had got the trouble to rights, and had puffed up and down the main street to make assurance sure and astonish the natives (who came out two hundred strong and cheered), i was as frowsy, unkempt, and dilapidated an american as ever drove a twelve h.p. panhard through the rural lanes of britain. indeed, i was so shocked at my own appearance when i looked at myself in the glass (such a wiggly old glass that showed one in streaks like bacon) that i went down to the draper's and tried to buy a new set out. but as they had nothing except cheap tripper suits for pigmies (i stood six feet in my stockings and had played full back at college) and fishermen's clothes of an ancient dutch design, i forebore to waste my good dollars in making a guy of myself, and decided to remain as i was. then, as i was sitting in the bar and asking the potman the best way to get to castle fyles, it suddenly came over me that it was the fourth of july, and that, recreant as i was, i had come near forgetting the event altogether. i started off again down the main street to discover some means of raising a noise, and after a good deal of searching i managed to procure several handfuls of strange whitey fire-crackers the size of cigars and a peculiar red package that the shopkeeper called a "haetna volcano." he said that for four and eightpence one couldn't find its match in lunnon itself, and obligingly took off twopence when i pointed out vesuvius hadn't a fuse. with the crackers in my pocket and the volcano under my arm i set forth in the pleasant summer morning to walk to castle fyles, having an idea to rest by the way and celebrate the fourth in the very heart of the hereditary enemy. the road, as is so often the case in england, ran between high stone walls and restrained the wayfarer from straying into the gentlemen's parks on either hand. the sun shone overhead with the fierce heat of a british july; and to make matters worse in my case, i seemed to be the loadstone of what traffic was in progress on the highway. a load of hay stuck to me with obstinate determination; if i walked slowly, the hay lagged beside me; if i quickened my pace, the hay whipped up his horses; when i rested and mopped my brow, the hay rested and mopped its brow. then there were tramps of various kinds: a punch and judy show on the march; swift silent bicyclists who sped past in a flurry of dust; local gentry riding cock-horses (no doubt to banbury crosses); local gentry in dogcarts; local gentry in closed carriages going to a funeral, and apparently (as seen through the windows) very hot and mournful and perspiring; an antique clergyman in an antique gig who gave me a tract and warned me against drink; a char-a-bancs filled to bursting with the true blue constitutional club of east pigley--such at least was the inscription on a streaming banner-- who swung past waving their hats and singing "our boarder's such a nice young man"; then some pale aristocratic children in a sort of perambulating clothes-basket drawn by a hairy mite of a pony, who looked at me disapprovingly, as though i hadn't honestly come by the volcano; then--but why go on with the never-ending procession of british pilgrims who straggled out at just sufficient intervals to keep between them a perpetual eye on my movements and prevent me from celebrating the birth of freedom in any kind of privacy. at last, getting desperate at this espionage and thinking besides i could make a shorter cut towards castle fyles, i clambered over an easy place in the left-hand wall and dropped into the shade of a magnificent park. here, at least, whatever the risk of an outraged law (which i had been patronisingly told was even stricter than that of the medes and persians), i seemed free to wander unseen and undetected, and accordingly struck a course under the oaks that promised in time to bring me out somewhere near the sea. dipping into a little dell, where in the perfection of its english woodland one might have thought to meet robin hood himself, or startle little john beside a fallen deer, i looked carefully about, got out my pale crackers, and wondered whether i dared begin. it is always an eerie sensation to be alone in the forest, what with the whispering leaves overhead, the stir and hum of insects, the rustle of ghostly foot-falls, and (in my case) the uneasy sense of green-liveried keepers sneaking up at one through the clumps of gorse. however, i was not the man to belie the blood of revolutionary heroes and meanly carry my unexploded crackers beyond the scene of danger, so i remembered the brave days of old and touched a whitey off. it burst with the roar of a cannon and reverberated through the glades like the broadside of a man-of- war. it took me a good five minutes before i had the courage to detonate another, which, for better security, i did this time under my hat. i am not saying it did the hat any good, but it seemed safer and less deafening, and i accordingly went on in this manner until there were only about three whiteys left between me and vesuvius, which i kept back, in accordance with tradition, for one big triumphant bang at the end. i was in the act of touching my cigar to whitey number three,--on my knees, i remember; and trying to arrange my hat so as to get the most muffling for the least outlay of burned felt, when the branches in front of me parted and i looked up to see--well, simply the most beautiful woman in the world, regarding me with astonishment and anger. she was about twenty, somewhat above the medium height, and her eyes were of a lovely flashing blue that seemed in the intensity of her indignation to positively emit sparks--altogether the most exquisitely radiant and glorious creature that man was ever privileged to gaze upon. "how dare you let off fireworks in this park?" she said, in a voice like clotted cream. i rose in some confusion. "go directly," she said, "or i'll report you and have you summonsed!" "i have only two more crackers and this volcano," i said protestingly. "surely you would not mind----" "don't be insolent," she said, "or i shall have no compunction in setting my dog on you." i looked down, and there, sure enough, rolling a yellow eye and showing his fangs at me, was a sort of uncle tom's cabin bloodhound only waiting to begin. "the fact is," i said, speaking slowly, so as to emphasise the fact that i was a gentleman, "i am an american; to-day is our national holiday; and we make it everywhere our practice to celebrate it with fireworks. i would have done so in the road, but the island seemed so crowded this morning i couldn't find an undisturbed place outside the park." beauty was obviously mollified by my tone and respectful address. "please leave the park directly," she said. i put the crackers in my pocket, took up my hat, placed the haetna volcano under my arm, and stood there, ready to go. "accept my apologies," i said. "whatever my fault, at least no discourtesy was intended." we looked at each other, and beauty's face relaxed into something like a smile. "just give me one more minute for my volcano," i pleaded. "you seem very polite," she returned. "yes, you can set it off, if that will be any satisfaction to you." "it'll be a whole lot," i said, "and since you're so kind perhaps you'll let me include the crackers as well?" then she began to laugh, and the sweetest thing about it was that she didn't want to laugh a bit and blushed the most lovely pink, as she broke out again and again until the woods fairly rang. and as i laughed too--for really it was most absurd--it was as good as a scene in a play. and so, while she held legree's dog, whom the sound inflamed to frenzy, i popped off the crackers and dropped my cigar into vesuvius. i tell you he was worth four and eightpence, and the man was right when he said there wasn't his match in london. i doubt if there was his match anywhere for being plumb- full of red balls and green balls and blue balls and crimson stars and fizzlegigs and whole torrents of tiny crackers and chase-me- quicks, and when you about thought he was never going to stop he shot up a silver spray and a gold spray and wound up with a very considerable decent-sized bust. "i must thank you for your good nature," i said to the young lady. "are you a typical american?" she asked. "oh, so-so," i returned. "there are heaps like me in new york." "and do they all do this on the fourth of july?" she asked. "every last one!" i said. "fancy!" she said. "in america," i said, "when a man has received one favour he is certain to make it the stepping-stone for another. won't you permit me to walk across the park to castle fyles?" "castle fyles?" she repeated, with a little note of curiosity in her girlish voice. "then don't you know that this is fyles park?" "can't say i did," i returned. "but i am delighted to hear it." "why are you delighted to hear it?" she asked, making me feel more than ever like an escaped lunatic. "this is the home of my ancestors," i said, "and it makes me glad to think they amount to something--own real estate--and keep their venerable heads above water." "so this is the home of your ancestors," she said. "it's holy ground to me," i said. "fancy!" she exclaimed. "at least i think it is," i went on, "though we haven't any proofs beyond the fact that fyles has always been a family name with us back to the colonial days. i'm named fyles myself--fyles ffrench-- and we, like the castle people--have managed to retain our little f throughout the ages." she looked at me so incredulously that i handed her my card. mr. fyles ffrench, knickerbocker club. she turned it over in her fingers, regarding me at the same time with flattering curiosity. "how do you do, kinsman?" she said, holding out her hand. "welcome to old england!" i took her little hand and pressed it. "i am the daughter of the house," she explained, "and i'm named fyles too, though they usually call me verna." "and the little f, of course," i said. "just like yours," she returned. "there may be some capital f's in the family, but we wouldn't acknowledge them!" "what a fellow-feeling that gives one!" i said. "at school, at college, in business, in the war with spain when i served on the dixie, my life has been one long struggle to preserve that little f against a capital f world. i remember saying that to a chum the day we sank cervera, 'if i am killed, bill,' i said, 'see that they don't capital f me on the scroll of fame!'" "a true ffrench!" exclaimed beauty with approval. "as true as yourself," i said. "do you know that i'm the last of them?" she said. "you!" i exclaimed. "the last!" "yes," she said, "when my father dies the estates will pass to my second cousin, lord george willoughby, and our branch of the family will become extinct." "you fill me with despair," i said. "my father never can forgive me for being a girl," she said. "i can," i remarked, "even at the risk of appearing disloyal to the race." "fyles," she said, addressing me straight out by my first name, and with a little air that told me plainly i had made good my footing in the fold, "fyles, what a pity you aren't the rightful heir, come from overseas with parchments and parish registers, to make good your claim before the house of lords." "wouldn't that be rather hard on you?" i asked. "i'd rather give up everything than see the old place pass to strangers," she said. "but i'm a stranger," i said. "you're fyles ffrench," she exclaimed, "and a man, and you'd hand the old name down and keep the estate together." "and guard the little f with the last drop of my blood," i said. "ah, well!" she said, with a little sigh, "the world's a disappointing place at best, and i suppose it serves us right for centuries of conceit about ourselves." "that at least will never die," i observed. "the american branch will see to that part of it." "it's a pity, though, isn't it?" she said. "well," i said, "when a family has been carrying so much dog for a thousand years, i suppose in common fairness it's time to give way for another." "what is carrying dog?" she said. "it's american," i returned, "for thinking yourself better than anybody else!" "fancy!" she said, and then with a beautiful smile she took my hand and rubbed it against the hound's muzzle. "you mustn't growl at him, olaf," she said. "he's a ffrench; he's one of us; and he has come from over the sea to make friends." "you can't turn me out of the park after that," i said, in spite of a very dubious lick from the noble animal, who, possibly because he couldn't read and hadn't seen my card, was still a prey to suspicion. "i am going to take you back to the castle myself," she said, "and we'll spend the day going all over it, and i shall introduce you to my father--sir fyles--when he returns at five from ascot." "i could ask for nothing better," i said, "though i don't want to make myself a burden to you. and then," i went on, a little uncertain how best to express myself, "you are so queer in england about--about----" "proprieties," she said, giving the word which i hesitated to use. "oh, yes! i suppose i oughtn't to; indeed, it's awful, and there'll be lunch too, fyles, which makes it twice as bad. but to- day i'm going to be american and do just what i like." "i thought i ought to mention it," i said. "objection overruled," she returned. "that's what they used to say in court when my father had his famous right-of-way case with lord piffle of doom; and from what i remember there didn't seem any repartee to it." "there certainly isn't one from me," i said. "let's go," she said. there didn't seem any end to that park, and we walked and walked and rested once or twice under the deep shade, and took in a mouldy pavilion in white marble with broken windows, and a temple of love that dated back to the sixteenth century, and rowed on an ornamental water in a real gondola that leaked like sixty, and landed on a rushy island where there was a sun-dial and a stone seat that the druids or somebody had considerately placed there in the year one, and talked of course, and grew confidential, until finally i was calling her verna (which was her pet name) and telling her how the other fellow had married my best girl, while she spoke most beautifully and sensibly about love, and the way the old families were dying out because they had set greater store on their lands than on their hearts, and altogether with what she said and what i said, and what was understood, we passed from acquaintance to friendship, and from friendship to the verge of something even nearer. even the uncle tom hound fell under the spell of our new-found intimacy and condescended to lick my hand of his own volition, which verna said he had never done before except to the butcher, and winked a bloodshot eye when i remarked he was too big for the island and ought to go back with me to a country nearer his size. by the time we had reached the cliffs and began to perceive the high grey walls of the castle in the distance, verna and i were faster friends than ever, and anyone seeing us together would have thought we had known each other all our lives. i felt more and more happy to think i had met her first in this unconventional way, for as the castle loomed up closer and we passed gardeners and keepers and jockeys with a string of race-horses out for exercise, i felt that my pretty companion was constrained by the sight of these obsequious faces and changing by gradations into what she really was, the daughter of the castle and by right of blood one of the great ladies of the countryside. the castle itself was a tremendous old pile, built on a rocky peninsula and surrounded on three sides by the waters of appledore harbour. it lay so as to face the entrance, which verna told me was commanded--or rather had been in years past--by the guns of a half-moon battery that stood planted on a sort of third-story terrace. it was all towers and donjons and ramparts, and might, in its mediaeval perfection, have been taken bodily out of one of sir walter scott's novels. verna and i had lunch together in a perfectly gorgeous old hall, with beams and carved panelling and antlers, and a fireplace you could have roasted an ox in, and rows of glistening suits of armour which the original ffrenches had worn when they had first started the family in life--and all this, if you please, tete-a-tete with a woman who seemed to get more beautiful every minute i gazed at her, and who smiled back at me and called me fyles, to the stupefaction of three noiseless six- footers in silk stockings. disapproving six-footers, too, whose gimlet eyes seemed to pierce my back as they sized up my clothes, which, as i said before, had suffered not a little by my trip, and my collar, which i'll admit straight out wasn't up to a castle standard, and the undeniable stain of machine-oil on my cuffs which i had got that morning in putting the machine to rights. you ought to have seen the man that took my hat, which he did with the air of a person receiving pearls and diamonds on a golden platter, and smudged his lordly fingers with the grime of my fourth of july. and that darling of a girl, who never noticed my discomfiture, but whose eyes sparkled at times with a hidden merriment--shall i ever forget her as she sat there and helped me to mutton-chops from simply priceless old charles the first plate! we had black coffee together in a window-seat overlooking the harbour and the ships, and she asked me a lot of questions about the war with spain and my service in the dixie. she never moved a muscle when it came out i had been a quartermaster, though i could feel she was astounded at my being but a shade above a common seaman, and not, as she had taken it for granted, a commissioned officer. i was too proud to explain over-much, or to tell her i had gone in, as so many of my friends had done, from a strong sense of duty and patriotism at the time of my country's need, and consequently allowed her to get a very wrong idea, i suppose, about my state in life and position in the world. indeed, i was just childish enough to get a trifle wounded, and let her add misconception to misconception out of a silly obstinacy. "but what do you do," she asked, "now that the war is over and you've taken away everything from the poor spaniards and left the navy?" "work," i said. "what kind of work?" she asked. "oh, in an office!" i said. (i didn't tell her i was the third vice president of the amalgamated copper company, with a twenty- story building on lower broadway. wild horses couldn't have wrung it out of me then.) "you're too nice for an office," she said, looking at me so sweetly and sadly. "you ought to be a gentleman!" "oh, dear!" i exclaimed, "i hope i am that, even if i do grub along in an office." i wish my partners could have heard me say that. why, i have a private elevator of my own and a squash-court on the roof! "of course, i don't mean that," she went on quickly, "but like us, i mean, with a castle and a place in society----" "i have a sort of little picayune place in new york," i interrupted. "i don't sleep in the office, you know. at night i go out and see my friends and sometimes they invite me to dinner." she looked at me more sadly than ever. i don't believe humour was verna's strong suit anyway,--not american humour, at least,--for she not only believed what i said, but more too. "i must speak to papa about you," she said. "what will he do?" i asked. "oh, help you along, you know," she said; "ffrenches always stand together; it's a family trait, though it's dying out now for lack of ffrenches. you know our family motto?" she went on. "i'm afraid i don't," i said. "'ffrenches first!'" she returned. i had to laugh. "we've lived up to it in america," i said. "papa is quite a power in the city," she said. "i thought he was a gentleman," i replied. "everybody dabbles in business nowadays," she returned, not perceiving the innuendo. "i am sure papa ought to know all about it from the amount of money he has lost." "perhaps his was a case of ffrenches last!" i said. "still, he knows all the influential people," she continued, "and it would be so easy for him to get you a position over here." "that would be charming," i said. "and then i might see you occasionally," she said, with such a little ring of kindness in her voice that for a minute i felt a perfect brute for deceiving her. "you could run down here from saturday to monday, you know, and on bank holidays, and in the season you would have the entree to our london house and the chance of meeting nice people!" "how jolly!" i said. "i can't bear you to go back to america," she said. "now that i've found you, i'm going to keep you." "i hate the thought of going back myself," i said, and so i did-- at the thought of leaving that angel! "then, you know," she went on, somewhat shyly and hesitatingly, "you have such good manners and such a good air, and you're so---- " "don't mind saying handsome," i remarked. "you really are very nice-looking," she said, with a seriousness that made me acutely uncomfortable, "and what with our friendship and our house open to you and the people you could invite down here, because i know papa is going to go out of his mind about you--he and i are always crazy about the same people, you know-- not to speak of the little f, there is no reason, fyles, why in the end you shouldn't marry an awfully rich girl and set up for yourself!" "thank you," i said, "but if it's all the same to you i don't think i'd care to." "i know awfully rich girls who are pretty too," she said, as though forestalling an objection. "i do too," i said, looking at her so earnestly that she coloured up to the eyes. "oh, i am poor!" she said. "it's all we can do to keep the place up. besides--besides----" and then she stopped and looked out of the window. i saw i had been a fool to be so personal, and i was soon punished for my presumption, for she rose to her feet and said in an altered voice that she would now show me the castle. as i said before, it was a tremendous old place. it was a two- hours' job to go through it even as we did, and then verna said we had skipped a whole raft of things she would let me see some other time. there was a private theatre, a chapel with effigies of cross-legged crusaders, an armoury with a thousand stand of flint- locks, a library, magnificent state apartments with wonderful tapestries, a suite of rooms where they had confined a mad ffrench in the fifteenth century, with the actual bloodstains on the floor where he had dashed out his poor silly brains against the wall; a magazine with a lot of empty powder-casks cromwell had left there; a vaulted chamber for the men of the half-moon battery; a well which was said to have no bottom and which had remained unused for a hundred years, because a wicked uncle had thrown the rightful heir into it; and slimy, creepy-crawly dungeons with chains for your hands and feet; and cachettes where they spilled you through a hole in the floor, and let it go at that; and--but what wasn't there, indeed, in that extraordinary old feudal citadel, which had been in continuous human possession since the era of hardicanute. there seemed to be only one thing missing in the whole castle, and that was a bath--though i dare say there was one in the private apartments not shown to me. it was a regular dive into the last five hundred years, and the fact that it wasn't a museum nor exploited by a sing-song cicerone, helped to make it for me a memorable and really thrilling experience. i conjured up my forebears and could see them playing as children, growing to manhood, passing into old age, and finally dying in the shadow of those same massive walls. verna said i was quite pale when we emerged at last into the open air on the summit of the high square tower; and no wonder that i was, for in a kind of way i had been deeply impressed, and it seemed a solemn thing that i, like her, should be a child of this castle, with roots deep cast in far-off ages. "wouldn't it be horrible," i said, "if i found out i wasn't a ffrench at all--but had really sprung from a low-down, capital f family in the next county or somewhere!" "oh, but you are a real ffrench," said verna. "how do you know?" i asked. "i can feel it," she said. "i never felt that kind of sensation before towards anybody except my father!" i hardly knew whether to be pleased or not. and besides, it didn't seem to me conclusive. then she touched a button (for the castle was thoroughly wired and there was even a miniature telephone system) and servants brought us up afternoon tea, and a couple of chairs to sit on, and a folding table set out with flowers, and the best toast and the best tea and the best strawberry jam and the best chocolate cake and the best butter that i had as yet tasted in the whole island. the view itself was good enough to eat, for we were high above everything and saw the harbour and the country stretched out on all sides like a map. "this is where i come for my day-dreams," said verna. "i usually have it all to myself, for people hate the stairs so much and the ladies twitter about the dust and the cobwebs and the shakiness of the last ladder, and the silly things get dizzy and have to be held." "you don't seem to be afraid," i said. "this has been my favourite spot all my life," she returned. "i can remember papa holding me up when i wasn't five years old and telling me about the lady grizzle that threw herself off the parapet rather than marry somebody she had to and wouldn't!" "tell me about your day-dreams, verna," i said. "just a girl's fancies," she returned, smiling. "i dare say men have them too. fairy princes, you know, and what he'd say and what i'd say, and how much i'd love him, and how much he'd love me!" "i can understand the last part of it," i observed. "you are really very nice," she returned, "and when papa has got you that place in the city, i am going to allow you to come up here and dream too. and you'll tell me about the sleeping beauty and i'll unbosom myself about the beast, and we'll exchange heart- aches and be, oh, so happy together." "i am that now," i said. "you're awfully easily pleased, fyles," she said. "most of the men i know i have to rack my head to entertain; talk exploring, you know, to explorers, and horses to derby winners, and what it feels like to be shot--to soldiers--but you entertain me, and that is so much pleasanter." "i wish i dared ask you some questions," i said. "oh, but you mustn't!" she broke out, with a quick intuition of what i meant. "why mustn't?" i asked. "oh, because--because----" she returned. "i wouldn't like to fib to you, and i wouldn't like to tell you the truth--and it would make me feel hot and uncomfortable----" "what would?" i asked. "you see, if i really cared for him, it would be different," she said. "but i don't--and that's all." "lady grizzle over again?" i ventured. "not altogether," she said, "you see she was perfectly mad about somebody else--which really was hard lines for her, poor thing-- while i----" "oh, please go on!" i said, as she hesitated. "fyles," she said, with the ghost of a sigh, "this isn't day- dreaming at all, and i'm going to give you another cup of tea and change the subject." "what would you prefer, then?" i asked. "no! no more chocolate cake, thank you." "let's have a fairy story all of our own," she said. "well, you begin," i said. "once upon a time," she began, "there was a poor young man in new york--an american, though of course he couldn't help that--and he came over to england and discovered the home of his ancestors, and he liked them, and they liked him--ever so much, you know--and he found that the old place was destined to pass to strangers, and so he worked and worked in a dark old office, and stayed up at night working some more, and never accepted any invitations or took a holiday except at week-ends to the family castle--until finally he amassed an immense fortune. then he got into a fairy chariot, together with a bag of gold and the family lawyer, and ordered the coachman to drive him to lord george willoughby's in curzon street. then they sent out in hot haste for sir george's son, an awfully fast young man in the guards, and the family lawyer haggled and haggled, and lord george hemmed and hawed, and the guardsman's eyes sparkled with greed at the sight of the bag of gold, and finally for two hundred thousand pounds (papa says he often thinks he could pull it off for a hundred and ten thousand) the entail is broken and everybody signs his name to the papers and the poor young man buys the succession of fyles and comes down here, regardless of expense, in a splendid gilt special train, and is received with open arms by his kinsmen at the castle." "the open arms appeal to me," i said. "he was nearly hugged to death," said verna, "for they were so pleased the old name was not to die out and be forgotten. and then the poor young man married a ravishing beauty and had troops of sunny-haired children, and the daughter of the castle (who by this time was an old maid and quite plain, though everybody said she had a heart like hidden treasure) devoted herself to the little darlings and taught them music-lessons and manners and how to spell their names with a little f, and as a great treat would sometimes bring them up here and tell them how she had first met the poor young man in the 'diamond mornings of long ago'!" "that's a good fairy story," i said, "but you are all out about the end!" "you said you liked it," she protested. "yes, where they hugged the poor young man," i returned, "but after that, verna, it went off the track altogether." "perhaps you'll put it back again," she said. "i want to correct all that about the daughter of the castle," i said. "she never became an old maid at all, for, of course, the poor young man loved her to distraction and married her right off, and they lived happily together ever afterwards!" "i believe that is nicer," she said thoughtfully, as though considering the matter. "truer, too," i said, "because really the poor young man adored her from the first minute of their meeting!" "i wonder how long it will take him to make his fortune," she said, which, under the circumstances, struck me as a cruel thing to say. "possibly he has made it already," i said. "how do you know he hasn't?" "by his looks for one thing," she said, regarding the machine oil on my cuff out of the corner of her eye. "besides, he hasn't any of the arrogance of a parvenu, and is much too----" "too what?" i asked. "well bred," she replied simply. "no doubt that's the ffrench in him," i said, which i think was rather a neat return. she didn't answer, but looked absently across to the harbour mouth. "i believe there is a steamer coming in," she said. "yes, a steamer." "a yacht, i think," i said, for, sure enough, it was babcock true to the minute, heading the tallahassee straight in. i could have given him a hundred dollars on the spot i was so delighted, for he couldn't have timed it better, nor at a moment when it could have pleased me more. she ran in under easy steam, making a splendid appearance with her raking masts and razor bow, under which the water spurted on either side like dividing silver. except a beautiful woman, i don't know that there's a sweeter sight than a powerful, sea-going steam yacht, with the sun glinting on her bright brass-work, and a uniformed crew jumping to the sound of the boatswain's whistle. "the poor young man's ship's come home," i said. "it must be lady gaunt's sapphire," said verna. "with the american colours astern?" i said. "why, how strange," she said, "it really is american. and then i believe it's larger than the sapphire!" "fifteen hundred and four tons register," i said. "how do you know that?" she demanded, with a shade of surprise in her voice. "because, my dear, it's mine!" i said. "yours!" she cried out in astonishment. "if you doubt me," i said, "i shall tell you what she is going to do next. she is about to steam in here and lower a boat to take me aboard." "she's heading for dartmouth," said verna incredulously, and the words were hardly out of her pretty mouth when babcock swung round and pointed the tallahassee's nose straight at us. for a moment verna was too overcome to speak. "fyles," she said at last, "you told me you worked in an office!" "so i do," i said. "and own a vessel like that!" she exclaimed. "a yacht the size of a man-of-war!" "it was you that said i was a poor young man," i observed. "i was so pleased at being called young that i let the poor pass." "fancy!" she exclaimed, looking at me with eyes like stars. and then, recovering herself, she added in another tone: "now don't you think it was very forward to rendezvous at a private castle?" "oh, i thought i could make myself solid before she arrived," i said. "fyles," she said, "i am beginning to have a different opinion of you. you are not as straightforward as a ffrench ought to be--and, though i'm ashamed to say it of you--but you are positively conceited." "unsay, take back, those angry words," i said; and even as i did so the anchor went splash and i could hear the telegraph jingle in the engine-room. "and so you're rich," said verna, "awfully, immensely, disgustingly rich, and you've been masquerading all this afternoon as a charming pauper!" "i don't think i said charming," i remarked. "but i say it," said verna, "because, really you know, you're awfully nice, and i like you, and i'm glad from the bottom of my heart that you are rich!" "thank you," i said, "i'm glad, too." "now we must go down and meet your boat," said verna. "see, there it is, coming in--though i still think it was cheeky of you to tell them to land uninvited." "oh, let them wait!" i said. "no, no, we must go and meet them," said verna, "and i'm going to ask that glorious old fox with the yellow beard whether it's all true or not!" "you can't believe it yet?" i said. "you've only yourself to thank for it," she said. "i got used to you as one thing--and here you are, under my eyes, turning out another." i could not resist saying "fancy!" though she did not seem to perceive any humour in my exclamation of it, and took it as a matter of course. besides, she had risen now, and bade me follow her down the stairs. it was really fine to see the men salute me as we walked down to the boat, and the darkies' teeth shining at the sight of me (for i'm a believer in the coloured sailor) and old neilsen grinning respectfully in the stern-sheets. "neilsen," i said, "tell this young lady my name!" "mr. ffrench, sir," he answered, considerably astonished at the question. "little f or big f, neilsen?" "little f, sir," said neilsen. "there, doubter!" i said to verna. she had her hand on my arm and was smiling down at the men from the little stone pier on which we stood. "fyles," she said, "you must land and dine with us to-night, not only because i want you to, but because you ought to meet my father." "about when?" i asked. "seven-thirty," she answered; and then, in a lower voice, so that the men below might not hear: "our fairy tale is coming true, isn't it, fyles?" "right to the end," i said. "there were two ends," she said. "mine and yours." "oh, mine," i said; "that is, if you'll live up to your part of it!" "what do you want me to do?" she asked. "throw over the beast and be my princess," i said, trying to talk lightly, though my voice betrayed me. "perhaps i will," she answered. "perhaps!" i repeated. "that isn't any answer at all." "yes, then!" she said quickly, and, disengaging her hand from my arm, ran back a few steps. "i hear papa's wheels," she cried over her shoulder, "and, don't forget, fyles, dinner at seven-thirty!" the golden castaways all i did was to pull him out by the seat of the trousers. the fat old thing had gone out in the dark to the end of the yacht's boat- boom, and was trying to worry in the dinghy with his toe, when plump he dropped into a six-knot ebb tide. of course, if i hadn't happened along in a launch, he might have drowned, but, as for anything heroic on my part--why, the very notion is preposterous. the whole affair only lasted half a minute, and in five he was aboard his yacht and drinking hot scotch in a plush dressing-gown. it was natural that his wife and daughter should be frightened, and natural, too, i suppose, that when they had finished crying over him they should cry over me. he had taken a chance with the east river, and it had been the turn of a hair whether he floated down the current a dead grocer full of brine, or stood in that cabin, a live one full of grog. oh, no! i am not saying a word against them. but as for grossensteck himself, he ought really to have known better, and it makes me flush even now to recall his monstrous perversion of the truth. he called me a hero to my face. he invented details to which my dry clothes gave the lie direct. he threw fits of gratitude. his family were theatrically commanded to regard me well, so that my countenance might be forever imprinted on their hearts; and they, poor devils, in a seventh heaven to have him back safe and sound in their midst, regarded and regarded, and imprinted and imprinted, till i felt like a perfect ass masquerading as a hobson. it was all i could do to tear myself away. grossensteck clung to me. mrs. grossensteck clung to me. teresa--that was the daughter-- teresa, too, clung to me. i had to give my address. i had to take theirs. medals were spoken of; gold watches with inscriptions; a common purse, on which i was requested to confer the favour of drawing for the term of my natural life. i departed in a blaze of glory, and though i could not but see the ridiculous side of the affair (i mean as far as i was concerned), i was moved by so affecting a family scene, and glad, indeed, to think that the old fellow had been spared to his wife and daughter. i had even a pang of envy, for i could not but contrast myself with grossensteck, and wondered if there were two human beings in the world who would have cared a snap whether i lived or died. of course, that was just a passing mood, for, as a matter of fact, i am a man with many friends, and i knew some would feel rather miserable were i to make a hole in saltwater. but, you see, i had just had a story refused by schoonmaker's magazine, a good story, too, and that always gives me a sinking feeling--to think that after all these years i am still on the borderland of failure, and can never be sure of acceptance, even by the second-class periodicals for which i write. however, in a day or two, i managed to unload "the case against phillpots" on somebody else, and off i started for the new jersey coast with a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket, and no end of plans for a long autumn holiday. i never gave another thought to grossensteck until one morning, as i was sitting on the veranda of my boarding-house, the postman appeared and requested me to sign for a registered package. i opened it with some trepidation, for i had caught that fateful name written crosswise in the corner and began at once to apprehend the worst. i think i have as much assurance as any man, but it took all i had and more, too, when i unwrapped a gold medal the thickness and shape of an enormous checker, and deciphered the following inscription: presented to hugo dundonald esquire for having with signal heroism, gallantry and presence of mind rescued on the night of june third, the life of hermann grossensteck from the dark and treacherous waters of the east river. the thing was as thick as two silver dollars, laid the one on the other, and gold--solid, ringing, massy gold--all the way through; and it was associated with a blue satin ribbon, besides, which was to serve for sporting it on my manly bosom. i set it on the rail and laughed--laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks--while the other boarders crowded about me; handed it from hand to hand; grew excited to think that they had a hero in their midst; and put down my explanation to the proverbial modesty of the brave. blended with my amusement were some qualms at the intrinsic value of the medal, for it could scarcely have cost less than three or four hundred dollars, and it worried me to think that grossensteck must have drawn so lavishly on his savings. it had not occurred to me, either before or then, that he was rich; somehow, in the bare cabin of the schooner, i had received no such impression of his means. i had not even realised that the vessel was his own, taking it for granted that it had been hired, all standing, for a week or two with the put-by economies of a year. his home address ought to have set me right, but i had not taken the trouble to read it, slipping it into my pocket-book more to oblige him than with any idea of following up the acquaintance. it was one of the boarders that enlightened me. "grossensteck!" he exclaimed; "why, that's the great cheap grocer of new york, the park & tilford of the lower orders! there are greenbacks in his rotten tea, you know, and places to leave your baby while you buy his sanded sugar, and if you save eighty tags of his syrup you get a silver spoon you wouldn't be found dead with! oh, everybody knows grossensteck!" "well, i pulled the great cheap grocer out of the east river," i said. "there was certainly a greenback in that tea," and i took another look at my medal, and began to laugh all over again. "there's no reason why you should ever have another grocery bill," said the boarder. "that is, if flavour cuts no figure with you, and you'd rather eat condemned army stores than not!" i sat down and wrote a letter of thanks. it was rather a nice letter, for i could not but feel pleased at the old fellow's gratitude, even if it were a trifle overdone, and, when all's said, it was undoubtedly a fault on the right side. i disclaimed the heroism, and bantered him good-naturedly about the medal, which, of course, i said i would value tremendously and wear on appropriate occasions. i wondered at the time what occasion could be appropriate to decorate one's self with a gold saucer covered with lies--but, naturally, i didn't go into that to him. when you accept a solid chunk of gold you might as well be handsome about it, and i piled it on about his being long spared to his family and to a world that wouldn't know how to get along without him. yes, it was a stunning letter, and i've often had the pleasure of reading it since in a splendid frame below my photograph. i had been a month or more in new york, and december was already well advanced before i looked up my grossenstecks, which i did one late afternoon as i happened to be passing in their direction. it was a house of forbidding splendour, on the fifth avenue side of central park, and, as i trod its marble halls, i could not but repeat to myself: "behold, the grocer's dream!" but i could make no criticism of my reception by mrs. grossensteck and teresa, whom i found at home and delighted to see me. mrs. grossensteck was a stout, jolly, motherly woman, common, of course,--but, if you can understand what i mean,--common in a nice way, and honest and unpretentious and likable. teresa, whom i had scarcely noticed on the night of the accident, was a charmingly pretty girl of eighteen, very chic and gay, with pleasant manners and a contagious laugh. she had arrived at obviously the turn of the grossensteck fortunes, and might, in refinement and everything else, have belonged to another clay. how often one sees that in america, the land above others of social contrast, where, in the same family, there are often three separate degrees of caste. well, to get along with my visit. i liked them and they liked me, and i returned later the same evening to dine and meet papa. i found him as impassionedly grateful as before, and with a tale that trespassed even further on the incredible, and after dinner we all sat around a log fire and talked ourselves into a sort of intimacy. they were wonderfully good people, and though we hadn't a word in common, nor an idea, we somehow managed to hit it off, as one often can with those who are unaffectedly frank and simple. i had to cry over the death of little hermann in the steerage (when they had first come to america twenty years ago), and how grossensteck had sneaked gingersnaps from the slop-baskets of the saloon. "the little teffil never knew where they come from," said grossensteck, "and so what matters it?" "that's papa's name in the slums," said teresa. "uncle gingersnaps, because at all his stores they give away so many for nothing." "by jove!" i said, "there are some nick-names that are patents of nobility." what impressed me as much as anything with these people was their loneliness. parvenus are not always pushing and self-seeking, nor do they invariably throw down the ladder by which they have climbed. the grossenstecks would have been so well content to keep their old friends, but poverty hides its head from the glare of wealth and takes fright at altered conditions. "they come--yes," said mrs. grossensteck, "but they are scared of the fine house, of the high-toned help, of everything being gold, you know, and fashionable. and when papa sends their son to college, or gives the girl a little stocking against her marriage day, they slink away ashamed. oh, mr. dundonald, but it's hard to thank and be thanked, especially when the favours are all of one side!" "the rich have efferyting," said grossensteck, "but friends-- nein!" new ones had apparently never come to take the places of the old; and the old had melted away. theirs was a life of solitary grandeur, varied with dinner parties to their managers and salesmen. socially speaking, their house was a desert island, and they themselves three castaways on a golden rock, scanning the empty seas for a sail. to carry on a metaphor, i might say i was the sail and welcomed accordingly. i was everything that they were not; i was poor; i mixed with people whose names filled them with awe; my own was often given at first nights and things of that sort. in new york, the least snobbish of great cities, a man need have but a dress suit and car-fare--if he be the right kind of a man, of course--to go anywhere and hold up his head with the best. in a place so universally rich, there is even a certain piquancy in being a pauper. the grossenstecks were overcome to think i shined my own shoes, and had to calculate my shirts, and the fact that i was no longer young (that's the modern formula for forty), and next-door to a failure in the art i had followed for so many years, served to whet their pity and their regard. my little trashy love-stories seemed to them the fruits of genius, and they were convinced, the poor simpletons, that the big magazines were banded in a conspiracy to block my way to fame. "my dear poy," said grossensteck, "you know as much of peeziness as a child unporne, and i tell you it's the same efferywhere--in groceries, in hardware, in the alkali trade, in effery branch of industry, the pig operators stand shoulder to shoulder to spiflicate the little fellers like you. you must combine with the other producers; you must line up and break through the ring; you must scare them out of their poots, and, by gott, i'll help you do it!" in their naive interest in my fortunes, the grossenstecks rejoiced at an acceptance, and were correspondingly depressed at my failures. a fifteen-dollar poem would make them happy for a week; and when some of my editors were slow to pay-on the literary frontiers there is a great deal of this sort of procrastination-- uncle gingersnaps was always hot to put the matter into the hands of his collectors, and commence legal proceedings in default. little by little i drifted into a curious intimacy with the grossenstecks. their house by degrees became my refuge. i was given my own suite of rooms, my own latch-key; i came and went unremarked; and what i valued most of all was that my privacy was respected, and no one thought to intrude upon me when i closed my door. in time i managed to alter the whole house to my liking, and spent their money like water in the process. gorgeousness gave way to taste; i won't be so fatuous as to say my taste; but mine was in conjunction with the best decorators in new york. one was no longer blinded by magnificence, but found rest and peace and beauty. teresa and i bought the pictures. she was a wonderfully clever girl, full of latent appreciation and understanding which until then had lain dormant in her breast. i quickened those unsuspected fires, and, though i do not vaunt my own judgment as anything extraordinary, it represented at least the conventional standard and was founded on years of observation and training. we let the old masters go as something too smudgy and recondite for any but experts, learning our lesson over one correggio which nearly carried us into the courts, and bought modern american instead, amongst them some fine examples of our best men. we had a glorious time doing it, too, and showered the studios with golden rain--in some where it was evidently enough needed. there was something childlike in the grossenstecks' confidence in me; i mean the old people; for it was otherwise with teresa, with whom i often quarrelled over my artistic reforms, and who took any conflict in taste to heart. there were whole days when she would not speak to me at all, while i, on my side, was equally obstinate, and all this, if you please, about some miserable tapestry or a louise seize chair or the right light for a picture of will low's. but she was such a sweet girl and so pretty that one could not be angry with her long, and what with our fights and our makings up i dare say we made it more interesting to each other than if we had always agreed. it was only once that our friendship was put in real jeopardy, and that was when her parents decided they could not die happy unless we made a match of it. this was embarrassing for both of us, and for a while she treated me very coldly. but we had it out together one evening in the library and decided to let the matter make no difference to us, going on as before the best of friends. i was the last person to expect a girl of eighteen to care for a man of forty, particularly one like myself, ugly and grey-haired, who had long before outworn the love of women. in fact i had to laugh, one of those sad laughs that come to us with the years, at the thought of anything so absurd; and i soon got her to give up her tragic pose and see the humour of it all as i did. so we treated it as a joke, rallied the old folks on their sentimental folly, and let it pass. it set me thinking, however, a great deal about the girl and her future, and i managed to make interest with several of my friends and get her invited to some good houses. of course it was impossible to carry the old people into this galere. they were frankly impossible, but fortunately so meek and humble that it never occurred to them to assert themselves or resent their daughter going to places where they would have been refused. uncle gingersnaps would have paid money to stay at home, and mrs. grossensteck had too much homely pride to put herself in a false position. they saw indeed only another reason to be grateful to me, and another example of my surpassing kindness. pretty, by no means a fool, and gowned by the best coutourieres of paris, teresa made quite a hit, and blossomed as girls do in the social sunshine. the following year, in the whirl of a gay new york winter, one would scarcely have recognised her as the same person. she had "made good," as boys say, and had used my stepping-stones to carry her far beyond my ken. in her widening interests, broader range, and increased worldly knowledge we became naturally better friends than ever and met on the common ground of those who led similar lives. what man would not value the intimacy of a young, beautiful, and clever woman? in some ways it is better than love itself, for love is a duel, with wounds given and taken, and its pleasures dearly paid for. between teresa and myself there was no such disturbing bond, and we were at liberty to be altogether frank in our intercourse. one evening when i happened to be dining at the house, the absence of her father and the indisposition of her mother left us tete-a- tete in the smoking-room, whither she came to keep me company with my cigar. i saw that she was restless and with something on her mind to tell me, but i was too old a stager to force a confidence, least of all a woman's, and so i waited, said nothing, and blew smoke rings. "hugo," she said, "there is something i wish to speak to you about." "i've known that for the last hour, teresa," i said. "this is something serious," she said, looking at me strangely. "blaze away," i said. "hugo," she broke out, "you have been borrowing money from my father." i nodded. "a great deal of money," she went on. "for him--no," i said. "for me--well, yes." "eight or nine hundred dollars," she said. "those are about the figures," i returned. "call it nine hundred." "oh, how could you! how could you!" she exclaimed. i remained silent. in fact i did not know what to say. "don't you see the position you're putting yourself in?" she said. "position?" i repeated. "what position?" "it's horrible, it's ignoble," she broke out. "i have always admired you for the way you kept yourself clear of such an ambiguous relation--you've known to the fraction of an inch what to take, what to refuse--to preserve your self-respect--my respect--unimpaired. and here i see you slipping into degradation. oh, hugo! i can't bear it." "is it such a crime to borrow a little money?" i asked. "not if you pay it back," she returned. "not if you mean to pay it back. but you know you can't. you know you won't!" "you think it's the thin edge of the wedge?" i said. "the beginning of the end and all that kind of thing?" "you will go on," she cried. "you will become a dependent in this house, a hanger-on, a sponger. i will hate you. you will hate yourself. it went through me like a knife when i found it out." i smoked my cigar in silence. i suppose she was quite right-- horribly right, though i didn't like her any better for being so plain-spoken about it. i felt myself turning red under her gaze. "what do you want me to do?" i said at length. "pay it back," she said. "i wish to god i could," i said. "but you know how i live, teresa, hanging on by the skin of my teeth--hardly able to keep my head above water, let alone having a dollar to spare." "then you can't pay," she said. "i don't think i can," i returned. "then you ought to leave this house," she said. "you have certainly made it impossible for me to stay, teresa," i said. "i want to make it impossible," she cried. "you--you don't understand--you think i'm cruel--it's because i like you, hugo-- it's because you're the one man i admire above anybody in the world. i'd rather see you starving than dishonoured." "thank you for your kind interest," i said ironically. "under the circumstances i am almost tempted to wish you admired me less." "am i not right?" she demanded. "perfectly right," i returned. "oh, yes! perfectly right." "and you'll go," she said. "yes, i'll go," i said. "and earn the money and pay father?" she went on. "and earn the money and pay father," i repeated. "and then come back?" she added. "never, never, never!" i cried out. i could see her pale under the lights. "oh, hugo! don't be so ungenerous," she said. "don't be so--so----" she hesitated, apparently unable to continue. "ungenerous or not," i said, "damn the words, teresa, this isn't a time to weigh words. it isn't in flesh and blood to come back. i can't come back. put yourself in my place." "some day you'll thank me," she said. "very possibly," i returned. "nobody knows what may not happen. it's conceivable, of course, i might go down on my bended knees, but really, from the way i feel at this moment, i do not think it's likely." "you want to punish me for liking you," she said. "teresa," i said, "i have told you already that you are right. you insist on saving me from a humiliating position. i respect your courage and your straightforwardness. you remind me of an ancient spartan having it out with a silly ass of a stranger who took advantage of her parents' good-nature. i am as little vain, i think, as any man, and as free from pettiness and idiotic pride-- but you mustn't ask the impossible. you mustn't expect the whipped dog to come back. when i go it will be for ever." "then go," she said, and looked me straight in the eyes. "i have only one thing to ask," i said. "smooth it over to your father and mother. i am very fond of your father and mother, teresa; i don't want them to think i've acted badly, or that i have ceased to care for them. tell them the necessary lies, you know." "i will tell them," she said. "then good-bye," i said, rising. "i suppose i am acting like a baby to feel so sore. but i am hurt." "good-bye, hugo," she said. i went to the door and down the stairs. she followed and stood looking after me the length of the hall as i slowly put on my hat and coat. that was the last i saw of her, in the shadow of a palm, her girlish figure outlined against the black behind. i walked into the street with a heart like lead, and for the first time in my life i began to feel i was growing old. i have been from my youth up an easy-going man, a drifter, a dawdler, always willing to put off work for play. but for once i pulled myself together, looked things in the face, and put my back to the wheel. i was determined to repay that nine hundred dollars, if i had to cut every dinner-party for the rest of the season. i was determined to repay it, if i had to work as i had never worked before. my first move was to change my address. i didn't want uncle gingersnaps ferreting me out, and mrs. grossensteck weeping on my shoulder. my next was to cancel my whole engagement book. my third, to turn over my wares and to rack my head for new ideas. i had had a long-standing order from granger's weekly for a novelette. i had always hated novelettes, as one had to wait so long for one's money and then get so little; but in the humour i then found myself i plunged into the fray, if not with enthusiasm, at least with a dogged perseverance that was almost as good. granger's weekly liked triviality and dialogue, a lot of fuss about nothing and a happy ending. i gave it to them in a heaping measure. dixie's monthly, from which i had a short-story order, set dialect above rubies. i didn't know any dialect, but i borrowed a year's file and learned it like a lesson. they wrote and asked me for another on the strength of "the courting of amandar jane." the permeator was keen on kipling and water, and i gave it to them--especially the water. like all southern families the dundonalds had once had their day. i had travelled everywhere when i was a boy, and so i accordingly refreshed my dim memories with some modern travellers and wrote a short series for the little gentleman; "the boy in the carpathians," "the boy in old louisiana," "a boy in the tyrol," "a boy in london," "a boy in paris," "a boy at the louvre," "a boy in corsica," "a boy in the reconstruction." i reeled off about twenty of them and sold them to advantage. it was a terribly dreary task, and i had moments of revolt when i stamped up and down my little flat and felt like throwing my resolution to the winds. but i stuck tight to the ink-bottle and fought the thing through. my novelette, strange to say, was good. written against time and against inclination, it has always been regarded since as the best thing i ever did, and when published in book form outran three editions. i made a thundering lot of money--for me, i mean, and in comparison to my usual income--seldom under five hundred dollars a month and often more. in eleven weeks i had repaid grossensteck and had a credit in the bank. nine hundred dollars has always remained to me as a unit of value, a sum of agonising significance not lightly to be spoken of, the fruits of hellish industry and self-denial. all this while i had had never a word from the grossenstecks. at least they wrote to me often--telephoned-- telegraphed--and my box at the club was choked with their letters. but i did not open a single one of them, though i found a pleasure in turning them over and over, and wondering as to what was within them. there were several in teresa's fine hand, and these interested me most of all and tantalised me unspeakably. there was one of hers, cunningly addressed to me in a stranger's writing that i opened inadvertently; but i at once perceived the trick and had the strength of mind to throw it in the fire unread. perhaps you will wonder at my childishness. sometimes i wondered at it myself. but the wound still smarted, and something stronger than i seemed to withhold me from again breaking the ice. besides, those long lonely days, and those nights, almost as long in the retrospect, when i lay sleepless on my bed, had shown me i had been drifting into another peril no less dangerous than dependence. i had been thinking too much of the girl for my own good, and our separation had brought me to a sudden realisation of how deeply i was beginning to care for her. i hated her, too, the pitiless wretch, so there was a double reason for me not to go back. one night as i had dressed to dine out and stepped into the street, looking up at the snow that hid the stars and silenced one's footsteps on the pavement, a woman emerged from the gloom, and before i knew what she was doing, had caught my arm. i shook her off, thinking her a beggar or something worse, and would have passed on my way had she not again struggled to detain me. i stopped, and was on the point of roughly ordering her to let me go, when i looked down into her veiled face and saw that it was teresa grossensteck. "hugo!" she said. "hugo!" i could only repeat her name and regard her helplessly. "hugo," she said, "i am cold. take me upstairs. i am chilled through and through." "oh, but teresa," i expostulated, "it wouldn't be right. you know it wouldn't be right. you might be seen." she laid her hand, her ungloved, icy hand, against my cheek. "i have been here an hour," she said. "take me to your rooms. i am freezing." i led her up the stairs and to my little apartment. i seated her before the fire, turned up the lights, and stood and looked at her. "what have you come here for?" i said. "i've paid your father-- paid him a month ago." she made no answer, but spread her hands before the fire and shivered in the glow. she kept her eyes fixed on the coals in front of her and put out the tips of her little slippered feet. then i perceived that she was in a ball gown and that her arms were bare under her opera cloak. at last she broke the silence. "how cheerless your room is," she said, looking about. "oh, how cheerless!" "did you come here to tell me that?" i said. "no," she said. "i don't know why i came. because i was a fool, i suppose--a fool to think you'd want to see me. take me home, hugo." she rose as she said this and looked towards the door. i pressed her to take a little whiskey, for she was still as cold as death and as white as the snow queen in hans andersen's tale, but she refused to let me give her any. "take me home, please," she repeated. her carriage was waiting a block away. hendricks, the footman, received my order with impassivity and shut us in together with the unconcern of a good servant. it was dark in the carriage, and neither of us spoke as we whirled through the snowy streets. once the lights of a passing hansom illumined my companion's face and i saw that she was crying. it pleased me to see her suffer; she had cost me eleven weeks of misery; why should she escape scot-free! "hugo," she said, "are you coming back to us, hugo?" "i don't know," i said. "why don't you know?" she asked. "oh, because!" i said. "that's no answer," she said. there was a pause. "i was beginning to care too much about you," i said. "i think i was beginning to fall in love with you. i've got out of one false position. why should i blunder into another?" "would it be a false position to love me?" she said. "of course that would a good deal depend on you," i said. "suppose i wanted you to," she said. "oh, but you couldn't!" i said. "why couldn't i?" she said. "but forty," i objected; "nobody loves anybody who's forty, you know." "i do," she said, "though, come to think of it, you were thirty- nine--when--when it first happened, hugo." i put out my arms in the dark and caught her to me. i could not believe my own good fortune as i felt her trembling and crying against my breast. i was humbled and ashamed. it was like a dream. an old fellow like me--forty, you know. "it was a mighty near thing, teresa," i said. "i guess it was--for me!" she said. "i meant myself, sweetheart," i said. "for both of us then," she said, in a voice between laughter and tears, and impulsively put her arms round my neck. the awakening of george raymond i george raymond's father had been a rich man, rich in those days before the word millionaire had been invented, and when a modest hundred thousand, lent out at an interest varying from ten to fifteen per cent, brought in an income that placed its possessor on the lower steps of affluence. he was the banker of a small new jersey town, a man of portentous respectability, who proffered two fingers to his poorer clients and spoke about the weather as though it belonged to him. when the school-children read of croesus in their mythology, it was jacob raymond they saw in their mind's eye; such expressions as "rich beyond the dreams of avarice" suggested him as inevitably as pumpkin did pie; they wondered doubtfully about him in church when that unfortunate matter of the camel was brought up with its attendant difficulties for the wealthy. even captain kidd's treasure, in those times so actively sought for along the whole stretch of the new england coast, conjured up a small brick building with "jacob raymond, banker" in gilt letters above the lintel of the door. but there came a day when that door stayed locked and a hundred white faces gathered about it, blocking the village street and talking in whispers though the noonday sun was shining. raymond's bank was insolvent, and the banker himself, a fugitive in tarry sea clothes, was hauling ropes on a vessel outward bound for callao. he might have stayed in middleborough and braved it out, for he had robbed no man and his personal honour was untarnished, having succumbed without dishonesty to primitive methods and lack of capital. but he chose instead the meaner course of flight. of all the reproachful faces he left behind him his wife's was the one he felt himself the least able to confront; and thus, abandoning everything, with hardly a dozen dollars in his pocket, he slipped away to sea, never to be seen or heard of again. mrs. raymond was a woman of forty-five, a new englander to her finger-tips, proud, arrogant, and fiercely honest; a woman who never forgot, never forgave, and who practised her narrow christianity with the unrelentingness of an indian. she lived up to an austere standard herself, and woe betide those who fell one whit behind her. she was one of those just persons who would have cast the first stone at the dictates of conscience and with a sort of holy joy in her own fitness to do so. for years she had been the richest woman in middleborough, the head of everything charitable and religious, the mainstay of ministers, the court of final appeal in the case of sinners and backsliders. now, in a moment, through no fault of her own, the whole fabric of her life had crumbled. again had the mighty fallen. she had not a spark of pity for her husband. to owe what you could not pay was to her the height of dishonour. it was theft, and she had no compunction in giving it the name, however it might be disguised or palliated. she could see no mitigating circumstances in raymond's disgrace, and the fact that she was innocently involved in his downfall filled her with exasperation. the big old corner house was her own. she had been born in it. it had been her marriage portion from her father. she put it straightway under the hammer; her canal stock with it; her furniture and linen; a row of five little cottages on the outskirts of the town where five poor families had found not only that their bodies, but the welfare of their souls, had been confided to her grim keeping. she stripped herself of everything, and when all had been made over to the creditors there still remained a deficit of seventeen hundred dollars. this debt which was not a debt, for she was under no legal compulsion to pay a penny of it, would willingly have been condoned by men already grateful for her generosity; but she would hear of no such compromise, not even that her notes be free of interest, and she gave them at five per cent, resolute that in time she would redeem them to the uttermost farthing. under these sudden changes of fortune it is seldom that the sufferer remains amid the ruins of past prosperity. the human instinct is to fly and hide. the wound heals more readily amongst strangers. the material evils of life are never so intolerable as the public loss of caste. it may be said that it is people, not things, which cause most of the world's unhappiness. mrs. raymond came to new york, where she had not a friend except the son she brought with her, there to set herself with an undaunted heart to earn the seventeen hundred dollars she had voluntarily taken on her shoulders to repay. george raymond, her son, was then a boy of fifteen. high-strung, high-spirited, with all the seriousness of a youngster who had prematurely learned to think for himself, he had arrived at the age when ineffaceable impressions are made and the tendencies of a lifetime decided. passionately attached to his father, he had lost him in a way that would have made death seem preferable. he saw his mother, so shortly before the great lady of a little town, working out like a servant in other people's houses. the tragedy of it all ate into his soul and overcame him with a sense of hopelessness and despair. it would not have been so hard could he have helped, even in a small way, towards the recovery of their fortunes; but his mother, faithful even in direst poverty to her new england blood, sent him to school, determined that at any sacrifice he should finish his education. but by degrees mrs. raymond drifted into another class of work. she became a nurse, and, in a situation where her conscientiousness was invaluable, slowly established a connection that in time kept her constantly busy. she won the regard of an important physician, and not only won it but kept it, and thus little by little found her way into good houses, where she was highly paid and treated with consideration. had it not been for the seventeen hundred dollars and the five per cent interest upon it, she could have earned enough to keep herself and her son very comfortable in the three rooms they occupied on seventh street. but this debt, ever present in the minds of both mother and son, hung over them like a cloud and took every penny there was to spare. those two years from fifteen to seventeen were the most terrible in raymond's life. at an age when he possessed neither philosophy nor knowledge and yet the fullest capacity to suffer, he had to bear, with what courage he could muster, the crudest buffets of an adverse fate. raymond drudged at his books, passed from class to class and returned at night to the empty rooms he called home, where he cooked his own meals and sat solitary beside the candle until it was the hour for bed. his mother was seldom there to greet him. as a nurse she was kept prisoner, for weeks at a time, in the houses where she was engaged. it meant much to the boy to find a note from her lying on the table when he returned at night; more still to wait at street corners in his shabby overcoat for those appointments she often made with him. when she took infectious cases and dared neither write nor speak to him, they had an hour planned beforehand when she would smile at him from an open window and wave her hand. but she was not invariably busy. there were intervals between her engagements when she remained at home; when those rooms, ordinarily so lonely and still, took on a wonderful brightness with her presence; when raymond, coming back from school late in the afternoon, ran along the streets singing, as he thought of his mother awaiting him. this stern woman, the harsh daughter of a harsh race, had but a single streak of tenderness in her withered heart. to her son she gave transcendent love, and the whole of her starved nature went out to him in immeasurable devotion. their poverty, the absence of all friends, the burden of debt, the unacknowledged disgrace, and (harder still to bear) the long and enforced separations from each other, all served to draw the pair into the closest intimacy. raymond grew towards manhood without ever having met a girl of his own age; without ever having had a chum; without knowing the least thing of youth save much of its green-sickness and longing. when the great debt had been paid off and the last of the notes cancelled there came no corresponding alleviation of their straitened circumstances. raymond had graduated from the high school and was taking the medical course at columbia university. every penny was put by for the unavoidable expenses of his tuition. the mother, shrewd, ambitious, and far-seeing, was staking everything against the future, and was wise enough to sacrifice the present in order to launch her son into a profession. in those days fresh air had not been discovered. athletics, then in their infancy, were regarded much as we now do prize-fighting. the ideal student was a pale individual who wore out the night with cold towels around his head, and who had a bigger appetite for books than for meat. docile, unquestioning, knowing no law but his mother's wish; eager to earn her commendation and to repay with usury the immense sacrifices she had made for him, raymond worked himself to a shadow with study, and at nineteen was a tall, thin, narrow-shouldered young man with sunken cheeks and a preternatural whiteness of complexion. he was far from being a bad-looking fellow, however. he had beautiful blue eyes, more like a girl's than a man's, and there was something earnest and winning in his face that often got him a shy glance on the street from passing women. his acquaintance in this direction went no further. many times when a college acquaintance would have included him in some little party, his mother had peremptorily refused to let him go. her face would darken with jealousy and anger, nor was she backward with a string of reasons for her refusal. it would unsettle him; he had no money to waste on girls; he would be shamed by his shabby clothes and ungloved hands; they would laugh at him behind his back; was he tired, then, of his old mother who had worked so hard to bring him up decently? and so on and so on, until, without knowing exactly why, raymond would feel himself terribly in the wrong, and was glad enough at last to be forgiven on the understanding that he would never propose such a reprehensible thing again. in any other young man, brought up in the ordinary way, with the ordinary advantages, such submission would have seemed mean- spirited; but the bond between these two was riveted with memories of penury and privation; any appeal to those black days brought raymond on his knees; it was intolerable to him that he should ever cause a pang in his dear mother's breast. thus, at the age when the heart is hungriest for companionship; when for the first time a young man seems to discover the existence of a hitherto unknown and unimportant sex; when an inner voice urges him to take his place in the ranks and keep step with the mighty army of his generation, raymond was doomed to walk alone, a wistful outcast, regarding his enviable companions from afar. he was in his second year at college when his studies were broken off by his mother's illness. he was suddenly called home to find her delirious in bed, struck down in the full tide of strength by the disease she had taken from a patient. it was scarlet fever, and when it had run its course the doctor took him to one side and told him that his mother's nursing days were over. during her tedious convalescence, as raymond would sit beside her bed and read aloud to her, their eyes were constantly meeting in unspoken apprehension. they saw the ground, so solid a month before, now crumbling beneath their feet; their struggles, their makeshifts, their starved and meagre life had all been in vain. their little savings were gone; the breadwinner, tempting fate once too often, had received what was to her worse than a mortal wound, for the means of livelihood had been taken from her. "could i have but died," she repeated to herself. "oh, could i have but died!" raymond laid his head against the coverlet and sobbed. he needed no words to tell him what was in her mind; that her illness had used up the little money there was to spare; that she, so long the support of both, was now a helpless burden on his hands. pity for her outweighed every other consideration. his own loss seemed but little in comparison to hers. it was the concluding tragedy of those five tragic years. the battle, through no fault of theirs, had gone against them. the dream of a professional career was over. his mother grew better. the doctor ceased his visits. she was able to get on her feet again. she took over their pinched housekeeping. but her step was heavy; the gaunt, grim straight- backed woman, with her thin grey hair and set mouth, was no more than a spectre of her former self. the doctor was right. there was nothing before her but lifelong invalidism. raymond found work; a place in the auditing department of a railroad, with a salary to begin with of sixty dollars a month; in ten years he might hope to get a hundred. but he was one of those whose back bent easily to misfortune. heaven knew, he had been schooled long enough to take its blows with fortitude. his mother and he could manage comfortably on sixty dollars a month; and when he laid his first earnings in her hand he even smiled with satisfaction. she took the money in silence, her heart too full to ask him whence it came. she had hoped against hope until that moment; and the bills, as she looked at them, seemed to sting her shrivelled hand. one day, as she was cleaning her son's room, she opened a box that stood in the corner, and was surprised to find it contain a package done up in wrapping paper. she opened it with curiosity and the tears sprang to her eyes as she saw the second-hand medical books george had used at college. here they were, in neat wrappers, laid by for ever. too precious to throw away, too articulate of unfulfilled ambitions to stand exposed on shelves, they had been laid away in the grave of her son's hopes. she did them up again with trembling fingers, and that night when george returned to supper, he found his mother in the dark, crying. ii in the years from nineteen to forty-two most men have fulfilled their destiny; those who have had within them the ability to rise have risen; the weak, the wastrels, the mediocrities have shaken down into their appointed places. even the bummer has his own particular bit of wall in front of the saloon and his own particular chair within. those who have something to do are busy doing it, whatever it may be. in the human comedy everyone in time finds his role and must play it to the end, happy indeed if he be cast in a part that at all suits him. george raymond at forty-two was still in the auditor's department of the new york central. time had wrinkled his cheek, had turned his brown hair to a crisp grey, had bowed his shoulders to the desk he had used for twenty-two years. his eyes alone retained their boyish brightness, and a sort of appealing look as of one who his whole life long had been a dependent on other people. as an automaton, a mere cog in a vast machine, he had won the praise of his superiors by his complete self-effacement. he was never ill, never absent, never had trouble with his subordinates, never talked back, never made complaints, and, in the flattering language of the superintendent, "he knew what he knew!" in the office, as in every other aggregation of human beings, there were coteries, cliques, friendships and hatreds, jealousies, heart-burnings and vendettas. there was scarcely a man there without friends or foes. raymond alone had neither. to the others he was a strange, silent, unknown creature whose very address was a matter of conjecture; a man who did not drink, did not smoke, did not talk; who ate four bananas for his lunch and invariably carried a book in the pocket of his shabby coat. it was said of him that once, during a terrible blizzard, he had been the only clerk to reach the office; that he had worked there stark alone until one o'clock, when at the stroke of the hour he had taken out his four bananas and his book! there were other stories about him of the same kind, not all of them true to fate, but essentially true of the man's nature and of his rigid adherence to routine. he had risen, place by place, to a position that gave him a hundred and fifty dollars a month, and one so responsible that his death or absence would have dislocated the office for half a day. "a first-class man and an authority on pro ratas!" such might have been the inscription on george raymond's tomb! his mother was still alive. she had never entirely regained her health or her strength, and it took all the little she had of either to do the necessary housekeeping for herself and her son. thin to emaciation, sharp-tongued, a tyrant to her finger-tips, her indomitable spirit remained as uncowed as ever and she ruled her son with a rod of iron. to her, georgie, as she always called him, was still a child. as far as she was concerned he had never grown up. she took his month's salary, told him when to buy new shirts, ordered his clothes herself, doled out warningly the few dollars for his necessaries, and saved, saved, continually saved. the old woman dreaded poverty with a horror not to be expressed in words. it had ruined her own life; it had crushed her son under its merciless wheels; in the words of the proverb, she was the coward who died a thousand deaths in the agonies of apprehension. she was one of those not uncommon misers, who hoard, not for love of money, but through fear. she had managed, with penurious thrift and a self-denial almost sublime in its austerity, to set aside eight thousand dollars. eight thousand dollars from an income that began at sixty and rose to a little under three times that amount! eight thousand dollars, wrung from their lives at the price of every joy, every alleviation, everything that could make the world barely tolerable. every summer raymond had a two-weeks' holiday, which he spent at middleborough with some relatives of his father's. he had the pronounced love of the sea that is usual with those born and bred in seaport towns. his earliest memories went back to great deep- water ships, their jib-booms poking into the second-story windows of the city front, their decks hoarsely melodious with the yo- heave-yo of straining seamen. the smell of tar, the sight of enormous anchors impending above the narrow street, the lofty masts piercing the sky in a tangle of ropes and blocks, the exotic cargoes mountains high--all moved him like a poem. he knew no pleasure like that of sailing his cousin's sloop; he loved every plank of her dainty hull; it was to him a privilege to lay his hand to any task appertaining to her, however humble or hard. to calk, to paint, to polish brasswork; to pump out bilge; to set up the rigging; to sit cross-legged and patch sails; and, best of all, to put her lee rail under in a spanking breeze and race her seaward against the mimic fleet--ah, how swiftly those bright days passed, how bitter was the parting and the return, all too soon, to the dingy offices of the railroad. it never occurred to him to think his own lot hard, or to contrast himself with other men of his age, who at forty-two were mostly substantial members of society, with interests, obligations, responsibilities, to which he himself was an utter stranger. under the iron bondage of his mother he had remained a child. to displease her seemed the worst thing that could befall him; to win her commendation filled him with content. but there were times, guiltily remembered and put by with shame, when he longed for something more from life; when the sight of a beautiful woman on the street reminded him of his own loneliness and isolation; when he was overcome with a sudden surging sense that he was an outsider in the midst of these teeming thousands, unloved and old, without friends or hope or future to look forward to. he would reproach himself for such lawless repining, for such disloyalty to his mother. was not her case worse than his? did she not lecture him on the duty of cheerfulness, she the invalid, racked with pains, with nerves, who practised so pitifully what she preached? the tears would come to his eyes. no, he would not ask the impossible; he would go his way, brave and uncomplaining, and let the empty years roll over his head without a murmur against fate. but the years, apparently so void, were screening a strange and undreamed-of part for him to play. the spaniards, a vague, almost legendary people, as remote from raymond's life as the assamese or the cliff-dwellers of new mexico, began to take on a concrete character, and were suddenly discovered to be the enemies of the human race. raymond grew accustomed to the sight of cuban flags, at first so unfamiliar, and then, later, so touching in their significance. newspaper pictures of gomez and garcia were tacked on the homely walls of barber-shops, in railroad shops, in grubby offices and cargo elevators, and with them savage caricatures of a person called weyler, and referring bitterly to other persons (who seemed in a bad way) called the reconcentrados. raymond wondered what it was all about; bought books to elucidate the matter; took fire with indignation and resentment. then came the maine affair; the suspense of seventy million people eager to avenge their dead; the decision of the court of inquiry; the emergency vote; the preparation for war. raymond watched it all with a curious detachment. he never realised that it could have anything personally to do with him. the long days in the auditor's department went on undisturbed for all that the country was arming and the state governors were calling out their quotas of men. two of his associates quitted their desks and changed their black coats for army blue. raymond admired them; envied them; but it never occurred to him to ask why they should go and he should stay. it was natural for him to stay; it was inevitable; he was as much a part of the office as the office floor. one afternoon, going home on the elevated, he overheard two men talking. "i don't know what we'll do," said one. "oh, there are lots of men," said the other. "men, yes--but no sailors," said the first. "that's right," said the other. "we are at our wits' end to man the new ships," said the first. "what did you total up to-day?" said the other. his companion shrugged his shoulders. "eighty applicants, and seven taken," he said. "and those foreigners?" "all but two!" "there's danger in that kind of thing!" "yes, indeed, but what can you do?" the words rang in raymond's head. that night he hardly slept. he was in the throes of making a tremendous resolution, he who, for forty years, had been tied to his mother's apron string. making it of his own volition, unprompted, at the behest of no one save, perhaps, the man in the car, asserting at last his manhood in defiance of the subjection that had never come home to him until that moment. he rose in the morning, pale and determined. he felt a hypocrite through and through as his mother commented on his looks and grew anxious as he pushed away his untasted breakfast. it came over him afresh how good she was, how tender. he did not love her less because his great purpose had been taken. he knew how she would suffer, and the thought of it racked his heart; he was tempted to take her into his confidence, but dared not, distrusting his own powers of resistance were she to say no. so he kissed her instead, with greater warmth than usual, and left the house with misty eyes. he got an extension of the noon hour and hurried down to the naval recruiting office. it was doing a brisk business in turning away applicants, and from the bottom of the line raymond was not kept waiting long before he attained the top; and from thence in his turn was led into an inner office. he was briefly examined as to his sea experience. could he box the compass? he could. could he make a long splice? he could. what was meant by the monkey-gaff of a full-rigged ship? he told them. what was his reason in wanting to join the navy? because he thought he'd like to do something for his country. very good; turn him over to the doctor; next! then the doctor weighed him, looked at his teeth, hit him in the chest, listened to his heart, thumped and questioned him, and then passed him on to a third person to be enrolled. when george raymond emerged into the open air it was as a full a b in the service of the united states this announcement at the office made an extraordinary sensation. men he hardly knew shook hands with him and clapped him on the back. he was taken upstairs to be impressively informed that his position would be held open for him. on every side he saw kindling faces, smiling glances of approbation, the quick passing of the news in whispers. he had suddenly risen from obscurity to become part of the war; the heir of a wonderful and possibly tragic future; a patriot; a hero! it was a bewildering experience and not without its charm. he was surprised to find himself still the same man. the scene at home was less enthusiastic. it was even mortifying, and georgie, as his mother invariably called him, had to endure a storm of sarcasm and reproaches. the old woman's ardent patriotism stopped short at giving up her son. it was the duty of others to fight, georgie's to stay at home with his mother. he let her talk herself out, saying little, but regarding her with a grave, kind obstinacy. then she broke down, weeping and clinging to him. somehow, though he could hardly explain it to himself, the relation between the two underwent a change. he left that house the unquestioned master of himself, the acknowledged head of that tiny household; he had won, and his victory instead of abating by a hair's-breadth his mother's love for him had drawn the pair closer to each other than ever before. though she had no articulate conception of it georgie had risen enormously in his mother's respect. the woman had given way to the man, and the eternal fitness of things had been vindicated. her tenderness and devotion were redoubled. never had there been such a son in the history of the world. she relaxed her economies in order to buy him little delicacies, such as sardines and pickles; and when soon after his enlistment his uniform came home she spread it on her bed and cried, and then sank on her knees, passionately kissing the coarse serge. in the limitation of her horizon she could see but a single figure. it was georgie's country, georgie's president, georgie's fleet, georgie's righteous quarrel in the cause of stifled freedom. to her, it was georgie's war with spain. he was drafted aboard the dixie, where, within a week of his joining, he was promoted to be one of the four quartermasters. so much older than the majority of his comrades, quick, alert, obedient, and responsible, he was naturally amongst the first chosen for what are called leading seamen. never was a man more in his element than george raymond. he shook down into naval life like one born to it. the sea was in his blood, and his translation from the auditor's department to the deck of a fighting ship seemed to him like one of those happy dreams when one pinches himself to try and confirm the impossible. metaphorically speaking, he was always pinching himself and contrasting the monotonous past with the glorious and animated present. the change told in his manner, in the tilt of his head, in his fearless eyes and straighter back. it comes natural to heroes to protrude their chests and walk upon air; and it is pardonable, indeed, in war time, when each feels himself responsible for a fraction of his country's honour. "georgie, you are positively becoming handsome," said his mother. amongst raymond's comrades on the dixie was a youngster of twenty- one, named howard quintan. something attracted him in the boy, and he went out of his way to make things smooth for him aboard. the liking was no less cordially returned, and the two became fast friends. one day, when they were both given liberty together, howard insisted on taking him to his own home. "the folks want to know you," he said. "they naturally think a heap of you because i do, and i've told them how good you've been and all that." "oh, rubbish!" said raymond, though he was inwardly pleased. at the time they were walking up fifth avenue, both in uniform, with their caps on one side, sailor fashion, and their wide trousers flapping about their ankles. people looked at them kindly as they passed, for the shadow of the war lay on everyone and all hearts went out to the men who were to uphold the flag. raymond was flattered and yet somewhat overcome by the attention his companion and he excited. "let's get out of this, quint," he said. "i can't walk straight when people look at me like that. don't you feel kind of givey- givey at the knees with all those pretty girls loving us in advance?" "oh, that's what i like!" said quintan. "i never got a glance when i used to sport a silk hat. besides, here we are at the old stand!" raymond regarded him with blank surprise as they turned aside and up the steps of one of the houses. "land's sake!" he exclaimed; "you don't mean to say you live in a place like this? here?" he added, with an intonation that caused howard to burst out laughing. the young fellow pushed by the footman that admitted them and ran up the stairs three steps at a time. raymond followed more slowly, dazed by the splendour he saw about him, and feeling horribly embarrassed and deserted. he halted on the stairs as he saw quintan throw his arms about a tall, stately, magnificently dressed woman and kiss her boisterously; and he was in two minds whether or not to slink down again and disappear, when his companion called out to him to hurry up. "mother, this is mr. raymond," he said. "he's the best friend i have on the dixie, and you're to be awfully good to him!" mrs. quintan graciously gave him her hand and said something about his kindness to her boy. raymond was too stricken to speak and was thankful for the semi-darkness that hid his face. mrs. quintan continued softly, in the same sweet and overpowering manner, to purr her gratitude and try to put him at his ease. raymond would have been a happy man could he have sunk though the parquetry floor. he trembled as he was led into the drawing-room, where another gracious and overpowering creature rose to receive them. "my aunt, miss christine latimer," said howard. she was younger than mrs. quintan; a tall, fair woman of middle age, with a fine figure, hair streaked with grey, and the remains of what had once been extreme beauty. her voice was the sweetest raymond had ever listened to, and his shyness and agitation wore off as she began to speak to him. he was left a long while alone with her, for howard and his mother withdrew, excusing themselves on the score of private matters. christine latimer was touched by the forlorn quartermaster, who, in his nervousness, gripped his chair with clenched hands and started when he was asked a question. she soon got him past this stage of their acquaintance, and, leading him on by gentle gradations to talk about himself, even learned his whole story, and that in so unobtrusive a fashion that he was hardly aware of his having told it to her. "i am speaking to you as though i had known you all my life," he said in an artless compliment. "i hope it is not very forward of me. it is your fault for being so kind and good." he was ecstatic when he left the house with quintan. "i didn't know there were such women in the world," he said. "so noble, so winning and high-bred. it makes you understand history to meet people like that. mary queen of scots, marie antoinette and all those, you know--they must have been like that. i--i could understand a man dying for miss latimer!" "oh, she's all right, my aunt!" said quintan. "she was a tremendous beauty once, and even now she's what i'd call a devilish handsome woman. and the grand manner, it isn't everybody that likes it, but i do. it's a little old-fashioned nowadays, but, by jove, it still tells." "i wonder that such a splendid woman should have remained unmarried," said raymond. he stuck an instant on the word unmarried. it seemed almost common to apply to such a princess. "she had an early love affair that turned out badly," said quintan. "i don't know what went wrong, but anyway it didn't work. then, when my father died, she came to live with us and help bring us up--you see there are two more of us in the family--and i am told she refused some good matches just on account of us kids. it makes me feel guilty sometimes to think of it." "why guilty?" asked raymond. "because none of us were worth it, old chap," said quintan. "i'm sure she never thought so," observed raymond. "my aunt's rather an unusual woman," said quintan. "she has voluntarily played second fiddle all her life; and, between you and me, you know, my mother's a bit of a tyrant, and not always easy to get along with--so it wasn't so simple a game as it looks." raymond was shocked at this way of putting the matter. "you mean she sacrificed the best years of her life for you," he said stiffly. "women are like that--good women," said quintan. "catch a man being such a fool--looking at it generally, you know--me apart. she had a tidy little fortune from her father, and might have had a yard of her own to play in, but our little baby hands held her tight." raymond regarded his companion's hands. they were large and red, and rough with the hard work on board the dixie; regarded them respectfully, almost with awe, for had they not restrained that glorious being in the full tide of her youth and beauty! "now it's too late," said quintan. "what do you mean by too late?" asked the quartermaster. "well, she's passed forty," said quintan. "the babies have grown up, and the selfish beasts are striking out for themselves. her occupation's gone, and she's left plante la. worse than that, my mother, who never bothered two cents about us then, now loves us to distraction. and, when all's said, you know, it's natural to like your mother best!" "too bad!" ejaculated raymond. "i call it deuced hard luck," said quintan. "my mother really neglected us shamefully, and it was aunt christine who brought us up and blew our noses and rubbed us with goose-grease when we had croup, and all that kind of thing. then, when we grew up, my mother suddenly discovered her long-lost children and began to think a heap of us--after having scamped the whole business for fifteen years--and my aunt, who was the real nigger in the hedge, got kind of let out, you see." raymond did not see, and he was indignant, besides, at the coarseness of his companion's expressions. so he walked along and said nothing. "and, as i said before, it's now too late," said quintan. "too late for what?" demanded raymond, who was deeply interested. "for her to take up with anybody else," said quintan. "to marry, you know. she sacrificed all her opportunities for us; and now, in the inevitable course of things, we are kind of abandoning her when she is old and faded and lonely." "i consider your aunt one of the most beautiful women in the world," protested raymond. "but you can't put back the clock, old fellow," said quintan. "what has the world to offer to an old maid of forty-two? there she is in the empty nest, and not her own nest at that, with all her little nestlings flying over the hills and far away, and the genuine mother-bird varying the monotony by occasionally pecking her eyes out." raymond did not know what to answer. he could not be so rude as to make any reflection on mrs. quintan, though he was stirred with resentment against her. this noble, angelic, saintly woman, who in every gesture reminded him of dead queens and historic personages! it went to his heart to think of her, bereft and lonely, in that splendid house he had so lately quitted. he recognised, in the unmistakable accord between him and her, the fellowship of a pair who, in different ways and in different stations, had yet fought and suffered and endured for what they judged their duty. forty- two years old! singular coincidence, in itself almost a bond between them, that he, too, was of an identical age. forty-two! why, it was called the prime of life. he inhaled a deep breath of air; it was the prime of life; until then no one had really begun to live! "why don't you say something?" said quintan. "i was just thinking how mistaken you were," returned raymond. "there must be hundreds of men who would be proud to win her slightest regard; who, instead of considering her faded or old, would choose her out of a thousand of younger women and would be happy for ever if she would take--" he was going to say them, but that sounded improper, and he changed it, at the cost of grammar, to "him." quintan laughed at his companion's vehemence, and the subject passed and gave way to another about shrapnel. but he did not fail, later on, to carry a humorous report of the conversation to his aunt. "what have you been doing to my old quartermaster?" he said. "hasn't the poor fellow enough troubles as it is, without falling in love with you! he can't talk of anything else, and blushes like a girl when he mentions your name. he told me yesterday he was willing to die for a woman like you." "i think he's a dear, nice fellow," said miss latimer, "and if he wants to love me he can. it will keep him out of mischief!" raymond saw a great deal of miss latimer in the month before they sailed south. quintan took him constantly to the house, where, in his capacity of humble and devoted comrade, the tall quartermaster was always welcome and made much of. mrs. quintan was alive to the value of this attached follower, who might be trusted to guard her son in the perils that lay before him. she treated him as a sort of combination of valet, nurse, and poor relation, asking him all sorts of intimate questions about howard's socks and underclothing, and holding him altogether responsible for the boy's welfare. her tone was one of anxious patronage, touching at times on a deeper emotion when she often broke down and cried. the quartermaster was greatly moved by her trust in him. the tears would come to his own eyes, and he would try in his clumsy way to comfort her, promising that, so far as it lay with him, howard should return safe and sound. in his self-abnegation it never occurred to him that his own life was as valuable as howard quintan's. he acquiesced in the understanding that it was his business to get howard through the war unscratched, at whatever risk or jeopardy to himself. those were wonderful days for him. to be an intimate of that splendid household, to drive behind spanking bays with miss latimer by his side, to take tea at the waldorf with her and other semi-divine beings--what a dazzling experience for the ex-clerk, whose lines so recently had lain in such different places. innately a gentleman, he bore himself with dignity in this new position, with a fine simplicity and self-effacement that was not lost on some of his friends. his respect for them all was unbounded. for the mother, so majestic, so awe-inspiring; for howard, that handsome boy whose exuberant americanism was untouched by any feeling of caste; for melton and hubert henry, his brothers, those lordly striplings of a lordly race; for miss latimer, who in his heart of hearts he dared not call christine, and who to him was the embodiment of everything adorable in women. yes, he loved her; confessed to himself that he loved her; humbly and without hope, with no anticipation of anything more between them, overcome indeed that his presumption should go thus far. he did not attempt to hide his feelings for her, and though too shy for any expression of it, and withheld besides by the utter impossibility of such a suit, he betrayed himself to her in a thousand artless ways. he asked for no higher happiness than to sit by her side, looking into her face and listening to her mellow voice. he was thrice happy were he privileged to touch her hand in passing a teacup. her gentleness and courtesy, her evident consideration, the little peeps she gave him into a nature gracious and refined beyond anything he had ever known, all transported him with unreasoning delight. she, on her part, so accustomed to play a minor role herself in her sister's household, was yet too much a woman not to like an admirer of her own. she took more pains with her dress, looked at herself more often in the glass than she had done in years. it was laughable; it was absurd; and she joined as readily as anyone in the mirth that raymond's devotion excited in the family, but, deep down within her, she was pleased. at the least it showed she had not grown too old to make men love her; it was the vindication of the mounting years; the time, then, had not yet come when she had ceased altogether to count. she had lost her nephews, who were growing to be men; the love she put by so readily when it was in her reach seemed now more precious as she beheld her faded and diminished beauty, the crow's-feet about her eyes, her hair turning from brown to grey. a smothered voice within her said: "why not?" she analysed raymond narrowly in the long tete-a-tetes they had together. she drew him out, encouraging and pressing him to tell her everything about himself. she was always apprehending a jarring note, the inevitable sign of the man's coarser clay, of his commoner upbringing, the clash of his caste on hers. but she was struck instead by his inherent refinement, by his unformulated instincts of well-doing and honour. he was hazy about the use of oyster-forks, had never seen a finger-bowl, committed to her eyes a dozen little solecisms which he hastened to correct by frankly asking her assistance; but in the true essentials she never had to feel any shame for him. clumsy, grotesquely ignorant of the social amenities, he was yet a gentleman. the night before they were to sail, he came to say good-bye. the war had at last begun in earnest; men were falling, and the spaniards were expected to make a desperate and bloody resistance. it was a sobering moment for everyone, and, in all voices, however hard they tried to make them brave and gay, there ran an undercurrent of solemnity. howard and raymond were to be actors in that terrible drama not yet played; stripped and powder-blackened at their guns, they were perhaps doomed to go down with their ship and find their graves in the caribbean. before them lay untold possibilities of wounds and mutilation, of disease, suffering, and horror. what woman that knew them could look on unmoved at the sight of these men, so grave and earnest, so quietly resolute, so deprecatory of anything like braggadocio or over-confidence? it filled christine latimer with a fierce pride in herself and them; in a race that could breed men so gentle and so brave; in a country that was founded so surely on the devoted hearts of its citizens. she was crying as raymond came to her later on the same evening, and found her sitting in the far end of the drawing-room with the lights turned low. they were alone together, for the quartermaster had left howard with his mother and his brothers gathered in a farewell group about the library fire. miss latimer took both of raymond's hands, and, with no attempt to disguise her sorrow, drew him close beside her on the divan. she was overflowing with pity for this poor fellow, whose life had been so hard, in which until now there had neither been love nor friends, whose only human tie was to his mother and to her. had he known it, he might have put his arms about her and kissed her tear-swollen eyes and drawn her head against his breast. she was filled with a pent-up tenderness for him; a word, and she would have discovered what was until then inarticulate in her bosom. but the tall quartermaster was withheld from such incredible presumption. her beautiful gown against his common serge typified, as it were, the gulf between them. her distress, her agitation, were in his mind due to her concern for howard quintan; and he told her again and again, with manly sincerity, that he would take good care of her boy. she knew he loved her. it had been plain to her for weeks past. she knew every thought in his head as he sat there beside her, thrilled with the touch of her hands, and in the throes of a respectful rapture. again and again the avowal was on his lips; he longed to tell her how dear she was to him; it would be hard to die with that unsaid, were he to be amongst those who never returned. it never occurred to him that she might return his love. a woman like her! a queen! she could easily have helped him out. more than once she was on the point of doing so. but the woman in her rebelled at the thought of taking what was the man's place. she had something of the exaggerated delicacy of an old maid. it was for him to ask, for her to answer; and the precious moments slipped away. at last, greatly daring, he managed to blurt out the fact that he wanted to ask a favour. "a favour?" she said. "won't you give me something," he said timidly, "some little thing to take with me to remember you by?" she replied she would with pleasure. she wanted him to remember her. what was it that he would like? "there is nothing i could refuse you," she said, smiling. raymond was overcome with embarrassment. she saw him looking at her hair; her hair which was her greatest beauty, and which when undone was luxuriant enough to reach below her waist. he had often expressed his admiration for it. "what would you like?" she asked again. "oh, anything," he faltered. "a--a book!" she could not restrain her laughter. a book! she laughed and laughed. she seemed carried away by an extraordinary merriment. raymond thought he had never heard a woman laugh like that before. it made him feel very badly. he wondered what it was that had made his request so ridiculous. he thanked his stars that he had held his tongue about the other thing. ah, what a fool he had been! he could not have borne it, had the other been received with the same derision. "i shall give you my prayer-book," she said at last, wiping her eyes and looking less amused than he had expected. "i've had it many years and value it dearly. it is prettily bound in russia, and if you carry it on the proper place romance will see that it stops a bullet--though a bible, i believe, is the more correct." somehow her tone sounded less cordial. she had withdrawn her hands, and her humour, at such a moment, jarred on him. in spite of his good resolutions he had managed to put his foot into it after all. perhaps she had begun to suspect his secret and was displeased. he departed feeling utterly wretched and out of heart, and got very scant comfort from his book, for it only reminded him of how seriously he had compromised himself. he was in two minds whether or not to send it back, but decided not to do so in fear lest he might give fresh offence. the next day at dawn the dixie sailed for the scene of war. iii then followed the historic days of the blockade; the first landing on cuba; the suspense and triumph attending cervera's capture; el caney; san juan hill; santiago; and the end of the war. howard quintan fell ill with fever and was early invalided home; but raymond stayed to the finish, an obscure spectator, often an obscure actor, in that world-drama of fleets and armies. tried in the fire, his character underwent some noted changes. he developed unexpected aptitudes, became a marksman of big guns, showed resource and skill in boat-work, earned the repeated commendations of his superiors. he put his resolutions to the test, and emerged, surprised, thankful, and satisfied, to find that he was a brave man. he rose in his own esteem; it was borne in on him that he had qualities that others often lacked; it was inspiriting to win a reputation for daring, fearlessness, and responsibility. he wrote when he could to his mother and miss latimer, and at rare intervals was sometimes fortunate enough to hear in turn from them. his mother was ill; the strain of his absence and danger was telling on her enfeebled constitution; she said she could not have got along at all had it not been for miss latimer's great kindness. it seemed that the old maid was her constant visitor, bringing her flowers, taking her drives, comforting her in the dark hours when her courage was nigh spent. "a good and noble woman," wrote the old lady, "and very much in love with my boy." that line rang in raymond's head long afterwards. he read it again and again, bewildered, tempted and yet afraid to believe it true, moved to the depths of his nature, at once happy and unhappy in the gamut of his doubts. it could not be possible. no, it could not be possible. standing at the breech of his gun, his eyes on a spanish gunboat they had driven under the shelter of a fort, he found himself repeating: "and very much in love with my boy. and very much in love with my boy." and then, suddenly becoming intent again on the matter in hand, he slammed the breech-mechanism shut and gave the enemy a six-inch shell. then there came the news of his mother's death. as much a victim of the war as any stricken soldier or sailor at the front, she was numbered on the roll of the fallen. the war had killed her as certainly, as surely, as any mauser bullet sped from a tropic thicket. raymond had only the consolation of knowing that miss latimer had been with her at the last and that she had followed his mother to the grave. her letter, tender and pitiful, filled him with an inexpressible emotion. his little world now held but her. this was the last letter he was destined to receive from her. the others, if there were others, all went astray in the chaotic confusion attendant on active service. the poor quartermaster, when the ship was so lucky as to take a mail aboard, grew accustomed to be told that there was nothing for him. he lost heart and stopped writing himself. what was the use, he asked himself? had she not abandoned him? the critical days of the war were over; peace was assured; the victory won, the country was already growing forgetful of the victors. such were his moody reflections as he paced the deck, hungry for the word that never came. yes, he was forgotten. there could be no other explanation of that long silence. he was forgotten! he returned in due course to new york and was paid off and mustered out of the service. it was dusk when he boarded an uptown car and stood holding to a strap, jostled and pushed about by the unheeding crowd. already jealous of his uniform, he felt a little bitterness to see it regarded with such scant respect. he looked out of the windows at the lighted streets and wondered whether any of those hurrying thousands cared a jot for the men that had fought and died for them. the air, so sharp and chill after the tropics, served still further to dispirit him and add the concluding note of depression to his home-coming. he got off the car and walked down to fifth avenue, holding his breath as he drew near the quintans' house. he rang the bell: waited and rang again. then at last the door was unlocked and opened by an old woman. "is miss--mrs. quintan at home?" he asked. "gone to europe," said the old woman. "but miss latimer?" he persisted. "gone to europe," said the old woman. "mr. howard quintan?" "gone to europe!" he walked slowly down the steps, not even waiting to ask for their address abroad nor when they might be expected to return. they had faded into the immeasurable distance. what more was there to be said or hoped, and his dejected heart gave back the answer: nothing. he slept that night in a cheap hotel. the next day he bought a suit of civilian clothes and sought the office of the auditor's department. here he received something more like a welcome. many of the clerks, with whom he had scarcely been on nodding terms, now came up and shook him warmly by the hand. the superintendent sent for him and told him that his place had been held open, hinting, in the exuberance of the moment, at a slight increase of salary. the assistant superintendent made much of him and invited him out to lunch. the old darkey door-keeper greeted him like a long-lost parent. raymond went back to his desk, and resumed with a sort of melancholy satisfaction the interrupted routine of twenty years. in a week he could hardly believe he had ever quitted his desk. he would shut his eyes and wonder whether the war had not been all a dream. he looked at his hands and asked himself whether they indeed had pulled the lanyards of cannon, lifted loaded projectiles, had held the spokes of the leaping wheel. his eyes, now intent on figures, had they in truth ever searched the manned decks of the enemy or trained the sights that had blown spanish blockhouses to the four winds of heaven? had it been he or his ghost who had stood behind the nordenfeldt shields with the bullets pattering against the steel and stinging the air overhead? he or his ghost, barefoot in the sand that sopped the blood of fallen comrades, the ship shaking with the detonation of her guns, the hoarse cheering of her crew re-echoing in his half- deafened ears? a dream, yes; tragic and wonderful in the retrospect, filled with wild, bright pictures; incredible, yet true! he was restless and lonely. he dreaded his evenings, which he knew not how to spend; dreaded the recurring sunday, interminable in duration, whose leaden hours seemed never to reach their end. his only solace was in his work, which took him out of himself and prevented him from thinking. he made a weekly pilgrimage past the quintans' house. the blinds were always drawn. it was as dead as one of those cuban mills, standing in the desolation of burned fields. once, greatly daring, and impelled by a sudden impulse, he went to the door and requested the address of his vanished friends: "grand hotel, vevey, switzerland." he repeated the words to himself as he went back to his boarding-house, repeated them again and again like a child going on an errand, "grand hotel, vevey, switzerland," in a sort of panic lest he might forget them. he tossed that night in his bed in a torment of indecision. ought he to write? ought he to take the risk of a reply, courteous and cold, that he felt himself without the courage to endure? or was it not better to put an end to it altogether and accept like a man the inevitable "no" of her decision. he rose at dawn, and, lighting the gas, went back to bed with what paper he could lay his hands on. he had no pen, no ink, only the stub of a pencil he carried in his pocket. how it flew over the ragged sheets under the fierce spell of his determination! all the misery and longing of months went out in that letter. inarticulate no longer, he found the expression of a passionate and despairing eloquence. he could not live without her; he loved her; he had always loved her; before he had been daunted by the inequality between them, but now he must speak or die. at the end he asked her, in set old-fashioned terms, whether or not she would marry him. he mailed it as it was, in odd sheets and under the cover of an official envelope of the railroad company. he dropped it into the box and walked away, wondering whether he wasn't the biggest fool on earth and the most audacious, and yet stirred and trembling with a strange satisfaction. after all he was a man; he had lived as a man should, honorably and straightforwardly; he had the right to ask such a question of any woman and the right to an honest and considerate answer. be it yes or no, he could reproach himself no longer with perhaps having let his happiness slip past him. the matter would be put beyond a doubt for ever, and if it went against him, as in the bottom of his heart he felt assured it would, he would try to bear it with what fortitude he might. she would know that he loved her. there was always that to comfort him. she would know that he loved her. he got a postal guide and studied out the mails. he learned the names of the various steamers, the date of their sailing and arriving, the distance of vevey from the sea. were she to write on the same day she received his letter, he might hear from her by the touraine. were she to wait a day, her answer would be delayed for the normandie. all this, if the schedule was followed to the letter and bad weather or accident did not intervene. the shipping page of the new york herald became the only part of it he read. he scanned it daily with anxiety. did it not tell him of his letter speeding over seas? for him no news was good news, telling him that all was well. he kept himself informed of the temperature of paris, the temperature of nice, and worried over the floods in belgium. from the gloomy offices of the railroad he held all europe under the closest scrutiny. then came the time when his letter was calculated to arrive. in his mind's eye he saw the grand hotel at vevey, a waldorf-astoria set in snowy mountains with attendant swiss yodelling on inaccessible summits, or getting marvels of melody out of little hand-bells, or making cuckoo clocks in top-swollen chalets. the letter would be brought to her on a silver salver, exciting perhaps the stately curiosity of mrs. quintan and questions embarrassing to answer. it was a pity he used that railroad envelope! or would it lie beside her plate at breakfast, as clumsy and unrefined as himself, amid a heap of scented notes from members of the nobility? ah, if he could but see her face and read his fate in her blue eyes! when he returned home that night there was a singular-looking telegram awaiting him on the hall table. his hands shook as he took it up for it suddenly came over him that it was a cable. it had never occurred to him that she might do that; that there was anything more expeditious than the mail. "sailing by touraine arriving sixth christine latimer." he read and re-read it until the type grew blurred. what did it mean? he asked himself that a thousand times. what did it mean? he sought his room and locked the door, striding up and down with agitation, the cablegram clenched in his hand. he was beside himself, triumphant and yet in a fever of misgiving. was it not perhaps a coincidence--not an answer to his own letter, but one of those extraordinary instances of what is called telepathy? her words would bear either interpretation. possibly the whole family was returning with her. possibly she had never seen his letter at all. possibly it was following her back to america, unopened and undelivered. "sailing by touraine arriving sixth." was that an answer? perhaps indeed it was. perhaps it was a woman's way of saying "yes"; it might even be, in her surpassing kindness, that she was coming to break her refusal as gently as she might, too considerate of his feelings to write it baldly on paper. at least, amid all these doubts, it assured him of one thing, her regard; that he was not forgotten; that he had been mistaken in thinking himself ignored. he spent the next eight days in a cruel and heart-breaking suspense. he could hardly eat or sleep. he grew thin and started at a sound. he paid a dollar to have the touraine's arrival telegraphed to the office; another dollar to have it telegraphed to the boarding-house; he was fearful that one or the other might miscarry, and repeatedly warned the landlady of a possible message for him in the middle of the night. "it means a great deal to me," he said. "it means everything to me. i don't know what i'd do if i missed the touraine!" of course he did not miss the touraine. he was on the wharf hours before her coming. he exasperated everyone with his questions. he was turned out of all kinds of barriers; he earned the distrust of the detectives; he became a marked man. he was certainly there for no good, that tall guy in the slouch hat, his lean hands fidgeting for a surreptitious pearl-necklace or an innocent-looking umbrella full of diamonds--one who, in their language, was a guy that would bear watching. the steamer came alongside, and raymond gazed up at the tier upon tier of faces. at length, with a catch in his heart, he caught sight of miss latimer, who smiled and waved her hand to him. he scanned her narrowly for an answer to his doubts; and these increased the more he gazed at her. it seemed a bad sign to see her so calm, so composed; worse still to see her occasionally in animated conversation with some of her fellow-passengers. he thought her smiles had even a perfunctory friendliness, and he had to share them besides with others. it was plain she had never received his letter. no woman could bear herself like that who had received such a letter. then too she appeared so handsome, so high-bred, so charming and noticeable a figure in the little company about her that raymond felt a peremptory sense of his own humbleness and of the impassable void between them. how had he ever dared aspire to this beautiful woman, and the thought of his effrontery took him by the throat. he stood by the gangway as the passengers came off, an interminable throng, slow moving, teetering on the slats, a gush of funnelled humanity, hampered with bags, hat-boxes, rolls of rugs, dressing-cases, golf-sticks, and children. at last miss latimer was carried into the eddy, her maid behind her carrying her things, lost to view save by the bright feather in her travelling bonnet. the seconds were like hours as raymond waited. he had a peep of her, smiling and patient, talking over her shoulder to a big englishman behind her. then, as the slow stream brought her down, she stepped lightly on the wharf, turned to raymond, and, before he could so much as stammer out a word, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. "did you really want me?" she said; and then, "you gave me but two hours to catch the old touraine!" the mascot of battery b battery a had a mascot goat, and battery c a filipino kid, and battery d a parrot that could swear in five languages, but i guess we were the only battery in the brigade that carried an old lady! filipino, nothing! but white as yourself and from oakland, california, and i don't suppose i'd be here talking to you now, if it hadn't been for her. i had known benny a long time--benny was her son, you know, the only one she had--and when i enlisted at the beginning of the war benny wished to do it, too, only he was scared to death, not of the spaniards, but his old ma! so he hung off and on, while i drilled at the presidio and rode free on the street cars, and did the little hero act, and ate pie the whole day long. my! how they used to bring us pies in them times and boxes of see-gars--and flowers! flowers to burn! well i remember a wisconsin regiment marching along market street, big splendid men from the up-north woods, every one of them with a calla lily stuck in his gun! oh, it was fine, with the troops pouring in, and the whole city afire to receive them, and the girls almost cutting the clothes off your back for souvenirs--and it made benny sick to see it all, him clerking in a hardware store and eating his heart out to go with the boys. he hung back as long as he could, but at last he couldn't stand it no longer, and the day before we sailed he went and enlisted in my battery. he knew there was going to be a rumpus at home and i suppose that was why he put it off to the very end, not wanting to be plagued to death or cried over. but when he got into his uniform and had done a spell of goose-step with the first sergeant, he was so blamed rattled about going home that he had to take me along too. he lived away off somewheres in a poorish sort of neighbourhood, all little frame houses and little front yards about that big, where you could see commuters watering calla lilies in their city clothes. benny's house seemed the smallest and poorest of the lot, though it had calla lilies too and other sorts of flowers, and a mat with "welcome" on it, and some kind of a dog that licked our hands as we walked up the front steps and answered to the name of dook. benny pushed open the door and went in, me at his heels, and both of us nervous as cats. his mother was sitting in a rocker, reading the evening paper with gold spectacles, and i never saw such a straight-backed old lady in my life, nor any so tall and thin and commanding. she looked up at us, kind of startled to see two soldiers walking into her kitchen, and benny smiled a silly smile and said: "mommer, i'm off to help dooey in the fillypines!" i guess he thought she'd jump at him or something, for he had always been a mother's boy and minded everything she said, though he was twenty-eight years old and rising-nine--but all she did was to draw in her breath sharp and sudden, so you could hear the whistle of it, and then two big tears rolled out under her specs. "don't feel bad about it, mommer," said benny in a snuffly voice. she never said a word, but got up from the chair and came over to where benny was, very white and trembly, and looking at his army coat like it was a shroud. "oh, my son, my son!" she said, kind of choking over the words. "i couldn't stay behind when all the boys was going," he said. i saw he was holding back all he could to keep from crying, and i didn't blame him either, as we was to sail the next day and the old lady was his ma. it's them good-byes that break a soldier all up. so i lit out and played with the dog and made him jump through my hands and fetch sticks and give his paw (he was quite a re-markable dog, that dog, though his breeding wasn't much), while i could hear them inside, talking and talking, and the old lady's voice running on about the danger of drink and how he mustn't sleep in wet clothes or give back-talk to his officers--it was wonderful the horse-sense that old lady had--and how he must respeck the uniform he wore and be cheerful and willing and brave, like his sainted father who was dead--all that mothers say and sometimes what soldiers do--and through it all there was a pleasant rattle of dishes and the sound of the fire being poked up, and benny asking where's the table-cloth, and was there another pie? by and by i was called in, and there, sure enough, the table was spread, and we were both made to sit down while the old lady skirmished around and wiped her eyes when we weren't looking. we had beefsteak, warmed-over pigs' feet, coffee, potato cakes, fresh lettuce, graham gems, and two kinds of pie, and the next day we sailed for manila. them early days in the fillypines was the toughest proposition i was ever up against. things hadn't settled down as they did afterward, nobody knowing where he was at, and all of us shoved up to the front higgeldy-piggeldy; and, being regulars, they gave us the heavy end of it, having to do all the fighting while the volunteers was being taught the difference between a krag- jorgensen and a moro castle. it was all front in them days--for the regulars! but we were lucky in our commissary sergeant, a splendid young man named orr, and we lived well from the start and never came down to rations. the battery got quite a name for having griddle-cakes for breakfast and carrying a lot of dog generally in the eating line, and someone wrote a song, to the toon of chickamauga, called "the fried chicken of battery b." but i tell you, it wasn't all fried chicken either, for the fighting was heavy and hot, and a good many of the boys pegged out. if ever there was a battery that looked for trouble and got it--it was battery b! but we took good care of our commissary sergeant--did i mention he was a splendid young man named orr?--and though we dropped a good many numbers, wounded, dead, sick, and missing--we kep' up the good name of the battery and had canned butter and pop-overs nearly every day. benny and i were chums, but nobody knows what that word means till you've kept warm under the same blanket and kneeled side by side in the firing-line. it brings men together like nothing else in the world, and it's queer the unlikely sorts that take to one another. i was so common and uneddicated that i wonder what benny ever saw to like in me, for, as i said, he was a regular mommer's boy and splendidly brought up and an electrician. religious, too, and a church member! but he was powerful fond of me, and never went into action but what he'd let off a little prayer to himself that i might come out all right and go to heaven if bolo-ed. pity he hadn't taken as much trouble for himself, for one day while we were lying in a trench, and firing for all we were worth, i suddenly saw that look in his face that a soldier gets to know so well. "benny, you're shot!" i yelled out, dropping my krag and all struck of a heap. "shot, nothing!" he answered, and then he keeled over in the dirt and his legs began to kick. he took a powerful long time to die, and there was even some talk of sending him down to the base hospital, the field one being that full and constantly needed at our heels. but he pleaded with the doctors and was allowed as a favour to stay on and die where he was minded--with the battery. i was with him all i could, and i'll never forget how good that commissary sergeant was, a splendid young man named orr, who always had a little pot of chicken broth for benny and cornstarch, and what he fancied most of all--a sort of thick dough cakes we called sinkers. as luck would have it i got into trouble about this time--a little matter of two silver candle-sticks and a virgin's crown--and benny sent for captain howard (it was him that commanded the battery), and weak as he was, dying, he begged me off, and the captain swore awful to hide how bad he felt, and struck my name off the sheet to please him. there was little enough to do in this line, for it was plain as day where benny was bound for, and he knew himself he would never see that little home in oakland again. well, he got worse and worse, and sometimes when i went there he didn't know me, being out of his head or kind of dopy with the doctor's stuff, the shadow being over him, as irish people say. one night he was that low that i got scared, and i waylaid the contract surgeon as he came out. "doctor," i said, "it's all up with benny, ain't it?" "he'll never hear reveille no more," he says. i got my blanket and lay outside the door, it being against regulations for any of us to be in the field-hospital after taps. but the orderly said he'd call me if benny was to wake up before the end, and the doctor promised me i might go in. sure enough, i was called somewheres along of four o'clock and the orderly led me inside the tent to benny's cot. there was no light but a candle in a bottle, and i held it in my hand and bent over and looked in benny's face. he was himself all right, and he put his cold, sweaty hand in mine and pressed it. "do you know me, old man?" i said. "do you know me?" "good-bye, bill," he said, and then, as i leaned over him, his voice being that low and faint--he whispered: "billy, i guess you'll have to rustle for another chum!" them was his last words and he said them with a kind of a smile, like he was happy and didn't give a damn to live. then the little life he had left went out. the orderly looked at his watch, and then wrote the time on a slate after benny's regimental number and the word: "died." this was about all the epitaph he got, though we buried him properly in the morning and gave him the usual send- off. then his effects was auctioned off in front of the captain's tent, a nickel for this, ten cents for that--a soldier hasn't much at any time, you know, and on the march less than a little--and five-sixty about covered the lot. there was quite a rush for the picture of his best girl, but i bought it in, along with one of his ma and a one-pound hotchkiss shell and the hilt of a spanish officer's sword; and when i had laid them away in my haversack and had borrowed a sheet of paper and an envelope from the commissary sergeant to write to benny's mother, it came over me what a little place a man fills in the world and how things go on much the same without him. i was setting down to write that letter and was about midway through, having got to "the pride of the battery and regretted by all who noo him," when i looked up, and what in thunder do you suppose i saw? the old lady herself, by god! walking into camp with an umberella and a valise, and looking like she always did-- powerful grim and commanding. someone must have told her the news and which was my tent, for she walked straight up to where i was and said: "william, william!" like that. she didn't cry or nothing, and anybody at a distance might have thought she was just talking to a stranger; but there was a whole funeral march in the sound of her voice, and you could read benny's death like print in her wrinkled old face. i took her out to where we had buried him, and she plumped down on her knees and prayed, with the umberella and the valise beside her, while i held my hat in one hand and my pistol in the other, ready for any bolo business that might come out of the high grass. then we went back to the field-hospital and had a look in, she explaining on the way how she had mortgaged her home, so as to come and look after benny. i guess the hospital must have appeared kind of cheerless, for lots of the wounded were lying on the bare ground, and it was a caution the way some of them groaned and groaned. you see battery k had just come in, having had an engagement by the way at dagupan, and wilson's cavalry, besides, had dumped a sight of their men on us. "and it was in a place like this that my boy died?" said the old lady, her mouth quivering and then closing on the words like a steel trap. "there's the very cot, ma'am," i said. she said something like "oh, oh, oh!" under her breath, and, taking out her handkerchief, wiped the face and lips of the man in the cot, who was lying there with his uniform still on him. i suppose he had got it because he was a bad case,--the cot, i mean,--and certainly he was far from spry. "he's dead!" said the old lady, shuddering. "he's dead!" "orderly," i said, "number fifty-six is dead!" the orderly bent over to make sure and then ran for his slate--the same old slate--and began to write down the same old thing. i suppose there was some sense to that slate racket, for with a little spit one slate would do for a brigade, but it seemed a cheap way to die. then, as we stood there, another orderly came gallumphing in with something steaming in a tin can. the old lady took it out of his hand and smelled it, supercilious. "what do you call this?" she said. "it's chicken broth, ma'am," he said. "that's what it is, ma'am." "faugh!" said the old lady, "faugh!" and handed it back to him, like she was going to throw it away, but didn't. then we watched him dip it out in tin cups and carry it around, while some other fellers came in and carried out the body of the man in the cot, a trooper by his legs. we went out with them, and, i tell you, it was good to stand in the open air again and breathe. the old lady took a little spell of rest on a packing-case; then she gave me her umberella and valise to take back to quarters, and, rolling up her sleeves, made like she was going into the hospital again. i didn't know what to say, but i guess i looked it. "william," she said, with a glitter of her gold specs. "ma'am," said i. "those boys aren't getting proper con-sideration," she said. "if it was dogs," she said, "they couldn't be treated worse. william, i'm going to see what one old woman can do." "you ought to ask captain howard first," i said. "you don't belong to the army medical corps." "it's them that let benny die," she said, with her eyes snapping, "and, as for asking, they'd say 'no,' for they don't allow any women except at the base hospitals." i knew this for a fack, but i'd rather she'd find it out from the captain than from me. i didn't want to seem to make trouble for her. so, while i was wondering what to do about it, she headed right in, leaving me with the valise and the umberella, and a kind of qualmy feeling that the old lady might strike a snag. i didn't have no chance to come back till along sundown, but, my stars! even in that time there had been a change. benny's mother had been getting in her deadly work, and the orderlies were bursting mad, not that any of them dared say anything outright or show it except in their faces, which were that long; for, you see, the contract surgeon had taken her side, and had backed her up. but they moved around like mules with their ears down, powerful unwilling, and yet scared to say a word. the hospital had been made a new place, with another tent up that had been laid away and forgotten (you wouldn't think it possible, but it was), and the sick and wounded had been sorted over and washed and made comfortable; and, where before there was no room to turn around, you could walk through wide lanes and wonder what had become of the crowd. she had peeked into the cooking, too, and had found out more things going wrong in five hours than the contract surgeon had in five months. blest if there wasn't a court-martial laying for every one of the orderlies if they said "boo!" for the swine had been making away scandalous with butter and chocolate and beef--tea and canned table peaches and sparrow-grass and sardines, and all the like of that, belly-robbing the boys right and left perfectly awful. it was a mighty good account of the contract surgeon that he took it all so well, and was willing to admit how badly he had been done. but he was a splendid young fellow, named marcus, and what the old lady said, went! he was right sorry he couldn't put her on the strength of the battery, but the regulations kept women nurses at the base-hospitals, and anyway (for we broke everything them days, and there wasn't enough red-tape left to play cat-and-my- cradle with) captain howard hated the sight of a petticoat, and was dead set against women anywheres. i don't know what they had ever done to him, but i'm just saying it for a fack. but, however it was, marcus said the old lady had to be kept out of sight, or else the captain would surely send her to the rear under arrest. now, this made it a pretty hard game for the old lady to play, and you can reckon how much dodging she had to do to keep out of the captain's sight. it was hard about her sleeping, too, for she had to do that where she could, not to speak of the pay she might have drawn and didn't, and which, sakes alive! she earned twenty times over. by and by everybody got onto it except the captain, but there wasn't such a skunk in the battery as to tell him, partly because of the joke, but, most of all, on account of the convalescents, who naturally thought a heap of her. then it got whispered around that she was our mascot, and carried the luck of the battery; and it was certainly re-markable how it began to change, getting fresh beef quite regular and maple syrup to burn, and nine kegs of navy pickles by mistake. you would have thought she was too old to stand it, for we was always on the move, and i have seen her sleeping on what was nothing else but mud, with the rain coming down tremenjous. but she was a tough old customer, and always came to time, outlasting men that could have tossed her in the air, or run with her a block and never taken breath. but, of course, it couldn't be kept up for ever--i mean about the captain--and, sure enough, one day he caught her riding on a gun-carriage, while he was passing along the line on a filipino pony. "good god!" he said, like that, reining in his horse and looking at her campaign hat and the old gingham dress she wore. i wonder she didn't correct him for his profanity, but i allow for once she was scared stiff, and hadn't no answer ready. my! but she kind of shrunk in and looked a million years old. "madam," said he, "do you belong to this column?" "unofficially, i do," she said, perking up a little. "might i inquire where you came from?" said he, doing the ironical perlite. "oakland, california," said she. "and is this your usual mode of locomotion?" said he. "riding on a gun?" said he. "like the goddess of war," said he. "perching on the belcherous cannon's back," said he. the old lady, now as bold as brass, allowed that it was. "scandalous!" roared the captain. "scandalous!" the old lady always had a kind of nattified air, and even on a gun-carriage she sported that look of dropping in on the neighbours for a visit. she ran up her little parasol, settled her feet, give a tilt to her specs, and looked the captain in the eye. "yes," she said, "i do belong to this column, and i guess it would be a smaller column by a dozen, if it hadn't been for me in your field-hospital. or twenty," said she. "or maybe more," said she. this kind of staggered the captain. it was plain he didn't know just what to do. we were hundreds of miles from anywheres, and there were aguinaldoes all around us. he was as good as married to that old lady, for any means he had of getting rid of her. he began to look quite old himself, as he stared and stared at the mascot of battery b, the cannon lumping along, and the old lady bouncing up and down, as the wheels sank to the axles in the rutty road. "when we strike the railroad, home you go," said he. "we'll see about that," said the old lady. "it's disgraceful," said he. "pigging with a whole battery," said he. "oh, the shame of it!" said he. "shoulder-straps don't always make a gentleman," said she. "holy smoke!" said he, galloping off very fierce and grand on his little horse, to haul dr. marcus over the coals. they say the contract surgeon got it in the neck, but we were short-handed in that department already, dr. fenelly having been killed in action, so the captain could do nothing worse nor reprimand him. it was bad enough as it was--for marcus--for he wasn't no old lady, and the captain could let himself rip. and, i tell you, it was a caution any time to be up against captain howard, for, though he could be nice as pie and perlite to beat the band, it only needed the occasion for him to unloose on you like a thirteen-inch gun. well, it was perfectly lovely what happened next, for, with all her sassiness, the old lady felt pretty blue, and talked about benny for hours, like she always did when she was down-hearted; and, by this time, you know, she had got to love battery b, and every boy in it; and it naturally went against her to think of starting out all over again with strangers, and them maybe volunteers. so you can guess what her feelings was that night when the captain went down with fever. it was like getting money from home! the captain had never been sick in his life, and he took it hard to be laid by and keep off the flies, while another feller ran the battery and jumped his place. i guess it came over him that he wasn't the main guy after all, and that it wouldn't matter a hill of beans whether he lived or quit. them's one of the things you learn in hospital, and the most are the better for it; but the captain, you see, was getting his lesson a bit late. so he was layed off, with amigos to carry him or bolo him (like what amigos are when they get a chance), and the old lady give a whoop and took him in charge. my! if she wasn't good to that man. and, as for coals of fire, she regularly slung them at him! the doctor, too, got his little axe in, and was everlastingly praising the old lady, and telling the captain he would have been a goner, if it hadn't been for her! and, when the captain grew better--which he did after a few days--he was that meek he'd eat out of your hand. the old lady was not only a champion nurse, but she was a buster to cook. give her a ham-bone and a box of matches and she could turn out a french dinner of five courses, with oofs-sur-le-plate, and veal-cutlets in paper pants! it was then, i reckon, she settled the captain for good; and, when he picked up and was able to walk about camp, leaning pretty heavy on her arm, she called him "george" and "my boy"--like that--and you might have taken him for benny and she his ma. there was nothing too good for the old lady after that, and the captain wouldn't hear of her living anywheres but at the officers' mess, where she sat at his right hand, and always spoke first. the queen of england couldn't have been treated with more respeck, and the captain put her on the strength of the battery, and she drew back-pay from the day she first blew into camp. my, but it was changed times! and you ought to have seen the way the old lady cocked her head in the air and made a splendid black silk dress of loot, which she wore every evening with the officers and rattled all over with jet. but it didn't turn her head the least bit, like for a time the boys feared it might, and she was twice as good to us as she had been before. we had a pull at headquarters now, and she had a heart that big that it could hold the officers and us, too--and more in the draw. the tide had turned her way when she needed it most, for, tough as she was, she could not have long gone on like she had been. she had worn down very thin, and was like a shadow of the old lady i remembered in oakland, california, and kind of sunk in around the eyes, and i don't believe benny would have known her, had he risen from the grave; and, when anybody joked with her about it, and said: "take it easy, ma'am, you owe it to the battery to be keerful," she'd answer she had enlisted for the term of the war, and looked to peg out the day peace was proclaimed. "then i'll be off to join benny," she'd say, "and the rest of the battery, in heaven!" there was getting to be a good deal of a crowd up there--that is, if the other place hadn't yanked them in--and some of the boys found a lot of comfort in her way of thinking. "a boy as dies for his country isn't going to be bothered about passing in," she would say, with a click of her teeth and that sure way of hers like she knew. and i, reckon perhaps she did. one afternoon she was suddenly taken very bad; and, instead of better, she grew worse and worse, being tied to the bed and raving; and the captain, who wouldn't hear of her being sent to hospital, give up his own quarters to her and almost went crazy, he was that frightened she was dying. "it's just grit that's kep' her alive," i heard the doctor saying to him. "you must save her, marcus," said the captain, holding to him, like he was pleading with the doctor for her life. "you must save her, marcus. you must do everything in the world you can, marcus." the contract surgeon looked mighty glum. "she's like a ship that's been burning up her fittings for lack of coal," said he. "there ain't nothing left," he said. "not a damn thing," said he, and then he piled in a lot of medical words that seemed to settle the matter. as for the captain, he sat down and regularly cried. i'm sorry now i said anything against the captain, for he was a splendid man, and the pride of the battery. and, i tell you, he wasn't the only one that cried neither, for the boys idolised the old lady, and there wasn't no singing that night or cards or anything. i was on picket, and it was a heavy heart i took with me into the dark; and, when they left me laying in the grass, and nobody nearer nor a hundred yards and that behind me, i felt mortal blue and lonesome and homesick, and like i didn't care whether i was killed or not. it was midnight when i went out,--mind, i say midnight-- and i don't know what ailed me that night, for, after thinking of the old lady and benny and my own mother that was dead, and all the rest of the boys that had marched out so fine and ended so miserable--i couldn't keep the sleep away; and i'd go off and off, though i tried my damnedest not to; and my eyes would shut in spite of me and just glue together; and i would kind of drown, drown, drown in sleep. if ever a man knew what he was doing, and the risk, and what i owed to the boys, and me a regular, and all that--it was me; yet--yet--and you must remember it had been a hard day, and the guns had stuck again and again in the mud, and it was pull, mule, pull, soldier, till you thought you'd drop in your tracks. oh, i am not excusing myself! i've seen men shot for sleeping on guard, and i know it's right; and, even in my dreams, i seemed to be reproaching myself and calling myself a stinker. then, just as i was no better nor a log, laying there with my head on my arm, a coward and a traitor, and a black disgrace to the uniform i wore, i suddenly waked up with somebody shaking me hard, real rough, like that--and i jumped perfectly terrible to think it might be the captain on his rounds. oh, the relief when i saw it was nothing else than the old lady, she kneeling beside me all alone, and her specs shining in the starlight. "william, william!" she said, sorrowful and warning, her voice kind of strange, like she didn't want to say out loud that i had been asleep at my post; and, as she drew away her hand, it touched mine, and it was ice-cold. and, just as i was going to tell her to lope back and be keerful of herself, the grass rustled in front of me, and i saw, rising like a wall, rows on rows of filipino heads! my, but didn't i shoot and didn't i run, and the bugles rang out and the whole line was rushed, me pelting in and the column spitting fire along a length of three miles! we stood them off all right, and my name was mentioned in orders, and i was promoted sergeant, the brigadier shaking my hand and telling the boys i was a pattern to go by and everything a regular ought to be. but it wasn't that i was going to tell. it was about the old lady, though i didn't learn it till the next day. she had died at a quarter of midnight, and had lain all night on the captain's bed with a towel over her poor old face. now, what do you make of that? the end an englishwoman's love-letters new york the mershon company publishers an englishwoman's love-letters. explanation. it need hardly be said that the woman by whom these letter were written had no thought that they would be read by anyone but the person to whom they were addressed. but a request, conveyed under circumstances which the writer herself would have regarded as all-commanding, urges that they should now be given to the world; and, so far as is possible with a due regard to the claims of privacy, what is here printed presents the letters as they were first written in their complete form and sequence. very little has been omitted which in any way bears upon the devotion of which they are a record. a few names of persons and localities have been changed; and several short notes (not above twenty in all), together with some passages bearing too intimately upon events which might be recognized, have been left out without indication of their omission. it was a necessary condition to the present publication that the authorship of these letters should remain unstated. those who know will keep silence; those who do not, will not find here any data likely to guide them to the truth. the story which darkens these pages cannot be more fully indicated while the feelings of some who are still living have to be consulted; nor will the reader find the root of the tragedy explained in the letters themselves. but one thing at least may be said as regards the principal actors--that to the memory of neither of them does any blame belong. they were equally the victims of circumstances, which came whole out of the hands of fate and remained, so far as one of the two was concerned, a mystery to the day of her death. letter i. beloved: this is your first letter from me: yet it is not the first i have written to you. there are letters to you lying at love's dead-letter office in this same writing--so many, my memory has lost count of them! this is my confession: i told you i had one to make, and you laughed:--you did not know how serious it was--for to be in love with you long before you were in love with me--nothing can be more serious than that! you deny that i was: yet i know when you first really loved me. all at once, one day something about me came upon you as a surprise: and how, except on the road to love, can there be surprises? and in the surprise came love. you did not _know_ me before. before then, it was only the other nine entanglements which take hold of the male heart and occupy it till the tenth is ready to make one knot of them all. in the letter written that day, i said, "you love me." i could never have said it before; though i had written twelve letters to my love for you, i had not once been able to write of your love for me. was not _that_ serious? now i have confessed! i thought to discover myself all blushes, but my face is cool: you have kissed all my blushes away! can i ever be ashamed in your eyes now, or grow rosy because of anything _you_ or _i_ think? so!--you have robbed me of one of my charms: i am brazen. can you love me still? you love me, you love me; you are wonderful! we are both wonderful, you and i. well, it is good for you to know i have waited and wished, long before the thing came true. but to see _you_ waiting and wishing, when the thing _was_ true all the time:--oh! that was the trial! how not suddenly to throw my arms round you and cry, "look, see! o blind mouth, why are you famished?" and you never knew? dearest, i love you for it, you never knew! i believe a man, when he finds he has won, thinks he has taken the city by assault: he does not guess how to the insiders it has been a weary siege, with flags of surrender fluttering themselves to rags from every wall and window! no: in love it is the women who are the strategists: and they have at last to fall into the ambush they know of with a good grace. you must let me praise myself a little for the past, since i can never praise myself again. you must do that for me now! there is not a battle left for me to win. you and peace hold me so much a prisoner, have so caught me from my own way of living, that i seem to hear a pin drop twenty years ahead of me: it seems an event! dearest, a thousand times, i would not have it be otherwise: i am only too willing to drop out of existence altogether and find myself in your arms instead. giving you my love, i can so easily give you my life. ah, my dear, i am yours so utterly, so gladly! will you ever find it out, you who took so long to discover anything? letter ii. dearest: your name woke me this morning: i found my lips piping their song before i was well back into my body out of dreams. i wonder if the rogues babble when my spirit is nesting? last night you were a high tree and i was in it, the wind blowing us both; but i forget the rest,--whatever, it was enough to make me wake happy. there are dreams that go out like candle-light directly one opens the shutters: they illumine the walls no longer; the daylight is too strong for them. so, now, i can hardly remember anything of my dreams: daylight, with you in it, floods them out. oh, how are you? awake? up? have you breakfasted? i ask you a thousand things. you are thinking of me, i know: but what are you thinking? i am devoured by curiosity about myself--none at all about you, whom i have all by heart! if i might only know how happy i make you, and just _which_ thing i said yesterday is making you laugh to-day--i could cry with joy over being the person i am. it is you who make me think so much about myself, trying to find myself out. i used to be most self-possessed, and regarded it as the crowning virtue: and now--your possession of me sweeps it away, and i stand crying to be let into a secret that is no longer mine. shall i ever know _why_ you love me? it is my religious difficulty; but it never rises into a doubt. you _do_ love me, i know. _why_, i don't think i ever can know. you ask me the same question about yourself, and it becomes absurd, because i altogether belong to you. if i hold my breath for a moment wickedly (for i can't do it breathing), and try to look at the world with you out of it, i seem to have fallen over a precipice; or rather, the solid earth has slipped from under my feet, and i am off into vacuum. then, as i take breath again for fear, my star swims up and clasps me, and shows me your face. o happy star this that i was born under, that moved with me and winked quiet prophecies at me all through my childhood, i not knowing what it meant:--the dear radiant thing naming to me my lover! as a child, now and then, and for no reason, i used to be sublimely happy: real wings took hold of me. sometimes a field became fairyland as i walked through it; or a tree poured out a scent that its blossoms never had before or after. i think now that those must have been moments when you too were in like contact with earth,--had your feet in grass which felt a faint ripple of wind, or stood under a lilac in a drench of fragrance that had grown double after rain. when i asked you about the places of your youth, i had some fear of finding that we might once have met, and that i had not remembered it as the summing up of my happiness in being young. far off i see something undiscovered waiting us, something i could not have guessed at before--the happiness of being old. will it not be something like the evening before last when we were sitting together, your hand in mine, and one by one, as the twilight drew about us, the stars came and took up their stations overhead? they seemed to me then to be following out some quiet train of thought in the universal mind: the heavens were remembering the stars back into their places:--the ancient of days drawing upon the infinite treasures of memory in his great lifetime. will not love's old age be the same to us both--a starry place of memories? your dear letter is with me while i write: how shortly you are able to say everything! to-morrow you will come. what more do i want--except to-morrow itself, with more promises of the same thing? you are at my heart, dearest: nothing in the world can be nearer to me than you! letter iii. dearest and rightly beloved: you cannot tell how your gift has pleased me; or rather you _can_, for it shows you have a long memory back to our first meeting: though at the time i was the one who thought most of it. it is quite true; you have the most beautifully shaped memory in christendom: these are the very books in the very edition i have long wanted, and have been too humble to afford myself. and now i cannot stop to read one, for joy of looking at them all in a row. i will kiss you for them all, and for more besides: indeed it is the "besides" which brings you my kisses at all. now that you have chosen so perfectly to my mind, i may proffer a request which, before, i was shy of making. it seems now beneficently anticipated. it is that you will not ever let your gifts take the form of jewelry, not after the ring which you are bringing me: _that_, you know, i both welcome and wish for. but, as to the rest, the world has supplied me with a feeling against jewelry as a love-symbol. look abroad and you will see: it is too possessive, too much like "chains of office"--the fair one is to wear her radiant harness before the world, that other women may be envious and the desire of her master's eye be satisfied! ah, no! i am yours, dear, utterly; and nothing you give me would have that sense: i know you too well to think it. but in the face of the present fashion (and to flout it), which expects the lover to give in this sort, and the beloved to show herself a dazzling captive, let me cherish my ritual of opposition which would have no meaning if we were in a world of our own, and no place in my thoughts, dearest;--as it has not now, so far as you are concerned. but i am conscious i shall be looked at as your chosen; and i would choose my own way of how to look back most proudly. and so for the books more thanks and more,--that they are what i would most wish, and not anything else: which, had they been, they would still have given me pleasure, since from you they could come only with a good meaning: and--diamonds even--i could have put up with them! to-morrow you come for your ring, and bring me my own? yours is here waiting. i have it on my finger, very loose, with another standing sentry over it to keep it from running away. a mouse came out of my wainscot last night, and plunged me in horrible dilemma: for i am equally idiotic over the idea of the creature trapped or free, and i saw sleepless nights ahead of me till i had secured a change of locality for him. to startle him back into hiding would have only deferred my getting truly rid of him, so i was most tiptoe and diplomatic in my doings. finally, a paper bag, put into a likely nook with some sentimentally preserved wedding-cake crumbled into it, crackled to me of his arrival. in a brave moment i noosed the little beast, bag and all, and lowered him from the window by string, till the shrubs took from me the burden of responsibility. i visited the bag this morning: he had eaten his way out, crumbs and all: and has, i suppose, become a fieldmouse, for the hay smells invitingly, and it is only a short run over the lawn and a jump over the ha-ha to be in it. poor morsels, i prefer them so much undomesticated! now this mouse is no allegory, and the paper bag is _not_ a diamond necklace, in spite of the wedding-cake sprinkled over it! so don't say that this letter is too hard for your understanding, or you will frighten me from telling you anything foolish again. brains are like jewels in this, difference of surface has nothing to do with the size and value of them. yours is a beautiful smooth round, like a pearl, and mine all facets and flashes like cut glass. and yours so much the bigger, and i love it so much the best! the trap which caught me was baited with one great pearl. so the mouse comes in with a meaning tied to its tail after all! letter iv. in all the world, dearest, what is more unequal than love between a man and a woman? i have been spending an amorous morning and want to share it with you: but lo, the task of bringing that bit of my life into your vision is altogether beyond me. what have i been doing? dear man, i have been dressmaking! and dress, when one is in the toils, is but a love-letter writ large. you will see and admire the finished thing, but you will take no interest in the composition. therefore i say your love is unequal to mine. for think how ravished i would be if you brought me a coat and told me it was all your own making! one day you had thrown down a mere tailor-made thing in the hall, and yet i kissed it as i went by. and that was at a time when we were only at the handshaking stage, the palsied beginnings of love:--_you_, i mean! but oh, to get you interested in the dress i was making to you to-day!--the beautiful flowing opening,--not too flowing: the elaborate central composition where the heart of me has to come, and the wind-up of the skirt, a long reluctant tailing-off, full of commas and colons of ribbon to make it seem longer, and insertions everywhere. i dreamed myself in it, retiring through the door after having bidden you good-night, and you watching the long disappearing eloquence of that tail, still saying to you as it vanished, "good-by, good-by. i love you so! see me, how slowly i am going!" well, that is a bit of my dress-making, a very corporate part of my affection for you; and you are not a bit interested, for i have shown you none of the seamy side; it is that which interests you male creatures, zolaites, every one of you. and what have you to show similar, of the thought of me entering into all your masculine pursuits? do you go out rabbit-shooting for the love of me? if so, i trust you make a miss of it every time! that you are a sportsman is one of the very hardest things in life that i have to bear. last night peterkins came up with me to keep guard against any further intrusion of mice. i put her to sleep on the couch: but she discarded the red shawl i had prepared for her at the bottom, and lay at the top most uncomfortably in a parcel of millinery into which from one end i had already made excavations, so that it formed a large bag. into the further end of this bag turks crept and snuggled down: but every time she turned in the night (and it seemed very often) the brown paper crackled and woke me up. so at last i took it up and shook out its contents; and pippins slept soundly on red flannel till nan-nan brought the tea. you will notice that in this small narrative peterkins gets three names: it is a fashion that runs through the household, beginning with the mother-aunt, who on some days speaks of nan-nan as "the old lady," and sometimes as "that girl," all according to the two tempers she has about nan-nan's privileged position in regard to me. you were only here yesterday, and already i want you again so much, so much! your never satisfied but always loving. letter v. most beloved: i have been thinking, staring at this blank piece of paper, and wondering how _there_ am i ever to say what i have in me here--not wishing to say anything at all, but just to be! i feel that i am living now only because you love me: and that my life will have run out, like this penful of ink, when that use in me is past. not yet, beloved, oh, not yet! nothing is finished that we have to do and be:--hardly begun! i will not call even this "midsummer," however much it seems so: it is still only spring. every day your love binds me more deeply than i knew the day before: so that no day is the same now, but each one a little happier than the last. my own, you are my very own! and yet, true as that is, it is not so true as that i am _your_ own. it is less absolute, i mean; and must be so, because i cannot very well _take_ possession of anything when i am given over heart and soul out of my own possession: there isn't enough identity left in me, i am yours so much, so much! all this is useless to say, yet what can i say else, if i have to begin saying anything? could i truly be your "star and goddess," as you call me, beloved, i would do you the service of thetis at least (who did it for a greater than herself)-- "bid heaven and earth combine their charms, and round you early, round you late, briareus fold his hundred arms to guard you from your single fate." but i haven't got power over an eight-armed octopus even: so am merely a very helpless loving nonentity which merges itself most happily in you, and begs to be lifted to no pedestal at all, at all. if you love me in a manner that is at all possible, you will see that "goddess" does not suit me. "star" i would i were now, with a wide eye to carry my looks to you over this horizon which keeps you invisible. choose one, if you will, dearest, and call it mine: and to me it shall be yours: so that when we are apart and the stars come out, our eyes may meet up at the same point in the heavens, and be "keeping company" for us among the celestial bodies--with their permission: for i have too lively a sense of their beauty not to be a little superstitious about them. have you not felt for yourself a sort of physiognomy in the constellations,--most of them seeming benevolent and full of kind regards:--but not all? i am always glad when the great bear goes away from my window, fine beast though he is: he seems to growl at me! no doubt it is largely a question of names; and what's in a name? in yours, beloved, when i speak it, more than i can compass! letter vi. beloved: i have been trusting to fate, while keeping silence, that something from you was to come to-day and make me specially happy. and it has: bless you abundantly! you have undone and got round all i said about "jewelry," though this is nothing of the sort, but a shrine: so my word remains. i have it with me now, safe hidden, only now and then it comes out to have a look at me,--smiles and goes back again. dearest, you must _feel_ how i thank you, for i cannot say it: body and soul i grow too much blessed with all that you have given me, both visibly and invisibly, and always perfectly. and as for the day: i have been thinking you the most uncurious of men, because you had not asked: and supposed it was too early days yet for you to remember that i had ever been born. to-day is my birthday! you said nothing, so i said nothing; and yet this has come: i trusted my star to show its sweet influences in its own way. or, after all, did you know, and had you asked anyone but me? yet had you known, you would have wished me the "happy returns" which among all your dear words to me you do not. so i take it that the motion comes straight to you from heaven; and, in the event, you will pardon me for having been still secretive and shy in not telling what you did not inquire after. _yours_, i knew, dear, quite long ago, so had no need to ask you for it. and it is six months before you will be in the same year with me again, and give to twenty-two all the companionable sweetness that twenty-one has been having. many happy returns of _my_ birthday to you, dearest! that is all that my birthdays are for. have you been happy to-day, i wonder? and am wondering also whether this evening we shall see you walking quietly in and making everything into perfection that has been trembling just on the verge of it all day long. one drawback of my feast is that i have to write short to you; for there are other correspondents who on this occasion look for quick answers, and not all of them to be answered in an offhand way. except you, it is the coziest whom i keep waiting; but elders have a way with them--even kind ones: and when they condescend to write upon an anniversary, we have to skip to attention or be in their bad books at once. so with the sun still a long way out of bed, i have to tuck up these sheets for you, as if the good of the day had already been sufficient unto itself and its full tale had been told. good-night. it is so hard to take my hands off writing to you, and worry on at the same exercise in another direction. i kiss you more times than i can count: it is almost really you that i kiss now! my very dearest, my own sweetheart, whom i so worship. good-night! "good-afternoon" sounds too funny: is outside our vocabulary altogether. while i live, i must love you more than i know! letter vii. my friend: do you think this a cold way of beginning? i do not: is it not the true send-off of love? i do not know how men fall in love: but i could not have had that come-down in your direction without being your friend first. oh, my dear, and after, after; it is but a limitless friendship i have grown into! i have heard men run down the friendships of women as having little true substance. those who speak so, i think, have never come across a real case of woman's friendship. i praise my own sex, dearest, for i know some of their loneliness, which you do not: and until a certain date their friendship was the deepest thing in life i had met with. for must it not be true that a woman becomes more absorbed in friendship than a man, since friendship may have to mean so much more to her, and cover so far more of her life, than it does to the average man? however big a man's capacity for friendship, the beauty of it does not fill his whole horizon for the future: he still looks ahead of it for the mate who will complete his life, giving his body and soul the complement they require. friendship alone does not satisfy him: he makes a bigger claim on life, regarding certain possessions as his right. but a woman:--oh, it is a fashion to say the best women are sure to find husbands, and have, if they care for it, the certainty before them of a full life. i know it is not so. there are women, wonderful ones, who come to know quite early in life that no men will ever wish to make wives of them: for them, then, love in friendship is all that remains, and the strongest wish of all that can pass through their souls with hope for its fulfillment is to be a friend to somebody. it is man's arrogant certainty of his future which makes him impatient of the word "friendship": it cools life to his lips, he so confident that the headier nectar is his due! i came upon a little phrase the other day that touched me so deeply: it said so well what i have wanted to say since we have known each other. some peasant rhymer, an irishman, is singing his love's praises, and sinks his voice from the height of his passionate superlatives to call her his "share of the world." peasant and irishman, he knew that his fortune did not embrace the universe: but for him his love was just that--his share of the world. surely when in anyone's friendship we seem to have gained our share of the world, that is all that can be said. it means all that we can take in, the whole armful the heart and senses are capable of, or that fate can bestow. and for how many that must be friendship--especially for how many women! my dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of heaven: but there i begin to speak of what i do not know, as is the way with happy humanity. all that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster to get hold of--your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the blue. my friend, my friend, my friend! if you could change or go out of my life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: i should see the world with a great piece gashed out of its side,--my share of it gone. no, i should not see it, i don't think i should see anything ever again,--not truly. is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? i do: don't let it weary you. i know i have read somewhere that great love always entails pain. i have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean fear,--the sort of fear i had as a child going into big buildings. i loved them: but i feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to tumble on me. but when i begin to think you may be too big for me, i remember you as my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear i would not part with if i might. i have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of which ever remains new. how holy your face has become to me: as i saw it last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon it--a look as if your love troubled you! i know the trouble: i feel it, dearest, in my own woman's way. have patience.--when i see you so, i feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for you wishes to be. and yet i hardly ever pray in words. dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my happiness its rest. till then it is a watchman on the lookout. "night-night!" your true sleepy one. letter viii. now _why_, i want to know, beloved, was i so specially "good" to you in my last? i have been quite as good to you fifty times before,--if such a thing can be from me to you. or do you mean good _for_ you? then, dear, i must be sorry that the thing stands out so much as an exception! oh, dearest beloved, for a little i think i must not love you so much, or must not let you see it. when does your mother return, and when am i to see her? i long to so much. has she still not written to you about our news? i woke last night to the sound of a great flock of sheep going past. i suppose they were going by forced marches to the fair over at hylesbury: it was in the small hours: and a few of them lifted up their voices and complained of this robbery of night and sleep in the night. they were so tired, so tired, they said: and so did the muffawully patter of their poor feet. the lambs said most; and the sheep agreed with a husky croak. i said a prayer for them, and went to sleep again as the sound of the lambs died away; but somehow they stick in my heart, those sad sheep driven along through the night. it was in its degree like the woman hurrying along, who said, "my god, my god!" that summer sunday morning. these notes from lives that appear and disappear remain endlessly; and i do not think our hearts can have been made so sensitive to suffering we can do nothing to relieve, without some good reason. so i tell you this, as i would any sorrow of my own, because it has become a part of me, and is underlying all that i think to-day. i am to expect you the day after to-morrow, but "not for certain"? thus you give and you take away, equally blessed in either case. all the same, i shall _certainly_ expect you, and be disappointed if on thursday at about this hour your way be not my way. "how shall i my true love know" if he does not come often enough to see me? sunshine be on you all possible hours till we meet again. letter ix. beloved: is the morning looking at you as it is looking at me? a little to the right of the sun there lies a small cloud, filmy and faint, but enough to cast a shadow somewhere. from this window, high up over the view, i cannot see where the shadow of it falls,--further than my eye can reach: perhaps just now over you, since you lie further west. but i cannot be sure. we cannot be sure about the near things in this world; only about what is far off and fixed. you and i looking up see the same sun, if there are no clouds over us: but we may not be looking at the same clouds even when both our hearts are in shadow. that is so, even when hearts are as close together as yours and mine: they respond to the same light: but each one has its own roof of shadow, wearing its rue with a world of difference. why is it? why can no two of us have sorrows quite in common? what can be nearer together than our wills to be one? in joy we are; and yet, though i reach and reach, and sadden if you are sad, i cannot make your sorrow my own. i suppose sorrow is of the earth earthy: and all that is of earth makes division. every joy that belongs to the body casts shadows somewhere. i wonder if there can enter into us a joy that has no shadow anywhere? the joy of having you has behind it the shadow of parting; is there any way of loving that would make parting no sorrow at all? to me, now, the idea seems treason! i cling to my sorrow that you are not here: i send up my cloud, as it were, to catch the sun's brightness: it is a kite that i pull with my heart-strings. to the sun of love the clouds that cover absence must look like white flowers in the green fields of earth, or like doves hovering: and he reaches down and strokes them with his warm beams, making all their feathers like gold. some clouds let the gold come through; _mine_, now.--that cloud i saw away to the right is coming this way toward me. i can see the shadow of it now, moving along a far-off strip of road: and i wonder if it is _your_ cloud, with you under it coming to see me again! when you come, why am i any happier than when i know you are coming? it is the same thing in love. i have you now all in my mind's eye; i have you by heart; have i my arms a bit more round you then than now? how it puzzles me that, when love is perfect, there should be disappearances and reappearances: and faces now and then showing a change!--you, actually, the last time you came, looking a day older than the day before! what was it? had old age blown you a kiss, or given you a wrinkle in the art of dying? or had you turned over some new leaf, and found it withered on the other side? i could not see how it was: i heard you coming--it was spring! the door opened:--oh, it was autumnal! one day had fallen away like a leaf out of my forest, and i had not been there to see it go! at what hour of the twenty-four does a day shed itself out of our lives? not, i think, on the stroke of the clock, at midnight, or at cock-crow. some people, perhaps, would say--with the first sleep; and that the "beauty-sleep" is the new day putting out its green wings. _i_ think it must be not till something happens to make the new day a stronger impression than the last. so it would please me to think that your yesterday dropped off as you opened the door; and that, had i peeped and seen you coming up the stairs, i should have seen you looking a day younger. _that_ means that you age at the sight of me! i think you do. i, i feel a hundred on the road to immortality, directly your face dawns on me. there's a foot gone over my grave! the angel of the resurrection with his mouth pursed fast to his trumpet!--nothing else than the gallop-a-gallop of your horse:--it sounds like a kettle boiling over! so this goes into hiding: listens to us all the while we talk; and comes out afterwards with all its blushes stale, to be rouged up again and sent off the moment your back is turned. no, better!--to be slipped into your pocket and carried home to yourself _by_ yourself. how, when you get to your destination and find it, you will curse yourself that you were not a speedier postman! letter x. dearest: did you find your letter? the quicker i post, the quicker i need to sit down and write again. the grass under love's feet never stops growing: i must make hay of it while the sun shines. you say my metaphors make you giddy.--my clear, you, without a metaphor in your composition, do that to me! so it is not for you to complain; your curses simply fly back to roost. where do you pigeon-hole them? in a pie? (i mean to write now until i have made you as giddy as a dancing dervish!) _your_ letters are much more like blackbirds: and i have a pie of them here, twenty-four at least; and when i open it they sing "chewee, chewee, chewee!" in the most scared way! your last but three said most solemnly, just as if you meant it, "i hope you don't keep these miserables! though i fill up my hollow hours with them, there is no reason why they should fill up yours." you added that i was better occupied--and here i am "better occupied" even as you bid me. but one can jump best from a spring-board: and how could i jump as far as your arms by letter, if i had not yours to jump from? so you see they are kept, and my disobedience of you has begun: and i find disobedience wonderfully sweet. but then, you gave me a law which you knew i should disobey:--that is the way the world began. it is not for nothing that i am a daughter of eve. and here is our world in our hands, yours and mine, now in the making. which day are the evening and the morning now? i think it must be the birds'--and already, with the wings, disobedience has been reached! make much of it! the day will come when i shall wish to obey. there are moments when i feel a wish taking hold of me stronger than i can understand, that you should command me beyond myself--to things i have not strength or courage for of my own accord. how close, dearest, when that day comes, my heart will feel itself to yours! it feels close now: but it is to your feet i am nearest, as yet. lift me! there, there, beloved, i kiss you with all my will. oh, dear heart, forgive me for being no more than i am: your freehold to all eternity! letter xi oh, dearest: i have danced and i have danced till i am tired! i am dropping with sleep, but i must just touch you and say good-night. this was our great day of publishing, dearest, _ours_: all the world knows it; and all admire your choice! i was determined they should. i have been collecting scalps for you to hang at your girdle. all thought me beautiful: people who never did so before. i wanted to say to them, "am i not beautiful? i am, am i not?" and it was not for myself i was asking this praise. beloved, i was wearing the magic rose--what you gave me when we parted: you saying, alas, that you were not to be there. but you _were_! its leaves have not dropped nor the scent of it faded. i kiss you out of the heart of it. good-night: come to me in my first dream! letter xii. dearest: it has been such a funny day from post-time onwards:-- congratulations on the great event are beginning to arrive in envelopes and on wheels. some are very kind and dear; and some are not so--only the ordinary seemliness of polite sniffle-snaffle. just after you had gone yesterday, mrs. ---- called and was told the news. of course she knew _of_ you: but didn't think she had ever seen you. "probably he passed you at the gates," i said. "what?" she went off with a view-hallo; "that well-dressed sort of young fellow in gray, and a mustache, and knowing how to ride? met us in the lane. _well_, my dear, i _do_ congratulate you!" and whether it was by the gray suit, or the mustache, or the knowing how to ride that her congratulations were so emphatically secured, i know not! others are yet more quaint, and more to my liking. nan-nan is nan-nan: i cannot let you off what she said! no tears or sentiment came from her to prevent me laughing: she brisked like an old war-horse at the first word of it, and blessed god that it had come betimes, that she might be a nurse again in her old age! she is a true "mrs. berry," and is ready to make room for you in my affections for the sake of far-off divine events, which promise renewed youth to her old bones. roberts, when he brought me my pony this morning, touched his hat quick twice over to show that the news brimmed in his body: and a very nice cordial way of showing, i thought it! he was quite ready to talk when i let him go; and he gave me plenty of good fun. he used to know you when he was in service at the h----s, and speaks of you as being then "a gallous young hound," whatever that may mean. i imagine "gallous" to be a rustic lewis carroll compound, made up in equal parts of callousness and gallantry, which most boys are, at some stage of their existence. what tales will you be getting of me out of nan-nan, some day behind my back, i wonder? there is one i shall forbid her to reveal: it shall be part of my marriage-portion to show you early that you have got a wife with a temper! here is a whole letter that must end now,--and the great word never mentioned! it is good for you to be put upon _maigre_ fare, for once. i ho_l_d my pen back with b_o_th hands: it wants so much to gi_v_e you the forbidd_e_n treat. oh, the serpent in the garden! see where it has underlined its meaning. frailty, thy pen is a j pen! adieu, adieu, remember me. letter xiii. the letters? no, beloved, i could not! not yet. there you have caught me where i own i am still shy of you. a long time hence, when we are a safely wedded pair, you shall turn them over. it _may_ be a short time; but i will keep them however long. indeed i must ever keep them; they talk to me of the dawn of my existence,--the early light before our sun rose, when my love of you was growing and had not yet reached its full. if i disappoint you i will try to make up for it with something i wrote long before i ever saw you. to-day i was turning over old things my mother had treasured for me of my childhood--of days spent with her: things of laughter as well as of tears; such a dear selection, so quaint and sweet, with moods of her as i dimly remember her to have been. and among them was this absurdity, written, and i suppose placed in the mouth of my stocking, the christmas i stayed with her in france. i remember the time as a great treat, but nothing of this. "nilgoes" is "nicholas," you must understand! how he must have laughed over me asleep while he read this! "cher père nilgoes. s'il vous plait voulez vous me donné plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anné et les jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de noel. il ne faut pas dire à petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande dites bon jour á la st. viearge est à l'enfant jeuses et à ste joseph. adieu cher st. nilgoes." i haven't altered the spelling, i love it too well, prophetic of a fault i still carry about me. how strange that little bit of invocation to the dear folk above sounds to me now! my mother must have been teaching me things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one--though that too has gone like water off my mind. it was one of the troubles between her and my father: the compact that i was to be brought up a catholic was dissolved after they separated; and i am sorry, thinking it unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what i am. i must have been less than five when i penned this: i was always a letter-writer, it seems. it is a reproach now from many that i have ceased to be: and to them i fear it is true. that i have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand these presents,"--or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an affidavit. what were _you_ like, beloved, as a very small child? should i have loved you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would my love have passed safely through the "gallous young hound" period; and could i love you more now in any case, had i _all_ your days treasured up in my heart, instead of less than a year of them? how strangely much have seven miles kept our fates apart! it seems uncharacteristic for this small world,--where meetings come about so far above the dreams of average--to have played us such a prank. this must do for this once, beloved; for behold me busy to-day: with _what_, i shall not tell you. i would like to put you to a test, as ladies did their knights of old, and hardly ever do now--fearing, i suppose, lest the species should altogether fail them at the pinch. i would like to see if you could come here and sit with me from beginning to end, _with your eyes shut_: never once opening them. i am not saying whether i think curiosity, or affection, would make the attempt too difficult. but if you were sure you could, you might come here to-morrow--a day otherwise interdicted. only know, having come, that if you open those dear cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet intended to be looked at, there will be confusion of tongues in this tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven. will you come? i don't _say_ "come"; i only want to know--will you? to-day my love flies low over the earth like a swallow before rain, and touching the tops of the flowers has culled you these. kiss them until they open: they are full of my thoughts, as the world, to me, is full of you. letter xiv. own dearest: come i did not think that you would, or mean that you should seriously; for is it not a poor way of love to make the object of it cut an absurd or partly absurd figure? i wrote only as a woman having a secret on the tip of her tongue and the tips of her fingers, and full of a longing to say it and send it. here it is at last: love me for it, i have worked so hard to get it done! and you do not know why and what for? beloved, it--_this_--is the anniversary of the day we first met; and you have forgotten it already or never remembered it:--and yet have been clamoring for "the letters"! on the first anniversary of our marriage, _if you remember it_, you shall have those same letters: and not otherwise. so there they lie safe till doomsday! the m.-a. has been very gracious and clear after her little outbreak of yesterday: her repentances, after i have hurt her feelings, are so gentle and sweet, they always fill me with compunction. finding that i would go on with the thing i was doing, she volunteered to come and read to me: a requiem over the bone of contention which we had gnawed between us. was not that pretty and charitable? she read tennyson's life for a solid hour, and continued it to-day. isn't it funny that she should take up such a book?--she who "can't abide" tennyson or browning or shakespeare: only likes byron, i suppose because it was the right and fashionable liking when she was young. yet she is plodding through the life religiously--only skipping the verses. i have come across two little specimens of "death and the child" in it. his son, lionel, was carried out in a blanket one night in the great comet year, and waking up under the stars asked, "am i dead?" number two is of a little girl at wellington's funeral who saw his charger carrying his _boots_, and asked, "shall i be like that after i die?" a queer old lady came to lunch yesterday, a great traveler, though lame on two crutches. we carefully hid all guide-books and maps, and held our peace about next month, lest she should insist on coming too: though i think nineveh was the place she was most anxious to go to, if the m.-a. would consent to accompany her! good-by, dearest of one-year-old acquaintances! you, too, send your blessing on the anniversary, now that my better memory has reminded you of it! all that follow we will bless in company. i trust you are one-half as happy as i am, my own, my own. letter xv. you told me, dearest, that i should find your mother formidable. it is true; i did. she is a person very much in the grand pagan style: i admire it, but i cannot flow in that sort of company, and i think she meant to crush me. you were very wise to leave her to come alone. i like her: i mean i believe that under that terribleness she has a heart of gold, which once opened would never shut: but she has not opened it to me. i believe she could have a great charity, that no evil-doing would dismay her: "stanch" sums her up. but i have done nothing wrong enough yet to bring me into her good graces. loving her son, even, though, i fear, a great offense, has done me no good turn. perhaps that is her inconsistency: women are sure to be inconsistent somewhere: it is their birthright. i began to study her at once, to find _you_: it did not take long. how i could love her, if she would let me! you know her far far better than i, and want no advice: otherwise i would say--never praise me to her; quote my follies rather! to give ground for her distaste to revel in will not deepen me in her bad books so much as attempts to warp her judgment. i need not go through it all: she will have told you all that is to the purpose about our meeting. she bristled in, a brave old fighting figure, announcing compulsion in every line, but with all her colors flying. she waited for the door to close, then said, "my son has bidden me come, i suppose it is my duty: he is his own master now." we only shook hands. our talk was very little of you. i showed her all the horses, the dogs, and the poultry; she let the inspection appear to conclude with myself: asked me my habits, and said i looked healthy. i owned i felt it. "looks and feelings are the most deceptive things in the world," she told me; adding that "poor stock" got more than its share of these. and when she said it i saw quite plainly that she meant me. i wonder where she gets the notion: for we are a long-lived race, both sides of the family. i guessed that she would like frankness, and was as frank as i could be, pretending no deference to her objections. "you think you suit each other?" she asked me. my answer, "he suits me!" pleased her maternal palate, i think. "any girl might say that!" she admitted. (she might indeed!) this is the part of our interview she will not have repeated to you. i was due at hillyn when she was preparing to go: aunt n---- came in, and i left her to do the honors while i slipped on my habit. i rode by your mother's carriage as far as the greenway, where we branched. i suppose that is what her phrase means that you quote about my "making a trophy of her," and marching her a prisoner across the borders before all the world! i do like her: she is worth winning.--can one say warmer of a future mother-in-law who stands hostile? all the same it was an ordeal. i believe i have wept since: for benjy scratched my door often yesterday evening, and looked most wistful when i came out. merely paltry self-love, dearest:--i am so little accustomed to not being--liked. i think she will be more gracious in her own house. i have her formal word that i am to come. soon, not too soon, i will come over; and you shall meet me and take me to see her. there is something in her opposition that i can't fathom: i wondered twice was lunacy her notion: she looked at me so hard. my mother's seclusion and living apart from us was not on _that_ account. i often saw her: she was very dear and sweet to me, and had quiet eyes the very reverse of a person mentally deranged. my father, i know, went to visit her when she lay dying; and i remember we all wore mourning. my uncle has told me they had a deep regard for each other: but disagreed, and were independent enough to choose living apart. i do not remember my father ever speaking of her to us as children: but i am sure there was no state of health to be concealed. last night i was talking to aunt n---- about her. "a very dear woman," she told me, "but your father was never so much alive to her worth as the rest of us." of him she said, "a dear, fine fellow: but not at all easy to get on with." him, of course, i have a continuous recollection of, and "a fine fellow" we did think him. my mother comes to me more rarely, at intervals. don't talk me down your mother's throat: but tell her as much as she cares to know of this. i am very proud of my "stock" which she thinks "poor"! dear, how much i have written on things which can never concern us finally, and so should not ruffle us while they last! hold me in your heart always, always; and the world may turn adamant to me for aught i care! be in my dreams to-night! letter xvi. but, dearest: when i think of you i never question whether what i think would be true or false in the eyes of others. all that concerns you seems to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or existence: where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, engaged in bringing about for ourselves the still greater solitude of two into one. oh, beloved, what a company that will be! take me in your arms, fasten me to your heart, breathe on me. deny me either breath or the light of day: i am yours equally, to live or die at your word. i shut my eyes to feel your kisses falling on me like rain, or still more like sunshine,--yet most of all like kisses, my own dearest and best beloved! oh, we two! how wonderful we seem! and to think that there have been lovers like us since the world began: and the world not able to tell us one little word of it:--not well, so as to be believed--or only along with sadness where fate has broken up the heavens which lay over some pair of lovers. oenone's cry, "ah me, my mountain shepherd," tells us of the joy when it has vanished, and most of all i get it in that song of wife and husband which ends:-- "not a word for you, not a lock or kiss, good-by. we, one, must part in two; verily death is this: i must die." it was a woman wrote that: and we get love there! is it only when joy is past that we can give it its full expression? even now, beloved, i break down in trying to say how i love you. i cannot put all my joy into my words, nor all my love into my lips, nor all my life into your arms, whatever way i try. something remains that i cannot express. believe, dearest, that the half has not yet been spoken, neither of my love for you, nor of my trust in you,--nor of a wish that seems sad, but comes in a very tumult of happiness--the wish to die so that some unknown good may come to you out of me. not till you die, dearest, shall i die truly! i love you now too much for your heart not to carry me to its grave, though i should die now, and you live to be a hundred. i pray you may! i cannot choose a day for you to die. i am too grateful to life which has given me to you to say--if i were dying--"come with me, dearest!" though, how the words tempt me as i write them!--come with me, dearest: yes, come! ah, but you kiss me more, i think, when we say good-by than when meeting; so you will kiss me most of all when i have to die:--a thing in death to look forward to! and, till then,--life, life, till i am out of my depth in happiness and drown in your arms! beloved, that i can write so to you,--think what it means; what you have made me come through in the way of love, that this, which i could not have dreamed before, comes from me with the thought of you! you told me to be still--to let you "worship": i was to write back acceptance of all your dear words. are you never to be at my feet, you ask. indeed, dearest, i do not know how, for i cannot move from where i am! do you feel where my thoughts kiss you? you would be vexed with me if i wrote it down, so i do not. and after all, some day, under a bright star of providence, i may have gifts for you after my own mind which will allow me to grow proud. only now all the giving comes from you. it is i who am enriched by your love, beyond knowledge of my former self. are _you_ changed, dearest, by anything i have done? my heart goes to you like a tree in the wind, and all these thoughts are loose leaves that fly after you when i have to remain behind. dear lover, what short visits yours seem! and the mother-aunt tells me they are most unconscionably long.--you will not pay any attention to _that_, please: forever let the heavens fall rather than that a hint to such foul effect should grow operative through me! this brings you me so far as it can:--such little words off so great a body of--"liking" shall i call it? my paper stops me: it is my last sheet: i should have to go down to the library to get more--else i think i could not cease writing. more love than i can name.--ever, dearest, your own. letter xvii. dearest: do i not write you long letters? it reveals my weakness. i have thought (it had been coming on me, and now and then had broken out of me before i met you) that, left to myself, i should have become a writer of books--i scarcely can guess what sort--and gone contentedly into middle-age with that instead of _this_ as my _raison d'être_. how gladly i lay down that part of myself, and say--"but for you, i had been this quite other person, whom i have no wish to be now"! beloved, your heart is the shelf where i put all my uncut volumes, wondering a little what sort of a writer i should have made; and chiefly wondering, would _you_ have liked me in that character? there is one here in the family who considers me a writer of the darkest dye, and does not approve of it. benjy comes and sits most mournfully facing me when i settle down on a sunny morning, such as this, to write: and inquires, with all the dumbness a dog is capable of--"what has come between us, that you fill up your time and mine with those cat's-claw scratchings, when you should be in your woodland dress running [with] me through damp places?" having written this sentimental meaning into his eyes, and benjy still sitting watching me, i was seized with ruth for my neglect of him, and took him to see his mother's grave. at the bottom of the long walk is our dog's cemetery:--no tombstones, but mounds; and a dog-rose grows there and flourishes as nowhere else. it was my fancy as a child to have it planted: and i declare to you, it has taken wonderfully to the notion, as if it _knew_ that it had relations of a higher species under its keeping. benjy, too, has a profound air of knowing, and never scratches for bones there, as he does in other places. what horror, were i to find him digging up his mother's skeleton! would my esteem for him survive? when we got there to-day, he deprecated my choice of locality, asking what i had brought him _there_ for. i pointed out to him the precise mound which covered the object of his earliest affections, and gathered you these buds. are they not a deep color for wild ones?--if their blush remains a fixed state till the post brings them to you. through what flower would you best like to be passed back, as regards your material atoms, into the spiritualized side of nature, when we have done with ourselves in this life? no single flower quite covers all my wants and aspirations. you and i would put our heads together underground and evolve a new flower--"carnation, lily, lily, rose"--and send it up one fine morning for scientists to dispute over and give diabolical learned names to. what an end to our cozy floral collaboration that would be! here endeth the epistle: the elect salutes you. this week, if the authorities permit, i shall be paying you a flying visit, with wings full of eyes,--_and_, i hope, healing; for i believe you are seedy, and that _that_ is what is behind it. you notice i have not complained. dearest, how could i! my happiness reaches to the clouds--that is, to where things are not quite clear at present. i love you no more than i ought: yet far more than i can name. good-night and good-morning.--your star, since you call me so. letter xviii. dearest: not having had a letter from you this morning, i have read over some back ones, and find in one a bidding which i have never fulfilled, to tell you what i _do_ all day. was that to avoid the too great length of my telling you what i _think_? yet you get more of me this way than that. what i do is every day so much the same: while what i think is always different. however, since you want a woman of action rather than of brain, here i start telling you. i wake punctual and hungry at the sound of nan-nan's drawing of the blinds: wait till she is gone (the old darling potters and tattles: it is her most possessive moment of me in the day, except when i sham headaches, and let her put me to bed); then i have my hand under my pillow and draw out your last for a reading that has lost count whether it is the twenty-second or the fifty-second time;--discover new beauties in it, and run to the glass to discover new beauties in myself,--find them; benjy comes up with the post's latest, and behold, my day is begun! is that the sort of thing you want to know? my days are without an action worth naming: i only think swelling thoughts, and write some of them: if ever i do anything worth telling, be sure i run a pen-and-ink race to tell you. no, it is man who _does_ things; a woman only diddles (to adapt a word of diminutive sound for the occasion), unless, good, fortunate, independent thing, she works for her own living: and that is not me! i feel sometimes as if a real bar were between me and a whole conception of life; because i have carpets and curtains, and nan-nan, and benjy, and last of all you--shutting me out from the realities of existence. if you would all leave me just for one full moon, and come back to me only when i am starving for you all--for my tea to be brought to me in the morning, and all the paddings and cushionings which bolster me up from morning till night--with what a sigh of wisdom i would drop back into your arms, and would let you draw the rose-colored curtains round me again! now i am afraid lest i have become too happy: i am leaning so far out of window to welcome the dawn, i seem to be tempting a fall--heaven itself to fall upon me. what do i _know_ truly, who only know so much happiness? dearest, if there is anything else in love which i do not know, teach it me quickly: i am utterly yours. if there is sorrow to give, give it me! only let me have with it the consciousness of your love. oh, my dear, i lose myself if i think of you so much. what would life have without you in it? the sun would drop from my heavens. i see only by you! you have kissed me on the eyes. you are more to me than my own poor brain could ever have devised: had i started to invent paradise, i could not have invented _you_. but perhaps you have invented me: i am something new to myself since i saw you first. god bless you for it! even if you were to shut your eyes at me now--though i might go blind, you could not unmake me:--"the gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." also that i am yours is a gift of the gods, i will trust: and so, not to be recalled! kiss me, dearest; here where i have written this! i am yours, beloved. i kiss you again and again.--ever your own making. letter xix. dearest, dearest: how long has this happened? you don't tell me the day or the hour. is it ever since you last wrote? then you have been in pain and grief for four days: and i not knowing anything about it! and you have no hand in the house kind enough to let you dictate by it one small word to poor me? what heartless merrymakings may i not have sent you to worry you, when soothing was the one thing wanted? well, i will not worry now, then; neither at not being told, nor at not being allowed to come: but i will come thus and thus, o my dear heart, and take you in my arms. and you will be comforted, will you not be? when i tell you that even if you had no legs at all, i would love you just the same. indeed, dearest, so much of you is a superfluity: just your heart against mine, and the sound of your voice, would carry me up to more heavens than i could otherwise have dreamed of. i may say now, now that i know it was not your choice, what a void these last few days the lack of letters has been to me. i wondered, truly, if you had found it well to put off such visible signs for a while in order to appease one who, in other things more essential, sees you rebellious. but the wonder is over now; and i don't want you to write--not till a consultation of doctors orders it for the good of your health. i will be so happy talking to you: also i am sending you books:--those i wish you to read; and which now you _must_, since you have the leisure! and i for my part will make time and read yours. whose do you most want me to read, that my education in your likings may become complete? what i send you will not deprive me of anything: for i have the beautiful complete set--your gift--and shall read side by side with you to realize in imagination what the happiness of reading them for the first time ought to be. yesterday, by a most unsympathetic instinct, i went out for a long tramp on my two feet; and no ache in them came and told me of you! over sillingford i sat on a bank and looked downhill where went a carter. and i looked uphill where lay something which might be nothing--or not his. now, shall i make a fool of myself by pursuing to tell him he may have dropped something, or shall i go on and see? so i went on and saw a coat with a fat pocket: and by then he was out of sight, and perhaps it wasn't his; and it was very hot and the hill steep. so i minded my own business, making cain's motto mine; and now feel so had, being quite sure that it was his. and i wonder how many miles he will have tramped back looking for it, and whether his dinner was in the pocket. these unintentional misdoings are the "sins" one repents of all one's life long: i have others stored away, the bitterest of small things done or undone in haste and repented of at so much leisure afterwards. and always done to people or things i had no grudge against, sometimes even a love for. they are my skeletons: i will tell you of them some day. this, dearest, is our first enforced absence from each other; and i feel it almost more hard on me than on you. beloved, let us lay our hearts together and get comforted. it is not real separation to know that another part of the world contains the rest of me. oh, the rest of me, the rest of me that you are! so, thinking of you, i can never be tired. i rest yours. letter xx. yes, dearest, "patience!" but it is a virtue i have little enough of naturally, and used to be taught to pray for as a child. and i remember once really hurting clear mother-aunt's feelings by trying to repay her for that teaching by a little iniquitous laughter at her expense. it was too funny for me to feel very contrite about, as i do sometimes over quite small things, or i would not be telling it you now (for there are things in me i would conceal even from you). i dare say you wouldn't guess it, but the m.-a. is a most long person over her private devotions. perhaps it was her own habit, with the cares of a household sometimes conflicting, which made her recite to me so often her pet legend of a saintly person who, constantly interrupted over her prayers by mundane matters, became a pattern in patience out of these snippings of her godly desires. so, one day, angels in the disguise of cross people with selfish demands on her time came seeking to know where in her composition or composure exasperation began: and finding none, they let her return in peace to her missal, where for a reward all the letters had been turned into gold. "and that, my dear, comes of patience," my aunt would say, till i grew a little tired of the saying. i don't know what experience my uncle had gathered of her patience under like circumstances: but i notice that to this day he treads delicately, like agag, when he knows her to be on her knees; and prefers then to send me on his errands instead of doing them himself. so it happened one day that he wanted a particular coat which had been put away in her clothes-closet--and she was on her knees between him and it, with the time of her amen quite indefinite. i was sent, said my errand briefly, and was permitted to fumble out her keys from her pocket while she continued to kneel over her morning psalms. what i brought to him turned out to be the wrong coat: i went back and knocked for readmittance. long-sufferingly she bade me to come in. i explained, and still she repressed herself, only saying in a tone of affliction, "do see this time that you take the right one!" after i had made my second selection, and proved it right on my uncle's person, the parallelism of things struck me, and i skipped back to my aunt's door and tapped. i got a low wailing "yes?" for answer--a monosyllabic substitute for the "how long, o lord?" of a saint in difficulties. when i called through the keyhole, "are your psalms written in gold?" she became really angry:--i suppose because the miracle so well earned had not come to pass. well, dearest, if you have been patient with me over so much about nothing, i pray this letter may appear to you written in gold. why i write so is, partly, that, it is bad for us both to be down in the mouth, or with hearts down at heel: and so, since you cannot, i have to do the dancing;--and, partly, because i found i had a bad temper on me which needed curing, and being brought to the sun-go-down point of owing no man anything. which, sooner said, has finally been done; and i am very meek now and loving to you, and everything belonging to you--not to come nearer the sore point. and i hope some day, some day, as a reward to my present submission, that you will sprain your ankle in my company (just a very little bit for an excuse) and let me have the nursing of it! it hurts my heart to have your poor bones crying out for comfort that i am not to bring to them. i feel robbed of a part of my domestic training, and may never pick up what i have just lost. and i fear greatly you must have been truly in pain to have put off meredith for a day. if i had been at hand to read to you, i flatter myself you would have liked him well, and been soothed. you must take the will, beloved, for the deed. i kiss you now, as much as even you can demand; and when you get this i will be thinking of you all over again.--when do i ever leave off? love, love, love till our next meeting-, and then more love still, and more!--ever your own. letter xxi. dearest: i am in a simple mood to-day, and give you the benefit of it: i shall become complicated again presently, and you will hear from me directly that happens. the house only emptied itself this morning; i may say emptied, for the remainder fits like a saint into her niche, and is far too comfortable to count. this is c----, whom you only once met, when she sat so much in the background that you will not remember her. she has one weakness, a thirst between meals--the blameless thirst of a rabid teetotaler. she hides cups of cold tea about the place, as a dog its bones: now and then one gets spilled or sat on, and when she hears of the accident, she looks thirsty, with a thirst which only _that_ particular cup of tea could have quenched. in no other way is she any trouble: indeed, she is a great dear, and has the face of a madonna, as beautiful as an apocryphal gospel to look at and "make believe" in. arthur, too, like the rest of them, when he came over to give me his brotherly blessing, wished to know what you were like. i didn't pretend to remember your outward appearance too well,--told him you looked like a common or garden englishman, and roused his suspicions by so careless a championship of my choice. he accused me of being in reality highly sentimental about you, and with having at that moment your portrait concealed and strung around my neck in a locket. mother-aunt stood up for me against him, declaring i was "too sensible a girl for nonsense of that sort." (it is a little weakness of hers, you know, to resent extremes of endearment towards anyone but herself in those she has "brooded," and she has thought us hitherto most restrained and proper--as, indeed, have we not been?) arthur and i exchanged tokens of truce: in a little while off went my aunt to bed, leaving us alone. then, for he is the one of us that i am most frank with: "arthur," cried i, and up came your little locket like a bucket from a well, for him to have his first sight of you, my beloved. he objected that he could not see faces in a nutshell; and i suppose others cannot: only i. he, too, is gone. if you had been coming he would have spared another day--for to-day _was_ planned and dated, you will remember--and we would have ridden halfway to meet you. but, as fate has tripped you, and made all comings on your part indefinite, he sends you his hopes for a later meeting. how is your poor foot? i suppose, as it is ill, i may send it a kiss by post and wish it well? i do. truly, you are to let me know if it gives you much pain, and i will lie awake thinking of you. this is not sentimental, for if one knows that a friend is occupied over one's sleeplessness one feels the comfort. i am perplexed how else to give you my company: your mother, i know, could not yet truly welcome me; and i wish to be as patient as possible, and not push for favors that are not offered. so i cannot come and ask to take you out in _her_ carriage, nor come and carry you away in mine. we must try how fast we can hold hands at a distance. i have kept up to where you have been reading in "richard feverel," though it has been a scramble: for i have less opportunity of reading, i with my feet, than you without yours. in _your_ book i have just got to the smuggling away of general monk in the perforated coffin, and my sense of history capitulates in an abandonment of laughter. i yield! the gaul's invasion of britain always becomes broad farce when he attempts it. this in clever ludicrousness beats the unintentional comedy of victor hugo's "john-jim-jack" as a name typical of anglo-saxon christenings. but dumas, through a dozen absurdities, knows apparently how to stalk his quarry: so large a genius may play the fool and remain wise. you see i have given your author a warm welcome at last: and what about you and mine? tell me you love his women and i will not be jealous. indeed, outside him i don't know where to find a written english woman of modern times whom i would care to meet, or could feel honestly bound to look up to:--nowhere will i have her shaking her ringlets at me in dickens or thackeray. scott is simply not modern; and hardy's women, if they have nobility in them, get so cruelly broken on the wheel that you get but the wrecks of them at last. it is only his charming baggages who come to a good ending. i like an author who has the courage and self-restraint to leave his noble creations alive: too many try to ennoble them by death. for my part, if i have to go out of life before you, i would gladly trust you to the hands of clara, or rose, or janet, or most of all vittoria; though, to be accurate, i fear they have all grown too old for you by now. and you? have you any men to offer me in turn out of your literary admirations, supposing you should die of a snapped ankle? would you give me to d'artagnan for instance? hardly, i suspect! but either choose me some proxy hero, or get well and come to me! you will be very welcome when you do. sleep is making sandy eyes at me: good-night, dearest. letter xxii. why, my beloved: since you put it to me as a point of conscience (it is only lying on your back with one active leg doing nothing, and the other dying to have done aching, which has made you take this new start of inquiring within upon everything), since you call on me for a conscientious answer, i say that it stands to reason that i love you more than you love me, because there is so much more of you to love, let alone fit for loving. do you imagine that you are going to be a cripple for life, and therefore an indifferent dancer in the dances i shall always be leading you, that you have started this fit of self-depreciation? or is it because i have thrown meredith at your sick head that you doubt my tact and my affection, and my power patiently to bear for your sake a good deal of cold shoulder? dearest, remember i am doctoring you from a distance: and am not yet allowed to come and see my patient, so can only judge from your letters how ill you are. that you have been concealing from me almost treacherously: and only by a piece of abject waylaying did i receive word to-day of your sleepless nights, and so get the key to your symptoms. lay by meredith, then, for a while: i am sending you a cargo of stevenson instead. you have been truly unkind, trying to read what required effort, when you were fit for nothing of the sort. and lest even stevenson should be too much for you, and wanting very much, and perhaps a little bit jealously, to be your most successful nurse, i am letting my last large bit of shyness of you go; and with a pleasant sort of pain, because i know i have hit on a thing that will please you, i open my hands and let you have these, and with them goes my last blush: henceforth i am a woman without a secret, and all your interest in me may evaporate. yet i know well it will not. as for this resurrection pie from love's dead-letter office, you will find from it at least one thing--how much i depended upon response from you before i could become at all articulate. it is you, dearest, from the beginning who have set my head and heart free and made me a woman. i am something quite different from the sort of child i was less than a year ago when i wrote that small prayer which stands sponsor for all that follows. how abundantly it has been answered, dearest beloved, only i know: you do not! now my prayer is not that you should "come true," but that you should get well. do this one little thing for me, dearest! for you i will do anything: my happiness waits for that. as yet i seem to have done nothing. oh, but, beloved, i will! from a reading of the fioretti, i sign myself as i feel.--your glorious poor little one. the casket letters. a. my dear prince wonderful,[ ] pray god bless ---- ---- and make him come true for my sake. amen. _r.s.v.p._ [footnote : the ms. contained at first no name, but a blank; over it this has been written afterwards in a small hand.] b. dear prince wonderful: now that i have met you i pray that you will be my friend. i want just a little of your friendship, but that, so much, so much! and even for that little i do not know how to ask. always to be _your_ friend: of that you shall be quite sure. c. dear prince wonderful: long ago when i was still a child i told myself of you: but thought of you only as in a fairy tale. now i am afraid of trusting my eyes or ears, for fear i should think too much of you before i know you really to be true. do not make me wish so much to be your friend, unless you are also going to be true! please come true now, for mine and for all the world's sake:--but for mine especially, because i thought of you first! and if you are not able to come true, don't make me see you any more. i shall always remember you, and be glad that i have seen you just once. d. dear prince wonderful: _has_ god blessed you yet and made you come true? i have not seen you again, so how am i to know? not that it is necessary for me to know even if you do come true. i believe already that you are true. if i were never to see you again i should be glad to think of you as living, and shall always be your friend. i pray that you may come to know that. e. dear highness: i do not know what to write to you: i only know how much i wish to write. i have always written the things i thought about: it has been easy to find words for them. now i think about you, but have no words:--no words, dear highness, for you! i could write at once if i knew you were my friend. come true for me: i will have so much to tell you then! f. dear highness: if i believe in fairy tales coming true, it is because i am superstitious. this is what i did to-day. i shut my eyes and took a book from the shelf, opened it, and put my fingers down on a page. this is what i came to: "all i believed is true! i am able yet all i want to get by a method as strange as new: dare i trust the same to you?" fate says, then, you are to be my friend. fate has said i am yours already. that is very certain. only in real life where things come true would a book have opened as this has done. g. dear highness: i am sure now, then, that i please you, and that you like me, perhaps only a little: for you turned out of your way to ride with me though you were going somewhere so fast. how much i wished it when i saw you coming, but dared not believe it would come true! "come true": it is the word i have always been writing, and everything _has_:--you most of all! you are more true each time i see you. so true that now i will write it down at last,--the truth for you who have come so true. dear highness and great heart, i love you dearly, though you don't know it,--quite ever so much; and am going to love you ever so much more, only--please like _me_ a little better first! you on your dear side must do something: or, before i know, i may be wringing my hands all alone on a desert island to a bare blue horizon, with nothing in it real or fabulous. if i am to love you, nothing but happiness is to be allowed to come of it. so don't come true too fast without one little wee corresponding wish for me to find that you are! i am quite happy thinking you out slowly: it takes me all day long; the longer the better! i wonder how often in my life i shall write down that i love you, having once written it (i do:--i love you! there [it] is for you, with more to follow after!); and send you my love as i do now into the great emptiness of chance, hoping somehow, known or unknown, it may bless you and bring good to you. oh, but 'tis a windy world, and i a mere feather in it: how can i get blown the way i would? still i have a superstition that some star is over me which i have not seen yet, but shall,--heaven helping me. and now good-night, and no more, no more at all! i send out an "i love you" to be my celestial commercial traveler for me while i fold myself up and become its sleeping partner. good-night: you are the best and truest that i ever dreamed yet. h. dear highness: i begin not to be able to name you anything, for there is not a word for you that will do! "highness" you are: but that leaves gaps and coldnesses without end. "royal," yet much more serene than royal: though by that i don't mean any detraction from your royalty, for i never saw a man carry his invisible crown with so level a head and no haughtiness at all: and that is the finest royalty of look possible. i look at you and wonder so how you have grown to this--to have become king so quietly without any coronation ceremony. you have thought more than you should for happiness at your age; making me, by that one line in your forehead, think you were three years older than you really are. i wish--if i dare wish you anything different--that you were! it makes me uncomfortable to remember that i am--what? almost half a year your elder as time flies:--not really, for your brain was born long before mine began to rattle in its shell. you say quite _old_ things, and quietly, as if you had had them in your mind ten years already. when you told me about your two old pensioners, the blind man and his wife, whom you brought to so funny a reconciliation, i felt ("mir war, ich wuszte nicht wie") that i would like very much to go blindfold led by you: it struck me suddenly how happy would be a blindfoldness of perfect trust such as one might have with your hands on one. i suppose that is what in religion is called faith: i haven't it there, my dear; but i have it in you now. i love you, beginning to understand why: at first i did not. i am ashamed not to have discovered it earlier. the matter with you is that you have goodness prevailing in you, an integrity of goodness, i mean:--a different thing from there being a whereabouts for goodness in you; _that_ we all have in some proportion or another. i was quite right to love you: i know it now,--i did not when i first did. yesterday i was turning over a silly "confession book" in which a rose was everybody's favorite flower, manliness the finest quality for a man, and womanliness for a woman (which is as much as to say that pig is the best quality for pork, and pork for pig): till i came upon one different from the others, and found myself saying "yes" all down the page. i turned over for the signature, and found my own mother's. was it not a strange sweet meeting? and only then did the memory of her handwriting from far back come to me. she died, dear highness, before i was seven years old. i love her as i do my early memory of flowers, as something very sweet, hardly as a real person. i noticed she loved best in men and women what they lack most often: in a man, a fair mind; in a woman, courage. "brave women and fair men," she wrote. byron might have turned in his grave at having his dissolute stiff-neck so wrung for him by misquotation. and she--it must have been before the eighties had started the popular craze for him--chose meredith, my own dear meredith, for her favorite author. how our tastes would have run together had she lived! well, i know you fair, and believe myself brave--constitutionally, so that i can't help it: and this, therefore, is not self-praise. but fairness in a man is a deadly hard acquirement, i begin now to discover. you have it fixed fast in you. you, i think, began to do just things consciously, as the burden of manhood began in you. i love to think of you growing by degrees till you could carry your head _so_--and no other way; so that, looking at you, i can promise myself you never did a mean thing, and never consciously an unjust thing except to yourself. i can just fancy that fault in you. but, whatever--i love you for it more and more, and am proud knowing you and finding that we are to become friends. for it is that, and no less than that, now. i love you; and me you like cordially: and that is enough. i need not look behind it, for already i have no way to repay you for the happiness this brings me. i. oh, i think greatly of you, my dear; and it takes long thinking. not merely such a quantity of thought, but such a quality, makes so hard a day's work that by the end of it i am quite drowsy. bless me, dearest; all to-day has belonged to you; and to-morrow, i know, waits to become yours without the asking: just as without the asking i too am yours. i wish it were more possible for us to give service to those we love. i am most glad because i see you so often: but i come and go in your life empty-handed, though i have so much to give away. thoughts, the best i have, i give you: i cannot empty my brain of them. some day you shall think well of me.--that is a vow, dear friend,--you whom i love so much! j. i have not had to alter any thought ever formed about you, beloved; i have only had to deepen it--that is all. you grow, but you remain. i have heard people talk about you, generally kindly; but what they think of you is often wrong. i do not say anything, but i am glad, and so sure that i know you better. if my mind is so clear about you, it shows that you are good for me. now for nearly three months i may not see you again; but all that time you will be growing in my heart; and at the end without another word from you i shall find that i know you better than before. is that strange? it is because i love you: love is knowledge--blind knowledge, not wanting eyes. i only hope that i shall keep in your memory the kind place you have given me. you are almost my friend now, and i know it. you do not know that i love you. k. beloved: you love me! i know it now, and bless the sun and the moon and the stars for the dear certainty of it. and i ask you now, o heart that has opened to me, have i once been unhappy or impatient while this good thing has been withheld from me? indeed my love for you has occupied me too completely: i have been so glad to find how much there is to learn in a good heart deeply unconscious of its own goodness. you have employed me as i wish i may be employed all the days of my life: and now my beloved employer has given me the wages i did not ask. you love me! is it a question of little or much? is it not rather an entire new thought of me that has entered your life, as the thought of you entered mine months that seem years ago? it was the seed then, and seemed small; but the whole life was there; and it has grown and grown till now it is i who have become small, and have hardly room in me for the roots: and it seems to have gone so far up over my head that i wonder if the stars know of my happiness. they must know of yours too, then, my beloved: they are no company for me without you. oh, to-day, to-day of all days! how in my heart i shall go on kissing it till i die! you love me: that is wonderful! you love me: and already it is not wonderful in the least! but belongs to noah and the ark and all the animals saved up for an earth washed clean and dried, and the new beginnings of time which have ever since been twisting and turning with us in safe keeping through all the history of the world. "we came over at the norman conquest," my dear, as people say trailing their pedigree: but there was no ancestral pride about us--it was all for the love of the thing we did it: how clear it seems now! in the hall hangs a portrait in a big wig, but otherwise the image of my father, of a man who flouted the authority of james ii. merely because he was so like my father in character that he could do nothing else. i shall look for you now in the bayeux tapestries with a prong from your helmet down the middle of your face--of which that line on your forehead is the remainder. and you love me! i wonder what the line has to do with that? by such little things do great things seem to come about: not really. i know it was not because i said just what i did say, and did what i did yesterday, that your heart was bound to come for mine. but it was those small things that brought you consciousness: and when we parted i knew that i had all the world at my feet--or all heaven over my head! ah, at last i may let the spirit of a kiss go to you from me, and not be ashamed or think myself forward since i have your love. all this time you are thinking of me: a certainty lying far outside what i can see. beloved, if great happiness may be set to any words, it is here! if silence goes better with it,--speak, silence, for me when i end now! good-night, and think greatly of me! i shall wake early. l. dearest: was my heart at all my own,--was it my own to give, till you came and made me aware of how much it contains? truly, dear, it contained nothing before, since now it contains you and nothing else. so i have a brand-new heart to give away: and you, you want it and can't see that there it is staring you in the face like a rose with all its petals ready to drop. i am quite sure that if i had not met you, i could have loved nobody as i love you. yet it is very likely that i should have loved--sufficiently, as the way of the world goes. it is not a romantic confession, but it is true to life: i do so genuinely like most of my fellow-creatures, and am not happy except where shoulders rub socially:--that is to say, have not until now been happy, except dependently on the company and smiles of others. now, beloved, i have none of your company, and have had but few of your smiles (i could count them all); yet i have become more happy filling up my solitude with the understanding of you which has made me wise, than all the rest of fate or fortune could make me. down comes autumn's sad heart and finds me gay; and the asters, which used to chill me at their appearing, have come out like crocuses this year because it is the beginning of a new world. and all the winter will carry more than a suspicion of summer with it, just as the longest days carry round light from northwest to northeast, because so near the horizon, but out of sight, lies their sun. so you, beloved, so near to me now at last, though out of sight. m. beloved: whether i have sorry or glad things to think about, they are accompanied and changed by thoughts of you. you are my diary:--all goes to you now. that you love me is the very light by which i see everything. also i learn so much through having you in my thoughts: i cannot say how it is, for i have no more knowledge of life than i had before:--yet i am wiser, i believe, knowing much more what lives at the root of things and what men have meant and felt in all they have done:--because i love you, dearest. also i am quicker in my apprehensions, and have more joy and more fear in me than i had before. and if this seems to be all about myself, it is all about you really, beloved! last week one of my dearest old friends, our rector, died: a character you too would have loved. he was a father to the whole village, rather stern of speech, and no respecter of persons. yet he made a very generous allowance for those who did not go through the church door to find their salvation. i often went only because i loved him: and he knew it. i went for that reason alone last sunday. the whole village was full of closed blinds: and of all things over him chopin's funeral march was played!--a thing utterly unchristian in its meaning: wild pagan grief, desolate over lost beauty. "balder the beautiful is dead, is dead!" it cried: and i thought of you suddenly; you, who are not balder at all. too many thorns have been in your life, but not the mistletoe stroke dealt by a blind god ignorantly. yet in all great joy there is the balder element: and i feared lest something might slay it for me, and my life become a cry like chopin's march over mown-down unripened grass, and youth slain in its high places. after service a sort of processional instinct drew people up to the house: they waited about till permission was given, and went in to look at their old man, lying in high state among his books. i did not go. beloved, i have never yet seen death: you have, i know. do you, i wonder, remember your father better than i mine:--or your brother? are they more living because you saw them once not living? i think death might open our eyes to those we lived on ill terms with, but not to the familiar and dear. i do not need you dead, to be certain that your heart has mine for its true inmate and mine yours. i love you, i love you: so let good-night bring you good-morning! n. at long intervals, dearest, i write to you a secret all about yourself for my eyes to see: because, chiefly because, i have not you to look at. thus i bless myself with you. away over the world west of this and a little bit north is the city of spires where you are now. never having seen it i am the more free to picture it as i like: and to me it is quite full of you:--quite greedily full, beloved, when elsewhere you are so much wanted! i send my thoughts there to pick up crumbs for me. it is a strange blend of notions--wisdom and ignorance combined: for _you_ i seem to know perfectly; but of your life nothing at all. and yet nobody there knows so much about you as i. what you _do_ matters so much less than what you are. you, who are the clearest heart in all the world, do what you will, you are so still to me, beloved. i take a happy armful of thoughts about you into all my dreams: and when i wake they are there still, and have done nothing but remain true. what better can i ask of them? you do love me: you have not changed? without change i remain yours so long as i live. o. and you, beloved, what are you thinking of me all this while? think well of me, i beg you: i deserve so much, loving you as truly as i do! so often, dearest, i sit thinking my hands into yours again as when we were saying good-by the last time. then it was, under our laughter and light words, that i saw suddenly how the thing too great to name had become true, that from friends we were changed into lovers. it seemed the most natural thing to be, and yet was wonderful--for it was i who loved you first: a thing i could never be ashamed of, and am now proud to own--for has it not proved me wise? my love for you is the best wisdom that i have. good-night, dearest! sleep as well as i love you, and nobody in the world will sleep so soundly. p. a few times in my life, beloved, i have had the blue-moon-hunger for something which seemed too impossible and good ever to come true: prosaic people call it being "in the blues"; i comfort myself with a prettier word for it. to-day, not the blue-moon itself, but the man of it came down and ate plum-porridge with me! also, i do believe that it burnt his mouth, and am quite reasonably happy thinking so, since it makes me know that you love me as much as ever. if i have had doubts, dearest, they have been of myself, lest i might be unworthy of your friendship or love. suspicions of you i never had. who wrote that suspicions among thoughts are like bats among birds, flying only by twilight? but even my doubts have been thoughts, beloved,--sure of you if not always of myself. and if i have looked for you only with doubtful vision, yet i have always seen you in as strong a light as my eyes could bear:-- blue-moonlight. beloved, is not twilight: and blue-moonlight has been the light i saw you by: it is you alone who can make sunlight of it. this i read yesterday has lain on my mind since as true and altogether beautiful, with the beauty of major, not of minor poetry, though it was a minor poet who wrote it. it is of a wood where apollo has gone in quest of his beloved, and she is not yet to be found: "here each branch sway'd with a glitter all its crowded leaves, and brushed the soft divine hair touching them in ruffled clusters.... suddenly the moon smoothed herself out of vapor-drift and made the deep night full of pleasure in the eye of her sweet motion. not alone she came leading the starlight with her like a song: and not a bud of all that undergrowth but crisped and tingled out an ardent edge as the light steeped it: over whose massed leaves the portals of illimitable sleep faded in heaven." that is love in its moonrise, not its sunrise stage: yet you see. beloved, how it takes possession of its dark world, quite as fully as the brighter sunlight could do. and if i speak of doubts, i mean no twilight and no suspicions: nor by darkness do i mean any unhappiness. my blue-moon has come, leading the starlight with her like a song. am i not happy enough to be patiently yours before you know it? good things which are to be, before they happen are already true. nothing is so true as you are, except my love for you and yours for me. good-night, good-night. sleep well, beloved, and wake. q. beloved: i heard somebody yesterday speak of you as "charming"; and i began wondering to myself was that the word which could ever have covered my thoughts of you? i do not know whether you ever charmed me, except in the sense of charming which means magic and spell-binding. _that_ you did from the beginning, dearest. but i think i held you at first in too much awe to discover charm in you: and at last knew you too much to the depths to name you by a word so lightly used for the surface of things. yet now a charm in you, which is not _all_ you, but just a part of you, comes to light, when i see you wondering whether you are really loved, or whether, beloved, i only _like_ you rather well! well, if you will be so "charming," i am helpless: and can do nothing, nothing, but pray for the blue-moon to rise, and love you a little better because you have some of that divine foolishness which strikes the very wise ones of earth, and makes them kin to weaker mortals who otherwise might miss their "charm" altogether. truly, beloved, if i am happy, it is because i am also your most patiently loving. r. beloved: the certainty which i have now that you love me so fills all my thoughts, i cannot understand you being in any doubt on your side. what must i do that i do not do, to show gladness when we meet and sorrow when we have to part? i am sure that i make no pretense or disguise, except that i do not stand and wring my hands before all the world, and cry "don't go!"--which has sometimes been in my mind, to be kept _not_ said! indeed, i think so much of you, my dear, that i believe some day, if you do your part, you will only have to look up from your books to find me standing. if you did, would you still be in doubt whether i loved you? oh, if any apparition of me ever goes to you, all my thoughts will surely look truthfully out of its eyes; and even you will read what is there at last! beloved, i kiss your blind eyes, and love them the better for all their unreadiness to see that i am already their slave. not a day now but i think i may see you again: i am in a golden uncertainty from hour to hour. i love you: you love me: a mist of blessing swims over my eyes as i write the words, till they become one and the same thing: i can no longer divide their meaning in my mind. amen: there is no need that i should. s. beloved: i have not written to you for quite a long time: ah, i could not. i have nothing now to say! i think i could very easily die of this great happiness, so certainly do you love me! just a breath more of it and i should be gone. good-by, dearest, and good-by, and good-by! if you want letters from me now, you must ask for them! that the earth contains us both, and that we love each other, is about all that i have mind enough to take in. i do not think i can love you more than i do: you are no longer my dream but my great waking thought. i am waiting for no blue-moonrise now: my heart has not a wish which you do not fulfill. i owe you my whole life, and for any good to you must pay it out to the last farthing, and still feel myself your debtor. oh, beloved, i am most poor and most rich when i think of your love. good-night; i can never let thought of you go! * * * * * beloved: these are almost all of them, but not quite; a few here and there have cried to be taken out, saying they were still too shy to be looked at. i can't argue with them: they know their own minds best; and you know mine. see what a dignified historic name i have given this letter-box, or chatterbox, or whatever you like to call it. but "resurrection pie" is _my_ name for it. don't eat too much of it, prays your loving. letter xxiii. saving your presence, dearest, i would rather have prince otto, a very lovable character for second affections to cling to. richard feverel would never marry again, so i don't ask for him: as for the rest, they are all too excellent for me. they give me the impression of having worn copy-books under their coats, when they were boys, to cheat punishment: and the copy-books got beaten into their systems. you must find me somebody who was a "gallous young hound" in the days of his youth--crossjay, for instance:--there! i have found the very man for me! but really and truly, are you better? it will not hurt your foot to come to me, since i am not to come to you? how i long to see you again, dearest! it is an age! as a matter of fact, it is a fortnight: but i dread lest you will find some change in me. i have kept a real white hair to show you, i drew it out of my comb the other morning: wound up into a curl it becomes quite visible, and it is ivory-white: you are not to think it flaxen, and take away its one wee sentiment! and i make you an offer:--you shall have it if, honestly, you can find in your own head a white one to exchange. dearest, i am not _hurt_, nor do i take seriously to heart your mother's present coldness. how much more i could forgive her when i put myself in her place! she may well feel a struggle and some resentment at having to give up in any degree her place with you. all my selfishness would come to the front if that were demanded of me. do not think, because i leave her alone, that i am repaying her coldness in the same coin. i know that for the present anything i do must offend. have i demanded your coming too soon? then stay away another day--or two: every day only piles up the joy it will be to have your arms round me once more. i can keep for a little longer: and the gray hair will keep, and many to-morrows will come bringing good things for us, when perhaps your mother's "share of the world" will be over. don't say it, but when you next kiss her, kiss her for me also: i am sorry for all old people: their love of things they are losing is so far more to be reverenced and made room for than ours of the things which will come to us in good time abundantly. to-night i feel selfish at having too much of your love: and not a bit of it can i let go! i hope, beloved, we shall live to see each other's gray hairs in earnest: gray hairs that we shall not laugh at, as at this one i pulled. how dark your dear eyes will look with a white setting! my heart's heart, every day you grow larger round me, and i so much stronger depending upon you! i won't say--come for certain, to-morrow: but come if, and as soon as, you can. i seem to see a mile further when i am on the lookout for you: and i shall be long-sighted every day until you come. it is only _doubtful_ hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. i am as happy as the day is long waiting for you: but the day _is_ long, dearest, none the less when i don't see you. all this space on the page below is love. i have no time left to put it into words, or words into it. you bless my thoughts constantly.--believe me, never your thoughtless. letter xxiv. dearest: how, when, and where is there any use wrangling as to which of us loves the other the best ("the better," i believe, would be the more grammatical phrase in incompetent queen's english), and why in that of all things should we pretend to be rivals? for this at least seems certain to me, that, being created male and female, no two lovers since the world began ever loved each other quite in the _same_ way: it is not in nature for it to be so. they cannot compare: only to the best that is in them they _do_ love each after their kind,--as do we for certain! be sure, then, that i am utterly contented with what i get (and you, beloved, and you?): nay, i wonder forever at the love you have given me: and if i will to lay mine at your feet, and feel yours crowning my life,--why, so it is, you know; you cannot alter it! and if you insist that your love is at _my_ feet, i have only to turn irish and reply that it is because i am heels over head in love with you:--and, mark you, that is no pretty attitude for a lady that you have driven me into in order that i may stick to my "crown"! go to, dearest! there is one thing in which i can beat you, and that is in the bandying of words and all verbal conjurings: take this as the last proof of it and rest quiet. i know you love me a great great deal more than i have wit or power to love you: and that is just the little reason why your love mounts till, as i tell you, it crowns me (head or heels): while mine, insufficient and groveling, lies at your feet, and will till they become amputated. and i can give you, but won't, sixty other reasons why things are as i say, and are to be left as i say. and oh, my world, my world, it is with you i go round sunwards, and you make my evenings and mornings, and will, till time shuts his wings over us! and now it is doleful business i have to write to you.... i have dropped to sleep over all this writing of things, and my cheek down on the page has made the paper unwilling to take the ink again:--what a pretty compliment to me: and, if you prefer it, what an easy way of writing to you! i can send you such any day and be as idle as i like. and you will decide about all the above exactly as you and i think best (or should it be "better" again, being only between us two?). when you get this, blow your beloved self a kiss in the glass for me,--a great big shattering blow that shall astonish mercury behind his window-pane. good-night, my best--or "better," for that is what i most want you to be. letter xxv. my own beloved: and i never thanked you yesterday for your dear words about the resurrection pie; that comes of quarreling! well, you must prove them and come quickly that i may see this restoration of health and spirits that you assure me of. you avoid saying that they sent you to sleep; but i suppose that is what you mean. fate meant me only to light upon gay things this morning: listen to this and guess where it comes from: "when march with variant winds was past, and april had with her silver showers ta'en leif at life with an orient blast; and lusty may, that mother of flowers, had made the birds to begin their hours, among the odours ruddy and white, whose harmony was the ear's delight: "in bed at morrow i sleeping lay; methought aurora, with crystal een, in at the window looked by day, and gave me her visage pale and green; and on her hand sang a lark from the splene, 'awake ye lovers from slumbering! see how the lusty morrow doth spring!'" ah, but you are no scholar of the things in your own tongue! that is dunbar, a scots poet contemporary of henry vii., just a little bit altered by me to make him soundable to your ears. if i had not had to leave an archaic word here and there, would you ever have guessed he lay outside this century? that shows the permanent element in all good poetry, and in all good joy in things also. in the four centuries since that was written we have only succeeded in worsening the meaning of certain words, as for instance "spleen," which now means irritation and vexation, but stood then for quite the opposite--what we should call, i suppose, "a full heart." it is what i am always saying--a good digestion is the root of nearly all the good living and high thinking we are capable of: and the spleen was then the root of the happy emotions as it is now of the miserable ones. your pre-reformation lark sang from "a full stomach," and thanked god it had a constitution to carry it off without affectation: and your nineteenth century lark applying the same code of life, his plain-song is mere happy everyday prose, and not poetry at all as we try to make it out to be. i have no news for you at all of anyone: all inside the house is a simmer of peace and quiet, with blinds drawn down against the heat the whole day long. no callers; and as for me, i never call elsewhere. the gossips about here eke out a precarious existence by washing each other's dirty linen in public: and the process never seems to result in any satisfactory cleansing. i avoid saying what news i trust to-morrow's post-bag may contain for me. every wish i send you comes "from the spleen," which means i am very healthy, and, conditionally, as happy as is good for me. pray god bless my dear share of the world, and make him get well for his own and my sake! amen. this catches the noon post, an event which always shows i am jubilant, with a lot of the opposite to a "little death" feeling running over my nerves. i feel the grass growing _under_ me: the reverse of poor keats' complaint. good-by, beloved, till i find my way into the provender of to-morrow's post-bag. letter xxvi. oh, wings of the morning, here you come! i have been looking out for you ever since post came. roberts is carrying orders into town, and will bring you this with a touch of the hat and an amused grin under it. i saw you right on the top sallis hill: this is to wager that my eyes have told me correctly. look out for me from far away, i am at my corner window: wave to me! dearest, this is to kiss you before i can. letter xxvii. dearest: i have made a bad beginning of the week: i wonder how it will end? it all comes of my not seeing enough of you. time hangs heavy on my hands, and the devil finds me the mischief! i prevailed upon myself to go on sunday and listen to our new lately appointed vicar: for i thought it not fair to condemn him on the strength of mrs. p----'s terrible reporting powers and her sensuous worship of his full-blown flowers of speech--"pulpit-pot-plants" is what i call them. it was not worse and not otherwise than i had expected. i find there are only two kinds of clerics as generally necessary to salvation in a country parish--one leads his parishioners to the altar and the other to the pulpit: and the latter is vastly the more popular among the articulate and gad-about members of his flock. this one sways himself over the edge of his frame, making signals of distress in all directions, and with that and his windy flights of oratory suggests twenty minutes in a balloon-car, till he comes down to earth at the finish with the doxology for a parachute. his shepherd's crook is one long note of interrogation, with which he tries to hook down the heavens to the understanding of his hearers, and his hearers up to an understanding of himself. all his arguments are put interrogatively, and few of them are worth answering. well, well, i shall be all the freer for your visit when you come next sunday, and any sunday after that you will: and he shall come in to tea if you like and talk to you in quite a cultured and agreeable manner, as he can when his favorite beverage is before him. i discover that i get "the snaps" on a monday morning, if i get them at all. the m.-a. gets them on the sunday itself, softly but regularly: they distress no one, and we all know the cause: her fingers are itching for the knitting which she mayn't do. your protestant ignores lent as a popish device, a fond thing vainly invented: but spreads it instead over fifty-two days in the year. why, i want to know, cannot i change the subject? sunday we get no post (and no collection except in church) unless we send down to the town for it, so monday is all the more welcome: but this i have been up and writing before it arrives--therefore the "snaps." our postman is a lovely sight. i watched him walking up the drive the other morning, and he seemed quite perfection, for i guessed he was bringing me the thing which would make me happy all day. i only hope the government pays him properly. i think this is the least pleasant letter i have ever sent you: shall i tell you why? it was not the sermon: he is quite a forgivable good man in his way. but in the afternoon that same mrs. p---- came, got me in a corner, and wanted to unburden herself of invective against your mother, believing that i should be glad, because her coldness to me has become known! what mean things some people can think about one! i heard nothing: but i am ruffled in all my plumage and want stroking. and my love to your mother, please, if she will have it. it is only through her that i get you.--ever your very own. letter xxviii. dearest: here comes a letter to you from me flying in the opposite direction. i won't say i am not wishing to go; but oh, to be a bird in two places at once! give this letter, then, a special nesting-place, because i am so much on the wing elsewhere. i shut my eyes most of the time through france, and opened them on a soup-tureen full of coffee which presented itself at the frontier: and then realized that only a little way ahead lay berne, with baths, buns, bears, breakfast, and other nice things beginning with b, waiting to make us clean, comfortable, contented, and other nice things beginning with c. through france i loved you sleepy fashion, with many dreams in between not all about you. but now i am breathing thoughts of you out of a new atmosphere--a great gulp of you, all clean-living and high-thinking between these alpine royal highnesses with snow-white crowns to their heads: and no time for a word more about anything except you: you, and double-you,--and treble-you if the alphabet only had grace to contain so beautiful a symbol! good-by: we meet next, perhaps, out of lucerne: if not,--italy. what a lot i have to go through before we meet again visibly! you will find me world-worn, my beloved! write often. letter xxix. beloved: you know of the method for making a cat settle down in a strange place by buttering her all over: the theory being that by the time she has polished off the butter she feels herself at home? my morning's work has been the buttering of the mother-aunt with such things as will lucerne her the most. when her instincts are appeased i am the more free to indulge my own. so after breakfast we went round the cloisters, very thick set with tablets and family vaults, and crowded graves inclosed. it proved quite "the best butter." to me the penance turned out interesting after a period of natural repulsion. a most unpleasant addition to sepulchral sentiment is here the fashion: photographs of the departed set into the stone. you see an elegant and genteel marble cross: there on the pedestal above the name is the photo:--a smug man with bourgeois whiskers,--a militiaman with waxed mustaches well turned up,--a woman well attired and conscious of it: you cannot think how indecent looked the pretension of such types to the dignity of death and immortality. but just one or two faces stood the test, and were justified: a young man oppressed with the burden of youth; a sweet, toothless grandmother in a bonnet, wearing old age like a flower; a woman not beautiful but for her neck which carried indignation; her face had a thwarted look. "dead and rotten" one did not say of these in disgust and involuntarily as one did of the others. and yet i don't suppose the eye picks out the faces that kindled most kindness round them when living, or that one can see well at all where one sees without sympathy. i think the mother-aunt's face would not look dear to most people as it does to me,--yet my sight of her is the truer: only i would not put it up on a tombstone in order that it might look nothing to those that pass by. i wrote this much, and then, leaving the m.-a. to glory in her innumerable correspondence, arthur and i went off to the lake, where we have been for about seven hours. on it, i found it become infinitely more beautiful, for everything was mystified by a lovely bloomy haze, out of which the white peaks floated like dreams: and the mountains change and change, and seem not all the same as going when returning. don't ask me to write landscape to you: one breathes it in, and it is there ever after, but remains unset to words. the t----s whittle themselves out of our company just to the right amount: come back at the right time (which is more than arthur and i are likely to do when our legs get on the spin), and are duly welcome with a diversity of doings to talk about. their tastes are more the m.-a.'s, and their activities about halfway between hers and ours, so we make rather a fortunate quintette. the m---- trio join us the day after to-morrow, when the majority of us will head away at once to florence. arthur growls and threatens he means to be left behind for a week: and it suits the funny little jealousy of the m.-a. well enough to see us parted for a time, quite apart from the fact that i shall then be more dependent on her company. she will then glory in overworking herself,--say it is me; and i shall feel a fiend. no letter at all, dearest, this; merely talky-talky.--yours without words. letter xxx. dearest: i cannot say i have seen pisa, for the majority had their way, and we simply skipped into it, got ourselves bumped down at the duomo and campo santo for two hours, fell exhausted to bed, and skipped out again by the first train next morning. over the walls of the campo santo are some divine crumbs of benozzo gozzoli (don't expect me ever to spell the names of dead painters correctly: it is a politeness one owes to the living, but the famous dead are exalted by being spelt phonetically as the heart dictates, and become all the better company for that greatest of unspelled and spread-about names--shakspere, shakspeare, shakespeare--his mark, not himself). such a long parenthesis requires stepping-stones to carry you over it: "crumbs" was the last (wasn't a whole loaf of bread a stepping-stone in one of andersen's fairy-tales?): but, indeed, i hadn't time to digest them properly. let me come back to them before i die, and bury me in that inclosure if you love me as much then as i think you do now. the baptistry has a roof of echoes that is wonderful,--a mirror of sound hung over the head of an official who opens his mouth for centimes to drop there. you sing notes up into it (or rather you don't, for that is his perquisite), and they fly circling, and flock, and become a single chord stretching two octaves: till you feel that you are living inside what in the days of our youth would have been called "the sound of a grand amen." the cathedral has fine points, or more than points--aspects: but the italian version of gothic, with its bands of flat marbles instead of moldings, was a shock to me at first. i only begin to understand it now that i have seen the outside of the duomo at florence. curiously enough, it doesn't strike me as in the least christian, only civic and splendid, reminding me of what ruskin says about church architecture being really a dependant on the feudal or domestic. the strozzi palace is a beautiful piece of street-architecture; its effect is of an iron hand which gives you a buffet in the face when you look up and wonder--how shall i climb in? i will tell you more about insides when i write next. i fear my last letter to you from lucerne may either have strayed, or not even have begun straying: for in the hurry of coming away i left it, addressed, i _think_, but unstamped; and i am not sure that that particular hotel will be christian enough to spare the postage out of the bill, which had a galaxy of small extras running into centimes, and suggesting a red-tape rectitude that would not show blind twenty-five-centime gratitude to the backs of departed guests. so be patient and forgiving if i seem to have written little. i found two of yours waiting for me, and cannot choose between them which i find most dear. i will say, for a fancy, the shorter, that you may ever be encouraged to write your shortest rather than none at all. one word from you gives me almost as much pleasure as twenty, for it contains all your sincerity and truth; and what more do i want? yon bless me quite. how many perfectly happy days i owe to you, and seldom dare dream that i have made any beginning of a return! if i could take one unhappy day out of your life, dearest, the secret would be mine, and no such thing should be left in it. be happy, beloved! oh, happy, happy,--with me for a partial reason--that is what i wish! letter xxxi. dearest: the italian paper-money paralyzes my brain: i cannot calculate in it; and were i left to myself an unscrupulous shopman could empty me of pounds without my becoming conscious of it till i beheld vacuum. but the t----s have been wonderful caretakers to me: and to-morrow arthur rejoins us, so that i shall be able to resume my full activities under his safe-conduct. the ways of the italian cabbies and porters fill me with terror for the time when i may have to fall alive and unassisted into their hands: they have neither conscience nor gratitude, and regard thievish demands when satisfied merely as stepping-stones to higher things. many of the outsides of florence i seemed to know by heart--the palazzo vecchio for instance. but close by it cellini's two statues, the judith and the perseus, brought my heart up to my mouth unexpectedly. the perseus is so out of proportion as to be ludicrous from one point of view: but another is magnificent enough to make me forgive the scamp his autobiography from now to the day of judgment (when we shall all begin forgiving each other in great haste, i suppose, for fear of the devil taking the hindmost!), and i registered a vow on the spot to that effect:--so no more of him here, henceforth, but good! there is not so much color about as i had expected: and austerity rather than richness is the note of most of the exteriors. i have not been allowed into the uffizi yet, so to-day consoled myself with the pitti. titian's "duke of norfolk" is there, and i loved him, seeing a certain likeness there to somebody whom i--like. a photo of him will be coming to you. also there is a very fine lely-vandyck of charles i. and henrietta maria, a quite moral painting, making a triumphant assertion of that martyr's bad character. i imagine he got into heaven through having his head cut off and cast from him: otherwise all of him would have perished along with his mouth. somewhere too high up was hanging a ravishing botticelli--a madonna and child bending over like a wind-blown tree to be kissed by st. john:--a composition that takes you up in its arms and rocks you as you look at it. andrea del sarto is to me only a big mediocrity: there is nothing here to touch his chortling child-christ in our national gallery. at pisa i slept in a mosquito-net, and felt like a bride at the altar under a tulle veil which was too large for her. here, for lack of that luxury, being assured that there were no mosquitoes to be had, i have been sadly ravaged. the creatures pick out all foreigners, i think, and only when they have exhausted the supply do they pass on to the natives. mrs. t---- left one foot unveiled when in pisa, and only this morning did the irritation in the part bitten begin to come out. i can now ask for a bath in italian, and order the necessary things for myself in the hotel: also say "come in" and "thank you." but just the few days of that very german _table d'hôte_ at lucerne, where i talked gladly to polish myself up, have given my tongue a hybrid way of talking without thinking: and i say "_ja, ja_," and "_nein_," and "_der, die, das_," as often as not before such italian nouns as i have yet captured. to fall upon a chambermaid who knows french is like coming upon my native tongue suddenly. give me good news of your foot and all that is above it: i am so doubtful of its being really strong yet; and its willing spirits will overcome it some day and do it an injury, and hurt my feelings dreadfully at the same time. walk only on one leg whenever you think of me! i tell you truly i am wonderfully little lonely: and yet my thoughts are constantly away with you, wishing, wishing,--what no word on paper can ever carry to you. it shall be at our next meeting!--all yours. letter xxxii. my dearest: florence is still eating up all my time and energies: i promised you there should be austerity and self-denial in the matter of letter-writing: and i know you are unselfish enough to expect even less than i send you. girls in the street address compliments to arthur's complexion:-- "beautiful brown boy" they call him: and he simmers over with vanity, and wishes he could show them his boating arms, brown up to the shoulder, as well. have you noticed that combination in some of the dearest specimens of young english manhood,--great physical vanity and great mental modesty? and each as transparently sincere as the other. the bargello is an ideal museum for the storage of the best things out of the middle ages. it opens out of splendid courtyards and staircases, and ranges through rooms which have quite a feudal gloom about them; most of these are hung with bad late tapestries (too late at least for my taste), so that the gloom is welcome and charming, making even "gobelins" quite bearable. i find quite a new man here to admire--pollaiolo, both painter and sculptor, one of the school of "passionate anatomists," as i call them, about the time of botticelli, i fancy. he has one bust of a young florentine which equals verocchio on the same ground, and charms me even more. some of his subjects are done twice over, in paint and bronze: but he is more really a sculptor, i think, and merely paints his piece into a picture from its best point of view. verocchio's idea of david is charming: he is a saucy fellow who has gone in for it for the fun of the thing--knew he could bring down a hawk with his catapult, and therefore why not a goliath also? if he failed, he need but cut and run, and everybody would laugh and call him plucky for doing even that much. so he does it, brings down his big game by good luck, and stands posing with a sort of irresistible stateliness to suit the result. he has a laugh something like "little dick's," only more full of bubbles, and is saying to himself, "what a hero they all think me!" he is the merriest of sly-dog hypocrites, and has thin, wiry arms and a craney neck. he is a bit like tom sawyer in character, more ornate and dramatic than huckleberry finn, but quite as much a liar, given a good cause. another thing that has seized me, more for its idea than actual carrying out, is an unnamed terra-cotta madonna and child. he is crushing himself up against her neck, open-mouthed and terrified, and she spreading long fingers all over his head and face. my notion of it is that it is the godhead taking his first look at life from the human point of view; and he realizes himself "caught in his own trap," discovering it to be ever so much worse than it had seemed from an outside view. it is a fine modern _zeit-geist_ piece of declamation to come out of the rather over-sweet della robbia period of art. there seems to have been a rage at one period for commissioning statues of david: so donatello and others just turned to and did what they liked most in the way of budding youth, stuck a goliath's head at its feet, and called it "david." verocchio is the exception. we are going to get outside florence for a week or ten days; it is too hot to be borne at night after a day of tiring activity. so we go to the d----s' villa, which they offered us in their absence; it lies about four miles out, and is on much higher ground: address only your very immediately next letter there, or it may miss me. there are hills out there with vineyards among them which draw me into wishing to be away from towns altogether. much as i love what is to be found in this one, i think heaven meant me to be "truly rural"; which all falls in, dearest, with what _i_ mean to be! beloved, how little i sometimes can say to you! sometimes my heart can put only silence into the end of a letter; and with that i let this one go.--yours, and so lovingly. letter xxxiii. beloved: i had your last letter on friday: all your letters have come in their right numbers. i have lost count of mine; but i think seven and two postcards is the total, which is the same as the numbers of clean and unclean beasts proportionately represented in the ark. up here we are out of the deadliness of the heat, and are thankful for it. vineyards and olives brush the eyes between the hard, upright bars of the cypresses: and florence below is like a hot bath which we dip into and come out again. at the riccardi chapel i found benozzo gozzoli, not in crumbs, but perfectly preserved: a procession of early florentine youths, turning into angels when they get to the bay of the window where the altar once stood. the more i see of them, the greater these early men seem to me: i shall be afraid to go to venice soon; titian will only half satisfy me, and tintoretto, i know, will be actively annoying: i shall stay in my gondola, as your american lady did on her donkey after riding twenty miles to visit the ruins, of--carnac, was it not? it is well to have the courage of one's likings and dislikings, that is the only true culture (the state obtained by use of a "coulter" or cutter)--i cut many things severely which, no doubt, are good for other people. botticelli i was shy of, because of the craze about him among people who know nothing: he is far more wonderful than i had hoped, both at the uffizi and the academia: but he is quite pagan. i don't know why i say "but"; he is quite typical of the world's art-training: christianity may get hold of the names and dictate the subjects, but the artist-breed carries a fairly level head through it all, and, like pater's mona lisa, draws christianity and paganism into one: at least, wherever it reaches perfect expression it has done so. some of the distinctly primitives are different; their works inclose a charm which is not artistic. fra angelico, after being a great disappointment to me in some of his large set pictures in the academia and elsewhere, shows himself lovely in fresco (though i think the "crumb" element helps him). his great crucifixion is big altogether, and has so permanent a force in its aloofness from mere drama and mere life. in san marco, the cells of the monks are quite charming, a row of little square bandboxes under a broad raftered corridor, and in every cell is a beautiful little fresco for the monks to live up to. but they no longer live there now: all that part of san marco has become a peep-show. i liked being in savonarola's room, and was more susceptible to the remains of his presence than i have been to michel angelo or anyone else's. michel angelo i feel most when he has left a thing unfinished; then one can put one's finger into the print of the chisel, and believe anything of the beauty that might have come out of the great stone chrysalis lying cased and rough, waiting to be raised up to life. yesterday arthur and i walked from here to fiesole, which we had neglected while in florence--six miles going, and more like twelve coming back, all because of arthur's absurd cross-country instinct, which, after hours of river-bends, bare mountain tracks, and tottering precipices, brought us out again half a mile nearer florence than when we started. at fiesole is the only church about here whose interior architecture i have greatly admired, austere but at the same time gracious--like a madonna of the best period of painting. we also went to look at the roman baths and theater: the theater is charming enough, because it is still there: but for the baths--oblongs of stone don't interest me just because they are old. all stone is old: and these didn't even hold water to give one the real look of the thing. too tired, and even more too lazy, to write other things, except love, most dear beloved. letter xxxiv. dearest: we were to have gone down with the rest into florence yesterday: but soft miles of italy gleamed too invitingly away on our right, and i saw arthur's eyes hungry with the same far-away wish. so i said "prato," and he ran up to the fattore's and secured a wondrous shandry-dan with just space enough between its horns to toss the two of us in the direction where we would go. its gaunt framework was painted of a bright red, and our feet had only netting to rest on: so constructed, the creature was most vital and light of limb, taking every rut on the road with flea-like agility. oh, but it was worth it! we had a drive of fourteen miles through hills and villages, and castellated villas with gardens shut in by formidably high walls--always, a charm: a garden should always have something of the jealous seclusion of a harem. i am getting italian landscape into my system, and enjoy it more and more. prato is a little cathedral town, very like the narrow and tumble-down parts of florence, only more so. the streets were a seething caldron of cattle-market when we entered, which made us feel like a tea-cup in a bull-ring (or is it thunderstorm?) as we drove through needle's-eye ways bristling with agitated horns. the cathedral is little and good: damaged, of course, wherever the last three centuries have laid hands on it. at the corner of the west front is an out-door pulpit beautifully put on with a mushroom hood over its head. the main lines of the interior are finely severe, either quite round or quite flat, and proportions good always. an upholstered priest coming out to say mass is generally a sickening sight, so wicked and ugly in look and costume. the best-behaved people are the low-down beggars, who are most decoratively devotional. we tried to model our exit on a brigand-beggar who came in to ask permission to murder one of his enemies. he got his request granted at one of the side-altars (some strictly local madonna, i imagine), and his gratitude as he departed was quite touching. having studiously copied his exit, we want to know whom we shall murder to pay ourselves for our trouble. it amuses me to have my share of driving over these free and easy and very narrow highroads. but a. has to do the collision-shouting and the cries of "via!"--the horse only smiles when he hears me do it. also did i tell you that on saturday we two walked from here over to fiesole--six miles there, and ten back: for why?--because we chose to go what arthur calls "a bee-line across country," having thought we had sighted a route from the top of fiesole. but in the valley we lost it, and after breaking our necks over precipices and our hearts down cul-de-sacs that led nowhere, and losing all the ways that were pointed out to us, for lack of a knowledge of the language, we came out again into view of florence about half a mile nearer than when we started and proportionately far away from home. when he had got me thoroughly foot-sore, arthur remarked complacently, "the right way to see a country is to lose yourself in it!" i didn't feel the truth of it then: but applied to other things i perceive its wisdom. dear heart, where i have lost myself, what in all the world do i know so well as you? your most lost and loving. letter xxxv. beloved: rain swooped down on us from on high during the night, and the country is cut into islands: the river from a rocky wriggling stream has risen into a tawny, opaque torrent that roars with a voice a mile long and is become quite unfordable. the little mill-stream just below has broken its banks and poured itself away over the lower vineyards into the river; a lot of the vines look sadly upset, generally unhinged and unstrung, yet i am told the damage is really small. i hope so, for i enjoyed a real lash-out of weather, after the changelessness of the long heat. i have been down in florence beginning to make my farewells to the many things i have seen too little of. we start away for venice about the end of the week. at the uffizi i seem to have found out all my future favorites the first day, and very little new has come to me; but most of them go on growing. the raphael lady is quite wonderful; i think she was in love with him, and her soul went into the painting though he himself did not care for her; and she looks at you and says, "see a miracle: he was able to paint this, and never knew that i loved him!" it is wonderful that; but i suppose it can be done,--a soul pass into a work and haunt it without its creator knowing anything about how it came there. always when i come across anything like that which has something inner and rather mysterious, i tremble and want to get back to you. you are the touchstone by which i must test everything that is a little new and unfamiliar. from now onwards, dearest, you must expect only cards for a time: it is not settled yet whether we stop at padua on our way in or our way out. i am clamoring for verona also; but that will be off our route, so arthur and i may go there alone for a couple of greedy days, which i fear will only leave me dissatisfied and wishing i had had patience to depend on coming again--perhaps with you! uncle n. has written of your numerous visits to him, and i understand you have been very good in his direction. he does not speak of loneliness; and with anna and her brood next week or now, he will be as happy as his temperament allows him to be when he has nothing to worry over. i am proud to say i have gone brown without freckles. and are you really as cheerful as you write yourself to be? dearest and best, when is your holiday to begin; and is it to be with me? does anywhere on earth hold that happiness for us both in the near future? i kiss you well, beloved. letter xxxvi. dearest: venice is round me as i write! well, i will not waste my baedeker knowledge on you,--you too can get a copy; and it is not the panoramic view of things you will be wanting from me: it is my own particular venice i am to find out and send you. so first of all from the heart of it i send you mine: when i have kissed you i will go on. my eyes have been seeing so much that is new, i shall want a fresh vocabulary for it all. but mainly i want to say, let us be here again together quickly, before we lose any more of our youth or our two-handed hold on life. i get short of breath thinking of it! so let it be here, beloved, that some of our soon-to-be happiness opens and shuts its eyes: for truly venice is a sleepy place. i am wanting, and taking, nine hours' sleep after all i do! outside coming over the flats from padua, she looked something like a manufacturing town at its ablutions,--a smoky chimney well to the fore: but get near to her and you find her standing on turquoise, her feet set about with jaspers, and with one of her eyes she ravishes you: and all her campanile are like the "thin flames" of "souls mounting up to god." that is from without: within she becomes too sensuous and civic in her splendor to let me think much of souls. "rest and be indolent" is the motto for the life she teaches. the architecture is the song of the lotos-eater built into stone--were i in a more florid mood i would have said "swan-song," for the whole stands finished with nothing more to be added: it has sung itself out: and if there is a moral to it all, no doubt it is in ruskin, and i don't wont to read it just now. what i want is you close at hand looking up at all this beauty, and smiling when i smile, which is your way, as if you had no opinions of your own about anything in which you are not a professor. so you will write and agree that i am to have the pleasure of this return to look forward to? if i know that, i shall be so much more reconciled to all the joy of the things i am seeing now for the first time: and shall see so much better the second, beloved, when your eyes are here helping me. here is love, dearest! help yourself to just as much as you wish for; though all that i send is good for you! no letter from you since florence, but i am neither sad nor anxious: only all the more your loving. letter xxxvii. beloved: the weather is as gray as england to-day, and much rainier. to feel it on my cheeks and be back north with that and warmer things, i would go out in it in the face of protests, and had to go alone--not arthur even being in the mood just then for a patriotic quest of the uncomfortable. i had myself oared into the lagoons across a racing current and a driving head-wind which made my gondolier bend like a distressed poplar over his oar; patience on a monument smiling at backsheesh--"all comes to him who knows." of course, for comfort and pleasure, and everything but economy, we have picked up a gondolier to pet: we making much of him, and he much out of us. he takes arthur to a place where he can bathe--to use his own expression--"cleanly," that is to say, unconventionally; and this appropriately enough is on the borders of a land called "the garden of eden" (being named so after its owners). he--"charon," i call him--is large and of ruddy countenance, and talks english in blinkers--that is to say, gondola english--out of which he could not find words to summon me a cab even if it were not opposed to his interests. still there are no cabs to be called in venice, and he is teaching us that the shortest way is always by water. if arthur is not punctually in his gondola by a.m., i hear a call for the "signore inglese" go up to his window; and it is hungry charon waiting to ferry him. yesterday your friend mr. c---- called and took me over to murano in a beautiful pair-oared boat that simply flew. there i saw a wonderful apse filled with mosaic of dull gold, wherein is set a blue-black figure of the madonna, ten heads high and ten centuries old, which almost made me become a mariolatrist on the spot. she stands leaning up the bend with two pale hands lifted in ghostly blessing. underfoot the floor is all mosaic, mountainous with age and earthquakes; the architecture classic in the grip of byzantine christianity, which is like the spirit of god moving on the face of the waters, or ezekiel prophesying to the dry bones. the colleoni is quite as much more beautiful in fact and seen full-size as i had hoped from all smaller reproductions. a fine equestrian figure always strikes one as enthroned, and not merely riding; if i can't get that, i consider a centaur the nobler creature with its human body set down into the socket of the brute, and all fire--a candle burning at both ends: which, in a way, is what the centaur means, i imagine? bellini goes on being wonderful, and for me beats raphael's blenheim madonna period on its own ground. i hear now that the raphael lady i raved over in florence is no raphael at all,--which accounts for it being so beautiful and interesting--to _me_, i hasten to add. raphael's studied calmness, his soul of "invisible soap and imperceptible water," may charm some; me it only chills or leaves unmoved. is this more about art than you care to hear? i have nothing to say about myself, except that i am as happy as a cut-in-half thing can be. is it any use sending kind messages to your mother? if so, my heart is full of them. bless you, dearest, and good-night. letter xxxviii. dearest: st. mark's inside is entirely different from anything i had imagined. i had expected a grove of pillars instead of these wonderful breadths of wall; and the marble overlay i had not understood at all till i saw it. my admiration mounts every time i enter: it has a different gloom from any i have ever been in, more joyous and satisfying, not in the least moody as our own gothic seems sometimes to be; and saints instead of devils look at you solemn-eyed from every corner of shade. a heavy rain turns the piazza into a lake: this morning arthur had to carry me across. other foolish englishwomen were shocked at such means, and paddled their own leaky canoes, or stood on the brink and looked miserable. the effect of rain-pool reflections on the inside of st. mark's is noticeable, causing it to bloom unexpectedly into fresh subtleties and glories. the gold takes so sympathetically to any least tint of color that is in the air, and counts up the altar candles even unto its furthest recesses and cupolas. i think before i leave venice i shall find about ten tintorettos which i really like. best of all is that bacchus and ariadne in the ducal palace, of which you gave me the engraving. his "marriage of st. catherine," which is there also, has all veronese's charm of color and what i call his "breeding"; and in the ceiling of the council chamber is one splendid figure of a sea-youth striding a dolphin. last evening we climbed the san giorgio campanile for a sunset view of venice; it is a much better point of view than the st. mark's one, and we were lucky in our sunset. venice again looked like a beautified factory town, blue and blue with smoke and evening mists. down below in the church i met a delightful capuchin priest who could talk french, and a poor, very young lay-brother who had the holy custody of the eyes heavily upon his conscience when i spoke to him. i was so sorry for him! the mother-aunt is ill in bed; but as she is at the present moment receiving three visitors, you will understand about how ill. the fact is, she is worn to death with sight-seeing. i can't stop her; while she is on her legs it is her duty, and she will. the consequence is i get rushed through things i want to let soak into me, and have to go again. my only way of getting her to rest has been by deserting her; and then i come back and receive reproaches with a meek countenance. mr. c---- has been good to us and cordial, and brings his gondola often to our service. a gondola and pair has quite a different motion from a one-oared gondola; it is like riding a seahorse instead of a sea-camel-- almost exciting, only it is so soft in its prancings. he took a. and myself into the procession which welcomed the crowned heads last wednesday; the hurly-burly of it was splendid. we tore down the grand canal from end to end, almost cheek by jowl with the royalties; the m.-a. was quite jubilant when she heard we had had such "good places." hundreds of gondolas swarmed round; many of them in the old carpaccio rig-outs, very gorgeous though a little tawdry when taken out of the canvas. hut the rush and the collisions, and the sound of many waters walloping under the bellies of the gondolas, and the blows of fighting oars--regular underwater wrestling matches--made it as vivid and amusing as a prolonged oxford and cambridge boat-race in fancy costume. our gondoliers streamed with the exertion, and looked like men fighting a real battle, and yet enjoyed it thoroughly. violent altercations with police-boats don't ruffle them at all; at one moment it looks daggers drawn; at the next it is shrugs and smiles. often, from not knowing enough of italian and italian ways, i get hot all over when an ordinary discussion is going on, thinking that blows are about to be exchanged. the mother-aunt had hung a wonderful satin skirt out of window for decoration; and when she leaned over it in a bodice of the same color, it looked as if she were sitting with her legs out as well! i suppose it was this peculiar effect that, when the king and queen came by earlier in the morning, won for her a special bow and smile. i must hurry or i shall miss the post that i wish to catch. there seems little chance now of my getting you in venice; but elsewhere perhaps you will drop to me out of the clouds. your own and most loving. letter xxxix. my own, own beloved: say that my being away does not seem too long? i have not had a letter yet, and that makes me somehow not anxious but compunctious; only writing to you of all i do helps to keep me in good conscience. not the other foot gone to the mender's, i hope, with the same obstructive accompaniments as went to the setting-up again of the last? if i don't hear soon, you will have me dancing on wires, which cost as much by the word as a gondola by the hour. yesterday we went to see carpaccio at his best in san giorgio di schiavone: two are st. george pictures, three st. jeromes, and two of some other saint unknown to me. the st. jerome series is really a homily on the love and pathos of animals. first is st. jerome in his study with a sort of unclipped white poodle in the pictorial place of honor, all alone on a floor beautifully swept and garnished, looking up wistfully to his master busy at writing (a benjy saying, "come and take me for a walk, there's a good saint!"). scattered among the adornments of the room are small bronzes of horses and, i think, birds. so, of course, these being his tastes, when st. jerome goes into the wilderness, a lion takes to him, and accompanies him when he pays a call on the monks in a neighboring monastery. thereupon, holy men of little faith, the entire fraternity take to their heels and rush upstairs, the hindermost clinging to the skirts of the formermost to be hauled the quicker out of harm's way. and all the while the lion stands incorrectly offering the left paw, and jerome with shrugs tries to explain that even the best butter wouldn't melt in his dear lion's mouth. after that comes the tragedy. st. jerome lies dying in excessive odor of sanctity, and all the monks crowd round him with prayers and viaticums, and the ordinary stuffy pieties of a "happy death," while jerome wonders feebly what it is he misses in all this to-do for which he cares so little. and there, elbowed far out into the cold, the lion lies and lifts his poor head and howls because he knows his master is being taken from him. quite near to him, fastened to a tree, a queer, nondescript, crocodile-shaped dog runs out the length of its tether to comfort the disconsolate beast: but _la bête humaine_ has got the whip-hand of the situation. in another picture is a parrot that has just mimicked a dog, or called "carlo!" and then laughed: the dog turns his head away with a sleek, sheepish, shy look, exactly as a sensitive dog does when you make fun of him. these are, perhaps, mere undercurrents of pictures which are quite glorious in color and design, but they help me to love carpaccio to distraction; and when the others lose me, they hunt through all the carpaccios in venice till they find me! love me a little more if possible while i am so long absent from you! what i do and what i think go so much together now, that you will take what i write as the most of me that it is possible to cram in, coming back to you to share everything. under such an italian sky as to-day how i would like to see your face! here, dearest, among these palaces you would be in your peerage, for i think you have some southern blood in you. curious that, with all my fairness, somebody said to me to-day, "but you are not quite english, are you?" and i swore by the nine gods of my ancestry that i was nothing else. but the look is in us: my father had a foreign air, but made up for it by so violent a patriotism that uncle n. used to call him "john bull let loose." my love to england. is it showing much autumn yet? my eyes long for green fields again. since i have been in italy i had not seen one until the other day from the top of st. giorgio maggiore, where one lies in hiding under the monastery walls. all that i see now quickens me to fresh thoughts of you. yet do not expect me to come back wiser: my last effort at wisdom was to fall in love with you, and there i stopped for good and all. there i am still, everything included: what do you want more? my letter and my heart both threaten to be over-weight, so no more of them this time. most dearly do i love you. letter xl. beloved: if two days slip by, i don't know where i am when i come to write; things get so crowded in such a short space of time. where i left off i know not: i will begin where i am most awake--your letter which i have just received. that is well, dearest, that is well indeed: a truce till february! and since the struggle then must needs be a sharp one--with only one end, as we know,--do not vex her now by any overt signs of preparation as if you assumed already that her final arguments were to be as so much chaff before the wind. you do not tell me _what_ she argues, and i do not ask. she does not say i shall not love you enough! to answer businesslike to your questions first: with your forgiveness we stay here till the th, and get back to england with the last of the month. does that seem a very cruel, far-off date? others have the wish to stay even longer, and it would be no fairness to hurry them beyond a certain degree of reasonableness with my particular reason for impatience, seeing, moreover, that in your love i have every help for remaining patient. it is too much to hope, i suppose, that the "truce" sets you free now, and that you could meet us here after all, and prolong our stay indefinitely? i know one besides myself who would be glad, and would welcome an outside excuse dearly. for, oh, the funniness of near and dear things! arthur's heart is laid up with a small love affair, and it is the comicalest of internal maladies. he is screwing up courage to tell me all about it, and i write in haste before my mouth is sealed by his confidences. i fancy i know the party, an energetic little mortal whom we met at lucerne, where arthur lingered while we came on to florence. she talked vaguely of being in venice some time this autumn; and the vagueness continues. arthur, in consequence, roams round disconsolately with no interest but in hotel books. and for fear lest we should gird up his loins and drag him away with us out of paradisal possibilities, he is forever praising venice as a resting-place, and saying he wants to be nowhere else. the bathing just keeps him alive; but when put to it to explain what charms him since pictures do not, and architecture only slightly, he says in exemplary brotherly fashion that he likes to see me completing my education and enthusiasms,--and does not realize with how foreign an air that explanation sits upon his shoulders. i saw to-day a remnant of your patron saint, and for your sake transferred a kiss to it, italian fashion, with my thumb and the sign of the cross. i hope it will do you good. also, i have been up among the galleries of st. mark's, and about the roof and the west front where somebody or another painted his picture of the bronze horses. the pigeons get to recognize people personally, and grow more intimate every time we come. i even conceive they make favorites, for i had three pecking food out of my mouth to-day and refusing to take it in any other fashion, and they coo and say thank you before and after every seed they take or spill. they are quite the pleasantest of all the italian beggars--and the cleanest. your friend pressed us in to tea yesterday: i think less for the sake of giving us tea than that we should see his palace, or rather his first floor, in which alone he seems to lose himself. i have no idea for measurements, but i imagine his big sala is about eighty feet long and perhaps twenty-five feet across, with a flat-beamed roof, windows at each end, and portières along the walls of old blue venetian linen: a place in which it seems one could only live and think nobly. his face seems to respond to its teachings. what more might not an environment like that bring out in you? come and let me see! i have hopes springing as i think of things that you may be coming after all; and that that is what lay concealed under the gayety of your last paragraph. then i am more blessed even than i knew. what, you are coming? so well i do love you, my beloved! letter xli. dearest: this letter will travel with me: we leave to-day. our movements are to be too restless and uncomfortable for the next few days for me to have a chance of quiet seeing or quiet writing anywhere. at riva we shall rest, i hope. yesterday a storm began coming over towards evening, and i thought to myself that if it passed in time there should be a splendid sunset of smolder and glitter to be seen from the campanile, and perhaps by good chance a rainbow. i went alone: when i got to the top the rain was pelting hard; so there i stayed happily weather-bound for an hour looking over venice "silvered with slants of rain," and watching umbrellas scuttering below with toes beneath them. the golden smolder was very slow in coming: it lay over the mainland and came creeping along the railway track. then came the glitter and the sun, and i turned round and found my rainbow. but it wasn't a bow, it was a circle: the campanile stood up as it were a spoke in the middle,--the lower curve of the rainbow lay on the ground of the piazzetta, cut off sharp by the shadow of the campanile. it was worth waiting an hour to see. the islands shone mellow and bright in the clearance with the storm going off black behind them. good-by, venice! * * * * * verona began by seeming dull to me; but it improves and unfolds beautiful corners of itself to be looked at: only i am given so little time. the tombs of the della scalas and the renaissance façade of the consiglio are what chiefly delight me. i had some quiet hours in the museo, where i fell in love with a little picture by an unknown painter, of orpheus charming the beasts in a wandering green landscape, with a dance of fauns in the distance, and here and there eurydice running;--and orpheus in hades, and the thracian women killing him, and a crocodile fishing out his head, and mermaids and ducks sitting above their reflections reflecting. also there is one beautiful tobias and the angel there by a painter whose name i most ungratefully forget. i saw a man yesterday carrying fishes in the market, each strung through the gills on a twig of myrtle: that is how tobias ought to carry his fish: when a native custom suggests old paintings, how charming it always is! riva. we have just got here from verona. in the matter of the garden at least it is a paradise of a place. a great sill of honeysuckle leans out from my window: beyond is a court grown round with creepers, and beyond that the garden--such a garden! the first thing one sees is an arcade of vines upon stone pillars, between which peep stacks of roses, going off a little from their glory now, and right away stretches an alley of green, that shows at the end, a furlong off, the blue glitter of water. it is a beautifully wild garden: grass and vegetables and trees and roses all grow in a jungle together. there are little groves of bamboo and chestnut and willow; and a runnel of water is somewhere--i can hear it. it suggests rest, which i want; and so, for all its difference, suggests you, whom also i want,--more, i own it now, than i have said! but that went without saying, beloved, as it always must if it is to be the truth and nothing short of the truth. while this has been waiting to go, your letter has been put into my hands. i am too happy to say words about it, and can afford now to let this go as it is. the little time of waiting for you will be perfect happiness now; and your coming seems to color all that is behind as well. i have had a good time indeed, and was only wearying with the plethora of my enjoyment: but the better time has been kept till now. we shall be together day after day and all day long for at least a month, i hope: a joy that has never happened to us yet. never mind about the lost letter now, dearest, dearest: venice was a little empty just one week because of it. i still hope it will come; but what matter?--i know _you_ will. all my heart waits for you.--your most glad and most loving. letter xlii. dearest: i saw an old woman riding a horse astride: and i was convinced on the spot that this is the rightest way of riding, and that the sidesaddle was a foolish and affected invention. the horse was fine, and so was the young man leading it: the old woman was upright and stately, with a wide hat and full petticoats like a maximilian soldier. this was at bozen, where we stayed for two nights, and from which i have brought a cold with me: it seems such an english thing to have, that i feel quite at home in the discomfort of it. it had been such wonderful weather that we were sitting out of doors every evening up to . p.m. without wraps, and on our heads only our "widows' caps." (the m.-a. persists in a style which suggests that uncle n. has gone to a better world.) mine was too flimsy a work of fiction, and a day before i had been for a climb and got wet through, so a chill laid its benediction on my head, and here i am,--not seriously incommoded by the malady, but by the remedy, which is the m.-a. full of kind quackings and fierce tyranny if i do but put my head out of window to admire the view, whose best is a little round the corner. i had no idea innsbruck was so high up among the mountains: snows are on the peaks all around. behind the house-tops, so close and near, lies a quarter circle of white crests. you are told that in winter creatures come down and look in at the windows: sometimes they are called wolves, sometimes bears--any way the feeling is mediæval. hereabouts the wayside shrines nearly always contain a crucifix, whereas in italy that was rare--the virgin and child being the most common. i remarked on this, which i suppose gave rise to a subsequent observation of the m.-a.'s: "i think the tyrolese are a _good_ people: they are not given over to mariolatry like those poor priest-ridden italians." i think, however, that they merely have that fundamental grace, religious simplicity, worshiping--just what they can get, for yesterday i saw two dear old bodies going round and telling their beads before the bronze statues of the maximilian tomb--king arthur, charles the bold, etc. i suppose, by mere association, a statue helps them to pray. the national costume does look so nice, though not exactly beautiful. i like the flat, black hats with long streamers behind and a gold tassel, and the spacious apron. blue satin is a favorite style, always silk or satin for sunday best: one i saw of pearl-white brocade. since we came north we have had lovely weather, except the one day of which i am still the filterings: and morning along the brenner pass was perfect. i think the mountains look most beautiful quite early, at sunrise, when they are all pearly and mysterious. we go on to zurich on thursday, and then, beloved, and then!--so this must be my last letter, since i shall have nowhere to write to with you rushing all across europe and resting nowhere because of my impatience to have you. the mother-aunt concedes a whole month, but arthur will have to leave earlier for the beginning of term. how little my two dearest men have yet seen of each other! barely a week lies between us: this will scarcely catch you. dearest of dearests, my heart waits on yours. letter xliii. my dearest: see what an effect your "gallous young hound" episode has had on me. i send it back to you roughly done into rhyme. i don't know whether it will carry; for, outside your telling of it, "johnnie kigarrow" is not a name of heroic sound. what touches me as so strangely complete about it is that you should have got that impression and momentary romantic delusion as a child, and now hear, years after, of his disappearing out of life thus fittingly and mysteriously, so that his name will fix its legend to the countryside for many a long day. i would like to go there some day with you, and standing on twloch hill imagine all the country round as the burial-place of the strong man on whose knees my beloved used to play when a child. it must have been soon after this that your brother died: truly, dearest, from now, and strangely, this johnnie kigarrow will seem more to me than him; touching a more heroic strain of idea, and stiffening fibers in your nature that brotherhood, as a rule, has no bearing on. a short letter to-day, beloved, because what goes with it is so long. this is the first time i have come before your eyes as anything but a letter-writer, and i am doubtful whether you will care to have so much all about yourself. yet for that very reason think how much i loved doing it! i am jealous of those days before i knew you, and want to have all their wild-honey flavor for myself. do remember more, and tell me! dearest heart, it was to me you were coming through all your scampers and ramblings; no wonder, with that unknown good running parallel, that my childhood was a happy one. may long life bless you, beloved! (_inclosure._) my brother and i were down in wales, and listened by night to the welshman's tales; he was eleven and i was ten. we sat on the knees of the farmer's men after the whole day's work was done: and i was friends with the farmer's son. his hands were rough as his arms were strong, his mouth was merry and loud for song; each night when set by the ingle-wall he was the merriest man of them all. i would catch at his beard and say all the things i had done in the day-- tumbled bowlders over the force, swum in the river and fired the gorse-- "half the side of the hill!" quoth i:-- "ah!" cried he, "and didn't you die?" "chut!" said he, "but the squeak was narrow! didn't you meet with johnnie kigarrow?" "no!" said i, "and who will he be? and what will be johnnie kigarrow to me?" the farmer's son said under his breath, "johnnie kigarrow may be your death listen you here, and keep you still-- johnnie kigarrow bides under the hill; twloch barrow stands over his head; he shallows the river to make his bed; bowlders roll when he stirs a limb; and the gorse on the hills belongs to him! and if so be one fires his gorse, he's out of his bed, and he mounts his horse. off he sets: with the first long stride he is halfway over the mountain side: with his second stride he has crossed the barrow, and he has you fast, has johnnie kigarrow!" half i laughed and half i feared; i clutched and tugged at the strong man's beard, and bragged as brave as a boy could be-- "so? but, you see, he didn't catch me!" fear caught hold of me: what had i done? high as the roof rose the farmer's son: how the sight of him froze my marrow! "i," he cried, "am johnnie kigarrow!" well, you wonder, what was the end? never forget;--he had called me "friend"! mighty of limb, and hard, and blown; quickly he laughed and set me down. "heh!" said, he, "but the squeak was narrow, not to be caught by johnnie kigarrow!" now, i hear, after years gone by, nobody knows how he came to die. he strode out one night of storm: "get you to bed, and keep you warm!" out into darkness so went he: nobody knows where his bones may be. only i think--if his tongue let go truth that once,--how perhaps _i_ know. twloch river, and twloch barrow, do you cover my johnnie kigarrow? letter xliv. dearest: i have been doing something so wise and foolish: mentally wise, i mean, and physically foolish. do you guess?--disobeying your parting injunction, and sitting up to see eclipses. it was such a luxury to do as i was _not_ told just for once; to feel there was an independent me still capable of asserting itself. my belief is that, waking, you hold me subjugated: but, once your godhead has put on its spiritual nightcap, and begun nodding, your mesmeric influence relaxes. up starts resolution and independence, and i breathe desolately for a time, feeling myself once more a free woman. 'twas a tremulous experience, beloved; but i loved it all the more for that. how we love playing at grief and death--the two things that must come--before it is their due time! i took a look at my world for three most mortal hours last night, trying to see you _out_ of it. and oh, how close it kept bringing me! i almost heard you breathe, and was forever wondering--can we ever be nearer, or love each other more than we do? for _that_ we should each want a sixth sense, and a second soul: and it would still be only the same spread out over larger territory. i prefer to keep it nesting close in its present limitations, where it feels like a "growing pain"; children have it in their legs, we in our hearts. i am growing sleepy as i write, and feel i am sending you a dull letter,--my penalty for doing as you forbade. i sat up from half-past one to a quarter to five to see our shadow go over heaven. i didn't see much, the sky was too piebald: but i was not disappointed, as i had never watched the darkness into dawn like that before: and it was interesting to hear all the persons awaking:--cocks at half-past four, frogs immediately after, then pheasants and various others following. i was cuddled close up against my window, throned in a big arm-chair with many pillows, a spirit-lamp, cocoa, bread and butter, and buns; so i fared well. just after the pheasants and the first querulous fidgetings of hungry blackbirds comes a soft pattering along the path below: and benjy, secretive and important, is fussing his way to the shrubbery, when instinct or real sentiment prompts him to look up at my window; he gives a whimper and a wag, and goes on. i try to persuade myself that he didn't see me, and that he does this, other mornings, when i am not thus perversely bolstered up in rebellion, and peering through blinds at wrong hours. isn't there something pathetic in the very idea that a dog may have a behind-your-back attachment of that sort?--that every morning he looks up at an unresponsive blank, and wags, and goes by? i heard him very happy in the shrubs a moment after: he and a pheasant, i fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries. and he comes in for breakfast, three hours later, looking positively _fresh,_ and wants to know why i am yawning. most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth. it is old nan-nan's joke: she only sends up _yours_ so, and pretends it is benjy's own clever selection. i pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks he is doing something wonderful. the other morning i was--well, benjy hears splashing: and tires of waiting--or his mouth waters. an extra can of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his treasure (mine, i mean), and retires saying nothing. the consequence is, when i open three minutes after his scratch, i find you all ungummed and swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye but mine could have read it. benjy's shame when i showed him what he had done was wonderful. how it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!--that i _can_ helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which i never took in when i was merely young and frivolous. one must have touched a grave side of life before one can take in that heaven is not opposed to laughter. my eye has just caught back at what i have written; and the "little death" runs through me, just because i wrote "grave side." it shouldn't, but loving has made me superstitious: the happiness seems too great; how can it go on? i keep thinking--this is not life: you are too much for me, my dearest! oh, my beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day: this morning! ride over; i am willing it. my own dearest, you must come. if you don't, what shall i believe? that love cannot outdo space: that when you are away i cannot reach you by willing. but i can: come to me! you shall see my arms open to you as never before. what is it?--you must be coming. i have more love in me after all than i knew. ah, i know: i wrote "grave side," and all my heart is in arms against the treason. with us it is not "till death us do part": we leap it altogether, and are clasped on the other side. my dear, my dear, i lay my head down on your heart: i love you! i post this to show how certain i am. at twelve to-day i shall see you. letter xlv. beloved: i look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like a plow along the furrows! what can the poor thing do? bury its poor black, blunt little nose in the english language in order to tell you, in all sorts of roundabout ways, what you know already as well as i do. and yet, though that is all it can do, you complain of not having had a letter! not had a letter? beloved, there are half a hundred i have not had from you! do you suppose you have ever, any one week in your life, sent me as many as i wanted? now, for once, i did hold off and didn't write to you: because there was something in your last i couldn't give any answer to, and i hoped you would come yourself before i need. then i hoped silence would bring you: and now--no!--instead of your dear peace-giving face i get this complaint! ah, beloved, have you in reality any complaint, or sorrow that i can set at rest? or has that little, little silence made you anxious? i do come to think so, for you never flourish your words about as i do: so, believing that, i would like to write again differently; only it is truer to let what i have written stand, and make amends for it in all haste. i love you so infinitely well, how could even a year's silence give you any doubt or anxiety, so long as you knew i was not ill? "should one not make great concessions to great grief even when it is unreasonable?" i cannot answer, dearest: i am in the dark. great grief cannot be great without reasons: it should give them, and you should judge by them:--you, not i. i imagine you have again been face to face with fierce, unexplained opposition. dearest, if it would give you happiness, i would say, make five, ten, twenty years' "concession," as you call it. but the only time you ever spoke to me clearly about your mother's mind toward me, you said she wanted an absolute surrender from you, not covered only by her lifetime. then though i pitied her, i had to smile. a twenty years' concession even would not give rest to her perturbed spirit. i pray truly--having so much reason for your sake to pray it--"god rest her soul! and give her a saner mind toward both of us." why has this come about at all? it is not february yet: and _our_ plans have been putting forth no buds before their time. when the day comes, and you have said the inevitable word, i think more calm will follow than you expect. _you_, dearest, i do understand: and the instinct of tenderness you have toward a claim which yet fills you with the sense of its injustice. i know that you can laugh at her threat to make you poor; but not at hurting her affections. did your asking for an "answer" mean that i was to write so openly? bless you, my own dearest. letter xlvi. dearest: to-day i came upon a strange spectacle: poor old nan-nan weeping for wounded pride in me. i found her stitching at raiment of needlework that is to be mine (piles of it have been through her fingers since the word first went out; for her love asserts that i am to go all home-made from my old home to my new one--wherever that may be!). and she was weeping because, as i slowly got to understand, from one particular quarter too little attention had been paid to me:--the kow-tow of a ceremonious reception into my new status had not been deep enough to make amends to her heart for its partial loss of me. her deferential recognition of the change which is coming is pathetic and full of etiquette; it is at once so jealous and so unselfish. because her sense of the proprieties will not allow her to do so much longer, she comes up to my room and makes opportunity to scold me over quite slight things:--and there i am, meeker under her than i would be to any relative. so to-day i had to bear a statement of your mother's infirmities rigorously outlined in a way i could only pretend to be deaf to until she had done. then i said, "nan-nan, go and say your prayers!" and as she stuck her heels down and refused to go, there i left the poor thing, not to prayer, i fear, but to desolate weeping, in which love and pride will get more firmly entangled together than ever. i know when i go up to my room next i shall find fresh flowers put upon my table: but the grievous old dear will be carrying a sore heart that i cannot comfort by any words. i cannot convince her that i am not hiding in myself any wounds such as she feels on my behalf. i write this, dearest, as an indirect answer to yours,--which is but nan-nan's woe writ large. if i could persuade your two dear and very different heads how very slightly wounded i am by a thing which a little waiting will bring right, i could give it even less thought than i do. are you keeping the truce in spirit when you disturb yourself like this? trust me, beloved, always to be candid: i will complain to you when i feel in need of comfort. be comforted yourself, meanwhile, and don't shape ghosts of grief which never do a goose-step over me! ah well, well, if there is a way to love you better than i do now, only show it me! meantime, think of me as your most contented and happy-go-loving. letter xlvii. dearest: i am haunted by a line of quotation, and cannot think where it comes from: "now sets the year in roaring gray." can you help me to what follows? if it is a true poem it ought now to be able to sing itself to me at large from an outer world which at this moment is all gray and roaring. to-day the year is bowing itself out tempestuously, as if angry at having to go. dear golden year! i am sorry to see its face so changed and withering: it has held so much for us both. yet i am feeling vigorous and quite like spring. all the seasons have their marches, with buffetings and border-forays: this is an autumn march-wind; before long i shall be out into it, and up the hill to look over at your territory and you being swept and garnished for the seven devils of winter. "roaring gray" suggests tennyson, whom i do very much associate with this sort of weather, not so much because of passages in "maud" and "in memoriam" as because i once went over to swainston, on a day such as this when rooks and leaves alike hung helpless in the wind; and heard there the story of how tennyson, coming over for his friend's funeral, would not go into the house, but asked for one of sir john's old hats, and with that on his head sat in the garden and wrote almost the best of his small lyrics: "nightingales warbled without, within was weeping for thee." the "old hat" was mentioned as something humorous: yet an old glove is the most accepted symbol of faithful absence: and why should head rank lower than hand? what creatures of convention we are! there is an old notion, quite likely to be true, that a nightcap carries in it the dreams of its first owner, or that anything laid over a sleeper's head will bring away the dream. one of the stories which used to put a lump in my throat as a child was of an old backwoodsman who by that means found out that his dog stole hams from the storeroom. the dog was given away in disgrace, and came to england to die of a broken heart at the sight of a cargo of hams, which, at their unpacking, seemed like a monstrous day of judgment--the bones of his misdeeds rising again reclothed with flesh to reproach him with the thing he had never forgotten. i wonder how long it was before i left off definitely choosing out a story for the pleasure of making myself cry! when one begins to avoid that luxury of the fledgling emotions, the first leaf of youth is flown. to-day i look almost jovially at the decay of the best year i have ever lived through, and am your very middle-aged faithful and true. letter xlviii. dearest: if anybody has been "calling me names" that are not mine, they do me a fine injury, and you did well to purge the text of their abuse. i agree with no authority, however immortal, which inquires "what's in a name?" expecting the answer to be a snap of the fingers. i answer with a snap of temper that the blood, boots, and bones of my ancestors are in mine! do you suppose i could have been the same woman had such names as amelia or bella or cinderella been clinging leechlike to my consciousness through all the years of my training? why, there are names i can think of which would have made me break down into side-ringlets had i been forced to wear them audibly. the effect is not so absolute when it is a second name that can be tucked away if unpresentable, but even then it is a misfortune. there is c----, now, who won't marry, i believe, chiefly because of the insane "annie" with which she was smitten at the baptismal font by an afterthought. she regards it as a taint in her constitution which orders her to a lonely life lest worse might follow. and apply the consideration more publicly: do you imagine the prince of wales will be the same sort of king if, when he comes to the throne, he calls himself king albert edward in florid continental fashion, instead of "edward the seventh," with a right hope that an edward the eighth may follow after him, to make a neck-and-neck race of it with the henries? i don't know anything that would do more to knit up the english constitution: but whenever i pass the albert memorial i tremble lest filial piety will not allow the thing to be done. now of all this i had an instance in the village the day before yesterday. at the corner house by the post-office, as i went by, a bird opened his bill and sang a note, and down, down, down, down he went over a golden scale: pitched afresh, and dropped down another; and then up, up, up, over the range of both. then he flung back his shaggy head and laughed. "in all my father's realm there are no such bells as these!" it was the laughing jackass. "who gave you your name?" "my godfathers and my godmothers in my baptism." well, _his_ will have _that_ to answer for, however safely for the rest he may have eschewed the world, the flesh, and the devil. poor bird, to be set to sing to us under such a burden:--of which, unconscious failure, he knows nothing. here i have remembered for you a bit of a poem that took hold of me some while ago and touched on the same unkindness: only here the flower is conscious of the wrong done to it, and looks forward to a day of juster judgment:-- "what have i done?--man came (there's nothing that sticks like dirt), looked at me with eyes of blame, and called me 'squinancy-wort!' what have i done? i linger (i cannot say that i live) in the happy lands of my birth; passers-by point with the finger: for me the light of the sun is darkened. oh, what would i give to creep away, and hide my shame in the earth! what have i done? yet there is hope. i have seen many changes since i began. the web-footed beasts have been (dear beasts!)--and gone, being part of some wider plan. perhaps in his infinite mercy god will remove this man!" now i am on sentiment and unjust judgments: here is another instance, where evidently in life i did not love well enough a character nobler than this capering and accommodating boy benjy, who toadies to all my moods. calling at the lower farm, i missed him whom i used to nickname "manger," because his dog-jaws always refused to smile on me. his old mistress gave me a pathetic account of his last days. it was the muzzling order that broke his poor old heart. he took it as an accusation on a point where, though of a melancholy disposition, his reputation had been spotless. he never lifted his head nor smiled again. and not all his mistress' love could explain to him that he was not in fault. she wept as she told it me. good-by, dearest, and for this letter so full of such little worth call me what names you like; and i will go to jemima, keziah, and kerenhappuch for the patience in which they must have taken after their father when he so named them, i suppose for a discipline. my beloved, let my heart come where it wants to be. twilight has been on me to-day, i don't know why; and i have not written it off as i hoped to do.--all yours and nothing left. letter xlix. dearest: i suppose your mother's continued absence, and her unexplanation of her further stay, must be taken for unyielding disapproval, and tells us what to expect of february. it is not a cordial form of "truce": but since it lets me see just twice as much of you as i should otherwise, i will not complain so long as it does not make you unhappy. you write to her often and kindly, do you not? well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite settled at this end that you are to be with us for christmas:--read into that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. i do not think of it too much, till i am assured it is to be. did you go over to pembury for the day? your letter does not say anything: but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out things of outside importance. i shall hear from the rattle of returning fire-engines some day that hatterling has been burned down: and you will arrive cool the next day and say, "oh yes, it is so!" i am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both to her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. to realize suddenly that hatterling does not mean to you so much as the power to be your own master and happy in your own way, which is altogether opposite to _her_ way, will be so much of a blow that at first you will be able to do nothing to soften it. february fill-dyke is likely to be true to its name, this coming one, in all that concerns us and our fortunes. meanwhile, if at pembury you brought things any nearer settlement, and are not coming so soon as to-morrow, let me know: for some things of "outside importance" do affect me unfavorably while in suspense. i have not your serene determination to abide the workings of kismet when once all that can be done is done. the sun sets now, when it does so visibly, just where pembury _is_. i take it as an omen. in your diary to-morrow you may write down in the business column that you have had a business letter from _me_, or as near to one as i can go:--chiefly for that it requires an answer on this matter of "outside importance," which otherwise you will altogether leave out. but you will do better still to come. my whole heart goes out to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own. letter l. beloved: no, not browning but tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride together: and i found myself shy, as i have been for a long time wishing to say things i could not. what has never entered your head to ask becomes difficult when i wish to get it spoken. so i bring tennyson to tell you what i mean:-- "dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what i 'ears 'em saäy." the tune of this kept me silent all the while we galloped: this and pembury, a name that glows to me now like the new jerusalem. and do you understand, beloved? or must i say more? my freedom has made its nest under my uncle's roof: but i _am_ a quite independent person in other ways besides character. well, pembury was settled on your own initiative: and i looked on proud and glad. now i have my own little word to add, merely a tail that wags and makes merry over a thing decided and done. do you forgive me for this: and for the greater offense of being quite shy at having to write it? my aunt thanks you for the game: for my part i cannot own that it will taste sweeter to me for being your own shooting. and please, whatever else you do big and grand and dangerous, respect my superstitions and don't shoot any larks this winter. in the spring i would like to think that here or there an extra lark bubbles over because i and my whims find occasional favor in your sight. when i ask great favors you always grant them; and so, ahasuerus, grant this little one to your beautifully loving. * * * * * give me the credit of being conscious of it, beloved: postscripts i never _do_ write. i am glad you noticed it. if i find anything left out i start another letter: _this_ is that other letter: it goes into the same envelope merely for company, and signs itself yours in all state. letter li. dearest: it was so nice and comedy to see the mother-aunt this morning importantly opening a letter from you all to herself with the pleasure quite unmixed by any inclosure for me, or any other letter in the house _to_ me so far as she was aware. i listened to you with new ears, discovering that you write quite beautifully in the style which i never get from you. don't, because i admire you in your more formal form, alter in your style to me. i prefer you much, for my own part, formless: and feel nearer to your heart in an unfinished sentence than in one that is perfectly balanced. still i want you to know that your cordial warmed her dear old heart and makes her not think now that she has let me see too much of you. she was just beginning to worry herself jealously into that belief the last two days: and arthur's taking to you helped to the same end. very well; i seem to understand everybody's oddities now,--having made a complete study of yours. best beloved, i have your little letter lying close, and feel dumb when i try to answer. you with your few words make me feel a small thing with all my unpenned rabble about me. only you do know so very well that i love you better than i can ever write. this is my first letter of the new year: will our letter-writing go on all this year, or will it, as we dearly dream, die a divine death somewhere before autumn? in any case, i am, dearest, your most happy and loving. letter lii. my dearest: arthur and the friend went off together yesterday. i am glad the latter stayed just long enough after you left for me to have leisure to find him out human. here is the whole story: he came and unbosomed to me three days ago: and he said nothing about not telling, so i tell you. as water goes from a duck's back, so go all things worth hearing from me to you. arthur had said to him, "come down for a week," and he had answered, "can't, because of clothes!" explaining that beyond evening-dress he had only those he stood in. "well," said arthur, "stand in them, then; you look all right." "the question is," said his friend, "can i sit down?" however, he came; and was appalled to find that a man unpacked his trunk, and would in all probability be carrying away his clothes each night to brush them. he, conscious of interiors, a lining hanging in rags, and even a patching somewhere, had not the heart to let his one and only day-jacket go down to the servants' hall to be sniffed over: and so every evening when he dressed for dinner he hid his jacket laboriously under the permanent layers of a linen wardrobe which stood in his room. i had all this in the frankest manner from him in the hour when he became human: and my fancy fired at the vision. graves with a fierce eye set on duty probing hither and thither in search after the missing coat; and each night the search becoming more strenuous and the mystery more baffling than ever. it had a funny likeness to the jack raikes episode in "evan harrington," and pleased me the more thus cropping up in real life. well, i demanded there and then to be shown the subject of so much romance and adventure: and had the satisfaction of mending it, he sitting by in his shirt-sleeves the while, and watching delighted and without craven apologies. i notice it is not his own set he is ashamed of, but only the moneyed, high-sniffing servant-class who have no understanding for honorable poverty: and to be misunderstood pricks him in the thinnest of thin places. he told me also that he brought only three white ties to last him for seven days: and that graves placed them out in order of freshness and cleanliness night after night:--first three new ones consecutively, then three once worn. after that, on the seventh day, graves resigned all further responsibility, and laid out all three of them for him to choose from. on the last three days of his stay he did me the honor to leave his coat out, declaring that my mendings had made it presentable before an emperor. out of this dates the whole of his character, and i understand, what i did not, why arthur and he get on together. now the house is empty, and your comings will be--i cannot say more welcome: but there will be more room for them to be after my own heart. heaven be over us both. faithfully your most loving. letter liii. beloved: i wish you could have been with me to look out into this garden last night when the spirit moved me there. i had started for bed, but became sensitive of something outside not normal. whether my ear missed the usual echoes and so guessed a muffled world i do not know. to open the door was like slicing into a wedding-cake; then,--where was i to put a foot into that new-laid carpet of ankle-deepness? i hobbled out in a pair of my uncle's. i suppose it is because i know every tree and shrub in its true form that snow seems to pile itself nowhere as it does here: it becomes a garden of entombments. now and then some heap would shuffle feebly under its shroud, but resurrection was not to be: the lawson cypress held out great boxing-glove hands for me to shake and set free; and the silence was wonderful. i padded about till i froze: this morning i can see my big hoof-marks all over the place, and benjy has been scampering about in them as if he found some flavor of me there. the trees are already beginning to shake themselves loose, and the spell is over: but it had a wonderful hold while it lasted. i take a breath back into last night, and feel myself again full of a romance without words that i cannot explain. if you had been there, even, i think i could have forgotten i had you by me, the place was so weighed down with its sense of solitude. it struck eleven while i was outside, and in that, too, i could hear a muffle as if snow choked all the belfry lattices and lay even on the outer edge of the bell itself. across the park there are dead boughs cracking down under the weight of snow; and it would be very like you to tramp over just because the roads will be so impossible. i heard yesterday a thing which made me just a little more free and easy in mind, though i had nothing sensibly on my conscience. such a good youth who two years ago believed i was his only possible future happiness, is now quite happy with a totally different sort of person. i had a little letter from him, shy and stately, announcing the event. i thought it such a friendly act, for some have never the grace to unsay their grievances, however much actually blessed as a consequence of them. with that off my mind i can come to you swearing that there have been no accidents on anybody's line of life through a mistake in signals, or a flying in the face of them, where i have had any responsibility. as for you, and as you know well by now, my signals were ready and waiting before you sought for them. "oh, whistle, and i'll come to you!" was their giveaway attitude. i am going down to play snowballs with benjy. good-by. if you come you will find this letter on the hall table, and me you will probably hear barking behind the rhododendrons.--so much your most loving. letter liv. beloved: we have been having a great day of tidyings out, rummaging through years and years of accumulations--things quite useless but which i have not liked to throw away. my soul has been getting such dusty answers to all sorts of doubtful inquiries as to where on earth this, that, and the other lay hidden. and there were other things, the memory of which had lain quite dead or slept, till under the light of day they sprouted hack into life like corn from the grave of an egyptian mummy. very deep in one box i found a stealthy little collection of secret playthings which it used to be my fond belief that nobody knew of but myself. it may have been anna's graspingness, when four years of seniority gave her double my age, or arthur's genial instinct for destructiveness, which drove me into such deep concealment of my dearest idols. but, whether for those or more mystic reasons, i know i had dolls which i nursed only in the strictest privacy and lavished my firmest love upon. it was because of them that i bore the reproach of being but a lukewarm mother of dolls and careless of their toilets; the truth being that my motherly passion expended itself in secret on certain outcasts of society whom others despised or had forgotten. they, on their limp and dissolute bodies, wore all the finery i could find to pile on them: and one shady transaction done on their behalf i remember now without pangs. there was one creature of state whom an inconsiderate relative had presented to anna and myself in equal shares. of course anna's became more and more lionlike. i had very little love for the bone of contention myself, but the sense of injustice rankled in me. so one day, at an unclothing, anna discovered that certain undergarments were gone altogether away. she sat aghast, questioned me, and, when i refused to disgorge, screamed down vengeance from the authorities. i was morally certain i had taken no more than my just share, and resolution sat on my lips under all threats. for a punishment the whole ownership of the big doll was made over to anna: i was no worse off, and was very contented with my obstinacy. to-day i found the beautifully wrought bodice, which i had carried beyond reach of even the supreme court of appeal, clothing with ridiculous looseness a rag-doll whose head tottered on its stem like an over-ripe plum, and whose legs had no deportment at all: and am sending it off in charitable surrender to anna to be given, bag and rag, to whichever one of the children she likes to select. also i found:--would you care to have a lock of hair taken from the head of a child then two years old, which, bright golden, does not match what i have on now in the least? i can just remember her: but she is much of a stranger to both of us. why i value it is that the name and date on the envelope inclosing it are in my mother's handwriting: and i suppose _she_ loved very much the curly treasure she then put away. some of the other things, quite funny, i will show you the next time you come over. how i wish that vanished mite had mixed some of her play-hours with yours:--you only six miles away all the time: had one but known!--now grown very old and loving, always your own. letter lv. beloved: i am getting quite out of letter-writing, and it is your doing, not mine. no sooner do i get a line from you than you rush over in person and take the answer to it out of my mouth! i have had six from you in the last week, and believe i have only exchanged you one: all the rest have been nipped in the bud by your arrivals. my pen turns up a cross nose whenever it hears you coming now, and declares life so dull as not to be worth living. poor dinky little othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it likes. it likes you while you keep away: so that's said! when i make it write "come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." for it is an industrious minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. it is a sentimental fact that i keep all its used-up brethren in an inclosure together, and throw none of them away. if once they have ridden over paper to you, i turn them to grass in their old age. i let this out because i think it is time you had another laugh at me. laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me a little more happy than i have been this last day or two. there has been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. be empty-headed for once when you write next: whether you write little or much, i am sure always of your full heart: but i cannot trust your brain to the same pressure: it is such a martha to headaches and careful about so many things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you should--not at its most needy moments, i mean. have you made the announcement? or does it not go till to-day? i am not sorry, since the move comes from her, that we have not to wait now till february. you will feel better when the storm is up than when it is only looming. this is the headachy period. well. say "well" with me, dearest! it is going to be well: waiting has not suited us--not any of us, i think. your mother is one in a thousand, i say that and mean it:--worth conquering as all good things are. i would not wish great fortune to come by too primrosy a way. "canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook?" even so, for size, is the share of the world which we lay claim to, and for that we must be toilers of the deep.--always, beloved, your truest and most loving. letter lvi. my own own love: you have given me a spring day before the buds begin,-- the weather i have been longing for! i had been quite sad at heart these cold wet days, really _down_;--a treasonable sadness with you still anywhere in the world (though where in the world have you been?). spring seemed such a long way off over the bend of it, with you unable to come; and it seems now another letter of yours has got lost. (write it again, dearest,--all that was in it, with any blots that happened to come:--there was a dear smudge in to-day's, with the whirlpool mark of your thumb quite clear on it,--delicious to rest my face against and feel _you_ there.) and so back to my spring weather: all in a moment you gave me a whole week of the weather i had longed after. for you say the sun has been shining on you: and i would rather have it there than here if it refuses to be in two places at once. also my letters have pleased you. when they do, i feel such a proud mother to them! here they fly quick out of the nest; but i think sometimes they must come to you broken-winged, with so much meant and all so badly put. how can we ever, with our poor handful of senses, contrive to express ourselves perfectly? perhaps,--i don't know:--dearest, i love you! i kiss you a hundred times to the minute. if everything in the world were dark round us, could not kisses tell us quite well all that we wish to know of each other?--me that you were true and brave and so beautiful that a woman must be afraid looking at you:--and you that i was just my very self,--loving and--no! just loving: i have no room for anything more! you have swallowed up all my moral qualities, i have none left: i am a beggar, where it is so sweet to beg.--give me back crumbs of myself! i am so hungry, i cannot show it, only by kissing you a hundred times. dear share of the world, what a wonderful large helping of it you are to me! i alter portia's complaint and swear that "my little body is bursting with this great world." and now it is written and i look at it, it seems a budge and toddy sort of complaint. i do thank heaven that the godhead who rules in it for us does not forbid the recognition of the ludicrous! c---- was telling me how long ago, in her own dull protestant household, she heard a riddle propounded by some indiscreet soul who did not understand the prudish piety which reigned there: and saw such shocked eyes opening all round on the sound of it. "what is it," was asked, "that a common man can see every day but that god never sees?" "his equal" is the correct answer: but even so demure and proper a support to thistly theology was to the ears that heard it as the hand of uzzah stretched out intrusively and deserving to be smitten. as for c----, a twinkle of wickedness seized her, she hazarded "a joke" to be the true answer, and was ordered into banishment by the head of that god-fearing household for having so successfully diagnosed the family skeleton. as for skeletons, why your letter makes me so happy is that the one which has been rubbing its ribs against you for so long seems to have given itself a day off, or crumbled to dissolution. and you are yourself again, as you have not been for many a long day. i suppose there has been thunder, and the air is cleared: and i am not to know any of that side of your discomforts? still i _do_ know. you have been writing your letters with pressed lips for a month past: and i have been a mere toy-thing, and no helpmate to you at all at all. oh, why will she not love me? i know i am lovable except to a very hard heart, and hers is not: it is only like yours, reserved in its expression. it is strange what pain her prejudice has been able to drop into my cup of happiness; and into yours, dearest, i fear, even more. oh, i love you, i love you! i am crying with it, having no words to declare to you what i feel. my tears have wings in them: first semi-detached, then detached. see, dearest, there is a rain-stain to make this letter fruitful of meaning! it is sheer convention--and we, creatures of habit--that tears don't come kindly and easily to express where laughter leaves off and a something better begins. which is all very ungrammatical and entirely me, as i am when i get off my hinges too suddenly. amen, amen! when we are both a hundred we shall remember all this very peaceably; and the "sanguine flower" will not look back at us less beautifully because in just one spot it was inscribed with woe. and if we with all our aids cannot have patience, where in this midge-bitten world is that virtue to find a standing? i kiss you--how? as if it were for the first or the last time? no, but for all time, beloved! every time i see you or think of you sums up my world. love me a little, too, and i will be as contented as i am your loving. letter lvii. come to me! i will not understand a word you have written till you come. who has been using your hand to strike me like this, and why do you lend it? oh, if it is she, you do not owe her _that_ duty! never write such things:--speak! have you ever found me not listen to you, or hard to convince? dearest, dearest!--take what i mean: i cannot write over this gulf. come to me,--i will believe anything you can _say_, but i can believe nothing of this written. i must see you and hear what it is you mean. dear heart, i am blind till i set eyes on you again! beloved, i have nothing, nothing in me but love for you: except for that i am empty! believe me and give me time; i will not be unworthy of the joy of holding you. i am nothing if not _yours_! tell this to whoever is deceiving you. oh, my dearest, why did you stay away from me to write so? come and put an end to a thing which means nothing to either of us. you love me: how can it have a meaning? can you not hear my heart crying?--i love nobody but you--do not know what love is without you! how can i be more yours than i am? tell me, and i will be! here are kisses. do not believe yourself till you have seen me. oh, the pain of having to _write_, of not having your arms round me in my misery! i kiss your dear blind eyes with all my heart.--my love's most loved and loving. letter lviii. no, no, i cannot read it! what have i done that you will not come to me? they are mad here, telling me to be calm, that i am not to go to you. i too am out of my mind--except that i love you. i know nothing except that. beloved, only on my lips will i take my dismissal from yours: not god himself can claim you from me till you have done me that justice. kiss me once more, and then, if you can, say we must part. you cannot!--ah, come here where my heart is, and you cannot! have i never told you enough how i love you? dearest, i have no words for all my love: i have no pride in me. does not this alone tell you?--you are sending me away, and i cry to you to spare me. can i love you more than that? what will you have of me that i have not given? oh, you, the sun in my dear heavens--if i lose you, what is left of me? could you break so to pieces even a woman you did not love? and me you _do_ love,--you _do_. between all this denial of me, and all this silence of words that you have put your name to, i see clearly that you are still my lover.--your writing breaks with trying not to say it: you say again and again that there is no fault in me. i swear to you, dearest, there is none, unless it be loving you: and how can you mean that? for what are you and i made for unless for each other? with all our difference people tell us we are alike. we were shaped for each other from our very birth. have we not proved it in a hundred days of happiness, which have lifted us up to the blue of a heaven higher than any birds ever sang? and now you say--taking on you the blame for the very life-blood in us both--that the fault is yours, and that your fault is to have allowed me to love you and yourself to love me! who has suddenly turned our love into a crime? beloved, is it a sin that here on earth i have been seeing god through you? go away from me, and he is gone also. ah, sweetheart, let me see you before all my world turns into a wilderness! let me know better why,--if my senses are to be emptied of you. my heart can never let you go. do you wish that it should? bring your own here, and see if it can tell me that! come and listen to mine! oh, dearest heart that ever beat, mine beats so like yours that once together you shall not divide their sound! beloved, i will be patient, believe me, to any words you can say: but i cannot be patient away from you. if i have seemed to reproach you, do not think that now. for you are to give me a greater joy than i ever had before when you take me in your arms again after a week that has spelled dreadful separation. and i shall bless you for it--for this present pain even--because the joy will be so much greater. only come: i do not live till you have kissed me again. oh, my beloved, how cruel love may seem if we do not trust it enough! my trust in you has come back in a great rush of warmth, like a spring day after frost. i almost laugh as i let this go. it brings you,--perhaps before i wake: i shall be so tired to-night. call under my window, make me hear in my sleep. i will wake up to you, and it shall be all over before the rest of the world wakes. there is no dream so deep that i shall not hear you out of the midst of it. come and be my morning-glory to-morrow without fail. i will rewrite nothing that i have written--let it go! see me out of deep waters again, because i have thought so much of you! i have come through clouds and thick darkness. i press your name to my lips a thousand times. as sure as sunrise i say to myself that you will come: the sun is not truer to his rising than you to me. love will go flying after this till i sleep. god bless you!--and me also; it is all one and the same wish.--your most true, loving, and dear faithful one. letter lix. i have to own that i know your will now, at last. without seeing you i am convinced: you have a strong power in you to have done that! you have told me the word i am to say to you: it is your bidding, so i say it--good-by. but it is a word whose meaning i cannot share. yet i have something to tell you which i could not have dreamed if it had not somehow been true: which has made it possible for me to believe, without hearing you speak it, that i am to be dismissed out of your heart.--may the doing of it cost you far less pain than i am fearing! you did not come, though i promised myself so certainly that you would: instead came your last very brief note which this is to obey. still i watched for you to come, believing it still and trusting to silence on my part to bring you more certainly than any more words could do. and at last either you came to me, or i came to you: a bitter last meeting. perhaps your mind too holds what happened, if so i have got truly at what your will is. i must accept it as true, since i am not to see you again. i cannot tell you whether i thought it or dreamed it, but it seems still quite real, and has turned all my past life into a mockery. when i came i was behind you; then you turned and i could see your face--you too were in pain: in that we seemed one. but when i touched you and would have kissed you, you shuddered at me and drew back your head. i tell you this as i would tell you anything unbelievable that i had heard told of you behind your back. you see i am obeying you at last. for all the love which you gave me when i seemed worthy of it i thank you a thousand times. could you ever return to the same mind, i should be yours once more as i still am; never ceasing on my side to be your lover and servant till death, and--if there be anything more--after as well. my lips say amen now: but my heart cannot say it till breath goes out of my body. good-by: that means--god be with you. i mean it; but he seems to have ceased to be with me altogether. good-by, dearest. i kiss your heart with writing for the last time, and your eyes, that will see nothing more from me after this. good-by. note.--all the letters which follow were found lying loosely together. they only went to their destination after the writer's death. letter lx. to-day, dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star which had lost its way. it lies dead in my bosom. it was the letter that lost itself in the post while i was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. in it you say, "we have been engaged now for two whole months; i never dreamed that two moons could contain so much happiness." nor i, dearest! we have now been separated for three; and till now i had not dreamed that time could so creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the moment when i last saw you. you were so dear to me, beloved; _that_ you ever are! time changes nothing in you as you seemed to me then. oh, i am sick to touch your hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call, only to find locked doors. if you could see me now i think you would open the door for a little while. if they came and told me--"you are to see him just for five minutes, and then part again"--what should i be wanting most to say to you? nothing-- only "speak, speak!" i would have you fill my heart with your voice the whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. it would matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never to be said. oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing i am longing to know!-- why am i unworthy of you? if i cannot be your wife, why cannot i see you still,--serve you if possible? i would be grateful. you meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that "there was no fault" in me. i realize now that you would not have said that to the woman you still loved. and now i am never to know what part in me is hateful to you. i must live with it because you would not tell me the truth! every day tells me i am different from the thing i wish to be--your love, the woman you approve. i love you, i love you! can i get no nearer to you ever for all this straining? if i love you so much, i must be moving toward what you would have me be. in our happiest days my heart had its growing pains,--growing to be as you wished it. dear, even the wisest make mistakes, and the tenderest may be hard without knowing: i do not think i am unworthy of you, if you knew all. writing to you now seems weakness: yet it seemed peace to come in here and cry to you. and when i go about i have still strength left, and try to be cheerful. nobody knows, i think nobody knows. no one in the house is made downcast because of me. how dear they are, and how little i can thank them! except to you, dearest, i have not shown myself selfish. i love you too much, too much: i cannot write it. letter lxi. you are very ill, they tell me. beloved, it is such kindness in them to have regard for the wish they disapprove and to let me know. knowledge is the one thing needful whose lack has deprived me of my happiness: the express image of sorrow is not so terrible as the foreboding doubt of it. not because you are ill, but because i know something definitely about you, i am happier to-day: a little nearer to a semblance of service to you in my helplessness. how much i wish you well, even though that might again carry you out of my knowledge! and, though death might bring you nearer than life now makes possible, i pray to you, dearest, not to die. it is not right that you should die yet, with a mistake in your heart which a little more life might clear away. praying for your dear eyes to remain open, i realize suddenly how much hope still remains in me, where i thought none was left. even your illness i take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep thinking, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly: there you lie, beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we parted. and the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing--that it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of heaven. let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own beloved! i hold my breath with hope that i shall have word of you when your hand has strength again to write. for i know that in sleepless nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me. if you made resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:--nor ever be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your conscious longing. ah, my own one beloved, whom i have loved so openly and so secretly, if you were as i think some other men are, i could believe that i had given you so much of my love that you had tired of me because i had made no favor of it but had let you see that i was your faithful subject and servant till death: so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;--as to-morrow, if you came, you would. my pride died when i saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has not come back to me now that i see you no more. i have no wish that it should. in all ways possible i would wish to be as i was when you loved me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me. letter lxii. so i have seen you, beloved, again, after fearing that i never should. a day's absence from home has given me this great fortune. the pain of it was less than it might have been, since our looks did not meet. to have seen your eyes shut out their recognition of me would have hurt me too much: i must have cried out against such a judgment. but you passed by the window without knowing, your face not raised: so little changed, yet you have been ill. arthur tells me everything: he knows i must have any word of you that goes begging. oh, i hope you are altogether better, happier! an illness helps some people: the worst of their sorrow goes with the health that breaks down under it; and they come out purged into a clearer air, and are made whole for a fresh trial of life. i hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to have embraced you once again. your face is the kindest i have ever seen: even your silence, while i looked at you, seemed a grace instead of a cruelty. what kindness, i say to myself, even if it be mistaken kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth! oh, if i could see once into the brain of it all! no one but myself knows how good you are: how can i, then, be so unworthy of you? did you think i would not surrender to anything you fixed, that you severed us so completely, not even allowing us to meet, and giving me no way to come back to you though i might come to be all that you wished? ah, dear face, how hungry you have made me!--the more that i think you are not yet so happy as i could wish,--as i could make you,--i say it foolishly:--yet if you would trust me, i am sure. oh, how tired loving you now makes me! physically i grow weary with the ache to have you in my arms. and i dream, i dream always, the shadows of former kindness that never grow warm enough to clasp me before i wake.--yours, dearest, waking or sleeping. letter lxiii. do you remember, beloved, when you came on your birthday, you said i was to give you another birthday present of your own choosing, and i promised? and it was that we were to do for the whole day what _i_ wished: you were not to be asked to choose. you said then that it was the first time i had ever let you have your way, which was to see me be myself independently of you:--as if such a self existed. you will never see what i write now; and i did not do then any of the things i most wished: for first i wished to kneel down and kiss your hands and feet; and you would not have liked that. even now that you love me no more, you would not like me to do such a thing. a woman can never do as she likes when she loves--there is no such thing until he shows it her or she divines it. i loved you, i loved you!--that was all i could do, and all i wanted to do. you have kept my letters? do you read them ever, i wonder? and do they tell you differently about me, now that you see me with new eyes? ah no, you dare not look at them: they tell too much truth! how can love-letters ever cease to be the winged things they were when they first came? i fancy mine sick to death for want of your heart to rest on; but never less loving. if you would read them again, you would come back to me. those little throats of happiness would be too strong for you. and so you lay them in a cruel grave of lavender,--"lavender for forgetfulness" might be another song for ophelia to sing. i am weak with writing to you, i have written too long: this is twice to-day. i do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time. when i go about something definite, i can do it:--to ride, or read aloud to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but i cannot make employment for myself--that requires too much effort of invention and will: and i have only will for one thing in life--to get through it: and no invention to the purpose. oh, beloved, in the grave i shall lie forever with a lock of your hair in my hand. i wonder if, beyond there, one sees anything? my eyes ache to-day from the brain, which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where i missed you. letter lxiv. dearest: it is dreadful to own that i was glad at first to know that you and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that must mean pain to you! i am not now. when you were ill i did a wrong thing: from her something came to me which i returned. i would do much to undo that act now; but this has fixed it forever. with it were a few kind words. i could not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to her! oh, poor thing, poor thing! if i ever had an enemy i thought it was she! i do not think so now. those who seem cold seldom are. i hope you were with her at the last: she loved you beyond any word that was in her nature to utter, and the young are hard on the old without knowing it. we were two people, she and i, whose love clashed jealously over the same object, and we both failed. she is the first to get rest. letter lxv. my dear: i dream of you now every night, and you are always kind, always just as i knew you: the same without a shadow of change. i cannot picture you anyhow else, though my life is full of the silence you have made. my heart seems to have stopped on the last beat the sight of your handwriting gave it. i dare not bid you come back now: sorrow has made me a stranger to myself. i could not look at you and say "i am your star":--i could not believe it if i said it. two women have inhabited me, and the one here now is not the one you knew and loved: their one likeness is that they both have loved the same man, the one certain that her love was returned, and the other certain of nothing. what a world of difference lies in that! i lay hands on myself, half doubting, and feel my skeleton pushing to the front: my glass shows it me. thus we are all built up: bones are at the foundations of our happiness, and when the happiness wears thin, they show through, the true architecture of humanity. i have to realize now that i have become the greatest possible failure in life,--a woman who has lost her "share of the world": i try to shape myself to it. it is deadly when a woman's sex, what was once her glory, reveals itself to her as an all-containing loss. i realized myself fully only when i was with you; and now i can't undo it.--you gone, i lean against a shadow, and feel myself forever falling, drifting to no end, a francesca without a paolo. well, it must be some comfort that i do not drag you with me. i never believed myself a "strong" woman; your lightest wish shaped me to its liking. now you have molded me with your own image and superscription, and have cast me away. are not the die and the coin that comes from it only two sides of the same form?--there is not a hair's breadth anywhere between their surfaces where they lie, the one inclosing the other. yet part them, and the light strikes on them how differently! that is a mere condition of light: join them in darkness, where the light cannot strike, and they are the same--two faces of a single form. so you and i, dear, when we are dead, shall come together again, i trust. or are we to come back to each other defaced and warped out of our true conjunction? i think not: for if you have changed, if soul can ever change, i shall be melted again by your touch, and flow to meet all the change that is in you, since my true self is to be you. oh, you, my beloved, do you wake happy, either with or without thoughts of me? i cannot understand, but i trust that it may be so. if i could have a reason why i have so passed out of your life, i could endure it better. what was in me that you did not wish? what was in you that i must not wish for evermore? if the root of this separation was in you, if in god's will it was ordered that we were to love, and, without loving less, afterwards be parted, i could acquiesce so willingly. but it is this knowing nothing that overwhelms me:--i strain my eyes for sight and can't see; i reach out my hands for the sunlight and am given great handfuls of darkness. i said to you the sun had dropped out of my heaven.--my dear, my dear, is this darkness indeed you? am i in the mold with my face to yours, receiving the close impression of a misery in which we are at one? are you, dearest, hungering and thirsting for me, as i now for you? i wonder what, to the starving and drought-stricken, the taste of death can be like! do all the rivers of the world run together to the lips then, and all its fruits strike suddenly to the taste when the long deprivation ceases to be a want? or is it simply a ceasing of hunger and thirst--an antidote to it all? i may know soon. how very strange if at the last i forget to think of you! letter lxvi. dearest: every day i am giving myself a little more pain than i need--for the sake of you. i am giving myself your letters to read again day by day as i received them. only one a day, so that i have still something left to look forward to to-morrow: and oh, dearest, what _unanswerable_ things they have now become, those letters which i used to answer so easily! there is hardly a word but the light of to-day stands before it like a drawn sword, between the heart that then felt and wrote so, and mine as it now feels and waits. all your tenderness then seems to be cruelty now: only _seems_, dearest, for i still say, i _do_ say that it is not so. i know it is not so: i, who know nothing else, know that! so i look every day at one of these monstrous contradictions, and press it to my heart till it becomes reconciled with the pain that is there always. indeed you loved me: that i see now. words which i took so much for granted then have a strange force now that i look back at them. you did love: and i who did not realize it enough then, realize it now when you no longer do. and the commentary on all this is that one letter of yours which i say over and over to myself sometimes when i cannot pray: "there is no fault in you: the fault is elsewhere; i can no longer love you as i did. all that was between us must be at an end; for your good and mine the only right thing is to say good-by without meeting. i know you will not forget me, but you will forgive me, even because of the great pain i cause you. you are the most generous woman i have known. if it would comfort you to blame me for this i would beg you to do it: but i know you better, and ask you to believe that it is my deep misfortune rather than my fault that i can be no longer your lover, as, god knows, i was once, i dare not say how short a time ago. to me you remain, what i always found you, the best and most true-hearted woman a man could pray to meet." this, dearest, i say and say: and write down now lest you have forgotten it. for your writing of it, and all the rest of you that i have, goes with me to my grave. how superstitious we are of our own bodies after death!--i, as if i believed that i should ever rise or open my ears to any sound again! i do not, yet it comforts me to make sure that certain things shall go with me to dissolution. truly, dearest, i believe grief is a great deceiver, and that no one quite quite wishes not to exist. i have no belief in future existence; yet i wish it so much--to exist again outside all this failure of my life. for at present i have done you no good at all, only evil. and i hope now and then, that writing thus to you i am not writing altogether in vain. if i can see sufficiently at the last to say--send him these, it will be almost like living again: for surely you will love me again when you see how much i have suffered,--and suffered because i would not let thought of you go. could you dream, beloved, reading _this_ that there is bright sunlight streaming over my paper as i write? letter lxvii. do you forgive me for coming into your life, beloved? i do not know in what way i can have hurt you, but i know that i have. perhaps without knowing it we exchange salves for the wounds we have given and received? dearest, i trust those i send reach you: i send them, wishing till i grow weak. my arms strain and become tired trying to be wings to carry them to you: and i am glad of that weariness--it seems to be some virtue that has gone out of me. if all my body could go out in the effort, i think i should get a glimpse of your face, and the meaning of everything then at last. i have brought in a wild rose to lay here in love's cenotaph, among all my thoughts of you. it comes from a graveyard full of "little deaths." i remember once sending you a flower from the same place when love was still fortunate with us. i must have been reckless in my happiness to do that! beloved, if i could speak or write out all my thoughts, till i had emptied myself of them, i feel that i should rest. but there is no _emptying_ the brain by thinking. things thought come to be thought again over and over, and more and fresh come in their train: children and grandchildren, generations of them, sprung from the old stock. i have many thoughts now, born of my love for you, that never came when we were together,--grandchildren of our days of courtship. some of them are set down here, but others escape and will never see your face! if (poor word, it has the sound but no hope of a future life): still, if you should ever come back to me and want, as you would want, to know something of the life in between,--i could put these letters that i keep into your hands and trust them to say for me that no day have i been truly, that is to say _willingly_, out of your heart. when richard feverel comes back to his wife, do you remember how she takes him to see their child, which till then he had never seen--and its likeness to him as it lies asleep? dearest, have i not been as true to you in all that i leave here written? if, when i come to my finish, i get any truer glimpse of your mind, and am sure of what you would wish, i will leave word that these shall be sent to you. if not, i must suppose knowledge is still delayed, not that it will not reach you. sometimes i try still not to wish to die. for my poor body's sake i wish well to have its last chance of coming to pass. it is the unhappy unfulfilled clay of life, i think, which robbed of its share of things set ghosts to walk: mists which rise out of a ground that has not worked out its fruitfulness, to take the shape of old desires. if i leave a ghost, it will take _your_ shape, not mine, dearest: for it will be "as trees walking" that the "lovers of trees" will come back to earth. browning did not know that. someone else, not browning, has worded it for us: a lover of trees far away sends his soul back to the country that has lost him, and there "the traveler, marveling why, halts on the bridge to hearken how soft the poplars sigh," not knowing that it is the lover himself who sighs in the trees all night. that is how the ghosts of real love come back into the world. the ghosts of love and the ghosts of hatred must be quite different: these bring fear, and those none. come to me, dearest, in the blackest night, and i will not be afraid. how strange that when one has suffered most, it is the poets (those who are supposed to _sing_) who best express things for us. yet singing is the thing i feel least like. if ever a heart once woke up to find itself full of tune, it was mine; now you have drawn all the song out of it, emptied it dry: and i go to the poets to read epitaphs. i think it is their cruelty that appeals to me:--they can sing of grief! o hard hearts! sitting here thinking of you, my ears have suddenly become wide open to the night-sounds outside. a night-jar is making its beautiful burr in the stillness, and there are things going away and away, telling me the whereabouts of life like points on a map made for the ear. you, too, are _somewhere_ outside, making no sound: and listening for you i heard these. it seemed as if my brain had all at once opened and caught a new sense. are you there? this is one of those things which drop to us with no present meaning: yet i know i am not to forget it as long as i live. good-night! at your head, at your feet, is there any room for me to-night, beloved? letter lxviii. dearest: the thought keeps troubling me how to give myself to you most, if you should ever come back for me when i am no longer here. these poor letters are all that i can leave: will they tell you enough of my heart? oh, into that, wish any wish that you like, and it is there already! my heart, dearest, only moves in the wish to be what you desire. yet i am conscious that i cannot give, unless you shall choose to take: and though i write myself down each day your willing slave, i cry my wares in a market where there is no bidder to hear me. dearest, though my whole life is yours, it is little you know of it. my wish would be to have every year of my life blessed by your consciousness of it. barely a year of me is all that you have, truly, to remember: though i think five summers at least came to flower, and withered in that one. i wish you knew my whole life: i cannot tell it: it was too full of infinitely small things. yet what i can remember i would like to tell now: so that some day, perhaps, perhaps, my childhood may here and there be warmed long after its death by your knowledge coming to it and discovering in it more than you knew before. how i long, dearest, that what i write may look up some day and meet your eye! beloved, _then_, however faded the ink may have grown, i think the spirit of my love will remain fresh in it:--i kiss you on the lips with every word. the thought of "good-by" is never to enter here: it is _a reviderci_ for ever and ever:--"love, love," and "meet again!"--the words we put into the thrush's song on a day you will remember, when all the world for us was a garden. dearest, what i can tell you of older days,--little things they must be--i will: and i know that if you ever come to value them at all, their littleness will make them doubly welcome:--just as to know that you were once called a "gallous young hound" by people whom you plagued when a boy, was to me a darling discovery: all at once i caught my childhood's imaginary comrade to my young spirit's heart and kissed him, brow and eyes. good-night, good-night! to-morrow i will find you some earliest memory: the dew of hermon be on it when you come to it--if ever! oh, beloved, could you see into my heart now, or i into yours, time would grow to nothing for us; and my childhood would stay unwritten! from far and near i gather my thoughts of you for the kiss i cannot give. good-night, dearest. letter lxix. beloved: i remember my second birthday. i am quite sure of it, because my third i remember so infinitely well.--then i was taken in to see arthur lying in baby bridal array of lace fringes and gauze, and received in my arms held up for me by nan-nan the awful weight and imperial importance of his small body. i think from the first i was told of him as my "brother": cousin i have never been able to think him. but all this belongs to my third: on my second, i remember being on a floor of roses; and they told me if i would go across to a clipboard and pull it open there would be something there waiting for me. and it was on all-fours that i went all eagerness across great patches of rose-pattern, till i had butted my way through a door left ajar, and found in a cardboard box of bright tinsel and flowers two little wax babes in the wood lying. i think they gave me my first sense of color, except, perhaps, the rose-carpet which came earlier, and they remained for quite a long time the most beautiful thing i knew. it is strange that i cannot remember what became of them, for i am sure i neither broke nor lost them,--perhaps it was done for me: arthur came afterward, the tomb of many of my early joys, and the maker of so many new ones. he, dearest, is the one, the only one, who has seen the tears that belong truly to you: and he blesses me with such wonderful patience when i speak your name, allowing that perhaps i know better than he. and after the wax babies i had him for my third birthday. letter lxx. beloved: i think that small children see very much as animals must do: just the parts of things which have a direct influence on their lives, and no memory outside that. i remember the kindness or frowns of faces in early days far more than the faces themselves: and it is quite a distinct and later memory that i have of standing within a doorway and watching my mother pass downstairs unconscious of my being there,--and _then_, for the first time, studying her features and seeing in them a certain solitude and distance which i had never before noticed:--i suppose because i had never before thought of looking at her when she was not concerned with me. it was this unobservance of actual features, i imagine, which made me think all gray-haired people alike, and find a difficulty in recognizing those who called, except generically as callers--people who kissed me, and whom therefore i liked to see. one, i remember, for no reason unless because she had a brown face, i mistook from a distance for my aunt dolly, and bounded into the room where she was sitting, with a cry of rapture. and it was my earliest conscious test of politeness, when i found out my mistake, not to cry over it in the kind but very inferior presence to that one i had hoped for. i suppose, also, that many sights which have no meaning to children go, happily, quite out of memory; and that what our early years leave for us in the mind's lavender are just the tit-bits of life, or the first blows to our intelligence--things which did matter and mean much. corduroys come early into my life,--their color and the queer earthy smell of those which particularly concerned me: because i was picked up from a fall and tenderly handled by a rough working-man so clothed, whom i regarded for a long time afterward as an adorable object. he and i lived to my recognition of him as a wizened, scrubby, middle-aged man, but remained good friends after the romance was over. i don't know when the change in my sense of beauty took place as regards him. anything unusual that appealed to my senses left exaggerated marks. my father once in full uniform appeared to me as a giant, so that i screamed and ran, and required much of his kindest voice to coax me back to him. also once in the street a dancer in fancy costume struck me in the same way, and seemed in his red tunic twice the size of the people who crowded round him. i think as a child the small ground-flowers of spring took a larger hold upon me than any others:--i was so close to them. roses i don't remember till i was four or five; but crocus and snowdrop seem to have been in my blood from the very beginning of things; and i remember likening the green inner petals of the snowdrop to the skirts of some ballet-dancing dolls, which danced themselves out of sight before i was four years old. snapdragons, too, i remember as if with my first summer: i used to feed them with bits of their own green leaves, believing faithfully that those mouths must need food of some sort. when i became more thoughtful i ceased to make cannibals of them: but i think i was less convinced then of the digestive process. i don't know when i left off feeding snapdragons: i think calceolarias helped to break me off the habit, for i found they had no throats to swallow with. in much the same way as sights that have no meaning leave no traces, so i suppose do words and sounds. it was many years before i overheard, in the sense of taking in, a conversation by elders not meant for me: though once, in my innocence, i hid under the table during the elders' late dinner, and came out at dessert, to which we were always allowed to come down, hoping to be an amusing surprise to them. and i could not at all understand why i was scolded; for, indeed, i had _heard_ nothing at all, though no doubt plenty that was unsuitable for a child's ears had been said, and was on the elders' minds when they upbraided me. dearest, such a long-ago! and all these smallest of small things i remember again, to lay them up for you: all the child-parentage of me whom you loved once, and will again if ever these come to you. bless my childhood, dearest: it did not know it was lonely of you, as i know of myself now! and yet i have known you, and know you still, so am the more blest.--good-night. letter lxxi. i used to stand at the foot of the stairs a long time, when by myself, before daring to start up: and then it was always the right foot that went first. and a fearful feeling used to accompany me that i was going to meet the "evil chance" when i got to the corner. sometimes when i felt it was there very badly, i used at the last moment to shut my eyes and walk through it: and feel, on the other side, like a pilgrim who had come through the waters of jordan. my eyes were always the timidest things about me: and to shut my eyes tight against the dark was the only way i had of meeting the solitude of the first hour of bed when nan-nan had left me, and before i could get to sleep. i have an idea that one listens better with one's eyes shut, and that this and other things are a remnant of our primitive existence when perhaps the ears of our arboreal ancestors kept a lookout while the rest of their senses slept. i think, also, that the instinct i found in myself, and have since in other children, to conceal a wound is a similar survival. at one time, i suppose, in the human herd the damaged were quickly put out of existence; and it was the self-preservation instinct which gave me so keen a wish to get into hiding when one day i cut my finger badly--something more than a mere scratch, which i would have cried over and had bandaged quite in the correct way. i remember i sat in a corner and pretended to be nursing a rag doll which i had knotted round my hand, till nan-nan noticed, perhaps, that i looked white, and found blood flowing into my lap. and i can recall still the overcoming comfort which fell upon me as i let resolution go, and sobbed in her arms full of pity for myself and scolding the "naughty knife" that had done the deed. the rest of that day is lost to me. yet it is not only occasions of happiness and pain which impress themselves. when the mind takes a sudden stride in consciousness,--that, also, fixes itself. i remember the agony of shyness which came on me when strange hands did my undressing for me once in nan-nan's absence: the first time i had felt such a thing. and another day i remember, after contemplating the head of judas in a pictorial puzzle for a long time, that i seized a brick and pounded him with it beyond recognition:--these were the first vengeful beginnings of christianity in me. all my history, bible and english, came to me through picture-books. i wept tenderly over the endangered eyes of prince arthur, yet i put out the eyes of many kings, princes, and governors who incurred my displeasure, scratching them with pins till only a white blur remained on the paper. all this comes to me quite seriously now: i used to laugh thinking it over. but can a single thing we do be called trivial, since out of it we grow up minute by minute into a whole being charged with capacity for gladness or suffering? now, as i look back, all these atoms of memory are dust and ashes that i have walked through in order to get to present things. how i suffer, how i suffer! if you could have dreamed that a human body could contain so much suffering, i think you would have chosen a less dreadful way of showing me your will: you would have given me a reason why i have to suffer so. dearest, i am broken off every habit i ever had, except my love of you. if you would come back to me you could shape me into whatever you wished. i will be different in all but just that one thing. letter lxxii. here in my pain, beloved, i remember keenly now the one or two occasions when as a small child i was consciously a cause of pain to others. what an irony of life that once of the two times when i remember to have been cruel, it was to arthur, with his small astonished baby-face remaining a reproach to me ever after! i was hardly five then, and going up to the nursery from downstairs had my supper-cake in my hand, only a few mouthfuls left. he had been having his bath, and was sitting up on nan-nan's knee being got into his bed clothes; when spying me with my cake he piped to have a share of it. i dare say it would not have been good for him, but of that i thought nothing at all: the cruel impulse took me to make one mouthful of all that was left. he watched it go without crying; but his eyes opened at me in a strange way, wondering at this sudden lesson of the hardness of a human heart. "all gone!" was what he said, turning his head from me up to nan-nan, to see perhaps if she too had a like surprise for his wee intelligence. i think i have never forgiven myself that, though arthur has no memory of it left in him: the judging remembrance of it would, i believe, win forgiveness to him for any wrong he might now do me, if that and not the contrary were his way with me: so unreasonably is my brain scarred where the thought of it still lies. god may forgive us our trespasses by marvelous slow ways; but we cannot always forgive them ourselves. the other thing came out of a less personal greed, and was years later: arthur and i were collecting eggs, and in the loft over one of the out-houses there was a swallow's nest too high up to be reached by any ladder we could get up there. i was intent on getting the _eggs_, and thought of no other thing that might chance: so i spread a soft fall below, and with a long pole i broke the floor of the nest. then with a sudden stir of horror i saw soft things falling along with the clay, tiny and feathery. two were killed by the breakage that fell with them, but one was quite alive and unhurt. i gathered up the remnants of the nest and set it with the young one in it by the loft window where the parent-birds might see, making clumsy strivings of pity to quiet my conscience. the parent-birds did see, soon enough: they returned, first up to the rafters, then darting round and round and crying; then to where their little one lay helpless and exposed, hung over it with a nibbling movement of their beaks for a moment, making my miserable heart bound up with hope: then away, away, shrieking into the july sunshine. once they came back, and shrieked at the horror of it all, and fled away not to return. i remained for hours and did whatever silly pity could dictate: but of course the young one died: and i--_cleared away all remains that nobody might see_! and that i gave up egg-collecting after that was no penance, but choice. since then the poignancy of my regret when i think of it has never softened. the question which pride of life and love of make-believe till then had not raised in me, "am i a god to kill and to make alive?" was answered all at once by an emphatic "no," which i never afterward forgot. but the grief remained all the same, that life, to teach me that blunt truth, should have had to make sacrifice in the mote-hung loft of three frail lives on a clay-altar, and bring to nothing but pain and a last miserable dart away into the bright sunshine the spring work of two swift-winged intelligences. is man, we are told to think, not worth many sparrows? oh, beloved, sometimes i doubt it! and would in thought give my life that those swallows in their generations might live again. beloved, i am letting what i have tried to tell you of my childhood end in a sad way. for it is no use, no use: i have not to-day a glimmer of hope left that your eyes will ever rest on what i have been at such deep trouble to write. if i were being punished for these two childish things i did, i should see a side of justice in it all. but it is for loving you i am being punished: and not god himself shall make me let you go! beloved, beloved, all my days are at your feet, and among them days when you held me to your heart. good-night; good-night always now! letter lxxiii. dearest: i could never have made any appeal _from_ you to anybody: all my appeal has been _to_ you alone. i have wished to hear reason from no other lips but yours; and had you but really and deeply confided in me, i believe i could have submitted almost with a light heart to what you thought best:--though in no way and by no stretch of the imagination can i see you coming to me for the last time and _saying_, as you only wrote, that it was best we should never see each other again. you could not have said that with any sound of truth; and how can it look truer frozen into writing? i have kissed the words, because you wrote them; not believing them. it is a suspense of unbelief that you have left me in, oh, still dearest! yet never was sad heart truer to the fountain of all its joy than mine to yours. you had only to see me to know that. some day, i dream, we shall come suddenly together, and you will see, before a word, before i have time to gather my mind back to the bodily comfort of your presence, a face filled with thoughts of you that have never left it, and never been bitter:--i believe never once bitter. for even when i think, and convince myself that you have wronged yourself--and so, me also,--even then: oh, then most of all, my heart seems to break with tenderness, and my spirit grow more famished than ever for the want of you! for if you have done right, wisely, then you have no longer any need of me: but if you have done wrong, then you must need me. oh, dear heart, let that need overwhelm you like a sea, and bring you toward me on its strong tide! and come when you will i shall be waiting. letter lxxiv. dearest and dearest: so long as you are still this to my heart i trust to have strength to write it; though it is but a ghost of old happiness that comes to me in the act. i have no hope now left in me: but i love you not less, only more, if that be possible: or is it the same love with just a weaker body to contain it all? i find that to have definitely laid off all hope gives me a certain relief: for now that i am so hopeless it becomes less hard not to misjudge you--not to say and think impatiently about you things which would explain why i had to die like this. dearest, nothing but love shall explain anything of you to me. when i think of your dear face, it is only love that can give it its meaning. if love would teach me the meaning of this silence, i would accept all the rest, and not ask for any joy in life besides. for if i had the meaning, however dark, it would be by love speaking to me again at last; and i should have your hand holding mine in the darkness forever. your face, beloved, i can remember so well that it would be enough if i had your hand:--the meaning, just the meaning, why i have to sit blind. letter lxxv. dearest: there is always one possibility which i try to remember in all i write: even where there is no hope a thing remains _possible_:--that your eye may some day come to rest upon what i leave here. and i would have nothing so dark as to make it seem that i were better dead than to have come to such a pass through loving you. if i felt that, dearest, i should not be writing my heart out to you, as i do: when i cease doing that i shall indeed have become dead and not want you any more, i suppose. how far i am from dying, then, now! so be quite sure that if now, even now,--for to-day of all days has seemed most dark--if now i were given my choice--to have known you or not to have known you,--beloved, a thousand times i would claim to keep what i have, rather than have it taken away from me. i cannot forget that for a few months i was the happiest woman i ever knew: and that happiness is perhaps only by present conditions removed from me. if i have a soul, i believe good will come back to it: because i have done nothing to deserve this darkness unless by loving you: and if _by_ loving you, i am glad that the darkness came. beloved, you have the yes and no to all this: _i_ have not, and cannot have. something that you have not chosen for me to know, you know: it should be a burden on your conscience, surely, not to have shared it with me. maybe there is something i know that you do not. in the way of sorrow, i think and wish--yes. in the way of love, i wish to think--no. any more thinking wearies me. perhaps we have loved too much, and have lost our way out of our poor five senses, without having strength to take over the new world which is waiting beyond them. well, i would rather, beloved, suffer through loving too much, than through loving too little. it is a good fault as faults go. and it is _my_ fault, beloved: so some day you may have to be tender to it. letter lxxvi. dearest: i feel constantly that we are together still: i cannot explain. when i am most miserable, even so that i feel a longing to fly out of reach of the dear household voices which say shy things to keep me cheerful,--i feel that i have you in here waiting for me. heart's heart, in my darkest, it is you who speak to me! as i write i have my cheek pressed against yours. none of it is true: not a word, not a day that has separated us! i am yours: it is only the poor five senses part of us that spells absence. some day, some day you will answer this letter which has to stay locked in my desk. some day, i mean, an answer will reach me:--without your reading this, your answer will come. is not your heart at this moment answering me? dearest, i trust you: i could not have dreamed you to myself, therefore you must be true, quite independently of me. you as i saw you once with open eyes remain so forever. you cannot make yourself, beloved, not to be what you are: you have called my soul to life if for no other reason than to bear witness of you, come what may. no length of silence can make a truth once sounded ever cease to be: borne away out of our hearing it makes its way to the stars: dispersed or removed it cannot be lost. i too, for truth's sake, may have to be dispersed out of my present self which shuts me from you: but i shall find you some day,--you who made me, you who every day make me! a part of you cut off, i suffer pain because i _am_ still part of you. if i had no part in you i should suffer nothing. but i do, i do. one is told how, when a man has lost a limb, he still feels it,--not the pleasure of it but the pain. dearest, are you aware of me now? because i am suffering, you shall not think i am entirely miserable. but here and now i am all unfinished ends. desperately i need faith at times to tell me that each shoot of pain has a point at which it assuages itself and becomes healing: that pain is not endurance wasted; but that i and my weary body have a goal which will give a meaning to all this, somehow, somewhere: never, i begin to fear, here, while this body has charge of me. dearest, i lay my heart down on yours and cry: and having worn myself out with it and ended, i kiss your lips and bless god that i have known you. i have not said--i never could say it--"let the day perish wherein love was born!" i forget nothing of you: you are clear to me,--all but one thing: why we have become as we are now, one whole, parted and sent different ways. and yet so near! on my most sleepless nights my pillow is yours: i wet your face with my tears and cry, "sleep well." to-night also, beloved, sleep well! night and morning i make you my prayer. letter lxxvii. my own one beloved, my dearest dear! want me, please want me! i will keep alive for you. say you wish me to live,--not come to you: don't say that if you can't--but just wish me to live, and i will. yes, i will do anything, even live, if you tell me to do it. i will be stronger than all the world or fate, if you have any wish about me at all. wish well, dearest, and surely the knowledge will come to me. wish big things of me, or little things: wish me to sleep, and i will sleep better because of it. wish anything of me: only not that i should love you better. i can't, dearest, i can't. any more of that, and love would go out of my body and leave it clay. if you would even wish _that_, i would be happy at finding a way to do your will below ground more perfectly than any i found on it. wish, wish: only wish something for me to do. oh, i could rest if i had but your little finger to love. the tyranny of love is when it makes no bidding at all. that you have no want or wish left in you as regards me is my continual despair. my own, my beloved, my tormentor and comforter, my ever dearest dear, whom i love so much! letter lxxviii. to-night, beloved, the burden of things is too much for me. come to me somehow, dear ghost of all my happiness, and take me in your arms! i ache and ache, not to belong to you. i do: i must. it is only our senses that divide us; and mine are all famished servants waiting for their master. they have nothing to do but watch for you, and pretend that they believe you will come. oh, it is grievous! beloved, in the darkness do you feel my kisses? they go out of me in sharp stabs of pain: they must go _somewhere_ for me to be delivered of them only with so much suffering. oh, how this should make me hate you, if that were possible: how, instead, i love you more and more, and shall, dearest, and will till i die! i _will_ die, because in no other way can i express how much i love you. i am possessed by all the despairing words about lost happiness that the poets have written. they go through me like ghosts: i am haunted by them: but they are bloodless things. it seems when i listen to all the other desolate voices that have ever cried, that i alone have blood in me. nobody ever loved as i love since the world began. there, dearest, take this, all this bitter wine of me poured out until i feel in myself only the dregs left: and still in them is the fire and the suffering. no: but i will be better: it is better to have known you than not. give me time, dearest, to get you to heart again! i cannot leave you like this: not with such words as these for "good-night!" oh, dear face, dear unforgettable lost face, my soul strains up to look for you through the blind eyes that have been left to torment me because they can never behold you. very often i have seen you looking grieved, shutting away some sorrow in yourself quietly: but never once angry or impatient at any of the small follies of men. come, then, and look at me patiently now! i am your blind girl: i must cry out because i cannot see you. only make me believe that you yet think of me as, when you so unbelievably separated us, you said you had always found me--"the dearest and most true-hearted woman a man could pray to meet." beloved, if in your heart i am still that, separation does not matter. i can wait, i can wait. i kiss your feet: even to-morrow may bring the light. god bless you! i pray it more than ever; because to me to-night has been so very dark. letter lxxix. dearest: i have not written to you for three weeks. at last i am better again. you seem to have been waiting for me here: always wondering when i would come back. i do come back, you see. dear heart, how are you? i kiss your feet; you are my one only happiness, my great one. words are too cold and cruel to write anything for me. picture me: i am too weak to write more, but i have written this, and am so much better for it. reward me some day by reading what is here. i kiss, because of you, this paper which i am too tired to fill any more. love, nothing but love! into every one of these dead words my heart has been beating, trying to lay down its life and reach to you. letter lxxx. a secret, dearest, that will be no secret soon: before i am done with twenty-three i shall have passed my age. beloved, it hurts me more than i can say that the news of it should come to you from anyone but me: for this, though i write it, is already a dead letter, lost like a predestined soul even in the pains that gave it birth. yes, it does pain me, frightens me even, that i must die all by myself, and feeling still so young. i thought i should look forward to it, but i do not; no, no, i would give much to put it off for a time, until i could know what it will mean for me as regards you. oh, if you only knew and _cared,_ what wild comfort i might have in the knowledge! it seems strange that if i were going away from the chance of a perfect life with you i should feel it with less pain than i feel this. the dust and the ashes of life are all that i have to let fall: and it is bitterness itself to part with them. how we grow to love sorrow! joy is never so much a possession--it goes over us, incloses us like air or sunlight; but sorrow goes into us and becomes part of our flesh and bone. so that i, holding up my hand to the sunshine, see sorrow red and transparent like stained glass between me and the light of day, sorrow that has become inseparably mine, and is the very life i am wishing to keep! dearest, will the world be more bearable to you when i am out of it? it is selfish of me not to wish so, since i can satisfy you in this so soon! every day i will try to make it my wish: or wish that it may be so when the event comes--not a day before. till then let it be more bearable that i am still alive: grant me, dearest, that one little grace while i live! bearable! my sorrow _is_ bearable, i suppose, because i do bear it from day to day: otherwise i would declare it not to be. don't suffer as i do, dearest, unless that will comfort you. one thing is strange, but i feel quite certain of it: when i heard that i carried death about in me, scarcely an arm's-length away, i thought quickly to myself that it was not the solution of the mystery. others might have thought that it was: that because i was to die so soon, therefore i was not fit to be your wife. but i know it was not that. i know that whatever hopes death in me put an end to, you would have married me and loved me patiently till i released you, as i am to so soon. it is always this same woe that crops up: nothing i can ever think can account for what has been decreed. that too is a secret: mine comes to meet it. when it arrives shall i know? and not a word, not a word of this can reach you ever! its uses are wrung out and drained dry to comfort me in my eternal solitude. good-night; very soon it will have to be good-by. letter lxxxi. beloved: i woke last night and believed i had your arms round me, and that all storms had gone over me forever. the peace of your love had inclosed me so tremendously that when i was fully awake i began to think that what i held was you dead, and that our reconciliation had come at that great cost. something remains real of it all, even now under the full light of day: yet i know you are not dead. only it leaves me with a hope that at the lesser cost of my own death, when it comes, happiness may break in, and that whichever of us has been the most in poor and needy ignorance will know the truth at last--the truth which is an inseparable need for all hearts that love rightly. even now to me the thought of you is a peace passing _all_ understanding. beloved, beloved, beloved, all the greetings i ever gave you gather here, and are hungry to belong to you by a better way than i have ever dreamed. i am yours, till something more than death swallows me up. letter lxxxii. dearest: if you will believe any word of mine, you must not believe that i have died of a broken heart should science and the doctors bring about a fulfillment of their present prophesyings concerning me. i think my heart has held me up for a long time, not letting me know that i was ill: i did not notice. and now my body snaps on a stem that has grown too thin to hold up its weight. i am at the end of twenty-two years: they have been too many for me, and the last has seemed a useless waste of time. it is difficult not to believe that great happiness might have carried me over many more years and built up for me in the end a renewed youth: i asked that quite frankly, wishing to know, and was told not to think it. so, dearest, whatever comes, whatever i may have written to fill up my worst loneliness, be sure, if you care to be, that though my life was wholly yours, my death was my own, and comes at its right natural time. pity me, but invent no blame to yourself. my heart has sung of you even in the darkest days; in the face of everything, the blankness of everything, i mean, it has clung to an unreasoning belief that in spite of appearances all had some well in it, above all to a conviction that-- perhaps without knowing it--you still love me. believing _that,_ it could not break, could not, dearest. any other part of me, but not that. beloved, i kiss your face, i kiss your lips and eyes: my mind melts into kisses when i think of you. however weak the rest of me grows, my love shall remain strong and certain. if i could look at you again, how in a moment you would fill up the past and the future and turn even my grief into gold! even my senses then would forget that they had ever been starved. dear "share of the world," you have been out of sight, but i have never let you go! ah, if only the whole of me, the double doubting part of me as well, could only be so certain as to be able to give wings to this and let it fly to you! wish for it, and i think the knowledge will come to me! good-night! god brings you to me in my first dream: but the longing so keeps me awake that sometimes i am a whole night sleepless. letter lxxxiii. i am frightened, dearest, i am frightened at death. not only for fear it should take me altogether away from you instead of to you, but for other reasons besides,--instincts which i thought gone but am not rid of even yet. no healthy body, or body with power of enjoyment in it, wishes to die, i think: and no heart with any desire still living out of the past. we know nothing at all really: we only think we believe, and hope we know; and how thin that sort of conviction gets when in our extremity we come face to face with the one immovable fact of our own death waiting for us! that is what i have to go through. yet even the fear is a relief: i come upon something that i can meet at last; a challenge to my courage whether it is still to be found here in this body i have worn so weak with useless lamentations. if i had your hand, or even a word from you, i think i should not be afraid: but perhaps i should. it is all one. good-by: i am beginning at last to feel a meaning in that word which i wrote at your bidding so long-ago. oh, beloved, from face to feet, good-by! god be with you wherever you go and i do not! letter lxxxiv. dearest: i am to have news of you. arthur came to me last night, and told me that, if i wished, he would bring me word of you. he goes to-morrow. he put out the light that i might not see his face: i felt what was there. you should know this of him: he has been the dearest possible of human beings to me since i lost you. i am almost not unblessed when i have him to speak to. yet we can say so little together. i guess all he means. an endless wish to give me comfort:--and i stay selfish. the knowledge that he would stolidly die to serve me hardly touches me. oh, look kindly in his eyes if you see him: mine will be looking at you out of his! letter lxxxv. good-morning, beloved; there is sun shining. i wonder if arthur is with you yet? if faith could still remove mountains, surely i should have seen you long ago. but if i were to see you now, i should fear that it meant you were dead. that the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each other is a great mystery. will love ever explain it? i wish i could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with arthur so that i might know. we were so like each other once. time has worn it off: but he is like what i was. will you remember me well enough to recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a word this one last time of all? beloved, i press my lips to yours, and pray--speak! letter lxxxvi. dearest: to-day arthur came and brought me your message: i have at my heart your "profoundly grateful remembrances." somewhere else unanswered lies your prayer for god to bless me. to answer that, dearest, is not in his hands but in yours. and the form of your message tells me it will not be,--not for this body and spirit that have been bound together so long in truth to you. i set down for you here--if you should ever, for love's sake, send and make claim for any message back from me--a profoundly grateful remembrance; and so much more, so much more that has never failed. most dear, most beloved, you were to me and are. now i can no longer hold together: but it is my body, not my love that has failed. * * * * * [transcriber's notes: --though this book was published anonymously, it was later revealed to be by laurence housman. --in letter xliii "roughtly" was corrected to "roughly" --in letter xxxvi "sort" was corrected to "short" --in letter lxx, "elder's" was corrected to "elders'" --in letter lxxviii "unforgetable" was corrected to "unforgettable"] love and hatred by mrs. belloc lowndes author of "lilla," "good old anna," "the chink in the armour," "the end of her honeymoon," etc. "_alas! the love of woman! it is known to be a lovely and a fearful thing._"--byron. [decoration] new york george h. doran company copyright, , by george h. doran company printed in the united states of america love and hatred part one chapter i "oh, but this is terrible----" laura pavely did not raise her voice, but there was trembling pain, as well as an almost incredulous surprise, in the way she uttered the five words which may mean so much--or so little. the man whose sudden, bare avowal of love had drawn from her that low, protesting cry, was standing just within the door of the little summer-house, and he was looking away from her, straight over the beautiful autumnal view of wood and water spread out before him. he was telling himself that five minutes ago--nay, was it as long as five minutes?--they had been so happy! and yet, stop--_he_ had not been happy. even so he cursed himself for having shattered the fragile, to him the already long perished, fabric, of what she no doubt called their "friendship." it was she--it always is the woman--who, quite unwittingly, had provoked the words which now could never be unsaid. she had not been thinking at all of him when she did so--she had spoken out of her heart, the heart which some secret, sure instinct bade him believe capable of depths of feeling, which he hoped, with a fierce hope, no man had yet plumbed.... what had provoked his avowal had been the most innocent, in a sense the most beautiful, feeling of which a woman is capable--love for her child. "the doctor says alice ought to have a change, that she ought to go to the sea, for a little while. i asked godfrey if i might take her, but he said he didn't think it necessary." she had added musingly, "it's odd, for he really is devoted to the child." they had been walking slowly, sauntering side by side, very close to one another, for the path was only a narrow track among the trees, towards the summerhouse where they were now--she sitting and he standing. he had answered in what, if she had been less absorbed in herself and her own concerns, she might have realised was a dangerously still voice: "i think i can persuade godfrey to let her go. apart from the child altogether, you ought to have a change." and then--then she had said, rather listlessly, not at all bitterly, "oh, it doesn't matter about me!" such a simple phrase, embodying an obvious truth, yet they had forced from him the words: "i think it does matter about you, laura. at least i know it matters a good deal to me, for, as of course you know by now, i love you." and if his voice had remained quite low and steady, she had seen the blazing, supplicating eyes.... but he had looked away, at once, when he had uttered those irrevocable words; and after a few moments, which had seemed to him an eternity, had come that low, heart-felt cry, "oh, but this is terrible----" * * * * * "terrible? why, laura?" he crossed his arms, and turning, gazed straight down at her bowed figure. again there came a long, unnatural pause. and then she lifted up her face, and under the shadow cast by her wide-brimmed garden hat he saw that even her forehead was flushed. there was an anguished look in the large, deeply blue eyes, which were to him the most exquisite and revealing feature of her delicately drawn face. "perhaps i ought not to have said 'terrible,'" she said at last in a low voice, "but--but degrading, ignoble, _hateful_, oliver." she added, her false calm giving way, "and to me such a bitter, bitter disappointment!" "why?" he asked harshly. "why a disappointment, laura? most women, nay, all wise human beings, value love--any kind of love offered by even the most unworthy--as the most precious thing in the world!" his face had become expressionless, and the measured, carefully chosen words made her feel suddenly ashamed, but with a shame merged in an eager hope that she had cruelly misunderstood her--friend. she stood up and took a step towards him. "oliver," she said diffidently; "forgive me! i was stupid not to understand. of course we love one another," she was on firm ground now. "all friends love one another, and you've been such a good friend to me, and more, far more, than a good friend to my poor brother--to gillie." he withdrew his gaze from her beseeching eyes, and looked away once more. now was his chance to play the hypocrite, to eat the words which had given her so much offence.... hardly knowing that he spoke aloud, he muttered hoarsely, "i can't!" and then he turned to her: "listen, laura. i owe you the truth. i have loved you, yes, and in the sense you think so ignoble and so degrading, almost from the first day we met. as time went on, i thought it impossible that you did not know that." "i did not know it! i trusted you absolutely! i thought that we were all three, friends,--you and i and godfrey! it was the very first time that godfrey and i had ever had a friend in common, and it made me so happy." "did it indeed?" his words cut like a whip. "but it's true that you are godfrey's friend?" she spoke a little wildly. "i've never known him as fond of any man as he is now of you, oliver." "his fondness is not returned." "then it ought to be!" she cried. "for you've made him like you, oliver." she hardly knew what she was saying, distressed, humiliated, wounded as she was in her pride and sense of personal dignity. but what was he saying--this challenging, wrathful stranger who, but a few moments ago, had been her dear, dear friend? "i would rather, laura, that you did not bring your husband into this matter." "but i must bring him in!" she became suddenly aware that here ready to her hand was a weapon with which she could hurt and punish this man who was looking at her with so inscrutable a look--was it a look of love or of hatred? "i'm sorry now," she went on rapidly, "bitterly, bitterly sorry and ashamed that i ever said a word to you of godfrey and his--his rather tiresome ways. i ought not to have done it. it was disloyal. i've never spoken of godfrey to any other man--but somehow i thought _you_ were different from other men." "different?" he interjected. "how so, laura? what right had you to think me different from other men?" "because i trusted you," she said inconsequently. "because somehow you seemed really to care for me--" her voice broke, but she forced herself to go on: "you're not the first man, oliver, who's made love to me since i married--" she covered her face with her hands. it seemed to her that some other woman was being driven to make these intimate confidences--not the fastidious, refined, reserved laura pavely, who had an almost morbid dislike of the betrayal of any violent or unseemly emotion. but this other woman, who spoke through her lips, had been, was being, wantonly insulted.... hanging her head as a child might have done, she said defiantly: "i suppose you're surprised?" "no, i'm not surprised. why should i be? go on--" he clenched his hands together. what was it she was going to tell him? speaking in short, broken sentences, she obeyed him: "it was when we used to go about much more than we do now--in the first two or three years after our marriage. i suppose that every woman--who isn't quite happy with her husband--is exposed to that kind of thing. i used to loathe it when i saw it coming. i used to try and fend it off. sometimes i succeeded--more often i failed. but i never, never expected anything of the sort to happen with you, oliver. we were such friends--such good, happy friends--you and i and my little alice," and then she burst into a passion of weeping. and at that what self-control oliver tropenell had retained departed. a flood of burning, passionate words burst from his lips--of endearment, of self-abasement, and promises which he intended, come what might, should be kept. and she listened shrinkingly, with averted face, absorbed in her own bewildered pain and disappointment. "i must go back to the house," she said at last. "the doctor will be here in half an hour." and she forced herself to add: "perhaps you'll be coming over this afternoon?" (how often she had said these words in the last three months--but in how different a tone!). "i think not. my mother said something about wishing me to stay in to-day--lord st. amant may be coming over." as she made no comment, he concluded quietly, "well, i suppose i had better be going now. good-bye, laura." "good-bye," she said. and without taking her hand he left her. she watched his tall figure making its way quickly down through the rough ground to the wood where, ultimately, he would find a path which would lead him to his mother's house. * * * * * it was late in the afternoon of the same day. from where she was sitting, under a great cedar tree, mrs. tropenell at last saw her son oliver and godfrey pavely come out of freshley manor. though the glory and warmth of the summer were now over, mrs. tropenell still spent many hours of each day in her garden. she had always been an out-of-door woman from the days when she was an eager, impetuous, high-spirited girl, till now, when youth had gone, though something of the eager impetuosity of youth remained with her concealed from strangers by a manner marked by a strong sense of personal dignity. the two men began walking, slowly, down the grass path leading to the beech avenue which was the glory of freshley manor, as well as a short cut to lawford chase, godfrey pavely's larger property. it was more than an hour since a servant had come out to say that mr. pavely was waiting to see mr. tropenell in the library. the man had added that mr. pavely had had tea before leaving the bank, and only wanted to see mr. tropenell for a few minutes on his way home. and oliver, with "i don't think he'll keep me long, mother; i suppose you'll still be here when i come back?" had stridden off with a certain reluctance towards the house. it had always been his mother's joy, but now for many years past her infrequent joy, to fall in with even the least reasonable of her son's wishes, and so she had gone on sitting out there, waiting for him to come back, long after the tea-things had been taken away. there was a book on the low garden table by her side--such a book as she loved, telling of great adventure by one of the adventurers--but she left it where it was. mrs. tropenell felt a vague, exasperating sense of restlessness and unease. at the back of her heart--that heart which, if no longer that of a young woman, could still thrill with many varied emotions and a very passion of maternal love--was the dull ache of a secret, unacknowledged sense of fear and pain. she had every reason to be happy to-day--not only happy in her son's company, but in the coming back, after a long absence on the continent, of her old friend, lord st. amant. to him she could, perhaps, bring herself to say something of what was touching her so deeply, and he, she knew, would reassure her and make light of her fears. st. amant was what is called in ordinary parlance a man of the world--the last man, that is, to be horrified, still less frightened, by a tale of illicit love, especially when, as the mother honestly believed, it was a love likely to remain unrequited. yes, she would tell her one trusted friend of these besetting fears, of her more than suspicion that her son oliver was deep in love with laura pavely, and st. amant would laugh at her, persuade her maybe to laugh with him. and yet? yet, even so, she asked herself again and again during that long time of waiting, what these two men who, if of life-long acquaintanceship and now at any rate nominally intimate friends, were so unlike the one to the other, could have to talk about, indoors, for over an hour? godfrey pavely and oliver tropenell met very often--too often to her thinking--so why should godfrey have pursued oliver home to-day, just when oliver had had an hour to spare for his mother? it was now thursday, and her son had already dined with the pavelys twice this week. to-morrow night godfrey pavely was to be in london, and it had been arranged that his wife, laura, should spend the evening here. but that, or so mrs. tropenell had quickly reminded herself, had been laura's usual custom, long before oliver had come home from mexico for the holiday which had now already lasted nearly four months. in her long life mrs. tropenell had only had one beloved woman friend, and that friend, that more than sister, had been laura's mother. even now godfrey pavely did not seem eager to go home. the two men were close to the furthest edge of the wide lawn, but they were still talking earnestly. mrs. tropenell gazed across, with a painful scrutiny, at her son's visitor. godfrey pavely was a neatly made, neatly dressed, neatly mannered man--in a way not ill-looking. his reddish-brown hair toned in oddly with his light, ginger-coloured eyes. he had become rather particular about his health of late, and went to some trouble to keep himself fit, and in good condition. yet he looked more like a townsman than like the countryman he certainly was. for if the fortunate inheritor of a successful county banking business, which so far he had managed with such skill as to save it from any thought of amalgamation, he was also the owner of a fine old property. lawford chase had belonged to mrs. tropenell's ancestors for centuries--for almost as many centuries as the years in which he, godfrey, had owned it. but her father had been careless and extravagant during his long, happy life, so the owner of pavely's bank had bought up the mortgages on lawford chase, and finally foreclosed. all this was ancient history now, and mrs. tropenell felt no bitterness on that account. indeed, she had rejoiced, with a sense of real joy, when her friend's daughter had become mistress of her own old home. the two men whom she was watching went on talking for what seemed to the onlooker a very long time; but, at last, godfrey pavely, turning on his heel, walked on, to be at once engulfed by the dark green arch formed by the high beech trees. then mrs. tropenell saw her son, all her heart welcoming him, come striding towards her across the long stretch of short, green turf. once more she asked herself what possible link there could be between men so utterly unlike. her oliver--more hers now, she felt, than ever before, and that though for the first time he was making her secretly, miserably jealous--was a creature of light and air, of open spaces, if need be of great waters. he was built, like herself, on a big and powerful plan; and yet so tall, so spare, so sinewy, that though he was broad he looked slim, and though four-and-thirty years of age he might have been taken, even at this small distance from where she sat, for a long-limbed youth. his life for the last twelve years had been one that often ages a man--but it had not aged him. his vigour was unbroken, his vitality--the vitality which had made him so successful, and which attracted men and women of such very different types--unimpaired. mrs. tropenell had been touched, perhaps in her secret heart little surprised, at the pleasure--one might almost have said the enthusiasm--with which her neighbours for miles round had welcomed oliver home again, after what had been so long an absence from england. the fact that he had come back a very wealthy man, and that during those years of eclipse he had managed to do some of them good turns, of course counted in his popularity, and she was too open-eyed a woman not to be well aware of that. the mother knew that her son was not the downright, rather transparent, good-natured fellow that he was now taken to be. no man she had ever known--and she had ever been one of those women of whom men make a confidant--could keep his own or another's secrets more closely than could oliver. he had once written to her the words: "you are the only human being, mother, to whom i ever tell anything," and she had instinctively known this to be true. yet their relationship was more like that of two friends than of mother and son. she knew all there was to know of his thoughts, and of his doubts, concerning many of the great things which trouble and disturb most thinking modern men. of the outward life he led in the mexican stretch of country of which he had become the administrator and practical ruler, she also knew a great deal, indeed surprisingly much, for he wrote by each mail long, full letters; and the romance of his great business had become an ever continuous source of interest, of amusement, and of pride to the mother who now only lived for him. but of those secret things which had moved his heart, warred with his passions, perchance seared his conscience, he had never told her anything. only once had the impenetrable mist of reserve been lightened, as it were pierced for a moment--and that was now a long time ago, on his second visit home five years before. he had then come to england meaning to stay a month. but at the end of ten days he had received a telegram--what he called, in the american fashion, a cable--and within an hour he had gone, saying as he kissed his mother good-bye, "a friend of mine--a woman who has been ill a long time--is now dying. i must go, even if i'm not in time to see her alive." in the letters which had followed his return to mexico, there had been no word more--nothing even implying sorrow, or a sense of loss--only a graver note, of which the mother might have remained unaware but for that clue he had left to sink deep in her mother-heart. * * * * * he was now close to her, looking down out of his dark, compelling eyes--eyes which were so like her own, save that now hers shone with a softer light. "pavely stayed a long time," he said abruptly. "are you tired? d'you want to go in yet, mother?" she shook her head. "i'd rather stay out here till it's time to dress." as she spoke she lifted her face to his, and he told himself what a beautiful, and noble face it was, though each delicate, aquiline feature had thickened, and the broad low forehead was now partially concealed by thick bands of whitening hair. it was a lined, even a ravaged face--the face of a woman who had lived, had loved, had suffered. but of that oliver was only dimly conscious, for his mother's nature if impetuous and passionate was almost as reserved and secretive as was his own. it may be doubted, even, if oliver tropenell knew how much his mother loved him, for it may be doubted if any son ever knows how much his mother--even if she appear placid or careless--loves him. one thing oliver did know, or confidently believed he knew, and that was that his mother loved him more than she had ever loved anything in the world. there he was quite content to leave it. "pavely wants me to become trustee to laura's marriage settlement, in succession to old mr. blackmore." when with godfrey pavely, oliver tropenell always called the other man by his christian name, but behind his back he always spoke of him as "pavely." as his mother remained silent, he went on, a little hurriedly: "the powers vested in the trustee are very wide, and it seems that money which was later added to the trust--a matter of seventeen thousand pounds or so--is invested in some queer form of security." they both smiled--he a little drily, she with a kind of good-humoured contempt. "he's cautious and successful--in spite of that odd, gambling propensity," she spoke a little defensively. then, "i suppose you've consented to act?" she waited anxiously for his answer; and at last it came, uttered in a tone of elaborate unconcern: "i said i'd think it over. but i think i'll take it on, mother. pavely made rather a personal favour of it--after all, there's some kind of relationship." "yes," agreed mrs. tropenell, "yes, there is certainly a connection, hardly a relationship, between ourselves and laura." her son sat down. he began poking about an invisible stone, lying in among the grass, with his stick. "you cared for laura's mother as if she had been your sister--didn't you, mother? and yet i can't imagine you with a great woman friend, i mean, of course, a friend of your own age." she turned and looked at him. "ah, my dear,--those are the friends that count!" and she nearly added, "don't _you_ find it so?" but, instead, she went on quickly, "yes, i loved laura's mother dearly, dearly--and it was for her sake that i asked you to be good to her son, to gillie." "laura's extraordinarily fond of gillie----" there always came a curious change over oliver tropenell's voice when he uttered the name "laura." it became as it were softer, infused with feeling--or so his mother thought. she waited a moment; then answered slowly, "women generally are fond of their only brothers." "oh, but it's more than that!" as she remained silent, he went on musingly: "and gillie, in his queer way, is very fond of laura--though i don't believe he writes to her once in three months!" "i suppose gillie still hates godfrey?" she said hesitatingly. "godfrey behaved so--so--well, not so much badly perhaps, as meanly and even stupidly--about that unfortunate affair." it was almost as if mrs. tropenell were speaking to herself. her son turned and looked at her squarely. "yes! gillie still hates pavely. and yet, mother, since i came home this time i've wondered sometimes if pavely was so very unreasonable about it after all. you see, gillie must have been about the most troublesome and--well, the most dangerous brother-in-law an unlucky country banker could well have had!" "and but for you he'd be so still," she said quietly. "from something godfrey said the other day i gather that he's really grateful to you, oliver?" oliver tropenell got up. "yes," he said shortly, "he's certainly grateful. in fact, he seems to think i've limitless power of getting people out of scrapes----" there was an undercurrent of triumph in his deep, even tones. "i suppose the real reason he came to-day was that he's afraid to let a stranger be laura's trustee?" there was only the slightest touch of interrogation in mrs. tropenell's voice, and she went on: "perhaps he'd be kinder to poor gillie _now_--" a curious smile played round her mouth. it was a full-lipped, generous mouth, but it was the least refined feature of her face. "no, no. it's not as bad as that! but well, yes, pavely _has_ used this portion of laura's fortune in a way he had no business to do, knowing it was trust money." "and you----?" "oh, i'm going to buy out her interest in the concern." "will that cost you seventeen thousand pounds?" "yes, it will. but i don't mind--it's quite a likely gamble. have you ever heard of greville howard?" "you mean the great money-lender?" "he's retired now. but pavely and he seem to be in a kind of secret partnership--queer isn't it? pavely's a clever chap about money, but oh, mother! he's such an insufferable cad!" mrs. tropenell felt a sudden tremor of fear sweep over her. she had lately come to what she now realised was a quite wrong conclusion--she had believed, that is, that oliver, in a queer, contemptuous way, had grown fond of godfrey, as godfrey had certainly grown fond of oliver. but now, all at once, her son had opened a dark window into his soul--or was it into his heart? there was an under-current of hatred, as well as of the contempt to which she was accustomed, in the way oliver had just spoken of his "friend"--of the man, at once fortunate and unfortunate, who was laura pavely's husband. she stood up, and put her hand through her son's arm. "it's getting very cold," she said, and shivered. he turned on her with quick concern: "i left you too long! i ought to have sent him away before--but he was such a long time getting it out--" under his breath he muttered "damn him!" chapter ii mother and son dined alone together, and then, rather early, mrs. tropenell went upstairs. for a while, perhaps as long as an hour, she sat up in bed, reading. at last, however, she turned off the switch of her electric reading lamp, and, lying back in her old-fashioned four-post bed, she shut her eyes for a few moments. then she opened them, widely, on to her moonlit room. opposite to where she lay the crescent-shaped bow-window was still open to the night air and the star-powdered sky. on that side of freshley manor the wide lawn sloped down to a belt of water meadows, and beyond the meadows there rose steeply a high, flat-topped ridge. along this ridge oliver tropenell was now walking up and down smoking. now and again his mother saw the shadow-like figure move across the line of her vision. at one moment, last winter, she had feared that he would not be able to come back this year, as troubles had arisen among his cattle-men. but, as was oliver's way, he had kept his promise. that he had been able to so do was in no small measure owing to his partner, gilbert baynton. gilbert baynton--_laura pavely's brother_? of that ne'er-do-weel oliver had made from a failure a success; from a waster--his brother-in-law, godfrey pavely, would have called him by a harsher name--an acute and a singularly successful man of business. lying there, her brain working quickly in the darkness, oliver's mother told herself that the pavelys, both godfrey and laura, had indeed reason to be grateful, not only to oliver, but to her, oliver's mother! it was to please her, not them, that oliver, long years ago, had accepted the dubious gift of gilbert baynton, and the small sum gilbert's brother-in-law had reluctantly provided to rid himself of an intolerable incubus and a potential source of disgrace. godfrey pavely was certainly grateful, and never backward in expressing it. and laura? laura was one of your silent, inarticulate women, but without doubt laura must be grateful too. * * * * * at last oliver left the ridge, and mrs. tropenell went on gazing at the vast expanse of luminous sky which merged into the uplands stretching away for miles beyond the boundaries of her garden. she lay, listening intently, and very soon she heard the cadence of his firm footfalls on the stone path below the window. then came the quiet unlatching of the garden door. now he was coming upstairs. her whole heart leapt out to him--and perchance it was this strong shaft of wordless longing that caused oliver tropenell's feet to linger as he was going past his mother's door. following a sudden impulse, she, who had trained herself to do so few things on impulse, called out, "is that you, my darling?" the door opened. "yes, mother. here i am. may i come in?" he turned and shut out the bright electric light on the landing, and walked, a little slowly and uncertainly in the darkness, towards where he knew the bed to be. for a moment she wondered whether she should turn on the lamp which was at her elbow, then some sure, secret instinct made her refrain. she put out her hand, and pulled him down to her, and he, so chary of caress, put his left arm round her. "mother?" he said softly. "this dear old room! it's years since i've been in this room--and yet from what i can see, it's exactly the same as it always was!" and, as if answering an unspoken question, she spoke in very low tones, "hardly altered at all since the day you were born here, my dearest, on the happiest day of my life." his strong arm tightened about her a little, and, still looking straight before her, but leaning perhaps a little closer into the shelter of his arm, she said tremulously, inconsequently it might have seemed: "oliver? are you going to accept lord st. amant's invitation?" with a sharp shoot of hidden pain she felt his movement of recoil, but all he said was, very quietly, "i've not quite made up my mind, mother." "it would give me pleasure if you were to do so. he has been a very good and loyal friend to me for a long, long time, my dear." "i know that." she waited a moment, then forced herself to go on: "you were never quite fair to st. amant, oliver." "i--i feared him, mother." and then, as she uttered an inarticulate murmur of pain and of protest, he went on quickly, "the fear didn't last very long--perhaps for two or three years. you see i was so horribly afraid that you were going to marry him." in the darkness he was saying something he had never meant, never thought to say. and she answered, "it was a baseless fear." "was it? i wonder if it was! oh, of course i know you are telling me the truth as you see it now--but, but surely, mother?" "surely no, oliver. it is true that st. amant wished, after his wife's death, that i should marry him, but he soon saw that i did not wish it, that nothing was further from my wish--then." "_then?_" he cried. "what do you mean, mother? lady st. amant only died when i was fifteen!" "i would like to tell you what i mean. and after i have told you, i wish never to speak of this subject to you again. but i owe it to myself as well as to you, to tell you the truth, oliver. where is your hand?" she said, "let me hold it while i tell you." and then slowly and with difficulty she began speaking, with a hesitation, a choosing of her words, which were in sharp contrast to her usual swift decision. "i want to begin by telling you," her voice was very low, "that according to his lights--the lights of a man of the world and of, well yes, of an english gentleman--st. amant behaved very well as far as i was concerned. i want you to understand that, oliver, to understand it thoroughly, because it's the whole point of my story. if st. amant had behaved less well, i should have nothing to tell--you." she divined the quiver of half-shamed relief which went through her son. it made what she wished to say at once easier and more difficult. "as i think you know, i first met st. amant when i was very young, in fact before i was 'out,' and he was the first really clever, really attractive, and, in a sense, really noted man i had ever met. and then"--she hesitated painfully. "and then, mother?" oliver's voice was hard and matter-of-fact. he was not making it easy for her. "well, my dear, very very soon, he made of me his friend, and i was of course greatly flattered, but at that time, in the ordinary sense of the word, st. amant never made love to me." she went on more firmly. "of course i soon came to know that he cared for me in a way he did not care for the other women with whom his name was associated. i knew very soon too, deep in my heart, that if his wife--his frivolous, mean-natured, tiresome wife--died, he certainly would wish to marry me, and for years, oliver, for something like six years, i daily committed murder in my heart." and then something happened which troubled and greatly startled the woman who was making this painful confession. her son gave a kind of cry--a stifled cry which was almost a groan. "god! how well i understand that!" he said. "do you, oliver--do you? and yet i, looking back, cannot understand it! all that was best, indeed the only good that was in st. amant to give i had then, and later, after i became a widow, i had it again." "i suppose he was much the same then as later, or--or was he different then, mother?" she knew what he meant. "he was the same then," she said quietly, "but somehow i didn't care! girls were kept so ignorant in those days. but of course the whole world knew he was a man of pleasure, and in time i grew to know it too. but still it wasn't that which made me unhappy, for i did not realise what the phrase meant, still less what was implied by it. but even so, as time went on i was very unhappy. mine was a false position--a position which hurt my pride, and, looking back, i suppose that there must have soon been a certain amount of muffled talk. if i was not jealous, other women were certainly jealous of me." she waited for a few moments; the stirring of these long-dead embers was hurting her more than she would have thought possible. at last she went on: "sometimes months would pass by without our meeting, but he wrote to me constantly, and on his letters--such amusing, clever, and yes, tender letters--i lived. my aunt, my father, both singularly blind to the state of things, were surprised and annoyed that i didn't marry, and, as for me, i grew more and more unhappy." "poor mother!" muttered oliver. and she sighed a sigh of rather piteous relief. she had not thought he would understand. "i don't know what i should have done but for two people, your father, who of course was living here then, our nearest neighbour, and, what meant very much more to me just then, laura's mother, alice tropenell. though she was only a very distant relation, she was like a daughter in this house. alice was my one friend. she knew everything about me. she was--well, oliver, i could never tell you what she was to me then!" "i suppose," he said slowly, "that laura is like her?" "laura?" mrs. tropenell could not keep the surprise out of her low voice. "oh no, my dear, laura is not in the least like her mother. but laura's child is very like alice--even now." "laura's child?" oliver tropenell visioned the bright, high-spirited, merry little girl, who somehow, he could not have told her why, seemed often to be a barrier between himself and laura. "alice--my friend alice--was full of buoyancy, of sympathy for every living thing. she possessed what i so much lacked in those days, and still alas! lack--sound common-sense. and yet she, too, had her ideals, ideals which did not lead her into a very happy path, for robert baynton, high-minded though he may have been, was absorbed in himself--there was no room for any one else." had she been telling her story to any one but her son, mrs. tropenell would have added, "laura is very like him." instead, she continued, "no one but alice would have made robert baynton happy, or have made as good a thing of the marriage as she did--for happy they were. i think it was the sight of their happiness that made me at last long for something different, for something more normal in my life than that strange, unreal tie with st. amant. so at last, when i was four-and-twenty, i married your father." oliver remained silent, and she said a little tremulously, "he was very, very good to me. he made me a happy woman. he gave me _you_." there was a long, long pause. mrs. tropenell had now come to what was the really difficult part of the task she had set herself. "you are thinking, my boy, of _afterwards_." and as she felt him move restlessly, she went on pleadingly, "as to that, i ask you to remember that i was very lonely after your father died. still, if you wish to know the real truth"--she would be very honest now--"that friendship which you so much disliked stood more in the way of your having a stepfather than anything else could have done." "i see that now," he said sombrely, "but i did not see it then, mother." "even if lady st. amant had not lived on, as she did, all those years, i should not have married st. amant--i think i can say that in all sincerity. so you see, oliver, you need not have been afraid, when at last he became free." she sighed a long, unconscious sigh of relief. "i gather you still see him very often when he's at knowlton abbey?" "yes, it's become a very comfortable friendship, oliver. but for st. amant i should often feel very lonely, my dear." she longed to go on--to tell oliver how hard it had been for her to build up her life afresh--after he had finally decided to stay on in mexico. but she doubted if he would understand.... suddenly he turned and kissed her. "good-night," he said. "i'm grateful to you for having told me all--all that you have told me, mother." * * * * * oliver tropenell hurried up the silent house. by his own wish the large garret to which he had removed all his own treasures and boyish belongings after a delicate childhood spent in a room close to his mother's, was still in his room, and it had been very little altered. it was reached by a queer, narrow, turning staircase across which at a certain point a beam jutted out too low. tropenell never forgot to duck his head at that point--indeed he generally remembered as he did so how proud he had been the first time he had found himself to be too tall to pass under it straightly! but, strange to say, to-night he did forget--and for a moment he saw stars.... fool! fool that he was to allow his wits to go wool-gathering in this fashion! with eyes still smarting, he leapt up the last few steps to the little landing which he shared with no one else. opening the door he turned the switch of the lamp on the writing-table which stood at a right angle to the deep-eaved window. then he shut the door and locked it, and, after a moment of indecision, walked across to the book-case which filled up the space between the fireplace and the inner wall of the long, rafted room. he did not feel in the mood to go to bed, and idly he let his eyes run over the long rows of books which he had read, in the long ago, again and again, for like most lonely boys he had been a great reader. they were a good selection, partly his mother's, partly his own, partly lord st. amant's. he knew well enough--he had always known, albeit the knowledge gave him no pleasure, that he had owed a great deal, as boy and man, to his mother's old friend. lord st. amant had really fine taste. it was he who had made oliver read keats, blake, byron, poe, among poets; he who had actually given him _wuthering heights_, _vanity fair_, _the three musketeers_, _ali baba of ispahan_. there they were all together. he had not taken his books with him when he had first gone to mexico, for he had not meant to stay there. but at last he had written home to a great london bookseller and ordered fresh copies of all his old books at home. the bookseller had naturally chosen good editions, in some cases rare first editions. but those volumes had never been read, as some of these had been read, over and over and over again. but now, to-night, he did not feel as if he could commune with any comfort even with one of these comfortable, unexacting friends. he felt too restless, too vividly alive. so suddenly he turned away from the bookcase, and looked about him. a large french box-bed had taken the place of the narrow, old-fashioned bedstead of his youth; and his mother had had moved up to this room a narrow writing-table from the study on the ground floor which no one ever used. he walked over to that writing-table now, and sat down. on it, close to his left hand, stood a large despatch-box. he opened and took out of it a square sheet of paper on which was embossed his mexican address. drawing two lines across that address, and putting in the present date, september th, he waited, his pen poised in his hand for a full minute. then he began writing rather quickly, and this is what he wrote:-- "my dear laura,--godfrey suggests that i should act as your trustee, in succession to mr. blackmore. am i to understand that this suggestion has your approval? if yes, i will of course consent to act. but please do not think i shall be offended if you decide otherwise. you may prefer some woman of your acquaintance. women, whatever godfrey may tell you, make excellent men of business. they are, if anything, over-prudent, over-cautious where money is concerned; but that is a very good fault in a trustee." his handwriting was small and clear, but he had left large spaces between the lines, and now he was at the end of the sheet of paper. there was just room for another sentence and his signature. he waited, hesitating and of two minds, till the ink was dry, and then he began again, close to the bottom of the sheet:-- "before we meet again i wish to say one further thing." he put this first sheet aside, and took another of the same size from the box by his side:-- "you said something to-day which affected me painfully. you spoke as if what i have done for your brother caused you to carry a weight of almost intolerable gratitude. so far as any such feeling should exist between us, the gratitude should be on my side. in sober truth gillie has been invaluable to me. "i remain, "yours sincerely," then very rapidly oliver tropenell made an "o" and a "t," putting the t across the o so that any one not familiar with his signature would be hard put to it to know what the two initials were. he read over the words he had just written. they seemed poor, inadequate, and he felt strongly tempted to write the letter again, and word it differently. then he shook his head--no, let it stand! slowly he put the second sheet of the letter aside, and placed the first one, on which the ink was dry, before him. then he looked round, with a queer, furtive look, and, getting up, made sure the door was locked. coming back to the writing-table, he took out of the despatch-box lying there a small, square, crystal-topped flagon of the kind that fits into an old-fashioned dressing-case. the liquid in it was slightly, very slightly, coloured, and looked like some delicate scent. from the despatch-box also he now brought out a crystal penholder with a gold nib. he dipped it in the flagon, and began to write in between the lines of the letter he had just written. as the liquid dried, the slight marks made by the pen on the paper vanished, for oliver tropenell was writing in invisible ink. "the decks are cleared between us, laura, for you know now that i love you. you said, 'oh, but this is terrible!' yes, laura, love is terrible. it is not only cleansing, inspiring, and noble, it is terrible also. why is it that you so misunderstand, misjudge, the one priceless gift, the only bit of heaven which god or nature--i care not which--has given to man and woman? what you, judging by your words to-day, take to be love is as little like that passion as a deep draught of pure cold water to a man dying of thirst, is like the last glass of drugged beer imbibed by some poor sot already drunk." oliver tropenell waited awhile. there were still two spaces, before the bottom of the page of notepaper was reached, and again he dipped the pen into the strange volatile liquid. "god bless you, my dear love," he wrote, "and grant you the peace which seems the only thing for which you crave." he waited till the words had quite vanished, and then he took up the two sheets of paper, folded them in half, and put them in a large envelope which fitted the paper when so folded. he wrote on the outside, "mrs. pavely, lawford chase." and then, turning out the light with a quick, nervous gesture, he got up and went over to the long, low, garret window. for a few moments he saw nothing but darkness, then the familiar scene unrolled below him and took dim shape in the starlit night. instinctively his sombre eyes sought the place where, far away to the right, was a dark patch of wood. it was there, set amidst a grove of high trees, that stood lawford chase, the noble old house which had been his mother's early home, and which now contained laura pavely, the woman to whom he had just written two such different letters, and who for nearly three months had never been out of his waking thoughts. as his eyes grew more and more accustomed to the luminous darkness, he saw the group of elms under which this very day a word had unsealed the depths of his heart, and where he had had the agony of seeing laura shrink, shudder, wilt as does a flower in a breath of hot, foetid air, under his avowal of love. violently he put that memory from him, and staring out into the splendour of this early autumn night, he tried to recapture the mixture of feelings with which he had regarded laura pavely the first time they had met since her marriage--the first time indeed since she had been a shy, quiet little girl, and he an eager, highly vitalised youth, five years older than herself. looking back now he realised that what had predominated in his mind on that hot, languorous june afternoon was astonishment at her utter unlikeness to her brother, his partner, gillie baynton. it was an astonishment which warred with the beckoning, almost uncanny, fascination which her gentle, abstracted, aloof manner effortlessly exercised over him. and yet she had been (he knew it now, he had not known it then) amazingly forthcoming--for her! as mrs. tropenell's son he would have had a right to laura pavely's regard, but he knew now that what had set ajar the portals of her at once desolate and burdened heart had been his kindness to, even his business relationship with, her brother. gillie baynton? yes, it was to that disconcerting and discordant human chord that their two natures--his and laura's--had perforce vibrated and mingled. remembering this, oliver tropenell reproved himself for his past discontent with the partner who, whatever his failings, had always shown him both gratitude and a measure of such real affection as a man seldom shows another in a business relationship. in spite of gillie's faults--nay, vices--he, tropenell, now often found himself favourably comparing laura's brother with laura's husband. oliver tropenell was acutely, intolerably, jealous of godfrey pavely--jealous in the burning, scorching sense which is so often the terrible concomitant of such a passion as that which now possessed him. godfrey pavely's presence in his own house, his slightly tyrannical, often possessive attitude to laura, the perpetual reminder that he was, after all, the father of the child laura had borne, and who seemed to fill her heart to the exclusion of all else--all this was for this man who loved her an ever-recurring ordeal which might well have satisfied the sternest moralist. that night oliver tropenell dreamt of laura. he thought that he was pursuing her through a maze of flowering shrubs and trees. she was fleeing from him, yet now and again she would turn, and beckon.... his first waking thought was that they would meet to-night--here, in his mother's house. but before that happened a long day would have to be lived through, for he had made up his mind not to go to the chase till laura again asked him to do so. chapter iii the door of mrs. tropenell's long low drawing-room opened very quietly, and laura pavely came through into the room. she had left a brightly lighted hall for a room of which the only present illumination radiated from a shaded reading lamp standing on a little table behind which sat her hostess. thus, for perhaps as long as half a minute, laura thought herself alone. during that half minute mrs. tropenell, with eyes well accustomed to the shaded light, gazed at her visitor with an eager, searching look, the look of one who wishes to see more, and to see further, than she has ever seen before. but what she saw--all she saw--was the laura she knew with a knowledge that was at once so superficially close, and so little intimate. a woman whose stillness of manner--a manner which at times made her appear almost inanimate--covered, as mrs. tropenell had secret reason to know, an extraordinary force of negative will power. it was a force which had even pierced godfrey pavely's complacency, and shattered his firm belief in all the rights that english law bestows on the man who has the good or ill fortune to be a husband. as laura advanced into the room her hostess saw that her visitor's beautifully shaped head, set proudly and freely on the slender shoulders, was thrown back in a characteristic gesture of attention, and, with a touch of reluctance, she admired afresh the masses of fair, _cendré_ hair drawn back from the forehead in a way which to most women would have been trying, yet which to this woman lent an air of eighteenth-century charm and distinction. there was no colour in laura pavely's face, but her eyes, heavy-lidded, and fringed with eyelashes darker than her hair, were deeply blue. to-night she was wearing a very simple evening dress, a white chiffon tea-gown with a long black lace coat. the under dress was almost high to the throat, but beneath the black lace the wearer's arms, soft, dimpled, and rounded, were bare to the shoulder, and gleamed palely, revealingly. mrs. tropenell wondered whether laura knew that her arms were unusually lovely; then, for she was a very honest woman, her conscience rebuked her. laura's faults with regard to men were faults of omission, not of commission. of course she was aware--she could not help being aware--that she was a singularly attractive and distinguished-looking creature. but she had always taken her own beauty, her own distinction, just as she did the rare, distinctive features of her garden, and the perhaps over-studied charm of her house--as something to be tended and kept beautiful, but also to be guarded from alien indifferent eyes. perhaps because in these days every intelligent woman claims to be picturesque and witty--beauty, sheer beauty, is somewhat under the weather. laura pavely, to use the current jargon of her day, was not a "success." she was thought to be affected, "deep," prudish, whereas she was simply indifferent to the more commonplace human elements about her. her marriage had withdrawn her from the circle of the old friends and neighbours among whom she had been brought up, in a measure because none of them could "do," excepting in a very casual and cursory sense, with godfrey pavely. the world of his youth, the little world in and about the country town of pewsbury, to which he had introduced her as a bride with such exultant complacency, found her not only disagreeably superior, but also dull. besides, during the early days of her marriage she had been too bewildered by the conditions of her new life, and of her relationship with her husband, to trouble about making new friends, or even new acquaintances. and so it was that in any intimate sense mrs. tropenell was still laura's only close friend, but the younger woman was rather pathetically aware of how little she really possessed of the older woman's heart, how constantly she was compared, and ever to her detriment, to her dead mother, even how unconscious a rival in the older woman's favour was laura's own child--merry, cheerful, loving little alice. * * * * * "aunt letty? i didn't see you were there." laura pavely had a delightful voice--low, clear, vibrating. it was a voice which sometimes seemed to promise more depth of feeling than its owner ever chose to betray. as she stooped to kiss mrs. tropenell, laura let herself slide down on to the floor. she knelt there for a moment, and the light gleamed on her fair hair and upturned face. "alice sent you her love," she said softly, "heaps of love. she's better to-night, though not quite well yet!" and then, as there came a sound of quick footsteps across the hall, she rose, and drew herself up to her full height, with the grace of movement and the absence of flurry which were both so characteristic of her. mrs. tropenell looked up quickly. had laura flushed, as she sometimes did flush, with a deep, unbecoming reddening of her pale face, when moved or startled? no, she seemed, if anything, paler, more impassive than usual, and oliver's mother asked herself, yet again, what of late she had so often asked herself--if laura was capable of _any_ feeling, _any_ passion, save a feeling of horror, a passion of repugnance, for aught which seemed to smirch her own fastidious physical and spiritual entity. that she loved her child, the high-spirited, happy-natured little girl, whose presence alone made life sweet and normal at lawford chase, mrs. tropenell could not doubt--she had had proof of how deeply laura loved her child on the only occasion danger had come near to alice--during a bout of some childish ailment, when for a few hours the little creature had been in danger of death. she, the older woman, had been frightened, awed, by laura's terrible, dry-eyed agony.... oliver tropenell opened the door, and as he walked across the room, his mother's heart quivered with jealous pain, and even with a feeling of secret, impotent anger, as she saw the eager, rapt look which lighted up his dark face. laura held out her ringless right hand, but he only just touched it. "i'm sorry i'm late!" he exclaimed. "as a matter of fact i was reading a letter just come, by the second post, from gillie." "i've written to gillie to-day," laura said quietly. it seemed such a long, long time since yesterday morning. she felt as if the extraordinary thing which had happened then had been blotted out. "have you sent your letter off?" "no, not yet," she was surprised at the question. and then there fell a curious silence on those three people, till at last the door opened, and dinner was announced. "oliver! take in laura," said mrs. tropenell. on the last occasion when the three had dined alone together there had been a little smiling discussion as to the order in which they should go into the dining-room. but that had been many weeks ago. they were not in such a light mood to-night, and yet--and yet, why should they not be? the hostess knew of no reason. the two paired off together, and oliver's mother asked herself, for perhaps the thousandth time in the last three months, why she had allowed this--this friendship between her son and laura pavely to come about? it would have been so easy to arrange that she and her son should spend the summer abroad! when he had first come home there had been a talk of their going away together to italy, or to france--france, which they had both loved when he was a clever, ardent, headstrong boy, with a strength of brain and originality of mind too big for his boyish boots. but the harm, what harm there was--sometimes she hoped it was not so very much harm after all--had been done quickly. by the end of that first month at home, oliver had lost all wish to leave freshley. in those early days--or was it that already he was being unconsciously hypocritical as men are wont to be when in such case as that in which he now found himself?--he had seemed to have formed an even closer friendship with godfrey pavely than with godfrey pavely's wife. they had even made a joint business expedition to town together, godfrey as oliver's guest, staying in one of those luxurious hotels which seem equally attractive to the millionaire and the adventurer. but oliver had at last thrown off, when alone with his mother, any pretence of liking, far less of respecting, godfrey pavely. yet when with the other man he still kept up the sinister fiction. she knew that. * * * * * the three sat down in the pretty, octagon-shaped dining-room, and the mother and son talked, laura saying very little, and never giving, always accepting--in that sense, perhaps, an elemental woman after all! even so, she showed, when she did rouse herself to express an opinion, that there was a good deal of thought and of intelligence in her small, beautiful head. mrs. tropenell, sitting at the top of the oval table, told herself that in a primeval sense such a woman as laura might well be the complement of such a man as was oliver. he had strength, passion, idealism, enough to furnish forth half a dozen ordinary human beings. and he had patience too--patience which is but another name for that self-control in the secret things of passion which often brings men's desires to fruition. it was patience and self-control which had been so lacking in godfrey pavely during those early days when laura had at least desired to fulfil her duty as a wife. and yet again and again during that uncomfortable half-hour mrs. tropenell caught herself wishing that godfrey pavely was there, sitting on her right hand. godfrey always had plenty to say for himself, especially in that house, and when he felt secure of the discretion of those about him, he would often tell much that he ought, in his character of banker, to have left unsaid. he knew the private business of every one, gentle or simple, for miles round, and took an easy, unaffected interest in it all. it was only when he touched on wider matters, especially on politics, that he grew unbearably tedious and prosy. but then the only person whom mrs. tropenell ever listened to with pleasure on such subjects was her old friend, lord st. amant, who always knew what he was talking about, and always salted what he knew with happy flashes of wit and humour. oliver accompanied the two ladies back into the drawing-room, and his mother did not know whether to be glad or sorry that she had not had a few minutes alone with the younger woman. sometimes it seemed as if she and laura never were alone together now. was it possible that of late laura was deliberately avoiding her? as this half suspicion came into mrs. tropenell's mind she looked up and saw her son's eyes fixed on her face. there was something imperious, imploring, commanding, in the look he bent on her. she saw that he was willing her to go away--to leave him, alone, with laura.... under the spell of that look she got up. "i must go upstairs for my work," she said quietly. "and i have a letter to write too. i shan't be very long." it was as if oliver made but one swift step to the door, and, as he held it open, his mother turned her head away, lest he should see that tears had come into her eyes--tears of pain, and yes, of fear. how was all this to end? after walking slowly forward into the square brightly lighted hall she suddenly stayed her steps, and clasped her hands together. a terrible temptation--terrible, almost unbelievable to such a woman as was letitia tropenell--held her in its grip. she longed with a fearful, gasping longing, to go back and listen at the door which had just closed behind her. so strong was this temptation that she actually visualised herself walking across to a certain corner, turning down the electric light switch, then, in the darkness, creeping to the drawing-room door, and there gently, gently--pushing it open, say half an inch, in order to hear what those two were now saying, the one to the other.... at last, thrusting the temptation from her, she again began walking across the brightly lighted hall, and so, slowly, made her way up the staircase which led to her bedroom. * * * * * what mrs. tropenell would have heard, had she yielded to that ignoble temptation, would not have told her anything of what she had so longed to know. after he had shut the door on his mother, oliver tropenell walked back to the place where he had stood a moment ago. but he did not come any nearer than he had been before to his guest, and his manner remained exactly what it had been when they had been three, instead of being, as they were now, two, in that dimly lighted room. still, both he and laura, in their secret, hidden selves, were profoundly conscious that mrs. tropenell's absence made a great, if an intangible, difference. it was the first time they had been alone that day, for it was the first day for many weeks past that oliver had not walked over to the chase, either in the morning or in the afternoon or, as was almost always the case, both after breakfast and about teatime. at last, when the silence had become almost oppressive, he spoke, with a certain hard directness in his voice. "in the letter i received from gillie to-day he tells me that he can easily be spared for a few weeks, and i've already telephoned a cable telling him to start at once. i've said that if he thinks it advisable i myself will leave for mexico as soon as i hear from him." "oh, but i don't want you to do that!" laura pavely looked up at him dismayed. "i thought you meant to stay in england right up to christmas?" "yes, so i did, and i feel almost certain that he won't think it necessary for me to go back. but the important thing is gillie's and your holiday. why shouldn't he take you and alice to france or italy for a month?" he saw her face, the face in which there had been a certain rigid, suffering gravity, light up, soften, and then become overcast again. moving a little nearer to the low chair on which she was sitting--"yes?" he asked, looking down at her. "what is it you wish to say, laura?" "only that godfrey would never let me go away with gillie." she spoke in a sad, low voice, but she felt far more at her ease than she had yet felt this evening. the last time she and oliver had been alone, they had parted as enemies, but now there was nothing to show that he remembered their interchange of bitter, passionate words. he answered quietly, "i wonder why you feel so sure of that? i believe that if it were put to godfrey in a reasonable way, he could not possibly object to your going abroad with your brother. it's time they made up that foolish old quarrel." "ah, if only i could get away with gillie and my little alice!" laura looked up as she spoke, and oliver tropenell was moved, almost unbearably so, by the look which came over her face. was it the mention of her child, of her brother, or the thought of getting away from godfrey for a while, which so illumined her lovely, shadowed eyes? he went on, still speaking in the quiet, measured tones which made her feel as if the scene of yesterday had been an evil dream. "i've even thought of suggesting that godfrey should come out with me to mexico, while your little jaunt with gillie takes place. we could all be back here by christmas!" she shook her head. "i'm afraid godfrey would never go away except in what he considers his regular holiday time." "not even if i made it worth his while?" she looked up, perplexed. and then a wave of hot colour flamed up in her face. her conscience, in some ways a very delicate and scrupulous conscience, smote her. was it her fault that oliver tropenell had come so to despise godfrey? but he went on, speaking more naturally, that is quickly, eagerly--more like his pre-yesterday self, "no, i'm not joking! i think i can put godfrey in the way of doing some really good business out there. we've spoken of it more than once--only yesterday afternoon we spoke of it." "you don't mean with gillie there?" there was a note of incredulity in laura's voice. "no." they were on dangerous ground now. "not exactly with gillie there--though it seems to me, laura, that godfrey ought to make it up with gillie." slowly, musingly, as if speaking to herself, she said, "if godfrey ever goes to mexico i think he would want me to come too--he always does." and this was true, for godfrey pavely in some ways was curiously uxorious. little as they were to one another, laura's husband never allowed her to go away by herself, or even with her child, for more than a very few days. "you come too--to mexico?" there was surprise, doubt, in oliver tropenell's voice, and suddenly laura did a strange thing, imprudent, uncalled-for in the circumstances in which she found herself with this man; yet she did it with no trace of what is ordinarily called coquetry. lifting up her head, she said rather plaintively, "surely you wouldn't mind my coming too, oliver?" "does that mean that you've forgiven me?" he asked. she got up from the low chair where she had been sitting, and, facing him, exclaimed impulsively, "i want us both to forget what happened yesterday! i was wrong, very wrong, in saying what i did about godfrey," her voice faltered, and slowly she added, "but with you, who seemed to somehow understand everything without being told, i felt, i felt----" he raised a warning hand, for his ears had caught the sound of light footfalls in the hall. "mother's coming back," he said abruptly. "don't say anything to her of my cable to gillie." and at once, without any change in his voice, he went on: "there's a great deal that would interest you, quite as much as godfrey, out there----" the door opened, and he turned round quickly. "i'm trying to persuade laura to come out to mexico," he exclaimed. "godfrey has practically promised to pay me a visit, and i don't see why she shouldn't come too!" mrs. tropenell made no answer. she knew, and she believed that both the people standing there knew as well as she did, that such an expedition could never take place so long as gilbert baynton was oliver's partner. baynton and pavely were bitter enemies. there had never been even the semblance of a reconciliation between them. but as her son bent his eyes on her as if demanding an answer, she forced herself to say lightly: "i expect they both will, some day, and while they are away i can have my dear little alice!" when, a little later, mrs. tropenell accompanied laura out into the hall, she said, "do come in to-morrow or sunday, my dear. i seem to see so little of you now." "i will--i will!" and as she kissed the older woman, laura murmured, "you're so good to me, aunty letty--you've always been so very, very good to me!" oliver opened wide the door giving into the garden. he was now obviously impatient to get laura once more alone to himself.... after she went back to her drawing-room, mrs. tropenell walked straight across to a window, and there, holding back the heavy curtain, she watched the two figures moving in the bright moonlight across the lawn, towards the beech avenue which would presently engulf them. what were their real relations the one to the other? was laura as blind to the truth as she seemed to be, or was she shamming--as women, god or the devil helping them--so often sham? slowly, feeling as if she had suddenly become very, very old, mrs. tropenell dropped the curtain, and walking back to her usual place, her usual chair, took up her knitting. chapter iv laura and oliver tropenell walked across the grass in silence, and still in silence they passed through under the great dark arch formed by the beech trees. laura was extraordinarily moved and excited. her brother, her dear, dear gillie, coming home? she had taken the surprising news very quietly, but it had stirred her to the depths of her nature. without even telling her of what he was going to do, the man now walking by her side had brought about the thing that for years she had longed should come to pass. in her husband laura had become accustomed to a man who was cautious and deliberate to a fault, and who, as so often happens, carried this peculiarity even more into the affairs of his daily life than into his business. often weeks would go by before godfrey would make up his mind to carry out some small, necessary improvement connected with the estate. yet here was oliver, who, without saying a word to her about it, had decided that gillie should come to england just to see the sister he had not seen for seven years! laura began to think it possible that after all godfrey _would_ make it up with her brother. oliver tropenell had an extraordinary influence over godfrey pavely; again and again, as regarded small matters, he had, as it were, made godfrey's mind up for him. a feeling of deep gratitude welled up in her heart for the silent man by her side. she longed for him to speak now, as he had spoken to her, kindly, conciliatingly, but a few minutes ago, in the drawing-room. but oliver stalked along dumbly in the intense darkness. and then suddenly she remembered, with a miserable feeling of discomfort, and yes, of shame, that she could hardly expect him to be as usual. and so it was she who, making a great effort, at last broke the unnatural silence. "i've never thanked you for your letter," she said nervously. "but i'm very much obliged to you, oliver, for consenting to be my trustee. and i know that godfrey will be! i hope it won't give you much trouble--the trusteeship, i mean. i know that mr. blackmore, for years past, left it all to godfrey." he answered slowly, meditatively, and to her intense relief, quite in his old way. "yes, i think godfrey will be pleased. to tell you the truth, laura, i thought i would take advantage of his pleasure to suggest that plan about gillie--i mean that you and gillie and alice should all go abroad together." "if only you can persuade godfrey to let me have gillie here for a while, i shall be more than content!" she spoke with a rather piteous eagerness. they were walking very, very slowly. oliver had now turned on his electric torch, and it threw a bright patch of light on the path immediately before them, making all the darkness about them the blacker and the more intense. in a hard voice he exclaimed: "of course gillie must come here, and stay here! his being anywhere else would be preposterous----" and then, once more, he fell into that strange, disconcerting silence. the last time they two had walked down under the beeches at night had been some three weeks ago. laura and godfrey had dined with the tropenells, and then godfrey had said that he had to go home and do some work, leaving her to stay on, for nearly an hour, with the mother and son. oliver's torch had gone out that evening, and he had suggested, a little diffidently, that laura should take his arm; smiling, she had laid the tips of her fingers lightly on his sleeve. she had felt so happy then, so happy, and absolutely at her ease, with her companion.... tears welled up in her eyes. she was grateful for the darkness, but her trembling voice betrayed her as she exclaimed, "oliver? i do again ask you to forget what happened yesterday, and to forgive me for the things i said. i'm very sorry that i spoke as i did." he stopped walking, and put out his torch. "don't be sorry," he said, in a low, constrained voice. "it's far better that i should know exactly how you feel. of course i was surprised, for i'd always had a notion that women regarded love from a more ideal standpoint than men seem able to do. but i see now that i was mistaken." some of the bitterness with which his heart was still full and overflowing crept into his measured voice. "i think you will believe me when i say that i did not mean to insult you----" he was going on, but she interrupted him. "--i'm sorry--sorry and ashamed too, oliver, of what i said. please--please forget what happened----" he turned on her amid the dark shadows. "if _i_ forget, will _you_?" he asked sombrely. and she answered, "yes, yes--indeed i will! but before we put what happened yesterday behind us forever, do let me tell you, oliver, that i _am_ grateful, deeply grateful, for your----" she hesitated painfully, and then murmured "your affection." but oliver tropenell did not meet her half-way, as she had perhaps thought he would. he was torn by conflicting feelings, cursing himself for having lost his self-control the day before, and yet, even so, deep in his subtle, storm-tossed mind, not altogether sorry for what had happened. and so it was she who went on, speaking slowly and with difficulty: "i know that i have been to blame! i know that i ought never to have spoken of godfrey as i have sometimes allowed myself to do to you. according to his lights, he is a good husband, and i know that i have been--that i am--a bitter disappointment to him." he muttered something--she did not hear what it was, and she hurried on: "what i have wanted--and oh, oliver, i have wanted it so much--is a friend," almost he heard the unspoken words, "not a lover." she put out her hand in the darkness and laid it, for a moment, on his arm. and then, suddenly, in that moment of, to him, exquisite, unhoped-for contact, oliver tropenell swore to himself most solemnly that he would rest satisfied with what she would, and could, grant him. and so-- "i know that," he said in measured, restrained tones. "and i have made up my mind to be that friend, laura. we will both forget what happened yesterday. if you are ashamed, i am a hundred times more so! and do believe me when i tell you that what you said about godfrey--why, i've forgotten it already--had nothing to do with my outburst. i'm a lonely man, my dear, and somehow, without in the least meaning it, i know, you crept into my heart and filled it all. but already, since yesterday, i've come to a more reasonable frame of mind." he waited a moment, despising himself for uttering such lying words, and then he went on, this time honestly meaning what he said: "henceforth, laura, i swear that i'll never again say a word to you that all the world might not hear. i never did, till yesterday----" "i know, i know," she said hurriedly. "and that was why i was so surprised." "let's put it all behind us and go back to 'as we were'!" he was speaking now with a sort of gruff, good-humoured decision, and laura sighed, relieved, and yet--so unreasonable a being is woman--unsatisfied. the light from his torch flashed again, and they walked on, under the dark arch of leaves and branches, till they were close to the open road. and there laura said, "i wish you would leave me here, oliver. i feel sure that aunt letty is waiting up for you." he answered her at once. "it won't make more than five minutes' difference. i'll only walk as far as the lodge. it's a lonely little stretch of road." "lonely?" she repeated. "why, there isn't a bit of it that isn't within hail of rosedean!" and then, determined to go back to their old easy companionship, that companionship which had lately become so easy and so intimate that when with him she had often spoken a passing thought aloud, "katty came home to-day. i must try and see her to-morrow. she's a plucky creature, oliver! i wish that aunt letty liked her better than she does." he answered idly, "there's nothing much either to like or dislike in mrs. winslow--at least so it always seems to me." but she answered quickly, defensively, "there's a great deal to like in her--when i think of katty winslow i feel ashamed of myself. i've known her do such kind things! and then she's so good about godfrey--i don't know what godfrey would do without her. they knew each other as children. it's as if she was his sister. all that little pewsbury world which bores me so, is full of interest to them both. i'm always glad when she's at rosedean. i only wish she didn't go away so often--godfrey does miss her so!" "yes, i know he does," he said drily. they walked on in silence till they were close to the low lodge. laura pavely held out her hand, and oliver tropenell took it in his cool, firm grasp for a moment. "good-night," he said. "i suppose we shall meet some time to-morrow?" she answered eagerly. "yes, do come in, any time! alice and i shall be gardening before lunch. godfrey won't be back till late, for he's sure to go straight to the bank from the station. he'll be so much obliged to you about that trusteeship, oliver. it's really very good of you to take so much trouble." oliver tropenell answered slowly, "yes, i think godfrey will be pleased; and as i've already told you, i'll certainly take advantage of his pleasure, laura, to suggest the plan about gillie." once more she exclaimed: "if only you can persuade godfrey to let me have gillie at the chase for a while, i shall be more than content!" there was a thrill of excitement, of longing, in her low voice, as, without waiting for an answer, she walked away, leaving him looking after her. the patch of whiteness formed by the hem of her gown moved swiftly along--against the moonlit background of grass, trees, and sky. he stood and watched the moving, fluttering bit of whiteness till it vanished in the grey silvery haze. then, slowly, he turned on his heel and made his way back home. * * * * * it was nearly a quarter of a mile from the lodge to the chase, as the house was always called, but there was a rather shorter way across the grass, through trees; and laura, when she came to where she knew the little path to be, left the carriage way, and stepped up on to the grass. she felt oppressed, her soul filled with a piteous lassitude and weariness of life, in spite of the coming return home of her only brother. she had been moved and excited, as well as made acutely unhappy, by what had happened yesterday morning. mrs. tropenell, as almost always happens in such a case, was not fair to laura pavely. laura had been overwhelmed with surprise--a surprise in which humiliation and self-rebuke were intolerably mingled--and yes, a certain proud anger. the words oliver had said, and alas! that it should be so, the bitter, scornful words she had uttered in reply, had, she felt, degraded them both--she far, far more than him. at the time she had been too deeply hurt, too instinctively anxious to punish him, to measure her words. and now she told herself that she had spoken yesterday in a way no man would ever forget, and few, very few men would ever forgive. though he had been kind to-night--very, very kind--his manner had altered, all the happy ease had gone. tears came into laura pavely's eyes; they rolled down her cheeks. suddenly she found herself sobbing bitterly. she stopped walking, and covered her face with her hands. with a depth of pain, unplumbed till now, she told herself that she would never, never be able to make oliver understand why she had said those cruel stinging words. without a disloyalty to godfrey of which she was incapable, she could not hope to make him understand why she had so profound a distaste, ay, and contempt, for that which, if he had spoken truly yesterday, he thought the greatest thing in the world. with sad, leaden-weighted conviction she realised that there must always be between a man and a woman, however great their friendship and mutual confidence, certain barriers that nothing can force or clear. she had believed, though as a matter of fact she had not thought very much about it, that oliver tropenell, in some mysterious way, was unlike ordinary men. as far as she knew, he had never "fallen in love." women, who, as she could not help knowing, had always played so great a part in her brother gillie's life, seemed not to exist--so far as oliver tropenell was concerned. he had never even seemed attracted, as almost every man was, by pretty katty winslow, the innocent _divorcée_ now living at his very gates. so she, laura, had allowed herself to slip into a close, intimate relationship which, all unknowingly to her, had proved most dangerous to him.... still crying bitterly, she told herself that she had been too happy all this summer. godfrey had been kinder, less, less--she shrank from putting it into words--but yes, less ill-tempered, mean, and tiresome than usual. oliver had had such a good effect on godfrey, and she had honestly believed that the two were friends. but how could they be friends if--if it was true that oliver loved her? laura pavely knew nothing of the well-worn byways of our poor human nature. suddenly she threw her head back and saw the starlit sky above her. somehow that wonderful ever-recurring miracle of impersonal, unearthly beauty calmed and comforted her. drying her eyes, she told herself that something after all had survived out of yesterday's wreck. her friend might be a man--a man as other men were; but he was noble, and singularly selfless, for all that. on the evening of the very day on which she had grievously offended and wounded him, he had written her a kindly letter, offering to be her trustee. there had been moments to-day when she had thought of writing mrs. tropenell a note to say she did not feel well--and that she would not dine at freshley that night. but oh, how glad she was now that a mixture of pride and feminine delicacy had prompted her to behave just as if nothing had happened, as if words which could never be forgotten had not been uttered between herself and oliver! she had thought he would punish her this evening by being sulky and disagreeable--that was her husband's invariable method of showing displeasure. but with the exception of a word or two uttered very quietly, and more as if she, rather than he, had something to forgive, he had behaved as if yesterday had never been. he had heaped coals of fire upon her head, making it plain that even now he was only thinking of her--of her and of gillie, of how he could pleasure them both by securing her a holiday with her only brother. every word of that restrained, not very natural, conversation held just now under the beech trees re-echoed in her ears. she seemed to hear again the slowly uttered, measured words, "i am going to be your friend, laura".... and then there came over laura pavely an extraordinary sensation of moral and mental disturbance. once more everything which had happened to-day was blotted out, and she went back to yesterday morning. again she lived through those moments during which oliver tropenell had offered her what was to him the greatest thing man has it in him to bestow--love, even if illicit, unsanctified. and she had rejected the gift with a passion of scorn, spurning it as she would have done a base and unclean thing. years and years ago, in her quiet, shadowed youth, she too had believed love to be the most precious, beautiful thing in life. then, with marriage to godfrey pavely had come the conviction that love was not beautiful, but very, very ugly--at its best one of those dubious gifts to man by which old dame nature works out certain cunning designs of her own. and yet, when something of what she believed to be the truth had been uttered by her during that terrible tense exchange of words, she had seen how she, in her turn, had shocked, and even repelled, oliver tropenell. once more sobs welled up from her throat, once more she covered her face with her hands.... at last, feeling worn out with the violence of an emotion which, unknown to her, vivified her whole being, she walked on till the fine tudor front of the old house which was at once so little and so much her home, rose before her. it was an infinite comfort to know that godfrey would not be there waiting for her, and that she would be able to make her way up alone through the sleeping house to the room which opened into her child's nursery. chapter v mrs. tropenell, waiting for oliver to come back, lost count of time, and yet not much more than half an hour had gone by before she heard the sound of a glazed door, which opened on to the garden from a distant part of the house, burst open. in that sound she seemed to hear all the impatience, all the pain, all the frustrated longing she divined in her son. she got up from her chair and stood listening. would he go straight upstairs--as she, in her stormy, passionate youth, would have done in his place? but no--with a feeling of rushing, unreasoning joy she heard him coming across the hall. a moment later he walked through into the room and came and stood before her. "mother," he said, "it's a beautiful night. would you care to come into the garden for a few minutes?" as soon as they had stepped out of the french window into the darkness, she took his arm. "you don't feel it cold?" he asked solicitously. "oh no," she said, surprised. "i'm so little cold, oliver, that i shouldn't at all mind going over to the blue bench, and sitting down." they went across the grass, to a curious painted italian bench which had been a gift of the woman who was so much in both their thoughts. and there, "i want to ask you a question," he said slowly. "what led to the marriage of laura baynton and godfrey pavely? from something she once said to me, i gather she thinks that you approved of it." she felt as if his eyes were burning her in the darkness, and as she hesitated, hardly knowing what to say, he went on, and in his voice there was something terribly accusing. "did _you_ make the marriage, mother? did you really advise her to take that fellow?" the questions stung her. "no," she answered coldly. "i did nothing of the kind, oliver. if you wish to know the truth, the person who was most to blame was your friend gillie, laura's brother. laura adored her brother. there was nothing in the world she wouldn't have done for him, and she married godfrey--it seems a strange thing to look back on now--to please gillie." "but she met pavely here?" "yes, of course she did. as you know, she very often stayed with me after her father died, and when gillie baynton, instead of making a home for her, was getting into scrape after scrape, spending her money as well as his own." he muttered, "gillie knew she was to have money later." she went on: "and then godfrey pavely in love is a very different person from godfrey pavely--well, out of love. he was set on marrying laura, and that over years. he first asked her when she was seventeen, and they married when she was twenty-one. in the interval he had done gillie many good turns. in fact godfrey bought laura from gillie. that, oliver, is the simple truth." she waited for him to make some kind of comment, but he said nothing, and she went on, a tinge of deep, yearning sadness in her voice, "don't let your friends, or rather their incompatibility of temper--" she hesitated, and then rather solemnly ended her sentence with the words, "affect _our_ relations, my son." "i'm sorry, mother." tropenell's voice altered, softened. "forgive me for the way i spoke just now! i had got it into my head--i didn't know quite exactly why--that you had promoted the marriage. i see now that you really had nothing to do with it." "i won't say that! it's difficult to remember exactly what did happen. godfrey never wearied in his slow, inexorable pursuit of laura. i think that at last she was touched by his constancy. she knew nothing then of human nature--she knows nothing of it now." he muttered, "poor girl! poor unfortunate girl!" and his way of uttering the commonplace words hurt his mother shrewdly. suddenly she made up her mind to say at least one true thing to him. it was a thing she knew well no one but herself would ever say to oliver. "i am in a position to know," she said, "and i want you to believe it when i tell you, that if laura is to be as much pitied as you believe her to be--so too, i tell you, oliver, is godfrey! if i had known before the marriage, even an hour before the actual wedding, what i learnt afterwards--i mean as to their amazingly different ideals of life--i would have done _anything_ to stop it!" "what d'you mean exactly, mother, by different ideals of life?" as he asked the question he moved away from her a little, but he turned round and bent his eyes on to her face--dimly, whitely, apparent in the starlit, moonlit night. she did not speak at once. it seemed to her that the question answered itself, and yet she felt that he was quivering with impatience for her answer. "the french," she said in a low voice, "have a very good phrase to describe the kind of man godfrey is. godfrey pavely is a _le moyen homme sensuel_--the typical man of his kind and class, oliver--the self-satisfied, stolid, unimaginative upper middle-class. such men feel that the world, their english world at any rate, has been made for them, built up by the all-powerful entity they call god in their personal interest. they know scarcely anything of what is going on, either above or below them, and what is more, they do not really care, as long as they and their like prosper." oliver nodded impatiently. he knew all that well enough! his mother went on: "godfrey pavely ought to have married some rather clever, rather vulgar-natured, rather pretty girl, belonging to his own little world of pewsbury. then, instead of being what he now is, an uncomfortable, not over contented man, he would have been, well--what his worthy father was before him. that odd interest in queer, speculative money dealings, is the unfortunate fellow's only outlet, oliver, for what romance is in him." "i wonder if you're right, mother?" "i'm sure i am." there came a long silence between them. mrs. tropenell could see her son in outline, as it were, his well-shaped head, and long, lean, finely proportioned body. he was sitting at the further end of the bench, and he was now staring right before him. she found it easier--far easier--to speak of godfrey than of laura. and so, musingly, she went on: "looking back a dozen years, i can think of several young women whom godfrey would have done well to consider----" "i can certainly think of one, mother," he said, and in the darkness there came a bitter little smile over his face. "you mean katty winslow? yes--i think you're right, my dear. when godfrey turned from katty to laura, he made a terrible mistake. katty, in the old days, had very much the same ambitions, and the same social aspirations, as himself. she was really fond of him too! she would have become--what's the odious word?--'smart.' and godfrey would have been proud of her. by now he would have stood for parliament, and then, in due course, would have come a baronetcy. yes, if the gods had been kind, godfrey pavely would have married poor little katty--he didn't behave over well to her, you know!" "it seems to me that mrs. winslow has made quite a good thing of her life, mother." "do you really think that, oliver?" "yes, i do. she managed very cleverly, so i'm told, to get rid of that worthless husband of hers, and now she's got that pretty little house, and that charming little garden, and as much of godfrey as she seems to want." he spoke with a kind of hard indifference. "katty's not the sort of woman to be really satisfied with a pretty little house, a charming little garden, and a platonic share in another woman's husband." "then she'll marry again. people seem to think her very attractive." there was a long pause. "mother?" "yes, my dearest." "to return to laura--what should have been _her_ fate had the gods been kind?" she left his question without an answer so dangerously long as to create a strange feeling of excitement and strain between them. then, reluctantly, she answered it. "laura might have been happiest in not marrying at all, and in any case she should have married late. as to what kind of man would have made her happy, of course i have a theory." "what is your theory?" he leant towards her, breathing rather quickly. "i think," she said hesitatingly, "that laura might have been happy with a man of the world, older than herself, who would have regarded his wife as a rare and beautiful possession. such a man would have understood the measure of what she was willing and able to give--and to withhold. i can also imagine laura married to a young idealist, the kind of man whose attitude to his wife is one of worship, whose demands, if indeed they can be called demands, are few, infrequent----" mrs. tropenell stopped abruptly. what she had just said led to a path she did not mean to follow. but she soon realised with dismay that she had said too much, or too little. "do you mean," said oliver hoarsely, "that pavely--that pavely----" he left his question unfinished, but she knew he meant to exact an answer and she did not keep him waiting long for it. still she chose her words very carefully. "i think that godfrey pavely, in the matter of his relations to his wife, is a very unfortunate, and, some would say, a very ill-used man, oliver." oliver tropenell suddenly diminished the distance between his mother and himself. the carefully chosen, vague words she had just uttered had been like balm poured into a festering and intolerably painful wound. "poor devil!" he said contemptuously, and there was a rather terrible tone of triumph, as well as of contempt, in the muttered exclamation. mrs. tropenell was startled and, what she seldom was, frightened. she felt she was face to face with an elemental force--the force of hate. she repeated his last words, but in how different a spirit, in how different a tone! "poor devil? yes, oliver, godfrey is really to be pitied, and i ask you to believe me, my son, when i say that he does do his duty by laura according to his lights." "mother?" he put out his hand in the darkness and just touched hers. "why is it that laura is so much fonder of you than you are of laura? you don't respect--or even like--godfrey?" she protested eagerly. "but i _am_ fond of laura--very, very fond, oliver! but though, as you say, i neither really like nor respect godfrey, i can't help being sorry for him. he once said to me--it's a long time ago--'i thought i was marrying a woman, but i've married a marble statue. i'm married to something like _that_'--and he pointed to 'the wingless victory' your father brought me, years ago, from italy. godfrey is an unhappy man, oliver--come, admit that you know that?" "i think she's far, far more unhappy than he is! no man with so thoroughly good an opinion of himself is ever _really_ unhappy. still, it's a frightful tangle." he stopped short for a moment, then in a very low voice, he asked her, "is there no way of cutting it through, mother?" suddenly he answered his own question in a curiously musing, detached tone. "i suppose the only way in which such a situation is ever terminated is by death." "yes," she said slowly, "but it's not a usual termination. still, i have known it happen." more lightly she went on: "if laura died, godfrey wouldn't escape katty a second time. and one must admit that she would make him an almost perfect wife." "_and if godfrey died, mother?_" mrs. tropenell felt a little tremor of fear shoot through her burdened heart. this secret, intimate conversation held in the starry night was drifting into strange, sinister, uncharted channels. but her son was waiting for an answer. "i don't know how far laura's life would alter for the better if godfrey died. i suppose she would go on much as she does now. and, oliver----" "yes, mother." "i should pity and--rather despise the man who would waste his life in an unrequited devotion." he made an impatient movement. "then do you regard response as essential in every relationship between a man and a woman?" "i have never yet known a man who did not regard it as essential," she said quietly, "and that, however he might consciously or unconsciously pretend to be satisfied with--nothing." "i once knew a man," he said, in a low, tense voice, "who for years loved a woman who seemed unresponsive, who forced him to be content with the merest crumbs of--well, _she_ called it friendship. and yet, mother, that man was happy in his love. and towards the end of her life the woman gave all that he had longed for, all he had schooled himself to believe it was not in her to give--but it had been there all the time! she had suffered, poor angel, more than he--" his voice broke, and his mother, turning towards him, laid for a moment her hand on his, as she whispered, "was that woman at all like laura, my darling?" "yes--as far as a spaniard, and a roman catholic, can be like laura, she was like laura." even as he spoke he had risen to his feet, and during their short walk, from the bench where they had been sitting through the trees and across the lawn, neither spoke to the other. but, as he opened the house door, he said, "good-night. i'm not coming in now; i'm going for a walk. i haven't walked all day." he hesitated a moment: "don't be worried--i won't say don't be frightened, for i don't believe, mother, that anything could ever frighten you--if you hear me coming in rather late. i've got to think out a rather difficult problem--something connected with my business." "i hope gillie hasn't been getting into any scrape since you've come home?" but she only spoke by way of falling in with his humour. nothing mattered to her, or to him, just now, except--laura. he said hastily, "oh no, things have been going very well out there. you must remember, mother, that baynton's scrapes never affect his work." he spoke absently, and she realised that he wanted to be away, by himself, to think over some of the things she had said to him, and so she turned and went slowly up the staircase, and passed through into her own bedroom without turning up the light. walking over to her window, she gazed down into the moonlit space beneath. but she could see no moving shadow, hear no sound. oliver had padded away across the grass, making for the lonely downs which encircled, on three sides, the house. before turning away from her window, mrs. tropenell covered her face with her hands; she was fearfully moved, shaken to the depths of her heart. for the first time oliver had bared his soul before her. she thrilled with pride in the passionate, wayward, in a measure nobly selfless and generous human being whom she had created. how strange, how amazing that laura made no response to that ardent, exalted passion! but if amazing, then also, from what ought to be every point of view, how fortunate! and yet, unreasonable though it was, mrs. tropenell felt sharply angered with laura, irritated by that enigmatic, self-absorbed, coldness of hers. what a poor maimed creature, to be so blind, so imperceptive, to the greatest thing in the world! dislike, a physical distaste for the unlucky godfrey which seemed sometimes to amount to horror, were this beautiful woman's nearest approach to passion. chapter vi at rosedean, the small, mid-victorian house which every one going to and fro between freshley manor and lawford chase was bound to pass by, mrs. winslow sat in her drawing-room waiting for godfrey pavely. he was coming in to see her on his way home from pewsbury, where, at the bank, he spent each day at least six of his waking hours. all the summer, up to to-day, mrs. winslow had always had tea in the garden, but there was now a freshness in the air, and she thought they would find it more comfortable indoors than out. still, she had opened wide the long french window, and the wind blew in, laden with pungent autumnal scents. katty--the old childish name still clung to her--was a very clever woman. she possessed the power of getting the utmost out of the people round her, whether they were friends, acquaintances, or servants. her little garden was exquisitely kept, and there was no month of the year when it did not look charming. her little house, so far as was possible on very limited means, was perfectly ordered. perhaps one secret of her success lay in the fact that she was able to do everything herself that she asked others to do for her. katty was a good gardener, an excellent cook, and an exceptionally clever dressmaker. yet she was the last woman to make the mistake so many clever people make--of keeping a dog and doing the barking oneself. katty was willing to show those she employed exactly how she wanted a thing done, but she expected them to learn how to do it quickly and intelligently. she had no use for the idle or the stupid. katty winslow was thirty-one, but she looked much younger. she was an exceedingly pretty woman, with brown eyes, a delicately clear, white and pink complexion, and curling chestnut hair. she took great pains with her appearance, and with her health. thus she ate and drank to rule, and almost walked to rule. early this last summer a bit of cruel bad luck had befallen mrs. winslow. she had caught scarlet fever while on a visit, and for some days had been very ill. but, perhaps as a result of the long, dull convalescence, she now looked even prettier, and yes, younger, than she had done before. the only daughter of a well-connected but exceedingly poor half-pay officer, katherine fenton, during a girlhood which lasted till she was four-and-twenty, had been undisputed belle of pewsbury, and of a country-side stretching far beyond the confines of that fine old county town. like all beauties, she had had her triumphs and her disappointments; and then, rather suddenly, she had made what had seemed the irretrievable mistake of an unhappy marriage. bob winslow had been weak, vain, ill-tempered, and, to a certain extent, vicious. thus his relations had welcomed his marriage to a clever, capable young woman, who it was supposed would make, and keep, him straight. the fact that she had no fortune had been regarded as unimportant--indeed, bob winslow had made on his bride what was regarded in the pewsbury world as the splendid marriage settlement of twelve thousand pounds. four and a half per cent, on that sum was now mrs. winslow's only income, and out of that income there were still being paid off heavy divorce costs, for bob winslow, when it had come to the point, had put up a great fight for his katty. not only had he defended the case, but he had brought on his side vague counter-charges. the judge, rather unkindly, had observed that the petitioner had been "somewhat imprudent," but even so katty had come out of the painful ordeal very well--so much was universally allowed, even by the few people in pewsbury who had always disliked her, and who did not think she had treated her husband well. godfrey and laura pavely had both been very kind to katty over the matter of the divorce--indeed, mrs. winslow had actually stayed at lawford chase for many weeks during that troubled time, and laura's countenance had been of great value to her. this was now three years ago, and, though they had nothing in common, the two women remained good friends, as well as what is sometimes less usual, good neighbours. in nothing had katty shown herself cleverer than in her management of laura. in laura pavely's imagination katty winslow had her fixed place as a friend of godfrey's childhood, and that though he was nine years older. mrs. pavely regarded mrs. winslow much as she would have done a pleasant-natured sister-in-law, and she had been glad to do all that she could for her. when some one had suggested that katty should become godfrey pavely's tenant at rosedean, laura had thought it an excellent idea. it was the fashion to call rosedean ugly. the house had been built in the 'sixties, by a retired butcher and grazier, and was of red brick with white facings. but it was well built, and had far more real distinction of appearance than the queen anne villas which now surrounded pewsbury. also, rosedean had been built on the site of an old farmhouse, and katty's lawn was fringed with some fine old trees, while a grand old holly hedge concealed a well-stocked kitchen garden. on the other side of the house were stabling for two horses, a coach-house, and a paddock. katty had devoted a great deal of successful thought to the arrangement of her dwelling. she knew she could neither compete with the stately beauty of laura's tudor mansion, nor with the old-fashioned eighteenth-century charm of mrs. tropenell's house, so she wisely made up her mind that her surroundings should be simply bright, pretty and cosy. her drawing-room was in its way a delightful room, and those walking through into it, from the rather dark, early victorian hall, gained an instant impression of coolness in summer, of warmth in winter, of cheerfulness and comfort at all times. no one but katty herself knew the trouble to which she had been to get the exact pattern of calendered chintz which she had made up her mind to obtain. katty also kept to herself the amount which she had spent, out of her small reserve, on the thoroughly good, comfortable easy-chairs, of varying shape, height, and depth, which played such an important, if unobtrusive, part in the comfort of her visitors. every chair in katty's sitting-room was an easy chair, with the exception of two gilt ones which were of their kind good, and which she had bought at a sale. they, however, were never moved away from the places where they stood, flanking a quaint, old-fashioned cabinet now filled with some beautiful old china which had come to katty from a grandmother. yet another peculiarity of katty's sitting-room was the absence of pictures. their place was taken by mirrors. above the mantelpiece on which stood six delicately charming dresden china figures was a looking-glass of curious octagonal shape, framed in rosewood. opposite the french window which opened into the garden was fixed a long, narrow mirror with a finely carved gilt wood frame. this mirror gave an air of distinction to the room which would otherwise have been lacking, and it also enabled katty to see at any moment how she was looking, whether her burnished chestnut-brown hair was quite tidy, and her gown fresh-looking and neat. there had been a time in her life when katty winslow had been passionately fond of beautiful clothes, and able to indulge her taste. now, all she could hope to attain was freshness and neatness. that she achieved these was to her credit, for they too cost, if not money, then a good deal of thought and time, on the part of their possessor. * * * * * godfrey pavely had walked out from pewsbury. from the bank in the high street to rosedean was rather over two miles, and he had gone along at a steady, jog-trot pace till he had come in sight of the little house. then he quickened his footsteps, and a feeling of pleasurable anticipation came over him. the banker was very, very fond of his old friend and sometime sweetheart. he believed it to be a straightforward, honest affection, though he could not but be aware, deep in his heart, that "to it" was just that little touch of sentiment which adds salt and savour to most of the close friendships formed between a man and a woman. as a matter of fact, godfrey pavely was now happier in katty winslow's company than he was in that of any one else. not only did she ply him with a good deal of delicate flattery, which caused him always to feel better pleased with himself when at rosedean than when he was at the chase, but a great and real bond between them was their mutual interest in all the local happenings and local gossip of the neighbourhood. laura was frankly indifferent to all that concerned the town of pewsbury and the affairs of those whom mrs. tropenell called the pewsburyites. she was not disagreeable about it; she simply didn't care. katty, in spite of her frequent absences, for she was a popular visitor with a large circle of acquaintances, always came home full of an eager wish to learn all that had happened while she had been away. little by little, imperceptibly as regarded himself, the banker had fallen into the way of telling this woman, who had so oddly slipped back into his life, everything which concerned and interested himself, every detail of his business, and even, which he had no right to do, the secrets of his clients. but to this entire confidence there was one outstanding exception. godfrey pavely never discussed with katty winslow his relations with his wife. laura's attitude to himself caused him, even now, sharp, almost intolerable, humiliation. only to mrs. tropenell did he ever say a word of his resentment and soreness--and that only because she had been the unwilling confidant of both husband and wife during that early time in their married life when the struggle between godfrey and laura had been, if almost wordless, at its sharpest and bitterest. on one occasion, and on one only, when with katty winslow, had pavely broken his guarded silence. he had been talking, in a way which at once fascinated and tantalised katty, of his growing wealth, and suddenly he had said something as to his having no son to inherit his fortune. "it's odd to think that some day there will come along a man, a stranger to me, who will benefit by everything i now do----" and as she had looked up at him, at a loss for his meaning, he had gone on, slowly, "i mean the man whom mrs. tropenell and laura between them will select for my girl's husband." katty, looking at him very straight out of her bright brown eyes, had exclaimed, "you may have a son yet, godfrey!" she had been startled by the look of pain, of rage, and of humiliation that had come into his sulky, obstinate-looking face, as he answered shortly, "i think that's very unlikely." had godfrey pavely been a more imaginative man, he would probably by now have come to regret, with a deep, voiceless regret, that he had not married katty instead of laura--but being the manner of man he was, he had, so far, done nothing of the sort. and yet? and yet, at one time, say fifteen years ago, he had very nearly married katty. it was a fact which even now he would have denied, but which she never forgot. in those days godfrey pavely had been a priggish, self-important young man of twenty-six, with perhaps not so good an opinion of women as he had now, for a man's opinion of women always alters, one way or another, as he grows older. katty, at eighteen, had enjoyed playing on the cautious, judgematical godfrey's emotions. so well had she succeeded that at one time he could hardly let a day go by without trying to see and to be with her alone. but, though strongly attracted by her instinctive, girlish wiles, he was also, quite unknowingly to her, repelled by those same wiles. poor katty had made herself, in those days that now seemed to both of them so very, very long ago, a little too cheap. her admirer, to use a good old word, knew that her appeal was to a side of his nature which it behooved him to keep in check, if he was not "to make a fool of himself." and so, just when their little world--kindly, malicious, censorious, as the case might be--was expecting to hear of their engagement, godfrey pavely suddenly left pewsbury to spend a year in a great paris discount house. the now staid country banker did not look back with any pride or pleasure to that year in france; he had worked, but he had also ignobly played, spending, rather joylessly, a great deal of money in the process. then, having secretly sown his wild oats, he had come home and settled down to a further time of banking apprenticeship in london, before taking over the sound family business. almost at once, on his return to england, he had made up his mind to marry the beautiful, reserved, the then pathetically young laura baynton, who was so constantly with mrs. tropenell at freshley manor. time went on, and laura held out; but little by little, perhaps because he saw her so seldom, he broke down her resistance. his father had bought the lawford chase estate as a great bargain, many years before, and had been content to let it on a long lease. godfrey, on becoming his own master at thirty, determined to live there, and his marriage to laura followed a year later. during their honeymoon in paris--a honeymoon which was curiously and painfully unlike what godfrey had supposed his honeymoon would and must be--he saw in a paper a notice of katty fenton's engagement. though not given to impulsively generous actions, he went out and bought for katty, in the rue de la paix, a jewelled pendant laura had just refused to allow him to buy for her. in return he had received what had seemed at the time a delightful letter of thanks, to which was the following postscript, "there's no harm in my saying _now_, that you, dear godfrey, were my first love! i've always wanted you to know that. i've always been afraid that you only thought me a sad little flirt." the confession, and the shrewd thrust, which was so much truer than he thought katty knew, moved him, and he had told himself sorely that katty's husband at any rate would be a very lucky fellow. then once more he had forgotten katty till one day, years later, "mrs. winslow" had suddenly been shown into his private room at the bank. looking, as he had at once become aware, even prettier and more attractive than when he had last seen her, she had said quietly, "i'm in great trouble, godfrey, and i've come down from london to consult you about it. your father and mine were friends" (a rather exaggerated statement that--but pavely was in no mood to cavil), "and i don't know who else to go to." shortly and simply she had described the dreadful existence she had led since her marriage--then, suddenly, she had rolled up her right sleeve and shown the livid bruises made by bob winslow the night before, in a fit of drunken anger, on the slender, soft, white arm. unwontedly moved, the more so that this now unfamiliar katty seemed to make no excessive demand either on his pity or on his emotions, godfrey pavely had thrown himself into the complicated, unsavoury business, and very soon his old-new friend had brought him to advise her in the sense she wished. but it was laura who had suggested that poor mrs. winslow should come and stay with them during the divorce proceedings, and while she had been at lawford chase, katty had avoided, rather than sought out, the master of the house. in the matter of rosedean the banker had behaved in what he himself considered a very handsome manner. not only had he let the house to katty for about a third of what he could have got for it in the open market, but he had allowed her a hundred pounds for "doing it up." he believed himself to have also suggested the arrangement by which she obtained the free services, for a certain number of half-days each week, of a very intelligent scotch under-gardener who was in his employ. he had never had reason to regret his kindness. on the contrary, he and katty had become, as time went on, closer and closer friends, and more and more had he come to miss her during her frequent absences from home. some months ago he had even ventured to tell her that he thought she gadded about a bit too much! why couldn't she be content to stay quietly at rosedean? "look at me and laura," he had exclaimed. "we hardly ever go away for a holiday, and we very seldom pay a visit!" katty had shaken her pretty head playfully: "ah, but you don't know how lonely i am sometimes! laura is most dear and kind to me, but you know, godfrey, i don't see her often----" he had not liked to remind her that he very often did. then something happened which quite curiously quickened godfrey pavely's unavowed feeling for katty. oliver tropenell, a virtual stranger to them all, came home from mexico to spend the summer in england with his mother. and three times, during oliver's first fortnight in england, godfrey arrived at rosedean to find the then stranger there. on these three occasions each man had tried to sit the other out, and finally they had left the house together. as a result of these meetings godfrey soon caught himself wondering with a mixture of feelings he did not care to analyse, whether tropenell could possibly be thinking of marrying katty? he found the notion intolerable. then came a strange turn to the situation. katty had gone away, on one of those tiresome little visits she was so fond of paying, and providence, which means women, especially any woman placed in an ambiguous position, to stay quietly at home, had caught her out! she had fallen ill, when on a visit, of scarlet fever, and she had been compelled to stay away six weeks. during those weeks he, godfrey pavely, and oliver tropenell had become friends--on more intimate terms of friendship than pavely had ever expected to find himself with any man. this was, of course, partly owing to the fortunate fact that laura liked oliver too, and didn't seem to mind how often he came and went to the chase. but godfrey pavely had a tenacious memory. he did not forget that for a little while, at any rate, oliver had seemed to enjoy being in katty's company. and when laura, more than once since mrs. winslow's return to rosedean, had suggested asking katty in to dinner to meet oliver, her husband coldly vetoed the proposal. chapter vii only harber, the woman who, after having been maid to katty during her troubled married life, had stayed on with her as house-parlourmaid and general factotum, was aware of how very often mr. pavely called at rosedean on his daily walk home from pewsbury. to-day he had hardly pressed the bell-knob before the front door opened. it was almost as if harber had been waiting for him in the hall. as he put down his hat and stick he was conscious of feeling very glad that he was going to see katty. mrs. winslow had again been away, was it for four days, or five? it's true that for part of that time he himself had been to london, and very busy, but even so the time had seemed long. he told himself that he had a hundred things to say to her, and he even felt a little thrill of excitement as he followed the servant through the hall. and katty? katty, who the moment she had heard the front-door bell had quietly begun making the tea--she always made tea herself, with the help of a pretty spirit lamp--katty also felt a queer little thrill, but for a very different reason. since they had last met she had come to a certain resolution with regard to godfrey pavely, and though she did not mean to say anything to-day even remotely bearing on it, still it affected her, made her regard him with rather different eyes. it is a great mistake to think that coldness and calculation always go together. katty winslow was calculating, but she was not cold. for once she had been quite honest when writing that odd little postscript to her letter of thanks for godfrey pavely's wedding present. godfrey had, in very truth, been her first love, and she had suffered acutely in her heart, as well as in her pride, when he had run away. even now, she felt as if there were a strong, secret, passionate link between them, and there was no day when she did not tell herself that she would have made the banker a perfect, and yes--a very happy wife. * * * * * godfrey came into the drawing-room with a pleased, eager look on his face. he took his hostess's hand in his, and held it for perhaps a thought longer than he would have held, say, mrs. tropenell's hand. but the hand he now held was a soft, malleable little hand, not thin and firm, like that of oliver's mother. katty was smiling at him, such a bright, friendly, pretty smile. "sit down," she said softly. "and before we begin talking, take a cup of tea. you look very tired--and you're late, too, godfrey. i was beginning to think that you weren't coming at all!" and then he said something which surprised her, but which somehow chimed in quite surprisingly with what had been filling her busy, active brain of late. "jim beath has been with me most of the afternoon," he spoke wearily, complainingly. "i had to ask him to lunch at the club, and he stayed on and on." now the beaths were by way of being intimate friends of katty winslow, and jim beath was a client of godfrey pavely. "oh, but that's very interesting!" she cried. "i've been wondering so much how that affair is going on--i do so hope it will be all right!" and then, as she saw a shocked look come over her visitor's narrow, rather fleshy face, she said in a low voice, "you know how i feel about the divorce laws, godfrey. i can't help it. they're horribly unfair--so--so ridiculous, in fact!" as he remained silent, she went on, insisting on her own point of view far more than was her usual way when talking to her self-opinionated friend: "don't you realise how hard it is that two people utterly unsuited to one another should have to go through that sort of horrid farce just in order to get free?" he looked at her uncomfortably. sometimes, even now, katty startled him by the things she said. but how pretty she looked to-day, bending over the tea-things! her burnished hair was dressed in thick soft coils, her white, well-manicured hand busily engaged in pouring him out just the cup of tea he liked, with the exact proportions of milk, cream, and sugar that were right--and which laura never remembered. so it was mildly that he answered: "i don't think the beaths ought to want to get what you call 'free.' divorce was not instituted to meet a case like theirs--" he hesitated, and then with a certain effort he went on: "divorce was instituted to meet a case like yours, katty." godfrey pavely was weary of the beaths and of their divorce plot--for so he called it to himself. there were other things he wanted to talk to katty about. besides, he did not think that that sort of affair was a nice subject of discussion between a man and a woman, however intimate. in some ways godfrey pavely was very old-fashioned. but she wouldn't let it alone. "divorce _ought_ to meet a case like theirs," she went on obstinately. "my dear katty! what would happen to the country if all the married people who didn't get on with one another were to separate?" and then, looking at her defiant face, a most extraordinary and disagreeable suspicion darted into godfrey pavely's mind. was it possible, conceivable, that katty was thinking of jim beath as a second husband for herself? the thought shook him with anger and with repugnance. he felt he must have that out--here and now. "do you like jim beath?" he asked slowly; "i know you've been seeing a great deal of them this last year. in fact, he mentioned you to-day." she could read him like a book, and she remained silent long enough to make him feel increasingly suspicious and uncomfortable. but to-day katty was not in the mood for a cat-and-mouse game, so she answered deliberately: "no, godfrey, i can't say that i do like jim beath! i've tried to like him. but--well, i do thoroughly understand nita's feeling towards him. he's so sarcastic--so hard and unsympathetic!" she waited a moment, then added significantly: "still, i think he's behaving awfully well now. he'd have been quite willing to go on--he told me that himself. but when he saw that nita was _really_ unhappy, and that she was getting fond of another man, he made up his mind that he would do all he could to make her free." katty was playing rather nervously with the edge of the pretty tea-cloth, and pavely wondered whether she was telling him the whole truth. she was flushed, and she looked unwontedly moved. "it's a very odd thing for a man to do," he said coldly. "i mean a man being willing to give up his wife to another man." "why shouldn't he? when he doesn't love her, and when she positively dislikes him! nita never understood jim beath--she was always afraid of him, and of his sharp, clever tongue. of course it's sad about their little boy. but they've made a very good arrangement--they're going to share him. jim will have the child half the year, and nita the other half, till he goes to school--when they will have him for alternate holidays." "you talk as if it was all settled!" katty's visitor exclaimed crossly. "if they say as much to other people as they seem to do to you, they will never get their divorce--the king's proctor is sure to intervene!" katty gave a quick, curious look at her visitor. godfrey went too far--sometimes. the thought flashed through her mind that she was wasting her life, her few remaining years of youth, on a man who would never be more to her than he was now, unless--unless, that is, she could bring him to the point of putting himself imaginatively, emotionally into jim beath's shoes. _then_ everything might be changed. but was there any hope of such a thing coming to pass? but all she said, in a constrained tone, was, "of course i ought not to have said anything of the matter to you at all. but i'm afraid, godfrey, that i often do tell you things i ought to keep to myself. you must try and forget what i said." he was surprised, bewildered, by the sudden steely coldness of her tone. "of course you can say anything you like to say to me. why, katty, i tell you all my secrets!" "do you?" she glanced over at him rather sharply. "i don't think you tell me _all_ your secrets, godfrey." he looked at her puzzled. "you _know_ that i do," he said in a low voice. "come, katty, you're not being fair! it's because i have such a high regard for you, that i feel sorry when you talk as you've been talking just now--as if, after all, the marriage bond didn't matter." but even as he said these words, godfrey pavely felt a wild impulse to throw over the pretty little gimcrack tea-table, take katty in his arms, and kiss her, kiss her, kiss her! he came back, with an inward start, to hear her exclaim, "i don't consider the peculiar relations which exist between nita and jim beath a marriage at all! they have nothing in common the one with the other. what interests him doesn't interest her----" she waited a moment, saw that he was reddening uncomfortably, and then hurried on, driven by some sudden instinct that she was at last playing on the hidden chord she had so often longed to find and strike in godfrey pavely's sore heart: "nita can't bear jim to touch her--she will hardly shake hands with him! do you call _that_ a marriage?" as he remained silent, she suddenly said in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper, "forgive me, godfrey. i--i ought not have said that to you." he answered loudly, discordantly, "i don't know what you mean, katty! why shouldn't you say anything you like about these people? they are nothing, and less than nothing to me, and i don't suppose they're very much to you." even as he spoke he had got up out of the easy chair into which he had sunk with such happy content a few minutes before. "i must be going now," he said heavily, "oliver tropenell's coming in for a game of tennis at six." she made no effort to keep him, though she longed to say to him: "oliver tropenell's been in your house, and in your garden, all afternoon. both he and laura would be only too pleased if you stayed on here till dinner-time." but instead of saying that, she got up, and silently accompanied him to the front door. there poor godfrey did linger regretfully. he felt like a child who has been baulked of some promised treat--not by his own fault, but by the fault of those about him. "will you be in to-morrow?" he asked abruptly. "i think i might come in a little earlier to-morrow, katty." "yes, do come to-morrow! i seem to have a hundred things to say to you. i'm sorry we wasted the little time we had to-day in talking over those tiresome people and their matrimonial affairs." there was also a look of regret in her face, and suddenly he told himself that he might have been mistaken just now, and that she had meant nothing--nothing in the least personal or--or probing, in what she had said. "look here!" he said awkwardly. "if there's anything you really want to say--you said you had a hundred things to tell me--would you like me to come back for a few minutes? there's no great hurry, you know--i mean about tropenell and his game." she shook her head, and to his moved surprise, the tears came into her pretty brown eyes. "no, not now. i'm tired, godfrey. it's rather absurd, but i haven't really got over my journey yet; i think i shall have to take your advice, and stay at home rather more." for a long moment they advanced towards one another as if something outside themselves was drawing them together. then godfrey pavely put out his hand, and grasped hers firmly. it was almost as if he was holding her back--at arm's length. katty laughed nervously. she shook her hand free of his, opened the door wide, and exclaimed: "well! good-bye till to-morrow then. my love to laura." he nodded, and was gone. she shut the door behind him, and, turning, went slowly upstairs. she felt tired, weak, upset--and, what she did not often feel, restless and unhappy as well. it irritated her--nay, it did more than irritate, it hurt her shrewdly--to think of those three people who were about to spend a pleasant couple of hours together. she could so easily, so safely, have made a fourth at their constant meetings. if only laura pavely were a little less absorbed in herself, a little more what ordinary people called good-natured! it would have been so natural for laura, when she knew that oliver tropenell was coming to dinner, to send across to rosedean, and ask her, katty, to make a fourth. it was not as if laura was at all jealous. she was as little jealous of godfrey and of katty--and at that thought katty gave a queer, bitter little laugh which startled her, for she had laughed aloud--as was godfrey of laura and oliver! with as little or as much reason? katty would have given a great deal to be able to answer her own question. she thought she knew half the answer--but it was, alas! by far the less important half. she opened the door of her bedroom, went through into it, and without troubling to take off her pretty blouse and freshly ironed linen skirt, walked deliberately to her bed, lay down, and shut her eyes--not to sleep but to think. * * * * * what had been forced upon katty winslow's notice during the last few weeks had created a revolution in her mind and in her plans. for a while, after her return from that dreary period of convalescence in a seaside home, she, who was generally so positive, had doubted the evidence of her own eyes and senses. but gradually that which she would have deemed the last thing likely to happen had emerged, startlingly clear. oliver tropenell, to use katty's own expression, had fallen madly in love with laura pavely. no woman could doubt that who saw them together. when katty had left rosedean, there had been the beginnings of--well, not exactly a flirtation, but a very pleasant friendship between tropenell and herself. now he hardly seemed to know that she existed. but if it was only too plain to see how matters stood with oliver, this was far from being the case as regarded laura. katty owned herself quite ignorant of laura's real nature, and, as is so often the case with those who know nothing, she was inclined to believe that there was nothing to know. perhaps, after all, it was only because this man was the son of her friend that laura allowed him to be always with her. they were always together--not always alone, for oliver seemed to be at the chase quite as much when godfrey was at home, as at other times. but with katty, she being the manner of woman she was, it was the other times which impressed her imagination. in the six short weeks she, katty, had been away, oliver tropenell had evidently become a component part of laura pavely's life. she knew, vaguely, how the two spent their time, and the knowledge irked her--the more that it suggested nothing of their real relations. thus gardening was one of laura's favourite occupations and few pleasures; and oliver, who could never have gardened before--what gardening could there be to do in mexico?--now spent hours out of doors with laura, carrying out her behests, behaving just as an under-gardener would behave, when working under his mistress's directions. and godfrey, instead of objecting to this extraordinary state of things, seemed quite pleased. oliver, so much was clear, had become godfrey pavely's friend almost as much as he was laura's. as she lay there, straight out on her bed, katty told herself with terrible bitterness that it was indeed an amazing state of things to which she had come back--one which altered her own life in a strange degree. she had not realised, till these last few weeks, how much godfrey pavely was to her, and how jealous she could become even of such an affection as his cordial liking of oliver tropenell. yet when godfrey was actually with her, she retained all her old ascendency over him; in certain ways it had perhaps even increased. it was as if his unsuspecting proximity to another man's strong, secret passion warmed his sluggish, cautious nature. but that curious fact had not made his friend katty's part any the more easy of late. far from it! there was no pleasing godfrey in these days. he was hurt if she was cold; shocked, made uneasy in his conscience, if she responded in ever so slight a way to the little excursions in sentiment he sometimes half-ashamedly permitted himself. tears came into her eyes, and rolled slowly down her cheeks, as she recalled what had happened a few moments ago in the hall. he had been aching to take her in his arms and kiss her--kiss her as he had been wont to do, in the old days, in the shabby little lodging where she lived with her father. poor little motherless girl, who had thought herself so clever. at that time she had believed herself to be as good as engaged to "young mr. pavely," as the pewsbury folk called him. even now she could remember, as if it had happened yesterday, the bitter humiliation, as well as the pain which had shaken her, when she had learnt, casually, of his sudden disappearance from pewsbury. what hypocrites men were! the fact that often they were unconscious hypocrites afforded katty little consolation. it was plain that godfrey was quite unaware of oliver's growing absorption in laura, but that surely was not to his credit. a man of his age, and with his experience of life, ought to have known, ought to have guessed, ought to have seen--by now! instead, he remained absorbed in himself, in the tiresome little business interests of his prosperous life, in his new friendship for oliver tropenell, and--in that ambiguous, tantalising friendship with herself. again she told herself that she was wasting what remained to her of youth and of vitality over a thoroughly unsatisfactory state of things, and painfully she determined that, if what she had gradually come to plan since her return home did not come to pass, she would leave rosedean, and make another life for herself elsewhere. * * * * * the things katty toiled and schemed for had a way of coming to pass. she had planned her divorce long before it had actually taken place, at a time indeed when it seemed impossible to believe that it ever could take place. bob winslow had been adoringly, slavishly devoted to her for more than two-thirds of their married life, and it had taken her trouble and time to drive him into the courses it was necessary he should pursue to procure her freedom. she had no doubt--there could be no doubt--that were godfrey free he would turn to her instinctively at once. she was well aware of her power over him, and till lately she had been virtuously proud of what she imagined to be her loyalty to laura. also she had had no wish to make her own position at rosedean untenable. even as it was, godfrey came far too often to see her. had she lived nearer to pewsbury, even a mile nearer, his frequent calls on her would have meant a flood of ill-natured gossip in the little town. yes, the situation, from katty's point of view, was thoroughly unsatisfactory, and, as far as she was concerned, it was time it was ended or mended. and then, once more, for the hundredth time, her restless, excited mind swung back to what was to her just now the real mystery, the all-important problem--the relations between oliver tropenell and laura pavely. of course it was possible--though katty thought not likely--that tropenell was still unaware of his passion for laura. perhaps he still disguised it under the name of "friendship." but even if that were so, such a state of things could not endure for very long. any day some trifling happening might open his eyes, and, yes--why not?--godfrey's. chapter viii godfrey pavely was standing in his private room at pavely's bank. it was only a little after ten, and he had not been in the room many minutes, yet already he had got up from his writing-table and moved over to the middle one of the three windows overlooking the prim, exquisitely kept walled garden, which even nowadays reminded him of his early childhood. he had gazed out of the window for a few moments, but now he stood with his back to the window, staring unseeingly before him, a piece of note paper crushed up in his hand. for close on a hundred years his well-to-do careful-living forbears had passed their pleasant, uneventful lives in this spacious georgian house, set in the centre of the wide high street of the prosperous market town of pewsbury. what was now known as "mr. pavely's own room" had been the dining-room of his grandparents. he himself had always known it as part of the bank, but it still had some of the characteristics of a private living-room. thus, on the dark green walls hung a number of quaint family portraits, his great-grandfather, his grandfather and grandmother, two uncles who had died in youth, and a presentation portrait of his own father. these were arranged about and above the mantelpiece, opposite the place where stood his wide, leather-topped writing-table. taking up most of the wall opposite the windows was a bookcase of really distinguished beauty. godfrey pavely had been gratified to learn, some five or six years ago, that this piece of furniture was of very considerable value, owing to the fact that it was supposed to have been, in a special sense, the work and design of chippendale himself. but just now, at this moment, he felt as if he hated the substantial old house and everything in it. he had come into this room, twenty minutes ago, to find the usual pile of open letters on the table. on the top of the pile was an unopened envelope marked _private_, and it was the contents of that envelope that he now held crushed up--not torn up--in his hand. and as he stood there, staring before him unseeingly at the bookcase, there suddenly flashed into his mind a vision of the first time he had brought laura here, to his own room at the bank. they had only just became engaged, and he was still feeling an almost oppressive joy of having compassed that which he had so steadfastly desired. he could see her graceful figure walking through the mahogany door, he could almost hear her exclaim, "what a charming room, godfrey! i can't help wishing that we were going to live here, in pewsbury!" she had gone over and stood exactly where he was standing now, and then she had turned and gazed into the walled garden, at that time brilliant with tulips and wallflowers. coming round behind her, he had put his arm, a little awkwardly, round her shoulders. at once she had slipped from beneath his grasp, but not unkindly--only with a gentle word that at any moment some one might come in, and he, poor fool that he had been, had admired her maidenly delicacy.... he glanced down at the piece of notepaper he held in his hand, and, smoothing it out, he read it through for the tenth or twelfth time. then, as there came a knock at the door, he hastily thrust it into his pocket. "come in!" he cried impatiently; and his head clerk came into the room. mr. privet had a delicate, refined, thoughtful face. he was very much respected in the town, and regarded as an important, integral part of pavely's bank. he was one of the very few people in the world who were really attached to godfrey pavely, and he perceived at once that there was something wrong. "we promised to send over to mr. johnson to say when you would be ready to see him, sir. shall i send over now?" "yes--no. tell him i'll be ready in half an hour. and, privet?" "yes, sir." "i've a rather important letter to write. will you see that i'm not disturbed till i ring?" the old man shut the door quietly, and godfrey pavely drew irresolutely towards his writing-table, the table where he did so much hard, good, and profitable work each day. but he did not sit down at once; instead, he took the letter he had been so nearly caught reading out of his pocket, and once more he read it through-- "this is to warn you that there is a great deal of talk going on in pewsbury and the surrounding neighbourhood about your wife and a certain gentleman who is a near neighbour of yours. it is well not to be jealous, but confidence may be carried too far. try going home when you are not expected, and you will surely find them together. "a well-wisher to the "pavely family." the words had been written, or rather printed, in ink, on a very common sheet of notepaper--the kind of notepaper which is sold in penny packets in every village and small sweetstuff shop in the kingdom. now in theory there is nothing easier than to despise and disregard an anonymous letter. but in practice such a missive as godfrey pavely had just received, however vulgar, and even, as in this case, obviously written by a malicious person, invariably produces a horrible sensation of discomfort and acute uneasiness. for one thing, the fact that some unknown human being has devoted so much unwonted thought and spiteful interest to one's private affairs is in itself an ugly revelation. in theory again, most people, if asked what they would do if they received an anonymous letter, would reply ( ) that they would put it straight in the fire, or ( ) go straight with it to the police. but in practice an anonymous letter, unless the recipient at once guesses with certainty the identity of the writer, is the only clue to what may contain the germ of some ugly plot, or conspiracy to harm or injure the innocent. so it is surely foolish to destroy what may become evidence. as for going to the police, that is, for obvious reasons, the last thing any man would care to do if the anonymous communication deals with the character of a woman near and dear to him. indeed, the thought of going to the police did not even enter godfrey pavely's mind, though it was probably the advice he would have given _to any one else_ who had come to consult him about such a matter. as he looked at the letter closely, turning it this way and that, he suddenly told himself that it did not read like the work of an illiterate person. godfrey, and laura too, were in their different ways very good employers; besides, they had not dismissed any one lately. no, no--it was far more likely to be some one living in pewsbury, probably with whom he was scarcely acquainted. there were, as the banker could not but be aware, a good many people in the little town who had reason to dislike him--not personally perhaps, but as the one money-dealer of the place. at last he sat down at his writing-table and drew an envelope towards him. on it he wrote, "to be destroyed, unopened, in case of my death," and then he placed the poisonous little sheet of common notepaper in the envelope, and, fastening it down, put it in one of his inner pockets. he intended to dismiss the whole thing from his mind, at any rate during this morning, but he found it very difficult, not to say impossible, to do that. laura and oliver tropenell? his thin lips curled at the thought. why, oliver liked him, godfrey, far better than he did laura! he regarded that as certain. and laura? he could have laughed aloud at the absurd suggestion. laura was not only the coldest, she was also the most upright, of women. early in their married life, when they had gone about together far more than they had done recently, he, godfrey, had never felt even a twinge of jealousy with regard to her. and yet--and yet in those days laura had certainly excited a good deal of admiration. there are men who passionately admire that kind of proud, passionless beauty in a woman. pavely himself had once been such a man. so he knew. he looked up from the letter he was writing, and all at once, to his own surprise, his thoughts took quite another turn. he told himself suddenly that tropenell's rather exceptional intimacy with them both might, after all, excite remark, in such a damned censorious, gossiping place as was pewsbury. he, godfrey pavely, was well aware of what a nest of gossip a country town could be, and often is. he had experienced something of it years ago, when there had been all that foolish talk concerning the then katty fenton and himself. once or twice he had felt slightly uneasy lest his _present_ friendship with katty should be misunderstood. indeed, he had felt this so strongly to give her what he had thought to be a delicate hint--a hint that she had at once taken--as to the inadvisability of her coming, when in pewsbury, to see him in his private room at the bank. she had done that rather often at one time, when she was first his tenant at rosedean. but now she never came to the bank. she did not even keep her account at pavely's, though it would have been a convenience to her to do so. * * * * * mr. johnson's call, which at any other time would have been a tiresome infliction, was welcome, for it enabled the banker to dismiss this odd, queer, unpleasant business of the anonymous letter from his mind for a while. but after mr. johnson had gone, the trouble came back, and the morning--what was left of it--seemed very long. he asked himself whether, after all, it might not be wisest to speak of that absurd letter to some one. should he say anything to mrs. tropenell, or well, yes--to laura? but impatiently he shook his head at the thought. not only would such a thing shock and disgust his wife, but, what was of far more consequence to him, it might make her turn against tropenell! godfrey pavely had been pleased and surprised at the way in which laura had tolerated the other man being so much about the house. in pavely's imagination tropenell was _his_ friend--not laura's. he was glad when he heard a quarter to one chime out from the parish church tower, for it meant that he could now get up and go across to the club for luncheon. he put on his hat and went out into the square hall of the bank. as he did so, his head clerk came down the broad staircase. mr. privet's room was only a little smaller, and a little less lacking in dignity, than that of mr. pavely himself--indeed, some people thought it a pleasanter room, for it looked out on to the high street, and was on the first floor. "if you'd been a minute earlier, sir," said the old man, smiling, "you'd have seen mrs. pavely go by! i think she must have been in mrs. tropenell's motor, for mr. tropenell was driving her himself." godfrey pavely felt a queer little pang of annoyance and surprise. "i daresay they're still in the town," he said quickly. "i thought it quite possible that they might come in this morning." but he had thought nothing of the kind. mr. privet shook his head. "oh no, sir! they were going home sure enough--and rather quickly, too. i thought the car _had_ caught that youngest sherlock boy, but mr. tropenell's a skilful driver, and he missed the child, but only by a few inches, as far as i could judge!" godfrey pavely nodded, walked on, and so out and across the high street. he could not help feeling a little vexed that oliver and laura should have driven into pewsbury--this morning, of all mornings. he wondered if they often did so. it was fortunate that nothing had happened to that stupid child. it would have been very unpleasant for his wife to be compelled to give evidence at an inquest.... he did not enjoy his luncheon as much as he was wont to do. in a sense he was king of the old-fashioned county club; every member of it was either on good terms with the prosperous banker, or desired to be so. but try as he might he could not get that odious, absurd, anonymous letter out of his mind! he told himself again and again that it was thoughtless and--and yes, unbecoming--of laura, to drive in and out of pewsbury with oliver tropenell. somehow it was the sort of thing he would never have thought his wife was likely to do. again he wondered if she did it often. if yes, such conduct would of course provide ample reason for low, vulgar gossip. when, at last, godfrey pavely walked back across to the bank, he had come to the point of asking himself whether after all it might not be best to say just a word of caution to laura. it need not be more than a word--he knew her well enough to know that! she was the kind of woman to shrink with fastidious disgust from the thought of her name being connected, in any vulgar silly way, with that of a man. but his mind swung backwards and forwards, like a pendulum. the possibility of his agreeable, cordial relations with oliver tropenell being in any way jarred or disturbed so upset him that, finally, he made up his mind to say nothing to laura. at three o'clock the banker walked up to his head clerk's room. "i think i'll go home early to-day, privet," he said. the old man got up from his chair. he was not only fond, he was proud too, of his employer. mr. pavely was a model banker, a model worker. he never went home before four, and often stayed on working till five. "very good, sir. it's a fine afternoon. i often wonder you stay as long as you do," he said, with that queer touch of affection in his voice which godfrey pavely valued perhaps more than he knew. the walk home seemed much longer than usual. two miles and a bit? he was proud of the fact that he could do it with ease in five minutes over the half-hour. to-day, as a matter of fact, he walked so quickly that he did it in twenty-seven minutes, but he was not aware of that. for the first time for months, he passed by rosedean without as much as giving katty a thought, and he took a short cut into the chase instead of going on, up through the great park gates, as he was wont to do. and then, as he went along one of the paths in the walled kitchen garden, he suddenly heard his wife's voice. "i think that it would be best to have a mass of red and purple just here. last year we had blues." he felt a queer, rather unreasoning, shock of relief, of satisfaction. laura was evidently speaking to one of the gardeners. then, as he came round the corner, he saw that the person to whom laura was speaking was not a gardener, but oliver tropenell himself--oliver, with a spud in his hand, kneeling before laura, a basket of bulbs by his side. he was looking up eagerly--a jealous onlooker might have said ardently--into her face. in fact, tropenell looked, so godfrey pavely told himself with some heat, "damned absurd." but before godfrey came right upon the three of them--for little alice was flitting about behind her mother--oliver stood up, with the words, "then i'd better go and get those other bulbs, hadn't i? will you come too, alice?" godfrey called out "hullo! doing some planting?" but his voice sounded odd to himself. not so, however, to the others. laura was honestly unaware that godfrey was very much earlier than his wont, or, if aware, she did not attach any importance to the fact. still, she felt afraid that godfrey would interfere with her gardening scheme, and so she shook her head. as for oliver tropenell, no one looking at his dark, set face could have guessed his thoughts. as a matter of fact, he had heard pavely's footsteps some moments before pavely spoke. and he had wondered, with quick irritation, why he had come back from pewsbury--or rosedean--so much earlier than usual. alice, dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, quite curiously unlike either her father or her mother, was the only one of the four who was still happily at ease. she ran up to her father: "come and see _my_ garden, father!" she cried. "i'm growing some mustard and cress specially for you. you can take it to the bank in an envelope and have some for your tea!" the little girl was aware, deep in her sensitive, affectionate heart, that her father and mother were not quite like other fathers and mothers. they were not cosily loving together, as were the father and mother of the two little girls with whom she sometimes went to tea in pewsbury, neither were they on the happy terms of easy comradeship which even alice knew was usual with other children's parents. but she loved her mother with a passionate, unswerving, admiring love, and her father with a stout, proprietary affection. for his sake, and his sake only, she would have liked to be a boy, for then, so she argued secretly within herself, she could be his office boy at the bank. up to now she had felt for oliver tropenell the easy, unquestioning liking children give to one who comes and goes. but lately she had become dimly aware that occasionally her mother and mr. tropenell were too busy talking together to take much heed of her, and this threw a little shadow across her heart. for godfrey pavely there followed days full of discomfort, unease, and rising annoyance. the whole course of his life was changed. as he came and went about the quiet streets of his native town, as he granted business interviews to the townspeople, he was perpetually asking himself if the person he was speaking to was concerned with this odious matter, whether he or she was among those who took his beautiful wife's name lightly. his object each afternoon was now to get home early, and see for himself what was going on there, and how far laura was giving cause for low, vulgar gossip. laura was not a child! she must know, if she ever brought herself to think of such a thing, that if a married woman allows a man to hang about her, day after day, in the absence of her husband, there is sure to be talk. pavely regarded tropenell's share in the matter with a strange toleration--it was his wife whom he blamed with an increasing severity as the minutes, the hours, and the days went by. he still went to see katty winslow, but no longer as often as he had been wont to do. and when in her company he was distrait, uncomfortable, longing to ask if _she_ thought oliver's constant presence in his house odd or--or peculiar. but he kept a prudent guard over his tongue. one day katty said something which would have made it easy for him to speak, and which, as a matter of fact, very nearly did cause him to unburden his heart to her. it was a little word, and said quite pleasantly, with, he felt sure, no ulterior motive of any kind. "it's odd," she said musingly, "to see what good friends laura has become with oliver tropenell! who would have thought that she would ever like any man as much as she seems to like him? i suppose it's really owing to the fact that he's in partnership with her brother----" she waited, and as he said nothing, she went on, with a smile, "but then, for the matter of that, you're just as fond of him as she is, aren't you? i can't see the attraction myself, but i admit that it must be there, for two people as unlike you and laura are to each other both to like him so much." "yes, i do like tropenell," godfrey spoke very decidedly. "but i can't make out why he gets on so well with gilbert baynton. gillie couldn't run straight if he tried." "so i've always understood----" katty looked at him curiously. she had never been told the real story of the quarrel between the brothers-in-law, but she was clever enough to have reached a very shrewd notion of the truth. baynton, so much was clear, had done something which pavely could neither tolerate nor forgive. in the old days, as a girl, katty had met gillie baynton several times, and he had struck her as a very amusing, agreeable sort of young man. godfrey had let slip this opportunity of saying anything, and afterwards, as is usually the case, he was glad that he had kept silence. clever and sympathetic as she was, katty could do nothing to help him in this horrid, rather degrading business. and then, walking into his room at the bank one morning, he saw on the top of the pile of his letters another common-looking envelope marked _private_. he took it up with a sick feeling of half eager, half shrinking, expectancy-- "a sincere well-wisher wishes once more to inform mr. pavely that all pewsbury is discussing him and his private affairs. the lady and gentleman in question are more together than ever they were. the other day some one who met them walking together on the downs took them for an engaged couple." this second anonymous letter greatly added to godfrey pavely's wretchedness and discomfort, all the more that it was so moderately worded. it seemed to confirm, to make certain, the fact of growing gossip and scandal. at last something happened which to a small extent relieved the tension. laura quietly informed him one evening that she much wished to go away for three days to see a friend of her childhood, who had written and begged her to come, and to bring little alice with her. she was surprised at the eagerness with which godfrey assented to her wish. in certain ways godfrey pavely, from the modern point of view, was a tyrannical husband. he very much disliked laura's paying visits by herself, and she had long ago given up even suggesting that she should do so. also, she on her side much disliked asking him the smallest favour. the day his wife left the chase was the first happy day godfrey had had for three weeks. he spent a pleasant hour with katty; and on his arrival home his feeling of satisfaction was increased by a note from mrs. tropenell inviting him to come and spend at freshley manor the three nights laura was to be away. he wrote accepting with more cordiality of phrase than was his wont, even with so old a friend as was oliver's mother. surely he and oliver tropenell, at last alone together, could combine to put an end to this foolish, vulgar gossip? it would be so much easier to speak to and consult with oliver in laura's absence. once he had made up his mind to speak to the other man, pavely was able, almost, to forget the whole hateful business. still, he said nothing till the second morning of his visit. then, at breakfast, he made a proposal. "i feel as if i'd like to take this afternoon off. would you care for a good long walk, eh? we might start about half-past two, have tea in witanbury, and be back here for dinner." oliver nodded. he was at once glad and sorry that godfrey was so entirely unaware of the growing tide of dislike, nay of hatred, that he felt for him. secretive as he was by nature, and by the life he had now led for so long, oliver tropenell was yet no hypocrite. he loathed the part fate had forced on him, that of pretending a cordial friendship for this man whom he so utterly despised. his mother had invited godfrey pavely to stay with them for three nights without first telling oliver that she was thinking of doing so; and then, when she had realised, too late, his annoyance, she could only explain that godfrey had always stayed with her on the very rare occasions when laura had been away. mother and son were together when godfrey started off on his daily walk into pewsbury. "i wonder what he's going to talk to you about?" said mrs. tropenell a little nervously. the thought of the coming afternoon expedition made her vaguely uneasy. "he's never at a loss for a word, though he very seldom says anything worth hearing." oliver was looking with unhappy, frowning eyes after the other man's trim, rather jaunty figure. all that morning mrs. tropenell watched her son with anxious fear. he wandered restlessly in and out of the house, and though he never mentioned laura, his mother knew that he was missing her with an almost agonised sense of loss. oliver was fighting a losing battle with himself--a battle in which no help from outside could be of any avail. he no longer spoke of going away; instead, he had told his mother of his scheme for bringing gillie to europe, and of sending laura and her brother off to italy, for a happy little holiday. she ventured to say that she thought that plan to be quite out of the question. godfrey would never allow it--he had not forgiven gillie, in spite of the fact that gillie had now "made good." it was nearer three than half-past two, when the two men started out, and they had been walking for a full hour, with snatches of talk, and such comfortable intervals of silence as is possible only between intimates, when suddenly godfrey pavely stopped walking. surprised, tropenell also came to a stand. they were on a stretch of lonely upland, with nothing save a couple of birds in sight. "look here, oliver, there's something i want to say to you! i hope you won't be offended. but we're such good friends, you and i, that i think you'll understand." the colour rushed into oliver tropenell's face. he turned and faced the other squarely, but he felt tense with excitement, and a sense of challenge. he knew, instinctively, that pavely was going to say something about laura--laura, and perhaps gillie, her brother. "yes," he said quietly. "yes, godfrey? what is it? i can't imagine your saying anything to me that would offend me." "i want you to read what's inside that," said godfrey in a low voice, and he handed oliver an envelope. oliver was relieved, but he looked down at the envelope suspiciously. "but this isn't to be opened till you're dead!" he exclaimed. "open it now," said godfrey roughly, "i only put that in case i met with an accident--you'll see why i did it, in a moment." with a queer feeling of misgiving oliver tropenell drew the common little sheet of notepaper out of the envelope, and in silence read over what was written there in those deceitful, printed characters. he read it once, twice--thrice. then he handed the sheet of paper back, with a look of disgust and contempt on his dark face, to the man standing by his side. "well!" he exclaimed. "i don't know what you expect me to say? if you'd had as many anonymous letters as i've had in my time--they rain in mexico--you wouldn't give much thought to this kind of garbage!" holding out the letter as if it were something dirty, he handed it back to the other man. "i haven't given much thought to it----" and then godfrey stopped short. he felt as if some other man, and not his sober self, were uttering the lie. "no," said oliver quickly, "i don't suppose you have. but still, i can't help being rather sorry you kept it, and--and that you showed it to me. there's nothing to be done! i suppose it's the work of some clerk whom you've dismissed in the last few weeks?" "i've dismissed no one," said pavely shortly. somehow tropenell was not taking this disagreeable business quite as he had meant him to take it. in a rather different voice oliver went on: "show me the letter again. i want to see if there's a date to it." "it arrived exactly three weeks ago to-day," said pavely slowly, "and it was posted in pewsbury." light broke in on tropenell. this, then, was why godfrey had taken to coming home at such odd hours, and why he had telephoned several times from the bank, sending messages to laura, and, on at least one occasion, a message to tropenell himself! he set his lips tightly together, and a flood of bitter wrath welled up from his heart. "then in my place you would do nothing?" asked godfrey uncertainly. more and more he was disappointed in the other's attitude. he had thought oliver would suggest something which might be useful, or at any rate laugh the matter off. but oliver only looked grim--grim and angry. "i don't see that you can do anything. it isn't the sort of thing about which you would care to go to the local police, and even if you knew who wrote that infamous scrawl i don't see how you could take action. we can't have laura's name dragged into this kind of business." then he asked in a lower voice, "have you said anything to her?" the other shook his head. "i've no intention of saying anything to laura. it would distress and disgust her very much." he was glad to see that oliver, hearing these words, looked very much relieved. they walked on a few paces, and then godfrey exclaimed, "there's one thing i do think, oliver--and i hope you won't be angry with me for saying it! it must be admitted that you've been a great deal at the chase alone with laura, and also, unfortunately, that that sort of thing always does make talk in a country town." tropenell turned on him sternly: "what sort of thing?" he asked. "i swear before god that there has never been anything in my attitude to laura which should give the slightest rise to comment, or afford the basest scandalmonger excuse for a word." and he believed every word of what he said. "i know that--i know that, my dear fellow!" godfrey put his hand out, and for a moment it lay heavily on his friend's shoulder. but quickly, silently, tropenell shook himself free of the other's touch. "if you know that," he was breathing hard now, not trying to disguise his anger, "then why did you allude just now to the fact that i am a good deal in your house? does that mean you wish that i should give up coming to the chase?" "no, of course i don't mean that! you're the one real friend i've made--well, since i got to man's estate," said pavely ruefully. everything was going wrong. the conversation was taking a turn he had never thought of or conceived as possible. "what i mean is that laura----" tropenell stopped him with a passionate gesture: "cannot we keep laura's name out of our discussion?" godfrey stared at him, genuinely astonished. "how can we keep laura's name out of our discussion? the whole thing centres about laura! this letter mentions laura--ay, and i've had another letter, which i hadn't meant to show you, but which on second thoughts i should like you to see." he began fumbling in another pocket. "i don't want to see it!" cried oliver. "i'd rather not see it!" "but i'd rather you saw it," said godfrey obstinately. tropenell read the second anonymous letter through, and then handed it back, without comment. silently they both turned about, and walked quickly, in almost complete silence, back to freshley. "we've come home to tea, after all, mother," said oliver shortly, "we are neither of us in condition for a fifteen-mile walk." neither man referred again to the matter which when they were together filled both their minds, and on the day of laura's return to the chase, oliver tropenell went up to town, without having seen her. four days later his mother received a rather cryptic telegram: "arriving to-night with a friend." a friend? some sure, sombre instinct told mrs. tropenell that this would be gillie baynton. chapter ix "godfrey can't eat me! besides, he'll have to see me some time. not that i want to see anything of the fellow--i always hated him! still, as things are, it's far better i should take him by surprise, in laura's house, than go cap in hand, and ask his leave to see my sister." it was gilbert baynton who was speaking, standing with his legs a little apart, his fair head thrown back, his hands in his pockets, early in the afternoon of the day he and oliver had arrived from london. mother and son were both in the room, but it was really with mrs. tropenell that baynton was having this rather unpleasant argument. he and tropenell had had this all out before. oliver had wanted gillie to write to his sister, but he was set on taking her by surprise, and on stealing a march on godfrey pavely. mrs. tropenell looked up at the man standing before her. gillie was two years older than her oliver, and she had been the first woman who had ever seen him, for it was to her that his mother's doctor had handed the lusty, already screaming baby. his mother had passionately loved him--loved him and spoilt him, and so had his rather lackadaisical father. physically he was a queer mixture of the two. gillie baynton had his father's fair hair, grace of limb and movement, and plainness of feature, coupled with his mother's abounding vitality, and her charm of manner--that charm, that coming-on-ness, which his beautiful sister, born so many years later, had always lacked. gillie had early begun to get into various ugly scrapes, but as a youth he had always somehow managed to shuffle out of them, for he was popular, and "had a way with him," as country people say. also he had never been lacking in courage of a sort, and courage carries even a rascal a long way. still, gillie baynton had been pretty well done for, as far as his own country was concerned, when he had been sent out, as a kind of forlorn hope, to mexico and oliver tropenell.... gillie began speaking again: "i think i know my worthy brother-in-law quite as well as you do, mrs. tropenell. it's much better to take a man like that by surprise, and not to give him time to think! after all, he's _got_ to let bygones be bygones." and now oliver interposed, for the first time. "yes, mother, as things are, i think gillie had perhaps better try and see laura now, at once, before godfrey pavely knows he's in england." "i'll go there right now." occasionally, not very often, gilbert baynton made use of some little phrase showing that he lived on the other side of the atlantic. he had changed somehow, mrs. tropenell could hardly have told you how, for he had always had a very assured manner. but now gillie looked what he was--a very prosperous man of business, though scarcely an english man of business. the long sojourn in mexico had not altered her oliver at all--not, that is, as far as she could see, but it had altered gillie baynton surprisingly. it had roughened him, and increased his natural self-assurance. "perhaps laura and little alice will come back with you to tea? godfrey, too, if he seems in the humour for it," she said. and he nodded. "thank you, mrs. tropenell. that would be very pleasant." he smiled, a good-humoured, triumphant smile, and was gone. the other two looked at each other rather doubtfully. and then oliver, as if answering her thought, exclaimed, "i don't think he'll stay on at the chase till pavely comes out from pewsbury! apart from everything else, gillie's a restless creature. we may see him again within a very short time from now." "but supposing he and godfrey do meet?" asked mrs. tropenell anxiously. "well, if they do meet, i think it's quite on the cards there'll be a furious row. but that, after all, would clear the air. as gillie said just now, godfrey pavely will _have_ to put the past behind him. perhaps, once they've had it out, they'll be better friends. there's a good deal to be said for a row sometimes, mother." "yes," she said uncomfortably. "i agree, there is." * * * * * laura was sitting in what was still known as "the boudoir," by the household of lawford chase. it was a beautiful and stately room, furnished some ninety years ago, at the time of the marriage of mrs. tropenell's grandmother. the late mr. pavely's tenants had not cared to use it, for it was away from the other living-rooms of the house, and so nothing in the boudoir had been disturbed or renewed when the chase had been prepared for the occupation of the strangers who had lived there for fourteen years. the room suited laura, and laura suited the room. to-day she had had a fire lit, for it was beginning to be chilly. alice had gone off into pewsbury to spend the afternoon with two little friends, and now the mistress of this lovely, old-world room was trying to read a book; but soon she let the book rest open on her lap, and she stared mournfully, hopelessly, into the fire. things were not going well with laura pavely. they had begun going ill about a month ago, just after that--that unfortunate outburst on oliver's part. yet she had felt so sure, after the talk that she and he had had together, that they would slip back into their old, easy relationship! and for a while, perhaps for as long as a week, it had seemed as if they were going to do so. but then there had come a change. godfrey had fallen into the way of coming home early. in old days, both before the coming to england of oliver tropenell, and during the months that followed, godfrey had generally stayed at the bank rather late, and then, as often as not, he had gone in and had a chat with katty on his way home. now he always came back before five, and after his return home he and oliver would engage in interminable singles on the big tennis court which had been godfrey pavely's one contribution to the otherwise beautiful gardens of the chase. sometimes, and especially had this been true these last few days, laura told herself that perhaps after all, the world, the cynical shrewd world of which she knew so little, was right, and that a close and confidential friendship between a man and a woman is an impossible ideal. to-day, staring into the fire with dry, unseeing eyes, she felt miserably unhappy--too troubled and uneasy to occupy herself in any of her usual ways. more than had ever been the case before, life seemed to stretch before her in a terrible, dreary, unending monotony. something else had come to pass during the last week, the week during which oliver tropenell had been away in london, which she scarcely liked to think of, or to make more real by dwelling on. godfrey had altered in his manner to her, he had become kinder, and yes, more loverlike than he had been for years. he hung about her, when he was at home, indoors and out of doors. in an awkward, clumsy way he actually tried to make himself pleasant! he had even suggested that she should ask one or two people to stay at the chase. but she had protested that she much preferred being alone, and with a shrug of the shoulders he had given in. after all, he didn't really care for strangers more than she did. several times during the last dreary week, he had astonished her by talking to her of oliver in a rather fretful, complaining way, as if he thought it odd that the other man was staying on in england with his mother, instead of going back to mexico. he had said that he thought it strange that such a big business as he understood oliver tropenell to have built up, could run by itself. she had answered coldly, "you forget that my brother is there." and to that he had made no reply. gillie? a pang of pain thrilled through laura's lonely heart. oliver had said nothing more concerning gillie's visit to europe. everything which had happened, up to, and including, the evening when she and oliver had had that curious, intimate conversation when he had promised so solemnly to be her friend, seemed now like a bright, happy dream compared with the drab reality of to-day. and now, in a few minutes, godfrey would be coming in, and she would have to rouse herself to listen and to answer, while they had tea together in the cedar drawing-room, for godfrey did not care for the boudoir. suddenly she heard uttered in the corridor, outside the door, the eager words, "is mrs. pavely there? you're sure? all right--i'll go straight in!" and before she could gather her mind together, the door opened, and her brother--the brother she had not seen for years, but of whom she had just been thinking--walked forward into the room, exclaiming heartily, resonantly: "well, laura? well, little girl? here i am again!" she started up, and with a cry of welcoming, wondering delight, threw herself into his arms, half laughing, half crying, "oh, gillie--gillie--gillie! how glad i am to see you! somehow i thought we were never going to meet again! have you only just come? has oliver tropenell seen you? why didn't you wire?" gillie was as touched and flattered as it was in him to be, for he remembered his sister as having been always quiet and restrained. and when they had parted, just before he had gone out to mexico, she had seemed almost inanimate with--had it been vicarious?--shame and pain. "i thought i'd take you by surprise." he looked round him with a pleased, measuring look. "nothing altered!" he exclaimed, "and you've got a fire? that's good! i feel it awfully cold here, i mean in england. they haven't started fires yet, over at freshley." he repeated, "nothing's altered--you least of all, laura. why, you don't look a day older!" she sighed. "i feel," she said, "a lifetime older." "i don't!" he cried briskly, "i feel younger. and godfrey?" his voice altered, becoming just a little graver. "time stood still with godfrey too, eh?" "i don't think godfrey's altered much----" she was hesitating. and then, very carefully, she added the words, "godfrey's quite good to me, you know, gillie." "oh, well--of course he always liked you the best!" and then he laughed, but to them both his laughter sounded just a little hollow. "i gather that he and tropenell don't quite hit it off?" she turned on him quickly, and he was puzzled at the look of extreme astonishment which came over her face. "what makes you think that?" she exclaimed. "they're the greatest friends! godfrey likes oliver tropenell better than i thought he'd ever like anybody." and then, before gillie baynton could answer this, to him, surprising statement, the door opened, and the man of whom they were speaking stood gazing into the room as if he could not believe in the reality of the sight before him. the brother and sister moved apart, and gilbert baynton held out his hand. "well, godfrey," he exclaimed, "here i am again! i expect tropenell told you that i was thinking of coming to europe? but i can't be more than a month in the old country--if as long--unless tropenell goes back leaving me behind for a bit. he did make some such suggestion, but i think we're more likely to go back together." as he spoke on, he let his hand slowly drop to his side, for the man he was addressing had made no answering movement of welcome, or even of greeting. such a flood of wrath had mounted up into godfrey pavely's brain when he saw gilbert baynton standing there, with his arm round laura's shoulder, that he was fearful the words he meant to utter would never get themselves said. he had never felt so angry before, and the sensation had a curious physical effect on him. he felt, as country folk so vividly put it, "all of a tremble." a curious, ominous, sinister silence fell on the room. laura, unconsciously, drew a little nearer to her brother; and godfrey, who was staring straight at her, saw the movement, and it intensified the passion of anger which was working in his brain as wine does in the body. "i must ask you to leave my house at once," he said in a low voice. "i have had no reason to change my mind as to what i said when you were last in this house, gilbert baynton." _"godfrey!"_ there was a passionate protest and revolt in the way laura uttered her husband's name. but her brother put up his hand. "hush, laura," he said. "it's much better i should tackle this business alone. in fact, if you don't mind, you'd better leave the room." she shook her head. "no, i mean to stay." he shrugged his shoulders, and looked straight at godfrey pavely. "look here!" he exclaimed, "isn't all this rather--well, highfaluting rot? it's quite true that when i left here i didn't mean ever to darken your doors again. but everything's altered now! i've paid you back every cent of that money--it wasn't even your money, it was my own sister's money. she didn't mind my having it--i heard her tell you so myself." "you forged my signature to obtain it," said godfrey. he spoke in a very low voice, almost in a whisper. he was the sort of man who always suspects servants of listening at the door. "yes, i own i was a damned fool to do that--though as a matter of fact you goaded me to it! however, it's a long time ago, and i suggest that we'd better let bygones be bygones. if i don't marry, and i'm not a marrying man, your child will be my heiress. laura's my only sister, the only thing in the world i really care for----" laura put her hand through his arm when she heard him say that. and then godfrey spoke again, his voice a little raised: "that makes no difference," he said--"i mean your having paid the money back makes no difference. i won't have you in my house, and if laura considers my wishes she won't see you again while you're in england." laura said at once: "i shall not consider your wishes, godfrey. of course i shall see my brother as often as i can." but godfrey went on, still directly addressing gilbert baynton, "i can't prevent laura seeing you, if she insists upon it. she's a grown-up woman, and i can't turn the key on her. but she shan't see you in _my_ house. and, as far as i'm concerned, this is the last time i'll ever set eyes on your face." "don't you be so sure of that!" gillie muttered the words between his teeth. his fair face had turned a deep red-brick colour, his blue eyes were blazing. again there fell on the three of them that strange, ominous, sinister silence. then gilbert baynton turned to his sister. he actually laughed out loud. but even pavely noticed, with bitter satisfaction, that the laughter sounded very forced. "ha! ha! ha! godfrey's not a bit changed. he's just the same old narrow-minded, sanctimonious prig he always was!" he took laura in his arms, and kissed her two or three times very warmly. "never mind, little girl," he said. "i shan't make trouble between you and godfrey for long! i shan't be in england for more than a few days. i'm off to paris next week." he disengaged himself gently from laura's clinging arms, went to the door, opened it, then shut it very quietly behind him. laura turned away, and stared into the fire. godfrey began, awkwardly, conciliatingly, "now, my dear laura----" she put up her hand. "don't speak to me," she said, in what he felt to be a dreadful voice of aversion and of pain. "i shall never, never forgive you for this!" he shrugged his shoulders, and went out of the room, into the long corridor. and then he walked quickly through it and so to the hall of the fine old house, of which, try as he might, he never felt himself, in any intimate sense, the master. the hall was empty. quietly he opened the front door. yes, gillie had kept his word this time! he really had gone. pavely could see the alert, still young-looking figure of the man whom in his mind he always called "that scoundrel" hurrying down the carriage road which led to the great gates of the chase. chapter x katty winslow stood by her open gate. she had wandered out there feeling restless and excited, though she hardly knew why. during the last fortnight she had spent many lonely hours, more lonely hours than usual, for godfrey pavely came much less often to see her than he had done in the old, easygoing days. and yet, though restless, katty was on the whole satisfied. she thought that things were going very much as she wished them to go. it was of course annoying to know so little, but she was able to guess a good deal, and she felt quite sure that the leaven was working. but the suspense and the uncertainty had got on her nerves, and she had made up her mind to leave rosedean perhaps for as long as a fortnight. two days ago she had written to various friends who were always glad to see her. that was why, as she stood at the gate, she was able to tell herself that she was waiting for the postman. she thought it very probable that godfrey pavely would be walking past her house about this time. a couple of days ago he had come in for about half an hour, but he had been dull and ill at ease, his mind evidently full of something he was unwilling or ashamed to tell. and she had watched him with an amused, sympathetic curiosity, wondering how long his cautious reticence would endure. if she had put her mind to it, perhaps katty could have made him speak of that which filled his sore heart, but she felt that the time was not yet ripe for words between herself and godfrey. she was afraid of jarring him, of making him say something to her which both of them afterwards might regret. no, not any words of love to herself--of that she was not afraid--but some dogmatic pronouncement on divorce, and perchance on re-marriage. and then, as she stood there, glancing up and down the lonely country road, she suddenly saw a man walking quickly towards her--not from pewsbury, but from the opposite direction, which led only from the chase. katty's bright brown eyes were very good eyes, and long before the stranger could see her she had, as it were, taken stock of him. somehow his clothes were not english-looking, and he wore a kind of grey homburg hat. he was walking at a great pace, and as he came nearer, some vague feeling of curiosity made katty step out of the gate, and look straight up the road towards him. all at once she made up her mind that he was american--a well-to-do and, according to his lights, a well-dressed american. now katty winslow looked very charming, as she stood out there, in her heather-mixture tweed skirt, and pale blue flannel blouse--charming, and also young. and the stranger--to her he seemed entirely a stranger--when he was quite close up to her, suddenly took off his hat and exclaimed, "why, miss fenton! it is miss fenton, isn't it?" he was now smiling broadly into her face, his bold, rather challenging eyes--the blue eyes which were the best feature of his face, and the only feature which recalled his beautiful sister--full of cordial admiration. "you don't remember me?" he went on. "well, that's quite natural, for of course you made a much deeper impression on me than i did on you!" and then all at once it flashed across katty who this pleasant, bright-eyed wayfarer must be. it must be, it could only be, gilbert baynton--the peccant gillie! "mr. baynton?" she said questioningly, and she also threw a great note of welcome and cordiality into her voice. "yes," he said. "gilbert baynton--very much at your service----?" "--mrs. winslow," she said hurriedly. "i'm mrs. winslow now." she saw that the name conveyed nothing to him. "do come in," she went on pleasantly, "if only for a moment, mr. baynton. though it's early for tea, perhaps you'll stay and have a cup with me? i had no idea you were in england! i suppose you're staying with laura, at the chase?" he shook his head, the smile faded from his face, and katty, who was observant, saw that her question was ill-timed. "it's delightful--seeing an old friend again, and i was feeling so bored--all by myself!" as he followed her into the house, gillie told himself that this was distinctly amusing--quite good fun! it would take the horrible taste of his interview with that--that _brute_--out of his mouth. he looked round the little hall with quick interest and curiosity. there was no sign of a man about, only a lady's slender walking-stick and a bright red parasol, in the umbrella-stand. was pretty little katty a widow? somehow she did not look like a widow! she opened a door which gave out of the hall on the left, and called out, "harber? i should like tea in about five minutes." then she shut the door, and led the way down the little hall, and through into her sitting-room. gillie again glanced about him with eager appreciation. this was the sort of room he liked--cosy, comfortable, bright and smiling like its attractive mistress. "sit down," she exclaimed, "and tell me everything that's happened to you since we last met! why, it must be, let me see, quite twelve years ago?" she took up a china box: "have a cigarette--i'll have one too." he waved the box aside, took out his own case, and held it out to her. "i think you'll like these," he said. then he struck a match, and as their fingers touched, the lighting of her cigarette took quite a little while. "this _is_ jolly!" he sank back into one of katty's well-cushioned easy chairs. "you've the prettiest room i've been in since i came to england, mrs. winslow." "oh, then you haven't been into laura's boudoir?" "yes, i've just come from there." again his face altered as he spoke, and this time there came a look of frowning anger over it. then, almost as if he read the unspoken question in her mind, he said slowly, "look here, mrs. winslow, as you seem to know my sister so well, i may as well tell you the truth. i've just been ordered out of her house by my brother-in-law, godfrey pavely. i suppose you know that he and i had a row years ago?" he was looking at her rather hard as he spoke, and she nodded her head. "yes," she said frankly, "i do know that, though i don't know what it was about." he breathed a little more freely. "it was about money," he said bitterly. "just what one would expect it to be with a man like godfrey. he was furious because i got laura to lend me some money. it was to pay a debt of honour, for i was a gambler in those days. but i'm a good boy now!" "yes," she said, and smiled. "i know you are! you're oliver tropenell's partner, aren't you, mr. baynton? he talks awfully nicely of you." gillie--his face was fair, his skin very clear, almost like a girl's--looked pleased. "good old tropenell!" he exclaimed. "yes, he and i are tremendous pals. he's been the best friend to me man ever had." "i am _so_ sorry for laura," said katty gently. she was playing with the edge of a piece of italian embroidery which covered a small table close to her elbow, and she was thinking--hard. at that moment the drawing-room door opened, and the tea appeared. while the table was being drawn up in front of her, the tray placed on to it, and a taper put to the spirit lamp, katty's mind went on working busily. and by the time the maid was leaving the room, she had come to a decision. even to her it was a momentous decision--how momentous to others she was destined never to know. again she said slowly, impressively, "yes, mr. baynton, i am sorry indeed for poor laura." "i'm sorry too. not that it much matters! i didn't want to stay at the chase. i always thought it a gloomy place in the old days, when i was a child--i mean when it still belonged to mrs. tropenell's people. of course i shall see laura again--godfrey can't prevent that! in fact he admitted that he couldn't." there was a little pause. and then katty, her eyes bent downwards, said, "i didn't quite mean that, mr. baynton. of course i'm very sorry about your new row with mr. pavely, for it must be so hateful to laura to feel she can't have her own brother in her own house. but--well----" she threw her head back, and gazed straight across at him. "can you keep a secret?" she asked. "yes, of course i can!" he looked at her amused. "i want you to keep what i'm going to say absolutely to yourself. i don't want you ever to hint a word of it to laura--still less to oliver tropenell." "of course i won't!" he looked at her with growing curiosity. what was it she was going to tell him? "i wonder if i ought to tell you," she murmured. he laughed outright. "well, i can't _make_ you tell me!" she felt piqued at his indifference. "yes, i will tell you, though it isn't _my_ secret!" she exclaimed. "but i feel that you ought to know it--being laura's brother. laura," her voice dropped, she spoke in a very low voice, "laura is in love with oliver tropenell, mr. baynton. and oliver is in love with laura--a thousand times more in love with her than she is in love with him!" she gave him a swift glance across the tea-table. yes! her shot had told indeed. he looked extraordinarily moved and excited. so excited that he got up from his chair. "good god!" he exclaimed incredulously. "laura?" and then, "tropenell? are you sure of this, mrs. winslow?" "yes," she answered in a quiet, composed voice that carried conviction. "i am _quite_ sure. they are both very, very unhappy, for they are good, high-minded people. they wouldn't do anything wrong for the world." as he looked at her a little oddly, and with a queer little smile all over his face, she exclaimed, "i _know_ laura wouldn't." and he nodded, a little ashamed of that queer little smile. gilbert baynton's face stiffened into deep gravity. his eyes were shining, and he was staring down at the little table, his half-finished cup of tea forgotten. he sat down again. "has laura told you this?" he asked abruptly. "are you her confidante?" katty hesitated. "no," she said at last. "i don't suppose laura has spoken of the matter to any living soul. but if you promise absolutely not to give me away--i can tell you how you can assure yourself of the truth. ask mrs. tropenell. _she_ knows. i won't say any more." "and pavely?" he asked. "what part does my fine brother-in-law play? does proper godfrey know? is priggish godfrey jealous?" she answered slowly: "i think that mr. pavely suspects. he and oliver tropenell were great friends till quite lately. but there's a coldness now. i don't know what happened. but _something_ happened." "i see now why tropenell has stayed here so long. i thought it must be a woman! i thought some prudish, dull, english girl had got hold of him----" he waited a moment. "well, i'm eternally grateful to you, mrs. winslow, for giving me this hint! you see, i'm very fond of tropenell. it's a peculiar kind of feeling--there's nothing in the world i wouldn't do for him. good god! i only wish that he and laura----" he was going to say "would have the pluck to bolt together!" but katty supplied a very different ending to his sentence. "ah," she exclaimed, "i only wish that laura and oliver _could_ marry. they're made for one another. you can't see them together without seeing that!" she went on feelingly, "laura was dreadfully unhappy with godfrey pavely even before oliver tropenell came into her life. she and mr. pavely are quite unsuited to one another." there was a queer bitterness in her voice. and then gillie baynton suddenly remembered--remembered the flood of gossip there had been at one time concerning those two--pretty katty fenton, as she had been then, and godfrey pavely, the man who later became his own brother-in-law. he gave her a queer, shrewd glance, and mrs. winslow went on, rather quickly and breathlessly, "you mustn't think that i dislike godfrey pavely! he's been very good to me--as good as laura. i'm what they call an innocent _divorcée_, mr. baynton, and they both helped me through the trouble. it was pretty bad at the time, i can tell you. but of course i can't help seeing--no one could help seeing--that godfrey and laura aren't suited to one another, and that they would each be much, much happier apart." at the back of her clever, astute mind was the knowledge that it was quite on the cards that oliver, or oliver's mother, would say something to gilbert baynton concerning herself and her intimacy with godfrey pavely. she must guard against that, and guard against it now. so she went on, pensively, "i don't know, to tell you the truth, for which of them i'm the more sorry--laura, godfrey, or oliver! they're all three awfully to be pitied. of course, if they lived in america it would be quite simple; laura and godfrey would be divorced by mutual consent, and then laura would be able to be happy with mr. tropenell." "and is nothing of that sort possible here?" asked gillie baynton curiously. "this old england _has_ stood still!" katty shook her head regretfully. "no, there's nothing of the sort possible here. of course there are ways and means----" the other fixed his eyes on her. "yes?" he said interrogatively. "i fear that they are not ways and means that godfrey or laura would ever lend themselves to." "then there's no cutting the gordian knot?" but that wasn't quite what katty meant to imply. "i don't know," she said hesitatingly. "godfrey would do almost anything to avoid any kind of scandal. but then you see one comes up against laura----" he nodded quickly. "yes, i quite understand that laura would never do anything she thought wrong--queer, isn't it?" gilbert baynton stayed on at rosedean for quite another half-hour, but nothing more was said on the subject which was filling his mind and that of his hostess. they walked about the pretty, miniature garden, talking in a desultory way over old times, and about some of the people they had both known years ago. and then, at last, she took him to the gate. they looked at one another like two augurs, and he said under his breath, "well, it's a pretty kettle of fish i've come home to, eh? i thought there was some sort of mystery. i'm very much obliged to you for having put me on the track to solve the riddle." "ah," she said, "but the riddle isn't solved yet, mr. baynton, is it?" he answered, gravely for him, "no, those sorts of riddles are very hard to solve." he hesitated, then exclaimed in a meaning tone, "still, they _are_ solved sometimes, mrs. winslow." * * * * * it was late the same night, a warm, st. martin's summer night, and mrs. tropenell, sitting alone after dinner, made an excuse of a telephone message to join her son and gillie baynton out of doors. after baynton's return from the chase the two men had gone off for a long walk together over the downs, and they had come home so late that dinner had had to be put off for half an hour. instead of joining her later, they had gone out again, but this time only into the garden. noiselessly she moved across the grass, and then, just as she was going to step under the still leaf-draped pergola, she heard her son's voice--a voice so charged with emotion and pain that, mastered by her anxiety, she stopped just behind one of the brick arches, and listened. "you'll oblige me, baynton, by keeping your sister's name out of this." "oh, very well! i thought you'd be glad to know what that woman said to me--i mean mrs. winslow." "i'm not glad. i'm sorry. mrs. winslow is mistaken." the short sentence came out with laboured breath as if with difficulty, and the one who overheard them, the anguished eavesdropper, felt her heart stirred with bitter impotence. how oliver cared--how much oliver cared! "why are you so sure of that?" again she heard baynton's full, caressing voice. "laura's a very reserved woman! i'd rather believe her best friend--apparently katty _is_ her best friend--about such a thing as this. you've admitted that _you_ love her." and as the other made no answer, gillie went on, speaking in a very low voice, but with every word clearly audible from the place where mrs. tropenell stood listening: "of course i won't mention laura--as it upsets you so much! but after all, my hatred for pavely and my love for my sister are the two strongest things in my life. surely you know that well enough, tropenell? i can't bar laura out!" and then came the answer, muttered between the speaker's teeth: "i understand that, baynton." "i'm sorry i repeated mrs. winslow's tale. but of course it did impress me--it did influence me. i'd _like_ to believe it, tropenell." the secret listener was surprised at the feeling which gillie's vibrant voice betrayed. oliver muttered something--was it, "i'd give my soul to know it true"? then, in a lighter tone, gillie exclaimed, "as to that other matter, i'd rather keep you out of the business altogether if i could! but i can't--quite." what was it that oliver answered then? the two men were now walking slowly away towards the further end of the pergola. mrs. tropenell strained her ears to hear her son's answer: "i don't want to keep out of it." was that what he said, in a very low, tense voice? gilbert baynton was speaking again: "it is _my_ idea, _my_ scheme, and i mean to carry it through! i shan't want much help--only quite a little help from you." and then she heard her son's voice again, and he was speaking more naturally this time. "of course we'll go shares, gillie! what d'you take me for? am i to have all the profit, and you all the risk?" mrs. tropenell breathed more freely. they were off from laura now, and on some business affair. she heard gillie baynton laugh aloud. "i'm quite looking forward to it--but it will be a longish job!" oliver answered, "_i'm_ not looking forward to it. you feel quite sure about this thing, baynton? there's time to draw back--now." "sure? of course i'm sure!" there was triumph, a challenge to fate, in the other's tone. "i've always liked playing for high stakes--you know that, eh?" "ay, i know that----" "and i've never looked back. i've never regretted anything i've done in my life----" there was a ring of boastful assurance in gilbert baynton's tone. "i can't say that of myself--i wish i could." "you? why, you've a milk-white record, compared to mine!" mrs. tropenell moved away swiftly over the grass, till she stood at the end of the dark, arched walk. then, "oliver!" she called out, "there's a message from lord st. amant. he wants to know if you can go over to the abbey next week, from saturday till tuesday. he says there'll be some shooting. i told him you'd ring up before going to bed--i hope that was right." "yes, mother. of course i'll ring up. i'll go in and do it now, if you like. gillie and i have been having a long business talk." and then she heard gilbert baynton: "i'll stay out here a bit longer, mrs. tropenell. i'm getting quite used to the cold and damp of the old country. i don't mind it as much as i did a week ago." mother and son walked across the lawn to the house. when they were indoors, he broke silence first: "gillie had a bad row with pavely this afternoon. i don't think it's any use his staying on here. pavely won't allow laura to see him again at the chase." mrs. tropenell uttered an exclamation of dismay. "yes, it's unfortunate, i admit. and i don't think it was gillie's fault! he's described the scene to me in great detail. he was quite willing to go as far as i think he could be expected to go in the way of apology and contrition. but pavely simply didn't give him a chance. pavely's a narrow-minded brute, mother." "is gillie very upset? is he much disappointed?" she asked in a low voice. "yes, i think gillie is upset--more upset than i should have expected him to be! he's disappointed, too, at not having seen little alice. he's really fond of children, and, as he truly says, alice is bound to be his heiress--unless of course he should marry, which is very unlikely." oliver was speaking in a preoccupied, absent voice, as if he was hardly thinking of what he was saying. "we're thinking, he and i, of going to the continent next week. we've got business to do in paris--rather important business, too. of course i'll try and come back here before leaving for mexico." mrs. tropenell felt as if the walls of the room were falling about her. oliver had always spoken of late as if he meant to stay on in england till after christmas. "how long d'you expect to be in france?" "i can't tell yet, mother. i might be there a fortnight, or i might be there six weeks--it all depends on the business we're going to do. no dates are settled yet." he waited a few moments, then said slowly, "i've been wondering whether you would mind going up with laura to london for a few days? somehow i think pavely is more likely to let her go if you offer to go too." there swept over her a feeling of recoil, but she let her son see nothing of that. "very well," she said quietly. "i quite understand--i'll do my best. i agree that laura ought to see her brother again. and what are _you_ thinking of doing, my dear?" "oh, i thought of going up to town, too." he spoke with a detached air. "you and i could stay in that nice little hotel where we stayed years ago, mother. of course i'm only thinking of a few days in town, before gillie and i go off to paris." as they came through into the house, she was startled by the expression on her son's face. he looked as if he had had a shock; he was very pale, it was as if all the healthy colour had been drained out of his tan cheeks. "oliver?" she exclaimed. "do you feel ill, my darling? when you came in before dinner you looked as if you had caught a chill." "it was rather cold on the downs, but i feel very much as usual, thank you, mother. a talk with gillie always tires me. i think he's got a rather----" he hesitated for a word, then found it--"obstreperous vitality." chapter xi when godfrey pavely arrived at the bank next morning it seemed to him that days, instead of hours, had gone by, since that hateful and degrading scene had taken place between himself and his wife's brother. laura had not spoken to him again, except to utter the few sentences which were necessary to keep up the pretence that they two were on their usual terms, before the servants, and, what had been more difficult, before their little daughter. after alice had gone to bed, they had eaten their dinner in silence, and, in silence also, they had spent the evening reading up to eleven o'clock. at last godfrey, getting up, had said in a nervous, conciliatory tone, "well, good-night, laura." but she had not answered him, for by that time the servants were gone to bed, and there was no longer any reason for hypocrisy. laura had always been an exceptionally silent woman, but this was the first time, in the long armed neutrality of their married life, that she had actually refused to answer when he spoke to her. feeling acutely uncomfortable, because curiously helpless, godfrey pavely now wondered how long this state of things was to endure. he asked himself whether he had said anything yesterday which could really justify laura in this extraordinary attitude. now and again there seemed to sound in his ears the voice in which she had uttered the last words which she had spoken to him of her own free will. "don't speak to me," she had exclaimed passionately. "i shall never, never forgive you for this!" women were so unreasonable--ridiculously, absurdly unreasonable. laura knew exactly what gillie was like, for he, godfrey, had gone to special pains to make laura fully understand the mean, despicable and _dangerous_ way in which her brother had behaved over the forged cheque--for forgery it was, though it had been difficult to persuade laura of the fact. he remembered now, how, at last, after he had forced his wife to understand, she had abased herself, imploring him to save her brother from the consequences of his wicked action. godfrey also remembered sorely how grateful laura had seemed to be after everything had been arranged, and gillie had finally gone off to mexico, a ruined and discredited man. he felt a glow of virtuous satisfaction when he recalled how she had thanked him--her kind, generous husband--for what he had done! true, the loan then advanced had been paid back, and gillie--to use the stupid expression which seems to be creeping into the british language--had "made good." but that was no reason why he should come back and thrust himself into his, godfrey's, home, and make friends with godfrey's only child--after he had actually given an undertaking, in his own, melodramatic words, "never to darken godfrey's door again." yet in his innermost heart godfrey pavely was sorry now that he had behaved as he had done yesterday. he had allowed his temper to get the better of him, always a silly thing for a sensible man to do. by behaving as he had done he had put a weapon into laura's hands.... at one moment he considered the advisability of going into freshley manor on his way home to-day, to consult mrs. tropenell. and then he had suddenly remembered that his brother-in-law was actually her guest! that fact alone made a most disagreeable complication. as he looked over his letters, and dictated some of the answers to them, he tried without success to put the matter out of his mind. it had taken there the place occupied by the unpleasantness connected with those absurd anonymous letters. for the first time, this morning he forgot them. there came a knock at the door. "a letter, sir, has just been brought by mrs. tropenell's man. he said there was an answer, so he's waiting." with quickened pulse, godfrey pavely opened the letter. he had long been familiar with mrs. tropenell's clear, flowing handwriting, and he wondered what she could have to say to him which she preferred to write, rather than telephone. the banker was attached to mrs. tropenell. always she had acted towards him in a high-minded, straightforward way, and on two occasions he had had reason to be specially grateful to her, for on each of these occasions she had intervened, successfully, between laura and himself, and made laura see reason. but she never alluded to the past, even in the remotest way, and he had come of late years to think and hope she had forgotten those now distant, painful, active misunderstandings. if mrs. tropenell was now pleading with him for a reconciliation with gilbert baynton, then he knew that it would be very difficult for him to say "no" to a woman to whom he owed so much. it would also be a graceful way of getting out of the difficulty in which he had involved himself.... but the contents of the letter disagreeably surprised him, for they were quite other than what he had expected them to be-- "dear godfrey:--oliver and gilbert baynton have to go to the continent on business. i think they will be away for some time, and gilbert speaks of going straight back to mexico from france. "i write to know if you will allow laura to come up to town with me for a few days? it would enable her to see something of her brother, before a separation which may last, as did their past separation, for years. "i hope, dear godfrey, you will see your way to granting this request of mine. it is in very truth my request--not laura's. "your affectionate old friend, "lettice tropenell." the unfortunate man--for he was in the full meaning of the words an unfortunate man--stared down at the letter. he felt moved and perplexed by the way it was worded. "your affectionate old friend"--what a strange way to sign herself! mrs. tropenell had never signed herself so before. and what exactly did she mean by saying that it was her request, not laura's? in spite of those words, he felt convinced that laura, too proud to ask this favour of him after the shameful way she had behaved yesterday, had persuaded mrs. tropenell to ask it for her. he sat down and drew a piece of notepaper towards him. he was glad of the opportunity of showing them all how magnanimous he was--how much of a _man_. laura should go to london with his full permission. of course he knew quite well, at the back of his mind, that if he refused it she would probably go just the same. but in all the circumstances it would be just as well to heap coals of fire on her head. she should go--but not taking their child with her. his little alice must not be contaminated. when his daughter was old enough, he, godfrey, would tell her the truth about her mother's brother. he did not hold with concealing this sort of thing from young people. in _his_ family, thank god, there had never been anything to hide. all had always been honest and above-board. besides, if anything happened to him, alice would be a very wealthy woman, and gillie would almost certainly try and get hold of her and of her money. he, godfrey, knew that well enough. "my dear mrs. tropenell:--certainly it shall be as you ask----" he could not help adding, "though laura knows that in doing this she is disregarding my formal wishes. still, i admit that, gillie being her brother, it is, i suppose, natural that she should wish to see him again before he leaves england." then he hesitated--indeed, he kept the messenger for whom he had already rung waiting for quite a long time. but at last he signed himself: "your affectionate, and always grateful, godfrey pavely." when the banker reached home rather early that afternoon--for he felt too much upset to go in and spend his usual pleasant hour with katty at rosedean--little alice met him with the news that "mummy" had gone to london, and that she, alice, was going to be allowed to sit up to dinner to bear him company. it was characteristic of the man that, if relieved, he was also sharply annoyed. he had hoped to extract from his wife some word of reluctant thanks for his magnanimity. but no, she had not even left a note telling him what day she would return! things had not fallen out at the chase that morning as godfrey pavely had supposed. after breakfast laura, still in a kind of stupor of pain and indignation, had gone into the garden. she had not been there a quarter of an hour when mrs. tropenell, who so seldom came to the chase, had suddenly appeared, walking with stately, leisurely steps over the grass, to tell her of oliver's and gillie's coming departure for the continent. it was mrs. tropenell who had proposed sending that note to godfrey, but godfrey, who so little understood his wife, either for good or evil, was right in his belief that she would not have allowed her plans to be affected by his answer. at once laura had determined to go to london, whether godfrey gave his consent or no. yet she was relieved when there came to her from freshley the news that her husband's answer to mrs. tropenell's request was in the affirmative. the message was given to her over the telephone by oliver tropenell, and in giving it he used the allusive form of words which come naturally when a man knows that what he says may be overheard: "mother has just had a note saying that it is quite all right. so we propose to call for you in time to get the five minutes to one from langford junction. does that give you enough time?" and she had exclaimed, "oh, yes, yes! i'm quite ready now." to that he had made no answer, and she had felt a little chill at the heart. oliver's voice had sounded curiously cold--but then the telephone does sometimes alter voices strangely. those eight days in london! laura was often to live through each of those long days during the dull weeks which followed her return home. yet, when she did look back on that time, she had to admit that she had not been really happy, though the first hours had been filled with a sort of excited triumph and sense of victory. it was such a relief, too, to be away from godfrey, and spared, even if only for a few days, the constant, painful irritation of his presence. but her brother, for whose sake, after all, she was in london, jarred on her perpetually. for one thing, gillie was in extravagant, almost unnaturally high spirits, set on what he called "having a good time," and his idea of a good time was, as oliver once grimly remarked, slightly monotonous. gillie's good time consisted in an eager round of business interviews, culminating each evening in a rich dinner at one of the smart grill-rooms which were then the fashion, followed by three hours of a musical comedy, and finally supper at some restaurant, the more expensive the better. to his sister, each evening so spent seemed a dreary waste of precious time. for in the daytime the two ladies, who had taken rooms in an old-fashioned hotel in a small street off piccadilly, saw very little of gillie and oliver. gillie had insisted that oliver and he should go and stay at what he considered the smartest and most modern hotel in london, and though the strangely assorted quartette always lunched together, the two partners had a good deal to do each morning and most afternoons. to mrs. tropenell's surprise oliver apparently had no wish to be with laura alone. was it because he was afraid of giving himself away to his coarse-minded, jovial partner? oliver looked stern, abstracted, and, when at the play, bored. she admitted another possible reason for his almost scrupulous avoidance of laura. with regard to the bitter feud between the brothers-in-law, oliver had spoken to his mother with curious apathy. perhaps he was honestly desirous of not taking sides. but on the whole mrs. tropenell swung more often to her first theory, and this view was curiously confirmed on the one sunday spent by them in town. gillie, grumbling, a good deal at the dulness of the english sunday, had motored off early to the country to spend the day with some people whom he had known in mexico. and late that morning oliver suddenly suggested that laura and he should go out for a turn in the green park--only a stone's-throw from the rooms the two ladies were sharing. and that hour, which was perhaps fraught with bigger circumstance than any one, save oliver himself, was ever to know, did remain in laura pavely's memory as a strange and, in a sense, a delicious oasis, in her long, arid stay in london. for, as the two walked and talked intimately together in a solitude all the greater because peopled by the indifferent and unknown, they seemed to come nearer to one another--and to meet, for the first time, in an atmosphere of clarity and truth. laura, perhaps because she had felt, during these last few days, so desperately lonely in a spiritual sense, talked more freely, albeit in a more detached way, to her devoted, considerate, and selfless friend, than she had ever been able to bring herself to do to any other human being. * * * * * for a while, after they had turned and begun pacing together under the now yellowing plane trees, neither of them spoke. then oliver said abruptly, "so all our schemes have vanished into air--i'm sorry." "i'm sorry too," she said. "i always knew that godfrey would never allow me to go away with gillie, but i never, never thought that even he could behave as he did to my brother the other day----" there was a sound of suppressed passion and revolt in her voice that he had never heard there before. it touched a chord in his own heart, but all he said, slowly, was, "i suppose gillie irritated him." "no, i don't think so. there wasn't time for gillie to do anything, for godfrey at once refused to shake hands with him. that's how it began." "gillie ought to have written first. my mother begged him not to take godfrey by surprise----" "your mother is always right," she said in a low voice. "i've never known her wrong yet, though her advice isn't always easy to follow, oliver." "i'm afraid she was right this time, anyhow." "i know she was." there fell between them a long, pregnant silence. and then oliver said, in a low, moved voice, "i'm afraid that this last business has made you very unhappy, laura?" she answered, "yes--foolishly so. i ought not to have been surprised, for by this time i know godfrey so well." and she believed herself to be speaking the truth. "it's not his fault," she went on painfully, "that he has nothing in common with me and with my brother, different as we, too, are the one from the other. gillie and i might have been born on different planets from godfrey." laura had not meant to speak of godfrey to oliver. indeed, she had formed the resolution never to do so again. but somehow, to-day, she felt as if she might break that salutary rule. his next words seemed to prove to her that she could trust him to understand, for, "yes," he said quietly, "you're right there, laura. you and godfrey have nothing in common between you, and that being so, i suppose there's nothing to be done?" "no, there's nothing to be done," she repeated hopelessly. and then once more she broke her wise resolution: "if it hadn't been for alice, i should, even now, be tempted to do what i so nearly did at the time that godfrey and gillie"--she hesitated--"had their first misunderstanding." "what you nearly did then, laura?" there came an eager, questioning thrill in her companion's strained voice. "yes--" why shouldn't she unburden her heart for once? "yes, at the time of that first quarrel between my brother and my husband, i nearly left godfrey. but for your mother, i should have done so. alice was a tiny baby then, and i didn't realise, as i realise now, what an awful responsibility a woman takes on herself in breaking up a child's happy home. only your mother stopped my doing it, and the fact"--she looked at him with a soundless depth of sadness in her face--"the fact that gillie didn't really want me to go and live with him. of course it was long before the question of his going to mexico was raised." "and have you never regretted that you did not carry out that purpose?" oliver tropenell was looking straight before him as he asked the dangerous question. they were walking, slowly, slowly, along the broad path which runs just within the railings along the park side of piccadilly. between twelve and one on an autumn sunday morning this path is generally deserted. she did not answer at once, and he said quickly, "forgive me! i ought not to have asked you that." "yes," she said again, "you can ask me anything you like, oliver. but it's very difficult to answer such a question truthfully." and again there fell between them one of those long silences which played a curious part in a conversation neither ever forgot. at last laura did answer oliver's dangerous question. "i have always known in my heart that your mother was right in making me do what she did--i mean in persuading me that for my little girl's sake i must go on. alice loves her father, though i think, perhaps foolishly, that of the two she cares for me best----" "of course she does!" he exclaimed. "but whether that be so or not, i know what a terrible thing it would have been for alice if godfrey and i had lived apart. i've never doubted that--i don't doubt it now. but for that i could not go on--after what happened the other day." "then if, as is of course possible, you and i don't meet again for years and years, am i to think of you as always going on in exactly the same way?" he asked. some cruel devil outside himself had seemed to force him to utter the hopeless question which he had already made up his mind should be, must be, answered by fate in the negative. they had stopped their slow pacing side by side, and he was now looking down into her sad, desolate eyes. he saw the word--the one word "yes," form itself on her quivering lips. "do you really mean that, laura? answer me truly." and then suddenly there came over laura pavely an extraordinary sensation. it was as if this man, whose burning eyes were fixed on her face, were willing her to say aloud something which, however true, were better left unsaid. "there will never come any change," she answered, feeling as if the words were being forced out of her, "till, as the marriage service says, 'death us do part.'" "do you ever think of that possibility?" he put the probing question in a singularly detached, almost a light, tone of inquiry. but she answered very solemnly, again as if impelled to tell him the truth--a truth she had never thought to tell to any human being: "there was a time before alice was born when i was so unhappy, largely, as i can see now, through my own fault, when i felt i could not bear it any longer, and----" her voice dropped, and he bent down so that he might catch the almost whispered words, "i was strongly tempted to--to kill myself," she said. "i used to go and walk up and down that little path across the head of the lake, and plan out how i would do it. even now i do not think that any one, except perhaps your mother, would ever have suspected. it would have been so easy to make it appear an absolute accident." he remained silent, and she went on, more composedly: "i had got into a selfish, morbid state, oliver, and yet the temptation was not wholly selfish, for i knew that godfrey was miserable too, and my sense told me that if anything happened to me he would very soon marry again--some woman who would appreciate his good qualities, who would be happy with him, who would not be, as i knew i was, a bitter disappointment." once more her voice had become nearly inaudible, and once more oliver bent his dark, convulsed face down to hear what she said. tears were rolling down laura's face. but suddenly she made an immense effort over herself, and went on, calmly: "it was your mother who helped me over that bad, foolish time. i don't know what i should have done but for aunt letty. i think she's the only person in the world to whom godfrey ever listens--who can ever make any impression on him. it's strange in a way, for i know she doesn't really like either of us." as he uttered a violent expression of dissent, she went on: "it's quite true, oliver, and what is more, of the two she likes godfrey the best. why shouldn't she? she thinks i've behaved very unkindly to godfrey. the only excuse she can make for me--she told me so once, long ago--is that i'm inhuman. i suppose in a way i _am_ inhuman?" she looked at him plaintively, a strange, piteous expression in her beautiful, shadowed eyes. and oliver tropenell caught his breath. god--how he loved her! her inhumanity--to use that cruelly misleading term which she had just used herself--only made his passion burn with a purer, whiter flame. the one thing in the world that mattered to him now was this woman's deliverance from the awful death-in-life to which her sensitive conscience, and her moving love for her child, alone condemned her. yes, laura's deliverance was the only thing worth compassing--and that even if the deliverer were wrecked, soul as well as body, body as well as soul, in the process. they began walking again, slowly, slowly, once more enwrapped in a silence which said so much more than words could have said, even to laura's still numb, unawakened heart. it was she who at last broke the kind of spell which lay on them both. they had come almost to the end of the broad path. opposite to where they were standing, on the other side of the road, was a huge white and green building, handsome and showy, looking strangely un-english and out of place in the famous old london way. "they pulled down such a wonderful, delightful house just there," she said regretfully. "i was once taken to it by my father, when i was quite a little girl. it was like going right back a hundred years--not only to another london, but to another england. it's a shame that any one should have been allowed to pull down such a bit of old london as that." and oliver agreed, absently. so, talking of indifferent things, they walked back to the hotel where mrs. tropenell was awaiting them, and the three afterwards spent the rest of the day peacefully together. but the next day there began again for them all the same dreary round--that odd, artificial life of "having a good time," as gillie jovially put it. somehow laura did not mind it so much now as she had done before. her talk with oliver had shifted her burden a little, and made her feel as if he and she had gone back to their old, happy, simple friendship. it had also deadened her feeling of acute, unreasoning anger with godfrey. at last came the morning when oliver and gillie were to go to paris. and at the last moment, standing on the platform at charing cross, there took place a rather pathetic, ridiculous little scene. gillie had bought for his sister a beautiful old jewel, and he thrust it--with a merry little word as to this being the first really nice present he had ever given her--into her hand. when she opened the case and saw the emerald and pearl heart, her eyes brimmed over with tears. even gillie was moved. "there, there!" he exclaimed. "nothing to cry about--'nuff said,' laura. perhaps we'll meet again sooner than you think, my friends the americans say." and she tried to smile. then gillie turned to mrs. tropenell, speaking with much greater sincerity of feeling than he was wont to do. "i'll never forget your kindness--in the past and in the present--to my sister and to me, mrs. tropenell. i'm not such a careless brute as i seem to be--i never forget a kindness--or an injury. now then, oliver!" laura felt her hand seized, closed on in a vice-like pressure which hurt, then dropped. "good-bye, laura," said oliver in an almost inaudible tone. "good-bye, till we meet again." chapter xii as so often happens after hours or days of crises, and even of quarrel, things went better for a while after laura's return to the chase. true, life was now, even more than before, dull, sad, and difficult. she missed oliver tropenell's constant companionship and stimulating talk, more than she was willing to acknowledge even to her innermost self. and yet, when godfrey spoke of the other man's absence from freshley with regret, his words jarred on her, and made her feel vaguely ashamed. yet surely, surely she had nothing to reproach herself with in the matter of oliver tropenell? she would so gladly have kept him as godfrey's friend as well as her own. they had made it up, those two ill-matched people--made it up, that is, after a fashion. they were now much where they had been six months ago, just before oliver tropenell with his strong, masterful personality had come into their joint lives. and godfrey? godfrey pavely was happier, more complacent than usual, during those late autumn days. he also was ashamed--though not unreasonably so--of the absurd importance he had attached to those two vulgar anonymous letters! he was sorry now that he had spoken of the matter to oliver tropenell, for that odd, rather awkward talk of theirs on the matter had been perhaps a contributory cause of the other man's sudden departure. if oliver came home for christmas, he, godfrey, would "make it all right." the banker had yet another reason for feeling life pleasanter than usual just now. he was engaged in a rather big bit of financial business of a kind his soul loved, for it was secret, immediately profitable, and with a gambling risk attached to it. the only person to whom he had said a word concerning the affair was katty winslow, and even to her, for he was a very prudent man, he had been quite vague. with katty he was becoming daily more intimate. laura's cold aloofness made him seek, instinctively, a kinder, warmer, and yes, occasionally, a tenderer feminine presence. for the first time, lately, godfrey had begun to tell himself that katty would have made an almost perfect wife.... and katty could have told you almost the exact moment when that thought had first flashed upon godfrey pavely's brain. but she also knew that so far he was content, most irritatingly content, with the _status quo_. not so she----and one evening katty tried an experiment which was on the whole remarkably successful, though its effects were strangely different from what she had expected. while dining alone with godfrey and laura at the chase, she startled her host and hostess by throwing out a careless word as to the possibility of her leaving rosedean--of letting the house furnished, for a year.... laura was astonished to see how much this casual remark of katty's upset godfrey. he uttered an exclamation of deep surprise and annoyance, and his wife told herself bitterly how strange it was that godfrey, feeling so strongly about katty, should not understand how she, laura, felt about gillie. after all, gillie was her own brother, and katty was not godfrey's sister--only an old playmate and friend! godfrey was, in very truth, much more than upset at those few careless words of his old friend--playmate, in the sense that laura meant, she had never been. so disturbed and taken aback indeed that he lay awake much of that night. the next morning he broke his walk into pewsbury by going into rosedean, this being the very first time he had ever done such a thing. he was kept waiting a few moments--as a matter of fact only a very few moments--in the familiar little drawing-room, before katty, wearing a charming, pale blue dressing-gown, edged with swansdown, joined him. as was her way, she began speaking at once. "why, what's the matter?" she exclaimed. "has anything gone wrong, godfrey?" he answered irritably, "no, not that i know of. but i've something to say to you." he pulled out his big, old-fashioned gold repeater. "it's twenty to ten--i thought i'd find you down!" "i always breakfast upstairs in my own room. but i didn't keep you waiting long----" she was still a little breathless, for she had come down very quickly. and then he began, with no preamble: "i want to know if you really meant what you said last night about letting this house furnished for a year? i'm by no means sure if the terms of your lease allow for your doing that; i shall have to look into it after i get to the bank. still, i thought i'd better come and see you first." katty grew very pink. "oh, godfrey!" she exclaimed. "surely you wouldn't be so unkind----?" there came over her pretty face that curious, obstinate look which he had already seen there often enough to dread. also she made him feel ashamed of himself. but how attractive she looked--how fresh and dainty--like a newly opened rose! katty had twisted up her hair anyhow, but that only made her look younger, and more natural. "let's come out into the garden," she said coaxingly. "surely you can stay for a few minutes? this is the very first time you've ever been to see me in the morning! why not telephone through and say you've been delayed,--that you can't be at the bank till eleven?" she was edging him as she spoke towards the corner where, behind a screen, there stood the telephone instrument. as if compelled to obey, he took up the receiver, and uttered the familiar words, "pewsbury ." and at once there came an answer. "is that you, privet? what a comfort it is to know that i can always rely on your being there, whoever else isn't! this is only to say that i have been delayed, and that i don't expect to be at the bank till eleven." then came the calming, comforting answer, "very good. that'll be all right, sir. there's nothing much doing this morning, from what i could make out when i was looking over your letters just now." so godfrey pavely, feeling rather as if he was being driven along by a pleasant fate, hung the receiver up, and followed the blue-garbed figure out of doors, into a little pleasance now filled with exquisite autumnal colouring, and pungent, searching scents. in the furthest corner of the walled garden, which was so much older than the house itself, was a tiny lawn surrounded by high hedges. there they could talk without any fear of being overlooked or overheard; and, before her visitor could stop her, katty had dragged two cane-seated easy chairs out of her little summer-house. they both sat down, but this time katty warily remained silent. she was waiting for her companion to begin. "you weren't serious, were you?" he said at last, and she felt the underlying pain and surprise in his voice. "you don't really mean that you want to go away, katty? where would you go to? what would you do? have the standens asked you to go abroad again--not for a whole year, surely?" "no," she said slowly, "not the standens. if you must know, i've been offered a furnished cottage rent-free by those friends of mine, the haworths, who live near york. the truth is, i can't afford to keep up rosedean! i hate saying this to you, but it's the truth." "if you didn't go away so much----" he began irritably. but she cut across him sharply, "after all, i've a right to go away if i like! but it isn't that, godfrey. i've gone into it all--really i have! even if i never left rosedean i should still be too poor to go on living here comfortably." "how much too poor?" he asked. katty drew a long breath. in a sense she was speaking at random, but no one would have known it from the tone in which she answered: "about a hundred a year--a little less, a little more." and then godfrey pavely said something which very much surprised katty. "about that thousand pounds which was left to you the other day," he said hesitatingly. "well? that'll only bring in thirty-five pounds a year; you made all the arrangements," she added wearily. "you wouldn't let me have it--as i wanted you to do." "i couldn't, katty, you know that! i didn't ask your aunt to make me your trustee." "well, that thirty-five pounds won't make any difference." she was sorry now she had told him of the little house on her generous friends' estate. perhaps he would offer to let her off the rosedean rent. but katty had quite made up her mind to cut the cable, and make a fresh start elsewhere. "wait a bit," he said slowly, "women always run on so fast! when i mentioned that thousand pounds, i was not thinking of giving it you, as you call it, to spend. i was thinking of that foreign investment i mentioned to you last week. if you're willing to take the risk, i might stretch a point, for if things go well that thousand pounds might easily be trebled in the course of the next two years. i'm so sure of that, that i'm quite willing to advance you, say, two hundred pounds." he knew quite well that his proposal was utterly illogical, and bore, so to speak, no relation to the fact that the investment he was proposing might turn up trumps. katty's eyes sparkled. she was very fond of ready money, and it was such a long, long time since she had had any. "d'you mean you'd really give me two hundred pounds _now_?" she asked joyfully. and godfrey, with his eyes fixed on the grass, said in a shamed voice, "yes--that is what i do mean." somehow it hurt him to feel how that sum of money, so trifling to him, affected her so keenly. he was better pleased with her next question. "what sort of an investment exactly is it?" "it's in the nature of a company promotion," he said slowly. "and of course you must regard anything i tell you about it as absolutely private." "yes, i quite understand that!" he drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. "as a matter of fact i've got a few facts about it jotted down here." she drew her chair rather nearer to his, and godfrey pavely, turning his narrow yet fleshy face towards her, began speaking with far more eagerness and animation than usual. katty, who was by no means a fool where such things were concerned, listened absorbedly while he explained the rather big bit of financial business in which he was now interested. after he had been speaking to her without interruption for some minutes, katty exclaimed: "yes, i think i see now exactly what you mean! there certainly doesn't seem much risk attached to it--at any rate as regards the start off, as it were. but what made these french bankers pick _you_ out, godfrey? after all, they're doing you a very good turn." "i don't exactly know why they picked me out, as you call it----" he spoke hesitatingly. "but during that year i spent in paris i came across a great many of that sort of people. my father got me the best possible introductions." the piece of paper on which he had jotted certain notes and calculations was a large piece of thin foreign notepaper covered with small handwriting in the diluted ink which some french business men use. "can you read french?" he asked doubtfully. she answered rather sharply, "yes, of course i can!" and held out her hand. the letter, which bore a paris address, and the date of a fortnight back, was from the french banking house of zosean & co. it explained at some length that a client of the bank, a wealthy south american of portuguese extraction named fernando apra, had become possessed of an estate on the coast of portugal to which was attached a gambling concession. the idea was to make the place a kind of portuguese monte carlo, and the present possessor was very desirous that english capital and english brains should be put into the company. the returns promised were enormous, and there seemed to be little or no risk attached to the business--if it was run on the right lines. "i have gone into the matter very thoroughly," said godfrey pavely, "and i have convinced myself that it's all right. this fernando apra already has a london office. i managed to see him there for a few minutes last week. his real headquarters are in paris." "and are you finding all the money?" asked katty eagerly. "will it be all your money and _my_ thousand pounds, godfrey? in that case i suppose we shall get all the profits?" he smiled a little at woman's cupidity. "no," he said, "i haven't been able to find it all myself. but i've managed to get in a very good man. some one with whom i've done business before, katty." "what's his name?" she asked inquisitively. godfrey pavely waited a moment. "i don't know that i ought to tell you--" he said uncomfortably. "he doesn't want to appear in the business." "of course you ought to tell me!" all sorts of strange ideas floated through katty's mind. was he going to say "oliver tropenell"? she rather expected he was. "well, i _will_ tell you," he said, "for i know you can hold your tongue. the name of the man who's going into this business with me is greville howard." "d'you mean the big money-lender?" katty couldn't help a little tone of doubt, of rather shocked surprise, creeping into her voice. "yes," he said doggedly, "i do mean the man who was once a great money-lender. he's retired now--in fact he's living----" and then he stopped himself. "why, of course!" katty felt quite excited. "he's living in yorkshire, near the haworths! they've often talked about him to me! they don't know him--he won't know anybody. he's a rather queer fish, isn't he, godfrey?" "he's absolutely straight about money," exclaimed godfrey pavely defensively. "i've had dealings with him over many years. in fact he's the ideal man for this kind of thing. he has all sorts of irons in the fire--financially i mean--on the continent. he's a big shareholder in the company that runs the dieppe and boulogne casinos." he got up. "well, i ought to be going now. it's all right isn't it, katty? you won't talk again of going away?" "could you let me have that two hundred pounds this afternoon?" she asked abruptly. godfrey pavely looked at her with a curious, yearning, rather sad look. somehow he would have preferred that katty should not be quite so--so--he hardly formulated the thought to himself--so ready to do _anything_ for money. "very well," he said. "very well, my dear"--he very seldom called her "my dear," but he had done so once or twice lately. "i'll bring it this afternoon, in notes." "that _will_ be kind of you," she said gratefully. "but look here, godfrey, do take it out of my thousand pounds! put eight hundred in this thing." he shook his head and smiled. women were queer, curiously unscrupulous creatures! "that would be right down dishonest of me, katty." they were now walking across the little lawn, which was so securely tucked away, out of sight of any prying window, and before going through the aperture which had been cut in the hedge, they both turned round and clasped hands. "thank you so--so much," she said softly. "you've been a dear, kind friend to me always, godfrey." "have i?" he said. "have i, katty? not always, i fear." "yes, always," and her voice trembled a little. he bent down and kissed her on the mouth with a kind of shamed, passionate solemnity which moved, and, yes, a little amused her. what _queer_, curiously scrupulous creatures men were! "go now, or you'll be late," she whispered. and he went. part two chapter xiii certain days become retrospectively memorable, and that however apparently uneventful they may have seemed at the time. to laura pavely the th of january opened as had done all the other days during the last few weeks, that is, quietly, dully, and sadly. there was one difference, trifling or not as one happened to look at the matter. godfrey was away in london. he had been absent for over a week--since the th, and though he had been expected back last night, there had come a telephone message, late in the afternoon, to say that his business would keep him away a day longer. this morning--it was a friday morning--laura, trying hard to shake off her depression, told herself that she and alice might as well go for a ride. it was a beautiful day, and the wind blew soft. they would go across the downs to a certain lonely spot which alice loved. laura was already in the hall in her riding habit, waiting for the child, when there came a telephone message through from pewsbury. it was from the bank asking what time mr. pavely would be there. a gentleman with whom he had made an appointment for ten o'clock, had been waiting for him since that hour. it was now nearly eleven. laura turned to the servant: "did mr. pavely give you any message to send on to the bank?" she asked. the man answered, "no, ma'am, not that i understood. mr. pavely didn't come himself to the telephone." "what was the message exactly?" laura was always kind and courteous in her manner to her servants, and they were all attached to her. "it was as how mr. pavely was being detained, and could not be home last night, ma'am. the person who gave the message was in a great hurry--he cut me off before i could say anything to him." "i suppose we ought to have telephoned to the bank early this morning," said laura thoughtfully. but it had never occurred to her that it would be necessary for her to do so. her husband was a very exact man of business. she had taken it as certain that he had also communicated with the bank. "who was it telephoned just now?" she asked. "i think it was mr. privet himself, ma'am. he said he felt sure mr. pavely intended to be back this morning, because of the gentleman he had arranged to see." "perhaps i had better speak to mr. privet myself," said laura. "is that you, mr. privet?" "i wish you a very good morning, mrs. pavely. i didn't mean to put you to any trouble, but you see the matter is important----" even through the telephone she could hear a mysterious tone in the old voice, though he was speaking in so low a tone that she could scarcely hear. "it's lord st. amant. he's been here since ten o'clock, and he says he can't stop any longer. mr. pavely made an appointment with his lordship over a week ago. it's very strange he should have forgotten, isn't it, mrs. pavely?" "yes, i think it _is_ strange," she said slowly. "will you tell his lordship that i'm exceedingly sorry that word was not sent him. if i had known of the appointment, of course i would have communicated with him either by telephone or by a note." "then i'm to put off all mr. pavely's appointments for to-day?" "well, yes, mr. privet, that seems to me the only thing you can do." laura smiled a little as she left the telephone. mr. privet's tone, if not his words, made it quite clear that he thought mr. pavely had committed a serious solecism, almost the worst solecism a country banker could commit, in not keeping an appointment with the great man of the neighbourhood, who was to be the new lord lieutenant of the county. * * * * * an hour and a half later, as mother and child were riding slowly home, laura suddenly told herself that it was a long time since mrs. tropenell had seen alice on pony-back. why shouldn't they both go on to freshley? and if aunt letty asked them to stay to lunch, as she very probably would, so much the better! on their way to the front door of the house, they turned into the stable-yard to find a groom, and then, suddenly, laura felt a queer, and to herself an utterly unexpected and new, sensation sweep over her. it was a sensation of eager, unreasoning joy. oliver tropenell stood in the middle of the yard, talking to his mother's old groom. he looked ill and tired--dreadfully tired. but all at once, as he saw laura and her child come riding in, a wonderful change swept over his dark face--there came over it a glowing expression of welcome and delight. he lifted alice off her pony. then he came forward to help laura.... with a shock of surprise which seemed to make her heart stop beating, laura felt her whole being responding to the ardent, and at once imperious and imploring look with which he gazed up into her eyes. she was shaken, awed by the passion he threw, perhaps unconsciously, into that long, beckoning look--stirred to the heart by the feeling of content his mere presence brought her. but even in those few flashing moments, laura pavely quickly, almost fiercely, assured herself that this new, strange sensation of oneness, of surrender on her part, was "friendship," nothing more. yet her voice faltered in spite of herself, as she said, "hadn't we better ride round? i only came in here to find some one to hold the horses, in case your mother wanted us to come in." but with a muttered, "mother has got lord st. amant to luncheon--i know she would like you both to stay, too," he lifted her off her horse. they walked to a door which led into the back part of the house, and so by a corridor to a small room where mrs. tropenell generally sat in the morning. as they went along, alice, alone, chattered happily. at last laura, more for the sake of proving to herself that she felt quite at ease than for anything else, asked suddenly, "i suppose you didn't see godfrey on your way through london?" oliver waited a few moments--so long indeed that she wondered if he had heard her. but she knew in her heart that he had, for his face had darkened at the mention of her husband's name. at last he answered, very deliberately, "is godfrey away then?" "yes. he went off some days ago. we expected him home yesterday; but he sent a telephone message to say he wasn't coming back till to-night." they were now before the door of mrs. tropenell's sitting-room. her son opened it quietly, and for a moment the three stood there, gazing into the panelled, sunlit little room, which was part of the survival of a much older building than the eighteenth-century manor-house. mrs. tropenell, sitting upright in a low chair, was looking up into the face of the man who stood before her, and they were both so absorbed in what they were saying that neither had heard the door open. laura gazed with new eyes, a new curiosity, at lord st. amant. she had seen him often in this house, though sometimes at comparatively long intervals, ever since she was a child, and always he had had a fixed place, in her mind and imagination, as mrs. tropenell's one man-friend. to-day, seeing the two thus talking eagerly together she felt her interest oddly quickened. she was asking herself eagerly whether some such passage as that which had taken place between herself and oliver tropenell three months ago, and which had caused her so much pain, had ever occurred between those two in the days when lady st. amant, a fretful, selfish invalid whom every one disliked, was still alive. if yes, then mrs. tropenell had evidently known how to retain the friendship, the warm affections of a man who, younger, had been notoriously inconstant. in laura's eyes these two had always been old when she thought of them at all. but to-day she realised, as in a flash, that the man and woman before her had also been young, and that not so very long ago. even now, lord st. amant was a still vigorous and active-looking man. he was leaning over the back of a chair, looking eagerly into his old friend's face. was it true, as some of the gossips said, that he had remained a widower for that same friend's sake? laura gazed at him with an almost hungry curiosity. she was absurdly surprised that he looked to-day exactly as he had always looked in her eyes--a pleasant, agreeable-mannered, amusing man of the world, not at all her notion of the one-time lover of many women. lord st. amant's hair had now gone white, but, apart from that he looked just as he had been wont to look, when he came and went about freshley manor, when she, as a child, had stayed there with her mother. some years later, she had become dimly aware--girls always know such things--that mrs. tropenell had had a fleeting notion of marrying her to lord st. amant. but laura had also known that it was mrs. tropenell, not herself, who was the magnet which then drew him so often to freshley manor. they had once, however, had an intimate talk together. it had been on one of the very rare occasions when mrs. tropenell was ill, confined to bed, upstairs, and she, laura baynton, had been left alone to entertain her aunt letty's old friend. and their talk--she remembered it now--had been all of oliver: of oliver and his mother. lord st. amant had spoken with much heat of oliver's having settled on the other side of the world, leaving mrs. tropenell lonely. then he had smiled a curious little smile: "but that makes no difference. to a mother 'distance makes the heart grow fonder,' and also 'lends enchantment to the view.' an only son, laura, is the most formidable of rivals." the girl had been flattered, touched too, by the implied confidence. she had yet another vivid memory of lord st. amant. he had sent her, immediately on hearing of her engagement to godfrey pavely, a magnificent wedding present; also he had come, at some inconvenience, to her marriage. godfrey had supposed the compliment due to regard for himself and for his father, but laura, of course, had known better. lord st. amant had come to her marriage to please mrs. tropenell--because he regarded her, in a sense, as mrs. tropenell's adopted daughter. something of all this moved in quick procession through laura pavely's mind, as she stood in the doorway, looking more beautiful, more animated, more feminine, in spite of--or was it because of?--her riding dress, than oliver tropenell had ever seen her. she moved forward into the room, and lord st. amant turned quickly round. if laura looked at lord st. amant with a new interest, a new curiosity in her beautiful eyes, he, on his side, now looked at laura more attentively than he had done for a long time. he had been abroad for two months, and this was the first time he and mrs. tropenell had met since his return. they had just had a long talk, and during that talk she had at last told him something which had amused, surprised, and yes, interested him very much; for lord st. amant, in the evening of his days, found himself more, not less, tolerant of, and interested in, human nature, and in human nature's curious kinks and byways, than at the time when he himself had provided his friends and contemporaries with food for gossip and scandal. but he had been very comforting in his comments on her story, and more than once he had made his old friend smile. mrs. tropenell had felt very, very glad to see lord st. amant. it was natural that she should be glad to have once more within easy reach of her the one human being in the world to whom she could talk freely, and who took an unaffectedly close, deep interest in all her concerns. * * * * * not till they were all sitting at luncheon, was laura able, in a low tone, to inquire after her brother. little alice knew nothing of her uncle's visit to england. godfrey and laura had tacitly agreed to keep the child in ignorance of it. but now laura asked, with some eagerness, "and gillie? what's happened to gillie? is he still abroad?" olive answered at once, "no, he's gone back to mexico." and then, as he saw a look of blank disappointment shadow her face, he added, hastily, "he gave me a lot of messages for you--i was coming over this afternoon to deliver them. you know what gillie's like--he never writes if he can help it!" "yes," she said, "i know that," and she sighed. "did he go from a french port?" she asked. oliver hesitated. it was almost as if he had forgotten. but at last he answered, "yes, he went from havre. i saw him off." and then something rather untoward happened. there came a violent ringing at the front door--a loud, imperious pulling at the big, old-fashioned iron bell-pull. to the surprise of his mother, oliver flushed--a deep, unbecoming brick red. starting up from table, he pushed his chair aside, and walked quickly to the door. it was almost as if he expected some one. "i'll see who it is!" he called out. they heard him striding across the hall, and flinging open the front door.... then he came back slowly, and mrs. tropenell saw that there was a look of immeasurable relief on his face. "it's a man who's brought a parcel from pewsbury for one of the servants. he declared he couldn't make any one hear at the back, and so he came round to the front door--rather impudent of him, eh?" and he sat down again. coffee was served in the pleasant, low-ceilinged drawing-room, and then oliver and laura went out of doors, with alice trotting by their side. it was quite like old times. and the child voiced their unspoken feeling, when, slipping her hand into oliver's, she exclaimed, "this is jolly! just like what it used to be when you were here before!" and he pressed the little hand which lay so confidingly in his. "yes," he said, in a low voice, "the same--but nicer, don't you think so, alice?" and alice answered with the downrightness of childhood, "i can't tell yet! i shall know that after you've been here a little while. we can't garden as much as we did then, for now the ground is too hard." "but we can do other things," said oliver, smiling down at her. and alice answered doubtfully, "yes, i suppose we can." they did not say very much. oliver did not talk, as perhaps another man would have done, of his and gillie's adventures in france and italy. and after a comparatively short time laura suggested that she and alice had better now ride home. "will you come over to tea?" she asked. and oliver said yes, that he would. "i daresay godfrey will be back by then. he often takes the early afternoon train down from london." but to that he made no answer, and laura, with a rather painful sensation, saw the light suddenly die out of his face. he came round to the stable. "i'll walk a little way with you," he said. but she exclaimed rather hurriedly, "no, don't do that, oliver! stay with your mother and lord st. amant." and without any word of protest he obeyed her. * * * * * it is strange what a difference the return of a friend may make to life! laura pavely felt another woman as she busied herself that afternoon, happily waiting for oliver tropenell. honestly she hoped that godfrey would come back by the early afternoon train; he, too, would be glad to see oliver. but the time went by, and there came no message through from london ordering the car to be sent to the station, and laura told herself that perhaps godfrey had gone straight to the bank. at last, a little after five, oliver tropenell came sauntering in, very much as he used to saunter in, during the long happy summer days when they had just become friends. they had tea in alice's day-nursery, and after tea, they all three played games till it was nearly seven. then, reluctantly, oliver got up, and said he must go home. and as he stood there, gazing down into her face, laura was struck, as she had been that morning in the first moment of their meeting, by his look of fatigue and of strain. she, who was so little apt to notice such things, unless her little girl was in question, glanced up at him anxiously. "you don't look well," she said, with some concern. "you don't look as if you'd had a holiday, oliver." "i shall soon get all right," he muttered, "now that i'm here, with mother." and then, in a lower voice, he added the words, "and with you, laura." she answered, nervously determined to hark back to what had been their old, happy condition, "alice and i have both missed you dreadfully--haven't we, my darling?" and alice said gaily, "oh yes, indeed, we have, mother." then the child turned, in her pretty, eager way to oliver, "i hope you'll stay a long, long time at freshley. if only it snows, father thinks it may soon, you and i can make a snow man!" and oliver, after a moment's pause, answered, "yes, so we can, alice. i'm going to stay at home some time now, i hope." and again, on hearing those words, laura felt that new, unreasoning thrill of joy which she had felt when she had seen oliver standing in the middle of his mother's stable-yard. till that moment, and now again, just now, she had not known how much she had missed her friend. at last, when it was really time for him to go, laura and alice both accompanied their guest to the hall. then he turned abruptly to laura: "how about to-morrow? may i come to-morrow morning?" and over laura there came just a little tremour of misgiving. surely oliver was going to be--reasonable? "yes," she said hesitatingly, "i shall be very glad to see you--though of course i'm rather busy in the morning. to-morrow mademoiselle is not coming. perhaps i'd better telephone early and tell you our plans for the day. godfrey will be so glad to see you, oliver. he asked only the other day when mrs. tropenell expected you back." but to that remark oliver made no answer. after the heavy front door had shut behind her visitor, and when alice had already run out of the hall, laura opened the front door again. she called out: "perhaps you'll meet godfrey. he may be here any moment now; if he's been at the bank, he will walk out from pewsbury." but oliver did not turn round. he was evidently already out of hearing. feeling strangely restless, laura walked out a little way, closing the door partly behind her. there was about a quarter of a mile of carriage road from the house to the gate, but the night was very clear, the ground hard and dry. soon her eyes became accustomed to the darkness; she could see oliver's tall figure rapidly growing less and less, dimmer and dimmer. every moment she expected to see another, still more familiar, form emerge from out of the darkness. but, after pacing up and down for perhaps as long as ten minutes, she went back into the house. godfrey was evidently coming home by the last train. moved by an indefinable feeling of peace as well as of contentment, laura sat up long that night, waiting for her husband. she had made up her mind to tell him, not only that oliver had come back, but also that her brother was on his way to mexico. half ashamedly she asked herself why they should not all three go back to the happy conditions which had lasted all the summer? but there came neither godfrey nor news of him, and laura spent the evening of a day of which the date was to become memorable, not unhappily in reading. when it came to half-past eleven, she knew that her husband would not be home that night, but, even so, she sat up till the tall lacquered clock in the hall struck out the chimes of midnight. then, a little reluctantly, she went upstairs, telling herself that if in the morning there was still no news of godfrey, she and alice would stroll along to rosedean. katty might know something of godfrey's movements, for when she had been last at the chase an illusion had been made to a bit of business he was to do for her in london, which would necessitate some correspondence. chapter xiv there are certain winter days when bed and bath seem to be the only two tolerable places in the world. katty winslow, on waking up the next morning, that is, on saturday, the seventh of january, knew at once, though she was snuggled down deep in her warm bed, that it was very much colder than it had been the evening before. she shivered a little, telling herself that perhaps she was not in as good condition as usual, for she had only just come back from spending christmas and the new year away. the faithful harber drew back the curtains, letting in gleams of red winter sun. and then she brought her mistress a nice cup of hot tea, and a pretty, wadded, pale-blue bed wrap. katty sat up. "i'm not in any hurry to-day," she said. "i'll ring when i want breakfast." and after having taken her tea she lay down again, and began to think. oddly, or perhaps naturally, enough, her thoughts turned to godfrey pavely. she wondered vaguely where he was, and if he would be home to-day. there had been a kind of half arrangement between them that they would travel down from london together on the thursday afternoon. that would have meant for katty the benefit of the chase motor--a pleasant as well as an economical plan--and its owner's company as far as rosedean. but katty had not found godfrey pavely at the london station, though she had lingered about up to the very last moment before taking, regretfully, a third-class ticket. on arriving at pewsbury she had also waited some minutes in the vague hope that godfrey might have dashed up just as the train was leaving--not that he was apt to dash at any time, for he was always very careful of himself, and had a due regard for his personal dignity. but there was no sign of the familiar figure, and so katty had had to take a fly--a slow, smelly, expensive fly--out to rosedean. yesterday, friday, had been a rather tiresome, dull day, spent in hearing from harber all the disagreeable things which had happened while she had been away--how harber's stupid, untrained girl-help had gone and broken a rather nice piece of china in the drawing-room, and also how it had come to pass that there were two slates off the roof. katty had rather expected godfrey would come in, if only to apologise for having failed her during the journey. but the afternoon had gone slowly by, and at last she felt sure, knowing his ways, that he had not yet come home. something must have delayed him--something, perhaps, connected with that pleasant portuguese gambling concession which was to bring them both such a lot of money. but if that were so, she would almost certainly receive from him this morning one of his rather long, explanatory letters. of late godfrey had fallen into the way of writing to katty almost every day when they were apart. though mrs. winslow meant to keep the fact strictly to herself--for it was one that might have somewhat surprised even the unsuspicious laura--she and godfrey had actually spent a long day together during their dual absence from home. it had fallen out as such pleasant meetings sometimes do fall out, very naturally and innocently, just a week ago to-day. katty, on her way from the south to stay with her friends, the haworths, had run up against godfrey pavely at king's cross. that had been a really extraordinary coincidence, and one of which it would have been foolish not to take advantage. for it turned out that he also was going to yorkshire, and on the business in which they were both interested, to spend a night with the ex-money-lender, greville howard. that gentleman, it seemed, was making certain difficulties about the matter--he wanted to stay his hand till he had seen the french bankers who were concerned with the affair. as he spent each spring in the south of france, that would not be such a difficulty as it seemed. still, it was a bore, and the other had felt he had better go and see him. after a pleasant journey together, as they were steaming into york station godfrey suddenly asked: "must you go on to your friends at once? couldn't you telephone to them to meet you by a later train? i'm in no hurry." and, smilingly, she had consented. of late katty's heart had become very soft to her old friend. for one thing he was being so good to her in the matter of money. that two hundred pounds he had given to her some weeks ago had been followed by two fifty-pound notes. and yet, though she knew poor godfrey was quite unaware of it, her original purpose--the purpose which had so distressed him, and which, as she well knew, had induced in him such extraordinary and unusual generosity--had not faltered at all. katty still meant to cut the cable, and start a new life elsewhere. rosedean was all very well; her close friendship with godfrey pavely was all very well; though of late she had been disagreeably aware that godfrey was ashamed--ashamed of giving her that money, ashamed of his increasing fondness for her, ashamed also of--well, of other little things which sometimes happened, things which katty thought quite unimportant, which she regarded as part of the payment due from her to godfrey. but she realised more rather than less, as time went on, that if she wanted to make anything of her life there must come a change. she would wait a while, wait perhaps till next autumn--so she had told those kind friends of hers, the haworths. katty was sometimes surprised to find how sorry she was that things had not fallen out otherwise. but she had always tried, in all the great things of life, to look the truth squarely in the face. only once had she been caught doing anything else--and that, as we know, had been years and years ago. she was not likely to make that sort of mistake now. she had come to see, with a rather painful clearness, that godfrey and laura, however ill they got on together, were not the sort of people to lend themselves to any kind of juggling with the law to obtain their liberty. but she had been disappointed in oliver tropenell. she had felt in him accumulated forces of that explosive energy which leads to determined action--also she had thought that gillie would do something. but the two had disappeared together almost immediately after her talk with laura's brother. that was over ten weeks ago now, and neither had given any sign of life since. but katty intended to keep up with godfrey. for one thing she was keenly interested in that business in which they were, in a sense, both engaged. also one never can tell what life--and death--may not bring forth. whatever happened, the link between herself and godfrey was too strong ever to be broken. even if she married again, which she supposed she would do some time or other, there seemed no reason, to her, at any rate, why she should not keep up with godfrey. he was her trustee now, as well as her oldest friend. so it was that she had very willingly assented to do him the trifling favour of spending some further hours in his company. as they wandered about the old city, and lingered awhile in the great minster, neither of them said a word that the whole world might not have overheard. they visited some of the curiosity shops for which york is famed, and katty's companion, with that new generosity which sat on him so strangely, bought a beautiful, and very costly, old cut-glass pendant for rosedean. they did not meet a soul that either of them knew, excepting, yes, stop----after they had said goodbye (godfrey, with a rather shocked look on his face, for katty, imprudent, foolish katty, had woman-like seemed to expect that he would kiss her in a corner of an empty waiting-room where at any moment they might have been surprised by some acquaintance of one or the other of them!)--after, as arranged, they had said good-bye, and katty was engaged in taking her ticket for the branch line station for which she was bound, a curious thing happened. she suddenly heard a voice, a man's voice, which sounded pleasantly familiar. who could it be? the association evoked was wholly agreeable, but katty could not place, in the chambers of her memory, the owner of the rather peculiar accents which were engaged in asking when the next train back to london would start. she had turned round quickly, only to see a small queue of people behind her, among them surely the owner of that peculiar voice. but no, she did not know any one there--though among them a man attracted her attention, for the simple reason that he was staring at her very hard. he was obviously a foreigner, for his skin was olive-tinted, and he had a small, black, pointed beard. he stared at katty with an air of rather insolent admiration. and then he broke away from the queue, and walked quickly off, out of the booking-office. katty always enjoyed admiration, whatever its source, and yet a queer kind of shiver had gone through her when this impertinent stranger's glance rested full on her face. she had had the odious sensation that the man saw something to be jeered at, as well as admired, in her neat and attractive self. * * * * * at last, reluctantly, katty got up and went into her well-warmed comfortable bathroom. it was nice to be home again, at no one's orders but her own. after she had dressed, she rang, and very soon came her breakfast, daintily served by the devoted harber, also the one daily paper she felt she could afford to take. katty was one of the many women to whom the daily picture-paper supplied a long-felt, if unconscious, want. it gave her just the amount of news, and the kind of news, that her busy mind, absorbed in other things, could assimilate comfortably. she was no reader, though sometimes she would manage to gallop through some book that all the world was talking about. but newspapers had always bored her. still, she had become very fond of the paper she now held in her hand. it only cost a halfpenny a day, and katty liked small, sensible economies. that liking of hers was one of the links which bound her to godfrey pavely, but unlike godfrey, katty did not care for money for money's sake. she only liked money for what money could buy. and sometimes, when she was in a cheerful, mischievous mood, she would tell herself, with a smile, that if ever her castle in spain turned out to have been built on a solid foundation--if ever, that is, she became godfrey pavely's wife, she would know how to spend the money he had garnered so carefully. she felt pretty sure, deep in her heart, that should such an unlikely thing come to pass, she would know how to "manage" godfrey, and that, if surprised, he would not really mind what she did. she always got good value out of everything she acquired, and that would remain true if, instead of spending pence, she was ever able to spend pounds. a little before eleven, just as katty was beginning to think it was time for her to finish dressing, she heard the gate of her domain open, and the voice of little alice pavely rise up through the still, frosty air, mingling with the deeper, gentler tones of laura. it was an odd thing, considering that the two women were at any rate in theory intimate friends, that laura very, very seldom came to rosedean. in fact katty could not remember a single time when laura had come in the morning, an uninvited, unexpected guest. so suddenly poor katty felt a little chill of apprehension; she got up from her chair, and waited.... the front door was opened at once. then came harber's hurrying footfalls on the staircase--and, simultaneously, the garden door at the back of the house swung to. laura had evidently sent her little girl out of doors, into the garden. what could she be coming to say? quickly katty examined her conscience. no, there was nothing that laura could possibly have found out. as to that half day spent with godfrey in york, laura was surely the last woman to mind--and if she did mind, she was quite the last woman to say anything about it! there came a knock at the door: then harber's voice, "mrs. pavely wants to know, ma'am, if she can come up and speak to you, just for a minute." "ask mrs. pavely to come up," said katty, pleasantly. a minute later, laura walked forward into the room. it was the first time she had been in katty's bedroom since rosedean had been first furnished. she looked round her with a smile. "why, katty," she exclaimed, "how charming and pretty you've made it all! you've added quite a number of things since i was here last." "only the curtains," said katty quickly (oh, how relieved she felt!), "only the curtains, and perhaps that arm-chair, laura." "yes, i suppose that _is_ all, but somehow it looks more." laura looked exactly as she always looked, rather paler perhaps than usual, but then laura was pale. she had that peculiar clear, warm whiteness of skin that is compared by its admirers to a camellia; this morning, her lovely, deep blue eyes looked tired, as if she had been sleeping badly. "i've really come to ask if you know where godfrey is? we expected him home on thursday. then he sent a telephone message saying that he couldn't be back till yesterday. no time was mentioned, but as he had a lot of appointments at the bank we of course thought he would be back early. i myself sat up for him last night till after the last train, but now, this morning, i've heard nothing from him--and mr. privet has heard nothing." "what an odd thing!" exclaimed katty. she really did think it very odd, for godfrey was the most precise of men. she waited a moment, then said truthfully, "no, i haven't the slightest idea where he is. he wrote me a line late last week about a little investment of mine. i've got the letter somewhere." katty was trying to make up her mind as to whether she should say anything concerning that joint journey to york. at last she decided not to do so. it had nothing to do with godfrey's absence now. "doesn't mr. privet know where he is?" she asked. "that really _is_ very odd, laura." "of course mr. privet knows where godfrey was up to thursday morning. he stayed where he always does stay when in london, at the hungerford hotel, in trafalgar square. he's always stayed there--they know him, and make him very comfortable. but mr. privet telephoned through there yesterday--as a matter of fact i've only just heard this--and they told him that godfrey had left the hotel on thursday morning. but the extraordinary thing is," and now laura really did look somewhat troubled--"that they were expecting him back there to pack, to leave for here--at least so the manager understood him to say. he went out in the morning, and then he didn't come back, as they thought he would do, to luncheon. all his things are still at the hungerford hotel." katty began to feel a little uneasy. "perhaps he's had an accident," she said. "after all, accidents _do_ happen. have you done anything, laura?" laura shook her head. "what seems to make the theory of an accident unlikely is that telephone message. you see, he telephoned quite late on thursday saying that he would stay in town over the night. but he didn't send a similar message to the bank, as any one knowing godfrey would certainly have expected him to do, and he didn't let them know at the hungerford hotel that he would be away for the night. it's all rather mysterious." "yes, it is," said katty. "i wonder--" laura grew a little pink--"i wonder," she said again, "if you know on what business godfrey went up to town? mr. privet would rather like to know that." and then katty grew a little pink, too. she hesitated. "no, i don't know what business took him away. you forget that i myself have been away for quite a long time--i only came back on thursday afternoon." "why, of course!" exclaimed laura. "i forgot that. you've been away nearly a fortnight, haven't you?" "yes. first i went right down to the south, and then up to yorkshire." somehow she felt impelled to say this. but katty's visits were of no interest to laura at any time, least of all just now. "well, i thought i'd come and just ask you on the chance," she said. she got up, and for a moment or two the two young women stood together not far from the bow window of katty's bedroom. suddenly katty exclaimed, "why, there's oliver tropenell! what an extraordinary thing! i thought he was abroad." "he came back yesterday morning," said laura quietly. katty gave her visitor a quick, searching look. but there was never anything to see in laura's face. "hadn't i better call out to him? he's evidently on his way to the chase. hadn't i better say you're here?" and, as laura seemed to hesitate, she threw open the window. "mr. tropenell?" she called out, in her clear, ringing voice. the man who was striding past rosedean, walking very quickly, stopped rather unwillingly. then he looked up, and when he saw who it was that was standing by mrs. winslow, he turned in through the gate, and rang the door-bell. "will you go down to him, laura? i can't come as i am." "i'll wait while you put on your dress. we can tell him to go out into the garden with alice." she bent over the broad, low bar of the window, and oliver, gazing up at her, thought of rossetti's lines: heaven to him was where laura was. "will you go through the house into the garden? alice is there. we'll be down soon." katty lingered a little, though she only had to put on her blouse, her skirt, and a sports coat. "i feel quite anxious about godfrey," she said hesitatingly. and laura, in an absent voice, said, "yes, so do i. but of course by this time he may be at the bank. he's quite fond of that very early morning train. he often took it last summer." "yes, but now he would have had to get up in the dark to take it." "i don't think godfrey would mind that." at last the two went downstairs, and out into the garden where oliver tropenell and the child were talking together. oliver turned round, and after shaking hands with mrs. winslow, he asked laura an abrupt question. "did godfrey come back last evening after all?" katty looked at him inquisitively. then he had been at the chase yesterday? laura shook her head. "no, i sat up for him till midnight. i thought it almost certain that he'd taken the last train. but we've had no news of him at all. perhaps he's at the bank by now--i'll ring up as soon as i get home. come, alice, my dear." katty heard oliver tropenell say in a low voice: "may i walk with you?" and then katty cut in: "you'll let me know, laura, won't you, if you have any special news? of course i don't want you to let me know if godfrey's safe at the bank--i'm not so anxious as all that!" she laughed, her rather affected, little ringing laugh. "but if there's any other news--especially if he's had an accident of any sort--well, i _should_ like to know." "of course i'll send you word." and then laura roused herself. "why shouldn't you come up to lunch, katty? i wish you would! and then i could tell you anything i've heard this morning." "thanks, i'd like to do that. i'll follow you in about an hour. i've things to do, and letters to write, now." she saw the three off, and once more, as had so often been the case in the past, her heart was filled with envy--envy, and a certain excitement. oliver tropenell's return home just now was a complication. she felt sure it would upset godfrey, but she could not quite tell how much. she wondered if gilbert baynton had come back too. she rather hoped that he had. she wrote her letters, and then, so timing her departure as to arrive exactly at one o'clock, for at the chase luncheon was at one, she went off, meeting, as she expected to do, oliver tropenell on his way home to freshley. "any news?" she called out. and he shook his head. "no--no news at all." then he added slowly: "but i don't see that there's any cause for alarm. pavely telephoned the day before yesterday saying he was being detained in town." "still, it's odd he didn't write to laura," said katty meditatively. "as a rule he writes to laura every day when he is in london." she knew that was one of those half-truths which are more misleading than a lie. godfrey was fond of sending home postcards containing directions as to this or that connected with the house or garden. but katty saw the instinctive frown which came over oliver tropenell's face, and she felt pleased. she enjoyed giving this odd, sensitive, secretive man tiny pin-pricks. she had never really liked him, and now she positively disliked him. why had he gone away just when things were looking promising? and, having gone away for so long, why had he now come back? "how is mr. baynton?" she asked, smiling. "he's gone back to mexico." and now katty was really surprised. "has he indeed?" she exclaimed. "and without seeing laura again? i'm rather sorry for _that_!" and as oliver made no answer, she went on a trifle maliciously: "i suppose you will be going off soon, too?" he hesitated, a very long time it seemed to her, before he answered, "yes, i suppose i shall. but things go on all right over there as long as one of us is there." then, with a not over civil abruptness, he left her. katty stayed most of that cold wintry saturday afternoon with laura, and as was her way when she chose to do so, she made herself very pleasant to both the mother and child, and that though little alice did not like her. a little before four she asked laura if she might telephone herself to the bank, and laura eagerly assented. explaining that she was really speaking for mrs. pavely, katty had quite a long chat with mr. privet. she and the old head clerk had always been good friends, though they met seldom. he could remember her as a beautiful child, and then as the popular, because the always good humoured and pleasant-spoken, belle of pewsbury. "yes, i feel very anxious indeed, mrs. winslow! i've been wondering whether it wouldn't be a good thing to communicate with the london police, if we don't have any news of mr. pavely to-morrow. could you ascertain for me the exact feelings of mrs. pavely?" "i agree with you, mr. privet, for after all, accidents _do_ happen! hold the line a moment. i'll go and inquire." she hurried off to laura's boudoir. "mr. privet suggests that the london police should be communicated with--if we don't have news of godfrey by to-morrow morning." laura looked up, startled. "oh, katty, don't you think that would make him very angry--if he's all right, i mean?" "perhaps it would," katty agreed uncomfortably. she went back to the telephone. "mrs. pavely thinks we'd better wait a little longer before saying anything to the police," she called out. and thus it was through laura, as katty reminded herself in days to come, that two more precious days were lost. chapter xv "well, my dear--any more news?" but even as mrs. tropenell, looking up from her breakfast-table, asked the question, she knew what the answer would be. it was the following monday morning. the post had just come in, and at once, knowing that the postman called first at the chase, oliver had hurried off to the telephone. he had been there a long time--perhaps as long as ten minutes--and when he came back into the dining-room his mother was struck afresh by the look of almost intolerable strain and anxiety in his face and eyes. they had spent a great part of sunday with laura, and during that long, trying day mrs. tropenell had felt very much more concerned about her son than she did about godfrey pavely. godfrey, so she told herself, with a touch of unreason not usual with her, would almost certainly turn up all right--even if, as she was inclined to believe possible, he had met with some kind of accident. but oliver, her beloved, the only human being in the world that really mattered to her--what was wrong with him? long after she had gone to bed each evening she had heard him, during the last three nights, wandering restlessly about the house. after the first almost painful rush of joy which had come over her when he had suddenly walked into her presence last thursday night, she had regretted, with unceasing bitter regret, his return home. it was so horribly apparent to her, his mother, that laura, _belle dame sans merci_, held him in thrall. "if you don't mind, mother, i think i shall go up to town to-day and see the scotland yard people. i think--don't you?--it would-be a comfort to laura." there was a harassed, questioning note in his voice which surprised mrs. tropenell. as a rule oliver always knew exactly what he meant to do. she answered slowly, reluctantly (she hated so much his being mixed up in this odd, mysterious matter of godfrey's temporary disappearance!): "perhaps it would be. still, i think laura ought to communicate with godfrey's cousins. of course i know he didn't care for them. still, after all, those people are his only near relations." "that old mr. privet, pavely's confidential clerk, is going up to town to-day," observed oliver inconsequently. "i thought he and i might travel together, and that while he goes to the hotel, i can go to scotland yard." and then mrs. tropenell roused herself to try and give what help she could. "lord st. amant knows the new commissioner of police very well," she said. "they met in india. ask him to give you a note of introduction, oliver. he's in town just now, you would certainly find him, either at his rooms or at his club." there came a faint flush over her face. by her plate there lay lord st. amant's daily letter. on mondays london letters always arrived by the second post, but yesterday her old friend had had a late-fee stamp put on his letter, so that she might get it the first thing this morning. he had suggested that sir angus kinross--that was the name of the new commissioner--should be approached. he had even offered--and it was good of him, for he hated taking trouble and he had always disliked godfrey pavely--to go to scotland yard himself. oliver was still standing, though his breakfast was only half eaten, and he was looking at his mother with that rather impatient, strained look on his face to which she had by now become accustomed. "that's a good idea," he said. and she felt glad that any idea proposed by her should seem to be good. yesterday her son, who was always so kindly, so respectful in his manner to her, had--yes, snubbed her--when she had proposed something which it had seemed to her would be of use. "i think i'll go over to the chase now, mother. it's impossible to say all that one wants to say over the telephone." she said nervously, "won't you finish your breakfast?" and to her surprise he obeyed her. to her surprise also, when at last he did get up he seemed in no great hurry to go. "shall i come with you, my darling?" she said. he shook his head. "no, mother. i'd rather discuss the matter with her alone, but i'll make her come over as early as i can. you know she said she would bring alice to lunch to-day." and then, looking straight down into her troubled face, he asked: "mother? what do _you_ think has happened to godfrey pavely?" it was the first time he had asked her the direct question. "i don't know what to think! but i suppose the most probable thing is--that he's had an accident. after all, people do meet with bad accidents, especially in wintry, foggy weather, in the london streets. if so, he may be lying unconscious in one of the big hospitals. i can't think why the london police shouldn't have been told of his disappearance on friday--that, as i told laura yesterday, is the first thing i should have done myself." "both mrs. winslow and laura seemed to think he would dislike that so very much," said oliver slowly. there was a defensive note in his voice, for he had made no effort to back up his mother when she had strongly counselled laura to communicate with scotland yard. "has it ever occurred to you," he said suddenly, "that pavely may be dead, mother?" "no, oliver. that i confess has not occurred to me. in fact, i regard it as extremely unlikely." "why that?" he asked in a hard voice. "people are often killed in street accidents." then, after a minute's pause: "do you think laura would mind much?" "i think it would give her a great shock!" she added, hesitatingly. "they have been getting on rather better than usual--at least so it has seemed to me." "have they indeed?" his words cut like a whip, and she got up and went and stood by him. "my son," she said very solemnly. "oh, my darling, don't allow yourself to wish--to hope--for godfrey pavely's death!" looking straight into her face, he exclaimed, "i can't help it, mother! i do hope, i do wish, for godfrey pavely's death--with all the strength, with all the power that is in me. why should i be hypocritical--with you? am i the first man that has committed murder," he waited a moment--"in his heart?" "if that be really so--then don't let it ever be suspected, oliver! for god's sake, try and look differently from what you have looked the last few days! if your wish is to be granted, your hope satisfied, then don't let any one suspect that the hope or the wish was ever there!" she spoke with an intensity of feeling and passion equal to his own. "you're right, mother," he said in a low voice. "i know you're right! and i promise you that i'll try and follow your advice. no man ever had a wiser and a better mother than i!" he turned round quickly and left the room. mrs. tropenell did not see her son again till late that night, and then not alone, for laura spent the evening at freshley, and after he had taken their guest home to the chase, he did not come in again for hours. old mr. privet, godfrey pavely's confidential clerk, had been rather taken aback when he had learnt over the telephone, from mrs. pavely, that he was to have mr. oliver tropenell as his travelling companion to london. but very soon, being a truly religious man, he came to see how well and wisely everything had been ordered. to begin with, mr. tropenell called for him at the bank, thus saving him a very cold, easterly-wind kind of walk to pewsbury station, which was some way from the town. and once there, mr. tropenell had taken two first-class return tickets--that again being the action of a true gentleman, for he, mr. privet, would have been quite content to go by himself third-class. also, as it turned out, during the long journey to london they had some very pleasant and instructive conversation together. quite at first, in answer to a query as to what he thought of this extraordinary business of mr. pavely's disappearance, mr. oliver tropenell had been perhaps a little short. he had replied that no one could possibly venture an opinion as to what had happened. but then had followed between them, in spite of the fact that the noise of the train was very trying, a most agreeable chat over old times--over those days when mr. godfrey pavely's father, a fine type of the old country-town banker, was still alive. mr. privet, as a younger man, had had a good deal to do with the final sale and purchase of the chase, and mr. tropenell, as was very natural in one whose own ancestors had lived there for hundreds of years, had shown the greatest interest in that old story. mr. tropenell had not been in the least over-curious or indiscreet, but mr. privet had been led on to talk of his companion's grandfather, a gentleman who, if rather wild, and certainly extravagant and headstrong, had been such a grand sportsman--quite a hero among the young men of pewsbury! what had brought about the poor gentleman's undoing had been his taking over the hounds, when lord st. amant's great-uncle had given them up. so pleasant had been that conversation in the first-class carriage shared by them, that for the first time since thursday mr. privet had almost forgotten the business on which they two were going to london! but he had soon remembered it again--for at the station mr. oliver tropenell had suggested that, instead of going to the hungerford hotel, he, mr. privet, should accompany him to lord st. amant's club, in order to get a letter of introduction from that nobleman to the commissioner of police. not long ago mr. privet had read an interesting book called _in london club land_. but he had little thought, when he was reading that book, that he would ever see the famous old political club to which a whole chapter had been devoted, and to which so many of his own special political heroes had belonged in their time! and then, after lord st. amant, who also had treated mr. privet with rather exceptional civility, not to say courtesy, had written the letter, mr. tropenell suggested that they should go straight on to scotland yard--pointing out, what was true enough, that mr. privet knew far more of mr. godfrey pavely's business and habits than any one else. and so, together, they had driven off in a taxi--also a new, agreeable experience to mr. privet--to the famous bastille-like building on the thames embankment. but when there, the interview with the pleasant-spoken, genial gentleman who wielded such immense powers had been disappointing. sir angus kinross had listened very carefully to all that he, mr. privet, had had to say, and he had asked a number of acute, clever questions of both his visitors. but very soon he had observed that he feared much valuable time had been lost. later on, mr. privet, when he thought the interview over, could almost hear the voice of sir angus repeating slowly, inexorably: "thursday? and it's now monday afternoon! what a misfortune it is that mrs.--ah, yes--mrs. pavely, did not communicate with us at once. if she had telephoned, here, when she first began to realise that there was something strange in her husband's prolonged absence, she would almost certainly have had some sort of news by now." and then he, mr. privet, had answered quickly, "but we didn't begin to feel anxious till the friday, sir." "i quite understand that! but if you, mr.--ah yes--mr. privet--had written then, we could have begun our inquiries on the saturday morning. did it not occur to you to let the london police know of mr. pavely's non-appearance?" for a moment mr. privet had felt vaguely uncomfortable, for his questioner had given him such a very odd, keen look, as he asked that simple question. but he had answered, honestly enough, for after all 'tho' truth may be blamed, it can never be shamed': "mr. pavely, sir, did not like to be interfered with when he was away on business, and we thought it would annoy him if we were to make too great a fuss. once, many years ago now--mr. pavely went over to paris for some days, and omitted to leave his address at the bank. i couldn't help remembering last week that mr. pavely, on that former occasion, had seemed somewhat put out with me for expressing what i thought at the time a very natural anxiety, sir." they hadn't been very long at scotland yard, a little under half an hour in all, and during the last ten minutes a shorthand writer had made some notes of the conversation, which, indeed, had been almost entirely carried on between him, mr. privet, and the commissioner of police. mr. oliver tropenell, as was bound to be the case, had had very little to say, seeing that he was there merely as mrs. pavely's representative, she having her only brother in mexico. after leaving scotland yard they had gone on to the hungerford hotel, and there a lot of information had been afforded them. but it hadn't amounted to very much--when all was said and done! they already knew that all trace of mr. pavely had disappeared after eleven o'clock on the thursday morning. his room was even now exactly as he had left it; neat, for he was always a most particular gentleman, but with nothing put away. in fact the only news of him after that morning had been that telephone message to the chase--a message given by some one, the butler by now wasn't even sure if it was a man or a woman, who was evidently in a great hurry. one thing the manager of the hotel had done which had rather surprised and shocked both mr. privet and his companion. he had consulted a detective about the affair, and, at mr. tropenell's request, the detective was sent for. mr. privet had thought this secret inquiry agent (as he called himself) a queer kind of chap--in fact he had seemed much more anxious to ascertain if a reward was going to be offered, than to offer any useful advice as to this perplexing matter of mr. pavely's disappearance. he had, however, seemed to think that the thursday evening telephone call was very important, and he had asked permission to come down to the chase to cross-examine the servant who had taken the message. but that--so mr. tropenell had very properly said--was impossible, now that the matter had been placed in the hands of scotland yard. in answer to mr. privet's natural curiosity as to why the detective thought that telephone call so important, the man had answered, rather crossly: "you see, there's no record kept of telephone calls! there's a record kept of telegrams, so one can always recover the original of a telegram." mr. tropenell had been quite surprised on hearing this. "i should have thought telephone calls quite as important as telegrams?" he had exclaimed. "so they are, with regard to _my_ kind of work," the man had replied. "but even with regard to trunk-calls you've only got to go into a post office and plank down your money and wait till you're through! still, the young woman at your country exchange would probably have remembered the call if she had been asked sooner. but it's all such a long time ago." a long time ago? what nonsense! he, mr. privet, felt quite put out with this detective, and he began to see why mr. tropenell thought the man ought not to have been brought into the business at all. it was certainly rather cool of the hotel manager to have gone and brought such a person into the affair, without asking mr. pavely's friends if he was at liberty to do so. they had managed to catch the six o'clock express back to pewsbury, and then mr. tropenell very kindly insisted on driving mr. privet home. mr. and mrs. privet owned a pretty, old-fashioned house on the other side of the town. when mr. privet had married--a matter of forty years ago now--he had made up his mind that it would do him good to be obliged to take a good walk to and from the bank every day. on their arrival at the house--which, funnily enough, was called southbank--mr. tropenell, at the request of mr. privet, had come in for a few minutes to make the acquaintance of mrs. privet. he had said how much he liked their house, how much prettier it was, how much more dignified--that had been his curious word--than the red brick villas which had sprung up all over the outskirts of their beautiful old town. and mr. privet had been secretly rather pleased, for lately "mother"--as he called mrs. privet--had become somewhat restless, being impressed by certain improvements those gimcrack villas possessed, which their house lacked, and that though he had put in a nice bathroom a matter of twenty years ago. yes, of the several people who, that day, had been engaged in trying to probe the mystery of godfrey pavely's disappearance, the only one who found a great deal of natural pleasure and simple enjoyment out of it all was mr. privet; and he, alone of them all, really cared for the missing man, and, perhaps, alone of them all, had a genuine longing to see him again. mr. privet thought it was particularly kind of mr. oliver tropenell to be taking all this trouble for poor mrs. pavely; though of course he, mr. privet, was well aware that mrs. pavely's brother was partner to mr. tropenell in mexico. he knew the sad truth--the sad truth, that is, as to the disgraceful circumstances under which gilbert baynton had had to leave england. no one else in the bank had known--at least he and mr. pavely hoped not. it had been very, very fortunate that the forged signature had been on one of their own cheques. but for that fact, nothing could have saved that good-for-nothing scoundrel--so mr. privet always called gillie baynton in his own mind--from a prosecution. do any of us ever think, reader, of the way in which our most secret business is known, nay, must be known, to a certain number of people of whose existence we ourselves are scarcely aware? laura, when she came and talked, as she sometimes did talk, kindly, if a little indifferently, to her husband's confidential clerk, would have been disagreeably surprised had she been able to see into mr. privet's heart and mind. as for godfrey pavely, nothing would have made him credit, high as was his opinion of mr. privet's business acumen, the fact that his clerk had a very shrewd suspicion where those three hundred pounds in notes, lately drawn out by his employer for his own personal use, had made their way.... chapter xvi it was the morning of the th of january, and already godfrey pavely's disappearance had excited more than the proverbial nine days' wonder. laura had gone to her boudoir after breakfast, and she was waiting there, sitting at her writing-table, feeling wretchedly anxious and excited, for all last night she had had a curious, insistent presentiment that at last something was going to happen. she had sent alice off to her lessons, for there was no object in allowing the child to idle as she had idled during that first bewildering week. at last she got up, pushed her chair aside, and went and lay down on a sofa. she felt very, very tired; worn out partly by suspense and anxiety, partly by the many interviews with strangers she had been compelled to have during the last ten days. oliver tropenell was again in london, and since he had left freshley, for the second time, it was as though a strong, protecting arm on which she leant had suddenly been withdrawn from her. and yet she knew that he was engaged upon her business, upon this extraordinary, unutterably strange business of her husband's disappearance. oliver wrote to her daily--brief, coldly-worded notes describing what had been, and was being, done both by the police and by the big firm of private detectives who were now also engaged in a search for the missing man. but there was very little to report--so far every one was completely baffled. against the wish and advice of both oliver tropenell and the scotland yard authorities, laura had offered a reward of a thousand pounds for any information which would lead to the discovery of godfrey pavely, alive or dead. it had been katty's suggestion, and laura, somehow, had not liked to disregard it. but now, to-day, laura, as she moved restlessly this way and that, told herself that she was sorry she had assented to a suggestion that katty winslow should come and stay with her during those long days of waiting which were at once so dreary and so full of excitement and suspense. katty had got hopelessly on laura's nerves. katty could not keep silent, katty could not keep still. mrs. winslow, in a sense, had taken possession of the chase. it was she who saw to everything, who examined every letter, who went and answered the telephone when the police either at pewsbury or from london rang up. she was apparently in a state of great excitement and of great anxiety, and some of the critics in the servants' wing said to each other with a knowing smile that mrs. winslow might have been mrs. pavely, so much did that lady take mr. pavely's disappearance to heart! katty had not seemed as worried as laura had seemed the first two or three days, but now she appeared even more upset. yesterday she had admitted to sleepless nights, and the hostess had felt greatly relieved when her guest had at last confessed that if dear laura would not mind she would like to stay in bed every morning up to eleven o'clock; nothing ever happened before then. the only person with whom laura, during those long, dreary days, felt comparatively at ease was mrs. tropenell, for mrs. tropenell seemed to understand exactly what she, poor laura, was feeling during those miserable days of waiting for news that did not come. but laura did not see very much of the older woman--not nearly as much as she would have liked to do just now, for mrs. tropenell disliked katty, and avoided meeting her. * * * * * the stable clock struck ten. and laura suddenly heard the sound of firm steps hurrying down the passage. she got off the sofa, expecting to see the now disagreeably familiar blue uniform and flat blue cap of the pewsbury police inspector. he came up to see her almost every day, but he had never come quite so early as this morning. she gathered herself together to answer with calm civility his tiresome, futile questions. there was nothing--_nothing_--she could say that she had not said already as to godfrey's usual habits, and as to his probable business interests outside pewsbury. the inspector had been surprised, though he had tried to hide the fact, to find that mrs. pavely knew so very little of her husband's business interests and concerns. the last two times he had been there katty had been present, and she had been very useful--useful and tactful. laura, feeling rather ashamed of her late uncharitable thoughts concerning katty, wished that katty could be present at the coming interview, but unfortunately katty was still in bed. the door opened, and she stood up expectantly. it was only preston, the butler. there was a large envelope on the salver he held in his hand. "it's from the bank, ma'am. marked 'urgent,'" he said. "is there an answer?" she asked. and he hesitated. "we have kept the messenger, ma'am." laura knew mr. privet's small, neat handwriting--if he marked an envelope "urgent," then it was urgent. there were two enclosures--a note and a letter. she first read the note:-- "dear mrs. pavely, "i found the enclosed on my arrival at the bank this morning. it may be important, so i send it on at once. "and let me take this opportunity, dear madam, of assuring you of my very sincere sympathy. i, too, have known during the last few days what it was to feel that hope deferred maketh the heart sick. "yours respectfully, "david privet." she turned, with only languid interest, to the envelope. the address was typewritten:-- mrs. g. pavely, c/o messrs. pavely & co., bankers, pewsbury. it was marked "private," "immediate," but that, as laura well knew, meant very little. a certain number of times, perhaps half a dozen times in all, during her married life, some unfortunate, humble client of her husband's had written to her a personal appeal. each of these letters had been of a painful and disagreeable nature, often couched in pitiful, eloquent terms, and godfrey had not allowed her to answer any one of them save in the most formal, cold way. this typewritten envelope looked as if it might have come from some distressed tradesman. so she opened the envelope reluctantly, not taking heed, as a different type of woman would have done, to the postmark on it. indeed, without thinking of what she was doing, she threw the envelope mechanically into the burning fire, and then opened out the large sheet of thin paper. but, as she looked down at the lines of typewriting, she stiffened into instant, palpitating, horrified attention, for this is what she saw there: "madame,--it is with the deepest regret that i acquaint you with the fact that your esteemed husband, mr. godfrey pavely, of messrs. pavely & co., bankers, of pewsbury, wiltshire, is dead. "if you will instruct the police to go to duke house, piccadilly, and proceed to room on the top floor--the only office which is at present let--they will find there mr. pavely's body. "i am connected with important business interests in portugal, and for some time i have been in business relations with mr. pavely. this fact you will easily confirm by searching among his papers. i am also, of course, well known at duke house, for i have had an office there for a considerable number of weeks. "the tragedy--for a tragedy it is from my point of view as well as from that of mr. pavely's unfortunate family--fell out in this wise. "mr. pavely came to see me (by appointment) on the thursday before last. there was a pistol lying on my desk. i foolishly took it up and began playing with it. i was standing just behind mr. pavely when suddenly the trigger went off, and to my intense horror the unfortunate man received the charge. i thought--i hoped--that he was only wounded, but all too soon i saw that he was undoubtedly dead--dead by my hand. "i at first intended, and perhaps i should have been wise in carrying out my first intention, to call in the police--but very urgent business was requiring my presence in lisbon. also i remembered that i had no one who could, in england, vouch for my respectability, though you will be further able to judge of the truth of my story by going to the mayfair hotel, where i have sometimes stayed, and by making inquiries of the agent from whom i took the office in duke house. "my relations with mr. pavely were slight, but entirely friendly, even cordial, and what has happened is a very terrible misfortune for me. "i came to england in order to raise a loan for a big and important business enterprise. some french banking friends introduced me to mr. pavely, and i soon entered on good relations with him. our business was on the point of completion, and in a sense mutually agreeable to us, when what i may style our fatal interview took place. "yours with respectful sympathy, "fernando apra." laura sat down on the sofa. for the first time in her life she felt faint and giddy, and during the few moments that followed the reading of the extraordinary letter she still held in her hand, it was, oddly enough, her peculiar physical state which most absorbed her astonished and anguished mind. then her brain gradually cleared. godfrey--dead? the thought was horrible--horrible! it made her feel like a murderess. she remembered, with a sensation of terrible self-rebuke and shame, the feeling of almost hatred she had so often allowed herself to feel for her husband. and then, before she had had time to gather her mind together sufficiently to face the immediate problem as to how she was to deal with this sinister letter, the door again opened, and katty winslow came into the room. katty looked ill as well as worried. there were dark circles round her eyes. "laura! whatever is the matter? have you heard anything? have you news of godfrey?" "i have just had this. oh, katty, prepare for bad news!" but katty hardly heard the words. she snatched the tough, thin sheet of paper out of laura's hand, and going across to the window she began reading, her back turned to laura and the room. for what seemed a long time she said nothing. then, at last, she moved slowly round. "well," she said stonily, "what are you going to do about it? if i were you, laura, i shouldn't let that stupid pewsbury inspector see this letter. i should go straight up to london with it." she glanced at the clock. "we've time to take the . train--if you hurry!" she felt as if she would like to shake laura--laura, standing helplessly there, looking at her, mute anguish--yes, real anguish, in her deep, luminous blue eyes. "if i were you," repeated katty in a hoarse, urgent tone, "i should go straight with this letter to scotland yard. it's much too serious to fiddle about with here! we want to know at once whether what this man says is true or false--and that's the only way you can find out." "then you wouldn't tell anybody here?" asked laura uncertainly. "no. if i were you i shouldn't tell any one but the london police. it may be a stupid, cruel hoax." deep in her heart katty had at once believed the awful, incredible story contained in the letter she still held in her hand, for she, of course, was familiar with the name of fernando apra, and knew that the man's account of himself was substantially true. but even so, she hoped against hope that it was, as she had just said, a stupid, cruel hoax--the work perchance of some spiteful clerk of this portuguese company promoter, with whose schemes both she and godfrey had been so taken--so, so fascinated. "of course i'll go to town with you," she said rapidly. "let's go up _now_, and dress at once. i'll order the car." there was a kind of driving power in katty. her face was now very pale, as if all the pretty colour was drained out of it. but she was quite calm, quite collected. she seemed to feel none of the bewildered oppression which laura felt, but that, so the other reminded herself, was natural. katty, after all, was not godfrey's wife, or--or was it widow? the two went upstairs, and katty came in and helped laura to dress. "it will only make a fuss and delay if you ring for your maid." she even found, and insisted on laura putting on, a big warm fur coat which she had not yet had out this winter. "you'd better just tell the servants here that you think there may be a clue. it's no good making too great a mystery. they can send on some message of the sort to the bank; also, if you like, to mrs. tropenell." a few moments later laura found herself in the car, and the two were being driven quickly to pewsbury station. "shall i wire to oliver tropenell that we are coming?" asked katty suddenly. and laura answered, dully, "no. he's in york to-day. they've found out that godfrey went to york during that week we know he was in london. i only heard of that this morning, or i would have told you." laura will never forget that journey to london, that long, strange, unreal journey, so filled with a sort of terror, as well as pain. somehow she could not bring herself to believe that godfrey was dead. when they were about half-way there, katty suddenly exclaimed, "let me look at that letter again!" and then, when laura had taken it out of her bag, she asked, "where's the envelope? the envelope's very important, you know!" laura looked at her helplessly. "i don't know. i can't remember. i've a sort of an idea that i threw the envelope into the fire." "oh, laura! what a very, very foolish thing to do! don't you see there must have been a postmark on the envelope? can't you remember anything about it? what was the handwriting like?" again she felt she would like to shake laura. "the address was typewritten--i do remember that. i thought--i don't know what i thought--i can't remember now what i did think. it looked like a circular, or a bill. but it was marked 'urgent and confidential'--or something to that effect." on their arrival in london a piece of good fortune befell laura pavely. lord st. amant had been in the same train, and when he saw her on the platform he at once put himself at her disposal. "scotland yard? i'll take you there myself. but sir angus kinross would be out just now. it's no good going there till half-past two--at the earliest. i hope you'll both honour me by coming to luncheon in my rooms." reached by an arch set between two houses in st. james's street, and unknown to the majority of the people who daily come and go through that historic thoroughfare, is a tiny square--perhaps the smallest open space in london--formed by eight to ten eighteenth-century houses. but for the lowness of the houses, this curious little spot might be a bit of old paris, a backwater of the temple quarter, beyond the louvre and the hôtel de ville, which only those tourists who have a passion either for madame de sévigné or for the young victor hugo ever penetrate. it was there that lord st. amant, some forty years back, when he was still quite a young man, had found a set of four panelled rooms exactly to his liking. and through the many vicissitudes which had befallen the funny little square, he had always contrived to preserve these rooms, though at last, in order to do so, he had had to become the leaseholder of the house of which they formed a part. but he kept the fact of this ownership to himself and to his lawyers, and it was through the latter that the other rooms--the ground floor and the top floor--were let to various quiet, humble folk. his lawyers also, had found for him the intelligent couple who acted as his caretakers, and who managed to make him extremely comfortable during the comparatively short periods he spent in london each year. although his club was within a minute's walk, lord st. amant, very soon after his first occupancy of these rooms, had so arranged matters that, when he chose to order it, a cold luncheon or dinner could be sent in at a quarter of an hour's notice. and to-day the arrangement, of which he very rarely availed himself, stood him in good stead. * * * * * there are a certain number of people who go through life instinctively taking every chance of advancement or of useful friendship offered to them. such a person was katty winslow. even in the midst of her real sorrow and distress, she did not lose sight of the fact that lord st. amant, with whom her acquaintance up to the present had been so slight as to be negligible, might prove a very useful friend in what now looked like her immediately dreary future. she was well aware that he was probably, nay, almost certainly, prejudiced against her, for she and mrs. tropenell had never been on cordial terms; but she set herself, even now, with this terrible thing which she feared, nay, felt almost sure, was true, filling up the whole background of her mind, to destroy that prejudice. to a certain extent she succeeded, during the few minutes, the precious ten minutes, she secured practically alone with her host, in compassing her wish. laura sat down, in the attractive, if rather dark, sitting-room into which lord st. amant had shown her, and, blind to everything about her, she was now staring into the fire, oppressed, stunned, by the terrible thing which perchance lay before her. lining the panelled walls, which were painted a deep yellow tint, hung a series of curious old colour-prints of london, and, on the writing-table--itself, as katty's quick eyes had at once realised, a singularly fine piece of eighteenth-century english lacquer--were two portraits. the one was a miniature of a lady in the stiff yet becoming costume of early victorian days--probably lord st. amant's mother; and the other was a spirited sketch of a girl in an old-fashioned riding habit--certainly mrs. tropenell forty years ago. katty had remained standing, and soon she wandered over to the open door of the room where, with noiseless celerity, the table was being laid for luncheon. it was from there that she almost imperceptibly beckoned to her host. with some prejudice and a good deal of curiosity, he followed her, and together they went over to the deep embrasured window overlooking the tiny square. there, looking up earnestly into lord st. amant's shrewd, kindly face, she said in a low voice: "i want to ask you, lord st. amant, to do me a kindness--" she waited a moment, "a true kindness! i want you to arrange that i go to this place, to duke house, with whoever goes there to find out if the news contained in that horrible letter is true!" and as he looked extremely surprised, she hurried on, with a little catch in her voice, "godfrey pavely was my dear--my very dear, friend. when we were quite young people, when i was living with my father in pewsbury----" "i remember your father," said lord st. amant, in a softened, kindly tone, and his mind suddenly evoked the personality of the broken-down, not very reputable gentleman to whom the surrounding gentry had taken pains to be kind. "in those days," went on katty rather breathlessly, "godfrey and i fell in love and became engaged. but his people were furious, and as a result--well, he was made to go to paris for a year, and the whole thing came to an end. later, after i had divorced my husband, when i was living at rosedean, it--it----" she stopped, and tears--the first tears she had shed this terrible morning--came into her eyes. "i quite understand--you mean that it all began again?" lord st. amant, hardened man of the world though he was, felt moved, really moved by those hurried, whispered confidences, and by the bright tears which were now welling up in his guest's brown eyes. katty nodded. "he was unhappy with laura--laura had never cared for him, and lately she, laura----" again she broke off what she was saying, and reddened deeply. "yes?" said lord st. amant interrogatively. he felt suddenly on his guard. was mrs. winslow going to bring in oliver tropenell? but her next words at once relieved and excessively surprised him. "you know all about the beath affair?" and it was his turn to nod gravely. "well, there was something of the same kind thought of--between godfrey and myself. if--if laura could have been brought to consent, then i think i may say, lord st. amant, that godfrey hoped, that i hoped----" once more she broke off short, only to begin again a moment later: "but i want you to understand--please, _please_ believe me--that neither he nor i was treacherous to laura. you can't be treacherous to a person who doesn't care, can you? i've only told you all this to show you that i have a right to want to know whether godfrey is alive or--or dead." and then lord st. amant asked a question that rather startled katty--and put her, in her turn, on her guard. he glanced down at the letter, that extraordinary typewritten letter, which laura had handed to him. "have you any reason to suppose that godfrey pavely was really associated in business with this mysterious man?" he asked. looking down into her upturned face he saw a queer little quiver wave across her mouth, that most revealing feature of the face. but she eluded the question. "i did not know much of godfrey's business interests. he was always very secret about such things." "she certainly knows there is such a man as fernando apra!" he said to himself, but aloud he observed kindly: "i presume mr. pavely wrote to you during the early days of his stay in london?" katty hesitated. "yes," she said at last, "i did have a letter from him. but it was only about some business he was doing for me. i was not at rosedean, lord st. amant. i was away on a visit--on two visits." and then katty flushed--flushed very deeply. he quickly withdrew his gaze from her now downcast face, and--came to a quite wrong conclusion. "i see," he said lightly, "you were away yourself, and probably moving about?" "yes--yes, i was," she eagerly agreed. she was feeling a little more comfortable now. katty knew the great value of truth, though she sometimes, nay generally, behaved as if truth were of no value at all. in a sense lord st. amant had known katty from her childhood--known her, that is, in the way in which the great magnate of a country neighbourhood, if a friendly, human kind of individual, knows every man, woman and child within a certain radius of his home. he was of course well aware of mrs. tropenell's prejudice against katty, and, without exactly sharing it, he did not look at her with the kindly, indulgent eyes with which most members of his sex regarded the pretty, unfortunate, innocent _divorcée_, to whom mr. and mrs. godfrey pavely had been so truly kind. but now, as the upshot of katty's murmured confidences, her present host certainly acquired a new interest in, and a new sympathy for, mrs. winslow. of course she had not deceived him as completely as she believed herself to have done, for he felt certain that she knew more of godfrey pavely's movements, during the early days of his stay in london a fortnight ago, than she admitted. he was also quite convinced that they had met secretly during their joint absence from home. but lord st. amant would have felt a hypocrite indeed had he on that account thought any the worse of katty winslow. he told himself that after all the poor little woman did not owe him _all_ the truth! if godfrey pavely had indeed come to his death in this extraordinary, accidental way, then katty, whatever mrs. tropenell might feel, was much to be pitied; nice women, even so broad-minded a woman as was his own, close friend, are apt to be hard on a woman who is not perhaps quite--nice! it was therefore with a good deal of curiosity that he watched his two guests while they ate the luncheon prepared for them. laura practically took nothing at all. she tried to swallow a little of the delicious, perfectly cooked cold chicken and mousse-au-jambon, but in the end she only managed to drink the whole of the large glass of water her host poured out for her. katty, on the other hand, made a good meal, and took her full share of a half-bottle of champagne. as a result she looked, when luncheon was over, more like her usual, pretty, alert self than she had looked yet. laura grew paler and paler, and at last lord st. amant, with kindly authority, insisted on her taking a cup of coffee, and a tiny liqueur glassful of brandy poured into it french fashion. "i'm afraid," he said feelingly, "that you have a very painful ordeal in front of you, my dear. you won't make it any better by going without food." but she gazed at him as if she had not understood the purport of his words. chapter xvii sir angus kinross, chief commissioner of police, stood gazing down, with a look of frowning perplexity, at the sheet of typewritten paper he held in his hand. for what seemed a very long time to the other three people now present in the big light room overlooking the embankment, he remained silent. but at last he exclaimed, "i think it very probable that this is a hoax--a stupid, cruel hoax!" and, as no one spoke, he added slowly, "whether it be so or not can soon be ascertained." he saw a look of almost convulsive relief flash over laura pavely's face. it was laura who attracted sir angus in the little group of people which now stood before him. he knew that it was this beautiful, tragic-looking young woman who had insisted, against his strongly expressed wish and judgment, on offering the reward which had already brought a swarm of semi-lunatics and adventurers into the case. as for the other woman there, he only looked upon her as a friend of mrs. pavely. ladies in the painful position of mrs. pavely generally bring a sister, or a close female friend, with them to scotland yard. sir angus was keenly interested in this business of the country banker's disappearance, more interested than he had been in any other matter of the kind for a long time. he had all the threads of the affair very clearly set out in his shrewd, powerful mind, and only that morning he had learnt something which he believed none of the three people now standing before him--mrs. pavely, mrs. winslow, and lord st. amant--knew, or were likely ever to know, except, of course, if certain eventualities made the fact important. sir angus had just learnt that godfrey pavely had spent some hours of a day he had passed at york in the company of a woman, and both he and the very able man he had put in charge of the case, had made up their minds that here, at last, was the real clue to the banker's disappearance. godfrey pavely, so they argued at "the yard," was certainly alive, and either on the continent, or hidden snugly in some english or scottish country town--not alone. as so often happens, the fact that mr. pavely had been in york with a lady had come to light in a very simple way. when the fact of the well-known country banker's disappearance had been announced in the press, the manager of the yorkshire branch of a london bank had written to scotland yard, and stated that on a certain afternoon about a fortnight ago--he could not remember the exact day, unfortunately--he had seen mr. godfrey pavely, of pewsbury, in the company of a lady whom he, the bank manager, had naturally supposed to be mrs. pavely. he had looked at the banker with a good deal of interest, owing to the fact that he and mr. pavely had for a while worked in the same bank in paris about fifteen years ago. he had not met the couple face to face, he had seen them pass by from the window of his private room at the bank. he could swear to mr. pavely, but he had not paid any special attention to the lady--for one thing, she had had her veil down, and he, feeling sure that she was mrs. pavely, had not troubled to observe her very particularly. sir angus had sent some one down to york to see this gentleman, but nothing of further value had been elicited, excepting, yes, that the lady had struck him as being young and attractive. so it was that the extraordinary typewritten letter received by mrs. pavely that morning very much upset the calculations and the theories of sir angus and of his staff. with frowning brow he sat down at his table and touched the electric bell which lay concealed close to his hand. "ask mr. dowden to come to me," and a minute later mr. dowden came in. "i want to know anything you can tell me about duke house, if indeed there is such a place as duke house in piccadilly. i can't remember the name." but at once the other answered: "it's that big new building they've erected on the site of st. andrews house. it fell in to the crown on the death of the duke of st. andrews, and an american syndicate bought the site. duke house, as they call it, was only opened last october. the lower storeys are big bachelor flats, and the top half of the building contains offices. mr. biddle, the american millionaire, has taken the first floor, but he hasn't settled in yet, and i don't think any of the offices have been let at all. they are asking very big rents, and they are justified, as it's one of the finest sites in the west end." "i want you to get through to the porter of duke house. find out for me whether they have got an office let to a man--a portuguese merchant i take him to be, of the name of fernando apra." he spelt out the name. "if you have any difficulty in getting the information, just go up there yourself in a taxi, and find out. but i'd like you to go back into your own rooms and try by telephone first." there followed a long, painful ten minutes, during which sir angus, though as a rule he was a man of few words, tried to while away the time by explaining to the three people who were there why he thought it unlikely that the letter was genuine. "you'd be amazed," he said, "to know the number of letters we receive purporting to contain important information which turn out to be false in every particular. there must be a whole breed of individuals who spend their time in writing annoying, futile letters, which, even if signed, are very seldom signed by the writer's real name. some of those people are actuated by vulgar, stupid spite; others are hypnotised by the thought of a reward. and then, again, such letters are often written by people who have a grudge against the police, or, even more often, by some one who has a grudge against some ordinary person who has, maybe, done them a bad turn, or to whom they have done a bad turn! in the last few days we've had innumerable letters, from all over the kingdom, concerning mr. pavely's disappearance. it is just possible that this man"--he looked down again at the sheet of typewritten paper--"has an office in duke house, but i think it very unlikely that mr. godfrey pavely was even acquainted with him----" the door opened. "yes, sir, the party in question has got an office there right enough, but he hasn't been at duke house for some time--some three weeks, the porter said. he took the office late in october, and for a time he was there, on and off, a good deal. the porter don't quite know what his business is, but as far as he knows he gives him a good character. his office is right at the very top of the house, the only one let on that floor." an unpleasant little trickle of doubt came over sir angus's mind. when he had first read the typewritten letter, he had doubted very much if there was such a building in existence as duke house, piccadilly. then, after he had heard that the place was there, after, as a matter of fact, it had been recalled to his memory by his subordinate, he had fallen back on the belief that there would be no person of the name of fernando apra to be found in duke house. he now fell back on a third position. doubtless this extraordinary letter had been written by some enemy of the man apra who wished to cause him the unpleasantness of a visit from the police. after a few moments' thought sir angus kinross proposed something which none of the three people there knew to be a most surprising departure from his usual rule. "what would you say, lord st. amant, if you and i were to go up there now, to duke house--accompanied, of course, by two of my men? that, at any rate, would put an end to mrs. pavely's suspense. if she doesn't mind doing so, mrs. pavely and her friend can wait here, in my private room." to lord st. amant the proposal seemed a most natural one. "i think that's a very good idea!" he exclaimed, and then he saw katty's eyes fixed imploringly on his face. why, of course----! he beckoned to sir angus, and the two men walked over to the big window overlooking the embankment. "if it would not be greatly out of order," he muttered, "i think it might be a good thing if mrs. winslow--that is mrs. pavely's friend--were to go with us to duke house. she might be useful--she has known mr. godfrey pavely all her life." sir angus looked very much surprised. "of course she could come," he said hesitatingly. "mrs. winslow? i didn't realise that this lady is mrs. winslow. didn't i see a letter written to her by mr. godfrey pavely? she has some odd christian name--if it's the person i have in my mind." "her christian name is katty," said lord st. amant quickly. "yes, that was it--'my dear katty.' i remember now. it was a letter about an investment, written on the th of december, if i'm not mistaken. certainly she can come with us. i have my car downstairs--she could drive in my car, and wait in it while we make the investigation." the two came back to where the ladies were sitting, silently waiting. "i have suggested to sir angus that it might be useful if mrs. winslow came with us--and you too, my dear laura, if you desire to do so, of course." but laura shook her head, and an expression of horror came into her face. "oh no," she exclaimed. "i would much rather stay here!" katty had already got up, and was drawing on the gloves she had taken off. she felt strung up, fearfully excited--and very, very grateful to lord st. amant. she was quite unaware that for the first time the commissioner of police was looking at her with attention. * * * * * there were two entrances to duke house, the one giving access to the four spacious flats, of which so far only one had been let, while the other simply consisted of a porter's lodge and a lift shooting straight up to the offices which were above the flats. and now, within ten minutes of their leaving scotland yard, they were all standing just within the second door, filling up the small space in front of the lift, for mrs. winslow at the last moment had begged to be allowed to get out of the car. "i don't feel as if i _could_ sit there--waiting," she had exclaimed, and after a moment's hesitation sir angus allowed the plea. lord st. amant noticed with interest that the police commissioner took no part in the preliminary proceedings. he left everything to the elder of the two men he had brought with him. still, he lent a very attentive ear to what his subordinate was saying to the porter, and to the porter's answers. "i expect that it was you who answered the telephone message i sent half an hour ago, eh?" "yes, of course i did--you mean about mr. apra here? well, i told you then everything there is to say about him. he's a foreigner, of course--but a very pleasant-mannered gentleman. he took an office on the second day we was open. for a while he was here a good bit most days, and quite a number of people came to see him on business. then he went abroad, i fancy i heard him say, and his office was shut up. he wouldn't let any one go in, not even to clean it, unless he was there. he explained as how his business was very secret--something to do with a concession. he was nervous lest other folk should get hold of the idea." "when was he here last?" "well, it's difficult for me to remember such a thing as that--i can't be sure that i could say he was here within the last fortnight, or perhaps ten days ago. two or three people have called to see him. one gentleman came by appointment--i do remember that, because he'd been several times, and mostly this mr. apra was in to see him. but i don't see what call you have to ask me all these questions?" the scotland yard man bent forward and said something in a low voice, and the porter exclaimed, with an air of astonishment, "what? you don't mean to say the gentleman's 'wanted'?" then the detective said something else in a joking way, and the porter shook his head. "i haven't got a key! he had another lock put on. lots of business gentlemen do that." and then he asked anxiously, "d'you see any objection to my telephoning to messrs. drew & co.--they're the agents, you know? 'twould make me more comfortable in my own mind, because then i shouldn't get blamed--whatever happened. they'd send some one along in about five minutes--they've got a west end office." the scotland yard official looked round for instructions from sir angus, and the latter imperceptibly nodded. "all right--we'll wait five minutes. i've brought some tools along." "tools?" the porter stared at him. "sometimes, you know, we do find it necessary to burst open a door!" the five minutes--it was barely more--seemed the longest time katty had ever spent in waiting. lord st. amant took pity on her obvious unease and anxiety. he walked out with her to the street, and they paced quickly up and down in the cold, wintry air. "do you think we shall find anything?" she murmured at last. he answered gravely, "i confess that the whole thing looks very queer to me. i haven't lived to my time of life without becoming aware that amazing, astounding things _do_ happen. perhaps i am over-influenced by the fact that years and years ago, when i was a boy, a school-fellow of mine, of whom i was very fond, did shoot himself accidentally with a pistol. he was staying with us, and he had gone on in front of me into the gun-room--and i--i went in and found him lying on the ground--dead." "how horrible!" murmured katty. "how very horrible!" and her face blanched. as they turned yet once more, a taxi drove quickly up to the door of duke mansion, and a young, clean-shaven man jumped out. instinctively he addressed himself to sir angus kinross: "about this tenant of ours--mr. fernando apra? to the best of my belief he is a perfectly respectable man. he gave a very good reference, that of a big paris banker, and with us, at any rate, he was quite frank about his business. he has obtained a gambling concession from this new portuguese government, and he came to london to try and raise money for the building of a casino, and so on. he's an optimistic chap, and his notion is to create a kind of portuguese monte carlo. he told us quite frankly that he didn't intend to keep the office going here for more than six months, or possibly a year, and we arranged that he should be able to surrender his three years' lease--we don't let these rooms under a three years' agreement--on the payment of a rather substantial fine. i think the porter is sure to have a key which will admit you into his room--i understand you want to get into his office?" and then, at last, sir angus answered, rather drily, "the porter cannot admit us to the office, for this mr. fernando apra has had a second lock fitted. it seems he never allowed any one access to the room--unless he happened to be there himself." "well, he had plans there--plans of this concession, and he was very secretive, as are so many foreigners. still, he impressed both me and my father more favourably than do most foreigners we come across. as a matter of fact, we twice lunched with him at the berkeley. he is a man with a tremendous flow of good spirits--speaking english very well, though of course with a foreign accent. has he got into any trouble?" he looked curiously at the gentleman standing before him. he was not aware of sir angus kinross's identity, but he knew that he was from scotland yard. "we shall know more about that when we have forced open the door of his office. i presume you would like to be present?" and the young man nodded. a grave, uneasy expression came over his face; he wondered if he had said too much of his pleasant client, and that client's private affairs." chapter xviii they went up the lift in two parties: sir angus kinross, the house agent, and the two men from scotland yard; then lord st. amant and katty winslow alone. as they were going up, he said kindly, "are you sure you are wise in doing this? i fear--i fear the worst, mrs. winslow!" with dry lips she muttered, "yes, so do i. but i would rather come all the same. i'll wait outside the door." poor katty! she was telling herself that it was surely impossible--_impossible_ that godfrey pavely should be dead. though his vitality had always been low, he had been intensely individual. his self-importance, his egoism, his lack of interest in anything but himself, katty, and the little world where he played so important a part--all that had made him a forceful personality, especially to this woman who had possessed whatever he had had of heart and passionate feeling. she had felt of late as if he were indeed part of the warp and woof of her life, and deep in her scheming mind had grown a kind of superstitious belief that sooner or later their lives would become one. the thought that he might be lying dead in this great new building filled her with a sort of sick horror. there seemed something at once so futile and so hideously cruel about so stupid an accident as that described in the portuguese financier's letter. they stepped out on to a top landing, from which branched off several narrow corridors. the agent led the way down one of these. "room no. ? this must be it--this _is_ it! look, there are the two keyholes!" the younger and the brawnier of the two plainclothes detectives came forward. "if you'll just stand aside, gentlemen, for a minute or two, we'll soon get this door open. it's quite an easy matter." he opened his unobtrusive-looking, comparatively small bag. there was a sound of wrenching wood and metal, and then the door swung backwards into the room together with a thick green velvet curtain fixed along the top of the door on a hinged rod. a flood of wintry sunshine, thrown by the blinking now setting sun of a london january afternoon, streamed into the dark passage, and sir angus kinross strode forward into the room, lord st. amant immediately behind him. katty shrank back and then placed herself by the wall of the passage. she put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out a dreadful sight, yet all there was to see was an open door through which came a shaft of pallid wintry afternoon light. for a space of perhaps thirty seconds, sir angus's trained eyes and mind took in what he supposed to be every detail of the oblong room overlooking the now bare tree tops of the green park. he noted that the office furniture was extremely good--first-rate of its kind. also that the most prominent thing in the room was an american roll-top desk of an exceptionally large size. placed at right angles right across the office, this desk concealed nearly half the room. in the corner behind the door was a coat stand, on which there hung a heavy, fur-lined coat, and a silk hat. on the floor was a thick carpet. the only unbroken space of wall was covered by a huge diagram map of what looked like a piece of sea shore. one peculiar fact also attracted the attention of the commissioner of police. both the windows overlooking the park were wide open, fixed securely back as far as they would go: and on the window seats, comfortably, nay luxuriously, padded, and upholstered in green velvet, there now lay a thick layer of grime, the effect of the fog and rain of the last fortnight. as they stood within the door, in spite of those widely opened windows, there gradually stole on the senses of the four men there, a very curious odour, an odour which struck each of them as horribly significant. yet another thing sir angus noted in that quick, initial glance; this was that the blind of the narrow window which gave on to the street side of duke house was drawn down, casting one half of the room in deep shadow. he turned, and addressing lord st. amant in a very low voice, almost in a whisper, he said: "i think we shall find what we have come to seek over there, behind that desk." walking forward, he edged round by the side of the big piece of walnut wood furniture. then he started back, and exclaimed under his breath, "good god! how horrible!" he had thought to see a body lying at full length on the carpet, but what he did see, sitting upright at the desk, was a stark, immobile figure, of which the head, partly blown away, was sunk forward on the breast.... great care had been taken to wedge the dead man securely back in the arm-chair, and a cursory glance, in the dim light in which that part of the room was cast, would have given an impression of sleep, not of death. he beckoned to lord st. amant. "come over here," he whispered, "you needn't go any nearer. do you recognise that as being the body of godfrey pavely?" and lord st. amant, hastening forward, stared with a mixture of curiosity and horror at the still figure, and answered, "yes. i--i think there's no doubt about it's being pavely." "perhaps you'd better go and tell mrs. winslow. get her away as quick as you can. i must telephone at once for one of our doctors." lord st. amant turned without a word, and made his way through the still open door into the queer, rather dark passage. katty's face was still full of the strain and anguish of suspense, but she knew the truth by now. had nothing been found, some one would have come rushing out at once to tell her so. three or four minutes had elapsed since she had heard the sudden hush, the ominous silence, which had fallen over them all, in there. her lips formed the words: "then--they've found him?" and lord st. amant nodded gravely. "it looks as if that portuguese chap had told the simple truth." "the moment that i read the letter this morning i _knew_ that it was true," she muttered. then, "i suppose i'd better go away now? they don't want me here." she began walking towards the lift, and lord st. amant, following, felt very sorry for her. "look here," he said earnestly, "i'm sure you don't wish to go straight back to poor laura pavely? why should you? 'twould only rack you. i suppose----" he stopped a moment, and she looked up at him questioningly. "yes, lord st. amant--what is it you suppose?" katty spoke in a cold, hard voice--all her small affectations had fallen away from her. "i suppose," he said, "that laura knew very little of your friendship with poor godfrey pavely?" and she answered, again in that hard, cold voice, "yes, laura did know, i think, almost everything there was to know. she didn't care--she didn't mind. laura has no feeling." as he made no reply to that, she went on, rather breathlessly, and with sudden passion, "you think that i'm unfair--you think that laura really cares because she looked so shocked and miserable this morning? but that's just what she was--_shocked_, nothing else. what is a piece of terrible, _terrible_ bad luck for me, is good--very good luck for laura!" there was such concentrated bitterness in her tone that lord st. amant felt repelled--repelled as well as sorry. but all he said was: "would you like to go back to my rooms for an hour or two? they're quite near here." "no, i'd rather face laura now, at once. after all, i shall have to see her some time. i'm bound to be her nearest neighbour for a while, at any rate." * * * * * late that same night the awful news was broken to mrs. tropenell by her son. he had sent a message saying he would be down by the last train, and she had sat up for him, knowing nothing, yet aware that something had happened that morning which had sent laura and katty hurrying up to town. perhaps because the news he told was so unexpected, so strange, and to them both of such vital moment, the few minutes which followed oliver's return remained stamped, as if branded with white hot iron, on the tablets of mrs. tropenell's memory. when she heard his firm, hurried footsteps outside, she ran to let him in, and at once, as he came into the house, he said in a harsh, cold voice: "godfrey pavely is dead, mother. a foreigner with whom he had entered into business relations shot him by accident. the man wrote to laura a confession of what he had done. she got the letter this morning, took it up to london to the police--the best thing she could do--and pavely's body was found at the place indicated, a business office." as oliver spoke, in quick, jerky sentences, he was taking off his greatcoat, and hanging up his hat. she waited till he had done, and then only said: "i've got a little supper ready for you, darling. i sent the servants off to bed, so i'm alone downstairs." oliver sighed, a long, tired sigh of relief--relief that his mother had asked no tiresome, supplementary questions. and she saw the look of strain, and of desperate fatigue, smooth itself away, as he followed her into their peaceful dining-room. she sat with him, and so far commanded her nerves as to remain silent while he ate with a kind of hungry eagerness which astonished her. he turned to her at last, and for the first time smiled a rather wry smile. "i was very hungry! this is my first meal to-day, and i seem to have lived in the train. i was up at york--we thought there was a clue there. i think i told you that over the telephone? then i came back." she broke in gently, "to be met with this awful news, oliver?" he looked at her rather strangely, and nodded. "have you seen laura?" she ventured. "yes, just for a moment. but, mother? she's horribly unhappy. i--i expected her to be glad." "oliver!" there was a tone of horror, more, of reprobation, in mrs. tropenell's low voice. oliver tropenell was staring straight before him. "surely one would have expected her to be glad that the suspense was over? and now i ask myself----" and indeed he looked as if he was speaking to himself and not to her--"if it would have been better for laura if that--that fellow had been left to rot there till he had been discovered, two months, three months, perchance four months hence." "my dear," she said painfully, "what do you mean exactly? i don't understand." "pavely's body was found in an empty office, and if the man who shot him hadn't written to laura--well, of course the body would have remained there till it had occurred to some one to force open the door of the room, and that might not have happened for months." "i'm very glad that laura was told now," said mrs. tropenell firmly. "the suspense was telling on her far more than i should have expected it to do. katty, too, became a very difficult element in the situation. i don't think there's much doubt that poor katty was very fond of godfrey." he muttered: "mean little loves, mean little lives, mean little souls--they were well matched!" then he got up. "well, mother, i must be off to bed now, as i have to get up early and go into pewsbury. laura, who's staying on in town, asked me to come down and tell those whom it concerned, the truth. she wants you to tell alice. i said i thought you'd have the child here for a while." "certainly i will. she's been here all to-day, poor little girl." "do you really think she's to be pitied, mother?" she hesitated, but his stern face compelled an answer. "i don't think that godfrey would have got on with alice later on--when she grew to woman's estate. but now, yes, i do think the child's to be deeply pitied. it will be a painful, a terrible memory--that her father died like that." "i can't see it! a quiet, merciful death, mother--one that many a man might envy." he waited a few moments, then went on: "of course there will be an inquest, and i fear laura will almost certainly have to give evidence, in order to prove the receipt of that--that peculiar letter." "have you got a copy of the letter?" asked mrs. tropenell rather eagerly. her son shook his head. "no, the police took possession of it. but i've seen it of course." they were both standing up now. he went to the door, and held it open for her. and then, with his eyes bent on her face, he asked her a question which perhaps was not as strange as it sounded, between those two who were so much to one another, and who thought they understood each other so well. "mother," he said slowly, "i want to ask you a question.... how long in england does an unloving widow mourn?" "a decent woman, under normal conditions, mourns at least a year," she answered, and a little colour came into her face. then, out of her great love for him, she forced herself to add, "but that does not bar out a measure of friendship, oliver. give laura time to become accustomed to the new conditions of her life." "how long, mother?" "give her till next christmas, my dear." "i will." he put his arms round her. "mother!" he exclaimed, "i love you the better for my loving laura. do you realise that?" "i will believe it if you tell me so, oliver." he strode off, hastened up the staircase without looking round again, and she, waiting below, covered her face with her hands. a terrible sense of loneliness swept over and engulfed her; for the first time there was added a pang of regret that she had not joined her life to that of the affectionate hedonist who had been her true, devoted friend for so long. chapter xix and so, in this at once amazing and simple way was solved the mystery of godfrey pavely's disappearance. inquiries made by the police soon elicited the fact that the portuguese financier had told the truth as regarded his business in england, for a considerable number of persons voluntarily came forward to confirm the account the man had given of himself in his strange letter. during his sojourn at the mayfair hotel, the now mysterious fernando apra had impressed those who came in contact with him pleasantly rather than otherwise. it was also remembered there that one morning, about three weeks ago, he had come in looking agitated and distressed, and that he had confided to the manager of the hotel that an accident of a very extraordinary nature had occurred to him. but there his confidences had stopped--he had not said what it was that had happened to him. a day or two later, he had gone away, explaining that his business in england was concluded. laura stayed up in town till the inquest, and so, rather to laura's surprise, did katty winslow. as is always the case when there is anything of the nature of a mystery, the inquest was largely attended by the ordinary public. but no sensational evidence was tendered, though person after person went into the witness-box to prove that they had come in contact with fernando apra, and that under a seal of secrecy he had informed them of his gambling concession and of the scheme for developing what he believed would be a hugely profitable undertaking. in fact, he had spoken to more than one man of business of a possible two hundred per cent. profit. it also became clear, for the first time, why mr. pavely had gone to york. a gentleman who bore the aristocratic name of greville howard, and who was in too poor a state of health to come up to the inquest, volunteered the information that fernando apra had come to see him, greville howard, with an introduction from mr. godfrey pavely. further, that he, mr. howard, having gone into the matter of the proposed gambling concession, had suggested that the three should meet and have a chat over the business. as a result, a rather odd thing had happened. mr. apra did not accept the invitation, but mr. pavely, whom he had known for some years, had come to see him, and they had discussed the project. then he, greville howard, had heard nothing more till he had seen in a daily paper a casual allusion to the fact of mr. godfrey pavely's disappearance! but, though so much was cleared up, two rather important questions remained unanswered. there was no proof, through any of the shipping companies, that fernando apra had left england under his own name. also, while there were apparently several men of that same rather common name in lisbon, the portuguese police seemed unable to give any clue as to this particular man's identity. but a plausible explanation of this was to be found in the fact that portugal had lately changed her form of government. though the mystery was now in no sense any longer a mystery, a rather peculiar verdict was returned. the foreman of the jury, a tiresome, self-opinionated man, declared that he and his fellow jurymen were not really satisfied as to how godfrey pavely had come by his death, and they added a strong rider to their verdict, expressing an earnest hope that every effort would be made to find fernando apra. the inquest lasted two days, and as laura insisted on being present the whole time, the ordeal for her was severe. she was, however, supported by the companionship and presence of mrs. tropenell, who had come up on purpose to be with her. * * * * * after having put mrs. tropenell and laura in a carriage, lord st. amant and sir angus kinross walked away from the building where the inquest had been held. for a while neither man said anything. then, suddenly, lord st. amant exclaimed: "i don't know what _you_ think about it, but in spite of all we have heard, i can't help having a suspicion that that man fernando apra's story is a bit too thin. i take it that he and pavely may have had a quarrel--it's even possible that this portuguese fellow may have wanted to get pavely out of this exceedingly profitable business. but no man, least of all a man accustomed to carrying firearms, would play about with a pistol quite close to the back of another man's head!" "i've known stranger things than that happen," said sir angus slowly. "but in any case this portuguese fellow is an uncommonly clever chap. he's clean covered up his tracks." he hesitated a moment--and then added "i can tell you one queer thing, st. amant. this man pavely's pockets were very thoroughly gone through by whoever shot him. one side of his coat had the lining ripped open." "yet quite a good bit of money was found on him," observed lord st. amant. "whoever went through his pockets wasn't looking for money." sir angus spoke significantly. he went on: "though it was implied to-day that no papers or letters were discovered on the body, there was, as a matter of fact, an envelope found in an inner pocket. it was one of those inner pockets which some men have put into the inner lining of a waistcoat, the kind of pocket which is practically impossible to find--especially if you're in a hurry, and don't suspect its existence." lord st. amant's curiosity was sharply aroused. he ventured a question: "and the contents of the envelope?" "well, between ourselves, the contents of the envelope astonished me very much. the envelope, stamped with the name of pavely's bank, contained two rather scurrilous anonymous letters. to me, the curious thing consisted in the fact that pavely had thought it worth while to keep them. i should have destroyed them at once in his place." "do they throw any light on the mystery?" "no, of course not, or they would have been produced in evidence to-day. but still, one never can tell. of course we are keeping them." he added significantly, "they were not letters i should have cared to hand back to mr. pavely's widow." and then the commissioner of police added something which very much surprised his companion: "by the way, talking of mr. pavely's widow, i do earnestly beg you to try and dissuade mrs. pavely from continuing that thousand pounds reward." "surely the reward has lapsed now? the only person entitled to it would be this man, fernando apra himself." "ah, but mrs. pavely--or so mr. tropenell tells me--is quite determined to keep the offer of the reward open. whereas before the discovery of mr. pavely's body the reward was offered for any information leading to his discovery dead or alive, that same sum is now to be offered to any one who can bring us into communication with this portuguese fellow himself. i'm bound to say that mr. tropenell saw at once all the inconvenience of such a course, and he has done his best to dissuade mrs. pavely. but she's quite set on it! i fancy she's been persuaded to go on with it by mrs. winslow." "ah!" said lord st. amant. "i can't say that that surprises me. mrs. winslow----" then he stopped short, and the other looked quickly round at him, and exclaimed: "i wish you'd tell me a little more than i've been able to find out about this mrs. winslow. what exactly was her position in the pavely _ménage_?" lord st. amant hesitated. he felt bound to stand up for poor katty. so, "only that she and poor godfrey pavely were very old friends--friends from childhood," he answered slowly. "and since the time she divorced her husband mrs. winslow has lived close to the chase--in fact, she was their tenant." "then mrs. winslow was pavely's rather than mrs. pavely's friend?" "yes--if you care to put it that way." "i've very little doubt--in fact i feel quite sure, st. amant, that mrs. winslow knows a great deal more about the whole affair than she has chosen to reveal. when she and i talked the whole thing over, i brought her to admit that she _had_ heard something of this secret business arrangement between pavely and fernando apra. but if she was speaking the truth--and i think she was--there was a reason for her having been told. she was herself investing a small sum in the concern." "the devil she was!" lord st. amant was very much surprised. "yes, and on pavely's advice, of course. i take it that he was on more confidential terms with this lady than he was with his own wife?" the other nodded, reluctantly. "well, you must know by this time almost as well as i did that the pavelys were not on very--well, happy terms, together!" sir angus went on: "d'you remember something i told you concerning mr. pavely's day at york? even before we knew all you have heard to-day, we felt quite convinced that he'd gone down there to see the old rascal who calls himself greville howard. but some further information about that journey to york is in our possession." lord st. amant again nodded. there came a rather uneasy look over his face. he thought he knew the nature of the further confidence which was about to be made to him. he had never had any doubt in his own mind that godfrey pavely had not gone alone to yorkshire. "we feel quite certain that mrs. winslow was with pavely in york. he was seen there, in the company of a lady, by a business acquaintance. we've ascertained that mrs. winslow went, on that same day, to stay with some rather well-known people in the neighbourhood. mind you, i'm not for a moment suggesting that there was anything wrong." "i wonder," said lord st. amant suddenly, "why mrs. winslow still desires the reward to be offered." "i think i can tell you why." the commissioner of police looked straight into the other man's eyes. "mrs. winslow wishes this reward to be offered because she has vague hopes of earning it herself." lord st. amant uttered an exclamation of extreme astonishment. the other smiled. "yes--queer, isn't it? but, mind you, that's by no means an uncommon trait in the type of woman to which mrs. winslow belongs. their motives are almost always mixed. they're subtle little devils for the most part, st. amant. mrs. winslow was quite sufficiently fond of this unfortunate man to wish to avenge his death, and she also would be very glad suddenly to receive an addition to her fortune--which is, i understand, very small--of even a thousand pounds." he added, in a graver tone: "it seems to me that the one chance we have of influencing mrs. pavely is through you. and then again, the mere fact that you are one of her trustees may make a difference. would you not have it in your power to _prevent_ her continuing this reward?" lord st. amant shook his head very decidedly. "no, i should not feel justified in doing that, even if i had the power. as a matter of fact, she has a certain amount of money at her own absolute disposal. i may tell you that i did my best to dissuade her from offering the reward when she first made up her mind to do so--you will remember when i mean?" * * * * * as lord st. amant made his way back to his own rooms, the rooms where he knew mrs. tropenell and laura pavely were now waiting for him, his mind was in a whirl of surprise and conjecture. katty winslow acting the part of amateur detective? what an extraordinary notion! somehow it was one which would never have crossed his mind. that, no doubt, was the real reason why she had been so determined to attend the inquest. but she had not sat with mrs. pavely, mrs. tropenell, and himself. she had chosen a place in a kind of little gallery behind the jurymen, and by her side, through the whole proceedings, had sat, with his arms folded, oliver tropenell. tropenell, since the discovery of godfrey pavely's body, had kept himself very much apart from the others. he had gone down to pewsbury, and had broken the sad news to mr. privet--this by laura's direct request and desire. but he had not shown even the discreet interest lord st. amant would have expected him to show in the newly-made widow and her affairs, and there was something enigmatic and reserved in his attitude. one thing he had done. he had made a great effort to prevent laura pavely's being put into the witness-box. he had discovered that she shrank with a kind of agonised horror from the ordeal, and he had begged lord st. amant to join him in trying to spare her. but of course their efforts had been of no avail. laura, in one sense, was the principal witness. but for her receipt of the letter, the body of her husband might not have been discovered for weeks, maybe for months. fernando apra would only have had to send a further instalment of rent, with the proviso that his room should not be entered till he returned, for the mystery to remain a mystery for at any rate a long time. the funeral of godfrey pavely was to take place the next day in the old parish church of pewsbury, where the pavely family had a vault. the arrangements had all been left to mr. privet, and the only time lord st. amant had seen oliver tropenell smile since the awful discovery had been made, had been in this connection. "i'm very glad we thought of it," he said, "i mean that mrs. pavely and myself thought of it. poor old privet! he was one of the very few people in the world who was ever really attached to godfrey pavely. and the fact that all the arrangements have been left to him is a great consolation, not to say pleasure, to the poor old fellow." chapter xx it was the day of godfrey pavely's funeral, and more than one present at the great gathering observed, either to themselves or aloud to some trusted crony or acquaintance, that the banker would certainly have been much gratified had he seen the high esteem in which he was held by both the gentle and simple of the surrounding neighbourhood. even lord st. amant was a good deal impressed by the scene. every blind in the high street was down--a striking mark of respect indeed towards both the dead banker and his widow. apart from that fact, the town looked as if it was in the enjoyment of a public holiday, but even that was in its way a tribute. the streets were full of people, and round the entrance to the churchyard was a huge crowd. as for the churchyard itself, it was overflowing, and presented a remarkable rather than a touching scene. only a few of the town-folk were still allowed to be buried in the mediæval churchyard which lay just off the high street, so a funeral actually taking place there was a very rare event. the circumstances of mr. pavely's death had been so strange that the local paper had printed a verbatim report of the inquest, as well as a very flowery account of the departed, who had been, it was explained, so true and so loyal a townsman of pewsbury. yet, even so, there were those present at his funeral who muttered that mr. pavely had met his death just as might have been expected, through his love of money. it was also whispered that the job in which this queer foreigner had been associated with the banker had not been of the most reputable kind. this fernando apra--every one knew his queer name because of the big reward--had wanted to raise money for a kind of glorified gambling hell; that was the long and the short of it, after all, so much the shrewder folk of pewsbury had already found out, reading between the lines of the evidence offered at the inquest. in an official sense the chief mourners were two distant cousins of godfrey pavely--men with whom he had quarrelled years ago--but in a real, intimate sense, the principal mourners were old mr. privet, lord st. amant, who, though he was so fond of travel, never neglected the duties entailed by his position in the county, and last but by no means least mr. oliver tropenell, who, as every one present was well aware, had during the last few months become the one intimate friend of the dead man. among the women there were several who knew that at this very moment mrs. pavely was being comforted by mr. oliver tropenell's mother, a lady who stood high in public esteem, and with whom mrs. pavely as a girl, had spent much of her youth, and from whose house, picturesque freshley manor, she had been married to the man whom they were now engaged in burying. another person present who aroused even more interest among the good folk of pewsbury than either lord st. amant or oliver tropenell, was mrs. winslow. the older townspeople looked at katty with a good deal of rather excited sympathy, for they remembered the gossip and talk there had been about pretty katty fenton and the dead man, and of how unkind old mrs. pavely, now dead many a year, had shown herself to the lovely, motherless girl. there were even some there who whispered that poor godfrey pavely had again become very fond of his first love--and that, too, when they were both old enough to know better! but these busybodies were not encouraged to say the little they knew. these are things--natural human failings--which should be forgotten at a man's funeral. mrs. winslow did not look unreasonably upset. there were no tears in her bright brown eyes, and her black frock, sable plumed hat, and beautiful black furs, intensified the brilliant pink and white of her complexion. indeed, many of the people who gazed at katty that day thought they had never seen her looking so attractive. the world belongs to the living--not to the dead, and poor godfrey pavely, with his big, prosperous one-man business, and his almost uncanny cleverness in the matter of making money, belonged henceforth very decidedly to the past. so it was that among the men and women who stared with eager curiosity and respectful interest at the group of mourners, several noticed that mr. oliver tropenell seemed to pay special attention to mrs. winslow. once he crossed over, and stood close to her for a minute or two by the still open grave, and his dark handsome face showed far more trace of emotion than did hers. after the funeral, lord st. amant dropped mrs. winslow at the gate of rosedean, and, on parting with katty, he patted her hand kindly, telling himself that she was certainly a very pretty woman. lord st. amant, like most connoisseurs in feminine beauty, preferred seeing a pretty woman in black. "you must try and forget poor godfrey pavely," he said feelingly. he was startled and moved by the intensity with which she answered him:--"i wish i could--but i can't. i feel all the time as if he was there, close to me, trying to tell me something! i believe that he was murdered, lord st. amant." "i'm sure you're mistaken. you must never think that!" "ah, but i do think so. i'm certain of it!" * * * * * following the old custom, godfrey pavely's will was to be read after his burial, and laura had written to lord st. amant asking him if he would be present. in the great dining-room of the chase, a dining-room still lined with the portraits of mrs. tropenell's ancestors, were two tables, one large long table which was never used, and a round table in the bow-window. to-day it was about the big table that there were gathered the five men and the one woman who were to be present at the reading of the will. laura was the one woman. the men were godfrey pavely's lawyer, the dead man's two cousins--who had perhaps a faint hope of legacies, a hope destined to be disappointed, oliver tropenell, present as laura pavely's trustee, and lord st. amant, who had been a trustee to her marriage settlement. laura, in her deep black, looked wan, sad and tired, but perfectly calm. all the men there, with one exception, glanced towards her now and again with sympathy. the exception was oliver tropenell. he had shut her out, as far as was possible, from his mind, and he seemed hardly aware of her presence. he stared straight before him, a look of rather impatient endurance on his face--not at all, so argued lord st. amant to himself, the look of a man from whose path a hitherto impassable obstacle has just been removed. though rather ashamed of letting his mind dwell on such thoughts at such a time, lord st. amant told himself that mrs. tropenell had doubtless been mistaken as to what she had confided to him on his return from abroad. mothers are apt to be jealous where only sons are concerned, and letty--his dear, ardent-natured friend letty--had always been romantic. lord st. amant was confirmed in this view by the fact that that very morning mrs. tropenell had told him that oliver was going back to mexico almost at once. to her mind it confirmed what she believed to be true. but her old friend and some-time lover had smiled oddly. lord st. amant judged oliver by himself--and he had always been a man of hot-foot decisions. it was inconceivable to him that any lover could act in so cold-blooded, careful a fashion as this. no, no--if oliver cared for laura as his mother believed he cared, he would not now go off to the other end of the world, simply to placate public opinion. to those who had known the man, godfrey pavely's will contained only one surprise, otherwise it ran on the most conventional lines. practically the whole of his very considerable fortune was left, subject to laura's life interest--an interest which lapsed on re-marriage--in trust for his only child. the surprise was the banker's substantial legacy to mrs. winslow. that lady was left rosedean, the only condition attaching to the legacy being that, should she ever wish to sell the little property, the first offer must be made to alice pavely's trustees. also, rather to the astonishment of some of those present, it was found that the will had only been made some two months ago, and the lawyer who read it out was aware that in some important particulars it had been modified and changed. in the will made by godfrey pavely immediately after his marriage he had left his wife sole legatee. after alice was born the banker had naturally added a codicil, but he had still left laura in a far greater position of responsibility in regard to the estate than in this, his final will. after the will had been read, lord st. amant spent a few moments alone with laura. he felt he had a rather disagreeable task before him, and he did not like disagreeable tasks. still he faced this one with characteristic courage. "i've been asked by sir angus kinross to undertake a rather unpleasant duty, my dear laura--that of persuading you to withdraw the reward you are offering for the discovery of fernando apra. he points out that if apra's story is true, it might easily mean that you would simply be giving a present of a thousand pounds to the person who killed your husband." laura heard him out without interruption. then she shook her head. "i feel it is my duty to do it," she said in a low voice. "katty, who was godfrey's greatest friend, says he would have wished it--and i think she's right. it isn't going to be paid out of the estate, you know. _i_ will pay it--if ever it is earned." she went on painfully. "i am very unhappy, lord st. amant. godfrey and i were not suited to one another, but still i feel that i was often needlessly selfish and unkind." lord st. amant began to see why oliver tropenell was going back to mexico so soon. part three chapter xxi those winter and spring months which followed the tragic death of godfrey pavely were full of difficult, weary, and oppressive days to his widow laura. her soul had become so used to captivity, and to being instinctively on the defensive, that she did not know how to use her freedom--indeed, she was afraid of freedom. another kind of woman would have gone away to the continent, alone or with her child, taking what in common parlance is described as a thorough change. but laura went on living quietly at the chase, feeling in a queer kind of way as if godfrey still governed her life, as if she ought to do exactly what godfrey would wish her to do, all the more so because in his lifetime she had not been an obedient or submissive wife. as the commissioner of police had foretold, the large reward offered by mrs. pavely had brought in its train a host of tiresome and even degrading incidents. a man of the name of apra actually came from the continent and tried to make out that _he_ had been the banker's unwitting murderer! but his story broke down under a very few minutes' cross-examination at scotland yard. even so, laura kept the offer of the thousand pounds in being. it seemed to be the only thing that she could still do for godfrey. though she was outwardly leading the quiet, decorously peaceful life of a newly-made widow, laura's soul was storm-tossed and had lost its bearings. her little girl's company, dearly as she loved the child, no longer seemed to content her. for the first time in her life, she longed consciously for a friend of her own age, but with the woman living at her gate, with katty winslow, she became less, rather than more, intimate. also, hidden away in the deepest recess of her heart, was an unacknowledged pain. she had felt so sure that oliver tropenell would stay on with his mother through the winter and early spring! but, to her bewildered surprise, he had left for mexico almost at once. he had not even sought a farewell interview to say good-bye to her alone, and their final good-bye had taken place in the presence of his mother. together he and mrs. tropenell had walked over to the chase one late afternoon, within less than a week of godfrey's funeral, and he had explained that urgent business was recalling him to mexico at once. he and laura had had, however, three or four minutes together practically alone; and at once he had exclaimed, in a voice so charged with emotion that it recalled those moments laura now shrank from remembering--those moments when he had told her of his then lawless love--"you'll let me know if ever you want me? a cable would bring me as quickly as i can travel. you must not forget that i am your trustee." and she had replied, making a great effort to speak naturally: "i will write to you, oliver, often--and i hope you will write to me." and he had said: "yes--yes, of course i will! not that there's much to say that will interest you. but i can always give you news of gillie." he had said nothing as to when they were to meet again. but after he was gone mrs. tropenell had spoken as if he intended to come back the following christmas. oliver had so far kept his promise that he had written to laura about once a fortnight. they were very ordinary, commonplace letters--not long, intimate, and detailed as she knew his letters to his mother to be. mostly he wrote of gillie, and of whatever work gillie at the moment was engaged upon. on her side, she would write to him of little alice, of the child's progress with her lessons, of the funny little things that alice said. occasionally she would also force herself to put in something about godfrey, generally on some matter connected with the estate, and she would tell him of what she was doing in the garden, or in the house which had been built by his, oliver's, forbears. she could not tell him, what was yet oddly true, that the spirit of godfrey still ruled the chase. he had inherited from his parents certain old-fashioned ways and usages, to which he had clung with a sort of determined obstinacy, and as to such matters, his wife, in the days which were now beginning to seem so far away and so unreal, had never even dreamt of gainsaying him. one of these usages was the leaving off of fires, however cold the weather might be, on the first of may, and this year, on the eve of may day, laura remembered, and made up her mind that in this, as in so much else, she would now be more submissive to the dead than she had ever been to the living godfrey. * * * * * laura sat up late that night destroying and burning certain papers connected with her past life. she had come to realise how transitory a thing is human existence, and she desired to leave nothing behind her which might later give her child a clue to what sort of unhappy, unnatural married life she and godfrey had led. but it is always a painful task--that of turning over long-dead embers. sitting there in the boudoir, close to the glowing fire, and with a big old-fashioned despatch-box at her side, she glanced at the letters which her husband had written to her during their brief engagement, and then she tied them up again and inscribed them with names and dates. they might give alice pleasure some day, the more so that there was singularly little else remaining to tell godfrey's child what he had been like at his best. she, laura, only knew--alice, thank god, would never know, would never understand--what melancholy memories these rather formal, commonplace love-letters evoked in the woman who as a girl had been their recipient. the very few letters which her husband had written to her during their married life, when he happened to be in london or away on business, she had always destroyed as they came. they had been brief, business-life communications, generally concerning something he desired to be done on the estate, or giving her the instructions he wished to have telephoned to the bank. after glancing absently through them, she burnt many letters which she now wondered why she had kept--letters for the most part from friends of her girlhood who had gradually drifted away from her, and the memory of whom was fraught with pain. she put aside the meagre packet of her brother's letters, and then, at last she gathered up in her hands the score or more large envelopes addressed in oliver tropenell's clear, small, masculine handwriting. should she burn these too--or keep them? slowly she took out of its envelope the first of oliver's letters which she had kept--that in which he expressed his willingness to become her trustee. for the first time she forgot little alice, forgot the day when her daughter would read all that she found here, in her mother's despatch-box, with the same eager interest and perchance the same moved pleasure, which she, laura, had felt when reading the letters her own beloved mother had left behind her. consideringly she glanced over the first real letter oliver tropenell had ever written to her. vividly she remembered the whole circumstances surrounding the sending and receiving of that letter, for it had followed close on the scene which, try as she might, she could not, even now, forget. it was in this letter that she now held open in her hand, that oliver had heaped coals of fire on her head, by his quiet, kindly acceptance of the trusteeship. there was unluckily one passage she felt alice should never have a chance of reading--for it concerned gillie. so, though she was sorry to destroy the letter, she felt that on the whole it would be better to burn it, here and now. hesitatingly she held out the large sheet to the bright fire--and as she was in the act of doing so, quite suddenly there flashed between the lines of firm, black handwriting other lines--clear, brownish lines--of the same handwriting. what an extraordinary, amazing, incredible thing! laura slipped down on to the hearthrug from the low arm-chair on which she had been sitting with her despatch-box beside her, and bent forward, full of tremulous excitement--her heart beating as it had never beat before. "the decks are cleared between us, laura, for you know now that i love you. you said, 'oh, but this is terrible!' yes, laura, love is terrible. it is not only cleansing, inspiring, and noble, it is terrible too. why is it that you so misunderstand, misjudge, the one priceless gift, the only bit of heaven, which god or nature--i care not which--has given to man and woman?" she stopped reading for a moment, then forced herself to go on, and the next few lines of that strange, passionate secret letter, burnt themselves into her brain. she let the paper flutter down, and covered her face with her hands. could she--should she believe what this man said? "what you, judging by your words to-day, take to be love is as little like that passion as a deep draught of pure cold water to a man dying of thirst is like the last glass of drugged beer imbibed by some poor sot already drunk." it was a horrible simile, and yet--yes, she felt that it was a true smile. for the first time laura pavely dimly apprehended the meaning of love in the same sense that oliver tropenell understood it. she took up the sheet of paper again, and with the tears falling down her cheeks, she read the postscript which was superposed, as it were, on to the first. "god bless you, my dear love, and grant you the peace which seems the only thing for which you crave." after giving a shamed, furtive look round the empty room, laura pavely pressed the letter to her lips, and then she threw it into the fire, and watched it vanish into brilliant flame, feeling as if a bit of her heart were being burnt with it. slowly she got up and went to the door; opening it, she listened for a while. the whole household was asleep, but even so, she locked the door before coming back to her station by the fire. she put more coal on the now glowing embers, and then she took up another letter oliver had written to her, a letter written from paris just after he and her brother had left london together for that long holiday on the continent. outwardly it was a commonplace letter enough concerning a change in certain of her investments; but when she held it to the fire, between the black lines there again started into pulsing life another message, winged from his soul to hers.... "laura, i have sworn not to speak to you of love, and even in this letter which you will never see, i will not break my oath. but as i go in and out of the old paris churches (where alone i find a certain measure of solace and peace), in the women whom i see there praying i often seem to discover something akin to your spiritual and physical perfection. "it is strange, considering the business on which i am engaged, that i should feel thus drawn to haunt these old, dim paris churches, but there at least i can escape from gillie, of gillie who talks perpetually of godfrey, your owner and your tyrant." and as she read these last words, there came a cold feeling over laura's heart. she realised, for the first time, how oliver had hated godfrey. she read on: "gillie does not understand the reverence in which i hold you. sometimes when he speaks of you--of you and godfrey--i feel as if some day i shall strike him on the mouth. "but he is your brother, laura. according to the measure which is in the man he loves you, aye, and even reverences you too, in his fashion; but with this reverence is mingled a touch of pity, of contempt, that you should be what he calls 'good.'" good? laura looked up and stared into the now glowing fire. good in a narrow, effortless sense she had always been, but to the man who was so little her owner, though so much at times her tyrant, she had been, almost from the very first, hard, and utterly lacking in sympathy. it was with relief that laura burnt that letter. the notes oliver tropenell had written to her in london while he was conducting the investigation into godfrey pavely's disappearance, held, to her disappointment, no secret writing in between. but the letters she had received from him since her widowhood all had an invisible counterpart. the first was written on ship-board: "laura, i am now free to speak to you of love. the world would say that i must wait in spirit as i have waited in body, but i know at what a cost has been bought the relief from the vow which i faithfully kept. "the past is dead, the future is my own. i look back, dear love, to the few moments we had by the great window in your drawing-room, when my mother was talking to alice over by the fire. you were so gentle, so sweet, to me then. it was as if--god forgive me for my presumption--you were regretting my departure. till that moment i had felt as if the man who had once called you wife stood between us, an angry, menacing shape. but he vanished then, in that house of which he had never been the real master. and since that day he has not haunted me as he haunted me during those long long days of waiting for the news i at once longed for and dreaded. "when i come back i shall not ask you to love me, i shall only humbly ask you to let me love you." laura went to her writing-table and turned on the light. she moved as one walking in her sleep, for she was in an extraordinary state of spiritual and mental exaltation. she drew a sheet of paper towards her, and before burning the letter she still held in her hand, she copied out, not all, but a certain part of what had been written there in that invisible ink which only flashed into being when held up against a flame. then she went back to the fire, and read the next letter--and the next. in a sense they were alike--alike in the measureless love, the almost anguished longing for her presence they expressed, and in their abhorrence, hatred, contempt for the man who had been her husband. it was as if oliver, in spite of his confident words in the letter which had been written on shipboard, could not forget godfrey--as if perpetually he felt the dead man's menacing presence to be there, between them. laura was amazed, troubled, and yet at the same time profoundly stirred and excited by oliver's retrospective jealousy. it seemed to prove to her as nothing else could have done how passionately, exclusively he loved her, and had always loved her. though none of those about her were aware of it, the mistress of the chase became henceforth a different woman. it was as though she had suddenly become alive where she had been dead, articulate instead of dumb. each night, when the house was plunged in darkness and slumber, laura would light three candles, and read the words of longing and of love which oliver had written in between the formal lines of the last letter she had received from him. and then, when a new letter came, she would burn the one that had come before--the one whose contents she had already long known by heart. and as the spring wore into summer the thing that became, apart from her child, the only real thing in laura pavely's life, was her strong, secret link with this man who she knew was coming back to claim her, on whatever terms she chose to exact, as his own. and she fell into a deep, brooding peace--the peace of waiting. she was in no hurry to see oliver again--indeed, she sometimes had a disturbing dread that his actual presence might destroy that amazing sense of nearness she now felt to him. unconsciously her own letters to him became more intimate, more self-revealing; she wrote less of alice, more of herself. the only uneaseful element in laura pavely's life now was katty winslow. the two women never met without katty's making some mention of godfrey. and once laura, when walking away with katty from freshley manor, where the two had met unexpectedly, was sharply disturbed by something katty said. "i'm told oliver tropenell is coming back at or after christmas. somehow i always associate him with that awful time we had last january. i think i shall try and be away when he is here--i don't suppose he'll stay long." katty spoke with a kind of rather terrible hardness in her voice, fixing her bright eyes on laura's quivering face. "instead of going away as he did, he ought to have stayed and tried to clear up the mystery." "but the mystery," said laura in a low voice, "_was_ cleared up, katty." but katty shook her head. "to me the mystery is a greater one than ever," she said decisively. * * * * * early in september laura received a letter written, as were all oliver's letters, in sober, measured terms, and yet, even as she opened it, she felt with a strange, strong instinct that something new was here. and as she lived through the few hours which separated her from night and solitude, she grew not only more restless, but more certain, also, of some coming change in her own life. his open letter ran:-- "i am writing in my new country house. years ago, after i first came out to mexico, i stumbled across the place by accident, and at once i made up my mind that some day i would become its possessor. over a hundred years old, this little château, set on a steep hillside, is said to have been built by a frenchman of genius who, having got into some bad scrape in paris, had to flee the country, while the old _régime_ was in full fling. "when i first came here, the house had stood empty for over forty years. the garden, beautiful as it was, had fallen into ruin. the fountains were broken, the water no longer played, the formal arbours looked like forest trees. white roses and jasmine mingled with the dense southern vegetation, fighting a losing fight. "for a few brief weeks in ' it was inhabited by maximilian and his young empress--indeed, it is said that the emperor still haunts the cool large rooms on the upper floor--there are but two storeys. so far i have never met his noble ghost. i should not be afraid if i did. "i am beginning to think that it is time i came back to freshley for a while. but my plans are still uncertain." at last came solitude, and the luminous darkness of an early autumn night. laura locked herself into her room. yes, instinct had not played her false, for the first words of the secret letter ran:-- "laura, i am coming home. i had meant to linger on here yet another month or six weeks, but now i ask myself each hour of the day and night--why wait? "the room in which i am sitting writing to you, thinking of you, longing for you, was the room of those two great lovers, maximilian and his carlotta. the ghost of their love reminds me of the transience of life. i have just walked across to the window, thinking, thinking, thinking, my beloved, of you. for i am haunted ever, laura, by your wraith. i walk up and down the terrace wondering if you will ever be here in the body--as you already seem to be in the spirit. "i am leaving at sunrise, and in three days i shall be upon the sea. you will receive a cable, and so will my mother. the thought of seeing you again--ah, laura, you will never know what rapture, so intense as to be almost akin to pain, that thought gives me. lately your letters have seemed a thought more intimate, more confiding--i dare not say less cold. but i have sworn to myself, and i shall keep my oath, to ask for nothing that cannot be freely given." two days later laura received a wireless message saying that oliver would be at freshley the next day. chapter xxii a year ago, almost to a day, mrs. tropenell had been sitting where she was sitting now, awaiting laura pavely. everything looked exactly as it had looked then in the pretty, low drawing-room of freshley manor. nothing had been added to, nothing withdrawn from, the room. the same shaded reading-lamp stood on the little table close to her elbow; the very chrysanthemums might have been the same. and yet with the woman sitting there everything was different! of all the sensations--unease, anxiety, foreboding, jealousy--with which her heart had been filled this time last year, only one survived, and of that one she was secretly very much ashamed, for it was jealousy. and now she was trying with all the force of her nature to banish the ugly thing from her heart. what must be--must be! if oliver's heart and soul, as well as the whole of his ardent, virile physical entity, desired laura, then she, his mother, must help him, as much as lay within her power, to compass that desire. since godfrey pavely's death, it had been as if mrs. tropenell's life had slipped back two or three years. all these last few months she had written to oliver long diary letters, and oliver on his side had written to her vivid chronicles of his mexican life. perhaps she saw less, rather than more of laura than she had done in the old days, for laura, since her widowhood, had had more to do. she took her duties as the present owner of the chase very seriously. still, nothing was changed--while yet in a sense everything had been changed--by the strange, untoward death of godfrey pavely. oliver's letters were no longer what they had been, they were curiously different, and yet only she, his mother, perchance would have seen the difference, had one of his letters of two years ago and one of his letters of to-day been put side by side. the love he had borne for the spanish woman, of whom he had once spoken with such deep feeling, had not affected his relations with his mother. but the love he now bore laura pavely had. not long ago laura had shown mrs. tropenell one of oliver's letters, and though there was really very little in it, she had been oddly nervous and queer in her manner, hardly giving the older woman time to read it through before she had taken it back out of her hand. laura had become more human since her husband's death; it was as if a constricting band had been loosened about her heart. even so, oliver's mother often wondered sorely whether laura would ever welcome oliver in any character save that of a devoted, discreet, and selfless friend. she doubted it. and yet, when he had written and suggested coming back now, instead of waiting till christmas, she had not said a word to stop him. and the moment she had heard that he had reached england, and that he was to be here late on this very afternoon, she had sent a note to the chase and asked laura to share their first meal. one thing had made a great difference to mrs. tropenell's life during the last few months. that was the constant, familiar presence of lord st. amant. now that he was lord lieutenant of the county, he was far more at knowlton abbey than he had been for some years, and somehow--neither could have told you why--they had become even closer friends than they had been before. it was well understood that any supplicant who had mrs. tropenell on his side could count on lord st. amant's help and goodwill. though she was of course quite unaware of it, there were again rumours through the whole of the country-side that soon the mistress of freshley manor would become lady st. amant, and that then the abbey would be opened as that great house had not been for close on forty years. and now, to-night, mrs. tropenell suddenly remembered that lord st. amant was coming to dinner--she had forgotten it in the excitement of oliver's return. but she told herself, with a kind of eagerness, that her old friend's presence might, after all, make things easier for them all! it is always easier to manage a party of four people than of three. also, it made less marked the fact of laura's presence on this, the first evening, of oliver's return home. mrs. tropenell had not been able to discover from her son's manner whether he was glad or sorry laura was coming to-night. and sitting there, waiting for her guests, she anxiously debated within herself whether oliver would have preferred to see laura for the first time alone. of course he could have offered to go and fetch her; but he had not availed himself of that excuse, and his mother knew that she would be present at their meeting. the door opened, quietly, and as had been the case a year ago, mrs. tropenell saw her beautiful visitor before laura knew that there was any one in the darkened room. once more mrs. tropenell had a curious feeling as if time had slipped back, and that everything was happening over again. the only difference was that laura to-night was all in black, with no admixture of white. still, by an odd coincidence the gown she was wearing was made exactly as had been that other gown last year, and through the thin black folds of chiffon her lovely white arms shone palely, revealingly.... and then, as her guest came into the circle of light, mrs. tropenell realised with a feeling almost of shock that laura was very much changed. she no longer had the sad, strained, rather severe look on her face which had been there last year. she looked younger, instead of older, and there was an expression of half-eager, half-shrinking expectation on her face--to-night. "aunt letty? how good of you to ask me----" but her voice sank away into silence as the sound of quick footsteps were heard hastening across the hall. the door opened, and oliver tropenell came in. he walked straight to laura, and took both her hands in his. "you got my cable?" he asked. and then laura blushed, overwhelmingly. she had had said nothing of that cable to mrs. tropenell. and as they stood there--oliver still grasping laura's hands in his--the mother, looking on, saw with a mixture of joy and of jealous pain that laura stood before him as if hypnotised, her heavy-lidded blue eyes fixed upwards on his dark, glowing face. suddenly they all three heard the at once plaintive and absurd hoot of lord st. amant's motor--and it was as if a deep spell had suddenly been broken. slowly, reluctantly, oliver released laura's hands, and mrs. tropenell exclaimed in a voice which had a tremor in it: "it's lord st. amant, oliver. i forgot that he had asked himself to dinner to-night. he said he could not come till half-past eight, but i suppose he got away earlier than he expected to do." and then with the coming into the room of her old friend, life seemed suddenly to become again normal, and though by no means passionless, yet lacking that curious atmosphere of violent, speechless emotion that had been there a moment or two ago. of the four it was laura who seemed the most moved. she came up and slipped her hand into mrs. tropenell's, holding it tightly, probably unaware that she was doing so. after the first few words of welcome to oliver, lord st. amant plunged into local talk with mrs. tropenell, and as he did so, he looked a little wryly at laura. why didn't she move away and talk to oliver? why did she stick close like that to letty--to letty, with whom he had hoped to spend a quiet, cosy, cheerful evening? but laura, for the first time in her life, felt as if she were no longer in full possession of herself. it was as if she had passed into the secret keeping of another human being; she had the sensation that her mind was now in fee to another human mind, her will overawed by another human will. and there was a side to her nature which rebelled against this sudden, quick transference of herself. with what she now half-realised to have been a kind of self-imposed hypocrisy, she had told herself often, during the last few months, that oliver and she when they again met would become dear, dear friends. he would be the adorer, she the happy, calm, adored. and that then, after a long probation, perhaps of years, in any case not for a long, long time, she might bring herself half reluctantly, and entirely for his sake, to consider the question of--re-marriage. but now? since oliver had taken her hands in his, and gazed down speechlessly into her eyes, she had known that it was he, not she, would set the pace in their new relationship, and that however sincere his self-imposed restraint and humility. so it was that laura instinctively clung to mrs. tropenell's hand. the passion of love, which so often makes even quite a young man feel older, steadier, more responsible, has quite the opposite effect on a woman. to every woman love brings back youth, and the deeper, the more instinctive the love, the greater the tremors and the uncertainties which, according to a hypocritical convention, belong only to youth. the years which laura had spent with godfrey pavely seemed obliterated. memories of her married life which had been very poignantly present in the early days of her widowhood, filling her with mingled repugnance, pain, and yes, remorse, were now erased from the tablets of her mind. she felt as if it was the young, ignorant laura--that laura who had been so full of high, almost defiant ideals--who was now standing, so full of confused longing and hope, if yet also a little fearful, on the threshold of a new, wonderful life.... * * * * * good-breeding and the observance of certain long-established, social usages have an inestimable value in all the great crises of human existence. to-night each of the other three felt the comfort of lord st. amant's presence among them. his agreeable ease of manner, his pleasant, kindly deference to the older and the younger lady, all helped to lessen the tension, and make what each of his companions felt to be a breathless time of waiting, easier to live through. he himself was surprised and shocked by the change he saw in oliver tropenell's face. oliver looked worn, haggard, yet filled with a kind of fierce gladness. he appeared to-night not so much the happy, as the exultant, conqueror of fate. he talked, and talked well, of the political situation in mexico, of certain happenings which had taken place in england during his absence, and though now and again mrs. tropenell joined in the talk, on the whole she, like laura, was content to listen to the two men. after dinner, while they were still alone in the drawing-room, laura began to talk, rather eagerly, of her little alice. she had begun to wonder whether it would not be well for the child to go to school as a weekly boarder. there was such a school within reasonable motoring distance. alice was becoming rather too grown-up, and unchildlike. she had certain little friends in the town of pewsbury, but they did not really touch her life. but even as mrs. tropenell and laura talked the matter over, they both felt their talk to be unreal. each of them knew that laura's second marriage, if ever marry she did, would completely alter the whole situation with regard to alice. oliver was not the man to hang up his hat in another man's house--besides, why should he do so? the chase belonged to alice, even now. and then rather suddenly, laura asked a question: "how long is oliver going to stay in england, aunt letty?" and mrs. tropenell quietly answered, "i should think he would stay till after christmas. i gather everything is going on quite well out there, thanks to gillie." she waited a moment, and then repeated, thoughtfully: "yes--i feel sure oliver means to stay till after the new year----" and then she stopped suddenly. there had come a change over laura's face. laura had remembered what mrs. tropenell for the moment had not done--that early in january godfrey pavely would have been dead exactly a year. as ten o'clock struck, the other two came in, still talking eagerly to one another. lord st. amant sat down by laura. "i'm going to have a little shooting party later on--not now, but early in december," he said. "mrs. tropenell is coming, and i hope oliver too. i wonder if you would do me the great pleasure of being there, laura? it's a long, long time since you honoured the abbey with your company----" he was smiling down at her. "i would ask alice to come too," he went on, "but i think she'd be bored! perhaps you'll be bored too? i'm not having any very brilliant or wonderful people, just a few of the neighbours whom i feel i've rather neglected." laura laughed. "of course i shall enjoy coming!" she exclaimed. oliver was standing by his mother. suddenly he muttered, "mother? ask lord st. amant to come over and speak to you----" but before she could obey him, lord st. amant got up and quickly came over to where mrs. tropenell was sitting, leaving a vacant place by laura. with his back to the two younger people he sat down close to mrs. tropenell, and all at once he saw that her dark eyes were full of tears. he took her hand and patted it gently. "i feel dreadfully _de trop_," he murmured. "can't we go off, we two old folk, to your little room, my dearest? i'm sure you've something you want to show me there, or consult me about?" and while lord st. amant was saying this to his old love, the two on the other side of the room were silent, as if stricken dumb by the nearness each felt to the other. and at last it was laura who broke the silence. "i think i must be going home," she said uncertainly. she looked across at her hostess. "i don't want to make lord st. amant think he ought to go too. perhaps i can slip away quietly?" "i'll walk back with you." oliver spoke with a kind of dry decision. he got up. "mother? i'm taking laura home. i shan't be long. perhaps lord st. amant will stay till i come back. it's quite early." he turned to laura, now standing by his side: "say good-bye to them now. i'll fetch your shawl, and we'll go out through the window." laura obeyed, as in a dream. "good-bye, aunt letty. good-night, lord st. amant--i shall enjoy being at the abbey." she suffered herself to be kissed by the one--her hand pressed by the other. then she turned as if in answer to an unseen signal. oliver was already back in the room, her shetland shawl on his arm. he put it round her shoulders, taking care not to touch her as he did so; then he opened the long french window, and stood aside for a moment while she stepped through into the moonlight, out of doors. * * * * * they were now in the beech avenue, in a darkness that seemed the more profound because of the streaks of silvery moonlight which lay just behind them. but even so, the white shawl laura was wearing showed dimly against the depths of shade encompassing her. all at once oliver turned and said so suddenly that she, walking by his side, started: "laura? do you remember this time last year?" and as she answered the one word "yes," he went on: "it was to-night, just a year ago, that i promised to become your friend. and as long as you were another man's wife, i kept my promise, at any rate to the letter. if you tell me to go away for the next three months, i will do so--to-morrow. if i stay, i must stay, laura, as your lover." as she remained silent, he went on quickly: "do not misunderstand me. i only ask for the right to love you--i do not ask for any return." she was filled with an exquisite, tremulous joy. but that side of her nature which was restrained, and which had been so atrophied, was ignorant of the generosities of love, and shrank from quick surrender. so all she said, in a voice which sounded very cold to herself, was, "but that, oliver, would surely not be fair--to you?" "quite fair!" he exclaimed eagerly--"quite fair. in no case would i ever wish to obtain what was not freely vouchsafed." he muttered, in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible, some further words which moved her strangely, and vibrated to a chord which had never before been touched, save to jar and to offend. "to me aught else were sacrilege," were the words oliver tropenell said. by now laura's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. she could see her companion's tall, at once broad-shouldered and lean figure, standing at rights angles to herself, keeping its distance.... taking a step forward, she put out her right hand a little blindly, and laid it on the sleeve of his coat. laura had always been an inarticulate woman, but with that touch, that fleeting moment of contact between them, something of what she was feeling took flight from her heart to his---- "laura?" he grasped her hands as he had grasped them three hours ago when they had first met in his mother's presence. and then again he breathed her name. but this time the touch of doubting, incredulous joy had passed into something ardent, exultant, possessive, and she was in his arms--her self-absorption, her fastidiousness, her lifelong shrinking from any strong emotion, swept away by a force which she had once only known sufficiently to abhor and to condemn, but which she now felt to be divine. and then oliver tropenell said a strange thing indeed. "to have secured this immortal moment, i would willingly die a shameful, ignoble death to-morrow," were the words he whispered, as he strained laura to his heart, as his lips sought and found her lips.... at last they paced slowly on, and laura found herself secretly exulting in the violence of oliver's emotion, and in the broken, passionate terms of endearment with which he endowed her. that her response was that of a girl rather than that of a woman was to her lover an added ecstasy. it banished the hateful, earthy shade of godfrey pavely--that shade which had haunted oliver tropenell all that evening, even in his mother's house. just as they were about to step out from under the arch of the beech trees on to the high road, he again took her in his arms. "laura?" he whispered. "may i tell my mother?" but as he felt her hesitating: "no!" he exclaimed. "forget that i asked you that! we will say nothing yet. secrecy is a delicious concomitant of love." she heard the added, whispered words, uttered as if to his own heart, "at least so i have ever found it." and they were words which a little troubled laura. surely she was the first woman he had ever loved? "aunt letty has a right to know," she murmured. "but no one else, oliver, must know, till january is past." and then she hung her head, perchance a little ashamed of this harking back to the conventions of her everyday life. he was surprised to hear her say further and with an effort, "i would rather lord st. amant didn't know. we shall be staying at knowlton abbey together in december." "we shall," he said exultantly. "for that i thank god!" then suddenly he released her from out of his strong encompassing arms, and stooping down very low he kissed the hem of her long black gown.... after they had parted oliver tropenell waited on and on in the dark garden till he heard lord st. amant's car drive away. then he walked quickly across the lawn and back into his mother's drawing-room. "mother?" he said briefly. "laura and i are going to be married. but we do not wish any one to know this till--till february." even now he could not wholly banish godfrey pavely's intrusive presence from his laura-filled heart. chapter xxiii to any imaginative mind there is surely something awe-inspiring in the thought of the constant secret interlocking of lives which seem as unlikely ever to meet, in a decisive sense, as are two parallel lines. how amazed, how bewildered, laura pavely would have been could she have visioned even a hundredth part of the feeling concerning herself which filled her nearest neighbour, katty winslow's, heart! even in the old days katty had disliked laura, and had regarded her with a mixture of contempt and envy. and now that oliver tropenell had come back--now that katty suspected him of being laura's potential, if not actual, lover--she grew to hate the woman who had always been kind to her with an intense, calculating hate. it seemed as if she hardly ever looked out of one of her windows without seeing oliver on his way to the chase, or laura on her way to freshley--and this although the secret lovers behaved with great discretion, for oliver was less, rather than more, with laura than he used to be in the old days when godfrey was alive. also, wherever laura happened to be, her child--cheerful, eager little alice--was sure to be close by. laura, so much katty believed herself to have discovered, was now happy, in her cold, unemotional way, in the possession of a man's ardent devotion, while she, katty, who had asked so comparatively little of life, had been deprived of the one human being who could, and perhaps in time would, have given her all she wanted. poor godfrey pavely! no one ever spoke of him now, in that neighbourhood where once he had counted for so much. already it was as if he had never been. but to katty winslow he was still an insistent, dominating presence. often she brooded over his untimely death, and sometimes she upbraided herself for not having made some sort of effort to solve the mystery. the reward was still in being, but one day, lately, when she had made some allusion to it in laura's presence, laura, reddening, had observed that she was thinking of withdrawing it. "lord st. amant and the scotland yard people never approved of it," she said, "and as you know, katty, it has led to nothing." early in october, laura, oliver and alice, passing by rosedean one day, turned in through the gate. "why shouldn't we go in and ask katty to come to tea?" it was laura's suggestion. somehow she was sorry for katty--increasingly sorry. yet she could not help feeling glad when harber coldly informed her that mrs. winslow had left home, and would not be back for ten days. * * * * * at the very time that happy little group of people was at her door, katty herself was standing in a queue of people waiting to take her ticket at york station. though mrs. winslow would have been honestly surprised had any one told her she was sentimental, she had actually come down by an earlier train than was necessary in order that she might retrace the ways that she and her friend had trodden together a year ago in january. she had first gone to the minster, moving swiftly along the paved streets where she had walked and talked slowly, pleasantly, with the dead man. then she had wandered off to the picturesque thoroughfare lined with curiosity shops. how kind, how generous godfrey had been to her just here! every time she looked up in her pretty little drawing-room at rosedean, his gift met her eye. while she was engaged on this strange, painful pilgrimage, there welled up in katty's heart a flood of agonised regret and resentment. she told herself bitterly that godfrey's death had aged her--taken the spring out of her. small wonder indeed that in these last few weeks she should have come to hate laura with a steady, burning flame of hate.... so it was that katty winslow was in a queer mental and physical state when she returned to the big railway station to complete her journey. she did not feel at all in the mood to face the gay little houseparty where she was sure of an uproarious, as well as of an affectionate, welcome. as she stood in the queue of rather rough north-country folk, waiting to take her third-class ticket, there swept over her a sudden, vivid recollection of that incident--the hearing of a voice which at the time had seemed so oddly familiar--which had happened on the day she had parted from godfrey pavely for the last time. and then--as in a blinding, yet illuminating flash--there came to her the conviction, nay, more, the certain knowledge, as to whose voice it had been that she had heard on the last occasion when she had stood there, in the large, bare booking office. the voice she had heard--she was quite, _quite_ sure of it now, it admitted of no doubt in her mind at all--had been the peculiar, rather high-pitched, voice of gillie baynton.... she visualised the arresting appearance of the man who had been the owner of the voice, and who had gazed at her with that rather impudent, jeering glance of bold admiration. of course it was gillie, but gillie disguised--gillie with his cheeks tinted a curious greenish-orange colour, gillie with his fair hair dyed black, gillie--her brain suddenly supplied the link she was seeking for feverishly--_exactly answering to the description of the sinister fernando apra--the self-confessed murderer of godfrey pavely_. katty left the queue in which she was standing, and walked across to a bench. there she sat down, and, heedless of the people about her, put her chin on her hand and stared before her. what did her new knowledge portend? what did it lead to? was laura associated with this extraordinary, bewildering discovery of hers? but the questions she put to herself remained unanswered. she failed to unravel even a little strand of the tangled skein. slowly she got up again, and once more took her place in the queue outside the booking office. it would be folly to lose her train because of this discovery, astounding, illuminating, as it was. she was so shaken, so excited, that she longed to confide in one of the haworths, brother or sister, to whose house she was going--but some deep, secretive instinct caused her to refrain from doing that. still, she was so far unlike herself, that after her arrival the members of the merry party all commented to one another on the change they saw in her. "she's as pretty as ever," summed up one of them at last, "but somehow she looks different." all that night katty lay awake, thinking, thinking--trying to put together a human puzzle of which the pieces would not fit. gillie baynton, even if he disliked his brother-in-law, had no motive for doing the awful thing she was now beginning to suspect he had done. she found herself floating about in a chartless sea of conjectures, of suspicions.... she felt better, more in possession of herself, the next morning. yet she was still oppressed with an awful sense of bewilderment and horror, uncertain, too, as to what use she could make of her new knowledge. should she go straight up to town and tell sir angus kinross of what had happened to her yesterday? somehow she shrank from doing that. he would suspect her of simply trying to snatch the reward. katty had never been quite at ease with the commissioner of police--never quite sure as to what he knew, or did not know, of her past relations to godfrey pavely. and yet those relations had been innocent enough, in all conscience! sometimes katty, when thinking of those terrible times last january, had felt sorry she had not told sir angus the truth as to that joint journey to york. but, having hidden the fact at first, she had been ashamed to confess it later--and now she would have to confess it. she was still in this anxious, debating-within-herself frame of mind when, at luncheon, something happened which seemed to open a way before her. her host, tony haworth, was talking of the neighbourhood, and he said, rather ruefully: "of course a man like that old rascal who calls himself greville howard is worse than no good as a neighbour! for one thing he's a regular recluse. he hardly ever goes outside his park gates. i suppose the conscience of a man who's done so many naughty deeds in a good world is apt to make him feel a bit nervous!" "how far off does he live from here?" asked katty slowly. the scene at the inquest rose up before her, especially that moment when "greville howard's" affidavit, accompanied by his doctor's certificate, had been read aloud amid a ripple of amusement from the general public present. "about four miles--but no one ever sees him. he's more or less of an invalid. it's a beautiful old house, and they say he's got some wonderful pictures and furniture there." "does he live quite alone?" her host hesitated. "well, yes--but sometimes he has a lady of sorts there. he brought one back from france last june (he has a villa at monte carlo), and then--" tony haworth hesitated again, but katty was looking at him eagerly--"then something dreadful happened! the poor woman died. she got a chill, developed pneumonia, and, to do the old rascal justice, he got down the biggest man he could from town. but it was no good--she died just the same! as far as i know, he's quite alone now--and precious lonely he must find it!" katty was very silent for the rest of the meal, and after luncheon she drew her host aside. "look here," she said abruptly. "i've something to tell you, tony. i want to see that person we were speaking about--i mean greville howard. i want to see him about godfrey pavely. you know he is one of the few people who actually saw the man who killed godfrey. at the time of the inquest he was ill, and so couldn't attend--i think the police thought he shammed illness. sir angus kinross was convinced (and so was lord st. amant) that this greville howard knew a great deal more about fernando apra than he was willing to tell." tony haworth was much taken aback. "my dear girl, i don't think there's a chance of your getting at him! however, of course you shall be driven over as soon as you like. he _may_ see you--_you're_ not the sort of person he's afraid of." he looked at her a little sharply. "you never had any money dealings with him, had you, katty? now, honour bright----" "of course not," she laughed. "is it likely? my husband may have had, in the long, long ago--but i, never!" * * * * * an hour or so later, katty winslow, alone in her friend's motor, found herself before the lodge of the big lonely place where the retired money-lender--a yorkshireman by birth--had set up his household gods. the great gates were closed and locked, but there was a bell, and she rang it. after a certain interval the lodge-keeper came out. "i've come to see mr. greville howard," she explained, and smiled amiably at the man. he looked at her doubtfully. "the master don't see no one excepting by appointment," he said gruffly. "i think he'll see me." and then an extraordinary piece of luck befell katty winslow. while she was standing there, parleying, she suddenly saw a man inside the park, walking towards the gates. "i think," she said boldly, "that that _is_ mr. greville howard?" and she saw by the lodgekeeper's face that she was right in her guess. moving gracefully forward, she slid past him, and thus she stood just within the gates, while slowly there advanced towards her--and, had she but known it, towards many others--fate, in the person of a tall, thin, some would have said a very distinguished-looking, elderly man. as he came up, he looked at katty with a measuring, thoughtful glance, and his eyes travelled beyond her to the well-appointed motor drawn up in the lonely country road outside. now this was the sort of situation to amuse and stimulate, rather than alarm, katty, the more so that the stranger, who was now close to her, was looking at her pleasantly rather than otherwise. she took a step towards him. "mr. howard?" she exclaimed, in her full, agreeable voice. "i wonder if you would be so kind as to grant me a short interview? i want to see you about the late mr. godfrey pavely. he was a great friend of mine." as she uttered the dead banker's name, greville howard's face stiffened into sudden watchfulness. but he said slowly: "may i enquire your name, madam?" "oh yes," she said eagerly. "my name is winslow--i am mrs. winslow. i was godfrey pavely's oldest friend--we were children together." "ah!" he exclaimed. "your name comes back to me. i think you were mentioned at the inquest, mrs. winslow? but you did not give any evidence, if i remember rightly." "no, i was not asked to give evidence," she answered. "and you yourself, mr. howard, were too ill to come and say what you knew about--about----" "about mr. pavely's murderer," he said smoothly. they were now walking side by side slowly away from the gate, down a broad, well-kept carriage road, the lodge-keeper staring after them. "do you know sir angus kinross?" asked katty's companion suddenly. she gave him a curious, side-glance look. "i saw him several times last winter," she said hesitatingly. "but, mr. howard?--i don't like him!" "neither do i." he snapped the words out. "i could have told scotland yard a good deal if kinross had taken the trouble to be civil to me--but he sent me down a fellow whose manner i exceedingly resented." there followed a long pause. katty became unpleasantly aware that this strange-looking man--she wondered how old he was--sixty-five?--seventy?--was looking at her with a rather pitiless scrutiny. "i can see that you are anxious to know the truth," he observed. he added: "are you aware that the reward has just been withdrawn?" "no, i didn't know that. but i'm not surprised," she said. she glanced at him, puzzled, and a little nervous. his keen eyes, grey-green in tint, were much younger than the rest of his face. "i think i know part of the truth," he went on. "and perhaps you will be able to supply the other part, mrs. winslow. i confess to a certain curiosity about the matter." they were now within sight of a charming-looking old house. it was charming, and yet there was something forlorn about its very perfection. the low, oak, nail-studded front door was shut, not hospitably open--as is generally the case with the door of a yorkshire country house. but mr. greville howard pulled the bell, and at once the door was opened by a respectable-looking manservant. "i am taking this lady to my study, and i do not wish to be disturbed till i ring. when i ring you can bring tea." katty followed her host through a short, vaulted passage into a square hall. it was a beautiful apartment, in keeping with the delicate, austere charm of the house outside. and round the hall there were some fine dutch easel pictures. out of the hall there opened various doors. greville howard pushed open one, already ajar, and katty walked through into what she at once realised was her companion's own habitual living-room. with all her cleverness, and her acquaintance with the art-furnishing jargon of the day, katty would have been surprised to know the value of the contents of this comparatively small room. it contained some notable examples of the best period of early french empire furniture. this was specially true of the mahogany and brass inlaid dwarf bookcases which ran round three sides of the apartment. above the bookcases, against the turquoise-blue silk with which the walls were hung, were a number of meissonier's paintings of napoleon. on the mantelpiece was a marble bust of the young cæsar as first consul, and above it a delightful portrait of mademoiselle georges, by gérard. as he briefly informed his visitor of the portrait's identity, mr. greville howard felt just a little disappointed that mrs. winslow did not seem more interested. during the last quarter of an hour he had recaptured what at the time of the affair had been a very definite impression as to the relations of his present visitor and the wiltshire banker. but now, seeing katty there before him, looking so much at her ease, so--so ladylike (mr. greville howard's own word), he hesitated. "pray sit down," he said courteously, "and make yourself comfortable, mrs. winslow. it's getting rather chilly." her host put on another log as he spoke, and pulled a low, easy chair up close to the fire. and then he himself sat down, at right angles to his attractive guest, in a curiously-shaped winged chair which had once been part of the furniture in the empress joséphine's music-room at malmaison. chapter xxiv it had been a little after three o'clock when katty winslow entered mr. greville howard's study--and now it was half-past four. the room had grown gradually darker, but the fire threw out a glimmering light on the faces of the two sitting there. all at once katty realised, with a sense of acute discomfiture, that as yet her host had said nothing--nothing, at least, that mattered. he had drawn out of her, with extraordinary patience, courtesy, and intelligence, all that _she_ could tell _him_--of what had happened before, and about the time of, godfrey pavely's death. she had even told him of the two anonymous letters received by godfrey pavely--but with regard to them she had of course deliberately lied, stating that godfrey had shown them to her, and that she still had no idea from whence they came. her listener had made very few comments, but he had shown, quite early in their conversation, a special interest in the personality of oliver tropenell. he had even extracted from katty a physical description of the man she declared to be now mrs. pavely's lover, and probable future husband. at first, say during the first half-hour, she had felt extraordinarily at ease with the remarkable old man who had listened to her so attentively, while the fine eyes, which were the most arresting feature of his delicate, highly intelligent countenance, were fixed on her flushed face. but now, with the shadows of evening falling, she could not see him so clearly, and there came a cold feeling about katty winslow's heart. there was very little concerning her own past relations with godfrey pavely that this stranger did not now know. she felt as if he had uncovered all the wrappings which enfolded her restless, vindictive, jealous soul. but she herself, so far, had learnt nothing from him. she began to feel very tired, and suddenly, whilst answering one of his searching, gentle questions, her voice broke, and she burst into tears. he leant quickly forward, and laid his thin, delicate right hand on hers. "my dear mrs. winslow, please forgive me! this has been a painful ordeal for you. i feel like a grand inquisitor! but now i am going to bring you comfort--i ought not to say joy. but before i do so i am going to make you take a cup of tea--and a little bread and butter. then, afterwards, i will show you that i appreciate your generous confidence in telling me all that you have done." he waited a moment, and then said impressively, "i am going to put you in the way to make it possible for you to avenge your dead friend, i think i may also say _my_ dead friend, for mr. godfrey pavely and i had some very interesting and pleasant dealings with one another, and that over many years." she was soothed by the really kind tone of his low voice, even by the caressing quality of his light touch, and her sobs died down. mr. howard took his hand away, and pressed a button close to his chair. a moment later a tray appeared with tea, cake, bread and butter, and a little spirit lamp on which there stood what looked like a gold tea-kettle. "you can put on the light, denton," and there came a pleasant glow of suffused light over the room. "perhaps you will be so kind as to make the tea?" said mr. howard in his full, low voice. katty smiled her assent, and turned obediently towards the little table which had been placed by her elbow. she saw that the kettle was so fixed by a clever arrangement that there was no fear of accident, though the water in it had been brought in almost boiling on the lacquer tray--a tray which was as exquisitely choice in its way as was everything else in the room. katty, as we know, was used to making afternoon tea. very deftly she put three teaspoonfuls of tea into the teapot, and then poured out the boiling water from the bright yellow kettle. she was surprised at its weight. "yes," said greville howard, "it's rather heavy--gold always is. it's fifteen-carat gold. i bought that kettle years ago, in paris. it took my fancy." he looked at the clock. "we will give the tea three minutes to draw," he said thoughtfully. and then he began to talk to her about the people with whom she was staying, the people who had never seen him, but who had so deep--it now seemed to her so unreasoning and unreasonable--a prejudice against him. and what he had to say about them amused, even diverted, katty, so shrewd were his thrusts, so true his appreciation of the faults and the virtues of dear helen and tony haworth. but how on earth had he learnt all that? and then, at the end of the three minutes, she poured the tea into the transparent blue-and-white chinese porcelain cups. "no milk, no sugar, no cream for me," he said. "only a slice of that lemon." greville howard watched katty take her tea, and eat the bread and butter and the cake--daintily, but with a good appetite. he watched her with the pleasant sensations that most men felt when watching katty do anything--the feeling that she was not only very pretty, but very healthy too, and agreeable to look upon, a most satisfactory, satisfying feminine presence. after she had finished, he again touched his invisible button, and the tray was taken swiftly and noiselessly away. * * * * * "and now," he said, "i am going to tell you _my_ part of this strange story, and you will see, mrs. winslow, that the two parts--yours and mine--fit, and that the vengeance for which i see you crave, is in your hands. i shall further show you how to arrange so that you need not appear in the matter if sir angus kinross prove kind, as i feel sure he will be--to you." katty clasped her hands together tightly. she felt terribly moved and excited. vengeance? what did this wonderful old man mean? "dealers in money," began mr. greville howard thoughtfully, "have to run their own international police, and that, my dear young lady, is especially true of the kind of business which built up what i think i may truly call my fame, as well as my fortune. during something like forty years i paid a large subsidy each year to the most noted firm of private detectives in the world--a firm, i must tell you, who have their headquarters in paris. though i no longer pay them this subsidy, for mine was a one-man business, i still sometimes have reason to employ them. they throw out their tentacles all over the world, and their chief, a most intelligent, cultivated man, is by way of being quite a good friend of mine. i always thoroughly enjoy a chat with him when i am going through paris on my way to my villa in the south of france. it is to this man that the credit of what i am about to tell you, the credit, that is, of certain curious discoveries connected with the mystery of mr. godfrey pavely's death, is due." greville howard waited a few moments, and then he spoke again. "i must begin at the beginning by telling you that when this fernando apra came to see me, i formed two very distinct opinions. the one, which is now confirmed by what you have told me, was that the man was not a portuguese; the other was that he was 'made up.' i felt certain that his hair was dyed, and the skin of his face, neck and hands tinted. he was a very clever fellow, and played his part in a capital manner. but i took him for an adventurer, a man of straw, as the french say, and i believed that mr. godfrey pavely was being taken in by him. yet there were certain things about this apra that puzzled me--that i couldn't make out. an adventurer very rarely goes to the pains of disguising himself physically, for his object is to appear as natural as possible. there was yet another reason why the adventurer view seemed false. all the time we were talking, all the time he was enthusing--if i may use a very ugly modern word--about the prospects of this gambling concession, i had the increasing conviction that he was not serious, that he was not _out for business_--that he had come to see me with some other motive than that of wishing me to take an interest in his scheme." greville howard leant forward, and gazed earnestly into his visitor's face. "i felt this so strongly that the thought did actually flash across me more than once--'is this man engaged in establishing an alibi?' when i asked him for the name and address of the french references to which mr. pavely had made an allusion in his letter of introduction, i saw that he was rather reluctant to give me the names. still he did do so at last, the bankers being----" "messrs. zosean & co.," exclaimed katty. "i have sometimes thought of going to see them." "you would have had your journey for nothing. as i shall soon show you, they were--they still are--an unconscious link in the chain. to return to apra, as we must still call him. so little was i impressed by this peculiar person that i expected to hear nothing more of him or of his gambling concern. but one day i received a letter from mr. godfrey pavely, telling me that he himself wished to see me with reference to the same matter. i saw at once that _he_ really did mean business. he was very much excited about the prospects of the undertaking." mr. greville howard paused. he looked attentively at his visitor, but katty's face told him nothing, and he continued: "i cross-examined him rather carefully about this fernando apra, and i discovered that he had only seen the fellow twice, each time rather late in the evening, and by artificial light. i then told him of my conviction that apra was playing a part, but he scouted the idea. our unfortunate friend was a very obstinate man, mrs. winslow." "yes," said katty in a low voice. "that is quite true." "and then," went on the other thoughtfully, "pavely was also exceedingly susceptible to flattery----" katty nodded. this mr. greville howard knew almost too much. "well, as you know, he came down again to see me--and the next thing i heard was that he had disappeared! at once--days before mrs. pavely received that very singular letter--i associated apra with the mystery. it was, however, no business of mine to teach the police their business, though i thought it probable that there would come a moment when i should have to intervene, and reveal the little that i knew. that moment came when mr. pavely's body was discovered in apra's office at duke house." greville howard straightened himself somewhat in his easy chair. "i at once wrote, as i felt in duty bound, to sir angus kinross. i had met him, under rather unfortunate circumstances, some years ago, before he became commissioner of police. that, doubtless, had given him a prejudice against me. be that as it may, instead of taking advantage of my offer to tell him in confidence all i knew, he sent a most unpleasant person down to interview me. this man, a pompous, ignorant fellow, came twice--once before the inquest, once after the inquest. i naturally took a special pleasure in misleading him, and in keeping to myself what i could have told. but though i was able to give him the impression i desired to convey, he was not able to keep anything he knew from _me_; and, at the end of our second interview, he let out that the police had very little doubt that two men had been concerned in the actual murder--for murder the police by then believed it to be--of mr. godfrey pavely." greville howard stopped speaking for a moment. "two men?" repeated katty in a bewildered tone. and the other nodded, coolly. "yes, that is the opinion they formed, very early in the day, at scotland yard. they also made up their minds that it would be one of those numerous murders of which the perpetrators are never discovered. and, but for you and me, mrs. winslow, the very clever perpetrators of this wonderfully well planned murder would have escaped scot-free." he touched his invisible bell, and his man answered it. "make up the fire," he said, "--a good lasting fire." when this had been done, he again turned to katty. "we now," he said, "come to the _really_ exciting part of my story. up to now, i think i have told you nothing that you did not know." "i had no idea," said katty in a low, tense voice, "that the police believed there were _two_ people concerned with godfrey's death." she was trying, desperately, to put the puzzle together--and failing. "i crossed to france last march," went on greville howard musingly, "and, inspired i must confess by a mere feeling of idle curiosity, i stopped in paris two days in order to see, first, messrs. zosean, and secondly henri lutin, the head of the detective agency with whom, as i told you just now, i have long been in such cordial relations. i called first on henri lutin and reminded him of the story of mr. pavely's disappearance, and of the subsequent finding of his body in this fernando apra's office. i also informed him that i would go up to a certain modest sum in pursuit of independent enquiries if he would undertake to make them. he consented, and as a preliminary, gave me some information with regard to messrs. zosean. provided with a good introduction i called on these bankers, and this is what i learnt. messrs. zosean, with that curious incuriousness which is so very french, scarcely knew anything of what had happened, though they were vaguely aware that a man had been found killed by accident in their mysterious client's office, for fernando apra was their client, but only--note this, for it is important--a client of a few weeks' standing. he had paid in to their bank, some two months before mr. pavely's death, the very considerable sum of one million francs, forty thousand pounds, on deposit. one of the junior partners saw him--only once, late in the afternoon." greville howard waited a long moment--then he added impressively: "_and the man whom they to this day believe to be fernando apra bore no physical resemblance at all to the man who visited me here under that name_. in fact, the description given by the bankers exactly tallies with that of another man--of a man whom _you_ described to me about an hour ago." "i don't quite understand," faltered katty. "don't you? think a little, mrs. winslow, and you will agree with me that the real client of messrs. zosean was oliver tropenell, the man whom you believe to be the lover and future husband of mrs. pavely." katty uttered an inarticulate exclamation--was it of surprise or of satisfaction? her host took no notice of it, and continued his narrative: "one day--i soon found it to have been the day following that on which the murder of mr. pavely was presumably committed--a man who, i feel sure, was _my_ fernando apra, turned up at messrs. zosean with a cheque, the fact that he was coming having been notified to the bank from london by telephone. he drew out the greater part of the money lodged in the name of apra in messrs. zosean's bank--not all, mark you, for some eight thousand pounds was left in, and that eight thousand pounds, mrs. winslow, is still there, undisturbed. i doubt myself if it will ever be claimed! "i then, following the plan laid down for me by henri lutin, asked messrs. zosean at what hotel fernando apra had stayed. i was given two addresses. these addresses i handed on to my friend the secret enquiry agent, and the rest of the story belongs to him, for it was lutin who discovered all that i am now going to tell you." greville howard stopped speaking. he looked thoughtfully at the woman who sat ensconced in the low arm-chair opposite him. he felt rather as a man may be supposed to feel who is about to put a light to a fuse which will in due course blow up a powder magazine. there even came over his subtle, tortuous mind a thrill of pity for the man whom he was about to sacrifice to this pretty woman's desire for vengeance and--as he could not help seeing--jealous hatred of another woman who might, for all he knew, be in every way more worthy of his interest, even of his admiration, than she who sat there looking at him with gleaming eyes and parted lips. but greville howard, like all his kind, was a fatalist as well as something of a philosopher. he could not have lived the life he had led, and done the work which had built up his great fortune, had he been anything else, and katty had come at a very fortunate psychological moment for him--as well as for herself. greville howard was becoming what he had rarely ever been--bored; he was longing consciously for a fresh interest and for a new companionship in his life. and so: "perhaps you will be disappointed at the meagreness of what i am about to tell you, but you may believe me when i say that it is information which will make the way of sir angus kinross quite clear, and which may bring one, if not two, men to the gallows." katty gave a little involuntary gasp. but he went on: "it did not take my friend lutin very long to discover that a man of the name of apra had stayed at each of the hotels indicated to me by the bankers. he also discovered that 'apra' had with him a friend named dickinson who put down his birthplace as new york. do you follow me, mrs. winslow?" "yes, i think so," she replied hesitatingly. "at the first hotel, a small, comfortable, rather expensive house in the madeleine quarter, fernando apra was a tall, dark, good-looking man, and the other, the new yorker, was fair and short. though on the best of terms they lived very different lives. the american was out a great deal; he thoroughly enjoyed the gay, lively sides of paris life. fernando apra on the other hand stayed indoors, reading and writing a good deal. at last the two men left the hotel, giving out that they were going to spend the winter in the south of france. but they only stayed a few days at lyons and, doubling back to paris, they settled in the latin quarter on the other side of the river. "by that time, my dear mrs. winslow, _they had exchanged identities_. the tall, dark man was now dickinson, and his fair friend had become apra! it was apra who one day told the manager he was going to a fancy dress ball and asked him to recommend him a good theatrical costumier. when lutin ran that costumier to earth, the man at once remembered the fact that a client he took to be an englishman had come and had had himself made up as a mexican, purchasing also two bottles of olive-coloured skin stain. now apra was out all night after this extraordinary transformation in his appearance had taken place, but one of the waiters at the hotel recognised him that same evening at mabille. when the man spoke to him, he appeared taken aback, and explained that he had made a mistake in the day of the fancy dress ball. the next morning he left the hotel, distributing lavish tips to everybody. but dickinson stayed on for a few days, and during those days he received each day a telegram from england. one of these telegrams is actually in my possession." katty's host got up. he went across to a narrow, upright piece of inlaid mahogany furniture, and unlocking a drawer, took from it an envelope. having opened it, he handed katty a blue strip of paper on which were printed the words: "concession going well" and the signature "g." katty stared down at the bit of blue paper, and she flushed. even she realised the significance of that "g." "i think," said her host quietly, "that if you write down from my dictation certain notes, and hand them, _together with this telegram_, to the commissioner of police, he may be trusted to do the rest." chapter xxv five quiet weeks slipped by--weeks full of outward, as well as of inward, happiness at the chase and at freshley. katty winslow had come back to rosedean, and then, without even seeing laura, had gone away again almost at once. she was still away when there took place early in december the gathering together, for the first time for many years, of a big shooting party at knowlton abbey. just before joining that pleasant party, mrs. pavely spent a week in london, and certain pewsbury gossips, of whose very existence she was unaware, opined that she had gone up to town to buy clothes! in a little over a month, godfrey pavely would have been dead a year, and some of these same gossips thought it rather strange that mrs. pavely should be going to stay at the abbey before her first year of widowhood was over. but the kinder of the busybodies reminded one another that lord st. amant had known the mistress of the chase from childhood, and being, as he was, a very good-natured man, no doubt he had thought it would cheer up the poor lady to have a little change. yes, laura, to mrs. tropenell's surprise, had gone up alone to london, and oliver, after two days, followed her. but he had not waited to escort her back, as his mother expected him to do. he returned the day before laura--in fact she was away a week, he only four days. the gossips of pewsbury had been right. laura had gone up to town to get a few new clothes, but she was still wearing unrelieved black, if not exactly conventional widow's mourning, when she arrived at knowlton abbey. lord st. amant's shooting party was a great success--a success from the point of view of the guests, and from that of the host. for the first time for many years, in fact for the first time since the death of lady st. amant, the house was quite full, for in addition to the neighbours whom the host specially wished to honour, there had come down certain more sophisticated folk from london. among others asked had been sir angus kinross; but sir angus, to his own and lord st. amant's regret, had had to decline. the two men had become intimate since last winter--each had a real respect, a cordial liking, for the other. the housekeeper at the abbey had been surprised to note his lordship's interest in every detail. he had himself seen, and at considerable length, the _chef_ who had come down from london for the week; he had even glanced over the bedroom list, making certain suggestions as to where his various guests should sleep. thus it was by his desire that mrs. tropenell had been given the largest bed-chamber in the house, one which had never been, in the present housekeeper's reign, occupied by a visitor. it had been, in the long, long ago, the room of his mother, the room in fact where his lordship himself had been born some seventy odd years ago. by his wish, also, there had been arranged for mrs. tropenell's occupation the old-fashioned sitting-room into which the bedroom opened. mr. oliver tropenell had been put nearly opposite lord st. amant's own sleeping apartment, in that portion of the house which was known as "his lordship's wing." and mrs. pavely had been given, in the same part of the house, but at the further end of the corridor, the room which had been always occupied, during her infrequent sojourns at the abbey, by the late lady st. amant. * * * * * and now the long, though also the all too short, week-end, which had lasted from thursday to tuesday, was over, and all the guests had departed, with the exception of lord st. amant's three intimate friends--mrs. tropenell, that lady's son, and mrs. pavely. this smaller party was staying on for two more days, and then it would break up--mrs. tropenell and mrs. pavely returning in the morning to freshley manor and the chase, while mr. tropenell stayed on to accompany his host to another big shoot in the neighbourhood. though all three had professed sincere regret at the departure of their fellow guests, each of them felt a certain sense of relief, and yes, of more than relief, of considerable satisfaction, when they found themselves alone together. there is always plenty to talk about after the breakup of a country house party, and when at last the four of them found themselves together at dinner, they all did talk--even laura, who was generally so silent, talked and laughed, and exchanged quick, rather shy jests with oliver. laura and oliver? lord st. amant had of course very soon discovered their innocent secret. he had taxed mrs. tropenell with the truth, and she had admitted it, while explaining that they desired their engagement, for obvious reasons, to remain secret for a while. during these last few days their host had admired, with a touch of whimsical surprise, laura's dignity, and oliver's self-restraint. of course they had managed to be a good deal together, aided by lord st. amant's unobtrusive efforts, and owing to the fact that mrs. tropenell's charming sitting-room upstairs was always at their disposal. but no one in the cheerful, light-hearted company had come within miles of guessing the truth; and oliver tropenell had done his full share in helping lord st. amant in the entertainment of his guests. he had also made himself duly agreeable to the ladies--indeed, oliver, in a sense, had been the success of the party, partly because the way of his life in mexico enabled him to bring a larger, freer air into the discussions which had taken place after dinner and in the smoking-room, and also because of his vitality--a vitality which just now burned with a brighter glow.... lord st. amant and oliver only stayed on at the dining-table a very few minutes after mrs. tropenell and laura had gone off into the drawing-room. though now on very cordial terms, the two men never had very much to say to one another. yet lord st. amant had always been fond of oliver. being the manner of man he was, he could not but feel attached to letty tropenell's child. still, there had been a time, now many long years ago, just after the death of his wife, when he had been acutely jealous of oliver--jealous, that is, of mrs. tropenell's absorption, love, and pride, in her son. she had made it so very clear that she desired no closer tie to her old friend--and this had shrewdly hurt his self-esteem. but he had been too much of a philosopher to bear _rancune_, and such a friendship as theirs soon became had, after all, its compensations. when oliver settled in mexico the time had passed by for a renewal of the old relations, and for a while the tie which had lasted for so long, and survived so many secret vicissitudes, appeared to loosen.... but now, again, all that was changed. lord st. amant had given up his wanderings on the continent, and he had come once more very near to mrs. tropenell, during this last year. he and oliver were also better friends than they had ever been; this state of things dated from last winter, for, oddly enough, what had brought them in sympathy had been the death of godfrey pavely. they had been constantly together during the days which had followed the banker's mysterious disappearance, and they had worked in close union, each, in a sense, representing laura, and having a dual authority from her to do what seemed best. still, to-night, excellent as were the terms on which each man felt with the other, neither had anything to say that could not be said better in the company of the ladies. and when in the drawing-room, which now looked so large and empty with only two, where last night there had been twelve, women gathered together about the fireplace, the four talked on, pleasantly, cheerfully, intimately, as they had done at dinner. after a while laura and oliver slipped away into the smaller drawing-room, and lord st. amant and mrs. tropenell, hardly aware that the other two had left them, went on gossiping--harking back, as they now so often did, to the old stories, the old human tragedies and comedies, of the neighbourhood. soon after ten laura and oliver came back, walking side by side, and oliver's mother looked up with a proud, fond glance. they were a striking, well-matched couple--laura looking more beautiful than ever to-night, perhaps because she seemed a thought more animated than usual. "i've come to say good-night," she exclaimed. "i feel so sleepy! oliver and i had such a glorious walk this afternoon." she bent down and kissed mrs. tropenell. and then, unexpectedly, she turned to lord st. amant, and put up her face as if she expected him also to kiss her. amused and touched, he bent and brushed his old lips against her soft cheek: "my dear," he exclaimed, "this is very kind of you!" and then oliver stepped forward into the circle of light thrown by the big wood fire. he said a little huskily, "my turn next, laura----" and to the infinite surprise of his mother and of his host, laura, with an impulsive, tender gesture, reached up towards him, and he, too, brushed her soft face with his lips. then he took her hand, and led her to the door. and lord st. amant, quoting champmélé, turned to his old love: "'ah! madame--quelle jolie chose qu'un baiser!'" he murmured, and ere the door had quite closed behind oliver he, too, had put his arm with a caressing gesture round her shoulder, and drawn her to him, with the whispered words, "letty--don't think me an old fool!" and then, "oh, letty! do you remember the first time----" and though she made no answer, he knew she did remember, like himself only too well, the wild, winter afternoon, nearer forty than thirty years ago, when they two had been caught alone, far from home, in a great storm--the wild weather responding to their wild mood. they had taken shelter in a deserted, half-ruined barn, a survival of the days when england had still great granaries. and there, throwing everything aside--the insistent promptings of honour, and the less insistent promptings of prudence--st. amant had kissed letty.... he remembered, even now, the thrill of mingled rapture, shame, gratitude, triumph, and stinging self-rebuke, which had accompanied that first long clinging kiss. the next day he had left the abbey for the continent, and when, at last, he had come back, he had himself again well in hand.... only yesterday the shooters had gone by that old seventeenth-century barn, of which nothing now remained but thick low walls, and as he had tramped by the spot, so alone with his memories, if outwardly so companioned, there had swept over his heart, that heart which was still susceptible to every keen emotion, a feeling of agonised regret for what had--and what had not been. "ah, letty," he said huskily, "you've been the best friend man ever had! don't you think the time has come for two such old friends as you and i have been never to part? it isn't as if i had a great deal of time left." * * * * * an hour later lord st. amant was sitting up in bed, reading the fourth volume of a certain delightful edition of the memoirs of the duc de saint simon. he was feeling happier than he had felt for a very long time--stirred and touched too, as he had not thought to be again. complacently he reminded himself of the successful, the brilliantly successful, elderly marriages he had known in his time. 'twas odd when one came to think of it, but he couldn't remember one such which had turned out a failure! dear letty--who had known how to pass imperceptibly from youth to age with such a fine, measured dignity, while retaining so much which had made her as a girl and as an older woman the most delightful and stimulating of companions. what an agreeable difference her presence would make to his existence as he went slowly down into the shadows! he shuddered a little--the thought of old age, of real old age, becoming suddenly, vividly repugnant. thank god, letty was very much younger than himself. when he was eighty she would be sixty-three. he tried to put away that thought, the thought that some day he would be infirm, as well as old. he looked up from his book. how odd to think that letty had never been in this room, where he had spent so much of his life from boyhood onwards! he longed to show her some of the things he had here--family miniatures, old political caricatures, some of his favourite books--they would all interest her. he was glad he had arranged that she should have, on this visit, his dear mother's room. when he had married--close on fifty years ago--his parents had been alive, and later his wife, as the new lady st. amant, had not cared to take over her predecessor's apartments. she had been very little here, for soon, poor woman, she had become an invalid--a most disagreeable, selfish invalid. he told himself that after all he had had a certain amount of excuse for--well, for the sort of existence he had led so long. if poor adelaide had only died twenty years earlier, and he had married letty--ah, _then_, he would indeed have become an exemplary character! yet he had been faithful to letty--in his fashion.... no other woman had even approached near the sanctuary where the woman of whom now, to-night, he was able to think as his future wife, had at once become so securely enthroned. it had first been a delicious, if a dangerous, relationship, and, later, a most agreeable friendship. during the last few months she had become rather to his surprise very necessary to him, and these last few days he had felt how pleasant it would be to have letty always here, at the abbey, either in his company, or resting, reading, or writing in the room where everything still spoke to him of the long-dead mother who had been so dear to him. of course they would wait till oliver and laura were married--say, till some time in february or march: and then, when those two rather tiresome younger people were disposed of, they, he and letty, would slip up quietly to london, and, in the presence of perhaps two or three old friends, they would be made man and wife. he reflected complacently that nothing in his life would be changed, save that letty would be there, at the abbey, as she had been the last few days, always ready to hear with eager interest anything he had to say, always with her point of view sufficiently unlike his own to give flavour, even sometimes a touch of the unexpected, to their conversation. * * * * * a knock at the door, and his valet came in, and walked close up to the bed. "it's a telephone message, my lord. from sir angus kinross--private to your lordship." "yes. what is the message?" lord st. amant felt a slight tremor of discomfort sweep over him. what an odd time to send a trunk-call through--at close on midnight. "sir angus has been trying to get on for some time, my lord; there was a fault on the line. sir angus would be much obliged if you would meet him at your lordship's rooms at one o'clock to-morrow. he says he's sorry to trouble your lordship to come up to london, but it's very important. he came himself to the telephone, my lord. he asked who i was. i did offer to fetch your lordship, but he said there was no occasion for that--if i would deliver the message myself." "all right, barrett." "sir angus begs your lordship not to tell any one that your business to-morrow is with him." "i quite understand that." chapter xxvi "we have solved the mystery of godfrey pavely's death!" such were the words with which sir angus kinross greeted lord st. amant, when the latter, arriving at his rooms, found the commissioner of police already there. "d'you mean that you've run fernando apra to earth?" the speaker felt relieved, and at the same time rather discomfited. he had not associated the commissioner of police's summons with that now half-forgotten, painful story. godfrey pavely had vanished out of his mind, as he had vanished out of every one else's mind in the neighbourhood of pewsbury, and in the last few months when sir angus and lord st. amant had met they had seldom alluded to the strange occurrence which had first made them become friends. but now, seeing that the other looked at him with a singular look of hesitation, there came a slight feeling of apprehension over st. angus's host. "have you actually got the man here, in england? if so, i suppose poor mrs. pavely is bound to have a certain amount of fresh trouble in connection with the affair?" "we have not got the man who called himself fernando apra, and we are never likely to have him. in fact, i regard it as certain that we shall not even be able to connect him directly with the murder--for murder it certainly was, st. amant." "murder?" lord st. amant repeated the word reluctantly, doubtfully. he was beginning to feel more and more apprehensive. there was something so strange and so sombre in the glance with which the commissioner of police accompanied his words. during that fortnight when they had so constantly seen one another last year, sir angus had never once looked surprised, annoyed--or even put out! there had been about him a certain imperturbability, both of temper and of manner. he now looked infinitely more disturbed than he had done even at the moment when he had first seen godfrey pavely's dead body sitting up in fernando apra's sinister-looking office. "yes," he went on in a low, incisive voice, "it was murder right enough! and we already hold a warrant, which will be executed the day after to-morrow, this next friday----" he waited a moment, then uttered very deliberately the words: "it is a warrant for the arrest of mr. oliver tropenell on the charge of having murdered mr. godfrey pavely on or about the th of last january." "i--i don't understand what you mean! surely oliver tropenell was not masquerading as fernando apra?" exclaimed lord st. amant. "if one can believe a mass of quite disinterested evidence, the two men were utterly unlike!" "that is so, and there was of course a man who masqueraded, and masqueraded most successfully, both in paris and in london, as fernando apra. that man, st. amant, was----" lord st. amant bent forward eagerly while his mind, his still vigorous, intelligent, acute mind, darted this way and that. what name--whose name--was sir angus going to utter? he was not long left in suspense. "that man," said sir angus slowly, impressively, "was mrs. pavely's brother, a certain gilbert baynton, who is, we are informed, the business partner of mr. tropenell in mexico. it was _he_ who masqueraded as fernando apra. but it was not he who actually fired the pistol shot which killed godfrey pavely----" when he had heard the name gilbert baynton, it was as if a great light had suddenly burst in on lord st. amant's brain. in spite of everything he felt a sharp thrill of relief. "good god!" he exclaimed. "there's been a terrible mistake--but it's one that i can set right in a very few minutes. believe me, you're on the wrong track altogether! if murder there was--murder, and not manslaughter, which i venture to think much more probable--then gilbert baynton was godfrey pavely's murderer. the two men hated one another. it all comes back to me--not only had they a quarrel years ago, but that same quarrel was renewed not long before godfrey pavely's disappearance. nothing--_nothing_--would induce me to believe that oliver tropenell is a murderer!" "i'm afraid you'll soon be brought round to believe it," said sir angus ruefully. "i am of course well aware of what you say concerning gilbert baynton's relations to his brother-in-law. we've already found all that out, especially as we had a willing witness close to our hand. unfortunately--i say unfortunately, st. amant, for of course i know he is a thorough bad hat--we have irrefutable evidence that this man baynton did _not_ commit the murder. he was certainly in paris at the time when godfrey pavely was killed in london." sir angus took a turn up and down the room--then he came back to where the other man was sitting. "you can take it from me, st. amant, that there has never been, in the whole history of criminal jurisprudence, so far as i am acquainted with it, any crime planned out with such infinite care, ingenuity, and--and--well, yes, i must say it, a kind of almost diabolical cunning. so true is that that----" he took another turn up and down the room, and then once more he came and stood before his friend: "well, i consider the murderer has a very good sporting chance of getting off--scot free! he will be able to command the best legal advice as well as the best intellects at the criminal bar--that he himself has no mean intellect he has proved over this business. yes, i shouldn't be in the least surprised if he managed to scrape through! more fortunate than most of his kind, he has a new country to which he will be able to retire with the widow of the man he murdered--if she can be brought to believe in him. and, mind you, women can be brought to believe _anything_ of those they love, or at any rate, they can be brought to _seem_ to believe anything!" he waited a moment, and then added abruptly, "i formed the opinion that mrs. pavely was a very unusual woman, st. amant." "but you don't think--surely you don't think----" "no, no----" sir angus was very decided. "i certainly don't think mrs. pavely was in any way concerned in this appalling plot. and mind you--ill as i think of him, i must admit that oliver tropenell's a brave man. he did the job himself--even if he was helped by his friend." he waited a moment. somehow st. amant was taking the news far more to heart than he had expected. "i'll tell you everything in time, but it's a long, complicated story; and of course i'm trusting entirely to your honour in the matter. what i tell you now must never go beyond these four walls." sir angus sat down, and lord st. amant listened, half of his brain acutely, sensitively alive to the story that was being told him--the other half in a kind of stupor of grief, of shame, and of horror. that second half of his brain was dominated by one name, one thought, one heart-beat--letty, the dear, the beloved woman who had just promised to marry him, to bring him the solace of her care and companionship in the evening of his days.... * * * * * "apart from certain most cleverly devised breaks in the story--to which i shall make allusion presently--oliver tropenell's best chance lies in the absence of adequate motive. why should this millionaire wish to murder a man who, as he will easily be able to prove, was not only an intimate friend, but also a connection of his own? our answer to that question will be to put in these two anonymous letters." sir angus took out of his pocket the two letters which had caused poor godfrey pavely such acute discomfort just a year before. lord st. amant read them through, carefully, in silence. "still, as i daresay you know, judges look very much askance at anonymous letters, and especially in a trial for murder. also these prove so _very_ little--the more so that there seems to have been no talk at all about tropenell and mrs. pavely in the neighbourhood. she bears, and has always borne, a very high character. as for these letters, they were evidently written by a woman--and by an educated woman. any one familiar with disguised handwriting could tell you _that_ much. of course i have my own theory as to who wrote them." lord st. amant nodded. "yes, so have i." "still, i'm not bound to give my theory to either side, am i? i foresee that very probably these letters will remain anonymous. a great many people who think themselves clever will put them down to some dismissed servant. "the fact that mr. tropenell left england for mexico so soon after the discovery of mr. pavely's body is a good point on his side. the judge will argue, above all the jury will argue, that if he had been in love with mrs. pavely--if he had loved her, that is, with a guilty passion--he would not have left her just after she had become a widow. nothing compelled him to do so. it has been suggested, but from a person who does not intend to go into the witness-box if she can help it, that tropenell and mrs. pavely are now secretly engaged. my answer to that is--why shouldn't they be? many a man has married his best friend's widow without any one supposing that he committed murder in order to attain that satisfaction!" "have you proof--irrefutable proof--pointing to the guilt of oliver tropenell?" "what is irrefutable proof? it can be proved that oliver tropenell spent many weeks on the continent in the company of the man who undoubtedly masqueraded as fernando apra, and that for a certain portion of that time the two men exchanged identities. nothing can shake that portion of the evidence. but there is no record of the two having met, later, in london--i mean during the time when the net was certainly being drawn round godfrey pavely. and, as i said before, gilbert baynton--_alias_ fernando apra--has an absolute alibi. he was certainly in paris on the day when all trace of pavely was lost. there seems no doubt at all that the evidence of the london hotel manager was most artfully arranged for. the man's story was given in good faith, but the incident occurred a full week before mr. pavely was done to death." "but where does tropenell come in?" "as to the movements of mr. oliver tropenell, we have not been quite so fortunate in tracing them. but even so, we have evidence that during the fateful three days on one of which the murder was certainly committed, he was staying in london, having just arrived from the continent. i personally have no doubt at all that it was on thursday, january the th, that, lured by a cleverly concocted letter signed 'fernando apra,' the hapless pavely went to duke house to find tropenell lying in wait for him. the two men may have had words--they probably _did_ have words. but whatever passed--and look at it as you may, st. amant--it was deliberate murder." lord st. amant stood up. his turn had come to astound the commissioner of police. "yes," he said, "yes, if your theory is correct, kinross, it was deliberate murder--to me far the more terrible fact, because the murderer will soon be my stepson. i am to be married to mrs. tropenell by special licence next week." and as the commissioner of police, transfixed with surprise, remained silent, the other went on, speaking rather quietly and coldly, "it is only fair on my part to tell you this. indeed, perhaps i ought to have told you at once--i mean when i first gathered the purport of what you wished to say to me." sir angus shook his head. he was filled with a great pity, as well as a great admiration, for the man--who now looked such an old man--standing there facing him. "look here," he said slowly. "i oughtn't perhaps to make such a suggestion to you--but we've become friends, st. amant. that is why i venture to advise you that before this next friday you should get these two unfortunate ladies, mrs. tropenell and mrs. pavely, out of the country. take them away--hide them away--in france or in spain! if you do that they will be spared a fathomless measure of anguish and of shame. the presence of neither of them is essential to the course of justice, and if they remain in england they will certainly each be called as witnesses, in which case mrs. pavely will go through--well, i can only describe it as _hell_. it is not as if the presence of either of them would be really beneficial to oliver tropenell." "can you say that quite truly about his mother?" asked lord st. amant searchingly. sir angus looked up with a very troubled expression of face. "no, i fear i can't," he answered, frankly, "for if mrs. tropenell can bring herself to believe her son absolutely innocent, then, in the hands of a skilful counsel, i have to admit that her evidence might be of great sentimental value to tropenell. but the same cannot be said of mrs. pavely's presence in the witness-box. whichever way you look at it, mrs. pavely's presence is bound to be, in a judicial sense, detrimental to the man in the dock. she is, if i may say so, st. amant, a singularly attractive woman, and ten out of every twelve of the men in court would probably regard her as providing a very adequate 'motive'!" there was a pause, and then sir angus began again: "what would you say to our persuading mrs. pavely to leave england for a while, leaving only mrs. tropenell to face the music?" "mrs. pavely," said lord st. amant thoughtfully, "would probably refuse to leave england. i think, i fear, that she loves oliver tropenell--passionately." he added abruptly, "are you having him watched?" sir angus cleared his throat. "well, no, not exactly _watched_. we are of course aware that he has been staying with you for the past week, and that he is going back to freshley manor--is it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow? i take it that he would probably prefer to be arrested in his mother's house." a feeling of sick horror came over the other man's heart. "i--i suppose so," he muttered. and then sir angus kinross dropped his voice: "you really know this man and i don't. do you think it advisable that he should be prepared for what is coming--that _you_, for instance, st. amant----" "do you mean," exclaimed lord st. amant, "that i may--warn him?" the other nodded. "yes, that is what i suggest that you should do. i take it that we can be quite sure that he will do nothing mad or foolish--that he will not try to get away, for instance? it would be quite useless, and i need hardly point out that it would ruin his chances--later. i think you are at liberty to tell him, as from yourself of course, that you have reason to think he has a sporting chance, st. amant. but i am trusting, not only to your honour, but to your secrecy and--and discretion." the other nodded gravely. "tropenell's not the sort of man to run away." "no, i don't think he is--once he knows the game is up," answered the commissioner of police a trifle grimly. chapter xxvii it was now early, very early in the morning after the return of lord st. amant to the abbey. dead dark, and dead quiet too, in the great sleeping house. not dead cold, however, in his lordship's comfortable bedroom, for he had built up the fire, as he sat on and on, still fully dressed, reading, or trying to read--his bed exactly in the same state as when he had gone upstairs from the drawing-room about eleven. it was years and years since lord st. amant had last stayed up all night, but though he had made a great effort to forget himself in those ever fresh, even if familiar, memoirs of saint simon, he had found it impossible to banish from his mind--even for a few moments--the awful thing which he knew would, in a sense, never leave his mind again. for the tenth time he put his book down, marking the page with a tiny strip of green watered ribbon, on a low table by his side, and then, staring into the fire, his memory lingered--not over his talk with sir angus kinross, he was sick of thinking _that_ over--but over the incidents which had marked the evening before. he had returned from london only just in time to dress for dinner, and so he had not seen his guests till just before a quarter-past eight. then had followed an hour passed, outwardly at least, peacefully and pleasantly. but while he had been eating mechanically the food put before him, in very truth not knowing what it was, terrible thoughts had gone through his mind in a terrible sequence. once or twice he had caught, or thought he had caught, oliver tropenell's penetrating eyes fixed searchingly on his face, but he, the host, had avoided looking at his guest. somehow he could neither look at oliver, nor even think of oliver--with oliver and laura there, the one sitting opposite to him, the other next him. laura? laura, on lord st. amant's left, had looked lovely last night. she was wearing a white dress, almost bridal in its dead whiteness--a rather singular fact considering that she had till to-day worn unrelieved black. looking back, her host could not get her out of his mind. to think that she, proud, reserved, laura pavely was to be the heroine of a frightful tragedy which would bring not only shame and disgrace on herself and on the man whom lord st. amant had every reason to suppose she now loved, but--what was of so very much more concern to him--on that man's mother. looking at laura, seeing that strange, haunting mona lisa smile on her lovely face, it had seemed incredible that she should be the central figure of such a story. but how could she escape being the central figure, the heroine of the story, at any rate in the imagination of all those, one might almost count them by millions, rather than thousands, who in a few days or a few weeks would be as familiar with the name "mrs. pavely" as they once had been with the names of--of mrs. bravo and mrs. maybrick? yes, lord st. amant, staring into the fire, told himself, that that three-quarters of an hour spent in his own dining-room had been the most painful time he had ever lived through in his long life. he felt as if every moment of it was indelibly stamped on his brain. and yet he had completely forgotten what the talk had been about! he supposed they had talked. silence would have seemed so strange, so unnatural. yet he could not remember a single thing which had been said. but his vision of the three who had sat at table with him remained horribly clear. now he was haunted specially by oliver. and then, after a while, oliver left him, and he was haunted by his poor friend, soon to be his poor wife. mrs. tropenell had been more silent than usual--so much he did remember. and he wondered uneasily if he had given her any cause for thinking, from his appearance or his manner, that there was anything wrong? the thought of what was going to happen to mrs. tropenell on the day which was now to-morrow, became suddenly so intolerable to lord st. amant that he got up from his chair, and walked twice round the large, shadowed bedroom. then he sat down again, and groaned aloud. it was as though a bridge had been thrown over the chasm of nearly forty years. his withered heart became vivified. something of the passion which he had left for the high-spirited and innocent, yet ardent-natured, girl whom he had loved, and whom he had saved from herself, stirred within him. secretly, voicelessly, he had always been very proud of what he had, done--and left undone. it was the one good, nay, the one selfless, action of his long, agreeable, selfish life. but he could not save her now! some little shelter and protection he would be able to afford her, but what would it avail against the frightful cloud of shame and anguish which was about to envelop her? he told himself suddenly what he had already told himself when with sir angus--namely, that he and letty must be married at once. she would certainly acquiesce in any course which would benefit oliver. yes, letty would think of nothing but her son, and, the world being what it is, oliver would of course benefit by the fact that lord st. amant was his stepfather. it would add yet another touch of the unusual and the romantic to the story.... once more his mind swung back to last evening. he and oliver had stayed alone together some ten minutes after the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, and there had come over lord st. amant a wild, unreasoning impulse to unburden his heart. but of course he had checked, battened down resolutely, that foolish almost crazy impulse. as soon as letty and laura were safely gone tomorrow morning he must, of course, tackle the terrible task. and then he tried, as he had tried so often during the last twelve hours, to put himself in oliver tropenell's place. he recalled the younger man's easy, assured manner, and what a real help, nay, more than help, he had been when the house was full of guests. more than one of their neighbours there had spoken warmly, with evident admiration, of tropenell. "how well he's turned out! he was thought to be such a queer chap as a boy." a queer chap? oliver was certainly _that_. lord st. amant forced himself to consider the man whom his intellect, if not his heart, was compelled to recognise as a cold-blooded murderer. what had been his and laura's real attitude to one another during godfrey pavely's lifetime? was laura absolutely innocent? or, had she played with tropenell as women sometimes do play with men--as a certain kind of beautiful, graceful, dignified cat sometimes plays with a mouse? he was still inclined to think _not_,--before yesterday he would certainly have said not. but one never can tell--with a woman.... and what was going to happen now? oliver had always been a fighter--no doubt oliver would be prepared to take the "sporting chance." when he and his guest had gone into the drawing-room last evening, laura and oliver had almost at once passed through into the smaller drawing-room. they had moved away unconcernedly, as if it was quite natural that they should desire to be by themselves, rather than in the company of oliver's mother and laura's host; and lord st. amant, looking furtively at mrs. tropenell, had felt a sudden painful constriction of the heart as he had noted the wistful glance she had cast on the two younger people. it had been such a touching look--the look of the mother who gives up her beloved to the woman who has become his beloved. at ten o'clock tea had been brought in--an old-fashioned habit which was, perhaps, the only survival of the late lady st. amant's reign at the abbey, and, to the surprise of mrs. tropenell, her companion had poured himself out a cup and had drunk it off absently. she had smiled, exclaiming, "you shouldn't have done that! you know you never can take tea and coffee so near together!" and he had said, "can't i? no, of course i can't. how stupid of me!" and laura, hearing the opening and the shutting of doors, had come back, and said that she felt sleepy. they had had another glorious walk, she and oliver.... yes, that had been how the evening had worn itself out, so quiet and pleasant, so peaceful--outwardly. it was, indeed, outwardly just the kind of evening which lord st. amant had promised himself only yesterday should be repeated many times, after his marriage to his old friend. but now he knew that that had been the last apparently pleasant, peaceful evening that was ever likely to fall to his share in this life. even if oliver tropenell, aided by his great wealth and shrewd intellect, escaped the legal consequences of his wicked deed, his mother would ever be haunted by the past--if indeed the fiery ordeal did not actually kill her. the old man, sitting by the fire, began to feel very, very tired--tired, yet excited, and not in the least sleepy. he turned and looked over at his bed, and then he shook his head. yet he would have to get into that bed and pretend that he had slept in it, before his valet came into the room at half-past seven. it was years, years, _years_ since he had last tried to make an unslept-in bed look as if it had been slept in. he told himself fretfully that it was odd how unwilling he felt to go over in his own mind the amazing story told him by sir angus kinross. he had thought of nothing else on his long journey from london, but since he had arrived at the abbey, since he had seen oliver, he could not bear to think over the details of the sinister story. he forced himself to glance at them, as it were obliquely, for a moment. yes, he could quite see what sir angus meant! oliver certainly had a sporting chance, backed with the power of commanding the best legal advice and the highest talent at the bar, coupled with the kind of sympathy which is aroused, even in phlegmatic england, by what the french call a _crime passionel_. * * * * * once more lord st. amant took up the little faded red leather-bound volume, but he had hardly pushed aside the green ribbon which marked his place in it, when there struck on his ears the metallic sound of an alarum clock--one which he judged to have been carefully muffled and deadened, yet which must be quite sufficiently audible to fulfil its purpose of awakening any sleeper in the room where it happened to be. now, on hearing that sound, lord st. amant was exceedingly surprised, for, as far as he knew, only one other room was occupied on this side of the corridor. that room was that which his late wife had chosen in preference to the one which had been his mother's, and by an odd whim he had assigned it to laura pavely. he turned slightly round in his chair, and glanced at the travelling clock which was on his dressing-table. it was half-past five. why should laura, or any one else in that great house for the matter of that, wish to be awakened on a winter's morning at such an hour? while he was thinking this over, he heard the sound of a key turning quietly in a lock, and then there came that of the slow opening of a door on to the corridor. he stood up, uncertain what to do, and feeling his nerves taut. though he was now an old man, his limbs had not lost all their suppleness, and after a moment of hesitation he sprang to his door and opened it. yes! he could hear the firm tread of footsteps coming down the corridor towards him, to his left. he flung his door wide open, and into the stream of light thrown by his powerful reading lamp into the corridor, there suddenly appeared oliver tropenell---- for a flashing moment the tall figure loomed out of the darkness, and then was engulfed again.... lord st. amant shut the door and hurried back to the fireplace. he cursed the impulse, bred half of genuine alarm, half of eager curiosity, which had made him the unwilling sharer in another man's--and woman's--secret. laura? laura?--_laura?_ he was so taken aback, so surprised, so utterly astounded, and yes, so shocked, that for a moment he forgot the terrible thing which had now filled his mind without ceasing for so many hours. then it came back, a thousand-fold more vivid and accusing. laura? good god, how mistaken he had been in her! manlike, he told himself, most unfairly, that somehow what he had now learnt made everything--anything possible. but before he had time to sit down, the door opened again, and oliver tropenell walked into the room. "i wish you to know," he began, without any preamble, "that laura and i were married a week ago in london. she wished to wait--in fact it had been arranged that we should wait--till february or march. but to please me--only to please me, st. amant--she put her own wishes, her own scruples aside. if there is any blame--the blame is entirely, _entirely_ mine." he waited a moment, and then went on rapidly: "as far as the rest of the world--the indifferent world--is concerned, it will believe that laura and i were married when of course we should have been, after godfrey pavely had been dead a year. but laura would like my mother to know. in fact she intends, i believe, to tell my mother to-morrow." lord st. amant found himself debating, with a kind of terrible self-questioning, whether now was the moment to speak to oliver. "of course i understand," he said shakily. "and i think laura did quite right. but even so i suggest that nothing is said to your mother--yet. i have a very serious reason for asking you to beg laura to keep your marriage absolutely secret." he was looking earnestly, painfully into the face of the younger man. oliver tropenell's countenance suddenly stiffened. it assumed a terrible, mask-like expression. "had your journey to london," he asked slowly, "anything to do with my affairs? i thought so once--at dinner. did sir angus kinross send for you?" lord st. amant could not, did not, speak. but at last he bent his head. then oliver asked another question, quickly, in a matter-of-fact tone: "how many hours have i left?" "till to-morrow, i mean till friday, morning," the other answered in a stifled voice. he longed to go on, to tell the man standing by his side what sir angus had said as to his having "a sporting chance." but there was something in the expression of the rigid, mask-like face which forbade his saying that. and then oliver tropenell turned round and grasped his host's hand. "i owe you a lot of kindness," he muttered. "i used not to be grateful, but i am grateful, _now_. we'll get laura and mother off--and then you'll tell me what i have to know." chapter xxviii mrs. tropenell stood by the window of the pretty, old-fashioned sitting-room which she had now occupied for over a week, and which she knew would be, in a special sense, her own room, after she had became lady st. amant. she was already dressed for the drive home with laura pavely. it was nearly twelve o'clock, and the car would be round in a few minutes. but she was waiting on, up here, for her son, for after breakfast oliver had said casually: "i'll come up to your room for a moment, mother--i mean before you start for freshley." she looked round the room consideringly. nothing in it had been altered for something like fifty years. above the italian marble chimney-piece was a good portrait, in oils, of lord st. amant's father, and on either side of the fireplace were crayon drawings of st. amant as a little boy, and of his two sisters as little girls. everything here epitomised the placid, happy life of the good and fortunate woman who had been lord st. amant's mother. but the pretty, old-fashioned, peaceful-looking room told also of the strange transience of human life. with the exception of that early victorian crayon drawing of the stalwart little boy, almost everything in the nature of a relic or memento spoke of some human being long dead. mrs. tropenell felt curiously at peace. there was something almost final about the feeling which possessed her. up to last night she had been anxious, restless, full of a secret, painful doubt as to whether she was doing right in marrying lord st. amant. but now, this morning, her doubts had gone, partly owing to a very trifling thing, a quick perception of how well st. amant and oliver got on together--now. she had been alone with them at breakfast, and they had talked eagerly together, passing quickly from one subject to another, with no intervals of silence. when, at last, oliver had got up, st. amant also had risen, and put his arm with an affectionate gesture round the younger man's shoulder, and she had caught a strange look, a look of moved gratitude, on oliver's dark face.... she had dreaded telling her son of her resolve--but the dread had left her, and she made up her mind to tell him this morning--not to wait, as she had half thought of doing, till he was at home again. st. amant and oliver were going to shoot this afternoon over land belonging to little alice pavely. laura had let the chase shooting to a neighbour, and the neighbour, whose name was buckhurst, had invited the other two to join his shooting party to-day, and to-morrow also. oliver was coming home to freshley in between.... the door opened. "mother, may i come in?" she turned quickly, all her heart, as always, welcoming him. with a little, unacknowledged pang she told herself that oliver was growing older, that he was losing the look of buoyancy that he had kept so long. but what a fine, strong, vigorous-looking man he looked!--as he stood there, smiling rather gravely at her. "oliver?" she exclaimed, suddenly making up her mind to rush her fence--it was a simile which still often occurred to her--"oliver, my dear, i want to tell you something. i have promised lord st. amant to marry him." he looked moved and surprised--perhaps more than she had expected him to be. but his answer came instantly: "i am glad, mother. i'm very, very glad! i want to tell you, i've meant to tell you for some time, that i felt i've been very churlish in this matter of lord st. amant. he's always been good to me! very, very good. i owed him a great deal as a boy. lately, well, mother, you must have noticed it yourself, we've become really friends." he looked swiftly round the pretty room. till this morning he had always been here alone with laura, having eyes only for her. he saw now what a charming room it was--so warm, so cosy too, on this chilly, wintry december day. he exclaimed: "it will be good to think of you here--wherever i may be----" she felt a tremor go through her. somehow she had thought that he meant to settle down in england; he had never said anything about it, but she had thought that that was his intention. "is laura willing to spend a part of every year in mexico, my dearest?" he nodded, rather absently, as if the question hardly required an answer. she moved closer to him. "you are very happy, are you not, oliver?" she asked in a low voice, and looking up into his face. and again he answered at once, almost as though he had seen the question in her eyes before she uttered it: "very, very happy, mother! i don't suppose any man has ever been happier than i have been." again she put an intimate, probing question, wondering at her own courage, her own temerity, in doing so. "laura wholly satisfies you?" she asked, allowing nothing of the doubt which was still in her heart to creep into her voice. "wholly," he said, again in that strong, confident voice. "and, mother--?" he waited a moment, and then, in a voice suddenly tense with emotion, he muttered--"what she is to me, i, all unworthy though i be, am to her. do you know what--what response means to a man?" "i think i do," she said in a low voice. they remained silent. she felt as if she were, for the first time, fused in intense spiritual communion with her son. he broke the spell. "there's something i want you to know," he said. and then he stopped short, and, looking away, exclaimed, "laura shall tell you!" the carriage gong echoed through the great house. he opened the door, she passed through it, and so together they walked down to the large, rather bare hall. there they waited a few moments in silence, till there came the sound of light footsteps--laura running downstairs, a small fur cap on her beautiful head. she hurried towards them, smiling, and mrs. tropenell turned away--a twinge of jealous pain, of which she was ashamed, in her heart--and stared into the big log fire. she heard oliver exclaim, in accents at once imploring and imperious: "laura? come over here a moment." at last she, the mother, turned slowly round, to see, through the half-open door of lord st. amant's study, the two standing together, locked in each other's arms, laura looking up into oliver's face with an expression of rapt devotion, of entire absorption, in her blue, heavy-lidded eyes. as their lips met, mrs. tropenell looked quickly away. she asked herself if this exalted passion could last, and whether, after all, oliver were not happier now than he could ever hope to be again? laura was very silent during the first half of their homeward drive, but at last she amazed mrs. tropenell by suddenly saying: "i want you to know--i feel i must tell you--that oliver and i were married, in london, ten days ago. and i think--oh, aunt letty, i do think that he is happy--at last!" she said the words very simply, and mrs. tropenell felt extraordinarily moved. this then was what oliver had wanted her to know, and man-like had felt too--too shy to tell her. "i am very grateful to you for what you have done," she exclaimed, and held the younger woman's hand tightly clasped in hers for a moment. that was all. but before they parted laura gave his mother a message from oliver. it was quite an unimportant message, simply that on his way home he meant to look in at the chase. "you don't mind, do you?" laura asked, a little hesitatingly. and oliver's mother smiled. "of course not, my dear--i'm glad he should! perhaps you'd like to come back with him, and stay on for dinner?" but laura, reddening with one of her rather rare, vivid blushes, shook her head. "i think i ought to stay at home the first evening," she said, "and put alice to bed. she loves my putting her to bed. i don't want alice ever to feel jealous." but this time mrs. tropenell made no answer. poor little alice! it would be strange indeed if the child did not feel a little jealous as time went on--if, that is, laura went on being, as she seemed to be, almost mystically absorbed in this wonderful, glowing thing which had come into her life. * * * * * it was the afternoon of the same day, and mrs. tropenell, after dealing with the various matters which had accumulated during her week's absence, had gone up to her room to rest before oliver's return. lying on her bed, in the fast-gathering twilight, thinking over all that had happened, and all that was happening, to herself and to those she loved, mrs. tropenell dozed off for a few moments. then, in a long flash which seemed to contain æons of sensation, she went through an amazing and terrifying experience! on the dead stillness which reigned both within and without the house there suddenly rang out a shot. at the same moment, if not indeed before, her whole being seemed to be bracing itself up to endure a great ordeal. it was as if her spirit, vanquishing a base, secret, physical terror of the unknown, was about to engage on a great adventure. with a stifled cry she sat up, and then she realised, with a gasp of relief, that she had been dreaming, only dreaming--but her heart went on beating for a long time with the excitement, the mingled terror and exaltation of spirit, she had just gone through. at last, feeling curiously languid and shaken, she went downstairs, and had tea in the drawing-room. it was only a little after five; probably oliver would not come in till just before it was time to dress for dinner. the stillness of the house oppressed her. she got up, and moved restlessly about the room. the curtains had been drawn and the fire made up while she had been upstairs. she went across to one of the windows, and, behind the closed curtains, opened it widely. and as she opened the window, and stood by it, breathing in the cold, moist air, she heard the sound of branches being pushed aside across a little-used path which was even a shorter cut to the chase than was the beech-wood avenue. then oliver was coming home earlier than laura had thought he would? she stepped out quickly into the open air, on to the flagged path. she could hear quick footsteps now--but they were not oliver's footsteps. it was probably a maid coming back from the village which lay beyond the chase. but even so there crept a slight feeling of anxiety over her heart. "who's there?" she called out. close out of the twilit darkness there came the instant hoarse answer: "it's laura, aunt letty." "laura? oh, my dear, you'll catch cold!" for laura, without hat or cloak, was now there, before her. "aunt letty? i've brought bad news--there's been an accident." "to oliver?" but she knew, even as she asked the question, what the answer would be. "yes--oliver. they went on too long in the twilight--he stumbled, and his gun went off. they're bringing him home--now." laura was staring before her, her eyes veiled, glassy, like those of a blind woman. "they wanted to bring him to the chase. but there was a doctor there, and he said nothing would be of any use. so i told them to bring him home--to you." both women waited in the grateful darkness, dry-eyed and still. at last mrs. tropenell said uncertainly: "come indoors, laura." but laura shook her head. "no, i'd rather stay out here, if you don't mind, aunt letty." not quite knowing what she was doing or why, mrs. tropenell walked forward and opened the door into the hall. there she took down a cloak, and coming out again, she put it round laura. and they stood there waiting--till there broke on their ears the heavy tramp of men's feet carrying a burden. chapter xxix it was arranged between lord st. amant and the coroner--who was his lordship's own medical attendant (when he required a medical attendant, which was seldom)--that the inquest should be held at freshley manor. the body had been placed in mrs. tropenell's own room, that is, in the very room, as the cook, who had been in the house close on thirty-five years, explained to some of the members of the jury, where poor mr. oliver had been born. so it was there, in that peaceful, old-fashioned, lady's bedchamber, that the twelve good men and true of pewsbury had to view the body. it was remembered afterwards that the expression on the dead man's face showed how completely he had been taken by surprise: it bore an expression of absolute serenity--almost as if he had died in his sleep. rather to the disapproval of some of the pewsbury people, but with the sympathetic understanding of others, mrs. tropenell, by her own desire, was present at the inquest; and, supporting her on the painful occasion, was her nearest neighbour and almost daughter, mrs. pavely. the chief witness was mr. robert buckhurst, the gentleman who had been host to the ill-fated shooting party. his evidence was quite simple and straightforward--indeed, there was nothing at all strange or mysterious about the sad affair. "lord st. amant shot a bird," he said, "and we hunted for it for some time. we were engaged in beating up the next field, when some one said, 'where is tropenell?' just at that moment i heard a shot." he waited a moment, and then went on: "it sounded as if it were fifty yards away." again the witness paused, and then he continued gravely: "i said in jest, 'i hope he has not shot himself!' and lord st. amant said, 'hold my gun, buckhurst, and i'll walk along behind the hedge, and see if i can find him.' he got through a gap, and he could only have gone a very few yards before we heard him call out. 'come at once! he's shot!' with this we got through a gap, and ten paces on we saw mr. oliver tropenell lying on his back, parallel with the hedge. the gun was lying across his body, the muzzle towards the hedge. at first we could not find the wound, but soon we discovered that he had been shot through the heart." in reply to various questions, the witness explained how he raised mr. oliver tropenell's left hand, fancying he could detect a slight flutter of the pulse. he called out for dr. turner, who happened to be a member of the party. that gentleman came up, and after a brief examination, said that mr. tropenell was certainly dead. the charge had gone through the heart, and death must have been practically instantaneous. some one, probably the keeper, opened the breech of mr. tropenell's gun, and found that the cartridge in the right-hand chamber had been exploded. at this point, in answer to a word from a juryman, mr. buckhurst said very decidedly that there could be no doubt at all that the shot had been fired by mr. tropenell's own gun. if he might venture to give an informal opinion, it was perfectly plain what had happened. the ground was rough just there, and twilight was falling. without doubt mr. tropenell, on getting through the hedge, had stumbled heavily, the gun had fallen forward, and then had occurred one of those accidents which occasionally do happen out shooting, and which no amount of care or experience can prevent. there was some little doubt as to what had been the exact position of the body, and while this was being discussed every one felt particularly sorry for the dead man's mother. following mr. buckhurst, lord st. amant went into the witness-box, and then some inquisitive juryman asked his lordship a question as to the mental condition of the deceased. in answer to that question, lord st. amant explained, with a good deal of emotion, that just before he and mr. tropenell had started out on their fatal expedition they had had a pleasant little talk together, during which mr. tropenell had seemed particularly well and cheerful. further, the witness threw in, as an after-thought, the statement that the deceased gentleman had expressed considerable gratification at the fact that his mother, mrs. tropenell, and he, lord st. amant, had just entered together into an engagement of marriage. this announcement of a forthcoming alliance which so closely touched the whole neighbourhood naturally overshadowed the rest of the purely formal medical evidence at the inquest. very soon there remained nothing for the jury to do but to return a verdict of "death by misadventure," and to express the deepest sympathy with mr. tropenell's mother. a great deal of deep, unaffected sympathy, more sincere in this case perhaps than a great deal of the sympathy which is lavished on the bereaved in this world, was felt for mrs. tropenell. her son had not only been the most devoted and excellent of sons, but he had been such a success, such a man to be proud of! it was also remembered that he had done many a kindly turn to the good folk of pewsbury in the last eighteen months or so, since he had come home to make the first long stay he had made in their neighbourhood for over ten years. his manner, if reserved, was always kindly and pleasant, without any touch of that patronage which is sometimes irritating in gentlemen of his sort. the townspeople recalled, too, the dead man's intimacy with the late mr. godfrey pavely, and the more sober among them did not fail to remind one another how curious it was that in under a year those two men, still both young as youth is counted nowadays, had been gathered to their fathers. and then, before pewsbury had had time to recover from the excitement of poor oliver tropenell's tragic end, and from the announcement, given under such painful and dramatic circumstances, of his mother's forthcoming marriage to lord st. amant, yet another thrilling sensation was provided for the inhabitants of the little town. this was the surprising news that mrs. winslow had married again! the fortunate man was, it seemed, a certain mr. greville howard, one of the largest subscribers to the prince of wales's hospital fund, a gentleman, therefore, of evident social standing and wealth. the ceremony had taken place at st. james's, piccadilly, in the presence of a few friends of the bridegroom, and the happy pair had gone straight off to mr. howard's villa in the south of france. there harber, mrs. winslow's faithful factotum, was to join her mistress as soon as she had made the necessary arrangements for the disposal, by auction, of the furniture at rosedean. of that furniture two objects were at the last moment withdrawn from the sale--one was a china cabinet, and the other a rather curious-looking old chandelier, both associated, so it was understood, with the new mrs. greville howard's youth. the auctioneer regretted these omissions from the catalogue, for by bad luck they were the only objects in the house which a big london dealer had come specially down to see, and for which he had intimated that he was prepared to give a very good price. the end transcriber's notes: repeated part titles have been deleted. obsolete spellings and alternate spellings of words (e.g., dulness) have been retained. passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. on page , the [oe] ligature was replaced with "oe". on page , "bayton" was replaced with "baynton". on page , a period was added after "drew a piece of notepaper towards him". on page , "kindess" was replaced with "kindness". on page , "contributary" was replaced with "contributory". on page , "wainting" was replaced with "waiting". on page , "lov" was replaced with "love". on page , "affectionte" was replaced with "affectionate". on page , "whispred" was replaced with "whispered". on page , "olive" was replaced with "oliver". on page , "a great deal as as" was replaced with "a great deal as". on page , "expresson" was replaced with "expression". a mad love by bertha m. clay author of "sunshine and roses," "beyond pardon," "dora thomas," "from out the gloom," etc., etc. chicago. donohue, henneberry & co., publishers. a mad love chapter i. a discontented beauty. "leone," cried a loud voice, "where are you? here, there, everywhere, except just in the place where you should be." the speaker was a tall, stout, good-tempered looking man. farmer noel people called him all over the country-side. he stood in the farmyard, looking all the warmer this warm day for his exertions in finding his niece. "leone," he cried again and again. at last the answer came, "i am here, uncle," and if the first voice startled one with its loudness, this second was equally startling from its music, its depth, its pathos. "i am here, uncle," she said. "i wish you would not shout so loudly. i am quite sure that the people at rashleigh can hear you. what is it that you want?" "have you made up the packets of wheat i asked you for?" he said. "no," she replied, "i have not." he looked disappointed. "i shall be late for market," he said. "i must do them myself." he went back into the house without another word. he never reproached leone, let her do what she would. on leone's most beautiful face were evident marks of bad temper, and she did not care to conceal it. with a gesture of impatience she started forward, passed over the farmyard and went through the gate out into the lane, from the lane to the high-road, and she stood there leaning over the white gate, watching the cattle as they drank from the deep, clear pool. the sun shone full upon her, and the warm, sweet beams never fell on anything more lovely; the only drawback to the perfection of the picture was this: she did not look in harmony with the scene--the quiet english landscape, the golden cornfields, the green meadows, the great spreading trees whereon the birds sung, the tall spire of the little church, the quaint little town in the distance, the brook that ran gurgling by. she looked out of harmony with them all; she would have been in perfect keeping had the background been of snow-capped mountains and foaming cascades. here she looked out of place; she was on an english farm; she wore a plain english dress, yet she had the magnificent beauty of the daughters of sunny spain. her beauty was of a peculiar type--dark, passionate, and picturesque like that of the pomegranate, the damask rose or the passion-flower. there was a world in her face--of passion, of genius, of power; a face as much out of place over the gates of a farm as a stately gladiolus would be among daisies and buttercups. an artist looking for a model of some great queen who had conquered the world, for some great heroine for whom men had fought madly and died, might have chosen her. but in a farmyard! there are no words to tell how out of place it was. she stood by the gate holding the ribbons of her hat in her hand--beautiful, imperious, defiant--with a power of passion about her that was perhaps her greatest characteristic. she looked round the quiet picture of country life with unutterable contempt. "if i could but fly away," she said; "i would be anything on earth if i could get away from this--i would not mind what; i would work, teaching, anything; the dull monotony of this life is killing me." her face was so expressive that every emotion was shown on it, every thought could be read there; the languid scorn of the dark eyes, and the proud curves of the daintily arched lips, all told of unconcealed contempt. "a farm," she said to herself; "to think that when the world is full of beautiful places, my lot must be cast on a farm. if it had been in a palace, or a gypsy's camp--anywhere where i could have tasted life, but a farm." the beautiful restless face looked contemptuously out on the green and fertile land. "a farm means chickens running under one's feet, pigeons whirling round one's head, cows lowing, dogs barking, no conversation but crops----" she stopped suddenly. coming up the lane she saw that which had never gladdened her eyes here before; she saw a gentleman, handsome and young, walking carelessly down the high-road, and as he drew near, another gentleman, also handsome, but not quite so young, joined him. they came laughing down the high-road together, but neither of them saw her until they reached the great elm-tree. the sight of that wondrous young face, with its rich, piquant beauty, startled them. one passed her by without a word, the other almost stopped, so entirely was he charmed by the lovely picture. as he passed he raised his hat; her beautiful face flushed; she neither smiled nor bowed in return, but accepted the salute as a tribute to her beauty, after the same fashion a queen acknowledges the salutes and homage of her subjects. with one keen glance, she divided him from his companion, the man who had _not_ bowed to her. she took in that one glance a comprehensive view. she knew the color of his eyes, of his hair, the shape of his face, the peculiar cut of his clothes, so different to those worn by the young farmers; the clustering hair, the clear-cut face, the delicate profile, the graceful ease of the tall, thin figure, were with her from that moment through all time. the deep low bow gratified her. she knew that she was gifted with a wondrous dower of beauty. she knew that men were meek when a beautiful face charmed them. the involuntary homage of this handsome young man pleased her. she would have more of it. when he rejoined his companion, she heard him say: "what a wonderful face, euston--the most beautiful i have ever seen in my life." that pleased her still more; she smiled to herself. "perhaps i shall see him again," she thought. then one of the girls from the village passed the gate, and stopped for a few minutes' conversation. "did you see those gentlemen?" asked the girl; and leone answered: "yes." "they have both come to live at dr. hervey's, to 'read,' whatever that means. the young one, with the fair hair, is a lord, the eldest son of a great earl; i do not remember the name." so it was a great lord who had bowed to her, and thought her more beautiful than any one he had ever seen. her heart beat with triumph. she bade the girl good-morning, and went back. her beautiful face was brilliant with smiles. she entered the house and went up to her glass. she wanted to see again, for herself, the face he had called beautiful. mirrored there, she saw two dark eyes, full of fire, bright, radiant, and luminous--eyes that could have lured and swayed a nation; a beautiful, oval face, the features of which were perfect; a white brow, with dark, straight eyebrows; sweet, red lips, like a cloven rose; the most beautiful chin, with a rare dimple; an imperial face, suited for a queen's crown or the diadem of an empress, but out of place on this simple farm. she saw grand, sloping shoulders, beautiful arms, and a figure that was perfect in its symmetry and grace. she smiled contentedly. she was beautiful, undoubtedly. she was glad that others saw it. if a young lord admired her, she must be worth admiring. her good humor was quite restored. how came it that this girl, with the beauty of a young princess, was at home in the farmhouse? it was a simple story. the farmer, robert noel, had only one brother, who loved romance and travel. stephen noel, after trying every profession, and every means of obtaining a livelihood, at last decided on becoming a civil engineer; he went to spain to help with a rail-road in the province of andalusia, and there fell in love with and married a beautiful andalusian, pepita by name. dark-eyed pepita died on the same day leone was born, and the young father, distracted by his loss, took the child home to england. the old housekeeper at the rashleigh farm took the girl, and robert noel consented that she should be brought up as a child of his own. the two brothers differed as light and darkness differ. stephen was all quickness and intelligence, robert was stolid and slow. leone always said it took him ten minutes to turn around. he had never married, he had never found time; but he gave the whole love of his heart to the beautiful dark eyed child who was brought to his house sixteen years ago. chapter ii. "what, marry a farmer!" one can imagine the sensation that a bright, beautiful eagle would produce in a dove's nest; the presence of that beautiful, imperious child at the farm was very much the same. people looked at her in wonder; her beauty dazzled them; her defiance amused them. they asked each other where all her pride came from. uncle robert often said in his slow fashion that he retired from business when leone was seven. at that early age he gave the management of everything into her baby hands. from the chickens in the yard to the blue and white pigeons on the roof. she could manage him, big as he was, with one stamp of her little foot, one flash of her bright eyes; he was powerless at once, like a great big giant bound hand and foot. she was a strange child, full of some wonderful power that she hardly understood herself--a child quite out of the common groove of life, quite above the people who surrounded her. they understood her beauty, her defiance, her pride, but not the dramatic instinct and power that, innate in her, made every word and action seem strange. honest, stolid robert noel was bewildered by her; he did his best in every way, but he had an uneasy consciousness that his best was but a poor attempt. he sent her to school, the best in rashleigh, but she learned anything and everything except obedience. she looked out of place even there, this dark-eyed spanish girl, among the pretty pink and white children with fair hair and blue eyes. she bewildered even the children; they obeyed her, and she had the greatest influence over them. she taught them recitations and plays, she fired their imaginations by wonderful stories; she was a new, brilliant, wonderful element in their lives. even the school mistress, meek through the long suffering of years, even she worshiped and feared her--the brilliant, tiresome girl, who was like a flash of light among the others. she had a face so grand and a voice so thrilling it was no unusual thing when she was reading aloud in the school-room for the others to suspend all work, thrilled to the heart by the sound of her voice. she soon learned all that the rashleigh governess could teach her--she taught herself even more. she had little taste for drawing, much for music, but her whole heart and soul were in books. young as she was, it was grand to hear her trilling out the pretty love speeches of juliet, declaring the wrongs of constance or katherine, moaning out the woes of desdemona. she had shakespeare almost by heart, and she loved the grand old dramatist. when she was sixteen her uncle took her from school, and then the perplexities of his honest life began. he wanted her to take her place as mistress of the house, to superintend the farm and the dairy, to take affectionate interest in the poultry and birds, to see that the butter was of a deep, rich yellow, and the new laid eggs sent to market. from the moment he intrusted those matters in her hands, his life became a burden to him, for they were entirely neglected. farmer noel would go into his dairy and find everything wrong, the cream spilled, the butter spoiled; but when he looked at the dark-eyed young princess with the spanish face he dared not say a word to her. he would suggest to her meekly that things might be different. she would retaliate with some sarcasm that would reduce him to silence for two days at least. yet she loved, after a fashion of her own, this great, stolid man who admired her with all his heart, and loved her with his whole soul. so time passed until she was seventeen, and the quiet farm life was unendurable to her. "uncle," she would say, "let me go out into the world. i want to see it. i want something to do. i often think i must have two lives and two souls, i long so intensely for more than i have to fill them." he could not understand her. she had the farm and the dairy. "be content," he would answer, "be content, my lady lass, with the home god has given you." "i want something to do. if i did all the work on this and twenty other farms it would not touch my heart and soul. they are quite empty. people say it is a battlefield. if it be one, i am sitting by with folded hands. inactivity means death to me." "my lady lass, you can find plenty to do," he answered, solemnly. "but not of the kind i want." she paced up and down the large kitchen, where everything was polished and bright; the fire-light glowed on the splendid face and figure--the face with its unutterable beauty, its restless longing, its troubled desires. some fear for the future of the beautiful, restless, passionate girl came over the man, who watched her with anxious eyes. it began to dawn upon him, that if he were to shut a bright-eyed eagle up in a cage, it would never be happy, and it was very much the same kind of thing to shut this lovely, gifted girl in a quiet farmhouse. "you will be married soon," he said, with a clumsy attempt at comfort, "and then you will be more content." she flashed one look of scorn from those dark, lustrous eyes that should have annihilated him. she stopped before him, and threw back her head with the gesture of an injured queen. "may i ask," she said, "whom you suppose i will marry?" he looked rather frightened, for he began to perceive he had made some mistake, though he could not tell what; he thought all young girls liked to be teased about sweethearts and marriage; still he came valiantly to the front. "i mean that you will surely have a sweetheart some day or other," he said, consolingly, though the fire from those dark eyes startled him, and her scarlet lips trembled with anger. "i shall have a sweetheart, you think, like jennie barnes or lily coke. a sweetheart. pray, whom will it be, do you think?" "i know several of the young farmers about here who would each give his right hand to be a sweetheart of yours." she laughed a low, contemptuous laugh that made him wince. "what, marry a farmer! do you think the life of a farmer's wife would suit me? i shall go unmarried to my grave, unless i can marry as i choose." then she seemed to repent of the passionate words, and flung her beautiful arms round his neck and kissed his face. "i hate myself," she said, "when i speak in that way to you, who have been so good to me." "i do not mind it," said robert noel, honestly. "never hate yourself for me, my lady lass." she turned one glance from her beautiful eyes on him. "when i seem to be ungrateful to you, do remember that i am not, uncle robert; i am always sorry. i cannot help myself, i cannot explain myself; but i feel always as though my mind and soul were cramped." "cramp is a very bad thing," said the stolid farmer. she looked at him, but did not speak; her irritation was too great; he never understood her; it was not likely he ever would. "i will go down to the mill-stream," she said. with an impatient gesture she hastened out of the house. the mill-stream was certainly the prettiest feature of the farm--a broad, beautiful stream that ran between great rows of alder-trees and turned the wheel by the force with which it leaped into the broad, deep basin; it was the loveliest and most picturesque spot that could be imagined, and now as the waters rushed and foamed in the moonlight they were gorgeous to behold. leone loved the spot; the restless, gleaming waters suited her; it seemed to have something akin to herself--something restless, full of force and vitality. she sat there for hours; it was her usual refuge when the world went wrong with her. round and round went the wheel; on sunlight days the sun glinted on the sullen waters until they resembled a sheet of gold covered with white, shining foam. green reeds and flowers that love both land and water fringed the edges of the clear, dimpling pool; the alder-trees dipped their branches in it; the great gray stones, covered with green moss, lay here and there. it was a little poem in itself, and the beautiful girl who sat in the moonlight read it aright. chapter iii. the meeting at the mill. in the depths of the water she saw the reflection of the shining stars; she watched them intently; the pure, pale golden eyes. a voice aroused her--a voice with tone and accent quite unlike any other voice. "i beg your pardon," it said, "could you show me the way to rashleigh? i have lost myself in the wood." raising her eyes she saw the gentleman who had raised his hat as he passed her in the morning. she knew that he recognized her by the light that suddenly overspread his face. "rashleigh lies over there," she replied. "you have but to cross the field and pass the church." "even that," said the stranger, with a careless laugh, "even that i am not inclined to do now. it is strange. i am afraid you will think me half mad, but it seems to me that i have just stepped into fairy land. two minutes since i was on the bare highway, now i see the prettiest picture earth has to offer." "it is pretty," she replied, her eyes looking at the clear, dimpling pool; "prettier now even than when the sun shines on it and the wheel turns." she had told him the way to rashleigh, and he should have passed on with a bow, but this was his excuse. the moon was shining bright as day, the wind murmured in the alder trees, the light lay on the clear, sweet, fresh water; the music of the water as it fell was sweet to hear. away in the woods some night bird was singing; the odor of the sleeping flowers filled the air; and there on the green bank, at the water's edge, sat the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. the moonlight fell on her exquisite southern face; it seemed to find its home in the lustrous depths of her dark eyes; it kissed the dark ripples of her hair, worn with the simple grace of a greek goddess; it lay on the white hands that played with the tufted grass. he was young and loved all things beautiful, and therefore did not go away. his mind was filled with wonder. who was she--this girl, so like a young spanish princess! why was she sitting here by the mill-stream? he must know, and to know he must ask. "i am inclined," he said, "to lie down here by this pretty stream, and sleep all night under the stars; i am so tired." she looked at him with a quick, warm glow of sympathy. "what has tired you?" she asked. he sat down on one of the great gray stones that lay half in the water, half on the land. "i have lost myself in the leigh woods," he said. "i have been there many hours. i had no idea what leigh woods were like, or i should not have gone for the first time alone." "they are very large and intricate," she said; "i can never find the right paths." "some one told me i should see the finest oak-trees in england there," he said, "and i have a passion for grand old oaks. i would go anywhere to see them. i went to the woods and had very soon involved myself in the greatest difficulties. i should never have found the way out had i not met one of the keepers." she liked to listen to him; the clear, refined accent, the musical tone; as she listened a longing came over her that his voice might go on speaking to her and of her. "now," he continued, embarrassed by her silence, "i have forgotten your directions; may i ask you to repeat them?" she did so, and looking at her face he saw there was no anger, nothing but proud, calm content. he said to himself he need not go just yet, he could stay a few minutes longer. "do you know that beautiful old german ballad," he said, "'in sheltered vale a mill-wheel still tunes its tuneful lay'?" "no; i never heard or read it," she answered. "say it for me." "'in sheltered vale a mill-wheel still tunes its tuneful lay. my darling once did dwell there, but now she's far away. a ring in pledge i gave her, and vows of love we spoke-- those vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke.'" "hush," she said, holding up one white hand; "hush, it is too sad. do you not see that the moonlight has grown dim, and the sound of the falling waters is the sound of falling tears?" he did not seem to understand her words. "that song has haunted me," he said, "ever since i heard it. i must say the last verse; it must have been of this very mill-wheel it was written. "'but while i hear the mill-wheel my pains will never cease; i would the grave could hide me, for there alone is peace.'" "is it a love story?" she asked, pleased at the pathos and rhythm of the words. "yes; it is the usual story--the whole love of a man's heart given to one not worthy of it, the vows forgotten, the ring broken. then he cries out for the grave to hide himself and his unhappy love." she looked up at him with dark, lustrous, gleaming eyes. "does all love end in sorrow?" she asked, simply. he looked musingly at the moonlit waters, musingly at the starlit sky. "i cannot tell," he replied, "but it seems to me that it ends more in sorrow than in joy. i should say," he continued, "that when truth meets truth, where loyalty meets loyalty, the ending is good; but where a true heart finds a false one, where loyalty and honor meet lightness and falsehood, then the end must be bad." leone seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger, and, of all subjects, they had fallen on love. "i must go," she said, hurriedly. "you will remember the way." "pray do not go--just this minute," he said. "history may repeat itself; life never does. there can never be a night half so fair as this again; the water will never fall with so sweet a ripple; the stars will never shine with so bright a light; life may pass, and we may never meet again. you have a face like a poem. stay a few minutes longer." "a face like a poem." did he really think so? the words pleased her. "strange things happen in real life," he said; "things that, told in novels and stories, make people laugh and cry out that they are exaggerated, too romantic to be real. how strange that i should have met you here this evening by the side of the mill-stream--a place always haunted by poetry and romance. you will think it stranger still when i tell you your face has haunted me all day." she looked at him in surprise. the proud, beautiful face grieved at the words. "how is that?" she asked. "i saw you this morning when i was going to rashleigh with my friend, sir frank euston. you were standing against a white gate, and i thought--well, i must not tell you what i thought." "why?" she asked, briefly. "because it might offend you," he replied. he began to perceive that there was no coquetry in this beautiful girl. she was proud, with a calm, serene, half-tragic pride. there would be no flirtation by the side of the mill-stream. she looked as far above coquetry as she was above affectation. he liked the proud calm of her manner. she might have been a duchess holding court rather than a country girl sitting by a mill-wheel. the idea occurred to him; and then his wonder increased--who was she? and what was she doing here? "do you live near here?" he asked. "yes," she said, "behind the trees there you can see the chimneys of a farmhouse; it is called rashleigh farm; my uncle, robert noel, lives there; and i am his niece." "his niece," repeated the young man, in an incredulous voice. she was a farmer's niece, then, after all; and yet she looked like a spanish princess. "you do not look like an english girl," he said, gravely. "my father was english and my mother a spanish lady; and i--well, i fear i have more of the hot fire of spain than of the chill of england in my nature; my face is spanish, so is my heart." "a spaniard is quick to love, quick to hate; forgives grandly and revenges mercilessly," he said. "that is my character," she said; "you have described it exactly." "i do not believe it; neither hate nor revenge could exist with a face like yours. then your name is noel?" "yes, my name is leone noel," she replied. "leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. i have never heard it before; but i like it very much; it is musical and rare--two great things in a name." "it is a german name," she said. "my uncle robert hates it; he says it reminds him of lion; but you know it is pronounced leon. my mother read some german story that had the name in it and gave it to me." "it suits you," he said, simply; "and i should not think there was another name in the world that would. i wonder," he added, with a shy laugh, "if you would like my name? it is lancelot chandos. my friends call me lance." "yes, i like that. i know all the history of sir lancelot. i admire him; but i think he was a weak man--do not you?" "for loving queen guinevere? i do not know. some love is strength, not weakness," he replied. leone looked up at him again. "are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so." "yes; my father is earl of lanswell; and people would call him a great earl. he is rich and powerful." "what has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to rashleigh?" she asked. "my own idleness, to begin with," he said. "i have been at oxford more years than i care to count; and i have idled my time." "then you are studying?" she said. "yes, that is it. i am trying to make up for lost time. i have some examinations to pass; and my father has sent me down to dr. hervey because he is known everywhere as the cleverest coach in england." a cloud came for just one half minute across the face of the moon; the soft, sweet darkness startled leone. "i must go now," she said; "it is not only getting late, but growing dark." "i shall see you again," he cried, "do promise me." "nay, you have little faith in promises," she replied; and he watched her as she vanished from among the alder-trees. it was an unexpected meeting; and strange and startling consequences soon followed. chapter iv. an interesting tete-a-tete. "where have you been, leone?" asks farmer noel. she had begun a new life. it seemed years since she had left him, while he sat in the same place, smoking the same pipe, probably thinking the same thoughts. she came in with the brightness and light of the moon in her face; dew-drops lay on her dark hair, her beautiful face was flushed with the wind, so fair, so gracious, so royal, so brilliant. he looked at her in helpless surprise. "where have you been?" he repeated. she looked at him with a sweet, dreamy smile. "i have been to the mill-stream." and she added in a lower tone, "i have been to heaven." it had been heaven to her--this one hour spent with one refined by nature and by habit--a gentleman, a man of taste and education. her uncle wondered that evening at the light that came on her face, at the cheerful sound of her voice, the smile that came over her lips. she was usually so restless and discontented. it was a break in her life. she wanted something to interrupt the monotony, and now it had come. she had seen and spoken to not only a very handsome and distinguished man, but a lord, the son of an earl. he had admired her, said her face was like a poem; and the words brought a sweet, musing smile to her face. when the sun shone in her room the next morning she awoke with a sense of something new and beautiful in her life; it was a pleasure to hear the birds sing; a pleasure to bathe in the clear, cold, fresh water; a pleasure to breathe the sweet, fragrant morning air. there was a half wonder as to whether she could see him again. the poetical, dramatic instinct of the girl was all awake; she tried to make herself as pretty as she could. she put on a dress of pale pink--a plain print, it is true, but the beautiful head and face rose from it as a flower from its leaves. she brushed back the rippling hair and placed a crimson rose in its depths. then she smiled at herself. was it likely she should see him? what should bring the great son of an earl to the little farm at rashleigh? but the blue and white pigeons, the little chickens--all fared well that morning. leone was content. in the afternoon farmer noel wanted her to go down to the hay-fields. the men were busy with the newly mown hay, and he wished her to take some messages about the stacking of it. she looked like a picture of summer as she walked through the green, shady lane, a red rose in her hair and one in her breast, a cluster of woodbine in her hand. she saw nothing of lord chandos, yet she thought of nothing else; every tree, every field, every lane she passed she expected to see him; but of course he was not there; and her heart beat fast as she saw him--he was crossing what people called the brook meadow--and she met him face to face. they had met for the first time on a moonlight night; they met for the second time on a sultry summer afternoon, when the whole world seemed full of love. the birds were singing of love in the trees, the butterflies were making love to the flowers, the wind was whispering of love to the trees, the sun was kissing the earth that lay silent in its embrace. "leone," he cried; and then he flushed crimson. "i beg your pardon," he said, "but i ought to say miss noel; but i have been thinking of you all night as leone. i did not think of it before i spoke." she laughed at the long apology. "say it all over again," she said. "begin at 'good-afternoon, miss noel.'" he repeated it after her, then added: "i think my kind and good fortune sent me this way. i was longing for some one to speak to--and of all happiness to meet you; but perhaps you are busy." "no; i have done all that i had to do. i am never busy," she added, with regal calm. he smiled again. "no; i could not fancy you busy," he said, "any more than i could fancy the goddess juno in a hurry. to some fair women there belongs by birthright a calm that is almost divine." "my calm covers a storm," she replied. "my life has been brief and dull; neither my heart nor my soul has really lived; but i feel in myself a capability of power that sometimes frightens me." he did not doubt it as he looked at the beautiful, passionate face; it was even more lovely in the gleam of the sunlight than in the soft, sweet light of the moon. "you cannot stand in the sunshine," he said. "if you are not busy will you go with me through leigh woods? i shall remember the way this time." she hesitated one half minute, and he saw it; he raised his hat and stood bare-headed, waiting for her answer. "yes, i will go," she said at length. "why should i not?" they went together to leigh woods, where the great oak-trees made a pleasant shade, and the ground was a mass of wild flowers; great streams of bluebells that stirred so gently in the wind, violets that hid themselves under their leaves, cowslips like little tips of gold, wild strawberry blossoms that looked like snow-flakes. how fair it was. the sunbeams fell through the great green boughs, throwing long shadows on the grass. it was a beautiful, silent world, all perfume and light. the poetry of it touched both of them. lord chandos was the first to speak; he had been watching the proud, beautiful face of leone; and suddenly he said: "you look out of place here, miss noel; i can hardly tell you why." "that is what my uncle says; he is always asking me if i cannot make myself more like the girls of rashleigh." "i hope you never will," he cried, warmly. "i do not know how," she said. "i must always be what god and nature made me." "they made you fair enough," he whispered. and then he owned to himself that she was not like other girls. she drew back proudly, swiftly; no smile came to her lips, no laughing light to her eyes. "speak to me as you would to one in your own rank, my lord," she said, haughtily. "though fate has made me a farmer's niece, nature made me----" "a queen," he interrupted. and she was satisfied with the acknowledgment. they sat down under one of the great oak-trees, a great carpet of bluebells under their feet. leone looked thoughtful; she gathered some sprays of bluebells and held them in her hands, her white fingers toying with the little flowers, then she spoke: "i know," she said, "that no lady--for instance, in your own rank of life--would walk through this wood with you on a summer's afternoon." a laugh came over his handsome, happy young face. "i do not know. i am inclined to think the opposite." "i do not understand what you would call etiquette; but i am quite sure you would never ask one." "i am not sure. if i had met one in what you are pleased to call my rank of life last night by the mill-stream, looking as you looked, i am quite sure that i should ask her to walk with me and talk with me at any time." "i should like to see your world," she said. "i know the world of the poor and the middle class, but i do not know yours." "you will know some day," he said, quietly. "do not be angry with me if i tell you that in all my world i have never seen one like you. do not be angry, i am not flattering you, i am saying just what i think." "why do you think that some day i may see your world?" she asked. "because with your face you are sure to marry well," he replied. "i shall marry where i love," said leone. "and you may love where you will," he replied; "no man will ever resist you." "i would rather you did not speak to me in that fashion," she said, gravely; and lord chandos found, that seated by this farmer's niece, in the wood full of bluebells, he was compelled to be more circumspect than if he were speaking to some countess-elect in a mayfair drawing-room. leone, when she had set him quite straight in his place, as she called it; when she had taught him that he was to treat her with as much, if not more courtesy, than he bestowed on those of his own rank; leone, when she had done all this, felt quite at home with him. she had never had an opportunity for exercising her natural talent for conversation; her uncle was quite incapable of following or understanding her; the girls who were her companions lost themselves in trying to follow her flights of fancy. but now there was some one who understood her; talk as she would, he appreciated it; he knew her quotations; no matter how original her ideas were he understood and followed them; it was the first time she had ever had the opportunity of talking to an educated gentleman. how she enjoyed it; his wit seemed waiting on hers, and seemed to catch fire from it; his eyes caught fire from hers. she described her simple life and its homely surroundings in words that burned. it was in her simple, sweet, pathetic description of stolid uncle robert that she excelled herself; she painted his character with the most graphic touches. "do you know, miss noel," said lord chandos at last, "that you are a genius, that you have a talent truly marvelous: that you can describe a character or a place better than i have heard any one else?" "no, i did not know anything about it," she said. "i am so accustomed to being looked upon as something not to be understood, admired, or imitated that i can hardly believe that i am clever. uncle robert is really a character; nowadays men and women are very much alike; but he stands out in bold relief, quite by himself, the slowest, the most stolid of men, yet with a great heart full of love." it was so pleasant to talk to him and see his handsome young face full of admiration; to startle him by showing her talent, so pleasant that the whole of the summer afternoon had passed before she thought of the time; and he was equally confused, for dr. hervey's dinner-hour was over. and yet they both agreed it was the most pleasant hour they had ever spent. chapter v. the reconciliation. it was, of course, the old story; there were one or two meetings by the mill-stream, a morning spent together in some distant hay-field, an afternoon in the woods, and then the mischief was done--they loved each other. "alas, how easily things go wrong-- a sigh too deep or a kiss too long; then follows a mist and a weeping rain-- and life is never the same again." it soon became not merely a habit but a necessity for them to meet every day. farmer noel understood perfectly well the art of tilling the ground, of sowing the crops, of making the earth productive, but he knew less than a child of the care and watchfulness his young niece required. he contented himself by asking where she had been; he never seemed to imagine that she had had a companion. he saw her growing more and more beautiful, with new loveliness on her face, with new light in her eyes, with a thousand charms growing on her, but he never thought of love or danger--in fact, above the hay-making and the wheat, farmer noel did not think at all. she had gone into the glowing heart of fairyland--all the old life was left far behind; she did not even seem to remember that she had been restless and discontented; that in her soul she had revolted fiercely against her fate; that she had disliked her life and longed for anything that would change it; all that was forgotten; the golden glamour of love had fallen over her, and everything was changed. he was young--this brave, generous, gallant lover of hers--only twenty, with a heart full of romance. he fairly worshiped the proud, beautiful girl who carried herself with the stately grace of a young queen. he had fallen in love after the fashion of his age--madly, recklessly, blindly--ready to go mad or to die for his love; after the fashion of his age and sex he loved her all the more because of her half-cold reserve, her indomitable pride, her haughty rejection of all flattery. young girls do not always know the secret of their power; a little reserve goes further than the most loving words. leone's pride attracted lord chandos quite as much as her beauty. the first little quarrel they had was an outburst of pride from her; they had been strolling through the sunniest part of leigh woods, and when it was time to part he bent down to kiss the warm, white hand. she drew it quickly from him. "you would not have done that to one of your own class," she cried; "why do you do it to me?" "you are not really angry, leone?" he cried in wonder. she turned her beautiful face, colorless with indignation, to him. "i am so far angry," she said, "that i shall not walk through the woods with you--never again." she kept her word. for two whole days lord chandos wandered through the fields and the lanes, through the woods and by the river, yet he saw no sight of her. it was possible that she punished herself quite as much as she did him; but he must be taught that, were he twenty times an earl, he must never venture on even the least liberty with her; he must wait her permission before he kissed her hand. the fourth day--he could bear it no longer--he rode past the farm twenty times and more; at length he was fortunate enough to see farmer noel, and throwing the reins on his horse's neck he got down and went up to him. "have you a dog to sell?" he asked. "some one told me you had very fine dogs." "i have good dogs, but none to sell," replied the farmer. "i want a dog, and i would give a good price for a good one," he said. "will you let me see yours?" "yes, you can see them, but you cannot buy them," said robert noel; and the next scene was the handsome young lordling going round the farm, with the stalwart, stolid farmer. he won the farmer's heart by his warm praises of the farm, the cattle, the dogs, and everything else he saw; still there was no leone. "i am very thirsty; should you think me very impertinent if i asked you for a glass of cider?" he said; and the farmer, flattered by the request, took him into the little parlor. he looked at his visitor in simple wonder. "they say you are a great lord's son," he said; "but if you are, you have no pride about you." lord chandos laughed; and the farmer called leone. there was a pause, during which the young lord's heart beat and his face flushed. "leone," cried the farmer again. he turned to his visitor. "you will wonder what 'leone' means, it is such a strange name; it is my niece. here she comes." the loveliest picture in all the world, trying hard to preserve her usual stately grace, yet with a blushing, dimpling smile that made her lovely beyond words. "leone," said the farmer, "will you bring a jug of cider?" "pray," cried the lord, "do not trouble yourself, miss noel. i cannot think----" she interrupted him by a gesture of her white hand. "i will send it, uncle," she said, and disappeared. the farmer turned with a smile to the young lord. "she is very proud," he said; "but she is a fine girl." the cider came; the visitor duly drank his glass and went; his only reward for all that trouble was the one glance at her face. that same evening a little note was given to her, in which he begged her so humbly to forgive him, and to meet him again, that she relented. he had learned his lesson; he wooed her with the deference due to a young princess; no word or action of his displeased her after that, while he loved her with a love that was akin to madness. so through the long, bright, beautiful summer days, in the early morning, while the sweet, fragrant air seemed to sweep the earth, and in the evening when the dew lay upon flower and tree, they met and learned to love each other. one evening, as they sat by their favorite spot--the mill-stream--lord chandos told her how he had learned to love her, how he had ceased to think of anything in the world but herself. "i knew you were my fate, leone," he said, "when i saw you sitting here by the mill-stream. i am quite sure that i have loved you ever since. i do not remember that there has been one moment in which i have not thought of you. i shall always thank heaven that i came to rashleigh--i found my darling here." for once all the pride had died from her face; all the hauteur was gone from her eyes; a lovely gleam of tenderness took its place; a love-light in the shy, sweet eyes that dropped from his. "my darling leone," he said, "if i lived a hundred years i could only say over and over again--'i love you.' those three words say everything. do you love me?" she looked up at him. then she raised her dark eyes to his and a little quiver passed over her beautiful mouth. "yes, i love you," she said. "whether it be for weal or for woe, for good or ill, i know not; but i love you." there was unutterable pathos, unutterable music in those three words; they seemed to rhyme with the chime of the falling waters. she held out her white hands, he clasped them in his. "why do you say it so sadly, my darling? love will bring nothing but happiness for you and for me," he said. she laid her white arms on his neck, and looked earnestly in his face. "there can be no comparison," she said. "love to you is only a small part of your life, to me it is everything--everything. do you understand? if you forget me or anything of that kind, i could not bear it. i could not school myself into patience as model women do. i should come and throw myself into the mill-stream." "but, my darling, i shall never forget you--never; you are life of my life. i might live without the air and the sunlight; i might live without sleep or food, but never without you. i must forget my own soul before i forget you." still the white hands clasped his shoulders and the dark eyes were fixed on his face. "you and your love are more than that to me," she said. "i throw all my life on this one die; i have nothing else--no other hope. ah, think well, lance, before you pledge your faith to me; it means so much. i should exact it whole, unbroken and forever." "and i would give it so," he replied. "think well of it," she said again, with those dark, earnest eyes fixed on his face. "let there be no mistake, lance. i am not one of the meek griselda type; i should not suffer in silence and resignation, let my heart break, and then in silence sink into an early grave. ah, no, i am no patient griselda. i should look for revenge and many other things. think well before you pledge yourself to me. i should never forgive--never forget. there is time now--think before you seal your fate and mine." "i need not think, leone," he answered, quietly. "i have thought, and the result is that i pledge you my faith forever and ever." the earnest, eager gaze died from her eyes, and the beautiful face was hidden on his breast. "forever and ever, sweet," he whispered; "do you hear? in all time and for all eternity, i pledge you my love and my faith." the water seemed to laugh as it rippled on, the wind laughed as it bent the tall branches, the nightingale singing in the wood stopped suddenly, and its next burst of song was like ringing laughter; the mountains quivered over the mill-stream, the stars seemed to tremble as they shone. "forever and ever," he repeated. the wind seemed to catch up the words and repeat them, the leaves seemed to murmur them, the fall of the water to rhyme with them. "forever and ever, sweet, i pledge you my love and my faith; our hearts will be one, and our souls one, and you will give me the same love in return, my sweet?" "i give you even more than that," she replied, so earnestly that the words had a ring of tragedy in them; and then bending forward, he kissed the sweet lips that were for evermore to be his own. "you are mine now forever," he said, "my wife, who is to be." she was quite silent for some minutes; then, looking up at him, she said: "i wish you had never sung that pretty ballad of the mill-wheel to me; do you know what the water always says when i listen? "'those vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broken.'" "my darling," he said, clasping her to his heart, "no words that have any ring of doubt in them will ever apply to us, let the mill-stream say what it will." chapter vi. an impatient lover's plans. there had been no mistake about the wooing of lord chandos. he had not thought of loving and riding away; the proud, beautiful, gifted girl whom he loved had been wooed and pursued with the ardor and respect that he would have shown to a princess. there came another day, when something had prevented him from seeing her; and unable to control his impatience, he had ridden over to the farm, this time ostensibly to see the farmer, and ask for another glass of his famous cider; this time, under the farmer's eyes even, he stopped and spoke to leone. "you will be at the mill-stream this evening?" he whispered, and her answer was: "yes." when he had drunk the cider and ridden away, farmer noel turned to his niece. "a fine young man that, leone; but what did he say to you?" "nothing particular; something about the mill-stream," replied the proud lips, that disdained a lie. "because," said robert noel, slowly, "you have a beautiful face of your own, my lady lass, and a young man like that would be sure to admire it." "what matter if he did, uncle?" she asked. "harm would come of it," replied the farmer; "what a man admires he often loves; and no good would come of such a love as that." "why not?" she asked again, with flushed face and flashing eyes. "why not?" "we reckon in these parts," said the farmer, slowly, "that there is too great a difference between the aristocracy and the working-people. to put it in plain words, my lady lass, when a great lord or a rich man admires a poor lass, as a rule it ends in her disgrace." "not always," she answered, proudly. "no, perhaps not always; but mostly, mostly," repeated robert noel. "you have a beautiful face, and, if you are wise, you will keep out of that young gentleman's way. i should not like to offend you, leone; you will excuse me for speaking plainly." "it does not offend me," she said, simply; "although i do not think that you are right. why should not a lord, great and rich as this one, marry a girl who has no drawback but poverty? i do not see such a great difference." "i cannot tell you, my lady lass, either the why or the wherefore," he replied. "i know that rich men do not marry poor and obscure girls; and if they do, there is sure to be something wrong with the marriage. we will not talk about it, only if he seems to admire you at all, do you keep out of that young man's way." she made him no answer; his care for her touched her, but then there was no need. lord chandos was unlike other men; besides which he loved her so well he could not live without her. so, when the sun was setting in the western sky, she went down to the mill-stream, where her lover awaited her. the crimson clouds were reflected in the rippling water, the birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were all falling asleep; the fair, fragrant world was getting ready for its time of rest. "leone," he cried, seizing her hands and drawing her toward him, "my darling, i thought to-day would never come. how many hours did yesterday hold?" "twenty-four," she replied. "only twenty-four? why, it seemed to me it was a day as long as a year, and i asked myself one question, sweet." "what was it, lance?" "this: that if one day seemed so terribly long, what would become of me if i had to pass a week without you?" "what would become of you?" she said, laughingly. "i should die of my own impatience," he said, his handsome young face flushing. "fate may try me as it will," he added, "but it must never separate me from you. it is because i have found this out that i have asked you to meet me here to-night. i cannot live without you, leone; you understand that the hours are long and dark; life seems all ended, i cannot feel interest or energy; i am longing for you all the time, just as thirsty flowers are longing for dew. leone, i should long until the fever of my own longing killed me--for you." he drew the beautiful face to his own, and kissed it with a passion words could never tell. "why should i not be happy in my own way?" he said. "if i want the one only thing on earth that could bring me my happiness, why should i not have it? of what use is money, wealth, position, rank, anything else on earth to me, unless i have you. i would rather lose all i have in the world than lose you." "it is sweet to be loved so well," she said, with a sigh. "i have had letters from home to-day," he said, "and i--i am half afraid to tell you lest you should say no. i am to leave rashleigh in one month from now, and to go to my father's house--cawdor, it is called. leone, i cannot go alone." she looked at him with wondering eyes; the ardent young lover who believed his love to be so great and so generous, yet who, in reality, loved himself best, even in his love. "darling, i want you to consent to be my wife before i leave rashleigh," he continued. "i know it will be the best and easiest plan if i can but win your consent." her loving heart seemed almost to stand still; the crimson clouds and the rippling waters seemed to meet; even in her dreams she had never imagined herself his wife. lord chandos continued: "i know my parents well; my father is inflexible on some points, but easily influenced; my mother is, i believe, the proudest woman in the wide world. i know that she expects something wonderful from me in the way of marriage; i hardly think that there is a peeress in england that my mother would deem too good for me, and it would wound her to the heart should i marry a woman beneath me in rank. indeed i know she would never forgive me." she uttered a little, low cry. "then why have you loved me?" she asked. her lover laughed. "how could i help it, my darling? in you i have found the other half of my own soul. i could no more help loving you than a bird can help singing. but listen, leone; it is as i say, if i were to go home and pray all day to them it would be useless. i have another plan. marry me, and i can take you to them and say, 'this is my wife.' they could not help receiving you then, because the marriage could not be undone, and my mother, with her worldly tact, would made the best of it then. if i ask permission to marry you, they will never grant it; if i marry you, they will be compelled to forgive it." she drew herself half proudly from him. "i do not wish any one to be compelled to receive me, nor do i wish to be the cause of unpleasantness," she said. "my darling, all lovers have something to suffer. the course of true love cannot run smooth. surely you would not desert me, or forsake me, or refuse to love me because i cannot change the opinion of my conservative parents. i know no lady, no peeress in england, who is half so beautiful, so clever as you--not one. i shall be more proud to take you home as lady chandos than if you were a queen's daughter. you believe me?" "yes, i believe _you_," she replied. "never mind any one else, leone. my father admires beautiful women; he will be sure to love you; my mother will be very disagreeable at first, but in a short time she will learn to love you, and then all will be well." the little white hand clung to him. "you are quite sure, lance?" she said, with a sob--"quite sure?" "yes, sweet, i am more than sure. you will be lady chandos, of cawdor, and that is one of the oldest and grandest titles in england." "but will your mother forgive you and love you again?" she asked, anxiously. "yes, believe me. and now, leone, let me tell you my plans. they are all rather underhand, but we cannot help that; everything is fair in love and war. about twenty miles from here there is a sleepy little village called oheton. i was there yesterday, and it was there that this plan came to me. oh, my darling, turn your sweet face to me and let me be quite sure that you are listening." "i am listening, lance," she said. "no, not with all your heart. see how well i understand you. your eyes linger on the water, and the falling of it makes music, and the rhyme of the music is: "'these vows were all forgotten, the ring asunder broken.' when will you trust me more thoroughly, leone?" she glanced at him with something of wonder, but more of fear. "how do you know what i am thinking of?" she asked. "i can guess from the tragical expression of your face, and the pathos of your eyes as they linger on the falling water. now, you shall not look at the mill-stream, look at me." she raised her dark, lustrous eyes to his face, and he went on: "over in this sleepy little village of oheton, leone--it is a sleepy village--the houses are all divided from each other by gardens and trees. unlike most villagers, the people do not seem to know each other, you do not hear any gossip; the people, the houses, the streets, all seem sleepy together. at one end of the village is a church, one of the most quaint, an old norman church, that has stood like a monument while the storms of the world raged around it; the vicar is the reverend josiah barnes." "why are you telling me all this?" she asked. "you will soon understand," he replied. "the reverend mr. barnes is over sixty, and he, together with the people, the houses, and the streets, seems sleepy; nothing would excite him, or interest him, or startle him. "now, leone, i have taken lodgings for myself for three weeks in this sleepy village; no one will take any notice of me; i shall go and come just as i will; then i shall have the bans of our marriage published. the dear old vicar will read them in his sleepy tones: "'i publish the bans of marriage for the first time between lancelot chandos and leone noel.' no one will hear the names plainly, and those who do will not know to whom they belong, and there will be no impediment; will there, leone?" the water laughed as it hurried over the stones. "no impediment," it seemed to say; "no impediment, leone." chapter vii. a friend's advice. "but," asked leone, anxiously, "will that be safe, lance? supposing that any one should hear and recognize the names, what then?" "there is no fear. nothing can ever be done without risk; but there is no risk there--at least, none that i fear to run. i guarantee that not one person in that church hears those names clearly. then you will see that i have arranged every detail. then, when the three weeks have expired, we will meet there some fine morning and be married. i have a friend who will come with me as a witness. after that i propose that we go to london, and there i shall introduce you to my father first; then we will go down to cawdor to my mother. do you like the plan, leone?" "i should like it much better if they could know of it beforehand," she replied, gravely. his face grew grave as her own. "that cannot be," he replied. "you see, leone, i am not of age; i shall not be twenty-one until september: and if my parents knew of it, they have power to forbid the marriage, and we could not be married; but done without their knowledge, they are of course powerless." "i do not like it," she said, with a shudder; "i would rather all was open and sincere." "it cannot be. why, leone, where is your reason? if even your uncle knew, he would interfere to prevent it. in his slow, stolid, honest mind he would think such a marriage quite wrong, you may be sure; he would talk about caste, and position, and all kinds of nonsense. we must keep our secret to ourselves, my darling, if we wish to be married at all. surely, leone, you love me enough to sacrifice your wishes to me on this point?" the beautiful face was raised to his. "i love you well enough to die for you, and far too well to bring trouble on you, lance." "my darling, there is only one thing that can bring trouble on me, and that would be to lose you; that would kill me. you hear me, leone, it would not make me grow thin and pale, after the fashion of rejected lovers, but it would kill me. do not ask me to leave you an hour longer than i need. ah, my love, yield: do not grieve me with a hundred obstacles--not even with one. yield, and say that you will agree to my plan." there was no resisting the pleading of the handsome young face, the loving eyes, the tender words, the passionate kisses; she could not resist them; it was so sweet to be loved so well. "you must keep our secret from that honest, stolid, good uncle of yours," said lord chandos, "or he will think himself bound to call and tell dr. hervey. you promise me, then, leone, my love, to do what i ask, and to be my own beloved wife, when the three weeks are over?" "yes, i promise, lance," she replied. her voice was grave and sweet, her beautiful face had on it the light of a beautiful and noble love. "then kiss me, as the children say, of your own accord, and let that kiss be our betrothal." she raised her lips to his for the first time and kissed him. "that is our betrothal," he said; "now nothing can part us. leone, i waited for your promise to give you this." he opened a small jewel-case, and took from it a diamond ring. "this is what ladies call an engagement-ring," he said; "let me put it on your finger." she shrank back. "lance," she said, "do you remember the words of the song, "'a ring in pledge he gave her, and vows of love he spoke.' how strange that by this stream you should offer me a ring!" "you seem to think there is a fatality in the water, leone," he said, quietly. "i have an idea that i cannot express, but it seems to me that story is told in the falling water." "if the water tells of a golden bright life, all happiness, with the most devoted and loving of husbands, then it may tell you as much as it likes. let me put the ring on your finger, leone." she held out her hand--such a beautiful hand, with a soft, pink palm and tapering fingers. as he went to place the ring on her finger, it fell from his hand into the water below, and leone uttered a low cry. "it is not lost," he said; "it has not fallen into the stream, it is here." looking down, she saw the flash of the diamonds in the little pool that lay between two stones, lord chandos wiped it and dried it. "you will prize it all the more because it has been dipped in your favorite stream," he said. "give me your hand again, leone; we shall have better fortune this time." he placed the ring securely on her finger, then kissed the white hand. "how angry you were with me the first time i kissed your hand," he said; "and now i have all your heart. there will be neither broken vows nor a broken ring for us, leone, no matter what the water sings or says." "i hope not," says the girl, brightly. "i shall take possession of my lodgings at oheton to-morrow," he said. "i shall have to spend some little time there; but you must promise that i shall see you every evening, leone. will you find your way to the mill-wheel? when we are married, i shall try to buy the mill, the stream, and the land all round it; it will be a sacred spot to me. in three weeks, leone, you will be my wife." "yes," she replied, "in three weeks." the wind fell, the ripple of the green leaves ceased, the birds had sung themselves to sleep, only the water ran laughingly on. "lance," cried the girl, suddenly, "do you know what the water says--can you hear it?" "no," he replied, with a laugh; "i have not such a vivid fancy as you. what does it say?" "nothing but sorrow, nothing but sorrow," she chanted. "i cannot hear that; if it says anything at all, it is nothing but love, nothing but love." and then, as the shades of night were coming on, he saw her safely home. that same evening lord chandos and sir frank euston talked long together. "of course," said sir frank, "if you put me on my honor, i cannot speak, but i beg of you to stop and think." lord chandos laughed; his handsome face was flushed and eager. "the man who hesitates is lost," he said. "all the thinking in the world cannot alter matters, nor make me love my darling less." "there is an old proverb i should like to recommend to you," said sir frank euston; "it is this--a young man married is a young man marred." "i am quite as willing to be marred as to be married," said the young lord, "and married i will be if all the powers on earth conspire against me." "i know how useless all arguments are," said his friend, "when a man determines to be foolish; but do think for one moment of the terrible disappointment to your parents." "i do not see it; they have no right to be disappointed; my father married to please himself, why should i not do the same?" "you are outraging all the laws of your class," said sir frank. "however beautiful a farmer's niece may be, we cannot suppose even a miracle could fit her to take the place of the countess of lanswell." a hot flush came over the young lord's face; a strange quiet came into his voice. "we will discuss what you like, frank, but you must not touch the young lady's name, we will leave that out of the question." "you have asked me to be the witness of your marriage," said sir frank, "and that entitles me to speak my mind. i do speak it, frankly, honestly, plainly, as i should thank god for any friend to speak to a brother of my own if he felt inclined to make a simpleton of himself." "i call myself a sensible man to marry for love, not a simpleton," said lord chandos grandly. "my dear lance," said his friend, "you make just this one mistake; you are not a man at all, you are a boy." he stopped suddenly, for the young lord looked at him with a defiant, fierce face. "you must not say that again, frank, or we shall be friends no longer." "i do not want to offend you, lance; but you are really too young to think of marriage. your tastes are not formed yet; that which pleases you now you will dislike in six or ten years' time. i assure you that if you marry this farmer's niece now, in ten years' time you will repent it in sackcloth and ashes. she is not fit, either by manner, education, or anything else, to be your mother's daughter, and you know it; you know that when the glamour of her beauty is over you will wonder at your own madness and folly. be warned in time." "you may as well reason with a madman as a man in love," said the young lordling, "and i am in love." "and you are mad," said sir frank, quietly; "one day you will know how mad." lord chandos laughed. "there is method in my madness. come, frank, we have been such friends i would do anything you asked me." "i should never ask you to do anything so foolish, lance; i wish that i had not given my word of honor to keep your secret; i am quite sure that i ought to send word to the earl and countess at once; i cannot, as i have promised not to do so, but i regret it." "my dear frank, nothing in the world would stop me; if anything were done to prevent my marriage now, i would simply await another and more favorable opportunity; my mind is made up. i love the girl with all my heart, and she, no other, shall be my wife. if you refuse to act for me, well and good; i shall find some one else." "if you would but be reasonable, lance," said his friend. "i am not reasonable. when did you ever see reason and love go hand in hand together?" "they should do so always, and do, when the love is worth having." "now, frank, i have listened patiently; i have heard all that you have had to say; i have weighed every argument, and i remain unconvinced. you have but to say whether you will do this to oblige me or not." "if i do it, remember, it is under protest, lance." "never mind what it is under, if you only promise." "i promise, to save you from greater risk, but i do it against my will, my reason, my good sense, my conscience, and everything else." lord chandos laughed aloud. "you will forget everything of that kind," he said, "when you see leone." and the two friends parted, mutually dissatisfied. chapter viii. the prophecy. "a very impatient young man," said the good old vicar. "no man in his senses would want to be married before ten in the morning. i call it unchristian." good old mr. barnes had been roused from his early slumbers by the announcement that the young man had come to be married. married, while the early morning sun was shining, and the birds singing their morning hymn. he was almost blind, this good old vicar, who had lived so long at oheton. he was very deaf, and could hardly hear, but then he did not require very keen sight or hearing at oheton; there was never more than one marriage in a year, and funerals were very rare; but to be called before nine in the morning to perform the marriage ceremony was something unheard of. he had duly announced the bans, and no one had taken the least notice of them; but to come so early, it was positively cruel. others had risen early that morning. leone had not slept well, for this july morning, which was to bring such mingled joy and sorrow to others, was a day of deepest emotion to her. her love-dream was to be realized. she was to marry the ardent young lover who swore that he would not live without her. she had thought more of her love than of the worldly advantages it would bring her. she had not thought much of those until they stood, on the evening before their wedding-day, once more by the mill-stream. it was bright moonlight, for the smiling summer day was dead. it was their farewell to the beautiful spot they both loved. "i am so glad," said lord chandos, "that we can say good-bye to it by the light of the moon. i wonder, leone, when we shall see the mill-stream again? i have a fancy that the pretty water has helped me in my wooing." as they sat there the wind rose and stirred the branches of the alder-trees. in some way the great wavy masses of dark hair became unfastened, and fell like a thick soft veil over leone's shoulders. lord chandos touched it caressingly with his hand. "what beautiful hair, leone--how thick and soft; how beautiful those wavy lines are--what makes them?" "a turn of dame nature's fingers," she replied, laughingly. "i should like to see diamonds shining in these coils of hair," he said. "leone, one of the first things we must do to-morrow when we reach london, is to buy a very handsome traveling-dress. i have written to-day to my father to ask him to meet us at dunmore house." she repeated the words. "where is dunmore house?" she asked. "i forgot," he said, "that all places so familiar to me are strange to you. one of my father's titles is baron dunmore, and his london residence is called dunmore house. we shall meet him there to-morrow, and then you will be my wife." for the first time she realized what an immense difference there was in their positions. she glanced at him in sudden fear. "lance," she said, "shall i seem very much out of place in your home, and among your friends?" "my darling, you would grace any home," he replied; "mine has had no fairer mistress in all the generations it has stood." "i am half frightened," she said, gently. "you need not be, sweet. before this time next year all london will know and admire the beautiful lady chandos." "it seems a long leap to take in life," she said, "from being farmer noel's niece to bear the name of lady chandos." "you will grace the name, leone," he replied. "i shall be the proudest man in england--i shall have the most beautiful wife in england. this is our last separation, our last parting; after this, we need never part." he stooped down and caught some of the running water in his hand. "a libation," he said, as he poured it back again. "i feel as though i were losing a friend when i leave the mill-stream." loving and loved, no thought came to them there of how they should see the mill-stream again. "leone, lady chandos." more than once that evening she said those words to herself. it was after eight when she came in, and the farmer had long finished his supper; he sat thinking over his pipe. "you are late, my lady lass," he said; "sit down and talk to me before i go to rest." obediently enough, she sat down while he told her the history of his visits to the different markets. she heard, but did not take in the sense of one single word he uttered. she was saying to herself over and over again, that by this time to-morrow she should be lady chandos. her happiness would have been complete if she could have told her uncle. he had been so kind to her. they were opposite as light and darkness, they had not one idea in common, yet he had been good to her and she loved him. she longed to tell him of her coming happiness and grandeur, but she did not dare to break her word. robert noel looked up in wonder. there was his beautiful niece kneeling at his feet, her eyes dim with tears. "uncle," she was saying, "look at me, listen to me. i want to thank you. i want you always to remember that on this night i knelt at your feet and thanked you with a grateful heart for all you have ever done for me." "why, my lady lass," he replied, "you have always been to me as a child of my own," he replied. "a tiresome child," she said, half laughing, half crying. "see. i take this dear, brown hand, so hard with work, and i kiss it, uncle, and thank you from my heart." he could not recover himself, so to speak. he looked at her in blank, wordless amazement. "in the years to come," she continued, "when you think of me, you must say to yourself, that, no matter what i did, i loved you." "no matter what you did you loved me," he repeated. "yes, i shall remember that." she kissed the toil-worn face, leaving him so entirely bewildered that the only fear was lest he might sit up all night trying to forget it. then she went to her room, but not to sleep--her heart beat, every pulse thrilled. this was to be the last night in her old home--the last of her girlish life; to-morrow she would be lady chandos--wife of the young lover whom she loved with all her heart and soul. the birds woke her with their song, it was their wedding-day. she would not see robert noel again; he took his breakfast before six and went off to the fields again. she had but to dress herself and go to the station. oheton was some three miles from the station, but on a summer's morning that was a trifle. they were all three there at last--sir frank looking decidedly vexed and cross, lord chandos happy as the day was long, and leone beautiful as a picture. "look," said the young lordling to his friend, "have i no excuse?" sir frank looked long and earnestly at the beautiful southern face. "yes," he replied; "so far as beauty and grace can form an excuse, you have one; but, lance, if i loved that girl a thousand times better than my life, i should not marry her." "why?" asked lord chandos, with a laugh. "because she has a tragedy in her life. she could not be happy. she will neither have a happy life nor a happy death." "my dear frank, do not prophesy such evil on our wedding-day." "i do not mean to prophesy, i say what i think; it is a beautiful face, full of poetry and passion, but it is also full of power and unrest." "you shall not look at her again if you say such things," cried lord chandos. and then the good vicar, still distressed at being aroused so early, came to the church. had it been less pitiful and pathetic, it would have been most comical, the number of times the old vicar dropped his book, forgot the names, the appalling mistakes he made, the nervous hesitation of his manner. sometimes lord chandos felt inclined to say hard, hot words; again, he could not repress a smile. but at length, after trembling and hesitating, the vicar gave the final benediction, and pronounced them man and wife. in the vestry, when the names were signed, some ray of light seemed to dawn on the old vicar. "chandos," he said, "that is not a common name about here." "is it not?" said the young lord; "it seems common enough to me." "chandos," repeated the minister, "where have i heard that name!" "i have heard it so often that i am tired of it," said the young husband. and then it was all over. "thank god to be out in the sunlight," he cried, as he stood, with his beautiful wife, in the churchyard. "thank god it is all over, and i can call my love my wife. i thought that service would never end. frank, have you no good wishes for my wife?" sir frank went to leone. "i wish you joy," he said; "i wish you all happiness--but----" and then he played nervously with the hat he held in his hand. "but," she said with a bright smile, "you do not think i shall get it?" sir frank made no answer; he did not think she would be happy, but she had chosen her own way; he had said all he could. perhaps his eyes were clearer than others, for he could read a tragedy in her face. then sir frank left them, having performed his part with a very ill grace. "leone, have you said good-bye to your uncle?" asked lord chandos. "i left a little note to be given him when he returns home this evening. how he will miss me." "and how fortunate i am to have you, my darling; there is no one in the wide world so happy. we will drive over to rashleigh station. i do not care who sees me now, no one can part us. dr. hervey thinks i went home to london this morning, but i won a wife before starting, did i not, leone, my beautiful love? you are lady chandos now. what are you thinking of, my darling?" "i was wondering, lance, if there was anything in our marriage that could possibly invalidate it and make it illegal?" "no," he replied, "i have been too careful of you, leone, for that. you are my wife before god and man. nothing shall take you from me but death." "but death," she repeated slowly. and in after years they both remembered the words. chapter ix. a mysterious telegram. cawdor took rank among the most stately homes of england: it had been originally one of the grand saxon strongholds, one, too, which the normans had found hard to conquer. as time wore on the round towers and the keep fell into ruins--picturesque and beautiful ruins, round which the green ivy hung in luxuriant profusion; then the ruins were left standing. little by little the new place was built, not by any particular design; wing after wing, story after story, until it became one of the most picturesque and most magnificent homes in england. cawdor it was called; neither court, hall nor park, simply cawdor; and there were very few people in england who did not know cawdor. there was no book of engravings that had not a view of cawdor for its first and greatest attraction; there was no exhibition of pictures in which one did not see ruins of cawdor. it had in itself every attribute of beauty, the ivy-mantled ruins, the keep, from which one could see into five different counties, the moat, now overgrown with trees; the old-fashioned draw-bridge which contrasted so beautifully with the grand modern entrance, worthy of a venetian palace; the winding river, the grand chain of hills, and in the far distance the blue waters of the channel. there could not have been a more beautiful or picturesque spot on earth than cawdor. it had belonged to the lanswell family for many generations. the lanswells were a wealthy race--they owned not only all the land surrounding the fair domain of cawdor, but nearly the whole of the town of dunmore. the earl of lanswell was also baron of raleigh, and raleigh hall, in staffordshire, was a very grand estate. in one part of it an immense coal mine had been discovered, which made lord lanswell one of the wealthiest men of the day. cawdor, raleigh hall, and dunmore house, three of the finest residences in england, together with a rent-roll counted by hundreds of thousands, should have made the earl a happy man. he married a wealthy heiress in accordance with the old proverb that "like seeks like." his wife, lucia, countess of lanswell, was one of the proudest peeresses in england; she was unimpeachable in every relation of life, and had little pity for those who were not; she had never known sorrow, temptation, doubt, or anything else; she had lived in an atmosphere of perfect content and golden ease; she had the grandest mansion, the finest diamonds, the finest horses in london; she had the most indulgent husband, the handsomest son, and the prettiest daughter; she did not know the word want in any shape, she had not even suffered from the crumpled rose-leaf. the nearest approach to trouble of any kind that she had known was that her son, lord chandos, had failed in one of his examinations. he asked that he might go into the country for some months to read, and permission was most cheerfully given to him. with her daughter, lady imogene chandos, the countess had never had and never expected to have any trouble; she was one of the fairest, sweetest, and most gentle of girls; she was docile and obedient; she had never in her life given the least trouble to any one. lord lanswell was walking up and down one of the broad terraces at cawdor one fine morning in july, when one of the servants brought to him a telegram. he opened it hastily, it was from his son, lord chandos: "dearest father,--will you run up to town, and meet me at dunmore house this evening? i have something very important to tell you. not one word to mother yet." lord lanswell stood still to think with the telegram in his hand. "what can be the matter now?" he said to himself; "that boy will give me trouble. he has done something now that he will not let my lady know." he had a dull, heavy presentiment that the boy who should have been the pride and delight of his life would be a drawback and a torment. "i must go," said the earl to himself, "i must make some excuse to satisfy my lady." it was typical of lady lanswell that her husband seldom spoke of her as my wife, the children more seldom still as "my mother;" every one alike called her "my lady." she might have been the only peeress in england, so entirely did every one agree in giving her that title. "my lady" was pleased, meant sunshine at cawdor; "my lady" was angry, meant gloom. she regulated the moral and mental atmosphere of the house with a smile or a frown. lord lanswell knew that he dare not show the telegram to lady lanswell; she would have started off at once for dunmore house, and there would have been war. he must deceive her. he carefully destroyed the telegram, in some queer fashion which he did not own even to himself he had a kind of sympathy with his son. he had been wild in his youth and made allowances for the same in others. his worst thought now was that his handsome young heir, with the frank blue eyes and sunny hair, had been gambling or betting. "a few thousand pounds would set him straight," he thought, "and after all, one must not be too hard on the follies of youth." no need to tell my lady; she looked on these exploits with a keen, cold eye. he went to the drawing-room, where my lady sat looking regally beautiful in black velvet and point lace. the countess of lanswell was considered one of the handsomest women in england. she had married very young, and her beauty was still so well preserved that she took her place with the beauties of the day. husband and children both felt in awe of the beautiful woman, with her queenly grace and bearing. "lucia," said the earl, "i thought of running up to town this afternoon. i shall return to-morrow." "indeed," said my lady, slowly. "why this sudden resolution, ross?" "there is some little business that no one can attend to but myself," he said. "i shall not be long absent." "business of what nature?" asked my lady, her fine eyes fixed on his face. "why, dear, it is surely not needful for me to explain my business to you? i have none of which you would not approve. i want to call on my bankers--i want to sell some shares. i have several little reasons for running up to town." "you remember, of course, that the beauvoirs dine here to-day?" said my lady. "yes, i have not forgotten, but with your usual tact you can apologize for me, lucia." the compliment pleased her. "certainly, i can, if your absence is really needful, ross," said my lady. "it is needful, i assure you. i can tell you all i have done when i return; just now i must hurry off, or i shall not catch the train." as the earl quitted cawdor, he regretted deeply that his son should have complicated the situation by enforcing silence as regarded his mother. he pondered a great deal on what he should say when he returned--above all, if the boy's trouble was, as he imagined, the loss of money. "i must not let his mother know," thought the earl. "boys are boys; she would think he was lost altogether if she knew that he had betting and gambling debts. whatever he owes, no matter what it is, i will give him a check for it, and make him promise me that it shall be the last time." he never thought of any other danger; that his son had fallen in love or wanted to marry never occurred to him. he was glad when he reached dunmore house; the old housekeeper met him in the hall. "i have dinner ready, my lord," she said. "lord chandos told me you were coming." he looked round expectantly. "is not lord chandos here?" he asked. it occurred to him that the housekeeper looked troubled and distressed. "no," she replied, "he is not staying here--they are staying in the queen's hotel, in piccadilly." "they," he cried, "whom do you mean by they? has lord chandos friends with him?" the woman's face grew pale. she shrunk perceptibly from the keen, gray eyes. "i understood his lordship that he was not alone," she replied. "i may have made a mistake. i understood him also that he should be with you by eight this evening, when you had finished dinner." "why could he not dine with me?" he thought. "sends a telegram for me, and then leaves me to dine alone. it is not like lance." but thinking over it would not solve the mystery; the earl went to his room and dressed for dinner. he had ordered a bottle of his favorite madeira, of which wonderful tales were told. then he sat thinking about his son, and his heart softened toward him. he thought of the handsome, curly-headed young boy whose grand spirit no one but my lady could subdue. he laughed aloud as he remembered the struggles between himself and his heir--they had always ended in his defeat; but when my lady came on the scene it was quite another thing, the defeat was on the other side then, and my lord chandos was usually carried off defeated and conquered. he thought of the handsome stripling who used to wander about the grounds at cawdor, trying to conceal from my lady the fact that he smoked cigars. he did not fear his father and smoked boldly before him, but at the first sound of my lady's rustling silk he flew rather than ran. lord lanswell laughed aloud as he thought of it all. "he is just as frightened at my lady now," he said to himself. "i cannot help feeling touched and flattered that he has sent for me in his trouble. i will help him and my lady shall never know." his heart warmed to his son and heir--no one knew how dearly he loved him, nor how completely his life was wrapped up in him. then he heard a cab drive up to the door. surely that must be lance. he listened in impatient suspense--he heard whispering in the outer hall, as though some consultation were being held. "what in the world is the boy making a mystery over?" he asked himself. then he started from his chair in unutterable amazement. before him stood lance, lord chandos, holding the hands of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. chapter x. a shocked father. "i am quite sure of one thing," lord chandos had said, as they drew near london, "and that is, leone--if my father sees you before my mother has time to interfere, it will be all right. he can resist anything but a pretty face--that always conquers him." "i wish," said leone, with a sigh, "that i were less proud. do you know, lance, that i cannot endure to hear you speak as though i were to be received as a great favor. i wonder why i am so proud? i am a farmer's niece, and you are the son of a powerful earl, yet i--please do not be offended; i cannot help it--i feel quite as good as you." he laughed aloud. there was nothing he enjoyed better than this proud frankness of hers, which would never yield to or worship rank or title. "i am glad to hear it, leone," he replied. "for my own part, i think you very much better than myself. i have no fear, if my father sees you first, and that is why i have telegraphed to him to meet us at dunmore house." "but," she insisted, "suppose that he does not like me--what shall we do then?" "why," he replied, "the right and proper thing for me to do then will be to try to love you, if possible, even better than i do now. leone, the first thing we must do is to drive to one of the court milliners; no matter what follows, your dress must be attended to at once--first impressions are everything. you look royally beautiful in all that you wear, but i would much rather that my father saw you in a proper costume. suppose we drive to a milliner's first, and choose a handsome dress, and all things suitable, then we can go to the queen's hotel; the trunks can be sent after us. we can dine there; and when you have dressed _a la_ lady chandos, we will go to dunmore house, and carry everything before us." he did as he had said. they drove first to madame caroline's. lord chandos was accustomed to the princely style of doing things. he sent for madame, who looked up in wonder at his fair young face. "this is my wife," he said, "lady chandos. we have been in the country and she wants everything new, in your best style." it seemed to him hours had passed when madame reappeared. certainly he hardly knew the superbly beautiful girl with her. was it possible that after all the poets had said about "beauty unadorned" that dress made such a difference? it had changed his beautiful leone into a beautiful empress. madame looked at him for approval. "i hope your lordship is satisfied," she said; with the usual quickness of her nation, she had detected the fact that this had been a runaway marriage. "i am more than satisfied," he replied. before him stood a tall, slender girl, whose superb figure was seen to advantage in one of worth's most fashionable dresses--trailing silk and rich velvet, so skillfully intermixed with the most exquisite taste; a lace bonnet that seemed to crown the rippling hair; pearl-gray gloves that might have grown on the white hands. her dress was simply perfect; it was at once elegant and ladylike, rich and costly. "i shall not be afraid to face my father now," he said, "i have a talisman." yet his fair young face grew paler as they reached dunmore house. it was a terrible risk, and he knew it--a terrible ordeal. he realized what he had done when the housekeeper told him the earl awaited him in the dining-room. a decided sensation of nervousness came over him, and he looked at the fresh, proud, glowing beauty of his young wife to reassure himself. she was perfect, he felt that, and he was satisfied. "give me your hand, leone," he said, and the touch of that little hand gave him new courage. he went in leading her, and the earl sprung from his seat in startling amaze. lord chandos went boldly up to him. "father," he said, "allow me to introduce to you my wife, leone, lady chandos." the earl gave a terrified glance at the beautiful southern face, but made no answer. "i have to ask your forgiveness," continued the young lordling, "for having married without your consent; but i knew, under the circumstances, it was useless to ask it, so i married without." still the same terrified look and utter silence. "father," cried lord chandos, "why do you not welcome my young wife home?" then lord lanswell tried to smile--a dreadful, ghastly smile. "my dear boy," he said, "you are jesting; i am quite sure you are jesting. it cannot be real; you would not be so cruel!" "father," repeated the young lord, in an imperative voice, "will you bid my wife welcome home?" "no," said the earl stoutly, "i will not. the young lady will excuse me if i decline to bid her welcome to a home that can never be hers." "father," cried the young man, reproachfully, "i did not expect this from you." "i do not understand what else you could expect," cried the earl, angrily. "do you mean to tell me that it is true that this person is your wife?" "my dear and honored wife," replied the young man. "do you mean to tell me that you have actually married this lady, lance--really married her?" "i have, indeed, father, and it is about the best action of my life," said lord chandos. "how do you intend to face my lady?" asked the earl, with the voice and manner of one who proposes a difficulty not to be solved. "i thought you would help us, father; at least, speak to my wife." the earl looked at the beautiful, distressed face. "i am very sorry," he said, "sorry for you, lance, and the lady, but i cannot receive her as your wife." "she is my wife, whether you receive her or not," said lord chandos. "leone, how can i apologize to you? i never expected that my father would receive you in this fashion. father, look at her; think how young, how beautiful she is; you cannot be unkind to her." "i have no wish to be unkind," said the earl, "but i cannot receive her as your wife." then, seeing the color fade from her face, he hastened to find her a chair, and poured out a glass of wine for her; he turned with a stern face to his son. "what have you been doing?" he cried. "while your mother and i thought you were working hard to make up for lost time, what have you been doing?" "i have been working very hard," he replied, "and my work will bring forth good fruit; but, father, i have found leisure for love as well." "so it seems," said the earl, dryly; "perhaps you will tell me who this lady is, and why she comes home with you?" "my wife; her name was leone noel; she is now lady chandos." for the first time leone spoke. "i am a farmer's niece, my lord," she said, simply. her voice had a ring of music in it so sweet that it struck the earl with wonder. "a farmer's niece," he replied. "you will forgive me for saying that a farmer's niece can be no fitting wife for my son." "i love him, my lord, very dearly, and i will try hard to be all that he can wish me to be." "bravely spoken; but it is quite in vain; my lady would never hear of such a thing--i dare not--i cannot sanction it, even by a word, my lady would never forgive me. can you tell me when this rash action was accomplished?" "this is our wedding-day, father," cried lord chandos. "only think of it, our wedding-day, and you receive us like this. how cruel and cold." "nay, i am neither," said the earl; "it is rather you, lance, who do not seem to realize what you have done. you seem to think you belong to yourself; you are mistaken; a man in your position belongs to his country, his race, to his family, not to himself; that view of the question, probably, did not strike you." "no," replied lord chandos, "it certainly did not; but, father, if i have done wrong, forgive me." "i do forgive you, my dear boy, freely; young men will be foolish--i forgive you; but do not ask me to sanction your marriage or receive your wife. i cannot do it." "then, of what use is your forgiveness? oh, father, i did not expect this from you; you have always been so kind to me. i had fancied difficulties with my mother, but none with you." "my dear lance, we had better send for my lady; she is really, as you know, the dominant spirit of our family. she will decide on what is to be done." "i insist on my wife being treated with due respect," raged the young lord. "my dear lance, you must do as you will; i refuse to recognize this lady in any way. will you tell me when and where you were married?" "certainly: this morning, by the reverend mr. barnes, at the church of st. barnabas, in oheton, a little village twenty miles from rashleigh. the marriage was all _en regle_; we had the bans published and witnesses present." "you took great pains to be exact, and the lady, you tell me, is a farmer's niece." "my uncle is farmer robert noel; he has a farm at rashleigh," said leone, "and in his way is an honest, loyal, honorable man." the earl could not help feeling the sweet, soft music of that voice; it touched his heart. "i believe you," he said, "but it is a sad thing farmer noel did not take more care of his niece. i am sorry it has happened; i can do nothing to help you; my lady must manage it all." "but, father," pleaded the young man, "it was on you i relied; it was to your efforts i trusted. be my friend; if you will receive my wife here and acknowledge her, no one else can say a word." "my dear boy, only yesterday your mother and i were speaking of something on which the whole desire of her heart was fixed; remembering that conversation i tell you quite frankly that i dare not do what you ask me; your mother would never speak to me again." "then, leone, darling, we will go; heaven forbid that we should remain where we are not welcome. father," he cried, in sudden emotion, "have you not one kind word, not one blessing for me, on my wedding-day?" "i refuse to believe that it is your wedding-day, lance. when that day does come, you shall have both kind words and blessings from me." chapter xi. the lawyer's statement. lady lanswell stood in the library at dunmore house, her handsome face flushed with irritation and annoyance, her fine eyes flashing fire. she looked like one born to command; her tall, stately figure bore no signs of age; her traveling dress of rich silk swept the ground in graceful folds. she had not removed her mantle of rich lace; it hung from her shoulders still; she had removed her bonnet and gloves. with one jeweled hand resting on the table, she stood, the picture of indignation and anger. lord lanswell had sent a telegram at once, when his son left him, begging her to come at once, as lance had something important to tell her. my lady lost no time; she was far more quick and keen of judgment than the earl. she never thought of gambling or betting, her thoughts all went to love. it was something about a girl, she said to herself; but she should stand no nonsense. lance must remember what was due to his family. if he had made any such mistake as that of falling in love with one beneath him, then he must rectify the mistake as quickly as possible; there could be no _mesalliance_ in a family like theirs. as for any promise of marriage, if he had been so foolish as to make one he must break it. a sum of money would doubtless have to be expended over the matter, then it would be all right. so thought my lady, and as the express drew near london she promised herself that all would be well. her spirits rose, her fears abated; no son of hers would ever make a mistake so utterly absurd. there was something of scorn in my lady's face as she entered dunmore house. the earl met her in the entrance hall. "i have lost no time, as you see," she said. "what is all this nonsense, ross?" he did not answer until they stood together in the library, with the door closed, and then she repeated the words. something in her husband's face dismayed her. "speak, ross; i dislike suspense. tell me at once; what has the boy done?" "he is married," said the earl, solemnly. "great heaven!" cried my lady. "married! you cannot mean it. married--how--whom--when?" "you will be dreadfully distressed," he began, slowly. my lady stamped her foot. "i can bear distress better than suspense. tell me quickly, ross, has he disgraced himself?" "i am afraid so," was the brief reply. "and i loved him so--i trusted him so; it is impossible; tell me, ross." "he has married a farmer's niece. the girl is beautiful. i have seen no one so beautiful; she seems to be well educated and refined. her uncle has a farm at rashleigh." "a farmer's niece," cried my lady; "you cannot possibly mean it. there must be some mistake--the boy has been playing a practical joke on you." "it is no joke; i only wish it were. lance gave me the details. he was married yesterday morning by the reverend mr. barnes, at the church of st. barnabas, at oheton, a village somewhere near rashleigh." "married--really and actually married," cried my lady. "i will not believe it." "unhappily, it is true. he expected, i think, to make his home here; he had no idea of leaving dunmore house; but i told him that i could not receive him or her." "her! you do not mean to say that he had the audacity to bring her here, ross?" "yes, they came together last night; but i would not receive her. i told them plainly that you must settle the matter, as i could not." "i should think not," said my lady, with emphasis. "i must own, though," continued the earl, "that i was rather sorry for lance; he had trusted entirely to my good offices and seemed to think it very cruel of me to refuse to plead for him." "and the girl," said my lady, "what of her?" "you will think i am weak and foolish, without doubt," he said, "but the girl distressed me even more than lance. she is beautiful enough to arouse the admiration of the world; and she spoke so well for him." "a farmer's niece--an underbred, forward, designing, vulgar country girl--to be countess of lanswell," cried my lady, in horror. "nay," said the earl, "she is a farmer's niece, it is true, but she is not vulgar." "it is not possible that she can be presentable," said my lady. "we must move heaven and earth to set the marriage aside." "i had not thought of that," said the earl, simply. then my lady took the lace mantilla from her shoulders, and sat down at the writing-table. "i will send for mr. sewell," she said. "if any one can give us good advice, he can." mr. sewell was known as one of the finest, keenest, and cleverest lawyers in england; he had been for more than twenty years agent for the lanswells of cawdor. he knew every detail of their history, every event that happened; and the proud countess liked him, because he was thoroughly conservative in all his opinions. she sent for him now as a last resource; the carriage was sent to his office, so that he might lose no time. in less than an hour the brisk, energetic lawyer stood before the distressed parents, listening gravely to the story of the young heir's marriage. "have you seen the girl?" he asked. "yes, i have seen her," said the earl. "is she presentable?" he inquired. "would any degree of training enable her to take her rank----" lady lanswell interrupted him. "the question need never be asked," she said, proudly. "i refuse ever to see her, or acknowledge her. i insist on the marriage being set aside." "one has to be careful, my lady," said mr. sewell. "i see no need for any great care," she retorted. "my son has not studied us; we shall not study him. i would rather the entail were destroyed, and the property go to one of charles seyton's sons, than my son share it with a low-born wife." my lady's face was inflexible. the earl and the lawyer saw that she was resolved--that she would never give in, never yield, no matter what appeal was made to her. they both knew that more words were useless. my lady's mind was made up, and they might as well fight the winds and the waves. lord lanswell was more inclined to pity and to temporize. he was sorry for his son, and the beautiful face had made some impression on him; but my lady was inflexible. "the marriage must be set aside," she repeated. the earl looked at her gravely. "who can set aside a thoroughly legal marriage?" he asked. "you will find out the way," said my lady, turning to mr. sewell. "i can easily do that, lady lanswell; of course it is for you to decide; but there is no doubt but that the marriage can easily be disputed--you must decide. if you think the girl could be trained and taught to behave herself--perhaps the most simple and honorable plan would be to let the matter stand as it is, and do your best for her." "never!" cried my lady, proudly. "i would rather that cawdor were burned to the ground than to have such a person rule over it. it is useless to waste time and words, the marriage must be set aside." the lawyer looked from one to the other. "there can be no difficulty whatever in setting the marriage aside," said mr. sewell. "in point of fact, i must tell you what i imagined you would have known perfectly well." my lady looked at him with redoubled interest. "what is that?" she asked, quickly. the earl listened with the greatest attention. "it is simply this, lady lanswell, that the marriage is no marriage; lord chandos is under age--he cannot marry without your consent; any marriage that he contracts without your consent is illegal and invalid--no marriage at all--the law does not recognize it." "is that the english law?" asked lady lanswell. "yes, the marriage of a minor, like your son, without the consent of his parents, is no marriage; the law utterly ignores it. the remedy lies, therefore, in your own hands." husband and wife looked at each other; it was a desperate chance, a desperate remedy. for one moment each thought of the sanctity of the marriage tie, and all that was involved in the breaking of it. each thought how terribly their only son must suffer if this law was enforced. then my lady's face hardened and the earl knew what was to follow. "it remains for us, then, mr. sewell," she said, "to take the needful steps." "yes, you must make an appeal to the high court, and the marriage will be at once set aside," said mr. sewell. "it is a terrible thing for the young wife, though." "she should have had more sense than to have married my son," cried my lady. "i have pity for my son--none for her." "i think it would be more fair to tell lord chandos what you intend doing," said mr. sewell. "not that he could make either resistance or defense--the law is absolute." "what will the end be?" asked my lady. "the marriage will be declared null and void; they will be compelled to separate now; but again he has the remedy in his own hand. if he chooses to remain true and constant to her, the very next day after he becomes of age he can remarry her, and then she becomes his lawful wife; if he forgets her the only remedy for her would be money compensation." "it shall be the business of my life to see that he does forget her," said my lady. "you can commence proceedings at once," said mr. sewell. "you can file your petition to-morrow." "it will make the whole matter public," hesitated my lady. "yes, that is the one drawback. after all it does not matter," said mr. sewell, "many young men make simpletons of themselves in the same way. people do not pay much attention." lord lanswell looked at his wife's handsome, inflexible face. "it is a desperate thing to do, lucia," he said, "for lance loves her very dearly." "it was a desperate action on his part to marry without consulting us," said my lady. "he will be of age next june," said the earl, "do you think that he will be true to her?" "no," said the countess, proudly. "i can safely pledge you my word that he will not." chapter xii. "they will not forgive me." "thank heaven," said the countess, "that the matter can be set straight. if there had been no remedy i should have lost my reason over it. the boy must have been mad or blinded, or very probably drawn into it in some disgraceful fashion or other." my lady was triumphant, her handsome face lighted with satisfaction, but the earl looked grave. the lawyer had taken his leave, and they still remained to discuss matters. lord lanswell did not seem so well pleased; he went up to my lady where she was standing. "lucia," he began, "do you think that if we succeed in parting these two we shall do quite right?" "right," cried my lady. "i shall think it one of the most virtuous actions of my life." "well," said the earl, "i am sorry that i cannot quite agree with you. no doubt this marriage is vexatious enough, but whether it is well to obliterate all traces of it, or rather to do away with it altogether, is quite another thing." "i am the best judge of what is right in this case," said my lady, haughtily; "i will have no interference. the business part of it must be attended to at once." "at least you will write to lance and tell him what you intend doing?" "yes, i have no objection to that," she replied; "it can make no possible difference to him." "he may try to make some compromise," said lord lanswell, whose heart smote him as he thought of the passionate, beautiful face. "there can be no compromise; he must give her up at once, and marry some one in his own rank," said the countess. "i will write the letter at once, and i must ask you, ross, not to be weak. a weak man is the most contemptible object in creation." "i will try not to be weak, my dear," said the earl, submissively; "but i am concerned for lance." "lance must take his chance," said my lady, too angry to be conscious of the rhyme; "he has done wrong, and he must suffer for it. he will thank heaven in a year's time from now that i have saved him." still lord lanswell looked at his wife with a grave expression of doubt. "you think, then, lucia, that in a year's time he will have forgotten that poor young wife?" "i am quite sure of it. long before i had heard of this foolish affair i had decided in my own mind whom he should marry, and i see no reason for changing my plans." lord lanswell thought with regret and sympathy of the young wife. could it be possible, he thought, that his son would be so disloyal, so unfaithful as to forget in twelve short months the wife he had risked so much to win? he looked at the countess. "the matter then lies in a nutshell and depends entirely upon whether lance continues true to his love or not. if he remains true, your scheme for parting them will have but little effect; if he prove false, why then all will be well, according to your way of thinking." "we will finish with the subject," she said. "you may make your mind quite easy about it. i guarantee all my knowledge of the world that he will not only have forgotten her in twelve months' time, but that he will be ashamed of having ever fancied himself in love with her." lord lanswell went, in obedience to his wife's command, to assist in the commencement of the proceedings, and as soon as my lady was left alone, she sat down to write to her son. she told him, in the plainest possible words, that his marriage was not only unlawful, but invalid, as he, being minor, could not contract a legal marriage without the consent of his parents. my lady had faith enough in herself to add openly: "you can, of course, please yourself, as soon as you are of age; you can then remarry the young person without our consent if you will; but my opinion is you will not." the time which had passed so unpleasantly for the earl and countess was bright and light for the young bride and bridegroom. leone had shed some bitter tears when they left dunmore house, but lord chandos laughed; he was angry and irritated, but it seemed to him that such a state of things could not last. his father and mother had indulged him in everything--surely they would let him have his way in marriage. he kissed the tears from his young wife's face, and laughed away her fears. "it will be all right in the end," he said. "my father may hold out for a few days, but he will give way; in the meantime, we must be happy, leone. we will stay at the queen's hotel until they invite us to cawdor. it will not be long; my mother and father cannot get on without me. we will go to the opera to-night, that will distract your thoughts." the opera had been but hitherto an empty word to leone. she had a vague idea that it consisted of singing. after all there was some compensation to be found; her young husband was devoted to her, she was magnificently dressed, and was going in a beautiful closed carriage to the opera. she uttered no word of surprise, but her whole soul was filled with wonder. the highest festivity and the greatest gayety she had ever witnessed was a choir tea-party. she had a most beautiful voice; in fact, neither herself nor any of those around her knew the value of her voice or appreciated it. on great occasions the choir were entertained by the rector--once during the summer when they made merry out in the green woods, and once in the winter when they were entertained in the school-room. leone had thought these parties the acme of grandeur and perfection; now she sat in that brilliant circle and wondered into what world she had fallen. before the curtain was raised she was engrossed in that brilliant circle. she had never seen such dresses, such diamonds, such jewels, faces so beautiful, toilets so exquisite; it was all quite new to her. the beautiful and poetic side of it appealed to her. her beautiful face flushed with delight, her dark eyes were lustrous and radiant. lord chandos, looking round the opera-house, where some of the handsomest women in england were, said to himself that among all these fair and noble faces there was not one so beautiful as leone's. she herself was quite unconscious of the admiration she excited; she did not see how the opera-glasses were turned to her face; she could not hear people asking: "who is that with lord chandos? what a beautiful face, what a lovely girl! who is she?" lord chandos saw it, and was not only proud, but flattered by it. "my mother will yield at once when she sees her," he thought; "she will be pleased that the most beautiful woman in england is my wife." he made no introductions, though many of his friends bowed to him, with a secret hope that he would ask them into his box. but he had arranged his own plans. his mother--the proud, exclusive, haughty countess of lanswell--should be the one to introduce his beautiful wife to the world; that of itself would be a passport for her. so that he was careful not to ask any one into his box, or even to exchange a word with any of the people he knew. from the time the curtain was drawn up until the opera ended, leone was in a trance. quite suddenly she had entered this new and beautiful world of music and art--a world so bright and dazzling that it bewildered her. lord chandos watched her with keen delight--her lustrous eyes, the intense face, the parted lips. the opera was one of the most beautiful--"norma"--and the part of norma was taken by the greatest _prima donna_ of her time. leone's eyes filled with tears as those passionate reproaches were sung; she knew nothing of the language, but the music was full of eloquence for her. she turned suddenly to her husband; her whole soul seemed awake and thrilling with dramatic instinct. "lance," she said in a low voice, "i could do that; i do not mean that i could sing so well, but i could feel the jealousy she feels. i could utter those reproaches. something seems to have awoke in my soul that never lived before; it is all new to me, yet i understand it all; my heart is on fire as i listen." "and you have enjoyed it?" he said, when the curtain fell on the last grand scene. she answered him with a low sigh of perfect content. so it was that to her her wedding-day became the most marked day of her life, for on it she awoke to the knowledge of the world of art and music. there was nothing for it but to remain at the hotel. lord chandos merely laughed at the notion of his parents holding out against him. he was wonderfully sanguine. "we shall hear the carriage stop some fine morning," he said, "and they will be here to seek a reconciliation." he laughed when the waiter gave him my lady's letter; he turned triumphantly to his wife. "this is from my mother," he said; "i knew she would relent, it is probably to ask us to cawdor." but as he read it his face changed; the smile and the triumph died from it. he said no word to leone, but tore the letter into shreds. she looked on with a wistful face. "is it from your mother, lance?" she asked. he took her in his arms and kissed her. "my darling, do not trouble about them; you are all the world to me. they will not forgive me; but it does not matter. i am proud of what i have done. i am quite independent. i shall take a pretty little villa at richmond, and we shall live there until they come to their senses." "that will be giving up all the world for me," she said. "the world will be well lost, leone. we will go to-morrow and find a pretty little house where we shall be quite happy. remember one thing always--that my mother will love you when she sees you." "then let her see me now, lance, at once," she cried, eagerly, "if you think so. why wait? i should be more happy than any one else in the world if you would do that." "it is too soon yet," he replied; "all will be right in time." she wished that he had offered to show her his mother's letter; but she did not like to ask what the contents were. lord chandos dare not tell her, besides which he laughed in scorn at the idea. they might threaten as they would; but he felt quite certain there was no power on earth which could set aside his marriage, therefore he should not trouble himself about it. he would go to richmond and look out for a house there. chapter xiii. a perfectly happy woman. "they would never dare do it," lord chandos repeated to himself with a laugh of contempt. set his marriage aside. they were mad to think of such a thing. from time to time strange-looking documents came to him; he thrust them aside without even looking at them. he only laughed at the notion. part him from leone. it was not in the power of any one on earth to do it. he never mentioned the matter to leone at all; it was not worth while to disturb her. they had been to richmond, and had found there a villa so beautiful it seemed to have been built for them--a quaint, picturesque, old english house, full of pretty nooks and corners, with large latticed windows, over which roses and jasmine hung in abundance; a smooth, green lawn on which stood a superb cedar-tree; beautiful grounds that reached down to the river. the views from the windows were superb. it was worth anything to stand on that green lawn and watch the sunset on the thames. leone was delighted with it; she had never dreamed of a home so beautiful. lord chandos furnished it with the utmost luxury, and there the first few happy months of their life was spent. lord chandos did not wish exactly that his marriage should be kept secret, but he did not want it known to the world in general until his mother was willing to introduce and receive his wife. to leone that life that opened to her was like a heaven on earth; her husband surrounded her with "kind observances;" he purchased for her a wardrobe that was a marvel of beauty and elegance; he found a french lady's-maid, who understood all the duties of the toilet. what was more, he had the best masters in london to instruct her. her voice was one of the finest ever heard, her taste for music so great that she was soon proficient. he taught her himself to ride. there was one thing singular, every master who attended her was aware of a great hidden power within her, they said among each other that she was something wonderful--that the world would hear of her some day. there was an innate sense of power, a grand dramatic instinct, a keen sense of everything beautiful, noble and great. there were times when an electric flash of genius made them marvel. "it is a thousand pities," said the music-master to himself, "that she has married a nobleman. if she had been dependent on her own exertions, i could have made her one of the finest singers in the world." again, the drawing-master said: "if i had the training of lady chandos i would make her the finest artist in england." none of them had discovered the real secret of her genius, or what was the true fire that every now and then seemed to brighten them all as it flashed over them. a few weeks completely changed her; she had that keen, quick insight into everything, that wondrous tact and intelligence which make some women seem as though they were magicians. when she went first to river view, she had some traces of her rustic training. before six weeks had passed over it had all disappeared. lord chandos himself had taught her; her intonation and accent were clear and refined, her words well chosen, her expressions always poetical and full of grace; no one meeting her then could have told that she had spent her life in the rural shades of rashleigh. new beauty came to her with this development of mind; new, spiritual, poetical loveliness; and lord chandos, looking at his peerless young wife, felt always quite confident that when his mother saw her all would be well--she would be proud of her. while leone seemed to have gone straight to heaven, she could not realize that this was the same life she rebelled against with such fierce rebellion. now the days were not long enough to hold in them all the happiness that fell to her share. the birds woke her with their singing; the sun with its shining; another beautiful day had dawned for her--a day that was full of beauty and love. they passed like a dream. she took breakfast always with her husband; perhaps the happiest hour of the day was that. the windows of the pretty breakfast-room looked over a wilderness of flowers; the windows were always open. the soft, sweet summer air came in, parting the long, white curtains, bringing with it the breath of roses and the odor of a hundred flowers. she looked as fresh and fair as the morning itself. lord chandos wondered more and more at her radiant loveliness. her soul was awake now, and looked out of her dark eyes into the world she found so beautiful. then lord chandos went up to town for a few hours, while leone took her different lessons and studied. they met again at lunch, and they spent the afternoon out-of-doors. an ideal life--an idyl in itself. leone, while she lived, retained a vivid remembrance of those afternoons, of the shade of the deep woods, of the ripple of the river through the green banks, of the valleys where flowers and ferns grew, of the long alleys where the pleasant shade made a perfect paradise. she remembered them--the golden glow, the fragrance, the music of them, remained with her until she died. all the most pleasant times of our lives are dreams. then they dined together; and in the evening lord chandos took his beautiful young wife to the opera or the play, to concert or lecture. "as soon as i am of age," he would say, "i shall take you on the continent; there is no education we get like that we get by traveling one year on the continent; and you will be at home on every subject, leone," he would say; and leone longed for the time to come. "when i am of age," was his universal cry. when leone expressed any anxiety or sorrow over his separation from his parents, he would laugh and answer: "never mind, my darling, it will be all right when i am of age. never mind, darling, you will have my mother asking for the pleasure of knowing you then--the tables will be turned; let the great world once see you, and you will be worshiped for your beauty, your grace, and your talent." she looked wistfully at him. "do they love beauty so much in your world, lance?" she asked. "yes, as a rule, a beautiful face has a wonderful influence. i have known women without a tithe of your beauty, leone, rise from quite third-rate society to find a place among the most exclusive and noblest people in the land. your face would win for you, darling, an entrance anywhere." "the only thing i want my face to do," she said, "is to please your mother." "and that, when she sees it, it is quite sure to do," replied the lover-husband. "lance," said lady chandos, "what shall we do if your parents will neither forgive us nor see us?" "it will be very uncomfortable," said lord chandos; "but we shall have to bear it. it will not much matter so far as worldly matters are concerned; when i am of age i shall have a separate and very handsome fortune of my own. my mother will soon want to know you when you become the fashion--as you will, leone." so she dismissed the future from her mind. she would not think of it. she had blind reliance, blind confidence in her husband; he seemed so carelessly happy and indifferent she could not think there was anything vitally wrong. she was so unutterably happy, so wonderfully, thoroughly happy. her life was a poem, the sweetest love-story ever written or sung. "why am i so happy?" she would ask herself at times; "why has heaven given me so much? all i ever asked for--love and happiness?" she did not know how to be grateful enough. one morning in autumn, a warm, beautiful morning, when the sun shone on the rich red and brown foliage--they were out together on the fair river--the tide was rising and the boat floated lazily on the stream. lady chandos wore a beautiful dress of amber and black that suited her dark, brilliant beauty to perfection. she lay back among the velvet cushions, smiling as her eyes lingered on the sky, the trees, the stream. "you look very happy, leone," said lord chandos. "i am very happy," she replied. "i wrote to my uncle yesterday, lance. i should like to send him a box filled with everything he likes best." "you shall, if it pleases you, my darling," he answered. she leaned over the side of the boat watching the water, drawing her hand through the clear stream. "happy," she repeated, rather to herself than to him; "i can safely say this, that i have had so much happiness since i have been here that if i were wretched all my life afterward i should still have had far more happiness than falls to the lot of many people." she remembered those words in after years; and she owned to herself that they had been most perfectly true. the few months passed at river view had been most perfectly happy--no shade of care had come over her, no doubt, no fear--nothing that chilled the warmth of her love, nothing that marred its perfect trust. in some lives there comes a pause of silent, intense bliss just before the storm, even as the wind rests before the hurricane. "you make me very proud, leone," said lord chandos, "when you tell me of your happiness; i can only say may it be like the light of heaven, eternal." chapter xiv. "true until death." for some long months that case stood on the records. every paper in england had some mention of it; as a rule people laughed when they read anything about it. they said it was a case of corydon and phyllis, a dairy-maid's love, a farce, a piece of romantic nonsense on the part of a young nobleman who ought to know better. it created no sensation; the papers did not make much of it; they simply reported a petition on the part of the right honorable the earl of lanswell and lucia, his wife, that the so-called marriage contracted by their son, lancelot, lord chandos, should be set aside as illegal, on account of his being a minor, and having married without their consent. there was a long hearing, a long consideration, a long lawsuit; and it was, as every one had foreseen it would be, in favor of the earl against his son. the marriage was declared null and void--the contract illegal; there could be no legal marriage on lord chandos' side without the full and perfect consent of his parents. when that decision was given, lady lanswell smiled. mr. sewell congratulated her on it. my lady smiled again. "i may thank the law," she said, "which frees my son from the consequences of his own folly." "remember," said the lawyer, "that he can marry her, my lady, when he comes of age." "i know perfectly well that he will not," replied the countess; but mr. sewell did not feel so sure. the earl, the countess, and the solicitor sat together at dunmore house, in solemn consultation; they were quite uncertain what should be the next step taken. due legal notice had been given lord chandos; he had simply torn the paper into shreds and laughed at it--laughed at the idea that any law, human or divine, could separate him from his young wife; he took no notice of it; he never appeared in answer to any inquiry or summons; he answered no questions; the lawyer into whose hands he had half laughingly placed the whole matter had everything to do for him, and wondered at the recklessness with which the young lord treated the whole affair. it was all over now; and the decree which had parted them, which severed the tie between them, had gone forth--the marriage was void and worth nothing. the matrons of belgravia who read it said it was perfectly right; there was no doubt that he had been inveigled into it; and if such a thing were allowed to go unpunished there would be no more safety for their curled darlings; they would be at the mercy of any designing, underbred girl who chose to angle for them. men of the world smiled as they read it, and thought lord chandos well out of what might have been a very serious trouble. young people thought little about it; the belgravian belles merely said one to another that lord chandos had been in some kind of trouble, but that his parents had extricated him. and then all comment ended; even the second day after the judgment was given it had been forgotten. when the countess of lanswell held in her hands the letter which told her the desire of her heart was granted, and her son free, for a few moments she was startled; her handsome face paled, her hands trembled; it had been a desperate step, but she had won. she had the greatest faith in her own resources; she felt a certain conviction that in the end she would win; but for one moment she was half startled at her own success. "let us send for lance here to cawdor," she said to the earl, "while mr. sewell sees the girl and arranges with her. he must have _carte blanche_ over money matters; whatever he thinks fit to mention i shall agree to. if a thousand a year contents her, i am willing." "yes, yes--it is no question of money," said the earl. "it will be a great trouble to her naturally, and we are bound to make what compensation we can. if you wish me to send for lance i will do so at once. i will send a telegram from the station at dunmore; he will be here soon after noon." there had been little or no communication between the young heir and his parents since the lawsuit began. once or twice lord chandos and the earl had met; but the earl always refused to discuss matters with him. "you must talk to my lady, my dear boy," he would reply; "you know that she manages everything;" and lord chandos, fearing no evil, laughed at what he considered an amiable weakness on his father's part. "i love my wife," he said to himself, "but no woman should ever be so completely mistress of me. i shall always keep my independence, even though i love my wife perhaps better than any man living; but i will never give up my independence." he was somewhat startled that morning in september to find a telegram waiting him at river view, from cawdor, stating that lord lanswell wished him to take the first train, as he had news of the utmost importance to him. lady lanswell, who was a most complete woman of the world, had warily contrived that a piece of real good fortune should at the same time fall to his lot. she had great influence at court, and she had used it to some purpose. there was a royal wedding on the continent, and he was one of the two english noblemen chosen as the representatives of english royalty. there could be no refusal of such an honor, lady lanswell knew that; and she, knowing that lord chandos would be delighted over it, had used all her influence, hoping that it would distract his attention from the decision given and from his wife. she had arranged a little programme in her mind--how it should all be managed; she would send a telegram summoning him to cawdor; she would first show him the letter of appointment, induce him to answer by accepting it, then when the letter accepting the appointment had gone, and he was committed beyond recall, she would tell him the judicial decision over his marriage. the telegram reached river view one morning when lord chandos and leone sat at a late breakfast-table, leone looking like a radiant spring morning, her beautiful face, with its exquisite coloring, and her dainty dress of amber and white. "a telegram," she said. "oh, lance, how i dread the sight of those yellow envelopes; they always fill me with horror; they always seem to be the harbinger of bad news." he kissed the beautiful face before he opened the telegram. "there is no very bad news here," he said. "i must go to cawdor at once; my father has some very important news for me." some instinct seemed to warn her of coming danger; she rose from her seat and went over to him; she laid her tender arms round his neck; she laid her beautiful face on his. "it means harm to us, lance," she said; "i am sure of it." "nonsense, my darling," he cried; "how can it be about us? most likely there is a general election, or some business of that kind coming on, and he wants to see me about it." still the beautiful face grew paler, and the shadows deepened in the dark eyes. "shall you go at once?" she asked. lord chandos looked at his watch. "the train starts at twelve," he said. "i must go in half an hour's time, leone." "half an hour," she said, and the tender hands clasped him more tightly, "only half an hour, lance?" some prophetic instinct seemed to come over her; the passionate love on her beautiful face deepened into tragedy; yet he had never breathed one word to her of what had taken place. she knew nothing of the lawsuit; and lord chandos never intended her to know anything about it; but with the chill of that autumn morning came a chill of doubt and fear such as she had never known before. "how long shall you be away?" she asked. "not one moment longer than i am compelled to stay," he replied. "if my father really wants to see me on election affairs i may be absent two days; trust me, leone; the first moment i am free i shall return;" and drawing her beautiful face down to his own the young husband kissed it with passionate devotion, little dreaming of what lay before him. "only half an hour," said leone. "oh, lance, let me spend it with you. i will order your portmanteau to be packed; my dear, do not let me leave you for one moment." she drew a little stool and sat down at his feet. lord chandos laughed. "one would think we were lovers still." she looked at him with that wonderful expression of face, so earnest, so intent, so lofty. "so we are," she said; "we will be lovers until we die; shall we not, lance?" "i hope so; but we shall be unlike most married people, leone, if we do that," he replied. "i will not believe you," she answered. "you laugh, sometimes, lance, at love; but i am sure if i were your wife for fifty years you would never tire of me or love me less." "i never wish to do so," he replied. "you never will," said leone, "my faith is as strong as my love, and you have it all. i could rather believe now that the heavens would fall over my head than you could ever for one moment forget me." "i shall never forget you, sweet," he said; "this is the first time we have ever been parted since we have been married; you must not be sad and lonely, leone." "i shall spend all my time in thinking of your return," she said. "lance, it will comfort me all the time you are away; you will say some of those beautiful words i love to hear." he took both her white hands in his. "my darling," he said, "i love you with all my heart, and i will be true to you until death." the sweetness of the words seemed to content her for a time; she laid her face on his hands for some minutes in wistful silence. "leone," said the rich, cheerful voice of the young earl, "i have an idea that i will bring you good news from home. my father would not have sent for me unless he wanted me, and i shall make a bargain with him. if he wants me to do anything, i shall consent only on condition that i take you to cawdor." they talked of it for some minutes; then leone rose and busied herself for some time in helping him--her face was pale and her hands trembled. when the moment came for him to say good-bye he held her in his arms. "once again," she whispered. and he answered: "my darling wife, i love you, and will be true to you until death." and those were the last words that for some time she heard him speak. chapter xv. an exciting interview. lady lanswell looked somewhat startled when her son entered the room. during those few months of his married life he had altered much; he looked taller and stronger; the handsome face was covered with a golden beard and mustache; he looked quite three years older than before his marriage. he was a handsome stripling when his mother kissed him and sent him, with many injunctions as to study, to dr. hervey's, a handsome stripling, with golden down on his lip, and the hue of a ripe peach on his face; now he was a man of the world, assured, confident, easy in his carriage and bearing. he looked at his mother with half-defiance, half-amusement in his eyes. the strong, handsome woman, whose brave nature had never known fear, trembled for one moment when she remembered what she had to tell her son. he bent down to kiss her, and for one moment her heart relented to her son. she steeled herself with the recollection that what she had done was for his benefit. "i have good news for you, lance," she said, with her stately grace; "very excellent news." "i am glad to hear it, mother," replied lord chandos, thinking to himself how much more this interview resembled that of a queen and a crown prince than of mother and son. "you have traveled quickly and would probably like some refreshment--you would like a glass of madeira?" the truth was that her ladyship herself, with all her courage, felt that she required some artificial stimulant--the courage and pride of the proudest woman in england ebbed; she feared what she had to say. "an honor has been bestowed on you," she said, "one which would make any peer in england proud." his face brightened--he was keenly susceptible to the flattery implied in his mother's words. "you have been asked, together with lord dunferline, to represent our gracious sovereign at the marriage of the princess caroline at hempsburg. such an invitation, i need not tell you, is equivalent to a royal command." "i know it, mother, and i am delighted," he said, wondering in his own mind if he should be able to take leone with him. "the notice is rather short," continued the countess; "but that is owing to some delay on the part of lord dunferline. i hear that you are the envy of every man at the club. you will have to leave england for germany in three days; to-morrow you must be at the palace. i congratulate you, lance; it is very seldom that a man so young as you receives so signal a favor." he knew it, and was proud accordingly; yet he said to himself that leone must go with him; he could not live without leone. lady lanswell continued: "your father is delighted over it; i cannot tell you how pleased he is." then lord chandos looked wonderingly around. "where is my father?" he said. "i have not seen him yet." lady lanswell knew that he would not see him. the earl had fled ignominiously; he had declined to be present at the grand fracas between his wife and his son; he had left it all in my lady's hands. "your father had some business that took him away this morning; he knew that i could say for him all that he had to say." lord chandos smiled, and the smile was not, perhaps, the most respectful in the world. my lady did not observe it. "i am quite sure," he said, "that you can interpret all my father's ideas." it was then, with her son's handsome face smiling down on her, that the countess grew pale and laid her hand, with instinctive fear, on the papers spread before her. she nerved herself for the struggle; it would never do to give way. "i have other news for you, lance," she said, and he looked with clear, bright, defiant eyes in her face. she drew herself to her full height, as though the very attitude gave the greatest strength; there was no bend, no yielding in her. stern, erect, proud, she looked full in her son's face; it was as though they were measuring their strength one against the other. "i have never said to you, lance, what i thought of this wretched mistake you call your marriage," she began; "my contempt and indignation were too great that you should dare to give the grand old name you bear to a dairy-maid." leone's beautiful spanish face flashed before him, and he laughed at the word dairy-maid; she was peerless as a queen. "dare is not the word to use to a man, mother," he retorted. "nor should i use it to a man," said my lady, with a satirical smile. "i am not speaking to a man, but to a hot-headed boy; a man has self-control, self-denial, self-restraint, you have none; a man weighs the honor of his name or his race in his hands; a man hesitates before he degrades a name that kings have delighted to honor, before he ruins hopelessly the prestige of a grand old race for the sake of a dairy-maid. you, a hot-headed, foolish boy, have done all this; therefore, i repeat that i am not speaking to a man." "you use strong language, mother," he said. "i feel strongly; my contempt is strong," she said. "i know not why so great a humiliation should have fallen on me as that my son--the son of whom i was proud--should be the first to bring shame on his name." "i have brought no shame on it, mother," he said, angrily. "no shame!" said the countess, bitterly. "i can read, fancy, the short annals of the lanswells--'hubert, earl lanswell, died while fighting loyally for his king and his country; ross, earl lanswell, was famed for political services; lancelot, earl lanswell, married a dairy-maid.' i would rather," she cried, with flashing eyes, "that you had died in your childhood, than lived to bring such bitter shame on a loyal race." his face grew pale with anger, as the bitter words were hurled at him. "will you understand, once for all, mother, that i have _not_ married a dairy-maid?" he cried. "my wife is a wonder of beauty; she is dainty and lovely as a princess. only see her, you would change your opinion at once." "i hope never to do that. as for seeing her, i shall never so far lose my own self-respect as to allow such a person to speak to me." lord chandos shook his head with a rueful smile. "if you had ever seen leone, mother, you would laugh at the idea of calling her a person," he said. lady lanswell moved her hand with a gesture of superb pride. "nay, do not continue the subject. if the girl was not actually a dairy-maid, in all probability she was not far removed from it. i have no wish to discuss the question. you have stained the hitherto stainless name of your family by the wretched mistake you call a marriage." "i do not _call_ it a marriage; it _is_ one," he said. and then my lady's face grew even paler. "it is not one. i thank heaven that the law of the land is just and good; that it very properly refuses to recognize the so-called marriage of a hot-headed boy. you have ignored our letters on the subject, you have laughed at all threats, treated with disdain all advice; now you will find your level. the judicial decree has been pronounced; the marriage you have talked of with such bravado is no marriage; the woman you have insulted me by mentioning is not your wife." she neither trembled nor faltered when he turned to her with a white, set face. "pardon me; i must speak plainly; that which you have said is a lie!" "you forget yourself, lord chandos," she said, with cold dignity. "you force me to use words i do not like, mother," he cried "why do you irritate me--why say those things?" "they are perfectly true; here on the table lie the papers relative to the suit; the judicial opinion has been pronounced; our petition is granted, and your marriage, as you choose to call it, is set aside, is pronounced illegal, null, void!" the fierce, white anger of his face startled her. "it shall not be!" he cried. "it must be," she repeated; "you cannot prevent it. you must have been singularly devoid of penetration and knowledge not to know from the first that it must be decided against you; that no minor can marry without the consent of his parents. a wise law it is, too; there would soon be an end of the aristocracy of england if every hot-headed, foolish boy of nineteen could marry without the consent of his parents or guardian." if his antagonist had been a man, there would have been hot, angry words, perhaps blows; as it was, to a lady, and that lady his mother, he could say nothing. he sunk back with a white face and clinched hands; his mother resolutely stifled all pity, and went on, in her clear voice: "the law has decided for us against you; you know now the truth. if you have any respect for that unfortunate girl, you will not see her again; she is not your wife, she is not married to you. i need not speak more plainly; you know what relationship she will hold to you if you do not leave her at once." the handsome face had in these five minutes grown quite haggard and worn. "my god!" he cried; "i refuse to believe it, i refuse to believe one word of it!" with her clear, pitiless voice, she went on telling him what would happen. "you have one resource," she said, "and i tell you quite honestly about it; when you are of age you can remarry this person if you wish." he sprung from his seat with a cry of wounded pain and love. "mother, is it really true?" he asked. "i married that young girl before heaven, and you tell me that if i persist in returning to her she loses her fair name! if it be so, you have done a very cruel thing." "it is so," said my lady, coldly. "i grant that it seems cruel, but better that than tarnish the name of a whole race." "i shall remarry leone, mother, the day after i am twenty-one," he said. the countess raised her eyebrows. "the same man does not often make a simpleton of himself in the same fashion, but if you will do it, you will. for the present, if you have any regard for the person who is not your wife, you will let her go home again. i will return and talk over your journey with you." so saying, the countess of lanswell quitted the room, leaving her son overwhelmed with a sense of defeat. chapter xvi. leone's determination. lucia, countess of lanswell, stood alone in the superb drawing-room at cawdor. it was evening, one of the warmest and brightest in september. nearly three months had passed since the fatal marriage which had grieved and distressed her, and now she fondly hoped all her distress was ended. the decree had gone forth that the marriage was null and void; was, in fact, no marriage, lord chandos being under age when it was contracted. she said to herself all was null now. true, her son was in a most furious rage, and he had gone to consult half the lawyers in london, but she did not care for that; he was sure to rage and rave; he was a spoiled child, who never in his life had been contradicted or thwarted. the more angry he was the better; she knew by experience the hotter the fire the more quickly it burns away. had he been cool, calm, collected and silent she would have dreaded the after consequences. "he will exhaust himself with furious words," she said to herself with a slow smile. "when he has done that, all danger will be over." she had smiled when she heard of his rapid journeys, his fierce denunciations, his violent invectives, his repeated oaths that no power on earth should take him from his young wife. she had smiled when the earl, whose conscience was more tender than her own, had said over and over again that it was a terrible thing to set aside a marriage, to call a religious ceremony null and void. he would not have done it himself, but my lady had firm nerves, and a will of iron; nothing daunted her. she laughed at his persuasions and arguments. she told him the day would come on which he would thank heaven that the honor of his name and race had been saved from destruction. my lady was triumphant. knowing her son was spending his whole time in these journeys, she had requested mr. sewell himself to go to the pretty little villa at richmond, to see the young wife himself, and tell her the truth about the marriage; to speak what she was pleased to call plain english to her; to tell her that in the eyes of the law and of all honest, honorable men she was not his wife; that every hour she called herself by his name, or lived under his roof, added to her disgrace and increased her shame. "you can tell her," said my lady, with ill-concealed contempt, "that next june he will be twenty-one, and then he can please himself; he can remarry her if he will; no one then will have the least control over him; he will be his own master and can do as he likes. in all probability," she continued, "the girl will please herself with fanciful ideas about his being true to her; do not contradict her if she believes it--she will part from him more easily; but, believe me, my son will never return to her--never!" mr. sewell had tried in vain to escape the interview; he was neither particularly tender of heart nor given to sentiment, but he shrunk from seeing the young girl who called herself lady chandos; he shrunk from telling her the truth; but my lady was inexorable; he must do it, and no one else. he did it, but until the day of his death he never forgot it; he could not bear to think of it, and he never mentioned it. until the day of his death he was haunted by a beautiful, passionate face, white with terrible despair. he was compelled to speak in what my lady called plain english, or she would never have understood him. she could not understand in the least why the fact of lord chandos being under twenty-one should make her marriage null and void; illegal, because contracted without his parents' consent. she had turned to him with flashing eyes. "are the laws of england all framed for the convenience of the rich?" she asked. and, proud as he was of his legal knowledge, the lawyer had hesitated before the fire of her question. she understood at last--she saw what mr. sewell called the justice of the case--the reasons why such a law was needful, and she knew that she was not the lawful wife of lancelot, lord chandos. she looked into the stern face of her companion with eyes filled with awful despair. "he did not know it," she said; "only tell me that, and i shall be happier. he did not know it?" "no," said mr. sewell; "i am quite sure that lord chandos was ignorant of the fact--it never occurred to him; if it had done so, he would have deferred his marriage until he came of age." "i shall take some comfort in that," she said, slowly. "if he has erred, it has been done in ignorance and innocence. you say that the wrong can be righted next june; that he can marry me then without the consent of either of his parents." "certainly he can," replied the lawyer. something of the shock of despair passed from her face as he uttered these words. she folded her arms over her breast with the repressed passion of a tragedy queen. "then i have no fear," she said. "were the time twice as long, the cruelty twice as great, the law twice as strong, he would return to me true and faithful, as he loves me. you can tell his mother that." "i will," said mr. sewell, relieved to see some of the horror fall from her face. she would not discuss her future arrangements with him. lady lanswell was anxious that she should take a large sum of money and return home. she looked at him with the dignity of an outraged queen. "before heaven, and in my own eyes, lord chandos is my husband," she said, with calm dignity; "and with him only will i discuss my future. you can tell his mother that also. no other creature living shall interfere with my fate or destiny." she tried hard--and she was a woman of wonderful resource--she tried hard to keep her dignity, not to fail or falter before him, the cold emissary of that cruel mother; but unutterable woe looked out of her eyes at him, her white face had on it the passion of despair, her voice the ring of anguish, the small white hands on which the wedding-ring shone, trembled like leaves stirred in the summer wind; the very repression of her passionate despair made it seem more terrible. he clearly explained to her her position at last, she must consent to an immediate separation from lord chandos; she must give up his name, leave the shelter of his roof, or men and women, too, would brand her with the scarlet letter--would look on her as one lost and dead to all sense of honor. "you will see for yourself," added the lawyer, "that the wisest and best plan is for you to go away at once--this very day even--then you will stand a better chance when next june comes. even one more day spent under this roof would be fatal to your character and reputation. you must go at once." once more she raised her despairing eyes to him. her voice trembled as though it were all tears. "tell me," she said, gently, "has this been done by lady lanswell's desire more than by the earl's?" "yes, i believe it is so," he said. leone continued: "if the countess relented now, and gave her consent, could we be legally married at once?" "if the earl and countess consent you could be remarried to-day. nothing is wanted but their permission." "thank you," she said, gently. then with pathos and dignity that touched him greatly she held out her hand to him. "i do not blame you for the message you have brought," she said; "the fault lies with lady lanswell and the english law, not with you. you have fulfilled your mission as kindly as you could. i forgive you what you have done and what you have said." the white lips closed firmly, no other sound came from them, but mr. sewell looked back as he closed the door, and she lay then with her face on the floor. he did not go to her; he thought it was better to leave her alone. he said to himself, as he quitted the house, that not for all the wealth of the lanswells would he pass through another such scene. the hour came in which she raised her face once again to the sunlight, and tried to realize what had happened. she had risen that morning the happiest girl in all england, her only anxiety being to make herself more beautiful than ever in her husband's eyes. the morning itself was not more fresh and fair; everything had been _couleur de rose_. her husband, as she believed him, thought so little of the quarrel with his parents that she had imbibed his careless, happy ideas about it. there was no cloud in her sky, no doubt in her heart; now her heart was full of despair. she looked at the blue september sky, and asked herself if it were possible to realize what had happened. she was dazed, stunned, as though some one had struck her a violent blow. she went out of the pretty drawing-room where she had heard what seemed to her her death-warrant. she opened her white lips to breathe the pure, fresh air of heaven. as she stood there panting for breath, one of the servants came to her, holding a letter in her hand. leone opened it. the few hastily-written lines were from her husband. they said, simply: "my darling,--i shall not be able to return home to-day. i have some disagreeable business in town, of which i will tell you more anon. i shall be at home for luncheon to-morrow. believe me, always your loving husband, "lance." she looked at the word "husband" until the letters seemed to burn like fire. he had signed himself her husband. ah, then, it was quite plain that he neither believed, or, perhaps, had not even heard, of what had been done. as she stood there with the fading boughs of a spreading tree over her head, the words came to her again and again: "those vows were all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." she seemed once more to hear the falling of the waters. would the vows made to her ever be broken? ah, no! a thousand times no! she would go to his mother and appeal to her. a woman must, of course, be merciful to a woman. she would go herself and appeal to lucia, countess of lanswell. chapter xvii. "i would rather see my son dead." the countess stood alone in the drawing-room. the sun was setting over the trees in the park, and a warm glow filled the beautiful room with rosy light--a light that fell on costly pictures, on marble statues, on buhl and jasper, on silver and gold, on mirrors and flowers, whose fragrance was delicious even to breathe, but it fell on my lady's proud face and figure as though it liked best to linger there. the dressing-bell had not rung, and she, waiting for it, had fallen into a reverie. she was sure she had done right, yet, without doubt, the girl would feel it keenly. what matter? "women must weep," it was part of their lives. whoever paused or cared for a woman's tears? women had wept before and would weep again. she looked round on the superb home where she reigned mistress, and laughed with scorn as she tried to picture the farmer's niece queen of these ancient walls. right? most certainly she had done right; let weak minds and weak hearts think as they would. the golden sunset, the rosy clouds, the soft, sweet song of the birds, the fragrance of the thousand blooming flowers, the faint whisper of the odorous wind appealed to her in vain. what was a bleeding heart and weeping eyes to her? yet she was but a woman; and these sweet voices of nature could not leave her quite unsoftened. she wondered where lance was. she remembered him a fair-haired, laughing, defiant boy, playing there under the trees when the red light fell. she started suddenly when one of her well-trained footmen opened the door, and said a lady wished to see her. the countess looked at him in haughty vexation. "why do you bring a message so vague? i see no lady who gives neither card nor name." "i beg pardon, my lady," said the man, humbly. "i did not forget. the lady herself said you did not know her, but that her business was most important." "you must say that i decline to see any one who gives neither name nor card," said the countess. then, seeing the man look both anxious and undecided, she added, sharply: "is it a lady?" he looked greatly relieved. "it is, my lady. she is young and beautiful," he would have added, if he had dared. "you would surely be able to discriminate between a lady and--a person of any other description?" said the countess. the man bowed. "the lady wishes me to add that her business was of great importance, and that she had traveled some distance to see you." "show her in here," said the countess. the red light of the setting sun had moved then, and fell over her in great gleams on her dark velvet dress, on her exquisite point lace, and fine, costly gems. she looked regally proud, haughty, and unbending--the type of an english aristocratic matron, true to her class, true to her order, intolerant of any other. as she stood in the heart of the rosy light the door opened, and this time the countess of lanswell was startled out of her calm. there entered the most beautiful girl she had ever beheld--tall, slender, graceful, exquisitely dressed, moving with the most perfect grace and harmony; her face like some grand, passionate poem--a girl lovely as a houri, who walked up to her with serene and queenly calm, saying: "lady lanswell, i am your son's wife." the countess, taken so entirely by surprise, looked long and keenly into that beautiful face--looked at the clear, bright eyes, so full of fire and passion--at the lovely, imperial mouth, and the whole face so full of tragedy and beauty; then in a clear, distinct voice, she answered: "my son has no wife." leone drew the glove from her left hand, holding it before my lady's eyes. "will you look at my wedding-ring?" she asked. a scornful smile played round my lady's lips. "i see a ring," she said, "but not a wedding-ring. there can be no wedding-ring where there is no marriage." "do you believe that marriages are known in heaven?" leone asked. "do you believe that if a marriage had been contracted in the presence of heaven, witnessed by the angels, do you suppose that a mere legal quibble can set it aside?" "you choose your arguments badly," said the countess. "if you appeal to heaven, so can i. one of the greatest commandments given from there says, 'children, obey your parents.' my son is commanded by a divine voice to obey me, and i forbid him to marry until he is of age." "you have not the power!" cried leone. "you are mistaken; not only the power is mine, but i have used it. the foolish ceremony you choose to call your marriage is already set aside." leone drew one step nearer to her with flashing eyes. "you know that in your heart you cannot believe it. you cannot think it," she cried. "you know that i am your son's wife. you have brought the great strong arm of the law upon me. you have taken from me my husband's name. yet neither you, nor any human power can make me less his wife. he married me," she continued, her eyes flashing, her face flushing, "he married me before god, and i say that you cannot undo that marriage. i defy you." "true, i could not undo it, but the law both can and has done so. half-educated young ladies, who wish to make such grand marriages, should have common sense first. no youth under age, like my son, can legally marry without the consent of his parents." the flush faded from the beautiful face, and gave place to a white horror. leone looked at the countess. "you do not surely think that i married your son for any other reason except that i loved him?" she cried. "pray, believe that i have never troubled myself in the least to think of your motive," said my lady. "i loved him, lady lanswell, you could never know how much. you are proud and haughty; you love a hundred things. i loved but him. i love him with my whole heart and soul. if he had been a peasant, instead of an earl, being what he is, i should have loved him just the same." lady lanswell's face darkened with scorn. "i am willing to listen to anything you may wish to say, but i beg of you leave all such nonsense as love out of the discussion. you have probably come to see me because you want money. let us come to the point at once." the pride that flushed the beautiful face of the girl startled the haughty patrician who stood before her. "money," cried leone, "i have never thought of money. i do not understand. why should i want money from you?" to do her justice, the countess shrunk from the words. "i should suppose," she said, "that you will require some provision made for you, now that you are leaving my son?" it was with difficulty that leone controlled herself. her whole frame trembled with indignation. then the color receded from her face and left her white, silent, and motionless. "i have been too hard," thought the countess, "no one can suffer beyond her strength." she motioned the girl to take a chair, sitting down herself for the first time since the interview began. there was no feeling of pity in her heart, but she felt there were certain things to be said, and the best way would be to say them and have it all over. leone did not obey. she stood silent for a few minutes. then she said, simply: "i would never take money from you, lady lanswell, not even if i were dying of hunger. you do not like me; you are cruel to me." lady lanswell interrupted her with a superb gesture of scorn. "i could not possibly like or dislike you," she said; "you are less than nothing to me. it was natural that i should think you came to me for money. if that be not your object, may i ask what it is?" "yes; i will tell you. i thought, as you were a woman, i might appeal to you." my lady smiled haughtily. "you are the first that has ever ventured to address me as a woman. what appeal do you want to make to me?" the passion of despair seemed to die away from her. a great calm came over her. she went up to lady lanswell, and knelt at her feet. the countess would have given much for the power of moving away, but there was that in the beautiful, colorless face raised to hers which compelled her to listen. "i humble myself to you," pleaded the sweet voice. "i pray of you, who are so great, so powerful, so mighty, to have pity upon your son and upon me. one word from you will go so far; you can undo all that has been done. if you will give your consent all will be well." lady lanswell looked at her in silent wonder. leone went on: "i plead to you. i pray to you, because i love him so. in my heart i am as proud as you, may be prouder; but i lay my pride under my feet, i humble myself. i pray of you to take pity upon your son, and on myself. i love him so well, he loves me too. life would hold nothing for either of us if we are parted. for the sake of all the love you have ever felt for husband, father, brother, son--for god's sake, i pray you to take pity on us, and do not separate us." the passionate torrent of words stopped for one minute; tears streamed down the beautiful upraised face; then she went on: "i would do all that you wished me; i would try hard to improve myself; i would work so hard and work so well that no one would even guess, ever so faintly, that i belonged to a different class. i would be the most devoted of daughters to you; i would live only to please you, i----" the countess held up her hand with a warning gesture. "hush!" she said; "you are talking the most arrant nonsense." but leone this time would not be controlled. all the passion and love within her seemed to find vent in the next few words. they might have burned the lips which uttered them, but they fell unheeded on the ears of the proudest woman in england. "hush," she said again. "neither pleading nor prayers will avail with me. i speak the simple truth when i say that i would rather see my son dead than see you his wife." chapter xviii. a wronged woman's threat. for some five minutes there was silence, and the two who were to be mortal enemies looked at each other. leone knew then that all prayers, all pleadings were in vain; that they were worse than useless; but in the heart of the foe there was no relenting, no pity, nothing but scorn and hate. she had poured out the whole of her soul in that supplication for pity, and now she knew that she had humbled herself in vain; the mother's cruel words smote her with a pain like that of a sharp sword. she was silent until the first smart of that pain was over, then she said, gently: "why do you say anything so cruel?--why do you hate me?" "hate you?" replied my lady, "how can you be so mistaken? it is not you i hate, but your class--the class to which you belong--although the word hate is much too strong. i simply hold them in sovereign contempt." "i cannot help my class," she said, briefly. "certainly not; but it is my place to see that my son takes no wife from it. to you, yourself, i can have no dislike; personally i rather like you; you have a pleasant face, and i should take you to be clever. but you have not even one of the qualifications needful--absolutely necessary for the lady whom my son calls wife." "yet he chose me," she said, simply. "you have a nice face, and my son has fancied it," said the countess contemptuously. "you ought to be grateful to me for separating you from my son now. i am doing for him the kindest thing that any one could do. i know lord chandos better than any one else, and i know that he tires of everything in a short time. he would have wearied of you by christmas, and would have loathed the chains he had forged for himself. when he was a child he tired of a new toy in half an hour--his disposition has not changed." "i cannot believe it," cried leone. "i will not believe it, great lady as you are. you are wicked to malign your own son." "i do not malign him," said the countess, indifferently. "many gentlemen think it quite complimentary to be called changeable. my son has always been known as one of the most variable of men; nothing pleases him long; it is seldom that anything pleases him twice. you think he will always love you; let me ask you why? you have a pretty face, granted; but there is nothing under the sun of which a man tires sooner. you have nothing else; you have no education, no accomplishments, no good birth; i should say no good breeding, no position, rank, or influence. if i may speak my mind plainly, i should say that it was a most impertinent presumption for you, a farmer's niece, even to dream of being lady chandos--a presumption that should be punished, and must be checked. you would, without doubt, make an excellent dairy-maid, even a tolerable housekeeper, but a countess never. the bare idea is intolerable." she grew more angry as she spoke; for the girl's grace and beauty, the wonderful sweetness of her voice, the passion, the power, the loveliness of her face, began to tell upon her; she could not help owning to herself that she had seen nothing so marvelous as this wonderful girl. "then," said leone, calmly, "i have appealed to you in vain?" "quite in vain," replied my lady. "remember that against you personally i have nothing to say, neither have i any dislike; but if you have common sense, you will see that it is utterly impossible for my son to take the future countess of lanswell from a farmhouse. now try and act rationally--go away at once, leave my son, and i will see that you have plenty to live upon." "whatever may be said of the class from which i spring," cried leone, "i believe in the sanctity of marriage, and i would scorn to barter my love for anything on earth." "yes, that is all very pretty and very high-flown," said the countess, with a contemptuous laugh; "but you will find a few thousand pounds a very comfortable matter in a few years' time." "you said you would rather see your son dead than married to me, lady lanswell; i repeat that i would rather die of hunger than touch money of yours. i did not know or believe that on the face of god's earth there was ever a creature so utterly hard, cold and cruel as you." the light of the setting sun had somewhat faded then, and it moved from the proud figure of the countess to the lovely young face of leone, but even as the light warmed it, new pride, new energy, new passion seemed to fill it. the prayer and the pleading died--the softened light, the sweet tenderness left it; it was no longer the face of a loving, tender-hearted girl, pleading with hot tears that she might not be taken from her husband--it was the face of a tragedy queen, full of fire and passion. she stood, with one hand upraised, like a sibyl inspired. "i have done, lady lanswell," she said; "you tell me that lord chandos is free to marry as he will when he is twenty-one." "if you can find any comfort in that statement, i can verify it," she replied; "but surely you are not mad enough to think that, when my son is of age, he will return to you." "i am sure of it," said leone. "i believe in my husband's love, and my husband's constancy, as i believe in heaven." "i hope your faith in heaven will be more useful to you," sneered the countess. "i have womanly pity enough to warn you not to let your hopes rest on this. i prophesy that lord chandos will have utterly forgotten you by next june, and that he does not see you again." "i will not believe it, lady lanswell. you are my superior by birth and fortune, but i would neither exchange mind nor heart with you. you have sordid and mean ideas. my husband will be true, and seek me when the time comes." my lady laughed. "you are very happy to have such faith in him; i have not half so much in any creature living. you hold that one card in your hand--you seem to think it a winning one; it may or may not be. i tell you one thing frankly: that i have already settled in my own mind who shall be my son's wife, and i seldom fail in a purpose." "you are a wicked woman," cried leone. "i have no fear of you. you may try all that you will. i do not believe that you will take my husband from me. you are a wicked woman, and god will punish you, lady lanswell. you have parted husband and wife who loved each other." "i am not very frightened," laughed my lady. "i consider that i have been a kind of providence to my son. i have saved him from the effect of his own folly. will you allow me to say now that, having exhausted a very disagreeable subject, this interview must be considered closed! if you would like any refreshments my housekeeper will be pleased to----" but the girl drew back with an imperial gesture of scorn. "i want nothing," she said. "i have a few words to say to you in parting. i repeat that you are a wicked woman, lady lanswell, and that god will punish you for the wicked deed you have done. i say more, whether heaven punishes you or not, _i will_. you have trampled me under your feet; you have insulted, outraged, tortured me. listen to the word--you have tortured me; you have received me with scorn and contumely; you have laughed at my tears; enjoyed my prayers and humiliation. i swear that i will be revenged, even should i lose all on earth to win that revenge. i swear that you shall come and plead to me on your knees, and i will laugh at you. you shall plead to me with tears, and i will remind you how i have pleaded in vain. you have wrung my heart, i will wring yours. my revenge shall be greater than your cruelty; think, then, how great it will be." "i repeat that i am not frightened," said the countess, but she shrunk from the fire of those splendid eyes. "i was mad to think i should find a woman's heart in you. when the hour of my revenge comes, my great grief will be that i have a heart of marble to deal with!" cried leone. "you cannot have such great affection for your husband, if you speak to his mother in this fashion," said the countess, mockingly. the girl stretched out her white arms with a despairing cry. "give me back my husband, and i recall my threats." then, seeing that mocking smile on that proud face, her arms fell with a low sigh. "i am mad," she said, in a low voice, "to plead to you--quite mad!" "most decidedly," said the countess. "it appears to me there is more truth in that one observation than in any other you have made this evening. as i am not particularly inclined to the society of mad men or mad women, you will excuse me if i withdraw." without another word, my lady touched the bell. to the servant who entered she said: "will you show this person out as far as the park gates, please?" and, without another look at leone, she quitted the room. leone followed in silence. she did not even look around the sumptuous home one day she believed to be hers; she went to the great gates which the man-servant held open as she passed through. the sun had set, and the gray, sweet gloaming lay over the land. there was a sound of falling water, and leone made her way to it. it was a cascade that fell from a small, but steep rock. the sound of the rippling water was to her like the voice of an old friend, the sight of it like the face of some one whom she loved. she sat down by it, and it sung to her the same sweet old song: "a ring in pledge he gave her, and vows of love we spoke; those vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." it would not be so with her, ah no! if ever the needle was true to the pole, the flowers to the sun, the tides to the moon, the stars to the heavens, lord chandos would be true to her. so she believed, and, despite her sorrow, her heart found rest in the belief. chapter xix. leone's prophecy. no words could do justice to the state of mind in which lord chandos found himself after that interview at cawdor. he rushed back to london. of the three previous days remaining he spent one in hunting after the shrewdest lawyers in town. each and all laughed at him--there was the law, plain enough, so plain that a child could read and understand it. they smiled at his words, and said, half-contemptuously, they could not have imagined any one so ignorant of the law. they sympathized with him when he spoke of his young wife, but as for help, there was none. the only bright side to it was this, he could remarry her on the day he came of age. of that there was and could be no doubt, he said, but he was bent on finding some loop-hole, and marrying her at once, if it were really needful for the ceremony to be performed again. it could not be, and there was nothing for it but to resign himself to the inevitable. he did not know that leone had heard the terrible sentence, and he dreaded having to tell her. he was worn out with sorrow and emotion. in what words was he to tell her that she was not his wife in the eyes of the law, and that if they wished to preserve her character unspotted and unstained she must leave him at once? he understood his mother's character too well to dare any delay. he was sure that if leone remained even one day under his roof, when the time came that he should introduce her to the world as his wife, his mother would bring the fact against her, and so prevent her from even knowing people. there was no help for it--he must tell her. he wrote a letter telling her he would be at river view for luncheon on the following day; he knew that he must leave that same evening for the continent. he would have given the world to have been able to renounce the royal favor, of which he had felt so proud, but he could not. to have done so would have been to have deprived him not only of all position, but to have incurred disgrace. to have refused a favor so royally bestowed would have been an act of ingratitude which would have deprived him of court favor for life. he must go; and when the first pain was over, he said to himself it was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened. he could not have borne to know that leone was near him, yet not see or speak to her. it was all for the best, painful as it was. if for these long months they must be parted, it was better for him to be abroad--he dare not have trusted himself at home. he loved leone so well that he knew his love would have broken down the barriers which the law had placed between them. he would go to river view, and, let it pain him as it would, he would tell her all, he would leave her as happy as was possible under the circumstances. he would stay away until the time was over; then, the very day he came of age, he would return and remarry her. he laughed to scorn his mother's prophecy. he prove untrue to his darling! the heavens must fall first. not for him the mill-wheel story--not for him the broken ring. how happy they would be, then, when the time had passed, and he could introduce leone as his beloved wife to the whole world. he would try and think of that time without dwelling more than he could help on the wretched present. he went home to river view, but the first glance at leone's face told him that she knew all. it was not so much that the beauty had gone from it, that the beautiful eyes were dim with long, passionate weeping, or that the lips trembled as she tried to smile. her whole face had changed so completely; its tragic intensity, the power of its despair, overmastered him. lord chandos clasped her in his arms, and covered the sad young face with kisses and tears. "my darling," he said, "you know all; i can see you know all." the ring of happy music had quite died from her voice--he hardly recognized it. "yes," she answered him, "i know all." "my darling," he cried, "it is not my fault. you will think i ought to have known it; but i swear to heaven that i never even thought or suspected it. i would rather have been dead than have put you in a false position, leone--you know that." she laid her fair arms on his neck, and hid her white face on his breast. "i am sure of it," she said, gently; "i have never thought of that: i know that you intended to make me your wife." "so you are my wife, let who will say to the contrary--you are my beloved, revered, honored wife, leone. why, my darling, all the strength has left you! look up, leone. they have done the worst they can do, and what is it? they have parted us for a few months. when the parting is ended we shall be together for life." she tightened the clasp of her fair arms around his neck. "i know; i have faith in you, but it is so hard to bear, lance. we were so happy, and you were all the world to me. how shall i live through the long months to come? lance, perhaps you will be angry with me--i have done something that perhaps you will not like." "that would not be possible, leone. i must always like everything you do. why, my darling, how you tremble! sit down, there is nothing in all the world to fear." "no; let me tell you what i have to say with my head here on your breast. you must not be angry with me, lance. when i had seen mr. sewell, i felt that i could not bear it. i went down to cawdor and saw lady lanswell." he started with surprise. she raised her face to his, longing to see if he were angry, yet half afraid. "you went to cawdor to see my mother," he repeated. "my darling, it was a strong measure. what did she say or do?" "you are not angry with me for it, lance?" she asked, gently. "i angry, my darling? no, a thousand times no. i could not be angry with you. why did you go--for what purpose?" "i went to ask her to have pity on us; not to enforce this cruel sentence; to be pitiful to me, because i love you so dearly." "and her answer?" asked lord chandos, eagerly. "her answer was everything that was cruel and wicked. ah, forgive me, lance, she is your mother, i know, but she has taken in her cruel hands a divine power. she has parted us and i prayed her to be merciful. i told her how dearly we loved each other, but she had no pity--no mercy--no woman's kindness, no sympathy. she was cold, cruel, proud, haughty. she insulted, humiliated and outraged me. she refused to hear one word, and when i left her, i swore to be revenged on her." the slender form trembled with passion. he drew her even more closely to his breast. "my darling, you need not think of vengeance," he said. "i am grieved that my mother was unkind to you. had you consulted me, i should most certainly have said do not go. mind, i am not angry or annoyed, only so far as this, that i would not have you irritated for the world. i must say that i had always felt that if my mother could see you our cause was won. i did not believe that any creature living could resist that face." she looked up at him with unutterable love. "do you really care so much for it, lance? have you never seen a face you like as well?" "no, and never shall see one, my darling; when we are parted it will live in my heart bright and fair until we meet again." then the tender arms clung more tightly to him. "must we be parted, lance?" she whispered. "we were married in the sight of heaven--must we leave each other? oh, lance, it cannot be true; no one can say that i am not your wife." quietly and calmly trying to command himself, he told her then how inevitable it was that they must submit to the voice of the law during the next few months, so as to insure their future happiness and fair name. and then he told her of the favor conferred upon him, and how he was compelled to accept it or never to hope for court favor again. she listened with a face that seemed turned to stone. slowly the tender arms unwound themselves and fell by her side; slowly the beautiful eyes left his and filled with despair. he tried to console her. "you see, my darling," he said, "that in any case we must have parted. though this appointment is a mark of royal regard, still it is quite imperative. i could not have refused it without ruin to my future career, and i could not have taken you with me, so that for a time we must have parted." "i see," she said, gently, but her hands fell, and a shudder that she could not control passed over her. "leone," said lord chandos, "we have not long to be together, and we have much to arrange. tell me, first, what you thought of my mother?" "she is very beautiful, very proud, very haughty, cold and cruel--if not wicked," said the young girl, slowly. "that is not very flattering," said lord chandos. "i could have loved and worshiped her if she had been kind to me," said leone; "but she was cruel, and some time or other i shall have my revenge." he looked gravely at her. "i do not like to hear that, my darling. how can you be revenged?" a light came over her face. "i do not know. i have a prophetic insight at times into the future. as i stand here, i know that a time will come when your mother will weep to me as bitterly as i wept to her, and just as much in vain." "i hope not," he answered. "all will be well for us, leone. but revenge, my darling, is a horrible word, and does not suit those sweet lips at all. let me kiss away the sound of it." he bent his handsome head and kissed her lips with love that seemed stronger than death and true as eternity. chapter xx. the parting. they had been talking for more than an hour. he had given her the whole history of the royal wedding, of what his embassy consisted of, of the length of time he would be absent, how he should think of her continually, how he implored her to write to him every day, and she had given him every detail of her interview with mr. sewell and lady lanswell. then he said to himself that it was time they made some arrangement over the future. "so we are to live apart until next june, leone," he said, gently. "it is a terrible sentence; but the time will soon pass. tell me, my darling, where you would like to live until june comes?" she looked at him with startled eyes. "need i leave home, lance? let me live here; i could not fancy any other place was home. i feel as though if i once left here i should never see you again." "my darling, that is all fancy--nothing but fancy. no matter where you are, my birthday comes on the thirtieth day of june, and on that day i shall return to you to make you what i have always believed you to be--my wife." "i am your wife, lance; let others say what they will, you will not deny it." "not i, leone. you are my wife; and the very first day the law permits you shall bear my name, just as you now share my heart and life." "on the thirtieth day of june," she sighed. "i shall count every hour, every minute until then. i wish, lance, i could sleep a long sleep from the hour of parting until the hour of meeting--if i could but turn my face from the light of day and not open my eyes until they rest on you again. i shall have to live through every hour and every minute, and they will be torture." "the time will soon pass, leone, my darling; it will be full of hope, not despair. when the green leaves spring and the sunshine warms the land, you will say to yourself, 'june is coming, and june brings back my love;' when the lark sings and the wood-pigeons make their nests, when the hawthorn blooms on the hedges and the lilac rears its tall plumes, you will say 'june is near.' when the roses laugh and the lilies bloom, when the brook sings in the wood, when the corn grows ripe in the meadows, you will say 'june is come, and it brings my love.'" "my love--oh, my love," sighed the girl, and her voice had the passionate sweetness of a siren. "i shall come back to you, leone, with everything bright, smiling, and beautiful; every rose that blooms, every bird that sings, every green leaf that springs will be a message from me to you to say that i am coming; when the wind whispers, and the trees murmur, it will be the same story, that i am coming back to my darling. let us picture the thirtieth of june, and your mind shall rest on that picture. it will be a bright day, i know, the sky all blue and clear, not a cloud in it; but with the half-golden light one sees in june skies. you can see that picture, leone?" "yes," she replied, drawing nearer him, and resting her head again on his breast. "the sun will be low on the hills, and every living thing will be laughing in its light. the great trees will have grown strong in it, the flowers will have brightened, and the river there, leone, will be running so deep and clear, kissing the green banks and the osier beds, carrying with it the leaves and flowers that will fall on its bosom, and the garden will be filled with the flowers we love the best. you see that picture, too, my love?" "yes, i see it," she whispers. "wherever i may be," he continued, "i shall so arrange my journey that i may be with you on the morning of my birthday. you see the pretty white gate yonder where the tall white roses climb in summer? my darling, rise early on the thirtieth of june and watch that gate. even should such an impossible thing be as that you should never have one word of or from me, get up and watch that gate on the thirtieth of june. you will see me enter. i will part the clustering roses; i shall gather the sweetest, together with the fairest lily that blooms, and bring them to you as emblems of your own dearest self. you will see me walk down the broad path there, and you will meet me at the door." "oh, my love, my love!" sighed the girl, "would that it were june now." he bent down to kiss the loving lips. "it will come," he said; "let me finish the picture. i shall have a special license with me so that we can be remarried that day; and then the world shall know who is lady chandos. then my lady mother shall seek you who have sought her; then she shall ask to know you, my darling, and this hideous past shall be to us a dream and nothing more. leone, when sad thoughts come to you promise me that you will dwell on this side of the picture and forget the other." "i promise, lance," she said, gently. "you see, my love--whom i shall so soon call again by the beautiful name of wife--you see that your life does not lie in ruins round you; the only difference is that i shall be away." "and that makes the difference of the whole world to me," said leone. "and to me," said lord chandos; "but it will soon be over, leone. you can go on living here--it is no unusual thing for a lady to live alone while her husband is abroad. you can keep the same servants; you need not make the least alteration in your life in any way. only remain here in silence and patience until i return. now do you see, my darling, it is not so dreadful?" "it is hard enough," she replied; "but you have taken away the sting. oh, my darling, you will be true to me? i am only a simple village girl, with nothing, your mother says, to recommend me; but i love you--i love you. you will be true to me?" "my dearest leone, you may as well ask if the stars will be true to heaven, or heaven to itself, as ask me if i will be true to you. you are my life--a man is not false to his own life. you are soul of my soul--no man betrays his soul! it would be easier for me to die than be false to you, my love." the passionate words reassured her--something of hope came over the beautiful face. "lance," she said, "do you remember the mill-wheel and how the water used to sing the words of the song?" "yes, i remember it; but those will never come true over us, leone, never. i shall never break my vows or you yours." "no; yet how the water sung it over and over again: "'those vows were all forgotten, the ring asunder broke.' i can hear it now, lance. it seems to me the wind is repeating it." "it is only your fancy, my darling," he said. but she went on: "'i would the grave would hide me, for there alone is peace.' ah, lance, my love--lance, will it happen to either of us to find peace in the grave?" "no, we shall find peace in life first," he said. she laid her hand on his arm. "lance," she said, "i had a terrible dream last night. i could not sleep for many hours. when at last my eyes closed i found myself by the old mill stream. i thought that i had been driven there by some pain too great for words, and i flung myself into the stream. oh, lance, my love--lance, i felt myself drowning. i felt my body floating, then sinking. my hair caught in the bending branches of a tree. the water filled my eyes and my ears. i died. in my sleep i went through all the pain of death. my last thought was of you. 'lance,' i cried, in death as in life, 'lance, come back to me in death!' it was a horrible dream, was it not? do you think it will ever come true?" "no," he replied; but his handsome face had grown paler, and the shadows of deep trouble lay in his eyes. she raised her face to his again. "lance," she asked gently, "do you think that any creature--any one has ever loved another as well as i love you? i often wonder about it. i see wives happy and contented, and i wonder if their husbands' smiles make heaven to them as yours do to me." "i do not think there are many people capable of loving as you do, leone," he replied, "and now, my darling, i must leave you. leone, spend all your time in study. a few months more of work as hard as the last three months, and my beautiful wife will be as accomplished as she is graceful. study will help you to pass away the time." "i will do anything you tell me, lance. you will let me write to you every day, and you must write often to me." "i will, sweet; but you will not be uneasy if my letters are not so frequent as yours; the foreign post is not so regular as ours; and if we travel in germany i may not always be able to write." "i will trust you," said the loving voice. "i am sure you will never fail me." she was proud as an empress, she had the high spirit of a queen; but now that the moments of parting had come, both failed her. she clung to him, weeping passionate tears--it was so cruelly hard, for she loved him so well. her tears rained on his face, her trembling lips could utter no words for the bitter sobs. never was sorrow so great, or despair so pitiful. she kissed his face with all the passion of her love. "good-bye, my love," she sighed. "oh, lance, be true to me--my life lies in yours." "if ever i prove untrue to you, my darling, let heaven be false to me," he said. "leone, give me one smile; i cannot go until i have seen one." she tried. he kissed the white lips and the weeping eyes. "good-bye, my beloved," he said. "think of the thirteenth of june, and the roses i shall bring back with me." and then he was gone. chapter xxi. waiting for the day. how the days of that dreary summer passed leone never knew; the keenest smart of the pain came afterward. at first she was too utterly stunned and bewildered by the suddenness of the blow to realize all that happened. it was impossible to believe that her marriage had been set aside, and that her husband, as she called him, had gone away; but, as the days rolled on, she slowly but surely realized it. there was no break in the terrible monotony. the voice that made such music in her ears was silent, the footsteps that had made her heart beat and her pulse thrill were heard no more; the handsome face, always brightened with such tender love for her, no longer brought sunshine and warmth; it was as though the very light had gone out of her life, and left it all bleak, dark and cold. for some days the proud heart, the proud, unyielding spirit gave way, and she longed for death; life without lance seemed so utterly unbearable. then youth and a naturally strong constitution triumphed. she began to think how much she could learn so as to surprise him on his return. her soul was fired with ambition; in a few months she would achieve wonders. she set herself so much; she would become proficient on the piano and the harp; she would improve her singing; she would practice drawing; she would take lessons in french and italian. "i can learn if i will," she said to herself; "i feel power without limit in myself. if i fix my own will on attaining a certain object i shall not fail. lance shall find an accomplished wife when he returns." she resolved to give her whole time and attention to it. thanks to the old books in farmer noel's house, she was better read than the generality of ladies. no toil, no trouble daunted her. she rose in the morning long hours before the rest of the household were awake, and she read for hours after they were asleep. the masters who attended her, not knowing her motive, wondered at her marvelous industry. they wondered, too, at the great gifts nature had bestowed upon her--at the grand voice, capable of such magnificent cultivation; at the superb dramatic instinct which raised her so completely above the commonplace; at the natural grace, the beauty of face and attitude, the love of the beautiful and picturesque. they wondered why so many great gifts, such remarkable beauty and talent should have been lavished on one creature. they strove with her--the more she learned the more they tried to teach her; the harder she worked the harder they worked with her. as the weeks passed on her progress was wonderful. she was often amazed at herself. it was so sweet to study for his sake, to rise in the early morning and work for him. she watched with the keenness of love the last leaves fall from the trees--she watched with the keen avidity of love for the white snow and the wail of wintery winds, for the long, dark nights and gray, cold dawn. each one brought her nearer and nearer; every day was a pain past and a nearer joy. welcome to the nipping frost and the northern winds; welcome the hail, the rain, the sleet--it brought him nearer. how she prayed for him with the loving simplicity of a child. if heaven would but spare him, would save him from all dangers, would send him sunny skies and favorable winds, would work miracles in his behalf, would avert all accident by rail and road, would bring him back to her longing, loving arms--ah, if the kind, dear heaven would do this. when she went out for her daily walks she met the poor, the wretched--she would give liberal alms; and when they said: "god bless your bonny face, my lady," she would say: "no, not mine; ask him to bless some one else; some one whom i love and who is far away." it seemed to her like the turning point of a life-time when christmas day was passed. now for the glad new year which was to bring him back to her. the first days of the year were months to her. this year was to bring her love, her husband, her marriage--all--blessed new year. when the bells chimed on the first day she went to church, and kneeling with those true of heart and simple of faith as herself she prayed the new year might bring him home. it was pitiful to see how the one precious hour of the day was the hour in which she wrote to him those long, loving letters that were poems in themselves. he wrote, but not so often; and she saw from the newspaper reports of all that he did and where he went. she will never forget the day on which she saw the first snow-drop. it was like a message from a lovely modest flower, raising its white head as though it would say to her, "no more tears; he is coming." she went into a very ecstasy of delight then. golden primroses and pale cowslips came; the sweet violets bloomed, the green leaves budded, the birds began to sing; it was spring, delicate, beautiful spring, and in june he would come. she was almost ready for him. it was april now, and she had worked without intermission. she loved to think of his pleasure when he found her so improved. she delighted in picturing what he would say, and how he would reward her with kisses and caresses; how he would praise her for her efforts; how proud even he would be of her. "i want you to tell me the exact truth," she said to one of the masters. "i will tell you any truth you wish to hear," he said. "i want you to tell me this. if you met me anywhere, and did not know that in my youth i had received no training, should you, from anything in my manner, find it out?" "no," he replied, frankly. "i would defy any one to know that you have not been born the daughter of a duke. permit me to say, and believe me i am sincere, your manner and conversation are perfection." she was happy after that; people would not be able to laugh at him and say he had married a low-born wife. she would be equal to any lady in the land when she was lady chandos. the spring was giving place to the laughing, golden-hued summer. he had gone to italy; his parents were there; they had been spending the spring in rome and he had joined them. nothing, leone thought, could be more natural. his letters from rome were not so frequent or so long; but that was no matter; he had less time, perhaps; and being with his parents not so much opportunity. her faith in him never lessened, never faltered, never wavered. true, she wondered at times why he had gone to his parents, why he had joined them after the cruel way in which they had behaved. she could not quite understand. it seemed to her at times almost disrespect to her that he should associate with them until they had apologized to her, and made amends for the wrong done; but then, she said to herself, he knew best; all he did was well done, and there was nothing to fear. then may came--so short the time was growing. everything he had spoken of was here--the green leaves, the singing birds, the soaring lark, the cooing wood-pigeon. only a few more weeks now, and the girl grew more beautiful every day as her hope grew nearer its fulfillment. she was much struck by a conversation she had one day with signor corli, her singing-master. she had sung, to his intense delight and satisfaction, one of the most difficult and beautiful cavatinas from "der freischutz," and he marveled at her wonderful voice and execution. "it is ten thousand pities," he said, "that you have a position which forbids you to think of the stage." she laughed at the time. "the stage?" she repeated. "why, signor?" "because you have the genius which would make you the finest dramatic singer in the world," he replied; "you would be the very queen of song. i repeat it--it is ten thousand pities you have been placed in such a position the stage could never attract you." "no, it certainly will not," she said. "but do you think i have really talent for it, signor?" "no, not talent," he replied, "but genius. once in every hundred years such a one is given to the world. if you went on the stage i venture to prophesy you would drive the world mad." she laughed. "it is just as well, then, that the world is saved from madness," she said. "it is not well for the world of art," said signor corli. she smiled after he was gone, half flattered by his words, yet half amazed. could what he said be true? was this dramatic power, as he called it, the power she had felt within herself which made her different to others? then she laughed again. what did it matter to her--her life would be spent under the shelter of her husband's love--the husband who was to claim her in june. chapter xxii. the reconciliation. those few months had been filled with excitement for lord chandos. the pain he had felt at leaving his wife had been great and hard to bear, but life differs so greatly for men and women. women must sit at home and weep. for them comes no great field of action, no stir of battle, no rush of fight; their sorrow weighs them down because they have nothing to shake it off. with men it is so different; they rush into action and forget it. leone was for some days prostrate with the pains of her sorrow. lord chandos suffered acutely for a couple of hours; then came the excitement of his journey, the whirl of travel and adventure, the thousand sources of interest and pleasure. he was compelled to take his thoughts from leone. he had a hundred other interests; not that he loved or cared for her less, but that he was compelled to give his attention to the duties intrusted to him. he was compelled to set his sorrow aside. "i must work now," he said to himself, "i shall have time to think afterward." he would have time to look his sorrow in the face--now it must stand aside. when he really brought himself face to face with the world, it was impossible to help feeling flattered by the position he held. every one congratulated him. "you start to-morrow," one would say. "glad to hear you have been chosen," said another. one prophesied continual court favor. another that he would receive great honors. every one seemed to consider him quite a favorite of fortune. no one even ever so faintly alluded to his marriage, to the lawsuit, or to the decision. he was divided between gratitude for the relief and irritation that what had been of such moment to him had been nothing to others. yet it was a relief to find his darling's name held sacred. he had dreaded to hear about it--to have the matter discussed in any word or shape; but it seemed as though the world had formed one grand conspiracy not to mention it. then came the excitement of traveling. his companion, lord dunferline, one of the most famous statesmen and noblest peers of england, was many years older than himself. he was a keen, shrewd, clever man, full of practical knowledge and common sense; he was the best friend who could have been chosen for the young lord; and lady lanswell congratulated herself on that as a magnificent piece of business. lord dunferline had not an iota of sentiment in his whole composition; his idea was that people came into this world to make the very best use they can of it--to increase in wealth, prosperity, and fortune; he believed in buying well, selling well, doing everything well, making the best use of life while it is ours to enjoy; he believed in always being comfortable, bright, cheery; he knew nothing of trouble; sickness, poverty, loss of friends, were all unknown evils to him; he had a prosperous, busy, happy life. he was one on whom no honor was ever wasted, lost, or thrown away. he made the most of everything; he was rigid in the observation of etiquette, and exacted the utmost deference in his turn. he talked so long and so grandly of the honor conferred on them both that at last lord chandos began to find the importance of it too. the marriage was to take place at berlin; and they were received with something like royal honors. society opened its arms to them; the _elite_ of berlin vied with each other in giving _fetes_ of all kinds to the english noblemen who represented the english queen. still lord chandos made time for his letters; he would rather have gone without food than have missed that daily letter from leone. he wrote to her as often as possible; and his letters would have satisfied even the most loving and sensitive heart. he told her how he loved her, how he missed her, how empty the world seemed, in spite of all its grandeur, because she was not near him--words that comforted her when she read them. were they true or false? who shall tell? then when the wedding festivities were held, it was not possible for him to write often, his time was so fully occupied. he wrote one sentence that consoled her and it was this--that, although he was surrounded by some of the loveliest women in europe, there was not a face or a figure that could compare with hers. how she kissed the words as she read them, as women do the written words of the men they love! it was such a different world, this he lived in now. it was all a blaze of color and brightness, a blaze of jewels, a scene of festivity and mirth, a scene of regal splendor and ever-changing gayety. there was no time for thought or reflection. lord chandos was always either being feted or feting others. the few hasty words dashed off home said but little--it was a different world. if ever at night he found himself under the light of the stars, if he heard the ripple of water, if he stood for a moment watching the swaying of green boughs, his thoughts at once flew to her--the happy, simple home-life at richmond was like some quiet, beautiful dream, the very memory of which gives rest. he found himself at times wondering how he liked it so well, it was such a contrast to the feted courtier's life he led now. he thought of its calm as he thought of a far-off summer lake. there had been no flash of jewels, no sheen of cloth of gold there, no grand uniforms, no thrones there, no crowns, no kings or queens--leone and himself; yet how happy they had been. how he loved her; and his young heart warmed with his love. what would the world say when she came forth in her imperial loveliness? he liked to think about it. there were many handsome women and beautiful girls, but none to compare to her--not one. he had intended to love her always with the same warmth and truth; he meant to be constant to her as the needle to the pole. he believed himself to be so; but insensibly the new life changed him--the gay, bright, glistening world influenced him. after a time--even though he loved her just the same--after a time his thoughts ceased to dwell with such fervent interest on the pretty, simple home. after a time he began to feel his old keen sense of pleasure in all that the world had of the beautiful and bright; he began to feel an interest in its honors and titles. "i have been lotus-eating," he said to himself; "there is nothing for it but to rouse myself." in a short time he became very popular in berlin. the young english noble, lord chandos, was as popular as any young sovereign, and there was little need to hurry home. he went one evening to a very select ball given by the wife of the english embassador, lady baden. she smiled when she saw him. "i have a surprise for you," she said, warmly. "i have what i know to be a most charming surprise. will you go to the little _salon_, the third on the left? the door is closed, open it, and you will see what you will see." lord chandos bowed and went in the direction she indicated. he did not expect to see anything particular, but he respected the caprices of _les grandes dames_. he opened the door carelessly enough and started back in amaze. there stood his father and mother, his mother's handsome face pale with anxiety, her jeweled arms outstretched, her fine eyes full of love. "lance," she said, "my dear son, how good it is to see you again!" with the cautious avoidance of anything like a scene that distinguishes englishmen, lord chandos turned first and carefully closed the door. then the earl spoke: "my dear boy," he said, "i am so pleased to see you!" but there was no response for either on the face of their son. he bowed coldly, and his mother's jeweled arms fell by her side. "this is a surprise, indeed," he said. "i should have considered some little notice more agreeable." "lance, you may say what you will to me," said the earl, "but remember, not one word to your mother." "my mother was very cruel to me," he said, coldly, turning from her. but my lady had recovered herself. she held out her hands with charming grace; she looked at her son with a charming smile. "my dearest lance," she said, "children call the physician who cuts off a diseased limb cruel, yet he is most merciful. i am even more merciful than he. i did what i did in the spirit of truest kindness to you, my son." "let there be no mention of the word kindness between us," he said. "you nearly broke the heart, and certainly ruined the life of the girl whom i loved. mother, if that be what you call kindness, then i do not understand the english tongue." "i did it for your sake, my dearest lance," said my lady, caressingly. "one would have thought that, loving the girl with my whole heart, for my sake you would have loved her also." "love plays but a poor part in life, lance," said the countess of lanswell. "you have too much sense to mar one of the brightest futures a man has before him for the sake of sentimental nonsense called love." "mother," said the young lord, "i shall marry her on my twenty-first birthday. i shall not delay one hour. you understand that clearly?" the countess of lanswell shrugged her graceful shoulders. "you will certainly be able to do as you like then," she said; "but we need not quarrel over it in prospective; we can wait until the event happens; then it will be quite time enough to discuss what we shall do." "i am quite resolved," said lord chandos. "no persuasion, no argument shall induce me to change." "i have no arguments to use," said my lady, with a proud laugh. "when you are of age you shall do as you like, marry whom you will--no interference of mine will avail; but let us wait until the time comes. my object in coming here is to seek a reconciliation with you. you are our only son, and though you think me proud and cold, i still love and do not care to be at variance with you. let us be friends, lance, at least until you are of age." she held out her hands again with a smile he could not resist. "i tell you frankly," continued my lady, "that the young person has been to see me. we had quite a melodramatic interview. i do not wish to vex you, lance, but she would make a capital fifth-rate actress for a tragedy in a barn." "come, my lady, that is too bad," said the earl. the countess laughed. "it was really sensational," she said. "the conclusion of the interview was a very solemn threat on her part that she would be revenged upon me, so that i must be prepared for war. but, lance, let it be as it may, we must be friends. you will not refuse your mother when she asks a favor, and it is the first favor, mind." "i cannot refuse," he replied. "i will be friends, as you phrase it, mother, but you must change your opinion about leone." "another time," said my lady, with a wave of the hand. "kiss me now, lance, and be friends. shake hands with your father. we are staying at the hotel france. when the ball is over, join us at supper." and in that way the solemn reconciliation was effected. chapter xxiii. a shrewd scheme. there had been nothing very sentimental in the reconciliation scene between parents and son. the earl and lord chandos walked home through the quiet streets of berlin, while my lady drove. they smoked the cigar of peace, while lord chandos reported his social triumphs to his father. no more passed between them on the most important of all subjects--his love, his marriage, and the lawsuit; they spoke of anything and everything else. the only words which went from the heart of the father to the heart of the son, were these: "i am glad you have made friends with my lady, lance. she has pined after you, and she is so proud. she says nothing, but i know that she has felt the separation from you most keenly. i am glad it is all right; you must not vex her again, lance." "i will not, if i can help it," replied the young lord; and so the conversation ended. lord chandos was a clever man, but he was in the hands of a far more clever woman. when a woman has the gift of strategy, she excels in it, and the countess added this to her other accomplishments. she was a magnificent strategist. her maneuvers were of the finest; quite beyond the power of one less gifted to detect. a man in her skillful hands was a toy, to be played with as she would. the strongest, the wisest, the most honest, the best, were but wax in her hands. she did just as she would with them, and it was so cleverly done, so skillfully managed, that they never had the faintest idea my lady was twining them around her little fingers. she had two modes of strategy. one was by grand moves, one alone of which was enough to carry a nation. the other means was by a series of finest possible details of intrigue. she said to herself that her son's marriage with this person should be set aside in some fashion or other, and in the end she prevailed. that was by one grand move. she was equally resolved that her son should marry lady marion erskine, the beauty, the belle, the wealthiest heiress of the season, and by a series of fine, well-directed maneuvers, she was determined to accomplish that. the fates were propitious to her. lady marion erskine was the niece and ward of lady cambrey, and lady cambrey, though guardian of one of the wealthiest heiresses in europe, was herself poor and almost needy. she was a distant relative of lady marion's mother, who had asked her to undertake the charge of her child, and lady cambrey had been only too pleased to undertake it. it was arranged that she should remain with lady marion erskine until her marriage, and lady cambrey was wise enough to know that she must find her future fortune from the marriage. she must use all her influence in favor of the lover who offered the greatest advantages, and lady lanswell was the only woman in england who had the wit to find it out. that was the darling wish of her life, that her son should marry lady marion erskine, the belle, beauty and heiress; and she saw the beginning of her tactics from this fact, that lady cambrey's influence would go with the most munificent lover. they had one interview in london. the countess had invited lady cambrey to a five-o'clock tea. "we have hardly met this year," said the countess. "we are staying in london for a week or two, though it is quite out of season, and i am so pleased to see you. is lady erskine in town?" "no; i merely came up to give orders for the redecoration of erskine house; lady marion is tired of it as it is." "i call it a special providence that you should be in town just now," said lady lanswell; "i was quite delighted when i heard it. there is nothing i enjoy more than a cup of tea and a chat with a congenial friend." this from the countess, to whom champagne and politics were baby play, was refreshing. lady cambrey was delighted, and before long the two ladies had opened their hearts to each other. the countess, in the most ingenuous manner possible, told her friend the sad history of her dear boy's entanglement and infatuation; how, in his simplicity, he had positively married the girl, and how, fortunately, the law had freed him. "you know, my dear lady cambrey," she said, "it might have been his ruin, but now, thank heaven," she added, piously, "it is all over, and my boy is free. i have looked all round england to find a suitable wife for him, and there is no one i should like him to marry half so well as lady marion erskine. you see that i show you the cards in my hands very freely." "it would be a very good match," said lady cambrey, thoughtfully. "if you use your influence, you will not find me ungrateful," continued the countess; "indeed, i should consider myself bound to assist you in every way--my home, carriages, purse, would always be at your services." "you are very kind," said lady cambrey, and in those few words they perfectly understood each other. the mother knew that she had virtually sold the honor and loyalty of her son, as lady cambrey had sold the free will of her niece. then they enjoyed a cup of tea, after which my lady became more confidential. "promise," she said, "to persuade lady marion to spend the winter in rome and i shall be quite content." "she will do it if i advise it," said lady cambrey. "she is very docile." "we can decide on our plans of action when we meet there," said the countess. "the chief thing is to keep all idea of 'our ideas' from my son. instead of drawing his attention to lady marion, we must seem to avoid bringing them together. i understand men. the first result of that will be an intense anxiety on his part to see her. do you understand?" "quite," said lady cambrey. "it is really a pleasure to meet some one who understands human nature as you do, lady lanswell." the countess smiled graciously at the compliment, feeling as though it were well deserved. so it was arranged, and lady cambrey's part of the plot was very easy. she had but to suggest to her niece that she should spend the winter in rome and she would at once fall in with her wish. lady lanswell had settled in her own mind the plan of the whole campaign. she intended to go to berlin, there to seek a reconciliation with her son, and persuade him to go to rome with them. she managed it all so well, saying nothing at first of their intended journey, but making herself very agreeable to her son. she brought to him all the flattering things said of them. she studied every little whim, wish, or caprice. she put him on a pedestal and made an idol of him. she was all that was gay, amiable, pleasant and kind. she made herself not only his friend and companion, but everything else in the world to him. she was gay, amiable, gracious, witty. with her still beautiful face and fine figure, she made herself so attractive and charming that lord chandos was soon entirely under her influence. how many mothers might have taken a hint for the management of their sons from her. she found no fault with cigars or latch-keys. she was the essence of all that was kind, yet, at the same time, she was so animated, so bright, so witty, that the time spent with her passed quickly as a dream. lord chandos did not even like to think of parting from her; and then, when she was most kind and most attentive to him, she mentioned rome. "we are going to rome, lance, for the winter," said the countess to her son. he looked up from the paper he was reading in blank amazement. "to rome, mother? why, what is taking you there?" "i find there will be some very nice english people there," she said; "i am tired of paris; it is one eternal glare; i long for the mysterious quiet and dreamy silence of rome. it will be a pleasant change. i really like a nice circle of english people out of england." that was the beginning. she was too wise and diplomatic to ask him to go with them. she contented herself by speaking before him of the gayeties they expected, the pleasures they anticipated; then, one day, as they were discussing their plans, she turned to him and said: "lance, what do you intend doing this winter? are you going back to england to think over the fogs?" "i am not quite sure," he said; and then he wondered why she said nothing about going to rome with them. at last, when she saw the time had come, she said, carelessly: "lance, if you do not care about returning to england, come with us to rome." "i shall be delighted." he looked up with an air of relief. after all, he could not see leone until summer: why return to england and melancholy? he might just as well enjoy himself in rome. he knew what select and brilliant circles his mother drew around her. better for him to be the center of one of those than alone and solitary in england. "of course," said the countess, diplomatically, "i will not urge you, i leave it entirely to you. if you think what the fashion of the day calls your duties demand that you should return, do not let me detain you, even for one day." "i have no particular duties," he said, half gloomily. he would have liked his mother to have insisted on his going, to have been more imperative, but as she left it entirely to him, he thought her indifferent over the matter. he was a true man. if she had pressed him to go, urged him, tried to persuade him, he would have gone back to england, and the tragedy of after years would never have happened. as it occurred to him that his mother simply gave the invitation out of politeness, and did not care whether he accepted or not, he decided on going. so when the festivities of berlin were all ended, he wrote to leone, saying that he was going to spend the winter with his parents in rome; that if he could not spend it with her, it mattered little enough to him where is was; but that he was longing with all his heart for the thirtieth of june. chapter xxiv. in the hands of a clever woman. "in rome," said lady marion erskine, to her cousin; "how strange it seems to be really here! do you know that when i was a little girl and learned roman history i always thought it a grand fable. i never believed such a place really existed. rome is a link between the old world and the new." "yes," replied lady cambrey, "it is quite true, my dear." she had no notion, even ever so vague, of what her beautiful young kinswoman meant. lady cambrey was not given to the cultivation of ideas, but she was always most amiably disposed to please lady marion. it was something very delightful to be the chaperon of a beautiful young heiress like lady erskine, and she was always delighted to agree with lady marion's words, opinions, and ideas. lady marion was submissive and gentle by nature. she was one of the class of women born to be ruled and not to rule. she could never govern, but she could obey. she could not command, but she could carry out the wishes of others to the last letter. lady cambrey, from motives of her own, wanted her to go to rome. she had managed it without the least trouble. "marion," she said, "have you decided where to spend the winter?" "no," was the quiet reply, "i have not thought much about it, aunt jane; have you?" the words were so sweetly and placidly spoken. "yes, i have thought a great deal about it. i hear that a great many very nice english people have gone to rome. they say that there will be one of the nicest circles in europe there." "in rome," said lady marion, musingly. "do i know many of those who are going?" "yes, some of our own set. one of the great roman princes, dorio, has just married a beautiful english girl, so that for this year at least the english will be all the rage in rome. i should like to go there. i knew some of the dorio family, but not the one just married." "then, if you would like it, we will go there," said lady marion; "i shall be pleased if you are." so without any more difficulty the first part of the programme was carried out, and lady marion erskine, with her chaperon, lady jane cambrey, settled in rome for the winter. they took a beautifully furnished villa, called the villa borgazi, near to some famous gardens. lady cambrey took care that, while she reveled in italian luxuries, no english comfort should be wanting--the villa borgazi soon had in it all the comforts of an english home. she came home one morning, after many hours of shopping, with a look of some importance on her face. "marion," she said, "i have heard that the lanswells are here. i am very pleased. i thought of calling this afternoon; if you are tired, i will go alone." and from the tone of her voice, rather than her words, lady marion fancied that she would prefer to pay her visit alone. "you remember the countess of lanswell; she was la grande dame par excellence in london last summer. she admired you very much, if you recollect." "i remember her," said lady marion; then, with some interest, she added, "it was her son, lord chandos, who got himself into such difficulties, was it not?" lady cambrey was slightly taken by surprise; her ward had always shown such a decided distaste for gossip of all kinds that she trusted she had never even heard of this little escapade. however, lady marion's question must be answered. she shook her head gravely. "it was not his fault, poor boy!" she said; "his mother has told me all about it. i am very sorry for him." "why does he deserve so much pity?" she asked. and lady cambrey answered: "he was but a boy at the time, and she, this person, a dairy-maid, i believe, took advantage of his generosity, and either persuaded him to marry her, or wrung from him some promise of marriage when he should be of age." "i thought," said straightforward lady marion, "that he was married, and his parents had petitioned that the marriage be considered null and void as he was under age." "i think, my dear," said the diplomatic aunt, "that it would be as well not to mention this. two things are certain, if lord chandos had been properly married, his marriage could never have been set aside; the other is, that the countess can never endure the mention of her son's misfortune." "do you know lord chandos?" asked lady marion, after a time. "yes, i know him, and i consider him one of the most charming men i have ever met, a perfect cavalier and chivalrous gentleman." "that is high praise," said lady marion, thoughtfully. "i know of none higher," said her aunt, and then with her usual tact changed the subject; but more than once that day lady marion thought of the man who was a cavalier and a gentleman. meanwhile the time passed pleasantly for the countess and her son. they were staying at the grand palace of the falconis--once the home of princes, but now let by the year to the highest bidder. lady lanswell took good care that her son should be well amused; every morning a delicious little sketch of the day's amusement was placed before him; the countess laid herself out to please him as man had never been pleased before. the countess saw that he received letters from england continually. she was above all vulgar intrigue, or she might have destroyed more than one-half which came, without his seeing them. she would not do that; the war she carried into the enemy's camp was of the most refined and thorough-going kind. she would set aside a marriage on a mere quibble, but she would not destroy a letter. she had said, openly and defiantly to her son's face, that she felt sure he would not remarry leone in june, but she would stoop to no vulgar way to prevent it. it often happened that the countess herself opened the letter-bag. when she did so, and there was a letter from leone, she always gave it to her son with a smile, in which there was just a shade of contempt. "another letter," she would say; "my dear lance, you contribute quite your share to the inland revenue." she never alluded to leone, but she did permit herself, at rare intervals, to relate some ludicrous anecdotes of people who had suffered from a severe attack of love. lord chandos found the time pass very pleasantly; he said to himself he might as well remain in rome and enjoy himself, as go back to england and be miserable. wherever he went, he could not see leone. he would not trust himself; he loved her too much, if he were in the same land, not to be near her. being in rome, he did as the romans did; he amused himself to the very utmost of his power; he seized every golden hour that passed, and though he loved leone as much as ever, he ceased to feel the keen pain which their separation had caused him at first. one morning, from the countess of lanswell to lady jane cambrey, there passed a little note. it said, simply: "shall we take the first step to-night? bring lady marion to the princess galza's concert, and leave the rest to me." lady cambrey lost no time. she sought her ward and said so much to her about the concert, for which they both had invitations, that lady marion was eager to go. "i must superintend your toilet, marion; as it is your first appearance in roman society, you must make a favorable impression." she selected one of the loveliest toilets that could have been chosen--a white brocade, embroidered with flowers of the palest blue. "you must wear pearls and pale-blue flowers," she said, "and you will find that to-morrow every one will be talking of the new beauty that has risen over rome." lady marion looked perfectly beautiful; she was perfect in her style, the very queen of blondes, with her soft, shining hair, and eyes blue as the summer skies. her face was the purest mixture of rose and white, with the dainty, delicate color described in that one line: "crimson shell, with white sea foam." she had a beautiful, fresh mouth, a dimpled chin, a neck and shoulders white as ivory, arms so rounded and white it was a treat to see them. she was of the queenly type--tall, with the promise of a grand womanhood; her white throat was firm, her arms rounded and strong; she was the ideal of an english gentlewoman; her pure, proud face, clear eyes, and sweet lips were beautiful beyond words. when she was dressed that evening for the princess' concert she looked most charming. lady cambrey had said truly that among the dark-eyed daughters of italy she would shine white and fair as a white dove among colored ones. her dress was the perfection of taste--it was trimmed with pale-blue forget-me-nots and white heath; a string of pearls was twisted in her fair hair, and another round her white throat. "if he does not fall in love with her," said lady cambrey to herself, "it will be because he has no admiration left in him for any one except his dairy-maid." lady lanswell had been very successful in her diplomacy. she had spoken of the concert before her son, who had received an invitation, but said nothing about his going. he listened in silence, wondering if she would ask him to go with her, saying to himself that he should decline, for he did not like concert-going. then, as she did not ask him, he began to feel piqued over it and wonder why. after a short time he volunteered to go, and my lady took it very coolly, reminding him of how often he had grown tired of a hot concert-room. then he resolved to go and made arrangements accordingly, his mother smiling sweetly all the time. when all was settled, and he had quitted the room, my lady laughed quietly. it was wonderful with what bland sweetness and fine tact she managed men. she could lead her son as though he were deaf, blind, and dumb, yet of all men he believed himself most firm and secure in his opinion. heaven help the man who falls helplessly into the hands of a clever woman! chapter xxv. the introduction. if lady lanswell had purposely designed the meeting between her son and the beautiful blonde to have taken place in the most picturesque spot in europe, she could not have chosen better. the great _salon_ of the palazzo golza had, in former days, been used as a royal audience-room; the noblest princes in rome had met there, and had given audience to the grandest nobles. it was a superb apartment; there was a background of purple tapestry from which the blonde loveliness of the english girl shone resplendent as a snow-drop on a black ground. there were many beautiful women present; the princess ainla, whose dark beauty was the wonder of all who saw it; the famous american belle, miss sedmon, whose auburn hair resembled that given by the old masters to the madonna; but there was not one in that vast assembly who could vie with lady marion. the countess of lanswell, with her son, was one of the last to enter the _salon_; with one keen, comprehensive glance the countess took in, as it were, the whole situation; she saw the pure, proud face of lady erskine, saw that she was seated in the very place where her beauty was seen to the best advantage, then she took her seat, never even looking in that direction, and saying nothing to her son. it was just like laying a trap for a bird--he fell into it with the same helplessness. lady lanswell neither looked at lady erskine nor her son, yet she knew exactly the moment when his eyes first fell on her. she saw him start; then she sat quite still, waiting for the question she knew must follow. it came at last. "mother," he said, "who is that beautiful girl?" my lady looked at him with languid eyes. "what beautiful girl, lance? there are so many." "an english girl, i am sure. she has a string of pearls in her hair. who can she be?" still lady lanswell feigned ignorance. she looked on the wrong side of the room, and she affected not to understand where he meant, and when she could affect no longer, she said: "do you mean lady marion erskine, the young lady near princess golza?" "yes, it must be lady erskine," he replied. "how beautiful she is, mother. she shines like a fair pearl with that background of dark tapestry. i heard some one say yesterday that she was in rome. what a perfect face." my lady looked at it coldly. "do you think so, lance?" she said. "i thought that you gave the preference to dark beauties." his heart went back for one moment to the beautiful, passionate face he had seen by the mill stream. the gorgeous _salon_, the beautiful women, the peerless face of lady marion, the exquisite music, all floated away from him, and he was once more by the mill-stream, with leone's face before him. so strong, so vivid was the memory, that it was with difficulty he refrained from calling the name aloud. my lady guessed by the sudden expression of pain on his face where his thoughts had gone. she recalled them. "tastes differ so greatly," she said. "do you really consider lady marion beautiful, lance?" "yes, i have seen no one more lovely," he answered. then the countess dismissed the subject--too much must not be said at once. she did not mention lady marion's name again that evening, but she saw that her son looked often at her, and she smiled to think the bait had taken. again they were walking through the vast gardens of one of the roman palaces, when the whole party met. lady cambrey was with her niece; lord chandos was near the countess, but not close by her side. the ladies met, exchanged a few words, then parted, the countess not having made the least effort to introduce her son; he spoke of it afterward. "mother," he said, "you did not introduce me to lady erskine." lady lanswell smiled calmly. "it was out of pure consideration for her; they tell me she has so many admirers in rome. from what i know of her, you would not be quite in her style." the words piqued him. "why not?" he asked. his mother laughed again. "she is very proud, lance, and very exclusive. i need say no more." my lady always knew exactly when to leave off. she turned away now, leaving her son with the impression that lady erskine would not care to know him, on account of his unfortunate love affair. they were destined to meet again that evening. a ball was given by an english lady, mrs. chester, who had one of the best houses in rome. lady erskine looked very beautiful; her dress was of pale blue velvet, superbly trimmed with white lace; she wore diamonds in her hair, and carried a bouquet of white lilies in her hand. she was the belle of the ball, and it was mrs. chester who introduced lord chandos to her. she was quite innocent of any intrigue, but had she been the chosen confidante of lady lanswell, she could not have done more to further her views. she had been dancing with lord chandos herself, and began to speak to him of the beautiful blonde. "lady marion erskine realizes my idea of a fair woman," said mrs. chester. "i have read the words in prose and poetry, now i understand them." "i do not know lady erskine," said the young earl. "not know her. why, i should have thought that all the englishmen in rome knew their beautiful country-woman." "i have never been introduced to her," said lord chandos. "then this is the last hour in which you shall lay any such complaint against fate," said mrs. chester. "come with me, my lord." like all other english ladies in rome, mrs. chester had a great admiration for the heir of the lanswells. it was impossible to withhold it. he was so handsome, so brave and gallant, with the bearing of a prince, the chivalry of a knight, and in his temper the sweet, sunny grace of a woman. they all liked him; he seemed to have the geniality, the generosity, the true nobility of an englishman, without the accompanying reserve and gloom. at that time there was no one more popular in rome than the young lord, about whom so many romantic stories were told. he followed mrs. chester to where lady marion stood, the brilliant center of a brilliant group. it pleased him to see what deference was paid to him--how italian princes and french dukes made way when mrs. chester presented him to the beautiful heiress. the first moment the proud clear eyes smiled in his face he liked her. she was most charming in her manner; she had not the fire and passion of leone; she was not brilliant, original or sparkling, but she was sweet, candid, amiable, and gentle. one found rest in her--rest in the blue eyes, in the sweet, smiling lips, in the soft, low voice, in the graceful, gentle movements--rest and content. she never irritated, never roused any one to any great animation; she received rather than gave ideas; she was one of those quiet, gentle, amiable women whose life resembles the rippling of a brook rather than the rush of a stream. she looked with a smile into the handsome face of the young lord, and she, too, liked him. they stood together for a few minutes while lord chandos begged for a dance, and even during the brief time more than one present thought what a handsome pair they were. lord chandos was much pleased with her--the low voice, the exquisitely-refined accent, the gentle grace, all delighted him. she lacked passion, power, fire, originality, the chief things which went for the making up of leone's character; no two people could be more dissimilar, more unlike; yet both had a charm for lord chandos; with the one he found the stimulant of wit and genius, with the other sweetest rest. they had several dances together; in her quiet, gentle way lady marion confided to him that she preferred englishmen to italians, whom she thought wanting in frankness and ease. "why did you come to rome?" asked lord chandos; and the beautiful blonde was almost at a loss how to answer the question. the only answer that she could give was that lady cambrey had first mentioned it. "it was not from any great wish, then, to see the antiquities or the art treasures of rome?" asked lord chandos, thinking as he spoke with what rapture leone would have thought of a visit to italy. "no, it was not that, although i would not have missed seeing rome on any account. what brought you here, lord chandos?" he also hesitated for a moment, then he answered: "i really do not know. i came, so far as i know my own mind, because my mother came," and then their eyes met with a curious, half-laughing gaze. it was strange that they should have both come there without having any clear or distinct notion why. "it seems to me," said lord chandos, "that we are both under guidance." "i am glad, for my own part," said lady erskine. "it is much easier to be guided than to guide. i find it easier to obey than to command." "do you?" he asked, laughingly. "you will find it very easy then some day 'to love, honor and obey.'" "i do not doubt it," said the beautiful heiress, calmly. "i should not care to go through life alone; i want a stronger soul than my own to lean on." and again lord chandos went back in thought to the noble, self-reliant girl who would hold her own against the world if need should be. and yet he liked lady marion; her graceful, languid helplessness had a great charm for him. when he bade her good-evening, it was with the hope that they would soon meet again. chapter xxvi. man's fickleness. they did meet again and again, always with pleasure on his part, and very soon with something else on hers. wherever she was she looked out above the dark italian heads for the tall, erect figure and brave english face of lord chandos. she did not talk much to him, but there was a light in her eyes and a smile on her face most pleasant to see when he was near. she never sought him, she never, either directly or indirectly, gave him any idea of where she was going. she never contrived to meet him, but there were very few days during which they did not spend some hours together. lady lanswell paid not the least attention when lady erskine joined their party. she was kind and cordial, but she never made the least effort either to entertain her or to induce her to stay. if ever by chance lord chandos named her, his mother received the remark in total silence--in fact, she completely ignored her--in which she showed her tact. had she ever made the least attempt to bring them together, he would have seen through the little plot, and would have taken fright; as it was, the net was so skillfully woven, that he was caught in it before he knew there was a net at all. if the countess arranged a party for any place, she never included the young heiress among her guests. so that their frequent interviews were so completely accidental, neither of them thought anything of it; they drifted unawares into an intimacy at which every one smiled but themselves. it flattered lord chandos to see dukes and princes drawback when he came near the beautiful heiress, as though it were quite understood that he had the right to claim her attention--to see a proud roman prince, with a long pedigree, make way with a bow--to see a courtly french duke resign the seat he had waited half the night for--to see the eyes of envy that followed him--it flattered him, and he never asked where it would end. lady lanswell saw it all with well-pleased eyes, but said nothing; she was biding her time. one evening they met at mrs. chester's. there was neither ball nor party, but a quiet at home; and their friendship made greater strides than it hitherto had done. some one asked lady erskine to sing. lord chandos looked at her. "do you sing?" he asked. and she answered with a quiet smile: "yes, it is one of the few things i do well enough to content myself. i have a good voice and i sing well." "are you what people call fond of music?" he asked. and she answered: "yes, i often put my own thoughts to music, and if i meet any words that seem to me very good or very sweet i never rest until i have found a melody that fits them. i came across some the other day. shall i sing them to you?" there was a slight commotion in the room when people saw the beautiful english girl led to the piano. she turned with a smile to lord chandos. "my song is english," she said, "and will not be understood by every one." "i shall understand it," he said; "you must sing it to me." when he heard the words he understood the blush that covered her face. "i should change my song," she said, "if another came into my mind. these words are by a poetess i read and admire much. it is called 'somewhere or other.'" she sung in a sweet, pure voice; there was neither fire, power, nor passion in it; but the words were clear and distinct. "'somewhere or other there must surely be the face not seen, the voice not heard, the heart that never yet--never yet--ah, me, made answer to my word. "'somewhere or other, may be near or far, past land and sea, clear out of sight, beyond the wandering moon, the star, that tracks her night by night. "'somewhere or other, may be far or near, with just a wall, a hedge between, with just the last leaves of the dying year fallen on a turf so green.'" he stood by her side while she sung, his eyes fixed on her face, thinking how pure and fair she was. when the sweet strain of music ended, he said: "somewhere or other--you will find it soon, lady marion." "find what?" she asked. "'the heart that has never yet answered a word,'" he replied, quoting the words of her song. "people do often meet their fate without knowing it." when he saw the fair face grow crimson he knew at once that she thought she was speaking of himself and her. after that there seemed to be a kind of understanding between them. when others were speaking he would quote the words: "somewhere or other," and then lady marion would blush until her face burned. so a kind of secret understanding grew between them without either of them quite understanding how it was. lady lanswell was quite happy; the bait was taking; there was no need for her to interfere, all was going well. "mother," said lord chandos, "i cannot understand it; you invite all the old dowagers and spinsters in rome to your afternoon teas and _soirees_, but you never invite any young ladies, and there are some very pretty ones." "my dear lance, i know it, and deeply regret it; but you see i have no one to entertain young ladies." he raised his head with an injured air. "you have me," he replied. the countess laughed. "true, i have you, but i mean some one free and eligible." "am i not free and eligible?" he asked, quickly; and then his brave young face grew fiery red under his mother's slow, sneering smile. "i do not mean that; of course i am not free or eligible in that sense of the word, yet i think i am quite as well able to entertain young and pretty girls as old dowagers." lady lanswell looked keenly at him. "my dear lance, i will do anything to please you," she said, "but if you persist in considering yourself an engaged man, you must forego the society of charming girls. i have no desire for another visit from that tempestuous young person." lance, lord chandos, shuddered at the words--"a tempestuous young person"--this was the heroine of his romance, his beautiful leone, whose voice always came to him with the whisper of the wind, and the sweet ripple of falling water. "a tempestuous young person," his beautiful leone, whose passionate kisses were still warm on his lips, whose bitter tears seemed wet on his face--leone, who was a queen by right divine. he turned angrily away, and lady lanswell, seeing that she had gone far enough, affected not to see his anger, but spoke next in a laughing tone of voice. "you see, lance, in my eyes you are very eligible, indeed, and it seems to me almost cruel to bring you into a circle of young girls, one of whom might admire you, while i know that you can never admire them. is it not so?" "i am not free, mother, you know as well as all the world knows; still, i repeat it that it is no reason why you should fill the house with dowagers and never bring the bloom of a young face near it." "i will do as you wish, lance," said my lady, and her son smiled. "though i consider myself, and am, in all solemn truth, engaged, still that does not make me a slave, mother. i am free to do as i like." "certainly," said my lady, and for some minutes there was silence between them. lord chandos broke in. "why do you never ask lady erskine to visit you, mother? she is a charming girl, and you like her." the countess looked at him straight in the face. "i think it more prudent not to do so," she said. "lady marion is one of the most perfect women i know; i know, too, that she admires you, and as you are not free to admire her, you are better apart." he flung himself down on the carpet, and laid his handsome head on his mother's knee, looking up to her with coaxing eyes, as he had done when he was a boy. "does she really admire me, mother? this beautiful girl, who has all the grandees in rome at her feet--does she really admire me?" "i have said it," laughed my lady. "who told you, mother? how do you know?" "i shall not tell you, lance; sufficient for you to know that it is quite true, and that i consider i am simply acting as prudence dictates. i should admire you, lance, if i were a young girl myself." "i am very much flattered," he said, slowly. "even if it be true, mother, i do not quite see why you should think so much prudence needful. i admire lady marion; why should we not be friends?" "would the tempestuous young person like it, lance?" asked my lady. and it is very painful to state that an exceedingly strong and highly improper word came from between lord chandos' closed lips. "do not tease me, mother. i see no harm in it; if i did, be quite sure i would not do it. lady marion and i can always be friends. i like her and admire her; there is a certain kind of repose about her that i enjoy. why should we not be friends?" "be friends if you like," said lady lanswell; "but if, in the course of a few weeks, you find that mutual admiration does not answer, do not blame me." from that day lady lanswell laid aside all pretense at scruple, and allowed matters to go as they would; she visited the young heiress constantly, and smiled when she saw that her son was becoming, day by day, more attracted to her. she noticed another thing, too, with keen pleasure, and it was that, although the same number of letters came from england, not half so many went there. "a step in the right, direction," thought my lady; "i shall succeed after all." to do lord chandos justice, he was quite blind to the danger that surrounded him. he intended to be true to leone--he had no other desire, no other wish--he had never contemplated for one moment the act of deserting her; he would have denounced any one who even hinted at such a thing. but he was young, she was beautiful, they were in sunny italy. and he never dreamed of loving her. they were friends, that was all; they were to be exceptions to the general rule--they were to be friends, without any of the elements of love or flirtation marring their intercourse. only friends. yet in the beginning of may when lady cambrey and her ward declined to return to england for the summer, but resolved to spend it in naples, lord chandos went there also, without feeling at all sure that he would be back in london by june. chapter xxvii. "tell me your secret." the sunny summer days at nice--who can tell of their beauty, the glory of the sunny blue sky, the glory of the foliage, the sweet, balmy breath of the wind, which seemed daily to bring with it the perfume from a hundred new flowers? how did the time pass? no one knew; it was a long roll of pleasure and gayety. there was pleasure enough in being out-of-doors; a picnic there was a very simple matter. they heard of a very beautiful spot, drove there, remained there so long as it suited them, then went back again. there were, as there always are, some very nice english people at nice, but none like fair, sweet lady marion. as the charm of her sweet character grew upon him, lord chandos liked her more and more. he enjoyed her society. she was not witty, she could not amuse a whole room full of people, she could not create laughter, she was not the cause of wit in others, nor did talking to her awake the imagination and arouse all the faculties of one's mind. talking to her was rest, grateful as the shade of green trees after the glare of the summer's sun. the sweet voice, the clear, refined accent, the gracious and gentle thoughts, the apt quotations, all were something to remember. she was by no means a genius, but she was well read, and had the power of remembering what she read, had the gift of making most of her knowledge. if you wished for an hour's interesting conversation, there was no one like lady marion. she had such curious odds and ends of information; her reading had been universal. she had some knowledge on every point. she had her own ideas, too, clearly defined and straightforward, not liable to vary with every paper she read, and in these days one learns to be thankful for consistency. on those warm, lovely, life-giving days, when the sun and sky, earth and air, flower and tree did their best, it was lord chandos who liked to linger under the vines talking to this fair girl whose very face was a haven of rest. he never thought of love at all in connection with her, he felt so sure of the one great fact that he loved his wife; he forgot that there could be such a thing as danger or temptation. lady marion had grown to love him; it was impossible to help it; he had great and grave faults, as all men have, but he was so brave and fearless, so gallant and generous, so kind and chivalrous, no one could help loving him; his faults were lovable, a fact that was much to be regretted; since, if they had been disagreeable, he might have been cured of them. lady marion, in her quiet, gentle fashion, had learned to love him. she appealed to him continually; the reading of a book, the singing of a song, the arrangement of a day's plans, the choosing of acquaintances, on each and all of these points she made him her confidant and guide; it was so gently and so naturally done that he insensibly guided her whole life without knowing it. what lord chandos said or thought was her rule. it was such a pleasure to guide and advise her, she was so yielding, so gentle, she took such a pride in obeying him; she would apologize to him at times and say: "i told you, lord chandos, that i must always have a stronger mind than my own to lean upon." he listened to the words with a smile, but it did just occur to him that she would not have his mind to lean upon much longer, for he must go home to england to leone. once or twice lately he had been much struck with lady marion's manner. she was so gracious, so charming with him. when he had suddenly entered the room where she was sitting he had seen the crimson blush that rose over her white neck and brow. he noticed too, that she had rarely, if ever, raised her eyes to his face until that blush had passed away, lest they should tell their own secret. and one day he said to her: "why do you never give me a frank, open look, lady marion--such as you gave me always when i knew you first? now you turn your face away, and your eyes droop. have i displeased you?" "no," she replied, gently; "it is not that; you could not displease me." "then you are keeping some secret from me," he said, and she smiled a slow, sweet, half-sad smile that stirred his heart with curious power. "i have no secret," she said; "or if i have it matters little to any one but myself." "tell me your secret, lady marion," he said, with a sigh. "i will answer you in the words of my favorite poet," she said; "listen, lord chandos." they were standing under the shade of a clustering vine, the wind that kissed both fair young faces was full of perfume, the flowers that bloomed around them were full of sweetest odors, the whisper of the odorous wind was no sweeter than the voice in which she quoted the words: "'perhaps some languid summer day, when drowsy birds sing less and less, and golden fruit is ripening to excess; if there's not too much wind or too much cloud, and the warm wind is neither still nor loud, perhaps my secret i may say, or--you may guess.'" "what beautiful words," he cried. "it seems to me, lady marion, that you have a whole storehouse full of the most apt and beautiful quotations. you ought to have been a poet yourself." "no," she replied, "i can appreciate, but i cannot invent. i can make the words and the thoughts of a poet my own, but i cannot invent or create; i have no originality." "you have what is rarer, still," he cried; "a graceful humility that raises you higher than any other gift could do." he spoke so warmly that she looked up in wonder, but lord chandos turned abruptly away; there might be danger if he said more. so the lovely, leafy month of may ended, and june began. then lord chandos began to think of home--his birthday was on the thirtieth of june, and he knew what he had promised for that day. he could see the pretty, flower-covered window--the roses which must be thrust aside--the gate he had promised to open; he remembered every detail. well, it was all very pretty and very pleasant; but, he could not tell why, the bloom of the romance was gone, that was quite certain. he had learned to associate poetry with the pale moonlight and golden hair, with a very fair face and a soft ripple of sweet speech. still he intended most honorably to keep his promise; he took great delight, too, in thinking of leone's passionate happiness, of her beautiful face, of the ecstasy of welcome she would give him. then, of course, he must marry her; the very day after that would be the first of july, and, for the first time, he thought of his coming marriage with a sigh--it would separate him so entirely from his mother, and from lady marion; in all probability he would never see much of her again. he thought more of her loss than of his own. "how she will miss me," he said to himself; "she will have no one to consult, no one to advise her. i wish we could always be the same good friends as now." then it occurred to him that perhaps, after all, his wife would not care to know that he was on such confidential terms with any one but herself. he would have felt far less sure of either his return or his marriage if he had overheard a slight conversation that took place between his mother and lady marion. the countess of lanswell called one day and took the young heiress out for a drive with her; when they were seated, driving through scenery so beautiful one could hardly believe it to be a fallen world, the countess in her sweetest manner, which she knew how to make quite irresistible, said: "lady marion, i want you to help me to do something, if you will." "you know i will do anything i can for you, lady lanswell," said the girl, gently; "i could have no greater pleasure." she did not add, because i love your son, but this was in her mind, and the countess quite understood it. she continued: "you know how i love my dear and only son, how anxious i am for his welfare, how devoted to his interests." "i can imagine it all," said lady marion, warmly. the countess went on: "he has an idea, a quixotic, foolish and most unhappy one, one that if carried out will mar his life and ruin his prospects, and in the end break his heart. now, i want you to help me break off this idea; he thinks of returning to england in june, and if he does, all hope is over. he never allows himself to be coerced or persuaded; as to the word 'marriage' it would be a fatal one, but we might, i am sure, influence him--that is, if you will help me." "i will do all i can," said lady marion, earnestly; her sweet face had grown very pale. "he must not go back to england," said the countess: "we must keep him here until august--how can we do it?" "ask him to stay," said the young girl, simply; "that seems the most straightforward plan." "yes, but it would not be of the least use; he must be influenced. now i think that he prefers your society to any other; suppose you plan a tour through spain, and ask him to go with us." the pale face flushed. "i will if you think he would agree," she replied. "i believe he would; if he seems inclined to refuse, and you are in the least degree disturbed over it, i believe firmly that he will go. i do not think that he knows the strength of his own feelings for you. let us try it. you can speak to me about it before him, then i will leave you with him and you can finish your good work." "he is not likely to be vexed, is he?" asked lady marion, timidly. "vexed, my dear child, no; he will consider himself highly favored. you see it is in this way. i cannot show any eagerness for it, and you can. my son would suspect my motive; he knows yours must be a good one, and will feel sure that it is liking for his society--you do like it, do you not, lady marion?" "yes, i cannot deny it," replied the young girl, "and i will help you all i can. you do not wish him to return to england in june. i will do my best to keep him away." and the question was--would she succeed? chapter xxviii. how it happened. "mother," said lord chandos, "i never knew a month pass as this has done--the days have wings. it is the sixteenth to-day, and it does not seem to be twenty-four hours since it was the first." "that shows, at least, that life has been pleasant to you," said the countess. "yes, it has been very pleasant," he replied, and then he sighed deeply. "why do you sigh, lance? the future can be as pleasant as the past, can it not?" he looked up half impatiently. "i sigh to think that my share in it is all ended. i must be in england by the end of june." "make the most of the time left," said my lady; "there's another week, at least. let us go everywhere and see everything. in all probability, we shall not meet at nice again." he had expected contradiction, he had expected his mother to oppose his desire of returning home, and he was slightly piqued to find that so far from opposing him, she seemed to fall into the idea as though it were the most natural one. "i think," he pursued, "that if i leave here on the twenty-seventh that will be soon enough." "yes," said the countess, quietly. "it is not such a long journey, after all." so she would not oppose him, she would not argue with him, but left him to take his own way. the handsome face grew shadowed, the frank eyes troubled. it is very hard when a man cannot force any one to contradict him. he rose from his chair, he walked uneasily up and down the room; he spoke almost nervously on one or two points and then he said: "mother, i suppose you know what i intend doing." she looked up at him with the blandest smile and the sweetest air. "doing, lance--about the boat to-night, do you mean?" she purposely affected to misunderstand him. "the boat?" he repeated. "no, i mean about--my--my--future--my marriage." "i cannot say that i know what you intend doing, lance, but i am quite sure you will never again have the bad taste to offend your father and me. i can trust you so far." he looked still more uncomfortable; he could always manage the countess better when she was angry than when she was amiable. he stopped abruptly before her, and looking at her said: "i must marry leone, mother, i must." "very well, lance. when you are twenty-one, you can do as you like." "oh, mother," cried the young lord, "be more humane, do not be so frigid and cold; speak to me about it. i am your only son, surely my marriage is a matter of some importance to you." there was a passion of entreaty in his voice, and lady lanswell looked kindly at him. "certainly your marriage is of more importance than anything else on earth; but you cannot expect me to look with favor on that tempestuous young person who ranted at me like a third-rate actress from a traveling theater; you must excuse me, lance, but there are limits to human endurance, and she is beyond mine." "mother, let me be happy, let me go and marry her, let me bring her back here and we shall all be happy together." "my dear lance, i should not consider a person of her position a fit companion for my maid; for myself, i quite declare i shall not oppose your marriage with the girl--it is quite useless, since you are of age, to do as you like; but i shall never see you or speak to you again; when you leave me here for that purpose our good-bye will last beyond death. still you understand i do not seek to win you from your purpose, you are free to do as you will." the misery on his handsome young face touched her a little, and she had to remind herself that she was doing all she did for his own good. "we will not talk any more about it, lance," she said, kindly; "words will not alter facts. did your father tell you what we proposed about the boat to-night?" his lips trembled as he tried to answer her. "i cannot throw off sorrow as you can, mother; i am talking to you about that which will make the misery or the happiness of my life, and you think of nothing but a boat." "words are so useless, lance," repeated my lady; "they are but empty sounds. i am going out to look for some cameos; i think i should like a set, they are very elegant and _recherche_." so saying, my lady left the room as though no serious thought occupied her mind. then, for the first time, something like impatience with his fate came over the young lord, something like impatience with leone, for whose love he had so much to suffer. he loved his proud, beautiful mother, who had, unknown to him, such great influence over him. he could not endure the thought of life-long separation from her. the glamour of a boy's first mad love had fallen from him, and he saw things as they were; he could estimate better than he had done before, what it meant to give up father, mother and friends all for one love. he did not recover his spirits all day, but the temptation never once came near him to break his word or forget leone. that night, one of the loveliest that ever dawned on earth, they were all going to a _fete_ given by the countess spizia, and one part of the entertainment was that the beautiful grounds were to be illuminated. lord chandos had never seen his mother look so proud, so brilliant or so handsome as on that night. she wore a superb dress of green velvet, with a suit of diamonds worth a king's ransom. lady marion wore a dress of rich lace, with cream color roses and green leaves. the _fete_ was well attended; a great number of french people and english were there. the earl had declined. moonlit gardens and illuminated grounds had not much attraction for him. lord chandos sat for some little time by his mother's side; he was enjoying an ice, and as he watched her he felt a sensation of pride in her beauty--a keen sense of regret that they should ever be parted. an involuntary cry of admiration came from the countess, and lord chandos looking in the direction where her eyes were fixed, saw lady erskine. never had the great queen of blondes looked so lovely; the fine, fairy-like web of costly lace fell in graceful folds around a figure that stood alone for grace and symmetry. she wore nothing but green leaves in her golden hair; her arms, bare to the shoulders, were white, firm, and statuesque. over her face, when she saw lord chandos, came a beautiful, brilliant flush. the countess and her son were sitting in one of the pretty _salons_, where some of the most famous works of art were collected. there was an exquisite bust of clytie which attracted much attention; they had been commenting on it, and lady lanswell was saying how much she would like a copy of it. "here comes something more beautiful than clytie," she said, as lady marion advanced to meet them. she made room for the young heiress by her side. lady marion had schooled herself well, but her task was no easy one--she was so candid, so loyal, so true in all her dealings, that the least attempt at anything savoring of deception was unpleasant to her; still, she would, of course, do anything to help lady lanswell. so she sat down by her side and talked with her usual gentle grace. she said, after a time: "lady lanswell, i have a great favor to ask of you. if you do not wish to go back to england just yet, will you join me? i am trying to persuade lady cambrey to make a tour through spain." she drew a long breath of relief when the words were spoken, she was so thankful to have them said and done with. she mentally resolved that never would she promise to do anything of this kind again. lady lanswell's calm restored hers. "to spain?" repeated the countess. "what a traveler you are, lady marion. what has put spain into your mind?" "i have always longed to see the alhambra," said lady marion, with perfect truth. "as we are so near, it would be a pity to go back without seeing it." "i quite agree with you. it may be some years before you come on the continent again--you are quite right to go to spain. and you really wish us to join your party?" "certainly, i should be delighted; it would increase my pleasure a hundred-fold," replied the young heiress, promptly. "you are very kind to say so. i will go if you can persuade lord chandos to go with us." "how can i do that?" she asked, with a smile. "teach me how to 'persuade,' lady lanswell. i have never been able to 'persuade' any one." the countess rose from her seat with a light laugh. "i am afraid that in this case, persuasion, argument, and reason would be in vain. lance, take lady marion to see the lamps in the almond trees--they are really very fine." he took the soft, silken wrapper from her and wrapped it round her shoulders. "let us go and see the lamps," he said, and they went. ah, well. the sky above was filled with pale, pure stars; the almond-trees filled the air with delicate perfume; the nightingales were singing in the distant trees; great floods of silver moonlight fell over the grounds, in which the lilies gleamed palely white, and the roses hung their heavy heads. they went together to the grove where the lamps shone bright as huge pearls. the path was a narrow one and he drew the white hand through his arm. how did it come about? ah, who shall tell? perhaps the wind whispered it, perhaps the nightingales sung about it, perhaps something in the great white lily leaves suggested it, perhaps the pale, pure stars looked disapproval; but it happened that the white hand felt the arm, and was clasped in a warm, strong hand--a clasp such as only love gives. who shall say how it happened? she raised her fair face to his in the soft, pure moonlight, and said to him: "must you really go back to england, lord chandos?" the voice was sweet as music--the face, so fair, so pure, so proud. "must you," she added, "really go?" "yes, i am compelled to return," he answered slowly. "need it be yet?" she said. "i know you must go, but the journey through spain will be so pleasant, and we might make a compromise. i will shorten the journey if you will delay your return." and before he left the almond grove lord chandos had promised to do so, and as he made the promise he bent down and kissed the white hand lying in his. chapter xxix. waiting for him. never had june seen such roses, never had lilies opened such white chalices, never had the trees looked so green, or the grass so long and thick, never had the birds sung as they sung this june, never had the light of the sun been so golden bright. the smile of the beautiful summer lay over the land, but in no place was it so fair as in river view. it was a scene like fairyland. so leone thought it as she watched day by day the beauty of blossom and leaf. it was in the month of may she first began to watch the signs of coming summer; with the first breath of the hawthorn, her heart grew light and a new beauty of hope came in her face. it was may and he was coming in june. she worked harder than ever. she rose early and retired late; these months of hard study and hard reading had changed her more than she knew herself. one year ago she had risen a beautiful, strong, healthy girl, full of fire, and life, and power. now she was a refined, intellectual woman, full of genius and talent, full of poetry and eloquence, full of originality and wit; then she was a girl to be admired, now she was a woman who could rule a kingdom, whose power was unlimited. she had acquired more in these few months of study than some people learn in years. she knew how great his delight would be, and she smiled to think how entirely at her ease she should be, even with his stately lady mother; she should feel no great awe of her in the future, for if heaven had not given her the position of a lady by birth, she had made herself one by study and refinement. so he was coming, and their real married life was to begin. she thought with a shudder of the pain she had passed through, of the horror of that terrible discovery. it was all over now, thank heaven. it had never been any brand or stigma to her; she had never felt any false shame over it; she had never bowed her bright head as though a blight had passed over her. she said to herself it was not her fault, she was not in the least to blame. she had believed herself in all honor to be the wife of lord chandos, and she could not feel that the least shadow of blame rested on her. he was coming home. through the long hours of the summer day, she thought of nothing else. true, since the month of june, his letters had been very few and much cooler. true, it had been a severe shock to her, to hear that he had gone to nice; but, as his letter said nothing of lady marion, and she knew nothing even of the existence of such a person, that did not matter. why had he gone to nice when june was so near? she wrote to him to ask the question, but his answer was: because his parents had gone there. then she said no more; that seemed quite natural. the only thing that occurred to her was, he would have a longer journey in june; he would come to her as he had promised, but he would take a longer time in traveling. lose faith in him! she flung back her head, with a bright, proud laugh. no, nothing could shake her faith in him; his proud lady mother had managed to get him under her influence--what did that matter? he loved her and her alone. she remembered the words spoken on her wedding-day; when she had asked him if he was quite sure their marriage was legal, his answer was, "yes, and that nothing could part them except death." how well she remembered those words, "except death"! he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, as though even death itself should not claim her. no shadow of fear entered her mind. she knew that he would come, as surely as she knew that the sun would rise and the day would dawn. the thirtieth of june. no gift of second sight came to her, to tell her that on the twenty-seventh of june lord chandos had sat down and wrote her a very long letter, telling her that it was impossible for him to be at home on the thirtieth of june, as he had promised to go with his parents to spain. a large party were going, and he must join them; but his heart would be with her on that day. he should think of her from morning dawn until sunset, and he would be with her soon. he was vexed that he had to take the journey; it was quite against his will, yet he had been over-persuaded. he should soon see her now; and, whatever he did, she must not feel in the least degree distressed, or put about. their happiness was only delayed for a short time. a long letter. she had no gift of second sight; she could not see that his face burned with a shameful flush as he wrote it; that for himself he had no pity; that his heart went out to her with a warmer love than ever, but that the fear of his mother's taunts and the pain on lady marion's face kept him where he was. then, when the long letter was written, he directed it and sent it by his valet to post; nor could she see how that same valet intended going to post it at once, but was prevented, and then laid it aside for an hour, as he thought, and forgot it for two whole days; then, fearing his master's anger, said nothing about it, trusting that the delay might be attributed to something wrong in the post; and so, on the very day it should have been given to her, it was put into the post-office, three days too late. she could not know all this, and she longed for the thirtieth of june as the dying long for cold water, as the thirsty hart for the clear spring. it came. she had longed for it, waited for it, prayed for it, and now it was here. she awoke early in the morning; it was to her as though a bridegroom were coming; the song of the birds woke her, and they seemed to know that he was coming--they were up and awake in the earliest dawn. then a great flood of golden sunlight came to welcome her; she hastened to the window to see what the day was like, and whether the sky was blue. it seemed to her that every little bird sung, "he is coming." here were the roses laughing in at the window, nodding as though they would say, "this is the thirtieth of june." there flashed the deep, clear river, hurrying on to the great sea over which he must have crossed; the wind whispered among the leaves, and every leaf had a voice. "he is coming to-day," they all said--"coming to-day." there was a great stir even at that early hour in the morning between the white and purple butterflies; there was a swift, soft cooing from the wood-pigeons; the world seemed to laugh in the warm embrace of the rising sun. she laughed too--a sweet, happy laugh that stirred the rose leaf and jasmine. "oh, happy day!" she cried--"oh, kindly sun and kindly time, that brings my love back to me." she looked at the gate through which he would pass--at the rose tree from which he would gather the rose; and she stretched out her hands with a great, longing cry. "send him quickly--oh, kind heaven!" she cried. "i have waited so long, my eyes ache to look at him. i thirst for his presence as flowers thirst for dew." she looked at her watch, it was but just six--the laborers were going to the field, the maids to the dairy, the herdsmen to their flocks. she could see the hay-makers in the meadow, and the barges dropped lazily down the stream. the time would soon pass and he would be here before noon. could it be possible that she should see him so soon? "in six hours," she repeated, "she should see him in six hours." ah, well, she had plenty to do. she went round the pretty villa to see if everything was as he liked best to see it, then she occupied herself in ordering for his enjoyment every dish that she knew he liked; and then she dressed herself to sit and wait for him at the window. she looked as though she had been bathed in dew and warmed by the golden sun, so bright, so sparkling, so fresh and brilliant, her eyes radiant with hope and love, the long, silken lashes like fringe, the white lids half-drooping, her face, with its passionate beauty heightened by the love that filled her heart and soul. she wore a dress of amber muslin with white lace, and in the rich masses of her dark hair lay a creamy rose. fair and bright as the morning itself she took her place at the window to watch the coming of him who was so many miles away. it is thus women believe men, it is thus that men keep the most solemn vows that they can make. the maid who brought her tea wondered why her young mistress chose to sit at the window to drink it; indeed, she started with wonder at the brilliant beauty of the face turned to her. it struck her now that she might in very truth begin to expect him; the sun was growing warmer, the flowers were wide awake, the brown bees were busy among the carnations, the birds had done half their day's work; some of the tall-plumed lilacs were beginning to droop, and the white acacia blossoms had fallen on the long grass. her whole soul in her eyes, and those eyes fixed longingly on the white gate, she sat there until noon. great city bells rang out the hour; in the villages it was told by sweet old chimes. the hay-makers sat down to rest, the butterflies rested in the great hearts of the red roses, the bees settled in the carnations, the languid, odorous wind was still while the strokes rang out one after another--fragrant, sunny, golden noon. he had not come; but every moment was bringing him nearer. some one brought her a glass of wine, some fruit and biscuits. she would not touch them because she would not take her eyes from the white gate through which he had to pass. chapter xxx. the thirtieth of june. she did not grow impatient; the love which sustained her, the hope that inspired her was too sweet; her soul seemed to be in a blissful, happy trance; no doubt, no fear, no presentiment of coming disappointment dimmed the radiance of those sunny brows. he was coming fast as steam could bring him; it did not matter if he would not come yet, if more of the sunny hours passed--even if he delayed until even-tide, he would come so sure as the sun shone in the blue sky. noon passed. one--two--three--still she had never moved or stirred. four and five struck, still the light had not died from her eyes nor the smile from her face; he would come; the stars might fall from the heaven, the great earth upheave, the rivers rise, the hills fall, night become day, darkness light, but he would come. who so faithful, so fond, so true? and at five her maid came again; this time she had a cup of strong, fragrant coffee, and leone drank it eagerly. she would wait for dinner; she expected some one, and she would wait. quickly enough she replaced the cup and returned to her watch; he might have come while she had the cup to her lips; but, ah, no, no one had trodden on the white acacia blossoms--they were uncrushed. perhaps the long watching had wearied her, or the warm glow of the june afternoon fatigued her, or the strong odor of the flowers reached her brain. she looked at her watch; it was after five. he would come, most certainly; she knew that; but she was tired, and a great tearless sob rose to her lips. the heat of the june sun was growing less; she leaned her head against the casement of the window, and the white eyelids fell over the dark, passionate, tender eyes. she was dreaming, then; she heard the ripple of running water that sung as it ran, and the words were: "a ring in pledge i gave her, and vows of love we spoke-- those vows were all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." over and over again the sweet, sad words were repeated. she was standing on the brink of the mill-stream again, her lover's kisses warm on her lips, her lover's hands clasping hers. ah, heaven, that the dream could have lasted or she never woke! a bird woke her by perching on her hand; perhaps he thought it was a lily, and she started in affright. the bells were ringing six; she had lost one whole hour, yet heaven had sent that sleep in mercy; one hour of forgetfulness strengthened her for what she had to suffer. she woke with a start; for one moment her brain was confused between the dream and the reality. was it the ripple of the mill-stream, or was it the sighing of the wind among the roses? she had slept for an hour. had he come? had she slept while he entered the garden? was he hiding in jest? she rang the bell quickly as the trembling hands would allow: and when the pretty, coquettish maid answered it she asked had any one come, had any one called; and the answer was, "no." still she could not rest; she looked through the rooms, through the garden; ah, no, there were no traces of any arrival--none. once more to her watch at the window; but the scene began to change. there was no longer the golden glow over land and water, no longer the golden glare of a summer's day, no longer the sweet summer's noise, and the loud, jubilant songs of the birds. a gray tint was stealing over earth and sky; the lilies were closing their white cups; the birds singing their vesper hymn; longer shadows fell on the grass; cooler winds stirred the roses. he would come. the sky might pale, the earth darken, the sun set, the flowers sleep; but he would come. she would let no doubt of him enter her faithful heart. let the night shadow fall, the sun of her love and her hope should still keep light. and then from sky and earth, from clear river and green wood the light of day faded--eight, nine, and ten struck--the world grew dark and still--she kept her watch unbroken. it might be night when he returned; but she would hear the click of the gate and be there to welcome. ah, me, the sorrow that gathered like a storm-cloud over the beautiful face--the light, brightness and hope died from it as the light died from the heavens. still she would not yield. even after the shadows of evening had fallen over the land she kept her place. he would come. the servants of the household grew alarmed at last; and one by one they ventured in to try to persuade their young mistress to eat, to sleep, or to rest. to one and all she said the same thing: "hush, do not speak; i am listening!" it had grown too late to see; there was no moon, and the pale light of the stars revealed nothing; it had grown colder, too. there was a faint sound in the wind that told of coming rain. her own maid--more at liberty to speak than the others--prayed her to come in; but all advice, reason, remonstrance received the same answer: "i must not leave this spot until the twenty-four hours are ended." she would not have suffered half the torture had the letter arrived; she would have known then at once that she was not to expect him; and the ordeal of waiting would have been over at once; but she clung to the hope he would come, he must come. she recalled his promises given solemnly--she said to herself with a little shudder: "if he does not come to-day he will never come." and then she hated herself for the half-implied doubt of him. no matter if the sun had fallen and the nightingale was singing; no matter if the solemn hush of night had fallen, and soft, deep shadows lay around, he would come. the sighs of the wind grew deeper; the roses drooped. she leaned forward, for it seemed to her there was a stir among the trees; it was only some night bird in quest of its prey. again she bent her head; surely, at last, there was the click of the gate. but no; it was only the swaying of the branches in the wind. then clear and full and distinct, cleaving the air, rang out the hour of twelve; it was midnight, and he had not come. the thirtieth of june was over, and he had failed. one by one she counted those strokes as they fell, in the vain hope that she must be mistaken, that it was only eleven. when she realized it she rose from her solitary watch with a long, low sigh. he had failed; he had not come. she would not judge him; but he had not kept that promise which was more solemn to her than any oath. there were many perils, both by sea and land; the steamer might have run ashore, the train may have been delayed; but if the appointment had been for her to keep she would have kept it in spite of all obstacles and all cost. she rose from her long dull watch; she tried to cross the room and ring the bell, but the strength of her limbs failed her. she did not fall, she sunk into a senseless, almost helpless heap on the floor; and there, long after midnight, her servants found her, and for some time believed her dead. that was the thirtieth of june--for which she had hoped, worked, and prayed as woman never did before. they raised her from the ground and took her to her room. one kinder than the others sat by her until the dawn, when the dark eyes opened with a look in them which was never to die away again. "this is the first of july," she said, faintly. and the maid, seeing that the morning had dawned, said: "yes, it is july." she never attempted to rise that day, but lay with her face turned to the wall, turned from the sunlight and the birds' song, the bloom of flowers, the ripple of leaves, the warmth and light of the summer, thinking only of the mill-stream and the words that for her had so terrible a prophecy: "a ring in pledge i gave her, and vows of love we spoke-- those vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." over and over again they rang through her brain and her heart, while she fought against them, while she lay trying to deaden her senses, to stifle her reason, doing deadly battle with the fears that assailed her. she would not give in; she would not doubt him; there would come to her in time some knowledge; she should know why he had failed. failed, oh, god! how hard the word was to say--failed. why, if every star in the sky had fallen at her feet it would not have seemed so wonderful. perhaps his mother--that proud, haughty woman, who seemed to trample the world under her feet--perhaps she had prevented his coming; but he would come, no matter what the mill-stream said, no matter what his mother wished. the day passed and the morrow came--the second of july. she rose on that day and went down-stairs the shadow of her former self--pale, cold, and silent. she did not say to herself "he will come to-day," hope was dying within her. then at noon came the letter--her maid brought it in. she gave a low cry of delight when she saw the beloved handwriting, that was followed by a cry of pain. he would not have written if he had been coming; that he had written proved that he had no intention of coming. she took the letter, but she dared not trust herself to open it in the presence of her maid; but when the girl was gone, as there was no human eye to rest on the tortured face she could not control, she opened it. deadly cold seemed to seize her; a deadly shudder made the letter fall from her hands. no, he was not coming. he _must_ go to spain--to spain, with his parents and a party of tourists--but he loved her just the same, and he should return to her. "he is weak of purpose," she said to herself when she had read the last word; "he loves me still; he will come back to me; he will make me his wife in the eyes of the law as he has done in the sight of heaven. but he is weak of purpose. the countess of lanswell has put difficulties in his way, and he has let them conquer him." then came to her mind those strong words: "unstable as water, thou shalt not excel." for the second time her servants found her cold and senseless on the ground; but this time she had an open letter in her hand. the pity was that the whole world could not see how women trust the promises of men, and how men keep theirs. chapter xxxi. a man of wax. it is not pleasant to tell how the foundations of a noble building are sapped: to tell how the grand, strong trunk of a noble tree is hacked and hewn until it falls; how the constant rippling of water wears away a stone; how the association with baser minds takes away the bloom from the pure ones; how the constant friction with the world takes the dainty innocence of youth away. it is never pleasant to tell of untruth, or infidelity, or sin. it is not pleasant to write here, little by little, inch by inch, how lord chandos was persuaded, influenced, and overcome. the story of man's perfidy is always hateful--the story of man's weakness is always contemptible. yet the strongest of men, samson, fell through the blandishments of a woman. lord chandos was neither as strong as samson nor as wise as solomon; and that a clever woman should get the upper hand of him was not to be wondered at. he was a brave, gallant, generous gentleman, gay and genial; he could not endure feeling unhappy, nor could he bear the thought of any other person's unhappiness; he had no tragedy about him; he was kind of heart and simple of mind; he was clever and gifted, but he was like wax in the hands of a clever woman like lady lanswell. he was singularly unsuspicious, believed in most things and most persons; he never misjudged or gave any one credit for bad qualities. he had no more intention of deserting leone when he left england than he had of seizing the crown of turkey. his honest, honorable intention was to return to her and marry her on the first hour that such a marriage could be legal. he would have laughed to scorn any one who would have hinted at such a thing. his love then was his life, and he had nothing beside it. gradually, slowly but surely, other interests occupied him. a great writer says: "love is the life of a woman, but only an episode in the life of a man." that was the difference--it was leone's life; to him it had been an episode--and now that the episode was somewhat passed, other interests opened to him. he meant to be faithful to her and to marry her; nothing should ever shake that determination; but he had ceased to think it need be so hurriedly done; he need not certainly forego the pleasure of the tour and hurry home for his birthday; that was quixotic nonsense; any time that year would do. after his marriage he should lose his mother and lady marion; he would enjoy their company as long as he could; leone was right, she had a luxurious home, the assurance of his love and fidelity, the certainty of being his wife--a few weeks or months would make but little difference to her. he did not think he had done any great harm in going to spain. one might call it a broken promise; but then most promises are made with a proviso that they shall be kept if possible; and this was not possible; he would have been very foolish--so he said to himself--if he had made matters worse by refusing to go with his mother to spain. it would have increased her irritation and annoyance all to no purpose. he tried to convince himself that it was right; and he ended by believing it. he felt rather anxious as to what leone would say--and the tone of her letter rather surprised him. she had thought, long before she answered him, reproaches were of no avail--they never are with men; if he had not cared to keep his promise no sharply written words of hers could avail to make him keep it. she made no complaint, no reproaches; she never mentioned her pain or her sorrow; she said nothing of her long watch or its unhappy ending; she did not even tell him of the delayed letter--and he wondered. he was more uncomfortable than if her letter had been one stinging reproach from beginning to end. he answered it--he wrote to her often, but there was a change in the tone of her letters, and he was half conscious of it. he meant to be true to her--that was his only comfort in the after years; he could not tell--nor did he know--how it first entered his mind to be anything else. perhaps my lady knew--for she had completely changed her tactics--instead of ignoring leone she talked of her continually--never unkindly, but with a pitying contempt that insensibly influenced lord chandos. she spoke of his future with deepest compassion, as though he would be completely cut off from everything that could make life worth living; she treated him as though he were an unwilling victim to an unfortunate promise. it took some time to impress the idea upon him--he had never thought of himself in that light at all. a victim who was giving up the best mother, the kindest friend, everything in life, to keep an unfortunate promise. my lady spoke of him so continually in that light at last he began to believe it. he was like wax in her hands; despite his warm and true love for his wife that idea became firmly engraved on his mind--he was a victim. when once she had carefully impressed that upon him my lady went further; she began to question whether really, after all, his promise bound him or not. in her eyes it did not--certainly not. the whole thing was a most unfortunate mistake; but that he should consider himself bound by such a piece of boyish folly was madness. so that the second stage of his progress toward falsehood was that, besides looking on himself as a kind of victim, he began to think that he was not bound by his promise. if it had been an error at first it was an error now; and the countess repeated for him very often the story of the marquis of atherton, who married the daughter of a lodge-keeper in his nineteenth year. his parents interfered; the marriage was set aside. what was the consequence? two years after the girl married the butler, and they bought the atherton arms. the marquis, in his twenty-fifth year, married a peeress in her own right, and was now one of the first men in england. my lady often repeated that anecdote; it had made a great impression on her, and it certainly produced an effect on lord chandos. my lady had certainly other influences to bring to bear. the uncle of lady erskine, the duke of lester, was one of the most powerful nobles in england--the head of the cabinet, the most influential peer in the house of lords, the grandest orator and the most respected of men. my lady enjoyed talking about him--she brought forward his name continually, and was often heard to say that whoever had the good fortune to marry lady erskine was almost sure to succeed the duke in his numerous honors. lord chandos, hearing her one day, said: "i will win honors, mother--win them for myself--and that will be better than succeeding another man." she looked at him with a half-sad, half-mocking smile. "i have no ambition, no hope for you, lance. you have taken your wife from a dairy--the most i can hope is that you may learn to be a good judge of milk." he turned from her with a hot flush of anger on his face. yet the sharp, satirical shaft found its way to his heart. he thought of the words and brooded over them--they made more impression on him than any others had done. in his mother's mind he had evidently lost his place in the world's race, never to regain it. the duke--who knew nothing of the conspiracy, and knew nothing of the young lord's story, except that he had involved himself in some tiresome dilemma from which his parents had rescued him--the duke of lester, who heard lord chandos spoken of as one likely to marry his niece, took a great fancy to him; he had no children of his own; he was warmly attached to his beautiful niece; it seemed very probable that if lord chandos married lady erskine, he would have before him one of the most brilliant futures that could fall to any man's lot. many people hinted at it, and constant dropping wears away a stone. the last and perhaps the greatest hold that the countess had over her son was the evident liking of lady marion for him. in this, as in everything else, she was most diplomatic; she never expressed any wish that he should marry her; but she had a most sympathetic manner of speaking about her. "i doubt, lance," she said one day, "whether we have done wisely--at least whether i have done wisely--in allowing lady marion to see so much of you; she is so sweet and so gentle--i am quite distressed about it." "why, mother? i see no cause for distress," he said, abruptly. "no, my dear; men all possess the happy faculty of never seeing that which lies straight before their eyes. it is one of their special gifts--you have it to perfection." "do speak out what you mean, mother; that satire of yours puzzles me. what do i not see that i ought to see?" "nothing very particular. what i mean is this, lance, that i am almost afraid lady marion has been too much with us for her peace of mind. i think, when you go back to england on this wild-goose chase of yours, that she will feel it deeply." he looked anxiously at her. "do you, mother, really think that?" he asked. "i do, indeed. of course i know, lance, no words of mine will ever avail; but it seems to me you are in this position--if you leave lady marion and return to your pretty dairy-maid that lady marion will never be happy again. if you marry lady marion and dower that young person with a good fortune she will marry some one in her own rank of life and be much happier than she could be with you." "ah, mother," he said, sadly, "you do not know leone." "no, and never shall; but i know one thing--if i stood in your place and was compelled to make one or the other unhappy, i know which it would be. in marrying lady marion you make yourself at once and you delight me, you gratify every one who knows and loves you. in marrying that tempestuous young person you cut yourself adrift from fame, friends, and parents." "but honor, mother, what about my honor?" "you lose it in marrying a dairy-maid. you preserve it in marrying lady marion." and with this parthian shot my lady left him. chapter xxxii. an act of perfidy. so--inch by inch, little by little, step by step--lord chandos was influenced to give up his faith, his promise, his loyalty. i, who write the story, offer no excuse for him--there is none for the falseness and perfidy of men--yet it is of so common occurrence the world only jests about it--the world makes poetry of it and sings, cheerfully: "one foot on land and one on shore, men were deceivers ever." a promise more or less, a vow more or less, a broken heart, a ruined life, a lost soul, a crime that calls to heaven for vengeance--what is it? the world laughs at "love's perfidies;" the world says that it serves one right. the girl is slain in her youth by a worse fate than early death, and the man goes on his way blithely enough. lord chandos could not quite trample his conscience under foot; under the influence of his mother he began to see that his love for leone had been very unfortunate and very fatal; he had begun to think that if one of two women must be miserable it had better be leone. that which was present influenced him most. he loved his mother, he was flattered by lady marion's love for him. so many influences were brought to bear upon him, the earl and countess were so devoted to him, lady marion charmed him so much with her grace and kindness of manner, her sweetness of disposition, her wonderful repose, that his faith grew weak and his loyalty failed. there came an evening when they two--lord chandos and lady marion--stood alone in one of the most beautiful courts of the alhambra. the whole party had been visiting that marvelous palace, and, more by accident than design, they found themselves alone. the sun was setting--a hundred colors flamed in the western sky; the sun seemed loath to leave the lovely, laughing earth; all the flowers were sending her a farewell message; the air was laden with richest odors; the ripple of green leaves made music, and they stood in the midst of the glories of the past and the smile of the present. "i can people the place," said lady marion, in her quiet way. "i can see the cavaliers in their gay dresses and plumes, the dark-eyed senoras with veil and fan. how many hearts have loved and broken within these walls, lord chandos!" "hearts love and break everywhere," he said, gloomily. she went on: "i wonder if many dreams of this grand alhambra came to queen catharine of arragon, when she lay down to rest--that is, if much rest came to her?" "why should not rest come to her?" asked lord chandos, and the fair face, raised to answer him, grew pale. "why? what a question to ask me. was she not jealous and with good cause? how can a jealous woman know rest? i am quite sure that she must have thought often with longing and regret, of her home in sunny granada." "i have never been jealous in my life," said lord chandos. "then you have never loved," said lady marion. "i do not believe that love ever exists without some tinge of jealousy. i must say that if i loved any one very much, i should be jealous if i saw that person pay much attention to any one else." he looked at her carelessly, he spoke carelessly; if he had known what was to follow, he would not have spoken so. "but do you love any one very much?" he said. the next moment he deeply repented the thoughtless words. her whole face seemed on fire with a burning blush. she turned proudly away from him. "you have no right to ask me such a question," she said. "you are cruel to me, lord chandos." the red blush died away, and the sweet eyes filled with tears. that was the _coup de grace_; perhaps if that little incident had never happened, this story had never been written; but the tears in those sweet eyes, and the quiver of pain in that beautiful face, was more than he could bear. the next moment he was by her side, and had taken her white hands in his. "cruel! how could i be cruel to you. lady marion? nothing could be further from my thoughts. how am i cruel?" "never mind," she said, gently. "but i do mind very much indeed. what did i say that could make you think me cruel? will you not tell me?" "no," she replied, with drooping eyes, "i will not tell you." "but i must know. was it because i asked you, 'if you ever loved any one very much?' was that cruel?" "i cannot deny, but i will not affirm it," she said. "we are very foolish to talk about such things as love and jealousy; they are much better left alone." there was the witchery of the hour and the scene to excuse him; there was the fair loveliness of her face, the love in her eyes that lured him, the trembling lips that seemed made to be kissed; there was the glamour that a young and beautiful woman always throws over a man; there was the music that came from the throats of a thousand birds, the fragrance that came from a thousand flowers to excuse him. he lost his head, as many a wiser man has done; his brain reeled, his heart beat; the warm white hand lay so trustingly in his own, and he read on her fair, pure face the story of her love. he never knew what madness possessed him; he who had called himself the husband of another; but he drew her face to his and kissed her lips, while he whispered to her how fair and how sweet she was. the next moment he remembered himself, and wished the deed undone. it was too late--to one like lady marion a kiss meant a betrothal, and he knew it. he saw tears fall from her eyes; he kissed them away, and then she whispered to him in a low, sweet voice: "how did you guess my secret?" "your secret," he repeated, and kissed her again, because he did not know what to say. "yes; how did you find out that i loved you?" she asked, simply. "i am sure i have always tried to hide it." "your beautiful eyes told it," he said; and then a sudden shock of horror came to him. great heaven! what was he doing? where was leone? she did not perceive it, but raised her blushing face to his. "ah, well," she said, sweetly, "it is no secret since you have found it out. it is true, i do love you, and my eyes have not told you falsely." perhaps she wondered that he listened so calmly, that he did not draw her with passionate words and caresses to his heart, that he did not speak with the raptures lovers used. he looked pale and troubled, yet he clasped her hand more closely. "you are very good to me," he said. "i do not deserve it, i do not merit it. you--you--shame me, marion." she looked at him with a warm glow of happiness on her face. "it would not be possible to be too good to you; but i must not tell you of all i think of you, or you will grow vain. i think," she continued, with a smile that made her look like an angel, "i think now that i know how much you love me i shall be the happiest woman on the face of the earth." he did not remember to have said how much he loved her, or to have spoken of his love at all, but evidently she thought he had, and it came to the same thing. "how pleased lady lanswell will be!" said the young heiress, after a time. "you will think me very vain to say so, but i believe she loves me." "i am sure of it; who could help it?" he said, absently. he knew that he had done wrong, he repented it, and made one desperate effort to save himself. "lady marion," he said, hurriedly, "let me ask you one question. you have heard, of course, the story of my early love?" he felt the trembling of her whole figure as she answered, in a low voice: "yes; i know it, and that makes me understand jealousy. i am very weak, i know, but if you had gone to england, i should have died of pain." he kissed her again, wondering whether for his perfidy a bolt from heaven would strike him dead. "you know it," he said; "then tell me--i leave it with you. do you consider that a barrier between us, between you and me? you shall decide?" she knew so little about it that she hastily answered: "no; how can it be? that was folly. lady lanswell says you have forgotten it. shall a mere folly be a barrier between us? no; love levels all barriers, you know." he kissed her hands, saying to himself that he was the greatest coward and the greatest villain that ever stood on earth. words he had none. then they heard lady cambrey calling for her niece. "let me tell her," whispered the beautiful girl; "she will be so pleased, she likes you so much." then, as they passed out of the court, she looked at the grand old walls. "i shall always love this place," she said, "because it is here that you have first said that you loved me." and the pity is that every girl and every woman disposed to give her whole chance of happiness in a man's hand was not there to see how women believe men, and how men keep the promises they make. he told his mother that same night. "i have done it," he said; "circumstances have forced me into it, but i have forsworn myself. i have lost my self-respect, and i shall never be happy again while i live." but she embraced him with eager delight. "you have done well," she said; "you have risen above the shackles of a miserable promise, and have proved yourself a noble man by daring to undo the mad act of folly which might have blighted your life. i approve of what you have done, and so will any other sensible person." and that was his consolation, his reward for the greatest act of perfidy that man ever committed, or a woman sanctioned. chapter xxxiii. "i have perjured myself." lady lanswell was triumphant; she lost no time; before noon of the day following she had sent to the duke of lester saying that they were staying at granada, and that important family business awaited him there. she knew that he would lose no time in going there. in the days that intervened she managed her son most cleverly; she said little or nothing to him of lady marion. if he broached the subject, she changed it at once, saying: "let the matter rest for awhile;" she was so sorely afraid he would draw back. she was kind to him in her way; if she saw his handsome face looking distressed, pained, or anxious, she would cheer him up with bright words, with laughter, or anything that would take the weight of thought or care from him. the duke of lester was soon there. anything in which his niece was interested was of vital consequence to him; he had no particular liking for lady cambrey, and always regretted that the young heiress had been given into her charge rather than in that of his amiable wife. he went to granada, delighted with the news; he had heard so much of the talents of lord chandos that he was charmed with the idea of his belonging to the family. it had been a sore and heavy trial to the duke that he had no son, that so many honors and such great offices should die with him. it was from that motive that he had always felt an especial interest in the marriage of his beautiful young niece. "if she marries well," he had said to himself more than once, "her husband must stand to me in the place of a son." if he had to choose from the wide world, he would prefer lord chandos from his singular talent, activity, and capability for political life. he knew, as every one else did, that there had been some little drawback in the young lord's life, some mysterious love-affair, and he had not interested himself in it; he never did take any interest in matters of that kind. evidently if, at any time, there had been a little _faux pas_, it was remedied, or so worldly-wise a woman as lady lanswell would never have introduced him to his niece. so the duke of lester, all amiability and interest, gave the finishing touch to lord chandos' fate. when he had once spoken of the matter, there was no receding from it without a scandal that would have horrified all england. the duke's first words settled the whole matter; he held out his hand in frankest, kindliest greeting to lord chandos. "i hear very pleasant intelligence," he said; "and while i congratulate you, i congratulate myself that i am to have the good fortune of an alliance with you." lady lanswell stood by, and there was a moment's pause; perhaps she never suffered such intensity of suspense as she did during that moment, for her son's face grew colorless, and he looked as if he were going to draw back. the next minute he had recovered himself, and returned the duke's greeting: then, and only then, did the countess give a great sigh of relief; there could be no mistake, no drawing back from anything which the duke sanctioned. that same day there was a family meeting; the earl and countess, lord chandos, the duke of lester, lady marion erskine, and lady cambrey; they all dined together, and the duke discussed with the countess the time of the marriage. there was little said, but that little was binding; there could be no retreat. in the autumn, about september, the countess thought; and she suggested that they should not return to england for the marriage; it could take place at the embassy at paris. there would be plenty of time for discussing these details; the thing now was to settle the engagement. it gave great delight; the earl, it is true, had some little scruple, which he ventured to express to his wife. "i ought to add my congratulation," he said; "but i am in doubt over it. this seems a very suitable marriage, and lady marion is a most charming girl. but what about that other girl, my lady?" "that has nothing to do with us," she replied, haughtily. "i am prepared to be very liberal; i shall not mind a thousand a year; she shall have nothing to complain of." lord lanswell did not feel quite so sure, but as he never had had any management of his own affairs, it was too late to begin now. my lady would probably bring a hornet's nest about her ears--that was her own business; if he were any judge, either of looks or character, that young girl, leone, would not be so lightly set aside. however, he said nothing. lord lanswell had learned one lesson in his life; he had learned that "silence was golden." the matter was settled now; the duke had given his sanction, expressed his delight; several of the highly connected and important families belonging to the lanswells and the lesters had sent in their congratulations; everything was in trim. there was no need for the duke to remain; he would join them in paris for the wedding. no word was spoken on the subject between lady lanswell and himself, but there was a certain tacit understanding that the wedding must not take place in england, lest it should be disturbed. the duke returned to england, taking back with him a sincere liking and a warm admiration for lord chandos; he was impatient for the time to come when he should be able to claim him as a relation of his own. the remainder of the party stayed at granada; there was plenty to interest them in and about that charming city. some few days after his departure, lord chandos sought his mother. she had felt anxious over him of late. he looked like anything but a happy lover; he was thin, worn, and the face that had been so bright had grown shadowed and careworn. my lady did not like it. any man who had won such a prize as lady erskine ought to feel delighted and show his pleasure. so argued my lady, but her son did not seem to share her sentiments. she sat on this morning, looking very stately and beautiful, in a dress of moire antique, with a morning-cap of point lace--a woman to whom every one involuntarily did homage. lord chandos looked at her with wonder and admiration; then he sighed deeply as he remembered why he had sought her. he sat down near her, the very picture of dejection and misery. "mother," he said, abruptly, "i have behaved like a villain and a coward. in what words am i to excuse myself?" my lady's face darkened. "i have not the pleasure of understanding you," she said. "will you explain yourself?" "i have perjured myself. i have broken the most solemn vows that a man could make. i have forsworn myself. tell me in what words am i to tell my guilt, or excuse it?" a contemptuous smile stole over the face of my lady. "are you troubling yourself about that tempestuous young person, leone? shame on you, when you have won the sweetest woman and the wealthiest heiress in england for your wife!" his voice was broken with emotion as he answered her: "i cannot forget that i believed her to be my wife once, and i loved her." my lady interrupted him. "my dear lance, we all know what a boy's first love is. ah, do believe me, it is not worth thinking of; every one laughs at a boy's love. they take it just as they take to whooping-cough or fever; it does not last much longer either. in another year's time you will laugh at the very mention of what you have called love. believe me," continued her ladyship, proudly, "that lady marion is the wife heaven ordained for you, and no other." the handsome young head was bent low, and it seemed to my lady as though a great tearless sob came from his lips. she laid her hand on his dark, crisp waves of hair. "i do sympathize with you, lance," she said, in a kind voice; and when lady lanswell chose to be kind no one could rival her. "you have, perhaps, made some little sacrifice of inclination, but, believe me, you have done right, and i am proud of you." he raised his haggard young face to hers. "i feel myself a coward and a villain, mother," he said, in a broken voice. "i ought to have gone back to that poor girl; i ought not to have dallied with temptation. i love leone with the one love of my heart and mind, and i am a weak, miserable coward that i have not been true to her. i have lost my own self-respect, and i shall _never_ regain it." my lady was patient; she had always expected a climax, and, now it had arrived, she was ready for it. the scorn and satire gave place to tenderness; she who was the most undemonstrative of women, caressed him as though he had been a child again on her knees. she praised him, she spoke of his perfidy as though it were heroism; she pointed out to him that he had made a noble sacrifice of an ignoble love. "but, mother," he said, "i have broken my faith, my honor, my plighted word," and her answer was: "that for a great folly there could only be a great reparation; that if he had broken his faith with this unfortunate girl he had kept it, and his loyalty also, to the name and race of which he was so proud, to herself and to lady marion." like all other clever women, she could argue a question until she convinced the listener, even against his own will, and she could argue so speciously that she made wrong seem right. he listened until he was unable to make any reply. in his heart he hated and loathed himself; he called himself a coward and a traitor; but in his mother's eyes he was a great hero. "there is one thing i cannot do," he said; "i cannot write and tell her; it seems to me more cruel than if i plunged a dagger in her heart." lady lanswell laughed. "that is all morbid sentiment, my dear lance. leave the matter with me, i will be very kind and very generous; i will arrange everything with her in such a manner that you will be pleased. now promise me to try and forget her, and be happy with the sweet girl who loves you so dearly." "i will try," he said, but his young face was so haggard and worn that my lady's heart misgave her as she looked at him. "i have done all for the best," she murmured to herself. "he may suffer now, but he will thank me for it in the years to come." chapter xxxiv. a pale bridegroom. the writing of that letter was a labor of love to lady lanswell. she did not wish to be cruel; on the contrary, now that she had gained her wish, she felt something like pity for the girl she had so entirely crushed. lord chandos would have been quite true to his first love but for his mother's influence and maneuvers. she knew that. she knew that with her own hand she had crushed the life and love from this girl's heart. writing to her would be the last disagreeable feature in the case. she would be finished with them, and there would be nothing to mar the brightness of the future. my lady took up a jeweled pen; she had paper, white and soft, with her crest at the head; every little detail belonging to her grandeur would help to crush this girl for whom she had so much contempt and so little pity. she thought over every word of her letter; it might at some future day, perhaps, be brought against her, and she resolved that it should be a model of moderation and fairness. she had learned leone's name, and she began: "my dear miss noel,--my son has commissioned me to write to you, thinking, as i think, that the business to be arranged will be better settled between you and myself. i am glad to tell you that at last, after many months of infatuation, my son has returned to his senses, and has now but one idea, which is at once and forever to put an end to all acquaintance between you and himself. my son owns that it was a great mistake; he blames himself entirely, and quite exculpates you; he holds you blameless. permit me to say that i do the same. "my son, having recovered his senses, sees that a marriage between you and himself would be quite impossible. he regrets having promised it, and begs that you will forgive what seems to be a breach of that promise; but it is really the best and wisest plan of his life. neither your birth, training, education, manners, nor appearance fit you to hold the position that my son's wife must hold. you must, therefore, consider the whole affair at an end; it was, at its worst, a piece of boyish folly and indiscretion, while you are blameless. it is my son's wish that ample compensation should be made to you, and i have placed the matter in the hands of mr. sewell, my lawyer, whom i have instructed to settle a thousand per annum on you. let me add, further, that if ever you are in any pecuniary difficulty, i shall find a pleasure in helping you. "one thing more: lord chandos is engaged to be married to one of the wealthiest women in england--a marriage which makes his father and myself extremely happy, which opens to him one of the finest careers ever opened to any man, and will make him one of the happiest of men. let me add an earnest hope that your own good sense will prevent any vulgar intrusion on your part, either on my son or the lady to whom he is passionately attached. you will not need to answer this letter. lord chandos does not wish to be annoyed by any useless appeals; in short, no letter that you write will reach him, as we are traveling from place to place, and shall be so until the wedding-day. "in conclusion, i can but say i hope you will look at the matter in a sensible light. you, a farmer's niece, have no right to aspire to the position of an earl's wife, and you have every reason to think yourself fortunate that worse has not happened. "lucia, countess of lanswell." "there," said my lady, as she folded up the letter, "to most people that would be a quietus. if she has half as much spirit as i give her credit for, that little touch about the 'vulgar intrusion' will prevent her from writing to him. i think this will effectually put an end to all further proceedings." she sealed the letter and sent it, at the same time sending one to her solicitor, mr. sewell, telling him of the happy event pending, and begging of him to arrange with the girl at once. "if one thousand a year does not satisfy her, offer her two; offer her anything, so that we are completely rid of her. from motives of prudence it would be better for her to leave that place at once; advise her to go abroad, or emigrate, or anything, so that she may not annoy us again, and do not write to me about her; i do not wish to be annoyed. settle the business yourself, and remember that i have no wish to know anything about it." that letter was sent with the other, and my lady sunk back with an air of great relief. "thank heaven!" she said to herself, "that is over. ah, me! what mothers have to suffer with their sons, and yet few have been so docile as mine." a few days afterward the countess sought her son. she had no grounds for what she said, but she imagined herself speaking the truth. "lance," she said, "i have good news for you. that tiresome little affair of yours is all settled, and there will be no need for us ever to mention the subject again. the girl has consented to take the thousand a year, and she--she is happy and content." he looked at her with haggard eyes. "happy and content, mother?" he said. "are you quite sure of that?" "sure as i am that you, lance, are one of the most fortunate men in this world. now take my advice, and let us have no more mention of the matter. i am tired of it, and i am sure that you must be the same. try from this time to be happy with lady marion, and forget the past." did he forget it? no one ever knew. he never had the same light in his eyes, the same frank, free look on his face, the same ring in his laugh; from that day he was a changed man. did he think of the fair young girl, whose passionate heart and soul he had woke into such keen life? did he think of the mill-stream and the ripple of the water, and the lines so full of foreboding: "the vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." ah, how true leone's presentiment had been! the vow was forgotten, the ring broken, the pretty love-story all ended. he never dared to ask any questions from his mother about her; he turned coward whenever the english letters were delivered; he never dared to think about her, to wonder how she had taken this letter, what she had thought, said, or done. he was not happy. proud, ambitious, mercenary, haughty as was the countess of lanswell, there were times when she felt grieved for her son. it was such a young face, but there was a line on the broad, fair brow; there was a shadow in the sunny eyes; the music had gone out from his voice. "marion will soon make it all right," said the proud, anxious, unhappy mother; "there will be nothing to fear when once they are married." lady marion was the most gentle and least exacting of all human beings, but even she fancied lord chandos was but a poor wooer. he was always polite, deferential, attentive, and kind; yet he seldom spoke of love. after that evening in the alhambra he never kissed her; he never sought any _tete-a-tete_ with her. she had had many lovers, as was only natural for a beauty and a great heiress. none of them had been so cool, so self-contained as lord chandos. lady lanswell managed well; she ought to have been empress of some great nation; her powers of administration were so great. she persuaded them to have the wedding in the month of september, and to travel until that came. "it will be a change from the common custom," she said; "most people are married in england, and go to the continent for their honey-moon; you will be married in the continent, and go to england for the honey-moon." it was some little disappointment to lady marion; like all girls she had thought a great deal of her marriage. she had always fancied it in the grand old church at erskine, where the noble men and women of her race slept their last sleep, where the erskines for many generations had been married. she had fancied a long train of fair, young bridemaids, a troop of fair, fond children strewing flowers; and now it would be quite different. still she was content; she was marrying the man whom she loved more than any one, or anything else in the world. she had wondered so much why the countess desired the wedding to take place in paris. she had even one day ventured to ask her, and lady lanswell answered first by kissing her, then by telling her that it was best for lord chandos. that was quite enough to content the loving heart, if it were better for him in any way. she did not inquire why. she would sacrifice any wish or desire of her own. so the day of the wedding came, and a grand ceremonial it was. the noblest and most exclusive english in paris attended it, and everything was after the wish of lady lanswell's heart. there had never been a fairer or more graceful bride. there had never been a handsomer or more gallant bridegroom. one thing struck the countess of lanswell and made her remember the day with a keen sense of pain, and it was this: when the bride retired to change her superb bridal dress for a traveling costume she had time to notice how white and ill her son looked. he was one of the most temperate of men; she did not remember that he had ever in his life been in the least degree the worse for wine, but she saw him go to the buffet and fill a small glass with strong brandy and drink it--even that, strong as it was, did not put any color into his face. then he came to speak to her. she looked anxiously at him. "lance," she said, "i do not like asking you the question--but--have you really been drinking brandy?" she never forgot the bitter laugh that came from his lips. "yes, i have indeed, mother. it is just as well a glass of poison did not stand there; i should have drunk it." she shuddered at the words, and it must be owned they were not cheerful ones for a wedding-day. the bride and bridegroom drove away; slippers and rice were thrown after them. and the pity is that every woman inclined to put faith in the vows and promises of a man was not there to see how they were kept. chapter xxxv. "i leave them my hatred and my curse." leone was alone when the letter of the countess of lanswell was delivered to her: she had been wondering for some days why no news came from lord chandos--why he did not write. she had written most urgent and affectionate letters to him, praying for news of him, telling him how bravely and happily she was bearing the separation from him, only longing to know something of him. the warm, sultry month of august had set in, and she was working hard as ever; there was but one comfort to her in this long absence--the longer he was away from her, the more fit she should be to take her place as his wife when he did return. she felt now that she could be as stately as the countess of lanswell herself, with much more grace. she had been thinking over her future when that letter came; it found her in the same pretty room where he had bidden her good-bye. when the maid entered with the letter on a salver, she had looked up with a quick, passionate sense of pleasure. perhaps this was to tell her when he would come. she seized the dainty envelope with a low cry of intense rapture. "at last," she said to herself, "at last. oh, my love, how could you be silent so long?" then she saw that it was not lance's writing, but a hand that was quite strange to her. her face paled even as she opened it; she turned to the signature before she read the letter; it was "lucia, countess of lanswell." then she knew that it was from her mortal enemy, the one on whom she had sworn revenge. she read it through. what happened while she read it? the reapers were reaping in the cornfields, the wind had sunk to the lightest whisper, some of the great red roses fell dead, the leaves of the white lilies died in the heat of the sun, the birds were tired of singing; even the butterflies had sunk, tired out, on the breasts of the flowers they loved; there was a golden glow over everything; wave after wave of perfume rose on the warm summer air; afar off one heard the song of the reaper, and the cry of the sailors as the ships sailed down the stream; there was life, light, lightness all around, and she stood in the middle of it, stricken as one dead, holding her death warrant in her hand. she might have been a marble statue as she stood there, so white, so silent, so motionless. she read and reread it; at first she thought it must be a sorry jest; it could not be true, it was impossible. if she took up the bible there, and the printed words turned blood-red before her eyes, it would be far less wonderful than that this should be true. a sorry, miserable jest some one had played her, but who--how? no, it was no jest. she must be dreaming--horrible dreams come to people in their sleep; she should wake presently and find it all a black, blank dream. yet, no--no dream, the laughing august sunlight lay all round her, the birds were singing, there was the flash of the deep river, with the pleasure-boats slowly drifting down the stream. it was no dream, it was a horrible reality; lord chandos, the lover whom she had loved with her whole heart, who ought, under the peculiar circumstances, to have given her even double the faith and double the love a husband gives his wife; he, who was bound to her even by the weakness of the tie that should have been stronger, had deserted her. she did not cry out, she did not faint or swoon; she did not sink as she had done before, a senseless heap on the ground; she stood still, as a soldier stands sometimes when he knows that he has to meet his death blow. every vestige of color had faded from her face and lips; if the angel of death had touched her with his fingers, she could not have looked more white and still. over and over again she read the words that took from her life its brightness and its hope, that slew her more cruelly than poison or steel, that made their way like winged arrows to her heart, and changed her from a tender, loving, passionate girl to a vengeful woman. slowly she realized it, slowly the letter fell from her hands, slowly she fell on her knees. "he has forsaken me!" she cried. "oh, my god! he has forsaken me, and i cannot die!" no one cares to stand by the wheel or the rack while some poor body is tortured to death; who can stand by while a human heart is breaking with the extremity of anguish? when such a grief comes to any one as to leone, one stands by in silence; it is as though a funeral is passing, and one is breathless from respect to the dead. the best part of her died as she knelt there; the blue of the sky, the gold of the shining sun, the song of the birds, the sweet smell of flowers were never the same to her again. almost all that was good and noble, brave and bright, died as she knelt there. when that letter reached her, she was, if anything, better than the generality of women. she had noble instincts, grand ideas, great generosity, and self-sacrifice; it was as though a flame of fire came to her, and burned away every idea save one, and that was revenge. "he loved me," she cried; "he loved me truly and well; but he was weak of purpose and my enemy has taken him from me." hours passed--all the august sunlight died; the reapers went home, the cries of the sailors were stilled, the birds were silent and still. she sat there trying to realize that for her that letter had blotted the sun from the heavens and the light from her life; trying to understand that her brave, handsome, gallant young love was false to her, that he was going to marry another while she lived. it was too horrible. she was his wife before god. they had only been parted for a short time by a legal quibble. how could he marry any one else? she would not believe it. it was a falsehood that the proud mother had invented to part her from him. she would not believe it unless she heard it from others. she knew mr. sewell's private address; he would know if it were true; she would go and ask him. mr. sewell was accustomed to tragedies, but even he felt in some degree daunted when that young girl with her colorless face and flashing eyes stood before him. she held out a letter. "will you read this?" she said, abruptly. "i received it to-day from lucia, countess of lanswell, and i refuse to believe it." he took the letter from her hands and read it, then looked at the still white face before him. "is it true?" she asked. "yes," he replied, "perfectly true." "will you tell me who it is that is going to marry my husband?" she asked. "if you mean will i tell you whom lord chandos is to marry, i am sorry to say my answer must be 'no.' i am not commissioned to do so. you may see it for yourself in the newspapers." "then it is true," she said slowly; "there is no jest, no doubt, no mistake about it?" "no, none. and as you have shown me your letter," said mr. sewell, "i may as well show you the one i have received, and you may see for yourself what lady lanswell's intentions about you are. take a chair," added the lawyer, "i did not notice that you were standing all this time; you took me by surprise. pray be seated." she took the chair which he had placed for her, and read the letter through. she laid it down on the table, her face calm, white, the fire in her eyes giving place to utter scorn. "i thank you," she said. "the letter written you is cruel and unjust as the one written to me. i decline the thousand per annum now and for all time. my husband loved me and would have been quite true to me, but that his mother has intrigued to make him false. i refuse her help, her assistance in any way; but i will have my revenge. if i had money and influence i would sue for my rights--ah, and might win then. as it is, and for the present, i am powerless; but i will have my revenge. tell lucia, countess of lanswell, so from me." the passion, the dramatic force, the eager interest, the power of her beautiful face, struck him. in his heart he felt sorry for this girl, who he knew had been cruelly treated. "i would not think about revenge," he said; "that is a kind of thing one reads about in novels and plays, but it is all out of date." "is it?" she asked, with a slow, strange smile. "yes. take the advice of a sensible man who wishes to see you do well. yours is a false position, a cruel position; but make the best of it--take the thousand per annum, and enjoy your life." he never forgot the scorn those wonderful eyes flashed at him. "no," she said, "i thank you; i believe when you give me that advice you mean well, but i cannot follow it. if i were dying of hunger i would not touch even a crumb of bread that came from lady lanswell. i will never even return to the house which has been my own. i will take no one single thing belonging to them. i will leave them my hatred and my curse. and you tell countess lucia, from me, that my hatred shall find her out, and my vengeance avenge me." she rose from her chair and took the letter she had brought with her. "i will never part with this," she said; "i will keep it near me always, and the reading of it may stimulate me when my energy tires. i have no message for lord chandos; to you i say farewell." "she is going to kill herself," he thought; "and then, if it gets into the papers, my lady will wax wroth." she seemed to divine his thoughts, for she smiled, and the smile was more sad than tears. "i shall not harm myself," she said: "death is sweeter than life, but life holds 'vengeance.' good-bye." chapter xxxvi. after three years. "the question is," said lord chandos, "shall we go or not? please yourself, marion, and then," he added, with an air of weariness, "you will be sure to please me." "i should like to go, certainly, if you really have no other engagement, lance," said lady chandos. "my engagements always give place to your pleasure," replied the young husband. "if you really desire to see this new star we will go. i will see about it at once." still lady chandos seemed irresolute. "it is quite true," she said, "that all london has gone mad about her, just as paris, vienna, and st. petersburg did." "london is always going mad about something or other, but the madness never lasts long." "i have read many things," continued his wife calmly, "but i have never read anything like the description of the scene at the opera-house last evening; it really made me long to see her." "then let the longing be gratified, by all means," said lord chandos. "we will go this evening. consider it settled, marion, and do not think of changing your plans." it was breakfast-time, and the husband and wife were discussing the advent of a new actress and singer--one who was setting the world on fire--madame vanira. lord and lady chandos always took breakfast together; it was one of the established rules, never broken; it was the only time in the day when they were quite sure of seeing each other. it was three years since they were married, and time had not worked any great change in either. lady chandos was even more beautiful than in her maiden days. she had the same sweet repose of manner, the same high-bred elegance and grace, the same soft, low voice, but the beauty of her face had grown deeper. there was more light in the blue eyes, a deeper sheen on the golden hair, a richer tint on the fair face; there was more of life, animation, and interest, than she had displayed in those days when she seemed to glide through life like a spirit, rather than battle through it like a human being. perhaps for her the battle had to come. in figure she had developed, she looked taller and more stately, but the same beautiful lines and gracious curves were there. as she sits in her morning-dress, the palest blue, trimmed with the most delicate cream color, a pretty, coquettish cap on her golden head, the bloom and freshness of early youth on her face, she looks the loveliest picture of lovely and blooming womanhood, the perfection of elegance, the type of a patrician. her white hands are covered with shining gems--lady chandos has a taste for rings. she is altogether a proper wife for a man to have to trust, to place his life and honor in her, a wife to be esteemed, appreciated and revered, but not worshiped with a mad passion. in the serene, pure atmosphere in which she lived no passion could come, no madness; she did not understand them, she never went out of the common grooves of life, but she was most amiable and sweet in them. nor had lord chandos altered much in these three years; he had grown handsomer, more manly; the strong, graceful figure, the erect, easy carriage, were just the same; his face had bronzed with travel, and the mustache that shaded his beautiful lips was darker in hue. had they been happy, these three years of married life? ask lady chandos, and she will say, "happy as a dream." she has not known a shadow of care or fear, she has been unutterably happy; she is the queen of blondes, one of the most popular queens of society, the chosen and intimate friend of more than one royal princess, one of the most powerful ladies at court; no royal ball, or concert, or garden-party is ever given without her name being on the list; she is at the head of half the charities in london; she lays foundation stones; she opens the new wings of hospitals; she interests herself in convalescent homes; she influences, and in a great many instances leads the fashions. "hats _a la_ chandos," "the marion costume," are tributes to her influence. to know her, to be known to be on her visiting list, is a passport everywhere. she has the finest diamonds and the finest rubies in london; her horses are the envy and admiration of all who see them; her mansion in belgravia is the wonder of all who see it--every corner of the earth has been racked to add to its luxury and comfort. she has more money--just as pin-money--than many a peer has for the keeping up of title and estate. she has a husband who is all kindness and indulgence to her; who has never denied her the gratification of a single wish; who has never spoken one cross word to her; who is always devoted to her service. what could any one wish for more? she would tell you, with a charming, placid smile on her sweet face, that she is perfectly happy. if there be higher bliss than hers she does not know it yet; if there is a love, as there is genius, akin to madness, she has never felt it. passion does not enter her life, it is all serene and calm. in those three years lord chandos had made for himself a wonderful name. the duke of lester had done all that he could for him, but his own talents and energy had done more. he had proved himself to be what the leading journals said of him, "a man of the times." just the man wanted--full of life, activity, energy, talent, and power. he had made himself famous as an orator; when lord chandos rose to speak, the house listened and the nation applauded; his speeches were eagerly read. he was the rising man of the day, and people predicted for him that he would be prime minister before he was thirty. his mother's heart rejoiced in him--all her most sanguine hopes were fulfilled. ask him if he is happy. he would laugh carelessly, and answer, "i am as happy as other men, i imagine." ask him if his ambition and pride are gratified, and he will tell you "yes." ask him if ambition and pride can fill his life to the exclusion of all else; he will tell you "no." ask him again if he has a thousand vague, passionate desires unfulfilled, and his handsome face will cloud and his eyes droop. they are very popular. lord chandos gives grand dinners, which are considered among the best in london, lady chandos gives balls, and people intrigue in every possible way for invitations. she gives quiet dances and _soirees_, which are welcomed. she is "at home" every wednesday, and no royal drawing-room is better attended than her "at home." she has select little teas at five o'clock, when some of the most exclusive people in london drink orange pekoe out of the finest rose du barri china. they are essentially popular; no ball is considered complete unless it is graced by the presence of the queen of blondes. as the belgravian matrons all say, "dear lady chandos is so happy in her marriage." her husband was always in attendance on her. other husbands had various ways; some went to their clubs, some smoked, some drank, some gambled, others flirted. lord chandos was irreproachable; he did none of these things. there had never been the least cloud between them. if this perfect wife of his had any little weakness, it was a tendency to slight jealousies, so slight as to be nameless, yet she allowed them at times to ruffle her calm, serene repose. her husband was very handsome--there was a picturesque, manly beauty about his dark head and face, a grandeur in his grand, easy figure that was irresistible. women followed him wherever he went with admiring eyes. as he walked along the streets they said to each other, with smiling eyes, what a handsome man he was. if they went to strange hotels all the maids courtesied with blushing faces to the handsome young lord. at naples one of the flower-girls had disturbed lady marion's peace--a girl with a face darkly beautiful as one of raphael's women, with eyes that were like liquid fire, and this girl always stood waiting for them with a basket of flowers. lord chandos, in his generous, princely fashion, flung her pieces of gold or silver; once my lady saw the girl lift the money he threw to her from the ground, kiss it with a passionate kiss, and put it in the bodice of her dress. in vain after that did carina offer parma violets and lilies from sorrento, lady chandos would have no more, and carina was requested soon afterward by the master of the hotel to take her stand with her flowers elsewhere. lord chandos never made any remark upon it--every lady has some foible, some little peculiarity. she was a perfect wife, and this little feeling of small jealousies was not worth mentioning. if they went to a ball and he danced three times with the same lady, he knew he would hear something in faint dispraise. if he admired any one as a good rider or a good dancer, out would come some little criticism; he smiled as he heard, but said nothing--it was not worth while. like a kind-hearted man he bore this little failing in mind, and, if ever he praised one woman, he took care to add something complimentary to his wife. so the three years had passed and this was the spring-tide of the fourth, the showery, sparkling month of april; violets and primroses were growing, the birds beginning to sing, the leaves springing, the chestnuts budding, the fair earth reviving after its long swoon in the arms of winter. the london season of this year was one of the best known, no cloud of either sorrow or adversity hung over the throne or the country; trade was good, everything seemed bright and prosperous; but the great event of the season was most certainly the first appearance in england of the new singer, madame vanira, whose marvelous beauty and wonderful voice were said to drive people mad with excitement and delight. it was to see her that lord and lady chandos went to the royal italian opera on that night in april on which our story is continued. chapter xxxvii. a meeting of eyes. the newspapers had already given many details of madame vanira. for many long years there had been nothing seen like her. they said her passion and power, her dramatic instinct, her intensity were so great, that she was like electric fire. one critic quoted of her what was so prettily said of another great actress: "she has a soul of fire in a body of gauze." no one who saw her ever forgot her; even if they only saw her once, her face lived clear, distinct, and vivid in their memory forever afterward. no one knew which to admire most, her face or her voice. her face was the most wondrously beautiful ever seen on the stage, and her voice was the most marvelous ever heard--it thrilled you, it made you tremble; its grand pathos, its unutterable sadness, its marvelous sweetness; those clear, passionate tones reached every heart, no matter how cold, how hardened it might be--one felt that in listening to it that it was the voice of a grand, passionate soul. it was full, too, of a kind of electricity; when madame vanira sung she could sway the minds and hearts of her hearers as the winter winds sway the strong boughs. she drew all hearts to herself and opened them. when she sung, it was as though she sung the secret of each heart to its owner. they said that her soul was of fire and that the fire caught her listeners; she had power, genius, dramatic force enough in her to electrify a whole theater full of people, to lift them out of the commonplace, to take them with her into the fairyland of romance and genius, to make them forget everything and anything except herself. such a woman comes once in a century, not oftener. they called her a siren, a circe. she was a woman with a passionate soul full of poetry; a genius with a soul full of power; a woman made to attract souls as the magnet attracts the needle. she made her _debut_ in the theater of san carlo, in naples, and the people had gone wild over her; they serenaded her through the long starlit night; they cried out her name with every epithet of praise that could be lavished on her; they raved about her beautiful eyes, her glorious face, her voice, her acting, her attitudes. then a royal request took her to russia; a still warmer welcome met her there; royal hands crowned her with diamonds, royal voices swelled her triumph; there was no one like la vanira. she was invited to court and all honors were lavished on her. from there she went to vienna, where her success was as great; to paris, where it was greater, and now she was to make her _debut_ before the most critical, calm, appreciative audience in europe. the papers for weeks had been full of her; they could describe her grand, queenly beauty, her wonderful acting, her genius, which was alone in the world, her jewels, her dresses, her attitudes; but there was nothing to say about her life. even the society journals, usually so well informed, had nothing to say about madame vanira. whether she were single, or married, or a widow, none of them knew; of what town, of what nation, even of what family, none of them knew. she seemed to be quite alone in the world, and against her even the faintest rumor had never been heard; she was of irreproachable propriety, nay, more, she was of angelic goodness--generous, truthful, charitable and high-minded. there was not a whisper against her good name--not one. she had a legion of admirers, none of whom could boast of a favor; she answered no letters; she gave no interviews; she accepted no invitations; she visited among some of the most exclusive circles, where she was received as an equal; she had had offers of marriage that would have made any other woman vain; she refused them all; she seemed to live for her art, and nothing else. such a description naturally excited the curiosity of people, and the result was a house so crowded that it was almost impossible to find room. "we may think ourselves fortunate," said lady chandos. "i have never seen the house so crowded, and, do not laugh, lance, i do not see a prettier toilet than my own." lady chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. she looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin, effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with rubies--no one there looked better than the queen of blondes. "i am quite impatient to see la vanira," she said to her husband. "i wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'l'etoile du nord;' it is not the usual thing for a _debutante_." then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more. the curtain was drawn up and madame vanira appeared. there was a dead silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of passion, seemed to demand it. of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate star of the north suited her best. in it she found expression for love, her passion and despair. she stood before what was perhaps the most critical audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. it was no more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes, the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful. from the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience was breathless. lady chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius and power. "lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. have you looked well at it?" she glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great doubt or fear. "lance," said his wife, "are you not well? you look so strange--quite unlike yourself." he turned away lest she should see his face more plainly, and then she continued: "if you are not well, we will go home, dear; nothing will interest me without you." he made a great effort and spoke to her; but the very tone of his voice was altered, all the sweetness and music had gone out of it. "i am well," he said, "pray do not feel anxious over me; the house is very full and very warm." "what do you think of la vanira?" continued lady chandos; "how very different she is to any one else." he laughed, and the sound was forced and unnatural. "i think she is very wonderful," he replied. "and beautiful?" asked lady marion, with a look of eager anxiety. he was too wise and too wary to reply with anything like enthusiasm. "beautiful for those who like brunettes," he answered coldly, and his wife's heart was at rest. if he had gone into raptures she would have been disgusted. "if she would but leave me in peace," thought lord chandos to himself. he was bewildered and confused. before him stood the great and gifted singer whom kings and emperors had delighted to honor, the most beautiful and brilliant of women; yet surely those dark, lustrous eyes had looked in his own; surely he had kissed the quivering lips, over which such rich strains of music rolled; surely he knew that beautiful face. he had seen it under the starlight, under the shade of green trees by the mill-stream; it must be the girl he had loved with such mad love, and had married more than four years ago. yet, how could it be? of leone he had never heard one syllable. mr. sewell had written to lady lanswell to tell her of her indignant rejection of all help, of her disappearance, how she never even returned to river view for anything belonging to her, and after some time the countess had told her son. he went to river view and he found the house closed and the servants gone; he made some inquiries about leone, but never heard anything about her. he deplored the fact--it added to his misery over her. if he could have known that he left her well provided for he would not have suffered half so much. all these years he had never heard one word of her. he had thought of her continually, more than any one would have imagined; he never knew what it was to forget her for one minute. his heart was always sad, his soul sorrowful, his mind ill at ease. the more he thought of it, the more despicable his own conduct seemed. he hated the thought of it, he loathed the very memory. and here was the face he had seen by the mill-stream, the face which had haunted him, the face he loved so well--here it was alight with power, passion and genius. could this brilliant, gifted singer be leone, or was he misled by a wonderful likeness? he could not understand it, he was bewildered. he had wondered a thousand times a day what had become of leone; he remembered her wonderful talent, how she read those grand old tragedies of shakespeare until she knew them by heart; but could it be possible that leone had become the finest singer and the grandest actress in the world? it was in the last grandly pathetic scene that their eyes met, and for one half moment the gifted woman, on whose lightest breath that vast crowd hung, swayed to and fro as though she would have fallen; the next minute she was pouring out the richest streams of melody, and lady chandos said: "is it my fancy, lance, or was la vanira looking at you?" "i should say it was your fancy, marion--la vanira sees nothing lower than the skies, i think." and then the opera ended. chapter xxxviii. lance's determination. "you have not much to say to me to-night, lance," said lady marion, in a tone of gentle expostulation. "i wonder if that beautiful singer was really looking at you. it seemed to me that the moment her eyes caught yours she faltered and almost failed." lord chandos roused himself. "give me a woman's fancy," he said; "it is boundless as the deep sea." "i think a beautiful singer is like a siren," continued lady chandos, "she wins all hearts." he laughed again, a tired, indifferent, reckless laugh. "i thought we had agreed that you had won mine, marion," he said, "and, if that be true, it cannot be won again." she was silent for a few minutes, then she continued: "which do you really admire most, lance, blonde or brunette, tell me?" "a strange question to ask a man who was fortunate enough to win the queen of blondes for his wife," he replied. he would have paid her any compliment--said anything to please her--if she would only have given him time to think. they were driving home together, but he felt it was impossible to remain under any roof until he had learned whether leone and la vanira were the same. if his dear, good, amiable wife would but give him time to think. he could hear the sound of the mill-wheel, he could hear the ripple of the waters, the words of the song: "in sheltered vale a mill-wheel still sings its busy lay. my darling once did dwell there, but now she's gone away." the stars were shining as they shone when he sat by the mill-stream, with that beautiful head on his heart. he shuddered as he remembered her forebodings. lady chandos took his hand anxiously in hers. "my dearest lance, i am quite sure you are not well, i saw you shudder as though you were cold, and yet your hands are burning hot. what is it you say about going to your club? nothing of the kind, my darling. you must have some white wine whey; you have taken cold. no; pray do not laugh, lance, prevention is better than cure." she had exactly her own way, as those very quiet, amiable wives generally have. he did not go to his club, but he sat by his dressing-room fire, and drank white wine whey. he had the satisfaction of hearing his wife say that he was the best husband in the world; then he fell asleep, to dream of the mill-stream and the song. it grew upon him--he must know if that was leone. of course, he said to himself, he did not wish to renew his acquaintance with her--he would never dare, after his cruel treatment of her, even to address one word to her; but he should be quite content if he could know whether this was leone or not. if he could know that he would be happy, his sorrow and remorse would be lessened. he knew that the best place for hearing such details was his club--the royal junior--every one and everything were discussed there, no one escaped, and what was never known elsewhere was always known at the royal junior. he would take luncheon there and by patient listening would be sure to know. he went, although lady chandos said plaintively that she could not eat her luncheon alone. "i am compelled to go," he said. "i have business, marion, that is imperative." "i think husbands have a reserve fund of business," said lady chandos. "what a mysterious word it is, and how much it covers, lance. lord seafield is never at home, but whenever his wife asks him where he is going, he always says 'on business.' now, in your case what does business mean?" he laughed at the question. "parliamentary interests, my dear," he replied, as he hastened away. such close questions were very difficult to answer. he found the dining-rooms well filled, and, just as he had foreseen, the one subject was la vanira. then, indeed, did he listen to some wonderful stories. the marquis of exham declared that she was the daughter of an illustrious sicilian nobleman, who had so great a love for the stage nothing could keep her from it. the earl of haleston said he knew for a fact she was the widow of an austrian jew, who had taken to the stage as the means of gaining her livelihood. lord bowden said she was the wife of an austrian officer who was possessed of ample means. there were at least twenty different stories about her, and not one agreed with another. "i wonder," said lord chandos, at last, "what is the real truth?" "about what?" said a white-haired major, who sat next to him. "about la vanira," he replied; "every one here has a different story to tell." "i can tell you as much truth as any one else about her," said the major, "i was with the manager last evening. la vanira is english. i grant that she looks like a spaniard--i never saw such dark eyes in my life; but she is english; accomplished, clever, good as gold, and has no one belonging to her in the wide world. that much the manager told me himself." "but where does she come from?" he asked, impatiently. "everybody comes from somewhere." "the manager's idea is that she was brought up in the midland counties; he thinks so from a few words she said one day." "is she married or single?" asked lord chandos. "single," was the reply; "and in no hurry to be married. she has refused some of the best offers that could be made; and yet she wears a ring on the third finger of her left hand--perhaps it is not a wedding-ring." "i should like to see her," said lord chandos. the white-haired major laughed. "so would half the men in london, but no one visits her--she allows no introductions. i know a dozen and more who have tried to see her in vain." he was not much wiser after this conversation than before; but he was more determined to know. that same evening he made another excuse, and left his wife at lady blanchard's ball while he drove to the opera-house. the opera was almost over, but he saw the manager, to whom he briefly stated his errand. "i believe," he said, "that in madame vanira i recognize an old friend. will you introduce me to her?" "i am sorry to say that i cannot," was the courteous reply. "i promised madame not to make any introductions to her." "will you take my card to her? if she is the lady i take her to be she will send word whether she wishes to see me or not." the manager complied with his request. he soon returned. "madame vanira wishes me to say that she has not the pleasure of your lordship's acquaintance, and that she is compelled to decline any introduction." "then it is not leone," he said to himself, and a chill of disappointment came over him. his heart had been beating quickly and warmly, yet he persuaded himself it was only that he was so pleased to know she was all right and safe from the frowns of the world. it was not leone, but she was so much like leone that he felt he must go to see her again. "the opera to-night?" said lady marion, in her sweetest tones. "why, my dear lance, you were there three nights since." "yes, i know, but i thought it pleased you, marion. we will ask my mother to go with us. it is the 'crown diamonds,' a very favorite opera of hers." "will madame vanira sing?" asked lady chandos, and her husband quietly answered: "yes." he was anxious for lady lanswell to go, to see if she would recognize leone, or if any likeness would strike her. as his chief wish seemed to be to give pleasure to his mother, and he expressed no desire to see the beautiful singer again, lady chandos was very amiable. she sent a kind little note to the countess, saying what pleasure it would give them if she would go to the opera with them, and lady lanswell was only too pleased. the earl had grown tired of such things and never cared to go out in the evening. how anxiously lord chandos watched his mother's face. he saw delight, surprise and wonder, but no recognition--except once, and then the magnificent arms of the actress were raised in denunciation. then something of bewilderment came over lady lanswell's face, and she turned to her son. "lance," she said, "madame vanira reminds me of some one, and i cannot think who it is." "have you seen her before, mother, do you think?" he asked. "no, i think not; but she reminds me of some one, i cannot think whom. her gestures are more familiar to me than her face." evidently the thought of leone never entered her mind; and lord chandos was more puzzled than ever. the countess was charmed. "what fire, what genius, what power! that is really acting," she said. "in all my life i have seen nothing better. there is truth in her tenderness, reality in her sorrow. i shall often come to see vanira, lance." so she did, and was often puzzled over the resemblance of some one she knew; but she never once dreamed of leone, while, by dint of earnest watching and study, lord chandos became more and more convinced that it was she. he was determined to find out. he was foolish enough to think that if he could once be sure of it, his heart and mind would be at rest, but until then there was no rest for him. what could he do--how could he know? then the idea came, to follow her carriage home. by dint of perseverance he found, at last, that madame vanira had a very pretty house in hampstead called the cedars, and he determined to call and see her there. if he had really been mistaken, and it were not leone, he could but apologize; if it were---- ah, well, if it were, he would ask her forgiveness, and she would give it to him, on account of the love she bore him years ago. chapter xxxix. neither wife nor widow. it was with some trepidation that lord chandos presented himself at the gates of the cedars, yet surely she who had loved him so well would never refuse him admission into her house? that is, if it were leone. as he walked through the pretty garden and saw all the pretty flowers blooming, he said to himself, that it was like her. she had always so dearly loved the spring flowers, the flame of the yellow crocus, the faint, sweet odor of the violets, the pure heads of the white snow-drops. he had heard her say so often that she loved these modest, sweet flowers that come in the spring more than the dainty ones that bloom in summer-time. it was like her, this garden, and yet, he could not tell why. great clusters of lilac-trees were budding, the laburnums were thinking of flowering; but there was no song of running brook, and no ripple of fountains, no sound of falling water; the birds were busy wooing and they had so much to sing about. there was a profusion of flowers, all the windows seemed full of them; there was a picturesque look about the place that reminded him of leone. on the lawn stood two large cedars, from which the place derived its name. he went to the hall door. what if she should meet him suddenly and turn from him in indignant anger? what if it should not be leone, but a stranger? a pretty housemaid, parisian, he knew from the type, answered the door, from whom he inquired, in his most polite fashion, if madame vanira was at home. there is no denying the fact that all women are more or less susceptible to the charms of a handsome face, and lord chandos was handsome--exceedingly. the girl looked up into the dark face and the dark eyes that always looked admiringly when a woman was near. "madame vanira sees no one," she replied. something passed rapidly from his hand to hers. "you look kind," he said, "be my friend. i think that, years ago, i knew madame vanira. if she be the lady whom i believe her to be, she will be pleased to see me, and no possible blame can be attached to you. tell me where she is that i may find her." "madame is in the morning-room," said the girl, with some hesitation, "but i shall lose my place if i admit you." "i promise you no," said lord chandos; "on the contrary, your lady will be pleased that you are able to discriminate between those whom she would like to see, and those whom she would not." "at least, let me announce you," pleaded the pretty housemaid, in broken english. "no, it would serve no purpose; that is, of course, you can go before me and open the door--i will follow you immediately. you need only say, 'a gentleman to see you, madame.' will you do this?" "yes," said the girl, reluctantly. as he followed her through the passage, it did occur to him that if it were not leone, he should be in a terrible dilemma. it occurred to him also, that if it were leone, what right had he there, with that fair, sweet wife of his at home--what right had he there? he followed the pretty maid through the hall and through a suit of rooms, furnished with quiet elegance. they came to the door of a room before which the maid stopped, and lord chandos saw that her face had grown pale. she opened it. "a gentleman to see you, madame," she said, hastily. and then the maid disappeared, and he entered the room. leone was standing with her face to the window when he entered, and he had one moment in which to look round the room--one moment in which to control the rapid beating of his heart; then she turned suddenly, and once more they were face to face. ah, to see the heaven of delight and rapture that came over hers--the light that came into her eyes; it was as though her face was suddenly transfigured; all the past in that one moment of rapture was forgotten, all the treachery, the perfidy, the falsity. she uttered one word, "lance," but it was a cry of unutterable delight. "lance," she repeated, and then, with all the light of heaven still shining in her face, she hid her face on his breast. she did not remember, she only knew that it was the face of her lost lover, the same strong, tender arms were clasped round her, the same warm kisses were on her face, the same passionate, loving heart was beating near her own. ah, heaven, how sweet that one moment was. to die while it lasted, never to leave the shelter of those dear arms again. she had waited for him for years, and he had come at last. there were a few minutes of silent, rapturous greeting, and then, suddenly, she remembered, and sprung from him with a low cry. "how dare you?" she cried, "i had forgotten. how dare you?" then the sight of the beloved face, the dear eyes, the well-remembered figure, took all the hot anger from her. "oh, lance, lance, i ought not to speak to you or look at you, and yet i cannot help it. god help me, i cannot help it." he was down on his knees by her side, clasping her hands, the folds of her dress, crying out to her to pardon him; that he had no excuse to offer her; he had been guilty beyond all guilt; that neither in heaven nor on earth could there be any pardon for him; that he would have died a hundred deaths rather than have lost her. for some five minutes it was a mad whirl of passion, love and regret. she was the first to recollect herself, to say to him: "lord chandos, you must not kneel there; remember you have a wife at home." the words struck him like a sharp sword. he arose and, drawing a chair for her, stood by her side. "i am beside myself," he said, "with the pleasure of seeing you again. forgive me, leone; i will not offend. oh, what can i say to you? how can i look upon your face and live?" "you were very cruel to me and very treacherous," she said; "your treachery has spoiled my life. oh, lance, how could you be so cruel to me when i loved you so--how could you?" tears that she had repressed for years rained down her face; all the bitter grief that she had held in as with an iron hand, all the pride so long triumphant, all the pain and anguish, and the desolation, that had been in check, rushed over her, as the tempestuous waves of the sea rush over the rocks and sands. "how could you, lance?" she cried, wringing her hands; "how could you? you were cruel and treacherous to me, though i trusted you so. ah, my love, my love, how could you?" the beautiful head fell forward in the very abandonment of sorrow; great sobs shook the beautiful figure. "oh, lance, i loved you so, i believed in you as i believed in heaven. i loved you and trusted you, you forsook me and deceived me. oh, my love, my love!" his face grew white and his strong figure trembled under the pain of her reproaches. "leone," he said, gently, "every word of yours is a sword in my heart. why did i do it? ah me, why? i have no word of excuse for myself, not one. i might say that i was under woman's influence, but that would not excuse me. i take the whole blame, the whole sin upon myself. can you ever forgive me?" she raised her face to his, all wet with tears. "i ought not to forgive you," she said; "i ought to drive you from my presence; i ought to curse you with my ruined life, but i cannot. oh, lance, if i only lay under the waters of the mill-stream, dead." the passion of her grief was terrible to see. he forgot all and everything but her--the wife at home, the plighted vows, honor, truth, loyalty--all and everything except the girl whom he had loved with a mad love, and her grief. he drew her to his breast, he kissed away the shining tears; he kissed the trembling lips. "leone, you will drive me mad. great god, what have i done? i realize it now; i had better have died," and then the strength of the strong man gave way, and he wept like a child. "it is no excuse," he said, "to plead that i was young, foolish, and easily led. oh, leone, my only love, what was i doing when i gave you up--when i left you?" the violence of his grief somewhat restrained hers; she was half frightened at it. "we are making matters worse," she said. "lance, we must not forget that you are married now in earnest." "will you ever forgive me?" he asked. "i have no excuse to offer. i own that my sin was the most disloyal and the most traitorous a man could commit, but forgive me, leone. i have repented of it in sackcloth and ashes. say you forgive me." the beautiful, colorless face did not soften at the words. "i cannot," she said; "i cannot forgive that treachery, lance; it has wounded me even unto death. how can i forgive it?" "my darling--leone--say you will pardon me. i will do anything to atone for it." she laid one white hand on his arm. "you see, lance," she said, earnestly, "it is one of those things for which you can never atone--one that can never be undone--but one which will brand me forever. what am i? did you stop to think of that when your new love tempted you? what am i? not your wife--not your widow. oh god, what am i?" he drew her to him again, but this time she resisted his warm kisses. "leone," he said sadly, "i deserve to be shot. i hate myself--i loathe myself. i cannot imagine how i failed in my duty and loyalty to you. i can only say that i was young and thoughtless--easily led. heaven help me, i had no mind of my own, but i have suffered so cruelly and so have you, my darling--so have you." "i?" she replied. "when you can count the leaves in the forest, or the sands on the seashore, you will know what i have suffered, not until then." her voice died away in a melancholy cadence that to him was like the last wailing breath of the summer wind in the trees. chapter xl. "forgive me, leone." "lance," she said, suddenly, "or, as i ought to say, lord chandos--how can i forgive you? what you ask is more than any woman could grant. i cannot pardon the treachery which has ruined my life, which has stricken me, without blame or fault of mine, from the roll of honorable women--which has made me a by-word, a mark for the scorn and contempt of others, a woman to be contemned and despised. of what use are all the gifts of heaven to me, with the scarlet brand you have marked on my brow?" he grew white, even to the lips, as the passionate words reached his ears. "leone," he cried, "for god's sake spare me. i have no defense--no excuse; spare me; your words kill me. they are not true, my darling; none of what happened was your fault--you were innocent and blameless as a child; you are the same now. would to heaven all women were pure and honorable as you. say what you will to me, no punishment would be too great for me--but say nothing yourself; never one word, leone. could you forgive me? i have done you the most cruel wrong, and i have no excuse to offer--nothing but my foolish youth, my mad folly, my unmanly weakness. i have known it ever since i married. you are my only love; i have never had another. ah, my darling, forgive me. if i have ruined your life, i have doubly ruined my own." she raised her beautiful, colorless face to his. "lance," she said, gently, "what a prophecy that song held for us. and the running water--how true a foreboding it always murmured: "'the vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broken.' how true and how cruel. i hear the song and i hear the murmur of the water in my dreams." "so do i," he replied, sadly. "my darling, i wish we never left the mill-stream. i would to heaven we had died under the running water together." "so do i," she said, "but we are living, not dead, and life holds duties just as death holds relief. we must remember much harm has been done--we need not do more." "say that you will forgive me, leone, and then i do not care what happens. i will do anything you tell me. i will humble myself in every way. i will do anything you can desire if you will only forgive me. do, for heaven's sake. i am so utterly wretched that i believe if you refuse to say one word of pardon to me i shall go mad or kill myself." there was a long struggle in her mind. could she forgive the injury which seemed greater than man had ever inflicted on woman? she was very proud, and her pride was all in arms. how could she pardon a traitor? she had loved him better than her life, and with the first sight of his handsome, beloved face all the glamour of her love was over her again. how could she forgive him? yet the proud figure was bent so humbly before her, the proud head so low. "what am i to say?" she cried. "i was a good and innocent girl--now it seems to me that the evil spirits of passion and unrest have taken possession of me. what am i to say or to do? heaven help and teach me." "forgive me," he repeated. "your refusal will send me away a madman, ready for any reckless action. your consent will humble me, but it will make me happier. oh, my darling, forgive me." "suppose that harm follows my forgiveness--we are better enemies than friends, lord chandos." "we will never be enemies, and no harm can come except that i shall be happier for it. say you will forgive me, leone. see, i ask your pardon on my knees. for heaven's sake, for my great love's sake, say you forgive me!" he knelt before her humbly as a child, he bowed his handsome head until his face rested on her knees; he sobbed aloud in his sorrow and his deep regret. she stood for a few minutes quite uncertain; her clear reason and common sense told her that it would be better if she would refuse him pardon, and that they should part for all time; but love and pity pleaded, and of course love and pity won. she laid her hand on the dark head of the man whom she had once believed her husband; her beautiful face quivered with emotion. "i forgive you," she said, "freely, frankly, fully, as i hope heaven will forgive me all my sins. nay, you must not kiss me, not even my hand. your kisses belong to some one else now--not to me. i forgive you, but we must part again. come what may--we must part, we must not meet again." "i can never part with you," he said, in a hoarse voice. "you have been life of my life, heart of my heart too long for that." she held up her hand with a superb gesture of warning and silence. "hush, lord chandos," she said; "if you speak to me in that strain, i shall never see you again. remember you have a wife; you must not be false to two women--keep true to one. neither your kisses nor your loving words belong to me now." "i will not offend you," he said, sadly. she leaned her beautiful arms on the table, her white hands under her chin, looking steadily at him. "i have forgiven you," she said, musingly, "i, who have sworn such terrible oaths, such bitter revenge, i have ended by forgiving you, after the fashion of the most milk-and-water type of women. i have forgiven you, and heaven knows how i tried to hate you, and have tried to take pleasure in the thoughts of my vengeance." "you have had your vengeance on me, leone, in the shape of the love that has never left me, and the memories which have haunted me. you swore vengeance against my mother, but you will forego that." a slow smile came over her face and died away again. "lord chandos," she said, "you will not be my debtor in generosity. you have asked me to pardon you; i have done so. grant me one favor in return--tell me who influenced you to forsake me?" he looked puzzled. "i hardly know, leone, i can hardly tell you." "it was not the lady whom you have married," she continued, "of that i am sure. who was it?" "i think if any one influenced me it must have been my mother," he said, gently; "she was always violently opposed to it." the beautiful lips paled and trembled. "i thought it was your mother," she said, gravely, "no, i shall not forego my vengeance against her, although i know not when i may gain it." "you will forget all that," he said. "you are too noble to care for vengeance." "i am not too noble," she replied. "all that was best and noble in me died on the day you forsook me. and now, lord chandos, listen to me. words of peace and pardon have passed between us. it has raised a heavy funeral pall from my life; it has, perhaps, raised a black cloud from yours. lord chandos, we must not meet again." "you cannot be so cruel, leone. having found you, how can i lose you again?" "you must, it is imperative," she said slowly. "but, leone, why should we not be friends?" he said, gently. she laughed a hard, scornful laugh that struck him in the face like the sting of a sharp blade. "friends?" she repeated. "could we who have been wedded lovers ever be friends? you do not know what words mean if you think that." he stood before her with a stern, white face. "leone," he cried, "are you really going to be cruel enough to send me away out of your life again, i who have been mad with joy at finding you?" "if i were cruel," she said, slowly, "now i would take my vengeance. i should say as you once left me so now i leave you, but i am not cruel, and that is my reason. my reason is a good and pure one; we could never remain friends, we love each other too much for that; we must live as strangers now; and remember, it is your fault, not mine." "i cannot submit to it," he cried. but she looked at him with a face stern, resolute, fixed as his own. "remember, lord chandos," she said, "that i am my own mistress. i can choose my friends and associates. i refuse to admit you among the number." "you cannot prevent me from coming to see you, leone." "no; but i can, and shall, refuse to see you when you come," she replied; "and i shall do so." "oh, my love, my cruel, beautiful love," he cried. the girl's face flushed with hot anger and indignation. "will you be silent?" she cried. "shame on you, lord chandos, to use such words. you have a beautiful and beloved wife at home to whom all your love and fidelity belong. if you say one more such word to me i will never see you again." "but, leone, it seems so very hard; you might let me call at times and see you." "no, i cannot, i cannot trust myself, even if i could trust you. i have had no other husband, no other love; you have married. i would not trust myself; my love is as great now as ever it was, but it shall not run away with me; it shall not be my master. i will master it. you must not come near me." "but, surely, if i meet you in the street, you will not ask me to pass you by?" he said. "no; if we meet quite by chance, quite by accident, i will always speak to you. ah, lance," she added, with a smile, "i know you so well, i know every look in your eyes; you are thinking to yourself you will often see me by accident. you must not; such honor as you have left me let me keep." "if this is to be our last interview, for some time, at least," he continued, "tell me, leone, how is it that you have become so famous?" "yes, i will tell you all about that; i am rather proud of my power. it is not a long story, and it dates from the day on which your mother sent me that letter." she told him all her studies, her struggles, her perseverance, her success, finally her crowning by fame. "it is like a romance," he said. "yes, only it is true," she replied. he tried to prolong the interview, but she would close it; and he was compelled to leave her, when he would have given years of his life to have remained one hour longer. chapter xli. "let us be friends." "lance," said the sweet voice of lady marion, plaintively, "i am beginning to have a faint suspicion about you." "indeed. your suspicions are not faint as a rule. what is this?" "i am afraid that you are growing just a little tired of me," said the beautiful queen of blondes. "what makes you think so?" he asked, trying to laugh, as he would have done a few weeks since at such an accusation. "several reasons. you are not so attentive to me as you used to be; you do not seem to listen when i speak; you have grown so absent-minded; and then you say such strange things in your sleep." he looked grave for half a minute, then laughed carelessly. "do i? then i ought to be ashamed of myself. men talk enough in their waking hours without talking in their sleep. what do i say, marion?" he asked the question carelessly enough, but there was an anxious look in his dark eyes. "i cannot tell; i hardly remember," said lady chandos; "but you are always asking some one to forgive you and see you. have you ever offended any one very much, lance?" "i hope not," he replied. "dreams are so strange, and i do not think they are often true reflections of our lives. have you any further reason for saying i am growing tired of you? it is a vexed question, and we may as well settle it now as renew the argument." "no, i have no other reason. lance, you are not cross with me, dear?" "no, i am not cross; but, at the same time, i must say frankly i do not like the idea of a jealous wife; it is very distasteful to me." lady marion raised her eyes in wonder. "jealous, lance?" she repeated. "i am not jealous. of whom could i be jealous? i never see you pay the least attention to any one." "jealous wives, as a rule, begin by accusing their husbands of cooling love, want of attention, and all that kind of thing." "but, lance," continued the beautiful woman, "are you quite sure that there is no truth in what i say?" he looked at her with a dreamy gaze in his dark eyes. "i am quite sure," he replied. "i love you, marion, as much as ever i did, and i have not noticed in the least that i have failed in any attention toward you; if i have i will amend my ways." he kissed the fair face bent so lovingly over him; and his wife laid her fair arms round his neck. "i should not like to be jealous," she said; "but i must have your whole heart, lance; i could not be content with a share of it." "who could share it with you?" he asked, evasively. "i do not know, i only know that it must be all or none for me," she answered. "it is all--is it not, lance?" he kissed her and would fain have said yes, but it came home to him with a sharp conviction that his heart had been given to one woman, and one only--no other could ever possess it. a few days afterward, when lord chandos expressed a wish to go to the opera again, his wife looked at him in wonder. "again?" she said. "why, lance, it is only two nights since you were there, and it is the same opera; you will grow tired of it." "the only amusement i really care for is the opera," he said. "i am growing too lazy for balls, but i never tire of music." he said to himself, that if for the future he wished to go to the opera he would not mention the fact, but would go without her. they went out that evening: the opera was "norma." lord chandos heard nothing and saw nothing but the wondrous face of norma; every note of that music went home to his heart--the love, the trust, the reproaches. when she sang them in her grandly pathetic voice, it was as though each one were addressed to himself. three times did lady chandos address him without any response, a thing which in her eyes was little less than a crime. "how you watch la vanira," she said. "i am sure you admire her very much." he looked at her with eyes that were dazed--that saw nothing; the eyes of a man more than half mad. "and now look," she said. "why, lance, la vanira is looking at me. what eyes she has. they stir my very heart and trouble me. they are saying something to me." "marion, hush! what are you talking about?" he cried. "la vanira's eyes--she is looking at me, lance." "nonsense!" he said, and the one word was so abruptly pronounced that lady chandos felt sure it was nonsense and said no more. but after that evening he said no more about going to the opera. if he felt any wish to go, he would go; it would be quite easy for him to make some excuse to her. and those evenings grew more and more frequent. he did not dare to disobey leone; he did not dare to go to her house, or to offer to see her in the opera house. he tried hard to meet her accidentally, but that happy accident never occurred; yet he could not rest, he must see her; something that was stronger than himself drew him near her. he was weak of purpose; he never resolutely took himself in hand and said: "i am married now. i have a wife at home. leone's beauty, leone's talents, are all less than nothing to me. i will be true to my wife." he never said that; he never braced his will, or his energies to the task of forgetting her; he dallied with the temptation as he had done before; he allowed himself to be tempted as he had done before; the result was that he fell as he had fallen before. every day his first thought was how he could possibly get away that evening without drawing particular attention to his movements; and he went so often that people began to laugh and to tease him and to wonder why he was always there. leone always saw him. if any one had been shrewd and quick enough to follow her, they would have seen that she played to one person; that her eyes turned to him continually; that the gestures of her white arms seemed to woo him. she never smiled at him, but there were times, when she was singing some lingering, pathetic notes, it seemed as though she were almost waiting for him to answer her. he did not dare to go behind the scenes, to linger near the door, to wait for her carriage, but his life was consumed with the one eager desire to see her. he went night after night to the box; he sat in the same place; he leaned his arms on the same spot, watching her with eyes that seemed to flash fire as they rested on her. people remarked it at last, and began to wonder if it could be possible that lord chandos, with that beautiful wife, the queen of blondes, was beginning to care for la vanira; he never missed one night of her acting, and he saw nothing but her when she was on the stage. again one evening lady chandos said to him: "lance, have you noticed how seldom you spend an evening--that is, the whole of an evening--with me? if you go to a ball with me, it seems to me that you are always absent for an hour or two." "you have a vivid imagination, my dear wife," he replied. and yet he knew it was on the night leone played; he could no more have kept from going to see her than he could have flown; it was stronger than himself, the impulse that led him there. then his nights became all fever; his days all unrest; his whole heart and soul craved with passionate longing for one half hour with her, and yet he dared not seek it. even then, had he striven to conquer his love, and have resolutely thought of his duty, his good faith and his loyalty, he would have conquered, as any strong man can conquer when he likes; he never tried. when the impulse led him, he went; when the temptation came to him to think of her, he thought of her, when the temptation came to him to love her, he gave way to it and never once set his will against it. then, when the fever of his longing consumed him, and his life had grown intolerable to him, he wrote a note to her; it said simply: "dear leone,--life is very sad. do let us be friends--why should we not? life is so short. let us be friends. i am very miserable; seeing you sometimes would make me happy. let us be friends, leone. why refuse me? i will never speak of love--the word shall never be mentioned. you shall be to me like my dearest, best-beloved sister. i will be your brother, your servant, and your friend; only give me, for god's dear sake, the comfort of seeing you. leone, be friends." it was one evening when she was tired that this letter was brought to her. she read it with weeping eyes; life was hard; she found it so. she loved her art, she lived in it, but she was only a woman, and she wanted the comfort of a human love and friendship. wearily enough she repeated the words to herself: "let us be friends. as he says, 'life is short.' the comfort will be small enough, heaven knows, but it will be better than nothing. yes, we will be friends." so she answered the letter in a few words, telling him if he really wished what he said, she would discuss the prudence of such a friendship with him. this letter of hers fell into the hands of lady marion. she looked at the fine, beautiful, clear handwriting. "lance, this is from a lady," she said. when he took it from her his face flushed, for he knew the hand. "it is from a lady," she repeated. "it is on business," he replied, coldly, putting the envelope aside; and, to his intense delight, lady marion forgot it. he was to go and see her. it was wrong to be so pleased, he knew, but he did not even try to hide his delight over it. when should he go? he should count the hours--he could not wait longer than to-morrow. would she be willing; or would she not? how long the hours seemed, yet they passed, and once more he was at the cedars. chapter xlii. becoming suspicious. so they made the second great mistake of their lives. these two, who had been married lovers, fancied they could be friends. if it had not been so sad and so pitiful, it would have been amusing to have heard the conditions of that friendship--they were as numerous as the preliminaries of an article of peace. they made all arrangements; their friendship was to be of the purest and most platonic nature; there was to be nothing said which would remind them of the past; he was to shake hands with her when he came and when he went; he might pay her a visit twice or three times a week; if they met, they were to be on friendly terms; they would discuss art, literature, and music--anything and everything except their own story; they were to take an interest in each other's lives and fortunes. "i shall take such a pride in your career, leone," said lord chandos, in all good faith; "it will be the dearest part of my life." she held up one white finger with a smile; that was trespassing on forbidden ground. he must not break the new code of friendship by saying such things. "we are friends, not lovers, lord chandos," she said, gently; "you will annoy me if you forget that. the dearer part of your life is at home." he apologized for the words. "i mean," he said, "that i shall take the keenest interest in your career, and watch it with pride." "that is right, as i shall yours, lord chandos. i am proud of you, i am proud when i read your speeches; it seems to me no other man ever spoke so well. i am proud when i read that the rising man of the day is lord chandos, that england looks to lord chandos as a great power and a promising statesman. ah, yes, i am proud of you when i read those things. your face, your eager, hopeful eyes rise before me, and i say to myself, 'ah, yes, he is a genius, and the world knows it.' it is pleasant to have true friends, such as we shall be to each other." "yes," he had answered her, with a sigh; "we should have been foolish indeed, leone, to have deprived ourselves of this, the only consolation left in life for either of us. we shall be more happy as friends, leone; it would have been too horrible to have been always apart." they hedged themselves round with precautions; they were to be so prudent; they were not to address each other as lance and leone; they were never to sing old songs together; he was not to go behind the scenes in the theater, he was not to wait for her in the evening. she said to him laughingly, that they ought to have these conditions of friendship written down as they write down the articles of war or the preliminaries of peace. "we ought to have parchment strong as parchment can be; but, lord chandos, we must keep to our rules, no matter what happens." so they intended, and neither of them had the faintest idea of ever deviating from the rules laid down. it was better than nothing, spending a few hours with her each week was refreshing as an oasis in a desert; he eagerly looked forward to those days on which he was permitted to call, and before long these visits became chiefly the event of his life--he thought of little else. so it gradually came about that the stronger nature gained the ascendency, the stronger soul gained the upper hand in his life. the love of leone had always been by far the strongest element in his life; it had been set aside by a series of clever maneuvers, but now it resumed its sway. he did not intend it; he was weak enough and foolish enough to think that the prudent friendship could replace mad love, and he was not very long before he found out his mistake. but at first all went well--her praise stimulated him, he gave loose to the fiery eloquence that was natural to him. knowing that she would read and criticise every word, he took more pride and pleasure in his public life than he had ever done before; he liked to hear her criticisms on his opinions and actions; he was delighted with the interest she took in his works. at times the visits he paid were all occupied with the discussion of these details. he would tell her of some great oration or speech that he intended to make on some important measure, she would talk it over to him, and her marvelous intelligence, her bright wit and originality always threw some new light on the matter, some more picturesque view. in this she differed from lady marion, who was more timid and retiring, who looked upon everything connected with public life as a dreadful ordeal, who, fond as she was of literature, could not read a newspaper, who, dearly as she loved her husband, could not interest herself in his career. so gradually and slowly the old love threw its glamour over them, slowly the master passion took its place again in lord chandos' life, but just at that time it was unknown to himself. it came at last that the only real life for him was the time spent with her--the morning hours when he discussed all the topics of the day with her, and the evening when he leaned over his opera box, his eyes drinking in the marvelous beauty of her face. then, as a matter of course, lady marion began to wonder where he went. he had been accustomed, when he had finished his breakfast, always to consult her about the day's plans--whether she liked to walk, ride, or drive, and he had always been her companion; but now it often happened that he would say to her: "marion, drive with my mother this morning, she likes to have you with her; my father goes out so little, you know." she always smiled with the most amiable air of compliance with his wishes, but she looked up at him on this particular morning. "where are you going, lance?" she asked. her eyes took in, in their quiet fashion, every detail of his appearance, even to the dainty exotic in his button-hole. lord chandos had a habit of blushing--his dark face would flush like a girl's when any sudden emotion stirred him--it did so now, and she, with wondering eyes, noticed the flush. "why, lance," she said, "you are blushing; blushing just like a girl, because i just asked you where you were going." and though the fiery red burned the dark skin, he managed to look calmly at his wife and say: "you are always fanciful over me, marion, and your fancies are not always correct." she was one of the sweetest and most amiable of women, no one ever saw her ruffled or impatient. she went up to him now with the loveliest smile, and laid her fair arms round his neck; the very heaven of repose was in the eyes she raised to his. "my darling lance," she said, "i can never have any fancy over you; my thoughts about you are always true." she laid one slim, white hand on his face. "why, your face burns now," she said, and he made some little gesture of impatience, and then his heart smote him. she was so fair, so gentle, and loved him so dearly. "have i vexed you, lance?" she said. "i did not mean to do so. if you do not like me to ask you where you are going, i will not, but it seems to me such a simple thing." "how can i object, or, rather, why should i object to tell you where i go, marion? here is my note-book; open it and read." but when he said the words he knew that on his note-book there was no mention of leone's name, and again his heart smote him. it was so very easy to deceive this fair, trusting woman. lady chandos put the note-book back in his pocket. "i do not want to see it, lance. i merely asked you the question because you looked so very nice, and you have chosen such a beautiful flower. i thought you were going to pay some particular visit." he kissed the sweet, wistful face raised to his, and changed the subject. "do i not always look what you ladies call 'nice'?" he asked, laughingly; and she looked admiringly at him. "you are always nice to me, lance; there is no one like you. i often wonder if other wives are as proud of their husbands as i am of you? now i shall try to remember that you do not like me to ask you where you are going. the greatest pleasure i have on earth is complying with every little wish of yours." he could not help kissing her again, she was so sweet, so gentle, so kind, yet his heart smote him. ah, heaven! if life had been different to him; if he had been but firmer of purpose, stronger of will! he left her with an uneasy mind and a sore heart. lady marion was more than usually thoughtful after he had gone. she could not quite understand. the time had been when he had never left the house without saying something about where he was going; now his absences were long, and she did not know where his time was spent. lady lanswell noticed the unusual shadow on the girl's sweet face, and in her quick, impetuous way asked her about it. "marion, you are anxious or thoughtful--which is it?" she asked. "thoughtful," said lady chandos. "i am not anxious, not in the least." "of what are you thinking, that it brings a shadow on that dear face of yours?" said lady lanswell, kindly. lady chandos turned to her, and in a low tone of voice said: "has lance any very old or intimate friends in london?" "no; none that i know of. he knows a great many people, of course, and some very intimately, but i am not aware of any especial friendship. why do you ask me?" "i fancied he had; he is so much more from home than he used to be, and does not say where he goes." "my dear marion," said the countess, kindly, "lance has many occupations and many cares; he cannot possibly tell you every detail of how and where he passes the time. let me give you a little warning; never give way to any little suspicions of your husband; that is always the beginning of domestic misery; trust him all in all. lance is loyal and true to you; do not tease him with suspicions and little jealousies." "i am not jealous," said lady chandos, "but it seems to me only natural that i should like to know where my husband passes his time." the older and wiser woman thought to herself, with a sigh, that it might be quite as well that she should not know. chapter xliii. "death ends everything." madame vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. her beauty and her singing made her the wonder of the world. royalty delighted to honor her. one evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her lovely lips--people were almost wild over her--they had called her until they were tired. popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. and then the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. royal lips praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. her triumph was at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "crown diamonds." her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she bad electrified the audience as no other _artiste_ living could have done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. when she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of delight. that evening crowned her "queen of song." no one who saw her ever forgot her. the next morning the papers raved about her; they prophesied a new era for music and for the stage; it was, perhaps, the most triumphant night of her great career. she had the gift which makes an actress or a singer; she could impress her individuality on people; she made a mark on the hearts and minds of those who saw her that was never effaced; her gestures, her face, her figure, her magnificent attitudes stood out vivid and clear, while they lived distinct from any others. "where royalty smiles, other people laugh," says the old proverb. no sooner was it known that the warmest praise kindly and royal lips could give had been given to madame vanira than she became at once the darling of the world of fashion. invitations poured in upon her, the most princely mansions in london were thrown open to her; the _creme de la creme_ of the _elite_ sought her eagerly; there was nothing like her; her beauty and her genius inthralled every one. the time came when she was the most popular and the most eagerly sought after woman in london, yet she cared little for society; her art was the one thing she lived for, and her friendship with lord chandos. one day she said to him: "i have never seen lady marion. what is she like?" he noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of blondes as lady chandos, or as "your wife," but always as lady marion. this was a beautiful morning in may, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. after some time she startled him with the question: "what is lady marion like?" "did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? she was by my side, and you saw me. nay, i remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers." "i remember the evening," said leone sadly, "but i do not remember seeing my lady. i--i saw nothing but you. tell me what she is like. is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful. "yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. would you like to see her, leone?" a sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away. "yes, i should like just once to see her. she is very clever, is she not?" "yes, in a quiet way. she plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words." leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face. "does she? ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written." "i do not think so," he replied. "if you are thinking of lady marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. she has the grace and calm of repose. you have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. she quiets a man's heart. you stir every pulse in it. she soothes one into forgetfulness of life. you brace and animate and brighten. you cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. you are smiling. what amuses you?" "nothing. i was not amused, lord chandos. i was thinking, and the thought i smiled over was not amusing." "what was it?" "i was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. i read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. shall i repeat them to you?" "it is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "i shall be only too delighted." her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of noble words. her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem: "while roses are so red, while lilies are so white, shall a woman exalt her face because it gives delight? she's not so sweet as a rose, a lily is straighter than she, and if she were as red or white, she'd be but one of three. "whether she flush in love's summer, or in its winter grow pale, whether she flaunt her beauty, or hide it in a veil; be she red or white, and stand she erect or bowed, time will win the race he runs with her, and hide her away in a shroud." "those words took my fancy, lord chandos," continued leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. all grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud." "there will be no shroud for the soul," he said. she rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh. "that is true. after all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven." he smiled half sadly at her. "those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said. "the brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said. then lord chandos rose from his seat with a shudder. "let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. how you have changed! i can remember when you never had a dull thought." "i can remember when i had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered. then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "my soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul the more one suffers. i have understood more of human nature since i have tried to represent the woes of others." he glanced at her with sudden interest. "which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked. "i can hardly tell you. i like norma very much--the stately, proud, loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch, who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make, who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. all the passion and power in my nature rises to that character." "that is easily seen," he replied. "there have been many normas, but none like you." her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him! "and then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of passion and despair, the noble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she loves finds that she has a rival--a young, beautiful, beloved rival." she clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "my whole soul rises to that," she continued; "i understand it--the passion, the anguish, the despair!" his dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her. "who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel of genius in you?" "you are very good to call it genius," she said. "i always knew i had something in me that was not to be described or understood--something that made me different from other people; but i never knew what it was. do you know those two lines: "'the poets learn in suffering what they tell in song.' "i think the passion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains and joys of others. there is another opera i love--'l'etoile du nord.' the grave, tender, grand character of catherine, with her passionate love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. there is no love without madness." a deep sigh from her companion aroused her, and she remembered that she was on dangerous ground; still the subject had a great charm for her. "if i ever wrote an opera," she said, "i should have jealousy for my ground-work." "why?" he asked, briefly. "because," she replied, "it is the strongest of all passions." "stronger than love?" he asked. "i shall always think they go together," said leone. "i know that philosophers call jealousy the passion of ignoble minds; i am not so sure of it. it goes, i think, with all great love, but not with calm, well-controlled affection. i should make it the subject of my opera, because it is so strong, so deep, so bitter; it transforms one, it changes angels into demons. we will not talk about it." she drew a little jeweled watch from her pocket. "lord chandos," she said, "we have been talking two hours, and you must not stay any longer." when he was gone she said to herself that she would not ask him any more questions about lady marion. chapter xliv. the rivals face to face. madame de chandalle gave a grand soiree, and she said to herself that it should be one of the greatest successes of the season. three women were especially popular and sought after: madame vanira, whose beauty and genius made her queen of society; lady chandos, whose fair, tranquil loveliness was to men like the light of the fair moon, and miss bygrave, the most brilliant of brunettes--the most proud and exclusive of ladies. madame de chandalle thought if she could but insure the presence of all three at once, her _soiree_ would be the success of the season. she went in person to invite the great singer herself, a compliment she seldom paid to any one, and leone at first refused. madame de chandalle looked imploringly at her. "what can i offer as an inducement? the loveliest woman in london, lady chandos, will be there. that will not tempt you, i am afraid." she little knew how much. as leone heard the words, her heart beat wildly. lady chandos, the fair woman who was her rival. she had longed to see her, and here was a chance. she dreaded, yet desired to look at her, to see what the woman was like whom lance had forsaken her for. the longing tempted her. "your desire to welcome me," she said, gracefully, "is the greatest inducement you can offer me." and madame de chandalle smiled at her victory. madame de chandalle was the widow of an eminent french general. she preferred london to paris. she was mistress of a large fortune, and gave the best entertainments of the season. she knew that the beautiful singer accepted but few of the many invitations sent to her. last week she had declined the invitations of a duchess and the wife of an american millionaire. she was doubly delighted that her own was accepted. the same was for tuesday evening. on that evening leone was free, and she had some idea that madame had chosen it purposely. at last she was to see lance's wife, the woman whom the laws of man, of society, and the world had placed in her place, given her position, her name, her love--the woman whom a mere legal quibble had put in her place. the hours seemed long until tuesday evening came. it struck her that if lady chandos were there lord chandos would be there too; he would see her at last in the regal position her own genius had won for herself; a position that seemed to her a thousand times grander than the one derived from the mere accident of birth. he would see then the world's estimation of the woman he had forsaken. she was pleased, yet half frightened, to know that at last she and her rival would meet face to face. she had so noble a soul that vanity was not among her faults, but on this evening she was more than usually particular. never had the matchless beauty of the great actress shown to greater advantage. she wore a dress of faint cream-colored brocade, half hidden in fine, costly lace, in the beautiful waves of her hair a large, cream-colored rose nestled, and with that she wore a set of diamonds a princess might have envied. the superb beauty, the half stately, half-languid grace, the southern eyes, the full, sweet lips, the wondrous beauty of her white neck and arms, the inexpressible charm of her attitudes, the play of her superb features--all made her marvelous to look upon. a dainty, delicate perfume came from the folds of her dress. she had a richly jeweled fan, made from the delicate amber plumage of some rare tropical bird; the radiance and light of her beauty would have made a whole room bright. she reached madame de chandalle's rather late. she gave one hasty glance round the superb reception-room as she passed to where madame was receiving her guests, but the dark, handsome head and face of lord chandos were nowhere to be seen. madame overwhelmed her with civilities, and leone soon found herself the center of an admiring crowd. the assembly was a most brilliant one; there were princes of the blood, royal dukes, marshals of france, peers of england, men of highest note in the land; to each and all the radiant, beautiful artist was the center of all attraction. a royal duke was bending over her chair, one of the noblest marshals of france, with the young marquis of tyrol to assist him, was trying to entertain her. they were lavishing compliments upon her. suddenly she saw some slight stir in the groups, the french marshal murmured: "_comme elle est belle!_" and, looking up, she saw a fair, regal woman bowing to madame de chandalle--a woman whose fair, tranquil loveliness was like moonlight on a summer's lake. leone was charmed by her. the graceful figure was shown to the best advantage by the dress of rich white silk; she wore a superb suit of opals, whose hundred tints gleamed and glistened as she moved. "the very queen of blondes," she overheard one gentleman say to another, her eyes riveted by the fair, tranquil loveliness of this beautiful woman, whose dress was trimmed with white water-lilies, who wore a water-lily in her hair and one on her white breast. leone watched her intently. watching her was like reading a sweet, half-sad poem, or listening to sweet, half-sad music--every movement was full of sweet harmony. leone watched this beautiful woman for some time; every one appeared to know her; she was evidently a leader of fashion; still she had no idea who she was. she expected, she did not know why, to see lord and lady chandos enter together. the french marshal was the first to speak. "you admire la reine des blondes, madame?" he said. "ah, heaven, how we should rave in paris over so fair a lady. do you know who she is?" "no," answered leone, "but i should like to know very much. she is very beautiful." "it is the beauty of an angel," cried the marshal. "she is the wife of one of the most famous men in england--she is lady chandos." "ah," said leone, with a long, low cry. the very mention of the name had stabbed her through the heart. the marshal looked up in wonder. "i beg pardon," she said, quickly, "what name did you say? a sudden faintness seized me; the room is warm. what is the lady's name?" she would not for the whole world that he should have known what caused either the pain or the cry. the marshal repeated: "that is lady chandos, the wife of lord chandos, who is the rising light of this generation." "there are so many rising lights," she said, carelessly; but her heart was beating fast the while. ah, me! so fair, so graceful, so high-bred! was it any wonder that he had loved her? yet to this gorgeous woman, with her soul of fire, it seemed that those perfect features were almost too gentle, and lacked the fire of life. she saw several gentlemen gather round the chair on which lady chandos sat, like a queen on a throne; and then the golden head was hidden from her sight. so at last she was face to face with her rival--at last she could see and hear her--this fair woman who had taken her lover from her. it was with difficulty that she was herself, that she maintained her brilliant repartees; her fire of wit, her _bon mots_ that were repeated from one to the other. her powers of conversation were of the highest order. she could enchain twenty people at once, and keep all their intellects in active exercise. it was with difficulty she did that now; she was thinking so entirely of the golden head, with its opal stars. then came another stir among the brilliant groups--the _entree_ of a prince, beloved and revered by all who knew him. leone, with her quick, artistic eye, thought she had never seen a more brilliant picture than this--the magnificent apartment, with its superb pictures, its background of flowers, its flood of light; the splendid dresses and jewels of the women, the blending of rich colors, the flashing of light made it a picture never to be forgotten. suddenly she saw madame de chandalle smiling in her face, and by her side was the beautiful rival who supplanted her. "madame vanira," said their hostess, "permit me to make known to you lady chandos, who greatly desires the pleasure of your acquaintance." then the two who had crossed each other's lives so strangely looked at each other face to face. leone's heart almost stood still with a great throb of pain as she glanced steadily at the fair, lovely face of her rival. how often had he sunned himself in those blue eyes? how often had he kissed those sweet lips and held those white hands in his own? she recovered herself with a violent effort and listened. lady chandos was speaking to her. "i am charmed to see you, madame vanira," she said; "i am one of your greatest admirers." "you are very kind, lady chandos," said leone. then lady marion turned to her hostess. "i should like to remain with madame vanira," she said; "that is, if you will, madame?" leone drew aside her rich cream-colored draperies and lace. lady chandos sat down by her side. "i am so pleased to meet you," she continued, with what was unusual animation with her. "i have longed to see you off the stage." leone smiled in the fair face. "i can only hope," she said, "that you will like me as well off the stage as you do on." "i am sure of that," said lady chandos, with charming frankness. she admired the beautiful and gifted singer more than she cared to say. she added, timidly: "now that i have met you here, madame, i shall hope for the pleasure and honor of receiving you at my own house." she wondered why madame vanira drew back with a slight start: it seemed so strange to be asked into the house that she believed to be her own. "i shall be delighted," continued lady chandos. "i give a ball on wednesday week; promise me that you will come." "i will promise you to think of it," she replied, and lady chandos laughed blithely. "that means you will come," she said, and the next moment lord chandos entered the room. chapter xlv. an invitation. they both saw him at the same moment. leone, with a sudden paling of her beautiful face, with a keen sense of sharp pain, and lady chandos with a bright, happy flush. "here is my husband," she said, proudly; little dreaming that the beautiful singer had called him husband, too. he came toward them slowly; it seemed to him so wonderful that these two should be sitting side by side--the woman he loved with a passionate love, and the woman he married under his mother's influence. there were so many people present that it was some time before he could get up to them, and by that time he had recovered himself. "lance," cried lady chandos, in a low voice, "see how fortunate i am; i have been introduced to madame vanira." yes, his heart smote him again; it seemed so cruel to deceive her when she was so kind, so gentle; she trusted in him so implicitly that it seemed cruel to deceive her. she turned with a radiant face to leone. "let me introduce my husband, lord chandos, to you, madame vanira," she said, and they looked at each other for one moment as though they were paralyzed. then the simple, innate truth of leone's disposition came uppermost. with the most dignified manner she returned the bow that lord chandos made. "i have had the pleasure of meeting lord chandos before," she said. and lady marion looked at her husband in reproachful wonder. "and you never told me," she said. "knowing my great admiration for madame vanira, you did not tell me." "where was it, madame?" he asked, looking at her with an air of helpless, hopeless entreaty. then she bethought herself that perhaps those few words might cause unpleasantness between husband and wife, and she tried to make little of them. "i was at the french embassy here in london, lord chandos, at the same time you were," she said. and lady marion was quite satisfied with the explanation, which was perfectly true. then they talked for a few minutes, at the end of which lady chandos was claimed by her hostess for a series of introductions. lord chandos and leone were left alone. she spoke to him quickly and in an undertone of voice. "lord chandos," she said, "i wish to speak to you; take me into the conservatory where we shall not be interrupted." he obeyed in silence; they walked through the brilliant throng of guests, through the crowded, brilliant room, until they reached the quiet conservatory at the end. the lamps were lighted and shone like huge pearls among the blossoms. there were few people and those few desired no attention from the new-comers. he led her to a pretty chair, placed among the hyacinths; the fragrance was very strong. "i am afraid you will find this odor too much, beautiful as it is," he said. "i do not notice," she said; "my heart and soul are full of one thing. oh, lord chandos, your wife likes me, likes me," she repeated, eagerly. "i am not surprised at it; indeed, i should have been surprised if she had not liked you," he said. the dark, beautiful eyes had a wistful look in them as they were raised to his face. "how beautiful she is, how fair and stately!" she said. "yes, beautiful; but compared to you, leone, as i said before, she is like moonlight to sunlight, like water to wine." "i have done no wrong," continued leone, with a thrill of subdued passion in her voice; "on the contrary, a cruel wrong was done to me. but when i am with her, i feel in some vague way that i are guilty. does she know anything of your story and mine?" his dark face burned. "no," he replied; "she knows nothing of that except that in my youth--ah, leone, that i must say this to you--in my youth i made some mistake; so my lady mother was pleased to call it," he added, bitterly. "she does not know exactly what it was, nor could she ever dream for one moment that it was you." she looked at him with a serious, questioning gaze. "surely you did not marry her without telling her that you had gone through that service already, did you? if so, i think you acted disloyally and dishonorably." he bent his head in lowly humility before her. "leone," he said--"ah, forgive me for calling you leone, but the name is so sweet and so dear to me--leone, i am a miserable sinner. when i think of my weakness and cowardice, i loathe myself; i could kill myself; yet i can never undo the wrong i have done to either. she knows little, and i believe implicitly she has forgotten that little. why do you ask me?" "it seems so strange," said leone, musingly, "i asked you to come here to speak to me that i might ask your advice. she, lady marion, has asked me to her house--has pressed me, urged me to go; and i have said that i will think of it. i want you to advise me and tell me what i should do." "my dear leone, i--i cannot. i should love above all things to see you at my house, but it would be painful for you and painful to me." she continued, in a low voice: "lady marion has asked me to be her friend; she is good enough to say she admires me. what shall i do?" he was silent for some minutes, then he said: "there is one thing, leone, if you become a friend, or even a visitor of lady marion's, i should see a great deal of you, and that would be very pleasant; it is all there is left in life. i should like it, leone--would you?" looking up, she met the loving light of the dark eyes full upon her. her face flushed. "yes," she whispered, "i, too, should like it." there was silence between them for some little time, then leone said: "would it be quite safe for me to visit you? do you think that lady lanswell would recognize me?" "no," he answered, "if the eyes of love failed to recognize you at one glance, the eyes of indifference will fail altogether. my mother is here to-night; risk an introduction to her, and you will see. it would give fresh zest and pleasure to my life if you could visit us." "it would be pleasant," said leone, musingly; "and yet to my mind, i cannot tell why, there is something that savors of wrong about it. lord chandos," she added, "i like your wife, she was kindness itself to me. we must mind one thing if i enter your house; i must be to you no more than any other person in it--i must be a stranger--and you must never even by one word allude to the past; you promise that, do you not?" "i will promise everything and anything," he replied. "i will ask madame de chandalle to introduce you to my mother--i should not have the nerve for it." "if she should recognize me there will be a scene," said leone, with a faint smile; "it seems to me that the eyes of hate are keener than the eyes of love." "she will not know you. i believe that she has forgotten even your name; who would think of finding leone in the brilliant actress for whose friendship all men sigh? why, leone, forgive me for using the word--life will be quite different to me if we are to be friends, if i may see your face sometimes in the home that should have been yours. it will make all the difference in the world, and i am absurdly happy at the bare thought of it." "i think our conference has lasted long enough," she said, rising. "you think, then, that i should accept lady marion's invitation?" "yes, it will give us more opportunities of meeting, and will bring about between lady marion and yourself a great intimacy," he said. "heaven send it may end well," she said, half sadly. "thank heaven for its kindness," he replied, and then they left the quiet conservatory, where the soft ripple of the scented fountain made sweetest music. lord chandos quitted her, much to his regret, and leone sought out madame de chandalle. "i should like to ask you, madame, for one more introduction," she said. "i should much like to know the countess of lanswell." nothing could exceed madame's delight and courtesy. she took leone to the blue saloon, as it was called, where the countess of lanswell sat in state. she looked up in gratified surprise as the name of the great singer was pronounced. if leone felt any nervousness she did not show it; there must be no hesitation or all would be lost. she raised her eyes bravely to the handsome, haughty face of the woman who had spurned her. in the one moment during which their eyes met, leone's heart almost stood still, the next it beat freely, for not even the faintest gleam of recognition came into my lady's eyes. but when they had been talking for some minutes, and the countess had excelled herself in the grace of her compliments, she gazed with keen, bright eyes in that beautiful face. "do you know, madame vanira, that the first time i saw you there was something quite familiar in your face." there was something startling in the crimson blush that mounts even to the locks of her dark hair. "is it so?" she asked. and the countess did not relax the questioning gaze. "i think now," she added, "that i am wrong. i cannot think of any one who is like you. i shall be glad to see you at dunmore house, madame vanira. we have a dinner-party next week, and i hope you will be inclined to favor us. do you know lady chandos?" "yes," was the half sad reply, "i was introduced to her this evening." they talked on indifferent subjects. the countess was most charming to the gifted singer, and leone could not help contrasting this interview with the last that she had with lady lanswell. one thing was quite certain. the countess did not recognize her, and her visits to dunmore house would be quite safe. she talked to lady lanswell for some time, and went away that night quite pleased with the new prospects opening before her. chapter xlvi. at the ball. "i like madame vanira," said the countess of lanswell, a few days after the introduction. "she is not only the most gifted singer of the present day, but she is an uncommon type of woman. who or what was she?" my lady was seated in her own drawing-room in the midst of a circle of morning callers. lord chandos was there, and he listened with some amusement to the conversation that followed. the countess was speaking to major hautbois, who was supposed to know the pedigree of everybody. she looked at him now for the information he generally gave readily, but the major's face wore a troubled expression. "to tell the truth," he replied, "i have heard so many conflicting stories as to the lady's origin that i am quite at a loss which to repeat." lady lanswell smiled at the naive confession. "truth does wear a strange aspect at times," she said. "when major hautbois has to choose between many reports, i should say that none of them were true. myself," she continued, "i should say that madame vanira was well-born--she has a patrician face." lord chandos thought of the "dairy-maid," and sighed while he smiled. ah, if his mother could but have seen leone with the same eyes with which she saw madame vanira all would have been well. it was quite evident that my lady did not in the least recognize her--there could be no doubt of it. she continued to praise her. "i have always," she said, "been far above what i consider the littleness of those people who think to show their superiority by abusing the stage, or rather by treating with supercilious contempt those who ornament the stage. something," she added, with an air of patronage, "is due to queens." and again lord chandos smiled bitterly to himself. if his mother had but owned these opinions a short time before, how different life might have been. lady lanswell turned to her son. "madame vanira will be at lady marion's ball on tuesday," she said: "i am sorry that i shall not meet her." "are you not coming, mother?" he asked, with a certain secret hope that she was not. "no; the earl has made an engagement for me, which i am compelled to keep," she said, "much to my regret." and she spoke truthfully. the proud and haughty countess found herself much impressed by the grace, genius, and beauty of madame vanira. leone had looked forward to the evening of the ball as to an ordeal that must be passed through. she dreaded it, yet longed for it. she could not rest for thinking of it. she was to enter as a guest the house where she should have reigned mistress. she was to be the visitor of the woman who had taken her place. how should she bear it? how would it pass? for the first time some of the terrible pain of jealousy found its way into her heart--a pain that blanched her face, and made her tremble; a new pain to her in the fire of its burning. when the night of the ball came it found her with a pale face; her usual radiant coloring faded, and she looked all the lovelier for it. she dressed herself with unusual care and magnificence. "i must look my best to-night," she said to herself, with a bitter smile. "i am going to see the home that should have been my own. i am going to visit lady chandos, and i believed myself to be lady chandos and no other. i must look my best." she chose a brocade of pale amber that looked like woven sunbeams; it was half covered with point lace and trimmed with great creamy roses. she wore a _parure_ of rubies, presented by an empress, who delighted in her glorious voice; on her beautiful neck, white and firm as a pillar, she wore a necklace of rubies; on her white breast gleamed a cross of rubies, in which the fire flashed like gleams of light. she had never looked so magnificently beautiful. the low dress showed the white shining arms and shoulders like white satin. the different emotions that surged through her whole heart and soul gave a softened tenderness to the beautiful, passionate face. she was a woman at whose feet a man could kneel and worship; who could sway the heart and soul of a man as the wind sways the great branches of strong trees. on the morning of the day of the ball, a bouquet arrived for her, and she knew that it held her favorite flowers, white lilies-of-the-valley, with sweet hanging bells and gardenias that filled the whole room with perfume. she had nerve enough to face the most critical audience in the world. she sung while kings and queens looked on in wonder; the applause of great multitudes had never made her heart beat or her pulses thrill; but as she drove to stoneland house a faint, languid sensation almost overcame her; how should she bear it? what should she do? more than once the impulse almost mastered her to return, and never see lord chandos again; but the pain, the fever and the longing urged her on. it was like a dream to her, the brilliantly-lighted mansion, the rows of liveried servants, the spacious entrance-hall lined with flowers, the broad white staircase with the crimson carpet, the white statues holding crimson lamps. she walked slowly up that gorgeous staircase, every eye riveted by her queenly beauty. she said to herself: "all this should have been mine." yet, it was not envy of the wealth and magnificence surrounding her, it was the keen pain of the outrageous wrong done to her which stung her to the quick. brilliantly dressed ladies passed her, and she saw that more deference was paid to her than would have been paid to a duchess. then, in the drawing-room that led to the ballroom, she saw lady marion in her usual calm, regal attitude, receiving her guests. the queen of blondes looked more than lovely; her dress was of rich white lace over pale blue silk, with blue forget-me-nots in her hair. leone had one moment's hard fight with herself as she gazed at this beautiful woman. "she stands in my place, she bears my name; on her finger shines the ring that ought to shine on mine; she has taken the love i believed to be mine for life," said leone to herself; "how shall i bear it?" as she stood among the brilliant crowd, a strong impulse came over her to go up to lady marion and say: "stand aside; this is my place. men cannot undo the laws of god. stand aside, give me my place." words were still burning from her heart to her lips when she saw lady marion holding out her hand in kindliest greeting to her; all the bitter thoughts melted at once in the sunshine of that fair presence; her own hand sought lady marion's, and the two women, whose lives had crossed each other's so strangely, stood for one moment hand locked in hand, their eyes fixed on each other. lady marion spoke first, and she seemed to draw her breath with a deep sigh as she did so. "i am so pleased to see you, madame vanira," she said, eagerly. "we must find time for a long talk this evening." with a bow leone passed on to the ballroom, where the first person to meet her was lord chandos; he looked at the bouquet she carried. "you have honored my flowers, madame," he said. "i remember your love for lilies-of-the-valley. you will put my name down for the first waltz?" there was a world of reproach in the dark eyes she raised to his. "no, i will not waltz with you," she replied, gently. "why not?" he asked, bending his handsome head over her. "i might make false excuses, but i prefer telling you the truth," she answered; "i will not trust myself." and when leone took that tone lord chandos knew that further words were useless. "you will dance a quadrille, at least?" he asked, and she consented. then he offered her his arm and they walked through the room together. the ballroom at stoneland house was a large and magnificent apartment; many people thought it the finest ballroom in london; the immense dome was brilliantly lighted, the walls were superbly painted, and tier after tier of superb blossoms filled the room with exquisite color and exquisite perfume. the ballroom opened into a large conservatory, which led to a fernery, and from the fernery one passed to the grounds. leone felt embarrassed; she longed to praise the beautiful place, yet it seemed to her if she did so it would be like reminding him that it ought to have been hers; while he, on the contrary, did not dare to draw her attention to picture, flower, or statue, lest she should remember that they had been taken from her by a great and grievous wrong. "we are not very cheerful friends," he said, trying to arouse himself. "i begin to think we have done wrong in ever thinking of friendship at all," she replied. lord chandos turned to her suddenly. "leone," he said, "you have quite made a conquest of my mother--you do not know how she admires you!" a bitter smile curled the beautiful lips. "it is too late," she said sadly. "it does not seem very long since she refused even to tolerate me." lord chandos continued: "she was speaking about you yesterday, and she was quite animated about you; she praised you more than i have ever heard her praise any one." "i ought to feel flattered," said leone; "but it strikes me as being something wonderful that lady lanswell did not find out any good qualities in me before." "my mother saw you through a haze of hatred," said lord chandos; "now she will learn to appreciate you." a sudden glow of fire flashed in those superb eyes. "i wonder," she said, "if i shall ever be able to pay my debt to lady lanswell, and in what shape i shall pay it?" he shuddered as he gazed in the beautiful face. "try to forget that, leone," he said; "i never like to remember that you threatened my mother." "we will not discuss it," she said, coldly; "we shall never agree." then the band began to play the quadrilles. lord chandos led leone to her place. he thought to himself what cruel wrong it was on the part of fate, that the woman whom he had believed to be his wedded wife should be standing there, a visitor in the house which ought to have been her home. chapter xlvii. the compact of friendship. the one set of quadrilles had been danced, and leone said to herself that there was more pain than pleasure in it, when lady marion, with an unusual glow of animation on her face, came to leone, who was sitting alone. "madame vanira," she said, "it seems cruel to deprive others of the pleasure of your society, but i should like to talk to you. i have some pretty things which i have brought from spain, which i should like to show you. will it please you to leave the ballroom and come with me, or do you care for dancing?" leone smiled sadly; tragedy and comedy are always side by side, and it seemed to her, who had had so terrible a tragedy in her life, who stood face to face with so terrible a tragedy now, it seemed to her absurd that she should think of dancing. "i would rather talk to you," she replied, "than do anything else." the two beautiful, graceful women left the ballroom together. leone made some remark on the magnificence of the rooms as they passed, and lady chandos smiled. "i am a very home-loving being myself. i prefer the pretty little morning-room where we take breakfast, and my own boudoir, to any other place in the house; they seem to be really one's own because no one else enters them. come to my boudoir now, madame vanira, and i will show you a whole lot of pretty treasures that i brought from spain." "from spain." she little knew how those words jarred even on leone's heart. it was in spain they had intrigued to take her husband from her, and while lady marion was collecting art treasures the peace and happiness of her life had been wrecked, her fair name blighted, her love slain. she wondered to herself at the strange turn of fate which had brought her into contact with the one woman in all the world that she felt she ought to have avoided. but there was no resisting lady marion when she chose to make herself irresistible. there was something childlike and graceful in the way in which she looked up to madame vanira, with an absolute worship of her genius, her voice, and her beauty. she laid her white hand on leone's. "you will think me a very gushing young lady, i fear, madame vanira, if i say how fervently i hope we shall always be friends; not in the common meaning of the words, but real, true, warm friends until we die. have you ever made such a compact of friendship with any one?" leone's heart smote her, her face flushed. "yes," she replied; "i have once." lady chandos looked up at her quickly. "with a lady, i mean?" "no," said leone; "i have no lady friends; indeed, i have few friends of any kind, though i have many acquaintances." lady marion's hand lingered caressingly on the white shoulder of leone. "something draws me to you," she said; "and i cannot tell quite what it is. you are very beautiful, but it is not that; the beauty of a woman would never win me. it cannot be altogether your genius, though it is without peer. it is a strange feeling, one i can hardly explain--as though there was something sympathetic between us. you are not laughing at me, madame vanira?" "no, i am not laughing," said leone, with wondering eyes. how strange it was that lance's wife, above all other women, should feel this curious, sympathetic friendship for her! they entered the beautiful boudoir together, and lady marion, with pardonable pride, turned to her companion. "lord chandos arranged this room for me himself. have you heard the flattering, foolish name for me that the london people have invented? they call me the queen of blondes." "that is a very pretty title," said leone, "they call me a queen, the queen of song." and the two women who were, each in her way, a "queen," smiled at each other. "you see," continued lady chandos, "that my husband used to think there was nothing in the world but blondes. i have often told him if i bring a brunette here she is quite at a disadvantage; everything is blue, white, or silver." leone looked round the sumptuous room; the ceiling was painted by a master hand; all the story of endymion was told there; the walls were superbly painted; the hangings were of blue velvet and blue silk, relieved by white lace; the carpet, of rich velvet pile, had a white ground with blue corn-flowers, so artistically grouped they looked as though they had fallen on the ground in picturesque confusion. the chairs and pretty couch were covered with velvet; a hundred little trifles that lay scattered over the place told that it was occupied by a lady of taste; books in beautiful bindings, exquisite drawings and photographs, a jeweled fan, a superb bouquet holder, flowers costly, beautiful, and fragrant; a room that was a fitting shrine for a goddess of beauty. "my own room," said lady chandos, with a smile, as she closed the door; "and what a luxury it is, madame vanira--a room quite your own! even when the house is full of visitors no one comes here but lord chandos; he always takes that chair near those flowers while he talks to me, and that is, i think, the happiest hour in the day. sit down there yourself." leone took the chair, and lady chandos sat down on a footstool by her side. it was one of the most brilliant and picturesque pictures ever beheld; the gorgeous room, with its rich hangings, the beautiful, dark-eyed woman, with the spanish face, her dress like softened sunbeams, the fire of her rubies like points of flame, her whole self lovely as a picture, and the fair queen of blondes, with the golden hair and white roses--a picture that would have made an artist's fortune. "how pleasant this is," said lady chandos, "a few minutes' respite from the music and dancing! do you love the quiet moments of your life, madame vanira?" leone looked down on the fair, lovely face with a deep sigh. "no, i think not," she replied; "i like my stage life best." lady chandos asked, in a half pitying tone: "why did you go on the stage? did you always like it?" and leone answered, gravely: "a great sorrow drove me there." "a great sorrow? how strange! what sorrow could come to one so beautiful, so gifted as you?" "a sorrow that crushed all the natural life in me," said leone; "but we will not speak of it. i live more in my life on the stage than in my home life; that is desolate always." she spoke unconsciously, and the heart of the fair woman who believed herself so entirely beloved warmed with pity and kindness to the one whose heart was so desolate. "a great sorrow taught you to find comfort in an artificial life," she said, gently; "it would not do that to me." and her white hand, on which the wedding-ring shone, caressed the beautiful white arm of madame vanira. "what would it do to you?" asked leone, slightly startled. "a really great trouble," replied lady chandos, musingly, "what would it do for me? kill me. i have known so little of it; i cannot indeed remember what could be called trouble." "you have been singularly fortunate," said leone, half enviously. and the fair face of the queen of blondes grew troubled. "perhaps," she said, "all my troubles are to come. i should not like to believe that." she was quite silent for some few minutes, then, with a sigh, she said: "you have made me feel nervous, and i cannot tell why. what trouble could come to me? so far as i see, humanly speakingly, none. no money troubles could reach me; sickness would hardly be a trouble if those i loved were round me. ah, well, that is common to every one." a look of startled intelligence came over her face. "i know one, and only one source of trouble," she said; "that would be if anything happened to lord chandos, to--to my husband; if he did not love me, or i lost him." she sighed as she uttered the last words, and the heart of the gifted singer was touched by the noblest, kindest pity; she looked into the fair, flower-like face. "you love your husband then?" she said, with a gentle, caressing voice. "love him," replied lady chandos, her whole soul flashing in her eyes--"love him? ah, that seems to me a weak word! my husband is all the world, all life to me. it is strange that i should speak to you, a stranger, in this manner; but, as i told you before, my heart warms to you in some fashion that i do not myself understand. i am not like most people. i have so few to love. no father, no mother, no sisters, or brothers. i have no one in the wide world but my husband; he is more to me than most husbands are to most wives--he is everything." leone looked down on that fair, sweet face with loving eyes; the very depths of her soul were touched by those simple words; she prayed god that she might always remember them. there was infinite pathos in her voice and in her face when she said: "you are very happy, then, with your husband, lady marion?" "yes, i am very happy," said the young wife, simply. "my husband loves me, i have no rivals, no jealousies, no annoyances; i may say i am perfectly happy." "i pray god that you may always be so!" said leone, gently. and with an impulse she could not resist she bent down and kissed the sweet face. then lady chandos looked up. "i am afraid," she said, "that our pleasant five minutes' chat is ended. we must go back to the ballroom. i am afraid all your admirers will be very angry with me, madame vanira." "that is a matter of perfect indifference?" she replied. "i know you better, lady marion, for those five minutes spent here than i should have done during a century in ballrooms." "and you promise that we shall always be friends," said the fair woman who called herself lady chandos. "i promise, and i will keep my word," said the beautiful singer, who had believed herself to be his wife. and with those words they parted. chapter xlviii. the husband's kiss. lady marion never did anything by halves. it was seldom that her calm, quiet nature was stirred, but when that happened she felt more deeply, perhaps, than people who express their feelings with great ease and rapidity. she was amused herself at her own great liking for madame vanira; it was the second great love of her life; the first had been for her husband, this was the next. she talked of her incessantly, until even lord chandos wondered and asked how it was. "i cannot tell," she replied; "i think i am infatuated. i am quite sure, lance, that if i had been a gentleman, i should have followed madame vanira to the other side of the world. i think her, without exception, the most charming woman in the world." she raised her eyes with innocent tenderness to his face. "are you jealous because i love her so much?" she asked. he shuddered as he heard the playful, innocent words, so different from the reality. "i should never be jealous of you, marion," he replied, and then turned the conversation. nothing less than a visit to madame vanira would please lady chandos. she asked her husband if he would go to the cedars with her, and wondered when he declined. the truth was that he feared some chance recognition, some accidental temptation; he dared not go, and lady marion looked very disappointed. "i thought you liked madame vanira," she said. "i am quite sure, lance, that you looked as if you did." "my dear marion, between liking persons and giving up a busy morning to go to see them there is an immense difference. if you really wish me to go, marion, you know that i will break all my appointments." "i would not ask you to do that," she replied, gently, and the result of the conversation was that lady chandos went alone. she spent two hours with leone, and the result was a great increase of liking and affection for her. leone sang for her, and her grand voice thrilled through every fiber of that gentle heart; leone read to her, and lady chandos said to herself that she never quite understood what words meant before. when it was time to go, lady chandos looked at her watch in wonder. "i have been here two hours," she said, "and they have passed like two minutes. madame vanira, i have no engagement to-morrow evening, come and see me. lord chandos has a speech to prepare, and he asked me to forego all engagements this evening." "perhaps i should be in the way," said leone; but lady marion laughed at the notion. she pleaded so prettily and so gracefully that leone consented, and it was arranged that she should spend the evening of the day following at stoneland house. she went--more than once. she had asked herself if this intimacy were wise? she could not help liking the fair, sweet woman who had taken her place, and yet she felt a great undercurrent of jealous indignation and righteous anger--it might blaze out some day, and she knew that if it ever did so it would be out of her control. it was something like playing with fire, yet how many people play with fire all their lives and never get burned! she went, looking more beautiful and regal than ever, in a most becoming dress of black velvet, her white arms and white shoulders looking whiter than ever through the fine white lace. she wore no jewels; a pomegranate blossom lay in the thick coils of her hair; a red rose nestled in her white breast. she was shown into the boudoir she had admired so much, and there lady chandos joined her. lord chandos had been busily engaged during the day in looking up facts and information for his speech. he had joined his wife for dinner, but she saw him so completely engrossed that she did not talk to him, and it had not occurred to her to tell him that madame vanira was coming, so that he was quite ignorant of that fact. the two ladies enjoyed themselves very much--they had a cup of orange pekoe from cups of priceless china, they talked of music, art, and books. the pretty little clock chimed ten. lady chandos looked at her companion. "you have not tried my piano yet," she said. "it was a wedding present from lord chandos to me; the tone of it is very sweet and clear." "i will try it," said madame vanira. "may i look through the pile of music that lies behind it?" lady chandos laughed at the eagerness with which leone went on her knees and examined the music. just at that moment, when she was completely hidden from view, the door suddenly opened, and lord chandos hastily entered. seeing his wife near, without looking around the room, in his usual caressing manner, he threw one arm round her, drew her to him, and kissed her. it was that kiss which woke all the love, and passion, and jealousy in leone's heart; it came home to her in that minute, and for the first time, that the husband she had lost belonged to another--that his kisses and caresses were never more to be hers, but would be given always to this other. there was one moment--only one moment of silence; but while it lasted a sharp sword pierced her heart; the next, lady chandos, with a laughing, blushing face, had turned to her husband, holding up one white hand in warning. "lance," she cried, "do you not see madame vanira?" she wondered why the words seemed to transfix him--why his face paled and his eyes flashed fire. "madame vanira!" he cried, "i did not see that she was here." then leone rose slowly from the pile of music. "i should ask pardon," she said; "i did not know that i had hidden myself so completely." it was like a scene from a play; a fair wife, with her sweet face, its expression of quiet happiness in her husband's love; the husband, with the startled look of passion repressed; leone, with her grand spanish beauty all aglow with emotion. she could not recover her presence of mind so as to laugh away the awkward situation. lady chandos was the first to do that. "how melodramatic we all look!" she said. "what is the matter?" then lord chandos recovered himself. he knew that the kiss he had given to one fair woman must have stabbed the heart of the other, and he would rather have done anything than that it should have happened. there came to him like a flash of lightning the remembrance of that first home at river view, and the white arms that were clasped round his neck when he entered there; and he knew that the same memory rankled in the heart of the beautiful woman whose face had suddenly grown pale as his own. the air had grown like living flame to leone; the pain which stung her was so sharp she could have cried aloud with the anguish of it. it was well nigh intolerable to see his arm round her, to see him draw her fair face and head to him, to see his lips seek hers and rest on them. the air grew like living flames; her heart beat fast and loud; her hands burned. all that she had lost by woman's intrigue and man's injustice this fair, gentle woman had gained. a red mist came before her eyes; a rush, as of many waters, filled her ears. she bit her lips to prevent the loud and bitter cry that seemed as though it must escape her. then lord chandos hastened to place a chair for her, and tried to drive from her mind all recollection of the little incident. "you are looking for some music, madame," he said, "from which i may augur the happy fact that you intended to sing. let me pray that you will not change your intention." "lady chandos asked me to try her piano," she said shyly. "i told madame vanira how sweet and silvery the tone of it is, lance," said lady chandos. and again leone shrunk from hearing on another woman's lip the word she had once used. it was awkward, it was intolerable; it struck her all at once with a sense of shame that she had done wrong in ever allowing lord chandos to speak to her again. but then he had pleaded so, he had seemed so utterly miserable, so forlorn, so hopeless, she could not help it. she had done wrong in allowing lady marion to make friends with her; lady marion was her enemy by force of circumstances, and there ought not to have been even one word between them. yet she pleaded so eagerly, it had seemed quite impossible to resist her. she was roused from her reverie by the laughing voice of lady marion, over whose fair head so dark a cloud hung. "madame vanira," she was saying, "ask my husband to sing with you. he has a beautiful voice, not a deep, rolling bass, as one would imagine from the dark face and tall, stalwart figure, but a rich, clear tenor, sweet and silvery as the chime of bells." leone remembered every tone, every note of it; they had spent long hours in singing together, and the memory of those hours shone now in the eyes that met so sadly. a sudden, keen, passionate desire to sing with him once more came over leone. it might be rash--it was imprudent. "mine was always a mad love," she said to herself, with a most bitter smile. "it might be dangerous--but once more." just once more she would like to hear her voice float away with his. she bent over the music again--the first and foremost lay mendelssohn's beautiful duet. "oh, would that my love." they sang it in the summer gloamings when she had been pleased and proud to hear her wonderful voice float away over the trees and die in sweetest silence. she raised it now and looked at him. "will you sing this?" she asked; but her eyes did not meet his, and her face was very pale. she did not wait for an answer, but placed the music on a stand, and then--ah, then--the two beautiful voices floated away, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the passionate, thrilling sound; the drawing-room, the magnificence of stoneland house, the graceful presence of the fair wife, faded from them. they were together once more at the garden at river view, the green trees making shade, the deep river in the distance. but when they had finished, lady chandos was standing by, her face wet with tears. "your music breaks my heart," she said; but she did not know the reason why. chapter xlix. the wound in her heart. if leone had been wiser after that one evening, she would have avoided lord chandos as she would have shunned the flames of fire; that one evening showed her that she stood on the edge of a precipice. looking in her own heart, she knew by its passionate anguish and passionate pain that the love in her had never been conquered. she said to herself, when the evening was over and she drove away, leaving them together, that she would never expose herself to that pain again. it was so strange, so unnatural for her--she who believed herself his wife, who had spent so many evenings with him--to go away and leave him with this beautiful woman who was really his wife. she looked up at the silent stars as she drove home; surely their pale, golden eyes must shine down in dearest pity on her. she clinched her white, soft hands until the rings made great red dents; she exhausted herself with great tearless sobs; yet no tears came from her burning eyes. was ever woman so foully, so cruelly wronged? had ever woman been so cruelly tortured? "i will not see him again," she cried to herself; "i cannot bear it." long after the stars had set, and the crimson flush of dawn stirred the pearly tints of the sky, she lay, sobbing, with passionate tears, feeling that she could not bear it--she must die. it would have been well if that had frightened her, but when morning dawned she said to herself that hers had always been a mad love, and would be so until the end. she made one desperate resolve, one desperate effort; she wrote to lord chandos, and sent the letter to his club--a little, pathetic note, with a heart-break in every line of it--to say that they who had been wedded lovers were foolish to think of being friends; that it was not possible, and that she thought they had better part; the pain was too great for her, she could not bear it. the letter was blotted with tears, and as he read it for whom it was written, other tears fell on it. before two hours had passed, he was standing before her, with outstretched hands, the ring of passion in his voice, the fire of passion in his face. "leone," he said, "do you mean this--must we part?" they forgot in that moment all the restraints by which they had surrounded themselves; once more they were lance and leone, as in the old days. "must we part?" he repeated, and her face paled as she raised it to his. "i cannot bear the pain, lance," she said, wearily. "it would be better for us never to meet than for me to suffer as i did last evening." he drew nearer to her. "did you suffer so much, leone?" he asked, gently. "yes, more almost than i can bear. it is not many years since i believed that i was your wife, and now i have to see another woman in my place. i--i saw you kiss her--i had to go away and leave you together. no, i cannot bear it, lance!" the beautiful head drooped wearily, the beautiful voice trembled and died away in a wail that was pitiful to hear; all her beauty, her genius, her talent--what did it avail her? lord chandos had suffered much, but his pain had never been so keen as now at this moment, when this beautiful queenly woman wailed out her sorrow to him. "what shall i do, leone? i would give my life to undo what i have done; but it is useless--i cannot. do you mean that we must part?" the eyes she raised to his face were haggard and weary with pain. "there is nothing for it but parting, lance," she said. "i thought we could be friends, but it is not possible; we have loved each other too well." "we need not part now," he said; "let us think it over; life is very long; it will be hard to live without the sunlight of your presence, leone, now that i have lived in it so long. let us think it over. do you know what i wanted to ask you last evening?" "no," she replied, "what was it?" "a good that you may still grant me," he said. "we may part, if you wish it, leone. leone, let us have one happy day before the time comes. leone, you see how fair the summer is, i want you to spend one day with me on the river. the chestnuts are all in flower--the whole world is full of beauty, and song, and fragrance; the great boughs are dipping into the stream, and the water-lilies lie on the river's breast. my dear love and lost love, come with me for one day. we may be parted all the rest of our lives, come with me for one day." her face brightened with the thought. surely for one day they might be happy; long years would have to pass, and they would never meet. oh, for one day, away on the river, in the world of clear waters, green boughs and violet banks--one day away from the world which had trammeled them and fettered them. "you tempt me," she said, slowly. "a day with you on the river. ah, for such a pleasure as that i would give twenty years of my life." he did not answer her, because he dared not. he waited until his heart was calm and at rest again, then he said: "let us go to-morrow, leone, no one knows what twenty-four hours may bring forth. let us go to-morrow, leone. rise early. how often we have gone out together while the dew lay upon the flowers and grass. shall it be so?" the angel of prudence faded from her presence as she answered, "yes." knowing how she loved him, hearing the old love story in his voice, reading it in his face, she would have done better had she died there in the splendor of her beauty and the pain of her love than have said, "yes." so it was arranged. "it will be a beautiful day," said lord chandos. "i am a capital rower, leone, as you will remember. i will take you as far as medmersham abbey: we will land there and spend an hour in the ruins; but you will have to rise early and drive down to the river side. you will not mind that." "i shall mind nothing that brings me to you," she said, with a vivid blush, and so it was settled. they forgot the dictates of honor; he forgot his duty to his wife at home, and she forgot prudence and justice. the morning dawned. she had eagerly watched for it through the long hours of the night; it wakes her with the song of the birds and the shine of the sun; it wakes her with a mingled sense of pain and happiness, of pleasure and regret. she was to spend a whole day with him, but the background to that happiness was that he was leaving a wife at home who had all claims to his time and attention. "one happy day before i die," she said to herself. but will it be happy? the sun will shine brightly, yet there will be a background; yet it shall be happy because it will be with him. it was yet early in the morning when she drove to the appointed place at the river side. the sun shone in the skies, the birds sang in the trees, the beautiful river flashed and glowed in the light, the waters seemed to dance and the green leaves to thrill. ah, if she were but back by the mill-stream, if she were but leone noel once again, with her life all unspoiled before her; if she were anything on earth except a woman possessed by a mad love. if she could but exchange these burning ashes of a burning love for the light, bright heart of her girlhood, when the world had been full of beauty which spoke to her in an unknown tongue. god had been so good to her; he had given to her the beauty of a queen, genius that was immortal, wit, everything life holds most fair, and they were all lost to her because of her mad love. ah, well, never mind, the sun was shining, the river dancing far away in the sun, and she was to spend the day with him. she had dressed herself to perfection in a close-fitting dress of dark-gray velvet, relieved by ribbons of rose pink; she wore a hat with a dark-gray plume, under the shade of which her beautiful face looked doubly bewitching; the little hands, which by their royal gestures swayed multitudes, were cased in dark gray. lord chandos looked at her in undisguised admiration. "the day seems to have been made on purpose for us," he said, as he helped her in the boat. leone laughed, but there was just the least tinge of bitterness in that laugh. "a day made for us would have gray skies, cold rains, and bleak, bitter winds," she said. and then the pretty pleasure boat floated away on the broad, beautiful stream. it was a day on which to dream of heaven; there was hardly a ripple on the beautiful thames; the air was balmy, sweet, filled with the scent of hay from the meadows; of flowers from the banks; it was as though they had floated away into paradise. lord chandos bent forward to see that the rugs were properly disposed; he opened her sunshade, but she would not use it. "let me see the beautiful river, the banks and the yews, while i may," she said, "the sun will not hurt me." there was no sound save that of the oars cleaving the bright waters. leone watched the river with loving eyes; since she had left river view--and she had loved it with something like passion--it seemed like part of that married life which had ended so abruptly. they passed by a thicket, where the birds were singing after a mad fashion of their own. "stop and listen," she said, holding up her hand. he stopped and the boat floated gently with the noiseless tide. "i wonder," said leone, "if in that green bird kingdom there are tragedies such as take place in ours?" lord chandos laughed. "you are full of fanciful ideas, leone," he said. "yes, i imagine, the birds have their tragedies because they have their loves." "i suppose there are pretty birds and plain birds, loving birds, and hard-hearted ones; some who live a happy life, filled with sunlight and song--some who die while the leaves are green, shot through the heart. in the kingdom of birds and the kingdom of men it is all just the same." "which fate is yours, leone?" asked lord chandos. "mine?" she said, looking away over the dancing waters, "mine? i was shot while the sun shone, and the best part of me died of the wound in my heart." chapter l. "as dead as my hopes." the broad, beautiful river widened, and the magnificent scenery of the thames spread out on either side, a picture without parallel in english landscapes. the silvery water, the lights and shades ever changing, the overhanging woods, the distant hill, the pretty islets, the pleasure-boats, the lawns, the great nests of water-lilies, the green banks studded with flowers, the rushes and reeds that grew even on the water's edge. on they went, through richmond, kew, past hampton court, past the picturesque old hampton windmill, on to one of the prettiest spots on the river--the "bells" at ousely, and there lord chandos fastened the boat to a tree while they went ashore. ah, but it was like a faint, far-off dream of heaven--the lovely, laughing river, the rippling foliage, the gorgeous trees, the quaint old hostelry, the hundreds of blooming flowers--the golden sunlight pouring over all. sorrow, care and death might come to-morrow, when the sky was gray and the water dull; but not to-day. oh, lovely, happy to-day. beautiful sun and balmy wind, blooming flowers and singing birds. lord chandos made a comfortable seat for leone on the river bank, and sat down by her side. they did not remember that they had been wedded lovers, or that a tragedy lay between them; they did not talk of love or of sorrow, but they gave themselves up to the happiness of the hour, to the warm, golden sunshine, to the thousand beauties that lay around them. they watched a pretty pleasure-boat drifting slowly along the river. it was well filled with what lord chandos surmised to be a picnic party, and somewhat to his dismay the whole party landed near the spot where he, with leone, was sitting. "i hope," he thought to himself, "that there is no one among them who knows me--i should not like it, for leone's sake." the thought had hardly shaped itself in his mind, when some one touched him on the arm. turning hastily he saw captain harry blake, one of his friends, who cried out in astonishment at seeing him there, and then looked in still greater astonishment at the beautiful face of madame vanira. "lady evelyn is on board the water witch," he said. "will you come and speak to her?" the handsome face of lord lanswell's son darkened. "no," he replied, "pray excuse me. and--harry, say nothing of my being here. i rowed down this morning. there is no need for every one in london to hear of it before night." captain harry blake laughed; at the sound of that laugh lord chandos felt the greatest impulse to knock him down. his face flushed hotly, and his eyes flashed fire. leone had not heard one word, and had persistently turned her face from the intruder, quite forgetting that in doing so she was visible to every one on the boat. lady evelyn blake was the first to see her, and she knew just enough of life to make no comment. when her husband returned she said to him carelessly: "that was madame vanira with lord chandos, i am sure." "you had better bring stronger glasses or clearer eyes with you the next time you come," he replied, laughingly, and then lady evelyn knew that she was quite right in her suspicions. it was only a jest to her and she thought nothing of it. that same evening when lady ilfield, who was one of lady marion's dearest friends, spoke of stoneland house, lady evelyn told the incident as a grand jest. lady ilfield looked earnestly at her. "do you really mean that you saw lord chandos with madame vanira at ousely?" she asked. "alone, without his wife?" "yes," laughed lady evelyn, "a stolen expedition, evidently. he looked horrified when captain blake spoke to him." "i do not like it," said lady ilfield, who was one of the old school, and did not understand the science of modern flirtation. "i have heard already more of lord chandos than has pleased me, and i like his wife." this simple conversation was the beginning of the end--the beginning of one of the saddest tragedies on which the sun ever shone. "i am sorry that he saw me," said lord chandos, as the captain waved his final adieu; "but he did not see your face, leone, did he?" "no," she replied, "i think not." "it does not matter about me," he said, "but i should not like to have any one recognize you." he forgot the incident soon after. when the boat was again on the bright, dancing river, then they forgot the world and everything else except that they were together. "lance," said leone, "row close to those water-lilies. i should like to gather one." obediently enough he went quite close to the white water-lilies, and placed the oars at the bottom of the boat, while he gathered the lilies for her. it was more like a poem than a reality; a golden sun, a blue, shining river, the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful regal woman, her glorious face bent over the water, her white hands throwing the drops of spray over the green leaves. it was the prettiest picture ever seen. lord chandos filled the boat with flowers; he heaped the pretty white water-lilies at the feet of leone, until she looked as though she had grown out of them. then, while the water ran lazily on, and the sun shone in golden splendor, he asked her if she would sing for him. "one song, leone," he said, "and that in the faintest voice. it will be clear and distinct as the voice of an angel to me." there must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for she raised her head and looked at him. "yes, i will sing for you, lance," she replied. "those water-lilies take me home. i will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips since i saw you. listen, see if you know the words: "'in sheltered vale a mill-wheel still sings its tuneful lay. my darling once did dwell there, but now she's far away. a ring in pledge i gave her, and vows of love we spoke-- those vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke.'" the rich, beautiful voice, low and plaintive, now seemed to float over the water: it died away among the water-lilies; it seemed to hang like a veil over the low boughs; it startled the birds, and hushed even the summer winds to silence. so sweet, so soft, so low, as he listened, it stole into his heart and worked sweet and fatal mischief. he buried his face in his hands and wept aloud. on went the sweet voice, with its sad story: he held up his hand with a gesture of entreaty. "hush, leone," he said, "for god's sake, hush. i cannot bear it." on went the sweet voice: "'but while i hear that mill-wheel my pains will never cease; i would the grave would hide me, for there alone is peace, for there alone is peace.'" "i will sing that verse again," she said, "it is prophetic." "'i would the grave would hide me, for there alone is peace.'" she bent her head as she sung the last few words, and there was silence between them--silence unbroken save for the ripple of the waters as it washed past the boat, and the song of a lark that soared high in the sky. "leone," said lord chandos, "you have killed me. i thought i had a stronger, braver heart, i thought i had a stronger nature--you have killed me." he looked quite exhausted, and she saw great lines of pain round his mouth, great shadows in his eyes. "have i been cruel to you?" she asked, and there was a ring of tenderness in her voice. "more cruel than you know," he answered. "once, leone, soon after i came home we went to a concert, and among other things i heard 'in sheltered vale.' at the first sound of the first notes my heart stood still. i thought, leone, it would never beat again; i thought my blood was frozen in my veins; i felt the color die from my face. lady marion asked me what was the matter, and the countess thought that i was going to swoon. i staggered out of the room like a man who had drunk too much wine, and it was many hours before i recovered myself; and now, leone, you sing the same words to me; they are like a death knell." "they hold a prophecy," said leone, sadly, "the only place where any one can find rest is the grave." "my beautiful leone," he cried, "you must not talk about the grave. there should be no death and no grave for one like you." "there will be none to my love," she said, but rather to herself than to him. then she roused herself and laughed, but the laugh was forced and bitter. "why should i speak of my love?" she said. "mine was a 'mad love.'" the day drifted on to a golden, sunlight afternoon, and the wind died on the waters while the lilies slept. and then they went slowly home. "has it been a happy day, leone?" asked lord chandos, as they drew near home. "it will have no morrow," she answered, sadly. "i shall keep those water-lilies until every leaf is withered and dead; yet they will never be so dead as my hopes--as dead as my life, though art fills it and praises crown it." "and i," he said, "shall remember this day until i die. i have often wondered, leone, if people take memory with them to heaven. if they do, i shall think of it there." "and i," she said, "shall know no heaven, if memory goes with me." they parted without another word, without a touch of the hands, or one adieu; but there had been no mention of parting, and that was the last thing thought of. chapter li. the confession. "i do not believe it," said lady marion; "it is some absurd mistake. if lord chandos had been out alone, or on a party of pleasure where you say, he would have told me." "i assure you, lady chandos, that it is true. captain blake spoke to him there, and lady evelyn saw him. madame vanira was with him." the speakers were lady chandos and lady ilfield; the place was the drawing-room at stoneland house; the time was half past three in the afternoon; and lady ilfield had called on her friend because the news which she had heard preyed upon her mind and she felt that she must reveal it. like all mischief-makers lady ilfield persuaded herself that she was acting upon conscientious motives; she herself had no nonsensical ideas about singers and actresses; they were quite out of her sphere, quite beneath her notice, and no good, she was in the habit of saying, ever came from associating with them. she had met madame vanira several times at stoneland house, and had always felt annoyed over it, but her idea was that a singer, an actress, let her be beautiful as a goddess and talented above all other women, had no right to stand on terms of any particular friendship with lord chandos. lady ilfield persuaded herself it was her duty, her absolute christian duty, to let lady chandos know what was going on. she was quite sure of the truth of what she had to tell, and she chose a beautiful, sunshiny afternoon for telling it. she wore a look of the greatest importance--she seated herself quite close to lady marion. "my dear lady chandos," she said, "i have called on the most unpleasant business. there is something which i am quite sure i ought to tell you, and i really do not know how. people are saying such things--you ought to know them." the fair, sweet face lost none of its tranquillity, none of its calm. how could she surmise that her heart was to be stabbed by this woman's words? "the sayings of people trouble me but little, lady ilfield," she replied, with a calm smile. "what i have to say concerns you," she said, "concerns you very much. i would not tell you but that i consider it my duty to do so. i told lady evelyn that she, who had actually witnessed the scene, ought to be the one to describe it, but she absolutely refused; unpleasant as the duty is, it has fallen on me." "what duty? what scene?" asked lady chandos, beginning to feel something like alarm. "if you have anything to say, lady ilfield, anything to tell me, pray speak out; i am anxious now to hear it." then indeed was lady ilfield in her glory. she hastened to tell the story. how captain and lady evelyn blake had gone with a few friends for a river-party, and at ousely had seen lord chandos with madame vanira, the great queen of song. lady marion's sweet face colored with indignation. she denied it emphatically; it was not true. she was surprised that lady ilfield should repeat such a calumny. "but, my dear lady chandos, it is true. i should not have repeated it if there had been a single chance of its being a falsehood. lady evelyn saw the boat fastened to a tree, your husband and madame vanira sat on the river bank, and when the captain spoke to lord chandos he seemed quite annoyed at being seen." lady marion's fair face grew paler as she listened; the story seemed so improbable to her. "my husband--lord chandos--does not know madame vanira half so well as i do," she said; "it is i who like her, nay, even love her. it is by my invitation that madame has been to my house. lord chandos was introduced to her by accident. i sought her acquaintance. if people had said she had been out for a day on the river with me there would have been some sense in it." lady ilfield smiled with the air of a person possessed of superior knowledge. "my dear lady chandos," she said, "it is time your eyes were opened; you are about the only person in london who does not know that lord chandos is madame vanira's shadow." "i do not believe it," was the indignant reply. "i would not believe it, lady ilfield, if all london swore it." lady ilfield laughed, and the tinge of contempt in that laugh made the gentle heart beat with indignation. she rose from her seat. "i do not doubt," she said, "that you came to tell me this with a good-natured intention. i will give you credit for that always, lady ilfield, when i remember this painful scene, but i have faith in my husband. nothing can shake it. and if the story you tell be true, i am quite sure lord chandos can give a good explanation of it. permit me to say good-morning, lady ilfield, and to decline any further conversation on the matter." "for all that," said lady ilfield to herself, "you will have to suffer, my lady; you refuse to believe it, but the time will come when you will have to believe it and deplore it." yet lady ilfield was not quite satisfied when she went away. while to lady chandos had come the first burst of an intolerable pain, her first anguish of jealousy, her only emotion at the commencement of the conversation was one of extreme indignation. it was a calumny, she told herself, and she had vehemently espoused her husband's cause; but when she was alone and began to think over what had been said her faith was somewhat shaken. it was a straightforward story. captain and lady evelyn blake were quite incapable of inventing such a thing. then she tried to remember how tuesday had passed. it came back to her with a keen sense of pain that on tuesday she had not seen him all day. he had risen early and had gone out, leaving word that he should not return for luncheon. she had been to a morning concert, and had stayed until nearly dinner-time with the countess. when she returned to stoneland house he was there; they had a dinner-party, and neither husband nor wife had asked each other how the day was spent. she remembered it now. certainly so far his absence tallied with the story; but her faith in her husband was not to be destroyed by the gossip of people who had nothing to do but talk. what was it lady ilfield had said? that she was the only person in london who did not know that her husband was madame vanira's shadow. could that be true? she remembered all at once his long absences, his abstraction; how she wondered if he had any friends whom he visited long and intimately. madame vanira's beautiful face rose before her with its noble eloquence, its grandeur and truth. no, that was not the woman who would try to rob a woman of her husband's love. madame vanira, the queen of song, the grand and noble woman who swayed men's hearts with her glorious voice; madame vanira, who had kissed her face and called herself her friend. it was impossible. she could sooner have believed that the sun and the moon had fallen from the skies than that her husband had connived with her friend to deceive her. the best plan would be to ask her husband. he never spoke falsely; he would tell her at once whether it were true or not. she waited until dinner was over and then said to him: "lance, can you spare me a few minutes? i want to speak to you." they were in the library, where lord chandos had gone to write a letter. lady marion looked very beautiful in her pale-blue dinner dress and a suit of costly pearls. she went up to her husband, and kneeling down by his side, she laid her fair arms round his neck. "lance," she said, "before i say what i have to say i want to make an act of faith in you." he smiled at the expression. "an act of faith in me, marion?" he said. "i hope you have all faith." then, remembering, he stopped, and his face flushed. "i have need of faith," she said, "for i have heard a strange story about you. i denied it, i deny it now, but i should be better pleased with your denial also." "what is the story?" he asked, anxiously, and her quick ear detected the anxiety of his voice. "lady ilfield has been here this afternoon, and tells me that last tuesday you were with madame vanira at ousely, that you rowed her on the river, and that captain blake spoke to you there. is it true?" "lady ilfield is a mischief-making old----" began lord chandos, but his wife's sweet, pale face startled him. "lance," she cried, suddenly, "oh, my god, it is not true?" the ring of pain and passion in her voice frightened him; she looked at him with eyes full of woe. "it is not true?" she repeated. "who said it was true?" he asked, angrily. then there was a few minutes of silence between them; and lady marion looked at him again. "lance," she said, "is it true?" their eyes met, hers full of one eager question. his lips parted; her whole life seemed to hang on the word that was coming from his lips. "is it true?" she repeated. he tried to speak falsely, he would have given much for the power to say "no." he knew that one word would content her--that she would believe it implicitly, and that she would never renew the question. still with that fair, pure face before him--with those clear eyes fixed on him--he could not speak falsely, he could not tell a lie. he could have cried aloud with anguish, yet he answered, proudly: "it is true, marion." "true?" she repeated, vacantly, "true, lance?" "yes, the gossips have reported correctly; it is quite true." but he was not prepared for the effect of the words on her. her fair face grew pale, her tender arms released their hold and fell. "true?" she repeated, in a low, faint voice, "true that you took madame vanira out for a day, and that you were seen by these people with her?" "yes, it is true," he replied. and the poor child flung her arms in the air, as she cried out: "oh, lance, it is a sword in my heart, and it has wounded me sorely." chapter lii. a gathering cloud. it was strange that she should use the same words which leone had used. "i cannot bear it, lance," she said. "why have you done this?" he was quite at a loss what to say to her; he was grieved for her, vexed with those who told her, and the mental emotions caused him to turn angrily round to her. "why did you take her? what is madame vanira to you?" she asked. "my dear marion, can you see any harm in my giving madame a day's holiday and rest, whether on water or on land?" she was silent for a minute before she answered him. "no," she replied, "the harm lay in concealing it from me; if you had told me about it i would have gone with you." poor, simple, innocent lady marion! the words touched him deeply; he thought of the boat among the water-lilies, the beautiful, passionate voice floating over the water, the beautiful, passionate face, with its defiance as the words of the sweet, sad song fell from her lips. "lance, why did you not tell me? why did you not ask me to go with you? i cannot understand." when a man has no proper excuse to make, no sensible reason to give, he takes refuge in anger. lord chandos did that now; he was quite at a loss what to say; he knew that he had done wrong; that he could say nothing which could set matters straight; obviously the best thing to do was to grow angry with his wife. "i cannot see much harm in it," he said. "i should not suppose that i am the first gentleman in england who has taken a lady out for a holiday and felt himself highly honored in so doing." "but, lance," repeated his fair wife, sorrowfully, "why did you not take me or tell me?" "my dear marion, i did not think that i was compelled to tell you every action of my life, everywhere i went, everything i did, every one i see; i would never submit to such a thing. of all things in the world, i abhor the idea of a jealous wife." she rose from her knees, her fair face growing paler, and stood looking at him with a strangely perplexed, wondering gaze. "i cannot argue with you, lance," she said, gently; "i cannot dispute what you say. you are your own master; you have a perfect right to go where you will, and with whom you will, but my instinct and my heart tell me that you are wrong. you have no right to take any lady out without telling me. you belong to me, and to no one else." "my dear marion, you are talking nonsense," he said, abruptly; "you know nothing of the world. pray cease." she looked at him with more of anger on her fair face than he had ever seen before. "lord chandos," she said, "is this all you have to say to me? i am told that you have spent a whole day in the society of the most beautiful actress in the world, perhaps, and when i ask for an explanation you have none to give me." "no," he replied, "i have none." "lance, i do not like it," she said, slowly; "and i do not understand. i thought madame vanira was so good and true?" "so she is," he replied. "you must not say one word against her." "i have no wish; but if she is so good why should she try to take my husband from me?" "she has not done so," he replied, angrily. "marion, i will not be annoyed by a jealous wife." "i am not jealous, lance," she replied; "but when i am told such a story, and it proves to be true, what am i to do?" "say nothing, marion, which is always the wisest thing a woman can do," he replied. his wife gazed at him with proud indignation. "i do not like the tone in which you speak of this; tell me frankly, is it with madame vanira you spend all the time which you pass away from home?" "i shall say nothing of madame vanira," he replied. she drew nearer to him; she laid one white hand on his shoulder and looked wistfully into his face. "lance," she said, "are we to quarrel--over a woman, too? i will not believe it. you have always been honest with me; tell me what madame vanira is to you?" "she is nothing to me," he replied. then the remembrance of what she had been to him came over him and froze the words on his lips. his wife was quick to notice it. "you cannot say it with truth. oh, lance, how you pain me." there was such absolute, physical pain in her face that he was grieved for her. "say no more about it, marion," he cried. "i did ask madame to let me row her on the river; i know she loves the river; i ought to have asked you to go with us, or to have told you about it," he said; "i know that; but people often do imprudent things. kiss me and say no more about it." but for the first time that sweet girl looked coldly on him. instead of bending down to kiss him, she looked straight into his face. "lance," she said, "do you like madame vanira?" his answer was prompt. "most decidedly i do," he answered; "every one must like her." "lady ilfield says that you are her shadow. is that true?" "lady ilfield is a gossip, and the wife who listens to scandal about her husband lowers herself." she did not shrink now from his words. "i have not gossiped about you, lance," she said; "but i wish you yourself to tell me why people talk about you and madame vanira." "how can i tell? why do people talk? because they have nothing better to do." but that did not satisfy her; her heart ached; this was not the manner in which she had expected him to meet the charge--so differently--either to deny it indignantly, or to give her some sensible explanation. as it was, he seemed to avoid the subject, even while he owned that it was true. "i am not satisfied, lance," she said; "you have made me very unhappy; if there is anything to tell me tell it now." "what should i have to tell you?" he asked, impatiently. "i do not know; but if there is any particular friendship or acquaintance between madame vanira and yourself, tell me now." it would have been better if he had told her, if he had made an open confession of his fault, and have listened to her gentle counsel, but he did not; on the contrary, he looked angrily at her. "if you wish to please me, you will not continue this conversation, marion; in fact, i decline to say another word on the subject. i have said all that was needful, let it end now." "you say this, knowing that i am dissatisfied, lance," said lady marion. "i say it, hoping that you intend to obey me," he replied. without another word, and in perfect silence, lady chandos quitted the room, her heart beating with indignation. "he will not explain to me," she said; "i will find out for myself." she resolved from that moment to watch him, and to find out for herself that which he refused to tell her. she could not bring herself to believe that there was really anything between her husband and madame vanira; he had always been so good, so devoted to herself. but the result of her watching was bad; it showed that her husband had other interests; much of his time was spent from home; a cloud came between them; when she saw him leaving home she was too proud to ask him where he was going, and if even by chance she did ask, his reply was never a conciliatory one. it was quite by accident she learned he went often to highgate. in the stables were a fine pair of grays; she liked using them better than any other horses they had, and one morning the carriage came to the door with a pair of chestnuts she particularly disliked. "where are the grays?" she asked of the coachman. "one of them fell yesterday, my lady," said the man, touching his hat. "fell--where?" asked lady chandos. "coming down highgate hill, my lady. it is a terrible hill--so steep and awkward," replied the man. then she would have thought nothing of it but for a sudden look of warning she saw flash from the groom to the coachman, from which she shrewdly guessed that they had been told to be silent about the visits to highgate. then she remembered that madame vanira lived there. she remembered how she had spoken of the hills, of the fresh air, and the distance from town; she watched again and found out that her husband went to highgate nearly every day of his life, and then lady chandos drew her own conclusions and very miserable ones they were. the cloud between them deepened--deepened daily; all her loving amiability, her gentle, caressing manner vanished; she became silent, watchful, suspicious; no passion deteriorates the human mind or the human heart more quickly than jealousy. if, during those watchful days, lord chandos had once told his wife the plain truth, she would have forgiven him, have taken him from the scene of his danger, and all might have gone well; as it was, all went wrong. one day a sense of regret for her lost happiness came over her, and she determined to speak to him about it. she would destroy this shadow that lay between them; she would dispel the cloud. surely he would do anything for her sake--she would have given up the world for him. he was alone in his study, in the gloaming of a bright day, when she went in to him and stood once more by his side. "lance," she said, bending her fair, sweet face over his, "lance, i want to speak to you again. i am not happy, dear--there is a cloud between us, and it is killing me. you love me, lance, do you not?" "you know that i do," he said, but there was no heartiness in his voice. "i want to tell you, dear, that i have been jealous. i am very unhappy, but i will conquer myself. i will be to you the most loving wife in all the world if you will give up madame vanira." he pushed the outstretched hand away. "you do not know what you are asking," he said, hoarsely, and his manner so alarmed her that she said no more. chapter liii. a quarrel. from that hour all pretense of peace was at an end between them. lady chandos was justly indignant and wounded. if her husband had trusted her all might, even then, have been well, but he did not; he said to himself that she would forget the story of her annoyance in time, and all would be well; he did not give his wife credit for the depth of feeling that she really possessed. fiercest, most cruel jealousy had taken hold of the gentle lady, it racked and tortured her; the color faded from her face, the light from her eyes; she grew thin and pale; at night she could not sleep, by day she could not rest; all her sweetness, grace and amiability, seemed to have given way to a grave sadness; the sound of her laughter, her bright words, died away; nothing interested her. she who had never known a trouble or a care, now wore the expression of one who was heart-broken; she shrunk from all gayety, all pleasures, all parties; she was like the ghost of her former self; yet after those words of her husband's she never spoke again of madame vanira. the sword was sheathed in her heart and she kept it there. there is no pain so cruel as jealousy; none that so quickly deteriorates a character; it brings so many evils in its train--suspicion, envy, hatred of life, distrust in every one and in everything; it is the most fatal passion that ever takes hold of a human heart, and turns the kindest nature to gall. there was no moment during the day in which lady chandos did not picture her husband with her rival; she drove herself almost mad with the pictures she made in her own mind. all the cruel pain, the sullen brooding, the hot anguish, the desolation, the jealousy seemed to surge over her heart and soul like the waves of a deadly sea. if she saw her husband silent and abstracted, she said he was thinking of madame vanira; if she saw him laugh and light of heart she said he was pleased because he was going to see madame vanira. she had sensible and reasonable grounds for jealousy, but she was unreasonably jealous. "trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ." it was so with lady marion, and her life at last grew too bitter to be borne. there was excuse for lord chandos, the mistake was in renewing the acquaintance; a mistake that can never be remedied. people were beginning to talk; when lord chandos was mentioned, they gave significant smiles. against madame vanira there had never been even the faintest rumor of scandal; but a certain idea was current in society--that lord chandos admired the queen of song. no one insinuated the least wrong, but significant smiles followed the mention of either name. "madame vanira was at lady martyn's last night," one would say. and the laughing answer was always: "then lord chandos was not very far away." "la vanira sung to perfection in 'fidelio,'" would remark one. another would answer: "lord chandos would know how to applaud." madame vanira was more eagerly sought after than other women in london. she reigned queen, not only over the stage, but over the world of fashion also. the countess of easton gave a grand ball--it was the most exclusive of the season. after much praying madame vanira had promised to go, and lady chandos was the belle of the ball. they had not met since the evening madame had sung for her, and lord chandos had many an anxious thought as to what their next meeting would be like. he knew that leone would bear much for his sake, yet he did not know what his wife would be tempted to say. they met on the night of lady easton's ball; neither knew that the other was coming. if lady chandos had dreamed of meeting leone there she would not have gone. as it was, they met face to face in the beautiful ante-room that led to the ballroom. face to face. leone wore a superb dress of pale amber brocade, and lady chandos a beautiful costume of pale-blue velvet, the long train of which was fastened with white, shining pearls. it was like the meeting of rival queens. leone's face flushed, lady marion's grew deadly pale. leone held out her hand; lady marion declined to see it. they looked at each other for a brief space of time, then leone spoke. "lady marion," she said, in a low, pained voice, "have i displeased you?" "yes, you have," was the brief reply. "you will not touch my hand?" said leone. "no, i decline to touch your hand," said lady marion; "i decline to speak to you after this." "will you tell me why?" asked leone. lady marion's face flushed crimson. "since you ask me, i will tell you. you have been seeking my husband, and i do not approve of it. you spent a day with him on the river--he never told me about it. i am not a jealous wife, but i despise any woman who would seek to take the love of a husband from his wife." conscience, which makes cowards of us all, kept leone silent. lady chandos continued: "what is there between my husband and you?" "true friendship," answered leone, trying to speak bravely. "i do not believe it," said lady chandos; "true friendship does not hide itself, or make mystery of its actions. madame vanira, i loved you when i first saw you; i take my love and my liking both from you. now that i find that you have acted treacherously i believe in you no more." "those are strong words, lady chandos," said leone. "they are true; henceforth we are strangers. my friends are honorable women, who would seek to steal my jewels rather than seek to steal from me my husband's love." leone could have retaliated; the temptation was strong; she could have said: "he was my husband, as i believed, before he was yours; you stole him from me, not i from you." the temptation was strong, the words leaped in a burning torrent from her heart to her lips; she repressed them for his sake and bore the crushing words without reply. "i have always heard," she said, "that there was ample reason that singers, even though they be queens of song, should not be admitted into the heart of one's home; now i see the justice of it; they are not satisfied with legitimate triumphs. you, madame vanira, have not been contented with my liking and friendship, with the hospitality of my home, but you must seek to take my husband's interest, time, affection." "are you not judging me harshly, lady chandos?" asked the singer. "you bring all these accusations against me and give me no opportunity of clearing myself of them." "you cannot," said lady chandos; "i have no wish to hear your defense, you can neither deny nor explain the fact that you spent a day with my husband on the river; all the sophistry in the world cannot deny that fact, and that fact condemns you." "would you say the same thing to any of your former friends?" asked leone--"to lady caldwell or lady blake?" "neither of them would do such a thing," cried lady chandos. "ladies of the class to which i belong do not spend whole days on the river with gentlemen unknown to their wives. madame vanira--you and i are strangers from this time." "you are very hard on me," said leone; "the day may come when you will admit that." "the day will never come in which i will mistake good for evil, or right for wrong," said lady chandos. "others may applaud you, you may continue your sway over the minds and hearts of men, but i shall protest against you, and all those like you, who would come between husbands and wives to separate them." it was such a satire of fate, such a satire of her own life, that leone's beautiful lips curled with a bitter smile. it was she who had been parted from her husband by a quibble of the law, and this fair, angry woman had taken him for herself. lady chandos saw the smile and misunderstood it. she bowed, and would have passed, but leone tried to stop her. "will you not say one kind word to me before you go, lady chandos?" she asked. "i have not one kind word to say," was the brief reply. she would have passed on, but fate again intervened in the person of lord chandos, who was walking with his hostess, the countess of easton. they stopped before the two ladies, and lord chandos saw at once that something was wrong. madame vanira, after exchanging a few words with the countess, went away, and as soon as he could, lord chandos rejoined his wife. "marion," he said, curtly, "you have had some disagreeable words with madame vanira. i know it by the expression of your face." "you are right," she said; "i have told her that henceforth she and i shall be strangers." "you have dared!" he cried, forgetting himself at the thought of leone's face. she turned her fair face proudly to him. "i have dared," she replied; "i refuse to speak or see madame vanira again--she must not cross the threshold of my door again." lord chandos grew deadly pale as he heard the words. "and i say that you wrong a good and blameless woman, marion, when you say such words." "my lord, am i or am i not at liberty to choose my friends?" she asked, haughtily. "certainly you are at liberty to do just as you please in that respect," he replied. "then among them i decline to receive madame vanira," she said. "as you refuse to see my friends, i must go to meet them," said lord chandos. and then between husband and wife began one of those scenes which leave a mark on both their lives--cruel, hard, unjust and bitter words--hard and cruel thoughts. then lady chandos had her carriage called and went home. chapter liv. a mother's appeal. "she would not bear it--she could not bear it," this was lady marion's conclusion in the morning, when the sunbeams peeping in her room told her it was time to rise. she turned her face to the wall and said it would be easier to die--her life was spoiled, nothing could give her back her faith and trust in her husband or her love for him. life held nothing for her now. it was noon before she rose, and then she went to her boudoir. lord chandos had gone out, leaving no message for her. she sat there thinking, brooding over her sorrow, wondering what she was to do, when the countess of lanswell was announced. lady marion looked up. it was as though an inspiration from heaven had come to her; she would tell lady lanswell, and hear what she had to say. "you have been crying," said the countess, as she bent over her daughter-in-law. "crying, and how ill you look--what is the matter?" "there is something very wrong the matter," said lady marion. "something that i cannot bear--something that will kill me if it is not stopped." "my dearest marion," said the countess, "what is wrong? i have never seen you so distressed before. where is lance?" "i never know where he is now," she said. "oh, lady lanswell, i am so miserable, so unhappy that i wish i were dead." this outbreak from lady marion, who was always so calm, so high-bred, so reticent in expressing her feelings, alarmed lady lanswell. she took the cold, trembling hands in her own. "marion," she said, "you must calm yourself; you must tell me what is the matter and let me help you." lady chandos told her all, and the countess listened in wondering amaze. "are you quite sure?" she said. "lady ilfield exaggerates sometimes when she repeats those gossiping stories." "it must be true, since my husband acknowledged it himself, and yet refused to give me any explanation of it. some time since, i found that he passed so much of his time away from home i asked you if he had any friends with whom he was especially intimate, and you thought not. now i know that it was madame vanira he went to see. she lives at highgate, and he goes there every day." "i should not think much of it, my dear, if i were you," said the countess. "madame vanira is very beautiful and very accomplished--all gentlemen like to be amused." "i cannot argue," said lady chandos; "i can only say that my own instinct and my own heart tell me there is something wrong, that there is some tie between them. i know nothing of it--i cannot tell why i feel this certain conviction, but i do feel it." "it is not true, i am sure, marion," said the countess, gravely. "i know lance better than any one else; i know his strength, his weakness, his virtues, his failings. love of intrigue is not one, neither is lightness of love." "then if he cares nothing for madame vanira, and sees me unhappy over her, why will he not give her up?" "he will if you ask him," said lady lanswell. "he will _not_. i have asked him. i have told him that the pain of it is wearing my life away; but he will not. i am very unhappy, for i love my husband." "and he loves you," said the countess. "i do not think so. i believe--my instinct tells me--that he loves madame vanira." "marion, it is wicked to say such things," said the countess, severely. "because your husband, like every other man of the world, pays some attention to the most gifted woman of her day, you suspect him of infidelity, want of love and want of truth. i wonder at you." lady marion raised her fair, tear-stained face. "i cannot make you understand," she said slowly, "nor do i understand myself. i only know what i feel, what my instinct tells me, and that is that between my husband and madame vanira there is something more than i know. i feel that there is a tie between them. he looks at her with different eyes; he speaks to her with a different voice; when he sung with her it was as though their souls floated away together." "marion," interrupted the countess, "my dear child, i begin to see what is the matter with you--you are jealous." "yes, i am jealous," said the unhappy wife, "and not without cause--you must own that. ah, lady lanswell, you would be sorry for me if you knew all. see, it is wearing me away; my heart beats, my hands tremble, and they burn like fire. oh, my god, how i suffer!" the countess of lanswell, in her superb dress of black velvet, sat by in silence; for the first time in her life she was baffled; for the first time in her life she was face to face with a human passion. hitherto, in her cold, proud presence all passion had veiled itself; this unhappy wife laid hers bare, and my lady was at a loss what to say. in her calm, proud life there had been no room for jealousy; she had never known it, she did not even understand the pain. if her husband had gone out for a day with the most beautiful woman on earth, she would either have completely ignored the fact, or, with a smiling satire, have passed it by. she did not love the earl well enough to be jealous of him; she did not understand love or jealousy in others. she sat now quite helpless before the unhappy wife, whose grief annoyed her. "this will not do, marion," she said, "you will make yourself quite ill." "ill," repeated lady marion, "i have been ill in heart and soul for many days, and now i am sick unto death. i wish i could die; life has nothing left for me." "die, my dear, it seems such a trifle, such a trifle; one day spent together on a river. is that anything for you to die about?" the sweet blue eyes raised wistfully to hers were full of pain. "you do not see, you do not understand. only think how much intimacy there must have been between them before he would ask her to go, or she consent to go. if they are but strangers, or even every-day friends, what could they find to talk about for a whole day?" the countess shrugged her shoulders. "i am surprised," she said, "for i thought madame vanira so far above all coquetry. if i were you, marion, i would forget it." "i cannot forget it," she cried. "would to god that i could. it is eating my heart away." "then," said my lady, "i will speak to lance at once, and i am quite sure that at one word from me he will give up the acquaintance, for the simple reason that you do not like it." and with this promise the countess left her daughter-in-law. once before, not by her bidding, but by her intrigues, she had persuaded him to give up one whom he loved; surely a few words from her now would induce him to give up her whom he could not surely love. it never occurred to her to dream that they were the same. she saw him as she was driving home, and, stopping the carriage, asked him to drive with her. "lance, i have something very serious to say to you. there is no use beating about the bush, marion is very ill and very unhappy." "i am sorry for it, mother, but add also she is very jealous and very foolish." "my dear lance, your wife loves you--you know it, she loves you with all her heart and soul. if your friendship with madame vanira annoys her, why not give it up?" "i choose to keep my independence as a man; i will not allow any one to dictate to me what friends i shall have, whom i shall give up or retain." "in some measure you are right, lance," said the countess, "and so far as gentleman friends are concerned, i should always choose my own; but as this is a lady, of whom lady marion has certain suspicions, i should most certainly give her up." "my wife has no right to be jealous," he said angrily; "it does not add to my love for her." "let me speak seriously to you, lance," said the countess. "marion is so unhappy that i should not wonder if she were really ill over it; now why not do as she wishes? madame vanira can be nothing to you--marion is everything. why not give her up?" a certain look of settled determination that came to her son's face made the countess pause and wonder. she had seen it there for the first and last time when she had asked her son to renounce his young wife, and now she saw it again. strange that his next words should seem like an answer to her thoughts. "mother," he said, "do not ask me; you persuaded me to give up all the happiness of my life, years ago--do not try me a second time. i refuse, absolutely refuse, to gratify my wife's foolish, jealous wish. i say, emphatically, that i will not give up my friendship for madame vanira." then my lady looked fixedly at him. "lance," she said, "what is madame vanira to you?" he could not help the flush that burned his handsome, angry face, and that flush aroused his mother's curiosity. "have you known her long? did you know her before your marriage, lance? i remember now that i was rather struck by her manner. she reminds me forcibly of some one. poor marion declares there is some tie between you. what can it be?" she mused for some minutes, then looked into her son's face. "great heaven, lance, it can never be!" she cried. "a horrible idea has occurred to me, and yet it is not possible." he made no answer, but a look of more dogged defiance came into his face. "it can never be, and yet i think it is so. can it be possible that madame vanira is the--the dairy-maid to whom you gave your young affections?" "madame vanira is the girl i loved, mother, and whom i believed to be my wife--until you parted us." and my lady fell back in her carriage with a low cry of "heaven have mercy on us!" chapter lv. "war to the knife." lucia, countess of lanswell, was in terrible trouble, and it was the first real trouble of her life. her son's marriage had been rather a difficulty than a trouble--a difficulty that the law had helped her over. now no law could intervene, and no justice. nothing could exceed her surprise in finding madame vanira, the queen of song, the most beautiful, the most gifted woman in england, positively the "dairy-maid," "the tempestuous young person," the artful, designing girl from whom by an appeal to the strong arm of the law she had saved her son. she paused in wonder to think to herself what would have happened if the marriage had not been declared null and void. in that case, she said to herself, with a shrug of the shoulders, in all probability the girl would not have taken to the stage at all. she wondered that she had not sooner recognized her. she remembered the strong, dramatic passion with which leone had threatened her. "she was born an actress," said my lady to herself, with a sneer. she determined within herself that the secret should be kept, that to no one living would she reveal the fact that the great actress was the girl whom the law had parted from her son. lord chandos, the duke of lester, the world in general, must never know this. lord chandos must never tell it, neither would she. what was she to do? a terrible incident had happened--terrible to her on whose life no shadow rested. madame vanira had accepted an engagement at berlin, the fashionable journals had already announced the time of her departure, and bemoaned the loss of so much beauty and genius. lord chandos had announced his intention of spending a few months in berlin, and his wife would not agree to it. "you know very well," she said, "that you have but one motive in going to berlin, and that is to be near madame vanira." "you have no right to pry into my motives," he replied, angrily; and she retorted that when a husband's motives lowered his wife, she had every reason to inquire into them. hot, bitter, angry words passed between them. lord chandos declared that if it pleased him to go to berlin he should go; it mattered little whether his wife went or not; and lady chandos, on her side, declared that nothing should ever induce her to go to berlin. the result was just what one might have anticipated--a violent quarrel. lady chandos threatened to appeal to the duke. her husband laughed at the notion. "the duke is a great statesman and a clever man," he replied; "but he has no power over me. if he interfered with my arrangements, in all probability we should not meet again." "i will appeal to him," cried lady marion; "he is the only friend i have in the world." the ring of passionate pain in her voice startled him; a sense of pity came over him. after all, this fair, angry woman was his wife, whom he was bound to protect. "marion, be reasonable," he said. "you go the wrong way to work; even supposing i did care for some one else, you do not go the way to make me care for you; but you are mistaken. cease all these disagreeable recriminations, and i will be the kindest of husbands and the best of friends to you. i have no wish, believe me, marion, to be anything else." even then she might have become reconciled to him, and the sad after consequences have been averted, but she was too angry, too excited with jealousy and despair. "will you give up madame vanira for me?" she said, and husband and wife looked fixedly at each other. "you say you will be a loving husband and a true friend: prove it by doing this--prove it by giving up madame vanira." lord chandos was silent for a few minutes; then he said: "i cannot, for this reason: madame vanira, as i happen to know, has had great troubles in her life, but she is thoroughly good. i repeat it, marion, thoroughly good. now, if i, as you phrase it, 'give her up,' it would be confessing that i had done wrong. my friendship is some little comfort to her, and she likes me. what harm is there in it? above all, what wrong does it inflict on you? answer me. has my friendship for madame vanira made me less kind, less thoughtful for you?" no answer came from the white lips of the trembling wife. he went on: "why should you be foolish or narrow-minded? why seek to end a friendship pure and innocent? why not be your noble self, marion--noble, as i have always thought you? i will tell you frankly, madame vanira is going to berlin. you know how lonely it is to go to a fresh place. she happened to say how desolate she should feel at first in berlin. i remarked that i knew the city well, and then she wished we were going. i pledge you my honor that she said 'we.' never dreaming that you would make any opposition, i said that i should be very glad to spend the next few weeks in berlin. i cannot tell how it really was, but i found that it was all settled and arranged almost before i knew it. now, you would not surely wish me to draw back? come with me to berlin, and i will show you how happy i will make you." "no," she replied; "i will share your heart with no one. unless i have all i will have none. i will not go to berlin, and you must give up madame vanira," she continued; "lance, you cannot hesitate, you must see your duty; a married man wants no woman friend but his wife. why should you spend long hours and whole days _tete-a-tete_ with a stranger? of what can you find to speak? you know in your heart that you are wrong. you say no. now in the name of common sense and fairness, let me ask, would you like me to make of any man you know such a friend as you have made of madame vanira?" "that is quite another thing," he replied. lady chandos laughed, sadly. "the usual refuge of a man when he is brought to bay," she said. "no words, no arguments will be of any use to me; i shall never be really friends with you until you give up madame vanira." "then we will remain enemies," he replied. "i will never give up a true friend for the caprice of any woman," he replied, "even though that woman be my wife." "neither will i consent to go to berlin," she answered, gravely. "then i must go alone," he said; "i will not be governed by caprices that have in them neither reason nor sense." "then," cried lady marion, "it is war to the knife between us!" "war, if you will," said lord chandos; "but always remember you can put an end to the warfare when you will!" "i shall appeal to lady lanswell and to the duke of lester," said lady marion, and her husband merely answered with a bow. with them it was indeed "war to the knife." such was the gordian knot that lady lanswell had to untie, and it was the most difficult task of her life. on the same evening when that conversation took place, lord chandos went to the opera, where leone was playing "anne boleyn." he waited until she came out and was seated in her carriage; then he stood for a few moments leaning over the carriage door and talking to her. "how you tremble, leone," he said. "your face is white and your eyes all fire!" "the spell is still on me," she answered. "when i have thrown my whole soul into anything, i lose my own identity for many hours. i wish," she continued, "that i did not so thoroughly enter into those characters. i hardly realize this moment whether i am anne boleyn, the unhappy wife of bluff king hal, or whether i am leone, the singer." "i know which you are," he said, his eyes seeking hers with a wistful look. "all king hal's wives put together are not worth your little finger, leone. see how the stars are shining. i have something to say to you. may i drive with you as far as highgate hill?" the beautiful face, all pale with passion, looked into his. "it is against our compact," she said; "but you may if you wish." the silent stars looked down in pity as he took his place by her side. "leone," he said, "i want to ask you something. a crisis is come in our lives; my wife, who was told about that day on the river, has asked me to give up your acquaintance." a low cry came from the beautiful lips, and the face of the fairest woman in england grew deadly pale. "to give me up," she murmured; "and you, lord chandos, what have you said?" "i said 'no,' a thousand times over, leone; our friendship is a good and pure one; i would not give it up for any caprice in the world." a great, tearless sob came from her pale lips. "god bless you a thousand times!" she said. "so you would not give me up, and you told them so?" "yes; i refused to do anything of the kind," he replied; "why should i, leone? they parted us once by stratagem, by intrigue, by working on all that was weakest in my character; now we are but friends, simply honest friends; who shall part us?" she clasped his hand for an instant in her own. "so you will not give me up again, lance?" she said. "no, i will die first, leone. there is one thing more i have to say. i said that i would go to berlin, and i have asked my wife to go with me; she has refused, and i have said that i would go alone. tell me what you think?" "i cannot--i think nothing; perhaps--oh, heaven help me!--perhaps as your wife has told you she will not go with you, your duty is to stay with her." "my duty," he repeated; "who shall say what a man's duty is? do you think i have no duty toward you?" "your first thought should be--must be--your wife. if she would have countenanced our friendship, it would have been our greatest pride and pleasure; if she opposes it, we must yield. she has the first right to your time. after all, lance, what can it matter? we shall have to part; what can it matter whether it is now or in three months to come? the more we see of each other the harder it will be." a flush as of fire came over his face. "why must we part?" he cried. "oh, heaven, what a price i pay for my folly!" "here is highgate hill," said leone; "you go no further, lord chandos." only the silent stars were looking on; he stood for a few minutes at the carriage door. "shall i go to berlin?" he whispered, as he left her, and her answer was a low, sad: "yes." chapter lvi. an approaching tempest. the countess of lanswell was in despair. any little social difficulty, the exposing of an adventuress, the setting aside of a marriage, intrigues, or a royal invitation, "dropping" people when it was convenient to do so, and courting them when she required them, to all and each of these deeds she was quite equal; but a serious case of cruel jealousy, a heart-broken, desolate wife on the one hand, an obstinate husband on the other, was past her power of management. lady chandos had written to ask her to come to stoneland house that day. "i have something of the greatest importance to say to you," she wrote. "do not delay; to-morrow may be too late." lady lanswell received this urgent note just as she was sipping her chocolate, luxuriously robed in a dressing-gown of silk and softest velvet, a pretty morning-cap of finest mechlin lace on her head. her handsome, haughty face grew pale as she read it. "it is a wretched piece of business from beginning to end," she said to herself. "now here is my peace of mind for the day gone. i was to have seen madame adelaide soon after noon about my dresses, and the dentist at three. i know absolutely nothing which i can say to a jealous wife, i know nothing of jealousy. most of the wives whom i know are pleased rather than otherwise when their husbands are away from home. marion takes things too seriously. i shall tell her so." but any little speech of that kind she might have tried to make was forgotten when she caught the first glimpse of lady marion's white, tragic face. "my dear child, what is the matter? what a face! why, you have been crying for hours, i am sure," said the countess. "marion, you should not go on in this way, you will kill yourself." "lady lanswell, i wish that i were dead; my husband has ceased to love me. oh, god, let me die!" cried poor lady marion, and the countess was seriously alarmed. "my dear child, pray be reasonable," she cried; "how can you say that lance has ceased to love you?" "it is true," said the unhappy wife; "he refused to give up madame vanira, and what seems to me more dreadful still, she is going to berlin, and he insists on going also. i cannot bear it, lady lanswell!" "we must reason with him," said the countess, grandly, and despite the tragedy of her sorrow, lady marion smiled. "reason with him? you might as well stand before a hard, white rock and ask roses to bloom on it; you might as well stand before the great heaving ocean and ask the tide not to roll in, as to try to reason with him. i do not understand it, but i am quite sure that he is infatuated by madame vanira; i could almost fancy that she had worked some spell over him. why should he care for her? why should he visit her? why should he go to berlin because she is there?" the countess, listening, thanked heaven that she did not know. if ever that secret became known, it was all over with the house of lanswell. "i have said all that i can say," she continued, rising in great agitation; "and it is of no use; he is utterly shameless." "hush, woman! i will not have you say such things of my son; he may like and admire madame vanira, but i trust him, and would trust him anywhere; you think too much of it, and you make more of it than you need. let me pray of you to be prudent; want of prudence in a wife at such a juncture as this has very often occasioned misery for life. are you quite sure that you cannot be generous enough to allow your husband the pleasure of this friendship, which i can certify is a good one?" the countess sighed; the matter was indeed beyond her. in her artificial life, these bare, honest human passions had no place. "over the journey to berlin," she said, "you are making too much of it. if he enjoys madame's society, and likes berlin, where is the harm of his enjoying them together?" so she spoke; but she shrunk from the clear gaze of those blue eyes. "lady lanswell, you know all that is nonsense. my husband is mine, and i will not share his love or his affection with any one. unless he gives up madame vanira, i shall leave him. if he goes to berlin, i will never see him again." "you are very foolish, my dear. i heard yesterday, on very good authority, that my son, lord chandos, will be offered the vacant garter. i believe it is true, i feel sure of it. i would not for the world anything should happen now, any disgrace of any kind; and these matrimonial quarrels are disgraceful, marion. you should trust your husband." "i have done so, but he does not love me, lady lanswell; my mind is quite made up. if he goes to berlin, i shall never see or speak to him again." "but, my dearest marion," cried the countess, "this is terrible. think of appearances, think of the world--what will the world say? and yours was supposed to be a love-match. it must not be. have you not the sense to see that such a course of proceeding would be simply to throw him into madame vanira's hands? you will be your own worst enemy if you do this!" "i shall do what my own heart prompts," she said; "no matter what the world says; i care nothing for the world's opinion. oh, lady lanswell, do not look so angry at me. i am miserable; my heart is broken!" and the unhappy girl knelt at lady lanswell's feet, and laid her head on the silken folds of her dress. if there was one creature in this world whom lady lanswell loved more than another, it was her son's wife, the fair, gentle girl who had been a most loving daughter to her; she could not endure the sight of her pain and distress. "i have made up my mind," sobbed lady marion; "i shall appeal to the duke of lester; he will see that justice is done to me!" "my dearest marion, that is the very thing you must not do. if you appeal to the duke, it becomes at once a serious quarrel, and who shall say how such a quarrel may end? if you appeal to the duke, the whole thing will be known throughout the land; there is an end to all my hopes of the vacant garter; in fact, i may say there is an end to the race of lanswell. think twice before you take such an important step!" "no one thinks for me!" cried lady marion. "yes, i think of you and for you. give me your promise that for a week at least you will say nothing to the duke of lester. will you promise me that, marion?" "yes," said lady chandos, wearily; "i promise you that, but not one day longer than a week; my heart is breaking! i cannot bear suspense!" "i promise you that in a few days there shall be an end of all your trouble," said the countess, who had secretly made her own resolves. "now, marion, put your trust in me. you have had no breakfast this morning, i am sure." raising the delicate figure in her arms, the countess kissed the weeping face. "trust in me," she repeated; "all will be well. let me see you take some coffee." the countess rang and ordered some coffee; then, when she had compelled lady marion to drink it, she kissed her again. "do you know how it will end?" she said gently, "all this crying and fasting and sorrow? you will make yourself very ill, and then lance will never forgive himself. do be reasonable, marion, and leave it all with me." but after the countess had left her, lady marion still felt very ill; she had never felt so ill; she tried to walk from her dressing-room to her bedroom, and to the great alarm of her maid, she fell fainting to the ground. the doctor came, the same physician who had attended her for some years since she was a child, and he looked very grave when he heard of the long deathlike swoon. he sat talking to her for some time. "do you think i am very ill, doctor?" she asked. he answered: "you are not very well, my dear lady chandos." "do you think i will die?" "not of this illness, please god," he said. "now, if you will promise me not to be excited, i will tell you something," and, bending down, he whispered something in her ear. a flood of light and rapture came in her face, her eyes filled with joy. "do you mean it? is it really true?" she asked. "really true; but remember all depends on yourself;" and the doctor went away, leaving behind him a heart full of emotion, of pleasure, of pain, hope, and regret. meanwhile, the countess for the second time had sought her son. her stern, grave face, her angry eyes, the repressed pride and emotion that he saw in every gesture, told him that the time for jesting or evasion had passed. "lance," said my lady, sternly, "you are a man now. i cannot command you as i did when you were a boy." "no, mother; that is quite true. apropos of what do you say that?" "i am afraid the sin of your manhood will be greater than the follies of your youth," she said. "it is just possible," he replied, indifferently. "you have heard that you have been mentioned for the vacant garter, and that it is highly probable you may receive it?" "i have heard so," he answered, indifferently. "i want to ask you a straightforward question. do you think it worth your while to risk that, to risk the love and happiness of your wife, to risk your fair name, the name of your race, your position, and everything else that you ought to hold most dear? do you think it worth while to risk all this for the sake of spending three months in berlin, where you can see madame vanira every day?" lord chandos looked straight in his mother's face. "since you ask me the question," he replied, "most decidedly i do." my lady shrunk back as though she had received a blow. "i am ashamed of you," she said. "and i, mother, have been ashamed of my cowardice; but i am a coward no longer." "are tears and prayers of any avail?" asked lady lanswell; and the answer was: "no." then my lady, driven to despair between her son and his wife, resolved some evening to seek the principal cause of the mischief--madame vanira herself. chapter lvii. a proud woman humbled. the countess of lanswell had never in all her life been defeated before; now all was over, and she went home with a sense of defeat such as she had never known before. her son refused not only to obey her, but to listen to her remonstrances; he would not take heed of her fears, and my lady saw nothing but social disgrace before them. her own life had been so crowned with social triumphs and success she could not realize or understand anything else. the one grand desire of her heart since her son's marriage had been that he should become a knight of the order of the garter, and now, by the recent death of a famous peer, the desire was on the eve of accomplishment; but if, on the very brink of success, it were known that he had left all his duties, his home, his wife, to dance attendance on a singer, even though she were the first singer in europe, it would be fatal to him. it would spoil his career. my lady had carried herself proudly among the mothers of other sons; hers had been a success, while some others had proved, after all, dead failures; was she to own to herself at the end of a long campaign that she was defeated? ah, no! besides which there was the other side of the question--lady marion declared she would not see him or speak to him again if he went to berlin, and my lady knew that she would keep her word. if lord chandos persisted in going to berlin his wife would appeal to the duke, would in all probability insist on taking refuge in his house, then there would be a grand social scandal; the whole household would be disbanded. lady chandos, an injured, almost deserted wife, living with the duke and the duchess; lord chandos abroad laughed at everywhere as a dupe. my lady writhed again in anguish as she thought of it. it must not be. she said to herself that it would turn her hair gray, that it would strike her with worse than paralysis. surely her brilliant life was not to end in such a fiasco as this. for the first time for many years hot tears blinded those fine eyes that had hitherto looked with such careless scorn on the world. my lady was dispirited; she knew her son well enough to know that another appeal to him would be useless; that the more she said to him on the subject the more obstinate he would be. a note from lady chandos completed her misery, and made her take a desperate resolve--a sad little note, that said: "dear lady lanswell,--if you can do anything to help me, let it be done soon. lance has begun to-day his preparations for going to berlin. i heard him giving instructions over his traveling trunk. we have no time to lose if anything can be done to save him." "i must do it," said the countess, to herself, with desperation. "appeal to my son is worse than useless. i must appeal to the woman i fear he loves. who could have imagined or prophesied that i should ever have been compelled to stoop to her, yet stoop i must, if i would save my son!" with lady lanswell, to resolve was to do; when others would have beaten about the bush she went direct. on the afternoon of that day she made out leone's address, and ordered the carriage. it was a sign of fear with her that she was so particular with her toilet; it was seldom that she relied, even in the least, on the advantages of dress, but to-day she made a toilet almost imperial in its magnificence--rich silk and velvet that swept the ground in superb folds, here and there gleaming a rich jewel. the countess smiled as she surveyed herself in the mirror, a regal, beautiful lady. surely no person sprung from leone's class would dare to oppose her. it was on a beautiful, bright afternoon that my lady reached the pretty house where madame vanira lived. a warm afternoon, when the birds sung in the green shade of the trees, when the bees made rich honey from the choice carnations, and the butterflies hovered round the budding lilies. the countess drove straight to the house. she left her carriage at the outer gates, and walked through the pretty lawn; she gave her card to the servant and was shown into the drawing-room. the countess of lanswell would not have owned for the world that she was in the least embarrassed, but the color varied in her face, and her lips trembled ever so little. in a few minutes leone entered--not the terrified, lowly, loving girl, who braved her presence because she loved her husband so well; this was a proud, beautiful, regal woman, haughty as the countess herself--a woman who, by force of her wondrous beauty and wondrous voice, had placed the world at her feet. the countess stepped forward with outstretched hands. "madame vanira," she said, "will you spare me a few minutes? i wish to speak most particularly with you." leone rang the bell and gave orders that she was not to be disturbed. then the two ladies looked at each other. leone knew that hostilities were at hand, although she could not quite tell why. the countess opened the battle by saying, boldly: "i ought, perhaps, to tell you, madame vanira, that i recognize you." leone looked at her with proud unconcern. "i recognize you now, although i failed to do so when i first saw you. i congratulate you most heartily on your success." "on what success?" she asked. "on your success as an actress and a singer. i consider you owe me some thanks." "truly," said leone, "i owe you some thanks." the countess did not quite like the tone of voice in which those words were uttered; but it was her policy to be amiable. "your genius has taken me by surprise," she said; "yet, when i recall the only interview i ever had with you, i recognize the dramatic talent you displayed." "i should think the less you say of that interview, the better," said leone; "it was not much to your ladyship's credit." lady lanswell smiled. "we will not speak of it," she said. "but you do not ask me to sit down. madame vanira, what a charming house you have here." with grave courtesy leone drew a chair near the window, and the countess sat down. she looked at the beautiful woman with a winning smile. "will you not be seated, madame?" she said. "i find it so much easier to talk when one is seated." "how did you recognize me?" asked leone, abruptly. "i cannot say truthfully that i recognized your face," she said; "you will not mind my saying that if i had done so i would not have invited you to my house, neither should i have permitted my daughter-in-law to do so. it has placed us all in a false position. i knew you from something my son said about you. i guessed at once that you must be leone noel. i must repeat my congratulations; how hard you must have worked." her eyes wandered over the magnificent face and figure, over the faultless lines and graceful curves, over the artistic dress, and the beautiful, picturesque head. "you have done well," said the countess. "years ago you thought me hard, unfeeling, prejudiced, cruel, but it was kindness in the end. you have achieved for yourself fame, which no one could have won for you. better to be as you are, queen of song, and so queen of half the world of fashion, than the wife of a man whose family and friends would never have received you, and who would soon have looked on you as an incumbrance." "pray pardon me, lady lanswell, if i say that i have no wish whatever to hear your views on the subject." my lady's face flushed. "i meant no offense," she said, "i merely wished to show you that i have not been so much your enemy as you perhaps have thought me," and by the sudden softening of my lady's face, and the sudden tremor of her voice, leone knew that she had some favor to ask. "i think," she said, after a pause, "that in all truth, madame vanira, you ought to be grateful to me. you would never have known the extent of your own genius and power if you had not gone on the stage." "the happiness of the stage resembles the happiness of real life about as much as the tinsel crown of the mock queen resembles the regalia of the sovereign," replied leone. "it would be far better if your ladyship would not mention the past." "i only mention it because i wish you to see that i am not so much your enemy as you have thought me to be." "nothing can ever change my opinion on that point," said leone. "you think i was your enemy?" said the countess, blandly. "the most cruel and the most relentless enemy any young girl could have," said leone. "i am sorry you think that," said my lady, kindly. "the more so as i find you so happy and so prosperous." "you cannot answer for my happiness," said leone, briefly. "i acted for the best," said the countess, with more meekness than leone had ever seen in her before. "it was a miserable best," said leone, her indignation fast rising, despite her self-control. "a wretched best, and the results have not been in any way so grand that you can boast of them." "so far as you are concerned, madame vanira, i have nothing to repent of," said my lady. leone's dark eyes flashed fire. "i am but one," she said, "your cruelty made two people miserable. what of your son? have you made him so happy that you can come here and boast of what you have done?" my lady's head fell on her breast. ah, no, heaven knew her son was not a happy man. "leone," she said, in a low, hurried voice, "it is of my son i wish to speak to you. it is for my son's sake i am here--it is because i believe you to be his true friend and a noble woman that i am here, leone--it is the first time i have called you by your name--i humble myself to you--will you listen to me?" chapter lviii. "behold my revenge!" even as she spoke the words lady lanswell's heart sunk within her. no softening came to the beautiful face, no tenderness, no kindliness; it seemed rather as though her last words had turned leone to stone. she grew pale even to her lips, she folded her hands with a hard clasp, her beautiful figure grew more erect and dignified--the words dropped slowly, each one seeming to cut the air as it fell. "you call me noble, lady lanswell! you, who did your best to sully my fair name; you call me your son's best friend, when you flung me aside from him as though i had been of no more worth than the dust underneath his feet!" lady lanswell bent forward. "will you not forget that?" she said. "let the past die. i will own now that i was harsh, unjust, even cruel to you; but i repent it--i have never said as much before--i repent it, and i _apologize_ to you! will you accept my apology?" the effort was so great for a proud woman to make, that the countess seemed almost to struggle for breath as she said the words. leone looked on in proud, angry scorn. "you apologize, lady lanswell! you think that a few words can wash away the most cruel wrong one woman did to another? do you know what you did?--you robbed me of my husband, of a man i loved as i shall love no other; you blighted my fair name. what was i when that marriage was set aside? you--you tortured me--you broke my heart, you slew all that was best in me, and now all these years afterward you come to me, and think to overwhelm me with faint, feeble words of apology. why, if you gave me your heart's blood, your very soul, even, it would not atone me! i had but one life, and you have spoiled it! i had but one love, you trampled on it with wicked, relentless feet! ah, why do i speak? words are but sound. no, lady lanswell, i refuse your apology now or at any time! we are enemies, and shall remain so until we die!" the countess shrunk from the passion of her indignant words. "you are right in some measure," she said, sadly. "i was very hard, but it was for my son's sake! ah, believe me, all for him." "your son," retorted leone; "you make your son the excuse for your own vanity, pride, and ambition. what you did, lady lanswell, proved how little you loved your son; you parted us knowing that he loved me, knowing that his whole heart was bound up in me, knowing that he had but one wish, and it was to spend his whole life with me; you parted us knowing that he could never love another woman as he loved me, knowing that you were destroying his life, even as you have destroyed mine. did love for your son actuate you then?" "what i believed to be my love for my son and care for his interests alone guided me," said lady lanswell. "love for your son!" laughed leone. "have you ever read the story of the mother of the maccabees, who held her twin sons to die rather than they live to deny the christian faith? have you read of the english mother who, when her fair-haired son grew pale at the sound of the first cannon, cried, 'be brave, my son, death does not last one minute--glory is immortal.' i call such love as that the love of a mother for her son--the love that teaches a man to be true, if it cost his life; to be brave, if courage brings him death; to be loyal and noble. true motherly love shows itself in that fashion, lady lanswell." the proud head of lucia, countess of lanswell, drooped before this girl as it had never done before any power on earth. "what has your love done for your son, lady lanswell?" she asked. "shall i tell you? you made him a traitor, a coward, a liar--through your intrigues, he perjured himself. you made him disloyal and ignoble--you made him _false_. and yet you call that love! i would rather have the love of a pagan mother than such as yours. "what have you done for him?" she continued, the fire of her passion rising--"what have you done for him? he is young and has a long life before him. is he happy? look at his face--look at his restless, weary eyes--listen to the forced bitter laugh! is he happy, after all your false love has done for him? you have taken from him the woman he loves, and you have given him one for whom he cares so little he would leave her to-morrow! have you done so well, lady lanswell for your son?" "no, indeed i have not!" came with a great sigh from lady lanswell's lips. "perhaps, if it were to be--but no, i will not say that. you have noble thoughts and noble ideas--tell me, leone, will you help me?" "help you in what?" she asked, proudly. the countess flung aside the laces and ribbons that seemed to stifle her. "help me over my son!" she cried; "be generous to me. many people in my place would look on you as an enemy--i do not. if you have ever really loved my son you cannot be an enemy of mine. i appeal to the higher and nobler part of you. some people would be afraid that you should triumph over them--i am not. i hold you for a generous foe." "what appeal do you wish to make to me?" asked leone, quite ignoring all the compliments which the countess paid her. lady lanswell looked as she felt--embarrassed; it was one thing to carry this interview through in fancy, but still another when face to face with the foe, and that foe a beautiful, haughty woman, with right on her side. my lady was less at ease than she had ever been in her life before, her eyes fell, her lips trembled, her gemmed fingers played nervously with her laces and ribbons. "that i should come to you at all, leone, proves that i think you a noble woman," she said; "my trouble is great--the happiness of many lives lies in your hands." "i do not understand how," said leone. "i will tell you," continued the countess. "you are going to berlin, are you not?" she saw a quiver of pain pass over the beautiful face as she asked the question. "yes," replied leone; "i have an engagement there." "and lord chandos, my son, has said something about going there, too?" "yes," replied leone; "and i hope he will; he knows the city well, and i shall be glad to see a familiar face." there was a minute's silence, during which lady lanswell brought all her wit and courage to bear on the situation. she continued: "lady chandos does not wish my son to go to berlin. i suppose it is no secret from you that she entirely disapproves of her husband's friendship with you?" leone bowed her proud, beautiful head. "that is a matter of little moment to me," she said. my lady's face flushed at the words. "i may tell you," she went on, "that since lady chandos heard of this friendship, she has been very unhappy." "no one cared when i was unhappy," said leone; "no one pleaded for me." "i do plead for lady marion," said the countess, "whatever you may think of me. she has done you no harm; why should you make mischief between her and her husband?" "why did you make mischief between me and mine?" retorted leone; and my lady shrunk as she spoke. "listen to me, leone," she said; "you must help me, you must be my friend. if my son goes to berlin against his wife's prayers and wishes, she has declared that she will never speak to him or see him again." "that cannot concern me," said leone. "for heaven's sake listen, and do not speak to me so heartlessly. if he goes to berlin, lady chandos will appeal to the duke of lester, who has just obtained for my son the greatest honor that can be conferred on an english gentleman--the order of the garter. in plain words, leone, if my son follows you to berlin, he will lose his wife, he will lose his good name, he will lose caste, his social position, his chance of courtly honors, the respect of his own class. he will be laughed at as a dupe, as a man who has given up all the honors of life to dance attendance on an actress; in short, if he goes either with you, or after you, to berlin, he is, in every sense of the word, a ruined man!" and my lady's voice faltered as she said the words. "why not tell lord chandos all this himself, and see what he says?" asked leone. perfect desperation brings about perfect frankness--my lady knew that it was quite useless to conceal anything. "i have said all this and more to my son, but he will not even listen to me." a scornful smile curved those lovely lips. "he persists in going to berlin, then?" said leone, quietly. "yes," replied my lady, "he persists in it." "then why come to me? if your son persists in a certain course of action, why come to me?" "because you can influence him. i ask you to be noble beyond the nobility of women, i ask you to be generous beyond the generosity of women, i ask you to forget the past and forbid my son to follow you to berlin. you know the end must be a bad one--forbid it. i ask you with the warmest of prayers and of tears!" it was then that leone rose in righteous wrath, in not indignation, in angry passion; rose and stood erect before the woman who had been her enemy. "i refuse," she said. "years ago i went to you a simple-hearted, loving girl, and i prayed you for heaven's sake to have mercy on me. you received me with scorn and contumely; you insulted, outraged, tortured me; you laughed at my tears, you enjoyed my humiliation. i told you then that i would have my revenge, even should i lose everything on earth to obtain that revenge. now it lays in my hands, and i grasp it--i glory in it. your son shall follow me, shall lose wife, home, friends, position, fair name, as i lost all years ago at your bidding. oh, cruel and wicked woman, behold my revenge! i repay you now. oh, god," she continued, with a passionate cry, "i thank thee that i hold my vengeance in my hand; i will slay and spare not!" then she stood silent for some minutes, exhausted by the passion of her own words. chapter lix. useless pleadings. "you cannot possibly know what you are saying," said lady lanswell; "you must be mad." "no; i am perfectly sane; if i am mad at all it is with delight that the very desire of my heart has been given to me. do you forget when you trampled my heart, my life, my love under your feet that day? do you forget what i have sworn?" "i have never thought of it since," said the countess, trying to conciliate still. "then i will remind you," said leone. "i swore to be avenged, no matter what my vengeance cost. i swore that you should come and plead to me on your knees and i would laugh at you. i do so. i swore that you should plead to me, and i would remind you how i pleaded in vain. you wrung my heart--i will wring yours, and my only regret is that it is so hard and cold i cannot make you suffer more." "you are mad," said my lady; "quite mad." "no," said leone, "i am sane, but mine was a mad love." "you cannot know the consequence to yourself if you persist in this conduct," said my lady, serenely. "did you think of them for me when you set aside my marriage with your son, because you did not think me good enough to be a countess?" she asked. "lady lanswell, the hour of vengeance has come and i embrace it. your son shall lose his wife, his home, his position, his honors; i care not what," she cried, with sudden recklessness--"i care not what the world says of me, i will do that which i shall do, less because i love your son than because i desire to punish you." lady lanswell grew very pale as she listened. "yours is a terrible revenge," she said, gently. "i wish that you could invent some vengeance that would fall on my head--and on mine alone, so as to spare those who are dear to me. could you not do that? i would willingly suffer anything to free my son and his fair, loving wife." "no one spared me, nor will i in my turn spare," she said. "you shall know what it means to plead for dear life and plead in vain." "can i say nothing that will induce you to listen to me?" said the countess, "will you deliberately persist in the conduct that will ruin three lives?" "yes, deliberately and willfully," said leone. "i will never retract, never go back, but go on to the bitter end." "and that end means my son's disgrace," said lady lanswell. "it would be the same thing if it meant his death," said leone; "no one withheld the hand that struck death to me--worse than death." "you have nothing but this to say to me," said lady lanswell as she rose with stately grace from her seat. "no; if i knew anything which would punish you more, which would more surely pay my debts, which would more fully wreak my vengeance, i would do it. as for three lives, as for thirty, i would trample them under my feet. i will live for my vengeance, no matter what it costs me; and, lady lanswell, you ruined my life. good-bye. the best wish i can form is that i may never look on your face again. permit me to say farewell." she went out of the room leaving the countess bewildered with surprise and dismay. "what she says she will do," thought lady lanswell; "i may say good-bye to every hope i have ever formed for my son." she went away, her heart heavy as lead, with no hope of any kind to cheer it. leone went to her room, her whole frame trembling with the strong passion that had mastered her. "what has come over me?" she said; "i no longer know myself. is it love, vengeance, or jealousy that has hold of me? what evil spirit has taken my heart? would i really hurt him whom i have loved all my life--would i do him harm? would i crush that fair wife of his who wronged me without knowing it? let me find out for myself if it be true." she tried to think, but her head was in a whirl--she could not control herself, she could not control her thoughts; the sight of lady lanswell seemed to have set her heart and soul in flame--all the terrible memory of her wrongs came over her, the fair life blighted and ruined, the innocent girlhood and dawning womanhood all spoiled. it was too cruel--no, she could never forgive it. and then it seemed to her that her brain took fire and she went mad. she saw lord chandos that same evening; they met in a crush on the staircase at one of the ducal mansions, where a grand dinner-party preceded a _soiree_, and the crowd was so great they were unable to stir. it is possible to be quite alone in a great crowd, as these two were now. leone had on a dress of white satin trimmed with myrtle, the rich folds of which trailed on the ground. they shook hands in silence; it was lord chandos who spoke first. "i am so glad to see you, leone; but you are looking ill--you must not look like that. has anything happened to distress you?" he saw great trouble in the dark eyes raised to his. "is lady marion here?" she asked. "no," he replied. "she was to have come with my mother, but at the last moment she declined; i do not know why." she was debating in her own mind whether she would tell him about his mother's visit or not; then she decided it would be better. he bent over her. "i came," he said, "in the hope of seeing you. i heard you say last night that you should be here." in a low tone she said to him: "your mother has been to see me; talk about dramatic scenes, we had one. has she told you anything about it?" "no," he replied: "she does not speak to me; i am in disgrace; my lady passes me in silent dignity. she was just going to lady marion's room when i came away, but she did not speak to me. what was the object of her visit, leone?" "it was about berlin," she said, in a low voice. he started. "has she been to you about that?" he asked. "i thought she had exhausted all the remarks she had to make on that subject." the green foliage and crimson flowers of a huge camellia bent over them. lord chandos pushed aside the crimson flowers so that he might more clearly see his companion's face. "what has my mother said to you about berlin, leone?" he asked. "she came to beg of me to forbid you to go. she says if you go either with me or after me you will be a ruined man." "it will be a most sweet ruin," he whispered. "lance," said leone, "do you know that while lady lanswell was talking to me i went mad--i am quite sure of it. i said such dreadful things to her; did i mean them?" "how should i know, my--leone; but we will not talk about it; never mind what my mother says, i do not wish to hear it. she came between us once, but she never will again. she parted us once, she shall never part us again--never. there can be no harm in my going to berlin, and there i shall go--that is, always with your consent and permission." "that you have. but, lance, is it true that lady marion does not wish you to go to berlin, and threatens to leave you if you do--is it true?" "let us talk about something else, leone," he said. "we have but a few moments together." "but i cannot think of anything else," she said; "because my heart is full of it." what else she would have said will never be known, for at that moment there was a stir in the crowd, and they were separated. she took home with her the memory of his last look--a look that said so plainly, "i love you and will go to berlin for your sake." she took home with her the memory of that look, and lay sleepless through the whole night, wondering which of the evil spirits had taken possession of her. the countess had gone in search of lady marion. she found her in her boudoir--the beautiful room she had shown with such pride to madame vanira. lady chandos looked up eagerly as the countess entered. "have you good news for me?" she cried, eagerly. and my lady could not destroy the lingering hope she saw in that fair face. "not yet," she cried, "but you must be patient, marion." "patience is so difficult when so much is at stake. tell me--you had some plan, some resource; i saw that when you left me. have you tried it?" "yes, i have tried it," replied lady lanswell, sadly. "has it succeeded or failed?" she asked, eagerly. "it has failed," answered the countess, dreading to see the effect of her reply. but to her surprise, a tender, dreamy smile came over the fair face. "why are you smiling, marion?" she asked. "because i, too, have a plan," she replied; "one quite of my own; and i pray heaven it may succeed." "will you tell it me?" asked lady lanswell. and the fair, young wife's answer was a quietly whispered: "no." late that night, while the london streets were darkened by the cloud of sin that seems to rise as the sun sets; while the crowded ballrooms were one scene of gayety and frivolity; while tired souls went from earth to heaven; while poverty, sickness, sorrow and death reigned over the whole city, lady marion, with her golden head bent and her white hands clasped, knelt praying. there was peace on her face and holy, happy love. "god help me," she said; "i will put all my trust in him. my husband will love me when he knows." she prayed there until the sun rose in the morning sky, and she watched the first beams with a tender smile. "it will be a day of grace for me," she said, as she laid her fair head on the pillow to sleep. chapter lx. "this woman shall never know." leone stood alone in her pretty drawing-room, the room from which she could see the hills and the trees, and catch glimpses of pretty home scenery that were unrivaled. she stood looking at it now, her eyes fixed on the distant hills, her heart re-echoing the words: "in the grave alone is peace." in her heart and mind all was dross; she seemed to have lost the power of thinking; she had an engagement to sing in her favorite opera on the evening previous. hundreds had assembled to hear her, and at the last moment they were compelled to find a substitute. leone could not sing; it was not that her voice failed her, but to her inexpressible sorrow, when she began to tell the woes of another her mind wandered off into her own. in vain she tried to collect herself, to save herself from the terrible whirl of her brain. "surely i am not going mad." she bent her head on her hands, and sighed deeply; if she could but save herself, if she could but tell what to do. the night before, only a few hours previous, it seemed to her her heart and brain had been on fire, first with jealousy, then with love, then with anger. by accident, as she was going to her wardrobe, her hands fell on a large, beautiful copy of the bible. she opened it carelessly, and her eyes fell on the words: "for the wicked there shall be no abiding-place, neither shall they find rest forever." rest, that was what she wanted, and if she were wicked she would not find it for evermore. what was being wicked? people had behaved wickedly to her, they had taken from her the one love that would have been the stay of her life; they had made her most solemn vows nothing. she had been wickedly treated, but did it follow that she must be wicked? "i could never be a sinner," she said; "i have not the nerve, i have not the strength. i could never be a sinner." lightly enough she turned those pages; she saw the picture of ruth in the corn-field--simple, loving ruth, whose words have stood the finest love-story ever written since she uttered them. there was another picture of queen esther fainting in the awful presence of ahasuerus the king; another of a fair young madonna holding in her arms a little child; another of the magdalen, her golden hair wet with tears; another of a sacred head bent low in the agonies of death. she looked long at that, for underneath it was written, "for our sins." wickedness meant sin. standing there, her hand resting on the page, all the truth seemed to come home to her. it would be a sin to cause disunion between husband and wife; it would be a sin to cause the husband of another woman to love her; it would be a sin to give way to the desire of vengeance that was burning her heart away, and these words were so pathetic, "for our sins." she had laid her face on that picture of the crucifixion, and burning tears fell from her eyes over it. "god have mercy on me," she had prayed, "and save me from myself." then she had slept, and here was the morrow, a lovely summer day with the air all fragrance, the birds all song, and she was still doing hard battle with herself, for, as she had said to herself, hers was "a mad love--a cruel, mad love." and as she stood watching the distant hills, wondering if in the blue sky that hung over them there was peace, a servant once more entered the room, holding a card in her hand. "lady chandos," said leone, wonderingly; "ask her in here." she looked in surprise, almost too great for words, at the little card. lance's wife, who had refused to speak to her, who had disdained to touch her outstretched hand--lance's wife coming to speak to her. what could it mean? were the whole race of the lanswells coming to her? the next moment a fair, sweet face was smiling into hers, a face she had seen last darkened with anger, but which was fair and bright now, with the light of a holy love. leone looked at her in amaze. what had happened? it looked as though a new life, a new soul, had been given to lady marion. and hush, she was speaking to her in a low, sweet voice, that thrilled through the great singer like the softest cords from an eolian harp. "you are surprised to see me," lady marion was saying, "yet i have done right in coming. all last night, while the stars were shining, i prayed heaven to tell me what it was best for me to do, and i shall always think that the white-winged angels, who they say carry prayers to heaven, sent me to you. i refused to touch your hand the other day. will you give it to me now? will you listen to me?" leone's whole heart and soul had risen in hot rebellion and fierce hate against the countess of lanswell. they went out in sweetest love and compassion to her fair faced rival now. the sweet voice went on: "i cannot tell why i have come to you--some impulse has sent me. another woman in my place would have looked on you as a successful rival and have hated you. i cannot. the soul that has stirred other souls cannot be base; you must be noble and good or you would not influence the hearts and souls of men. oh, madame, i have come to you with two lives in my hands. will you listen to me?" the dark, beautiful head of the gifted singer was bent for a few moments over the golden head of her rival. then leone raised her eyes to marion's face. "you are trembling," she said; "you shall speak to me as you will, but you shall speak to me here." some warm, loving irresistible impulse came to her; she could not hate or hurt this fair, gentle lady whom the countess had put in her place, and whom her husband did not love; a great impulse of pity came over her, a sweet and generous compassion filled her heart. "you shall speak to me here," she repeated, clasping her arms round the trembling figure and laying the golden head on her breast. she kissed the fair, sad face with a passion of love. "there," she said, "lady marion, if i had wronged you even in the least, i should not dare do that. now tell me what you have come to say. do not tremble so," and the tender arms tightened their clasp. "do not be afraid to speak to me." "i am not afraid, for heaven sent me," said lady marion. "i know that you will tell me the truth. i am as certain of that as i am of my own life. i have been very unhappy over you, madame vanira, for my husband seems to have cared more for you than for me." "has your husband ever told you anything about me?" asked leone, gently. and the answer was: "no, nothing, except that, like everyone else, he admired you very much." "nothing more?" asked leone. "no, nothing more." "then," said leone to herself, "the secret that he has kept i will keep, and this fair, tender woman shall never know that i once believed myself his wife." lady marion wondered why she bent down and kissed her with all the fervor of self-sacrifice. "i have been very unhappy," continued lady marion. "i loved and admired you. i never had the faintest suspicion in my mind against you, until some one came to tell me that you and my husband had spent a day on the river together. i know it was true, but he would not explain it." "let me explain it," said leone, sadly. "i trust you as you trust me. i have had a great sorrow in my love; greater--oh, heaven!--than ever fell to the lot of woman. and one day, when i saw your husband, the bitterness of it was lying heavily on me. i said something to him that led him to understand how dull and unhappy i felt. lady chandos, he took me on the river that he might give me one happy day, nothing more. do you grudge it to me, dear? ah, if i could give you the happiness of those few fleeting hours i would." and again her warm, loving lips touched the white brow. "i understand," said lady marion. "why did my husband not speak as you have done? does he care for you, madame? you will tell me the truth, i know." and the fair face looked wistfully in her own. leone was silent for a few minutes; she could not look in those clear eyes and speak falsely. "yes," she answered, slowly; "i think lord chandos cares very much for me; i know that he admires and likes me." lady marion looked very much relieved. there could surely be no harm in their friendship if she could speak of it so openly. "and you, madame--oh, tell me truly--do you love him? tell me truly; it seems that all my life hangs on your word." again the beautiful face drooped silently before the fair one. "it would be so easy for me to tell you a falsehood," said leone, while a great crimson flush burned her face, "but i will not. yes, i--i love him. pity me, you who love him so well yourself; he belongs to you, while i--ah, pity me because i love him." and lady marion, whose heart was touched by the pitiful words, looked up and kissed her. "i cannot hate you, since you love him," she said. "he is mine, but my heart aches for you. now let me tell you what i have come to say. you are good and noble as i felt you were. i have come to ask a grace from you, and it is easier now that i know you love him. how strange it seems. i should have thought that hearing you say that you loved my husband would have filled my heart with hot anger, but it does not; in some strange way i love you for it." "if you love him, madame, his interests must be dear to you." "they are dear to me," she whispered. "how strange," repeated lady marion, "that while the world is full of men you and i should love the same man." "ah, life is strange," said leone; "peace only comes with death." chapter lxi. a sacrifice. lady marion raised herself so that she could look into the face of her beautiful rival. "now i will tell you," she said; "you are going to berlin; you have an engagement at the royal opera house there, and my husband wishes to go there, too. but we all oppose it; his parents for social reasons, and i--i tell you frankly, because i am jealous of you, and cannot bear that he should follow you there. i have asked him to give up the idea, but he refuses--he will not listen to me. i have said that if he goes there, i will never see him or speak to him again, and i must keep my word. so, madame, i have come to you; i appeal to you, do not let him go: you can prevent it if you will." leone's dark eyes flashed fire. "there is no harm in our friendship," she said; "would you take from me the only gleam of happiness i have in the world?" but lady marion did not seem to hear the wild words; the same raptures of holy love had come over her face, and she blushed until she looked like a lovely, glowing rose. "think how i trust you," she said; "i have come to tell you that which i have told to no one. i have come to tell you that which, if ever there has been any particular friendship between you and my husband, must end it. i have come to tell you that which will show that now--now you must not take my husband from me. "bend down lower," continued the sweet voice, "that i may whisper to you. i have been married nearly four years now, and the one desire of my heart has been to have a little child. i love little children so dearly. and i have always thought that if i could give to my husband children to love he would love me better. i have prayed as rachel prayed, but it seemed to me the heavens were made of brass--no answer came to my prayers. i have wept bitter tears when i have seen other mothers caressing their children. when my husband has stopped to kiss a child or play with it, my heart has burned with envy, and now, oh, madame, bend lower, lower--now heaven has been so good to me, and they tell me that in a few months i shall have a darling little child, all my own. oh, madame, do you see that now you must not take my husband from me; that now there must be no mischief between us; that we must live in peace and love because heaven has been so good to us." the sweet voice rose to a tone of passionate entreaty; and lady marion withdrew from the clasp of her rival's arms, and knelt at her feet. the face she raised was bright and beautiful as though angel's wings shadowed it. "i plead with you," she said, "i pray to you. you hold my life in your hands. if it were only myself i would be glad to die, so that if my husband loves you best he might marry you, but it is for my little child. do you know that when i say to myself, 'lance's little child,' the words seem to me sweeter than the sweetest music." but the beautiful woman who had been no wife, turned deadly pale as she listened to the words. she held up her hand with a terrible cry. "for heaven's sake, hush," she said hoarsely, "i cannot bear it!" for one minute it was as though she had been turned to stone. her heart seemed clutched by a cold, iron hand. the next, she had recovered herself and raised lady marion, making her rest, and trying to still the trembling of the delicate frame. "you must calm yourself," she said. "i have listened to you, now will you listen to me?" "yes; but, madame, you will be good to me--you will not let my husband leave me? we shall be happy, i am sure, when he knows; we shall forget all this sorrow and this pain. he will be to me the same as he was before your beautiful face dazed him. ah, madame, you will not let him leave me." "i should be a murderess if i did," she said, in a low voice. her face was whiter than the face of the dead. she stood quite silent for a few minutes. in her heart, like a death-knell, sounded the words: "lance's little child." whiter and colder grew the beautiful face; more mute and silent the beautiful lips; then suddenly she said: "kiss me, lady marion, kiss me with your lips; now place your hands in mine. i promise you that i will not take your husband from you; that he shall not go to berlin, either with me or after me. i promise you--listen and believe me--that i will never see or speak to your husband again, and this i do for the sake of lance's little child." "i believe you," said lady marion, the light deepening in her sweet eyes and on her fair face. "i believe you, and from the depth of my heart i thank you. we shall be happy, i am sure." "in the midst of your happiness will you remember me?" asked leone, gently. "always, as my best, dearest and truest friend," said lady marion; and they parted that summer morning never to meet again until the water gives up its dead. lady marion drove home with a smile on her fair face, such as had not been seen there before. it would all come right. she believed in madame vana's simple words as in the pledge of another. how it would be managed she did not know--did not think; but madame would keep her word, and her husband would be her own--would never be cool to her or seek to leave her again; it would be all well. all that day there was a light on her face that did one's heart good to see; and when lady lanswell saw her that evening she knew that all was well. "lance's little child!" the words had been a death-knell to leone. she had seen his wife and lived--she had seen him in his home with that same fair wife by his side, and she had lived; but at the thought of her rival's children in his arms her whole soul died. died--never to live again. she sat for some time just where lady marion left her, and she said to herself a thousand times over and over again those words--"lance's little child." only god knows the anguish that came over her, the piercing sorrow, the bitter pain--the memory of those few months when she had believed herself to be lance's wife. she fell on her knees with a great, passionate cry. "oh, heaven," she cried, "save me from myself!" the most beautiful woman in europe, the most gifted singer on the stage, the idol of the world of fashion--she lay there helpless, hopeless, despairing, with that one cry rising from her lips on which a world had hung: "heaven have mercy on me, and save me from myself!" when she woke, the real world seemed to have vanished from her. she heard the sound of running water; a mill-wheel turning in a deep stream; she heard the rush and the foaming of water, the song of the birds overhead, the rustle of the great boughs, the cooing of the blue and white pigeons. why, surely, that was a dream of home. home--the old farmhouse where robert noel lived, the kind, slow, stolid farmer. she could hear him calling, "leone, where are you?" and the pigeons deafened her as they whirled round her head. she struggled for a time with her dazed, bewildered senses; but she could not tell which was the real life, whether she was at home again in the old farmhouse, and had dreamed a long, troubled dream, or whether she was dreaming now. her brain burned--it was like liquid fire; and she seemed to see always a golden-haired child. "lance's little child." yes, there he was holding mother and child both in his arms, kissing them, while she lay there helpless and despairing. "mine was always a mad love," she said to herself--"a mad love." then she heard a sound of music--softest, sweetest music--floating through the room, and woke to reason with a terrible shudder to find that she was singing the old, sweet song: "i would the grave would hide me, for there alone is peace." "i have been mad," she said to herself; "those words drove me mad, 'lance's little child.'" she went to her room and bathed her head in ice-cold water. the pain grew less, but not the burning heat. the idea became fixed in her mind that she must go back to the old mill-stream; she did not know why, she never asked herself why; that was her haven of rest, by the sound of rushing waters. within sight of the mill-wheel, and the trees, and the water lilies, all would be well, the cloud would pass from her mind, the fire from her brain, the sword from her heart. she had two letters to write, one to the manager with whom her engagement expired in two nights, telling him she was ill and had gone away for her health, and that he would not probably hear of her for some time; and another to lord chandos. it was simple and sad: "good-bye. i am going--not to berlin--but away from europe, and i shall never return; but before i leave i shall go to the mill-stream to look at and listen to the waters for the last time. good bye, lance. in heaven you will know how much i have loved you, never on earth. in heaven you will know why i have left you. be kind, and true, and good to all who are dear to you. lance, if i die first, i shall wait inside the golden gates of heaven for you." she did one thing more, which proved that her reason was still clear. she paid off all her servants, and to the most trusted one left power to give up her house in her name, as she was leaving it. and far off the mill-wheel turned in the stream, and the water-lilies stirred faintly us the white foam passed them by. chapter lxii. "the grave alone gives peace." the sun was setting--the western sky was all aflame, great crimson clouds floated away with vapors of rose and orange--crimson clouds that threw a rosy light on the trees and fields. in the distance stood the old farmhouse, the light falling on the roof with its moss and lichen, the great roses and white jasmine that wreathed the windows, the tall elms that stood on either side of the fertile meadows, the springing corn, the ricks of sweet-smelling hay. the light from the western sky fell on them all. from beneath the tall elms with the trailing scarlet creepers came a tall, graceful woman, whose face was covered with a thick veil; she stood for some time watching the farmhouse, her beautiful face white and set as the face of the dead; she threw back her veil as though she was gasping for breath, and then she stood still and motionless as a marble statue. the blue and white pigeons were cooing loudly, as though they would tell each other it was time to rest, the birds were singing their vesper hymn, the cattle had all been driven to rest, the laborers had ceased their toil, in the garden the white lilies had opened their cups to catch the dew; it was all so sweet and still, as though a blessing from heaven lay on it. the silent watcher stirred when she heard the baying of a hound. "that is rover," she said to herself, "and he would know me. what would uncle robert say if he knew his lady lass was so near?" she walked on through the green lane, where the hedges were one mass of wild rose bloom, through the fields where the clover lay so sweet and fragrant, until she came to the mill-stream. her heart gave one bound as she saw it. the picturesque old mill, half hidden in foliage, and the great round wheel, half hidden in the clear stream. there were the water-lilies lying quite at rest now; there were the green reeds and sedges; the nests of blue forget-me-nots; the little water-fall where the white rock rose in the middle of the stream, and the water ran over it; the same green branches dipped in the water, the same trees shaded it. she sat down in the same spot where she had last sat with him. she remembered how the ring had fallen into the little clear pool and he had found it. the same, and yet how different. and sitting there, with the wreck of her life round her, she sung in a low voice the words that to her had been so full of prophecy: "in sheltered vale a mill-wheel still sings its tuneful lay. my darling once did dwell there, but now she's far away. a ring in pledge i gave her, and vows of love we spoke; these vows are all forgotten, the ring asunder broke." how true and how cold the prophecy had been. as she sat there she saw a light in the mill, and the wheel began slowly to turn. foaming, laughing, singing, the water ran away shining in the red light of the setting sun, golden in the little wavelets that kissed the banks. slowly the falling water set itself to music, and the rhythm was always: "i would the grave could hide me, for there alone is peace." shine on, setting sun. sing on, falling water. there is no peace save in death and in heaven. sing on, little birds, throw your sweet shadows, dewy nights; there is no peace but in death. she lay down on the green bank and the water foaming by sung to her--it was all so sweet, so silent, so still. one by one the little birds slept, one by one the flowers closed their eyes, the roseate clouds faded, and the gray, soft mantle of night fell on the earth. so sweet and still--the stars came out in the sky, in the wood a nightingale began to sing; the fire went out in her brain; the pain ceased; she grew calm as one on whom a dread shadow lies. the lovely, laughing water, with the gleam of golden stars in it, falling with the rhythm of sweetest music. she drew nearer, she laid one hand on the little wavelets, and the cool, sweet touch refreshed her. the night, so sweet and still, with the gray shade of the king of terrors rising from the mill-stream. the water-lilies seemed to rise and come near to her, a thousand sweet voices seemed to rise from the water and call her. "there alone is peace," sung the nightingale; "there alone is peace," sung the lilies; "there alone is peace," sung the chiming waters. she drew nearer to them. heaven only knows what ideas were in that overbalanced brain and distraught mind. looking in the clear waters she saw the golden stars shining; perhaps she thought she was reaching to them. a little low cry fell on the night air. a cry that startled the ring-doves, but fell on no mortal ear. "mine was always a mad love," she said to herself; "a mad love," and the voice that had gladdened the hearts of thousands was heard on earth no more. a mad love, indeed; she went nearer to the gleaming waters; they seemed to rise and infold her; the water-lilies seemed to hold her up. it seemed to her rather that she went up to the stars than down to the stream. there was no cry, no sound, as the soft waters closed over her, as the water-lilies floated back entangled in the meshes of a dead woman's hair. in the grave alone was peace. so she lay through the long, sweet, summer night, and the mill-stream sung her dirge. was it suicide, or was she mad? god who knows all things knew that she had suffered a heavy wrong, a cruel injustice, a martyrdom of pain. she had raised herself to one of the highest positions in the world and there she had met her old love. only heaven knew what she endured after that, when she saw his wife, when she saw him in his daily life, yet knowing that he was lost to her for evermore. then the climax came when his wife spoke of "lance's little child." if those words drove her to her death who shall wonder? she saw the stars in the water and thought she was going to them; and perhaps, on the great day, that thought, that imagination may plead for her. it was a mad love, a cruel, mad love. some instinct came to lord chandos when he read that letter that all was not well. he started at once for rashleigh. the morning sun was high in the heavens when he reached there. going at once to the mill-stream, he had seen the body of the woman he loved floating there, her long hair tangled in the water-lilies, a smile such as comes from perfect peace on her face. he did the wisest thing he could have done--he brought farmer noel to the spot, and told him the story, while she lay with her face raised to the morning skies--the story of a mad love. farmer noel uttered no reproaches. "i never thought she would live a happy life or die a happy death," he said--"it was written so in her face." they two kept the secret. in a small place like rashleigh such an occurrence is a nine days' wonder; every one believed that the hapless lady had fallen into the stream as she was passing to the woods. although the farmer grieved sorely after her, he never told any one that she was his niece, and no one recognized her. there was a verdict of found drowned, and every one thought the farmer very generous because he undertook the funeral expenses. how lord chandos grieved, no words could tell--it was as though the light of his life had disappeared; he never spoke of his sorrow, but it made him old in his youth and killed the best part of his life in him. no one, even ever so faintly, connected the inquest at rashleigh with the disappearance of madame vanira. the world went mad at first with anger and disappointment, then a rumor was spread that madame had gone to america, and had married a millionaire there. the world recovered its good temper and laughed; then another grand singer appeared on the scene, and leone was forgotten. the only person to whom lord chandos ever told the truth was the countess of lanswell, and it shocked her so greatly that she gave up all society for a few days, and then, as the world had done before her, forgot it. lord chandos never forgot; the world was never the same to him. his wife's words came true; he was kindness itself to her, and she was very happy. she never even heard of madame vanira's untimely end, nor did she ever know who madame vanira was. she always respected her, because she had kept her word, and had gone out of her husband's way. as time passed on she, too--forgot. lord chandos never forgot. fair daughters and stalwart sons grew around him; he was kind, cheerful, even gay, but in the depths of his heart he mourned over her. to please him lady chandos gave to one of her daughters the name of leone, and it was pitiful to hear the pathos with which he used the name. of all his children he loves leone best. in his dreams he sees the golden gates of heaven, and the other leone watching for him there. while she sleeps in peace by the mill-stream, and as the water runs by, it sings: "a mad love--a mad love." but "the mill will never grind again with the waters that are past." the end. love among the chickens by p. g. wodehouse dedication to w. townend dear bill,-- i have never been much of a lad for the to----- but for whose sympathy and encouragement this book would never have been written type of dedication. it sounds so weak-minded. but in the case of love among the chickens it is unavoidable. it was not so much that you sympathised and encouraged--where you really came out strong was that you gave me the stuff. i like people who sympathise with me. i am grateful to those who encourage me. but the man to whom i raise the wodehouse hat--owing to the increased cost of living, the same old brown one i had last year--it is being complained of on all sides, but the public must bear it like men till the straw hat season comes round--i say, the man to whom i raise this venerable relic is the man who gives me the material. sixteen years ago, my william, when we were young and spritely lads; when you were a tricky centre-forward and i a fast bowler; when your head was covered with hair and my list of "hobbies" in who's who included boxing; i received from you one morning about thirty closely-written foolscap pages, giving me the details of your friend -----'s adventures on his devonshire chicken farm. round these i wove as funny a plot as i could, but the book stands or falls by the stuff you gave me about "ukridge"--the things that actually happened. you will notice that i have practically re-written the book. there was some pretty bad work in it, and it had "dated." as an instance of the way in which the march of modern civilisation has left the edition behind, i may mention that on page twenty-one i was able to make ukridge speak of selling eggs at six for fivepence! yours ever, p. g. wodehouse london, . contents i a letter with a postscript ii mr. and mrs. s. f. ukridge iii waterloo station, some fellow-travellers, and a girl with brown hair iv the arrival v buckling to vi mr. garnet's narrative--has to do with a reunion vii the entente cordiale is sealed viii a little dinner at ukridge's ix dies irae x i enlist the services of a minion xi the brave preserver xii some emotions and yellow lupin xiii tea and tennis xiv a council of war xv the arrival of nemesis xvi a chance meeting xvii of a sentimental nature xviii ukridge gives me advice xix asking papa xx scientific golf xxi the calm before the storm xxii the storm breaks xxiii after the storm love among the chickens chapter i a letter with a postscript "a gentleman called to see you when you were out last night, sir," said mrs. medley, my landlady, removing the last of the breakfast things. "yes?" i said, in my affable way. "a gentleman," said mrs. medley meditatively, "with a very powerful voice." "caruso?" "sir?" "i said, did he leave a name?" "yes, sir. mr. ukridge." "oh, my sainted aunt!" "sir!" "nothing, nothing." "thank you, sir," said mrs. medley, withdrawing from the presence. ukridge! oh, hang it! i had not met him for years, and, glad as i am, as a general thing, to see the friends of my youth when they drop in for a chat, i doubted whether i was quite equal to ukridge at the moment. a stout fellow in both the physical and moral sense of the words, he was a trifle too jumpy for a man of my cloistered and intellectual life, especially as just now i was trying to plan out a new novel, a tricky job demanding complete quiet and seclusion. it had always been my experience that, when ukridge was around, things began to happen swiftly and violently, rendering meditation impossible. ukridge was the sort of man who asks you out to dinner, borrows the money from you to pay the bill, and winds up the evening by embroiling you in a fight with a cabman. i have gone to covent garden balls with ukridge, and found myself legging it down henrietta street in the grey dawn, pursued by infuriated costermongers. i wondered how he had got my address, and on that problem light was immediately cast by mrs. medley, who returned, bearing an envelope. "it came by the morning post, sir, but it was left at number twenty by mistake." "oh, thank you." "thank you, sir," said mrs. medley. i recognised the handwriting. the letter, which bore a devonshire postmark, was from an artist friend of mine, one lickford, who was at present on a sketching tour in the west. i had seen him off at waterloo a week before, and i remember that i had walked away from the station wishing that i could summon up the energy to pack and get off to the country somewhere. i hate london in july. the letter was a long one, but it was the postscript which interested me most. "... by the way, at yeovil i ran into an old friend of ours, stanley featherstonehaugh ukridge, of all people. as large as life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. i thought he was abroad. the last i heard of him was that he had started for buenos ayres in a cattle ship, with a borrowed pipe by way of luggage. it seems he has been in england for some time. i met him in the refreshment-room at yeovil station. i was waiting for a down train; he had changed on his way to town. as i opened the door, i heard a huge voice entreating the lady behind the bar to 'put it in a pewter'; and there was s. f. u. in a villainous old suit of grey flannels (i'll swear it was the one he had on last time i saw him) with pince-nez tacked on to his ears with ginger-beer wire as usual, and a couple of inches of bare neck showing between the bottom of his collar and the top of his coat--you remember how he could never get a stud to do its work. he also wore a mackintosh, though it was a blazing day. "he greeted me with effusive shouts. wouldn't hear of my standing the racket. insisted on being host. when we had finished, he fumbled in his pockets, looked pained and surprised, and drew me aside. 'look here, licky, old horse,' he said, 'you know i never borrow money. it's against my principles. but i _must_ have a couple of bob. can you, my dear good fellow, oblige me with a couple of bob till next tuesday? i'll tell you what i'll do. (in a voice full of emotion). i'll let you have this (producing a beastly little threepenny bit with a hole in it which he had probably picked up in the street) until i can pay you back. this is of more value to me than i can well express, licky, my boy. a very, very dear friend gave it to me when we parted, years ago... it's a wrench... still,--no, no... you must take it, you must take it. licky, old man, shake hands, old horse. shake hands, my boy.' he then tottered to the bar, deeply moved, and paid up out of the five shillings which he had made it as an after-thought. he asked after you, and said you were one of the noblest men on earth. i gave him your address, not being able to get out of it, but if i were you i should fly while there is yet time." it seemed to me that the advice was good and should be followed. i needed a change of air. london may have suited doctor johnson, but in the summer time it is not for the ordinary man. what i wanted, to enable me to give the public of my best (as the reviewer of a weekly paper, dealing with my last work, had expressed a polite hope that i would continue to do) was a little haven in the country somewhere. i rang the bell. "sir?" said mrs. medley. "i'm going away for a bit," i said. "yes, sir." "i don't know where. i'll send you the address, so that you can forward letters." "yes, sir." "and, if mr. ukridge calls again..." at this point a thunderous knocking on the front door interrupted me. something seemed to tell me who was at the end of that knocker. i heard mrs. medley's footsteps pass along the hall. there was the click of the latch. a volume of sound rushed up the stairs. "is mr. garnet in? where is he? show me the old horse. where is the man of wrath? exhibit the son of belial." there followed a violent crashing on the stairs, shaking the house. "garnet! where are you, laddie? garnet!! garnet!!!!!" stanley featherstonehaugh ukridge was in my midst. chapter ii mr. and mrs. s. f. ukridge i have often thought that who's who, though a bulky and well-meaning volume, omits too many of england's greatest men. it is not comprehensive enough. i am in it, nestling among the g's:-- "garnet, jeremy, o.s. of late henry garnet, vicar of much middlefold, salop; author. publications: 'the outsider,' 'the manoeuvres of arthur.' hobbies: cricket, football, swimming, golf. clubs: arts." but if you search among the u's for ukridge, stanley featherstonehaugh, details of whose tempestuous career would make really interesting reading, you find no mention of him. it seems unfair, though i imagine ukridge bears it with fortitude. that much-enduring man has had a lifetime's training in bearing things with fortitude. he seemed in his customary jovial spirits now, as he dashed into the room, clinging on to the pince-nez which even ginger-beer wire rarely kept stable for two minutes together. "my dear old man," he shouted, springing at me and seizing my hand in the grip like the bite of a horse. "how _are_ you, old buck? this is good. by jove, this is fine, what?" he dashed to the door and looked out. "come on millie! pick up the waukeesis. here's old garnet, looking just the same as ever. devilish handsome fellow! you'll be glad you came when you see him. beats the zoo hollow!" there appeared round the corner of ukridge a young woman. she paused in the doorway and smiled pleasantly. "garny, old horse," said ukridge with some pride, "this is _her_! the pride of the home. companion of joys and sorrows and all the rest of it. in fact," in a burst of confidence, "my wife." i bowed awkwardly. the idea of ukridge married was something too overpowering to be readily assimilated. "buck up, old horse," said ukridge encouragingly. he had a painful habit of addressing all and sundry by that title. in his school-master days--at one period of his vivid career he and i had been colleagues on the staff of a private school--he had made use of it interviewing the parents of new pupils, and the latter had gone away, as a rule, with a feeling that this must be either the easy manner of genius or due to alcohol, and hoping for the best. he also used it to perfect strangers in the streets, and on one occasion had been heard to address a bishop by that title, rendering that dignitary, as mr. baboo jaberjee would put it, _sotto voce_ with gratification. "surprised to find me married, what? garny, old boy,"--sinking his voice to a whisper almost inaudible on the other side of the street--"take my tip. go and jump off the dock yourself. you'll feel another man. give up this bachelor business. it's a mug's game. i look on you bachelors as excrescences on the social system. i regard you, old man, purely and simply as a wart. go and get married, laddie, go and get married. by gad, i've forgotten to pay the cabby. lend me a couple of bob, garny old chap." he was out of the door and on his way downstairs before the echoes of his last remark had ceased to shake the window. i was left to entertain mrs. ukridge. so far her share in the conversation had been confined to the pleasant smile which was apparently her chief form of expression. nobody talked very much when ukridge was present. she sat on the edge of the armchair, looking very small and quiet. i was conscious of feeling a benevolent pity for her. if i had been a girl, i would have preferred to marry a volcano. a little of ukridge, as his former head master had once said in a moody, reflective voice, went a very long way. "you and stanley have known each other a long time, haven't you?" said the object of my commiseration, breaking the silence. "yes. oh, yes. several years. we were masters at the same school." mrs. ukridge leaned forward with round, shining eyes. "really? oh, how nice!" she said ecstatically. not yet, to judge from her expression and the tone of her voice, had she found any disadvantages attached to the arduous position of being mrs. stanley ukridge. "he's a wonderfully versatile man," i said. "i believe he could do anything." "he'd have a jolly good try!" "have you ever kept fowls?" asked mrs. ukridge, with apparent irrelevance. i had not. she looked disappointed. "i was hoping you might have had some experience. stanley, of course, can turn his hand to anything; but i think experience is rather a good thing, don't you?" "yes. but ..." "i have bought a shilling book called 'fowls and all about them,' and this week's copy of c.a.c." "c.a.c.?" "_chiefly about chickens_. it's a paper, you know. but it's all rather hard to understand. you see, we ... but here is stanley. he will explain the whole thing." "well, garny, old horse," said ukridge, re-entering the room after another energetic passage of the stairs. "years since i saw you. still buzzing along?" "still, so to speak, buzzing," i assented. "i was reading your last book the other day." "yes?" i said, gratified. "how did you like it?" "well, as a matter of fact, laddie, i didn't get beyond the third page, because the scurvy knave at the bookstall said he wasn't running a free library, and in one way and another there was a certain amount of unpleasantness. still, it seemed bright and interesting up to page three. but let's settle down and talk business. i've got a scheme for you, garny old man. yessir, the idea of a thousand years. now listen to me for a moment. let me get a word in edgeways." he sat down on the table, and dragged up a chair as a leg-rest. then he took off his pince-nez, wiped them, re-adjusted the ginger-beer wire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his grey flannel trousers several times, in the apparent hope of removing it, resumed: "about fowls." the subject was beginning to interest me. it showed a curious tendency to creep into the conversation of the ukridge family. "i want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment. i was saying to my wife, as we came here, 'garnet's the man! clever devil, garnet. full of ideas.' didn't i, millie?" "yes, dear." "laddie," said ukridge impressively, "we are going to keep fowls." he shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the ink-pot. "never mind," he said, "it'll soak in. it's good for the texture. or am i thinking of tobacco-ash on the carpet? well, never mind. listen to me! when i said that we were going to keep fowls, i didn't mean in a small, piffling sort of way--two cocks and a couple of hens and a golf-ball for a nest-egg. we are going to do it on a large scale. we are going to run a chicken farm!" "a chicken farm," echoed mrs. ukridge with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband. "ah," i said, feeling my responsibilities as chorus. "a chicken farm." "i've thought it all over, laddie, and it's as clear as mud. no expenses, large profits, quick returns. chickens, eggs, and the money streaming in faster than you can bank it. winter and summer underclothing, my bonny boy, lined with crackling bradbury's. it's the idea of a lifetime. now listen to me for a moment. you get your hen--" "one hen?" "call it one for the sake of argument. it makes my calculations clearer. very well, then. harriet the hen--you get her. do you follow me so far?" "yes. you get a hen." "i told you garnet was a dashed bright fellow," said ukridge approvingly to his attentive wife. "notice the way he keeps right after one's ideas? like a bloodhound. well, where was i?" "you'd just got a hen." "exactly. the hen. pricilla the pullet. well, it lays an egg every day of the week. you sell the eggs, six for half a crown. keep of hen costs nothing. profit--at least a couple of bob on every dozen eggs. what do you think of that?" "i think i'd like to overhaul the figures in case of error." "error!" shouted ukridge, pounding the table till it groaned. "error? not a bit of it. can't you follow a simple calculation like that? oh, i forgot to say that you get--and here is the nub of the thing--you get your first hen on tick. anybody will be glad to let you have the hen on tick. well, then, you let this hen--this first, original hen, this on-tick-hen--you let it set and hatch chickens. now follow me closely. suppose you have a dozen hens. very well, then. when each of the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back to the chappies you borrowed them from, with thanks for kind loan; and there you are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens to your name. and after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin to lay, all you have to do is to sit back in your chair and endorse the big cheques. isn't that so, millie?" "yes, dear." "we've fixed it all up. do you know combe regis, in dorsetshire? on the borders of devon. bathing. sea-air. splendid scenery. just the place for a chicken farm. a friend of millie's--girl she knew at school--has lent us a topping old house, with large grounds. all we've got to do is to get in the fowls. i've ordered the first lot. we shall find them waiting for us when we arrive." "well," i said, "i'm sure i wish you luck. mind you let me know how you get on." "let you know!" roared ukridge. "why, my dear old horse, you're coming with us." "am i?" i said blankly. "certainly you are. we shall take no refusal. will we, millie?" "no, dear." "of course not. no refusal of any sort. pack up to-night and meet us at waterloo to-morrow." "it's awfully good of you ..." "not a bit of it--not a bit of it. this is pure business. i was saying to millie as we came along that you were the very man for us. a man with your flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm. absolutely invaluable. you see," proceeded ukridge, "i'm one of those practical fellows. the hard-headed type. i go straight ahead, following my nose. what you want in a business of this sort is a touch of the dreamer to help out the practical mind. we look to you for suggestions, laddie. flashes of inspiration and all that sort of thing. of course, you take your share of the profits. that's understood. yes, yes, i must insist. strict business between friends. now, taking it that, at a conservative estimate, the net profits for the first fiscal year amount to--five thousand, no, better be on the safe side--say, four thousand five hundred pounds ... but we'll arrange all that end of it when we get down there. millie will look after that. she's the secretary of the concern. she's been writing letters to people asking for hens. so you see it's a thoroughly organised business. how many hen-letters did you write last week, old girl?" "ten, dear." ukridge turned triumphantly to me. "you hear? ten. ten letters asking for hens. that's the way to succeed. push and enterprise." "six of them haven't answered, stanley, dear, and the rest refused." "immaterial," said ukridge with a grand gesture. "that doesn't matter. the point is that the letters were written. it shows we are solid and practical. well now, can you get your things ready by to-morrow, garny old horse?" strange how one reaches an epoch-making moment in one's life without recognising it. if i had refused that invitation, i would not have--at any rate, i would have missed a remarkable experience. it is not given to everyone to see stanley featherstonehaugh ukridge manage a chicken farm. "i was thinking of going somewhere where i could get some golf," i said undecidedly. "combe regis is just the place for you, then. perfect hot-bed of golf. full of the finest players. can't throw a brick without hitting an amateur champion. grand links at the top of the hill not half a mile from the farm. bring your clubs. you'll be able to play in the afternoons. get through serious work by lunch time." "you know," i said, "i am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls. i just know enough to help myself to bread sauce when i see one, but no more." "excellent! you're just the man. you will bring to the work a mind unclouded by theories. you will act solely by the light of your intelligence. and you've got lots of that. that novel of yours showed the most extraordinary intelligence--at least as far as that blighter at the bookstall would let me read. i wouldn't have a professional chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. if he applied to me, i should simply send him away. natural intelligence is what we want. then we can rely on you?" "very well," i said slowly. "it's very kind of you to ask me." "business, laddie, pure business. very well, then. we shall catch the eleven-twenty at waterloo. don't miss it. look out for me on the platform. if i see you first, i'll shout." chapter iii waterloo station, some fellow-travellers, and a girl with brown hair the austerity of waterloo station was lightened on the following morning at ten minutes to eleven, when i arrived to catch the train to combe regis, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustle and activity on the various platforms. a porter took my suitcase and golf-clubs, and arranged an assignation on number platform. i bought my ticket, and made my way to the bookstall, where, in the interests of trade, i inquired in a loud and penetrating voice if they had got jeremy garnet's "manoeuvres of arthur." being informed that they had not, i clicked my tongue reproachfully, advised them to order in a supply, as the demand was likely to be large, and spent a couple of shillings on a magazine and some weekly papers. then, with ten minutes to spare, i went off in search of ukridge. i found him on platform six. the eleven-twenty was already alongside, and presently i observed my porter cleaving a path towards me with the suit-case and golf-bag. "here you are!" shouted ukridge vigorously. "good for you. thought you were going to miss it." i shook hands with the smiling mrs. ukridge. "i've got a carriage and collared two corner seats. millie goes down in another. she doesn't like the smell of smoke when she's travelling. hope we get the carriage to ourselves. devil of a lot of people here this morning. still, the more people there are in the world, the more eggs we shall sell. i can see with half an eye that all these blighters are confirmed egg-eaters. get in, sonnie. i'll just see the missis into her carriage, and come back to you." i entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in the faint hope of thwarting an invasion of fellow-travellers. then i withdrew my head suddenly and sat down. an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a pretty girl, was coming towards me. it was not this type of fellow traveller whom i had hoped to keep out. i had noticed the girl at the booking office. she had waited by the side of the queue while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets, and i had had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. i had debated with myself whether her hair should rightly be described as brown or golden. i had finally decided on brown. once only had i met her eyes, and then only for an instant. they might be blue. they might be grey. i could not be certain. life is full of these problems. "this seems to be tolerably empty, my dear phyllis," said the elderly gentleman, coming to the door of the compartment and looking in. "you're sure you don't object to a smoking-carriage?" "oh no, father. not a bit." "then i think ..." said the elderly gentleman, getting in. the inflection of his voice suggested the irishman. it was not a brogue. there were no strange words. but the general effect was irish. "that's good," he said, settling himself and pulling out a cigar case. the bustle of the platform had increased momentarily, until now, when, from the snorting of the engine, it seemed likely that the train might start at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. shrill cries echoed down the platform. lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushed to and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in search of seats. piercing voices ordered unknown "tommies" and "ernies" to "keep by aunty, now." just as ukridge returned, that _sauve qui peut_ of the railway crowd, the dreaded "get in anywhere," began to be heard, and the next moment an avalanche of warm humanity poured into the carriage. the newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as aunty, very stout and clad in a grey alpaca dress, skin-tight; a youth called albert, not, it was to appear, a sunny child; a niece of some twenty years, stolid and seemingly without interest in life, and one or two other camp-followers and retainers. ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling albert, who had made a dive in that direction. albert regarded him fixedly and reproachfully for a space, then sank into the seat beside me and began to chew something that smelt of aniseed. aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her substantial weight evenly between the feet of the irish gentleman and those of his daughter, as she leaned out of the window to converse with a lady friend in a straw hat and hair curlers, accompanied by three dirty and frivolous boys. it was, she stated, lucky that she had caught the train. i could not agree with her. the girl with the brown hair and the eyes that were neither blue or grey was bearing the infliction, i noticed, with angelic calm. she even smiled. this was when the train suddenly moved off with a jerk, and aunty, staggering back, sat down on the bag of food which albert had placed on the seat beside him. "clumsy!" observed albert tersely. "_albert_, you mustn't speak to aunty so!" "wodyer want to sit on my bag for then?" said albert disagreeably. they argued the point. argument in no wise interfered with albert's power of mastication. the odour of aniseed became more and more painful. ukridge had lighted a cigar, and i understood why mrs. ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment, for "in his hand he bore the brand which none but he might smoke." i looked across the carriage stealthily to see how the girl was enduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she had begun to read. and as she put the book down to look out of the window, i saw with a thrill that trickled like warm water down my spine that her book was "the manoeuvres of arthur." i gasped. that a girl should look as pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence to read me ... well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of the excellencies. and more devoutly than ever i cursed in my heart these intrusive outsiders who had charged in at the last moment and destroyed for ever my chance of making this wonderful girl's acquaintance. but for them, we might have become intimate in the first half hour. as it was, what were we? ships that pass in the night! she would get out at some beastly wayside station, and vanish from my life without my ever having even spoken to her. aunty, meanwhile, having retired badly worsted from her encounter with albert, who showed a skill in logomachy that marked him out as a future labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. the niece was demolishing sausage rolls. the atmosphere of the carriage was charged with a blend of odours, topping all ukridge's cigar, now in full blast. the train raced on towards the sea. it was a warm day, and a torpid peace began to settle down upon the carriage. ukridge had thrown away the stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth open and his eyes shut. aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of a beef sandwich, was breathing heavily and swaying from side to side. albert and the niece were dozing, albert's jaws working automatically, even in sleep. "what's your book, my dear?" asked the irishman. "'the manoeuvres of arthur,' father. by jeremy garnet." i would not have believed without the evidence of my ears that my name could possibly have sounded so musical. "molly mceachern gave it to me when i left the abbey. she keeps a shelf of books for her guests when they are going away. books that she considers rubbish, and doesn't want, you know." i hated miss mceachern without further evidence. "and what do you think of it?" "i like it," said the girl decidedly. the carriage swam before my eyes. "i think it is very clever." what did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the waterloo bookstall had never heard of "the manoeuvres of arthur," and that my publishers, whenever i slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked at me with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really "begun to move?" anybody can write one of those rotten popular novels which appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellect and refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn out something that will be approved of by a girl like this. "i wonder who jeremy garnet is," she said. "i've never heard of him before. i imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an eyeglass, and conceited. and i should think he didn't know many girls. at least if he thinks pamela an ordinary sort of girl. she's a cr-r-eature," said phyllis emphatically. this was a blow to me. i had always looked on pamela as a well-drawn character, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. that scene between her and the curate in the conservatory ... and when she talks to arthur at the meet of the blankshires ... i was sorry she did not like pamela. somehow it lowered pamela in my estimation. "but i like arthur," said the girl. this was better. a good chap, arthur,--a very complete and thoughtful study of myself. if she liked arthur, why, then it followed ... but what was the use? i should never get a chance of speaking to her. we were divided by a great gulf of aunties and alberts and meat sandwiches. the train was beginning to slow down. signs of returning animation began to be noticeable among the sleepers. aunty's eyes opened, stared vacantly round, closed, and reopened. the niece woke, and started instantly to attack a sausage roll. albert and ukridge slumbered on. a whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. looking out, i saw that it was yeovil. there was a general exodus. aunty became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shook albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally heading a stampede out of the door. the irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. i watched them leave stoically. it would have been too much to expect that they should be going any further. "where are we?" said ukridge sleepily. "yeovil? not far now. i tell you what it is, old horse, i could do with a drink." with that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to his slumbers. and, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over the carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. it was "the manoeuvres of arthur." the girl had left it behind. i suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors. it did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the book might have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use to the owner. it only occurred to me that, if i did not act swiftly, the poor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or vanity-case were trivial. five seconds later i was on the platform. "excuse me," i said, "i think...?" "oh, thank you so much," said the girl. i made my way back to the carriage, and lit my pipe in a glow of emotion. "they are blue," i said to my immortal soul. "a wonderful, deep, soft, heavenly blue, like the sea at noonday." chapter iv the arrival from axminster to combe regis the line runs through country as attractive as any that can be found in the island, and the train, as if in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. it was late afternoon by the time we reached our destination. the arrangements for the carrying of luggage at combe regis border on the primitive. boxes are left on the platform, and later, when he thinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them into the valley and up the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels. the owner walks. combe regis is not a place for the halt and maimed. ukridge led us in the direction of the farm, which lay across the valley, looking through woods to the sea. the place was visible from the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a hill, the view was extensive. half-way up the slope on the other side of the valley we left the road and made our way across a spongy field, ukridge explaining that this was a short cut. we climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream and another field, and after negotiating a difficult bank, topped with barbed wire, found ourselves in a garden. ukridge mopped his forehead, and restored his pince-nez to their original position from which the passage of the barbed wire had dislodged them. "this is the place," he said. "we've come in by the back way. saves time. tired, millie?" "a little, dear. i should like some tea." "same here," i agreed. "that'll be all right," said ukridge. "a most competent man of the name of beale and his wife are in charge at present. i wrote to them telling them that we were coming to-day. they will be ready for us. that's the way to do things, garny old horse. quiet efficiency. perfect organisation." we were at the front door by this time. ukridge rang the bell. the noise echoed through the house, but there was no answering footsteps. he rang again. there is no mistaking the note of a bell in an empty house. it was plain that the competent man and his wife were out. "now what?" i said. mrs. ukridge looked at her husband with calm confidence. "this," said ukridge, leaning against the door and endeavouring to button his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in the argentine. two other cheery sportsmen and myself tried for three-quarters of an hour to get into an empty house where there looked as if there might be something to drink, and we'd just got the door open when the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shot-gun. it was a little difficult to explain. as a matter of fact, we never did what you might call really thresh the matter out thoroughly in all its aspects, and you'd be surprised what a devil of a time it takes to pick buck-shot out of a fellow. there was a dog, too." he broke off, musing dreamily on the happy past, and at this moment history partially repeated itself. from the other side of the door came a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark. "hullo," said ukridge, "beale has a dog." he frowned, annoyed. "what right," he added in an aggrieved tone, "has a beastly mongrel, belonging to a man i employ, to keep me out of my own house? it's a little hard. here am i, slaving day and night to support beale, and when i try to get into my own house his infernal dog barks at me. upon my sam it's hard!" he brooded for a moment on the injustice of things. "here, let me get to the keyhole. i'll reason with the brute." he put his mouth to the keyhole and roared "goo' dog!" through it. instantly the door shook as some heavy object hurled itself against it. the barking rang through the house. "come round to the back," said ukridge, giving up the idea of conciliation, "we'll get in through the kitchen window." the kitchen window proved to be insecurely latched. ukridge threw it open and we climbed in. the dog, hearing the noise, raced back along the passage and flung himself at the door, scratching at the panels. ukridge listened with growing indignation. "millie, you know how to light a fire. garnet and i will be collecting cups and things. when that scoundrel beale arrives i shall tear him limb from limb. deserting us like this! the man must be a thorough fraud. he told me he was an old soldier. if that's the sort of discipline they used to keep in his regiment, thank god, we've got a navy! damn, i've broken a plate. how's the fire getting on, millie? i'll chop beale into little bits. what's that you've got there, garny old horse? tea? good. where's the bread? there goes another plate. where's mrs. beale, too? by jove, that woman wants killing as much as her blackguard of a husband. whoever heard of a cook deliberately leaving her post on the day when her master and mistress were expected back? the abandoned woman. look here, i'll give that dog three minutes, and if it doesn't stop scratching that door by then, i'll take a rolling pin and go out and have a heart-to-heart talk with it. it's a little hard. my own house, and the first thing i find when i arrive is somebody else's beastly dog scratching holes in the doors and ruining the expensive paint. stop it, you brute!" the dog's reply was to continue his operations with immense vigour. ukridge's eyes gleamed behind their glasses. "give me a good large jug, laddie," he said with ominous calm. he took the largest of the jugs from the dresser and strode with it into the scullery, whence came a sound of running water. he returned carrying the jug with both hands, his mien that of a general who sees his way to a masterstroke of strategy. "garny, old horse," he said, "freeze onto the handle of the door, and, when i give the word, fling wide the gates. then watch that animal get the surprise of a lifetime." i attached myself to the handle as directed. ukridge gave the word. we had a momentary vision of an excited dog of the mongrel class framed in the open doorway, all eyes and teeth; then the passage was occupied by a spreading pool, and indignant barks from the distance told that the enemy was thinking the thing over in some safe retreat. "settled _his_ hash," said ukridge complacently. "nothing like resource, garny my boy. some men would have gone on letting a good door be ruined." "and spoiled the dog for a ha'porth of water," i said. at this moment mrs. ukridge announced that the kettle was boiling. over a cup of tea ukridge became the man of business. "i wonder when those fowls are going to arrive. they should have been here to-day. it's a little hard. here am i, all eagerness and anxiety, waiting to start an up-to-date chicken farm, and no fowls! i can't run a chicken farm without fowls. if they don't come to-morrow, i shall get after those people with a hatchet. there must be no slackness. they must bustle about. after tea i'll show you the garden, and we'll choose a place for a fowl-run. to-morrow we must buckle to. serious work will begin immediately after breakfast." "suppose," i said, "the fowls arrive before we're ready for them?" "why, then they must wait." "but you can't keep fowls cooped up indefinitely in a crate." "oh, that'll be all right. there's a basement to this house. we'll let 'em run about there till we're ready for them. there's always a way of doing things if you look for it. organisation, my boy. that's the watchword. quiet efficiency." "i hope you are going to let the hens hatch some of the eggs, dear," said mrs. ukridge. "i should love to have some little chickens." "of course. by all means. my idea," said ukridge, "was this. these people will send us fifty fowls of sorts. that means--call it forty-five eggs a day. let 'em ... well, i'm hanged! there's that dog again. where's the jug?" but this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the manoeuvre being the success it had been before. i had turned the handle and was about to pull the door open, while ukridge, looking like some modern and dilapidated version of the _discobolus_, stood beside me with his jug poised, when a voice spoke from the window. "stand still!" said the voice, "or i'll corpse you!" i dropped the handle. ukridge dropped the jug. mrs. ukridge dropped her tea-cup. at the window, with a double-barrelled gun in his hands, stood a short, square, red-headed man. the muzzle of his gun, which rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third button of my waistcoat. ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion. "beale! you scoundrelly, unprincipled, demon! what the devil are you doing with that gun? why were you out? what have you been doing? why did you shout like that? look what you've made me do." he pointed to the floor. the very old pair of tennis shoes which he wore were by this time generously soaked with the spilled water. "lor, mr. ukridge, sir, is that you?" said the red-headed man calmly. "i thought you was burglars." a short bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by a renewal of the scratching, drew mr. beale's attention to his faithful hound. "that's bob," he said. "i don't know what you call the brute," said ukridge. "come in and tie him up. and mind what you're doing with that gun. after you've finished with the dog, i should like a brief chat with you, laddie, if you can spare the time and have no other engagements." mr. beale, having carefully deposited the gun against the wall and dropped a pair of very limp rabbits on the floor, proceeded to climb in through the window. this operation concluded, he stood to one side while the besieged garrison passed out by the same route. "you will find me in the garden," said ukridge coldly. "i've one or two little things to say to you." mr. beale grinned affably. he seemed to be a man of equable temperament. the cool air of the garden was grateful after the warmth of the kitchen. it was a pretty garden, or would have been if it had not been so neglected. i seemed to see myself sitting in a deck-chair on the lawn, smoking and looking through the trees at the harbour below. it was a spot, i felt, in which it would be an easy and a pleasant task to shape the plot of my novel. i was glad i had come. about now, outside my lodgings in town, a particularly foul barrel-organ would be settling down to work. "oh, there you are, beale," said ukridge, as the servitor appeared. "now then, what have you to say?" the hired man looked thoughtful for a moment, then said that it was a fine evening. "fine evening?" shouted ukridge. "what on earth has that got to do with it? i want to know why you and mrs. beale were out when we arrived." "the missus went to axminster, mr. ukridge, sir." "she had no right to go to axminster. it isn't part of her duties to go gadding about to axminster. i don't pay her enormous sums to go to axminster. you knew i was coming this evening." "no, sir." "what!" "no, sir." "beale," said ukridge with studied calm, the strong man repressing himself. "one of us two is a fool." "yes, sir." "let us sift this matter to the bottom. you got my letter?" "no, sir." "my letter saying that i should arrive to-day. you didn't get it?" "no, sir." "now, look here, beale, this is absurd. i am certain that that letter was posted. i remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. it is not there now. see. these are all the contents of my--well, i'm hanged." he stood looking at the envelope which he had produced from his breast-pocket. a soft smile played over mr. beale's wooden face. he coughed. "beale," said ukridge, "you--er--there seems to have been a mistake." "yes, sir." "you are not so much to blame as i thought." "no, sir." there was a silence. "anyhow," said ukridge in inspired tones, "i'll go and slay that infernal dog. i'll teach him to tear my door to pieces. where's your gun, beale?" but better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out unexpectedly strong with ingenious and diverting tricks. chapter v buckling to sunshine, streaming into my bedroom through the open window, woke me next day as distant clocks were striking eight. it was a lovely morning, cool and fresh. the grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled in the sun. a thrush, who knew all about early birds and their perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm with a song or two, as he sat in the bushes. in the ivy a colony of sparrows were opening the day with brisk scuffling. on the gravel in front of the house lay the mongrel, bob, blinking lazily. the gleam of the sea through the trees turned my thoughts to bathing. i dressed quickly and went out. bob rose to meet me, waving an absurdly long tail. the hatchet was definitely buried now. that little matter of the jug of water was forgotten. a walk of five minutes down the hill brought me, accompanied by bob, to the sleepy little town. i passed through the narrow street, and turned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the combination of pier and break-water which loomed up through the faint mist. the tide was high, and, leaving my clothes to the care of bob, who treated them as a handy bed, i dived into twelve feet of clear, cold water. as i swam, i compared it with the morning tub of london, and felt that i had done well to come with ukridge to this pleasant spot. not that i could rely on unbroken calm during the whole of my visit. i knew nothing of chicken-farming, but i was certain that ukridge knew less. there would be some strenuous moments before that farm became a profitable commercial speculation. at the thought of ukridge toiling on a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, i laughed, and swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water; and, turning, swam back to bob and my clothes. on my return, i found ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus a collar, assailing a large ham. mrs. ukridge, looking younger and more child-like than ever in brown holland, smiled at me over the tea-pot. "hullo, old horse," bellowed ukridge, "where have you been? bathing? hope it's made you feel fit for work, because we've got to buckle to this morning." "the fowls have arrived, mr. garnet," said mrs. ukridge, opening her eyes till she looked like an astonished kitten. "_such_ a lot of them. they're making such a noise." to support her statement there floated in through the window a cackling which for volume and variety beat anything i had ever heard. judging from the noise, it seemed as if england had been drained of fowls and the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of ukridge's farm. "there seems to have been no stint," i said. "quite a goodish few, aren't there?" said ukridge complacently. "but that's what we want. no good starting on a small scale. the more you have, the bigger the profits." "what sorts have you got mostly?" i asked, showing a professional interest. "oh, all sorts. my theory, laddie, is this. it doesn't matter a bit what kind we get, because they'll all lay; and if we sell settings of eggs, which we will, we'll merely say it's an unfortunate accident if they turn out mixed when hatched. bless you, people don't mind what breed a fowl is, so long as it's got two legs and a beak. these dealer chaps were so infernally particular. 'any dorkings?' they said. 'all right,' i said, 'bring on your dorkings.' 'or perhaps you will require a few minorcas?' 'very well,' i said, 'unleash the minorcas.' they were going on--they'd have gone on for hours--but i stopped 'em. 'look here, my dear old college chum,' i said kindly but firmly to the manager johnny--decent old buck, with the manners of a marquess,--'look here,' i said, 'life is short, and we're neither of us as young as we used to be. don't let us waste the golden hours playing guessing games. i want fowls. you sell fowls. so give me some of all sorts. mix 'em up, laddie,' i said, 'mix 'em up.' and he has, by jove. you go into the yard and look at 'em. beale has turned them out of their crates. there must be one of every breed ever invented." "where are you going to put them?" "that spot we chose by the paddock. that's the place. plenty of mud for them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when they feel like it, and pick up worms, or whatever they feed on. we must rig them up some sort of shanty, i suppose, this morning. we'll go and tell 'em to send up some wire-netting and stuff from the town." "then we shall want hen-coops. we shall have to make those." "of course. so we shall. millie, didn't i tell you that old garnet was the man to think of things. i forgot the coops. we can't buy some, i suppose? on tick, of course." "cheaper to make them. suppose we get a lot of boxes. sugar boxes are as good as any. it won't take long to knock up a few coops." ukridge thumped the table with enthusiasm, upsetting his cup. "garny, old horse, you're a marvel. you think of everything. we'll buckle to right away, and get the whole place fixed up the same as mother makes it. what an infernal noise those birds are making. i suppose they don't feel at home in the yard. wait till they see the a compact residential mansions we're going to put up for them. finished breakfast? then let's go out. come along, millie." the red-headed beale, discovered leaning in an attitude of thought on the yard gate and observing the feathered mob below with much interest, was roused from his reflections and despatched to the town for the wire and sugar boxes. ukridge, taking his place at the gate, gazed at the fowls with the affectionate air of a proprietor. "well, they have certainly taken you at your word," i said, "as far as variety is concerned." the man with the manners of a marquess seemed to have been at great pains to send a really representative selection of fowls. there were blue ones, black ones, white, grey, yellow, brown, big, little, dorkings, minorcas, cochin chinas, bantams, wyandottes. it was an imposing spectacle. the hired man returned towards the end of the morning, preceded by a cart containing the necessary wire and boxes; and ukridge, whose enthusiasm brooked no delay, started immediately the task of fashioning the coops, while i, assisted by beale, draped the wire-netting about the chosen spot next to the paddock. there were little unpleasantnesses--once a roar of anguish told that ukridge's hammer had found the wrong billet, and on another occasion my flannel trousers suffered on the wire--but the work proceeded steadily. by the middle of the afternoon, things were in a sufficiently advanced state to suggest to ukridge the advisability of a halt for refreshments. "that's the way to do it," he said, beaming through misty pince-nez over a long glass. "that is the stuff to administer to 'em! at this rate we shall have the place in corking condition before bedtime. quiet efficiency--that's the wheeze! what do you think of those for coops, beale?" the hired man examined them woodenly. "i've seen worse, sir." he continued his examination. "but not many," he added. beale's passion for the truth had made him unpopular in three regiments. "they aren't so bad," i said, "but i'm glad i'm not a fowl." "so you ought to be," said ukridge, "considering the way you've put up that wire. you'll have them strangling themselves." in spite of earnest labour the housing arrangements of the fowls were still in an incomplete state at the end of the day. the details of the evening's work are preserved in a letter which i wrote that night to my friend lickford. "... have you ever played a game called pigs in clover? we have just finished a merry bout of it, with hens instead of marbles, which has lasted for an hour and a half. we are all dead tired, except the hired man, who seems to be made of india-rubber. he has just gone for a stroll on the beach. wants some exercise, i suppose. personally, i feel as if i should never move again. you have no conception of the difficulty of rounding up fowls and getting them safely to bed. having no proper place to put them, we were obliged to stow some of them in the cube sugar-boxes and the rest in the basement. it has only just occurred to me that they ought to have had perches to roost on. it didn't strike me before. i shan't mention it to ukridge, or that indomitable man will start making some, and drag me into it, too. after all, a hen can rough it for one night, and if i did a stroke more work i should collapse. "my idea was to do the thing on the slow but sure principle. that is to say, take each bird singly and carry it to bed. it would have taken some time, but there would have been no confusion. but you can imagine that that sort of thing would not appeal to stanley featherstonehaugh! he likes his manoeuvres to be on a large, dashing, napoleonic scale. he said, 'open the yard gate and let the blighters come out into the open; then sail in and drive them in mass formation through the back door into the basement.' it was a great idea, but there was one fatal flaw in it. it didn't allow for the hens scattering. we opened the gate, and out they all came like an audience coming out of a theatre. then we closed in on them to bring off the big drive. for about thirty seconds it looked as if we might do it. then bob, the hired man's dog, an animal who likes to be in whatever's going on, rushed out of the house into the middle of them, barking. there was a perfect stampede, and heaven only knows where some of those fowls are now. there was one in particular, a large yellow bird, which, i should imagine, is nearing london by this time. the last i saw of it, it was navigating at the rate of knots in that direction, with bob after it, barking his hardest. the fowl was showing a rare turn of speed and gaining rapidly. presently bob came back, panting, having evidently given the thing up. we, in the meantime, were chasing the rest of the birds all over the garden. the affair had now resolved itself into the course of action i had suggested originally, except that instead of collecting them quietly and at our leisure, we had to run miles for each one we captured. after a time we introduced some sort of system into it. mrs. ukridge stood at the door. we chased the hens and brought them in. then, as we put each through into the basement, she shut the door on it. we also arranged ukridge's sugar-box coops in a row, and when we caught a fowl we put it in the coop and stuck a board in front of it. by these strenuous means we gathered in about two-thirds of the lot. the rest are all over england. a few may be still in dorsetshire, but i should not like to bet on it. "so you see things are being managed on the up-to-date chicken farm on good, sound ukridge principles. it is only the beginning. i look with confidence for further interesting events. i believe if ukridge kept white mice he would manage to get feverish excitement out of it. he is at present lying on the sofa, smoking one of his infernal brand of cigars, drinking whisky and soda, and complaining with some bitterness because the whisky isn't as good as some he once tasted in belfast. from the basement i can hear faintly the murmur of innumerable fowls." chapter vi mr. garnet's narrative--has to do with a reunion the day was thursday, the date july the twenty-second. we had been chicken-farmers for a whole week, and things were beginning to settle down to a certain extent. the coops were finished. they were not masterpieces, and i have seen chickens pause before them in deep thought, as who should say, "now what?" but they were coops within the meaning of the act, and we induced hens to become tenants. the hardest work had been the fixing of the wire-netting. this was the department of the hired man and myself, ukridge holding himself proudly aloof. while beale and i worked ourselves to a fever in the sun, the senior partner of the firm sat on a deck-chair in the shade, offering not unkindly criticism and advice and from time to time abusing his creditors, who were numerous. for we had hardly been in residence a day before he began to order in a vast supply of necessary and unnecessary things, all on credit. some he got from the village, others from neighbouring towns. axminster he laid heavily under contribution. he even went as far afield as dorchester. he had a persuasive way with him, and the tradesmen seemed to treat him like a favourite son. the things began to pour in from all sides,--groceries, whisky, a piano, a gramophone, pictures. also cigars in great profusion. he was not one of those men who want but little here below. as regards the financial side of these transactions, his method was simple and masterly. if a tradesman suggested that a small cheque on account would not be taken amiss, as one or two sordid fellows did, he became pathetic. "confound it, sir," he would say with tears in his voice, laying a hand on the man's shoulders in a wounded way, "it's a trifle hard, when a gentleman comes to settle in your neighbourhood, that you should dun him for money before he has got the preliminary expenses about the house off his back." this sounded well, and suggested the disbursement of huge sums for rent. the fact that the house had been lent him rent free was kept with some care in the background. having weakened the man with pathos, he would strike a sterner note. "a little more of this," he would go on, "and i'll close my account. why, damme, in all my experience i've never heard anything like it!" upon which the man would apologise, and go away, forgiven, with a large order for more goods. by these statesmanlike methods he had certainly made the place very comfortable. i suppose we all realised that the things would have to be paid for some day, but the thought did not worry us. "pay?" bellowed ukridge on the only occasion when i ventured to bring up the unpleasant topic, "of course we shall pay. why not? i don't like to see this faint-hearted spirit in you, old horse. the money isn't coming in yet, i admit, but we must give it time. soon we shall be turning over hundreds a week, hundreds! i'm in touch with all the big places,--whiteley's, harrod's, all the nibs. here i am, i said to them, with a large chicken farm with all the modern improvements. you want eggs, old horses, i said: i supply them. i will let you have so many hundred eggs a week, i said; what will you give for them? well, i'll admit their terms did not come up to my expectations altogether, but we must not sneer at small prices at first. "when we get a connection, we shall be able to name our terms. it stands to reason, laddie. have you ever seen a man, woman, or child who wasn't eating an egg or just going to eat an egg or just coming away from eating an egg? i tell you, the good old egg is the foundation of daily life. stop the first man you meet in the street and ask him which he'd sooner lose, his egg or his wife, and see what he says! we're on to a good thing, garny, my boy. pass the whisky!" the upshot of it was that the firms mentioned supplied us with a quantity of goods, agreeing to receive phantom eggs in exchange. this satisfied ukridge. he had a faith in the laying power of his hens which would have flattered them if they could have known it. it might also have stimulated their efforts in that direction, which up to date were feeble. it was now, as i have said, thursday, the twenty-second of july,--a glorious, sunny morning, of the kind which providence sends occasionally, simply in order to allow the honest smoker to take his after-breakfast pipe under ideal conditions. these are the pipes to which a man looks back in after years with a feeling of wistful reverence, pipes smoked in perfect tranquillity, mind and body alike at rest. it is over pipes like these that we dream our dreams, and fashion our masterpieces. my pipe was behaving like the ideal pipe; and, as i strolled spaciously about the lawn, my novel was growing nobly. i had neglected my literary work for the past week, owing to the insistent claims of the fowls. i am not one of those men whose minds work in placid independence of the conditions of life. but i was making up for lost time now. with each blue cloud that left my lips and hung in the still air above me, striking scenes and freshets of sparkling dialogue rushed through my brain. another uninterrupted half hour, and i have no doubt that i should have completed the framework of a novel which would have placed me in that select band of authors who have no christian names. another half hour, and posterity would have known me as "garnet." but it was not to be. "stop her! catch her, garny, old horse!" i had wandered into the paddock at the moment. i looked up. coming towards me at her best pace was a small hen. i recognised her immediately. it was the disagreeable, sardonic-looking bird which ukridge, on the strength of an alleged similarity of profile to his wife's nearest relative, had christened aunt elizabeth. a bolshevist hen, always at the bottom of any disturbance in the fowl-run, a bird which ate its head off daily at our expense and bit the hands which fed it by resolutely declining to lay a single egg. behind this fowl ran bob, doing, as usual, the thing that he ought not to have done. bob's wrong-headedness in the matter of our hens was a constant source of inconvenience. from the first, he had seemed to regard the laying-in of our stock purely in the nature of a tribute to his sporting tastes. he had a fixed idea that he was a hunting dog and that, recognising this, we had very decently provided him with the material for the chase. behind bob came ukridge. but a glance was enough to tell me that he was a negligible factor in the pursuit. he was not built for speed. already the pace had proved too much for him, and he had appointed me his deputy, with full powers to act. "after her, garny, old horse! valuable bird! mustn't be lost!" when not in a catalepsy of literary composition, i am essentially the man of action. i laid aside my novel for future reference, and we passed out of the paddock in the following order. first, aunt elizabeth, as fresh as paint, going well. next, bob, panting and obviously doubtful of his powers of staying the distance. lastly, myself, determined, but wishing i were five years younger. after the first field bob, like the dilettante and unstable dog he was, gave it up, and sauntered off to scratch at a rabbit-hole with an insufferable air of suggesting that that was what he had come out for all the time. i continued to pound along doggedly. i was grimly resolute. i had caught aunt elizabeth's eye as she passed me, and the contempt in it had cut me to the quick. this bird despised me. i am not a violent or a quick-tempered man, but i have my self-respect. i will not be sneered at by hens. all the abstract desire for fame which had filled my mind five minutes before was concentrated now on the task of capturing this supercilious bird. we had been travelling down hill all this time, but at this point we crossed a road and the ground began to rise. i was in that painful condition which occurs when one has lost one's first wind and has not yet got one's second. i was hotter than i had ever been in my life. whether aunt elizabeth, too, was beginning to feel the effects of her run, or whether she did it out of the pure effrontery of her warped and unpleasant nature, i do not know; but she now slowed down to walk, and even began to peck in a tentative manner at the grass. her behaviour infuriated me. i felt that i was being treated as a cipher. i vowed that this bird should realise yet, even if, as seemed probable, i burst in the process, that it was no light matter to be pursued by j. garnet, author of "the manoeuvres of arthur," etc., a man of whose work so capable a judge as the peebles _advertiser_ had said "shows promise." a judicious increase of pace brought me within a yard or two of my quarry. but aunt elizabeth, apparently distrait, had the situation well in hand. she darted from me with an amused chuckle, and moved off rapidly again up the hill. i followed, but there was that within me that told me i had shot my bolt. the sun blazed down, concentrating its rays on my back to the exclusion of the surrounding scenery. it seemed to follow me about like a limelight. we had reached level ground. aunt elizabeth had again slowed to a walk, and i was capable of no better pace. very gradually i closed in. there was a high boxwood hedge in front of us; and, just as i came close enough once more to stake my all on a single grab, aunt elizabeth, with another of her sardonic chuckles, dived in head-foremost and struggled through in the mysterious way in which birds do get through hedges. the sound of her faint spinster-like snigger came to me as i stood panting, and roused me like a bugle. the next moment i too had plunged into the hedge. i was in the middle of it, very hot, tired, and dirty, when from the other side i heard a sudden shout of "mark over! bird to the right!" and the next moment i found myself emerging with a black face and tottering knees on the gravel path of a private garden. beyond the path was a croquet lawn, and on this lawn i perceived, as through a glass darkly, three figures. the mist cleared from my eyes, and i recognised two of them. one was the middle-aged irishman who had travelled down with us in the train. the other was his blue-eyed daughter. the third member of the party was a man, a stranger to me. by some miracle of adroitness he had captured aunt elizabeth, and was holding her in spite of her protests in a workmanlike manner behind the wings. chapter vii the entente cordiale is sealed there are moments and moments. the present one belonged to the more painful variety. even to my exhausted mind it was plain that there was a need here for explanations. an irishman's croquet-lawn is his castle, and strangers cannot plunge in through hedges without inviting comment. unfortunately, speech was beyond me. i could have emptied a water-butt, laid down and gone to sleep, or melted ice with a touch of the finger, but i could not speak. the conversation was opened by the other man, in whose restraining hand aunt elizabeth now lay, outwardly resigned but inwardly, as i, who knew her haughty spirit, could guess, boiling with baffled resentment. i could see her looking out of the corner of her eye, trying to estimate the chances of getting in one good hard peck with her aquiline beak. "come right in," said the man pleasantly. "don't knock." i stood there, gasping. i was only too well aware that i presented a quaint appearance. i had removed my hat before entering the hedge, and my hair was full of twigs and other foreign substances. my face was moist and grimy. my mouth hung open. my legs felt as if they had ceased to belong to me. "i must apol-- ..." i began, and ended the sentence with gulps. the elderly gentleman looked at me with what seemed to be indignant surprise. his daughter appeared to my guilty conscience to be looking through me. aunt elizabeth sneered. the only friendly face was the man's. he regarded me with a kindly smile, as if i were some old friend who had dropped in unexpectedly. "take a long breath," he advised. i took several, and felt better. "i must apologise for this intrusion," i said successfully. "unwarrantable" would have rounded off the sentence neatly, but i would not risk it. it would have been mere bravado to attempt unnecessary words of five syllables. i took in more breath. "the fact is, i did--didn't know there was a private garden beyond the hedge. if you will give me my hen ..." i stopped. aunt elizabeth was looking away, as if endeavouring to create an impression of having nothing to do with me. i am told by one who knows that hens cannot raise their eyebrows, not having any; but i am prepared to swear that at this moment aunt elizabeth raised hers. i will go further. she sniffed. "here you are," said the man. "though it's hard to say good-bye." he held out the hen to me, and at this point a hitch occurred. he did his part, the letting go, all right. it was in my department, the taking hold, that the thing was bungled. aunt elizabeth slipped from my grasp like an eel, stood for a moment eyeing me satirically with her head on one side, then fled and entrenched herself in some bushes at the end of the lawn. there are times when the most resolute man feels that he can battle no longer with fate; when everything seems against him and the only course is a dignified retreat. but there is one thing essential to a dignified retreat. you must know the way out. it was the lack of that knowledge that kept me standing there, looking more foolish than anyone has ever looked since the world began. i could not retire by way of the hedge. if i could have leaped the hedge with a single debonair bound, that would have been satisfactory. but the hedge was high, and i did not feel capable at the moment of achieving a debonair bound over a footstool. the man saved the situation. he seemed to possess that magnetic power over his fellows which marks the born leader. under his command we became an organised army. the common object, the pursuit of the elusive aunt elizabeth, made us friends. in the first minute of the proceedings the irishman was addressing me as "me dear boy," and the man, who had introduced himself as mr. chase--a lieutenant, i learned later, in his majesty's navy--was shouting directions to me by name. i have never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was so completely dispensed with. the ice was not merely broken; it was shivered into a million fragments. "go in and drive her out, garnet," shouted mr. chase. "in my direction if you can. look out on the left, phyllis." even in that disturbing moment i could not help noticing his use of the christian name. it seemed to me more than sinister. i did not like the idea of dashing young lieutenants in the senior service calling a girl phyllis whose eyes had haunted me since i had first seen them. nevertheless, i crawled into the bushes and administered to aunt elizabeth a prod in the lower ribs--if hens have lower ribs. the more i study hens, the more things they seem able to get along without--which abruptly disturbed her calm detachment. she shot out at the spot where mr. chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptly enveloped in that garment and captured. "the essence of strategy," observed mr. chase approvingly, "is surprise. a neat piece of work!" i thanked him. he deprecated my thanks. he had, he said, only done his duty, as expected to by england. he then introduced me to the elderly irishman, who was, it seemed, a professor at dublin university, by name, derrick. whatever it was that he professed, it was something that did not keep him for a great deal of his time at the university. he informed me that he always spent his summers at combe regis. "i was surprised to see you at combe regis," i said. "when you got out at yeovil, i thought i had seen the last of you." i think i am gifted beyond other men as regards the unfortunate turning of sentences. "i meant," i added, "i was afraid i had." "ah, of course," he said, "you were in our carriage coming down. i was confident i had seen you before. i never forget a face." "it would be a kindness," said mr. chase, "if you would forget garnet's as now exhibited. you seem to have collected a good deal of the scenery coming through that hedge." "i was wondering----" i said. "a wash--if i might----" "of course, me boy, of course," said the professor. "tom, take mr. garnet off to your room, and then we'll have lunch. you'll stay to lunch, mr. garnet?" i thanked him, commented on possible inconvenience to his arrangements, was overruled, and went off with my friend the lieutenant to the house. we imprisoned aunt elizabeth in the stables, to her profound indignation, gave directions for lunch to be served to her, and made our way to mr. chase's room. "so you've met the professor before?" he said, hospitably laying out a change of raiment for me--we were fortunately much of a height and build. "i have never spoken to him," i said. "we travelled down from london in the same carriage." "he's a dear old boy, if you rub him the right way. but--i'm telling you this for your good and guidance; a man wants a chart in a strange sea--he can cut up rough. and, when he does, he goes off like a four-point-seven and the population for miles round climbs trees. i think, if i were you, i shouldn't mention sir edward carson at lunch." i promised that i would try to avoid the temptation. "in fact, you'd better keep off ireland altogether. it's the safest plan. any other subject you like. chatty remarks on bimetallism would meet with his earnest attention. a lecture on what to do with the cold mutton would be welcomed. but not ireland. shall we do down?" we got to know each other at lunch. "do you hunt hens," asked tom chase, who was mixing the salad--he was one of those men who seemed to do everything a shade better than anyone else--"for amusement or by your doctor's orders? many doctors, i believe, insist on it." "neither," i said, "and especially not for amusement. the fact is, i've been lured down here by a friend of mine who has started a chicken farm--" i was interrupted. all three of them burst out laughing. tom chase allowed the vinegar to trickle on to the cloth, missing the salad-bowl by a clear two inches. "you don't mean to tell us," he said, "that you really come from the one and only chicken farm? why, you're the man we've all been praying to meet for days past. you're the talk of the town. if you can call combe regis a town. everybody is discussing you. your methods are new and original, aren't they?" "probably. ukridge knows nothing about fowls. i know less. he considers it an advantage. he says our minds ought to be unbiassed." "ukridge!" said the professor. "that was the name old dawlish, the grocer, said. i never forget a name. he is the gentleman who lectures on the management of poultry? you do not?" i hastened to disclaim any such feat. i had never really approved of these infernal talks on the art of chicken-farming which ukridge had dropped into the habit of delivering when anybody visited our farm. i admit that it was a pleasing spectacle to see my managing director in a pink shirt without a collar and very dirty flannel trousers lecturing the intelligent native; but i had a feeling that the thing tended to expose our ignorance to men who had probably had to do with fowls from their cradle up. "his lectures are very popular," said phyllis derrick with a little splutter of mirth. "he enjoys them," i said. "look here, garnet," said tom chase, "i hope you won't consider all these questions impertinent, but you've no notion of the thrilling interest we all take--at a distance--in your farm. we have been talking of nothing else for a week. i have dreamed of it three nights running. is mr. ukridge doing this as a commercial speculation, or is he an eccentric millionaire?" "he's not a millionaire yet, but i believe he intends to be one shortly, with the assistance of the fowls. but you mustn't look on me as in any way responsible for the arrangements at the farm. i am merely a labourer. the brainwork of the business lies in ukridge's department. as a matter of fact, i came down here principally in search of golf." "golf?" said professor derrick, with the benevolent approval of the enthusiast towards a brother. "i'm glad you play golf. we must have a round together." "as soon as ever my professional duties will permit," i said gratefully. * * * * * there was croquet after lunch,--a game of which i am a poor performer. phyllis derrick and i played the professor and tom chase. chase was a little better than myself; the professor, by dint of extreme earnestness and care, managed to play a fair game; and phyllis was an expert. "i was reading a book," she said, as we stood together watching the professor shaping at his ball at the other end of the lawn, "by an author of the same surname as you, mr. garnet. is he a relation of yours?" "my name is jeremy, miss derrick." "oh, you wrote it?" she turned a little pink. "then you must have--oh, nothing." "i couldn't help it, i'm afraid." "did you know what i was going to say?" "i guessed. you were going to say that i must have heard your criticisms in the train. you were very lenient, i thought." "i didn't like your heroine." "no. what is a 'creature,' miss derrick?" "pamela in your book is a 'creature,'" she replied unsatisfactorily. shortly after this the game came somehow to an end. i do not understand the intricacies of croquet. but phyllis did something brilliant and remarkable with the balls, and we adjourned for tea. the sun was setting as i left to return to the farm, with aunt elizabeth stored neatly in a basket in my hand. the air was deliciously cool, and full of that strange quiet which follows soothingly on the skirts of a broiling midsummer afternoon. far away, seeming to come from another world, a sheep-bell tinkled, deepening the silence. alone in a sky of the palest blue there gleamed a small, bright star. i addressed this star. "she was certainly very nice to me. very nice indeed." the star said nothing. "on the other hand, i take it that, having had a decent up-bringing, she would have been equally polite to any other man whom she had happened to meet at her father's house. moreover, i don't feel altogether easy in my mind about that naval chap. i fear the worst." the star winked. "he calls her phyllis," i said. "charawk!" chuckled aunt elizabeth from her basket, in that beastly cynical, satirical way which has made her so disliked by all right-thinking people. chapter viii a little dinner at ukridge's "edwin comes to-day," said mrs. ukridge. "and the derricks," said ukridge, sawing at the bread in his energetic way. "don't forget the derricks, millie." "no, dear. mrs. beale is going to give us a very nice dinner. we talked it over yesterday." "who is edwin?" i asked. we were finishing breakfast on the second morning after my visit to the derricks. i had related my adventures to the staff of the farm on my return, laying stress on the merits of our neighbours and their interest in our doings, and the hired retainer had been sent off next morning with a note from mrs. ukridge inviting them to look over the farm and stay to dinner. "edwin?" said ukridge. "oh, beast of a cat." "oh, stanley!" said mrs. ukridge plaintively. "he's not. he's such a dear, mr. garnet. a beautiful, pure-bred persian. he has taken prizes." "he's always taking something. that's why he didn't come down with us." "a great, horrid, _beast_ of a dog bit him, mr. garnet. and poor edwin had to go to a cats' hospital." "and i hope," said ukridge, "the experience will do him good. sneaked a dog's dinner, garnet, under his very nose, if you please. naturally the dog lodged a protest." "i'm so afraid that he will be frightened of bob. he will be very timid, and bob's so boisterous. isn't he, mr. garnet?" "that's all right," said ukridge. "bob won't hurt him, unless he tries to steal his dinner. in that case we will have edwin made into a rug." "stanley doesn't like edwin," said mrs. ukridge, sadly. edwin arrived early in the afternoon, and was shut into the kitchen. he struck me as a handsome cat, but nervous. the derricks followed two hours later. mr. chase was not of the party. "tom had to go to london," explained the professor, "or he would have been delighted to come. it was a disappointment to the boy, for he wanted to see the farm." "he must come some other time," said ukridge. "we invite inspection. look here," he broke off suddenly--we were nearing the fowl-run now, mrs. ukridge walking in front with phyllis derrick--"were you ever at bristol?" "never, sir," said the professor. "because i knew just such another fat little buffer there a few years ago. gay old bird, he was. he--" "this is the fowl-run, professor," i broke in, with a moist, tingling feeling across my forehead and up my spine. i saw the professor stiffen as he walked, while his face deepened in colour. ukridge's breezy way of expressing himself is apt to electrify the stranger. "you will notice the able way--ha! ha!--in which the wire-netting is arranged," i continued feverishly. "took some doing, that. by jove, yes. it was hot work. nice lot of fowls, aren't they? rather a mixed lot, of course. ha! ha! that's the dealer's fault though. we are getting quite a number of eggs now. hens wouldn't lay at first. couldn't make them." i babbled on, till from the corner of my eye i saw the flush fade from the professor's face and his back gradually relax its poker-like attitude. the situation was saved for the moment but there was no knowing what further excesses ukridge might indulge in. i managed to draw him aside as we went through the fowl-run, and expostulated. "for goodness sake, be careful," i whispered. "you've no notion how touchy he is." "but _i_ said nothing," he replied, amazed. "hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer to his face." "what! my dear old man, nobody minds a little thing like that. we can't be stilted and formal. it's ever so much more friendly to relax and be chummy." here we rejoined the others, and i was left with a leaden foreboding of gruesome things in store. i knew what manner of man ukridge was when he relaxed and became chummy. friendships of years' standing had failed to survive the test. for the time being, however, all went well. in his role of lecturer he offended no one, and phyllis and her father behaved admirably. they received his strangest theories without a twitch of the mouth. "ah," the professor would say, "now is that really so? very interesting indeed." only once, when ukridge was describing some more than usually original device for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slight spasm disturb phyllis's look of attentive reverence. "and you have really had no previous experience in chicken-farming?" she said. "none," said ukridge, beaming through his glasses. "not an atom. but i can turn my hand to anything, you know. things seem to come naturally to me somehow." "i see," said phyllis. it was while matters were progressing with this beautiful smoothness that i observed the square form of the hired retainer approaching us. somehow--i cannot say why--i had a feeling that he came with bad news. perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me as ominous. "beg pardon, mr. ukridge, sir." ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feeding of fowls, a subject on which he held views of his own as ingenious as they were novel. the interruption annoyed him. "well, beale," he said, "what is it?" "that there cat, sir, what came to-day." "oh, beale," cried mrs. ukridge in agitation, "_what_ has happened?" "having something to say to the missis--" "what has happened? oh, beale, don't say that edwin has been hurt? where is he? oh, _poor_ edwin!" "having something to say to the missis--" "if bob has bitten him i hope he had his nose _well_ scratched," said mrs. ukridge vindictively. "having something to say to the missis," resumed the hired retainer tranquilly, "i went into the kitchen ten minutes back. the cat was sitting on the mat." beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book i had read in my infancy. i wish i could remember its title. it was a well-written book. "yes, beale, yes?" said mrs. ukridge. "oh, do go on." "'hullo, puss,' i says to him, 'and 'ow are _you_, sir?' 'be careful,' says the missis. ''e's that timid,' she says, 'you wouldn't believe,' she says. ''e's only just settled down, as you may say,' she says. 'ho, don't you fret,' i says to her, ''im and me understands each other. 'im and me,' i says, 'is old friends. 'e's my dear old pal, corporal banks.' she grinned at that, ma'am, corporal banks being a man we'd 'ad many a 'earty laugh at in the old days. 'e was, in a manner of speaking, a joke between us." "oh, do--go--on, beale. what has happened to edwin?" the hired retainer proceeded in calm, even tones. "we was talking there, ma'am, when bob, what had followed me unknown, trotted in. when the cat ketched sight of 'im sniffing about, there was such a spitting and swearing as you never 'eard; and blowed," said mr. beale amusedly, "blowed if the old cat didn't give one jump, and move in quick time up the chimney, where 'e now remains, paying no 'eed to the missis' attempts to get him down again." sensation, as they say in the reports. "but he'll be cooked," cried phyllis, open-eyed. "no, he won't. nor will our dinner. mrs. beale always lets the kitchen fire out during the afternoon. and how she's going to light it with that----" there was a pause while one might count three. it was plain that the speaker was struggling with himself. "--that cat," he concluded safely, "up the chimney? it's a cold dinner we'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down." the professor's face fell. i had remarked on the occasion when i had lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table. cold impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste. we went to the kitchen in a body. mrs. beale was standing in front of the empty grate, making seductive cat-noises up the chimney. "what's all this, mrs. beale?" said ukridge. "he won't come down, sir, not while he thinks bob's about. and how i'm to cook dinner for five with him up the chimney i don't see, sir." "prod at him with a broom handle, mrs. beale," said ukridge. "oh, don't hurt poor edwin," said mrs. ukridge. "i 'ave tried that, sir, but i can't reach him, and i'm only bin and drove 'im further up. what must be," added mrs. beale philosophically, "must be. he may come down of his own accord in the night. bein' 'ungry." "then what we must do," said ukridge in a jovial manner, which to me at least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly picnic-dinner, what? whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that." "a regular, jolly picnic-dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. i could read what was passing in his mind,--remorse for having come at all, and a faint hope that it might not be too late to back out of it. "that will be splendid," said phyllis. "er, i think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fair for us to give any further trouble to mrs. ukridge and yourself. if you will allow me, therefore, i will----" ukridge became gushingly hospitable. he refused to think of allowing his guests to go empty away. he would be able to whack up something, he said. there was quite a good deal of the ham left. he was sure. he appealed to me to endorse his view that there was a tin of sardines and part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese. "and after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in the generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want in weather like this? a nice, light, cold, dinner is ever so much better for us than a lot of hot things." we strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed to drag. conversation was fitful, except on the part of ukridge, who continued to talk easily on all subjects, unconscious of the fact that the party was depressed and at least one of his guests rapidly becoming irritable. i watched the professor furtively as ukridge talked on, and that ominous phrase of mr. chase's concerning four-point-seven guns kept coming into my mind. if ukridge were to tread on any of his pet corns, as he might at any minute, there would be an explosion. the snatching of the dinner from his very mouth, as it were, and the substitution of a bread-and-cheese and sardines menu had brought him to the frame of mind when men turn and rend their nearest and dearest. the sight of the table, when at length we filed into the dining room, sent a chill through me. it was a meal for the very young or the very hungry. the uncompromising coldness and solidity of the viands was enough to appall a man conscious that his digestion needed humouring. a huge cheese faced us in almost a swashbuckling way. i do not know how else to describe it. it wore a blatant, rakish, _nemo-me-impune-lacessit_ air, and i noticed that the professor shivered slightly as he saw it. sardines, looking more oily and uninviting than anything i had ever seen, appeared in their native tin beyond the loaf of bread. there was a ham, in its third quarter, and a chicken which had suffered heavily during a previous visit to the table. finally, a black bottle of whisky stood grimly beside ukridge's plate. the professor looked the sort of man who drank claret of a special year, or nothing. we got through the meal somehow, and did our best to delude ourselves into the idea that it was all great fun; but it was a shallow pretence. the professor was very silent by the time we had finished. ukridge had been terrible. the professor had forced himself to be genial. he had tried to talk. he had told stories. and when he began one--his stories would have been the better for a little more briskness and condensation--ukridge almost invariably interrupted him, before he had got half way through, without a word of apology, and started on some anecdote of his own. he furthermore disagreed with nearly every opinion the professor expressed. it is true that he did it all in such a perfectly friendly way, and was obviously so innocent of any intention of giving offence, that another man--or the same man at a better meal--might have overlooked the matter. but the professor, robbed of his good dinner, was at the stage when he had to attack somebody. every moment i had been expecting the storm to burst. it burst after dinner. we were strolling in the garden, when some demon urged ukridge, apropos of the professor's mention of dublin, to start upon the irish question. i had been expecting it momentarily, but my heart seemed to stand still when it actually arrived. ukridge probably knew less about the irish question than any male adult in the kingdom, but he had boomed forth some very positive opinions of his own on the subject before i could get near enough to him to whisper a warning. when i did, i suppose i must have whispered louder than i had intended, for the professor heard me, and my words acted as the match to the powder. "he's touchy about ireland, is he?" he thundered. "drop it, is it? and why? why, sir? i'm one of the best tempered men that ever came from dublin, let me tell you, and i will not stay here to be insulted by the insinuation that i cannot discuss ireland as calmly as any one in this company or out of it. touchy about ireland, is it? touchy--?" "but, professor--" "take your hand off my arm, mr. garnet. i will not be treated like a child. i am as competent to discuss the affairs of ireland without heat as any man, let me tell you." "father--" "and let me tell you, mr. ukridge, that i consider your opinions poisonous. poisonous, sir. and you know nothing whatever about the subject, sir. every word you say betrays your profound ignorance. i don't wish to see you or to speak to you again. understand that, sir. our acquaintance began to-day, and it will cease to-day. good-night to you, sir. come, phyllis, me dear. mrs. ukridge, good-night." chapter ix dies irae why is it, i wonder, that stories of retribution calling at the wrong address strike us as funny instead of pathetic? i myself had been amused by them many a time. in a book which i had read only a few days before our cold-dinner party a shop-woman, annoyed with an omnibus conductor, had thrown a superannuated orange at him. it had found its billet not on him but on a perfectly inoffensive spectator. the missile, said the writer, "'it a young copper full in the hyeball." i had enjoyed this when i read it, but now that fate had arranged a precisely similar situation, with myself in the role of the young copper, the fun of the thing appealed to me not at all. it was ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettable explosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to have suffered for it. as it was, i was the only person materially affected. it did not matter to ukridge. he did not care twopence one way or the other. if the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to him by the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. if, on the other hand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worry him. he was content to let him go. ukridge was a self-sufficing person. but to me it was a serious matter. more than serious. if i have done my work as historian with an adequate degree of skill, the reader should have gathered by this time the state of my feelings. "i did not love as others do: none ever did that i've heard tell of. my passion was a by-word through the town she was, of course, the belle of." at least it was--fortunately--not quite that; but it was certainly genuine and most disturbing, and it grew with the days. somebody with a taste for juggling with figures might write a very readable page or so of statistics in connection with the growth of love. in some cases it is, i believe, slow. in my own i can only say that jack's beanstalk was a backward plant in comparison. it is true that we had not seen a great deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interview had been brief and our conversation conventional; but it is the intervals between the meeting that do the real damage. absence--i do not claim the thought as my own--makes the heart grow fonder. and now, thanks to ukridge's amazing idiocy, a barrier had been thrust between us. lord knows, the business of fishing for a girl's heart is sufficiently difficult and delicate without the addition of needless obstacles. to cut out the naval miscreant under equal conditions would have been a task ample enough for my modest needs. it was terrible to have to re-establish myself in the good graces of the professor before i could so much as begin to dream of phyllis. ukridge gave me no balm. "well, after all," he said, when i pointed out to him quietly but plainly my opinion of his tactlessness, "what does it matter? old derrick isn't the only person in the world. if he doesn't want to know us, laddie, we just jolly well pull ourselves together and stagger along without him. it's quite possible to be happy without knowing old derrick. millions of people are going about the world at this moment, singing like larks out of pure light-heartedness, who don't even know of his existence. and, as a matter of fact, old horse, we haven't time to waste making friends and being the social pets. too much to do on the farm. strict business is the watchword, my boy. we must be the keen, tense men of affairs, or, before we know where we are, we shall find ourselves right in the gumbo. "i've noticed, garny, old horse, that you haven't been the whale for work lately that you might be. you must buckle to, laddie. there must be no slackness. we are at a critical stage. on our work now depends the success of the speculation. look at those damned cocks. they're always fighting. heave a stone at them, laddie, while you're up. what's the matter with you? you seem pipped. can't get the novel off your chest, or what? you take my tip and give your brain a rest. nothing like manual labour for clearing the brain. all the doctors say so. those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow. mind you, i think old derrick would be all right if one persevered--" "--and didn't call him a fat little buffer and contradict everything he said and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts of your own in the middle," i interrupted with bitterness. "my dear old son, he didn't mind being called a fat little buffer. you keep harping on that. it's no discredit to a man to be a fat little buffer. some of the noblest men i have met have been fat little buffers. what was the matter with old derrick was a touch of liver. i said to myself, when i saw him eating cheese, 'that fellow's going to have a nasty shooting pain sooner or later.' i say, laddie, just heave another rock or two at those cocks, will you. they'll slay each other." i had hoped, fearing the while that there was not much chance of such a thing happening, that the professor might get over his feeling of injury during the night and be as friendly as ever next day. but he was evidently a man who had no objection whatever to letting the sun go down upon his wrath, for when i met him on the following morning on the beach, he cut me in the most uncompromising manner. phyllis was with him at the time, and also another girl, who was, i supposed, from the strong likeness between them, her sister. she had the same mass of soft brown hair. but to me she appeared almost commonplace in comparison. it is never pleasant to be cut dead, even when you have done something to deserve it. it is like treading on nothing where one imagined a stair to be. in the present instance the pang was mitigated to a certain extent--not largely--by the fact that phyllis looked at me. she did not move her head, and i could not have declared positively that she moved her eyes; but nevertheless she certainly looked at me. it was something. she seemed to say that duty compelled her to follow her father's lead, and that the act must not be taken as evidence of any personal animus. that, at least, was how i read off the message. two days later i met mr. chase in the village. "hullo, so you're back," i said. "you've discovered my secret," he admitted; "will you have a cigar or a cocoanut?" there was a pause. "trouble i hear, while i was away," he said. i nodded. "the man i live with, ukridge, did what you warned me against. touched on the irish question." "home rule?" "he mentioned it among other things." "and the professor went off?" "like a bomb." "he would. so now you have parted brass rags. it's a pity." i agreed. i am glad to say that i suppressed the desire to ask him to use his influence, if any, with mr. derrick to effect a reconciliation. i felt that i must play the game. to request one's rival to give one assistance in the struggle, to the end that he may be the more readily cut out, can hardly be considered cricket. "i ought not to be speaking to you, you know," said mr. chase. "you're under arrest." "he's still----?" i stopped for a word. "very much so. i'll do what i can." "it's very good of you." "but the time is not yet ripe. he may be said at present to be simmering down." "i see. thanks. good-bye." "so long." and mr. chase walked on with long strides to the cob. the days passed slowly. i saw nothing more of phyllis or her sister. the professor i met once or twice on the links. i had taken earnestly to golf in this time of stress. golf is the game of disappointed lovers. on the other hand, it does not follow that because a man is a failure as a lover he will be any good at all on the links. my game was distinctly poor at first. but a round or two put me back into my proper form, which is fair. the professor's demeanour at these accidental meetings on the links was a faithful reproduction of his attitude on the beach. only by a studied imitation of the absolute stranger did he show that he had observed my presence. once or twice, after dinner, when ukridge was smoking one of his special cigars while mrs. ukridge nursed edwin (now moving in society once more, and in his right mind), i lit my pipe and walked out across the fields through the cool summer night till i came to the hedge that shut off the derrick's grounds. not the hedge through which i had made my first entrance, but another, lower, and nearer the house. standing there under the shade of a tree i could see the lighted windows of the drawing-room. generally there was music inside, and, the windows being opened on account of the warmth of the night, i was able to make myself a little more miserable by hearing phyllis sing. it deepened the feeling of banishment. i shall never forget those furtive visits. the intense stillness of the night, broken by an occasional rustling in the grass or the hedge; the smell of the flowers in the garden beyond; the distant drone of the sea. "god makes sech nights, all white and still, fur'z you to look and listen." another day had generally begun before i moved from my hiding-place, and started for home, surprised to find my limbs stiff and my clothes bathed with dew. chapter x i enlist the services of a minion it would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors is influenced by their private affairs. if life is flowing smoothly, are the novels they write in that period of content coloured with optimism? and if things are running crosswise, do they work off the resultant gloom on their faithful public? if, for instance, mr. w. w. jacobs had toothache, would he write like hugh walpole? if maxim gorky were invited to lunch by trotsky, to meet lenin, would he sit down and dash off a trifle in the vein of stephen leacock? probably the eminent have the power of detaching their writing self from their living, work-a-day self; but, for my own part, the frame of mind in which i now found myself had a disastrous effect on my novel that was to be. i had designed it as a light comedy effort. here and there a page or two to steady the reader and show him what i could do in the way of pathos if i cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter. but now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the scheme of it. a magnificent despondency became its keynote. it would not do. i felt that i must make a resolute effort to shake off my depression. more than ever the need of conciliating the professor was borne in upon me. day and night i spurred my brain to think of some suitable means of engineering a reconciliation. in the meantime i worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on the links, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did not require my attention. things were not going well on our model chicken farm. little accidents marred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. on one occasion a hen--not aunt elizabeth, i am sorry to say,--fell into a pot of tar, and came out an unspeakable object. ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoes in the incubator to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future of half-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. chickens kept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by the residents. edwin slew a couple of wyandottes, and was only saved from execution by the tears of mrs. ukridge. in spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism never deserted ukridge. "after all," he said, "what's one bird more or less? yes, i know i made a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that was simply the principle of the thing. i'm not going to pay large sums for chickens purely in order that a cat which i've never liked can lunch well. still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming in better now, though we've still a deal of leeway to make up yet in that line. i got a letter from whiteley's this morning asking when my first consignment was going to arrive. you know, these people make a mistake in hurrying a man. it annoys him. it irritates him. when we really get going, garny, my boy, i shall drop whiteley's. i shall cut them out of my list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. they shall have a sharp lesson. it's a little hard. here am i, worked to death looking after things down here, and these men have the impertinence to bother me about their wretched business. come in and have a drink, laddie, and let's talk it over." it was on the morning after this that i heard him calling me in a voice in which i detected agitation. i was strolling about the paddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about phyllis and trying to get my novel into shape. i had just framed a more than usually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, when ukridge shouted to me from the fowl-run. "garny, come here. i want you to see the most astounding thing." "what's the matter?" i asked. "blast if i know. look at those chickens. they've been doing that for the last half-hour." i inspected the chickens. there was certainly something the matter with them. they were yawning--broadly, as if we bored them. they stood about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. it was an uncanny spectacle. "what's the matter with them?" "can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" i asked. "because if so, that's what they've got. i never saw a more bored-looking lot of birds." "oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said mrs. ukridge sympathetically; "i'm sure it's not well. see, it's lying down. what _can_ be the matter with it?" "i tell you what we'll do," said ukridge. "we'll ask beale. he once lived with an aunt who kept fowls. he'll know all about it. beale!" no answer. "beale!!" a sturdy form in shirt-sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a boot. we seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it. "beale, you know all about fowls. what's the matter with these chickens?" the hired retainer examined the blase birds with a wooden expression on his face. "well?" said ukridge. "the 'ole thing 'ere," said the hired retainer, "is these 'ere fowls have been and got the roop." i had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad. "is that what makes them yawn like that?" said mrs. ukridge. "yes, ma'am." "poor things!" "yes, ma'am." "and have they all got it?" "yes, ma'am." "what ought we to do?" asked ukridge. "well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she gave them snuff." "give them snuff, she did," he repeated, with relish, "every morning." "snuff!" said mrs. ukridge. "yes, ma'am. she give 'em snuff till their eyes bubbled." mrs. ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-painting. "and did it cure them?" asked ukridge. "no, sir," responded the expert soothingly. "oh, go away, beale, and clean your beastly boots," said ukridge. "you're no use. wait a minute. who would know about this infernal roop thing? one of those farmer chaps would, i suppose. beale, go off to the nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he does when his fowls get the roop." "yes, sir." "no, i'll go, ukridge," i said. "i want some exercise." i whistled to bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock, and set off in the direction of the village of up lyme to consult farmer leigh on the matter. he had sold us some fowls shortly after our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in their ailing families. the path to up lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. at intervals it passes over a stream by means of a footbridge. the stream curls through the meadows like a snake. and at the first of these bridges i met phyllis. i came upon her quite suddenly. the other end of the bridge was hidden from my view. i could hear somebody coming through the grass, but not till i was on the bridge did i see who it was. we reached the bridge simultaneously. she was alone. she carried a sketching-block. all nice girls sketch a little. there was room for one alone on the footbridge, and i drew back to let her pass. it being the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition, i said nothing. i merely lifted my hat in a non-committing fashion. "are you going to cut me, i wonder?" i said to myself. she answered the unspoken question as i hoped it would be answered. "mr. garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge. a pause. "i couldn't tell you so before, but i am so sorry this has happened." "oh, thanks awfully," i said, realising as i said it the miserable inadequacy of the english language. at a crisis when i would have given a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic, suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, i could only find a hackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which i should have used in accepting an invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club. "of course you understand my friends--must be my father's friends." "yes," i said gloomily, "i suppose so." "so you must not think me rude if i--i----" "cut me," said i, with masculine coarseness. "don't seem to see you," said she, with feminine delicacy, "when i am with my father. you will understand?" "i shall understand." "you see,"--she smiled--"you are under arrest, as tom says." tom! "i see," i said. "good-bye." "good-bye." i watched her out of sight, and went on to interview mr. leigh. we had a long and intensely uninteresting conversation about the maladies to which chickens are subject. he was verbose and reminiscent. he took me over his farm, pointing out as we went dorkings with pasts, and cochin chinas which he had cured of diseases generally fatal on, as far as i could gather, christian science principles. i left at last with instructions to paint the throats of the stricken birds with turpentine--a task imagination boggled at, and one which i proposed to leave exclusively to ukridge and the hired retainer--and also a slight headache. a visit to the cob would, i thought, do me good. i had missed my bathe that morning, and was in need of a breath of sea-air. it was high-tide, and there was deep water on three sides of the cob. in a small boat in the offing professor derrick appeared, fishing. i had seen him engaged in this pursuit once or twice before. his only companion was a gigantic boatman, by name harry hawk, possibly a descendant of the gentleman of that name who went to widdicombe fair with bill brewer and old uncle tom cobley and all on a certain memorable occasion, and assisted at the fatal accident to tom pearse's grey mare. i sat on the seat at the end of the cob and watched the professor. it was an instructive sight, an object-lesson to those who hold that optimism has died out of the race. i had never seen him catch a fish. he never looked to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish. yet he persevered. there are few things more restful than to watch some one else busy under a warm sun. as i sat there, my pipe drawing nicely as the result of certain explorations conducted that morning with a straw, my mind ranged idly over large subjects and small. i thought of love and chicken-farming. i mused on the immortality of the soul and the deplorable speed at which two ounces of tobacco disappeared. in the end i always returned to the professor. sitting, as i did, with my back to the beach, i could see nothing but his boat. it had the ocean to itself. i began to ponder over the professor. i wondered dreamily if he were very hot. i tried to picture his boyhood. i speculated on his future, and the pleasure he extracted from life. it was only when i heard him call out to hawk to be careful, when a movement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that i began to weave romances round him in which i myself figured. but, once started, i progressed rapidly. i imagined a sudden upset. professor struggling in water. myself (heroically): "courage! i'm coming!" a few rapid strokes. saved! sequel, a subdued professor, dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become his son-in-law. that sort of thing happened in fiction. it was a shame that it should not happen in real life. in my hot youth i once had seven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month, all dealing with a situation of the kind. only the details differed. in "not really a coward" vincent devereux had rescued the earl's daughter from a fire, whereas in "hilda's hero" it was the peppery old father whom tom slingsby saved. singularly enough, from drowning. in other words, i, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times in a single month what the powers of the universe could not manage once, even on the smallest scale. * * * * * it was precisely three minutes to twelve--i had just consulted my watch--that the great idea surged into my brain. at four minutes to twelve i had been grumbling impotently at providence. by two minutes to twelve i had determined upon a manly and independent course of action. briefly it was this. providence had failed to give satisfaction. i would, therefore, cease any connection with it, and start a rival business on my own account. after all, if you want a thing done well, you must do it yourself. in other words, since a dramatic accident and rescue would not happen of its own accord, i would arrange one for myself. hawk looked to me the sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for a few shillings. i had now to fight it out with conscience. i quote the brief report which subsequently appeared in the _recording angel_:-- * * * * * _three-round contest_: conscience (celestial b.c.) v. j. garnet (unattached). _round one_.--conscience came to the scratch smiling and confident. led off lightly with a statement that it would be bad for a man of the professor's age to get wet. garnet countered heavily, alluding to the warmth of the weather and the fact that the professor habitually enjoyed a bathe every day. much sparring, conscience not quite so confident, and apparently afraid to come to close quarters with this man. time called, with little damage done. _round two_.--conscience, much freshened by the half minute's rest, feinted with the charge of deceitfulness, and nearly got home heavily with "what would phyllis say if she knew?" garnet, however, side-stepped cleverly with "but she won't know," and followed up the advantage with a damaging, "besides, it's all for the best." the round ended with a brisk rally on general principles, garnet crowding in a lot of work. conscience down twice, and only saved by the call of time. _round three (and last)_.--conscience came up very weak, and with garnet as strong as ever it was plain that the round would be a brief one. this proved to be the case. early in the second minute garnet cross-countered with "all's fair in love and war." conscience down and out. the winner left the ring without a mark. * * * * * i rose, feeling much refreshed. that afternoon i interviewed mr. hawk in the bar-parlour of the net and mackerel. "hawk," i said to him darkly, over a mystic and conspirator-like pot of ale, "i want you, next time you take professor derrick out fishing"--here i glanced round, to make sure that we were not overheard--"to upset him." his astonished face rose slowly from the pot of ale like a full moon. "what 'ud i do that for?" he gasped. "five shillings, i hope," said i, "but i am prepared to go to ten." he gurgled. i encored his pot of ale. he kept on gurgling. i argued with the man. i spoke splendidly. i was eloquent, but at the same time concise. my choice of words was superb. i crystallised my ideas into pithy sentences which a child could have understood. and at the end of half-an-hour he had grasped the salient points of the scheme. also he imagined that i wished the professor upset by way of a practical joke. he gave me to understand that this was the type of humour which was to be expected from a gentleman from london. i am afraid he must at one period in his career have lived at one of those watering-places at which trippers congregate. he did not seem to think highly of the londoner. i let it rest at that. i could not give my true reason, and this served as well as any. * * * * * at the last moment he recollected that he, too, would get wet when the accident took place, and he raised the price to a sovereign. a mercenary man. it is painful to see how rapidly the old simple spirit is dying out of our rural districts. twenty years ago a fisherman would have been charmed to do a little job like that for a screw of tobacco. chapter xi the brave preserver i could have wished, during the next few days, that mr. harry hawk's attitude towards myself had not been so unctuously confidential and mysterious. it was unnecessary, in my opinion, for him to grin meaningly when he met me in the street. his sly wink when we passed each other on the cob struck me as in indifferent taste. the thing had been definitely arranged (ten shillings down and ten when it was over), and there was no need for any cloak and dark-lantern effects. i objected strongly to being treated as the villain of a melodrama. i was merely an ordinary well-meaning man, forced by circumstances into doing the work of providence. mr. hawk's demeanour seemed to say, "we are two reckless scoundrels, but bless you, _i_ won't give away your guilty secret." the climax came one morning as i was going along the street towards the beach. i was passing a dark doorway, when out shimmered mr. hawk as if he had been a spectre instead of the most substantial man within a radius of ten miles. "'st!" he whispered. "now look here, hawk," i said wrathfully, for the start he had given me had made me bite my tongue, "this has got to stop. i refuse to be haunted in this way. what is it now?" "mr. derrick goes out this morning, zur." "thank goodness for that," i said. "get it over this morning, then, without fail. i couldn't stand another day of it." i went on to the cob, where i sat down. i was excited. deeds of great import must shortly be done. i felt a little nervous. it would never do to bungle the thing. suppose by some accident i were to drown the professor! or suppose that, after all, he contented himself with a mere formal expression of thanks, and refused to let bygones be bygones. these things did not bear thinking of. i got up and began to pace restlessly to and fro. presently from the farther end of the harbour there put off mr. hawk's boat, bearing its precious cargo. my mouth became dry with excitement. very slowly mr. hawk pulled round the end of the cob, coming to a standstill some dozen yards from where i was performing my beat. it was evidently here that the scene of the gallant rescue had been fixed. my eyes were glued upon mr. hawk's broad back. only when going in to bat at cricket have i experienced a similar feeling of suspense. the boat lay almost motionless on the water. i had never seen the sea smoother. little ripples plashed against the side of the cob. it seemed as if this perfect calm might continue for ever. mr. hawk made no movement. then suddenly the whole scene changed to one of vast activity. i heard mr. hawk utter a hoarse cry, and saw him plunge violently in his seat. the professor turned half round, and i caught sight of his indignant face, pink with emotion. then the scene changed again with the rapidity of a dissolving view. i saw mr. hawk give another plunge, and the next moment the boat was upside down in the water, and i was shooting headforemost to the bottom, oppressed with the indescribably clammy sensation which comes when one's clothes are thoroughly wet. i rose to the surface close to the upturned boat. the first sight i saw was the spluttering face of mr. hawk. i ignored him, and swam to where the professor's head bobbed on the waters. "keep cool," i said. a silly remark in the circumstances. he was swimming energetically but unskilfully. he appeared to be one of those men who can look after themselves in the water only when they are in bathing costume. in his shore clothes it would have taken him a week to struggle to land, if he had got there at all, which was unlikely. i know all about saving people from drowning. we used to practise it with a dummy in the swimming-bath at school. i attacked him from the rear, and got a good grip of him by the shoulders. i then swam on my back in the direction of land, and beached him with much _eclat_ at the feet of an admiring crowd. i had thought of putting him under once or twice just to show him he was being rescued, but decided against such a course as needlessly realistic. as it was, i fancy he had swallowed of sea-water two or three hearty draughts. the crowd was enthusiastic. "brave young feller," said somebody. i blushed. this was fame. "jumped in, he did, sure enough, an' saved the gentleman!" "be the old soul drownded?" "that girt fule, 'arry 'awk!" i was sorry for mr. hawk. popular opinion was against him. what the professor said of him, when he recovered his breath, i cannot repeat,--not because i do not remember it, but because there is a line, and one must draw it. let it be sufficient to say that on the subject of mr. hawk he saw eye to eye with the citizen who had described him as a "girt fule." i could not help thinking that my fellow conspirator did well to keep out of it all. he was now sitting in the boat, which he had restored to its normal position, baling pensively with an old tin can. to satire from the shore he paid no attention. the professor stood up, and stretched out his hand. i grasped it. "mr. garnet," he said, for all the world as if he had been the father of the heroine of "hilda's hero," "we parted recently in anger. let me thank you for your gallant conduct and hope that bygones will be bygones." i came out strong. i continued to hold his hand. the crowd raised a sympathetic cheer. i said, "professor, the fault was mine. show that you have forgiven me by coming up to the farm and putting on something dry." "an excellent idea, me boy; i _am_ a little wet." "a little," i agreed. we walked briskly up the hill to the farm. ukridge met us at the gate. he diagnosed the situation rapidly. "you're all wet," he said. i admitted it. "professor derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident," i explained. "and mr. garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved me life," broke in the professor. "a hero, sir. a--_choo_!" "you're catching cold, old horse," said ukridge, all friendliness and concern, his little differences with the professor having vanished like thawed snow. "this'll never do. come upstairs and get into something of garnet's. my own toggery wouldn't fit. what? come along, come along, i'll get you some hot water. mrs. beale--mrs. _beale_! we want a large can of hot water. at once. what? yes, immediately. what? very well then, as soon as you can. now then, garny, my boy, out with the duds. what do you think of this, now, professor? a sweetly pretty thing in grey flannel. here's a shirt. get out of that wet toggery, and mrs. beale shall dry it. don't attempt to tell me about it till you're changed. socks! socks forward. show socks. here you are. coat? try this blazer. that's right--that's right." he bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched him downstairs, and gave him a cigar. "now, what's all this? what happened?" the professor explained. he was severe in his narration upon the unlucky mr. hawk. "i was fishing, mr. ukridge, with me back turned, when i felt the boat rock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that i nearly lost me equilibrium, and then the boat upset. the man's a fool, sir. i could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as i say." "garnet must have seen. what happened, old horse?" "it was very sudden," i said. "it seemed to me as if the man had got an attack of cramp. that would account for it. he has the reputation of being a most sober and trustworthy fellow." "never trust that sort of man," said ukridge. "they are always the worst. it's plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset the boat while trying to do a dance." "a great curse, drink," said the professor. "why, yes, mr. ukridge, i think i will. thank you. thank you. that will be enough. not all the soda, if you please. ah! this tastes pleasanter than salt water, mr. garnet. eh? eh? ha--ha!" he was in the best of tempers, and i worked strenuously to keep him so. my scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worry me. i have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of this kind. it is the bungled crime that brings remorse. "we must go round the links together one of these days, mr. garnet," said the professor. "i have noticed you there on several occasions, playing a strong game. i have lately taken to using a wooden putter. it is wonderful what a difference it makes." golf is a great bond of union. we wandered about the grounds discussing the game, the _entente cordiale_ growing more firmly established every moment. "we must certainly arrange a meeting," concluded the professor. "i shall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another. i have improved my game considerably since i have been down here. considerably." "my only feat worthy of mention since i started the game," i said, "has been to halve a round with angus m'lurkin at st. andrews." "_the_ m'lurkin?" asked the professor, impressed. "yes. but it was one of his very off days, i fancy. he must have had gout or something. and i have certainly never played so well since." "still----," said the professor. "yes, we must really arrange to meet." with ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he became very friendly. ukridge's ready agreement with his strictures on the erring hawk had a great deal to do with this. when a man has a grievance, he feels drawn to those who will hear him patiently and sympathise. ukridge was all sympathy. "the man is an unprincipled scoundrel," he said, "and should be torn limb from limb. take my advice, and don't go out with him again. show him that you are not a man to be trifled with. the spilt child dreads the water, what? human life isn't safe with such men as hawk roaming about." "you are perfectly right, sir. the man can have no defence. i shall not employ him again." i felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on the subject of the man whom i had lured from the straight and narrow path. but the professor would listen to no defence. my attempts at excusing him were ill received. indeed, the professor shewed such signs of becoming heated that i abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fate with extreme promptness. after all, an addition to the stipulated reward--one of these days--would compensate him for any loss which he might sustain from the withdrawal of the professor's custom. mr. harry hawk was in good enough case. i would see that he did not suffer. filled with these philanthropic feelings, i turned once more to talk with the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done in three without a brassy. we were a merry party at lunch--a lunch fortunately in mrs. beale's best vein, consisting of a roast chicken and sweets. chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on our daily bill of fare. we saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and i turned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than i had known for a long time. i whistled rag-time airs as i worked. "rum old buffer," said ukridge meditatively, pouring himself out another whisky and soda. "my goodness, i should have liked to have seen him in the water. why do i miss these good things?" chapter xii some emotions and yellow lupin the fame which came to me through that gallant rescue was a little embarrassing. i was a marked man. did i walk through the village, heads emerged from windows, and eyes followed me out of sight. did i sit on the beach, groups formed behind me and watched in silent admiration. i was the man of the moment. "if we'd wanted an advertisement for the farm," said ukridge on one of these occasions, "we couldn't have had a better one than you, garny, my boy. you have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during the last week. and i'll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we can get that'll bring us in ready money. the farm is in a critical condition. the coffers are low, deuced low. and i'll tell you another thing. i'm getting precious tired of living on nothing but chicken and eggs. so's millie, though she doesn't say so." "so am i," i said, "and i don't feel like imitating your wife's proud reserve. i never want to see a chicken again. as for eggs, they are far too much for us." for the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat. we had had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. meals became a nuisance, and mrs. beale complained bitterly that we did not give her a chance. she was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house and served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this remote corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and roast chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. mr. whistler, set to paint sign-boards for public-houses, might have felt the same restless discontent. as for her husband, the hired retainer, he took life as tranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the most exhilarating farce he had ever been in. i think he looked on ukridge as an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in order to enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. he made no complaints of the food. when a man has supported life for a number of years on incessant army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggs scarcely strikes him. "the fact is," said ukridge, "these tradesmen round here seem to be a sordid, suspicious lot. they clamour for money." he mentioned a few examples. vickers, the butcher, had been the first to strike, with the remark that he would like to see the colour of mr. ukridge's money before supplying further joints. dawlish, the grocer, had expressed almost exactly similar sentiments two days later; and the ranks of these passive resisters had been receiving fresh recruits ever since. to a man the tradesmen of combe regis seemed as deficient in simple faith as they were in norman blood. "can't you pay some of them a little on account?" i suggested. "it would set them going again." "my dear old man," said ukridge impressively, "we need every penny of ready money we can raise for the farm. the place simply eats money. that infernal roop let us in for i don't know what." that insidious epidemic had indeed proved costly. we had painted the throats of the chickens with the best turpentine--at least ukridge and beale had,--but in spite of their efforts, dozens had died, and we had been obliged to sink much more money than was pleasant in restocking the run. the battle which took place on the first day after the election of the new members was a sight to remember. the results of it were still noticeable in the depressed aspect of certain of the recently enrolled. "no," said ukridge, summing up, "these men must wait. we can't help their troubles. why, good gracious, it isn't as if they'd been waiting for the money long. we've not been down here much over a month. i never heard of such a scandalous thing. 'pon my word, i've a good mind to go round, and have a straight talk with one or two of them. i come and settle down here, and stimulate trade, and give them large orders, and they worry me with bills when they know i'm up to my eyes in work, looking after the fowls. one can't attend to everything. the business is just now at its most crucial point. it would be fatal to pay any attention to anything else with things as they are. these scoundrels will get paid all in good time." it is a peculiarity of situations of this kind that the ideas of debtor and creditor as to what constitutes a good time never coincide. * * * * * i am afraid that, despite the urgent need for strict attention to business, i was inclined to neglect my duties about this time. i had got into the habit of wandering off, either to the links, where i generally found the professor, sometimes phyllis, or on long walks by myself. there was one particular walk along the cliffs, through some of the most beautiful scenery i have ever set eyes on, which more than any other suited my mood. i would work my way through the woods till i came to a small clearing on the very edge of the cliff. there i would sit and smoke by the hour. if ever i am stricken with smoker's heart, or staggers, or tobacco amblyopia, or any other of the cheery things which doctors predict for the devotee of the weed, i shall feel that i sowed the seeds of it that summer in that little clearing overlooking the sea. a man in love needs much tobacco. a man thinking out a novel needs much tobacco. i was in the grip of both maladies. somehow i found that my ideas flowed more readily in that spot than in any other. i had not been inside the professor's grounds since the occasion when i had gone in through the box-wood hedge. but on the afternoon following my financial conversation with ukridge i made my way thither, after a toilet which, from its length, should have produced better results than it did. not for four whole days had i caught so much as a glimpse of phyllis. i had been to the links three times, and had met the professor twice, but on both occasions she had been absent. i had not had the courage to ask after her. i had an absurd idea that my voice or my manner would betray me in some way. i felt that i should have put the question with such an exaggerated show of indifference that all would have been discovered. the professor was not at home. nor was mr. chase. nor was miss norah derrick, the lady i had met on the beach with the professor. miss phyllis, said the maid, was in the garden. i went into the garden. she was sitting under the cedar by the tennis-lawn, reading. she looked up as i approached. i said it was a lovely afternoon. after which there was a lull in the conversation. i was filled with a horrid fear that i was boring her. i had probably arrived at the very moment when she was most interested in her book. she must, i thought, even now be regarding me as a nuisance, and was probably rehearsing bitter things to say to the maid for not having had the sense to explain that she was out. "i--er--called in the hope of seeing professor derrick," i said. "you would find him on the links," she replied. it seemed to me that she spoke wistfully. "oh, it--it doesn't matter," i said. "it wasn't anything important." this was true. if the professor had appeared then and there, i should have found it difficult to think of anything to say to him which would have accounted to any extent for my anxiety to see him. "how are the chickens, mr. garnet?" said she. the situation was saved. conversationally, i am like a clockwork toy. i have to be set going. on the affairs of the farm i could speak fluently. i sketched for her the progress we had made since her visit. i was humorous concerning roop, epigrammatic on the subject of the hired retainer and edwin. "then the cat did come down from the chimney?" said phyllis. we both laughed, and--i can answer for myself--i felt the better for it. "he came down next day," i said, "and made an excellent lunch of one of our best fowls. he also killed another, and only just escaped death himself at the hands of ukridge." "mr. ukridge doesn't like him, does he?" "if he does, he dissembles his love. edwin is mrs. ukridge's pet. he is the only subject on which they disagree. edwin is certainly in the way on a chicken farm. he has got over his fear of bob, and is now perfectly lawless. we have to keep a steady eye on him." "and have you had any success with the incubator? i love incubators. i have always wanted to have one of my own, but we have never kept fowls." "the incubator has not done all that it should have done," i said. "ukridge looks after it, and i fancy his methods are not the right methods. i don't know if i have got the figures absolutely correct, but ukridge reasons on these lines. he says you are supposed to keep the temperature up to a hundred and five degrees. i think he said a hundred and five. then the eggs are supposed to hatch out in a week or so. he argues that you may just as well keep the temperature at seventy-two, and wait a fortnight for your chickens. i am certain there's a fallacy in the system somewhere, because we never seem to get as far as the chickens. but ukridge says his theory is mathematically sound, and he sticks to it." "are you quite sure that the way you are doing it is the best way to manage a chicken farm?" "i should very much doubt it. i am a child in these matters. i had only seen a chicken in its wild state once or twice before we came down here. i had never dreamed of being an active assistant on a real farm. the whole thing began like mr. george ade's fable of the author. an author--myself--was sitting at his desk trying to turn out any old thing that could be converted into breakfast-food when a friend came in and sat down on the table, and told him to go right on and not mind him." "did mr. ukridge do that?" "very nearly that. he called at my rooms one beautiful morning when i was feeling desperately tired of london and overworked and dying for a holiday, and suggested that i should come to combe regis with him and help him farm chickens. i have not regretted it." "it is a lovely place, isn't it?" "the loveliest i have ever seen. how charming your garden is." "shall we go and look at it? you have not seen the whole of it." as she rose, i saw her book, which she had laid face downwards on the grass beside her. it was the same much-enduring copy of the "manoeuvres of arthur." i was thrilled. this patient perseverance must surely mean something. she saw me looking at it. "did you draw pamela from anybody?" she asked suddenly. i was glad now that i had not done so. the wretched pamela, once my pride, was for some reason unpopular with the only critic about whose opinion i cared, and had fallen accordingly from her pedestal. as we wandered down from the garden paths, she gave me her opinion of the book. in the main it was appreciative. i shall always associate the scent of yellow lupin with the higher criticism. "of course, i don't know anything about writing books," she said. "yes?" my tone implied, or i hope it did, that she was an expert on books, and that if she was not it didn't matter. "but i don't think you do your heroines well. i have just got 'the outsider--'" (my other novel. bastable & kirby, s. satirical. all about society--of which i know less than i know about chicken-farming. slated by _times_ and _spectator_. well received by _london mail_ and _winning post_)--"and," continued phyllis, "lady maud is exactly the same as pamela in the 'manoeuvres of arthur.' i thought you must have drawn both characters from some one you knew." "no," i said. "no. purely imaginary." "i am so glad," said phyllis. and then neither of us seemed to have anything to say. my knees began to tremble. i realised that the moment had arrived when my fate must be put to the touch; and i feared that the moment was premature. we cannot arrange these things to suit ourselves. i knew that the time was not yet ripe; but the magic scent of the yellow lupin was too much for me. "miss derrick," i said hoarsely. phyllis was looking with more intentness than the attractions of the flower justified at a rose she held in her hand. the bee hummed in the lupin. "miss derrick," i said, and stopped again. "i say, you people," said a cheerful voice, "tea is ready. hullo, garnet, how are you? that medal arrived yet from the humane society?" i spun round. mr. tom chase was standing at the end of the path. the only word that could deal adequately with the situation slapped against my front teeth. i grinned a sickly grin. "well, tom," said phyllis. and there was, i thought, just the faintest tinkle of annoyance in her voice. * * * * * "i've been bathing," said mr. chase, _a propos des bottes_. "oh," i replied. "and i wish," i added, "that you'd drowned yourself." but i added it silently to myself. chapter xiii tea and tennis "met the professor's late boatman on the cob," said mr. chase, dissecting a chocolate cake. "clumsy man," said phyllis. "i hope he was ashamed of himself. i shall never forgive him for trying to drown papa." my heart bled for mr. henry hawk, that modern martyr. "when i met him," said tom chase, "he looked as if he had been trying to drown his sorrow as well." "i knew he drank," said phyllis severely, "the very first time i saw him." "you might have warned the professor," murmured mr. chase. "he couldn't have upset the boat if he had been sober." "you never know. he may have done it on purpose." "tom, how absurd." "rather rough on the man, aren't you?" i said. "merely a suggestion," continued mr. chase airily. "i've been reading sensational novels lately, and it seems to me that mr. hawk's cut out to be a minion. probably some secret foe of the professor's bribed him." my heart stood still. did he know, i wondered, and was this all a roundabout way of telling me he knew? "the professor may be a member of an anarchist league, or something, and this is his punishment for refusing to assassinate some sportsman." "have another cup of tea, tom, and stop talking nonsense." mr. chase handed in his cup. "what gave me the idea that the upset was done on purpose was this. i saw the whole thing from the ware cliff. the spill looked to me just like dozens i had seen at malta." "why do they upset themselves on purpose at malta particularly?" inquired phyllis. "listen carefully, my dear, and you'll know more about the ways of the navy that guards your coasts than you did before. when men are allowed on shore at malta, the owner has a fancy to see them snugly on board again at a certain reasonable hour. after that hour any maltese policeman who brings them aboard gets one sovereign, cash. but he has to do all the bringing part of it on his own. consequence is, you see boats rowing out to the ship, carrying men who have overstayed their leave; and when they get near enough, the able-bodied gentleman in custody jumps to his feet, upsets the boat, and swims for the gangway. the policemen, if they aren't drowned--they sometimes are--race him, and whichever gets there first wins. if it's the policeman, he gets his sovereign. if it's the sailor, he is considered to have arrived not in a state of custody and gets off easier. what a judicious remark that was of the governor of north carolina to the governor of south carolina, respecting the length of time between drinks. just one more cup, please, phyllis." "but how does all that apply?" i asked, dry-mouthed. "mr. hawk upset the professor just as those maltese were upset. there's a patent way of doing it. furthermore, by judicious questioning, i found that hawk was once in the navy, and stationed at malta. _now_, who's going to drag in sherlock holmes?" "you don't really think--?" i said, feeling like a criminal in the dock when the case is going against him. "i think friend hawk has been re-enacting the joys of his vanished youth, so to speak." "he ought to be prosecuted," said phyllis, blazing with indignation. alas, poor hawk! "nobody's safe with a man of that sort, hiring out a boat." oh, miserable hawk! "but why on earth should he play a trick like that on professor derrick, chase?" "pure animal spirits, probably. or he may, as i say, be a minion." i was hot all over. "i shall tell father that," said phyllis in her most decided voice, "and see what he says. i don't wonder at the man taking to drink after doing such a thing." "i--i think you're making a mistake," i said. "i never make mistakes," mr. chase replied. "i am called archibald the all-right, for i am infallible. i propose to keep a reflective eye upon the jovial hawk." he helped himself to another section of the chocolate cake. "haven't you finished _yet_, tom?" inquired phyllis. "i'm sure mr. garnet's getting tired of sitting talking here," she said. i shot out a polite negative. mr. chase explained with his mouth full that he had by no means finished. chocolate cake, it appeared, was the dream of his life. when at sea he was accustomed to lie awake o' nights thinking of it. "you don't seem to realise," he said, "that i have just come from a cruise on a torpedo-boat. there was such a sea on as a rule that cooking operations were entirely suspended, and we lived on ham and sardines--without bread." "how horrible!" "on the other hand," added mr. chase philosophically, "it didn't matter much, because we were all ill most of the time." "don't be nasty, tom." "i was merely defending myself. i hope mr. hawk will be able to do as well when his turn comes. my aim, my dear phyllis, is to show you in a series of impressionist pictures the sort of thing i have to go through when i'm not here. then perhaps you won't rend me so savagely over a matter of five minutes' lateness for breakfast." "five minutes! it was three-quarters of an hour, and everything was simply frozen." "quite right too in weather like this. you're a slave to convention, phyllis. you think breakfast ought to be hot, so you always have it hot. on occasion i prefer mine cold. mine is the truer wisdom. you can give the cook my compliments, phyllis, and tell her--gently, for i don't wish the glad news to overwhelm her--that i enjoyed that cake. say that i shall be glad to hear from her again. care for a game of tennis, garnet?" "what a pity norah isn't here," said phyllis. "we could have had a four." "but she is at present wasting her sweetness on the desert air of yeovil. you had better sit down and watch us, phyllis. tennis in this sort of weather is no job for the delicately-nurtured feminine. i will explain the finer points of my play as we go on. look out particularly for the tilden back-handed slosh. a winner every time." we proceeded to the tennis court. i played with the sun in my eyes. i might, if i chose, emphasise that fact, and attribute my subsequent rout to it, adding, by way of solidifying the excuse, that i was playing in a strange court with a borrowed racquet, and that my mind was preoccupied--firstly, with _l'affaire_ hawk, secondly, and chiefly, with the gloomy thought that phyllis and my opponent seemed to be on friendly terms with each other. their manner at tea had been almost that of an engaged couple. there was a thorough understanding between them. i will not, however, take refuge behind excuses. i admit, without qualifying the statement, that mr. chase was too good for me. i had always been under the impression that lieutenants in the royal navy were not brilliant at tennis. i had met them at various houses, but they had never shone conspicuously. they had played an earnest, unobtrusive game, and generally seemed glad when it was over. mr. chase was not of this sort. his service was bottled lightning. his returns behaved like jumping crackers. he won the first game in precisely six strokes. he served. only once did i take the service with the full face of the racquet, and then i seemed to be stopping a bullet. i returned it into the net. the last of the series struck the wooden edge of my racquet, and soared over the back net into the shrubbery, after the manner of a snick to long slip off a fast bowler. "game," said mr. chase, "we'll look for that afterwards." i felt a worm and no man. phyllis, i thought, would probably judge my entire character from this exhibition. a man, she would reflect, who could be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not be good for much in any department of life. she would compare me instinctively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliance with my own inefficiency. somehow the massacre was beginning to have a bad effect on my character. all my self-respect was ebbing. a little more of this, and i should become crushed,--a mere human jelly. it was my turn to serve. service is my strong point at tennis. i am inaccurate, but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayable shot. one or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and i might be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect. i opened with a couple of faults. the sight of phyllis, sitting calm and cool in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me. i served another fault. and yet another. "here, i say, garnet," observed mr. chase plaintively, "do put me out of this hideous suspense. i'm becoming a mere bundle of quivering ganglions." i loathe facetiousness in moments of stress. i frowned austerely, made no reply, and served another fault, my fifth. matters had reached a crisis. even if i had to lob it underhand, i must send the ball over the net with the next stroke. i restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigour which had marked my previous efforts. the ball flew in a slow semicircle, and pitched inside the correct court. at least, i told myself, i had not served a fault. what happened then i cannot exactly say. i saw my opponent spring forward like a panther and whirl his racquet. the next moment the back net was shaking violently, and the ball was rolling swiftly along the ground on a return journey to the other court. "love-forty," said mr. chase. "phyllis!" "yes?" "that was the tilden slosh." "i thought it must be," said phyllis. in the third game i managed to score fifteen. by the merest chance i returned one of his red-hot serves, and--probably through surprise--he failed to send it back again. in the fourth and fifth games i omitted to score. phyllis had left the cedar now, and was picking flowers from the beds behind the court. we began the sixth game. and now for some reason i played really well. i struck a little vein of brilliance. i was serving, and this time a proportion of my serves went over the net instead of trying to get through. the score went from fifteen all to forty-fifteen. hope began to surge through my veins. if i could keep this up, i might win yet. the tilden slosh diminished my lead by fifteen. then i got in a really fine serve, which beat him. 'vantage in. another slosh. deuce. another slam. 'vantage out. it was an awesome moment. there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken by the flood--i served. fault. i served again,--a beauty. he returned it like a flash into the corner of the court. with a supreme effort i got to it. we rallied. i was playing like a professor. then whizz--! the slosh had beaten me on the post. "game _and_--," said mr. chase, tossing his racquet into the air and catching it by the handle. "good game that last one." i turned to see what phyllis thought of it. at the eleventh hour i had shown her of what stuff i was made. she had disappeared. "looking for miss derrick?" said chase, jumping the net, and joining me in my court, "she's gone into the house." "when did she go?" "at the end of the fifth game," said chase. "gone to dress for dinner, i suppose," he continued. "it must be getting late. i think i ought to be going, too, if you don't mind. the professor gets a little restive if i keep him waiting for his daily bread. great scott, that watch can't be right! what do you make of it? yes, so do i. i really think i must run. you won't mind. good-night, then. see you to-morrow, i hope." i walked slowly out across the fields. that same star, in which i had confided on a former occasion, was at its post. it looked placid and cheerful. _it_ never got beaten by six games to love under the very eyes of a lady-star. _it_ was never cut out ignominiously by infernally capable lieutenants in his majesty's navy. no wonder it was cheerful. chapter xiv a council of war "the fact is," said ukridge, "if things go on as they are now, my lad, we shall be in the cart. this business wants bucking up. we don't seem to be making headway. why it is, i don't know, but we are _not_ making headway. of course, what we want is time. if only these scoundrels of tradesmen would leave us alone for a spell we could get things going properly. but we're hampered and rattled and worried all the time. aren't we, millie?" "yes, dear." "you don't let me see the financial side of the thing enough," i complained. "why don't you keep me thoroughly posted? i didn't know we were in such a bad way. the fowls look fit enough, and edwin hasn't had one for a week." "edwin knows as well as possible when he's done wrong, mr. garnet," said mrs. ukridge. "he was so sorry after he had killed those other two." "yes," said ukridge, "i saw to that." "as far as i can see," i continued, "we're going strong. chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, perhaps, but look at the business we're doing. we sold a whole heap of eggs last week." "but not enough, garny old man. we aren't making our presence felt. england isn't ringing with our name. we sell a dozen eggs where we ought to be selling them by the hundred, carting them off in trucks for the london market and congesting the traffic. harrod's and whiteley's and the rest of them are beginning to get on their hind legs and talk. that's what they're doing. devilish unpleasant they're making themselves. you see, laddie, there's no denying it--we _did_ touch them for the deuce of a lot of things on account, and they agreed to take it out in eggs. all they've done so far is to take it out in apologetic letters from millie. now, i don't suppose there's a woman alive who can write a better apologetic letter than her nibs, but, if you're broad-minded and can face facts, you can't help seeing that the juiciest apologetic letter is not an egg. i meant to say, look at it from their point of view. harrod--or whiteley--comes into his store in the morning, rubbing his hands expectantly. 'well,' he says, 'how many eggs from combe regis to-day?' and instead of leading him off to a corner piled up with bursting crates, they show him a four-page letter telling him it'll all come right in the future. i've never run a store myself, but i should think that would jar a chap. anyhow, the blighters seem to be getting tired of waiting." "the last letter from harrod's was quite pathetic," said mrs. ukridge sadly. i had a vision of an eggless london. i seemed to see homes rendered desolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires bidding against one another for the few rare specimens which ukridge had actually managed to despatch to brompton and bayswater. ukridge, having induced himself to be broad-minded for five minutes, now began to slip back to his own personal point of view and became once more the man with a grievance. his fleeting sympathy with the wrongs of mr. harrod and mr. whiteley disappeared. "what it all amounts to," he said complainingly, "is that they're infernally unreasonable. i've done everything possible to meet them. nothing could have been more manly and straightforward than my attitude. i told them in my last letter but three that i proposed to let them have the eggs on the _times_ instalment system, and they said i was frivolous. they said that to send thirteen eggs as payment for goods supplied to the value of pounds s. / d. was mere trifling. trifling, i'll trouble you! that's the spirit in which they meet my suggestions. it was harrod who did that. i've never met harrod personally, but i'd like to, just to ask him if that's his idea of cementing amiable business relations. he knows just as well as anyone else that without credit commerce has no elasticity. it's an elementary rule. i'll bet he'd have been sick if chappies had refused to let him have tick when he was starting his store. do you suppose harrod, when he started in business, paid cash down on the nail for everything? not a bit of it. he went about taking people by the coat-button and asking them to be good chaps and wait till wednesday week. trifling! why, those thirteen eggs were absolutely all we had over after mrs. beale had taken what she wanted for the kitchen. as a matter of fact, if it's anybody's fault, it's mrs. beale's. that woman literally eats eggs." "the habit is not confined to her," i said. "well, what i mean to say is, she seems to bathe in them." "she says she needs so many for puddings, dear," said mrs. ukridge. "i spoke to her about it yesterday. and of course, we often have omelettes." "she can't make omelettes without breaking eggs," i urged. "she can't make them without breaking us, dammit," said ukridge. "one or two more omelettes, and we're done for. no fortune on earth could stand it. we mustn't have any more omelettes, millie. we must economise. millions of people get on all right without omelettes. i suppose there are families where, if you suddenly produced an omelette, the whole strength of the company would get up and cheer, led by father. cancel the omelettes, old girl, from now onward." "yes, dear. but--" "well?" "i don't _think_ mrs. beale would like that very much, dear. she has been complaining a good deal about chicken at every meal. she says that the omelettes are the only things that give her a chance. she says there are always possibilities in an omelette." "in short," i said, "what you propose to do is deliberately to remove from this excellent lady's life the one remaining element of poetry. you mustn't do it. give mrs. beale her omelettes, and let's hope for a larger supply of eggs." "another thing," said ukridge. "it isn't only that there's a shortage of eggs. that wouldn't matter so much if only we kept hatching out fresh squads of chickens. i'm not saying the hens aren't doing their best. i take off my hat to the hens. as nice a hard-working lot as i ever want to meet, full of vigour and earnestness. it's that damned incubator that's letting us down all the time. the rotten thing won't work. _i_ don't know what's the matter with it. the long and the short of it is that it simply declines to incubate." "perhaps it's your dodge of letting down the temperature. you remember, you were telling me? i forget the details." "my dear old boy," he said earnestly, "there's nothing wrong with my figures. it's a mathematical certainty. what's the good of mathematics if not to help you work out that sort of thing? no, there's something deuced wrong with the machine itself, and i shall probably make a complaint to the people i got it from. where did we get the incubator, old girl?" "harrod's, i think, dear,--yes, it was harrod's. it came down with the first lot of things." "then," said ukridge, banging the table with his fist, while his glasses flashed triumph, "we've got 'em. the lord has delivered harrod's into our hand. write and answer that letter of theirs to-night, millie. sit on them." "yes, dear." "tell 'em that we'd have sent them their confounded eggs long ago, if only their rotten, twopenny-ha'penny incubator had worked with any approach to decency." he paused. "or would you be sarcastic, garny, old horse? no, better put it so that they'll understand. say that i consider that the manufacturer of the thing ought to be in colney hatch--if he isn't there already--and that they are scoundrels for palming off a groggy machine of that sort on me." "the ceremony of opening the morning's letters at harrod's ought to be full of interest and excitement to-morrow," i said. this dashing counter-stroke seemed to relieve ukridge. his pessimism vanished. he seldom looked on the dark side of things for long at a time. he began now to speak hopefully of the future. he planned out ingenious improvements. our fowls were to multiply so rapidly and consistently that within a short space of time dorsetshire would be paved with them. our eggs were to increase in size till they broke records and got three-line notices in the "items of interest" column in the _daily mail_. briefly, each hen was to become a happy combination of rabbit and ostrich. "there is certainly a good time coming," i said. "may it be soon. meanwhile, what of the local tradesmen?" ukridge relapsed once more into gloom. "they are the worst of the lot. i don't mind the london people so much. they only write, and a letter or two hurts nobody. but when it comes to butchers and bakers and grocers and fishmongers and fruiterers and what not coming up to one's house and dunning one in one's own garden,--well it's a little hard, what?" "oh, then those fellows i found you talking to yesterday were duns? i thought they were farmers, come to hear your views on the rearing of poultry." "which were they? little chap with black whiskers and long, thin man with beard? that was dawlish, the grocer, and curtis, the fishmonger. the others had gone before you came." it may be wondered why, before things came to such a crisis, i had not placed my balance at the bank at the disposal of the senior partner for use on behalf of the farm. the fact was that my balance was at the moment small. i have not yet in the course of this narrative gone into my pecuniary position, but i may state here that it was an inconvenient one. it was big with possibilities, but of ready cash there was but a meagre supply. my parents had been poor. but i had a wealthy uncle. uncles are notoriously careless of the comfort of their nephews. mine was no exception. he had views. he was a great believer in matrimony, as, having married three wives--not simultaneously--he had every right to be. he was also of opinion that the less money the young bachelor possessed, the better. the consequence was that he announced his intention of giving me a handsome allowance from the day that i married, but not an instant before. till that glad day i would have to shift for myself. and i am bound to admit that--for an uncle--it was a remarkably sensible idea. i am also of the opinion that it is greatly to my credit, and a proof of my pure and unmercenary nature, that i did not instantly put myself up to be raffled for, or rush out into the streets and propose marriage to the first lady i met. but i was making quite enough with my pen to support myself, and, be it never so humble, there is something pleasant in a bachelor existence, or so i had thought until very recently. i had thus no great stake in ukridge's chicken farm. i had contributed a modest five pounds to the preliminary expenses, and another five after the roop incident. but further i could not go with safety. when his income is dependent on the whims of editors and publishers, the prudent man keeps something up his sleeve against a sudden slump in his particular wares. i did not wish to have to make a hurried choice between matrimony and the workhouse. having exhausted the subject of finance--or, rather, when i began to feel that it was exhausting me--i took my clubs, and strolled up the hill to the links to play off a match with a sportsman from the village. i had entered some days previously for a competition for a trophy (i quote the printed notice) presented by a local supporter of the game, in which up to the present i was getting on nicely. i had survived two rounds, and expected to beat my present opponent, which would bring me into the semi-final. unless i had bad luck, i felt that i ought to get into the final, and win it. as far as i could gather from watching the play of my rivals, the professor was the best of them, and i was convinced that i should have no difficulty with him. but he had the most extraordinary luck at golf, though he never admitted it. he also exercised quite an uncanny influence on his opponent. i have seen men put completely off their stroke by his good fortune. i disposed of my man without difficulty. we parted a little coldly. he had decapitated his brassy on the occasion of his striking dorsetshire instead of his ball, and he was slow in recovering from the complex emotions which such an episode induces. in the club-house i met the professor, whose demeanour was a welcome contrast to that of my late opponent. the professor had just routed his opponent, and so won through to the semi-final. he was warm, but jubilant. i congratulated him, and left the place. phyllis was waiting outside. she often went round the course with him. "good afternoon," i said. "have you been round with the professor?" "yes. we must have been in front of you. father won his match." "so he was telling me. i was very glad to hear it." "did you win, mr. garnet?" "yes. pretty easily. my opponent had bad luck all through. bunkers seemed to have a magnetic attraction for him." "so you and father are both in the semi-final? i hope you will play very badly." "thank you," i said. "yes, it does sound rude, doesn't it? but father has set his heart on winning this year. do you know that he has played in the final round two years running now?" "really?" "both times he was beaten by the same man." "who was that? mr. derrick plays a much better game than anybody i have seen on these links." "it was nobody who is here now. it was a colonel jervis. he has not come to combe regis this year. that's why father is hopeful." "logically," i said, "he ought to be certain to win." "yes; but, you see, you were not playing last year, mr. garnet." "oh, the professor can make rings round me," i said. "what did you go round in to-day?" "we were playing match-play, and only did the first dozen holes; but my average round is somewhere in the late eighties." "the best father has ever done is ninety, and that was only once. so you see, mr. garnet, there's going to be another tragedy this year." "you make me feel a perfect brute. but it's more than likely, you must remember, that i shall fail miserably if i ever do play your father in the final. there are days when i play golf as badly as i play tennis. you'll hardly believe me." she smiled reminiscently. "tom is much too good at tennis. his service is perfectly dreadful." "it's a little terrifying on first acquaintance." "but you're better at golf than at tennis, mr. garnet. i wish you were not." "this is special pleading," i said. "it isn't fair to appeal to my better feelings, miss derrick." "i didn't know golfers had any where golf was concerned. do you really have your off-days?" "nearly always. there are days when i slice with my driver as if it were a bread-knife." "really?" "and when i couldn't putt to hit a haystack." "then i hope it will be on one of those days that you play father." "i hope so, too," i said. "you hope so?" "yes." "but don't you want to win?" "i should prefer to please you." "really, how very unselfish of you, mr. garnet," she replied, with a laugh. "i had no idea that such chivalry existed. i thought a golfer would sacrifice anything to win a game." "most things." "and trample on the feelings of anybody." "not everybody," i said. at this point the professor joined us. chapter xv the arrival of nemesis some people do not believe in presentiments. they attribute that curious feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to such mundane causes as liver, or a chill, or the weather. for my own part, i think there is more in the matter than the casual observer might imagine. i awoke three days after my meeting with the professor at the club-house, filled with a dull foreboding. somehow i seemed to know that that day was going to turn out badly for me. it may have been liver or a chill, but it was certainly not the weather. the morning was perfect,--the most glorious of a glorious summer. there was a haze over the valley and out to sea which suggested a warm noon, when the sun should have begun the serious duties of the day. the birds were singing in the trees and breakfasting on the lawn, while edwin, seated on one of the flower-beds, watched them with the eye of a connoisseur. occasionally, when a sparrow hopped in his direction, he would make a sudden spring, and the bird would fly away to the other side of the lawn. i had never seen edwin catch a sparrow. i believe they looked on him as a bit of a crank, and humoured him by coming within springing distance, just to keep him amused. dashing young cock-sparrows would show off before their particular hen-sparrows, and earn a cheap reputation for dare-devilry by going within so many years of edwin's lair, and then darting away. bob was in his favourite place on the gravel. i took him with me down to the cob to watch me bathe. "what's the matter with me to-day, robert, old son?" i asked him, as i dried myself. he blinked lazily, but contributed no suggestion. "it's no good looking bored," i went on, "because i'm going to talk about myself, however much it bores you. here am i, as fit as a prize-fighter, living in the open air for i don't know how long, eating good plain food--bathing every morning--sea-bathing, mind you--and yet what's the result? i feel beastly." bob yawned, and gave a little whine. "yes," i said, "i know i'm in love. but that can't be it, because i was in love just as much a week ago, and i felt all right then. but isn't she an angel, bob? eh? isn't she? and didn't you feel bucked when she patted you? of course you did. anybody would. but how about tom chase? don't you think he's a dangerous man? he calls her by her christian name, you know, and behaves generally as if she belonged to him. and then he sees her every day, while i have to trust to meeting her at odd times, and then i generally feel such a fool i can't think of anything to talk about except golf and the weather. he probably sings duets with her after dinner, and you know what comes of duets after dinner." here bob, who had been trying for some time to find a decent excuse for getting away, pretended to see something of importance at the other end of the cob, and trotted off to investigate it, leaving me to finish dressing by myself. "of course," i said to myself, "it may be merely hunger. i may be all right after breakfast. but at present i seem to be working up for a really fine fit of the blues. i feel bad." i whistled to bob, and started for home. on the beach i saw the professor some little distance away, and waved my towel in a friendly manner. he made no reply. of course, it was possible that he had not seen me; but for some reason his attitude struck me as ominous. as far as i could see, he was looking straight at me, and he was not a short-sighted man. i could think of no reason why he should cut me. we had met on the links on the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself. he had called me "me dear boy," supplied me with a gin and gingerbeer at the clubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been david and i jonathan. yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains out of molehills, and i went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with a distinct impression that i had received the cut direct. i felt hurt. what had i done that providence should make things so unpleasant for me? it would be a little hard, as ukridge would have said, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered some fresh grievance against me. perhaps ukridge had been irritating him again. i wished he would not identify me so completely with ukridge. i could not be expected to control the man. then i reflected that they could hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from the professor at the club-house and my meeting with him on the beach. ukridge rarely left the farm. when he was not working among the fowls, he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind. i came to the conclusion that after all the professor had not seen me. "i'm an idiot, bob," i said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and i let my imagination run away with me." bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment. breakfast was ready when i got in. there was a cold chicken on the sideboard, devilled chicken on the table, a trio of boiled eggs, and a dish of scrambled eggs. as regarded quantity mrs. beale never failed us. ukridge was sorting the letters. "morning, garny," he said. "one for you, millie." "it's from aunt elizabeth," said mrs. ukridge, looking at the envelope. i had only heard casual mention of this relative hitherto, but i had built up a mental picture of her partly from remarks which ukridge had let fall, but principally from the fact that he had named the most malignant hen in our fowl-run after her. a severe lady, i imagined with a cold eye. "wish she'd enclose a cheque," said ukridge. "she could spare it. you've no idea, garny, old man, how disgustingly and indecently rich that woman is. she lives in kensington on an income which would do her well in park lane. but as a touching proposition she had proved almost negligible. she steadfastly refuses to part." "i think she would, dear, if she knew how much we needed it. but i don't like to ask her. she's so curious, and says such horrid things." "she does," agreed ukridge, gloomily. he spoke as one who had had experience. "two for you, garny. all the rest for me. ten of them, and all bills." he spread the envelopes out on the table, and drew one at a venture. "whiteley's," he said. "getting jumpy. are in receipt of my favour of the th inst. and are at a loss to understand. it's rummy about these blighters, but they never seem able to understand a damn thing. it's hard! you put things in words of one syllable for them, and they just goggle and wonder what it all means. they want something on account. upon my sam, i'm disappointed with whiteley's. i'd been thinking in rather a kindly spirit of them, and feeling that they were a more intelligent lot than harrod's. i'd had half a mind to give harrod's the miss-in-baulk and hand my whole trade over to these fellows. but not now, dash it! whiteley's have disappointed me. from the way they write, you'd think they thought i was doing it for fun. how can i let them have their infernal money when there isn't any? here's one from dorchester. smith, the chap we got the gramophone from. wants to know when i'm going to settle up for sixteen records." "sordid brute!" i wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but ukridge held me with a glittering eye. "the chicken-men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay for the first lot of hens. considering that they all died of roop, and that i was going to send them back anyhow after i'd got them to hatch out a few chickens, i call that cool. i mean to say, business is business. that's what these fellows don't seem to understand. i can't afford to pay enormous sums for birds which die off quicker than i can get them in." "i shall never speak to aunt elizabeth again," said mrs. ukridge suddenly. she had dropped the letter she had been reading, and was staring indignantly in front of her. there were two little red spots on her cheeks. "what's the matter, old chap?" inquired ukridge affectionately, glancing up from his pile of bills and forgetting his own troubles in an instant. "buck up! aunt elizabeth been getting on your nerves again? what's she been saying this time?" mrs. ukridge left the room with a sob. ukridge sprang at the letter. "if that demon doesn't stop writing her infernal letters and upsetting millie, i shall strangle her with my bare hands, regardless of her age and sex." he turned over the pages of the letter till he came to the passage which had caused the trouble. "well, upon my sam! listen to this, garny, old horse. 'you tell me nothing regarding the success of this chicken farm of yours, and i confess that i find your silence ominous. you know my opinion of your husband. he is perfectly helpless in any matter requiring the exercise of a little common-sense and business capability.'" he stared at me, amazed. "i like that! 'pon my soul, that is really rich! i could have believed almost anything of that blighted female, but i did think she had a reasonable amount of intelligence. why, you know that it's just in matters requiring common-sense and business capability that i come out really strong." "of course, old man," i replied dutifully. "the woman's a fool." "that's what she calls me two lines further on. no wonder millie was upset. why can't these cats leave people alone?" "oh, woman, woman!" i threw in helpfully. "always interfering--" "rotten!" "and backbiting--" "awful!" "i shan't stand it." "i shouldn't!" "look here! on the next page she calls me a gaby!" "it's time you took a strong line." "and in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin. what's a guffin, garny, old boy?" i considered the point. "broadly speaking, i should say, one who guffs." "i believe it's actionable." "i shouldn't wonder." ukridge rushed to the door. "millie!" he slammed the door, and i heard him dashing upstairs. i turned to my letters. one was from lickford, with a cornish postmark. i glanced through it and laid it aside for a more exhaustive perusal. the other was in a strange handwriting. i looked at the signature. "patrick derrick." this was queer. what had the professor to say to me? the next moment my heart seemed to spring to my throat. "sir," the letter began. a pleasant cheery opening! then it got off the mark, so to speak, like lightning. there was no sparring for an opening, no dignified parade of set phrases, leading up to the main point. it was the letter of a man who was almost too furious to write. it gave me the impression that, if he had not written it, he would have been obliged to have taken some very violent form of exercise by way of relief to his soul. "you will be good enough to look on our acquaintance as closed. i have no wish to associate with persons of your stamp. if we should happen to meet, you will be good enough to treat me as a total stranger, as i shall treat you. and, if i may be allowed to give you a word of advice, i should recommend you in future, when you wish to exercise your humour, to do so in some less practical manner than by bribing boatmen to upset your--(_friends_ crossed out thickly, and _acquaintances_ substituted.) if you require further enlightenment in this matter, the enclosed letter may be of service to you." with which he remained mine faithfully, patrick derrick. the enclosed letter was from one jane muspratt. it was bright and interesting. "dear sir,--my harry, mr. hawk, sas to me how it was him upsetting the boat and you, not because he is not steady in a boat which he is no man more so in combe regis, but because one of the gentlemen what keeps chikkens up the hill, the little one, mr. garnick his name is, says to him, hawk, i'll give you a sovrin to upset mr. derick in your boat, and my harry being esily led was took in and did, but he's sory now and wishes he hadn't, and he sas he'll niver do a prackticle joke again for anyone even for a banknote.--yours obedly., jane muspratt." oh, woman, woman! at the bottom of everything! history is full of tragedies caused by the lethal sex. who lost mark antony the world? a woman. who let samson in so atrociously? woman again. why did bill bailey leave home? once more, because of a woman. and here was i, jerry garnet, harmless, well-meaning writer of minor novels, going through the same old mill. i cursed jane muspratt. what chance had i with phyllis now? could i hope to win over the professor again? i cursed jane muspratt for the second time. my thoughts wandered to mr. harry hawk. the villain! the scoundrel! what business had he to betray me? ... well, i could settle with him. the man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is justly disliked by society; so the woman muspratt, culpable as she was, was safe from me. but what of the man hawk? there no such considerations swayed me. i would interview the man hawk. i would give him the most hectic ten minutes of his career. i would say things to him the recollection of which would make him start up shrieking in his bed in the small hours of the night. i would arise, and be a man, and slay him; take him grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes broad-blown, as flush as may, at gaming, swearing, or about some act that had no relish of salvation in it. the demon! my life--ruined. my future--grey and black. my heart--shattered. and why? because of the scoundrel, hawk. phyllis would meet me in the village, on the cob, on the links, and pass by as if i were the invisible man. and why? because of the reptile, hawk. the worm, hawk. the dastard and varlet, hawk. i crammed my hat on, and hurried out of the house towards the village. chapter xvi a chance meeting i roamed the place in search of the varlet for the space of half-an-hour, and, after having drawn all his familiar haunts, found him at length leaning over the sea-wall near the church, gazing thoughtfully into the waters below. i confronted him. "well," i said, "you're a beauty, aren't you?" he eyed me owlishly. even at this early hour, i was grieved to see, he showed signs of having looked on the bitter while it was brown. his eyes were filmy, and his manner aggressively solemn. "beauty?" he echoed. "what have you got to say for yourself?" "say f'self." it was plain that he was engaged in pulling his faculties together by some laborious process known only to himself. at present my words conveyed no meaning to him. he was trying to identify me. he had seen me before somewhere, he was certain, but he could not say where, or who i was. "i want to know," i said, "what induced you to be such an abject idiot as to let our arrangement get known?" i spoke quietly. i was not going to waste the choicer flowers of speech on a man who was incapable of understanding them. later on, when he had awakened to a sense of his position, i would begin really to talk to him. he continued to stare at me. then a sudden flash of intelligence lit up his features. "mr. garnick," he said at last. "from ch--chicken farm," he continued, with the triumphant air of a cross-examining king's counsel who has at last got on the track. "yes," i said. "up top the hill," he proceeded, clinchingly. he stretched out a huge hand. "how you?" he inquired with a friendly grin. "i want to know," i said distinctly, "what you've got to say for yourself after letting our affair with the professor become public property?" he paused awhile in thought. "dear sir," he said at last, as if he were dictating a letter, "dear sir, i owe you--ex--exp----" he waved his hand, as who should say, "it's a stiff job, but i'm going to do it." "explashion," he said. "you do," said i grimly. "i should like to hear it." "dear sir, listen me." "go on then." "you came me. you said 'hawk, hawk, ol' fren', listen me. you tip this ol' bufflehead into watter,' you said, 'an' gormed if i don't give 'ee a poond note.' that's what you said me. isn't that what you said me?" i did not deny it. "'ve' well,' i said you. 'right,' i said. i tipped the ol' soul into watter, and i got the poond note." "yes, you took care of that. all this is quite true, but it's beside the point. we are not disputing about what happened. what i want to know--for the third time--is what made you let the cat out of the bag? why couldn't you keep quiet about it?" he waved his hand. "dear sir," he replied, "this way. listen me." it was a tragic story that he unfolded. my wrath ebbed as i listened. after all the fellow was not so greatly to blame. i felt that in his place i should have acted as he had done. it was fate's fault, and fate's alone. it appeared that he had not come well out of the matter of the accident. i had not looked at it hitherto from his point of view. while the rescue had left me the popular hero, it had had quite the opposite result for him. he had upset his boat and would have drowned his passenger, said public opinion, if the young hero from london--myself--had not plunged in, and at the risk of his life brought the professor ashore. consequently, he was despised by all as an inefficient boatman. he became a laughing-stock. the local wags made laborious jests when he passed. they offered him fabulous sums to take their worst enemies out for a row with him. they wanted to know when he was going to school to learn his business. in fact, they behaved as wags do and always have done at all times all the world over. now, all this, it seemed, mr. hawk would have borne cheerfully and patiently for my sake, or, at any rate for the sake of the crisp pound note i had given him. but a fresh factor appeared in the problem, complicating it grievously. to wit, miss jane muspratt. "she said to me," explained mr. hawk with pathos, "'harry 'awk,' she said, 'yeou'm a girt fule, an' i don't marry noone as is ain't to be trusted in a boat by hisself, and what has jokes made about him by that tom leigh!'" "i punched tom leigh," observed mr. hawk parenthetically. "'so,' she said me, 'you can go away, an' i don't want to see yeou again!'" this heartless conduct on the part of miss muspratt had had the natural result of making him confess in self-defence; and she had written to the professor the same night. i forgave mr. hawk. i think he was hardly sober enough to understand, for he betrayed no emotion. "it is fate, hawk," i said, "simply fate. there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will, and it's no good grumbling." "yiss," said mr. hawk, after chewing this sentiment for a while in silence, "so she said me, 'hawk,' she said--like that--'you're a girt fule----'" "that's all right," i replied. "i quite understand. as i say, it's simply fate. good-bye." and i left him. as i was going back, i met the professor and phyllis. they passed me without a look. i wandered on in quite a fervour of self-pity. i was in one of those moods when life suddenly seems to become irksome, when the future stretches black and grey in front of one. i should have liked to have faded almost imperceptibly from the world, like mr. bardell, even if, as in his case, it had involved being knocked on the head with a pint pot in a public-house cellar. in such a mood it is imperative that one should seek distraction. the shining example of mr. harry hawk did not lure me. taking to drink would be a nuisance. work was what i wanted. i would toil like a navvy all day among the fowls, separating them when they fought, gathering in the eggs when they laid, chasing them across country when they got away, and even, if necessity arose, painting their throats with turpentine when they were stricken with roop. then, after dinner, when the lamps were lit, and mrs. ukridge nursed edwin and sewed, and ukridge smoked cigars and incited the gramophone to murder "mumbling mose," i would steal away to my bedroom and write--and write--and _write_. and go on writing till my fingers were numb and my eyes refused to do their duty. and, when time had passed, i might come to feel that it was all for the best. a man must go through the fire before he can write his masterpiece. we learn in suffering what we teach in song. what we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts. jerry garnet, the man, might become a depressed, hopeless wreck, with the iron planted immovably in his soul; but jeremy garnet, the author, should turn out such a novel of gloom, that strong critics would weep, and the public jostle for copies till mudie's doorway became a shambles. thus might i some day feel that all this anguish was really a blessing--effectively disguised. * * * * * but i doubted it. * * * * * we were none of us very cheerful now at the farm. even ukridge's spirit was a little daunted by the bills which poured in by every post. it was as if the tradesmen of the neighbourhood had formed a league, and were working in concert. or it may have been due to thought-waves. little accounts came not in single spies but in battalions. the popular demand for the sight of the colour of his money grew daily. every morning at breakfast he would give us fresh bulletins of the state of mind of each of our creditors, and thrill us with the announcement that whiteley's were getting cross, and harrod's jumpy or that the bearings of dawlish, the grocer, were becoming overheated. we lived in a continual atmosphere of worry. chicken and nothing but chicken at meals, and chicken and nothing but chicken between meals had frayed our nerves. an air of defeat hung over the place. we were a beaten side, and we realised it. we had been playing an uphill game for nearly two months, and the strain was beginning to tell. ukridge became uncannily silent. mrs. ukridge, though she did not understand, i fancy, the details of the matter, was worried because ukridge was. mrs. beale had long since been turned into a soured cynic by the lack of chances vouchsafed her for the exercise of her art. and as for me, i have never since spent so profoundly miserably a week. i was not even permitted the anodyne of work. there seemed to be nothing to do on the farm. the chickens were quite happy, and only asked to be let alone and allowed to have their meals at regular intervals. and every day one or more of their number would vanish into the kitchen, mrs. beale would serve up the corpse in some cunning disguise, and we would try to delude ourselves into the idea that it was something altogether different. there was one solitary gleam of variety in our menu. an editor sent me a cheque for a set of verses. we cashed that cheque and trooped round the town in a body, laying out the money. we bought a leg of mutton, and a tongue and sardines, and pine-apple chunks, and potted meat, and many other noble things, and had a perfect banquet. mrs. beale, with the scenario of a smile on her face, the first that she had worn in these days of stress, brought in the joint, and uncovered it with an air. "thank god!" said ukridge, as he began to carve. it was the first time i had ever heard him say a grace, and if ever an occasion merited such a deviation from habit, this occasion did. after that we relapsed into routine again. deprived of physical labour, with the exception of golf and bathing--trivial sports compared with work in the fowl-run at its hardest--i tried to make up for it by working at my novel. it refused to materialise. the only progress i achieved was with my villain. i drew him from the professor, and made him a blackmailer. he had several other social defects, but that was his profession. that was the thing he did really well. it was on one of the many occasions on which i had sat in my room, pen in hand, through the whole of a lovely afternoon, with no better result than a slight headache, that i bethought me of that little paradise on the ware cliff, hung over the sea and backed by green woods. i had not been there for some time, owing principally to an entirely erroneous idea that i could do more solid work sitting in a straight hard chair at a table than lying on soft turf with the sea wind in my eyes. but now the desire to visit that little clearing again drove me from my room. in the drawing-room below the gramophone was dealing brassily with "mister blackman." outside the sun was just thinking of setting. the ware cliff was the best medicine for me. what does kipling say? "and soon you will find that the sun and the wind and the djinn of the garden, too, have lightened the hump, cameelious hump, the hump that is black and blue." his instructions include digging with a hoe and a shovel also, but i could omit that. the sun and the wind were what i needed. i took the upper road. in certain moods i preferred it to the path along the cliff. i walked fast. the exercise was soothing. to reach my favourite clearing i had to take to the fields on the left, and strike down hill in the direction of the sea. i hurried down the narrow path. i broke into the clearing at a jog trot, and stood panting. and at the same moment, looking cool and beautiful in her white dress, phyllis entered in from the other side. phyllis--without the professor. chapter xvii of a sentimental nature she was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching-block and camp-stool. "good evening," i said. "good evening," said she. it is curious how different the same words can sound, when spoken by different people. my "good evening" might have been that of a man with a particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing something more than usually ignoble. she spoke like a rather offended angel. "it's a lovely evening," i went on pluckily. "very." "the sunset!" "yes." "er--" she raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faint suggestion of surprise, and gazed through me for a moment at some object a couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again, leaving me with a vague feeling that there was something wrong with my personal appearance. very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp-stool, and sat down. neither of us spoke a word. i watched her while she filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened her paint-box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching-block in position. she began to paint. now, by all the laws of good taste, i should before this have made a dignified exit. it was plain that i was not to be regarded as an essential ornament of this portion of the ware cliff. by now, if i had been the perfect gentleman, i ought to have been a quarter of a mile away. but there is a definite limit to what a man can do. i remained. the sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea. phyllis' hair was tinged with it. little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below. except for the song of a distant blackbird, running through its repertoire before retiring for the night, everything was silent. she sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never a word for me--standing patiently and humbly behind her. "miss derrick," i said. she half turned her head. "yes." "why won't you speak to me?" i said. "i don't understand you." "why won't you speak to me?" "i think you know, mr. garnet." "it is because of that boat accident?" "accident!" "episode," i amended. she went on painting in silence. from where i stood i could see her profile. her chin was tilted. her expression was determined. "is it?" i said. "need we discuss it?" "not if you do not wish it." i paused. "but," i added, "i should have liked a chance to defend myself.... what glorious sunsets there have been these last few days. i believe we shall have this sort of weather for another month." "i should not have thought that possible." "the glass is going up," i said. "i was not talking about the weather." "it was dull of me to introduce such a worn-out topic." "you said you could defend yourself." "i said i should like the chance to do so." "you have it." "that's very kind of you. thank you." "is there any reason for gratitude?" "every reason." "go on, mr. garnet. i can listen while i paint. but please sit down. i don't like being talked to from a height." i sat down on the grass in front of her, feeling as i did so that the change of position in a manner clipped my wings. it is difficult to speak movingly while sitting on the ground. instinctively i avoided eloquence. standing up, i might have been pathetic and pleading. sitting down, i was compelled to be matter-of-fact. "you remember, of course, the night you and professor derrick dined with us? when i say dined, i use the word in a loose sense." for a moment i thought she was going to smile. we were both thinking of edwin. but it was only for a moment, and then her face grew cold once more, and the chin resumed its angle of determination. "yes," she said. "you remember the unfortunate ending of the festivities?" "well?" "if you recall that at all clearly, you will also remember that the fault was not mine, but ukridge's." "well?" "it was his behaviour that annoyed professor derrick. the position, then, was this, that i was to be cut off from the pleasantest friendship i had ever formed----" i stopped for a moment. she bent a little lower over her easel, but remained silent. "----simply through the tactlessness of a prize idiot." "i like mr. ukridge." "i like him, too. but i can't pretend that he is anything but an idiot at times." "well?" "i naturally wished to mend matters. it occurred to me that an excellent way would be by doing your father a service. it was seeing him fishing that put the idea of a boat-accident into my head. i hoped for a genuine boat-accident. but those things only happen when one does not want them. so i determined to engineer one." "you didn't think of the shock to my father." "i did. it worried me very much." "but you upset him all the same." "reluctantly." she looked up, and our eyes met. i could detect no trace of forgiveness in hers. "you behaved abominably," she said. "i played a risky game, and i lost. and i shall now take the consequences. with luck i should have won. i did not have luck, and i am not going to grumble about it. but i am grateful to you for letting me explain. i should not have liked you to have gone on thinking that i played practical jokes on my friends. that is all i have to say. i think it was kind of you to listen. good-bye, miss derrick." i got up. "are you going?" "why not?" "please sit down again." "but you wish to be alone----" "please sit down!" there was a flush on the cheek turned towards me, and the chin was tilted higher. i sat down. to westward the sky had changed to the hue of a bruised cherry. the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the sea looked cold and leaden. the blackbird had long since flown. "i am glad you told me, mr. garnet." she dipped her brush in the water. "because i don't like to think badly of--people." she bent her head over her painting. "though i still think you behaved very wrongly. and i am afraid my father will never forgive you for what you did." her father! as if he counted. "but you do?" i said eagerly. "i think you are less to blame than i thought you were at first." "no more than that?" "you can't expect to escape all consequences. you did a very stupid thing." "i was tempted." the sky was a dull grey now. it was growing dusk. the grass on which i sat was wet with dew. i stood up. "isn't it getting a little dark for painting?" i said. "are you sure you won't catch cold? it's very damp." "perhaps it is. and it is late, too." she shut her paint-box, and emptied the little mug on to the grass. "may i carry your things?" i said. i think she hesitated, but only for a moment. i possessed myself of the camp-stool, and we started on our homeward journey. we were both silent. the spell of the quiet summer evening was on us. "'and all the air a solemn stillness holds,'" she said softly. "i love this cliff, mr. garnet. it's the most soothing place in the world." "i found it so this evening." she glanced at me quickly. "you're not looking well," she said. "are you sure you are not overworking yourself?" "no, it's not that." somehow we had stopped, as if by agreement, and were facing each other. there was a look in her eyes i had never seen there before. the twilight hung like a curtain between us and the world. we were alone together in a world of our own. "it is because i had offended you," i said. she laughed a high, unnatural laugh. "i have loved you ever since i first saw you," i said doggedly. chapter xviii ukridge gives me advice hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which our ways divided. we stopped, and i felt as if i had been suddenly cast back into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet. i think phyllis must have felt much the same sensation, for we both became on the instant intensely practical and businesslike. "but about your father," i said. "that's the difficulty." "he won't give us his consent?" "i'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it." "you can't persuade him?" "i can in most things, but not in this. you see, even if nothing had happened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of norah." "norah?" "my sister. she's going to be married in october. i wonder if we shall ever be as happy as they will." "happy! they will be miserable compared with us. not that i know who the man is." "why, tom of course. do you mean to say you really didn't know?" "tom! tom chase?" "of course." i gasped. "well, i'm hanged," i said. "when i think of the torments i've been through because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, i don't know what to say." "don't you like tom?" "very much. i always did. but i was awfully jealous of him." "you weren't! how silly of you." "of course i was. he was always about with you, and called you phyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine and hero of a musical comedy, so what else could i think? i heard you singing duets after dinner once. i drew the worst conclusions." "when was that? what were you doing there?" "it was shortly after ukridge had got on your father's nerves, and nipped our acquaintance in the bud. i used to come every night to the hedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour." "poor old boy!" "hoping to hear you sing. and when you did sing, and he joined in all flat, i used to swear. you'll probably find most of the bark scorched off the tree i leaned against." "poor old man! still, it's all over now, isn't it?" "and when i was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis, you went away just as i got into form." "i'm very sorry, but i couldn't know, could i? i thought you always played like that." "i know. i knew you would. it nearly turned my hair white. i didn't see how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis." "one doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis." "what _does_ a girl see to love in a man?" i inquired abruptly; and paused on the verge of a great discovery. "oh, i don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily. and i could draw no views from her. "but about father," said she. "what _are_ we to do?" "he objects to me." "he's perfectly furious with you." "blow, blow," i said, "thou winter wind. thou are not so unkind----" "he'll never forgive you." "----as man's ingratitude. i saved his life. at the risk of my own. why i believe i've got a legal claim on him. who ever heard of a man having his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserver wanted to marry his daughter? your father is striking at the very root of the short-story writer's little earnings. he mustn't be allowed to do it." "jerry!" i started. "again!" i said. "what?" "say it again. do, please. now." "very well. jerry!" "it was the first time you had called me by my christian name. i don't suppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you say it. there is something poetical, almost holy, about it." "jerry, please!" "say on." "do be sensible. don't you see how serious this is? we must think how we can make father consent." "all right," i said. "we'll tackle the point. i'm sorry to be frivolous, but i'm so happy i can't keep it all in. i've got you and i can't think of anything else." "try." "i'll pull myself together.... now, say on once more." "we can't marry without his consent." "why not?" i said, not having a marked respect for the professor's whims. "gretna green is out of date, but there are registrars." "i hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision. "besides----" "well?" "poor father would never get over it. we've always been such friends. if i married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know. not let me near him again, and not write to me. and he would hate it all the time he was doing it. he would be bored to death without me." "who wouldn't?" i said. "because, you see, norah has never been quite the same. she has spent such a lot of her time on visits to people, that she and father don't understand each other so well as he and i do. she would try and be nice to him, but she wouldn't know him as i do. and, besides, she will be with him such a little, now she's going to be married." "but, look here," i said, "this is absurd. you say your father would never see you again, and so on, if you married me. why? it's nonsense. it isn't as if i were a sort of social outcast. we were the best of friends till that man hawk gave me away like that." "i know. but he's very obstinate about some things. you see, he thinks the whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him a long time to forgive you for that." i realised the truth of this. one can pardon any injury to oneself, unless it hurts one's vanity. moreover, even in a genuine case of rescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with his rescuer, when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. he must regard him unconsciously as the super regards the actor-manager, indebted to him for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him the limelight and the centre of the stage and the applause. besides, every one instinctively dislikes being under an obligation which they can never wholly repay. and when a man discovers that he has experienced all these mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, his wrath is likely to be no slight thing. taking everything into consideration, i could not but feel that it would require more than a little persuasion to make the professor bestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see in our fathers-in-law's elect. "you don't think," i said, "that time, the great healer, and so on--? he won't feel kindlier disposed towards me--say in a month's time?" "of course he _might_," said phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully. "he strikes me from what i have seen of him as a man of moods. i might do something one of these days which would completely alter his views. we will hope for the best." "about telling father----?" "need we, do you think?" i said. "yes, we must. i couldn't bear to think that i was keeping it from him. i don't think i've ever kept anything from him in my life. nothing bad, i mean." "you count this among your darker crimes, then?" "i was looking at it from father's point of view. he will be awfully angry. i don't know how i shall begin telling him." "good heavens!" i cried, "you surely don't think i'm going to let you do that! keep safely out of the way while you tell him! not much. i'm coming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together." "no, not to-night. he may be tired and rather cross. we had better wait till to-morrow. you might speak to him in the morning." "where shall i find him?" "he is certain to go to the beach before breakfast for a swim." "good. i'll be there." * * * * * "ukridge," i said, when i got back, "i want your advice." it stirred him like a trumpet blast. i suppose, when a man is in the habit of giving unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is as invigorating as an electric shock to him to be asked for it spontaneously. "bring it out, laddie!" he replied cordially. "i'm with you. here, come along into the garden, and state your case." this suited me. it is always easier to talk intimately in the dark, and i did not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of the hired man or mrs. beale, of which there was always a danger indoors. we walked down to the paddock. ukridge lit a cigar. "ukridge," i said, "i'm engaged!" "what!" a huge hand whistled through the darkness and smote me heavily between the shoulder-blades. "by jove, old boy, i wish you luck. 'pon my sam i do! best thing in the world for you. bachelors are mere excrescences. never knew what happiness was till i married. when's the wedding to be?" "that's where i want your advice. what you might call a difficulty has arisen about the wedding. it's like this. i'm engaged to phyllis derrick." "derrick? derrick?" "you can't have forgotten her! good lord, what eyes some men have! why, if i'd only seen her once, i should have remembered her all my life." "i know, now. rather a pretty girl, with blue eyes." i stared at him blankly. it was not much good, as he could not see my face, but it relieved me. "rather a pretty girl!" what a description! "of course, yes," continued ukridge. "she came to dinner here one night with her father, that fat little buffer." "as you were careful to call him to his face at the time, confound you! it was that that started all the trouble." "trouble? what trouble?" "why, her father...." "by jove, i remember now! so worried lately, old boy, that my memory's gone groggy. of course! her father fell into the sea, and you fished him out. why, damme, it's like the stories you read." "it's also very like the stories i used to write. but they had one point about them which this story hasn't. they invariably ended happily, with the father joining the hero's and heroine's hands and giving his blessing. unfortunately, in the present case, that doesn't seem likely to happen." "the old man won't give his consent?" "i'm afraid not. i haven't asked him yet, but the chances are against it." "but why? what's the matter with you? you're an excellent chap, sound in wind and limb, and didn't you once tell me that, if you married, you came into a pretty sizeable bit of money?" "yes, i do. that part of it is all right." ukridge's voice betrayed perplexity. "i don't understand this thing, old horse," he said. "i should have thought the old boy would have been all over you. why, damme, i never heard of anything like it. you saved his life! you fished him out of the water." "after chucking him in. that's the trouble." "you chucked him in?" "by proxy." i explained. ukridge, i regret to say, laughed in a way that must have been heard miles away in distant villages in devonshire. "you devil!" he bellowed. "'pon my sam, old horse, to look at you one would never have thought you'd have had it in you." "i can't help looking respectable." "what are you going to do about it?" "that's where i wanted your advice. you're a man of resource. what would you do in my place?" ukridge tapped me impressively on the shoulder. "laddie," he said, "there's one thing that'll carry you through any mess." "and that is----?" "cheek, my boy, cheek. gall. nerve. why, take my case. i never told you how i came to marry, did i. i thought not. well, it was this way. it'll do you a bit of good, perhaps, to hear the story, for, mark you, blessings weren't going cheap in my case either. you know millie's aunt elizabeth, the female who wrote that letter? well, when i tell you that she was millie's nearest relative and that it was her consent i had to snaffle, you'll see that i was faced with a bit of a problem." "let's have it," i said. "well, the first time i ever saw millie was in a first-class carriage on the underground. i'd got a third-class ticket, by the way. the carriage was full, and i got up and gave her my seat, and, as i hung suspended over her by a strap, damme, i fell in love with her then and there. you've no conception, laddie, how indescribably ripping she looked, in a sort of blue dress with a bit of red in it and a hat with thingummies. well, we both got out at south kensington. by that time i was gasping for air and saw that the thing wanted looking into. i'd never had much time to bother about women, but i realised that this must not be missed. i was in love, old horse. it comes over you quite suddenly, like a tidal wave...." "i know! i know! good heavens, you can't tell me anything about that." "well, i followed her. she went to a house in thurloe square. i waited outside and thought it over. i had got to get into that shanty and make her acquaintance, if they threw me out on my ear. so i rang the bell. 'is lady lichenhall at home?' i asked. you spot the devilish cunning of the ruse, what? my asking for a female with a title was to make 'em think i was one of the upper ten." "how were you dressed?" i could not help asking. "oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. i'd been to see a man about tutoring his son, and by a merciful dispensation of providence there was a fellow living in the same boarding-house with me who was about my build and had a frock-coat, and he had lent it to me. at least, he hadn't exactly lent it to me, but i knew where he kept it and he was out at the time. there was nothing the matter with my appearance. quite the young duke, i assure you, laddie, down to the last button. 'is lady lichenhall at home?' i asked. 'no,' said the maid, 'nobody of that name here. this is lady lakenheath's house.' so, you see, i had a bit of luck at the start, because the names were a bit alike. well, i got the maid to show me in somehow, and, once in you can bet i talked for all i was worth. kept up a flow of conversation about being misdirected and coming to the wrong house. went away, and called a few days later. gradually wormed my way in. called regularly. spied on their movements, met 'em at every theatre they went to, and bowed, and finally got away with millie before her aunt knew what was happening or who i was or what i was doing or anything." "and what's the moral?" "why, go in like a mighty, rushing wind! bustle 'em! don't give 'em a moment's rest or time to think or anything. why, if i'd given millie's aunt elizabeth time to think, where should we have been? not at combe regis together, i'll bet. you heard that letter, and know what she thinks of me now, on reflection. if i'd gone slow and played a timid waiting-game, she'd have thought that before i married millie, instead of afterwards. i give you my honest word, laddie, that there was a time, towards the middle of our acquaintance--after she had stopped mixing me up with the man who came to wind the clocks--when that woman ate out of my hand! twice--on two separate occasions--she actually asked my advice about feeding her toy pomeranian! well, that shows you! bustle 'em, laddie! bustle 'em!" "ukridge," i said, "you inspire me. you would inspire a caterpillar. i will go to the professor--i was going anyhow, but now i shall go aggressively. i will prise a father's blessing out of him, if i have to do it with a crowbar." "that's the way to talk, old horse. don't beat about the bush. tell him exactly what you want and stand no nonsense. if you don't see what you want in the window, ask for it. where did you think of tackling him?" "phyllis tells me that he always goes for a swim before breakfast. i thought of going down to-morrow and waylaying him." "you couldn't do better. by jove!" said ukridge suddenly. "i'll tell you what i'll do, laddie. i wouldn't do it for everybody, but i look on you as a favourite son. i'll come with you, and help break the ice." "what!" "don't you be under any delusion, old horse," said ukridge paternally. "you haven't got an easy job in front of you and what you'll need more than anything else, when you really get down to brass-tacks, is a wise, kindly man of the world at your elbow, to whoop you on when your nerve fails you and generally stand in your corner and see that you get a fair show." "but it's rather an intimate business...." "never mind! take my tip and have me at your side. i can say things about you that you would be too modest to say for yourself. i can plead your case, laddie. i can point out in detail all that the old boy will be missing if he gives you the miss-in-baulk. well, that's settled, then. about eight to-morrow morning, what? i'll be there, my boy. a swim will do me good." chapter xix asking papa reviewing the matter later, i could see that i made one or two blunders in my conduct of the campaign to win over professor derrick. in the first place, i made a bad choice of time and place. at the moment this did not strike me. it is a simple matter, i reflected, for a man to pass another by haughtily and without recognition, when they meet on dry land; but, when the said man, being it should be remembered, an indifferent swimmer, is accosted in the water and out of his depth, the feat becomes a hard one. it seemed to me that i should have a better chance with the professor in the water than out of it. my second mistake--and this was brought home to me almost immediately--was in bringing ukridge along. not that i really brought him along; it was rather a case of being unable to shake him off. when he met me on the gravel outside the house at a quarter to eight on the following morning, clad in a dingy mackintosh which, swinging open, revealed a purple bathing-suit, i confess that my heart sank. unfortunately, all my efforts to dissuade him from accompanying me were attributed by him to a pardonable nervousness--or, as he put it, to the needle. "buck up, laddie!" he roared encouragingly. "i had anticipated this. something seemed to tell me that your nerve would go when it came to the point. you're deuced lucky, old horse, to have a man like me at your side. why, if you were alone, you wouldn't have a word to say for yourself. you'd just gape at the man and yammer. but i'm with you laddie, i'm with you. if your flow of conversation dries up, count on me to keep the thing going." and so it came about that, having reached the cob and spying in the distance the grey head of the professor bobbing about on the face of the waters, we dived in and swam rapidly towards him. his face was turned in the opposite direction when we came up with him. he was floating peacefully on his back, and it was plain that he had not observed our approach. for when, treading water easily in his rear, i wished him good morning in my most conciliatory tone, he stood not upon the order of his sinking, but went under like so much pig-iron. i waited courteously until he rose to the surface again, when i repeated my remark. he expelled the last remnant of water from his mouth with a wrathful splutter, and cleared his eyes with the back of his hand. i confess to a slight feeling of apprehension as i met his gaze. nor was my uneasiness diminished by the spectacle of ukridge splashing tactfully in the background like a large seal. ukridge so far had made no remarks. he had dived in very flat, and i imagine that his breath had not yet returned to him. he had the air of one who intends to get used to his surroundings before trusting himself to speech. "the water is delightfully warm," i said. "oh, it's you!" said the professor; and i could not cheat myself into the belief that he spoke cordially. ukridge snorted loudly in the offing. the professor turned sharply, as if anxious to observe this marine phenomenon; and the annoyed gurgle which he gave showed that he was not approving of ukridge either. i did not approve of ukridge myself. i wished he had not come. ukridge, in the water, lacks dignity. i felt that he prejudiced my case. "you are swimming splendidly this morning," i went on perseveringly, feeling that an ounce of flattery is worth a pound of rhetoric. "if," i added, "you will allow me to say so." "i will not!" he snapped. "i--" here a small wave, noticing that his mouth was open, stepped in. "i wish," he resumed warmly, "as i said in me letter, to have nothing to do with you. i consider that ye've behaved in a manner that can only be described as abominable, and i will thank you to leave me alone." "but allow me--" "i will not allow ye, sir. i will allow ye nothing. is it not enough to make me the laughing-stock, the butt, sir, of this town, without pursuing me in this way when i wish to enjoy a quiet swim?" "now, laddie, laddie," said ukridge, placing a large hand on his shoulder, "these are harsh words! be reasonable! think before you speak. you little know ..." "go to the devil!" said the professor. "i wish to have nothing to do with either of you. i should be glad if you would cease this persecution. persecution, sir!" his remarks, which i have placed on paper as if they were continuous and uninterrupted, were punctuated in reality by a series of gasps and puffings, as he received and rejected the successors of the wave he had swallowed at the beginning of our little chat. the art of conducting conversation while in the water is not given to every swimmer. this he seemed to realise, for, as if to close the interview, he proceeded to make his way as quickly as he could to the shore. unfortunately, his first dash brought him squarely up against ukridge, who, not having expected the collision, clutched wildly at him and took him below the surface again. they came up a moment later on the worst terms. "are you trying to drown me, sir?" barked the professor. "my dear old horse," said ukridge complainingly, "it's a little hard. you might look where you're going." "you grappled with me!" "you took me by surprise, laddie. rid yourself of the impression that you're playing water-polo." "but, professor," i said, joining the group and treading water, "one moment." i was growing annoyed with the man. i could have ducked him, but for the reflection that my prospects of obtaining his consent to my engagement would scarcely have been enhanced thereby. "but, professor," i said, "one moment." "go away, sir! i have nothing to say to you." "but he has lots to say to you," said ukridge. "now's the time, old horse," he added encouragingly to me. "spill the news!" without preamble i gave out the text of my address. "i love your daughter, phyllis, mr. derrick. she loves me. in fact, we are engaged." "devilish well put, laddie," said ukridge approvingly. the professor went under as if he had been seized with cramp. it was a little trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could not predict with certainty that at any given moment he would not be under water. it tended to spoil the flow of one's eloquence. the best of arguments is useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middle of it. "stick to it, old horse," said ukridge. "i think you're going to bring it off." i stuck to it. "mr. derrick," i said, as his head emerged, "you are naturally surprised." "you would be," said ukridge. "we don't blame you," he added handsomely. "you--you--you--" so far from cooling the professor, liberal doses of water seemed to make him more heated. "you impudent scoundrel!" my reply was more gentlemanly, more courteous, on a higher plane altogether. i said, winningly: "cannot we let bygones be bygones?" from his remarks i gathered that we could not. i continued. i was under the unfortunate necessity of having to condense my speech. i was not able to let myself go as i could have wished, for time was an important consideration. ere long, swallowing water at his present rate, the professor must inevitably become waterlogged. "i have loved your daughter," i said rapidly, "ever since i first saw her ..." "and he's a capital chap," interjected ukridge. "one of the best. known him for years. you'll like him." "i learned last night that she loved me. but she will not marry me without your consent. stretch your arms out straight from the shoulders and fill your lungs well and you can't sink. so i have come this morning to ask for your consent." "give it!" advised ukridge. "couldn't do better. a very sound fellow. pots of money, too. at least he will have when he marries." "i know we have not been on the best of terms lately. for heaven's sake don't try to talk, or you'll sink. the fault," i said, generously, "was mine ..." "well put," said ukridge. "but when you have heard my explanation, i am sure you will forgive me. there, i told you so." he reappeared some few feet to the left. i swam up, and resumed. "when you left us so abruptly after our little dinner-party----" "come again some night," said ukridge cordially. "any time you're passing." "...you put me in a very awkward position. i was desperately in love with your daughter, and as long as you were in the frame of mind in which you left i could not hope to find an opportunity of revealing my feelings to her." "revealing feelings is good," said ukridge approvingly. "neat." "you see what a fix i was in, don't you? keep your arms well out. i thought for hours and hours, to try and find some means of bringing about a reconciliation. you wouldn't believe how hard i thought." "got as thin as a corkscrew," said ukridge. "at last, seeing you fishing one morning when i was on the cob, it struck me all of a sudden ..." "you know how it is," said ukridge. "...all of a sudden that the very best way would be to arrange a little boating accident. i was confident that i could rescue you all right." here i paused, and he seized the opportunity to curse me--briefly, with a wary eye on an incoming wavelet. "if it hadn't been for the inscrutable workings of providence, which has a mania for upsetting everything, all would have been well. in fact, all was well till you found out." "always the way," said ukridge sadly. "always the way." "you young blackguard!" he managed to slip past me, and made for the shore. "look at the thing from the standpoint of a philosopher, old horse," urged ukridge, splashing after him. "the fact that the rescue was arranged oughtn't to matter. i mean to say, you didn't know it at the time, so, relatively, it was not, and you were genuinely saved from a watery grave and all that sort of thing." i had not imagined ukridge capable of such an excursion into metaphysics. i saw the truth of his line of argument so clearly that it seemed to me impossible for anyone else to get confused over it. i had certainly pulled the professor out of the water, and the fact that i had first caused him to be pushed in had nothing to do with the case. either a man is a gallant rescuer or he is not a gallant rescuer. there is no middle course. i had saved his life--for he would certainly have drowned if left to himself--and i was entitled to his gratitude. that was all there was to be said about it. these things both ukridge and i tried to make plain as we swam along. but whether it was that the salt water he had swallowed had dulled the professor's normally keen intelligence or that our power of stating a case was too weak, the fact remains that he reached the beach an unconvinced man. "then may i consider," i said, "that your objections are removed? i have your consent?" he stamped angrily, and his bare foot came down on a small, sharp pebble. with a brief exclamation he seized his foot in one hand and hopped up the beach. while hopping, he delivered his ultimatum. probably the only instance on record of a father adopting this attitude in dismissing a suitor. "you may not!" he cried. "you may consider no such thing. my objections were never more absolute. you detain me in the water, sir, till i am blue, sir, blue with cold, in order to listen to the most preposterous and impudent nonsense i ever heard." this was unjust. if he had listened attentively from the first and avoided interruptions and had not behaved like a submarine we should have got through the business in half the time. i said so. "don't talk to me, sir," he replied, hobbling off to his dressing-tent. "i will not listen to you. i will have nothing to do with you. i consider you impudent, sir." "i assure you it was unintentional." "isch!" he said--being the first occasion and the last on which i have ever heard that remarkable monosyllable proceed from the mouth of a man. and he vanished into his tent. "laddie," said ukridge solemnly, "do you know what i think?" "well?" "you haven't clicked, old horse!" said ukridge. chapter xx scientific golf people are continually writing to the papers--or it may be one solitary enthusiast who writes under a number of pseudonyms--on the subject of sport, and the over-doing of the same by the modern young man. i recall one letter in which "efficiency" gave it as his opinion that if the young man played less golf and did more drill, he would be all the better for it. i propose to report my doings with the professor on the links at some length, in order to refute this absurd view. everybody ought to play golf, and nobody can begin it too soon. there ought not to be a single able-bodied infant in the british isles who has not foozled a drive. to take my case. suppose i had employed in drilling the hours i had spent in learning to handle my clubs. i might have drilled before the professor by the week without softening his heart. i might have ported arms and grounded arms and presented arms, and generally behaved in the manner advocated by "efficiency," and what would have been the result? indifference on his part, or--and if i overdid the thing--irritation. whereas, by devoting a reasonable portion of my youth to learning the intricacies of golf i was enabled... it happened in this way. to me, as i stood with ukridge in the fowl-run in the morning following my maritime conversation with the professor, regarding a hen that had posed before us, obviously with a view to inspection, there appeared a man carrying an envelope. ukridge, who by this time saw, as calverley almost said, "under every hat a dun," and imagined that no envelope could contain anything but a small account, softly and silently vanished away, leaving me to interview the enemy. "mr. garnet, sir?" said the foe. i recognised him. he was professor derrick's gardener. i opened the envelope. no. father's blessings were absent. the letter was in the third person. professor derrick begged to inform mr. garnet that, by defeating mr. saul potter, he had qualified for the final round of the combe regis golf tournament, in which, he understood, mr. garnet was to be his opponent. if it would be convenient for mr. garnet to play off the match on the present afternoon, professor derrick would be obliged if he would be at the club house at half-past two. if this hour and day were unsuitable, would he kindly arrange others. the bearer would wait. the bearer did wait. he waited for half-an-hour, as i found it impossible to shift him, not caring to use violence on a man well stricken in years, without first plying him with drink. he absorbed more of our diminishing cask of beer than we could conveniently spare, and then trudged off with a note, beautifully written in the third person, in which mr. garnet, after numerous compliments and thanks, begged to inform professor derrick that he would be at the club house at the hour mentioned. "and," i added--to myself, not in the note--"i will give him such a licking that he'll brain himself with a cleek." for i was not pleased with the professor. i was conscious of a malicious joy at the prospect of snatching the prize from him. i knew he had set his heart on winning the tournament this year. to be runner-up two years in succession stimulates the desire for first place. it would be doubly bitter to him to be beaten by a newcomer, after the absence of his rival, the colonel, had awakened hope in him. and i knew i could do it. even allowing for bad luck--and i am never a very unlucky golfer--i could rely almost with certainty on crushing the man. "and i'll do it," i said to bob, who had trotted up. i often make bob the recipient of my confidences. he listens appreciatively, and never interrupts. and he never has grievances of his own. if there is one person i dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when i wish to air mine. "bob," i said, running his tail through my fingers, "listen to me, my old university chum, for i have matured a dark scheme. don't run away. you know you don't really want to go and look at that chicken. listen to me. if i am in form this afternoon, and i feel in my bones that i shall be, i shall nurse the professor. i shall play with him. do you understand the principles of match play at golf, robert? you score by holes, not strokes. there are eighteen holes. all right, how was _i_ to know that you knew that without my telling you? well, if you understand so much about the game, you will appreciate my dark scheme. i shall toy with the professor, bob. i shall let him get ahead, and then catch him up. i shall go ahead myself, and let him catch me up. i shall race him neck and neck till the very end. then, when his hair has turned white with the strain, and he's lost a couple of stone in weight, and his eyes are starting out of his head, and he's praying--if he ever does pray--to the gods of golf that he may be allowed to win, i shall go ahead and beat him by a hole. _i'll_ teach him, robert. he shall taste of my despair, and learn by proof in some wild hour how much the wretched dare. and when it's all over, and he's torn all his hair out and smashed all his clubs, i shall go and commit suicide off the cob. because, you see, if i can't marry phyllis, i shan't have any use for life." bob wagged his tail cheerfully. "i mean it," i said, rolling him on his back and punching him on the chest till his breathing became stertorous. "you don't see the sense of it, i know. but then you've got none of the finer feelings. you're a jolly good dog, robert, but you're a rank materialist. bones and cheese and potatoes with gravy over them make you happy. you don't know what it is to be in love. you'd better get right side up now, or you'll have apoplexy." it has been my aim in the course of this narrative to extenuate nothing, nor set down aught in malice. like the gentleman who played euchre with the heathen chinee, i state but facts. i do not, therefore, slur over my scheme for disturbing the professor's peace of mind. i am not always good and noble. i am the hero of this story, but i have my off moments. i felt ruthless towards the professor. i cannot plead ignorance of the golfer's point of view as an excuse for my plottings. i knew that to one whose soul is in the game as the professor's was, the agony of being just beaten in an important match exceeds in bitterness all other agonies. i knew that, if i scraped through by the smallest possible margin, his appetite would be destroyed, his sleep o' nights broken. he would wake from fitful slumber moaning that if he had only used his iron instead of his mashie at the tenth, all would have been well; that, if he had putted more carefully on the seventh green, life would not be drear and blank; that a more judicious manipulation of his brassey throughout might have given him something to live for. all these things i knew. and they did not touch me. i was adamant. the professor was waiting for me at the club house, and greeted me with a cold and stately inclination of the head. "beautiful day for golf," i observed in my gay, chatty manner. he bowed in silence. "very well," i thought. "wait. just wait." "miss derrick is well, i hope?" i added, aloud. that drew him. he started. his aspect became doubly forbidding. "miss derrick is perfectly well, sir, i thank you." "and you? no bad effect, i hope, from your dip yesterday?" "mr. garnet, i came here for golf, not conversation," he said. we made it so. i drove off from the first tee. it was a splendid drive. i should not say so if there were any one else to say so for me. modesty would forbid. but, as there is no one, i must repeat the statement. it was one of the best drives of my experience. the ball flashed through the air, took the bunker with a dozen feet to spare, and rolled on to the green. i had felt all along that i should be in form. unless my opponent was equally above himself, he was a lost man. i could toy with him. the excellence of my drive had not been without its effect on the professor. i could see that he was not confident. he addressed his ball more strangely and at greater length than any one i had ever seen. he waggled his club over it as if he were going to perform a conjuring trick. then he struck, and topped it. the ball rolled two yards. he looked at it in silence. then he looked at me--also in silence. i was gazing seawards. when i looked round he was getting to work with a brassey. this time he hit the bunker, and rolled back. he repeated this manoeuvre twice. "hard luck!" i murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, thereby going as near to being slain with a niblick as it has ever been my lot to go. your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune; and there was a red gleam in the eye of the professor turned to me. "i shall pick my ball up," he growled. we walked on in silence to the second tee. he did the second hole in four, which was good. i did it in three, which--unfortunately for him--was better. i won the third hole. i won the fourth hole. i won the fifth hole. i glanced at my opponent out of the corner of my eyes. the man was suffering. beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. his play had become wilder and wilder at each hole in arithmetical progression. if he had been a plough he could hardly have turned up more soil. the imagination recoiled from the thought of what he could be doing in another half-hour if he deteriorated at his present speed. a feeling of calm and content stole over me. i was not sorry for him. all the viciousness of my nature was uppermost in me. once, when he missed the ball clean at the fifth tee, his eye met mine, and we stood staring at each other for a full half-minute without moving. i believe, if i had smiled then, he would have attacked me without hesitation. there is a type of golfer who really almost ceases to be human under stress of the wild agony of a series of foozles. the sixth hole involves the player in a somewhat tricky piece of cross-country work, owing to the fact that there is a nasty ditch to be negotiated some fifty yards from the green. it is a beast of a ditch, which, if you are out of luck, just catches your second shot. "all hope abandon ye who enter here" might be written on a notice board over it. the professor entered there. the unhappy man sent his second, as nice and clean a brassey shot as he had made all day, into its very jaws. and then madness seized him. a merciful local rule, framed by kindly men who have been in that ditch themselves, enacts that in such a case the player may take his ball and throw it over his shoulder, losing a stroke. but once, so the legend runs, a scratch man who found himself trapped, scorning to avail himself of this rule at the expense of its accompanying penalty, wrought so shrewdly with his niblick that he not only got out but actually laid his ball dead: and now optimists sometimes imitate his gallantry, though no one yet has been able to imitate his success. the professor decided to take a chance: and he failed miserably. as i was on the green with my third, and, unless i putted extremely poorly, was morally certain to be down in five, which is bogey for the hole, there was not much practical use in his continuing to struggle. but he did in a spirit of pure vindictiveness, as if he were trying to take it out of the ball. it was a grisly sight to see him, head and shoulders above the ditch, hewing at his obstinate colonel. it was a similar spectacle that once induced a lay spectator of a golf match to observe that he considered hockey a silly game. "_sixteen!_" said the professor between his teeth. then he picked up his ball. i won the seventh hole. i won the eighth hole. the ninth we halved, for in the black depths of my soul i had formed a plan of fiendish subtlety. i intended to allow him to win--with extreme labour--eight holes in succession. then, when hope was once more strong in him, i would win the last, and he would go mad. i watched him carefully as we trudged on. emotions chased one another across his face. when he won the tenth hole he merely refrained from oaths. when he won the eleventh a sort of sullen pleasure showed in his face. it was at the thirteenth that i detected the first dawning of hope. from then onward it grew. when, with a sequence of shocking shots, he took the seventeenth hole in seven, he was in a parlous condition. his run of success had engendered within him a desire for conversation. he wanted, as it were, to flap his wings and crow. i could see dignity wrestling with talkativeness. i gave him the lead. "you have got your form now," i said. talkativeness had it. dignity retired hurt. speech came from him in a rush. when he brought off an excellent drive from the eighteenth tee, he seemed to forget everything. "me dear boy,"--he began; and stopped abruptly in some confusion. silence once more brooded over us as we played ourselves up the fairway and on to the green. he was on the green in four. i reached it in three. his sixth stroke took him out. i putted carefully to the very mouth of the hole. i walked up to my ball and paused. i looked at the professor. he looked at me. "go on," he said hoarsely. suddenly a wave of compassion flooded over me. what right had i to torture the man like this? "professor," i said. "go on," he repeated. "that looks a simple shot," i said, eyeing him steadily, "but i might miss it." he started. "and then you would win the championship." he dabbed at his forehead with a wet ball of a handkerchief. "it would be very pleasant for you after getting so near it the last two years." "go on," he said for the third time. but there was a note of hesitation in his voice. "sudden joy," i said, "would almost certainly make me miss it." we looked at each other. he had the golf fever in his eyes. "if," i said slowly, lifting my putter, "you were to give your consent to my marriage with phyllis----" he looked from me to the ball, from the ball to me, and back to the ball. it was very, very near the hole. "why not?" i said. he looked up, and burst into a roar of laughter. "you young devil," said he, smiting his thigh, "you young devil, you've beaten me." "on the contrary," i said, "you have beaten me." * * * * * i left the professor at the club house and raced back to the farm. i wanted to pour my joys into a sympathetic ear. ukridge, i knew, would offer that same sympathetic ear. a good fellow, ukridge. always interested in what you had to tell him; never bored. "ukridge!" i shouted. no answer. i flung open the dining-room door. nobody. i went into the drawing-room. it was empty. i drew the garden, and his bedroom. he was not in either. "he must have gone for a stroll," i said. i rang the bell. the hired retainer appeared, calm and imperturbable as ever. "sir?" "oh, where is mr. ukridge, beale?" "mr. ukridge, sir," said the hired retainer nonchalantly, "has gone." "gone!" "yes, sir. mr. ukridge and mrs. ukridge went away together by the three o'clock train." chapter xxi the calm before the storm "beale," i said, "are you drunk?" "wish i was, sir," said the hired man. "then what on earth do you mean? gone? where have they gone to?" "don't know, sir. london, i expect." "london? why?" "don't know, sir." "when did they go? oh, you told me that. didn't they say why they were going?" "no, sir." "didn't you ask! when you saw them packing up and going to the station, didn't you do anything?" "no, sir." "why on earth not?" "i didn't see them, sir. i only found out as they'd gone after they'd been and went, sir. walking down by the net and mackerel, met one of them coastguards. 'oh,' says he, 'so you're moving?' 'who's a-moving?' i says to him. 'well,' he says to me, 'i seen your mr. ukridge and his missus get into the three o'clock train for axminster. i thought as you was all a-moving.' 'ho,' i says, 'ho,' wondering, and i goes on. when i gets back, i asks the missus did she see them packing their boxes, and she says, no, she says, they didn't pack no boxes as she knowed of. and blowed if they had, mr. garnet, sir." "what! they didn't pack!" "no, sir." we looked at one another. "beale," i said. "sir?" "do you know what i think?" "yes, sir." "they've bolted." "so i says to the missus, sir. it struck me right off, in a manner of speaking." "this is awful," i said. "yes, sir." his face betrayed no emotion, but he was one of those men whose expression never varies. it's a way they have in the army. "this wants thinking out, beale," i said. "yes, sir." "you'd better ask mrs. beale to give me some dinner, and then i'll think it over." "yes, sir." i was in an unpleasant position. ukridge by his defection had left me in charge of the farm. i could dissolve the concern, i supposed, if i wished, and return to london, but i particularly desired to remain in combe regis. to complete the victory i had won on the links, it was necessary for me to continue as i had begun. i was in the position of a general who has conquered a hostile country, and is obliged to soothe the feelings of the conquered people before his labours can be considered at an end. i had rushed the professor. it must now be my aim to keep him from regretting that he had been rushed. i must, therefore, stick to my post with the tenacity of an able-bodied leech. there would be trouble. of that i was certain. as soon as the news got about that ukridge had gone, the deluge would begin. his creditors would abandon their passive tactics, and take active steps. there was a chance that aggressive measures would be confined to the enemy at our gates, the tradesmen of combe regis. but the probability was that the news would spread, and the injured merchants of dorchester and axminster rush to the scene of hostilities. i summoned beale after dinner and held a council of war. it was no time for airy persiflage. i said, "beale, we're in the cart." "sir?" "mr. ukridge going away like this has left me in a most unpleasant position. i would like to talk it over with you. i daresay you know that we--that mr. ukridge owes a considerable amount of money round about here to tradesmen?" "yes, sir." "well, when they find out that he has--er----" "shot the moon, sir," suggested the hired retainer helpfully. "gone up to town," i amended. "when they find out that he has gone up to town, they are likely to come bothering us a good deal." "yes, sir." "i fancy that we shall have them all round here to-morrow. news of this sort always spreads quickly. the point is, then, what are we to do?" he propounded no scheme, but stood in an easy attitude of attention, waiting for me to continue. i continued. "let's see exactly how we stand," i said. "my point is that i particularly wish to go on living down here for at least another fortnight. of course, my position is simple. i am mr. ukridge's guest. i shall go on living as i have been doing up to the present. he asked me down here to help him look after the fowls, so i shall go on looking after them. complications set in when we come to consider you and mrs. beale. i suppose you won't care to stop on after this?" the hired retainer scratched his chin and glanced out of the window. the moon was up, and the garden looked cool and mysterious in the dim light. "it's a pretty place, mr. garnet, sir," he said. "it is," i said, "but about other considerations? there's the matter of wages. are yours in arrears?" "yes, sir. a month." "and mrs. beale's the same, i suppose?" "yes, sir. a month." "h'm. well, it seems to me, beale, you can't lose anything by stopping on." "i can't be paid any less than i have bin, sir," he agreed. "exactly. and, as you say, it's a pretty place. you might just as well stop on, and help me in the fowl-run. what do you think?" "very well, sir." "and mrs. beale will do the same?" "yes, sir." "that's excellent. you're a hero, beale. i shan't forget you. there's a cheque coming to me from a magazine in another week for a short story. when it arrives, i'll look into that matter of back wages. tell mrs. beale i'm much obliged to her, will you?" "yes, sir." having concluded that delicate business, i lit my pipe, and strolled out into the garden with bob. i cursed ukridge as i walked. it was abominable of him to desert me in this way. even if i had not been his friend, it would have been bad. the fact that we had known each other for years made it doubly discreditable. he might at least have warned me, and given me the option of leaving the sinking ship with him. but, i reflected, i ought not to be surprised. his whole career, as long as i had known him, had been dotted with little eccentricities of a type which an unfeeling world generally stigmatises as shady. they were small things, it was true; but they ought to have warned me. we are most of us wise after the event. when the wind has blown, we can generally discover a multitude of straws which should have shown us which way it was blowing. once, i remembered, in our schoolmaster days, when guineas, though regular, were few, he had had occasion to increase his wardrobe. if i recollect rightly, he thought he had a chance of a good position in the tutoring line, and only needed good clothes to make it his. he took four pounds of his salary in advance,--he was in the habit of doing this: he never had any salary left by the end of term, it having vanished in advance loans beforehand. with this he was to buy two suits, a hat, new boots, and collars. when it came to making the purchases, he found, what he had overlooked previously in his optimistic way, that four pounds did not go very far. at the time, i remember, i thought his method of grappling with the situation humorous. he bought a hat for three-and-sixpence, and got the suits and the boots on the instalment system, paying a small sum in advance, as earnest of more to come. he then pawned one suit to pay for the first few instalments, and finally departed, to be known no more. his address he had given--with a false name--at an empty house, and when the tailor arrived with his minions of the law, all he found was an annoyed caretaker, and a pile of letters written by himself, containing his bill in its various stages of evolution. or again. there was a bicycle and photograph shop near the school. he went into this one day, and his roving eye fell on a tandem bicycle. he did not want a tandem bicycle, but that influenced him not at all. he ordered it provisionally. he also ordered an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic lantern. the order was booked, and the goods were to be delivered when he had made up his mind concerning them. after a week the shopman sent round to ask if there were any further particulars which mr. ukridge would like to learn before definitely ordering them. mr. ukridge sent back word that he was considering the matter, and that in the meantime would he be so good as to let him have that little clockwork man in his window, which walked when wound up? having got this, and not paid for it, ukridge thought that he had done handsomely by the bicycle and photograph man, and that things were square between them. the latter met him a few days afterwards, and expostulated plaintively. ukridge explained. "my good man," he said, "you know, i really think we need say no more about the matter. really, you're come out of it very well. now, look here, which would you rather be owed for? a clockwork man--which is broken, and you can have it back--or a tandem bicycle, an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic-lantern? what?" his reasoning was too subtle for the uneducated mind. the man retired, puzzled, and unpaid, and ukridge kept the clockwork toy. chapter xxii the storm breaks rather to my surprise, the next morning passed off uneventfully. our knocker advertised no dun. our lawn remained untrodden by hob-nailed boots. by lunch-time i had come to the conclusion that the expected trouble would not occur that day, and i felt that i might well leave my post for the afternoon, while i went to the professor's to pay my respects. the professor was out when i arrived. phyllis was in, and it was not till the evening that i started for the farm again. as i approached, the sound of voices smote my ears. i stopped. i could hear beale speaking. then came the rich notes of vickers, the butcher. then beale again. then dawlish the grocer. then a chorus. the storm had burst, and in my absence. i blushed for myself. i was in command, and i had deserted the fort in time of need. what must the faithful hired man be thinking of me? probably he placed me, as he had placed ukridge, in the ragged ranks of those who have shot the moon. fortunately, having just come from the professor's i was in the costume which of all my wardrobe was most calculated to impress. to a casual observer i should probably suggest wealth and respectability. i stopped for a moment to cool myself, for, as is my habit when pleased with life, i had been walking fast; then opened the gate and strode in, trying to look as opulent as possible. it was an animated scene that met my eyes. in the middle of the lawn stood the devoted beale, a little more flushed than i had seen him hitherto, parleying with a burly and excited young man without a coat. grouped round the pair were some dozen men, young, middle-aged, and old, all talking their hardest. i could distinguish nothing of what they were saying. i noticed that beale's left cheekbone was a little discoloured, and there was a hard, dogged expression on his face. he, too, was in his shirt-sleeves. my entry created no sensation. nobody, apparently, had heard the latch click, and nobody had caught sight of me. their eyes were fixed on the young man and beale. i stood at the gate, and watched them. there seemed to have been trouble already. looking more closely, i perceived sitting on the grass apart a second young man. his face was obscured by a dirty pocket handkerchief, with which he dabbed tenderly at his features. every now and then the shirt-sleeved young man flung his hand towards him with an indignant gesture, talking hard the while. it did not need a preternaturally keen observer to deduce what had happened. beale must have fallen out with the young man who was sitting on the grass and smitten him; and now his friend had taken up the quarrel. "now this," i said to myself, "is rather interesting. here, in this one farm, we have the only three known methods of dealing with duns. beale is evidently an exponent of the violent method. ukridge is an apostle of evasion. i shall try conciliation. i wonder which of us will be the most successful." meanwhile, not to spoil beale's efforts by allowing him too little scope for experiment, i refrained from making my presence known, and continued to stand by the gate, an interested spectator. things were evidently moving now. the young man's gestures became more vigorous. the dogged look on beale's face deepened. the comments of the ring increased in point and pungency. "what did you hit him for, then?" the question was put, always the same words and with the same air of quiet triumph, at intervals of thirty seconds by a little man in a snuff-coloured suit with a purple tie. nobody ever answered him, or appeared to listen to him, but he seemed each time to think that he had clinched the matter and cornered his opponent. other voices chimed in. "you hit him, charlie. go on. you hit him." "we'll have the law." "go on, charlie." flushed with the favour of the many-headed, charlie now proceeded from threats to action. his right fist swung round suddenly. but beale was on the alert. he ducked sharply, and the next moment charlie was sitting on the ground beside his fallen friend. a hush fell on the ring, and the little man in the purple tie was left repeating his formula without support. i advanced. it seemed to me that the time had come to be conciliatory. charlie was struggling to his feet, obviously anxious for a second round, and beale was getting into position once more. in another five minutes conciliation would be out of the question. "what's all this?" i said. i may mention here that i do not propose to inflict dialect upon the reader. if he had borne with my narrative thus far, i look on him as a friend, and feel that he deserves consideration. i may not have brought out the fact with sufficient emphasis in the foregoing pages, but nevertheless i protest that i have a conscience. not so much as a "thiccy" shall he find. my advent caused a stir. excited men left beale, and rallied round me. charlie, rising to his feet, found himself dethroned from his position of man of the moment, and stood blinking at the setting sun and opening and shutting his mouth. there was a buzz of conversation. "don't all speak at once, please," i said. "i can't possibly follow what you say. perhaps you will tell me what you want?" i singled out a short, stout man in grey. he wore the largest whiskers ever seen on human face. "it's like this, sir. we all of us want to know where we are." "i can tell you that," i said, "you're on our lawn, and i should be much obliged if you would stop digging your heels into it." this was not, i suppose, conciliation in the strictest and best sense of the word; but the thing had to be said. it is the duty of every good citizen to do his best to score off men with whiskers. "you don't understand me, sir," he said excitedly. "when i said we didn't know where we were, it was a manner of speaking. we want to know how we stand." "on your heels," i replied gently, "as i pointed out before." "i am brass, sir, of axminster. my account with mr. ukridge is ten pounds eight shillings and fourpence. i want to know----" the whole strength of the company now joined in. "you know me, mr. garnet. appleby, in the high----" (voice lost in the general roar). "...and eightpence." "my account with mr. uk..." "...settle..." "i represent bodger ..." a diversion occurred at this point. charlie, who had long been eyeing beale sourly, dashed at him with swinging fists, and was knocked down again. the whole trend of the meeting altered once more, conciliation became a drug. violence was what the public wanted. beale had three fights in rapid succession. i was helpless. instinct prompted me to join the fray; but prudence told me that such a course would be fatal. at last, in a lull, i managed to catch the hired retainer by the arm, as he drew back from the prostrate form of his latest victim. "drop it, beale," i whispered hotly, "drop it. we shall never manage these people if you knock them about. go indoors, and stay there while i talk to them." "mr. garnet, sir," said he, the light of battle dying out of his eyes, "it's 'ard. it's cruel 'ard. i ain't 'ad a turn-up, not to _call_ a turn-up, since i've been a time-expired man. i ain't hitting of 'em, mr. garnet, sir, not hard i ain't. that there first one of 'em he played me dirty, hittin' at me when i wasn't looking. they can't say as i started it." "that's all right, beale," i said soothingly. "i know it wasn't your fault, and i know it's hard on you to have to stop, but i wish you would go indoors. i must talk to these men, and we shan't have a moment's peace while you're here. cut along." "very well, sir. but it's 'ard. mayn't i 'ave just one go at that charlie, mr. garnet?" he asked wistfully. "no, no. go in." "and if they goes for you, sir, and tries to wipe the face off you?" "they won't, they won't. if they do, i'll shout for you." he went reluctantly into the house, and i turned again to my audience. "if you will kindly be quiet for a moment--" i said. "i am appleby, mr. garnet, in the high street. mr. ukridge--" "eighteen pounds fourteen shillings--" "kindly glance--" i waved my hands wildly above my head. "stop! stop! stop!" i shouted. the babble continued, but diminished gradually in volume. through the trees, as i waited, i caught a glimpse of the sea. i wished i was out on the cob, where beyond these voices there was peace. my head was beginning to ache, and i felt faint for want of food. "gentlemen," i cried, as the noise died away. the latch of the gate clicked. i looked up, and saw a tall thin young man in a frock coat and silk hat enter the garden. it was the first time i had seen the costume in the country. he approached me. "mr. ukridge, sir?" he said. "my name is garnet. mr. ukridge is away at the moment." "i come from whiteley's, mr. garnet. our mr. blenkinsop having written on several occasions to mr. ukridge calling his attention to the fact that his account has been allowed to mount to a considerable figure, and having received no satisfactory reply, desired me to visit him. i am sorry that he is not at home." "so am i," i said with feeling. "do you expect him to return shortly?" "no," i said, "i do not." he was looking curiously at the expectant band of duns. i forestalled his question. "those are some of mr. ukridge's creditors," i said. "i am just about to address them. perhaps you will take a seat. the grass is quite dry. my remarks will embrace you as well as them." comprehension came into his eyes, and the natural man in him peeped through the polish. "great scott, has he done a bunk?" he cried. "to the best of my knowledge, yes," i said. he whistled. i turned again to the local talent. "gentlemen," i shouted. "hear, hear," said some idiot. "gentlemen, i intend to be quite frank with you. we must decide just how matters stand between us. (a voice: where's ukridge?) mr. ukridge left for london suddenly (bitter laughter) yesterday afternoon. personally i think he will come back very shortly." hoots of derision greeted this prophecy. i resumed. "i fail to see your object in coming here. i have nothing for you. i couldn't pay your bills if i wanted to." it began to be borne upon me that i was becoming unpopular. "i am here simply as mr. ukridge's guest," i proceeded. after all, why should i spare the man? "i have nothing whatever to do with his business affairs. i refuse absolutely to be regarded as in any way indebted to you. i am sorry for you. you have my sympathy. that is all i can give you, sympathy--and good advice." dissatisfaction. i was getting myself disliked. and i had meant to be so conciliatory, to speak to these unfortunates words of cheer which should be as olive oil poured into a wound. for i really did sympathise with them. i considered that ukridge had used them disgracefully. but i was irritated. my head ached abominably. "then am i to tell our mr. blenkinsop," asked the frock-coated one, "that the money is not and will not be forthcoming?" "when next you smoke a quiet cigar with your mr. blenkinsop," i replied courteously, "and find conversation flagging, i rather think i _should_ say something of the sort." "we shall, of course, instruct our solicitors at once to institute legal proceedings against your mr. ukridge." "don't call him my mr. ukridge. you can do whatever you please." "that is your last word on the subject?" "i hope so. but i fear not." "where's our money?" demanded a discontented voice from the crowd. an idea struck me. "beale!" i shouted. out came the hired retainer at the double. i fancy he thought that his help was needed to save me from my friends. he slowed down, seeing me as yet unassaulted. "sir?" he said. "isn't there a case of that whisky left somewhere, beale?" i had struck the right note. there was a hush of pleased anticipation among the audience. "yes, sir. one." "then bring it out here and open it." beale looked pained. "for _them_, sir!" he ejaculated. "yes. hurry up." he hesitated, then without a word went into the house. a hearty cheer went up as he reappeared with the case. i proceeded indoors in search of glasses and water. coming out, i realised my folly in having left beale alone with our visitors even for a minute. a brisk battle was raging between him and a man whom i did not remember to have seen before. the frock-coated young man was looking on with pale fear stamped upon his face; but the rest of the crowd were shouting advice and encouragement was being given to beale. how i wondered, had he pacified the mob? i soon discovered. as i ran up as quickly as i could, hampered as i was by the jugs and glasses, beale knocked his man out with the clean precision of the experienced boxer; and the crowd explained in chorus that it was the pot-boy, from the net and mackerel. like everything else, the whisky had not been paid for and the pot-boy, arriving just as the case was being opened, had made a gallant effort to save it from being distributed free to his fellow-citizens. by the time he came to, the glasses were circulating merrily; and, on observing this, he accepted the situation philosophically enough, and took his turn and turn about with the others. everybody was now in excellent fettle. the only malcontents were beale, whose heart plainly bled at the waste of good scotch whisky, and the frock-coated young man, who was still pallid. i was just congratulating myself, as i eyed the revellers, on having achieved a masterstroke of strategy, when that demon charlie, his defeat, i suppose, still rankling, made a suggestion. from his point of view a timely and ingenious suggestion. "we can't see the colour of our money," he said pithily, "but we can have our own back." that settled it. the battle was over. the most skilful general must sometime recognise defeat. i recognised it then, and threw up my hand. i could do nothing further with them. i had done my best for the farm. i could do no more. i lit my pipe, and strolled into the paddock. chaos followed. indoors and out-of-doors they raged without check. even beale gave the thing up. he knocked charlie into a flower-bed, and then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. it was growing dusk. from inside the house came faint sounds of bibulous mirth, as the sacking party emptied the rooms of their contents. in the fowl-run a hen was crooning sleepily in its coop. it was a very soft, liquid, soothing sound. presently out came the invaders with their loot, one with a picture, another with a vase, another bearing the gramophone upside down. they were singing in many keys and times. then i heard somebody--charlie again, it seemed to me--propose a raid on the fowl-run. the fowls had had their moments of unrest since they had been our property, but what they had gone through with us was peace compared with what befell them then. not even on the second evening of our visit, when we had run unmeasured miles in pursuit of them, had there been such confusion. roused abruptly from their beauty-sleep they fled in all directions. their pursuers, roaring with laughter, staggered after them. they tumbled over one another. the summer evening was made hideous with the noise of them. "disgraceful, sir. is it not disgraceful!" said a voice in my ear. the young man from whiteley's stood beside me. he did not look happy. his forehead was damp. somebody seemed to have stepped on his hat, and his coat was smeared with mould. i was turning to answer him when from the dusk in the direction of the house came a sudden roar. a passionate appeal to the world in general to tell the speaker what all this meant. there was only one man of my acquaintance with a voice like that. i walked without hurry towards him. "good evening, ukridge," i said. chapter xxiii after the storm a yell of welcome drowned the tumult of the looters. "is that you, garny, old horse? what's up? what's the matter? has everyone gone mad? who are those infernal scoundrels in the fowl-run? what are they doing? what's been happening?" "i have been entertaining a little meeting of your creditors," i said. "and now they are entertaining themselves." "but what did you let them do it for?" "what is one amongst so many?" "well, 'pon my sam," moaned ukridge, as, her sardonic calm laid aside, that sinister hen which we called aunt elizabeth flashed past us pursued by the whiskered criminal, "it's a little hard! i can't go away for a day--" "you certainly can't! you're right there. you can't go away without a word--" "without a word? what do you mean? garny, old boy, pull yourself together. you're over-excited. do you mean to tell me you didn't get my note?" "what note?" "the one i left on the dining-room table." "there was no note there." "what!" i was reminded of the scene that had taken place on the first day of our visit. "feel in your pockets," i said. "why, damme, here it is!" he said in amazement. "of course. where did you expect it would be? was it important?" "why, it explained the whole thing." "then," i said, "i wish you would let me read it. a note like that ought to be worth reading." "it was telling you to sit tight and not worry about us going away--" "that's good about worrying. you're a thoughtful chap, ukridge." "--because we should be back immediately." "and what sent you up to town?" "why, we went to touch millie's aunt elizabeth." "oh!" i said, a light shining on the darkness of my understanding. "you remember aunt elizabeth? the old girl who wrote that letter." "i know. she called you a gaby." "and a guffin." "yes. i remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old lady, with a great gift for character delineation. so you went to touch her?" "that's it. we had to have more money. so i naturally thought of her. aunt elizabeth isn't what you might call an admirer of mine--" "bless her for that." "--but she's very fond of millie, and would do anything if she's allowed to chuck about a few home-truths before doing it. so we went off together, looked her up at her house, stated our case, and collected the stuff. millie and i shared the work. she did the asking, while i inquired after the rheumatism. she mentioned the figure that would clear us; i patted the dog. little beast! got after me when i wasn't looking and chewed my ankle!" "thank heaven!" "in the end millie got the money, and i got the home-truths." "did she call you a gaby?" "twice. and a guffin three times." "your aunt elizabeth is beginning to fascinate me. she seems just the sort of woman i would like. well, you got the money?" "rather! and i'll tell you another thing, old horse. i scored heavily at the end of the visit. she'd got to the quoting-proverbs stage by that time. 'ah, my dear,' she said to millie. 'marry in haste, repent at leisure.' millie stood up to her like a little brick. 'i'm afraid that proverb doesn't apply to me, aunt elizabeth,' she said, 'because i haven't repented!' what do you think of that, laddie?" "of course, she _hasn't_ had much leisure lately," i agreed. ukridge's jaw dropped slightly. but he rallied swiftly. "idiot! that wasn't what she meant. millie's an angel!" "of course she is," i said cordially. "she's a precious sight too good for you, you old rotter. you bear that fact steadily in mind, and we'll make something of you yet." at this point mrs. ukridge joined us. she had been exploring the house, and noting the damage done. her eyes were open to their fullest extent. "oh, mr. garnet, _couldn't_ you have stopped them?" i felt a worm. had i done as much as i might have done to stem the tide? "i'm awfully sorry, mrs. ukridge," i said humbly. "i really don't think i could have done much more. we tried every method. beale had seven fights, and i made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good. directly they had finished the whisky--" ukridge's cry was like that of a lost spirit. "they didn't get hold of the whisky!" "they did! it seemed to me that it would smooth things down a little if i served it out. the mob had begun to get a trifle out of hand." "i thought those horrid men were making a lot of noise," said mrs. ukridge. ukridge preserved a gloomy silence. of all the disasters of that stricken field, i think the one that came home most poignantly to him was the loss of the whisky. it seemed to strike him like a blow. "isn't it about time to collect these men and explain things?" i suggested. "i don't believe any of them know you've come back." "they will!" said ukridge grimly, coming out of his trance. "they soon will! where's beale! beale!" the hired retainer came running out at the sound of the well-remembered voice. "lumme, mr. ukridge, sir!" he gasped. it was the first time beale had ever betrayed any real emotion in my presence. to him, i suppose, the return of ukridge was as sensational and astonishing an event as a re-appearance from the tomb. he was not accustomed to find those who had shot the moon revisiting their ancient haunts. "beale, go round the place and tell those scoundrels that i've come back, and would like a word with them on the lawn. and, if you find any of them stealing the fowls, knock them down!" "i 'ave knocked down one or two," said beale, with approval. "that charlie--" "beale," said ukridge, much moved, "you're an excellent fellow! one of the very best. i will pay you your back wages before i go to bed." "these fellars, sir," said beale, having expressed his gratification, "they've bin and scattered most of them birds already, sir. they've bin chasin' of them this half-hour back." ukridge groaned. "scoundrels! demons!" beale went off. "millie, old girl," said ukridge, adjusting the ginger-beer wire behind his ears and hoisting up his grey flannel-trousers, which showed an inclination to sag, "you'd better go indoors. i propose to speak pretty chattily to these blighters, and in the heat of the moment one or two expressions might occur to me which you would not like. it would hamper me, your being here." mrs. ukridge went into the house, and the vanguard of the audience began to come on to the lawn. several of them looked flushed and dishevelled. i have a suspicion that beale had shaken sobriety into them. charlie, i noticed, had a black eye. they assembled on the lawn in the moonlight, and ukridge, with his cap well over his eyes and his mackintosh hanging round him like a roman toga, surveyed them sternly, and began his speech. "you--you--you--you scoundrels! you blighters! you worms! you weeds!" i always like to think of stanley featherstonehaugh ukridge as i saw him at that moment. there have been times during a friendship of many years when his conduct did not recommend itself to me. it has sometimes happened that i have seen flaws in him. but on this occasion he was at his best. he was eloquent. he dominated his audience. long before he had finished i was feeling relieved that he had thought of sending mrs. ukridge indoors when he did, and beale was hanging on his words with a look in his eyes which i had never seen there before,--a look of reverence, almost of awe, the look of a disciple who listens to a master. he poured scorn upon his hearers, and they quailed. he flung invective at them, and they wilted. strange oaths, learned among strange men on cattle-ships or gleaned on the waterfronts of buenos ayres and san francisco, slid into the stream of his speech. it was hard, he said in part, it was, upon his sam, a little hard that a gentleman--a gentleman, moreover, who had done so much to stimulate local trade with large orders and what not--could not run up to london for five minutes on business without having his private grounds turned upside down by a gang of cattle-ship adjectived san francisco substantives who behaved as if the whole of the buenos ayres phrased place belonged to them. he had intended to do well by them. he had meant to continue putting business in their way, expanding their trade. but would he after what had occurred? not by a jugful! as soon as ever the sun had risen and another day begun, their miserable accounts should be paid in full, and their connection with him cut off. afterwards it was probable that he would institute legal proceedings against them in the matter of trespass and wholesale damage to property, and if they didn't all end their infernal days in some dashed prison they might consider themselves uncommonly lucky, and if they didn't make themselves scarce in considerably under two ticks, he proposed to see what could be done with beale's shot-gun. (beale here withdrew with a pleased expression to fetch the weapon.) he was sick of them. they were blighters. creatures that it would be fulsome flattery to describe as human beings. he would call them skunks, only he did not see what the skunks had done to be compared with them. and now they might go--_quick_! * * * * * we were quiet at the farm that night. ukridge sat like marius among the ruins of carthage, and refused to speak. eventually he took bob with him and went for a walk. half an hour later i, too, wearied of the scene of desolation. my errant steps took me in the direction of the sea. as i approached, i was aware of a figure standing in the moonlight, gazing silently out over the waters. beside the figure was a dog. the dark moments of optimistic minds are sacred, and i would no more have ventured to break in on ukridge's thoughts at that moment than, if i had been a general in the grand army, i would have opened conversation with napoleon during the retreat from moscow. i was withdrawing as softly as i could, when my foot grated on the shingle. ukridge turned. "hullo, garny." "hullo, old man." i murmured in a death-bedside voice. he came towards me, bob trotting at his heels: and, as he came, i saw with astonishment that his mien was calm, even cheerful. i should have known my ukridge better than to be astonished. you cannot keep a good man down, and already stanley featherstonehaugh ukridge was himself again. his eyes sparkled buoyantly behind their pince-nez. "garny, old horse, i've been thinking, laddie! i've got an idea! the idea of a lifetime. the best ever, 'pon my sam! i'm going to start a duck farm!" "a duck farm?" "a duck farm, laddie! and run it without water. my theory is, you see, that ducks get thin by taking exercise and swimming about all over the place, so that, if you kept them always on land, they'd get jolly fat in about half the time--and no trouble and expense. see? what? not a flaw in it, old horse! i've thought the whole thing out." he took my arm affectionately. "now, listen. we'll say that the profits of the first year at a conservative estimate..." the end distributed proofreaders love and mr. lewisham by h. g. wells [illustration: "why on earth did you put my roses here?" he asked.] [illustration] contents i. introduces mr. lewisham ii. "as the wind blows" iii. the wonderful discovery iv. raised eyebrows v. hesitations vi. the scandalous ramble vii. the reckoning viii. the career prevails ix. alice heydinger x. in the gallery of old iron xi. manifestations xii. lewisham is unaccountable xiii. lewisham insists xiv. mr. lagune's point of view xv. love in the streets xvi. miss heydinger's private thoughts xvii. in the raphael gallery xviii. the friends of progress meet xix. lewisham's solution xx. the career is suspended xxi. home! xxii. epithalamy xxiii. mr. chaffery at home xxiv. the campaign opens xxv. the first battle xxvi. the glamour fades xxvii. concerning a quarrel xxviii. the coming of the roses xxix. thorns and rose petals xxx. a withdrawal xxxi. in battersea park xxxii. the crowning victory chapter i. introduces mr. lewisham. the opening chapter does not concern itself with love--indeed that antagonist does not certainly appear until the third--and mr. lewisham is seen at his studies. it was ten years ago, and in those days he was assistant master in the whortley proprietary school, whortley, sussex, and his wages were forty pounds a year, out of which he had to afford fifteen shillings a week during term time to lodge with mrs. munday, at the little shop in the west street. he was called "mr." to distinguish him from the bigger boys, whose duty it was to learn, and it was a matter of stringent regulation that he should be addressed as "sir." he wore ready-made clothes, his black jacket of rigid line was dusted about the front and sleeves with scholastic chalk, and his face was downy and his moustache incipient. he was a passable-looking youngster of eighteen, fair-haired, indifferently barbered, and with a quite unnecessary pair of glasses on his fairly prominent nose--he wore these to make himself look older, that discipline might be maintained. at the particular moment when this story begins he was in his bedroom. an attic it was, with lead-framed dormer windows, a slanting ceiling and a bulging wall, covered, as a number of torn places witnessed, with innumerable strata of florid old-fashioned paper. to judge by the room mr. lewisham thought little of love but much on greatness. over the head of the bed, for example, where good folks hang texts, these truths asserted themselves, written in a clear, bold, youthfully florid hand:--"knowledge is power," and "what man has done man can do,"--man in the second instance referring to mr. lewisham. never for a moment were these things to be forgotten. mr. lewisham could see them afresh every morning as his head came through his shirt. and over the yellow-painted box upon which--for lack of shelves--mr. lewisham's library was arranged, was a "_schema_." (why he should not have headed it "scheme," the editor of the _church times_, who calls his miscellaneous notes "_varia_," is better able to say than i.) in this scheme, was indicated as the year in which mr. lewisham proposed to take his b.a. degree at the london university with "hons. in all subjects," and as the date of his "gold medal." subsequently there were to be "pamphlets in the liberal interest," and such like things duly dated. "who would control others must first control himself," remarked the wall over the wash-hand stand, and behind the door against the sunday trousers was a portrait of carlyle. these were no mere threats against the universe; operations had begun. jostling shakespeare, emerson's essays, and the penny life of confucius, there were battered and defaced school books, a number of the excellent manuals of the universal correspondence association, exercise books, ink (red and black) in penny bottles, and an india-rubber stamp with mr. lewisham's name. a trophy of bluish green south kensington certificates for geometrical drawing, astronomy, physiology, physiography, and inorganic chemistry adorned his further wall. and against the carlyle portrait was a manuscript list of french irregular verbs. attached by a drawing-pin to the roof over the wash-hand stand, which--the room being an attic--sloped almost dangerously, dangled a time-table. mr. lewisham was to rise at five, and that this was no vain boasting, a cheap american alarum clock by the books on the box witnessed. the lumps of mellow chocolate on the papered ledge by the bed-head indorsed that evidence. "french until eight," said the time-table curtly. breakfast was to be eaten in twenty minutes; then twenty-five minutes of "literature" to be precise, learning extracts (preferably pompous) from the plays of william shakespeare--and then to school and duty. the time-table further prescribed latin composition for the recess and the dinner hour ("literature," however, during the meal), and varied its injunctions for the rest of the twenty-four hours according to the day of the week. not a moment for satan and that "mischief still" of his. only three-score and ten has the confidence, as well as the time, to be idle. but just think of the admirable quality of such a scheme! up and busy at five, with all the world about one horizontal, warm, dreamy-brained or stupidly hullish, if roused, roused only to grunt and sigh and roll over again into oblivion. by eight three hours' clear start, three hours' knowledge ahead of everyone. it takes, i have been told by an eminent scholar, about a thousand hours of sincere work to learn a language completely--after three or four languages much less--which gives you, even at the outset, one each a year before breakfast. the gift of tongues--picked up like mushrooms! then that "literature"--an astonishing conception! in the afternoon mathematics and the sciences. could anything be simpler or more magnificent? in six years mr. lewisham will have his five or six languages, a sound, all-round education, a habit of tremendous industry, and be still but four-and-twenty. he will already have honour in his university and ampler means. one realises that those pamphlets in the liberal interests will be no obscure platitudes. where mr. lewisham will be at thirty stirs the imagination. there will be modifications of the schema, of course, as experience widens. but the spirit of it--the spirit of it is a devouring flame! he was sitting facing the diamond-framed window, writing, writing fast, on a second yellow box that was turned on end and empty, and the lid was open, and his knees were conveniently stuck into the cavity. the bed was strewn with books and copygraphed sheets of instructions from his remote correspondence tutors. pursuant to the dangling time-table he was, you would have noticed, translating latin into english. imperceptibly the speed of his writing diminished. "_urit me glycerae nitor_" lay ahead and troubled him. "urit me," he murmured, and his eyes travelled from his book out of window to the vicar's roof opposite and its ivied chimneys. his brows were knit at first and then relaxed. "_urit me_!" he had put his pen into his mouth and glanced about for his dictionary. _urare_? suddenly his expression changed. movement dictionary-ward ceased. he was listening to a light tapping sound--it was a footfall--outside. he stood up abruptly, and, stretching his neck, peered through his unnecessary glasses and the diamond panes down into the street. looking acutely downward he could see a hat daintily trimmed with pinkish white blossom, the shoulder of a jacket, and just the tips of nose and chin. certainly the stranger who sat under the gallery last sunday next the frobishers. then, too, he had seen her only obliquely.... he watched her until she passed beyond the window frame. he strained to see impossibly round the corner.... then he started, frowned, took his pen from his mouth. "this wandering attention!" he said. "the slightest thing! where was i? tcha!" he made a noise with his teeth to express his irritation, sat down, and replaced his knees in the upturned box. "urit me," he said, biting the end of his pen and looking for his dictionary. it was a wednesday half-holiday late in march, a spring day glorious in amber light, dazzling white clouds and the intensest blue, casting a powder of wonderful green hither and thither among the trees and rousing all the birds to tumultuous rejoicings, a rousing day, a clamatory insistent day, a veritable herald of summer. the stir of that anticipation was in the air, the warm earth was parting above the swelling seeds, and all the pine-woods were full of the minute crepitation of opening bud scales. and not only was the stir of mother nature's awakening in the earth and the air and the trees, but also in mr. lewisham's youthful blood, bidding him rouse himself to live--live in a sense quite other than that the schema indicated. he saw the dictionary peeping from under a paper, looked up "urit me," appreciated the shining "nitor" of glycera's shoulders, and so fell idle again to rouse himself abruptly. "i _can't_ fix my attention," said mr. lewisham. he took off the needless glasses, wiped them, and blinked his eyes. this confounded horace and his stimulating epithets! a walk? "i won't be beat," he said--incorrectly--replaced his glasses, brought his elbows down on either side of his box with resonant violence, and clutched the hair over his ears with both hands.... in five minutes' time he found himself watching the swallows curving through the blue over the vicarage garden. "did ever man have such a bother with himself as me?" he asked vaguely but vehemently. "it's self-indulgence does it--sitting down's the beginning of laziness." so he stood up to his work, and came into permanent view of the village street. "if she has gone round the corner by the post office, she will come in sight over the palings above the allotments," suggested the unexplored and undisciplined region of mr. lewisham's mind.... she did not come into sight. apparently she had not gone round by the post office after all. it made one wonder where she had gone. did she go up through the town to the avenue on these occasions?... then abruptly a cloud drove across the sunlight, the glowing street went cold and mr. lewisham's imagination submitted to control. so "_mater saeva cupidinum_," "the untamable mother of desires,"--horace (book ii. of the odes) was the author appointed by the university for mr. lewisham's matriculation--was, after all, translated to its prophetic end. precisely as the church clock struck five mr. lewisham, with a punctuality that was indeed almost too prompt for a really earnest student, shut his horace, took up his shakespeare, and descended the narrow, curved, uncarpeted staircase that led from his garret to the living room in which he had his tea with his landlady, mrs. munday. that good lady was alone, and after a few civilities mr. lewisham opened his shakespeare and read from a mark onward--that mark, by-the-bye, was in the middle of a scene--while he consumed mechanically a number of slices of bread and whort jam. mrs. munday watched him over her spectacles and thought how bad so much reading must be for the eyes, until the tinkling of her shop-bell called her away to a customer. at twenty-five minutes to six he put the book back in the window-sill, dashed a few crumbs from his jacket, assumed a mortar-board cap that was lying on the tea-caddy, and went forth to his evening "preparation duty." the west street was empty and shining golden with the sunset. its beauty seized upon him, and he forgot to repeat the passage from henry viii. that should have occupied him down the street. instead he was presently thinking of that insubordinate glance from his window and of little chins and nose-tips. his eyes became remote in their expression.... the school door was opened by an obsequious little boy with "lines" to be examined. mr. lewisham felt a curious change of atmosphere on his entry. the door slammed behind him. the hall with its insistent scholastic suggestions, its yellow marbled paper, its long rows of hat-pegs, its disreputable array of umbrellas, a broken mortar-board and a tattered and scattered _principia_, seemed dim and dull in contrast with the luminous stir of the early march evening outside. an unusual sense of the greyness of a teacher's life, of the greyness indeed of the life of all studious souls came, and went in his mind. he took the "lines," written painfully over three pages of exercise book, and obliterated them with a huge g.e.l., scrawled monstrously across each page. he heard the familiar mingled noises of the playground drifting in to him through the open schoolroom door. chapter ii. "as the wind blows." a flaw in that pentagram of a time-table, that pentagram by which the demons of distraction were to be excluded from mr. lewisham's career to greatness, was the absence of a clause forbidding study out of doors. it was the day after the trivial window peeping of the last chapter that this gap in the time-table became apparent, a day if possible more gracious and alluring than its predecessor, and at half-past twelve, instead of returning from the school directly to his lodging, mr. lewisham escaped through the omission and made his way--horace in pocket--to the park gates and so to the avenue of ancient trees that encircles the broad whortley domain. he dismissed a suspicion of his motive with perfect success. in the avenue--for the path is but little frequented--one might expect to read undisturbed. the open air, the erect attitude, are surely better than sitting in a stuffy, enervating bedroom. the open air is distinctly healthy, hardy, simple.... the day was breezy, and there was a perpetual rustling, a going and coming in the budding trees. the network of the beeches was full of golden sunlight, and all the lower branches were shot with horizontal dashes of new-born green. "_tu, nisi ventis debes ludibrium, cave_." was the appropriate matter of mr. lewisham's thoughts, and he was mechanically trying to keep the book open in three places at once, at the text, the notes, and the literal translation, while he turned up the vocabulary for _ludibrium_, when his attention, wandering dangerously near the top of the page, fell over the edge and escaped with incredible swiftness down the avenue.... a girl, wearing a straw hat adorned with white blossom, was advancing towards him. her occupation, too, was literary. indeed, she was so busy writing that evidently she did not perceive him. unreasonable emotions descended upon mr. lewisham--emotions that are unaccountable on the mere hypothesis of a casual meeting. something was whispered; it sounded suspiciously like "it's her!" he advanced with his fingers in his book, ready to retreat to its pages if she looked up, and watched her over it. _ludibrium_ passed out of his universe. she was clearly unaware of his nearness, he thought, intent upon her writing, whatever that might be. he wondered what it might be. her face, foreshortened by her downward regard, seemed infantile. her fluttering skirt was short, and showed her shoes and ankles. he noted her graceful, easy steps. a figure of health and lightness it was, sunlit, and advancing towards him, something, as he afterwards recalled with a certain astonishment, quite outside the schema. nearer she came and nearer, her eyes still downcast. he was full of vague, stupid promptings towards an uncalled-for intercourse. it was curious she did not see him. he began to expect almost painfully the moment when she would look up, though what there was to expect--! he thought of what she would see when she discovered him, and wondered where the tassel of his cap might be hanging--it sometimes occluded one eye. it was of course quite impossible to put up a hand and investigate. he was near trembling with excitement. his paces, acts which are usually automatic, became uncertain and difficult. one might have thought he had never passed a human being before. still nearer, ten yards now, nine, eight. would she go past without looking up?... then their eyes met. she had hazel eyes, but mr. lewisham, being quite an amateur about eyes, could find no words for them. she looked demurely into his face. she seemed to find nothing there. she glanced away from him among the trees, and passed, and nothing remained in front of him but an empty avenue, a sunlit, green-shot void. the incident was over. from far away the soughing of the breeze swept towards him, and in a moment all the twigs about him were quivering and rustling and the boughs creaking with a gust of wind. it seemed to urge him away from her. the faded dead leaves that had once been green and young sprang up, raced one another, leapt, danced and pirouetted, and then something large struck him on the neck, stayed for a startling moment, and drove past him up the avenue. something vividly white! a sheet of paper--the sheet upon which she had been writing! for what seemed a long time he did not grasp the situation. he glanced over his shoulder and understood suddenly. his awkwardness vanished. horace in hand, he gave chase, and in ten paces had secured the fugitive document. he turned towards her, flushed with triumph, the quarry in his hand. he had as he picked it up seen what was written, but the situation dominated him for the instant. he made a stride towards her, and only then understood what he had seen. lines of a measured length and capitals! could it really be--? he stopped. he looked again, eyebrows rising. he held it before him, staring now quite frankly. it had been written with a stylographic pen. thus it ran:-- "_come! sharp's the word._" and then again, "_come! sharp's the word._" and then, "_come! sharp's the word._" "_come! sharp's the word._" and so on all down the page, in a boyish hand uncommonly like frobisher ii.'s. surely! "i say!" said mr. lewisham, struggling with, the new aspect and forgetting all his manners in his surprise.... he remembered giving the imposition quite well:--frobisher ii. had repeated the exhortation just a little too loudly--had brought the thing upon himself. to find her doing this jarred oddly upon certain vague preconceptions he had formed of her. somehow it seemed as if she had betrayed him. that of course was only for the instant. she had come up with him now. "may i have my sheet of paper, please?" she said with a catching of her breath. she was a couple of inches less in height than he. do you observe her half-open lips? said mother nature in a noiseless aside to mr. lewisham--a thing he afterwards recalled. in her eyes was a touch of apprehension. "i say," he said, with protest still uppermost, "you oughtn't to do this." "do what?" "this. impositions. for my boys." she raised her eyebrows, then knitted them momentarily, and looked at him. "are _you_ mr. lewisham?" she asked with an affectation of entire ignorance and discovery. she knew him perfectly well, which was one reason why she was writing the imposition, but pretending not to know gave her something to say. mr. lewisham nodded. "of all people! then"--frankly--"you have just found me out." "i am afraid i have," said lewisham. "i am afraid i _have_ found you out." they looked at one another for the next move. she decided to plead in extenuation. "teddy frobisher is my cousin. i know it's very wrong, but he seemed to have such a lot to do and to be in _such_ trouble. and i had nothing to do. in fact, it was _i_ who offered...." she stopped and looked at him. she seemed to consider her remark complete. that meeting of the eyes had an oddly disconcerting quality. he tried to keep to the business of the imposition. "you ought not to have done that," he said, encountering her steadfastly. she looked down and then into his face again. "no," she said. "i suppose i ought not to. i'm very sorry." her looking down and up again produced another unreasonable effect. it seemed to lewisham that they were discussing something quite other than the topic of their conversation; a persuasion patently absurd and only to be accounted for by the general disorder of his faculties. he made a serious attempt to keep his footing of reproof. "i should have detected the writing, you know." "of course you would. it was very wrong of me to persuade him. but i did--i assure you. he seemed in such trouble. and i thought--" she made another break, and there was a faint deepening of colour in her cheeks. suddenly, stupidly, his own adolescent cheeks began to glow. it became necessary to banish that sense of a duplicate topic forthwith. "i can assure you," he said, now very earnestly, "i never give a punishment, never, unless it is merited. i make that a rule. i--er--_always_ make that a rule. i am very careful indeed." "i am really sorry," she interrupted with frank contrition. "it _was_ silly of me." lewisham felt unaccountably sorry she should have to apologise, and he spoke at once with the idea of checking the reddening of his face. "i don't think _that_," he said with a sort of belated alacrity. "really, it was kind of you, you know--very kind of you indeed. and i know that--i can quite understand that--er--your kindness...." "ran away with me. and now poor little teddy will get into worse trouble for letting me...." "oh no," said mr. lewisham, perceiving an opportunity and trying not to smile his appreciation of what he was saying. "i had no business to read this as i picked it up--absolutely no business. consequently...." "you won't take any notice of it? really!" "certainly not," said mr. lewisham. her face lit with a smile, and mr. lewisham's relaxed in sympathy. "it is nothing--it's the proper thing for me to do, you know." "but so many people won't do it. schoolmasters are not usually so--chivalrous." he was chivalrous! the phrase acted like a spur. he obeyed a foolish impulse. "if you like--" he said. "what?" "he needn't do this. the impot., i mean. i'll let him off." "really?" "i can." "it's awfully kind of you." "i don't mind," he said. "it's nothing much. if you really think ..." he was full of self-applause for this scandalous sacrifice of justice. "it's awfully kind of you," she said. "it's nothing, really," he explained, "nothing." "most people wouldn't--" "i know." pause. "it's all right," he said. "really." he would have given worlds for something more to say, something witty and original, but nothing came. the pause lengthened. she glanced over her shoulder down the vacant avenue. this interview--this momentous series of things unsaid was coming to an end! she looked at him hesitatingly and smiled again. she held out her hand. no doubt that was the proper thing to do. he took it, searching a void, tumultuous mind in vain. "it's awfully kind of you," she said again as she did so. "it don't matter a bit," said mr. lewisham, and sought vainly for some other saying, some doorway remark into new topics. her hand was cool and soft and firm, the most delightful thing to grasp, and this observation ousted all other things. he held it for a moment, but nothing would come. they discovered themselves hand in hand. they both laughed and felt "silly." they shook hands in the manner of quite intimate friends, and snatched their hands away awkwardly. she turned, glanced timidly at him over her shoulder, and hesitated. "good-bye," she said, and was suddenly walking from him. he bowed to her receding back, made a seventeenth-century sweep with his college cap, and then some hitherto unexplored regions of his mind flashed into revolt. hardly had she gone six paces when he was at her side again. "i say," he said with a fearful sense of his temerity, and raising his mortar-board awkwardly as though he was passing a funeral. "but that sheet of paper ..." "yes," she said surprised--quite naturally. "may i have it?" "why?" he felt a breathless pleasure, like that of sliding down a slope of snow. "i would like to have it." she smiled and raised her eyebrows, but his excitement was now too great for smiling. "look here!" she said, and displayed the sheet crumpled into a ball. she laughed--with a touch of effort. "i don't mind that," said mr. lewisham, laughing too. he captured the paper by an insistent gesture and smoothed it out with fingers that trembled. "you don't mind?" he said. "mind what?" "if i keep it?" "why should i?" pause. their eyes met again. there was an odd constraint about both of them, a palpitating interval of silence. "i really _must_ be going," she said suddenly, breaking the spell by an effort. she turned about and left him with the crumpled piece of paper in the fist that held the book, the other hand lifting the mortar board in a dignified salute again. he watched her receding figure. his heart was beating with remarkable rapidity. how light, how living she seemed! little round flakes of sunlight raced down her as she went. she walked fast, then slowly, looking sideways once or twice, but not back, until she reached the park gates. then she looked towards him, a remote friendly little figure, made a gesture of farewell, and disappeared. his face was flushed and his eyes bright. curiously enough, he was out of breath. he stared for a long time at the vacant end of the avenue. then he turned his eyes to his trophy gripped against the closed and forgotten horace in his hand. chapter iii. the wonderful discovery. on sunday it was lewisham's duty to accompany the boarders twice to church. the boys sat in the gallery above the choirs facing the organ loft and at right angles to the general congregation. it was a prominent position, and made him feel painfully conspicuous, except in moods of exceptional vanity, when he used to imagine that all these people were thinking how his forehead and his certificates accorded. he thought a lot in those days of his certificates and forehead, but little of his honest, healthy face beneath it. (to tell the truth there was nothing very wonderful about his forehead.) he rarely looked down the church, as he fancied to do so would be to meet the collective eye of the congregation regarding him. so that in the morning he was not able to see that the frobishers' pew was empty until the litany. but in the evening, on the way to church, the frobishers and their guest crossed the market-square as his string of boys marched along the west side. and the guest was arrayed in a gay new dress, as if it was already easter, and her face set in its dark hair came with a strange effect of mingled freshness and familiarity. she looked at him calmly! he felt very awkward, and was for cutting his new acquaintance. then hesitated, and raised his hat with a jerk as if to mrs. frobisher. neither lady acknowledged his salute, which may possibly have been a little unexpected. then young siddons dropped his hymn-book; stooped to pick it up, and lewisham almost fell over him.... he entered church in a mood of black despair. but consolation of a sort came soon enough. as _she_ took her seat she distinctly glanced up at the gallery, and afterwards as he knelt to pray he peeped between his fingers and saw her looking up again. she was certainly not laughing at him. in those days much of lewisham's mind was still an unknown land to him. he believed among other things that he was always the same consistent intelligent human being, whereas under certain stimuli he became no longer reasonable and disciplined but a purely imaginative and emotional person. music, for instance, carried him away, and particularly the effect of many voices in unison whirled him off from almost any state of mind to a fine massive emotionality. and the evening service at whortley church--at the evening service surplices were worn--the chanting and singing, the vague brilliance of the numerous candle flames, the multitudinous unanimity of the congregation down there, kneeling, rising, thunderously responding, invariably inebriated him. inspired him, if you will, and turned the prose of his life into poetry. and chance, coming to the aid of dame nature, dropped just the apt suggestion into his now highly responsive ear. the second hymn was a simple and popular one, dealing with the theme of faith, hope, and charity, and having each verse ending with the word "love." conceive it, long drawn out and disarticulate,-- "faith will van ... ish in ... to sight, hope be emp ... tied in deli ... ight, love in heaven will shine more bri ... ight, there ... fore give us love." at the third repetition of the refrain, lewisham looked down across the chancel and met her eyes for a brief instant.... he stopped singing abruptly. then the consciousness of the serried ranks of faces below there came with almost overwhelming force upon him, and he dared not look at her again. he felt the blood rushing to his face. love! the greatest of these. the greatest of all things. better than fame. better than knowledge. so came the great discovery like a flood across his mind, pouring over it with the cadence of the hymn and sending a tide of pink in sympathy across his forehead. the rest of the service was phantasmagorial background to that great reality--a phantasmagorial background a little inclined to stare. he, mr. lewisham, was in love. "a ... men." he was so preoccupied that he found the whole congregation subsiding into their seats, and himself still standing, rapt. he sat down spasmodically, with an impact that seemed to him to re-echo through the church. as they came out of the porch into the thickening night, he seemed to see her everywhere. he fancied she had gone on in front, and he hurried up the boys in the hope of overtaking her. they pushed through the throng of dim people going homeward. should he raise his hat to her again?... but it was susie hopbrow in a light-coloured dress--a raven in dove's plumage. he felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. he would see her no more that night. he hurried from the school to his lodging. he wanted very urgently to be alone. he went upstairs to his little room and sat before the upturned box on which his butler's analogy was spread open. he did not go to the formality of lighting the candle. he leant back and gazed blissfully at the solitary planet that hung over the vicarage garden. he took out of his pocket a crumpled sheet of paper, smoothed and carefully refolded, covered with a writing not unlike that of frobisher ii., and after some maidenly hesitation pressed this treasure to his lips. the schema and the time-table hung in the darkness like the mere ghosts of themselves. mrs. munday called him thrice to his supper. he went out immediately after it was eaten and wandered under the stars until he came over the hill behind the town again, and clambered up the back to the stile in sight of the frobishers' house. he selected the only lit window as hers. behind the blind, mrs. frobisher, thirty-eight, was busy with her curl-papers--she used papers because they were better for the hair--and discussing certain neighbours in a fragmentary way with mr. frobisher, who was in bed. presently she moved the candle to examine a faint discolouration of her complexion that rendered her uneasy. outside, mr. lewisham (eighteen) stood watching the orange oblong for the best part of half an hour, until it vanished and left the house black and blank. then he sighed deeply and returned home in a very glorious mood indeed. he awoke the next morning feeling extremely serious, but not clearly remembering the overnight occurrences. his eye fell on his clock. the time was six and he had not heard the alarum; as a matter of fact the alarum had not been wound up. he jumped out of bed at once and alighted upon his best trousers amorphously dropped on the floor instead of methodically cast over a chair. as he soaped his head he tried, according to his rules of revision, to remember the overnight reading. he could not for the life of him. the truth came to him as he was getting into his shirt. his head, struggling in its recesses, became motionless, the handless cuffs ceased to dangle for a minute.... then his head came through slowly with a surprised expression upon his face. he remembered. he remembered the thing as a bald discovery, and without a touch of emotion. with all the achromatic clearness, the unromantic colourlessness of the early morning.... yes. he had it now quite distinctly. there had been no overnight reading. he was in love. the proposition jarred with some vague thing in his mind. he stood staring for a space, and then began looking about absent-mindedly for his collar-stud. he paused in front of his schema, regarding it. chapter iv. raised eyebrows. "work must be done anyhow," said mr. lewisham. but never had the extraordinary advantages of open-air study presented themselves so vividly. before breakfast he took half an hour of open-air reading along the allotments lane near the frobishers' house, after breakfast and before school he went through the avenue with a book, and returned from school to his lodgings circuitously through the avenue, and so back to the avenue for thirty minutes or so before afternoon school. when mr. lewisham was not looking over the top of his book during these periods of open-air study, then commonly he was glancing over his shoulder. and at last who should he see but--! he saw her out of the corner of his eye, and he turned away at once, pretending not to have seen her. his whole being was suddenly irradiated with emotion. the hands holding his book gripped it very tightly. he did not glance back again, but walked slowly and steadfastly, reading an ode that he could not have translated to save his life, and listening acutely for her approach. and after an interminable time, as it seemed, came a faint footfall and the swish of skirts behind him. he felt as though his head was directed forward by a clutch of iron. "mr. lewisham," she said close to him, and he turned with a quality of movement that was almost convulsive. he raised his cap clumsily. he took her extended hand by an afterthought, and held it until she withdrew it. "i am so glad to have met you," she said. "so am i," said lewisham simply. they stood facing one another for an expressive moment, and then by a movement she indicated her intention to walk along the avenue with him. "i wanted so much," she said, looking down at her feet, "to thank you for letting teddy off, you know. that is why i wanted to see you." lewisham took his first step beside her. "and it's odd, isn't it," she said, looking up into his face, "that i should meet you here in just the same place. i believe ... yes. the very same place we met before." mr. lewisham was tongue-tied. "do you often come here?" she said. "well," he considered--and his voice was most unreasonably hoarse when he spoke--"no. no.... that is--at least not often. now and then. in fact, i like it rather for reading and that sort of thing. it's so quiet." "i suppose you read a great deal?" "when one teaches one has to." "but you ..." "i'm rather fond of reading, certainly. are you?" "i _love_ it." mr. lewisham was glad she loved reading. he would have been disappointed had she answered differently. but she spoke with real fervour. she _loved_ reading! it was pleasant. she would understand him a little perhaps. "of course," she went on, "i'm not clever like some people are. and i have to read books as i get hold of them." "so do i," said mr. lewisham, "for the matter of that.... have you read ... carlyle?" the conversation was now fairly under way. they were walking side by side beneath the swaying boughs. mr. lewisham's sensations were ecstatic, marred only by a dread of some casual boy coming upon them. she had not read _much_ carlyle. she had always wanted to, even from quite a little girl--she had heard so much about him. she knew he was a really great writer, a _very_ great writer indeed. all she _had_ read of him she liked. she could say that. as much as she liked anything. and she had seen his house in chelsea. lewisham, whose knowledge of london had been obtained by excursion trips on six or seven isolated days, was much impressed by this. it seemed to put her at once on a footing of intimacy with this imposing personality. it had never occurred to him at all vividly that these great writers had real abiding places. she gave him a few descriptive touches that made the house suddenly real and distinctive to him. she lived quite near, she said, at least within walking distance, in clapham. he instantly forgot the vague design of lending her his "_sartor resartus_" in his curiosity to learn more about her home. "clapham--that's almost in london, isn't it?" he said. "quite," she said, but she volunteered no further information about her domestic circumstances, "i like london," she generalised, "and especially in winter." and she proceeded to praise london, its public libraries, its shops, the multitudes of people, the facilities for "doing what you like," the concerts one could go to, the theatres. (it seemed she moved in fairly good society.) "there's always something to see even if you only go out for a walk," she said, "and down here there's nothing to read but idle novels. and those not new." mr. lewisham had regretfully to admit the lack of such culture and mental activity in whortley. it made him feel terribly her inferior. he had only his bookishness and his certificates to set against it all--and she had seen carlyle's house! "down here," she said, "there's nothing to talk about but scandal." it was too true. at the corner by the stile, beyond which the willows were splendid against the blue with silvery aments and golden pollen, they turned by mutual impulse and retraced their steps. "i've simply had no one to talk to down here," she said. "not what _i_ call talking." "i hope," said lewisham, making a resolute plunge, "perhaps while you are staying at whortley ..." he paused perceptibly, and she, following his eyes, saw a voluminous black figure approaching. "we may," said mr. lewisham, resuming his remark, "chance to meet again, perhaps." he had been about to challenge her to a deliberate meeting. a certain delightful tangle of paths that followed the bank of the river had been in his mind. but the apparition of mr. george bonover, headmaster of the whortley proprietary school, chilled him amazingly. dame nature no doubt had arranged the meeting of our young couple, but about bonover she seems to have been culpably careless. she now receded inimitably, and mr. lewisham, with the most unpleasant feelings, found himself face to face with a typical representative of a social organisation which objects very strongly _inter alia_ to promiscuous conversation on the part of the young unmarried junior master. "--chance to meet again, perhaps," said mr. lewisham, with a sudden lack of spirit. "i hope so too," she said. pause. mr. bonover's features, and particularly a bushy pair of black eyebrows, were now very near, those eyebrows already raised, apparently to express a refined astonishment. "is this mr. bonover approaching?" she asked. "yes." prolonged pause. would he stop and accost them? at any rate this frightful silence must end. mr. lewisham sought in his mind for some remark wherewith to cover his employer's approach. he was surprised to find his mind a desert. he made a colossal effort. if they could only talk, if they could only seem at their ease! but this blank incapacity was eloquent of guilt. ah! "it's a lovely day, though," said mr. lewisham. "isn't it?" she agreed with him. "isn't it?" she said. and then mr. bonover passed, forehead tight reefed so to speak, and lips impressively compressed. mr. lewisham raised his mortar-board, and to his astonishment mr. bonover responded with a markedly formal salute--mock clerical hat sweeping circuitously--and the regard of a searching, disapproving eye, and so passed. lewisham was overcome with astonishment at this improvement on the nod of their ordinary commerce. and so this terrible incident terminated for the time. he felt a momentary gust of indignation. after all, why should bonover or anyone interfere with his talking to a girl if he chose? and for all he knew they might have been properly introduced. by young frobisher, say. nevertheless, lewisham's spring-tide mood relapsed into winter. he was, he felt, singularly stupid for the rest of their conversation, and the delightful feeling of enterprise that had hitherto inspired and astonished him when talking to her had shrivelled beyond contempt. he was glad--positively glad--when things came to an end. at the park gates she held out her hand. "i'm afraid i have interrupted your reading," she said. "not a bit," said mr. lewisham, warming slightly. "i don't know when i've enjoyed a conversation...." "it was--a breach of etiquette, i am afraid, my speaking to you, but i did so want to thank you...." "don't mention it," said mr. lewisham, secretly impressed by the etiquette. "good-bye." he stood hesitating by the lodge, and then turned back up the avenue in order not to be seen to follow her too closely up the west street. and then, still walking away from her, he remembered that he had not lent her a book as he had planned, nor made any arrangement ever to meet her again. she might leave whortley anywhen for the amenities of clapham. he stopped and stood irresolute. should he run after her? then he recalled bonover's enigmatical expression of face. he decided that to pursue her would be altogether too conspicuous. yet ... so he stood in inglorious hesitation, while the seconds passed. he reached his lodging at last to find mrs. munday halfway through dinner. "you get them books of yours," said mrs. munday, who took a motherly interest in him, "and you read and you read, and you take no account of time. and now you'll have to eat your dinner half cold, and no time for it to settle proper before you goes off to school. it's ruination to a stummik--such ways." "oh, never mind my stomach, mrs. munday," said lewisham, roused from a tangled and apparently gloomy meditation; "that's _my_ affair." quite crossly he spoke for him. "i'd rather have a good sensible actin' stummik than a full head," said mrs. monday, "any day." "i'm different, you see," snapped mr. lewisham, and relapsed into silence and gloom. ("hoity toity!" said mrs. monday under her breath.) chapter v. hesitations. mr. bonover, having fully matured a hint suitable for the occasion, dropped it in the afternoon, while lewisham was superintending cricket practice. he made a few remarks about the prospects of the first eleven by way of introduction, and lewisham agreed with him that frobisher i. looked like shaping very well this season. a pause followed and the headmaster hummed. "by-the-bye," he said, as if making conversation and still watching the play; "i, ah,--understood that you, ah--were a _stranger_ to whortley." "yes," said lewisham, "that's so." "you have made friends in the neighbourhood?" lewisham was troubled with a cough, and his ears--those confounded ears--brightened, "yes," he said, recovering, "oh yes. yes, i have." "local people, i presume." "well, no. not exactly." the brightness spread from lewisham's ears over his face. "i saw you," said bonover, "talking to a young lady in the avenue. her face was somehow quite familiar to me. who _was_ she?" should he say she was a friend of the frobishers? in that case bonover, in his insidious amiable way, might talk to the frobisher parents and make things disagreeable for her. "she was," said lewisham, flushing deeply with the stress on his honesty and dropping his voice to a mumble, "a ... a ... an old friend of my mother's. in fact, i met her once at salisbury." "where?" "salisbury." "and her name?" "smith," said lewisham, a little hastily, and repenting the lie even as it left his lips. "well _hit_, harris!" shouted bonover, and began to clap his hands. "well _hit_, sir." "harris shapes very well," said mr. lewisham. "very," said mr. bonover. "and--what was it? ah! i was just remarking the odd resemblances there are in the world. there is a miss henderson--or henson--stopping with the frobishers--in the very same town, in fact, the very picture of your miss ..." "smith," said lewisham, meeting his eye and recovering the full crimson note of his first blush. "it's odd," said bonover, regarding him pensively. "very odd," mumbled lewisham, cursing his own stupidity and looking away. "_very_--very odd," said bonover. "in fact," said bonover, turning towards the school-house, "i hardly expected it of you, mr. lewisham." "expected what, sir?" but mr. bonover feigned to be already out of earshot. "damn!" said mr. lewisham. "oh!--_damn_!"--a most objectionable expression and rare with him in those days. he had half a mind to follow the head-master and ask him if he doubted his word. it was only too evident what the answer would be. he stood for a minute undecided, then turned on his heel and marched homeward with savage steps. his muscles quivered as he walked, and his face twitched. the tumult of his mind settled at last into angry indignation. "confound him!" said mr. lewisham, arguing the matter out with the bedroom furniture. "why the _devil_ can't he mind his own business?" "mind your own business, sir!" shouted mr. lewisham at the wash-hand stand. "confound you, sir, mind your own business!" the wash-hand stand did. "you overrate your power, sir," said mr. lewisham, a little mollified. "understand me! i am my own master out of school." nevertheless, for four days and some hours after mr. bonover's hint, mr. lewisham so far observed its implications as to abandon open-air study and struggle with diminishing success to observe the spirit as well as the letter of his time-table prescriptions. for the most part he fretted at accumulating tasks, did them with slipshod energy or looked out of window. the career constituent insisted that to meet and talk to this girl again meant reproof, worry, interference with his work for his matriculation, the destruction of all "discipline," and he saw the entire justice of the insistence. it was nonsense this being in love; there wasn't such a thing as love outside of trashy novelettes. and forthwith his mind went off at a tangent to her eyes under the shadow of her hat brim, and had to be lugged back by main force. on thursday when he was returning from school he saw her far away down the street, and hurried in to avoid her, looking ostentatiously in the opposite direction. but that was a turning-point. shame overtook him. on friday his belief in love was warm and living again, and his heart full of remorse for laggard days. on saturday morning his preoccupation with her was so vivid that it distracted him even while he was teaching that most teachable subject, algebra, and by the end of the school hours the issue was decided and the career in headlong rout. that afternoon he would go, whatever happened, and see her and speak to her again. the thought of bonover arose only to be dismissed. and besides-- bonover took a siesta early in the afternoon. yes, he would go out and find her and speak to her. nothing should stop him. once that decision was taken his imagination became riotous with things he might say, attitudes he might strike, and a multitude of vague fine dreams about her. he would say this, he would say that, his mind would do nothing but circle round this wonderful pose of lover. what a cur he had been to hide from her so long! what could he have been thinking about? how _could_ he explain it to her, when the meeting really came? suppose he was very frank-- he considered the limits of frankness. would she believe he had not seen her on thursday?--if he assured her that it was so? and, most horrible, in the midst of all this came bonover with a request that he would take "duty" in the cricket field instead of dunkerley that afternoon. dunkerley was the senior assistant master, lewisham's sole colleague. the last vestige of disapprobation had vanished from bonover's manner; asking a favour was his autocratic way of proffering the olive branch. but it came to lewisham as a cruel imposition. for a fateful moment he trembled on the brink of acquiescence. in a flash came a vision of the long duty of the afternoon--she possibly packing for clapham all the while. he turned white. mr. bonover watched his face. "_no_," said lewisham bluntly, saying all he was sure of, and forthwith racking his unpractised mind for an excuse. "i'm sorry i can't oblige you, but ... my arrangements ... i've made arrangements, in fact, for the afternoon." mr. bonover's eyebrows went up at this obvious lie, and the glow of his suavity faded, "you see," he said, "mrs. bonover expects a friend this afternoon, and we rather want mr. dunkerley to make four at croquet...." "i'm sorry," said mr. lewisham, still resolute, and making a mental note that bonover would be playing croquet. "you don't play croquet by any chance?" asked bonover. "no," said lewisham, "i haven't an idea." "if mr. dunkerley had asked you?..." persisted bonover, knowing lewisham's respect for etiquette. "oh! it wasn't on that account," said lewisham, and bonover with eyebrows still raised and a general air of outraged astonishment left him standing there, white and stiff, and wondering at his extraordinary temerity. chapter vi. the scandalous ramble. as soon as school was dismissed lewisham made a gaol-delivery of his outstanding impositions, and hurried back to his lodgings, to spend the time until his dinner was ready--well?... it seems hardly fair, perhaps, to lewisham to tell this; it is doubtful, indeed, whether a male novelist's duty to his sex should not restrain him, but, as the wall in the shadow by the diamond-framed window insisted, "_magna est veritas et prevalebit_." mr. lewisham brushed his hair with elaboration, and ruffled it picturesquely, tried the effect of all his ties and selected a white one, dusted his boots with an old pocket-handkerchief, changed his trousers because the week-day pair was minutely frayed at the heels, and inked the elbows of his coat where the stitches were a little white. and, to be still more intimate, he studied his callow appearance in the glass from various points of view, and decided that his nose might have been a little smaller with advantage.... directly after dinner he went out, and by the shortest path to the allotment lane, telling himself he did not care if he met bonover forthwith in the street. he did not know precisely what he intended to do, but he was quite clear that he meant to see the girl he had met in the avenue. he knew he should see her. a sense of obstacles merely braced him and was pleasurable. he went up the stone steps out of the lane to the stile that overlooked the frobishers, the stile from which he had watched the frobisher bedroom. there he seated himself with his arms, folded, in full view of the house. that was at ten minutes to two. at twenty minutes to three he was still sitting there, but his hands were deep in his jacket pockets, and he was scowling and kicking his foot against the step with an impatient monotony. his needless glasses had been thrust into his waistcoat pocket--where they remained throughout the afternoon--and his cap was tilted a little back from his forehead and exposed a wisp of hair. one or two people had gone down the lane, and he had pretended not to see them, and a couple of hedge-sparrows chasing each other along the side of the sunlit, wind-rippled field had been his chief entertainment. it is unaccountable, no doubt, but he felt angry with her as the time crept on. his expression lowered. he heard someone going by in the lane behind him. he would not look round--it annoyed him to think of people seeing him in this position. his once eminent discretion, though overthrown, still made muffled protests at the afternoon's enterprise. the feet down the lane stopped close at hand. "stare away," said lewisham between his teeth. and then began mysterious noises, a violent rustle of hedge twigs, a something like a very light foot-tapping. curiosity boarded lewisham and carried him after the briefest struggle. he looked round, and there she was, her back to him, reaching after the spiky blossoming blackthorn that crested the opposite hedge. remarkable accident! she had not seen him! in a moment lewisham's legs were flying over the stile. he went down the steps in the bank with such impetus that it carried him up into the prickly bushes beside her. "allow me," he said, too excited to see she was not astonished. "mr. lewisham!" she said in feigned surprise, and stood away to give him room at the blackthorn. "which spike will you have?" he cried, overjoyed. "the whitest? the highest? any!" "that piece," she chose haphazard, "with the black spike sticking out from it." a mass of snowy blossom it was against the april sky, and lewisham, straggling for it--it was by no means the most accessible--saw with fantastic satisfaction a lengthy scratch flash white on his hand, and turn to red. "higher up the lane," he said, descending triumphant and breathless, "there is blackthorn.... this cannot compare for a moment...." she laughed and looked at him as he stood there flushed, his eyes triumphant, with an unpremeditated approval. in church, in the gallery, with his face foreshortened, he had been effective in a way, but this was different. "show me," she said, though she knew this was the only place for blackthorn for a mile in either direction. "i _knew_ i should see you," he said, by way of answer, "i felt sure i should see you to-day." "it was our last chance almost," she answered with as frank a quality of avowal. "i'm going home to london on monday." "i knew," he cried in triumph. "to clapham?" he asked. "yes. i have got a situation. you did not know that i was a shorthand clerk and typewriter, did you? i am. i have just left the school, the grogram school. and now there is an old gentleman who wants an amanuensis." "so you know shorthand?" said he. "that accounts for the stylographic pen. those lines were written.... i have them still." she smiled and raised her eyebrows. "here," said mr. lewisham, tapping his breast-pocket. "this lane," he said--their talk was curiously inconsecutive--"some way along this lane, over the hill and down, there is a gate, and that goes--i mean, it opens into the path that runs along the river bank. have you been?" "no," she said. "it's the best walk about whortley. it brings you out upon immering common. you _must_--before you go." "_now_?" she said with her eyes dancing. "why not?" "i told mrs. frobisher i should be back by four," she said. "it's a walk not to be lost." "very well," said she. "the trees are all budding," said mr. lewisham, "the rushes are shooting, and all along the edge of the river there are millions of little white flowers floating on the water, _i_ don't know the names of them, but they're fine.... may i carry that branch of blossom?" as he took it their hands touched momentarily ... and there came another of those significant gaps. "look at those clouds," said lewisham abruptly, remembering the remark he had been about to make and waving the white froth of blackthorn, "and look at the blue between them." "it's perfectly splendid. of all the fine weather the best has been kept for now. my last day. my very last day." and off these two young people went together in a highly electrical state--to the infinite astonishment of mrs. frobisher, who was looking out of the attic window--stepping out manfully and finding the whole world lit and splendid for their entertainment. the things they discovered and told each other that afternoon down by the river!--that spring was wonderful, young leaves beautiful, bud scales astonishing things, and clouds dazzling and stately!--with an air of supreme originality! and their naïve astonishment to find one another in agreement upon these novel delights! it seemed to them quite outside the play of accident that they should have met each other. they went by the path that runs among the trees along the river bank, and she must needs repent and wish to take the lower one, the towing path, before they had gone three hundred yards. so lewisham had to find a place fit for her descent, where a friendly tree proffered its protruding roots as a convenient balustrade, and down she clambered with her hand in his. then a water-vole washing his whiskers gave occasion for a sudden touching of hands and the intimate confidence of whispers and silence together. after which lewisham essayed to gather her a marsh mallow at the peril, as it was judged, of his life, and gained it together with a bootful of water. and at the gate by the black and shiny lock, where the path breaks away from the river, she overcame him by an unexpected feat, climbing gleefully to the top rail with the support of his hand, and leaping down, a figure of light and grace, to the ground. they struck boldly across the meadows, which were gay with lady's smock, and he walked, by special request, between her and three matronly cows--feeling as perseus might have done when he fended off the sea-monster. and so by the mill, and up a steep path to immering common. across the meadows lewisham had broached the subject of her occupation. "and are you really going away from here to be an amanuensis?" he said, and started her upon the theme of herself, a theme she treated with a specialist's enthusiasm. they dealt with it by the comparative methods and neither noticed the light was out of the sky until the soft feet of the advancing shower had stolen right upon them. "look!" said he. "yonder! a shed," and they ran together. she ran laughing, and yet swiftly and lightly. he pulled her through the hedge by both hands, and released her skirt from an amorous bramble, and so they came into a little black shed in which a rusty harrow of gigantic proportions sheltered. he noted how she still kept her breath after that run. she sat down on the harrow and hesitated. "i _must_ take off my hat," she said, "that rain will spot it," and so he had a chance of admiring the sincerity of her curls--not that he had ever doubted them. she stooped over her hat, pocket-handkerchief in hand, daintily wiping off the silvery drops. he stood up at the opening of the shed and looked at the country outside through the veil of the soft vehemence of the april shower. "there's room for two on this harrow," she said. he made inarticulate sounds of refusal, and then came and sat down beside her, close beside her, so that he was almost touching her. he felt a fantastic desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, and overcame the madness by an effort. "i don't even know your name," he said, taking refuge from his whirling thoughts in conversation. "henderson," she said. "_miss_ henderson?" she smiled in his face--hesitated. "yes--_miss_ henderson." her eyes, her atmosphere were wonderful. he had never felt quite the same sensation before, a strange excitement, almost like a faint echo of tears. he was for demanding her christian name. for calling her "dear" and seeing what she would say. he plunged headlong into a rambling description of bonover and how he had told a lie about her and called her miss smith, and so escaped this unaccountable emotional crisis.... the whispering of the rain about them sank and died, and the sunlight struck vividly across the distant woods beyond immering. just then they had fallen on a silence again that was full of daring thoughts for mr. lewisham. he moved his arm suddenly and placed it so that it was behind her on the frame of the harrow. "let us go on now," she said abruptly. "the rain has stopped." "that little path goes straight to immering," said mr. lewisham. "but, four o'clock?" he drew out his watch, and his eyebrows went up. it was already nearly a quarter past four. "is it past four?" she asked, and abruptly they were face to face with parting. that lewisham had to take "duty" at half-past five seemed a thing utterly trivial. "surely," he said, only slowly realising what this parting meant. "but must you? i--i want to talk to you." "haven't you been talking to me?" "it isn't that. besides--no." she stood looking at him. "i promised to be home by four," she said. "mrs. frobisher has tea...." "we may never have a chance to see one another again." "well?" lewisham suddenly turned very white. "don't leave me," he said, breaking a tense silence and with a sudden stress in his voice. "don't leave me. stop with me yet--for a little while.... you ... you can lose your way." "you seem to think," she said, forcing a laugh, "that i live without eating and drinking." "i have wanted to talk to you so much. the first time i saw you.... at first i dared not.... i did not know you would let me talk.... and now, just as i am--happy, you are going." he stopped abruptly. her eyes were downcast. "no," she said, tracing a curve with the point of her shoe. "no. i am not going." lewisham restrained an impulse to shout. "you will come to immering?" he cried, and as they went along the narrow path through the wet grass, he began to tell her with simple frankness how he cared for her company, "i would not change this," he said, casting about for an offer to reject, "for--anything in the world.... i shall not be back for duty. i don't care. i don't care what happens so long as we have this afternoon." "nor i," she said. "thank you for coming," he said in an outburst of gratitude.--"oh, thank you for coming," and held out his hand. she took it and pressed it, and so they went on hand in hand until the village street was reached. their high resolve to play truant at all costs had begotten a wonderful sense of fellowship. "i can't call you miss henderson," he said. "you know i can't. you know ... i must have your christian name." "ethel," she told him. "ethel," he said and looked at her, gathering courage as he did so. "ethel," he repeated. "it is a pretty name. but no name is quite pretty enough for you, ethel ... _dear_."... the little shop in immering lay back behind a garden full of wallflowers, and was kept by a very fat and very cheerful little woman, who insisted on regarding them as brother and sister, and calling them both "dearie." these points conceded she gave them an admirable tea of astonishing cheapness. lewisham did not like the second condition very much, because it seemed to touch a little on his latest enterprise. but the tea and the bread and butter and the whort jam were like no food on earth. there were wallflowers, heavy scented, in a jug upon the table, and ethel admired them, and when they set out again the little old lady insisted on her taking a bunch with her. it was after they left immering that this ramble, properly speaking, became scandalous. the sun was already a golden ball above the blue hills in the west--it turned our two young people into little figures of flame--and yet, instead of going homeward, they took the wentworth road that plunges into the forshaw woods. behind them the moon, almost full, hung in the blue sky above the tree-tops, ghostly and indistinct, and slowly gathered to itself such light as the setting sun left for it in the sky. going out of immering they began to talk of the future. and for the very young lover there is no future but the immediate future. "you must write to me," he said, and she told him she wrote such _silly_ letters. "but i shall have reams to write to you," he told her. "how are you to write to me?" she asked, and they discussed a new obstacle between them. it would never do to write home--never. she was sure of that with an absolute assurance. "my mother--" she said and stopped. that prohibition cut him, for at that time he had the makings of a voluminous letter-writer. yet it was only what one might expect. the whole world was unpropitious--obdurate indeed.... a splendid isolation _à deux_. perhaps she might find some place where letters might be sent to her? yet that seemed to her deceitful. so these two young people wandered on, full of their discovery of love, and yet so full too of the shyness of adolescence that the word "love" never passed their lips that day. yet as they talked on, and the kindly dusk gathered about them, their speech and their hearts came very close together. but their speech would seem so threadbare, written down in cold blood, that i must not put it here. to them it was not threadbare. when at last they came down the long road into whortley, the silent trees were black as ink and the moonlight made her face pallid and wonderful, and her eyes shone like stars. she still carried the blackthorn from which most of the blossoms had fallen. the fragrant wallflowers were fragrant still. and far away, softened by the distance, the whortley band, performing publicly outside the vicarage for the first time that year, was playing with unctuous slowness a sentimental air. i don't know if the reader remembers it that, favourite melody of the early eighties:-- "sweet dreamland faces, passing to and fro, (pum, pum) bring back to mem'ry days of long ago-o-o-oh," was the essence of it, very slow and tender and with an accompaniment of pum, pum. pathetically cheerful that pum, pum, hopelessly cheerful indeed against the dirge of the air, a dirge accentuated by sporadic vocalisation. but to young people things come differently. "i _love_ music," she said. "so do i," said he. they came on down the steepness of west street. they walked athwart the metallic and leathery tumult of sound into the light cast by the little circle of yellow lamps. several people saw them and wondered what the boys and girls were coming to nowadays, and one eye-witness even subsequently described their carriage as "brazen." mr. lewisham was wearing his mortarboard cap of office--there was no mistaking him. they passed the proprietary school and saw a yellow picture framed and glazed, of mr. bonover taking duty for his aberrant assistant master. and outside the frobisher house at last they parted perforce. "good-bye," he said for the third time. "good-bye, ethel." she hesitated. then suddenly she darted towards him. he felt her hands upon his shoulders, her lips soft and warm upon his cheek, and before he could take hold of her she had eluded him, and had flitted into the shadow of the house. "good-bye," came her sweet, clear voice out of the shadow, and while he yet hesitated an answer, the door opened. he saw her, black in the doorway, heard some indistinct words, and then the door closed and he was alone in the moonlight, his cheek still glowing from her lips.... so ended mr. lewisham's first day with love. chapter vii. the reckoning. and after the day of love came the days of reckoning. mr. lewisham was astonished--overwhelmed almost--by that reckoning, as it slowly and steadily unfolded itself. the wonderful emotions of saturday carried him through sunday, and he made it up with the neglected schema by assuring it that she was his inspiration, and that he would work for her a thousand times better than he could possibly work for himself. that was certainly not true, and indeed he found himself wondering whither the interest had vanished out of his theological examination of butler's analogy. the frobishers were not at church for either service. he speculated rather anxiously why? monday dawned coldly and clearly--a herbert spencer of a day--and he went to school sedulously assuring himself there was nothing to apprehend. day boys were whispering in the morning apparently about him, and frobisher ii. was in great request. lewisham overheard a fragment "my mother _was_ in a wax," said frobisher ii. at twelve came an interview with bonover, and voices presently rising in angry altercation and audible to senior-assistant dunkerley through the closed study door. then lewisham walked across the schoolroom, staring straight before him, his cheeks very bright. thereby dunkerley's mind was prepared for the news that came the next morning over the exercise books. "when?" said dunkerley. "end of next term," said lewisham. "about this girl that's been staying at the frobishers?" "yes." "she's a pretty bit of goods. but it will mess up your matric next june," said dunkerley. "that's what i'm sorry for." "it's scarcely to be expected he'll give you leave to attend the exam...." "he won't," said lewisham shortly, and opened his first exercise book. he found it difficult to talk. "he's a greaser," said dunkerley. "but there!--what can you expect from durham?" for bonover had only a durham degree, and dunkerley, having none, inclined to be particular. therewith dunkerley lapsed into a sympathetic and busy rustling over his own pile of exercises. it was not until the heap had been reduced to a book or so that he spoke again--an elaborate point. "male and female created he them," said dunkerley, ticking his way down the page. "which (tick, tick) was damned hard (tick, tick) on assistant masters." he closed the book with a snap and flung it on the floor behind him. "you're lucky," he said. "i _did_ think i should be first to get out of this scandalising hole. you're lucky. it's always acting down here. running on parents and guardians round every corner. that's what i object to in life in the country: it's so confoundedly artificial. _i_ shall take jolly good care _i_ get out of it just as soon as ever i can. you bet!" "and work those patents?" "rather, my boy. yes. work those patents. the patent square top bottle! lord! once let me get to london...." "i think _i_ shall have a shot at london," said lewisham. and then the experienced dunkerley, being one of the kindest young men alive, forgot certain private ambitions of his own--he cherished dreams of amazing patents--and bethought him of agents. he proceeded to give a list of these necessary helpers of the assistant master at the gangway--orellana, gabbitas, the lancaster gate agency, and the rest of them. he knew them all--intimately. he had been a "nix" eight years. "of course that kensington thing may come off," said dunkerley, "but it's best not to wait. i tell you frankly--the chances are against you." the "kensington thing" was an application for admission to the normal school of science at south kensington, which lewisham had made in a sanguine moment. there being an inadequate supply of qualified science teachers in england, the science and art department is wont to offer free instruction at its great central school and a guinea a week to select young pedagogues who will bind themselves to teach science after their training is over. dunkerley had been in the habit of applying for several years, always in vain, and lewisham had seen no harm in following his example. but then dunkerley had no green-grey certificates. so lewisham spent all that "duty" left him of the next day composing a letter to copy out and send the several scholastic agencies. in this he gave a brief but appreciative sketch of his life, and enlarged upon his discipline and educational methods. at the end was a long and decorative schedule of his certificates and distinctions, beginning with a good-conduct prize at the age of eight. a considerable amount of time was required to recopy this document, but his modesty upheld him. after a careful consideration of the time-table, he set aside the midday hour for "correspondence." he found that his work in mathematics and classics was already some time in arrears, and a "test" he had sent to his correspondence tutor during those troublous days after the meeting with bonover in the avenue, came back blottesquely indorsed: "below pass standard." this last experience was so unprecedented and annoyed him so much that for a space he contemplated retorting with a sarcastic letter to the tutor. and then came the easter recess, and he had to go home and tell his mother, with a careful suppression of details, that he was leaving whortley, "where you have been getting on so well!" cried his mother. but that dear old lady had one consolation. she observed he had given up his glasses--he had forgotten to bring them with him--and her secret fear of grave optical troubles--that were being "kept" from her---was alleviated. sometimes he had moods of intense regret for the folly of that walk. one such came after the holidays, when the necessity of revising the dates of the schema brought before his mind, for the first time quite clearly, the practical issue of this first struggle with all those mysterious and powerful influences the spring-time sets a-stirring. his dream of success and fame had been very real and dear to him, and the realisation of the inevitable postponement of his long anticipated matriculation, the doorway to all the other great things, took him abruptly like an actual physical sensation in his chest. he sprang up, pen in hand, in the midst of his corrections, and began pacing up and down the room. "what a fool i have been!" he cried. "what a fool i have been!" he flung the pen on the floor and made a rush at an ill-drawn attempt upon a girl's face that adorned the end of his room, the visible witness of his slavery. he tore this down and sent the fragments of it scattering.... "fool!" it was a relief--a definite abandonment. he stared for a moment at the destruction he had made, and then went back to the revision of the time-table, with a mutter about "silly spooning." that was one mood. the rarer one. he watched the posts with far more eagerness for the address to which he might write to her than for any reply to those reiterated letters of application, the writing of which now ousted horace and the higher mathematics (lewisham's term for conics) from his attention. indeed he spent more time meditating the letter to her than even the schedule of his virtues had required. yet the letters of application were wonderful compositions; each had a new pen to itself and was for the first page at least in a handwriting far above even his usual high standard. and day after day passed and that particular letter he hoped for still did not come. his moods were complicated by the fact that, in spite of his studied reticence on the subject, the reason of his departure did in an amazingly short time get "all over whortley." it was understood that he had been discovered to be "fast," and ethel's behaviour was animadverted upon with complacent indignation--if the phrase may be allowed--by the ladies of the place. pretty looks were too often a snare. one boy--his ear was warmed therefor--once called aloud "ethel," as lewisham went by. the curate, a curate of the pale-faced, large-knuckled, nervous sort, now passed him without acknowledgment of his existence. mrs. bonover took occasion to tell him that he was a "mere boy," and once mrs. frobisher sniffed quite threateningly at him when she passed him in the street. she did it so suddenly she made him jump. this general disapproval inclined him at times to depression, but in certain moods he found it exhilarating, and several times he professed himself to dunkerley not a little of a blade. in others, he told himself he bore it for _her_ sake. anyhow he had to bear it. he began to find out, too, how little the world feels the need of a young man of nineteen--he called himself nineteen, though he had several months of eighteen still to run--even though he adds prizes for good conduct, general improvement, and arithmetic, and advanced certificates signed by a distinguished engineer and headed with the royal arms, guaranteeing his knowledge of geometrical drawing, nautical astronomy, animal physiology, physiography, inorganic chemistry, and building construction, to his youth and strength and energy. at first he had imagined headmasters clutching at the chance of him, and presently he found himself clutching eagerly at them. he began to put a certain urgency into his applications for vacant posts, an urgency that helped him not at all. the applications grew longer and longer until they ran to four sheets of note-paper--a pennyworth in fact. "i can assure you," he would write, "that you will find me a loyal and devoted assistant." much in that strain. dunkerley pointed out that bonover's testimonial ignored the question of moral character and discipline in a marked manner, and bonover refused to alter it. he was willing to do what he could to help lewisham, in spite of the way he had been treated, but unfortunately his conscience.... once or twice lewisham misquoted the testimonial--to no purpose. and may was halfway through, and south kensington was silent. the future was grey. and in the depths of his doubt and disappointment came her letter. it was typewritten on thin paper. "dear," she wrote simply, and it seemed to him the most sweet and wonderful of all possible modes of address, though as a matter of fact it was because she had forgotten his christian name and afterwards forgotten the blank she had left for it. "dear, i could not write before because i have no room at home now where i can write a letter, and mrs. frobisher told my mother falsehoods about you. my mother has surprised me dreadfully--i did not think it of her. she told me nothing. but of that i must tell you in another letter. i am too angry to write about it now. even now you cannot write back, for _you must not send letters here_. it would _never_ do. but i think of you, dear,"--the "dear" had been erased and rewritten--"and i must write and tell you so, and of that nice walk we had, if i never write again. i am very busy now. my work is rather difficult and i am afraid i am a little stupid. it is hard to be interested in anything just because that is how you have to live, is it not? i daresay you sometimes feel the same of school. but i suppose everybody is doing things they don't like. i don't know when i shall come to whortley again, if ever, but very likely you will be coming to london. mrs. frobisher said the most horrid things. it would be nice if you could come to london, because then perhaps you might see me. there is a big boys' school at chelsea, and when i go by it every morning i wish you were there. then you would come out in your cap and gown as i went by. suppose some day i was to see you there suddenly!!" so it ran, with singularly little information in it, and ended quite abruptly, "good-bye, dear. good-bye, dear," scribbled in pencil. and then, "think of me sometimes." reading it, and especially that opening "dear," made lewisham feel the strangest sensation in his throat and chest, almost as though he was going to cry. so he laughed instead and read it again, and went to and fro in his little room with his eyes bright and that precious writing held in his hand. that "dear" was just as if she had spoken--a voice suddenly heard. he thought of her farewell, clear and sweet, out of the shadow of the moonlit house. but why that "if i never write again," and that abrupt ending? of course he would think of her. it was her only letter. in a little time its creases were worn through. early in june came a loneliness that suddenly changed into almost intolerable longing to see her. he had vague dreams of going to london, to clapham to find her. but you do not find people in clapham as you do in whortley. he spent an afternoon writing and re-writing a lengthy letter, against the day when her address should come. if it was to come. he prowled about the village disconsolately, and at last set off about seven and retraced by moonlight almost every step of that one memorable walk of theirs. in the blackness of the shed he worked himself up to the pitch of talking as if she were present. and he said some fine brave things. he found the little old lady of the wallflowers with a candle in her window, and drank a bottle of ginger beer with a sacramental air. the little old lady asked him, a trifle archly, after his sister, and he promised to bring her again some day. "i'll certainly bring her," he said. talking to the little old lady somehow blunted his sense of desolation. and then home through the white indistinctness in a state of melancholy that became at last so fine as to be almost pleasurable. the day after that mood a new "text" attracted and perplexed mrs. munday, an inscription at once mysterious and familiar, and this inscription was: mizpah. it was in old english lettering and evidently very carefully executed. where had she seen it before? it quite dominated all the rest of the room at first, it flaunted like a flag of triumph over "discipline" and the time-table and the schema. once indeed it was taken down, but the day after it reappeared. later a list of scholastic vacancies partially obscured it, and some pencil memoranda were written on the margin. and when at last the time came for him to pack up and leave whortley, he took it down and used it with several other suitable papers--the schema and the time-table were its next-door neighbours--to line the bottom of the yellow box in which he packed his books: chiefly books for that matriculation that had now to be postponed. chapter viii. the career prevails. there is an interval of two years and a half and the story resumes with a much maturer mr. lewisham, indeed no longer a youth, but a man, a legal man, at any rate, of one-and-twenty years. its scene is no longer little whortley embedded among its trees, ruddy banks, parks and common land, but the grey spaciousness of west london. and it does not resume with ethel at all. for that promised second letter never reached him, and though he spent many an afternoon during his first few months in london wandering about clapham, that arid waste of people, the meeting that he longed for never came. until at last, after the manner of youth, so gloriously recuperative in body, heart, and soul, he began to forget. the quest of a "crib" had ended in the unexpected fruition of dunkerley's blue paper. the green-blue certificates had, it seemed, a value beyond mural decoration, and when lewisham was already despairing of any employment for the rest of his life, came a marvellous blue document from the education department promising inconceivable things. he was to go to london and be paid a guinea a week for listening to lectures--lectures beyond his most ambitious dreams! among the names that swam before his eyes was huxley--huxley and then lockyer! what a chance to get! is it any wonder that for three memorable years the career prevailed with him? you figure him on his way to the normal school of science at the opening of his third year of study there. (they call the place the royal college of science in these latter days.) he carried in his right hand a shiny black bag, well stuffed with text-books, notes, and apparatus for the forthcoming session; and in his left was a book that the bag had no place for, a book with gilt edges, and its binding very carefully protected by a brown paper cover. the lapse of time had asserted itself upon his upper lip in an inaggressive but indisputable moustache, in an added inch or so of stature, and in his less conscious carriage. for he no longer felt that universal attention he believed in at eighteen; it was beginning to dawn on him indeed that quite a number of people were entirely indifferent to the fact of his existence. but if less conscious, his carriage was decidedly more confident--as of one with whom the world goes well. his costume was--with one exception--a tempered black,--mourning put to hard uses and "cutting up rusty." the mourning was for his mother, who had died more than a year before the date when this story resumes, and had left him property that capitalized at nearly a hundred pounds, a sum which lewisham hoarded jealously in the savings bank, paying only for such essentials as university fees, and the books and instruments his brilliant career as a student demanded. for he was having a brilliant career, after all, in spite of the whortley check, licking up paper certificates indeed like a devouring flame. (surveying him, madam, your eye would inevitably have fallen to his collar--curiously shiny, a surface like wet gum. although it has practically nothing to do with this story, i must, i know, dispose of that before i go on, or you will be inattentive. london has its mysteries, but this strange gloss on his linen! "cheap laundresses always make your things blue," protests the lady. "it ought to have been blue-stained, generously frayed, and loose about the button, fretting his neck. but this gloss ..." you would have looked nearer, and finally you would have touched--a charnel-house surface, dank and cool! you see, madam, the collar was a patent waterproof one. one of those you wash over night with a tooth-brush, and hang on the back of your chair to dry, and there you have it next morning rejuvenesced. it was the only collar he had in the world, it saved threepence a week at least, and that, to a south kensington "science teacher in training," living on the guinea a week allowed by a parental but parsimonious government, is a sum to consider. it had come to lewisham as a great discovery. he had seen it first in a shop window full of indiarubber goods, and it lay at the bottom of a glass bowl in which goldfish drifted discontentedly to and fro. and he told himself that he rather liked that gloss.) but the wearing of a bright red tie would have been unexpected--a bright red tie after the fashion of a south-western railway guard's! the rest of him by no means dandiacal, even the vanity of glasses long since abandoned. you would have reflected.... where had you seen a crowd--red ties abundant and in some way significant? the truth has to be told. mr. lewisham had become a socialist! that red tie was indeed but one outward and visible sign of much inward and spiritual development. lewisham, in spite of the demands of a studious career, had read his butler's analogy through by this time, and some other books; he had argued, had had doubts, and called upon god for "faith" in the silence of the night--"faith" to be delivered immediately if mr. lewisham's patronage was valued, and which nevertheless was not so delivered.... and his conception of his destiny in this world was no longer an avenue of examinations to a remote bar and political eminence "in the liberal interest (d.v.)." he had begun to realise certain aspects of our social order that whortley did not demonstrate, begun to feel something of the dull stress deepening to absolute wretchedness and pain, which is the colour of so much human life in modern london. one vivid contrast hung in his mind symbolical. on the one hand were the coalies of the westbourne park yards, on strike and gaunt and hungry, children begging in the black slush, and starving loungers outside a soup kitchen; and on the other, westbourne grove, two streets further, a blazing array of crowded shops, a stirring traffic of cabs and carriages, and such a spate of spending that a tired student in leaky boots and graceless clothes hurrying home was continually impeded in the whirl of skirts and parcels and sweetly pretty womanliness. no doubt the tired student's own inglorious sensations pointed the moral. but that was only one of a perpetually recurring series of vivid approximations. lewisham had a strong persuasion, an instinct it may be, that human beings should not be happy while others near them were wretched, and this gay glitter of prosperity had touched him with a sense of crime. he still believed people were responsible for their own lives; in those days he had still to gauge the possibilities of moral stupidity in himself and his fellow-men. he happened upon "progress and poverty" just then, and some casual numbers of the "commonweal," and it was only too easy to accept the theory of cunning plotting capitalists and landowners, and faultless, righteous, martyr workers. he became a socialist forthwith. the necessity to do something at once to manifest the new faith that was in him was naturally urgent. so he went out and (historical moment) bought that red tie! "blood colour, please," said lewisham meekly to the young lady at the counter. "_what_ colour?" said the young lady at the counter, sharply. "a bright scarlet, please," said lewisham, blushing. and he spent the best part of the evening and much of his temper in finding out how to tie this into a neat bow. it was a plunge into novel handicraft--for previously he had been accustomed to made-up ties. so it was that lewisham proclaimed the social revolution. the first time that symbol went abroad a string of stalwart policemen were walking in single file along the brompton road. in the opposite direction marched lewisham. he began to hum. he passed the policemen with a significant eye and humming the _marseillaise_.... but that was months ago, and by this time the red tie was a thing of use and wont. he turned out of the exhibition road through a gateway of wrought iron, and entered the hall of the normal school. the hall was crowded with students carrying books, bags, and boxes of instruments, students standing and chattering, students reading the framed and glazed notices of the debating society, students buying note-books, pencils, rubber, or drawing pins from the privileged stationer. there was a strong representation of new hands, the paying students, youths and young men in black coats and silk hats or tweed suits, the scholar contingent, youngsters of lewisham's class, raw, shabby, discordant, grotesquely ill-dressed and awe-stricken; one lewisham noticed with a sailor's peaked cap gold-decorated, and one with mittens and very genteel grey kid gloves; and grummett the perennial official of the books was busy among them. "der zozalist!" said a wit. lewisham pretended not to hear and blushed vividly. he often wished he did not blush quite so much, seeing he was a man of one-and-twenty. he looked studiously away from the debating society notice-board, whereon "g.e. lewisham on socialism" was announced for the next friday, and struggled through the hall to where the book awaited his signature. presently he was hailed by name, and then again. he could not get to the book for a minute or so, because of the hand-shaking and clumsy friendly jests of his fellow-"men." he was pointed out to a raw hand, by the raw hand's experienced fellow-townsman, as "that beast lewisham--awful swat. he was second last year on the year's work. frightful mugger. but all these swats have a touch of the beastly prig. exams--debating society--more exams. don't seem to have ever heard of being alive. never goes near a music hall from one year's end to the other." lewisham heard a shrill whistle, made a run for the lift and caught it just on the point of departure. the lift was unlit and full of black shadows; only the sapper who conducted it was distinct. as lewisham peered doubtfully at the dim faces near him, a girl's voice addressed him by name. "is that you, miss heydinger?" he answered. "i didn't see, i hope you have had a pleasant vacation." chapter ix. alice heydinger. when he arrived at the top of the building he stood aside for the only remaining passenger to step out before him. it was the miss heydinger who had addressed him, the owner of that gilt-edged book in the cover of brown paper. no one else had come all the way up from the ground floor. the rest of the load in the lift had emerged at the "astronomical" and "chemical" floors, but these two had both chosen "zoology" for their third year of study, and zoology lived in the attics. she stepped into the light, with a rare touch of colour springing to her cheeks in spite of herself. lewisham perceived an alteration in her dress. perhaps she was looking for and noticed the transitory surprise in his face. the previous session--their friendship was now nearly a year old--it had never once dawned upon him that she could possibly be pretty. the chief thing he had been able to recall with any definiteness during the vacation was, that her hair was not always tidy, and that even when it chanced to be so, she was nervous about it; she distrusted it. he remembered her gesture while she talked, a patting exploration that verged on the exasperating. from that he went on to remember that its colour was, on the whole, fair, a light brown. but he had forgotten her mouth, he had failed to name the colour of her eyes. she wore glasses, it is true. and her dress was indefinite in his memory--an amorphous dinginess. and yet he had seen a good deal of her. they were not in the same course, but he had made her acquaintance on the committee of the school debating society. lewisham was just then discovering socialism. that had afforded a basis of conversation--an incentive to intercourse. she seemed to find something rarely interesting in his peculiar view of things, and, as chance would have it, he met her accidentally quite a number of times, in the corridors of the schools, in the big education library, and in the art museum. after a time those meetings appear to have been no longer accidental. lewisham for the first time in his life began to fancy he had conversational powers. she resolved to stir up his ambitions--an easy task. she thought he had exceptional gifts and that she might serve to direct them; she certainly developed his vanity. she had matriculated at the london university and they took the intermediate examination in science together in july--she a little unwisely--which served, as almost anything will serve in such cases, as a further link between them. she failed, which in no way diminished lewisham's regard for her. on the examination days they discoursed about friendship in general, and things like that, down the burlington arcade during the lunch time--burlington arcade undisguisedly amused by her learned dinginess and his red tie--and among other things that were said she reproached him for not reading poetry. when they parted in piccadilly, after the examination, they agreed to write, about poetry and themselves, during the holidays, and then she lent him, with a touch of hesitation, rossetti's poems. he began to forget what had at first been very evident to him, that she was two or three years older than he. lewisham spent the vacation with an unsympathetic but kindly uncle who was a plumber and builder. his uncle had a family of six, the eldest eleven, and lewisham made himself agreeable and instructive. moreover he worked hard for the culminating third year of his studies (in which he had decided to do great things), and he learnt to ride the ordinary bicycle. he also thought about miss heydinger, and she, it would seem, thought about him. he argued on social questions with his uncle, who was a prominent local conservative. his uncle's controversial methods were coarse in the extreme. socialists, he said, were thieves. the object of socialism was to take away what a man earned and give it to "a lot of lazy scoundrels." also rich people were necessary. "if there weren't well-off people, how d'ye think i'd get a livin'? hey? and where'd _you_ be then?" socialism, his uncle assured him, was "got up" by agitators. "they get money out of young gabies like you, and they spend it in champagne." and thereafter he met mr. lewisham's arguments with the word "champagne" uttered in an irritating voice, followed by a luscious pantomime of drinking. naturally lewisham felt a little lonely, and perhaps he laid stress upon it in his letters to miss heydinger. it came to light that she felt rather lonely too. they discussed the question of true as distinguished from ordinary friendship, and from that they passed to goethe and elective affinities. he told her how he looked for her letters, and they became more frequent. her letters were indisputably well written. had he been a journalist with a knowledge of "_per thou_." he would have known each for a day's work. after the practical plumber had been asking what he expected to make by this here science of his, re-reading her letters was balsamic. he liked rossetti--the exquisite sense of separation in "the blessed damozel" touched him. but, on the whole, he was a little surprised at miss heydinger's taste in poetry. rossetti was so sensuous ... so florid. he had scarcely expected that sort of thing. altogether he had returned to the schools decidedly more interested in her than when they had parted. and the curious vague memories of her appearance as something a little frayed and careless, vanished at sight of her emerging from the darkness of the lift. her hair was in order, as the light glanced through it it looked even pretty, and she wore a well-made, dark-green and black dress, loose-gathered as was the fashion in those days, that somehow gave a needed touch of warmth to her face. her hat too was a change from the careless lumpishness of last year, a hat that, to a feminine mind, would have indicated design. it suited her--these things are past a male novelist's explaining. "i have this book of yours, miss heydinger," he said. "i am glad you have written that paper on socialism," she replied, taking the brown-covered volume. they walked along the little passage towards the biological laboratory side by side, and she stopped at the hat pegs to remove her hat. for that was the shameless way of the place, a girl student had to take her hat off publicly, and publicly assume the holland apron that was to protect her in the laboratory. not even a looking-glass! "i shall come and hear your paper," she said. "i hope you will like it," said lewisham at the door of the laboratory. "and in the vacation i have been collecting evidence about ghosts--you remember our arguments. though i did not tell you in my letters." "i'm sorry you're still obdurate," said lewisham. "i thought that was over." "and have you read 'looking backward'?" "i want to." "i have it here with my other books, if you'd care for me to lend it to you. wait till i reach my table. my hands are so full." they entered the laboratory together, lewisham holding the door open courtly-wise, miss heydinger taking a reassuring pat at her hair. near the door was a group of four girls, which group miss heydinger joined, holding the brown-covered book as inconspicuously as possible. three of them had been through the previous two years with her, and they greeted her by her christian name. they had previously exchanged glances at her appearance in lewisham's company. a morose elderly young demonstrator brightened momentarily at the sight of lewisham. "well, we've got one of the decent ones anyhow," said the morose elderly young demonstrator, who was apparently taking an inventory, and then brightening at a fresh entry. "ah! and here's smithers." chapter x. in the gallery of old iron. as one goes into the south kensington art museum from the brompton road, the gallery of old iron is overhead to the right. but the way thither is exceedingly devious and not to be revealed to everybody, since the young people who pursue science and art thereabouts set a peculiar value on its seclusion. the gallery is long and narrow and dark, and set with iron gates, iron-bound chests, locks, bolts and bars, fantastic great keys, lamps, and the like, and over the balustrade one may lean and talk of one's finer feelings and regard michael angelo's horned moses, or trajan's column (in plaster) rising gigantic out of the hall below and far above the level of the gallery. and here, on a wednesday afternoon, were lewisham and miss heydinger, the wednesday afternoon immediately following that paper upon socialism, that you saw announced on the notice-board in the hall. the paper had been an immense success, closely reasoned, delivered with a disciplined emotion, the redoubtable smithers practically converted, the reply after the debate methodical and complete, and it may be there were symptoms of that febrile affection known to the vulgar as "swelled 'ed." lewisham regarded moses and spoke of his future. miss heydinger for the most part watched his face. "and then?" said miss heydinger. "one must bring these views prominently before people. i believe still in pamphlets. i have thought ..." lewisham paused, it is to be hoped through modesty. "yes?" said miss heydinger. "well--luther, you know. there is room, i think, in socialism, for a luther." "yes," said miss heydinger, imagining it. "yes--that would be a grand way." so it seemed to many people in those days. but eminent reformers have been now for more than seven years going about the walls of the social jericho, blowing their own trumpets and shouting--with such small result beyond incidental displays of ill-temper within, that it is hard to recover the fine hopefulness of those departed days. "yes," said miss heydinger. "that would be a grand way." lewisham appreciated the quality of personal emotion in her voice. he turned his face towards her, and saw unstinted admiration in her eyes. "it would be a great thing to do," he said, and added, quite modestly, "if only one could do it." "_you_ could do it." "you think i could?" lewisham blushed vividly--with pleasure. "i do. certainly you could set out to do it. even to fail hopelessly would be great. sometimes ..." she hesitated. he looked expectation. "i think sometimes it is greater even to fail than to succeed." "i don't see that," said the proposed luther, and his eyes went back to the moses. she was about to speak, and changed her mind. contemplative pause. "and then, when a great number of people have heard of your views?" she said presently. "then i suppose we must form a party and ... bring things about." another pause--full, no doubt, of elevated thoughts. "i say," said lewisham quite suddenly. "you do put--well--courage into a chap. i shouldn't have done that socialism paper if it hadn't been for you." he turned round and stood leaning with his back to the moses, and smiling at her. "you do help a fellow," he said. that was one of the vivid moments of miss heydinger's life. she changed colour a little. "do i?" she said, standing straight and awkward and looking into his face, "i'm ... glad." "i haven't thanked you for your letters," said lewisham, "and i've been thinking ..." "yes?" "we're first-rate friends, aren't we? the best of friends." she held out her hand and drew a breath. "yes," she said as they gripped. he hesitated whether to hold her hand. he looked into her eyes, and at that moment she would have given three-quarters of the years she had still to live, to have had eyes and features that could have expressed her. instead, she felt her face hard, the little muscles of her mouth twitching insubordinate, and fancied that her self-consciousness made her eyes dishonest. "what i mean," said lewisham, "is--that this will go on. we're always going to be friends, side by side." "always. just as i am able to help you--i will help you. however i can help you, i will." "we two," said lewisham, gripping her hand. her face lit. her eyes were for a moment touched with the beauty of simple emotion. "we two," she said, and her lips trembled and her throat seemed to swell. she snatched her hand back suddenly and turned her face away. abruptly she walked towards the end of the gallery, and he saw her fumbling for her handkerchief in the folds of the green and black dress. she was going to cry! it set lewisham marvelling--this totally inappropriate emotion. he followed her and stood by her. why cry? he hoped no one would come into the little gallery until her handkerchief was put away. nevertheless he felt vaguely flattered. she controlled herself, dashed her tears away, and smiled bravely at him with reddened eyes. "i'm sorry," she said, gulping. "i am so glad," she explained. "but we will fight together. we two. i _can_ help you. i know i can help you. and there is such work to be done in the world!" "you are very good to help me," said lewisham, quoting a phrase from what he had intended to say before he found out that he had a hold upon her emotions. "no! "has it ever occurred to you," she said abruptly, "how little a woman can do alone in the world?" "or a man," he answered after a momentary meditation. so it was lewisham enrolled his first ally in the cause of the red tie--of the red tie and of the greatness that was presently to come. his first ally; for hitherto--save for the indiscretion of his mural inscriptions--he had made a secret of his private ambitions. in that now half-forgotten love affair at whortley even, he had, in spite of the considerable degree of intimacy attained, said absolutely nothing about his career. chapter xi. manifestations. miss heydinger declined to disbelieve in the spirits of the dead, and this led to controversy in the laboratory over tea. for the girl students, being in a majority that year, had organised tea between four o'clock and the advent of the extinguishing policeman at five. and the men students were occasionally invited to tea. but not more than two of them at a time really participated, because there were only two spare cups after that confounded simmons broke the third. smithers, the square-headed student with the hard grey eyes, argued against the spirits of the dead with positive animosity, while bletherley, who displayed an orange tie and lank hair in unshorn abundance, was vaguely open-minded, "what is love?" asked bletherley, "surely that at any rate is immortal!" his remark was considered irrelevant and ignored. lewisham, as became the most promising student of the year, weighed the evidence--comprehensively under headings. he dismissed the mediumistic _séances_ as trickery. "rot and imposture," said smithers loudly, and with an oblique glance to see if his challenge reached its mark. its mark was a grizzled little old man with a very small face and very big grey eyes, who had been standing listlessly at one of the laboratory windows until the discussion caught him. he wore a brown velvet jacket and was reputed to be enormously rich. his name was lagune. he was not a regular attendant, but one of those casual outsiders who are admitted to laboratories that are not completely full. he was known to be an ardent spiritualist--it was even said that he had challenged huxley to a public discussion on materialism, and he came to the biological lectures and worked intermittently, in order, he explained, to fight disbelief with its own weapons. he rose greedily to smithers' controversial bait. "i say _no_!" he said, calling down the narrow laboratory and following his voice. he spoke with the ghost of a lisp. "pardon my interrupting, sir. the question interests me profoundly. i hope i don't intrude. excuse me, sir. make it personal. am i a--fool, or an impostor?" "well," parried smithers, with all a south kensington student's want of polish, "that's a bit personal." "assume, sir, that i am an honest observer." "well?" "i have _seen_ spirits, _heard_ spirits, _felt_ the touch of spirits," he opened his pale eyes very widely. "fool, then," said smithers in an undertone which did not reach the ears of the spiritualist. "you may have been deceived," paraphrased lewisham. "i can assure you ... others can see, hear, feel. i have tested, sir. tested! i have some scientific training and i have employed tests. scientific and exhaustive tests! every possible way. i ask you, sir--have you given the spirits a chance?" "it is only paying guineas to humbugs," said smithers. "there you are! prejudice! here is a man denies the facts and consequently _won't_ see them, won't go near them." "but you wouldn't have every man in the three kingdoms, who disbelieved in spirits, attend _séances_ before he should be allowed to deny?" "most assuredly yes. most assuredly yes! he knows nothing about it till then." the argument became heated. the little old gentleman was soon under way. he knew a person of the most extraordinary gifts, a medium ... "paid?" asked smithers. "would you muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn?" said lagune promptly. smithers' derision was manifest. "would you distrust a balance because you bought it? come and see." lagune was now very excited and inclined to gesticulate and raise his voice. he invited the whole class incontinently to a series of special _séances_. "not all at once--the spirits--new influences." but in sections. "i warn you we may get nothing. but the chances are ... i would rejoice infinitely ..." so it came about that lewisham consented to witness a spirit-raising. miss heydinger it was arranged should be there, and the sceptic smithers, lagune, his typewriter and the medium would complete the party. afterwards there was to be another party for the others. lewisham was glad he had the moral support of smithers. "it's an evening wasted," said smithers, who had gallantly resolved to make the running for lewisham in the contest for the forbes medal. "but i'll prove my case. you see if i don't." they were given an address in chelsea. the house, when lewisham found it at last, proved a large one, with such an air of mellowed dignity that he was abashed. he hung his hat up for himself beside a green-trimmed hat of straw in the wide, rich-toned hall. through an open door he had a glimpse of a palatial study, book shelves bearing white busts, a huge writing-table lit by a green-shaded electric lamp and covered thickly with papers. the housemaid looked, he thought, with infinite disdain at the rusty mourning and flamboyant tie, and flounced about and led him upstairs. she rapped, and there was a discussion within. "they're at it already, i believe," she said to lewisham confidentially. "mr. lagune's always at it." there were sounds of chairs being moved, smithers' extensive voice making a suggestion and laughing nervously. lagune appeared opening the door. his grizzled face seemed smaller and his big grey eyes larger than usual. "we were just going to begin without you," he whispered. "come along." the room was furnished even more finely than the drawing-room of the whortley grammar school, hitherto the finest room (except certain of the state apartments at windsor) known to lewisham. the furniture struck him in a general way as akin to that in the south kensington museum. his first impression was an appreciation of the vast social superiority of the chairs; it seemed impertinent to think of sitting on anything quite so quietly stately. he perceived smithers standing with an air of bashful hostility against a bookcase. then he was aware that lagune was asking them all to sit down. already seated at the table was the medium, chaffery, a benevolent-looking, faintly shabby gentleman with bushy iron-grey side-whiskers, a wide, thin-lipped mouth tucked in at the corners, and a chin like the toe of a boot. he regarded lewisham critically and disconcertingly over gilt glasses. miss heydinger was quite at her ease and began talking at once. lewisham's replies were less confident than they had been in the gallery of old iron; indeed there was almost a reversal of their positions. she led and he was abashed. he felt obscurely that she had taken an advantage of him. he became aware of another girlish figure in a dark dress on his right. everyone moved towards the round table in the centre of the room, on which lay a tambourine and a little green box. lagune developed unsuspected lengths of knobby wrist and finger directing his guests to their seats. lewisham was to sit next to him, between him and the medium; beyond the medium sat smithers with miss heydinger on the other side of him, linked to lagune by the typewriter. so sceptics compassed the medium about. the company was already seated before lewisham looked across lagune and met the eyes of the girl next that gentleman. it was ethel! the close green dress, the absence of a hat, and a certain loss of colour made her seem less familiar, but did not prevent the instant recognition. and there was recognition in her eyes. immediately she looked away. at first his only emotion was surprise. he would have spoken, but a little thing robbed him of speech. for a moment he was unable to remember her surname. moreover, the strangeness of his surroundings made him undecided. he did not know what was the proper way to address her--and he still kept to the superstition of etiquette. besides--to speak to her would involve a general explanation to all these people ... "just leave a pin-point of gas, mr. smithers, please," said lagune, and suddenly the one surviving jet of the gas chandelier was turned down and they were in darkness. the moment for recognition had passed. the joining of hands was punctiliously verified, the circle was linked little finger to little finger. lewisham's abstraction received a rebuke from smithers. the medium, speaking in an affable voice, premised that he could promise nothing, he had no "_directing_" power over manifestations. thereafter ensued a silence.... for a space lewisham was inattentive to all that happened. he sat in the breathing darkness, staring at the dim elusive shape that had presented that remembered face. his mind was astonishment mingled with annoyance. he had settled that this girl was lost to him for ever. the spell of the old days of longing, of the afternoons that he had spent after his arrival in london, wandering through clapham with a fading hope of meeting her, had not returned to him. but he was ashamed of his stupid silence, and irritated by the awkwardness of the situation. at one moment he was on the very verge of breaking the compact and saying "miss henderson" across the table.... how was it he had forgotten that "henderson"? he was still young enough to be surprised at forgetfulness. smithers coughed, one might imagine with a warning intention. lewisham, recalling his detective responsibility with an effort, peered about him, but the room was very dark. the silence was broken ever and again by deep sighs and a restless stirring from the medium. out of this mental confusion lewisham's personal vanity was first to emerge. what did she think of him? was she peering at him through the darkness even as he peered at her? should he pretend to see her for the first time when the lights were restored? as the minutes lengthened it seemed as though the silence grew deeper and deeper. there was no fire in the room, and it looked, for lack of that glow, chilly. a curious scepticism arose in his mind as to whether he had actually seen ethel or only mistaken someone else for her. he wanted the _séance_ over in order that he might look at her again. the old days at whortley came out of his memory with astonishing detail and yet astonishingly free from emotion.... he became aware of a peculiar sensation down his back, that he tried to account for as a draught.... suddenly a beam of cold air came like a touch against his face, and made him shudder convulsively. then he hoped that she had not marked his shudder. he thought of laughing a low laugh to show he was not afraid. someone else shuddered too, and he perceived an extraordinarily vivid odour of violets. lagune's finger communicated a nervous quivering. what was happening? the musical box somewhere on the table began playing a rather trivial, rather plaintive air that was strange to him. it seemed to deepen the silence about him, an accent on the expectant stillness, a thread of tinkling melody spanning an abyss. lewisham took himself in hand at this stage. what _was_ happening? he must attend. was he really watching as he should do? he had been wool-gathering. there were no such things as spirits, mediums were humbugs, and he was here to prove that sole remaining gospel. but he must keep up with things--he was missing points. what was that scent of violets? and who had set the musical box going? the medium, of course; but how? he tried to recall whether he had heard a rustling or detected any movement before the music began. he could not recollect. come! he must be more on the alert than this! he became acutely desirous of a successful exposure. he figured the dramatic moment he had prepared with smithers--ethel a spectator. he peered suspiciously into the darkness. somebody shuddered again, someone opposite him this time. he felt lagune's finger quiver still more palpably, and then suddenly the raps began, abruptly, all about him. _rap_!--making him start violently. a swift percussive sound, tap, rap, dap, under the table, under the chair, in the air, round the cornices. the medium groaned again and shuddered, and his nervous agitation passed sympathetically round the circle. the music seemed to fade to the vanishing point and grew louder again. how was it done? he heard lagune's voice next him speaking with a peculiar quality of breathless reverence, "the alphabet?" he asked, "shall we--shall we use the alphabet?" a forcible rap under the table. "no!" interpreted the voice of the medium. the raps were continued everywhere. of course it was trickery, lewisham endeavoured to think what the mechanism was. he tried to determine whether he really had the medium's little finger touching his. he peered at the dark shape next him. there was a violent rapping far away behind them with an almost metallic resonance. then the raps ceased, and over the healing silence the little jet of melody from the musical box played alone. and after a moment that ceased also.... the stillness was profound, mr. lewisham was now highly strung. doubts assailed him suddenly, and an overwhelming apprehension, a sense of vast occurrences gathering above him. the darkness was a physical oppression.... he started. something had stirred on the table. there was the sharp ping of metal being struck. a number of little crepitating sounds like paper being smoothed. the sound of wind without the movement of air. a sense of a presence hovering over the table. the excitement of lagune communicated itself in convulsive tremblings; the medium's hand quivered. in the darkness on the table something faintly luminous, a greenish-white patch, stirred and hopped slowly among the dim shapes. the object, whatever it was, hopped higher, rose slowly in the air, expanded. lewisham's attention followed this slavishly. it was ghostly--unaccountable--marvellous. for the moment he forgot even ethel. higher and higher this pallid luminosity rose overhead, and then he saw that it was a ghostly hand and arm, rising, rising. slowly, deliberately it crossed the table, seemed to touch lagune, who shivered. it moved slowly round and touched lewisham. he gritted his teeth. there was no mistaking the touch, firm and yet soft, of finger-tips. almost simultaneously, miss heydinger cried out that something was smoothing her hair, and suddenly the musical box set off again with a reel. the faint oval of the tambourine rose, jangled, and lewisham heard it pat smithers in the face. it seemed to pass overhead. immediately a table somewhere beyond the medium began moving audibly on its castors. it seemed impossible that the medium, sitting so still beside him, could be doing all these things--grotesquely unmeaning though they might be. after all.... the ghostly hand was hovering almost directly in front of mr. lewisham's eyes. it hung with a slight quivering. ever and again its fingers flapped down and rose stiffly again. noise! a loud noise it seemed. something moving? what was it he had to do? lewisham suddenly missed the medium's little finger. he tried to recover it. he could not find it. he caught, held and lost an arm. there was an exclamation. a faint report. a curse close to him bitten in half by the quick effort to suppress it. tzit! the little pinpoint of light flew up with a hiss. lewisham, standing, saw a circle of blinking faces turned to the group of two this sizzling light revealed. smithers was the chief figure of the group; he stood triumphant, one hand on the gas tap, the other gripping the medium's wrist, and in the medium's hand--the incriminatory tambourine. "how's this, lewisham?" cried smithers, with the shadows on his face jumping as the gas flared. "_caught_!" said lewisham loudly, rising in his place and avoiding ethel's eyes. "what's this?" cried the medium. "cheating," panted smithers. "not so," cried the medium. "when you turned up the light ... put my hand up ... caught tambourine ... to save head." "mr. smithers," cried lagune. "mr. smithers, this is very wrong. this--shock--" the tambourine fell noisily to the floor. the medium's face changed, he groaned strangely and staggered back. lagune cried out for a glass of water. everyone looked at the man, expecting him to fall, save lewisham. the thought of ethel had flashed back into his mind. he turned to see how she took this exposure in which he was such a prominent actor. he saw her leaning over the table as if to pick up something that lay across it. she was not looking at him, she was looking at the medium. her face was set and white. then, as if she felt his glance, her eyes met his. she started back, stood erect, facing him with a strange hardness in her eyes. in the moment lewisham did not grasp the situation. he wanted to show that he was acting upon equal terms with smithers in the exposure. for the moment her action simply directed his attention to the object towards which she had been leaning, a thing of shrivelled membrane, a pneumatic glove, lying on the table. this was evidently part of the mediumistic apparatus. he pounced and seized it. "look!" he said, holding it towards smithers. "here is more! what is this?" he perceived that the girl started. he saw chaffery, the medium, look instantly over smithers' shoulders, saw his swift glance of reproach at the girl. abruptly the situation appeared to lewisham; he perceived her complicity. and he stood, still in the attitude of triumph, with the evidence against her in his hand! but his triumph had vanished. "ah!" cried smithers, leaning across the table to secure it. "_good_ old lewisham!... now we _have_ it. this is better than the tambourine." his eyes shone with triumph. "do you see, mr. lagune?" said smithers. "the medium held this in his teeth and blew it out. there's no denying this. this wasn't falling on your head, mr. medium, was it? _this_--this was the luminous hand!" chapter xii. lewisham is unaccountable. that night, as she went with him to chelsea station, miss heydinger discovered an extraordinary moodiness in lewisham. she had been vividly impressed by the scene in which they had just participated, she had for a time believed in the manifestations; the swift exposure had violently revolutionised her ideas. the details of the crisis were a little confused in her mind. she ranked lewisham with smithers in the scientific triumph of the evening. on the whole she felt elated. she had no objection to being confuted by lewisham. but she was angry with the medium, "it is dreadful," she said. "living a lie! how can the world grow better, when sane, educated people use their sanity and enlightenment to darken others? it is dreadful! "he was a horrible man--such an oily, dishonest voice. and the girl--i was sorry for her. she must have been oh!--bitterly ashamed, or why should she have burst out crying? that _did_ distress me. fancy crying like that! it was--yes--_abandon_. but what can one do?" she paused. lewisham was walking along, looking straight before him, lost in some grim argument with himself. "it makes me think of sludge the medium," she said. he made no answer. she glanced at him suddenly. "have you read sludge the medium?" "eigh?" he said, coming back out of infinity. "what? i beg your pardon. sludge, the medium? i thought his name was--it _was_--chaffery." he looked at her, clearly very anxious upon this question of fact. "but i mean browning's 'sludge.' you know the poem." "no--i'm afraid i don't," said lewisham. "i must lend it to you," she said. "it's splendid. it goes to the very bottom of this business." "does it?" "it never occurred to me before. but i see the point clearly now. if people, poor people, are offered money if phenomena happen, it's too much. they are _bound_ to cheat. it's bribery--immorality!" she talked in panting little sentences, because lewisham was walking in heedless big strides. "i wonder how much--such people--could earn honestly." lewisham slowly became aware of the question at his ear. he hurried back from infinity. "how much they could earn honestly? i haven't the slightest idea." he paused. "the whole of this business puzzles me," he said. "i want to think." "it's frightfully complex, isn't it?" she said--a little staggered. but the rest of the way to the station was silence. they parted with a hand-clasp they took a pride in--a little perfunctory so far as lewisham was concerned on this occasion. she scrutinised his face as the train moved out of the station, and tried to account for his mood. he was staring before him at unknown things as if he had already forgotten her. he wanted to think! but two heads, she thought, were better than one in a matter of opinion. it troubled her to be so ignorant of his mental states. "how we are wrapped and swathed about--soul from soul!" she thought, staring out of the window at the dim things flying by outside. suddenly a fit of depression came upon her. she felt alone--absolutely alone--in a void world. presently she returned to external things. she became aware of two people in the next compartment eyeing her critically. her hand went patting at her hair. chapter xiii. lewisham insists. ethel henderson sat at her machine before the window of mr. lagume's study, and stared blankly at the greys and blues of the november twilight. her face was white, her eyelids were red from recent weeping, and her hands lay motionless in her lap. the door had just slammed behind lagune. "heigh-ho!" she said. "i wish i was dead. oh! i wish i was out of it all." she became passive again. "i wonder what i have _done_," she said, "that i should be punished like this." she certainly looked anything but a fate-haunted soul, being indeed visibly and immediately a very pretty girl. her head was shapely and covered with curly dark hair, and the eyebrows above her hazel eyes were clear and dark. her lips were finely shaped, her mouth was not too small to be expressive, her chin small, and her neck white and full and pretty. there is no need to lay stress upon her nose--it sufficed. she was of a mediocre height, sturdy rather than slender, and her dress was of a pleasant, golden-brown material with the easy sleeves and graceful line of those aesthetic days. and she sat at her typewriter and wished she was dead and wondered what she had _done_. the room was lined with bookshelves, and conspicuous therein were a long row of foolish pretentious volumes, the "works" of lagune--the witless, meandering imitation of philosophy that occupied his life. along the cornices were busts of plato, socrates, and newton. behind ethel was the great man's desk with its green-shaded electric light, and littered with proofs and copies of _hesperus_, "a paper for doubters," which, with her assistance, he edited, published, compiled, wrote, and (without her help) paid for and read. a pen, flung down forcibly, quivered erect with its one surviving nib in the blotting pad. mr. lagune had flung it down. the collapse of the previous night had distressed him dreadfully, and ever and again before his retreat he had been breaking into passionate monologue. the ruin of a life-work, it was, no less. surely she had known that chaffery was a cheat. had she not known? silence. "after so many kindnesses--" she interrupted him with a wailing, "oh, i know--i know." but lagune was remorseless and insisted she had betrayed him, worse--made him ridiculous! look at the "work" he had undertaken at south kensington--how could he go on with that now? how could he find the heart? when his own typewriter sacrificed him to her stepfather's trickery? "trickery!" the gesticulating hands became active, the grey eyes dilated with indignation, the piping voice eloquent. "if he hadn't cheated you, someone else would," was ethel's inadequate muttered retort, unheard by the seeker after phenomena. it was perhaps not so bad as dismissal, but it certainly lasted longer. and at home was chaffery, grimly malignant at her failure to secure that pneumatic glove. he had no right to blame her, he really had not; but a disturbed temper is apt to falsify the scales of justice. the tambourine, he insisted, he could have explained by saying he put up his hand to catch it and protect his head directly smithers moved. but the pneumatic glove there was no explaining. he had made a chance for her to secure it when he had pretended to faint. it was rubbish to say anyone could have been looking on the table then--rubbish. beside that significant wreck of a pen stood a little carriage clock in a case, and this suddenly lifted a slender voice and announced _five_. she turned round on her stool and sat staring at the clock. she smiled with the corners of her mouth down. "home," she said, "and begin again. it's like battledore and shuttlecock.... "i _was_ silly.... "i suppose i've brought it on myself. i ought to have picked it up, i suppose. i had time.... "cheats ... just cheats. "i never thought i should see him again.... "he was ashamed, of course.... he had his own friends." for a space she sat still, staring blankly before her. she sighed, rubbed a knuckle in a reddened eye, rose. she went into the hall, where her hat, transfixed by a couple of hat-pins, hung above her jacket, assumed these garments, and let herself out into the cold grey street. she had hardly gone twenty yards from lagune's door before she became aware of a man overtaking her and walking beside her. that kind of thing is a common enough experience to girls who go to and from work in london, and she had had perforce to learn many things since her adventurous whortley days. she looked stiffly in front of her. the man deliberately got in her way so that she had to stop. she lifted eyes of indignant protest. it was lewisham--and his face was white. he hesitated awkwardly, and then in silence held out his hand. she took it mechanically. he found his voice. "miss henderson," he said. "what do you want?" she asked faintly. "i don't know," he said.... "i want to talk to you." "yes?" her heart was beating fast. he found the thing unexpectedly difficult. "may i--? are you expecting--? have you far to go? i would like to talk to you. there is a lot ..." "i walk to clapham," she said. "if you care ... to come part of the way ..." she moved awkwardly. lewisham took his place at her side. they walked side by side for a moment, their manner constrained, having so much to say that they could not find a word to begin upon. "have you forgotten whortley?" he asked abruptly. "no." he glanced at her; her face was downcast. "why did you never write?" he asked bitterly. "i wrote." "again, i mean." "i did--in july." "i never had it." "it came back." "but mrs. munday ..." "i had forgotten her name. i sent it to the grammar school." lewisham suppressed an exclamation. "i am very sorry," she said. they went on again in silence. "last night," said lewisham at length. "i have no business to ask. but--" she took a long breath. "mr. lewisham," she said. "that man you saw--the medium--was my stepfather." "well?" "isn't that enough?" lewisham paused. "no," he said. there was another constrained silence. "no," he said less dubiously. "i don't care a rap what your stepfather is. were _you_ cheating?" her face turned white. her mouth opened and closed. "mr. lewisham," she said deliberately, "you may not believe it, it may sound impossible, but on my honour ... i did not know--i did not know for certain, that is--that my stepfather ..." "ah!" said lewisham, leaping at conviction. "then i was right...." for a moment she stared at him, and then, "i _did_ know," she said, suddenly beginning to cry. "how can i tell you? it is a lie. i _did_ know. i _did_ know all the time." he stared at her in white astonishment. he fell behind her one step, and then in a stride came level again. then, a silence, a silence that seemed it would never end. she had stopped crying, she was one huge suspense, not daring even to look at his face. and at last he spoke. "no," he said slowly. "i don't mind even that. i don't care--even if it was that." abruptly they turned into the king's road, with its roar of wheeled traffic and hurrying foot-passengers, and forthwith a crowd of boys with a broken-spirited guy involved and separated them. in a busy highway of a night one must needs talk disconnectedly in shouted snatches or else hold one's peace. he glanced at her face and saw that it was set again. presently she turned southward out of the tumult into a street of darkness and warm blinds, and they could go on talking again. "i understand what you mean," said lewisham. "i know i do. you knew, but you did not want to know. it was like that." but her mind had been active. "at the end of this road," she said, gulping a sob, "you must go back. it was kind of you to come, mr. lewisham. but you were ashamed--you are sure to be ashamed. my employer is a spiritualist, and my stepfather is a professional medium, and my mother is a spiritualist. you were quite right not to speak to me last night. quite. it was kind of you to come, but you must go back. life is hard enough as it is ... you must go back at the end of the road. go back at the end of the road ..." lewisham made no reply for a hundred yards. "i'm coming on to clapham," he said. they came to the end of the road in silence. then at the kerb corner she turned and faced him. "go back," she whispered. "no," he said obstinately, and they stood face to face at the cardinal point of their lives. "listen to me," said lewisham. "it is hard to say what i feel. i don't know myself.... but i'm not going to lose you like this. i'm not going to let you slip a second time. i was awake about it all last night. i don't care where you are, what your people are, nor very much whether you've kept quite clear of this medium humbug. i don't. you will in future. anyhow. i've had a day and night to think it over. i had to come and try to find you. it's you. i've never forgotten you. never. i'm not going to be sent back like this." "it can be no good for either of us," she said as resolute as he. "i shan't leave you." "but what is the good?..." "i'm coming," said lewisham, dogmatically. and he came. he asked her a question point blank and she would not answer him, and for some way they walked in grim silence. presently she spoke with a twitching mouth. "i wish you would leave me," she said. "you are quite different from what i am. you felt that last night. you helped find us out...." "when first i came to london i used to wander about clapham looking for you," said lewisham, "week after week." they had crossed the bridge and were in a narrow little street of shabby shops near clapham junction before they talked again. she kept her face averted and expressionless. "i'm sorry," said lewisham, with a sort of stiff civility, "if i seem to be forcing myself upon you. i don't want to pry into your affairs--if you don't wish me to. the sight of you has somehow brought back a lot of things.... i can't explain it. perhaps--i had to come to find you--i kept on thinking of your face, of how you used to smile, how you jumped from the gate by the lock, and how we had tea ... a lot of things." he stopped again. "a lot of things." "if i may come," he said, and went unanswered. they crossed the wide streets by the junction and went on towards the common. "i live down this road," she said, stopping abruptly at a corner. "i would rather ..." "but i have said nothing." she looked at him with her face white, unable to speak for a space. "it can do no good," she said. "i am mixed up with this...." she stopped. he spoke deliberately. "i shall come," he said, "to-morrow night." "no," she said. "but i shall come." "no," she whispered. "i shall come." she could hide the gladness of her heart from herself no longer. she was frightened that he had come, but she was glad, and she knew he knew that she was glad. she made no further protest. she held out her hand dumbly. and on the morrow she found him awaiting her even as he had said. chapter xiv. mr. lagune's point of view. for three days the laboratory at south kensington saw nothing of lagune, and then he came back more invincibly voluble than ever. everyone had expected him to return apostate, but he brought back an invigorated faith, a propaganda unashamed. from some source he had derived strength and conviction afresh. even the rhetorical smithers availed nothing. there was a joined battle over the insufficient tea-cups, and the elderly young assistant demonstrator hovered on the verge of the discussion, rejoicing, it is supposed, over the entanglements of smithers. for at the outset smithers displayed an overweening confidence and civility, and at the end his ears were red and his finer manners lost to him. lewisham, it was remarked by miss heydinger, made but a poor figure in this discussion. once or twice he seemed about to address lagune, and thought better of it with the words upon his lips. lagune's treatment of the exposure was light and vigorous. "the man chaffery," he said, "has made a clean breast of it. his point of view--" "facts are facts," said smithers. "a fact is a synthesis of impressions," said lagune; "but that you will learn when you are older. the thing is that we were at cross purposes. i told chaffery you were beginners. he treated you as beginners--arranged a demonstration." "it _was_ a demonstration," said smithers. "precisely. if it had not been for your interruptions ..." "ah!" "he forged elementary effects ..." "you can't but admit that." "i don't attempt to deny it. but, as he explained, the thing is necessary--justifiable. psychic phenomena are subtle, a certain training of the observation is necessary. a medium is a more subtle instrument than a balance or a borax bead, and see how long it is before you can get assured results with a borax bead! in the elementary class, in the introductory phase, conditions are too crude...." "for honesty." "wait a moment. _is_ it dishonest--rigging a demonstration?" "of course it is." "your professors do it." "i deny that in toto," said smithers, and repeated with satisfaction, "in toto." "that's all right," said lagune, "because i have the facts. your chemical lecturers--you may go downstairs now and ask, if you disbelieve me--always cheat over the indestructibility of matter experiment--always. and then another--a physiography thing. you know the experiment i mean? to demonstrate the existence of the earth's rotation. they use--they use--" "foucault's pendulum," said lewisham. "they use a rubber ball with a pin-hole hidden in the hand, and blow the pendulum round the way it ought to go." "but that's different," said smithers. "wait a moment," said lagune, and produced a piece of folded printed paper from his pocket. "here is a review from _nature_ of the work of no less a person than professor greenhill. and see--a convenient pin is introduced in the apparatus for the demonstration of virtual velocities! read it--if you doubt me. i suppose you doubt me." smithers abruptly abandoned his position of denial "in toto." "this isn't my point, mr. lagune; this isn't my point," he said. "these things that are done in the lecture theatre are not to prove facts, but to give ideas." "so was my demonstration," said lagune. "we didn't understand it in that light." "nor does the ordinary person who goes to science lectures understand it in that light. he is comforted by the thought that he is seeing things with his own eyes." "well, i don't care," said smithers; "two wrongs don't make a right. to rig demonstrations is wrong." "there i agree with you. i have spoken plainly with this man chaffery. he's not a full-blown professor, you know, a highly salaried ornament of the rock of truth like your demonstration-rigging professors here, and so i can speak plainly to him without offence. he takes quite the view they would take. but i am more rigorous. i insist that there shall be no more of this...." "next time--" said smithers with irony. "there will be no next time. i have done with elementary exhibitions. you must take the word of the trained observer--just as you do in the matter of chemical analysis." "do you mean you are going on with that chap when he's been caught cheating under your very nose?" "certainly. why not?" smithers set out to explain why not, and happened on confusion. "i still believe the man has powers," said lagune. "of deception," said smithers. "those i must eliminate," said lagune. "you might as well refuse to study electricity because it escaped through your body. all new science is elusive. no investigator in his senses would refuse to investigate a compound because it did unexpected things. either this dissolves in acid or i have nothing more to do with it--eh? that's fine research!" then it was the last vestiges of smithers' manners vanished. "i don't care _what_ you say," said smithers. "it's all rot--it's all just rot. argue if you like--but have you convinced anybody? put it to the vote." "that's democracy with a vengeance," said lagune. "a general election of the truth half-yearly, eh?" "that's simply wriggling out of it," said smithers. "that hasn't anything to do with it at all." lagune, flushed but cheerful, was on his way downstairs when lewisham overtook him. he was pale and out of breath, but as the staircase invariably rendered lagune breathless he did not remark the younger man's disturbance. "interesting talk," panted lewisham. "very interesting talk, sir." "i'm glad you found it so--very," said lagune. there was a pause, and then lewisham plunged desperately. "there is a young lady--she is your typewriter...." he stopped from sheer loss of breath. "yes?" said lagune. "is she a medium or anything of that sort?" "well," lagune reflected, "she is not a medium, certainly. but--why do you ask?" "oh!... i wondered." "you noticed her eyes perhaps. she is the stepdaughter of that man chaffery--a queer character, but indisputably mediumistic. it's odd the thing should have struck you. curiously enough i myself have fancied she might be something of a psychic--judging from her face." "a what?" "a psychic--undeveloped, of course. i have thought once or twice. only a little while ago i was speaking to that man chaffery about her." "were you?" "yes. he of course would like to see any latent powers developed. but it's a little difficult to begin, you know." "you mean--she won't?" "not at present. she is a good girl, but in this matter she is--timid. there is often a sort of disinclination--a queer sort of feeling--one might almost call it modesty." "i see," said lewisham. "one can override it usually. i don't despair." "no," said lewisham shortly. they were at the foot of the staircase now. he hesitated. "you've given me a lot to think about," he said with an attempt at an off-hand manner. "the way you talked upstairs;" and turned towards the book he had to sign. "i'm glad you don't take up quite such an intolerant attitude as mr. smithers," said lagune; "very glad. i must lend you a book or two. if your _cramming_ here leaves you any time, that is." "thanks," said lewisham shortly, and walked away from him. the studiously characteristic signature quivered and sprawled in an unfamiliar manner. "i'm _damned_ if he overrides it," said lewisham, under his breath. chapter xv. love in the streets. lewisham was not quite clear what course he meant to take in the high enterprise of foiling lagune, and indeed he was anything but clear about the entire situation. his logical processes, his emotions and his imagination seemed playing some sort of snatching game with his will. enormous things hung imminent, but it worked out to this, that he walked home with ethel night after night for--to be exact--seven-and-sixty nights. every week night through november and december, save once, when he had to go into the far east to buy himself an overcoat, he was waiting to walk with her home. a curious, inconclusive affair, that walk, to which he came nightly full of vague longings, and which ended invariably under an odd shadow of disappointment. it began outside lagune's most punctually at five, and ended--mysteriously--at the corner of a side road in clapham, a road of little yellow houses with sunk basements and tawdry decorations of stone. up that road she vanished night after night, into a grey mist and the shadow beyond a feeble yellow gas-lamp, and he would watch her vanish, and then sigh and turn back towards his lodgings. they talked of this and that, their little superficial ideas about themselves, and of their circumstances and tastes, and always there was something, something that was with them unspoken, unacknowledged, which made all these things unreal and insincere. yet out of their talk he began to form vague ideas of the home from which she came. there was, of course, no servant, and the mother was something meandering, furtive, tearful in the face of troubles. sometimes of an afternoon or evening she grew garrulous. "mother does talk so--sometimes." she rarely went out of doors. chaffery always rose late, and would sometimes go away for days together. he was mean; he allowed only a weekly twenty-five shillings for housekeeping, and sometimes things grew unsatisfactory at the week-end. there seemed to be little sympathy between mother and daughter; the widow had been flighty in a dingy fashion, and her marriage with her chief lodger chaffery had led to unforgettable sayings. it was to facilitate this marriage that ethel had been sent to whortley, so that was counted a mitigated evil. but these were far-off things, remote and unreal down the long, ill-lit vista of the suburban street which swallowed up ethel nightly. the walk, her warmth and light and motion close to him, her clear little voice, and the touch of her hand; that was reality. the shadow of chaffery and his deceptions lay indeed across all these things, sometimes faint, sometimes dark and present. then lewisham became insistent, his sentimental memories ceased, and he asked questions that verged on gulfs of doubt. had she ever "helped"? she had not, she declared. then she added that twice at home she had "sat down" to complete the circle. she would never help again. that she promised--if it needed promising. there had already been dreadful trouble at home about the exposure at lagune's. her mother had sided with her stepfather and joined in blaming her. but was she to blame? "of _course_ you were not to blame," said lewisham. lagune, he learnt, had been unhappy and restless for the three days after the _séance_--indulging in wearisome monologue--with ethel as sole auditor (at twenty-one shillings a week). then he had decided to give chaffery a sound lecture on his disastrous dishonesty. but it was chaffery gave the lecture. smithers, had he only known it, had been overthrown by a better brain than lagune's, albeit it spoke through lagune's treble. ethel did not like talking of chaffery and these other things. "if you knew how sweet it was to forget it all," she would say; "to be just us two together for a little while." and, "what good _does_ it do to keep on?" when lewisham was pressing. lewisham wanted very much to keep on at times, but the good of it was a little hard to demonstrate. so his knowledge of the situation remained imperfect and the weeks drifted by. wonderfully varied were those seven-and-sixty nights, as he came to remember in after life. there were nights of damp and drizzle, and then thick fogs, beautiful, isolating, grey-white veils, turning every yard of pavement into a private room. grand indeed were these fogs, things to rejoice at mightily, since then it was no longer a thing for public scorn when two young people hurried along arm in arm, and one could do a thousand impudent, significant things with varying pressure and the fondling of a little hand (a hand in a greatly mended glove of cheap kid). then indeed one seemed to be nearer that elusive something that threaded it all together. and the dangers of the street corners, the horses looming up suddenly out of the dark, the carters with lanterns at their horses' heads, the street lamps, blurred, smoky orange at one's nearest, and vanishing at twenty yards into dim haze, seemed to accentuate the infinite need of protection on the part of a delicate young lady who had already traversed three winters of fogs, thornily alone. moreover, one could come right down the quiet street where she lived, halfway to the steps of her house, with a delightful sense of enterprise. the fogs passed all too soon into a hard frost, into nights of starlight and presently moonlight, when the lamps looked hard, flashing like rows of yellow gems, and their reflections and the glare of the shop windows were sharp and frosty, and even the stars hard and bright, snapping noiselessly (if one may say so) instead of twinkling. a jacket trimmed with imitation astrachan replaced ethel's lighter coat, and a round cap of astrachan her hat, and her eyes shone hard and bright, and her forehead was broad and white beneath it. it was exhilarating, but one got home too soon, and so the way from chelsea to clapham was lengthened, first into a loop of side streets, and then when the first pulverulent snows told that christmas was at hand, into a new loop down king's road, and once even through the brompton road and sloane street, where the shops were full of decorations and entertaining things. and, under circumstances of infinite gravity, mr. lewisham secretly spent three-and-twenty shillings out of the vestiges of that hundred pounds, and bought ethel a little gold ring set with pearls. with that there must needs be a ceremonial, and on the verge of the snowy, foggy common she took off her glove and the ring was placed on her finger. whereupon he was moved to kiss her--on the frost-pink knuckle next to an inky nail. "it's silly of us," she said. "what can we do?--ever?" "you wait," he said, and his tone was full of vague promises. afterwards he thought over those promises, and another evening went into the matter more fully, telling her of all the brilliant things that he held it was possible for a south kensington student to do and be--of headmasterships, northern science schools, inspectorships, demonstratorships, yea, even professorships. and then, and then--to all of which she lent a willing and incredulous ear, finding in that dreaming a quality of fear as well as delight. the putting on of the pearl-set ring was mere ceremonial, of course; she could not wear it either at lagune's or at home, so instead she threaded it on a little white satin ribbon and wore it round her neck--"next her heart." he thought of it there warm "next her heart." when he had bought the ring he had meant to save it for christmas before he gave it to her. but the desire to see her pleasure had been too strong for him. christmas eve, i know not by what deceit on her part, these young people spent together all day. lagune was down with a touch of bronchitis and had given his typewriter a holiday. perhaps she forgot to mention it at home. the royal college was in vacation and lewisham was free. he declined the plumber's invitation; "work" kept him in london, he said, though it meant a pound or more of added expenditure. these absurd young people walked sixteen miles that christmas eve, and parted warm and glowing. there had been a hard frost and a little snow, the sky was a colourless grey, icicles hung from the arms of the street lamps, and the pavements were patterned out with frond-like forms that were trodden into slides as the day grew older. the thames they knew was a wonderful sight, but that they kept until last. they went first along the brompton road.... and it is well that you should have the picture of them right: lewisham in the ready-made overcoat, blue cloth and velvet collar, dirty tan gloves, red tie, and bowler hat; and ethel in a two-year-old jacket and hat of curly astrachan; both pink-cheeked from the keen air, shyly arm in arm occasionally, and very alert to miss no possible spectacle. the shops were varied and interesting along the brompton road, but nothing to compare with piccadilly. there were windows in piccadilly so full of costly little things, it took fifteen minutes to get them done, card shops, drapers' shops full of foolish, entertaining attractions. lewisham, in spite of his old animosities, forgot to be severe on the shopping class, ethel was so vastly entertained by all these pretty follies. then up regent street by the place where the sham diamonds are, and the place where the girls display their long hair, and the place where the little chickens run about in the window, and so into oxford street, holborn, ludgate hill, st. paul's churchyard, to leadenhall, and the markets where turkeys, geese, ducklings, and chickens--turkeys predominant, however--hang in rows of a thousand at a time. "i _must_ buy you something," said lewisham, resuming a topic. "no, no," said ethel, with her eye down a vista of innumerable birds. "but i _must_," said lewisham. "you had better choose it, or i shall get something wrong." his mind ran on brooches and clasps. "you mustn't waste your money, and besides, i have that ring." but lewisham insisted. "then--if you must--i am starving. buy me something to eat." an immense and memorable joke. lewisham plunged recklessly--orientally--into an awe-inspiring place with mitred napkins. they lunched on cutlets--stripped the cutlets to the bone--and little crisp brown potatoes, and they drank between them a whole half bottle of--some white wine or other, lewisham selected in an off-hand way from the list. neither of them had ever taken wine at a meal before. one-and-ninepence it cost him, sir, and the name of it was capri! it was really very passable capri--a manufactured product, no doubt, but warming and aromatic. ethel was aghast at his magnificence and drank a glass and a half. then, very warm and comfortable, they went down by the tower, and the tower bridge with its crest of snow, huge pendant icicles, and the ice blocks choked in its side arches, was seasonable seeing. and as they had had enough of shops and crowds they set off resolutely along the desolate embankment homeward. but indeed the thames was a wonderful sight that year! ice-fringed along either shore, and with drift-ice in the middle reflecting a luminous scarlet from the broad red setting sun, and moving steadily, incessantly seaward. a swarm of mewing gulls went to and fro, and with them mingled pigeons and crows. the buildings on the surrey side were dim and grey and very mysterious, the moored, ice-blocked barges silent and deserted, and here and there a lit window shone warm. the sun sank right out of sight into a bank of blue, and the surrey side dissolved in mist save for a few insoluble, spots of yellow light, that presently became many. and after our lovers had come under charing cross bridge the houses of parliament rose before them at the end of a great crescent of golden lamps, blue and faint, halfway between the earth and sky. and the clock on the tower was like a november sun. it was a day without a flaw, or at most but the slightest speck. and that only came at the very end. "good-bye, dear," she said. "i have been very happy to-day." his face came very close to hers. "good-bye," he said, pressing her hand and looking into her eyes. she glanced round, she drew nearer to him. "_dearest_ one," she whispered very softly, and then, "good-bye." suddenly he became unaccountably petulant, he dropped her hand. "it's always like this. we are happy. _i_ am happy. and then--then you are taken away...." there was a silence of mute interrogations. "dear," she whispered, "we must wait." a moment's pause. "_wait_!" he said, and broke off. he hesitated. "good-bye," he said as though he was snapping a thread that held them together. chapter xvi. miss heydinger's private thoughts. the way from chelsea to clapham and the way from south kensington to battersea, especially if the former is looped about a little to make it longer, come very near to each other. one night close upon christmas two friends of lewisham's passed him and ethel. but lewisham did not see them, because he was looking at ethel's face. "did you see?" said the other girl, a little maliciously. "mr. lewisham--wasn't it?" said miss heydinger in a perfectly indifferent tone. * * * * * miss heydinger sat in the room her younger sisters called her "sanctum." her sanctum was only too evidently an intellectualised bedroom, and a cheap wallpaper of silvery roses peeped coquettishly from among her draped furniture. her particular glories were the writing-desk in the middle and the microscope on the unsteady octagonal table under the window. there were bookshelves of workmanship patently feminine in their facile decoration and structural instability, and on them an array of glittering poets, shelley, rossetti, keats, browning, and odd volumes of ruskin, south place sermons, socialistic publications in torn paper covers, and above, science text-books and note-books in an oppressive abundance. the autotypes that hung about the room were eloquent of aesthetic ambitions and of a certain impermeability to implicit meanings. there were the mirror of venus by burne jones, rossetti's annunciation, lippi's annunciation, and the love of life and love and death of watts. and among other photographs was one of last year's debating society committee, lewisham smiling a little weakly near the centre, and miss heydinger out of focus in the right wing. and miss heydinger sat with her back to all these things, in her black horse-hair arm-chair, staring into the fire, her eyes hot, and her chin on her hand. "i might have guessed--before," she said. "ever since that _séance_. it has been different ..." she smiled bitterly. "some shop girl ..." she mused. "they are all alike, i suppose. they come back--a little damaged, as the woman says in 'lady windermere's fan.' perhaps he will. i wonder ..." "why should he be so deceitful? why should he act to me ...? "pretty, pretty, pretty--that is our business. what man hesitates in the choice? he goes his own way, thinks his own thoughts, does his own work ... "his dissection is getting behind--one can see he takes scarcely any notes...." for a long time she was silent. her face became more intent. she began to bite her thumb, at first slowly, then faster. she broke out at last into words again. "the things he might do, the great things he might do. he is able, he is dogged, he is strong. and then comes a pretty face! oh god! _why_ was i made with heart and brain?" she sprang to her feet, with her hands clenched and her face contorted. but she shed no tears. her attitude fell limp in a moment. one hand dropped by her side, the other rested on a fossil on the mantel-shelf, and she stared down into the red fire. "to think of all we might have done! it maddens me! "to work, and think, and learn. to hope and wait. to despise the petty arts of womanliness, to trust to the sanity of man.... "to awake like the foolish virgins," she said, "and find the hour of life is past!" her face, her pose, softened into self-pity. "futility ... "it's no good...." her voice broke. "i shall never be happy...." she saw the grandiose vision of the future she had cherished suddenly rolled aside and vanishing, more and more splendid as it grew more and more remote--like a dream at the waking moment. the vision of her inevitable loneliness came to replace it, clear and acute. she saw herself alone and small in a huge desolation--infinitely pitiful, lewisham callously receding with "some shop girl." the tears came, came faster, until they were streaming down her face. she turned as if looking for something. she flung herself upon her knees before the little arm-chair, and began an incoherent sobbing prayer for the pity and comfort of god. * * * * * the next day one of the other girls in the biological course remarked to her friend that "heydinger-dingery" had relapsed. her friend glanced down the laboratory. "it's a bad relapse," she said. "really ... i couldn't ... wear my hair like that." she continued to regard miss heydinger with a critical eye. she was free to do this because miss heydinger was standing, lost in thought, staring at the december fog outside the laboratory windows. "she looks white," said the girl who had originally spoken. "i wonder if she works hard." "it makes precious little difference if she does," said her friend. "i asked her yesterday what were the bones in the parietal segment, and she didn't know one. not one." the next day miss heydinger's place was vacant. she was ill--from overstudy--and her illness lasted to within three weeks of the terminal examination. then she came back with a pallid face and a strenuous unavailing industry. chapter xvii. in the raphael gallery. it was nearly three o'clock, and in the biological laboratory the lamps were all alight. the class was busy with razors cutting sections of the root of a fern to examine it microscopically. a certain silent frog-like boy, a private student who plays no further part in this story, was working intently, looking more like a frog than usual--his expression modest with a touch of effort. behind miss heydinger, jaded and untidy in her early manner again, was a vacant seat, an abandoned microscope and scattered pencils and note-books. on the door of the class-room was a list of those who had passed the christmas examination. at the head of it was the name of the aforesaid frog-like boy; next to him came smithers and one of the girls bracketed together. lewisham ingloriously headed the second class, and miss heydinger's name did not appear--there was, the list asserted, "one failure." so the student pays for the finer emotions. and in the spacious solitude of the museum gallery devoted to the raphael cartoons sat lewisham, plunged in gloomy meditation. a negligent hand pulled thoughtfully at the indisputable moustache, with particular attention to such portions as were long enough to gnaw. he was trying to see the situation clearly. as he was just smarting acutely under his defeat, this speaks little for the clearness of his mind. the shadow of that defeat lay across everything, blotted out the light of his pride, shaded his honour, threw everything into a new perspective. the rich prettiness of his love-making had fled to some remote quarter of his being. against the frog-like youngster he felt a savage animosity. and smithers had betrayed him. he was angry, bitterly angry, with "swats" and "muggers" who spent their whole time grinding for these foolish chancy examinations. nor had the practical examination been altogether fair, and one of the questions in the written portion was quite outside the lectures. biver, professor biver, was an indiscriminating ass, he felt assured, and so too was weeks, the demonstrator. but these obstacles could not blind his intelligence to the manifest cause of his overthrow, the waste of more than half his available evening, the best time for study in the twenty-four hours, day after day. and that was going on steadily, a perpetual leakage of time. to-night he would go to meet her again, and begin to accumulate to himself ignominy in the second part of the course, the botanical section, also. and so, reluctantly rejecting one cloudy excuse after another, he clearly focussed the antagonism between his relations to ethel and his immediate ambitions. things had come so easily to him for the last two years that he had taken his steady upward progress in life as assured. it had never occurred to him, when he went to intercept ethel after that _séance_, that he went into any peril of that sort. now he had had a sharp reminder. he began to shape a picture of the frog-like boy at home--he was a private student of the upper middle class--sitting in a convenient study with a writing-table, book-shelves, and a shaded lamp--lewisham worked at his chest of drawers, with his greatcoat on, and his feet in the lowest drawer wrapped in all his available linen--and in the midst of incredible conveniences the frog-like boy was working, working, working. meanwhile lewisham toiled through the foggy streets, chelsea-ward, or, after he had left her, tramped homeward--full of foolish imaginings. he began to think with bloodless lucidity of his entire relationship to ethel. his softer emotions were in abeyance, but he told himself no lies. he cared for her, he loved to be with her and to talk to her and please her, but that was not all his desire. he thought of the bitter words of an orator at hammersmith, who had complained that in our present civilisation even the elemental need of marriage was denied. virtue had become a vice. "we marry in fear and trembling, sex for a home is the woman's traffic, and the man comes to his heart's desire when his heart's desire is dead." the thing which had seemed a mere flourish, came back now with a terrible air of truth. lewisham saw that it was a case of divergent ways. on the one hand that shining staircase to fame and power, that had been his dream from the very dawn of his adolescence, and on the other hand--ethel. and if he chose ethel, even then, would he have his choice? what would come of it? a few walks more or less! she was hopelessly poor, he was hopelessly poor, and this cheat of a medium was her stepfather! after all she was not well-educated, she did not understand his work and his aims.... he suddenly perceived with absolute conviction that after the _séance_ he should have gone home and forgotten her. why had he felt that irresistible impulse to seek her out? why had his imagination spun such a strange web of possibilities about her? he was involved now, foolishly involved.... all his future was a sacrifice to this transitory ghost of love-making in the streets. he pulled spitefully at his moustache. his picture began to shape itself into ethel, and her mysterious mother, and the vague dexterous chaffery holding him back, entangled in an impalpable net from that bright and glorious ascent to performance and distinction. leaky boots and the splash of cabs for all his life as his portion! already the forbes medal, the immediate step, was as good as lost.... what on earth had he been thinking about? he fell foul of his upbringing. men of the upper or middle classes were put up to these things by their parents; they were properly warned against involving themselves in this love nonsense before they were independent. it was much better.... everything was going. not only his work--his scientific career, but the debating society, the political movement, all his work for humanity.... why not be resolute--even now?... why not put the thing clearly and plainly to her? or write? if he wrote now he could get the advantage of the evening at the library. he must ask her to forgo these walks home--at least until the next examination. _she_ would understand. he had a qualm of doubt whether she would understand.... he grew angry at this possibility. but it was no good mincing matters. if once he began to consider her--why should he consider her in that way? simply because she was unreasonable! lewisham had a transitory gust of anger. yet that abandonment of the walks insisted on looking mean to him. and she would think it mean. which was very much worse, somehow. _why_ mean? why should she think it mean? he grew angry again. the portly museum policeman who had been watching him furtively, wondering why a student should sit in front of the "sacrifice of lystra" and gnaw lips and nails and moustache, and scowl and glare at that masterpiece, saw him rise suddenly to his feet with an air of resolution, spin on his heel, and set off with a quick step out of the gallery. he looked neither to the right nor the left. he passed out of sight down the staircase. "gone to get some more moustache to eat, i suppose," said the policeman reflectively.... "one 'ud think something had bit him." after some pensive moments the policeman strolled along down the gallery and came to a stop opposite the cartoon. "figgers is a bit big for the houses," said the policeman, anxious to do impartial justice. "but that's art. i lay '_e_ couldn't do anything ... not arf so good." chapter xviii. the friends of progress meet. the night next but one after this meditation saw a new order in the world. a young lady dressed in an astrachan-edged jacket and with a face of diminished cheerfulness marched from chelsea to clapham alone, and lewisham sat in the flickering electric light of the education library staring blankly over a business-like pile of books at unseen things. the arrangement had not been effected without friction, the explanation had proved difficult. evidently she did not appreciate the full seriousness of lewisham's mediocre position in the list. "but you have _passed_ all right," she said. neither could she grasp the importance of evening study. "of course i don't know," she said judicially; "but i thought you were learning all day." she calculated the time consumed by their walk as half an hour, "just one half hour;" she forgot that he had to get to chelsea and then to return to his lodgings. her customary tenderness was veiled by an only too apparent resentment. first at him, and then when he protested, at fate. "i suppose it _has_ to be," she said. "of course, it doesn't matter, i suppose, if we _don't_ see each other quite so often," with a quiver of pale lips. he had returned from the parting with an uneasy mind, and that evening had gone in the composition of a letter that was to make things clearer. but his scientific studies rendered his prose style "hard," and things he could whisper he could not write. his justification indeed did him no sort of justice. but her reception of it made her seem a very unreasonable person. he had some violent fluctuations. at times he was bitterly angry with her for her failure to see things as he did. he would wander about the museum conducting imaginary discussions with her and making even scathing remarks. at other times he had to summon all his powers of acrid discipline and all his memories of her resentful retorts, to keep himself from a headlong rush to chelsea and unmanly capitulation. and this new disposition of things endured for two weeks. it did not take miss heydinger all that time to discover that the disaster of the examination had wrought a change in lewisham. she perceived those nightly walks were over. it was speedily evident to her that he was working with a kind of dogged fury; he came early, he went late. the wholesome freshness of his cheek paled. he was to be seen on each of the late nights amidst a pile of diagrams and text-books in one of the less draughty corners of the educational library, accumulating piles of memoranda. and nightly in the students' "club" he wrote a letter addressed to a stationer's shop in clapham, but that she did not see. for the most part these letters were brief, for lewisham, south kensington fashion, prided himself upon not being "literary," and some of the more despatch-like wounded a heart perhaps too hungry for tender words. he did not meet miss heydinger's renewed advances with invariable kindness. yet something of the old relations were presently restored. he would talk well to her for a time, and then snap like a dry twig. but the loaning of books was resumed, the subtle process of his aesthetic education that miss heydinger had devised. "here is a book i promised you," she said one day, and he tried to remember the promise. the book was a collection of browning's poems, and it contained "sludge"; it also happened that it contained "the statue and the bust"--that stimulating lecture on half-hearted constraints. "sludge" did not interest lewisham, it was not at all his idea of a medium, but he read and re-read "the statue and the bust." it had the profoundest effect upon him. he went to sleep--he used to read his literature in bed because it was warmer there, and over literature nowadays it did not matter as it did with science if one dozed a little--with these lines stimulating his emotion:-- "so weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam the glory dropped from their youth and love, and both perceived they had dreamed a dream." by way of fruit it may be to such seed, he dreamed a dream that night. it concerned ethel, and at last they were a-marrying. he drew her to his arms. he bent to kiss her. and suddenly he saw her lips were shrivelled and her eyes were dull, saw the wrinkles seaming her face! she was old! she was intolerably old! he woke in a kind of horror and lay awake and very dismal until dawn, thinking of their separation and of her solitary walk through the muddy streets, thinking of his position, the leeway he had lost and the chances there were against him in the battle of the world. he perceived the colourless truth; the career was improbable, and that ethel should be added to it was almost hopeless. clearly the question was between these two. or should he vacillate and lose both? and then his wretchedness gave place to that anger that comes of perpetually thwarted desires.... it was on the day after this dream that he insulted parkson so grossly. he insulted parkson after a meeting of the "friends of progress" at parkson's rooms. no type of english student quite realises the noble ideal of plain living and high thinking nowadays. our admirable examination system admits of extremely little thinking at any level, high or low. but the kensington student's living is at any rate insufficient, and he makes occasional signs of recognition towards the cosmic process. one such sign was the periodic gathering of these "friends of progress," an association begotten of lewisham's paper on socialism. it was understood that strenuous things were to be done to make the world better, but so far no decisive action had been taken. they met in parkson's sitting-room, because parkson was the only one of the friends opulent enough to have a sitting-room, he being a whitworth scholar and in receipt of one hundred pounds a year. the friends were of various ages, mostly very young. several smoked and others held pipes which they had discontinued smoking--but there was nothing to drink, except coffee, because that was the extent of their means. dunkerley, an assistant master in a suburban school, and lewisham's former colleague at whortley, attended these assemblies through the introduction of lewisham. all the friends wore red ties except bletherley, who wore an orange one to show that he was aware of art, and dunkerley, who wore a black one with blue specks, because assistant masters in small private schools have to keep up appearances. and their simple procedure was that each talked as much as the others would suffer. usually the self-proposed "luther of socialism"--ridiculous lewisham!--had a thesis or so to maintain, but this night he was depressed and inattentive. he sat with his legs over the arm of his chair by way of indicating the state of his mind. he had a packet of algerian cigarettes (twenty for fivepence), and appeared chiefly concerned to smoke them all before the evening was out. bletherley was going to discourse of "woman under socialism," and he brought a big american edition of shelley's works and a volume of tennyson with the "princess," both bristling with paper tongues against his marked quotations. he was all for the abolition of "monopolies," and the _créche_ was to replace the family. he was unctuous when he was not pretty-pretty, and his views were evidently unpopular. parkson was a man from lancashire, and a devout quaker; his third and completing factor was ruskin, with whose work and phraseology he was saturated. he listened to bletherley with a marked disapproval, and opened a vigorous defence of that ancient tradition of loyalty that bletherley had called the monopolist institution of marriage. "the pure and simple old theory--love and faithfulness," said parkson, "suffices for me. if we are to smear our political movements with this sort of stuff ..." "does it work?" interjected lewisham, speaking for the first time. "what work?" "the pure and simple old theory. i know the theory. i believe in the theory. bletherley's shelley-witted. but it's theory. you meet the inevitable girl. the theory says you may meet her anywhen. you meet too young. you fall in love. you marry--in spite of obstacles. love laughs at locksmiths. you have children. that's the theory. all very well for a man whose father can leave him five hundred a year. but how does it work for a shopman?... an assistant master like dunkerley? or ... me?" "in these cases one must exercise restraint," said parkson. "have faith. a man that is worth having is worth waiting for." "worth growing old for?" said lewisham. "chap ought to fight," said dunkerley. "don't see your difficulty, lewisham. struggle for existence keen, no doubt, tremendous in fact--still. in it--may as well struggle. two--join forces--pool the luck. if i saw, a girl i fancied so that i wanted to, i'd marry her to-morrow. and my market value is seventy _non res_." lewisham looked round at him eagerly, suddenly interested. "_would_ you?" he said. dunkerley's face was slightly flushed. "like a shot. why not?" "but how are you to live?" "that comes after. if ..." "i can't agree with you, mr. dunkerley," said parkson. "i don't know if you have read sesame and lilies, but there you have, set forth far more fairly than any words of mine could do, an ideal of a woman's place ..." "all rot--sesame and lilies," interrupted dunkerley. "read bits. couldn't stand it. never _can_ stand ruskin. too many prepositions. tremendous english, no doubt, but not my style. sort of thing a wholesale grocer's daughter might read to get refined. _we_ can't afford to get refined." "but would you really marry a girl ...?" began lewisham, with an unprecedented admiration for dunkerley in his eyes. "why not?" "on--?" lewisham hesitated. "forty pounds a year _res_. whack! yes." a silent youngster began to speak, cleared an accumulated huskiness from his throat and said, "consider the girl." "why _marry_?" asked bletherley, unregarded. "you must admit you are asking a great thing when you want a girl ..." began parkson. "not so. when a girl's chosen a man, and he chooses her, her place is with him. what is the good of hankering? mutual. fight together." "good!" said lewisham, suddenly emotional. "you talk like a man, dunkerley. i'm hanged if you don't." "the place of woman," insisted parkson, "is the home. and if there is no home--! i hold that, if need be, a man should toil seven years--as jacob did for rachel--ruling his passions, to make the home fitting and sweet for her ..." "get the hutch for the pet animal," said dunkerley. "no. i mean to marry a _woman_. female sex always _has_ been in the struggle for existence--no great damage so far--always will be. tremendous idea--that struggle for existence. only sensible theory you've got hold of, lewisham. woman who isn't fighting square side by side with a man--woman who's just kept and fed and petted is ..." he hesitated. a lad with a spotted face and a bulldog pipe between his teeth supplied a biblical word. "that's shag," said dunkerley, "i was going to say 'a harem of one'." the youngster was puzzled for a moment. "i smoke perique," he said. "it will make you just as sick," said dunkerley. "refinement's so beastly vulgar," was the belated answer of the smoker of perique. that was the interesting part of the evening to lewisham. parkson suddenly rose, got down "sesame and lilies," and insisted upon reading a lengthy mellifluous extract that went like a garden roller over the debate, and afterwards bletherley became the centre of a wrangle that left him grossly insulted and in a minority of one. the institution of marriage, so far as the south kensington student is concerned, is in no immediate danger. parkson turned out with the rest of them at half-past ten, for a walk. the night was warm for february and the waxing moon bright. parkson fixed himself upon lewisham and dunkerley, to lewisham's intense annoyance--for he had a few intimate things he could have said to the man of ideas that night. dunkerley lived north, so that the three went up exhibition road to high street, kensington. there they parted from dunkerley, and lewisham and parkson turned southward again for lewisham's new lodging in chelsea. parkson was one of those exponents of virtue for whom the discussion of sexual matters has an irresistible attraction. the meeting had left him eloquent. he had argued with dunkerley to the verge of indelicacy, and now he poured out a vast and increasingly confidential flow of talk upon lewisham. lewisham was distraught. he walked as fast as he could. his sole object was to get rid of parkson. parkson's sole object was to tell him interesting secrets, about himself and a certain person with a mind of extraordinary purity of whom lewisham had heard before. ages passed. lewisham suddenly found himself being shown a photograph under a lamp. it represented an unsymmetrical face singularly void of expression, the upper part of an "art" dress, and a fringe of curls. he perceived he was being given to understand that this was a paragon of purity, and that she was the particular property of parkson. parkson was regarding him proudly, and apparently awaiting his verdict. lewisham struggled with the truth. "it's an interesting face," he said. "it is a face essentially beautiful," said parkson quietly but firmly. "do you notice the eyes, lewisham?" "oh yes," said lewisham. "yes. i see the eyes." "they are ... innocent. they are the eyes of a little child." "yes. they look that sort of eye. very nice, old man. i congratulate you. where does she live?" "you never saw a face like that in london," said parkson. "_never_," said lewisham decisively. "i would not show that to every one," said parkson. "you can scarcely judge all that pure-hearted, wonderful girl is to me." he returned the photograph solemnly to its envelope, regarding lewisham with an air of one who has performed the ceremony of blood-brotherhood. then taking lewisham's arm affectionately--a thing lewisham detested--he went on to a copious outpouring on love--with illustrative anecdotes of the paragon. it was just sufficiently cognate to the matter of lewisham's thoughts to demand attention. every now and then he had to answer, and he felt an idiotic desire--albeit he clearly perceived its idiocy--to reciprocate confidences. the necessity of fleeing parkson became urgent--lewisham's temper under these multitudinous stresses was going. "every man needs a lode star," said parkson--and lewisham swore under his breath. parkson's lodgings were now near at hand to the left, and it occurred to him this boredom would be soonest ended if he took parkson home, parkson consented mechanically, still discoursing. "i have often seen you talking to miss heydinger," he said. "if you will pardon my saying it ..." "we are excellent friends," admitted lewisham. "but here we are at your diggings." parkson stared at his "diggings." "there's heaps i want to talk about. i'll come part of the way at any rate to battersea. your miss heydinger, i was saying ..." from that point onwards he made casual appeals to a supposed confidence between lewisham and miss heydinger, each of which increased lewisham's exasperation. "it will not be long before you also, lewisham, will begin to know the infinite purification of a pure love...." then suddenly, with a vague idea of suppressing parkson's unendurable chatter, as one motive at least, lewisham rushed into the confidential. "i know," he said. "you talk to me as though ... i've marked out my destiny these three years." his confidential impulse died as he relieved it. "you don't mean to say miss heydinger--?" asked parkson. "oh, _damn_ miss heydinger!" said lewisham, and suddenly, abruptly, uncivilly, he turned away from parkson at the end of the street and began walking away southward, leaving parkson in mid-sentence at the crossing. parkson stared in astonishment at his receding back and ran after him to ask for the grounds of this sudden offence. lewisham walked on for a space with parkson trotting by his side. then suddenly he turned. his face was quite white and he spoke in a tired voice. "parkson," he said, "you are a fool!... you have the face of a sheep, the manners of a buffalo, and the conversation of a bore, pewrity indeed!... the girl whose photograph you showed me has eyes that don't match. she looks as loathsome as one would naturally expect.... i'm not joking now.... go away!" after that lewisham went on his southward way alone. he did not go straight to his room in chelsea, but spent some hours in a street in battersea, pacing to and fro in front of a possible house. his passion changed from savageness to a tender longing. if only he could see her to-night! he knew his own mind now. to-morrow he was resolved _he_ would fling work to the dogs and meet her. the things dunkerley had said had filled his mind with wonderful novel thoughts. if only he could see her now! his wish was granted. at the corner of the street two figures passed him; one of these, a tall man in glasses and a quasi-clerical hat, with coat collar turned up under his grey side-whiskers, he recognised as chaffery; the other he knew only too well. the pair passed him without seeing him, but for an instant the lamplight fell upon her face and showed it white and tired. lewisham stopped dead at the corner, staring in blank astonishment after these two figures as they receded into the haze under the lights. he was dumfounded. a clock struck slowly. it was midnight. presently down the road came the slamming of their door. long after the echo died away he stood there. "she has been at a _séance_; she has broken her promise. she has been at a _séance_; she has broken her promise," sang in perpetual reiteration through his brain. and then came the interpretation. "she has done it because i have left her. i might have told it from her letters. she has done it because she thinks i am not in earnest, that my love-making was just boyishness ... "i knew she would never understand." chapter xix. lewisham's solution. the next morning lewisham learnt from lagune that his intuition was correct, that ethel had at last succumbed to pressure and consented to attempt thought-reading. "we made a good beginning," said lagune, rubbing his hands. "i am sure we shall do well with her. certainly she has powers. i have always felt it in her face. she has powers." "was much ... pressure necessary?" asked lewisham by an effort. "we had--considerable difficulty. considerable. but of course--as i pointed out to her--it was scarcely possible for her to continue as my typewriter unless she was disposed to take an interest in my investigations--" "you did that?" "had to. fortunately chaffery--it was his idea. i must admit--" lagune stopped astonished. lewisham, after making an odd sort of movement with his hands, had turned round and was walking away down the laboratory. lagune stared; confronted by a psychic phenomenon beyond his circle of ideas. "odd!" he said at last, and began to unpack his bag. ever and again he stopped and stared at lewisham, who was now sitting in his own place and drumming on the table with both hands. presently miss heydinger came out of the specimen room and addressed a remark to the young man. he appeared to answer with considerable brevity. he then stood up, hesitated for a moment between the three doors of the laboratory and walked out by that opening on the back staircase. lagune did not see him again until the afternoon. that night ethel had lewisham's company again on her way home, and their voices were earnest. she did not go straight home, but instead they went up under the gas lamps to the vague spaces of clapham common to talk there at length. and the talk that night was a momentous one. "why have you broken your promise?" he said. her excuses were vague and weak. "i thought you did not care so much as you did," she said. "and when you stopped these walks--nothing seemed to matter. besides--it is not like _séances_ with spirits ..." at first lewisham was passionate and forcible. his anger at lagune and chaffery blinded him to her turpitude. he talked her defences down. "it is cheating," he said. "well--even if what _you_ do is not cheating, it is delusion--unconscious cheating. even if there is something in it, it is wrong. true or not, it is wrong. why don't they thought-read each other? why should they want you? your mind is your own. it is sacred. to probe it!--i won't have it! i won't have it! at least you are mine to that extent. i can't think of you like that--bandaged. and that little fool pressing his hand on the back of your neck and asking questions. i won't have it! i would rather kill you than that." "they don't do that!" "i don't care! that is what it will come to. the bandage is the beginning. people must not get their living in that way anyhow. i've thought it out. let them thought-read their daughters and hypnotise their aunts, and leave their typewriters alone." "but what am i to do?" "that's not it. there are things one must not suffer anyhow, whatever happens! or else--one might be made to do anything. honour! just because we are poor--let him dismiss you! _let_ him dismiss you. you can get another place--" "not at a guinea a week." "then take less." "but i have to pay sixteen shillings every week." "that doesn't matter." she caught at a sob, "but to leave london--i can't do it, i can't." "but how?--leave london?" lewisham's face changed. "oh! life is _hard_," she said. "i can't. they--they wouldn't let me stop in london." "what do you mean?" she explained if lagune dismissed her she was to go into the country to an aunt, a sister of chaffery's who needed a companion. chaffery insisted upon that. "companion they call it. i shall be just a servant--she has no servant. my mother cries when i talk to her. she tells me she doesn't want me to go away from her. but she's afraid of him. 'why don't you do what he wants?' she says." she sat staring in front of her at the gathering night. she spoke again in an even tone. "i hate telling you these things. it is you ... if you didn't mind ... but you make it all different. i could do it--if it wasn't for you. i was ... i _was_ helping ... i had gone meaning to help if anything went wrong at mr. lagune's. yes--that night. no ... don't! it was too hard before to tell you. but i really did not feel it ... until i saw you there. then all at once i felt shabby and mean." "well?" said lewisham. "that's all. i may have done thought-reading, but i have never really cheated since--_never_.... if you knew how hard it is ..." "i wish you had told me that before." "i couldn't. before you came it was different. he used to make fun of the people--used to imitate lagune and make me laugh. it seemed a sort of joke." she stopped abruptly. "why did you ever come on with me? i told you not to--you _know_ i did." she was near wailing. for a minute she was silent. "i can't go to his sister's," she cried. "i may be a coward--but i can't." pause. and then lewisham saw his solution straight and clear. suddenly his secret desire had become his manifest duty. "look here," he said, not looking at her and pulling his moustache. "i won't have you doing any more of that damned cheating. you shan't soil yourself any more. and i won't have you leaving london." "but what am i to do?" her voice went up. "well--there is one thing you can do. if you dare." "what is it?" he made no answer for some seconds. then he turned round and sat looking at her. their eyes met.... the grey of his mind began to colour. her face was white and she was looking at him, in fear and perplexity. a new tenderness for her sprang up in him--a new feeling. hitherto he had loved and desired her sweetness and animation--but now she was white and weary-eyed. he felt as though he had forgotten her and suddenly remembered. a great longing came into his mind. "but what is the other thing i can do?" it was strangely hard to say. there came a peculiar sensation in his throat and facial muscles, a nervous stress between laughing and crying. all the world vanished before that great desire. and he was afraid she would not dare, that she would not take him seriously. "what is it?" she said again. "don't you see that we can marry?" he said, with the flood of his resolution suddenly strong and steady. "don't you see that is the only thing for us? the dead lane we are in! you must come out of your cheating, and i must come out of my ... cramming. and we--we must marry." he paused and then became eloquent. "the world is against us, against--us. to you it offers money to cheat--to be ignoble. for it _is_ ignoble! it offers you no honest way, only a miserable drudgery. and it keeps you from me. and me too it bribes with the promise of success--if i will desert you ... you don't know all ... we may have to wait for years--we may have to wait for ever, if we wait until life is safe. we may be separated.... we may lose one another altogether.... let us fight against it. why should we separate? unless true love is like the other things--an empty cant. this is the only way. we two--who belong to one another." she looked at him, her face perplexed with this new idea, her heart beating very fast. "we are so young," she said. "and how are we to live? you get a guinea." "i can get more--i can earn more, i have thought it out. i have been thinking of it these two days. i have been thinking what we could do. i have money." "you have money?" "nearly a hundred pounds." "but we are so young--and my mother ..." "we won't ask her. we will ask no one. this is _our_ affair. ethel! this is _our_ affair. it is not a question of ways and means--even before this--i have thought ... dear one!--_don't_ you love me?" she did not grasp his emotional quality. she looked at him with puzzled eyes--still practical--making the suggestion arithmetical. "i could typewrite if i had a machine. i have heard--" "it's not a question of ways and means. now. ethel--i have longed--" he stopped. she looked at his face, at his eyes now eager and eloquent with the things that never shaped themselves into words. "_dare_ you come with me?" he whispered. suddenly the world opened out in reality to her as sometimes it had opened out to her in wistful dreams. and she quailed before it. she dropped her eyes from his. she became a fellow-conspirator. "but, how--?" "i will think how. trust me! surely we know each other now--think! we two--" "but i have never thought--" "i could get apartments for us both. it would be so easy. and think of it--think--of what life would be!" "how can i?" "you will come?" she looked at him, startled. "you know," she said, "you must know i would like--i would love--" "you will come?" "but, dear--! dear, if you _make_ me--" "yes!" cried lewisham triumphantly. "you will come." he glanced round and his voice dropped. "oh! my dearest! my dearest!..." his voice sank to an inaudible whisper. but his face was eloquent. two garrulous, home-going clerks passed opportunely to remind him that his emotions were in a public place. chapter xx. the career is suspended. on the wednesday afternoon following this--it was hard upon the botanical examination--mr. lewisham was observed by smithers in the big education library reading in a volume of the british encyclopaedia. beside him were the current whitaker's almanac, an open note-book, a book from the contemporary science series, and the science and art department's directory. smithers, who had a profound sense of lewisham's superiority in the art of obtaining facts of value in examinations, wondered for some minutes what valuable tip for a student in botany might be hidden in whitaker, and on reaching his lodgings spent some time over the landlady's copy. but really lewisham was not studying botany, but the art of marriage according to the best authorities. (the book from the contemporary science series was professor letourneau's "evolution of marriage." it was interesting certainly, but of little immediate use.) from whitaker lewisham learnt that it would be possible at a cost of £ , s. d. or £ , s. d. (one of the items was ambiguous) to get married within the week--that charge being exclusive of vails--at the district registry office. he did little addition sums in the note-book. the church fees he found were variable, but for more personal reasons he rejected a marriage at church. marriage by certificate at a registrar's involved an inconvenient delay. it would have to be £ , s. d. vails--ten shillings, say. afterwards, without needless ostentation, he produced a cheque-book and a deposit-book, and proceeded to further arithmetic. he found that he was master of £ , s. d. not a hundred as he had said, but a fine big sum--men have started great businesses on less. it had been a hundred originally. allowing five pounds for the marriage and moving, this would leave about £ . plenty. no provision was made for flowers, carriages, or the honeymoon. but there would be a typewriter to buy. ethel was to do her share.... "it will be a devilish close thing," said lewisham with a quite unreasonable exultation. for, strangely enough, the affair was beginning to take on a flavour of adventure not at all unpleasant. he leant back in his chair with the note-book closed in his hand.... but there was much to see to that afternoon. first of all he had to discover the district superintendent registrar, and then to find a lodging whither he should take ethel--their lodging, where they were to live together. at the thought of that new life together that was drawing so near, she came into his head, vivid and near and warm.... he recovered himself from a day dream. he became aware of a library attendant down the room leaning forward over his desk, gnawing the tip of a paper knife after the fashion of south kensington library attendants, and staring at him curiously. it occurred to lewisham that thought reading was one of the most possible things in the world. he blushed, rose clumsily and took the volume of the encyclopaedia back to its shelf. he found the selection of lodgings a difficult business. after his first essay he began to fancy himself a suspicious-looking character, and that perhaps hampered him. he had chosen the district southward of the brompton road. it had one disadvantage--he might blunder into a house with a fellow-student.... not that it mattered vitally. but the fact is, it is rather unusual for married couples to live permanently in furnished lodgings in london. people who are too poor to take a house or a flat commonly find it best to take part of a house or unfurnished apartments. there are a hundred couples living in unfurnished rooms (with "the use of the kitchen") to one in furnished in london. the absence of furniture predicates a dangerous want of capital to the discreet landlady. the first landlady lewisham interviewed didn't like ladies, they required such a lot of attendance; the second was of the same mind; the third told mr. lewisham he was "youngish to be married;" the fourth said she only "did" for single "gents." the fifth was a young person with an arch manner, who liked to know all about people she took in, and subjected lewisham to a searching cross-examination. when she had spitted him in a downright lie or so, she expressed an opinion that her rooms "would scarcely do," and bowed him amiably out. he cooled his ears and cheeks by walking up and down the street for a space, and then tried again. this landlady was a terrible and pitiful person, so grey and dusty she was, and her face deep lined with dust and trouble and labour. she wore a dirty cap that was all askew. she took lewisham up into a threadbare room on the first floor, "there's the use of a piano," she said, and indicated an instrument with a front of torn green silk. lewisham opened the keyboard and evoked a vibration of broken strings. he took one further survey of the dismal place, "eighteen shillings," he said. "thank you ... i'll let you know." the woman smiled with the corners of her mouth down, and without a word moved wearily towards the door. lewisham felt a transient wonder at her hopeless position, but he did not pursue the inquiry. the next landlady sufficed. she was a clean-looking german woman, rather smartly dressed; she had a fringe of flaxen curls and a voluble flow of words, for the most part recognisably english. with this she sketched out remarks. fifteen shillings was her demand for a minute bedroom and a small sitting-room, separated by folding doors on the ground floor, and her personal services. coals were to be "sixpence a kettle," she said--a pretty substitute for scuttle. she had not understood lewisham to say he was married. but she had no hesitation. "aayteen shillin'," she said imperturbably. "paid furs day ich wik ... see?" mr. lewisham surveyed the rooms again. they looked clean, and the bonus tea vases, the rancid, gilt-framed oleographs, two toilet tidies used as ornaments, and the fact that the chest of drawers had been crowded out of the bedroom into the sitting-room, simply appealed to his sense of humour. "i'll take 'em from saturday next," he said. she was sure he would like them, and proposed to give him his book forthwith. she mentioned casually that the previous lodger had been a captain and had stayed three years. (one never hears by any chance of lodgers stopping for a shorter period.) something happened (german) and now he kept his carriage--apparently an outcome of his stay. she returned with a small penny account-book, a bottle of ink and an execrable pen, wrote lewisham's name on the cover of this, and a receipt for eighteen shillings on the first page. she was evidently a person of considerable business aptitude. lewisham paid, and the transaction terminated. "szhure to be gomfortable," followed him comfortingly to the street. then he went on to chelsea and interviewed a fatherly gentleman at the vestry offices. the fatherly gentleman was chubby-faced and spectacled, and his manner was sympathetic but business-like. he "called back" each item of the interview, "and what can i do for you? you wish to be married! by licence?" "by licence." "by licence!" and so forth. he opened a book and made neat entries of the particulars. "the lady's age?" "twenty-one." "a very suitable age ... for a lady." he advised lewisham to get a ring, and said he would need two witnesses. "_well_--" hesitated lewisham. "there is always someone about," said the superintendent registrar. "and they are quite used to it." thursday and friday lewisham passed in exceedingly high spirits. no consciousness of the practical destruction of the career seems to have troubled him at this time. doubt had vanished from his universe for a space. he wanted to dance along the corridors. he felt curiously irresponsible and threw up an unpleasant sort of humour that pleased nobody. he wished miss heydinger many happy returns of the day, _apropos_ of nothing, and he threw a bun across the refreshment room at smithers and hit one of the art school officials. both were extremely silly things to do. in the first instance he was penitent immediately after the outrage, but in the second he added insult to injury by going across the room and asking in an offensively suspicious manner if anyone had seen his bun. he crawled under a table and found it at last, rather dusty but quite eatable, under the chair of a lady art student. he sat down by smithers to eat it, while he argued with the art official. the art official said the manners of the science students were getting unbearable, and threatened to bring the matter before the refreshment-room committee. lewisham said it was a pity to make such a fuss about a trivial thing, and proposed that the art official should throw his lunch--steak and kidney pudding--across the room at him, lewisham, and so get immediate satisfaction. he then apologised to the official and pointed out in extenuation that it was a very long and difficult shot he had attempted. the official then drank a crumb, or breathed some beer, or something of that sort, and the discussion terminated. in the afternoon, however, lewisham, to his undying honour, felt acutely ashamed of himself. miss heydinger would not speak to him. on saturday morning he absented himself from the schools, pleading by post a slight indisposition, and took all his earthly goods to the booking office at vauxhall station. chaffery's sister lived at tongham, near farnham, and ethel, dismissed a week since by lagune, had started that morning, under her mother's maudlin supervision, to begin her new slavery. she was to alight either at farnham or woking, as opportunity arose, and to return to vauxhall to meet him. so that lewisham's vigil on the main platform was of indefinite duration. at first he felt the exhilaration of a great adventure. then, as he paced the long platform, came a philosophical mood, a sense of entire detachment from the world. he saw a bundle of uprooted plants beside the portmanteau of a fellow-passenger and it suggested a grotesque simile. his roots, his earthly possessions, were all downstairs in the booking-office. what a flimsy thing he was! a box of books and a trunk of clothes, some certificates and scraps of paper, an entry here and an entry there, a body not over strong--and the vast multitude of people about him--against him--the huge world in which he found himself! did it matter anything to one human soul save her if he ceased to exist forthwith? and miles away perhaps she also was feeling little and lonely.... would she have trouble with her luggage? suppose her aunt were to come to farnham junction to meet her? suppose someone stole her purse? suppose she came too late! the marriage was to take place at two.... suppose she never came at all! after three trains in succession had disappointed him his vague feelings of dread gave place to a profound depression.... but she came at last, and it was twenty-three minutes to two. he hurried her luggage downstairs, booked it with his own, and in another minute they were in a hansom--their first experience of that species of conveyance--on the way to the vestry office. they had said scarcely anything to one another, save hasty directions from lewisham, but their eyes were full of excitement, and under the apron of the cab their hands were gripped together. the little old gentleman was business-like but kindly. they made their vows to him, to a little black-bearded clerk and a lady who took off an apron in the nether part of the building to attend. the little old gentleman made no long speeches. "you are young people," he said slowly, "and life together is a difficult thing.... be kind to each other." he smiled a little sadly, and held out a friendly hand. ethel's eyes glistened and she found she could not speak. chapter xxi. home! then a furtive payment of witnesses, and lewisham was beside her. his face was radiant. a steady current of workers going home to their half-holiday rest poured along the street. on the steps before them lay a few grains of rice from some more public nuptials. a critical little girl eyed our couple curiously and made some remark to her ragamuffin friend. "not them," said the ragamuffin friend, "they've only been askin' questions." the ragamuffin friend was no judge of faces. they walked back through the thronged streets to vauxhall station, saying little to one another, and there lewisham, assuming as indifferent a manner as he could command, recovered their possessions from the booking-office by means of two separate tickets and put them aboard a four-wheeler. his luggage went outside, but the little brown portmanteau containing ethel's trousseau was small enough to go on the seat in front of them. you must figure a rather broken-down four-wheeler bearing the yellow-painted box and the experienced trunk and mr. lewisham and all his fortunes, a despondent fitful horse, and a threadbare venerable driver, blasphemous _sotto voce_ and flagellant, in an ancient coat with capes. when our two young people found themselves in the cab again a certain stiffness of manner between them vanished and there was more squeezing of hands. "ethel _lewisham_," said lewisham several times, and ethel reciprocated with "husbinder" and "hubby dear," and took off her glove to look again in an ostentatious manner at a ring. and she kissed the ring. they were resolved that their newly-married state should not appear, and with considerable ceremony it was arranged that he should treat her with off-hand brusqueness when they arrived at their lodging. the teutonic landlady appeared in the passage with an amiable smile and the hope that they had had a pleasant journey, and became voluble with promises of comfort. lewisham having assisted the slatternly general servant to carry in his boxes, paid the cabman a florin in a resolute manner and followed the ladies into the sitting-room. ethel answered madam gadow's inquiries with admirable self-possession, followed her through the folding-doors and displayed an intelligent interest in a new spring mattress. presently the folding-doors were closed again. lewisham hovered about the front room pulling his moustache and pretending to admire the oleographs, surprised to find himself trembling.... the slatternly general servant reappeared with the chops and tinned salmon he had asked madam gadow to prepare for them. he went and stared out of the window, heard the door close behind the girl, and turned at a sound as ethel appeared shyly through the folding-doors. she was suddenly domestic. hitherto he had seen her without a hat and jacket only on one indistinct dramatic occasion. now she wore a little blouse of soft, dark red material, with a white froth about the wrists and that pretty neck of hers. and her hair was a new wonderland of curls and soft strands. how delicate she looked and sweet as she stood hesitating there. these gracious moments in life! he took two steps and held out his arms. she glanced at the closed door of the room and came flitting towards him.... chapter xxii. epithalamy. for three indelible days lewisham's existence was a fabric of fine emotions, life was too wonderful and beautiful for any doubts or forethought. to be with ethel was perpetual delight--she astonished this sisterless youngster with a thousand feminine niceties and refinements. she shamed him for his strength and clumsiness. and the light in her eyes and the warmth in her heart that lit them! even to be away from her was a wonder and in its way delightful. he was no common student, he was a man with a secret life. to part from her on monday near south kensington station and go up exhibition road among all the fellows who lived in sordid, lonely lodgings and were boys to his day-old experience! to neglect one's work and sit back and dream of meeting again! to slip off to the shady churchyard behind the oratory when, or even a little before, the midday bell woke the great staircase to activity, and to meet a smiling face and hear a soft, voice saying sweet foolish things! and after four another meeting and the walk home--their own home. no little form now went from him and flitted past a gas lamp down a foggy vista, taking his desire with her. never more was that to be. lewisham's long hours in the laboratory were spent largely in a dreamy meditation, in--to tell the truth--the invention of foolish terms of endearment: "dear wife," "dear little wife thing," "sweetest dearest little wife," "dillywings." a pretty employment! and these are quite a fair specimen of his originality during those wonderful days. a moment of heart-searching in that particular matter led to the discovery of hitherto undreamt-of kindred with swift. for lewisham, like swift and most other people, had hit upon, the little language. indeed it was a very foolish time. such section cutting as he did that third day of his married life--and he did very little--was a thing to marvel at. bindon, the botany professor, under the fresh shock of his performance, protested to a colleague in the grill room that never had a student been so foolishly overrated. and ethel too had a fine emotional time. she was mistress of a home--_their_ home together. she shopped and was called "ma'am" by respectful, good-looking shopmen; she designed meals and copied out papers of notes with a rich sense of helpfulness. and ever and again she would stop writing and sit dreaming. and for four bright week-days she went to and fro to accompany and meet lewisham and listen greedily to the latest fruits of his imagination. the landlady was very polite and conversed entertainingly about the very extraordinary and dissolute servants that had fallen to her lot. and ethel disguised her newly wedded state by a series of ingenious prevarications. she wrote a letter that saturday evening to her mother--lewisham had helped her to write it--making a sort of proclamation of her heroic departure and promising a speedy visit. they posted the letter so that it might not be delivered until monday. she was quite sure with lewisham that only the possible dishonour of mediumship could have brought their marriage about--she sank the mutual attraction beyond even her own vision. there was more than a touch of magnificence, you perceive, about this affair. it was lewisham had persuaded her to delay that reassuring visit until monday night. "one whole day of honeymoon," he insisted, was to be theirs. in his prenuptial meditations he had not clearly focussed the fact that even after marriage some sort of relations with mr. and mrs. chaffery would still go on. even now he was exceedingly disinclined to face that obvious necessity. he foresaw, in spite of a resolute attempt to ignore it, that there would be explanatory scenes of some little difficulty. but the prevailing magnificence carried him over this trouble. "let us at least have this little time for ourselves," he said, and that seemed to settle their position. save for its brevity and these intimations of future trouble it was a very fine time indeed. their midday dinner together, for example--it was a little cold when at last they came to it on saturday--was immense fun. there was no marked subsidence of appetite; they ate extremely well in spite of the meeting of their souls, and in spite of certain shiftings of chairs and hand claspings and similar delays. he really made the acquaintance of her hands then for the first time, plump white hands with short white fingers, and the engagement ring had come out of its tender hiding-place and acted as keeper to the wedding ring. their eyes were perpetually flitting about the room and coming back to mutual smiles. all their movements were faintly tremulous. she professed to be vastly interested and amused by the room and its furniture and her position, and he was delighted by her delight. she was particularly entertained by the chest of drawers in the living room, and by lewisham's witticisms at the toilet tidies and the oleographs. and after the chops and the most of the tinned salmon and the very new loaf were gone they fell to with fine effect upon a tapioca pudding. their talk was fragmentary. "did you hear her call me _madame? mádáme_--so!" "and presently i must go out and do some shopping. there are all the things for sunday and monday morning to get. i must make a list. it will never do to let her know how little i know about things.... i wish i knew more." at the time lewisham regarded her confession of domestic ignorance as a fine basis for facetiousness. he developed a fresh line of thought, and condoled with her on the inglorious circumstances of their wedding. "no bridesmaids," he said; "no little children scattering flowers, no carriages, no policemen to guard the wedding presents, nothing proper--nothing right. not even a white favour. only you and i." "only you and i. _oh_!" "this is nonsense," said lewisham, after an interval. "and think what we lose in the way of speeches," he resumed. "cannot you imagine the best man rising:--'ladies and gentlemen--the health of the bride.' that is what the best man has to do, isn't it?" by way of answer she extended her hand. "and do you know," he said, after that had received due recognition, "we have never been introduced!" "neither have we!" said ethel. "neither have we! we have never been introduced!" for some inscrutable reason it delighted them both enormously to think that they had never been introduced.... in the later afternoon lewisham, having unpacked his books to a certain extent, and so forth, was visible to all men, visibly in the highest spirits, carrying home ethel's shopping. there were parcels and cones in blue and parcels in rough grey paper and a bag of confectionery, and out of one of the side pockets of that east-end overcoat the tail of a haddock protruded from its paper. under such magnificent sanctions and amid such ignoble circumstances did this honeymoon begin. on sunday evening they went for a long rambling walk through the quiet streets, coming out at last into hyde park. the early spring night was mild and clear and the kindly moonlight was about them. they went to the bridge and looked down the serpentine, with the little lights of paddington yellow and remote. they stood there, dim little figures and very close together. they whispered and became silent. presently it seemed that something passed and lewisham began talking in his magnificent vein. he likened the serpentine to life, and found meaning in the dark banks of kensington gardens and the remote bright lights. "the long struggle," he said, "and the lights at the end,"--though he really did not know what he meant by the lights at the end. neither did ethel, though the emotion was indisputable. "we are fighting the world," he said, finding great satisfaction in the thought. "all the world is against us--and we are fighting it all." "we will not be beaten," said ethel. "how could we be beaten--together?" said lewisham. "for you i would fight a dozen worlds." it seemed a very sweet and noble thing to them under the sympathetic moonlight, almost indeed too easy for their courage, to be merely fighting the world. * * * * * "you 'aven't bin married ver' long," said madam gadow with an insinuating smile, when she readmitted ethel on monday morning after lewisham had been swallowed up by the schools. "no, i haven't _very_ long," admitted ethel. "you are ver' 'appy," said madam gadow, and sighed. "_i_ was ver' 'appy," said madam gadow. chapter xxiii. mr. chaffery at home. the golden mists of delight lifted a little on monday, when mr. and mrs. g.e. lewisham went to call on his mother-in-law and mr. chaffery. mrs. lewisham went in evident apprehension, but clouds of glory still hung about lewisham's head, and his manner was heroic. he wore a cotton shirt and linen collar, and a very nice black satin tie that mrs. lewisham had bought on her own responsibility during the day. she naturally wanted him to look all right. mrs. chaffery appeared in the half light of the passage as the top of a grimy cap over ethel's shoulder and two black sleeves about her neck. she emerged as a small, middle-aged woman, with a thin little nose between silver-rimmed spectacles, a weak mouth and perplexed eyes, a queer little dust-lined woman with the oddest resemblance to ethel in her face. she was trembling visibly with nervous agitation. she hesitated, peering, and then kissed mr. lewisham effusively. "and this is mr. lewisham!" she said as she did so. she was the third thing feminine to kiss lewisham since the promiscuous days of his babyhood. "i was so afraid--there!" she laughed hysterically. "you'll excuse my saying that it's comforting to see you--honest like and young. not but what ethel ... _he_ has been something dreadful," said mrs. chaffery. "you didn't ought to have written about that mesmerising. and of all letters that which jane wrote--there! but he's waiting and listening--" "are we to go downstairs, mums?" asked ethel. "he's waiting for you there," said mrs. chaffery. she held a dismal little oil lamp, and they descended a tenebrous spiral structure into an underground breakfast-room lit by gas that shone through a partially frosted globe with cut-glass stars. that descent had a distinctly depressing effect upon lewisham. he went first. he took a deep breath at the door. what on earth was chaffery going to say? not that he cared, of course. chaffery was standing with his back to the fire, trimming his finger-nails with a pocket-knife. his gilt glasses were tilted forward so as to make an inflamed knob at the top of his long nose, and he regarded mr. and mrs. lewisham over them with--lewisham doubted his eyes for a moment--but it was positively a smile, an essentially waggish smile. "you've come back," he said quite cheerfully over lewisham to ethel. there was a hint of falsetto in his voice. "she has called to see her mother," said lewisham. "you, i believe, are mr. chaffery?" "i would like to know who the deuce _you_ are?" said chaffery, suddenly tilting his head back so as to look through his glasses instead of over them, and laughing genially. "for thoroughgoing cheek, i'm inclined to think you take the cake. are you the mr. lewisham to whom this misguided girl refers in her letter?" "i am." "maggie," said mr. chaffery to mrs. chaffery, "there is a class of being upon whom delicacy is lost--to whom delicacy is practically unknown. has your daughter got her marriage lines?" "mr. chaffery!" said lewisham, and mrs. chaffery exclaimed, "james! how _can_ you?" chaffery shut his penknife with a click and slipped it into his vest-pocket. then he looked up again, speaking in the same equal voice. "i presume we are civilised persons prepared to manage our affairs in a civilised way. my stepdaughter vanishes for two nights and returns with an alleged husband. i at least am not disposed to be careless about her legal position." "you ought to know her better--" began lewisham. "why argue about it," said chaffery gaily, pointing a lean finger at ethel's gesture, "when she has 'em in her pocket? she may just as well show me now. i thought so. don't be alarmed at my handling them. fresh copies can always be got at the nominal price of two-and-seven. thank you ... lewisham, george edgar. one-and-twenty. and ... you--one-and-twenty! i never did know your age, my dear, exactly, and now your mother won't say. student! thank you. i am greatly obliged. indeed i am greatly relieved. and now, what have you got to say for yourselves in this remarkable affair?" "you had a letter," said lewisham. "i had a letter of excuses--the personalities i overlook ... yes, sir--they were excuses. you young people wanted to marry--and you seized an occasion. you did not even refer to the fact that you wanted to marry in your letter. pure modesty! but now you have come here married. it disorganises this household, it inflicts endless bother on people, but never you mind that! i'm not blaming _you_. nature's to blame! neither of you know what you are in for yet. you will. you're married, and that is the great essential thing.... (ethel, my dear, just put your husband's hat and stick behind the door.) and you, sir, are so good as to disapprove of the way in which i earn my living?" "well," said lewisham. "yes--i'm bound to say i do." "you are really _not_ bound to say it. the modesty of inexperience would excuse you." "yes, but it isn't right--it isn't straight." "dogma," said chaffery. "dogma!" "what do you mean by dogma?" asked lewisham. "i mean, dogma. but we must argue this out in comfort. it is our supper hour, and i'm not the man to fight against accomplished facts. we have intermarried. there it is. you must stop to supper--and you and i must thresh these things out. we've involved ourselves with each other and we've got to make the best of it. your wife and mine will spread the board, and we will go on talking. why not sit in that chair instead of leaning on the back? this is a home--_domus_--not a debating society--humble in spite of my manifest frauds.... that's better. and in the first place i hope--i do so hope"--chaffery was suddenly very impressive--"that you're not a dissenter." "eh!" said lewisham, and then, "no! i am _not_ a dissenter." "that's better," said mr. chaffery. "i'm glad of that. i was just a little afraid--something in your manner. i can't stand dissenters. i've a peculiar dislike to dissenters. to my mind it's the great drawback of this clapham. you see ... i have invariably found them deceitful--invariably." he grimaced and dropped his glasses with a click against his waistcoat buttons. "i'm very glad of that," he said, replacing them. "the dissenter, the nonconformist conscience, the puritan, you know, the vegetarian and total abstainer, and all that sort of thing, i cannot away with them. i have cleared my mind of cant and formulae. i've a nature essentially hellenic. have you ever read matthew arnold?" "beyond my scientific reading--" "ah! you _should_ read matthew arnold--a mind of singular clarity. in him you would find a certain quality that is sometimes a little wanting in your scientific men. they are apt to be a little too phenomenal, you know, a little too objective. now i seek after noumena. noumena, mr. lewisham! if you follow me--?" he paused, and his eyes behind the glasses were mildly interrogative. ethel re-entered without her hat and jacket, and with a noisy square black tray, a white cloth, some plates and knives and glasses, and began to lay the table. "_i_ follow you," said lewisham, reddening. he had not the courage to admit ignorance of this remarkable word. "you state your case." "i seek after _noumena_," repeated chaffery with great satisfaction, and gesticulated with his hand, waving away everything but that. "i cannot do with surfaces and appearances. i am one of those nympholepts, you know, nympholepts ... must pursue the truth of things! the elusive fundamental ... i make a rule, i never tell myself lies--never. there are few who can say that. to my mind--truth begins at home. and for the most part--stops there. safest and seemliest! _you_ know. with most men--with your typical dissenter _par excellence_--it's always gadding abroad, calling on the neighbours. you see my point of view?" he glanced at lewisham, who was conscious of an unwonted opacity of mind. he became wary, as wary as he could manage to be on the spur of the moment. "it's a little surprising, you know," he said very carefully, "if i may say so--and considering what happened--to hear _you_ ..." "speaking of truth? not when you understand my position. not when you see where i stand. that is what i am getting at. that is what i am naturally anxious to make clear to you now that we have intermarried, now that you are my stepson-in-law. you're young, you know, you're young, and you're hard and fast. only years can give a mind _tone_--mitigate the varnish of education. i gather from this letter--and your face--that you are one of the party that participated in that little affair at lagune's." he stuck out a finger at a point he had just seen. "by-the-bye!--that accounts for ethel," he said. ethel rapped down the mustard on the table. "it does," she said, but not very loudly. "but you had met before?" said chaffery. "at whortley," said lewisham. "i see," said chaffery. "i was in--i was one of those who arranged the exposure," said lewisham. "and now you have raised the matter, i am bound to say--" "i knew," interrupted chaffery. "but what a shock that was for lagune!" he looked down at his toes for a moment with the corners of his mouth tucked in. "the hand dodge wasn't bad, you know," he said, with a queer sidelong smile. lewisham was very busy for a moment trying to get this remark in focus. "i don't see it in the same light as you do," he explained at last. "can't get away from your moral bias, eh?--well, well. we'll go into all that. but apart from its moral merits--simply as an artistic trick--it was not bad." "i don't know much about tricks--" "so few who undertake exposures do. you admit you never heard or thought of that before--the bladder, i mean. yet it's as obvious as tintacks that a medium who's hampered at his hands will do all he can with his teeth, and what _could_ be so self-evident as a bladder under one's lappel? what could be? yet i know psychic literature pretty well, and it's never been suggested even! never. it's a perpetual surprise to me how many things are _not_ thought of by investigators. for one thing, they never count the odds against them, and that puts them wrong at the start. look at it! i am by nature tricky. i spend all my leisure standing or sitting about and thinking up or practising new little tricks, because it amuses me immensely to do so. the whole thing amuses me. well--what is the result of these meditations? take one thing:--i know eight-and-forty ways of making raps--of which at least ten are original. ten original ways of making raps." his manner was very impressive. "and some of them simply tremendous raps. there!" a confirmatory rap exploded--as it seemed between lewisham and chaffery. "_eh?_" said chaffery. the mantelpiece opened a dropping fire, and the table went off under lewisham's nose like a cracker. "you see?" said chaffery, putting his hands under the tail of his coat. the whole room seemed snapping its fingers at lewisham for a space. "very well, and now take the other side. take the severest test i ever tried. two respectable professors of physics--not newtons, you understand, but good, worthy, self-important professors of physics--a lady anxious to prove there's a life beyond the grave, a journalist who wants stuff to write--a person, that is, who gets his living by these researches just as i do--undertook to test me. test _me_!... of course they had their other work to do, professing physics, professing religion, organising research, and so forth. at the outside they don't think an hour a day about it, and most of them had never cheated anybody in their existence, and couldn't, for example, travel without a ticket for a three-mile journey and not get caught, to save their lives.... well--you see the odds?" he paused. lewisham appeared involved in some interior struggle. "you know," explained chaffery, "it was quite an accident you got me--quite. the thing slipped out of my mouth. or your friend with, the flat voice wouldn't have had a chance. not a chance." lewisham spoke like a man who is lifting a weight. "all _this_, you know, is off the question. i'm not disputing your ability. but the thing is ... it isn't right." "we're coming to that," said chaffery. "it's evident we look at things in a different light." "that's it. that's just what we've got to discuss. exactly!" "cheating is cheating. you can't get away from that. that's simple enough." "wait till i've done with it," said chaffery with a certain zest. "of course it's imperative you should understand my position. it isn't as though i hadn't one. ever since i read your letter i've been thinking over that. really!--a justification! in a way you might almost say i had a mission. a sort of prophet. you really don't see the beginning of it yet." "oh, but hang it!" protested lewisham. "ah! you're young, you're crude. my dear young man, you're only at the beginning of things. you really must concede a certain possibility of wider views to a man more than twice your age. but here's supper. for a little while at any rate we'll call a truce." ethel had come in again bearing an additional chair, and mrs. chaffery appeared behind her, crowning the preparations with a jug of small beer. the cloth, lewisham observed, as he turned towards it, had several undarned holes and discoloured places, and in the centre stood a tarnished cruet which contained mustard, pepper, vinegar, and three ambiguous dried-up bottles. the bread was on an ample board with a pious rim, and an honest wedge of cheese loomed disproportionate on a little plate. mr. and mrs. lewisham were seated facing one another, and mrs. chaffery sat in the broken chair because she understood its ways. "this cheese is as nutritious and unattractive and indigestible as science," remarked chaffery, cutting and passing wedges. "but crush it--so--under your fork, add a little of this good dorset butter, a dab of mustard, pepper--the pepper is very necessary--and some malt vinegar, and crush together. you get a compound called crab and by no means disagreeable. so the wise deal with the facts of life, neither bolting nor rejecting, but adapting." "as though pepper and mustard were not facts," said lewisham, scoring his solitary point that evening. chaffery admitted the collapse of his image in very complimentary terms, and lewisham could not avoid a glance across the table at ethel. he remembered that chaffery was a slippery scoundrel whose blame was better than his praise, immediately afterwards. for a time the crab engaged chaffery, and the conversation languished. mrs. chaffery asked ethel formal questions about their lodgings, and ethel's answers were buoyant, "you must come and have tea one day," said ethel, not waiting for lewisham's endorsement, "and see it all." chaffery astonished lewisham by suddenly displaying a complete acquaintance with his status as a south kensington teacher in training. "i suppose you have some money beyond that guinea," said chaffery offhandedly. "enough to go on with," said lewisham, reddening. "and you look to them at south kensington, to do something for you--a hundred a year or so, when your scholarship is up?" "yes," said lewisham a little reluctantly. "yes. a hundred a year or so. that's the sort of idea. and there's lots of places beyond south kensington, of course, even if they don't put me up there." "i see," said chaffery; "but it will be a pretty close shave for all that--one hundred a year. well, well--there's many a deserving man has to do with less," and after a meditative pause he asked lewisham to pass the beer. "hev you a mother living, mr. lewisham?" said mrs. chaffery suddenly, and pursued him through the tale of his connexions. when he came to the plumber, mrs. chaffery remarked with an unexpected air of consequence that most families have their poor relations. then the air of consequence vanished again into the past from which it had arisen. supper finished, chaffery poured the residuum of the beer into his glass, produced a broseley clay of the longest sort, and invited lewisham to smoke. "honest smoking," said chaffery, tapping the bowl of his clay, and added: "in this country--cigars--sound cigars--and honesty rarely meet." lewisham fumbled in his pocket for his algerian cigarettes, and chaffery having regarded them unfavourably through his glasses, took up the thread of his promised apologia. the ladies retired to wash up the supper things. "you see," said chaffery, opening abruptly so soon as the clay was drawing, "about this cheating--i do not find life such a simple matter as you do." "_i_ don't find life simple," said lewisham, "but i do think there's a right and a wrong in things. and i don't think you have said anything so far to show that spiritualistic cheating is right." "let us thresh the matter out," said chaffery, crossing his legs; "let us thresh the matter out. now"--he drew at his pipe--"i don't think you fully appreciate the importance of illusion in life, the essential nature of lies and deception of the body politic. you are inclined to discredit one particular form of imposture, because it is not generally admitted--carries a certain discredit, and--witness the heel edges of my trouser legs, witness yonder viands--small rewards." "it's not that," said lewisham. "now i am prepared to maintain," said chaffery, proceeding with his proposition, "that honesty is essentially an anarchistic and disintegrating force in society, that communities are held together and the progress of civilisation made possible only by vigorous and sometimes even, violent lying; that the social contract is nothing more or less than a vast conspiracy of human beings to lie to and humbug themselves and one another for the general good. lies are the mortar that bind the savage individual man into the social masonry. there is the general thesis upon which i base my justification. my mediumship, i can assure you, is a particular instance of the general assertion. were i not of a profoundly indolent, restless, adventurous nature, and horribly averse to writing, i would make a great book of this and live honoured by every profound duffer in the world." "but how are _you_ going to prove it?" "prove it! it simply needs pointing out. even now there are men--bernard shaw, ibsen, and such like--who have seen bits of it in a new-gospel-grubbing sort of fashion. what is man? lust and greed tempered by fear and an irrational vanity." "i don't agree with that," said mr. lewisham. "you will as you grow older," said chaffery. "there's truths you have to grow into. but about this matter of lies--let us look at the fabric of society, let us compare the savage. you will discover the only essential difference between savage and civilised is this: the former hasn't learnt to shirk the truth of things, and the latter has. take the most obvious difference--the clothing of the civilised man, his invention of decency. what _is_ clothing? the concealment of essential facts. what is decorum? suppression! i don't argue against decency and decorum, mind you, but there they are--essentials to civilisation and essentially '_suppressio veri_.' and in the pockets of his clothes our citizen carries money. the pure savage has no money. to him a lump of metal is a lump of metal--possibly ornamental--no more. that's right. to any lucid-minded man it's the same or different only through the gross folly of his fellows. but to the common civilised man the universal exchangeability of this gold is a sacred and fundamental fact. think of it! why should it be? there isn't a why! i live in perpetual amazement at the gullibility of my fellow-creatures. of a morning sometimes, i can assure you, i lie in bed fancying that people may have found out this swindle in the night, expect to hear a tumult downstairs and see your mother-in-law come rushing into the room with a rejected shilling from the milkman. 'what's this?' says he. 'this muck for milk?' but it never happens. never. if it did, if people suddenly cleared their minds of this cant of money, what would happen? the true nature of man would appear. i should whip out of bed, seize some weapon, and after the milkman forthwith. it's becoming to keep the peace, but it's necessary to have milk. the neighbours would come pouring out--also after milk. milkman, suddenly enlightened, would start clattering up the street. after him! clutch--tear! got him! over goes the cart! fight if you like, but don't upset the can!... don't you see it all?--perfectly reasonable every bit of it. i should return, bruised and bloody, with the milk-can under my arm. yes, _i_ should have the milk-can--i should keep my eye on that.... but why go on? you of all men should know that life is a struggle for existence, a fight for food. money is just the lie that mitigates our fury." "no," said lewisham; "no! i'm not prepared to admit that." "what _is_ money?" mr. lewisham dodged. "you state your case first," he said. "i really don't see what all this has to do with cheating at a _séance_." "i weave my defence from this loom, though. take some aggressively respectable sort of man--a bishop, for example." "well," said lewisham, "i don't much hold with bishops." "it doesn't matter. take a professor of science, walking the earth. remark his clothing, making a decent citizen out of him, concealing the fact that physically he is a flabby, pot-bellied degenerate. that is the first lie of his being. no fringes round _his_ trousers, my boy. notice his hair, groomed and clipped, the tacit lie that its average length is half an inch, whereas in nature he would wave a few score yard-long hairs of ginger grey to the winds of heaven. notice the smug suppressions of his face. in his mouth are lies in the shape of false teeth. then on the earth somewhere poor devils are toiling to get him meat and corn and wine. he is clothed in the lives of bent and thwarted weavers, his way is lit by phossy jaw, he eats from lead-glazed crockery--all his ways are paved with the lives of men.... think of the chubby, comfortable creature! and, as swift has it--to think that such a thing should deal in pride!... he pretends that his blessed little researches are in some way a fair return to these remote beings for their toil, their suffering; pretends that he and his parasitic career are payment for their thwarted desires. imagine him bullying his gardener over some transplanted geraniums, the thick mist of lies they stand in, so that the man does not immediately with the edge of a spade smite down his impertinence to the dust from which it rose.... and his case is the case of all comfortable lives. what a lie and sham all civility is, all good breeding, all culture and refinement, while one poor ragged wretch drags hungry on the earth!" "but this is socialism!" said lewisham. "_i_--" "no ism," said chaffery, raising his rich voice. "only the ghastly truth of things--the truth that the warp and the woof of the world of men is lying. socialism is no remedy, no _ism_ is a remedy; things are so." "i don't agree--" began lewisham. "not with the hopelessness, because you are young, but with the description you do." "well--within limits." "you agree that most respectable positions in the world are tainted with the fraud of our social conditions. if they were not tainted with fraud they would not be respectable. even your own position--who gave you the right to marry and prosecute interesting scientific studies while other young men rot in mines?" "i admit--" "you can't help admitting. and here is my position. since all ways of life are tainted with fraud, since to live and speak the truth is beyond human strength and courage--as one finds it--is it not better for a man that he engage in some straightforward comparatively harmless cheating, than if he risk his mental integrity in some ambiguous position and fall at last into self-deception and self-righteousness? that is the essential danger. that is the thing i always guard against. heed that! it is the master sin. self-righteousness." mr. lewisham pulled at his moustache. "you begin to take me. and after all, these worthy people do not suffer so greatly. if i did not take their money some other impostor would. their huge conceit of intelligence would breed perhaps some viler swindle than my facetious rappings. that's the line our doubting bishops take, and why shouldn't i? for example, these people might give it to public charities, minister to the fattened secretary, the prodigal younger son. after all, at worst, i am a sort of latter-day robin hood; i take from the rich according to their incomes. i don't give to the poor certainly, i don't get enough. but--there are other good works. many a poor weakling have i comforted with lies, great thumping, silly lies, about the grave! compare me with one of those rascals who disseminate phossy jaw and lead poisons, compare me with a millionaire who runs a music hall with an eye to feminine talent, or an underwriter, or the common stockbroker. or any sort of lawyer.... "there are bishops," said chaffery, "who believe in darwin and doubt moses. now, i hold myself better than they--analogous perhaps, but better--for i do at least invent something of the tricks i play--i do do that." "that's all very well," began lewisham. "i might forgive them their dishonesty," said chaffery, "but the stupidity of it, the mental self-abnegation--lord! if a solicitor doesn't swindle in the proper shabby-magnificent way, they chuck him for unprofessional conduct." he paused. he became meditative, and smiled faintly. "now, some of _my_ dodges," he said with a sudden change of voice, turning towards lewisham, his eyes smiling over his glasses and an emphatic hand patting the table-cloth; "some of _my_ dodges are _damned_ ingenious, you know--_damned_ ingenious--and well worth double the money they bring me--double." he turned towards the fire again, pulling at his smouldering pipe, and eyeing lewisham over the corner of his glasses. "one or two of my little things would make maskelyne sit up," he said presently. "they would set that mechanical orchestra playing out of pure astonishment. i really must explain some of them to you--now we have intermarried." it took mr. lewisham a minute or so to re-form the regiment of his mind, disordered by its headlong pursuit of chaffery's flying arguments. "but on your principles you might do almost anything!" he said. "precisely!" said chaffery. "but--" "it is rather a curious method," protested chaffery; "to test one's principles of action by judging the resultant actions on some other principle, isn't it?" lewisham took a moment to think. "i suppose that is so," he said, in the manner of a man convinced against his will. he perceived his logic insufficient. he suddenly thrust the delicacies of argument aside. certain sentences he had brought ready for use in his mind came up and he delivered them abruptly. "anyhow," he said, "i don't agree with this cheating. in spite of what you say, i hold to what i said in my letter. ethel's connexion with all these things is at an end. i shan't go out of my way to expose you, of course, but if it comes in my way i shall speak my mind of all these spiritualistic phenomena. it's just as well that we should know clearly where we are." "that is clearly understood, my dear stepson-in-law," said chaffery. "our present object is discussion." "but ethel--" "ethel is yours," said chaffery. "ethel is yours," he repeated after an interval and added pensively--"to keep." "but talking of illusion," he resumed, dismissing the sordid with a sign of relief, "i sometimes think with bishop berkeley, that all experience is probably something quite different from reality. that consciousness is _essentially_ hallucination. i, here, and you, and our talk--it is all illusion. bring your science to bear--what am i? a cloudy multitude of atoms, an infinite interplay of little cells. is this hand that i hold out me? this head? is the surface of my skin any more than a rude average boundary? you say it is my mind that is me? but consider the war of motives. suppose i have an impulse that i resist--it is _i_ resist it--the impulse is outside me, eh? but suppose that impulse carries me and i do the thing--that impulse is part of me, is it not? ah! my brain reels at these mysteries! lord! what flimsy fluctuating things we are--first this, then that, a thought, an impulse, a deed and a forgetting, and all the time madly cocksure we are ourselves. and as for you--you who have hardly learned to think for more than five or six short years, there you sit, assured, coherent, there you sit in all your inherited original sin--hallucinatory windlestraw!--judging and condemning. _you_ know right from wrong! my boy, so did adam and eve ... _so soon as they'd had dealings with the father of lies_!" * * * * * at the end of the evening whisky and hot water were produced, and chaffery, now in a mood of great urbanity, said he had rarely enjoyed anyone's conversation so much as lewisham's, and insisted upon everyone having whisky. mrs. chaffery and ethel added sugar and lemon. lewisham felt an instantaneous mild surprise at the sight of ethel drinking grog. at the door mrs. chaffery kissed lewisham an effusive good-bye, and told ethel she really believed it was all for the best. on the way home lewisham was thoughtful and preoccupied. the problem of chaffery assumed enormous proportions. at times indeed even that good man's own philosophical sketch of himself as a practical exponent of mental sincerity touched with humour and the artistic spirit, seemed plausible. lagune was an undeniable ass, and conceivably psychic research was an incentive to trickery. then he remembered the matter in his relation to ethel.... "your stepfather is a little hard to follow," he said at last, sitting on the bed and taking off one boot. "he's dodgy--he's so confoundedly dodgy. one doesn't know where to take hold of him. he's got such a break he's clean bowled me again and again." he thought for a space, and then removed his boot and sat with it on his knee. "of course!... all that he said was wrong--quite wrong. right is right and cheating is cheating, whatever you say about it." "that's what i feel about him," said ethel at the looking-glass. "that's exactly how it seems to me." chapter xxiv. the campaign opens. on saturday lewisham was first through the folding doors. in a moment he reappeared with a document extended. mrs. lewisham stood arrested with her dress skirt in her hand, astonished at the astonishment on his face. "_i_ say!" said lewisham; "just look here!" she looked at the book that he held open before her, and perceived that its vertical ruling betokened a sordid import, that its list of items in an illegible mixture of english and german was lengthy. " kettle of coals d." occurred regularly down that portentous array and buttoned it all together. it was madam gadow's first bill. ethel took it out of his hand and examined it closer. it looked no smaller closer. the overcharges were scandalous. it was curious how the humour of calling a scuttle "kettle" had evaporated. that document, i take it, was the end of mr. lewisham's informal honeymoon. its advent was the snap of that bright prince rupert's drop; and in a moment--dust. for a glorious week he had lived in the persuasion that life was made of love and mystery, and now he was reminded with singular clearness that it was begotten of a struggle for existence and the will to live. "confounded imposition!" fumed mr. lewisham, and the breakfast table was novel and ominous, mutterings towards anger on the one hand and a certain consternation on the other. "i must give her a talking to this afternoon," said lewisham at his watch, and after he had bundled his books into the shiny black bag, he gave the first of his kisses that was not a distinct and self-subsisting ceremony. it was usage and done in a hurry, and the door slammed as he went his way to the schools. ethel was not coming that morning, because by special request and because she wanted to help him she was going to copy out some of his botanical notes which had fallen into arrears. on his way to the schools lewisham felt something suspiciously near a sinking of the heart. his preoccupation was essentially arithmetical. the thing that engaged his mind to the exclusion of all other matters is best expressed in the recognised business form. dr. £ s. d. cr. £ s. d mr. l.{ - / by bus fares to south cash in hand { kensington (late) mrs. l.{ by six lunches at the students' club - / at bank by two packets of cig- to scholarship arettes (to smoke after dinner) by marriage and elope- ment by necessary subse- quent additions to bride's trousseau by housekeeping exs. - / by "a few little things" bought by housekeeper - / by madam gadow for coal, lodging and attendance (as per account rendered) by missing by balance ------------- ------------- £ - / £ - / ------------- ------------- from this it will be manifest to the most unbusiness like that, disregarding the extraordinary expenditure on the marriage, and the by no means final "few little things" ethel had bought, outgoings exceeded income by two pounds and more, and a brief excursion into arithmetic will demonstrate that in five-and-twenty weeks the balance of the account would be nothing. but that guinea a week was not to go on for five-and-twenty weeks, but simply for fifteen, and then the net outgoings will be well over three guineas, reducing the "law" accorded our young couple to two-and-twenty weeks. these details are tiresome and disagreeable, no doubt, to the refined reader, but just imagine how much more disagreeable they were to mr. lewisham, trudging meditative to the schools. you will understand his slipping out of the laboratory, and betaking himself to the educational reading-room, and how it was that the observant smithers, grinding his lecture notes against the now imminent second examination for the "forbes," was presently perplexed to the centre of his being by the spectacle of lewisham intent upon a pile of current periodicals, the _educational times_, the _journal of education_, the _schoolmaster, science and art, the university correspondent, nature, the athenaeum, the academy_, and _the author_. smithers remarked the appearance of a note-book, the jotting down of memoranda. he edged into the bay nearest lewisham's table and approached him suddenly from the flank. "what are _you_ after?" said smithers in a noisy whisper and with a detective eye on the papers. he perceived lewisham was scrutinising the advertisement column, and his perplexity increased. "oh--nothing," said lewisham blandly, with his hand falling casually over his memoranda; "what's your particular little game?" "nothing much," said smithers, "just mooching round. you weren't at the meeting last friday?" he turned a chair, knelt on it, and began whispering over the back about debating society politics. lewisham was inattentive and brief. what had he to do with these puerilities? at last smithers went away foiled, and met parkson by the entrance. parkson, by-the-bye, had not spoken to lewisham since their painful misunderstanding. he made a wide detour to his seat at the end table, and so, and by a singular rectitude of bearing and a dignified expression, showed himself aware of lewisham's offensive presence. lewisham's investigations were two-fold. he wanted to discover some way of adding materially to that weekly guinea by his own exertions, and he wanted to learn the conditions of the market for typewriting. for himself he had a vague idea, an idea subsequently abandoned, that it was possible to get teaching work in evening classes during the month of march. but, except by reason of sudden death, no evening class in london changes its staff after september until july comes round again. private tuition, moreover, offered many attractions to him, but no definite proposals. his ideas of his own possibilities were youthful or he would not have spent time in noting the conditions of application for a vacant professorship in physics at the melbourne university. he also made a note of the vacant editorship of a monthly magazine devoted to social questions. he would not have minded doing that sort of thing at all, though the proprietor might. there was also a vacant curatorship in the museum of eton college. the typewriting business was less varied and more definite. those were the days before the violent competition of the half-educated had brought things down to an impossible tenpence the thousand words, and the prevailing price was as high as one-and-six. calculating that ethel could do a thousand words in an hour and that she could work five or six hours in the day, it was evident that her contributions to the household expenses would be by no means despicable; thirty shillings a week perhaps. lewisham was naturally elated at this discovery. he could find no advertisements of authors or others seeking typewriting, but he saw that a great number of typewriters advertised themselves in the literary papers. it was evident ethel also must advertise. "'scientific phraseology a speciality' might be put," meditated lewisham. he returned to his lodgings in a hopeful mood with quite a bundle of memoranda of possible employments. he spent five shillings in stamps on the way. after lunch, lewisham--a little short of breath-asked to see madam gadow. she came up in the most affable frame of mind; nothing could be further from the normal indignation of the british landlady. she was very voluble, gesticulatory and lucid, but unhappily bi-lingual, and at all the crucial points german. mr. lewisham's natural politeness restrained him from too close a pursuit across the boundary of the two imperial tongues. quite half an hour's amicable discussion led at last to a reduction of sixpence, and all parties professed themselves satisfied with this result. madam gadow was quite cool even at the end. mr. lewisham was flushed in the face, red-eared, and his hair slightly disordered, but that sixpence was at any rate an admission of the justice of his claim. "she was evidently trying it on," he said almost apologetically to ethel. "it was absolutely necessary to present a firm front to her. i doubt if we shall have any trouble again.... "of course what she says about kitchen coals is perfectly just." then the young couple went for a walk in kensington gardens, and--the spring afternoon was so warm and pleasant--sat on two attractive green chairs near the band-stand, for which lewisham had subsequently to pay twopence. they had what ethel called a "serious talk." she was really wonderfully sensible, and discussed the situation exhaustively. she was particularly insistent upon the importance of economy in her domestic disbursements and deplored her general ignorance very earnestly. it was decided that lewisham should get a good elementary text-book of domestic economy for her private study. at home mrs. chaffery guided her house by the oracular items of "inquire within upon everything," but lewisham considered that work unscientific. ethel was also of opinion that much might be learnt from the sixpenny ladies' papers--the penny ones had hardly begun in those days. she had bought such publications during seasons of affluence, but chiefly, as she now deplored, with an eye to the trimming of hats and such like vanities. the sooner the typewriter came the better. it occurred to lewisham with unpleasant suddenness that he had not allowed for the purchase of a typewriter in his estimate of their resources. it brought their "law" down to twelve or thirteen weeks. they spent the evening in writing and copying a number of letters, addressing envelopes and enclosing stamps. there were optimistic moments. "melbourne's a fine city," said lewisham, "and we should have a glorious voyage out." he read the application for the melbourne professorship out loud to her, just to see how it read, and she was greatly impressed by the list of his accomplishments and successes. "i did not, know you knew _half_ those things," she said, and became depressed at her relative illiteracy. it was natural, after such encouragement, to write to the scholastic agents in a tone of assured consequence. the advertisement for typewriting in the _athenaeum_ troubled his conscience a little. after he had copied out his draft with its "scientific phraseology a speciality," fine and large, he saw the notes she had written out for him. her handwriting was still round and boyish, even as it had appeared in the whortley avenue, but her punctuation was confined to the erratic comma and the dash, and there was a disposition to spell the imperfectly legible along the line of least resistance. however, he dismissed that matter with a resolve to read over and correct anything in that way that she might have sent her to do. it would not be a bad idea, he thought parenthetically, if he himself read up some sound authority on the punctuation of sentences. they sat at this business quite late, heedless of the examination in botany that came on the morrow. it was very bright and cosy in their little room with their fire burning, the gas lit and the curtains drawn, and the number of applications they had written made them hopeful. she was flushed and enthusiastic, now flitting about the room, now coming close to him and leaning over him to see what he had done. at lewisham's request she got him the envelopes from the chest of drawers. "you _are_ a help to a chap," said lewisham, leaning back from the table, "i feel i could do anything for a girl like you--anything." "_really!_" she cried, "really! am i really a help?" lewisham's face and gesture, were all assent. she gave a little cry of delight, stood for a moment, and then by way of practical demonstration of her unflinching helpfulness, hurried round the table towards him with arms extended, "you dear!" she cried. lewisham, partially embraced, pushed his chair back with his disengaged arm, so that she might sit on his knee.... who could doubt that she was a help? chapter xxv. the first battle. lewisham's inquiries for evening teaching and private tuition were essentially provisional measures. his proposals for a more permanent establishment displayed a certain defect in his sense of proportion. that melbourne professorship, for example, was beyond his merits, and there were aspects of things that would have affected the welcome of himself and his wife at eton college. at the outset he was inclined to regard the south kensington scholar as the intellectual salt of the earth, to overrate the abundance of "decent things" yielding from one hundred and fifty to three hundred a year, and to disregard the competition of such inferior enterprises as the universities of oxford, cambridge, and the literate north. but the scholastic agents to whom he went on the following saturday did much in a quiet way to disabuse his mind. mr. blendershin's chief assistant in the grimy little office in oxford street cleared up the matter so vigorously that lewisham was angered. "headmaster of an endowed school, perhaps!" said mr. blendershin's chief assistant "lord!--why not a bishopric? i say,"--as mr. blendershin entered smoking an assertive cigar--"one-and-twenty, _no_ degree, _no_ games, two years' experience as junior--wants a headmastership of an endowed school!" he spoke so loudly that it was inevitable the selection of clients in the waiting-room should hear, and he pointed with his pen. "look here!" said lewisham hotly; "if i knew the ways of the market i shouldn't come to you." mr. blendershin stared at lewisham for a moment. "what's he done in the way of certificates?" asked mr. blendershin of the assistant. the assistant read a list of 'ologies and 'ographies. "fifty resident," said mr. blendershin concisely--"that's _your_ figure. sixty, if you're lucky." "_what_?" said mr. lewisham. "not enough for you?" "not nearly." "you can get a cambridge graduate for eighty resident--and grateful," said mr. blendershin. "but i don't want a resident post," said lewisham. "precious few non-resident shops," said mr. blendershin. "precious few. they want you for dormitory supervision--and they're afraid of your taking pups outside." "not married by any chance?" said the assistant suddenly, after an attentive study of lewisham's face. "well--er." lewisham met mr. blendershin's eye. "yes," he said. the assistant was briefly unprintable. "lord! you'll have to keep that dark," said mr. blendershin. "but you have got a tough bit of hoeing before you. if i was you i'd go on and get my degree now you're so near it. you'll stand a better chance." pause. "the fact is," said lewisham slowly and looking at his boot toes, "i must be doing _something_ while i am getting my degree." the assistant, whistled softly. "might get you a visiting job, perhaps," said mr. blendershin speculatively. "just read me those items again, binks." he listened attentively. "objects to religious teaching!--eh?" he stopped the reading by a gesture, "that's nonsense. you can't have everything, you know. scratch that out. you won't get a place in any middle-class school in england if you object to religious teaching. it's the mothers--bless 'em! say nothing about it. don't believe--who does? there's hundreds like you, you know--hundreds. parsons--all sorts. say nothing about it--" "but if i'm asked?" "church of england. every man in this country who has not dissented belongs to the church of england. it'll be hard enough to get you anything without that." "but--" said mr. lewisham. "it's lying." "legal fiction," said mr. blendershin. "everyone understands. if you don't do that, my dear chap, we can't do anything for you. it's journalism, or london docks. well, considering your experience,--say docks." lewisham's face flushed irregularly. he did not answer. he scowled and tugged at the still by no means ample moustache. "compromise, you know," said mr. blendershin, watching him kindly. "compromise." for the first time in his life lewisham faced the necessity of telling a lie in cold blood. he glissaded from, the austere altitudes of his self-respect, and his next words were already disingenuous. "i won't promise to tell lies if i'm asked," he said aloud. "i can't do that." "scratch it out," said blendershin to the clerk. "you needn't mention it. then you don't say you can teach drawing." "i can't," said lewisham. "you just give out the copies," said blendershin, "and take care they don't see you draw, you know." "but that's not teaching drawing--" "it's what's understood by it in _this_ country," said blendershin. "don't you go corrupting your mind with pedagogueries. they're the ruin of assistants. put down drawing. then there's shorthand--" "here, i say!" said lewisham. "there's shorthand, french, book-keeping, commercial geography, land measuring--" "but i can't teach any of those things!" "look here," said blendershin, and paused. "has your wife or you a private income?" "no," said lewisham. "well?" a pause of further moral descent, and a whack against an obstacle. "but they will find me out," said lewisham. blendershin smiled. "it's not so much ability as willingness to teach, you know. and _they_ won't find you out. the sort of schoolmaster we deal with can't find anything out. he can't teach any of these things himself--and consequently he doesn't believe they _can_ be taught. talk to him of pedagogics and he talks of practical experience. but he puts 'em on his prospectus, you know, and he wants 'em on his time-table. some of these subjects--there's commercial geography, for instance. what _is_ commercial geography?" "barilla," said the assistant, biting the end of his pen, and added pensively, "_and_ blethers." "fad," said blendershin, "just fad. newspapers talk rot about commercial education, duke of devonshire catches on and talks ditto--pretends he thought it himself--much _he_ cares--parents get hold of it--schoolmasters obliged to put something down, consequently assistants must. and that's the end of the matter!" "_all_ right," said lewisham, catching his breath in a faint sob of shame, "stick 'em down. but mind--a non-resident place." "well," said blendershin, "your science may pull you through. but i tell you it's hard. some grant-earning grammar school may want that. and that's about all, i think. make a note of the address...." the assistant made a noise, something between a whistle and the word "fee." blendershin glanced at lewisham and nodded doubtfully. "fee for booking," said the assistant; "half a crown, postage--in advance--half a crown." but lewisham remembered certain advice dunkerley had given him in the old whortley days. he hesitated. "no," he said. "i don't pay that. if you get me anything there's the commission--if you don't--" "we lose," supplied the assistant. "and you ought to," said lewisham. "it's a fair game." "living in london?" asked blendershin. "yes," said the clerk. "that's all right," said mr. blendershin. "we won't say anything about the postage in that case. of course it's the off season, and you mustn't expect anything at present very much. sometimes there's a shift or so at easter.... there's nothing more.... afternoon. anyone else, binks?" messrs. maskelyne, smith, and thrums did a higher class of work than blendershin, whose specialities were lower class private establishments and the cheaper sort of endowed schools. indeed, so superior were maskelyne, smith, and thrums that they enraged lewisham by refusing at first to put him on their books. he was interviewed briefly by a young man dressed and speaking with offensive precision, whose eye adhered rigidly to the waterproof collar throughout the interview. "hardly our line," he said, and pushed lewisham a form to fill up. "mostly upper class and good preparatory schools here, you know." as lewisham filled up the form with his multitudinous "'ologies" and "'ographies," a youth of ducal appearance entered and greeted the precise young man in a friendly way. lewisham, bending down to write, perceived that this professional rival wore a very long frock coat, patent leather boots, and the most beautiful grey trousers. his conceptions of competition enlarged. the precise young man by a motion of his eyes directed the newcomer's attention to lewisham's waterproof collar, and was answered by raised eyebrows and a faint tightening of the mouth. "that bounder at castleford has answered me," said the new-comer in a fine rich voice. "is he any bally good?" when the bounder at castleford had been discussed lewisham presented his paper, and the precise young man with his eye still fixed on the waterproof collar took the document in the manner of one who reaches across a gulf. "i doubt if we shall be able to do anything for you," he said reassuringly. "but an english mastership may chance to be vacant. science doesn't count for much in _our_ sort of schools, you know. classics and good games--that's our sort of thing." "i see," said lewisham. "good games, good form, you know, and all that sort of thing." "i see," said lewisham. "you don't happen to be a public-school boy?" asked the precise young man. "no," said lewisham. "where were you educated?" lewisham's face grew hot. "does that matter?" he asked, with his eye on the exquisite grey trousering. "in our sort of school--decidedly. it's a question of tone, you know." "i see," said lewisham, beginning to realise new limitations. his immediate impulse was to escape the eye of the nicely dressed assistant master. "you'll write, i suppose, if you have anything," he said, and the precise young man responded with alacrity to his door-ward motion. "often get that kind of thing?" asked the nicely dressed young man when lewisham had departed. "rather. not quite so bad as that, you know. that waterproof collar--did you notice it? ugh! and--'i see.' and the scowl and the clumsiness of it. of course _he_ hasn't any decent clothes--he'd go to a new shop with one tin box! but that sort of thing--and board school teachers--they're getting everywhere! only the other day--rowton was here." "not rowton of pinner?" "yes, rowton of pinner. and he asked right out for a board schoolmaster. he said, 'i want someone who can teach arithmetic.'" he laughed. the nicely dressed young man meditated over the handle of his cane. "a bounder of that kind can't have a particularly nice time," he said, "anyhow. if he does get into a decent school, he must get tremendously cut by all the decent men." "too thick-skinned to mind that sort of thing, i fancy," said the scholastic agent. "he's a new type. this south kensington place and the polytechnics an turning him out by the hundred...." lewisham forgot his resentment at having to profess a religion he did not believe, in this new discovery of the scholastic importance of clothing. he went along with an eye to all the shop windows that afforded a view of his person. indisputably his trousers _were_ ungainly, flapping abominably over his boots and bagging terribly at the knees, and his boots were not only worn and ugly but extremely ill blacked. his wrists projected offensively from his coat sleeves, he perceived a huge asymmetry in the collar of his jacket, his red tie was askew and ill tied, and that waterproof collar! it was shiny, slightly discoloured, suddenly clammy to the neck. what if he did happen to be well equipped for science teaching? that was nothing. he speculated on the cost of a complete outfit. it would be difficult to get such grey trousers as those he had seen for less than sixteen shillings, and he reckoned a frock coat at forty shillings at least--possibly even more. he knew good clothes were very expensive. he hesitated at poole's door and turned away. the thing was out of the question. he crossed leicester square and went down bedford street, disliking every well-dressed person he met. messrs. danks and wimborne inhabited a bank-like establishment near chancery lane, and without any conversation presented him with forms to fill up. religion? asked the form. lewisham paused and wrote "church of england." thence he went to the college of pedagogues in holborn. the college of pedagogues presented itself as a long-bearded, corpulent, comfortable person with a thin gold watch chain and fat hands. he wore gilt glasses and had a kindly confidential manner that did much to heal lewisham's wounded feelings. the 'ologies and 'ographies were taken down with polite surprise at their number. "you ought to take one of our diplomas," said the stout man. "you would find no difficulty. no competition. and there are prizes--several prizes--in money." lewisham was not aware that the waterproof collar had found a sympathetic observer. "we give courses of lectures, and have an examination in the theory and practice of education. it is the only examination in the theory and practice of education for men engaged in middle and upper class teaching in this country. except the teacher's diploma. and so few come--not two hundred a year. mostly governesses. the men prefer to teach by rule of thumb, you know. english characteristic--rule of thumb. it doesn't do to say anything of course--but there's bound to be--something happen--something a little disagreeable--somewhen if things go on as they do. american schools keep on getting better--german too. what used to do won't do now. i tell this to you, you know, but it doesn't do to tell everyone. it doesn't do. it doesn't do to do anything. so much has to be considered. however ... but you'd do well to get a diploma and make yourself efficient. though that's looking ahead." he spoke of looking ahead with an apologetic laugh as though it was an amiable weakness of his. he turned from such abstruse matters and furnished lewisham with the particulars of the college diplomas, and proceeded to other possibilities. "there's private tuition," he said. "would you mind a backward boy? then we are occasionally asked for visiting masters. mostly by girls' schools. but that's for older men--married men, you know." "i am married," said lewisham. "_eh_?" said the college of pedagogues, startled. "i _am_ married," said lewisham. "dear me," said the college of pedagogues gravely, and regarding mr. lewisham over gold-rimmed glasses. "dear me! and i am more than twice your age, and i am not married at all. one-and-twenty! have you--have you been married long?" "a few weeks," said lewisham. "that's very remarkable," said the college of pedagogues. "very interesting.... _really!_ your wife must be a very courageous young person.... excuse me! you know--you will really have a hard fight for a position. however--it certainly makes you eligible for girls' schools; it does do that. to a certain extent, that is." the evidently enhanced respect of the college of pedagogues pleased lewisham extremely. but his encounter with the medical, scholastic, and clerical agency that holds by waterloo bridge was depressing again, and after that he set out to walk home. long before he reached home he was tired, and his simple pride in being married and in active grapple with an unsympathetic world had passed. his surrender on the religious question had left a rankling bitterness behind it; the problem of the clothes was acutely painful. he was still far from a firm grasp of the fact that his market price was under rather than over one hundred pounds a year, but that persuasion was gaining ground in his mind. the day was a greyish one, with a dull cold wind, and a nail in one of his boots took upon itself to be objectionable. certain wild shots and disastrous lapses in his recent botanical examination, that he had managed to keep out of his mind hitherto, forced their way on his attention. for the first time since his marriage he harboured premonitions of failure. when he got in he wanted to sit down at once in the little creaky chair by the fire, but ethel came flitting from the newly bought typewriter with arms extended and prevented him. "oh!--it _has_ been dull," she said. he missed the compliment. "_i_ haven't had such a giddy time that you should grumble," he said, in a tone that was novel to her. he disengaged himself from her arms and sat down. he noticed the expression of her face. "i'm rather tired," he said by way of apology. "and there's a confounded nail i must hammer down in my boot. it's tiring work hunting up these agents, but of course it's better to go and see them. how have you been getting on?" "all right," she said, regarding him. and then, "you _are_ tired. we'll have some tea. and--let me take off your boot for you, dear. yes--i will." she rang the bell, bustled out of the room, called for tea at the staircase, came back, pulled out madam gadow's ungainly hassock and began unlacing his boot. lewisham's mood changed. "you _are_ a trump, ethel," he said; "i'm hanged if you're not." as the laces flicked he bent forward and kissed her ear. the unlacing was suspended and there were reciprocal endearments.... presently he was sitting in his slippers, with a cup of tea in his hand, and ethel, kneeling on the hearthrug with the firelight on her face, was telling him of an answer that had come that afternoon to her advertisement in the _athenaeum_. "that's good," said lewisham. "it's a novelist," she said with the light of pride in her eyes, and handed him the letter. "lucas holderness, the author of 'the furnace of sin' and other stories." "that's first rate," said lewisham with just a touch of envy, and bent forward to read by the firelight. the letter was from an address in judd street, euston road, written on good paper and in a fair round hand such as one might imagine a novelist using. "dear madam," said the letter, "i propose to send you, by registered letter, the ms. of a three-volume novel. it is about , words--but you must count the exact number." "how i shall count i don't know," said ethel. "i'll show you a way," said lewisham. "there's no difficulty in that. you count the words on three or four pages, strike an average, and multiply." "but, of course, before doing so i must have a satisfactory guarantee that my confidence in putting my work in your hands will not be misplaced and that your execution is of the necessary high quality." "oh!" said lewisham; "that's a bother." "accordingly i must ask you for references." "that's a downright nuisance," said lewisham. "i suppose that ass, lagune ... but what's this? 'or, failing references, for a deposit ...' that's reasonable, i suppose." it was such a moderate deposit too--merely a guinea. even had the doubt been stronger, the aspect of helpful hopeful little ethel eager for work might well have thrust it aside. "sending him a cheque will show him we have a banking account behind us," said lewisham,--his banking was still sufficiently recent for pride. "we will send him a cheque. that'll settle _him_ all right." that evening after the guinea cheque had been despatched, things were further brightened by the arrival of a letter of atrociously jellygraphed advices from messrs. danks and wimborne. they all referred to resident vacancies for which lewisham was manifestly unsuitable, nevertheless their arrival brought an encouraging assurance of things going on, of shifting and unstable places in the defences of the beleaguered world. afterwards, with occasional endearments for ethel, he set himself to a revision of his last year's note-books, for now the botany was finished, the advanced zoological course--the last lap, as it were, for the forbes medal--was beginning. she got her best hat from the next room to make certain changes in the arrangement of its trimmings. she sat in the little chair, while lewisham, with documents spread before him, sat at the table. presently she looked up from an experimental arrangement of her cornflowers, and discovered lewisham, no longer reading, but staring blankly at the middle of the table-cloth, with an extraordinary misery in his eyes. she forgot the cornflowers and stared at him. "penny," she said after an interval. lewisham started and looked up. "_eh_?" "why were you looking so miserable?" she asked. "_was_ i looking miserable?" "yes. and _cross_!" "i was thinking just then that i would like to boil a bishop or so in oil." "my dear!" "they know perfectly well the case against what they teach, they know it's neither madness nor wickedness nor any great harm, to others not to believe, they know perfectly well that a man may be as honest as the day, and right--right and decent in every way--and not believe in what they teach. and they know that it only wants the edge off a man's honour, for him to profess anything in the way of belief. just anything. and they won't say so. i suppose they want the edge off every man's honour. if a man is well off they will truckle to him no end, though he laughs at all their teaching. they'll take gold plate from company promoters and rent from insanitary houses. but if a man is poor and doesn't profess to believe in what some of them scarcely believe themselves, they wouldn't lift a finger to help him against the ignorance of their followers. your stepfather was right enough there. they know what's going on. they know that it means lying and humbug for any number of people, and they don't care. why should they? _they've_ got it down all right. they're spoilt, and why shouldn't we be?" lewisham having selected the bishops as scapegoats for his turpitude, was inclined to ascribe even the nail in his boot to their agency. mrs. lewisham looked puzzled. she realised his drift. "you're not," she said, and dropped her voice, "an _infidel_?" lewisham nodded gloomily. "aren't you?" he said. "oh no," said mrs. lewisham. "but you don't go to church, you don't--" "no, i don't," said mrs. lewisham; and then with more assurance, "but i'm not an infidel." "christian?" "i suppose so." "but a christian--what do you believe?" "oh! to tell the truth, and do right, and not hurt or injure people and all that." "that's not a christian. a christian is one who believes." "it's what _i_ mean by a christian," said mrs. lewisham. "oh! at that rate anyone's a christian," said lewisham. "we all think it's right to do right and wrong to do wrong." "but we don't all do it," said mrs. lewisham, taking up the cornflowers again. "no," said lewisham, a little taken aback by the feminine method of discussion. "we don't all do it--certainly." he stared at her for a moment--her head was a little on one side and her eyes on the cornflower--and his mind was full of a strange discovery. he seemed on the verge of speaking, and turned to his note-book again. very soon the centre of the table-cloth resumed its sway. * * * * * the following day mr. lucas holderness received his cheque for a guinea. unhappily it was crossed. he meditated for some time, and then took pen and ink and improved lewisham's careless "one" to "five" and touched up his unticked figure one to correspond. you perceive him, a lank, cadaverous, good-looking man with long black hair and a semi-clerical costume of quite painful rustiness. he made the emendations with grave carefulness. he took the cheque round to his grocer. his grocer looked at it suspiciously. "you pay it in," said mr. lucas holderness, "if you've any doubts about it. pay it in. _i_ don't know the man or what he is. he may be a swindler for all i can tell. _i_ can't answer for him. pay it in and see. leave the change till then. i can wait. i'll call round in a few days' time." "all right, wasn't it?" said mr. lucas holderness in a casual tone two days later. "quite, sir," said his grocer with enhanced respect, and handed him his four pounds thirteen and sixpence change. mr. lucas holderness, who had been eyeing the grocer's stock with a curious intensity, immediately became animated and bought a tin of salmon. he went out of the shop with the rest of the money in his hand, for the pockets of his clothes were old and untrustworthy. at the baker's he bought a new roll. he bit a huge piece of the roll directly he was out of the shop, and went on his way gnawing. it was so large a piece that his gnawing mouth was contorted into the ugliest shapes. he swallowed by an effort, stretching his neck each time. his eyes expressed an animal satisfaction. he turned the corner of judd street biting again at the roll, and the reader of this story, like the lewishams, hears of him no more. chapter xxvi. the glamour fades. after all, the rosy love-making and marrying and epithalamy are no more than the dawn of things, and to follow comes all the spacious interval of white laborious light. try as we may to stay those delightful moments, they fade and pass remorselessly; there is no returning, no recovering, only--for the foolish--the vilest peep-shows and imitations in dens and darkened rooms. we go on--we grow. at least we age. our young couple, emerging presently from an atmosphere of dusk and morning stars, found the sky gathering greyly overhead and saw one another for the first time clearly in the light of every-day. it might perhaps witness better to lewisham's refinement if one could tell only of a moderated and dignified cooling, of pathetic little concealments of disappointment and a decent maintenance of the sentimental atmosphere. and so at last daylight. but our young couple were too crude for that. the first intimations of their lack of identity have already been described, but it would be tedious and pitiful to tell of all the little intensifications, shade by shade, of the conflict of their individualities. they fell out, dear lady! they came to conflict of words. the stress of perpetual worry was upon them, of dwindling funds and the anxious search for work that would not come. and on ethel lay long, vacant, lonely hours in dull surroundings. differences arose from the most indifferent things; one night lewisham lay awake in unfathomable amazement because she had convinced him she did not care a rap for the welfare of humanity, and deemed his socialism a fancy and an indiscretion. and one sunday afternoon they started for a walk under the pleasantest auspices, and returned flushed and angry, satire and retort flying free--on the score of the social conventions in ethel's novelettes. for some inexplicable reason lewisham saw fit to hate her novelettes very bitterly. these encounters indeed were mere skirmishes for the most part, and the silences and embarrassments that followed ended sooner or later in a "making up," tacit or definite, though once or twice this making up only re-opened the healing wound. and always each skirmish left its scar, effaced from yet another line of their lives the lingering tints of romantic colour. there came no work, no added income for either of them, saving two trifles, for five long months. once lewisham won twelve shillings in the prize competition of a penny weekly, and three times came infinitesimal portions of typewriting from a poet who had apparently seen the _athenaeum_ advertisement. his name was edwin peak baynes and his handwriting was sprawling and unformed. he sent her several short lyrics on scraps of paper with instructions that he desired "three copies of each written beautifully in different styles" and "_not_ fastened with metal fasteners but with silk thread of an appropriate colour." both of our young people were greatly exercised by these instructions. one fragment was called "bird song," one "cloud shadows," and one "eryngium," but lewisham thought they might be spoken of collectively as bosh. by way of payment, this poet sent, in contravention of the postal regulations, half a sovereign stuck into a card, asking her to keep the balance against future occasions. in a little while, greatly altered copies of these lyrics were returned by the poet in person, with this enigmatical instruction written across the cover of each: "this style i like, only if possible more so." lewisham was out, but ethel opened the door, so this indorsement was unnecessary, "he's really only a boy," said ethel, describing the interview to lewisham, who was curious. they both felt that the youthfulness of edwin peak baynes detracted something from the reality of this employment. from his marriage until the final examination in june, lewisham's life had an odd amphibious quality. at home were ethel and the perpetual aching pursuit of employment, the pelting irritations of madam gadow's persistent overcharges, and so forth, and amid such things he felt extraordinarily grown up; but intercalated with these experiences were those intervals at kensington, scraps of his adolescence, as it were, lying amidst the new matter of his manhood, intervals during which he was simply an insubordinate and disappointing student with an increasing disposition to gossip. at south kensington he dwelt with theories and ideals as a student should; at the little rooms in chelsea--they grew very stuffy as the summer came on, and the accumulation of the penny novelettes ethel favoured made a litter--there was his particular private concrete situation, and ideals gave place to the real. it was a strangely narrow world, he perceived dimly, in which his manhood opened. the only visitors were the chafferys. chaffery would come to share their supper, and won upon lewisham in spite of his roguery by his incessantly entertaining monologue and by his expressed respect for and envy of lewisham's scientific attainments. moreover, as time went on lewisham found himself more and more in sympathy with chaffery's bitterness against those who order the world. it was good to hear him on bishops and that sort of people. he said what lewisham wanted to say beautifully. mrs. chaffery was perpetually flitting--out of the house as lewisham came home, a dim, black, nervous, untidy little figure. she came because ethel, in spite of her expressed belief that love was "all in all," found married life a little dull and lonely while lewisham was away. and she went hastily when he came, because of a certain irritability that the struggle against the world was developing. he told no one at kensington about his marriage, at first because it was such a delicious secret, and then for quite other reasons. so there was no overlapping. the two worlds began and ended sharply at the wrought-iron gates. but the day came when lewisham passed those gates for the last time and his adolescence ended altogether. in the final examination of the biological course, the examination that signalised the end of his income of a weekly guinea, he knew well enough that he had done badly. the evening of the last day's practical work found him belated, hot-headed, beaten, with ruffled hair and red ears. he sat to the last moment doggedly struggling to keep cool and to mount the ciliated funnel of an earthworm's nephridium. but ciliated funnels come not to those who have shirked the laboratory practice. he rose, surrendered his paper to the morose elderly young assistant demonstrator who had welcomed him so flatteringly eight months before, and walked down the laboratory to the door where the rest of his fellow-students clustered. smithers was talking loudly about the "twistiness" of the identification, and the youngster with the big ears was listening attentively. "here's lewisham! how did _you_ get on, lewisham?" asked smithers, not concealing his assurance. "horribly," said lewisham shortly, and pushed past. "did you spot d?" clamoured smithers. lewisham pretended not to hear. miss heydinger stood with her hat in her hand and looked at lewisham's hot eyes. he was for walking past her, but something in her face penetrated even his disturbance. he stopped. "did you get out the nephridium?" he said as graciously as he could. she shook her head. "are you going downstairs?" she asked. "rather," said lewisham, with a vague intimation in his manner of the offence smithers gave him. he opened the glass door from the passage to the staircase. they went down one tier of that square spiral in silence. "are you coming up again next year?" asked miss heydinger. "no," said lewisham. "no, i shall not come here again. ever." pause. "what will you do?" she asked. "i don't know. i have to get a living somehow. it's been bothering me all the session." "i thought--" she stopped. "will you go down to your uncle's again?" she said. "no. i shall stop in london. it's no good going out of things into the country. and besides--i've quarrelled rather with my uncle." "what do you think of doing?--teaching?" "i suppose it will be teaching, i'm not sure. anything that turns up." "i see," she said. they went on down in silence for a time. "i suppose you will come up again?" he asked. "i may try the botanical again--if they can find room. and, i was thinking--sometimes one hears of things. what is your address? so that if i heard of anything." lewisham stopped on the staircase and thought. "of course," he said. he made no effort to give her the address, and she demanded it again at the foot of the stairs. "that confounded nephridium--!" he said. "it has put everything out of my head." they exchanged addresses on leaflets torn from miss heydinger's little note-book. she waited at the book in the hall while he signed his name. at the iron gates of the schools she said: "i am going through kensington gardens." he was now feeling irritated about the addresses, and he would not see the implicit invitation. "i am going towards chelsea." she hesitated a moment, looking at him--puzzled. "good-bye, then," she said. "good-bye," he answered, lifting his hat. he crossed the exhibition road slowly with his packed glazed bag, now seamed with cracks, in his hand. he went thoughtfully down to the corner of the cromwell road and turned along that to the right so that he could see the red pile of the science schools rising fair, and tall across the gardens of the natural history museum. he looked back towards it regretfully. he was quite sure that he had failed in this last examination. he knew that any career as a scientific man was now closed to him for ever. and he remembered now how he had come along this very road to that great building for the first time in his life, and all the hopes and resolves that had swelled within him as he had drawn near. that dream of incessant unswerving work! where might he have reached if only he had had singleness of purpose to realise that purpose?... and in these gardens it was that he and smithers and parkson had sat on a seat hard by the fossil tree, and discoursed of socialism together before the great paper was read.... "yes," he said, speaking aloud to himself; "yes--_that's_ all over too. everything's over." presently the corner of the natural history museum came between him and his receding alma mater. he sighed and turned his face towards the stuffy little rooms at chelsea, and the still unconquered world. chapter xxvii. concerning a quarrel. it was late in september that this particular quarrel occurred. almost all the roseate tints seemed gone by this time, for the lewishams had been married six months. their financial affairs had changed from the catastrophic to the sordid; lewisham had found work. an army crammer named captain vigours wanted someone energetic for his mathematical duffers and to teach geometrical drawing and what he was pleased to call "sandhurst science." he paid no less than two shillings an hour for his uncertain demands on lewisham's time. moreover, there was a class in lower mathematics beginning at walham green where lewisham was to show his quality. fifty shillings a week or more seemed credible--more might be hoped for. it was now merely a case of tiding over the interval until vigours paid. and meanwhile the freshness of ethel's blouses departed, and lewisham refrained from the repair of his boot which had cracked across the toe. the beginning of the quarrel was trivial enough. but by the end they got to generalities. lewisham had begun the day in a bad temper and under the cloud of an overnight passage of arms--and a little incident that had nothing to do with their ostensible difference lent it a warmth of emotion quite beyond its merits. as he emerged through the folding doors he saw a letter lying among the sketchily laid breakfast things, and ethel's attitude suggested the recoil of a quick movement; the letter suddenly dropped. her eyes met his and she flushed. he sat down and took the letter--a trifle awkwardly perhaps. it was from miss heydinger. he hesitated with it halfway to his pocket, then decided to open it. it displayed an ample amount of reading, and he read. on the whole he thought it rather a dull sort of letter, but he did not allow this to appear. when it was read he put it carefully in his pocket. that formally had nothing to do with the quarrel. the breakfast was already over when the quarrel began. lewisham's morning was vacant, and be proposed to occupy it in the revision of certain notes bearing upon "sandhurst science." unhappily the search for his note-book brought him into collision with the accumulation of ethel's novelettes. "these things are everywhere," he said after a gust of vehement handling, "i _wish_ you'd tidy them up sometimes." "they were tidy enough till you began to throw them about," ethel pointed out. "confounded muck! it's only fit to be burnt," lewisham remarked to the universe, and pitched one viciously into the corner. "well, you tried to write one, anyhow," said ethel, recalling a certain "mammoth" packet of note-paper that had come on an evil end before lewisham found his industrial level. this reminiscence always irritated him exceedingly. "eh?" he said sharply. "you tried to write one," repeated ethel--a little unwillingly. "you don't mean me to forget that." "it's you reminded me." he stared hostility for a space. "well, the things make a beastly litter anyhow; there isn't a tidy corner anywhere in the room. there never is." "that's just the sort of thing you always say." "well--_is_ there?" "yes, there is." "_where_?" ethel professed not to hear. but a devil had possession of lewisham for a time. "it isn't as though you had anything else to do," he remarked, wounding dishonourably. ethel turned. "if i _put_ those things away," she said with tremendous emphasis on the "_put_," "you'd only say i'd hidden them. what _is_ the good of trying to please you?" the spirit of perversity suggested to lewisham, "none apparently." ethel's cheeks glowed and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. abruptly she abandoned the defensive and blurted out the thing that had been latent so long between them. her voice took a note of passion. "nothing i can do ever does please you, since that miss heydinger began to write to you." there was a pause, a gap. something like astonishment took them both. hitherto it had been a convention that she knew nothing of the existence of miss heydinger. he saw a light. "how did you know?" he began, and perceived that line was impossible. he took the way of the natural man; he ejaculated an "ugh!" of vast disgust, he raised his voice. "you _are_ unreasonable!" he cried in angry remonstrance. "fancy saying that! as though you ever tried to please me! just as though it wasn't all the other way about!" he stopped--struck by a momentary perception of injustice. he plunged at the point he had shirked, "how did you know it _was_ miss heydinger--?" ethel's voice took upon itself the quality of tears. "i wasn't _meant_ to know, was i?" she said. "but how?" "i suppose you think it doesn't concern me? i suppose you think i'm made of stone?" "you mean--you think--?" "yes--i _do_." for a brief interval lewisham stared at the issue she had laid bare. he sought some crashing proposition, some line of convincing reasoning, with which to overwhelm and hide this new aspect of things. it would not come. he found himself fenced in on every side. a surging, irrational rage seized upon him. "jealousy!" he cried. "jealousy! just as though--can't i have letters about things you don't understand--that you _won't_ understand? if i asked you to read them you wouldn't--it's just because--" "you never give me a _chance_ to understand." "don't i?" "no!" "why!--at first i was always trying. socialism, religion--all those things. but you don't care--you won't care. you won't have that i've thought over these things at all, that i care for these things! it wasn't any _good_ to argue. you just care for me in a way--and all the rest of me--doesn't matter! and because i've got a friend ..." "friend!" "yes--_friend!_" "why!--you hide her letters!" "because i tell you you wouldn't understand what they are about. but, pah! i won't argue. i _won't!_ you're jealous, and there's the end of the matter!" "well, who _wouldn't_ be jealous?" he stared at her as if he found the question hard to see. the theme was difficult--invincibly difficult. he surveyed the room for a diversion. the note-book he had disinterred from her novelettes lay upon the table and reminded him of his grievance of rained hours. his rage exploded. he struck out abruptly towards fundamental things. he gesticulated forcibly. "this can't go on!" he cried, "this can't go on! how can i work? how can i do anything?" he made three steps and stood in a clear space. "i won't _stand_, it--i won't go on at this! quarrels--bickerings--discomfort. look there! i meant to work this morning. i meant to look up notes! instead of which you start a quarrel--" the gross injustice raised ethel's voice to an outcry. "_i_ didn't start the quarrel--" the only response to this was to shout, and lewisham shouted. "you start a quarrel!" he repeated. "you make a shindy! you spring a dispute--jealousy!--on me! how can i do anything? how can one stop in a house like this? i shall go out. look here!--i shall go out. i shall go to kensington and work there!" he perceived himself wordless, and ethel was about to speak. he glared about him, seeking a prompt climax. instant action was necessary. he perceived huxley's _vertebrata_ upon the side-table. he clutched it, swayed it through a momentous arc, hurled it violently into the empty fireplace. for a second he seemed to be seeking some other missile. he perceived his hat on the chest of drawers, seized it, and strode tragically from the room. he hesitated with the door half closed, then opened it wide and slammed it vehemently. thereby the world was warned of the justice of his rage, and so he passed with credit into the street. he went striding heedless of his direction through the streets dotted with intent people hurrying to work, and presently habit turned his feet towards the brompton road. the eastward trend of the morning traffic caught him. for a time, save for a rebellious ingredient of wonder at the back of his mind, he kept his anger white and pure. why had he married her? was the text to which he clung. why in the name of destiny had he married her? but anyhow he had said the decisive thing. he would not stand it! it must end. things were intolerable and they must end. he meditated devastating things that he might presently say to her in pursuance of this resolution. he contemplated acts of cruelty. in such ways he would demonstrate clearly that he would not stand it. he was very careful to avoid inquiring what it was he would not stand. how in the name of destiny had he come to marry her? the quality of his surroundings mingled in some way with the quality of his thoughts. the huge distended buildings of corrugated iron in which the art museum (of all places!) culminates, the truncated oratory all askew to the street, seemed to have a similar quarrel with fate. how in the name of destiny? after such high prolusions! he found that his thoughts had carried him past the lodge of the museum. he turned back irritably and went through the turnstile. he entered the museum and passed beneath the gallery of old iron on his way to the education library. the vacant array of tables, the bays of attendant books had a quality of refuge.... so much for lewisham in the morning. long before midday all the vigour of his wrath was gone, all his passionate conviction of ethel's unworthiness. over a pile of neglected geological works he presented a face of gloom. his memory presented a picture of himself as noisy, overbearing, and unfair. what on earth had it all been about? by two o'clock he was on his way to vigours', and his mood was acute remorse. of the transition there can be no telling in words, for thoughts are more subtle than words and emotions infinitely vaguer. but one thing at least is definite, that a memory returned. it drifted in to him, through the glass roof of the library far above. he did not perceive it as a memory at first, but as an irritating obstacle to attention. he struck the open pages of the book before him with his flat hand. "damn that infernal hurdy-gurdy!" he whispered. presently he made a fretful movement and put his hands over his ears. then he thrust his books from him, got up, and wandered about the library. the organ came to an abrupt end in the middle of a bar, and vanished in the circumambient silence of space. lewisham standing in a bay closed a book with a snap and returned to his seat. presently he found himself humming a languid tune, and thinking again of the quarrel that he had imagined banished from his mind. what in the name of destiny had it all been about? he had a curious sense that something had got loose, was sliding about in his mind. and as if by way of answer emerged a vision of whortley--a singularly vivid vision. it was moonlight and a hillside, the little town lay lit and warm below, and the scene was set to music, a lugubriously sentimental air. for some reason this music had the quality of a barrel organ--though he knew that properly it came from a band--and it associated with itself a mystical formula of words, drawing words:-- "sweet dreamland fa--ces, passing to and fro, bring back to mem'ry days of long ago--oh!" this air not only reproduced the picture with graphic vividness, but it trailed after it an enormous cloud of irrational emotion, emotion that had but a moment before seemed gone for ever from his being. he recalled it all! he had come down that hillside and ethel had been with him.... had he really felt like that about her? "pah!" he said suddenly, and reverted to his books. but the tune and the memory had won their footing, they were with him through his meagre lunch of milk and scones--he had resolved at the outset he would not go back to her for the midday meal--and on his way to vigours' they insisted on attention. it may be that lunching on scone and milk does in itself make for milder ways of thinking. a sense of extraordinary contradiction, of infinite perplexity, came to him. "but then," he asked, "how the devil did we get to _this_?" which is indeed one of the fundamental questions of matrimony. the morning tumults had given place to an almost scientific calm. very soon he was grappling manfully with the question. there was no disputing it, they had quarrelled. not once but several times lately they had quarrelled. it was real quarrelling;--they had stood up against one another, striking, watching to strike, seeking to wound. he tried to recall just how things had gone--what he had said and what she had replied. he could not do it. he had forgotten phrases and connexions. it stood in his memory not as a sequence of events but as a collection of disconnected static sayings; each saying blunt, permanent, inconsecutive like a graven inscription. and of the scene there came only one picture--ethel with a burning face and her eyes shining with tears. the traffic of a cross street engaged him for a space. he emerged on the further side full of the vivid contrast of their changed relations. he made a last effort to indict her, to show that for the transition she was entirely to blame. she had quarrelled with him, she had quarrelled deliberately because she was jealous. she was jealous of miss heydinger because she was stupid. but now these accusations faded like smoke as he put them forth. but the picture of two little figures back there in the moonlit past did not fade. it was in the narrows of kensington high street that he abandoned her arraignment. it was beyond the town hall that he made the new step. was it, after all, just possible that in some degree he himself rather was the chief person to blame? it was instantly as if he had been aware of that all the time. once he had made that step, he moved swiftly. not a hundred paces before the struggle was over, and he had plunged headlong into the blue abyss of remorse. and all these things that had been so dramatic and forcible, all the vivid brutal things he had said, stood no longer graven inscriptions but in letters of accusing flame. he tried to imagine he had not said them, that his memory played him a trick; tried to suppose he had said something similar perhaps, but much less forcible. he attempted with almost equal futility to minimise his own wounds. his endeavour served only to measure the magnitude of his fall. he had recovered everything now, he saw it all. he recalled ethel, sunlit in the avenue, ethel, white in the moonlight before they parted outside the frobisher house, ethel as she would come out of lagune's house greeting him for their nightly walk, ethel new wedded, as she came to him through the folding doors radiant in the splendour his emotions threw about her. and at last, ethel angry, dishevelled and tear-stained in that ill-lit, untidy little room. all to the cadence of a hurdy-gurdy tune! from that to this! how had it been possible to get from such an opalescent dawning to such a dismal day? what was it had gone? he and she were the same two persons who walked so brightly in his awakened memory; he and she who had lived so bitterly through the last few weeks of misery! his mood sank for a space to the quality of groaning. he implicated her now at most as his partner in their failure--"what a mess we have made of things!" was his new motif. "what a mess!" he knew love now for what it was, knew it for something more ancient and more imperative than reason. he knew now that he loved her, and his recent rage, his hostility, his condemnation of her seemed to him the reign of some exterior influence in his mind. he thought incredulously of the long decline in tenderness that had followed the first days of their delight in each other, the diminution of endearment, the first yielding to irritability, the evenings he had spent doggedly working, resisting all his sense of her presence. "one cannot always be love-making," he had said, and so they were slipping apart. then in countless little things he had not been patient, he had not been fair. he had wounded her by harshness, by unsympathetic criticism, above all by his absurd secrecy about miss heydinger's letters. why on earth had he kept those letters from her? as though there was something to hide! what was there to hide? what possible antagonism could there be? yet it was by such little things that their love was now like some once valued possession that had been in brutal hands, it was scratched and chipped and tarnished, it was on its way to being altogether destroyed. her manner had changed towards him, a gulf was opening that he might never be able to close again. "no, it _shall_ not be!" he said, "it shall not be!" but how to get back to the old footing? how to efface the things he had said, the things that had been done? could they get back? for a moment he faced a new possibility. suppose they could not get back! suppose the mischief was done! suppose that when he slammed the door behind him it locked, and was locked against him for ever! "but we _must_!" said lewisham, "we must!" he perceived clearly that this was no business of reasoned apologies. he must begin again, he must get back to emotion, he must thrust back the overwhelming pressure of everyday stresses and necessities that was crushing all the warmth and colour from their lives. but how? how? he must make love to her again. but how to begin--how to mark the change? there had been making-up before, sullen concessions and treaties. but this was different. he tried to imagine something he might say, some appeal that he might make. everything he thought of was cold and hard, or pitiful and undignified, or theatrical and foolish. suppose the door _was_ closed! if already it was too late! in every direction he was confronted by the bristling memories of harsh things. he had a glimpse of how he must have changed in her eyes, and things became intolerable for him. for now he was assured he loved her still with all his heart. and suddenly came a florist's window, and in the centre of it a glorious heap of roses. they caught his eye before they caught his mind. he saw white roses, virginal white, roses of cream and pink and crimson, the tints of flesh and pearl, rich, a mass of scented colour, visible odours, and in the midst of them a note of sullen red. it was as it were the very colour of his emotion. he stopped abruptly. he turned back to the window and stared frankly. it was gorgeous, he saw, but why so particularly did it appeal to him? then he perceived as though it was altogether self-evident what he had to do. this was what he wanted. this was the note he had to strike. among other things because it would repudiate the accursed worship of pinching self-restraint that was one of the incessant stresses between them. they would come to her with a pure unexpectedness, they would flame upon her. then, after the roses, he would return. suddenly the grey trouble passed from his mind; he saw the world full of colour again. he saw the scene he desired bright and clear, saw ethel no longer bitter and weeping, but glad as once she had always seemed glad. his heart-beats quickened. it was giving had been needed, and he would give. some weak voice of indiscreet discretion squeaked and vanished. he had, he knew, a sovereign in his pocket. he went in. he found himself in front of a formidable young lady in black, and unprepared with any formula. he had never bought flowers before. he looked about him for an inspiration. he pointed at the roses. "i want those roses," he said.... he emerged again with only a few small silver coins remaining out of the sovereign he had changed. the roses were to go to ethel, properly packed; they were to be delivered according to his express direction at six o'clock. "six o'clock," lewisham had reiterated very earnestly. "we quite understand," the young lady in black had said, and had pretended to be unable to conceal a smile. "we're _quite_ accustomed to sending out flowers." chapter xxviii. the coming of the roses. and the roses miscarried! when lewisham returned from vigours' it was already nearly seven. he entered the house with a beating heart. he had expected to find ethel excited, the roses displayed. but her face was white and jaded. he was so surprised by this that the greeting upon his lips died away. he was balked! he went into, the sitting-room and there were no roses to be seen. ethel came past him and stood with her back to him looking out of the window. the suspense was suddenly painful.... he was obliged to ask, though he was certain of the answer, "has nothing come?" ethel looked at him. "what did you think had come?" "oh! nothing." she looked out of the window again. "no," she said slowly, "nothing has come." he tried to think of something to say that might bridge the distance between them, but he could think of nothing. he must wait until the roses came. he took out his books and a gaunt hour passed to supper time. supper was a chilly ceremonial set with necessary over-polite remarks. disappointment and exasperation darkened lewisham's soul. he began to feel angry with everything--even with her--he perceived she still judged him angry, and that made him angry with her. he was resuming his books and she was helping madam gadow's servant to clear away, when they heard a rapping at the street door. "they have come at last," he said to himself brightening, and hesitated whether he should bolt or witness her reception of them. the servant was a nuisance. then he heard chaffery's voices and whispered a soft "damn!" to himself. the only thing to do now if the roses came was to slip out into the passage, intercept them, and carry them into the bedroom by the door between that and the passage. it would be undesirable for chaffery to witness that phase of sentiment. he might flash some dart of ridicule that would stick in their memory for ever. lewisham tried to show that he did not want a visitor. but chaffery was in high spirits, and could have warmed a dozen cold welcomes. he sat down without any express invitation in the chair that he preferred. before mr. and mrs. chaffery the lewishams veiled whatever trouble might be between them beneath an insincere cordiality, and chaffery was soon talking freely, unsuspicious of their crisis. he produced two cigars. "i had a wild moment," he said. "'for once,' said i, 'the honest shall smoke the admirable--or the admirable shall smoke the honest,' whichever you like best. try one? no? those austere principles of yours! there will be more pleasure then. but really, i would as soon you smoked it as i. for to-night i radiate benevolence." he cut the cigar with care, he lit it with ceremony, waiting until nothing but honest wood was burning on the match, and for fully a minute he was silent, evolving huge puffs of smoke. and then he spoke again, punctuating his words by varied and beautiful spirals. "so far," he said, "i have only trifled with knavery." as lewisham said nothing he resumed after a pause. "there are three sorts of men in the world, my boy, three and no more--and of women only one. there are happy men and there are knaves and fools. hybrids i don't count. and to my mind knaves and fools are very much alike." he paused again. "i suppose they are," said lewisham flatly, and frowned at the fireplace. chaffery eyed him. "i am talking wisdom. to-night i am talking a particular brand of wisdom. i am broaching some of my oldest and finest, because--as you will find one day--this is a special occasion. and you are distrait!" lewisham looked up. "birthday?" he said. "you will see. but i was making golden observations about knaves and fools. i was early convinced of the absolute necessity of righteousness if a man is to be happy. i know it as surely as there is a sun in the heavens. does that surprise you?" "well, it hardly squares--" "no. i know. i will explain all that. but let me tell you the happy life. let me give you that, as if i lay on my deathbed and this was a parting gift. in the first place, mental integrity. prove all things, hold fast to that which is right. let the world have no illusions for you, no surprises. nature is full of cruel catastrophes, man is a physically degenerate ape, every appetite, every instinct, needs the curb; salvation is not in the nature of things, but whatever salvation there may be is in the nature of man; face all these painful things. i hope you follow that?" "go on," said lewisham, with the debating-society taste for a thesis prevailing for a minute over that matter of the roses. "in youth, exercise and learning; in adolescence, ambition; and in early manhood, love--no footlight passion." chaffery was very solemn and insistent, with a lean extended finger, upon this point. "then marriage, young and decent, and then children and stout honest work for them, work too for the state in which they live; a life of self-devotion, indeed, and for sunset a decent pride--that is the happy life. rest assured that is the happy life; the life natural selection has been shaping for man since life began. so a man may go happy from the cradle to the grave--at least--passably happy. and to do this needs just three things--a sound body, a sound intelligence, and a sound will ... a sound will." chaffery paused on the repetition. "no other happiness endures. and when all men are wise, all men will seek that life. fame! wealth! art!--the red indians worship lunatics, and we are still by way of respecting the milder sorts. but i say that all men who do not lead that happy life are knaves and fools. the physical cripple, you know, poor devil, i count a sort of bodily fool." "yes," weighed lewisham, "i suppose he is." "now a fool fails of happiness because of his insufficient mind, he miscalculates, he stumbles and hobbles, some cant or claptrap whirls him away; he gets passion out of a book and a wife out of the stews, or he quarrels on a petty score; threats frighten him, vanity beguiles him, he fails by blindness. but the knave who is not a fool fails against the light. many knaves are fools also--_most_ are--but some are not. i know--i am a knave but no fool. the essence of your knave is that he lacks the will, the motive capacity to seek his own greater good. the knave abhors persistence. strait is the way and narrow the gate; the knave cannot keep to it and the fool cannot find it." lewisham lost something of what chaffery was saying by reason of a rap outside. he rose, but ethel was before him. he concealed his anxiety as well as he could; and was relieved when he heard the front door close again and her footsteps pass into the bedroom by the passage door. he reverted to chaffery. "has it ever occurred to you," asked chaffery, apparently apropos of nothing, "that intellectual conviction is no motive at all? any more than a railway map will run a train a mile." "eh?" said lewisham. "map--run a train a mile--of course, yes. no, it won't." "that is precisely my case," said chaffery. "that is the case of your pure knave everywhere. we are not fools--because we know. but yonder runs the highway, windy, hard, and austere, a sort of dry happiness that will endure; and here is the pleasant by-way--lush, my boy, lush, as the poets have it, and with its certain man-trap among the flowers ..." ethel returned through the folding doors. she glanced at lewisham, remained standing for awhile, sat down in the basket chair as if to resume some domestic needlework that lay upon the table, then rose and went back into the bedroom. chaffery proceeded to expatiate on the transitory nature of passion and all glorious and acute experiences. whole passages of that discourse lewisham did not hear, so intent was he upon those roses. why had ethel gone back into the bedroom? was it possible--? presently she returned, but she sat down so that he could not see her face. "if there is one thing to set against the wholesome life it is adventure," chaffery was saying. "but let every adventurer pray for an early death, for with adventure come wounds, and with wounds come sickness, and--except in romances--sickness affects the nervous system. your nerve goes. where are you then, my boy?" "ssh! what's that?" said lewisham. it was a rap at the house door. heedless of the flow of golden wisdom, he went out at once and admitted a gentleman friend of madam gadow, who passed along the passage and vanished down the staircase. when he returned chaffery was standing to go. "i could have talked with you longer," he said, "but you have something on your mind, i see. i will not worry you by guessing what. some day you will remember ..." he said no more, but laid his hand on lewisham's shoulder. one might almost fancy he was offended at something. at any other time lewisham might have been propitiatory, but now he offered no apology. chaffery turned to ethel and looked at her curiously for a moment. "good-bye," he said, holding out his hand to her. on the doorstep chaffery regarded lewisham with the same curious look, and seemed to weigh some remark. "good-bye," he said at last with something in his manner that kept lewisham at the door for a moment looking after his stepfather's receding figure. but immediately the roses were uppermost again. when he re-entered the living room he found ethel sitting idly at her typewriter, playing with the keys. she got up at his return and sat down in the armchair with a novelette that hid her face. he stared at her, full of questions. after all, then, they had not come. he was intensely disappointed now, he was intensely angry with the ineffable young shop-woman in black. he looked at his watch and then again, he took a book and pretended to read and found himself composing a scathing speech of remonstrance to be delivered on the morrow at the flower-shop. he put his book down, went to his black bag, opened and closed it aimlessly. he glanced covertly at ethel, and found her looking covertly at him. he could not quite understand her expression. he fidgeted into the bedroom and stopped as dead as a pointer. he felt an extraordinary persuasion of the scent of roses. so strong did it seem that he glanced outside the room door, expecting to find a box there, mysteriously arrived. but there was no scent of roses in the passage. then he saw close by his foot an enigmatical pale object, and stooping, picked up the creamy petal of a rose. he stood with it in his hand, perplexed beyond measure. he perceived a slight disorder of the valence of the dressing-table and linked it with this petal by a swift intuition. he made two steps, lifted the valence, and behold! there lay his roses crushed together! he gasped like a man who plunges suddenly into cold water. he remained stooping with the valence raised. ethel appeared in the half doorway and her, expression was unfamiliar. he stared at her white face. "why on earth did you put my roses here?" he asked. she stared back at him. her face reflected his astonishment. "why did you put my roses here?" he asked again. "your roses!" she cried, "what! did _you_ send those roses?" chapter xxix. thorns and rose petals. he remained stooping and staring up at her, realising the implication of her words only very slowly. then it grew clear to him. as she saw understanding dawning in his face, she uttered a cry of consternation. she came forward and sat down upon the little bedroom chair. she turned to him and began a sentence. "i," she said, and stopped, with an impatient gesture of her hands. "_oh_!" he straightened himself and stood regarding her. the basket of roses lay overturned between them. "you thought these came from someone else?" he said, trying to grasp this inversion of the universe. she turned her eyes, "i did not know," she panted. "a trap.... was it likely--they came from you?" "you thought they came from someone else," he said. "yes," she said, "i did." "who?" "mr. baynes." "that boy!" "yes--that boy." "well!" lewisham looked about him--a man in the presence of the inconceivable. "you mean to say you have been carrying on with that youngster behind my back?" he asked. she opened her lips to speak and had no words to say. his pallor increased until every tinge of colour had left his face. he laughed and then set his teeth. husband and wife looked at one another. "i never dreamt," he said in even tones. he sat down on the bed, thrusting his feet among the scattered roses with a sort of grim satisfaction. "i never dreamt," he repeated, and the flimsy basket kicked by his swinging foot hopped indignantly through the folding doors into the living room and left a trail of blood-red petals. they sat for perhaps two minutes, and when he spoke again his voice was hoarse. he reverted to a former formula. "look here," he said, and cleared his throat. "i don't know whether you think i'm going to stand this, but i'm not." he looked at her. she sat staring in front of her, making no attempt to cope with disaster. "when i say i'm not going to stand it," explained lewisham, "i don't mean having a row or anything of that sort. one can quarrel and be disappointed over--other things--and still go on. but this is a different thing altogether. "of all dreams and illusions!... think what i have lost in this accursed marriage. and _now_ ... you don't understand--you won't understand." "nor you," said ethel, weeping but neither looking at him nor moving her hands from her lap where they lay helplessly. "_you_ don't understand." "i'm beginning to." he sat in silence gathering force. "in one year," he said, "all my hopes, all my ambitions have gone. i know i have been cross and irritable--i know that. i've been pulled two ways. but ... i bought you these roses." she looked at the roses, and then at his white face, made an imperceptible movement towards him, and became impassive again. "i do think one thing. i have found out you are shallow, you don't think, you can't feel things that i think and feel. i have been getting over that. but i did think you were loyal--" "i _am_ loyal," she cried. "and you think--bah!--you poke my roses under the table!" another portentous silence. ethel stirred and he turned his eyes to watch what she was about to do. she produced her handkerchief and began to wipe her dry eyes rapidly, first one and then the other. then she began sobbing. "i'm ... as loyal as you ... anyhow," she said. for a moment lewisham was aghast. then he perceived he must ignore that argument. "i would have stood it--i would have stood anything if you had been loyal--if i could have been sure of you. i am a fool, i know, but i would have stood the interruption of my work, the loss of any hope of a career, if i had been sure you were loyal. i ... i cared for you a great deal." he stopped. he had suddenly perceived the pathetic. he took refuge in anger. "and you have deceived me! how long, how much, i don't care. you have deceived me. and i tell you"--he began to gesticulate--"i'm not so much your slave and fool as to stand that! no woman shall make me _that_ sort of fool, whatever else--so far as i am concerned, this ends things. this ends things. we are married--but i don't care if we were married five hundred times. i won't stop with a woman who takes flowers from another man--" "i _didn't_," said ethel. lewisham gave way to a transport of anger. he caught up a handful of roses and extended them, trembling. "what's _this_?" he asked. his finger bled from a thorn, as once it had bled from a blackthorn spray. "i _didn't_ take them," said ethel. "i couldn't help it if they were sent." "ugh!" said lewisham. "but what is the good of argument and denial? you took them in, you had them. you may have been cunning, but you have given yourself away. and our life and all this"--he waved an inclusive hand at madam gadow's furniture--"is at an end." he looked at her and repeated with bitter satisfaction, "at an end." she glanced at his face, and his expression was remorseless. "i will not go on living with you," he said, lest there should be any mistake. "our life is at an end." her eyes went from his face to the scattered roses. she remained staring at these. she was no longer weeping, and her face, save about the eyes, was white. he presented it in another form. "i shall go away." "we never ought to have married," he reflected. "but ... i never expected _this_!" "i didn't know," she cried out, lifting up her voice. "i _didn't_ know. how could _i_ help! _oh_!" she stopped and stared at him with hands clenched, her eyes haggard with despair. lewisham remained impenetrably malignant. "i don't _want_ to know," he said, answering her dumb appeal. "that settles everything. _that_!" he indicated the scattered flowers. "what does it matter to me what has happened or hasn't happened? anyhow--oh! i don't mind. i'm glad. see? it settles things. "the sooner we part the better. i shan't stop with you another night. i shall take my box and my portmanteau into that room and pack. i shall stop in there to-night, sleep in a chair or _think_. and to-morrow i shall settle up with madam gadow and go. you can go back ... to your cheating." he stopped for some seconds. she was deadly still. "you wanted to, and now you may. you wanted to, before i got work. you remember? you know your place is still open at lagune's. i don't care. i tell you i don't care _that_. not that! you may go your own way--and i shall go mine. see? and all this rot--this sham of living together when neither cares for the other--i don't care for you _now_, you know, so you needn't think it--will be over and done with. as for marriage--i don't care _that_ for marriage--it can't make a sham and a blunder anything but a sham. "it's a sham, and shams have to end, and that's the end of the matter." he stood up resolutely. he kicked the scattered roses out of his way and dived beneath the bed for his portmanteau. ethel neither spoke nor moved, but remained watching his movements. for a time the portmanteau refused to emerge, and he marred his stern resolution by a half audible "come here--damn you!" he swung it into the living room and returned for his box. he proposed to pack in that room. when he had taken all his personal possessions out of the bedroom, he closed the folding-doors with an air of finality. he knew from the sounds that followed that she flung herself upon the bed, and that filled him with grim satisfaction. he stood listening for a space, then set about packing methodically. the first rage of discovery had abated; he knew quite clearly that he was inflicting grievous punishment, and that gratified him. there was also indeed a curious pleasure in the determination of a long and painful period of vague misunderstanding by this unexpected crisis. he was acutely conscious of the silence on the other side of the folding-doors, he kept up a succession of deliberate little noises, beat books together and brushed clothes, to intimate the resolute prosecution of his preparations. that was about nine o'clock. at eleven he was still busy.... darkness came suddenly upon him. it was madam gadow's economical habit to turn off all her gas at that hour unless she chanced to be entertaining friends. he felt in his pocket for matches and he had none. he whispered curses. against such emergencies he had bought a brass lamp and in the bedroom there were candles. ethel had a candle alight, he could see the bright yellow line that appeared between the folding doors. he felt his way presently towards the mantel, receiving a blow in the ribs from a chair on the way, and went carefully amidst madam gadow's once amusing ornaments. there were no matches on the mantel. going to the chest of drawers he almost fell over his open portmanteau. he had a silent ecstasy of rage. then he kicked against the basket in which the roses had come. he could find no matches on the chest of drawers. ethel must have the matches in the bedroom, but that was absolutely impossible. he might even have to ask her for them, for at times she pocketed matches.... there was nothing for it but to stop packing. not a sound came from the other room. he decided he would sit down in the armchair and go to sleep. he crept very carefully to the chair and sat down. another interval of listening and he closed his eyes and composed himself for slumber. he began to think over his plans for the morrow. he imagined the scene with madam gadow, and then his departure to find bachelor lodgings once more. he debated in what direction he should go to get, suitable lodgings. possible difficulties with his luggage, possible annoyances of the search loomed gigantic. he felt greatly irritated at these minor difficulties. he wondered if ethel also was packing. what particularly would she do? he listened, but he could hear nothing. she was very still. she was really very still! what could she be doing? he forgot the bothers of the morrow in this new interest. presently he rose very softly and listened. then he sat down again impatiently. he tried to dismiss his curiosity about the silence by recapitulating the story of his wrongs. he had some difficulty in fixing his mind upon this theme, but presently his memories were flowing freely. only it was not wrongs now that he could recall. he was pestered by an absurd idea that he had again behaved unjustly to ethel, that he had been headlong and malignant. he made strenuous efforts to recover his first heat of jealousy--in vain. her remark that she had been as loyal as he, became an obstinate headline in his mind. something arose within him that insisted upon ethel's possible fate if he should leave her. what particularly would she do? he knew how much her character leant upon his, good heavens! what might she not do? by an effort he succeeded in fixing his mind on baynes. that helped him back to the harsher footing. however hard things might be for her she deserved them. she deserved them! yet presently he slipped again, slipped back to the remorse and regrets of the morning time. he clutched at baynes as a drowning man clutches at a rope, and recovered himself. for a time he meditated on baynes. he had never seen the poet, so his imagination had scope. it appeared to him as an exasperating obstacle to a tragic avenging of his honour that baynes was a mere boy--possibly even younger than himself. the question, "what will become of ethel?" rose to the surface again. he struggled against its possibilities. no! that was not it! that was her affair. he felt inexorably kept to the path he had chosen, for all the waning of his rage. he had put his hand to the plough. "if you condone this," he told himself, "you might condone anything. there are things one _must_ not stand." he tried to keep to that point of view--assuming for the most part out of his imagination what it was he was not standing. a dim sense came to him of how much he was assuming. at any rate she must have flirted!... he resisted this reviving perception of justice as though it was some unspeakably disgraceful craving. he tried to imagine her with baynes. he determined he would go to sleep. but his was a waking weariness. he tried counting. he tried to distract his thoughts from her by going over the atomic weights of the elements.... he shivered, and realised that he was cold and sitting cramped on an uncomfortable horsehair chair. he had dozed. he glanced for the yellow line between the folding doors. it was still there, but it seemed to quiver. he judged the candle must be flaring. he wondered why everything was so still. now why should he suddenly feel afraid? he sat for a long time trying to hear some movement, his head craning forward in the darkness. a grotesque idea came into his head that all that had happened a very long time ago. he dismissed that. he contested an unreasonable persuasion that some irrevocable thing had passed. but why was everything so still? he was invaded by a prevision of unendurable calamity. presently he rose and crept very slowly, and with infinite precautions against noise, towards the folding doors. he stood listening with his ear near the yellow chink. he could hear nothing, not even the measured breathing of a sleeper. he perceived that the doors were not shut, but slightly ajar. he pushed against the inner one very gently and opened it silently. still there was no sound of ethel. he opened the door still wider and peered into the room. the candle had burnt down and was flaring in its socket. ethel was lying half undressed upon the bed, and in her hand and close to her face was a rose. he stood watching her, fearing to move. he listened hard and his face was very white. even now he could not hear her breathing. after all, it was probably all right. she was just asleep. he would slip back before she woke. if she found him-- he looked at her again. there was something in her face-- he came nearer, no longer heeding the sounds he made. he bent over her. even now she did not seem to breathe. he saw that her eyelashes were still wet, the pillow by her cheek was wet. her white, tear-stained face hurt him.... she was intolerably pitiful to him. he forgot everything but that and how he had wounded her that day. and then she stirred and murmured indistinctly a foolish name she had given him. he forgot that they were going to part for ever. he felt nothing but a great joy that she could stir and speak. his jealousy flashed out of being. he dropped upon his knees. "dear," he whispered, "is it all right? i ... i could not hear you breathing. i could not hear you breathing." she started and was awake. "i was in the other room," said lewisham in a voice full of emotion. "everything was so quiet, i was afraid--i did not know what had happened. dear--ethel dear. is it all right?" she sat up quickly and scrutinised his face. "oh! let me tell you," she wailed. "do let me tell you. it's nothing. it's nothing. you wouldn't hear me. you wouldn't hear me. it wasn't fair--before you had heard me...." his arms tightened about her. "dear," he said, "i knew it was nothing. i knew. i knew." she spoke in sobbing sentences. "it was so simple. mr. baynes ... something in his manner ... i knew he might be silly ... only i did so want to help you." she paused. just for one instant she saw one untenable indiscretion as it were in a lightning flash. a chance meeting it was, a "silly" thing or so said, a panic, retreat. she would have told it--had she known how. but she could not do it. she hesitated. she abolished it--untold. she went on: "and then, i thought he had sent the roses and i was frightened ... i was frightened." "dear one," said lewisham. "dear one! i have been cruel to you. i have been unjust. i understand. i do understand. forgive me. dearest--forgive me." "i did so want to do something for you. it was all i could do--that little money. and then you were angry. i thought you didn't love me any more because i did not understand your work.... and that miss heydinger--oh! it was hard." "dear one," said lewisham, "i do not care your little finger for miss heydinger." "i know how i hamper you. but if you will help me. oh! i would work, i would study. i would do all i could to understand." "dear," whispered lewisham. "_dear_" "and to have _her_--" "dear," he vowed, "i have been a brute. i will end all that. i will end all that." he took her suddenly into his arms and kissed her. "oh, i _know_ i'm stupid," she said. "you're not. it's i have been stupid. i have been unkind, unreasonable. all to-day--... i've been thinking about it. dear! i don't care for anything--it's _you_. if i have you nothing else matters ... only i get hurried and cross. it's the work and being poor. dear one, we _must_ hold to each other. all to-day--it's been dreadful...." he stopped. they sat clinging to one another. "i do love you," she said presently with her arms about him. "oh! i do--_do_--love you." he drew her closer to him. he kissed her neck. she pressed him to her. their lips met. the expiring candle streamed up into a tall flame, flickered, and was suddenly extinguished. the air was heavy with the scent of roses. chapter xxx. a withdrawal. on tuesday lewisham returned from vigours' at five--at half-past six he would go on to his science class at walham green--and discovered mrs. chaffery and ethel in tears. he was fagged and rather anxious for some tea, but the news they had for him drove tea out of his head altogether. "he's gone," said ethel. "who's gone? what! not chaffery?" mrs. chaffery, with a keen eye to lewisham's behaviour, nodded tearfully over an experienced handkerchief. lewisham grasped the essentials of the situation forthwith, and trembled on the brink of an expletive. ethel handed him a letter. for a moment lewisham held this in his hand asking; questions. mrs. chaffery had come upon it in the case of her eight-day clock when the time to wind it came round. chaffery, it seemed, had not been home since saturday night. the letter was an open one addressed to lewisham, a long rambling would-be clever letter, oddly inferior in style to chaffery's conversation. it had been written some hours before chaffery's last visit his talk then had been perhaps a sort of codicil. "the inordinate stupidity of that man lagune is driving me out of the country," lewisham saw. "it has been at last a definite stumbling block--even a legal stumbling block. i fear. i am off. i skedaddle. i break ties. i shall miss our long refreshing chats--you had found me out and i could open my mind. i am sorry to part from ethel also, but thank heaven she has you to look to! and indeed they both have you to look to, though the 'both' may be a new light to you." lewisham growled, went from page to page --conscious of their both looking to him now--even intensely--and discovered chaffery in a practical vein. "there is but little light, and portable property in that house in clapham that has escaped my lamentable improvidence, but there are one or two things--the iron-bound chest, the bureau with a broken hinge, and the large air pump--distinctly pawnable if only you can contrive to get them to a pawnshop. you have more will power than i--i never could get the confounded things downstairs. that iron-bound box was originally mine, before i married your mother-in-law, so that i am not altogether regardless of your welfare and the necessity of giving some equivalent. don't judge me too harshly." lewisham turned over sharply without finishing that page. "my life at clapham," continued the letter, "has irked me for some time, and to tell you the truth, the spectacle of your vigorous young happiness--you are having a very good time, you know, fighting the world--reminded me of the passing years. to be frank in self-criticism, there is more than a touch of the new woman about me, and i feel i have still to live my own life. what a beautiful phrase that is--to live one's own life!--redolent of honest scorn for moral plagiarism. no _imitatio christi_ in that ... i long to see more of men and cities.... i begin late, i know, to live my own life, bald as i am and grey-whiskered; but better late than never. why should the educated girl have the monopoly of the game? and after all, the whiskers will dye.... "there are things--i touch upon them lightly--that will presently astonish lagune." lewisham became more attentive. "i marvel at that man, grubbing hungry for marvels amidst the almost incredibly marvellous. what can be the nature of a man who gapes after poltergeists with the miracle of his own silly existence (inconsequent, reasonless, unfathomably weird) nearer to him than breathing and closer than hands and feet. what is _he_ for, that he should wonder at poltergeists? i am astonished these by no means flimsy psychic phenomena do not turn upon their investigators, and that a research society of eminent illusions and hallucinations does not pursue lagune with sceptical! inquiries. take his house--expose the alleged man of chelsea! _a priori_ they might argue that a thing so vain, so unmeaning, so strongly beset by cackle, could only be the diseased imagining of some hysterical phantom. do _you_ believe that such a thing as lagune exists? i must own to the gravest doubts. but happily his banker is of a more credulous type than i.... of all that lagune will tell you soon enough." lewisham read no more. "i suppose he thought himself clever when he wrote that rot," said lewisham bitterly, throwing the sheets forcibly athwart the table. "the simple fact is, he's stolen, or forged, or something--and bolted." there was a pause. "what will become of mother?" said ethel. lewisham looked at mother and thought for a moment. then he glanced at ethel. "we're all in the same boat," said lewisham. "i don't want to give any trouble to a single human being," said mrs. chaffery. "i think you might get a man his tea, ethel," said lewisham, sitting down suddenly; "anyhow." he drummed on the table with his fingers. "i have to get to walham green by a quarter to seven." "we're all in the same boat," he repeated after an interval, and continued drumming. he was chiefly occupied by the curious fact that they were all in the same boat. what an extraordinary faculty he had for acquiring responsibility! he looked up suddenly and caught mrs. chaffery's tearful eye directed to ethel and full of distressful interrogation, and his perplexity was suddenly changed to pity. "it's all right, mother," he said. "i'm not going to be unreasonable. i'll stand by you." "ah!" said mrs. chaffery. "as if i didn't know!" and ethel came and kissed him. he seemed in imminent danger of universal embraces. "i wish you'd let me have my tea," he said. and while he had his tea he asked mrs. chaffery questions and tried to get the new situation into focus. but even at ten o'clock, when he was returning hot and jaded from walham green, he was still trying to get the situation into focus. there were vague ends and blank walls of interrogation in the matter, that perplexed him. he knew that his supper would be only the prelude to an interminable "talking over," and indeed he did not get to bed until nearly two. by that time a course of action was already agreed upon. mrs. chaffery was tied to the house in clapham by a long lease, and thither they must go. the ground floor and first floor were let unfurnished, and the rent of these practically paid the rent of the house. the chafferys occupied basement and second floor. there was a bedroom on the second floor, formerly let to the first floor tenants, that he and ethel could occupy, and in this an old toilet table could be put for such studies as were to be prosecuted at home. ethel could have her typewriter in the subterranean breakfast-room. mrs. chaffery and ethel must do the catering and the bulk of the housework, and as soon as possible, since letting lodgings would not square with lewisham's professional pride, they must get rid of the lease that bound them and take some smaller and more suburban residence. if they did that without leaving any address it might save their feelings from any return of the prodigal chaffery. mrs. chaffery's frequent and pathetic acknowledgments of lewisham's goodness only partly relieved his disposition to a philosophical bitterness. and the practical issues were complicated by excursions upon the subject of chaffery, what he might have done, and where he might have gone, and whether by any chance he might not return. when at last mrs. chaffery, after a violent and tearful kissing and blessing of them both--they were "good dear children," she said--had departed, mr. and mrs. lewisham returned into their sitting-room. mrs. lewisham's little face was enthusiastic. "you're a trump," she said, extending the willing arms that were his reward. "i know," she said, "i know, and all to-night i have been loving you. dear! dear! dear...." the next day lewisham was too full of engagements to communicate with lagune, but the following morning he called and found the psychic investigator busy with the proofs of _hesperus_. he welcomed the young man cordially nevertheless, conceiving him charged with the questions that had been promised long ago--it was evident he knew nothing of lewisham's marriage. lewisham stated his case with some bluntness. "he was last here on saturday," said lagune. "you have always been inclined to suspicion about him. have you any grounds?" "you'd better read this," said lewisham, repressing a grim smile, and he handed lagune chaffery's letter. he glanced at the little man ever and again to see if he had come to the personal portion, and for the rest of the time occupied himself with an envious inventory of the writing appointments about him. no doubt the boy with the big ears had had the same sort of thing ... when lagune came to the question of his real identity he blew out his cheeks in the most astonishing way, but made no other sign. "dear, dear!" he said at last. "my bankers!" he looked at lewisham with the exaggerated mildness of his spectacled eye. "what do you think it means?" he asked. "has he gone mad? we have been conducting some experiments involving--considerable mental strain. he and i and a lady. hypnotic--" "i should look at my cheque-book if i were you." lagune produced some keys and got out his cheque book. he turned over the counterfoils. "there's nothing wrong here," he said, and handed the book to lewisham. "um," said lewisham. "i suppose this--i say, is _this_ right?" he handed back the book to lagune, open at the blank counterfoil of a cheque that had been removed. lagune stared and passed his hand over his forehead in a confused way. "i can't see this," he said. lewisham had never heard of post hypnotic suggestion and he stood incredulous. "you can't see that?" he said. "what nonsense!" "i can't see it," repeated lagune. for some seconds lewisham could not get away from stupid repetitions of his inquiry. then he hit upon a collateral proof. "but look here! can you see _this_ counterfoil?" "plainly," said lagune. "can you read the number?" "five thousand two hundred and seventy-nine." "well, and this?" "five thousand two hundred and eighty-one." "well--where's five thousand two hundred and eighty?" lagune began to look uncomfortable. "surely," he said, "he has not--will you read it out--the cheque, the counterfoil i mean, that i am unable to see?" "it's blank," said lewisham with an irresistible grin. "surely," said lagune, and the discomfort of his expression deepened. "do you mind if i call in a servant to confirm--?" lewisham did not mind, and the same girl who had admitted him to the _séance_ appeared. when she had given her evidence she went again. as she left the room by the door behind lagune her eyes met lewisham's, and she lifted her eyebrows, depressed her mouth, and glanced at lagune with a meaning expression. "i'm afraid," said lagune, "that i have been shabbily treated. mr. chaffery is a man of indisputable powers--indisputable powers; but i am afraid--i am very much afraid he has abused the conditions of the experiment. all this--and his insults--touch me rather nearly." he paused. lewisham rose. "do you mind if you come again?" asked lagune with gentle politeness. lewisham was surprised to find himself sorry. "he was a man of extraordinary gifts," said lagune. "i had come to rely upon him.... my cash balance has been rather heavy lately. how he came to know of that i am unable to say. without supposing, that is, that he had very remarkable gifts." when lewisham saw lagune again he learnt the particulars of chaffery's misdeed and the additional fact that the "lady" had also disappeared. "that's a good job," he remarked selfishly. "there's no chance of _his_ coming back." he spent a moment trying to imagine the "lady"; he realised more vividly than he had ever done before the narrow range of his experience, the bounds of his imagination. these people also--with grey hair and truncated honour--had their emotions i even it may be glowing! he came back to facts. chaffery had induced lagune when hypnotised to sign a blank cheque as an "autograph." "the strange thing is," explained lagune, "it's doubtful if he's legally accountable. the law is so peculiar about hypnotism and i certainly signed the cheque, you know." the little man, in spite of his losses, was now almost cheerful again on account of a curious side issue. "you may say it is coincidence," he said, "you may call it a fluke, but i prefer to look for some other interpretation! consider this. the amount of my balance is a secret between me and my bankers. he never had it from _me_, for i did not know it--i hadn't looked at my passbook for months. but he drew it all in one cheque, within seventeen and sixpence of the total. and the total was over five hundred pounds!" he seemed quite bright again as he culminated. "within seventeen and sixpence," he said. "now how do you account for that, eh? give me a materialistic explanation that will explain away all that. you can't. neither can i." "i think i can," said lewisham. "well--what is it?" lewisham nodded towards a little drawer of the bureau. "don't you think--perhaps"--a little ripple of laughter passed across his mind--"he had a skeleton key?" lagune's face lingered amusingly in lewisham's mind as he returned to clapham. but after a time that amusement passed away. he declined upon the extraordinary fact that chaffery was his father-in-law, mrs. chaffery his mother-in-law, that these two and ethel constituted his family, his clan, and that grimy graceless house up the clapham hillside was to be his home. home! his connexion with these things as a point of worldly departure was as inexorable now as though he had been born to it. and a year ago, except for a fading reminiscence of ethel, none of these people had existed for him. the ways of destiny! the happenings of the last few months, foreshortened in perspective, seemed to have almost a pantomimic rapidity. the thing took him suddenly as being laughable; and he laughed. his laugh marked an epoch. never before had lewisham laughed at any fix in which he had found himself! the enormous seriousness of adolescence was coming to an end; the days of his growing were numbered. it was a laugh of infinite admissions. chapter xxxi. in battersea park. now although lewisham had promised to bring things to a conclusion with miss heydinger, he did nothing in the matter for five weeks, he merely left that crucial letter of hers unanswered. in that time their removal from madam gadow's into the gaunt house at clapham was accomplished--not without polyglot controversy--and the young couple settled themselves into the little room on the second floor even as they had arranged. and there it was that suddenly the world was changed--was astonishingly transfigured--by a whisper. it was a whisper between sobs and tears, with ethel's arms about him and ethel's hair streaming down so that it hid her face from him. and he too had whispered, dismayed perhaps a little, and yet feeling a strange pride, a strange novel emotion, feeling altogether different from the things he had fancied he might feel when this thing that he had dreaded should come. suddenly he perceived finality, the advent of the solution, the reconciliation of the conflict that had been waged so long. hesitations were at an end;--he took his line. next day he wrote a note, and two mornings later he started for his mathematical duffers an hour before it was absolutely necessary, and instead of going directly to vigours', went over the bridge to battersea park. there waiting for him by a seat where once they had met before, he found miss heydinger pacing. they walked up and down side by side, speaking for a little while about indifferent topics, and then they came upon a pause ... "you have something to tell me?" said miss heydinger abruptly. lewisham changed colour a little. "oh yes," he said; "the fact is--" he affected ease. "did i ever tell you i was married?" "_married_?" "yes." "married!" "yes," a little testily. for a moment neither spoke. lewisham stood without dignity staring at the dahlias of the london county council, and miss heydinger stood regarding him. "and that is what you have to tell me?" mr. lewisham tamed and met her eyes. "yes!" he said. "that is what i have to tell you." pause. "do you mind if i sit down?" asked miss heydinger in an indifferent tone. "there is a seat yonder," said lewisham, "under the tree." they walked to the seat in silence. "now," said miss heydinger, quietly. "tell me whom you have married." lewisham answered sketchily. she asked him another question and another. he felt stupid and answered with a halting truthfulness. "i might have known," she said, "i might have known. only i would not know. tell me some more. tell me about her." lewisham did. the whole thing was abominably disagreeable to him, but it had to be done, he had promised ethel it should be done. presently miss heydinger knew the main outline of his story, knew all his story except, the emotion that made it credible. "and you were married--before the second examination?" she repeated. "yes," said lewisham. "but why did you not tell me of this before?" asked miss heydinger. "i don't, know," said lewisham. "i wanted to--that day, in kensington gardens. but i didn't. i suppose i ought to have done so." "i think you ought to have done so." "yes, i suppose i ought ... but i didn't. somehow--it has been hard. i didn't know what you would say. the thing seemed so rash, you know, and all that." he paused blankly. "i suppose you had to do it," said miss heydinger presently, with her eyes on his profile. lewisham began the second and more difficult part of his explanation. "there's been a difficulty," he said, "all the way along--i mean--about you, that is. it's a little difficult--the fact is, my life, you know--she looks at things differently from what we do." "we?" "yes--it's odd, of course. but she has seen your letters--" "you didn't show her--?" "no. but, i mean, she knows you write to me, and she knows you write about socialism and literature and--things we have in common--things she hasn't." "you mean to say she doesn't understand these things?" "she's not thought about them. i suppose there's a sort of difference in education--" "and she objects--?" "no," said lewisham, lying promptly. "she doesn't _object_ ..." "well?" said miss heydinger, and her face was white. "she feels that--she feels--she does not say, of course, but i know she feels that it is something she ought to share. i know--how she cares for me. and it shames her--it reminds her--don't you see how it hurts her?" "yes. i see. so that even that little--" miss heydinger's breath seemed to catch and she was abruptly silent. she spoke at last with an effort. "that it hurts _me_," she said, and grimaced and stopped again. "no," said lewisham, "that is not it." he hesitated. "i _knew_ this would hurt you." "you love her. you can sacrifice--" "no. it is not that. but there is a difference. hurting _her_--she would not understand. but you--somehow it seems a natural thing for me to come to you. i seem to look to you--for her i am always making allowances--" "you love her." "i wonder if it _is_ that makes the difference. things are so complex. love means anything--or nothing. i know you better than i do her, you know me better than she will ever do. i could tell you things i could not tell her. i could put all myself before you--almost--and know you would understand--only--" "you love her." "yes," said lewisham lamely and pulling at his moustache. "i suppose ... that must be it." for a space neither spoke. then miss heydinger said "_oh_!" with extraordinary emphasis. "to think of this end to it all! that all your promise ... what is it she gives that i could not have given? "even now! why should i give up that much of you that is mine? if she could take it--but she cannot take it. if i let you go--you will do nothing. all this ambition, all these interests will dwindle and die, and she will not mind. she will not understand. she will think that she still has you. why should she covet what she cannot possess? why should she be given the thing that is mine--to throw aside?" she did not look at lewisham, but before her, her face a white misery. "in a way--i had come to think of you as something, belonging to me ... i shall--still." "there is one thing," said lewisham after a pause, "it is a thing that has come to me once or twice lately. don't you think that perhaps you over-estimate the things i might have done? i know we've talked of great things to do. but i've been struggling for half a year and more to get the sort of living almost anyone seems able to get. it has taken me all my time. one can't help thinking after that, perhaps the world is a stiffer sort of affair ..." "no," she said decisively. "you could have done great things. "even now," she said, "you may do great things--if only i might see you sometimes, write to you sometimes--you are so capable and--weak. you must have somebody--that is your weakness. you fail in your belief. you must have support and belief--unstinted support and belief. why could i not be that to you? it is all i want to be. at least--all i want to be now. why need she know? it robs her of nothing. i want nothing--she has. but i know of my own strength too i can do nothing. i know that with you ... it is only knowing hurts her. why should she know?" mr. lewisham looked at her doubtfully. that phantom greatness of his, it was that lit her eyes. in that instant, at least he had no doubts of the possibility of his career. but he knew that in some way the secret of his greatness and this admiration went together. conceivably they were one and indivisible. why indeed need ethel know? his imagination ran over the things that might be done, the things that might happen, and touched swiftly upon complication, confusion, discovery. "the thing is, i must simplify my life. i shall do nothing unless i simplify my life. only people who are well off can be--complex. it is one thing or the other--" he hesitated and suddenly had a vision of ethel weeping as once he had seen her weep with the light on the tears in her eyes. "no," he said almost brutally. "no. it's like this--i can't do anything underhand. i mean--i'm not so amazingly honest--now. but i've not that sort of mind. she would find me out. it would do no good and she would find me out. my life's too complex. i can't manage it and go straight. i--you've overrated me. and besides--things have happened. something--" he hesitated and then snatched at his resolve, "i've got to simplify--and that's the plain fact of the case. i'm sorry, but it is so." miss heydinger made no answer. her silence astonished him. for nearly twenty seconds perhaps they sat without speaking. with a quick motion she stood up, and at once he stood up before her. her face was flushed, her eyes downcast. "good-bye," she said suddenly in a low tone and held out her hand. "but," said lewisham and stopped. miss heydinger's colour left her. "good-bye," she said, looking him suddenly in the eyes and smiling awry. "there is no more to say, is there? good-bye." he took her hand. "i hope i didn't--" "good-bye," she said impatiently, and suddenly disengaged her hand and turned away from him. he made a step after her. "miss heydinger," he said, but she did not stop. "miss heydinger." he realised that she did not want to answer him again.... he remained motionless, watching her retreating figure. an extraordinary sense of loss came into his mind, a vague impulse to pursue her and pour out vague passionate protestations.... not once did she look back. she was already remote when he began hurrying after her. once he was in motion he quickened his pace and gained upon her. he was within thirty yards of her as she drew near the gates. his pace slackened. suddenly he was afraid she might look back. she passed out of the gates, out of his sight. he stopped, looking where she had disappeared. he sighed and took the pathway to his left that led back to the bridge and vigours'. halfway across this bridge came another crisis of indecision. he stopped, hesitating. an impertinent thought obtruded. he looked at his watch and saw that he must hurry if he would catch the train for earl's court and vigours'. he said vigours' might go to the devil. but in the end he caught his train. chapter xxxii. the crowning victory. that night about seven ethel came into their room with a waste-paper basket she had bought for him, and found him sitting at the little toilet table at which he was to "write." the outlook was, for a london outlook, spacious, down a long slope of roofs towards the junction, a huge sky of blue passing upward to the darkling zenith and downward into a hazy bristling mystery of roofs and chimneys, from which emerged signal lights and steam puffs, gliding chains of lit window carriages and the vague vistas of streets. she showed him the basket and put it beside him, and then her eye caught the yellow document in his hand. "what is that you have there?" he held it out to her. "i found it--lining my yellow box. i had it at whortley." she took it and perceived a chronological scheme. it was headed "schema," there were memoranda in the margin, and all the dates had been altered by a hasty hand. "hasn't it got yellow?" she said. that seemed to him the wrong thing for her to say. he stared at the document with a sudden accession of sympathy. there was an interval. he became aware of her hand upon his shoulder, that she was bending over him. "dear," she whispered, with a strange change in the quality of her voice. he knew she was seeking to say something that was difficult to say. "yes?" he said presently. "you are not grieving?" "what about?" "_this_." "no!" "you are not--you are not even sorry?" she said. "no--not even sorry." "i can't understand that. it's so much--" "i'm glad," he proclaimed. "_glad."_ "but--the trouble--the expense--everything--and your work?" "yes," he said, "that's just it." she looked at him doubtfully. he glanced up at her, and she questioned his eyes. he put his arm about her, and presently and almost absent-mindedly she obeyed his pressure and bent down and kissed him. "it settles things," he said, holding her. "it joins us. don't you see? before ... but now it's different. it's something we have between us. it's something that ... it's the link we needed. it will hold us together, cement us together. it will be our life. this will be my work now. the other ..." he faced a truth. "it was just ... vanity!" there was still a shade of doubt in her face, a wistfulness. presently she spoke. "dear," she said. "yes?" she knitted her brows. "no!" she said. "i can't say it." in the interval she came into a sitting position on his knees. he kissed her hand, but her face remained grave, and she looked out upon the twilight. "i know i'm stupid," she said. "the things i say ... aren't the things i feel." he waited for her to say more. "it's no good," she said. he felt the onus of expression lay on him. he too found it a little difficult to put into words. "i think i understand," he said, and wrestled with the impalpable. the pause seemed long and yet not altogether vacant. she lapsed abruptly into the prosaic. she started from him. "if i don't go down, mother will get supper ..." at the door she stopped and turned a twilight face to him. for a moment they scrutinised one another. to her he was no more than a dim outline. impulsively he held out his arms.... then at the sound of a movement downstairs she freed herself and hurried out. he heard her call "mother! you're not to lay supper. you're to rest." he listened to her footsteps until the kitchen had swallowed them up. then he turned his eyes to the schema again and for a moment it seemed but a little thing. he picked it up in both hands and looked at it as if it was the writing of another man, and indeed it was the writing of another man. "pamphlets in the liberal interest," he read, and smiled. presently a train of thought carried him off. his attitude relaxed a little, the schema became for a time a mere symbol, a point of departure, and he stared out of the window at the darkling night. for a long time he sat pursuing thoughts that were half emotions, emotions that took upon themselves the shape and substance of ideas. the deepening current stirred at last among the roots of speech. "yes, it was vanity," he said. "a boy's vanity. for me--anyhow. i'm too two-sided.... two-sided?... commonplace! "dreams like mine--abilities like mine. yes--any man! and yet ...--the things i meant to do!" his thoughts went to his socialism, to his red-hot ambition of world mending. he marvelled at the vistas he had discovered since those days. "not for us--not for us. "we must perish in the wilderness.--some day. somewhen. but not for us.... "come to think, it is all the child. the future is the child. the future. what are we--any of us--but servants or traitors to that?... * * * * * "natural selection--it follows ... this way is happiness ... must be. there can be no other." he sighed. "to last a lifetime, that is. "and yet--it is almost as if life had played me a trick--promised so much--given so little!... "no! one must not look at it in that way! that will not do! that will _not_ do. "career! in itself it is a career--the most important career in the world. father! why should i want more? "and ... ethel! no wonder she seemed shallow ... she has been shallow. no wonder she was restless. unfulfilled ... what had she to do? she was drudge, she was toy ... "yes. this is life. this alone is life! for this we were made and born. all these other things--all other things--they are only a sort of play.... "play!" his eyes came back to the schema. his hands shifted to the opposite corner and he hesitated. the vision of that arranged career, that ordered sequence of work and successes, distinctions and yet further distinctions, rose brightly from the symbol. then he compressed his lips and tore the yellow sheet in half, tearing very deliberately. he doubled the halves and tore again, doubled again very carefully and neatly until the schema was torn into numberless little pieces. with it he seemed to be tearing his past self. "play," he whispered after a long silence. "it is the end of adolescence," he said; "the end of empty dreams...." he became very still, his hands resting on the table, his eyes staring out of the blue oblong of the window. the dwindling light gathered itself together and became a star. he found he was still holding the torn fragments. he stretched out his hand and dropped them into that new waste-paper basket ethel had bought for him. two pieces fell outside the basket. he stooped, picked them up, and put them carefully with their fellows. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) love at paddington by w. pett ridge [frontispiece] thomas nelson and sons london, edinburgh, dublin leeds, melbourne, and new york leipzig: - königstrasse. paris: , rue saint-jacques novels by the same author. mord em'ly. secretary to bayne, m.p. a son of the state. lost property. 'erb. a breaker of laws. mrs. galer's business. the wickhamses. name of garland. sixty-nine birnam road. splendid brother. thanks to sanderson. first published in love at paddington. chapter i. children had been sent off to sunday school, and the more conscientious reached that destination; going in, after delivering awful threats and warnings to those who preferred freedom of thought and a stroll down edgware road in the direction of the park. as a consequence, in the streets off the main thoroughfare leading to paddington station peace and silence existed, broken only by folk who, after the principal meal of the week, talked in their sleep. praed street was different. praed street plumed itself on the fact that it was always lively, ever on the move, occasionally acquainted with royalty. even on a sunday afternoon, and certainly at all hours of a week-day, one could look from windows at good racing, generally done by folk impeded by hand luggage who, as they ran, glanced suspiciously at every clock, and gasped, in a despairing way, "we shall never do it!" or, optimistically, "we shall only just do it!" or, with resignation, "well, if we lose this one we shall have to wait for the next." few establishments were open in praed street, shutters were up at the numerous second-hand shops, and at the hour of three o'clock p.m. the thirst for journals at e. g. mills's (established ) was satisfied; the appetite for cigars, cigarettes, and tobacco had scarcely begun. now and again a couple of boys, who had been reading stories of wild adventure in the rocky mountains, dashed across the road, upset one of mrs. mills's placard boards, and flew in opposite directions, feeling that although they might not have equalled the daring exploits of their heroes in fiction, they had gone as far as was possible in a country hampered by civilization. "young rascals!" said mrs. mills, coming back after repairing one of these outrages. the shop had a soft, pleasing scent of tobacco from the brown jars, marked in gilded letters "bird's eye" and "shag" and "cavendish," together with the acrid perfume of printer's ink. "still, i suppose we were all young once. gertie," raising her voice, "isn't it about time you popped upstairs to make yourself good-looking? there's no cake in the house, and that always means some one looks in unexpectedly to tea." no answer. "gertie! don't you hear me when i'm speaking to you?" "beg pardon, aunt. i was thinking of something else." "you think too much of something else, my dear," said mrs. mills persuasively. "i was saying to a customer, only yesterday, that you don't seem able lately to throw off your work when you've finished. you keep on threshing it out in your mind. and it's all very well, to a certain extent, but there's a medium in all things." mrs. mills went to the half-open door, that was curtained only in regard to the lower portion. "trimming a hat," she cried protestingly. "oh, my dear, and to think your mother was a wesleyan methodist. before she came to london, i mean." her niece surveyed the work at arm's length. "i've done all i want to do to it," she said. mrs. mills ordered the hat to be put on that she might ascertain whether it suited, and this done, and guarded approval given, asked to be allowed to try it on her own head. here, again, the results, inspected in the large mirror set in a narrow wooden frame above the mantelpiece, gained commendation; mrs. mills declared she would feel inclined to purchase a similar hat, only that praed street might say she was looking for a second husband. besides, she never went out. "your poor mother was just as handy with her needle as what you are. we'd go along together to have a look at the shops in oxford street, and the moment she returned home, she'd set to work, and alter something to make it look fashionable." mrs. mills sighed. "little good it brought her, though, in the long run." "i am sure," remarked the girl quickly, "it never brought her any harm." "didn't help to get hold of anybody better than your father, at any rate. but they're both gone, and it's no use talking." some one entered the shop. "your friend miss radford," she announced. "now there won't be a chance for any one else to speak." the visitor justified the prophecy, by entering the parlour with a breathless "oh, i've got such news!" checking herself on encountering mrs. mills. mrs. mills asked, with reserve, concerning the health of miss radford's mother, and mentioned (not apparently for the first time) that the lady, in her opinion, ought to be living on a gravel soil. miss radford, obviously suffering from repressed information, promised to deliver the advice, word for word, and in the meantime gave her own warm thanks. "old nuisance!" she remarked, as the half-curtained door closed. "i wonder how you can put up with her." "my aunt is very good to me." "isn't it a pity," said the visitor inconsequently, "that you're so short? well, not exactly short, but certainly only about middle height. i think"--she glanced at the mirror complacently--"my idea is it's partly because i'm tall that i attract so much notice. i'm sure the way they gaze round after i'm gone by--well, it used to make me feel quite confused, but i've got over that. you don't have to put up with such experiences, gertie." "afraid i forget to turn to see if they're looking." "you've got rather a thoughtless disposition," agreed the other. "once or twice lately, when i've been telling you things that i don't tell to everybody, it's struck me that you've been scarcely listening." the door was closed, but miss radford verified this before proceeding. "what do you think?" she asked in an awed voice. "whatever do you think? two of my old ones have met. met at a smoking concert apparently. and they somehow started talking, and my name cropped up, and," tearfully, "they've written me such a unkind letter, with both their names to it. on the top of it all, the latest one caught sight of me yesterday afternoon, dressing the window at our establishment, so that he won't put in an appearance at the marble arch this evening." "why not?" "because i told him i was an artist. said i had a picture in the royal academy the year before last." "you are rather foolish at times, aren't you?" "i wish, darling," wailed miss radford, "that you could tell me something i don't know." the clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour, and mrs. mills's niece, suddenly alarmed, said she would not be absent for more than ten minutes, an announcement the visitor received with an incredulous shake of the head. as a fact, gertie returned in five minutes fully apparelled, to discover miss radford improved in spirits and ready for more conversation. "a new blouse?" she cried, interrupting herself. "and you never told me. gertie higham," solemnly, "this isn't what i call friendship." the girl went straight through the shop, and looking up and down praed street, remarked to mrs. mills that it intended to be a fine evening. the elder lady said it was high time gertie found a young man to take her out; the girl answered composedly that perhaps mr. trew might call and do her this service. "or fred bulpert?" remarked the aunt pointedly. "no," she answered, "not mr. bulpert, thank you. mr. trew is different." "he isn't the man he was when i first knew him." "i like him because he's the man he is." she turned quickly at the sound of a deep, husky voice. mr. trew, on the mat, opened his arms at sight of her, and beamed with a face that was like the midday sun; she took his sleeve and pulled him to the pavement. "at five minutes to five," she whispered urgently, "you're going to take me for a walk in hyde park." "at four fifty-five to the minute," he agreed. "what's the game, may i kindly ask?" "i'll tell you later on." "i hadn't noticed it," he said loudly, re-entering the shop, "until my attention was drawed to it by the little missy here. but there it is right enough on the playcards. 'motor omnibuses for london.'" he shook his head, and, leaning across the counter, addressed mrs. mills. "light of my life, sunshine of my existence--" "don't you begin your nonsense," ordered the lady, not displeased. "--and sweetheart when a boy, i warn you against putting any of your ill-gotten gains into that sort of speculation. they may perhaps start one from the elephant and it'll get about as fur as the obelisk, and there it'll stick. and they'll have to take it to pieces, and sell it for scrap iron. i know what i'm talking about." "that's unusual in your case," said mrs. mills. "i get light-headed when i see you," explained mr. trew. "i was took like it the first time i ran across you up in the gallery of the old princess's, seeing 'guinea gold,' and you've had the same effect on me ever since. what's more, you glory in it. you're proud of the wonderful influence you exercise over me. and all i get out of you is a 'aughty smile." "the fact is," declared mrs. mills, "you get too much attention from the ladies. it spoils you!" "see how she spurns me," he cried, turning to gertie. "you wouldn't treat a gentleman like that, would you, missy? you wouldn't play football with an honest, loving heart, i'm sure. oh, come on," with pretended desperation, "let's have a cigar, and try to forget all about it. a twopenny one; same as you sell to members of the house of lords." "you're staying to tea," suggested mrs. mills, allowing him to make a selection from a box. "i've got to leave just before five o'clock. going to take the little missy here out for a promenade." "now that is kind and thoughtful of you," declared the other. "with all your silliness, you're not half a bad sort. gertie, go in and lay the table." miss radford, after inspecting the new-comer over the half-curtain, decided to leave, although, as she pointed out, this was an opportunity for enjoying her company that rarely occurred. in confidence, the young woman remarked that what she hoped might happen at a future date was that she would meet some one possessing a disengaged brother, in which case she guaranteed to bring all her influence to bear in favour of gertie higham. gertie said this was kind, and miss radford mentioned that she always felt ready to do a favour whenever she happened to be in good spirits. the three sat at table, with mrs. mills in a position that commanded a view of the shop. mr. trew had brought a bag of prawns in the tail-pocket of his coat, secured, he asserted, after enormous trouble and expense from the sea coast of marylebone road that very afternoon; they were, anyway, good prawns, and went admirably with thin bread and butter, and gertie would have eaten more but for anxiety concerning progress of the hands of the clock. mr. trew, discussing the products of the sea, regretted that he was bound, by his work, to london-- "horses is my occupation," he said, "but the ocean's my hobby." --and derided town, charging it with stuffiness in this month of august, and moreover empty. he wished he were on the pier at southend, or at margate, or at any place, in fact, where he might see the waves rolling in and rolling out again, and shy pebbles at them. "gertie could have had her holiday this month," remarked mrs. mills, glancing with pride at her niece, "but she preferred not. i don't feel sure whether she did right or whether she did wrong in giving them up. there's more unlikely places than a seaside boarding-house to pick up a future husband." she gave details of a case of a young woman living in harrow road, who, in the summer of , met at eastbourne a gentleman with one arm, invalided home from the war; an engagement immediately followed. later, the girl discovered he was already married, and that he had gone away from his wife and children, taking with him the compensation given to him by his employers, a firm of builders at willesden. "i expect the missy is keeping her eyes open, if the truth was known." "but no definite results," contended mrs. mills. "that's what i complain of. at her age i had three after me." "this was long before i came on the scene," explained mr. trew to gertie; "otherwise there would have been bloodshed. is this meal _ad lib._, or do i have to pay extra for another cup of tea?" "i don't want her to worry about it; i only want her to keep it in view. what i should like more than anything would be to see a young man who was fond of her come in here, at a time like this, and take his piece of bread and butter, fold it, enjoy it, and sing to us afterwards." "you're certain about that, aunt?" "providing he had a decent voice." the shop bell rang. mrs. mills half rose and recognized the customer. "we are now about to get all the news of the neighbourhood," she said desolately. gertie anticipated her, and, going in, served the lady with a copy of _fireside love stories_. returned with an imperative message. "i shall have to see her," admitted mrs. mills. "she won't be happy until she gets some piece of scandal off her mind." "fair one," said trew, with a wave of his hand, "every moment will seem like a century until you return!" gertie was fixing her newly-trimmed hat with the aid of the mirror, and mr. trew was describing an accident witnessed the day before near hyde park corner, when sound of commotion came from the street; he seized his peaked cap and hurried through the shop. gertie followed. conversation between the two ladies had been interrupted by the same cause and they were outside the doorway, looking on at a small crowd that acted as escort to an ambulance in charge of two policemen; the aim of every one appeared to be to snatch the privilege of securing a view of the man partly hidden by the brown hood of the conveyance. mrs. mills sent the customer across to obtain particulars, and remarking cheerfully to mr. trew and the girl, "you two off? don't be late back, mind!" turned to the more interesting subject. children were running up from side streets, grateful for anything likely to break the serenity of the afternoon. "if he's damaged hisself," said mr. trew, as the ambulance stopped at the hospital, "he's going to the right place to get repaired." "it's to be hoped he has friends." "everybody's got the friends they deserve to have. are we going the direction to suit you, missy, or would you rather have gone edgware road way?" "let's turn down london street," she suggested. "it will be quiet there. i've something to tell you." she rolled her parasol carefully. "and i want your help, mr. trew." three youths near the underground station, with apparently no urgent occupation, came forward hopefully on seeing gertie; detecting the fact that she was in the company of a big, burly man, they had to pretend a sudden interest in a shuttered window. the two, going into norfolk square, walked on the narrow pavement near the railings of the garden. "mr. trew, i've got a young man!" "that's the best news," he exclaimed heartily, "i've heard this summer!" "and i want somehow to get him asked indoors. once aunt sees him and hears him talk, it will be all right. but i'm nervous about it, and i don't know how to manage." "this," he said, holding up a forefinger, "is just where old harry trew comes in. this is exactly the sort of job he's fitted for. if he hadn't took up with another occupation he'd have found himself by this time in the foreign office. do you want it arranged for to-night?" "please!" "right you are! you're going to meet him, i take it, presently. you asked me to come out with you simply as an excuse for that purpose. very well, then. i've got a standing invite, as you very well know, to drop in at the nine o'clock meal any sunday evening i like. your aunt expects me." the forefinger became emphatic. "you simply arrange for him to meet me, say, outside the met. at ten minutes to the hower; i shall be carrying a _lloyd's_ in my right hand. i brings him along," continued mr. trew exultantly; "i introduces him as a young personal friend of mine that i met on the steamer going to clacton, year before last. your aunt says at once that any friend of mine is a friend of her'n. you and him pretend not to know each other, but you gradually become acquainted, and your aunt asks him, at the finish, to look in again. does that sound all right, or can you suggest a better plan?" "it's splendid," she cried. "i think," he continued, "i shall mention in the course of the evening that his father was the best friend i ever had in the world. when i was in a slight financial difficulty once, his father--your young man's father, i mean--came to my assistance. and him not well off neither. turning-point of my life. but for that help i should, likely enough, have gone down, and down, and down." he looked at her for approval. "what's wrong with that?" "he's a gentleman!" mr. trew gazed for a few moments at a baby in a perambulator. "i was born in 'fifty-five, the year of the crimea war," he said deliberately, "and if my mother had had her way, i sh'd have been christened sebastopol, which wouldn't have been any catch to a public man like myself. if i'm spared till next year, i shall be celebrating my jubilee, and all london will be illuminated, i expect, with military troops lining the streets. but what i want to tell you, missy, is that, all that time, i've never seen any good resulting from a girl in your position of life becoming friendly with any chap who was considerably above her in regard to what we call social status. on the other hand, i've seen harm come from it." "there's going to be none in my case," she said quickly. "i know, i know! i'm perfectly sure of that. that is to say, i'm absolutely certain that is your view now. i can't quite explain what i mean to any one of your age and your sex. if i was a well-educated man"--here he took off his cap and rubbed the top of his head with the peak--"i could find words to wrop it up somehow. the long and the short of it is, you relinquish the idea. to oblige me"--persuasively--"and to gratify your aunt, who's been pretty good to you since you were a child--" "i don't forget that." "--and for your own peace of mind in the future, give it all up, and you wait a bit until you find some one belonging to your own set." "there isn't the distance between the sets there used to be," she argued. he took hold of the railings with both hands, and tried to shake them in an effort of thought. "what's the young chap's name?" "i don't know." "there you are!"--with gloomy triumph--"don't that prove the truth of everything i've been saying?" "he doesn't know mine." "that isn't an argument." "quite so," the girl agreed. "it's only a statement of fact. he will tell me his name directly i ask him, and i shall tell him my name the moment he asks me." "no occupation, i suppose?" "he works for his living." "then," turning reproachfully upon her, "what did you mean by saying he was a gentleman, and upsetting me to this extent?" "he is a gentleman," persisted gertie. "i can tell the difference." mr. trew sighed, and took out his watch. gertie glanced at it. "i must go," she said. "i promised to meet him not far from the shop at half-past." "i'd do anything to help you, missy," he declared, "because i like you. and it's just because i like you that i don't feel particular inclined to assist him. he ought to keep to his own sphere. there's a lot of talk about breaking down the barriers that divide one class from another, but, i tell you, it's a job that wants very careful handling. and i've got as much sense as most, and i rather enjoy interfering with other people's affairs, but this is an undertaking i don't care to tackle. you'll excuse me for speaking my mind, won't you? it's a habit i've got into." "it's a good habit," said gertie. "i practise it myself." on the return, mr. trew, cap now at the back of his head, and his rubicund face bearing indications of seriousness, pointed out that the girl was in a berth in great titchfield street, which he described as not so dusty, earning twenty-five shillings a week, and with saturday afternoons and sundays free; a good home, and everything ready for her when she returned, tired out, at night; first-class feeding, able to dress well. mr. trew, without daring to say whether he was right or whether he was wrong, begged to suggest there were many girls worse treated by fortune; it did seem to him that these advantages ought not to be given up lightly. "there he is!" she cried excitedly. "across there. near the second-hand furniture shop." "your aunt's calling you," he said. mrs. mills was out on the pavement, scooping at the air with her right arm. gertie instinctively obeyed the order; mr. trew kept pace with her. the three entered the shop, and mrs. mills, with a touch of her heel, closed the door, went inside the tobacco counter, and, across it, spoke rapidly and vehemently, with the aid of emphatic gesture, for five minutes by the clock. mr. trew, disregarding rules of etiquette, sat down, whilst the two stood, and became greatly interested in the mechanism of a cigar-cutter. "who told you all this, aunt?" asked the girl calmly, when mrs. mills had finished. "the lady customer who was here when you went out. do you deny it? of course, if it isn't correct that you've been seen walking about with a young swell, i've lost my temper for nothing." "girls will be girls," interposed mr. trew. "not in my house." "it's all perfectly correct," announced gertie. mrs. mills looked around in a dazed way. "trew," she cried, "what's to be done?" "you've had your say, old beauty," he remarked slowly. "now let me and her go into the parlour and have some music--music of a different kind." the girl hesitated, and looked through the window. he touched her shoulder. "i sh'd take it as a special favour." he came out a few minutes later, and mentioned to gertie's aunt that he had a message to deliver. the music within ceased; the lid of the pianoforte closed. "trew," she said. "queen of my heart." "this isn't the only upset i've had. who do you think it was in that ambulance cart this afternoon? i hopped across to have a look." leaning over the counter, she whispered. "that complicates matters, so far as she is concerned," he admitted. "i hoped he'd vanished for good. we shall want all the diplomacy that we've got stored away to deal with this." chapter ii. mr. trew could scarcely be suspected of exceeding his instructions; he had, upon his return, given privately an account of the words used, with frequent use of the phrases, "i says to him," and "he says to me." but as evenings of the week went by, and other girls at hilbert's, on leaving at the hour of seven, were met by courageous youths near the door, and by shyer lads at a more reticent spot (some of these took ambush in doorways, affecting to read cricket results in the evening paper), then gertie higham began to wonder whether the message had been communicated in the precise tone and manner that she had given it. the blue pinafored girls, stitching gold thread in the workroom at hilbert's, cultivated little reserve, and when they had occasion to enter the office they sometimes told her of young men encountered (say) at a dance, of ardent protestations of love, faithful promises to meet again. "and from that day to this," the accounts finished, "not so much as a sign of his lordship." there was encouragement in the thought that he knew the number in great titchfield street; was aware that she walked thence to praed street. and each evening on the way home a straw hat temporarily imposed upon her, a tall boyish figure and an eager method of walking deceived. at praed street, mrs. mills, noting that time had not been wasted on the journey, beamed approval and made much of her niece, telling her she was a good, sensible girl; one bound to get on in the world. gertie did not leave again after her arrival, but turned out a room upstairs, and swept and dusted with extraordinary energy. good spirits increased at great titchfield street when friday came, and men at the looms above sang loudly; girls who had borrowed small sums were reminded by lenders that the moment for payment was close at hand. at the hour, wages were given through the pigeon-hole of the windows by madame, with the assistance of gertie, and the young women hung up pinafores, pinned hats, and flew off with the sums as though there was danger of a refund being demanded. when they had gone, madame, dispirited by the paying out of money, said there was not now the profit in the business that there had been in her father's day, when you charged what you liked, and everybody paid willingly. to restore cheerfulness, the two faced each other at the sloping desks, and madame dictated whilst gertie took bills, headed "hilbert's military accoutrement manufacturers," and wrote the words, "to a/c rendered." later, she left to madame the task of locking up. near the print shop over the way, a tall young figure in a tweed suit marched from one unlighted lamp-post to another; the girl drew back to the staircase, snatching a space for consideration. the next moment she was crossing the street with the air of an art patron anxious to inspect before making a purchase. "you gave me such a start," she declared, as a hand touched her shoulder lightly. "i'd begun to think you'd disappeared altogether. where've you been hiding?" "do you mind very much," he asked, gazing down at her contentedly, "if i honour you with my company a part of the way?" "no objection whatever. hasn't it been a scorcher? up there, what with the heat and the noise of the machines going, it's made my head ache." "you won't care to go to a concert then. shall we have a boat again in regent's park? we are both magnificent sailors." "i'd rather be somewheres where we can talk." "why," he declared, "that is just what i should prefer. the similarity in our tastes is almost alarming." "primrose hill is rather a nice open space." "sounds perfectly delightful," he agreed; "but i can't in the least guess where it is." "i know my way about london," said gertie higham. they walked along oxford street, the girl endeavouring to keep in step with him, and he attempting to keep in step with her; they appeared to decide near to wells street that it would be more convenient to fall back on individual methods. at the corner of tottenham court road gertie hailed a yellow omnibus which was on the point of starting; she skipped up the steps with a confidence that made the conductor's warning "'old tight!" superfluous. "you didn't mind my sending out that message the other evening?" beginning the conversation breathlessly. "i considered it kind of you to be so thoughtful." "it wasn't exactly that. i didn't want a row with aunt. what did you think of mr. trew?" "do you know, it occurred to me that he looked rather like an omnibus driver." "he is an omnibus driver." "a relative?" "better than that--a friend. i s'pose you're somewhat particular about relations?" the conductor came, and the girl had thought of other questions by the time fares to the adelaide were paid. a man on the seat in front turned to ask her companion for a match; he handed over a silver box that bore a monogram. she begged permission, when it was given back, to look at the case. "which stands for the christian name?" "the h." "and d. is for the surname then--h. d." "henry douglass," he said. "i like the sound of it," she declared. "what do you think the name of the forewoman at our place of business is?" she chattered on, and he listened attentively, as though the sound of her voice was all that mattered. at the adelaide they alighted, and, walking up the short hill, found regent's park road; she explained the geography of the district, pointed out that away south it was all open country until you came to marylebone road. and was it not wonderful how fresh and bracing the air seemed up here, even on a summer's evening; you could easily imagine yourself miles and miles away from london. did he care for the country? she did not. for one thing, the people there had such an odd way of speaking that it was a trouble to realize what they were driving at. she sometimes wondered whether they understood each other. "you're letting me do all the talk," she remarked, as they took seats in the enclosed space at the top of the hill. boys were playing on the slopes, punctuating the game with frequent disputes. a young couple seated near a tree attracted her notice; the girl's eyes were closed, head resting on the shoulder of the young man, who had an aspect of gloomy resignation. "sillies some people make of themselves, don't they?" she said. "i suppose we are, most of us, ludicrous to other people." "do you laugh at me sometimes?" "no, no," he said earnestly; "i like you too much to do that." "you think you're a bit fond of me," she said, gazing ahead and speaking deliberately, "because i'm different from most of the girls you're in the habit of meeting, and my ways make a change for you. that's about all. you'd soon get tired of me and my manner if we saw much of each other. i know it won't last." "i shall not trouble to contradict that," he remarked good-temperedly, "because i know you don't believe it yourself. why, it would be absolutely splendid to be always with you." another couple walked by, breathless after the climb. gertie, recognizing her friend miss radford, nodded; and that young lady, after a short scream of astonishment, gave a bow, and nudged her blushing companion as an instruction to imitate the example by raising his hat. "i'm glad she's seen us," said gertie. "didn't the young fellow turn red?" "he's a junior clerk in my office." "what a score for me!" she cried exultantly. "i've a good mind to ask you now what you do for a living exactly, only that i'd rather find everything out bit by bit." "you queer little person," he said affectionately. "tell me instead about yourself. what is a day like at your place of business? do you mind--it helps to concentrate my attention--if i hold your hand whilst you talk?" "why should i?" asked gertie. there could be no doubt, as she progressed with the description of great titchfield street, that her mind was well occupied with the daily work; she gave the recital clearly and well, avoiding repetition and excluding any suggestion of monotony. every moment of the hours there seemed to engage her interest. it was her duty to keep the books, and keep them straight; to answer the telephone, and sometimes make purchases of reels of gold thread and of leather. the looms and the netting machine were worked by men; the rest was done by girls. the forewoman was described, and her domestic troubles lightly sketched (miss rabbit's father backed horses, excepting when they came in first). madame herself was spoken of in lowered respectful tones--partly because of her high position, partly because of shrewd and businesslike methods. madame, it appeared, attributed any success she attained to the circumstance that she had steered clear of matrimony. madame told the girls sometimes that you could wed yourself to business, or you could wed yourself to a man, but women who tried to do both found themselves punished for bigamy, sooner or later. gertie was a favourite of madame's; the main reason was, the girl thought, that-- "shan't tell you!" she said, interrupting herself. "let me hear the worst," begged young douglass cheerfully. "i have, just for the moment, the courage of a lion." "well, the reason is that she's under the impression i don't care much for--for anybody special." "and is madame correct in her sanguine anticipations?" "she was. until a month or so ago." he took the other hand quickly. "let's move on," she recommended, rising sedately. "i don't want to be too late on pay night. aunt will be thinking i've been knocked down and robbed of my purse. she's country-bred--berkshire--and she says she doesn't trust londoners." they went down the slope. "does she happen to know the town of wallingford, i wonder?" he declared, on receiving the answer, that nothing could be more fortunate; this was, indeed, pure luck. for he too was acquainted with wallingford, and especially well he knew a village not far off: if he could but meet gertie's aunt, here was a subject of mutual interest. throwing away the serious manner that came intermittently, he challenged her to race him down to the albert road gate; and she went at her best speed, not discouraged by shouts from youngsters of "go it, little 'un!" they arrived together at the gate, where gertie had to rest for a few moments to regain breath. she pointed out that skirts hampered one; he admitted he ought to have given her fifty yards start. they took regent's park more demurely. "when you get a colour," he said, "you look like a schoolgirl." "as a matter of fact, i shan't see twenty again." "do you want to?" "no," she replied candidly; "i'm as happy just now as ever i want to be. it'll always be something to look back upon." "i wish," he said with earnestness, "that you wouldn't talk as though our friendship was only going to be temporary." "we never know our luck," she remarked. "aunt was saying only the other evening, 'gertie,' she said--now i've been and let you know my name." he repeated it twice quietly to himself. "have you been fond of any one before this?" she asked. the girl had so many questions that her mind jumped from one topic to another. "oh yes," he answered. "when i was a schoolboy at winchester i fell in love--deeply in love. she was a widow, and kept a confectioner's shop. good shop, too." "nothing more serious than that?" he shook his head. "glad i'm the first," she said. "and i wish my plan for getting you acquainted with aunt had come off the other night. it would have made it all seem more legal, somehow." "we'll manage it," he promised. "meanwhile, and always, don't forget that you are my dear sweetheart." miss radford called at praed street, inquiring anxiously; and mrs. mills, summoning invention to her aid, said gertie was not in. mrs. mills followed this up by mentioning that an occasional visit from miss radford could be tolerated, but it was not necessary for her to be always in and out of the place. miss radford, asserting that she never forced her company upon any one, swung out of the shop; and mrs. mills said to the cat that they did not want too many flighters about. "why, mr. bulpert!" with a quick change of manner to a newcomer. "this is a pleasant surprise. mr. trew was talking about you not two days ago." the young man took the chair near the counter and, giving it a twirl, sat down heavily, and rested his chin on the back. "i'm putting on too much avoirdupois," he said gloomily. "saturday, i had to get into evening dress, and it was as much as i could do to make the waistcoat buttons meet." "you ought to take more exercise." "what's the use of talking like that? if i take more exercise, i find myself with a bigger appetite, and then i'm worse off than ever." he dismissed the problem as insoluble. "where's gertie? i've got a new recitation that she'd very much like to hear. i place a certain value on her criticism." "i'll call her down. and, mr. bulpert, i want you to be as nice and pleasant to her as you can. i had to talk rather sharply to her not many days ago; now i'd like to make it up. i'm bound to say she took it very well." "you won't forget," he urged, "that i'm a man who can always get any amount of refined society. sought after as i am for _al fresco_ concerts and what not--" "i know," agreed mrs. mills. "only gertie hasn't many friends, and i want her, just now, to make the most of 'em." she called her niece, and gertie came, turning the page of a book, entitled, "hints for gentlewomen." gertie offered her hand to bulpert, and remarked that he was growing stout; he advised her, with some vehemence, to take to glasses before her eyesight became further impaired. mrs. mills went back to the shop with a waggish caution against too much love-making. bulpert, after shifting furniture, took up a position on the white hearthrug, and gave a stirring adventure in the life of a coastguardsman who saved from a wreck his wife and child. at the end, bulpert mopped face, readjusted collar, and waited for congratulations. "did you make it up out your own head, mr. bulpert?" "i did not make it up out of my own head," he said resentfully. "that isn't my line, and well you know it. it was written by a chap your cousin, clarence mills, introduced me to." "ask him to write it again. it seems to me a stupid piece. the wife's been away for ten years, and the baby is eighteen months old." "that does require a slight alteration. but what about my rendering of it?" "overdone," answered gertie. "if only you'd stand up and say them quietly, your pieces would go a lot better." "but i've got to convey the meaning to the ordience." "give 'em credit for some intelligence. when the coastguardsman is going out to the wreck, it isn't necessary to wave your arms about like a windmill. you say he's swimming, and that's enough. and if a floating spar knocked him senseless before he got to the wreck, i don't believe he could take them both in his arms and swim back to the shore." "it says he did in the poetry," contended bulpert with warmth. "the whole fact of the matter is that you don't in the least know what you're talking about." a sound of voices came from the shop, and gertie flushed. "now it's no use your getting hot-tempered about it," he went on. "you speak your mind to me, and i'm entitled to speak my mind to you. what you suffer from is nothing more nor less than sheer ignorance. imperfect education; that's what the complaint is called." "gertie!" a call from the shop. "yes, aunt." "do come here just a moment. here's the strangest coincidence i ever came across." gertie obeyed with signs of nervousness. "this young gentleman tells me that he knows ewelme, and he's actually been inside the house where i was born!" "how do you do?" said gertie. "and he's going down there again shortly," went on mrs. mills with animation, "and he means to bring me back some roses from the garden. isn't it good of him?" "your daughter is fond of flowers?" "she's only my niece," explained mrs. mills volubly. "her mother kicked the bucket some years ago, and her father--what's wallingford like now, sir? i've said over and over again that i'd one day take the great western to go and have a look and see what alterations had been made. but," regretfully, "it's never been anything more than talk. i'd like gertie to see the place though, so that she could tell whether it comes up to my description." he seemed inclined to make an impetuous offer, but a brief shake of the girl's head arrested him. a boy entered and asked for an evening newspaper, and gertie attended to the transaction. "by the bye," turning to the stationery counter, "i want one or two magazines." their heads came closely together as a selection was being made; she whispered a caution not to stay too long. in a louder voice, gertie announced that the total cost was two shillings and sixpence. mrs. mills beamed across from the tobacco counter, and asked whether he knew who was keeping "the lamb"; henry douglass could not supply the information, but guaranteed to obtain particulars, and bring them to praed street. mrs. mills declared herself ashamed to give so much trouble. "are you in business, sir, may i ask?" "i am, in a very small way, an architect." "really?" said gertie interestedly. "but," said mrs. mills, "you're not wearing a white tie!" "she's thinking of an archbishop," remarked bulpert, coming forward. "i'm pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. daresay you know me by name." he found a card in his letter-case, and henry took it near the light to examine the wording. "'fred w. bulpert,'" he read. "'society entertainer and elocutionist.'" "that's in the evenings, of course," said bulpert. "by day, i'm in the west central district. post office, to tell you the truth. i'll trouble you for the card back, because i'm running somewhat short of them. and if you should be arranging a concert at any time, either for your own benefit or any body else's, you might bear me in mind. f. w. b. is a great draw, if i may say so, because, you see, a lot of people have heard him before." the customer asked whether there was an underground station near; mrs. mills instructed gertie to walk along with the young gentleman, and to point out the building. as they left, she urged henry not to forget his promise concerning the roses. "nice, quiet-spoken lad," she commented. "i wish gertie would take up with some one like him, or even you, and forget all about that society young man she's been seen strolling with." "i hadn't heard about that," said bulpert seriously. "what are the solid facts of the matter? why am i kept in the dark about everything?" chapter iii. mr. trew, off duty, and carrying his whip, came to praed street late on a saturday night, and his look of anxiety disappeared at once when he saw that mrs. mills and her niece were on excellent terms with each other. he explained that there was no time to spare, because his old landlady had a hot supper ready, and it was not wise, on these occasions, to keep her or the meal waiting. he delivered his news. pleasant, elderly gent on the front seat started conversation by talking about prison life, and trew gave some particulars of a case with which he was acquainted. one subject leading to another, the gent said, as the omnibus was crossing oxford street, "driver, do you ever go to the zoological gardens on a sunday afternoon?" and thereupon handed over the two tickets, expressing a hope that the visit would be enjoyed by the other and his wife. "and me being nothing more than a lonely bachelor," said trew, "i thought perhaps the little missy here might favour me with her company." "it'll do her the world of good," declared mrs. mills. they met the next day near the west entrance at half-past three. mr. trew, arriving early, had been listening to oratory at different groups, and he mentioned to gertie that in his opinion some of the speakers might well be transferred to the gardens, and kept in a cage; what he failed to understand was why people could not set to and make the best of the world, instead of pretending it was all bad. they went through the turnstiles, and divided attention between animals and visitors; the former could be identified with the help of labels. mr. trew said, in regard to the people, that it was difficult to tell which were housemaids, and which were ladies of title. "oddly enough," remarked gertie, "i was intending to be here this afternoon, in any case." "trust me," he said, self-reproach fully, "for coming in second. never actually won a race in my life yet. is it the same young feller?" "i'm not one to chop and change." "when we run across him, i'll make myself scarce." "you'll do nothing of the kind, mr. trew." he pointed out, in the crocodile house, one or two regular customers of the baker street to victoria route, and when they recognized him he became purple with content. a short youth was making notes near a tank in the corner. mr. trew, nudging gertie, went to him and, in a gruff voice, asked what the deuce he was doing there; the youth turned to give a retort. "i've got your young lady cousin with me," explained mr. trew. "come along, and help with the task of looking after her." clarence mills was pleased to meet gertie, and, as the three went towards the red-bricked lions' house, mentioned that he proposed to write a dialogue sketch of the zoo; up to the present little worth recording had been overheard, and he expected he would, as usual, be compelled to invent the conversations. "i read all of yours, clarence, that appear in the newspapers," said gertie. "that doesn't take up a great deal of your time," he remarked. "but you're getting on, aren't you?" "i think of going in for the boot-black business," he said. "i believe i could make a reputation there." "don't you go losing 'eart," advised mr. trew. "i shouldn't be in the position i occupy now if i hadn't made up my mind, from the start, not to get low-spirited. if any disappointments come your way, simply laugh at 'em. they can stand anything but that. who is this i see on the far horizon?" "don't let him catch sight of us just yet," begged the girl apprehensively. "he seems to have ladies with him." henry's companions entered the house, as the roaring within became insistent, and he looked up and down eagerly. gertie gave a whistle. "you and i have met before," he said smilingly to mr. trew. "i was a boy messenger then, sir." gertie introduced her cousin with a touch of pride. "i am trying to think," said clarence, "where i saw your name to-day." "haven't made a name yet," remarked henry. "only been at it for about eighteen months. i say! we don't want to go into that enormous crowd. we'll stroll round and see how the penguins are getting on. they sometimes look as though they were thinking of giving me a commission to draw up plans for new law courts." at one of the open windows the two ladies were standing, watching over many heads the high tea that was being served to the impatient animals. the younger one happened to turn as gertie and her friends went by; she raised her eyebrows. "everybody one knows appears to be here," said henry douglass. "i wish you had agreed instead to run out with me from baker street station into the country." "can't do that yet," she answered definitely. "not until we know each other a great deal better." "your rules of conduct are precise." "you'll like me all the better later on," said gertie, "because of that. always supposing," she continued, "that you do go on liking me." "so far as i can gather," he remarked good-temperedly, "i am _persona grata_ now at praed street." "i don't know what that means," she said; "but aunt has quite taken to you. just look at this! isn't it extr'ordinary?--clarence," she called over her shoulder to her cousin, "here is most likely where you saw the name this afternoon." she examined the inscription framed on the bars. "presented to the society by sir mark douglass." "no," said clarence mills. "that wasn't it. my sluggish memory will arouse presently, and then i shall be able to exhibit signs of intelligence." they were looking down from the terrace at the white bear in his pit, when a high voice came above the moderate tones of the crowd; henry took gertie's arm, and began to talk rapidly of nansen and the north pole, but this did not prevent her from glancing over her shoulder. the people gave way to the owner of the insistent voice, and she, after inspection through pince-nez, made bitter complaint of the clumsiness of the bear, his murky appearance, the serious consequences of indiscriminate feeding. henry endeavoured to detach the members of his party, but they appeared enthralled by the commanding tones. "i thought we should meet again," said the younger woman, addressing henry. "miss loriner," he said to gertie, with signs of reluctance. "a friend of my sister-in-law." "i am lady douglass's companion," remarked miss loriner. "she seems ratty about something," said gertie. "she has what they call the critical faculty," mentioned the other, with a twinkle of the eye. "i happen to be aware of the fact." lady douglass was looking around with the air of one searching for fresh subjects; henry led gertie to her, and made the introductions. lady douglass expressed the view that the gardens were horribly tiring, regretted her ill-luck in visiting on a crowded afternoon. "but no misfortune," she added wearily, "seems to escape me!" it was not until they descended the steps that the group had an opportunity for forming itself. miss loriner, recognizing the girl's perturbation of mind, took her ahead, thus foiling the intentions of lady douglass; they could hear her talking of literature to clarence mills in a patronizing way. gertie's cousin said resolutely, "but george meredith never wrote a poem with that title. you are thinking of owen meredith." lady douglass answered, with pride, that she never troubled to remember the names of authors. "clarence is standing up to her," remarked gertie. "she gets so little contradiction," said miss loriner, "that it will have all the charm of novelty. i daren't do it, of course." "you're thinking of your bread and butter." "that's about all i should have to eat if i lost this berth." "wouldn't care for the job myself." "i can't do anything else," explained miss loriner. "did you say your cousin was a journalist? i wish i could do something like that. i want to write a novel, badly." "that's probably how you would write it. why, even clarence is finding some trouble over the job. and he's got a brain." "i suppose that is an advantage," admitted the other serenely. "how long have you known mr. douglass?" "her husband must get precious tired of the sound of her voice." "he does. he goes away a good deal. the war in south africa was a godsend to him. just now he is out somewhere--i forget where. how long have you--" "any youngsters?" "there are no children." gertie glanced back at lady douglass in a more friendly way. clarence had been dropped owing, apparently, to want of sympathy, and trew was selected as one more likely to agree with arguments. "mr. douglass's mother is in town," mentioned miss loriner, "but she is resting this afternoon." "i wasn't aware he had a mother." "oh!" with illumination. "then you haven't known him long. they are very fond of each other. she is a dear soul. when matters go wrong down at ewelme, it is old mrs. douglass who puts everything right." they were separated by a child who had been startled by a look from an amiable dromedary. henry came forward. "i am going to ask my sister-in-law," he said deliberately, "to invite you down to morden place. thank her, won't you?" "i'll thank her," replied gertie, "but i shan't accept the invitation." "i'd see that she was civil to you." "and i shall see," said the girl obstinately, "that she doesn't get many chances of being anything else. i'd no idea you had swell relatives; otherwise i'd never have gone on with it." he went back disappointedly, and mr. trew, making his escape with every sign of relief, told gertie that, with what he might term a vast and considerable experience of womankind (including one specimen who, in may of ' , gave him advice on the task of driving horses through london streets), this particular one was, he declared, the limit. he described himself as feeling bruised, black and blue, all over. without wishing to interfere in matters which did not concern him, he ventured to suggest that gertie might possibly be fortunate in her young man, but she could scarcely claim to be called lucky in her young man's relations. "i'm going to chuck it," she replied desperately. "chuck it altogether. you were correct in what you said, that sunday night, about distances, and i was wrong." mr. trew, flustered by this instant agreement, began to hedge. he did not pretend, he said, to be always right; he could recollect many occasions when he had been considerably wide of the mark. in fact, a bigger blunderhead, excepting in regard to certain matters, of which this was not one, probably did not exist. trew begged to point out that the middle-aged party walking along behind them was, after all, only one middle-aged party, and there was no reason to assume that she could knock out every opponent she encountered. at the finish of his argument, trew urged his young companion to put on the gloves, and show what she could do. "think i had better not," she said, less definitely. "i shan't like feeling myself beaten, but it's wiser to do that now than to leave it till later." mr. trew became reproachful, almost sarcastic. this, then, was the stuff that his little friend, niece of his old friend, was made of, was it? crumpling up at the first signs of opposition; stepping out of the ring directly her opponent held up fists! if gertie represented the young woman of to-day, give mr. trew the young woman of thirty years ago. he had changed his mind recently on an important subject--a thing he rarely did--and half decided to extend the power of voting to the other sex, but the present case induced him to believe first thoughts were best. "i'll have another go then," announced gertie higham; "but i don't guarantee i shall win." "if i hadn't rather a lot of money out just now," he declared encouragingly, "i'd put every penny of it on you." they stopped near to the semicircular cage where the condors, in evening dress and white boa around the neck, surveyed the garden with the aloof manner of the higher aristocracy. gertie waited for an advance; this did not come. miss loriner, at the command of lady douglass, furnished the hour, and a scream of dismay was given, followed by the issuing of orders. henry must conduct them out of this dreadful park; henry must find a hansom with a reliable horse, and a driver of good reputation. also henry must come on to see his mother, and take her on to a tea appointment at cadogan gardens, thus saving trouble to lady douglass, who was really so fagged and wearied by this exhausting afternoon that rest, in a partially darkened room, was nothing short of imperative. "yes," said gertie, answering henry's questioning look; "you go!" lady douglass remembered to give a word of farewell when she was a distance of about ten yards away. "so pleased to have met you!" she said casually. henry, near the gates, turned and waved his hand, and gertie responded cheerfully. "now i want to scream!" she said. clarence mills declared his intention of providing tea, and trew admitted a cup or so would not be likely to prove injurious to the system; might, indeed, have a soothing effect on the mind. they found an enamelled table on the lawn, and directly gertie took the handle of the teapot she was able to announce that she felt considerably improved in temper. her cousin gave an imitation of lady douglass's speech and manner, and gertie imitated the imitation. mr. trew had a difficulty in deciding which was the more admirable, but asserted either was to be preferred to the original, and during the progress of the shilling meal they affected to be distinguished members of society, to the great astonishment of folk at neighbouring tables, and to the diversion of an interested waiter. completely restored now to her normal mood, gertie mentioned a number of alert repartees which she would have made if henry's sister-in-law had given suitable openings. "i suppose," remarked mr. trew, emptying his cup by giving it a jerk over his shoulder, "that, after all, she isn't nearly so bad as she's painted. she certainly did look to me somewhat made-up; it's a custom amongst her set, i believe. often wonder whether it takes anybody in." "he said she was going to invite me to her house in the country, but she didn't. wouldn't mind meeting henry's mother, just once, to find out what she is like." "it was something on the tape," mentioned her cousin, again endeavouring to arouse memory. "that was where i saw the name. if you two care to come along to my club, i'll run in, and make sure." "we can get a waterloo omnibus from the york and albany corner," said mr. trew. he warned them, in ascending the steps, that he was going to have a rare lark with the driver, whose face, it appeared, was new on the road. they took seats in front, and mr. trew, adopting a rustic accent, inquired of the driver whether the canal below represented the river thames; in regard to trinity church, near portland road station, he asked if he was right in assuming this to be st. paul's; at peter robinson's he put another question, and, information given, demanded whether oxford circus was being run by barnum. these and other inquiries were courteously replied to; and when the three alighted near the fountain and trew, looking up, thanked the new driver for his kindness, the driver said, "ta-ta, old true till death," whipping the omnibus on the near side to call the conductor's attention to an approaching customer. mr. trew, depressed by the failure of his elaborate scheme, walked behind the young people, grumbling self-reproachfully. "him recognizing me all along, and calling me by my nickname at the finish!" clarence mills ran up the staircase of his club, and the two walked inside the railings of the square, inspected the bust of shakespeare at the centre. a few people were sitting about. the palatial houses of amusement on the northern and the western side enjoyed their day of rest, but gave hints of startling attractions for the coming week. mr. trew considered shakespeare a well-meaning writer, but somewhat old fashioned in methods, and was surprised to find that gertie had thoroughly enjoyed "the tempest" at his majesty's. "was you alone?" "no. mr. douglass took me." "that accounts for it," he said knowingly. clarence mills came looking for them with anxiety. the two hurried forward and met him at the gate; his forehead remained contracted. "her husband's yacht," he announced, "has been seized by natives. all on board put to death." they gazed at each other. "so that turns her," remarked trew slowly, "into a widow woman. there's no family, as i understand; consequently, it makes a bit of diff'rence to gertie's young man." the girl sighed. "i'm sorry for her," she said. "very sorry indeed. and it means that my path won't be none the easier!" chapter iv. madame hilbert and the forewoman in great titchfield street consulted each other only when crises occurred; the girls knew that if madame came to the doorway, saying, "miss rabbit, just half a second, please," and the forewoman was absent for half an hour, then some matter of supreme importance was being discussed. the establishment was in close touch with the military service at home and abroad, and the best stroke good fortune could make in favour of hilbert's was to arrange a stately ceremonial in india, some alteration in the dress of officers, or anything that made uniforms necessary. the girls' workroom, even at ordinary times, presented an aspect of enormous wealth, with everywhere a display of gold--loose threads of it on the tables, collected threads being sewn on foundations, epaulettes in course of making, heavy dependent nuggets hung upon scarves. gold floated in the air, and when the sun came through the windows it all looked as though one could play the conjurer, and perform the enchanting trick of making a dash with the hand and secure sovereigns. many of the girls wore glasses because continued attention to the glistening colours affected the eyes; sometimes a worker became pale of features, anaemic and depressed, and had to hurry off to the sea-side, and miss rabbit referred to this as an act of providence. for the most part, the girls were healthy and cheerful, and they had the encouragement of good wages. miss rabbit, it was reported, took home every saturday two pounds ten shillings; the very youngest assistant made twelve shillings a week. "i do hope," said madame, at a special private conference, "it doesn't mean she's taking up religion." the forewoman shook her head. "i've known cases in my time where it's come on suddenly, and it's thrown a girl clean off her balance. if it isn't religion it must be love. love has just about the same effect with some of us. have you ever been gone on any one, miss rabbit?" "only to a very moderate extent," replied the forewoman precisely. "and it's such a long while ago, madame, that i've nearly forgot all about it." "i don't like to see one of my girls turn like this all at once," said madame with anxiety. "moreover, she's the handy one in the business. there's nothing she doesn't know about the work, and little she can't do. if anything happened to you, i've always had the idea of putting her in your position." miss rabbit's features twitched; she corrected the slip at once by assuming a look of cordial agreement. "you always know the right thing to do, madame," she murmured reverently. "how'd it be to call her in, and both of us have a talk to her, and find out whether she's got anything on her mind?" "that's a splendid notion," admitted miss rabbit with enthusiasm. "or shall i have a quiet chat with her first, and pave the way, so to speak?" "i wish you would," said madame. "you're not particularly clever, but i believe you've got a kind heart." the forewoman that evening, whilst the girls were washing and sharing the brush and comb, and complaining that hair came out by the handful, entered the office; announcing the occasion as her birthday, she asked miss higham to leave books, and assist in celebrating the event by taking with her a cup of chocolate. gertie wanted to reach home early in order to see whether an expected letter had arrived, but the invitation suggested a rare compliment, and, with a stipulation arranging that the hospitality should not exceed the space of twenty minutes, she accepted. in an a.b.c. shop at the corner, later, gertie raised her large cup and wished miss rabbit many happy returns. her eyes wandered rather eagerly about the crowded tables; the inspection over, she sighed. "wonder if i can trust you, dear," said miss rabbit, resting elbows. "i've been so often taken in over friendships with people that i suppose i'm more cautious than most. but there's a look about you--perhaps, though, i'd better keep on the safe side." "i'm not one to chatter." "i know, i know. that's why i've always took to you specially." again miss rabbit stopped. she stirred her cup of chocolate slowly. "if it's good news," advised gertie, "tell me. i can do with some just now. if it's not, keep it to yourself." "it's rather serious news, and that's why i think you ought to be told. first of all, you must promise me, on your soul and honour, not to breathe a word of it to anybody. above all, not to madame." "i promise," she said. "very well then"--with a satisfied air--"it's like this." she leaned across the marble table. "our show is going to burst up." the dramatic announcement over, and the appropriate ejaculation, the correct look of amazement and despair given. miss rabbit warmed to her task, and became voluble; at each new paragraph of her discourse she exacted a fresh guarantee that the information would go no further, that the bond of absolute secrecy should be respected. once, she felt it necessary to say that if the other communicated a single word of the confidences to any third party, she, miss rabbit, would feel it her duty to haunt miss higham to the last hour of her life. put briefly, the news came to this. that madame was in financial difficulties; that her name and address might be found in the bankruptcy list any coming wednesday or saturday; that no one was likely to be stupid enough to take over the business; that the members of the staff, men and girls, would find themselves turned out into a cold, hard world. the drawback of being connected with a business of a special nature like theirs was that there existed but few of a similar nature, and these were already fully supplied with assistants. miss rabbit herself intended to look out for another berth ere the market became swamped by many applications; with piety, she called attention to a well-known text which said, "go thou and do likewise." outside the a.b.c. shop, miss rabbit, in extorting thanks for her generous behaviour, demanded, once more, a promise. "say it after me," she ordered. "'i will never utter a single syllable of all this to a solitary living soul.'" her instructions complied with, she remarked that a great load was now taken from her mind, and asked gertie for advice on the point whether to go home by omnibus or tube railway. the girl arrived at praed street after a brisk walk that was intended to detach the mind from disturbing incident. in the broad thoroughfare of portland place (which looked as though it started with the idea of being a long, important roadway to the north, and became suddenly reminded, to its great astonishment, that regent's park barred the way) she had glanced up at the large houses, and wished she lived in one; in that case she would receive henry douglass, at the end of the silence that had come since the last meeting, and after listening to him, reject his advances haughtily. that was the phrase. reject his advances haughtily. she had read it more than once in the literature which attracted her in the days before henry. since she had known him, a course of reading, adopted at his suggestion, took her away from the more flowery and romantic pages, but in the old serial stories the folk had nothing to do but to make love to each other, with intervals for meals and rest; they were not restricted to evening hours; the whole day was at their service. and certainly the ladies never found themselves burdened with the anxiety of losing a weekly wage, in great titchfield street, and the prospect of difficulty in finding one to replace it. "i'm home, aunt," she announced, entering the shop. "so i see," remarked mrs. mills. two customers were being served at the newspaper counter, and two were waiting on the tobacco side. gertie attended to the orders for cigarettes; the shop cleared. "is there a letter for me?" she asked. mrs. mills shook her head curtly. "has--has any one called?" "now, let me think." her aunt deliberated carefully in the manner of a conscientious witness impressed by the taking of the oath. "yes, miss radford looked in and went again. left word that she wanted you to go with her for an outing next saturday afternoon. said she wanted a breath of fresh air. mr. trew is inside--and that reminds me, i've got something to say to him. wait here, like a dear, and look after the shop." mrs. mills closed the door carefully behind her as she went into the parlour. "so, mr. trew, i packed him off about his business," she said, obviously continuing a half-finished recital. "i said, 'she asked me to tell you that she thought it better for both parties that you and her shouldn't see each other again.' don't blame me, do you?" mr. trew rubbed his chin with the knuckle of a finger and remarked that, by rights, he ought to have a shave. "i stopped his two letters when they came," went on mrs. mills. "many a woman in my position would have been curious enough to open them; i didn't. i simply put them in a drawer where they can be found when the trouble's all over. no one can blame me for that, surely." mr. trew mentioned that it was a rummy world, and the methods adopted by the people living in it did not make it the less rummy. "i see what you mean," she said aggrievedly. "you think i've gone too far. but you yourself admitted at the start, when she was meeting that other young gentleman, that high and low never mixed well. and when i heard that this one was likely to come into property, i made up my mind to take the bull by the horns. what's that you say? speak out, if you've got anything in your head." "when you take the bull by the horns," said trew, advancing to the white hearthrug, "what happens is a toss up. i can't tell you yet whether you've done right or whether you've done wrong; but if you put the question to me a 'underd years hence, i shall be able to answer you. what's pretty clear to me is that you're fond of her, and i'm fond of her, and all we want is to see her comfor'ble and happy. whether you're taking the right track to gain that object is more than i can say. personally, i shouldn't care to go so far as you've gone." "that's because you're a coward." "delight of my juvenile heart," said mr. trew, "it's quite likely you've hit on precisely the right explanation. only thing is, it seems to me somewhat rough on the little missy." miss radford was studying the arrival of trains list at paddington in order to ascertain from which platform the . p.m. started; she had assumed the slightly demented appearance that so many take when they enter a railway station. turning from the poster distractedly, she clutched at the arm of a sailor, and was putting to him agitated inquiries concerning the great western service when gertie higham interposed, and released the naval man from a duty for which he was not adequately equipped. firmly and resolutely she conducted miss radford to the correct platform, where they found seats in a compartment; and miss radford in vain tried to remember whether it was that sitting facing the engine or sitting with her back to the engine gave her a headache. gertie had obtained the tickets, and miss radford wanted hers; gertie retained possession. on the question of finance, she said a settlement could be arranged when the outing was over. other passengers entered, including two lads, who set at once on the work of studying scientific books; miss radford, changing her manner, dropped her parasol as the train started, and one of the youths picked it up, without disengaging his attention from the volume, and handed it to her. "thanks awfully," she said, in refined and slightly languid tones; "i am such a clumsy creature"--partly addressing her friend, but mainly speaking to the entire compartment. "really, i seem quite lost without my maid to look after me." "you managed to get away from the shop in good time," remarked gertie. "what an irritating girl you are, to be sure!" whispered miss radford aggrievedly. "no help at all when i'm trying to make a good impression. wish now i hadn't asked you to come along with me; i only did it because i couldn't get any one else. what's become of that young swell i saw you with on primrose hill?" "i really don't know." miss radford spoke complacently of her intense love of the country and keen anticipation of the joy to be found at burnham beeches, and when the train stopped at slough the compartment mentioned to her that this was where she ought to alight. gertie, interposing, said that they were, in reality, going further. on miss radford asking, in astonished tones, "whatever for?" she received information that the desire was to get well away from the crowd. the two, changing at a junction, found a small train on another platform that had but a single line; miss radford took the precaution of inquiring of the engine-driver whether he considered it safe. the two lads crossed the bridge, and, to her intense annoyance, entered a smoking-compartment. "i daresay, perhaps"--recovering from this blow--"that we shall manage to run across some others before the day's out." "hope not." "well, upon my word," declared the astonished miss radford, "you grow more and more peculiar every day!" they discovered themselves, immediately after leaving the station yard, in an old-fashioned town with large houses close to the brick pavement; cyclists raced along the narrow roadway, and folk carried baskets in the direction of the river. gertie stopped to put an inquiry to a policeman, and declined to satisfy her companion's curiosity either in regard to the question or to the answer. turning to the right, they came to a market-place and a town hall, and, amongst the small shops, one that they noted as a suitable place for tea. the sun was warm, and folk were shopping with suitable deliberation; dogcarts stood outside the principal establishments, motor cars brought up new supplies of clients. gertie appeared greatly interested in the occupants of these conveyances; some of the ladies were so well protected from dust that identification would not have been easy. miss radford mentioned that she had not seen so many funny figures about since the fifth of november of the previous year. "where are we off to now?" she demanded. "a good long walk." "not me!" replied miss radford with determination. "i've got new shoes on. you leave me somewhere with a magazine to read, and go off on your own, and come back when you're tired." "you won't be lonely?" "i can always find a pleasure," said gertie's friend haughtily, "in my own company." the riverside, miss radford decided, was a suitable spot for rest; she could sit there and, in the intervals of application to literature of the day, watch young men hiring boats and setting out to shillingford or cholsey. so gertie higham started out across the bridge and walked alone through a village where every shop sold everything, where the police station was a homely, comfortable cottage, and children played on wide grass borders of the road. at the cross-roads she went to the left; an avenue of trees gave a shade that was welcome. the colour came to her face as she strode along briskly, and this was not entirely due to hurry or to the rays of the afternoon sun. once or twice she almost stopped, as though considering the advisability of returning. an ivy-covered house stood at the side of iron gates, and gertie watched it as she approached. an elderly man was clipping hedges; he arrested his work, with an evident hope that conversation would occur. "no, young 'ooman," he said, "that ent where her ladyship lives. that's only the gate lodge what you're looking at. a good ha'f-mile 'fore you come the house itself. do you know her, may i inquire?" "we've met in london." "well"--slowly, and making the most of the opportunity--"she ent pleased to see many of her visitors, if all i hear is true; but no doubt she'd be gratified to see you. i'm only a new-comer hereabouts, so to speak, but--" he shook his head thoughtfully, and, taking off his hat, readjusted the cabbage leaf that lined it. "i don't blame sir mark for going off and getting killed. after all, it ent as though she were left chargeable to the parish, as you may say." "she is quite well to do, i suppose?" "plenty of money about, as me and you would rackon it. i understand she complains of not having enough--but there, some people are never satisfied. going to give a party next week," he added confidentially. "not a great turn-out, because they're all in black, so to speak. so fur as i can gain from the local newspaper--" "you say it's half a mile up to the house?" "you can't very well miss it if you foller your nose," said the old man, hurt by the interruption. through the iron gates gertie saw two figures coming around the curve of the gravelled carriage-way; she took ambush hurriedly near to an oak tree. henry's voice could be heard, with an occasional remark from miss loriner. "and if i promise to worship you all my life," henry was saying, "will you then give me my heart's desire?" his companion did not reply; he repeated the last words. "you must first," she said, "make a name in the world, and show yourself worthy of a woman's love." they turned as they reached the gates, and when henry next spoke his remarks did not reach the girl near the oak tree. "and haven't you been a time!" complained miss radford. "over a hower altogether, according to my watch. and i'm simply dying for a cup of tea. there's only been one young gentleman who waved his hand to me; i was so cross that i didn't wave back. whatever are you dodging up to now?" "i'm going to hire a boat," said gertie, "and take you out on the river." "you can't row." "some one learnt me--taught me on the lake in regent's park." miss radford declared, on the journey home, that she envied her friend's good spirits; in her own case, she always found that if she became more than ordinarily cheerful she inevitably paid for it by subsequent depression. gertie recommended her to adopt the method of not magnifying grievances; if you wanted to view trouble, you could take opera-glasses, but you should be careful to hold them the wrong way round. the studious youths entered the compartment at goring, their books now put away in pockets, and similarly cheered by exercise; one, seated opposite gertie, touched her foot with his shoe at pangbourne, and she took no notice. when he did this again at tilehurst, she came down heavily upon his toes, and gave, for her clumsiness, an apologetic word that he accepted sulkily. near to paddington, miss radford mentioned that, in her opinion, men were most frightfully stupid, and to her surprise gertie agreed. gertie higham relieved her aunt from duty in the shop, and a letter brought by the postman at nine o'clock was handed over the counter to her direct; the official recommended her to accept the offer, and put the young gentleman out of his misery. the communication was written in a large hand, about twelve words to a page, and liberally underlined. printed in the corner were a telegraphic address, a telephone number, directions concerning nearest railway station. for heading, morden place, ewelme. "dear miss higham,--we shall be so glad if you can pay us a visit on friday next and stay over for the week-end. _dear_ henry is _particularly_ anxious that you should be here on _saturday evening_. "what a _wonderful_ summer we are having!!!--yours _sincerely_, "myra douglass." the girl found a sheet of the best notepaper on the shelves, and wrote at once. "dear lady douglass,--i shall not be able to come to you next friday. i am rather busy. "it is indeed a capital summer. i am enjoying it.--yours sincerely, "gertrude higham." chapter v. an easy matter to obtain a full list of other manufacturers in the same line of business, and when madame entrusted her with important errands,-- "i'm sending you, my dear, because i know i can rely upon you!" --then advantage was taken of the opportunity to skip up a staircase and, opening a door that had the word "inquiries" painted upon it, set upon the task of routing the defence, to obtain an interview with some responsible individual. usually the answer was that no vacancy existed, but this did not prevent a brief cross-examination. why was she leaving great titchfield street, and was it because there did not exist a sufficient amount of work, and had hilbert's secured any important contracts lately, and had the firm any special work in view? to which questions miss higham replied with caution and reserve, so that frequently the responsible individual came out of his office, walking with her down the stairs in the endeavour to obtain useful information. as a rule, the discussion ended with a command that she should look in again when it chanced she was passing by. at great titchfield street, when miss rabbit and gertie happened to be, for the moment, alone, the forewoman begged her in a low, confidential whisper not to put off till to-morrow anything she could do to-day, adding that procrastination was the thief of time. "the fact is," said miss rabbit, with a burst of private candour, "i don't care what happens so long as you are safe. very strange, isn't it, dear?" it seemed to the perplexed girl, at this period, that life was made up of incidents which could not be spoken about freely. there was no one with whom she could share the knowledge acquired at wallingford; that had to be endured alone. at praed street she found her aunt gazing at her curiously, sometimes beginning a sentence, and stopping, as one fearful of trespassing on prohibited ground. when mr. trew called, he and mrs. mills conferred in undertones, breaking off when the girl came near, and speaking, in an unconvincing way, of an interesting murder in south london; trew thought the police could find the missing man if they only went the right way about it. great titchfield street, from eight o'clock in the morning till nearly eight at night, appeared to be enveloped in a dense fog, with madame showing none of the distraction of mind natural to one on the edge of a financial crisis, and bunny conveying friendliness by nods and furtive winks; the girls, as always, chattered freely of their small romances, not concealing their derisive attitude towards young men, excepting as means of escort and paymasters where sweets and tram-tickets were involved; any slackening of attention in these details, and dark hints were given of an intention of giving the sack. listening, gertie came to the conclusion that her own case was unique, in that she had allowed henry douglass to assume the position of autocrat. one of the men who worked the netting machine spoke to her exultantly of wisdom in managing his wife; the method adopted was, it seemed, to contradict every blessed thing she said. on the top of all this comes frederick bulpert, encountered near queen's hall one evening at five minutes to eight, trying to make up his mind whether to spend a shilling on a promenade concert or to disburse the money on a steak--bulpert very glad to meet gertie, because he has something to say to her that he cannot speak of to any one else; something which must be regarded (says frederick) as strictly _entre nous_. a spot of rain, and the stout young man says with a reckless air, "oh, come on in!" and gertie agrees to accompany him, with two provisions: first, that she shall be allowed to pay for herself; second (because aunt has a new trick of requiring every minute between great titchfield street and praed street to be accounted for), that frederick will see her home later to the shop. gertie thinks a dose of music will do her as much good as anything. "i don't claim," he admits, "to have an over and above savage breast, but i must confess it soothes me at times." they are in time to take up position near the fountain in the centre of the promenade, to join in the welcome given to the leading men of the orchestra, to swell the applause offered to the conductor, to sing--this being the opening night--the national anthem. frederick takes what he calls seconds; neighbours misunderstand it for an expression of disloyalty. then the programme starts. frederick bulpert, new silk hat at back of head, and arms folded, listens to the "william tell" overture, handel's "largo," and the suite from "peer gynt" with the frown of a man not to be taken in and unwilling to be influenced by the approbation exhibited by people round him. a song follows, and he remarks to gertie that a recitation would be more in keeping with the style of the entertainment. a violin solo with a melody that cries softly about love, the love of two people, with anxieties at first, at the end perfect triumph. "we'll have a stroll out in the corridor," commands bulpert. "that last piece has made me feel somewhat _décolleté_." they gain the outer circle when gertie has persuaded him to give to her the task of leading through the crowd; her smile obtains a free way that his truculent methods fail to obtain. "i'm going to give up the post office," he announces impressively, "and i'm going in for the stage." "if you can make money at it, there's no reason why you shouldn't." bulpert shows disappointment at the form of this agreement. "i've come to the conclusion," he goes on, "that i'm not acting fairly towards the world in concentrating my abilities on the serving out of stamps and the issuing of postal orders. besides which, i get no time for study. evening before last, at the finsbury town hall, i came as near to finding my memory fail as ever i've been. i'm burning the candle at both ends." "hope you'll have good luck." "i shall deserve to have it," he concedes. "i sometimes stand at the side of the platform, and i see other parties trying in the same line, and i have to admit to myself that i do put something into my renditions of our poets and humorists that they fail to convey. furthermore--" "i don't want to miss the henry the eighth dances." "mention of him leads up to what i want to see you about. if i go on the stage--and to tell you the truth, i haven't completely made up my mind as yet--i shall want a certain amount of comfort at home. a professional man can't be bothered about domestic affairs. he has to keep his mind on his work." "where does henry the eighth come in?" bulpert takes her arm. "i had an idea of asking you, gertie, to marry me." a pause of nearly half a minute. "do you mind if i think it over before giving a definite answer?" "i'm agreeable to that," he says, "providing you don't take too thundering long about it." thus, a new perplexity was added to those that gertie higham already bore upon her shoulders. there existed arguments in favour of accepting bulpert's offer. he belonged to her own set; he was not in a position to comment upon her manner of speech, and there would be the satisfaction of knowing that she was in all respects his equal; in many his superior. bulpert was perhaps a trifle pompous, more than a trifle conceited, but he was steady. if she married him, it would be a distinct score to arrange that it occurred ere henry douglass and miss loriner became united; were gertie to send a small white box containing sugared cake after, the newspapers announced this fashionable wedding, the effect of the gift would be marred. "i want to serve him out," she argued to herself, "for the way he treated me. it's only fair!" mrs. mills was obviously delighted by the visits of bulpert, and her ingenuity in leaving the young people together in the shop parlour proved that she was a mistress in the art of strategy. bulpert excused himself to gertie for omitting to invite her to the play, or for other outings, on the grounds that he was saving money; but he sometimes took her along to paddington station to see the night expresses start, and twice they went together to a large open place of entertainment in edgware road where you could, by dropping a penny in the slot, inspect a series of pictures that proved less exciting than the exhibited title; at the same expense you heard miss milly manton's latest song, and george limpsey's celebrated triumph in, "i wish i didn't talk so much to clara!" on the evening of a day when gertie had called upon the last firm of the list, she told bulpert, as they met near marble arch, that if he cared to ask her now to be his wife she would accept him. "right you are," he said. "then we'll consider the matter as practically settled." they found mr. trew outside the shop when they returned; seeing them, he assumed the attitude of a figure taking snuff, and gertie knew from this he was in good spirits. mrs. mills made the announcement that supper was waiting--a special meal because royalty had gone by that day to take train for windsor--and mr. trew suggested bulpert should have first cut at the food, the while he and the little missy strolled up and down to enjoy the evening air. "i was bound to come along and see you," he said. "when i got the news i nearly fell off my seat. should have done, only that i was strapped in. you remember miss--what-was-her-name--we met at the zoo that sunday afternoon." "miss loriner." mr. trew stopped to make his announcement in a dramatic form. "she's going to get spliced." "so i guessed," remarked gertie. "but can you guess who to?" "i think i can." "oh," he said regretfully. "of course, if i'm not the first in the field with the news, there's an end of it. i sh'd say they'd be a very comfortable, 'appy, get-on-well-together couple, once they settle down." she made a remark in a trembling voice. "of course you hope they will," he echoed heartily. "you and him have always got along well together. as i said, he hasn't took much time about it. finished his book, he tells me." "mr. trew, who are you talking about?" "why, your cousin clarence, of course. i know it's correct because i got the information straight from the stable. and he would have called round to tell you, only he was busy. said he wanted to see you soon, because he'd got a message. i won't be certain; there was a lot of traffic about, but i rather fancy it was something in the nature of a pressing invite." chapter vi. the days that followed were racing days for gertie. at great titchfield street a special order came in, and madame held a kind of rehearsal, that the girls might know exactly what to do if the inspector called. the inspector represented the state, which, in the opinion of madame and miss rabbit and all the assistants, male and female, was an interfering busybody hampering industry, and preventing honest workers from earning useful pay for unlimited overtime. to great titchfield street, by day, came private letters by express messenger for gertie, and more than one telegram; she generally found a communication awaiting her on the return home to praed street. miss rabbit accepted the statement that these came from gertie's cousin, referring to nothing more romantic than a visit to the country; in private conversation with senior girls in the workroom, she said, rather bitterly, that miss higham surely took her for a born idiot. clarence proved himself alert and quick witted in retort, with an answer ready for every objection. when gertie, as a final argument, put forward the matter of evening dress, he took her straightway to a celebrated firm (one-half of the lady passengers in public conveyances along the route gave, as their instruction and appeal to conductors, "set me down as near as you can to brown and hodgkinson's!"), and there was purchased a blouse of white lace--costing so much that gertie, on hearing the amount, had to clutch at one of the high chairs; and as clarence paid readily with gold, the polite young woman on the other side of the counter assured him it was well worth the money. gertie, at another establishment, bought a pair of slippers, saying to herself that they would come in handy, even though she did not go to ewelme. reluctance to accept the invitation conveyed through clarence was supported at praed street by her aunt, who declared the girl would be like a fish out of water; that she would wish herself home again before she had been there the space of two minutes. but for mrs. mills's over-earnest counsel it is likely gertie might have kept her threat (or promise) to back out at the last moment. on the friday night, mrs. mills mentioned that the douglass people were probably only asking gertie in order to enjoy a laugh at her expense. the following morning, to her aunt's astonishment and open dismay, gertie took a carefully-packed portmanteau along to the cloakroom at paddington station. in the afternoon she found herself, for the first time in her life, seated in a second-class carriage. "afraid you've had rather a rush," said her cousin. "it isn't only that," she admitted, breathlessly. "i'm excited about this visit." "not more so than i am. all the same, i feel very much indebted to you, gertie, for coming with me. the letter was worded in a way that meant i was to bring you, or not go at all. you see mary--miss loriner--is only a companion at morden place. she couldn't have asked me on her own responsibility." the girl closed her eyes and snuggled back in the corner. if henry exhibited any special sign of affection, she would have to draw herself up to her full height and say, "mr. douglass, you're evidently not aware that you are speaking to an engaged lady." if he went so far as to propose marriage, the situation would be still more dramatic. "mr. douglass, you appear to have left it too late. i am already pledged to another!" there were alternative remarks prepared, and she felt certain that any one of them would be telling and effective. clearly, he wanted to see her; otherwise so much trouble would not have been expended over the present visit; it was her business to make him see that a london girl was not to be taken up and dropped, and taken up again. "manners," she said resolutely, opening her eyes, and addressing a barge on the canal, "manners. that's what some people have got to be taught!" the short train brought them slowly to the one platform of the station, and before she realized it, henry douglass was holding both of her hands, and looking down at her affectionately. he turned to give a welcome to her cousin, and gertie told herself there was no necessity, for the present, to be dignified or reserved; that could come later. outside the station, miss loriner was talking to a horse that seemed impatient to make its way in the direction of home; she and clarence took seats at the back of the dogcart with a light rug spread over knees; they made no complaint of overcrowding. "can you really drive?" inquired gertie with anxiety. "you never used to speak about it when mr. trew was talking." "life," answered henry douglass, "is too short to allow one to brag about everything. i do the best i can." they took the corner and went at a good pace through the town. "by jove," he went on, enthusiastically, "you have no idea how i've missed you." the first of the selected reproofs would have come in here appropriately, but a motor car was coming in the opposite direction with, as it seemed to her, the definite intention of running into their conveyance; she grabbed nervously at henry's arm. when she looked again the car had gone, leaving dust as a slight memento of the encounter. "don't take it away!" he begged. here again either of the sentences might have been delivered; gertie decided it would be sufficient to refrain from acceding to his request. henry saluted with his whip folk who passed by, and told her who they were; stopped at one shop to take a parcel of wools intended for his mother. he had talked about gertie to his mother, and she was anxious to meet miss higham. "she'll be still more anxious to see me go away." "you wouldn't say that," he asserted, "if you knew her." "it's really lady douglass i'm afraid of. look at that board, 'trespassers will be prosecuted.' i feel it's meant for me." "trespassers," he said, "as a matter of fact, cannot be prosecuted. the board is all nonsense. trespassers can only be prosecuted when they do some sort of damage." she glanced around to watch a baby in the garden of a cottage; clarence mills and miss loriner were kissing. gertie did not speak again until they reached the iron gates. "i want to show you the tennis court," he said. "the man here can drive your cousin and miss loriner up to the house." she hesitated as he, stepping down, held out his hand. "my mother is waiting there!" they found the grey-haired old lady resting on a low white enamelled seat, watching a game of singles between two stout men, who had the distressed look of those who play for the sake of health and figure. the ruddier of the two was pointed out as mr. jim langham, brother to lady douglass; the other, a barrister with leanings in the direction of political work, and a present desire to be amiable towards everybody in the neighbourhood who possessed a vote. "now, you are to sit down here, miss higham," said the old lady, "and talk to me. i may interrupt you, now and again, but you mustn't mind that. one of the few privileges of age." "i don't know what to talk about." "talk about yourself. i've heard about you from henry, but i want to verify the information. you work for your living, don't you? well now, that is interesting. i did the same before i was married. i married rather well, and then, of course, there was no necessity for me to go on with it." "when my dear mother says she wants you to talk to her," explained henry, "what she really means is that she wishes to talk to you. if you don't mind, i'll go over and teach these men how to play tennis." jim langham came across directly that the game was finished, interrupting the two as they were getting on good terms with each other; on the way, he shouted an order to a gardener working near. he was effusive over the introduction to gertie, showing his perfect teeth, and expressing the hope that she would not have to leave on monday. the gardener brought a tumbler on a tray, and a syphon. "at this time of the day?" said mrs. douglass, glancing at the contents of the glass. "good whisky," retorted jim langham, taking a small quantity of soda, "makes one feel like another man altogether." "in that case," said the old lady, "by all means have the drink. my dear," to gertie, "give me my stick and we'll walk up to the house and have tea." "i'll come with you," remarked jim langham. "you will stay where you are," ordered mrs. douglass. gertie, at great titchfield street, had invented a house, doubled it, and multiplied it by ten; it came as a surprise to her to find that the residence was a solid building of fair extent with a parapet wall of stone in front, broad steps leading to the open doors. on the lawn tea was being set out by a man-servant; he lighted the wick underneath a silver kettle. lady douglass, in black, made an effective entrance down the steps in the company of a dog that looked like a rat. "how perfectly charming of you to come and see us," she cried, extending a limp hand. "we do so want some one to brighten us up. darling," to old mrs. douglass, "why didn't you tell them to send the bath-chair for you?" "myra," retorted the other, "i walk ten times as much as you do." "pray take care of yourself, for my sake." "i hope to find some better incentive than that," said the old lady. lady douglass approached the task of pouring out tea with the hopeless air of one who scarcely hoped to escape error, and when she had asked for and obtained particulars concerning tastes, clarence mills came, and his presence seemed to upset all the table plans; mrs. douglass arrested her action as she started to pour tea into the sugar basin. the arrival of miss loriner enabled her to resign the position. going across to sit beside gertie, she gave a highly interesting account of the way in which she had by sheer force of will conquered the cigarette habit; at present she consumed but twenty a day, unless, of course, special circumstances provided an excuse. "not for me, thanks," said gertie, shaking her head. "i can't smoke; and if i could, i shouldn't." "tell me!" begged lady douglass; "how is that eccentric old gentleman we met at the zoological gardens?--crew, or brew, or some astonishing name of the kind?" "i don't suppose," answered the girl defensively, "that you really want to know how he is, but mr. trew is quite well, and he isn't in the least eccentric, and he doesn't profess to be a gentleman." henry touched her shoulder with a gesture of appeal; she gave an impatient movement. "but how extremely interesting," cried lady douglass, with something like rapture. "and do most of your friends work for a living?" "all of 'em. i don't care for loafers." "i myself have been up to my eyebrows in industry this week," said the other, self-commiseratingly. "i sometimes wish charity could be abolished altogether. it does entail such an enormous amount of hard labour. one might as well be in wormwood scrubbs." she paused and looked at the girl intently. "by the bye, where is wormwood scrubbs? one often hears of it." "over beyond shepherd's bush." "have you ever been there?" "no," answered gertie; "and i've never been to portland, and i'm not acquainted with dartmoor, and i don't know much about newgate. why do you ask?" "i am hugely interested in prison life," declared the other. "you mustn't be surprised," interposed henry, addressing gertie, "at any new subject that my sister-in-law mentions. i haven't heard her speak of this before; and it's only fair to her to say that when she takes up anything fresh, she drops it long before it has the chance of becoming stale. another cup?" he went to the table. "a strange lad," said lady douglass musingly. "his heart is in the right place, but sometimes i wonder whether it is the right kind of heart. do you mind dining at seven for once in your life. miss higham? it's a ridiculous hour, i know, but we must be at the hall sharp by eight. miss loriner will show you your room when you are ready. i have a thousand and one things to do," she added exhaustedly. when jim langham joined the party and sat on the grass beside miss higham's chair, the girl rose, and miss loriner conducted her into the house; henry regarded them with a cheerful smile as they left. the doors gave entrance to a square hall, with a broad staircase going up and turning suddenly to an open corridor that went around three sides. gertie looked about her astonishedly. "i've never been in a house like this before," she explained. they went up the highly-polished staircase, gertie holding at the banisters for safety. "so mr. henry explained to me; and because he was so very good as to ask your cousin clarence down, we have made a bargain between each other. i am to look after you, if you don't mind, and see that you get through all right." "in a general way," confessed gertie higham, "i can look after myself, but just now it's likely i may be glad of a wrinkle or two." the other nodded. "i have some on my forehead to spare, thanks to lady douglass. this is your room"--throwing open a door--"and mine is here, next door. come along in, and let us have a talk." miss loriner had a good deal to say, mainly in describing her present happiness. clarence was a dear; clarence was a clever dear, clarence had brought a joy into her life that had previously been absent. hitherto miss loriner, living in houses as a companion to some testy and difficult woman, found herself only annoyed by the attentions of men of the jim langham type; it was new and enchanting to be approached courteously. gertie, when the other stopped to regain breath, managed to ask how henry douglass filled his time, and was surprised, and partially hurt, to discover that he still went up to old quebec street on five days of the week. "he might have called at the shop," she argued. miss loriner, for the defence, commended him for his industry. henry would, later, have to face the alternative of either giving up his office in london, or relinquishing duties in the country, but at present he was engaged in a double task; and if gertie appreciated how difficult it proved to deal with lady douglass, she would not utter a word of blame in regard to henry. one of lady douglass's inconvenient tricks was to shift responsibility. as a case in point, take the entertainment to which they were going that evening. lady douglass, having promised to organize it, had done not a single thing in the way of-- "is the place on fire?" asked gertie, startled. "that's the first warning for dinner. you have twenty minutes to dress. be sure to let me know if there is anything you want." gertie left, to return immediately with a concerned expression and the announcement that her portmanteau had been robbed of every blessed thing it contained. miss loriner accompanied her to make investigations, and, switching on the electric light, pointed out that the maid had unpacked the bag--the articles were on the dressing-table, and hanging up in the wardrobe. gertie had only to ring, and the maid would come at once to help her to dress. gertie said she had done this without assistance since the age of three. apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved for weeks. her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as each course arrived; envied the composure with which clarence dealt with such trying dishes as _vol au vent_ and artichokes. her serviette was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and distress increased each time that henry recovered it; generally, at these moments of confusion, lady douglass took the opportunity to send down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to henry for replying on her behalf. henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. jim langham excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought miss higham as a londoner would relish. the anecdote was but half told when miss higham turned abruptly. "that's the right way," said old mrs. douglass to her approvingly. at the door of the town hall carriages and motor cars were setting folk down, and gertie, who had hoped the new blouse would enable her to smile at country costumes, felt depressed by their magnificence. in the front row lady douglass stood up, nodded, gave brief ingratiating smiles, and told people how remarkably well they were looking. gertie, comforted by the near presence of her cousin, glanced over her shoulder, and wished she were with the shilling folk. "care to see the programme, gertie?" "i'll do the same as i do at a music hall," she said, "and take it as it comes. how did you think i managed at dinner, clarence?" "capitally!" "i had a knife and two forks left at the end," she said regretfully. "a recitation," clarence read from his programme. "our friend ought to be here." "who do you mean?" "bulpert. you remember bulpert, don't you?" "i'd nearly forgotten him," she admitted. there was an interval after men had sung and ladies had played, and a nervous youth had given imitations of popular actors who, it seemed, possessed the same tone of voice, and practised identical gestures. the curtain went up on an outdoor scene. a lady was reclining in a hammock. "why, it's miss loriner," whispered gertie. a man in tweeds came on backwards and collided with the hammock. "who's this supposed to be, clarence?" "young douglass. made up with a beard." an apology was made for the accident, and with the rapidity that the drama exacts in matters of the heart, the bearded gentleman was in less than fifteen minutes deeply in love with the lady of the hammock. "and if i promise to worship you all my life, will you then give me my heart's desire?" the lady, with a dexterous movement, came out of her resting-place. "you must first make a name in the world, and, hand upon heart, show yourself worthy of a woman's love!" "what's the matter, gertie?" asked clarence mills. "i've made a--made a fearful muddle of nearly everything." "buck up!" urged clarence. "don't let people see you giving way." the bearded man was leaving when the lady bethought herself to inquire his name; he proved to be none other than mr. francis mainright, the well-known african explorer; and after a few more words the curtain came down on an affianced couple, with applause from all parts of the hall. "easy enough," said gertie, in ceasing to clap hands, "for troubles to be put right on the stage. it's a bit harder in real life." lady douglass accepted congratulations upon the success of her entertainment, and turned at the end, before leaving the hall, to request gertie's attention for a moment. she was extremely anxious that her dear young brother-in-law should not commit an error that might last a lifetime. apparently there was some one up in town who had managed to engage his affections: lady douglass did not know her; miss higham, of course, had not her acquaintance. the young woman, she believed, occupied an inferior position in life, and lady douglass would dearly like to have the opportunity of pointing out that supposing the two married, all the stories of ill-bred wives would be fastened upon mrs. henry douglass. every night, in every billiard-room, in every smoking-room in berkshire, amusing stories, not always true, would be told of her mistakes; dull folk might find themselves reckoned as humorists by inventing anecdotes about her, and the general gaiety would find itself increased. furthermore, there was this to be said. supposing-- "are you ready, dear girl?" asked henry. he came down the steps from the platform, addressing his inquiry to gertie. "quite!" answered lady douglass. "we were just chatting about your performance. miss higham seems to think you should have had more rehearsals. doesn't exactly say so, but that is evidently what she means." chapter vii. there came a pleasant luxury in waking in a large room, with a maid pulling up the blinds, and reporting that the day promised to be grand. the maid could be looked upon as a friend, in that she knew the best and the worst concerning miss higham's clothes, and inquiries were put to her concerning breakfast; the answer came that this meal was ready at half-past eight; you went down at any time you pleased between this and ten o'clock. mr. henry breakfasted early; her ladyship and mr. langham were always the last. a start had to be made for church at twenty past ten. the maid asked whether miss higham would like the bathroom now, and miss higham, not quite certain whether it was good form to say "yes" or "no," replied in the affirmative. as they went along the corridor, gertie heard henry douglass singing in the hall below. the most astonishing detail in this wonderful house proved to be the size of the sponge. she determined to hurry over her dressing and get downstairs quickly in order to talk privately with him, and consequent on this resolve, found herself, later, knocking at miss loriner's room and inquiring whether that young woman was ready to accompany her. after all, there would be time to make the announcement during the day. "have you slept well?" "like a top," declared gertie. "for all the world as though i'd nothing on my mind." "i don't suppose you have many serious murders to brood about." "not exactly murders," she replied. "plenty of blunders." henry rose from the table as she entered; he dropped his open arms on seeing that she was not alone. miss loriner poured out coffee, and henry, at the sideboard, recited the dishes that were being kept warm there. "sausages," decided gertie, "because it's sunday morning!" she smiled, out of sheer content at being thus waited upon, and gave them a description of praed street, where the meal was continually interrupted by purchasers of journals, buyers of half-ounces of shag. she remarked that it would have been possible here to take breakfast out of doors, and henry rang and gave instructions to rutley, the butler, and the next moment, as it seemed, they were at table on the lawn, with sparrows pecking at stray crumbs. henry, asking permission to smoke, lighted a pipe. "i've only seen you with cigarettes before," she remarked. "doesn't the tobacco smell good in the morning air! do you know what i miss most of all? sound of cabs going along to paddington station. i shouldn't care for the country, you know, not for always." she rattled on, jumping, as was her custom when happy, from one subject to another. "it's miraculous to hear you talking again," he declared. "last night we could scarcely get a word out of you." "tell me if i babble too much." "you dear little woman!" he cried protestingly. clarence mills came down, and miss loriner was relieved of the difficult task of keeping her eyes averted. clarence, on the plea that he had some writing to do, wondered whether he might be excused from church, and henry recommended the billiard-room as a quiet place for work; there was a writing-table at the end, and no one would interfere. miss loriner, when clarence had finished his meal, offered to conduct him to the apartment; it was, it seemed, over the stables at the back of the house, and not easy for a stranger to find; moreover, miss loriner felt anxious to see how writing people started their work. thus henry douglass and gertie higham would have been left alone, but that jim langham, exercising his gift of interference, appeared, rather puffed about the eyes, and one or two indications hinting that the task of shaving had not been without accident. jim langham's temper in the early hours seemed to be imperfect; he made only a pretence of eating, crumbling toast and chipping the top of an egg; he admitted he never felt thoroughly in form until after lunch. when henry suggested that gertie would like to see the grounds, jim langham followed them, pointing out the rose walk, and the summer-house (that was like a large beehive) with an air of proprietorship which henry did not assume. henry made an inquiry. "i'm really chapel, if i'm anything," she answered; "but i shall like to go. especially if you're to be there. it'll be the first time we've ever been in a place of worship together." "we shall go together again," he said, "some day." she shook her head quickly. lady douglass had breakfasted in her room, and came when they were ready and waiting; she complained severely that she seemed to be always the first when any expedition was in train. they walked around the carriage drive and across fields; at the porch, lady douglass offered to gertie the hospitable inquiry in regard to the night's rest that miss loriner had made, and went on without waiting for a reply. gertie found herself wishing the service would continue for ever. it was soothing, beautiful, appropriate. "forgiving us those things whereof our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things which we are not worthy to ask," said the first collect of the day. "grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger," said the third collect. "fulfil now," said the prayer, "the desires and petitions of thy servants, as may be most expedient for them." announced the nervous young curate from the pulpit, "the eighth chapter of john, the thirty-second verse. 'the truth shall make you free.'" the curate had an artificial voice, and he glanced anxiously at lady douglass's aspect of jaded resignation; but it soon became evident he had something to say; gertie, listening attentively, wondered whether he might, in some remarkable manner, have become acquainted with the particulars of her own case. truth, he contended, was indispensable to the wise and comfortable conduct of life. truth could only run on the main line; any deviation led to serious disaster. truth might, at times, hurt others at the moment, but, in the end, it did nothing but good. gertie felt impressed, and the effect of the address upon her was not decreased when, outside the church, and in accepting lady douglass's invitation to lunch, the young curate mentioned that he well remembered the great pleasure of meeting miss higham at a garden party, given up in town by the bishop of london. folk had been asked for three o'clock to play tennis, and in walking across the lawn to look for them, henry found the first opportunity of speaking to her alone. "tell me, dear girl," he said urgently, "why did you take no notice of my letters?" "i never received any." "are you sure? i don't mean that," he went on hurriedly. "only, i wrote to you three times, and no answer came." "they must have been wrongly addressed. what number did you put on the envelopes?" "but i also called, and saw your aunt." "i didn't know that," admitted gertie. "looks as though she stopped your notes. i'm sorry if that's the case." "it worried me frightfully at the time," he said; "but it doesn't matter now." "i rather fancy it does matter now." the tennis players came in sight, waving a salutation with their rackets. henry's mother apologized for a late appearance; no longer young, no longer indeed middle-aged, she found it necessary to save up strength, to use it economically. gertie listened, content to be free from the presence of lady douglass, and genuinely interested in the other's conversation. mark, the eldest son, she explained, arrived within a year after her marriage; then came two baby girls who went back to heaven; then, after a long interval-- "it was because i had given away the rocking-horse," she declared. --then henry. mark was a good lad, but henry had always been a dear lad. poor mark made the one great mistake of his life when he selected a wife, and mrs. douglass hoped the girl would understand why she felt anxious that henry should not commit a similar error. "i don't care whom he marries," declared the old lady resolutely, "providing he loves her, that she loves him, and that she is a good girl." "that sort ought not to be hard to find." "they are less plentiful," said the other, "than some people imagine. now i want you to tell me something, my dear." the girl was preparing to use caution when jim langham strolled up; his expectations of increased cheerfulness appeared to be realized, and his manner was almost rollicking. he suggested that gertie should walk around with him; and the girl, to evade the threatened cross-examination, nodded an acceptance. "you don't go in for many games, i suppose?" "wish i did," replied gertie. "i shouldn't feel quite so much out of it." "henry will expect you to play him at billiards this evening. if you care to come across now," he offered, "i shall be delighted to give you some idea how to start." as they turned to go along the path that led to the back of the house, gertie glanced over her shoulder. henry, watching their departure, missed an easy serve, and endured the reproaches of his partner. "rutley, i want the key of the billiard-room. rutley, get it at once." "i think i know where it was put last," said the butler. they went up the steps, and waited until rutley came. jim langham called him a slow-coach, a tortoise, a stick-in-the-mud, and a few other names. rutley, unmoved, inquired whether his services were wanted as marker. mr. langham retorted that the butler might take it that whenever his help was required, definite instructions would be given. the long room being well lighted by windows on both sides, the assistance of green shaded lamps that hung dependent above the table was not required. at the end, a raised platform with table and corner couches; on the mantelpiece rested a box of cigars, a silver case containing cigarettes and matches. a dozen cues stood upright in a military position on a stand. jim langham placed the red ball in its position, and gertie took spot white. in showing her how to hold the cue, he touched her hand, and looked quickly to see if she resented this. "you are going to make a very fine player," he declared presently. "all you need is practice." because of the pronounced scent of spirits, she drew away when he came too near; jim langham instantly became more deferential. by the luck that often comes to beginners, gertie presently made five, potting the red and effecting a cannon; she beamed with the delight of success. spot white was left in the centre of the table, and langham, obtaining the long rest, explained the manner of using it. in doing so, he placed his hand upon her neck; the next moment he was on his knees conducting an active search under the table. gertie, flushed with annoyance, went towards the door. before she reached it, a knock came; the door was rattled impatiently. "open it from your side," ordered the high-pitched voice of lady douglass. "the key is not here," answered gertie. "it must be there. why is the door locked?" "how should i know?" retorted the girl sharply. "you don't suppose i locked it, do you?" she heard lady douglass call for the useful rutley; and when the butler came, there was a consultation outside. the door creaked, the lock gave way; rutley, falling in with the door, just escaped collision with the perturbed girl. he was told to go. "what does this mean?" demanded lady douglass. "why are you in the billiard-room alone, miss higham?" "i'm not alone. your brother is here." "that scarcely improves the look of affairs.--jim, where are you?" the gentleman, half emerging, made a mumbled, indistinct request for matches. gertie, walking to the end of the room, found a box. "there's your set of teeth," she pointed out, "just by the corner leg. it half frightened me when i saw i'd knocked the whole lot out." "this is a serious matter," said lady douglass judicially. "the great thing will be to keep it from the knowledge of henry." "i'm not ashamed of my part in it!" she turned indignantly upon the red-faced man; his mouth was again furnished with the productions of the dentist, but he scowled in an alarming way. "what did you mean by it? was this a dodge of yours, or of hers?" "i simply, and by the merest chance," he complained to his sister, "happened to touch her near the shoulder, and you saw for yourself how she treated me. i shall go off and get a drink, and leave you both to clear it up as best you can. serves her right!" he repeated this remark several times, with additions, as he stamped out of the room. "my brother," said lady douglass, "is peculiar in his manners." "i haven't met his sort before." "but i wonder you did not know better than to trust yourself with him. fortunately, you can rely upon me to say nothing about the affair. it would have been very unlucky if someone else had happened to come to the door." "i don't particularly like being under any sort of obligation to you." "we won't say anything more about it," ordered the other. "i have an enormous objection to a scandal." "you're not alone in that respect," she retorted. "and we will of course avoid all references to wormwood scrubbs." "i don't know what you mean by that!" the tennis folk, after they had replayed their games over the tea-table, left; gertie was quiet, and her cousin inquired anxiously whether anything had occurred. clarence urged her to keep up courage, declaring she had managed admirably up to the present. "i feel as though there's thunder in the air," she said. "there isn't," he assured her; "not a trace of it. it's a beautiful day. and," with enthusiasm, "mary tells me she doesn't mind waiting until i make three hundred a year." "lucky boy!" she remarked absently. they were still out on the lawn, and henry had made a suggestion that they should all play golf-croquet when rutley came to clear the table. lady douglass gave an instruction aside. "very well, my lady," said rutley; "it shall be seen to first thing in the morning. if we could only find the key i'd manage it myself." henry asked whether anything was missing; his sister-in-law replied that it was nothing of importance--nothing that he need trouble about. henry had quite enough to occupy his mind, and he must please allow her to take charge of some of the domestic anxieties. "rather unusual," said old mrs. douglass, "to find you so considerate." "i get very little credit," sighed lady douglass. as they waited on the croquet lawn to take their turn, henry remarked to gertie that no opportunity had yet been found for their long talk; looking down at her affectionately, he added that perhaps she could guess all that was in his mind. it had been perfectly splendid, he went on in his boyish way, simply magnificent, to be near to her for so long a period of time; they would have many week-ends similar to this. his mother had spoken approvingly of gertie, and nothing else mattered. the girl kept her eyes on her mallet; she could not bring herself to the point of arresting his speech. "we are waiting for yellow," said lady douglass resignedly. miss loriner and clarence seemed to lose interest in the game as it proceeded; later, they were missing when their colours were called. lady douglass, throwing down her mallet, delivered a brief oration. if people intended to play golf-croquet, they should play golf-croquet; if, on the other hand, they did not propose to play golf-croquet, they should say, frankly and openly, that they did not propose to play golf-croquet. deploring the lack of candour and straight-forwardness, she pronounced the game at an end. "where are you going, henry?" he answered promptly. "come back! i don't want you to go to the billiard-room. you dare not ask me why; you must just comply with this one wish of mine." "have you any reasons?" "the best of reasons." she exhibited a considerable amount of agitation; her head went from side to side. "do please obey me. if you do not, you will regret it to the last hour of your life." he stared at her curiously. "i rather fancy," interposed gertie, breaking the pause, "that i'm the best one to explain." she was standing beside old mrs. douglass, and as she spoke she gripped at the back of the wicker chair. "i don't like this mystery where i am concerned. lady douglass came to the door of the billiard-room whilst mr. langham and me--mr. langham and i were there. the door was locked. she had it burst open." henry held out his hand appealingly. "that can't be all," he urged. "it's all that matters." "where is jim?" he demanded of lady douglass. "i am not my brother's keeper, but i believe he has gone down into the village." "there's something more i've got to say," gertie went on. her voice trembled; she made an effort to control it. "it's kind of you to ask me down here, but i wish you had invited clarence alone. he knows how to behave in company like this; i don't. i'm not in it. it was foolish of me to come. it's like anybody trying to go nap without a single picture card in their hand. and i want to tell you something more--i'm engaged! engaged to a youngish man in my own station of life." "no, no!" he cried. "my dear," said old mrs. douglass, looking up concernedly, "surely you're not in earnest!" "i think," remarked lady douglass impartially, "that she is acting with great wisdom." "i was wishing to-day," the girl went on, raising her voice, "that i hadn't got myself engaged. it happened because of a misunderstanding, and i did it on the impulse of the moment; all the same, it can't be helped. and i was pretty jolly before i met henry, and--i don't know--i may be pretty jolly again. if i go right out of his life now--why, i shall only think, i shall only remember--" old mrs. douglass turned in her chair and patted the girl's hand. "i shall only remember how happy i was all the time after i was lucky enough to meet him. it's over and done with now, and i'm going back home, where i can be trusted. i must be trusted. here, you don't quite believe me." she bent down to old mrs. douglass. "not even you. i'm a foreigner at this place; a foreigner, trying to learn your habits and customs, and trying to forget my own. perhaps, one day, you'll see that although i wasn't very refined, and not too well brought up," she raised her face, and her chin went out, "all the same, i did know how to keep myself straight." young mills came across the croquet lawn. "want you for a moment, clarence," she said. henry douglass, descending the staircase slowly and thoughtfully at eight o'clock, asked rutley whether miss higham was in the drawing-room. rutley answered that the young lady and mr. mills had gone. walked to cholsey to catch the evening train to town. one of the under-gardeners carried their luggage. "quite thought you knew, sir," mentioned rutley. chapter viii. frederick bulpert, having obtained two professional engagements at seven shillings and sixpence each, resigned his situation in the post office, and this left him free to call at praed street whenever he cared to do so. mrs. mills described him as a hearty eater, but she made much of him, apparently out of gratitude. gertie had spoken to her about henry's letters-- "she looked rather white," said mrs. mills to mr. trew confidentially; "but i must admit she kept her temper wonderfully well, considering!" --and the girl took charge of the intercepted envelopes with their contents. her aunt declared, with emphasis, that all along she had acted for the best. gertie remarked that people said this whenever they had done their worst: this was the only reproach given, and mr. trew, as a candid friend, assured mrs. mills she had been let off very lightly. mr. trew had anxieties of his own. the new motor omnibuses still broke down occasionally, and he was able, in passing, to make offers for the conveyances at an extremely low figure; but many of them ran without accident, and ran speedily, and he was losing customers hitherto considered faithful and regular. summing up, he came to the conclusion that the world was becoming a jolly sight too clever; the only comfort he found was that it could not possibly exist much longer. regaining cheerfulness, he mentioned that if mrs. mills happened to hear of an american heiress who wanted a good-looking english husband with a special and particular knowledge of horses, well acquainted with london, and fond of the sea, why, it would be kind of her to drop him a postcard, giving the name and address. "when you've finished talking nonsense," she said, "perhaps you'll kindly tell me how i'm to manage in order to get these two young people married. she'll be happy enough, once she settles down; but, meanwhile, i don't like seeing her so quiet and thoughtful." "i have never denied," he remarked, "that you are the prize packet of your sex, and in many respects you've got almost the intelligence of a man. but in a matter of this kind--remember, she's as pretty as they make 'em--you're a born muddler. leave it to me, and i'll do the best i can for you." wherefore, mr. trew made appointments with bulpert and held secret discussions with him, sheltering his words with a broad, big hand, enjoying greatly the sense of management, and, even more, the atmosphere of conspiracy. bulpert, on his side, began to realize his importance, and treated praed street with a condescension that was meant to represent a correct and proper pride. one evening, seated at the counter there, and waiting for the return of gertie, he gave a formal warning to the effect that any cigar presented to him was, in future, to be taken from the threepenny box. at great titchfield street, gertie tried to divert her mind from personal anxieties by throwing energy into work, with more than common resolution. a large commission arrived from a ruler of an eastern nation, who considered a new and elaborately ornamental sash would revive a feeling of loyalty in his army and patriotism in his country. the girls were not permitted except on strictly limited occasions to work after nine o'clock in the evening, and extra assistants had to be engaged; the men upstairs who made the leather foundations were watched and encouraged; madame begged gertie to recommend them to keep off the drink, adding that they would take more notice of this advice if it came from miss higham and not from madame herself. all the looms were at their noisy spider work; reels of gold thread were ordered in twenties; the bobbins began to dance around the maypole, sewing-machines sang lustily; the telephone only ceased ringing to deliver messages. miss rabbit became hysterical, vehement, cross; gertie's intervention became necessary to prevent a strike amongst the pinafored young women. "we can be led, miss higham," they announced determinedly, "but we won't be drove. you tell her to keep a civil tongue in her head, and all will go well. we're not going to be treated as though we was russians." the rush of work had, for consequence, a distinct advantage to gertie, apart from useful occupation of the mind. she stayed late to finish books which could not be entered up in the day, and this meant that, on returning home, the good news was frequently communicated that mr. bulpert had gone; there was also the comfortable fact that she felt sufficiently tired to go straight to bed. bunny, at great titchfield street, on the occasions when she herself had to depart and leave madame and miss higham together, was a picture of woeful apprehension; if she managed to gain the private ear of the girl, she reminded her that no good ever yet came to one who failed to keep a solemn promise. "don't you worry," answered gertie. "i'm not a parrot." "i shan't feel happy about you," said the forewoman solicitously, "until i hear you've got another berth. the smash-up will come as a surprise to the others, but i don't care a snap of the fingers about them or about myself. it's you i'm thinking about!" madame one night, at the sloping desk, referred vaguely to a wish that, as she hastened to add, could never in any circumstances be gratified. urged by gertie, on the other side, to put the desire into words, madame took off spectacles which she wore only when the rest of the staff had gone, and said wistfully that if she could but get a paragraph into the newspapers containing the name of the firm, she thought it would be possible to die happy. having ascertained this did not mean that suicide would follow, gertie sent a note to clarence mills, absent since the evening of the impulsive departure from ewelme. no answer came, and gertie was assuming that her cousin intended, in this way, to prove he was not on terms of peace with her, when one of the loom workers brought in, after lunch hour, an evening journal, obtained by him because he required advice regarding the investment of small sums on the prospects of racehorses. "here's a bit about us, miss," he said exultantly, with thumb against the paragraph. "here we are. large as life, and twice as natural!" the paragraph was found in other newspapers, and indeed it went about great britain later and found its way to the colonies. "an oriental omen" it was headed, and madame's only regret appeared to be that it could not be held to be distinguished by the quality of absolute truth. but there it stood in print, and there was the name of hilbert and co., the old established firm, making a speciality of manufacturing military accoutrements, dating from the glorious year of waterloo, and madame's delight proved beyond the powers of expression; her gratitude to miss higham was conveyed by a kiss. one competing firm, it was discovered, wrote a sarcastic letter to the papers that must have taken hours to compose, throwing doubts on the accuracy of the report and inquiring whether it was a fact that wellington's achievement followed the franco-prussian war, and this might have been inserted but for the suggestion of self-advertisement made with something less than the dexterity that belonged to clarence's pen. "i tell you what, miss higham," said madame definitely. "you must come to supper at my house the very next sunday evening that ever is. your aunt won't mind for once. i'll write down the address. my proper name is jacks. yes, dear, i'm married, to tell you the truth, only i don't want it talked about here." frederick bulpert, when he arrived on the sunday evening, entered a warm protest against what he described as this eternal gadding about. on ascertaining the destination, he admitted circumstances altered cases; where business was concerned, private interests had to give way. he explained that some of his present irritation was due to the fact that, at a bohemian concert the previous evening, an elderly gentleman had been pointed out to him as the representative of an important sunday newspaper; the comic singer who gave the information, encountered a few minutes since in marylebone road, confessed that it was one of his jokes. "and all the drinks i stood," complained bulpert, "and all the amiable remarks i made, absolutely wasted!" gertie, apparelled in her finest and best, went at the hour of seven, after bulpert and her aunt had quarrelled regarding the best and speediest mode of transit, to make her way to king's road, chelsea. there, in a turning she twice walked by without noticing, she found a house with several brass knobs at the side of the door. a maid answered her ring. "sounds as though they're in the studio," remarked the maid, with a wink. "what name?" the servant opened the door and gave the announcement, but in the tumult it was not heard. madame's husband was informing madame in a loud voice that the most unfortunate day in his life was the occasion when he allowed her to drag him into a registrar's office. gertie went back a few steps, and the maid repeated the name. "you dear!" cried madame, coming forward pleasantly. "this is my husband. you know him by name, i expect." she whispered, "the celebrated river painter. most successful. and such a worker. never idle for a moment." "how d'ye do?" said mr. jacks, coming forward casually. "sorry i'm just going out. what's the night like?" madame switched on the electric light, and gertie could see that the room suggested a large cucumber frame with a sloping glass roof and windows at the far end. on a raised square platform in a corner stood a draped lay figure, not, apparently, quite sober. "well," said madame's husband, after glancing again at the visitor, "if it's fine, i don't know that there's any special necessity for me to go. what do you say, darling?" this to his wife. "please yourself, digby, my sweet. if you think you can put up with our company, i am sure miss higham and myself will be delighted if you can stay. mr. jacks," she explained to gertie, "is naturally attracted to his club, not only because he finds there all the latest news concerning his profession, but because it gives him an opportunity of coming into contact with other bright, vivacious spirits." she took gertie's coat and hat. "perhaps we can get him to tell us some of his best stories presently." her husband smoothed his hair at the mirror with both hands, and gave style and uniformity to the two halves of his moustache. this done, he turned and asked the girl whether she did not consider whistler an overrated artist. just because he happened to be dead, people raved about him. would not allow any one else to produce impressions of the thames round about chelsea. mr. jacks said, rather bitterly, that when he too was no more, folk would doubtless be going mad about him, and jubilee place might become impassable owing to the crowd of dealers waiting their turn there. "and what good do you imagine that will do to me?" he demanded. "eh, what? no use you saying that i ought to be content with the praise of posterity." "i didn't say so. how many hours do you work a day?" "i can't work unless the fit takes me," argued madame's husband weakly. "are you subject to them? fits, i mean?" madame, assisting the maid in setting the table, took up the case for the defence, and pointed out to miss higham that one profession differed from another. in the case of painting, for instance, you could not expect to be ruled by office hours; you had to wait until inspiration came, and then the light was, perhaps, not exactly what you required. besides, friends might drop in at that moment for a smoke and a chat. "sounds like an easy life," remarked gertie. "you forget the wear and tear of the brain," said madame. "but we get that in our business." "hush!" whispered the other. "he doesn't like hearing that referred to." conversation during the meal was restricted to the subject of the production of pictures and their subsequent disposal; madame showed great deference to the arguments of her husband, occasionally interposing a mild suggestion which he had no difficulty in knocking down. at moments of excited contention madame's husband became inarticulate, and had to fall back upon the gestures of the studio, that conveyed nothing to the visitor. "how much do you make a year?" she asked, when an opportunity came. he paused in his task of opening another bottle of stout, and regarded her with something of surprise. "my good girl," he replied, "i don't estimate my results by pounds, shillings, and pence." "do you earn a hundred in twelve months?" "wish i did," confessed madame's husband. "in that case, i shouldn't have to be beholden to other people." "how would you manage if you weren't married?" he looked at the mantelpiece, and inquired of his wife if the clock was indicating the correct time. receiving the answer, madame's husband became alarmed, declaring it a fortunate thing that he had remembered a highly important appointment. it represented, he said, the chance of a lifetime, and to miss it would be nothing short of madness; he bade miss higham good evening in a curt way, and madame accompanied him to the front door. there they had a spirited discussion. madame considered an allowance of half a crown would be ample; he said, in going, that his wife was a mean, miserable cat. "i'm afraid, my dear, you shunted him off," remarked madame, coming back to the studio. "you don't seem to know how to manage men, do you?" "had my suspicions of that before now." "of course, they're very trying but"--helplessly--"i don't know. sometimes i wish i'd kept single, and then again at other times, when i've had a hard day of it, i feel glad i'm not coming home to empty rooms. taking the rough with the smooth, i suppose most women think that any husband is better than no husband at all." "rather than get hold of one who didn't earn his living," declared gertie with vehemence, "i'd keep single all my life." "he did nearly sell a picture," argued the other, "once!" they took easy-chairs, and madame found a box of chocolates. mr. jacks, it appeared, was not madame's first love. mr. jacks's predecessor had been ordered out years ago to take part in a war that improved the receipts entered up in hilbert's books; on the debit side, the loss of a good sweetheart had to be placed. madame dried her eyes, and in less than half a minute the two were on the subject which absorbed their principal interests. price of gold thread, difficulty with one of the home workers, questions of aiguillettes, sword belts, sashes, grenades; hopes that the king would shortly issue a new order concerning officers' uniforms. madame said that, nowadays, profits were cut very close; she could remember, in her father's time, when, if there was not a balance at the end of the year of over a thousand pounds, serious anxiety ensued. madame brought out a large album to show pictures of gorgeous apparel that belonged to days before thrift became a hobby. "seems to me," she said, without leading up to the remark, "that miss rabbit is the weak link in our chain." gertie did not make any comment. "i'm going to tell you something. i want to give her other work to do, and get you to take her place. it will amount to an extra ten shillings a week, miss higham." "do you really mean it?" "it's why i asked you to come here this evening. you see, you have improved so much this summer. improved in style, speech, everything!" "there's a reason for that!" gertie higham walked up and down the studio with excitement in her eyes. she wanted to ask madame how long the firm was likely to endure, but to do this might lead to the betrayal of confidence; meanwhile she fired inquiries, and madame, eager to gain her approval of the suggestion, answered each one promptly. bunny was not to be reduced in wages; only in position. one of the new duties would be to run about and see people; madame's nerves were not quite all they used to be, and the hurried traffic of the street frightened her. next to madame, gertie would be considered, so to speak, as head cook and bottle-washer. gertie, collecting all this information, wondered how it would be possible to let henry douglass know that she was making important progress. possibly it could be managed through clarence mills and miss loriner; she might meet him in london, at some unexpected moment. "do you object, madame," she asked, "if i run off now, and tell aunt about it?" "you accept the offer?" "like a shot!" answered gertie. "you dear!" cried madame. frederick bulpert was on the point of leaving when she reached praed street; he came back into the shop parlour to hear the news. her aunt kissed her, and said gertie was a good, clever girl; bulpert declared the promotion well earned. "this is distinctly frankincense and myrrh," he acknowledged. "i feel proud of you, and i don't care who hears me say so. let me see; your birthday's next week, isn't it? how about arranging something in the nature of a conversazione, or what not?" "i hope," said mrs. mills, escorting him through the shop, "that, later on, you'll do your best to make her happy." "but it's her," protested bulpert, "it's her that's got to make me happy." chapter ix. clarence mills, invited to be present at the birthday evening, wrote in frolicsome terms, from which the young hostess judged that with him the progress of love was satisfactory. "my dear young relation, near paddington station, of course i will come to your show. if forced to leave early, you won't think me surly; i have to meet some one you know!" to this gertie sent a card begging miss loriner to include herself in the invitation, and that young woman forwarded a telegram from ewelme with the word "delighted." "now"--to herself hopefully--"now i shall hear some news about him!" gertie decided the evening should differ from evenings which had preceded it, in that the entire expense was to be borne by herself; and mrs. mills therefore only offered a feeble objection when the girl arranged that the front room upstairs was to be turned out, rout seats hired, and a few articles of furniture, including the piano-forte (which, at one perilous moment, threatened to remain for the rest of its life at the turn of the staircase), transferred from the shop parlour. bulpert announced his intention of taking charge of the musical and dramatic part of the entertainment. bulpert no longer considered himself a visitor at praed street, and on one occasion he entered a stern protest when he found mr. trew's hat there, resting upon the peg which he considered his own. twice he had suggested that gertie should lend him half a sovereign, reducing the amount, by stages, to eighteenpence; but she answered definitely that advances of this kind interfered with friendship, and she preferred not to start the practice. "i could let you have it back in a fortnight." "perhaps!" she said. "and if you did, you would be under the impression that you were doing me a great favour." "i like to see a girl economical," he remarked, frowning, "but there's a diff'rence between that and being miserly. and," with resolution, "i go further, and i say that if there's anybody who's got a just and fair and proper claim on your consideration, it is f. w. b." "there's some one who comes before you." "the name, please?" "myself," replied gertie. the question of conciliating miss rabbit at great titchfield street had been solved, and matters there were going smoothly. miss rabbit continued to hold her title of forewoman, although she was no longer forewoman; and miss higham took the label of secretary, which well described duties she did not perform. the girls in the workroom made no concealment of their satisfaction with the change, and men at the looms upstairs came individually to gertie and said, "look here, miss! if ever you have any difficulty or awk'ardness or anything of the kind with the other chaps, just give the word, and i'll put it all right." bunny, for the preservation of friendship, went down on the birthday party list, and miss radford (who had not been seen for some time) and two girls (formerly at school with gertie, and then known as a couple of terrors, but now grown tall and distinguished, and doing well in a notable shop in westbourne grove), and, of course, mr. trew, and two friends of bulpert's, whom he guaranteed capable of keeping any party on the go. mrs. mills checked the names, expressed satisfaction. "i was half afraid," she said, "you'd want to send a note to that young gentleman who lives near where i was brought up." "if he came here," replied the girl steadily, "i should only fall in love with him again, and that would complicate matters." "i think you're wise," approved mrs. mills. a charwoman from sale street came in to scrub floors, to see to fireplaces, and to renovate apartments generally--a slow worker, on account of some affection of the heart, but an uncommonly good talker. when human intercourse failed she addressed articles of furniture, asking them how much they cost originally, and, sarcastically, whether they were under the impression that they looked as good as new; to some she gave the assurance that if she were to meet them at a jumble sale, she would pass by without a second glance. the charwoman suggested, at the completion of her task, and rolling up her square mat with the care of one belonging to an oriental sect, that her help should be engaged for the party; mrs. mills replied that if they required help, some one of more active methods and of less years would be approached. "right you are!" she said, taking her money from the counter. "in that case, i'll send along my sarah." to suit the young hostess, and to meet the convenience of one or two of the guests, the party began at an hour that was quite fashionably late. miss radford came early, excusing herself for this breach of decorum on the grounds that it made her painfully nervous to enter a room when strangers were present; apart from which, to arrive in good time meant that one had a chance of looking at oneself in the mirror. did gertie consider that her (miss radford's) complexion was showing signs of going off? a lady friend, who, from the description given, seemed to be neither a friend nor a lady, had mentioned that miss radford was beginning to look her full age; and remarks of this kind might be contradicted but could not be ignored. "don't you ever get anxious about your personal appearance?" she inquired. "not specially." "i suppose," agreed miss radford, "that being properly engaged does make you a bit less anxious." clarence came with miss loriner, and the young hostess flushed at the young woman's first words. henry sent his best regards. henry, it appeared, no longer spent week-ends at ewelme--this because of some want of agreement with lady douglass; and he was now busy in connection with a sanatorium at walton-on-naze, which demanded frequent journeys from liverpool street. gertie, in taking miss loriner to get rid of hat and dust-cloak in the adjoining room, felt it good to find herself remembered. miss loriner wanted a small fan, and searching the hand-bag which she had brought, first looked puzzled, and then became enlightened. "i've brought lady douglass's bag by mistake," she cried, self-reproachfully. "here are her initials in the corner--'m. d.'; not 'm. l.'" miss loriner gave an ejaculation. "what is it you've found there?" "this," announced the other deliberately, "is the missing key of the billiard-room at morden place!" the two girls looked at each other, and gertie nodded. "i've been blaming her brother all along for that trick." "my dear girl," demanded miss loriner, "aren't you fearfully excited and indignant about it?" "doesn't seem to matter much now. but," smiling, "she is a character, isn't she? i pity you if she often does things like that." "i shall be uncommonly glad," admitted the other, "when clarence earns three hundred a year. do you know that if you had stayed on at morden place, this key would most likely have been found in your portmanteau." frederick bulpert, arriving with his friends, asserted his position by attempting to kiss gertie; she drew back, and bulpert said manfully that if she could do without it he could also afford to dispense with the ceremony. he introduced his companions as two of the very best and brightest, and they intimated, by a modest shrug of the shoulders, that this might be taken as a correct description. the sisters of westbourne grove came bearing a highly-ornamental cardboard case with a decoration of angels, and containing a pair of gloves. they mentioned that if the size was not correct the gloves could be changed, and at once took seats in the corner of the room, whence they surveyed the company with a critical air, sighing in unison, as though regretting deeply their mad impulsiveness in accepting the invitation. on this, other presents were offered; bulpert said his memento would come later on. one of his friends sat on the music-stool, and sarah, the charwoman's daughter, entering at the first chord with a tray that held sandwiches and cakes, said to him casually, "hullo, george, you on in this scene?" and handed around the refreshments. bulpert's friend, disturbed by the incident, waited until the girl left the room, and then explained that he had met her in pantomime, the previous christmas, at the west london theatre; he argued forcibly that people encountered behind the footlights had no right to claim acquaintance outside. "otherwise," contended bulpert's friend, "we're none of us safe." he was induced to give his song, and the first lines,-- "i went to margate, once i did, to spend my holidee, such funny things you seem to see beside the silver sea" suggested that he was not one disposed to worship originality or make a fetish of invention. bulpert, at the end, pointed out that his friend had omitted the last verse; the man at the pianoforte said there were some places where he was in the habit of giving the last verse; this, he declared flatteringly, was not one of them. gertie's aunt came upstairs to announce that, the occasion being special, she had taken it upon herself to put up the shutters. if they excused her for half a second this would give her sufficient space to tittivate and smarten up. "say when you want me to liven 'em up, gertie," remarked bulpert. "go and be nice to those two sisters in the corner." "when we're married," he said, "we'll often give little affairs of this kind. i'm a great believer in hospitality myself." as he did not appear to make a great deal of headway with the westbourne grove ladies, he was recalled and the task handed over to clarence mills. clarence scored an immediate success. the sisters, it seemed, prided themselves upon being tremendous readers; clarence was acquainted with some of the writers who, to them, were only names. and the young hostess would have been able to survey the room with contentment, but for the fact that miss radford suddenly became depressed--with hands clasped over a knee she rocked to and fro in her chair. gertie discovered that to her friend had just come the terrifying thought that no one loved her, nobody cared for her, and for all practical purposes miss radford might as well be dead and buried, with daisies growing over her grave. gertie argued against this melancholy attitude, and the other explained that it came to her only at moments when every one else was jolly and cheerful, adding defiantly that she could not avoid it, and did not mean to avoid it. "people," declared miss radford with truculence, "have to take me as they happen to find me!" bulpert's second friend, advancing with a pack of cards, asked if miss radford would kindly select one and tell him the description. "the queen of hearts? nothing," said bulpert's second friend, with a gallant bow, "nothing could be more appropriate." miss radford cried, "oh, what a cheeky thing to say!" and at once bade farewell to melancholy. a wonderful man, the second friend--able to do everything with cards that ordinary folk deemed impossible. if you selected a card and tore it up; and he presently--talking all the while--produced a card, and said in the politest way, "i think that is yours, madam?" and you remarked that this was the four of clubs, whereas you selected the five, he exclaimed, with pretence of irritation, "well, what is there to grumble at?" and, looking again, you saw that it had changed to the five of clubs. there was nothing to do but to applaud and wonder. he swallowed cards, and produced them with a slight click from his elbow, the middle of his back, and his ankle. he allowed miss loriner to find the four aces and put them at the bottom of the pack, and the next moment asked mr. trew, who had just arrived, to produce them from the inside pocket of his coat. mr. trew had some difficulty in finding them, but the conjurer assisted, and there were the four aces; and mr. trew, after denying the suggestion that he had come prepared to play whist, admitted the young man was a masterpiece. mr. trew's watch was next borrowed and wrapped in paper; the poker borrowed in order to smash it; the violent blow given. miss radford was asked to be so very kind as to assist by looking in the plate of nuts that stood on the table, and there the watch was discovered, safe and sound. some thought-reading followed, not easy to understand because of the incessant monologue kept up by the gifted youth; but the results were satisfactory, and by pressing the folded pieces of paper very hard against his forehead, he was able to announce the names written within. "this is yours, i think, miss higham. now, i don't guarantee success, mind you, in every case, but--the name, i think, is henry"--he contorted his features--"henry douglass. is that right, may i ask?" "quite correct!" replied gertie. "what did you want to write his name for?" demanded bulpert, seated next to her. "it was the first that came into my head." "kindly keep it out of your head in future," he ordered, "or else there'll be ructions." did the ladies object to smoke? asked some one. the ladies answered, separately and collectively, that they adored smoke; the westbourne grove young women, now in excellent fettle, admitted that, at times, they themselves enjoyed a cigarette, but could not be persuaded to give a public exhibition of their powers. they did, however, agree to give a short sketch entitled "who is who?" and the hearthrug was given up to them; and if they had not made so many corrections--neither appeared to be well acquainted with her own part in the piece, but each was letter perfect in the part of the other--the duologue would have been a great success. "and now," said mrs. mills, "let's see about refreshments. mr. trew, where's that corkscrew of yours?" "isn't it about time i was asked to do something?" demanded bulpert, with an injured air. "let us see you do your celebrated trick," suggested gertie's aunt, with irony, "of eating nearly everything there is on the table. that's what you're really clever at." miss radford, by a sudden inspiration, suggested the ladies should wait upon the gentlemen, and herself took a plate to bulpert's conjuring friend; the example was imitated. mr. trew, attended to by gertie, declared it a real treat to see her looking like his own little friend once again. "makes me think," he said, "that if there wasn't quite so much diplomacy about on the part of those of us who reckon we know everything, you young uns would get a far better chance. speaking as one who's been a fusser all my life, that's my candid opinion." "if you interfered, mr. trew, you would interfere wisely." he emptied his glass in one drink, and set it upon the mantelpiece. "i wouldn't kiss the book on that, if i was you," he replied. "but what you can be very well certain about is that if i saw the chance of doing anything for you--" miss rabbit was announced by sarah, and gertie had to leave mr. trew in order to make much of her colleague. bulpert, having edged other folk from the hearthrug, announced that he was about to give, with the aid of memory, a short incident of the american civil war; to his astonishment and open indignation, one of the westbourne grove girls arrested him with the suggestion that instead they should all have a game. challenged to indicate one, she asked what was the matter with musical chairs. so chairs were placed down the centre of the room, facing opposite ways alternately. gertie went to the pianoforte, and all prepared to join, with the exception of bulpert, who, in the corner, and his back to the others, ate sandwiches. admirable confusion, thanks to gertie's ingenious playing. as they started to march warily in a line up and down the row, she, after giving the first bar, stopped, and they had to rush for seats. clarence mills was left out and a chair withdrawn. the next trial was much longer, and only when caution was being relaxed did the music cease; miss loriner, defeated at this bye-election, had to take a seat near to clarence. the joyousness was so pronounced that bulpert found himself to take some interest, and when mrs. mills, left in with mr. trew, eventually won the game, he urged it should be restarted, and that some other lady should play the music. on the first arrest by miss rabbit at the pianoforte, he sat himself on a chair already occupied by gertie. at the moment, sarah appeared again at the doorway. "a young man," she announced importantly. "a gentleman this time." henry douglass came in. gertie struggled to disengage herself, but bulpert declined to move. "mrs. mills, i must apologize for calling at this late hour." "don't mention it, sir." "i have just had a message from my sister-in-law, and i wanted to see miss loriner. lady douglass has been taken seriously ill." mr. trew took bulpert by the collar and sent him with a jerk against the wall. gertie, flushed and confused, shook hands with henry. "i'm not going to break up your evening," he said, looking at her eagerly. "the matter is urgent, or i wouldn't have dared to call." "we are always," she stammered, "always pleased to see you, mr. douglass." "my dear mother asked me to give you her love when i met you. there is a car waiting," he went on, addressing miss loriner; "could you manage to come now? we can do it in little over a couple of hours." gertie took miss loriner into the adjoining room. "if she's really ill," said the girl, "don't tell him anything about the key. he can hear it all, later on. and nobody at praed street knows anything about the affair." bulpert declined to escort miss rabbit to her omnibus, and, in spite of hints from mrs. mills, remained when all the other guests had departed. he took opportunity to criticize the management of the evening, and to deplore the fact that his services had not been utilized. making an estimate of the total cost, he again referred to his suggestion in regard to a series of similar entertainments later on. "if you find you can afford it," agreed gertie. "if i can afford it!" he echoed surprisedly. "there's no question of me affording it. why don't you talk sense? you'll be earning the same good salary after we're spliced as you're earning at the present moment." "no!" she answered definitely. "when i'm married i give up work at great titchfield street." "why, of course," agreed mrs. mills. "she'll have her home duties to attend to." bulpert stared at the two separately. then he rose, pulled at his waistcoat, and went without speaking a word. "he's took the precaution," remarked sarah, coming in to clear, as a bang sounded below, "to shut the door after him." mrs. mills, reviewing the party, and expressing the hope that all had enjoyed themselves, mentioned that miss rabbit in the course of the evening made a statement to her which had, apparently, been weighing on the lady's mind. miss rabbit reproached herself for giving wrong information in regard to the stability of the firm of hilbert, and begged mrs. mills would explain. in her own phrase she tried to out gertie, and as this had not come off, her suggestion was that bygones should be considered as bygones, and nothing more said about the matter. "it isn't such a bad world," decided mrs. mills, "if you only come to look at it in a good light." chapter x. gertie's sympathy with the invalid of morden place found itself slightly diminished on monday morning. the front room had not yet been restored to its normal state, and mrs. mills, before rising to start the boy with his delivery of morning newspapers, had given a brief lecture on the drawback of excessive ambition, the advisability of not going on to land's end when you but held a ticket for westbourne park. ten minutes later she brought upstairs an important-looking envelope that bore her name and address in handwriting which left just the space for the stamp, and mrs. mills speculated on the probable contents of the communication until gertie made the useful suggestion that the envelope should be opened. mrs. mills, after reading the letter, flung herself upon the bed and, her head resting on the pillow, sobbed hysterically. lady douglass wrote near the telegram instructions "private," and, to ensure perfect secrecy, underlined the word three times. nevertheless, gertie read it without hesitation, and her first impression was one of regard for the writer's ingenuity. lady douglass feared some rumours might have reached praed street concerning the behaviour of miss higham during the brief stay at ewelme; unable to rid her mind of this, she was sending a note to assure mrs. mills that no grounds whatever existed for the statements. she, herself, had taken great trouble to keep the incident quiet, and could not understand how it had become public property. she hoped mrs. mills would believe that miss higham had been guilty of nothing more than a want of discretion, natural enough in a girl of her age, and, if lady douglass might be allowed to say so, her position in life. lady douglass felt it only right to send this note, and hoped her motives would be understood. "her motives are clear enough," agreed gertie. "what i can't quite make out is why she should take so much trouble in going for me. i'm out of her way, and i shan't get into her way again. what more does she want?" "i'd no idea," wailed her aunt, "that there'd been anything amiss. of course, i knew you came back sunday night instead of monday morning, but you hinted that was because of clarence. what are the facts, dear?" particulars given, mrs. mills changed her attitude, both of body and of mind, and announced an intention of starting at once to have it out with her ladyship. a good straight talking to, that was what my lady required, with plain language which included selection of home truths, and mrs. mills flattered herself she was the very woman to undertake the task. to this gertie offered several determined objections. first, henry's sister-in-law was ill; second, she had endured trouble, and was not perhaps quite herself; third, the incident was ended, and there would be nothing useful in raking up the past. mrs. mills listened to the arguments, and agreed to substitute a new resolution--namely, that a reply was to be written couched in terms which could not be charged with the defect of ambiguity. "i shan't help you with the spelling," declared the girl. "somehow or other," complained mrs. mills, "you always seem to manage to get everything your own way." "not always." one gratifying result of the evening party came in the fact that bulpert decreased his visits. for two or three weeks he absented himself from praed street; and mrs. mills approved this, mentioning as one of the reasons, that it was not wise for an engaged couple to have too much of each other's company. when he did call, mrs. mills reported of him that he appeared to have something on his mind; he left before gertie arrived, and without disclosing the nature of the burden. as a rule, it happened at great titchfield street that one good contract was followed by a slack period, when the difficulty was to find sufficient work to keep all hands going. but here and now, a high authority ordered some alteration in the uniform of certain of his majesty's officers of the army, and either madame or miss higham was called frequently to pall mall; and, in a brief period, all the outworkers were again busy: great titchfield street found itself so fully occupied that the girls had no time to recall songs learned at the second house of their favourite music hall. into the hum and activity of this busy hive came, one evening, madame's husband, making his way to the office where madame and miss higham faced each other at sloping desks. he began to shout; it was clear that on the way from king's road he had been taking refreshment to encourage determination. when he raised his fist, gertie stepped forward. "miss higham," said madame calmly, "i wish you would just run downstairs and fetch a policeman." madame's husband instantly showed a diminution of aggressiveness. all he wanted was fair play and reasonable treatment. if there did not happen to be a five-pound note handy, gold would do; failing gold, he must, of course, be content with silver. "you will go out of this place at once," ordered madame, in an even voice; "and as a punishment for disobeying my orders, i shall not give you a single penny all this week. i know very well what you want money for. i know what you do with money when i give it to you." "impossible to discuss these matt'rs with you," he said, with an effort at haughtiness. "purely private 'fairs." "if it wasn't for the business here," she went on, "i think you'd succeed in driving me mad. this just saves me. i'm not going to allow you to interfere with it, and if you dare to come here again, i shall most certainly lock you up. now be off with you." mr. digby jacks wept, and, at the doorway, threatened to drown himself in the thames. in the thames, just to the right of cleopatra's needle. "i wish you would." "shan't, now," he retorted sulkily, "just in order to dis'point you. you're cruel woman, and some day you'll realize it and be sorry. goo' night, and be hanged to you." gertie congratulated madame upon her firmness, and the other admitted the situation was one not easy to handle. for if, she explained, money had been given, then he would have absented himself from jubilee place for a week; as it was, he would be absent for a space of two or three days. gertie expressed surprise at this behaviour, and madame said it was almost bound to happen where the wife earned an income, and the husband gained none. by rights, it should be the other way about, and then there was a fair prospect of happiness. madame counselled the girl to be careful not to imitate the example; gertie replied that she had long since made up her mind on this point. "but why don't you get rid of him?" she inquired. "because i've left it too long. besides, i'm too old to get anybody else." "surely you'd be better off alone?" "no, i shouldn't," answered madame promptly. "what do you make the proper total, my dear, of that account miss rabbit made a muddle of?" within her experience it had sometimes happened that gertie, on the way home, found herself spoken to by a stranger; this rarely occurred, because she walked with briskness, and refrained from glancing at other pedestrians. (generally the intruder was a youth anxious to make or sustain a reputation for gallantry, and he accepted the sharp rebuff with docility.) but news came from miss loriner that lady douglass, after years of the luxury of imagining herself in delicate health, was now genuinely ill, and henry went down from town each evening by a late train to make inquiries, returning in the morning. miss loriner added that some of lady douglass's indisposition might be due to the fact that the executors were hinting at the eventual necessity of taking out probate in regard to sir mark's will; this done, a considerable change in affairs was inevitable. in consequence of the information, gertie could not avoid looking about her in the vague hope of encountering henry; she wanted to see him, although she knew a meeting would only disturb and confuse. she waited outside the street door after business was over, gazing up and down before making a start for home, and it occurred frequently that a short man of middle age moved a few steps towards her, and stopped; later, in turning out of portland place, she observed he was following. once he came so close that she expected to hear a whining voice complain of space of time since the last meal, and having the superstition that casual charity appeased the gods, she found some coppers; but he fell back, and did not speak. it was at the close of a trying day when the representative of a firm had called, in madame's absence, to have what he described in a preface as a jolly, thundering good row, which finished by an endeavour on his part to indicate apology by stroking miss higham's hand--on this night, gertie, less composed than usual, again caught sight, in crossing great portland street, of the short man. he turned. she, also turning, met him in the centre of the roadway. "do you want to speak to me?" she demanded sharply. "not specially," he answered, in a husky voice. "then why do you so often follow me about?" "i hope i don't cause you any ill convenience; if so be as i do, i'll stop it at once." "that's all right," said gertie, impressed by his deferential manner. "only it seemed to me rather odd. and just now my nerves are somewhat jerky." he touched his cap, and was shuffling off, when she recalled him. "stroll along with me, and let's have a talk. what do you do for a living?" "sure you don't mind being seen with me?" he asked. "we'll go up great portland street, and you can say 'good-bye' when we reach the underground station." he buttoned his well-worn frock coat, gave himself a brisk punch on the chest, and with every indication of pride, accompanied her, keeping, however, slightly to the rear. gertie repeated her question, and he replied it was not easy to explain how he gained a livelihood; odd jobs, was perhaps the best answer he could give. warning her not to be frightened, he gave the information that he had spent fifteen years of his life in prison. did he begin young, then? no, that was the curious part about it. he had little thought of starting the game until, in one week, he lost his wife and, through the failure of a firm, his employment. then it seemed to him nothing mattered, and another out-of-work made a suggestion, and he fell into it, was caught, and his friend managed to get away. "when i came out," he went on, "i found i'd lost all respect for myself, and i assumed everybody else had lost all respect for me. i tell you, it isn't a hard task to go down in this world. i've no business to complain, but there it is; plenty can help you in that direction, but there's very few capable of assisting you to pick yourself up." "it's not too late to make a change." "i've got no luck, you see," he explained patiently. "this summer i did nearly get back to what you may call the old style. i was in a reg'lar job; i contrived to dress myself up almost like a duke, and i sets out on sunday afternoon with the full intention of calling on some old friends i hadn't seen for a good many years. it didn't come off." "drink, i suppose." "yes," he said. "a chap driving one of these motors had taken a drop too much. i was in st. mary's in praed street for over six weeks. if it had been anybody but me, the car would have been driven by some well-to-do gentleman, and i should have found myself compensated for life. as i say, i never did have my share of good fortune, and i s'pose i never shall. all i haven't had of that, i hope will be passed on to my daughter." "she ought to do something for you." "i don't want her to. i've no wish to interfere with her. i can't flatter myself i've done her any good, and i'd like to have the satisfaction of feeling i've done her no harm. here, i think," looking around him, "we say oh revor." gertie took out her purse; he gave an emphatic shake of the head, and went. the next night he was at the same place, improved in appearance, and gertie allowed him to accompany her along marylebone road so far as harley street. on the following evening he furnished an escort to upper baker street, and afterwards extended the journey. his manner was always respectful, and he still made no attempt to walk abreast with her. sometimes a constable would say, "hullo, joe!" and he replied, "good evening, sir. not bad weather for the time of year!" and going on, informed gertie where, and in what circumstances, the acquaintance had been made. it happened, on one occasion, that gertie saw mr. trew on the box seat of his small brown omnibus coming along from the great central station; he was preparing to flourish a cheery salute, when he caught sight of her companion. almost dropping his whip, he gave his head a jerk to send the shining silk hat well back, and thus give relief to a suddenly heated brain. mrs. mills was waiting on the friday evening, some doors east of her own shop; gertie's new friend did not wait for instructions from his companion, but left her instantly. "who's looking after the counter, aunt?" "mr. bulpert," replied the other, panting. "i've give him a cigar to stick in his face. he wants to see you. and i want to see you, too. who is that you were talking to?" "the elderly man i told you about. the one who always waits now to see me part of the distance home. quite a character in his way." "quite a bad character," snapped mrs. mills. "do you know him?" her aunt gave a gulp. "i had the word from mr. trew," she said, still rather breathless, "and his idea is that you may as well know it now as later on. that man is your father, my dear--your father; and the less you see of him the better. now, perhaps, you can realize why i knew it was no use letting you carry on with mr. douglass. it was bound to come out some day!" "my father," said the girl slowly and thoughtfully. "your very own, dearie. don't let it upset you more than you can help. i know you've a good deal to put up with just now. come along and see mr. bulpert. a little sweethearting talk will cheer you up." bulpert admitted he had one or two questions to put; but on gertie ordering that they should be offered there and then, he said, gloomily, that some other time would do as well. the girl told him the news just communicated by her aunt, and waited hopefully for the comment; bulpert remarked, with an indulgent air, that it took all sorts to make a world, and he thought no worse of gertie because of the fact that she possessed a parent with a spotted record. he offered to see her father and give him a definitely worded warning; the girl answered that the matter could be left in her hands. "but we don't want him to be a drain on us," he contended. "i know what these individuals are like. species of blackmail, that's what it amounts to. and i don't wish to see you working your fingers to the bone, and a certain proportion of the money earned being paid out to him. i couldn't bear it, so i tell you straight!" he slapped a pile of magazines on the counter. "i'm rather worried," she said, "and i don't want any more misunderstandings. i told you not long ago i shouldn't go back to great titchfield street once i was married." "that's what i wanted to speak to you about. you're not serious, i s'pose, in saying this. you're only doing it to test my affection." "i mean every word." "very well!" announced bulpert defiantly. "understand, then, that the engagement's off. entirely and absolutely off. and if you're so ill-advised as to bring an action for breach, you jolly well can. won't be a bad advert, for a public man like f. w. b. it'll get him talked about!" chapter xi. the final departure of bulpert erased a troublesome detail in the girl's life, and she felt suitably thankful; another disappearance gave her a sensation of regret. she had thought seriously of the patient, elderly man whom she had now to look upon as her parent, and planned a scheme, to be prefaced by something in the nature of a brief lecture, involving pecuniary sacrifice; her game of bricks was knocked over by the hand of fate, and gertie higham had to put them back into the box. mrs. mills told her much that had hitherto been a secret shared by mr. trew. "quite a good sort he was, my dear, until your poor young mother went, and then--well, mr. trew met him when he came out of wormwood scrubbs, and your father's first words were, 'don't let the kid ever know!' meaning yourself. so we kept it from you, you see, and i hope you don't blame us. no doubt, he recognized you, because you're so much like your poor mother, only more stylish, and of course better educated, and i suppose he felt as though he had to speak. very likely he won't ever let you see him again." "wish i knew where to find him now." "he was like a lot of the others. not really bad, you understand, but just rather easily led; and because he thought everything was going against him, he became reckless. and he belonged to the old days when once in prison meant always in prison, and no one ever thought that a man who had made a single blunder could be reformed. i often used to think," declared mrs. mills, "that something ought to be done, but of course i had my business to look after." "you found time to look after me, aunt." "if you could realize," argued the other earnestly, "what a dear baby you was then, you wouldn't trouble to give me any credit for that." she hesitated. "what i've always hoped," lowering her voice, "that some day i might see another one like you." "madame's case," said gertie, "is a warning to me. i want the right kind of husband, or none at all!" from clarence mills, calling at praed street, came news that lady douglass had been instructed to go abroad so soon as she became well enough to endure the journey; to his great concern, miss loriner was instructed to accompany her. gertie asked for further information, and clarence replied that henry douglass had not given up the office in old quebec street; indeed, he recently entered a competition for plans of a provincial art gallery, and his portrait was in some journal consequent on the decision of the judges. gertie presumed that clarence did not happen to have this with him; clarence found the cutting in his letter-case and presented it. (later, it was mounted carefully and placed in a small frame, and given a position upon her dressing-table.) clarence's book was out, and he had just seen a copy at paddington, with a card bearing the words, "tremendously thrilling." on another point, clarence was able to announce that henry had held something like a court-martial at ewelme, with all concerned present. jim langham gave evidence; and lady douglass, when her turn came, suggested the key had been placed in her bag by miss loriner. upon which miss loriner declared it would be impossible, in view of this remark, to give her company to beaulieu; and lady douglass, without any further hesitation, confessed the truth, urging, in excuse, that it was but natural in this world to look after oneself, adding a caution to the effect that anything in the nature of a scene would now mar the work of the london specialist. henry's mother, it appeared, was in favour of taking the risk. "i don't want to see her punished," remarked gertie. "so long as he knows i was not to blame, i'm perfectly satisfied." clarence had private audience with mrs. mills before going, and, as a result, sarah, the temporary assistant at the party, came to praed street daily; mrs. mills admitted that, seeing her niece frequently, any want of colour might not be so apparent to her as to any one who saw the girl less often. sarah's objections to living in were easy to meet; the only other provision was that liberty should be given if her services were required for "puss in boots" during the christmas period. an excellent worker, sarah left nothing to be done at the end of the day, and gertie, arriving home after the stress of business at great titchfield street, was able to rest in the parlour, or give assistance in the shop. she was making out orders for christmas cards at the newspaper counter one night (the popular remark of customers at this period was "ain't the evenings drawing in something awful!") when a man rushed in and looked around in a dazed, frightened manner. he muttered indistinctly some explanation, and was going off, when gertie called to him. "thought it was a bar," he said confusedly. "my mistake." "come here, mr. langham," she ordered, putting down her book. "sit on the high chair." he obeyed, blinking up at the light. "what's the matter?" jim langham was trembling. he leaned across, and whispered. "you've seen a ghost?" she echoed. "don't be so stupid. there are no such things nowadays, especially in a neighbourhood like this. where did you come across it?" "near--near the station. i've only just come from wallingford. i was hurrying up the slope on the right-hand side, and about to turn into the hotel, when across the way--" he looked around apprehensively, and caught sight of mrs. mills peeping over the half blind of the parlour door. gertie sent her a reassuring nod, and she disappeared. "what have i done," he wailed appealingly, "that everybody should spy? a police sergeant gazed at me in a most peculiar way about two minutes ago. what does it mean, miss higham?" "doesn't matter what it means," she said sharply, "so long as you've done nothing wrong. pull yourself together, mr. langham. why don't you knock off the drink, and be a man?" "i'll go and get some now." "it will do you no good. you've been in the habit of taking it when you didn't need it, and you've spoilt it as a remedy. stay here for a while, and calm yourself." "bad enough," he complained, "when living people begin to track you about, but when the others start doing it--!" he shivered. gertie went to the parlour, and asked her aunt to make some coffee. "has lady douglass gone away yet?" "now why, apropos of nothing, should you mention her name?" "you never did have much sense about you, and now you seem to have none at all. concentrate your mind. think! what was the question i put to you?" he admitted he could not recall it, and she repeated the inquiry. "leaves early to-morrow morning," he answered; "that is partly why i have come up to town. i don't want to see her again before she goes." jim langham rested elbows on the counter, and covered eyes with his hands. "have you ever," he asked, "in the course of your existence, met with a bigger fool than me?" "to be quite candid," said gertie, "i don't think i have." she fetched the cup from the back room, and brought it to him. he sipped at the hot beverage, and appeared to recover. "do you mind if i smoke?" he asked courteously. she laughed. "this is half a tobacconist's shop!" "quite so," remarked jim langham, taking a cigar from his case. "i say," he went on confidentially, taking the movable gas jet, "do you know anything about the argentine?" "mr. trew might tell you something about it if he were here. i don't take any interest in horse-racing." "it's a place in south america," he said. "i've an idea of getting out there, and making a fresh start. but i'm in the state of mind that prevents me from knowing how to set about it. it would be a great kindness on your part to give me some assistance." "i want all the money i've saved up." he placed his hand in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out sovereigns. gertie, taking a newspaper, turned the pages to find the shipping advertisements. "'the r. m. s. p.,'" she read. "i thought that meant you had to reply to an invitation. oh, i see. royal mail steam packet. here's the address. there's a boat leaving to-morrow. would you like to catch that?" "the earlier the better," he cried. "i must get away at once. now, who can do it all?" a lad came for a packet of cigarettes, and, as gertie served him, mr. trew entered the doorway; his cheerful salutation caused jim langham to start. trew announced, joyously, that he was up to the neck in trouble; for failing to see a young constable's warning in oxford street, he had been suspended from duty for a period of three days. "as i told him, if a driver took notice of all the baby hands held up, why the 'bus would never reach victoria. howsomever, here i am; my own master for a time, and ready to make myself generally useless. what about a half-day excursion to brighton to-morrow, little missy?" "this, mr. trew, is mr. langham." "i don't get on over and above first class," he said, "with a certain relative of yours, sir, but i never met a family yet that was all alike. some white sheep in every flock." gertie explained jim langham's requirements, and trew, placing his hat upon the counter, and admitting himself to be something of an authority on matters connected with the sea, brought his best intelligence to bear upon the subject. it was too late, he decided, to go down that evening to the steamship office, but a telegram might be sent, asking for a berth to be reserved, and mr. langham could go to the docks in the morning. "it is absolutely imperative," declared the other urgently, "that i leave at the first possible moment." "if the worst comes to the worst," said mr. trew, "you can ship as a stowaway. you come up on deck, third day out, and kneel at the captain's feet and sing a song about being an orphan. that, of course, would be a last resource." gertie discovered a telegram form, and on the instructions of mr. trew, filled it in; and jim langham assured her that he was more obliged than he could express in words. mr. trew left to arrange the dispatch of the message. "i count myself extremely fortunate," said the other, "to have encountered you, miss higham. if you hear anything against me later on, i--i should feel grateful if you thought the best of me that you can. i wish," he went on, with an anxious air, "i wish i knew how to repay you." "don't make a fuss about trifles," she recommended. he gazed at a picture of a well-attired youth smoking a cigar. "i was a decent chap once," he said thoughtfully, "but that was long ago. look here, miss higham! henry--you know henry?" "i did know him." turning her face away. "he will be at paddington station tomorrow morning at ten. see him there. put off every other engagement, and see him." "there will be no use in doing that." "there may be," he contradicted earnestly. "you've been very hard hit over this business, and i happen to know he wants to meet you, only that he is afraid of appearing intrusive. at ten o'clock at the arrival platform. may i say good-bye now? god bless you. i haven't much influence with him, but i--i hope he'll be good to you!" she came from behind the counter, and accompanied him to the swing doors. "whose ghost was it you thought you saw, mr. langham?" "i must have been mistaken," he replied vaguely. "a shame to have worried you!" all the comedy in life and some of the tragedy can be found at london railway stations, and only the fact that members of the staff are well occupied prevents them from furnishing shelves of bookstalls with records of their observation. the classes are there (an effort is being made to cancel one useful intermediate stage), presenting themselves, for the most part, in a highly-agitated condition of mind, with the result that officials acquire the methods of those who deal with the mentally unhinged; show themselves prepared for any display of eccentricity. ever, as in life, you remark the people who arrive too soon, or too late; a few lucky ones come in the very nick of time. the last named are favourites, selected with no obvious reason by fortune, and greatly envied by their contemporaries; it is usual for them to claim the entire credit to themselves. apart from these, at the terminal stations where no barriers exist, are folk who make but little affectation of being passengers, and use the station as a playground, with engine and train for toys. to paddington at a quarter to ten in the morning came hurriedly, although there was no cause for hurry, gertie higham, escorted by mr. trew, both exceptionally costumed as befitting a notable occasion. gertie's escort had a pair of driving-gloves, and he could not determine whether it looked more aristocratic to wear these or to carry them with a negligent air; he compromised on the departure platform by wearing one and carrying the other. the collector-dog trotted up with the box on his back, and both put in some coppers. they glanced at the giant clock. "i wish," she said agitatedly, "that i could skip half an hour of my life." "when you get to my age, little missy," remarked trew, "you won't talk like that. speaking personally, i can fairly say that if it wasn't for these new motors i sh'd like to live to be a 'underd. now, let's jest make sure and certain about this train." "i thought we had done so." "may as well be on the safe side." mr. trew left her at the bookstall to go on a journey in search of verification. she observed that he obtained news first from a junior porter, and worked upwards in the scale, with the evident intention of obtaining at last corroborative evidence from a director. the girl turned, and, gazing at the rows of books, found she could not read the titles clearly. one of the lads of the stall came with a book in his hand, recommending it to her notice; written by a new chap, he mentioned confidentially, and highly interesting. gertie pulled herself together, and gave attention. "thank you," she said, "but it's the work of a cousin of mine." the lad put clarence mills's novel down, and took up a pocket edition of "merchant of venice." "in that case," he remarked, "i suppose it's no use showing you anything written by your uncle william." trew came at a run, saving her the necessity of thinking of an answer. mr. henry was now on the arrival platform, right across where a finger pointed; gertie was to wait until a scarlet handkerchief showed itself, and she begged him very earnestly not to give the signal unless it appeared to be well justified. a train, that had received no education in the art of reticence, came to an intervening set of lines, and gertie's anxiety increased; she hurried down the platform to a point from which it was possible to see the meeting. henry was engaged in conversation with a great western official; mr. trew, in going past, turned and, with a great air of wonder, recognized him. gertie noted with satisfaction that henry's greeting was hearty and unrestrained. mr. trew indicated a superior carriage standing near; she knew, from his gestures, that he was describing the uncovered conveyances recalled from his early youth. "oh, do make haste!" she urged under her breath. they moved a few steps together, and henry interrupted conversation with an inquiry. mr. trew, astonished to the extent of taking off his hat, gave a wave with it in the direction of platform number one, and henry spoke eagerly. mr. trew took out his scarlet handkerchief, rubbed his face. "now," cried henry, advancing delightedly to meet her, "i wonder what the chances were against our meeting here?" "it is rather unexpected, isn't it?" "where," he hesitated, "where is mr. bulpert?" "i really don't know," she replied, smiling. "we're not engaged any longer." "good news!" he cried with emphasis. "that is to say, it's good news if you wished the engagement to cease." "i wasn't sorry." he took her elbow, and glanced around. mr. trew was examining a set of milk churns with the air of an experienced dairyman. "isn't it amazing," said henry, "how one lucky moment can change the appearance of everything? i've been feeling lately that nothing could possibly come right, and now--" "we mustn't go on too fast," she interposed sagely, "because that only means more disappointment. you haven't heard yet about my father. listen whilst i tell you about him." gertie waited, as she went on, for a relaxation in the pleasant hold on her arm, but this did not come. when she had said the last word, he nodded. "i knew all about this long before you did," he said. "the information came from my sister-in-law. she had discovered the facts, and felt disappointed, i think, to find that i was not greatly impressed. of course, you're not responsible for his actions any more than i can be held liable for the behaviour of jim langham. jim is a much worse nut than your father; he hasn't any excuse for his conduct. forged his sister's name to a big cheque, and, naturally, he has disappeared. i am giving him time to get away before i say anything about it to her." "may be leaving england now, i suppose?" "i hope so; but we needn't bother about him. let us talk about ourselves, just as we used to do. do you remember, dear girl?" "i recollect it," she admitted. "every moment, and every step, and every word. it will always be something good for me to look back upon, when i'm older." he bent down to her. "we'll look back upon it together," he said affectionately. "no!" the official to whom henry had been speaking begged pardon for interrupting; the train, he announced, would be about five minutes late. gertie thanked him with a glance that, at any honestly managed exchange office, could be converted into bank notes. "has your view of me altered, then?" he asked. "my view of you," she replied steadily, "is exactly the same that it always has been, ever since i first met you. i like you better--oh, a lot better--than any one else in the world, and i know that if you married me you'd do all you could to make me happy and comfortable. but i shouldn't be happy and comfortable. i've got to look forward; and when i do that, there's no use in shutting my eyes. i can see quite clearly what would happen. you'd have this large house down in the country, and you would ask friends there, and i should make blunders, and, sooner or later, you'd be certain to feel ashamed of me." "i don't agree, dear," he said with emphasis. "anyhow let us try the experiment. i am sure you overestimate the distance between us. think how well we used to get along together." "if life was all summer evenings and primrose hill," she remarked, "i might stand a chance. but it isn't. your life is going to be that of a country gentleman in berkshire; my life is going to be that of a well-paid worker in great titchfield street." "wish i could find some method," he cried vehemently, "of giving events a twist. i'd much rather go on in my own profession. i'm making my way slowly, but i'm making it for myself, and i--i want you for company." he gave a gesture of appeal. "can't you see how much it means?" "we've got to take matters as they are, and not as we should like them to be. and it isn't as though i'd only got myself to think about. there's you. if i didn't care so much for you, it might be different." "for the moment," protested henry douglass, "i find myself wishing, dear, that you were not quite so sensible. we will talk about this again, won't we? let me call at praed street." "rather you didn't," said gertie, "if you don't mind, because i shall never change my decision. and i wish i could explain how sorry i am it hasn't all come right." she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "give me a kiss before we say good-bye." "we're to say a lot of other things to each other," he asserted determinedly, "but we are never to say that! stay here, until i have seen these people into the railway omnibus. please!" the train came slowly; the engine with the air of one that had, in its time, hurt itself by violent contact with buffers; a line of porters edged the platform, ready to seize brass handles of compartments so soon as the train stopped. gertie stood behind a trolley, and watched the crowd of alighting passengers. she caught sight of lady douglass and miss loriner: lady douglass carrying her small dog, and apparently more authoritative than ever in manner; her companion nursing a copy of clarence's book. henry and rutley went to the rear van to see to the luggage, and presently returned; rutley talked animatedly, henry's features exhibited surprise. the railway omnibus was found; transfer of luggage began. "my dearest, dearest!" cried henry excitedly. "listen to me; hear the great news rutley has brought. my brother arrived home last night. the good fellow is safe and sound. he came down from here, from paddington, and called at ewelme to get some important papers he wanted. heard lady douglass's voice--she happened to be annoyed about something--and left without seeing her. this means--don't you see?--that i have nothing now to bother about, excepting my work. and you!" she had a difficulty in finding words. "mr. langham did not meet a ghost, then." "i'm going to see the boat train off at victoria," he went on rapidly, "and i shall be back at praed street in an hour. less than an hour. we'll go out to lunch together." "i'll wait for you there!" promised the happy girl. love under fire _by_ randall parrish author of my lady of the south; keith of the border etc. with five illustrations in full color _by_ alonzo kimball contents chapter i between the lines. ii after the despatch-bearer. iii a friend rather than an enemy. iv the coming of dawn. v acquaintances, not friends. vi a bold front. vii a woman's prisoner. viii the coming of the enemy. ix important news. x miss willifred intervenes. xi the return of le gaire. xii an attempt at escape. xiii i meet le gaire. xiv across the river. xv i meet an ex-slave. xvi a call to duty. xvii beginning the night adventure. xviii overheard conversation. xix le gaire forces a decision. xx we arrive at a crisis. xxi we capture the house. xxii miss willifred declares herself. xxiii the challenge. xxiv i become a famous swordsman. xxv the end of the duel. xxvi miss willifred surprises us. xxvii the body of le gaire. xxviii i force billie to listen. xxix the mystery deepens. xxx under new orders. xxxi the disappearance of billie. xxxii we repulse the enemy. xxxiii miss billie reappears. xxxiv her story. xxxv the dead man. xxxvi the last stand. xxxvii the mystery solved. xxxviii the coming of the night. illustrations she paused in the doorway, an exceedingly pretty picture. "i won't stand this! you're hiding something. is this yank anything to you?" i forced the door shut, and stood with my back against it, the black muzzle of my colt staring them in the eyes. "i--i will listen," she said falteringly, "to all you have to say". we worked like fiends, firing as rapidly as we could lay hands to weapons. love under fire chapter i between the lines i had drifted slowly across the river, clinging with one arm thrown over a log, expecting each moment the musket of some startled picket would spit red through the dark, and scarcely daring to guide my unwieldy support by the slightest movement of hand in the water. the splash of motion might mean death in an instant, for keen eyes, sharpened by long night vigils, were on the stream, and those who had ventured the deed before me had failed utterly. yet the southern bank remained silent, so black i could scarcely discern its vaguest outlines, while, by good fortune, the sweep of the current served me almost as well as a pair of oars. thus, trusting to luck, and without exerting a muscle, i finally came to a full stop on a narrow spit of sand, so far out in the stream i could scarcely touch bottom, until the sweep of the current drifted my log inward, and thus left me flat on the wet sand facing the bank, the wood-covered crest, as revealed dimly against the slightly lighter sky, appearing almost to overhang the water. this shadow served me well, yet did not invite to recklessness. there were surely pickets posted along here, because the gleam of camp-fires had been plainly visible during the early evening from the bluffs opposite, but there was nothing observable from where i lay, my head cautiously uplifted, peering across the log. it was several minutes before i even ventured to creep up the sand-spit into the denser blackness of the over-hanging bank, but, once there safely, i discovered the drift had landed me at the mouth of a narrow gully, apparently a mere crevice in the rocky shore-line. it was the occasional downpour of water after rain which had caused the accumulation of debris on which my log had grounded. at times the dry gulch would hold a roaring torrent, although now it was no more than a gash in the bank. i was not altogether certain within half a mile of where i was, but this made small difference, so far as my present purpose was concerned. the lines of the enemy were extended from the upper ford east as far as sailor springs, and i was certainly well within those limits, probably somewhat to the right of the centre. however, that was a minor detail, as it made little difference where i succeeded in penetrating the cordon of pickets, so long as i returned with the information sought. if i had, through mere chance, discovered a weak spot, then god was good. my heart beat rapidly as i stared blindly up into the black recess of that narrow defile, listening intently for the slightest unusual sound which would indicate the near presence of anything human. it was caution, not fear, however, which caused me to breathe quickly--my sole, overpowering dread being that i might have to return, and face sheridan with a report of failure. i preferred anything rather than that. i thought of his stern eyes as he looked me over in the late sunlight of the evening before; the sharp rasp in his voice, as he said, "geer, this is no boy's work," and the quiet, confident reply of my captain, "galesworth will do it for you, general, if any one can." the memory of that scene seemed to stiffen my nerves; i had to make good here in the dark, alone, and so, on hands and knees, i began creeping slowly up underneath the tangle of bushes. the path was steep and stony, so densely overhung with branches as to appear like a tunnel. there were loose stones which i had to guard against dislodging, and the drier leaves rustled as i pressed them, aside. this endeavor to avoid noise made progress slow. i must have been fully ten minutes, thus endeavoring to break through, seeing and hearing nothing alarming, yet constantly feeling an odd premonition of danger, when i finally attained the top of the bank, perhaps twenty feet back from the river, and looked out through a slight fringe of bushes. the first thing noticeable was the dull red glow of a fire, nearly extinguished, some few yards in advance. the little gleam of light thrown out as the wind stirred the smouldering embers served to reveal the dirty flap of a tent set up at the edge of a grove of saplings, and a horse, standing with lowered head, sharply outlined against the canvas. i could even perceive the deep-seated cavalry saddle, and catch the shine of accoutrements. all these details came to me in a sudden flash of observation, for, almost simultaneously with my rising above the edge of the bank, my ears distinguished voices conversing, and so closely at hand as to almost unnerve me. i gripped a root between my fingers to keep from falling, and held on motionless, striving to locate the speakers. they were to my left, scarcely four yards distant, yet so dimly revealed against the background of leaves i could tell nothing of their rank--merely that one was short, and heavily built, while the other, a much taller, and seemingly more nervous man, was wrapped in a long cavalry cape. it was his voice speaking, a rather peculiar voice, as though he possessed some slight impediment of speech. "do not look at it in that way, general," he protested earnestly. "i am not opposing your plan, but merely urging the extreme peril of the undertaking--" "human life cannot be considered at such a time, hardy," broke in the other warmly. "the cause for which we battle, the duty confronting us, outweighs all else. a life may be sacrificed, but that single life may save thousands." "true; very true. i am sufficiently a soldier to realize that. yet what you propose seems an impossibility. two aides have endeavored this service already, and failed, their lives forfeited. others stand ready to go the moment the word is spoken, but what possibility is there of success, that any volunteer could get through alive?" "practically none," admitted the other, his deep voice more grave. "there is only one in whom i feel the slightest hope, hardy; that is why i have sent for you. i naturally hesitate to say so, but i believe the moment has now come which demands this sacrifice. you recall the offer of service made us last night, major?" the man addressed took a single step backward, one hand flung up, as though warding off a blow. "you--" he stammered, "can you mean billie?" "yes; the south can have no more urgent need than now. these despatches must reach beauregard, and i must have the report from carroll. if the latter is not already in beauregard's possession, then it must be sought even in the enemy's camp. every hour of delay adds to our danger. if carroll is dead i must know it; if he has gained the information he was sent after, then i must have it. i can stand this waiting no longer--there is too much at stake. as you say two men have already fallen endeavoring to pierce the lines, and i doubt if there is a soldier in my command who could succeed. billie might have a chance, and i know no one else who would--do you? i sent for you to gain your consent, and i ask it, major, in the name of the south." the taller man remained silent, his hands clasped, and head sunk on his breast. finally he glanced up into the face of the other, with shoulders thrown back. "no hardy ever yet failed in duty," he said sternly, "nor will one now. where are the papers?" "in my tent, but the bearer will be safer not to come here for them. even my orderly may be a spy. an aide shall deliver them at three corners in an hour--will that be too early?" "no; which aide? there should be no mistake." "there will be none. i will send lieutenant west, and he shall act as escort as far as the outer pickets; beyond that--" "wit and good luck, of course. what is the word?" "'cumberland'; now listen, and repeat exactly what i say to billie." his voice fell into lower, more confidential tones, and, listen as i would, i could catch only now and then a word, or detached sentence. "the upper road"; "yes, the wide detour"; "coming in by the rear will be safer"; "that isn't a bad story"; "he's a tartar to lie too"; "just the thing, major, just the thing"; then, "but that's enough for the outlines; details must take care of themselves. let's waste no more time; there are only four more hours of darkness." the two men separated hurriedly with a warm hand-clasp, the stocky general entering the tent, and brusquely addressing some one within, while the major swung into the saddle of the waiting horse, and driving in the spurs rode swiftly away, instantly disappearing. there was no doubt as to my own duty. by the merest accident i had already become possessed of most important information. what it was all about was still only guess-work, yet it was evidently enough a most serious matter. i could better serve the cause of the union by intercepting these despatches, and running down this spy, than by carrying out sheridan's original instructions. and it seemed to me i could do it; that i already knew a way in which this might be accomplished. our army had held all this ground only a few months before, and i recalled clearly to mind the exact spot where the aide was to meet the despatch-bearer. the "three corners"; surely that must be where the roads met at the creek ford, with the log meeting house perched on the hill above. it would be to the west of where i was, and not more than two miles distant. chapter ii after the despatch-bearer i was cool-headed, and accustomed to this species of adventure, or i should never have been there. yet, i confess my nerves tingled as i crept cautiously forward through the fringe of bushes, seeking the exact spot where the major had disappeared down what must have been some species of road. there were sentinels posted about the tent; i saw the silhouette of one, and heard several voices conversing gruffly as i slunk past, yet could not definitely locate these last in the gloom. there was a little row of tents--three or four--back of the larger one occupied by the general; but these were unlighted and silent. i crept past them unobserved, emerging into a more open space, where my groping hands encountered wheel-tracks, and the beaten earth of a road. this apparently ran nearly east and west, as i recalled direction, and i turned to the right, bending low in the shadows, and advancing at a crouching run. seemingly there was nothing to obstruct progress. the noise of stomping and restless horses reached me from the left, evidence of a nearby cavalry or artillery camp; yet i saw no one, perceived no light even, until after advancing at least a quarter of a mile. then a sudden slight turn in the road brought me upon a rude shack, showing a blacksmith's fire glowing within, and the smith himself pounding busily away at an anvil. the gleam of the forge shot out redly across the road. as i crept closer i could perceive the figures of others lounging about inside--soldiers, no doubt, although i could not be certain. there was a ragged confederate cavalry jacket hanging over a rain-barrel just outside the window, and, getting hold of it, i slipped it on over my woollen shirt. the night air was chill, my clothes still damp from the river, and besides it might help later on. as i did this a rider came flying up the road, bending low over his pommel. he went past at a slashing gallop, his face showing an instant in the red glare of the flame. that, no doubt, would be the aide with the despatches, yet, in spite of his haste, he would have to wait to the end of the hour for billie. one or two of the men came lazily to the front of the shop to watch him go by, and i crouched down behind the rain-barrel until they went back again. then i skirted the bar of flame, and ran on down the road, a bit recklessly, fearing the horseman might get too far ahead. it was intensely dark, one of those dense nights when the blackness appears to press down upon one, and there were noises on either side to make me aware that i was in the midst of a great encampment. fires shone dimly through the trees, and i could hear voices and hammering. i supposed the road i was travelling ran directly through the main camp, with troops on either side, and, for that reason, was not patrolled by pickets. anyhow i passed without challenge, although i met a few fellows slinking along about as i was--soldiers out of bounds most likely, as afraid of me as i was of them. at least whenever i bumped into one, he got out of the way fast enough. and i never paused to explain--all i wanted to do was to arrive at those cross-roads in advance of billie. however i failed in this ambition, but merely because the road i was following did not keep on directly west, but drifted off toward the river. i only became aware of this change in direction when we intersected a cross-road, and then i ran squarely up against a picket-post, the men having a fire burning to keep them warm. the light of the flames revealed everything within a radius of a hundred feet, and i could distinguish a dozen infantrymen sitting and lying about, while a couple of others marched back and forth across the road. i wanted to get farther south, but had only wriggled through the bushes a few yards in that direction before sinking to my knees in mud and water, and being compelled to crawl back. there was nothing left except to circle the fire in the opposite direction, and come out on the road below. i must have used up a good quarter of an hour getting through. twice i made missteps, and some racket, but there was no challenge. i emerged at the opening of a small ravine, where i could lie down flat behind a low rock, and look back up the road, which ran down hill. i felt reasonably certain billie would have to come this way if he intended to cross the river at carter's ford, and i knew of no other place he could cross this side the big bridge. the aide would be riding with him, of course, and that would make me certain of my man when he came, although how i was ever going to manage was more than i had as yet figured out. i must have been there some twenty minutes, maybe more, burrowing down into the mud under the lee of the stone, staring straight up the hill at the fire. the post was relieved while i lay there, the fellows going off duty tramping past so close i could have touched them. i could still hear the tread of their feet when one of the new guard yelled out "halt!" and i saw two or three men spring up from around the fire, while the corporal in command ran out into the middle of the road. some sort of a rig was coming down the hill, with a cavalry officer--judging from his cape--riding along close beside it. i was not able to see very plainly the way the light fell, but the contrivance looked to me like one of those old-fashioned, two-wheeled carryalls, with a low top over it, and drawn by a horse not much bigger than a pony. the officer dug in his spurs and got ahead, leaning over to whisper to the corporal, who stepped back saluting. the carryall never stopped at all, the pony trotting along unconcernedly, and it was so dark beneath the top i could not see sign of anybody. it was a queer-looking outfit, but i had no doubt this would be billie, and the despatches. the officer was still riding ahead when they passed me, his cape blown up over his hat, and his head bent forward to make out the road, as though his eyes still remained blinded by the firelight. without definite plan, yet firmly determined not to be left behind, i squirmed across the road, ran up close to the carryall, and caught hold at the rear. the soldiers back in the glare saw nothing, while the mingled noise of hoofs and wheels left me unheard. i discovered my fingers grasping some narrow wooden slats, held up firmly against the back of the vehicle by a chain at each end. for a moment, running and hanging on as i was in total darkness, i was unable to figure out what sort of an arrangement this could possibly be. then i managed to feel it out with one hand--it was simply a shelf, capable of being lowered the length of the supporting chains, on which packages, or baggage, might be carried, while above was a roll of canvas, to be used as protection from rain. here was opportunity, and i went at it with eagerness. it proved a hard job, running over that rough road in the dark, while the pony trotted tirelessly, but i got those chains unfastened, one at a time, and then the shelf settled naturally down into position. it was narrow, and i felt some question as to the strength of the supports, but risking all this, managed to work my way up until i half lay, half crouched, along the slats, holding on grimly as the two wheels bounced briskly from side to side, threatening to send me sprawling out into the road. by this time the officer had reined back his horse, but was still out of sight, and i succeeded in unbuckling the straps, and lowering the strip of canvas over me, stuffing the edges beneath my body so as to keep them from flapping. i was tired and sore, but now reasonably safe, with my eyes at an opening through which i could gaze out. i began to feel happy, too, thinking of the surprise which was about to come to billie. we clattered on down a long slope, apparently making no effort to avoid noise. it seemed we must be drawing near the river, yet the night was so dark, and our passage so rapid, i could make out no familiar landmarks through my peep-hole. indeed i had about all i could do to hold on. we were halted twice, but a word from the officer passed us along safely. one picket-post had a fire glowing in close against the rocks, and the sergeant stood within a foot of me. i caught the word "cumberland," but whatever else of explanation may have been uttered failed to reach my ears, muffled as they were beneath the canvas. a few hundred yards beyond this point, at the end of a deep cut, the officer drew up his horse sharply, leaned over the wheel, and shook hands with the person inside. "i have attained my limit," he said. "that was our last picket-post back yonder, and my orders were strict. you know the road, of course." "perfectly, lieutenant," responded a low voice, muffled under the hood. "i have travelled it often before. i thank you so much, and think it will all come out right this time." "i have no doubt of that," he replied, with a little laugh. "hope i may renew the acquaintance under more pleasant circumstances. meanwhile, good luck and good-bye." he sat erect upon his horse, watching as we clattered past, appearing scarcely more than a dim shadow, yet i thought he held his hat in his hand. billie laid on the gad, however, as if to make up for lost time, and the pony trotted off at such a burst of speed as to keep me busy clinging to my perch. it was an exceedingly rough road, rutty and stony, up hill and down, while the pony condescended to walk on the steepest grades only, and occasionally took the declines at a gallop, the carryall bounding from side to side as though mad. apparently no fear of possible disaster disturbed billie, however, for i could hear every few moments the slash of a whip on the animal's flank. i knew that, by this time, we must certainly be well between the lines, but, for the life of me, could not determine where. i thought i knew the surrounding country as i had scouted over it for months, tracing roads and bridle-paths, yet i was puzzled now. if this road continued to run north and south, as it had back yonder, then we should have forded the river long before this, yet we had splashed through no water, nor did i recall our making any turn. one fact alone seemed certain: as i knew neither where we were, nor whither bound, and as we were already assuredly beyond the last confederate outpost, it behooved me to act as quickly as possible. billie was headed somewhere, and the sooner i stopped him the better--besides, my position was neither comfortable nor safe. i rolled off from the edge of the canvas, and, gripping the chains tightly, managed to sit up, in spite of the vicious pitching of the vehicle. billie's evident eagerness to arrive at his unknown destination only added to my own recklessness, and i hung on desperately, swearing a little, i fear, under my breath. chapter iii a friend rather than an enemy there was only one way in which i could hope to get in--through the back. that was an exceedingly ticklish job, yet i had tackled many a ticklish job before during the two years of my scouting service, and the knowledge of danger was merely the prick of a spur. the rusty buckles holding the flap in place resisted the grip of my fingers, and, opening a knife with my teeth, i cut the leather, severing enough of the straps so the entire flap could be thrown back, yet holding it down closely to its place until i was ready for action. through a narrow opening i could perceive a dim outline of the driver. he was at the right of the seat, leaning forward, so as to peer out from under the hood, loosened reins in one hand, a whip in the other. the darkness of the night enabled me to perceive little except a vague sense of shape, a head crowned by a soft hat, and an apparently slender figure. whatever slight noise i made was lost in the rattle of the wheels, while the driver, utterly thoughtless as to any danger menacing him from behind, concentrated his entire attention upon the road, and his efforts to accelerate the speed of the pony. the present opportunity was as good as i could ever hope for. i grasped the back of the seat with one hand, a revolver in the other, pressed back the flap with my shoulder, and inserted my head within. not until my voice sounded at his very ear did the fellow realize my presence. "pull up!" i said sternly. "not a movement now; this is a gun at your ear." there was a sharp catch of the breath, a half turning of the head in the surprise of the shock, but his hands held to reins and whip. tossed about as i was the fellow's coolness angered me. "pull up," i said; "do you think i'm playing with you?" he drew in on the reins, letting the whip drop between his feet, and the pony slowed down to a walk, and finally stopped. i could catch merely a glimpse of the man's profile beneath the broad brim of the hat, but his coolness and silence aroused my suspicions. "no tricks now," i threatened. "if you value your life do exactly as i say." "who are you?" it was a rich contralto voice, that of a boy rather than a man, the slight blur of the south distinguishable even in those few words. "only a yankee, son," i replied, satisfied i held the upper hand, and clambering in over the back of the seat. he shrank back from contact with me farther into the corner, but there was nothing in the slight movement to cause alarm. i laughed softly. "don't exactly admire my color of uniform, do you?" i asked easily. "well, i can't help that, and you'll not find me such a bad fellow if you act right. where were you going in such a hurry?" there was no answer. i could hear his rapid breathing, and catch a glimpse of a beardless cheek. "don't you intend to tell me?" still silence, the shapeless figure motionless. "come, billie," i urged, "what is the use of keeping up this game?" he straightened up in surprise, startled into speech. "you--you call me what? why do you say 'billie'?" "because i'm on. i haven't been hanging to the back of this outfit for the last eight miles just for fun, or exercise either. i'm after those despatches you're taking to beauregard." "oh!" "that's the state of affairs, and the sooner you hand over those particular papers, billie, the quicker this revolver play ends. where are they?" "i haven't any," the slightly tremulous note had gone out of the voice. it was firm with purpose now, even a bit sarcastic. "you've merely got on the wrong trail, yank. i reckon you mistook me for billie hardy." "i reckon i did," i returned, mocking him, "and i 'm still satisfied i've got the right party. you don't get out that easy, son; come now, produce." "suppose i don't." "then there won't be much argument," i returned sharply, beginning to lose patience. "i'll simply take them, if i have to shoot you first. come now, which shall it be?" he straightened up, convinced apparently of my intentions. "neither, mr. yankee," indignantly. "i told you once you were mistaken. now i'll prove it--see here!" the soft hat was whipped off the head, and the slender figure leaned forward to where the slight gleam of the stars rendered the face visible. "do you make war on women?" i was too astounded for reply; dumfounded, dazed by this evidence of my stupidity. this was a woman beyond all doubt--her hair, released by the sudden removal of the hat, swept in a dark wave over her shoulders, and she flung it back with a movement of the hand. the gleam of the stars gave me the contour of her face, and the sparkle of her eyes. a woman, young, pretty--and actually laughing at me, her white teeth clearly visible. whatever of conceit or audacity may be part of my nature, deserted me in a flash, and i could only stare in helpless amazement. "my god! i believe you are!" i ejaculated at last, the words bursting forth unconsciously. "how could i have made--who are you anyhow?" the restrained laughter rippled forth, as though the expression of my face appealed to her sense of humor. evidently the lady was no longer afraid of me, nor greatly distressed over the situation. "isn't it too funny," she exclaimed cheerfully, "and won't billie laugh about this when i tell him!" "maybe he will," i acknowledged rather regretfully, "but it doesn't make me laugh." then a vague suspicion gripped me. "why did you think i took you for billie?" "why, that was what you called me, wasn't it? the officer who escorted me past the pickets said billie hardy was going to try to run the lines to-night. so it was easy enough to guess who you were after, mr. yankee. it was lucky for billie you got me instead--or for you," she added doubtfully. "oh, i guess i would have pulled through." "maybe," the tone decidedly provoking, "but i reckon you don't know billie." she began to gather up her hair, coiling the strands about her head carelessly, and i watched the simple operation, all the life gone out of me, unable to decide what to do. it was useless to go back; almost equally useless to go forward. i had no information to take into our lines of any value, and had failed utterly in my efforts to intercept the important despatches for beauregard. the knowledge of my mistake stung me bitterly, yet i could blame no one for the failure except myself. the apparent carelessness of the girl puzzled me--why should she be so completely at her ease in this adventure? only at the first had she exhibited the slightest excitement. this seemed hardly natural--alone, thus suddenly attacked by a stranger, an enemy, and openly threatened. "you seem perfectly contented," i said. "are you not frightened?" "frightened!" and she paused in her hair-dressing to bend slightly forward so as to look into my shadowed face. "why, of course not; why should i be?" "but i am a stranger to you--a yank. you are on the other side, are you not?" "oh, of course," her lips revealing again the white teeth. "but i don't think all yankees are demons. i don't believe you are. i like your voice. you see, i was educated in the north, and so am not prejudiced. please won't you take off your hat, just for a minute?" i did so, almost mechanically, not even realizing why she asked, until she bent forward, her eyes on my face. "no, i am not frightened with you. i was just a little, at first, of course, but not now. you look as though you would fight too, but not with a woman." she stopped with an odd little shrug of the shoulders. "what do you expect me to do--sit here all night?" i looked about into the darkness, suddenly recalled to the absurdity of our situation by this question. the stars were glittering overhead, yielding a dim light, yet nothing around us afforded any guess as to where we were. the pony stood with drooping head, his flanks still heaving from his late run. to the right the ground appeared open and level, a cultivated field, while upon the other side was a sharp rise of land covered with brush. it was a lonely, silent spot, and my eyes turned back inquiringly to my companion. "why, no," i replied rather foolishly. "but i confess i am all at sea just now; where are we?" it seemed very easy for her to laugh, and evidently my confession was amusing. "you must pardon me," she excused herself, "but i thought you were a scout." "i am," vexed at her propensity to poke fun. "i have been detailed for that service for more than two years. moreover, i was a good enough scout to pass within the lines of your army to-night, and to travel the whole length of your camp--" "and then get lost an hour later," she interrupted archly. "tell me, do you know the points of the compass?" "certainly; that is north, and this road runs west, but i have no recollection of it. what puzzled me was our failure to cross the river." "oh," with a quick glance toward me. "that is easily explained; we turned the corner of the bluff instead. this is the old road to jonesboro, and has been used very little since the new road was opened. i chose it because i thought i would be less likely to meet with any chance travellers." i began to comprehend more clearly where we were. the extreme right of the position held by our army would be, at least, ten miles east, and the confederate left scarcely nearer. beauregard was off in here somewhere,--at bird's ferry according to our camp reports the evening previous. this knowledge prompted me to ask, "which way is the river?" "to the right about three miles." "and bird's ferry?" i could not be certain she smiled, yet i thought so. "yonder," pointing. "the river curves to the south, and this road comes down to it at jonesboro; there is a bridge there. the ferry is fifteen miles farther up." the apparent innocence of her answer completely disarmed me. indeed these facts were exactly as i remembered them now that i had our present position in mind. the peculiar winding course of the river would leave me nearer our lines at jonesboro than where we then were. indeed foraging parties were covering much of the territory between, and it was the nearest point where i could cross the stream otherwise than by swimming. "are you going to jonesboro?" i asked. she nodded silently. "then may i ride that far with you?" i asked, rather doubtful of what she would say to such a request. "of course you will be aiding the enemy, for i expect to discover some of our troops in that neighborhood." "how can i help myself?" banteringly. "you are a man, and armed. practically i am your prisoner." "oh, i don't want you to feel that way toward me. i have acted as a gentleman, have i not, ever since i understood?" "you certainly have, and i am not ungrateful. then you do not order me to take you; you merely ask if i will?" "that is all." "and that sounds so much better, i think. i don't mind your being a yankee if you continue to act that way. shall i drive?" "if you will; you know the road, and the tricks of the pony." she laughed again, gathering up the reins, and reaching down after the whip. at the first movement the little animal broke into a brisk trot as though he understood his driver. chapter iv the coming of dawn the road was rough, apparently little travelled, and our lively passage over it not greatly conducive to conversation. besides i hardly knew what to say. the consciousness of total failure in all my plans, and the knowledge that i would be received at headquarters in anything but honor, weighed heavily upon me, yet this depression did not seal my lips half as much as the personality of the young woman at my side. pleasant and free as her manner had been, yet i was clearly made to realize there was a distinct limit to any familiarity. i could not define the feeling, but it had taken possession of me, and i knew the slightest overstepping of the boundaries would result in trouble. we were neither enemies nor friends; merely acquaintances under a temporary flag of truce. no doubt, trusting me as an honorable soldier, even though wearing an enemy's uniform, she was almost glad to have my protection along this lonely road, but, when the time came to part, she would be equally relieved to have me go. i was nothing to her; if ever remembered again it would be merely to laugh over my discomfiture in mistaking her for another. it hurt my pride to think this, to thus realize her complete indifference. she was a young woman, and i a young man, and nothing in my nature made surrender easy. i desired, at least, to leave behind me some different impression of my own personality. i was not a fool, nor a failure, and i could not bear to have her conceive me as a mere blundering block-head, a subject for subsequent laughter. the silence in which she drove stirred me to revolt. apparently she felt no overwhelming curiosity as to whom i was, no special desire to exchange further speech. the flapping of the loosened curtain was annoying, and i leaned over and fastened it down securely into place. she merely glanced aside to observe what i was doing, without even opening her lips. "this is a miserably gloomy road," i ventured desperately. "i wonder you dared to travel it alone at night." "its very loneliness makes it safe," was the response, rather indifferently uttered. "meeting others was the very thing i was most anxious to avoid." "indeed! you are tantalizing; you cannot expect me to be devoid of curiosity." "of course not," turning her face toward me, "neither can you expect me to gratify it." "you mean you could not trust me?" "rather that you would not believe me, if i did. the reason for this trip is so simple and commonplace that if i were to confess its purpose to you, you would suppose i were attempting deceit. oh, yes, you would, so i might just as well remain still. besides it can make no difference anyway. when we reach jonesboro this morning you will go back to your army, and i shall meet friends. there is scarcely one chance in a thousand we shall ever see each other again. we are the merest strangers--enemies, indeed, for i am a rebel clear through. we don't even know each others' names." "do you care to know mine?" she hesitated, and i thought her eyes dropped. "i--i hardly know," doubtfully. "yet you have been very kind, and, perhaps, sometime i might serve you. yes, you may tell me." "robert galesworth." "of what rank?" "lieutenant, ninth illinois cavalry, but detailed for special service." "thank you. i--i am rather glad you told me." "and you," i insisted, determined this confidence should be mutual. "may i not, in return, be told your name?" "i am willifred gray," she said quietly. "that is all--just willifred gray." there was something about the manner in which she said this which held me silent. i should have liked to ask more, a second question trembling on my lips, but the words would not come. it was altogether new to me, this fear of offending a woman, so new it almost angered, and yet something about her positively held me as though in bonds. to this day i do not know the secret of it, but i sat there silently staring out into the night. i could see a little now, becoming aware that dawn was approaching, the sky shading to a dull gray in the east, and casting a weird light over the landscape. it was a gloomy scene of desolation, the road a mere ribbon, overgrown with grass and weeds, a soggy marsh on one side, and a line of sand-hills on the other, sparsely covered by some stunted growth. far away, across the level, my eyes caught a glimmer of water, locating the river, but in no direction was there any sign of a house, or curl of smoke. the unproductive land--barren and swampy--sufficiently accounted for lack of inhabitants, and told why it had been avoided by the foragers of both armies. seeking safety the girl had chosen her course wisely--here was desolation so complete as to mock even at the ravages of war. the gray in the east changed to pink, delicately tinting the whole upper sky, objects taking clearer form, a light breeze rustling the long grass. tirelessly the pony trotted, his head down, the lines lying loose. i turned to gaze at my companion, and our eyes met. hers were either gray or blue; i could not be certain which, so quickly were they lowered, and so shadowed by long lashes. and they were merry eyes, smiling, and deep with secrets no man could hope to solve. perhaps she deemed it only fair that i should look at her as she had been observing me; perhaps it was but the coquetry of the "eternal feminine" conscious of her own attraction, but she sat there silent, the lashes shading her eyes, the clear light of the dawn upon her face. i cannot describe what i saw, only it was a young face, the skin clear and glowing with health, the nose beautifully moulded, the throat white and round, the red lips arched like a bow, and a broad forehead shadowed by dark hair. she had a trooper's hat on, worn jauntily on one side, crossed sabres in front, and her shoulders were concealed by a gray cavalry cape. suddenly she flashed a glance at me, her eyes full of laughter. "well, mr. lieutenant galesworth, have you looked long enough?" the swift question confused me, but i found answer. "no; but as long as i dare. you were observing me also." "naturally--womanly curiosity is my excuse. would you like to know what conclusion i came to?" "from your eyes it may not prove altogether flattering." "oh, my eyes are not to be trusted. i warn you frankly of that at the very start. all i shall say is you appear better than i had expected--only, really, you need a shave." "better how? in what way?" "well, younger for one thing; somehow your statement that you were a lieutenant made me suspect your age--or possibly it was your voice." "i am twenty-four." "and look to be scarcely twenty. how did you ever gain a commission? were you in battle?" the question decidedly hurt my pride, yet i managed to control my tongue. "i have met colonels in both armies no older than i," i returned swiftly. "of course i have been in battle, wounded for the matter of that, and three months a prisoner." "oh, i did not mean to question your right to the shoulder straps. war makes men fast; i know that for my home has been in the track of both armies." "you live in this neighborhood?" "yes, about twenty miles south of where we are now. shall i tell you what i am doing here?" i bowed, eager to learn although i had not been brash enough to inquire. "you have been wondering all night," carelessly. "if you had asked i should have refused to answer, but will now reward your remarkable patience with a full confession. i am going to take quinine back to our hospitals. i won't tell you where i am going to get it," a bit defiantly, "although i am not afraid you would try to stop me." "certainly not; why should i?" "there are plenty of yanks who do; the last messenger was shot by your raiders, and the whole consignment lost. he was my cousin; that is why i am trying what i can do--the boys need it so badly. if you are an honorable soldier you will not interfere with a work of mercy." "an honorable soldier!" i exclaimed, stung by the words. "do you question that?" "not until after daylight came, and i noticed how you were clothed," and her eyes lost all gleam of humor. "i respect a scout, but despise a spy." my cheeks flamed, as i realized what she meant--the tattered gray jacket, buttoned tightly, and concealing my blue blouse. in swift disgust i wrenched it open, and flung the garment into the road. "i had entirely forgotten i had the thing on," i explained hastily. "don't condemn until you hear my story. you will listen, will you not?" she sat silent, looking intently into my face, with merely the slightest inclination of the head. "i came into your lines dressed just as i am now, drifting across the river behind a log. it was my third attempt to get through your pickets, and this time i succeeded. i found myself in thick brush near a cluster of tents, and overheard two officers talking. one was a major by the name of hardy--do you know him?" "yes," a swift little catch in her voice. "the other was a shorter, heavier-set man, out-ranking hardy." "speaking with short, crisp sentences," she interrupted, "and wearing a heavy beard?" "he spoke that way--yes; but as to the beard i could not say owing to the darkness." "it must have been general johnston." "i thought as much. the two were discussing the getting of despatches through to beauregard, and decided no one could succeed but a fellow they called billie, some relative or friend of hardy's. it was all arranged he should try it, and the major started off to complete arrangements. an aide, with the despatches, was to meet the messenger at the 'three corners,' where the little log church is, and then accompany him through the pickets. it was plainly enough my duty to intercept these if i could, but in order to do so i must pass through two miles of the confederate camp, meeting soldiers almost every step of the way. that was when i stole the jacket, and slipped it on, and never thought of it again until you spoke." she was leaning forward now, intensely interested, her lips parted, the quick breath revealed by the pulsing of her breast. "and--and you got to the 'three corners'?" "to a point just below. i ran most of the way, and then had to crawl through the bushes to get around a picket-post, but i believed i was there in plenty of time. then you came rattling down the hill, with an officer riding along beside you, and, of course, i mistook you for billie. i jumped your outfit in the hollow." she flung up her hands in expressive gesture. "were you hanging there all that time--even before the lieutenant left?" "i certainly was; hanging on for dear life too. my limbs are black and blue. i never saw a pony travel like that little devil." she burst into an unrestrained ripple of laughter, scarcely able to speak, as the full humor of the situation appealed to her. no doubt the expression of my face did its part, but she certainly found it most amusing. in spite of myself i had to smile in sympathy. "oh, that was too good; i shall have to tell the general. well, i helped billie hardy out that time, didn't i? i reckon you don't see much fun in it though." "no, i don't," frankly, "yet i cannot say i am entirely sorry." "indeed," sobering instantly because of my earnestness. "i cannot understand that--the despatches have gone through." "without doubt. from a military standpoint i surely regret my failure. but if i had intercepted billie i should never have met you." "oh!" "nor come to know you." again the girl laughed, and i noticed the dimple in her cheek, the gray-blue eyes glancing up at me mockingly. "don't flatter yourself that you do," she retorted pleasantly, "for you might be mistaken altogether." chapter v acquaintances, not friends the manner in which this was uttered made me feel that she was in earnest. indeed i was already beginning to realize that this young woman was an enigma, her moods changing so rapidly as to keep me in a state of constant bewilderment--one moment frank, outspoken, friendly; the next hiding her real self behind a barrier of cold reserve which i seemed helpless to penetrate. yet this very changeableness was attractive, keeping my mind constantly on the alert, and yielding her a peculiar charm. as she spoke these words her eyes encountered mine, almost in challenge, which i met instantly. "perhaps not--but i shall." "oh, indeed! is this conceit, or determination?" "the latter assuredly. why is it not possible for one to know you?" "really i cannot tell," not altogether displeased at my decision, "yet it would border upon a miracle, for i do not even know myself. besides i doubt your having the opportunity for sufficient study--that is jonesboro yonder." the road rounded the crest of a sharp hill, and, from off the summit, we could look directly down into the river valley. except for little groves of scrub oak it was open country, the broad stream showing clearly between green banks, with few cultivated fields in sight. we had turned toward the north, and the straggling town lay directly in front two miles away, so hidden behind trees the houses were scarcely distinguishable; a quarter of a mile below was the bridge. i stood up, thrusting my head beyond the carriage cover, so as to see better. to the west the woods concealed everything. it was somewhere in that direction beauregard's troops were encamped, yet, even if they were already advancing to unite with johnston, they would hardly cross the country so far to the north. knowing the situation as i did i felt little fear of any encounter with confederates. our cavalry were patrolling all the roads across the river, and, as late as the previous day, were guarding the jonesboro bridge. i could see no signs of any such guard now, however, yet the trees were thick and obscured the view, and that heavy dust cloud to the right was probably caused by the passing of a troop of horse. convinced that this would prove to be either a cavalry vidette, or a federal foraging party, it made me more anxious to get quickly down into the town, hopeful they might have a spare horse with them, and i pointed out the dust spirals to my companion. "if you have friends in jonesboro," i said, "i've also got some coming." "who are they?" her eyes on the distant dust. "yankees?" "certainly; there are none of your people on that side of the river. beauregard is out yonder in those hills. let's drive on, the town looks quiet." she leaned forward, holding to the edge of the carriage cover to keep her balance, her glance turning toward the southwest. "if those are your people they mustn't see me," she said quietly, a little accent of pleading in her voice. "you promise that first?" "of course," although surprised at her asking. "i know it is our orders to intercept everything which can aid the enemy, but i don't feel inclined to prevent your taking quinine to the poor fellows in the hospital. war hasn't made me as inhuman as that. we can easily reach the town ahead of that squad of cavalry, and if you have some safe place there to go, and will only keep indoors, there is no danger of discovery." "i have," eagerly, "judge moran's house; you can see its gable there among the trees. he is so old he has not even been conscripted." she laughed, flashing a look aside at me as she shook the reins and applied the whip. "i wonder what he will think when he sees me driving up alongside a yankee. it will be like the end of the world. no, don't talk to me any more; i've got to conjure up a nice, respectable story to tell him." she remained very quiet as we rattled down the hill, her forehead puckered, her gaze straight ahead. suddenly she asked, "do you sometimes tell falsehoods?" "guilty." "are they ever justified?" "well, really i don't know; from the standpoint of the strict moralist i presume not; but it is my judgment the strict moralist wouldn't last long in time of war." i was amused at the earnestness with which she looked at me, apparently weighing my words as soberly as though they had important meaning. "what's the trouble? if there is any prevaricating to be done, turn it over to me--i have become an expert." "no doubt," her face brightening, "but i must attend to this case myself. judge moran will have to suppose you a confederate spy. no, not a word of protest will i listen to. if you go along with me, it must be exactly as i say; there is no other way, for otherwise he would never receive you into the house." "oh, very well," i replied indifferently, my eyes marking the swift approach of that distant squad of cavalry. "the masquerade will be short, and well worth while if it only earns me a breakfast with you." the toss of her head was hardly complimentary. we were in the tree-lined streets by this time, and suddenly she wheeled the pony in through an open gate-way. the house was large, painted white, of distinctly southern architecture, the broad stone steps surmounted by rounded pillars. on the porch a man sat smoking. he arose instantly, hat in hand, and came down to meet us. his was a tall, slender, slightly stooped figure, a finely chiselled face, the hair and beard white. his eyes, apparently as keen as ever, instantly recognized the girl, his stern features relaxing into a smile of welcome. "i am surprised and pleased to greet you, miss willifred," cordially bowing over her extended hand. "'tis a long while since we have seen you here." "not from any doubt of your hospitality, judge, but the armies have made travelling unsafe." "true; we live in constant peril. the yankees have driven off my negroes, and also robbed me of every horse on the place. your father, the major, is well?" "in most excellent health, thank you. he was wounded at chattanooga, but soon recovered. we had him at home with us for a month." "so i heard. a young louisiana officer, a captain le gaire, gave me news of your family. he was through jonesboro with a scouting party two days ago. he seemed very glad to talk about you, my dear." the girl's face flushed, as she withdrew her hand, attempting a laugh. "we are excellent friends, yet really it does not require any deep interest to induce captain le gaire to talk. that is one of his specialties." "i suspected as much, yet i found his conversation highly interesting. he is intelligent, and has travelled widely. but come, my dear, let me help you down. i am such an early bird i have breakfasted already, yet there will be something ready for you, and your companion." his gaze surveyed me for the first time, and he stepped back, his eyes darkening suspiciously. "but what have you here--a yankee?" "so far as uniform goes, yes," she answered lightly, descending over the wheel, and adroitly dodging a direct reply. "but all things are not as they seem, outwardly. surely, judge, you do not suppose i would ever harbor one of the enemy? if i vouch for the gentleman it should be sufficient." he took my hand cordially enough, yet with a question still in his keen old eyes. "i am glad to know you, sir. any friend of miss willifred's is a friend of mine, but i'm damned if i like that color." "the nature of my mission makes it necessary," i explained. "exactly, sir, exactly; i understand perfectly. alight, and come in, but you wear the first yankee uniform ever welcomed to my house. come right along, both of you. i've got one servant left, who will attend the pony." twenty minutes later we were breakfasting together in a cool, spacious room the windows of which opened upon the porch. the judge, after satisfying himself that we were being well served, had disappeared, leaving us alone. it was a beautiful morning, the birds singing outside, the sunlight sifting through the branches of the great oaks shading the windows. not a sound, other than the rustling of leaves, broke the silence. my companion appeared disinclined to talk, her eyes turned away from me. the constraint became so marked i endeavored to start conversation, but with poor result. "our meeting has been an odd one," i began, "romantic enough to form a basis for fiction." her glance shifted to my face. "do you think so? i merely find it extremely embarrassing." "then i will withdraw at once," i insisted, hurt by the indifference of her voice. "i had supposed you wished me to remain until now--surely your words implied this." "oh, yes! i did, and you are in no way to blame. it was an impulse, and i failed to realize that it would involve deceit to an old friend. perhaps i am too easily hurt, but i am afraid judge moran half suspects the truth. anyway you must go immediately." "we shall part as friends?" she hesitated, as though considering the full intent of my request. "hardly that, lieutenant galesworth. the word 'friend' should mean much, and we are merely chance acquaintances--politically enemies." "i had hoped that difference--merely the accident of war--might have been swept aside. it has no personal weight with me, and i supposed you were of broader mind." "i am," she responded earnestly. "some of my best friends are northerners, wearing that uniform, but, as it chances, we have met in war, playing at cross-purposes. you are a federal scout whom i have unwittingly helped through the confederate lines. surely i have done enough already to help you--perhaps to injure the cause i love--without being asked for more. under other conditions we might continue friends, but not as matters stand." "yet later--when the war ends?" "it is useless to discuss what may occur then. there is little likelihood we shall ever meet after to-day. indeed, i have no wish that we should." it was a dismissal so clearly expressed i could only bow, wondering what it was i saw in the depths of her eyes which seemed almost to contradict the utterance of the lips. "you leave me no choice." "there is none. i have no desire to be considered an enemy, and there is no possibility for us to become friends. we are but the acquaintances of a chance meeting." she held out her hand across the table, the impulsive movement robbing her words of their sting. "you understand this is not indifference, but necessity." i clasped closely the white fingers extended toward me, my heart throbbing, but my lips held prisoners by her eyes. "yes, i understand perfectly, but i make no promise." "no promise! what do you mean?" "only that to my mind this is no mere chance acquaintance, nor is it destined to end here. sometime i am going to know you, and we are going to be friends." "indeed!" her eyes dropped, the shadow of lashes on her cheeks. "you are very audacious to say that." "yet you are not altogether sorry to hear me say it." "oh, i do not take your words seriously at all. they are mere yankee boasting--" she stopped suddenly, the slight flush fading from her cheeks as she arose to her feet, staring out through the open window. it was the sound of horses' hoofs on the gravel roadway, and i sprang up also, endeavoring to see. a squad of troopers was without, dusty, hard-riding fellows, uniformed in confederate gray. chapter vi a bold front it was but a glimpse through the leaf-draped window of dust-caked horses, the bronzed faces of their riders, and the gray hair of judge moran, as he hastened down the steps to greet them. i saw one man swing down from his saddle, and advance toward the house, then a sharp catching of the girl's breath drew my attention toward her, and our eyes met. "you--you must not suppose i expected this," she faltered, "--that i have betrayed you." there was no doubting her earnestness, nor her disgust at such treachery. "not for a moment. but i must get away. are you acquainted with the house?" "yes; but two of the men rode around to the well. it would be impossible now to slip out the back way without discovery." she ran across the room, and flung open a door. "go in there and lie down; pretend to be asleep. if the judge does not inform them of your presence here it may never be suspected. if he does i must cling to the old story." i caught her hands, and in the excitement she seemed scarcely aware of the act. "you are willing to do this for me?" "i don't know what i do it for," a little nervous laugh in her voice. "when one once gets started into deceit there seems to be no end--but go quick! the officer is coming now." the room into which i was thrust was darkened by lowered shades, but the bookcases lining the walls proclaimed it a library. a comfortable leather couch occupied the space between the two windows. the door remained half an inch ajar, and, before i could close it, some one entered the dining-room. the first words uttered held me silent, listening. there was a heavy step on the uncarpeted floor, the jingle of spurs, and a startled exclamation from the girl. "you! why, i had no thought of meeting you here." "yet i trust you are not sorry," the voice deep, yet so low i lost an occasional word. "judge moran says you bear--" "hush," she interrupted quickly. "yes, and they must go on at once. what brings you here, gerald? a scouting party?" "we are beauregard's advance scouts; he is moving eastward." "then these papers must reach him at once. don't stop to ask questions, gerald, but send some man; have him kill his horse if necessary. oh, don't stand there looking at me, but go! i'll explain later." i heard the rustle of papers, the rapid movement of the man as he left the room, the quick breathing of the excited woman. then she crossed the room to the window, and the next moment a horse galloped past. my head whirled--then it was not quinine for the hospitals which had brought her through the lines; she had deliberately lied to me, and instead, was a bearer of despatches. sudden anger at the trick banished every other feeling; yet what could i do? my hand gripped the knob of the door, every nerve throbbing, when i heard the officer's voice again in the breakfast room. "he's off; now let's have the straight of all this, billie." billie! i grasped the full truth of it in an instant. lord! i had been a fool. the woman had played with me as though i were a mere child; had been laughing at me all night; and doubtless intended now to hand me over prisoner to this squad of gray-jackets. billie! the very person i was seeking; the only one who could hope to get through after all others had failed. and i had supposed "billie" was a man, never once thinking of the name as a pet feminine one of the south. the realization of all this confused me so that i missed a part of what was being said, and only aroused as the man spoke more sharply. "that's all right, of course; i understand what brought you here, but where is that fellow you had with you?" "who?" it was an indignant voice. "oh, you understand, miss innocence," a slight sneer in the utterance. "there was a man in your company when you arrived, dressed as a yank. moran told me so. you were breakfasting together--the table proves that." "well, what of it? i explained his presence to the judge. am i obliged to account for all my actions to every one i meet?" the officer, evidently acquainted with the lady's disposition, and aware that driving would never do, changed his tone, crossing the room toward her, and lowering his voice. "no, not to every one, billie, but surely you cannot deny i have some right to this information. would you wish me to be riding the country at night with a strange woman?" "if it became part of your duty--yes. i have no remembrance of ever interfering with your freedom, captain le gaire." i could hear the man's teeth click, as though in an effort to restrain an oath. "by god, but you are irritating!" he burst forth impetuously. "one would think i were no more to you than a stranger. this is no light affair to be laughed away. have you forgotten our engagement already?" "that is scarcely probable. you remind me of it often enough. don't crush my hand so." her provoking coldness was all that was needed to overcome the slight restraint the captain still exercised. instantly his real nature came to the fore. "then i'll make him do the explaining," he threatened fiercely. "i know how to deal with men. where is the fellow? in that room?" there was a brief silence. i could distinguish his rapid breathing, and the slight rustle of her skirts as she sank back into a chair. "well, are you going to tell me? or must i hunt for myself?" "captain le gaire," she began quietly, without even a tremor in the soft voice, "possibly you forget whom i am. the gentlemen of my acquaintance have never been accustomed to question the motives actuating my conduct. you imagine yourself talking to some darky on your louisiana plantation. is this the manner in which you propose treating me after marriage?" he laughed uneasily. "why, i meant nothing, billie. don't take it in that way. surely you understand i have a right to be curious as to your companion." "yes; but not to carry your curiosity to the point of discourtesy. i have not the slightest objection to answering your questions, if you only ask with some respect." "you always hold me at arm's length." "do i? well, this is hardly the best time to discuss that. what was it you wished to know?" "who is the fellow travelling with you?" "didn't the judge tell you?" "he said he was a confederate spy dressed in the uniform of a yankee lieutenant whom you had brought through the lines." "well, isn't that information sufficient?" the gallant captain again smothered an oath, evidently tried to the limit by the girl's cool indifference. "of course it isn't. that might answer for moran, for he has no personal interest in the affair. but it's altogether different with me. it's merely accident that i rode in here this morning, and i immediately discover the woman i am engaged to marry was out all night riding around with a stranger, eating breakfast with him when i arrive. do you suppose that is pleasant?" "no; yet my explanation ought to be sufficient." "explanation! you have made none." "oh, yes; judge moran told you the circumstances." i heard him stomp roughly across the floor, his spurs clanking. "explanation, nothing! who is the fellow?" "really i don't know." "don't know? do you mean to say you rode with him alone all night, and took breakfast with him this morning, without even learning his name?" "he said his name was galesworth, but i don't know that he told the truth." "you pretend indifference well," the man sneered. "it is no pretence; i am indifferent. why should i be otherwise? i am not interested in spies. i may assist one through the lines to serve the confederacy, but that is no evidence that i feel any personal interest in the man. anyhow that is the extent of my knowledge in this case, and i haven't the slightest desire to increase it. when are you going to ride on?" "not until i know more than i do now," he retorted savagely. "there is something hidden here. you are pretending all this indifference so as to give that fellow sufficient time to get away. i'm damned if i put up with it." "captain le gaire," and she was upon her feet, "do you venture to address such language to me? do you dare--" "i am no dupe of yours or of any other woman," he broke in, too angry now to restrain his words. "there is something wrong here, and i mean to know what it is. if you won't tell, i'll find out myself." he strode across to the window and called to some one below. "slade, come in here." there was a moment of waiting, during which neither stirred, nor spoke. then the trooper entered, his heels clicking together as he saluted just within the doorway. "sergeant," said le gaire shortly. "i have reason to suspect there is a man hidden in that room yonder. i'll keep an eye on this young lady, while you find out." slade took a step forward, and the girl's dress rustled. "wait just a minute, sergeant," she said briefly. "am i to understand from this, captain le gaire, that you are not only a bully, but also a coward?" "a coward!--" "yes, a coward. you order the sergeant to open that door--why do you not open it yourself?" he laughed rather unpleasantly. "so that's the trouble? well, it's merely a way we have in the army, but if it will greatly oblige you i'll do the job." it was useless waiting longer; the room offered me no possible hiding-place, the two windows looked down on the waiting cavalrymen. beyond doubt boldness was the best card to play. before the rather reluctant captain could take a second step i flung open the concealing door, and came forth into the breakfast room. chapter vii a woman's prisoner the scene before me, the expression on the three faces, caused me to smile. i came forth with no definite plan of action, trusting, as one must at such times, wholly to luck. there was no means of escape apparent, yet my mind was cool, and i was prepared to take advantage of any opportunity. i saw the flash of the sergeant's revolver, the captain's sudden recoil, his hand tugging at his sword-hilt, and glimpsed something in the depths of billie's eyes that puzzled me. "good-morning, gentlemen," i said easily. so far as slade was concerned it was evident that all he saw was the uniform, his revolver instantly covering me, held in a hand steady as rock; he even grinned amiably across the barrel. but the expression on le gaire's face changed from startled surprise to relief. he was a tall man, with dark hair and eyes, a black moustache shading his lip, and his hand fell from the hilt of the sword as he took an uncertain step toward me. "drop that gun-play, sergeant," he exclaimed sharply. "this man _is_ all right; i know him." too astounded myself for speech, i could only stare back into the captain's face, seeking vainly to recall ever having seen the fellow before. not the slightest recollection came to me, but le gaire blundered on, blinded by his discovery. "didn't know you had gone into this sort of thing," he exclaimed cordially, holding out his hand. "last i heard your regiment was in new orleans. don't remember me, do you?" i shook my head, so completely puzzled by this unexpected turn of affairs that speech became dangerous. perhaps he would give me some clue to my new identity, which would enable me to carry out the masquerade. "your face is familiar," i ventured, "but--" "oh, no excuses," he broke in cordially. "i was a guest at your mess one night when we were garrisoning memphis. i am le gaire, of the third louisiana. i sang you fellows some french songs, you may remember." "oh, yes!" and my face visibly brightened, as i grasped his fingers, wondering who the devil i might be, yet exceedingly overjoyed at this sudden change of fortune. "we had a gay night of it. i wonder you recognize me in these rags." "well, i don't suppose i should," he exclaimed, "only you happened to be pointed out to me specially that evening. it was just after your duel with major gillette of ours. between us, i don't mind admitting i was glad you punctured that fellow--it saved me the trouble." "perhaps if you gentlemen are through with reminiscences," broke in the girl quietly, "captain le gaire might present me to his new friend." "but i thought you knew him already!" she laughed lightly, her eyes aglow with merriment. "oh, no, indeed! it is all a most wonderful mix-up." "then it will be a pleasure for me to bring order out of confusion--miss hardy, major atherton of general pemberton's staff." "atherton!" she gasped. "i--i thought your name was galesworth." "hardy!" i retorted, simulating equal surprise, "and i supposed your name to be gray." le gaire looked at us, vastly amused, all his former jealousy and suspicion instantly dissipated by this evidence of misunderstanding. "you certainly must have had a merry night of it, you two--trying to outlie each other, and with honors about even. however, the tangle is straightened out now, and we must be on our way. what are you trying to do, atherton,--get to the rear of the yanks?" "yes," i answered, with some hesitation, and glancing aside at the girl. i could not determine how much of all this she actually believed, or how far i might venture to carry forward the deceit. her eyes were upon me, but their shaded depths revealed nothing. i determined to take the chance. "johnston requires more exact information as to the yankee artillery, and thought i might get in around the right flank. i saw a dust cloud across the river as we came into town." "a foraging party; they went west; we have the bridge guarded." "beauregard's advance may hurry johnston," i continued, eager to draw out of him some information of value. "how came he to move without orders?" "he concluded so wide a gap was dangerous, and that johnston's despatch-carriers must have been unable to get through, so he began feeling his way east. the orders billie brought will undoubtedly hurry the advance." "they have gone forward then?" "certainly--i sent a man with them at once." i shot an inquiring glance toward her, but she had found a seat at the table, and was toying idly with a spoon, her eyes cast down. "and beauregard is marching along this road, i presume?" "no; back behind the hills where he runs no risk of being seen by any prowling yankee scouts. we are in advance on the left flank." i understood the movement clearly enough now, and realized the importance of getting this news to our headquarters. a swift advance of troops would throw a column between these two forces of confederates, and hold them apart for separate battle. but there was no time for delay. le gaire failed to comprehend my anxious glance out the open window. "we all better be at it," he said quickly. "by the way, with that cavalry uniform you ought to have a horse. we're leading one with yankee accoutrements you can use. come on, slade. miss hardy, i hope to see you at your own home in a few days." he bowed, hat in hand, the girl rising to her feet, as the sergeant left the room. she did not smile, her eyes flashing from his face to mine. "i may remain here until the armies leave this section," she replied quietly. "there is too much risk in travelling alone." "you might ride with us," he suggested gallantly. she shook her head, her lips smiling. "i think i better not." "does that mean you are still angry?" "i didn't know i had been, captain. perhaps i spoke rather hastily, but you must forgive that." her hand was extended, and he came a step back from the door to grasp it, and lift the fingers to his lips. with a fierce throbbing of the heart i turned my back to them, staring out the window. there was a low murmur of voices, and then the door clicked. i never moved, watching le gaire go down the steps, his men swing into their saddles, at a sharp order, and ride away in column of fours. when they had all disappeared a single horse remained, tied to the railing of the veranda. i turned about, and picked up my hat from the floor. miss hardy was seated again at the table, her head resting upon one hand. i could see the round, white arm where the sleeve fell away, and her cheeks were flushed. she did not lift her eyes at my movement, and, half angry at her studied indifference, i advanced straight toward the door. but there i hesitated, unable to part without at least another word. she was looking at me now. "may i hope ever to meet you again?" i asked. "i can promise nothing as to the future," she returned soberly. "but i wish to speak to you now, before you go. sit down here, just a moment." i hesitated, keen as to the value of time, yet curious as to what she would say, and swayed strongly by her influence. "you surely must understand how anxious i am to get away--" i began, but she broke in impulsively. "of course i do, but you must listen to me first." she had risen, and was leaning forward, speaking earnestly. "it is true we shall probably never meet again, yet i am not willing you should think me altogether a despicable character. i wish you to know whom i am, and why deceit was necessary." "my dear girl," i exclaimed, hastily crossing the room, "there is nothing to explain. i understand the circumstances." "no, not entirely," she insisted, "but it is my desire you should. i--i hardly know why, but--but i would rather have you think well of me. listen, please; i will be very brief. i am willifred gray hardy, and it was my father whom you overheard talking with general johnston. our home is south on the pike road, and was used as headquarters until a few days ago. i have known general johnston ever since i was a little girl, and everybody--all my friends--call me billie. of course you thought the courier was a man--it was only natural you should--and it was, therefore, easy for me to keep up the deceit--they trusted me, and i had to get those papers through." "of course you did," heartily. "surely you do not suppose i would think less of you for your loyalty?" "i hoped not; nor did i mean to let you go away thinking me a fool." "a fool!" thrown entirely from my guard. "how could i think that?" "by imagining that i believe you major atherton of pemberton's staff," with a little, nervous laugh, and quick uplifting of the eyes. "i was glad captain le gaire made the mistake, for i had no wish to see you a prisoner, but your quick pretending did not in the least deceive me, lieutenant galesworth." she paused, evidently amused at the surprise expressed in my face, yet with the lines of her lips setting firmly. "your questions regarding the movements of beauregard were most ingenuous, but i was able to comprehend your purpose." "you mean--" "that you propose bearing the news direct to federal headquarters. that is why you are in such a desperate hurry to get away." i took a step backward, reading the meaning of her eyes. "and you intend to prevent--" "exactly," her voice as quiet as ever. "i am a confederate still." she had changed her position, standing now between me and the closed door, the expression upon her face sufficient evidence of her determination. hers was no idle threat--this daughter of a soldier was ready for the struggle and the sacrifice. i recognized all this at a glance, bewildered by the swift change in attitude, unable to decide my own course of action. argument was useless, a resort to force repugnant. above all else the one overpowering feeling was admiration for the girl. she must have read all this in my eyes, yet her own never wavered, nor changed expression. "please do not make the mistake, lieutenant galesworth, of thinking me not sufficiently in earnest," she said firmly, "or that i am unprepared." "i do not; if you were only a man i should know exactly what to do." "your courtesy is misplaced; at least i do not ask it. this is war, and you are upon one side, i on the other. you will remain in this room until i say you may go." "what will hold me?--your eyes?--the mere threat of your lips?" "something rather more to the purpose than either," she answered coldly. her right hand, concealed by the folds of her skirt, was uplifted, the fingers grasping the black butt of a colt. her lips smiled. "i suppose you know the efficacy of this weapon, lieutenant, and that it is loaded." my hand dropped instinctively to my belt--the revolver holster was empty! it was my own weapon the girl held. chapter viii the coming of the enemy no matter how charming she may be, a man can never enjoy being outplayed at his own game by a woman. the piquant face fronting me swam in a mist as a sudden rush of anger swept from me all admiration. i had been played with, outwitted from the start, every movement checkmated--even now she was actually laughing at my helplessness. my first wild impulse was to spring forward, and wrest the revolver from her hand; yet there was that in her attitude, in the expression of her eyes, which made me hesitate. would she shoot? would the sense of duty to her cause actually induce her to fire at me? a moment before, i should not have deemed it possible, but now, it seemed to me, she was desperate enough to do even this. and that was a hair-trigger she fingered so recklessly! instead of leaping forward, i stood motionless, outwardly cool, yet with every nerve throbbing. she read all this in my face, no doubt, for her lips half smiled, her manner exhibited confidence. "oh, i can shoot," she said pleasantly enough, "so i wouldn't try that if i were you. now will you do exactly as i say?" i remained silent, my hands clinched. so this was the gentle creature i had been riding with, had even been falling in love with! this woman, now threatening me with death, was the same happy-hearted, laughing girl whose hand i had held, and to whom i had talked in words of friendship. i could scarcely realize the change, or comprehend this new development of character. the unpleasant situation was broken by the sound of steps in the hall. the door opened, and judge moran entered. miss hardy stepped instantly aside, concealing the revolver within the folds of her skirt, yet with watchful eyes on my face. moran glanced at us both without suspicion, and approached me with outstretched hand. "captain le gaire explained to me who you are, major," he said with new cordiality, "and i am very glad to receive you as my guest. are you one of the mobile athertons?" "no," i answered, flushing, and avoiding her amused eyes, yet not daring to blurt out the truth, "i come from farther north." "exactly; i recall now there are athertons in memphis and nashville, delightful people, the real, old southern stock. i regret greatly to learn from le gaire that duty compels you to leave at once." "major atherton has changed his plans," broke in the girl, before i could respond. "the advance of beauregard's forces makes it safer for him to remain quiet for a few hours,--until night comes. i was just suggesting that he go up to the red room and lie down--he is nearly dead from fatigue." "the red room!" in surprise. "surely you jest, miss willifred! that is hardly considered a guest chamber." "no; but the safest place in the house, if, by any chance, it is searched by a scouting party." the old gentleman nodded, as if in approval. "possibly it would be safer, although i hardly anticipate any such calls from the enemy with our own people so near. you will not be the first confederate to lie hidden there, sir," with a bow to me, and a quick glance toward the smiling girl. "would you mind showing him the way, my dear?--it is becoming difficult for me to mount the stairs." "with pleasure; indeed, i was about to propose doing so. major, you will go first, please." however cheerily these words were spoken i understood their quiet threat, and the full meaning of that motionless hand held securely hidden behind the fold of her skirt. she opened the door into the hall, and, with one questioning glance into her eyes, i murmured a word of thanks to the unsuspecting judge, and passed slowly through. miss hardy followed, closing the door behind her, the revolver now held in plain view. "up the stairs, and turn to the left," she commanded briefly. the short, stern, business-like tone in which this order was uttered might have been amusing under other conditions, but scarcely so then when i was smarting under defeat. i glanced back, half tempted to endeavor a sudden leap; yet she was fully prepared, and i hesitated. would she actually shoot me down? could it be possible the girl would take my life? i could scarcely conceive of such a probability, she seemed so womanly in every way, so light-hearted, and yet there was no laugh now in her eyes, no lack of determination in the firm setting of her lips. "suppose i refuse!" "i sincerely hope you will not, lieutenant. this is hard enough for me; don't make it any harder." there could be no doubting what she meant, nor what she had nerved herself to accomplish. feeling like a whipped cur i went slowly up the broad stairs, my hand on the banister rail, and she followed, keeping even pace with me, the cocked colt pointing sternly upward at my back. "the last door--yes, beyond the chimney. step inside, lieutenant galesworth. now close the door." i stood, with fingers still grasping the knob, listening. there was a click, as though a heavy key was being turned in the lock, and then withdrawn. following i heard her quick breath of relief, and a half-suppressed sob. the sound made her seem all woman again. "miss hardy!" i called, my lips at the crack of the door. "what is it?" the answering voice tremulous. "i want to tell you that you are a brave girl, and that i do not in the least blame you." there was a moment's hesitating silence, as though my unexpected words had left her speechless. her breathing told me her lips were also close to the door. "i--i am so glad you said that," she returned at last. "this--this has been so difficult to do. but you know i mean to do it, to hold you here; you realize i am terribly in earnest?" "yes--but for how long?" "until late to-night; then you can do us no deep injury." her voice became firmer. "i shall remain on guard here." i heard her move away from the direct neighborhood of the door, her steps sounding distinctly on the polished floor. then something heavy, probably a chair or bench, was drawn forward, following which all was silence. although i could see nothing the situation in the hall was clear. confident escape was impossible in any other direction the determined girl had taken up her position opposite the door, prepared for a long vigil. all feeling of anger, even of irritation, had by this time left me. the slight falter, the womanly softness of her voice, had robbed me of all resentment, and i was conscious merely of admiration for her courage and loyalty. but i desired intently to stand equally high in her memory, and in order to do so must exhibit my own wit, my own resources in emergency. i felt the door--it was of solid oak, with no spot of weakness evident, even the key-hole being concealed by a metal flap on the outside. the room itself was small, the walls tinted red, and contained no furniture except a narrow bed and one straight-backed chair. light was admitted through a small window, placed so high in the wall i was compelled to stand on the chair to look out, a mere round opening through which it would be impossible to squeeze my rather stalwart body. it was almost a typical prison cell, apparently affording not the slightest opportunity for escape. i had a pipe in my pocket, and matches, so i lit up, and lay back on the bed, reviewing the situation. i am not of the disposition which surrenders easily, and my long experience as a scout had inured me to difficult ventures. almost invariably there are means of escape, if one is fortunate enough to discover the point of weakness and possesses sufficient time in which to work. yet as i lay there, my eyes anxiously scanning those bare, solid walls, my brain working coolly, the problem appeared unsolvable. the door, of hard-wood, fitting tightly into the jambs, was hopeless,--particularly with billie outside, loaded revolver in hand, nerved to the shooting point. i climbed again to the window, but the casing was solidly spiked into position, and i could barely press my head through the aperture into the open air. it was a thirty-foot sheer drop to the hard gravel of the road beneath, the nearest tree limb a dozen feet distant, with the roof edge far beyond reach of the hand. i sat down in the chair, the blue smoke curling overhead, floating out the window, my eyes studying the red-tinted side walls, as i endeavored to recall each detail of the house's architecture, and the exact location of this particular room. i had turned to the left at the head of the stairway, passing by at least three doors. then there had occurred a slight jog in the hall, making room for a large chimney, while just beyond opened this door. it was not even visible from the front of the house, and would probably be the rearmost apartment--no, that was wrong; the hallway, much contracted in width, continued on into the ell. this was quite likely the first of the servants' quarters, and that east wall must abut directly against the chimney. with a new degree of hopefulness, i pushed aside the bed, and began testing the wall space with my knuckles. if any chimney was there, the stones were protected by wooden casing, which, covered by the red paper, was effectively concealed. i was about to abandon the search when a finger penetrated the paper, revealing a round opening--a pipe hole, left uncovered except for the wallpaper. i wrenched out the tin protector, and felt within. the chimney had apparently never been used, the interior being clear of soot, and was built of a single layer of stone, southern fashion, the irregular fragments mortared together, and plastered smoothly on the inside. without was a thin, narrow planking, dove-tailed, but secured by nails only at the four corners. this could be easily pried away, leaving the chimney itself open to attack. i could not reach far enough within to touch the opposite wall, but was convinced the space would prove sufficiently large to admit my body. with a knife i tested the resistance of the mortar, breaking the point of the blade, yet detaching quite a chunk, and wrenching out one small stone. beyond doubt the task might be accomplished--but what was below? how was i to get down those smoothly plastered walls--and back again, if necessary? i glanced at my watch; it was already nearing noon, and at any moment food might be brought me. i must wait until after that; then i should probably remain undisturbed for several hours. i shoved back the bed in such position its head-board completely concealed the slight excavation, and sat down upon it, planning anew how best to proceed. the time passed with no unusual sound reaching me from the hall without. billie evidently felt no desire to acquaint judge moran with my real identity, and perhaps would thus experience some difficulty in procuring me food,--possibly would make no effort even until night. i succeeded in pushing aside the flap over the key-hole, without making any alarming noise, and applied one eye to the aperture. there was little to be seen--merely the end of a bench, and a pair of bare, black feet. the judge's sole remaining servitor doubtless, doing a turn at guard duty. as i gazed, some outside noise aroused him, and he went softly pattering down the hall. the same sound startled me also, and i dropped the flap, clambering upon the chair so as to see without. it was a hundred feet to the main road, mostly velvety turf between, with a few trees partially obscuring the view. yet i could see clearly enough, and up the pike leading through the village, half hidden by a cloud of dust, was advancing a regiment of cavalry, their flags draped, their horses walking in double column. as these swung into the straight road, a battery of artillery followed, gray-jacketed fellows, confederates--beauregard's advance. chapter ix important news in spite of the recognized fact that these men were enemies, my heart throbbed, almost in pride, as i watched them pass. they were americans, and magnificent fighting men. i had seen them, or their fellows, in the ruck and toil of battle, playing with death, smiling in the face of defeat. now they were marching grimly forward to another clash of arms, through the blinding dust, heedless of all else but duty. this was what stirred me. no proud review, with glittering uniforms and waving flags, would have choked my throat, or dimmed my eyes, as did the sight of that plodding, silent column, half hidden under the dust cloud, uniforms almost indistinguishable, officers and men mingled, the drums still, the only sounds the steady tread, the occasional hoarse shout of command. here was no pomp and circumstance, but grim purpose personified in self-sacrifice and endurance. with heads bowed, and limbs moving wearily, guns held at will, they swept by in unbroken column--cavalry, artillery, infantry--scarcely a face lifted to glance toward the house, with here and there a straggler limping to the roadside, or an aide spurring past--just a stream of armed men, who had been plodding on since daylight, footsore, hungry, unseeing, yet ready to die in battle at their commander's word. it was war; it was magnificent. yet suddenly there recurred to me my own small part in this great tragedy. here was opportunity. down below, on the front steps, stood the old judge, and beside him miss hardy, forgetful for the time of all else save those passing troops. i sprang from the chair, drew the bed back to the centre of the room, and began my assault on the wall. there was no necessity now for silence, and i dug recklessly into the mortar with my broken knife blade, wrenching forth the loosened stones, until i had thus successfully opened a space amply sufficient for my purpose. a glance down the chimney was not reassuring, no gleam of light being visible, yet i was desperate enough to take the chance of discovering some opening below. there remained but this one means of attaining the lower floor, and no time for hesitation. i tore both sheets from the bed, binding them securely together, and twisting them into a rope strong enough to sustain my weight. the bed-post served to secure one end; the other i dropped down the interior of the chimney. a glance from the window exhibited a double line of canvas-covered wagons creaking past, mules toiling wearily in the traces, under close guard of a squad of infantry. the judge and the girl were still outside. i was back instantly, and clambered recklessly into the hole. i went down slowly, clinging desperately to the twisted sheets, unable to gain the slightest purchase on the smoothly plastered side walls. my fingers slipped, but i managed to hang on until i reached the very end of my improvised rope, my feet dangling, my arms aching from the weight. to hold on longer was seemingly impossible, yet i could neither see nor feel bottom. i let go, confident the distance could not be great, and came down without much shock a half-dozen feet below. i was in a large fire-place, apparently never utilized, the opening entirely covered by a screen of cast-iron. this fitted closely, but was unfastened, and, after feeling about cautiously in the darkness, i pushed it slightly to one side, and peered forth. a large, rather handsomely furnished room was revealed, evidently a back-parlor, closed folding doors being conspicuous in the front wall. three windows faced the north, their curtains partially drawn, and i could perceive through them the lattice work of a porch, covered with the green and red of a rambler rose. i recognized instantly the situation; this room was opposite, directly across the hall from where we had eaten breakfast, its windows also commanding a view of the road. impelled by a desire to see what was continuing to take place without, i stole silently across the soft carpet, and peered forth. the last of the wagon train was lumbering past, and back of these, just wheeling around the corner, approached another column of horsemen. it would be madness for me to emerge from concealment yet, for even if i remained unnoticed by those marching troops, still there would surely be some stragglers about the premises seeking water. i sat down, staring out, endeavoring to decide about how large this confederate force was--surely it composed all of beauregard's corps, and, once united with johnston, would render the federal position extremely dangerous, perhaps untenable. yet even now my warning of the sudden movement would be of comparatively small value, as the gap was too nearly closed for any swift advance to separate the two armies. all i could hope to accomplish was to prevent a surprise attack on our own exposed lines. and this could never be attempted before the next morning, even if johnston swung his columns to the left in anticipation of beauregard's approach. the troops were too thoroughly exhausted by the forced march to be hurled immediately into battle--they must be fed and rested first. convinced as to this i remained quiet, glancing idly about the room, until sounds outside attracted attention. a company--or possibly two--of cavalry was drawn up on the road directly fronting the house, their centre opposite the open gate, but i was compelled to lean out in order to discover just what was occurring on the driveway. a squad of a dozen horsemen, powdered with dust, yet excellently mounted, were riding slowly toward the veranda. the man slightly in advance was slender, with dark moustache and goatee, sitting straight in his saddle, and on the collar of his gray coat were the stars of a general officer. even the hasty glance gained told me his identity--beauregard. as this cavalcade turned at the corner of the house, i drew back, shadowed by the curtain, able thus both to see and hear. at the bottom of the steps the confederate chieftain halted, and bowed, hat in hand. "judge moran, i presume. while we have never previously met, yet your name has long been familiar. probably i need not introduce myself." the judge, his face beaming hospitality, grasped the outstretched hand, but beauregard's dark, appreciative eyes were upon the girl standing at moran's side. "your daughter, sir?" he asked quickly. "not so fortunate, general. this is miss willifred hardy, of the 'gables.'" "ah, yes!" the stern face instantly brightened by a rare smile. "the same fair heroine who brought the despatches from johnston. i hoped i might reach here in time, my dear, to tell you in person how greatly i appreciate your service. may i ask if you are major hardy's daughter?" her cheeks burning, she murmured "yes," curtsying to his rather stately bow. "i knew your mother rather well in the old days,--a sweet girl, a du verne, of baton rouge. you have her eyes and hair." he turned toward moran. "a courier but just arrived has brought me orders to halt my men, as johnston is marching westward, and it is imperative that we protect the bridge yonder with sufficient force. would it inconvenience you, judge, if i made your house my headquarters for the night?" "everything i possess is freely at your service." "thank you. from all i have heard i could never question the loyalty of judge moran." he spoke a few short orders, swung down from the saddle, and, followed by a half-dozen others, began climbing the steps, talking with miss willifred. i heard the party enter the hall, and pause for a moment, the sound of voices mingling but indistinguishable. then a door opened, and the men trooped into the front parlor. there was a rattle as accoutrements were laid aside; then a table was drawn forth, and beauregard's voice spoke: "the portfolio, sternes; now, captain, let me read over that last despatch again. ah, yes, i see. is colonel o'neil waiting? tell him to post williams' brigade at the bridge, with ozark's battery. pickets should be advanced at least two miles. lieutenant greer, ride to the three corners, and have the regimental commanders close all gaps in the line; in case of attack we must be able to exhibit a solid front. a moment, major mason,--you are to bear my report to johnston." there followed the rapid scratching of a pen, and a subdued murmur of voices. then the deep bass of the general again broke in: "you may as well clearly understand the proposed plans, gentlemen, so you can execute my orders with intelligence. they are extremely simple; our main attack will be directed against the enemy's left flank; the troops selected for this service will cross at the lower ford early to-morrow night. our own movements will depend altogether upon the success of johnston's advance. chambers will be up sometime to-night, and will hold a position at rear of the centre in reserve. is this sufficiently clear?" "do we cross the bridge?" "not until johnston informs us his assaulting column is in touch with the enemy." "there is no absolute hour set?" "no; that will depend upon the arrival of chambers. and now, gentlemen, we will adjourn to the dining-room." they passed out, evidently in the best of humor, and i could hear them chatting and laughing in the hall. but my thoughts were now concentrated upon my own work. this was important news i had overheard, and must be in the possession of the federal commander without delay. no personal danger could be considered. but how was it possible to get away unobserved? i was in full uniform, and unarmed; the house--now beauregard's headquarters--under close guard; the surrounding roads lined with troops. it would be simply madness to attempt crossing the river before nightfall, and yet i could not hope to remain where i was all the afternoon without discovery. as soon as the duties of hospitality were over miss willifred would certainly recall her prisoner, and it could not be long before my escape from the room above would be known. i must be safely out of the house before this occurred. it seemed to me the stables offered the best hiding-place, or else the deserted negro cabins. i could examine the greater part of the front yard from the windows, the squad of troopers camped near the gate, and the sentinel pacing before the steps, but was compelled to lean far out to gain any glimpse of the rear. i could perceive no soldiers in this direction, however, and was encouraged to note a long grape arbor, thickly overgrown with vines, extending from the house to the other extremity of the garden. once safely within its shadow i might get through unseen. and there was but one means of attaining the grape arbor--through the back hall, _via_ either the kitchen or the cellar. i opened the door with all possible caution, and took silent survey of the hall. the front door stood open and a guard was stationed without, but with his back toward me. i could hear voices in the dining-room, but the hall itself appeared deserted, and, feeling that it was either now or never, i slipped forth, and started toward the rear. there were two doors, one at the very extremity of the hall, the other upon the right, both closed. uncertain which to choose i tried the first i came to, but, even as i cautiously turned the knob, the second was opened from without, and a man entered hurriedly. we stared into each others' faces, both too completely surprised for speech. he was a cavalry sergeant, a gray-beard, and, with my first movement, was tugging at a weapon. "hold on there, my buck!" he said gruffly. "none o' that, now. by god! it's a yank. bill, come here." the guard at the front door ran down the hall toward us, his gun thrown forward. chapter x miss willifred intervenes any effort at escape was clearly useless; the noise and shouting had already attracted the attention of those within, and a half-dozen officers streamed out through the dining-room door, eager to learn what had occurred. "what's the trouble out here, sims?" demanded the first to appear, striding forward. "well, by all the gods, a yank, and in full regalia! where did you discover this fellow?" "i'd been back fer a drink, sir," explained the sergeant, still eying me, "an' was just comin' in through ther door yer, when i run inter him, sneakin' 'long ther wall--thet's ther whole bloomin' story." the officer, a smooth-faced lad, turned abruptly to me. "well, what have you got to say?" "nothing," i answered quietly, "you are perfectly welcome to draw your own conclusions." "oh, indeed," sarcastically. "we'll see what more civil answer you'll make to the general. sims, bring the fellow along." the two soldiers grabbed me roughly by the arms, but i made no resistance, cool enough by this time, although realizing fully the peril of my position. i was marched in through the open door, and stood up in the centre of the dining-room, sims posted on one side of me, the guard on the other, the officers forming a picturesque background. beauregard was on his feet, and miss hardy stood between the windows, her hands clasped, her cheeks red. "what is all this, gentlemen? a federal officer in full uniform? how comes he here?" i made no attempt to answer, unable to formulate an excuse, and the young fellow broke in swiftly, "sims caught him in the hall, general. he is unarmed, but refuses to explain." the general's stern dark eyes were upon my face. "hardly a spy, i think," he said quietly. "what is the explanation, sir? are you the bearer of a message?" i started to speak, but before the first uncertain word came to my lips, the girl swept forward, and stood between us. "let me explain," she cried swiftly. "this gentleman is a friend of captain le gaire's, and was presented to me as major atherton, formerly on general pemberton's staff--perhaps there may be some here who know him?" she glanced inquiringly about on the faces of the group, and a stockily built infantry captain struck his open hand on the table. "by jove, that's it! thought i recognized the face. how are you, atherton?--met you at big shanty." still puzzled, although evidently relieved, beauregard remained motionless. "but the uniform?" he questioned. "and how did you reach the hallway without being seen?" her eyes met mine in a rapid flash of understanding, a little nervous laugh drawing the general's attention. "it is almost ridiculous," she exclaimed. "major atherton came through the lines with me last night. he was detailed on special service, for which purpose he donned that uniform. on meeting captain le gaire here, and learning of your advance, it was no longer necessary for him to proceed at once, and, as he was very tired, he was persuaded to lie down in a room upstairs. waking, he naturally came down into the hall, knowing nothing of your arrival. have i correctly presented the case, major atherton?" her eyes challenged me, and i bowed. "a perfectly clear statement." "and a most charming advocate," added beauregard. "we must find you some more appropriate garments, major, but meanwhile there is room here at the table. captain bell, would you kindly move a little to the right. now, hughes, serve major atherton." i do not recall ever feeling more awkwardly embarrassed than during the next few minutes. not that the assembled officers lacked in courtesy, or failed to interest in light conversation. led by the general they all endeavored to make me forget my strange position, and the unpleasant episode of arrest. indeed, but for the presence of miss willifred in the room i imagine i should have been very much at ease, perfectly capable of doing my full share of entertaining. but with the girl standing silently in the shadow of the curtains, her eyes occasionally meeting mine, i felt a constant restraint which impelled me to answer almost in mono-syllables. she had openly defended me, saved me from arrest; without telling a direct falsehood she had, nevertheless, led these men into a grievous misunderstanding. why had she done this? through personal interest in me? through some wild impulse of the moment? i could not even guess; only, i was assured of one thing: her secret motive involved no lack of loyalty to the cause of the south. realizing this i dare not presume on her continued friendliness, dare not sit there and lie calmly, filling these men with false information, and permitting imagination to run rampant. her eyes condemned that, and i felt the slightest indiscretion on my part would result in betrayal. perhaps even then she regretted her hasty action, and sought some excuse for blurting out the truth. fortunately conversation drifted into safe channels. bell was full of reminiscences of big shanty, requiring on my part but brief acquiescence, and, after a very few personal questions by the others, sufficiently direct to demand reply, beauregard asked me about the disposition of johnston's forces, to which i was fortunately able to respond intelligently, giving him many details, sufficiently interesting, although of no great value. to his desire for information relative to chambers' advance from the south, and the number of his troops, i was obliged to guess rather vaguely, but finally got away with a vivid description of miss hardy's night ride, which caused even the girl herself to laugh, and chime in with a word or two. with the officers the meal was nearly completed when i joined them, and it was therefore not long until the general, noting the others had finished, pushed back his own chair. "we will adjourn to the parlor, gentlemen," he said genially, "i shall have other orders to despatch presently. when you finish, major, i shall be glad to talk with you more at length; until then we leave you to the care of miss hardy." they passed out, and as the door closed behind the last straggler, she came slowly across the room, and sat down in a chair opposite me, resting her flushed cheek on one hand. "what made you do it?" i asked, impelled by a curiosity which could no longer be restrained. "oh, i don't know," and her lashes lifted, giving me one swift glimpse into the depths of her eyes. "a mere impulse when i first realized the danger of your position." "then it was for me?--because you cared?" "perhaps i would have done the same for any one--i am a woman." "i can comprehend that, yes," i insisted, "but am not willing to believe mere sympathy would carry you so far. was there not, back of all, a feeling almost of friendship?" "i make no such acknowledgment. i spoke before i thought; before i even realized what my words meant. and you?--how came you there?" i told her briefly, answering her questions without reserve, rejoicing in the interest she exhibited in my narrative, and eager to know at once how far i could still presume on her assistance. i wanted to get away, to escape from the web about me, but i could not understand this girl, or comprehend how far i dare venture on her good nature. already i knew that some feeling--either of friendship or sympathy--had impelled her to save me from immediate betrayal, but would she go even further? everything between us conspired to bewilder me as to her real purpose. even as i concluded, it seemed to me her eyes hardened, and the expression of her face changed. "that was extremely clever, lieutenant galesworth," she commented quietly. "i never knew the chimney touched that wall. now what do you propose doing?" "you must understand my only interest is in getting away as soon as possible. i am in constant danger here." "of course," nodding, her cheeks flushed. "and you also possess very important information. because i have aided you to escape capture, do you conclude i am a fool?" "most assuredly not." "or a traitress to the south?" "i could not think that." "then let us clearly understand each other once for all. i have saved you from capture, perhaps death. the reason i have done this need not be discussed; indeed i could not satisfactorily explain my action even to myself. but if the truth ever becomes known i shall be placed in a most embarrassing position. surely you understand this, and you are a gentleman; i am sure of that. you are not going to carry that news to your camp. before i should permit that to happen i would denounce you openly, and permit those men yonder to think evil of me. but i do not believe that course necessary. instead, i am going to trust you as a gentleman--am going to accept your word of honor." "my word? you mean my parole?" "you may call it that--your pledge to remain in this house until i say you may go." "but--" "stop! lieutenant galesworth, do you not owe this to me?" i hesitated, fronting this direct question, looking straight across the table into her serious face, as she leaned toward me. what was my most important duty--that which i owed the federal army, or that i owed to this girl? and then again--did i really have a choice? there was never a doubt in my mind as to what she would do if the occasion arose. i had tested her quality already, and fully comprehended the promise to turn me over to the confederate guard was no idle threat. she would trust my word, but, failing that, would certainly do the other thing. there was no spirit of play in those eyes watching me. "apparently i possess no real choice," i answered, at last. "either way i am a prisoner." she smiled, evidently relieved at my tone. "yes--but have you no preference as to captors?" "put thus, hesitation ends; i accept the terms of parole." "you mean it?" "yes." she extended her hand across the table, and i as instantly grasped it, both almost unconscious of the actions. "i ought to thank you," i began, but she broke in as quickly: "no; please don't. i know i am not doing what i should. it is all so strange that i am actually dazed; i have lost all understanding of myself. it is painful enough to realize that i yield to these impulses, without being constantly reminded that i fail in duty. i do not want your gratitude." she had withdrawn her hand, and was upon her feet. i thought her whole form was trembling, her lips seeking to frame words. "i certainly had no intention of hurting you." "oh, i know--i know that. you cannot understand. only i am sorry you came--came into my life, for ever since it has been trouble. now you must simply wait until i say go, and then you will go; won't you?" "yes--but not to forget." she turned back toward me. "you had better," coldly. "it will be useless to remember." it was my turn to smile, for she could not play the part, her eyes veiling themselves behind the long lashes. "nevertheless i shall," i insisted warmly. "i find it not altogether unpleasant--being your prisoner." chapter xi the return of le gaire "i shall endeavor to make it as little unpleasant as i can," she rejoined, "but will demand obedience. right wheel; forward march. yes, through the door; the surroundings are not unfamiliar." it was the judge's library, where i had hidden before at the coming of captain le gaire, and she paused in the doorway, glancing curiously about. "remember now, you are on parole, but restricted to this room." "for how long?" she made an exceedingly pretty picture in that frame, and i was in no hurry to be deprived of it. "until--well, until i am pleased to release you. don't scowl; i'm sure i'm trying to be nice, and i never was so polite to a yankee before. really this is the pleasantest room in the house; i have passed hours in here myself." "perhaps this afternoon--" she shook her head violently, her eyes dancing with laughter. "certainly not; with all these confederate officers here. sometimes i think you are very conceited--i wonder if you are." and then before i could answer,--"what a handsome man captain bell is; and so delightful of him to remember having met you." the witch was plainly enough laughing at me, but she chose a poor subject in bell. "and my sentence, then, is solitary confinement?" "that is far better than you deserve. those windows open on the porch, and there is a sentry there; the door leads to the rear of the house. i shall not even lock it, nor this. i leave you here upon your word of honor, lieutenant galesworth." she was gone like the flutter of a bird, and i sank back upon the soft cushion of a library chair, still smiling, my eyes wandering curiously about the room. then i got up, examined the windows and the rear door, and returned. escape was dangerous, but possible, yet no serious thought of making such an attempt even occurred to me. for whatever unknown reason, the girl's quick wit had saved me from capture; i owed her every loyalty, and i had pledged her my word. that was enough. the more i turned the circumstances over in my mind the less i seemed to comprehend her motives, yet there could be no doubt she sought to serve me. a word from her to le gaire, or to beauregard, would have ended my career instantly. instead of speaking this word of betrayal she had deliberately placed herself in my defence, deceiving her own people. why? was there more than a mere impulse behind the action? was she doing for me more than she would have done for another under similar circumstances? was this act merely the result of womanly sympathy? for the life of me i could not determine. she was like two individuals, so swiftly did her moods change--one moment impressing me as a laughing girl, the next leaving me convinced she was a serious-minded woman. just as i thought i knew, believed i understood, she would change into another personality, leaving me more bewildered than ever. suddenly i thought again of le gaire, remembering his dark, handsome face, his manner of distinction, and there came to me mistily the words overheard during their unexpected meeting. she had called him "gerald," and there had been other words exchanged--aye! he had even taunted her with their engagement, objecting to her being alone with me, and she had denied nothing. somehow this suddenly recurring memory left me hot and angry. i disliked le gaire; from the very first moment of gazing into his dark, sneering eyes i had felt antagonism, a disposition to quarrel; but now something more potent rose between us--the girl. i was not blind to the man's attractions; i could easily understand how he could find way to a girl's heart. but a man can judge a man best, and every instinct of my nature warned me against this fellow. the very first sound of his voice had prejudiced me, and when i saw him i knew i was right--with him manliness was but veneer. and billie! the name sounded soft, sweet, womanly now and i longed to speak it in her presence. billie! i said it over and over again reverently, her face floating before me in memory, and then my lips closed in sudden determination: not without a fight, a hard fight, was this gray-jacket going to retain her, going to keep her from me. it was a mad resolve; yet it was there, in my heart and upon my lips. i had come upon the field late, come in the wrong uniform, but i was sufficiently in earnest now. the girl liked me, served me, and she interested me as no other ever had. her very moods, piquant, reserved, aroused my ambition, stimulated my purpose, and le gaire--the very thought of him was a thorn in the flesh. i have wondered since if i really loved her then; i do not know, but i dreamed of her, idealized her, my heart throbbing at every unusual sound without, hoping she might come again. i could hear the noise of the cavalry camp on the lawn, and the tramp of feet in the hall. occasionally some voice sounded clear enough so i could distinguish the words. i opened the door leading into the dining-room, but that apartment was deserted. there was evidently nothing to do but wait, and i lay down on the couch between the windows, looking up at the green leaves shaking in the breeze. fatigued with the labors of the previous night, before i realized the possibility i was fast asleep. i must have remained there some hours, totally unconscious, for when i finally awoke it was nearly dark, the dusk so pronounced i could scarcely see across the room. some noise without had aroused me, and i knew instantly what it was--the pounding of a horse's hoofs on gravel, the animal being furiously ridden. as i sat up, the horse was jerked to its haunches, and the rider swung from the saddle. "here, orderly, take the rein; quick now, damn you!" the words reached me clearly, but as i glanced out i saw only a dark form springing up the steps. something familiar about the voice caused me to leap for the door, holding it sufficiently ajar so i could overhear what passed in the hall. there was a muttered word or two to the sentry, the newcomer insisting angrily on seeing beauregard; then a woman's voice suddenly broke in with an exclamation of surprise. "you back again! i am afraid you will have to wait to see the general unless your mission is of the utmost importance. he is lying down, and left orders he was not to be disturbed before nine o'clock." "my mission is important enough," was the reply, "but perhaps, it can be attended to without him. where can, we be alone, billie?" "right in here," stepping through the doorway into the deeper dusk of the dining-room. "if you are hungry i can order a lunch." "no," impatiently, "i have eaten twice to-day--what i want to know is what has become of that fellow who was here this morning?" "major ather--" "oh, hell!" forgetting every pretence to gentility. "he was not atherton at all, but a damned yankee spy. do you mean to say you didn't know it?" i could see her straighten up, turning swiftly to face him. whatever the shock of discovery may have been, indignation conquered, and her voice was cool, stinging. "captain le gaire, i am not in the habit of being sworn at, and will leave you to gain your information elsewhere." she swept by him to the door, but, gasping with surprise, the man managed to call after her, "billie, don't go like that! i didn't mean to swear. it was jolted out of me, and i beg your pardon." she halted on the threshold, glancing back evidently in hesitation. "this is not the first time you have let your temper loose in my presence," she said slowly, "but it is the last. if you feel so little respect for me now, the future is not very encouraging." "but, billie, you don't understand!" "i understand enough. however we will not discuss this matter any further at present. what was it you desired to know?" "where that fellow has gone!" instantly flaming up again. "he wasn't atherton at all, but i'll swear he was the very picture of him; he would have fooled the devil." "no doubt," almost indifferently. "how did you discover the deception?" "by merest accident. happened to mention meeting him to old trevor, and he was up in arms in a minute. seems atherton married his niece, and the fellow here couldn't be the major, for he was shot in a skirmish three weeks ago, and has been in the hospital at athens ever since. he's there now; rode over to pemberton's headquarters to make sure, and met gregory, chief-of-staff. he saw atherton saturday, and he wasn't able to sit up yet. the fellow here was a yank--and you didn't know it?" "i very naturally supposed he was what he represented himself to be," she replied, coming back into the room. "and when you recognized him as an old acquaintance i never gave the matter another thought." "but he came through the lines with you," bewildered and doubtful. "the best of reasons why i should never have suspected him of being a yankee. he was very pleasant and gentlemanly." "oh, indeed! all a man has to do is smile and say nice things to get you women on his side." "then why don't you try it? you are certainly disagreeable enough to-day." "perhaps i am," endeavoring to laugh. "but if i could get my hands on that yank i'd be in far better humor. where is he?" "the last time i saw him," with provoking coolness, "he was at dinner with general beauregard and staff." "at dinner! here! good god! he must have nerve. how did it happen?" "through my introduction originally, and then later he was recognized by captain bell." le gaire sank down into a chair, glaring at the girl's dim, white-robed figure, his teeth savagely clicking in an effort to keep from swearing. as though to exasperate him yet more she laughed. "i fail to see the fun," he snarled impatiently. "this is no joke, let me tell you, and we'll both find it out if beauregard ever learns the truth. what did they talk about?" "army matters mostly. the general wished information regarding the movement of johnston's and chambers' forces, and major atherton--" "don't call the fellow that!" "then what shall i call him?" he struck his fist on the table, almost devoid of the power of speech. "i don't care, only not that. i tell you he's not atherton, but a sneaking yankee spy." "why, he was in full uniform!" "he'll hang, just the same, if we get him. now see here--did beauregard let out any facts?" she drew a quick breath, one hand on her breast, and it seemed to me her voice trembled. "he talked as he would to one of his own officers. they discussed the plans of operation quite freely among themselves." le gaire groaned, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. she remained motionless, looking at him. suddenly he glanced up. "i'll be hanged if i understand you, billie," he exclaimed. "don't you care, or don't you realize what this means? that fellow has got all our plans, and he's got safely away with them too, i suppose." she nodded, as he paused an instant. "before morning they'll be over there," with a wave of the hand, "and our move checkmated. whose fault is it? yours and mine. it's enough to drive a man crazy, and you stand there and laugh." "i am not laughing." "well, you were a minute ago. do you even suspect who the fellow is?" "you said he was major ath--" "oh, hell!" springing to his feet, with sword rattling, and hands clinched. "i won't stand this, not even from you. you're hiding something; what is it? is this yank anything to you?" "absolutely nothing, captain le gaire. take your hand from my arm, please. now i will trouble you to stop this controversy. i am not indifferent, but i refuse to be bullied, and sworn at. if you are so wild to capture this spy why don't you make the rounds of the pickets instead of remaining here and quarrelling with me? the man is not hiding behind my skirts. i will bid you good-night." she was gone before he could even fling out a hand to stop her. a moment he raged between table and wall; then flung out the door and down the steps, calling for his horse. chapter xii an attempt at escape the seriousness of my situation was clearly apparent, yet what could i do in order to save myself? my word was pledged, and it was evident the girl had no intention of betraying my presence. but would she come to me? would she give me the opportunity of escape? it must be accomplished now if at all, before le gaire returned, or had time to complete his round of the pickets. every instant of delay robbed me of a chance--and my life hung in the balance. there was little doubt as to that; i could advance no military reason for being treated other than as a spy, and my fate would be the short shift meted out to such over the drum-head. all this swept through my brain as i listened to the hoofs of le gaire's horse pound the gravel outside, the sound dying away in the distance. the sentinel marched slowly past the window, his figure silhouetted against the red glow of a camp-fire inside the gate. then, without a warning sound, the door was pushed ajar, and the girl slipped silently through. the distant reflection of the fire barely served to reveal her face, and outline her figure. she was breathing heavily and trembling with excitement, her voice barely audible. "you--you heard what was said in there?" she asked, eager to gain time. "you know captain le gaire has returned?" "yes," thinking to calm her by an appearance of coolness. "he seems to be a most blood-thirsty individual." "he was angry at being deceived. no one can blame him, but i simply had to tantalize him in order to get him away." "was that it? do you mean so you might come here to me?" "why, of course. i had promised you. do you think i would demean myself by lying--to a yank? besides," her voice faltered, "you would have kept your parole, and--and--" "waited here to be hung, probably," i broke in, "as that ceremony appears to be part of the programme. my only hope was that you might possibly object to this item of entertainment." "don't laugh," soberly. "there is no fun in it for me." "then you would show mercy even to a yankee spy?" "i am not sure of that. i am a rebel, but that has no serious weight now. you are not a spy; if you have acted as one, it has been more through my fault than your own. besides you are my prisoner, and if i should permit you to fall into the hands of those men, to be condemned to death, the memory would haunt me forever. i am not that kind, lieutenant galesworth. i don't want your gratitude; i would rather fight you than help you. i want you to understand this first of all." "i do, miss hardy; you simply perform a duty." "yes; i--i keep my word." "but, after all, isn't it a little easier because--you like me?" she drew in her breath so quickly it was almost a sob, the swift, unexpected question disarming her in an instant. it was no longer the tiger cat, but the woman who gasped out a surprised response. "no; oh, no! that is what makes it harder." "harder to aid me?" "to see you unjustly condemned, and--and to realize that perhaps i am disloyal to my country." something about these simple words of confession, wrung from her lips by my insistence, held me silent. i failed to realize then the full significance of this acknowledgment, and she gave me no opportunity. "this is ungenerous," she broke in quickly. "i do feel friendly toward you; surely i need not be ashamed of this, even though our interests are unlike, our causes opposed. everything has conspired to make us friends. but you must not presume, or take advantage of my position. now listen--i am here for one purpose: to give you an opportunity of escape. after that we are strangers; do you accept my terms?" "you offer no others?" "none." "then i accept--until fate intervenes." "you believe in fate?" "when aided by human persistence, yes; i intend to represent that goddess." she drew back a step, her hand on the door. "you almost make me regret my effort," reproachfully. "however i warn you the goddess this time shall play you false. but we waste moments in talk. here is your revolver, lieutenant; now come with me." she thrust the butt into my hand, and crossed the room to the door opening out into the back yard. an instant she peered forth into the night; then turned her face back toward me. "take my place here," she whispered. "see that line of shadow yonder--it is the grape arbor. i am going to steal along to the end of the house where i can watch the sentinel. the instant i signal make for that arbor, and lie quiet until i come." i watched the dim outline of her form. she was actually doing all this for me--for me! she was running this great risk, smothering her own conscience--for me! i could not doubt this as a truth; i had probed deeply enough to be assured there was personal interest, friendliness, inspiring the sacrifice. she would never have lifted a hand to save a yankee spy; all her sympathy was with the confederacy. yet she was risking all--her reputation, her life--to save me! the knowledge seemed to send fire through my veins, my heart throbbed fiercely. oh, she could dissemble, could pretend all this was merely duty, could rage against herself and me, but nevertheless i understood--she was doing it for me! i knew, and she should know--yes, this very night, out yonder in the shadows, when we were alone together i would make her realize what it all meant. le gaire? what cared i for le gaire! this was love and war combined, and all is fair in either. besides, it was the girl who counted, who must say the final word--why should i hesitate for the sake of le gaire? let him fight for himself; surely the prize was worth the battle. her hand waved; i could catch the glimmer of the white sleeve, and recognized it as a signal. with a dozen steps i was at the entrance to the arbor, crouching down low in the shadows. as noiseless as a ghost she sped across the open space, and joined me. i could feel her form tremble as i touched her, and she caught my arm with both hands, her face turned backward. "they are relieving guard," she faltered, "and will come past here next, for there is a sentry on the opposite side. we must get farther down under the vines." i drew her forward, for she clung to me strangely, as though all the courage and strength had suddenly deserted her. "there are no guards down here?" "no." "nor at the stables?" "i cannot tell; i was afraid to ask." the arbor ended some thirty feet from the stables, with a low, vine-covered fence between. there have been darker nights, yet i could distinguish merely the dim outlines. still feeling her clasp on my arm i came to a halt, startled into absolute silence by the approach of the relief guard. the sturdy tramp of feet, and the slight tinkle of bayonets against canteens, told plainly the fellows had turned our way, although, crouched where we were, we could at first see nothing. i drew my revolver, my other hand clasping hers, and waited breathlessly. the little squad came trudging down the opposite side of the fence, only the upper part of their bodies dimly visible against the slightly lighter background of the sky. i made out the officer in command, and four men, then they wheeled into the shadow of the stables, and the sentinel stationed there challenged. there was a reply, the sound of a musket brought sharply to the shoulder, a gruff, indistinguishable order, and then again the tramp of feet, dying away in the distance. every movement, and word, told the story, revealed the situation. i turned my eyes back to the girl's face, questioningly, barely able to perceive its whiteness. "they have a guard there," i whispered, my lips close to her ear. "is there no other way out?" "yes, on foot, but i supposed you would need a horse." "and there are horses there?" "i do not know about any others; i understand the judge has lost all his, but the one captain le gaire left for you this morning was taken there." "you know the situation,"--the cavalryman's eagerness for a mount overcoming all thought of danger,--"how best to get in." "yes; i went out there with tom when the judge told him to put up the horse,--i wanted to see how my pony was getting along. the door is on that side to the east, just around the corner. it is closed by a wooden button. the pony is in the first stall, and the horse in the second; the saddle and bridle were hung on a peg behind," she said this clearly, anxious to make me understand, but then, as the other thought came to her, her voice broke. "but, lieutenant galesworth, you--you cannot get the horse with the guard there!" my clasp closed more tightly on her fingers, my resolve hardening. "he's only a man, perhaps sleepy and careless, while i am wide awake. one must be willing to assume risk in war. with the horse under me i have a chance, while on foot i should probably be caught before daylight. don't worry; this is not my first attempt." "you--you mean to try?" "certainly; i should be a poor specimen if i did not. but i am going to say good-bye to you first, and then lie here quietly until you are safely in the house." she drew in a quick breath, her face lifting. "the house! i am going to remain here." "but the risk you run, and you can be of no help." "oh, don't argue!" impatiently. "there is no more risk of my discovery here than there. i want to know what happens; i would rather face anything than suspense. lieutenant galesworth, i have always had my way, and i shall now." down in my heart i rejoiced at her decision, but all i said was: "very well, miss willifred, it makes me feel like a knight going forth to battle under the eyes of his lady." the slight flutter of a ribbon at her throat caught my eye, and i touched it with my finger. "may i wear this in token of your good wishes?" "you--you are not going to kill any one?" "not if it can possibly be avoided." she was silent a moment, so still i could hear her breathing; then her hands undid the ribbon knot, and she held it toward me. "i--i do wish you well," she said softly. "i--don't know why, but i do." chapter xiii i meet le gaire my hand touching her own seemed to work a sudden transformation. she was instantly upon her feet facing me, drawing back a little against the grape arbor. "do not take my words so seriously," she exclaimed. "i am excited, almost hysterical to-night. to-morrow i shall regret much i have done and said. but you must go, lieutenant; every moment of delay adds to your peril and mine. no; please do not touch me or speak to me again; only listen--there is a bridle path leading directly from the farther corner of the stable to the river; a gate will let you out of the orchard lot; now go!" "you will not even shake hands?" "i--i--yes, of course, i will do that." our fingers clasped, and we stood face to face, our eyes meeting through the darkness. the thrill of contact, the wild hope that this girl really cared unusually for me, became almost overpowering. i longed to crush her in my arms, to pour into her ears the passionate words that burned on my lips. i forgot everything except her presence, her nearness, the soft pressure of her hand. "billie! billie!" "no! no!" and she had instantly released herself. "you forget yourself; you forget my position. now it is good-bye." "you positively mean this?" "i do. i am a soldier's daughter, lieutenant galesworth, and i am trusting you to act as a soldier and a gentleman." under the cloak of darkness my face burned, feeling the reproof of this appeal, realizing that i merited the sting. for the instant my actions, my presumption, seemed contemptible. i had taken advantage of her kindness, her sympathy, her trust, and openly misconstrued womanly friendliness into a stronger emotion. the rebuke was perfectly just; i could not even find words of apology, but turned away silently. and she made no effort to stay me, either by word or motion. i had crept forward as far as the low fence before the numbness left me, before i came back to full comprehension of my situation, and the serious work confronting me. then the soldier spirit reawoke into alert action, my thought intent upon escape, my nerves steadying down for the coming trial. i recall glancing back, imagining i saw the white glimmer of her dress against the dark shrubbery, and then i resolutely drove all memory of her from my mind, concentrating every instinct to the one immediate purpose of overcoming the stable guard. this was not altogether new work to one inured as a scout, but sufficiently serious to call forth every precaution. cautiously i crept along the fence until i discovered an opening large enough to crawl through, scarcely rustling the concealing leaves, and resting flat on the opposite side while i surveyed the prospect. i was not far now from the south wall of the stable, which loomed black and shapeless against the sky. not a movement revealed the whereabouts of the guard, and, with the girl's description to guide me, i concluded the fellow would be stationed at the other extremity of the building. convinced as to this probability i dragged my body slowly forward until i could touch the log wall. i could see better now, being myself in the denser shadow, and knew the passage was clear to the corner. assured of this i rose to my feet, revolver in hand, and pressing close against the side of the building, advanced quickly and silently. at the corner i peered about, scarcely daring to breathe, but with heart pounding, as i caught sight of the fellow, not over three feet distant. he was seated on an overturned bucket, his back toward me, both hands clasping a musket, his head bent slightly forward. he seemed listening to some noise in the distance, totally unconscious of my approach. the man's fingers were nowhere near the trigger of his gun, and my straining eyes could perceive no sign of any other weapon. this had to be silent work--silent and swift. with one step forward i had my revolver pressed hard against his cheek, my other hand crushing his fingers to the musket. "keep quiet, man! not a move! i'll blow your head off if you lift a hand!" "oh! good god!" he was but little more than a boy; i could see his face now under the slouch hat, and i had already frightened the life half out of him. "drop your gun! now stand up!" he obeyed like an automaton, his brain seemingly paralyzed. there was nothing to fear from this fellow, yet i knew better than to become careless--terror has been known to drive men crazy. i caught him by the collar, whirling him about, my colt still at his ear. "go straight to the stable door, son!" "who--who are you? w--what do you want?" "don't stop to ask questions--you trot, unless you want to get hurt. do you hear me?--the stable door! that's it; now undo the button, open the door, and go inside." i held him like a vice, assured his belt contained no weapons, and thrust him forward against the wall. he was so helpless in my grasp that it was like handling a child. "feel along there--higher up--and tell me what you find. well, what is it?" "a--a bridle," his voice barely audible. "halter strap on it?" "yes, sir." "take it off, and hand it back here. now go on, and feel the next stake." "there's a blanket, and--and a rope halter." "good! give me that; now, son, put both hands back here, cross the wrists. come, stand up to it; this is better than getting killed, isn't it? now here is a nice soft spot to lie on, and i guess you'll remain there for a while. do you want me to gag you, or will you keep still?" "i'll--i'll keep still!" "well, be sure you do; your life isn't worth a picayune if you raise any row." i arose to my feet, confident the boy had been safely disposed of, and feeling blindly around in the darkness, seeking to locate the stalls. at that instant a horse neighed outside; then i heard the sound of hoofs pounding on soft soil. whoever the fellow was, he was almost there--coming up at a trot, just back of the stables. my brain worked in a flash--there was but once chance to stave off discovery. with a bound i was beside the boy, and had jerked off his hat, jamming it down on my own head, as i muttered in his ear, "one word from you now, and you'll never speak again--don't take the chance!" i leaped for the door, and grasped the musket, barely straightening up, as the oncoming horseman swung around the corner. it was a desperate chance, yet in this darkness he could scarcely distinguish color of uniform or shape of features. it might work; it was worth trying. i saw the dim outlines of horse and rider in a red glow, as though the latter held a cigar between his lips; then i swung forward my gun. "halt! who comes?" startled by the sudden challenge, the horse reared to the sharp jerk at the reins, the man uttering an oath as he struggled to control the beast. "hell! what's this?" "a sentry post; answer up, or i'll call the guard--who are you?" "an officer on special service." "dismount, and give the word." he swung reluctantly down, growling, yet with sufficient respect for my cocked musket to be fairly civil, and stepped up against the lowered barrel, his horse's rein in hand. "atlanta," he whispered. my gun snapped back to a carry, my only thought an intense anxiety to have him off as quickly as possible. "pass officer on special service." he paused, puffing at his cigar. "what's the best way to the house, sentry?" he asked with apparent carelessness, "along the fence there?" "the road runs this side, you can't miss it," i replied civilly enough, but stepping back so as to increase our distance. "ah, yes--thanks." he flipped the ash from his cigar, drawing at the stub so fiercely the red glow reflected directly into my eyes. he stared a moment, then turned, and thrust a foot into the stirrup. "i've seen you somewhere before, my man." "i was at the gate when you came through just before dark." "oh, yes," he replied, apparently satisfied, and swung up lightly into the saddle. "so you recognize me, then?" "captain le gaire, is it not? the sergeant said so." he believed he had me completely deceived, that i entertained no suspicion he had also recognized me, and that therefore he could play me a sharp trick. i was not sure, for the man acted his part rarely well, only that i knew it was not in le gaire's nature to be so excessively polite. what was his game, i wondered, gripping my musket with both hands, my eyes following his every motion. would he venture an attack alone, or ride on and report me to the guard? i had little enough time in which to speculate. he gathered up the reins in one hand, his horse cavorting; he had probably found somewhere a fresh mount. i stepped aside, but the animal still faced me, and with high-flung head partially concealed his rider. suddenly the latter dug in his spurs, and the beast leaped straight at me, front hoofs pawing the air. i escaped as by a hair's breadth, one iron shoe fairly grazing my shoulder, but, with the same movement, i swung the clubbed musket. he had no time to dodge; there was a thud as it struck, a smothered cry, and the saddle was empty, a revolver flipping into the air, as the man went plunging over. i sprang to the horse's bit, the frightened animal dragging me nearly to the fence before i conquered him. but i dare not let go--once free he would join the troop horses, his riderless saddle sure to alarm the guards. with lacerated hands, and shirt torn into shreds, i held on, jerked and bruised by the mad struggle, until the fellow stood trembling. using the bridle rein for a halter strap i tied him to the fence, and, sore all over and breathing hard from exertion, went back to discover what had become of le gaire. the excitement of encounter had, for the instant, banished all recollection of the young woman hidden beneath the shadow of the grape arbor. my entire mind had concentrated on the fight, which, even now, might not be ended. i knew i had struck the fellow hard with the full, wide swing of the musket stock; i had both felt and heard the blow, and the impact had hurled him clear from the horse. beyond doubt he was helpless, badly hurt perhaps, and there suddenly came to me a fear lest i had actually killed him. i had struck fiercely, impelled by the instinct to save myself, but i had had no desire to take the man's life. i had no reason to like le gaire; i believed him a bully, a disagreeable, boasting cur, but he was something to willifred hardy, and i could not afford to have his blood on my hands. i thought of her then, casting a swift glance back toward the shadows beyond the fence, and then went straight toward where the fellow lay, afraid to learn the truth, yet even more intensely afraid to again meet her without knowing. he had evidently fallen upon his shoulder, and still lay in a huddled heap. i had to straighten out his form before i was able to decide whether he was living or dead. i bent down, undoing his jacket, and placed my ear to his heart. it beat plainly enough, almost regularly--the man was alive; i doubted if he were even seriously injured. this discovery was such a relief that i muttered a "thank god," and began rubbing his chest as though in effort to restore the fellow to consciousness. then my senses came back, my realization of the situation. let le gaire lie where he was; others would take care of him soon enough. i must get away; i could use his horse, pretend to be him, if necessary, and before daylight be safely across the river. i sought along the ground until i found the dropped revolver, thrust it into my belt, and ran over to where the horse was tied. i had loosened the rein, my hand on the pommel, when the thought came that i must tell her first before i rode away. even though the delay was a risk to us both, yet she must understand the truth, be informed of le gaire's condition, and why i had attacked him. at the instant this last seemed more important than all else. it would require but a moment, and then i could go, confident the man's injury would be no additional barrier between us, would never cause her to suspect that i had attacked him wantonly, actuated by personal motives. he might try to make her think so, if he were the kind i believed, his mind already suspicious of her interest in me. her very sympathy for his wounds would make her easily influenced; this natural sympathy must not be inflamed by doubt of my motives and the thought that i had deliberately sought the man's life. it may have been two rods between the fence and the grape arbor, and i called to her softly. chapter xiv across the river she came toward me swiftly, slipping through the night like a shadow, instantly recognizing my voice. "you--you are not hurt, lieutenant galesworth?" she asked, her voice trembling. "no; merely bruised, and shaken up--the horse did that." "oh; was it you who had that struggle with the horse? i--i thought he would surely kill the man." "the poor fellow was frightened," and i stroked his neck softly, "and certainly gave me a hard tussle. but that's all over now. i want to explain what has happened before i leave." "yes." "i owe you that, do i not, wearing your colors?" i could not perceive the expression of her face, but the tone of her voice was not altogether encouraging. "they were but expressive of my best wishes; of course i wished you to succeed." "i wonder--will you continue your good wishes after hearing my story?" "what do you mean? you have not killed any one?" "no; but i have hurt one who seems to have some claim upon you." she drew in her breath quickly, clasping her hands. "who?--tell me! can you mean captain le gaire?" "i regret to say 'yes'; this was his horse. now don't blame me until you hear the whole story. i will tell it all in very few words, and then go." "but--but you are sure he is not seriously hurt?" "he may have a rib or collar-bone broken, and is still unconscious; nothing that will keep him out of mischief long. i wanted to tell you all about the affair myself--i don't trust le gaire." "why say that to me?" "because i must. if i understand the man the very first thing he will do will be to poison your mind against me--" "he? why?" "miss hardy," i said soberly, "what use is there for us to play at cross-purposes? you realize that captain le gaire suspects that you have an interest in me, that you have helped in my escape. he doesn't like me any the better for that. men will do strange things when they are in love--such men as le gaire. do you suppose i intend permitting him to thus influence you against me, when i am where i cannot defend myself?" "but he would never do that; i am sure, he never would." "possibly not, but i prefer you should have my version to compare with what he may say. we have met strangely, in a manner which could only happen in time of war, and one day and two nights of adventure together have already made us better acquainted than would a year of ordinary social intercourse. i value your good wishes, and feel more gratitude than words can express. i am not going away leaving you to think me unworthy. i will tell you this exactly as it occurred, and you are to believe me, no matter what is said later." my earnestness made an impression and as i paused her lips parted. "yes--i am going to believe you." "i felt sure you would. now listen, for i must be away, and le gaire attended to." i told it simply, clearly, making no attempt except to bring out the important facts, realizing that her own imagination would supply the details. she clung to the fence, our eyes meeting as i spoke swiftly, making no comment until i concluded. "could i have done otherwise?" "no; you are not to be blamed, but i am so sorry it happened to be captain le gaire." "you mean because--" "he has been much to me," she interrupted, "perhaps still is, although--" she paused suddenly, catching her breath,--"yet this can make no difference." "but it does." she remained silent, and, i thought, drew slightly back. "you do not wonder?" i asked, unable to restrain myself, "you do not ask why? may i not tell you?" "i prefer you should not," very quietly. "i am not foolish enough to pretend that i do not understand. we are going to part now, and you will forget." "is it then so easy for you?" "i need not confess, only i see how utterly foolish all this is. the conditions bringing us together in a few hours of intimacy have been romantic, and, perhaps, it is not strange that you should feel an interest in me. i--i hope you do, for i shall certainly always feel most kindly toward you, lieutenant galesworth. we are going to part as friends, are we not? you will remember me as a little rebel who served you once, even against her conscience, and i will continue to think of you as a brave soldier and courteous gentleman. isn't that worth while? isn't it even better than dreaming an impossible dream?" "but why impossible?" "surely you know." "you mean le gaire?" "i mean everything. captain le gaire may be partially responsible, but there is much besides. need we discuss this further?" i should have hesitated, but i simply could not consent to be dismissed thus completely. through the obscuring mist of the night i saw her face dimly, and it fascinated me. behind the quiet decision of her voice there was a tremulousness which yielded courage. i could not part with her like this. "billie," i said, and she started at the familiarity of the name, "i am going to risk even your good opinion rather than leave in doubt. don't treat me like a boy." her hand was upon the fence, and i placed both of my own upon it. "be honest with me. forget the uniform, this sectional war, and let us simply be man and woman--can you not?" she did not answer, her hand yet held in mine, so startled by my sudden outburst as to be helpless. "i must know," i went on heedlessly, the very touch of her flesh making me reckless. our position, the danger of the night, all vanished, and i saw only the whiteness of her face. perhaps, had i been able to read her eyes, their expression might have served to curb my tongue, but nothing else could have held me silent. "i am going away, going into the lines of a hostile army; i may not reach there alive, and, if i do, i may fall in the first battle. i must tell you the truth first--i must. don't call it foolish, for it is not. dear, i may be a yankee, but i am also a man, and i--" "oh, stop! please stop!" her fingers clasping me, her form closer. "i can not--i will not permit you to say this. i have no right. you have made me disloyal to my country; you shall not make me disloyal to all else. if i should listen i would have no self-respect left. for my sake be still, and go." "but i know you are not indifferent; you cannot conceal the truth." "then be content, be satisfied, be generous." "if you will only say one thing." "what?" "that i may come to you--after the war." she stood a moment motionless, and then withdrew her hand. "that would be equivalent to a hope which i cannot give," she returned soberly. "when the war ends i shall probably no longer be willifred hardy." my heart beat like a trip-hammer; i could hear it in the silence. "the man yonder?" she bent her head. "you will not," my voice firm with swift conviction. "if that is all, i am not afraid. if you loved him would you be standing here even to say a word of farewell? whatever pledge may be between you, on your part it is not love. you cannot deny this--not to me! yes, and you are already beginning to know him. remember, i have had to listen to some conversation between you--i know his style. ah, yes, i will go, because i dare not keep you out here longer, but, if god lets me live, i am going to find you again. yes, i am; don't doubt that, little girl. i could stand back for a real man, but not for le gaire; that's not in human nature. see, i have your ribbon yet, and am going to wear it." "without my permission?" i reached out my arm and drew her gently against the fence barrier, so close i could look down into her eyes, gazing up into mine startled by the sudden movement. "lip permission, yes--i prefer to read consent elsewhere." "and do you?" "i shall believe i do. see, here is the ribbon; will you take it?" "of course not. why should i care if you have that? it has no value to me. but i will not stay and talk longer. let me go, lieutenant! yes, you must. what shall i do to help--to help gerald?" "go straight into the house, and report to the guard. you were walking in the garden for a breath of air, and overheard the struggle. they will find him. good-bye, billie." i held out my hand, and she extended her own without a moment's hesitation. "good-bye," she said. "shall i not wait here a few moments until you are across the road?" i touched my lips to her fingers. "what, with gerald lying there!" happily. "oh, billie, are you so anxious as that for me to get safely away?" "i--i am certainly not anxious to have you caught--not now. but you are almost impertinent; indeed you are. i cannot say a word you do not misinterpret. please do not attempt to tease me; let us part friends." the tone in which she said this meant far more than the mere words; i had ventured enough, and recognized the limitation to her patience. however strong her interest in me might already be, no acknowledgment was probable under present circumstances. i would but waste time, perhaps seriously injure my standing with her, were i to continue. the future must be left to work out its own miracle--to reveal her heart, and to prove the worthlessness of le gaire. for me to linger longer, holding her there in constant peril of discovery, would be simply madness. i led the horse back, past where the disabled confederate lay, pausing an instant to look down on the dim figure. he groaned, and turned partially over on one side, evidence that consciousness was returning. the man was not badly hurt, and i felt no deep regret at his condition. i could distinguish the narrow bridle path by my feet, and knew i would be less conspicuous out of the saddle. however, nothing opposed our progress, and we even succeeded in crossing the road without being observed. here a long slope, rutted, and partially covered with low bushes, led directly down to the river, and we pushed through the tangle, keeping well hidden. once on the bank of the stream all above was concealed from view, but i listened in vain for any sound indicative of pursuit. the night was mysteriously still, unbroken, even the air motionless. obsessed now by the one controlling impulse to get away safely, i drove the horse into the water, and as he reached swimming depth, grasped a stirrup leather, and compelled him to strike out for the opposite shore. it was not a hard struggle, nor were we long at it, although the current was swift enough to bear us down a hundred feet, or more, before we struck bottom, wading out at the mouth of a small creek, the low banks offering some slight concealment. i looked back through the darkness, across the dim water, and up the shrouded hill on the opposite side. lights were winking here and there like fire-flies. i stared at them, light-hearted, confident i had every advantage; then i patted the horse, and adjusted the stirrups. "she waited until we were safe across, old fellow," i said, too pleased to remain still. "now we'll ride for it." he turned his head, and rubbed his nose along my arm. the next moment i was in the saddle, spurring him up the bank. chapter xv i meet an ex-slave in this narrative of adventure it would but waste the reader's time to indulge in any extended description of military movements. the interest of my story centres around individuals rather than the great events of history, and i will touch these but briefly, so as to make the surrounding conditions sufficiently clear. it was noon the following day when i reached headquarters with my report, only to find that rumors of the combined movements of johnston's and beauregard's forces had already penetrated our lines. i could merely add details to the information previously received. the result was the immediate strengthening of our position to repel any possible attack. none occurred however, except desultory skirmishing. later we learned the reason to be the failure of chambers to appear, his march having been retarded by heavy rains. at the end of this period of waiting our army was well prepared for action, the troops eager to test the strength of the enemy. impatient of delay, and suspecting the probable cause of the confederate quietness, we finally took the aggressive, determined to regain our former position south of the river. an. early morning attack won us the bridge and the town beyond, while heavy forces rushed the available fords, and after some severe fighting, obtained foothold on the opposite bank. hastily throwing up intrenchments these advance troops succeeded in repulsing two charges before nightfall. this brought an end to hostilities. during the hours of darkness reinforcements were hurried across the stream. by dawn the opposing forces were about evenly mated, and every man in either line knew a battle was imminent. in this emergency the need of every soldier was felt, and i was returned to my regiment for duty. we were the first to trot over the recaptured bridge, and through the deserted streets of the village. impelled by a curiosity which could not be resisted i wheeled my horse and rode up the gravelled driveway to judge moran's door, but to my vigorous knocking there was no response. the shades were drawn at the windows, the house silent, and yet i felt convinced the old partisan was within, watching from some point of vantage. yet if i believed this, the same silence and refusal to respond also served to convince me that miss hardy was no longer there. she was a vastly different type, and would exhibit interest even in the coming of the enemy. ay! and she would have seen me, and not for one moment could i be made to believe that she would treat me with contempt. i rode back slowly to rejoin the column of horsemen, glancing over my shoulder at the house, my mind busily occupied with the stirring events which had transpired there. she had gone with the confederate troops, and had probably already been safely returned to her own home. moran might have departed also, but more likely he remained to look after his property. i wondered who was her escort for the long ride--would it be captain le gaire, sufficiently recovered from his injuries for this service, yet scarcely capable of active military duty? if so, he was with her still, a guest at "the gables," sufficiently an invalid to be interesting, and to require attention, but with tongue in good repair. i was glad i had told my story first; the gentleman would experience some difficulty in changing miss willifred's opinion of the affair. the gray dust cloud hung about us, almost obscuring the files of plodding troopers; to right and left the flankers showed dark against the green of the fields, and far in front an occasional carbine barked as some suspicious scout fired at a skulking figure. once this would have been full of interest, but now it was mere routine, the sturdy veterans of the ninth riding soberly forward, choked with dust, their hats drawn low over their eyes, wearied by a long night in the saddle. i glanced proudly down those ranks of fighting men, glad to be with them once again, but my thought drifted back to billie, for this was the road we had travelled together. it seemed a long while ago, and much might happen before we should meet again, if ever we did. i might be killed in battle, or le gaire might insist upon an immediate marriage. this last was what i most feared, for i believed that if this could only be sufficiently delayed, she would learn to know the man better, and refuse to be sacrificed. the engagement rather mystified me, for it was clear enough no blind love on her part was responsible for its existence; at least she had begun to perceive his shallowness, and resented his attempt at bullying. i even began to believe that some one else had now come into her life, whose memory would serve to increase the feeling of dissatisfaction. le gaire was not the kind that wears well--he could not improve upon acquaintance; and, while i was no connoisseur of women, yet i could not persuade myself that her nature was patient enough not to revolt against his pretensions. i was no egotist, no lady-killer, but i recognized now that i loved this girl, and had read in her eyes the message of hope. mine was, at least, a fighting chance, and fighting was my trade. i liked it better so, finding the lady more alluring because of the barrier between us, the zest of combat quickening my desire. already i began to plan meeting her again, now that the campaign had turned our faces southward. back beyond those wooded hills some freak of fate must lead me right, some swirl of fortune afford me opportunity. i was of the school of hope, and love yielded courage. i looked back down the long hill, so silent and deserted that gray morning when we were driving together, but now dark with the solid masses of marching troops. it was a stirring scene to soldier eyes, knowing these men were pressing sternly on to battle. they seemed like a confused, disorganized mob, filling the narrow road, and streaming out through the fields; yet i could read the meaning of each detached movement, as cavalry, artillery, infantry, staff and wagon trains, met and separated, swinging into assigned positions, or making swift detour. hoarse voices shouted; bugles pealed; there was the rumble of wheels, the pounding of hoofs, the tramp of feet, and over all the cloud of dust, through which the sun shone redly. the intense vividness of the picture gave me a new memory of war. suddenly a battery of artillery, out of sight on the distant crest, opened fire, the shrieking shells plunging down into the ploughed field at our left, and casting the soft dirt high in air. our advance spread wide into skirmish line, the black dots representing men flitting up the steep side of the hill, white spirals of smoke evidencing their musket fire. behind them was a grim mass of infantry, silent and ominous, swinging forward like a huge snake. the men of the ninth straightened up, their eyes glowing, but it was soon over with--the snake uncoiled, flinging a tail gleaming with steel over the ridge, and the troopers sank back wearily into their saddles. as i turned again to glance over my shoulder i noticed a man riding at the right of the second file. his face was new to me, and so peculiar was it that i continued to stare, unable to determine whether the fellow was white or colored. he was in private's uniform, but carried no arms, and for head covering, instead of the hat worn by the ninth, had an infantry cap perched jauntily on his curly black hair. but his face was clear, and his cheeks rosy, and he sat straight as an arrow in the saddle. i drew back my horse and ranged up beside him, inspired by curiosity. the eyes turned toward me undoubtedly betrayed negro blood. "i do not remember seeing you before," i said, wiping the dust from my lips. "are you a new recruit?" "i'se col'nel cochran's man," he answered, without salute, but with the accent of education oddly mixed with dialect. "oh, i see--what has become of sam?" "he done took sick, an' de col'nel wanted a man right away, so he picked me." "did you belong around here?" "well, no, not exactly belong round yere, but i'se travelled dese parts some considerable. i was born down in louisiana, sah." "not so very long ago either," i ventured, feeling a peculiar interest in the fellow. "were you a slave?" his rather thin lips closed over his white teeth, and his fingers gripped the saddle pommel. "yes,"--the word snapped out. "i'se nineteen, sah, an' my mother was a slave. i reckon my father was white 'nough, but that don't count fo' much--i'se a nigger just de same. dat's bad 'nough, let me tell yo', but it's worse to be yo' own father's nigger." i had nothing to say to this outburst, feeling that back of it were facts into which i had no right to probe, and we rode along quietly. then he spoke, glancing aside at me: "dey won't be no 'portant fightin' long yere, sah, not fo' 'bout ten miles." "how do you figure that out?" "'cause de lay ob de groun' ain't right, fo' one thing, an' 'cause all de confed intrenchments was back yander." "yonder--where?" "in behind de log church at de three corners--done know dat country mighty well." i turned and faced him, instantly suspicious. "now see here; you do know that country, and a bit too well for a man riding in the ranks. where did you come from? were you in the confederate service? let's have this straight." "suah," with frankness. "i done tol' de col'nel all how it was. i was wid my massa from louisiana, an' he was a captain, sah! 'bout two weeks ago he lef' me down yander on de pike wid orders fo' to stay dere till he done come back. but it wa'n't no job fo' me, sah, an' so i skipped out de first night, an' joined up wid de yanks. i reckon i knows 'bout whar i belongs in dis yere fightin', an' i ain't nobody's slave no mor'." the lad's earnestness impressed me, and beneath his words was evident a deep smouldering resentment, not so much against slavery as against the individual who had owned him. "what is your name, my boy?" "charles le gaire, sah." chapter xvi a call to duty the family name was an uncommon one, and, coupled as it was with "louisiana," and the title "captain," could refer only to gerald le gaire. i wanted to question, the lad, but refrained, spurring my horse ahead so as to remove the temptation. even the little already said plainly revealed that he resented bitterly his position in life, and determined to remain no longer in slavery to his own father. his father! that would be le gaire! the thought added fuel to the flame of dislike which i already cherished against the man. of course legally this former relationship between master and slave meant nothing; it would be considered no bar to legitimate marriage; perhaps to one brought up in the environment of slavery it would possess no moral turpitude even, yet to me it seemed a foul, disgraceful thing. whether it would so appear to miss willifred i could not even conjecture; she was of the south, with, all the prejudice and peculiarity of thought characteristic of her section. pure-hearted, womanly, as i believed her to be, this earlier alliance still might not seem to her particularly reprehensible. certainly it was not my part to bring it to her attention, or to utilize my knowledge of the situation to advance my cause, or injure le gaire. nor would i question the ex-slave further; i already knew enough, too much possibly, although curiosity was not dormant, and i wondered what had become of the mother, and from what special cause had arisen the intense hatred in the heart of the son. we rode steadily forward all day, under fire twice, and once charging a battery. all that opposed our advance however was a thin fringe of troops, intent merely upon causing delay, and making a brief stand, only to fall back promptly as soon as we flung forward any considerable body of men. by night-fall we had attained a position well within the bend of the river, the centre and left wing had achieved a crossing, and our entire line had closed up so as to display a solid front. the ninth bivouacked in the hills, our rest undisturbed, except for the occasional firing of the pickets. with dawn we were under arms, feeling our way forward, and, an hour later, the two armies were face to face. nearly evenly mated, fighting across a rough country, neither side could claim victory at the end of the day. while we on the right forced our line forward for nearly five miles, leaving behind us a carpet of dead, the left and centre met with such desperate resistance as to barely retain their earlier position. it required an hour of night fighting to close up the gap, and we slept on our arms, expecting an early morning assault. instead of attempting this the enemy fell back to their second line of intrenchments, and, after waiting a day to determine their movements and strengthen our own line, we again advanced, feeling our way slowly in, but finally meeting with a resistance which compelled a halt. the details of this battle belong to history, not to these pages. the ninth bore no conspicuous part, hovering on the extreme right flank, engaged in continuous skirmishing, and scouting along miles of front. the morning of the third day found the armies fronting each other, defiant yet equally afraid to join battle, both commanders seeking for some point of strategy which would yield advantage--we of the north fearful of advancing against intrenchments, and those of the south not daring to come forth into the open. for the moment it was a truce between us--the truce of two exhausted bull-dogs, lying face to face with gleaming teeth, ready to spring at the first opening. we of the ninth were at the edge of an opening in the woods, with low hills on either hand, our pickets within easy musket-shot of the gray-clad videttes beyond the fringe of trees. knowing our own success we could not comprehend this inaction, or the desperate fighting which held back the troops to the east, and we were impatient to go in. i was lying on my back in the shelter of a slight hollow, wondering at the surrounding stillness, wishing for anything to occur which would give action, when the major rode up, accompanied by another officer in an artillery uniform. i was on my feet in an instant saluting. "lieutenant galesworth, this is captain kent, an aide on general sheridan's staff. he desires you to accompany him to headquarters." my heart bounding with anticipation, within five minutes i was riding beside him, back to the river road, and along the rear of our extended line. he was a pleasant, genial fellow, but knew nothing of why i had been summoned, his orders being simply to bring me at once. two hours of hard riding, and we came to a double log cabin, with a squad of horsemen in front, and a considerable infantry guard near by. a sentry paced back and forth in front of the steps, and several officers were sitting on the porch. dismounting, my companion handed the reins of both horses to a trooper, and led the way in. a word to the sentinel, and we faced the group above. one, a sharp-featured man, with very dark complexion, rose to his feet. "what is it, kent?" "this is lieutenant galesworth, of the ninth illinois cavalry. the general will wish to see him at once." the dark-featured man glanced at me, and turned back into the house, and kent introduced me to the others, none of whom i recognized. this was not sheridan's staff, but before i could question any of them, the messenger returned, and motioned for me to follow. it was a large room, low-ceilinged, with three windows, the walls of bare logs whitewashed, the floor freshly swept, the only furniture a table and a few chairs. but two men were present, although a sentinel stood motionless at the door,--a broad-shouldered colonel of engineers, with gray moustache and wearing glasses, sitting at a table littered with papers, and a short stocky man, attired in a simple blue blouse, with no insignia of rank visible, his back toward me, gazing out of a window. i took a single step within, and halted. the short man wheeled about at the slight sound, his eyes on my face; i recognized instantly the closely trimmed beard, the inevitable cigar between the lips, and, with a leap of the heart, my hand rose to the salute. "lieutenant galesworth?" "yes, general." "very well; you may retire, colonel trout, and, sentry, close the door." his keen gray eyes scrutinized my face, betraying no emotion, but he advanced closer, one hand upon the table. "general sheridan informs me he has found you a valuable scout, always ready for any service, however dangerous." "i have endeavored to carry out my orders, general," i answered quietly. "so i am told," in the same even voice. "the army is full of good men, brave men, but not all possess sufficient intelligence and willingness to carry out an independent enterprise. just now i require such a man, and sheridan recommends you. how old are you?" i answered, and barely waiting the sound of my voice, he went on: "you have scouted over this country?" "i have, sir." "how far to the south?" "about five miles beyond the three corners." "not far enough, is it, parker?" turning to the officer at the table. "the house is below," was the response, "but perhaps i had better explain the entire matter to lieutenant galesworth, and let him decide for himself whether he cares to make the attempt." the general nodded approval, and walked back to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. parker spread out a map. "just step over here, lieutenant. this is our present position, represented by the irregular blue line; those red squares show the enemy's forces as far as we understand them. the crosses represent batteries, and the important intrenchments are shown by the double lines. of course this is imperfect, largely drawn from the reports of scouts. their line is slightly shorter than our own, our right overlapping, but they have a stronger reserve force protecting the centre. now notice the situation here," and he traced it with his pencil. "your regiment is practically to the rear of their main line of defence, but the nature of the ground renders them safe. there is a, deep ravine here, trending to the southeast, and easily defended. now note, ten miles, almost directly south of three corners, on the open pike, the first building on the right-hand side beyond a log church, stands an old plantation house. it is a large building, painted white, in the midst of a grove of trees, and in the rear is a commodious stable and a dozen negro cabins. the map shows this house to be somewhat to the right of the confederate centre, and about five miles to the rear of their first line." i bent over, intent on the map, endeavoring to fix each point clearly in my mind. parker paused in his speech, and the general turned about, his eyes fastened upon us. "i understand," i said finally. "very well. deserters informed us last night that johnston had taken this house for his headquarters. this morning one of our most reliable scouts confirms the report, and says the place can be easily approached by a small party using the ravine for concealment, coming in past the negro cabins at the rear." my eyes brightened, as i straightened up, instantly comprehending the plan. "what guard have they?" "a few sentinels at the house, and a squad of cavalry in the stable. naturally they feel perfectly safe so far to the rear of their own lines. it is the very audacity of such an attempt which makes success possible." the general stepped forward. "don't take this as an order, lieutenant," he said bluntly. "it will mean a desperate risk, and if you go, you must comprehend thoroughly the peril involved. you were recommended as the best man to lead such a party, but we supposed you already knew that country." "i can place my hand on a man who does know every inch of it," i replied, my mind clear, and my decision reached. "i thank you for the privilege." "good; when?" "to-night, of course; there is ample time to prepare." "how many men will you require?" i hesitated, but for barely an instant. "not to exceed ten, general--a small party will accomplish as much as a larger one, and be less liable to attract attention. all i need will volunteer from my own company." apparently his own thought coincided with mine, for he merely looked at me a moment with those searching gray eyes, and then turned to the map, beckoning me to join him. "familiarize yourself with every detail of the topography of the region," he said, his finger on the paper. "colonel parker will explain anything you may need to know." he straightened up, and extended his hand, the cigar still crushed between his teeth. "i believe you are the right stuff, lieutenant; young enough to be reckless, old enough to know the value of patience. are you married?" i shook my head, with a smile, yet conscious my cheeks were flushed. "then i am going to say to you--go, and do the best you can. parker will give you any other instructions you desire. good-bye, my lad, and good luck." he turned and left the room, my eyes following him until the door closed. chapter xvii beginning the night adventure the colonel of engineers did not delay me long, and, eager to be away, i made my necessary questions as brief as possible. riding back through the encampment of troops, hampered more or less by the irregularity of the different commands, i had ample time in which to outline the night's adventure. i comprehended fully the danger of the mission, and that the probability was strongly against success. reckless audacity, coupled with rare good fortune, might result in our return with the prisoner sought, but it was far more likely that we would be the ones captured, if we escaped with our lives. yet this knowledge caused no hesitancy on my part; i was trained to obedience, and deep down in my heart welcomed the opportunity. the excitement appealed to me, and the knowledge that this service was to be performed directly under the eye of the great general of the west, was in itself an inspiration. if i lived to come back it meant promotion, the praise of the army, a line on the page of history--enough surely to arouse the ambition of youth. it was early in the afternoon when i reached the position of my regiment, and reported to the colonel, asking the privilege of selecting a detail. then, as i sat at mess, i studied my men, mentally picking from among them those best adapted to the desperate task. i chose those i had seen in action, young, unmarried fellows, and for "non-com," sergeant miles, a slender, silent man of thirty, in whom i had implicit confidence. i checked the names over, satisfying myself i had made no mistake. leaving miles to notify these fellows, and prepare them for service, i crossed to the colonel's tent in search of the ex-slave. he was easily found. "le gaire," i began, choking a bit at the name, "do you remember a big white house, on the right of the pike, the first beyond a log church, south from the three corners?" he looked up from his work with sparkling eyes. "i suah does; i reckon i could find dat place in de dark." "well, that is exactly what i want you to do, my man. i have some work to do there to-night." "how yo' goin' to git dar?" i explained about the ravine, the positions of the confederate lines, and where i understood the special guards were stationed. the boy listened in silence, his fingers, clinching and unclinching, alone evidencing excitement. "will that plan work?" i asked, "or can you suggest any better way?" "i reckon it'll work," he admitted, "if yo' don't git cotched afore yo' git dar. i knows a heap 'bout dat ravine; i'se hunted rabbits dar many a time, an' it ain't goin' to be no easy job gittin' through dar in de dark." "will you show us the way?" "well, i don't just know," scratching his head thoughtfully. "maybe de col'nel wouldn't let me." "i can arrange that." "den i don't want fo' to go to dat house; dat's whar i run away from." "but i thought you belonged to the le gaires of louisiana?" "dat's what i did, sah; but i done tol' yo' i come up yere wid de army. i was left dere till de captain come back; dose folks was friends o' his." "oh, i see; well, will you go along as far as the end of the ravine?" he looked out over the hills, and then back into my face, his eyes narrowing, his lips setting firm over the white teeth. i little realized what was taking place in the fellow's brain, what real motive influenced his decision, or the issues involved. "i reckon i will, sah, providin' de col'nel says so." there was, of course, no difficulty in obtaining the consent of that officer, and by nine o'clock we were ready to depart, ten picked men, young, vigorous lads, though veterans in service, led by miles, together with the negro le gaire and myself. taking a lesson from the guerillas we were armed only with revolvers, intending to fight, if fight we must, at close quarters; and the brass buttons, and all insignia of rank liable to attract attention had been removed from our blouses. upon our heads we wore slouch hats. i had decided to make the attempt on foot, as we could thus advance in greater silence. without attracting attention, or starting any camp rumor, we passed, two by two, out beyond the pickets, and made rendezvous on the bank of the river. it was a dark night. as soon as the sergeant reported all were present, i led the way up stream for perhaps a mile until we came to the mouth of the ravine. here i called them around me, barely able to distinguish the dim figures, although within arm's length, explained my plans and gave strict orders. as i ceased speaking i could plainly hear their suppressed breathing, so deathly still was the night. "if any man has a question, ask it now." no one spoke, although several moved uneasily, too nervous to remain still. "le gaire, here, will go first, as he knows the way, and i will follow him; the rest drop in in single file, with the sergeant at the rear. keep close enough to distinguish the man in front, and be careful where you put your feet. no noise, not a word spoken unless i pass back an order; then give it to the next man in a whisper. don't fire under any conditions except by command." i paused, then added slowly: "you are all intelligent enough to know the danger of our expedition, and the necessity of striking quick and hard. our success, our very lives, depend on surprise. if each one of you does exactly as i order, we've got a chance to come back; if not, then it means a bullet, or a prison, for all of us. are you ready?" i heard the low responses, and counted them--ten, the negro not answering. "all right, men," then, my voice hardening into a threat: "now go ahead, le gaire, and remember i am next behind, and carry a revolver in my hand. make a wrong move, lad, and you'll never make another." i could faintly discern the whites of his eyes, and heard one of the men snicker nervously. "lead off! fall in promptly, men." it was a rocky cleft through the hills, perhaps a hundred yards wide here where it opened on the river, with a little stream in its centre fringed with low trees, but narrowing gradually, and becoming blocked with underbrush as it penetrated deeper into the interior. for a mile or more the course was not entirely unknown to me, although the darkness obscured all familiar landmarks. the negro, however, apparently possessed the instinct of an animal, or else had night eyes, for he never hesitated, keeping close along the edge of the stream. the tree-branches brushed our faces, but our feet pressed a well defined path. farther in, the shadows becoming more dense, this path wound about crazily, seeking the level spots; yet le gaire moved steadily forward, his head lowered, and i kept him within reach of my arm, barely able to distinguish the cautious tread of feet behind. clearly enough he knew the way, and could follow it with all the certainty of a dog. relieved as to this, and confident the fellow dare not play us false, i could take notice of other things, and permit my thoughts to wander. there was little to be seen or heard; except for the musical tinkle of the stream, all to the right was silence, but from the other side there arose an occasional sound, borne faintly from a distance--a voice calling, the blare of a far-off bugle, the echo of a hammer pounding on iron. once through the obscuring branches the fitful yellow of a camp-fire was dimly visible, but the ravine twisted so that i could not determine whether this was from federal or confederate lines. anyhow no eye saw us creep past, and no suspicious voice challenged. indeed we had every reason to believe the ravine unguarded, although pickets were undoubtedly patrolling the east bank, and there were places we must go close in under its shadow. so intent had i been upon this adventure, my mind concentrated on details, that the personal equation had been entirely forgotten. but now i began to reflect along that line, yet never for a moment forgetting our situation, or its peril. i was going down into the neighborhood where willifred hardy lived--to which she had probably already returned. i was going as an enemy to her cause, guided by an ex-slave of le gaire's. it was rather an odd turn of fate's wheel, and, while there was no probability of our meeting, yet the conditions were suggestive. my eyes were upon the dim form in advance, and i was strongly tempted to ask if he knew where major hardy's plantation was. beyond doubt he did, but this was no time for dalliance with love, and i drove the temptation sternly from me, endeavoring to concentrate my mind on present duty. but in spite of all billie would intervene, her blue-gray eyes challenging me to forget, and the remembrance of her making my step light. i was going to be near her again, at least, if only for an hour; perhaps, whether i succeeded or failed, she would hear my name mentioned. even that would be better than forgetfulness, and she was one to appreciate a deed like this. i should like to see her eyes when they told her--when they spoke my name. i wondered where captain le gaire was, and whether he had been her escort back through the confederate lines. most probably yes, and perhaps he had remained at the hardy house, still incapacitated from duty by the blow i had struck him--an interesting invalid. even this thought did not trouble me as it might have done otherwise, for i believed billie had already begun to see the real man behind the fellow's handsome face; if so, then time and companionship would only widen the breach between them--perhaps my memory also. it was a hard three hours' travel, practically feeling a passage through the darkness, for the narrow path extended but little beyond a mile, after losing which we stumbled forward through a maze of rock and underbrush. this finally became so dense that the negro veered to the left, where there was a grassy ledge, along which we made more rapid progress, although facing greater danger of discovery. however, the night was black, and to any picket looking down from above the ravine must have appeared a dark, impenetrable void, while our feet in the grass scarcely made a sound. once we saw a moving figure above us, barely visible against the sky-line, and halted breathlessly, every eye uplifted, until the apparition vanished; and once, warned by the cracking of a twig, we lay flat on our faces while a spectral company went past us on foot, heading at right-angles across our path. i counted twenty men in the party, but could distinguish nothing as to uniform or equipment. we waited motionless until the last straggler had disappeared. by this time we were well behind the confederate lines, with troops probably on either side, for this gash in the surface had both narrowed and veered sharply to the east. it still remained sufficiently deep to conceal our movements, and, as we had circled the picket lines, we could proceed with greater confidence. we were beyond the vigilance of sentinels, and could be discovered now only through some accidental encounter. i touched le gaire on the shoulder, and whispered in his ear: "how much farther is it?" "'bout half a mile, sah," staring about into what to me was impenetrable darkness. "yo' see de forked tree dar on de lef'?" i was not sure, yet there was something in that direction which might be what he described. "i guess so--why?" "i 'members dat tree, for dar's a spring just at de foot ob it." "is the rest of the way hard?" "no, sah, not wid me goin' ahead of yo', for dar's a medium good path from de spring up to de top o' de hill. i'se pow'ful feared though we might run across some ob dem confed sojers 'round yere." i tried to look at him, but could see only the whites of his eyes, but his voice somehow belied his words--to my mind there was no fear in the fellow. i passed back word along the line, and found all the men present. not a sound came out of the night, and i ordered the ex-slave to lead on. chapter xviii overheard conversation it was a little gully, hardly more than a tramped footpath, leading down the bank up which we crept until we attained the level. with eyes sharpened by the long night vigil we could perceive the dim outlines of buildings, and a glow or two of distant lights. i felt of the face of my watch, deciding the time to be not far from half-past twelve. our tramp had seemed longer than a trifle over three hours, and it was a relief to know we still had so much of darkness left in which to operate. i touched the man lying next me, unable to tell one dark form from another. "who are you?" "wilson, sir." "where is the guide?" "right yere, sah," and the speaker wriggled toward me on his face. "dis yere is de place." "i supposed so, but it is all a mere blur out there to me. what are these buildings just ahead of us?" "de slave quarters, sah; dey's all deserted, 'cept maybe dat first one yonder," pointing. "i reckon aunt mandy an' her ol' man are dar yet, but de field hands dey all done cleared out long time ago. de stable was ober dar toward de right, whar dat lantern was dodgin' 'round. yo' creep 'long yere, an' i'll point out de house--see, it's back o' de bunch o' trees, whar de yaller light shows in de winder. i reckon dar's some of 'em up yet." from his description i received a fair impression of the surroundings, questioning briefly as i stared out at the inanimate objects faintly revealed, and endeavoring to plan some feasible course of action. the stable was a hundred yards to the rear of the house, a fenced-off garden between, the driveway circling to the right. between the slave quarters and the mansion extended an orchard, the trees of good size and affording ample cover. we were to the left of the house, and the light seen evidently streamed through one of the windows of the front room. where the guard was stationed no one of us could guess, yet this had to be determined first of all. i called for miles, and the sergeant, still holding his position at the rear, crept forward. "i am going in closer to discover what i can," i said quietly. "i may be gone for half an hour. advance your men carefully into the shadow of that cabin there, and wait orders. don't let them straggle, for i want to know where they are." i bent lower and whispered in his ear, "don't let that negro out of your sight; but no shooting--rap him with a butt if necessary. you understand?" "sure; i'll keep a grip on his leg." i paused an instant thinking. "if luck helps me to get inside, and i find the way clear, i'll draw that shade up and down twice--this way--and you can come on. move quickly, but without noise, and wait outside for orders, unless you are certain i am in trouble." "yes, sir; we'll be there." "have one man watch that light all the time; don't let him take his eyes off it. be careful no prowling trooper stumbles on you; keep the men still." i saw the dim movement as he saluted and felt no doubt of obedience,--he was too old and tried a soldier to fail. i crept forward, scouted about the cabin to make sure it was unoccupied, and then advanced into the shadows of the orchard. i was all nerves now, all alertness, every instinct awake, seeing the slightest movement, hearing the faintest noise. there were voices--just a mumble--in the direction of the stable, and, as i drew in closer toward the house i could distinguish sounds as though a considerable party were at table--yet even the tinkle of knife and plate was muffled; probably the dining-room was on the opposite side. however, this would seem to indicate the presence of the one we sought, although so late a supper would render our task more difficult of execution. i was tempted to try the other side first, but the open window with the light burning inside was nearer, and i wished first to assure myself as to that. i could see no sentries, but the embers of a fire were visible on the front driveway. whatever guard might be about the steps, none patrolled this side; i must have waited several minutes, lying concealed in the dense shrubbery, peering and listening, before becoming fully convinced. the omission brought a vague suspicion that johnston might not be present after all--that this was instead a mere party of convivial officers. if so, the sooner i could convince myself the better, to make good our safe return. the thought urged me forward. a small clump of low bushes--gooseberries, i judged from the thorns--was within a few yards of the house, the balance of the distance a closely trimmed turf. the bottom of the window through which the light shone was even with my eyes when standing erect, but i could perceive no movement of any occupants, a small wooden balcony, more for ornament than for practical use, shutting off the view. i grasped the rail of this with my hands and drew my body slowly up, endeavoring to keep to one side out of the direct range of light. this effort yielded but a glimpse of one corner of the seemingly deserted interior, and i crouched down within the rail, cautiously seeking to discover more. fortunately the wooden support did not creak under my weight. the apartment was apparently parlor and sitting-room combined, some of the furniture massive and handsome, especially the centre-table and a sofa of black walnut, but there was also a light sewing-table and a cane-seated rocker, more suggestive of comfort. at first glance i thought the place empty, although i could plainly hear the murmuring sound of voices from beyond; then i perceived some one--a woman--seated on a low stool before the open fire-place. she sat with back toward me, her head bent upon one hand. i was still studying the figure in uncertainty when a door, evidently leading into the hall, opened and a man entered. he was in confederate field uniform, the insignia on his collar that of a major,--a tall, broad-shouldered man, with abundant hair and an aggressive expression. the woman glanced up, but he closed the door, shutting out a jangle of voices, before speaking. "what was it? you sent for me?" she rose to her feet, and came a step forward,--my heart leapt into my throat, my fingers gripped the rail. "yes," she said quietly, looking into his face, "i have decided i cannot do it." "decided! what now?" and his surprise was beyond question. "why, what does all this mean? no one has sought to coerce or drive you; this was your own choice. surely you have had ample time in which to consider!" "oh, yes," wearily, her hand pressing back her hair, "but--but i really never understood myself until to-night; i am not sure i do even now." "a girlish whim," he broke in impatiently. "why, daughter, this is foolish, impossible; all arrangements are made, and even now they are toasting the captain in the dining-room. under no other conditions could he have got leave of absence, for his injuries are trivial. johnston told me as much before he left, and i know we shall need every man to-morrow if we force the fighting." "why does he accept leave then, if he is needed here?" she asked quickly. "for your sake and mine, not fear of battle, i am sure. there will be no heavy action at this end of our line, as we shall fall back to protect the centre. but the movement as contemplated will leave all this ground to be occupied by the yankees; they'll be here by to-morrow night beyond doubt; even now we retain only a skeleton force west of the pike. i cannot leave you here alone, unprotected." "is that why you have pressed me so to assent to this hurried arrangement?" "yes, billie," and he took her hands tenderly. "captain le gaire suggested it as soon as we learned this region was to be left unguarded, and when he succeeded in getting leave to go south it seemed to me the very best thing possible for you. why, daughter, i do not understand your action--by having the ceremony to-night we merely advance it a few months." "but--father," her voice trembling, "i--i am not so sure that i wish to marry captain le gaire at--at all." "not marry him! why, i supposed that was settled--you seemed very happy--" "yes, once," she broke in. "i thought i loved him--perhaps i did--but he has not appeared the same man to me of late. i cannot explain; i cannot even tell what it is i mean, but i am afraid to go on. i want more time to decide, to learn my own heart." "you poor little girl, you are nervous, excited." "no, it is not that, papa. i simply doubt myself, my future happiness with this man. surely you will not urge me to marry one i do not love?" "no, girlie; but this decision comes so suddenly. i had believed you very happy together, and even to-night, when this plan was first broached, there was no word of protest uttered. i thought you were glad." "not glad! i was stunned, too completely surprised to object. you all took my willingness so for granted that i could find no words to express my real feelings. indeed i do not believe i knew what they were--not until i sat here alone thinking, and then there came to me a perfect horror of it all. i tried to fight my doubts, tried to convince myself that it was right to proceed, but only to find it impossible. i loathe the very thought; if i consent i know i shall regret the act as long as i live." "but, billie," he urged earnestly, "what can have occurred to make this sudden change in you? captain le gaire belongs to one of the most distinguished families of the south; is wealthy, educated, a polished gentleman. he will give you everything to make life attractive. surely this is but a mere whim!" "have you found me to be a nervous girl, full of whims?" "no, certainly not, but--" "and this is no whim, no mood. i cannot tell, cannot explain all that has of late caused me to distrust captain le gaire, only i do not feel toward him as i once did. i never can again, and if you insist on this marriage, it will mean to me unhappiness--i am, sure of that." "but what can we do at this late hour! everything is prepared, arranged for; even the minister has arrived, and is waiting." she stood before him, her hands clasped, trembling from head to foot, yet with eyes determined. "will you delay action a few moments, and send captain le gaire to me? i--i must see him alone." he hesitated, avoiding her eyes and permitting his glance to wander about the room. "please do this for me." "but in your present mood--" "i am perfectly sane," and she stood straight before him, insistent, resolute. "indeed i think i know myself better than for months past. i shall say nothing wrong to captain le gaire, and if he is a gentleman he will honor me more for my frankness. either you will send him here to me, or else i shall go to him." the major bowed with all the ceremony of the old school, convinced of the utter futility of further argument. "you will have you own way; you always have," regretfully. "i shall request the captain to join you here." chapter xix le gaire forces a decision he left the room reluctantly enough, pausing at the door to glance back, but she had sunk down into the rocker, and made no relenting sign. every sense of right compelled me to withdraw; i could not remain, a hidden spy, to listen to her conversation with le gaire. my heart leaped with exultation, with sudden faith that possibly her memory of me might lie back of this sudden distrust, this determination for freedom. yet this possibility alone rendered impossible my lingering here to overhear what should pass between them in confidence. interested as i was personally i possessed no excuse to remain; every claim of duty was elsewhere. i had already learned general johnston was not present, and that an attack was projected against our left and centre. this was news of sufficient importance to be reported at headquarters without delay. to be sure the withdrawal of troops from this end of the confederate line made our own return trip less dangerous, still, even if i ventured to remain longer, i must early despatch a courier with the news. i drew silently back from the window, flinging one limb over the balcony rail, preparing to drop to the ground below. her back was toward me, and she heard nothing; then a man came round the end of the house, walking slowly and smoking. i could see the red glow of his cigar, and inhale the fragrance of the tobacco. i hung on desperately, bending my body along the rail, and he passed directly beneath, yet so shadowed i could merely distinguish his outline. the fellow--an officer, no doubt, seeking a breath of fresh air--strolled to the opposite corner, and then turned off into the orchard. i dared not risk an attempt to drop and run, for i knew not what might await me in the darkness. yet where i clung i was exposed to discovery, and, when he turned his back, i sank down once more within the shelter of the balcony. he stopped under the trees, apparently having found a seat of some kind, although i could see nothing except the tip of the burning cigar, as he flipped aside the ashes. i had almost forgotten what might be occurring within, until aroused by the sound of le gaire's voice. he certainly looked a handsome fellow, standing there with hand still on the knob of the door, dressed in a new uniform tailored to perfection, his lips and eyes smiling pleasantly, never suspecting the reason for which he was summoned. "what is it, billie?" he asked easily. "a last word, hey?" "yes," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face, but not advancing. "i--i have been thinking it all over while waiting here alone, and--and i find i am not quite ready. i sent for you to ask release from my promise, or, at least, that you will not insist upon our--our marriage to-night." the man's dark face actually grew white, his surprise at this request leaving him gasping for breath, as he stared at her. "why, good god, girl, do you realize what you are saying?" he exclaimed, all self-control gone. "why, we are ready now; bradshaw just arrived and every arrangement has been made for our journey. it cannot be postponed." "oh, yes, indeed, it can," and she rose, facing him. "surely you would not force me against my will, captain le gaire? i do not desire to rebel, to absolutely refuse, but i hope you will listen to me, and then act the part of a gentleman. i presume you desire me for your wife, not your slave." i thought he had lost his voice he was so long in answering; then the tones were hoarse, indistinct. "listen! yes! i want you to explain; only don't expect too much from me." she looked directly at him, her cheeks flushing to the insolence of his accent. "i am hardly likely to err in that way any more," rather coldly, "but i do owe you an explanation. i have done wrong to permit this affair to go so far without protest, but i did not comprehend my own feelings clearly until to-night. i merely drifted without realizing the danger, and now the shock of discovery leaves me almost helpless. i realize distinctly only one thing--i can not, i will not, marry you. "do these words seem cruel, unjust?" she went on, strangely calm. "perhaps they are, yet it is surely better for me to speak them now than to wreck both our lives by remaining silent longer. you came to me a year ago, captain le gaire, at a time when i was particularly lonely, and susceptible to kindness. you were an officer in the army, fighting for a cause i loved, and your friendly attentions were very welcome. my father liked you, and we were constantly thrown together. i have lived rather a secluded life, here on this plantation since my school days, meeting few men of my own station, and still young enough to be romantic. i thought i loved you, and perhaps the feeling i cherished might have truly become love had you always remained the same considerate gentleman i first believed you to be. instead, little by little, i have been driven away, hurt by your coarseness, your lack of chivalry, until now, when it comes to the supreme test, i find my soul in revolt. am i altogether to blame?" i do not think he comprehended, grasped the truth she sought to convey, for he broke forth angrily: "very pretty, indeed! and do you think i will ever stand for it? why, i should be the laughing stock of the army, a butt for every brainless joker in the camp. i am not such a fool, my girl." he stepped forward, grasping her hands, and holding them in spite of her slight effort to break away. "i am a frank-spoken man, yes, but i have never failed to treat you with respect." "you may call it that, but you have repeatedly sworn in my presence, have ordered me harshly about, have even arranged this affair without first consulting me. if this be your manner before marriage, what brand of brutality could i expect after?" "poof! i may be quick-tempered; perhaps we are neither of us angels, but you choose a poor time for a quarrel. come, billie, let's kiss and make up. what! still angry? surely you are not in earnest?" "but i am--very much in earnest." "you mean to throw me down? now at the last moment, with all the fellows waiting in the next room?" she had her hands freed, and with them held behind her, stood motionless facing him. "would you marry me against my wish?" she asked. "would you hold me to a promise i regret having made? i sent for you merely to tell you the truth, to throw myself on your generosity. i am scarcely more than a girl, captain le gaire, and acknowledge i have done wrong, have been deceived in my own feelings. you have my word--the word of a hardy--and we keep our pledges. i suppose i must marry you if you insist, but i implore you as a man of honor, a southern gentleman, to release me." her voice faltered, and le gaire laughed. "oh, i begin to see how the wind blows. you do stand to your promise then. very well, that's all i ask." "i do not love you; i do not think i even respect you." "nevertheless you cannot shake me off like that. it's only a whim, a mood, billie; once married i'll teach you the lesson over again. you were loving enough a month ago." "i was in the midst of a girl's dream," she said slowly, "from which i have awakened--won't you release me, captain le gaire?" "i should say not," walking savagely across the room. "come, billie, i'm tired of this tantrum. a little of this sort of thing goes a long way with me. you're a headstrong, spoiled girl, and i've already put up with enough to try the patience of job. now i'm going to show my authority, insist on my rights. you've promised to marry me, now, to-night, and you are going to do it, if i have to go to your father and tell him plainly just what is the matter with you." "with me! the only matter is that i have ceased to care for you." "yes, in the last week! do you think i am blind? do you suppose i don't know what has changed your mind so suddenly? do you imagine i'm going to let you go for the sake of a damned yankee?" she fairly gasped in surprise, her fingers clinched, her cheeks flaming. "a yankee! captain le gaire, are you crazy?" "no," his temper bursting all control. "that's what's the matter with you. oh, of course, you'll deny, and pretend to be horrified. i saw into your little game then, but i kept still; now you are carrying it too far." "what do you mean? i am not accustomed to such language." "i mean this: you think you are in love with that sneaking yankee spy--i don't know his name--the fellow you helped through our lines, and then hid at moran's. now don't deny it; i asked some questions before i left there, and you were with him out under the grape arbor. i saw the imprint of your feet in the soft dirt. by god, i believe you knew he struck me, and permitted me to lie there while he got away." "captain le gaire--" "now you wait; this is my turn to talk. you thought you had fooled me, but you had not. under other conditions i might accede to your request, but not now--not to give you over to a yank. i've got your promise, and i propose to hold you to it." "but it is not that," she protested. "i--i am not in love with lieutenant galesworth." "so that is the fellow's name, is it--galesworth," sneeringly. "i thought you pretended before you did not know." she remained silent, confused. "i'm glad to know who he is; some day we may have a settlement. well, all i know about the affair is this, but that's enough--you rode with him all one night, hid him all the next day, and then helped him escape. you lied to me repeatedly, and now you want to break away from me at the last minute. it's either this galesworth or somebody else--now who is it?" billie sank back into a chair, but with her eyes still on the man's face. "it is no--one," she said wearily. "it is not that at all; i--i simply do not care for you in that way any longer." "poof! do you mean you won't keep your word?" "i mean i want to be released--at least a postponement until i can be sure of myself." "and i refuse--refuse, do you understand that? you either marry me to-night or i go to your father with the whole story. he'll be pleased to learn of your affair with a yankee spy, no doubt, and of how you helped the fellow through our lines. and i've got the proofs too. now, young lady, it is about time to stop this quarrel, and come down to facts. what are you going to do?" "you insist?" "of course i do." her head sank upon her hand, and even from where i peered in upon them, helpless to get away, equally helpless to aid, i could see her form tremble. "then there is no escape, i suppose; i must keep my promise." he touched her on the shoulder, indifferent to her shrinking away, a sarcastic smile on his lips. "i knew you would. i don't take this yankee business seriously, only i wanted you to know i understood all about it. you're too sensible a girl to get tangled up that way. we'll drop it now, and i'll show you how good i can be. may i kiss you?" "i--i would rather not--not yet. don't be angry, but i--i am not myself. where were you going?" "to tell your father it is all settled. you must be ready when we come back." he paused with hand on the door looking back at her. there was a moment's breathless silence; then her lips whispered: "yes." i turned to look out into the black orchard, and then gazed back into the lighted room. i knew not what to do, how to act. my remaining where i was could be of no possible service to her, indeed my discovery there would only add to her embarrassment, yet i had no reason to believe the officer had left his seat yonder, and therefore dare not drop to the ground. my heart ached for the girl, and i longed to get my hands on that cur of a le gaire, yet might venture to approach neither. it was a maddening situation, but i could only stand there in the dark, gripping the rail, unable to decide my duty. perhaps she did love me--in spite of that vigorous denial, perhaps she did--and the very possibility made the blood surge hot through my veins. could i help her in any way? whatever her feeling toward me might be, there remained no question as to her growing dislike for le gaire. not fear, but a peculiar sense of honor alone, held her to her pledge. and could i remain still, and permit her to be thus ruthlessly sacrificed? would major hardy permit it if he knew?--if the entire situation was explained to him? le gaire never would tell him the truth, but would laugh off the whole affair as a mere lovers' quarrel. could i venture to thrust myself in? if i did, would it be of any use? it would cost me my liberty, and the liberty of my men; probably i should not be believed. and would she ever forgive me for listening? i struggled with the temptation--swayed by duty and by love--until my heart throbbed in bewilderment. then it was too late. fate, tired of hesitancy, took the cards out of my hands. billie had been sitting, her head bowed on the table, the light above glistening on her hair. suddenly she arose to her feet, her face white and drawn, her hands extended in a gesture of disgust. attracted by the open window, and the black vista of night beyond, she stepped through onto the balcony, and stood there, leaning against the rail. chapter xx we arrive at a crisis i remained there, pressed into one corner, unable to move, scarcely venturing to breathe, her skirt brushing my leg, the strands of her hair, loosened by the night wind, almost in my face. she was gazing straight out into the night, utterly unconscious of my presence, so deeply buried in her own trouble that all else seemed as nothing. for a moment she remained motionless, silent; then her hands pressed against her forehead, and her lips gave utterance to a single exclamation: "oh, god! i can never, never stand it! what shall i do?" perhaps i moved, perhaps some sense of the occult revealed my presence, for she turned swiftly, with a sharp gasp of the breath, and looked straight into my eyes. the recognition was instant, bewildering, a shock which left her speechless, choking back the cry of alarm which rose into her throat. she gripped the rail and stared as though at a ghost. "don't cry out," i entreated quickly. "surely you know whom i am." "yes, yes," struggling to regain her voice. "i--know; but why are you here? how long have you been here?" "it is a story too complex to repeat," i said earnestly, "but i have been here since your father first came--don't blame me, for i couldn't get away." "then--then you heard--" "yes; i heard everything. i tried not to; i pledge you my word it was all an accident. i was here for another purpose, a military purpose. i did not even know this was your home. i am trapped on this balcony, and dare not attempt to get away--i had to listen. you will believe what i say?" i was pleading so desperately that she stopped me, one hand grasping my sleeve. "yes, of course. i am sure you could never do that purposely. but i do not know what to say, how to explain. you must go at once. can you not realize my position if you are discovered here? what--what captain le gaire would say?" "very easily," my voice insensibly hardening at the memory, "and i should like to remain to meet him, if that were the only danger. no, please stand exactly where you are, miss hardy, so as to keep me in the shadow. thank you. there is a man sitting on a bench yonder just within the orchard. he has been there for the last twenty minutes, and it is his presence which has made it impossible for me to get away. can i escape in any manner through the house?" she shook her head, her glance wandering from the lighted room out again into the night. "no; there is only the one door." "who are here besides le gaire and your father?" "a half-dozen officers, two from the louisiana regiment, the rest belonging to the staff; they are just ending up a feast in the dining-room." "and is the house under guard?" she hesitated, looking me now squarely in the eyes, her face clearly revealed as the light from within fell upon it. "why do you ask?--for military reasons?" "no; that is all passed and gone. we came hoping to capture general johnston, as scouts informed us this was his headquarters for the night. but he is not here, and you will do your cause no harm by telling me all i ask." "i do not think there are any guards posted," she answered, convinced that i spoke the truth. "i have not been out, but i am sure there are no soldiers about the place, except the officers' servants at the stable with the horses. the general departed before dark, and took his bodyguard with him." she had no reason to deceive me, and her sincerity was beyond question. this was better than i had dared hope, and instantly a new plan leaped into my mind, the very audacity of which made me gasp. yet it might work, carried out with sufficient boldness, although only to be resorted to as a last desperate necessity. as i stood there, revolving this new thought swiftly through my mind, the old fear seemed to return to her. "did--did you hear--everything?" she asked again. "i am afraid i did," i confessed humbly, "but i am going to forget." "no, that is not necessary. i am not sure i am altogether sorry that you overheard." "but i am--at least, a part of what i overheard struck me rather hard." "what was that?" "your reference to me. billie, i had been dreaming dreams." her eyes dropped, the long lashes shading them. "but i had previously warned you," she said at last, very soberly. "you knew how impossible such a thought was; you were aware of my engagement." "yes, and i also knew le gaire. all i hoped for was time, sufficient time for you to discover his character. he is no bug-a-boo to me any longer, nor shall any tie between you keep me from speaking. as i have told you i did not come here expecting to meet you--not even knowing this was your home--yet you have been in my mind all through the night, and what has occurred yonder between you and that fellow has set me free. do you know what i mean to do?" "no, of course not; only--" "only i must believe what you said about me to him; only i must continue to respect an agreement which has been wrung out of you by threat. i refuse to be bound. i know now the one thing i wanted most to know, billie--that you do not love him. oh, you can never make me think that again--" "stop!" and she was looking straight at me again. "i shall listen to you no longer, lieutenant galesworth. i cannot deny the truth of much which you have said, but it is not generous of you to thus take advantage of what was overheard. it was merely a quarrel, and not to be taken seriously. he is coming back, and--and i am going to marry him." there was a little catch in her voice, yet she finished the sentence bravely enough, flinging the words at me in open defiance. "when? to-night?" "yes, immediately, as soon as captain le gaire can confer with my father." i smiled, not wholly at ease, yet confident i knew her struggle. "you might deceive some one else, miss billie," i said quietly, "and perhaps if i were not here this programme might indeed be carried out--i believe le gaire is cur enough to insist upon it. but i am here, and you are not going to marry him, unless you tell me with your own lips that you love the man." she stared into my eyes, as though doubting my sanity. "will you consent to say that?" "i deny your right to even ask." "yet i shall take silence as a negative, and act accordingly. no, you will not hate me for it; you may imagine you do for the moment, but the time will come when your heart will thank me for interference, for saving you from a foolish sacrifice. you do not love le gaire; you cannot look me in the eyes and say that you do." "you are impertinent, ungentlemanly. i simply refuse to answer a question you have no right to ask." "i assume the right in accordance with a law as old as man." "what law?" "the law of love," i returned earnestly, "the love of a man for the one woman." i could see her slight form sway as the full significance of these words came to her; her cheeks flamed, but there was no shadowing of her eyes. "i am going in, lieutenant galesworth," she said finally, drawing back to the open window. "you have forgotten yourself, forgotten the respect due me." "but i have not, billie," and in my earnestness i neglected all caution, stepping forward into the full glare of light. "the highest respect is the basis of true love, and, little girl, i love you." she clung to the frame of the window, rendered speechless by my audacity, struggling with herself. "oh, don't say that! i cannot listen; i must not. believe me, lieutenant galesworth, i do not altogether blame you, for i have been indiscreet, foolish. i--i have not meant to be; i merely endeavored to prove kind and friendly, never once dreaming it would come to this. now it must end, absolutely end; even if you despise me for a heartless coquette, there is no other way. my path is laid out for me, and i must walk in it. it may not be altogether pleasant, but i made my choice, and it is too late now for retreat. i want you to help me, not make it any harder." "by going away, you mean? by leaving you to be coerced?" "i was not coerced; it was my own free choice." we were both so interested as to forget everything except ourselves, utterly oblivious to the situation, or to what was occurring without. my eyes were upon her face, endeavoring to read the real truth, and i knew nothing of the two men at the edge of the orchard. like a shot out of the night broke in a voice: "billie, who is that you have with you?" i saw her reel against the side of the window, every trace of color deserting her face, her eyes staring down into the darkness. she gasped for breath, yet answered, before a thought flashed through my brain: "only a friend, papa. did you suppose i would consent to remain alone long?" "le gaire said he just left you." she leaned out over the rail, half concealing me from view. "oh, that must have been fifteen minutes ago," and she laughed. "it is never safe to leave me as long as that. you know that, papa, and now i warn captain le gaire." the older man echoed her laugh, striking his companion lightly on the shoulder. "i fear the little witch is right, gerald," he said pleasantly. "come, we'll go in, and uncover the whole conspiracy." their backs were toward us, and she straightened up, grasping me by the hand. she was shaking from head to foot, even her voice trembled. "you must not be found here, and we have but a moment. drop to the ground as soon as they turn the corner. don't hesitate; don't compromise me." "but what will you tell them?" "oh, i do not know--anything that comes into my head. don't mind me, i'll take care of myself." "but you will not; that is the whole trouble--if i go now i lose you forever. billie, let me stay!" she broke from me, stepping back into the room, yet there was a look in her eyes which made me desperate. she did not love le gaire, she despised him. i was certain of that, and more than half convinced her heart was already mine. should i run from the fight like a coward, sneak away in the night, leaving her to be sacrificed? the very thought sickened me. better to meet the issue squarely--and i believed i knew how it could be done. i grasped the curtain, drew it down twice in signal, and stepped into the room. "i am going to take command here now, billie," i said with new sternness. "all you need to do is obey orders." chapter xxi we capture the house if she was startled and frightened before, she was doubly so now at this sudden revolt on my part. but i had no time then for explanation, only for the stern exercising of authority. if i was right, if deep down in the girl's heart there was love for me, she would forgive this action as soon as she realized its purpose--aye! she would respect me the more for daring the deed. "don't attempt to interfere now, my girl; go over to the big chair and sit down." my revolver was in my hand, and she saw it, her eyes wide open. "you--you are not going to hurt them?" "no, not if they use any sense, but this is not going to be boys' play. will you do as i say?" she sat down, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward, half inclined to scream, yet afraid to utter a sound. without taking my eyes from her, i slipped across the room to where i would be partially concealed as the door opened. i knew what i was going to do, or, at least, attempt to do, and realized fully the risk i ran, and the chance of failure. it would require daring and coolness to capture those in the house, without raising any alarm, and likewise the prompt cooperation of my men. if they had seen my signal, and if i could disarm these first two, the rest should be comparatively easy. there were steps in the hall, and the jingle of spurs. hardy entered first, his head turned backward as though he spoke to le gaire. i saw the girl rise to her feet, but my whole attention was concentrated upon the two men. the instant the space was sufficient, i forced the door shut, and stood with my back against it, the black muzzle of my colt staring them in the eyes. "hands up, gentlemen!" i said sternly, "a movement means death." they presented two astounded faces, hardy's absolutely blank, so complete his surprise, but le gaire recognized me instantly, his mouth flying open, his eyes glaring. "good god!--you!" "yes; hands up, le gaire! don't be a fool." his dark complexion was yellow with pallor, and i knew him for a coward at heart, yet his very hatred of me made him dangerous. hardy was different, realizing his helplessness, but eying me coolly, his hands held over his head. "what does all this mean?" he asked quietly. "who the devil are you?" "he's that damned yank billie's been so interested in," broke out the captain, "the same fellow who knocked me off my horse at jonesboro." major hardy glanced toward his daughter inquiringly, but before she could utter a word in explanation i cut in: "this has nothing to do with miss hardy. she is as much a prisoner as you are. now, captain, hand me your revolver--butt first, please. major hardy, i will also trouble you. now both of you back up slowly against the wall." their faces were a study, hardy rather seeming to enjoy the experience, his thin lips smiling grimly, but le gaire was mad, his jaw set, his eyes glaring at me. "i should rather like to know what all this means, young man," said the former. "do you expect to capture the house single-handed?" "hardly, but i've made a good start," now fully at ease, with a revolver in each hand, the third thrust in my belt. "however i've no time now to explain." without turning my face from them i sidled over to the window, speaking quietly into the darkness without: "come in, men, one at a time." almost to my surprise they came over the rail like so many monkeys, scarcely a sound revealing the movements. i saw the smile fade from off the major's lips, and my eyes caught billie's wide open in astonishment. the fellows hustled in behind me, not knowing what was expected of them, but ready enough for anything. i glanced at them, beckoning to miles. "all here, sergeant? then draw down the shade. wilson, you and carney come over here, and keep an eye on these two men. miles, let me speak to you a moment." i led him into one corner, outlining the situation in a dozen words. "there may be half a dozen in the dining-room--yes, just across the hall--including a preacher--armed, of course, but they don't suspect there is a blue-coat within ten miles. they're out for a good time, and have been having it. if you can get the bunch covered first, there need be no fight. don't fire a shot; just lay the iron down on them. take all the men along, except the two i need here. you know your business." "sure," grinning, "and what then?" "scout around the house. i don't believe there are any guards set, but it will be safer to make sure." "there's some cavalrymen at the stable, sir; we heard 'em singin' out there." "a few officers' servants; you can attend to them easily enough after you are certain about the house. by the way, who is the best man to send back?" "into our lines, sir? young ross would be all right." there was a desk in one corner, with writing materials on it, but i was most anxious just then to be assured we controlled the situation. some of those fellows across the hall might become restless, and stroll in here at any moment, to discover the cause for delay. "very well, miles; leave ross here, and carry out your orders; that should give you seven men--why, no, it doesn't! where is the negro?" "he said you told him he didn't need go beyond the head of the ravine, sir," explained the sergeant, "and as one of the men heard you say so, i didn't feel like making him come along. he started back for camp." "i believe i did promise something like that," i admitted, "and he wouldn't have been much assistance anyway. well, six men and yourself ought to do the business. watch the windows, so none get away." perhaps i should have gone myself, but i was disinclined to leave the room, desirous of getting off my despatch without delay, and possessed implicit confidence in the promptness and discretion of the sergeant. he drew his revolver, the men silently following his example, and the little party slipped quietly out into the hall, the last man closing the door behind him. evidently they encountered no one in the passageway. listening intently i heard the dining-room door thrown back violently, a confused noise of feet, of chairs hurriedly pushed aside, a voice uttering a stern order, the sound of a brief struggle, ended by a blow and the thud of a body striking the floor, then numerous voices speaking excitedly, followed by silence. convinced the work had been accomplished, and that the house was now entirely in our possession, i walked across the room to the desk. miss hardy still sat where i had ordered, and i was compelled to pass her chair. her eyes met mine coldly. "would you permit me to go across to my father?" she asked. "most certainly; you are in no sense a prisoner, except i shall have to ask you to remain in the room for the present." she inclined her head ever so slightly. "i shall ask no further favor, and thank you for granting this." i sank into the chair at the desk, and watched her cross the room. her words and actions hurt me, and yet it was scarcely to be expected that she would be pleased with the sudden change in affairs. to see me thus in complete control of the situation, her father and le gaire prisoners, all their plans frustrated, was maddening, particularly so as she realized that this result came largely through her own indiscretion. i began myself to doubt the complete success of my scheme. without question i had the power now to prevent her marriage, yet i might have gone too far, and caused a revulsion of feeling. she had been interested in me before--for it had been her part to help me in times of danger, and sympathy lies very close to love--but now the conditions were changed, and she might feel very different toward my interference. perhaps i was destined to lose rather than gain, yet it was too late now to draw back--i must play the game out to its ending. i wrote rapidly, utterly ignoring her conversation with hardy, yet someway conscious that le gaire sought to join in, and was answered in a single swift sentence, the girl not even turning to glance at him. the simple action caused my heart to leap to my throat--could it be the lady played a part, her coldness to me intended to deceive others? it was a hope, at least, and i went to my task with fresh courage. i told it all in a dozen sentences--johnston's plans for the morrow; the withdrawal of confederate troops from our left, and their concentration in reserve of the enemy's centre; our capture of the hardy house, and my hope to retain possession until the right of our line could be flung forward. then i called ross, and he came across the room, looking scarcely more than a boy, but with a serious face. "can you find your way back down the ravine to our lines, my lad?" "yes, sir." "then don't lose any time. the confederate troops have been withdrawn, but you must watch out for stragglers. give this to colonel cochran, and tell him it must be forwarded to headquarters at once. explain to him the situation here. now be off." he saluted, wheeled sharply about, and went out the window. i heard him strike the ground. then i sat silently looking at the others in the room, wondering how the sergeant was getting along, and slowly realizing that i had a white elephant on my hands. i was endeavoring to play two games at once, love and war, and the various moves were confusing. it might be possible even for my little squad to hold this advance position until reinforcements arrived, but what could be done with the prisoners? billie might forgive me--realizing the motive--for all which had occurred thus far, but if i were to turn her father and le gaire over to the hardships of a northern prison, i could expect no mercy. i cared little as to the fate of the others, they had taken the chances of war, but these two must be liberated before our troops came up. i could not catch the girl's eyes; she sat with averted face, talking earnestly to her father. uneasy, and puzzled how best to straighten out the tangle, i went out into the hall, and glanced in at the room opposite. a bunch of gray-clad men were against the wall, disarmed and helpless, even their tongues silent, and three watchful troopers guarded them, revolvers in hand. all stared at me as i stepped forward. "where is the sergeant?" "at the stable, sir." "oh, yes; hope he has as good luck there--got them all?" "every bloomin' one of 'em, sir. they was quite nice about it." an indignant voice spoke from the gray line. "blamed if it ain't atherton! say, major, what does all this mean?" i laughed, stepping forward so as to see the speaker's face. "captain bell, isn't it? thought i recognized your voice. i'm not atherton, although i believe i was introduced to you under that name once. i have wanted to thank you ever since for bearing testimony in my favor." his jaw fell, his eyes staring. "who the devil are you then?" "a federal officer; my name is galesworth." "and this is no joke?" "well, hardly, captain. i shouldn't advise you to take the affair that way. these fellows here might not appreciate the humor of it." i turned back, and met miles in the hall, just as he came in through the front door. he grinned at sight of me, evidently well pleased. "got every mother's son of 'em, sir," he reported. "easy job too; never had to fire a shot, and only hit one fellow; he started a shindy in there," with a glance toward the dining-room. "there were five gray-jacks out in the stable, all asleep, an' they was like lambs. the blamed fools never had a guard set." "they felt safe enough, no doubt, back here," i returned. "the last thing they thought about was any yankees getting this far. do you know what they were gathered here for?" he shook his head. "it was intended for a wedding party, until we butted in." "hell! not that pretty girl back in there?" "yes," for somehow i felt i had better tell him enough of the truth to make the situation clear. he was an honest, clear-headed fellow, and i needed help. "and that confederate captain--le gaire--was to be the bridegroom. i am going to tell you the whole story, sergeant, and then you'll see what sort of a fix i'm in." i went over it hastily, yet with sufficient detail so as to make it all clear to his mind. he listened soberly at first, and then his eyes began to twinkle, and he interrupted with numerous questions. apparently he found the tale most amusing. "well, if that ain't the rummest story ever i heard! it beats a novel by 'bout a mile. i never was married myself, sir, but i've got a blamed pretty girl waitin' for me back in ol' illinoy, an' i reckon i know what she'd want me to do in a case like this. sure, i'm with you until the cows come home, and so are the rest o' the boys. lord, this is the kind o' sojerin' i like; somethin' happenin' every minute. what's next, sir?" "perhaps i better look over the house first," i said thoughtfully, "and see where we can stow away these prisoners without needing all our men to guard them. you take charge in there while i am gone, miles, and let the girl go anywhere she pleases so she promises not to leave the house." "all right, sir," and the sergeant saluted, his eyes shining, as i started for the stairs. chapter xxii miss willifred declares herself i glanced at the various rooms up stairs, but nothing seemed exactly suitable for our purpose, and, finally, taking a trooper along to hold a light, explored the basement with better results. here i found a considerable cellar, divided into two sections, the floor of stone slabs, and the walls well bricked. iron bars, firmly set, protected the small windows, and altogether the place appeared favorable for our purpose. to be sure, desperate prisoners could not be confined in such quarters for any length of time, but it would answer temporarily, providing we left a guard within. satisfied as to this, after fixing up a stout bar across the door, i returned to the first floor, and gave orders to have the men taken below. we could not differentiate between officers and privates, but robbed the rooms up stairs of bed-clothing, and thus made them as comfortable as possible. bell and the clergy-man made voluble protests, but yielded to the inevitable, being persuaded by the revolvers of the guards to accompany the others. so far as arms went we were now well supplied, having added to our original equipment the officers' pistols, and the carbines of the men captured in the stable. this matter settled i turned to the consideration of the case of the two men remaining in the front parlor. here was a more serious problem, for i could not herd major hardy with those fellows below, nor was i willing to humiliate le gaire by any such treatment. not that i thought him too good to associate with these others, but billie must not think i was actuated by any feelings of revenge. i talked the situation over with the sergeant, who proved a hard-headed, practical man, and we decided upon an upstairs room, over the kitchen, which had only one small window, through which a man of ordinary size could hardly crawl. i went up to examine this more carefully, and to nail down the window frame. as i came out into the hall again, rather dreading the impending interview in the parlor, i saw her coming alone up the broad stairway. she did not see me until her foot was upon the last step, and then she stopped, suddenly, one hand gripping the rail, her cheeks burning. one glance into her eyes caused me to nerve myself for an unpleasant session. "i have been waiting for you to return," she said very coldly, yet with a slight falter in the voice, "and when i spoke to the sergeant, he said you were up here." i bowed, hat in hand, and waited, unwilling to speak until i knew something of her purpose. "lieutenant galesworth, what is the meaning of all this? what do you propose doing with my father and captain le gaire?" "did they send you to me to find out?" "no; father merely supposed i was going to my own room after something i needed." "and le gaire?" i insisted. she looked at me frankly, her eyes utterly fearless. "we have scarcely spoken, and--and he certainly would never have advised my coming to you. i came of my own volition, because--well, because you claimed this was all a service to me. i--i do not understand what you meant, or--or why you hold us prisoners." i thought i saw light now. she forced herself to be angry with me, but face to face was unable to carry out the programme. "will you come up here, miss billie?" i asked. "let us take this settee a moment, and i will endeavor to explain. we are alone here, and i would not care to talk freely before the others. i prefer them to think this is purely a military affair, don't you?" she hesitated, biting her lip, and standing motionless. my hand was extended, but she ignored it, yet, after a moment, she stepped up beside me, her hand on the settee. "it--it is not a military affair then?" "only incidentally--i told you the truth before." "i--i do not remember." "perhaps i failed to make all clear; indeed, i was a little hazy myself, events crowded upon us so rapidly. won't you sit down while i talk?" she sank upon the settee, as though to an order, looking into my face, with an expression in her eyes i was unable to comprehend. "i have wanted to see you alone," i began, determined there should be no lack of courage on my part. "there is no longer need of any secrets between us. we have met only once before to-night, but that meeting was of such a character that we were instantly acquainted. to be sure we were working at cross-purposes, and you outwitted me, but later you squared all that by saving me from capture." "why go over that unfortunate occurrence?" she interrupted. "do you not suppose i regret that enough already?" "i doubt if you regret it at all." "but i do--i haven't had a moment's peace since." "indeed! why?" and i bent lower, eager to read her eyes. "because even in that little time you had learned to care for me?" "your words are insolent," rising to her feet, proudly, but i remained directly in her path. "no, miss willifred," earnestly, "they are not, because they come from the heart. you are a woman, and therefore you understand. you cannot be angry with me, no matter how hard you try. you are endeavoring to deceive yourself, but the effort is useless. you do care for me--that was why you waited for me to get safely across the river; that was why you have come to me now. ever since i left you in the grape arbor i have been in your thoughts." "and why i was also about to marry captain le gaire, i suppose," she interposed defiantly, but with eyes unable to meet mine. "i can comprehend that easily enough, helped by what i overheard. you cannot tell me you desired to marry captain le gaire--can you?" "no," for i stopped, and thus compelled an answer. "it would be useless to deny that." "i was so sure of this that i acted, took the one course open to me to prevent your doing this wrong. i deliberately determined to risk your displeasure rather than permit the sacrifice. you were marrying him merely because you had promised, because you could not explain to your father why your feelings had changed--you were afraid to confess that you loved a yankee." "but i didn't--it was not that!" "then what was it?" she remained silent, but now i was fully aroused. "billie," my voice low, and barely reaching her ear. "when i rode away that night i knew i loved you. i was a yankee soldier, but i had been captured by a rebel. i scarcely possessed a hope then of meeting you again, but i did believe you already realized what kind of a man le gaire was. i could not conceive that you would marry him, and i swore to myself to seek you out at the earliest moment possible. don't draw back from me, dear, but listen--you must listen. this means as much to you as to me." "but i cannot--i must not." "what is there to prevent? your pride of the south? your adherence to the confederacy? i care nothing for that; we are not rebel and yankee, but man and woman. as to le gaire, i have no respect for his claim upon you, nor would your father have if he knew the truth. it is all an accident our meeting again, but it was one of god's accidents. i thought i was sent here to capture johnston, but my real mission was to save you. i've gone too far now to retreat. so have you." "i?" in half indignant surprise. "dear, do you suppose i would dare this if i doubted you?--if i did not believe your heart was mine?" "and if convinced otherwise, what would you do?" the tone in which this was spoken, the swift question startled me. "do? why, there would be nothing to do, except return." "leaving your prisoners?" i glanced out through the nearest window, noting the sky growing gray in the east, and suddenly realized that, if we succeeded in getting away ourselves now, the transporting of confederates under guard would be scarcely possible. she seemed to read all this in my face, before i could frame an answer. "i have listened to you, lieutenant galesworth," she burst forth, "because i had to. you have had everything your own way thus far, but now it is my turn. i am a woman, a woman of the south, a soldier's daughter, and am not likely to surrender my heart, my principles, my life before such an assault. you have taken too much for granted; because i have not wished to hurt you, you have believed my silence indicative of love; you have construed friendship into devotion. now it is my turn to speak. i did like you, and helped you; without doubt i was indiscreet, but i thought only of friendship, supposing we would part then, never to meet again. under those circumstances," and her voice faltered slightly, "it may be that i said and did more than i should, enough--well, enough to encourage you. but--but i thought it all over with. you knew of captain le gaire, and that should have been sufficient. yet you come here, in face of all this, and--and dare to make love to me." "but you are forgetting what i overheard--the fact that i know your real feelings toward le gaire." "no, i do not forget, but that was nothing--nothing to do with you. it was merely the result of a mood, a whim, a lovers' quarrel. no, don't speak, don't stop me. i am not going to lie. it was not a mood, nor a whim. i had been analyzing my own heart, and discovered captain le gaire was not what i had believed him to be. the very fact that both he and my father so took everything for granted, arranged all details without consulting my wishes, made me rebellious. but your dictation is even worse than theirs. they had some right, while you have none, absolutely none, lieutenant galesworth--have you?" "i--i hardly know," confused by this direct question, and the flash of her eyes. "i supposed i had." "yet with nothing but imagination to build upon. have i ever told you i did not care for captain le gaire, or that i loved you?" "no," i admitted, feeling myself driven relentlessly to the wall. "i am not angry at you, for i understand how all this has occurred. i believe you have been inspired by the highest motives, and a desire to serve me. if i am angry at any one, it is myself. i have permitted you to go too far, to assume too much. now it ends, for i am going to marry captain le gaire." she stood up straight before me, her head poised proudly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with excitement. never before had she appeared more attractive, and the love that swelled up into my heart seemed to choke all utterance. could i have mistaken everything? could i have deceived myself so completely? did these hard words represent her true purpose, or were they merely wrung out of her by stress of circumstance? i could not determine, but i knew this--i could not turn about now and retreat. if i did that i would certainly lose, while if i fought it out there was still hope. no woman--at least no woman like willifred hardy--ever loved a coward, or a quitter, and i was determined she should not catalogue me in either class. all this came to me rather in instinct than thought, yet i was ready enough when she began questioning. "now you will go away, won't you?" "go away?" "yes, back to your own people, and leave us alone. there is no reason why you should stay here longer. you are not serving me, nor your cause. release your prisoners, and get away safely before you yourself are captured." "did le gaire tell you to make this proposition?" "certainly not," indignantly, "i have not spoken to captain le gaire." "well, miss billie," soberly, "i accept your words just as they are spoken, and will trouble you no longer with my attentions. but this has become a military matter now. it is too late for us to attempt getting back, but i have sent a man for reinforcements, and we shall hold this house until they come. i do not propose to release a single prisoner, or permit a rumor of what has occurred here to reach confederate headquarters. you are also a prisoner, although i will accept your parole." she flung back her head defiantly. "which i refuse to give." "then obey my orders; is that your room yonder?" "yes." "i will trouble you to go in there." she stared at me, biting her lip, with foot tapping the carpet, but i had spoken sternly. "do you mean that?" "every word. i hope i shall not have to call one of my men, and place you under guard." there could be no doubt she was angry, yet i was the master, and, after one glance into my face, her eyes burning, she swept by me, and entered the room designated. i gave a glance about its interior, marking the distance to the ground; then took the key-and inserted it in the outer lock. she stood silently facing me, her face flushed, her bosom rising and falling swiftly. "i regret very much this necessity," i apologized, "but you have left me no alternative." "i have no desire to be spared," she returned, "and no favors to ask, lieutenant galesworth." our eyes met, mine, i am sure, as resolute as her own, and i stepped back into the hall, closing and locking the door. chapter xxiii the challenge i went slowly down stairs, swayed by a conflict of emotions. had i indeed gone too far, been too stern and abrupt? still it was surely better to err in this direction than to exhibit weakness, and it was only between these two that i had any choice remaining. what lay between us and our own lines was uncertain--possibly confederate pickets, surely bands of stragglers, renegades from both armies. now that we had waited so long, it would be a desperate chance to attempt to traverse that ravine in daylight. we were far safer here, hidden away, but must guard well that no knowledge of our presence be scattered abroad. billie had defied me, threatened, and refused to accept parole; nothing remained but to hold her prisoner. besides her words had stung and angered me. even while i doubted their entire truth they still hurt, serving to increase my bitterness toward le gaire. i was in this mood as i paused a moment to glance out at the gray dawn. the smooth pike was at least a hundred yards away, barely visible here and there through the intervening trees. everything about was quiet and deserted--war seemed a long way off. standing there alone, hearing the birds singing in the branches, and gazing out across the green, closely trimmed grass, i could scarcely realize our perilous position, or the exciting events of the past night. i felt more like a guest than an invader, and was compelled to bring myself back to realities with an effort. i was helped by the sudden appearance of miles in the hallway. "thought i better take another look down stairs, sir," he explained, as i turned, facing him. "they are quiet enough in there." "i was just going in," i said. "we will have to put those two with the others at present. our people should be up here before night, and meanwhile we must remain quiet. anything happened in there?" "nothing important. the old major fell asleep after the girl left, but the other fellow is pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, and cursing. he's asked me some leadin' questions 'bout you, an' where miss hardy's gone. were you goin' in, sir?" "yes; you better wait." i opened the door, and stepped into the parlor, the sergeant following, evidently anticipating a scene. the room showed some signs of disorder, the furniture disarranged, and one chair overturned. wilson sat in front of the window, the shade of which had been drawn down, and the other guard was near the door. both men had their revolvers drawn, and, from their positions, and le gaire's attitude, apparently trouble was anticipated. he was in the middle of the room, with hands clinched and eyes blazing, and wheeled to face me as i entered. "oh, it's you, is it!" he exclaimed, sudden anger sweeping away every vestige of control. "i may be a prisoner, but i'll be damned if i'll keep still. this whole affair is an outrage. what have you done with miss hardy?" "the lady has gone to her own room up stairs, captain le gaire," i replied courteously enough. "but not until after seeing you, you sneaking yankee hound," he burst forth, striding forward. "what does this all mean? what influence have you got over the girl?" the major sat up suddenly. "see here, le gaire, you leave my daughter's name out of this." the enraged captain favored him with a glance. "i know more about this affair than you do, hardy. this blue-bellied puppy was with billie before, and i knew there was some infernal scheme on the moment i saw him here to-night. the girl helped him to get away once before, and there's some trick being worked off now." the older man was upon his feet instantly. "hold on there; not another word; whatever my girl has done she is not going to be condemned in my presence without a hearing." "major hardy," i broke in, and stepped between them. "this is my quarrel, and not yours. your daughter has done nothing for which she can be criticised. all her connection with me has been accidental, and during our last interview she merely begged for your release. when i refused to grant the request, she repudiated her parole, and i locked her in her own room as a prisoner. i did not even know this was your home, or that miss willifred was here, when i came. when captain le gaire insinuates that there was any arrangement between us he lies." "were you not on the balcony alone, talking together?" "yes, she caught me there, by coming out suddenly." "and protected you, you coward--drew us into the trap." "miss hardy had no knowledge of what i proposed doing, nor that i had any men with me. indeed, i myself acted merely on the spur of the moment." "what were you sneaking about there in the dark for then?" he sneered. "you are nothing but a contemptible spy." i was holding my temper fairly well, yet my patience was near the breaking point. "i may as well tell you," i answered at last, "and my men will corroborate all i say. we came here under special orders hoping to capture general johnston, who, we were informed, was quartered here for the night. we had no other object--" "until you saw billie." i wheeled upon him so fiercely that the fellow took a step backward. "captain le gaire, you have said enough--all i shall permit you to say. miss hardy had no connection whatever with this affair. if it is true that you are engaged to the lady, then you should be defending instead of attacking her." "i should hardly come to you for instructions." "then take them from major hardy." "oh, hell, hardy don't understand. he's as blind as a bat, but you cannot pull the wool over my eyes, mr. yankee spy. i've seen some of your fine work before. if i wasn't a prisoner under guard i'd give you a lesson you'd remember as long as you lived." i stood holding my breath, looking at him, scarcely less angry than he, yet outwardly cool. "you would give me a lesson?" "i spoke plainly enough, i hope. this is a personal matter between us, and you know it, and a southern gentleman settles his own affairs. only a yankee coward would hide behind his authority." "and you think i do?" he glanced about, with a wave of the hand at the guards. "doesn't it look like it?" he asked sarcastically. the sneer cut me to the quick, cut me so sharply i replied before stopping to reflect. if he wished to fight me i would give him a chance; either he must make good his boasting or have his bluff called. and there was but one way. i looked at the two troopers, who were staring at us in deep interest; at miles' grinning appreciation of the scene, and at hardy, puzzled, but still angry at the use of his daughter's name. then my eyes met the captain's. "i am greatly inclined to accommodate you, captain le gaire," i said quietly, "and give you any opportunity you may desire on equal terms. sergeant, take the men into the hall." they passed out reluctantly enough, and i stepped over to make certain the door was securely closed. then i came back, and fronted the fellow. he had not changed his position, although the major had again risen to his feet. "well," i asked, "now what is it you wish to say?" "am i no longer a prisoner?" "not so far as our personal relations are concerned. my men will prevent your leaving these grounds, or sending out any message before night. otherwise you are at liberty. now what do you propose doing?" my unexpected promptness dazed him, but in no way diminished his anger. "will you fight me?" "i see no occasion for it." "then i will furnish one." before i could recoil, or even realize his purpose, he sprang the single necessary step forward and, with open hand, struck me in the face. "even a blue-belly should understand the meaning of that," he exclaimed hotly. i did understand, the hot blood surging to my cheeks, yet in some mysterious way i never in my life felt cooler, more completely in control of myself. every nerve tingled, yet not a muscle moved, and i smiled into his face, truly glad it had come to this. "personal combat is not a habit with us, captain le gaire," i said coldly. "but in this case you will not find me seeking escape. i am very much at your service." "now?" his eyes blazing. "the quicker the better. who seconds you?" "major hardy, of course--" "i'm damned if i will, le gaire," burst in the staff-officer indignantly, thrusting himself forward. "you forced this matter with an insult no gentleman could take, and besides have dragged my daughter's name into the affair." "you refuse to act for me?" "emphatically, yes! in the first place i don't believe in your damned louisiana code, and in my opinion, you've acted like a confounded bully. so far as i can see galesworth has done his duty, and nothing more. i'd go out with him, under the circumstances, before i would with you." "i could not think of asking such a favor," i blurted out in astonishment. "you do not need to ask--i volunteer, if you can use me." i do not believe i shall ever forget the expression on the dark, scowling face of le gaire. he had not expected this, that he would be deserted by his own people, yet the fact merely served to increase his bitterness, harden his purpose. the twist of his lips left his teeth exposed in an ugly grin. "all right, hardy," he said, at last, "i'll not forget this, and i reckon the story won't help you any in our army. i'll get the yank, second or no second, if the fellow doesn't back out." "you need have no fear on that score," i replied soberly. "i am no believer in the duel, and this will be my first appearance on the field, but you have got to fight now. moreover you shall have all your rights guarded." i stepped to the door, and opened it. "sergeant, go down to the prisoners and bring captain bell here." he was back in another moment, grasping the arm of the surprised confederate, who stared about at us in silent wonderment. "captain bell," i asked, "i presume you have some acquaintance with the duelling code?" he bowed gravely, waiting for me to explain. "captain le gaire has seen fit to strike me in the face with his open hand, and i have agreed to meet him at once. will you act for the gentleman?" "why not major hardy?" "because he will represent my interests." bell turned his eyes toward the major, puzzled and uncertain. "this looks rather queer to me, hardy. has le gaire done something which will prevent my acting in his behalf?" hardy stroked his chin, and squared his shoulders. "captain le gaire made some reflections on my family, sir, which i resent. i refused to act for him on that ground, but i know of no reason why you could not honorably serve. i merely prefer to assist galesworth." bell hesitated, feeling, no doubt, there was something behind all this he did not comprehend. it was also evident enough that he was no admirer of le gaire, the latter gazing at him without a word. "am i perfectly free to act?" "yes--on parole of the grounds." "very well, i accept; i presume my man is the challenged party?" both hardy and myself bowed. "then i will ask captain le gaire to accompany me to the dining-room. i shall return in a few moments." we watched them pass out, and then hardy and i turned, and looked into each others' faces. chapter xxiv i become a famous swordsman "sergeant," i said shortly, "i think you can be of greater service in the hall." he disappeared reluctantly enough, and, as the door closed, i extended my hand to the major. "i certainly appreciate your assistance," i began warmly. "i know very little about these affairs, or how they are conducted." he took my hand, yet with no great cordiality, plainly enough already somewhat doubtful as to his course. "i presumed as much, sir, but first, and before we proceed further, i should like to have some explanation of the trouble between you and le gaire. you are doubtless aware that i am the father of willifred hardy." "yes, major, and i am perfectly willing to tell you the whole story. shall i send for miss hardy to corroborate whatever i may say?" "no, sir. you are a yankee, but a gentleman, and i accept your word. i prefer billie should know nothing of what is occurring." i told it swiftly from the beginning, yet was careful to leave no impression that she had performed anything more than a mere friendly service to an enemy in danger. even then it was difficult for the confederate to appreciate fully the girl's motives, and his face clearly expressed disapproval. as i came to an end, after telling of her effort to gain his release, and my locking her within her own room, he paced back and forth across the floor, scowling down at the carpet. "by gad, you tell the story all right," he exclaimed, "but that doesn't seem like billie; whatever got into the girl to make her do a trick like that?" "you mean helping me?" "yes, against le gaire. i can understand how she took you through to jonesboro; that was necessary. but all the rest is a puzzle. did you know she was engaged to captain le gaire?" "yes; but evidently she did not think it would help him any to betray me, and she was careful enough i should not escape in time to do any harm to your army. there was no treason in her act, major, only she felt sympathy toward me." "but she permitted your attack on the man." "she knew nothing of it, until it was all over with." i hesitated, but why should i? surely he must already begin to perceive the truth. "that she should have left him lying there until i was safely across the river is the only act which tells hard against le gaire. no woman could have done that, major hardy, if she really loved the wounded man." he did not reply, evidently endeavoring to realize all my meaning. "this is where you have made your mistake," i went on convincingly. "nothing is holding your daughter to le gaire but her promise. i was obliged to overhear their conversation after you left, and he appealed to her pride, to the honor of the hardys, in order to gain her consent to the marriage. she told him she no longer loved him, that he was not the man she had supposed him to be--actually begged for release. i can understand the situation, and, it seems to me, you ought to now. he is a handsome fellow, dashing and reckless, the kind to make an impression. she was flattered by his attentions, and deceived into the thought that she really cared for him. then she saw his true nature--his selfishness, brutality, cowardice, even--and revolted. i doubt if i had anything to do with this change--it was bound to come. you are a man, major hardy, and must know men--is le gaire the kind you would want your daughter to marry?" "by gad! the way you put it--no!" emphatically. "i've thought well enough of him until to-night; probably he's kept his best side turned toward me, and, besides, it never once occurred to me that billie didn't want him. i've heard stories about the man, pretty hard ones at that, but he appeared like a gentleman, and i naturally supposed them largely fairy tales. because i felt sure billie liked him, i did also, but to-night he has shown me the other side of his character. still, i don't know that i wonder much at his hating you." "i have given him all the cause i could--would gladly give more if possible." hardy's eyes twinkled. "i reckon your heart is all right, even if your uniform is the wrong color. but, young man, this affair puts me in a queer box. i spoke up rather hastily a while back, and now here i am seconding a damned yankee in a fight against one of our own men--it don't just look right." "i merely accepted your own offer; no doubt my sergeant would act." "oh, i'll stay. the fact is, i rather like you, lieutenant--eh, what is the name? oh, yes, galesworth--you see billie never even so much as mentioned having met you. anyway, i'm in this affair, and am going to stick, although if all they tell about le gaire is true i wouldn't give much for your chances of coming out whole." "he is a duellist then?" "notorious; although, as near as i can learn, he has not had a serious affair for some time. he assured me once, when i ventured to question him, that he was through with that sort of thing. it's common practice among the louisiana hot-bloods, and i supposed he had got his senses. probably billie never even heard of his reputation in this respect. what do you do best--shoot or fence?" "shoot, although i am hardly an expert at either." "le gaire will name swords," he said soberly. "he's a fine swordsman, and probably the only question is how badly he'll try to hurt you." "a pleasant prospect surely." "for him, yes, but as your second i propose impressing captain bell, when he arrives, with the idea that you are particularly expert with the sabre, which happens to be the only sword weapon present. if i succeed he may decide that pistols will be better." i stared at him with full appreciation, realizing the man was really seeking to serve me. "may make it too," he went on calmly. "you're a stronger man than le gaire, and that means something with the sabre. if i can convince bell, he'll make le gaire decide in favor of the gun. there he comes now. well, bell, you've been long enough about it--must be your first case." the infantryman bowed rather coldly, his back against the closed door, as he surveyed us both. "i have not had much experience in such affairs, major hardy, and i desired some understanding of the circumstances before finally consenting to act," he replied stiffly. "i am informed that captain le gaire is the challenged party." "well, that might be a question, but we will waive the technicalities. le gaire provoked the fight, and was rather nasty about it in my judgment, but all we are anxious about now is to get the preliminaries over with as soon as possible. we acknowledge that your man was the one challenged." "then, sir, we demand an immediate meeting, and name swords as the weapons." hardy turned to me, a smile of delight illumining his face. "good enough," he exclaimed, sufficiently loud to reach the ears of the astonished captain. "not so bad, hey, galesworth?" i nodded, but without venturing a reply, and bell exhibited his surprise in his face. "is--is lieutenant galesworth an expert with the sabre?" he asked, after a moment's silence. "is he!" echoed hardy. "do you mean to say le gaire has never heard of him?" "i--i think not." "that's odd. why, we of the staff knew all about those sabre trials in the federal camp. i naturally supposed le gaire wished to try his skill with the champion for the honor of the south. such a struggle ought to be worth seeing, but galesworth would have the advantage of weight, and length of arm." bell evidently did not know either what to say or do. this threw an entirely new light on the situation, and left him in an awkward position. he shuffled uneasily about. "would--would you gentlemen mind my consulting captain le gaire again?" he questioned doubtfully. "i think he should fully understand his opponent's skill." hardy laughed, completely at ease, and enjoying the other's dilemma. "well, i hardly know about that, bell. under the laws of the code we can hold you to your first choice, and i'm inclined to do so. great joke on le gaire. however, i am willing to leave it to my man. what do you say, galesworth?" i had retired to the opposite side of the room, and was leaning with one arm on the mantel. in spite of the seriousness of the affair, it was impossible not to be amused by this sudden turn. bell's eyes shifted questioningly toward me. "surely lieutenant galesworth will not desire to take any undue advantage," he ventured. "was not that captain le gaire's idea?" i returned sharply. "he has the reputation of expert swordsmanship." "he is a swordsman, yes, but does not profess to excel with the sabre." i waited a moment in silence, permitting my hesitancy to become plainly apparent. "well, captain bell, much as i prefer the weapons already named, i will nevertheless consent to a change. i am ready to concede anything if i can only compel your man to fight." "do you mean to question captain le gaire's courage, sir?" hotly. "he seems to be fairly solicitous about his own safety, at least," chimed in hardy. "go on, bell, and talk it over with him--this is not our row." the little captain backed out still raging, and the major followed him to the door, lingering there as though listening. i watched curiously until he straightened up, struggling to keep back a laugh. "that's some liar you've got for a sergeant, galesworth," he said genially. "bell ran up against him in the hall, and stopped to ask a question. he wasn't exactly certain we had been telling the truth. your man must have been primed for the occasion the way he turned loose. would like to have seen bell's eyes pop out as the fellow described your exploits. makes me proud to know you myself." "did miles say i was an expert with the sabre?" i questioned in astonishment. "did he! champion of the army of the tennessee; undefeated for two years, both afoot and on horse-back; described a wonderful stroke that caught them all; told about how you accidentally drove it an inch too far once, and killed your opponent. oh, he was great. it will be pistols when bell comes back; don't doubt that, my boy, and i know the very spot--out back of the stable, level ground, and no interference." the interest which major hardy was exhibiting, as well as the promptness with which he had espoused my side of the quarrel, made me suspicious that he was not altogether sorry to be thus easily rid of le gaire. i could not venture questioning him on so delicate a matter, but without doubt he also saw the louisianian in a new light, and began to comprehend the change in his daughter. moreover the humor in the situation appealed to him, and, having once volunteered to serve me, he became thoroughly loyal to that purpose. his very presence gave me courage, and his words stiffened me for the coming ordeal. this was my first occasion of the kind and, as the earlier anger wore off, i found myself looking forward with some dread to the encounter. it was not fear, but the newness of the experience jarred my nerves. i paced back and forth across the room, only partially aware of what he was saying, endeavoring to straighten matters out in my own mind. was i doing right? was i justified in this course of action? i had followed the impulse of passion, the sting of le gaire's blow driving all other memory from me. but now i realized the peril in which my action might involve others, the men under my command, for instance, and wondered what billie would think and say when the news of the quarrel reached her. she would understand the real cause, yet, with her father upon my side, i was not likely to suffer greatly. anyway the die was cast; it was too late now to regret. bell returned full of apology and explanation, expressing a desire that the weapons be changed to pistols. hardy arose from his chair, his eyes twinkling behind heavy lashes. "sure; galesworth is easily satisfied. i have two derringers up stairs exactly alike; my father was out with them twice! quite a fad duelling was in his day, but the guns haven't been used for years. come handy now. by the way, lieutenant, you shoot equally well with either hand, i believe? very valuable accomplishment; never could myself. we will meet you, captain bell, back of the stable in fifteen minutes. sorry we have no surgeon present. that is all, is it not?" as the infantryman still lingered. "the minor details can be arranged on the field." chapter xxv the end of the duel the sun was slightly above the horizon, still showing round and red through the slight mist of early morning, as the major and i passed down the deserted front steps, and circled the house on our way to the place of meeting. under his arm was the leather case containing the derringers, and we crossed the intervening turf without exchanging a word. i was myself in no mood for conversation, and hardy appeared equally inclined to silence. i glanced across at him, noting how straight he stood in his well-worn uniform, how gray his hair was, and the stern manliness of his face. from head to foot he was the gentleman and the soldier. by some chance our eyes met, and, with a quick glance back at the house, he stopped suddenly. "galesworth," he said quietly, his glance searching my face, "i do not wish you to have any misunderstanding about my exact position in this affair. the war is not personal with me. we differ politically, and i am as loyal to the south as any one, and you wear the blue with just as much honor as i wear the gray. but when it comes to men i stand with the one i believe to be nearest right. le gaire forced this quarrel on you deliberately; he was threatening to do it before you came in. in fact, his manner ever since our capture has disgusted me, and when he finally dared to drag billie's name into the controversy, i naturally rebelled. if there is anything i despise in this world, sir, it is a bullying duellist, and, by gad! that's what the fellow looks like to me." "i comprehend perfectly, major hardy," i said, as he paused. "you are merely doing as you would be done by." "well, yes, that's a partial explanation. i prefer to see fair play. yet i am going to confess that isn't all of it. i rather like you, young man--not your damned uniform, understand--and the way you've acted toward my girl. you've been honorable and square, and, by gad, sir, you're a gentleman. that's why i am going to see you through this affair. if all i hear is true, le gaire came back to me with a lie, and that is something i have never taken yet from any man." he stood straight as an arrow, his shoulders squared, his slender form buttoned tightly in the gray uniform coat. the sun was upon his face, clear-cut, proud, aristocratic, and his eyes were the same gray-blue as his daughter's. then he held out his hand and i clasped it gladly. "i cannot express the gratitude i feel, major hardy," i faltered. "one hardly expects such kindness from an enemy." "not an enemy, my boy--merely a foeman. i am a west pointer, and some of the dearest friends i have are upon the other side. but come, let us not be the last on the field." he tried to talk with me pleasantly as we crossed the garden, and approached the stable, and i must have answered, yet my mind was elsewhere. this was all new to me, and my mood was a sober one. my father was an old-time puritan to whom personal combat was abomination, and even now i could feel his condemnation of my course. i regretted myself the hot headedness which had led me on, but without the faintest inclination to withdraw. yet that earlier hatred of le gaire had left me, and his blow no longer stung. no desire for revenge lingered, only a wish to have the whole matter concluded quickly, and a hope that we both might leave the field without serious injury. it was in this frame of mind that i turned the corner of the stable, and saw the chosen duelling ground. it was a smooth strip of turf running north and south, with the stable to the left, and a grove of trees opposite. the building cast a shadow over most of the space, and altogether it was an ideal spot, well beyond view from the windows of the house. hardy opened the leather case, placing it upon the grass, and i saw the two derringers lying against the plush lining, deadly looking weapons, with long steel-blue barrels, and strangely carven stocks. someway they fascinated me, and i watched while he took them up and fondled them. "rather pretty playthings, galesworth," he said admiringly. "don't see such often nowadays, but in my father's time they were a part of every gentleman's belongings. he would as soon have travelled without his coat. i've seen him practise; apparently he never took aim," he held the weapon at arm's length. "wonderfully accurate, and the long barrel is better than any sight; just lower it this way; there's almost no recoil." the sound of a distant voice caused him to drop the pistol back into its place, and rise to his feet. then le gaire and bell turned the corner of the stable, stopping as they perceived us standing there. the major removed his hat, his voice coolly polite. "i believe everything is prepared, gentlemen. captain bell, if you will examine the weapons, we will then confer as to the word and the method of firing." "i prefer choosing my own pistol," broke in le gaire bluntly, "and loading it as well." hardy's face flushed, his eyes hardening. "as you please, sir," he retorted, "but i might construe those words as a reflection on my integrity." "when a confederate officer takes the side of a yank," was the instant angry response, "he can hardly claim much consideration." "captain le gaire," and hardy's voice rang, "you have enough on your hands at present without venturing to insult me, i should suppose. but don't go too far, sir." "gentlemen," broke in bell excitedly, "this must not go on. le gaire, if you say another word, i shall withdraw entirely." the louisianian smiled grimly, but walked over to the weapon case, and picked up the two derringers, testing their weight, and the length of barrel. hardy stared at him, his lips compressed. "well," he burst forth at last, "are you satisfied, sir?" "i'll choose this," insolently, and dropping the other back into its place. "where is the powder and ball?" the major pointed without daring to speak. "all right; don't mind me. i always load my own weapon, and just now i am anxious to shoot straight," and he looked across at me sneeringly. if it was his purpose by all this theatrical display to affect my nerves, he failed utterly, as instead, the very expression of his face brought me back to a fighting spirit. hardy saw this, and smiled grimly. "step this way a moment, bell," he said quietly, "while we arrange details. i reckon those two game-cocks will wait until we are ready." the two officers moved away a dozen paces and stopped in the shadow of the trees, conversing earnestly. i endeavored to keep my eyes off from le gaire, and remain cool. it seemed to me i saw every movement of a leaf, every dropping of a twig, yet could scarcely realize the position i was in. i was about to face that man yonder--now carefully loading his weapon--to deliberately fire upon him, and receive in return his fire. i felt as though it were a dream, a nightmare, and yet i was conscious of no fear, of no desire to avoid the ordeal. i can recall the scene now, clearly etched on my memory--the outlines of the trees silhouetted against the sky, the dark shadow of the stables, the green, level turf, the two figures--the one short and stout, the other tall and slender--talking earnestly; the deep blue of the sky overhead, the steel gleam of the derringer in the open case, and le gaire loading carefully, his eyes now and then glancing across at me. then the two men wheeled with military precision, and walked back toward us. i saw hardy take up the second pistol, and load it in silence, while bell whispered to le gaire, the latter with his weapon tightly clasped. a moment later the major thrust the carved stock into my hand, and i looked at it curiously. "gentlemen," he said clearly, stepping to one side, "we will make this as simple as possible. you will take positions here, back to back." the sound of his voice, the sharp ring of authority in it, awoke me to the reality as though i had received an electric shock. i felt the fierce beat of my heart, and then every muscle and nerve became steel. without a tremor, my mind clear and alert, i advanced to the point designated, and stood erect, facing the south; an instant, and le gaire's shoulders were touching mine. "now listen closely," said hardy, his voice sounding strangely far off, yet each word distinct. "i am to give the first word, and bell the second. when i say 'forward' you will take ten paces--go slowly--and halt. then bell will count 'one, two, three'; turn at the first word, and fire at the third. if either man discharges his weapon before 'three' is spoken, he answers to us. do you both understand?" we answered together. "very well, gentlemen, are you ready?" "i am." "go on." there was a moment's pause, so still i could hear my own breathing, and the slight noise le gaire made as he gripped his derringer stock more tightly. "forward!" i stepped out almost mechanically, endeavoring not to walk too fast, and regulating each stride as though i were measuring the field. at the end of the tenth i stopped, one foot slightly advanced for the turn, every nerve pulsing from strain. it seemed a long while before bell's deep voice broke the silence. "one!" i whirled, as on a pivot, my pistol arm flung out. "two!" le gaire stood sideways, the muzzle of his derringer covering me, his left hand supporting his elbow. i could see the scowling line between his eyes, the hateful curl of his lip, and my own weapon came up, held steady as a rock; over the blue steel barrel i covered the man's forehead just below his cap visor, the expression on his face telling me he meant to shoot to kill. i never recall feeling cooler, or more determined in my life. how still, how deathly still it was! "th--" there was a thud of horses' hoofs behind the stable, bell's half-spoken word, and the sharp bark of le gaire's levelled derringer. i felt the impact of the ball, and spun half around, the pressure of my finger discharging my own weapon in the air, yet kept my feet. i was shocked, dazed, but conscious i remained unhurt. then, with a crash, three horsemen leaped the low fence, riding recklessly toward us. i seemed to see the gray-clad figures through a strange mist, which gradually cleared as they came to a sharp halt. the one in advance was a gaunt, unshaven sergeant, lifting a hand in perfunctory salute, and glancing curiously at my uniform. "mornin', gentlemen," he said briefly. "is this the hardy house--johnston's headquarters?" the major answered, and i noticed now he had le gaire gripped by the arm. "this is the hardy house, and i am major hardy, but johnston is not here. who are you?" "couriers from chambers' column, sir. he is advancing up this pike. where will we find johnston?" "take the first road to your right, and inquire. when will chambers be up?" "within four or five hours. what's going on here? a little affair?" hardy nodded. the sergeant sat still an instant, his eyes on me as though puzzled; then evidently concluded it was none of his business. "come on, boys!" he said, and with a dip of the spurs was off, the two others clattering behind. hardy swung le gaire sharply around, his eyes blazing. "you damned, sneaking coward!" he roared, forgetting everything in sudden outburst. "by gad, bell, this fellow is a disgrace to the uniform--you know what he did?" "i know he fired before i got the word out," indignantly. "the blamed curb--yes; and when those fellows rode up he tried to blurt out the whole situation. good god, le gaire, aren't you even a soldier?" shaking the fellow savagely. "haven't you ever learned what parole means? damn you, are you totally devoid of all sense of personal honor?" "i never gave my parole." "you lie, you did; you are here on exactly the same terms as bell and i--released on honor. damned if i believe there's another man in confederate uniform who would be guilty of so scurvy a trick. were you hurt, galesworth?" "no, the ball struck my revolver case, and made me sick for a moment." "no fault of le gaire's--the noise of the horses shattered his aim. lord! how i despise such a cowardly whelp!" he flung the man from him so violently he fell to his knees on the ground. the look of amazement on le gaire's face, his utter inability to comprehend the meaning of it all, or why he had thus aroused the enmity of his brother officers, gave me a sudden feeling of compassion. i stepped toward him. perhaps he mistook my purpose, for he staggered partially erect. "damn you!" he yelled. "i'm fighting yet!" and flung the unloaded derringer with all the force of his arm at my face. chapter xxvi miss willifred surprises us the butt struck me fairly, and i went down as though felled by an ax. if i lost consciousness it could have been for scarcely more than a moment, but blood streamed into my eyes, and my head reeled giddily. yet i knew something of what occurred, heard voices, caught dimly the movement of figures. le gaire ran, rounding the end of the stable, and hardy, swearing like a trooper, clutching at his empty belt for a weapon, made an effort to follow. bell sprang to me, lifting my head, and his face looked as white as a woman's. he appeared so frightened i endeavored to smile at him, and it must have been a ghastly effort. my voice, however, proved more reassuring. "i'm all right," i insisted thickly. "just tapped a little. i--i wasn't looking for anything like that." "i should say not. here, can you sit up? by heavens! i hope hardy catches him." "he hardly will," i answered, struggling into sitting posture, a vision of the chase recurring to mind. "he was too mad to run." bell laughed nervously. "i never supposed le gaire was that kind of a cur," he said regretfully. "i never liked the fellow, or had much to do with him. blamed if i could understand why miss hardy--" "oh, he played nice enough with her up until the last week at least," i broke in, aroused by the name. "le gaire is good looking, and pleasant also when things are going his way. it's when luck is against him that he gets ugly. besides, he had the major on his side." "i happen to know something about that," returned bell dryly. "it was talked over at headquarters. le gaire is rich, and hardy hasn't much left, i reckon, and the captain filled him up with fairy tales. some of them drifted about among the boys. there were others told also not quite so pleasant, which hardy did not hear. you see, none of us cared to repeat them, after we realized miss willifred was interested in the man." "you mean duelling?" "no, that was rather mild; fellows in his regiment mostly cut him dead, and say he is yellow; generally in the hospital when there's a battle on. but forsdyke tells the worst story--he heard it in new orleans. it seems le gaire owned a young girl--a quadroon--whom he took for a mistress; then he tired of the woman, they quarrelled, and the cowardly brute turned her back into the fields, and had her whipped by his overseer. she died in three months." "i guess it's all true, bell," i said, and i told him of the boy. "he was our guide here last night, and it is just as well for le gaire the lad did not know he was present. help me up, will you?" i leaned on his arm heavily, but, except for the throbbing of my head, appeared to be in good enough condition. with slight assistance i walked without difficulty, and together we started for the house. at the edge of the garden hardy appeared, still breathing heavily from his run. he stared at me, evidently relieved to find me on my feet. "broke the skin, my lad--a little water will make that all right. glad it was no worse. the fellow out-ran me." "he got away?" "well, the fact is, galesworth, i do not really know where he went. the last glimpse i had he was dodging into that clump of bushes, but when i got there he was gone." "ran along the fence," broke in bell, pointing. "you couldn't see him for the vines. see, here's his tracks--sprinting some, too." we traced them easily as long as we found soft ground, but the turf beyond left no sign. yet he could not have turned to the left, or bell and i would have seen him. the fellow evidently knew this, yet if he ran to the right it would take him to the house. it hardly seemed possible he would go there, but he had been a guest there for some time, and probably knew the place well; perhaps realized he would be safer within--where no one would expect him to be--than on the road. this was the conception which gradually came to me, but the others believed he had gone straight ahead, seeking the nearest confederate outpost. able to walk alone by this time, i went in through the back door, and bathed my face at the sink, leaving hardy and bell to search for further signs of the fugitive. as i washed i thought rapidly over the situation. le gaire knew that chambers' force would be along the pike within a few hours--probably long before the appearance of any federal advance in the neighborhood, as he was unaware that i had sent back a courier. the house was the very last place in which we would seek for him, and the easiest place to attain. once inside, stowed away in some unused room, he could wait the approach of chambers' troops, escape easily, and become a hero. the whole trick fitted in with the man's type of mind. and he could have come in the same way i had, sneaking through the unguarded kitchen--why, in the name of heaven, had miles neglected to place a guard there?--and then up the servants' stairs. i dried my face on a towel, rejoicing that the derringer blow had left little damage, and opened the door leading to the upper story. it was a narrow stairway, rather dark, but the first thing to catch my eye was a small clod of yellow dirt on the second step, and this was still damp--the foot from which it had fallen must have passed within a very short time. i had the fellow--had him like a rat in a trap. oh, well, there was time enough, and i closed the door and locked it. i talked with the sergeant, and had him send foster to watch the kitchen door, and detail a couple of men for cooks, with orders to hurry up breakfast. miles had seen nothing of le gaire, and when hardy and bell returned, they acknowledged having discovered no trace of the fugitive. i let them talk, saying little myself, endeavoring to think out the peculiar situation, and determine what i had better do. already there was heavy cannonading off to the right, but at considerable distance. the battle was on, and might sweep this way before many hours, yet i could no longer doubt the complete withdrawal of confederate troops from the neighborhood. not a gray-jacket or flash of steel was visible, and everything about was a scene of peace. yet when chambers came this house would hardly escape without an overhauling. of course he might not come this way, for johnston could easily despatch a courier to advise another road, yet probably the line of march would not be changed. should i wait, or withdraw my little force, at least as far as the shelter of the ravine? i cared nothing about retaining the prisoners, indeed was anxious to release both hardy and bell. nor was i any longer worried about le gaire--especially his relations with miss willifred. i could trust the major to relate the story of the past hour to his daughter, and the captain would scarcely venture to face her again. it seemed to me we ought to go, as it would be no service to our cause to retain the house. however there was no hurry; we had ample time in which to breakfast, and--and, well i wanted to see billie again, to leave behind me a better impression. i gave the major the key to her room, and asked him to call her for the morning meal, already nearly ready. she came down a few moments later, freshly dressed, and looking as though she had enjoyed some sleep. her father must have given her some inkling of the situation, for she greeted me pleasantly, although with a certain constraint in manner which left me ill at ease. our breakfast passed off very nicely, the food abundant and well cooked, although we were compelled to wait upon ourselves. i asked miles to join us, but he preferred messing with the men, and so the four of us sat at table alone. as though by mutual consent we avoided all reference to the war, or our present situation, conversation drifting into a discussion of art and literature. i realized later that miss willifred had adroitly steered it that way, but if it was done to test me, she could scarcely have chosen a better topic. i had come from the senior class of a great college into the army, and was only too delighted to take part again in cultured conversation. bell had taken an art course, and miss hardy had apparently read widely, and the discussion became animated, with frequent clashes of opinion. i was happy to know that i surprised the lady by the extent of my information, and her flushed cheeks and brightening eyes were ample reward. the major said little, yet when he occasionally spoke it was to reveal that he was a man of unusual learning. i shall recall the details of that meal as long as i live--the peculiar conditions, and the faces of those present. it was all so little like war, the only suggestion of conflict the uniforms we wore, and the dull reverberation of that distant cannonading. for the time, at least, we forgot we were upon the very verge of a battle, and that we were politically enemies. prisoners were in the basement beneath, guards were patrolling the hall without, yet we laughed and joked, with never a reference to the great conflict in which all present bore part. of course much of this was but veneer, and back of repartee and well-told story, we were intent upon our own problems. with me, now that i had decided upon my plans, everything centred upon miss willifred. i would search the house for le gaire, endeavor to have one word with her alone, and then retire to a place of greater safety with my men. the quicker i might complete these arrangements the better, and i could trust those present with some knowledge of my intention. "gentlemen," i said, as the party was preparing to rise, "just a moment. i am going to ask you to respect your parole for only a very short time longer. of course this does not include miss hardy as she has refused all pledges to me. so soon as my men complete their breakfast, and a few details are looked after, we shall withdraw in the direction of our own lines. naturally i have no desire to be captured by chambers. i am merely going to request that you remain within doors until we depart. after that you may release the prisoners, and rejoin your commands." the eyes of the two men met, and the major replied: "certainly, lieutenant, we have no reason to complain." "and miss hardy?" "oh, i will answer for her." "that is hardly necessary, papa, as i will answer for myself," and her eyes met mine across the table. "i was angry last night, lieutenant galesworth, and unreasonable. if you will accept my parole now i give it gladly." i bowed with a sudden choking of the throat, and hardy chuckled. "a very graceful surrender--hey, bell? by gad, this has been quite a night for adventure. fact of it is, galesworth, i'm mighty grateful to you for the whole affair, and, i reckon, billie is also." she arose to her feet, pausing an instant with her hand upon the back of the chair. "lieutenant galesworth has merely made apparent to you what i had discovered some time ago," she said quietly. "i am sure he needs no thanks from me--perhaps might not appreciate them. i am going to my room, papa, until--until the yankees leave." "an unreconstructed rebel," he exclaimed, yet clearly surprised. "why, i thought you and galesworth were great friends." "has he made that claim?" "why--eh--no. it was what le gaire said." "oh! i should suppose that by this time you would rather doubt the statements of that individual. lieutenant galesworth probably understands that we are acquaintances, and--enemies." she left the room, without so much as glancing at me, hardy calling after her, "i'll come up as soon as i smoke a cigar with bell." the door closed, and his eyes met mine. "what the devil is the trouble, my boy? that wasn't like billie; i never knew her to harbor an unkind thought in her life. have you done something to anger her?" "not to my knowledge, major," i answered honestly. "perhaps i was harsh last night, but i merely intended to be firm. this is all a great surprise to me." he shook his head, and the two men left the room. i waited until certain they were safely out of the way. i was perplexed, hurt, by the girl's words and action. what cause had i given her for treating me with such open contempt? surely not my avowal of love, however inopportune that might have been, nor my holding her prisoner. could something have occurred of which i knew nothing? could le gaire have poisoned her mind against me with some ingenious lie? it was all too hazy, too improbable, for me to consider seriously--but she must explain before we went away. with this in mind i passed into the hall, and began to ascend the stairs. chapter xxvii the body of le gaire miles had stationed a sentry just inside the front door, but he was the only one of our men visible, nearly all of the others being at breakfast in the kitchen. i felt no need of any help however, for le gaire was unarmed, and not of a nature to make serious resistance. besides, if i was mistaken as to his hiding place in the house i preferred making the discovery alone. my exploration during the night had made me familiar with the arrangement of the front rooms, but not the extension to the rear. i stopped, in the silence, at the head of the stairs, to glance about, and decide where i had better begin. miss hardy's door was closed, even the transom lowered, and i instantly decided not to disturb her until the very last. yet i was soldier enough to take the other rooms in rotation, realizing the danger of leaving an enemy in my rear. these were soon disposed of, although i made a close search, disarranging beds, delving into closets, and leaving no nook or corner big enough to conceal a man, unrevealed. i endeavored to accomplish all this quietly, yet must have made some noise, for as i rolled back a bed in the third room entered, i heard the door creak and sprang to my feet to confront billie. i hardly know which was the more startled, for the girl staggered back, one hand thrown out. "you! oh, i thought--" she drew her breath quickly. "you thought what?" "oh, nothing--only i heard the noise, and--and wondered who it could be." she looked about at the confusion. "what--what are you doing? hunting for some one?" "a needle in a haystack," i answered, suddenly suspicious that she might know something of the fugitive. "will you help me search?" "i--i hardly appreciate your humor," haughtily. "is--is it captain le gaire?" "why do you suspect that, miss willifred? is it because you imagine the man may be here?" "because i know he got away; because i know your feeling toward him, your effort to take his life." "you know! what is all this?" so stunned i could scarcely articulate. "surely your father--" "i know of no reason why my father should be dragged into this affair." "but he was present; he surely told you what occurred." "he said the two of you went out to fight; that it was a dishonorable affair. he gave me no particulars, and i asked none--i already knew what had taken place." "then you have seen le gaire since--is that so?" she turned her back toward me, and stepped into the hall. the action was defiant, almost insulting. "miss willifred, i insist on an answer." "indeed," carelessly, "to what?" "to my question--have you seen le gaire since?" "i refuse to tell you." it was an instant before i found my voice, or could control my words. this was all most confusing, and yet the light was coming. here was the secret of her sudden dislike for me. her hand was already upon the knob of her own door, and she did not so much as glance back. what could i say? what ought i to say? beyond doubt, uncertain as to her real feelings toward le gaire, hardy had not revealed to her the fellow's disgraceful action. some way, his brief explanation had merely served to confirm her previous opinion that the captain had been the one injured--such an impression she could have derived only from le gaire. it was equally clear i could not explain. she would scarcely believe any effort to defend myself. why should she think me capable of a dastardly act? why believe le gaire's hasty lie, and refuse me even a hearing? the thought left me so indignant that for the moment i felt indifferent even to her good opinion. "well, miss hardy," i said at last, conscious my voice trembled, "i am going to find this man if he is in the house, even if the search takes me to your own room." "then begin there," and she stood aside, the door flung open. "it must require great bravery to hunt down an unarmed man." "i only know you are going to regret those words when you learn the truth. there is a mistake here, but one others must rectify. your actions merely confirm my belief that le gaire sought refuge in this building. i am going to know before i withdraw my men." she was not quite so defiant, not quite so certain, yet she did not move. "will you tell me--has he been here?" "why do you want to know?" i hesitated, not really knowing myself, suddenly made aware that i had no true purpose in the search. my embarrassment confirmed her suspicion. "revenge, wasn't it?" scornfully. "a desire to complete the work begun yonder. i'll answer if you wish me to. captain le gaire came here to me wounded, and seeking shelter. i helped him as i would any confederate soldier. but he is not here now--see, the room is empty; yes, search it for yourself." it was useless arguing, useless denying--the girl was in a state of mind which no assertions of mine could combat. "then where is he now?" "i have no means of knowing--safely away from the house, i hope. i--i left him here when i went down stairs; when i came back he was gone." "and you say he was wounded?" "certainly--you ought to know, the blow of an assassin, not a soldier." she looked straight at me, her cheeks red, her eyes burning with indignation. then, as though she could bear my presence no longer, she swept into the room, and closed the door in my face. it was an action of such utter contempt that i actually staggered back, grasping the rail of the stair. what in the name of heaven had gained possession of the girl? what infernal lie had been told her? by all the gods, i would find le gaire, and choke the truth out of him. my head ached yet with the blow he had dealt me, but this hurt worse. i had a reason now for running the man down. wherever he had gone, even into the confederate camp, i vowed i would follow. but first the house: i could conceive of no way in which he could have gotten out--there was a guard in front, and i had locked the rear door. i went at the task deliberately, coolly, determined to overlook nothing. there was something of value at stake now, and my mind was as busy as my hands and eyes. how did he ever succeed in getting to billie? i had locked her door, and taken away the key. it was not until i invaded the last room on the main floor that i solved this riddle--the two apartments formed a suite with connecting door between. however he was not there now, and all that remained to search was the servants' ell. the hallway narrowed, and was lower by a single step, the back stairs at the left. there was no window, and with all the doors closed, i could see down only a portion of the way. the hallway itself was gloomy, the shade of the rear window being closely drawn. this, with the stillness all about, enabled me to hear the voices of the men in the kitchen below, and to become aware that the firing, sounding from a distance since early morning, seemed now much closer at hand. it was not altogether artillery any longer, but i could plainly distinguish the volleys of musketry. what could this signify? were the confederates being forced back? if so would the hardy house be caught in the maelstrom of retreat? the possibility of such a result only made haste more imperative. there were three doors at the right, and two opposite. i opened these cautiously, half expecting le gaire to dash out, with any weapon he might have secured, desperate enough to fight hard. but nothing occurred, the rooms showed no sign of having been lately occupied. i was at the one next to the last when a board creaked somewhere behind me, and i wheeled about instantly, and ran back to the head of the stairs. there was nothing visible, and a glance down the front hall proved it also deserted--only the door of miss willifred's room stood slightly ajar. she was watching me then, fearful lest the fellow had failed to get away. this discovery added to my anxiety, and my anger. he should not get away--not if i could prevent it--until he confessed to her the truth. i ran back into the ell, fearful now that he had escaped through a window, yet determined to examine that last room. there was a rag carpet along the back hall, and, in the semi-darkness, i tripped, falling heavily forward, striking the floor with a crash, my revolver flying from my hand, and hitting the side wall. i was on my knees in an instant, thoughtless of everything except that i had come into contact with a body. the shock numbed me, nor could my fingers alone solve the mystery. i sprang erect, and threw open the nearest side door, permitting the light to stream in. then i saw the man's face, upturned, lifeless--the face of gerald le gaire. it seemed to me i could not move, could not even breathe, as i stared down at the motionless form. then i touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse which had ceased to beat. a noise at my back caused me to start, and glance behind. billie stood at the end of the narrow hall. "what is it? have--have you killed him?" i whirled, facing her, indignant at the words, and yet understanding as swiftly the reason for her suspicions. "it is captain le gaire. i have just found him lying here." "found him! yes, but not lying there; i heard the noise, the fall of his body. is--is he dead?" she stood grasping the stair-rail, shrinking back from closer approach, her white face horror-stricken. i drew a quick breath, fairly quivering under the sting of her words. "yes, he is dead, miss hardy," i said, knowing i must end the suspense, "but not by my hand. i tripped and fell in the darkness, causing the noise you heard. i am going to ask you to return to your room; you can be of no service here. i will have your father and captain bell help me with the body." she never moved, her eyes on my face. "then--then will you permit my father to come to me?" "certainly--perhaps we will know then how this occurred." "is that your revolver lying there?" i had forgotten the weapon, but perceived it now, on the floor just beyond le gaire's head. "yes, it was dropped when i fell," i took a step toward her. "you will go back, will you not?" she seemed to shrink from my approach, and moved backward, still facing me, until she came to her own door. there she remained a moment, clinging to the knob, but as i emerged into the full light of the front hall, she stepped into the room, and closed the door. some way, her action hurt me worse than any words could have done, yet i walked past to the stairs in silence, and called to the guard below. miles came up with the two confederates, and a dozen words of explanation sufficed. together we picked up the body, bore it into a near-by room, and placed it upon the bed. the man had been struck back of the ear, apparently by the butt of a revolver or the stock of a gun, the skull crushed. death had been instantaneous; possibly he never knew what hit him. we examined the wound, and then looked into each others' faces utterly unable to account for the condition. "by gad, i don't see how he ever got that," said hardy. "nor this ugly cut here on the forehead. what do you make out of it, galesworth?" i shook my head, thoroughly mystified. "i've told you all i know; he was lying there in the open when i found him--there was nothing he could have struck against in falling." "that was a blow struck him," insisted the sergeant, "either by a square-handled pistol, or a carbine stock. i've seen that sorter thing before; but who the hell ever hit him?" no one attempted to answer. then i said, "the only thing i have noticed which might be a clue is this: when i first came in through the kitchen i discovered a clod of fresh clay dirt on the back stairs. i supposed it had dropped from le gaire's boots. but there's no sign of yellow clay on his boots now. it must have been some one else." "trailin' the poor devil," ejaculated miles. "but who was he? an' where is he now?" none attempted a guess, looking blankly into each others' faces, and down upon the ghastly features of the dead man. we were all accustomed to death, and in terrible form, but this was different, this held a horror all its own. i could hear the heavy breathing, we stood so motionless. "major hardy,"--and it was like sacrilege to break the silence,--"we can never clear the mystery standing here. i've examined every room on this floor, and there is not so much as a rat in any of them. whoever the murderer was, he has either got away, or is hidden on some other floor--is there an attic?" "yes, but with no stairs; the only way to get there is by the kitchen roof. what do you propose to do?" "take a moment and see if i can think it out," i said, drawing a sheet up over the dead face. "there must be some simple way to account for all this if we can only get on the right trail. come, gentlemen." we passed out together, and stopped in front of the closed door. the firing without was growing so much heavier that all noticed it, bell striding to the end of the hall, and thrusting his head out of the window. still it was not close enough as yet to be alarming, and my thought was upon other things. "major, i wish you would go in and speak to your daughter," i said. "i told her you would come and tell her all you knew." i watched him cross to the door, knock, and enter. chapter xxviii i force billie to listen there was a narrow settee against the wall, and i sat down upon it, to think and to wait for hardy's return. eager as i was to discover the cause of le gaire's death, yet it seemed almost more important that billie be brought to an understanding of conditions. her father could scarcely fail this time to relate in full the details of our encounter, and the girl would realize at once her injustice toward me. i hardly knew what i dared hope as a result, but she was impulsive, warm-hearted, and would surely endeavor to make amends. bell came back from the front of the house. "some fight going on out there," indicating the north and east, "and seems to be drifting this way." "our fellows are driving you," i replied. "have been noticing that all the morning; looks as if your left and centre were giving way." "wait until chambers gets up, and you'll hear another tune," his pride touched. "what's the sergeant doing?" "evidently going to get a look at the attic." then, deciding quickly,--"i am going to turn you all loose, and try to get back to our lines, as soon as we can gain some understanding of this death mystery, bell. it looks as though the battle would end up somewhere about here, and i can hardly expect to fight the entire confederate army with ten men and a sergeant. it's a dignified retreat for me. where now?" "to help your man. i am crazy to get away. i'm a soldier, galesworth, and they're wondering out there why i am not in my place. the earlier you say go, the better pleased i'll be." he clambered out the window to where miles was perched on the steep roof, and i was left alone, with no noise in my ears but the continuous firing, the reverberations already jarring the house. i found it difficult to collect my thoughts, or to reason out the situation. everything had occurred so swiftly, so unexpectedly, as to leave me confused--the surging of battle our way, the affair with le gaire, his strange death, the thought which had taken possession of billie, the skulking murderer hid somewhere within the house--all combined to leave me in a state of perplexity. i should have withdrawn my men before daylight; there was no sign of any federal troops advancing up the ravine, and probably my messenger had failed to get through. it looked as though we were left to our fate. every moment counted, and yet i could not leave until this mystery was made clear, and miss willifred convinced of my innocence. i was so involved in the tangled threads that to run away was almost a confession, and must risk remaining, moment by moment, in hope some discovery would make it all plain. yet the longer i thought the less i understood. le gaire had come to billie wounded--but how? his very condition had appealed to her as a woman. she had pitied, sympathized, and he had taken advantage of her natural compassion to falsely charge me with the whole trouble. how far he had gone, what foul accusation he had made, could not be guessed, yet he had sufficiently poisoned her mind against me. then circumstances had combined to make the case still blacker. doubtless to her it was already conclusive. i had been seeking the fellow alone, revolver in hand. she had overheard what must have sounded like a struggle, and there was the dead man, his skull crushed by a blow. everything pointed directly toward me from her point of view--motive, opportunity. who else could it be? even i, anxious as i was, could not answer that question. i had seen no one, was not aware the dead man had an enemy about the place, could discover no clue except that bit of damp clay on the stairs. yes, and my own boots were stained with it also--only i knew that lump never came from mine. these thoughts swept across my mind in lightning-like flashes, but brought no solution to the problem. then major hardy suddenly appeared, closing the door, and mopping his face with a handkerchief. his eyes met mine. "by gad, galesworth," he began, "woman is the hardest creature to comprehend on this foot-stool. i've been trying to understand them for fifty years, and am still in the primary class. you'd never have thought that girl of mine cared anything for le gaire to hear her talk last night, yet, now the fellow is dead, she is crazy. lying in there on the bed, crying, and won't say a word. only thing she asked me when i came in was what he had been killed with. i said it looked as if he had been struck from behind with a pistol butt, and then she collapsed. couldn't get a thing out of her--just cried, and begged me to go away; said she'd be all right, if left alone. blamed if i know what to do with a woman like that--over such a fellow as le gaire too! by gad, i supposed billie had more sense. when she wouldn't talk to me i proposed sending you in to explain matters. you should have seen her eyes, galesworth, through the tears. mad! i never waited to hear what she was trying to say. i reckoned the best thing to do was to leave her alone a while." "you explained nothing?" "no--what was there to explain?" "major," i said, every nerve braced for conflict, "with your permission i am going in there and have a talk with your daughter--may i?" "certainly, as far as i am concerned, but i don't envy you the job." "i'll assume all risk, but i am not willing to leave her like this. perhaps i understand the situation better than you do. you stay where i can call you if necessary, and look after the search for whoever got le gaire. bell and miles are out on the roof trying for the attic. i won't be gone long." i have gone into battle with less trepidation than i approached that door, but never with greater determination to bear myself as became a man. billie was going to know the truth just as clearly as i could tell it to her. i could not convince myself it was love for le gaire which had so affected her. i doubted if she had ever loved him. the fellow had played upon her sympathy, her pity, and circumstances had conspired to cause her to believe i was his murderer. this was amply sufficient to account for her feeling of horror, her evident desire to escape further contact with me. hardy had been blind and blundering--had made things worse, rather than better; now i must see what i could do. i rapped at the panel, and thought i heard a faint response. a moment later i stood within, and had closed the door behind me. she was on a couch at the opposite side of the room, but arose to her feet instantly, her face white, one hand sweeping back the strands of ruffled hair. "you!" she exclaimed incredulously. "why have you come here? i supposed it would be my father." "major hardy told me how you were feeling; that he could do nothing for you--" "did he understand i wished to confer with you?" "no, but--" "you decided to invade my room without permission. do you not think you have persecuted me quite long enough?" "why do you say persecuted?" "because your acts have assumed that form, lieutenant galesworth. you persist in seeking me after i have requested to be left alone." "miss hardy," and my eyes met hers, "has it ever occurred to you that you may be the one in the wrong, the one mistaken? i am simply here to explain, to tell you the truth, and compel you to do justice." "indeed! how compel? with the revolver in your belt?" "no; merely by a statement of facts, to be proven, if necessary, by the evidence of your father and captain bell. i am not asking you to believe me, but surely they have no occasion for falsifying. why have you not listened to them?" "listened!" startled by my words. "i would have listened, but they have said nothing. they have seemed to avoid all reference to what has occurred. i thought they were trying to spare me pain, humiliation. is there something concealed, something i do not know?" "if i may judge from your words and action the entire truth has been kept from you," and i advanced a step or two nearer. "i am not the one to come with an explanation, but your father has failed, and i am not willing to go away until this matter is made clear. whether you believe, or not, you must listen." she stared at me, still trembling from head to foot, and yet there was a different expression in her eyes--puzzled doubt. "you--you will have much to explain," she said slowly. "if--if i were you i should hardly attempt it." "which must mean, miss hardy, that you are already so prejudiced a fair hearing is impossible. yet i thought you, at least, a friend." a deep flush swept into her cheeks, to vanish as quickly. "you had reason to think so, and i was," earnestly. "i was deceived in your character, and trusted you implicitly. it seems as though i am destined to be the constant victim of deceit. i can keep faith in no one. it is hard to understand you, lieutenant galesworth. how do you dare to come here and face me, after all that has occurred?" she was so serious, so absolutely truthful, that for the moment i could only stare at her. "you mean after what you said to me last night? but i am not here to speak of love." "no," bitterly. "that is all over with, forgotten. in the light of what has happened since, the very memory is an insult. oh, you hurt me so! cannot you see how this interview pains me! won't you go--go now, and leave me in peace." "but surely you will not drive me away unheard!--not refuse to learn the truth." "the truth! it is the truth i already know, the truth which hurts." "nevertheless you are going to hear my story. if i have done a wrong to you, or any one, i want it pointed out, so it may be made right. i shall not leave this room, nor your presence, until i have uttered my last word of explanation. i should be a coward to turn away. will you sit down and listen? you need not even speak until i am done." she looked at me helplessly, her eyes full of questioning, yet, when i extended a hand, she drew back quickly. "yes--i--i suppose i must." she sank back upon the couch, these words barely audible, and i drew a deep breath, hardly knowing where to begin. "i am a federal officer, miss hardy, and my uniform is no passport to your favor, yet that is no reason you should be unjust. i do not think i have ever been guilty of but one ungentlemanly act toward you, and that was unavoidable--i mean listening to your conversation with captain le gaire." she shuddered, and gave utterance to a little cry. "i loved you; with all my heart i loved you," i went on swiftly, driven by a sudden rush of passion. "what you said then gave me a right to tell you so." "and was it because i was unwilling to listen that--that you did what you did later?" she broke in hastily. "did later! you mean that i consented to meet le gaire?" "yes--that you compelled him to fight you; that you--oh, god! why bring this all up again?" "merely because nothing occurred of which i am ashamed. without doubt it was my love for you which caused the trouble. but i was not the aggressor. did you suppose otherwise? le gaire deliberately struck me across the face." she rose again to her feet, her cheeks blazing. "it was the answer of a gentleman to an insult given the woman he was to marry," proudly. "the answer to an insult! what insult?" "you know; i shall not demean myself to repeat the words." so this was what she had been told! well, i could block that lie with a sentence. "miss hardy," i asked soberly, "are you aware that your father refused to act for captain le gaire, but went to the field as my second?" "no," her whole expression indicative of surprise. "impossible!" "but it was not impossible, for it was true. captain bell had to be send for to second le gaire, and he did it under protest. do you imagine your father would have taken my part if i had uttered one word reflecting upon you?" she attempted to speak, but failed, and i took advantage of the silence. "major hardy is in the hall, and will corroborate all i say. perhaps i ought not to attempt my own defence, but this misunderstanding is too grave to continue. there is too much at stake in your life and mine. from what you have already said it is evident you have been deceived--probably that deception did not end merely with the commencement of the quarrel." "did--did major hardy truly second you?" she interrupted, apparently dazed. "i--i can hardly comprehend." "he did; he even volunteered to do so. le gaire charged you with being unduly intimate with me, and your father resented his words. the man began threatening as soon as i entered the room, and finally struck me across the face, daring me to an encounter. i am no duellist; this was my first appearance in that role; but i could never have retained my self-respect and refused to meet him." "you--you forced him to accept pistols?" "in a way, yes. your father convinced him i was an expert swordsman, and consequently he chose derringers, believing they would be to his advantage. the truth is, i am not particularly skilled in the use of either." she looked at me a moment as though she would read clear down into the depths of my soul; then she leaned over against the head of the couch, her face hidden in her arm. "i--i will listen," she said falteringly, "to all you have to say." chapter xxix the mystery deepens it was a task i distinctly shrank from, but could not escape. "shall i not call in your father, and ask him to relate the story?" "no; i would much rather hear it from you--tell me everything." my heart throbbed at these simple words, and the thought suddenly occurred that possibly it was her loss of faith in me, rather than the death of le gaire which had brought such pain. if she had actually believed all the man had told her, it must have proven a shock, yet how could i now best counteract his story? it was not my nature to speak ill of any one, least of all the dead, but i must justify myself, win back her respect. only the whole truth could accomplish this. there was a hassock nearby and i dropped down upon it. she did not move, nor turn her face toward me. i began with my orders to report at general grant's headquarters, so as to thus make clear to her the reasons bringing me to the hardy plantation. i told about our night trip up the ravine, explained my ignorance of who occupied the house to which i had been, despatched, and how circumstances compelled me to remain concealed on the balcony, and thus overhear her conversation with her father and captain le gaire. i even referred to our quadroon guide, and then it was she suddenly turned her face toward me. "a quadroon--and claiming to have once lived here? who could that be?" "a servant slave of le gaire's." "oh, yes! charles. i remember now--he ran away." somehow she seemed more like the billie of old now, and i went on with greater confidence, barely touching on my sudden determination to prevent her wedding, the capture of the house, and our subsequent conversation together. as i approached the unpleasant interview in the parlor she sat up, brushing back her hair, and with questioning eyes on mine, exhibited the deepest interest. i told the rest, word by word, act by act, determined to thus impress upon her the full truth of the narrative. i could tell by her aroused interest that i was succeeding, while her questions gave me some inkling as to what she had been previously led to believe. after my account of the duel and le gaire's escape i stopped to ask, "miss billie, do you believe all this?" "oh, i must! you surely would not dare say what you have, unless certain my father would sustain you." "but is it hard to believe?" "yes and no. i--i wish to believe, because--well, because it is so disagreeable to lose confidence in any one who has been esteemed as a friend. perhaps i am too loyal, too easily convinced. but--but i was told such a different story, and it seemed so real, and every fact with which i was acquainted appeared to confirm it. if all you tell me now is true, lieutenant galesworth, i hardly know how i dare look you in the face." "forget that, and let us understand fully. will you tell me all,--how you came to protect le gaire, and what it was he told you?" she was silent, her eyes shaded, and i waited, wondering if she meant to speak. "perhaps if you consent to do this," i urged, "it may help to clear up the mystery of his death." "you have not told me about that." "i know little beyond the discovery of the body," gravely, "and should prefer to understand all that passed between you before going on with my own tale. i have taken you already as far as i have witnesses to corroborate me--beyond that you will have to trust my word alone." her long lashes uplifted, the blue-gray eyes looking directly into my own. "what is all that firing?" she questioned. "the house fairly quakes; is it a battle?" "yes; the contending forces have been gradually drawing nearer ever since daylight. the confederate lines are being forced back, and when chambers arrives in support this point may prove the centre of struggle. i am eager to get away, miss billie, to protect the lives of my men, but i could not leave with you feeling as you did--believing me a coward, a murderer." "but i am ashamed to tell you--ashamed to confess i could ever have thought it true." i touched her hand with my fingers, and she did not shrink away, or seem to observe the action. "i am bound to learn sometime--wouldn't you rather tell me yourself?" "yes, for, perhaps, i can make it seem less bad, more natural. i was angry when you left me, locked here in this room. i was indignant at what you had said and done, and did not realize the military necessity for making me a prisoner. i resented your taking everything so for granted, and--and i believe i almost hated you. i know i lay down here on the couch and cried myself to sleep. i could not have slept long, and when i awoke my mind still retained its bitterness. i began to wonder what i should do; how i could turn the tables against you. i was not really locked in, because this side door into the next room had been left unfastened. finally i decided on a desperate venture. there were horses in the stable belonging to the captured cavalrymen, and if i could steal out of the house, and reach the confederate lines, a rescuing party could be guided back here. the idea more and more took possession of me, and at last i mustered sufficient courage to make the attempt. i slipped on an old riding skirt, and stole out quietly through that other room into the hall. i thought i could get down the back stairs unobserved, and then out through the kitchen. i had no idea you had placed a guard back there in the ell until i saw him." "a guard!" i broke in. "there was no guard up here." "but there was--just beyond the head of the stairs. one of your men too, for his jacket was pinned up, without buttons. i was close enough to see that." "that's strange; i gave no such orders, and do not believe miles did. did you see the fellow's face?" "only in shadow--he was young, and without a beard." "go on," i said, realizing that here was an important discovery, "i will ask the sergeant." "finding the passage blocked i returned to my own room, but left this door ajar. the disappointment left me angrier than ever, but helpless. i could only sit down and wait, knowing nothing of what was going on below. i finally heard the two shots out by the stable, and went to the window. three horsemen rode past the corner of the house, and then, a moment or two later, i saw a man running along, crouching behind the fence. i could not tell who he was, only he had on a gray uniform, and he suddenly turned, and made for the house. once he tripped and fell, and got up with his hands to his head as though hurt. that was the last glimpse i had of him from the window. perhaps five minutes later i heard some one moving in the next room. i supposed it was the guard prowling about, and kept still. then the door was pushed open, and captain le gaire came in." "but where was the guard then?" "i don't know. i asked, but the captain had seen no one. i cannot tell you how the man looked, acted, or exactly what he said. the first glance at him awoke my sympathy, before he had spoken a word, for his uniform was torn and covered with dirt, and his face all blood from a wound on the temple. he was trembling like a child, and could hardly talk. i washed his wound out, and bound it up before i even asked a question. by that time he was himself again, and began to explain. is it necessary for me to repeat what he said?" "i would rather you would; don't you think i ought to know?" "i suppose you had, but--but it is not a pleasant task. i could not help but believe what he said, for he told it so naturally; he--he almost seemed to regret the necessity, and--and i never once dreamed he would lie to me. then father said just enough to apparently confirm it all, and--and other things happened." "yes, i know," understanding her embarrassment. "you mustn't think i blame you. you have known me such a little while." "but i should have sought after the truth, nevertheless, for i certainly had no cause to believe you capable of so cowardly an action. i--surely knew you better than that. but this was what he said: that you came into the room below promising to release the others, but threatening to take him prisoner with you into the federal lines. he protested, and--and then you referred to me in a way he could not stand, and blows were exchanged. as a result he dared you to fight him, and you couldn't refuse before your own men, although you endeavored to back out. that you chose pistols for weapons, and compelled their acceptance. on the field, he said, you fired before the word was spoken, and while he was still lying on the ground, shocked by the bullet, you flung the derringer at him, cutting his forehead; then drew your own revolver. unarmed, believing he was to be murdered, he turned and ran." "and you actually believed all this of me?" "why," bewildered, "he was a soldier, and my father's friend. how could i imagine he would run without cause? his story sounded true, as he told it, and he was hurt." "he must have got that when he fell--his head struck something. and is that all?" "yes; only we talked about how he might get away. he was here until father came for me, and then stepped into the other room. when i came back, he had gone. a little later i heard you searching the rooms, and went out into the hall believing it might be he." "you saw nothing more of him?" "no." "nor of the man you mistook for a guard?" she shook her head positively. "only the once." then, after hesitating, her eyes uplifted to mine." lieutenant galesworth, you did not encounter captain le gaire alive in the hall?" "i never saw him alive after he ran from the field. the noise you heard was when i tripped and fell, my revolver dropping to the floor. it was then i discovered his dead body. you will believe this?" "yes," and she extended her hand. "i have been very wrong; you must forgive me. but how could he have been killed? who could have had a motive?" "had le gaire no enemies?" "not to my knowledge. i know little of his life, yet surely there could be no one here--in this house--who would deliberately seek to kill him. no one would have opportunity except one of your own men." i confess it appeared that way to me also, and the fact only served to make the mystery more baffling. i knew personally every soldier under my command, and was certain no man among them had ever so much as seen le gaire previous to the night before. they could have no reason to attempt his life, no grudge against him. yet every confederate was under guard, and the fellow billie had seen in the hall wore our uniform, even to the detached buttons--she had noted that. if the man had been on guard, merely performing his military duty, there would have been no secrecy; he would have reported the affair long before this. but le gaire had been murdered, treacherously killed, without doubt struck from behind, and there must be some reason, some cause for the act. "i understand this no better than you," i admitted finally. "i shall have the house thoroughly searched, and every one of my men examined. but i am afraid we shall be obliged to leave before the mystery is solved. hear those guns! it almost seems as though the fighting was already within sight of the house." i stepped across to the window and looked out. "however it is all to the north and east, and there is still opportunity for us to get safely away into the ravine. i cannot understand why our forces have not taken advantage of it--in that way they could have struck the enemy a stunning blow on the left. there's a blunder somewhere. but we can hold the house no longer; only before i go i must know that you believe in me." "i do," earnestly. "and i am going to clinch that faith," opening the door into the hall. "major hardy, just a moment." he turned back from the open window, his face flushed with excitement. "the stragglers are beginning to show up," he exclaimed pointing, "and the boys are fighting like hell out there beyond those woods. and--and see that dust cloud over yonder; by all the gods, it will be chambers coming up at last!" "then hurry here; i want to ask you just one question for your daughter's sake: were you my second in the duel this morning?" "certainly." "why didn't you tell me, papa? why didn't you explain that lieutenant galesworth was not to blame?" "well, i didn't want you to feel any worse than you did. you and le gaire were going to be married, and i supposed you cared a good deal for him. someway i couldn't make myself talk about it, billie; that's all." her eyes sought mine, but just then miles appeared in the hall, halting with a salute as he caught sight of me. "nobody in the attic, sir, but things are getting pretty warm outside," he reported anxiously. "the way is still open toward the ravine, sergeant. get your men together in the front hall at once. never mind the prisoners; the major will release them after we have gone." his heels came together with a click, and he strode to the head of the stairs. "by the way, sergeant," i called after him, "did you have a guard posted in the upper hall here this morning?" "a guard? no, sir." "were you aware that any of our men had been up stairs since last evening?" "none of them have, sir; i'm cocksure of that." "that's all, sergeant; be lively now." my eyes turned toward billie, and she held out both her hands. "if we never know the truth, lieutenant galesworth," she said softly, "i shall believe all you have told me." chapter xxx under new orders her eyes were an invitation, a plea, yet with the major at her side, his face full of wonderment, and bell close behind us in the hall, i could only bow low over the white hands, and murmur some commonplace. there was neither opportunity nor time for more, although i felt my own deep disappointment was mirrored in the girl's face. the continuous roar of guns without, already making conversation difficult, and the hurried tramp of feet in the hall below, told the danger of delay. it was a moment when the soldier had to conquer the lover, and stern duty became supreme. i hurried to the front window, and gazed out; then to others, thus making a thorough survey of our surroundings, quickly making up my mind to a definite plan of action. so swiftly had occurrences pressed upon me i had scarcely found time before to realize the rapid approach of this new danger. now it burst upon me in all its impending horror. already the results of battle were visible. an hour before the pike road leading past the plantation gates had been white and deserted, not even a spiral of dust breaking its loneliness. through openings in a grove i had looked northward as far as the log church and observed no moving figure. but now this was all changed; as though by some mysterious alchemy, war had succeeded peace, the very landscape appearing grimly desolate, yet alive with moving figures. and these told the story, the story of defeat. it was not a new scene to me, but nevertheless pitiful. they came trudging from out the smoke clouds, and across the untilled fields, alone, or in little groups, some armed, more weaponless, here and there a bloody bandage showing, or a limp bespeaking a wound; dirty, unshaven men, in uniforms begrimed and tattered, disorganized, swearing at each other, casting frightened glances backward with no other thought or desire save to escape the pursuing terror behind. they were the riff-raff of the battle, the skulkers, the cowards, the slightly wounded, making pin pricks an excuse for escape. wagons toiled along in the midst of them, the gaunt mules urged on by whip and voice, while occasionally an ambulance forced its way through. here and there some worn-out straggler or wounded man had crawled into shade, and lay heedless of the turmoil. shouts, oaths, the cracking of whips, the rumble of wheels mingled with the ceaseless roar of musketry, and the more distant reverberation of cannon, while clouds of powder smoke drifted back on the wind to mingle with the dust, giving to all a spectral look. back from the front on various missions galloped couriers and aides, spurring their horses unmercifully, and driving straight through the mob in utter recklessness. one, a black-bearded brute, drew his sabre, and slashed right and left as he raced madly by. toward the ravine all remained quiet, although here and there in the orchard some of the gray-clad stragglers had found opportunity to lie down out of the ruck. but the smoke and musketry gave me a conception of the confederate line of battle, its left thrown across the pike with centre and right doubling back into the form of a horse-shoe, all centring on the hardy house. within twenty minutes we would be caught as in a trap. i sprang back to the stairs, and as i did so a sudden yell rose from the surging mob without, a shout in which seemed to mingle fear and exultation. bell, from a side window joined in, and a single glance told the reason: up from the south rode cavalry, sweeping the pike clean of its riff-raff, and behind, barely visible through the dust, tramped a compact mass of infantry, breaking into double time. the black-bearded aide dashed to their front, waving sabre and pointing; the clear note of a bugle cleaved the air; the horsemen spread out like a fan, and with the wild yell of the south rising above the din, the files of infantry broke into a run, and came sweeping forward in a gray torrent. chambers had come up at last, come to hurl his fresh troops into the gap, and change the tide of battle. even the stragglers paused, hastening to escape the rush, and facing again to the front. i saw some among them grasp their guns and leap into the ranks, the speeding cavalrymen driving others with remorseless sabres. all this was but a glimpse, and with the tumult ringing in my ears, i was down stairs facing my own men. "where are the prisoners, sergeant?" "here, sir, under guard." "open the front door, and pass them out. we'll be away before they can do us any harm. step lively now." i scarcely looked at them, moving on a run at the threats of the men, but wheeled on hardy, who was half way down the stairs. "major, what do you mean to do? how will you protect your daughter?" "stay here with her," was the prompt reply. there will be disciplined troops here in a few minutes." "yes, and a battle." "as soon as chambers gets up in force i can pass her back to the rear." that seemed the safer plan to me, and i had no time to argue. "all right, you and bell are free to do as you please. get your men out the same window you came in, sergeant; i'll go last. keep down behind the fence, and make for the ravine." he flung open the door into the parlor, and we crowded after him, but were still jammed in the doorway when he sprang back from the open window with hands flung up. "by god, sir, here come our men!" they came like so many monkeys, leaping the balcony rail, plunging headlong through the opening, and crowding into the room. it was like a dream, a delirium, yet i could see the blue uniforms, the new faces. in the very forefront, flung against me by the rush, i distinguished the lad i had sent back into the lines the night before. "what does all this mean, ross? who are these fellows?" "our men, sir," he panted, scarcely able to speak. "here--read this," and he thrust a paper into my hand. my eyes took the words in a flash, and yet for the instant they were vague, meaningless. it was only as i read them a second time that i understood, and then i gazed helplessly into the faces about me, striving to grasp the full situation. "hdqts th ill. cav. " : a.m. "lieut. galesworth: "we advanced our centre and left at daylight, and have driven the enemy from intrenchments. our right is under orders to advance up ravine and strike their rear. we move at once. i send this back by ross, who will take twenty men with him to help you. hold the hardy house to the last possible moment. our whole movement pivots there, and keeping possession until we arrive is of utmost importance. hold it at any price. these are grant's orders." "who gave you this?--it is unsigned." "the colonel, sir, i saw him write it." "and they were ready to leave?" "they'll not be more than an hour behind, unless something stops them--the whole brigade is coming." i comprehended now--the plan was clear-cut, easily understood. taking advantage of the ravine in which to conceal the movement, grant proposed to throw a brigade, or even a greater force, suddenly upon the enemy's unprotected rear, thus crushing johnston between two fires. the word i had sent back, disclosing the complete desertion of that gash in the earth by the confederates, had made this strategy possible. and the hardy house was naturally the pivot of the movement, and the retention of it in our possession essential to success. but the one point they had apparently overlooked was chambers' advance along this pike. he was supposed to be much farther east, his column blocked by heavy roads. instead of that he was here already, his vanguard sweeping past the gate, double-quicking to the front, with long lines of infantry hurrying behind. for us to bar the retreat of johnston's demoralized men, safely intrenched within the house, might be possible, provided artillery was not resorted to. even with my small force i might hold them back for an hour, but to attempt such a feat against the veterans of chambers, was simply a sentence to death. these men, fresh, undefeated, eager for battle, would turn and crush us as though we were some stinging insect. thirty men pitted against a division! good god! if he could send these--why not more? yet there was nothing to do except obey, and, feeling to the full the hell of it, i crushed the paper in the palm of my hand, and looked around into the faces about me. i was in command, and we were to stay here until we died. that was all i knew, all i remembered, the words, "hold it at any price," burning in upon my brain. "men," i said sharply. "my orders are to hold this house until our troops come up. we'll make a try at it. who commands this last squad?" a sergeant, a big fellow, with closely trimmed gray moustache, elbowed his way forward, and saluted. "from h troop, are you not?" "yes, sir; we're all h; my name's mahoney." "i remember you; irish to a man. well, this is going to beat any donnybrook fair you lads ever saw. get busy, and barricade every door and window on this floor; use the furniture, or whatever you get hands on. miles, take the south side, and mahoney, the north. no shooting until i give the word; we won't stir up this hornets' nest until we have to." the newcomers stacked their carbines in the hall, and divided into two parties, going to work with a vim, while i quickly stationed my old men where they could command every approach to the house, seeing to it that their arms were in condition, and that they had ample ammunition. within ten minutes we were ready for a siege, or prepared to repel any attack other than artillery. the rooms looked as though a cyclone had wrecked them, the heavy furniture barricading doors and windows, yet leaving apertures through which we could see and fire. mattresses had been dragged from beds up stairs, and thrust into places where they would yield most protection. the front door alone was left so as to be opened, but a heavy table was made ready to brace it if necessary. satisfied nothing more could be done to increase our security i had the men take their weapons, and the sergeants assign them to places. i passed along from room to room, watchful that no point of defence had been overlooked, and speaking words of encouragement to the fellows. after the fight began there could be little commanding; every man would have to act for himself. "draw down the shades, lads, and keep it as dark as possible inside. lay your ammunition beside you, where you can get it quickly. mahoney, we shall not need as many men at these windows as we will toward the front of the house--two to a window here should be sufficient. carbines, first, boys, and then revolvers if they get close. what is that, miles? yes, detail a man to each window up stairs; two to the front windows. have them protect themselves all they can, and keep back out of sight. now, boys, keep your eyes open, but no shooting until you get orders. sergeant mahoney will command this side, and miles the other, while i'll take the front. there is a corporal here, isn't there?" "yes, sir,--conroy." "well, conroy, you are in charge up stairs. i'll be there and look you over in a few minutes; i want to take a glance outside first." the brief time these hasty preparations required had witnessed a marked change in conditions without. where before it had been a scene of disastrous confusion, it was now that of disciplined attack. chambers' men had swept aside the stragglers, and spread out into battle lines, the gray regiments massing mostly to the right of the pike, but with heavy fringe of cavalry extending past us as far as the ravine. from my point of vantage it all formed an inspiring picture, dully monotonous in color, but alive with action; the long dust-covered lines, the rifle barrels shining, the constant shifting of columns, the regiments hurrying forward, the swift moving of cavalry, and hard riding of staff officers, sent the hot blood leaping through my veins. and all this was no dress review. just ahead they were at it in deadly earnest--barely beyond those trees, and below the edge of the hill. i could hear the thunder of the guns, continuous, almost deafening, even at this distance; could see the black, drifting smoke, and even the struggling figures. we were almost within the zone of fire already. men were down in the ranks yonder, and a stricken horse lay just within the gate. back and forth, riding like mad, aides dashed out of the choking powder fumes, in endeavor to hasten up the reserves. even as i watched one fell headlong from his saddle, struck dead by a stray bullet. i was soldier enough to understand. within ten minutes chambers would be out there, hurling his fresh troops against the exhausted federal advance, while those fellows, now fighting so desperately yonder, would fall back in reserve. could chambers hold them? could he check that victorious onrush of blue--those men who had fought their way five bloody miles since daybreak? i could not tell; it would be a death grapple worthy of the gods, and the hardy house would be in the very vortex. whether it was destined also to become a charnel house, a shambles, depended on the early coming of those other, unseen men toiling up that black ravine. then suddenly there recurred to my memory that major hardy and his daughter still remained within. they had not departed with the others, yet in the stress and excitement their presence had slipped my mind. nor had i seen them since the new recruits came. what could be done with them now, at this late hour, the house already a fortress, the enemy in evidence everywhere? in some manner they must be gotten away at once, safely placed within the protection of friends. not only my friendship for the father, and my love for the girl, demanded this, but the fact that they were non-combatants made it imperative. there was no time to consider methods--already we were within range of the guns, and at any moment might be directly under fire, obliged to resist assault. i was up the stairs even as the thought occurred, and confronted hardy in the upper hall. conroy had him by the arm, suspicious of the uniform. "that's all right, corporal," i said quickly. "i had forgotten the major was here. hardy, you must get out of the house--you, and miss billie at once." his eyes glanced back toward the door of her room which stood open. "i--i have no knowledge of where my daughter may be," he acknowledged soberly. chapter xxxi the disappearance of billie i stared at him in surprise, and then sprang forward, and glanced into her room. it was empty, except for a trooper kneeling at the window. i faced hardy again with a question: "not here! where has she gone?" he shook his head, without attempting to speak. "you don't know? conroy, have you seen anything of a young lady since you came up here?" "no, sir; all these doors was standin' wide open, and this johnny reb was prowlin' 'round in here. i didn't know what his business might be so i collared him. ain't that right, murphy?" appealing to the soldier at the window, who had faced about at sound of our voices. "straight as far as it goes," was the reply, "but maybe that guard back in the ell saw the lady afore we come up." "what guard?" "one o' your fellows," said the corporal. "anyhow he had his buttons cut off. i guess he's there yet." i was out into the hall as quickly as i could turn, conroy and the major following closely. a dozen steps took us beyond the chimney jog, and to the top of the back stairs. there was no one there. the side doors stood open, and the narrow hallway was vacant. my eyes met the corporal's. "well, i'll be jiggered," he exclaimed. "he was right there by the second door when i saw him. i was goin' to post murphy at that end window, sir, but i didn't think there was any need o' two men there." "did you speak to him?" "i told him what was up, sir, and that he better stay by the window." "did he answer you?" "he said 'all right,' or something like that, an' went back. i never thought anything was wrong; all i noticed particular was he had only a revolver, but most o' yer fellows was armed that way. i meant to get him a gun as soon as i had time." he strode forward, looking into the rooms. "he ain't here now anyhow, and i'm damned if i know where he could o' gone. did i make a mistake, sir?" "no, this is no fault of yours, corporal, but it's strange nevertheless. we had no guard up here, but this fellow, wearing our uniform, has been seen before--miss hardy, this gentleman's daughter, saw him, and now she has disappeared. there was murder done in this hall this morning." the corporal crossed himself, his lips murmuring as he glanced about, and then into my face. "murder, sir! the confederate captain lying in yonder on the bed?" "yes; he was waylaid here, and struck down from behind. i found his body out in front of that door, the skull crushed." "an' ye think that feller did it?" "i don't know who did it. but i should like to discover where that lad hides, and what he is here for. we have accounted for all our men, and searched this floor inch by inch. i began to think miss hardy was mistaken, but now you've seen him also." "an' murphy," broke in the horrified corporal, edging closer. "murphy saw him too. bedad, maybe it was a ghost!" "ghosts don't talk, and i never heard of any wearing revolvers. major, when did you see billie last?" i noticed how haggard his face was, and he answered slowly, his hands grasping the stair-rail. "we were together in the front hall when your men came. you were talking loudly, and the new voices attracted our attention. we both went forward to the head of the stairs." "you overheard what was said?" i interrupted, a new possibility dawning upon me. "much of it, yes," he admitted. "the plan of attack?--the orders sent me?" his expression answered. "and what were you going to do with this information, major hardy?" "nothing. i considered myself a prisoner on parole. i merely proposed asking your permission to leave the house with my daughter before hostilities began. i started down the stairs for that purpose." "and billie?" "i told her this, and sent her to her room after some things. before i got down you had disappeared, and i returned up stairs. she was not in her room, nor could i find a trace of her." i thought rapidly, staring into his bewildered face, insensibly listening to the continuous roar without. it was tragedy within tragedy, the threads of war and love inextricably tangled. what had occurred here during that minute or two? had she left voluntarily, inspired by some wild hope of service to the south? did that mysterious figure, attired in our uniform, have anything to do with her disappearance? did hardy know, or suspect more than he had already told? by what means could she have left the house? if she had not left where could she remain concealed? each query only served to make the situation more complicated, more difficult to solve. to no one of them could i find an answer. "major, did you tell your daughter why you could not carry that information to your own people?--that you considered yourself a parolled prisoner?" he hesitated, realizing now what it was i was seeking to discover. "why, i may have said something like that. we spoke of the situation, and--and billie appeared excited, but,--why, galesworth, you do not imagine the girl would try to carry the news out, alone, do you?" his doubt was so genuine as to be beyond question. whatever billie had done, it was through no connivance with the father, but upon her own initiative. yet she was fully capable of the effort; convinced the cause of the south was in her hands, she was one to go through fire and water in service. neither her life nor mine would weigh in the decision--her only thought the confederacy. still it was not a pleasant reflection that she would thus war openly against me; would deliberately expose me to defeat, even death. could she have made such a choice if she truly loved me? her words, eyes, actions continually deceived me. again and again i had supposed i knew her, believed i had solved her nature, only to be led into deeper bewilderment. "major," i said soberly. "i do imagine just that. there is no sacrifice your daughter would not make for the south. she realized the importance of this information, and that she alone could take it to chambers." i turned to the back stairs, and went down, feeling my way in the gloom, until i touched the door. to my surprise it opened, although i knew i had locked it, and the key was still in my pocket. there were four troopers in the kitchen, and they turned at the noise to stare at me. "how long have you boys been stationed here?" i questioned. "'bout fifteen minutes, i guess," answered the nearest. "ain't that about it, joe?" "not no longer." "room empty when you came?" "not a rat here, that we saw; did we, joe?" the other shook his head. "was that bar across the outer door there then?" "no, sir, there wan't no lock on it, an' bill rigged up that contrivance hisself." i believed now i comprehended how it had occurred, all except the mysterious unlocking of the door at the foot of the stairs, and this fellow in our uniform that haunted the ell. to make certain i retained the key, i took it out, and fitted it into the lock. still there might be a duplicate, and as for the soldier, i was hardly half convinced of his reality. billie had acted quickly, under the inspiration of discovery, and all the circumstances had conspired to make her escape from the house easy. miles had withdrawn his men on my orders, and we were all grouped together in the front hall. she had simply slipped down these back stairs, used a duplicate key, passed through the kitchen unobserved, and out into the garden. where then? to the stable, without doubt, and, mounted, into chambers' lines, taking her news to the highest officer she could reach. we would hear from it presently,--strange if not even already some of those troops were wheeling to invest the house. i called back up the stairs, "conroy, send major hardy down here." the confederate appeared almost instantly, his eyes anxiously surveying the room. "have you found my girl?" "no, but i have satisfied myself as to where she is. without doubt she came down those stairs, and out this door, while we were in the front hall. a battle-line is a rough place for a woman, and i am going to turn you out now to see if you cannot find and protect her. one of you men take down that bar." the major stared at me, and then extended his hand. "you--you don't suppose i sent her?" "oh, no, you have been most honorable. there is no reason why i should hold you here; the others have gone, and you may be of assistance to miss willifred. it is bound to be lively enough for us in here presently without prisoners to look after." "but you have not accepted my hand, lieutenant galesworth. i wish to feel that we part friends." "we certainly do," i returned heartily, grasping his fingers. "and--and i may never see your daughter again. there is scarcely a possibility that i ever shall. tell her that i respect her loyalty to the south." he stood looking directly into my eyes, grasping both my hands. "you mean to remain here, defending the house?" "while there is a man left alive." "it is a pity--in my judgment; not war, but a useless sacrifice." "yet a soldier's duty, major--obedience to orders." he bowed, choking in the throat, as he lifted his hat. with one glance at the silent soldier holding open the door he passed out. then he turned, hat still in hand, and glanced back. "you may feel assured i will deliver your message, sir,--good-bye." * * * * * the broad hallway ran from the front of the house to the kitchen ell, and i could see its entire length. several men were clustered at the other end, peering out through the narrow panes of glass either side the front door, and one came running toward me. it was the irish sergeant. "they're a-coomin', sorr--a bunch o' gray-backs. shud oi hay' the byes let drive?" "not until i speak to them, mahoney. we'll give the fellows fair warning first." i hurried back with him, and a soldier stepped aside to give me opportunity to look out. a glance was sufficient. a regiment of cavalry was halted under the trees of the lawn, the men dismounted and standing at the heads of their horses. apparently they were, merely waiting orders. riding straight across the grass toward the porch came a little group of a dozen officers, as i judged, although this was largely conjecture, their uniforms so dust-covered as to be meaningless. the carelessness of their approach, scarcely glancing toward the house, convinced me they had no thought of meeting any resistance from within--their only object the shade of the steps, or a possible glass of wine. to greet them with a volley would be murder, and i motioned the men to open the door just wide enough to permit of my slipping through. i walked forward to the edge of the porch, and stood there, leaning against a pillar. the approaching party was sufficiently close by this time so that i saw that one of the three in advance was bell. apparently i remained unobserved, but as they came to the gravel driveway i spoke. "that will be quite far enough, gentlemen, until you explain your purpose." they pulled up, astonished at the sound of my voice, those behind bunching about the first three, all staring open-mouthed at my uniform. several voices asked, "what does this mean?" "who the hell are you?" "one at a time, please," i returned, enjoying their surprise. "this house is garrisoned by federal troops at present, and we are not receiving callers--put that back! there are riflemen at every window." "don't be a fool, brown," growled the man in the centre, glancing aside, and then facing back toward me. "are you in command?" "i am here to receive any communication." "what troops have you?" i bowed smiling. "sufficient for the purpose." bell, evidently short-sighted, was staring at me through glasses, and broke in, "it's galesworth, the yankee lieutenant i told you about, colonel. say, i thought you left." "instead of leaving, captain bell, i have decided to stay." "but, good lord, you can't hold that house against us with only ten men!" "you will discover we have considerable more than ten when you come to capture it." they whispered together, evidently undecided how seriously to take me. i thought bell was trying to impress the others with the idea that it was all a bluff, but my coolness made them suspicious. i leaned motionless against the post in apparent indifference. the gruff-voiced colonel broke the silence. "do you know we have a division of troops within bugle call?" "oh, yes, and they have got their work cut out for them. your whole force is at it already, except the cavalry." my tone angered him. "there are enough in reserve to crush you," he retorted warmly. "i demand your immediate surrender, sir." "on what terms?" "unconditional," he thundered, "and if i have to charge you we shall take no prisoners." i waited for a lull in the firing, and they accepted the pause as hesitation. then i stepped backward to the door. "i regret greatly to disappoint you, colonel," i said clearly, "but we have decided to fight. if you are not out of range within two minutes my men will open fire." without awaiting an answer, i stepped within and closed the door. chapter xxxii we repulse the enemy i naturally anticipated an immediate attack, and began preparations. glass was broken from the small windows through which the men were to fire, and the sergeants and myself made inspection of men and arms, and gave orders for vigorous defence. yet we were already so well intrenched that this required but a few moments, and, confident i could shift my force quickly so as to meet any attack, i returned to the front rooms to observe the enemy. to my surprise there was no evidence of any movement in our direction, although there had been a noticeable shifting of troops. chambers had swung his infantry forward through gaps in the line of battle, and was now confronting the federal advance, not only holding his ground, but it seemed to me, slightly pushing his opponent. i ran up stairs so as to obtain a wider view of the field. they were fighting fiercely to our front and left, the line of fire slightly overlapping the pike, although, from the led horses in the rear, the troops engaged on this extremity were mostly dismounted cavalry. marching columns were still approaching from the south, swinging off from the pike as they neared the house, and disappearing into a grove of trees to the east. the land in that direction was rough, and i could only guess at the formation by the sound of firing, and the dense clouds of smoke. it was out there the artillery was massed, although in all of chambers' command i saw but two batteries. the heaviest fighting was to the east, not so far away but what we were within shell range, and yet out of direct view, while to the north the confederates could be seen struggling to gain possession of a low hill. their first rush had dislodged the federals from the log church, but had been halted just below in the hollow. beyond to the westward stretched the black shadow of the ravine, silent and deserted, largely concealed by a fringe of trees. that which interested me more particularly, however, was the scene nearer at hand--the stragglers, the wounded, the skulkers, the disorganized bodies of men, the wearied commands which had been fighting since daylight, now doggedly falling back, relieved by new arrivals, yet unwilling to go. they were not beaten, and their officers had fairly to drive them from the field, and when they halted the men faced to the front. it was all a scene of wild confusion, the roar of guns incessant, the air full of powder smoke, shells bursting here and there, and constantly the shouts of men. ammunition wagons blocked the pike, soldiers thronging about them to stuff cartridges into emptied belts; a battery of artillery dashed past, recklessly scattering the surging mass to left and right, as its horses, lashed into frenzy, plunged forward toward the fighting line; horsemen galloped back and forth, commanding, imploring, swearing, as they endeavored to reform the mob into a reserve column; riderless horses dashed about, resisting capture; and a runaway team of mules, dragging behind the detached wheels of an army wagon, mowed a lane straight across the open field. men lay everywhere sleeping, so exhausted the dead and living looked alike; there were ghastly bandages, dust-caked faces, bloody uniforms, features blackened by powder, and limping figures helped along by comrades. empty ammunition wagons loaded again with wounded, went creaking slowly to the rear, the sharp cries of suffering echoing above the infernal din. just outside the gate, under the tree shadows, was established a field hospital, a dozen surgeons working feverishly amid the medley of sounds. i had heretofore seen war from the front, in the excitement of battle, face to face with the enemy, but this sickened me. i felt my limbs tremble, the perspiration bead my face. i now knew what war was, stripped of its glamour, hideous in its reality of suffering and cruelty. for a moment i felt remorse, fear, a cowardly desire to escape, to get away yonder, beyond the reek of powder, the cries of pain. the awful vista gripped me as if by spectral fingers. but for the movement just then of that cavalry regiment, recalling me to duty, i half believe i should have run, not from fright but to escape the horror. they were moving forward past the front of the house, the men still on foot, gripping the leather at their horses' bits, the restive animals plunging so wildly as to make it seem more the advance of a mob than a disciplined body. a shell exploded in the road to their left, tearing a hole in the white pike, and showering them with stones. i could see bleeding faces where the flying gravel cut. another shrieked above, and came to earth just in front of the house, shattering the front steps into fragments, and leaving one of the wooden pillars hanging, unsupported. yet with no halt or hesitancy, the gray mass moved slowly across the lawn, and then deliberately formed in line beneath the trees of the orchard. their horses were led to the rear, and the men fell into rank at the sharp command of officers. facing as they did i was left in doubt as to their purpose. just inside the gate a battalion of infantry stood at parade rest, some of johnston's men, i judged from their appearance, who had held together. beyond them a little group of horsemen had reined up on a knoll, and seemed to be studying the surrounding country through field glasses. i could see the glitter of them in the sun. straight across the grass from the line of dismounted cavalry an officer rode, galloping through the dust of the pike, and trotting up the incline until he reached this distant group. i watched curiously as he pointed toward the house, and the others turned and looked. i could dimly distinguish features, and realized the meaning of some of their gestures. then the cavalry-man turned his horse, and came trotting back. but now he rode directly up the gravelled driveway to the front of the house, a white rag flapping from the point of his uplifted sword. thirty feet away he pulled up his horse, his eyes searching the house, and i stepped out on the porch roof. the broken pillar made me afraid to venture to the edge, but we were plainly in view of each other. "are you the yank in command?" he asked brusquely, staring up at me. "yes." he removed the rag from his sword, and thrust the weapon into its scabbard. "what force have you?" i smiled, amused at his display of nerve. "you will have to come in to discover that, my friend." his naturally florid face reddened with anger. "i'm not here to joke," he retorted. "general chambers wishes me to offer you a last opportunity to surrender without bloodshed." "and if i refuse?" "we shall attack at once, sir," haughtily. "a glance about will show you the helplessness of your position." i waited long enough to glance again over the scene. i was convinced they possessed no artillery which could be spared from the front for this small affair, and believed we were capable of making a strong defence against musketry. with the exception of that battalion of infantry near the gate, and the cavalry regiment in the orchard, every organized body of troops was being hurried forward to strengthen their line of battle. even general chambers and his staff had disappeared over the hill, and every sound that reached us evidenced a warm engagement. the stream of wounded soldiers flowing back across the pike was thickening, and federal shells were already doing damage at this distance. "i thank you for your information," i said civilly, "but we shall endeavor to hold the house." "you mean to fight!" "yes--if you wish this place you will have to come and take it." he drew back his horse, yet with head turned, hopeful i might say more. but i stepped back through the window, and as i disappeared he clapped in his spurs, and rode out into the orchard. a moment later the dismounted troopers spread out into a thin line, covering the front and left of the house, unslung their carbines and began to load. something about the way they went at it convinced me they expected no very serious resistance. a word to my men on that floor brought them to the point threatened by this first attack, and i gave them swift, concise orders--no firing until they heard a signal shot from the front hall; then keep it up while there was a man standing in range; carbines first, after that revolvers, and keep down out of sight from below. i looked into their faces, confident of obedience, and then ran down stairs. here the two sergeants--veterans both--had anticipated everything, and massed their men at the windows facing front and left. they lay flat, protected in every possible way, and each man had an extra gun beside him, and a pile of cartridges. mahoney was in the parlor, and miles in the hall, watchful of each movement without. i gave them the instructions about withholding their fire, and, grasping a carbine myself, pushed forward to where i could see outside. the troopers were already moving, advancing slowly in open order, but came to a halt just within carbine range. at sharp command their guns came up, and they poured a volley into the house. beyond a shattering of glass no damage was done, but under the cover of the smoke, the gray line leaped forward. i waited until they reached the gravel, and then pulled trigger. almost to the instant the whole front and side of the house blazed into their very faces, not once only, but twice, three times, the men grabbing gun after gun. it was not in flesh and blood to stand it; the line crumbled up as though seared by fire, men fell prone, others staggered back blinded, and, almost before we realized, there remained nothing out there but a fleeing crowd, leaving behind their dead and wounded. only three men had placed foot on the porch, and they lay there motionless; one had grasped the sill of a window, and had fallen back with a crushed skull. it was all over with so quickly that through the smoke we looked at each other dazed, and then stared out at the flying figures. i groped my way from room to room, ordering a reloading of the guns, and asking if there were any injured. the walls were scarred by bullets much of the piled up furniture splintered, but only two men had been hit, and their, wounds were slight. "they'll try it again, lads," i said. "get ready." there was no doubt of that, for they were old soldiers out yonder, and would never rest under the stigma of defeat. but they were bound to be more cautious a second time, and would give us a harder tussle. the fleeing men were rallied just beyond the negro cabins, cursed by their officers and driven back into line; then moved slowly forward again to their former position in the orchard. the sudden terror which had smitten them when the silent house burst into death flames, had somewhat worn off, and a desire for revenge succeeded. i could see the officers passing back and forth talking and gesticulating. a dozen troopers under a flag of truce came forward to pick up the wounded, and without even challenging we permitted them to do their work. the house remained quiet, sombre, silent, nothing showing but the dark barrels of our carbines. the infantry battalion at the gate moved against the left of the cavalry, and couriers were despatched to hurry up more. out by the negro quarters a dozen officers held council, pointing at the house, and by gestures designating a plan of attack. i think they sent for artillery, but none came, and when one of the couriers returned and reported, bringing only another infantry battalion, it was decided to delay the attempt no longer. they formed this time in double line, sufficiently extended so as to cover the front and two sides of the house, with a squad concealed back of the stable, prepared to rush the kitchen and take us in the rear. it was not a bad plan had we misjudged it, but the ground was so open nothing could be concealed. a wagon came up with ammunition, and the men filled their belts. they moved forward to within long firing distance, the cavalry covering the north side, one battalion of infantry the south, and the other prepared to assail the front. these latter began firing at once, their muskets easily covering the distance, although our lighter weapons were useless. yet, beyond keeping us down close to the floor and out of view, this preliminary firing was but a waste of ammunition, the heavy balls merely breaking what glass remained, and chugging harmlessly into the walls. we were ready and waiting, extra loaded guns beside each man, our nerves throbbing with the excitement of battle, every trooper posted at some point of vantage for defence. for a few moments the formation of our assailants was almost completely concealed behind the black musketry smoke. all else was forgotten except our own part in the tragedy, even the thunder of artillery deadened by the continuous roll of small arms. under the powder cloud the charging line sprang forward, determined to close in upon us with one fierce dash, almost encircling the house. the reserves elevated their guns, firing at the upper windows, while those chosen for the assault leaped forward, yelling as they came. i scarcely had time to cry a warning, and to hear the echoing shouts of miles and mahoney, before the gray line was on the gravel. it was then we struck them, every window and door bursting into flame simultaneously, the deadly lead poured into their very faces. we worked like fiends, the smoke suffocating, firing as rapidly as we could lay hands to weapons, seeing nothing but the dim outline of gray-clad men, surging madly toward us, or hurled back by the flame of our guns. it was hell, pandemonium, a memory blurred and indistinct; men, stricken to death, whirled and fell, others ran screaming; they stumbled over prostrate bodies, and cursed wildly in an effort to advance. now it was the sharp spit of revolvers, cracking in deadly chorus. all i knew occurred directly before me. a dozen or fifteen leaped to the porch floor, swinging a huge log against the barricaded door. i heard the crash of it as it fell inward, the cry of men underneath. there was a rush of feet behind; the flame of revolvers seemed to sear my face, and the log lay on the porch floor, dead men clinging to it, and not a living gray-jacket showing under the smoke. chapter xxxiii miss billie reappears i was leaning against the side wall, aware i had been wounded yet scarcely feeling the pain of it, an empty revolver in each hand, blue smoke curling from the muzzles. for the moment i could not comprehend what had actually occurred--that, for the second time, we had driven them; that we still held the house, now fairly encircled by dead bodies. then the truth dawned, and i gazed almost blindly about on the ruck, and into the faces of the men nearest me. i hardly recognized them, blackened by powder, with here and there a blood stain showing ghastly. the door was crushed in, splintered by the heavy log, the end of which still projected through, and beneath it three men lay motionless. i saw others between where i stood and the stairs, one leaning against the wall, his blood dyeing the carpet, another outstretched upon the steps. all this came to me in a glance, my head reeling; i felt no power to move, no ability to think. then miles' voice at my very ear aroused me. "are you hurt, lieutenant? here, let me see." i stared at him, and seemed to come back to life again with a start. "no, nothing serious, sergeant. the door must have struck me as it fell--my whole left side and arm are numb. we drove them, didn't we?" "you can bet we did, sir, but my fellows got here just in time. they didn't make much of a fight along my side, so when i heard that door crash we come a-runnin'." "oh, it was you then. that's about the last i remember. where is their reserve? didn't they come in?" "i guess not," peering out through the opening. "there's no signs of 'em, so far as i can see, but there ain't no air, an' the smoke hangs close to the ground." as he said, it was useless endeavoring to perceive what was happening without, the powder smoke clinging to the earth, and hiding everything from view. yet i realized what must have occurred; the dead bodies in sight proved how severely the assaulting column had suffered, and no doubt the entire force had been disorganized, and sent helter-skelter for safety. yet they would come back--either they or others. this muss must be cleaned up; this opening closed. after that we could attend our dead and wounded. i gave a dozen swift orders, and miles instantly took command. the imprisoned bodies were dragged out from underneath the door, the heavy log taken into the hall, the door itself torn from its remaining hinges and forced back into position, the log, one end resting against the stairs, being utilized as a brace. if anything it was now stronger than before for purposes of defence. we had barely completed this work when mahoney came out into the hall, his head bound up with a blood-soaked rag. "a foine, lively shindy, leftenant," he said, grinning amiably. "bedad, but oi thought they had us that last toime--oi did that." he glanced about curiously. "an' ye must hav' had it hot in here too." "it was hand to hand, sergeant, and we lost some men--four dead. how did you fare along your side of the house?" "three kilt, an' maybe a dozen wounded. oi got chipped up myself, but only the skin av me. those lads come up fierce, sorr, an' they'd 'a' made it too, only fer our ravolvers. we must have shot a dozen of 'em right in the winders." "and the rest of the house--do you know how they came out?" "oi do, sorr; oi've made the rounds. there's one man shot in the kitchen, but nobody got hurted up stairs." "and our men?" i asked eagerly. "from those upper windows did you see any sign of troops down in the ravine?" he shook his head. "not a domn thing, sorr." i looked into the faces clustered around us--blackened, savage faces, still marked by the fierce animalism of battle--feeling to the full the desperation of our position. "well, lads," i said soberly, "there is no use hiding the truth from you. i know you'll fight to the end, and that won't be long coming, unless help gets here. we can never repulse another assault; we've got eight men killed, and more than that wounded now--the next time we'll all go. what do you say--shall we hold on, hoping?" "oi'm fer doin' it, sorr," broke in mahoney, "an' oi'm spakin' fer ivery irishmon in h troop." "and you, miles?" "i'm not so bloomin' fond of a fight, lieutenant," he said, scratching his head, "but i like to stay fighting after i once get started. ain't that about the size of it, boys?" several heads nodded, and one fellow growled, "hell! we kin giv' 'em the same dose a third time." "i don't expect that, sims," i returned. "but those other fellows ought to be up any minute now. anyway we'll have a breathing spell, for the johnnies must have had enough to last them a few minutes. how is the ammunition?" "'bout twenty rounds apiece left." "then get to work, men; load up and strengthen every weak spot. we'll put up the best show we can. what did you want, foster?" the man addressed, a slim, awkward fellow, his spindle legs conspicuous under the short cavalry jacket, jerked off his cap in embarrassment. "why nuthin' much, sir," he stammered. "i ain't no objections to goin' on with the fightin', only if we're so sartain to catch hell it don't seem exactly right fer us to keep that thar young gal here in the house. she ain't no combatant, sir, an' dern me if i don't think she ought to be got outside first." "girl! what girl?" i cried, believing i must have misunderstood. "what is it you are trying to say, man?" the soldier jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. "the one in thar behind the stairs," he explained slowly. "tom ragan he made her go thar when the rumpus begun, an' then tom he got killed. ain't that the way of it, talbot?" "sure," chimed in the other. "it is the same one that was in the parlor last night, sir. she don't seem scared, ner nuthin' like that, only ragan told her she'd got to stay thar. i heard 'em talkin', an' she said she wanted you." "what did ragan answer?" now thoroughly aroused to the knowledge this must be billie. "he only told her to git right back in thar, an' keep still. it was just as that whole caboodle come tearin' up this las' time, sir. it wan't no safe place fer a girl whar you was. ragan he promised to tell you, only he got hit 'fore the fracas was done. that's why foster chirked up, an' that's all of it." the man had made it clear as far as he understood. there were no more questions to ask him, and i could only hope to uncover the mystery of her presence through the confession of her own lips. she had not gone over to the enemy then; had never left the house; instead, was seeking me. it was all so strange that i stood a moment bewildered, striving to reason the affair out, before attempting to approach the girl. what could have occurred? where could she have hidden? why, indeed, had she thus endeavored to conceal herself from both her father and myself? the troopers had scattered in obedience to orders, a few remaining at the openings watchful for any hostile movement without, before i ventured down the hall. it was dark behind the stairs, but she saw me instantly, greeting me with a little cry of delight and a quick outstretching of the hands. "i am so glad you have come! i--i haven't known what to do." "if i had supposed you still in the house," i explained, "i should have been with you before." "but i sent word; i told the soldier it was most important." "that was ragan, miss billie--a big fellow, with red moustache?--he was killed." "killed! oh, in the attack; yet--yet you still hold the house, do you not?" "yes, or i certainly should not be here with you. we have repulsed two assaults, but have lost heavily, and can scarcely hope to come safely through another. before it is made i must get you away." "out of the house, you mean?" "yes, and at once. we have made such a spirited defence that when we are finally overpowered there will be little mercy shown. not even your sex would protect you, even if you were fortunate enough to escape flying bullets. your father is with chambers, and, no doubt, the confederate commander out yonder will forward you to his care. i will take you to him under a flag of truce." we were out where the light shown upon us dimly, yet sufficiently to reveal expressions. her face was colorless, but her eyes exhibited no fear. "wait, lieutenant galesworth," she insisted, still clinging to my hand. "i must understand better, and you must hear first what i have to tell. why did father leave the house without me?" "we both believed you had already gone." "i? that was a strange supposition." "not at all; you had disappeared; we could discover no trace of you anywhere. your father reported that you had overheard all that occurred in the hall below--the arrival of reinforcements, my orders to defend the house, the federal plan of attack. major hardy told you his parole prevented him from reporting this discovery, yet no pledge of honor bound you. what else could i think, but that you had escaped into the confederate lines with the news?" she stared into my face, breathing heavily, yet without speaking. then she released the clasp of my hand, and leaned back against the wall, shading her eyes. "do not misunderstand me, billie," i urged anxiously. "i could never have blamed you. i sent that word to you through your father. you are a daughter of the south, and i honored your loyalty. there was no reason why you should not sacrifice me for the sake of the cause." "are you sorry i did not?" "no, far from it, and--and, billie, it is not the first time; does it mean--" "it means nothing," she broke in, "except a strange combination of circumstances. i did think of all this; it came to me in a flash. i realized that it was undoubtedly my duty, and--and, perhaps i should have found courage to attempt the task. i went to my room tempted, my purpose swayed by the call of the south, and--and my friendship for you. i had to be disloyal somewhere, and--and it was so hard to choose. i am glad you do not blame me, but i believe i should have gone, just as you thought i did, except for what happened." a shell exploded near the corner of the house, shaking the whole structure, the fragments tearing into the wood. she caught me by the arm, and i held her tightly, with face buried on my shoulder. "we must be quick," i urged. "those are federal shells overshooting their mark, but one may strike the house at any moment. tell me what it was that happened." "it seems so unreal now," she faltered, her whole form trembling, "that i hardly know how to tell it--yet every word is true. i--i have captured the murderer of captain le gaire." "you have! who was he?" "i cannot tell; i--i haven't even seen the man's face, but--but he is one of your soldiers." "impossible! there is not one of our men unaccounted for. i could call every trooper of our first company here now to confront you, except two who have been killed. the fellow does not belong to us." "well, he wears your uniform," and she drew back indignantly, "even to having the buttons removed. you must believe me, for i can prove it; i can take you to where he is." "where?" "down cellar, in the place where you had the confederate prisoners confined. he--he is locked in there; i held the door against him, and dropped the bar." i looked at her in speechless wonder, a wonder not untinged by admiration and love. she was standing now, erect, facing me, her cheeks reddening under my direct gaze. "i am going to make you believe," she insisted. "i will tell you how it happened, and then you shall take some men with you, and go down there, and bring the man up. no, i want to tell you about it first--- please, please listen." "would you mind if i call miles, and then you can tell your story to both of us?" i asked. "the fellow is armed, is he not; and i shall need to take some one along with me?" "yes, the man has a revolver. you mean the sergeant? i do not mind telling him." i hurried back to the front of the house, more anxious to be assured as to what was going on outside than to discover miles. yet there was nothing alarming, even the cavalry regiment having been withdrawn across the pike. without a question the sergeant followed me back to where the girl waited. chapter xxxiv her story she remained exactly as i had left her, leaning against the wall in the slight recess left by the stairs, and she recognized the sergeant with an inclination of the head, although her eyes were upon me. "your friends outside seem inclined to allow us a few moments in which to investigate this matter," i said. "but we shall need to hurry. this is miles, and i want you to tell the entire story from the beginning." my tone was incisive, and she responded as though to an order. "i will be brief," she began. "my father and i were at the head of the stairs when your reinforcements came. we were merely waiting there to make sure you had left the house. yet we could not fail to overhear what was said, and to at once realize the importance of the information. i spoke of it to major hardy, but he felt himself still under parole, bound by his word of honor. i was under no such obligation, however, and, for the moment it seemed as though my whole duty demanded that i should escape immediately, and bear this news to the nearest confederate commander. nothing else, no other obligation appeared as important as this. it was not that i wished to harm you, or to betray you to possible death or imprisonment, but it seemed to me all that was personal should be forgotten in duty to the cause of the south. it--it did hurt me, lieutenant galesworth," her voice suddenly changing into a plea, "but i believed it to be right, to be what i should do." "i understand fully; we both respect your convictions." miles nodded gravely, but said nothing, and the girl hurried on, yet with evident relief. "i started back to my room with that intention--your men were all at the front of the house; it would be easy to slip down the back stairs, leave by the kitchen door, and run for the stable. i knew father would oppose my plan, and so i said nothing to him about it. indeed it all came to me in a flash, and, almost before i knew it i was back in my own room ready to act. i passed out the side door into the next room, which would bring me nearer the back stairs, believing i would thus be less exposed to major hardy's observation. i glanced out first, and saw him beside the front window at the opposite end of the hall. he was intent upon the battle, the noise of which was deafening. the firing was so continuous and so near at hand--the very house shaking--that i almost lost my nerve. then i turned my head and looked the other way, and there, back in the shadows of the ell hallway, in almost exactly the same spot where i had seen him before, stood one of your soldiers. he had his revolver out in his hand, and was crouching forward in such a way that his hat brim almost totally concealed his face, but i knew instinctively that he was the same man i saw last night. and--and he was watching father." her voice broke, and she pressed her hands to her eyes, as though to blot out the memory, yet her hesitancy was but for an instant. "i didn't know what to do. if i cried out, or made any alarm, i was afraid he would fire. my father was standing unconsciously, his back toward him, unarmed. i cannot tell you how frightened i was, for, somehow, the man did not seem real; i--i felt as i have sometimes in dreams. but i had to do something, something desperate. there was an old gun standing back of the door--just a relic, and unloaded. yet it occurred to me it might answer, might serve to frighten the fellow. i slipped back, grasped it, and returned, but--when i looked out again he was gone." she took a deep breath, and i heard miles clinch and unclinch his hands. "maybe it was just a ghost, miss, or a shadow," he interrupted hoarsely, "for i swear to god there wasn't none of our men up there--you know that, lieutenant." "we called the roll in the front hall not ten minutes before, anyhow," i replied, still looking at billie, "and i hardly see how any of them got away after that." "i--i almost believed the same thing," she confessed, speaking swiftly. "as i said, it did not seem exactly real from the first, yet i had to trust my own eyes, and i saw him almost as plainly as i see you two now. then he was gone; gone so quickly i could not conceive the possibility of it. the whole affair appeared imaginary, a matter of nerves. it was an hallucination; out of my own brain, it seemed, i had conjured up that crouching figure. i had overheard your roll-call, and realized no trooper could have been there. i even convinced myself that it was all a fantasy. i was so certain of it that i stole out into the hall, and peered down the back stairs. i was frightened, so frightened i shook from head to foot, but it was because my nerves were all unstrung. i was sure by this time there had been no one there, and forced myself to investigate. i saw nothing, heard nothing, and step by step advanced clear to the back window, and looked out. then, without the slightest warning, something was thrown over my head, and i was utterly helpless in the vice-like clutch of an arm. i cannot explain how startled, how helpless i was. it occurred so suddenly i could not even cry out, could scarcely struggle. i was instantly stifled, and left weak as a child. i know i did make an effort to break away, but the cloth was clutched closer about my face, and the assailant's grip hurled me to the floor. the horror was more intense because he never uttered a sound; because i was in the dark, my mind still dazed by conjecture, and--and i fainted." the dramatic intensity with which she told this held us speechless. her hands were to her face, and i took them away, holding them tightly. "go on, billie," i urged gently. "it was a man then, after all." "yes, it was certainly a man, yet i did not really know it until he had carried me, unconscious, down the back stairs into the kitchen. i came to myself then, but remained dazed, and only partially comprehended what occurred. i could see nothing, as he had knotted the cloth about my head so tightly i could hardly breathe. but i could judge something from sounds, and i knew he was a man, because he swore once. i think he intended to leave me lying there, and himself escape through the back door. i know he lifted the bar and looked out. it was then he shut the door again quickly, and became profane. something he saw outside compelled a change of plan, for he came back quickly, dragged the table to one side, and opened the trap leading down into the cellar. whoever he was he evidently knew all about the house. then, he caught me up again, took me down the steps in his arms, and dropped me at the foot, while he ran back and shut the trap. i was nearly smothered by this time, scarcely half conscious, and the man must have realized my condition, for, when he came back, he loosened the wrap about my face. this enabled me to breathe again freely, but i was so weak i could not get up, and he was obliged to drag me across the cellar floor. i struggled still to escape, and succeeded in getting the cloth lifted so i could see out a little with one eye, but the light was poor, and the man kept hidden behind where i couldn't get even a glimpse of his face." one of the men passed us going back into the kitchen, and she paused a moment until he had gone by, miles and i waiting impatiently. "he didn't seem to know what to do with me. i don't think he intended any injury, and only seemed anxious to escape himself. i tried to talk, but he would not answer a word. after the first attempt i was not so much afraid of him, although he was rough enough when i tried to get away. you know how the cellar is divided off into compartments. well, he discovered the one with the door, where you put your prisoners, and dragged me in there. i knew he meant to close the door and leave me, but he thought me so weak and helpless that, after we were once inside, he walked across to test the iron bars at the windows. i don't know how i did it; i couldn't have stood alone a moment before, but, all at once, it seemed as if i must, and i made the effort. i think i crawled out, for i can scarcely remember now even how it was done, but i slammed the door shut, and dropped the bar across. i heard him pounding and swearing inside, but was certain he couldn't get out. i didn't faint, but i lay down there quite a while, so completely exhausted i could scarcely lift my hand. i could hear him digging at the wood of the door with a knife, and the awful firing outside and up stairs. i knew the house was being attacked, and then when it became quiet again, i was equally sure you had driven the confederates back. by that time i was able to get to my feet once more, and felt my way forward to the front stairs, for i knew i could never lift the trap. in the hall i met the soldier, and he made me hide here behind the stairs because the fight had begun again." "and you never saw the man's face, miss?" questioned the sergeant. "no; he seemed to try and keep out of sight, and, in the cellar, it was too dark for me to distinguish features a few feet away. he acted as though afraid i might possibly recognize and identify him." "you can give no description? he reminded you of no one you had ever seen?" she was trying to think, to recall every detail to memory, but only shook her head. "he was not a large man, rather slenderly built, but strong; young, i think--the same one i saw before and told you about, lieutenant galesworth, and he wore the same uniform." my eyes turning from her face encountered miles; and he burst out, "i'm jiggered if this don't beat me, sir. of course the lady is telling the truth, but where did that buck ever get one o' our uniforms? we didn't bring no change o' costume along, an' i could tell you now, within ten feet, where every one o' the lads is posted. they ain't any of 'em been long 'nough out o' my sight to pull off this kind of a stunt, an' every mother's son of 'em has got his own clothes on. an' somehow her description don't just exactly fit any of our boys. who do you reckon the sucker is?" "i have given up guessing, sergeant," i answered brusquely, "and am going to find out. if he is down below in the cellar we will be at the bottom of all this mystery in about three minutes. come on with me. no, the two of us are enough. miss billie, you had better remain here." "but," catching me by the sleeve, "he is armed; he has a revolver and a knife." "don't worry about that," and i caught the restraining hand in my own. "one of us will open the door, and the other have the fellow covered before he knows what to do. come on, miles." it seemed dark below, descending as we did suddenly from out the glare of the upper hall, and we had to grope our way forward from the foot of the stairs. i saw billie follow us a few steps, and then stop, leaning over to witness all she could. i was a step or so in advance of miles, and had drawn my revolver. the cellar was as quiet as a grave. i felt my way along the wall toward where i remembered this special door to be, endeavoring to make no noise. my eyes could discern outlines better by this time, and, as we approached, i became convinced the door we sought stood ajar. i stopped, startled at the unexpected discovery, and began feeling about for the bar; it was not in the socket. what could this mean? had billie told us a false story, or had her prisoner, by some magical means, escaped? she had said he was hacking at the wood with a knife; could he have cut a hole through sufficiently large to permit of his lifting the bar? this seemed scarcely possible, yet no other theory suggested itself, and i stepped rather recklessly forward to investigate. my foot struck against a body on the floor, and, but for miles, i should have fallen. a moment we stood there breathless, and then he struck a match. a man lay at our feet, face downward, clad in federal cavalry uniform, about him a shallow pool of blood. chapter xxxv the dead man the match flared out, burning miles' fingers so he dropped it still glowing on the floor. we could yet distinguish dimly the outlines of the man's form at our feet, and i heard billie come down the stairs behind us. there was no other sound, except our breathing. "strike another, sergeant," i commanded, surprised by the sound of my own voice, "and we'll see who the fellow is." he experienced difficulty making it light, but at last the tiny blaze illumined the spot where we stood. i bent over, dreading the task, and turned the dead man's face up to the flare. he was a man of middle age, wearing a closely trimmed chin beard. i failed to recognize the countenance, and glanced up questioningly at miles just as he uttered an exclamation of surprise. "it's one of mahoney's fellows, sir," he asserted sharply. "burke's the name." "then he couldn't possibly be the same man miss hardy saw up stairs that first time." "no, sir, this don't help none to clear that affair up. but it's burke all right, an' he's had a knife driven through his heart. what do you ever suppose he could 'a' been doin' down here?" "where was he stationed?" "he was with me till that last shindy started; then when you called for more men in the kitchen i sent him an' flynn out there." miles lit a third match, and i looked about striving to piece together the evidence. i began to think i understood something of what had occurred. this soldier, burke, was a victim, not an assailant. he lay with his hand still clasping the bar which had locked the door. he had been stabbed without warning, and whoever did the deed had escaped over the dead body. i stepped back to where i could see the full length of the cellar; the trap door leading up into the kitchen stood wide open. convinced this must be the way burke had come down, i walked over to the narrow stairs, and thrust my head up through the opening. there were six men in the room, and they stared at me in startled surprise, but came instantly to their feet. "when did burke go down cellar?" i asked briefly. the man nearest turned to his fellows, and then back toward me, feeling compelled to answer. "'bout ten minutes ago, wasn't it, boys?" "not mor 'n that, sir." "what was he after?" "well, we got sorter dry after that las' scrimmage, an' jack here said he reckoned thar'd be something ter drink down stairs; he contended that most o' these yer ol' houses had plenty o' good stuff hid away. finally burke volunteered to go down, an' see what he could find. we was waitin' fer him to com' back. what's happened ter burke, sir?" "knifed." "killed! burke killed! who did it?" "that is exactly what i should like to find out. there is some one in this house masquerading in our uniform who must be insane. he killed a confederate captain this morning, crushed in his skull with a revolver butt, and now he has put a knife into burke. has any one come up these steps?" "not a one, sir." "and i was at the head of the other stairs. then he is hiding in the cellar yet." suddenly i remembered that billie was below exposed to danger; in that semi-darkness the murderous villain might creep upon her unobserved. the thought sent a cold chill to my heart, and i sprang down again to the stone floor. "three of you come down, and bring up the body," i called back. "then we'll hunt the devil." she had not left the lower step of the front stairs, but caught my hands as though the darkness, the dread uncertainty, had robbed her of all reserve. "what is it?" she asked. "i do not understand what has happened." "the man you locked up has escaped," i explained, holding her tightly to me, the very trembling of her figure yielding me courage. "i haven't the entire story, but this must be the way of it: one of the men on duty in the kitchen came down here hunting for liquor. either the prisoner called to him, and got him to open the door, or else he took down the bar while searching. anyway we found the door ajar, and the soldier dead." "then--then the--the other one is down here somewhere still," cowering closer against me, and staring about through the gloom. "who--who are those men?" "soldiers coming for burke's body--he was the trooper killed. don't be afraid, dear--i am here with you now." "oh, i know; i would not be frightened, only it is all so horrible. i am never afraid when i can see and understand what the danger is. you do not believe me a silly girl?" "you are the one woman of my heart, billie," i whispered, bending until my lips brushed her ear. "don't draw away, little girl. this is no time to say such things, i know, but all our life together has been under fire. it is danger which has brought us to each other." "oh, please, please don't." "why? are you not willing to hear me say 'i love you'?" her eyes lifted to mine for just an instant, and i felt the soft pressure of her hand. "not now; not here," and she drew away from me slightly. "you cannot understand, but i feel as though i had no right to love. i bring misfortune to every one. i cannot help thinking of captain le gaire, and it seems as if his death was all my fault. i cannot bear to have you say that now, here," and she shuddered. "when we do not even know how he was killed, or who killed him. it is not because i do not care, not that i am indifferent. i hardly know myself." "billie," i broke in, "i do understand far better than you suppose. this affair tests us both. but, dear, i do not know what five minutes may bring. we shall be attacked again; i expect the alarm every instant, and i may not come out alive. i must know first that you love me--know it from your own lips." she was silent, it seemed to me a long, long while. the three soldiers went by carrying the dead body, and miles came to the foot of the stairs, saw us, and passed along without speaking. outside was the dull, continuous roar of musketry, mingled with an occasional yell. then she held out both hands, and looked me frankly in the face. "i am going to be honest," she said softly. "i have loved you ever since we were at jonesboro; i--love you now." i knew this before she spoke; had known it almost from the beginning, and yet her words, the message of her uplifted eyes, gave me a new conception of all love meant. a moment i gazed into the blue-gray depths where her heart was revealed, and then my arms were about her, and our lips met. surely no one ever received the gift of love in stranger situation. on the stairs leading down into that gloomy cellar where a murderer hid, his victim borne past as we talked; all about us silence and gloom hiding a mysterious crime; above us the heavy feet of men treading the echoing floor, and without the ceaseless roar of battle, volleying musketry, and hoarse shouting. yet it was all forgotten--the fierce fighting of the past, the passions of war, the sudden death, the surrounding peril--and we knew only we were together, alone, the words of love upon our lips. i felt the pressure of her arms, and crushed her to me, every nerve throbbing with delight. "sweetheart, sweetheart," i whispered, "you have kept me in doubt so long." "it has only been because i also doubted," she answered,--"not my love, but my right to love. to a hardy honor is everything, and i was bound by honor. dear, could you ever think a uniform made any difference?--it is the man i love." she drew gently back, holding me from her, and yet our eyes met. "but we must not remain here, thinking only of ourselves, when there is so much to be done. remember what is down there, and what scenes of horror surround us. you have work to do." the way in which she spoke aroused me as from a dream, yet with a question upon my lips. "yes," i said, "and we are in midst of war--in this are we yet enemies?" "i am a southerner," smiling softly, "and i hope the south wins. my father is out yonder fighting, if he be not already down, and i would do my best to serve his cause. do you care for me less because i confess this?" "no." "but now," she went on, more softly still, her words barely audible, "my heart is with you here; with you, because i love you." we both glanced up swiftly, startled by the sound of heavy steps in the upper hall. a man's head was thrust through the half-opened door at the top of the stairs. apparently he could not see any distance through the gloom, and i hailed him, although still retaining my clasp of the girl's hand. "what is it, my man?" "sergeant mahoney told me to find the lieutenant." "well, you have; i am the one sought. what's happening?" "they're a-comin', sorr," his voice hoarse with excitement, and waving one hand toward the front of the house, "an' thar's goin' ter be hell ter pay this toime" "you mean the gray-backs? from the front? what force?" "domn'd if oi know; oi wasn't seein' out thar--the sergeant told me." i could not leave billie down there alone, nor the door open. whoever the crazed assassin was, he must still remain somewhere in the cellar, watching for an opportunity to escape. but i was needed above to direct the defence. it seemed to me i thought of a thousand things in an instant,--of my desire to clear up the mystery, of my orders to hold the house, of willifred hardy's danger,--and i had but the one instant in which to decide. the next i made my choice, at least until i could discover the exact situation for myself. "come," i said soberly. i closed the door, and faced the trooper. "you remain here with the lady. don't leave her for a moment except as i order. keep your revolver drawn, and your eyes on that door. do you understand?" "oi do, sorr." "she will explain what you are to guard against. i'll be back to you in a moment, billie." i caught one glimpse out through the south windows as i passed the door of the dining-room--moving troops covered the distance, half concealed under clouds of smoke, but none were facing toward us. on the floor, behind the barricades, a dozen of my men were peering out along the brown carbine barrels, eager and expectant, cartridges piled beside them on the floor. at the front door i encountered mahoney, so excited he could hardly talk. "what is it?" i questioned swiftly. "an attack in front?" "it's the big guns, sorr; be gorry, they're goin' to shell us out, an' whar the hell was them reinforcemints, oi'd loike to know!" "so would i. if it's artillery we may as well hoist a white flag. here, my lad, let me look." a glance was sufficient. just within the gate, barely beyond reach of our weapons, with a clear stretch of lawn between, was a battery of four guns, already in position, the caissons at the rear, the cannoneers pointing the muzzles. back of these grim dogs was a supporting column of infantry, leaning on their muskets. there was no doubting what was meant. angered by loss, chambers had dragged these commands out of the battle to wipe us clean. he was taking no more chances--now he would blow the house into bits, and bury us in the ruins. what should i do? what ought i to do? the entire burden of decision was mine. must i sacrifice these men who had already fought so desperately? should i expose billie to almost certain death? surely we had done our full duty; we had held the house for hours, driving back two fierce assaults. the fault was not ours, but those laggards out yonder. i would tell mahoney and miles i was going to put out a white flag; that further resistance was useless. miles! with remembrance of the name i recalled where the man was--down below searching for the murderer. i sprang back, passing billie and her guard, and flung open the door. "miles," i cried into the silent darkness, "we need you up here at once." there was just a moment of tense waiting, and then a gruff voice sounding afar off, "i can't, sir, i've got him." chapter xxvi the last stand i had no time to answer, no opportunity to even realize what was meant. there was a fiendish roar, a crash that shook the house to its very foundations, sending us staggering back against the walls. i remember gripping billie closely, and seeing her white face, even as i warded off with uplifted arm the falling plaster. the soldier was on his knees, grovelling with face against the floor. a great jagged hole appeared in the opposite wall, and i could see daylight through it. my ears roared, my brain reeled. "lie down," i cried, forcing her to the floor. "both of you lie down!" "and you--you!" i caught a glimpse of her eyes staring up at me, her arms uplifted. "i am going to stop this," i answered, "and you must stay here." i stumbled over the rubbish, with but one thought driving me--the dining-room table, its white cloth, and the possibility of getting outside before those deadly guns could be discharged again. i knew the house was already in ruins, tottering, with huge gaping holes ripped in its sides; that dead men littered the floor; and the walls threatened to fall and bury us. another round would complete the horror, would crush us into dust. i gripped the cloth, jerking it from the table, stumbling blindly toward the nearest glare of light. there was a pile of shattered furniture in the way, and i tore a path through, hurling the fragments to left and right. i smelt the fumes of powder, the odor of plaster, and heard groans and cries. the sharp barking of carbines echoed to me, and a wild yell rose without. there were others living in the room; i was aware of their voices, of the movement of forms. yet all was chaos, bewildering confusion. i had but the single thought, could conceive only the one thing. i was outside, gripping the white cloth, clinging with one hand to the shattered casing. some one called, but the words died out in the roar of musketry. the flame of carbines seemed in my very face, the crack of revolvers at my ears. then a hand jerked me back head first into the debris. i staggered to my knees, only to hear mahoney shout, "they're coomin', lads, they're coomin'! howly mary, we've got 'em now!" "who's coming?" "our own fellars, sorr! they're risin' out o' the groun' yonder loike so many rats. here they are, byes! now ter hell wid 'em!" his words flashed the whole situation back to my consciousness. the house still stood, wrecked by cannon, but yet a protection. to the left our troops were swarming out of the ravine, and forming for a charge, while in front, under the concealment of the smoke, believing us already helpless, the confederate infantry were rushing forward to complete their work of destruction. we must hold out now, five minutes, ten minutes, if necessary. i got to my feet, gripping a carbine. i knew not if i had a dozen men behind me, but the fighting spirit had come again. "to the openings, men! to the openings!" i shouted. "beat them back!" i heard the rush of feet, the shout of hoarse voices, the crash of furniture flung aside. bullets from some firing line chugged into the wall; the room was obscured by smoke, noisy with the sharp report of guns. i could dimly see the figures of men struggling forward, and i also made for the nearest light, stumbling over the debris. but we were too late. already the gray mass were upon the veranda, battering in the door, clambering through the windows, dashing recklessly at every hole cleft by the plunging shells. rifles flared in our faces; steel flashed, as blade or bayonet caught the glare; clubbed muskets fell in sweep of death; and men, maddened by the fierce passion of war, pushed and hacked their way against our feeble defence, hurling us back, stumbling, fighting, cursing, until they also gained foothold with us on the bloody floor. the memory of it is but hellish delirium, a recollection of fiends battling in a strange glare, amid stifling smoke, their faces distorted with passion, their muscles strained to the uttermost, their only desire to kill. uniform, organization, were alike blotted out; we scarcely recognized friend or foe; shoulder to shoulder, back to back we fought with whatever weapon came to hand. i heard the crack of rifles; saw the leaping flames of discharge, the dazzle of plunging steel, the downward sweep of musket stocks. there were crash of blows, the thud of falling bodies, cries of agony, and yells of exultation. i was hurled back across the table by the rush, yet fell upon my feet. the room seemed filled with dead men; i stepped upon them as i struggled for the door. there were others with me--who, or how many, i knew not. they were but grim, battling demons, striking, gouging, firing. i saw the gleam of knives, the gripping of fingers, the mad outshooting of fists. i was a part of it, and yet hardly realized what i was doing. i had lost all consciousness save the desire to strike. i know i shouted orders into the din, driving my carbine at every face fronting me; i know others came through the smoke cloud, and we hurled them back, fairly cleaving a lane through them to the hall door. i recall stumbling over dead bodies, of having a wounded man clutch at my legs, of facing that mob with whirling gun stock until the last fugitive was safely behind me, and then being hurled back against the wall by sudden rush. how i got there i cannot tell, but i was in the hall, my clothing a mass of rags, my body aching from head to foot, and still struggling. about me were men, my own men--pressed together back to back, meeting as best they could the tide pouring against them from two sides. remorselessly they hurled us back, those behind pushing the front ranks into us. we fought with fingers, fists, clubbed revolvers, paving the floor with bodies, yet inch by inch were compelled to give way, our little circle narrowing, and wedged tighter against the wall. mahoney had made the stairs, and fought there like a demon until some one shot him down. i saw three men lift the great log which had barricaded the door, and hurl it crashing against the gray mass. but nothing could stop them. i felt within me the strength of ten men; the carbine stock shattered, i swung the iron barrel, striking until it bent in my hands. i was dazed by a blow in the face, blood trickled into my eyes where a bullet had grazed my forehead, one shoulder smarted as though burned by fire, yet it never occurred to me to cease fighting. again and again the men rallied to my call, devils incarnate now, only to have their formation shattered by numbers. we went back, back, inch by inch, slipping in blood, falling over our own dead, until we were pinned against the wall. how many were on their feet then i shall never know, but i was in the narrow passage beside the stairs alone. out of the clangor and confusion, the yells and oaths, there came a memory of billie. my god! i had forgotten! and she was there, crouching in the blackness, not five feet away. the thought gave me the reckless strength of insanity. my feet were upon a rubbish heap of plaster, where a shell had shaken the ceiling to the floor. it gave me vantage, a height from which to strike. never again will i fight as i did then. twice they came, and i beat them back, the iron club sweeping a death circle. somewhere out from the murk two men joined me, one with barking revolver, the other with gleam of steel; together we blocked the passage. some one on the stairs above reached over, striking with his gun, and the man at my right went down. i caught a glimpse of the other's face--it was miles. then, behind us, about us, rose a cheer; something sent me reeling over against the wall, striking it with my head, and i lost consciousness. i doubt if to exceed a minute elapsed before i was able to lift my head sufficiently to see about me. across my body sprang a federal officer, and behind him pressed a surging mass of blue-clad men. they trod on me as though i were dead, sweeping their way forward with plunging steel. others poured out of the parlor, and fought their way in through the shattered front door. it was over so quickly as to seem a dream--just a blue cloud, a cheer, a dozen shots, those heavy feet crunching me, the flicker of weapons, a shouted order, and then the hall was swept bare of the living, and we lay there motionless under the clouds of smoke. the swift reaction left me weak as a child, yet conscious, able to realize all within range of my vision. my fingers still gripped the carbine barrel, and dripping blood half blinded me. between where i lay and the foot of the stairs were bodies heaped together, dead and motionless most of them, but with here and there a wounded man struggling to extricate himself. they were clad in gray and blue, but with clothing so torn, so blackened by powder, or reddened by blood, as to be almost indistinguishable. the walls were jabbed and cut, the stair-rail broken, the chandelier crushed into fragments. somehow my heart seemed to rise up into my throat and choke me--we had accomplished it! we had held the house! whether for death or life, we had performed our duty. i could hear the echoing noises without; above the moans and cries, nearer at hand, and even drowning the deep roar of the guns, sounded the sturdy northern cheers. they were driving them, and after the fight, those same lads would come back, tender as women, and care for us. it was not so bad within, now the smoke was drifting away, and nothing really hurt me except my shoulder. it was the body lying half across me that held me prone, and i struggled vainly to roll it to one side. but i had no strength, and the effort was vain. the pain made me writhe and moan, my face beaded with perspiration. a wounded man lifted his arm from out a tangled heap of dead, and fired a revolver up into the ceiling; i saw the bullet tear through the plaster, and the hand sink back nerveless, the fingers dropping the weapon. the sounds of battle were dying away to the eastward; i could distinguish the volleys of musketry from the roar of the big guns. i worked my head about, little by little, until i was able to see the face of the man lying across me. it was ghastly white, except where blood discolored his cheek, and i stared without recognition. then i knew he must be miles. oh, yes, i remembered; he had come up at the very last, he and another man, and one had been knocked down when the stair-rail broke. i wondered how they came to be there; who the other man was. i felt sorry for miles, sorry for that girl back in illinois he had told me about. i reached back and touched his hand--it felt warm still, and, in some manner, i got my fingers upon his pulse. it beat feebly. then he was not dead--not dead! perhaps if i could get up, get him turned over, it might save his life. the thought brought me strength. here was something worthy the effort --and i made it, gritting my teeth grimly to the pain, and bracing my hands against the wall. once i had to stop, faint and sick, everything about swimming in mist; then i made the supreme effort, and turned over, my back against the wall, and miles' ghastly face in my lap. i sat staring at it, half demented, utterly helpless to do more, my own body throbbing with a thousand agonies. some poor devil shrieked, and i trembled and shook as though lashed by a whip. then a hand fell softly on my forehead, and i looked up dizzily, half believing it a dream, into billie's eyes. she was upon her knees beside me, her unbound hair sweeping to the floor, her face as white as the sergeant's. "and you live?--you live!" she cried, as though doubting her own eyes. "o god, i thank you!" chapter xxxvii the mystery solved it was impossible for me to speak. twice i endeavored, but no sound came from my parched lips, and i think my eyes must have filled with tears, her dear face was so blurred and indistinct. she must have understood, for she drew my head down upon her shoulder, pressing back the matted hair with one hand. "my poor boy!" she whispered sobbingly. "my poor boy!" "and you--you are injured?" i managed to ask with supreme effort. "no, not physically--but the horror of it; the thought of you in midst of that awful fighting! oh, i never knew before what fiends men can become. this has taught me to hate war," and she hid her face against my cheek. "i was in that dark corner against the wall; i saw nothing, yet could not stop my ears. but this sight sickens me. i--i stood there holding onto the rail staring at all those dead bodies, believing you to be among them. i thought i should go mad, and then--then i saw you." her words--wild, almost incoherent--aroused me to new strength of purpose. to remain idle there, amid such surroundings, would wreck the girl's reason. "it was a desperate struggle, lass," i said, "but there are living men here as well as dead, and they need help. draw this man off me, so i can sit up against the wall. don't be afraid, dear; that is miles, and he is yet alive. i felt his pulse a moment ago, and it was still beating." she shrank from the grewsome task, her hands trembling, her face white, yet she drew the heavy body back, resting the head upon the pile of plaster. the next moment her arms were about me, and i sat up supported by her shoulder. even this slight movement caused me to clinch my teeth in agony, and she cried out, "you are hurt? tell me the truth!" "my shoulder and side pain me," i admitted, "but they are nothing to worry over. can you find water?" "yes," eager now for action. she was gone not to exceed a minute, returning with a pail and cloth, and dropping again on her knees, began bathing my face. "it is a charnel house, with dead lying everywhere. i had to step across their bodies to get to the kitchen, and stopped to give one poor wounded lad a drink. oh, i never can blot this scene out; it will haunt me in my dreams." tears were in her eyes, and stealing down her cheeks, but there was no faltering. softly she bathed the wound on my head, and bound it up. then she kissed me. "will they never come to help us?" she cried, lifting her eyes from mine. "hear that man yonder groan. what can i do, robert? i cannot sit still here!" "try to revive miles," i suggested, pointing to him. "you heard what he replied when i called him just before the charge. he had caught the murderer, and, if he dies, we may never know the man's identity. here, billie, take this cloth and sprinkle water on his face. don't mind me any more; i am all right now." she started to do as i requested but had scarcely dampened the rag when a man came in through the wrecked door, picked his way forward a couple of steps, and stopped, staring about at the scene. behind him were other figures blocking the entrance. apparently we were indistinguishable from where he stood, for he called out, "is there any one alive here?" i heard a weak response or two, and then answered, "a few, yes--back here behind the stairs." he moved to one side, shading his eyes with one hand so as to see better. i could tell now he wore the uniform of a federal officer, but was unable to distinguish his rank. the sight of the girl, standing in the midst of all that horror, her loosened hair falling below her waist, evidently startled him. an instant he stared toward us incredulously; then removed his hat. "who are you?" "i am lieutenant galesworth," i answered, although his question was directed to her. "and this lady is miss hardy, the daughter of major hardy of the confederate army." "this, i believe, was the hardy plantation?" "yes--she was present throughout the fight." "i understand. by all the gods, i thought i had gone crazy when i first saw her. a woman in such a scene as this seemed impossible. here, men, quick now," and he turned to his following, pointing. "there were several voices answered among those lying there. place the dead against the wall, and," glancing through the doorway beside him, "carry the wounded into the parlor. corporal, you and one man come with me." he stepped across carefully, picking a way between the bodies. "galesworth, did you say? then you were in command here?" i bowed, feeling as i did so that billie had slipped her hand into mine. "great fight you made," he went on warmly. "perfect shambles, outside the house as well as in. nothing like it in my experience. i am doctor mcfarlan, surgeon medical corps. much hurt yourself?" "nothing serious, i think, doctor. shoulder and side pain some, but i want you to look at this fellow. he was my sergeant, and seems to be alive." the shrewd gray eyes surveyed us quizzically. "exactly, i see," he replied. "love and war--the old story. ah! that brought a little red into your cheeks, my girl. well, it's good for you. which is the man?--this one? here, corporal, lift his head, and you, jones, bring me the water; easy now." i drew her closer to me, our eyes on the surgeon and miles. the former worked with swift professionalism, forgetful of all else in his task, yet commenting audibly. "ah, a bad blow, a bad blow; however, skull intact; concussion merely. bullet wound right chest--must probe for it later; right arm broken; not likely to see any more of this war. live? of course he'll live, so far as i can see. tough as a knot--country stock, and that's the best kind; constitution pull him through. more water, jones; that's it, my lad--yes, you're all right now, and among friends. lift him up higher, corporal. do you begin to see things?--know that man over there?" miles looked at me dully, but slowly the light of returning intelligence came into his eyes. "the lieutenant?" he asked weakly, "the lieutenant?" "yes, sergeant," i replied eagerly, "we're both here, but we're about all there is left." "did they come, sir? did our boys get here?" "did they!" broke in the surgeon, his face glowing. "it was like bees out of a hive the way they came up from that ravine. the lads had been held back until they were mad clear through. the moment they saw what was going on they broke for the house; never waited for orders, or formation--just made a run for it. i guess they didn't get here any too soon either. well, that's all i can do for you now, son. jones, you stay here until i come back--you know what to do." miles' eyes followed him; then he looked at the dead bodies, shuddering, his hands to his face. when he took them down again he seemed to see billie for the first time. "you--you here, miss! oh, i remember now; it had been knocked plum out o' me. did he get away?" "who?" "that feller who knifed burke. i had him all right, sir, back in the coal cellar. he'd crawled away there into one corner, an' it was dark as hell--beg your pardon, miss." the sergeant sank back against jones' shoulder, and the man wet his lips with water. "i couldn't see only the mere outline of him, and didn't dare crawl in, for i knew he had a knife. all i could do was cover him with a gun, an' try to make him come out. that's what i was up to when you called. damned if i knew what to do then--there was some racket up stairs, let me tell you, an' i knew there was a devil of a fight goin' on. i wanted to be in it the worst way, but i couldn't find it in my heart to let that devil loose again. finally i got desperate, an' grabbed him by the leg, an' hauled him out, spittin' and fightin' like a cat. he cut me once, before i got a grip on his wrist, an' my gun shoved against him. then he went weak as a rag. but i wan't thinkin' much except about the fracas up stairs--the boys catchin' hell, an' me not with 'em. so i didn't fool long with that feller. i just naturally yanked him 'long with me up stairs into the kitchen, an' flung him down against the wall. i got one glance out into the hall, an' didn't care no more what become o' him. you was facin' the whole mob of 'em, swingin' a gun barrel, an' i knew where i belonged. but damned if that feller didn't startle me. he was up like a flash to his feet, an' i thought he was trying to get me. but he wasn't. when i run to you, he wasn't two steps behind, an' may i be jiggered, sir, if he didn't jump in there on your right, an' fight like a wild man. that's all i saw, just the first glimpse. he sure went into it all right, but i don't know how he come out." "well, i do; i happened to see that myself, though i hardly know how. he was clubbed with a musket from the stairs. the man who hit him fell when the railing broke. the two of them must be lying over there now. who was he, miles? did you know him?" the sergeant wiped the perspiration from his face with his sleeve, and jones moistened his lips again. i felt billie's grasp tighten, and her hair brush my cheek. "well, i thought i did, sir," he admitted at last, but as though not wholly convinced, "only i don't like to say till you have a look at the lad. he was dead game anyhow, i'll say that for him, an' i don't feel just sure. i never got eyes on him in daylight, an' when i yanked him out o' the coal hole he was mostly black. maybe that's him over there, sir." the hospital squad had cleared out much of the front hall, but had not reached the plaster pile where we had made our last stand. those that were left were mostly clad in gray, but over against the stairs, one leg and arm showing, was a blue uniform. the hospital men came back, and i called to them, "sergeant, there is one of our men lying in that pile. will you lift him up so i can see the face?" this was the work of a moment only, and for an instant no one spoke. disfigured as the face was, blackened and bloody, there could be no mistake in identity--it was that of charles le gaire. "why--why," exclaimed billie, thunderstruck. "i know him, but i cannot remember. who is the man?" it was all clear enough to me now; i only wondered at not suspecting the truth before. after guiding us up the ravine he had not returned to camp, but remained, intent on revenge, feeling that this was an opportunity for vengeance which would insure his own safety. yet she did not know, did not understand, and it must all be explained to her. miles broke in impatiently. "ain't it the same nigger, sir, what brought us up here?" "yes," i said, but with my eyes on the girl's face. "billie, listen, dear. the man was le gaire's servant, his slave, but also his son. he was here with his master, but you never knew of the real relationship between them. the boy was our guide last night, and he told me his story--of how justly he hated le gaire. shall i tell it to you now, or wait? the doctor is coming." she glanced from my face up into that of the approaching surgeon. the hospital squad, at the nod of command, were bearing the body down the hall. "tell me now." "it will require but a moment, dear. it was because this charles le gaire had lived here that i asked for him as a guide. he agreed to come as far as the end of the ravine only, as he did not wish to be recognized. then he disappeared, and, i supposed, returned to camp. instead, he evidently stole into the house. he was captain le gaire's son by a slave mother. bell told me later that the mother was sent back into the fields, and died as a result. that would account for the hate the boy felt against the father." "how--how old was he?" her trembling lips white. "not over eighteen." billie hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing silently. a moment the surgeon stood looking down at us compassionately. "i am going to have both you and your sergeant taken up stairs," he said at last. "come, miss hardy, you have no right to break down now." chapter xxxviii the coming of the night it was sundown, and silent without, except for voices and the constant movement of men. the din of battle, the roar of guns, had ceased, and everywhere gleamed the light of fires where the tired commands rested. the house stood, shattered but stanch, great gaping holes in its side, the front a mere wreck, the lower rooms in disorder, with windows smashed, and pools of hardening blood staining the floors. appearing from without a ruin, it yet afforded shelter to the wounded. i had had my own wounds washed and cared for. they were numerous enough and painful--an ugly slash in the side, a broken rib, the crease of a bullet across the temple, and a shoulder crushed by a terrific blow, together with minor bruises from head to heels--and yet none to be considered serious. they had carried me up the shattered stairs to her room, and i lay there bolstered up by soft pillows, and between clean sheets, my eyes, feverish and wide-awake, seeking out the many little things belonging to her scattered about, ever reminded of what had occurred, and why i was there, by my own ragged, stained uniform left lying upon a chair. i could look far away out of the northern window from where i rested, could see the black specks of moving columns of troops beyond the orchard, the vista extending as far as the log church, including a glimpse of the white pike. the faint odor of near-by camp-fires reached my nostrils, and the murmur of voices was wafted to me on the slight breeze. some lad was singing not far away, although the words could not be distinguished, and from the farther distance sounded clearly a cavalry bugle. i could hardly realize, hardly comprehend what it all meant. it hurt me to move, and the fever made me half delirious. i fingered the soft, white sheets almost with awe, and the pillows seemed hot and smothering. every apartment in the house held its quota of wounded, and down below the busy surgeons had transformed the parlor into an operating room. in spite of my closed door i could overhear occasionally a cry of pain. yet i was only conscious of wanting one presence--billie. i could not understand where she had gone, why she had left me. she had been there, over in the far corner, her face hidden in her hands, when the surgeon probed my wounds. she had been beside me when he went out, her soft hand brushing back my hair. i remembered looking up at her, and seeing tears in the gray-blue eyes. then some one had come to the door, and, after speaking, she came back to me, kissed me, said something softly, and went out, leaving me alone. i could not recall what it was she said. that must have been an hour, maybe two hours, ago, for it was already growing dusk. i do not know whether i thought or dreamed, but i seemed to live over again all the events of the past few days. every incident came before me in vividness of coloring, causing my nerves to throb. i was riding with billie through the early morning, and seeing her face for the first time with the sunlight reflected in her smiling eyes; i was facing grant, receiving orders; i was struggling with le gaire, his olive face vindictive and cruel; i was with billie again, hearing her voice, tantalized by her coquetry; then i was searching for le gaire's murderer, and in the fight, slashing madly at the faces fronting me. it must have been delirium, the wild fantasy of fever, for it was all so real, leaving me staring about half crazed, every nerve throbbing. then i sank back dazed and tired, sobbing from the reaction, all life apparently departed from the brain. i could not realize where i was, or how i got there, and a memory of mother came gliding in to take billie's place. i was in the old room at home, the old room with the oak tree before the window, and father's picture upon the wall at the foot of the bed. i thought it was mother when she came in, and it was the touch of mother's hand that fell so soft and tender upon my temple, soothing the hot pain. gradually the mists seemed to drift away, and i saw the gray-blue eyes, and billie. she was kneeling there beside me clasping one of my hands, and she looked so happy, the old, girlish smile upon her lips. "you have been away so long," i began petulantly, but she interrupted, "no, dear, scarcely fifteen minutes, and i have had such good news. i hurried back just to share it with you. the doctor says you are going to get well, that all you need is nursing, and--and i have heard from father." i looked at her, dimly understanding, and beginning to reflect her own happiness. "how did you hear? is he a prisoner?" "oh, no! could i be happy under those conditions? he is unhurt, and has sent for me. general johnston despatched an officer through the lines with a flag of truce. he was brought here, and that was why i left you. he had a letter for me, and authority to conduct me back to the general's headquarters. was not that thoughtful of them?" "yes," i answered wearily, clinging to her hand, "and--and you are going now? you came to say good-bye?" "you poor boy, do you really think that? shall i tell you what message i sent back?" my face must have answered, for she lowered her head until her cheek rested against mine, her eyes hidden. "i--i said i would stay here with my soldier." i was still a long while it seemed to me, our hands clasped, our cheeks pressing. i could feel her soft breath, and the strands of her hair. "billie, there is no regret, no doubt any more?" i asked falteringly. "it is all love for me?" "all love," she answered, moving just enough so that our eyes met. "you are my world forever." "and that uniform yonder--it is no barrier, dear? i am still a federal officer." she glanced at the rags, and then back into my face. "sweetheart," she whispered gently, "i can be loyal to the south, and to you also--you must be content with that." content! it was as though everything else had been forgotten, blotted out. it was almost dark now, and far away the camp-fires blazed red and yellow among the trees. i lay there, gazing out through the open window, her rounded arm under my head, her cheek still pressed tightly against mine. my nerves no longer throbbed, my veins no longer pulsed with fever. she never moved; just held me there against her, and in the silence i fell asleep. the end friendship village love stories by zona gale author of "friendship village," "the loves of pelleas and etarre," etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published november, . reprinted november, ; april, . _norwood press j. s. cushing co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a._ to my friends in portage wisconsin certain of the following chapters have appeared in _everybody's_, _the american magazine_, _the outlook_, _the woman's home companion_, and _the delineator_. thanks are due to the editors for their courteous permission to reprint these chapters, and to messrs. harper brothers for permission to reprint the sonnet in chapter xi. contents chapter page i. open arms ii. inside june iii. miggy iv. splendour town v. different vi. the fond forenoon vii. afraid viii. the java entertainment ix. the cold shoulder x. evening dress xi. undern xii. the way the world is xiii. householdry xiv. postmarks xv. peter xvi. the new village xvii. adoption xviii. at peter's house xix. the custodian friendship village love stories i open arms although it is june, the little child about whom i shall sometimes write in these pages this morning brought me a few violets. june violets. they sound unconvincing and even sentimental. however, here they are in their vase; and they are all white but one. "only one blue one," said little child, regretfully; "may must be 'most dead by mistake." "don't the months die as soon as they go away?" i asked her, and a little shocked line troubled her forehead. "oh, no," she said; "they never die at all. they wait and show the next months how." so this year's may is showing june how. as if one should have a kind of pre-self, who kept on, after one's birth, and told one what to live and what not to live. i wish that i had had a pre-self and that it had kept on with me to show me how. it is what one's mother is, only one is so occupied in being one's born self that one thinks of her worshipfully as one's mother instead. but this young june seems to be chiefly may, and i am glad: for of all the months, may is to me most nearly the essence of time to be. in may i have always an impulse to date my letters "to-morrow," for all the enchantment of the usual future seems come upon me. the other months are richly themselves, but may is all the great premonitory zest come true; it is expectation come alive; it is the then made now. conservatively, however, i date my may letters merely "to-morrow," and it is pleasant to find a conservative estimate which no one is likely to exceed. for i own that though there is a conservatism which is now wholly forbidden to me, yet i continue to take in it a sensuous, stolen pleasure, such as i take in certain ceremonies; and i know that if i were wholly pagan, extreme conservatism would be my chief indulgence. this yet-may morning, then, i have been down in the village, gardening about the streets. my sort of gardening. as in spring another looks along the wall for her risen phlox and valley-lilies, or for the upthrust of the annuals, so after my year's absence i peered round this wall and that for faces and things in the renascence of recognition, or in the pleasant importance of having just been born. many a gate and façade and well-house, of which in my absence i have not thought even once, has not changed a whit in consequence. and when changes have come, they have done so with the prettiest preening air of accomplishment: "we too," they say, "have not been idle." thus the streets came unrolling to meet me and to show me their treasures: my neighbour's new screened-in porch "with a round extension so to see folks pass on the cross street"; in the house in which i am to live a former blank parlour wall gravely regarding me with a magnificent new plate glass eye; daphne street, hitherto a way of sand, now become a thing of proud macadam; the corner catalpas old enough to bloom; a white frame cottage rising like a domestic venus from a once vacant lot of foam-green "timothy"; a veranda window-box acquired, like a bright bow-knot at its house's throat; and, farther on, the herons' freshly laid cement sidewalk, a flying heron stamped on every block. i fancy they will have done that with the wooden heron knocker which in the kitchen their grandfather heron himself carved on sleepless nights. ("six hundred and twenty hours of grandpa heron's life hanging on our front door," his son's wife said; "i declare i feel like that bird could just about lay.") to see all these venturesome innovations, these obscure and pleasant substitutions, is to be greeted by the very annuals of this little garden as a real gardener in green lore might be signalled, here by a trembling of new purple and there by a yellow marching line of little volunteers. i do not miss from their places many friends. in this house and that i find a new family domiciled and to be divined by the subtle changes which no old tenant would ever have made: the woodpile in an unaccustomed place, the side shed door disused and strung for vines, a wagon now kept by a north and south space once sacred to the sweet-pea trench. here a building partly ruined by fire shows grim, returned to the inarticulate, not evidently to be rebuilt, but to be accepted, like any death. but these variations are the exception, and only one variation is the rule, and against that one i have in me some special heritage of burning. i mean the felling of the village trees. we have been used wantonly to sacrifice to the base and the trivial, trees already stored with years of symmetry when we of these midlands were the intruders and not they--and i own that for me the time has never wholly passed. they disturb the bricks in our walks, they dishevel our lawns with twigs, they rot the shingles on our barns. it has seemed to occur to almost nobody to pull down his barn instead. but of late we, too, are beginning to discern, so that when in the laying of a sidewalk we meet a tree who was there before we were anywhere at all, though we may not yet recognize the hamadryad, we do sacrifice to her our love of a straight line, and our votive offering is to give the tree the walk--such a slight swerving is all the deference she asks!--and in return she blesses us with balms and odours.... for me these signs of our mellowing are more delightful to experience than might be the already-made quietudes of a nation of effected and distinguished standards. i have even been pleased when we permit ourselves an elemental gesture, though i personally would prefer not to be the one to have made the gesture. and this is my solace when with some inquisitioner i unsuccessfully intercede for a friend of mine--an isolated silver cottonwood, or a royally skirted hemlock: verily, i say, it was so that we did here in the old days when there were forests to conquer, and this good inquisitioner has tree-taking in his blood as he has his genius for toil. and i try not to remember that if in america we had had plane trees, we should almost certainly have cut them into cabins.... but this morning even the trees that i missed could not make me sad. no, nor even the white crape and the bunch of garden flowers hanging on a street door which i passed. all these were as if something elementary had happened, needless wounds, it might be, on the plan of things, contortions which science has not yet bred away, but, as truly as the natural death from age, eloquent of the cosmic persuading to shape in which the nations of quietude and we of strivings are all in fellowship. in fellowship! i think that in this simple basic emotion lies my joy in living in this, my village. here, this year long, folk have been adventuring together, knowing the details of one another's lives, striving a little but companioning far more than striving, kindling to one another's interests instead of practising the faint morality of mere civility; and i love them all--unless it be only that little mrs. oliver wheeler johnson, newly come to friendship; and perhaps my faint liking for her arises from the fact that she has not yet lived here long enough to be understood, as friendship village understands. the ways of these primal tribal bonds are in my blood, for from my heart i felt what my neighbour felt when she told me of the donation party which the whole village has just given to lyddy ember:-- "i declare," she said, "it wasn't so much the stuff they brought in, though that was all elegant, but it was the _togetherness_ of it. i couldn't get to sleep that night for thinkin' about god not havin' anybody to neighbour with." it was no wonder, therefore, that when in the middle of daphne street my neighbour met me this morning, for the first time since my return, and held out her arms, i walked straight into them. here is the secret, as more of us know than have the wisdom to acknowledge: fellowship, comradeship, kinship--call it what you will. my neighbour and i will understand. "i heard you was here," my neighbour said--bless her, her voice trembled. i suppose there never was such a compliment as that tremor of her voice. i am afraid that i am not going to tell what else she said. but it was all about our coming to friendship village to live; and that is a thing which, as i feel about it, should be set to music and sung in the wind--where thoreau said that some apples are to be eaten. as for me, i nodded at my neighbour, and could do no more than that--as is the custom of mortals when they are face to face with these sorceries of return and meeting and being together. i am not yet wonted to the sweetness of our coming to friendship village to live, the stranger and i. here they still call him the stranger; and this summer, because of the busts and tablets which he must fashion in many far places, so do i. have i said that that stranger of mine is a sculptor? he is. but if anyone expects me to write about him, i tell you that it is impossible. save this: that since he came out of the mist one morning on the plank road here in friendship village, we two have kept house in the world, shared in the common welfare, toiled as we might for the common good, observed the stars, and thanked god. and this: that since that morning, it is as if someone had picked us up and set us to music and sung us to the universal piping. and we remember that once we were only words, and that sometime we shall be whatever music is when it is free of its body of sound, and for that time we strive. but i repeat that these vagrant notes are not about this great stranger, absent on his quests of holy soul prisoned in this stone and that marble, nor yet about our life together. rather, i write about our family, which is this loved town of ours. for we have bought oldmoxon house, and here, save for what flights may be about and over-seas, we hope that we may tell our days to their end. my neighbour had both my hands, there in the middle of daphne street, and the white horse of the post-office store delivery wagon turned out for us as if he knew. "if i'd thought of seeing you out so early i'd have put on my other hat," my neighbour said, "but i'm doing up berries, an' i just run down for some rubbers for my cans. land, fruit-jar rubbers ain't what they used to be, are they? one season an' they lay down life. i could jounce up an' down i'm so glad to see you. i heard you'd been disappointed gettin' somebody to help you with your writin'. i heard the girl that was comin' to help you ain't comin' near." my secretary, it is true, has disappointed me, and she has done the disappointing by telegraph. i had almost said, publicly by telegraph. but i protest that i would rather an entire village should read my telegrams and rush to the rescue, than that a whole city should care almost nothing for me or my telegrams either. and if you please, i would rather not have that telegram-reading criticised. "well," said my neighbour, with simplicity, "i've got you one. she'll be up to talk to you in a day or two--i saw to that. it's miggy. she can spell like the minister." i had never heard of miggy, but i repeated her name with something of that sense of the inescapable to which the finality of my neighbour impressed me. as if i were to have said, "so, then, it is to be miggy!" or was it something more than that? perhaps it was that miggy's hour and mine had struck. at all events, i distinctly felt what i have come to call the emotion of finality. i suppose that other people have it: that occasional prophetic sense which, when a thing is to happen, expresses this futurity not by words, but by a consciousness of--shall i say?--brightness; a mental area of clearness; a quite definite physical emotion of yes-ness. but if the thing will not happen this says itself by a complementary apprehension of dim, down-sloping, vacant negation. i have seldom known this divination to fail me--though i am chary of using it lest i use it up! and then i do not always wish to know. but this morning my emotion of finality prevailed upon me unaware: i _knew_ that it would be miggy. "what a curious name," i said, in a manner of feebly fending off the imminent; "_why_ miggy?" for it seemed to me one of those names instead of which any other name would have done as well and perhaps better. "her name is margaret," my neighbour explained, "and her mother was a real lady that come here from off and that hard work killed her because she _was_ a lady. the father was bound there shouldn't be any lady about miggy, but he couldn't seem to help himself. margaret was her mother's name and so he shaved it and shrunk it and strained it down to miggy. 'no frills for nobody,' was his motto, up to his death. miggy and her little sister lives with her old aunt effie that dress-makes real french but not enough to keep 'em alive on. miggy does odd jobs around. so when i heard about your needin' somebody, i says to myself, 'miggy!'--just like i've said it to you." it was not the name, as a name, which i would have said could be uppermost in my mind as i walked on that street of june--that may was helping to make fair. and i was annoyed to have the peace of my return so soon invaded. i fell wondering if i could not get on, as i usually do, with no one to bother. i have never wanted a helper at all if i could avoid it, and i have never, never wanted a helper with a personality. a personality among my strewn papers puts me in a fever of embarrassment and misery. once such an one said to me in the midst of a chapter: "madame, i'd like to ask you a question. what do _you_ think of your hero?" in an utter rout of confusion i owned that i thought very badly of him, indeed; but i did not add the truth, that she had effectually drugged him and disabled me for at least that day. my taste in helpers is for one colourless, noiseless, above all intonationless, usually speechless, and always without curiosity--some one, save for the tips of her trained fingers, negligible. as all this does sad violence to my democratic passions, i usually prefer my negligible self. so the idea of a miggy terrified me, and i said to myself that i would not have one about. as i knew the village, she was not of it. she was not a part of my gardening. she was no proper annual. she was no doubt merely a showy little seedling, chance sown in the village.... but all the time, moving within me, was that serene area of brightness, that clear certainty that, do what i could, it would still be miggy. ... it is through this faint soothsaying, this conception which is partly of sight and partly of feeling, that some understanding may be won of the orchestration of the senses. i am always telling myself that if i could touch at that fluent line where the senses merge, i should occasionally find there that silent custodian who is myself. i think, because emotion is so noble, that the custodian must sometimes visit this line where the barrier between her and me is so frail. her presence seems possible to me only for a moment, only, it may be, for the fraction of a second in which i catch the romance, the _idea_ of something old and long familiar. and when this happens, i say: she has just been there, between the seeing and the feeling, or between the seeing and the knowing. often i am sure that i have barely missed her. but i am never quick enough to let her know.... when i finished my walk and stepped under the poplars before my gate, i caught a faint exclamation. it was that little child, who had been waiting for me on my doorstep and came running to meet me and bring me the violets. when she saw me, she said, "oh!" quickly and sweetly in her throat, and, as i stood still to taste the delight of having her run toward me, i felt very sorry for every one who has not heard that involuntary "oh!" of a child at one's coming. little child and i have met only once before, and that early this morning, at large, on the village street, as spirits met in air, with no background of names nor auxiliary of exchange of names; but we had some talk which for me touched on eternal truth and for her savoured of story-telling; and we are friends. so now when she gave me the violets and explained to me who was showing june how, i accepted this fair perception of the motherhood of may, this childish discernment of the familyhood of things, and, "will you come some day soon to have another story?" i asked her. "prob'ly i can," said little child. "i'll ask miggy." "miggy! but is it your miggy, too?" i demanded. "it's my sister," said little child, nodding. i thought that the concreteness of her reply to my ill-defined query was almost as if she remembered how to understand without words. you would think that children would need to have things said out, but they are evidently closer to a more excellent way. so when i entered the house just now, i brought in with me a kind of premonitory miggy, one of those ghostly, anticipatory births which we are constantly giving to those whom we have not met. as if every one had for us a way of life without the formality of being seen. as if we are a big, near family whether we want to be so or not. verily, it is not only may and june, or little child and miggy, who are found unexpectedly to be related; it is the whole world, it seems, and he is wise who quickens to many kinships. i like to think of the comrade company that already i have found here: june and little child and miggy-to-be and my neighbour and daphne street and the remembered faces of the village and the hamadryads. i think that i include the very herons in the cement sidewalk. like a kind of perpetual gift it is, this which my neighbour called _togetherness_. ii inside june _the difficulty with a june day is that you can never get near enough to it. this month comes within few houses, and if you want it you must go out to it. when you are within doors, knowing that out-of-doors it is june, the urge to be out there with it is resistless. but though you wade in green, steep in sun, breast wind, and glory in them all, still the day itself eludes you. it would seem, in june, that there should be a specific for the malady of being oneself, so that one might get to be a june day outright. however, if one were oneself more and more, might not one finally become a june day?..._ or something of this sort. i am quoting, as nearly as may be, from the book of our youth, your youth and mine. always the book of youth will open at a page like this. and occasionally it is as if we turned back and read there and made a path right away through the page. this morning a rose-breasted grosbeak wakened me, singing on a bough of box-elder so close to my window that the splash of rose on his throat almost startled me. it was as if i ought not to have been looking. and to turn away from out-of-doors was like leaving some one who was saying something. but as soon as i stepped into the day i perceived my old problem: _the difficulty with a june day is that you can never get near enough_. i stood for a little at the front gate trying soberly to solve the matter--or i stood where the front gate should have been; for in our midland american villages we have few fences or hedges, and, alas, no stone walls. though undoubtedly this lack comes from an insufficient regard for privacy, yet this negative factor i am inclined to condone for the sake of the positive motive. and this i conceive to be that we are wistful of more ample occupation than is commonly contrived by our fifty-feet village lots, and so we royally add to our "yards" the sidewalk and the planting space and the road and as much of our neighbour's lawn as our imagination can annex. there seems to me to be in this a certain charming pathos; as it were, a survival in us of the time when we had only to name broad lands our own and to stay upon them in order to make them ours in very fact. and now it is as if this serene pushing back of imaginary borders were in reality an appending, a kind of spiritual taking up of a claim. how to get nearer to june? i admit that it is a question of the veriest idler. but what a delightful company of these questions one can assemble. as, how to find one's way to a place that _is_ the way it seems away across a meadow. how to meet enough people who hear what one says in just the way that one means it. how to get back at will those fugitive moments when one almost _knows_ ... what it is all about. and with this question the field of the idler becomes the field of the wise man; and, indeed, if one idles properly--or rather, if the proper person idles--the two fields are not always on opposite sides of the road. to idle is by no means merely to do nothing. it is an avocation, a calling away, nay, one should say, a piping away. to idle is to inhibit the body and to let the spirit keep on. not every one can idle. i know estimable people who frequently relax, like chickens in the sun; but i know only a few who use relaxation as a threshold and not as a goal, and who idle until the hour yields its full blessing. i wondered if to idle at adventure might not be the way to june, so i went out on the six o'clock street in somewhat the spirit in which another might ride the greenwood. almost immediately i had an encounter, for i came on my neighbour in her garden. not my neighbour who lives on the other side of me, and who is a big and obvious deacon, with a family of a great many light gowns; but my neighbour. she was watering her garden. these water rules and regulations of the village are among its spells. to look at the members of the water commission one would never suspect them of romance. but if they have it not, why have they named from five until nine o'clock the only morning hours when one may use the city water for one's lawn and garden? i insist that it cannot be a mere regard for the municipal resources, and that the commissioners must see something of the romance of getting up before five o'clock to drench one's garden, and are providing for the special educational value of such a custom. or, if i do not believe this, i wish very much that i did, with the proper grounds. to tell the truth, however, i do not credit even my neighbour with feeling the romance of the hour and of her occupation. she is a still woman of more than forty, who does not feel a difference between her flower and her vegetable gardens, but regards them both as a part of her life in the kind of car-window indifference and complacency of certain travellers. she raises foxgloves and parsley, and the sun shines over all. i must note a strange impression which my neighbour gives me: she has always for me an air of personal impermanence. i have the fancy, amounting to a sensation, that she is where she is for just a moment, and that she must rush back and be at it again. i do not know at what. but whether i see her in church or at a festival, i have always all i can do to resist saying to her, "how _did_ you get away?" it was so that she was watering her flowers; as if she were intending at any moment to hurry off to get breakfast or put up the hammock or mend. and yet before she did so she told me, who was a willing listener, a motion or two of the spirit of the village. there is, i observe, a nicety of etiquette here, about the not-quite-news, not-quite-gossip shared with strangers and semi-strangers. the rules seem to be:-- strangers shall be told only the pleasant occurrences and conditions. half strangers may discuss the unpleasant matters which they themselves have somehow heard, but only pleasant matters may be added by accretion. the rest of society may say whatever it "has a mind." but this mind, as i believe, is not harsh, since nobody ever gossips except to people who gossip back. "mis' toplady told me last night that calliope marsh is coming home for the java entertainment, next week," my neighbour imparted first. and this was the best news that she could have given me. it has been a great regret to me that this summer calliope is not in the village. she has gone to the city to nurse some distant kinswoman more lonely than she, and until ill-health came, long forgetful of calliope. but she is to come back now and again, to this and to that, for the village interests are all her own. i have never known any one in whom the tribal sense is so persistently alive as in calliope. i asked my neighbour what this java entertainment would be, which was to give back calliope, and she looked her amazement that i did not know. it would be, it appeared, one of those great fairs which the missionary society is always projecting and carrying magnificently forward. "it's awful feet-aching work," said my neighbour, reflectively; "but honestly, calliope seems to like it. i donno but i do, too. the sodality meant to have one when they set out to pave daphne street, but it turned out it wasn't needed. well, big affairs like that makes it seem as if we'd been born into the whole world and not just into friendship village." my neighbour told me that a new public library had been opened in a corner of the post-office store, and that "a great crowd" was drawing books, though for this she herself cannot vouch, since the library is only open saturday evenings, and "saturday," she says with decision, "is a bad night." it is, in fact, i note, very difficult to find a free night in the village, save only tuesday. monday, because of its obvious duties and incident fatigue, is as impossible as sunday; wednesday is club day; thursday "is prayer-meeting"; friday is sacred to church suppers and entertainments and the ladies' aid society; and saturday is invariably denominated a bad night and omitted without question. we are remote from society, but tuesday is literally our only free evening. "of course it won't be the same with you about books," my neighbour admits. "you can send your girl down to get a book for you. but i have to be home to get out the clean clothes. how's your girl going to like the country?" she asked. i am to have here in the village, i find, many a rebuke for habits of mine which lag behind my theories. for though i try to solve my share of a tragic question by giving to my swedish maid, elfa, the self-respect and the privilege suited to a human being dependent on me, together with ways of comfort and some leisure, yet i find the homely customs of the place to have accomplished more than my careful system. and though, when i took her from town i scrupulously added to the earnings of my little maid, i confess that it had not occurred to me to wonder whether or not she would like friendship village. we seem so weary-far from the conditions which we so facilely conceive. especially, i seem far. i am afraid that i engaged elfa in the first place with less attention to her economic fitness than that she is so trim and still and wistful, with such a peculiarly winning upward look; and that her name is elfa. i told my neighbour that i did not know yet, whether elfa would like it here or not; and for refuge i found fault with the worms on the rose bushes. also i made a note in my head to ask elfa how she likes the country. but the spirit of a thing is flown when you make a note of it in your head. how does elfa like the town, for that matter? i never have asked her this, either. "she'll be getting married on your hands, anyway," my neighbour observed; "the ladies here say that's one trouble with trying to keep a hired girl. they _will_ get married. but i say, let 'em." at least here is a matter in which my theory, like that of my neighbour's, outruns those of certain folk of both town and village. for i myself have heard women complain of their servants marrying and establishing families, and deplore this shortsightedness in not staying where there is "a good home, a nice room, plenty to eat, and all the flat pieces sent to the laundry." "speaking of books," said my neighbour, "have you seen nicholas moor?" "i see almost no new books," i told her guiltily. "me either," she said; "i don't mean he's a book. he's a boy. nicholas moor--that does a little writin' himself? i guess you will see him. he'll be bringin' some of his writing up to show you. he took some to the new school principal, i heard, and to the invalid that was here from the city. he seems to be sort of lonesome, though he _has_ got a good position. he's interested in celluloid and he rings the catholic bell. nicholas must be near thirty, but he hasn't even showed any signs." "signs?" i hazarded. "of being in love," she says simply. and i have pondered pleasantly on this significant ellipsis of hers which takes serenely for granted the basic business of the world. her elision reminds me of the delicate animism of the japanese which says, "when the rice pot speaks with a human voice, then the demon's name is kanjo." one can appraise a race or an individual by the class of things which speech takes for granted, love or a demon or whatever it be. and apropos of "showing signs," do i remember liva vesey and timothy toplady, jr.? i am forced to confess that i remember neither. i recall, to be sure, that the topladys had a son, but i had thought of him as a kind of qualifying clause and it is difficult to conceive of him as the subject of a new sentence. when i hear of liva vesey i get her confused with a pink gingham apron and a pail of buttermilk which used sometimes to pass my house with liva combined. fancy that pink gingham and that pail becoming a person! and my neighbour tells me that the qualifying clause and the pink gingham are "keeping company," and perhaps are to determine the cut of indeterminate clauses and aprons, world without end. "the young folks _will_ couple off," says my neighbour; "and," she adds, in a manner of spontaneous impression, "_i_ think it's nice. and it's nice for the whole family, too. i've seen families that wouldn't ever have looked at each other come to be real friends and able to see the angels in each other just by the young folks pairing off. this whole town's married crisscross and kittering, family into family. i like it. it kind o' binds the soil." my neighbour told me of other matters current in the village, pleasant commonplaces having for her the living spirit which the commonplace holds in hostage. ("i'm breathing," little child soberly announced to me that first day of our acquaintance. and i wonder why i smiled?) my neighbour slowly crossed her garden and i followed on the walk--these informal colloquies of no mean length are perfectly usual in the village and they do not carry the necessity for an invitation within the house or the implication of a call. the relations of hostess and guest seem simply to be suspended, and we talk with the freedom of spirits met in air. is this not in its way prophetic of the time when we shall meet, burdened of no conventions or upholstery or perhaps even words, and there talk with the very freedom of villagers? meanwhile i am content with conventions, and passive amid upholstery. but i do catch myself looking forward. suddenly my neighbour turned to me with such a startled, inquiring manner that i sent my attention out as at an alarm to see what she meant. and then i heard what i had not before noted: a thin, wavering line of singing, that had begun in the street beyond our houses, and now floated inconsequently to us, lifting, dipping, wandering. i could even hear the absurd words. "_my_ mary anna mary, what you mean i _never_ know. you don't make me merry, very, but you make me sorry, oh--" the "oh" prolonged, undulatory, exploring the air. to say something was like interrupting my neighbour's expression; so i waited, and, "it's old cary," she explained briefly. "when he does that it's like something hurts you, ain't it?" i thought that this would be no one of my acquaintance, and i said so, but tentatively, lest i should be forgetting some inherent figure of the village. "he's come here in the year," she explained--and, save about the obvious import of old cary's maudlin song, she maintained that fine, tribal reticence of hers. "except for the drinking," she even said, "he seems to be a quiet, nice man. but it's a shame--for peter's sake. peter cary," she added, like a challenge, "is the brainiest young man in _this_ town, say what you want." on which she told me something of this young superintendent of the canning factory who has "tried it in nebraska," and could not bear to leave his father here, "this way," and has just returned. "he works hard, and plays the violin, and is making a man of himself generally," she told me; "don't miss him." and i have promised that i will try not to miss peter cary. "they live out towards the cemetery way," she added, "him and his father, all alone. peter'll be along by here in a minute on his way to work--it's most quarter to. i set my husband down to his breakfast and got up his lunch before i come out--i don't have my breakfast till the men folks get out of the way." i never cease to marvel at these splendid capabilities which prepare breakfasts, put up lunches, turn the attention to the garden, and all, so to speak, with the left hand; ready at any moment to enter upon the real business of life--to minister to the sick or bury the dead, or conduct a town meeting or a church supper or a birth. they have a kind of goddess-like competence, these women. at any of these offices they arrive, lacking the cloud, it is true, but magnificently equipped to settle the occasion. in crises of, say, deafness, they will clap a hot pancake on a friend's ear with an Æsculapian _savoir faire_, for their efficiencies combine those of lost generations with all that they hear of in this, in an open-minded eclecticism. with puritans and foresters and courtiers in our blood, who knows but that we have, too, the lingering ichor of gods and goddesses? oh--"_don't you wish you had_?" what a charming peculiarity it would be to be descended from a state of immortality as well as to be preparing for it, nay, even now to be entered upon it! in a few moments after that piteous, fuddled song had died away on the other street, peter cary came by my neighbour's house. he was a splendid, muscular figure in a neutral, belted shirt and a hat battered quite to college exactions, though i am sure that peter did not know that. i could well believe that he was making a man of himself. i have temerity to say that this boy superintendent of a canning factory looked as, in another milieu, shelley might have looked, but so it was. it was not the first time that i have seen in such an one the look, the eyes with the vision and the shadow. i have seen it in the face of a man who stood on a step-ladder, papering a wall; i have seen it in a mason who looked up from the foundation that he mortared; i have seen it often and often in the faces of men who till the soil. i was not surprised to know that peter cary "took" on the violin. the violin is a way out (for that look in one's eyes), as, for nicholas moor, i have no doubt, is the ringing of the catholic bell. and i am not prepared to say that celluloid, and wall-paper, and mortar, and meadows, and canneries,--run under good conditions,--may not be a way out as well. at all events, the look was still in peter's face. peter glanced briefly at my neighbour, running the risk of finding us both looking at him, realized the worst, blushed a man's brown blush, and nodded and smiled after he had looked away from us. "you see this grass?" said my neighbour. "peter keeps it cut, my husband don't get home till so late. we're awful fond of peter." there is no more tender eulogy. and i would rather have that said of me in the village than in any place i know. no grace of manner or dress or mind can deceive anybody. they are fond of you or they are not, and i would trust their reasons for either. my neighbour's husband came out the front door at that moment, and he and peter, without greeting, went on together. her husband did not look toward us, because, in the village, it seems not to be a husband and wife ceremonial to say good-by in the morning. i often fall wondering how it is in other places. is it possible that men in general go away to work without the consciousness of family, of themselves as going forth on the common quest? is it possible that women see them go and are so unaware of the wonder of material life that they do not instance it in, at least, good-by? one would think that even the female bear in the back of the cave must growl out something simple when her lord leaves her in the hope of a good kill. and when the two men had turned down the brick walk, the maple leaves making a come-and-go of shadows and sun-patterns on their backs, my neighbour looked at me with a smile--or, say, with two-thirds of a smile--as if her vote to smile were unanimous, but she were unwilling by it to impart too much. "it's all miggy with peter," she said, as if she were mentioning a symptom. "miggy?" i said with interest--and found myself nodding to this new relationship as to a new acquaintance. and i was once more struck with the precision with which certain simple people and nearly all great people discard the particularities and lay bare their truths. could any amount of elegant phrasing so reach the heart of the thing and show it beating as did, "it's all miggy with peter"? "yes," my neighbour told me, "it's been her with him ever since he come here." assuredly i thought the better of miggy for this; and, "is it all peter with miggy?" i inquired, with some eagerness. land knows, my neighbour thought, and handed me the hose to hold while she turned off the water at the hydrant. i remember that a young robin tried to alight on the curving spray just as the water failed and drooped. "i like to get a joke on a robin that way," said my neighbour, and laughed out, in a kind of pleasant fellowship with jokes in general and especially with robins. "it made miggy's little sister laugh so the other day when that happened," she added. then she glanced over at me with a look in her face that i have not seen there before. "land," she said, "this is the time of day, after my husband goes off in the morning, when i wish i had a little young thing, runnin' round. _now_ almost more than at night. well--i don't know; both times." i nodded, without saying anything, my eyes on a golden robin prospecting vainly among the green mulberries. i wish that i were of those who know what to say when a door is opened like this to some shut place. "well," said my neighbour, "now i'll bake up the rest of the batter. want a pink?" thus tacitly excused--how true her instinct was, courteously to put the three fringed pinks in my hand to palliate her leaving!--i have come back to my house and my own breakfast. "elfa," said i, first thing, "do you think you are going to like the country?" my little maid turned to me with her winning upward look. "no'm," she shocked me by saying. and there was another door, opened into another shut place; and i did not know what to say to that either. but i am near to my neighbour; and, in a manner to which elfa's trimness and wistfulness never have impressed me, near to elfa herself, and i am near, near to the village. as i left the outdoors just now, all the street was alive: with men and girls going to work, women opening windows, a wagon or two in from a caledonia farm, a general, universal, not to say cosmic air of activity and coffee. all the little houses, set close together up and down the street, were like a friendly porch party, on a long, narrow veranda, where folk sit knee to knee with an avenue between for the ice-cream to be handed. all the little lawns and gardens were disposed like soft green skirts, delicately embroidered, fragrant, flowing.... as i looked, it seemed to me that i could hear the faint hum of the village talk--in every house the intimate, revealing confidences of the family, quick with hope or anxiety or humour or passion, animated by its common need to live. and along the street flooded the sun, akin to the morning quickening in many a heart. the day has become charged for me with something besides daylight, something which no less than daylight pervades, illumines, comes to meet me at a thousand points. i wonder if it can be that, unaware, i did get near to june? iii miggy i have never heard the chimes of westminster cathedral, but when some time they do sound for me i shall find in them something all my own. for the old rosewood clock which has told time for me these many years is possessed of a kind of intelligence because its maker gave to it the westminster chimes. thus, though the clock must by patient ticking teach the rhythm of duration until the secret monotony of rhythm is confessed, it has also its high tides of life, rhythmic, too, and at every quarter hour fills a kind of general creative office: four notes for the quarter, eight for the half, twelve for the three-quarters, sixteen for the hour, and then the deep amen of the strokes. at twelve o'clock it swells richly to its zenith of expression and almost says something else. through even the organ fulness of the cathedral bells i shall hear the tingling melody of the rosewood clock chimes, for their sweet incidence has been to me both matins and lullaby and often trembles within my sleep. i have the clock always with me. it is a little voice-friend, it is one of those half folk, like flowers and the wind and an open fireplace and a piano, which are a frail, semi-born race, wistful of complete life, but as yet only partly overlapping our own sphere. these fascinate me almost as much as the articulate. that was why, when my little maid elfa had brought me the summons to-day, i stood on the threshold and in some satisfaction watched miggy, rapt before my clock in its musical maximum of noon. miggy is as thin as a bough, and her rather large head is swept by an ungovernable lot of fine brown hair. her face was turned from me, and she was wearing a high-necked gingham apron faded to varying values of brown and faint purple and violet of a quite surprising beauty. when the last stroke ceased, she turned to me as if i had been there all the time. "i wish i could hear it do that again," she said, standing where she had stood, arms folded. "you will, perhaps, to-morrow," i answered. truly, if it was to be miggy, then she would hear the chimes to-morrow and to-morrow; and as she turned, my emotion of finality increased. i have never loved the tribe of the headlongs, though i am very sorry for any one who has not had with them an occasional innocent tribal junket; but i hold that through our intuitions, we may become a kind of apotheosis of the headlongs. who of us has not chosen a vase, a chair, a rug, by some motive transcending taste, by the bidding of a friendly-faithful monitor who, somewhere inside one, nodded a choice which we obeyed? and yet a vase is a dead thing with no little seeking tentacles that catch and cling, while in choosing the living it is that one's friendly-faithful monitor is simply recognizing the monitor of the other person. i, for one, am more and more willing to trust these two to avow their own. for i think that this monitor is, perhaps, that silent custodian whom, if ever i can win through her elusiveness, i shall know to be myself. as the years pass i trust her more and more. i find that we like the same people, she and i! and instantly we both liked miggy. miggy stood regarding me intently. "i saw you go past the brevy's yesterday, where the crape is on the door," she observed; "i thought it was you." i wonder at the precision with which very little people and very big people brush aside the minor conventions and do it in such ways that one nature is never mistaken for the other. "the girl who died there was your friend, then?" i asked. "no," miggy said; "i just knew her to speak to. and she didn't always bother her head to speak to me. i just went in there yesterday morning to get the feeling." "i beg your pardon. to get--what?" i asked. "well," said miggy, "you know when you look at a corpse you can always sense your own breath better--like it was something alive inside you. that's why i never miss seeing one if i can help. it's the only time i'm real glad i'm living." as i motioned her to the chair and took my own, i felt a kind of weariness. the neurotics, i do believe, are of us all the nearest to the truth about things, but as i grow older i find myself getting to take a surpassing comfort in the normal. or rather, i am always willing to have the normal thrust upon me, but my neurotics i wish to select for myself. "my neighbour tells me," i said merely, "that she thinks you should be my secretary." (it is a big word for the office, but a little hill is still a hill.) "i think so, too," said miggy, simply, "i was afraid you wouldn't." "have you ever been anybody's secretary?" i continued. "never," said miggy. "i never saw anybody before that had a secretary." "but something must have made her think you would do," i suggested. "and what made you think so?" "well," miggy said, "she thinks so because she wants me to get ahead. and i think so because i generally think i can do anything--except mathematics. has secretary got any mathematics about it?" "not my secretary work," i told her, reviewing these extraordinary qualifications for duty; "except counting the words on a page. you could do that?" "oh, that!" said miggy. "but if you told me to multiply two fractions you'd never see me again, no matter how much i wanted to come back. calliope marsh says she's always expecting to find some folks' heads caved in on one side--same as red and blue balloons. if mine caved, it'd be on the mathematics corner." i assured her that i never have a fraction in my house. "then i'll come," said miggy, simply. but immediately she leaned forward with a look of anxiety, and her face was pointed and big-eyed, so that distress became a part of it. "oh," she said, "i _forgot_. i meant to tell you first." "what is it? can you not come, after all?" i inquired gravely. "i've got a drawback," said miggy, soberly. "a man's in love with me." she linked her arms before her, a hand on either shoulder--arms whose slenderness amazes me, though at the wrist they taper and in their extreme littleness are yet round. because of this frailty she has a kind of little girl look which at that moment curiously moved me. "who told you that?" i asked abruptly. "about it being a drawback? everybody 'most," said miggy. "they all laugh about us and act like it was a pity." for a moment i felt a kind of anger as i felt it once when a woman said to me of a wife of many years whose first little child was coming, that she was "in trouble." i own that,--save with my neighbour, and calliope, and a few more whom i love--here in the village i miss the simple good breeding of the perception that nothing is nobler than the emotions, and the simple good taste of taking seriously love among its young. taking it seriously, i say. not, heaven forbid, taking it for granted, as do the cities. "other things being equal, i prefer folk who are in love," i told miggy. though i observe that i instance a commercialization which i deplore by not insisting on this secretarial qualification to anything like the extent with which i insist on, say, spelling. miggy nodded--three little nods which seemed to settle everything. "then i'll come," she repeated. "anyhow, it isn't me that's in love at all. it's peter. but of course i have to have some of the blame." so! it was, then, not "all peter with miggy." poor peter. it must be a terrific problem to be a peter to such a miggy. i must have looked "poor peter," because the girl's face took on its first smile. such a smile as it was, brilliant, sparkling, occupying her features instead of informing them. "he won't interfere much," she observed. "he's in the cannery all day and then he practises violin and tinkers. i only see him one or two evenings a week; and i never think of him at all." "as my secretary," said i, "you may make a mental note for me: remind me that i wish sometime to meet peter." "he'll be real pleased," said miggy, "and real scared. now about my being your secretary: do i have to take down everything you do?" "my dear child!" i exclaimed. "don't i?" said miggy. "why, the ladies' aid has a secretary and she takes down every single thing the society does. i thought that was being one." i told her, as well as might be, what i should require of her--not by now, i own, with any particularity of idea that i had a secretary, but rather that i had surprisingly acquired a miggy, who might be of use in many a little mechanical task. she listened, and, when i had made an end, gave her three little nods; but her face fell. "it's just doing as you're told," she summed it up with a sigh. "everything is, ain't it? i thought maybe secretary was doing your best." "but it is," i told her. "no," she said positively, "you can't do your best when you have to do just exactly what you're told. your _best_ tells you how to do itself." at this naïve putting of the personal equation which should play so powerful a part in the economics of toil i was minded to apologize for intending to interfere with set tasks in miggy's possible duties with me. she had the truth, though: that the strong creative instinct is the chief endowment, primal as breath; for on it depend both life and the expression of life, the life of the race and the ultimate racial utterance. we talked on for a little, miggy, i observed, having that royal indifference to time which, when it does not involve indifference to the time of other people, i delightedly commend. for myself, i can never understand why i should eat at one or sleep at eleven, if it is, as it often is, _my_ one and _my_ eleven and nobody else's. for, as between the clock and me alone, one and eleven and all other o'clocks are mine and i am not theirs. but i have known men and women living in hotels who would interrupt a sunset to go to dine, or wave away the stars in their courses to go to sleep, merely because the hour had struck. it must be in their blood, poor things, as descendants from the cell, to which time and space were the only considerations. when miggy was leaving, she paused on the threshold with her first hint of shyness, a hint which i welcomed. i think that every one to whom i am permanently drawn must have in his nature a phase of shyness, even of unconquerable timidity. "if i shouldn't do things," miggy said, "like you're used to having them done--would you tell me? i know a few nice things to do and i do 'em. but i'm always waking up in the night and thinking what a lot there must be that i do wrong. so if i do 'em wrong would you mind not just squirming and keeping still about 'em--but tell me?" "i'll tell you, child, if there is need," i promised her. and i caught her smile--that faint, swift, solemn minute which sometimes reveals on a face the childlike wistfulness of every one of us, under the mask, to come as near as may be to the others. i own that when, just now, i turned from her leave-taking, i had that infrequent sense of emptiness-in-the-room which i have had usually only with those i love or with some rare being, all fire and spirit and idea, who has flamed in my presence and died into departure. i cannot see why we do not feel this sense of emptiness whenever we leave one another. would you not think that it would be so with us who live above the abyss and below the uttermost spaces? it is not so, and there are those from whose presence i long to be gone in a discomfort which is a kind of orison of my soul to my body to hurry away. it is so that i long to be gone from that little mrs. oliver wheeler johnson, and of this i am sorely ashamed. but i think that all such dissonance is merely a failure in method, and that the spirit of this business of being is that we long for one another to be near. yes, in "this world of visible images" and patterns and schedules and o'clocks, it is like stumbling on the true game to come on some one who is not on any dial. and i fancy that miggy is no o'clock. she is not dawn o'clock, because already she has lived so much; nor noon o'clock, because she is far from her high moment; nor is she dusk o'clock, because she is so poignantly alive. rather, she is like the chimes of a clock--which do not tell the time, but which almost say something else. iv splendour town last night i went for a walk across the river, and little child went with me to the other end of the bridge. i would have expected it to be impossible to come to the fourth chapter and to have said nothing of the river. but the reason is quite clear: for the setting of the stories of the village as i know them is preëminently rambling streets and trim dooryards, and neat interiors with tidy centre-tables. nature is merely the necessary opera-house, not the intimate setting. nature's speech through the trees is most curiously taken for granted as being trees alone, and she is, as i have shown, sometimes cut off quite rudely in the midst of an elm or linden sentence and curtly interrupted by a sidewalk. if a grove of trees is allowed to remain in a north dooryard it is almost certainly because the trees break the wind. likewise, nature's unfoldings in our turf and clover we incline to regard as merely lawns, the results of seeds and autumn fertilizing. our vines are for purposes of shade, cheaper and prettier than awnings or porch rollers. with our gardens, where our "table vegetables" are grown, nature is, i think, considered to have little or nothing to do; and we openly pride ourselves on our early this and our prodigious that, quite as when we cut a dress or build a lean-to. we admit the rain or the sunny slope into partnership, but what we recognize is weather rather than the mighty spirit of motherhood in nature. indeed, our flower gardens, where are wrought such miracles of poppies and pinks, are perhaps the only threshold on which we stand abashed, as at the sound of a singing voice, a voice that sings believing itself to be alone. these things being so, it is no wonder that the river has been for so long no integral part of village life. the river is accounted a place to fish, a place to bathe, a thing to cross to get to the other side, an objective point--including the new iron bridge--to which to take guests. but of the everyday life it is no proper part. on the contrary, the other little river, which strikes out silverly for itself to eastward, is quite a personality in the village, for on it is a fine fleet of little launches with which folk take delight. but this river of mine to the west is a thing of whims and eddies and shifting sand bars, and here not many boats adventure. so the river is accepted as a kind of pleasant hermit living on the edge of the village. it draws few of us as nature can draw to herself. we know the water as a taste only and not yet as an emotion. we say that we should enjoy going there if we had the time. i know, i know. you see that we do not yet _live_ the river, as an ancient people would live their moor. but in our launches, our camping parties, our flights to a little near lake for dinner, in a tent here and a swing there, set to face riverward, there lies the thrill of process, and by these things nature is wooing us surely to her heart. already the pump pasture has for us the quality of individuality, and we have picnics there and speak of the pasture almost as of a host. presently we shall be companioned by all our calm stretches of meadow, our brown sand bars, our caledonia hills, our quiet lakes, our unnavigable river, as the northmen were fellowed of the sea. little child has at once a wilder and a tamer instinct. she has this fellowship and the fellowship of more. "where shall we go to-day?" i ask her, and she always says, "far away for a party"--in a combination, it would seem, of the blood of shepherd kings with certain corpuscles of modernity. and when we are in the woods she instances the same dual quality by, "now let's sit down in a _roll_ and wait for a fairy, and be a society." we always go along the levee, little child and i, and i watch the hour have its way with her, and i do not deny that occasionally i try to improve on the hour by a tale of magic or by the pastime of teaching her a lyric. i love to hear her pretty treble in "who is sylvia? what is she?" and "she dwelt among th' untrodden ways," and "april, april, laugh thy girlish laughter," and in pippa's song. last night, to be sure, the lyrics rather gave way to some talk about the circus to be to-day, an unwonted benison on the village. but even the reality of the circus could not long keep little child from certain sweet vagaries, and i love best to hear her in these fancyings. "here," she said to me last night, "is her sponge." i had no need to ask whose sponge. we are always finding the fairy's cast-off ornaments and articles of toilet. on occasion we have found her crown, her comb, her scarf, her powder-puff, her cup, her plumed fan, her parasol--a skirtful of fancies which next day little child has brought to me in a shoe box for safe keeping so that "they" would not throw the things away: that threatening "they" which overhangs childhood, casting away its treasures, despoiling its fastnesses, laying a ladder straight through a distinct and recognizable fairy ring in the back yard. i can visualize that "they" as i believe it seems to some children, something dark and beetling and menacing and imminent, less like the family than like fate. is it not sad that this precious idea of the family, to conserve which is one of our chief hopes, should so often be made to appear to its youngest member in the general semblance of a phalanx? we sat down for a little at the south terminal of the bridge, where a steep bank and a few desperately clinging trees have arranged a little shrine to the sunset. it was sunset then. all the way across the bridge i had been watching against the gold the majestic or apathetic or sodden profiles of the farmers jogging homeward on empty carts, not one face, it had chanced, turned to the west even to utilize it to forecast the weather. such a procession i want to see painted upon a sovereign sky and called "the sunset." i want to have painted a giant carpenter of the village as i once saw him, his great bare arms upholding a huge white pillar, while blue figures hung above and set the acanthus capital. and there is a picture, too, in the dull red of the butcher's cart halted in snow while a tawny-jerseyed boy lifts high his yellow light to find a parcel. some day we shall see these things in their own surprising values and fresco our village libraries with them--yes, and our drug stores, too. the story that i told little child while we rested had the symbolism which i often choose for her: that of a girl keeping a garden for the coming of a child. all her life she has been making ready and nothing has been badly done. in one green room of the garden she has put fair thoughts, in another fair words, and in the innermost fastnesses of the garden fair deeds. here she has laid colour, there sweet sound, there something magic which is a special kind of seeing. when the child comes, these things will be first toys, then tools, then weapons. sometimes the old witch of the wood tries to blow into the garden a thistle of discord or bubbles of delight to be followed, and these must be warded away. all day the spirit of the child to come wanders through the garden, telling the girl what to do here or here, keeping her from guile or from idleness-without-dreams. she knows its presence and i think that she has even named it. if it shall be a little girl, then it is to be dagmar, mother of day, or dawn; but if a little boy, then it shall be called for one whom she has not yet seen. meanwhile, outside the door of the garden many would speak with the girl. on these she looks, sometimes she even leans from her casement, and once, it may be, she reaches out her hand, ever so swiftly, and some one without there touches it. but at that she snatches back her hand and bars the garden, and for a time the spirit of the little child does not come very near. so she goes serenely on toward the day when a far horn sounds and somebody comes down the air from heaven, as it has occurred to nobody else to do. and they hear the voice of the little child, singing in the garden. "the girl is me," says little little child, as she always says when i have finished this story. "yes," i tell her. "i'd like to see that garden," she says thoughtfully. then i show her the village in the trees of the other shore, roof upon roof pricked by a slim steeple; for that is the garden. "i don't care about just bein' good," she says, "but i'd like to housekeep that garden." "for a sometime-little-child of your own," i tell her. "yes," she assents, "an' make dresses for." i cannot understand how mothers let them grow up not knowing, these little mothers-to-be who so often never guess their vocation. it is a reason for everything commonly urged on the ground of conduct, a ground so lifeless to youth. but quicken every desert space with "it must be done so for the sake of the little child you will have some day," and there rises a living spirit. morals, civics, town and home economics, learning--there is the concrete reason for them all; and the abstract understanding of these things for their own sakes will follow, flower-wise, fruit-wise, for the healing of the times. i had told to that old aunt effie who keeps house for miggy and little child something of what i thought to do--breaking in upon the old woman's talk of linoleum and beans and other things having, so to say, one foot in the universe. "goodness," that old woman had answered, with her worried turn of head, "i'm real glad you're going to be here. _i dread saying anything._" here too we must look to the larger day when the state shall train for parenthood and for citizenship, when the schools and the universities shall speak for the state the cosmic truths, and when by comparison botany and differential calculus shall be regarded as somewhat less vital in ushering in the kingdom of god. the water reservoir rose slim against the woods to the north; to the south was a crouching hop house covered with old vines. i said to little child:-- "look everywhere and tell me where you think a princess would live if she lived here." she looked everywhere and answered:-- "in the water tower in those woods." "and where would the old witch live?" i asked her. "in the barden's hop house," she answered. "and where would the spirit of the little child be?" i tested her. she looked long out across the water. "i think in the sunset," she said at last. and then of her own will she said over the sunset spell i have taught her:-- "i love to stand in this great air and see the sun go down. it shows me a bright veil to wear and such a pretty gown. oh, i can see a playmate there far up in splendour town." i could hardly bear to let her go home, but eight o'clock is very properly little child's bedtime, and so i sent her across the bridge waving her hand every little way in that fashion of children who, i think, are hoping thus to save the moment that has just died. i have known times when i, too, have wanted to wave my hand at a moment and keep it looking at me as long as possible. but presently the moment almost always turned away. last night i half thought that the sunset itself would like to have stayed. it went so delicately about its departure, taking to itself first a shawl of soft dyes, then a painted scarf, then frail iris wings. it mounted far up the heavens, testing its strength for flight and shaking brightness from its garments. and it slipped lingeringly away as if the riot of colour were after all the casual part, and the real business of the moment were to stay on with everybody. in the tenuity of the old anthropomorphisms i marvel that they did not find the sunset a living thing, tender of mortals, forever loth to step from out one moment into the cherishing arms of the next. think! the sunset that the greeks knew has been flaming round the world, dying from moment to moment and from mile to mile, with no more of pause than the human heart, since sunset flamed for hero and helen and ariadne. if the sunset was made for lovers, and in our midland summers lingers on their account, then last night it was lingering partly for miggy and peter. at the end of the bridge i came on them together. miggy did not flush when she saw me, and though i would not have expected that she would flush i was yet disappointed. i take an old-fashioned delight in women whose high spirit is compatible with a sensibility which causes them the little agonizings proper to this moment, and to that. but miggy introduced peter with all composure. "this," she said, "is peter. his last name is cary." "how do you do, peter?" i said very heartily. i thought that peter did something the rationale of which might have been envied of courts. he turned to miggy and said "thank you." secretly i congratulated him on his embarrassment. in a certain milieu social shyness is as authentic a patent of perception as in another milieu is taste. "come home with me," i besought them. "we can find cake. we can make lemonade. we can do some reading aloud." for i will not ask the mere cake and lemonade folk to my house. they must be, in addition, good or wise or not averse to becoming either. i conceived peter's evident agony to rise from his need to reply. instead, it rose from his need to refuse. "i take my violin lesson," he explained miserably. "he takes his violin lesson," miggy added, with a pretty, somewhat maternal manner of translating. i took note of this faint manner of proprietorship, for it is my belief that when a woman assumes it she means more than she knows that she means. "i'm awful sorry," said peter, from his heart; "i was just having to go back this minute." "to-morrow's his regular lesson day," miggy explained, "but to-morrow he's going to take me to the circus, so he has his lesson to-night. go on," she added, "you'll be late and you'll have to pay just the same anyway." i took note of this frank fashion of protection of interests, for it is my belief that matters are advancing when the lady practises economics in courtship. but i saw that miggy was manifesting no symptoms of accompanying peter, and i begged them not to let me spoil their walk. "it's all right," miggy said; "he'll have to hurry and i don't want to go in yet anyway. i'll walk back with you." and of this i took note with less satisfaction. it was as if miggy had not come alive. peter smiled at us, caught off his hat, and went away with it in his hand, and the moment that he left my presence he became another being. i could see by his back that he was himself, free again, under no bondage of manner. it is a terrific problem, this enslavement of speech and trivial conduct which to some of us provides a pleasant medium and for some of us furnishes fetters. when will they manage a wireless society? i am tired waiting. for be it a pleasant medium or be it fetters, the present communication keeps us all apart. "i hope," i said once at dinner, "that i shall be living when they think they get the first sign from mars." "i hope," said my companion, "that i shall be living when i think i get the first sign from you--and you--and you, about this table." if this young shelley could really have made some sign, what might it not have been? "everybody's out walking to-night," miggy observed. "there's liva vesey and timothy toplady ahead of us." "they are going to be married, are they not?" i asked. miggy looked as if i had said something indelicate. "well," she answered, "not out loud yet." then, fearing that she had rebuked me, "he's going to take her to the circus to-morrow in their new buckboard," she volunteered. and i find in friendship that the circus is accounted a kind of official trysting-place for all sweethearts. we kept a little way back of the lovers, the sun making liva vesey's pink frock like a vase-shaped lamp of rose. timothy was looking down at her and straightway looking away again when liva had summoned her courage to look up. they were extremely pleasant to watch, but this miggy did not know and she was intent upon me. she had met little child running home. "she's nice to take a walk with," miggy said; "but i like to walk around by myself too. only to-night peter came." "miggy," said i, "i want to congratulate you that peter is in love with you." she looked up with puzzled eyes. "why, that was nothing," she said; "he seemed to do it real easy." "but it is _not_ easy," i assured her, "to find many such fine young fellows as peter seems to be. i hope you will be very happy together." "i'm not engaged," said miggy, earnestly; "i'm only invited." "ah, well," i said, "if i may be allowed--i hope you are not sending regrets." miggy laughed out suddenly. "married isn't like a party," she said; "i know that much about society. party you either accept or regret. married you do both." i could have been no more amazed if the rosewood clock had said it. "who has been talking to you, child?" i asked in distress. "i got it out of living," said miggy, solemnly. "you live along and you live along and you find out 'most everything." i looked away across the pump pasture where the railway tracks cut the plank road, that comes on and on until it is modified into daphne street. i remembered a morning of mist and dogwood when i had walked that road through the gateway into an earthly paradise. have i not said that since that time we two have been, as it were, set to music and sung; so that the silences of separation are difficult to beguile save by the companionship of the village--the village that has somehow taught miggy its bourgeoise lesson of doubt? my silence laid on her some vague burden of proof. "besides," she said, "i'm not like the women who marry people. most of 'em that's married ain't all married, anyway." "what do you mean, child?" i demanded. "they're not," protested miggy. "they marry like they pick out a way to have a dress made when they don't admire any of the styles very much, and they've wore out everything else. women like some things about somebody, and that much they marry. then the rest of him never is married at all, and by and by that rest starts to get lonesome." "but miggy," i said to all this, "i should think you might like peter entirely." she surprised me by her seriousness. "anyhow, i've got my little sister to bring up," she said; "aunt effie hasn't anything. and i couldn't put two on him to support." i wondered why not, but i said nothing. "and besides," miggy said after a pause, "there's peter's father. you know about him?" i did know--who in the village did not know? since my neighbour had told me of him i had myself seen him singing through the village streets, shouting out and disturbing the serene evenings, drunken, piteous.... "peter has him all the time," i suggested. she must have found a hint of resistance in my voice, for her look questioned me. "i never could stand it to have anybody like that in the house," she said defensively. "i've told peter. i've told him both reasons...." miggy threw out her arms and stood still, facing the sunset. "anyway, i want to keep on feeling all free and liberty-like!" she said. this intense individualism of youth, passioning only for far spaces, taking no account of the common lot nor as yet urgent to share it is, like the panther grace in the tread of the cat, a survival of the ancient immunity from accountabilities. to note it is to range down the evolution of ages. to tame it--there is a task for all the servants of the new order. miggy was like some little bright creature caught unaware in the net of living and still remembering the colonnades of otherwhere, renowned for their shining. she was looking within the sunset, where it was a thing of wings and doors ajar and fair corridors. i saw the great freedoms of sunset in her face--the sunset where little child and i had agreed that a certain spirit lived.... perhaps it was that that little vagrant spirit signalled to me--and the custodian understood it. perhaps it was that i saw, beneath the freedoms, the woman-tenderness in the girl's face. in any case i spoke abruptly and half without intention. "but you don't want to be free from little child. it is almost as if she were your little girl, is it not?" i said. miggy's eyes did not leave the sunset. it was rather as if she saw some answer there. "well, i like to pretend she is," she said simply. "that," i said quietly, "is pleasant to pretend." and now her mood had changed as if some one had come to take her place. "but if she _was_--that," she said, "her name, then, would most likely be margaret, like mine, wouldn't it?" "it would be very well to have it margaret," i agreed. her step was quickened as by sudden shyness. "it's funny to think about," she said. "sometimes i most think of--her, till she seems in the room. not quite my sister. i mean _margaret_." it made my heart beat somewhat. i wondered if anything of my story to little child was left in my mind, and if subconsciously miggy was reading it. this has sometimes happened to me with a definiteness which would be surprising if the supernatural were to me less natural. but i think that it was merely because miggy had no idea of the sanctity of what she felt that she was speaking of it. "how does she look?" i asked. "like me," said miggy, readily; "i don't want her to either. i want her to be pretty and i'm not. but when i think of her running 'round in the house or on the street, i always make her look like me. only little." "running 'round in the house." that was the way my neighbour had put it. perhaps it is the way that every woman puts it. "does she seem like you, too?" i tempted her on. "oh, better," miggy said confidently; "learning to play on the piano and not much afraid of folks and real happy." "don't you ever pretend about a boy?" i asked. she shook her head. "no," she said; "if i do--i never can think him out real plain. margaret i can most see." and this, too, was like the girl in the garden and the spirit of that one to be called by a name of one whom she had not seen. i think that i have never hoped so much that i might know the right thing to say. and when most i wish this i do as i did then: i keep my impulse silent and i see if that vague custodian within, somewhere between the seeing and the knowing, will not speak for me. i wonder if she did? at all events, what either she or i said was:-- "miggy! look everywhere and tell me the most beautiful thing you can see." she was not an instant in deciding. "why, sunset," she said. "promise me," said i--said we!--"that you will remember _now_. and that after to-night, when you see a sunset--always, always, till she comes--you will think about her. about margaret." because this caught her fancy she promised readily enough. and then we lingered a little, while the moment gave up its full argosy. i have a fancy for these times when i say "i will remember," and i am always selecting them and knowing, as if i had tied a knot in them, that i will remember. these times become the moments at which i keep waving my hand in the hope that they will never turn away. and it was this significance which i wished the hour to have for miggy, so that for her the sunset should forever hold, as little child had said that it holds, that tiny, wandering spirit.... liva vesey and timothy had lingered, too, and we passed them on the bridge, he still trying to win her eyes, and his own eyes fleeing precipitantly whenever she looked up. the two seemed leaning upon the winged light, the calm stretches of the pump pasture, the brown sand bar, the caledonia hills. and the lovers and the quiet river and the village, roof upon roof, in the trees of the other shore, and most of all miggy and her shadowy margaret seemed to me like the words of some mighty cosmic utterance, with the country evening for its tranquil voice. v different those who had expected the circus procession to arrive from across the canal to-day were amazed to observe it filing silently across the tracks from the plank road. the eight big shows combined had arrived in the gray dawn; and word had not yet gone the rounds that, the fair ground being too wet, the performance would "show" in the pump pasture, beyond the mill. there was to be no evening amusement. it was a wait between trains that conferred the circus on friendship at all. half the country-side, having brought its lunch into town to make a day of it, trailed as a matter of course after the clown's cart at the end of the parade, and about noon arrived in the pasture with the pleasurable sense of entering familiar territory to find it transformed into unknown ground. who in the vicinity of the village had not known the pump pasture of old? haunted of jerseys and guernseys and orioles, it had lain expressionless as the hills, for as long as memory. when in spring, "where you goin'? don't you go far in the hot sun!" from friendship mothers was answered by, "we're just goin' up to the pump pasture for vi'lets" from friendship young, no more was to be said. the pasture was as dependable as a nurse, as a great, faithful newfoundland dog; and about it was something of the safety of silence and warmth and night-in-a-trundle-bed. and lo, now it was suddenly as if the pasture were articulate. the great elliptical tent, the strange gold chariots casually disposed, the air of the hurrying men, so amazingly used to what they were doing--these gave to the place the aspect of having from the first been secretly familiar with more than one had suspected. "ain't it the divil?" demanded timothy toplady, jr., ecstatically, as the glory of the scene burst upon him. liva vesey, in rose-pink cambric, beside him in the buckboard, looked up at his brown adam's apple--she hardly ever lifted her shy eyes as far as her sweetheart's face--and rejoined:-- "oh, timmie! ain't it just what you might say _great_?" "you'd better believe," said timothy, solemnly, "that it is that." he looked down in her face with a lifting of eyebrows and an honest fatuity of mouth. liva vesey knew the look--without ever having met it squarely, she could tell when it was there, and she promptly turned her head, displaying to timothy's ardent eyes tight coils of beautiful blond crinkly hair, a little ear, and a line of white throat with a silver locket chain. at which timothy now collapsed with the mien of a man who is unwillingly having second thoughts. "my!" he said. they drove into the meadow, and when the horse had been loosed and cared for, they found a great cottonwood tree, its leaves shimmering and moving like little banners, and there they spread their lunch. the sunny slope was dotted with other lunchers. the look of it all was very gay, partly because the trees were in june green, and among them windmills were whirling like gaunt and acrobatic witches, and partly because it was the season when the women were brave in new hats, very pink and very perishable. the others observed the two good-humouredly from afar, and once or twice a tittering group of girls, unescorted, passed the cottonwood tree, making elaborate detours to avoid it. at which liva flushed, pretending not to notice; and timothy looked wistfully in her face to see if she wished that she had not come with him. however, timothy never dared look at her long enough to find out anything at all; for the moment that she seemed about to meet his look he always dropped his eyes precipitantly to her little round chin and so to the silver chain and locket. and then he was miserable. it was strange that a plain heart-shaped locket, having no initials, could make a man so utterly, extravagantly unhappy. three months earlier, liva, back from a visit in the city, had appeared with her locket. up to that time the only personality in which timothy had ever indulged was to mention to her that her eyes were the colour of his sister's eyes, whose eyes were the colour of their mother's eyes and their father's eyes, and of timothy's own, and "our eyes match, mine and yours," he had blurted out, crimson. and yet, even on these terms, he had taken the liberty of being wretched because of her. how much more now when he was infinitely nearer to her? for with the long spring evenings upon them, when he had sat late at the vesey farm, matters had so far advanced with timothy that, with his own hand, he had picked a green measuring-worm from liva's throat. every time he looked at her throat he thought of that worm with rapture. but also every time he looked at her throat he saw the silver chain and locket. and on circus day, if the oracles seemed auspicious, he meant to find out whose picture was worn in that locket, even though the knowledge made him a banished man. if only she would ever mention the locket! he thought disconsolately over lunch. if only she would "bring up the subject," then he could find courage. but she never did mention it. and the talk ran now:-- "would you ever, ever think this was the pump pasture?" from liva. "no, you wouldn't, would you? it don't look the same, does it? you'd think you was in a city or somewheres, wouldn't you now? ain't it differ'nt?" "did you count the elephants?" "i bet i did. didn't you? ten, wa'n't it? did you count the cages? neither did i. and they was too many of 'em shut up. i don't know whether it's much of a circus or not--" with gloomy superiority--"they not bein' any calliope, so." "a good many cute fellows in the band," observed liva. for liva would have teased a bit if timothy would have teased too. but timothy replied in mere misery:-- "you can't tell much about these circus men, liva. they're apt to be the kind that carouse around. i guess they ain't much to 'em but their swell way." "oh, i don't know," said liva. then a silence fell, resembling nothing so much as the breath of hesitation following a _faux pas_, save that this silence was longer, and was terminated by liva humming a little snatch of song to symbolize how wholly delightful everything was. "my!" said timothy, finally. "you wouldn't think this was the pump pasture at all, it looks so differ'nt." "that's so," liva said. "you wouldn't." it was almost as if the two were inarticulate, as the pasture had been until the strange influences of the day had come to quicken it. while liva, with housewifely hands, put away the lunch things in their basket, timothy nibbled along lengths of grass and hugged his knees and gloomed at the locket. it was then that miggy and peter passed them and the four greeted one another with the delicate, sheepish enjoyment of lovers who look on and understand other lovers. then timothy's look went back to liva. liva's rose-pink dress was cut distractingly without a collar, and the chain seemed to caress her little throat. moreover, the locket had a way of hiding beneath a fold of ruffle, as if it were _her_ locket and as if timothy had no share in it. "oh," cried liva, "_timmie_! that was the lion roared. did you hear?" timothy nodded darkly, as if there were worse than lions. "wasn't it the lion?" she insisted. timothy nodded again; he thought it might have been the lion. "what you so glum about, timmie?" his sweetheart asked, glancing at him fleetingly. timothy flushed to the line of his hair. "gosh," he said, "this here pasture looks so differ'nt i can't get over it." "yes," said liva, "it does look differ'nt, don't it?" before one o'clock they drifted with the rest toward the animal tent. they went incuriously past the snake show, the eats-'em-alive show, and the eastern vaudeville. but hard by the red wagon where tickets were sold timothy halted spellbound. what he had heard was:-- "types. types. right this way and in this direction for types. no, ladies, and no, gents: not tin-types. but photo-types. photo_graphs_ put up in tintype style at tintype price. three for a quarter. the fourth of a dozen for the fourth of a dollar. elegant pictures, elegant finish, refined, up-to-date. of yourself, gents, of yourself. or of any one you see around you. and while you wait." timothy said it before he had any idea that he meant to say it:-- "liva," he begged, "come on. you." when she understood and when timothy saw the momentary abashment in her eyes, it is certain that he had never loved her more. but the very next moment she was far more adorable. "not unless you will, timmie," she said, "and trade." he followed her into the hot little tent as if the waiting chair were a throne of empire. and perhaps it was. for presently timothy had in his pocket a tiny blurry bit of paper at which he had hardly dared so much as glance, and he had given another blurry bit into her keeping. but that was not all. when she thanked him she had met his eyes. and he thought--oh, no matter what he thought. but it was as if there were established a throne of empire with timothy lord of his world. then they stepped along the green way of the pump pasture and they entered the animal tent, and strange things closed about them. there underfoot lay the green of the meadow, verdant grass and not infrequent moss, plantain and sorrel and clover, all as yet hardly trampled and still sweet with the breath of kine and sheep. and three feet above, foregathered from the antipodes, crouched and snarled the striped and spotted things of the wild, with teeth and claws quick to kill, and with generations of the jungle in their shifting eyes. the bright wings of unknown birds, the scream of some harsh throat of an alien wood, the monkeys chattering, the soft stamp and padding of the elephants chained in a stately central line along the clover--it was certain, one would have said, that these must change the humour of the pasture as the companionship of the grotesque and the vast alters the humour of the mind. that the pasture, indeed, would never be the same, and that its influence would be breathed on all who entered there. already liva and timothy, each with the other's picture in a pocket, moved down that tent of the field in another world. or had that world begun at the door of the stuffy little phototype tent? it was the cage of bright-winged birds that held the two. timothy stood grasping his elbows and looking at that flitting flame and orange. dare he ask her if she would wear his phototype in her locket--dare he--dare he---- he turned to look at her. oh, and the rose-pink cambric was so near his elbow! her face, upturned to the birds, was flushed, her lips were parted, her eyes that matched timothy's were alight; but there was always in timothy's eyes a look, a softness, a kind of speech that liva's could not match. he longed inexpressibly to say to her what was in his heart concerning the locket--the phototype--themselves. and liva herself was longing to say something about the sheer glory of the hour. so she looked up at his brown adam's apple, and, "think, timmie," she said, "they're all in the pump pasture where nothin' but cows an' robins an' orioles ever was before!" "i know it--i know it!" breathed timothy fervently. "don't seem like it could be the same place, does it?" liva barely lifted her eyes. "it makes us seem differ'nt, too," she said, and flushed a little, and turned to hurry on. "i was thinkin' that too!" he cried ecstatically, overtaking her. but all that timothy could see was tight coils of blond, crinkled hair, and a little ear and a curve of white throat, with a silver locket chain. down the majestic line of the elephants, towering in the apotheosis of mere bulk to preach ineffectually that spirit is apocryphal and mass alone is potent; past the panthers that sniffed as if they guessed the nearness of the grazing herd in the next pasture; past the cage in which the lioness lay snarling and baring her teeth above her cubs, so pathetically akin to the meadow in her motherhood; past unknown creatures with surprising horns and shaggy necks and lolling tongues--it was a wonderful progress. but it was as if liva had found something more wonderful than these when, before the tigers' cage, she stepped forward, stooped a little beneath the rope, and stood erect with shining eyes. "look!" she said. "look, timmie." she was holding a blue violet. "in front of the tigers; it was _growing_!" "why don't you give it to me?" was timothy's only answer. she laid it in his hand, laughing a little at her daring. "it won't ever be the same," she said. "tigers have walked over it. my, ain't everything in the pasture differ'nt?" "just as differ'nt as differ'nt can be," timothy admitted. "here we are back to the birds again," liva said, sighing. timothy had put the violet in his coat pocket and he stood staring at the orange and flame in the cage: her phototype and a violet--her phototype and a violet. but all he said, not daring to look at her at all, was:-- "i can't make it seem like the pump pasture to save me." there is something, as they have said of a bugle, "winged and warlike" about a circus--the confusions, the tramplings, the shapes, the keen flavour of the impending, and above all the sense of the untoward, which is eternal and which survives glamour as his grave survives a man. liva and timothy sat on the top row of seats and felt it all, and believed it to be merely honest mirth. occasionally liva turned and peered out through the crack in the canvas where the side met the roof, for the pure joy of feeling herself alien to the long green fields with their grazing herds and their orioles, and at one with the colour and music and life within. and she was glad of it all, glad to be there with timothy. but all she said was:-- "oh, timmie, i hope it ain't half over yet. do you s'pose it is? when i look outside it makes me feel as if it was over." and timothy, his heart beating, a great hope living in his breast, answered only:-- "no, i guess it'll be quite some time yet. it's a nice show. nice performance for the money, right through. ain't it?" when at length it really was over and they left the tent, the wagons from town and country-side and the "depot busses" had made such a place of dust and confusion that he took her back to the cottonwood on the slope to wait until he brought the buckboard round. he left her leaning against the tree, the sun burnishing her hair and shining dazzlingly on the smooth silver locket. and when he drove back, and reached down a hand to draw her up to the seat beside him, and saw her for a moment, as she mounted, with all the panorama of the field behind her, he perceived instantly that the locket was gone. oh, and at that his heart leaped up! what more natural than to dream that she had taken it off to slip his phototype inside and that he had come back too soon? what more natural than to divine the reality of dreams? his trembling hope held him silent until they reached the highway. then he looked at the field, elliptical tent, fluttering pennons, streaming crowds, and he observed as well as he could for the thumping of his heart:-- "i kind o' hate to go off an' leave it. to-morrow when i go to town with the pie-plant, it'll look just like nothin' but a pasture again." liva glanced up at him and dropped her eyes. "i ain't sure," she said. "what do you mean?" he asked her, wondering. but liva shook her head. "i ain't sure," she said evasively, "but i don't think somehow the pump pasture'll _ever_ be the same again." timothy mulled that for a moment. oh, could she _possibly_ mean because.... yet what he said was, "well, the old pasture looks differ'nt enough now, all right." "yes," assented liva, "don't it?" timothy had supper at the vesey farm. it was eight o'clock and the elder veseys had been gone to prayer-meeting for an hour when liva discovered that she had lost her locket. "lost your locket!" timothy repeated. it was the first time, for all his striving, that he had been able to mention the locket in her presence. he had tried, all the way home that afternoon, to call her attention innocently to its absence, but the thing that he hoped held fast his intention. "why," he cried now, in the crash of that hope, "you had it on when i left you under the cottonwood." "you sure?" liva demanded. "sure," timothy said earnestly; "didn't--didn't you have it off while i was gone?" he asked wistfully. "no," liva replied blankly; she had not taken it off. when they had looked in the buckboard and had found nothing, timothy spoke tentatively. "tell you what," he said. "we'll light a lantern and hitch up and drive back to the pump pasture and look." "could we?" liva hesitated. it was gloriously starlight when the buckboard rattled out on the plank road. timothy, wretched as he was at her concern over the locket, was yet recklessly, magnificently happy in being alone by her side in the warm dusk, and on her ministry. she was silent, and, for almost the first time since he had known her, timothy was silent too--as if he were giving his inarticulateness honest expression instead of forcing it continually to antics of speech. from the top of the hill they looked down on the pump pasture. it lay there, silent and dark, but no longer expressionless; for instantly their imagination quickened it with all the music and colour and life of the afternoon. just as timothy's silence was now of the pattern of dreams. he tied the horse, and together they entered the field by the great open place where the fence had not yet been replaced. the turf was still soft and yielding, in spite of all the treading feet. the pasture was girdled by trees--locusts and box-alders outlined dimly upon the sky, nest-places for orioles; and here and there a great oak or a cottonwood made a mysterious figure on the stars. one would have said that underfoot would certainly be violets. a far light pricked out an answer to their lantern, and a nearer firefly joined the signalling. "i keep thinkin' the way it looked here this afternoon," said liva once. "that's funny, so do i," he cried. under the cottonwood on the slope, its leaves stirring like little banners, timothy flashed his light, first on tufted grass, then on red-tasselled sorrel, then--lying there as simply as if it belonged there--on liva's silver locket. she caught it from him with a little cry. "oh," she said, "i'm so glad. oh, thank you ever so much, timmie." he faced her for a moment. "why are you so almighty glad?" he burst out. "why, it's the first locket i ever had!" she said in surprise. "so of course i'm glad. oh, timmie--thank you!" "you're welcome, i'm sure," he returned stiffly. she gave a little skipping step beside him. "timmie," she said, "let's circle round a little ways and come by where the big tent was. i want to see how it'll seem." his ill-humour was gone in a moment. "that's what we _will_ do!" he cried joyously. he walked beside her, his lantern swinging a little rug of brightness about their feet. so they passed the site of the big red ticket wagon, of the eastern vaudeville, of the phototype tent; so they traversed the length where had stretched the great elliptical tent that had prisoned for them colour and music and life, as in a cup. and so at last they stepped along that green way of the pasture where underfoot lay the grass and the not infrequent moss and clover, not yet wholly trampled to dust; and this was where there had been assembled bright-winged birds of orange and flame and creatures of the wild from the antipodes, and where strange things had closed them round. the influence of what the pasture had seen must have been breathed on all who entered there that night: something of the immemorial freedom of bright birds in alien woods, of the ancestral kinship of the wild. for that tranquil meadow, long haunted of jerseys and guernseys and orioles, expressionless as the hills, dependable as a nurse, had that day known strange breath, strange tramplings, cries and trumpetings, music and colour and life and the beating of wild hearts--and was it not certain that these must change the humour of the place as the coming of the grotesque and the vast alters the humour of the mind? the field bore the semblance of a place exquisitely of the country and, here in the dark, it was inarticulate once more. but something was stirring there, something that swept away what had always been as a wind sweeps, something that caught up the heart of the boy as ancient voices stir in the blood. timothy cast down his lantern and gathered liva vesey in his arms. her cheek lay against his shoulder and he lifted her face and kissed her, three times or four, with all the love that he bore her. "liva," he said, "all the time--every day--i've meant this. did you mean it, too?" she struggled a little from him, but when he would have let her go she stood still in his arms. and then he would have her words and "did you?" he begged again. he could not hear what she said without bending close, close, and it was the sweeter for that. "oh, timmie," she answered, "i don't know. i don't know if i _did_. but i do--now." timothy's courage came upon him like a mantle. "an' be my wife?" he asked. "an' be ..." liva assented, and the words faltered away. but they were not greatly missed. timothy looked over the pasture, and over the world. and lo, it was suddenly as if, with these, he were become articulate, and they were all three saying something together. when they turned, there was the lantern glimmering alight on the trodden turf. and in its little circle of brightness they saw something coloured and soft. it was a gay feather, and timothy took it curiously in his hand. "see, it's from one of the circus birds," he said. "no!" liva cried. "it's an oriole feather. one of the pasture orioles, timmie!" "so it is," he assented, and without knowing why, he was glad that it was so. he folded it away with the violet liva had gathered that afternoon. after all the strangeness, what he treasured most had belonged to the pasture all the time. "liva!" he begged. "will you wear the picture--my picture--in that locket?" "oh," she said, "timmie, i'm so sorry. the locket's one i bought cheap in the city, and it don't open." she wondered why that seemed to make him love her more. she wondered a little, too, when on the edge of the pasture timothy stood still, looking back. "liva!" he said, "don't the pump pasture seem differ'nt? don't it seem like another place?" "yes," liva said, "it don't seem the same." "liva!" timothy said again, "it ain't the pasture that's so differ'nt. it's _us_." she laughed a little--softly, and very near his coat sleeve. "i 'most knew that this afternoon," she answered. vi the fond forenoon this morning miggy came by appointment to do a little work for me, and she appeared in some "best" frock to honour the occasion. it was a blue silk muslin, cut in an antiquated style and trimmed with tarnished silver passementerie. in it the child was hardly less distinguished than she had been in her faded violet apron. it was impossible for her to seem to be unconscious of her dress, and she spoke of it at once with her fine directness. "i didn't have anything good enough to wear," she said. "i haven't got any good dress this summer till i get it made myself. i got this out of the trunk. it was my mother's." "it suits you very well, miggy," i told her. "i thought maybe she'd like my wearing it--here," said miggy, shyly. "you've got things the way she always wanted 'em." we went in my workroom and sat among my books and strewn papers. a lighted theatre with raised curtain and breathless audience, a room which one wakens to find flooded by a gibbous moon, these have for me no greater sorcery than morning in a little book-filled room, with the day before me. perhaps it is that i ought to be doing so many things that i take an idler's delight in merely attending to my own occupation. while i wondered at what i should set miggy, i looked for the spirit of the minute and tried not to see its skeleton. the skeleton was that i had here an inexperienced little girl who was of almost no use to me. the spirit was that whatever i chose to do, my work was delightful to me, and that to bring miggy in contact with these things was a kind of adventure. it is, i find, seldom sufficient to think even of the body of one's work, which to-day proved to be in my case a search in certain old books and manuscripts for fond allusions. if one can, so to say, think in and out till one comes to the spirit of a task, then there will be evident an indeterminate sense of wings. without these wings there can be no expression and no creation. and in the true democracy no work will be wingless. it will still be, please god, laborious, arduous, even heart-breaking, but never body-fettered, never with its birdlike spirit quenched. and in myself i would bring to pass, even now, this fair order of sweet and willing toil by taking to my hand no task without looking deep within for its essential life. so it was with a sense not only of pleasure but of leisure that i established miggy by the window with a manuscript of ancient romances and told her what to do: to look through them for a certain story, barely more than a reference, to the love of an indian woman of this middle west for her indian husband, sold into slavery by the french canadians. it is a simple story--you will find small mention made of it--but having once heard it the romance had haunted me, and i was fain to come on it again: the story of the wife of kiala, fit to stand niched with the great loves of the world. the morning sun--it was hardly more than eight o'clock--slanted across the carpet; some roses that little child had brought me before her breakfast were fresh on my table; and the whole time was like a quiet cup. in that still hour experience seemed drained of all but fellowship, the fellowship of miggy and my books and the darling insistence of the near outdoors. do you not think how much of life is so made up, free of rapture or anxiety, dedicated, in task or in pastime, to serene companionship? i have said that for me there are few greater sorceries than morning, with the day before me, in a small book-filled room. i wonder if this is not partly because of my anticipations of the parentheses i shall take? not recesses, but parentheses, which can flavour a whole day. i remember a beloved house in which breakfast and luncheon were daily observations looked forward to not so much for themselves, as that they were occasions for the most delightful interruptions. dinner was a ceremony which was allowed to proceed; but a breakfast or a luncheon was seldom got through without one or two of us leaving the table to look up a stanza, or to settle if two words had the same derivation, or to find if some obsolete fashion in meanings could not yet be worn with impunity. it grieved the dear housewife, i remember, and we tried to tell her how much more important these things were than that our new potatoes should be buttered while they were hot. but she never could see it, and potatoes made us think of ireland, and in no time we were deep in the celtic revival and racing off to find "the love talker." i remember but one dinner interruption, and that was when we all left in the midst of the fish to go in the study and determine if moonlight shining through stained glass does cast a coloured shadow, as it did on st. agnes' eve.... i suppose, in those days, we must have eaten something, though, save a certain deep-dish cherry pie i cannot remember what we ate; but those interruptions are with me like so many gifts, and i maintain that these were the realities. those days--and especially the morning when we read through the "ancient mariner" between pasting in two book plates!--taught me the precious lesson that the interruption and not the task may hold the angel. it was so that i felt that morning with miggy; and i know that what we did with that forenoon will persist somewhere when all my envelopes of clippings are gone to dust. after a time i became conscious that the faint rustling of the papers through which i was looking was absorbed by another sound, rhythmic, stedfast. i looked out on my neighbour's lawn, and at that moment, crossing my line of vision through the window before which miggy was seated, i saw peter, cutting my neighbour's grass. i understood at once that he had chosen this morning for his service in order to be near miggy. it all made a charming sight,--peter, bareheaded, in an open-throated, neutral shirt, cutting the grass there beyond miggy in her quaint dress, reading a romance. i forgot my work for a little, and watched for those moments of his passing. miggy read on, absorbed. then, for a little, i watched her, pleased at her absorption. sometimes, from my window, i have looked down on the river and the long yellow sand bar and the mystery of the opposite shore where i have never been, and i have felt a great pity that these things cannot know that they are these things. sometimes, in the middle of a summer night, when the moon is so bright that one can see well within one's own soul, i have fancied that i have detected an aroma of consciousness, of definite self-wonder, in the out-of-doors. fleetingly i have divined it in the surprise of dawn, the laughter of a blue forenoon, the girlish shyness of twilight. and this morning i wanted self-wonder for miggy and peter. what a pity that they could not see it all as i saw it: the shelley-like boy cutting the grass and loving this girl, in her mother's gown. but you must not suppose, either, that i do not know how that vast unconsciousness of nature and love flows with a sovereign essence almost more precious than awareness. "miggy," i said presently, "peter is not at work to-day. that is he cutting grass." she looked out briefly. "he's got two days off coming to him," she answered. "it's for overtime. this must be one of 'em. have _you_ read these stories?" "yes," i said, "i have. miggy, don't you want to go and ask peter to have lunch with us at twelve?" "oh, no, thank you," she dismissed this. "this isn't the day i see him." "but wouldn't you like it?" i pressed the matter curiously. "just we three at luncheon alone?" she was turning the leaves of the manuscript and she looked up to set me right. "oh, you know," she said, "i don't know peter _that_ way at all. i just know him to have him walk home with me, or call, or go walking. peter never eats with me." poor peter, indeed, to be denied the simple intimacy of sometimes breaking bread with miggy. i understood that to invite a man to "noon lunch" in the village was almost unheard of, but, "i think he would eat this noon if he never ate before," said i. to which miggy made answer:-- "if you have read all these stories will you--wouldn't you--tell me some, please? i can't bear to think of having to wait to read 'em before i know 'em!" she shut the book and leaned her chin in her hand and looked at me. and the idea of having peter with us for lunch drifted out of the room, unattended. i maintain that one who loves the craft of letters for its own sake, one who loves both those who have followed it and the records that they have left, and one who is striving to make letters his way of service, must all have acted in the same way; and that was the way that i took. in these days when helen and juliet are read aloud to children while they work buttonholes in domestic science class, think of the pure self-indulgence of coming on a living spirit--i say a _living_ spirit--who had never heard of the beloved women of the world. i wonder if we could not find such spirits oftener if we looked with care? when i see certain women shopping, marketing, jolting about in busses, i am sometimes moved to wonder if they know anything about nicolete and, if they were to be told, whether it would not rest them. i love it, i love this going back into old time and bringing out its sweet elements. i have said that there is a certain conservatism in which, if i let my taste have its way with me, i would luxuriate, as i might then indulge my love of the semi-precious stones, or of old tiling, or of lilies-of-the-valley, all day long. and it is so that my self-indulgence would lead me to spend my days idling over these shadowy figures in the old romances and the old biographies. the joy of it never leaves me. always from these books drifts out to me the smoke of some hidden incense that makes the world other. not that i want the world to be that way, but i like to pretend. i know now that in a world where one must give of one's utmost, spend and be spent if one is even to pay for one's keep, these incense hours must be occasional, not to say stolen. so that to find a miggy to whom to play preceptor of romance was like digging a moonstone out of the river bank. what did i tell her? not of helen or cleopatra or isolde or heloise or guinevere, because--why, i think that you would not have told her of these, either. of beatrice and brunhilde and elaine and enid i told her, for, though these are so sad, there beat the mighty motives, seeds of the living heart. last i told her, of nicolete and of griselda and of psyche and of the great sun of these loves that broke from cloud. she listened, wrapt as i was wrapt in the telling. was it strange that the room, which had been like a quiet cup for serene companionship, should abruptly be throbbing with the potent principles of the human heart? i think that it was not strange, for assuredly these are nearer to us than breathing, instant to leap from us, the lightning of the soul, electric with life or with death. we are never very far from strong emotion. even while i recounted these things to miggy, there, without my window, was peter, cutting the grass. when i had done, "is there more like that in books?" asked miggy. oh, yes; thank heaven and the people who wrote them down, there are in books many more like these. "i s'pose lots didn't get into the books at all," said miggy, thoughtfully. it is seldom that one finds and mourns a bird that is dead. but think of the choir of little bright breasts whose raptures nobody hears, nobody misses, nobody remembers. how like them we are, we of the loving hearts. "i wouldn't wonder if there's lots of folks being that way right, right now," concluded miggy. who am i that i should doubt this? "a tournament," said miggy, dreamily; "i s'pose that was something like the java entertainment is going to be." she slipped to one side of the big chair and laid both hands on its arm. "listen," she said. "would this be one? you know delly watson that's crazy? she was in love with jem pitlaw, a school teacher that used to be here, an' that died, an' that wasn't in love with her even if he had stayed living, and it did that to her. you know ... she talks about things that nobody ever heard of, and listens, and laughs at what she thinks she hears. ain't that like elaine?" yes, if poor delly watson of the village had had a barge and a dwarf and a river winding from towered city to towered city, she would not have been unlike elaine. "and jerry, that sets up folks's stoves and is so in love with the music teacher that he joined the chorus and paid his dues and set in the bass corner all winter to watch her and he can't sing a note. and she don't even see him when she passes him. ain't that like beatrice and the pale man?" jerry is so true and patient, and our young music teacher is so fair, that no one could find it sacrilege to note this sad likeness. "and mis' uppers that her husband went out west and she didn't get any word, and he don't come, and he don't come, and she's selling tickets on the parlour clock, and she cries when anybody even whistles his tunes--isn't that some like brunhilde, that you said about, waiting all alone on top of the mountain? i guess brunhilde had money, but i don't think mis' uppers' principal trouble is that she ain't. with both of 'em the worst of it must 'a' been the waiting." and i am in no wise sure that that slow-walking woman in the pointed gray shawl may not have a heart which aches and burns and passions like a valkyr's. "and mame wallace, that her beau died and all she's got is to keep house for the family, and keep house, and _keep_ house. it seems as if she's sort of like psyche, that had such an awful lot of things to do--and her life all mussed up." perhaps it is so that in that gaunt mame wallace, whose homing passion has turned into the colourless, tidy keeping of her house, there is something shining, like the spirit of psyche, that would win back her own by the tasks of her hand. "and then there's threat hubbelthwait," said miggy, "that gets drunk and sets in his hotel bar fiddling, and mis' hubbelthwait shoves him his meals in on to the cigar show-case and runs before he throws his bow at her--she's just exactly like those two----" "enid or griselda?" i recognized them, and miggy nodded. poor mis' hubbelthwait! was she not indeed an enid, lacking her beauty, and a griselda, with no hope of a sweet surprise of a love that but tested her? truly, it was as miggy said: in some form they were all there in the village, minus the bower and the silken kirtle, but with the same living hearts. and these were not all. "miggy," i said, "what about liva vesey and timothy? did you count them?" for aucassin and nicolete were happy and so are liva and timothy, and i think that they have all understood meadows. miggy looked startled. one's own generation never seems so typical of anything as did a generation or two past. "could they be?" she asked. "they got engaged the night of the circus liva told me--everybody knows. could they be counted in?" oh, yes, i assured her. they might be counted. so, i fancy, might all love-in-the-village, if we knew its authentic essence. "goodness," said miggy, meditatively, "then there's christopha and allen last winter, that i was their bridesmaid, and that rode off in the hills that way on their wedding night. i s'pose that was like something, if we only knew?" i could well believe that that first adventure of the young husband and wife, of whom i shall tell you, was like something sweet and bright and long ago. "and what," i said to miggy abruptly, "about peter?" "_peter?_" repeated miggy. why not peter? she looked out the window at him. "why," she said, "but he's _now_. peter's now. and he wears black clothes. and he's cutting grass...." true for peter, to all these impeachments. i told her that, in his day, aucassin was _now_, too; and that he wore the clothes of his times, and that if he did not do the tasks nearest his hand, then nicolete should not have loved him. "and," said i, "unless i'm very much mistaken, in the same way that all the ancient lovers loved their ladies, peter loves you." "_that_ way?" said miggy, laying her hand on the manuscript. "that way," said i. and a very good way it was, too. miggy put up both hands with a manner of pointing at herself. "oh, no," she said, "not me." then her little shoulders went up and she caught her breath like a child. "_honest?_" she said. i said no more, but sat silent for a little, watching her across the fallen manuscript of ancient romances. presently i picked up the sheets, and by chance my look fell on the very thing for which we had been searching: the story of the wife of kiala, a wisconsin indian chief who was sold into slavery and carried to martinique. and alone, across those hundreds of miles of pathless snow and sea, the wife of kiala somehow followed him to the door of his west indian owner. and to him she gave herself into slavery so that she might be with her husband. i read the story to miggy. and because the story is true, and because it happened so near and because of this universe in general, i was not able to read it quite so tranquilly as i should have wished. "oh," miggy said, "is it like _that_?" yes, please god; if the heart is big enough to hold it, it is like that. miggy put her hand down quickly on the blue muslin dress she wore. "my mother knew!" she said. and that is the most wonderful thing of all: one's mother knew. miggy turned once more and looked out the window at peter. bless peter! i think that he must have been over that grass with the mower quite twice--perhaps twice and a half. almost immediately miggy looked away from peter, and i thought--though perhaps after all it was merely the faint colour that often hovers in her cheek. i felt, however, that if i had again suggested to miggy that we ask peter to lunch, peter might possibly have lunched with us. but now i did not suggest it. no, if ever it gets to be "all peter with miggy," it must be so by divine non-interference. my little voice-friend up there on the shelf, the westminster chimes, struck twelve, in its manner of sweet apology for being to blame for things ending. in the village we lunch at twelve, and so my forenoon was done and even the simple tasks i had set were not all finished. i wonder, though, if deep within this fond forenoon we have not found something--wings, or a light, or a singing--that was of the spirit of the tasks? i wish that i thought so with reasons which i could give to a scientist. at all events i am richly content. and over our luncheon miggy has just flattered me unconscionably. "my!" she said, "i should think everybody would want to be secretary." vii afraid i must turn aside to tell of allen and christopha, that young husband and wife whose first adventure, miggy thought, was like something sweet and bright and long ago. it happened this last winter, but i cannot perceive any grave difference between that winter night and this june. believe me, the seasons and the silences and we ourselves are not so different as we are alike. on the night of her wedding, christopha threw her bouquet from the dining-room doorway, because there were no front stairs from which to throw it, but instead only a stairway between walls and to be reached from the dining room: a mere clerk of a stair instead of a proprietor-like hall staircase. in the confusion which followed--the carnations had narrowly missed the blazing white gas burner high in the room--the bride ran away above stairs, her two bridesmaids following. her mother was already there, vaguely busy with vague fabrics. as miggy had told me, she herself was one of christopha's bridesmaids, and it is from miggy that i have heard something of the outcome of the story. almost as soon as the door was closed there was a rap at it, a rap peremptory, confident. "let me in," said allen; "i'm the groom!" chris herself opened the door. her muslin-wedding gown and the little bells of lilies unfaded in her blond hair became her wholly, and all her simple prettiness still wore the mystery and authority of the hour. "allen," she said, "you oughtn't to of." "yes, sir, i ought!" he protested gayly, his voice pleasant with mirth and with its new, deep note. "i'll never see you a bride again--a real, weddin'-dress bride. i had to come." christopha's mother looked up from her vague, bright fabrics. "i thought you started to take the minister the kodak album," she said to allen plaintively. "has he got anybody to show him any attention? i should think you might--" but the two bridesmaids edged their way into the next room, and on some pretext of fabrics, took christopha's mother with them,--as if there were abroad some secret word of which they knew the meaning. for miggy is sufficiently dramatic to know the word for another, though she is not sufficiently simple to know it for herself. allen sat beside his bride on the cretonne-covered skirt box. and after all, he did not look at her, but only at her warm left hand in his. "it is the funniest thing," he said, "when i see you comin' in the parlour lookin' so differ'nt, i'm blessed if i wasn't afraid of you. what do you think of that?" "you's afraid of my dress," chris told him, laughing, "not me. you use' to be afraid of me when we's first engaged, but you ain't now. it's _me_. i feel afraid of you--allen. you're--differ'nt." he laughed tenderly, confidently. "_boo!_" he said. "now are you?" "yes," she answered seriously; "now." "chris!" he cried boyishly, "we're married! we're goin' to keep house." "oh," she said, "allen! think of the fun of puttin' the presents in the house--the dishes, and the glass, and the ornaments. there won't be another dinin' room in town like ours. sideboard an' plate rail, an' the rug not tacked down." their thoughts flew to the little house, furnished and waiting, down the snowy street by the triangle park: their house. "dinners, and suppers, and breakfas's--just us two by ourselves," allen said. "_and_ the presents. my!" "well, and company," she reminded him, "that's what i want. the girls in to tea in our own house." "yes," he assented. "right away?" he wanted to know. "no," she said, "not right away, silly! we've got to buy curtains and things. i never thought i'd have so many presents," she went on happily. "they's two water pitchers alike. bess says i can change hers. we'll take it to the city"--she gave a little bounce on the skirt box--"and see a show, a really, truly show." "sure we will," said he, magnificently. "and i'll take you to the place i told you about--where i got picked up." the little bride nodded, her eyes softening almost maternally. it was as if that story were her own, the story of allen, the little stray child picked up on the streets of the city by that good woman whom chris had never seen. but the name of sarah ernestine was like a charm to chris, for the woman had been to allen father and mother both. chris bent down swiftly to his hands, closed over her own, and kissed them. "oh, allen," she said, with a curious wistfulness, "will you _always_, always be just like you are now?" "well, i should say i would," he answered gently. "they's nobody like you anywheres, chris. mis' chris, mis' allen martin." "don't it scare you to say it?" she demanded. "yes, sir, it does," he confessed. "it's like sayin' your own name over the telephone. what about you? will _you_ always, too?" "yes," she said, "always. only--" "only what?" he repeated anxiously. "oh," she said, "don't let's let any outside things come between us, allen--like they do, like with bess and opie,--business and sewin',--that's what i'm afraid of," she ended vaguely. "well," he said, "i guess we ain't much afraid of each other, honey. i guess we're just afraid of what could come between us." a voice, unconvincing, unimportant, a part of the inessential aspect of alien things, detached itself from the accompaniment in the next room, saying something responsible and plaintive about only an hour till train time. "an hour," allen said over, and put his arms about her, with boyish awkwardness for the sake of the crisp muslin gown that had so terrified him. she rose and stood beside him, and he waited for a moment looking up in her face. "chris," he said, "i'm scared of this one hour even. till train time." "i'll hurry up and get the hour done as quick as i can," she promised him gayly. "honestly, now--" said chris's mother from the vague and indeterminate region where she moved. "right off, mis' mother!" allen said, and knew that she was in the doorway, with the bridesmaids laughing beside her. and then he went down the stairway, his first radiant moment gone by. in the dining room the messenger was waiting. the messenger had arrived, in the clear cold of the night, from a drive across the caledonia hills, and some one had sent him to that deserted room to warm himself. but allen found him breathing on his fingers and staring out the frosty window into the dark. it was jacob ernestine, brother to the woman who had brought up allen and had been kind to him when nobody else in the world was kind. for years sarah ernestine had been "west"--and with that awful inarticulacy of her class, mere distance had become an impassable gulf and the silence had taken her. allen had not even known that she meant to return. and now, jacob told him, she was here, at his own home back in the hills--sarah and a child, a little stray boy, whom she had found and befriended as she had once befriended allen. and she was dying. "she didn't get your letter, i guess," the old man said, "'bout gettin' married. she come to-day, so sick she couldn't hold her head up. i see she didn't know nothin' 'bout your doin's. i didn't let her know. i jus' drove in, like split, to tell you, when the doctor went. he says she can't--she won't ... till mornin'. i thought," he apologized wistfully, "ye'd want to know, anyways, so i jus' drove in." "that was all right," allen said. "you done right, jacob." then he stood still for a moment, looking down at the bright figures of the carpet. jacob lived twelve miles back in the hills. "how'd you come?" allen asked him briefly. "i've got the new cutter," the old man answered, with a touch of eager pride. "i'll drive ye." then some one in the parlour caught sight of the bridegroom, and they all called to him and came where he was, besieging him with good-natured, trivial talk. the old man waited, looking out the window into the dark. he had known them all since they were children, and their merrymaking did not impress him as wholly real. neither, for that matter, did allen's wedding. besides, his own sister was dying--somehow putting an end to the time when he and she had been at home together. that was all he had thought of during his drive to town, and hardly at all of allen and his wedding. he waited patiently now while allen got the wedding guests back to the parlour, and then slipped away from them, and came through the dining room to the stair door. "stay there a minute," allen bade him shortly, and went back to the upper floor and to chris's door again. it was her mother who answered his summons this time, and allen's manner and face checked her words. before he had done telling her what had happened, chris herself was on the threshold, already in sober brown, as one who has put aside rainbows and entered on life. she had a little brown hat in one hand, and for the other hand he groped out and held it while he told her, as well as he could. "i guess i've got to go, chrissie," he ended miserably. she met his eyes, her own soft with sympathy for the plight of the other woman. "well, yes," she said quietly, "of course we've got to go." he looked at her breathlessly. that possibility had not crossed his mind. "you!" he cried. "you couldn't go, dear. twelve miles out in caledonia, cold as it is to-night. you--" in spite of her sympathy, she laughed at him then. "did you honestly think i wouldn't?" she asked, in a kind of wonder. "well, i'm sure--" began her mother. but the two bridesmaids manifestly heard the word again, for they talked with her both at once. "not with jacob, though," chris was saying decisively. "you help father and the boys get out our cutter, allen." allen strode past the mother and lifted his wife's face in his hands. "do you mean it?" he demanded. "will you go--in the cold--all that long way--" "you silly!" she answered, and drew away from him and set the little brown hat on her head. the road lay white before them, twelve miles of snow and stars to jacob's cottage among the caledonia hills. jacob had gone on--from the crest of the rise by the corner church they saw him and heard the faint signalling of his bells. it was a place, that rise by the corner church on the edge of the village, where two others in such case might have drawn rein to look at everything, stretching before, rhythmic crest and shallow, and all silent and waiting. but not these two, incurious as the gods, naïve as the first lovers. only, though of this they were unconscious, they saw things a little differently that night. "look!" said the girl, with a sign to the lowlands, expressive with lights. "so many folks's houses--homes, all started. i s'pose it was just as big a thing for them. but _theirs_ don't seem like anything, side of ours!" "that's so, too," assented allen. "and theirs _ain't_ anything side of ours!" he maintained stoutly. "no, sir," she agreed, laughing. then she grew suddenly grave, and fell silent for a little, her eyes here and there on the valley lights, while allen calculated aloud the time of the arrival at jacob's house. "allen!" she said at last. "here!" he answered. "i'm here, you bet." "just look at the lights," she said seriously, "and then _think_. there's bess and opie--not speakin' to each other. over there's the hubbelthwait farm that they've left for the hotel--an' threat hubbelthwait drunk all the time. an' howells's, poor and can't pay, and don't care if they can't, and quarrels so folks can hear 'em from the road. and the moneys', that's so ugly to the children, and her findin' fault, and him can't speak without an oath. that only leaves the topladys' over there that's real, regular people. and she kind o' bosses him." "well, now, that's so, ain't it?" said allen, looking at the lights with a difference. chris's right hand was warm in his great-coat pocket, and she suddenly snuggled close to him, her chin on his shoulder. "oh, allen," she said, "i'm _afraid_!" "what? on the plank road?" he wanted to know, missing her meaning. "all them folks started out with presents, and a house, like us," she said, "and with their minds all made up to bein' happy. but just look at 'em." "well," said allen, reasonably, "we _ain't_ them." "we might get like 'em," she insisted. "how can you tell? folks just do get that way or they just don't. how can you _tell_?" "i s'pose that's so, ain't it?" said allen, thoughtfully. "mother's got a picture of the hubbelthwaits when they was married," chris pursued. "her in white an' slippers and bracelets, and him slick as a kitten's foot. think of her now, allen, with _bracelets_. and him drunk all the time, 'most. how can you tell how things'll turn out? oh, allen, i _am_! i'm afraid." he bent to her face and laid his own against hers, glowing and cold and with fresh, warm lips. "let's just try to be happy and keep ourselves happy," he said. the troubled woman was still in her face, but at his touch the fears went a little away, and the valley lights being already left behind among the echoes of the bells, they forgot both the lights and their shadows and drifted back to talk about the new house and the presents, and the dinners and suppers and breakfasts together. for these were the stuff of which the time was made. as it was made, too, of that shadowy, hovering fear for the future, and the tragic pity of their errand, and of sad conjecture about the little stray child whom sarah ernestine had brought. "that ain't it a'ready, is it?" christopha exclaimed when they saw jacob's cottage. "it just is--it's 'leven o'clock now," allen answered, and gave the horse to the old man; and they two went within. the light in the room, like the lights back in the valley, was as if some great outside influence here and there should part the darkness to win a little stage for a scene of the tragedy: in the valley, for the drunkenness at the hubbelthwaits', the poverty at the howells', the ill nature at the moneys'; and here, in jacob's cottage, for death. there was no doubt of the quality of the hour in the cottage. the room was instinct with the outside touch. already it was laid upon the woman in the bed, and with a mystery and authority not unlike that which had come upon christopha in her marriage hour and was upon her still. the woman knew allen, smiled at him, made him understand her thankfulness that he had come. at christopha she looked kindly and quite without curiosity. some way, that absence of curiosity at what was so vital to him gripped allen's heart, and without his knowing the process, showed him the nature of death. the neighbour who had been with the sick woman slipped outside, and as she went she patted chris's shoulder; and allen felt that she understood, and he was dumbly grateful to her. allen sat by the bed and held the hand of his foster-mother; and chris moved about the room, heating water for a little pot of tea. and so it was chris who first saw the child. he was sitting at the end of the wood box, on the floor before the oven--that little stray boy whom sarah ernestine had picked up as she had once picked up allen. he looked up at christopha with big, soft eyes, naïve as the first bird. almost before she knew that she meant to do so, chris stooped, with a wondering word, and took him in her arms. he clung to her and she sat in the rocking chair near the window where stood jacob's carnation plant. and she tried both to look at the child and to love him, at the same time. "see, allen," she said, "this little boy!" the child looked over his shoulder at allen, his little arms leaning on christopha's breast. and very likely because he had felt strange and lonely and now was taken some account of, he suddenly and beautifully smiled, and you would have loved him the more for the way he did that. the woman, lying with closed eyes, understood and remembered. "allen," she said, "that's little john. you find him--a home somewheres. if you can...." "why, yes, mother, we'll do that. we can do that, i guess. don't you worry any about _him_," said allen. "he's all alone. i donno his name, even.... but you be good to him, allen, will you?" she said restlessly. "i found him somewheres." "like me," allen said. she shook her head feebly. "worse," she said, "worse. i knew i couldn't--do much. i just--thought i could keep him from bein' wicked--mebbe." "like you did me, mother, i guess," the boy said. then she opened her eyes. "allen!" she said clearly. "oh, if i did! when i think how mebbe i done that--_i ain't afraid to die_." jacob ernestine came in the room and stood rubbing one hand on the back of the other. he saw the kettle's high column of steam and looked inquiringly at chris. but she sat mothering the little silent boy, who looked at her gravely, or smiled, or pulled at her collar, responsive to her touch as she was thrillingly responsive to his nearness. so jacob lifted the kettle to the back of the stove, moved his carnation plant a little away from the frost of the pane, and settled himself at the bed's foot to watch. and when, after a long time, the child fell asleep, chris would not lay him down. allen would have taken him, and jacob came and tried to do so, but she shook her head and they let her be. she sat so still, hour after hour, that at last she herself dozed; and it seemed to her, in a manner of dreaming, that the carnation plant on the window-sill had lifted and multiplied until something white and like fragrance filled the room; and this, then, she dreamed, was what death is, death in the room for the woman. or might it not be the perfume of her own bridal bouquet, the carnations which she had carried that night? but then the child stirred, and christopha roused a little, and after all, the sense of flowers in the room was the sense of the little one in her arms. as if many things mean one thing. it was toward dawn that the end came, quite simply and with no manner of finality, as if one were to pass into another chamber. and after that, as quickly as might be, christopha and allen made ready to drive back to the village for the last bitter business of all. allen, in the barn with jacob, wondered what he must do. allen was sore-hearted at his loss, grateful for the charge that he had been given; but what was he to do? the child ought not to stay in jacob's cottage. if chris's mother would take him for a little,--but allen knew, without at all being able to define it, her plaintive, burdened manner, the burdened manner of the irresponsible. still puzzling over this, he brought the cutter to the side door; and the side door opened, and chris came out in the pale light, leading the little boy--awake, warmly wrapped, ready for the ride. "where you goin' to take him to, chrissie?" allen asked breathlessly. "some of the neighbours, i guess, ain't we?" she answered. "i donno. i thought we could see. he mustn't be left here--now." "no, that's so, ain't it?" said allen only. "he mustn't." the three drove out together into the land lying about the gate of dawn. a fragment of moon was in the east. there was about the hour something primitive, as if, in this loneliest of all the hours, the world reverted to type, remembered ancient savage differences, and fell in the primal lines. "allen," chris said, "you'll miss her. i mean miss knowin' she's alive." "yes," the boy said, "i'll miss knowin' she's alive." "well, we must try to settle what to do with the little boy," she suggested hastily. "yes," he assented, "that's right. we've got to settle that," and at this they fell silent. "there's hopkins's," chris said presently, nodding toward the home of the neighbour who had waited their coming to jacob's cottage. "but she'll hev to be over there lots to-day and to-morrow. and she was kep' up so late it don't hardly seem as if we'd ought to stop and ask her." "no," allen said, "i donno as it does, really." "there's cripps's," she suggested a little farther on, "but they ain't up yet. i donno's 'twould do to roust 'em up." "no," allen agreed, "best not do that, i guess." christopha looked over the great fields. "my!" she said, "you'll miss her--miss thinkin' of her bein' somewheres. allen! where do you s'pose she is?" "i thought o' that," said allen, soberly. "goodness!" said christopha, and shivered, and suddenly drew the child close to her. he was sleeping again. and it was so, with his little body between them, that she could no longer keep her hand warm in allen's greatcoat pocket. but above the child's head her eyes and allen's would meet, and in that hour the two had never been so near. nearer they were than in the talk about the new house, and the presents, and the dinners and suppers and breakfasts together. they passed the farmhouses that looked asleep, and the farmhouses that looked watchfully awake while their owners slept. it would not be well to knock at these, still and sombre-windowed. and though there were lights at the moneys' and at the howells' and at the hubbelthwait farm, and even at bess and opie's, their gates, by common consent, were also passed. nor did they stop at the topladys'. "they're real, regular people with a grown son," chris said of them vaguely, "and it don't seem hardly fair to give 'em little john, too!" "little john," allen said over wonderingly. when they called him that the child seemed suddenly a person, like themselves. their eyes met above his head. "allen!" chris said. "what? what is it?" he asked eagerly. "could--do you think--could _we_?" she demanded. "my!" he answered, "i been a-wishin'--" involuntarily he drew rein. they were on the rise by the corner church at the edge of the village. the village, rhythmic crest of wall and shallow of lawn, lay below them, and near the little triangle park would be their waiting house. "did you mean have him live with us?" allen made sure. "yes, i did," chris said, "if we had the money." "well!" said the boy, "well, i guess _that'll_ be all right!" "how much _she'd_ of liked it," said chris. "wouldn't she, though," allen assented; "wouldn't she? and you heard what she said--that about keepin' him from bein'--wicked? chrissie--_could_ we, you and me? this little fellow?" chris lifted her face and nodded. "i ain't afraid," she said simply. "i ain't either," her husband said. as if, in this new future, there were less need of fear than in the future which had sought to "try to be happy and keep ourselves happy." they looked down where their house would be, near the gate of the coming dawn. and--as two others in such case might have seen--it was as if they were the genii of their own mysterious future, a future whose solution trembled very near. for with the charge of the child had come a courage, even as the dead woman had known, when she thought of her charge of allen, that she was not afraid to die. "allen," said chris, stumblingly, "it don't seem as if we could get like the howells' an' the hubbelthwaits and them. somehow it don't seem as if we _could_!" "no," said allen, "we couldn't. that's so, ain't it?" above little john's head their eyes met in a kind of new betrothal, new marriage, new birth. but when he would have driven on, allen pulled at the reins again, and, "chrissie," he said suddenly, "if afterwards--there should be anybody--else. i mean for us. would--would you keep on lovin' this little kiddie, too?" she met his eyes bravely, sweetly. "well, you silly," she said, "of course i would!" at which allen laughed joyously, confidently. "why, chris," he cried, "we're married! for always an' always. an' here's this little old man to see to. who's afraid?" then they kissed each other above the head of the sleeping child, and drove on toward the village, and toward their waiting house. viii the java entertainment when i opened my door this morning, the outdoors was like a thing coming to meet me. i mean that it was like a person coming to meet me--no, it was like many persons, hand in hand and, so to speak, mind in mind; a great company of whom straightway i became one. i felt that swift, good gladness that _now_ was _now_,--that delicate, fleeting now, that very coquette of time, given and withdrawn. i remember that i could not soon go to sleep on the night of the day on which i learned that the hebrew tongue has no present tense. they could not catch at that needle-point of experience, and we can do so. i like to glory in it by myself when no one else is thinking of it; to think aside, as if _to_ something, that now is being now.... and i long for the time when we shall all know it together, all the time, and understand its potentialities and let it be breath and pulse to keep the spirit future alive and pure. it would have been no great wonder if i had been rejoicing past all reason in the moment. for at that very instant came calliope marsh, home for the java entertainment which was set for to-night, and driving to my gate the sykes's white horse in the post-office store delivery wagon. and as i saw her, so precisely did she look like herself, that i could have believed that now was not now, but then, when first i knew her. calliope brought the buckled lines informally over the horse's head and let them fall about the tie post, and ran to me. i am afraid that i am not going to tell what we said. but it was full of being once more in the presence of those whom you love. do you not think that such being together is a means of actual life transcending both breath and perception? when our greeting was done, calliope sat down on the stair in my hall, and, "hev you got any spare candle-shades an' sherbet glasses, an' pretty doilies an' lunch cloths an' rugs an' willow chairs an' a statue of almost anybody an' a meat-chopper with a peanut-butter attachment an' a cap an' gown like colleges?" she demanded. and when i told her that i thought i might have some of these things, "well," calliope said, "she wants 'em all. who do i mean by she? mis' oliver wheeler johnson, the personal queen of things." she leaned forward, hugging her thin little arms, and she looked up at me from under the brim of her round straw hat. "i'm in need of grace," she said shortly. "i never felt like this toward any human being. but i tell you, when that little mis' johnson comes dilly-nippin' around where i am, noddin' her blue ostrich tip, seems my spine just stiffens out in me like it was going to strike at her, same as a stick. do you know the feelin'?" i answered reluctantly, and not as i should wish to answer; for it is certain that i, too, have seldom seen mrs. johnson without an urgency to be gone from her little fluttering presence. but calliope! i could not imagine calliope shrinking from any one, or knowing herself alien to another. "for sixty years," she answered my thought of her, "i've never known what it was to couldn't bear anybody, not without i had a reason. they ain't much of anybody i what you might say don't like, without they're malicious or ugly a-purpose. ugly by nature, ugly an' can't help it, ugly an' don't know it--i can forgive all them. an' mis' johnson ain't ugly at all--she's just a real sweet little slip of a thing, doin' her hard-workin' best. but when i first see her in church that day, i says to myself: 'i'll give that little piece two months to carry the sail she's carryin' here to-day; four months to hev folks tired of her, an' six months to get herself the cold shoulder all 'round.' an' i hold to what i said. an' when her baby-blue nineteen-inch feather swings in an' 'round, an' when she tells how things ought to be, i kind o' bristle all over me. i'm ashamed of it--an' yet, do you know, i like to give in to it?" calliope said solemnly. "i donno what's come over me. hev you heard where the java entertainment's put to be?" i had not heard, nor was i sure just why it was of java, save that friendship is continually giving entertainments with foreign names and practising a wild imperialism to carry out an effect of foreign parts. and since, at the missionary meeting which had projected the affair, mrs. oliver wheeler johnson had told about _their_ java entertainment in _their_ church at home, that great, tolerant mis' amanda toplady, who was president of the society, had appointed her chairman of the java entertainment committee. "and," calliope informed me, "she's picked out the engine-house for it. yes, sir,--the fire-engine house. no other place was _quaint_ enough. no other place lent itself to decoration probabilities--or somethin' like that. she turned her back flat on the church an' went round to empty stores, lookin' for _quaint-ity_. one while i thought she'd hev us in the chinese laundry, she seemed that took with the tomato-coloured signs on the walls. but, finally, she lit on the engine-house; an' when she see the big, bare engine-room, with the big, shinin' engine in it, an' harnesses hangin' from them rough board beams in a kind of avenoo, an' the board walls all streaked down, she spatted her hands an' 'lowed we'd hev our java there. 'what a dear, quaint place,' s's she,--'so _flexible_!' she held out about the harnesses bein' so quaintly picturesque an' the fire-engine a piece o' resistance--or somethin' like that. an' she rents the room, without ay, yes, no, nor boo. my way of thinkin', a chairman ought to hev boo for a background, even if she _is_ chairman. that's where she wants the statue an' the nut butter an' the cap an' gown. can we borrow 'em of you?" "the engine-house!" i repeated incredulously. "you cannot mean the fire-engine house, calliope?" "i do," calliope said firmly, "the quaint, flexible fire-engine house. they ain't been a fire in friendship in over two years, so mis' johnson says we ain't got that to think of--an' i donno as we hev. an' they never use the engine any more, now they've got city water, excep' for fires in the country, and then nobody ever gets in to give the alarm till the house is burned down an' no need to bother goin'. even if they do get in in some sort of season, the department has to go to the mayor to get a permit to go outside the city limits. it was so when the topladys' barn burned. timothy told 'em, when they come gallopin' up after it was most done smokin', that if they had held off a little longer they could have been a sight of help to him in shinglin' the new one. oh, no, they ain't much of any danger of our being disturbed by a fire in them two hours to-night. anyhow, they can't be a fire. mis' oliver wheeler johnson said so." we laughed like children as we loaded my "java" stuffs on the wagon. calliope was a valiant helper to mrs. johnson, and so i told her. she was standing in the wagon box, one arm about my palm, the other free for driving. "i'm the chairman o' the refreshments, too," she confessed. "oh, well. yourself you can boss round, you know," she threw back, smiling; "anybody can do that. but your feelin's you're some cramped about runnin'." it is certain that mrs. oliver wheeler johnson was signally unfitted for a future in friendship village. she was a woman of some little world in which she had moved before she came to us, and in the two worlds she perceived no difference. or, where she saw a difference, she sought to modify it by a touch when a breath would have been too much, and the only factor of potency would have been a kind of potency of spirit, which she did not possess. the oliver wheeler johnsons had moved to friendship only three months before, and nobody had looked for them at church on their first sunday. "movin' so, you want your sabbath to take some rest in, an' you ain't expected to dress yourself up an' get out to sunday service an' face strangers," the village said--and when the two walked into church while the responses were being made nearly everybody lost the place. they were very young, and they were extremely well dressed. "he's got on one o' the long coats," comment ran after church, "an' he's got a real soft-speakin' voice. but he seems to know how to act." and, "i declare, nice white gloves an' a nineteen-inch baby-blue ostrich feather durin' movin' seems some like puttin' on." and, "the back of her dress fits her just like the front, an' i must say she knows it. no pullin' down the jacket or hitchin' the strings forward for _her_, when she stands up!" as miggy, who first told me about that day, had said, "that sunday morning, mis' oliver wheeler johnson was the belle of the congregation." after service that day, instead of going directly home or waiting to be addressed, mrs. oliver wheeler johnson had spoken to the woman with whom she had been seated. it was mis' postmaster sykes. "thank you so much," mrs. johnson said, "for letting us share your pew. may i present my husband? we have come to friendship to live, and we shall be coming here to church. and i shall want to join your ladies' aid society and your missionary circle and, perhaps, be in the sunday-school right away. i--i think i'll be less homesick--" "actually," mis' sykes said afterward, "she took my breath clear away from me. i never heard of such a thing. of course, we're real glad to hev our newcomers christian people, but we want quiet christians. an' did you notice how she was when i give her an introduction around? why, she up an' out with somethin' to say to everybody. just a neat little 'how d' do' wouldn't do for her to remark. i always suspicion them talkative-at-first kind. it's like they'd been on the stage or brought up in a hotel." when she first came to the ladies' aid and the missionary meetings, mrs. johnson "said something." she was "up to her feet" three or four times at each session with suggestion, information, or description of how they did in her home church. and some way i think that what chiefly separated her from the village was the way that inevitable nineteen-inch blue ostrich plume on the little woman's hat bobbed and won attention and was everywhere at once. or, perhaps--such creatures of wax we are to our impressions--it may have been little mrs. johnson's mere way of lifting her small, pointed chin when she talked, and of frowning and over-emphasizing. or it may have been that she stood with her hands clasped behind her in what seemed to friendship exaggerated ease, or that she smiled arbitrarily and ingratiatingly as she talked when there was absolutely nothing at which to smile. i think that these made her seem as alien to us as, in varied measure, certain moral defects might have done. moreover, she mentioned with familiarity objects and usages of which friendship village knew nothing: carriage shoes, a new cake of soap for each guest, some kind of ice served, it was incredulously repeated, "in the middle o' the meal!" she innocently let fall that she sent to the city for her letter-paper. she had travelled in a state-room on a train, and she said so. she knew a noted woman. she used, we saw from the street, shaded candles on the table when she and her husband were at supper alone. she thought nothing of ordering jimmy sturgis and the bus to take her down town to her marketing on a rainy day. she had inclined to blame the village that daphne street was not paved, instead of joining with the village to blame somebody else. above all, she tried to buy our old furniture. i do not know that another might not have done all these quite without giving offence, and, indeed, rather have left us impressed with her superior familiarity with an envied world. but by the time of the java entertainment mrs. oliver wheeler johnson had innocently alienated half friendship village. and this morning calliope merely voiced what i knew to be the sentiment of most of mrs. johnson's neighbours and acquaintances. for these people are the kindly of earth; but they are of earth, where reign both the centrifugal and centripetal forces,--and the control is not always so swift as science and the human heart could wish. at five o'clock to-day--the day set for the java evening entertainment--i made my way to the engine-house. this was partly because i wished to be as much as possible with calliope during her few days in the village, and partly it was because the affair would belong to the class of festivity which i am loath to miss, and i think that, for friendship's sake, i will never willingly pass by a "hall" in which is to be found a like diversion. already on the great room, receiving its final preparation, had descended something of the excited spirit of the evening: the heat, the insufficient light, the committee members' shrill, rollicking children sliding on the floor, the booths which in all bazaars contain with a precision fairly bewildering the same class of objects; and the inevitable sense of hurry and silk waists and aching feet and mustn't-take-your-change-back. but to all these things the java engine-house affair would add an element of novelty, almost a flavour of romance. certainly the room lent itself to "decoration probabilities," as calliope had vaguely quoted; it had been a roller-skating rink, utilized by the fire-department on the decline of the pastime, and there was, as mrs. johnson's _pièce de résistance_, the fire-engine. i had never before been in the engine-house--you know how there will be commonplace enough spots in your own town to which you never go: the engine-house, the church belfry, the wood yard, upstairs over this store and that, and grocery cellars whose sloping trap-doors, open now and then to the walk, are as alien as the inside of the trunks of your trees. when i stepped in the engine-house, it seemed insistently a place in which i had never been before. and this may have been partly because the whole idea of a village fire-department is to me singular: the waiting horses and ladders and hose, whose sole reason for being is merely ameliorative, and never human and preventive; that pealing of the sharp, peculiar, terrifying alarm and summons first imprinting something on the very air, stabbing us with _halt_ while we count the bell strokes for the ward, and then clanging the wild fury of the quick-stroke command to help. to-day the great glittering fire-engine, flanked by hose-cart and hook-and-ladder wagon, occupied almost wonderingly the head of the room which had been invaded, and an inspired committee had garlanded the engine with paper roses and american flags. the flag of the netherlands, copied from a dictionary and wrought in red-white-and-blue cambric with a silver crown, drooped meditatively from the smoke-stack; a scarlet fez and a peacock-feather fan hung on the supply hose; and on the tongue-bracer was fixed a pink sofa cushion from mis' amanda toplady's parlour, with an olive indian gentleman in a tinsel zouave jacket stamped on the cover. on the two big sliding doors, back of which stood the fire company's horses, were tacked innumerable javanese trifles more picturesque than authentic; and on outlying booths and tables there were others. directly before the engine was to be the tea-table, where mis' postmaster sykes was to serve java tea from a java canister, loaned by the post-office store. as soon as i entered i sought out calliope's booth, a huge affair constructed of rugs whose red-tongued, couchant dogs and bounding fawns somewhat marred the eastern effect. and within, i found myself in a circle of the friendship women whom i know best--all of them tired with that deadly tiredness born of a day's work at a church fair of any nation. but at once i saw that it was not merely fatigue which was disquieting them. calliope was leaning against a bit of bagelen blue, loaned by the new minister's wife. and she said to me as if, i thought, in explanation of what i was to hear,--"i guess we're all pretty tired. most of us look like we wanted to pant. i'm all of a shake, myself." when mis' postmaster sykes spoke unsmilingly, i understood:-- "it ain't the bein' tired," she disclaimed; "tired i can stand an' hev stood since my own birth. but it's the bein' commanded 'round--me, _commanded_--by that little i'm-the-one-an'-you-do-as-i-say out there!" "land-a-livin' an' a-dyin'!" said mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, "i declare if i know whether i'm on foot or on horseback. it's bad enough to hev to run a fair, without you've got to be run yourself, too. ain't it enough for mis' johnson to be made chairman without her wantin' to boss besides? she might as well say to me, 'mis' holcomb, you do everything the opposite way from the way you've just done it,' an' hev it over with." mis' amanda toplady--even that great, tolerant mis' amanda--shook her head. "mis' johnson surely acts used to bein' bowed down to," she admitted; "she seems fair bent on lordin' it. my land, if she wasn't bound to borrow my tea rose plant that's just nearin' ready to bud." calliope laughed, a little ruefully, and wholly in sympathy. "honest," she said, "i guess what's the matter with all of us ain't so much what she does as the particular way she does it. it's so with some folks. they just seem to sort of _set_ you all over, when you come near 'em--same as the cold does to gravy. we'd all ought to wrostle with the feelin', i expect." "i expect we had," said mis' holcomb, "but you could wrostle all your days with vinegar an' it'd pucker your mouth same way." "funny part," calliope observed, "everybody feels just alike about her. when she skips around so sort o' momentous, we all want to dodge. i felt sorry for her, first, because i thought she was in for nervous prostration. but after a while i see it wasn't disease--it was just her feelin' so up an' down significant, you might say." "i donno," said mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, "but it's part the way she says her _a_'s. that real _a_-soundin' _a_ kind," she explained vaguely. "she's so right an' left cuffy--i guess that's the whole thing," calliope put it in her rich idiom. "well," said mis' amanda, sadly, "there must be somethin' we could like her for, even if it was only her husband." "he ain't what i'd call much, either," calliope dismissed mr. oliver wheeler johnson positively; "he's got too soft-speakin' a voice. i like a man's voice to rumble up soft from his chest an' not slip down thin from his brain." i remember that i listened in a great wonder to these women whom i had seen at many an office of friendliness to strangers and aliens. yet as i looked across the floor at that little mrs. oliver wheeler johnson--who, in the hat with the blue plume, was everywhere, directing, altering, objecting, arranging, commanding and, especially, doing over--i most unwillingly felt much as they felt. if only mrs. johnson had not continually lifted her little pointed chin. if only she had not perpetually and ingratiatingly smiled when there was nothing at which to smile at all. then abigail arnold hurried up to us with a tray of cups for the java tea. "calliope," she said to the chairman of the refreshments, "mis' johnson jus' put up her little chin an' says, 'what! ain't we no lemons for the tea?'" calliope compressed her lips and lifted their thin line tight and high. "lemins," she replied, "ain't necessarily found in java. i've a good big mind to go home to bed." then we saw little mrs. johnson's blue linen dress hurrying toward us with the waving line of the blue feather above her, like a last little daring flourish by the artist of her. she was really very pretty and childish, with a manner of moving in wreaths and lines and never in solids. her little feet twinkled along like the signature to the pretty picture of her. but yet she was not appealing. she was like an overconfident child whom you long to shut in a closet. yes, i understand that i sound like a barbarian in these days of splendid corrective treatment of children who are studied and not stormed at. and in this treatment i believe to the uttermost. and yet, overconfidence in a child is of all things the most--i will amend what i said: mrs. oliver wheeler johnson was like an overconfident child whom you long to shut in a closet because of your ignorance of what else on earth to do. no doubt there is a better way, but none of us knew it. and she came toward us intent, every one felt, on some radical change in arrangements, though the big room was now in the pink of appointment and ready to be left while the committee went home to sup on "just sauce and bread-and-butter," and to don silk waists. we saw little mrs. johnson hurrying toward us, upon a background of the great, patient room, all-tolerant of its petty bedizening. and then mrs. johnson, we in calliope's booth, the sliding, rollicking children, and all the others about stood still, at the sharp, peculiar terrifying alarm and summons which seemed to imprint something on the very air, stabbing us with _halt_ that we might count the bell strokes for the ward, and clanging a wild fury of the quick-stroke command to help. for the first time in two years the friendship fire alarm was sounding from the tower above our heads. there was a panting sweep and scurry for the edges of the room, as instantly a gong on the wall sounded with the alarm, and the two big sliding doors went back, scattering like feathers the innumerable javanese trifles that had been tacked there. forward, down the rug-hung vista, plunged the two big horses of the department. we saw the java tea-table borne to earth, the javanese exhibits adorning outlying counters swept away, and all the "decoration probabilities" vanish in savage wreck. then the quaintly picturesque harnesses fell to the horses' necks, their hoofs trampled terrifyingly on the loose boards of the floor, and forth from the yawning doors the horses pounded, dragging the _pièce de résistance_, with garlands on its sides, the pink zouave cushion crushed beneath it, and the flag of the netherlands streaming from the stack. horses rushed thither in competition, came thundering at the doors, and galloped to place before the two carts. i think not a full minute can have been consumed. but the ruin of the java entertainment committee's work was unbelievably complete. though there had been not a fire in friendship village in two years, that night, of all nights, jimmy sturgis's "hay-barn," for the omnibus horses, "took it on itself," it was said, "to go to work an' burn up." and jimmy's barn is outside the city limits, so that the _pièce de résistance_ had to be used. and jimmy is in the fire-department, so that the company galloped informally to the rescue without the benefit of the mayor's authority. as the last of the department disappeared, and the women of the committee stood looking at one another--tired with the deadly tiredness of a day such as theirs--a little blue linen figure sprang upon a chair and clasped her hands behind her, and a blue ostrich feather lifted and dipped as she spoke. "quickly!" mrs. oliver wheeler johnson cried. "all hands at work now! mrs. sykes, will you set up the tea-table? you can get more dishes from my house. mrs. toplady, this booth, please. you can make it right in no time. mrs. holcomb, you will have to do your booth entirely over--you can get some things from my house. miss marsh--ah, calliope marsh, you must go to my house for my lace curtains--" she smiled ingratiatingly and surely arbitrarily, for we all knew full well that there was absolutely nothing to smile at. and with that calliope's indignation, as she afterward said, "kind of crystallized and boiled over." i remember how she stood, hugging her thin little arms and speaking her defiance. "i donno how you feel, mis' johnson," she said dryly, "but, _my_ idea, bedlam let loose ain't near quaint enough for a java entertainment. nor i don't think it's what you might say real java, either. things here looks to me too flexible. i'm goin' home an' go to bed." there was no doubt what the rest meant to do. with one impulse they turned toward the door as calliope turned, and silently they took the way that the _pièce de résistance_ had taken before them. little mrs. johnson stood on her chair making many gestures; but no one went back. calliope looked straight before her. "my feet ache like i done my thinkin' with 'em," she said, "an' my head feels like i'd stood on it. an' what's it all for?" "regular clock performance," mis' postmaster sykes assented. "we've ticked hard all day long an' ain't got a thing out of it. i often think it's that way with my housework, but i did think the ladies' missionary could tick, when it _did_ tick, for eternity. i'm tuckered to the bone." "nobody knows," said mis' holcomb-that-was mame-bliss, "how my poor neck aches. it's there i suffer first an' most." mis' amanda toplady, who was walking behind the rest, took three great steps and caught us up and spoke, a little breathlessly:-- "land, land," she said, "i guess i'll go home an' pop some corn. seems to me it'd smell sort of cosy an' homelike an' soothin' down. it's a grand thing to smell when you're feelin' far off from yourself." calliope laughed a little then. "well," she said, "anyhow i ain't got my silk waist to get into--and i didn't hev a nice one to put on anyway. i was wishin' i had, and now my wish has come true by bein' took away from me, bodily--like they will. but just the same--" she turned on the walk and faced us, and hugged her thin little arms. "a while ago," she said, "i give that little woman there six months to get herself the cold shoulder all around. well, the time ain't up yet--but both my shoulders feels stone cold!" ix the cold shoulder there is something more about mrs. oliver wheeler johnson. did you ever look through an old school-book of your own and, say, on the history picture of vesuvius in eruption impose your own memory of pompeii, visited in these twenty years since you studied about it; and have you not stared hard at the time between and felt yourself some one other than that one who once dreamed over the vesuvius picture? or, years after you read the letters, you have made a little mark below cicero's cry from exile, "oh, that i had been less eager for life!" and you look at the cry and at the mark, and you and one of these become an anachronism--but you are not sure which it is that so becomes. so now, in reading over these notes some while after i have set them down, i am minded here to give you my look ahead to the end of the summer and to slip in some account of what happened as a closing of the tale. and i confess that something about me--perhaps it is the custodian herself--likes this way of pretending a freedom from time and of looking upon its fruit to say which seeds have grown and which have not. friendship village is not superstitious, but when curious coincidences occur we do, as we say, "take down note." and it did seem like a judgment upon us that, a little time after the java fiasco, and while indignation was yet at high noon, mrs. oliver wheeler johnson fell ill. at first i think we affected not to know it. when she did not appear at church, none of us mentioned it for a sunday or two. then when some one casually noted her absence we said, "oh, wasn't she? got little cold, likely." that we saw her no more down town or "brushing up" about her door we facilely laid to chance. when the village heard that her maid--who always offended by talking almost in a whisper--had once or twice excused her mistress to callers, every one shut lips and hardened hearts and said some folk acted _very_ funny about their calling duties. but when, at the twelve o'clock breakfast of the new minister's wife--("like enough breakfast at noon was a real bible custom," the puzzled devotees solved that amazing hour), mrs. johnson did not appear, the village was forced to admit that something must be wrong. moreover, against its will the behaviour of young mr. johnson was gravely alarming friendship. mr. johnson was in real estate and insurance in the city, and this did not impress the village as a serious business. "because, what does he _sell_!" as abigail arnold said. "we know he don't own property. he rents the very house they live in. a doctor's a doctor an' he gives pills, an' a store's a store with the kind o' thing you need. but it don't seem like that man could make a real good livin' for her, dealin' vague in nothin' that way." his income, it was felt, was problematical, and the village had settled it that what the oliver wheeler johnsons' had was chiefly wedding presents "an' high-falutin' tastes." but, in the face of the evidence, every afternoon at three o'clock the young husband ordered a phaëton from jimmy sturgis and came home from the city to take his wife to drive. between shutters the village saw that little mrs. johnson's face did look betrayingly pale, and the blue ostrich plume lay motionless on her bright hair. "i guess mis' johnson's real run down," her acquaintances said to one another uneasily. still we did not go to see her. the weeks went by until, one morning, calliope met the little new friendship doctor on the street and asked him about his patient. "i up an' ask' him flat out," calliope confessed afterward; "not that i really cared to be told, but i hated to know i was heathenish. you don't like the feelin'. to know they ain't heathens is all that keeps some folks from _bein_' 'em. well, so i ask' him. 'doctor heron,' s'i, 'is that mis' johnson real sick, or is she just sickish?' he looks at me an'--'looks pretty sick, don't she?' s'e. 'well,' s'i, 'i've seen folks look real rich that wa'n't it by right-down pocketbook evidence.' 'been to see her?' s'e. 'no,' s'i, short. 'might drop in,' s'e, an' walks off, lookin' cordial. that little doctor heron is that close-mouthed i declare if i don't respect him same as the minister an' the pipe-organ an' the skippin' hills." so, as midsummer passed and found the little woman still ailing, i obeyed an idle impulse and went one evening to see her. i recall that as soon as i had crossed her threshold the old influence came upon me, and i was minded to run from the place in sheer distaste of the overemphasis and the lifted, pointed chin and the fluttering importances of her presence. i was ashamed enough that this should be so, but so it was; and i held my ground to await her coming to the room only by a measure of will. i sat with mrs. johnson for an hour that evening. and it would seem that, as is the habit of many, having taken my own way i was straightway possessed to draw others after me. there are those who behave similarly and who set cunningly to work to gain their own ends, as, for example, i did. for one night soon i devised a little feast, which i have always held to be a good doorway to any enterprise, and, at the friendship-appointed supper hour of six, i made my table as fair as possible, as has been done in like case ever since butter was first served "in a lordly dish." and my guests were calliope, without whom no festival is wholly in keeping, and mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, and mis' postmaster sykes, and that great, tolerant mis' amanda toplady. because they had arrived so unsuspectingly i own myself to have felt guilty enough when, in that comfortable half-hour after a new and delectable dessert had been pronounced upon, i suggested with what casualness i might summon that we five pay a visit that night to mrs. oliver wheeler johnson. "land!" said mis' holcomb, "i've thought i would an' then i've thought i wouldn't till i feel all two-faced about myself. i donno. sometimes i think one way an' sometimes i think the other. are you ever like that?" "i s'pose," said mis' postmaster sykes, majestically, "that them in our position ought to overlook. i donno's 'twould hurt us any to go," she added graciously. calliope's eyes twinkled. "that's it," she said; "let them that's got the social position to overlook things be christian an' overlook 'em." that great mis' amanda toplady folded her hands, dimpled like a baby giant's. "i'd be glad to go," she said simply; "i've got some grape jell that looks to me like it wasn't goin' to keep long, an' i'd be thankful to be on terms with her so's i could carry it in to her. they ain't a single other invalid in friendship." calliope sprang to her feet and crossed her little arms, a hand hugging either shoulder. "well said!" she cried; "do let's go! i'm sick to death of slidin' off the subject whenever it comes up in my mind." so, in the fair october dusk, we five went down the plank road--where summer lingers late. the air was gentle with the soft, impending dark. i wonder why the colonnade of sweet influences, down which we stepped, did not win us to themselves. but i remember how, instead, our imminent visit drew us back to the days of mrs. johnson's coming, so that presently we were going over the incident of the java entertainment, and, as calliope would have put it, "crystallizing and boiling over" again in the old distaste. but when we reached the little cottage of the johnsons, our varied motives for the visit were abruptly merged in a common anxiety. for doctor heron's buggy stood at the gate and the little one-story cottage was dark save for a light in what we knew to be a corner bedroom. the hallway was open to the night, but though we could distinctly hear the bell jingle in the kitchen no one answered the summons. then, there being somewhere about a murmur of voices, calliope stepped within and called softly:-- "doctor, doctor heron--you there? is they anything we can do?" the doctor came momentarily to the lighted doorway down the hall. "that you, calliope?" he said. "you might come here, will you? tell the rest to sit down somewheres. and you tell mr. johnson he can come." on which, from out the dark living room, some one emerged very swiftly and without a word pushed by us all where we were crowded in the passage and strode down to the little lighted chamber. calliope hurried after him, and we four shrank back in sudden dread and slipped silently into the room which the young husband had left, and stood together in the dimness. was she so sick? in that room he must have heard the door-bell as we had heard it, and yet he had not answered. was it possible that we had come too late? while we waited we said nothing at all, save that great mis' amanda toplady, who said three times or four, "oh, dear, oh, dear, i'm always waitin' till somethin's too late--either me or the other thing." it seemed very long before we heard some stir, but it can have been only a few minutes until the doctor came down the little hall and groped into the room. in answer to all that we asked he merely occupied himself in lighting a match and setting it deliberately to the candles on the table and adjusting their shades. they were, we noted afterward, the same candles whose presence we had detected and derided at those long ago tête-à-tête suppers in that house. the light glowed on the young doctor's pale face as he looked at us, each in turn, before he spoke. and when he had done with his slow scrutiny--i think that we cannot wholly have fancied its accusation--he said only:-- "yes, she's pretty sick. i can't tell yet." then he turned and closed the outer door and stood leaning against it, looking up the hall. "miss marsh!" he called. but why did the man not tell us something, we wondered; and there flashed in my mind calliope's reference to the pipe-organ and the skipping hills. at all events, calliope would tell us. and so she did. we heard her step in the hall, coming quickly and yet with a manner of exceeding care. i think that with the swift sense which wings before intelligence, the others understood before they saw her, even as i understood. calliope stopped in the doorway as if she could trust herself to go no farther. and she was holding something in her arms. "calliope," we said; "calliope...." she looked down at that which she held, and then she looked at us. and the tears were in her eyes, but her face was brighter than i have ever known it. "it's a baby," she said, "a little bit of a baby. _her_ baby. an' it makes me feel--it makes me feel--oh," she broke off, "don't it make you feel that way, too?" we looked at one another, and avoided one another's look, and then looked long at the baby. i do not remember that we said anything at all, or if we did so, that it bore a meaning. but an instant after calliope gave the baby to the nurse who appeared in the doorway, we all tiptoed down to the kitchen by common consent. and it was plain that mrs. johnson's baby made us feel that way, too. in our desire to be of tardy service we did the most absurd things. we took possession of the kitchen, rejoicing that we found the supper dishes uncared for, and we heated a great kettle of water, and washed and wiped and put away, as softly as we could; and then we "brushed up around." i think that only the need of silence kept us from cleaning windows. when the nurse appeared--who had arrived that day unknown of friendship--we sprang as one to do her bidding. we sent the little maid to bed, we tidied the living room, walking tiptoe, and then we went back through the kitchen and sat down on the little side "stoop." and all this time we had addressed one another only about the tasks which we had in hand. after a little silence, "the milkman was quite late this morning," observed mis' holcomb. "well, he's begun to deliver in cans instead o' bottles," mis' sykes explained; "it takes him some longer to get around. he says bottles makes his wife just that much more to do." then we fell silent again. it was calliope, sitting on the porch step outside, where it was dark, who at last had the courage to be articulate. "i hope--i _hope_," she said, "she's goin' to be all right." mis' sykes shaded her eyes from the bracket lamp within. "i'll go bail," she said, "that little you-do-as-i-say chin'll carry her through. i'm glad she's got it." just then we heard the thin crying of the child and we could divine calliope, that on the step where she sat she was hugging her arms and rocking somewhat, to and fro. "like enough," she said, "oh, like enough--folks ain't so cramped about runnin' their own feelin's as they think they are!" to this we murmured something indefinite in sound but positive enough in sense. and we all knew what we all knew. "let's go out around the house to the front gate," said that great mis' amanda toplady, abruptly. "have any of you ladies got two handkerchiefs?" "i've got two," said mis' postmaster sykes, "an' i ain't used either one. do you want the one with essence or the one without?" "i ain't partial," said mis' amanda. we rose and stumbled along the grassy path that led round the house. at the gate we met doctor heron. "well," he said slowly, "well." and after a moment, "will--will any of you be here in the morning?" he asked. "yes," we all said simply. "that's good," he commented shortly, "i didn't know." we five had to separate at the first corner to go our home ways, and we stood for a moment under the gas-light. i remember how, just then, peter's father came singing past us, like one of the friendship family who did not understand his kinship. even as we five had not understood ours. "you haven't got a shawl, hev you?" mis' sykes said to me solicitously. "the nights have been some chilly on a person's shoulders for a day or two now," said mis' holcomb. calliope put her hand up quickly to her throat. "quit," she said. "all of you. thank god. an' shake hands. i tell you, after this i bet i'll run my own feelin's about folks or i'll bring down the sky an' make new feelin's! oh," said calliope, "don't her--an' _now_--an' the baby--an'--oh, an' that bright star winkin' over that hitchin' post, make things seem--easy? good night. i can't stand out here any longer." but when we had gone away a few steps, calliope called us back. and as we turned again, "to bring down the sky," she repeated, "i bet that's the way god meant us to do. they ain't any of us got enough _to_ us to piece out without it!" x evening dress i have said that daphne street has been paved within the past year, but i had not heard of the manner in which the miracle had been wrought until the day when calliope's brief stay in the village ended and she came to tell me good-by--and, more than incidentally, to show me some samples of a dress which she might have, and a dress which she wouldn't have, and a dress which she had made up her mind to have. "we don't dress much here in friendship village," she observed. "not but what we'd like to, but we ain't the time nor the means nor the places to wear to. but they was one night--" she looked at me, as always when she means to tell a story, somewhat with the manner of asking a permission. "none of the low-neck' fashion-plates used to seem real to us," she said. "we used to look at 'em pinned up in lyddy ember's dressmakin' windows, ah-ahing in their low pink an' long blue, an' we'd look 'em over an' think tolerant enough, like about sea-serpents. but neither the one nor the other bit hold rill vital, because the plates was so young an' smilin' an' party-seemin', an' we was old an' busy, like you get, an' considered past the dressin' age. still, it made kind of a nice thing to do on the way home from the grocery hot forenoons--draw up there on the shady side, where the street kitters some into a curve, an' look at lyddy's plates, an' choose, like you was goin' to get one. "land knows we needed some oasises on that street from the grocery up home. daphne street, our main street, didn't always use' to be what it is now--neat little wooden blocks an' a stone curb. you know how it use' to be--no curb an' the road a sight, over your shoe-tops with mud in the wet, an' over your shoe-tops with sand when it come dry. we ladies used to talk a good deal about it, but the men knew it meant money to hev it fixed, an' so they told us hevin' it fixed meant cuttin' the trees down, an' that kept us quiet--all but the friendship married ladies cemetery improvement sodality. "mis' postmaster sykes was president o' the sodality last year, you know,--she's most always president of everything,--an' we'd been workin' quite hard all that winter, an' had got things in the cemetery rill ship-shape--at least i mean things _on_ the cemetery was. an' at one o' the july meetin's last summer mis' sykes up an' proposed that we give over workin' for the dead an' turn to the livin', an' pave the main street of friendship village. "'true,' she says, 'our constitution states that the purpose of our sodality shall be to keep up the graves of our townspeople an' make 'em attractive to others. but,' says she, 'when they ain't enough of us dead to occupy all the time, the only christian way to remedy that is to work for folks before they die, while we're waitin' for their graves.' "this seemed reasonable, an' we voted unanimous to pave daphne street. an' on the way home mis' sykes an' mis' timothy toplady an' i see timothy toplady settin' in the post-office store, an' we went in to tell him an' silas sykes about it. but before we could start in, silas says, eyebrows all eager, 'ain't you heard?' "'heard what?' says his wife, kind o' cross, bein' he was her wedded husband an' she _hadn't_ heard. "''bout threat hubbelthwait,' says silas, lookin' at mis' toplady an' me, bein's mis' sykes was his wife. 'drunk again,' says silas, 'an' fiddlin' for dear life, an' won't let anybody into the hotel. mis' hubbelthwait has gone over to her mother's, an' the hired girl with her; an' threat's settin' in the bar an' playin' all the hymn tunes he knows.' "it wasn't the first time it had happened, you know. threat an' his wife an' the hired girl keep the only hotel in friendship village--when threat is sober. when he isn't, he sometimes closes up the house an' turns out whoever happens to be there, an' won't let a soul in--though, of course, not much of anybody ever comes to friendship anyway, excep' now an' then an automobile on its way somewheres. an' there threat will set in the bar, sometimes most of one week, sometimes most of two, an' scrape away on the only tunes he knows--all hymns, 'just as i am,' an' 'can a little child like me?' threat don't mean to be sacrilegious; he shows that by never singin' them two hymns in church, when they're give out. "'land!' says mis' sykes, when silas got through, 'what men are!' "'we ain't so much as woman, lemme tell you,' says silas, right crisp. which wasn't what he meant, an' we all laughed at him, so he was a little mad to start with. "'the sodality's decided to pave daphne street,' mis' sykes mentions then, simple. "'pave _what_?' shouts silas--silas always seems to think the more you do in sound the more you'll do in sense. "'do _what_ to daphne street?' says timothy, whirlin' from the peanut roaster. "'pave daphne street,' says mis' sykes an' mis' toplady an' me, wonderin'. "silas wrapped his arms around his own shoulders. "'when,' says he, lettin' his head lurch with his own emphasizin', 'did the common council hear about this?' "'they ain't heard, about it,' says mis' sykes, 'no more'n we ever hear anything about them.' "silas an' timothy is both aldermen, an' rill sensitive over it. i guess the common council always _is_ a delicate subject, ain't it? "mebbe it wasn't a rill diplomatic way to begin, but it hadn't entered the sodality's head that the town wouldn't be glad to hev the pavin' done if the sodality was willin' to do it. ain't it a hard thing to learn that it ain't all willingness, nor yet all bein' capable, that gets things done in the world? it's part just edgin' round an' edgin' round. "what did the common council do that night but call a special meetin' an' vote not to order any city pavin' done that present year. every member was there but threat hubbelthwait, who was fiddlin', an' every vote was switched by silas an' timothy to be unanimous, excep' eppleby holcomb's vote. eppleby, we heard afterwards, said that when a pack o' women made up their minds to pave, they'd pave if it was to pave--some place that eppleby hadn't ought to 'a' mentioned; an' he was goin' to be on the pavin' side. but then, eppleby is the gentlest husband in friendship village, an' known to be. "sodality met special next day, not so much to do anything as to let it be known that we'd took action. this we done by votin' to lay low till such time as we could order the wooden blocks. we preferred to pave peaceable, it bein' hot weather. "mis' toplady an' mis' sykes an' mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss an' mis' mayor uppers an' i walked home together from that meetin'. it was a blisterin' july afternoon--one of them afternoons that melts itself out flat, same as a dropped pepp'mint on a brick walk, an' you're left stickin' in it helpless as a fly, an' generally buzzin'. i rec'lect we was buzzin'--comin' down daphne street in that chokin' dust an' no pavement. "'it's a dog's life, livin' in a little town--in some respects,' i remember mis' sykes says. "'well,' says mis' toplady, tolerant, 'i know. i know it is. but i'd rather live in a little town an' dog it out than go up to the city an' turn wolf, same as some.' "an' yet we all felt the same, every one of us. they ain't a woman livin' in a little place that don't feel the same, now and again. it's quiet an' it's easy housework, an' you get to know folks well. but oh, none of it what you might say _glitters_. an' they ain't no woman whatever--no matter how good a wife an' mother an' christian an' even housekeeper she is--that don't, 'way down deep in her heart, feel that hankerin' after some sort o' _glitter_. "so it was natural enough that we should draw up at lyddy's dressmakin' window an' rest ourself. an' that afternoon we'd have done so, anyway, for she hed been pinnin' up her new summer plates--lyddy don't believe in rushin' the season. an' no sooner had we got a good look at 'em--big coloured sheets they was, with full-length pictures--than mis' toplady leaned 'way forward, her hands on her knees, an' stood lookin' at 'em the way you look at the parade. "'well, look-a-there,' she says. 'look at that one.' "the one she meant was a woman with her hair all plaited an' fringed an' cut bias, an' with a little white hat o' lilacs 'bout as big as a cork; an' her dress--my land! her dress was long an' rill light blue, an' seemed like it must have been paper, it was so fancy. it didn't seem like cloth goods at all, same as we hed on. it was more like we was wearin' meat an' vegetable dresses, an' this dress was dessert--all whipped cream an' pink sugar an' a flower on the plate. "'dear land!' says mis' toplady, lookin' 'round at us strange, 'do they do it when they get gray hair? i didn't know they done it when their hair was gray.' "we all looked, an' sure enough, the woman's hair was white. 'afternoon toilette for elderly woman,' it said underneath, plain as plain. always before the plates hed all been young an' smilin' an' party-seemin', an' we'd thought of all that as past an' done for, with us, along with all the other things that didn't come true. but here was a woman grayer than any of us, an' yet lookin' as live as if she'd been wearin' a housework dress. "'why,' says mis' sykes, starin', 'that must be a new thing this season. i never heard of a woman well along in years wearin' anything but brown or navy blue or gray,--besides black.' mis' sykes is terribly dressy, but even she never yet got anywheres inside the rainbow, except in a bow at the chin. "'my,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, wistful, 'wouldn't it seem like heaven to be able to wear colours without bein' talked about?' "an' mis' mayor uppers--her that her husband grew well off bein' mayor, an' never'd been back to friendship village since he was put out of office, she says low:-- "'you ladies that has husbands to keep thinkin' well of you, i should think you'd think about this thing. men,' she says, 'loves the light shades.' "at that mis' toplady turned around on us, an' we see her eyes expressin' i-dees. "'ladies,' says she, impressive, 'mis' uppers is right. we hadn't ought to talk back or show mad. we ladies of the sodality had ought to be able to get our own way peaceable, just by takin' it, the way the lord give women the weapons to do.' "we see that somethin' was seethin' in her mind, but we couldn't work our way to what it was. "'ladies,' says she, an' stepped up on the wooden step to lyddy's dressmakin' shop, 'has the husbands of any one of us seen us, for twenty years, dressed in the light shades?' "i didn't hev any husband to answer for, but i could truthfully say of the rest that you'd think black an' brown an' gray an' navy had exhausted the lord's ingenuity, for all the attention they'd paid to any other colour he'd wove with. "'let's the sodality get up an evenin' party, an' hev it in post-office hall, an' invite our husbands an' buy new dresses--light shades an' some lace,' says mis' toplady, lettin' the i-dee drag her along, main strength. "mis' sykes was studyin' the fashion-plate hungry, but she stopped an' stepped up side o' mis' toplady. "'well, sir,' she said, 'i donno but 'twould help us to work the pavin' of daphne street. why, silas sykes, for one, is right down soft-hearted about clothes. he always notices which one of their waists the choir's got on. i heard him say once he wasn't goin' to church again till they bought somethin' new.' "mis' holcomb nodded. 'five years ago,' she said, 'i went up to the city with eppleby. an' i saw him _turn around_ to look after a woman. i'll never forget the sensation it give me--like i was married to a man that wasn't my husband. the woman had on a light pink dress. i know i come home an' bought a pink collar; i didn't think i could go any farther, because she was quite young. do you s'pose....' "mis' toplady pointed at lyddy's fashion-plate. 'i should go,' she says, 'just as far as my money would let me go.' "mis' uppers stood lookin' down to the walk. 'the mayor,' she says--she calls him 'the mayor' yet--'was terrible fond o' coloured neckties. he was rill partial to green ones. mebbe i didn't think enough about what that meant....' "mis' toplady came down off the step. 'every man is alike,' says she, decided. 'most of us friendship ladies thinks if we give 'em a clean roller towel we've done enough towards makin' things pretty; an' i think it's time, as wives, we took advantage of the styles.' "'an',' says mis' sykes, the president, rill dreamy for her, but firm, 'i think so, too.' "i tell you, we all walked home feelin' like we'd hed a present--me too, though i knew very well i couldn't hev a light dress, an' i didn't hev any husband. you start out thinkin' them are the two principal things, but you get a-hold o' some others, if you pay attention. still, i judged the ladies was on the right track, for men is men, say what who will. all but threat hubbelthwait. we passed the hotel an' heard him settin' in there by the bar scrapin' away on 'can a little child like me?' we took shame to him, an' yet i know we all looked at each other sort of motherly, like he _was_ some little shaver, same as he sung, an' performin' most fool. "it don't take us ladies long to do things, when our minds is made. especially it don't when mis' timothy toplady is chairman of the entertainment committee, or the doin' committee of whatever happens, like she was that time. first, we found out they was plenty enough nun's veilin' in the post-office store, cheap an' wide an' in stock an' all the light shades; an' i bought all the dresses, noons, of the clerk, so silas wouldn't suspect--me not hevin' any husband to inquire around, like they do. then we hired the post-office hall, vague, without sayin' for what--an' that pleased silas that gets the rent. an' then we give the invitations, spectacular, through the _friendship daily_ to the sodality's husbands, for the next tuesday night. we could do it that quick, not bein' dependent on dressmakers same as some. the ladies was all goin' to make their dresses themselves, an' the dresses wa'n't much to do to make. nobody bothered a very great deal about how we should make 'em, the principal thing bein' the colour; mis' toplady's was blue, like the fashion-plate; mis' holcomb's pink, like the woman in the city; mis' uppers' green, like the mayor's necktie, an' so on. i made me up a dress out o' the spare-room curtains--white, with a little blue flower in it, an' a new blue ribbon belt. but mis' sykes, she went to work an' _rented_ a dress from the city, for that one night. that much she give out about it, an' would give out no more. that woman loves a surprise. she's got a rill pleasant mind, mis' sykes has, but one that does enjoy jerkin' other people's minds up, an most anything'll do for the string. "for all we thought we hed so much time, an' it was so easy to do, the afternoon o' the party we went 'most crazy. we'd got up quite a nice little cold supper--mis' hubbelthwait had helped us, she bein' still at large, an' threat fiddlin'. we planned meat loaf an' salad an' pickles an' jelly, an' scalloped potatoes for the hot dish, an' ice cream an' cake, enough in all for thirty folks: fifteen husbands an' fifteen sodality, or approximatish. an' we planned to go to the hall in the afternoon an' take our dresses there, an' sly em' up and leave 'em, an' put 'em on after we'd got there that night, so's nobody's husbands should suspect. but when we all came in the afternoon, an' the decoratin' with greens an' festoons of cut paper an' all was to do, there mis' toplady, that was to make scalloped potatoes, hadn't got her sleeves in yet, an' she was down to the hall tryin' to do both; an' mis' holcomb, that was to make the salad dressing, had got so nervous over her collar that she couldn't tell which edge she'd cut for the top. but the rest of us was ready, an' mis' sykes's dress had come from the city, an' we all, mis' toplady an' mame too, hed our dresses in boxes in the post-office hall kitchen cupboards. an' we done the decoratin', an' it looked rill lovely, with the long tables laid ready at each side, an' room for bein' a party left in between 'em. "mis' toplady an' mis' sykes an' mis' holcomb left the hall about five o'clock to go home an' lay out silas's an' timothy's an' eppleby's best clothes for 'em--the rest hed done it at noon. mis' hubbelthwait was goin' over to the hotel to get some dishes out, an' i went with her to help. the bar was to the back, where threat set an' slep' an' fiddled, an' mis' hubbelthwait was goin' to slip in still an' sly the dishes out to me. a good many of the hotel dishes was her individual weddin' presents, so she didn't think wrong of her conscience. "we was all five hurryin' along together, rehearsin' all we'd got to do before six-thirty, when we heard a funny sound. we listened, an' we thought they must be testin' the hose. but when we got to lyddy's shop, where the street kitters off some in a curve, we looked ahead an' we see it wasn't that. "it's an automobile," says mis' toplady. 'my land,' she says, 'it ain't only one. it's two.' "an' we see it was. there come the two of 'em, ploughin' along through the awful sand of daphne street, that was fit for no human locomotive, unless ostriches. when the proudfits are here, that's the only one in the village with an automobile, they understand the sand, and they'd put on the whole steam and tear right along through it. but strangers would go careful, for fear they'd get stuck, an' so they got it, like you do. an' them two big red cars was comin' slow, the dust like cloaks an' curtains billowin' up behind. they looked quite wild, includin' the seven folks in each one that was laughin' an' callin' out. an' by the time they'd come up to us, us four ladies of the sodality an' mis' hubbelthwait was lined up on the walk watchin' 'em. they stopped an' one of 'em hailed us, leanin' past his driver. "'i beg your pardon,' he says, 'is this the street to the best hotel?' "it was mis' toplady that answered him, rill collected. 'they's only one street in town,' says she, 'an' they's only one hotel, an' that they ain't now.' "'can you tell me how soon there will be one?' says the man. 'by dinner-time, i hope.' "we all felt kind of delicate about answerin' this, an' so mis' hubbelthwait herself spoke up. 'threat's drunk an' fiddlin', she says. 'they's no tellin' when friendship village will ever hev a hotel again.' "both automobiles was listenin' by then, an' though some of 'em laughed out sort o' rueful, not many of 'em see the funny. "'gad,' one of the men says, 'how about the bird an' the bottle we were to send back to bonner, sittin' by his tire in the desert, a ways back? don't tell us there's no place,' he says, 'where we can find dinner, twenty-one of us and the three chauf--' that word. "mis' toplady shook her head. 'they ain't a place big enough to seat twenty-one, even if they was the food to feed 'em--' she begun, an' then she stopped an' looked 'round at us, as though she was thinkin' somethin'. "'oh, come now,' says the man,--he was good-lookin' an' young, an' merry-seemin',--'oh, come now,' he said, 'i am sure that the ladies of friendship could cook things such as never man yet ate. we are sta-arving,' he says, humorous. 'can't you do something for us? we'll give you,' he winds up, genial, 'two dollars a plate for a good, home-cooking dinner for the twenty-four of us. what do you say?' "mis' toplady whirled toward us sort o' wild. 'is two dollars times twenty-four, forty-eight dollars?' says she, low. "an' we see it was, though mis' holcomb was still figurin' it out in the palm of her other hand, while we stood gettin' glances out of each other's eyes, an' sendin' 'em, give for take. we see, quick as a flash, what mis' toplady was thinkin' about. an' it was about that hall, all festooned with greens an' cut paper, an' the two long tables laid ready, an' the veal loaf an' scalloped potatoes an' ice-cream for thirty. an' when mis' sykes, that usually speaks, stood still, an' didn't say one word, but just nodded a little bit, sort o' sad, mis' toplady, that was chairman o' the entertainment committee, done like she does sometimes--she took the whole thing into her own hands an' just settled it. "'why, yes,' she says to 'em, rill pleasant, 'if you want to come up to post-office hall at half-past six,' she says, 'the friendship married ladies' cemetery improvement sodality will serve you your supper, nice as the nicest, for two dollars a head.' "'good!' the men all sings out, an' the women spats their hands soft, an' one of 'em says somethin' to the merry-seemin' man. "'oh, yes,' he says then, 'couldn't we all break into this hotel an' floss up a bit before dinner?' "mis' hubbelthwait stepped out towards 'em. "'i was thinkin' of that,' says she. 'my husband,' she says, dignified, 'is settin' in the bar--practisin' his violin. he--he does that sometimes, an' we--don't bother him. but the bar is at the back. i can let you in, still, the front way to the rooms, if you want. an' i'll be there myself to wait on you.' "an' that was what they done, somebody takin' one o' the cars back for the other car, an' the rest of us fair breakin' into a run toward post-office hall. "'my land,' says mis' toplady, almost like a groan, 'what _hev_ we done?' "it _was_ a funny thing to do, we see it afterward. but i tell you, you can't appreciate the influence o' that forty-eight dollars unless you've tried to earn money in a town the size o' friendship village. sodality hardly ever made more than five dollars to its ten-cent entertainments--an' that for a big turn-out on a dry night. an' here was the price of about nine such entertainments give us outright, an' no extra work, an' rill feet-achin' weather. i say it was more than flesh an' blood _or_ wives could stand. we done it automatic, like you contradict when it's necessary. "but there _was_ the men to reckon with. "'what'll timothy--an' silas--an' eppleby....' mis' toplady says, an' stops, some bothered an' some rill pained. "i judged, not havin' any husband to be doin' the inquirin', it wasn't polite for me to laugh. but i couldn't hardly help it, thinkin' o' them fifteen hungry men an' the supper et away from 'em, just william nilly. "mis' sykes, we remembered afterwards, never said a word, but only kep' up with us back to the hall. "back to the hall, where the rest o' the sodality was, we told 'em what we'd done--beginnin' with the forty-eight dollars, like some kind o' weapon. but i tell you, we hadn't reckoned without knowin' our hostesses, head an' heart. an' they went in pell mell, pleased an' glad as we was, an' plannin' like mad. "the first need was more food to make up that supper to somewheres near two dollars' worth--feedin' your husband is one thing an' gettin' up a two-dollar meal is another. but we collected that all in pretty sudden: leg o' lamb, left from the holcombs' dinner an' only cut off of one side; the sykes's roast o' veal, the same; three chickens for soup the libertys hed just dressed for next day company dinner; big platter of devilled eggs chipped in from mis' toplady; a jar o' doughnuts, a steamer o' cookies, a fruit-cake a year old--we just made out our list an' scattered to empty out all our pantries. "by six o'clock we was back in the hall, an' all the food with us. but nobody hed met nobody's husband yet, an' nobody wanted to. we didn't quite know how we was goin' to do, i guess--but done is done, an' to do takes care of itself. "'hadn't we ought to 'a' sent word to the men?' says mis' holcomb, for the third or fourth time. 'i sneaked around so's not to pass eppleby's office, but i declare i feel mean. he'll hev to eat sauce an' plain bread-an'-butter for his supper. an' most o' the men-folks the same. 'seems though somebody'd ought to send 'em word an' not let 'em come up here, all washed an' dressed.' "'well,' says mis' toplady, cuttin' cake with her lips shut tight an' talkin' anyway, 'i kind o' thought--leave 'em come up. i bet they'd rather be in it than out of it, every one of 'em, an' who knows they might be some supper left? an' we can all--' "an' at that mis' toplady faces round from cuttin' the cake: 'my land, my land,' she says, sort o' hushed, 'why, doin' this, we can't none of us wear our new dresses!' "an' at that we looked at each other, each one sort of accusin', an' i guess all our hearts givin' one o' them sickish thumps. an' mis' sykes, her that hed been so still, snaps back:-- "'i wondered what you thought i'd rented my dress from the city for at _three dollars a night_.' "i tell you, that made a hush in the middle of the plannin'. we'd forgot all about our own dresses, an' that was bad enough, with the hall all hired an' everything all ready, an' every chance in the world of everybody's husband's findin' out about the dresses before we could get up another sodality party, same way. but here was mis' sykes, three dollars out, an mebbe wouldn't be able to rent her dress again at all. "'i did want silas,' mis' sykes says then, wistful, 'to see me in that dress. silas an' i have been married so long,' she says, 'that i often wonder if i seem like a person to him at all. but in that dress from the city, i think i would.' "we was each an' all ready to cry, an' i dunno but we would hev done it--though we was all ready to serve, too: coffee made, potatoes pipin' hot, veal an' lamb het up an' smellin' rich, chicken soup steamin', an' all. but just that very minute we heard some of 'em comin' in the hall--an' the one 'ready' conquered the other 'ready,' like it will, an' we all made a rush, part curious an' part nerves, to peek through the little servin' window from the kitchen. "_what_ do you think we saw? it was the automobile folks, hungry an' got there first. in they'd come, women laughin', men jokin', all makin' a lark out o' the whole thing. an' if the women wasn't, every last one of 'em, wearin'--not the clothes they hed come in, but light pink an' light blue an' white an' flowered things, an' all like that. "mis' hubbelthwait burst in on us while we was lookin'. 'they hed things in their trunk at the back o' the automobile,' says she. 'they says they wanted to floss up for dinner, an' floss up they hev. they look like lyddy's fashion sheets, one an' all.' "at that mis' sykes, a-ceasin' to peek, she drops her tray on the bare floor an' begun untyin' her apron. 'quick!' she raps out, 'mis' hubbelthwait, you go an' set 'em down. an' every one o' you--into them togs of ours! here's the chance to wear 'em--here an' _now_,' she says, 'an' leave them folks see we know how to do things here in friendship village as good as the best.' "well, bein' as she had rented the dress, an' three dollars hed to be paid out anyhow, an' bein' as she was president, an' bein' as we was all hankerin' in our hearts, we didn't need much urgin'. we slammed the servin' window shut an' set chairs against both doors, an' we whisked out of our regular dresses like wild. "'oh, land--my land, the sleeves--the sleeves ain't in mine!' says mis' toplady, sort o' glazed, an' speakin' in a wail. but we encouraged her up to pin 'em in, which she done, an' it couldn't be told from stitches. poor mame holcomb's collar that wasn't on yet we turned in for her v-shape, so's her dress was low, like the best. an' mis' uppers, that was seasonin' the chicken soup like none of us could, her we took turns in dressin' in her green. an' i'd got into my spare-room curtains, somehow, just as mis' hubbelthwait come shoving at that door. "'the men--the men!' says she, painful. 'they're all out here--silas an' timothy an' eppleby an' all. they've all heard about it--the automobiles went to the post-office for their mail, an' silas told 'em enjoyable about threat, an' the automobiles told him where they was goin' to eat. an' they've come, thinkin' they's enough for all, an' they're out here now.' "mis' toplady groaned a little, agonized an' stifled, but rill firm. 'tell 'em, then,' says she, 'to come back up here, like men, an' _help_.' "then we heard a little rustle, soft an' silky an' kind o' pink-soundin', an' we looked around, an' there, from where she had been dressin' herself over behind the kitchen boiler all alone, mis' postmaster sykes stepped out. my land, if she wasn't in a white dress, a little low in the neck, an' elbow sleeves, an' all covered solid as crust with glitterin' silver spangles. "'let's tell 'em ourselves,' she says, 'come on--all of you. let's take out the first course, an' tell the men what we want 'em to do.' "we made mis' sykes go first, carryin' high the tureen of chicken soup. an' on one side of her walked mis' timothy toplady, in blue, with the wafers, an' on the other mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, in pink, with the radishes. an' neither one of 'em could hardly help lookin' at mis' sykes's dress all the way out. an' back of 'em went the rest o' the ladies, all in pink an' blue an' white an' pale green nun's veilin' that they'd made, an' carryin' the water-pitchers an' ice an' celery an' like that. an' me, i hung back in the kitchen watchin' an' lovin' 'em every one--an' almost lovin' timothy toplady an' silas sykes an' eppleby when they looked on an' saw. "mis' sykes set the soup down in front o' the merry-seemin' man for him to serve it. an' then she crossed over an' spoke to silas, an' swep' up ahead of him in that spangly dress, the other ladies followin' an' noddin' bright when they passed the men, an' motionin' 'em toward the back o' the hall. an' back the men all come into the kitchen, followin' as they was asked to do, an' orderly through bein' dazed. silas an' timothy an' eppleby was first, an' mis' sykes an' mis' toplady an' mame went up to 'em together. "i'll never forget that minute. i thought the men was goin' to burst out characteristic an' the whole time be tart, an' i shut both doors an' the servin' window careful. an' instead o' that, them three men stood there just smilin' a little an lookin' surprised an' agreeable; an' the other husbands, either takin' the cue or feelin' the same, done likewise, too. an' when mame bliss says, sort o' tremblin'--eppleby bein' the gentlest husband in friendship village, an' known to be: 'how do you like us, eppleby?' eppleby just nods an' wrinkles up his eyes an' smiles at her, like he meant lots more. an' he says, 'why didn't you never wear that dress before, mame?' "an' 'well, timothy?' says mis' toplady, sort o' masterful, an' fully expectin' to hev to master. but timothy toplady, he just rubs his hands an' looks at her sort o' wonderin', an' he says, 'blisterin' benson, you look as good as the city folks, amandy--all light, an' loose made, an' stylish--' "but silas sykes, he just stood lookin' at his wife an' lookin'. of course she _did_ hev the advantage, bein' her spangles shone so. an' silas looked at her an' looked, just as if her bein' his wife didn't make him admire her any the less. an' mis' sykes, she was rill pink an' pleased an' breathless, an' i guess she could see she seemed like a person to silas, the way she'd wanted to. "it all went off splendid. the men stayed an' dished in the kitchen an' helped carry away from the tables--the forty-eight dollars completin' their respect--an' we ladies done the servin'. an' i tell you, we served 'em with an air, 'count o' bein' well dressed, like they was, an' knowin' it. an' we knew the automobile folks appreciated it--we could tell by the way they kep' lookin' at us. but of course we all understood mis' sykes looked the best, an' we let her do all the most prominent things--bringin' in the first dish of everything an' like that, so's they could hev a good look. "when it was over, the merry-seemin' man stood up an' made a little speech o' thanks, rill courteous an' sweet, an' like he knew how to act. an' when he was through we, one an' all, nudged mis' sykes to reply, an' she done so, the two tables listenin', an' the sodality standin' in between, an' the sodality's husbands crowdin' in both kitchen doors to listen. "mis' sykes says, rill dignified, an' the light catchin' in her spangles: 'we're all very much obliged, i'm sure, for our forty-eight dollars clear. an' we think perhaps you'd like to know what the money is goin' toward. it's goin',' she says, 'towards the pavin' of the main street of our little city.' "silas sykes was lookin' out the servin' window like it was a box. 'what's that?' says he, more of him comin' out of the window, 'what's _that_ you say?' "an' they was a little wave o' moves an' murmurs all around him like when somethin' is goin' to happen an' nobody knows what; an' i know the sodality caught its breath, for, as mis' toplady always says, the dear land knows what men _will_ do. "with that up springs the merry-seemin' man, his face all beamin', an' he says loud an' clear an' drowndin' out everything else: 'hear, hear! likewise, here an' now. i move that we as one man, an' that man's automobile having lately come up the main street of friendship village--do ourself contribute to this most worthy end. get to work,' says he. 'think civic thoughts!' "he slid the last roll off its plate, an' he laid somethin' in paper money on it, an' he started it down the table. an' every man of 'em done as he done. an' i tell you, when we see mis' hubbelthwait's bread plate pilin' with bills, an' knew what it was for, we couldn't help--the whole sodality couldn't help--steppin' forwards, close to the table, an' standin' there an' holdin' our breaths. an' the men, back there in the kitchen, they hushed up when they see the money, an' they kep' hushed. land, land, it was a great minute! i like to think about it. "an' when the plate come back to the merry-seemin' man, he took it an' he come over towards us with it in his hand, an' we nudged mis' sykes to take the money. an' she just lifted up the glitter part of her skirt an' spread it out an' he dropped the whole rustlin' heap on to the spangles. an' the rest of us all clapped our hands, hard as we could, an' right while we was doin' it we heard somethin' else--deeper an' more manly than us. an' there was the men streamin' out o' the kitchen doors, an' silas sykes high in the servin' window--an' every one of 'em was clappin', too. "i tell you, we was glad an' grateful. an' we was grateful, too, when afterwards they was plenty enough supper left for the men-folks. an' when we all set down together around that table, mis' sykes at the head an' the plate o' bills for a centrepiece, mis' toplady leaned back, hot an' tired, an' seein' if both her sleeves was still pinned in place, an' she says what we was all thinkin':-- "'oh, ladies,' she says, 'we can pave streets an' dress in the light shades even if we ain't young, like the run o' the fashion-plates. ain't it like comin' to life again?' she says." xi undern i have a guest who is the best of the three kinds of welcome guests. of these some are like a new rug which, however fine and unobtrusive it be, at first changes the character of your room so that when you enter you are less conscious of the room than of the rug. some guests are like flowers on the table, leaving the room as it was save for their sweet, novel presence. and some guests are like a prized new book, unread, from which you simply cannot keep away. of these last is my guest whom my neighbour calls the new lady. my neighbour and elfa and miggy and little child and i have all been busy preparing for her. elfa has an almost pathetic fondness for "company,"--i think it is that she leads such a lonely life in the little kitchen-prison that she welcomes even the companionship of more-voices-in-the-next-room. i have tried to do what i can for elfa, but you never help people very much when you only try to do what you can. it must lie nearer the heart than that. and i perfectly understand that the magazines and trifles of finery which i give to her, and the flowers i set on the kitchen clock shelf, and the talks which, since my neighbour's unconscious rebuke, i have contrived with her, are about as effectual as any merely ameliorative means of dealing with a social malady. for elfa is suffering from a distinct form of the social malady, and not being able to fathom it, she knows merely that she is lonely. so she has borrowed fellowship from her anticipation of my guest and of those who next week will come down from the town; and i know, though she does not know, that her jars of fresh-fried cakes and cookies, her fine brown bread and her bowl of salad-dressing, are her utmost expression of longing to adjust the social balance and give to herself companionship, even a kind of household. little child to-day came, bringing me a few first sweet peas and bless-your-heart, bless-your-heart being her kitten, and as nearly pink as a cat can be and be still a cat. "to lay in the new lady's room," she remarked, bestowing these things impartially upon me. later, my neighbour came across the lawns with a plate of currant tarts and a quarter of a jelly cake. "here," she said, "i don't know whether you like tarts or not. they're more for children, i always think. i always bake 'em, and the little round child fried cakes, too, and i put frosting faces on the cookies, and such things. it makes my husband and i seem more like a family," she explained, "and that's why i always set the dining-room table. as long as we ain't any little folks running around, i always tell him that him and i would be eating meat and potatoes on the kitchen drop-leaf like savages if i didn't pretend there was more of us, and bake up for 'em." miggy alone does not take wholly kindly to the new lady idea, though i assure her that our mornings are to remain undisturbed. "of course," she observed, while in the new lady's honour she gathered up strewn papers, "i know i'll like her because she's your friend. but i don't know what folks want to visit for. don't you s'pose that's why the angels don't come back--because they know everything, and they know what a lot of extra work they'd make us?" in miggy the tribal sense seems to have run itself out. of the sanctity of the individual she discerns much; but of the wider sanctities she has no clear knowledge. most relationships she seems to regard, like the love of peter, as "drawbacks," save only her indefinite consciousness of that one who is "not quite her sister"--the little vague margaret. and this, i think, will be the leaven. perhaps it is the universal leaven, this consciousness. i was glad that the new lady was to arrive in the afternoon. sometimes i think that the village afternoon is the best time of all. it is no wonder that they used to call that time "undern." if they had not done so, the word must have grown of its own will--perhaps it did come to life with no past, an immaculate thing, so like its meaning that it could not help being here among us. i know very well that sir john mandeville and others used "undern" to mean the third hour, or about nine in the morning, but that may have been because at first not every one recognized the word. many a fairy thing wanders for a long time on earth, patiently putting up with other connotations than its own. opportunism, the subconscious mind, personality, evolution itself,--all these are still seeking their full incarnations in idea. no wonder "undern" was forced for a long while to mean morning. but nine o'clock in the morning! how, after all, was that possible? you have only to say it over--undern, undern, undern,--to be heavenly drowsy with summer afternoon. the north of england recognized this at last and put the word where it belongs; and i have, too, the authority of the lady of golden wing:-- "undern cometh after noon, golden wings will be here soon...." one can hardly stop saying that, once one is started. i should like to go on with it all down the page. i was thinking of these things as i drove to the station alone to meet the new lady. the time had taken on for me that pleasant, unlike-itself aspect which time bears in any mild excitement, so that if in the moment of reading a particularly charming letter one can remember to glance up and look the room in the face, one may catch its _other_ expression, the expression which it has when one is not looking. so now i caught this look in the village and an air of something-different-is-going-to-happen, such as we experience on holidays. next week, when the new lady's friends come down to us for two days, i dare say, if i can remember to look for it, that the village will have another expression still. yet there will be the same quiet undern--though for me it is never a commonplace time. indeed, usually i am in the most delighted embarrassment how to spend it. in the mornings now--miggy being willing--i work, morning in the true democracy being the work time; afternoon the time for recreation and the more specialized forms of service _and_ a little rest; the evening for delight, including the delight of others. not every one in the village accepts my afternoon and evening classifications. i am constantly coming on people making preserves after mid-day, and if i see a light in a kitchen window after nine at night i know that somebody is ironing in the cool of the day. but usually my division of time is the general division, save that--as in the true democracy--service is not always recognized as service. our afternoons may be spent in cutting carpet rags, or in hemming linen, or sewing articles for an imminent bazaar, and this is likely to be denominated "gettin' through little odd jobs," and accounted in a measure a self-indulgence. and if evening delight takes the form of gardening and later a flame of nasturtiums or dahlias is carried to a friend, nobody dreams that this is not a pleasant self-indulgence too, and it is so regarded. with these things true is it not as if a certain hope abroad in the world gave news of itself? near the pump pasture i came on nicholas moor--who rings the catholic bell and is interested in celluloid--and who my neighbour had told me would doubtless come to me, bringing his little sheaf of "writin's." i had not yet met him, though i had seen in the daily paper a vagrant poem or two over his name--i remember a helpless lyric which made me think of a gorgeous green and gold beetle lying on its back, unable to recover its legs, but for all that flashing certain isolated iridescent colours. my heart ached for nicholas, and when i saw him now going across the pasture his loneliness was like a gap in things, one of the places where two world-edges do not quite meet. there are so many pleasant ways to do and the boy seemed to know how to do none of them. how can he be lonely in the village? for myself, if i decide of an afternoon to take my work and pay a visit, i am in a pleasant quandary as to which way to turn. if i go to the west end of daphne street, there are at least five families among whom to choose, the other four of whom will wonder why i did not come to them. think of knowing five families in two blocks who would welcome one's coming and even feel a little flattering bitterness if one chose the other four! if i take a cross street, i am in the same difficulty. and if i wish to go to the house of one of my neighbours, my motives clash so seriously that i often sit on my porch and call to whoever chances to be in sight to come to me. do you wonder that, in town, the moment i open my address book i feel smothered? i recover and enjoy town as much as anybody, but sometimes in a stuffy coupé, hurrying to get a half-dozen of the pleasantest calls "done," i surprise a companion by saying: would now that it were undern on daphne street! i told this to the new lady as we drove from the station. the new lady is an exquisite little someone, so little that it is as if she had been drawn quickly, in a single delicate curving line, and then left, lest another stroke should change her. she understands the things that i say in the way that i mean them; she is the way that you always think the people whom you meet are going to be, though they so seldom are; like may, she is expectation come alive. what she says fits in all the crannies of what you did not say and have always known, or else have never thought of before and now never can forget. she laughs when she should laugh, and never, never when somebody else should laugh alone. when you tell her that you have walked eight miles and back, she says "_and back!_" with just the proper intonation of homage. she never tells a story upon the heels of your own little jest so swiftly that it cannot triumphantly escape. when you try to tell her something that you have not quite worked out, she nods a little and you see that she meant it before you did. she enters every moment by its gate and not over its wall, though she frequently wings her way in instead of walking. also, she is good to look at and her gowns are as meet as the clouds to the sky--and no less distracting than the clouds are at their very best. there is no possible excuse for my saying so much about her, but i like to talk of her. and i like to talk to her as i did when we left the station and i was rambling on about undern. the new lady looked about with a breath of content. "no wonder," she said, "you like to pretend birthday, in new york." it is true that when i am there where, next to the village, i like best to live, i am fond of this pretence. it is like the children's game of "choosing" before shop windows, only it is extensive and not, as cream puffs and dolls and crumpets in the windows dictate to the children, purely intensive. seeing this man and that woman in the subway or the tea-room or the café or the car, i find myself wondering if it is by any chance their birthdays; and if it is, i am always wishing to deal out poor little gifts at which i fancy they would hardly look. to the lithe idle blond woman, elbows on table; to the heavy-lidded, engagement-burdened gentlewoman; to the busy, high-eyebrowed man in a cab; to the tired, slow-winking gentleman in his motor; to the thick-handed labourer hanging to his strap, i find myself longing to distribute these gifts: a breakfast on our screened-in porch in the village, with morning-glories on the table; a full-throated call of my oriole--a june call, not the isolated reminiscent call of august; an hour of watering the lawn while robins try to bathe in the spray; a morning of pouring melted paraffin on the crimson tops of moulds of currant jelly; a yellow afternoon of going with me to "take my work and stay for supper." i dare say that none of my chosen beneficiaries would accept; but if i could pop from a magic purse a crop of caps and fit folk, willy nilly, i wonder if afterward, even if they remembered nothing of what had occurred, they might not find life a little different. "if it was my birthday," said the new lady, "i would choose to be driven straight away through that meadow, as if i had on wings." that is the way she is, the new lady. lacking wings of her own she gives them to many a situation. straightway i drove down into the pump pasture and across it, springy soil and circus-trodden turf and mullein stalks and ten-inch high oak trees. "let's let down the bars," said the new lady, "and drive into that next meadow. if it _is_ a sea, as it looks, it will be glad of your company." it was not a sea, for as we drove through the lush grass the yellow and purple people of the meadow came marching to meet us, as dignified as garden flowers, save that you knew, all the time, that wild hearts were beating beneath the rainbow tassels. it was a meadow with things to say, but with finger on lip--as a meadow should be and as a spirit must be. the meadow seemed to wish to say: "it is all very pleasant for you there in the village to admire one another's wings, but the real romance is in the flight." i wondered if it were not so that it had happened--that one day a part of the village had got tired waiting, and had broken off and become something free, of which the meadow was the body and its secret was the spirit. but then the presence of the new lady always sets me wondering things like this. "why," i said to her suddenly, "spring has gone! i wonder how that happened. i have been waiting really to get hold of spring, and here it is june." "june-and-a-half," assented the new lady, and touched the lines so that we came to a standstill in the shade of a cottonwood. "this way," she said--and added softly, as one who would not revive a sadness, her own idea of the matter. "where did spring die? i did not hear her go down the soft lane she painted. all flower still she moved among her emblems on the hill touching away their burden of old snow. was it on some great down where long winds flow that the wild spirit of spring went out to fill the eyes of summer? did a daffodil lift the pale urn remote where she lies low? "oh, not as other moments did she die, that woman-season, outlined like a rose. before the banner of autumn's scarlet bough the summer fell; and winter, with a cry, wed with march wind. spring did not die like those; but vaguely, as if love had prompted, 'now.'" the new lady's theory does not agree with that of little child. i am in doubt which to accept. but i like to think about both. and when the new lady had said the faint requiem, we drove on again and the next moment had almost run down nicholas moor, lying face downward in the lush grass. i recognized him at once, but of course the new lady did not do so, and she leaned from the cart, thoroughly alarmed at the boy's posture and, as he looked up, at his pallor. "oh, what is the matter?" she cried, and her voice was so heavenly pitying that one would have been willing to have most things the matter only to hear her. nicholas moor scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and stood abashed, looking as strangely detached from the moment as if he had fallen from a frame and left the rest of the picture behind. "nothing. i just like to be here," he was surprised into saying. the new lady sat down and smiled. and her smile was even more captivating than had been her late alarm. "so do i," she told him heartily. "so do i. what do you like about it, _best_?" i do not think that any one had ever before spoken to nicholas so simply, and he answered, chord for chord. "i guess--i guess i like it just on account of its being the way it is," he said. "that is a very, very nice reason," the new lady commented. "again, so do i." we left him, i remember, looking about as if he were seeing it all for the first time. as we drove away i told my new lady about nicholas, and she looked along her own thought and shook her head. "there must be hundreds of them," she said, "and some are poets. but most of them are only lonesome. i wonder which nicholas is?" we lingered out-of-doors as long as we might, because the touch of the outdoors was so companioning that to go indoors was a distinct good-by. is it so with you that some days, be they never so sunny, yet walk with you in a definite reserve and seem to be looking somewhere else; while other days come to you like another way of being yourself and will not let you go? i know that some will put it down to mood and not to the day at all; but, do what i will, i cannot credit this. it was after five o'clock when we drove into the village, and all daphne street was watering its lawns. of those who were watering some pretended not to see us, but i understood that this they accounted the etiquette due to a new arrival. some bowed with an excess of cordiality, and this i understood to be the pleasant thought that they would show my guest how friendly we all are. and some laid down the hose and came to the sidewalk's edge to meet the new lady then and there. of these were mis' postmaster sykes an' mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss and my neighbour. "pleased to meet you, i'm sure," mis' postmaster sykes said graciously to the new lady. "i must say it seems good to see a strange face now an' then. i s'pose you feel all travel dust an' mussed up?" and at mis' holcomb's hitching post:-- "pleased to meet you," said mis' holcomb. "i was saying to eppleby that i wondered if you'd come. eppleby says, 'i donno, but like enough they've went for a ride somewheres.' lovely day, ain't it? been to the cemetery?" i said that we had not been there yet, and, "since it's kept up it makes a real nice thing to show folks," mis' holcomb said. "i s'pose you wouldn't come inside for a bite of supper, would you?" my neighbour--bless her!--had on a black wool dress to do honour to my guest. "it's nice for the neighbours to see company comin' and goin'," she said cordially, "though of course we don't have any of the extra work. but i guess everybody likes extra work of _this_ kind." and as we drove away:-- "good-by," she cried, "i hope you'll have a good night's rest and a good breakfast." when i looked at the new lady i saw her eyes ever so slightly misted. "spring didn't die," she said--as little child had said. "spring knew how to keep alive. it got down in these people's hearts." yes, the new lady is a wholly satisfactory guest. she even pretended not to notice peter's father who, as we alighted, came singing by, and bowed to us, his barren old face lighted with a smile, as a vacant room is lighted, revealing the waste. if i had some one staying with me who had smiled at peter's father or--at any one, or who did not see the village as it is, i think i should be tempted to do as my neighbour did to me that morning: pick three carnation pinks for her and watch her go away. xii the way the world is was it not inevitable that poor, lonely nicholas moor should have sought out my new lady? a night or two after her arrival he saw her again, at a supper in the church "lecture-room." he was bringing in a great freezer of ice-cream and when she greeted him he had all but dropped the freezer. then a certain, big obvious deacon whose garden adjoined my own had come importantly and snatched the burden away, and the boy had stood, shamefast, trying to say something; but his face was lighted as at a summons. so the new lady had divined his tragedy, the loneliness which his shyness masked as some constant plight of confusion. "come and see me sometime," she had impulsively bidden him. "do you know where i am staying?" did he know that! since he had seen her in the meadow had he known anything else? and after some days of hard trying he came one night, arriving within the dusk as behind a wall. even in the twilight, when he was once under the poplars, he did not know what way to look. to seem to look straight along the road was unnatural. to seem to look out across the opposite fields was hypocrisy. to look at the house which held the new lady was unthinkable. so, as he went in at the gate and up the fern-bordered walk, he examined the back of his hand--near, and then a little farther away. as he reached the steps he was absorbedly studying his thumb. from a place of soft light, shed through a pink box shade on the table, and of scattered willow chairs and the big leaves of plants, the new lady came toward him. "you did come!" she said. "i thought you wouldn't, really." with the utmost effort nicholas detached one hand from his hat brim and gave it her. from head to foot he was conscious, not of the touch of her hand, little and soft, but of the bigness and coarseness of his own hand. "i hated to come like everything," he said. at this of course she laughed, and she went back to her willow chair and motioned him to his. he got upon it, crimson and wretched. "as much as that!" she observed. "you know i wanted to come awfully, too," he modified it, "but i dreaded it--like sixty. i--i can't explain...." he stumbled. "don't," said the new lady, lightly, and took pity on him and rang a little bell. she thought again how fine and distinguished he was, as he had seemed to her on the day when she had first spoken to him. he sat staring at her, trying to realize that he was on the veranda with her, hearing the sound of the little bell she had rung. he had wanted something like this, wistfully, passionately. miserable as he was, he rested in the moment as within arms. and the time seemed distilled in that little silver bell-sound and the intimacy of waiting with her for some one to come. he knew that some one with a light footfall did come to the veranda. he heard the new lady call her elfa. but he saw only her hands, plump and capable and shaped like his own, moving among the glasses. after which his whole being became absorbed in creditably receiving the tall, cool tumbler on the tray which the capable hands held out to him. a period of suspended intelligence ensued, until he set the empty glass on the table. then the little maid had gone, and the new lady, sipping her own glass, was talking to him. "you were lying on the grass that day," she said, "as if you understood grass. not many do understand about grass, and almost nobody understands the country. people say, 'come, let us go into the country,' and when they get there is it the country they want at all? no, it is the country sports, the country home,--everything but the real country. they play match games. they make expeditions, climb things in a stated time, put in a day at a stated place. i often think that they must go home leaving the country aghast that they could have come and gone and paid so little heed to it. presently we are going to have some charming people out here who will do the same thing." so she talked, asking him nothing, even her eyes leaving him free. it seemed to him, tense and alert and ill at ease as he listened, that he, too, was talking to her. from the pressing practicalities, the self-important deacon, the people who did not trouble to talk to him, his world abruptly escaped, and in that world he walked, an escaped thing too, forgetful even of the little roll of verses which he had dared to bring. yet when she paused, he looked out at her shrinkingly from under his need to reply. he did not look at her face, but he looked at her hands, so little that each time he saw them they were a new surprise and alien to him. he looked away from them to the friendliness of her smile. and when he heard himself saying detached, irrelevant things, he again fell to studying one of his own hands, big and coarse and brown. oh, he thought, the difference between her and him was so hopelessly the difference in their hands. in an absurdly short time the need to be gone was upon him; but of this he could not speak, and he sat half unconscious of what she was saying, because of his groping for the means to get away. clearly, he must not interrupt her to say that he must go. neither could he reply to what she said by announcing his intention. and yet when he answered what she said, straightway her exquisite voice went on with its speech to him. how, he wondered, does anybody ever get away from anywhere? if only something would happen, so that he could slip within it as within doors, and take his leave. something did happen. by way of the garden, and so to a side door, there arrived those whose garden adjoined,--the big, obvious, self-important deacon, and behind him three light gowns. the little maid elfa came showing them through the house, in the pleasant custom of the village. and when the new lady, with pretty, expected murmurings, rose to meet them, nicholas got to his feet confronting the crisis of saying good-by, and the moment closed upon him like a vise. he heard his voice falter among the other voices, he saw himself under the necessity to take her hand and the deacon's hand, and the hands, so to speak, of the three light gowns; and this he did as in a kind of unpractised bewildering minuet. and then he found his eyes on a level with eyes that he had not seen before--blue eyes, gentle, watching, wide--and a fresh, friendly little face under soft hair. it was elfa, taking away the empty glasses. and the boy, in his dire need to ease the instant, abruptly and inexplicably held out his hand to her too. she blushed, sent a frightened look to the new lady, and took the hand in hers that was plump and capable, with its strong, round wrist. and the little maid, being now in an embarrassment like his own, the two hands clung for a moment, as if they had each the need. "good night," she said, trembling. "good night," said the new lady, very gently. "oh, _good night_!" burst from the boy as he fled away. it was elfa who admitted him at his next coming. the screened porch was once more in soft light from the square rose shade, and the place had the usual pleasant, haunted air of the settings of potentialities. as if potentiality were a gift of enchantment to human folk. the new lady was not at home, elfa told him, in her motherly little heart pitying him. and at the news he sat down, quite simply, in the chair in which he had sat before. he must see her. it was unthinkable that she should be away. to-night he had meant to have the courage to leave with her his verses. on the willow table lay her needlework. it was soft and white beyond the texture of most clouds, and she had wrought on it a pattern like the lines on a river. as his eyes rested on it, nicholas could fancy it lying against her white gown and upon it her incomparable hands. some way, she seemed nearer to him when he was not with her than when, with her incomparable hands and her fluent speech, she was in his presence. when she was not with him, he could think what to say to her. when he stood before her--the thought of his leave-taking on that veranda seized upon him, so that he caught his breath in the sharp thrust of mortified recollection, and looked away and up. his eyes met those of elfa, who was quietly sitting opposite. "how they must all have laughed at me. you too!" he said. "why?" she asked. "that last time i was here. shaking hands that way," he explained. "i didn't laugh," she unexpectedly protested; "i cried." he looked at her. and this was as if he were seeing her for the first time. "_cried?_" he repeated. "nobody ever shakes hands with me," elfa told him. he stared at her as she sat on the edge of her chair, her plump hands idle on her apron. "no," he admitted, "no, i don't suppose they do. i didn't think--" but he had not thought of her at all. "by the door all day i let in hand-shakes," she said, "an' then i let 'em out again. but i don't get any of 'em for me." that, nicholas saw, was true enough. even he had been mortified because he had taken her hand. "once," elfa said, "i fed a woman at the back door. an' when she went she took hold o' my hand, thankful. an' then you done it too--like it was a mistake. that's all, since i worked out. i don't know folks outside much, only some that don't shake hands, 'count of seemin' ashamed to." "i know," said nicholas. "sometimes," she went on, "folks come here an' walk in to see _her_ an' they don't shake. ain't it funny--when folks can an' don't? when they come from the city to-morrow, the whole house'll shake hands, but me. once i went to prayer-meetin' an' i hung around waitin' to see if somebody wouldn't. but they didn't--any of 'em. it was rainin' outside an' i guess they thought i come with somebody's rubbers." nicholas looked at her a little fearfully. it had seemed to him that in a great world of light he had always moved in a little hollow of darkness and detachment. were there, then, other hollows like that? places to which outstretched hands never penetrate? a great understanding possessed him, and he burst out in an effort to express it. "you're a funny girl," he said. she flushed, and suddenly lifted one hand and looked at it. nicholas watched her now intently. she studied the back of her hand, turned it, and sat absorbedly examining her little thumb. and nicholas felt a sudden sense of understanding, of gladness that he understood. as he felt when he was afraid and wretched, so elfa was feeling now. he leaned toward her. "don't feel afraid," he said gently. she shook her head. "i don't," she said; "i don't, truly. i guess that's why i stayed here now. she won't be back till ten--i ought to have said so before. you--you won't want to wait so long." he rose at once. and now, being at his ease, his head was erect, his arms naturally fallen, his face as confident and as occupied by his spirit as when he lay alone in the meadows. "well, sir," he said, "let's shake hands again!" she gave him her hand and, in their peculiarly winning upward look, her eyes--blue, wide, watchful, with that brooding mother watchfulness of some women, even in youth. and her hand met his in the clasp which is born of the simple, human longing of kind for kind. "good-by," she answered his good-by, and they both laughed a little in a shyness which was a way of delight. in the days to follow there flowed in the boy's veins a tide of novel sweetness. and now his thoughts eluded one another and made no chain, so that when he tried to remember what, on that first evening, the new lady and he had talked about, there came only a kind of pleasure, but it had no name. everything that he had to do pressed upon him, and when he could get time he was away to the meadow, looking down on the chimneys of that house, and swept by a current that was like a singing. and always, always it was as if some one were with him. there came a night when he could no longer bear it, when his wish took him to itself and carried him with it. those summer dusks, warm yellow with their moon and still odorous of spring, were hard to endure alone. since the evening with her, nicholas had not seen the new lady save when, not seeing him, she had driven past in a phaëton. at the sight of her, and once at the sight of elfa from that house, a faintness had seized him, so that he had wondered at himself for some one else, and then with a poignancy that was new pain, new joy, the new life, had rejoiced that he was himself. so, when he could no longer bear it, he took his evening way toward the row of poplars, regretting the moonlight lest by it they should see him coming. and to-night he had with him no verses, but only his longing heart. he had no intimation of the guests, for the windows at that house were always brightly lighted, and until he was within the screened veranda the sound of voices did not reach him. then from the rooms there came a babel of soft speech and laughter, and a touch of chords; and when he would have incontinently retreated, the new lady crossed the hall and saw him. she came to the doorway and greeted him, and nicholas looked up in the choking discomfort of sudden fear. she was in a gown that was like her needlework, mysteriously fashioned and intricate with shining things which made her infinitely remote. the incomparable little hands were quite covered with jewels. it was as if he had come to see a spirit and had met a woman. "how good of you to come again," she said. "come, i want my friends to meet you." her friends! that quick crossing of words within there, then, meant the presence of her friends from the city. "i couldn't! i came for a book--i'll get it some other time. i've got to go now!" nicholas said. then, "bettina--bettina!" some one called from within, and a man appeared in the hallway, smiled at sight of the new lady, dropped his glass at sight of nicholas, bowed, turned away--oh, how should he know that her name was bettina when nicholas had not known! this time he did not say good night at all. this time he did not look at his great hand, which was trembling, but he got away, mumbling something, his retreat graciously covered by the new lady's light words. and, the sooner to be gone and out of the moonlight that would let them see him go, he struck blindly into the path that led to the side gate of the garden. the mortification that chains spirit to flesh and tortures both held him and tortured him. for a breath he imagined himself up there among them all, his hands holding his hat, imagined having to shake hands with them: and somehow this way of fellowship, this meeting of hands outstretched for hands, seemed, with them, the supreme ordeal, the true symbol of his alien state from them and from the new lady. no doubt she understood him, but for the first time nicholas saw that this is not enough. for the first time he saw that she was as far away from him as were the others. how easy, nicholas thought piteously, those people in her house all found it to act the way they wanted to! their hands must be like her hands.... he got through the garden and to the side gate. and now the old loneliness was twofold upon him because he had known what it is to reach from the dark toward the light; yet when he saw that at the gate some one was standing, he halted in his old impulse to be on guard, hunted by the fear that this would be somebody alien to him. then he saw that it was no one from another star, but elfa. "oh...." he said, and that, too, was what she said, but he did not hear. not from another star she came, but from the deep of the world where nicholas felt himself alone. "i--was just going away," he explained. for assent she stepped a little back, saying nothing. but when nicholas would have passed her it was as if the immemorial loneliness and the seeking of forgotten men innumerable stirred within him in the ache of his heart, in the mere desperate wish to go to somebody, to be with somebody, to have somebody by the hand. he turned upon elfa almost savagely. "shake hands!" he said. obediently she put out her hand, which of itself stayed ever so briefly, within his. he held it, feeling himself crushing it, clinging to it, being possessed by it. her hand was, like his, rough from its work, and it was something alive, something human, something that answered. and instantly it was not elfa alone who was there companioning him, but the dark was quick with presences, besieging him, letting him know that no one alive is alone, that he was somehow one of a comrade company, within, without, encompassing. and the boy was caught up by the sweet will outside his own will and he never knew how it was that he had elfa in his arms. "come here. come here...." he said. to elfa, in her loneliness threaded by its own dream, the moment, exquisite and welcome as it was, was yet as natural as her own single being. but to the boy it was not yet the old miracle of one world built from another. it was only the answer to the groping of hands for hands, the mere human call to be companioned. and the need to reassure her came upon him like the mantle of an elder time. "don't feel afraid," he said. her eyes gave him their winning upward look, and it was as if their mother watchfulness answered him gravely:-- "i don't. i don't, truly." and at this she laughed a little, so that he joined her; and their laughter together was a new delight. across the adjoining lawn nicholas could see in the moonlight the moving figure of the big deacon, a light gown or two attending. a sudden surprising sense of safety from them overswept the boy. what if they did come that way! what, he even thought, if those people in the house were to come by? somehow, the little hollow of dark in which he had always walked in the midst of light was as light as the rest of the world, and he was not afraid. and all this because elfa did not stir in his arms, but was still, as if they were her harbour. and then nicholas knew what they both meant. "elfa!" he cried, "do you...?" "i guess i must...." she said, and knew no way to finish that. "love me?" said nicholas, bold as a lion. "i meant that too," elfa said. between the new lady's house and the big, obvious deacon's lawn the boy stood, silent, his arms about the girl. so this was the way the world is, people bound together, needing one another, wanting one another, stretching out their hands.... "why, it was _you_ i wanted!" nicholas said wonderingly. xiii householdry "after supper" in the village is like another room of the day. on these summer nights we all come out to our porches to read the daily paper, or we go to sit on the porch of a neighbour, or we walk about our lawns in excesses of leisure, giving little twitches to this green and to that. "in our yards" we usually say. of these some are so tiny that the hammocks or the red swinging-chairs find room on the planting spaces outside the walks, and there men smoke and children frolic and call across the street to one another. and this evening, as i went down daphne street to post my letters, i saw in process the occasional evening tasks which i have noted, performed out-of-doors: at the sykeses' cucumbers in preparation for to-morrow's pickles; a bushel of over-ripe cherries arrived unexpectedly at the herons' and being pitted by hand; a belated needle-task of mis' holcomb's finishing itself in the tenuous after-light. this fashion of taking various employments into the open delights me. if we have peas to shell or beans to string or corn to husk, straightway we take them to the porch or into the yard. this seems to me to hold something of the grace of the days in the joyous garde, or on the grounds of old châteaux where they embroidered or wound worsted in woodland glades, or of colonial america, where we had out our spinning wheels under the oaks. when i see a great shining boiler of gasoline carried to the side yard for the washing of delicate fabrics, i like to think of it as done out-of-doors for the charm of it as much as for the safety. so nausicaa would have cleansed with gasoline! it was sight of the old aunt effie sewing a seam in mis' holcomb's dooryard which decided me to go to see miggy. for i would not willingly be where aunt effie is, who has always some tragedy of gravy-scorching or dish-breaking to tell me. i have been for some time promising to go to see miggy in her home, and this was the night to do so, for the new lady went home to-day and i have been missing her sorely. there is a kind of minus-new lady feeling about the universe. at the same moment that i decided for miggy, peter rose out of the ground. i wonder if he can have risen a very little first? but that is one of those puzzles much dwelt upon by the theologians, and i will not decide. perhaps the thought of miggy is a mighty motive on which peter's very being is conditioned. anyway, there he was, suddenly beside me, and telling me some everyday affair of how little use in the cannery were shorty burns and tony thomas and dutchie wade, whose houses we were passing. and to his talk of shop i responded by inviting him to go with me to see miggy. would he go? he smiled his slow smile, with that little twist of mouth and lifting of brow. "this is like finding an evening where there wasn't one before," he said. the little house where miggy lives has a copper beech in the dooryard--these red-leaved trees seem to be always in a kind of hush at their own difference. the house is no-colour, with trimmings of another no-colour for contrast, and the little front porch looks like something that has started to run out the front door and is being sternly snatched backward. the door stood ajar--no doubt for the completion of this transaction--and no one was about. we rapped, for above the bell push was a legend of aunt effie's inscribing, saying: "bell don't ring." for a moment our summons was unanswered. then miggy called from upstairs. "i'll be down in a minute," she said. "go right in, both of you, and wait for me--will you?" to take the cards of one's visitors from a butler of detached expression or from a maid with inquisitive eyelashes is to know nothing of the charm of this custom of ours of peeping from behind an upper curtain where we happen to be dressing, and alone in the house, at the ringing of the doorbell, and of calling down to a back which we recognize an informal "oh, go right in and wait for me a minute, will you?" in this habit there is survival of old tribal loyalties and hospitalities; for let the back divined below be the back of a stranger, that is to say, of a barbarian, and we stay behind our curtains, silent, till it goes away. in the sitting room at miggy's house a little hand lamp was burning, the fine yellow light making near disclosures of colour and form, and farther away formulating presences of shadow. aunt effie had been at her sewing, and there were yards of blue muslin billowing over a sunken arm-chair and a foam of white lining on the brussels-covered couch. the long blue cotton spread made the big table look like a fat delft sugar bowl, and the red curtains were robbed of crude colour and given an obscure rosy glow. a partly finished waist disguised the gingerbread of the what-not, one forgot the carpet, the pictures became to the neutral wall what words which nobody understands are to ministering music. and on the floor before the lounge lay little child and bless-your-heart, asleep. at first i did not see the child. it was peter who saw her. he stooped and lifted her, the kitten still in her arms, and instead of saying any of the things a woman might have said, peter said _"well...._" with a tenderness in his voice such as women can give and more. for a man's voice-to-a-child gets down deeper than happiness. i suppose it is that the woman has always stayed with the child in the cave or the tent or the house, while the man has gone out to kill or to conquer or to trade; and the ancient crooning safety is still in the woman's voice, and the ancient fear that he may not come back to them both is in the voice of the man. when peter lifted little child in his arms, i wished that miggy had been there to hear. "what's it dreaming about?" peter said. "'bout miggy," said little child sleepily, and she snuggled in peter's coat collar. "dream about peter too!" peter commanded. "well, _i_ will," promised little child o' dreams, and drifted off. peter sank awkwardly down to the floor and held her so, and he sat there stroking bless-your-heart and looking as if he had forgotten me, save that, "shorty burns and tony thomas and dutchie wade that i was telling you about," he remarked once irrelevantly, "_they've_ each got a kiddie or so." miggy came downstairs and, "i'm a surprise," she said in the doorway, and stood there in a sheer white frock--a frock which said nothing to make you look, but would not let you look away; and it had a little rhyme of lace on this end and on that. it was the frock that she had made herself--she told me so afterward, but she did not mention it before peter, and i liked her the better for that. when i hear women boast of these things i always wonder why, then and there, i should not begin to recite a sonnet i have turned, so as to have a hand in things. to write an indifferent sonnet is much less than to make a frock which can be worn, but yet i should dislike infinitely to volunteer even so little as a sonnet or a quatrain. in any case, it would be amazing taste for me to do so; while "i made it myself" i hear everywhere in the village, especially in the presence of the eligible. but i dare say that this criticism of mine is conditioned by the fact that my needle-craft cell got caught in the primal protozoan ooze and did not follow me. "miggy! oh, miggery!" said peter, softly. he had made this name for a sort of superlative of her. "like me?" inquired miggy. i wonder if even the female atom does not coquette when the sun strikes her to shining in the presence of her atom lord? you know that low, emphatic, unspellable thing which may be said by the throat when a thing is liked very much? when one makes it, it feels like a vocal dash in vocal italics. peter did that, very softly. "well," said miggy, "i feel that dressed-up that i might be cut out of paper. what _are_ you doing down there, peter?" he glanced down mutely, and miggy went round the table and saw what he held. "why," she said, "that great heavy girl, peter. give her to me." miggy bent over peter, with her arms outstretched for the child. and peter looked up at her and enjoyed the moment. "she's too heavy for you to lift," he said, with his occasional quiet authority. "i'll put her where you want her." "well, it's so hot upstairs," miggy hesitated. "it's past her bedtime, but i hate to take her up there." "undress her down here," said i. "the delft sugar bowl shuts you off a fine dressing-room. and let her sleep for a while on the couch." so miggy went for the little nightgown, and peter, with infinite pains, got to his feet, and detached bless-your-heart and deposited her on the table, where she yawned and humped her back and lay down on an unfinished sleeve and went to sleep again. and when miggy came down, she threw a light quilt and a pillow near the couch and sat behind the table and held out her arms. "now!" she said to peter, and to me she said, "i thought maybe you'd spread her up a bed there on the couch." "let peter," said i. "i've another letter i ought to have written. if i may, i'll write that here while you undress her." "well," said miggy, "there's some sheets of letter-paper under the cover of the big bible. and the ink--i guess there's some in the bottle--is on top of the organ. and the pen is there behind the clock. and you'd ought to find a clean envelope in that pile of newspapers. i think i saw one there the other day. you spread up her bed then, peter." i wrote my letter, and peter went at the making up of the lounge, and miggy sat behind the table to undress little child. and little child began waking up. it touched me infinitely that she who in matters of fairies and visionings is so wise and old should now, in her sleepyhood, be just a baby again. "i--_won't_--go--bed," she said. "oh," said miggy, "yes. don't you feel all the little wingies on your face? they're little dream wings, and the dreams are getting in a hurry to be dreamed." "i do' know those dreams," said little child, "i do' _want_ those dreams. where's bless-your-heart?" "dreaming," said miggy, "all alone. goodness, i believe you've got a little fever." peter stopped flopping the quilt aimlessly over the lounge and turned, and miggy laid the back of her hand on little child's cheek and beneath her chin. the man watched her anxiously as, since the world began, millions of men have looked down at this mysterious pronouncement of the woman. "she has?" he said. "she'd ought not to have any milk, then, had she?" he added vaguely. it seemed to me that miggy must have paused for a moment to like peter for this wholly youthful, masculine eagerness to show that he knew about such things. "i'll fix her something to take," said miggy, capably. "no, dear. the other arm. straighten elbow." "i want my shoes an' stockin's on in bed," little child observed. she was sitting up, her head drooping, her curls fastened high with a hairpin of miggy's. "an' i want my shirtie on. an' _all_ my clothes. i won't go bed if you don't." miggy laughed. "bless-your-heart hasn't got her clothes on," she parried. "ain't she got her furs on any more?" demanded little child, opening her eyes. "she has, too. she has not, too, took a bath. an' i won't have no bath," she went on. "i'm too old for 'em." at that she would have bless-your-heart in her arms, and there was some argument arising from her intention to take the kitten in one hand all the way through her nightgown sleeve. and by this time sleepyhood tears were near. "_don't_ curl your toes under so," said miggy, struggling with a shoe. "peter, do go on. you'll never have it done." whereat peter flapped the quilt again; and-- "i will curl my toes up. that's what i want to do. i _want_ to curl 'em up!" said little child. and now the sleepyhood tears were very near. "goodness," said miggy, suddenly, "to-morrow is sunday. i'll have to do her hair up for curls. peter!" she cried, "stop waving that quilt, and tear me off a strip of that white lining there." "yes, _i'll_ have curls," said little child, unexpectedly, "because that is so becunning to me." but she was very sleepy, and when peter had been sent for the brush from the kitchen shelf, her head was on miggy's shoulder, and miggy looked at peter helplessly. "give her to me," said peter, and took the child and laid the kitten at large upon the floor; and then, holding little child's head in the hollow of his arm, he sat down before miggy, leaning toward her, and all the child's soft brown hair lay on his sleeve. i should have liked to watch them then. and i should have liked calliope and mis' toplady and my neighbour to see them--those three who of all the village best understood mystery. i know that peter did not take his eyes from miggy's face as she brushed and wound the curls. how could he?--and miggy, "sweet as boughs of may" in that white frock, her look all motherly intent upon her task. she was very deft, and she had that fine mother-manner of caring for the child with her whole hand instead of tipsifingers. i would see a woman infinitely delicate in the touching of flowers or tea-cups or needlework, but when she is near a child, i want her to have more than delicacy. i was amazed at miggy's gentleness and her pretty air of accustomedness. and when little child stirred, miggy went off into some improvised song about a little black dog that got struck with a wagon and went ki--yi--ki--yi--_ad infinitum_, and miggy seemed to me to have quite the technical mother-air of tender abstraction. "how dark her hair is growing," she said. "it's just the colour of yours," said peter, "and the little curls on the edges. they're like yours, too." "my hair!" miggy said deprecatingly. "you've got rather nice hair, peter, if _only_ it wouldn't stick up that way at the back." "i know it sticks up," peter said contritely. "i do every way to make it stay down. but it won't." "it makes you look funny," observed miggy, frankly. "well," he told her, "if you wouldn't ever make me go 'way from you, you wouldn't ever need to see the back of my head." "that would be just what would turn your head," she put it positively. "peter, doesn't your arm ache, holding her so?" he looked down at his arm to see, and, "i wouldn't care if it did," he replied, in some surprise. "no. it feels good. oh, miggy--do you do this every night?" "i don't always curl her hair," said miggy, "but i always put her to bed. if ever aunt effie undresses her, she tells her she _may_ die before morning, so she'd better say her prayer, pretty. goodness, she hasn't said her prayer yet, either." "isn't she too sleepy?" asked peter. "yes," miggy answered; "but she feels bad in the morning if she doesn't say it. you know she thinks she says her prayer to mother, and that mother waits to hear her...." miggy looked up fleetingly at her mother's picture on the wall--one of those pale enlargements of a photograph which tell you definitely that the subject is dead. "i do' want any other curls on me," announced little child, suddenly. "just one more, dear," miggy told her, "and then we're through. turn her head a little, peter." "no," said little child. "now i'm all curly." and, "yes, precious. be still on peter's arm just a minute more," said miggy at the same time. and, "if you say anything more, i'll kiss you," said peter, to whom it might concern. "kiss _me_?" said little child. "i won't be." "somebody's got to be," said peter, with decision. "now, our prayer," ruled miggy suddenly, and rose. "come, dear." peter looked up in miggy's face. "let her be here," he said. "let her be here." he lifted little child so that she knelt, and her head drooped on his shoulder. he had one arm about her and the other hand on the pink, upturned soles of her feet. the child put out one hand blindly for miggy's hand. so miggy came and stood beside peter, and together they waited for the little sleepy voice. it came with disconcerting promptness. "now--i--lay--me--down--to--sleep--for--jesus'--sake--amen," prayed little child in one breath. "no, sweetheart," miggy remonstrated, with her alluring emphasis on "sweet." "say it right, dear." "now i lay me--is bless-your-heart sayin' hers?" demanded little child. "couldn't you get along without her, when you're so sleepy?" miggy coaxed. "mustn't skip nights," little child told her. "bless-your-heart might die before morning." so miggy found bless-your-heart under the couch, and haled her forth, and laid her in little child's arms. and peter put his face close, close to little child's, and shut his eyes. "now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep, if i should die before i wake, i pray the lord my soul to take who'll i bless to-night?" said little child. "aunt effie," miggy prompted. "bless aunt effie," said little child, "and miggy and bless-your-heart and new auntie" (she meant me. think of her meaning me!) "and the man that gave me the peanuts, and bless stella's party and make 'em have ice-cream, and bless my new shoes and my sore finger. for jesus' sake, amen." little child drew a long breath and stirred to get down, but peter did not move. "and bless peter," miggy said. "no," said little child, "he needn't. peter's nice 'nuff." peter got to his feet with little child in his arms, and his face was glowing, and he looked at miggy as if she were what he meant whenever he said "universe." but miggy had gone to the couch, and was smoothing the quilt that peter had wrinkled in all directions, and patting the pillow that peter had kneaded into a hard ball. "you lay her down," she said. peter did so, setting the kitten on the floor, and then bending low over the couch, looking in the upturned face as the little dark head touched the pillow and sought its ease, and her hand fell from where it had rested on his shoulder. and he stooped and kissed her cheek more gently than he had ever done anything. "i want my drink o' water," said little child, and opened her eyes; and now from the couch she could see me. "tell me a story," she commanded me, drowsily. i did not go to her, for who am i that i should have broken that trio? but when miggy and peter took the lamp and went away to the kitchen for the drink of water and for some simple remedy for the fever which miggy had noted or fancied, i sat beside little child and said over something that had been persistently in my mind as i had watched miggy with her:-- "i like to stand in this great air and see the sun go down; it shows me a bright veil to wear and such a pretty gown. oh, i can see a playmate there far up in splendour town!" little child began it with me, but her voice trailed away. i thought that in the darkness were many gentle presences--little child's tender breathing, the brushing wings of hurrying dreams, and perhaps that other--"not quite my sister," but a shadowy little margaret. afterward, miggy and peter and i sat together for a little while, but peter had fallen in a silence. and presently aunt effie came home, and on the porch--which seemed not yet to have escaped--she told us about having broken her needle and left her shears at her neighbour's. while peter ran over to mis' holcomb's for the shears, i had a word with miggy. "miggy!" i said, "don't you see?" "see what?" she wanted to know, perversely. "how peter would love to have little child, too?" i said. she laughed a little, and was silent; and laughed again. "he was funny and nice," she admitted; "and wasn't little child funny not to bless him?" "because he is nice enough," i reminded her. miggy laughed once more--i had never seen her in so tender and feminine a mood. and this may have been partly due to the new frock, though i cannot think that it was entirely this. but abruptly she shook her head. "peter's father went by just before you came in," she said. "he--couldn't hardly walk. what if i was there to get supper for him when he got home? i never could--i never could...." by the time peter and i were out alone on daphne street again, the sitting rooms in all the houses were dark, with a look of locked front doors--as if each house had set its lips together with, "we are a home and you are not." peter looked out on all this palpable householdry. "see the lights upstairs," he said; "everybody's up there, hearing their prayers and giving 'em fever medicine. yes, sir, great scott! shorty burns and tony thomas and dutchie wade--they ain't good for a thing in the cannery. and yet they know...." xiv postmarks between church service and sunday school we of the first church have so many things to attend to that no one can spare a moment. "reverent things, not secular," calliope explains, "plannin' for church chicken-pie suppers an' christmas bazaars and like that; but not a word about a picnic, not even if they was to be one o' monday sunrise." to be sure, this habit of ours occasionally causes a contretemps. as when one morning mis' toplady arrived late and, in a flurry, essayed to send up to the pulpit by the sexton a missionary meeting notice to be read. into this notice the minister plunged without the precaution of first examining it, and so delivered aloud:-- "see mis' sykes about bringing wiping cloths and dish-rags. "see abigail about enough forks for her table. "look around for my rubbers. "dun mame holcomb for her twenty cents." not until he reached the fourth item was the minister stopped by the agonized rustle in a congregation that had easily recognized mis' toplady's "between services" list of reminder, the notice of the forthcoming meeting being safe in her hymn book. still we persist in our sabbath conferences when "everybody is there where you want 'em an' everybody can see everybody an' no time lost an' no party line listening"; and it is then that those who have been for some time away from the village receive their warmest welcome. i am not certain that the "i must get down to church and see everybody" of a returned neighbour does not hold in fair measure the principles of familyhood and of christ's persuadings to this deep comradeship. it was in this time after church that we welcomed calliope one august sunday when she had unexpectedly come down from town on the saturday night. and later, when the sunday-school bell had rung, i waited with her in the church while she looked up her bible, left somewhere in the pews. when she had found it, she opened it in a manner of eager haste, and i inadvertently saw pasted to the inside cover a sealed letter, superscription down, for whose safety she had been concerned. i had asked her to dine with me, and as we walked home together she told me about the letter and what its sealed presence in her bible meant. "i ain't ever read it," calliope explained to me wistfully. "every one o' the ladies' foreign missionary circle has got one, an' none of us has ever read 'em. it ain't my letter, so to say. it's one o' the jem pitlaw collection. the postmark," she imparted, looking up at me proudly, "is bombay, india." at my question about the jem pitlaw collection she laughed deprecatingly, and then she sighed. ("ain't it nice," she had once said to me, "your laughs hev a sigh for a linin', an' sighs can hev laughin' for trimmin'. only trouble is, most folks want to line with trimmin's, an' they ain't rill durable, used that way.") "jem pitlaw," calliope told me now, "used to be schoolmaster here--the kind that comes from away an' is terrible looked up to on that account, but jem deserved it. he knew all there was _to_ know, an' yet he thought we knew some little things, too. we was all rill fond of him, though he kept to himself, an' never seemed to want to fall in love, an' not many of us knew him well enough to talk to at all familiar. but when he went off west on a vacation, an' didn't come back, an' never come back, an' then died, friendship village mourned for him,--sincere, though no crape,--an' missed him enormous. "he'd had a room at postmaster sykes's--that was when he was postmaster first an' they was still humble an' not above the honest penny. an' jem pitlaw left two trunks an' a sealed box to their house. an' when he didn't come back in two years, silas sykes moved the things out of the spare room over to the post-office store loft. an' there they set, three years on end, till we got word jem was dead--the very week o' the ladies' foreign missionary circle's ten cent tropical fête. though, rilly, the tropical fête wasn't what you might say 'tropical.' it was held on the seventeenth of january, an' that night the thermometer was twenty-four degrees below on the bank corner. nor it wasn't rilly what you might say a fête, either. but none o' the circle regretted them lacks. a lack is as good as a gift, sometimes. "we'd started the foreign missionary circle through mis' postmaster sykes gettin' her palm. i donno what there is about palms, but you know the very name makes some folks think thoughts 'way outside their heads, an' not just stuffy-up inside their own brains. when i hear 'palm,' i sort o' feel like my i-dees got kind o' wordy wings an' just went it without me. an' that was the way with more than me, i found out. nobody in friendship village hed a palm, but we'd all seen pictures an' hankered--like you do. an' all of a sudden mis' sykes got one, like she gets her new hat, sometimes, without a soul knowin' she's thinkin' 'hat' till she flams out in it. givin' surprise is breath an' bread to that woman. she unpacked the palm in the kitchen, an' telephoned around, an' we all went over just as we was an' set down there an' looked at it an' thought 'palm'! you can't realize how we felt, all of us, if you ain't lived all your life with nothin' but begonias an' fuchsias from november to april, an' sometimes into may. but we was all mixed up about 'em, now we see one. some hed heard dates grew on palms. others would have it it was cocoanuts. still more said they was natives of the equator, an' give nothin' but shade. so it went. but after a while mis' timothy toplady spoke up with that way o' comin' downstairs on her words an' rilly gettin' to a landin':-- "'they's quite a number o' things,' she says, 'that i want to do so much it seems like i can't die without doin' 'em. but i guess prob'ly i will die without. folks seems to drop off leavin' lots of doin's undone. an' one o' my worst is, i want to see palm trees growin' in hot lands--big spiky leaves pointin' into the blue sky _like fury_. 'seems if i could do that,' s'she, 'i'd take in one long breath that'd make me all lungs an' float me up an' off.' "we all laughed, but we knew what she meant well enough, because we all felt the same way. i think most north folks do--like they was cocoanuts an' dates in our actions, 'way back. an' so we was all ready for mis' toplady's idee when it come--which is the most any idee can expect:-- "'i tell you what,' s'she, 'le's hev a ladies' foreign missionary circle, an' get read up on them tropical countries. the only thing i really know about the tropics is what comes to me unbeknownst when i smell my tea rose. i've always been meanin' to take an interest in missions,' says she. "so we started it, then an' there, an' she an' i was the committee to draw out a constitution an' decide what officers should be elected an' do the general creatin'. we made it up that mis' sykes should be the president--that woman is a born leader, and, as a leader, you can depend on the very back of her head. an' at last we went off to the minister that then was to ask him what to take up. "'most laudable,' s'he, when he'd heard. 'well, now, what country is it you're most interested in?' he says. 'some island of the sea, i s'pose?' he asks, bright. "'we're interested in palms,' mis' timothy toplady explained it to him frank, 'an' we want to study about the missionaries in some country where they's dates an' cocoanuts an' oaseses.' "he smiled at that, sweet an' deep--i know it seemed to me as if he knew more about what we wanted than we knew ourselves. because they's some ministers that understands that christianity ain't all in the bottle labelled with it. some of it is labelled 'ointment,' an' some 'perfume,' an' some just plain kitchen flavourin'. an' a good deal of it ain't labelled at all. "i forget what country it was we did study. but they was nine to ten of us, an' we met every week, an' i tell you the time wa'n't wasted. we took things in lavish. i know mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss said that after belongin' to the ladies' foreign missionary circle she could never feel the same absent-minded sensation again when she dusted her parlour shells. an' mis' toplady said when she opened her kitchen cabinet an' smelt the cinnamon an' allspice out o' the perforated tops, 'most always, no matter how mad she was, she broke out in a hymn, like 'when all thy mercies,' sheer through knowin' how allspice was born of god an' not made of man. an' mis' sykes said when she read her bible, an' it talked about india's coral strand, it seemed like, through knowin' what a reef was, she was right there on one, with her lord. i felt the same way, too--though i'd always felt the same way, for that matter--i always did tip vanilla on my handkerchief an' pretend it was flowers an' that i'd gone down south for the cold months. an' it got so that when the minister give out a text that had geography in it, like the red sea, or beer-elim, or 'a place called the fair haven,' the ladies foreign missionary circle would look round in our seats an' nod to each other, without it showin', because we knew that we knew, extra special, just what god was talkin' about. i tell you, knowledge makes you alive at places where you didn't know there was such a place. "in five months' time we felt we owed so much to the ladies' foreign missionary circle that it was mis' sykes suggested we give the ten cent tropical fête, an' earn five dollars or so for missions. "'we know a great deal about the tropics now,' she says, 'an' i propose we earn a missionary thank-offering. coral an' cocoanuts an' dates an' spices isn't all the lord is interested in, by any means,' s'she. 'an' the winter is the time to give a tropic fête, when folks are thinkin' about warm things natural.' "we voted to hev the fête to mis' sykes's because it was too cold to carry the palm out. we went into it quite extensive--figs an' dates an' bananas an' ginger for refreshments, an' little nigger dolls for souvenirs, an' like that. it was quite a novel thing for friendship, an' everybody was takin' an interest an' offerin' to lend japanese umbrellas an' indian baskets an' books on the south sea, an' a bamboo chair with an elephant crocheted in the tidy. an' then, bein' as happenin's always crowd along in flocks, what come that very week o' the fête but a letter from an old aunt of jem pitlaw's, out west. an' if jem hadn't been dead almost ever since he left friendship! an' the aunt wrote that we should sell his things to pay for keepin' 'em, as she was too poor to send for 'em an' hadn't any room if she wasn't. "i donno whether you know what rill excitement is, but if you don't, you'd ought to drop two locked trunks an' a sealed box into a town the size o' friendship village, an' leave 'em there goin' on five years, an' then die an' let 'em be sold. that'll show you what a pitch true interest can get het up to. all of a sudden the tropical fête was no more account than the telephone ringin' when a circus procession is going by. some o' the ladies' missionary was rill indignant, an' said we'd ought to sue for repairin' rights, same as when you're interfered with in business. mis' sykes, she done her able best, too, but nothin' would do silas but he must offer them things for sale on the instant. 'the time,' s'he, firm, 'to do a thing is now, while the interest is up. an' in this country,' s'he, '"now" don't stay "now" more'n two minutes at a time.' "so he offered for sale the contents of them three things--the two trunks an' the sealed box--unsight, unseen, on the day before the fête was to be. only one thing interfered with the 'unsight, unseen' business: the sealed box had got damp an' broke open, an' what was inside was all showin'. "mis' sykes an' i saw it on the day o' the sale. most o' the circle was to her house finishin' up the decorations for the fête so's to leave the last day clear for seein' to the refreshments, an' her an' i run over to the post-office store for some odds an' ends. silas had brought the two trunks an' the box down from the loft so to give 'em some advertisin'. an' lookin' in the corner o' the broke box we could see, just as plain as plain, was _letters_. letters in bunches, all tied up, an' letters laid in loose--they must 'a' been full a hundred of 'em, all lookin' mysterious an' ready to tell you somethin', like letters will. i know the looks o' the letters sort o' went to my head, like the news of far off. an' i hated seein' jem's trunks there, with his initials on, appearin' all trustin' an' as if they thought he was still alive. "but that wasn't the worst. they was three strangers there in the store--travellin' men that had just come in on the through, an' they was hangin' round the things lookin' at 'em, as if they had the right to. this town ain't very much on the buy, an' we don't hev many strangers here, an' we ain't rill used to 'em. an' it did seem too bad, i know we thought, that them three should hev happened in on the day of a private friendship village sale that didn't concern nobody else but one, an' him dead. an' we felt this special when one o' the men took a-hold of a bunch o' the letters, an' we could see the address of the top one, to jem pitlaw, wrote thin an' tiny-fine, like a woman. an' at that mis' sykes says sharp to her husband:-- "'silas sykes, you ain't goin' to sell them letters?' "'yes, ma'am, i am,' silas snaps, like he hed a right to all the letters on earth, bein' he was postmaster of friendship village. 'letters,' silas give out, 'is just precisely the same as books, only they ain't been through the expense of printin'. no differ'nce. no differ'nce!'--silas always seems to think repeatin' a thing over'll get him somewheres, like a clock retickin' itself. 'an',' he says, 'i'm goin' to sell 'em for what they'll bring, same as the rest o' the things, an' you needn't to say one word.' an' bein' as silas was snappin', not only as a postmaster but as a husband, mis' sykes, she kep' her silence. matrimony an' politics both in one man is too much for any woman to face. "well, we two went back to mis' sykes's all het up an' sad, an' told the circle about jem pitlaw's letters. an' we all stopped decoratin' an' set down just where we was an talked about what an awful thing it seemed. i donno as you'll sense it as strong as we did. it was more a feelin' than a wordin'. _letters_--bein' sold an' read out loud an' gettin' known about. it seemed like lookin' in somebody's purse before they're dead. "'i should of thought,' mis' sykes says, 'that silas regardin' bein' postmaster as a sacred office would have made him do differ'nt. an' i know he talked that right along before he got his appointment. "free private secretary to the people," an' "trusted curator of public communication," he put it when he was goin' around with his petition,' says she, grievin'. "'well,' says mis' amanda toplady--i rec'lect she hed been puttin' up a big japanese umbrella, an' she looked out from under it sort o' sweet an' sincere an' dreamy--'you've got to be a woman an' you've got to live in a little town before you know what a letter really is. i don't think these folks that hev lots o' mail left in the front hall in the mornin'--an' sometimes get one that same afternoon--_knows_ about letters at all. an' i don't believe any man ever knows, sole except when he's in love. to sense what a letter is you've got to be a woman without what-you-may-say much to enjoy; you've got to hear the train whistle that might bring you one; you've got to calculate how long it'll take 'em to distribute the mail, an' mebbe hurry to get your bread mixed, or your fried-cakes out o' the lard, or your cannin' where you can leave it--an' then go change your shoes an' slip on another skirt, an' poke your hair up under your hat so's it won't show, an' go down to the post-office in the hot sun, an' see the letter through the glass, there in your own box, waitin' for you. that minute, when your heart comes up in your throat, i tell you, is gettin' a letter.' "we all knew this is so--every one of us. "'it's just like that when you write 'em, only felt differ'nt,' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss. 'i do mine to my sister a little at a time--i keep it back o' the clock in the kitchen an' hide the pencil inside the clock door, so's it won't walk off, the way pencils do at our house. an' then, right in the midst of things, be it flour or be it suds, i can scratch down what comes in my head, till i declare sometimes i can hardly mail it for readin' it over an' thinkin' how she'll like to get it.' "'my, my!' says mis' sykes, reminiscent, ''specially since silas has been postmaster an' we've had so much to do with other people's letters, i've been so hungry for letters of my own that i've wrote for samples. i can do that with a level conscience because, after all, you do get a new dress now an' then. but i couldn't answer advertisements, same as some, when i didn't mean true--just to get the letters back. that don't seem to me rill honest.' "an' then i owned up. "'last week, when i paid my taxes,' i says, 'i whipped out o' the clerk's office quick, sole so's he'd hev to mail me my tax receipt. but he didn't do it. he sent it over by their hired girl that noon. i love letters like i do my telephone bell an' my friends,' i know i says. "an' there was all that hundred letters or so--letters that somebody had put love in for jem pitlaw, an' that he'd read love out of an' saved 'em--there they was goin' to be sold for all friendship village to read, includin' some that hadn't even known him, mebbe more than to speak to. "we wasn't quite through decoratin' when supper time come, so we stayed on to mis' sykes's for a pick-up lunch, et in the kitchen, an' finished up afterwards. most of 'em could do that better than they could leave their work an' come down again next mornin'--men-folks can always get along for supper, bein' it's not a hot meal. "'ain't it wonderful,' says mis' toplady, thoughtful, 'here we are, settin' 'round the kitchen table at mis' postmaster sykes's in friendship village. an' away off in arabia or asia or somewhere that i ain't sure they is any such place, is somebody settin' that never heard of us nor we of him, an' he's goin' to hev our five dollars from the tropical fête to-morrow night, an' put it to work doin' good.' "'it makes sort of a connection, don't it?' says mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss. 'there they are an' here we are. ain't it strange? 'seems like our doin' this makes us feel nearer to them places. i donno but that,' says she, noddin', 'is the start of what it means about the lion and the lamb layin' down together.' "'oh!'says mis' toplady, 'i tell you the foreign missionary circle has been next best to _goin'_. 'seems sometimes as if i've 'most been somewheres an' seen palms a-growin' an' a-wavin' an' a red sky back. don't it to you? i've dreamed o' them places all my life, an' i ain't never had anything but friendship village, an' i don't know now that arabia an' asia an' india is rilly fitted in, the way they look on the map. an' so with some more. but if so be they are, then,' she says, 'we owe it to the foreign missionary circle that we've got that far towards seein' 'em.' "an' we all agreed, warm, excep' mis' sykes, who was the hostess an' too busy to talk much; but we knew how she felt. an' we said some more about how wonderful things are, there in mis' sykes's kitchen while we et. "well, when we got done decoratin' after supper, we all walked over to the post-office store to the sale--the whole circle of us. because, of course, if the letters was to be sold there wasn't any harm in seein' who got 'em, an' in knowin' just how mean who was. then, too, we was interested in what was in the two trunks. we was quite early--early enough to set along on the front rows of breakfast-food boxes that was fixed ready. an' in the very frontmost one was mis' sykes an' mis' toplady an' mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss, an' me. "but we see, first thing when we got into the store, that they was strangers present. the three travellin' men that mis' sykes an' i had noticed that afternoon was still in town, of course, an' there they was to the sale, loungin' along on the counter each side o' the cheese. we couldn't bear their bein' there. it was our sale, an' they wasn't rill sure to understand. to us mr. pitlaw hed been mr. pitlaw. to them he was just somebody that hed been somebody. i didn't like it, nor they didn't none o' the ladies' missionary like it. we all looked at each other an' nodded without it showin', like we do, an' we could see we all felt the same. "silas was goin' to officiate himself--that man has got the idee it's the whistle that runs the boat. they had persuaded him to open the trunks an' sell the things off piecemeal, an' he see that was rilly the only way to do it. so when the time come he broke open the two trunks an' he wouldn't let anybody touch hasp or strap or hammer but himself. it made me sort of sick to see even the trunk things of mr. pitlaw's come out--a pepper an' salt suit, a pair of new suspenders, a collar an' cuff case--the kind that you'd recognize was a christmas present; a nice brush an' comb he'd kept for best an' never used, a cake of pretty-paper soap he'd never opened, a bunch o' keys, an' like that. you know how it makes you feel to unpack even your own things that have been put away a good while; it's like thinkin' over forgot thoughts. well, an' this was worse. jem pitlaw, that none of us had known well enough to mention familiar things to, was dead--he was _dead_; an' here we were, lookin' on an' seein' the things that was never out of his room before, an' that he'd put in there, neat an' nice, five years back, to be took out, he thought, in a few weeks. quite a lot of us felt delicate, but some got behind the delicate idee an' made it an excuse for not buyin' much. they's all kinds to a sale--did you ever notice? timothy toplady, for instance--i donno but he's all kinds in his single self. 'seems he couldn't bring himself to bid on a thing but jem pitlaw's keys. "'of course nobody knows what they'll fit,' says he, disparagin', 'so to buy 'em don't seem like bein' too familiar with mr. pitlaw,' s'he, rill pleased with himself. "but mis' sykes whispers to me:-- "'them keys'll go dirt cheap, an' timothy knows it, an' a strange key may come in handy any minute. timothy's reasons never whip to a froth,' s'she, cold. "but i guess she was over-critical because of gettin' more fidgety, like we all did, the nearer silas got to the letters. he hed left the letters till the last. an' what with folks peekin' in the box since he'd brought it down, an' what with handlin' what was ready to spill out, most of 'em by then was in plain sight. an' there i see more o' them same ones--little thin writin', like a woman's. we 'most all noticed it. an' i couldn't keep my eyes off of 'em. 'seemed like she might be somebody with soft ways that ought to be there, savin' the letters, wardin' off the heartache for mr. pitlaw an' mebbe one for herself. "an' right while i was lookin' silas turned to the box and cleared his throat, important as if he was the whistle for new york city, an' he lifted up the bunch of the letters that had the little fine writin' on top, just the way mr. pitlaw had tied 'em up with common string. "'oh!' says mis' toplady and mis' sykes, each side of me, the one 'oh!' strong an' the other low, but both 'oh's' meanin' the same thing. "'now, what,' says silas, brisk, 'am i bid for this package of nice letters here? good clear writin', all in strong condition, an' no holes in, just as firm an' fresh,' s'he, 'as the day they was dropped into the mail. what am i bid for 'em?' he asks, his eyebrows rill expectant. "not one of the travellin' men had bid a thing. they had sat still, just merely loungin' each side the cheese, laughin' some, like men will, among each other, but not carin' to take any part, an' we ladies felt rill glad o' that. but all of a sudden, when silas put up the bunch o' letters, them three men woke up, an' we see like lightnin' that this was what they hed been waitin' for. "'twenty-five cents!' bids one of 'em, decisive. "there was a movement of horror spread around the missionary circle at the words. sometimes it's bad enough to hev one thing happen, but often it's worse to hev another occur. even silas looked a little doubtful, but to silas the main chance is always the main thing, an' instantly he see that these men, if they got in the spirit of it, would run them letters up rill high just for the fun of it. an' silas was like some are: he felt that money is money. "so what did he do but begin cryin' the goods up higher--holdin' the letters in his hands, that little, thin writin' lookin' like it was askin' somethin'. "'here we hev letters,' says silas, 'letters from away. not just business letters, to judge by the envelopes--an' i allow, gentlemen,' says silas, facetious, 'that, bein' postmaster of friendship village, i'm as good a judge of letters as there is a-goin'. here we hev some intimate personal letters offered for sale legitimate by their heiress. what am i bid?' asks he. "'thirty-five cents!' "'fifty cents!' says the other two travellin' gentlemen, quick an' in turn. "'seventy-five cents!' cries out the first, gettin' in earnest--though they was all laughin' at hevin' somethin' inspirin' to do. "but silas merely caught a-hold of the mood they was in, crafty, as if he'd been gettin' the signers to his petition while they was feelin' good. "'one moment, gentlemen!' s'he. 'do you know what you're biddin' on? i ain't told you the half yet,' s'he. 'i ain't told you,' s'he, 'where these letters come from.' "with that he hitches his glasses an' looked at the postmarks. an' he read 'em off. oh, an' what do you guess them postmarks was? i'll never forget the feelin' that come over me when i heard what he was sayin', turnin' back in under the string to see. for the stamps on the letters was foreign stamps. the postmarks was foreign postmarks. an' what silas read off was: bombay, calcutta, delhi, singapore--oh, i can't begin to remember all the names nor to pronounce 'em, but i think they was all in india, or leastwise in asia. think of it! in asia, that none of the ladies' foreign missionary circle hed been sure there was such a place. "i know how we all looked around at each other sudden, with the same little jump in the chest as when we remember we've got bread in the oven past the three-quarters, or when we've left the preserves on the blaze while we've done somethin' else an' think it's burnin', or when we've cut out both sleeves for one arm an' ain't got any more cloth. i mean it was that intimate, personal jump, like when awful, first-person things have happened. an' i tell you what, when the ladies' missionary feels a thing, they feel it strong an' they act it sudden. it's our way, as a circle. an' in that look that went round among us there was hid the nod that knows what each other means. "'one dollar!' shouts one o' the travellin' men. "an' with that we all turned, like one solid human being, straight towards mis' postmaster sykes, that was our president an' a born leader besides, an' the way we looked at her resembled a vote. "mis' sykes stood up, grave an' scairt, though not to show. an' we was sure she'd do the right thing, though we didn't know what the right thing was; but we felt confidence, i know, in the very pattern on the back of her shawl. an' she says, clear:-- "'i'd like to be understood to bid for the whole box o' mr. pitlaw's letters, includin' the bunch that's up. an' i bid five dollars.' "of course we all knew in a minute what that meant: mis' sykes was biddin' with the proceeds of the ten cent tropical fête that was to be. but we see, too, that this was a missionary cause if there ever was one, an' they wa'n't one of us that thought it irregular, or grudged it, or looked behind. "i don't know whether you know how much five dollars rilly is--like you sense it when you've spoke it to a sale, or put it on a subscription paper in friendship. there wasn't a sound in that store, everybody was so dumfounded. but none was so much as silas sykes. silas was so surprised that he forgot that he was in public. "'my king!' says he, unexpected to himself. 'what you sayin', huldy? you ain't biddin' that out o' your allowance, be you?' says he. silas likes big words in the home. "'no, sir,' says she, crisp, back, 'i ain't. i can't do miracles out of nothin'. but i bid, an' you'll get your money, silas. an' i may as well take the letters now.' "with that she rose up an' spread out her shawl almost broodin', an' gathered that box o' jem pitlaw's into her two arms. an' with one motion all the rest o' the ladies' missionary got up behind her an' stalked out of the store, like a big bid is sole all there is to an auction. an' they let us go. why, there wasn't another thing for silas sykes to do but let be as was. them three men over by the cheese just laughed, an' said out somethin' about no gentleman outbiddin' a lady, an' shut up, beat, but pretendin' to give in, like some will. "just before we all got to the door we heard somebody's feet come down off'n a cracker-barrel or somethin', an' timothy toplady's voice after us, shrill-high an' nervous:-- "'amanda,' s'he, 'you ain't calculatin' to help back up this tomfoolishness, i hope?' "an' mis' amanda says at him, over her shoulder: "'if i was, that'd be between my hens an' me, timothy toplady,' says she. "an' the store door shut behind us--not mad, i remember, but gentle, like 'amen.' "we took the letters straight to mis' sykes's an' through the house to the kitchen, where there was a good hot fire in the range. it was bitter cold outdoors, an' we set down around the stove just as we was, with the letters on the floor in front o' the hearth. an' when mis' sykes hed got the bracket lamp lit, she turned round, her bonnet all crooked but her face triumphant, an' took off a griddle of the stove an' stirred up the coals. an' we see what was in her mind. "'we can take turns puttin' 'em in,' she says. "but i guess it was in all our minds what mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss says, wistful:-- "'don't you think,' she says, 'or _do_ you think, it'd be wrongin' mr. pitlaw if we read over the postmarks out loud first?' "we divided up the bunches an' we set down around an' untied the strings, an', turn in an' turn out, we read the postmarks off. 'most every one of 'em was foreign--oh, i can't begin to tell you where. it was all mixed up an' shinin' of names we'd never heard of before, an' names we had heard in sermons an' in the bible--egypt an' greece an' rome an' isles o' the sea. mis' toplady stopped right in the middle o' hers. "'oh, i can't be sure i'm pronouncin' 'em right,' she says, huntin' for her handkerchief, 'but i guess you ladies get the _feel_ o' the places, don't you?' "an' that was just it: we did. we got the feel of them far places that night like we never could hev hed it any other way. an' when we got all through, mis' toplady spoke up again--but this time it was like she flew up a little way an' lit on somethin'. "'it ain't likely,' she says, 'that we'll ever, any of us, hev a letter of our own from places like these. we don't get many letters, an' what we do get come from the same old towns, over an' over again, an' quite near by. do you know,' she says, 'i believe this writin' here'--she held out the tiny fine writing that was like a woman with soft ways--'would understand if we each took one of her letters an' glued it together here an' now an' carried it home an' pasted it in our bibles. _she_ went travellin' off to them places, an' she must have wanted to; an' she would know what it is to want to go an' yet never get there.' "i think mis' amanda was right--we all thought so. an' we done what she mentioned, an' made our choice o' postmarks. i know mis' amanda took cairo. "''count of the name sort o' picturin' out a palm tree a-growin' an' a-wavin' against a red sky,' she says, when she was pinnin' her shawl clear up over her hat to go out in the cold. 'think of it,' she says; 'she might 'a' passed a palm the day she wrote it. ain't it like seein' 'em grow yourself?' ... "mebbe it all wasn't quite regular," calliope added, "though we made over five dollars at the ten cent fête. but the minister, when we told him, he seemed to think it was all right, an' he kep' smilin', sweet an' deep, like we'd done more'n we _had_ done. an' i think he knew what we meant when we said we was all feelin' nearer, lion an' lamb, to them strange missionary countries. because--oh, well, sometimes, you know," calliope said, "they's things that makes you feel nearer to faraway places that couldn't hev any postmark at all." xv peter last night in my room there was no sleeping, because the moon was there. it is a south room, and when the moon shines on the maple floor with its white cotton rugs and is reflected from the smooth white walls, to step within is like entering an open flower. who could sleep in an open flower? i might sleep in a vast white petunia, because petunias do not have as much to say to me as do some other flowers. but in the bell of a lily, as in the bell of the sky or in my moonlit room, i should wish my thought to stay awake and be somebody. be somebody. on these nights, it is as if one had a friend in one's head conferring with one. and i think of this comrade as her, the custodian of me, who lives deep within and nearly comes outside to this white porch of the moon. i like to light my candle and watch its warm rays mix with the blue-white beams from without. there would have been a proper employment for a wizard: to diffuse varying insubstantialities, such as these, and to look within them, as within a pool--a pool free of its basin and enjoying the air. yes, they were an unimaginative race, wizards. when will the era of white art come, with æsthetic witches and wizards who know our modern magics of colour and form and perception as a mere basis for their sorceries? instead of pottering with thick, slab gruel and mediæval newts' eyes, think what witches they will be! sometimes i think that they are already arriving. the new lady told me the most delightful thing about a thought of hers that she saw ... but it was such an elusive thing to tell and so much of it i had to guess, because words have not yet caught up with fancies, that it is hard to write down. besides, perhaps you know. and if you did not know, you would skip this part anyway. so i merely mention that _she_ mentioned the coming alive of a thought of hers which helped her spirit to grow, quite without her will. very likely you understand other wizardries. an excellent place to think them out must be the line where candle rays meet moonbeams, but there is no such discoverable line, just as there is no discoverable line between the seeing and the knowing, where the custodian dwells.... by all of which i am merely showing you what the moon can do to one's head and that it is no great wonder that one cannot sleep. "ain't the moon kind of like a big, shinin' brain," calliope said once, "an' moonlight nights it gets in your head and thinks for you." so last night when i went in my room i did not try to sleep; nor did i even light my candle. i went straight to a window and opened it--the one without a screen. i would not live in a house that did not have certain windows which one could open to let in the moon, or the night, or the living out-of-doors, with no screens to thwart their impulse. suppose that sometime diana--well, suppose what you will that is sensible, no moon can shine through a screen. really, it cannot do its best through even an open window. and this was why i gave up trying to make it do so and went downstairs again--which is the earthly and rational of floating out into that utter beauty as i wanted to float. of going out into such a night i would like to write for a long time, as i would like to keep on breathing lilies-of-the-valley and never have done. i think, though, that "into" such a night is not the word; to go out _upon_ the night is the essential experience. for, like a june day, a moonlit night of itself will not let us inside. we must know some other way of entrance. and i suspect that some of us never quite find the way--i wonder if we are missed? i stepped round the house to the open ocean of light that broke on soft shores of leaf and line, solemnizing, magnifying. it was like a glimpse into something which, afterward and afterward, is going to be. the definiteness of its premonitory message was startling. as when on seeing once that something had happened on my birthday, , i felt as if i had heard from a kind of twin-time, so now i understood that this night was the birthday of far-off, immortal moments of my own, yet to be lived ... so friendly near we are to the immeasurable kindred. and there, from the shadow of the flowering currant bush, which just now is out of flower and fallen in meditative quiet--a man arose. my sharp fear, as savage a thing as if the world were ten thousand years younger, or as if i were a ptarmigan and he a cougar--was only momentary. for the cougar began to apologize and i recognized him. "why," i said, "peter." "yes'm," said he, "i couldn't help being here--for a little while." "neither could i, peter," i told him. these were remarkable admissions of ours, for a large part of evening in the village is an uninhabitable part of day and, no matter in what splendour of sky it comes, is a thing to be shut outside experience. if we relate being wakened by something that goes bang, we begin it, "in the middle of the night, about twelve o'clock;" and, "they have a light in their house 'most every night till midnight," is a bit of sharp criticism not lightly to be lived down. but now it was as if peter were a part of the time itself, and outlaw too, if the evening was outlaw. "i'm glad i saw you," peter said--as if we were here met by chance in the usual manner. "i wanted to see you and tell you: i'm going away--to be gone right along." "why," i said again, "peter!" "you'd go too," he said simply. "i should want to go," i told him, "but i doubt if i would go. where are you going?" "they want to put in a cannery at marl. it'd be a branch. i'd run it myself." i did not miss the implication of the conditional mood. and _marl_. what wonderful names they give to some of the towns of this world. that word makes a picture all of white cornices and white wings of buildings and bright façades. i dare say from the railroad track the real town of marl shows an unpainted livery barn and a blue barber shop, but the name sounds like the name of a chapter of travel, beginning: to-day we drove to marl to see the queen. or the cataract. or the porch of the morning. "why are you going, peter?" i drove in the peg for him. "i guess you know," he said. "it's all miggy with me." i knew that he wanted before all else to tell somebody, to talk to somebody, to have somebody know. "tell me, peter," i said. and now peter told me how things were with him. if i should repeat what he said you would be scornful, for it was so little. it was broken and commonplace and set with repetition. it was halting and unfinished, like the unformed writing of a boy. but in his words i felt the movings of life and destiny and death more than i feel them when i think about the rushing of the stars. he loved her, and for him the world became a transparent plane wherein his soul moved as simply as his body. here was not only a boy longing for a girl. here was not only a man, instinct with the eager hope of establishing a home. here was something not unlike this very moon-washed area won from the illimitable void, this area where we stood and spoke together, this little spot which alone was to us articulate with form and line and night sounds. so peter, stumbling over his confession of love for miggy, was like the word uttered by destiny to explicate its principle. it mattered not at all what the night said or what peter said. both were celestial. these moments when the soul presses close to its windows are to be understood as many another hint at the cosmic--dawn, may, the firmament, radio-activity, theistic evolution, a thousand manifestations of the supernal. in this cry of enduring spirit it was as if peter had some intimacy with all that has no boundaries. i hardly heard his stumbling words. i listened to him down some long avenue of hearths whose twinkling lights were like a corridor of stars. and all this bright business was to be set at naught because miggy would have none of it. "she seems to like me," peter said miserably, "but i guess she'd like me just as well if i wasn't me. and if i was right down somebody else, i guess she'd like me a good deal better. she--don't like my hands--nor the way my hair sticks up at the back. she thinks of all such things. i wouldn't care if she said all her words crooked. i'd know what she meant." i knew the difference. to him she was miggy. to her he was an individual. he had never in her eyes graduated from being a person to being himself. "calliope says," i told him, "that she likes almond extract better than any other kind, but that she hardly ever gets a bottle of almond with which she does not find fault. she says it's the same way with people one loves." peter smiled--he is devoted to calliope, who alone in the village has been friendly with his father. _friendly._ the rest of the village has only been kind. "well," he tried to put it, "but miggy never seems to be thinking of me as _me_, only when she's finding fault with me. if she'd only think about me, even a little, the way i think about her. if she'd only miss me or want me or wonder how the house would seem if we were married. but she don't care--she don't care." "she says, you know," i ventured, "that she can't ask you to support little child too." "can't she see," he cried, "that the little thing only makes me love her more? don't she know how i felt the other night--when she let me help her that way? she must know. it's just an excuse--" he broke off and his hands dropped. "then there's her other reason," he said, "i guess you know that. i can't blame her for it. but even with that, it kind of seems as if,--if she loved me--" "yes," i said, "peter, it does seem so." and yet in my heart i am certain that the reason is not at all that miggy cannot love him--i remember the woman-softening of her face that forenoon when she found the spirit of the old romances in the village. i am not even certain that the reason is that she does not love peter now--i remember how tender and feminine she was the other night with peter and little child. i think it is only that the cheap cynicism of the village--which nobody means even when it is said!--has taught her badly; and that life has not yet touched her hand, has not commanded "look at me," has not bidden her follow with us all. i looked into the bright bowl of the night which is alternately with one and against one in one's mood of emprise; the bright bowl of the night inverted as if some mighty genii were shaking the stars about like tea-leaves to fortune the future. what a pastime _that_ for a wizard! "oh, peter," i said, "_if_ one were a wizard!" "i didn't understand," said peter. "how pleasant it would be to make folk love folk," i put it. he understood that. "wouldn't it, though?" he assented wistfully. so does everybody understand. wouldn't it, though! oh, _don't you wish you could_? in the silence which fell i kept on looking at those starry tea-leaves until i protest that a thought awoke in my mind as if it wanted to be somebody. be somebody. it was as if it came alive, quite without my will, so that almost i could see it. it was a friend conferring in my head. perhaps it was the custodian herself, come outside to that white porch of the moon. "peter," i said, "i think i'm going to tell you a story." for i longed to make him patient with miggy, as men, who understand these things first, are not always patient with women, who often and often understand too late. he listened to the story as i am setting it down here--the story of the new village. but in it i could say nothing of how, besides by these things celestial, cosmic, i was touched by the simple, human entreaty of the big, baffled man and that about his hands and the way his hair sticks up at the back. xvi the new village once upon a time there was a village which might have been called the-way-certain-folk-want-it-now. that, however, was not its name--it had a proper, map-sounding name. and there every one went to and fro with a fervour and nimbleness which proved him to be skilfully intent upon his own welfare. the village had simple buildings and white walls, lanes and flowering things and the flow of pure air. but the strange thing about the town was that there each inhabitant lived alone. every house had but one inmate and he well content. he liked everything that he owned and his taste was all-sufficient and he took his pleasure in his own walls and loved best his own ways. the day was spent in lonely selling or lonely buying, each man pitted against all others, and advantage and disadvantage were never equal, but yet the transactions were dreary, lacking the picturesqueness of unlicensed spoliation. the only greeting which folk exchanged in passing was, "sir, what do you do for yourself?" there were no assemblings of the people. the town kept itself alive by accretion from without. when one died another appeared and took his place gladly, and also others arrived, like precept added to precept and not like a true flowering. there were no children. and the village common was overgrown and breast-high with weeds. when the day was done every one retired to his own garden and saw his flowers blossoming for him and answering to the stars which came and stood over his head. there was in the town an epidemic of the intensive, only the people thought of it as the normal, for frequently epidemics are so regarded. in one soul the contagion did not prevail. the soul was the lad matthew, whose body lived on the town's only hill. when others sat at night in their gardens matthew was wont to go up an airy path which he had made to the upper spaces and there wander conjecturing about being alive. for this was a detail which he never could take wholly for granted, in the manner in which he had become wonted to door-mats, napkin-rings, oatmeal, and mirrors. therefore he took his thought some way nearer to the stars, and there he found so much beauty that he longed to fashion it to something, to create of it anew. and as he opened his heart he began to understand that there is some one of whom he was the offspring. as he was companioned by this idea, more and more he longed for things to come nearer. once, in his walking a hurrying bird brushed his face, grew confused, fluttered at his breast, and as he would have closed it in his hands he found that the bird was gone and his hands were empty, but beneath them his own heart fluttered and throbbed like a thing apart. one night, so great was the abstraction of the boy, that instead of taking the upper path he fared down into the town. it was a curious way to do--to go walking in the town as if the thing were common property, but then the walls were very high and the gates were fast closed and bound round with creeping things, which grow very quickly. matthew longed to enter these gardens, and he wondered who lived in the houses and what might be in their hearts. amazingly, at the turn of a white wall, a gate was opened and she who had opened it leaned into the night as if she were looking for something. there was a fluttering in the breast of matthew so that he looked down to see if the bird had come back. but no bird was there. and it smote him that the lady's beauty, and surely her goodness, were great enough so that of them something might be created, as he would fain have created marvels from the sky. "i would like to make your beauty into something other," he said to her. "i cannot think whether this would be a song or a picture or a vision." she looked at him with as much pleasure as if he had been an idea of her own. "tell me about my beauty," she bade him. "what thing is that?" "nay, that will take some while," matthew said. "if i do that, i must come in your garden." now, such a thing had never happened in the town. and as this seemed why it never happened, it seemed likely to go on never happening indefinitely. but loneliness and the longing to create and the conjecture about life have always been as potent as battles; and beauty and boredom and curiosity have had something to do with history as well. "just this once, then," said the lady, and the gate closed upon the two. here was a garden like matthew's own, but indefinitely atmosphered other. it spoke strangely of a wonted presence, other than his own. in his own garden he fitted as if the space for him were niched in the air, and he went as a man accustomed will go without thinking. but here he moved free, making new niches. and whereas on his own walks and plots he looked with lack-lustre eye as a man looks on his own gas-jet or rain pipe, now matthew looked on all that he saw as on strange flame and sweet waters. and it was not the shrubs and flowers which most delighted him, but it was rather on a garden bench the lady's hat and gloves and scissors. "how pleasing!" said he, and stopped before them. "do you find them so?" asked the lady. and when he told her about her beauty, which was more difficult to do than he had imagined and took a longer time, she said:-- "there can be no other man in the world who would speak as you speak." on which he swore that there was no man who would not speak so, and likewise that no man could mean one-half what he himself meant. and he looked long at her house. "in those rooms," he said, "you go about. i wish that i could go about there." but that frightened her a little. "in there," he said, "are the lamps you light, the plates you use, the brush that smooths your hair. how strange that is." "does it seem strange?" she asked. "sometime i will go there," said he, and with that he thought that the bird once more was fluttering at his breast. and again there was no bird. when the time was come that he must leave her, this seemed the most valiant thing to do that ever he had done. it was inconceivable to accept that though now she was with him, breathing, sentient, yet in another moment he would be out alone in the empty night. alone. for the first time the word became a sinister thing. it meant to be where she was not. "how is this to go on," he said, "i living where you do not live?" but she said, "such things have never been any other way," and closed the gate upon him. it is a mighty thing when one who has always lived alone abruptly finds himself to have a double sense. here is his little box of ideas, neatly classified, ready for reference, which have always methodically bobbed out of their own will the moment they were mentioned. here are his own varieties of impression ready to be laid like a pattern upon whatever presents itself to be cut out. here are his tastes, his sentiments, his beliefs, his longings, all selected and labelled and established. and abruptly ideas and impressions and tastes are thrown into rapt disorder while he wonders what this other being would think, and his sentiment glows like a lamp, his belief embraces the world, his longing becomes only that the other being's longing be cast in counterpart. when he walks abroad, the other's step accompanies him, a little back, and invisible, but as authentic as his own. when he thinks, his thought, without his will, would share itself. all this is a new way of consciousness. all this makes two universes where one universe had previously been competent to support life. back on his hill matthew went through his house as if he were seeing it for the first time. there was the garden that he had planted, and she was not walking there. there was his window, and she was not looking from it; his table, and she was not sitting beside it; his book which he could not read for wondering if she had read. all the tools of his home, what could they not become if she touched them? the homely tasks of the cupboard, what joy if she shared them? but what to do? he thought that it might be something if they exchanged houses, so that he could be where she had been, could use what she had used, could think of her in her setting. but yet this did not wholly delight him, either. and now his house stifled him, so that he rushed out upon that airy path of his that he had made to reach the upper spaces, and he fled along, learning about being alive. into the night he went, farther than ever he had gone before, till the stars looked nearer to him than houses commonly look, and things to think about seemed there waiting for him. so it adventured that he came abruptly upon the new village. it lay upon the air as lightly as if strong, fair hands were uniting to bear it up, and it was not far from the stars and the clear places. before he understood its nearness, the night was, so to say, endued with this village, and he entered upon its lanes as upon light. this was a town no larger than his own and no more fortuned of nature. here were buildings not too unlike, and white walls and flowering things and the flow of pure air. but here was also the touch of bells. and he saw that every one went to and fro in a manner of quiet purpose that was like a garment. "sir, what do you do for yourself?" he asked courteously of one who was passing. the citizen gave him greeting. "i make bread for my family," said he, "and, it may be, a dream or two." matthew tried hard to perceive, and could make nothing of this. "your family," he said, "what thing is that?" the citizen looked at him narrowly. "i see that you rebuke me," said he, gently; "but i, too, labor for the community, so that the day shall become a better day." "community," said matthew. "now i know not at all what that may be, either." then the man understood that here was one who would learn about these things, and in the new village such a task is sacred and to be assumed on the moment by any to whom the opportunity presents. so the man took matthew with him. "come," he said, "this is the day when we meet together." "together," said matthew, and without knowing why he liked what he felt when he said that. they went first to the market-place, trodden of many feet, and about it a fair green common planted in gracious lines. here matthew found men in shops that were built simply and like one another in fashion, but with pleasant devices of difference, and he found many selling together and many buying, and no one was being robbed. "how can these things be?" he asked. "here every man stands with the others." "inside of all things," the citizen answered, "you will find that it is so written." on the common many were assembled to name certain projects and purposes: the following of paths to still clearer spaces, the nurturing of certain people, ways of cleanliness, purity of water, of milk, wide places for play, the fashioning of labour so that the shrines within be not foregone, the freeing of fountains, the planting of green things. "why will all this be?" asked matthew. "for these things a man does in his own garden or for his own house, and no other interferes." "nay, but look deep within all things, friend," the citizen said, "and you will never find it written so." "friend," repeated matthew, "_friend_...." then the citizen went to his own house, and matthew with him. the wall was no wall, but a hedge, and the garden was very beautiful. and lo, when they went in, there came tumbling along the path little beings made in the image of the citizen himself. and with them a woman of exceeding beauty and power, which the little ones also bore. as if the citizen had chosen her beauty and power to make them into something other. it was as it had been when the bird was fluttering and beating at the boy's breast, but he did not even heed. "tell me!" he cried. "these--do they live here with you? are they yours?" "we are one another's," said the citizen. matthew sat among them, and to pleasure him they did many sweet tasks. they brought him to eat and drink in the garden. the woman gave quiet answers that had in them something living, and alive, too, some while after she had spoken. ("so _she_ could answer," matthew thought, "and better, too, than that.") and the children brought him a shell, a pretty stone, a broken watch, and a little woolly lamb on three wheels, and the fourth wheel missing. the lamb had a sound to make by squeezing, and this sound matthew made a great many times, and every time the children laughed. and when they did that matthew could think of nothing to say that seemed a thing to be said, but he was inscrutably elated, and did the trick again. and when he rose to take his leave:-- "is it for them that you make bread and a dream or two?" he asked. he knew that he should always like to remember the citizen's smile as he answered. they stood at the opening of the hedge and folk were going by. "are they not jealous of you?" matthew asked. "they have families and bread and dreams of their own," said the citizen. "every house is filled with them." matthew looked breathlessly along the street of the new village, and he saw men, as they went, giving one another greeting: "friend, is much accomplished?" or, "peace to you, friend." and they talked together, and entered gardens where were those who came to meet them or who waited within. they were a fine company, moving as to some secret way of being, and as if they had all looked deep within to see how it is written. and as he watched, something in matthew would have cried out that he, too, was offspring of their father, that for all this had he too been created, and that for this would he live, joying and passioning and toiling in the common destiny. but when he spoke, all that he could say was:-- "every man, then, may sit down now with a lamb with three wheels and the fourth wheel missing...." on which he ceased for very shame. but the citizen understood and smiled once more, and said to him: "come you here again, brother." with that word matthew was off, down from the clear upper spaces, to where, lonely on its hill, his own house stood among its lonely neighbours. and matthew strode shouting down the deserted streets and calling at every gate; and, it being now day, every one came forth to his lonely toil. matthew went and stood on the common where the weeds were high, and so amazed were the folk that they came about him, each suspecting the other of secret connivance in this strange business. for nothing had ever been done so. "men and brothers," cried matthew, "it is not so that it was meant. i pray you look deep within, and see how the meaning was written. is it that you should live, each pitted against another, wounding the other, advantaging himself? join now each his hand with that of a neighbour. _his neighbour._ make the thing of which, it seems, the world is made; a family. let the thing come alive which is greater than the family: the community. oh, my comrades, let us work together for the coming of the kingdom of god." in the murmur that rose were the words which have been spoken since time began:-- "it is not so that it was done in the old time...." "it is not seemly that we change...." "if every one did this ... but we cannot do it alone." "have you thought what will become of our business?" and again and yet again: "it is not so that it was done in the old time." and when the most would have none of it, matthew made his way sadly through the throng--of whom were many who smiled (kindly!)--to the edge of the common, where stood a woman, trembling. "come," he said. she went with him, and she with many little frightened breaths, but he had no pity, for he read deep within and saw that it was written that she wanted none. when they reached her own house, she would have entered. "go we in here," she besought him, "i will show you the rooms where i go about and the lamps that i light." "we are past all that now," said matthew, gently, "i will not go on living where you do not live." he took her to his own house, through the garden that he had planted. he made her look from his window, sit by his table, open his books; and he bade her to a little task at the cupboard and laughed for joy that she performed it. "oh, come away," he cried. "and now we will go quickly to the new village, that one which i have found or another, where men know all this happiness and more." but she stood there by matthew's cupboard and shook her head. "no," she said gravely, "here we will stay, you and i, in your house. here we will live--and it may be there is a handful of others who understand. and here we will do what we can." "but i must show you," matthew cried, "the way the others live--the things they strive for: the following of paths to clearer spaces, the freeing of shrines." "all that," she said, "we will do here." "but," he urged, "you must see how else they do--the shell, the pretty stone, the watch, the woolly lamb on three wheels and one wheel missing...." "all that," she said, "is in my heart." matthew looked in her face and marvelled, for he saw that beside her beauty there was her power, and to that he bowed himself as to a far voice. and again it was as when the bird was at his breast, but now he knew what this would be. so they live there in matthew's house. and a handful besides understand and toil for the fairer order. and this will come; and then that new village, in the clear upper spaces, will hang just above every village--nay, will come down to clothe it like a garment. when i had done, "peter," i said--i nearly called him matthew!--"these are the things that miggy does not understand. and that she will understand." he knew. he said nothing; but he knew how it is written. "peter," i said, "i suppose miggy will never have been to your house?" i knew that she could not have been there. "some day soon," i said--"before you go away--ask us to come there. i should like her to sit by your table and look from your window." for how can one be sure that divine non-interference is always divine? peter drew his breath long. "would you?" he said; "would you? so many times i've thought maybe that would make her think of me as if i _was_ me." yes, that might help. if only miggy knew how to shake hands as elfa shook hands with nicholas moor, that might help, too. how did it begin, this pride of individualism in a race which does not know its own destiny save as the great relationships, human and divine, can reveal that destiny? but peter knows! and the hope of the world is that so many do know. since he said his grateful good night and rushed away, i have been trying to readjust my impression of peter. for i can no longer think of him in connection with miggy and the cannery and my neighbour's lawn and the village. now he is a figure ranging the ample intervals of a field fraternal to the night and to the day. fraternal, too, to any little moon-washed area, won from the void, where it is easy to be in conference with the spirit without and within. truly, it is as if the meaning of the universe were passioning for the comradeship of hearts that can understand. xvii adoption the big window of my sitting room is an isle of sirens on whose shore many of my bird neighbours are continually coming to grief. for, from without, the window makes a place of soft skies and seductive leaves where any bird might think to wing a way. and in that mirrored deep there is that curious atmosphere which makes in-a-looking-glass a better thing than the room which it reflects--an elusive sense which little child might call isn't-any-such-placeness. i think that i might call it so too. and so, evidently, the birds would call it, for they are always trying to find there some path of flight. a morning or two ago, when i heard against the pane the soft thud of an eager little body, i hurried out to see lying under the window an oriole. it was too terrible that it should have been an oriole. for days i had seen him hanging here and there, back downward, on this limb and that, and heard his full-throated note ringing from the innermost air, so that the deeps of air could never again be wholly alien to me. and now he lay, his wings outstretched, his eyes dim, his breast hardly moving. i watched him, hoping for the breath to begin to flutter and labour. but though the great nature was with him, herself passioning in all the little fibres to keep life pulsing on, yet her passion was not enough; and while i looked the little life went out. ... i held the tiny body in my hand, and it was almost as if the difference between living and not living slipped through my fingers and was gone. if only that one within me, who watches between the seeing and the knowing, had been a little quicker, i might almost have understood.... "them little things go out like a match," said my neighbour. she was standing on the other side of the box hedge, and i caught a look on her face that i had seen there once or twice before, so that my heart had warmed to her; and now, because of that look, she fitted within the moment like the right word. "it don't seem like anybody could _mean_ 'em to die before their time," she said. "ain't it almost as if it happened when everything somehow couldn't help it?" it was this, the tragedy of the unfulfilled intention, that was in my mind while i hollowed the little grave under the hedge. and when we had finished, my neighbour, who had stepped informally over the box to help me, looked up with a return of that fleeting expression which i had noted. "i guess we've found one now for sure," she said. "found one?" i puzzled. "i thought you knew," she told me. "i thought everybody knew--we've been looking for one so long. for a baby." she never had told me and no one had told me, but i loved her for thinking that all the world knew. there are abroad a multitude of these sweet suspicions as well as the sad misgivings of the hunted. she had simply let me know, that early morning in the garden, her sorrow that there was "no little thing runnin' round." and now she told me for how long they had been trying to find one to adopt, consciously serving no social need, but simply hungering for a child whom they could "take to." it was a story of fruitless visits to the homes in the city, the news sent of this little waif or that, all proving too old or of too sad an inheritance. to me it would seem that the more tragic the inheritance the more poignantly sounds the cry for foster-folk. and this may be extreme, i know, but virtue, i find, does not lie exclusively in the mean, either. it lies partly in one's taste in extremes. however, this special extreme i find not generally believed in as i believe in it; and my neighbour, not sharing it, had waited on with empty arms. and now, after all the long hoping, she had found a baby--a baby who filled all the requirements and more. first of all, he was a boy; second, he was of healthful scotch parentage; third, he was six weeks old; and, fondest i could see in my neighbour's heart, he was good to look at. when she told me this she produced, from beneath her apron, a broken picture post-card. the baby was lying on a white blanket spread on the grass, and he was looking up with the intentness of some little soul not yet embodied; or as if, having been born, some shadow-thing, left over from his source of shadows, yet detained his attention. "william," it said beneath the picture. "but i shall call him kenneth," my neighbour said; "i've always meant to. i don't want he should be called after his father, being he isn't ours, you might say. but he is ours," she added in a kind of challenge. "_he's_ going after him to-morrow to the city"--and now "he" meant her husband, in that fine habit of use by these husbands and wives of the two third persons singular to mean only each other, in a splendid, ultimate, inevitable sense, authentic as the "we" of a sovereign, no more to be mistaken. "i'd go too," she added, "but we're adopting the baby with the egg money--we've saved it for years for when the time come. and one fare to the city and back is a lot of eggs. i thought i'd rather wait for him here and have the ticket money to spend on the clothes." she was on her way, i thought i guessed, to carry her good news to our friends in the village, for she bore that same air which i have noted, of being impermanent and subject to flight. and as she left me she turned to give me one of those rare compliments which are priceless. "you come over this afternoon," she said, "and i'll show you what little things i've made." i remember another compliment. it was when, in town, a charming little woman, a woman all of physical curves and mental tangents, had been telling a group of us about a gay day in a four-in-hand. she had not looked at me because for that sort of woman, as well as for others, i lack all that which would make them take account of my presence; but when in the four-in-hand she came to some mention of the road where the accident had nearly occurred ("oh, it was a beautiful road," she said, "the river on one side, and the highlands, and a whole _mob_ of trees,") she turned straight upon me through her description as consistently as she had neglected me when she described the elbow-bits of the leaders and the boots of the woman on the box-seat. it may have been a chance, but i have always hugged it to me. my neighbour's house is small, and her little upstairs rooms are the half-story with sloping ceilings and windows which extend from the floor to the top of one's head. it gives me a curious sense of over-familiarity with a window to be as tall as it is. i feel that i have it at advantage and that i am using it with undue intimacy. when i was a little girl i used to creep under the dining-room table and sit there, looking up, transfixed at the difference. a new angle of material vision, the sight of the other side of the shield, always gives me this pause. but whereas this other aspect of things used to be a delight, now, in life, i shrink a little from availing myself of certain revelations. i have a great wish to know things, but i would know them otherwise than by looking at their linings. i think that even a window should be sanctioned in its reticences. before a black walnut commode my neighbour knelt that afternoon, and i found that it was filled with the things which she had made for the baby, when they should find him. these she showed to me--they were simple and none too fine, and she had made them on her sewing-machine in the intervals of her busy life. for three years she had wrought at them, buying them from the egg money. i wondered if this secret pastime of garment-making might not account for my impression of her that she must always be off to engage in something other. perhaps it was this occupation, always calling her, which would not let her appear fixed at garden-watering or festival. i think that it may be so of any who are "pressed in the spirit" to serve, to witness to any truth: that is their vocation and every other is an avocation, a calling away from the real business of life. for this reason it is my habit to think of the social workers in any division of the service, family or town or state or church, as vocationists. it is they who are following the one great occupation. the rest of us are avocationists. in my neighbour i perceived one of the great comrade company of the vocationists, unconscious of her banner, but because of some sweet, secret piping, following, following.... "i've always thought i'd get to do a little embroidering on a yoke or two," she said, "but so far i couldn't. anyway i thought i could do the plain part and running the machine before he came. the other i could sit by the crib and do. embroidery seems sort o' baby-watchin' work, don't it?" when i left her i walked across the lawns to my home in a sense of security and peace. with increasing thousands consciously striving and passioning to help, and thousands helping because of the unconscious spirit within them, are there not many windows in the walls? "he" was to go by the accommodation early next morning to bring home the baby. therefore when, just before seven o'clock, i observed my neighbour's husband leave his home and join peter at his gate as usual, i went at once to see if something was amiss. my neighbour was having breakfast as her custom was "after the men-folks were out of the way." at all events she was pretending to eat. i saw in her eyes that something was troubling her, but she greeted me cheerfully. i sat by the sewing-machine while she went on with her pretence at breakfast. "the little thing's sick," she said. "last night we got the despatch. 'baby in hospital for day or two. will advise often,' it had in it. i'm glad they put that in. i'll feel better to know they'll get good advice." i sat with her for a long time, regardless of my work or that miggy was waiting for me. i was struck by the charm of matter-of-fact hopefulness in my neighbour, not the deliberate forcing of hope, but the simple expectation that nothing tragic would occur. but for all that she ate no breakfast, and i knew well the faint, quite physical sickness that she must have endured since the message came. "i'm going to get his basket ready to-day," she said. "i never did that, two reasons. one was, it seemed sort of taking too much for granted, like heating your spider before the meat wagon drives up. the other reason was i needed the basket for the clothes." i stayed with her while she made ready the clothes-basket, lining it with an old muslin curtain, filling it with pillows, covering it with the afghan from the parlour couch. then, in a shoe box edged with the curtain's broad ruffle, she put an array of little things: the brush from the spare-room bureau, the pincushion from her own work-basket, a sachet bag that had come with a last year's christmas gift, a cake of "nice soap" which she had kept for years and never unwrapped because it was so expensive. and then she added a little glass-stoppered bottle of white pills. "i don't know what they're for," she said. "i found them when i housecleaned, and there was so many of 'em i hated to throw 'em away. of course i'll never use 'em, but they look sort of nice in there--so white and a glass cork--don't you think so?" she walked with me across the lawn and stood brooding, one hand across her mouth, looking down at the disturbance--so slight!--in the grass where we had laid the bird. and on her face was the look which, each time that i saw it there, drew me nearer to her. "'seems as if i'd ought to be there to the hospital," she said, "doing what i can. do you s'pose they'll take good care of him? i guess they know more about it than i do. but if i could get hold of him in my arms it seems as if i could help 'em." i said what i could, and she went away to her house. and for the first time since i had known her she did not seem put upon to be back at some employment. these times of unwonted idleness are terrible to witness. i remember a farmer whom i once saw in the afternoon, dressed in his best, waiting in the kitchen for the hour of his daughter's wedding, and i wondered that the great hands did not work of their own will. the lost aspect of certain men on holidays, the awful inactivity of the day of a funeral, the sad idleness of old age, all these are very near to the tragedy of negation. work, the positive, the normal, the joyous, is like an added way of being. i thought that i would never again marvel at my neighbour for being always on the edge of flight to some pressing occupation. why should she not be so?--with all that there is to be done. whether we rush about, or conceal the need and rush secretly, is a detail of our breeding; the need is to get things done, to become by doing. and while for myself i would prefer the accomplishment of not seeming to hurry, as another is accomplished at the harp, yet i own that i would cheerfully forego the pretty grace rather than find myself without some slight degree of the robust proficiency of getting things done. "if you're born a picture in a book," calliope once said, "it's all very well to set still on the page an' hold your hands. but if you're born anyways human at all, stick up your head an' start out for somewhere." my neighbour rarely comes to my house. and therefore, though she is to me so familiar a figure in her garden, when next morning i found her awaiting me in my sitting room, she seemed strange to me. perhaps, too, she was really strange to me that day. "my baby died," she said. she stood there looking at me, and i knew that what she said was true, but it seemed to me for a moment that i could not have it so. "he died yesterday in the evening," she told me. "i just heard this morning, when the telegraph office opened. i dressed myself to go after him, but _he's_ gone." "to go after him?" i repeated. she nodded. "he was in the charity part. i was afraid they'd bury him in the potter's field and they wouldn't mark--it, and that i couldn't never tell which one it was. so i want to get him and have him buried here. _he_ didn't want i should go--he thought it'd be too much for me. but i was bound to, so he says he'd go. they'd ought to get here on the five o'clock this afternoon. oh, if i'd went yesterday, do you think it would 'a' been any different?" there i could comfort her. i did not think it would have been different. but when i tried to tell her how much better it was this way than that the baby should first have come to her and then have sickened, she would have none of it. "i've never held him once," she said. "do you s'pose anything could be worse than that? i'd rather have got hold of him once, no matter what." it touched me unutterably, the grief of this mother who was no mother. i had no knowledge what to say to her. but i think that what she wanted most was companionship. she went to one and another and another of our neighbours to whom she had shown so happily the broken post-card picture, and to them in the same way she took the news:-- "my baby died." and i was amazed to find how in this little time, the tentacles of her heart having fastened and clung, she had made for herself, without ever having seen the child, little things to tell about him: his eyes were so bright; the sun was shining and the picture was made out-of-doors, yet the eyes were opened wide. they were blue eyes--had she told us? had we noticed the hands in the picture? and the head was a beautiful shape.... all this seemed to me marvellous. for i saw that no woman ever mourns for any child dumbly, as a bird mourns a fledgling, but even if she never sees it, she will yet contrive some little tender ways to give it personality and to cherish it. they did their best to comfort her, the women of the village. but many of them had lost little children of their own, and these women could not regard her loss as at all akin to theirs. i think that this my neighbour felt; and perhaps she dimly felt that to me her grief, hardly less than theirs, brimmed with the tragic disaster of the unfulfilled and bore, besides, its own peculiar bitterness. in any case i was of those who, that afternoon, went out to the cemetery to await the coming of my neighbour and "him" and their little burden. calliope was there, and mis' amanda toplady and miggy; and when it was time to go little child was with me, so she went too. for i am not of those who keep from children familiarity with death. familiarity with the ways of death i would spare them, but not the basic things, primal as day. "i don't want to give a real funeral," my neighbour had said. "i just want the few that i tell to happen out there to the cemetery, along about five. and then we'll come with him. it seems as if it'll hurt less that way. i couldn't bear to see a whole line driving along, and me look back and know who it was for." the cemetery had the dignity and serenity of a meadow, a meadow still somewhat amazed that it had been for a while distracted from its ancient uses, but, after all, perceiving no permanent difference in its function. i am never weary of walking down these grassy streets and of recounting their strangenesses. as that of the headstone of david bibber's wives, one stone extending across the heads of the two graves and at either end of the stone two gothic peaks from whose inner slopes reach two marble hands, clasped midway, and, sacred to the wives of david bibber inscribed below, the wifely names not appearing in the epitaph. and that of mark sturgis who, the village said, had had the good luck to marry two women named dora; so he had erected a low monument to "dora, beloved wife of mark sturgis, jr." ("but how mixin' it must be to the ghosts!" calliope said.) and of the young girl of a former friendship family of wealth, a girl who sleeps beneath a monument on which stands a great figure of a young woman in a white marble dress made with three flounces. ("honest," calliope had put it, "you can't hardly tell whether it's a tomb or a valentine.") but these have for me an interest less of the bizarre than of the human, and nothing that is human was alien to that hour. we waited for them by the new little grave, the disturbance--so slight!--in the earth where we would lay the stranger baby. our hands were filled with garden flowers--calliope had drawn a little hand cart laden with ferns and sweet-brier, and my dear mis' amanda toplady had cut all the half-blown buds from her loved tea rose. "it seems like a little baby wasn't real dead that i hadn't helped lay out," said that great mis' amanda, trying to find her handkerchief. "oh, i wish't it was alive. it seems like such a little bit of comin' alive to ask the lord!" and as the afternoon shadows drew about us with fostering arms, "out-here knows we feel bad more than down town, don't it?" said little child. i have always thought very beautiful that village custom of which i have before spoken, which provides that the father and mother of a little baby who dies may take it with them in a closed carriage to the grave. it was so that my neighbour and her husband brought their baby to the cemetery from the station, with the little coffin on their knees. on the box beside the driver peter was riding. we learned afterward that he had appeared at the station and had himself taken that little coffin from the car. "so then it didn't have to be on the truck at all," my neighbour noted thankfully when she told me. i think that it must be this living with only a street or two between folk and the open country which gives these unconscious sharpenings of sensibility often, otherwhere, bred only by old niceties of habit. so little kenneth was buried, who never had the name save in unreality; whom my neighbour had never tended; who lived for her only in dream and on that broken post-card and here in the hidden dust. it made her grief so sad a thing that her arms did not miss him; nor had he slipped from any usage of the day; nor was any link broken with the past; only the plans that had hung in air had gone out, like flames which had kindled nothing. because of this she sorrowed from within some closed place at which her husband could only guess, who stood patiently without in his embarrassed concern, his clumsy anxiety to do what there was to be done, his wondering distress at his wife's drooping grief. but her sorrow was rooted in the love of women for the "little young thing, runnin' round," for which she had long passioned. "oh, god, who lived in the spirit of the little lord jesus, live thou in this child's spirit, and it in thee, world without end," doctor june prayed. and little child whispered to me and then went to let fall a pink in the grave. "so if the flower gets to be an angel flower, then they can go round together," she explained. when i looked up there were in the west the first faint heraldings of rose. and against it stood miggy and peter, side by side, looking down this new way of each other's lives which took account of sorrow. he said something to her, and she nodded, and gave him her white hollyhocks to lay with the rest. and as they turned away together little child whispered to me, pulling herself, by my arm, to high tiptoe:-- "that little child we put in the sunset," she said, nodding to the west, "it's there now. it's there now!" perhaps it was that my heart was filled with the tragedy of the unfulfilled intention, perhaps it was that i thought that little child's whispering was true. in any case i hastened my steps, and as we passed out on the road i overtook miggy and peter. "peter," said i, "may miggy and i come to pay you that visit now, on the way back?" miggy looked startled. "it's supper time," she objected. who are we that we should interrupt a sunset, or a situation, or the stars in their courses, merely to sup? neither miggy nor i belong to those who do so. besides, we had to pass peter's very door. i said so, and all the time peter's face was glowing. "hurry on ahead," i bade him, "and miggy and little child and i will come in your house to call." he looked at me gratefully, and waited for good night to my neighbour, and went swiftly away down the road toward the sunset. "oh, goody grand, goody grand," little child went on softly, in an invocation of her own to some secret divinity of her pleasure. "oh, that little child we put there, it's talkin' to the sky, an' i guess that makes sunset be!" my neighbour was looking back across the tranquil meadow which might have been deep with summer hay instead of mounded to its sad harvest. "i wish," she said, "i could have had his little grave in my garden, same as you would a bird. still i s'pose a cemet'ry is a cemet'ry and had ought to be buried in. but oh, i can't tell you how glad i am to have him here in friendship village. it's better to think about, ain't it?" but the thing that gripped my heart was to see her, beside her husband, go down the road and not hurry. all that bustling impermanence was fallen from her. i think that now i am becoming thankful for every one who goes busily quickening the day with a multitude, yes, even with a confusion, of homely, cheerful tasks. miggy slipped her hand within my arm. "did you think of it?" she said. "i've been, all the time. it's most the same with her as it would be to me if i'd lost _her_. you know ... that little margaret. i mean, if she should never be." as when one hears the note of an oriole ringing from the innermost air, so now it seems to me that after these things the deeps of air can never again be wholly alien to me. xviii at peter's house i wondered somewhat that peter did not come out of his house to fetch us. he was not even about the little yard when we went up the walk, though he knew that we must arrive but a few moments after he did. little child ran away to pick bouncing bet and sweet clover in the long, rank grass of the unkept garden. and miggy and i went and stood on the porch before peter's door, and i knew what i intended. "rap!" i said to miggy. she looked at me in surprise--i have not often commanded her like that. but i wanted to see her stand at peter's door asking for admission. and i think that peter had wanted it too and that this was why he had not come to the gate to fetch us. i guessed it by the light on his face when, in the middle of miggy's knock, he caught open the door. i like to remember his face as it looked at that moment, with the little twist of mouth and lifting of brow which gave him a peculiar sweetness and naïveté, curiously contradicted by the way his eyes were when they met miggy's. "how long it took you," he said. "come in. _come in._" we went in, and i looked at miggy. for i did not want her to step in that house as she would have stepped in a house that was just a house. is it not wonderful how some front doors are front doors plus? i do not know plus what--that is one of those good little in-between things which we know without always naming. but there are some front doors which are to me boards and glass and a tinkling cymbal bell; while other doors of no better architecture let me within dear depths of homes which are to houses what friends are to inhabitants. it was so that i would have had miggy go within peter's house,--not as within doors, but as within arms. we entered directly from the porch into the small parlour--the kind of man's parlour that makes a woman long to take it on her lap and tend it. there were no curtains. between the windows was a big table filled with neat piles of newspapers and weeklies till there should be time to look them over. the shelf had a lamp, not filled, a clock, not going, and a pile of seed catalogues. on two walls were three calendars with big hollyhocks and puppies and ladies in sunbonnets. the entire inner wall was occupied by a map of the state--why does a man so cherish a map of something, hung up somewhere? on the organ was a row of blue books--what is it that men are always looking for in blue books? in a corner, on the floor, stood a shotgun. the wood stove had been "left up" all summer to save putting it up in the fall--this business of getting a stove on rollers and jacking it up and remembering where it stood so that the pipe will fit means, in the village, a day of annual masculine sacrifice to the feminine foolishness of wanting stoves down in summer. there was nothing disorderly about the room; but it was dressed with no sash or hair ribbon or coral beads, as a man dresses his little girl. "we don't use this room much," peter said. "we sit in here sometimes in summer, but i think when a man sits in his parlour he always feels like he was being buried from it, same as they're used for." "why--" said miggy, and stopped. what she was going to say it was not important to know, but i was glad that she had been going to say it. something, perhaps, about this being a very pretty room if there were somebody to give it a touch or two. peter was obviously eager to be in the next room, and that, he explained, would have been the dining room, only he had taken it for his own, and they ate in the kitchen. i think that i had never heard him mention his father at all, and this "we" of his now was a lonelier thing than any lonely "i." "this is my room," he said as we entered it. "it's where i live when i'm not at the works. come and let me show you." so peter showed miggy his room, and he showed it to me, too, though i do not think that he was conscious of that. it was a big room, bare of floor and, save for the inescapable flowery calendar, bare of walls. there was a shelf of books--not many, but according to peter's nature sufficiently well-selected to plead for him: "look at us. who could love us and not be worth while?"--bad enough logic, in all conscience, to please any lover. miggy hardly looked at the books. she so exasperatingly took it for granted that a man must be everything in general that it left hardly anything for him to be in particular. but peter made her look, and he let me look too, and i supplied the comments and miggy occasionally did her three little nods. the writing table peter had made from a box, and by this miggy was equally untouched. all men, it appeared, should be able to make writing tables from boxes. with the linen table cover it was a little different--this peter's mother had once worked in cross-stitch for his room, and miggy lifted an end and looked at it. "she took all those stitches for you!" she said. "there's one broken," she showed him. "i can mend that," peter said proudly, "i'll show you my needle kit." at this she laughed out suddenly with, "_needle kit!_ what a real regular old bachelor you are, aren't you?" "i can't help that," said peter, with "and the same cannot be said for you" sticking from the sentence. on the table lay the cannery account books, and one was open at a full page of weary little figures. "is this where you sit nights and do your work and read?" miggy demanded. "right here," peter told her, "every night of the year, 'most. except when i come to see you." miggy stood looking at the table and the wooden chair. "that's funny," she remarked finally, with an air of meditative surprise; "they know you so much better than i do, don't they?" "well," peter said gravely, "they haven't been thought about as much as you have, miggy--that's one thing." "thinking's nothing," said miggy, merrily; "sometimes you get a tune in your head and you can't get it out." "sit down at the table," said peter, abruptly. "sit down!" he repeated, when her look questioned him. "i want to see you there." she obeyed him, laughing a little, and quite in the woman's way of pretending that obedience is a choice. peter looked at her. it is true that he had been doing nothing else all the while, but now that she sat at the table--his table--he looked more than before. "well," he said, "well, well." as a man says when he has a present and has no idea what to say about it. peter's photographs were on the wall above the table, and peter suddenly leaned past miggy and took down the picture of his mother and put it in her hand, without saying anything. for the first time miggy met his eyes. "your mother," she said, "why, peter. she looked--oh, peter, she looked like you!" peter nodded. "yes, i do look like she did," he said; "i'm always so glad." "she knew you when you were a little bit of a baby, peter," miggy advanced suddenly. peter admitted it gravely. she had. "well," said miggy, as peter had said it. "well." there was a picture of peter's father as a young man,--black, curly-haired, black-moustached, the cheeks slightly tinted in the picture, his hands laid trimly along his knees. the face was weak, empty, but it held that mere confidence of youth which always gives a special sting to the grief of unfulfilment. over this they passed, saying nothing. it struck me that in the delicacy of that silence it was almost as if miggy shared something with peter. also, it struck me pleasantly that miggy's indifference to the personalities of divers aunts in straight bangs and long basques was slightly exaggerated, especially when, "i never thought about your having any aunts," she observed. and then peter took down a tiny picture of the sort we call in the village "card size," and gave it to her. "guess who," he said. it was a little boy of not more than five, in a straight black coat dress, buttoned in the front and trimmed with broad black velvet strips, and having a white scalloped collar and white cuffs. one hand was resting on the back of a camp-chair and the other held a black helmet cap. the shoes had double rows of buttons, and for some secret reason the photographer had had the child laboriously cross one foot negligently over the other. the fine head, light-curled, was resting in the horns of that ex-device that steadied one out of all semblance to self. but in spite of the man who had made the picture, the little boy was so wholly adorable that you wanted to say so. "peter!" miggy said, "it's _you_." i do not know how she knew. i think that i would not have known. but miggy knew, and her knowing made me understand something which evidently she herself did not understand. for she looked at the picture and looked at it, a strange, surprised smile on her face. and, "well, well, _well_," she said again. "i never thought about that before. i mean about you. _then._" "would--would you want that picture, miggy?" peter asked; "you can have it if you do." "can i really?" said miggy. "well, i do want it. goodness...." "i always kind of thought," peter said slowly, "that when i have a son he'll look something like that. he might, you know." peter was leaning beside her, elbows on the table, and miggy looked up at him over the picture of the child, and made her three little nods. "yes," she said, "you would want your little boy to look like you." "and i'd want him named peter. it's a homely old name, but i'd want him to have it." "peter isn't a homely name," said miggy, in a manner of surprise. "yes, of course you'd want him--" the sentence fell between them unfinished. and i thought that miggy's face, still somewhat saddened by the little kenneth and now tender with its look for the picture, was lightly touched with a glowing of colour. but then i saw that this would be the light of the sunset on her cheeks, for now the west was become a glory of rose and yellow, so that it held captive her eyes. it is too frail a thing for me to have grasped by sense, but the moment seemed to say--and could give no reason--that our sunset compact miggy kept then without remembering the compact. it almost startled me when out in the unkept garden little child began to sing. we had nearly forgotten her and we could not see her, so that she might have been any other little child wandering in the sweet clover, or merely a little voice coming in with the western light:-- "i like to stand in this great air and see the sun go down. it shows me a bright veil to wear and such a pretty gown. oh, i can see a playmate there far up in splendour town!" "look here," said peter to miggy; and i went over to the sunset window and let them go on alone. he led her about the room, and she still had the little picture in her hand. from the bureau, with its small array of cheap brushes and boxes, she turned abruptly away. i think that she may have felt as i felt about the splash of rose on the rose-breasted grosbeak's throat--that i ought not to have been looking. beyond was a little old dry-goods box for odds and ends, a box which must have known, with a kind of feminine intelligence, that it ought to be covered with cretonne. on this box miggy knelt to read peter's high school diploma, and she stopped before a picture of the house where he was born. "was it there?" she asked. "doesn't that seem funny?" which manifestly it did not seem. "is _that_ where your violin lives?" she asked, when they came to its corner--surely a way of betrayal that she had thought of it as living somewhere else. and all the while she carried the picture in her hand, and the sunset glorified the room, and little child was singing in the garden. "peter," said miggy, "i don't believe a man who can play the violin can sew. give me the needle kit. i'm going to mend the table cover--may i?" might she! peter, his face shining, brought out his red flannel needle-book--he kept it on the shelf with his shaving things!--and, his face shining more, sat on a creaking camp-chair and watched her. "miggy," he said, as she caught the threads skilfully together, "i don't believe i've ever seen you sew. i know i never have." "this isn't sewing," miggy said. "it's near enough like it to suit me," said peter. he drew a breath long, and looked about him. i knew how he was seeing the bare room, lamp-lighted, and himself trying to work in spite of the longing that teased and possessed him and bade him give it up and lean back and think of her; or of tossing on the hard couch in the tyranny of living his last hour with her and of living, too, the hours that might never be. and here she was in this room--his room. peter dropped his head on his hand and his eyes did not leave her face save to venture an occasional swift, ecstatic excursion to her fingers. simply and all quietly, as nature sends her gifts, miracles moved toward completion while miggy sewed. the impulse to do for him this trifling service was like a signal, and when she took up the needle for him i think that women whose hands had long lain quiet stirred within her blood. as for peter--but these little housewifely things which enlighten a woman merely tease a man, who already knows their import and longs for all sweet fragments of time to be merged in the long possession. miggy gave the needle back to peter and he took it--needle, red book, and hand. "miggy!" he said, and the name on his lips was like another name. and it was as if she were in some place remote and he were calling her. she looked at him as if she knew the call. since the world began, only for one reason does a man call a woman like that. "what is it you want?" she said--and her voice was very sweet and very tired. "i want more of _you_!" said peter cary. she may have tried to say something, but her voice trembled away. "i thought it would be everything--your coming here to-day," peter said. "i've wanted it and wanted it. and what does it amount to? nothing, except to make me wild with wanting you never to go away. i dread to think of your leaving me here--shutting the door and being gone. if it was just plain wanting you i could meet that, and beat it, like i do the things down to the works. but it isn't that. it's like it was something big--bigger than me, and outside of me, and it gets hold of me, and it's like it asked for you without my knowing. i can't do anything that you aren't some of it. it isn't fair, miggy. i want more of you--all of you--all the time, miggy, all the time...." i should have liked to see miggy's face when she looked at peter, whose eyes were giving her everything and were asking everything of her; but i was studying the sunset, glory upon glory, to match the glory here. and the singing of little child began again, like that of a little voice vagrant in the red west.... "oh, i can see a playmate there, far up in splendour town!" miggy heard her, and remembered. "peter, peter!" she cried, "i couldn't--i never could bring us two on you to support." peter gave her hands a little shake, as if he would have shaken her. i think that he would have shaken her if it had been two or three thousand years earlier in the world's history. "you two!" he cried; "why, miggy, when we marry do i want--or do you want--that it should stay just you and me? we want children. i want you for their mother as much as i want you for my wife." it was the voice of the paramount, compelling spirit, the sovereign voice of the family, calling through the wilderness. peter knew,--this fine, vital boy seeking his own happiness; he gropingly understood this mighty thing, and he was trying his best to serve it. and, without knowing that she knew, miggy knew too ... and the seal that she knew was in what was in the sunset. and as far removed from these things as the sunset itself was all miggy's cheap cynicism about love and all the triviality of her criticism of peter. miggy stood motionless, looking at peter. and then, like an evil spell which began to work, another presence was in the room.... somewhile before i had begun to hear the sound, as a faint undercurrent to consciousness; an unimportant, unpleasant, insisting sound that somehow interfered. gradually it had come nearer and had interfered more and had mingled harshly with the tender treble of little child. now, from peter's gate the sound besieged my ears and entered the room and explained itself to us all-- "my mary anna mary, what you mean i _never_ know, you don't make me merry, very, but you make me sorry, oh--" the "oh" prolonged, undulatory, exploring the air.... i knew what it was, and they knew. at the sound of his father's voice, drunken, piteous, peter dropped miggy's hands and his head went down and he stood silent, like a smitten thing. my own heart sank, for i knew what miggy had felt, and i thought i knew what she would feel now. so here was another unfulfilled intention, another plan gone astray in an unperfected order. peter had turned somewhat away before he spoke. "i'll have to go now," he said quietly, "i guess you'll excuse me." he went toward the kitchen door ashamed, miserable, all the brightness and vitality gone from him. i am sorry that he did not see miggy's face when she lifted it. i saw it, and i could have sung as i looked. not for peter or for miggy, but for the sake of something greater than they, something that touched her hand, commanded "look at me," bade her follow with us all. before peter reached the door she overtook him, stood before him, put her hands together for a moment, and then laid one swiftly on his cheek. "peter," she said, "that don't make any difference. that don't make any difference." no doubt he understood her words, but i think what he understood best was her hand on his cheek. he caught her shoulders and looked and looked.... "honest--honest, don't it?" he searched her. you would not have said that her answer to that was wholly direct. she only let fall her hand from his cheek to his shoulder, and, "peter," she said, "_is it like this_?" "yes," he said simply, "it's like this." and then what she said was ever so slightly muffled, as if at last she had dropped her head in that sweet confusion which she had never seemed to know; as if at last she was looking at peter as if he _was_ peter. "then i don't ever want to be any place where you aren't," she told him. "miggy!" peter cried, "take care what you say. remember--he'd live with us." she made her three little nods. "so he will," she answered, "so he will. he--and my little sister--and all of us." peter's answer was a shout. "say it out!" he cried, "say you will. miggy! i've _got_ to hear you say it out!" "peter, peter," she said, "i want to marry you." he took her in his arms and in the room was the glory upon glory of the west, a thing of wings and doors ajar. and strong as the light, there prevailed about them the soul of the family, that distributes burdens, shares responsibilities, accepts what is and what is to come. its voice was in the voice of little child singing in the garden, and of old cary babbling at the gate. its heart was the need of peter and miggy, each for the other. i saw in their faces the fine freedoms of the sunset, that sunset where miggy and little child and i had agreed that a certain spirit lives. and it did but tally with the momentous utterance of these things and of the evening when miggy spoke again. "go now--you go to him," she said, "we'll wait. and--peter--when you come back, i want to see everything in the room again." xix the custodian when the river is low, a broad, flat stone lying a little way from shore at the foot of our lawn becomes an instrument of music. in the day it plays now a rhapsody of sun, now a nocturne of cloud, now the last concerto, opus eternal. in the night it becomes a little friendly murmur, a cradle song, slumber spell, neighbour to the dark, the alien dark who very likely grows lonely, being the silent sister, whereas the light goes on blithely companioned of us all. but if i were the dark and owned the stars, and the potion which quickens conscience, and the sense of the great spirit brooding, brooding, i do not know that i would exchange and be the light. still, the light has rainbows and toil and the sun and laughter.... after all, it is best to be a human being and to have both light and darkness for one's own. and it is concerning this conclusion that the river plays on its instrument of music, this shallow river "--to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals." i have heard our bank cat-birds in the willows sing madrigals to the stone-music until i wanted to be one of them--cat-bird, madrigal, shallows, or anything similar. but the human is perhaps what all these are striving to express, and so i have been granted wish within wish, and life is very good. life was very good this summer afternoon when half the village gathered on our lawn above the singing stone, at miggy's and peter's "announcement supper." to be sure, all friendship village had for several days had the news and could even tell you when the betrothal took place and where; but the two were not yet engaged, as miggy would have said, "out loud." "what _is_ engaged?" asked little child, who was the first of my guests to arrive, and came bringing an offering of infinitesimal flowers which she finds in the grass where i think that they bloom for no one else. "it means that people love each other very much--" i began, and got no further. "oh, goody grand," cried little child. "then i'm engaged, aren't i? to everybody." whenever she leads me in deep water, i am accustomed to invite her to a dolphin's back by bidding her say over some song or spell which i have taught her. this afternoon while we waited on the lawn and her little voice went among the charmed words, something happened which surely must have been due to a prank of the dolphin. for when she had taken an accurate way to the last stanza of "lucy," little child soberly concluded:-- "'she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and what's the difference to me!'" but, even so, it was charming to have had the quiet metre present. i hope that there is no one who has not sometime been in a company on which he has looked and looked with something living in his eyes; on a company all of whom he holds in some degree of tenderness. it was so that i looked this afternoon on those who came across the lawn in the pleasant five o'clock sun, and i looked with a difference from my manner of looking on that evening of my visit to the village, when i first saw these, my neighbours. then i saw them with delight; now i see them with delight-and-that-difference; and though that difference is, so to say, partly in my throat, yet it is chiefly deep in my understanding. there came my mis' amanda toplady, with her great green umbrella, which she carries summer and winter; mis' postmaster sykes, with the full-blooming stalk of her tuberose pinned on her left shoulder; mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss in the pink nun's veiling of the post-office hall supper; and my neighbour, who had consented to come, with: "i donno as that little thing would want i should stay home. oh, but do you know, that's the worst--knowin' that the little thing never saw me and can't think about me at all!" and there came also those of whom it chances that this summer i have seen less than i should have wished: the liberty sisters, in checked print. "it don't seem so much of a jump out of mournin' into wash goods as it does into real dress-up cloth," gentle miss lucy says. and abigail arnold, of the home bakery, who sent a great sugared cake for to-day's occasion. "birthday cakes is correct," she observed, "an' weddin' cake is correct. why ain't engagement cakes correct--especially when folks get along without the ring? i donno. i always think doin' for folks is correct, whether it's the style or whether it ain't." and mis' photographer sturgis, with a new and upbraiding baby; mis' fire chief merriman in "new black, but not true mournin' now, an' anyway lit up by pearl buttons an' a lace handkerchief an' plenty o' scent." and mis' "mayor" uppers who, the "mayor" not returning to his home and the tickets for the parlour clock having all been sold, to-day began offering for sale tickets on the "parlour 'suit,' brocade' silk, each o' the four pieces a differ'nt colour and all as bright as new-in-the-store." and though we all understood what she was doing and she knew that we all knew, she yet drew us aside, one after another, to offer the tickets for sale privately, and we slipped the money to her beneath our handkerchiefs or our fans or our sewing. we all had our sewing--even i have become pleasantly contaminated and have once or twice essayed eyelets. though there was but an hour to elapse before supper-time and the arrival of the "men-folks," we settled ourselves about the green, making scallops on towels, or tatting for sheet hems, or crocheted strips for the hems of pillow-slips. mis' sykes had, as she almost always does have, new work which no one had ever seen before, and new work is accounted of almost as much interest as a new waist and is kept for a surprise, as a new waist should be kept. little child, too, had her sewing; she was buttonhole-stitching a wash-cloth and talking like a little old woman. i think that the little elf children like best to pretend in this way, as regular, arrant witches feign old womanhood. "aunt effie is sick," little child was telling mis' toplady; "she is sick from her hair to her slippers." i had a plan for little child and for us all; that after supper she should have leaves in her hair and on her shoulders and should dance on the singing stone in the river. and miggy, whose shy independence is now become all shyness, was in the house, weaving the leaves, and had not yet appeared at her party at all. then one of those charming things happened which surely have a kind of life of their own and wake the hour to singing, as if an event were a river stone, and more, round which all manner of faint music may be set stirring. "havin' a party when i ain't lookin'!" cried somebody. "my, my. i don't b'lieve a word of what's name--this evolution business. i bet you anything heaven is just _gettin' back_." and there was calliope, in her round straw hat and tan ulster, who in response to my card had hastened her imminent return. "yes," she said, when we had greeted her and put her in a chair under the mulberry tree, "my relation got well. at least, she ain't sick enough to be cross, so 'most anybody could take care of her now." calliope laughed and leaned back and shut her eyes. "land, land," she said, "i got so much to tell you about i don't know where to begin. it's all about one thing, too--somethin' i've found out." mis' amanda toplady drew a great breath and let fall her work and looked round at us all. "goodness," she said, "ain't it comfortable--us all settin' here together, nobody's leg broke, nobody's house on fire, nor none of us dead?" "'us all settin' here together,'" calliope repeated, suddenly grave amid our laughter, "that's part of what i'm comin' to. i wonder," she said to us, "how you folks have always thought of the city? up till i went there to stay this while i always thought of it as--well, as the city an' not so much as folks at all. the city always meant to me big crowds on the streets--hurryin', hurryin', eatin', eatin', and not payin' much attention to anything. one whole batch of 'em i knew was poor an' lookin' in bakery windows. one whole batch of 'em i knew was rich an' sayin' there has to be these distinctions. and some more i knew was good--i always see 'em, like a pretty lady, stoopin' over, givin'. and some more i knew was wicked an' i always thought of them climbin' in windows. and then there was the little bit o' batch that knows the things i want to know an' talks like i'd like to talk an' that i'd wanted an' wanted to go up to the city an' get with. "well, then i went. an' the first thing, i see my relative wa'n't rich nor poor nor bad nor good nor--the way i mean. nor her friends that come to see her, they wan't either. the ones i took for rich talked economy, an' the ones i thought was poor spent money, an' the good ones gossiped, an' they all jabbered about music and pictures that i thought you couldn't talk about unless you knew the 'way-inside-o'-things, like they didn't know. the kinds seemed all mixed up, and all of 'em far away an' formal, like--oh, like the books in a library when you can't think up one to draw out. i couldn't seem to get near to anything. "then one night i done what i'd always wanted to do. i took two dollars an' went to the theatre alone an' got me a seat. i put on the best i had, an' still i didn't feel like i was one of 'em, nor one of much of anybody. the folks on the car wasn't the way i meant, an' i felt mad at 'em for bein' differ'nt. there was a smilin' young fellow, all dressed black an' expensive, an' i thought: 'put you side of peter cary an' there wouldn't be anybody there but peter.' and when i got inside the theatre, it was just the same: one awful collection of dressed-up hair an' dressed-down backs an' everybody smilin' at somebody that wasn't me and all seemin' so sure of themselves. specially the woman in front of me, but i guess it always is specially the woman in front of you. she was flammed out abundant. she had trimmin's in unexpected places, an' a good many colours took to do it, an' a cute little chatter to match. it come to me that she was more than different from me: she was the _otherest_ a person can be. an' i felt glad when the curtain went up. "well, sir," calliope said, "it was a silly little play--all about nothin' that you could lay much speech to. but oh, they was somethin' in it that made you get down on your hands and knees in your own heart and look around in it, and _look_. they was an old lady and a young mother and a child and a man and a girl--well, that don't sound like much special, does it? and that's just it: it wasn't much special, but yet it was all of everything. it made 'em laugh, it made 'em cry, it made _me_ laugh and cry till i was ashamed and glad and grateful. and when the lights come up at the end, i felt like i was kind of the mother to everything, an' i wanted to pick it up an' carry it off an' keep care of it. and it come over me all of a sudden how the old lady and the young mother an' man an' girl, man an' girl, _man an' girl_ was right there in the theatre, near me, over an' over again; an' there i'd been feelin' mad at 'em for seemin' far off. but they wasn't far off. they'd been laughin' and cryin', too, an' they knew, just like i knew, what was what in the world. my, my. if it'd been friendship i'd have gone from house to house all the way home, shakin' hands. an' as it was, i just _had_ to speak to somebody. an' just then i see the flammed-out woman in front of me, that her collar had come open a little wee bit up top--not to notice even, but it give me an excuse. and i leaned right over to her and i says with all the sympathy in me:-- "'ma'am, your neck is peepin'." "she looked around su'prised and then she smiled--smiled 'most into laughin'. and she thanked me sweet as a friend an' nodded with it, an' i thought: 'why, my land, you may have a baby home.' i never had thought of that. an' then i begun lookin' at folks an' lookin'. an' movin' up the aisles, there wasn't just a theatre-lettin'-out. they was _folks_. and all over each one was the good little things they'd begun rememberin' now that the play was over, or the hurt things that had come back onto 'em again.... an' out on the street it was the same. the folks had all got alive and was waitin' for me to feel friendly to 'em. _friendly._ the young fellows in the cars was lovers, just like peter. an' everybody was just like me, or anyhow more alike than differ'nt; and just like friendship, only mebbe pronouncin' their words some differ'nt an' knowin' more kinds of things to eat. it seems to me now i could go anywhere an' find folks to be nice to. i don't love friendship village any the less, but i love more things the same way. everything, 'most. an' i tell you i'm glad i didn't die before i found it out--that we're all one batch. _do_ you see what i mean--deep down inside what i say?" calliope cried. "does it sound like anything to you?" to whom should it sound like "anything" if not to us of friendship village? we know. "honestly," said that great mis' amanda toplady, trying to wipe her eyes on her crochet work, "whoever god is, i don't believe he wants to keep it a secret. he's always 'most lettin' us know. i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'." "i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'." ... i said the words over while the men crossed the lawn, all arriving together in order to lighten the trial of guesthood: dear doctor june, little timothy toplady, eppleby holcomb, postmaster sykes, photographer jimmie sturgis, peter, and timothy, jr., and the others. liva vesey was already in the kitchen with miggy and elfa, and i knew that, somewhere invisible, nicholas moor was hovering, waiting to help dish the ice-cream. when the little tables, each with its bright, strewn nasturtiums, were set about the lawn, miggy reluctantly appeared from the kitchen. she was in the white frock which she herself had made, and she was, as i have said, a new miggy, not less merry or less elfin, but infinitely more human. it was charming, i thought, to see how she and peter, far from tensely avoiding each other, went straight to each other's side. with them at table were liva and timothy, jr., now meeting each other's eyes as simply as if eyes were for this purpose. "i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'" ... i thought again as we stood in our places and doctor june lifted his hands to the summer sky as if he were there, too. "father," he said, "bless these young people who are going to belong to each other--thou knowest their names and so do we. bless our being together now in their honour, and be thou in our midst. and bless our being together always. amen." and that was the announcement of miggy's and peter's betrothal, at their engagement party. little child, who was sitting beside calliope, leaned toward her. "how long will it take for god to know," she asked, "after doctor june sent it up?" calliope put her arm about her and told her. "then did he get here since doctor june invited him?" little child asked. "you think, 'way deep inside your head, an' see if he isn't here," i heard calliope say. little child shut her eyes tightly, and though she did open them briefly to see what was on the plate which they set before her, i think that she found the truth. "i 'most know," she said presently. "pretty near i know he is. i guess i'm too little to be sure nor certain. when i'm big will i know sure?" "yes," calliope answered, "then you'll know sure." "i 'most knew who he is while calliope was talkin'" ... i said over once more. and suddenly in the words and in the homely talk and in the happy comradeship i think that i slipped between the seeing and the knowing, and for a moment stood very near to the custodian--himself. the custodian who is in us all, who speaks, now as you, now as i, most clearly in our human fellowship, in our widest kinship, in the universal _togetherness_. truly, it is not as my neighbour once said, for i think that god has many and many to "neighbour with," if only we would be neighbours. presently, as if it knew that it belonged there, the sunset came, a thing of wings and doors ajar. then miggy fastened the leaves in little child's hair and led her down to dance on the broad, flat stone which is an instrument of music. above the friendly murmur of the shallows the little elf child seemed beckoning to us others of the human voices on the shore. and in that fair light it was as if the river were some clear highway, leading from friendship village to splendour town, where together we might all find our way. preparer's note this ebook was prepared from the edition published by the societe des beaux-arts in for the comedie d'amour series. registered copy number of . [illustration: comedie d'amour series] a love episode by emile zola illustrated by dantan [illustration: emile zola] zola and his writings emile zola was born in paris, april , . his father was francois zola, an italian engineer, who constructed the canal zola in provence. zola passed his early youth in the south of france, continuing his studies at the lycee st. louis, in paris, and at marseilles. his sole patrimony was a lawsuit against the town of aix. he became a clerk in the publishing house of hachette, receiving at first the modest honorarium of twenty-five francs a week. his journalistic career, though marked by immense toil, was neither striking nor remunerative. his essays in criticism, of which he collected and published several volumes, were not particularly successful. this was evidently not his field. his first stories, _les mysteres de marseilles_ and _le voeu d'une morte_ fell flat, disclosing no indication of remarkable talent. but in appeared _les contes a ninon_, which attracted wide attention, the public finding them charming. _les confessions de claude_ was published in . in this work zola had evidently struck his gait, and when _therese raquin_ followed, in , zola was fully launched on his great career as a writer of the school which he called "naturalist." _therese raquin_ was a powerful study of the effects of remorse preying upon the mind. in this work the naturalism was generally characterized as "brutal," yet many critics admitted that it was absolutely true to nature. it had, in fact, all the gruesome accuracy of a clinical lecture. in came _madeleine ferat_, an exemplification of the doctrine of heredity, as inexorable as the "destiny" of the greek tragedies of old. and now dawned in zola's teeming brain the vast conception of a "naturalistic comedy of life." it was to be balzac "naturalized," so to speak. the great cycle should run through the whole gamut of human passions, foibles, motives and interests. it should consist of human documents, of painstaking minuteness of detail and incontrovertible truth. the idea of destiny or heredity permeates all the works of this portentously ambitious series. details may be repellant. one should not "smell" a picture, as the artists say. if one does, he gets an impression merely of a small blotch of paint. the vast canvas should be studied as a whole. frailties are certainly not the whole of human nature. but they cannot be excluded from a comprehensive view of it. the "_rougon-macquart_ series" did not carry zola into the academy. but the reputation of moliere has managed to survive a similar exclusion, and so will the fame of zola, who will be bracketed with balzac in future classifications of artistic excellence. for twenty-two years, from _la fortune des rougon_, in , to _docteur pascal_ in , the series continued to focus the attention of the world, and zola was the most talked about man in the literature of the epoch. _la fortune des rougon_ was introductory. _la curee_ discussed society under the second empire. _le ventre de paris_ described the great market of paris. _la conquete de plassans_ spoke of life in the south of france. _la faute de l'abbe mouret_ treated of the results of celibacy. _son excellence eugene rougon_ dealt with official life. _l'assommoir_ was a tract against the vice of drunkenness. some think this the strongest of the naturalist series. its success was prodigious. in this the marvellous talent of zola for minute description is evinced. _une page d'amour_ (a love episode) appeared in . of _nana_, , three hundred thousand copies were quickly sold. _pot-bouille_ portrayed the lower _bourgeoisie_ and their servants. _au bonheur des dames_ treated of the great retail shops. _la joie de vivre_ came in . _germinal_ told of mining and the misery of the proletariat. _l'oeuvre_ pictured the life of artists and authors. _la terre_ portrayed, with startling realism, the lowest peasant life. _le reve_, which followed, was a reaction. it was a graceful idyl. _le reve_ was termed "a symphony in white," and was considered as a concession to the views of the majority of the french academy. _la bete humaine_ exhausted the details of railway life. _l'argent_ treats of financial scandals and panics. _la debacle_, , is a realistic picture of the desperate struggles of the franco-prussian war. _le docteur pascal_, , a story of the emotions, wound up the series. through it all runs the thread of heredity and environment in their influence on human character. but zola's work was not finished. a series of three romances on cities showed a continuance of power. they are _lourdes_, _rome_, and _paris_. after the books on the three cities zola planned a sort of tetralogy, intended to sum up his social philosophy, which he called the "four gospels." _feconditie_ is a tract against race suicide. the others of this series are entitled _travail_, _verite_ and _justice_, the latter projected but not begun. the attitude which zola took in reference to the wretched dreyfus scandal will add greatly to his fame as a man of courage and a lover of truth. from this filthy mess of perjury and forgery zola's intrepidity and devotion to justice arise clear and white as a lily from a cesspool. several of zola's books have been dramatized. zola died suddenly at his home in paris, in september, . he received a public funeral, anatole france delivering an oration at the grave. there is every indication that zola's great reputation as an artist and philosopher will increase with the passing of the years. c. c. starkweather. a love episode chapter i. the night-lamp with a bluish shade was burning on the chimney-piece, behind a book, whose shadows plunged more than half the chamber in darkness. there was a quiet gleam of light cutting across the round table and the couch, streaming over the heavy folds of the velvet curtains, and imparting an azure hue to the mirror of the rosewood wardrobe placed between the two windows. the quiet simplicity of the room, the blue tints on the hangings, furniture, and carpet, served at this hour of night to invest everything with the delightful vagueness of cloudland. facing the windows, and within sweep of the shadow, loomed the velvet-curtained bed, a black mass, relieved only by the white of the sheets. with hands crossed on her bosom, and breathing lightly, lay helene, asleep--mother and widow alike personified by the quiet unrestraint of her attitude. in the midst of the silence one o'clock chimed from the timepiece. the noises of the neighborhood had died away; the dull, distant roar of the city was the only sign of life that disturbed those trocadero heights. helene's breathing, so light and gentle, did not ruffle the chaste repose of her bosom. she was in a beauteous sleep, peaceful yet sound, her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot, and her head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep while eagerly listening. at the farther end of the room the open door of an adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall. still there was not a sound. the half-hour struck. the pendulum gave but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over the whole chamber. everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some woman's handiwork was disposed also in slumber. helene in her sleep retained her air of gravity and kindliness. two o'clock struck, and the stillness was broken. a deep sigh issued from the darkness of the closet. there was a rustling of linen sheets, and then silence reigned again. anon labored breathing broke through the gloom. helene had not moved. suddenly, however, she started up, for the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. dazed with sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a stifled sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet. "jeanne! my jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love," she asked; and as the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the night-light, "gracious heaven! why did i go to bed when she was so ill?" quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen. the feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on the ceiling. bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out nothing, but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim light soon revealed jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung back, the muscles of her neck swollen and rigid. her sweet face was distorted, her eyes were open and fixed on the curtain-rod above. "my child!" cried helene. "my god! my god! she is dying." setting down the lamp, helene touched her daughter with trembling hands. the throbbing of the pulse and the heart's action seemed to have died away. the child's puny arms and legs were stretched out convulsively, and the mother grew frantic at the sight. "my child is dying! help, help!" she stammered. "my child! my child!" she wandered back to her room, brushing against the furniture, and unconscious of her movements; then, distracted, she again returned to the little bed, throwing herself on her knees, and ever appealing for help. she took jeanne in her arms, rained kisses on her hair, and stroked her little body, begging her to answer, and seeking one word --only one word--from her silent lips. where was the pain? would she have some of the cooling drink she had liked the other day? perhaps the fresh air would revive her? so she rattled on, bent on making the child speak. "speak to me, jeanne! speak to me, i entreat you!" oh, god! and not to know what to do in this sudden terror born of the night! there was no light even. then her ideas grew confused, though her supplications to the child continued--at one moment she was beseeching, at another answering in her own person. thus, the pain gripped her in the stomach; no, no, it must be in the breast. it was nothing at all; she need merely keep quiet. then helene tried to collect her scattered senses; but as she felt her daughter stark and stiff in her embrace, her heart sickened unto death. she tried to reason with herself, and to resist the yearning to scream. but all at once, despite herself, her cry rang out "rosalie, rosalie! my child is dying. quick, hurry for the doctor." screaming out these words, she ran through dining-room and kitchen to a room in the rear, where the maid started up from sleep, giving vent to her surprise. helene speeded back again. clad only in her night-dress she moved about, seemingly not feeling the icy cold of the february night. pah! this maid would loiter, and her child would die! back again she hurried through the kitchen to the bedroom before a minute had elapsed. violently, and in the dark, she slipped on a petticoat, and threw a shawl over her shoulders. the furniture in her way was overturned; the room so still and silent was filled with the echoes of her despair. then leaving the doors open, she rushed down three flights of stairs in her slippers, consumed with the thought that she alone could bring back a doctor. after the house-porter had opened the door helene found herself upon the pavement, with a ringing in her ears and her mind distracted. however, she quickly ran down the rue vineuse and pulled the door-bell of doctor bodin, who had already tended jeanne; but a servant--after an interval which seemed an eternity--informed her that the doctor was attending a woman in childbed. helene remained stupefied on the footway; she knew no other doctor in passy. for a few moments she rushed about the streets, gazing at the houses. a slight but keen wind was blowing, and she was walking in slippers through the light snow that had fallen during the evening. ever before her was her daughter, with the agonizing thought that she was killing her by not finding a doctor at once. then, as she retraced her steps along the rue vineuse, she rang the bell of another house. she would inquire, at all events; some one would perhaps direct her. she gave a second tug at the bell; but no one seemed to come. the wind meanwhile played with her petticoat, making it cling to her legs, and tossed her dishevelled hair. at last a servant answered her summons. "doctor deberle was in bed asleep." it was a doctor's house at which she had rung, so heaven had not abandoned her! straightway, intent upon entering, she pushed the servant aside, still repeating her prayer: "my child, my child is dying! oh, tell him he must come!" the house was small and seemed full of hangings. she reached the first floor, despite the servant's opposition, always answering his protest with the words, "my child is dying!" in the apartment she entered she would have been content to wait; but the moment she heard the doctor stirring in the next room she drew near and appealed to him through the doorway: "oh, sir, come at once, i beseech you. my child is dying!" when the doctor at last appeared in a short coat and without a neckcloth, she dragged him away without allowing him to finish dressing. he at once recognized her as a resident in the next-door house, and one of his own tenants; so when he induced her to cross a garden--to shorten the way by using a side-door between the two houses --memory suddenly awoke within her. "true, you are a doctor!" she murmured, "and i knew it. but i was distracted. oh, let us hurry!" on the staircase she wished him to go first. she could not have admitted the divinity to her home in a more reverent manner. upstairs rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the table. after the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. for a minute he looked on in silence, his lips compressed. helene anxiously watched him, and on noticing the mother's imploring glance, he muttered: "it will be nothing. but she must not lie here. she must have air." helene grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on her shoulder. she could have kissed the doctor's hand for his good tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. scarcely, however, had jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little frame was again seized with violent convulsions. the doctor had removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming through the room. then, opening a window, he ordered rosalie to drag the bed away from the curtains. helene's heart was again filled with anguish. "oh, sir, she is dying," she stammered. "look! look! ah! i scarcely recognize her." the doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively. "step into the alcove," he at last exclaimed. "hold her hands to prevent her from tearing herself. there now, gently, quietly! don't make yourself uneasy. the fit must be allowed to run its course." they both bent over the bed, supporting and holding jeanne, whose limbs shot out with sudden jerks. the doctor had buttoned up his coat to hide his bare neck, and helene's shoulders had till now been enveloped in her shawl; but jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner of the shawl away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. still they did not notice it; they never even looked at one another. [illustration: jeanne's illness] at last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to sink into deep prostration. doctor deberle was evidently ill at ease, though he had assured the mother that there was no danger. he kept his gaze fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to helene as she stood by the bedside. "how old is the child?" "eleven years and six months, sir," was the reply. silence again fell between them. he shook his head, and stooped to raise one of jeanne's lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. then he resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to helene. "did she have convulsions when she was a baby?" "yes, sir; but they left her after she reached her sixth birthday. ah! she is very delicate. for some days past she had seemed ill at ease. she was at times taken with cramp, and plunged in a stupor." "do you know of any members of your family that have suffered from nervous affections?" "i don't know. my mother was carried off by consumption." here shame made her pause. she could not confess that she had a grandmother who was an inmate of a lunatic asylum.[*] there was something tragic connected with all her ancestry. [*] this is adelaide fouque, otherwise aunt dide, the ancestress of the rougon-macquart family, whose early career is related in the "fortune of the rougons," whilst her death is graphically described in the pages of "dr. pascal." "take care! the convulsions are coming on again!" now hastily exclaimed the doctor. jeanne had just opened her eyes, and for a moment she gazed around her with a vacant look, never speaking a word. her glance then grew fixed, her body was violently thrown backwards, and her limbs became distended and rigid. her skin, fiery-red, all at once turned livid. her pallor was the pallor of death; the convulsions began once more. "do not loose your hold of her," said the doctor. "take her other hand!" he ran to the table, where, on entering, he had placed a small medicine-case. he came back with a bottle, the contents of which he made jeanne inhale; but the effect was like that of a terrible lash; the child gave such a violent jerk that she slipped from her mother's hands. "no, no, don't give her ether," exclaimed helene, warned by the odor. "it drives her mad." the two had now scarcely strength enough to keep the child under control. her frame was racked and distorted, raised by the heels and the nape of the neck, as if bent in two. but she fell back again and began tossing from one side of the bed to the other. her fists were clenched, her thumbs bent against the palms of her hands. at times she would open the latter, and, with fingers wide apart, grasp at phantom bodies in the air, as though to twist them. she touched her mother's shawl and fiercely clung to it. but helene's greatest grief was that she no longer recognized her daughter. the suffering angel, whose face was usually so sweet, was transformed in every feature, while her eyes swam, showing balls of a nacreous blue. "oh, do something, i implore you!" she murmured. "my strength is exhausted, sir." she had just remembered how the child of a neighbor at marseilles had died of suffocation in a similar fit. perhaps from feelings of pity the doctor was deceiving her. every moment she believed she felt jeanne's last breath against her face; for the child's halting respiration seemed suddenly to cease. heartbroken and overwhelmed with terror, helene then burst into tears, which fell on the body of her child, who had thrown off the bedclothes. the doctor meantime was gently kneading the base of the neck with his long supple fingers. gradually the fit subsided, and jeanne, after a few slight twitches, lay there motionless. she had fallen back in the middle of the bed, with limbs outstretched, while her head, supported by the pillow, inclined towards her bosom. one might have thought her an infant jesus. helene stooped and pressed a long kiss on her brow. "is it over?" she asked in a whisper. "do you think she'll have another fit?" the doctor made an evasive gesture, and then replied: "in any case the others will be less violent." he had asked rosalie for a glass and water-bottle. half-filling the glass with water, he took up two fresh medicine phials, and counted out a number of drops. helene assisted in raising the child's head, and the doctor succeeded in pouring a spoonful of the liquid between the clenched teeth. the white flame of the lamp was leaping up high and clear, revealing the disorder of the chamber's furnishings. helene's garments, thrown on the back of an arm-chair before she slipped into bed, had now fallen, and were littering the carpet. the doctor had trodden on her stays, and had picked them up lest he might again find them in his way. an odor of vervain stole through the room. the doctor himself went for the basin, and soaked a linen cloth in it, which he then pressed to jeanne's temples. "oh, madame, you'll take cold!" expostulated rosalie as she stood there shivering. "perhaps the window might be shut? the air is too raw." "no, no!" cried helene; "leave the window open. should it not be so?" she appealed to the doctor. the wind entered in slight puffs, rustling the curtains to and fro; but she was quite unconscious of it. yet the shawl had slipped off her shoulders, and her hair had become unwound, some wanton tresses sweeping down to her hips. she had left her arms free and uncovered, that she might be the more ready; she had forgotten all, absorbed entirely in her love for her child. and on his side, the doctor, busy with his work, no longer thought of his unbuttoned coat, or of the shirt-collar that jeanne's clutch had torn away. "raise her up a little," said he to helene. "no, no, not in that way! give me your hand." he took her hand and placed it under the child's head. he wished to give jeanne another spoonful of the medicine. then he called helene close to him, made use of her as his assistant; and she obeyed him reverently on seeing that her daughter was already more calm. "now, come," he said. "you must let her head lean against your shoulder, while i listen." helene did as he bade her, and he bent over her to place his ear against jeanne's bosom. he touched her bare shoulder with his cheek, and as the pulsation of the child's heart struck his ear he could also have heard the throbbing of the mother's breast. as he rose up his breath mingled with helene's. "there is nothing wrong there," was the quiet remark that filled her with delight. "lay her down again. we must not worry her more." however, another, though much less violent, paroxysm followed. from jeanne's lips burst some broken words. at short intervals two fresh attacks seemed about to convulse her, and then a great prostration, which again appeared to alarm the doctor, fell on the child. he had placed her so that her head lay high, with the clothes carefully tucked under her chin; and for nearly an hour he remained there watching her, as though awaiting the return of a healthy respiration. on the other side of the bed helene also waited, never moving a limb. little by little a great calm settled on jeanne's face. the lamp cast a sunny light upon it, and it regained its exquisite though somewhat lengthy oval. jeanne's fine eyes, now closed, had large, bluish, transparent lids, which veiled--one could divine it--a sombre, flashing glance. a light breathing came from her slender nose, while round her somewhat large mouth played a vague smile. she slept thus, amidst her outspread tresses, which were inky black. "it has all passed away now," said the doctor in a whisper; and he turned to arrange his medicine bottles prior to leaving. "oh, sir!" exclaimed helene, approaching him, "don't leave me yet; wait a few minutes. another fit might come on, and you, you alone, have saved her!" he signed to her that there was nothing to fear; yet he tarried, with the idea of tranquillizing her. she had already sent rosalie to bed; and now the dawn soon broke, still and grey, over the snow which whitened the housetops. the doctor proceeded to close the window, and in the deep quiet the two exchanged a few whispers. "there is nothing seriously wrong with her, i assure you," said he; "only with one so young great care must be taken. you must see that her days are spent quietly and happily, and without shocks of any kind." "she is so delicate and nervous," replied helene after a moment's pause. "i cannot always control her. for the most trifling reasons she is so overcome by joy or sorrow that i grow alarmed. she loves me with a passion, a jealousy, which makes her burst into tears when i caress another child." "so, so--delicate, nervous, and jealous," repeated the doctor as he shook his head. "doctor bodin has attended her, has he not? i'll have a talk with him about her. we shall have to adopt energetic treatment. she has reached an age that is critical in one of her sex." recognizing the interest he displayed, helene gave vent to her gratitude. "how i must thank you, sir, for the great trouble you have taken!" the loudness of her tones frightened her, however; she might have woke jeanne, and she bent down over the bed. but no; the child was sound asleep, with rosy cheeks, and a vague smile playing round her lips. the air of the quiet chamber was charged with languor. the whilom drowsiness, as if born again of relief, once more seized upon the curtains, furniture, and littered garments. everything was steeped restfully in the early morning light as it entered through the two windows. helene again stood up close to the bed; on the other side was the doctor, and between them lay jeanne, lightly sleeping. "her father was frequently ill," remarked helene softly, continuing her answer to his previous question. "i myself enjoy the best of health." the doctor, who had not yet looked at her, raised his eyes, and could scarcely refrain from smiling, so hale and hearty was she in every way. she greeted his gaze with her own sweet and quiet smile. her happiness lay in her good health. however, his looks were still bent on her. never had he seen such classical beauty. tall and commanding, she was a nut-brown juno, of a nut-brown sunny with gleams of gold. when she slowly turned her head, its profile showed the severe purity of a statue. her grey eyes and pearly teeth lit up her whole face. her chin, rounded and somewhat pronounced, proved her to be possessed of commonsense and firmness. but what astonished the doctor was the superbness of her whole figure. she stood there, a model of queenliness, chastity, and modesty. on her side also she scanned him for a moment. doctor deberle's years were thirty-five; his face was clean-shaven and a little long; he had keen eyes and thin lips. as she gazed on him she noticed for the first time that his neck was bare. thus they remained face to face, with jeanne asleep between them. the distance which but a short time before had appeared immense, now seemed to be dwindling away. then helene slowly wrapped the shawl about her shoulders again, while the doctor hastened to button his coat at the neck. "mamma! mamma!" jeanne stammered in her sleep. she was waking, and on opening her eyes she saw the doctor and became uneasy. "mamma, who's that?" was her instant question; but her mother kissed her, and replied: "go to sleep, darling, you haven't been well. it's only a friend." the child seemed surprised; she did not remember anything. drowsiness was coming over her once more, and she fell asleep again, murmuring tenderly: "i'm going to by-by. good-night, mamma, dear. if he is your friend he will be mine." the doctor had removed his medicine-case, and, with a silent bow, he left the room. helene listened for a while to the child's breathing, and then, seated on the edge of the bed, she became oblivious to everything around her; her looks and thoughts wandering far away. the lamp, still burning, was paling in the growing sunlight. chapter ii. next day helene thought it right and proper to pay a visit of thanks to doctor deberle. the abrupt fashion in which she had compelled him to follow her, and the remembrance of the whole night which he had spent with jeanne, made her uneasy, for she realized that he had done more than is usually compassed within a doctor's visit. still, for two days she hesitated to make her call, feeling a strange repugnance towards such a step. for this she could give herself no reasons. it was the doctor himself who inspired her with this hesitancy; one morning she met him, and shrunk from his notice as though she were a child. at this excess of timidity she was much annoyed. her quiet, upright nature protested against the uneasiness which was taking possession of her. she decided, therefore, to go and thank the doctor that very day. jeanne's attack had taken place during the small hours of wednesday morning; it was now saturday, and the child was quite well again. doctor bodin, whose fears concerning her had prompted him to make an early call, spoke of doctor deberle with the respect that an old doctor with a meagre income pays to another in the same district, who is young, rich, and already possessed of a reputation. he did not forget to add, however, with an artful smile, that the fortune had been bequeathed by the elder deberle, a man whom all passy held in veneration. the son had only been put to the trouble of inheriting fifteen hundred thousand francs, together with a splendid practice. "he is, though, a very smart fellow," doctor bodin hastened to add, "and i shall be honored by having a consultation with him about the precious health of my little friend jeanne!" about three o'clock helene made her way downstairs with her daughter, and had to take but a few steps along the rue vineuse before ringing at the next-door house. both mother and daughter still wore deep mourning. a servant, in dress-coat and white tie, opened the door. helene easily recognized the large entrance-hall, with its oriental hangings; on each side of it, however, there were now flower-stands, brilliant with a profusion of blossoms. the servant having admitted them to a small drawing-room, the hangings and furniture of which were of a mignonette hue, stood awaiting their pleasure, and helene gave her name--madame grandjean. thereupon the footman pushed open the door of a drawing-room, furnished in yellow and black, of dazzling effect, and, moving aside, announced: "madame grandjean!" helene, standing on the threshold, started back. she had just noticed at the other end of the room a young woman seated near the fireplace on a narrow couch which was completely covered by her ample skirts. facing her sat an elderly person, who had retained her bonnet and shawl, and was evidently paying a visit. "i beg pardon," exclaimed helene. "i wished to see doctor deberle." she had made the child enter the room before her, and now took her by the hand again. she was both astonished and embarrassed in meeting this young lady. why had she not asked for the doctor? she well knew he was married. madame deberle was just finishing some story, in a quick and rather shrill voice. "oh! it's marvellous, marvellous! she dies with wonderful realism. she clutches at her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face turns green. i declare you ought to see her, mademoiselle aurelie!" then, rising up, she sailed towards the doorway, rustling her skirts terribly. "be so kind as to walk in, madame," she said with charming graciousness. "my husband is not at home, but i shall be delighted to receive you, i assure you. this must be the pretty little girl who was so ill a few nights ago. sit down for a moment, i beg of you." helene was forced to accept the invitation, while jeanne timidly perched herself on the edge of another chair. madame deberle again sank down on her little sofa, exclaiming with a pretty laugh, "yes, this is my day. i receive every saturday, you see, and pierre then announces all comers. a week or two ago he ushered in a colonel suffering from the gout." "how silly you are, my dear juliette!" expostulated mademoiselle aurelie, the elderly lady, an old friend in straitened circumstances, who had seen her come into the world. there was a short silence, and helene gazed round at the luxury of the apartment, with its curtains and chairs in black and gold, glittering like constellations. flowers decorated mantel-shelf, piano, and tables alike, and the clear light streamed through the windows from the garden, in which could be seen the leafless trees and bare soil. the room had almost a hot-house temperature; in the fireplace one large log was glowing with intense heat. after another glance helene recognized that the gaudy colors had a happy effect. madame deberle's hair was inky-black, and her skin of a milky whiteness. she was short, plump, slow in her movements, and withal graceful. amidst all the golden decorations, her white face assumed a vermeil tint under her heavy, sombre tresses. helene really admired her. "convulsions are so terrible," broke in madame deberle. "my lucien had them when a mere baby. how uneasy you must have been, madame! however, the dear little thing appears to be quite well now." as she drawled out these words she kept her eyes on helene, whose superb beauty amazed and delighted her. never had she seen a woman with so queenly an air in the black garments which draped the widow's commanding figure. her admiration found vent in an involuntary smile, while she exchanged glances with mademoiselle aurelie. their admiration was so ingenuously and charmingly expressed, that a faint smile also rippled over helene's face. then madame deberle stretched herself on the sofa. "you were not at the first night at the vaudeville yesterday, madame?" she asked, as she played with the fan that hung from her waist. "i never go to the theatre," was helene's reply. "oh! little noemi was simply marvellous! her death scene is so realistic! she clutches her bosom like this, throws back her head, and her face turns green. oh! the effect is prodigious." thereupon she entered into a minute criticism of the actress's playing, which she upheld against the world; and then she passed to the other topics of the day--a fine art exhibition, at which she had seen some most remarkable paintings; a stupid novel about which too much fuss was being made; a society intrigue which she spoke of to mademoiselle aurelie in veiled language. and so she went on from one subject to another, without wearying, her tongue ever ready, as though this social atmosphere were peculiarly her own. helene, a stranger to such society, was content to listen, merely interjecting a remark or brief reply every now and then. at last the door was again thrown open and the footman announced: "madame de chermette! madame tissot!" two ladies entered, magnificently dressed. madame deberle rose eagerly to meet them, and the train of her black silk gown, heavily decked with trimmings, trailed so far behind her that she had to kick it out of her way whenever she happened to turn round. a confused babel of greetings in shrill voices arose. "oh! how kind of you! i declare i never see you!" "you know we come about that lottery." "yes: i know, i know." "oh! we cannot sit down. we have to call at twenty houses yet." "come now, you are not going to run away at once!" and then the visitors finished by sitting down on the edge of a couch; the chatter beginning again, shriller than ever. "well! what do you think of yesterday at the vaudeville?" "oh! it was splendid!" "you know she unfastens her dress and lets down her hair. all the effect springs from that." "people say that she swallows something to make her green." "no, no, every action is premeditated; but she had to invent and study them all, in the first place." "it's wonderful." the two ladies rose and made their exit, and the room regained its tranquil peacefulness. from some hyacinths on the mantel-shelf was wafted an all-pervading perfume. for a time one could hear the noisy twittering of some sparrows quarrelling on the lawn. before resuming her seat, madame deberle proceeded to draw down the embroidered tulle blind of a window facing her, and then returned to her sofa in the mellowed, golden light of the room. "i beg pardon," she now said. "we have had quite an invasion." then, in an affectionate way, she entered into conversation with helene. she seemed to know some details of her history, doubtless from the gossip of her servants. with a boldness that was yet full of tact, and appeared instinct with much friendliness, she spoke to helene of her husband, and of his sad death at the hotel du var, in the rue de richelieu. "and you had just arrived, hadn't you? you had never been in paris before. it must be awful to be plunged into mourning, in a strange room, the day after a long journey, and when one doesn't know a single place to go to." helene assented with a slow nod. yes, she had spent some very bitter hours. the disease which carried off her husband had abruptly declared itself on the day after their arrival, just as they were going out together. she knew none of the streets, and was wholly unaware what district she was in. for eight days she had remained at the bedside of the dying man, hearing the rumble of paris beneath her window, feeling she was alone, deserted, lost, as though plunged in the depths of an abyss. when she stepped out on the pavement for the first time, she was a widow. the mere recalling of that bare room, with its rows of medicine bottles, and with the travelling trunks standing about unpacked, still made her shudder. "was your husband, as i've been told, nearly twice your age?" asked madame deberle with an appearance of profound interest, while mademoiselle aurelie cocked her ears so as not to lose a syllable of the conversation. "oh, no!" replied helene. "he was scarcely six years older." then she ventured to enter into the story of her marriage, telling in a few brief sentences how her husband had fallen deeply in love with her while she was living with her father, monsieur mouret, a hatter in the rue des petites-maries, at marseilles; how the grandjean family, who were rich sugar-refiners, were bitterly opposed to the match, on account of her poverty. she spoke, too, of the ill-omened and secret wedding after the usual legal formalities, and of their hand-to-mouth existence, till the day an uncle on dying left them some ten thousand francs a year. it was then that grandjean, within whom an intense hatred of marseilles was growing, had decided on coming to paris, to live there for good. "and how old were you when you were married?" was madame deberle's next question. "seventeen." "you must have been very beautiful." the conversation suddenly ceased, for helene had not seemed to hear the remark. "madame manguelin!" announced the footman. a young, retiring woman, evidently ill at ease, was ushered in. madame deberle scarcely rose. it was one of her dependents, who had called to thank her for some service performed. the visitor only remained for a few minutes, and left the room with a courtesy. madame deberle then resumed the conversation, and spoke of abbe jouve, with whom both were acquainted. the abbe was a meek officiating priest at notre-dame-de-grace, the parish church of passy; however, his charity was such that he was more beloved and more respectfully hearkened to than any other priest in the district. "oh, he has such pious eloquence!" exclaimed madame deberle, with a sanctimonious look. "he has been very kind to us," said helene. "my husband had formerly known him at marseilles. the moment he heard of my misfortune he took charge of everything. to him we owe our settling in passy." "he has a brother, hasn't he?" questioned juliette. "yes, a step-brother, for his mother married again. monsieur rambaud was also acquainted with my husband. he has started a large business in the rue de rambuteau, where he sells oils and other southern produce. i believe he makes a large amount of money by it." and she added, with a laugh: "the abbe and his brother make up my court." jeanne, sitting on the edge of her chair, and wearied to death, now cast an impatient look at her mother. her long, delicate, lamb-like face wore a pained expression, as if she disliked all this conversation; and she appeared at times to sniff the heavy, oppressive odors floating in the room, while casting suspicious side-glances at the furniture, as though her own exquisite sensibility warned her of some undefined dangers. finally, however, she turned a look of tyrannical worship on her mother. madame deberle noticed the child's uneasiness. "here's a little girl," she said, "who feels tired at being serious, like a grown-up person. there are some picture-books on the table, dear; they will amuse you." jeanne took up an album, but her eyes strayed from it to glance imploringly at her mother. helene, charmed by her hostess's excessive kindness, did not move; there was nothing of the fidget in her, and she would of her own accord remain seated for hours. however, as the servant announced three ladies in succession--madame berthier, madame de guiraud, and madame levasseur--she thought she ought to rise. "oh! pray stop," exclaimed madame deberle; "i must show you my son." the semi-circle round the fireplace was increasing in size. the ladies were all gossiping at the same time. one of them declared that she was completely broken down, as for five days she had not gone to bed till four o'clock in the morning. another indulged in a diatribe against wet nurses; she could no longer find one who was honest. next the conversation fell on dressmakers. madame deberle affirmed no woman tailor could fit you properly; a man was requisite. two of the ladies, however, were mumbling something under their breath, and, a silence intervening, two or three words became audible. every one then broke into a laugh, while languidly waving their fans. "monsieur malignon!" announced the servant. a tall young man, dressed in good style, was ushered in. some exclamations greeted him. madame deberle, not taking the trouble to rise, stretched out her hand and inquired: "well! what of yesterday at the vaudeville?" "vile!" was his reply. "what! vile! she's marvellous when she clutches her bosom and throws back her head--" "stop! stop! the whole thing is loathsome in its realism." and then quite a dispute commenced. it was easy to talk of realism, but the young man would have no realism at all. "i would not have it in anything, you hear!" said he, raising his voice. "no, not in anything! it degrades art." people would soon be seeing some fine things on the stage, indeed! why didn't noemi follow out her actions to their logical conclusion? and he illustrated his remark with a gesture which quite scandalized the ladies. oh, how horrible! however, when madame deberle had declared that the actress produced a great effect, and madame levasseur had related how a lady had fainted in the balcony, everybody agreed that the affair was a great success; and with this the discussion stopped short. the young man sat in an arm-chair, with his legs stretched out among the ladies' flowing skirts. he seemed to be quite at home in the doctor's house. he had mechanically plucked a flower from a vase, and was tearing it to pieces with his teeth. madame deberle interrupted him: "have you read that novel which--" he did not allow her to finish, but replied, with a superior air, that he only read two novels in the year. as for the exhibition of paintings at the art club, it was not worth troubling about; and then, every topic being exhausted, he rose and leaned over juliette's little sofa, conversing with her in a low voice, while the other ladies continued chatting together in an animated manner. at length: "dear me! he's gone," exclaimed madame berthier turning round. "i met him only an hour ago in madame robinot's drawing-room." "yes, and he is now going to visit madame lecomte," said madame deberle. "he goes about more than any other man in paris." she turned to helene, who had been following the scene, and added: "a very distinguished young fellow he is, and we like him very much. he has some interest in a stockbroking business; he's very rich besides, and well posted in everything." the other ladies, however, were now going off. "good-bye, dear madame. i rely upon you for wednesday." "yes, to be sure; wednesday." "oh, by the way, will you be at that evening party? one doesn't know whom one may meet. if you go, i'll go." "ah, well! i'll go, i promise you. give my best regards to monsieur de guiraud." when madame deberle returned she found helene standing in the middle of the drawing-room. jeanne had drawn close to her mother, whose hands she firmly grasped; and thus clinging to her caressingly and almost convulsively, she was drawing her little by little towards the doorway. "ah, i was forgetting!" exclaimed the lady of the house; and ringing the bell for the servant, she said to him: "pierre, tell miss smithson to bring lucien here." during the short interval of waiting that ensued the door was again opened, but this time in a familiar fashion and without any formal announcement. a good-looking girl of some sixteen years of age entered in company with an old man, short of stature but with a rubicund, chubby face. "good-day, sister," was the girl's greeting, as she kissed madame deberle. "good-day, pauline! good-day, father!" replied the doctor's wife. mademoiselle aurelie, who had not stirred from her seat beside the fire, rose to exchange greetings with monsieur letellier. he owned an extensive silk warehouse on the boulevard des capucines. since his wife's death he had been taking his younger daughter about everywhere, in search of a rich husband for her. "were you at the vaudeville last night?" asked pauline. "oh, it was simply marvellous!" repeated juliette in parrot-fashion, as, standing before a mirror, she rearranged a rebellious curl. "it is annoying to be so young; one can't go to anything!" said pauline, pouting like a spoiled child. "i went with papa to the theatre-door at midnight, to find out how the piece had taken." "yes, and we tumbled upon malignon," said the father. "he was extremely pleased with it." "really!" exclaimed juliette. "he was here a minute ago, and declared it vile. one never knows how to take him." "have you had many visitors to-day?" asked pauline, rushing off to another subject. "oh, several ladies; quite a crowd! the room was never once empty. i'm dead-beat--" here she abruptly broke off, remembering she had a formal introduction to make "my father, my sister--madame grandjean." the conversation was turning on children and the ailments which give mothers so much worry when miss smithson, an english governess, appeared with a little boy clinging to her hand. madame deberle scolded her in english for having kept them waiting. "ah! here's my little lucien!" exclaimed pauline as she dropped on her knees before the child, with a great rustling of skirts. "now, now, leave him alone!" said juliette. "come here, lucien; come and say good-day to this little lady." the boy came forward very sheepishly. he was no more than seven years old, fat and dumpy, and dressed as coquettishly as a doll. as he saw that they were all looking at him with smiles, he stopped short, and surveyed jeanne, his blue eyes wide open with astonishment. "go on!" urged his mother. he turned his eyes questioningly on her and advanced a step, evincing all the sullenness peculiar to lads of his age, his head lowered, his thick lips pouting, and his eyebrows bent into a growing frown. jeanne must have frightened him with the serious look she wore standing there in her black dress. she had not ceased holding her mother's hand, and was nervously pressing her fingers on the bare part of the arm between the sleeve and glove. with head lowered she awaited lucien's approach uneasily, like a young and timid savage, ready to fly from his caress. but a gentle push from her mother prompted her to step forward. "little lady, you will have to kiss him first," madame deberle said laughingly. "ladies always have to begin with him. oh! the little stupid." "kiss him, jeanne," urged helene. the child looked up at her mother; and then, as if conquered by the bashful looks of the little noodle, seized with sudden pity as she gazed on his good-natured face, so dreadfully confused--she smiled divinely. a sudden wave of hidden tenderness rose within her and brightened her features, and she whispered: "willingly, mamma!" then, taking lucien under the armpits, almost lifting him from the ground, she gave him a hearty kiss on each cheek. he had no further hesitation in embracing her. "bravo! capital!" exclaimed the onlookers. with a bow helene turned to leave, accompanied to the door by madame deberle. "i beg you, madame," said she, "to present my heartiest thanks to the doctor. he relieved me of such dreadful anxiety the other night." "is henri not at home?" broke in monsieur letellier. "no, he will be away some time yet," was juliette's reply. "but you're not going away; you'll dine with us," she continued, addressing mademoiselle aurelie, who had risen as if to leave with madame grandjean. the old maid with each saturday expected a similar invitation, then decided to relieve herself of shawl and bonnet. the heat in the drawing-room was intense, and monsieur letellier hastened to open a window, at which he remained standing, struck by the sight of a lilac bush which was already budding. pauline, meantime, had begun playfully running after lucien behind the chairs and couches, left in confusion by the visitors. on the threshold madame deberle held out her hand to helene with a frank and friendly movement. "you will allow me," said she. "my husband spoke to me about you, and i felt drawn to you. your bereavement, your lonely life--in short, i am very glad to have seen you, and you must not be long in coming back." "i give you my promise, and i am obliged to you," said helene, moved by these tokens of affection from a woman whom she had imagined rather flighty. they clasped hands, and each looked into the other's face with a happy smile. juliette's avowal of her sudden friendship was given with a caressing air. "you are too lovely not to be loved!" she said. helene broke into a merry laugh, for her beauty never engaged her thoughts, and she called jeanne, whose eyes were busy watching the pranks of lucien and pauline. but madame deberle detained the girl for a moment longer. "you are good friends henceforth," she said; "you must just say _au revoir_." thereupon the two children blew one another a kiss with their finger-tips. chapter iii. every tuesday helene had monsieur rambaud and abbe jouve to dine with her. it was they who, during the early days of her bereavement, had broken in on her solitude, and drawn up their chairs to her table with friendly freedom; their object being to extricate her, at least once a week, from the solitude in which she lived. the tuesday dinners became established institutions, and the partakers in these little feasts appeared punctually at seven o'clock, serenely happy in discharging what they deemed a duty. that tuesday helene was seated at the window, profiting by the last gleams of the twilight to finish some needle work, pending the arrival of her guests. she here spent her days in pleasant peacefulness. the noises of the street died away before reaching such a height. she loved this large, quiet chamber, with its substantial luxury, its rosewood furniture and blue velvet curtains. when her friends had attended to her installation, she not having to trouble about anything, she had at first somewhat suffered from all this sombre luxury, in preparing which monsieur rambaud had realized his ideal of comfort, much to the admiration of his brother, who had declined the task. she was not long, however, in feeling happy in a home in which, as in her heart, all was sound and simple. her only enjoyment during her long hours of work was to gaze before her at the vast horizon, the huge pile of paris, stretching its roofs, like billows, as far as the eye could reach. her solitary corner overlooked all that immensity. "mamma, i can no longer see," said jeanne, seated near her on a low chair. and then, dropping her work, the child gazed at paris, which was darkening over with the shadows of night. she rarely romped about, and her mother even had to exert authority to induce her to go out. in accordance with doctor bodin's strict injunction, helene made her stroll with her two hours each day in the bois de boulogne, and this was their only promenade; in eighteen months they had not gone three times into paris.[*] nowhere was jeanne so evidently happy as in their large blue room. her mother had been obliged to renounce her intention of having her taught music, for the sound of an organ in the silent streets made her tremble and drew tears from her eyes. her favorite occupation was to assist her mother in sewing linen for the children of the abbe's poor. [*] passy and the trocadero are now well inside paris, but at the time fixed for this story they were beyond the _barrieres_. night had quite fallen when the lamp was brought in by rosalie, who, fresh from the glare of her range, looked altogether upset. tuesday's dinner was the one event of the week, which put things topsy-turvy. "aren't the gentlemen coming here to-night, madame?" she inquired. helene looked at the timepiece: "it's a quarter to seven; they will be here soon," she replied. rosalie was a gift from abbe jouve, who had met her at the station on the day she arrived from orleans, so that she did not know a single street in paris. a village priest, an old schoolmate of abbe jouve's, had sent her to him. she was dumpy and plump, with a round face under her narrow cap, thick black hair, a flat nose, and deep red lips; and she was expert in preparing savory dishes, having been brought up at the parsonage by her godmother, servant to the village priest. "here is monsieur rambaud at last!" she exclaimed, rushing to open the door before there was even a ring. full and broad-shouldered, monsieur rambaud entered, displaying an expansive countenance like that of a country notary. his forty-five years had already silvered his hair, but his large blue eyes retained a wondering, artless, gentle expression, akin to a child's. "and here's his reverence; everybody has come now!" resumed rosalie, as she opened the door once more. whilst monsieur rambaud pressed helene's hand and sat down without speaking, smiling like one who felt quite at home, jeanne threw her arms round the abbe's neck. "good-evening, dear friend," said she. "i've been so ill!" "so ill, my darling?" the two men at once showed their anxiety, the abbe especially. he was a short, spare man, with a large head and awkward manners, and dressed in the most careless way; but his eyes, usually half-closed, now opened to their full extent, all aglow with exquisite tenderness. jeanne relinquished one of her hands to him, while she gave the other to monsieur rambaud. both held her and gazed at her with troubled looks. helene was obliged to relate the story of her illness, and the abbe was on the point of quarrelling with her for not having warned him of it. and then they each questioned her. "the attack was quite over now? she had not had another, had she?" the mother smiled as she listened. "you are even fonder of her than i am, and i think you'll frighten me in the end," she replied. "no, she hasn't been troubled again, except that she has felt some pains in her limbs and had some headaches. but we shall get rid of these very soon." the maid then entered to announce that dinner was ready. the table, sideboard, and eight chairs furnishing the dining-room were of mahogany. the curtains of red reps had been drawn close by rosalie, and a hanging lamp of white porcelain within a plain brass ring lighted up the tablecloth, the carefully-arranged plates, and the tureen of steaming soup. each tuesday's dinner brought round the same remarks, but on this particular day dr. deberle served naturally as a subject of conversation. abbe jouve lauded him to the skies, though he knew that he was no church-goer. he spoke of him, however, as a man of upright character, charitable to a fault, a good father, and a good husband--in fact, one who gave the best of examples to others. as for madame deberle she was most estimable, in spite of her somewhat flighty ways, which were doubtless due to her parisian education. in a word, he dubbed the couple charming. helene seemed happy to hear this; it confirmed her own opinions; and the abbe's remarks determined her to continue the acquaintance, which had at first rather frightened her. "you shut yourself up too much!" declared the priest. "no doubt," echoed his brother. helene beamed on them with her quiet smile, as though to say that they themselves sufficed for all her wants, and that she dreaded new acquaintances. however, ten o'clock struck at last, and the abbe and his brother took up their hats. jeanne had just fallen asleep in an easy-chair in the bedroom, and they bent over her, raising their heads with satisfied looks as they observed how tranquilly she slumbered. they stole from the room on tiptoe, and in the lobby whispered their good-byes: "till next tuesday!" "o, by the way," said the abbe, returning a step or two, "i was forgetting: mother fetu is ill. you should go to see her." "i will go to-morrow," answered helene. the abbe had a habit of commissioning her to visit his poor. they engaged in all sorts of whispered talk together on this subject, private business which a word or two enabled them to settle together, and which they never referred to in the presence of other persons. on the morrow helene went out alone. she decided to leave jeanne in the house, as the child had been troubled with fits of shivering since paying a visit of charity to an old man who had become paralyzed. once out of doors, she followed the rue vineuse, turned down the rue raynouard, and soon found herself in the passage des eaux, a strange, steep lane, like a staircase, pent between garden walls, and conducting from the heights of passy to the quay. at the bottom of this descent was a dilapidated house, where mother fetu lived in an attic lighted by a round window, and furnished with a wretched bed, a rickety table, and a seatless chair. "oh! my good lady, my good lady!" she moaned out, directly she saw helene enter. the old woman was in bed. in spite of her wretchedness, her body was plump, swollen out, as it were, while her face was puffy, and her hands seemed numbed as she drew the tattered sheet over her. she had small, keen eyes and a whimpering voice, and displayed a noisy humility in a rush of words. "ah! my good lady, how i thank you! ah, ah! oh, how i suffer! it's just as if dogs were tearing at my side. i'm sure i have a beast inside me--see, just there! the skin isn't broken; the complaint is internal. but, oh! oh! the pain hasn't ceased for two days past. good lord, how is it possible to suffer so much? ah, my good lady, thank you! you don't forget the poor. it will be taken into account up above; yes, yes, it will be taken into account!" helene had sat down. noticing on the table a jug of warm _tisane_, she filled a cup which was near at hand, and gave it to the sufferer. near the jug were placed a packet of sugar, two oranges, and some other comfits. "has any one been to see you?" helene asked. "yes, yes,--a little lady. but she doesn't know. that isn't the sort of stuff i need. oh, if i could get a little meat! my next-door neighbor would cook it for me. oh! oh! this pain is something dreadful! a dog is tearing at me--oh, if only i had some broth!" in spite of the pains which were racking her limbs, she kept her sharp eyes fixed on helene, who was now busy fumbling in her pocket, and on seeing her visitor place a ten-franc piece on the table, she whimpered all the more, and tried to rise to a sitting posture. whilst struggling, she extended her arm, and the money vanished, as she repeated: "gracious heaven! this is another frightful attack. oh! oh! i cannot stand such agony any longer! god will requite you, my good lady; i will pray to him to requite you. bless my soul, how these pains shoot through my whole body! his reverence abbe jouve promised me you would come. it's only you who know what i want. i am going to buy some meat. but now the pain's going down into my legs. help me; i have no strength left--none left at all!" the old woman wished to turn over, and helene, drawing off her gloves, gently took hold of her and placed her as she desired. as she was still bending over her the door opened, and a flush of surprise mounted to her cheeks as she saw dr. deberle entering. did he also make visits to which he never referred? "it's the doctor!" blurted out the old woman. "oh! heaven must bless you both for being so good!" the doctor bowed respectfully to helene. mother fetu had ceased whining on his entrance, but kept up a sibilant wheeze, like that of a child in pain. she had understood at once that the doctor and her benefactress were known to one another; and her eyes never left them, but travelled from one to the other, while her wrinkled face showed that her mind was covertly working. the doctor put some questions to her, and sounded her right side; then, turning to helene, who had just sat down, he said: "she is suffering from hepatic colic. she will be on her feet again in a few days." and, tearing from his memorandum book a leaf on which he had written some lines, he added, addressing mother fetu: "listen to me. you must send this to the chemist in the rue de passy, and every two hours you must drink a spoonful of the draught he will give you." the old woman burst out anew into blessings. helene remained seated. the doctor lingered gazing at her; but when their eyes had met, he bowed and discreetly took his leave. he had not gone down a flight ere mother fetu's lamentations were renewed. "ah! he's such a clever doctor! ah! if his medicine could do me some good! dandelions and tallow make a good simple for removing water from the body. yes, yes, you can say you know a clever doctor. have you known him long? gracious goodness, how thirsty i am! i feel burning hot. he has a wife, hasn't he? he deserves to have a good wife and beautiful children. indeed, it's a pleasure to see kind-hearted people good acquaintances." helene had risen to give her a drink. "i must go now, mother fetu," she said. "good-bye till to-morrow." "ah! how good you are! if i only had some linen! look at my chemise --it's torn in half; and this bed is so dirty. but that doesn't matter. god will requite you, my good lady!" next day, on helene's entering mother fetu's room, she found dr. deberle already there. seated on the chair, he was writing out a prescription, while the old woman rattled on with whimpering volubility. "oh, sir, it now feels like lead in my side--yes, just like lead! it's as heavy as a hundred-pound weight, and prevents me from turning round." then, having caught sight of helene, she went on without a pause: "ah! here's the good lady! i told the kind doctor you would come. though the heavens might fall, said i, you would come all the same. you're a very saint, an angel from paradise, and, oh! so beautiful that people might fall on their knees in the streets to gaze on you as you pass! dear lady, i am no better; just now i have a heavy feeling here. oh, i have told the doctor what you did for me! the emperor could have done no more. yes, indeed, it would be a sin not to love you--a great sin." these broken sentences fell from her lips as, with eyes half closed, she rolled her head on the bolster, the doctor meantime smiling at helene, who felt very ill at ease. "mother fetu," she said softly, "i have brought you a little linen." "oh, thank you, thank you; god will requite you! you're just like this kind, good gentleman, who does more good to poor folks than a host of those who declare it their special work. you don't know what great care he has taken of me for four months past, supplying me with medicine and broth and wine. one rarely finds a rich person so kind to a poor soul! oh, he's another of god's angels! dear, dear, i seem to have quite a house in my stomach!" in his turn the doctor now seemed to be embarrassed. he rose and offered his chair to helene; but although she had come with the intention of remaining a quarter of an hour, she declined to sit down, on the plea that she was in a great hurry. meanwhile, mother fetu, still rolling her head to and fro, had stretched out her hand, and the parcel of linen had vanished in the bed. then she resumed: "oh, what a couple of good souls you are! i don't wish to offend you; i only say it because it's true. when you have seen one, you have seen the other. oh, dear lord! give me a hand and help me to turn round. kind-hearted people understand one another. yes, yes, they understand one another." "good-bye, mother fetu," said helene, leaving the doctor in sole possession. "i don't think i shall call to-morrow." the next day, however, found her in the attic again. the old woman was sound asleep, but scarcely had she opened her eyes and recognized helene in her black dress sitting on the chair than she exclaimed: "he has been here--oh, i really don't know what he gave me to take, but i am as stiff as a stick. we were talking about you. he asked me all kinds of questions; whether you were generally sad, and whether your look was always the same. oh, he's such a good man!" her words came more slowly, and she seemed to be waiting to see by the expression of helene's face what effect her remarks might have on her, with that wheedling, anxious air of the poor who are desirous of pleasing people. no doubt she fancied she could detect a flush of displeasure mounting to her benefactress's brow, for her huge, puffed-up face, all eagerness and excitement, suddenly clouded over; and she resumed, in stammering accents: "i am always asleep. perhaps i have been poisoned. a woman in the rue de l'annonciation was killed by a drug which the chemist gave her in mistake for another." that day helene lingered for nearly half an hour in mother fetu's room, hearing her talk of normandy, where she had been born, and where the milk was so good. during a silence she asked the old woman carelessly: "have you known the doctor a long time?" mother fetu, lying on her back, half-opened her eyes and again closed them. "oh, yes!" she answered, almost in a whisper. "for instance, his father attended to me before ' , and he accompanied him then." "i have been told the father was a very good man." "yes, but a little cracked. the son is much his superior. when he touches you you would think his hands were of velvet." silence again fell. "i advise you to do everything he tells you," at last said helene. "he is very clever; he saved my daughter." "to be sure!" exclaimed mother fetu, again all excitement. "people ought to have confidence in him. why, he brought a boy to life again when he was going to be buried! oh, there aren't two persons like him; you won't stop me from saying that! i am very lucky; i fall in with the pick of good-hearted people. i thank the gracious lord for it every night. i don't forget either of you. you are mingled together in my prayers. may god in his goodness shield you and grant your every wish! may he load you with his gifts! may he keep you a place in paradise!" she was now sitting up in bed with hands clasped, seemingly entreating heaven with devout fervor. helene allowed her to go on thus for a considerable time, and even smiled. the old woman's chatter, in fact, ended by lulling her into a pleasant drowsiness, and when she went off she promised to give her a bonnet and gown, as soon as she should be able to get about again. throughout that week helene busied herself with mother fetu. her afternoon visit became an item in her daily life. she felt a strange fondness for the passage des eaux. she liked that steep lane for its coolness and quietness and its ever-clean pavement, washed on rainy days by the water rushing down from the heights. a strange sensation thrilled her as she stood at the top and looked at the narrow alley with its steep declivity, usually deserted, and only known to the few inhabitants of the neighboring streets. then she would venture through an archway dividing a house fronting the rue raynouard, and trip down the seven flights of broad steps, in which lay the bed of a pebbly stream occupying half of the narrow way. the walls of the gardens on each side bulged out, coated with a grey, leprous growth; umbrageous trees drooped over, foliage rained down, here and there an ivy plant thickly mantled the stonework, and the chequered verdure, which only left glimpses of the blue sky above, made the light very soft and greeny. halfway down helene would stop to take breath, gazing at the street-lamp which hung there, and listening to the merry laughter in the gardens, whose doors she had never seen open. at times an old woman panted up with the aid of the black, shiny, iron handrail fixed in the wall to the right; a lady would come, leaning on her parasol as on a walking-stick; or a band of urchins would run down, with a great stamping of feet. but almost always helene found herself alone, and this steep, secluded, shady descent was to her a veritable delight --like a path in the depths of a forest. at the bottom she would raise her eyes, and the sight of the narrow, precipitous alley she had just descended made her feel somewhat frightened. she glided into the old woman's room with the quiet and coolness of the passage des eaux clinging to her garments. this woefully wretched den no longer affected her painfully. she moved about there as if in her own rooms, opening the round attic window to admit the fresh air, and pushing the table into a corner if it came in her way. the garret's bareness, its whitewashed walls and rickety furniture, realized to her mind an existence whose simplicity she had sometimes dreamt of in her girlhood. but what especially charmed her was the kindly emotion she experienced there. playing the part of sick nurse, hearing the constant bewailing of the old woman, all she saw and felt within the four walls left her quivering with deep pity. in the end she awaited with evident impatience doctor deberle's customary visit. she questioned him as to mother fetu's condition; but from this they glided to other subjects, as they stood near each other, face to face. a closer acquaintance was springing up between them, and they were surprised to find they possessed similar tastes. they understood one another without speaking a word, each heart engulfed in the same overflowing charity. nothing to helene seemed sweeter than this mutual feeling, which arose in such an unusual way, and to which she yielded without resistance, filled as she was with divine pity. at first she had felt somewhat afraid of the doctor; in her own drawing-room she would have been cold and distrustful, in harmony with her nature. here, however, in this garret they were far from the world, sharing the one chair, and almost happy in the midst of the wretchedness and poverty which filled their souls with emotion. a week passed, and they knew one another as though they had been intimate for years. mother fetu's miserable abode was filled with sunshine, streaming from this fellowship of kindliness. the old woman grew better very slowly. the doctor was surprised, and charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a dreadful weight in her legs. she always kept up her monotonous moaning, lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she closed her eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for unrestrained talk. one day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but beneath their lids her little black eyes continued watching. at last, however, she had to rise from her bed; and next day helene presented her with the promised bonnet and gown. when the doctor made his appearance that afternoon the old woman's laggard memory seemed suddenly stirred. "gracious goodness!" said she, "i've forgotten my neighbor's soup-pot; i promised to attend to it!" then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the couple alone. they did not notice that they were shut in, but continued their conversation. the doctor urged helene to spend the afternoon occasionally in his garden in the rue vineuse. "my wife," said he, "must return your visit, and she will in person repeat my invitation. it would do your daughter good." "but i don't refuse," she replied, laughing. "i do not require to be fetched with ceremony. only--only--i am afraid of being indiscreet. at any rate, we will see." their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of surprise: "where on earth can mother fetu have gone? it must be a quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor's soup-pot." helene then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the moment. she continued to talk of madame deberle, of whom she spoke highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable. "it's very strange that she does not come back!" she remarked in her turn. their conversation then dropped. helene, not knowing what to do, opened the window; and when she turned round they avoided looking at one another. the laughter of children came in through the circular window, which, with its bit of blue sky, seemed like a full round moon. they could not have been more alone--concealed from all inquisitive looks, with merely this bit of heaven gazing in on them. the voices of the children died away in the distance; and a quivering silence fell. no one would dream of finding them in that attic, out of the world. their confusion grew apace, and in the end helene, displeased with herself, gave the doctor a steady glance. "i have a great many visits to pay yet," he at once exclaimed. "as she doesn't return, i must leave." he quitted the room, and helene then sat down. immediately afterwards mother fetu returned with many protestations: "oh! oh! i can scarcely crawl; such a faintness came over me! has the dear good doctor gone? well, to be sure, there's not much comfort here! oh, you are both angels from heaven, coming to spend your time with one so unfortunate as myself! but god in his goodness will requite you. the pain has gone down into my feet to-day, and i had to sit down on a step. oh, i should like to have some chairs! if i only had an easy-chair! my mattress is so vile too that i am quite ashamed when you come. the whole place is at your disposal, and i would throw myself into the fire if you required it. yes. heaven knows it; i always repeat it in my prayers! oh, kind lord, grant their utmost desires to these good friends of mine--in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost!" as helene listened she experienced a singular feeling of discomfort. mother fetu's bloated face filled her with disgust. never before in this stifling attic had she been affected in a like way; its sordid misery seemed to stare her in the face; the lack of fresh air, the surrounding wretchedness, quite sickened her. so she made all haste to leave, feeling hurt by the blessings which mother fetu poured after her. in the passage des eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. halfway up, on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and here there was an excavation, some disused well, enclosed by a railing. during the last two days when passing she had heard the wailings of a cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly climbed the path, these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that they seemed instinct with the agony of death. the thought that the poor brute, thrown into the disused well, was slowly dying there of hunger, quite rent helene's heart. she hastened her steps, resolving that she would not venture down this lane again for a long time, lest the cat's death-call should reach her ears. the day was a tuesday. in the evening, on the stroke of seven, as helene was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell were heard, and rosalie opened the door. "his reverence is first to-night!" she exclaimed. "oh, here comes monsieur rambaud too!" they were very merry at dinner. jeanne was nearly well again now, and the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring her permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond, notwithstanding doctor bodin's formal prohibition. when she was going to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother's neck and pleaded: "oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman you nurse!" but the abbe and monsieur rambaud were the first to scold her for thinking of such a thing. they would not hear of her going amongst the poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. the last time she had been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her sleep. "oh! i will be good!" she pleaded. "i won't cry, i promise." "it is quite useless, my darling," said her mother, caressing her. "the old woman is well now. i shall not go out any more; i'll stay all day with you!" chapter iv. during the following week madame deberle paid a return visit to madame grandjean, and displayed an affability that bordered on affection. "you know what you promised me," she said, on the threshold, as she was going off. "the first fine day we have, you must come down to the garden, and bring jeanne with you. it is the doctor's strict injunction." "very well," helene answered, with a smile, "it is understood; we will avail ourselves of your kindness." three days later, on a bright february afternoon, she accompanied her daughter down to the garden. the porter opened the door connecting the two houses. at the near end of the garden, in a kind of greenhouse built somewhat in the style of a japanese pavilion, they found madame deberle and her sister pauline, both idling away their time, for some embroidery, thrown on the little table, lay there neglected. "oh, how good of you to come!" cried juliette. "you must sit down here. pauline, move that table away! it is still rather cool you know to sit out of doors, but from this pavilion we can keep a watch on the children. now, little ones, run away and play; but take care not to fall!" the large door of the pavilion stood open, and on each side were portable mirrors, whose covers had been removed so that they allowed one to view the garden's expanse as from the threshold of a tent. the garden, with a green sward in the centre, flanked by beds of flowers, was separated from the rue vineuse by a plain iron railing, but against this grew a thick green hedge, which prevented the curious from gazing in. ivy, clematis, and woodbine clung and wound around the railings, and behind this first curtain of foliage came a second one of lilacs and laburnums. even in the winter the ivy leaves and the close network of branches sufficed to shut off the view. but the great charm of the garden lay in its having at the far end a few lofty trees, some magnificent elms, which concealed the grimy wall of a five-story house. amidst all the neighboring houses these trees gave the spot the aspect of a nook in some park, and seemed to increase the dimensions of this little parisian garden, which was swept like a drawing-room. between two of the elms hung a swing, the seat of which was green with damp. helene leaned forward the better to view the scene. "oh, it is a hole!" exclaimed madame deberle carelessly. "still, trees are so rare in paris that one is happy in having half a dozen of one's own." "no, no, you have a very pleasant place," murmured helene. the sun filled the pale atmosphere that day with a golden dust, its rays streaming slowly through the leafless branches of the trees. these assumed a ruddier tint, and you could see the delicate purple gems softening the cold grey of the bark. on the lawn and along the walks the grass and gravel glittered amidst the haze that seemed to ooze from the ground. no flower was in blossom; only the happy flush which the sunshine cast upon the soil revealed the approach of spring. "at this time of year it is rather dull," resumed madame deberle. "in june it is as cozy as a nest; the trees prevent any one from looking in, and we enjoy perfect privacy." at this point she paused to call: "lucien, you must come away from that watertap!" the lad, who was doing the honors of the garden, had led jeanne towards a tap under the steps. here he had turned on the water, which he allowed to splash on the tips of his boots. it was a game that he delighted in. jeanne, with grave face, looked on while he wetted his feet. "wait a moment!" said pauline, rising. "i'll go and stop his nonsense!" but juliette held her back. "you'll do no such thing; you are even more of a madcap than he is. the other day both of you looked as if you had taken a bath. how is it that a big girl like you cannot remain two minutes seated? lucien!" she continued directing her eyes on her son, "turn off the water at once!" the child, in his fright, made an effort to obey her. but instead of turning the tap off, he turned it on all the more, and the water gushed forth with a force and a noise that made him lose his head. he recoiled, splashed up to the shoulders. "turn off the water at once!" again ordered his mother, whose cheeks were flushing with anger. jeanne, hitherto silent, then slowly, and with the greatest caution, ventured near the tap; while lucien burst into loud sobbing at sight of this cold stream, which terrified him, and which he was powerless to stop. carefully drawing her skirt between her legs, jeanne stretched out her bare hands so as not to wet her sleeves, and closed the tap without receiving a sprinkle. the flow instantly ceased. lucien, astonished and inspired with respect, dried his tears and gazed with swollen eyes at the girl. "oh, that child puts me beside myself!" exclaimed madame deberle, her complexion regaining its usual pallor, while she stretched herself out, as though wearied to death. helene deemed it right to intervene. "jeanne," she called, "take his hand, and amuse yourselves by walking up and down." jeanne took hold of lucien's hand, and both gravely paced the paths with little steps. she was much taller than her companion, who had to stretch his arm up towards her; but this solemn amusement, which consisted in a ceremonious circuit of the lawn, appeared to absorb them and invest them with a sense of great importance. jeanne, like a genuine lady, gazed about, preoccupied with her own thoughts; lucien every now and then would venture a glance at her; but not a word was said by either. "how droll they are!" said madame deberle, smiling, and again at her ease. "i must say that your jeanne is a dear, good child. she is so obedient, so well behaved--" "yes, when she is in the company of others," broke in helene. "she is a great trouble at times. still, she loves me, and does her best to be good so as not to vex me." then they spoke of children; how girls were more precocious than boys; though it would be wrong to deduce too much from lucien's unintelligent face. in another year he would doubtless lose all his gawkiness and become quite a gallant. finally, madame deberle resumed her embroidery, making perhaps two stitches in a minute. helene, who was only happy when busy, begged permission to bring her work the next time she came. she found her companions somewhat dull, and whiled away the time in examining the japanese pavilion. the walls and ceiling were hidden by tapestry worked in gold, with designs showing bright cranes in full flight, butterflies, and flowers and views in which blue ships were tossing upon yellow rivers. chairs, and ironwood flower-stands were scattered about; on the floor some fine mats were spread; while the lacquered furnishings were littered with trinkets, small bronzes and vases, and strange toys painted in all the hues of the rainbow. at the far end stood a grotesque idol in dresden china, with bent legs and bare, protruding stomach, which at the least movement shook its head with a terrible and amusing look. "isn't it horribly ugly?" asked pauline, who had been watching helene as she glanced round. "i say, sister, you know that all these purchases of yours are so much rubbish! malignon calls your japanese museum 'the sixpenny bazaar.' oh, by the way, talking of him, i met him. he was with a lady, and such a lady--florence, of the varietes theatre." "where was it?" asked juliette immediately. "how i shall tease him!" "on the boulevards. he's coming here to-day, is he not?" she was not vouchsafed any reply. the ladies had all at once become uneasy owing to the disappearance of the children, and called to them. however, two shrill voices immediately answered: "we are here!" half hidden by a spindle tree, they were sitting on the grass in the middle of the lawn. "what are you about?" "we have put up at an inn," answered lucien. "we are resting in our room." greatly diverted, the women watched them for a time. jeanne seemed quite contented with the game. she was cutting the grass around her, doubtless with the intention of preparing breakfast. a piece of wood, picked up among the shrubs, represented a trunk. and now they were talking. jeanne, with great conviction in her tone, was declaring that they were in switzerland, and that they would set out to see the glaciers, which rather astonished lucien. "ha, here he is!" suddenly exclaimed pauline. madame deberle turned, and caught sight of malignon descending the steps. he had scarcely time to make his bow and sit down before she attacked him. "oh," she said, "it is nice of you to go about everywhere saying that i have nothing but rubbishy ornaments about me!" "you mean this little saloon of yours? oh yes," said he, quite at his ease. "you haven't anything worth looking at here!" "what! not my china figure?" she asked, quite hurt. "no, no, everything is quite _bourgeois_. it is necessary for a person to have some taste. you wouldn't allow me to select the things--" "your taste, forsooth! just talk about your taste!" she retorted, flushing crimson and feeling quite angry. "you have been seen with a lady--" "what lady?" he asked, surprised by the violence of the attack. "a fine choice, indeed! i compliment you on it. a girl whom the whole of paris knows--" she suddenly paused, remembering pauline's presence. "pauline," she said, "go into the garden for a minute." "oh no," retorted the girl indignantly. "it's so tiresome; i'm always being sent out of the way." "go into the garden," repeated juliette, with increased severity in her tone. the girl stalked off with a sullen look, but stopped all at once, to exclaim: "well, then, be quick over your talk!" as soon as she was gone, madame deberle returned to the charge. "how can you, a gentleman, show yourself in public with that actress florence? she is at least forty. she is ugly enough to frighten one, and all the gentlemen in the stalls thee and thou her on first nights." "have you finished?" called out pauline, who was strolling sulkily under the trees. "i'm not amusing myself here, you know." malignon, however, defended himself. he had no knowledge of this girl florence; he had never in his life spoken a word to her. they had possibly seen him with a lady: he was sometimes in the company of the wife of a friend of his. besides, who had seen him? he wanted proofs, witnesses. "pauline," hastily asked madame deberle, raising her voice, "did you not meet him with florence?" "yes, certainly," replied her sister. "i met them on the boulevards opposite bignon's." thereupon, glorying in her victory over malignon, whose face wore an embarrassed smile, madame deberle called out: "you can come back, pauline; i have finished." malignon, who had a box at the folies-dramatiques for the following night, now gallantly placed it at madame deberle's service, apparently not feeling the slightest ill-will towards her; moreover, they were always quarreling. pauline wished to know if she might go to see the play that was running, and as malignon laughed and shook his head, she declared it was very silly; authors ought to write plays fit for girls to see. she was only allowed such entertainments as _la dame blanche_ and the classic drama could offer. meantime, the ladies had ceased watching the children, and all at once lucien began to raise terrible shrieks. "what have you done to him, jeanne?" asked helene. "i have done nothing, mamma," answered the little girl. "he has thrown himself on the ground." the truth was, the children had just set out for the famous glaciers. as jeanne pretended that they were reaching the mountains, they had lifted their feet very high, as though to step over the rocks. lucien, however, quite out of breath with his exertions, at last made a false step, and fell sprawling in the middle of an imaginary ice-field. disgusted, and furious with child-like rage, he no sooner found himself on the ground than he burst into tears. "lift him up," called helene. "he won't let me, mamma. he is rolling about." and so saying, jeanne drew back, as though exasperated and annoyed by such a display of bad breeding. he did not know how to play; he would certainly cover her with dirt. her mouth curled, as though she were a duchess compromising herself by such companionship. thereupon madame deberle, irritated by lucien's continued wailing, requested her sister to pick him up and coax him into silence. nothing loth, pauline ran, cast herself down beside the child, and for a moment rolled on the ground with him. he struggled with her, unwilling to be lifted, but she at last took him up by the arms, and to appease him, said, "stop crying, you noisy fellow; we'll have a swing!" lucien at once closed his lips, while jeanne's solemn looks vanished, and a gleam of ardent delight illumined her face. all three ran towards the swing, but it was pauline who took possession of the seat. "push, push!" she urged the children; and they pushed with all the force of their tiny hands; but she was heavy, and they could scarcely stir the swing. "push!" she urged again. "oh, the big sillies, they can't!" in the pavilion, madame deberle had just felt a slight chill. despite the bright sunshine she thought it rather cold, and she requested malignon to hand her a white cashmere burnous that was hanging from the handle of a window fastening. malignon rose to wrap the burnous round her shoulders, and they began chatting familiarly on matters which had little interest for helene. feeling fidgety, fearing that pauline might unwittingly knock the children down, she therefore stepped into the garden, leaving juliette and the young man to wrangle over some new fashion in bonnets which apparently deeply interested them. jeanne no sooner saw her mother than she ran towards her with a wheedling smile, and entreaty in every gesture. "oh, mamma, mamma!" she implored. "oh, mamma!" "no, no, you mustn't!" replied helene, who understood her meaning very well. "you know you have been forbidden." swinging was jeanne's greatest delight. she would say that she believed herself a bird; the breeze blowing in her face, the lively rush through the air, the continued swaying to and fro in a motion as rythmic as the beating of a bird's wings, thrilled her with an exquisite pleasure; in her ascent towards cloudland she imagined herself on her way to heaven. but it always ended in some mishap. on one occasion she had been found clinging to the ropes of the swing in a swoon, her large eyes wide open, fixed in a vacant stare; at another time she had fallen to the ground, stiff, like a swallow struck by a shot. "oh, mamma!" she implored again. "only a little, a very, very little!" in the end her mother, in order to win peace, placed her on the seat. the child's face lit up with an angelic smile, and her bare wrists quivered with joyous expectancy. helene swayed her very gently. "higher, mamma, higher!" she murmured. but helene paid no heed to her prayer, and retained firm hold of the rope. she herself was glowing all over, her cheeks flushed, and she thrilled with excitement at every push she gave to the swing. her wonted sedateness vanished as she thus became her daughter's playmate. "that will do," she declared after a time, taking jeanne in her arms. "oh, mamma, you must swing now!" the child whispered, as she clung to her neck. she took a keen delight in seeing her mother flying through the air; as she said, her pleasure was still more intense in gazing at her than in having a swing herself. helene, however, asked her laughingly who would push her; when she went in for swinging, it was a serious matter; why, she went higher than the treetops! while she was speaking it happened that monsieur rambaud made his appearance under the guidance of the doorkeeper. he had met madame deberle in helene's rooms, and thought he would not be deemed presuming in presenting himself here when unable to find her. madame deberle proved very gracious, pleased as she was with the good-natured air of the worthy man; however, she soon returned to a lively discussion with malignon. "_bon ami_[*] will push you, mamma! _bon ami_ will push you!" jeanne called out, as she danced round her mother. [*] literally "good friend;" but there is no proper equivalent for the expression in english. "be quiet! we are not at home!" said her mother with mock gravity. "bless me! if it will please you, i am at your disposal," exclaimed monsieur rambaud. "when people are in the country--" helene let herself be persuaded. when a girl she had been accustomed to swing for hours, and the memory of those vanished pleasures created a secret craving to taste them once more. moreover, pauline, who had sat down with lucien at the edge of the lawn, intervened with the boldness of a girl freed from the trammels of childhood. "of course he will push you, and he will swing me after you. won't you, sir?" this determined helene. the youth which dwelt within her, in spite of the cold demureness of her great beauty, displayed itself in a charming, ingenuous fashion. she became a thorough school-girl, unaffected and gay. there was no prudishness about her. she laughingly declared that she must not expose her legs, and asked for some cord to tie her skirts securely round her ankles. that done, she stood upright on the swing, her arms extended and clinging to the ropes. "now, push, monsieur rambaud," she exclaimed delightedly. "but gently at first!" monsieur rambaud had hung his hat on the branch of a tree. his broad, kindly face beamed with a fatherly smile. first he tested the strength of the ropes, and, giving a look at the trees, determined to give a slight push. that day helene had for the first time abandoned her widow's weeds; she was wearing a grey dress set off with mauve bows. standing upright, she began to swing, almost touching the ground, and as if rocking herself to sleep. "quicker! quicker!" she exclaimed. monsieur rambaud, with his hands ready, caught the seat as it came back to him, and gave it a more vigorous push. helene went higher, each ascent taking her farther. however, despite the motion, she did not lose her sedateness; she retained almost an austre demeanor; her eyes shone very brightly in her beautiful, impassive face; her nostrils only were inflated, as though to drink in the air. not a fold of her skirts was out of place, but a plait of her hair slipped down. "quicker! quicker!" she called. an energetic push gave her increased impetus. up in the sunshine she flew, even higher and higher. a breeze sprung up with her motion, and blew through the garden; her flight was so swift that they could scarcely distinguish her figure aright. her face was now all smiles, and flushed with a rosy red, while her eyes sparkled here, then there, like shooting stars. the loosened plait of hair rustled against her neck. despite the cords which bound them, her skirts now waved about, and you could divine that she was at her ease, her bosom heaving in its free enjoyment as though the air were indeed her natural place. "quicker! quicker!" monsieur rambaud, his face red and bedewed with perspiration, exerted all his strength. a cry rang out. helene went still higher. "oh, mamma! oh, mamma!" repeated jeanne in her ecstasy. she was sitting on the lawn gazing at her mother, her little hands clasped on her bosom, looking as though she herself had drunk in all the air that was stirring. her breath failed her; with a rythmical movement of the shoulders she kept time with the long strokes of the swing. and she cried, "quicker! quicker!" while her mother still went higher, her feet grazing the lofty branches of the trees. "higher, mamma! oh, higher, mamma!" but helene was already in the very heavens. the trees bent and cracked as beneath a gale. her skirts, which were all they could see, flapped with a tempestuous sound. when she came back with arms stretched out and bosom distended she lowered her head slightly and for a moment hovered; but then she rose again and sank backwards, her head tilted, her eyes closed, as though she had swooned. these ascensions and descents which made her giddy were delightful. in her flight she entered into the sunshine--the pale yellow february sunshine that rained down like golden dust. her chestnut hair gleamed with amber tints; and a flame seemed to have leaped up around her, as the mauve bows on her whitening dress flashed like burning flowers. around her the springtide was maturing into birth, and the purple-tinted gems of the trees showed like delicate lacquer against the blue sky. jeanne clasped her hands. her mother seemed to her a saint with a golden glory round her head, winging her way to paradise, and she again stammered: "oh, mamma! oh! mamma!" madame deberle and malignon had now grown interested, and had stepped under the trees. malignon declared the lady to be very bold. "i should faint, i'm sure," said madame deberle, with a frightened air. helene heard them, for she dropped these words from among the branches: "oh, my heart is all right! give a stronger push, monsieur rambaud!" and indeed her voice betrayed no emotion. she seemed to take no heed of the two men who were onlookers. they were doubtless nothing to her. her tress of hair had become entangled, and the cord that confined her skirts must have given way, for the drapery flapped in the wind like a flag. she was going still higher. all at once, however, the exclamation rang out: "enough, monsieur rambaud, enough!" doctor deberle had just appeared on the house steps. he came forward, embraced his wife tenderly, took up lucien and kissed his brow. then he gazed at helene with a smile. "enough, enough!" she still continued exclaiming. "why?" asked he. "do i disturb you?" she made no answer; a look of gravity had suddenly come over her face. the swing, still continuing its rapid flights, owing to the impetus given to it, would not stop, but swayed to and fro with a regular motion which still bore helene to a great height. the doctor, surprised and charmed, beheld her with admiration; she looked so superb, so tall and strong, with the pure figure of an antique statue whilst swinging thus gently amid the spring sunshine. but she seemed annoyed, and all at once leaped down. "stop! stop!" they all cried out. from helene's lips came a dull moan; she had fallen upon the gravel of a pathway, and her efforts to rise were fruitless. "good heavens!" exclaimed the doctor, his face turning very pale. "how imprudent!" they all crowded round her. jeanne began weeping so bitterly that monsieur rambaud, with his heart in his mouth, was compelled to take her in his arms. the doctor, meanwhile, eagerly questioned helene. "is it the right leg you fell on? cannot you stand upright?" and as she remained dazed, without answering, he asked: "do you suffer?" "yes, here at the knee; a dull pain," she answered, with difficulty. he at once sent his wife for his medicine case and some bandages, and repeated: "i must see, i must see. no doubt it is a mere nothing." he knelt down on the gravel and helene let him do so; but all at once she struggled to her feet and said: "no, no!" "but i must examine the place," he said. a slight quiver stole over her, and she answered in a yet lower tone: "it is not necessary. it is nothing at all." he looked at her, at first astounded. her neck was flushing red; for a moment their eyes met, and seemed to read each other's soul; he was disconcerted, and slowly rose, remaining near her, but without pressing her further. helene had signed to monsieur rambaud. "fetch doctor bodin," she whispered in his ear, "and tell him what has happened to me." ten minutes later, when doctor bodin made his appearance, she, with superhuman courage, regained her feet, and leaning on him and monsieur rambaud, contrived to return home. jeanne followed, quivering with sobs. "i shall wait," said doctor deberle to his brother physician. "come down and remove our fears." in the garden a lively colloquy ensued. malignon was of opinion that women had queer ideas. why on earth had that lady been so foolish as to jump down? pauline, excessively provoked at this accident, which deprived her of a pleasure, declared it was silly to swing so high. on his side doctor deberle did not say a word, but seemed anxious. "it is nothing serious," said doctor bodin, as he came down again --"only a sprain. still, she will have to keep to an easy-chair for at least a fortnight." thereupon monsieur deberle gave a friendly slap on malignon's shoulder. he wished his wife to go in, as it was really becoming too cold. for his own part, taking lucien in his arms, he carried him into the house, covering him with kisses the while. chapter v. both windows of the bedroom were wide open, and in the depths below the house, which was perched on the very summit of the hill, lay paris, rolling away in a mighty flat expanse. ten o'clock struck; the lovely february morning had all the sweetness and perfume of spring. helene reclined in an invalid chair, reading in front of one of the windows, her knee still in bandages. she suffered no pain; but she had been confined to her room for a week past, unable even to take up her customary needlework. not knowing what to do, she had opened a book which she had found on the table--she, who indulged in little or no reading at any time. this book was the one she used every night as a shade for the night-lamp, the only volume which she had taken within eighteen months from the small but irreproachable library selected by monsieur rambaud. novels usually seemed to her false to life and puerile; and this one, sir walter scott's "ivanhoe," had at first wearied her to death. however, a strange curiosity had grown upon her, and she was finishing it, at times affected to tears, and at times rather bored, when she would let it slip from her hand for long minutes and gaze fixedly at the far-stretching horizon. that morning paris awoke from sleep with a smiling indolence. a mass of vapor, following the valley of the seine, shrouded the two banks from view. this mist was light and milky, and the sun, gathering strength, was slowly tinging it with radiance. nothing of the city was distinguishable through this floating muslin. in the hollows the haze thickened and assumed a bluish tint; while over certain broad expanses delicate transparencies appeared, a golden dust, beneath which you could divine the depths of the streets; and up above domes and steeples rent the mist, rearing grey outlines to which clung shreds of the haze which they had pierced. at times cloudlets of yellow smoke would, like giant birds, heavy of wing, slowly soar on high, and then mingle with the atmosphere which seemed to absorb them. and above all this immensity, this mass of cloud, hanging in slumber over paris, a sky of extreme purity, of a faint and whitening blue, spread out its mighty vault. the sun was climbing the heavens, scattering a spray of soft rays; a pale golden light, akin in hue to the flaxen tresses of a child, was streaming down like rain, filling the atmosphere with the warm quiver of its sparkle. it was like a festival of the infinite, instinct with sovereign peacefulness and gentle gaiety, whilst the city, chequered with golden beams, still remained lazy and sleepy, unwilling to reveal itself by casting off its coverlet of lace. for eight days it had been helene's diversion to gaze on that mighty expanse of paris, and she never wearied of doing so. it was as unfathomable and varying as the ocean--fair in the morning, ruddy with fire at night, borrowing all the joys and sorrows of the heavens reflected in its depths. a flash of sunshine came, and it would roll in waves of gold; a cloud would darken it and raise a tempest. its aspect was ever changing. a complete calm would fall, and all would assume an orange hue; gusts of wind would sweep by from time to time, and turn everything livid; in keen, bright weather there would be a shimmer of light on every housetop; whilst when showers fell, blurring both heaven and earth, all would be plunged in chaotic confusion. at her window helene experienced all the hopes and sorrows that pertain to the open sea. as the keen wind blew in her face she imagined it wafted a saline fragrance; even the ceaseless noise of the city seemed to her like that of a surging tide beating against a rocky cliff. the book fell from her hands. she was dreaming, with a far-away look in her eyes. when she stopped reading thus it was from a desire to linger and understand what she had already perused. she took a delight in denying her curiosity immediate satisfaction. the tale filled her soul with a tempest of emotion. paris that morning was displaying the same vague joy and sorrow as that which disturbed her heart. in this lay a great charm--to be ignorant, to guess things dimly, to yield to slow initiation, with the vague thought that her youth was beginning again. how full of lies were novels! she was assuredly right in not reading them. they were mere fables, good for empty heads with no proper conception of life. yet she remained entranced, dreaming unceasingly of the knight ivanhoe, loved so passionately by two women--rebecca, the beautiful jewess, and the noble lady rowena. she herself thought she could have loved with the intensity and patient serenity of the latter maiden. to love! to love! she did not utter the words, but they thrilled her through and through in the very thought, astonishing her, and irradiating her face with a smile. in the distance some fleecy cloudlets, driven by the breeze, now floated over paris like a flock of swans. huge gaps were being cleft in the fog; a momentary glimpse was given of the left bank, indistinct and clouded, like a city of fairydom seen in a dream; but suddenly a thick curtain of mist swept down, and the fairy city was engulfed, as though by an inundation. and then the vapors, spreading equally over every district, formed, as it were, a beautiful lake, with milky, placid waters. there was but one denser streak, indicating the grey, curved course of the seine. and slowly over those milky, placid waters shadows passed, like vessels with pink sails, which the young woman followed with a dreamy gaze. to love! to love! she smiled as her dream sailed on. however, she again took up her book. she had reached the chapter describing the attack on the castle, wherein rebecca nurses the wounded ivanhoe, and recounts to him the incidents of the fight, which she gazes at from a window. helene felt that she was in the midst of a beautiful falsehood, but roamed through it as through some mythical garden, whose trees are laden with golden fruit, and where she imbibed all sorts of fancies. then, at the conclusion of the scene, when rebecca, wrapped in her veil, exhales her love beside the sleeping knight, helene again allowed the book to slip from her hand; her heart was so brimful of emotion that she could read no further. heavens! could all those things be true? she asked, as she lay back in her easy-chair, numbed by her enforced quiescence, and gazing on paris, shrouded and mysterious, beneath the golden sun. the events of her life now arose before her, conjured up by the perusal of the novel. she saw herself a young girl in the house of her father, mouret, a hatter at marseilles. the rue des petites-maries was black and dismal, and the house, with its vat of steaming water ready to the hand of the hatter, exhaled a rank odor of dampness, even in fine weather. she also saw her mother, who was ever an invalid, and who kissed her with pale lips, without speaking. no gleam of the sun penetrated into her little room. hard work went on around her; only by dint of toil did her father gain a workingman's competency. that summed up her early life, and till her marriage nothing intervened to break the monotony of days ever the same. one morning, returning from market with her mother, a basketful of vegetables on her arm, she jostled against young grandjean. charles turned round and followed them. the love-romance of her life was in this incident. for three months she was always meeting him, while he, bashful and awkward, could not pluck up courage to speak to her. she was sixteen years of age, and a little proud of her lover, who, she knew, belonged to a wealthy family. but she deemed him bad-looking, and often laughed at him, and no thought of him disturbed her sleep in the large, gloomy, damp house. in the end they were married, and this marriage yet filled her with surprise. charles worshipped her, and would fling himself on the floor to kiss her bare feet. she beamed on him, her smile full of kindness, as she rebuked him for such childishness. then another dull life began. during twelve years no event of sufficient interest had occurred for her to bear in mind. she was very quiet and very happy, tormented by no fever either of body or heart; her whole attention being given to the daily cares of a poor household. charles was still wont to kiss her fair white feet, while she showed herself indulgent and motherly towards him. but other feeling she had none. then there abruptly came before her the room in the hotel du var, her husband in his coffin, and her widow's robe hanging over a chair. she had wept that day as on the winter's night when her mother died. then once more the days glided on; for two months with her daughter she had again enjoyed peace and happiness. heaven! did that sum up everything? what, then, did that book mean when it spoke of transcendent loves which illumine one's existence? while she thus reflected prolonged quivers were darting over the sleeping lake of mist on the horizon. suddenly it seemed to burst, gaps appeared, a rending sped from end to end, betokening a complete break-up. the sun, ascending higher and higher, scattering its rays in glorious triumph, was victoriously attacking the mist. little by little the great lake seemed to dry up, as though some invisible sluice were draining the plain. the fog, so dense but a moment before, was losing its consistency and becoming transparent, showing all the bright hues of the rainbow. on the left bank of the seine all was of a heavenly blue, deepening into violet over towards the jardin des plantes. upon the right bank a pale pink, flesh-like tint suffused the tuileries district; while away towards montmartre there was a fiery glow, carmine flaming amid gold. then, farther off, the working-men's quarters deepened to a dusty brick-color, changing more and more till all became a slatey, bluish grey. the eye could not yet distinguish the city, which quivered and receded like those subaqueous depths divined through the crystalline waves, depths with awful forests of huge plants, swarming with horrible things and monsters faintly espied. however, the watery mist was quickly falling. it became at last no more than a fine muslin drapery; and bit by bit this muslin vanished, and paris took shape and emerged from dreamland. to love! to love! why did these words ring in helene's ears with such sweetness as the darkness of the fog gave way to light? had she not loved her husband, whom she had tended like a child? but a bitter memory stirred within her--the memory of her dead father, who had hung himself three weeks after his wife's decease in a closet where her gowns still dangled from their hooks. there he had gasped out his last agony, his body rigid, and his face buried in a skirt, wrapped round by the clothes which breathed of her whom he had ever worshipped. then helene's reverie took a sudden leap. she began thinking of her own home-life, of the month's bills which she had checked with rosalie that very morning; and she felt proud of the orderly way in which she regulated her household. during more than thirty years she had lived with self-respect and strength of mind. uprightness alone impassioned her. when she questioned her past, not one hour revealed a sin; in her mind's eye she saw herself ever treading a straight and level path. truly, the days might slip by; she would walk on peacefully as before, with no impediment in her way. the very thought of this made her stern, and her spirit rose in angry contempt against those lying lives whose apparent heroism disturbs the heart. the only true life was her own, following its course amidst such peacefulness. but over paris there now only hung a thin smoke, a fine, quivering gauze, on the point of floating away; and emotion suddenly took possession of her. to love! to love! everything brought her back to that caressing phrase --even the pride born of her virtue. her dreaming became so light, she no longer thought, but lay there, steeped in springtide, with moist eyes. at last, as she was about to resume her reading, paris slowly came into view. not a breath of wind had stirred; it was as if a magician had waved his wand. the last gauzy film detached itself, soared and vanished in the air; and the city spread out without a shadow, under the conquering sun. helene, with her chin resting on her hand, gazed on this mighty awakening. a far-stretching valley appeared, with a myriad of buildings huddled together. over the distant range of hills were scattered close-set roofs, and you could divine that the sea of houses rolled afar off behind the undulating ground, into the fields hidden from sight. it was as the ocean, with all the infinity and mystery of its waves. paris spread out as vast as the heavens on high. burnished with the sunshine that lovely morning, the city looked like a field of yellow corn; and the huge picture was all simplicity, compounded of two colors only, the pale blue of the sky, and the golden reflections of the housetops. the stream of light from the spring sun invested everything with the beauty of a new birth. so pure was the light that the minutest objects became visible. paris, with its chaotic maze of stonework, shone as though under glass. from time to time, however, a breath of wind passed athwart this bright, quiescent serenity; and then the outlines of some districts grew faint, and quivered as if they were being viewed through an invisible flame. helene took interest at first in gazing on the large expanse spread under her windows, the slope of the trocadero, and the far-stretching quays. she had to lean out to distinguish the deserted square of the champ-de-mars, barred at the farther end by the sombre military school. down below, on thoroughfare and pavement on each side of the seine, she could see the passers-by--a busy cluster of black dots, moving like a swarm of ants. a yellow omnibus shone out like a spark of fire; drays and cabs crossed the bridge, mere child's toys in the distance, with miniature horses like pieces of mechanism; and amongst others traversing the grassy slopes was a servant girl, with a white apron which set a bright spot in all the greenery. then helene raised her eyes; but the crowd scattered and passed out of sight, and even the vehicles looked like mere grains of sand; there remained naught but the gigantic carcass of the city, seemingly untenanted and abandoned, its life limited to the dull trepidation by which it was agitated. there, in the foreground to the left, some red roofs were shining, and the tall chimneys of the army bakehouse slowly poured out their smoke; while, on the other side of the river, between the esplanade and the champ-de-mars, a grove of lofty elms clustered, like some patch of a park, with bare branches, rounded tops, and young buds already bursting forth, quite clear to the eye. in the centre of the picture, the seine spread out and reigned between its grey banks, to which rows of casks, steam cranes, and carts drawn up in line, gave a seaport kind of aspect. helene's eyes were always turning towards this shining river, on which boats passed to and fro like birds with inky plumage. her looks involuntarily followed the water's stately course, which, like a silver band, cut paris atwain. that morning the stream rolled liquid sunlight; no greater resplendency could be seen on the horizon. and the young woman's glance encountered first the pont des invalides, next the pont de la concorde, and then the pont royal. bridge followed bridge, they appeared to get closer, to rise one above the other like viaducts forming a flight of steps, and pierced with all kinds of arches; while the river, wending its way beneath these airy structures, showed here and there small patches of its blue robe, patches which became narrower and narrower, more and more indistinct. and again did helene raise her eyes, and over yonder the stream forked amidst a jumble of houses; the bridges on either side of the island of la cite were like mere films stretching from one bank to the other; while the golden towers of notre-dame sprang up like boundary-marks of the horizon, beyond which river, buildings, and clumps of trees became naught but sparkling sunshine. then helene, dazzled, withdrew her gaze from this the triumphant heart of paris, where the whole glory of the city appeared to blaze. on the right bank, amongst the clustering trees of the champs-elysees she saw the crystal buildings of the palace of industry glittering with a snowy sheen; farther away, behind the roof of the madeleine, which looked like a tombstone, towered the vast mass of the opera house; then there were other edifices, cupolas and towers, the vendome column, the church of saint-vincent de paul, the tower of saint-jacques; and nearer in, the massive cube-like pavilions of the new louvre and the tuileries, half-hidden by a wood of chestnut trees. on the left bank the dome of the invalides shone with gilding; beyond it the two irregular towers of saint-sulpice paled in the bright light; and yet farther in the rear, to the right of the new spires of sainte-clotilde, the bluish pantheon, erect on a height, its fine colonnade showing against the sky, overlooked the city, poised in the air, as it were, motionless, with the silken hues of a captive balloon. helene's gaze wandered all over paris. there were hollows, as could be divined by the lines of roofs; the butte des moulins surged upward, with waves of old slates, while the line of the principal boulevards dipped downward like a gutter, ending in a jumble of houses whose tiles even could no longer be seen. at this early hour the oblique sun did not light up the house-fronts looking towards the trocadero; not a window-pane of these threw back its rays. the skylights on some roofs alone sparkled with the glittering reflex of mica amidst the red of the adjacent chimney-pots. the houses were mostly of a sombre grey, warmed by reflected beams; still rays of light were transpiercing certain districts, and long streets, stretching in front of helene, set streaks of sunshine amidst the shade. it was only on the left that the far-spreading horizon, almost perfect in its circular sweep, was broken by the heights of montmartre and pere-lachaise. the details so clearly defined in the foreground, the innumerable denticles of the chimneys, the little black specks of the thousands of windows, grew less and less distinct as you gazed farther and farther away, till everything became mingled in confusion--the pell-mell of an endless city, whose faubourgs, afar off, looked like shingly beaches, steeped in a violet haze under the bright, streaming, vibrating light that fell from the heavens. helene was watching the scene with grave interest when jeanne burst gleefully into the room. "oh, mamma! look here!" the child had a big bunch of wall-flowers in her hand. she told, with some laughter, how she had waylaid rosalie on her return from market to peep into her basket of provisions. to rummage in this basket was a great delight to her. "look at it, mamma! it lay at the very bottom. just smell it; what a lovely perfume!" from the tawny flowers, speckled with purple, there came a penetrating odor which scented the whole room. then helene, with a passionate movement, drew jeanne to her breast, while the nosegay fell on her lap. to love! to love! truly, she loved her child. was not that intense love which had pervaded her life till now sufficient for her wants? it ought to satisfy her; it was so gentle, so tranquil; no lassitude could put an end to its continuance. again she pressed her daughter to her, as though to conjure away thoughts which threatened to separate them. in the meantime jeanne surrendered herself to the shower of kisses. her eyes moist with tears, she turned her delicate neck upwards with a coaxing gesture, and pressed her face against her mother's shoulder. then she slipped an arm round her waist and thus remained, very demure, her cheek resting on helene's bosom. the perfume of the wall-flowers ascended between them. for a long time they did not speak; but at length, without moving, jeanne asked in a whisper: "mamma, you see that rosy-colored dome down there, close to the river; what is it?" it was the dome of the institute, and helene looked towards it for a moment as though trying to recall the name. "i don't know, my love," she answered gently. the child appeared content with this reply, and silence again fell. but soon she asked a second question. "and there, quite near, what beautiful trees are those?" she said, pointing with her finger towards a corner of the tuileries garden. "those beautiful trees!" said her mother. "on the left, do you mean? i don't know, my love." "ah!" exclaimed jeanne; and after musing for a little while she added with a pout: "we know nothing!" indeed they knew nothing of paris. during eighteen months it had lain beneath their gaze every hour of the day, yet they knew not a stone of it. three times only had they gone down into the city; but on returning home, suffering from terrible headaches born of all the agitation they had witnessed, they could find in their minds no distinct memory of anything in all that huge maze of streets. however, jeanne at times proved obstinate. "ah! you can tell me this!" said she: "what is that glass building which glitters there? it is so big you must know it." she was referring to the palais de l'industrie. helene, however, hesitated. "it's a railway station," said she. "no, i'm wrong, i think it is a theatre." then she smiled and kissed jeanne's hair, at last confessing as before: "i do not know what it is, my love." so they continued to gaze on paris, troubling no further to identify any part of it. it was very delightful to have it there before them, and yet to know nothing of it; it remained the vast and the unknown. it was as though they had halted on the threshold of a world which ever unrolled its panorama before them, but into which they were unwilling to descend. paris often made them anxious when it wafted them a hot, disturbing atmosphere; but that morning it seemed gay and innocent, like a child, and from its mysterious depths only a breath of tenderness rose gently to their faces. helene took up her book again while jeanne, clinging to her, still gazed upon the scene. in the dazzling, tranquil sky no breeze was stirring. the smoke from the army bakehouse ascended perpendicularly in light cloudlets which vanished far aloft. on a level with the houses passed vibrating waves of life, waves of all the life pent up there. the loud voices of the streets softened amidst the sunshine into a languid murmur. but all at once a flutter attracted jeanne's notice. a flock of white pigeons, freed from some adjacent dovecot, sped through the air in front of the window; with spreading wings like falling snow, the birds barred the line of view, hiding the immensity of paris. with eyes again dreamily gazing upward, helene remained plunged in reverie. she was the lady rowena; she loved with the serenity and intensity of a noble mind. that spring morning, that great, gentle city, those early wall-flowers shedding their perfume on her lap, had little by little filled her heart with tenderness. chapter vi. one morning helene was arranging her little library, the various books of which had got out of order during the past few days, when jeanne skipped into the room, clapping her hands. "a soldier, mamma! a soldier!" she cried. "what? a soldier?" exclaimed her mother. "what do you want, you and your soldier?" but the child was in one of her paroxysms of extravagant delight; she only jumped about the more, repeating: "a soldier! a soldier!" without deigning to give any further explanation. she had left the door wide open behind her, and so, as helene rose, she was astonished to see a soldier--a very little soldier too--in the ante-room. rosalie had gone out, and jeanne must have been playing on the landing, though strictly forbidden to do so by her mother. "what do you want, my lad?" asked helene. the little soldier was very much confused on seeing this lady, so lovely and fair, in her dressing-gown trimmed with lace; he shuffled one foot to and fro over the floor, bowed, and at last precipitately stammered: "i beg pardon--excuse--" but he could get no further, and retreated to the wall, still shuffling his feet. his retreat was thus cut off, and seeing the lady awaited his reply with an involuntary smile, he dived into his right-hand pocket, from which he dragged a blue handkerchief, a knife, and a hunk of bread. he gazed on each in turn, and thrust them all back again. then he turned his attention to the left-hand pocket, from which were produced a twist of cord, two rusty nails, and some pictures wrapped in part of a newspaper. all these he pushed back to their resting-place, and began tapping his thighs with an anxious air. and again he stammered in bewilderment: "i beg pardon--excuse--" but all at once he raised his finger to his nose, and exclaimed with a loud laugh: "what a fool i am! i remember now!" he then undid two buttons of his greatcoat, and rummaged in his breast, into which he plunged his arm up to the elbow. after a time he drew forth a letter, which he rustled violently before handing to helene, as though to shake some dust from it. "a letter for me! are you sure?" said she. on the envelope were certainly inscribed her name and address in a heavy rustic scrawl, with pothooks and hangers tumbling over one another. when at last she made it all out, after being repeatedly baffled by the extraordinary style and spelling, she could not but smile again. it was a letter from rosalie's aunt, introducing zephyrin lacour, who had fallen a victim to the conscription, "in spite of two masses having been said by his reverence." however, as zephyrin was rosalie's "intended" the aunt begged that madame would be so good as to allow the young folks to see each other on sundays. in the three pages which the letter comprised this question was continually cropping up in the same words, the confusion of the epistle increasing through the writer's vain efforts to say something she had not said before. just above the signature, however, she seemed to have hit the nail on the head, for she had written: "his reverence gives his permission"; and had then broken her pen in the paper, making a shower of blots. helene slowly folded the letter. two or three times, while deciphering its contents, she had raised her head to glance at the soldier. he still remained close to the wall, and his lips stirred, as though to emphasize each sentence in the letter by a slight movement of the chin. no doubt he knew its contents by heart. "then you are zephyrin lacour, are you not?" asked helene. he began to laugh and wagged his head. "come in, my lad; don't stay out there." he made up his mind to follow her, but he continued standing close to the door, while helene sat down. she had scarcely seen him in the darkness of the ante-room. he must have been just as tall as rosalie; a third of an inch less, and he would have been exempted from service. with red hair, cut very short, he had a round, freckled, beardless face, with two little eyes like gimlet holes. his new greatcoat, much too large for him, made him appear still more dumpy, and with his red-trousered legs wide apart, and his large peaked cap swinging before him, he presented both a comical and pathetic sight--his plump, stupid little person plainly betraying the rustic, although he wore a uniform. helene desired to obtain some information from him. "you left beauce a week ago?" she asked. "yes, madame!" "and here you are in paris. i suppose you are not sorry?" "no, madame." he was losing his bashfulness, and now gazed all over the room, evidently much impressed by its blue velvet hangings. "rosalie is out," helene began again, "but she will be here very soon. her aunt tells me you are her sweetheart." to this the little soldier vouchsafed no reply, but hung his head, laughing awkwardly, and scraping the carpet with the tip of his boot. "then you will have to marry her when you leave the army?" helene continued questioning. "yes, to be sure!" exclaimed he, his face turning very red. "yes, of course; we are engaged!" and, won over by the kindly manners of the lady, he made up his mind to speak out, his fingers still playing with his cap. "you know it's an old story. when we were quite children, we used to go thieving together. we used to get switched; oh yes, that's true! i must tell you that the lacours and the pichons lived in the same lane, and were next-door neighbors. and so rosalie and myself were almost brought up together. then her people died, and her aunt marguerite took her in. but she, the minx, was already as strong as a demon." he paused, realizing that he was warming up, and asked hesitatingly: "but perhaps she has told you all this?" "yes, yes; but go on all the same," said helene, who was greatly amused. "in short," continued he, "she was awfully strong, though she was no bigger than a tomtit. it was a treat to see her at her work! how she did get through it! one day she gave a slap to a friend of mine--by jove! such a slap! i had the mark of it on my arm for a week! yes, that was the way it all came about. all the gossips declared we must marry one another. besides, we weren't ten years old before we had agreed on that! and, we have stuck to it, madame, we have stuck to it!" he placed one hand upon his heart, with fingers wide apart. helene, however, had now become very grave. the idea of allowing a soldier in her kitchen somewhat worried her. his reverence, no doubt, had given his sanction, but she thought it rather venturesome. there is too much license in the country, where lovers indulge in all sorts of pleasantries. so she gave expression to her apprehensions. when zephyrin at last gathered her meaning, his first inclination was to laugh, but his awe for helene restrained him. "oh, madame, madame!" said he, "you don't know her, i can see! i have received slaps enough from her! of course young men like to laugh! isn't that so? sometimes i pinched her, and she would turn round and hit me right on the nose. her aunt's advice always was, 'look here, my girl, don't put up with any nonsense!' his reverence, too, interfered in it, and maybe that had a lot to do with our keeping up sweethearting. we were to have been married after i had drawn for a soldier. but it was all my eye! things turned out badly. rosalie declared she would go to service in paris, to earn a dowry while she was waiting for me. and so, and so--" he swung himself about, dangling his cap, now from one hand now from the other. but still helene never said a word, and he at last fancied that she distrusted him. this pained him dreadfully. "you think, perhaps, that i shall deceive her?" he burst out angrily. "even, too, when i tell you we are betrothed? i shall marry her, as surely as the heaven shines on us. i'm quite ready to pledge my word in writing. yes, if you like, i'll write it down for you." deep emotion was stirring him. he walked about the room gazing around in the hope of finding pen and ink. helene quickly tried to appease him, but he still went on: "i would rather sign a paper for you. what harm would it do you? your mind would be all the easier with it." however, just at that moment jeanne, who had again run away, returned, jumping and clapping her hands. "rosalie! rosalie! rosalie!" she chanted in a dancing tune of her own composition. through the open doorway one could hear the panting of the maid as she climbed up the stairs laden with her basket. zephyrin started back into a corner of the room, his mouth wide agape from ear to ear in silent laughter, and the gimlet holes of his eyes gleaming with rustic roguery. rosalie came straight into the room, as was her usual practice, to show her mistress her morning's purchase of provisions. "madame," said she, "i've brought some cauliflowers. look at them! only eighteen sous for two; it isn't dear, is it?" she held out the basket half open, but on lifting her head noticed zephyrin's grinning face. surprise nailed her to the carpet. two or three seconds slipped away; she had doubtless at first failed to recognize him in his uniform. but then her round eyes dilated, her fat little face blanched, and her coarse black hair waved in agitation. "oh!" she simply said. but her astonishment was such that she dropped her basket. the provisions, cauliflowers, onions, apples, rolled on to the carpet. jeanne gave a cry of delight, and falling on her knees, began hunting for the apples, even under the chairs and the wardrobe. meanwhile rosalie, as though paralyzed, never moved, though she repeated: "what! it's you! what are you doing here? what are you doing here? say!" then she turned to helene with the question: "was it you who let him come in?" zephyrin never uttered a word, but contented himself with winking slily. then rosalie gave vent to her emotion in tears; and, to show her delight at seeing him again, could hit on nothing better than to quiz him. "oh! go away!" she began, marching up to him. "you look neat and pretty i must say in that guise of yours! i might have passed you in the street, and not even have said: 'god bless you.' oh! you've got a nice rig-out. you just look as if you had your sentry-box on your back; and they've cut your hair so short that folks might take you for the sexton's poodle. good heavens! what a fright you are; what a fright!" zephyrin, very indignant, now made up his mind to speak. "it's not my fault, that's sure! oh! if you joined a regiment we should see a few things." they had quite forgotten where they were; everything had vanished--the room, helene and jeanne, who was still gathering the apples together. with hands folded over her apron, the maid stood upright in front of the little soldier. "is everything all right down there?" she asked. "oh, yes, excepting guignard's cow is ill. the veterinary surgeon came and said she'd got the dropsy." "if she's got the dropsy, she's done for. excepting that, is everything all right?" "yes, yes! the village constable has broken his arm. old canivet's dead. and, by the way, his reverence lost his purse with thirty sous in it as he was a-coming back from grandval. but otherwise, things are all right." then silence fell on them, and they looked at one another with sparkling eyes, their compressed lips slowly making an amorous grimace. this, indeed, must have been the manner in which they expressed their love, for they had not even stretched out their hands in greeting. rosalie, however, all at once ceased her contemplation, and began to lament at sight of the vegetables on the floor. such a nice mess! and it was he who had caused it all! madame ought to have made him wait on the stairs! scolding away as fast as she could, she dropped on her knees and began putting the apples, onions, and cauliflowers into the basket again, much to the disgust of jeanne, who would fain have done it all herself. and as she turned, with the object of betaking herself into her kitchen, never deigning another look in zephyrin's direction, helene, conciliated by the healthy tranquillity of the lovers, stopped her to say: "listen a moment, my girl. your aunt has asked me to allow this young man to come and see you on sundays. he will come in the afternoon, and you will try not to let your work fall behind too much." rosalie paused, merely turning her head. though she was well pleased, she preserved her doleful air. "oh, madame, he will be such a bother," she declared. but at the same time she glanced over her shoulder at zephyrin, and again made an affectionate grimace at him. the little soldier remained for a minute stock-still, his mouth agape from ear to ear with its silent laugh. then he retired backwards, with his cap against his heart as he thanked helene profusely. the door had been shut upon him, when on the landing he still continued bowing. "is that rosalie's brother, mamma?" asked jeanne. helene was quite embarrassed by the question. she regretted the permission which she had just given in a sudden impulse of kindliness which now surprised her. she remained thinking for some seconds, and then replied, "no, he is her cousin." "ah!" said the child gravely. rosalie's kitchen looked out on the sunny expanse of doctor deberle's garden. in the summer the branches of the elms swayed in through the broad window. it was the cheeriest room of the suite, always flooded with light, which was sometimes so blinding that rosalie had put up a curtain of blue cotton stuff, which she drew of an afternoon. the only complaint she made about the kitchen was its smallness; and indeed it was a narrow strip of a place, with a cooking-range on the right-hand side, while on the left were the table and dresser. the various utensils and furnishings, however, had all been so well arranged that she had contrived to keep a clear corner beside the window, where she worked in the evening. she took a pride in keeping everything, stewpans, kettles, and dishes, wonderfully clean; and so, when the sun veered round to the window, the walls became resplendent, the copper vessels sparkled like gold, the tin pots showed bright discs like silver moons, while the white-and-blue tiles above the stove gleamed pale in the fiery glow. on the evening of the ensuing saturday helene heard so great a commotion in the kitchen that she determined to go and see what was the matter. "what is it?" asked she: "are you fighting with the furniture?" "i am scouring, madame," replied rosalie, who, sweating and dishevelled, was squatting on the tiled floor and scrubbing it with all the strength of her arms. this over, she sponged it with clear water. never had the kitchen displayed such perfection of cleanliness. a bride might have slept in it; all was white as for a wedding. so energetically had she exerted her hands that it seemed as if table and dresser had been freshly planed. and the good order of everything was a sight to see; stewpans and pots taking rank by their size, each on its own hook, even the frying-pan and gridiron shining brightly without one grimy stain. helene looked on for a moment in silence, and then with a smile disappeared. every saturday afterwards there was a similar furbishing, a tornado of dust and water lasting for four hours. it was rosalie's wish to display her neatness to zephyrin on the sunday. that was her reception day. a single cobweb would have filled her with shame; but when everything shone resplendent around her she became amiable, and burst into song. at three o'clock she would again wash her hands and don a cap gay with ribbons. then the curtain being drawn halfway, so that only the subdued light of a boudoir came in, she awaited zephyrin's arrival amidst all this primness, through which a pleasant scent of thyme and laurel was borne. at half-past three exactly zephyrin made his appearance; he would walk about the street until the clocks of the neighborhood had struck the half-hour. rosalie listened to the beat of his heavy shoes on the stairs, and opened the door the moment he halted on the landing. she had forbidden him to ring the bell. at each visit the same greeting passed between them. "is it you?" "yes, it's me!" and they stood face to face, their eyes sparkling and their lips compressed. then zephyrin followed rosalie; but there was no admission vouchsafed to him till she had relieved him of shako and sabre. she would have none of these in her kitchen; and so the sabre and shako were hidden away in a cupboard. next she would make him sit down in the corner she had contrived near the window, and thenceforth he was not allowed to budge. "sit still there! you can look on, if you like, while i get madame's dinner ready." but he rarely appeared with empty hands. he would usually spend the morning in strolling with some comrades through the woods of meudon, lounging lazily about, inhaling the fresh air, which inspired him with regretful memories of his country home. to give his fingers something to do he would cut switches, which he tapered and notched with marvelous figurings, and his steps gradually slackening he would come to a stop beside some ditch, his shako on the back of his head, while his eyes remained fixed on the knife with which he was carving the stick. then, as he could never make up his mind to discard his switches, he carried them in the afternoon to rosalie, who would throw up her hands, and exclaim that they would litter her kitchen. but the truth was, she carefully preserved them; and under her bed was gathered a bundle of these switches, of all sorts and sizes. one day he made his appearance with a nest full of eggs, which he had secreted in his shako under the folds of a handkerchief. omelets made from the eggs of wild birds, so he declared, were very nice--a statement which rosalie received with horror; the nest, however, was preserved and laid away in company with the switches. but zephyrin's pockets were always full to overflowing. he would pull curiosities from them, transparent pebbles found on the banks of the seine, pieces of old iron, dried berries, and all sorts of strange rubbish, which not even a rag-picker would have cared for. his chief love, however, was for pictures; as he sauntered along he would seize on all the stray papers that had served as wrappers for chocolate or cakes of soap, and on which were black men, palm-trees, dancing-girls, or clusters of roses. the tops of old broken boxes, decorated with figures of languid, blonde ladies, the glazed prints and silver paper which had once contained sugar-sticks and had been thrown away at the neighboring fairs, were great windfalls that filled his bosom with pride. all such booty was speedily transferred to his pockets, the choicer articles being enveloped in a fragment of an old newspaper. and on sunday, if rosalie had a moment's leisure between the preparation of a sauce and the tending of the joint, he would exhibit his pictures to her. they were hers if she cared for them; only as the paper around them was not always clean he would cut them out, a pastime which greatly amused him. rosalie got angry, as the shreds of paper blew about even into her plates; and it was a sight to see with what rustic cunning he would at last gain possession of her scissors. at times, however, in order to get rid of him, she would give them up without any asking. meanwhile some brown sauce would be simmering on the fire. rosalie watched it, wooden spoon in hand; while zephyrin, his head bent and his breadth of shoulder increased by his epaulets, continued cutting out the pictures. his head was so closely shaven that the skin of his skull could be seen; and the yellow collar of his tunic yawned widely behind, displaying his sunburnt neck. for a quarter of an hour at a time neither would utter a syllable. when zephyrin raised his head, he watched rosalie while she took some flour, minced some parsley, or salted and peppered some dish, his eyes betraying the while intense interest. then, at long intervals, a few words would escape him: "by jove! that does smell nice!" the cook, busily engaged, would not vouchsafe an immediate reply; but after a lengthy silence she perhaps exclaimed: "you see, it must simmer properly." their talk never went beyond that. they no longer spoke of their native place even. when a reminiscence came to them a word sufficed, and they chuckled inwardly the whole afternoon. this was pleasure enough, and by the time rosalie turned zephyrin out of doors both of them had enjoyed ample amusement. "come, you will have to go! i must wait on madame," said she; and restoring him his shako and sabre, she drove him out before her, afterwards waiting on madame with cheeks flushed with happiness; while he walked back to barracks, dangling his arms, and almost intoxicated by the goodly odors of thyme and laurel which still clung to him. during his earlier visits helene judged it right to look after them. she popped in sometimes quite suddenly to give an order, and there was zephyrin always in his corner, between the table and the window, close to the stone filter, which forced him to draw in his legs. the moment madame made her appearance he rose and stood upright, as though shouldering arms, and if she spoke to him his reply never went beyond a salute and a respectful grunt. little by little helene grew somewhat easier; she saw that her entrance did not disturb them, and that their faces only expressed the quiet content of patient lovers. at this time, too, rosalie seemed even more wide awake than zephyrin. she had already been some months in paris, and under its influence was fast losing her country rust, though as yet she only knew three streets--the rue de passy, the rue franklin, and the rue vineuse. zephyrin, soldier though he was, remained quite a lubber. as rosalie confided to her mistress, he became more of a blockhead every day. in the country he had been much sharper. but, added she, it was the uniform's fault; all the lads who donned the uniform became sad dolts. the fact is, his change of life had quite muddled zephyrin, who, with his staring round eyes and solemn swagger, looked like a goose. despite his epaulets he retained his rustic awkwardness and heaviness; the barracks had taught him nothing as yet of the fine words and victorious attitudes of the ideal parisian fire-eater. "yes, madame," rosalie would wind up by saying, "you don't need to disturb yourself; it is not in him to play any tricks!" thus the girl began to treat him in quite a motherly way. while dressing her meat on the spit she would preach him a sermon, full of good counsel as to the pitfalls he should shun; and he in all obedience vigorously nodded approval of each injunction. every sunday he had to swear to her that he had attended mass, and that he had solemnly repeated his prayers morning and evening. she strongly inculcated the necessity of tidiness, gave him a brush down whenever he left her, stitched on a loose button of his tunic, and surveyed him from head to foot to see if aught were amiss in his appearance. she also worried herself about his health, and gave him cures for all sorts of ailments. in return for her kindly care zephyrin professed himself anxious to fill her filter for her; but this proposal was long-rejected, through the fear that he might spill the water. one day, however, he brought up two buckets without letting a drop of their contents fall on the stairs, and from that time he replenished the filter every sunday. he would also make himself useful in other ways, doing all the heavy work and was extremely handy in running to the greengrocer's for butter, had she forgotten to purchase any. at last, even, he began to share in the duties of kitchen-maid. first he was permitted to peel the vegetables; later on the mincing was assigned to him. at the end of six weeks, though still forbidden to touch the sauces, he watched over them with wooden spoon in hand. rosalie had fairly made him her helpmate, and would sometimes burst out laughing as she saw him, with his red trousers and yellow collar, working busily before the fire with a dishcloth over his arm, like some scullery-servant. one sunday helene betook herself to the kitchen. her slippers deadened the sound of her footsteps, and she reached the threshold unheard by either maid or soldier. zephyrin was seated in his corner over a basin of steaming broth. rosalie, with her back turned to the door, was occupied in cutting some long sippets of bread for him. "there, eat away, my dear!" she said. "you walk too much; it is that which makes you feel so empty! there! have you enough? do you want any more?" thus speaking, she watched him with a tender and anxious look. he, with his round, dumpy figure, leaned over the basin, devouring a sippet with each mouthful of broth. his face, usually yellow with freckles, was becoming quite red with the warmth of the steam which circled round him. "heavens!" he muttered, "what grand juice! what do you put in it?" "wait a minute," she said; "if you like leeks--" however, as she turned round she suddenly caught sight of her mistress. she raised an exclamation, and then, like zephyrin, seemed turned to stone. but a moment afterwards she poured forth a torrent of excuses. "it's my share, madame--oh, it's my share! i would not have taken any more soup, i swear it! i told him, 'if you would like to have my bowl of soup, you can have it.' come, speak up, zephyrin; you know that was how it came about!" the mistress remained silent, and the servant grew uneasy, thinking she was annoyed. then in quavering tones she continued: "oh, he was dying of hunger, madame; he stole a raw carrot for me! they feed him so badly! and then, you know, he had walked goodness knows where all along the river-side. i'm sure, madame, you would have told me yourself to give him some broth!" gazing at the little soldier, who sat with his mouth full, not daring to swallow, helene felt she could no longer remain stern. so she quietly said: "well, well, my girl, whenever the lad is hungry you must keep him to dinner--that's all. i give you permission" face to face with them, she had again felt within her that tender feeling which once already had banished all thoughts of rigor from her mind. they were so happy in that kitchen! the cotton curtain, drawn half-way, gave free entry to the sunset beams. the burnished copper pans set the end wall all aglow, lending a rosy tint to the twilight lingering in the room. and there, in the golden shade, the lovers' little round faces shone out, peaceful and radiant, like moons. their love was instinct with such calm certainty that no neglect was even shown in keeping the kitchen utensils in their wonted good order. it blossomed amidst the savory odors of the cooking-stove, which heightened their appetites and nourished their hearts. "mamma," asked jeanne, one evening after considerable meditation, "why is it rosalie's cousin never kisses her?" "and why should they kiss one another?" asked helene in her turn. "they will kiss on their birthdays." chapter vii. the soup had just been served on the following tuesday evening, when helene, after listening attentively, exclaimed: "what a downpour! don't you hear? my poor friends, you will get drenched to-night!" "oh, it's only a few drops," said the abbe quietly, though his old cassock was already wet about the shoulders. "i've got a good distance to go," said monsieur rambaud. "but i shall return home on foot all the same; i like it. besides, i have my umbrella." jeanne was reflecting as she gazed gravely on her last spoonful of vermicelli; and at last her thoughts took shape in words: "rosalie said you wouldn't come because of the wretched weather; but mamma said you would come. you are very kind; you always come." a smile lit up all their faces. helene addressed a nod of affectionate approval to the two brothers. out of doors the rain was falling with a dull roar, and violent gusts of wind beat angrily against the window-shutters. winter seemed to have returned. rosalie had carefully drawn the red repp curtains; and the small, cosy dining-room, illumined by the steady light of the white hanging-lamp, looked, amidst the buffeting of the storm, a picture of pleasant, affectionate intimacy. on the mahogany sideboard some china reflected the quiet light; and amidst all this indoor peacefulness the four diners leisurely conversed, awaiting the good pleasure of the servant-maid, as they sat round the table, where all, if simple, was exquisitely clean. "oh! you are waiting; so much the worse!" said rosalie familiarly, as she entered with a dish. "these are fillets of sole _au gratin_ for monsieur rambaud; they require to be lifted just at the last moment." monsieur rambaud pretended to be a gourmand, in order to amuse jeanne, and give pleasure to rosalie, who was very proud of her accomplishments as a cook. he turned towards her with the question: "by the way, what have you got for us to-day? you are always bringing in some surprise or other when i am no longer hungry." "oh," said she in reply, "there are three dishes as usual, and no more. after the sole you will have a leg of mutton and then some brussels sprouts. yes, that's the truth; there will be nothing else." from the corner of his eye monsieur rambaud glanced towards jeanne. the child was boiling over with glee, her hands over her mouth to restrain her laughter, while she shook her head, as though to insinuate that the maid was deceiving them. monsieur rambaud thereupon clacked his tongue as though in doubt, and rosalie pretended great indignation. "you don't believe me because mademoiselle jeanne laughs so," said she. "ah, very well! believe what you like. stint yourself, and see if you won't have a craving for food when you get home." when the maid had left the room, jeanne, laughing yet more loudly, was seized with a longing to speak out. "you are really too greedy!" she began. "i myself went into the kitchen--" however, she left her sentence unfinished: "no, no, i won't tell; it isn't right, is it, mamma? there's nothing more--nothing at all! i only laughed to cheat you." this interlude was re-enacted every tuesday with the same unvarying success. helene was touched by the kindliness with which monsieur rambaud lent himself to the fun; she was well aware that, with provencal frugality, he had long limited his daily fare to an anchovy and half-a-dozen olives. as for abbe jouve, he never knew what he was eating, and his blunders and forgetfulness supplied an inexhaustible fund of amusement. jeanne, meditating some prank in this respect, was even now stealthily watching him with her glittering eyes. "how nice this whiting is!" she said to him, after they had all been served. "very nice, my dear," he answered. "bless me, you are right--it is whiting; i thought it was turbot." and then, as every one laughed, he guilelessly asked why. rosalie, who had just come into the room again, seemed very much hurt, and burst out: "a fine thing indeed! the priest in my native place knew much better what he was eating. he could tell the age of the fowl he was carving to a week or so, and didn't require to go into the kitchen to find out what there was for dinner. no, the smell was quite sufficient. goodness gracious! had i been in the service of a priest like your reverence, i should not know yet even how to turn an omelet." the abbe hastened to excuse himself with an embarrassed air, as though his inability to appreciate the delights of the table was a failing he despaired of curing. but, as he said, he had too many other things to think about. "there! that is a leg of mutton!" exclaimed rosalie, as she placed on the table the joint referred to. everybody once more indulged in a peal of laughter, the abbe jouve being the first to do so. he bent forward to look, his little eyes twinkling with glee. "yes, certainly," said he; "it is a leg of mutton. i think i should have known it." despite this remark, there was something about the abbe that day which betokened unusual absent-mindedness. he ate quickly, with the haste of a man who is bored by a long stay at table, and lunches standing when at home. and, having finished, himself, he would wait the convenience of the others, plunged in deep thought, and simply smiling in reply to the questions put to him. at every moment he cast on his brother a look in which encouragement and uneasiness were mingled. nor did monsieur rambaud seen possessed of his wonted tranquillity that evening; but his agitation manifested itself in a craving to talk and fidget on his chair, which seemed rather inconsistent with his quiet disposition. when the brussels sprouts had disappeared, there was a delay in the appearance of the dessert, and a spell of silence ensued. out of doors the rain was beating down with still greater force, rattling noisily against the house. the dining-room was rather close, and it suddenly dawned on helene that there was something strange in the air--that the two brothers had some worry of which they did not care to speak. she looked at them anxiously, and at last spoke: "dear, dear! what dreadful rain! isn't it? it seems to be influencing both of you, for you look out of sorts." they protested, however, that such was not the case, doing their utmost to clear her mind of the notion. and as rosalie now made her appearance with an immense dish, monsieur rambaud exclaimed, as though to veil his emotion: "what did i say! still another surprise!" the surprise of the day was some vanilla cream, one of the cook's triumphs. and thus it was a sight to see her broad, silent grin, as she deposited her burden on the table. jeanne shouted and clapped her hands. "i knew it, i knew it! i saw the eggs in the kitchen!" "but i have no more appetite," declared monsieur rambaud, with a look of despair. "i could not eat any of it!" thereupon rosalie became grave, full of suppressed wrath. with a dignified air, she remarked: "oh, indeed! a cream which i made specially for you! well, well! just try not to eat any of it--yes, try!" he had to give in and accept a large helping of the cream. meanwhile the abbe remained thoughtful. he rolled up his napkin and rose before the dessert had come to an end, as was frequently his custom. for a little while he walked about, with his head hanging down; and when helene in her turn quitted the table, he cast at monsieur rambaud a look of intelligence, and led the young woman into the bedroom.[*] the door being left open behind them, they could almost immediately afterwards be heard conversing together, though the words which they slowly exchanged were indistinguishable. [*] helene's frequent use of her bedroom may seem strange to the english reader who has never been in france. but in the _petite bourgeoisie_ the bedchamber is often the cosiest of the whole suite of rooms, and whilst indoors, when not superintending her servant, it is in the bedroom that madame will spend most of her time. here, too, she will receive friends of either sex, and, the french being far less prudish than ourselves, nobody considers that there is anything wrong or indelicate in the practice. "oh, do make haste!" said jeanne to monsieur rambaud, who seemed incapable of finishing a biscuit. "i want to show you my work." however, he evinced no haste, though when rosalie began to clear the table it became necessary for him to leave his chair. "wait a little! wait a little!" he murmured, as the child strove to drag him towards the bedroom, and, overcome with embarrassment and timidity, he retreated from the doorway. then, as the abbe raised his voice, such sudden weakness came over him that he had to sit down again at the table. from his pocket he drew a newspaper. "now," said he, "i'm going to make you a little coach." jeanne at once abandoned her intention of entering the adjoining room. monsieur rambaud always amazed her by his skill in turning a sheet of paper into all sorts of playthings. chickens, boats, bishops' mitres, carts, and cages, were all evolved under his fingers. that day, however, so tremulous were his hands that he was unable to perfect anything. he lowered his head whenever the faintest sound came from the adjacent room. nevertheless, jeanne took interest in watching him, and leaned on the table at his side. "now," said she, "you must make a chicken to harness to the carriage." meantime, within the bedroom, abbe jouve remained standing in the shadow thrown by the lamp-shade upon the floor. helene had sat down in her usual place in front of the round table; and, as on tuesdays she refrained from ceremony with her friends, she had taken up her needlework, and, in the circular glare of light, only her white hands could be seen sewing a child's cap. "jeanne gives you no further worry, does she?" asked the abbe. helene shook her head before making a reply. "doctor deberle seems quite satisfied," said she. "but the poor darling is still very nervous. yesterday i found her in her chair in a fainting fit." "she needs exercise," resumed the priest. "you stay indoors far too much; you should follow the example of other folks and go about more than you do." he ceased speaking, and silence followed. he now, without doubt, had what he had been seeking,--a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself. taking a chair, he sat down at helene's side. "hearken to me, my dear child," he began. "for some time past i have wished to talk with you seriously. the life you are leading here can entail no good results. a convent existence such as yours is not consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself. you are risking many dangers--dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too." helene raised her head with an expression of astonishment. "what do you mean, my friend?" she asked. "dear me! i know the world but little," continued the priest, with some slight embarrassment, "yet i know very well that a woman incurs great risk when she remains without a protecting arm. to speak frankly, you keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in which you hide yourself is not healthful, believe me. a day must come when you will suffer from it." "but i make no complaint; i am very happy as i am," she exclaimed with spirit. the old priest gently shook his large head. "yes, yes, that is all very well. you feel completely happy. i know all that. only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you never know where you are going. oh! i understand you perfectly; you are incapable of doing any wrong. but sooner or later you might lose your peace of mind. some morning, when it is too late, you will find that blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful feeling not to be confessed." as she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned helene's face. had the abbe, then, read her heart? was he aware of this restlessness which was fast possessing her--this heart-trouble which thrilled her every-day life, and the existence of which she had till now been unwilling to admit? her needlework fell on her lap. a sensation of weakness pervaded her, and she awaited from the priest something like a pious complicity which would allow her to confess and particularize the vague feelings which she buried in her innermost being. as all was known to him, it was for him to question her, and she would strive to answer. "i leave myself in your hands, my friend," she murmured. "you are well aware that i have always listened to you." the priest remained for a moment silent, and then slowly and solemnly said: "my child, you must marry again." she remained speechless, with arms dangling, in a stupor this counsel brought upon her. she awaited other words, failing, as it were, to understand him. and the abbe continued putting before her the arguments which should incline her towards marriage. "remember, you are still young. you must not remain longer in this out-of-the-way corner of paris, scarcely daring to go out, and wholly ignorant of the world. you must return to the every-day life of humanity, lest in the future you should bitterly regret your loneliness. you yourself have no idea how the effects of your isolation are beginning to tell on you, but your friends remark your pallor, and feel uneasy." with each sentence he paused, in the hope that she might break in and discuss his proposition. but no; she sat there as if lifeless, seemingly benumbed with astonishment. "no doubt you have a child," he resumed. "that is always a delicate matter to surmount. still, you must admit that even in jeanne's interest a husband's arm would be of great advantage. of course, we must find some one good and honorable, who would be a true father--" however, she did not let him finish. with violent revolt and repulsion she suddenly spoke out: "no, no; i will not! oh, my friend, how can you advise me thus? never, do you hear, never!" her whole heart was rising; she herself was frightened by the violence of her refusal. the priest's proposal had stirred up that dim nook in her being whose secret she avoided reading, and, by the pain she experienced, she at last understood all the gravity of her ailment. with the open, smiling glance of the priest still bent on her, she plunged into contention. "no, no; i do not wish it! i love nobody!" and, as he still gazed at her, she imagined he could read her lie on her face. she blushed and stammered: "remember, too, i only left off my mourning a fortnight ago. no, it could not be!" "my child!" quietly said the priest, "i thought over this a great deal before speaking. i am sure your happiness is wrapped up in it. calm yourself; you need never act against your own wishes." the conversation came to a sudden stop. helene strove to keep pent within her bosom the angry protests that were rushing to her lips. she resumed her work, and, with head lowered, contrived to put in a few stitches. and amid the silence, jeanne's shrill voice could be heard in the dining-room. "people don't put a chicken to a carriage; it ought to be a horse! you don't know how to make a horse, do you?" "no, my dear; horses are too difficult," said monsieur rambaud. "but if you like i'll show you how to make carriages." this was always the fashion in which their game came to an end. jeanne, all ears and eyes, watched her kindly playfellow folding the paper into a multitude of little squares, and afterwards she followed his example; but she would make mistakes and then stamp her feet in vexation. however, she already knew how to manufacture boats and bishops' mitres. "you see," resumed monsieur rambaud patiently, "you make four corners like that; then you turn them back--" with his ears on the alert, he must during the last moment have heard some of the words spoken in the next room; for his poor hands were now trembling more and more, while his tongue faltered, so that he could only half articulate his sentences. helene, who was unable to quiet herself, now began the conversation anew. "marry again! and whom, pray?" she suddenly asked the priest, as she laid her work down on the table. "you have some one in view, have you not?" abbe jouve rose from his chair and stalked slowly up and down. without halting, he nodded assent. "well! tell me who he is," she said. for a moment he lingered before her erect, then, shrugging his shoulders, said: "what's the good, since you decline?" "no matter, i want to know," she replied. "how can i make up my mind when i don't know?" he did not answer her immediately, but remained standing there, gazing into her face. a somewhat sad smile wreathed his lips. at last he exclaimed, almost in a whisper: "what! have you not guessed?" no, she could not guess. she tried to do so, with increasing wonder, whereupon he made a simple sign--nodding his head in the direction of the dining-room. "he!" she exclaimed, in a muffled tone, and a great seriousness fell upon her. she no longer indulged in violent protestations; only sorrow and surprise remained visible on her face. she sat for a long time plunged in thought, her gaze turned to the floor. truly, she had never dreamed of such a thing; and yet, she found nothing in it to object to. monsieur rambaud was the only man in whose hand she could put her own honestly and without fear. she knew his innate goodness; she did not smile at his _bourgeois_ heaviness. but despite all her regard for him, the idea that he loved her chilled her to the soul. meanwhile the abbe had again begun walking from one to the other end of the room, and on passing the dining-room door he gently called helene. "come here and look!" she rose and did as he wished. monsieur rambaud had ended by seating jeanne in his own chair; and he, who had at first been leaning against the table, had now slipped down at the child's feet. he was on his knees before her, encircling her with one of his arms. on the table was the carriage drawn by the chicken, with some boats, boxes, and bishops' mitres. "now, do you love me well?" he asked her. "tell me that you love me well!" "of course, i love you well; you know it." he stammered and trembled, as though he were making some declaration of love. "and what would you say if i asked you to let me stay here with you always?" "oh, i should be quite pleased. we would play together, wouldn't we? that would be good fun." "ah, but you know i should always be here." jeanne had taken up a boat which she was twisting into a gendarme's hat. "you would need to get mamma's leave," she murmured. by this reply all his fears were again stirred into life. his fate was being decided. "of course," said he. "but if mamma gave me leave, would you say yes, too?" jeanne, busy finishing her gendarme's hat, sang out in a rapturous strain: "i would say yes! yes! yes! i would say yes! yes! yes! come, look how pretty my hat is!" monsieur rambaud, with tears in his eyes, rose to his knees and kissed her, while she threw her arms round his neck. he had entrusted the asking of helene's consent to his brother, whilst he himself sought to secure that of jeanne. "you see," said the priest, with a smile, "the child is quite content." helene still retained her grave air, and made no further inquiry. the abbe, however, again eloquently took up his plea, and emphasized his brother's good qualities. was he not a treasure-trove of a father for jeanne? she was well acquainted with him; in trusting him she gave no hostages to fortune. then, as she still remained silent, the abbe with great feeling and dignity declared that in the step he had taken he had not thought of his brother, but of her and her happiness. "i believe you; i know how you love me," helene promptly answered. "wait; i want to give your brother his answer in your presence." the clock struck ten. monsieur rambaud made his entry into the bedroom. with outstretched hands she went to meet him. "i thank you for your proposal, my friend," said she. "i am very grateful; and you have done well in speaking--" she was gazing calmly into his face, holding his big hand in her grasp. trembling all over, he dared not lift his eyes. "yet i must have time to consider," she resumed. "you will perhaps have to give me a long time." "oh! as long as you like--six months, a year, longer if you please," exclaimed he with a light heart, well pleased that she had not forthwith sent him about his business. his excitement brought a faint smile to her face. "but i intend that we shall still continue friends," said she. "you will come here as usual, and simply give me your promise to remain content till i speak to you about the matter. is that understood?" he had withdrawn his hand, and was now feverishly hunting for his hat, signifying his acquiescence by a continuous bobbing of the head. then, at the moment of leaving, he found his voice once more. "listen to me," said he. "you now know that i am there--don't you? well, whatever happens i shall always be there. that's all the abbe should have told you. in ten years, if you like; you will only have to make a sign. i shall obey you!" and it was he who a last time took helene's hand and gripped it as though he would crush it. on the stairs the two brothers turned round with the usual good-bye: "till next tuesday!" "yes, tuesday," answered helene. on returning to her room a fresh downfall of rain beating against the shutters filled her with grave concern. good heavens! what an obstinate downpour, and how wet her poor friends would get! she opened the window and looked down into the street. sudden gusts of wind were making the gaslights flicker, and amid the shiny puddles and shimmering rain she could see the round figure of monsieur rambaud, as he went off with dancing gait, exultant in the darkness, seemingly caring nothing for the drenching torrent. jeanne, however, was very grave, for she had overheard some of her playfellow's last words. she had just taken off her little boots, and was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, in deep cogitation. on entering the room to kiss her, her mother discovered her thus. "good-night, jeanne; kiss me." then, as the child did not seem to hear her, helene sank down in front of her, and clasped her round the waist, asking her in a whisper: "so you would be glad if he came to live with us?" the question seemed to bring no surprise to jeanne. she was doubtless pondering over this very matter. she slowly nodded her head. "but you know," said her mother, "he would be always beside us--night and day, at table--everywhere!" a great trouble dawned in the clear depths of the child's eyes. she nestled her cheek against her mother's shoulder, kissed her neck, and finally, with a quiver, whispered in her ear: "mamma, would he kiss you?" a crimson flush rose to helene's brow. in her first surprise she was at a loss to answer, but at last she murmured: "he would be the same as your father, my darling!" then jeanne's little arms tightened their hold, and she burst into loud and grievous sobbing. "oh! no, no!" she cried chokingly. "i don't want it then! oh! mamma, do please tell him i don't. go and tell him i won't have it!" she gasped, and threw herself on her mother's bosom, covering her with tears and kisses. helene did her utmost to appease her, assuring her she would make it all right; but jeanne was bent on having a definite answer at once. "oh! say no! say no, darling mother! you know it would kill me. never! oh, never! eh?" "well, i'll promise it will never be. now, be good and lie down." for some minutes longer the child, speechless with emotion, clasped her mother in her arms, as though powerless to tear herself away, and intent on guarding her against all who might seek to take her from her. after some time helene was able to put her to bed; but for a part of the night she had to watch beside her. jeanne would start violently in her sleep, and every half-hour her eyes would open to make sure of her mother's presence, and then she would doze off again, with her lips pressed to helene's hand. chapter viii. it was a month of exquisite mildness. the april sun had draped the garden in tender green, light and delicate as lace. twining around the railing were the slender shoots of the lush clematis, while the budding honeysuckle filled the air with its sweet, almost sugary perfume. on both sides of the trim and close-shaven lawn red geraniums and white stocks gave the flower beds a glow of color; and at the end of the garden the clustering elms, hiding the adjacent houses, reared the green drapery of their branches, whose little leaves trembled with the least breath of air. for more than three weeks the sky had remained blue and cloudless. it was like a miraculous spring celebrating the new youth and blossoming that had burst into life in helene's heart. every afternoon she went down into the garden with jeanne. a place was assigned her against the first elm on the right. a chair was ready for her; and on the morrow she would still find on the gravel walk the scattered clippings of thread that had fallen from her work on the previous afternoon. "you are quite at home," madame deberle repeated every evening, displaying for helene one of those affections of hers, which usually lasted some six months. "you will come to-morrow, of course; and try to come earlier, won't you?" helene, in truth, felt thoroughly at her ease there. by degrees she became accustomed to this nook of greenery, and looked forward to her afternoon visit with the longing of a child. what charmed her most in this garden was the exquisite trimness of the lawn and flower beds. not a single weed interfered with the symmetry of the plants. helene spent her time there, calmly and restfully. the neatly laid out flower beds, and the network of ivy, the withered leaves of which were carefully removed by the gardener, could exercise no disturbing influence on her spirit. seated beneath the deep shadow of the elm-trees, in this quiet spot which madame deberle's presence perfumed with a faint odor of musk, she could have imagined herself in a drawing-room; and only the sight of the blue sky, when she raised her head, reminded her that she was out-of-doors, and prompted her to breathe freely. often, without seeing a soul, the two women would thus pass the afternoon. jeanne and lucien played at their feet. there would be long intervals of silence, and then madame deberle, who disliked reverie, would chatter for hours, quite satisfied with the silent acquiescence of helene, and rattling off again if the other even so much as nodded. she would tell endless stories concerning the ladies of her acquaintance, get up schemes for parties during the coming winter, vent magpie opinions on the day's news and the society trifling which filled her narrow brain, the whole intermingled with affectionate outbursts over the children, and sentimental remarks on the delights of friendship. helene allowed her to squeeze her hands. she did not always lend an attentive ear; but, in this atmosphere of unceasing tenderness, she showed herself greatly touched by juliette's caresses, and pronounced her to be a perfect angel of kindness. sometimes, to madame deberle's intense delight, a visitor would drop in. since easter she had ceased receiving on saturdays, as was usual at this time of the year. but she dreaded solitude, and a casual unceremonious visit paid her in her garden gave her the greatest pleasure. she was now busily engaged in settling on the watering-place where she would spend her holiday in august. to every visitor she retailed the same talk; discoursed on the fact that her husband would not accompany her to the seaside; and then poured forth a flood of questions, as she could not make up her mind where to go. she did not ask for herself, however; no, it was all on lucien's account. when the foppish youth malignon came he seated himself astride a rustic chair. he, indeed, loathed the country; one must be mad, he would declare, to exile oneself from paris with the idea of catching influenza beside the sea. however, he took part in the discussions on the merits of the various watering-places, all of which were horrid, said he; apart from trouville there was not a place worthy of any consideration whatever. day after day helene listened to the same talk, yet without feeling wearied; indeed, she even derived pleasure from this monotony, which lulled her into dreaming of one thing only. the last day of the month came, and still madame deberle had not decided where to go. as helene was leaving one evening, her friend said to her: "i must go out to-morrow; but that needn't prevent you from coming down here. wait for me; i shan't be back late." helene consented; and, alone in the garden, there spent a delicious afternoon. nothing stirred, save the sparrows fluttering in the trees overhead. this little sunny nook entranced her, and, from that day, her happiest afternoons were those on which her friend left her alone. a closer intimacy was springing up between the deberles and herself. she dined with them like a friend who is pressed to stay when the family sits down to table; when she lingered under the elm-trees and pierre came down to announce dinner, juliette would implore her to remain, and she sometimes yielded. they were family dinners, enlivened by the noisy pranks of the children. doctor deberle and helene seemed good friends, whose sensible and somewhat reserved natures sympathized well. thus it was that juliette frequently declared: "oh, you two would get on capitally! your composure exasperates me!" the doctor returned from his round of visits at about six o'clock every evening. he found the ladies in the garden, and sat down beside them. on the earlier occasions, helene started up with the idea of leaving her friends to themselves, but her sudden departure displeased juliette greatly, and she now perforce had to remain. she became almost a member of this family, which appeared to be so closely united. on the doctor's arrival his wife held up her cheek to him, always with the same loving gesture, and he kissed her; then, as lucien began clambering up his legs, he kept him on his knees while chatting away. the child would clap his tiny hands on his father's mouth, pull his hair, and play so many pranks that in the upshot he had to be put down, and told to go and play with jeanne. the fun would bring a smile to helene's face, and she neglected her work for the moment, to gaze at father, mother, and child. the kiss of the husband and wife gave her no pain, and lucien's tricks filled her with soft emotion. it might have been said that she had found a haven of refuge amidst this family's quiet content. meanwhile the sun would sink into the west, gilding the tree tops with its rays. serene peacefulness fell from the grey heavens. juliette, whose curiosity was insatiable, even in company with strangers, plagued her husband with ceaseless questions, and often lacked the patience to wait his replies. "where have you been? what have you been about?" thereupon he would describe his round of visits to them, repeat any news of what was going on, or speak of some cloth or piece of furniture he had caught a glimpse of in a shop window. while he was speaking, his eyes often met those of helene, but neither turned away the head. they gazed into each other's face for a moment with grave looks, as though heart were being revealed to heart; but after a little they smiled and their eyes dropped. juliette, fidgety and sprightly, though she would often assume a studied languor, allowed them no opportunity for lengthy conversation, but burst with her interruptions into any talk whatever. still they exchanged a few words, quite commonplace, slowly articulated sentences which seemed to assume a deep meaning, and to linger in the air after having been spoken. they approvingly punctuated each word the other uttered, as though they had thoughts in common. it was an intimate sympathy that was growing up between them, springing from the depths of their beings, and becoming closer even when they were silent. sometimes juliette, rather ashamed of monopolizing all the talk, would cease her magpie chatter. "dear me!" she would exclaim, "you are getting bored, aren't you? we are talking of matters which can have no possible interest for you." "oh, never mind me," helene answered blithely. "i never tire. it is a pleasure to me to listen and say nothing." she was uttering no untruth. it was during the lengthy periods of silence that she experienced most delight in being there. with her head bent over her work, only lifting her eyes at long intervals to exchange with the doctor those interminable looks that riveted their hearts the closer, she willingly surrendered herself to the egotism of her emotion. between herself and him, she now confessed it, there existed a secret sentiment, a something very sweet--all the sweeter because no one in the world shared it with them. but she kept her secret with a tranquil mind, her sense of honor quite unruffled, for no thought of evil ever disturbed her. how good he was to his wife and child! she loved him the more when he made lucien jump or kissed juliette on the cheek. since she had seen him in his own home their friendship had greatly increased. she was now as one of the family; she never dreamt that the intimacy could be broken. and within her own breast she called him henri--naturally, too, from hearing juliette address him so. when her lips said "sir," through all her being "henri" was re-echoed. one day the doctor found helene alone under the elms. juliette now went out nearly every afternoon. "hello! is my wife not with you?" he exclaimed. "no, she has left me to myself," she answered laughingly. "it is true you have come home earlier than usual." the children were playing at the other end of the garden. he sat down beside her. their _tete-a-tete_ produced no agitation in either of them. for nearly an hour they spoke of all sorts of matters, without for a moment feeling any desire to allude to the tenderness which filled their hearts. what was the good of referring to that? did they not well know what might have been said? they had no confession to make. theirs was the joy of being together, of talking of many things, of surrendering themselves to the pleasure of their isolation without a shadow of regret, in the very spot where every evening he embraced his wife in her presence. that day he indulged in some jokes respecting her devotion to work. "do you know," said he, "i do not even know the color of your eyes? they are always bent on your needle." she raised her head and looked straight into his face, as was her custom. "do you wish to tease me?" she asked gently. but he went on. "ah! they are grey--grey, tinged with blue, are they not?" this was the utmost limit to which they dared go; but these words, the first that had sprung to his lips, were fraught with infinite tenderness. from that day onwards he frequently found her alone in the twilight. despite themselves, and without their having any knowledge of it, their intimacy grew apace. they spoke in an altered voice, with caressing inflections, which were not apparent when others were present. and yet, when juliette came in, full of gossip about her day in town, they could keep up the talk they had already begun without even troubling themselves to draw their chairs apart. it seemed as though this lovely springtide and this garden, with its blossoming lilac, were prolonging within their hearts the first rapture of love. towards the end of the month, madame deberle grew excited over a grand idea. the thought of giving a children's ball had suddenly struck her. the season was already far advanced, but the scheme took such hold on her foolish brain that she hurried on the preparations with reckless haste. she desired that the affair should be quite perfect; it was to be a fancy-dress ball. and, in her own home, and in other people's houses, everywhere, in short, she now spoke of nothing but her ball. the conversations on the subject which took place in the garden were endless. the foppish malignon thought the project rather stupid, still he condescended to take some interest in it, and promised to bring a comic singer with whom he was acquainted. one afternoon, while they were all sitting under the trees, juliette introduced the grave question of the costumes which lucien and jeanne should wear. "it is so difficult to make up one's mind," said she. "i have been thinking of a clown's dress in white satin." "oh, that's too common!" declared malignon. "there will be a round dozen of clowns at your ball. wait, you must have something novel." thereupon he began gravely pondering, sucking the head of his cane all the while. pauline came up at the moment, and proclaimed her desire to appear as a soubrette. "you!" screamed madame deberle, in astonishment. "you won't appear in costume at all! do you think yourself a child, you great stupid? you will oblige me by coming in a white dress." "oh, but it would have pleased me so!" exclaimed pauline, who, despite her eighteen years and plump girlish figure, liked nothing better than to romp with a band of little ones. meanwhile helene sat at the foot of her tree working away, and raising her head at times to smile at the doctor and monsieur rambaud, who stood in front of her conversing. monsieur rambaud had now become quite intimate with the deberle family. "well," said the doctor, "and how are you going to dress, jeanne?" he got no further, for malignon burst out: "i've got it! i've got it! lucien must be a marquis of the time of louis xv." he waved his cane with a triumphant air; but, as no one of the company hailed his idea with enthusiasm, he appeared astonished. "what, don't you see it? won't it be for lucien to receive his little guests? so you place him, dressed as a marquis, at the drawing-room door, with a large bouquet of roses on his coat, and he bows to the ladies." "but there will be dozens of marquises at the ball!" objected juliette. "what does that matter?" replied malignon coolly. "the more marquises the greater the fun. i tell you it is the best thing you can hit upon. the master of the house must be dressed as a marquis, or the ball will be a complete failure." such was his conviction of his scheme's success that at last it was adopted by juliette with enthusiasm. as a matter of fact, a dress in the pompadour style, white satin embroidered with posies, would be altogether charming. "and what about jeanne?" again asked the doctor. the little girl had just buried her head against her mother's shoulder in the caressing manner so characteristic of her; and as an answer was about to cross helene's lips, she murmured: "oh! mamma, you know what you promised me, don't you?" "what was it?" asked those around her. then, as her daughter gave her an imploring look, helene laughingly replied: "jeanne does not wish her dress to be known." "yes, that's so," said the child; "you don't create any effect when you tell your dress beforehand." every one was tickled with this display of coquetry, and monsieur rambaud thought he might tease the child about it. for some time past jeanne had been ill-tempered with him, and the poor man, at his wits' end to hit upon a mode of again gaining her favor, thought teasing her the best method of conciliation. keeping his eyes on her face, he several times repeated: "i know; i shall tell, i shall tell!" jeanne, however, became quite livid. her gentle, sickly face assumed an expression of ferocious anger; her brow was furrowed by two deep wrinkles, and her chin drooped with nervous agitation. "you!" she screamed excitedly; "you will say nothing!" and, as he still feigned a resolve to speak, she rushed at him madly, and shouted out: "hold your tongue! i will have you hold your tongue! i will! i will!" helene had been unable to prevent this fit of blind anger, such as sometimes took possession of the child, and with some harshness exclaimed: "jeanne, take care; i shall whip you!" but jeanne paid no heed, never once heard her. trembling from head to foot, stamping on the ground, and choking with rage, she again and again repeated, "i will! i will!" in a voice that grew more and more hoarse and broken; and her hands convulsively gripped hold of monsieur rambaud's arm, which she twisted with extraordinary strength. in vain did helene threaten her. at last, perceiving her inability to quell her by severity, and grieved to the heart by such a display before so many people, she contented herself by saying gently: "jeanne, you are grieving me very much." the child immediately quitted her hold and turned her head. and when she caught sight of her mother, with disconsolate face and eyes swimming with repressed tears, she on her side burst into loud sobs, and threw herself on helene's neck, exclaiming in her grief: "no, mamma! no, mamma!" she passed her hands over her mother's face, as though to prevent her weeping. helene, however, slowly put her from her, and then the little one, broken-hearted and distracted, threw herself on a seat a short distance off, where her sobs broke out louder than ever. lucien, to whom she was always held up as an example to follow, gazed at her surprised and somewhat pleased. and then, as helene folded up her work, apologizing for so regrettable an incident, juliette remarked to her: "dear me! we have to pardon children everything. besides, the little one has the best of hearts, and is grieved so much, poor darling, that she has been already punished too severely." so saying she called jeanne to come and kiss her; but the child remained on her seat, rejecting the offer of forgiveness, and still choking with tears. monsieur rambaud and the doctor, however, walked to her side, and the former, bending over her, asked, in tones husky with emotion: "tell me, my pet, what has vexed you? what have i done to you?" "oh!" she replied, drawing away her hands and displaying a face full of anguish, "you wanted to take my mamma from me!" the doctor, who was listening, burst into laughter. monsieur rambaud at first failed to grasp her meaning. "what is this you're talking of?" "yes, indeed, the other tuesday! oh! you know very well; you were on your knees, and asked me what i should say if you were to stay with us!" the smile vanished from the doctor's face; his lips became ashy pale, and quivered. a flush, on the other hand, mounted to monsieur rambaud's cheek, and he whispered to jeanne: "but you said yourself that we should always play together?" "no, no; i did not know at the time," the child resumed excitedly. "i tell you i don't want it. don't ever speak to me of it again, and then we shall be friends." helene was on her feet now, with her needlework in its basket, and the last words fell on her ear. "come, let us go up, jeanne," she said; "your tears are not pleasant company." she bowed, and pushed the child before her. the doctor, with livid face, gazed at her fixedly. monsieur rambaud was in dismay. as for madame deberle and pauline, they had taken hold of lucien, and were making him turn between them, while excitedly discussing the question of his pompadour dress. on the morrow helene was left alone under the elms. madame deberle was running about in the interests of her ball, and had taken lucien and jeanne with her. on the doctor's return home, at an earlier hour than usual, he hurried down the garden steps. however, he did not seat himself, but wandered aimlessly round the young woman, at times tearing strips of bark from the trees with his finger-nails. she lifted her eyes for a moment, feeling anxious at sight of his agitation; and then again began plying her needle with a somewhat trembling hand. "the weather is going to break up," said she, feeling uncomfortable as the silence continued. "the afternoon seems quite cold." "we are only in april, remember," he replied, with a brave effort to control his voice. then he appeared to be on the point of leaving her, but turned round, and suddenly asked: "so you are going to get married?" this abrupt question took her wholly by surprise, and her work fell from her hands. her face blanched, but by a supreme effort of will remained unimpassioned, as though she were a marble statue, fixing dilated eyes upon him. she made no reply, and he continued in imploring tones: "oh! i pray you, answer me. one word, one only. are you going to get married?" "yes, perhaps. what concern is it of yours?" she retorted, in a tone of icy indifference. he made a passionate gesture, and exclaimed: "it is impossible!" "why should it be?" she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on his face. her glance stayed the words upon his lips, and he was forced to silence. for a moment longer he remained near her, pressing his hands to his brow, and then fled away, with a feeling of suffocation in his throat, dreading lest he might give expression to his despair; while she, with assumed tranquillity, once more turned to her work. but the spell of those delicious afternoons was gone. next day shone fair and sunny, and helene seemed ill at ease from the moment she found herself alone with him. the pleasant intimacy, the happy trustfulness, which sanctioned their sitting side by side in blissful security, and revelling in the unalloyed joy of being together, no longer existed. despite his intense carefulness to give her no cause for alarm, he would sometimes gaze at her and tremble with sudden excitement, while his face crimsoned with a rush of blood. from her own heart had fled its wonted happy calm; quivers ran through her frame; she felt languid; her hands grew weary, and forsook their work. she now no longer allowed jeanne to wander from her side. between himself and her the doctor found this constant onlooker, watching him with large, clear eyes. but what pained helene most was that she now felt ill at ease in madame deberle's company. when the latter returned of an afternoon, with her hair swept about by the wind, and called her "my dear" while relating the incidents of some shopping expedition, she no longer listened with her former quiet smile. a storm arose from the depths of her soul, stirring up feelings to which she dared not give a name. shame and spite seemed mingled in them. however, her honorable nature gained the mastery, and she gave her hand to juliette, but without being able to repress the shudder which ran through her as she pressed her friend's warm fingers. the weather had now broken up. frequent rain forced the ladies to take refuge in the japanese pavilion. the garden, with its whilom exquisite order, became transformed into a lake, and no one dared venture on the walks, on account of the mud. however, whenever the sun peeped out from behind the clouds, the dripping greenery soon dried; pearls hung from each little blossom of the lilac trees; and under the elms big drops fell splashing on the ground. "at last i've arranged it; it will be on saturday," said madame deberle one day. "my dear, i'm quite tired out with the whole affair. now, you'll be here at two o'clock, won't you? jeanne will open the ball with lucien." and thereupon, surrendering to a flow of tenderness, in ecstasy over the preparations for her ball, she embraced both children, and, laughingly catching hold of helene, pressed two resounding kisses on her cheeks. "that's my reward!" she exclaimed merrily. "you know i deserve it; i have run about enough. you'll see what a success it will be!" but helene remained chilled to the heart, while the doctor, with lucien clinging to his neck, gazed at them over the child's fair head. chapter ix. in the hall of the doctor's house stood pierre, in dress coat and white cravat, throwing open the door as each carriage rolled up. puffs of dank air rushed in; the afternoon was rainy, and a yellow light illumined the narrow hall, with its curtained doorways and array of green plants. it was only two o'clock, but the evening seemed as near at hand as on a dismal winter's day. however, as soon as the servant opened the door of the first drawing-room, a stream of light dazzled the guests. the shutters had been closed, and the curtains carefully drawn, and no gleam from the dull sky could gain admittance. the lamps standing here and there on the furniture, and the lighted candles of the chandelier and the crystal wall-brackets, gave the apartment somewhat the appearance of a brilliantly illuminated chapel. beyond the smaller drawing-room, whose green hangings rather softened the glare of the light, was the large black-and-gold one, decorated as magnificently as for the ball which madame deberle gave every year in the month of january. the children were beginning to arrive, while pauline gave her attention to the ranging of a number of chairs in front of the dining-room doorway, where the door had been removed from its hinges and replaced by a red curtain. "papa," she cried, "just lend me a hand! we shall never be ready." monsieur letellier, who, with his arms behind his back, was gazing at the chandelier, hastened to give the required assistance. pauline carried the chairs about herself. she had paid due deference to her sister's request, and was robed in white; only her dress opened squarely at the neck and displayed her bosom. "at last we are ready," she exclaimed: "they can come when they like. but what is juliette dreaming about? she has been ever so long dressing lucien!" just at that moment madame deberle entered, leading the little marquis, and everybody present began raising admiring remarks. "oh! what a love! what a darling he is!" his coat was of white satin embroidered with flowers, his long waistcoat was embroidered with gold, and his knee-breeches were of cherry-colored silk. lace clustered round his chin, and delicate wrists. a sword, a mere toy with a great rose-red knot, rattled against his hip. "now you must do the honors," his mother said to him, as she led him into the outer room. for eight days past he had been repeating his lesson, and struck a cavalier attitude with his little legs, his powdered head thrown slightly back, and his cocked hat tucked under his left arm. as each of his lady-guests was ushered into the room, he bowed low, offered his arm, exchanged courteous greetings, and returned to the threshold. those near him laughed over his intense seriousness in which there was a dash of effrontery. this was the style in which he received marguerite tissot, a little lady five years old, dressed in a charming milkmaid costume, with a milk-can hanging at her side; so too did he greet the berthier children, blanche and sophie, the one masquerading as folly, the other dressed in soubrette style; and he had even the hardihood to tackle valentine de chermette, a tall young lady of some fourteen years, whom her mother always dressed in spanish costume, and at her side his figure appeared so slight that she seemed to be carrying him along. however, he was profoundly embarrassed in the presence of the levasseur family, which numbered five girls, who made their appearance in a row of increasing height, the youngest being scarcely two years old, while the eldest was ten. all five were arrayed in red riding-hood costumes, their head-dresses and gowns being in poppy-colored satin with black velvet bands, with which their lace aprons strikingly contrasted. at last lucien, making up his mind, bravely flung away his three-cornered hat, and led the two elder girls, one hanging on each arm, into the drawing-room, closely followed by the three others. there was a good deal of laughter at it, but the little man never lost his self-possession for a moment. in the meantime madame deberle was taking her sister to task in a corner. "good gracious! is it possible! what a fearfully low-necked dress you are wearing!" "dear, dear! what have i done now? papa hasn't said a word," answered pauline coolly. "if you're anxious, i'll put some flowers at my breast." she plucked a handful of blossoms from a flower-stand where they were growing and allowed them to nestle in her bosom; while madame deberle was surrounded by several mammas in stylish visiting-dresses, who were already profuse in their compliments about her ball. as lucien was passing them, his mother arranged a loose curl of his powdered hair, while he stood on tip-toe to whisper in her ear: "where's jeanne?" "she will be here immediately, my darling. take good care not to fall. run away, there comes little mademoiselle guiraud. ah! she is wearing an alsatian costume." the drawing-room was now filling rapidly; the rows of chairs fronting the red curtain were almost all occupied, and a hubbub of children's voices was rising. the boys were flocking into the room in groups. there were already three harlequins, four punches, a figaro, some tyrolese peasants, and a few highlanders. young master berthier was dressed as a page. little guiraud, a mere bantling of two-and-a-half summers, wore his clown's costume in so comical a style that every one as he passed lifted him up and kissed him. "here comes jeanne," exclaimed madame deberle, all at once. "oh, she is lovely!" a murmur ran round the room; heads were bent forward, and every one gave vent to exclamations of admiration. jeanne was standing on the threshold of the outer room, awaiting her mother, who was taking off her cloak in the hall. the child was robed in a japanese dress of unusual splendor. the gown, embroidered with flowers and strange-looking birds, swept to her feet, which were hidden from view; while beneath her broad waist-ribbon the flaps, drawn aside, gave a glimpse of a green petticoat, watered with yellow. nothing could be more strangely bewitching than her delicate features seen under the shadow of her hair, coiled above her head with long pins thrust through it, while her chin and oblique eyes, small and sparkling, pictured to the life a young lady of yeddo, strolling amidst the perfume of tea and benzoin. and she lingered there hesitatingly, with all the sickly languor of a tropical flower pining for the land of its birth. behind her, however, appeared helene. both, in thus suddenly passing from the dull daylight of the street into the brilliant glare of the wax candles, blinked their eyes as though blinded, while their faces were irradiated with smiles. the rush of warm air and the perfumes, the scent of violets rising above all else, almost stifled them, and brought a flush of red to their cheeks. each guest, on passing the doorway, wore a similar air of surprise and hesitancy. "why, lucien! where are you?" exclaimed madame deberle. the boy had not caught sight of jeanne. but now he rushed forward and seized her arm, forgetting to make his bow. and they were so dainty, so loving, the little marquis in his flowered coat, and the japanese maiden in her purple embroidered gown, that they might have been taken for two statuettes of dresden china, daintily gilded and painted, into which life had been suddenly infused. "you know, i was waiting for you," whispered lucien. "oh, it is so nasty to give everybody my arm! of course, we'll keep beside each other, eh?" and he sat himself down with her in the first row of chairs, wholly oblivious of his duties as host. "oh, i was so uneasy!" purred juliette into helene's ear. "i was beginning to fear that jeanne had been taken ill." helene proffered apology; dressing children, said she, meant endless labor. she was still standing in a corner of the drawing-room, one of a cluster of ladies, when her heart told her that the doctor was approaching behind her. he was making his way from behind the red curtain, beneath which he had dived to give some final instructions. but suddenly he came to a standstill. he, too, had divined her presence, though she had not yet turned her head. attired in a dress of black grenadine, she had never appeared more queenly in her beauty; and a thrill passed through him as he breathed the cool air which she had brought with her from outside, and wafted from her shoulders and arms, gleaming white under their transparent covering. "henri has no eyes for anybody," exclaimed pauline, with a laugh. "ah, good-day, henri!" thereupon he advanced towards the group of ladies, with a courteous greeting. mademoiselle aurelie, who was amongst them, engaged his attention for the moment to point out to him a nephew whom she had brought with her. he was all complaisance. helene, without speaking, gave him her hand, encased in its black glove, but he dared not clasp it with marked force. "oh! here you are!" said madame deberle, as she appeared beside them. "i have been looking for you everywhere. it is nearly three o'clock; they had better begin." "certainly; at once," was his reply. the drawing-room was now crowded. all round it, in the brilliant glare thrown from the chandelier, sat the fathers and mothers, their walking costumes serving to fringe the circle with less vivid colors. some ladies, drawing their chairs together, formed groups; men standing motionless along the walls filled up the gaps; while in the doorway leading to the next room a cluster of frock-coated guests could be seen crowding together and peering over each other's shoulders. the light fell wholly on the little folks, noisy in their glee, as they rustled about in their seats in the centre of the large room. there were almost a hundred children packed together; in an endless variety of gay costumes, bright with blue and red. it was like a sea of fair heads, varying from pale yellow to ruddy gold, with here and there bows and flowers gleaming vividly--or like a field of ripe grain, spangled with poppies and cornflowers, and waving to and fro as though stirred by a breeze. at times, amidst this confusion of ribbons and lace, of silk and velvet, a face was turned round--a pink nose, a pair of blue eyes, a smiling or pouting little mouth. there were some, no higher than one's boots, who were buried out of sight between big lads of ten years of age, and whom their mothers sought from a distance, but in vain. a few of the boys looked bored and foolish by the side of girls who were busy spreading out their skirts. some, however, were already very venturesome, jogging the elbows of their fair neighbors with whom they were unacquainted, and laughing in their faces. but the royalty of the gathering remained with the girls, some of whom, clustering in groups, stirred about in such a way as to threaten destruction to their chairs, and chattered so loudly that the grown-up folks could no longer hear one another speaking. and all eyes were intently gazing at the red curtain. slowly was it drawn aside, and in the recess of the doorway appeared a puppet-show. there was a hushed silence. then all at once punch sprang in, with so ferocious a yell that baby guiraud could not restrain a responsive cry of terror and delight. it was one of those bloodthirsty dramas in which punch, having administered a sound beating to the magistrate, murders the policeman, and tramples with ferocious glee on every law, human and divine. at every cudgelling bestowed on the wooden heads the pitiless audience went into shrieks of laughter; and the sharp thrusts delivered by the puppets at each other's breasts, the duels in which they beat a tattoo on one another's skulls as though they were empty pumpkins, the awful havoc of legs and arms, reducing the characters to a jelly, served to increase the roars of laughter which rang out from all sides. but the climax of enjoyment was reached when punch sawed off the policeman's head on the edge of the stage; an operation provocative of such hysterical mirth that the rows of juveniles were plunged into confusion, swaying to and fro with glee till they all but fell on one another. one tiny girl, but four years old, all pink and white, considered the spectacle so entrancing that she pressed her little hands devoutly to her heart. others burst into applause, while the boys laughed, with mouths agape, their deeper voices mingling with the shrill peals from the girls. "how amused they are!" whispered the doctor. he had returned to his place near helene. she was in high spirits like the children. behind her, he sat inhaling the intoxicating perfume which came from her hair. and as one puppet on the stage dealt another an exceptionally hard knock she turned to him and exclaimed: "do you know, it is awfully funny!" the youngsters, crazy with excitement, were now interfering with the action of the drama. they were giving answers to the various characters. one young lady, who must have been well up in the plot, was busy explaining what would next happen. "he'll beat his wife to death in a minute! now they are going to hang him!" the youngest of the levasseur girls, who was two years old, shrieked out all at once: "mamma, mamma, will they put him on bread and water?" all sorts of exclamations and reflections followed. meanwhile helene, gazing into the crowd of children, remarked: "i cannot see jeanne. is she enjoying herself?" then the doctor bent forward, with head perilously near her own, and whispered: "there she is, between that harlequin and the norman peasant maiden! you can see the pins gleaming in her hair. she is laughing very heartily." he still leaned towards her, her cool breath playing on his cheek. till now no confession had escaped them; preserving silence, their intimacy had only been marred for a few days past by a vague sensation of discomfort. but amidst these bursts of happy laughter, gazing upon the little folks before her, helene became once more, in sooth, a very child, surrendering herself to her feelings, while henri's breath beat warm upon her neck. the whacks from the cudgel, now louder than ever, filled her with a quiver which inflated her bosom, and she turned towards him with sparkling eyes. "good heavens! what nonsense it all is!" she said each time. "see how they hit one another!" "oh! their heads are hard enough!" he replied, trembling. this was all his heart could find to say. their minds were fast lapsing into childhood once more. punch's unedifying life was fostering languor within their breasts. when the drama drew to its close with the appearance of the devil, and the final fight and general massacre ensued, helene in leaning back pressed against henri's hand, which was resting on the back of her arm-chair; while the juvenile audience, shouting and clapping their hands, made the very chairs creak with their enthusiasm. the red curtain dropped again, and the uproar was at its height when malignon's presence was announced by pauline, in her customary style: "ah! here's the handsome malignon!" he made his way into the room, shoving the chairs aside, quite out of breath. "dear me! what a funny idea to close the shutters!" he exclaimed, surprised and hesitating. "people might imagine that somebody in the house was dead." then, turning towards madame deberle, who was approaching him, he continued: "well, you can boast of having made me run about! ever since the morning i have been hunting for perdiguet; you know whom i mean, my singer fellow. but i haven't been able to lay my hands on him, and i have brought you the great morizot instead." the great morizot was an amateur who entertained drawing-rooms by conjuring with juggler-balls. a gipsy table was assigned to him, and on this he accomplished his most wonderful tricks; but it all passed off without the spectators evincing the slightest interest. the poor little darlings were pulling serious faces; some of the tinier mites fell fast asleep, sucking their thumbs. the older children turned their heads and smiled towards their parents, who were themselves yawning behind their hands. there was thus a general feeling of relief when the great morizot decided to take his table away. "oh! he's awfully clever," whispered malignon into madame deberle's neck. but the red curtain was drawn aside once again, and an entrancing spectacle brought all the little folks to their feet. along the whole extent of the dining-room stretched the table, laid and bedecked as for a grand dinner, and illumined by the bright radiance of the central lamp and a pair of large candelabra. there were fifty covers laid; in the middle and at either end were shallow baskets, full of flowers; between these towered tall _epergnes_, filled to overflowing with crackers in gilded and colored paper. then there were mountains of decorated cakes, pyramids of iced fruits, piles of sandwiches, and, less prominent, a whole host of symmetrically disposed plates, bearing sweetmeats and pastry: buns, cream puffs, and _brioches_ alternating with dry biscuits, cracknals, and fancy almond cakes. jellies were quivering in their glass dishes. whipped creams waited in porcelain bowls. and round the table sparkled the silver helmets of champagne bottles, no higher than one's hand, made specially to suit the little guests. it all looked like one of those gigantic feasts which children conjure up in dreamland--a feast served with the solemnity that attends a repast of grown-up folks--a fairy transformation of the table to which their own parents sat down, and on which the horns of plenty of innumerable pastry-cooks and toy dealers had been emptied. "come, come, give the ladies your arms!" said madame deberle, her face covered with smiles as she watched the delight of the children. but the filing off in couples proved a lure. lucien, who had triumphantly taken jeanne's arm, went first. but the others following behind fell somewhat into confusion, and the mothers were forced to come and assign them places, remaining close at hand, especially behind the babies, whom they watched lest any mischance should befall them. truth to tell, the guests at first seemed rather uncomfortable; they looked at one another, felt afraid to lay hands on the good things, and were vaguely disquieted by this new social organization in which everything appeared to be topsy-turvy, the children seated at table while their parents remained standing. at length the older ones gained confidence and commenced the attack. and when the mothers entered into the fray, and cut up the large cakes, helping those in their vicinity, the feast speedily became very animated and noisy. the exquisite symmetry of the table was destroyed as though by a tempest. the two berthier girls, blanche and sophie, laughed at the sight of their plates, which had been filled with something of everything--jam, custard, cake, and fruit. the five young ladies of the levasseur family took sole possession of a corner laden with dainties, while valentine, proud of her fourteen years, acted the lady's part, and looked after the comfort of her little neighbors. lucien, however, impatient to display his politeness, uncorked a bottle of champagne, but in so clumsy a way that the whole contents spurted over his cherry silk breeches. there was quite a to-do about it. "kindly leave the bottles alone! i am to uncork the champagne," shouted pauline. she bustled about in an extraordinary fashion, purely for her own amusement. on the entry of a servant with the chocolate pot, she seized it and filled the cups with the greatest glee, as active in the performance as any restaurant waiter. next she took round some ices and glasses of syrup and water, set them down for a moment to stuff a little baby-girl who had been overlooked, and then went off again, asking every one questions. "what is it you wish, my pet? eh? a cake? yes, my darling, wait a moment; i am going to pass you the oranges. now eat away, you little stupids, you shall play afterwards." madame deberle, calm and dignified, declared that they ought to be left alone, and would acquit themselves very well. at one end of the room sat helene and some other ladies laughing at the scene which the table presented; all the rosy mouths were eating with the full strength of their beautiful white teeth. and nothing could eclipse in drollery the occasional lapses from the polished behavior of well-bred children to the outrageous freaks of young savages. with both hands gripping their glasses, they drank to the very dregs, smeared their faces, and stained their dresses. the clamor grew worse. the last of the dishes were plundered. jeanne herself began dancing on her chair as she heard the strains of a quadrille coming from the drawing-room; and on her mother approaching to upbraid her with having eaten too much, she replied: "oh! mamma, i feel so happy to-day!" but now the other children were rising as they heard the music. slowly the table thinned, until there only remained a fat, chubby infant right in the middle. he seemingly cared little for the attractions of the piano; with a napkin round his neck, and his chin resting on the tablecloth--for he was a mere chit--he opened his big eyes, and protruded his lips each time that his mamma offered him a spoonful of chocolate. the contents of the cup vanished, and he licked his lips as the last mouthful went down his throat, with eyes more agape than ever. "by jove! my lad, you eat heartily!" exclaimed malignon, who was watching him with a thoughtful air. now came the division of the "surprise" packets. each child, on leaving the table, bore away one of the large gilt paper twists, the coverings of which were hastily torn off and from them poured forth a host of toys, grotesque hats made of tissue paper, birds and butterflies. but the joy of joys was the possession of a cracker. every "surprise" packet had its cracker; and these the lads pulled at gallantly, delighted with the noise, while the girls shut their eyes, making many tries before the explosion took place. for a time the sharp crackling of all this musketry alone could be heard; and the uproar was still lasting when the children returned to the drawing-room, where lively quadrille music resounded from the piano. "i could enjoy a cake," murmured mademoiselle aurelie, as she sat down. at the table, which was now deserted, but covered with all the litter of the huge feast, a few ladies--some dozen or so, who had preferred to wait till the children had retired--now sat down. as no servant could be found, malignon bustled hither and thither in attendance. he poured out all that remained in the chocolate pot, shook up the dregs of the bottles, and was even successful in discovering some ices. but amidst all these gallant doings of his, he could not quit one idea, and that was--why had they decided on closing the shutters? "you know," he asserted, "the place looks like a cellar." helene had remained standing, engaged in conversation with madame deberle. as the latter directed her steps towards the drawing-room, her companion prepared to follow, when she felt a gentle touch. behind her was the doctor, smiling; he was ever near her. "are you not going to take anything?" he asked. and the trivial question cloaked so earnest an entreaty that her heart was filled with profound emotion. she knew well enough that each of his words was eloquent of another thing. the excitement springing from the gaiety which pulsed around her was slowly gaining on her. some of the fever of all these little folks, now dancing and shouting, coursed in her own veins. with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she at first declined. "no, thank you, nothing at all." but he pressed her, and in the end, ill at ease and anxious to get rid of him, she yielded. "well, then, a cup of tea." he hurried off and returned with the cup, his hands trembling as he handed it to her. while she was sipping the tea he drew nearer to her, his lips quivering nervously with the confession springing from his heart. she in her turn drew back from him, and, returning him the empty cup, made her escape while he was placing it on a sideboard, thus leaving him alone in the dining-room with mademoiselle aurelie, who was slowly masticating, and subjecting each dish in succession to a close scrutiny. within the drawing-room the piano was sending forth its loudest strains, and from end to end of the floor swept the ball with its charming drolleries. a circle of onlookers had gathered round the quadrille party with which lucien and jeanne were dancing. the little marquis became rather mixed over the figures; he only got on well when he had occasion to take hold of jeanne; and then he gripped her by the waist and whirled around. jeanne preserved her equilibrium, somewhat vexed by his rumpling her dress; but the delights of the dance taking full possession of her, she caught hold of him in her turn and lifted him off his feet. the white satin coat embroidered with nosegays mingled with the folds of the gown woven with flowers and strange birds, and the two little figures of old dresden ware assumed all the grace and novelty of some whatnot ornaments. the quadrille over, helene summoned jeanne to her side, in order to rearrange her dress. "it is his fault, mamma," was the little one's excuse. "he rubs against me--he's a dreadful nuisance." around the drawing-room the faces of the parents were wreathed with smiles. as soon as the music began again all the little ones were once more in motion. seeing, however, that they were observed they felt distrustful, remained grave, and checked their leaps in order to keep up appearances. some of them knew how to dance; but the majority were ignorant of the steps, and their limbs were evidently a source of embarrassment to them. but pauline interposed: "i must see to them! oh, you little stupids!" she threw herself into the midst of the quadrille, caught hold of two of them, one grasping her right hand the other her left, and managed to infuse such life into the dance that the wooden flooring creaked beneath them. the only sounds now audible rose from the hurrying hither and thither of tiny feet beating wholly out of time, the piano alone keeping to the dance measure. some more of the older people joined in the fun. helene and madame deberle, noticing some little maids who were too bashful to venture forth, dragged them into the thickest of the throng. it was they who led the figures, pushed the lads forward, and arranged the dancing in rings; and the mothers passed them the youngest of the babies, so that they might make them skip about for a moment, holding them the while by both hands. the ball was now at its height. the dancers enjoyed themselves to their hearts' content, laughing and pushing each other about like some boarding school mad with glee over the absence of the teacher. nothing, truly, could surpass in unalloyed gaiety this carnival of youngsters, this assemblage of miniature men and women--akin to a veritable microcosm, wherein the fashions of every people mingled with the fantastic creations of romance and drama. the ruddy lips and blue eyes, the faces breathing love, invested the dresses with the fresh purity of childhood. the scene realized to the mind the merrymaking of a fairy-tale to which trooped cupids in disguise to honor the betrothal of some prince charming. "i'm stifling!" exclaimed malignon. "i'm off to inhale some fresh air." as he left the drawing-room he threw the door wide open. the daylight from the street then entered in a lurid stream, bedimming the glare of lamps and candles. in this fashion every quarter of an hour malignon opened the door to let in some fresh air. still there was no cessation of the piano-playing. little guiraud, in her alsatian costume, with a butterfly of black ribbon in her golden hair, swung round in the dance with a harlequin twice her height. a highlander whirled marguerite tissot round so madly that she lost her milk-pail. the two berthier girls, blanche and sophie, who were inseparables, were dancing together; the soubrette in the arms of folly, whose bells were jingling merrily. a glance could not be thrown over the assemblage without one of the levasseur girls coming into view; the red riding-hoods seemed to increase in number; caps and gowns of gleaming red satin slashed with black velvet everywhere leaped into sight. meanwhile some of the older boys and girls had found refuge in the adjacent saloon, where they could dance more at their ease. valentine de chermette, cloaked in the mantilla of a spanish senorita, was executing some marvellous steps in front of a young gentleman who had donned evening dress. suddenly there was a burst of laughter which drew every one to the sight; behind a door in a corner, baby guiraud, the two-year-old clown, and a mite of a girl of his own age, in peasant costume, were holding one another in a tight embrace for fear of tumbling, and gyrating round and round like a pair of slyboots, with cheek pressed to cheek. "i'm quite done up," remarked helene, as she leaned against the dining-room door. she fanned her face, flushed with her exertions in the dance. her bosom rose and fell beneath the transparent grenadine of her bodice. and she was still conscious of henri's breath beating on her shoulders; he was still close to her--ever behind her. now it flashed on her that he would speak, yet she had no strength to flee from his avowal. he came nearer and whispered, breathing on her hair: "i love you! oh, how i love you!" she tingled from head to foot, as though a gust of flame had beaten on her. o god! he had spoken; she could no longer feign the pleasurable quietude of ignorance. she hid behind her fan, her face purple with blushes. the children, whirling madly in the last of the quadrilles, were making the floor ring with the beating of their feet. there were silvery peals of laughter, and bird-like voices gave vent to exclamations of pleasure. a freshness arose from all that band of innocents galloping round and round like little demons. "i love you! oh, how i love you!" she shuddered again; she would listen no further. with dizzy brain she fled into the dining-room, but it was deserted, save that monsieur letellier sat on a chair, peacefully sleeping. henri had followed her, and had the hardihood to seize her wrists even at the risk of a scandal, his face convulsed with such passion that she trembled before him. and he still repeated the words: "i love you! i love you!" "leave me," she murmured faintly. "you are mad--" and, close by, the dancing still went on, with the trampling of tiny feet. blanche berthier's bells could be heard ringing in unison with the softer notes of the piano; madame deberle and pauline were clapping their hands, by way of beating time. it was a polka, and helene caught a glimpse of jeanne and lucien, as they passed by smiling, with arms clasped round each other. but with a sudden jerk she freed herself and fled to an adjacent room --a pantry into which streamed the daylight. that sudden brightness blinded her. she was terror-stricken--she dared not return to the drawing-room with the tale of passion written so legibly on her face. so, hastily crossing the garden, she climbed to her own home, the noises of the ball-room still ringing in her ears. chapter x. upstairs, in her own room, in the peaceful, convent-like atmosphere she found there, helene experienced a feeling of suffocation. her room astonished her, so calm, so secluded, so drowsy did it seem with its blue velvet hangings, while she came to it hotly panting with the emotion which thrilled her. was this indeed her room, this dreary, lifeless nook, devoid of air? hastily she threw open a window, and leaned out to gaze on paris. the rain had ceased, and the clouds were trooping off like some herd of monsters hurrying in disorderly array into the gloom of the horizon. a blue gap, that grew larger by degrees, had opened up above the city. but helene, her elbows trembling on the window-rail, still breathless from her hasty ascent, saw nothing, and merely heard her heart beating against her swelling breast. she drew a long breath, but it seemed to her that the spreading valley with its river, its two millions of people, its immense city, its distant hills, could not hold air enough to enable her to breathe peacefully and regularly again. for some minutes she remained there distracted by the fever of passion which possessed her. it seemed as though a torrent of sensations and confused ideas were pouring down on her, their roar preventing her from hearing her own voice or understanding aught. there was a buzzing in her ears, and large spots of light swam slowly before her eyes. then she suddenly found herself examining her gloved hands, and remembering that she had omitted to sew on a button that had come off the left-hand glove. and afterwards she spoke aloud, repeating several times, in tones that grew fainter and fainter: "i love you! i love you! oh, how i love you!" instinctively she buried her face in her hands, and pressed her fingers to her eyelids as though to intensify the darkness in which she sought to plunge. it was a wish to annihilate herself, to see no more, to be utterly alone, girt in by the gloom of night. her breathing grew calmer. paris blew its mighty breath upon her face; she knew it lay before her, and though she had no wish to look on it, she felt full of terror at the thought of leaving the window, and of no longer having beneath her that city whose vastness lulled her to rest. ere long she grew unmindful of all around her. the love-scene and confession, despite her efforts, again woke to life in her mind. in the inky darkness henri appeared to her, every feature so distinct and vivid that she could perceive the nervous twitching of his lips. he came nearer and hung over her. and then she wildly darted back. but, nevertheless, she felt a burning breath on her shoulders and a voice exclaimed: "i love you! i love you!" with a mighty effort she put the phantom to flight, but it again took shape in the distance, and slowly swelled to its whilom proportions; it was henri once more following her into the dining-room, and still murmuring: "i love you! i love you!" these words rang within her breast with the sonorous clang of a bell; she no longer heard anything but them, pealing their loudest throughout her frame. nevertheless, she desired to reflect, and again strove to escape from the apparition. he had spoken; never would she dare to look on his face again. the brutal passion of the man had tainted the tenderness of their love. she conjured up past hours, in which he had loved her without being so cruel as to say it; hours spent in the garden amidst the tranquillity of the budding springtime god! he had spoken--the thought clung to her so stubbornly, lowered on her in such immensity and with such weight, that the instant destruction of paris by a thunderbolt before her eyes would have seemed a trivial matter. her heart was rent by feelings of indignant protest and haughty anger, commingling with a secret and unconquerable pleasure, which ascended from her inner being and bereft her of her senses. he had spoken, and was speaking still, he sprang up unceasingly before her, uttering those passionate words: "i love you! i love you!"--words that swept into oblivion all her past life as wife and mother. in spite of her brooding over this vision, she retained some consciousness of the vast expanse which stretched beneath her, beyond the darkness that curtained her sight. a loud rumbling arose, and waves of life seemed to surge up and circle around her. echoes, odors, and even light streamed against her face, though her hands were still nervously pressed to it. at times sudden gleams appeared to pierce her closed eyelids, and amidst the radiance she imagined she saw monuments, steeples, and domes standing out in the diffuse light of dreamland. then she lowered her hands and, opening her eyes, was dazzled. the vault of heaven expanded before her, and henri had vanished. a line of clouds, a seeming mass of crumbling chalk-hills, now barred the horizon far away. across the pure, deep blue heavens overhead, merely a few light, fleecy cloudlets were slowly drifting, like a flotilla of vessels with full-blown sails. on the north, above montmartre, hung a network of extreme delicacy, fashioned as it were of pale-hued silk, and spread over a patch of sky as though for fishing in those tranquil waters. westward, however, in the direction of the slopes of meudon, which helene could not see, the last drops of the downpour must still have been obscuring the sun, for, though the sky above was clear, paris remained gloomy, dismal beneath the vapor of the drying house-roofs. it was a city of uniform hue--the bluey-grey of slate, studded with black patches of trees--but withal very distinct, with the sharp outlines and innumberable windows of its houses. the seine gleamed with the subdued brightness of old silver. the edifices on either bank looked as though they had been smeared with soot. the tower of st. jacques rose up like some rust-eaten museum curio, whilst the pantheon assumed the aspect of a gigantic catafalque above the darkened district which it overlooked. gleams of light peeped only from the gilding of the dome of the invalides, like lamps burning in the daytime, sad and vague amidst the crepuscular veil of mourning in which the city was draped. all the usual effects of distance had vanished; paris resembled a huge yet minutely executed charcoal drawing, showing very vigorously through its cloudy veil, under the limpid heavens. gazing upon this dismal city, helene reflected that she really knew nothing of henri. she felt strong and brave now that his image no longer pursued her. a rebellious impulse stirred her soul to reject the mastery which this man had gained over her within a few weeks. no, she did not know him. she knew nothing of him, of his actions or his thoughts; she could not even have determined whether he possessed talent. perhaps he was even more lacking in qualities of the heart than of the mind. and thus she gave way to every imagining, her heart full of bitterness, ever finding herself confronted by her ignorance, that barrier which separated her from henri, and checked her in her efforts to know him. she knew nothing, she would never know anything. she pictured him, hissing out those burning words, and creating within her the one trouble which had, till now, broken in on the quiet happiness of her life. whence had he sprung to lay her life desolate in this fashion? she suddenly thought that but six weeks before she had had no existence for him, and this thought was insufferable. angels in heaven! to live no more for one another, to pass each other without recognition, perhaps never to meet again! in her despair she clasped her hands, and her eyes filled with tears. then helene gazed fixedly on the towers of notre-dame in the far distance. a ray of light from between two clouds tinged them with gold. her brain was heavy, as though surcharged with all the tumultuous thoughts hurtling within it. it made her suffer; she would fain have concerned herself with the sight of paris, and have sought to regain her life-peace by turning on that sea of roofs the tranquil glances of past days. to think that at other times, at the same hour, the infinitude of the city--in the stillness of a lovely twilight--had lulled her into tender musing! at present paris was brightening in the sunshine. after the first ray had fallen on notre-dame, others had followed, streaming across the city. the luminary, dipping in the west, rent the clouds asunder, and the various districts spread out, motly with ever-changing lights and shadows. for a time the whole of the left bank was of a leaden hue, while the right was speckled with spots of light which made the verge of the river resemble the skin of some huge beast of prey. then these resemblances varied and vanished at the mercy of the wind, which drove the clouds before it. above the burnished gold of the housetops dark patches floated, all in the same direction and with the same gentle and silent motion. some of them were very large, sailing along with all the majestic grace of an admiral's ship, and surrounded by smaller ones, preserving the regular order of a squadron in line of battle. then one vast shadow, with a gap yawning like a serpent's mouth, trailed along, and for a while hid paris, which it seemed ready to devour. and when it had reached the far-off horizon, looking no larger than a worm, a gush of light streamed from a rift in a cloud, and fell into the void which it had left. the golden cascade could be seen descending first like a thread of fine sand, then swelling into a huge cone, and raining in a continuous shower on the champs-elysees district, which it inundated with a splashing, dancing radiance. for a long time did this shower of sparks descend, spraying continuously like a fusee. ah, well! this love was her fate, and helene ceased to resist. she could battle no longer against her feelings. and in ceasing to struggle she tasted immeasurable delight. why should she grudge herself happiness any longer? the memory of her past life inspired her with disgust and aversion. how had she been able to drag on that cold, dreary existence, of which she was formerly so proud? a vision rose before her of herself as a young girl living in the rue des petites-maries, at marseilles, where she had ever shivered; she saw herself a wife, her heart's blood frozen in the companionship of a big child of a husband, with little to take any interest in, apart from the cares of her household; she saw herself through every hour of her life following the same path with the same even tread, without a trouble to mar her peace; and now this monotony in which she had lived, her heart fast asleep, enraged her beyond expression. to think that she had fancied herself happy in thus following her path for thirty years, her passions silent, with naught but the pride of virtue to fill the blank in her existence. how she had cheated herself with her integrity and nice honor, which had girt her round with the empty joys of piety! no, no; she had had enough of it; she wished to live! and an awful spirit of ridicule woke within her as she thought of the behests of reason. her reason, forsooth! she felt a contemptuous pity for it; during all the years she had lived it had brought her no joy to be compared with that she had tasted during the past hour. she had denied the possibility of stumbling, she had been vain and idiotic enough to think that she would go on to the end without her foot once tripping against a stone. ah, well! to-day she almost longed to fall. oh that she might disappear, after tasting for one moment the happiness which she had never enjoyed! within her soul, however, a great sorrow lingered, a heart-burning and a consciousness of a gloomy blank. then argument rose to her lips. was she not free? in her love for henri she deceived nobody; she could deal as she pleased with her love. then, did not everything exculpate her? what had been her life for nearly two years? her widowhood, her unrestricted liberty, her loneliness--everything, she realized, had softened and prepared her for love. love must have been smouldering within her during the long evenings spent between her two old friends, the abbe and his brother, those simple hearts whose serenity had lulled it to rest; it had been growing whilst she remained shut up within those narrow walls, far away from the world, and gazed on paris rumbling noisily on the horizon; it had been growing even when she leaned from that window in the dreamy mood which she had scarce been conscious of, but which little by little had rendered her so weak. and a recollection came to her of that radiant spring morning when paris had shone out fair and clear, as though in a glass mirror, when it had worn the pure, sunny hue of childhood, as she lazily surveyed it, stretched in her easy-chair with a book upon her knees. that morning love had first awoke--a scarcely perceptible feeling that she had been unable to define, and against which she had believed herself strongly armed. to-day she was in the same place, but devoured by overpowering passion, while before her eyes the dying sun illumined the city with flame. it seemed to her that one day had sufficed for all, that this was the ruddy evening following upon that limpid morning; and she imagined she could feel those fiery beams scorching her heart. but a change had come over the sky. the sun, in its descent towards the slopes of meudon, had just burst through the last clouds in all its splendor. the azure vault was illuminated with glory; deep on the horizon the crumbling ridge of chalk clouds, blotting out the distant suburbs of charenton and choisy-le-roi, now reared rocks of a tender pink, outlined with brilliant crimson; the flotilla of cloudlets drifting slowly through the blue above paris, was decked with purple sails; while the delicate network, seemingly fashioned of white silk thread, above montmartre, was suddenly transformed into golden cord, whose meshes would snare the stars as soon as they should rise. beneath the flaming vault of heaven lay paris, a mass of yellow, striped with huge shadows. on the vast square below helene, in an orange-tinted haze, cabs and omnibuses crossed in all directions, amidst a crowd of pedestrians, whose swarming blackness was softened and irradiated by splashes of light. the students of a seminary were hurrying in serried ranks along the quai de billy, and the trail of cassocks acquired an ochraceous hue in the diffuse light. farther away, vehicles and foot-passengers faded from view; it was only by their gleaming lamps that you were made aware of the vehicles which, one behind the other, were crossing some distant bridge. on the left the straight, lofty, pink chimneys of the army bakehouse were belching forth whirling clouds of flesh-tinted smoke; whilst, across the river, the beautiful elms of the quai d'orsay rose up in a dark mass transpierced by shafts of light. the seine, whose banks the oblique rays were enfilading, was rolling dancing wavelets, streaked with scattered splashes of blue, green, and yellow; but farther up the river, in lieu of this blotchy coloring, suggestive of an eastern sea, the waters assumed a uniform golden hue, which became more and more dazzling. you might have thought that some ingot were pouring forth from an invisible crucible on the horizon, broadening out with a coruscation of bright colors as it gradually grew colder. and at intervals over this brilliant stream, the bridges, with curves growing ever more slender and delicate, threw, as it were, grey bars, till there came at last a fiery jumble of houses, above which rose the towers of notre-dame, flaring red like torches. right and left alike the edifices were all aflame. the glass roof of the palais de l'industrie appeared like a bed of glowing embers amidst the champs-elysees groves. farther on, behind the roof of the madeline, the huge pile of the opera house shone out like a mass of burnished copper; and the summits of other buildings, cupolas, and towers, the vendome column, the church of saint-vincent de paul, the tower of saint-jacques, and, nearer in, the pavilions of the new louvre and the tuileries, were crowned by a blaze, which lent them the aspect of sacrificial pyres. the dome of the invalides was flaring with such brilliancy that you instinctively feared lest it should suddenly topple down and scatter burning flakes over the neighborhood. beyond the irregular towers of saint-sulpice, the pantheon stood out against the sky in dull splendor, like some royal palace of conflagration reduced to embers. then, as the sun declined, the pyre-like edifices gradually set the whole of paris on fire. flashes sped over the housetops, while black smoke lingered in the valleys. every frontage turned towards the trocadero seemed to be red-hot, the glass of the windows glittering and emitting a shower of sparks, which darted upwards as though some invisible bellows were ever urging the huge conflagration into greater activity. sheaves of flame were also ever rising afresh from the adjacent districts, where the streets opened, now dark and now all ablaze. even far over the plain, from a ruddy ember-like glow suffusing the destroyed faubourgs, occasional flashes of flame shot up as from some fire struggling again into life. ere long a furnace seemed raging, all paris burned, the heavens became yet more empurpled, and the clouds hung like so much blood over the vast city, colored red and gold. with the ruddy tints falling upon her, yielding to the passion which was devouring her, helene was still gazing upon paris all ablaze, when a little hand was placed on her shoulder, and she gave a start. it was jeanne, calling her. "mamma! mamma!" she turned her head, and the child went on: "at last! didn't you hear me before? i have called you at least a dozen times." the little girl, still in her japanese costume, had sparkling eyes, and cheeks flushed with pleasure. she gave her mother no time for answer. "you ran away from me nicely! do you know, they were hunting for you everywhere? had it not been for pauline, who came with me to the bottom of the staircase, i shouldn't have dared to cross the road." with a pretty gesture, she brought her face close to her mother's lips, and, without pausing, whispered the question: "do you love me?" helene kissed her somewhat absently. she was amazed and impatient at her early return. had an hour really gone by since she had fled from the ball-room? however, to satisfy the child, who seemed uneasy, she told her that she had felt rather unwell. the fresh air was doing her good; she only needed a little quietness. "oh! don't fear; i'm too tired," murmured jeanne. "i am going to stop here, and be very, very good. but, mamma dear, i may talk, mayn't i?" she nestled close to helene, full of joy at the prospect of not being undressed at once. she was in ecstasies over her embroidered purple gown and green silk petticoat; and she shook her head to rattle the pendants hanging from the long pins thrust through her hair. at last there burst from her lips a rush of hasty words. despite her seeming demureness, she had seen everything, heard everything, and remembered everything; and she now made ample amends for her former assumed dignity, silence, and indifference. "do you know, mamma, it was an old fellow with a grey beard who made punch move his arms and legs? i saw him well enough when the curtain was drawn aside. yes, and the little boy guiraud began to cry. how stupid of him, wasn't it? they told him the policeman would come and put some water in his soup; and at last they had to carry him off, for he wouldn't stop crying. and at lunch, too, marguerite stained her milkmaid's dress all over with jam. her mamma wiped it off and said to her: 'oh, you dirty girl!' she even had a lot of it in her hair. i never opened my mouth, but it did amuse me to see them all rush at the cakes! were they not bad-mannered, mamma dear?" she paused for a few seconds, absorbed in some reminiscence, and then asked, with a thoughtful air: "i say, mamma, did you eat any of those yellow cakes with white cream inside? oh! they were nice! they were nice! i kept the dish beside me the whole time." helene was not listening to this childish chatter. but jeanne talked to relieve her excited brain. she launched out again, giving the minutest details about the ball, and investing each little incident with the greatest importance. "you did not see that my waistband came undone just as we began dancing. a lady, whose name i don't know, pinned it up for me. so i said to her: 'madame, i thank you very much.' but while i was dancing with lucien the pin ran into him, and he asked me: 'what have you got in front of you that pricks me so?' of course i knew nothing about it, and told him i had nothing there to prick him. however, pauline came and put the pin in its proper place. ah! but you've no idea how they pushed each other about; and one great stupid of a boy gave sophie a blow on the back which made her fall. the levasseur girls jumped about with their feet close together. i am pretty certain that isn't the way to dance. but the best of it all came at the end. you weren't there; so you can't know. we all took one another by the arms, and then whirled round; it was comical enough to make one die laughing. besides, some of the big gentlemen were whirling around as well. it's true; i am not telling fibs. why, don't you believe me, mamma dear?" helene's continued silence was beginning to vex jeanne. she nestled closer, and gave her mother's hand a shake. but, perceiving that she drew only a few words from her, she herself, by degrees, lapsed into silence, into thought of the incidents of that ball of which her heart was full. both mother and daughter now sat mutely gazing on paris all aflame. it seemed to them yet more mysterious than ever, as it lay there illumined by blood-red clouds, like some city of an old-world tale expiating its lusts under a rain of fire. "did you have any round dances?" all at once asked helene, as if wakening with a start. "yes, yes!" murmured jeanne, engrossed in her turn. "and the doctor--did he dance!" "i should think so; he had a turn with me. he lift me up and asked me: 'where is your mamma? where is your mamma?' and then he kissed me." helene unconsciously smiled. what need had she of knowing henri well? it appeared sweeter to her not to know him--ay, never to know him well --and to greet him simply as the one whose coming she had awaited so long. why should she feel astonished or disquieted? at the fated hour he had met her on her life-journey. her frank nature accepted whatever might be in store; and quietude, born of the knowledge that she loved and was beloved, fell on her mind. she told her heart that she would prove strong enough to prevent her happiness from being marred. but night was coming on and a chilly breeze arose. jeanne, still plunged in reverie, began to shiver. she reclined her head on her mother's bosom, and, as though the question were inseparably connected with her deep meditation, she murmured a second time: "do you love me?" then helene, her face still glad with smiles, took her head within her hands and for a moment examined her face closely. next she pressed a long kiss near her mouth, over a ruddy spot on her skin. it was there, she could divine it, that henri had kissed the child! the gloomy ridge of the meudon hills was already partially concealing the disc of the sun. over paris the slanting beams of light had yet lengthened. the shadow cast by the dome of the invalides--increased to stupendous proportions--covered the whole of the saint-germain district; while the opera-house, the saint-jacques tower, the columns and the steeples, threw streaks of darkness over the right bank dwellings. the lines of house-fronts, the yawning streets, the islands of roofs, were burning with a more sullen glow. the flashes of fire died away in the darkening windows, as though the houses were reduced to embers. distant bells rang out; a rumbling noise fell on the ears, and then subsided. with the approach of night the expanse of sky grew more vast, spreading a vault of violet, streaked with gold and purple, above the ruddy city. but all at once the conflagration flared afresh with formidable intensity, a last great flame shot up from paris, illumining its entire expanse, and even its hitherto hidden suburbs. then it seemed as if a grey, ashy dust were falling; and though the clustering districts remained erect, they wore the gloomy, unsubstantial aspect of coals which had ceased to burn. chapter xi. one morning in may, rosalie ran in from the kitchen, dish-cloth in hand, screaming out in the familiar fashion of a favorite servant: "oh, madame, come quick! his reverence the abbe is digging the ground down in the doctor's garden." helene made no responsive movement, but jeanne had already rushed to have a look. on her return, she exclaimed: "how stupid rosalie is! he is not digging at all. he is with the gardener, who is putting some plants into a barrow. madame deberle is plucking all her roses." "they must be for the church," quietly said helene, who was busy with some tapestry-work. a few minutes later the bell rang, and abbe jouve made his appearance. he came to say that his presence must not be expected on the following tuesday. his evenings would be wholly taken up with the ceremonies incident to the month of mary. the parish priest had assigned him the task of decorating the church. it would be a great success. all the ladies were giving him flowers. he was expecting two palm-trees about fourteen feet high, and meant to place them to the right and left of the altar. "oh! mamma, mamma!" murmured jeanne, listening, wonderstruck. "well," said helene, with a smile, "since you cannot come to us, my old friend, we will go to see you. why, you've quite turned jeanne's head with your talk about flowers." she had few religious tendencies; she never even went to mass, on the plea that her daughter's health suffered from the shivering fits which seized her when she came out of a church. in her presence the old priest avoided all reference to religion. it was his wont to say, with good-natured indulgence, that good hearts carve out their own salvation by deeds of loving kindness and charity. god would know when and how to touch her. till the evening of the following day jeanne thought of nothing but the month of mary. she plagued her mother with questions; she dreamt of the church adorned with a profusion of white roses, filled with thousands of wax tapers, with the sound of angels' voices, and sweet perfumes. and she was very anxious to go near the altar, that she might have a good look at the blessed virgin's lace gown, a gown worth a fortune, according to the abbe. but helene bridled her excitement with a threat not to take her should she make herself ill beforehand. however, the evening came at last, and they set out. the nights were still cold, and when they reached the rue de l'annonciation, where the church of notre-dame-de-grace stands, the child was shivering all over. "the church is heated," said her mother. "we must secure a place near a hot-air pipe." she pushed open the padded door, and as it gently swung back to its place they found themselves in a warm atmosphere, with brilliant lights streaming on them, and chanting resounding in their ears. the ceremony had commenced, and helene, perceiving that the nave was crowded, signified her intention of going down one of the aisles. but there seemed insuperable obstacles in her way; she could not get near the altar. holding jeanne by the hand, she for a time patiently pressed forward, but at last, despairing of advancing any farther, took the first unoccupied chairs she could find. a pillar hid half of the choir from view. "i can see nothing," said the child, grievously discontented. "this is a very nasty place." however, helene signed to her to keep silent, and she lapsed into a fit of sulks. in front of her she could only perceive the broad back of a fat old lady. when her mother next turned towards her she was standing upright on her chair. "will you come down!" said helene in a low voice. "you are a nuisance." but jeanne was stubborn. "hist! mamma," she said, "there's madame deberle. look! she is down there in the centre, beckoning to us." the young woman's annoyance on hearing this made her very impatient, and she shook her daughter, who still refused to sit down. during the three days that had intervened since the ball, helene had avoided any visit to the doctor's house on the plea of having a great deal to do. "mamma," resumed jeanne with a child's wonted stubbornness, "she is looking at you; she is nodding good-day to you." at this intimation helene was forced to turn round and exchange greetings; each bowed to the other. madame deberle, in a striped silk gown trimmed with white lace, sat in the centre of the nave but a short distance from the choir, looking very fresh and conspicuous. she had brought her sister pauline, who was now busy waving her hand. the chanting still continued, the elder members of the congregation pouring forth a volume of sound of falling scale, while now and then the shrill voice of the children punctuated the slow, monotonous rhythm of the canticle. "they want us to go over to them, you see," exclaimed jeanne, with some triumph in her remark. "it is useless; we shall be all right here." "oh, mamma, do let us go over to them! there are two chairs empty." "no, no; come and sit down." however, the ladies smilingly persisted in making signs, heedless to the last degree of the slight scandal they were causing; nay, delighted at being the observed of all observers. helene thus had to yield. she pushed the gratified jeanne before her, and strove to make her way through the congregation, her hands all the while trembling with repressed anger. it was no easy business. devout female worshippers, unwilling to disturb themselves, glared at her with furious looks, whilst all agape they kept on singing. she pressed on in this style for five long minutes, the tempest of voices ringing around her with ever-increasing violence. whenever she came to a standstill, jeanne, squeezing close beside her, gazed at those cavernous, gaping mouths. however, at last they reached the vacant space in front of the choir, and then had but a few steps to make. "come, be quick," whispered madame deberle. "the abbe told me you would be coming, and i kept two chairs for you." helene thanked her, and, to cut the conversation short, at once began turning over the leaves of her missal. but juliette was as worldly here as elsewhere; as much at her ease, as agreeable and talkative, as in her drawing-room. she bent her head towards helene and resumed: "you have become quite invisible. i intended to pay you a visit to-morrow. surely you haven't been ill, have you?" "no, thank you. i've been very busy." "well, listen to me. you must come and dine with us to-morrow. quite a family dinner, you know." "you are very kind. we will see." she seemed to retire within herself, intent on following the service, and on saying nothing more. pauline had taken jeanne beside her that she might be nearer the hot-air flue over which she toasted herself luxuriously, as happy as any chilly mortal could be. steeped in the warm air, the two girls raised themselves inquisitively and gazed around on everything, the low ceiling with its woodwork panels, the squat pillars, connected by arches from which hung chandeliers, and the pulpit of carved oak; and over the ocean of heads which waved with the rise and fall of the canticle, their eyes wandered towards the dark corners of the aisles, towards the chapels whose gilding faintly gleamed, and the baptistery enclosed by a railing near the chief entrance. however, their gaze always returned to the resplendent choir, decorated with brilliant colors and dazzling gilding. a crystal chandelier, flaming with light, hung from the vaulted ceiling; immense candelabra, filled with rows of wax tapers, that glittered amidst the gloom of the church like a profusion of stars in orderly array, brought out prominently the high altar, which seemed one huge bouquet of foliage and flowers. over all, standing amidst a profusion of roses, a virgin, dressed in satin and lace, and crowned with pearls, was holding a jesus in long clothes on her arm. "i say, are you warm?" asked pauline. "it's nice, eh?" but jeanne, in ecstasy, was gazing on the virgin amongst the flowers. the scene thrilled her. a fear crept over her that she might do something wrong, and she lowered her eyes in the endeavor to restrain her tears by fixing her attention on the black-and-white pavement. the vibrations of the choir-boys' shrill voices seemed to stir her tresses like puffs of air. meanwhile helene, with face bent over her prayer-book, drew herself away whenever juliette's lace rustled against her. she was in no wise prepared for this meeting. despite the vow she had sworn within herself, to be ever pure in her love for henri, and never yield to him, she felt great discomfort at the thought that she was a traitoress to the confiding, happy woman who sat by her side. she was possessed by one idea--she would not go to that dinner. she sought for reasons which would enable her to break off these relations so hateful to her honor. but the swelling voices of the choristers, so near to her, drove all reflection from her mind; she could decide on no precise course, and surrendered herself to the soothing influences of the chant, tasting a pious joy such as she had never before found inside a church. "have you been told about madame de chermette?" asked juliette, unable any longer to restrain her craving for a gossip. "no, i know nothing." "well, well; just imagine. you have seen her daughter, so womanish and tall, though she is only fifteen, haven't you? there is some talk about her getting married next year to that dark young fellow who is always hanging to her mother's skirts. people are talking about it with a vengeance." "ah!" muttered helene, who was not paying the least attention. madame deberle went into particulars, but of a sudden the chant ceased, and the organ-music died away in a moan. astounded at the loudness of her own voice breaking upon the stillness which ensued, she lapsed into silence. a priest made his appearance at this moment in the pulpit. there was a rustling, and then he spoke. no, certainly not, helene would not join that dinner-party. with her eyes fixed on the priest she pictured to herself the next meeting with henri, that meeting which for three days she had contemplated with terror; she saw him white with anger, reproaching her for hiding herself, and she dreaded lest she might not display sufficient indifference. amidst her dream the priest had disappeared, his thrilling tones merely reaching her in casual sentences: "no hour could be more ineffable than that when the virgin, with bent head, answered: 'i am the handmaiden of the lord!'" yes, she would be brave; all her reason had returned to her. she would taste the joy of being loved, but would never avow her love, for her heart told her that such an avowal would cost her peace. and how intensely would she love, without confessing it, gratified by a word, a look from henri, exchanged at lengthy intervals on the occasion of a chance meeting! it was a dream that brought her some sense of the infinite. the church around her became a friend and comforter. the priest was now exclaiming: "the angel vanished and mary plunged into contemplation of the divine mystery working within her, her heart bathed in sunshine and love." "he speaks very well," whispered madame deberle, leaning towards her. "and he's quite young, too, scarcely thirty, don't you think?" madame deberle was affected. religion pleased her because the emotions it prompted were in good taste. to present flowers for the decoration of churches, to have petty dealings with the priests, who were so polite and discreet, to come to church attired in her best and assume an air of worldly patronage towards the god of the poor--all this had for her special delights; the more so as her husband did not interest himself in religion, and her devotions thus had all the sweetness of forbidden fruit. helene looked at her and answered with a nod; her face was ashy white with faintness, while the other's was lit up by smiles. there was a stirring of chairs and a rustling of handkerchiefs, as the priest quitted the pulpit with the final adjuration "oh! give wings unto your love, souls imbued with christian piety. god has made a sacrifice of himself for your sakes, your hearts are full of his presence, your souls overflow with his grace!" of a sudden the organ sounded again, and the litanies of the virgin began with their appeals of passionate tenderness. faint and distant the chanting rolled forth from the side-aisles and the dark recesses of the chapels, as though the earth were giving answer to the angel voices of the chorister-boys. a rush of air swept over the throng, making the flames of the tapers leap, while amongst the flowers, fading as they exhaled their last perfume, the divine mother seemed to incline her head to smile on her infant jesus. all at once, seized with an instinctive dread, helene turned. "you're not ill, jeanne, are you?" she asked. the child, with face ashy white and eyes glistening, her spirit borne aloft by the fervent strains of the litanies, was gazing at the altar, where in imagination she could see the roses multiplying and falling in cascades. "no, no, mamma," she whispered; "i am pleased, i am very well pleased." and then she asked: "but where is our dear old friend?" she spoke of the abbe. pauline caught sight of him; he was seated in the choir, but jeanne had to be lifted up in order that she might perceive him. "oh! he is looking at us," said she; "he is blinking." according to jeanne, the abbe blinked when he laughed inwardly. helene hastened to exchange a friendly nod with him. and then the tranquillity within her seemed to increase, her future serenity appeared to be assured, thus endearing the church to her and lulling her into a blissful condition of patient endurance. censers swung before the altar and threads of smoke ascended; the benediction followed, and the holy monstrance was slowly raised and waved above the heads lowered to the earth. helene was still on her knees in happy meditation when she heard madame deberle exclaiming: "it's over now; let us go." there ensued a clatter of chairs and a stamping of feet which reverberated along the arched aisles. pauline had taken jeanne's hand, and, walking away in front with the child, began to question her: "have you ever been to the theatre?" "no. is it finer than this?" as she spoke, the little one, giving vent to great gasps of wonder, tossed her head as though ready to express the belief that nothing could be finer. to her question, however, pauline deigned no reply, for she had just come to a standstill in front of a priest who was passing in his surplice. and when he was a few steps away she exclaimed aloud, with such conviction in her tones that two devout ladies of the congregation turned around: "oh! what a fine head!" helene, meanwhile, had risen from her knees. she stepped along by the side of juliette among the crowd which was making its way out with difficulty. her heart was full of tenderness, she felt languid and enervated, and her soul no longer rebelled at the other being so near. at one moment their bare hands came in contact and they smiled. they were almost stifling in the throng, and helene would fain have had juliette go first. all their old friendship seemed to blossom forth once more. "is it understood that we can rely on you for to-morrow evening?" asked madame deberle. helene no longer had the will to decline. she would see whether it were possible when she reached the street. it finished by their being the last to leave. pauline and jeanne already stood on the opposite pavement awaiting them. but a tearful voice brought them to a halt. "ah, my good lady, what a time it is since i had the happiness of seeing you!" it was mother fetu, who was soliciting alms at the church door. barring helene's way, as though she had lain in wait for her, she went on: "oh, i have been so very ill always here, in the stomach, you know. just now i feel as if a hammer were pounding away inside me; and i have nothing at all, my good lady. i didn't dare to send you word about it--may the gracious god repay you!" helene had slipped a piece of money into her hand, and promised to think about her. "hello!" exclaimed madame deberle, who had remained standing within the porch, "there's some one talking with pauline and jeanne. why, it is henri." "yes, yes" mother fetu hastened to add as she turned her ferret-like eyes on the ladies, "it is the good doctor. i have seen him there all through the service; he has never budged from the pavement; he has been waiting for you, no doubt. ah! he's a saint of a man! i swear that to be the truth in the face of god who hears us. yes, i know you, madame; he is a husband who deserves to be happy. may heaven hearken to your prayers, may every blessing fall on you! in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost!" amidst the myriad furrows of her face, which was wrinkled like a withered apple, her little eyes kept gleaming in malicious unrest, darting a glance now on juliette, now on helene, so that it was impossible to say with any certainty whom she was addressing while speaking of "the good doctor." she followed them, muttering on without a stop, mingling whimpering entreaty with devout outbursts. henri's reserve alike astonished and moved helene. he scarcely had the courage to raise his eyes towards her. on his wife quizzing him about the opinions which restrained him from entering a church, he merely explained that to smoke a cigar was his object in coming to meet them; but helene understood that he had wished to see her again, to prove to her how wrong she was in fearing some fresh outrage. doubtless, like herself, he had sworn to keep within the limits of reason. she never questioned whether his sincerity could be real. she simply experienced a feeling of unhappiness at seeing him unhappy. thus it came about, that on leaving them it the rue vineuse, she said cheerfully: "well, it is settled then; to-morrow at seven." in this way the old friendship grew closer than ever, and a charming life began afresh. to helene it seemed as if henri had never yielded to that moment of folly; it was but a dream of hers; each loved the other, but they would never breathe a word of their love, they were content with knowing its existence. they spent delicious hours, in which, without their tongues giving evidence of their passion, they displayed it constantly; a gesture, an inflexion of the voice sufficed, ay, even a silence. everything insensibly tended towards their love, plunged them more and more deeply into a passion which they bore away with them whenever they parted, which was ever with them, which formed, as it were, the only atmosphere they could breathe. and their excuse was their honesty; with eyes wide open they played this comedy of affection; not even a hand-clasp did they allow each other and their restraint infused unalloyed delight into the simple greetings with which they met. every evening the ladies went to church. madame deberle was enchanted with the novel pleasure she was enjoying. it was so different from evening dances, concerts, and first nights; she adored fresh sensations, and nuns and priests were now constantly in her company. the store of religion which she had acquired in her school-days now found new life in her giddy brain, taking shape in all sorts of trivial observances, as though she were reviving the games of her childhood. helene, who on her side had grown up without any religious training, surrendered herself to the bliss of these services of the month of mary, happy also in the delight with which they appeared to inspire jeanne. they now dined earlier; they gave rosalie no peace lest she should cause them to be late, and prevent their securing good seats. then they called for juliette on the way. one day lucien was taken, but he behaved so badly that he was afterward left at home. on entering the warm church, with its glare of wax candles, a feeling of tenderness and calm, which by degrees grew necessary to helene, came over her. when doubts sprang up within her during the day, and the thought of henri filled her with indefinable anxiety, with the evening the church once more brought her peace. the chants arose overflowing with divine passion; the flowers, newly culled, made the close atmosphere of the building still heavier. it was here that she breathed all the first rapture of springtide, amidst that adoration of woman raised to the status of a cult; and her senses swam as she contemplated the mystery of love and purity--mary, virgin and mother, beaming beneath her wreath of white roses. each day she remained longer on her knees. she found herself at times with hands joined in entreaty. when the ceremony came to an end, there followed the happiness of the return home. henri awaited their appearance at the door; the evenings grew warmer, and they wended their way through the dark, still streets of passy, while scarce a word passed between them. "how devout you are getting, my dear!" said madame deberle one night, with a laugh. yes, it was true; helene was widely opening the portals of her heart to pious thoughts. never could she have fancied that such happiness would attend her love. she returned to the church as to a spot where her heart would melt, for under its roof she could give free vent to her tears, remain thoughtless, plunged in speechless worship. for an hour each evening she put no restraint on herself. the bursting love within her, prisoned throughout the day, at length escaped from her bosom on the wings of prayer, amidst the pious quiver of the throng. the muttered supplications, the bendings of the knee, the reverences --words and gestures seemingly interminable--all lulled her to rest; to her they ever expressed the same thing; it was always the same passion speaking in the same phrase, or the same gesture. she felt a need of faith, and basked enraptured by the divine goodness. helene was not the only person whom juliette twitted; she feigned a belief that henri himself was becoming religious. what, had he not now entered the church to wait for them?--he, atheist and scoffer, who had been wont to assert that he had sought for the soul with his scalpel, and had not yet discovered its existence! as soon as she perceived him standing behind a pillar in the shadow of the pulpit, she would instantly jog helene's arm. "look, look, he is there already! do you know, he wouldn't confess when we got married! see how funny he looks; he gazes at us with so comical an expression; quick, look!" helene did not at the moment raise her head. the service was coming to an end, clouds of incense were rising, and the organ-music pealed forth joyfully. but her neighbor was not a woman to leave her alone, and she was forced to speak in answer. "yes, yes, i see him," she whispered, albeit she never turned her eyes. she had on her own side divined his presence amidst the song of praise that mounted from the worshipping throng. it seemed to her that henri's breath was wafted on the wings of the music and beat against her neck, and she imagined she could see behind her his glances shedding their light along the nave and haloing her, as she knelt, with a golden glory. and then she felt impelled to pray with such fervor that words failed her. the expression on his face was sober, as unruffled as any husband might wear when looking for ladies in a church, the same, indeed, as if he had been waiting for them in the lobby of a theatre. but when they came together, in the midst of the slowly-moving crowd of worshippers, they felt that the bonds of their love had been drawn closer by the flowers and the chanting; and they shunned all conversation, for their hearts were on their lips. a fortnight slipped away, and madame deberle grew wearied. she ever jumped from one thing to the other, consumed with the thirst of doing what every one else was doing. for the moment charity bazaars had become her craze; she would toil up sixty flights of stairs of an afternoon to beg paintings of well-known artists, while her evenings were spent in presiding over meetings of lady patronesses, with a bell handy to call noisy members to order. thus it happened that one thursday evening helene and her daughter went to church without their companions. on the conclusion of the sermon, while the choristers were commencing the _magnificat_, the young woman, forewarned by some impulse of her heart, turned her head. henri was there, in his usual place. thereupon she remained with looks riveted to the ground till the service came to an end, waiting the while for the return home. "oh, how kind of you to come!" said jeanne, with all a child's frankness, as they left the church. "i should have been afraid to go alone through these dark streets." henri, however, feigned astonishment, asserting that he had expected to meet his wife. helene allowed the child to answer him, and followed them without uttering a word. as the trio passed under the porch a pitiful voice sang out: "charity, charity! may god repay you!" every night jeanne dropped a ten-sou piece into mother fetu's hand. when the latter saw the doctor alone with helene, she nodded her head knowingly, instead of breaking out into a storm of thanks, as was her custom. the church was now empty, and she began to follow them, mumbling inaudible sentences. sometimes, instead of returning by the rue de passy, the ladies, when the night was fine, went homewards by the rue raynouard, the way being thus lengthened by five or six minutes' walk. that night also helene turned into the rue raynouard, craving for gloom and stillness, and entranced by the loneliness of the long thoroughfare, which was lighted by only a few gas-lamps, without the shadow of a single passer-by falling across its pavement. at this hour passy seemed out of the world; sleep had already fallen over it; it had all the quietude of a provincial town. on each side of the street loomed mansions, girls' schools, black and silent, and dining places, from the kitchens of which lights still streamed. there was not, however, a single shop to throw the glare of its frontage across the dimness. to henri and helene the loneliness was pregnant with intense charm. he had not ventured to offer her his arm. jeanne walked between them in the middle of the road, which was gravelled like a walk in some park. at last the houses came to an end, and then on each side were walls, over which spread mantling clematis and clusters of lilac blossoms. immense gardens parted the mansions, and here and there through the railings of an iron gate they could catch glimpses of a gloomy background of verdure, against which the tree-dotted turf assumed a more delicate hue. the air was filled with the perfume of irises growing in vases which they could scarce distinguish. all three paced on slowly through the warm spring night, which was steeping them in its odors, and jeanne, with childish artlessness, raised her face to the heavens, and exclaimed: "oh, mamma, see what a number of stars!" but behind them, like an echo of their own, came the footfall of mother fetu. nearer and nearer she approached, till they could hear her muttering the opening words of the angelic salutation "_ave marie, gratia plena_," repeating them over and over again with the same confused persistency. she was telling her beads on her homeward way. "i have still something left--may i give it to her?" jeanne asked her mother. and thereupon, without waiting for a reply, she left them, running towards the old woman, who was on the point of entering the passage des eaux. mother fetu clutched at the coin, calling upon all the angels of heaven to bless her. as she spoke, however, she grasped the child's hand and detained her by her side, then asking in changed tones: "the other lady is ill, is she not?" "no," answered jeanne, surprised. "may heaven shield her! may it shower its favors on her and her husband! don't run away yet, my dear little lady. let me say an _ave maria_ for your mother's sake, and you will join in the 'amen' with me. oh! your mother will allow you; you can catch her up." meanwhile henri and helene trembled as they found themselves suddenly left alone in the shadow cast by a line of huge chestnut trees that bordered the road. they quietly took a few steps. the chestnut trees had strewn the ground with their bloom, and they were walking upon this rosy-tinted carpet. on a sudden, however, they came to a stop, their hearts filled with such emotion that they could go no farther. "forgive me," said henri simply. "yes, yes," ejaculated helene. "but oh! be silent, i pray you." she had felt his hand touch her own, and had started back. fortunately jeanne ran towards them at the moment. "mamma, mamma!" she cried; "she made me say an _ave_; she says it will bring you good luck." the three then turned into the rue vineuse, while mother fetu crept down the steps of the passage des eaux, busy completing her rosary. the month slipped away. two or three more services were attended by madame deberle. one sunday, the last one, henri once more ventured to wait for helene and jeanne. the walk home thrilled them with joy. the month had been one long spell of wondrous bliss. the little church seemed to have entered into their lives to soothe their love and render its way pleasant. at first a great peace had settled on helene's soul; she had found happiness in this sanctuary where she imagined she could without shame dwell on her love; however, the undermining had continued, and when her holy rapture passed away she was again in the grip of her passion, held by bonds that would have plucked at her heartstrings had she sought to break them asunder. henri still preserved his respectful demeanor, but she could not do otherwise than see the passion burning in his face. she dreaded some outburst, and even grew afraid of herself. one afternoon, going homewards after a walk with jeanne, she passed along the rue de l'annonciation and entered the church. the child was complaining of feeling very tired. until the last day she had been unwilling to admit that the evening services exhausted her, so intense was the pleasure she derived from them; but her cheeks had grown waxy-pale, and the doctor advised that she should take long walks. "sit down here," said her mother. "it will rest you; we'll only stay ten minutes." she herself walked towards some chairs a short way off, and knelt down. she had placed jeanne close to a pillar. workmen were busy at the other end of the nave, taking down the hangings and removing the flowers, the ceremonials attending the month of mary having come to an end the evening before. with her face buried in her hands helene saw nothing and heard nothing; she was eagerly catechising her heart, asking whether she ought not to confess to abbe jouve what an awful life had come upon her. he would advise her, perhaps restore her lost peace. still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a fierce flood of joy. she hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest might succeed in finding a cure for it. ten minutes slipped away, then an hour. she was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart. at last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw abbe jouve gazing at her sorrowfully. it was he who was directing the workmen. having recognized jeanne, he had just come forward. "why, what is the matter, my child?" he asked of helene, who hastened to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears. she was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs. he approached still nearer, and gently resumed: "i do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in me? confide in the priest and forget the friend." "some other day," she said brokenly, "some other day, i promise you." jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over the great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the cross depicted in miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles. by degrees, however, the cold air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she remained plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling of discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she imagined she was going to die. but a grievous sorrow rankled in her heart--the flowers were being borne away. the great clusters of roses were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and chill. the marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it and there was no smoking incense. the lace-robed virgin moreover was being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms of two workmen. at the sight jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening her for some days had at last fallen upon her. and when helene, in distraction, carried her child, with the assistance of the sorrowing abbe, into a cab, she turned towards the porch with outstretched, trembling hands. "it's all this church! it's all this church!" she exclaimed, with a vehemence instinct with regret and self-reproach as she thought of the month of devout delight which she herself had tasted there. chapter xii. when evening came jeanne was somewhat better. she was able to get up, and, in order to remove her mother's fears, persisted in dragging herself into the dining-room, where she took her seat before her empty plate. "i shall be all right," she said, trying to smile. "you know very well that the least thing upsets me. get on with your dinner, mamma; i want you to eat." and in the end she pretended an appetite she did not feel, for she observed that her mother sat watching her paling and trembling, without being able to swallow a morsel. she promised to take some jam, and helene then hurried through her dinner, while the child, with a never-fading smile and her head nodding tremblingly, watched her with worshipping looks. on the appearance of the dessert she made an effort to carry out her promise, but tears welled into her eyes. "you see i can't get it down my throat," she murmured. "you mustn't be angry with me." the weariness that overwhelmed her was terrible. her legs seemed lifeless, her shoulders pained her as though gripped by a hand of iron. but she was very brave through it all, and choked at their source the moans which the shooting pains in her neck awakened. at one moment, however, she forgot herself, her head felt too heavy, and she was bent double by pain. her mother, as she gazed on her, so faint and feeble, was wholly unable to finish the pear which she was trying to force down her throat. her sobs choked her, and throwing down her napkin, she clasped jeanne in her arms. "my child! my child!" she wailed, her heart bursting with sorrow, as her eyes ranged round the dining-room where her darling, when in good health, had so often enlivened her by her fondness for tid-bits. at last jeanne woke to life again, and strove to smile as of old. "don't worry, mamma," said she; "i shall be all right soon. now that you have done you must put me to bed. i only wanted to see you have your dinner. oh! i know you; you wouldn't have eaten as much as a morsel of bread." helene bore her away in her arms. she had brought the little crib close to her own bed in the blue room. when jeanne had stretched out her limbs, and the bedclothes were tucked up under her chin, she declared she felt much better. there were no more complaints about dull pains at the back of her head; but she melted into tenderness, and her passionate love seemed to grow more pronounced. helene was forced to caress her, to avow intense affection for her, and to promise that she would again kiss her when she came to bed. "never mind if i'm sleeping," said jeanne. "i shall know you're there all the same." she closed her eyes and fell into a doze. helene remained near her, watching over her slumber. when rosalie entered on tip-toe to ask permission to go to bed, she answered "yes" with a nod. at last eleven o'clock struck, and helene was still watching there, when she imagined she heard a gentle tapping at the outer door. bewildered with astonishment, she took up the lamp and left the room to make sure. "who is there?" "'tis i; open the door," replied a voice in stifled tones. it was henri's voice. she quickly opened the door, thinking his coming only natural. no doubt he had but now been informed of jeanne's illness, and had hastened to her, although she had not summoned him to her assistance, feeling a certain shame at the thought of allowing him to share in attending on her daughter. however, he gave her no opportunity to speak. he followed her into the dining-room, trembling, with inflamed visage. "i beseech you, pardon me," he faltered, as he caught hold of her hand. "i haven't seen you for three days past, and i cannot resist the craving to see you." helene withdrew her hand. he stepped back, but, with his gaze still fixed on her, continued: "don't be afraid; i love you. i would have waited at the door had you not opened it. oh! i know very well it is simple madness, but i love you, i love you all the same!" her face was grave as she listened, eloquent with a dumb reproach which tortured him, and impelled him to pour forth his passionate love. but helene still remained standing, wholly unmoved. at last she spoke. "you know nothing, then?" asked she. he had taken her hand, and was raising it to his lips, when she started back with a gesture of impatience. "oh! leave me!" she exclaimed. "you see that i am not even listening to you. i have something far different to think about!" then becoming more composed, she put her question to him a second time. "you know nothing? well, my daughter is ill. i am pleased to see you; you will dispel my fears." she took up the lamp and walked on before him, but as they were passing through the doorway, she turned, and looking at him, said firmly: "i forbid you beginning again here. oh! you must not!" he entered behind her, scarcely understanding what had been enjoined on him. his temples throbbed convulsively, as he leaned over the child's little crib. "she is asleep; look at her," said helene in a whisper. he did not hear her; his passion would not be silenced. she was hanging over the bed in front of him, and he could see her rosy neck, with its wavy hair. he shut his eyes that he might escape the temptation of kissing her, as she said to him: "doctor, look at her, she is so feverish. oh, tell me whether it is serious!" then, yielding to professional habit, despite the tempest raging in his brain, he mechanically felt jeanne's pulse. nevertheless, so fierce was the struggle that he remained for a time motionless, seemingly unaware that he held this wasted little hand in his own. "is it a violent fever?" asked helene. "a violent fever! do you think so?" he repeated. the little hand was scorching his own. there came another silence; the physician was awakening within him, and passion was dying from his eyes. his face slowly grew paler; he bent down uneasily, and examined jeanne. "you are right; this is a very severe attack," he exclaimed. "my god! the poor child!" his passion was now dead; he was solely consumed by a desire to be of service to her. his coolness at once returned; he sat down, and was questioning the mother respecting the child's condition previous to this attack of illness, when jeanne awoke, moaning loudly. she again complained of a terrible pain in the head. the pangs which were darting through her neck and shoulders had attained such intensity that her every movement wrung a sob from her. helene knelt on the other side of the bed, encouraging her, and smiling on her, though her heart almost broke at the sight of such agony. "there's some one there, isn't there, mamma?" jeanne asked, as she turned round and caught sight of the doctor. "it is a friend, whom you know." the child looked at him for a time with thoughtful eyes, as if in doubt; but soon a wave of affection passed over her face. "yes, yes, i know him; i love him very much." and with her coaxing air she added: "you will have to cure me, won't you, sir, to make mamma happy? oh, i'll be good; i'll drink everything you give me." the doctor again felt her pulse, while helene grasped her other hand; and, as she lay there between them, her eyes travelled attentively from one to the other, as though no such advantageous opportunity of seeing and comparing them had ever occurred before. then her head shook with a nervous trembling; she grew agitated; and her tiny hands caught hold of her mother and the doctor with a convulsive grip. "do not go away; i'm so afraid. take care of me; don't let all the others come near me. i only want you, only you two, near me. come closer up to me, together!" she stammered. drawing them nearer, with a violent effort she brought them close to her, still uttering the same entreaty: "come close, together, together!" several times did she behave in the same delirious fashion. then came intervals of quiet, when a heavy sleep fell on her, but it left her breathless and almost dead. when she started out of these short dozes she heard nothing, saw nothing--a white vapor shrouded her eyes. the doctor remained watching over her for a part of the night, which proved a very bad one. he only absented himself for a moment to procure some medicine. towards morning, when he was about to leave, helene, with terrible anxiety in her face accompanied him into the ante-room. "well?" asked she. "her condition is very serious," he answered; "but you must not fear; rely on me; i will give you every assistance. i shall come back at ten o'clock." when helene returned to the bedroom she found jeanne sitting up in bed, gazing round her with bewildered looks. "you left me! you left me!" she wailed. "oh! i'm afraid; i don't want to be left all alone." to console her, her mother kissed her, but she still gazed round the room: "where is he?" she faltered. "oh! tell him not to go away; i want him to be here, i want him--" "he will come back, my darling!" interrupted helene, whose tears were mingling with jeanne's own. "he will not leave us, i promise you. he loves us too well. now, be good and lie down. i'll stay here till he comes back." "really? really?" murmured the child, as she slowly fell back into deep slumber. terrible days now began, three weeks full of awful agony. the fever did not quit its victim for an hour. jeanne only seemed tranquil when the doctor was present; she put one of her little hands in his, while her mother held the other. she seemed to find safety in their presence; she gave each of them an equal share of her tyrannical worship, as though she well knew beneath what passionate kindness she was sheltering herself. her nervous temperament, so exquisite in its sensibility, the keener since her illness, inspired her, no doubt, with the thought that only a miraculous effort of their love could save her. as the hours slipped away she would gaze on them with grave and searching looks as they sat on each side of her crib. her glances remained instinct with human passion, and though she spoke not she told them all she desired by the warm pressure of her hands, with which she besought them not to leave her, giving them to understand what peace was hers when they were present. whenever the doctor entered after having been away her joy became supreme, and her eyes, which never quitted the door, flashed with light; and then she would fall quietly asleep, all her fears fleeing as she heard her mother and him moving around her and speaking in whispers. on the day after the attack doctor bodin called. but jeanne suddenly turned away her head and refused to allow him to examine her. "i don't want him, mamma," she murmured, "i don't want him! i beg of you." as he made his appearance on the following day, helene was forced to inform him of the child's dislike, and thus it came about that the venerable doctor made no further effort to enter the sick-room. still, he climbed the stairs every other day to inquire how jeanne was getting on, and sometimes chatted with his brother professional, doctor deberle, who paid him all the deference due to an elder. moreover, it was useless to try to deceive jeanne. her senses had become wondrously acute. the abbe and monsieur rambaud paid a visit every night; they sat down and spent an hour in sad silence. one evening, as the doctor was going away, helene signed to monsieur rambaud to take his place and clasp the little one's hand, so that she might not notice the departure of her beloved friend. but two or three minutes had scarcely passed ere jeanne opened her eyes and quickly drew her hand away. with tears flowing she declared that they were behaving ill to her. "don't you love me any longer? won't you have me beside you?" asked poor monsieur rambaud, with tears in his eyes. she looked at him, deigning no reply; it seemed as if her heart was set on knowing him no more. the worthy man, grievously pained, returned to his corner. he always ended by thus gliding into a window-recess, where, half hidden behind a curtain, he would remain during the evening, in a stupor of grief, his eyes the while never quitting the sufferer. the abbe was there as well, with his large head and pallid face showing above his scraggy shoulders. he concealed his tears by blowing his nose loudly from time to time. the danger in which he saw his little friend lying wrought such havoc within him that his poor were for the time wholly forgotten. but it was useless for the two brothers to retire to the other end of the room; jeanne was still conscious of their presence. they were a source of vexation to her, and she would turn round with a harassed look, even though drowsy with fever. her mother bent over her to catch the words trembling on her lips. "oh! mamma, i feel so ill. all this is choking me; send everybody away --quick, quick!" helene with the utmost gentleness then explained to the two brothers the child's wish to fall asleep; they understood her meaning, and quitted the room with drooping heads. and no sooner had they gone than jeanne breathed with greater freedom, cast a glance round the chamber, and once more fixed a look of infinite tenderness on her mother and the doctor. "good-night," she whispered; "i feel well again; stay beside me." for three weeks she thus kept them by her side. henri had at first paid two visits each day, but soon he spent the whole night with them, giving every hour he could spare to the child. at the outset he had feared it was a case of typhoid fever; but so contradictory were the symptoms that he soon felt himself involved in perplexity. there was no doubt he was confronted by a disease of the chlorosis type, presenting the greatest difficulty in treatment, with the possibility of very dangerous complications, as the child was almost on the threshold of womanhood. he dreaded first a lesion of the heart and then the setting in of consumption. jeanne's nervous excitement, wholly beyond his control, was a special source of uneasiness; to such heights of delirium did the fever rise, that the strongest medicines were of no avail. he brought all his fortitude and knowledge to bear on the case, inspired with the one thought that his own happiness and life were at stake. on his mind there had now fallen a great stillness; not once during those three anxious weeks did his passion break its bonds. helene's breath no longer woke tremors within him, and when their eyes met they were only eloquent of the sympathetic sadness of two souls threatened by a common misfortune. nevertheless every moment brought their hearts nearer. they now lived only with the one idea. no sooner had he entered the bed-chamber than by a glance he gathered how jeanne had spent the night; and there was no need for him to speak for helene to learn what he thought of the child's condition. besides, with all the innate bravery of a mother, she had forced from him a declaration that he would not deceive her, but allow her to know his fears. always on her feet, not having had three hours' uninterrupted sleep for three weeks past, she displayed superhuman endurance and composure, and quelled her despair without a tear in order that she might concentrate her whole soul upon the struggle with the dread enemy. within and without her heart there was nothing but emptiness; the world around her, the usual thoughts of each hour, the consciousness of life itself, had all faded into darkness. existence held nothing for her. nothing now bound her to life but her suffering darling and this man who promised her a miracle. it was he, and he only, to whom she looked, to whom she listened, whose most trivial words were to her of the first importance, and into whose breast she would fain have transfused her own soul in order to increase his energy. insensibly, and without break, this idea wrought out its own accomplishment. almost every evening, when the fever was raging at its worst and jeanne lay in imminent peril, they were there beside her in silence; and as though eager to remind themselves that they stood shoulder to shoulder struggling against death, their hands met on the edge of the bed in a caressing clasp, while they trembled with solicitude and pity till a faint smile breaking over the child's face, and the sound of quiet and regular breathing, told them that the danger was past. then each encouraged the other by an inclination of the head. once again had their love triumphed; and every time the mute caress grew more demonstrative their hearts drew closer together. one night helene divined that henri was concealing something from her. for ten minutes, without a word crossing his lips, he had been examining jeanne. the little one complained of intolerable thirst; she seemed choking, and there was an incessant wheezing in her parched throat. then a purple flush came over her face, and she lapsed into a stupor which prevented her even from raising her eyelids. she lay motionless; it might have been imagined she was dead but for the sound coming from her throat. "you consider her very ill, do you not?" gasped helene. he answered in the negative; there was no change. but his face was ashy-white, and he remained seated, overwhelmed by his powerlessness. thereupon she also, despite the tension of her whole being, sank upon a chair on the other side of the bed. "tell me everything. you promised to tell me all. is she beyond hope?" he still sat silent, and she spoke again more vehemently: "you know how brave i am. have i wept? have i despaired? speak: i want to know the truth." henri fixed his eyes on her. the words came slowly from his lips. "well," said he, "if in an hour hence she hasn't awakened from this stupor, it will be all over." not a sob broke from helene; but icy horror possessed her and raised her hair on end. her eyes turned on jeanne; she fell on her knees and clasped her in her arms with a superb gesture eloquent of ownership, as though she could preserve her from ill, nestling thus against her shoulder. for more than a minute she kept her face close to the child's, gazing at her intently, eager to give her breath from her own nostrils, ay, and her very life too. the labored breathing of the little sufferer grew shorter and shorter. "can nothing be done?" she exclaimed, as she lifted her head. "why do you remain there? do something!" but he made a disheartened gesture. "do something!" she repeated. "there must be something to be done. you are not going to let her die oh, surely not!" "i will do everything possible," the doctor simply said. he rose up, and then a supreme struggle began. all the coolness and nerve of the practitioner had returned to him. till now he had not ventured to try any violent remedies, for he dreaded to enfeeble the little frame already almost destitute of life. but he no longer remained undecided, and straightway dispatched rosalie for a dozen leeches. and he did not attempt to conceal from the mother that this was a desperate remedy which might save or kill her child. when the leeches were brought in, her heart failed her for a moment. "gracious god! gracious god!" she murmured. "oh, if you should kill her!" he was forced to wring consent from her. "well, put them on," said she; "but may heaven guide your hand!" she had not ceased holding jeanne, and refused to alter her position, as she still desired to keep the child's little head nestling against her shoulder. with calm features he meantime busied himself with the last resource, not allowing a word to fall from his lips. the first application of the leeches proved unsuccessful. the minutes slipped away. the only sound breaking the stillness of the shadowy chamber was the merciless, incessant tick-tack of the timepiece. hope departed with every second. in the bright disc of light cast by the lamp, jeanne lay stretched among the disordered bedclothes, with limbs of waxen pallor. helene, with tearless eyes, but choking with emotion, gazed on the little body already in the clutches of death, and to see a drop of her daughter's blood appear, would willingly have yielded up all her own. and at last a ruddy drop trickled down--the leeches had made fast their hold; one by one they commenced sucking. the child's life was in the balance. these were terrible moments, pregnant with anguish. was that sigh the exhalation of jeanne's last breath, or did it mark her return to life? for a time helene's heart was frozen within her; she believed that the little one was dead; and there came to her a violent impulse to pluck away the creatures which were sucking so greedily; but some supernatural power restrained her, and she remained there with open mouth and her blood chilled within her. the pendulum still swung to and fro; the room itself seemed to wait the issue in anxious expectation. at last the child stirred. her heavy eyelids rose, but dropped again, as though wonder and weariness had overcome her. a slight quiver passed over her face; it seemed as if she were breathing. finally there was a trembling of the lips; and helene, in an agony of suspense, bent over her, fiercely awaiting the result. "mamma! mamma!" murmured jeanne. henri heard, and walking to the head of the bed, whispered in the mother's ear: "she is saved." "she is saved! she is saved!" echoed helene in stammering tones, her bosom filled with such joy that she fell on the floor close to the bed, gazing now at her daughter and now at the doctor with distracted looks. but she rose and giving way to a mighty impulse, threw herself on henri's neck. "i love you!" she exclaimed. this was her avowal--the avowal imprisoned so long, but at last poured forth in the crisis of emotion which had come upon her. mother and lover were merged in one; she proffered him her love in a fiery rush of gratitude. through her sobs she spoke to him in endearing words. her tears, dried at their source for three weeks, were now rolling down her cheeks. but at last she fell upon her knees, and took jeanne in her arms to lull her to deeper slumber against her shoulder; and at intervals whilst her child thus rested she raised to henri's eyes glistening with passionate tears. stretched in her cot, the bedclothes tucked under her chin, and her head, with its dark brown tresses, resting in the centre of the pillow, jeanne lay, relieved, but prostrate. her eyelids were closed, but she did not sleep. the lamp, placed on the table, which had been rolled close to the fireplace, lit but one end of the room, and the shade encompassed helene and henri, seated in their customary places on each side of the bed. but the child did not part them; on the contrary, she served as a closer bond between them, and her innocence was intermingled with their love on this first night of its avowal. at times helene rose on tiptoe to fetch the medicine, to turn up the lamp, or give some order to rosalie; while the doctor, whose eyes never quitted her, would sign to her to walk gently. and when she had sat down again they smiled at one another. not a word was spoken; all their interest was concentrated on jeanne, who was to them as their love itself. sometimes when the coverlet was being pulled up, or the child's head was being raised, their hands met and rested together in sweet forgetfulness. this undesigned, stealthy caress was the only one in which they indulged. "i am not sleeping," murmured jeanne. "i know very well you are there." on hearing her speak they were overjoyed. their hands parted; beyond this they had no desires. the improvement in the child's condition was to them satisfaction and peace. "are you feeling better, my darling?" asked helene, when she saw her stirring. jeanne made no immediate reply, and when she spoke it was dreamingly. "oh, yes! i don't feel anything now. but i can hear you, and that pleases me." after the lapse of a moment, she opened her eyes with an effort and looked at them. then an angelic smile crossed her face, and her eyelids dropped once more. on the morrow, when the abbe and monsieur rambaud made their appearance, helene gave way to a shrug of impatience. they were now a disturbing element in her happy nest. as they went on questioning her, shaking with fear lest they might receive bad tidings, she had the cruelty to reply that jeanne was no better. she spoke without consideration, driven to this strait by the selfish desire of treasuring for herself and henri the bliss of having rescued jeanne from death, and of alone knowing this to be so. what was their reason for seeking a share in her happiness? it belonged to henri and herself, and had it been known to another would have seemed to her impaired in value. to her imagination it would have been as though a stranger were participating in her love. the priest, however, approached the bed. "jeanne, 'tis we, your old friends. don't you know us?" she nodded gravely to them in recognition, but she was unwilling to speak to them; she was in a thoughtful mood, and she cast a look full of meaning on her mother. the two poor men went away more heartbroken than on any previous evening. three days later henri allowed his patient her first boiled egg. it was a matter of the highest importance. jeanne's mind was made up to eat it with none present but her mother and the doctor, and the door must be closed. as it happened, monsieur rambaud was present at the moment; and when helene began to spread a napkin, by way of tablecloth, on the bed, the child whispered in her ear: "wait a moment--when he has gone." and as soon as he had left them she burst out: "now, quick! quick! it's far nicer when there's nobody but ourselves." helene lifted her to a sitting posture, while henri placed two pillows behind her to prop her up; and then, with the napkin spread before her and a plate on her knees, jeanne waited, smiling. "shall i break the shell for you?" asked her mother. "yes, do, mamma." "and i will cut you three little bits of bread," added the doctor. "oh! four; you'll see if i don't eat four." it was now the doctor's turn to be addressed endearingly. when he gave her the first slice, she gripped his hand, and as she still clasped her mother's, she rained kisses on both with the same passionate tenderness. "come, come; you will have to be good," entreated helene, who observed that she was ready to burst into tears; "you must please us by eating your egg." at this jeanne ventured to begin; but her frame was so enfeebled that with the second sippet of bread she declared herself wearied. as she swallowed each mouthful, she would say, with a smile, that her teeth were tender. henri encouraged her, while helene's eyes were brimful of tears. heaven! she saw her child eating! she watched the bread disappear, and the gradual consumption of this first egg thrilled her to the heart. to picture jeanne stretched dead beneath the sheets was a vision of mortal terror; but now she was eating, and eating so prettily, with all an invalid's characteristic dawdling and hesitancy! "you won't be angry, mamma? i'm doing my best. why, i'm at my third bit of bread! are you pleased?" "yes, my darling, quite pleased. oh! you don't know all the joy the sight gives me!" and then, in the happiness with which she overflowed, helene forgetfully leaned against henri's shoulder. both laughed gleefully at the child, but over her face there suddenly crept a sullen flush; she gazed at them stealthily, and drooped her head, and refused to eat any more, her features glooming the while with distrust and anger. at last they had to lay her back in bed again. chapter xiii. months slipped away, and jeanne was still convalescent. august came, and she had not quitted her bed. when evening fell she would rise for an hour or two; but even the crossing of the room to the window--where she reclined on an invalid-chair and gazed out on paris, flaming with the ruddy light of the dying sun--seemed too great a strain for her wearied frame. her attenuated limbs could scarce bear their burden, and she would declare with a wan smile that the blood in her veins would not suffice for a little bird, and that she must have plenty of soup. morsels of raw meat were dipped in her broth. she had grown to like this mixture, as she longed to be able to go down to play in the garden. the weeks and the months which slipped by were ever instinct with the same delightful monotony, and helene forgot to count the days. she never left the house; at jeanne's side she forgot the whole world. no news from without reached her ears. her retreat, though it looked down on paris, which with its smoke and noise stretched across the horizon, was as secret and secluded as any cave of holy hermit amongst the hills. her child was saved, and the knowledge of it satisfied all her desires. she spent her days in watching over her return to health, rejoicing in a shade of bright color returning to her cheeks, in a lively look, or in a gesture of gladness. every hour made her daughter more like what she had been of old, with lovely eyes and wavy hair. the slower jeanne's recovery, the greater joy was yielded to helene, who recalled the olden days when she had suckled her, and, as she gazed on her gathering strength, felt even a keener emotion than when in the past she had measured her two little feet in her hand to see if she would soon be able to walk. at the same time some anxiety remained to helene. on several occasions she had seen a shadow come over jeanne's face--a shadow of sudden distrust and sourness. why was her laughter thus abruptly turned to sulkiness? was she suffering? was she hiding some quickening of the old pain? "tell me, darling, what is the matter? you were laughing just a moment ago, and now you are nearly crying! speak to me: do you feel a pain anywhere?" but jeanne abruptly turned away her head and buried her face in the pillow. "there's nothing wrong with me," she answered curtly. "i want to be left alone." and she would lie brooding the whole afternoon, with her eyes fixed on the wall, showing no sign of affectionate repentance, but plunged in a sadness which baffled her forlorn mother. the doctor knew not what to say; these fits of gloom would always break out when he was there, and he attributed them to the sufferer's nervousness. he impressed on helene the necessity of crossing her in nothing. one afternoon jeanne had fallen asleep. henri, who was pleased with her progress, had lingered in the room, and was carrying on a whispered conversation with helene, who was once more busy with her everlasting needlework at her seat beside the window. since the terrible night when she had confessed she loved him both had lived on peacefully in the consciousness of their mutual passions, careless of the morrow, and without a thought of the world. around jeanne's bed, in this room that still reverberated with her agony, there was an atmosphere of purity which shielded them from any outburst. the child's innocent breath fell on them with a quieting influence. but as the little invalid slowly grew well again, their love in very sympathy took new strength, and they would sit side by side with beating hearts, speaking little, and then only in whispers, lest the little one might be awakened. their words were without significance, but struck re-echoing chords within the breast of each. that afternoon their love revealed itself in a thousand ways. "i assure you she is much better," said the doctor. "in a fortnight she will be able to go down to the garden." helene went on stitching quickly. "yesterday she was again very sad," she murmured, "but this morning she was laughing and happy. she has given me her promise to be good." a long silence followed. the child was still plunged in sleep, and their souls were enveloped in a profound peace. when she slumbered thus, their relief was intense; they seemed to share each other's hearts the more. "have you not seen the garden yet?" asked henri. "just now it's full of flowers." "the asters are out, aren't they?" she questioned. "yes; the flower-bed looks magnificent. the clematises have wound their way up into the elms. it is quite a nest of foliage." there was another silence. helene ceased sewing, and gave him a smile. to their fancy it seemed as though they were strolling together along high-banked paths, dim with shadows, amidst which fell a shower of roses. as he hung over her he drank in the faint perfume of vervain that arose from her dressing-gown. however, all at once a rustling of the sheets disturbed them. "she is wakening!" exclaimed helene, as she started up. henri drew himself away, and simultaneously threw a glance towards the bed. jeanne had but a moment before gripped the pillow with her arms, and, with her chin buried in it, had turned her face towards them. but her eyelids were still shut, and judging by her slow and regular breathing, she had again fallen asleep. "are you always sewing like this?" asked henri, as he came nearer to helene. "i cannot remain with idle hands," she answered. "it is mechanical enough, but it regulates my thoughts. for hours i can think of the same thing without wearying." he said no more, but his eye dwelt on the needle as the stitching went on almost in a melodious cadence; and it seemed to him as if the thread were carrying off and binding something of their lives together. for hours she could have sewn on, and for hours he could have sat there, listening to the music of the needle, in which, like a lulling refrain, re-echoed one word that never wearied them. it was their wish to live their days like this in that quiet nook, to sit side by side while the child was asleep, never stirring from their places lest they might awaken her. how sweet was that quiescent silence, in which they could listen to the pulsing of hearts, and bask in the delight of a dream of everlasting love! "how good you are!" were the words which came several times from his lips, the joy her presence gave him only finding expression in that one phrase. again she raised her head, never for a moment deeming it strange that she should be so passionately worshipped. henri's face was near her own, and for a second they gazed at one another. "let me get on with my work," she said in a whisper. "i shall never have it finished." but just then an instinctive dread prompted her to turn round, and indeed there lay jeanne, lowering upon them with deadly pale face and great inky-black eyes. the child had not made the least movement; her chin was still buried in the downy pillow, which she clasped with her little arms. she had only opened her eyes a moment before and was contemplating them. "jeanne, what's the matter?" asked helene. "are you ill? do you want anything?" the little one made no reply, never stirred, did not even lower the lids of her great flashing eyes. a sullen gloom was on her brow, and in her pallid cheeks were deep hollows. she seemed about to throw back her hands as though a convulsion was imminent. helene started up, begging her to speak; but she remained obstinately stiff, darting such black looks on her mother that the latter's face became purple with blushes, and she murmured: "doctor, see; what is the matter with her?" henri had drawn his chair away from helene's. he ventured near the bed, and was desirous of taking hold of one of the little hands which so fiercely gripped the pillow. but as he touched jeanne she trembled in every limb, turned with a start towards the wall, and exclaimed: "leave me alone; you, i mean! you are hurting me!" she pulled the coverlet over her face, and for a quarter of an hour they attempted, without success, to soothe her with gentle words. at last, as they still persevered, she sat up with her hands clasped in supplication: "oh, please leave me alone; you are tormenting me! leave me alone!" helene, in her bewilderment, once more sat down at the window, but henri did not resume his place beside her. they now understood: jeanne was devoured by jealousy. they were unable to speak another word. for a minute or two the doctor paced up and down in silence, and then slowly quitted the room, well understanding the meaning of the anxious glances which the mother was darting towards the bed. as soon as he had gone, she ran to her daughter's side and pressed her passionately to her breast, with a wild outburst of words. "hear me, my pet, i am alone now; look at me, speak to me. are you in pain? have i vexed you then? tell me everything! is it i whom you are angry with? what are you troubled about?" but it was useless to pray for an answer, useless to plead with all sorts of questions; jeanne declared that she was quite well. then she started up with a frenzied cry: "you don't love me any more, mamma! you don't love me any more!" she burst into grievous sobbing, and wound her arms convulsively round her mother's neck, raining greedy kisses on her face. helene's heart was rent within her, she felt overwhelmed with unspeakable sadness, and strained her child to her bosom, mingling her tears with her own, and vowing to her that she would never love anybody save herself. from that day onward a mere word or glance would suffice to awaken jeanne's jealousy. while she was in the perilous grip of death some instinct had led her to put her trust in the loving tenderness with which they had shielded and saved her. but now strength was returning to her, and she would allow none to participate in her mother's love. she conceived a kind of spite against the doctor, a spite which stealthily grew into hate as her health improved. it was hidden deep within her self-willed brain, in the innermost recesses of her suspicious and silent nature. she would never consent to explain things; she herself knew not what was the matter with her; but she felt ill whenever the doctor drew too near to her mother; and would press her hands violently to her bosom. her torment seemed to sear her very heart, and furious passion choked her and made her cheeks turn pale. nor could she place any restraint on herself; she imagined every one unjust, grew stiff and haughty, and deigned no reply when she was charged with being very ill-tempered. helene, trembling with dismay, dared not press her to explain the source of her trouble; indeed, her eyes turned away whenever this eleven-year-old child darted at her a glance in which was concentrated the premature passion of a woman. "oh, jeanne, you are making me very wretched!" she would sometimes say to her, the tears standing in her eyes as she observed her stifling in her efforts to restrain a sudden bubbling up of mad anger. but these words, once so potent for good, which had so often drawn the child weeping to helene's arms, were now wholly without influence. there was a change taking place in her character. her humors varied ten times a day. generally she spoke abruptly and imperiously, addressing her mother as though she were rosalie, and constantly plaguing her with the pettiest demands, ever impatient and loud in complaint. "give me a drink. what a time you take! i am left here dying of thirst!" and when helene handed the glass to her she would exclaim: "there's no sugar in it; i won't have it!" then she would throw herself back on her pillow, and a second time push away the glass, with the complaint that the drink was too sweet. they no longer cared to attend to her, she would say; they were doing it purposely. helene, dreading lest she might infuriate her to a yet greater extent, made no reply, but gazed on her with tears trembling on her cheeks. however, jeanne's anger was particularly visible when the doctor made his appearance. the moment he entered the sick-room she would lay herself flat in bed, or sullenly hang her head in the manner of savage brutes who will not suffer a stranger to come near. sometimes she refused to say a word, allowing him to feel her pulse or examine her while she remained motionless with her eyes fixed on the ceiling. on other days she would not even look at him, but clasp her hands over her eyes with such a gust of passion that to remove them would have necessitated the violent twisting of her arms. one night, as her mother was about to give her a spoonful of medicine, she burst out with the cruel remark: "i won't have it; it will poison me." helene's heart, pierced to the quick, sank within her, and she dreaded to elicit what the remark might mean. "what are you saying, my child?" she asked. "do you understand what you are talking about? medicine is never nice to take. you must drink this." but jeanne lay there in obstinate silence, and averted her head in order to get rid of the draught. from that day onward she was full of caprices, swallowing or rejecting her medicines according to the humor of the moment. she would sniff at the phials and examine them suspiciously as they stood on the night-table. should she have refused to drink the contents of one of them she never forgot its identity, and would have died rather than allow a drop from it to pass her lips. honest monsieur rambaud alone could persuade her at times. it was he whom she now overwhelmed with the most lavish caresses, especially if the doctor were looking on; and her gleaming eyes were turned towards her mother to note if she were vexed by this display of affection towards another. "oh, it's you, old friend!" she exclaimed the moment he entered. "come and sit down near me. have you brought me any oranges?" she sat up and laughingly fumbled in his pockets, where goodies were always secreted. then she embraced him, playing quite a love comedy, while her revenge found satisfaction in the anguish which she imagined she could read on her mother's pallid face. monsieur rambaud beamed with joy over his restoration to his little sweetheart's good graces. but helene, on meeting him in the ante-room, was usually able to acquaint him with the state of affairs, and all at once he would look at the draught standing on the table and exclaim: "what! are you having syrup?" jeanne's face clouded over, and, in a low voice, she replied: "no, no, it's nasty, it's nauseous; i can't take it." "what! you can't drink this?" questioned monsieur rambaud gaily. "i can wager it's very good. may i take a little of it?" then without awaiting her permission he poured out a large spoonful, and swallowed it with a grimace that seemed to betoken immeasurable satisfaction. "how delicious!" he murmured. "you are quite wrong; see, just take a little to try." jeanne, amused, then made no further resistance. she would drink whatever monsieur rambaud happened to taste. she watched his every motion greedily, and appeared to study his features with a view to observing the effects of the medicine. the good man for a month gorged himself in this way with drugs, and, on helene gratefully thanking him, merely shrugged his shoulders. "oh! it's very good stuff!" he declared, with perfect conviction, making it his pleasure to share the little one's medicines. he passed his evenings at her bedside. the abbe, on the other hand, came regularly every second day. jeanne retained them with her as long as possible, and displayed vexation when she saw them take up their hats. her immediate dread lay in being left alone with her mother and the doctor, and she would fain have always had company in the room to keep these two apart. frequently, without reason, she called rosalie to her. when they were alone with her, her eyes never quitted them, but pursued them into every corner of the bedroom. whenever their hands came together, her face grew ashy white. if a whispered word was exchanged between them, she started up in anger, demanding to know what had been said. it was a grievance to her that her mother's gown should sweep against the doctor's foot. they could not approach or look at one another without the child falling immediately into violent trembling. the extreme sensitiveness of her innocent little being induced in her an exasperation which would suddenly prompt her to turn round, should she guess that they were smiling at one another behind her. she could divine the times when their love was at its height by the atmosphere wafted around her. it was then that her gloom became deeper, and her agonies were those of nervous women at the approach of a terrible storm. every one about helene now looked on jeanne as saved, and she herself had slowly come to recognize this as a certainty. thus it happened that jeanne's fits were at last regarded by her as the bad humors of a spoilt child, and as of little or no consequence. a craving to live sprang up within her after the six weeks of anguish which she had just spent. her daughter was now well able to dispense with her care for hours; and for her, who had so long become unconscious of life, these hours opened up a vista of delight, of peace, and pleasure. she rummaged in her drawers, and made joyous discoveries of forgotten things; she plunged into all sorts of petty tasks, in the endeavor to resume the happy course of her daily existence. and in this upwelling of life her love expanded, and the society of henri was the reward she allowed herself for the intensity of her past sufferings. in the shelter of that room they deemed themselves beyond the world's ken, and every hindrance in their path was forgotten. the child, to whom their love had proved a terror, alone remained a bar between them. jeanne became, indeed, a veritable scourge to their affections. an ever-present barrier, with her eyes constantly upon them, she compelled them to maintain a continued restraint, an affectation of indifference, with the result that their hearts were stirred with even greater motion than before. for days they could not exchange a word; they knew intuitively that she was listening even when she was seemingly wrapped in slumber. one evening, when helene had quitted the room with henri, to escort him to the front door, jeanne burst out with the cry, "mamma! mamma!" in a voice shrill with rage. helene was forced to return, for she heard the child leap from her bed; and she met her running towards her, shivering with cold and passion. jeanne would no longer let her remain away from her. from that day forward they could merely exchange a clasp of the hand on meeting and parting. madame deberle was now spending a month at the seaside, and the doctor, though he had all his time at his own command, dared not pass more than ten minutes in helene's company. their long chats at the window had come to an end. what particularly tortured their hearts was the fickleness of jeanne's humor. one night, as the doctor hung over her, she gave way to tears. for a whole day her hate changed to feverish tenderness, and helene felt happy once more; but on the morrow, when the doctor entered the room, the child received him with such a display of sourness that the mother besought him with a look to leave them. jeanne had fretted the whole night in angry regret over her own good-humor. not a day passed but what a like scene was enacted. and after the blissful hours the child brought them in her moods of impassioned tenderness these hours of misery fell on them with the torture of the lash. a feeling of revulsion at last awoke within helene. to all seeming her daughter would be her death. why, when her illness had been put to flight, did the ill-natured child work her utmost to torment her? if one of those intoxicating dreams took possession of her imagination--a mystic dream in which she found herself traversing a country alike unknown and entrancing with henri by her side jeanne's face, harsh and sullen, would suddenly start up before her and thus her heart was ever being rent in twain. the struggle between her maternal affection and her passion became fraught with the greatest suffering. one evening, despite helene's formal edict of banishment, the doctor called. for eight days they had been unable to exchange a word together. she would fain that he had not entered; but he did so on learning that jeanne was in a deep sleep. they sat down as of old, near the window, far from the glare of the lamp, with the peaceful shadows around them. for two hours their conversation went on in such low whispers that scarcely a sound disturbed the silence of the large room. at times they turned their heads and glanced at the delicate profile of jeanne, whose little hands, clasped together, were reposing on the coverlet. but in the end they grew forgetful of their surroundings, and their talk incautiously became louder. then, all at once, jeanne's voice rang out. "mamma! mamma!" she cried, seized with sudden agitation, as though suffering from nightmare. she writhed about in her bed, her eyelids still heavy with sleep, and then struggled to reach a sitting posture. "hide, i beseech you!" whispered helene to the doctor in a tone of anguish. "you will be her death if you stay here." in an instant henri vanished into the window-recess, concealed by the blue velvet curtain; but it was in vain, the child still kept up her pitiful cry: "oh, mamma! mamma! i suffer so much." "i am here beside you, my darling; where do you feel the pain?" "i don't know. oh, see, it is here! oh, it is scorching me!" with eyes wide open and features distorted, she pressed her little hands to her bosom. "it came on me in a moment. i was asleep, wasn't i? but i felt something like a burning coal." "but it's all gone now. you're not pained any longer, are you?" "yes, yes, i feel it still." she glanced uneasily round the room. she was now wholly awake; the sullen gloom crept over her face once more, and her cheeks became livid. "are you by yourself, mamma?" she asked. "of course i am, my darling!" nevertheless jeanne shook her head and gazed about, sniffing the air, while her agitation visibly increased. "no, you're not; i know you're not. there's some one--oh, mamma! i'm afraid, i'm afraid! you are telling me a story; you are not by yourself." she fell back in bed in an hysterical fit, sobbing loudly and huddling herself beneath the coverlet, as though to ward off some danger. helene, crazy with alarm, dismissed henri without delay, despite his wish to remain and look after the child. but she drove him out forcibly, and on her return clasped jeanne in her arms, while the little one gave vent to the one pitiful cry, with every utterance of which her sobbing was renewed louder than ever: "you don't love me any more! you don't love me any more!" "hush, hush, my angel! don't say that," exclaimed the mother in agony. "you are all the world to me. you'll see yet whether i love you or not." she nursed her until the morning broke, intent on yielding up to her all her heart's affections, though she was appalled at realizing how completely the love of herself possessed this darling child. next day she deemed a consultation necessary. doctor bodin, dropping in as though by chance, subjected the patient with many jokes to a careful examination; and a lengthy discussion ensued between him and doctor deberle, who had remained in the adjacent room. both readily agreed that there were no serious symptoms apparent at the moment, but they were afraid of complex developments, and cross-questioned helene for some time. they realized that they were dealing with one of those nervous affections which have a family history, and set medical skill at defiance. she told them, what they already partly knew, that her grandmother[*] was confined in the lunatic asylum of les tulettes at a short distance from plassans, and that her mother had died from galloping consumption, after many years of brain affection and hysterical fits. she herself took more after her father; she had his features and the same gravity of temperament. jeanne, on the other hand, was the facsimile of her grandmother; but she never would have her strength, commanding figure, or sturdy, bony frame. the two doctors enjoined on her once more that the greatest care was requisite. too many precautions could not be taken in dealing with chloro-anaemical affections, which tend to develop a multitude of dangerous diseases. [*] adelaide fouque, already mentioned, who figures so prominently in "the fortune of the rougons," and dies under such horrible circumstances in "doctor pascal." henri had listened to old doctor bodin with a deference which he had never before displayed for a colleague. he besought his advice on jeanne's case with the air of a pupil who is full of doubt. truth to tell, this child inspired him with dread; he felt that her case was beyond his science, and he feared lest she might die under his hands and her mother be lost to him for ever. a week passed away. he was no longer admitted by helene into the little one's presence; and in the end, sad and sick at heart, he broke off his visits of his own accord. as the month of august verged on its close, jeanne recovered sufficient strength to rise and walk across the room. the lightness of her heart spoke in her laughter. a fortnight had elapsed since the recurrence of any nervous attack. the thought that her mother was again all her own and would ever cling to her had proved remedy enough. at first distrust had rankled in her mind; while letting helene kiss her she had remained uneasy at her least movement, and had imperiously besought her hand before she fell asleep, anxious to retain it in her own during her slumber. but at last, with the knowledge that nobody came near, she had regained confidence, enraptured by the prospect of a reopening of the old happy life when they had sat side by side, working at the window. every day brought new roses to her cheeks; and rosalie declared that she was blossoming brighter and brighter every hour. there were times, however, as night fell, when helene broke down. since her daughter's illness her face had remained grave and somewhat pale, and a deep wrinkle, never before visible, furrowed her brow. when jeanne caught sight of her in these hours of weariness, despair, and voidness, she herself would feel very wretched, her heart heavy with vague remorse. gently and silently she would then twine her arms around her neck. "are you happy, mother darling?" came the whisper. a thrill ran through helene's frame, and she hastened to answer: "yes, of course, my pet." still the child pressed her question: "are you, oh! are you happy? quite sure?" "quite sure. why should i feel unhappy?" with this jeanne would clasp her closer in her little arms, as though to requite her. she would love her so well, she would say--so well, indeed, that nowhere in all paris could a happier mother be found. chapter xiv. during august doctor deberle's garden was like a well of foliage. the railings were hidden both by the twining branches of the lilac and laburnum trees and by the climbing plants, ivy, honeysuckle, and clematis, which sprouted everywhere in luxuriance, and glided and intermingled in inextricable confusion, drooping down in leafy canopies, and running along the walls till they reached the elms at the far end, where the verdure was so profuse that you might have thought a tent were stretched between the trees, the elms serving as its giant props. the garden was so small that the least shadow seemed to cover it. at noon the sun threw a disc of yellow light on the centre, illumining the lawn and its two flower-beds. against the garden steps was a huge rose-bush, laden with hundreds of large tea-roses. in the evening when the heat subsided their perfume became more penetrating, and the air under the elms grew heavy with their warm breath. nothing could exceed the charm of this hidden, balmy nook, into which no neighborly inquisition could peep, and which brought one a dream of the forest primeval, albeit barrel-organs were playing polkas in the rue vineuse, near by. "why, madame, doesn't mademoiselle go down to the garden?" rosalie daily asked. "i'm sure it would do her good to romp about under the trees." one of the elms had invaded rosalie's kitchen with its branches. she would pull some of the leaves off as she gazed with delight on the clustering foliage, through which she could see nothing. "she isn't strong enough yet," was helene's reply. "the cold, shady garden might be harmful to her." rosalie was in no wise convinced. a happy thought with her was not easily abandoned. madame must surely be mistaken in imagining that it would be cold or harmful. perhaps madame's objection sprang rather from the fear that she would be in somebody's way; but that was nonsense. mademoiselle would of a truth be in nobody's way; not a living soul made any appearance there. the doctor shunned the spot, and as for madame, his wife, she would remain at the seaside till the middle of september. this was so certain that the doorkeeper had asked zephyrin to give the garden a rake over, and zephyrin and she herself had spent two sunday afternoons there already. oh! it was lovely, lovelier than one could imagine. helene, however, still declined to act on the suggestion. jeanne seemed to have a great longing to enjoy a walk in the garden, which had been the ceaseless topic of her discourse during her illness; but a vague feeling of embarrassment made her eyes droop and closed her mouth on the subject in her mother's presence. at last when sunday came round again the maid hurried into the room exclaiming breathlessly: "oh! madame, there's nobody there, i give you my word! only myself and zephyrin, who is raking! do let her come. you can't imagine how fine it is outside. come for a little, only a little while, just to see!" her conviction was such that helene gave way. she cloaked jeanne in a shawl, and told rosalie to take a heavy wrap with her. the child was in an ecstasy, which spoke silently from the depths of her large sparkling eyes; she even wished to descend the staircase without help in order that her strength might be made plain. however, her mother's arms were stretched out behind her, ready to lend support. when they had reached the foot of the stairs and entered the garden, they both gave vent to an exclamation. so little did this umbrageous, thicket-girt spot resemble the trim nook they had seen in the springtime that they failed to recognize it. "ah! you wouldn't believe me!" declared rosalie, in triumphant tones. the clumps of shrubbery had grown to great proportions, making the paths much narrower, and, in walking, their skirts caught in some of the interwoven branches. to the fancy it seemed some far-away recess in a wood, arched over with foliage, from which fell a greeny light of delightful charm and mystery. helene directed her steps towards the elm beneath which she had sat in april. "but i don't wish her to stay here," said she. "it is shady and coldish." "well, well, you will see in a minute," answered the maid. three steps farther on they emerged from the seeming forest, and, in the midst of the leafy profusion they found the sun's golden rays streaming on the lawn, warm and still as in a woodland clearing. as they looked up they saw the branches standing out against the blue of the sky with the delicacy of guipure. the tea-roses on the huge bush, faint in the heat, dropped slumberously from their stems. the flower-beds were full of red and white asters, looking with their old-world air like blossoms woven in some ancient tapestry. "now you'll see," said rosalie. "i'm going to put her all right myself." she had folded and placed the wrap on the edge of a walk, where the shadow came to an end. here she made jeanne sit down, covering her shoulders with a shawl, and bidding her stretch out her little legs. in this fashion the shade fell on the child's head, while her feet lay in the sunshine. "are you all right, my darling?" helene asked. "oh, yes," was her answer. "i don't feel cold a bit, you know. i almost think i am sweltering before a big fire. ah! how well one can breathe! how pleasant it is!" thereupon helene, whose eyes had turned uneasily towards the closed window-shutters of the house, expressed her intention of returning upstairs for a little while, and loaded rosalie with a variety of injunctions. she would have to watch the sun; she was not to leave jeanne there for more than half an hour; and she must not lose sight of her for a moment. "don't be alarmed, mamma," exclaimed the child, with a laugh. "there are no carriages to pass along here." left to amuse herself, she gathered a handful of gravel from the path at her side, and took pleasure in letting it fall from her clasped hands like a shower of rain. zephyrin meantime was raking. on catching sight of madame and her daughter he had slipped on his great-coat, which he had previously hung from the branch of a tree; and in token of respect had stood stock-still, with his rake idle in his hand. throughout jeanne's illness he had come every sunday as usual; but so great had been the caution with which he had slipped into the kitchen, that helene would scarcely have dreamt of his presence had not rosalie on each occasion been deputed as his messenger to inquire about the invalid's progress, and convey his condolences. yes, so ran her comments, he was now laying claim to good manners; paris was giving him some polish! and at present here he was, leaning on his rake, and mutely addressing jeanne with a sympathetic nod. as soon as she saw him, her face broke into smiles. "i have been very ill," she said. "yes, i know, mademoiselle," he replied as he placed his hand on his heart. and inspired with the wish to say something pretty or comical, which might serve to enliven the meeting, he added: "you see, your health has been taking a rest. now it will indulge in a snore." jeanne had again gathered up a handful of gravel, while he, perfectly satisfied, and opening his mouth wide from ear to ear in a burst of silent laughter, renewed his raking with all the strength of his arms. as the rake travelled over the gravel a regular, strident sound arose. when a few minutes had elapsed rosalie, seeing her little charge absorbed in her amusement, seemingly happy and at ease, drew gradually farther away from her, as though lured by the grating of this rake. zephyrin was now working away in the full glare of the sun, on the other side of the lawn. "you are sweating like an ox," she whispered to him. "take off your great-coat. be quick; mademoiselle won't be offended." he relieved himself of the garment, and once more suspended it from a branch. his red trousers, supported by a belt round the waist, reached almost to his chest, while his shirt of stout, unbleached linen, held at the neck by a narrow horsehair band, was so stiff that it stuck out and made him look even rounder than he was. he tucked up his sleeves with a certain amount of affectation, as though to show rosalie a couple of flaming hearts, which, with the inscription "for ever," had been tattooed on them at the barracks. "did you go to mass this morning?" asked rosalie, who usually tackled him with this question every sunday. "to mass! to mass!" he repeated, with a chuckle. his red ears seemed to stand out from his head, shorn to the very skin, and the whole of his diminutive barrel-like body expressed a spirit of banter. at last the confession came. "of course i went to mass." "you are lying," rosalie burst out violently. "i know you are lying; your nose is twitching. oh, zephyrin, you are going to the dogs--you have left off going to church! beware!" his answer, lover-like, was an attempt to put his arm round her waist, but to all appearance she was shocked, for she exclaimed: "i'll make you put on your coat again if you don't behave yourself. aren't you ashamed? why, there's mademoiselle looking at you!" thereupon zephyrin turned to his raking once more. in truth, jeanne had raised her eyes towards them. her amusement was palling on her somewhat; the gravel thrown aside, she had been gathering leaves and plucking grass; but a feeling of indolence crept over her, and now she preferred to do nothing but gaze at the sunshine as it fell on her more and more. a few moments previously only her legs, as far as the knees, had been bathed in this warm cascade of sunshine, but now it reached her waist, the heat increasing like an entrancing caress. what particularly amused her were the round patches of light, of a beautiful golden yellow, which danced over her shawl, for all the world like living creatures. she tossed back her head to see if they were perchance creeping towards her face, and meanwhile clasped her little hands together in the glare of the sunshine. how thin and transparent her hands seemed! the sun's rays passed through them, but all the same they appeared to her very pretty, pinky like shells, delicate and attenuated like the tiny hands of an infant christ. then too the fresh air, the gigantic trees around her, and the warmth, had lulled her somewhat into a trance. sleep, she imagined, had come upon her, and yet she could still see and hear. it all seemed to her very nice and pleasant. "mademoiselle, please draw back a bit," said rosalie, who had approached her. "the sun's heat is too warm for you." but with a wave of her hand jeanne declined to stir. for the time her attention was riveted on the maid and the little soldier. she pretended to direct her glances towards the ground, with the intention of making them believe that she did not see them; but in reality, despite her apparent drowsiness, she kept watching them from beneath her long eyelashes. rosalie stood near her for a minute or two longer, but was powerless against the charms of the grating rake. once more she slowly dragged herself towards zephyrin, as if in spite of her will. she resented the change in manner which he was now displaying, and yet her heart was bursting with mute admiration. the little soldier had used to good purpose his long strolls with his comrades in the jardin des plantes and round the place du chateau-d'eau, where his barracks stood, and the result was the acquisition of the swaying, expansive graces of the parisian fire-eater. he had learnt the flowery talk, gallant readiness, and involved style of language so dear to the hearts of the ladies. at times she was thrilled with intense pleasure as she listened to the phrases which he repeated to her with a swagger of the shoulders, phrases full of incomprehensible words that inflamed her cheeks with a flush of pride. his uniform no longer sat awkwardly on him; he swung his arms to and fro with a knowing air, and had an especially noticeable style of wearing his shako on the back of his head, with the result that his round face with its tip of a nose became extremely prominent, while his headgear swayed gently with the rolling of his body. besides, he was growing quite free and easy, quaffed his dram, and ogled the fair sex. with his sneering ways and affectation of reticence, he now doubtless knew a great deal more than she did. paris was fast taking all the remaining rust off him; and rosalie stood before him, delighted yet angry, undecided whether to scratch his face or let him give utterance to foolish prattle. zephyrin, meanwhile, raking away, had turned the corner of the path. he was now hidden by a big spindle-tree, and was darting side-glances at rosalie, luring her on against her will with the strokes of his rake. when she had got near him, he pinched her roughly. "don't cry out; that's only to show you how i love you!" he said in a husky whisper. "and take that over and above." so saying he kissed her where he could, his lips lighting somewhere on her ear. then, as rosalie gave him a fierce nip in reply, he retaliated by another kiss, this time on her nose. though she was well pleased, her face turned fiery-red; she was furious that jeanne's presence should prevent her from giving him a box on the ear. "i have pricked my finger," she declared to jeanne as she returned to her, by way of explaining the exclamation that escaped her lips. however, betwixt the spare branches of the spindle-tree the child had seen the incident. amid the surrounding greenery the soldier's red trousers and greyish shirt were clearly discernible. she slowly raised her eyes to rosalie, and looked at her for a moment, while the maid blushed the more. then jeanne's gaze fell to the ground again, and she gathered another handful of pebbles, but lacked the will or strength to play with them, and remained in a dreamy state, with her hands resting on the warm ground, amidst the vibrations of the sunrays. within her a wave of health was swelling and stifling her. the trees seemed to take titanic shape, and the air was redolent of the perfume of roses. in wonder and delight, she dreamt of all sorts of vague things. "what are you thinking of, mademoiselle?" asked rosalie uneasily. "i don't know--of nothing," was jeanne's reply. "yes, i do know. you see, i should like to live to be very old." however, she could not explain these words. it was an idea, she said, that had come into her head. but in the evening, after dinner, as her dreamy fit fell on her again, and her mother inquired the cause, she suddenly put the question: "mamma, do cousins ever marry?" "yes, of course," said helene. "why do you ask me that?" "oh, nothing; only i wanted to know." helene had become accustomed to these extraordinary questions. the hour spent in the garden had so beneficial an effect on the child that every sunny day found her there. helene's reluctance was gradually dispelled; the house was still shut up. henri never ventured to show himself, and ere long she sat down on the edge of the rug beside jeanne. however, on the following sunday morning she found the windows thrown open, and felt troubled at heart. "oh! but of course the rooms must be aired," exclaimed rosalie, as an inducement for them to go down. "i declare to you nobody's there!" that day the weather was still warmer. through the leafy screen the sun's rays darted like golden arrows. jeanne, who was growing strong, strolled about for ten minutes, leaning on her mother's arm. then, somewhat tired, she turned towards her rug, a corner of which she assigned to helene. they smiled at one another, amused at thus finding themselves side by side on the ground. zephyrin had given up his raking, and was helping rosalie to gather some parsley, clumps of which were growing along the end wall. all at once there was an uproar in the house, and helene was thinking of flight, when madame deberle made her appearance on the garden-steps. she had just arrived, and was still in her travelling dress, speaking very loudly, and seemingly very busy. but immediately she caught sight of madame grandjean and her daughter, sitting on the ground in the front of the lawn, she ran down, overwhelmed them with embraces, and poured a deafening flood of words into their ears. "what, is it you? how glad i am to see you! kiss me, my little jeanne! poor puss, you've been very ill, have you not? but you're getting better; the roses are coming back to your cheeks! and you, my dear, how often i've thought of you! i wrote to you: did my letters reach you? you must have spent a terrible time: but it's all over now! will you let me kiss you?" helene was now on her feet, and was forced to submit to a kiss on each cheek and return them. this display of affection, however, chilled her to the heart. "you'll excuse us for having invaded your garden," she said. "you're joking," retorted juliette impetuously. "are you not at home here?" but she ran off for a moment, hastened up the stairs, and called across the open rooms: "pierre, don't forget anything; there are seventeen packages!" then, at once coming back, she commenced chattering about her holiday adventures. "oh! such a splendid season! we went to trouville, you know. the beach was always thronged with people. it was quite a crush. and people of the highest spheres, you know. i had visitors too. papa came for a fortnight with pauline. all the same, i'm glad to get home again. but i haven't given you all my news. oh! i'll tell you later on!" she stooped down and kissed jeanne again; then suddenly becoming serious, she asked: "am i browned by the sun?" "no; i don't see any signs of it," replied helene as she gazed at her. juliette's eyes were clear and expressionless, her hands were plump, her pretty face was full of amiability; age did not tell on her; the sea air itself was powerless to affect her expression of serene indifference. so far as appearances went, she might have just returned from a shopping expedition in paris. however, she was bubbling over with affection, and the more loving her outbursts, the more weary, constrained, and ill became helene. jeanne meantime never stirred from the rug, but merely raised her delicate, sickly face, while clasping her hands with a chilly air in the sunshine. "wait, you haven't seen lucien yet," exclaimed juliette. "you must see him; he has got so fat." when the lad was brought on the scene, after the dust of the journey had been washed from his face by a servant girl, she pushed and turned him about to exhibit him. fat and chubby-cheeked, his skin tanned by playing on the beach in the salt breeze, lucien displayed exuberant health, but he had a somewhat sulky look because he had just been washed. he had not been properly dried, and one check was still wet and fiery-red with the rubbing of the towel. when he caught sight of jeanne he stood stock-still with astonishment. she looked at him out of her poor, sickly face, as colorless as linen against the background of her streaming black hair, whose tresses fell in clusters to her shoulders. her beautiful, sad, dilated eyes seemed to fill up her whole countenance; and, despite the excessive heat, she shivered somewhat, and stretched out her hands as though chilled and seeking warmth from a blazing fire. "well! aren't you going to kiss her?" asked juliette. but lucien looked rather afraid. at length he made up his mind, and very cautiously protruded his lips so that he might not come too near the invalid. this done, he started back expeditiously. helene's eyes were brimming over with tears. what health that child enjoyed! whereas her jeanne was breathless after a walk round the lawn! some mothers were very fortunate! juliette all at once understood how cruel lucien's conduct was, and she rated him soundly. "good gracious! what a fool you are! is that the way to kiss young ladies? you've no idea, my dear, what a nuisance he was at trouville." she was getting somewhat mixed. but fortunately for her the doctor now made his appearance, and she extricated herself from her difficulty by exclaiming: "oh, here's henri." he had not been expecting their return until the evening, but she had travelled by an earlier train. she plunged into a discursive explanation, without in the least making her reasons clear. the doctor listened with a smiling face. "at all events, here you are," he said. "that's all that's necessary." a minute previously he had bowed to helene without speaking. his glance for a moment fell on jeanne, but feeling embarrassed he turned away his head. jeanne bore his look with a serious face, and unclasping her hands instinctively grasped her mother's gown and drew closer to her side. "ah! the rascal," said the doctor, as he raised lucien and kissed him on each cheek. "why, he's growing like magic." "yes; and am i to be forgotten?" asked juliette, as she held up her head. then, without putting lucien down, holding him, indeed, on one arm, the doctor leaned over to kiss his wife. their three faces were lit up with smiles. helene grew pale, and declared she must now go up. jeanne, however, was unwilling; she wished to see what might happen, and her glances lingered for a while on the deberles and then travelled back to her mother. when juliette had bent her face upwards to receive her husband's kiss, a bright gleam had come into the child's eyes. "he's too heavy," resumed the doctor as he set lucien down again. "well, was the season a good one? i saw malignon yesterday, and he was telling me about his stay there. so you let him leave before you, eh?" "oh! he's quite a nuisance!" exclaimed juliette, over whose face a serious, embarrassed expression had now crept. "he tormented us to death the whole time." "your father was hoping for pauline's sake--he hasn't declared his intentions then?" "what! malignon!" said she, as though astonished and offended. and then with a gesture of annoyance she added, "oh! leave him alone; he's cracked! how happy i am to be home again!" without any apparent transition, she thereupon broke into an amazing outburst of tenderness, characteristic of her bird-like nature. she threw herself on her husband's breast and raised her face towards him. to all seeming they had forgotten that they were not alone. jeanne's eyes, however, never quitted them. her lips were livid and trembled with anger; her face was that of a jealous and revengeful woman. the pain she suffered was so great that she was forced to turn away her head, and in doing so she caught sight of rosalie and zephyrin at the bottom of the garden, still gathering parsley. doubtless with the intent of being in no one's way, they had crept in among the thickest of the bushes, where both were squatting on the ground. zephyrin, with a sly movement, had caught hold of one of rosalie's feet, while she, without uttering a syllable, was heartily slapping him. between two branches jeanne could see the little soldier's face, chubby and round as a moon and deeply flushed, while his mouth gaped with an amorous grin. meantime the sun's rays were beating down vertically, and the trees were peacefully sleeping, not a leaf stirring among them all. from beneath the elms came the heavy odor of soil untouched by the spade. and elsewhere floated the perfume of the last tea-roses, which were casting their petals one by one on the garden steps. then jeanne, with swelling heart, turned her gaze on her mother, and seeing her motionless and dumb in presence of the deberles, gave her a look of intense anguish--a child's look of infinite meaning, such as you dare not question. but madame deberle stepped closer to them, and said: "i hope we shall see each other frequently now. as jeanne is feeling better, she must come down every afternoon." helene was already casting about for an excuse, pleading that she did not wish to weary her too much. but jeanne abruptly broke in: "no, no; the sun does me a great deal of good. we will come down, madame. you will keep my place for me, won't you?" and as the doctor still remained in the background, she smiled towards him. "doctor, please tell mamma that the fresh air won't do me any harm." he came forward, and this man, inured to human suffering, felt on his cheeks a slight flush at being thus gently addressed by the child. "certainly not," he exclaimed; "the fresh air will only bring you nearer to good health." "so you see, mother darling, we must come down," said jeanne, with a look of ineffable tenderness, whilst a sob died away in her throat. but pierre had reappeared on the steps and announced the safe arrival of madame's seventeen packages. then, followed by her husband and lucien, juliette retired, declaring that she was frightfully dirty, and intended to take a bath. when they were alone, helene knelt down on the rug, as though about to tie the shawl round jeanne's neck, and whispered in the child's ear: "you're not angry any longer with the doctor, then?" with a prolonged shake of the head the child replied "no, mamma." there was a silence. helene's hands were seized with an awkward trembling, and she was seemingly unable to tie the shawl. then jeanne murmured: "but why does he love other people so? i won't have him love them like that." and as she spoke, her black eyes became harsh and gloomy, while her little hands fondled her mother's shoulders. helene would have replied, but the words springing to her lips frightened her. the sun was now low, and mother and daughter took their departure. zephyrin meanwhile had reappeared to view, with a bunch of parsley in his hand, the stalks of which he continued pulling off while darting murderous glances at rosalie. the maid followed at some distance, inspired with distrust now that there was no one present. just as she stooped to roll up the rug he tried to pinch her, but she retaliated with a blow from her fist which made his back re-echo like an empty cask. still it seemed to delight him, and he was yet laughing silently when he re-entered the kitchen busily arranging his parsley. thenceforth jeanne was stubbornly bent on going down to the garden as soon as ever she heard madame deberle's voice there. all rosalie's tittle-tattle regarding the next-door house she drank in greedily, ever restless and inquisitive concerning its inmates and their doings; and she would even slip out of the bedroom to keep watch from the kitchen window. in the garden, ensconced in a small arm-chair which was brought for her use from the drawing-room by juliette's direction, her eyes never quitted the family. lucien she now treated with great reserve, annoyed it seemed by his questions and antics, especially when the doctor was present. on those occasions she would stretch herself out as if wearied, gazing before her with her eyes wide open. for helene the afternoons were pregnant with anguish. she always returned, however, returned in spite of the feeling of revolt which wrung her whole being. every day when, on his arrival home, henri printed a kiss on juliette's hair, her heart leaped in its agony. and at those moments, if to hide the agitation of her face she pretended to busy herself with jeanne, she would notice that the child was even paler than herself, with her black eyes glaring and her chin twitching with repressed fury. jeanne shared in her suffering. when the mother turned away her head, heartbroken, the child became so sad and so exhausted that she had to be carried upstairs and put to bed. she could no longer see the doctor approach his wife without changing countenance; she would tremble, and turn on him a glance full of all the jealous fire of a deserted mistress. "i cough in the morning," she said to him one day. "you must come and see for yourself." rainy weather ensued, and jeanne became quite anxious that the doctor should commence his visits once more. yet her health had much improved. to humor her, helene had been constrained to accept two or three invitations to dine with the deberles. at last the child's heart, so long torn by hidden sorrow, seemingly regained quietude with the complete re-establishment of her health. she would again ask helene the old question--"are you happy, mother darling?" "yes, very happy, my pet," was the reply. and this made her radiant. she must be pardoned her bad temper in the past, she said. she referred to it as a fit which no effort of her own will could prevent, the result of a headache that came on her suddenly. something would spring up within her--she wholly failed to understand what it was. she was tempest-tossed by a multitude of vague imaginings--nightmares that she could not even have recalled to memory. however, it was past now; she was well again, and those worries would nevermore return. chapter xv. the night was falling. from the grey heaven, where the first of the stars were gleaming, a fine ashy dust seemed to be raining down on the great city, raining down without cessation and slowly burying it. the hollows were already hidden deep in gloom, and a line of cloud, like a stream of ink, rose upon the horizon, engulfing the last streaks of daylight, the wavering gleams which were retreating towards the west. below passy but a few stretches of roofs remained visible; and as the wave rolled on, darkness soon covered all. "what a warm evening!" ejaculated helene, as she sat at the window, overcome by the heated breeze which was wafted upwards from paris. "a grateful night for the poor," exclaimed the abbe, who stood behind her. "the autumn will be mild." that tuesday jeanne had fallen into a doze at dessert, and her mother, perceiving that she was rather tired, had put her to bed. she was already fast asleep in her cot, while monsieur rambaud sat at the table gravely mending a toy--a mechanical doll, a present from himself, which both spoke and walked, and which jeanne had broken. he excelled in such work as this. helene on her side feeling the want of fresh air--for the lingering heats of september were oppressive--had thrown the window wide open, and gazed with relief on the vast gloomy ocean of darkness that rolled before her. she had pushed an easy-chair to the window in order to be alone, but was suddenly surprised to hear the abbe speaking to her. "is the little one warmly covered?" he gently asked. "on these heights the air is always keen." she made no reply, however; her heart was craving for silence. she was tasting the delights of the twilight hour, the vanishing of all surrounding objects, the hushing of every sound. gleams, like those of night-lights, tipped the steeples and towers; that on saint-augustin died out first, the pantheon for a moment retained a bluish light, and then the glittering dome of the invalides faded away, similar to a moon setting in a rising sea of clouds. the night was like the ocean, its extent seemingly increased by the gloom, a dark abyss wherein you divined that a world lay hid. from the unseen city blew a mighty yet gentle wind. there was still a hum; sounds ascended faint yet clear to helene's ears--the sharp rattle of an omnibus rolling along the quay, the whistle of a train crossing the bridge of the point-du-jour; and the seine, swollen by the recent storms, and pulsing with the life of a breathing soul, wound with increased breadth through the shadows far below. a warm odor steamed upwards from the scorched roofs, while the river, amidst this exhalation of the daytime heat, seemed to give forth a cooling breeze. paris had vanished, sunk in the dreamy repose of a colossus whose limbs the night has enveloped, and who lies motionless for a time, but with eyes wide open. nothing affected helene more than this momentary pause in the great city's life. for the three months during which she had been a close prisoner, riveted to jeanne's bedside, she had had no other companion in her vigil than the huge mass of paris spreading out towards the horizon. during the summer heats of july and august the windows had almost always been left open; she could not cross the room, could not stir or turn her head, without catching a glimpse of the ever-present panorama. it was there, whatever the weather, always sharing in her griefs and hopes, like some friend who would never leave her side. she was still quite ignorant respecting it; never had it seemed farther away, never had she given less thought to its streets and its citizens, and yet it peopled her solitude. the sick-room, whose door was kept shut to the outside world, looked out through its two windows upon this city. often, with her eyes fixed on its expanse, helene had wept, leaning on the window-rail in order to hide her tears from her ailing child. one day, too--the very day when she had imagined her daughter to be at the point of death--she had remained for a long time, overcome and choked with grief, watching the smoke which curled up from the army bakehouse. frequently, moreover, in hours of hopefulness she had here confided the gladsome feelings of her heart to the dim and distant suburbs. there was not a single monument which did not recall to her some sensation of joy or sorrow. paris shared in her own existence; and never did she love it better than when the twilight came, and its day's work over, it surrendered itself to an hour's quietude, forgetfulness, and reverie, whilst waiting for the lighting of its gas. "what a multitude of stars!" murmured abbe jouve. "there are thousands of them gleaming." he had just taken a chair and sat down at her side. on hearing him, she gazed upwards into the summer night. the heaven was studded with golden lights. on the very verge of the horizon a constellation was sparkling like a carbuncle, while a dust of almost invisible stars sprinkled the vault above as though with glittering sand. charles's-wain was slowly turning its shaft in the night. "look!" said helene in her turn, "look at that tiny bluish star! see --far away up there. i recognize it night after night. but it dies and fades as the night rolls on." the abbe's presence no longer annoyed her. with him by her side, she imagined the quiet was deepening around. a few words passed between them after long intervals of silence. twice she questioned him on the names of the stars--the sight of the heavens had always interested her --but he was doubtful and pleaded ignorance. "do you see," she asked, "that lovely star yonder whose lustre is so exquisitely clear?" "on the left, eh?" he replied, "near another smaller, greenish one? ah! there are so many of them that my memory fails me." they again lapsed into silence, their eyes still turned upwards, dazzled, quivering slightly at the sight of that stupendous swarming of luminaries. in the vast depths of the heavens, behind thousands of stars, thousands of others twinkled in ever-increasing multitudes, with the clear brilliancy of gems. the milky way was already whitening, displaying its solar specks, so innumerable and so distant that in the vault of the firmament they form but a trailing scarf of light. "it fills me with fear," said helene in a whisper; and that she might see it all no more she bent her head and glanced down on the gaping abyss in which paris seemed to be engulfed. in its depths not a light could yet be seen; night had rolled over it and plunged it into impenetrable darkness. its mighty, continuous rumble seemed to have sunk into a softer key. "are you weeping?" asked the abbe, who had heard a sound of sobbing. "yes," simply answered helene. they could not see each other. for a long time she continued weeping, her whole being exhaling a plaintive murmur. behind them, meantime, jeanne lay at rest in innocent sleep, and monsieur rambaud, his whole attention engrossed, bent his grizzled head over the doll which he had dismembered. at times he could not prevent the loosened springs from giving out a creaking noise, a childlike squeaking which his big fingers, though plied with the utmost gentleness, drew from the disordered mechanism. if the doll vented too loud a sound, however, he at once stopped working, distressed and vexed with himself, and turning towards jeanne to see if he had roused her. then once more he would resume his repairing, with great precautions, his only tools being a pair of scissors and a bodkin. "why do you weep, my daughter?" again asked the abbe. "can i not afford you some relief?" "ah! let me be," said helene; "these tears do me good. by-and-by, by-and-by--" a stifling sensation checked any further words. once before, in this very place, she had been convulsed by a storm of tears; but then she had been alone, free to sob in the darkness till the emotion that wrung her was dried up at its source. however, she knew of no cause of sorrow; her daughter was well once more, and she had resumed the old monotonous delightful life. but it was as though a keen sense of awful grief had abruptly come upon her; it seemed as if she were rolling into a bottomless abyss which she could not fathom, sinking with all who were dear to her in a limitless sea of despair. she knew not what misfortune hung over her head; but she was without hope, and could only weep. similar waves of feeling had swept over her during the month of the virgin in the church laden with the perfume of flowers. and, as twilight fell, the vastness of paris filled her with a deep religious impression. the stretch of plain seemed to expand, and a sadness rose up from the two millions of living beings who were being engulfed in darkness. and when it was night, and the city with its subdued rumbling had vanished from view, her oppressed heart poured forth its sorrow, and her tears overflowed, in presence of that sovereign peace. she could have clasped her hands and prayed. she was filled with an intense craving for faith, love, and a lapse into heavenly forgetfulness; and the first glinting of the stars overwhelmed her with sacred terror and enjoyment. a lengthy interval of silence ensued, and then the abbe spoke once more, this time more pressingly. "my daughter, you must confide in me. why do you hesitate?" she was still weeping, but more gently, like a wearied and powerless child. "the church frightens you," he continued. "for a time i thought you had yielded your heart to god. but it has been willed otherwise. heaven has its own purposes. well, since you mistrust the priest, why should you refuse to confide in the friend?" "you are right," she faltered. "yes, i am sad at heart, and need your consolation. i must tell you of it all. when i was a child i seldom, if ever, entered a church; now i cannot be present at a service without feeling touched to the very depths of my being. yes; and what drew tears from me just now was that voice of paris, sounding like a mighty organ, that immeasurable night, and those beauteous heavens. oh! i would fain believe. help me; teach me." abbe jouve calmed her somewhat by lightly placing his hand on her own. "tell me everything," he merely said. she struggled for a time, her heart wrung with anguish. "there's nothing to tell, i assure you. i'm hiding nothing from you. i weep without cause, because i feel stifled, because my tears gush out of their own accord. you know what my life has been. no sorrow, no sin, no remorse could i find in it to this hour. i do not know--i do not know--" her voice died away, and from the priest's lips slowly came the words, "you love, my daughter!" she started; she dared not protest. silence fell on them once more. in the sea of shadows that slumbered before them a light had glimmered forth. it seemed at their feet, somewhere in the abyss, but at what precise spot they would have been unable to specify. and then, one by one, other lights broke through the darkness, shooting into instant life, and remaining stationary, scintillating like stars. it seemed as though thousands of fresh planets were rising on the surface of a gloomy lake. soon they stretched out in double file, starting from the trocadero, and nimbly leaping towards paris. then these files were intersected by others, curves were described, and a huge, strange, magnificent constellation spread out. helene never breathed a word, but gazed on these gleams of light, which made the heavens seemingly descend below the line of the horizon, as though indeed the earth had vanished and the vault of heaven were on every side. and helene's heart was again flooded with emotion, as a few minutes before when charles's-wain had slowly begun to revolve round the polar axis, its shaft in the air. paris, studded with lights, stretched out, deep and sad, prompting fearful thoughts of a firmament swarming with unknown worlds. meanwhile the priest, in the monotonous, gentle voice which he had acquired by years of duty in the confessional, continued whispering in her ear. one evening in the past he had warned her; solitude, he had said, would be harmful to her welfare. no one could with impunity live outside the pale of life. she had imprisoned herself too closely, and the door had opened to perilous thoughts. "i am very old now, my daughter," he murmured, "and i have frequently seen women come to us weeping and praying, with a craving to find faith and religion. thus it is that i cannot be deceiving myself to-day. these women, who seem to seek god in so zealous a manner, are but souls rendered miserable by passion. it is a man whom they worship in our churches." she was not listening; a strife was raging in her bosom, amidst her efforts to read her innermost thoughts aright. and at last confession came from her in a broken whisper: "oh! yes, i love, and that is all! beyond that i know nothing --nothing!" he now forbore to interrupt her; she spoke in short feverish sentences, taking a mournful pleasure in thus confessing her love, in sharing with that venerable priest the secret which had so long burdened her. "i swear i cannot read my thoughts. this has come to me without my knowing its presence. perhaps it came in a moment. only in time did i realize its sweetness. besides, why should i deem myself stronger than i am? i have made no effort to flee from it; i was only too happy, and to-day i have yet less power of resistance. my daughter was ill; i almost lost her. well! my love has been as intense as my sorrow; it came back with sovereign power after those days of terror--and it possesses me, i feel transported--" she shivered and drew a breath. "in short, my strength fails me. you were right, my friend, in thinking it would be a relief to confide in you. but, i beseech you, tell me what is happening in the depths of my heart. my life was once so peaceful; i was so happy. a thunderbolt has fallen on me. why on me? why not on another? i had done nothing to bring it on; i imagined myself well protected. ah, if you only knew--i know myself no longer! help me, save me!" then as she became silent, the priest, with the wonted freedom of the confessor, mechanically asked the question: "the name? tell me his name?" she was hesitating, when a peculiar noise prompted her to turn her head. it came from the doll which, in monsieur rambaud's hands, was by degrees renewing its mechanical life, and had just taken three steps on the table, with a creaking of wheels and springs which showed that there was still something faulty in its works. then it had fallen on its back, and but for the worthy man would have rebounded onto the ground. he followed all its movements with outstretched hands, ready to support it, and full of paternal anxiety. the moment he perceived helene turn, he smiled confidently towards her, as if to give her an assurance that the doll would recover its walking powers. and then he once more dived with scissors and bodkin into the toy. jeanne still slept on. thereupon helene, her nerves relaxing under the influence of the universal quiet, whispered a name in the priest's ear. he never stirred; in the darkness his face could not be seen. a silence ensued, and he responded: "i knew it, but i wanted to hear it from your own lips. my daughter, yours must be terrible suffering." he gave utterance to no truisms on the subject of duty. helene, overcome, saddened to the heart by this unemotional pity, gazed once more on the lights which spangled the gloomy veil enshrouding paris. they were flashing everywhere in myriads, like the sparks that dart over the blackened refuse of burnt paper. at first these twinkling dots had started from the trocadero towards the heart of the city. soon another coruscation had appeared on the left in the direction of montmartre; then another had burst into view on the right behind the invalides, and still another, more distant near the pantheon. from all these centres flights of flames were simultaneously descending. "you remember our conversation," slowly resumed the abbe. "my opinion has not changed. my daughter, you must marry." "i!" she exclaimed, overwhelmed with amazement. "but i have just confessed to you--oh, you know well i cannot--" "you must marry," he repeated with greater decision. "you will wed an honest man." within the folds of his old cassock he seemed to have grown more commanding. his large comical-looking head, which, with eyes half-closed, was usually inclined towards one shoulder, was now raised erect, and his eyes beamed with such intensity that she saw them sparkling in the darkness. "you will marry an honest man, who will be a father to jeanne, and will lead you back to the path of goodness." "but i do not love him. gracious heaven! i do not love him!" "you will love him, my daughter. he loves you, and he is good in heart." helene struggled, and her voice sank to a whisper as she heard the slight noise that monsieur rambaud made behind them. he was so patient and so strong in his hope, that for six months he had not once intruded his love on her. disposed by nature to the most heroic self-sacrifice, he waited in serene confidence. the abbe stirred, as though about to turn round. "would you like me to tell him everything? he would stretch out his hand and save you. and you would fill him with joy beyond compare." she checked him, utterly distracted. her heart revolted. both of these peaceful, affectionate men, whose judgment retained perfect equilibrium in presence of her feverish passion, were sources of terror to her. what world could they abide in to be able to set at naught that which caused her so much agony? the priest, however, waved his hand with an all-comprehensive gesture. "my daughter," said he, "look on this lovely night, so supremely still in presence of your troubled spirit. why do you refuse happiness?" all paris was now illumined. the tiny dancing flames had speckled the sea of shadows from one end of the horizon to the other, and now, as in a summer night, millions of fixed stars seemed to be serenely gleaming there. not a puff of air, not a quiver of the atmosphere stirred these lights, to all appearance suspended in space. paris, now invisible, had fallen into the depths of an abyss as vast as a firmament. at times, at the base of the trocadero, a light--the lamp of a passing cab or omnibus--would dart across the gloom, sparkling like a shooting star; and here amidst the radiance of the gas-jets, from which streamed a yellow haze, a confused jumble of house-fronts and clustering trees--green like the trees in stage scenery--could be vaguely discerned. to and fro, across the pont des invalides, gleaming lights flashed without ceasing; far below, across a band of denser gloom, appeared a marvellous train of comet-like coruscations, from whose lustrous tails fell a rain of gold. these were the reflections in the seine's black waters of the lamps on the bridge. from this point, however, the unknown began. the long curve of the river was merely described by a double line of lights, which ever and anon were coupled to other transverse lines, so that the whole looked like some glittering ladder, thrown across paris, with its ends on the verge of the heavens among the stars. to the left there was another trench excavated athwart the gloom; an unbroken chain of stars shone forth down the champs-elysees from the arc-de-triomphe to the place de la concorde, where a new cluster of pleiades was flashing; next came the gloomy stretches of the tuileries and the louvre, the blocks of houses on the brink of the water, and the hotel-de-ville away at the extreme end--all these masses of darkness being parted here and there by bursts of light from some large square or other; and farther and farther away, amidst the endless confusion of roofs, appeared scattered gleams, affording faint glimpses of the hollow of a street below, the corner of some boulevard, or the brilliantly illuminated meeting-place of several thoroughfares. on the opposite bank, on the right, the esplanade alone could be discerned with any distinctness, its rectangle marked out in flame, like an orion of a winter's night bereft of his baldrick. the long streets of the saint-germain district seemed gloomy with their fringe of infrequent lamps; but the thickly populated quarters beyond were speckled with a multitude of tiny flames, clustering like nebulae. away towards the outskirts, girdling the whole of the horizon, swarmed street-lamps and lighted windows, filling these distant parts with a dust, as it were, of those myriads of suns, those planetary atoms which the naked eye cannot discover. the public edifices had vanished into the depths of the darkness; not a lamp marked out their spires and towers. at times you might have imagined you were gazing on some gigantic festival, some illuminated cyclopean monument, with staircases, balusters, windows, pediments, and terraces --a veritable cosmos of stone, whose wondrous architecture was outlined by the gleaming lights of a myriad lamps. but there was always a speedy return of the feeling that new constellations were springing into being, and that the heavens were spreading both above and below. helene, in compliance with the all-embracing sweep of the priest's hand, cast a lingering look over illumined paris. here too she knew not the names of those seeming stars. she would have liked to ask what the blaze far below on the left betokened, for she saw it night after night. there were others also which roused her curiosity, and some of them she loved, whilst some inspired her with uneasiness or vexation. "father," said she, for the first time employing that appellation of affection and respect, "let me live as i am. the loveliness of the night has agitated me. you are wrong; you would not know how to console me, for you cannot understand my feelings." the priest stretched out his arms, then slowly dropped them to his side resignedly. and after a pause he said in a whisper: "doubtless that was bound to be the case. you call for succor and reject salvation. how many despairing confessions i have received! what tears i have been unable to prevent! listen, my daughter, promise me one thing only; if ever life should become too heavy a burden for you, think that one honest man loves you and is waiting for you. to regain content you will only have to place your hand in his." "i promise you," answered helene gravely. as she made the avowal a ripple of laughter burst through the room. jeanne had just awoke, and her eyes were riveted on her doll pacing up and down the table. monsieur rambaud, enthusiastic over the success of his tinkering, still kept his hands stretched out for fear lest any accident should happen. but the doll retained its stability, strutted about on its tiny feet, and turned its head, whilst at every step repeating the same words after the fashion of a parrot. "oh! it's some trick or other!" murmured jeanne, who was still half asleep. "what have you done to it--tell me? it was all smashed, and now it's walking. give it me a moment; let me see. oh, you _are_ a darling!" meanwhile over the gleaming expanse of paris a rosy cloud was ascending higher and higher. it might have been thought the fiery breath of a furnace. at first it was shadowy-pale in the darkness--a reflected glow scarcely seen. then slowly, as the evening progressed, it assumed a ruddier hue; and, hanging in the air, motionless above the city, deriving its being from all the lights and noisy life which breathed from below, it seemed like one of those clouds, charged with flame and lightning, which crown the craters of volcanoes. chapter xvi. the finger-glasses had been handed round the table, and the ladies were daintily wiping their hands. a momentary silence reigned, while madame deberle gazed on either side to see if every one had finished; then, without speaking, she rose, and amidst a noisy pushing back of chairs, her guests followed her example. an old gentleman who had been seated at her right hand hastened to offer her his arm. "no, no," she murmured, as she led him towards a doorway. "we will now have coffee in the little drawing-room." the guests, in couples, followed her. two ladies and two gentlemen, however, lagged behind the others, continuing their conversation, without thought of joining the procession. the drawing-room reached, all constraint vanished, and the joviality which had marked the dessert made its reappearance. the coffee was already served on a large lacquer tray on a table. madame deberle walked round like a hostess who is anxious to satisfy the various tastes of her guests. but it was pauline who ran about the most, and more particularly waited on the gentlemen. there were a dozen persons present, about the regulation number of people invited to the house every wednesday, from december onwards. later in the evening, at ten o'clock, a great many others would make their appearance. "monsieur de guiraud, a cup of coffee," exclaimed pauline, as she halted in front of a diminutive, bald-headed man. "ah! no, i remember, you don't take any. well, then, a glass of chartreuse?" but she became confused in discharging her duties, and brought him a glass of cognac. beaming with smiles, she made the round of the guests, perfectly self-possessed, and looking people straight in the face, while her long train dragged with easy grace behind her. she wore a magnificent gown of white indian cashmere trimmed with swan's-down, and cut square at the bosom. when the gentlemen were all standing up, sipping their coffee, each with cup in hand and chin high in the air, she began to tackle a tall young fellow named tissot, whom she considered rather handsome. helene had not taken any coffee. she had seated herself apart, with a somewhat wearied expression on her face. her black velvet gown, unrelieved by any trimming, gave her an air of austerity. in this small drawing-room smoking was allowed, and several boxes of cigars were placed beside her on the pier-table. the doctor drew near; as he selected a cigar he asked her: "is jeanne well?" "yes, indeed," she replied. "we walked to the bois to-day, and she romped like a madcap. oh, she must be sound asleep by now." they were both chatting in friendly tones, with the smiling intimacy of people who see each other day after day, when madame deberle's voice rose high and shrill: "stop! stop! madame grandjean can tell you all about it. didn't i come back from trouville on the th of september? it was raining, and the beach had become quite unbearable!" three or four of the ladies were gathered round her while she rattled on about her holdiday at the seaside. helene found it necessary to rise and join the group. "we spent a month at dinard," said madame de chermette. "such a delightful place, and such charming society!" "behind our chalet was a garden, and we had a terrace overlooking the sea," went on madame deberle. "as you know, i decided on taking my landau and coachman with me. it was very much handier when i wanted a drive. then madame levasseur came to see us--" "yes, one sunday," interrupted that lady. "we were at cabourg. your establishment was perfect, but a little too dear, i think." "by the way," broke in madame berthier, addressing juliette, "didn't monsieur malignon give you lessons in swimming?" helene noticed a shadow of vexation, of sudden annoyance, pass over madame deberle's face. several times already she had fancied that, on malignon's name being brought unexpectedly into the conversation, madame deberle suddenly seemed perturbed. however, the young woman immediately regained her equanimity. "a fine swimmer, indeed!" she exclaimed. "the idea of him ever giving lessons to any one! for my part, i have a mortal fear of cold water --the very sight of people bathing curdles my blood." she gave an eloquent shiver, with a shrug of her plump shoulders, as though she were a duck shaking water from her back. "then it's a fable?" questioned madame de guiraud. "of course; and one, i presume, of his own invention. he detests me since he spent a month with us down there." people were now beginning to pour in. the ladies, with clusters of flowers in their hair, and round, plump arms, entered smiling and nodding; while the men, each in evening dress and hat in hand, bowed and ventured on some commonplace remark. madame deberle, never ceasing her chatter for a moment, extended the tips of her fingers to the friends of the house, many of whom said nothing, but passed on with a bow. however, mademoiselle aurelie had just appeared on the scene, and at once went into raptures over juliette's dress, which was of dark-blue velvet, trimmed with faille silk. at this all the ladies standing round seemed to catch their first glimpse of the dress, and declared it was exquisite, truly exquisite. it came, they learned, from worth's, and they discussed it for five minutes. the guests who had drunk their coffee had placed their empty cups here and there on the tray and on the pier-tables; only one old gentleman had not yet finished, as between every mouthful he paused to converse with a lady. a warm perfume, the aroma of the coffee and the ladies' dresses intermingled, permeated the apartment. "you know i have had nothing," remonstrated young monsieur tissot with pauline, who had been chatting with him about an artist to whose studio her father had escorted her with a view to examining the pictures. "what! have you had nothing? surely i brought you a cup of coffee?" "no, mademoiselle, i assure you." "but i insist on your having something. see, here is some chartreuse." madame deberle had just directed a meaning nod towards her husband. the doctor, understanding her, thereupon opened the door of a large drawing-room, into which they all filed, while a servant removed the coffee-tray. there was almost a chill atmosphere in this spacious apartment, through which streamed the white light of six lamps and a chandelier with ten wax candles. there were already some ladies there, sitting in a semi-circle round the fireplace, but only two or three men were present, standing amidst the sea of outspread skirts. and through the open doorway of the smaller drawing-room rang the shrill voice of pauline, who had lingered behind in company with young tissot. "now that i have poured it out, i'm determined you shall drink it. what would you have me do with it? pierre has carried off the tray." then she entered the larger room, a vision in white, with her dress trimmed with swan's-down. her ruddy lips parted, displaying her teeth, as she smilingly announced: "here comes malignon, the exquisite!" hand-shaking and bowing were now the order of the day. monsieur deberle had placed himself near the door. his wife, seated with some other ladies on an extremely low couch, rose every other second. when malignon made his appearance, she affected to turn away her head. he was dressed to perfection; his hair had been curled, and was parted behind, down to his very neck. on the threshold he had stuck an eye-glass in his right eye with a slight grimace, which, according to pauline, was just the thing; and now he cast a glance around the room. having nonchalantly and silently shaken hands with the doctor, he made his way towards madame deberle, in front of whom he respectfully bent his tall figure. "oh, it's you!" she exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to be heard by everybody. "it seems you go in for swimming now." he did not guess her meaning, but nevertheless replied, by way of a joke: "certainly; i once saved a newfoundland dog from drowning." the ladies thought this extremely funny, and even madame deberle seemed disarmed. "well, i'll allow you to save newfoundlands," she answered, "but you know very well i did not bathe once at trouville." "oh! you're speaking of the lesson i gave you!" he exclaimed. "didn't i tell you one night in your dining-room how to move your feet and hands about?" all the ladies were convulsed with mirth--he was delightful! juliette shrugged her shoulders; it was impossible to engage him in a serious talk. then she rose to meet a lady whose first visit this was to her house, and who was a superb pianist. helene, seated near the fire, her lovely face unruffled by any emotion, looked on and listened. malignon, especially, seemed to interest her. she saw him execute a strategical movement which brought him to madame deberle's side, and she could hear the conversation that ensued behind her chair. of a sudden there was a change in the tones, and she leaned back to gather the drift of what was being said. "why didn't you come yesterday?" asked malignon. "i waited for you till six o'clock." "nonsense; you are mad," murmured juliette. thereupon malignon loudly lisped: "oh! you don't believe the story about my newfoundland! yet i received a medal for it, and i'll show it to you." then he added, in a whisper: "you gave me your promise--remember." a family group now entered the drawing-room, and juliette broke into complimentary greetings, while malignon reappeared amongst the ladies, glass in eye. helene had become quite pale since overhearing those hastily spoken words. it was as though a thunderbolt, or something equally unforeseen and horrible, had fallen on her. how could thoughts of treachery enter into the mind of that woman whose life was so happy, whose face betrayed no signs of sorrow, whose cheeks had the freshness of the rose? she had always known her to be devoid of brains, displaying an amiable egotism which seemed a guarantee that she would never commit a foolish action. and over such a fellow as malignon, too! the scenes in the garden of an afternoon flashed back on her memory--she recalled juliette smiling lovingly as the doctor kissed her hair. their love for one another had seemed real enough. an inexplicable feeling of indignation with juliette now pervaded helene, as though some wrong had been done herself. she felt humiliated for henri's sake; she was consumed with jealous rage; and her perturbed feelings were so plainly mirrored in her face that mademoiselle aurelie asked her: "what is the matter with you? do you feel ill?" the old lady had sunk into a seat beside her immediately she had observed her to be alone. she had conceived a lively friendship for helene, and was charmed with the kindly manner in which so sedate and lovely a woman would listen for hours to her tittle-tattle. but helene made no reply. a wild desire sprang up within her to gaze on henri, to know what he was doing, and what was the expression of his face. she sat up, and glancing round the drawing-room, at last perceived him. he stood talking with a stout, pale man, and looked completely at his ease, his face wearing its customary refined smile. she scanned him for a moment, full of a pity which belittled him somewhat, though all the while she loved him the more with an affection into which entered some vague idea of watching over him. her feelings, still in a whirl of confusion, inspired her with the thought that she ought to bring him back the happiness he had lost. "well, well!" muttered mademoiselle aurelie; "it will be pleasant if madame de guiraud's sister favors us with a song. it will be the tenth time i have heard her sing the 'turtle-doves.' that is her stock song this winter. you know that she is separated from her husband. do you see that dark gentleman down there, near the door? they are most intimate together, i believe. juliette is compelled to have him here, for otherwise she wouldn't come!" "indeed!" exclaimed helene. madame deberle was bustling about from one group to another, requesting silence for a song from madame de guiraud's sister. the drawing-room was now crowded, some thirty ladies being seated in the centre whispering and laughing together; two, however, had remained standing, and were talking loudly and shrugging their shoulders in a pretty way, while five or six men sat quite at home amongst the fair ones, almost buried beneath the folds of their skirts and trains. a low "hush!" ran round the room, the voices died away, and a stolid look of annoyance crept into every face. only the fans could be heard rustling through the heated atmosphere. madame de guiraud's sister sang, but helene never listened. her eyes were now riveted on malignon, who feigned an intense love of music, and appeared to be enraptured with the "turtle doves." was it possible? could juliette have turned a willing ear to the amorous chatter of the young fop? it was at trouville, no doubt, that some dangerous game had been played. malignon now sat in front of juliette, marking the time of the music by swaying to and fro with the air of one who is enraptured. madame deberle's face beamed in admiring complacency, while the doctor, good-natured and patient, silently awaited the last notes of the song in order to renew his talk with the stout, pale man. there was a murmur of applause as the singer's voice died away, and two or three exclaimed in tones of transport: "delightful! magnificent!" malignon, however, stretching his arms over the ladies' head-dresses, noiselessly clapped his gloved hands, and repeated "brava! brava!" in a voice that rose high above the others. the enthusiasm promptly came to an end, every face relaxed and smiled, and a few of the ladies rose, while, with the feeling of general relief, the buzz of conversation began again. the atmosphere was growing much warmer, and the waving fans wafted an odor of musk from the ladies' dresses. at times, amidst the universal chatter, a peal of pearly laughter would ring out, or some word spoken in a loud tone would cause many to turn round. thrice already had juliette swept into the smaller drawing-room to request some gentleman who had escaped thither not to desert the ladies in so rude a fashion. they returned at her request, but ten minutes afterwards had again vanished. "it's intolerable," she muttered, with an air of vexation; "not one of them will stay here." in the meantime mademoiselle aurelie was running over the ladies' names for helene's benefit, as this was only the latter's second evening visit to the doctor's house. the most substantial people of passy, some of them rolling in riches, were present. and the old maid leaned towards helene and whispered in her ear: "yes, it seems it's all arranged. madame de chermette is going to marry her daughter to that tall fair fellow with whom she has flirted for the last eighteen months. well, never mind, that will be one mother-in-law who'll be fond of her son-in-law." she stopped short, and then burst out in a tone of intense surprise: "good gracious! there's madame levasseur's husband speaking to that man. i thought juliette had sworn never to have them here together." helene's glances slowly travelled round the room. even amongst such seemingly estimable and honest people as these could there be women of irregular conduct? with her provincial austerity she was astounded at the manner in which wrongdoing was winked at in paris. she railed at herself for her own painful repugnance when juliette had shaken hands with her. madame deberle had now seemingly become reconciled with malignon; she had curled up her little plump figure in an easy-chair, where she sat listening gleefully to his jests. monsieur deberle happened to pass them. "you're surely not quarrelling to-night?" asked he. "no," replied juliette, with a burst of merriment. "he's talking too much silly nonsense. if you had heard all the nonsense he's been saying!" there now came some more singing, but silence was obtained with greater difficulty. the aria selected was a duet from _la favorita_, sung by young monsieur tissot and a lady of ripened charms, whose hair was dressed in childish style. pauline, standing at one of the doors, amidst a crowd of black coats, gazed at the male singer with a look of undisguised admiration, as though she were examining a work of art. "what a handsome fellow!" escaped from her lips, just as the accompaniment subsided into a softer key, and so loud was her voice that the whole drawing-room heard the remark. as the evening progressed the guests' faces began to show signs of weariness. ladies who had occupied the same seat for hours looked bored, though they knew it not,--they were even delighted at being able to get bored here. in the intervals between the songs, which were only half listened to, the murmur of conversation again resounded, and it seemed as though the deep notes of the piano were still echoing. monsieur letellier related how he had gone to lyons for the purpose of inspecting some silk he had ordered, and how he had been greatly impressed by the fact that the saone did not mingle its waters with those of the rhone. monsieur de guiraud, who was a magistrate, gave vent to some sententious observations on the need of stemming the vice of paris. there was a circle round a gentleman who was acquainted with a chinaman, and was giving some particulars of his friend. in a corner two ladies were exchanging confidences about the failings of their servants; whilst literature was being discussed by those among whom malignon sat enthroned. madame tissot declared balzac to be unreadable, and malignon did not deny it, but remarked that here and there, at intervals far and few, some very fine passages occurred in balzac. "a little silence, please!" all at once exclaimed pauline; "she's just going to play." the lady whose talent as a musician had been so much spoken of had just sat down to the piano. in accordance with the rules of politeness, every head was turned towards her. but in the general stillness which ensued the deep voices of the men conversing in the small drawing-room could be heard. madame deberle was in despair. "they are a nuisance!" she muttered. "let them stay there, if they don't want to come in; but at least they ought to hold their tongues!" she gave the requisite orders to pauline, who, intensely delighted, ran into the adjacent apartment to carry out her instructions. "you must know, gentlemen, that a lady is going to play," she said, with the quiet boldness of a maiden in queenly garb. "you are requested to keep silence." she spoke in a very loud key, her voice being naturally shrill. and, as she lingered with the men, laughing and quizzing, the noise grew more pronounced than ever. there was a discussion going on among these males, and she supplied additional matter for argument. in the larger drawing-room madame deberle was in agony. the guests, moreover, had been sated with music, and no enthusiasm was displayed; so the pianist resumed her seat, biting her lips, notwithstanding the laudatory compliments which the lady of the house deemed it her duty to lavish on her. helene was pained. henri scarcely seemed to see her; he had made no attempt to approach her, and only at intervals smiled to her from afar. at the earlier part of the evening she had felt relieved by his prudent reserve; but since she had learnt the secret of the two others she wished for something--she knew not what--some display of affection, or at least interest, on his part. her breast was stirred with confused yearnings, and every imaginable evil thought. did he no longer care for her, that he remained so indifferent to her presence? oh! if she could have told him everything! if she could apprise him of the unworthiness of the woman who bore his name! then, while some short, merry catches resounded from the piano, she sank into a dreamy state. she imagined that henri had driven juliette from his home, and she was living with him as his wife in some far-away foreign land, the language of which they knew not. all at once a voice startled her. "won't you take anything?" asked pauline. the drawing-room had emptied, and the guests were passing into the dining-room to drink some tea. helene rose with difficulty. she was dazed; she thought she had dreamt it all--the words she had heard, juliette's secret intrigue, and its consequences. if it had all been true, henri would surely have been at her side and ere this both would have quitted the house. "will you take a cup of tea?" she smiled and thanked madame deberle, who had kept a place for her at the table. plates loaded with pastry and sweetmeats covered the cloth, while on glass stands arose two lofty cakes, flanking a large _brioche_. the space was limited, and the cups of tea were crowded together, narrow grey napkins with long fringes lying between each two. the ladies only were seated. they held biscuits and preserved fruits with the tips of their ungloved fingers, and passed each other the cream-jugs and poured out the cream with dainty gestures. three or four, however, had sacrificed themselves to attend on the men, who were standing against the walls, and, while drinking, taking all conceivable precautions to ward off any push which might be unwittingly dealt them. a few others lingered in the two drawing-rooms, waiting for the cakes to come to them. this was the hour of pauline's supreme delight. there was a shrill clamor of noisy tongues, peals of laughter mingled with the ringing clatter of silver plate, and the perfume of musk grew more powerful as it blended with the all-pervading fragrance of the tea. "kindly pass me some cake," said mademoiselle aurelie to helene, close to whom she happened to find herself. "these sweetmeats are frauds!" she had, however, already emptied two plates of them. and she continued, with her mouth full: "oh! some of the people are beginning to go now. we shall be a little more comfortable." in truth, several ladies were now leaving, after shaking hands with madame deberle. many of the gentlemen had already wisely vanished, and the room was becoming less crowded. now came the opportunity for the remaining gentlemen to sit down at table in their turn. mademoiselle aurelie, however, did not quit her place, though she would much have liked to secure a glass of punch. "i will get you one," said helene, starting to her feet. "no, no, thank you. you must not inconvenience yourself so much." for a short time helene had been watching malignon. he had just shaken hands with the doctor, and was now bidding farewell to juliette at the doorway. she had a lustrous face and sparkling eyes, and by her complacent smile it might have been imagined that she was receiving some commonplace compliments on the evening's success. while pierre was pouring out the punch at a sideboard near the door, helene stepped forward in such wise as to be hidden from view by the curtain, which had been drawn back. she listened. [illustration: malignon appoints a rendezvous with juliette] "i beseech you," malignon was saying, "come the day after to-morrow. i shall wait for you till three o'clock." "why cannot you talk seriously," replied madame deberle, with a laugh. "what foolish things you say!" but with greater determination he repeated: "i shall wait for you--the day after to-morrow." then she hurriedly gave a whispered reply: "very well--the day after to-morrow." malignon bowed and made his exit. madame de chermette followed in company with madame tissot. juliette, in the best of spirits, walked with them into the hall, and said to the former of these ladies with her most amiable look: "i shall call on you the day after to-morrow. i have a lot of calls to make that day." helene stood riveted to the floor, her face quite white. pierre, in the meanwhile, had poured out the punch, and now handed the glass to her. she grasped it mechanically and carried it to mademoiselle aurelie, who was making an inroad on the preserved fruits. "oh, you are far too kind!" exclaimed the old maid. "i should have made a sign to pierre. i'm sure it's a shame not offering the punch to ladies. why, when people are my age--" she got no further, however, for she observed the ghastliness of helene's face. "you surely are in pain! you must take a drop of punch!" "thank you, it's nothing. the heat is so oppressive--" she staggered, and turned aside into the deserted drawing-room, where she dropped into an easy-chair. the lamps were shedding a reddish glare; and the wax candles in the chandelier, burnt to their sockets, threatened imminent destruction to the crystal sconces. from the dining-room were wafted the farewells of the departing guests. helene herself had lost all thoughts of going; she longed to linger where she was, plunged in thought. so it was no dream after all; juliette would visit that man the day after to-morrow--she knew the day. then the thought struck her that she ought to speak to juliette and warn her against sin. but this kindly thought chilled her to the heart, and she drove it from her mind as though it were out of place, and deep in meditation gazed at the grate, where a smouldering log was crackling. the air was still heavy and oppressive with the perfumes from the ladies' hair. "what! you are here!" exclaimed juliette as she entered. "well, you are kind not to run away all at once. at last we can breathe!" helene was surprised, and made a movement as though about to rise; but juliette went on: "wait, wait, you are in no hurry. henri, get me my smelling-salts." three or four persons, intimate friends, had lingered behind the others. they sat before the dying fire and chatted with delightful freedom, while the vast room wearily sank into a doze. the doors were open, and they saw the smaller drawing-room empty, the dining-room deserted, the whole suite of rooms still lit up and plunged in unbroken silence. henri displayed a tender gallantry towards his wife; he had run up to their bedroom for her smelling-salts, which she inhaled with closed eyes, whilst he asked her if she had not fatigued herself too much. yes, she felt somewhat tired; but she was delighted --everything had gone off so well. next she told them that on her reception nights she could not sleep, but tossed about till six o'clock in the morning. henri's face broke into a smile, and some quizzing followed. helene looked at them, and quivered amidst the benumbing drowsiness which little by little seemed to fall upon the whole house. however, only two guests now remained. pierre had gone in search of a cab. helene remained the last. one o'clock struck. henri, no longer standing on ceremony, rose on tiptoe and blew out two candles in the chandelier which were dangerously heating their crystal sconces. as the lights died out one by one, it seemed like a bedroom scene, the gloom of an alcove spreading over all. "i am keeping you up!" exclaimed helene, as she suddenly rose to her feet. "you must turn me out." a flush of red dyed her face; her blood, racing through her veins, seemed to stifle her. they walked with her into the hall, but the air there was chilly, and the doctor was somewhat alarmed for his wife in her low dress. "go back; you will do yourself harm. you are too warm." "very well; good-bye," said juliette, embracing helene, as was her wont in her most endearing moments. "come and see me oftener." henri had taken helene's fur coat in his hand, and held it outstretched to assist her in putting it on. when she had slipped her arms into the sleeves, he turned up the collar with a smile, while they stood in front of an immense mirror which covered one side of the hall. they were alone, and saw one another in the mirror's depths. for three months, on meeting and parting they had simply shaken hands in friendly greeting; they would fain that their love had died. but now helene was overcome, and sank back into his arms. the smile vanished from his face, which became impassioned, and, still clasping her, he kissed her on the neck. and she, raising her head, returned his kiss. chapter xvii. that night helene was unable to sleep. she turned from side to side in feverish unrest, and whenever a drowsy stupor fell on her senses, the old sorrows would start into new life within her breast. as she dozed and the nightmare increased, one fixed thought tortured her--she was eager to know where juliette and malignon would meet. this knowledge, she imagined, would be a source of relief to her. where, where could it be? despite herself, her brain throbbed with the thought, and she forgot everything save her craving to unravel this mystery, which thrilled her with secret longings. when day dawned and she began to dress, she caught herself saying loudly: "it will be to-morrow!" with one stocking on, and hands falling helpless to her side, she lapsed for a while into a fresh dreamy fit. "where, where was it that they had agreed to meet?" "good-day, mother, darling!" just then exclaimed jeanne who had awakened in her turn. as her strength was now returning to her, she had gone back to sleep in her cot in the closet. with bare feet and in her nightdress she came to throw herself on helene's neck, as was her every-day custom; then back again she rushed, to curl herself up in her warm bed for a little while longer. this jumping in and out amused her, and a ripple of laughter stole from under the clothes. once more she bounded into the bedroom, saying: "good-morning, mammy dear!" and again she ran off, screaming with laughter. then she threw the sheet over her head, and her cry came, hoarse and muffled, from beneath it: "i'm not there! i'm not there!" but helene was in no mood for play, as on other mornings; and jeanne, dispirited, fell asleep again. the day was still young. about eight o'clock rosalie made her appearance to recount the morning's chapter of accidents. oh! the streets were awful outside; in going for the milk her shoes had almost come off in the muddy slush. all the ice was thawing; and it was quite mild too, almost oppressive. oh! by the way, she had almost forgotten! an old woman had come to see madame the night before. "why!" she said, as there came a pull at the bell, "i expect that's she!" it was mother fetu, but mother fetu transformed, magnificent in a clean white cap, a new gown, and tartan shawl wrapped round her shoulders. her voice, however, still retained its plaintive tone of entreaty. "dear lady, it's only i, who have taken the liberty of calling to ask you about something!" helene gazed at her, somewhat surprised by her display of finery. "are you better, mother fetu?" "oh yes, yes; i feel better, if i may venture to say so. you see i always have something queer in my inside; it knocks me about dreadfully, but still i'm better. another thing, too; i've had a stroke of luck; it was a surprise, you see, because luck hasn't often come in my way. but a gentleman has made me his housekeeper--and oh! it's such a story!" her words came slowly, and her small keen eyes glittered in her face, furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. she seemed to be waiting for helene to question her; but the young woman sat close to the fire which rosalie had just lit, and paid scant attention to her, engrossed as she was in her own thoughts, with a look of pain on her features. "what do you want to ask me?" she at last said to mother fetu. the old lady made no immediate reply. she was scrutinizing the room, with its rosewood furniture and blue velvet hangings. then, with the humble and fawning air of a pauper, she muttered: "pardon me, madame, but everything is so beautiful here. my gentleman has a room like this, but it's all in pink. oh! it's such a story! just picture to yourself a young man of good position who has taken rooms in our house. of course, it isn't much of a place, but still our first and second floors are very nice. then, it's so quiet, too! there's no traffic; you could imagine yourself in the country. the workmen have been in the house for a whole fortnight; they have made such a jewel of his room!" she here paused, observing that helene's attention was being aroused. "it's for his work," she continued in a drawling voice; "he says it's for his work. we have no doorkeeper, you know, and that pleases him. oh! my gentleman doesn't like doorkeepers, and he is quite right, too!" once more she came to a halt, as though an idea had suddenly occurred to her. "why, wait a minute; you must know him--of course you must. he visits one of your lady friends!" "ah!" exclaimed helene, with colorless face. "yes, to be sure; the lady who lives close by--the one who used to go with you to church. she came the other day." mother fetu's eyes contracted, and from under the lids she took note of her benefactress's emotion. but helene strove to question her in a tone that would not betray her agitation. "did she go up?" "no, she altered her mind; perhaps she had forgotten something. but i was at the door. she asked for monsieur vincent, and then got back into her cab again, calling to the driver to return home, as it was too late. oh! she's such a nice, lively, and respectable lady. the gracious god doesn't send many such into the world. why, with the exception of yourself, she's the best--well, well, may heaven bless you all!" in this way mother fetu rambled on with the pious glibness of a devotee who is perpetually telling her beads. but the twitching of the myriad wrinkles of her face showed that her mind was still working, and soon she beamed with intense satisfaction. "ah!" she all at once resumed in inconsequent fashion, "how i should like to have a pair of good shoes! my gentleman has been so very kind, i can't ask him for anything more. you see i'm dressed; still i must get a pair of good shoes. look at those i have; they are all holes; and when the weather's muddy, as it is to-day, one's apt to get very ill. yes, i was down with colic yesterday; i was writhing all the afternoon, but if i had a pair of good shoes--" "i'll bring you a pair, mother fetu," said helene, waving her towards the door. then, as the old woman retired backwards, with profuse curtseying and thanks, she asked her: "at what hour are you alone?" "my gentleman is never there after six o'clock," she answered. "but don't give yourself the trouble; i'll come myself, and get them from your doorkeeper. but you can do as you please. you are an angel from heaven. god on high will requite you for all your kindness!" when she had reached the landing she could still be heard giving vent to her feelings. helene sat a long time plunged in the stupor which the information, supplied by this woman with such fortuitous seasonableness, had brought upon her. she now knew the place of assignation. it was a room, with pink decorations, in that old tumbledown house! she once more pictured to herself the staircase oozing with damp, the yellow doors on each landing, grimy with the touch of greasy hands, and all the wretchedness which had stirred her heart to pity when she had gone during the previous winter to visit mother fetu; and she also strove to conjure up a vision of that pink chamber in the midst of such repulsive, poverty-stricken surroundings. however, whilst she was still absorbed in her reverie, two tiny warm hands were placed over her eyes, which lack of sleep had reddened, and a laughing voice inquired: "who is it? who is it?" it was jeanne, who had slipped into her clothes without assistance. mother fetu's voice had awakened her; and perceiving that the closet door had been shut, she had made her toilet with the utmost speed in order to give her mother a surprise. "who is it? who is it?" she again inquired, convulsed more and more with laughter. she turned to rosalie, who entered at the moment with the breakfast. "you know; don't you speak. nobody is asking you any question." "be quiet, you little madcap!" exclaimed helene. "i suppose it's you!" the child slipped on to her mother's lap, and there, leaning back and swinging to and fro, delighted with the amusement she had devised, she resumed: "well, it might have been another little girl! eh? perhaps some little girl who had brought you a letter of invitation to dine with her mamma. and she might have covered your eyes, too!" "don't be silly," exclaimed helene, as she set her on the floor. "what are you talking about? rosalie, let us have breakfast." the maid's eyes, however, were riveted on the child, and she commented upon her little mistress being so oddly dressed. to tell the truth, so great had been jeanne's haste that she had not put on her shoes. she had drawn on a short flannel petticoat which allowed a glimpse of her chemise, and had left her morning jacket open, so that you could see her delicate, undeveloped bosom. with her hair streaming behind her, stamping about in her stockings, which were all awry, she looked charming, all in white like some child of fairyland. she cast down her eyes to see herself, and immediately burst into laughter. "look, mamma, i look nice, don't i? won't you let me be as i am? it is nice!" repressing a gesture of impatience, helene, as was her wont every morning, inquired: "are you washed?" "oh, mamma!" pleaded the child, her joy suddenly dashed. "oh, mamma! it's raining; it's too nasty!" "then, you'll have no breakfast. wash her, rosalie." she usually took this office upon herself, but that morning she felt altogether out of sorts, and drew nearer to the fire, shivering, although the weather was so balmy. having spread a napkin and placed two white china bowls on a small round table, rosalie had brought the latter close to the fireplace. the coffee and milk steamed before the fire in a silver pot, which had been a present from monsieur rambaud. at this early hour the disorderly, drowsy room seemed delightfully homelike. "mamma, mamma!" screamed jeanne from the depths of the closet, "she's rubbing me too hard. it's taking my skin off. oh dear! how awfully cold!" helene, with eyes fixed on the coffee-pot, remained engrossed in thought. she desired to know everything, so she would go. the thought of that mysterious place of assignation in so squalid a nook of paris was an ever-present pain and vexation. she judged such taste hateful, but in it she identified malignon's leaning towards romance. "mademoiselle," declared rosalie, "if you don't let me finish with you, i shall call madame." "stop, stop: you are poking the soap into my eyes," answered jeanne, whose voice was hoarse with sobs. "leave me alone; i've had enough of it. the ears can wait till to-morrow." but the splashing of water went on, and the squeezing of the sponge into the basin could be heard. there was a clamor and a struggle, the child was sobbing; but almost immediately afterward she made her appearance, shouting gaily: "it's over now; it's over now!" her hair was still glistening with wet, and she shook herself, her face glowing with the rubbing it had received and exhaling a fresh and pleasant odor. in her struggle to get free her jacket had slipped from her shoulders, her petticoat had become loosened, and her stockings had tumbled down, displaying her bare legs. according to rosalie, she looked like an infant jesus. jeanne, however, felt very proud that she was clean; she had no wish to be dressed again. "look at me, mamma; look at my hands, and my neck, and my ears. oh! you must let me warm myself; i am so comfortable. you don't say anything; surely i've deserved my breakfast to-day." she had curled herself up before the fire in her own little easy-chair. then rosalie poured out the coffee and milk. jeanne took her bowl on her lap, and gravely soaked her toast in its contents with all the airs of a grown-up person. helene had always forbidden her to eat in this way, but that morning she remained plunged in thought. she did not touch her own bread, and was satisfied with drinking her coffee. then jeanne, after swallowing her last morsel, was stung with remorse. her heart filled, she put aside her bowl, and gazing on her mother's pale face, threw herself on her neck: "mamma, are you ill now? i haven't vexed you, have i?--say." "no, no, my darling, quite the contrary; you're very good," murmured helene as she embraced her. "i'm only a little wearied; i haven't slept well. go on playing: don't be uneasy." the thought occurred to her that the day would prove a terribly long one. what could she do whilst waiting for the night? for some time past she had abandoned her needlework; sewing had become a terrible weariness. for hours she lingered in her seat with idle hands, almost suffocating in her room, and craving to go out into the open air for breath, yet never stirring. it was this room which made her ill; she hated it, in angry exasperation over the two years which she had spent within its walls; its blue velvet and the vast panorama of the mighty city disgusted her, and her thoughts dwelt on a lodging in some busy street, the uproar of which would have deafened her. good heavens! how long were the hours! she took up a book, but the fixed idea that engrossed her mind continually conjured up the same visions between her eyes and the page of print. in the meantime rosalie had been busy setting the room in order; jeanne's hair also had been brushed, and she was dressed. while her mother sat at the window, striving to read, the child, who was in one of her moods of obstreperous gaiety, began playing a grand game. she was all alone; but this gave her no discomfort; she herself represented three or four persons in turn with comical earnestness and gravity. at first she played the lady going on a visit. she vanished into the dining-room, and returned bowing and smiling, her head nodding this way and that in the most coquettish style. "good-day, madame! how are you, madame? how long it is since i've seen you! a marvellously long time, to be sure! dear me, i've been so ill, madame! yes; i've had the cholera; it's very disagreeable. oh! it doesn't show; no, no, it makes you look younger, on my word of honor. and your children, madame? oh! i've had three since last summer!" so she rattled on, never ceasing her curtseying to the round table, which doubtless represented the lady she was visiting. next she ventured to bring the chairs closer together, and for an hour carried on a general conversation, her talk abounding in extraordinary phrases. "don't be silly," said her mother at intervals, when the chatter put her out of patience. "but, mamma, i'm paying my friend a visit. she's speaking to me, and i must answer her. at tea nobody ought to put the cakes in their pockets, ought they?" then she turned and began again: "good-bye, madame; your tea was delicious. remember me most kindly to your husband." the next moment came something else. she was going out shopping in her carriage, and got astride of a chair like a boy. "jean, not so quick; i'm afraid. stop! stop! here is the milliner's! mademoiselle, how much is this bonnet? three hundred francs; that isn't dear. but it isn't pretty. i should like it with a bird on it--a bird big like that! come, jean, drive me to the grocer's. have you some honey? yes, madame, here is some. oh, how nice it is! but i don't want any of it; give me two sous' worth of sugar. oh! jean, look, take care! there! we have had a spill! mr. policeman, it was the cart which drove against us. you're not hurt, madame, are you? no, sir, not in the least. jean, jean! home now. gee-up! gee-up. wait a minute; i must order some chemises. three dozen chemises for madame. i want some boots too and some stays. gee-up! gee-up! good gracious, we shall never get back again." then she fanned herself, enacting the part of the lady who has returned home and is finding fault with her servants. she never remained quiet for a moment; she was in a feverish ecstasy, full of all sorts of whimsical ideas; all the life she knew surged up in her little brain and escaped from it in fragments. morning and afternoon she thus moved about, dancing and chattering; and when she grew tired, a footstool or parasol discovered in a corner, or some shred of stuff lying on the floor, would suffice to launch her into a new game in which her effervescing imagination found fresh outlet. persons, places, and incidents were all of her own creation, and she amused herself as much as though twelve children of her own age had been beside her. but evening came at last. six o'clock was about to strike. and helene, rousing herself from the troubled stupor in which she had spent the afternoon, hurriedly threw a shawl over her shoulders. "are you going out, mamma?" asked jeanne in her surprise. "yes, my darling, just for a walk close by. i won't be long; be good." outside it was still thawing. the footways were covered with mud. in the rue de passy, helene entered a boot shop, to which she had taken mother fetu on a previous occasion. then she returned along the rue raynouard. the sky was grey, and from the pavement a mist was rising. the street stretched dimly before her, deserted and fear-inspiring, though the hour was yet early. in the damp haze the infrequent gas-lamps glimmered like yellow spots. she quickened her steps, keeping close to the houses, and shrinking from sight as though she were on the way to some assignation. however, as she hastily turned into the passage des eaux, she halted beneath the archway, her heart giving way to genuine terror. the passage opened beneath her like some black gulf. the bottom of it was invisible; the only thing she could see in this black tunnel was the quivering gleam of the one lamp which lighted it. eventually she made up her mind, and grasped the iron railing to prevent herself from slipping. feeling her way with the tip of her boots she landed successively on the broad steps. the walls, right and left, grew closer, seemingly prolonged by the darkness, while the bare branches of the trees above cast vague shadows, like those of gigantic arms with closed or outstretched hands. she trembled as she thought that one of the garden doors might open and a man spring out upon her. there were no passers-by, however, and she stepped down as quickly as possible. suddenly from out of the darkness loomed a shadow which coughed, and she was frozen with fear; but it was only an old woman creeping with difficulty up the path. then she felt less uneasy, and carefully raised her dress, which had been trailing in the mud. so thick was the latter that her boots were constantly sticking to the steps. at the bottom she turned aside instinctively. from the branches the raindrops dripped fast into the passage, and the lamp glimmered like that of some miner, hanging to the side of a pit which infiltrations have rendered dangerous. helene climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the top of the large house abutting on the passage. but nothing stirred, although she rapped loudly. in considerable perplexity she descended the stairs again. mother fetu was doubtless in the rooms on the first floor, where, however, helene dared not show herself. she remained five minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp. then again she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and was on the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the balusters. "what! it's you on the stairs, my good lady!" she exclaimed. "come in, and don't catch cold out there. oh! it is a vile place--enough to kill one." "no, thank you," said helene; "i've brought you your pair of shoes, mother fetu." she looked at the door which mother fetu had left open behind her, and caught a glimpse of a stove within. "i'm all alone, i assure you," declared the old woman. "come in. this is the kitchen here. oh! you're not proud with us poor folks; we can talk to you!" despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming created within her, helene followed her. "god in heaven! how can i thank you! oh, what lovely shoes! wait, and i'll put them on. there's my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove. bless the day! i can walk with these without being afraid of the rain. oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you've given me ten more years of life. no, no, it's no flattery; it's what i think, as true as there's a lamp shining on us. no, no, i don't flatter!" she melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping helene's hands kissed them. in a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of bordeaux with its tapering neck. the only other things placed there were four dishes, a glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot. it could be seen that mother fetu camped in this bachelor's kitchen, and that the fires were lit for herself only. seeing helene's glance turn towards the stewpan, she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression. "it's gripping me again," she groaned. "oh! it's useless for the doctor to talk; i must have some creature in my inside. and then, a drop of wine relieves me so. i'm greatly afflicted, my good lady. i wouldn't have a soul suffer from my trouble; it's too dreadful. well, i'm nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so much, isn't it fair she should do so? i have been so lucky in falling in with a nice gentleman. may heaven bless him!" with this outburst she dropped two large lumps of sugar into her wine. she was now getting more corpulent than ever, and her little eyes had almost vanished from her fat face. she moved slowly with a beatifical expression of felicity. her life's ambition was now evidently satisfied. for this she had been born. when she put her sugar away again helene caught a glimpse of some tid-bits secreted at the bottom of a cupboard--a jar of preserves, a bag of biscuits, and even some cigars, all doubtless pilfered from the gentleman lodger. "well, good-bye, mother fetu, i'm going away," she exclaimed. the old lady, however, pushed the saucepan to one side of the stove and murmured: "wait a minute; this is far too hot, i'll drink it by-and-by. no, no; don't go out that way. i must beg pardon for having received you in the kitchen. let us go round the rooms." she caught up the lamp, and turned into a narrow passage. helene, with beating heart, followed close behind. the passage, dilapidated and smoky, was reeking with damp. then a door was thrown open, and she found herself treading a thick carpet. mother fetu had already advanced into a room which was plunged in darkness and silence. "well?" she asked, as she lifted up the lamp; "it's very nice, isn't it?" there were two rooms, each of them square, communicating with one another by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by curtains. both were hung with pink cretonne of a louis quinze pattern, picturing chubby-checked cupids disporting themselves amongst garlands of flowers. in the first apartment there was a round table, two lounges, and some easy-chairs; and in the second, which was somewhat smaller, most of the space was occupied by the bed. mother fetu drew attention to a crystal lamp with gilt chains, which hung from the ceiling. to her this lamp was the veritable acme of luxury. then she began explaining things: "you can't imagine what a funny fellow he is! he lights it up in mid-day, and stays here, smoking a cigar and gazing into vacancy. but it amuses him, it seems. well, it doesn't matter; i've an idea he must have spent a lot of money in his time." helene went through the rooms in silence. they seemed to her in bad taste. there was too much pink everywhere; the furniture also looked far too new. "he calls himself monsieur vincent," continued the old woman, rambling on. "of course, it's all the same to me. as long as he pays, my gentleman--" "well, good-bye, mother fetu," said helene, in whose throat a feeling of suffocation was gathering. she was burning to get away, but on opening a door she found herself threading three small rooms, the bareness and dirt of which were repulsive. the paper hung in tatters from the walls, the ceilings were grimy, and old plaster littered the broken floors. the whole place was pervaded by a smell of long prevalent squalor. "not that way! not that way!" screamed mother fetu. "that door is generally shut. these are the other rooms which they haven't attempted to clean. my word! it's cost him quite enough already! yes, indeed, these aren't nearly so nice! come this way, my good lady--come this way!" on helene's return to the pink boudoir, she stopped to kiss her hand once more. "you see, i'm not ungrateful! i shall never forget the shoes. how well they fit me! and how warm they are! why, i could walk half-a-dozen miles with them. what can i beg heaven to grant you? o lord, hearken to me, and grant that she may be the happiest of women--in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost!" a devout enthusiasm had suddenly come upon mother fetu; she repeated the sign of the cross again and again, and bowed the knee in the direction of the crystal lamp. this done, she opened the door conducting to the landing, and whispered in a changed voice into helene's ear: "whenever you like to call, just knock at the kitchen door; i'm always there!" dazed, and glancing behind her as though she were leaving a place of dubious repute, helene hurried down the staircase, reascended the passage des eaux, and regained the rue vineuse, without consciousness of the ground she was covering. the old woman's last words still rang in her ears. in truth, no; never again would she set foot in that house, never again would she bear her charity thither. why should she ever rap at the kitchen door again? at present she was satisfied; she had seen what was to be seen. and she was full of scorn for herself --for everybody. how disgraceful to have gone there! the recollection of the place with its tawdry finery and squalid surroundings filled her with mingled anger and disgust. "well, madame," exclaimed rosalie, who was awaiting her return on the staircase, "the dinner will be nice. dear, oh dear! it's been burning for half an hour!" at table jeanne plagued her mother with questions. where had she been? what had she been about? however, as the answers she received proved somewhat curt, she began to amuse herself by giving a little dinner. her doll was perched near her on a chair, and in a sisterly fashion she placed half of her dessert before it. "now, mademoiselle, you must eat like a lady. see, wipe your mouth. oh, the dirty little thing! she doesn't even know how to wear her napkin! there, you're nice now. see, here is a biscuit. what do you say? you want some preserve on it. well, i should think it better as it is! let me pare you a quarter of this apple!" she placed the doll's share on the chair. but when she had emptied her own plate she took the dainties back again one after the other and devoured them, speaking all the time as though she were the doll. "oh! it's delicious! i've never eaten such nice jam! where did you get this jam, madame? i shall tell my husband to buy a pot of it. do those beautiful apples come from your garden, madame?" she fell asleep while thus playing, and stumbled into the bedroom with the doll in her arms. she had given herself no rest since morning. her little legs could no longer sustain her--she was helpless and wearied to death. however, a ripple of laughter passed over her face even in sleep; in her dreams she must have been still continuing her play. at last helene was alone in her room. with closed doors she spent a miserable evening beside the dead fire. her will was failing her; thoughts that found no utterance were stirring within the innermost recesses of her heart. at midnight she wearily sought her bed, but there her torture passed endurance. she dozed, she tossed from side to side as though a fire were beneath her. she was haunted by visions which sleeplessness enlarged to a gigantic size. then an idea took root in her brain. in vain did she strive to banish it; it clung to her, surged and clutched her at the throat till it entirely swayed her. about two o'clock she rose, rigid, pallid, and resolute as a somnambulist, and having again lighted the lamp she wrote a letter in a disguised hand; it was a vague denunciation, a note of three lines, requesting doctor deberle to repair that day to such a place at such an hour; there was no explanation, no signature. she sealed the envelope and dropped the letter into the pocket of her dress which was hanging over an arm-chair. then returning to bed, she immediately closed her eyes, and in a few minutes was lying there breathless, overpowered by leaden slumber. chapter xviii. it was nearly nine o'clock the next morning before rosalie was able to serve the coffee. helene had risen late. she was weary and pale with the nightmare that had broken her rest. she rummaged in the pocket of her dress, felt the letter there, pressed it to the very bottom, and sat down at the table without opening her lips. jeanne too was suffering from headache, and had a pale, troubled face. she quitted her bed regretfully that morning, without any heart to indulge in play. there was a sooty color in the sky, and a dim light saddened the room, while from time to time sudden downpours of rain beat against the windows. "mademoiselle is in the blues," said rosalie, who monopolized all the talk. "she can't keep cheerful for two days running. that's what comes of dancing about too much yesterday." "do you feel ill, jeanne?" asked helene. "no, mamma," answered the child. "it's only the nasty weather." helene lapsed once more into silence. she finished her coffee, and sat in her chair, plunged in thought, with her eyes riveted on the flames. while rising she had reflected that it was her duty to speak to juliette and bid her renounce the afternoon assignation. but how? she could not say. still, the necessity of the step was impressed on her, and now her one urgent, all-absorbing thought was to attempt it. ten o'clock struck, and she began to dress. jeanne gazed at her, and, on seeing her take up her bonnet, clasped her little hands as though stricken with cold, while over her face crept a pained look. it was her wont to take umbrage whenever her mother went out; she was unwilling to quit her side, and craved to go with her everywhere. "rosalie," said helene, "make haste and finish the room. don't go out. i'll be back in a moment." she stooped and gave jeanne a hasty kiss, not noticing her vexation. but the moment she had gone a sob broke from the child, who had hitherto summoned all her dignity to her aid to restrain her emotion. "oh, mademoiselle, how naughty!" exclaimed the maid by way of consolation. "gracious powers! no one will rob you of your mamma. you must allow her to see after her affairs. you can't always be hanging to her skirts!" meanwhile helene had turned the corner of the rue vineuse, keeping close to the wall for protection against the rain. it was pierre who opened the door; but at sight of her he seemed somewhat embarrassed. "is madame deberle at home?" "yes, madame; but i don't know whether--" helene, in the character of a family friend, was pushing past him towards the drawing-room; but he took the liberty of stopping her. "wait, madame; i'll go and see." he slipped into the room, opening the door as little as he could; and immediately afterwards juliette could be heard speaking in a tone of irritation. "what! you've allowed some one to come in? why, i forbade it peremptorily. it's incredible!! i can't be left quiet for an instant!" helene, however, pushed open the door, strong in her resolve to do that which she imagined to be her duty. "oh, it's you!" said juliette, as she perceived her. "i didn't catch who it was!" the look of annoyance did not fade from her face, however, and it was evident that the visit was ill-timed. "do i disturb you?" asked helene. "not at all, not at all," answered the other. "you'll understand in a moment. we have been getting up a surprise. we are rehearsing _caprice_[*] to play it on one of my wednesdays. we had selected this morning for rehearsal, thinking nobody would know of it. but you'll stay now? you will have to keep silence about it, that's all." [*] one of alfred de musset's plays. then, clapping her hands and addressing herself to madame berthier, who was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, she began once more, without paying any further attention to helene: "come, come; we must get on. you don't give sufficient point to the sentence 'to make a purse unknown to one's husband would in the eyes of most people seem rather more than romantic.' say that again." intensely surprised at finding her engaged in this way, helene had sat down. the chairs and tables had been pushed against the wall, the carpet thus being left clear. madame berthier, a delicate blonde, repeated her soliloquy, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling in her effort to recall the words; while plump madame de guiraud, a beautiful brunette, who had assumed the character of madame de lery, reclined in an arm-chair awaiting her cue. the ladies, in their unpretentious morning gowns, had doffed neither bonnets nor gloves. seated in front of them, her hair in disorder and a volume of musset in her hand, was juliette, in a dressing-gown of white cashmere. her face wore the serious expression of a stage-manager tutoring his actors as to the tones they should speak in and the by-play they should introduce. the day being dull, the small curtains of embroidered tulle had been pulled aside and swung across the knobs of the window-fastenings, so that the garden could be seen, dark and damp. "you don't display sufficient emotion," declared juliette. "put a little more meaning into it. every word ought to tell. begin again: 'i'm going to finish your toilette, my dear little purse.'" "i shall be an awful failure," said madame berthier languidly. "why don't you play the part instead of me? you would make a delicious mathilda." "i! oh, no! in the first place, one needs to be fair. besides, i'm a very good teacher, but a bad pupil. but let us get on--let us get on!" helene sat still in her corner. madame berthier, engrossed in her part, had not even turned round. madame de guiraud had merely honored her with a slight nod. she realized that she was in the way, and that she ought to have declined to stay. if she still remained, it was no longer through the sense of a duty to be fulfilled, but rather by reason of a strange feeling stirring vaguely in her heart's depth's--a feeling which had previously thrilled her in this selfsame spot. the unkindly greeting which juliette had bestowed on her pained her. however, the young woman's friendships were usually capricious; she worshipped people for three months, threw herself on their necks, and seemed to live for them alone; then one morning, without affording any explanation, she appeared to lose all consciousness of being acquainted with them. without doubt, in this, as in everything else, she was simply yielding to a fashionable craze, an inclination to love the people who were loved by her own circle. these sudden veerings of affection, however, deeply wounded helene, for her generous and undemonstrative heart had its ideal in eternity. she often left the deberles plunged in sadness, full of despair when she thought how fragile and unstable was the basis of human love. and on this occasion, in this crisis in her life, the thought brought her still keener pain. "we'll skip the scene with chavigny," said juliette. "he won't be here this morning. let us see madame de lery's entrance. now, madame de guiraud, here's your cue." then she read from her book: "'just imagine my showing him this purse.'" "'oh! it's exceedingly pretty. let me look at it,'" began madame de guiraud in a falsetto voice, as she rose with a silly expression on her face. when the servant had opened the door to her, helene had pictured a scene entirely different from this. she had imagined that she would find juliette displaying excessive nervousness, with pallid cheeks, hesitating and yet allured, shivering at the very thought of assignation. she had pictured herself imploring her to reflect, till the young woman, choked with sobs, threw herself into her arms. then they would have mingled their tears together, and helene would have quitted her with the thought that henri was henceforward lost to her, but that she had secured his happiness. however, there had been nothing of all this; she had merely fallen on this rehearsal, which was wholly unintelligible to her; and she saw juliette before her with unruffled features, like one who has had a good night's rest, and with her mind sufficiently at ease to discuss madame berthier's by-play, without troubling herself in the least degree about what she would do in the afternoon. this indifference and frivolity chilled helene, who had come to the house with passion consuming her. a longing to speak fell on her. at a venture she inquired: "who will play the part of chavigny?" "why, malignon, of course," answered juliette, turning round with an air of astonishment. "he played chavigny all last winter. it's a nuisance he can't come to the rehearsals. listen, ladies; i'm going to read chavigny's part. unless that's done, we shall never get on." thereupon she herself began acting the man's part, her voice deepening unconsciously, whilst she assumed a cavalier air in harmony with the situation. madame berthier renewed her warbling tones, and madame de guiraud took infinite pains to be lively and witty. when pierre came in to put some more wood on the fire he slyly glanced at the ladies, who amused him immensely. helene, still fixed in her resolve, despite some heart-shrinking, attempted however to take juliette aside. "only a minute. i've something to say to you." "oh, impossible, my dear! you see how much i am engaged. to-morrow, if you have the time." helene said no more. the young woman's unconcern displeased her. she felt anger growing within her as she observed how calm and collected juliette was, when she herself had endured such intense agony since the night before. at one moment she was on the point of rising and letting things take their course. it was exceedingly foolish of her to wish to save this woman; her nightmare began once more; her hands slipped into her pocket, and finding the letter there, clasped it in a feverish grasp. why should she have any care for the happiness of others, when they had no care for her and did not suffer as she did? "oh! capital, capital," exclaimed juliette of a sudden. madame berthier's head was now reclining on madame de guiraud's shoulder, and she was declaring through her sobs: "'i am sure that he loves her; i am sure of it!'" "your success will be immense," said juliette. "say that once more: 'i am sure that he loves her; i am sure of it.' leave your head as it is. you're divine. now, madame de guiraud, your turn." "'no, no, my child, it cannot be; it is a caprice, a fancy,'" replied the stout lady. "perfect! but oh, the scene is a long one, isn't it? let us rest a little while. we must have that incident in proper working order." then they all three plunged into a discussion regarding the arrangement of the drawing-room. the dining-room door, to the left, would serve for entrances and exits; an easy-chair could be placed on the right, a couch at the farther end, and the table could be pushed close to the fireplace. helene, who had risen, followed them about, as though she felt an interest in these scenic arrangements. she had now abandoned her idea of eliciting an explanation, and merely wished to make a last effort to prevent juliette from going to the place of meeting. "i intended asking you," she said to her, "if it isn't to-day that you mean to pay madame de chermette a visit?" "yes, this afternoon." "then, if you'll allow me, i'll go with you; it's such a long time since i promised to go to see her." for a moment juliette betrayed signs of embarrassment, but speedily regained her self-possession. "of course, i should be very happy. only i have so many things to look after; i must do some shopping first, and i have no idea at what time i shall be able to get to madame de chermette's." "that doesn't matter," said helene; "it will enable me to have a walk." "listen; i will speak to you candidly. well, you must not press me. you would be in my way. let it be some other monday." this was said without a trace of emotion, so flatly and with so quiet a smile that helene was dumbfounded and uttered not another syllable. she was obliged to lend some assistance to juliette, who suddenly decided to bring the table close to the fireplace. then she drew back, and the rehearsal began once more. in a soliloquy which followed the scene, madame de guiraud with considerable power spoke these two sentences: "'but what a treacherous gulf is the heart of man! in truth, we are worth more than they!'" and helene, what ought she to do now? within her breast the question raised a storm that stirred her to vague thoughts of violence. she experienced an irresistible desire to be revenged on juliette's tranquillity, as if that self-possession were an insult directed against her own fevered heart. she dreamed of facilitating her fall, that she might see whether she would always retain this unruffled demeanor. and she thought of herself scornfully as she recalled her delicacy and scruples. twenty times already she ought to have said to henri: "i love you; let us go away together." could she have done so, however, without the most intense emotion? could she have displayed the callous composure of this woman, who, three hours before her first assignation, was rehearsing a comedy in her own home? even at this moment she trembled more than juliette; what maddened her was the consciousness of her own passion amidst the quiet cheerfulness of this drawing-room; she was terrified lest she should burst out into some angry speech. was she a coward, then? but all at once a door opened, and henri's voice reached her ear: "do not disturb yourselves. i'm only passing." the rehearsal was drawing to a close. juliette, who was still reading chavigny's part, had just caught hold of madame de guiraud's hand. "ernestine, i adore you!" she exclaimed with an outburst of passionate earnestness. "then madame de blainville is no longer beloved by you?" inquired madame de guiraud. however, so long as her husband was present juliette declined to proceed. there was no need of the men knowing anything about it. the doctor showed himself most polite to the ladies; he complimented them and predicted an immense success. with black gloves on his hands and his face clean-shaven he was about to begin his round of visits. on his entry he had merely greeted helene with a slight bow. at the comedie francais he had seen some very great actress in the character of madame de lery, and he acquainted madame de guiraud with some of the usual by-play of the scene. "at the moment when chavigny is going to throw himself at your feet, you fling the purse into the fire. dispassionately, you know, without any anger, like a woman who plays with love." "all right; leave us alone," said juliette. "we know all about it." at last, when they had heard him close his study door, she began once more: "ernestine, i adore you!" prior to his departure henri had saluted helene with the same slight bow. she sat dumb, as though awaiting some catastrophe. the sudden appearance of the husband had seemed to her ominous; but when he had gone, his courtesy and evident blindness made him seem to her ridiculous. so he also gave attention to this idiotic comedy! and there was no loving fire in his eye as he looked at her sitting there! the whole house had become hateful and cold to her. here was a downfall; there was nothing to restrain her any longer, for she abhorred henri as much as juliette. within her pocket she held the letter in her convulsive grasp. at last, murmuring "good-bye for the present," she quitted the room, her head swimming and the furniture seeming to dance around her. and in her ears rang these words, uttered by madame de guiraud: "adieu. you will perhaps think badly of me to-day, but you will have some kindly feeling for me to-morrow, and, believe me, that is much better than a caprice." when helene had shut the house door and reached the pavement, she drew the letter with a violent, almost mechanical gesture from her pocket, and dropped it into the letter-box. then she stood motionless for a few seconds, still dazed, her eyes glaring at the narrow brass plate which had fallen back again in its place. "it is done," she exclaimed in a whisper. once more she pictured the rooms hung with pink cretonne. malignon and juliette were there together; but all of a sudden the wall was riven open, and the husband entered. she was conscious of no more, and a great calm fell on her. instinctively she looked around to see if any one had observed her dropping the letter in the box. but the street was deserted. then she turned the corner and went back home. "have you been good, my darling?" she asked as she kissed jeanne. the child, still seated on the same chair, raised a gloomy face towards her, and without answering threw both arms around her neck, and kissed her with a great gasp. her grief indeed had been intense. at lunch-time rosalie seemed greatly surprised. "madame surely went for a long walk!" said she. "why do you think so?" asked helene. "because madame is eating with such an appetite. it is long since madame ate so heartily." it was true; she was very hungry; with her sudden relief she had felt her stomach empty. she experienced a feeling of intense peace and content. after the shocks of these last two days a stillness fell upon her spirit, her limbs relaxed and became as supple as though she had just left a bath. the only sensation that remained to her was one of heaviness somewhere, an indefinable load that weighed upon her. when she returned to her bedroom her eyes were at once directed towards the clock, the hands of which pointed to twenty-five minutes past twelve. juliette's assignation was for three o'clock. two hours and a half must still elapse. she made the reckoning mechanically. moreover, she was in no hurry; the hands of the clock were moving on, and no one in the world could stop them. she left things to their own accomplishment. a child's cap, long since begun, was lying unfinished on the table. she took it up and began to sew at the window. the room was plunged in unbroken silence. jeanne had seated herself in her usual place, but her arms hung idly beside her. "mamma," she said, "i cannot work; it's no fun at all." "well, my darling, don't do anything. oh! wait a minute, you can thread my needles!" in a languid way the child silently attended to the duty assigned her. having carefully cut some equal lengths of cotton, she spent a long time in finding the eyes of the needles, and was only just ready with one of them threaded when her mother had finished with the last. "you see," said the latter gently, "this will save time. the last of my six little caps will be finished to-night." she turned round to glance at the clock--ten minutes past one. still nearly two hours. juliette must now be beginning to dress. henri had received the letter. oh! he would certainly go. the instructions were precise; he would find the place without delay. but it all seemed so far off still, and she felt no emotional fever, but went on sewing with regular stitches as industriously as a work-girl. the minutes slipped by one by one. at last two o'clock struck. a ring at the bell came as a surprise. "who can it be, mother darling?" asked jeanne, who had jumped on her chair. "oh! it's you!" she continued, as monsieur rambaud entered the room. "why did you ring so loudly? you gave me quite a fright." the worthy man was in consternation--to tell the truth, his tug at the bell had been a little too violent. "i am not myself to-day, i'm ill," the child resumed. "you must not frighten me." monsieur rambaud displayed the greatest solicitude. what was the matter with his poor darling? he only sat down, relieved, when helene had signed to him that the child was in her dismals, as rosalie was wont to say. a call from him in the daytime was a rare occurrence, and so he at once set about explaining the object of his visit. it concerned some fellow-townsman of his, an old workman who could find no employment owing to his advanced years, and who lived with his paralytic wife in a tiny little room. their wretchedness could not be pictured. he himself had gone up that morning to make a personal investigation. their lodging was a mere hole under the tiles, with a swing window, through whose broken panes the wind beat in. inside, stretched on a mattress, he had found a woman wrapped in an old curtain, while the man squatted on the floor in a state of stupefaction, no longer finding sufficient courage even to sweep the place. "oh! poor things, poor things!" exclaimed helene, moved to tears. it was not the old workman who gave monsieur rambaud any uneasiness. he would remove him to his own house and find him something to do. but there was the wife with palsied frame, whom the husband dared not leave for a moment alone, and who had to be rolled up like a bundle; where could she be put? what was to be done with her? "i thought of you," he went on. "you must obtain her instant admission to an asylum. i should have gone straight to monsieur deberle, but i imagined you knew him better and would have greater influence with him. if he would be kind enough to interest himself in the matter, it could all be arranged to-morrow." trembling with pity, her cheeks white, jeanne listened to the tale. "oh, mamma!" she murmured with clasped hands, "be kind--get the admission for the poor woman!" "yes, yes, of course!" said helene, whose emotion was increasing. "i will speak to the doctor as soon as i can; he will himself take every requisite step. give me their names and the address, monsieur rambaud." he scribbled a line on the table, and said as he rose: "it is thirty-five minutes past two. you would perhaps find the doctor at home now." she had risen at the same time, and as she looked at the clock a fierce thrill swept through her frame. in truth it was already thirty-five minutes past two, and the hands were still creeping on. she stammered out that the doctor must have started on his round of visits. her eyes were riveted on the dial. meantime, monsieur rambaud remained standing hat in hand, and beginning his story once more. these poor people had sold everything, even their stove, and since the setting in of winter had spent their days and nights alike without a fire. at the close of december they had been four days without food. helene gave vent to a cry of compassion. the hands of the clock now marked twenty minutes to three. monsieur rambaud devoted another two minutes to his farewell: "well, i depend on you," he said. and stooping to kiss jeanne, he added: "good-bye, my darling." "good-bye; don't worry; mamma won't forget. i'll make her remember." when helene came back from the ante-room, whither she had gone in company with monsieur rambaud, the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to three. another quarter of an hour and all would be over. as she stood motionless before the fireplace, the scene which was about to be enacted flashed before her eyes: juliette was already there; henri entered and surprised her. she knew the room; she could see the scene in its minutest details with terrible vividness. and still affected by monsieur rambaud's awful story she felt a mighty shudder rise from her limbs to her face. a voice cried out within her that what she had done--the writing of that letter, that cowardly denunciation--was a crime. the truth came to her with dazzling clearness. yes, it was a crime she had committed! she recalled to memory the gesture with which she had flung the letter into the box; she recalled it with a sense of stupor such as might come over one on seeing another commit an evil action, without thought of intervening. she was as if awaking from a dream. what was it that had happened? why was she here, with eyes ever fixed on the hands of that dial? two more minutes had slipped away. "mamma," said jeanne, "if you like, we'll go to see the doctor together to-night. it will be a walk for me. i feel stifling to-day." helene, however, did not hear; thirteen minutes must yet elapse. but she could not allow so horrible a thing to take place! in this stormy awakening of her rectitude she felt naught but a furious craving to prevent it. she must prevent it; otherwise she would be unable to live. in a state of frenzy she ran about her bedroom. "ah, you're going to take me!" exclaimed jeanne joyously. "we're going to see the doctor at once, aren't we, mother darling?" "no, no," helene answered, while she hunted for her boots, stooping to look under the bed. they were not to be found; but she shrugged her shoulders with supreme indifference when it occurred to her that she could very well run out in the flimsy house-slippers she had on her feet. she was now turning the wardrobe topsy-turvy in her search for her shawl. jeanne crept up to her with a coaxing air: "then you're not going to the doctor's, mother darling?" "no." "say that you'll take me all the same. oh! do take me; it will be such a pleasure!" but helene had at last found her shawl, and she threw it over her shoulders. good heavens! only twelve minutes left--just time to run. she would go--she would do something, no matter what. she would decide on the way. "mamma dear, do please take me with you," said jeanne in tones that grew lower and more imploring. "i cannot take you," said helene; "i'm going to a place where children don't go. give me my bonnet." jeanne's face blanched. her eyes grew dim, her words came with a gasp. "where are you going?" she asked. the mother made no reply--she was tying the strings of her bonnet. then the child continued: "you always go out without me now. you went out yesterday, you went out to-day, and you are going out again. oh, i'm dreadfully grieved, i'm afraid to be here all alone. i shall die if you leave me here. do you hear, mother darling? i shall die." then bursting into loud sobs, overwhelmed by a fit of grief and rage, she clung fast to helene's skirts. "come, come, leave me; be good, i'm coming back," her mother repeated. "no, no! i won't have it!" the child exclaimed through her sobs. "oh! you don't love me any longer, or you would take me with you. yes, yes, i am sure you love other people better. take me with you, take me with you, or i'll stay here on the floor; you'll come back and find me on the floor." she wound her little arms round her mother's legs; she wept with face buried in the folds of her dress; she clung to her and weighed upon her to prevent her making a step forward. and still the hands of the clock moved steadily on; it was ten minutes to three. then helene thought that she would never reach the house in time, and, nearly distracted, she wrenched jeanne from her grasp, exclaiming: "what an unbearable child! this is veritable tyranny! if you sob any more, i'll have something to say to you!" she left the room and slammed the door behind her. jeanne had staggered back to the window, her sobs suddenly arrested by this brutal treatment, her limbs stiffened, her face quite white. she stretched her hands towards the door, and twice wailed out the words: "mamma! mamma!" and then she remained where she had fallen on a chair, with eyes staring and features distorted by the jealous thought that her mother was deceiving her. on reaching the street, helene hastened her steps. the rain had ceased, but great drops fell from the housetops on to her shoulders. she had resolved that she would reflect outside and fix on some plan. but now she was only inflamed with a desire to reach the house. when she reached the passage des eaux, she hesitated for just one moment. the descent had become a torrent; the water of the gutters of the rue raynouard was rushing down it. and as the stream bounded over the steps, between the close-set walls, it broke here and there into foam, whilst the edges of the stones, washed clear by the downpour, shone out like glass. a gleam of pale light, falling from the grey sky, made the passage look whiter between the dusky branches of the trees. helene went down it, scarcely raising her skirts. the water came up to her ankles. she almost lost her flimsy slippers in the puddles; around her, down the whole way, she heard a gurgling sound, like the murmuring of brooklets coursing through the grass in the depths of the woods. all at once she found herself on the stairs in front of the door. she stood there, panting in a state of torture. then her memory came back, and she decided to knock at the kitchen. "what! is it you?" exclaimed mother fetu. there was none of the old whimper in her voice. her little eyes were sparkling, and a complacent grin had spread over the myriad wrinkles of her face. all the old deference vanished, and she patted helene's hands as she listened to her broken words. the young woman gave her twenty francs. "may god requite you!" prayed mother fetu in her wonted style. "whatever you please, my dear!" chapter xix. leaning back in an easy-chair, with his legs stretched out before the huge, blazing fire, malignon sat waiting. he had considered it a good idea to draw the window-curtains and light the wax candles. the outer room, in which he had seated himself, was brilliantly illuminated by a small chandelier and a pair of candelabra; whilst the other apartment was plunged in shadow, the swinging crystal lamp alone casting on the floor a twilight gleam. malignon drew out his watch. "the deuce!" he muttered. "is she going to keep me waiting again?" he gave vent to a slight yawn. he had been waiting for an hour already, and it was small amusement to him. however, he rose and cast a glance over his preparations. the arrangement of the chairs did not please him, and he rolled a couch in front of the fireplace. the cretonne hangings had a ruddy glow, as they reflected the light of the candles; the room was warm, silent, and cozy, while outside the wind came and went in sudden gusts. all at once the young man heard three hurried knocks at the door. it was the signal. "at last!" he exclaimed aloud, his face beaming jubilantly. he ran to open the door, and juliette entered, her face veiled, her figure wrapped in a fur mantle. while malignon was gently closing the door, she stood still for a moment, with the emotion that checked the words on her lips undetected. however, before the young man had had time to take her hand, she raised her veil, and displayed a smiling face, rather pale, but quite unruffled. "what! you have lighted up the place!" she exclaimed. "why? i thought you hated candles in broad daylight!" malignon, who had been making ready to clasp her with a passionate gesture that he had been rehearsing, was put somewhat out of countenance by this remark, and hastened to explain that the day was too wretched, and that the windows looked on to waste patches of ground. besides, night was his special delight. "well, one never knows how to take you," she retorted jestingly. "last spring, at my children's ball, you made such a fuss, declaring that the place was like some cavern, some dead-house. however, let us say that your taste has changed." she seemed to be paying a mere visit, and affected a courage which slightly deepened her voice. this was the only indication of her uneasiness. at times her chin twitched somewhat, as though she felt some uneasiness in her throat. but her eyes were sparkling, and she tasted to the full the keen pleasure born of her imprudence. she thought of madame de chermette, of whom such scandalous stories were related. good heavens! it seemed strange all the same. "let us have a look round," she began. and thereupon she began inspecting the apartment. he followed in her footsteps, while she gazed at the furniture, examined the walls, looked upwards, and started back, chattering all the time. "i don't like your cretonne; it is so frightfully common!" said she. "where did you buy that abominable pink stuff? there's a chair that would be nice if the wood weren't covered with gilding. not a picture, not a nick-nack--only your chandelier and your candelabra, which are by no means in good style! ah well, my dear fellow; i advise you to continue laughing at my japanese pavilion!" she burst into a laugh, thus revenging herself on him for the old affronts which still rankled in her breast. "your taste is a pretty one, and no mistake! you don't know that my idol is worth more than the whole lot of your things! a draper's shopman wouldn't have selected that pink stuff. was it your idea to fascinate your washerwoman?" malignon felt very much hurt, and did not answer. he made an attempt to lead her into the inner room; but she remained on the threshold, declaring that she never entered such gloomy places. besides, she could see quite enough; the one room was worthy of the other. the whole of it had come from the saint-antoine quarter. but the hanging lamp was her special aversion. she attacked it with merciless raillery--what a trashy thing it was, such as some little work-girl with no furniture of her own might have dreamt of! why, lamps in the same style could be bought at all the bazaars at seven francs fifty centimes apiece. "i paid ninety francs for it," at last ejaculated malignon in his impatience. thereupon she seemed delighted at having angered him. on his self-possession returning, he inquired: "won't you take off your cloak?" "oh, yes, i will," she answered; "it is dreadfully warm here." she took off her bonnet as well, and this with her fur cloak he hastened to deposit in the next room. when he returned, he found her seated in front of the fire, still gazing round her. she had regained her gravity, and was disposed to display a more conciliatory demeanor. "it's all very ugly," she said; "still, you are not amiss here. the two rooms might have been made very pretty." "oh! they're good enough for my purpose!" he thoughtlessly replied, with a careless shrug of the shoulders. the next moment, however, he bitterly regretted these silly words. he could not possibly have been more impertinent or clumsy. juliette hung her head, and a sharp pang darted through her bosom. then he sought to turn to advantage the embarrassment into which he had plunged her. "juliette!" he said pleadingly, as he leaned towards her. but with a gesture she forced him to resume his seat. it was at the seaside, at trouville, that malignon, bored to death by the constant sight of the sea, had hit upon the happy idea of falling in love. one evening he had taken hold of juliette's hand. she had not seemed offended; in fact, she had at first bantered him over it. soon, though her head was empty and her heart free, she imagined that she loved him. she had, so far, done nearly everything that her friends did around her; a lover only was lacking, and curiosity and a craving to be like the others had impelled her to secure one. however, malignon was vain enough to imagine that he might win her by force of wit, and allowed her time to accustom herself to playing the part of a coquette. so, on the first outburst, which took place one night when they stood side by side gazing at the sea like a pair of lovers in a comic opera, she had repelled him, in her astonishment and vexation that he should spoil the romance which served as an amusement to her. on his return to paris malignon had vowed that he would be more skilful in his attack. he had just reacquired influence over her, during a fit of boredom which had come on with the close of a wearying winter, when the usual dissipations, dinners, balls, and first-night performances were beginning to pall on her with their dreary monotony. and at last, her curiosity aroused, allured by the seeming mystery and piquancy of an intrigue, she had responded to his entreaties by consenting to meet him. however, so wholly unruffled were her feelings, that she was as little disturbed, seated here by the side of malignon, as when she paid visits to artists' studios to solicit pictures for her charity bazaars. "juliette! juliette!" murmured the young man, striving to speak in caressing tones. "come, be sensible," she merely replied; and taking a chinese fan from the chimney-piece, she resumed--as much at her ease as though she had been sitting in her own drawing-room: "you know we had a rehearsal this morning. i'm afraid i have not made a very happy choice in madame berthier. her 'mathilda' is a snivelling, insufferable affair. you remember that delightful soliloquy when she addresses the purse--'poor little thing, i kissed you a moment ago'? well! she declaims it like a school-girl who has learnt a complimentary greeting. it's so vexatious!" "and what about madame de guiraud?" he asked, as he drew his chair closer and took her hand. "oh! she is perfection. i've discovered in her a 'madame de lery,' with some sarcasm and animation." while speaking she surrendered her hand to the young man, and he kissed it between her sentences without her seeming to notice it. "but the worst of it all, you know," she resumed, "is your absence. in the first place, you might say something to madame berthier; and besides, we shall not be able to get a good _ensemble_ if you never come." he had now succeeded in passing his arm round her waist. "but as i know my part," he murmured. "yes, that's all very well; but there's the arrangement of the scenes to look after. it is anything but obliging on your part to refuse to give us three or four mornings." she was unable to continue, for he was raining a shower of kisses on her neck. at this she could feign ignorance no longer, but pushed him away, tapping him the while with the chinese fan which she still retained in her hand. doubtless, she had registered a vow that she would not allow any further familiarity. her face was now flushed by the heat reflected from the fire, and her lips pouted with the very expression of an inquisitive person whom her feelings astonish. moreover, she was really getting frightened. "leave me alone," she stammered, with a constrained smile. "i shall get angry." but he imagined that he had moved her, and once more took hold of her hands. to her, however, a voice seemed to be crying out, "no!" it was she herself protesting before she had even answered her own heart. "no, no!" she said again. "let me go; you are hurting me!" and thereupon, as he refused to release her, she twisted herself violently from his grasp. she was acting in obedience to some strange emotion; she felt angry with herself and with him. in her agitation some disjointed phrases escaped her lips. yes, indeed, he rewarded her badly for her trust. what a brute he was! she even called him a coward. never in her life would she see him again. but he allowed her to talk on, and ran after her with a wicked and brutal laugh. and at last she could do no more than gasp in the momentary refuge which she had sought behind a chair. they were there, gazing at one another, her face transformed by shame and his by passion, when a noise broke through the stillness. at first they did not grasp its significance. a door had opened, some steps crossed the room, and a voice called to them: "fly! fly! you will be caught!" it was helene. astounded, they both gazed at her. so great was their stupefaction that they lost consciousness of their embarrassing situation. juliette indeed displayed no sign of confusion. "fly! fly!" said helene again. "your husband will be here in two minutes." "my husband!" stammered the young woman; "my husband!--why--for what reason?" she was losing her wits. her brain was in a turmoil. it seemed to her prodigious that helene should be standing there speaking to her of her husband. but helene made an angry gesture. "oh! if you think i've time to explain," said she,--"he is on the way here. i give you warning. disappear at once, both of you." then juliette's agitation became extraordinary. she ran about the rooms like a maniac, screaming out disconnected sentences. "my god! my god!--i thank you.--where is my cloak?--how horrid it is, this room being so dark!--give me my cloak.--bring me a candle, to help me to find my cloak.--my dear, you mustn't mind if i don't stop to thank you.--i can't get my arms into the sleeves--no, i can't get them in--no, i can't!" she was paralyzed with fear, and helene was obliged to assist her with her cloak. she put her bonnet on awry, and did not even tie the ribbons. the worst of it, however, was that they lost quite a minute in hunting for her veil, which had fallen on the floor. her words came with a gasp; her trembling hands moved about in bewilderment, fumbling over her person to ascertain whether she might be leaving anything behind which might compromise her. "oh, what a lesson! what a lesson! thank goodness, it is well over!" malignon was very pale, and made a sorry appearance. his feet beat a tattoo on the ground, as he realized that he was both scorned and ridiculous. his lips could only give utterance to the wretched question: "then you think i ought to go away as well?" then, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he took up his cane, and went on talking by way of affecting perfect composure. they had plenty of time, said he. it happened that there was another staircase, a small servants' staircase, now never used, but which would yet allow of their descent. madame deberle's cab had remained at the door; it would convey both of them away along the quays. and again he repeated: "now calm yourself. it will be all right. see, this way." he threw open a door, and the three dingy, dilapidated, little rooms, which had not been repaired and were full of dirt, appeared to view. a puff of damp air entered the boudoir. juliette, ere she stepped through all that squalor, gave final expression to her disgust. "how could i have come here?" she exclaimed in a loud voice. "what a hole! i shall never forgive myself." "be quick, be quick!" urged helene, whose anxiety was as great as her own. she pushed juliette forward, but the young woman threw herself sobbing on her neck. she was in the throes of a nervous reaction. she was overwhelmed with shame, and would fain have defended herself, fain have given a reason for being found in that man's company. then instinctively she gathered up her skirts, as though she were about to cross a gutter. with the tip of his boot malignon, who had gone on first, was clearing away the plaster which littered the back staircase. the doors were shut once more. meantime, helene had remained standing in the middle of the sitting-room. silence reigned there, a warm, close silence, only disturbed by the crackling of the burnt logs. there was a singing in her ears, and she heard nothing. but after an interval, which seemed to her interminable, the rattle of a cab suddenly resounded. it was juliette's cab rolling away. then helene sighed, and she made a gesture of mute gratitude. the thought that she would not be tortured by everlasting remorse for having acted despicably filled her with pleasant and thankful feelings. she felt relieved, deeply moved, and yet so weak, now that this awful crisis was over, that she lacked the strength to depart in her turn. in her heart she thought that henri was coming, and that he must meet some one in this place. there was a knock at the door, and she opened it at once. the first sensation on either side was one of bewilderment. henri entered, his mind busy with thoughts of the letter which he had received, and his face pale and uneasy. but when he caught sight of her a cry escaped his lips. "you! my god! it was you!" the cry betokened more astonishment than pleasure. but soon there came a furious awakening of his love. "you love me, you love me!" he stammered. "ah! it was you, and i did not understand." he stretched out his arm as he spoke; but helene, who had greeted his entrance with a smile, now started back with wan cheeks. truly she had waited for him; she had promised herself that they would be together for a moment, and that she would invent some fiction. now, however, full consciousness of the situation flashed upon her; henri believed it to be an assignation. yet she had never for one moment desired such a thing, and her heart rebelled. "henri, i pray you, release me," said she. he had grasped her by the wrists, and was drawing her slowly towards him, as though to kiss her. the love that had been surging within him for months, but which had grown less violent owing to the break in their intimacy, now burst forth more fiercely than ever. "release me," she resumed. "you are frightening me. i assure you, you are mistaken." his surprise found voice once more. "was it not you then who wrote to me?" he asked. she hesitated for a second. what could she say in answer? "yes," she whispered at last. she could not betray juliette after having saved her. an abyss lay before her into which she herself was slipping. henri was now glancing round the two rooms in wonderment at finding them illumined and furnished in such gaudy style. he ventured to question her. "are these rooms yours?" he asked. but she remained silent. "your letter upset me so," he continued. "helene, you are hiding something from me. for mercy's sake, relieve my anxiety!" she was not listening to him; she was reflecting that he was indeed right in considering this to be an assignation. otherwise, what could she have been doing there? why should she have waited for him? she could devise no plausible explanation. she was no longer certain whether she had not given him this rendezvous. a network of chance and circumstance was enveloping her yet more tightly; there was no escape from it. each second found her less able to resist. "you were waiting for me, you were waiting for me!" he repeated passionately, as he bent his head to kiss her. and then as his lips met hers she felt it beyond her power to struggle further; but, as though in mute acquiescence, fell, half swooning and oblivious of the world, upon his neck. [illustration: the meeting of helene and henri] chapter xx. jeanne, with her eyes fixed on the door, remained plunged in grief over her mother's sudden departure. she gazed around her; the room was empty and silent; but she could still hear the waning sounds of hurrying footsteps and rustling skirts, and last the slamming of the outer door. then nothing stirred, and she was alone. all alone, all alone. over the bed hung her mother's dressing-gown, flung there at random, the skirt bulging out and a sleeve lying across the bolster, so that the garment looked like some person who had fallen down overwhelmed with grief, and sobbing in misery. there was some linen scattered about, and a black neckerchief lay on the floor like a blot of mourning. the chairs were in disorder, the table had been pushed in front of the wardrobe, and amidst it all she was quite alone. she felt her tears choking her as she looked at the dressing-gown which no longer garmented her mother, but was stretched there with the ghastly semblance of death. she clasped her hands, and for the last time wailed, "mamma! mamma!" the blue velvet hangings, however, deadened the sound. it was all over, and she was alone. then the time slipped away. the clock struck three. a dismal, dingy light came in through the windows. dark clouds were sailing over the sky, which made it still gloomier. through the panes of glass, which were covered with moisture, paris could only be dimly seen; the watery vapor blurred it; its far-away outskirts seemed hidden by thick smoke. thus the city even was no longer there to keep the child company, as on bright afternoons, when, on leaning out a little, it seemed to her as though she could touch each district with her hand. what was she to do? her little arms tightened in despair against her bosom. this desertion seemed to her mournful, passing all bounds, characterized by an injustice and wickedness that enraged her. she had never known anything so hateful; it struck her that everything was going to vanish; nothing of the old life would ever come back again. then she caught sight of her doll seated near her on a chair, with its back against a cushion, and its legs stretched out, its eyes staring at her as though it were a human being. it was not her mechanical doll, but a large one with a pasteboard head, curly hair, and eyes of enamel, whose fixed look sometimes frightened her. what with two years' constant dressing and undressing, the paint had got rubbed off the chin and cheeks, and the limbs, of pink leather stuffed with sawdust, had become limp and wrinkled like old linen. the doll was just now in its night attire, arrayed only in a bed-gown, with its arms twisted, one in the air and the other hanging downwards. when jeanne realized that there was still some one with her, she felt for an instant less unhappy. she took the doll in her arms and embraced it ardently, while its head swung back, for its neck was broken. then she chattered away to it, telling it that it was jeanne's best-behaved friend, that it had a good heart, for it never went out and left jeanne alone. it was, said she, her treasure, her kitten, her dear little pet. trembling with agitation, striving to prevent herself from weeping again, she covered it all over with kisses. this fit of tenderness gave her some revengeful consolation, and the doll fell over her arm like a bundle of rags. she rose and looked out, with her forehead against a window-pane. the rain had ceased falling, and the clouds of the last downpour, driven before the wind, were nearing the horizon towards the heights of pere-lachaise, which were wrapped in gloom; and against this stormy background paris, illumined by a uniform clearness, assumed a lonely, melancholy grandeur. it seemed to be uninhabited, like one of those cities seen in a nightmare--the reflex of a world of death. to jeanne it certainly appeared anything but pretty. she was now idly dreaming of those she had loved since her birth. her oldest sweetheart, the one of her early days at marseilles, had been a huge cat, which was very heavy; she would clasp it with her little arms, and carry it from one chair to another without provoking its anger in the least; but it had disappeared, and that was the first misfortune she remembered. she had next had a sparrow, but it died; she had picked it up one morning from the bottom of its cage. that made two. she never reckoned the toys which got broken just to grieve her, all kinds of wrongs which had caused her much suffering because she was so sensitive. one doll in particular, no higher than one's hand, had driven her to despair by getting its head smashed; she had cherished it to a such a degree that she had buried it by stealth in a corner of the yard; and some time afterwards, overcome by a craving to look on it once more, she had disinterred it, and made herself sick with terror whilst gazing on its blackened and repulsive features. however, it was always the others who were the first to fail in their love. they got broken; they disappeared. the separation, at all events, was invariably their fault. why was it? she herself never changed. when she loved any one, her love lasted all her life. her mind could not grasp the idea of neglect and desertion; such things seemed to her monstrously wicked, and never occurred to her little heart without giving it a deadly pang. she shivered as a host of vague ideas slowly awoke within her. so people parted one day; each went his own way, never to meet or love each other again. with her eyes fixed on the limitless and dreary expanse of paris, she sat chilled by all that her childish passion could divine of life's hard blows. meantime her breath was fast dimming the glass. with her hands she rubbed away the vapor that prevented her from looking out. several monuments in the distance, wet with the rain, glittered like browny ice. there were lines of houses, regular and distinct, which, with their fronts standing out pale amidst the surrounding roofs, looked like outstretched linen--some tremendous washing spread to dry on fields of ruddy grass. the sky was clearing, and athwart the tail of the cloud which still cloaked the city in gloom the milky rays of the sun were beginning to stream. a brightness seemed to be hesitating over some of the districts; in certain places the sky would soon begin to smile. jeanne gazed below, over the quay and the slopes of the trocadero; the street traffic was about to begin afresh after that violent downpour. the cabs again passed by at a jolting crawl, while the omnibuses rattled along the still lonely streets with a louder noise than usual. umbrellas were being shut up, and wayfarers, who had taken shelter beneath the trees, ventured from one foot pavement to another through muddy streams which were rushing into the gutters. jeanne noticed with special interest a lady and a little girl, both of them fashionably dressed, who were standing beneath the awning of a toy-shop near the bridge. doubtless they had been caught in the shower, and had taken refuge there. the child would fain have carried away the whole shop, and had pestered her mother to buy her a hoop. both were now leaving, however, and the child was running along full of glee, driving the hoop before her. at this jeanne's melancholy returned with intensified force; her doll became hideous. she longed to have a hoop and to be down yonder and run along, while her mother slowly walked behind her and cautioned her not to go too far. then, however, everything became dim again. at each minute she had to rub the glass clear. she had been enjoined never to open the window; but she was full of rebellious thoughts; she surely might gaze out of the window, if she were not to be taken for a walk. so she opened it, and leaned out like a grown-up person--in imitation of her mother when she ensconced herself there and lapsed into silence. the air was mild, and moist in its mildness, which seemed to her delightful. a darkness slowly rising over the horizon induced her to lift her head. to her imagination it seemed as if some gigantic bird with outstretched wings were hovering on high. at first she saw nothing; the sky was clear; but at last, at the angle of the roof, a gloomy cloud made its appearance, sailing on and speedily enveloping the whole heaven. another squall was rising before a roaring west wind. the daylight was quickly dying away, and the city grew dark, amidst a livid shimmer, which imparted to the house-fronts a rusty tinge. almost immediately afterwards the rain fell. the streets were swept by it; the umbrellas were again opened; and the passers-by, fleeing in every direction, vanished like chaff. one old lady gripped her skirts with both hands, while the torrent beat down on her bonnet as though it were falling from a spout. and the rain travelled on; the cloud kept pace with the water ragefully falling upon paris; the big drops enfiladed the avenues of the quays, with a gallop like that of a runaway horse, raising a white dust which rolled along the ground at a prodigious speed. they also descended the champs-elysees, plunged into the long narrow streets of the saint-germain district, and at a bound filled up all the open spaces and deserted squares. in a few seconds, behind this veil which grew thicker and thicker, the city paled and seemed to melt away. it was as though a curtain were being drawn obliquely from heaven to earth. masses of vapor arose too; and the vast, splashing pit-a-pat was as deafening as any rattle of old iron. jeanne, giddy with the noise, started back. a leaden wall seemed to have been built up before her. but she was fond of rain; so she returned, leaned out again, and stretched out her arms to feel the big, cold rain-drops splashing on her hands. this gave her some amusement, and she got wet to the sleeves. her doll must, of course, like herself, have a headache, and she therefore hastened to put it astride the window-rail, with its back against the side wall. she thought, as she saw the drops pelting down upon it, that they were doing it some good. stiffly erect, its little teeth displayed in a never-fading smile, the doll sat there, with one shoulder streaming with water, while every gust of wind lifted up its night-dress. its poor body, which had lost some of its sawdust stuffing, seemed to be shivering. what was the reason that had prevented her mother from taking her with her? wondered jeanne. the rain that beat down on her hands seemed a fresh inducement to be out. it must be very nice, she argued, in the street. once more there flashed on her mind's eye the little girl driving her hoop along the pavement. nobody could deny that she had gone out with her mamma. both of them had even seemed to be exceedingly well pleased. this was sufficient proof that little girls were taken out when it rained. but, then, willingness on her mother's part was requisite. why had she been unwilling? then jeanne again thought of her big cat which had gone away over the houses opposite with its tail in the air, and of the poor little sparrow which she had tempted with food when it was dead, and which had pretended that it did not understand. that kind of thing always happened to her; nobody's love for her was enduring enough. oh! she would have been ready in a couple of minutes; when she chose she dressed quickly enough; it was only a question of her boots, which rosalie buttoned, her jacket, her hat, and it was done. her mother might easily have waited two minutes for her. when she left home to see her friends, she did not turn her things all topsy-turvy as she had done that afternoon; when she went to the bois de boulogne, she led her gently by the hand, and stopped with her outside every shop in the rue de passy. jeanne could not get to the bottom of it; her black eyebrows frowned, and her delicate features put on a stern, jealous expression which made her resemble some wicked old maid. she felt in a vague way that her mother had gone to some place where children never go. she had not been taken out because something was to be hidden from her. this thought filled her with unutterable sadness, and her heart throbbed with pain. the rain was becoming finer, and through the curtain which veiled paris glimpses of buildings were occasionally afforded. the dome of the invalides, airy and quivering, was the first to reappear through the glittering vibration of the downpour. next, some of the districts emerged into sight as the torrent slackened; the city seemed to rise from a deluge that had overwhelmed it, its roofs all streaming, and every street filled with a river of water from which vapor still ascended. but suddenly there was a burst of light; a ray of sunshine fell athwart the shower. for a moment it was like a smile breaking through tears. the rain had now ceased to fall over the champs-elysees district; but it was sabring the left bank, the cite, and the far-away suburbs; in the sunshine the drops could be seen flashing down like innumerable slender shafts of steel. on the right a rainbow gleamed forth. as the gush of light streamed across the sky, touches of pink and blue appeared on the horizon, a medley of color, suggestive of a childish attempt at water-color painting. then there was a sudden blaze--a fall of golden snow, as it were, over a city of crystal. but the light died away, a cloud rolled up, and the smile faded amidst tears; paris dripped and dripped, with a prolonged sobbing noise, beneath the leaden-hued sky. jeanne, with her sleeves soaked, was seized with a fit of coughing. but she was unconscious of the chill that was penetrating her; she was now absorbed in the thought that her mother had gone into paris. she had come at last to know three buildings--the invalides, the pantheon, and the tower of st.-jacques. she now slowly went over their names, and pointed them out with her finger without attempting to think what they might be like were she nearer to them. without doubt, however, her mother was down there; and she settled in her mind that she was in the pantheon, because it astonished her the most, huge as it was, towering up through the air, like the city's head-piece. then she began to question herself. paris was still to her the place where children never go; she was never taken there. she would have liked to know it, however, that she might have quietly said to herself: "mamma is there; she is doing such and such a thing." but it all seemed to her too immense; it was impossible to find any one there. then her glance travelled towards the other end of the plain. might her mother not rather be in one of that cluster of houses on the hill to the left? or nearer in, beneath those huge trees, whose bare branches seemed as dead as firewood? oh! if she could only have lifted up the roofs! what could that gloomy edifice be? what was that street along which something of enormous bulk seemed to be running? and what could that district be at sight of which she always felt frightened, convinced as she was that people fought one another there? she could not see it distinctly, but, to tell the truth, its aspects stirred one; it was very ugly, and must not be looked at by little girls. a host of indefinable ideas and suppositions, which brought her to the verge of weeping, awoke trouble in jeanne's ignorant, childish mind. from the unknown world of paris, with its smoke, its endless noises, its powerful, surging life, an odor of wretchedness, filth, and crime seemed to be wafted to her through the mild, humid atmosphere, and she was forced to avert her head, as though she had been leaning over one of those pestilential pits which breathe forth suffocation from their unseen horrors. the invalides, the pantheon, the tower of saint-jacques--these she named and counted; but she knew nothing of anything else, and she sat there, terrified and ashamed, with the all-absorbing thought that her mother was among those wicked places, at some spot which she was unable to identify in the depths yonder. suddenly jeanne turned round. she could have sworn that somebody had walked into the bedroom, that a light hand had even touched her shoulder. but the room was empty, still in the same disorder as when helene had left. the dressing-gown, flung across the pillow, still lay in the same mournful, weeping attitude. then jeanne, with pallid cheeks, cast a glance around, and her heart nearly burst within her. she was alone! she was alone! and, o heaven, her mother, in forsaking her, had pushed her with such force that she might have fallen to the floor. the thought came back to her with anguish; she again seemed to feel the pain of that outrage on her wrists and shoulders. why had she been struck? she had been good, and had nothing to reproach herself with. she was usually spoken to with such gentleness that the punishment she had received awoke feelings of indignation within her. she was thrilled by a sensation of childish fear, as in the old times when she was threatened with the approach of the wolf, and looked for it and saw it not: it was lingering in some shady corner, with many other things that were going to overwhelm her. however, she was full of suspicion; her face paled and swelled with jealous fury. of a sudden, the thought that her mother must love those whom she had gone to see far more than she loved her came upon her with such crushing force that her little hands clutched her bosom. she knew it now; yes, her mother was false to her. over paris a great sorrow seemed to be brooding, pending the arrival of a fresh squall. a murmur travelled through the darkened air, and heavy clouds were hovering overhead. jeanne, still at the window, was convulsed by another fit of coughing; but in the chill she experienced she felt herself revenged; she would willingly have had her illness return. with her hands pressed against her bosom, she grew conscious of some pain growing more intense within her. it was an agony to which her body abandoned itself. she trembled with fear, and did not again venture to turn round; she felt quite cold at the idea of glancing into the room any more. to be little means to be without strength. what could this new complaint be which filled her with mingled shame and bitter pleasure? with stiffened body, she sat there as if waiting --every one of her pure and innocent limbs in an agony of revulsion. from the innermost recesses of her being all her woman's feelings were aroused, and there darted through her a pang, as though she had received a blow from a distance. then with failing heart she cried out chokingly: "mamma! mamma!" no one could have known whether she called to her mother for aid, or whether she accused her of having inflicted on her the pain which seemed to be killing her. at that moment the tempest burst. through the deep and ominous stillness the wind howled over the city, which was shrouded in darkness; and afterwards there came a long-continued crashing --window-shutters beating to and fro, slates flying, chimney-tops and gutter-pipes rattling on to the pavements. for a few seconds a calm ensued; then there blew another gust, which swept along with such mighty strength that the ocean of roofs seemed convulsed, tossing about in waves, and then disappearing in a whirlpool. for a moment chaos reigned. some enormous clouds, like huge blots of ink, swept through a host of smaller ones, which were scattered and floated like shreds of rag which the wind tore to pieces and carried off thread by thread. a second later two clouds rushed upon one another, and rent one another with crashing reports, which seemed to sprinkle the coppery expanse with wreckage; and every time the hurricane thus veered, blowing from every point of the compass, the thunder of opposing navies resounded in the atmosphere, and an awful rending and sinking followed, the hanging fragments of the clouds, jagged like huge bits of broken walls, threatening paris with imminent destruction. the rain was not yet falling. but suddenly a cloud burst above the central quarters, and a water-spout ascended the seine. the river's green ribbon, riddled and stirred to its depths by the splashing drops, became transformed into a stream of mud; and one by one, behind the downpour, the bridges appeared to view again, slender and delicately outlined in the mist; while, right and left, the trees edging the grey pavements of the deserted quays were shaken furiously by the wind. away in the background, over notre-dame, the cloud divided and poured down such a torrent of water that the island of la cite seemed submerged. far above the drenched houses the cathedral towers alone rose up against a patch of clear sky, like floating waifs. on every side the water now rushed down from the heavens. three times in succession did the right bank appear to be engulfed. the first fall inundated the distant suburbs, gradually extending its area, and beating on the turrets of saint-vincent-de-paul and saint-jacques, which glistened in the rain. then two other downpours, following in hot haste one upon the other, streamed over montmartre and the champs-elysees. at times a glimpse could be obtained of the glass roof of the palace of industry, steaming, as it were, under the splashing water; of saint-augustin, whose cupola swam in a kind of fog like a clouded moon; of the madeleine, which spread out its flat roof, looking like some ancient court whose flagstones had been freshly scoured; while, in the rear, the huge mass of the opera house made one think of a dismasted vessel, which with its hull caught between two rocks, was resisting the assaults of the tempest. on the left bank of the seine, also hidden by a watery veil, you perceived the dome of the invalides, the spires of sainte-clotilde, and the towers of saint-sulpice, apparently melting away in the moist atmosphere. another cloud spread out, and from the colonnade of the pantheon sheets of water streamed down, threatening to inundate what lay below. and from that moment the rain fell upon the city in all directions; one might have imagined that the heavens were precipitating themselves on the earth; streets vanished, sank into the depths, and men reappeared, drifting on the surface, amidst shocks whose violence seemed to foretell the end of the city. a prolonged roar ascended--the roar of all the water rushing along the gutters and falling into the drains. and at last, above muddy-looking paris, which had assumed with the showers a dingy-yellow hue, the livid clouds spread themselves out in uniform fashion, without stain or rift. the rain was becoming finer, and was falling sharply and vertically; but whenever the wind again rose, the grey hatching was curved into mighty waves, and the raindrops, driven almost horizontally, could be heard lashing the walls with a hissing sound, till, with the fall of the wind, they again fell vertically, peppering the soil with a quiet obstinacy, from the heights of passy away to the level plain of charenton. then the vast city, as though overwhelmed and lifeless after some awful convulsion, seemed but an expanse of stony ruins under the invisible heavens. jeanne, who had sunk down by the window, had wailed out once more, "mamma! mamma!" a terrible weariness deprived her limbs of their strength as she lingered there, face to face with the engulfing of paris. amidst her exhaustion, whilst the breeze played with her tresses, and her face remained wet with rain, she preserved some taste of the bitter pleasure which had made her shiver, while within her heart there was a consciousness of some irretrievable woe. everything seemed to her to have come to an end; she realized that she was getting very old. the hours might pass away, but now she did not even cast a glance into the room. it was all the same to her to be forgotten and alone. such despair possessed the child's heart that all around her seemed black. if she were scolded, as of old, when she was ill, it would surely be very wrong. she was burning with fever; something like a sick headache was weighing on her. surely too, but a moment ago, something had snapped within her. she could not prevent it; she must inevitably submit to whatever might be her fate. besides, weariness was prostrating her. she had joined her hands over the window-bar, on which she rested her head, and, though at times she opened her eyes to gaze at the rain, drowsiness was stealing over her. and still and ever the rain kept beating down; the livid sky seemed dissolving in water. a final blast of wind had passed by; a monotonous roar could be heard. amidst a solemn quiescence the sovereign rain poured unceasingly upon the silent, deserted city it had conquered; and behind this sheet of streaked crystal paris showed like some phantom place, with quivering outlines, which seemed to be melting away. to jeanne the scene now brought nothing beyond sleepiness and horrid dreams, as though all the mystery and unknown evil were rising up in vapor to pierce her through and make her cough. every time she opened her eyes she was seized with a fit of coughing, and would remain for a few seconds looking at the scene; which as her head fell back once more, clung to her mind, and seemed to spread over her and crush her. the rain was still falling. what hour might it be now? jeanne could not have told. perhaps the clock had ceased going. it seemed to her too great a fatigue to turn round. it was surely at least a week since her mother had quitted her. she had abandoned all expectation of her return; she was resigned to the prospect of never seeing her again. then she became oblivious of everything--the wrongs which had been done her, the pain which she had just experienced, even the loneliness in which she was suffered to remain. a weight, chilly like stone, fell upon her. this only was certain: she was very unhappy--ah! as unhappy as the poor little waifs to whom she gave alms as they huddled together in gateways. ah! heaven! how coughing racked one, and how penetrating was the cold when there was no nobody to love one! she closed her heavy eyelids, succumbing to a feverish stupor; and the last of her thoughts was a vague memory of childhood, of a visit to a mill, full of yellow wheat, and of tiny grains slipping under millstones as huge as houses. hours and hours passed away; each minute was a century. the rain beat down without ceasing, with ever the same tranquil flow, as though all time and eternity were allowed it to deluge the plain. jeanne had fallen asleep. close by, her doll still sat astride the iron window-bar; and, with its legs in the room and its head outside, its nightdress clinging to its rosy skin, its eyes glaring, and its hair streaming with water, it looked not unlike a drowned child; and so emaciated did it appear in its comical yet distressing posture of death, that it almost brought tears of pity to the eyes. jeanne coughed in her sleep; but now she never once opened her eyes. her head swayed to and fro on her crossed arms, and the cough spent itself in a wheeze without awakening her. nothing more existed for her. she slept in the darkness. she did not even withdraw her hand, from whose cold, red fingers bright raindrops were trickling one by one into the vast expanse which lay beneath the window. this went on for hours and hours. paris was slowly waning on the horizon, like some phantom city; heaven and earth mingled together in an indistinguishable jumble; and still and ever with unflagging persistency did the grey rain fall. chapter xxi. night had long gathered in when helene returned. from her umbrella the water dripped on step after step, whilst clinging to the balusters she ascended the staircase. she stood for a few seconds outside her door to regain her breath; the deafening rush of the rain still sounded in her ears; she still seemed to feel the jostling of hurrying foot-passengers, and to see the reflections from the street-lamps dancing in the puddles. she was walking in a dream, filled with the surprise of the kisses that had been showered upon her; and as she fumbled for her key she believed that her bosom felt neither remorse nor joy. circumstances had compassed it all; she could have done naught to prevent it. but the key was not to be found; it was doubtless inside, in the pocket of her other gown. at this discovery her vexation was intense; it seemed as though she were denied admission to her own home. it became necessary that she should ring the bell. "oh! it's madame!" exclaimed rosalie as she opened the door. "i was beginning to feel uneasy." she took the umbrella, intending to place it in the kitchen sink, and then rattled on: "good gracious! what torrents! zephyrin, who has just come, was drenched to the skin. i took the liberty, madame, of keeping him to dinner. he has leave till ten o'clock." helene followed her mechanically. she felt a desire to look once more on everything in her home before removing her bonnet. "you have done quite right, my girl," she answered. for a moment she lingered on the kitchen threshold, gazing at the bright fire. then she instinctively opened the door of a cupboard, and promptly shut it again. everything was in its place, chairs and tables alike; she found them all again, and their presence gave her pleasure. zephyrin had, in the meantime, struggled respectfully to his feet. she nodded to him, smiling. "i didn't know whether to put the roast on," began the maid. "why, what time is it?" asked helene. "oh, it's close on seven o'clock, madame." "what! seven o'clock!" astonishment riveted her to the floor; she had lost all consciousness of time, and seemed to awaken from a dream. "and where's jeanne?" she asked. "oh! she has been very good, madame. i even think she must have fallen asleep, for i haven't heard her for some time." "haven't you given her a light?" embarrassment closed rosalie's lips; she was unwilling to relate that zephyrin had brought her some pictures which had engrossed her attention. mademoiselle had never made the least stir, so she could scarcely have wanted anything. helene, however, paid no further heed to her, but ran into the room, where a dreadful chill fell upon her. "jeanne! jeanne!" she called. no answer broke the stillness. she stumbled against an arm-chair. from the dining-room, the door of which she had left ajar, some light streamed across a corner of the carpet. she felt a shiver come over her, and she could have declared that the rain was falling in the room, with its moist breath and continuous streaming. then, on turning her head, she at once saw the pale square formed by the open window and the gloomy grey of the sky. "who can have opened this window?" she cried. "jeanne! jeanne!" still no answering word. a mortal terror fell on helene's heart. she must look out of this window; but as she felt her way towards it, her hands lighted on a head of hair--it was jeanne's. and then, as rosalie entered with a lamp, the child appeared with blanched face, sleeping with her cheek upon her crossed arms, while the big raindrops from the roof splashed upon her. her breathing was scarcely perceptible, so overcome she was with despair and fatigue. among the lashes of her large, bluey eyelids there were still two heavy tears. "the unhappy child!" stammered helene. "oh, heavens! she's icy cold! to fall asleep there, at such a time, when she had been expressly forbidden to touch the window! jeanne, jeanne, speak to me; wake up, jeanne!" rosalie had prudently vanished. the child, on being raised in her mother's embrace, let her head drop as though she were unable to shake off the leaden slumber that had seized upon her. at last, however, she raised her eyelids; but the glare of the lamp dazzled her, and she remained benumbed and stupid. "jeanne, it's i! what's wrong with you? see, i've just come back," said helene. but the child seemingly failed to understand her; in her stupefaction she could only murmur: "oh! ah!" she gazed inquiringly at her mother, as though she failed to recognize her. and suddenly she shivered, growing conscious of the cold air of the room. her memory was awakening, and the tears rolled from her eyelids to her cheeks. then she commenced to struggle, in the evident desire to be left alone. "it's you, it's you! oh, leave me; you hold me too tight! i was so comfortable." she slipped from her mother's arms with affright in her face. her uneasy looks wandered from helene's hands to her shoulders; one of those hands was ungloved, and she started back from the touch of the moist palm and warm fingers with a fierce resentment, as though fleeing from some stranger's caress. the old perfume of vervain had died away; helene's fingers had surely become greatly attenuated, and her hand was unusually soft. this skin was no longer hers, and its touch exasperated jeanne. "come, i'm not angry with you," pleaded helene. "but, indeed, have you behaved well? come and kiss me." jeanne, however, still recoiled from her. she had no remembrance of having seen her mother dressed in that gown or cloak. besides, she looked so wet and muddy. where had she come from dressed in that dowdy style. "kiss me, jeanne," repeated helene. but her voice also seemed strange; in jeanne's ears it sounded louder. her old heartache came upon her once more, as when an injury had been done her; and unnerved by the presence of what was unknown and horrible to her, divining, however, that she was breathing an atmosphere of falsehood, she burst into sobs. "no, no, i entreat you! you left me all alone; and oh! i've been so miserable!" "but i'm back again, my darling. don't weep any more; i've come home!" "oh no, no! it's all over now! i don't wish for you any more! oh, i waited and waited, and have been so wretched!" helene took hold of the child again, and gently sought to draw her to her bosom; but she resisted stubbornly, plaintively exclaiming: "no, no; it will never be the same! you are not the same!" "what! what are you talking of, child?" "i don't know; you are not the same." "do you mean to say that i don't love you any more?" "i don't know; you are no longer the same! don't say no. you don't feel the same! it's all over, over, over. i wish to die!" with blanching face helene again clasped her in her arms. did her looks, then, reveal her secret? she kissed her, but a shudder ran through the child's frame, and an expression of such misery crept into her face that helene forbore to print a second kiss upon her brow. she still kept hold of her, but neither of them uttered a word. jeanne's sobbing fell to a whisper, a nervous revolt stiffening her limbs the while. helene's first thought was that much notice ought not to be paid to a child's whims; but to her heart there stole a feeling of secret shame, and the weight of her daughter's body on her shoulder brought a blush to her cheeks. she hastened to put jeanne down, and each felt relieved. "now, be good, and wipe your eyes," said helene. "we'll make everything all right." the child acquiesced in all gentleness, but seemed somewhat afraid and glanced covertly at her mother. all at once her frame was shaken by a fit of coughing. "good heavens! why, you've made yourself ill now! i cannot stay away from you a moment. did you feel cold? "yes, mamma; in the back." "see here; put on this shawl. the dining-room stove is lighted, and you'll soon feel warm. are you hungry?" jeanne hesitated. it was on the tip of her tongue to speak the truth and say no; but she darted a side glance at her mother, and, recoiling, answered in a whisper: "yes, mamma." "ah, well, it will be all right," exclaimed helene, desirous of tranquillizing herself. "only, i entreat you, you naughty child, don't frighten me like this again." on rosalie re-entering the room to announce that dinner was ready, helene severely scolded her. the little maid's head drooped; she stammered out that it was all very true, for she ought to have looked better after mademoiselle. then, hoping to mollify her mistress, she busied herself in helping her to change her clothes. "good gracious! madame was in a fine state!" she remarked, as she assisted in removing each mud-stained garment, at which jeanne glared suspiciously, still racked by torturing thoughts. "madame ought to feel comfortable now," exclaimed rosalie when it was all over. "it's awfully nice to get into dry clothes after a drenching." helene, on finding herself once more in her blue dressing-gown, gave vent to a slight sigh, as though a new happiness had welled up within her. she again regained her old cheerfulness; she had rid herself of a burden in throwing off those bedraggled garments. she washed her face and hands; and while she stood there, still glistening with moisture, her dressing-gown buttoned up to her chin, she was slowly approached by jeanne, who took one of her hands and kissed it. at table, however, not a word passed between mother and daughter. the fire flared with a merry roar, and there was a look of happiness about the little dining-room, with its bright mahogany and gleaming china. but the old stupor which drove away all thought seemed to have again fallen on helene; she ate mechanically, though with an appearance of appetite. jeanne sat facing her, and quietly watched her over her glass, noting each of her movements. but all at once the child again coughed, and her mother, who had become unconscious of her presence, immediately displayed lively concern. "why, you're coughing again! aren't you getting warm?" "oh, yes, mamma; i'm very warm." helene leaned towards her to feel her hand and ascertain whether she was speaking the truth. only then did she perceive that her plate was still full. "why, you said you were hungry. don't you like what you have there?" "oh, yes, mamma; i'm eating away." with an effort jeanne swallowed a mouthful. helene looked at her for a time, but soon again began dreaming of the fatal room which she had come from. it did not escape the child that her mother took little interest in her now. as the dinner came to an end, her poor wearied frame sank down on the chair, and she sat there like some bent, aged woman, with the dim eyes of one of those old maids for whom love is past and gone. "won't mademoiselle have any jam?" asked rosalie. "if not, can i remove the cloth?" helene still sat there with far-away looks. "mamma, i'm sleepy," exclaimed jeanne in a changed voice. "will you let me go to bed? i shall feel better in bed." once more her mother seemed to awake with a start to consciousness of her surroundings. "you are suffering, my darling! where do you feel the pain? tell me." "no, no; i told you i'm all right! i'm sleepy, and it's already time for me to go to bed." she left her chair and stood up, as though to prove that there was no illness threatening her: but her benumbed feet tottered over the floor on her way to the bedroom. she leaned against the furniture, and her hardihood was such that not a tear came from her, despite the feverish fire darting through her frame. her mother followed to assist her to bed; but the child had displayed such haste in undressing herself that she only arrived in time to tie up her hair for the night. without need of any helping hand jeanne slipped between the sheets, and quickly closed her eyes. "are you comfortable?" asked helene, as she drew up the bedclothes and carefully tucked her in. "yes, quite comfortable. leave me alone, and don't disturb me. take away the lamp." her only yearning was to be alone in the darkness, that she might reopen her eyes and chew the cud of her sorrows, with no one near to watch her. when the light had been carried away, her eyes opened quite wide. nearby, in the meantime, helene was pacing up and down her room. she was seized with a wondrous longing to be up and moving about; the idea of going to bed seemed to her insufferable. she glanced at the clock --twenty minutes to nine; what was she to do? she rummaged about in a drawer, but forgot what she was seeking for. then she wandered to her bookshelves, glancing aimlessly over the books; but the very reading of the titles wearied her. a buzzing sprang up in her ears with the room's stillness; the loneliness, the heavy atmosphere, were as an agony to her. she would fain have had some bustle going on around her, have had some one there to speak to--something, in short, to draw her from herself. she twice listened at the door of jeanne's little room, from which, however, not even a sound of breathing came. everything was quiet; so she turned back once more, and amused herself by taking up and replacing whatever came to her hand. then suddenly the thought flashed across her mind that zephyrin must still be with rosalie. it was a relief to her; she was delighted at the idea of not being alone, and stepped in her slippers towards the kitchen. she was already in the ante-room, and was opening the glass door of the inner passage, when she detected the re-echoing clap of a swinging box on the ears, and the next moment rosalie could be heard exclaiming: "ha, ha! you think you'll nip me again, do you? take your paws off!" "oh! that's nothing, my charmer!" exclaimed zephyrin in his husky, guttural voice. "that's to show how i love you--in this style, you know--" but at that moment the door creaked, and helene, entering, discovered the diminutive soldier and the servant maid seated very quietly at table, with their noses bent over their plates. they had assumed an air of complete indifference; their innocence was certain. yet their faces were red with blushes, and their eyes aflame, and they wriggled restlessly on their straw-bottomed chairs. rosalie started up and hurried forward. "madame wants something?" helene had no pretext ready to her tongue. she had come to see them, to chat with them, and have their company. however, she felt a sudden shame, and dared not say that she required nothing. "have you any hot water?" she asked, after a silence. "no, madame; and my fire is nearly out. oh, but it doesn't matter; i'll give you some in five minutes. it boils in no time." she threw on some charcoal, and then set the kettle in place; but seeing that her mistress still lingered in the doorway, she said: "i'll bring the water to you in five minutes, madame." helene responded with a wave of the hand. "i'm not in a hurry for it; i'll wait. don't disturb yourself, my girl; eat away, eat away. there's a lad who'll have to go back to barracks." rosalie thereupon sat down again. zephyrin, who had also been standing, made a military salute, and returned to the cutting of his meat, with his elbows projecting as though to show that he knew how to conduct himself at table. thus eating together, after madame had finished dinner, they did not even draw the table into the middle of the kitchen, but contented themselves with sitting side by side, with their noses turned towards the wall. a glorious prospect of stewpans was before them. a bunch of laurel and thyme hung near, and a spice-box exhaled a piquant perfume. around them--the kitchen was not yet tidied--was all the litter of the things cleared away from the dining-room; however, the spot seemed a charming one to these hungry sweethearts, and especially to zephyrin, who here feasted on such things as were never seen within the walls of his barracks. the predominant odor was one of roast meat, seasoned with a dash of vinegar--the vinegar of the salad. in the copper pans and iron pots the reflected light from the gas was dancing; and as the heat of the fire was beyond endurance, they had set the window ajar, and a cool breeze blew in from the garden, stirring the blue cotton curtain. "must you be in by ten o'clock exactly?" asked helene. "i must, madame, with all deference to you," answered zephyrin. "well, it's along way off. do you take the ''bus'?" "oh, yes, madame, sometimes. but you see a good swinging walk is much the best." she had taken a step into the kitchen, and leaning against the dresser, her arms dangling and her hands clasped over her dressing-gown, she began gossiping away about the wretched weather they had had that day, about the food which was rationed out in barracks, and the high price of eggs. as soon, however, as she had asked a question and their answer had been given the conversation abruptly fell. they experienced some discomfort with her standing thus behind their backs. they did not turn round, but spoke into their plates, their shoulders bent beneath her gaze, while, to conform to propriety, each mouthful they swallowed was as small as possible. on the other hand, helene had now regained her tranquillity, and felt quite happy there. "don't fret, madame," said rosalie; "the kettle is singing already. i wish the fire would only burn up a little better!" she wanted to see to it, but helene would not allow her to disturb herself. it would be all right by-and-by. an intense weariness now pervaded the young woman's limbs. almost mechanically she crossed the kitchen and approached the window, where she observed the third chair, which was very high, and when turned over became a stepladder. however, she did not sit down on it at once, for she had caught sight of a number of pictures heaped up on a corner of the table. "dear me!" she exclaimed, as she took them in her hand, inspired with the wish of gratifying zephyrin. the little soldier gaped with a silent chuckle. his face beamed with smiles, and his eyes followed each picture, his head wagging whenever something especially lovely was being examined by madame. "that one there," he suddenly remarked, "i found in the rue du temple. she's a beautiful woman, with flowers in her basket." helene sat down and inspected the beautiful woman who decorated the gilt and varnished lid of a box of lozenges, every stain on which had been carefully wiped off by zephyrin. on the chair a dish-cloth was hanging, and she could not well lean back. she flung it aside, however, and once more lapsed into her dreaming. then the two sweethearts remarked madame's good nature, and their restraint vanished--in the end, indeed, her very presence was forgotten by them. one by one the pictures had dropped from her hands on to her knees, and, with a vague smile playing on her face, she examined the sweethearts and listened to their talk. "i say, my dear," whispered the girl, "won't you have some more mutton?" he answered neither yes nor no, but swung backwards and forwards on his chair as though he had been tickled, then contentedly stretched himself, while she placed a thick slice on his plate. his red epaulets moved up and down, and his bullet-shaped head, with its huge projecting ears, swayed to and fro over his yellow collar as though it were the head of some chinese idol. his laughter ran all over him, and he was almost bursting inside his tunic, which he did not unbutton, however, out of respect for madame. "this is far better than old rouvet's radishes!" he exclaimed at last, with his mouth full. this was a reminiscence of their country home; and at thought of it they both burst into immoderate laughter. rosalie even had to hold on to the table to prevent herself from falling. one day, before their first communion, it seemed, zephyrin had filched three black radishes from old rouvet. they were very tough radishes indeed--tough enough to break one's teeth; but rosalie all the same had crunched her share of the spoil at the back of the schoolhouse. hence it was that every time they chanced to be taking a meal together zephyrin never omitted to ejaculate: "yes; this is better than old rouvet's radishes!" and then rosalie's laughter would become so violent that nine times out of ten her petticoat-string would give way with an audible crack. "hello! has it parted?" asked the little soldier, with triumph in his tone. but rosalie responded with a good slap. "it's disgusting to make me break the string like this!" said she. "i put a fresh one on every week." however, he came nearer to her, intent on some joke or other, by way of revenging the blow; but with a furious glance she reminded him that her mistress was looking on. this seemed to trouble him but little, for he replied with a rakish wink, as much as to say that no woman, not even a lady, disliked a little fun. to be sure, when folks are sweethearting, other people always like to be looking on. "you have still five years to serve, haven't you?" asked helene, leaning back on the high wooden-seated chair, and yielding to a feeling of tenderness. "yes, madame; perhaps only four if they don't need me any longer." it occurred to rosalie that her mistress was thinking of her marriage, and with assumed anger, she broke in: "oh! madame, he can stick in the army for another ten years if he likes! i sha'n't trouble myself to ask the government for him. he is becoming too much of a rake; yes, i believe he's going to the dogs. oh! it's useless for you to laugh--that won't take with me. when we go before the mayor to get married, we'll see on whose side the laugh is!" at this he chuckled all the more, in order that he might show himself a lady-killer before madame, and the maid's annoyance then became real. "oh!" said she, "we know all about that! you know, madame, he's still a booby at heart. you've no idea how stupid that uniform makes them all! that's the way he goes on with his comrades; but if i turned him out, you would hear him sobbing on the stairs. oh, i don't care a fig for you, my lad! why, whenever i please, won't you always be there to do as i tell you?" she bent forward to observe him closely; but, on seeing that his good-natured, freckled face was beginning to cloud over, she was suddenly moved, and prattled on, without any seeming transition: "ah! i didn't tell you that i've received a letter from auntie. the guignard lot want to sell their house--aye, and almost for nothing too. we might perhaps be able to take it later on." "by jove!" exclaimed zephyrin, brightening, "we should be quite at home there. there's room enough for two cows." with this idea they lapsed into silence. they were now having some dessert. the little soldier licked the jam on his bread with a child's greedy satisfaction, while the servant girl carefully pared an apple with a maternal air. "madame!" all at once exclaimed rosalie, "there's the water boiling now." helene, however, never stirred. she felt herself enveloped by an atmosphere of happiness. she gave a continuance to their dreams, and pictured them living in the country in the guignards' house and possessed of two cows. a smile came to her face as she saw zephyrin sitting there to all appearance so serious, though in reality he was patting rosalie's knee under the table, whilst she remained very stiff, affecting an innocent demeanor. then everything became blurred. helene lost all definite sense of her surroundings, of the place where she was, and of what had brought her there. the copper pans were flashing on the walls; feelings of tenderness riveted her to the spot; her eyes had a far-away look. she was not affected in any way by the disorderly state of the kitchen; she had no consciousness of having demeaned herself by coming there; all she felt was a deep pleasure, as when a longing has been satisfied. meantime the heat from the fire was bedewing her pale brow with beads of perspiration, and behind her the wind, coming in through the half-open window, quivered delightfully on her neck. "madame, your water is boiling," again said rosalie. "there will be soon none left in the kettle." she held the kettle before her, and helene, for the moment astonished, was forced to rise. "oh, yes! thank you!" she no longer had an excuse to remain, and went away slowly and regretfully. when she reached her room she was at a loss what to do with the kettle. then suddenly within her there came a burst of passionate love. the torpor which had held her in a state of semi-unconsciousness gave way to a wave of glowing feeling, the rush of which thrilled her as with fire. she quivered, and memories returned to her--memories of her passion and of henri. while she was taking off her dressing-gown and gazing at her bare arms, a noise broke on her anxious ear. she thought she had heard jeanne coughing. taking up the lamp she went into the closet, but found the child with eyelids closed, seemingly fast asleep. however, the moment the mother, satisfied with her examination, had turned her back, jeanne's eyes again opened widely to watch her as she returned to her room. there was indeed no sleep for jeanne, nor had she any desire to sleep. a second fit of coughing racked her bosom, but she buried her head beneath the coverlet and stifled every sound. she might go away for ever now; her mother would never miss her. her eyes were still wide open in the darkness; she knew everything as though knowledge had come with thought, and she was dying of it all, but dying without a murmur. chapter xxii. next day all sorts of practical ideas took possession of helene's mind. she awoke impressed by the necessity of keeping watch over her happiness, and shuddering with fear lest by some imprudent step she might lose henri. at this chilly morning hour, when the room still seemed asleep, she felt that she idolized him, loved him with a transport which pervaded her whole being. never had she experienced such an anxiety to be diplomatic. her first thought was that she must go to see juliette that very morning, and thus obviate the need of any tedious explanations or inquiries which might result in ruining everything. on calling upon madame deberle at about nine o'clock she found her already up, with pallid cheeks and red eyes like the heroine of a tragedy. as soon as the poor woman caught sight of her, she threw herself sobbing upon her neck exclaiming that she was her good angel. she didn't love malignon, not in the least, she swore it! gracious heavens! what a foolish affair! it would have killed her--there was no doubt of that! she did not now feel herself to be in the least degree qualified for ruses, lies, and agonies, and the tyranny of a sentiment that never varied. oh, how delightful did it seem to her to find herself free again! she laughed contentedly; but immediately afterwards there was another outburst of tears as she besought her friend not to despise her. beneath her feverish unrest a fear lingered; she imagined that her husband knew everything. he had come home the night before trembling with agitation. she overwhelmed helene with questions; and helene, with a hardihood and facility at which she herself was amazed, poured into her ears a story, every detail of which she invented offhand. she vowed to juliette that her husband doubted her in nothing. it was she, helene, who had become acquainted with everything, and, wishing to save her, had devised that plan of breaking in upon their meeting. juliette listened to her, put instant credit in the fiction, and, beaming through her tears, grew sunny with joy. she threw herself once more on helene's neck. her caresses brought no embarrassment to the latter; she now experienced none of the honorable scruples that had at one time affected her. when she left her lover's wife after extracting a promise from her that she would try to be calm, she laughed in her sleeve at her own cunning; she was in a transport of delight. some days slipped away. helene's whole existence had undergone a change; and in the thoughts of every hour she no longer lived in her own home, but with henri. the only thing that existed for her was that next-door house in which her heart beat. whenever she could find an excuse to do so she ran thither, and forgot everything in the content of breathing the same air as her lover. in her first rapture the sight of juliette even flooded her with tenderness; for was not juliette one of henri's belongings? he had not, however, again been able to meet her alone. she appeared loth to give him a second assignation. one evening, when he was leading her into the hall, she even made him swear that he would never again visit the house in the passage des eaux, as such an act might compromise her. meantime, jeanne was shaken by a short, dry cough, that never ceased, but became severer towards evening every day. she would then be slightly feverish, and she grew weak with the perspiration that bathed her in her sleep. when her mother cross-questioned her, she answered that she wasn't ill, that she felt no pain. doubtless her cold was coming to an end. helene, tranquillized by the explanation, and having no adequate idea of what was going on around her, retained, however, in her bosom, amidst the rapture that made up her life, a vague feeling of sorrow, of some weight that made her heart bleed despite herself. at times, when she was plunged in one of those causeless transports which made her melt with tenderness, an anxious thought would come to her--she imagined that some misfortune was hovering behind her. she turned round, however, and then smiled. people are ever in a tremble when they are too happy. there was nothing there. jeanne had coughed a moment before, but she had some _tisane_ to drink; there would be no ill effects. however, one afternoon old doctor bodin, who visited them in the character of a family friend, prolonged his stay, and stealthily, but carefully, examined jeanne with his little blue eyes. he questioned her as though he were having some fun with her, and on this occasion uttered no warning word. two days later, however, he made his appearance again; and this time, not troubling to examine jeanne, he talked away merrily in the fashion of a man who has seen many years and many things, and turned the conversation on travelling. he had once served as a military surgeon; he knew every corner of italy. it was a magnificent country, said he, which to be admired ought to be seen in spring. why didn't madame grandjean take her daughter there? from this he proceeded by easy transitions to advising a trip to the land of the sun, as he styled it. helene's eyes were bent on him fixedly. "no, no," he exclaimed, "neither of you is ill! oh, no, certainly not! still, a change of air would mean new strength!" her face had blanched, a mortal chill had come over her at the thought of leaving paris. gracious heavens! to go away so far, so far! to lose henri in a moment, their love to droop without a morrow! such was the agony which the thought gave her that she bent her head towards jeanne to hide her emotion. did jeanne wish to go away? the child, with a chilly gesture, had intertwined her little fingers. oh! yes, she would so like to go! she would so like to go away into the sunny land, quite alone, she and her mother, quite alone! and over her poor attenuated face with its cheeks burning with fever, there swept the bright hope of a new life. but helene would listen to no more; indignation and distrust led her to imagine that all of them--the abbe, doctor bodin, jeanne herself--were plotting to separate her from henri. when the old doctor noticed the pallor of her cheeks, he imagined that he had not spoken so cautiously as he might have done, and hastened to declare that there was no hurry, albeit he silently resolved to return to the subject at another time. it happened that madame deberle intended to stop at home that day. as soon as the doctor had gone helene hastened to put on her bonnet. jeanne, however, refused to quit the house; she felt better beside the fire; she would be very good, and would not open the window. for some time past she had not teased her mother to be allowed to go with her; still she gazed after her as she went out with a longing look. then, when she found herself alone, she shrunk into her chair and sat for hours motionless. "mamma, is italy far away?" she asked as helene glided towards her to kiss her. "oh! very far away, my pet!" jeanne clung round her neck, and not letting her rise again at the moment, whispered: "well, rosalie could take care of everything here. we should have no need of her. a small travelling-trunk would do for us, you know! oh! it would be delightful, mother dear! nobody but us two! i should come back quite plump--like this!" she puffed out her cheeks and pictured how stout her arms would be. helene's answer was that she would see; and then she ran off with a final injunction to rosalie to take good care of mademoiselle. the child coiled herself up in the chimney-corner, gazing at the ruddy fire and deep in reverie. from time to time she moved her hands forward mechanically to warm them. the glinting of the flames dazzled her large eyes. so absorbed was she in her dreaming that she did not hear monsieur rambaud enter the room. his visits had now become very frequent; he came, he would say, in the interests of the poor paralytic woman for whom doctor deberle had not yet been able to secure admission into the hospital for incurables. finding jeanne alone, he took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and chatted with her as though she were a grown-up person. it was most regrettable; the poor woman had been waiting a week; however, he would go down presently to see the doctor, who might perhaps give him an answer. meanwhile he did not stir. "why hasn't your mother taken you with her?" he asked. jeanne shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of weariness. it disturbed her to go about visiting other people. nothing gave her any pleasure now. "i am getting old," she added, "and i can't be always amusing myself. mamma finds entertainment out of doors, and i within; so we are not together." silence ensued. the child shivered, and held her hands out towards the fire which burnt steadily with a pinky glare; and, indeed, muffled as she was in a huge shawl, with a silk handkerchief round her neck and another encircling her head, she did look like some old dame. shrouded in all these wraps, it struck one that she was no larger than an ailing bird, panting amidst its ruffled plumage. monsieur rambaud, with hands clasped over his knees, was gazing at the fire. then, turning towards jeanne, he inquired if her mother had gone out the evening before. she answered with a nod, yes. and did she go out the evening before that and the previous day? the answer was always yes, given with a nod of the head; her mother quitted her every day. at this the child and monsieur rambaud gazed at one another for a long time, their faces pale and serious, as though they shared some great sorrow. they made no reference to it--a chit like her and an old man could not talk of such a thing together; but they were well aware why they were so sad, and why it was a pleasure to them to sit like this on either side of the fireplace when they were alone in the house. it was a comfort beyond telling. they loved to be near one another that their forlornness might pain them less. a wave of tenderness poured into their hearts; they would fain have embraced and wept together. "you are cold, my dear old friend, i'm certain of it," said jeanne; "come nearer the fire." "no, no, my darling; i'm not cold." "oh! you're telling a fib; your hands are like ice! come nearer, or i shall get vexed." it was now his turn to display his anxious care. "i could lay a wager they haven't left you any drink. i'll run and make some for you; would you like it? oh! i'm a good hand at making it. you would see, if i were your nurse, you wouldn't be without anything you wanted." he did not allow himself any more explicit hint. jeanne somewhat sharply declared she was disgusted with _tisane_; she was compelled to drink too much of it. however, now and then she would allow monsieur rambaud to flutter round her like a mother; he would slip a pillow under her shoulders, give her the medicine that she had almost forgotten, or carry her into the bedroom in his arms. these little acts of devotion thrilled both with tenderness. as jeanne eloquently declared with her sombre eyes, whose flashes disturbed the old man so sorely, they were playing the parts of the father and the little girl while her mother was absent. then, however, sadness would all at once fall upon them; their talk died away, and they glanced at one another stealthily with pitying looks. that afternoon, after a lengthy silence, the child asked the question which she had already put to her mother: "is italy far away?" "oh! i should think so," replied monsieur rambaud. "it's away over yonder, on the other side of marseilles, a deuce of a distance! why do you ask me such a question?" "oh! because--" she began gravely. but she burst into loud complaints at her ignorance. she was always ill, and she had never been sent to school. then they both became silent again, lulled into forgetfulness by the intense heat of the fire. in the meantime helene had found madame deberle and her sister pauline in the japanese pavilion where they so frequently whiled away the afternoon. inside it was very warm, a heating apparatus filled it with a stifling atmosphere. the large windows were shut, and a full view could be had of the little garden, which, in its winter guise, looked like some large sepia drawing, finished with exquisite delicacy, the little black branches of the trees showing clear against the brown earth. the two sisters were carrying on a sharp controversy. "now, be quiet, do!" exclaimed juliette; "it is evidently our interest to support turkey." "oh! i've had a talk about it with a russian," replied pauline, who was equally excited. "we are much liked at st. petersburg, and it is only there that we can find our proper allies." juliette's face assumed a serious look, and, crossing her arms, she exclaimed: "well, and what will you do with the balance of power in europe?" the eastern crisis was the absorbing topic in paris at that moment;[*] it was the stock subject of conversation, and no woman who pretended to any position could speak with propriety of anything else. thus, for two days past, madame deberle had with passionate fervor devoted herself to foreign politics. her ideas were very pronounced on the various eventualities which might arise; and pauline greatly annoyed her by her eccentricity in advocating russia's cause in opposition to the clear interests of france. juliette's first desire was to convince her of her folly, but she soon lost her temper. [*] the reader may be reminded that the period of the story is that of the crimean war. "pooh! hold your tongue; you are talking foolishly! now, if you had only studied the matter carefully with me--" but she broke off to greet helene, who entered at this moment. "good-day, my dear! it is very kind of you to call. i don't suppose you have any news. this morning's paper talked of an ultimatum. there has been a very exciting debate in the english house of commons!" "no, i don't know anything," answered helene, who was astounded by the question. "i go out so little!" however, juliette had not waited for her reply, but was busy explaining to pauline why it was necessary to neutralize the black sea; and her talk bristled with references to english and russian generals, whose names she mentioned in a familiar way and with faultless pronunciation. however, henri now made his appearance with several newspapers in his hand. helene at once realized that he had come there for her sake; for their eyes had sought one another and exchanged a long, meaning glance. and when their hands met it was in a prolonged and silent clasp that told how the personality of each was lost in the other. "is there anything in the papers?" asked juliette feverishly. "in the papers, my dear?" repeated the doctor; "no there's never anything." for a time the eastern question dropped into the background. there were frequent allusions to some one whom they were expecting, but who did not make his appearance. pauline remarked that it would soon be three o'clock. oh he would come, declared madame deberle; he had given such a definite promise; but she never hinted at any name. helene listened without understanding; things which had no connection with henri did not in the least interest her. she no longer brought her work when she now came down into the garden; and though her visits would last a couple of hours, she would take no part in the conversation, for her mind was ever filled with the same childish dream wherein all others miraculously vanished, and she was left alone with him. however, she managed to reply to juliette's questions, while henri's eyes, riveted on her own, thrilled her with a delicious languor. at last he stepped behind her with the intention of pulling up one of the blinds, and she fully divined that he had come to ask another meeting, for she noticed the tremor that seized him when he brushed against her hair. "there's a ring at the bell; that must be he!" suddenly exclaimed pauline. then the faces of the two sisters assumed an air of indifference. it was malignon who made his appearance, dressed with greater care than ever, and having a somewhat serious look. he shook hands; but eschewed his customary jocularity, thus returning, in a ceremonious manner, to this house where for some time he had not shown his face. while the doctor and pauline were expostulating with him on the rarity of his visits, juliette bent down and whispered to helene, who, despite her supreme indifference, was overcome with astonishment: "ah! you are surprised? dear me! i am not angry with him at all! he's such a good fellow at heart that nobody could long be angry with him! just fancy! he has unearthed a husband for pauline. it's splendid, isn't it?" "oh! no doubt," answered helene complaisantly. "yes, one of his friends, immensely rich, who did not think of getting married, but whom he has sworn to bring here! we were waiting for him to-day to have some definite reply. so, as you will understand, i had to pass over a lot of things. oh! there's no danger now; we know one another thoroughly." her face beamed with a pretty smile, and she blushed slightly at the memories she conjured up; but she soon turned round and took possession of malignon. helene likewise smiled. these accommodating circumstances in life seemed to her sufficient excuse for her own delinquencies. it was absurd to think of tragic melodramas; no, everything wound up with universal happiness. however, while she had thus been indulging in the cowardly, but pleasing, thought that nothing was absolutely indefensible, juliette and pauline had opened the door of the pavilion, and were now dragging malignon in their train into the garden. and, all at once, helene heard henri speaking to her in a low and passionate voice: "i beseech you, helene! oh! i beseech you--" she started to her feet, and gazed around her with sudden anxiety. they were quite alone; she could see the three others walking slowly along one of the walks. henri was bold enough to lay his hand on her shoulder, and she trembled as she felt its pressure. "as you wish," she stammered, knowing full well what question it was that he desired to ask. then, hurriedly, they exchanged a few words. "at the house in the passage des eaux," said he. "no, it is impossible--i have explained to you, and you swore to me--" "well, wherever you like, so that i may see you! in your own house --this evening. shall i call?" the idea was repellant to her. but she could only refuse with a sign, for fear again came upon her as she observed the two ladies and malignon returning. madame deberle had taken the young man away under pretext of showing him some clumps of violets which were in full blossom notwithstanding the cold weather. hastening her steps, she entered the pavilion before the others, her face illumined by a smile. "it's all arranged," she exclaimed. "what's all arranged?" asked helene, who was still trembling with excitement and had forgotten everything. "oh, that marriage! what a riddance! pauline was getting a bit of a nuisance. however, the young man has seen her and thinks her charming! to-morrow we're all going to dine with papa. i could have embraced malignon for his good news!" with the utmost self-possession henri had contrived to put some distance between helene and himself. he also expressed his sense of malignon's favor, and seemed to share his wife's delight at the prospect of seeing their little sister settled at last. then he turned to helene, and informed her that she was dropping one of her gloves. she thanked him. they could hear pauline laughing and joking in the garden. she was leaning towards malignon, murmuring broken sentences in his ear, and bursting into loud laughter as he gave her whispered answers. no doubt he was chatting to her confidentially about her future husband. standing near the open door of the pavilion, helene meanwhile inhaled the cold air with delight. it was at this moment that in the bedroom up above a silence fell on jeanne and monsieur rambaud, whom the intense heat of the fire filled with languor. the child woke up from the long-continued pause with a sudden suggestion which seemed to be the outcome of her dreamy fit: "would you like to go into the kitchen? we'll see if we can get a glimpse of mamma!" "very well; let us go," replied monsieur rambaud. jeanne felt stronger that day, and reaching the kitchen without any assistance pressed her face against a windowpane. monsieur rambaud also gazed into the garden. the trees were bare of foliage, and through the large transparent windows of the japanese pavilion they could make out every detail inside. rosalie, who was busy attending to the soup, reproached mademoiselle with being inquisitive. but the child had caught sight of her mother's dress; and pointed her out, whilst flattening her face against the glass to obtain a better view. pauline meanwhile looked up, and nodded vigorously. then helene also made her appearance, and signed to the child to come down. "they have seen you, mademoiselle," said the servant girl. "they want you to go down." monsieur rambaud opened the window, and every one called to him to carry jeanne downstairs. jeanne, however, vanished into her room, and vehemently refused to go, accusing her worthy friend of having purposely tapped on the window. it was a great pleasure to her to look at her mother, but she stubbornly declared she would not go near that house; and to all monsieur rambaud's questions and entreaties she would only return a stern "because!" which was meant to explain everything. "it is not you who ought to force me," she said at last, with a gloomy look. but he told her that she would grieve her mother very much, and that it was not right to insult other people. he would muffle her up well, she would not catch cold; and, so saying, he wound the shawl round her body, and taking the silk handkerchief from her head, set a knitted hood in its place. even when she was ready, however, she still protested her unwillingness; and when in the end she allowed him to carry her down, it was with the express proviso that he would take her up again the moment she might feel poorly. the porter opened the door by which the two houses communicated, and when they entered the garden they were hailed with exclamations of joy. madame deberle, in particular, displayed a vast amount of affection for jeanne; she ensconced her in a chair near the stove, and desired that the windows might be closed, for the air she declared was rather sharp for the dear child. malignon had now left. as helene began smoothing the child's dishevelled hair, somewhat ashamed to see her in company muffled up in a shawl and a hood, juliette burst out in protest: "leave her alone! aren't we all at home here? poor jeanne! we are glad to have her!" she rang the bell, and asked if miss smithson and lucien had returned from their daily walk. no, they had not yet returned. it was just as well, she declared; lucien was getting beyond control, and only the night before had made the five levasseur girls sob with grief. "would you like to play at _pigeon vole_?" asked pauline, who seemed to have lost her head with the thought of her impending marriage. "that wouldn't tire you." but jeanne shook her head in refusal. beneath their drooping lids her eyes wandered over the persons who surrounded her. the doctor had just informed monsieur rambaud that admission to the hospital for incurables had been secured for his _protegee_, and in a burst of emotion the worthy man clasped his hands as though some great personal favor had been conferred on him. they were all lounging on their chairs, and the conversation became delightfully friendly. less effort was shown in following up remarks, and there were at times intervals of silence. while madame deberle and her sister were busily engaged in discussion, helene said to the two men: "doctor bodin has advised us to go to italy." "ah! that is why jeanne was questioning me!" exclaimed monsieur rambaud. "would it give you any pleasure to go away there?" without vouchsafing any answer, the child clasped her little hands upon her bosom, while her pale face flushed with joy. then, stealthily, and with some fear, she looked towards the doctor; it was he, she understood it, whom her mother was consulting. he started slightly, but retained all his composure. suddenly, however, juliette joined in the conversation, wishing, as usual, to have her finger in every pie. "what's that? are you talking about italy? didn't you say you had an idea of going to italy? well, it's a droll coincidence! why, this very morning, i was teasing henri to take me to naples! just fancy, for ten years now i have been dreaming of seeing naples! every spring he promises to take me there, but he never keeps his word!" "i didn't tell you that i would not go," murmured the doctor. "what! you didn't tell me? why, you refused flatly, with the excuse that you could not leave your patients!" jeanne was listening eagerly. a deep wrinkle now furrowed her pale brow, and she began twisting her fingers mechanically one after the other. "oh! i could entrust my patients for a few weeks to the care of a brother-physician," explained the doctor. "that's to say, if i thought it would give you so much pleasure--" "doctor," interrupted helene, "are you also of opinion that such a journey would benefit jeanne?" "it would be the very thing; it would thoroughly restore her to health. children are always the better for a change." "oh! then," exclaimed juliette, "we can take lucien, and we can all go together. that will be pleasant, won't it?" "yes, indeed; i'll do whatever you wish," he answered, smiling. jeanne lowered her face, wiped two big tears of passionate anger and grief from her eyes, and fell back in her chair as though she would fain hear and see no more; while madame deberle, filled with ecstasy by the idea of such unexpected pleasure, began chattering noisily. oh! how kind her husband was! she kissed him for his self-sacrifice. then, without the loss of a moment, she busied herself with sketching the necessary preparations. they would start the very next week. goodness gracious! she would never have time to get everything ready! next she wanted to draw out a plan of their tour; they would need to visit this and that town certainly; they could stay a week at rome; they must stop at a little country place that madame de guiraud had mentioned to her; and she wound up by engaging in a lively discussion with pauline, who was eager that they should postpone their departure till such time as she could accompany them with her husband. "not a bit of it!" exclaimed juliette; "the wedding can take place when we come back." jeanne's presence had been wholly forgotten. her eyes were riveted on her mother and the doctor. the proposed journey, indeed, now offered inducements to helene, as it must necessarily keep henri near her. in fact, a keen delight filled her heart at the thought of journeying together through the land of the sun, living side by side, and profiting by the hours of freedom. round her lips wreathed a smile of happy relief; she had so greatly feared that she might lose him; and deemed herself fortunate in the thought that she would carry her love along with her. while juliette was discoursing of the scenes they would travel through, both helene and henri, indeed, indulged in the dream that they were already strolling through a fairy land of perennial spring, and each told the other with a look that their passion would reign there, aye, wheresoever they might breathe the same air. in the meantime, monsieur rambaud, who with unconscious sadness had slowly lapsed into silence, observed jeanne's evident discomfort. "aren't you well, my darling?" he asked in a whisper. "no! i'm quite ill! carry me up again, i implore you." "but we must tell your mamma." "oh, no, no! mamma is busy; she hasn't any time to give to us. carry me up, oh! carry me up again." he took her in his arms, and told helene that the child felt tired. in answer she requested him to wait for her in her rooms; she would hasten after them. the little one, though light as a feather, seemed to slip from his grasp, and he was forced to come to a standstill on the second landing. she had leaned her head against his shoulder, and each gazed into the other's face with a look of grievous pain. not a sound broke upon the chill silence of the staircase. then in a low whisper he asked her: "you're pleased, aren't you, to go to italy?" but she thereupon burst into sobs, declaring in broken words that she no longer had any craving to go, and would rather die in her own room. oh! she would not go, she would fall ill, she knew it well. she would go nowhere--nowhere. they could give her little shoes to the poor. then amidst tears she whispered to him: "do you remember what you asked me one night?" "what was it, my pet?" "to stay with mamma always--always--always! well, if you wish so still, i wish so too!" the tears welled into monsieur rambaud's eyes. he kissed her lovingly, while she added in a still lower tone: "you are perhaps vexed by my getting so angry over it. i didn't understand, you know. but it's you whom i want! oh! say that it will be soon. won't you say that it will be soon? i love you more than the other one." below in the pavilion, helene had begun to dream once more. the proposed journey was still the topic of conversation; and she now experienced an unconquerable yearning to relieve her overflowing heart, and acquaint henri with all the happiness which was stifling her. so, while juliette and pauline were wrangling over the number of dresses that ought to be taken, she leaned towards him and gave him the assignation which she had refused but an hour before. "come to-night; i shall expect you." but as she at last ascended to her own rooms, she met rosalie flying terror-stricken down the stairs. the moment she saw her mistress, the girl shrieked out: "madame! madame! oh! make haste, do! mademoiselle is very ill! she's spitting blood!" chapter xxiii. on rising from the dinner-table the doctor spoke to his wife of a confinement case, in close attendance on which he would doubtless have to pass the night. he quitted the house at nine o'clock, walked down to the riverside, and paced along the deserted quays in the dense nocturnal darkness. a slight moist wind was blowing, and the swollen seine rolled on in inky waves. as soon as eleven o'clock chimed, he walked up the slopes of the trocadero, and began to prowl round the house, the huge square pile of which seemed but a deepening of the gloom. lights could still be seen streaming through the dining-room windows of helene's lodging. walking round, he noted that the kitchen was also brilliantly lighted up. and at this sight he stopped short in astonishment, which slowly developed into uneasiness. shadows traversed the blinds; there seemed to be considerable bustle and stir up there. perhaps monsieur rambaud had stayed to dine? but the worthy man never left later than ten o'clock. he, henri, dared not go up; for what would he say should rosalie open the door? at last, as it was nearing midnight, mad with impatience and throwing prudence to the winds, he rang the bell, and walked swiftly past the porter's room without giving his name. at the top of the stairs rosalie received him. "it's you, sir! come in. i will go and announce you. madame must be expecting you." she gave no sign of surprise on seeing him at this hour. as he entered the dining-room without uttering a word, she resumed distractedly: "oh! mademoiselle is very ill, sir. what a night! my legs are sinking under me!" thereupon she left the room, and the doctor mechanically took a seat. he was oblivious of the fact that he was a medical man. pacing along the quay he had conjured up a vision of a very different reception. and now he was there, as though he were paying a visit, waiting with his hat on his knees. a grievous coughing in the next room alone broke upon the intense silence. at last rosalie made her appearance once more, and hurrying across the dining-room with a basin in her hand, merely remarked: "madame says you are not to go in." he sat on, powerless to depart. was their meeting to be postponed till another day, then? he was dazed, as though such a thing had seemed to him impossible. then the thought came to him that poor jeanne had very bad health; children only brought on sorrow and vexation. the door, however, opened once more, and doctor bodin entered, with a thousand apologies falling from his lips. for some time he chattered away: he had been sent for, but he would always be exceedingly pleased to enter into consultation with his renowned fellow-practitioner. "oh! no doubt, no doubt," stammered doctor deberle, whose ears were buzzing. the elder man, his mind set at rest with regard to all questions of professional etiquette, then began to affect a puzzled manner, and expressed his doubts of the meaning of the symptoms. he spoke in a whisper, and described them in technical phraseology, frequently pausing and winking significantly. there was coughing without expectoration, very pronounced weakness, and intense fever. perhaps it might prove a case of typhoid fever. but in the meantime he gave no decided opinion, as the anaemic nervous affection, for which the patient had been treated so long, made him fear unforeseen complications. "what do you think?" he asked, after delivering himself of each remark. doctor deberle answered with evasive questions. while the other was speaking, he felt ashamed at finding himself in that room. why had he come up? "i have applied two blisters," continued the old doctor. "i'm waiting the result. but, of course, you'll see her. you will then give me your opinion." so saying he led him into the bedroom. henri entered it with a shudder creeping through his frame. it was but faintly lighted by a lamp. there thronged into his mind the memories of other nights, when there had been the same warm perfume, the same close, calm atmosphere, the same deepening shadows shrouding the furniture and hangings. but there was no one now to come to him with outstretched hands as in those olden days. monsieur rambaud lay back in an arm-chair exhausted, seemingly asleep. helene was standing in front of the bed, robed in a white dressing-gown, but did not turn her head; and her figure, in its death-like pallor, appeared to him extremely tall. then for a moment's space he gazed on jeanne. her weakness was so great that she could not open her eyes without fatigue. bathed in sweat, she lay in a stupor, her face ghastly, save that a burning flush colored each cheek. "it's galloping consumption," he exclaimed at last, speaking aloud in spite of himself, and giving no sign of astonishment, as though he had long foreseen what would happen. helene heard him and looked at him. she seemed to be of ice, her eyes were dry, and she was terribly calm. "you think so, do you?" rejoined doctor bodin, giving an approving nod in the style of a man who had not cared to be the first to express this opinion. he sounded the child once more. jeanne, her limbs quite lifeless, yielded to the examination without seemingly knowing why she was being disturbed. a few rapid sentences were exchanged between the two physicians. the old doctor murmured some words about amphoric breathing, and a sound such as a cracked jar might give out. nevertheless, he still affected some hesitation, and spoke, suggestively, of capillary bronchitis. doctor deberle hastened to explain that an accidental cause had brought on the illness; doubtless it was due to a cold; however, he had already noticed several times that an anaemical tendency would produce chest diseases. helene stood waiting behind him. "listen to her breathing yourself," said doctor bodin, giving way to henri. he leaned over the child, and seemed about to take hold of her. she had not raised her eyelids; but lay there in self-abandonment, consumed by fever. her open nightdress displayed her childish breast, where as yet there were but slight signs of coming womanhood; and nothing could be more chaste or yet more harrowing than the sight of this dawning maturity on which the angel of death had already laid his hand. she had displayed no aversion when the old doctor had touched her. but the moment henri's fingers glanced against her body she started as if she had received a shock. in a transport of shame she awoke from the coma in which she had been plunged, and, like a maiden in alarm, clasped her poor puny little arms over her bosom, exclaiming the while in quavering tones: "mamma! mamma!" then she opened her eyes, and on recognizing the man who was bending over her, she was seized with terror. sobbing with shame, she drew the bed-cover over her bosom. it seemed as though she had grown older by ten years during her short agony, and on the brink of death had attained sufficient womanhood to understand that this man, above all others, must not lay hands on her. she wailed out again in piteous entreaty: "mamma! mamma! i beseech you!" helene, who had hitherto not opened her lips, came close to henri. her eyes were bent on him fixedly; her face was of marble. she touched him, and merely said in a husky voice: "go away!" doctor bodin strove to appease jeanne, who now shook with a fresh fit of coughing. he assured her that nobody would annoy her again, that every one would go away, to prevent her being disturbed. "go away," repeated helene, in a deep whisper in her lover's ear. "you see very well that we have killed her!" then, unable to find a word in reply, henri withdrew. he lingered for a moment longer in the dining-room, awaiting he knew not what, something that might possibly take place. but seeing that doctor bodin did not come out, he groped his way down the stairs without even rosalie to light him. he thought of the awful speed with which galloping consumption--a disease to which he had devoted earnest study--carried off its victims; the miliary tubercles would rapidly multiply, the stifling sensation would become more and more pronounced; jeanne would certainly not last another three weeks. the first of these passed by. in the mighty expanse of heaven before the window, the sun rose and set above paris, without helene being more than vaguely conscious of the pitiless, steady advance of time. she grasped the fact that her daughter was doomed; she lived plunged in a stupor, alive only to the terrible anguish that filled her heart. it was but waiting on in hopelessness, in certainty that death would prove merciless. she could not weep, but paced gently to and fro, tending the sufferer with slow, regulated movements. at times, yielding to fatigue, she would fall upon a chair, whence she gazed at her for hours. jeanne grew weaker and weaker; painful vomiting was followed by exhaustion; the fever never quitted her. when doctor bodin called, he examined her for a little while and left some prescription; but his drooping shoulders, as he left the room, were eloquent of such powerlessness that the mother forbore to accompany him to ask even a question. on the morning after the illness had declared itself, abbe jouve had made all haste to call. he and his brother now again came every evening, exchanging a mute clasp of the hand with helene, and never venturing to ask any news. they had offered to watch by the bedside in succession, but she sent them away when ten o'clock struck; she would have no one in the bedroom during the night. one evening the abbe, who had seemed absorbed by some idea since the previous day, took her aside. "there is one thing i've thought of," he whispered. "her health has put obstacles in the darling child's way; but her first communion might take place here." his meaning at first did not seem to dawn on helene. the thought that, despite all his indulgence, he should now allow his priestly character the ascendant and evince no concern but in spiritual matters, came on her with surprise, and even wounded her somewhat. with a careless gesture she exclaimed: "no, no; i would rather she wasn't worried. if there be a heaven, she will have no difficulty in entering its gates." that evening, however, jeanne experienced one of those deceptive improvements in health which fill the dying with illusions as to their condition. her hearing, rendered more acute by illness, had enabled her to catch the abbe's words. "it's you, dear old friend!" said she. "you spoke about the first communion. it will be soon, won't it?" "no doubt, my darling," he answered. then she wanted him to come near to speak to her. her mother had propped her up with the pillow, and she reclined there, looking very little, with a smile on her fever-burnt lips, and the shadow of death already passing over her brilliant eyes. "oh! i'm getting on very well," she began. "i could get up if i wanted. but tell me: should i have a white gown and flowers? will the church be as beautiful as it was in the month of mary?" "more beautiful, my pet." "really? will there be as many flowers, and will there be such sweet chants? it will be soon, soon--you promise me, won't you?" she was wrapt in joy. she gazed on the curtains of the bed, and murmured in her transport that she was very fond of the good god, and had seen him while she was listening to the canticles. even now she could hear organs pealing, see lights that circled round, and flowers in great vases hovering like butterflies before her eyes. then another fit of coughing threw her back on the pillow. however, her face was still flushed with a smile; she seemed to be unconscious of her cough, but continued: "i shall get up to-morrow. i shall learn my catechism without a mistake, and we'll be all very happy." a sob came from helene as she stood at the foot of the bed. she had been powerless to weep, but a storm of tears rushed up from her bosom as jeanne's laughter fell on her ear. then, almost stifling, she fled into the dining-room, that she might hide her despair. the abbe followed her. monsieur rambaud had at once started up to engage the child's attention. "oh dear! mamma cried out! has she hurt herself?" she asked. "your mamma?" he answered. "no, she didn't cry out; she was laughing because you are feeling so well." in the dining-room, her head bowed dejectedly on the table, helene strove to stifle her sobs with her clasped hands. the abbe hung over her, and prayed her to restrain her emotion. but she raised her face, streaming with tears, and bitterly accused herself. she declared to him that she herself had killed her daughter, and a full confession escaped from her lips in a torrent of broken words. she would never have succumbed to that man had jeanne remained beside her. it had been fated that she should meet him in that chamber of mystery. god in heaven! she ought to die with her child; she could live no longer. the priest, terrified, sought to calm her with the promise of absolution. but there was a ring at the bell, and a sound of voices came from the lobby. helene dried her tears as rosalie made her appearance. "madame, it's dr. deberle, who--" "i don't wish him to come in." "he is asking after mademoiselle." "tell him she is dying." the door had been left open, and henri had heard everything. without awaiting the return of the servant girl, he walked down the stairs. he came up every day, received the same answer, and then went away. the visits which helene received quite unnerved her. the few ladies whose acquaintance she had made at the deberles' house deemed it their duty to tender her their sympathy. madame de chermette, madame levasseur, madame de guiraud, and others also presented themselves. they made no request to enter, but catechised rosalie in such loud voices that they could be heard through the thin partitions. giving way to impatience, helene would then receive them in the dining-room, where, without sitting down, she spoke with them very briefly. she went about all day in her dressing-gown, careless of her attire, with her lovely hair merely gathered up and twisted into a knot. her eyes often closed with weariness; her face was flushed; she had a bitter taste in her mouth; her lips were clammy, and she could scarcely articulate. when juliette called, she could not exclude her from the bedroom, but allowed her to stay for a little while beside the bed. "my dear," madame deberle said to her one day in friendly tones, "you give way too much. keep up your spirits." helene was about to reply, when juliette, wishing to turn her thoughts from her grief, began to chat about the things which were occupying the gossips of paris: "we are certainly going to have a war. i am in a nice state about it, as i have two cousins who will have to serve." in this style she would drop in upon them on returning from her rambles through paris, her brain bursting with all the tittle-tattle collected in the course of the afternoon, and her long skirts whirling and rustling as she sailed through the stillness of the sick-room. it was altogether futile for her to lower her voice and assume a pitiful air; her indifference peeped through all disguise; it could be seen that she was happy, quite joyous indeed, in the possession of perfect health. helene was very downcast in her company, her heart rent by jealous anguish. "madame," said jeanne one evening, "why doesn't lucien come to play with me?" juliette was embarrassed for a moment, and merely answered with a smile. "is he ill too?" continued the child. "no, my darling, he isn't ill; he has gone to school." then, as helene accompanied her into the ante-room, she wished to apologize for her prevarication. "oh! i would gladly bring him; i know that there's no infection. but children get frightened with the least thing, and lucien is such a stupid. he would just burst out sobbing when he saw your poor angel--" "yes, indeed; you are quite right," interrupted helene, her heart ready to break with the thought of this woman's gaiety, and her happiness in possessing a child who enjoyed robust health. a second week had passed away. the disease was following its usual course, robbing jeanne every hour of some of her vitality. fearfully rapid though it was, however, it evinced no haste, but, in accomplishing the destruction of that delicate, lovable flesh, passed in turn through each foreseen phase, without skipping a single one of them. thus the spitting of blood had ceased, and at intervals the cough disappeared. but such was the oppressive feeling which stifled the child that you could detect the ravages of the disease by the difficulty she experienced in breathing. such weakness could not withstand so violent an attack; and the eyes of the abbe and monsieur rambaud constantly moistened with tears as they heard her. day and night under the shelter of the curtains the sound of oppressed breathing arose; the poor darling, whom the slightest shock seemed likely to kill, was yet unable to die, but lived on and on through the agony which bathed her in sweat. her mother, whose strength was exhausted, and who could no longer bear to hear that rattle, went into the adjoining room and leaned her head against the wall. jeanne was slowly becoming oblivious to her surroundings. she no longer saw people, and her face bore an unconscious and forlorn expression, as though she had already lived all alone in some unknown sphere. when they who hovered round her wished to attract her attention, they named themselves that she might recognize them; but she would gaze at them fixedly, without a smile, then turn herself round towards the wall with a weary look. a gloominess was settling over her; she was passing away amidst the same vexation and sulkiness as she had displayed in past days of jealous outbursts. still, at times the whims characteristic of sickness would awaken her to some consciousness. one morning she asked her mother: "to-day is sunday, isn't it?" "no, my child," answered helene; "this is only friday. why do you wish to know?" jeanne seemed to have already forgotten the question she had asked. but two days later, while rosalie was in the room, she said to her in a whisper: "this is sunday. zephyrin is here; ask him to come and see me." the maid hesitated, but helene, who had heard, nodded to her in token of consent. the child spoke again: "bring him; come both of you; i shall be so pleased." when rosalie entered the sick-room with zephyrin, she raised herself on her pillow. the little soldier, with bare head and hands spread out, swayed about to hide his intense emotion. he had a great love for mademoiselle, and it grieved him unutterably to see her "shouldering arms on the left," as he expressed it in the kitchen. so, in spite of the previous injunctions of rosalie, who had instructed him to put on a bright expression, he stood speechless, with downcast face, on seeing her so pale and wasted to a skeleton. he was still as tender-hearted as ever, despite his conquering airs. he could not even think of one of those fine phrases which nowadays he usually concocted so easily. the maid behind him gave him a pinch to make him laugh. but he could only stammer out: "i beg pardon--mademoiselle and every one here--" jeanne was still raising herself with the help of her tiny arms. she widely opened her large, vacant eyes; she seemed to be looking for something; her head shook with a nervous trembling. doubtless the stream of light was blinding her as the shadows of death gathered around. "come closer, my friend," said helene to the soldier. "it was mademoiselle who asked to see you." the sunshine entered through the window in a slanting ray of golden light, in which the dust rising from the carpet could be seen circling. march had come, and the springtide was already budding out of doors. zephyrin took one step forward, and appeared in the sunshine; his little round, freckled face had a golden hue, as of ripe corn, while the buttons on his tunic glittered, and his red trousers looked as sanguineous as a field of poppies. at last jeanne became aware of his presence there; but her eye again betrayed uneasiness, and she glanced restlessly from one corner to another. "what do you want, my child?" asked her mother. "we are all here." she understood, however, in a moment. "rosalie, come nearer. mademoiselle wishes to see you." then rosalie, in her turn, stepped into the sunlight. she wore a cap, whose strings, carelessly tossed over her shoulders, flapped round her head like the wings of a butterfly. a golden powder seemed to fall on her bristly black hair and her kindly face with its flat nose and thick lips. and for jeanne there were only these two in the room--the little soldier and the servant girl, standing elbow to elbow under the ray of sunshine. she gazed at them. "well, my darling," began helene again, "you do not say anything to them! here they are together." jeanne's eyes were still fixed on them, and her head shook with the tremor of a very aged woman. they stood there like man and wife, ready to take each other's arm and return to their country-side. the spring sun threw its warmth on them, and eager to brighten mademoiselle they ended by smiling into each other's face with a look of mingled embarrassment and tenderness. the very odor of health was exhaled from their plump round figures. had they been alone, zephyrin without doubt would have caught hold of rosalie, and would have received for his pains a hearty slap. their eyes showed it. "well, my darling, have you nothing to say to them?" jeanne gazed at them, her breathing growing yet more oppressed. and still she said not a word, but suddenly burst into tears. zephyrin and rosalie had at once to quit the room. "i beg pardon--mademoiselle and every one--" stammered the little soldier, as he went away in bewilderment. this was one of jeanne's last whims. she lapsed into a dull stupor, from which nothing could rouse her. she lay there in utter loneliness, unconscious even of her mother's presence. when helene hung over the bed seeking her eyes, the child preserved a stolid expression, as though only the shadow of the curtain had passed before her. her lips were dumb; she showed the gloomy resignation of the outcast who knows that she is dying. sometimes she would long remain with her eyelids half closed, and nobody could divine what stubborn thought was thus absorbing her. nothing now had any existence for her save her big doll, which lay beside her. they had given it to her one night to divert her during her insufferable anguish, and she refused to give it back, defending it with fierce gestures the moment they attempted to take it from her. with its pasteboard head resting on the bolster, the doll was stretched out like an invalid, covered up to the shoulders by the counterpane. there was little doubt the child was nursing it, for her burning hands would, from time to time, feel its disjointed limbs of flesh-tinted leather, whence all the sawdust had exuded. for hours her eyes would never stray from those enamel ones which were always fixed, or from those white teeth wreathed in an everlasting smile. she would suddenly grow affectionate, clasp the doll's hands against her bosom and press her cheek against its little head of hair, the caressing contact of which seemed to give her some relief. thus she sought comfort in her affection for her big doll, always assuring herself of its presence when she awoke from a doze, seeing nothing else, chatting with it, and at times summoning to her face the shadow of a smile, as though she had heard it whispering something in her ear. the third week was dragging to an end. one morning the old doctor came and remained. helene understood him: her child would not live through the day. since the previous evening she had been in a stupor that deprived her of the consciousness even of her own actions. there was no longer any struggle with death; it was but a question of hours. as the dying child was consumed by an awful thirst, the doctor had merely recommended that she should be given some opiate beverage, which would render her passing less painful; and the relinquishing of all attempts at cure reduced helene to a state of imbecility. so long as the medicines had littered the night-table she still had entertained hopes of a miraculous recovery. but now bottles and boxes had vanished, and her last trust was gone. one instinct only inspired her now--to be near jeanne, never leave her, gaze at her unceasingly. the doctor, wishing to distract her attention from the terrible sight, strove, by assigning some little duties to her, to keep her at a distance. but she ever and ever returned, drawn to the bedside by the physical craving to see. she waited, standing erect, her arms hanging beside her, and her face swollen by despair. about one o'clock abbe jouve and monsieur rambaud arrived. the doctor went to meet them, and muttered a few words. both grew pale, and stood stock-still in consternation, while their hands began to tremble. helene had not turned round. the weather was lovely that day; it was one of those sunny afternoons typical of early april. jeanne was tossing in her bed. her lips moved painfully at times with the intolerable thirst which consumed her. she had brought her poor transparent hands from under the coverlet, and waved them gently to and fro. the hidden working of the disease was accomplished, she coughed no more, and her dying voice came like a faint breath. for a moment she turned her head, and her eyes sought the light. doctor bodin threw the window wide open, and then jeanne at once became tranquil, with her cheek resting on the pillow and her looks roving over paris, while her heavy breathing grew fainter and slower. during the three weeks of her illness she had thus many times turned towards the city that stretched away to the horizon. her face grew grave, she was musing. at this last hour paris was smiling under the glittering april sunshine. warm breezes entered from without, with bursts of urchin's laughter and the chirping of sparrows. on the brink of the grave the child exerted her last strength to gaze again on the scene, and follow the flying smoke which soared from the distant suburbs. she recognized her three friends, the invalides, the pantheon, and the tower of saint-jacques; then the unknown began, and her weary eyelids half closed at sight of the vast ocean of roofs. perhaps she was dreaming that she was growing much lighter and lighter, and was fleeting away like a bird. now, at last, she would soon know all; she would perch herself on the domes and steeples; seven or eight flaps of her wings would suffice, and she would be able to gaze on the forbidden mysteries that were hidden from children. but a fresh uneasiness fell upon her, and her hands groped about; she only grew calm again when she held her large doll in her little arms against her bosom. it was evidently her wish to take it with her. her glances wandered far away amongst the chimneys glinting with the sun's ruddy light. four o'clock struck, and the bluish shadows of evening were already gathering. the end was at hand; there was a stifling, a slow and passive agony. the dear angel no longer had strength to offer resistance. monsieur rambaud, overcome, threw himself on his knees, convulsed with silent sobbing, and dragged himself behind a curtain to hide his grief. the abbe was kneeling at the bedside, with clasped hands, repeating the prayers for the dying. "jeanne! jeanne!" murmured helene, chilled to the heart with a horror which sent an icy thrill through her very hair. she had repulsed the doctor and thrown herself on the ground, leaning against the bed to gaze into her daughter's face. jeanne opened her eyes, but did not look at her mother. she drew her doll--her last love--still closer. her bosom heaved with a big sigh, followed by two fainter ones. then her eyes paled, and her face for a moment gave signs of a fearful anguish. but speedily there came relief; her mouth remained open, she breathed no more. "it is over," said the doctor, as he took her hand. jeanne's big, vacant eyes were fixed on paris. the long, thin, lamb-like face was still further elongated, there was a sternness on its features, a grey shadow falling from its contracted brows. thus even in death she retained the livid expression of a jealous woman. the doll, with its head flung back, and its hair dishevelled, seemed to lie dead beside her. "it is over," again said the doctor, as he allowed the little cold hand to drop. helene, with a strained expression on her face, pressed her hands to her brow as if she felt her head splitting open. no tears came to her eyes; she gazed wildly in front of her. then a rattling noise mounted in her throat; she had just espied at the foot of the bed a pair of shoes that lay forgotten there. it was all over. jeanne would never put them on again; the little shoes could be given to the poor. and at the sight helene's tears gushed forth; she still knelt on the floor, her face pressed against the dead child's hand, which had slipped down. monsieur rambaud was sobbing. the abbe had raised his voice, and rosalie, standing at the door of the dining-room, was biting her handkerchief to check the noise of her grief. at this very moment doctor deberle rang the bell. he was unable to refrain from making inquiries. "how is she now?" he asked. "oh, sir!" wailed rosalie, "she is dead." he stood motionless, stupefied by the announcement of the end which he had been expecting daily. at last he muttered: "o god! the poor child! what a calamity!" he could only give utterance to those commonplace but heartrending words. the door shut once more, and he went down the stairs. chapter xxiv. when madame deberle was apprised of jeanne's death she wept, and gave way to one of those outbursts of emotion that kept her in a flutter for eight-and-forty hours. hers was a noisy and immoderate grief. she came and threw herself into helene's arms. then a phrase dropped in her hearing inspired her with the idea of imparting some affecting surroundings to the child's funeral, and soon wholly absorbed her. she offered her services, and declared her willingness to undertake every detail. the mother, worn out with weeping, sat overwhelmed in her chair; monsieur rambaud, who was acting in her name, was losing his head. so he accepted the offer with profuse expressions of gratitude. helene merely roused herself for a moment to express the wish that there should be some flowers--an abundance of flowers. without losing a minute, madame deberle set about her task. she spent the whole of the next day in running from one lady friend to another, bearing the woeful tidings. it was her idea to have a following of little girls all dressed in white. she needed at least thirty, and did not return till she had secured the full number. she had gone in person to the funeral administration, discussed the various styles, and chosen the necessary drapery. she would have the garden railings hung with white, and the body might be laid out under the lilac trees, whose twigs were already tipped with green. it would be charming. "if only it's a fine day to-morrow!" she giddily remarked in the evening when her scurrying to and fro had come to an end. the morning proved lovely; there was a blue sky and a flood of sunshine, the air was pure and invigorating as only the air of spring can be. the funeral was to take place at ten o'clock. by nine the drapery had been hung up. juliette ran down to give the workmen her ideas of what should be done. she did not wish the trees to be altogether covered. the white cloth, fringed with silver, formed a kind of porch at the garden gate, which was thrown back against the lilac trees. however, juliette soon returned to her drawing-room to receive her lady guests. they were to assemble there to prevent madame grandjean's two rooms from being filled to overflowing. still she was greatly annoyed at her husband having had to go that morning to versailles--for some consultation or other, he explained, which he could not well neglect. thus she was left alone, and felt she would never be able to get through with it all. madame berthier was the first arrival, bringing her two daughters with her. "what do you think!" exclaimed madame deberle; "henri has deserted me! well, lucien, why don't you say good-day?" lucien was already dressed for the funeral, with his hands in black gloves. he seemed astonished to see sophie and blanche dressed as though they were about to take part in some church procession. a silk sash encircled the muslin gown of each, and their veils, which swept down to the floor, hid their little caps of transparent tulle. while the two mothers were busy chatting, the three children gazed at one another, bearing themselves somewhat stiffly in their new attire. at last lucien broke the silence by saying: "jeanne is dead." his heart was full, and yet his face wore a smile--a smile born of amazement. he had been very quiet since the evening before, dwelling on the thought that jeanne was dead. as his mother was up to her ears in business, and took no notice of him, he had plied the servants with questions. was it a fact, he wanted to know, that it was impossible to move when one was dead?" "she is dead, she is dead!" echoed the two sisters, who looked like rosebuds under their white veils. "are we going to see her?" lucien pondered for a time, and then, with dreamy eyes and opened mouth, seemingly striving to divine the nature of this problem which lay beyond his ken, he answered in a low tone: "we shall never see her again." however, several other little girls now entered the room. on a sign from his mother lucien advanced to meet them. marguerite tissot, her muslin dress enveloping her like a cloud, seemed a child-virgin; her fair hair, escaping from underneath her little cap, looked, through the snowy veil, like a tippet figured with gold. a quiet smile crept into every face when the five levasseurs made their appearance; they were all dressed alike, and trooped along in boarding-school fashion, the eldest first, the youngest last; and their skirts stood out to such an extent that they quite filled one corner of the room. but on little mademoiselle guiraud's entry the whispering voices rose to a higher key; the others laughed and crowded round to see her and kiss her. she was like some white turtle-dove with its downy feathers ruffled. wrapped in rustling gauze, she looked as round as a barrel, but still no heavier than a bird. her mother even could not find her hands. by degrees the drawing-room seemed to be filling with a cloud of snowballs. several boys, in their black coats, were like dark spots amidst the universal white. lucien, now that his little wife was dead, desired to choose another. however, he displayed the greatest hesitation. he would have preferred a wife like jeanne, taller than himself; but at last he settled on marguerite, whose hair fascinated him, and to whom he attached himself for the day. "the corpse hasn't been brought down yet," pauline muttered at this moment in juliette's ear. pauline was as flurried as though the preliminaries of a ball were in hand. it was with the greatest difficulty that her sister had prevented her from donning a white dress for the ceremony. "good gracious!" exclaimed juliette; "what are they dreaming about? i must run up. stay with these ladies." she hastily left the room, where the mothers in their mourning attire sat chatting in whispers, while the children dared not make the least movement lest they should rumple their dresses. when she had reached the top of the staircase and entered the chamber where the body lay, juliette's blood was chilled by the intense cold. jeanne still lay on the bed, with clasped hands; and, like marguerite and the levasseur girls, she was arrayed in a white dress, white cap, and white shoes. a wreath of white roses crowned the cap, as though she were a little queen about to be honored by the crowd of guests who were waiting below. in front of the window, on two chairs, was the oak coffin lined with satin, looking like some huge jewel casket. the furniture was all in order; a wax taper was burning; the room seemed close and gloomy, with the damp smell and stillness of a vault which has been walled up for many years. thus juliette, fresh from the sunshine and smiling life of the outer world, came to a sudden halt, stricken dumb, without the courage to explain that they must needs hurry. "a great many people have come," she stammered at last. and then, as no answer was forthcoming, she added, just for the sake of saying something: "henri has been forced to attend a consultation at versailles; you will excuse him." helene, who sat in front of the bed, gazed at her with vacant eyes. they were wholly unable to drag her from that room. for six-and-thirty hours she had lingered there, despite the prayers of monsieur rambaud and the abbe jouve, who kept watch with her. during the last two nights she had been weighed to the earth by immeasurable agony. besides, she had accomplished the grievous task of dressing her daughter for the last time, of putting on those white silk shoes, for she would allow no other to touch the feet of the little angel who lay dead. and now she sat motionless, as though her strength were spent, and the intensity of her grief had lulled her into forgetfulness. "have you got some flowers?" she exclaimed after an effort, her eyes still fixed on madame deberle. "yes, yes, my dear," answered the latter. "don't trouble yourself about that." since her daughter had breathed her last, helene had been consumed with one idea--there must be flowers, flowers, an overwhelming profusion of flowers. each time she saw anybody, she grew uneasy, seemingly afraid that sufficient flowers would never be obtained. "are there any roses?" she began again after a pause. "yes. i assure you that you will be well pleased." she shook her head, and once more fell back into her stupor. in the meantime the undertaker's men were waiting on the landing. it must be got over now without delay. monsieur rambaud, who was himself affected to such a degree that he staggered like a drunken man, signed to juliette to assist him in leading the poor woman from the room. each slipped an arm gently beneath hers, and they raised her up and led her towards the dining-room. but the moment she divined their intention, she shook them from her in a last despairing outburst. the scene was heartrending. she threw herself on her knees at the bedside and clung passionately to the sheets, while the room re-echoed with her piteous shrieks. but still jeanne lay there with her face of stone, stiff and icy-cold, wrapped round by the silence of eternity. she seemed to be frowning; there was a sour pursing of the lips, eloquent of a revengeful nature; and it was this gloomy, pitiless look, springing from jealousy and transforming her face, which drove helene so frantic. during the preceding thirty-six hours she had not failed to notice how the old spiteful expression had grown more and more intense upon her daughter's face, how more and more sullen she looked the nearer she approached the grave. oh, what a comfort it would have been if jeanne could only have smiled on her for the last time! "no, no!" she shrieked. "i pray you, leave her for a moment. you cannot take her from me. i want to embrace her. oh, only a moment, only a moment!" with trembling arms she clasped her child to her bosom, eager to dispute possession with the men who stood in the ante-room, with their backs turned towards her and impatient frowns on their faces. but her lips were powerless to breathe any warmth on the cold countenance; she became conscious that jeanne's obstinacy was not to be overcome, that she refused forgiveness. and then she allowed herself to be dragged away, and fell upon a chair in the dining-room, with the one mournful cry, again and again repeated: "my god! my god!" monsieur rambaud and madame deberle were overcome by emotion. there was an interval of silence, but when the latter opened the door halfway it was all over. there had been no noise--scarcely a stir. the screws, oiled beforehand, now closed the lid for ever. the chamber was left empty, and a white sheet was thrown over the coffin. the bedroom door remained open, and no further restraint was put upon helene. on re-entering the room she cast a dazed look on the furniture and round the walls. the men had borne away the corpse. rosalie had drawn the coverlet over the bed to efface the slight hollow made by the form of the little one whom they had lost. then opening her arms with a distracted gesture and stretching out her hands, helene rushed towards the staircase. she wanted to go down, but monsieur rambaud held her back, while madame deberle explained to her that it was not the thing to do. but she vowed she would behave rationally, that she would not follow the funeral procession. surely they could allow her to look on; she would remain quiet in the garden pavilion. both wept as they heard her pleading. however, she had to be dressed. juliette threw a black shawl round her to conceal her morning wrap. there was no bonnet to be found; but at last they came across one from which they tore a bunch of red vervain flowers. monsieur rambaud, who was chief mourner, took hold of helene's arm. "do not leave her," whispered madame deberle as they reached the garden. "i have so many things to look after!" and thereupon she hastened away. helene meanwhile walked with difficulty, her eyes ever seeking something. as soon as she had found herself out of doors she had drawn a long sigh. ah! what a lovely morning! then she looked towards the iron gate, and caught sight of the little coffin under the white drapery. monsieur rambaud allowed her to take but two or three steps forward. "now, be brave," he said to her, while a shudder ran through his own frame. they gazed on the scene. the narrow coffin was bathed in sunshine. at the foot of it, on a lace cushion, was a silver crucifix. to the left the holy-water sprinkler lay in its font. the tall wax tapers were burning with almost invisible flames. beneath the hangings, the branches of the trees with their purple shoots formed a kind of bower. it was a nook full of the beauty of spring, and over it streamed the golden sunshine irradiating the blossoms with which the coffin was covered. it seemed as if flowers had been raining down; there were clusters of white roses, white camellias, white lilac, white carnations, heaped in a snowy mass of petals; the coffin was hidden from sight, and from the pall some of the white blossoms were falling, the ground being strewn with periwinkles and hyacinths. the few persons passing along the rue vineuse paused with a smile of tender emotion before this sunny garden where the little body lay at peace amongst the flowers. there seemed to be a music stealing up from the snowy surroundings; in the glare of light the purity of the blossoms grew dazzling, and the sun flushed hangings, nosegays, and wreaths of flowers, with a very semblance of life. over the roses a bee flew humming. "oh, the flowers! the flowers!" murmured helene, powerless to say another word. she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and her eyes filled with tears. jeanne must be warm, she thought, and with this idea a wave of emotion rose in her bosom; she felt very grateful to those who had enveloped her child in flowers. she wished to go forward, and monsieur rambaud made no effort to hold her back. how sweet was the scene beneath the cloud of drapery! perfumes were wafted upwards; the air was warm and still. helene stooped down and chose one rose only, that she might place it in her bosom. but suddenly she commenced to tremble, and monsieur rambaud became uneasy. "don't stay here," he said, as he drew her away. "you promised not to make yourself unwell." he was attempting to lead her into the pavilion when the door of the drawing-room was thrown open. pauline was the first to appear. she had undertaken the duty of arranging the funeral procession. one by one, the little girls stepped into the garden. their coming seemed like some sudden outburst of bloom, a miraculous flowering of may. in the open air the white skirts expanded, streaked moire-like by the sunshine with shades of the utmost delicacy. an apple-tree above was raining down its blossoms; gossamer-threads were floating to and fro; the dresses were instinct with all the purity of spring. and their number still increased; they already surrounded the lawn; they yet lightly descended the steps, sailing on like downy balls suddenly expanding beneath the open sky. the garden was now a snowy mass, and as helene gazed on the crowd of little girls, a memory awoke within her. she remembered another joyous season, with its ball and the gay twinkling of tiny feet. she once more saw marguerite in her milk-girl costume, with her can hanging from her waist; and sophie, dressed as a waiting-maid, and revolving on the arm of her sister blanche, whose trappings as folly gave out a merry tinkle of bells. she thought, too, of the five levasseur girls, and of the red riding-hoods, whose number had seemed endless, with their ever-recurring cloaks of poppy-colored satin edged with black velvet; while little mademoiselle guiraud, with her alsatian butterfly bow in her hair, danced as if demented opposite a harlequin twice as tall as herself. to-day they were all arrayed in white. jeanne, too, was in white, her head laid amongst white flowers on the white satin pillow. the delicate-faced japanese maiden, with hair transfixed by long pins, and purple tunic embroidered with birds, was leaving them for ever in a gown of snowy white. "how tall they have all grown!" exclaimed helene, as she burst into tears. they were all there but her daughter; she alone was missing. monsieur rambaud led her to the pavilion; but she remained on the threshold, anxious to see the funeral procession start. several of the ladies bowed to her quietly. the children looked at her, with some astonishment in their blue eyes. meanwhile pauline was hovering round, giving orders. she lowered her voice for the occasion, but at times forgot herself. "now, be good children! look, you little stupid, you are dirty already! i'll come for you in a minute; don't stir." the hearse drove up; it was time to start, but madame deberle appeared, exclaiming: "the bouquets have been forgotten! quick, pauline, the bouquets!" some little confusion ensued. a bouquet of white roses had been prepared for each little girl; and these bouquets now had to be distributed. the children, in an ecstasy of delight, held the great clusters of flowers in front of them as though they had been wax tapers; lucien, still at marguerite's side, daintily inhaled the perfume of her blossoms as she held them to his face. all these little maidens, their hands filled with flowers, looked radiant with happiness in the golden light; but suddenly their faces grew grave as they perceived the men placing the coffin on the hearse. "is she inside that thing?" asked sophie in a whisper. her sister blanche nodded assent. then, in her turn, she said: "for men it's as big as this!" she was referring to the coffin, and stretched out her arms to their widest extent. however, little marguerite, whose nose was buried amongst her roses, was seized with a fit of laughter; it was the flowers, said she, which tickled her. then the others in turn buried their noses in their bouquets to find out if it were so; but they were remonstrated with, and they all became grave once more. the funeral procession was now filing into the street. at the corner of the rue vineuse a woman without a cap, and with tattered shoes on her feet, wept and wiped her cheeks with the corner of her apron. people stood at many windows, and exclamations of pity ascended through the stillness of the street. hung with white silver-fringed drapery the hearse rolled on without a sound; nothing fell on the ear save the measured tread of the two white horses, deadened by the solid earthen roadway. the bouquets and wreaths, borne on the funeral car, formed a very harvest of flowers; the coffin was hidden by them; every jolt tossed the heaped-up mass, and the hearse slowly sprinkled the street with lilac blossom. from each of the four corners streamed a long ribbon of white watered silk, held by four little girls--sophie and marguerite, one of the levasseur family, and little mademoiselle guiraud, who was so small and so uncertain on her legs that her mother walked beside her. the others, in a close body, surrounded the hearse, each bearing her bouquet of roses. they walked slowly, their veils waved, and the wheels rolled on amidst all this muslin, as though borne along on a cloud, from which smiled the tender faces of cherubs. then behind, following monsieur rambaud, who bowed his pale face, came several ladies and little boys, rosalie, zephyrin, and the servants of madame deberle. to these succeeded five empty mourning carriages. and as the hearse passed along the sunny street like a car symbolical of springtide, a number of white pigeons wheeled over the mourners' heads. "good heavens! how annoying!" exclaimed madame deberle when she saw the procession start off. "if only henri had postponed that consultation! i told him how it would be!" she did not know what to do with helene, who remained prostrate on a seat in the pavilion. henri might have stayed with her and afforded her some consolation. his absence was a horrible nuisance. luckily, mademoiselle aurelie was glad to offer her services; she had no liking for such solemn scenes, and while watching over helene would be able to attend to the luncheon which had to be prepared ere the children's return. so juliette hastened after the funeral, which was proceeding towards the church by way of the rue de passy. the garden was now deserted; a few workmen only were folding up the hangings. all that remained on the gravelled path over which jeanne had been carried were the scattered petals of a camellia. and helene, suddenly lapsing into loneliness and stillness, was thrilled once more with the anguish of this eternal separation. once again--only once again!--to be at her darling's side! the never-fading thought that jeanne was leaving her in anger, with a face that spoke solely of gloomy hatred, seared her heart like a red-hot iron. she well divined that mademoiselle aurelie was there to watch her, and cast about for some opportunity to escape and hasten to the cemetery. "yes, it's a dreadful loss," began the old maid, comfortably seated in an easy-chair. "i myself should have worshipped children, and little girls in particular. ah, well! when i think of it i am pleased that i never married. it saves a lot of grief!" it was thus she thought to divert the mother. she chatted away about one of her friends who had had six children; they were now all dead. another lady had been left a widow with a big lad who struck her; he might die, and there would be no difficulty in comforting her. helene appeared to be listening to all this; she did not stir, but her whole frame quivered with impatience. "you are calmer now," said mademoiselle aurelie, after a time. "well, in the end we always have to get the better of our feelings." the dining-room communicated with the japanese pavilion, and, rising up, the old maid opened the door and peered into the room. the table, she saw, was covered with pastry and cakes. meantime, in an instant helene sped through the garden; the gate was still open, the workmen were just carrying away their ladder. on the left the rue vineuse turns into the rue des reservoirs, from which the cemetery of passy can be entered. on the boulevard de la muette a huge retaining wall has been reared, and the cemetery stretches like an immense terrace commanding the heights, the trocadero, the avenues, and the whole expanse of paris. in twenty steps helene had reached the yawning gateway, and saw before her the lonely expanse of white gravestones and black crosses. she entered. at the corners of the first walk two large lilac trees were budding. there were but few burials here; weeds grew thickly, and a few cypress trees threw solemn shadows across the green. helene hurried straight on; a troop of frightened sparrows flew off, and a grave-digger raised his head towards her after flinging aside a shovelful of earth. the procession had probably not yet arrived from the church; the cemetery seemed empty to her. she turned to the right, and advanced almost to the edge of the terrace parapet; but, on looking round, she saw behind a cluster of acacias the little girls in white upon their knees before the temporary vault into which jeanne's remains had a moment before been lowered. abbe jouve, with outstretched hand, was giving the farewell benediction. she heard nothing but the dull thud with which the stone slab of the vault fell back into its place. all was over. meanwhile, however, pauline had observed her and pointed her out to madame deberle, who almost gave way to anger. "what!" she exclaimed; "she has come. but it isn't at all proper; it's very bad taste!"[*] [*] in france, among the aristocracy and the upper _bourgeoisie_--to which madame deberle belonged--mothers seldom, if ever, attend the funerals of their children, or widows those of the husbands they have lost. they are supposed to be so prostrated by grief as to be unable to appear in public. this explanation was necessary, as otherwise the reader might not understand the force of madame deberle's remarks. so saying she stepped forward, showing helene by the expression of her face that she disapproved of her presence. some other ladies also followed with inquisitive looks. monsieur rambaud, however, had already rejoined the bereaved mother, and stood silent by her side. she was leaning against one of the acacias, feeling faint, and weary with the sight of all those mourners. she nodded her head in recognition of their sympathetic words, but all the while she was stifling with the thought that she had come too late; for she had heard the noise of the stone falling back into its place. her eyes ever turned towards the vault, the step of which a cemetery keeper was sweeping. "pauline, see to the children," said madame deberle. the little girls rose from their knees looking like a flock of white sparrows. a few of the tinier ones, lost among their petticoats, had seated themselves on the ground, and had to be picked up. while jeanne was being lowered down, the older girls had leaned forward to see the bottom of the cavity. it was so dark they had shuddered and turned pale. sophie assured her companions in a whisper that one remained there for years and years. "at nighttime too?" asked one of the little levasseur girls. "of course--at night too--always!" oh, the night! blanche was nearly dead with the idea. and they all looked at one another with dilated eyes, as if they had just heard some story about robbers. however, when they had regained their feet, and stood grouped around the vault, released from their mourning duties, their cheeks became pink again; it must all be untrue, those stories could only have been told for fun. the spot seemed pleasant, so pretty with its long grass; what capital games they might have had at hide-and-seek behind all the tombstones! their little feet were already itching to dance away, and their white dresses fluttered like wings. amidst the graveyard stillness the warm sunshine lazily streamed down, flushing their faces. lucien had thrust his hand beneath marguerite's veil, and was feeling her hair and asking if she put anything on it, to make it so yellow. the little one drew herself up, and he told her that they would marry each other some day. to this marguerite had no objection, but she was afraid that he might pull her hair. his hands were still wandering over it; it seemed to him as soft as highly-glazed letter-paper. "don't go so far away," called pauline. "well, we'll leave now," said madame deberle. "there's nothing more to be done, and the children must be hungry." the little girls, who had scattered like some boarding-school at play, had to be marshalled together once more. they were counted, and baby guiraud was missing; but she was at last seen in the distance, gravely toddling along a path with her mother's parasol. the ladies then turned towards the gateway, driving the stream of white dresses before them. madame berthier congratulated pauline on her marriage, which was to take place during the following month. madame deberle informed them that she was setting out in three days' time for naples, with her husband and lucien. the crowd now quickly disappeared; zephyrin and rosalie were the last to remain. then in their turn they went off, linked together, arm-in-arm, delighted with their outing, although their hearts were heavy with grief. their pace was slow, and for a moment longer they could be seen at the end of the path, with the sunshine dancing over them. "come," murmured monsieur rambaud to helene. with a gesture she entreated him to wait. she was alone, and to her it seemed as though a page had been torn from the book of her life. as soon as the last of the mourners had disappeared, she knelt before the tomb with a painful effort. abbe jouve, robed in his surplice, had not yet risen to his feet. both prayed for a long time. then, without speaking, but with a glowing glance of loving-kindness and pardon, the priest assisted her to rise. "give her your arm," he said to monsieur rambaud. towards the horizon stretched paris, all golden in the radiance of that spring morning. in the cemetery a chaffinch was singing. chapter xxv. two years were past and gone. one morning in december the little cemetery lay slumbering in the intense cold. since the evening before snow had been falling, a fine snow, which a north wind blew before it. from the paling sky the flakes now fell at rarer intervals, light and buoyant, like feathers. the snow was already hardening, and a thick trimming of seeming swan's-down edged the parapet of the terrace. beyond this white line lay paris, against the gloomy grey on the horizon. madame rambaud was still praying on her knees in the snow before the grave of jeanne. her husband had but a moment before risen silently to his feet. helene and her old lover had been married in november at marseilles. monsieur rambaud had disposed of his business near the central markets, and had come to paris for three days, in order to conclude the transaction. the carriage now awaiting them in the rue des reservoirs was to take them back to their hotel, and thence with their travelling-trunks to the railway station. helene had made the journey with the one thought of kneeling here. she remained motionless, with drooping head, as if dreaming, and unconscious of the cold ground that chilled her knees. meanwhile the wind was falling. monsieur rambaud had stepped to the terrace, leaving her to the mute anguish which memory evoked. a haze was stealing over the outlying districts of paris, whose immensity faded away in this pale, vague mist. round the trocadero the city was of a leaden hue and lifeless, while the last snowflakes slowly fluttered down in pale specks against the gloomy background. beyond the chimneys of the army bakehouse, the brick towers of which had a coppery tint, these white dots descended more thickly; a gauze seemed to be floating in the air, falling to earth thread by thread. not a breath stirred as the dream-like shower sleepily and rhythmically descended from the atmosphere. as they neared the roofs the flakes seemed to falter in their flight; in myriads they ceaselessly pillowed themselves on one another, in such intense silence that even blossoms shedding their petals make more noise; and from this moving mass, whose descent through space was inaudible, there sprang a sense of such intense peacefulness that earth and life were forgotten. a milky whiteness spread more and more over the whole heavens though they were still darkened here and there by wreaths of smoke. little by little, bright clusters of houses became plainly visible; a bird's-eye view was obtained of the whole city, intersected by streets and squares, which with their shadowy depths described the framework of the several districts. helene had slowly risen. on the snow remained the imprint of her knees. wrapped in a large, dark mantle trimmed with fur, she seemed amidst the surrounding white very tall and broad-shouldered. the border of her bonnet, a twisted band of black velvet, looked like a diadem throwing a shadow on her forehead. she had regained her beautiful, placid face with grey eyes and pearly teeth. her chin was full and rounded, as in the olden days, giving her an air of sturdy sense and determination. as she turned her head, her profile once more assumed statuesque severity and purity. beneath the untroubled paleness of her cheeks her blood coursed calmly; everything showed that honor was again ruling her life. two tears had rolled from under her eyelids; her present tranquillity came from her past sorrow. and she stood before the grave on which was reared a simple pillar inscribed with jeanne's name and two dates, within which the dead child's brief existence was compassed. around helene stretched the cemetery, enveloped in its snowy pall, through which rose rusty monuments and iron crosses, like arms thrown up in agony. there was only one path visible in this lonely corner, and that had been made by the footmarks of helene and monsieur rambaud. it was a spotless solitude where the dead lay sleeping. the walks were outlined by the shadowy, phantom-like trees. ever and anon some snow fell noiselessly from a branch that had been too heavily burdened. but nothing else stirred. at the far end, some little while ago, a black tramping had passed by; some one was being buried beneath this snowy winding-sheet. and now another funeral train appeared on the left. hearses and mourners went their way in silence, like shadows thrown upon a spotless linen cloth. helene was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman crawling along near her. it was mother fetu, the snow deadening the sound of her huge man's boots, which were burst and bound round with bits of string. never had helene seen her weighed down by such intense misery, or covered with filthier rags, though she was fatter than ever, and wore a stupid look. in the foulest weather, despite hard frosts or drenching rain, the old woman now followed funerals in order to speculate on the pity of the charitable. she well knew that amongst the gravestones the fear of death makes people generous; and so she prowled from tomb to tomb, approaching the kneeling mourners at the moment they burst into tears, for she understood that they were then powerless to refuse her. she had entered with the last funeral train, and a moment previously had espied helene. but she had not recognized her benefactress, and with gasps and sobs began to relate how she had two children at home who were dying of hunger. helene listened to her, struck dumb by this apparition. the children were without fire to warm them; the elder was going off in a decline. but all at once mother fetu's words came to an end. her brain was evidently working beneath the myriad wrinkles of her face, and her little eyes began to blink. good gracious! it was her benefactress! heaven, then, had hearkened to her prayers! and without seeking to explain the story about the children, she plunged into a whining tale, with a ceaseless rush of words. several of her teeth were missing, and she could be understood with difficulty. the gracious god had sent every affliction on her head, she declared. the gentleman lodger had gone away, and she had only just been enabled to rise after lying for three months in bed; yes, the old pain still remained, it now gripped her everywhere; a neighbor had told her that a spider must have got in through her mouth while she was asleep. if she had only had a little fire, she could have warmed her stomach; that was the only thing that could relieve her now. but nothing could be had for nothing--not even a match. perhaps she was right in thinking that madame had been travelling? that was her own concern, of course. at all events, she looked very well, and fresh, and beautiful. god would requite her for all her kindness. then, as helene began to draw out her purse, mother fetu drew breath, leaning against the railing that encircled jeanne's grave. the funeral processions had vanished from sight. somewhere in a grave close at hand a digger, whom they could not see, was wielding his pickaxe with regular strokes. meanwhile the old woman had regained her breath, and her eyes were riveted on the purse. then, anxious to extort as large a sum as possible, she displayed considerable cunning, and spoke of the other lady. nobody could say that she was not a charitable lady; still, she did not know what to do with her money--it never did one much good. warily did she glance at helene as she spoke. and next she ventured to mention the doctor's name. oh! he was good. last summer he had again gone on a journey with his wife. their boy was thriving; he was a fine child. but just then helene's fingers, as she opened the purse, began to tremble, and mother fetu immediately changed her tone. in her stupidity and bewilderment she had only now realized that the good lady was standing beside her daughter's grave. she stammered, gasped, and tried to bring tears to her eyes. jeanne, said she, had been so dainty a darling, with such loves of little hands; she could still see her giving her silver in charity. what long hair she had! and how her large eyes filled with tears when she gazed on the poor! ah! there was no replacing such an angel; there were no more to be found like her, were they even to search the whole of passy. and when the fine days came, said mother fetu, she would gather some daisies in the moat of the fortifications and place them on her tomb. then, however, she lapsed into silence frightened by the gesture with which helene cut her short. was it possible, she thought, that she could no longer find the right thing to say? her good lady did not weep, and only gave her a twenty-sou piece. monsieur rambaud, meanwhile, had walked towards them from the parapet of the terrace. helene hastened to rejoin him. at the sight of the gentleman mother fetu's eyes began to sparkle. he was unknown to her; he must be a new-comer. dragging her feet along, she followed helene, invoking every blessing of heaven on her head; and when she had crept close to monsieur rambaud, she again spoke of the doctor. ah! his would be a magnificent funeral when he died, were the poor people whom he had attended for nothing to follow his corpse! he was rather fickle in his loves--nobody could deny that. there were ladies in passy who knew him well. but all that didn't prevent him from worshipping his wife--such a pretty lady, who, had she wished, might have easily gone wrong, but had given up such ideas long ago. their home was quite a turtle-doves' nest now. had madame paid them a visit yet? they were certain to be at home; she had but a few moments previously observed that the shutters were open in the rue vineuse. they had formerly had such regard for madame that surely they would be delighted to receive her with open arms! the old hag leered at monsieur rambaud as she thus mumbled away. he listened to her with the composure of a brave man. the memories that were being called up before him brought no shadow to his unruffled face. only it occurred to him that the pertinacity of the old beggar was annoying helene, and so he hastened to fumble in his pocket, in his turn giving her some alms, and at the same time waving her away. the moment her eyes rested on another silver coin mother fetu burst into loud thanks. she would buy some wood at once; she would be able to warm her afflicted body--that was the only thing now to give her stomach any relief. yes, the doctor's home was quite a nest of turtle-doves, and the proof was that the lady had only last winter given birth to a second child--a beautiful little daughter, rosy-cheeked and fat, who must now be nearly fourteen months old. on the day of the baptism the doctor had put a hundred sous into her hand at the door of the church. ah! good hearts came together. madame had brought her good luck. pray god that madame might never have a sorrow, but every good fortune! yes, might that come to pass in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost! helene stood upright gazing on paris, while mother fetu vanished among the tombs, muttering three _paters_ and three _aves_. the snow had ceased falling; the last of the flakes had fluttered slowly and wearily on to the roofs; and through the dissolving mist the golden sun could be seen tinging the pearly-grey expanse of heaven with a pink glow. over montmartre a belt of blue fringed the horizon; but it was so faint and delicate that it seemed but a shadow such as white satin might throw. paris was gradually detaching itself from amidst the smoke, spreading out more broadly with its snowy expanses the frigid cloak which held it in death-like quiescence. there were now no longer any fleeting specks of white making the city shudder, and quivering in pale waves over the dull-brown house-fronts. amidst the masses of snow that girt them round the dwellings stood out black and gloomy, as though mouldy with centuries of damp. entire streets appeared to be in ruins, as if undermined by some gunpowder explosion, with roofs ready to give way and windows already driven in. but gradually, as the belt of blue broadened in the direction of montmartre, there came a stream of light, pure and cool as the waters of a spring; and paris once more shone out as under a glass, which lent even to the outlying districts the distinctness of a japanese picture. wrapped in her fur mantle, with her hands clinging idly to the cuffs of the sleeves, helene was musing. with the persistency of an echo one thought unceasingly pursued her--a child, a fat, rosy daughter, had been born to them. in her imagination she could picture her at the love-compelling age when jeanne had commenced to prattle. baby girls are such darlings when fourteen months old! she counted the months--fourteen: that made two years when she took the remaining period into consideration--exactly the time within a fortnight. then her brain conjured up a sunny picture of italy, a realm of dreamland, with golden fruits where lovers wandered through the perfumed nights, with arms round one another's waists. henri and juliette were pacing before her eyes beneath the light of the moon. they loved as husband and wife do when passion is once more awakened within them. to think of it--a tiny girl, rosy and fat, its bare body flushed by the warm sunshine, while it strives to stammer words which its mother arrests with kisses! and helene thought of all this without any anger; her heart was mute, yet seemingly derived yet greater quietude from the sadness of her spirit. the land of the sun had vanished from her vision; her eyes wandered slowly over paris, on whose huge frame winter had laid his freezing hand. above the pantheon another patch of blue was now spreading in the heavens. meanwhile memory was recalling the past to life. at marseilles she had spent her days in a state of coma. one morning as she went along the rue des petites-maries, she had burst out sobbing in front of the home of her childhood. that was the last occasion on which she had wept. monsieur rambaud was her frequent visitor; she felt his presence near her to be a protection. towards autumn she had one evening seen him enter, with red eyes and in the agony of a great sorrow; his brother, abbe jouve, was dead. in her turn she comforted him. what followed she could not recall with any exactitude of detail. the abbe ever seemed to stand behind them, and influenced by thought of him she succumbed resignedly. when m. rambaud once more hinted at his wish, she had nothing to say in refusal. it seemed to her that what he asked was but sensible. of her own accord, as her period of mourning was drawing to an end, she calmly arranged all the details with him. his hands trembled in a transport of tenderness. it should be as she pleased; he had waited for months; a sign sufficed him. they were married in mourning garb. on the wedding night he, like her first husband, kissed her bare feet--feet fair as though fashioned out of marble. and thus life began once more. while the belt of blue was broadening on the horizon, this awakening of memory came with an astounding effect on helene. had she lived through a year of madness, then? to-day, as she pictured the woman who had lived for nearly three years in that room in the rue vineuse, she imagined that she was passing judgment on some stranger, whose conduct revolted and surprised her. how fearfully foolish had been her act! how abominably wicked! yet she had not sought it. she had been living peacefully, hidden in her nook, absorbed in the love of her daughter. untroubled by any curious thoughts, by any desire, she had seen the road of life lying before her. but a breath had swept by, and she had fallen. even at this moment she was unable to explain it; she had evidently ceased to be herself; another mind and heart had controlled her actions. was it possible? she had done those things? then an icy chill ran through her; she saw jeanne borne away beneath roses. but in the torpor begotten of her grief she grew very calm again, once more without a longing or curiosity, once more proceeding along the path of duty that lay so straight before her. life had again begun for her, fraught with austere peacefulness and pride of honesty. monsieur rambaud now moved near her to lead her from this place of sadness. but helene silently signed to him her wish to linger a little longer. approaching the parapet she gazed below into the avenue de la muette, where a long line of old cabs in the last stage of decay stretched beside the footpath. the hoods and wheels looked blanched, the rusty horses seemed to have been rotting there since the dark ages. some cabmen sat motionless, freezing within their frozen cloaks. over the snow other vehicles were crawling along, one after the other, with the utmost difficulty. the animals were losing their foothold, and stretching out their necks, while their drivers with many oaths descended from their seats and held them by the bridle; and through the windows you could see the faces of the patient "fares," reclining against the cushions, and resigning themselves to the stern necessity of taking three-quarters of an hour to cover a distance which in other weather would have been accomplished in ten minutes. the rumbling of the wheels was deadened by the snow; only the voices vibrated upward, sounding shrill and distinct amidst the silence of the streets; there were loud calls, the laughing exclamations of people slipping on the icy paths, the angry whip-cracking of carters, and the snorting of terrified horses. in the distance, to the right, the lofty trees on the quay seemed to be spun of glass, like huge venetian chandeliers, whose flower-decked arms the designer had whimsically twisted. the icy north wind had transformed the trunks into columns, over which waved downy boughs and feathery tufts, an exquisite tracery of black twigs edged with white trimmings. it was freezing, and not a breath stirred in the pure air. then helene told her heart that she had known nothing of henri. for a year she had seen him almost every day; he had lingered for hours and hours near her, to speak to her and gaze into her eyes. yet she knew nothing of him. whence had he come? how had he crept into her intimacy? what manner of man was he that she had yielded to him--she who would rather have perished than yield to another? she knew nothing of him; it had all sprung from some sudden tottering of her reason. he had been a stranger to her on the last as on the first day. in vain did she patch together little scattered things and circumstances--his words, his acts, everything that her memory recalled concerning him. he loved his wife and his child; he smiled with delicate grace; he outwardly appeared a well-bred man. then she saw him again with inflamed visage, and trembling with passion. but weeks passed, and he vanished from her sight. at this moment she could not have said where she had spoken to him for the last time. he had passed away, and his shadow had gone with him. their story had no other ending. she knew him not. over the city the sky had now become blue, and every cloud had vanished. wearied with her memories, and rejoicing in the purity before her, helene raised her head. the blue of the heavens was exquisitely clear, but still very pale in the light of the sun, which hung low on the horizon, and glittered like a silver lamp. in that icy temperature its rays shed no heat on the glittering snow. below stretched the expanses of roofs--the tiles of the army bakehouse, and the slates of the houses on the quay--like sheets of white cloth fringed with black. on the other bank of the river, the square stretch of the champ-de-mars seemed a steppe, the black dots of the straggling vehicles making one think of sledges skimming along with tinkling bells; while the elms on the quai d'orsay, dwarfed by the distance, looked like crystal flowers bristling with sharp points. through all the snow-white sea the seine rolled its muddy waters edged by the ermine of its banks; since the evening before ice had been floating down, and you could clearly see the masses crushing against the piers of the pont des invalides, and vanishing swiftly beneath the arches. the bridges, growing more and more delicate with the distance, seemed like the steps of a ladder of white lace reaching as far as the sparkling walls of the cite, above which the towers of notre-dame reared their snow-white crests. on the left the level plain was broken up by other peaks. the church of saint-augustin, the opera house, the tower of saint-jacques, looked like mountains clad with eternal snow. nearer at hand the pavilions of the tuileries and the louvre, joined together by newly erected buildings, resembled a ridge of hills with spotless summits. on the right, too, were the white tops of the invalides, of saint-sulpice, and the pantheon, the last in the dim distance, outlining against the sky a palace of fairyland with dressings of bluish marble. not a sound broke the stillness. grey-looking hollows revealed the presence of the streets; the public squares were like yawning crevasses. whole lines of houses had vanished. the fronts of the neighboring dwellings alone showed distinctly with the thousand streaks of light reflected from their windows. beyond, the expanse of snow intermingled and merged into a seeming lake, whose blue shadows blended with the blue of the sky. huge and clear in the bright, frosty atmosphere, paris glittered in the light of the silver sun. then helene for the last time let her glance sweep over the unpitying city which also remained unknown to her. she saw it once more, tranquil and with immortal beauty amidst the snow, the same as when she had left it, the same as it had been every day for three long years. paris to her was full of her past life. in its presence she had loved, in its presence jeanne had died. but this companion of her every-day existence retained on its mighty face a wondrous serenity, unruffled by any emotion, as though it were but a mute witness of the laughter and the tears which the seine seemed to roll in its flood. she had, according to her mood, endowed it with monstrous cruelty or almighty goodness. to-day she felt that she would be ever ignorant of it, in its indifference and immensity. it spread before her; it was life. however, monsieur rambaud now laid a light hand on her arm to lead her away. his kindly face was troubled, and he whispered: "do not give yourself pain." he divined her every thought, and this was all he could say. madame rambaud looked at him, and her sorrow became appeased. her cheeks were flushed by the cold; her eyes sparkled. her memories were already far away. life was beginning again. "i'm not quite certain whether i shut the big trunk properly," she exclaimed. monsieur rambaud promised that he would make sure. their train started at noon, and they had plenty of time. some gravel was being scattered on the streets; their cab would not take an hour. but, all at once, he raised his voice: "i believe you've forgotten the fishing-rods!" said he. "oh, yes; quite!" she answered, surprised and vexed at her forgetfulness. "we ought to have bought them yesterday!" the rods in question were very handy ones, the like of which could not be purchased at marseilles. they there owned near the sea a small country house, where they purposed spending the summer. monsieur rambaud looked at his watch. on their way to the railway station they would still be able to buy the rods, and could tie them up with the umbrellas. then he led her from the place, tramping along, and taking short cuts between the graves. the cemetery was empty; only the imprint of their feet now remained on the snow. jeanne, dead, lay alone, facing paris, for ever and for ever. afterward there can be no doubt in the mind of the judicial critic that in the pages of "a love episode" the reader finds more of the poetical, more of the delicately artistic, more of the subtle emanation of creative and analytical genius, than in any other of zola's works, with perhaps one exception. the masterly series of which this book is a part furnishes a well-stocked gallery of pictures by which posterity will receive vivid and adequate impressions of life in france during a certain period. there was a strain of greek blood in zola's veins. it would almost seem that down through the ages with this blood there had come to him a touch of that old greek fatalism, or belief in destiny or necessity. the greek tragedies are pervaded and permeated, steeped and dyed with this idea of relentless fate. it is called heredity, in these modern days. heredity plus environment,--in these we find the keynote of the great productions of the leader of the "naturalistic" school of fiction. it has been said that art, in itself, should have no moral. it has been further charged that the tendencies of some of zola's works are hurtful. but, in the books of this master, the aberrations of vice are nowhere made attractive, or insidiously alluring. the shadow of expiation, remorse, punishment, retribution is ever present, like a death's-head at a feast. the day of reckoning comes, and bitterly do the culprits realize that the tortuous game of vice is not worth the candle. casuistical theologians may attempt to explain away the notions of punishment in the life to come, of retribution beyond the grave. but the shallowest thinker will not deny the realities of remorse. to how many confessions, to how many suicides has it led? of how many reformed lives has it been the mainspring? the great lecturer, john b. gough, used to tell a story of a railway employee whose mind was overthrown by his disastrous error in misplacing a switch, and who spent his days in the mad-house repeating the phrase: "if i only had, if i only had." his was not an intentional or wilful dereliction. but in the hearts of how many repentant sinners does there not echo through life a similar mournful refrain. this lesson has been taught by zola in more than one of his romances. in "a love episode" how poignant is this expiation! in all literature there is nothing like the portrayal of the punishment of helene grandjean. helene and little jeanne are reversions of type. the old "neurosis," seen in earlier branches of the family, reappears in these characters. readers of the series will know where it began. poor little jeanne, most pathetic of creations, is a study in abnormal jealousy, a jealousy which seems to be clairvoyant, full of supernatural intuitions, turning everything to suspicion, a jealousy which blights and kills. could the memory of those weeks of anguish fade from helene's soul? this dying of a broken heart is not merely the figment of a poet's fancy. it has happened in real life. the coming of death, save in the case of the very aged, seems, nearly always, brutally cruel, at least to those friends who survive. parents know what it is to sit with bated breath and despairing heart beside the bed of a sinking child. seconds seem hours, and hours weeks. the impotency to succour, the powerlessness to save, the dumb despair, the overwhelming grief, all these are sorrowful realities. how vividly are they pictured by zola. and, added to this keenness of grief in the case of helene grandjean, was the sense that her fault had contributed to the illness of her daughter. each sigh of pain was a reproach. the pallid and ever-paling cheek was a whip of scorpions, lashing the mother's naked soul. will ethical teachers say that there is no salutary moral lesson in this vivid picture? to many it seems better than a cart-load of dull tracts or somnolent homilies. poor, pathetic little jeanne, lying there in the cemetery of passy--where later was erected the real tomb of marie bashkirtseff, though dead she yet spoke a lesson of contrition to her mother. and though the second marriage of helene has been styled an anti-climax, yet it is true enough to life. it does not remove the logical and artistic inference that the memory of jeanne's sufferings lingered with ever recurring poignancy in the mother's heart. in a few bold lines zola sketches a living character. take the picture of old mere fetu. one really feels her disagreeable presence, and is annoyed with her whining, leering, fawning, sycophancy. one almost resents her introduction into the pages of the book. there is something palpably odious about her personality. a pleasing contrast is formed by the pendant portraits of the awkward little soldier and his kitchen-sweetheart. this homely and wholesome couple one may meet any afternoon in paris, on leave-of-absence days. their portraits, and the delicious description of the children's party, are evidently studies from life. with such vivid verisimilitude is the latter presented that one imagines, the day after reading the book, that he has been present at the pleasant function, and has admired the fluffy darlings, in their dainty costumes, with their chubby cavaliers. it is barely fair to an author to give him the credit of knowing something about the proper relative proportions of his characters. and so, although dr. deberle is somewhat shadowy, he certainly serves the author's purpose, and--well, dr. deberle is not the hero of "an episode of love." rambaud and the good abbe jouve are certainly strong enough. there seems to be a touch of dickens about them. cities sometimes seem to be great organisms. each has an individuality, a specific identity, so marked, and peculiarities so especially characteristic of itself, that one might almost allow it a soul. down through the centuries has fair lutetia come, growing in the artistic graces, until now she stands the playground of princes and the capital of the world, even as mighty rome among the ancients. and shall we object, because a few pages of "a love episode" are devoted to descriptions of paris? rather let us be thankful for them. these descriptions of the wonderful old city form a glorious pentatych. they are invaluable to two classes of readers, those who have visited paris and those who have not. to the former they recall the days in which the spirit of the french metropolis seemed to possess their being and to take them under its wondrous spell. to the latter they supply hints of the majesty and attractiveness of paris, and give some inkling of its power to please. and zola loved his paris as a sailor loves the sea. c. c. starkweather. farewell love! british library of continental fiction. guy de maupassant. _pierre and jean._ matilde serao. _farewell, love._ jonas lie. _niobe._ count lyon tolstoi. _work while ye have the light._ juan valera. _doÑa luz._ don armando palacio valdés. _the grandee._ gemma ferruggia. _woman's folly._ karl emil franzos. _the chief justice._ matilde serao. _fantasy._ rudolf golm. _the old adam and the new eve._ ivan gontcharoff. _a common story._ j. p. jacobsen. _siren voices._ joseph ignatius kraszewski. _the jew._ bjørnstjerne bjørnson. _in god's way._ [illustration: matilde serao] [illustration] matilde serao farewell love! a novel by matilde serao translated from the italian by mrs. henry harland london: london book co. (all rights reserved) _special limited subscription edition._ _to my dead friend ... et ultra?_ _m. s._ introduction the most prominent imaginative writer of the latest generation in italy is a woman. what little is known of the private life of matilde serao (mme. scarfoglio) adds, as forcibly as what may be divined from the tenour and material of her books, to the impression that every student of literary history must have formed of the difficulties which hem in the intellectual development of an ambitious girl. without unusual neglect, unusual misfortune, it seems impossible for a woman to arrive at that experience which is essential to the production of work which shall be able to compete with the work of the best men. it is known that the elements of hardship and enforced adventure have not been absent from the career of the distinguished italian novelist. madame serao has learned in the fierce school of privation what she teaches to us with so much beauty and passion in her stories. matilde serao was born on the th of march , in the little town of patras, on the western coast of greece. her father, francisco serao, was a neapolitan political exile, her mother a greek princess, the last survivor of an ancient noble family. i know not under what circumstances she came to the italian home of her father, but it was probably in or soon afterwards that the unification of italy permitted his return. at an early age, however, she seems to have been left without resources. she received a rough education at the scuola normale in naples, and she obtained a small clerkship in the telegraph office at rome. literature, however, was the profession she designed to excel in, and she showed herself a realist at once. her earliest story, if i do not mistake, was that minute picture of the vicissitudes of a post-office which is named _telegraphi dello stato_ ("state telegraphs"). she worked with extreme energy, she taught herself shorthand, and in she quitted the post-office to become a reporter and a journalist. to give herself full scope in this new employment, she, as i have been assured, cut short her curly crop of hair, and adopted on occasion male costume. she soon gained a great proficiency in reporting, and advanced to the writing of short sketches and stories for the newspapers. the power and originality of these attempts were acknowledged, and the name of matilde serao gradually became one of those which irresistibly attracted public attention. the writer of these lines may be permitted to record the impression which more than ten years ago was made upon him by reading a neapolitan sketch, signed by that then wholly obscure name, in a chance number of the roman _fanfulla_. the short stories were first collected in a little volume in . in matilde serao became suddenly famous by the publication of the charming story _fantasia_ ("fantasy"), which has already been presented to an english public in the present series of translations. it was followed by a much weaker study of neapolitan life, _cuore infermo_ ("a heart diseased"). in she published "the life and adventures of riccardo joanna," to which she added a continuation in . it is not possible to enumerate all madame serao's successive publications, but the powerful romance, _la conquista di roma_ ("the conquest of rome"), , must not be omitted. this is a very careful and highly finished study of bureaucratic ambition, admirably characterised. since then she has written in rapid succession several volumes of collected short stories, dealing with the oddities of neapolitan life, and a curious novel, "the virtue of cecchina," . her latest romances, most of them short, have been _terno secco_ ("a dry third"), a very charming episode of italian life, illustrating the frenzied interest taken in the public lotteries, ; _addio amore_ ("farewell love!"), , which is here, for the first time, published in english; _la granda fiamma_, ; and _sogno di una notte d'estate_ ("a summer night's dream"), . the method of matilde serao's work, its qualities and its defects, can only be comprehended by those who realise that she came to literature through journalism. when she began life, in , it was as a reporter, a paragraph-writer, a woman of all work on any roman or neapolitan newspaper which would give her employment. later on, she founded and carried on a newspaper of her own, the _corriere di roma_. after publishing this lively sheet for a few years, she passed to naples, and became the editor of _le corriere di napoli_, the paper which enjoys the largest circulation of any journal in the south of italy. she has married a journalist, eduardo scarfoglio, and all her life has been spent in ministering to the appetites of the vast, rough crowd that buys cheap italian newspapers. her novels have been the employment of her rare and broken leisure; they bear the stamp of the more constant business of her life. the naturalism of matilde serao deserves to be distinguished from that of the french contemporaries with whom she is commonly classed. she has a fiercer passion, more of the true ardour of the south, than zola or maupassant, but her temperament is distinctly related to that of daudet. she is an idealist working in the school of realism; she climbs, on scaffolding of minute prosaic observation, to heights which' are emotional and often lyrical. but her most obvious merit is the acuteness with which she has learned to collect and arrange in artistic form the elements of the town life of southern italy. she still retains in her nature something of the newspaper reporter's quicksilver, but it is sublimated by the genius of a poet. edmund gosse. contents chapter page part i i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. part ii i. ii. iii. iv. v. part i i. motionless under the white coverlet of her bed, anna appeared to have been sleeping soundly for the past two hours. her sister laura, who occupied a little cot at the other end of the big room, had that evening much prolonged her customary reading, which followed the last gossip of the day between the girls. but no sooner had she put out her candle than anna opened her eyes and fixed them upon laura's bed, which glimmered vaguely white in the distance. anna was wide awake. she dared not move, she dared not even sigh; and all her life was in her gaze, trying to penetrate the secret of the dusk--trying to see whether really her sister was asleep. it was a winter's night, and as the hour advanced the room became colder and colder; but anna did not feel it. the moment the light had been extinguished a flame had leapt from her heart to her brain, diffusing itself through all her members, scalding her veins, scorching her flesh, quickening the beating of her pulses. as in the height of fever, she felt herself burning up; her tongue was dry, her head was hot; and the icy air that entered her lungs could not quench the fire in her, could not subdue the tumultuous irruption of her young blood. often, to relieve herself, she had longed to cry out, to moan; but the fear of waking laura held her silent. it was not, however, so much from the great heat throbbing at her temples that she suffered, as from her inability to know for certain whether her sister was asleep. sometimes she thought of moving noisily, so that her bed should creak; then if laura was awake, she would move in hers, and thus anna could make sure. but the fear of thereby still further lengthening this time of waiting, kept her from letting the thought become an action. she lay as motionless as if her limbs were bound down by a thousand chains. she had lost all track of time, too; she had forgotten to count the last strokes of the clock--the clock that could be heard from the sitting-room adjoining. it seemed to her that she had been lying like this for years, that she had been waiting for years, burning with this maddening fire for years, that she had spent years trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes. and then the horrible thought crossed her mind--what if the hour had passed? perhaps it had passed without her noticing it; she who had waited for it so impatiently had let it escape. but no. presently, deadened by the distance and the doors closed between, she heard the clock ring out. the hour had come. thereupon, with an infinite caution, born of infinite fear, slowly, trembling, holding her breath at every sound, pausing, starting back, going on, she sat up in bed, and at last slipped out of it. that vague spot of whiteness in the distance, where her sister lay, still fascinated her; she kept her head turned in its direction, while with her hands she felt for her shoes and stockings and clothes. they were all there, placed conveniently near; but every little difficulty she had to overcome in dressing, so as not to make the slightest noise, represented a world of precautions, of pauses, and of paralysing fears. when at last she had got on her frock of white serge, which shone out in the darkness, "perhaps laura sees me," she thought. but she had made ready a big heavy black shawl, and in this she now wrapped herself from head to foot, and the whiteness of her frock was hidden. then, having accomplished the miracle of dressing herself, she stood still at her bedside; she had not dared to take a step as yet, sure that by doing so she would wake laura. "a little strength--heaven send me a little strength," she prayed inwardly. then she set forth stealthily across the room. in the middle of it, seized by a sudden audacious impulse, she called her sister's name, in a whisper, "laura, laura," listening intensely. no answer. she went on, past the door, through the sitting-room, the drawing-room, feeling her way amidst the chairs and tables. she struck her shoulder against the frame of the door between the sitting-room and the drawing-room, and halted for a moment, with a beating heart. "_madonna mia! madonna mia!_" she murmured in an agony of terror. then she had to pass before the room of her governess, stella martini; but the poor, good lady was a sound sleeper, and anna knew it. when she reached the dining-room, it seemed to her that she must have traversed a hundred separate chambers, a hundred entire apartments, an endless chain of chambers and apartments. at last she opened the door that gave upon the terrace, and ran out into the night, the cold, the blackness. she crossed the terrace to the low dividing-wall between it and the next. "giustino--giustino," she called. suddenly the shadow of a man appeared on the other terrace, very near, very close to the wall of division. a voice answered: "here i am, anna." but she, taking his hand, drew him towards her, saying: "come, come." he leapt over the little wall. covered by her black mantle, without speaking, anna bent her head and broke into sobs. "what is it? what is wrong?" he asked, trying to see her face. anna wept without answering. "don't cry, don't cry. tell me what's troubling you," he murmured earnestly, with a caress in his words and in his voice. "nothing, nothing. i was so frightened," she stammered. "dearest, dearest, dearest!" he whispered. "oh, i'm a poor creature--a poor thing," said she, with a desolate gesture. "i love you so," said giustino, simply, in a low voice. "oh, say that again," she begged, ceasing to weep. "i love you so, anna." "i adore you--my soul, my darling." "if you love me, you must be calm." "i adore you, my dearest one." "promise me that you won't cry any more, then." "i adore you, i adore you, i adore you!" she repeated, her voice heavy with emotion. he did not speak. it seemed as if he could find no words fit for responding to such a passion. a cold gust of wind swept over them. "are you cold?" he asked. "no: feel." and she gave him her hand. her little hand, between those of giustino, was indeed not cold; it was burning. "that is love," said she. he lifted the hand gently to his lips, and kissed it lightly. and thereupon, her eyes glowed in the darkness, like human stars of passion. "my love is consuming me," she went on, as if speaking to herself. "i can feel nothing else; neither cold, nor night, nor danger--nothing. i can only feel _you_. i want nothing but your love. i only want to live near you always--till death, and after death--always with you--always, always." "ah me!" sighed he, under his breath. "what did you say?" she cried, eagerly. "it was a sigh, dear one; a sigh over our dream." "don't talk like that; don't say that," she exclaimed. "why shouldn't i say it, anna? the sweet dream that we have been dreaming together--any day we may have to wake from it. they aren't willing that we should live together." "who--they?" "he who can dispose of you as he wishes, cesare dias." "have you seen him?" "yes; to-day." "and he won't consent?" "he won't consent." "why not?" "because you have money, and i have none. because you are noble, and i'm not." "but i adore you, giustino." "that matters little to your guardian." "he's a bad man." "he's a man," said giustino, shortly. "but it's an act of cruelty that he's committing," she cried, lifting her hands towards heaven. giustino did not speak. "what did you answer? what did you plead? didn't you tell him again that you love me, that i adore you, that i shall die if we are separated? didn't you describe our despair to him?" "it was useless," replied giustino, sadly. "oh, dear! oh, dear! you didn't tell him of our love, of our happiness? you didn't implore him, weeping? you didn't try to move his hard old heart? but what sort of man are you; what sort of soul have you, that you let them sentence us to death like this? o lord! o lord!--what man have i been loving?" "anna, anna!" he said, softly. "why didn't you defy him? why didn't you rebel? you're young; you're brave. how could cesare dias, almost an old man, with ice in his veins, how could he frighten you?" "because cesare dias was right, anna," he answered quietly. "oh, horror! horrible sacrilege of love!" cried anna, starting back. in her despair she had unconsciously allowed her shawl to drop from her shoulders; it had fallen to the ground, at her feet. and now she stood up before him like a white, desolate phantom, impelled by sorrow to wander the earth on a quest that can never have an end. but he had a desperate courage, though it forced him to break with the only woman he had ever loved. "cesare dias was right, my dearest anna. i couldn't answer him. i'm a poor young fellow, without a farthing." "love is stronger than money." "i am a commoner, i have no title to give you." "love is stronger than a title." "everything is against our union, anna." "love is stronger than everything; stronger even than death." after this there befell a silence. but he felt that he must go to the bottom of the subject. he saw his duty, and overcame his pain. "think a little, anna. our souls were made for each other; but our persons are placed in such different circumstances, separated by so many things, such great distances, that not even a miracle could unite them. you accuse me of being a traitor to our love, which is our strength; but is it unworthy of us to conquer ourselves in such a pass? anna, anna, it is i who lose everything; and yet i advise you to forget this youthful fancy. you are young; you are beautiful; you are rich; you are noble, and you love me; yet it is my duty to say to you, forget me--forget me. consider how great the sacrifice is, and see if it is not our duty, as two good people, to make it courageously. anna, you will be loved again, better still, by a better man. you deserve the purest and the noblest love. you won't be unhappy long. life is still sweet for you. you weep, yes; you suffer; because you love me, because you are a dear, loving woman. but afterwards, afterwards you will find your path broad and flowery. it is i who will have nothing left; the light of my life will go out, the fire in my heart. but what does it matter? you will forget me, anna." anna, motionless, listened to him, uttering no word. "speak," he said, anxiously. "i can't forget you," she answered. "try--make the effort. let us try not to see each other." "no, no; it's useless," she said, her voice dying on her lips. "what do you wish us to do?" "i don't know. i don't know." a great impulse of pity, greater than his own sorrow, assailed him. he took her hands; they were cold now. "what is the matter with you? are you ill?" she did not answer. she leant her head on his shoulder, and he caressed her rich, brown hair. "anna, what is it?" he whispered, thrilled by a wild emotion. "you don't love me." "how can you doubt it?" "if you loved me," she began, sobbing, "you would not propose our separation. if you loved me you would not think such a separation possible. if you loved me it would be like death to you to forget and be forgotten. giustino, you don't love me." "anna, anna!" "judge by me," she went on, softly. "i'm a poor, weak woman; yet i resist, i struggle. and we would conquer, we would conquer, if you loved me." "anna!" "ah, don't call my name; don't speak my name. all this tenderness--what's the use of it? it is good; it is wise; it is comforting. but it is only tenderness; it isn't love. you can think, reflect, determine. that isn't love. you speak of duty, of being worthy--worthy of her who adores you, who sees nothing but you in the whole wide world. i know nothing of all that. i love you. i know nothing. and only now i realise that your love isn't love. you are silent. i don't understand you. you can't understand me. good-bye, love!" she turned away from him, to move off. but he detained her. "what do you want to do?" he whispered. "if i can't live with you, i must die," she said, quietly, with her eyes closed, as if she were thus awaiting death. "don't speak of dying, anna. don't make my regret worse than it is. it's i who have spoiled your life." "it doesn't matter." "it's i who have put bitterness into your sweet youth." "it doesn't matter." "it's i who have stirred you up to rebel against cesare dias, against your sister laura, against the wish of your parents and all your friends." "it doesn't matter." "it is i who have called you from your sleep, who have exposed you to a thousand dangers. think, if you were discovered here you would be lost." "it doesn't matter. take me away." and giustino, in spite of the darkness, could see her fond eyes glowing. "if you would only take me away," she sighed. "but where?" "anywhere--to any country. you will be my country." "elope? a noble young girl--elope like an adventuress?" "love will secure my pardon." "i will pardon you; no others will." "you will be my family, my all. take me away." "anna, anna, where should we find refuge? without means, without friends, having committed a great fault, our life would be most unhappy." "no, no, no! take me away. we'll have a little time of poverty, after which i shall get possession of my fortune. take me away." "and i shall be accused of having made a good speculation. no, no, anna, it's impossible. i couldn't bear such a shame." she started away from him, pushing him back with a movement of horror. "what?" she cried. "what? you would be ashamed? it's your shame that preoccupies you? and mine? honoured, esteemed, loved, i care nothing for this honour, this love, and am willing to lose all, the respect of people, the affection of my relations--and you think of yourself! i could have chosen any one of a multitude of young men of my own rank, my own set, and i have chosen you because you were good and honest and clever. and you are ashamed of what bad people and stupid people may say of you! i--i brave everything. i lie, i deceive. i leave my bed at the dead of night, steal out during my sister's sleep--out of my room, out of my house, like a guilty servant, so that they might call me the lowest of the low. i do all this to come to you; and you are thinking of speculations, of what the world will say about you. oh, how strong you are, you men! how well you know your way; how straight you march, never listening to the voices that call to you, never feeling the hands that try to stop you--nothing, nothing, nothing! you are men, and have your honour to look after, your dignity to preserve, your delicate reputation to safeguard. you are right, you are reasonable. and so we are fools; we are mad, who step out of the path of honour and dignity for the love of you--we poor silly creatures of our hearts!" giustino had not attempted to protest against this outburst of violent language; but every word of it, hot with wrath, vibrant with sorrowful anger, stirred him to the quick, held him silenced, frightened, shaken by her voice, by the tumult of her passion. now the fire which he had rashly kindled burnt up the whole beautiful, simple, stable edifice of his planning, and all he could see left of it was a smoking ruin. he loved her--she loved him; and though he knew it was wild and unreasonable. "forgive me," he said; "let us go away." she put her hand upon his head, and he heard her murmur, under her voice, "o god!" they both felt that their life was decided, that they had played the grand stake of their existence. there was a long pause; she was the first to break it. "listen, giustino. before we fly let me make one last attempt. you have spoken to cesare dias; you have told him that you love me, that i adore you; but he didn't believe you----" "it is true. he smiled incredulously." "he is a man who has seen a great deal of the world, who has been loved, who has loved; but of all that nothing is left to him. he is cold and solitary. he never speaks of his scepticism, but he believes in nothing. he's a miserable, arid creature. i know that he despises me, thinking me silly and enthusiastic. i pity him as i pity every one who has no love in his heart. and yet--i will speak to cesare dias. the truth will well up from me with such impetus that he cannot refuse to believe me. i'll tell him everything. in spite of his forty years, in spite of the corruption of his mind, in spite of all his scorn, all his irony, true love will find convincing words. he'll give his consent." "can't you first persuade your sister? there we'd have an affectionate ally," said giustino, tentatively. "my sister is worse than cesare dias," she answered, with a slight tremor of the voice; "i should never dare to depend on her." "you are afraid of her?" "pray don't speak of her, don't speak of her. it's a subject which pains me." "and yet----" "no, no. laura knows nothing; she must know nothing; it would be dreadful if she knew. i'd a thousand times rather speak to him. he will remember his past; laura has no past--she has nothing--she's a dead soul. i will speak with him; he will believe me." "and if he shouldn't believe you?" "he _will_ believe me." "but, anna, anna, if he shouldn't?" "then--we will elope. but i ought to make this last attempt. heaven will give me strength. afterwards--i will write to you, i will tell you everything. i daren't come here any more. it's too dangerous. if any one should see me it would be the ruin of all our hopes. i'll write to you. you'll arrange your own affairs in the meantime--as if you were at the point of death, as if you were going to leave this country never to return. you must be ready at any instant." "i'll be ready." "surely?" "surely." "without a regret?" "without a regret." but his voice died on his lips. "thank you; you love me. we shall be so happy! you will see. happier than any one in the world!" "so happy!" murmured giustino, faithful but sad. "and may heaven help us," she concluded, fervently, putting out her hand to leave him. he took her hand, and his pressure of it was a silent vow; but it was the vow of a friend, of a brother, simple and austere. she moved slowly away, as if tired. he remained where he was, waiting a little before returning to his own terrace. not until some ten minutes had passed, during which he heard no sound, no movement, could he feel satisfied that anna had safely reached her room. once at home, he found himself used up, exhausted, without ideas, without emotions. and speedily he fell asleep. she also was exhausted by the great moral crisis through which she had passed. an immense burden seemed to bow her down, to make heavy her footsteps, as she groped her way through the silent house. when she reached the sitting-room she stopped with sudden terror. a light was burning in the bedroom. laura would be awake, would have remarked her absence, would be waiting for her. she stood still a long while. she could hear a sound as of the pages of a book being turned. laura was reading. at last she pushed open the door, and crossed the threshold. laura looked at her, smiled haughtily, and did not speak. anna fell on her knees before her, crying, "forgive me. for pity's sake, laura, forgive me. laura, laura, laura!" but the child remained silent, white and cold and virginal, never ceasing to smile scornfully. anna lay on the floor, weeping. and the winter dawn found her there, weeping, weeping; while her sister slept peacefully. ii. the letter ran thus: "dearest love,--i have had my interview with cesare dias. what a man! his mere presence seemed to freeze me; it was enough if he looked at me, with his big clear blue eyes, for speech to fail me. there is something in his silence which frightens me; and when he speaks, his sharp voice quells me by its tone as well as by the hard things he says. "and yet this morning when he came for his usual visit, i was bold enough to speak to him of my marriage. i spoke simply, briefly, without trembling, though i could see that the courtesy with which he listened was ironical. laura was present, taciturn and absent-minded as usual. she shrugged her shoulders indifferently, disdainfully, and then, getting up, left the room with that light footstep of hers which scarcely seems to touch the earth. "cesare dias smiled without looking at me, and his smile disconcerted me horribly, putting all my thoughts into confusion. but i felt that i ought to make the attempt--i ought. i had promised it to you, my darling, and to myself. my life had become insupportable; the more so because of my sister, who knew my secret, who tortured me with her contempt--the contempt of a person who has never loved for one who does--who might at any moment betray me, and tell the story of that wintry night. "cesare dias smiled, and didn't seem to care in the least to hear what i had to say. however, in spite of my emotion, in spite of the fact that i was talking to a man who cared nothing for me and for whom i cared nothing, in spite of the gulf that divides a character like mine from that of cesare dias, i had the courage to tell him that i adored you, that i wished to live and die with you, that my fortune would suffice for our needs, that i would never marry any one but you; and finally, that, humbly, earnestly, i besought him, as my guardian, my nearest relation, my wisest friend, to give his consent to our marriage. "he had listened, with his eyes cast down, giving no sign of interest. and now at the end he simply uttered a dry little 'no.' "and then took place a dreadful scene. i implored, i wept, i rebelled, i declared that my heart was free, that my person was free; and always i found that i was addressing a man of stone, hard and dry, with a will of iron, an utterly false point of view, a conventional standard based upon the opinion of the world, and a total lack of good feeling. cesare dias denied that i loved you, denied that you loved me, denied that any such thing as real love could exist--real love for which people live and die! he denied that love was a thing not to be forgotten; denied that love is the only thing that makes life worth while. his one word was no--no, no, no, from the beginning to the end of our talk. he made the most specious, extravagant, and cynical arguments to convince me that i was deceiving myself, that we were deceiving ourselves, and that it was his duty to oppose himself to our folly. oh, how i wept! how i abased my spirit before that man, who reasoned in this cold strain! and how it hurts me now to think of the way i humiliated myself! i remember that while my love for you, dearest, was breaking out in wild utterance, i saw that he was looking admiringly at me, as in a theatre he might admire an actor who was cleverly feigning passion. he did not believe me; and two or three times my anger rose to such a point that i stooped to threaten him; i threatened to make a public scandal. "'the scandal will fall on the person who makes it,' he said severely, getting up, to cut short the conversation. "he went away. in the drawing-room i heard him talking quietly with laura, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't left me broken-hearted, as if he didn't know that i was on my knees, in despair, calling upon the names of the madonna and the saints for help. but that man has no soul; and i am surrounded by people who think me a mad enthusiast. "my love, my darling love, my constant thought--it is then decided: we must fly. we must fly. here, like this, i should die. anything will be better than this house; it is a prison. anything is better than the galleys. "i know that what i propose is very grave. according to the common judgment of mankind a young girl who elopes is everlastingly dishonoured. in spite of the sanctity of marriage, suspicion never leaves her. i know that i am throwing away a great deal for a dream of love. but that is my strange and cruel destiny--the destiny which has given me a fortune and taken away my father; given me a heart eager for affection and cut me off from all affection; given me the dearest and at the same time the least loving sister! "for whom ought i to sacrifice myself, since those who loved me are dead, and those who live with me do not love me? i need love; i have found it; i will attach myself to it; i will not let it go. who will weep for me here? no one. whose hands will be stretched out to call me back? no one's. what memories will i carry away with me? none. i am lonely and misunderstood; i am flying from ice and snow to the warm sunlight of love. you are the sun, you are my love. don't think ill of me. i am not like other girls, girls who have a home, a family, a nest. i am a poor pilgrim, seeking a home, a family, a nest. i will be your wife, your sweetheart, your servant; i love you. a life passed in the holy atmosphere of your love will be an absolution for this fault that i am committing. i know, the world will not forgive me. but i despise people who can't understand one's sacrificing everything for love. and those who do not understand it will pity me. i shall care for nothing but your love; you will forgive me because you love me. "so, it is decided. on the third day after you receive this letter--that is, on friday--leave your house as if you were going for a walk, without luggage, and take a cab to the railway station. take the train that leaves naples for salerno at one o'clock, and arrives at pompeii at two. i shan't be at the station at pompeii--that might arouse suspicions; but i shall be in the streets of the dead city, looking at the ruins. find me there--come as swiftly as you can--to the street of tombs, leading to the villa of diomedes, near to the grave of nevoleia tyche, 'a sweet pompeiian child,' according to her epitaph. we will meet there, and then we will leave for metaponto or brindisi, and sail for the east. i have money. you know, cesare dias, to save himself trouble, has allowed me to receive my entire income for the past two years. afterwards--when this money is spent--well, we will work for our living until i come of age. "you understand? you needn't worry about me. i shall get out of the house, go to the station, and arrive at pompeii without being surprised. i have a bold and simple plan, which i can't explain to you. it would not do for us to meet here in town, the risk would be too great. but leaving for pompeii by separate trains, how can any one suspect us? does my clearness of mind astonish you? my calmness, my precision? for twenty days i have been thinking of this matter; i have lain awake at night studying it in detail. "remember, remember: friday, at noon, leave your house. at one, leave the station. at half-past two come to me at the grave of nevoleia tyche. don't forget, for mercy's sake. if you shouldn't arrive at the right time, what would become of me, alone, at pompeii, in anguish, devoured by anxiety? "my sweetest love, this is the last letter you will receive from me. why, as i write these words, does a feeling of sorrow come upon me, making me bow my head? the word _last_ is always sad, whenever it is spoken. will you always love me, even though far from your country, even though poor, even though unhappy? you won't accuse me of having wronged you? you will protect me and sustain me with your love? you will be kind, honest, loyal. you will be all that i care for in the world. "this is my last letter, it is true, but soon now our wondrous future will begin--our life together. remember, remember where i shall wait for you. "anna." alone in his little house, giustino morelli read anna's letter twice through, slowly, slowly. then his head fell upon his breast. he felt that he was lost, ruined; that anna was lost and ruined. * * * * * at that early morning hour the church of santa chiara, white with stucco, rich with gold ornamentation, with softly carved marbles and old pictures, was almost empty. a few pious old women moved vaguely here and there, wrapped in black shawls; a few knelt praying before the altar. anna acquaviva and her governess, stella martini, were seated in the middle of the church, with their eyes bent on their prayer-books. stella martini had a worn, sunken face, that must have once been delicately pretty, with that sort of prettiness which fades before thirty. anna wore a dark serge frock, with a jacket in the english fashion; and her black hair was held in place by a comb of yellow tortoise-shell. the warm pallor of her face was broken by no trace of colour. every now and then she bit her lips nervously. she had held her prayer-book open for a long while without turning a page. but stella martini had not noticed this; she was praying fervently. presently the young girl rose. "i am going to confession," she said, standing still, holding on to the back of her chair. the governess did not seek to detain her. with a light step she crossed the church and entered a confessional. there the good priest, with the round, childlike face and the crown of snow-white hair, asked his usual questions quietly, not surprised by the tremor in the voice that answered him. he knew the character of his penitent. but anna answered incoherently; often not understanding the sense of the simple words the priest addressed to her. sometimes she did not answer at all, but only sighed behind the grating. at last her confessor asked with some anxiety: "what is it that troubles you?" "father, i am in great danger," she said in a low voice. but when he sought to learn what her danger was she would give him no details. he begged her to speak frankly, to tell him everything; she only murmured: "father, i am threatened with disgrace." then he became severe, reminding her that it was a great sin to come thus and trifle with a sacrament of the church, to come to the confessional and refuse to confess. he could not give her absolution. "i will come another time," she said rising. but now, instead of returning to her governess, who was still praying with her eyes cast down, anna stole swiftly out of the church into the street, where she hailed a cab, and bade the cabman drive to the railway station. she drew down the blinds of the carriage windows, and there in the darkness she could scarcely suppress a cry of mingled joy and pain to find herself at last alone and free. the cab rolled on and on; it was like the movement of a dream. the only thing she could think of was this beautiful and terrible idea, that she, anna acquaviva, had abandoned for ever her home and her family, carrying away only so much of her fortune as the purse in her pocket could hold, to throw herself into the arms of giustino morelli. no feeling of fear held her back. her entire past life was ended, she could never take it up again; it was over, it was over. in that sort of somnambulism which accompanies a decisive action, she was as exact and rigid in everything she had to do as an automaton. at the station she paid her cabman, and mechanically asked for a ticket to pompeii at the booking-office. "single or return?" inquired the clerk. "single," she answered. as almost every one who went to pompeii took a return ticket, the clerk thought he had to do with an englishwoman or an impassioned antiquary. she put the ticket into the opening of her glove, and went into the first-class waiting-room. she looked about her quite indifferently, as if it was impossible that cesare dias or indeed any one of her acquaintance should see her there. she was conscious of nothing save a great need to go on, to go on; nothing else. it was the first time in her life that she had been out alone like this, yet she felt no surprise. it seemed to her that she had been travelling alone for years; that cesare dias, laura acquaviva, and stella martini were pale shadows of an infinitely distant past, a past anterior to her present existence; that they were people she had known in another world. she kept repeating to herself, like a child trying to remember a word, "pompeii, pompeii, pompeii." but when she was climbing into the first-class compartment of the train, it seemed suddenly as if a force held her back, as if a mysterious hand forbade her going on. she trembled, and had to make a violent effort to enter the carriage, as if to brush aside an invisible obstacle. and, from that moment, a voice within her seemed to be murmuring confusedly to her conscience, warning her of the great moral crisis she was approaching; while before her eyes the blue neapolitan coast was passing rapidly, where the wintry cold had given way to a warm scirocco. on, on, the morning train hurried her, over the land, by the sea, between the white houses of portici, the pink houses of torre del greco, the houses, pink, white, and yellow, of torre annunziata--on, on. and anna, motionless in her corner, gazing out of the window, beheld a vague, delicious vision of flowers and stars and kisses and caresses; and an icy terror, a sense of imminent peril, lay upon her heart. oh, yes! in a brilliant vision she saw a future of love, of passion and tenderness, a fire-hued vision of all that soul and body could desire; yet constantly that still, small voice kept whispering to her conscience: "don't go, don't go. if you go, you are lost." and this presently became so unbearable that, when the train entered the brown, burnt-up country at the foot of vesuvius, the country that surrounds the great ruin of pompeii, despair was making her twist the handle of her purse violently with her fingers. the green vines and the laughing villages had disappeared from the landscape; the blue sea, with its dancing white waves, had disappeared; she was crossing a wide, desolate plain; and the volcano, with its eternal wreath of smoke, rose before her. and also had disappeared for ever the phantasms of her happiness! anna was travelling alone, through a sterile land, where fire had passed, devastating all life, killing the flowers, destroying the people, their homes, their pleasures, their loves. and the voice within her cried: "this is a symbol of passion, which destroys all things, and then dies itself." and then she thought that she had chosen ominously in coming to pompeii--a city of love, destroyed by fire, an everlasting reminder to those who saw it of the tragedy of life--pompeii, with its hard heart of lava! she descended from the carriage when the train stopped, and followed a family of germans and two english clergymen out of the tiny station. she went on, looking neither to right nor left, up the narrow, dusty lane that leads from the railway to the inn at the city's gate. neither the germans nor the clergymen noticed her; the solitary young woman, with the warm, pale face, and the great brown-black eyes that gazed straight forward, without interest in what they saw, the eyes of a soul consumed by an emotion. when they had all entered the house, she ensconced herself in a corner near a window, and looked out upon the path she had followed, as if waiting for somebody, or as if wishing to turn back. and anna was praying for the safe coming of giustino. if she could but see him, if she could but hear his voice, all her doubts, all her pains, would fly away. "i adore him! i adore him!" she thought, and tried thus to find strength with which to combat her conscience. her heart was filled with a single wish--to see giustino; he would give her strength; he was the reason for her life--he and love. she looked at her little child's watch, the only jewel she had brought away; she had a long time still to wait before two o'clock. an old guide approached her, and offered to show her the ruins. she followed him mechanically. they traversed the street of hope, the street of fortune, where there are the deep marks of carriage wheels in the stone pavement; they entered houses and shops and squares; she looked at everything with vacant eyes. twice the guide said: "now let us visit the street of tombs and the villa of diomedes." twice she had answered: "later on; by-and-by." two or three times she had sat down on a stone to rest; and then her poor old guide had sat down also, at a distance, and let his head fall forward on his breast, and dozed. she was strangely fatigued; she had exhausted her forces in making the journey hither; the tumult of emotion she had gone through had prostrated her. now she felt utterly alone and abandoned--a poor, unfortunate creature bearing through this dead city a heavy burden of solitude and weariness: and when, after a long rest, she got up to go on again, a great sigh broke from her lips. but somehow she must pass the time, and so she went on. she climbed to the top of the amphitheatre, seeking to devour the minutes that separated her from two o'clock. presently the old man said, for the third time: "now let us visit the street of tombs and the villa of diomedes." "let us go," she responded. the hours had passed at last; only one more remained. with her watch in her hand, as the guide pointed out to her the magnificence of the villa of diomedes, she was saying to herself, "now giustino is leaving naples." impatient, no longer able to endure the voice or presence of the old man, no longer able to hide her own perturbation, she paid and dismissed him. he hesitated, reluctant to leave her, telling her that it was forbidden to make sketches, and, above all, to carry anything away; but he said it timidly, humbly, knowing very well that it was needless to fear any such infractions from this pale girl with the dreamy eyes. and he moved off, slowly, slowly, turning back every now and then to see what she was doing. she sat down on a stone in front of the tomb of the "sweet freed-woman," nevoleia tyche, and waited there, her hands in her lap, her head bent; nor did she look up when a party of english passed her, accompanied by a guide. this last hour seemed interminable to her; it seemed covered by a great shadow, in which all things were obscured. the name of giustino, constantly repeated, was like a single ray of light. she neither heard nor saw what was going on round about her; her consciousness of the external world was put out. suddenly a shadow fell between her and the grey tomb of the freed-woman. she looked up, and saw giustino standing before her, gazing down on her with an infinite despairing tenderness. anna, unable to speak, gave him her hand, and rose. and a smile of happiness, like a great light, shone from her eyes, and a warm colour mantled her cheeks. giustino had never seen her so beautiful. in an ecstasy of joy, feeling all her doubts die within her, feeling all the glory of her love spring to full life again, anna could not understand why there was an expression of sorrow on giustino's face. "do you love me--a great deal?" "a great deal." "you will always care for me?" "always." it was like a sad, soft echo, but the girl did not notice that; a veil of passion dimmed her perceptions. they walked on together, she close to him, so happy that her feet scarcely touched the earth, enjoying this minute of intense love with all the force of feeling that she possessed, with all the self-surrender of which human nature is capable. they walked on through the streets of pompeii, without seeing, without looking. only again and again she said softly: "tell me that you love me--tell me that you love me!" two or three times he had answered simply, "yes," then he was silent. suddenly, anna, not hearing his answer, stood still, and taking his arms in her hands, looked deep into his honest eyes, and asked, "what is the matter?" her voice trembled. he lowered his eyes. "nothing," he said. "why are you so sad?" "i'm not sad," he answered with an effort. "you're telling the truth?" "i'm telling the truth." "swear that you love me." "do you need me to swear it?" he exclaimed with such sincerity and such pain that she was convinced, perceiving the sincerity, but not the pain. but she was still troubled; there was still a bitterness in her joy. they were near the street of the sea, which leads out of the dead city. "let us go away, let us go away," she said impatiently. "the train for metaponto doesn't leave till six o'clock; we've plenty of time." "let us go away! i don't want to stay here any longer. i beg of you, let us go." he obeyed her passively and was silent. they entered the inn on their way to the station, at the same time as the two english clergymen. anna was frightened; she didn't care to talk of love to giustino before such witnesses, but she looked at him with fond, supplicating eyes. the two clergymen seated themselves at the table which is always laid in the chief room of the inn, and while they ate their dinner one of them read his bible, the other his baedeker. the two lovers were near the window, looking through the glass at the road that leads to the station; and anna was holding on to giustino's arm, and he, confused, nervous, asked her if she would not like to dine, taking refuge from his embarrassment in the commonplace. "no; she did not wish to dine, she wasn't hungry. afterwards, by-and-by." and her voice failed her as she looked at the two ecclesiastics. "i wish----" she began, whispering into giustino's ear. "what do you wish?" "take me away somewhere else, where i can say something to you." he hesitated; she blushed; then he left the room to speak to the landlord; returning presently, "come," he said. "where are we going?" "upstairs." "upstairs?" "you will see." they went upstairs to the first floor, where the waiter who conducted them opened the door of an apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room--a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room--both having balconies that looked off over the country, and there the waiter left them alone. each of them was pale, silent, confused. she looked round. the sitting-room was vulgarly furnished with a green sofa, two green easy-chairs, a centre-table covered with a nut-coloured jute tablecloth, and a marble console. the thought of the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired her with a sort of shame. then she glanced into the bedroom. it was very large, with two beds at the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. these pieces of furniture seemed lost in the vast bare-looking chamber. it gave her a shudder merely to look into it; and yet again she blushed. she raised her eyes to giustino's, and she noticed anew that he was gazing at her with an expression of great sadness. "what is the matter?" she asked. he did not answer. he sat down and buried his face in his hands. "tell me what it is," she insisted, trembling with anger and anguish. he remained silent. perhaps he was weeping behind his hands. "if you don't tell me what it is, i'll go back to naples," she said. he did not speak. "you despise me because i have left my home." "no, anna," he murmured. "you think i'm dreadful--you think of me as an abandoned creature." "no, dear one--no." "perhaps--you--love another woman." "you can't think that." "perhaps--you have--another tie--without love." "none; i am bound to no one." "you have promised yourself to no one?" "to no one." "then why are you so sad? why do you weep? why do you tremble? it is i who ought to weep and tremble, and yet i don't weep unless to see you weep. your weeping breaks my heart, makes me desperate." "anna, listen to me. by the memory of your mother i implore you to listen, to understand. i am miserable because of you, on your account--in thinking of what i have allowed you to do, of how you are throwing away your future, of the unhappiness that awaits you; without a home, without a name, persecuted by your family----" "if you loved me, you wouldn't think these things; you wouldn't say them." "i have always said them, anna; i have always repeated them. i have ruined you. for three days i have been in an agony of remorse; it is the same to-day. though you are the light of my life, i must say it to you. to-day i can't forgive myself; to-morrow you will be unable to forgive me. oh, my love! i am a gentleman, i am a christian; and yet i have been weak enough to allow you and me to commit this sin, this fault." speaking thus, with an infinite earnestness, all the honesty of his noble soul showed itself, a soul bowed down by remorse. she looked at him and listened to him with stupefaction, amazed at this spectacle of a rectitude, of a virtue that was greater than love, for she believed only in love. "i don't understand you," she said. "and yet you must--you must. if you don't see the reasons for my conduct you will despise me, you will hate me. you must try, with all your heart, with all your mind, to understand. you mustn't let yourself be carried away by your love. you must be calm, you must be cool." "i can't." "o god!" he said in despair. again he was silent. she mechanically, to overcome the trembling of her hands, pulled at the fringe of the tablecloth. she tried to reflect, to understand. and always, always, she had the same feeling, the same idea, and she could not help trying to express it in words: "you don't love me enough." she looked into his eyes as she spoke, concentrating her whole soul in her voice and in her gaze. "it is true, i don't love you enough," he answered. she made no sound: she was cut to the heart. the little sitting-room, the inn, pompeii, the whole world appeared to go whirling round her dizzily. she had a feeling as if her temples would burst open, and pressed her hands to them instinctively. "ah, then," she said, after a long pause, in a broken voice--"ah, then, you have deceived me?" "i have deceived you," he murmured humbly. "you haven't loved me?" "not enough to forget everything else. i have already said so." "i understand. what was the use of lying?" "because you were beautiful and good, and you loved me, and i didn't see this danger. i didn't dream that you would wish to give up everything in this way, that i should be unable to prevent you----" "words, words. the essential is, you don't love me." "as you wish to be loved, as you deserve to be loved--no." "that is, without blind passion?" "without blind passion." "that is, without fire, without enthusiasm?" "without fire, without enthusiasm." "then, with what?" "with tenderness, with affection, with devotion." "it is not enough, not enough, not enough," she said monotonously, as if talking in her sleep. "don't you know how to love differently. more--as i love----?" "no, i don't know how." "do you think you never can? perhaps you can to-morrow, or in the future?" "no, i never can, anna. i shall always prefer duty to happiness." "poor, weak creature," she murmured with immense scorn. he lifted his eyes towards heaven, as if seeking strength to endure his martyrdom. "so," anna went on, slowly, "if we were to live together, you would be unhappy?" "we should both be unhappy, and the sight of your unhappiness, of which i should be the cause, would kill me." "well, then?" "it's for you to say what you wish." the cruel, the terrible reality was clear to her; there was only one thing to be said, and that was so unexpectedly dreadful that she hesitated to say it. the truth was so horrible, she could not bear to give it shape in speech. she looked at him--at this man who, to save her, inflicted such inexpressible pain upon her. and he understood that anna could not pronounce the last words. he himself, in spite of his great courage, could not speak them, those last words, for he loved the girl wildly. the terrible truth appalled them both. she got up stiffly and went to the window and leaned her forehead against the glass, looking out over the country and down the lane that led to the little station. twice before that day she had looked at the same silent landscape; but in the morning, when she was alone, waiting, thrilling with hope, and again, only an hour ago, leaning on giustino's arm, she had possessed entire the priceless treasure of a great love. now, now all was over; nevermore, nevermore would she know the delight of love: all was over, all, all. giustino had not moved from where he sat with his face buried in his hands. suddenly anna seized him by the shoulders, forced him to raise his head, and began to speak, so close to him that he could feel her warm breath on his cheek. "and yet you did love me," she said, passionately. "you can't deny it; i know it. i have seen you turn pale when you met me, as pale as i myself. if i spoke to you my voice made your eyes brighten, as your voice made my heart leap. you looked for me everywhere, as i looked for you, feeling that the world would be colourless without love. and your letters bore the imprint of a great tenderness. but that is love, true love, passionate love, which isn't forgotten in a day or in a year, for which a whole life-time is not sufficient. it isn't possible that you don't love me any more. you do love me; you are deceiving me when you say you don't. i don't know why. but speak the truth--tell me that it is impossible for you to have got over such a passion." he felt all his courage leaving him under this tumult of words. "giustino, giustino, think of what you are doing in denying our love. think of the two lives you are ruining; for you yourself will be as miserable as i. giustino, you will kill me; if you leave me here, i shall kill myself. let us go away; let us go away together. take me away. you love me. let us start at once; now is the time." it seemed for a moment as if he were on the point of giving way. he was a man with a man's nerves, a man's senses, a man's heart; and he loved her ardently. but when again she begged him to fly with her, and he felt himself almost yielding, he made a great effort to resist her. "i can't, anna; i cannot," he said in a low voice. "then you wish me to die?" "you won't die. you are young. you will live to be happy again." "all is over for me, giustino. this is death." "no, it's not death, anna." "you talk like cesare dias," she cried, moving away from him. "you speak like a sceptic who has neither love nor faith. you are like him--corrupt, cynical----" "you insult me; but you're right." "i am dishonoured: do you realise that? i am a fugitive from my people; i am alone here with you in an hotel. i am dishonoured, dishonoured, coward that you are. you can go home quietly, having had an amusing adventure; but i--i have no home any more. i was a good girl; now i am lost." "your people know where you are and what you have done--that you have done nothing wrong. they know that you have done it in response to a generous impulse for one who was not worthy of you, but who has respected you." "and who told them?" "i." "when?" "this morning." "to whom did you tell it?" "to your sister and your guardian." "did they come to ask you?" "no, i went to them." "and what did you agree upon amongst you?" "that i should come here and meet you." "and then?" "that i should leave you." "when?" "when cesare dias was ready to come and fetch you." "it's a beautiful plan," she said, icily. "the plan of calm, practical men. bravo, bravo! you--you ran to my people, to exculpate yourself, to accuse me, to reassure them. good, good! i am a mad child, guilty of a youthful escapade, which fortunately hasn't touched my reputation. you denounced me, told them that i wanted to elope with you; and you are a gentleman! good! the whole thing was wonderfully well combined. i am to return home with cesare dias as if i had made a harmless little excursion, and what's done is done. you're right, of course; cesare dias is right; laura acquaviva, who has never loved and who despises those who love, laura is right; you are all right. i alone am wrong. oh, the laughable adventure! to attempt an elopement, and to fail in it, because the man won't elope. to return home because your lover has denounced you to your family! what a comedy! you are right. there has been no catastrophe. the solution is immensely humorous: i know it. i am like a suicide who didn't kill herself. you are right. i am wrong. you--you----" and she looked him full in the face, withering him with her glance. "begone! i despise you. begone!" "anna, anna, don't send me away like this." "begone! the cowardly way in which you have behaved is past contempt. begone!" "we mustn't part like this." "we are already parted, utterly separated. we have always been separated. go away." "anna, what i have done i have done for your sake, for your good. now you send me away. afterwards you will do me justice. i am an honourable man--that is my sin." "i don't know you. good-day." "but what will you do alone here?" "that doesn't concern you. good-day." "let me wait for cesare dias." "if you don't go at once i'll open the window and throw myself from the balcony," she said, with so much firmness that he believed her. "good-bye, then." "good-bye." she stood in the middle of the room, a small red spot burning in each of her cheeks, and watched him go out, heard him descend the staircase, slowly, with the heavy step of one bearing a great burden. she leaned from the window and saw the shadow of a man issue from the door of the inn--it was giustino. he stood still for a moment, and then turned into the high road that leads to pompeii from torre annunziata, and again stood still, as if to wait for somebody there. anna saw him turn towards the windows of the hotel, and gaze up at them earnestly. at last he moved slowly away and disappeared. anna came back into the room, and threw herself upon the sofa, biting its cushions to keep herself from screaming. her head was on fire, but she couldn't weep--not a tear, not a single tear. and in the midst of her trouble, constantly--whether, as at one moment, she was pitying herself as a poor child to whom a monstrous wrong had been done, or as, at the next, burning with scorn as a great lady offended in her pride; or again, blushing with shame as she thought of the imminent arrival of cesare dias--in the midst of it all, through it all, constantly, one little agonising, implacable phrase kept repeating itself: "all is over, all is over, all is over!" presently a servant brought in a light. "please, madam, do you mean to stay the night?" he asked. "no." "the last train for naples has already left. you can go back by way of torre annunziata in a carriage." "some one is coming for me," she said. the servant left the room. by-and-by she heard her name called: "anna! anna!" she fell on her knees before cesare dias, sobbing: "forgive me, forgive me." he, with a tremor in his voice, murmured, "my poor child." and at home, in her own house, she said to her sister: "laura, forgive me." "my poor anna." iii. for three weeks anna lay at the point of death, prey to a violent attack of scarlet fever, alternating between delirium and stupor, and always moaning in her pain; while laura, stella martini, and a sister of charity watched at her bedside. but she did not die. the fever reached its crisis, and then, little by little, day by day, abated. at last her struggle with death was finished, but anna had lost in it the best part of her youth. thus a valorous warrior survives the battle indeed, but returns to his friends the phantom of himself--an object of pity to those who saw him set forth, strong and gallant. when the early neapolitan spring began to show itself, at the end of february, she was convalescent, but so weak that she could scarcely support the weight of her thick black hair. stella martini tried very patiently to comb it so gently that anna should not have to move, braiding it in two long plaits; in this way it would seem less heavy. from time to time a big tear would roll down the invalid's cheek. she was weeping silently, slowly; and when laura or stella martini, or sister crocifissa would ask her: "what is it; what can we do for you?" anna would answer with a sign which seemed to say: "let me weep; perhaps it will do me good to weep." "let her weep, it will do her good to weep," was what the great doctor antonio amati had said also. "let her do whatever pleases her; refuse her nothing if you can help it." so her nurses, obedient to the doctor, did not try to prevent her weeping, did not even try to speak comforting words to her. perhaps it was not so much an active sorrow that made her shed these tears, as a sort of sad relief. cesare dias during this anxious time put aside his occupations of a gay bachelor, and called two or three times a day at the palace in piazza gerolomini to inquire how anna was. the two girls had no nearer relative than he; and he, indeed, was not a relative: he was their guardian, an old friend of their father's, a companion of the youthful sports of francesco acquaviva. the young wife of francesco had died five years after the birth of her second daughter, laura, who resembled her closely: and thereupon her husband had proceeded to shorten his own life by throwing himself into every form of worldly dissipation. the two children, growing up in the house, motherless in the midst of profuse luxury, could exert no restraining influence upon their father, who seemed bent upon enjoying every minute of his existence as if he realised that its end was near. his constant companion was the cold, calm, sceptical cesare dias, a man who appeared to despise the very pleasures it was his one business to pursue. and when francesco acquaviva fell ill, and was about to die, he could think of nothing better than to make the partner of his follies the guardian of his children. cesare dias had discharged his duties, not without some secret annoyance, with a gentlemanlike correctness; never treating his wards with much familiarity, rarely showing himself in public with them, keeping them at a distance, indeed, and feeling very little interest in them. he was their guardian--he, a man who, of all things, had least desired to have a family, who spent the whole of his income upon himself, who hated sentiment, who had no ideal of friendship. cesare dias, a man without tenderness, without affection, without sympathy, was the guardian of two young girls. he was this by the freak of francesco acquaviva. dias would be glad enough when the day came for the girls to marry. when people congratulated him upon his situation as a rich bachelor with no obligations, he responded with a somewhat sarcastic smile: "pity me rather; i've got two children--a legacy from francesco acquaviva." "oh, they'll soon be married." "i hope so," he murmured devoutly. as he watched the girls grow up, the character of laura, haughty, and reserved, and silent, as if she had already known a thousand disillusions, began vaguely to please him, as if he saw obscurely in a looking-glass a face that distantly resembled his own: a faint admiration which was really but reflex admiration of himself. the character of anna, on the contrary, open, loyal, impressionable and impulsive, a character full of strong likes and dislikes--imaginative, enthusiastic, generous--had always roused in him a certain antipathy. in her presence he seemed even colder and more indifferent than elsewhere; merciless for all human weakness, disdainful of all human interests. it would have been a miracle if two such incompatible natures, each so positive, had not repelled each other. sometimes, though, anna could not help feeling a certain secret respect for this man, who perhaps had good reasons--reasons born of suffering--for the contempt with which he regarded his fellow-beings; and sometimes dias told himself that it was ridiculous to be angry with this strange child, for she was a worthy daughter of francesco acquaviva, a man who had tossed his life to the winds of pleasure. dias asked himself scornfully, "what does it matter?" and so, when he learned that his ward had fallen in love with an obscure and penniless youth, he shrugged his shoulders, murmuring, "rhetoric!" he deemed it wiser not to speak to her about the matter, for he knew that the flame of love is only fanned by the wind of contradiction; besides, it is always useless to talk sensibly to a silly girl. when giustino morelli had called upon him and humbly asked for anna's hand, dias opposed to the ingenuous eloquence of love the cynical philosophy of the world, and thought his trouble ended when he saw the young man go away, pale and resigned. "rhetoric, rhetoric!" was his mental commentary; and he had a theory that what he called rhetoric could be trusted to die a natural death. so he went back to his usual occupation, giving the affair no further thought. but chemical analysis cannot explain spontaneous generation; criticism cannot explain genius; and no more can cold reason explain or understand youthful passion. when it came to the knowledge of cesare dias that anna had left her home to give herself into the keeping of a poor nobody, he was for a moment stupefied; he seemed for a moment to have a vision of that force whose existence he had hitherto doubted, which can lift hearts up to dizzy heights, and human beings far above convention. he was a man of few words, a man of action, but now he was staggered, nonplussed. a child who could play her reputation and her future like this, inspired him with a sort of vague respect, a respect for the power that moved her. ah, there was a convulsion in the soul of cesare dias, the man of fixed ideas and easy aphorisms, who suddenly found himself face to face with a moral crisis in which the life of his young ward might be wrecked. and he felt a pang of self-reproach. he ought to have watched more carefully over her; he ought to have been kinder to her; he ought not to have left her to walk unguided in the dangerous path of youth and love. he felt a certain pity for the poor weak creature, who had gone, as it were, headlong over a precipice without calling for help. he thought that, if she had been his own daughter, he would have endeavoured to cultivate her common sense, to show her that it was impossible for people to live constantly at concert pitch. he had, therefore, failed in his duty towards her, in his office of protector and friend; and yet what faith her dead father, francesco acquaviva, had had in him, in his wisdom, in his affection! anna, who had hitherto inspired him only with that disdain which practical men feel for sentimentalists, now moved him to compassion, as a defenceless being exposed to all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. and during his drive from naples to pompeii he promised himself that he would be very kind to her, very gentle. if she had flown from her home, it was doubtless because the love that giustino morelli bore her had appeared greater to her than the love of her own people; and doubtless, too, there are hearts to whom love is as necessary as bread is to the body. never before had cesare dias felt such an emotion as beset him now during that long drive to pompeii; for years he had been on his guard against such emotions. and, accordingly, after that fatal day on which he brought her back to her house, he and laura and stella martini all tried to create round anna a peaceful atmosphere of kindness and indulgence, as if she had committed a grave but generous error, by whose consequences she alone was hurt. laura--silent, thoughtful, with her dreamy grey eyes, her placid face--nursed anna through her fever with quiet sisterly devotion. cesare dias called every morning, entering the room on tiptoe, inquiring with a glance how the sufferer was doing, then seating himself at a distance from the bed, without speaking. if anna looked up, if he felt her big sorrowful black eyes turned upon his face, he would ask in a gentle voice, the voice of _that day_, how she felt; she would answer with a faint smile, "better," and would shut her eyes again, and go back to her interior contemplations. cesare dias, after that, would get up noiselessly and go away, to come again in the afternoon, and still again in the evening, perhaps for a longer visit. laura, always dressed in white, would meet him in the sitting-room; and he would ask, "is she better?" "she seems to be." "has she been asleep to-day?" "no, i don't think she has been asleep." "has she said anything." "not a word." "who is to watch with her to-night." "i." "you will wear yourself out." "no, no." nothing else passed between them. often he would arrive in the evening wearing his dress-suit; he had dined at his club, and was off for a card-party or a first night at a theatre. then he would remain standing, with his overcoat open, his hat in his hand. at such a time, a little warmed up by the dinner he had eaten, or the amusements that awaited him, cesare dias was still a handsome man; his dull eyes shone with some of their forgotten brightness; his cheeks had a little colour in them; and his smooth black hair gave him almost an appearance of youth. one who had seen him in the morning, pale and exhausted, would scarcely have recognised him. laura would meet him and part with him, never asking whence he came or whither he was bound; when he had said good-night she would return to anna, slowly, with her light footsteps that merely brushed the carpet. cesare dias told himself that if he wished to make his sick ward over morally, now was the time to begin, while her body was weak and her soul malleable. it would be impossible to transform her spirit after she had once got back her strength. anna was completely prostrated, passing the entire day without moving, her arms stretched out at full length, her hands pale and cold, her face turned on the side, her two rich plaits of black hair extended on her pillow; bloodless her cheeks, her lips, her brow; lifeless the glance of her eyes. when spoken to, she answered with a slight movement of the head, or, at most, one or two words--always the same. "how do you feel?" "better." "do you wish for anything?" "nothing." "is there nothing you would like?" "no, thanks." whereupon she would close her eyes again, exhausted. nothing more would be said by those round her, but anna knew that they were there, silent, talking together by means of significant glances. one day, cesare dias and laura acquaviva felt that they could mark a progress in anna's convalescence, because two or three times she had looked at them with an expression of such earnest penitence, with such an eager prayer for pardon, in her sad dark eyes, that words were not necessary to tell what she felt. soon afterwards she seemed to wish to be left alone with dias, as if she had a secret to confide to him; but he cautiously thought it best to defer any private talk. however, one morning it so happened that he found himself alone in her room. he was reading a newspaper when a soft voice said: "listen." cesare dias looked at her. her black eyes were again beseeching forgiveness, and anna stammered: "what must you have thought--what must you have said of me!" "you must not excite yourself, my dear," he said kindly. "i was so wicked," she sobbed. "don't talk like that, dear anna; you were guilty of nothing more than a girlish folly." "a sin, a sin." "you must call things by their right names, and not let your imagination get the better of you," he answered, somewhat coldly. "a youthful folly." "well, be it as you wish," she said, humbly; "but if you knew----" "there, there," murmured cesare dias with the shadow of a smile, "calm yourself; we'll speak of this another day." laura had come back into the room, and her presence cut short their talk. that evening, by the faint light of a little lamp that hung before an image of the virgin at her bedside, anna saw the big grey eyes of laura gazing at her inquiringly; and therewith she raised herself a little on her pillow and called her sister to her. "you are good; you don't know----" "you mustn't excite yourself." "you are innocent, laura, but you are my sister. don't judge me harshly." "i don't judge you, anna." "laura, laura----" "be quiet, anna." laura's tone was a little hard, but with her hand she gently caressed her sister's cheek; and anna said nothing more. as her recovery progressed, an expression of humility, of contrition, seemed to become more and more constant upon her face when she had to do with laura or with dias. they were very kind to her, with that pitying kindness which we show to invalids, to old people, and to children--a kindness in marked contrast to their former indifference, which awoke in her an ever sharper and sharper remorse. she felt a great difference between herself and them: they were sane in body and mind, their blood flowed tranquilly in their veins, their consciences were untroubled; while she was broken in health, disturbed in spirit, and miserable in thinking of her past, its deceits, its errors, its thousand shameful aberrations, its lack of maidenly decorum--and for whom? for whom? for a fool, a simpleton, a fellow who had neither heart nor courage, who had never loved her, who was cruel and inept. when she drew a mental comparison between giustino morelli and these two persons whom she had wished to desert for him--between giustino, so timid, so poor in all right feeling, so bankrupt in passion, and them, so magnanimous, so forgetful of her fault--her repentance grew apace. it was the exaggerated repentance of a noble nature, which magnifies the moral gravity of its own transgressions. she felt herself to be quite undeserving of the sympathy and affection with which they treated her. their kindness was an act of gratuitous charity beyond her merits. she would look from laura to cesare dias and murmur: "you are good; you are good." and then at the sound of her own voice she would be so moved that she would weep; and pale, with great dark circles under her eyes, she would repeat, "so good, so good." her sole desire was to show herself absolutely obedient to whatever her guardian demanded, to whatever her sister advised. she gave herself over, bound hand and foot, to these two beings whom she had so cruelly forgotten on the day of her mad adventure; in her convalescence she found a great joy in throwing herself absolutely upon their wisdom and their goodness. little by little it seemed to her that she was being born again to a new life, quiet, placid, irresponsible; a life in which she would have no will of her own, in which, passively, gladly, she would be guided and controlled by them. so, whenever they spoke to her, whenever they asked for her opinion--whether a window should be opened or closed, whether a bouquet of flowers should be left in the room or carried out, whether a note should be written to a friend who had called to inquire how she was--she always said, "yes," or "as you think best," emphasising her answer with a gesture and a glance. "yes" to whatever cesare dias suggested to her; cesare dias who had grown in her imagination to the proportions of a superior being, far removed from human littleness, invincible, dwelling in the highest spheres of abstract intellect; and "yes" to whatever laura acquaviva suggested, laura the pure, the impeccable, who had never had the weakness to fall in love, who would die rather than be wanting to her ideal of herself. "yes" even to whatever her poor governess, stella martini, suggested; stella so kind, so faithful, whom in the past she had so heartlessly deceived. "yes" to the good sister of charity, maria del crocifisso, who passed her life in self-sacrifice, in self-abnegation, in loving devotion to others. "yes" to everybody. anna said nothing but "yes," because she had been wrong, and they had all been right. she was getting well. nothing remained of her illness except a mortal weakness, a heaviness of the head, an inability to concentrate her mind upon one idea, a desire to rest where she was, not to move from her bed, from her room, not to lift her hands, to keep her eyes closed, her cheek buried in her pillow. cesare dias called daily after luncheon, at two o'clock, an hour when men of the world have absolutely nothing to do, for visits are not in order till four. the girls waited for him every afternoon; laura with her appearance of being above all earthly trifles, showing neither curiosity nor eagerness; anna with a secret anxiety because he would bring her a sense of calmness and strength, a breath of the world's air, and especially because he seemed so firm, so imperturbable, that she found it restorative merely to look at him, as weaklings find restorative the sight of those who are robust. he would chat a little, giving the latest gossip, telling where last night's ball had been held, who had gone upon a journey, who had got married, but always with that tone of disdain, that tone of the superior being who sees but is not moved, and yet who seeks to conceal his boredom, which was characteristic of him. sometimes, though, he would laugh outright at the society he moved in, at its pleasures, at its people, burlesquing and caricaturing them, and ridiculing himself for being led by them. "oh, you!" cried anna, with an indescribable intonation of respect. she listened eagerly to everything he said. her fragile soul was like a butterfly that lights on every tiniest flower. these elegant and meaningless frivolities, these experiences without depth or significance, these axioms of a social code that turned appearances into idols, all this worthless baggage delighted her enfeebled imagination. her heart seemed to care for nothing but little things. she admired cesare dias as a splendid and austere man whom destiny had thrown amidst inferior surroundings, and who adapted himself to them without losing any of his nobler qualities. she told herself that his was a great soul that had been born too soon, perhaps too late; he was immeasurably above his times, yet with quiet fortitude he took them in good part. when he displayed his scorn for all human ambitions, speaking of how transitory everything pertaining to this world is in its nature; when he derided human folly and human beings who in the pursuit of follies lose their fortunes and their reputations; when he said that the only human thing deserving of respect was success; when he said that all generosity was born of some secret motive of selfishness, that all virtue was the result of some weakness of character or of temperament--she, immensely impressed, having forgotten during her fever the emotional reasons to be opposed to such effete and corrupt theories, bowed her head, answering sadly, "you are right." now that she was able to sit up they were often alone together. laura would leave them to go and read in the sitting-room, or to receive callers in the drawing-room, or to walk out with stella martini. she could always find some pretext for taking herself off. she was a reserved, silent girl, who knew neither how to live nor how to love as others did. it was best to leave her to her taste for silence, for self-absorption. cesare dias, a little anxious about her, asked anna: "what is the matter with laura?" "she is good--she is the best girl alive," anna answered, with the feeling she always showed when she named her sister. cesare dias looked at her fixedly. he looked at her like this whenever her voice betrayed emotion. it seemed to him that it was her old nature revealing itself again; he wished to stamp it out, to suffocate it. her heart was defenceless, too impressionable, the heart of a child: he wished to turn it into a heart of bronze, which would be unaffected by the breath of passion. always, therefore, when anna allowed her soul to vibrate in her voice, cesare dias, naturally serious and composed enough, seemed to become more serious, more austere; his eye hardened into glass, and anna felt that she had displeased him. she knew that she displeased him as often as anything in her manner could recall that wild adventure which had sullied the innocence of her girlhood: as often as she gave any sign of being deeply moved: if she turned pale, if she bowed her head, if she wept. cesare dias hated all such manifestations of sentimental weakness. sometimes, when anna could no longer control herself, and her emotion could not be prevented from shining in her eyes, he would pretend not to notice it. sometimes he would demand, "what is the matter?" "nothing," said she, timidly conscious that by her timidity she but displeased him the more. "always the same--incorrigible," he murmured, shaking his head hopelessly. "forgive me; i can't help it," she besought him with an imploring glance. "you shouldn't say of anything that you can't help it. you should be strong enough to govern yourself in all circumstances," was the axiom of cesare dias. "i will try." one day in april, stella martini, coming home from a walk with laura, brought her some flowers--some beautiful wild rosebuds, which in naples blossom so early in the year. anna was seated in an easy-chair near the window, through which entered the soft spring air; and when she saw laura and stella come into the house--laura dressed in white, breathing peace and youth from every line of her figure--stella with her face that seemed to have been scalded and shrivelled up by tears shed long ago, both bearing great quantities of fresh sweet roses, the poor girl's heart swelled with indescribable tenderness. holding the roses in her hand, she caressed them, touched them with her face, buried her lips in them, and said under her voice: "thank you, thank you," as if in her weakness she could find no other words to express her pleasure. cesare dias, arriving a little later, found her in rapt contemplation over her flowers, her great fond eyes glowing with joy. a shadow crossed his face. "see, they have brought me these flowers," she said. "aren't they lovely?" "i see them," he said, drily. "aren't you fond of flowers? they're so fresh and fragrant. i hope you're fond of them; i adore them." and in the fervour of her last phrase she closed her eyes. it occurred to him that she had doubtless not so very long ago spoken the same words of a man; and he realised that, in spite of her illness, in spite of her repentance, she was ever the same anna acquaviva who had once flown from her home and people. he lifted his eyebrows, and his ebony walking-stick beat rather nervously against his chair. "would you like a rose?" she asked, to placate him. "no." "why not?" "because i don't care for flowers." "what! not even to wear in your button-hole when you go into society?" she asked, trying to jest. "they're not _de rigueur_. flowers are pretty enough in their way; but i assure you i have never had the weakness to weep over them, or to say that i adore them." "i was wrong, i said too much." "you always say too much. you lack a sense of proportion. there are a great many things a girl shouldn't say, lest, if she begins by saying them, she should end by doing them, the woman who says too much is lost." anna turned as white as the collar of her frock. it had come at last, the reproof she had so long been waiting for, and secretly dreading. he had put it in a single brief sentence. the woman who says too much is lost. once upon a time, six months ago for instance, she would have endured such a reproof from no one, such a bitter reference to her past; she would have retorted hotly, especially if the speaker had been cesare dias. but now! so weakened was she by her illness and her sorrow, there was not a fibre in her that resented it; her blood slept in her veins; her heart contained nothing but penitence. "the woman who says too much is lost!" cesare dias was right. "it is true," she said. and yet, as she said it, a new grief was born within her, as if she had renounced some precious possession of her soul, broken some holy vow. cesare's face cleared. he had won a victory. "anna," he went on, "every time that you allow yourself to be carried away by sentimentalism, that you employ exaggerated expressions, that you indulge in emotional rhetoric, i assure you, you displease me greatly. how ridiculous if life were to be passed in saying of people, houses, landscapes, flowers, 'i adore them!' don't you see what a convulsive, hysterical frame of mind that is? as if life were nothing but a smile, a tear, a kiss! do you know to what this sort of thing inevitably leads? you know----" "spare me, i entreat you." "i can't, dear. first you must agree with me that your attitude towards life, though a generous one if you like, is not a wise one, and that it leads to the gravest errors. am i right?" "you are right." "you must agree with me that that sort of thing can only make ourselves and others miserable, whereas our duty is to be as happy and to make others as happy as we can. everything else is rhetoric. am i right?" "you are right. you are always right." "finally, you must agree that it is better to be reasonable than to be sentimental; better to be arid than to be rhetorical, better to be silent than to speak out everything that is in one's heart; better to be strong than to be weak. am i not right?" "you are right, always right." "anna, do you know what life is?" "no, i don't know what it really is." "life is a thing which is serious and absurd at the same time." she made no answer; she was silent and pensive. "it is serious because it is the only thing we know anything about; because every man and every woman, in whatever rank or condition, is bound to be honest, well-behaved, worthy and proper; because if one is rich and noble it is one's duty to be moral in a given way; if one is poor and humble, it is one's duty to be moral in another way." he saw that she was listening to him eagerly; he saw that he might hazard a great stroke. "giustino morelli----" he began softly. "no!" she cried, pressing her hands to her temples, her face convulsed with terror. "giustino morelli----" he repeated calmly. "for heaven's sake, don't speak of him." cesare dias appeared neither to see nor hear her. he wished to go to the bottom of the matter, courageously, pitilessly. "--was a serious person, an honest man," he concluded. "he was an infamous traitor," said anna, in a low voice, as if speaking to herself. "anna, he was an honest man. you ought to believe it. you will believe it." "never, never." "yes, you will. you ought to do him justice. i, who am a man, i must do him justice. he might have issued from his obscurity; he might have had money, a beautiful wife, a wife whom he loved, for he loved you----" "no, no." "everybody loves in his own way, my dear," retorted cesare, icily. "he loved you. but because he did not wish to be thought self-interested, because he did not wish the world to say of him that he had loved you for your money, because he did not wish to hear you, anna, some day say the same thing; because he could not endure the accusation of having seduced a young girl for her fortune; because he was not willing to let you suffer, as for some years, at any rate, you would have had to suffer, from poverty and obscurity, he renounced you. do you understand? he renounced you because he was honest. he renounced you, though in doing so he had to face your anger and your scorn. my dear, that man was a martyr to duty, to use one of your own phrases. will you allow me to say something which may appear ungracious, but which is really friendly?" anna consented with a sign. "well, you have no just notion of the seriousness of life. all its responsibilities can be scattered by a caprice, by a passion, to quote what you yourself have said. you would brush aside all obstacles; and you would run the risk of losing all respect, all honour, all peace, all health, thereby. life, anna, is a very serious affair." with a bowed head, she could only answer by a gesture, a gesture that said "yes." "and, at the same time, it's a trifling matter, anna." it was the corrupt, effete nobleman who now re-appeared, the _viveur_ who had drunk at every fountain, who was always bored and always curious; it was he who now took the place of the moral teacher. anna looked up, surprised and shocked. "life is absurd, ridiculous, contemptible. the world is full of cruel parents, of false friends, of wives who betray their husbands, of husbands who maltreat their wives, of well-dressed swindlers, of thieving bankers. all of them in turn are judges and criminals. all appearances are deceitful; all faces lie. if by chance there turns up a man who seems really honest, nobody believes in him; or, if people believe in him, they despise him. the man who sacrifices himself, who makes some great renunciation--poor morelli--gets nothing but disdain." "but--if all this is true?" cried anna sadly. "then, one must have the strength to keep one's own real feelings hidden; one must wear a mask; one must take other men and women at their proper value; one must march straight forward." "whether happy or miserable?" she put this question with great anxiety, for she felt that when it was answered her soul's point of interrogation would be changed to a full stop. "the strong are happy; the weak are miserable. only the strong can triumph." she was silent, oppressed and pained by his philosophy, by its bitterness, its sterile pride, its egotism and cruelty. it seemed as if he had built a sepulchre from the ruins of her illusions. she felt that she no longer understood either her own nature or the external world; a sense of fear and of confusion had taken the place of her old principles and aspirations. and there was a great home-sickness in her heart for love, for devotion, for tenderness, for enthusiasm; a great melancholy at the thought that she would never thrill with them again, that she would never weep again. she felt a great indefinable longing, not for the past, not for the present, not for the future, a longing that related itself to nothing. and she realised that what cesare dias had said was true--horribly, dreadfully, certainly true. she could be sure of nothing after this, she had lost her pole-star, she was being swept round and round in a spiritual whirlpool. and he who had led her into it inspired her with fear, respect, and a vague admiration. he himself had got beyond the whirlpool, he was safe in port. perhaps, in despair, he had thrown overboard into the furious waves the most precious part of his cargo; perhaps he was little better than a wreck; but what did it matter? he was safe in harbour. she was not sure whether it was better to brave out the tempest, to lose everything nobly and generously for the sake of love, or to save appearances, make for still waters, and in them enjoy a selfish tranquillity. "you are strong?" she said. "yes," he assented. "and are you happy--really?" "very happy. as happy as one can be." by-and-by she asked: "have you always been happy?" cesare dias did not answer. "tell me, tell me, have you always been happy?" "what does the past matter? nothing." "and--have you ever loved?" "the person who says too much is lost; the person who wants to know too much suffers. don't ask." she chose a rose and offered it to him. he took it and put it into his button-hole. at that instant laura acquaviva entered the room. iv. at the opening of the san carlo theatre on christmas night the opera was "the huguenots." a first night at the san carlo is always an event for the neapolitan public, no matter what opera, old or new, is given; but when the work happens to be a favourite the excitement becomes tremendous. the two thousand persons, male and female, who constitute society in that town of half a million inhabitants, go about for a week beforehand, from house to house, from café to café, predicting that the evening will be a success. the chief rôles in "the huguenots" were to be taken by de giuli borsi and roberto stagno, rôles in which the public was to hear these artists for the first time, though they were already known to everybody, either by reputation or from having been heard in other operas. so, on that christmas day, the two thousand members of neapolitan society put aside their usual occupations and arranged their time in such wise as to be ready promptly at eight o'clock, the men in their dress-suits, the women in rich and beautiful evening toilets. everybody gave up something--a walk, a call, a luncheon, a nap--for the sake of getting betimes to the theatre. by half-past seven the approaches to san carlo, its portico, its big and little entrances, all brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming like an ant-hill with eager people. some came on foot, the collars of their overcoats turned up, showing freshly shaven faces under their tall silk opera-hats, or freshly waxed moustaches and beards newly pointed; others came in cabs; and before the central door, under the portico, which was draped with flags, passed a constant stream of private carriages, depositing ladies muffled in opera-cloaks of red velvet or white embroidery. by a quarter past eight the house was full. anna and laura acquaviva, dressed in white silk, and accompanied by stella martini, occupied box no. of the second tier. cesare dias had a place in box no. of the first tier. anna kept her eyes fixed upon him. he glanced up at her, but did not bow. he only turned and spoke a few words to the young man next to him, who thereupon aimed his opera-glass, at the girls' box; he was a young gentleman of medium height, with a blonde beard, and blonde hair brushed straight back from his forehead. his brown eyes had an expression of great kindness. anna kept her gaze fixed upon cesare dias; if now and then she turned it towards the stage it would only be for a brief moment. "that is luigi caracciolo," said laura. "who?" asked anna. "luigi caracciolo, the man next to dias." "ah." and again, anna turned her face towards box no. , where cesare dias sat with luigi caracciolo. the rest of the theatre hung round her in a sort of coloured mist; the only thing she clearly saw was the narrow space where those two men sat together. did they feel the magnetism of her gaze? cesare dias, leaning forward, with his arm on the red velvet of the railing, was listening to the music of meyerbeer; now and then he cast an absent-minded glance round the audience, the glance of a man who knows beforehand that he will find the usual people in the usual places. luigi caracciolo appeared to give little heed to the music. he was pulling his blonde beard, and studying the ladies in the house through his opera-glass, while a slight smile played upon his lips. presently he fixed his glass on anna's box. had he felt that magnetism? at any rate, he kept his glass fixed upon anna's box. the curtain fell on the first act. cesare dias spoke a word or two to luigi, and the two men rose and left their places. suddenly it seemed to anna as if all the lights in the theatre had been put out. "stagno sang divinely," said stella martini. "yes," responded laura. "but didn't it strike you that he rather exaggerated?" "no, i can't say it did." anna did not hear; her eyes were closed. there was a rumour in the house of moving people; there was a sound of opening and closing doors. fans fluttered, men changed their seats, people went and came, many of the stalls were empty. the round of visits had begun. husbands and brothers left their boxes to make place for other men beside their wives and sisters; to pay their respects to other men's wives and sisters. there was a babble of many voices idly chatting. it began in the first and second tiers, and it rose to the galleries, the stronghold of students, workmen, and clerks. anna gazed sadly at that deserted box below her. all at once she heard laura say, "luigi caracciolo and cesare dias are with the contessa d'alemagna." anna turned round, and raised her opera-glass. they were there indeed, visiting the beautiful countess; anna could see the pale and noble face of cesare dias, the youthful face of caracciolo. the contessa d'alemagna was an austrian, very clever, very witty. she wore a costume of red silk, and kept waving a fan of red feathers, as she talked vivaciously with the two men. she must have been saying something extremely interesting, to judge by the close attention with which they listened to her and by the smiles with which they responded. when anna put down her opera-glass, her face had become deathly pale. "are you feeling ill?" asked stella martini. "no," the child replied, paler than ever. "perhaps it's too hot here for you. shall i open the door of the box?" suggested the governess. "laura, will you change seats with me?" said anna. laura took anna's place, and anna retired to the back of the box, where she closed her eyes. "do you feel better, dear?" "thanks. much better. it was the heat." and she made as if to return to the front of the box, but stella detained her, fearing that the heat there might again disturb her. so anna stopped where she was, breathing the fresh air that came through the open door. "do you like 'the huguenots,' stella?" she asked, for the sake of saying something, in the hope, perhaps, of thus forgetting her desire to see what was going on in the box of the contessa d'alemagna. "very much. and you?" "i like it immensely." "i am afraid--i am afraid that later on you may find it too exciting. you know the fourth act is very terrible. don't you dread the impression it may make upon you?" "it won't matter, stella," she said, with a faint smile. "perhaps you would like to go home before the fourth act begins. if you feel nervous about it----" "i am not nervous," she murmured, as if speaking to herself. "or, if i am, i'd rather suffer this way than otherwise." "we were wrong to come," said stella, shaking her head. "no, no, stella. let us stay. i am all right; i am enjoying it. don't take me home yet." and she went back to the front of the box, to the seat next to laura's. "cesare dias and luigi caracciolo have left the contessa d'alemagna," said laura. "already?" "perhaps they will come here," suggested stella martini. "i don't think so. there won't be time," said laura. "there won't be time," assented anna. the house had become silent again, in anticipation of the second act. here and there some one who had delayed too long in a box where he was visiting, would say good-bye quietly, and return to his place. a few such visitors, better acquainted with their hosts, remained seated, determined not to move. among the latter were, of course, the lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends of the husbands. from her present station anna acquaviva could not look so directly down upon box no. of the first tier as from her former; she had to turn round a little in order to see it, and thus her interest in it was made manifest. cesare dias and luigi caracciolo, after their visit to the contessa d'alemagna, had taken a turn in the corridor to smoke a cigarette, and had then returned to their places. anna, the creature of her hopes and her desires, could not resist the temptation to gaze steadily at her guardian, though she felt that thereby she was drawing upon herself the attention of all observers, and exposing her deepest feelings to ridicule and misconstruction. and now the divine music of meyerbeer surged up and filled the hall, and anna was conscious of nothing else--of nothing but the music and the face of cesare dias shining through it, like a star through the mist. how much time passed? she did not know. twice her sister spoke to her; she neither heard nor answered. when the curtain fell again, and anna issued from her trance, laura said, "there is giustino morelli." "ah!" cried anna, unable to control a contraction of her features. but she had self-constraint enough not to ask "_where?_" falling suddenly from a heaven of rapture to the hard reality of her life, where traces of her old folly still lingered; hating her past, and wishing to obliterate it from her memory, as the motives for it were already obliterated from her heart, she did not ask where he was. she covered her face with her fan, and two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. stella martini looked at her, desiring to speak, but fearing lest thereby she might only make matters worse. at last: "we were wrong to come here, anna," she said. "no, no," responded anna. "i am very well--i am very happy," she added, enigmatically. the door of the box was slowly pushed open. cesare dias and luigi caracciolo entered. with a word or two their guardian presented the young man to the sisters. the men sat down, cesare dias next to anna, luigi caracciolo next to laura. they began at once to talk in a light vein about the performance. overcoming the tumult of her heart, anna alone answered them. stella martini was silent, and laura, with her eyes half shut, listened without speaking. "stagno is a great artist; he is immensely talented," observed luigi caracciolo, with a bland smile, passing his fingers slowly through his blonde beard. "and so much feeling--so much sentiment," added anna. "to say that he is talented, that he is an artist, is enough," replied cesare dias, with an accent in which severity was tempered by politeness. anna assented, bowing her head. "for the rest, the number of decent opera singers on the modern stage is becoming less and less. we have a multitude of mediocrities, with here and there a star," continued luigi caracciolo. "ah, i have heard the great ones," sighed cesare dias. "yes, yes. you must have heard fraschini, negrini, and nourrit in their time," luigi caracciolo said, smiling with the fatuity of a fellow of twenty who imagines that his youth will last for ever. "you were a boy when i heard them, that's a fact--which doesn't prevent my being an old man now," rejoined cesare dias, with that shadow of melancholy in his voice which seemed so inconsistent with his character. "what do years matter?" asked anna, suddenly. "other things matter much more; other things affect us more profoundly, more intimately, than years. years are mere external, insignificant facts." "thanks for that kindly defence, my dear," cesare dias exclaimed, laughing; "but it only springs from the goodness of your heart." "from the radiance of youth," said luigi caracciolo, bowing, to underline his compliment. anna was silent and agitated. nothing so easily upset her equilibrium as light wordly conversation, based upon personalities and frivolous gallantry. "not enough, not enough," said cesare dias, wishing to cap the compliment, and at the same time to bring his own philosophy into relief. "as often as i find myself in the presence of these two girls, luigi, who are two flowers of youthfulness, i seem to feel older than ever. i feel that i must be a hundred at least. how many changes of government have i seen? eight or nine, perhaps. yes, i'm certainly more than a hundred, dear anna." and he turned towards her with a light ironical smile. "why do you say such things--such sad things?" murmured anna. "indeed they are sad--indeed they are. youth is the only treasure whose loss one may weep for the whole of one's life." "but don't feel badly about it, dear cesare. consider. isn't knowledge better than ignorance? isn't the calm of autumn better than the storms of spring? you are our master--the master of us all. we all revere him, don't we, _signorina_?" said luigi, turning to anna. a shadow crossed anna's face, and she let the conversation drop. "and you, who say nothing, reasonable and placid laura?" asked cesare dias. "which is better--youth or age? which is better--knowledge or ignorance? here are knotty problems submitted to your wisdom, dear minerva. you are a young girl, but you are also minerva. illuminate us. who should be the happier--i, the master, or caracciolo, my pupil?" laura thought for a moment, with an intent expression in her beautiful eyes, and then answered: "it is best to combine the two--to have youth and wisdom together." "the problem is solved!" cried cesare dias. "and the _entr'acte_ is over; everything in its time. good evening, good evening; good-bye, cesare," said luigi. so caracciolo took his leave, very correctly, without shaking hands with dias. dias had risen, but luigi seemed to understand that he meant to stay in the girls' box. anna, who had been looking up anxiously, waiting, looked down again now, reassured. the door closed noiselessly upon the young man. "a pleasant fellow," observed cesare dias. "very pleasant," agreed stella martini, for politeness' sake, or perhaps because she desired to state her opinion. "in my quality of centenarian i feel at liberty to stop where i am," said cesare dias, reseating himself behind anna, while beside him, behind laura, sat stella martini. "you won't get a good view of the stage from there," said stella. "i don't care to see. it will be enough to hear it, this fourth act." anna said nothing. courtesy forbade her looking directly at the scene, for thus she must have turned her back upon cesare dias. it embarrassed her a little to feel him there behind her. she did not move. their two chairs were close together; and their two costumes made a striking contrast: his black dress-suit, the modern and elegant uniform of the man of the world, so austere and so handsome in its soberness; and her gown of white silk, the ceremonial robe of a young girl in society. she was afraid her arm might touch cesare's. he held his opera-hat in his hand. she forbore to fan herself, lest he might have to change his position. now and then she raised her handkerchief to her lips, as if to refresh them with the cool linen. while saint-bris, stirred by fanaticism, was telling the catholic lords of the excesses of the huguenots, and exciting them by his eloquence to share his fury; while the noble nevers, the husband of valentina, was protesting against the massacre; while, through the silence of the theatre, the grand musical poem of hatred, of wrath, of generosity, of love, and of piety, was surging up to the fascinated audience, anna was thrilling at the thought that cesare dias was looking at her, at her hair, at her lips, at her person; she felt that she was badly dressed, pale, awkward, stupid. wasn't the contessa d'alemagna a thousand times more beautiful than she? the contessa d'alemagna, with her dark complexion and her blue eyes, and her expression of girlish ingenuousness deliciously contrasted with womanly charm; the contessa d'alemagna, whom cesare dias had visited before coming to his ward's box. weren't there a hundred women of their set present in the theatre this evening, each of them lovelier than she? young girls, smiling brides, and ladies to whom maturity lent a richer attraction, all of them acquaintances of cesare dias, who, from time to time, looked at them through his opera-glass. and, indeed, her own sister, the wise minerva, was she not more beautiful, more maidenly, more poetical than anna? was it not because of her beauty, her pure profile, her calm smile, that cesare had called her by that gracious name, minerva? anna bowed her head, as if oppressed by the heat and by the music, but really from a sense of self-contempt and humiliation. there was a looking-glass behind her. she was sorry now that she hadn't made an inspection of herself in it, on entering the box. she had forgotten her own face. fantastically, she imagined it as brown and scarred, and hideously pallid. her white frock made it worse. she registered a silent vow that she would always hereafter wear black. only blonde women could afford to dress in white. "you have dropped your fan," said cesare dias, stooping to recover it. he smiled as he handed it to her. "thank you," said she, taking the fan. presently she put it down on an empty chair next to her. cesare dias picked it up, and began to fan himself. then he pressed it to his face. "what is it perfumed with?" he asked. "heliotrope." "i like it," he said, and put the fan down. she was burning with a desire to take it, to touch what he had touched, but she dared not. cesare dias leaned forward a little, to look at the stage. he was so close to her, it seemed to anna that she could hear him breathe. for her own part, a sort of intoxication, due no doubt in some measure to the passionate art of the great composer, whose music surged like a flood about her, had mounted from her heart to her brain; she was conscious of nothing save a great world of love, save the near presence of cesare dias. her soul held a new and precious treasure, a new joy. she delighted herself with the illusion that the beating of her own heart was the beating of cesare's. she forgot everything--the place, the time, the future, youth, age, beauty, everything; motionless, with her eyes cast down, she seemed to float in a wave of soft warm light, aware of one single sweet sensation, his nearness to her. she had forgotten the stage, the people round her, stella martini, her sister laura; the music itself was only a distant echo; her whole being was concentrated in an ecstasy, which she hoped might never end. she did not dare to move or speak, lest she might thereby wake from her heavenly dream. she had again entered anew into the land of passion. she was one of those natures which, having ceased to love, begin again to love. "i could die like this," she thought. she felt that she could die thus, in a divine moment, when new love, young and strong, has not yet learned the lessons of sorrow, of shame, of worldly wickedness, that await it; it would be sweet to die with one's illusions undisturbed, to die in the fulness of youth, before one's ideals have begun to decay; to die loving, rather than to live to see love die. so, on the stage, raoul and valentina, victims of an irrepressible but impossible passion, were calling upon heaven for death, praying to be allowed to die in their divine moment of love. anna, recoiling from the thought of the future, with its inevitable vicissitudes, struggles, tears, and disappointments, realised the fascination of death. involuntarily, she looked at cesare. he smiled upon her, and thereat she too smiled, like his faithful image in a mirror. and her sublime longing to die, disappeared before the reality of his smile. she looked at him again, but this time he was intent upon the scene. anna felt that her love was being sung for her by the artists there, by raoul and valentina. cesare said to her, "how beautiful it is!" "it is beautiful," she murmured, bowing her head. it seemed to her that his voice had been unusually soft. what was the reason? what commotion was taking place in his heart? she asked herself these questions, but could not answer them. she loved him. that was enough. she loved him; she could not hope to be loved by him. the music ceased. the curtain fell. "have you ordered the carriage?" cesare dias asked of stella martini. "yes, for twelve o clock. "if you'll wait for me a moment i'll go and get my overcoat." the ladies were putting on their cloaks, when cesare came back, wearing his hat and overcoat. he helped stella on with hers, then laura, then anna. and looking at the sisters, he said, "you ought to have your portraits painted, dressed like this. i assure you, you're looking extremely handsome. i speak as a centenarian." laura smiled; anna looked down, embarrassed. her trouble was increased when she saw cesare politely offer his arm to stella martini. had she hoped that he would offer it to _her_? he motioned to the girls to take the lead in leaving the box. anna put her arm through laura's and went out slowly. he conducted them to their carriage, and when they were safely in it, "i shall walk," he said, "it's such a fine evening. good-night." in the darkness, as they drove home, laura asked, "did you see giustino morelli?" "no, he wasn't there." "what do you mean? he _was_ there." "for me, he wasn't there. giustino morelli is dead." v. cesare dias encouraged the attentions which his young friend luigi caracciolo was paying to his ward anna acquaviva. he encouraged them quietly, with the temperance which he showed in all things, not with the undisguised eagerness of a father anxious to marry off his daughter. and yet he was certainly anxious to marry her off. he was anxious to hand his responsibilities over to a husband, to confide to the care of another the safeguarding of that ardent and fragile soul, which threatened at any moment to fall into emotional errors. a thousand symptoms that could not escape his observant eye, kept him in a state of secret nervousness about her. it was true, nevertheless, that she had greatly changed for the better. thanks to his constant watchfulness, to his habit of reproving her whenever she betrayed the impulsive side of her nature, to his sarcasm, to his biting speech, she had indeed greatly changed in manner. a desire to obey him, to please him, a painless resignation, a loving humility, showed themselves in everything she said and did. he saw that she was making mighty efforts to dominate the impetuousness of her character; he saw that she listened with close attention to his talk, trying to reconcile herself to those perverse theories of his which pained her mortally. that was what he called giving her a heart of bronze, strengthening her against the snares and delusions of the world. if he could but deprive her of all capacity for enthusiasm he would thereby deprive her of all capacity for suffering, as well. cesare dias congratulated himself upon this labour of his, glorifying himself as a sort of creator, who had known how to make over the most refractory of all metals, human nature. and yet his mind was not quite at ease. her docility, her obedience, her self-control, roused his suspicions. he began to ask himself whether the girl might not be a monster of hypocrisy, whether under her tranquil surface she might not still be on fire within. but had she not always been a model of sincerity? her very faults, had they not sprung from the truthfulness and generosity of her nature? no; the hypothesis of hypocrisy was untenable. cesare dias was far too intelligent to believe that the intimate essence of a soul can undergo alteration. it was impossible that a soul so essentially truthful as anna's should suddenly become hypocritical. and yet he was not easy in his mind. what profound reason, what occult motive, could be at the bottom of anna's change of front? what was it that enabled her and persuaded her to withhold her tears, suppress her sobs, and master the ardour of her temperament? ah, no! cesare dias was not easy in his mind. he knew the strength of his own will, he understood his own power to rule people and to impose his wishes upon them; but that was not enough to account for the conditions that puzzled him. there must be something else. he was not anxious about laura. the wise and beautiful minerva he could marry whenever he liked, to whomsoever he liked. he was sure that laura would be able to take care of herself. he held the opinion, common to men of forty, that marriage was the only destiny proper for a young girl. and it was only by means of a marriage that he would be able to relieve himself of his weight of responsibility in respect of anna acquaviva. so, as often as he decently could, he brought meetings to pass between luigi caracciolo and his wards: sometimes at the theatre, sometimes in the villa nazionale, sometimes at parties and dances; indeed, it would seldom happen that cesare would speak to the girls in public, without the handsome young luigi caracciolo appearing a few minutes later. there was probably a tacit understanding between the two men. anna seemed to be unconscious of what was going on. whenever her guardian approached her, presenting himself with that elegant manner which was one of his charms, she welcomed him with a luminous smile, giving him her hand, gazing at him with brilliant, joyful eyes, listening eagerly to what he had to say, and by every action showing him her good-will. and when, in turn, luigi caracciolo followed, she gave him a formal handshake, and exchanged a few words with him, distantly, coldly. he would try his hardest to shine before her, to bring the talk round to subjects with which he was familiar; but their interviews were always so short! at the theatre, between the acts; at the villa, walking together for ten minutes at the utmost; at a ball, during a quadrille; and always in the presence of laura, or stella, or the marchesa scibilla, the girls' distant cousin, who often chaperoned them; and always watched from afar by their guardian cesare dias. the relations between luigi caracciolo and anna acquaviva were such as, save in rare exceptional cases, always exist between people of the aristocracy. they were founded upon conventionality tempered by a certain amount of sympathy. the rigorous code of our nobility forbids anything approaching intimacy. luigi caracciolo's courtship of anna was precisely like that of every other young man of his world. during the carnival, it became a little more pressing, perhaps; he began to take on the appearance of a man in love. it seemed as if he invented pretexts for seeing her every day. willingly or unwillingly, cesare dias was his accomplice. luigi was becoming more and more attentive. if anna mentioned a book, he would send it to her, with a note; he would underline the sentimental passages, and when he met her again would ask her opinion upon it. if she mentioned a friend of her childhood, he would interest himself in all the particulars of the friendship. he was burning to know something about her first love affair; he had heard it vaguely rumoured that she had had one, that it had ended unhappily, and been followed by a violent illness. and, indeed, from the way in which she would sometimes suddenly turn pale, from certain intonations of her voice, from her habit of going off into day-dreams when something said or done seemed to suggest old memories to her, it was easy for him to see that she must have passed through some immense emotional experience, and suffered from some terrible shock. she had a secret! behind her great black eyes, behind her trembling lips, behind her silence, she hid a secret. luigi was in love with her, in his own way; not very deeply in love, but in love. if cesare dias, in anna's hearing, spoke of love, of the folly of passion, of the futility of hope, the girl bowed her head, listening without replying, as if she considered cesare the infallible judge of all things. luigi caracciolo saw this, and it tormented him with curiosity. once he openly asked dias if anna had not already been in love. dias, with the air of a man of the world, answered: "yes, she was interested in a young man, a decent young fellow, who behaved very well." "why didn't they marry?" "the young man was poor." "was she very fond of him?" "a mere girlish fancy." "and now she has quite forgotten him?" "absolutely, absolutely." this dialogue relieved luigi for a moment; but he soon felt that it could not have contained the whole truth. he felt that the whole truth could only be told by anna acquaviva herself. and when he was alone with her he longed to question her on the subject, but his questions died unspoken on his lips. luigi's attentions to her had by this time become so apparent, and cesare's manner was so much that of a father desirous of giving his consent to the betrothal of his daughter, that anna could no longer pretend not to understand. sometimes, when cesare would come up to her, arm in arm with his young friend, she would look into his eyes with an expression which seemed to ask, "oh, why are you doing this?" he would appear not to notice this silent appeal. he knew very well that to attain his object he would have to overcome tremendous obstacles; that to persuade anna acquaviva to marry luigi caracciolo would be like taking a strong fortress. but he was a determined man, and he had determined to succeed. he saw her humility, he saw how she lowered her eyes before him, he felt that in most things she would be wax under his hand. but he was not at all sure that she would obey him when it came to a question of love, when it came to a question of her marriage. she might again rebel, as she had already rebelled. anna felt a latent irritation at perceiving luigi's intentions and cesare's approval of them, and she revenged herself by adopting towards the young man a demeanour of haughty politeness, against which he was defenceless. she took pleasure in contradicting him. if he seemed sentimental--and he was often sentimental in his way, which involved an element of sensuality--she became ironical, uttering paradoxes against sentiment in general; her voice grew hard; she seemed almost cynical. from sheer amiability luigi caracciolo always ended by agreeing with her, but it was easy to see that in doing so he was obeying his affection for her; he had quite the air of saying that she was right, not because he was convinced, but because she was a charming woman of whom he was devotedly fond. "you agree with me for politeness' sake. what weakness!" she said angrily, with the impatience that women take no pains to conceal from men whom they don't like. the slight smile with which luigi assented to this proposition, and implied, moreover, that weakness born of a desire to please a loved one, was not altogether reprehensible, annoyed her more than ever. anna wished the whole exterior world to keep tune to her own ruling thought, and anybody who by any means prevented such a harmony became odious to her. such an one was luigi caracciolo. cesare dias, with his acute insight, watched the couple rather closely. and when he saw anna trying to avoid a conversation with luigi, refusing to dance with him, or receiving him with scant courtesy, a slight elevation of his eyebrows testified to his discontent. one day, when she had turned her back upon the young man at a concert, cesare dias, coming up, said to her, "you appear to be treating caracciolo rather badly, anna." "i don't think so," she replied, trembling at his harsh tone. "i think so," he insisted. "and i beg you to be more civil to him." "i will obey you," she answered. for several days after that she seemed very melancholy. laura, who continued to sleep in the same room with her, often heard her sighing at night in her bed. two or three times she had asked a little anxiously, "what is the matter?" "nothing, nothing. go to sleep," anna replied. on the next occasion of her meeting caracciolo, she treated him with exaggerated gentleness, in which, however, the effort was very apparent. he took it as so much to the good. she persevered in this behaviour during their next few interviews, and then she asked dias, triumphantly: "am i doing as you wish?" "in what respect?" "in respect of caracciolo." "do you need my approbation?" he asked, in surprise. "for politeness' sake alone you should be civil to the young man." "but it was you who told me to be so," she stammered meekly. "i merely told you what a young lady's duty is--that's all." she bent her head contritely. she had made a great effort to please cesare dias, and this was all the recognition she got. however, she could not feel towards him the least particle of anger; and the result was that her dislike of luigi caracciolo took a giant's stride. luigi caracciolo's name was in everybody's mouth; everybody talked about him to her--laura, stella martini, the marchesa scibilla. she shrugged her shoulders, without answering. her silence seemed like a consent; but it is easy to guess that it was really only a means of concealing her unpleasant thoughts. when, however, it was her guardian who mentioned caracciolo, vaunting not only his charm, but also the seriousness of his character, she became excessively nervous. she looked at him in surprise, wondering that he could speak thus of such a disagreeable and vulgar person, and smiling ironically. one day, overcome by impatience, she asked: "but do you really take him so seriously?" "who?--caracciolo?" "of course--caracciolo." "i take every man seriously, who deserves it; and he does, i assure you." "i don't want to contradict you," she said, softly; "but that is not my opinion." "have you really an opinion on the subject?" he responded, with a slight inflexion of contempt. "yes, indeed, i have an opinion." "and why?" "why, because----" "the opinions of young girls don't count, my dear. you are very intelligent; there's no doubt of that. but you know absolutely nothing." "but, after all," she exclaimed, "do you really wish to persuade me that caracciolo is a clever man?" "certainly." "that he has a heart?" "certainly," he answered, curtly. "that he is sympathetic?" "certainly," he repeated for the third time. "well, well," she said, disconcerted. "i find him arid in mind, hard of heart, and often absurd in his manners. no one will ever convince me of the contrary. he's a doll, not a man. such a creature a man! it doesn't require much knowledge to see through _him_!" "it is quite unnecessary to discuss it, my dear," said cesare dias, icily. "we won't discuss it farther. i'm not anxious to convince you, and it doesn't matter. think what you like of anybody. it's not my affair to correct your fancies. i have unlimited indulgence still at your disposal for your extravagances; but there's one thing i can't tolerate--ingratitude. do you understand--i hate ingratitude?" "but what do you mean?" she cried, in anguish. "nothing more. good night." he turned on his heel and went away. for ten days he did not reappear in the acquaviva household. he had never before let so long an interval pass without calling, unless he was out of town. stella martini, not seeing him, ingenuously sent to ask how he was. he replied, through his servant, that his health was perfect and that he thanked her for her concern. in reality, he was furious because in his first skirmish with anna on the subject of luigi caracciolo she had beaten him; furious, not only because of the wounds his _amour-propre_ had received, but because his schemes for the girl's marriage were delayed. his anger was mixed with certain very lively suspicions, lively, though as yet not altogether clear in substance. it was impossible that anna's conduct should not be due to some secret motive. he began at last to wonder whether she was still in love with giustino morelli. meanwhile, he refrained from calling upon her, well aware that in dealing with women no method is more efficacious than to let them alone. and, indeed, anna was already sorry for what she had said, not because it wasn't true, but because she felt that she had thereby offended cesare dias, perhaps very deeply. but what could she do, what could she do? that cesare dias should plead with her for another man! it was too much. she felt that she must no longer trust to time; she must take decisive action at once. cesare's absence caused her great bitterness. her regret for what she had said was exceedingly sharp during the first few days. she realised that she had been wrong, at least in manner. she ought to have held her tongue when she saw his face darken, and heard his voice tremble with scorn. instead, in her foolish pride, she had held up her head, and spoken, and offended him. for two days, and during the long watches of two nights, stifling her sobs so that laura should not hear them, she had longed to write him a little note to ask his pardon; but then she had feared that that might increase his irritation. mentally, she was constantly on her knees before him, begging to be forgiven, as a child begs, weeping. she believed, she hoped he would come back; on his entrance she would press his hand and whisper a submissive word of excuse. she had not yet understood what a serious thing his silent vengeance could be. he did not call. and now a dumb grief began to take the place of anna's contrition, a dumb, aching grief that nothing could assuage, because everything reminded her of its cause, his absence. whenever she heard a door opened, or the sound of a carriage stopping in the street before the house, she trembled. she had no peace. she accused him of injustice. why was he so unjust towards her, towards _her_ who ever since that fatal day at pompeii had only lived to obey him? why did he punish her like this, when her only fault had been that she saw the insignificance, the nullity, of luigi caracciolo? every hour that passed intensified her pain. in her reserve she never spoke of him. stella martini said now and again, "signor dias hasn't called for a long time. he must be busy." "no doubt," replied laura, absently. "no doubt," assented anna, in a weak voice. she was burning up with anxiety, with heartache, with suspicion, and with jealousy. yes, with jealousy. it had never occurred to her that cesare might have some secret love in his life, as other men have their secret loves, and as he would be especially likely to have his, for he was rich and idle. in her ingenuousness and ignorance, it had never occurred to her. it was as if other women didn't exist, or as if, existing, they were quite unworthy of his interest. but now it did occur to her. in the darkness of his absence the thought came to her, and took possession of her; and sometimes it seemed so infinitely likely, that she could scarcely endure it. it was more than probable that amongst all the beautiful women of his acquaintance there was one whom he loved. it was with her that he passed his hours--his entire days, perhaps. that was why anna never saw him! at the end of a week her distress had become so turbulent, that her head reeled, as it used to reel when she thought of flying with giustino morelli. as it used to reel then? nay, more, worse than then. in those days she had not felt the consuming fires of jealousy, fires that destroy for ever the purest joys of love. in those days the man she cared for was so absolute in his devotion to her, she had not tasted the bitterness of jealousy, a bitterness beyond the bitterness of gall and wormwood, a poison from whose effects those who truly love never recover. but who was she, the woman that so powerfully attracted cesare as to make him forget his child! the contessa d'alemagna, perhaps. yes, it must be she--that dark lady, with the blue eyes, the wonderful toilets, the youthful colour, the vivacious manner; she was indeed an irresistible enchantress. poor anna! during cesare's absence she learned all the phases of hope and fear, of torturing jealousy, of wretched loneliness. he did not come he did not come; perhaps he would never come again. what had he said? that he detested ingratitude, that he despised people who were ungrateful. ungrateful--she! but how could he expect her to thank him for wishing to marry her to luigi caracciolo? was she really ungrateful? three or four times she had written to him, begging him to come; now a simple little note; now a long passionate letter, full of contradictions, wherein, to be sure, the word "love" never appeared, but where it could be read between the lines; now a frank, short love-letter: but each in turn had struck her as worse than the others, as more trivial, more ineffectual; and she had ended by tearing them to pieces. it was she who had put it into stella martini's head to send to inquire how he was; his curt response to that inquiry struck a chill to her heart: he was in town, and he was well. then she would go out for long walks with stella, in the hope of meeting him. one afternoon in february, at last, she did meet him, thus, in the street. "how do you do?" she said, nervously. "very well," he answered, with a smile. "it's a long while since we have seen you," said stella martini. "i hadn't noticed it." "you haven't called for many days," said anna, looking into his eyes. "many?" "eight days." "eight. really? are you sure?" "i have counted them," she said, turning away her head, as if to look at the sea. "i'm sure that's a great compliment." and he bowed gallantly. "it wasn't a compliment. it was affection, it was gratitude." "good. i see you're in a better frame of mind. i'll call to-morrow." when he had left them, anna and stella went on towards the mergellina, walking more rapidly than before. anna kept looking at the sea, with a slight smile upon her lips, a new colour in her cheeks. she buried her hands in her muff. had he not pressed one of those hands at parting with her? now and then she would look backwards, as if expecting to see him again; it was the hour of the promenade. she did see him again, indeed; but this time he was in a carriage, a smart trap of the viennese pattern, driven dashingly by luigi caracciolo. she saw them approaching from afar, swiftly. she bowed and smiled to both of them. her smile was luminous with happiness; and luigi caracciolo imagined himself the cause of it, and drove more slowly; and cesare dias was pleased by it, for he took it as an earnest of her better frame of mind. when stella martini asked her, "shall we continue our walk or go home?" she answered, "let us go home." she had seen him; she had told him how anxiously she had counted the days of his absence; he had promised that he would call to-morrow. she had seen him again, and had smiled upon him. that was enough. she mustn't ask too much of providence in a single day. anna went home as happy as if she had recovered a lost treasure. and yet cesare dias had been cold and distant. but what did that matter to anna? she had got back her treasure; that was all. again she would enjoy his dear presence, she would hear his voice, she would sit near to him, she would speak with him, answer him; he would come again every day, at his accustomed hour; she could please herself with the fancy that that hour was sacred to him, as it was to her. nothing else mattered. it was true that she had met him by the merest chance; it was true, that had chance ordered otherwise, a fortnight might have passed without her seeing him. it was true, that he had taken no pains to bring about their meeting. it was true, also, that she and stella had as much as begged him to call upon them. but in all this he had been so like himself, his conduct had been so characteristic, that anna was glad of it. it was a great thing to have made her peace with him, without having had to write to him. "signor dias was looking very well," said stella martini, "we shall see him to-morrow." "yes, to-morrow," said anna, smiling. "i missed him immensely during his long absence." "so did i." "you're very fond of him, aren't you?" stella inquired ingenuously. "yes," answered anna, after a little hesitation. "he's so good--in spite of the things he says," observed the governess. "he is as he is," murmured anna, with a gesture. when they got home, laura noticed anna's air of radiant joy. anna moved about the room, without putting by her hat or muff. at last she said, "you know, we met dias." "ah?" responded laura, without interest. "he's very well." "that's nothing extraordinary." "he's coming to-morrow." "good." but when he arrived the next day, it was laura who received him. anna, at the sound of the bell, had taken refuge in her own room. "oh, wise minerva!" cried dias, pressing her little white hand. "you are well. you are natural. you know no weakness. you, i am sure, haven't been counting the days of my absence. i understand. i am wise, too. we are like the seven sages of greece." she responded with a smile. cesare dias looked at her admiringly. then anna came. she was embarrassed; and red and white alternated in her cheek. she spoke nervously, and kept her eyes inquiringly fixed upon cesare's face. he, on the other hand, was calm and superior. he behaved as if he had never been away. he had the good sense not to mention luigi caracciolo; and anna, who was waiting for that name as for an occasion to show her submissiveness, was disconcerted. dias appeared to have forgotten the ingratitude with which he had reproached her. he had the countenance of a man too magnanimous to bear a grudge. and anna was more than ever disconcerted by such unmerited generosity. for several days he did not speak of caracciolo; then, noticing how anna said yes to every remark he made, little by little he began to reintroduce the subject. little by little caracciolo regained his position, became a new, an important member of their group. he returned to the attack, encouraged by the smile he had received that day in the mergellina. his manner was more devoted than ever. he treated the girl as a loved object before whom he could pass his life kneeling. she could not control a movement of dislike at first seeing him, because it was he who had occasioned her quarrel with cesare dias; but luigi did not notice it; and she soon got herself in hand, determined to treat him as kindly as she possibly could. it was a sacrifice she was making to please cesare dias. she closed her eyes to shut out the vision of the peril towards which she was advancing. she compromised herself with luigi caracciolo day after day. she compromised herself as a girl does only with the man she means to marry; accepting flowers from him, answering his notes, listening to his compliments; and at night, when she was alone, she would tremble with anger and with self-contempt, counting the steps she had made during the afternoon towards the great danger! but the fear of seeing cesare dias again absent himself for eight days, the fear that he might again pass eight days at the feet of the contessa d'alemagna, or at those of some other beautiful woman--this fear rendered her so weak that she went on, not knowing where she might stop, feeling that she was approaching the most terrible crisis of her life. cesare dias, somewhat easier in his mind about the girl appeared to be pleased in a fatherly way by her conduct; it seemed as if he was watching his chance to speak the decisive word. anna, dreading that word, had got into an overwrought nervous condition, where her humour changed from minute to minute. now she would cry, now she would laugh, now she would blush, now she would turn pale. "what's the matter?" asked dias. "nothing," she answered, passing her hand over her eyes. but at his question she smiled radiantly, and he felt that he had worked a little miracle. he was a clever man, and he knew that he must strike while the iron was hot. he must attack anna in one of her moments of meekness, or not at all. luigi caracciolo became more and more pressing; he loved the girl, and he told her so in every look he gave her. and time was flying. everybody who met anna congratulated her upon her engagement; and when she replied: "no, i'm not engaged," people shook their heads, smiling sceptically. one afternoon, angry with caracciolo because of a letter he had written to her, and which he insisted upon her answering, she said to dias, who was talking with laura: "i want to speak to you." "good. and i want to speak to you." "then--will you call to-morrow?" "yes. in the morning." he returned to his conversation with laura. all night long she prayed for strength and courage. and when, the next morning, she was alone with him, too frightened to speak, she simply handed him caracciolo's letter. he took it, read it, and silently returned it. "what do you think of it?" she asked. "ah!" he exclaimed, as if he did not wish to express an opinion. "does it strike you as a serious letter?" "yes, it's serious." "i may easily be mistaken," she said. "that is why i want to ask your advice. you--you know so much." "a little," he assented, smiling. they spoke very quietly, seated side by side, without looking at each other. "doesn't he strike you as bold?" she asked. "who? caracciolo? for having written that letter?" "yes." "no. people in love are always writing letters. they don't always send them, but they always write them." "ah, is that so?" "he loves you, therefore he writes to you." "he loves me?" she inquired, trembling. "of course." "are you sure?" "certainly." "has he told you so?" "he has told me so." "and what did you answer?" "i? nothing. he asked me nothing. he merely announced a fact. it's from you that he expects an answer." "from me?" she exclaimed. "every letter calls for an answer." "i shan't answer this one." "why not?" "because i have nothing to say to him." "don't you love him?" "no." "not even a little? don't you like him?" "no, i don't love him, i don't even like him." "i can't believe it," he said, very gravely, as if he saw before him an insurmountable obstacle. "you deceive yourself then," said she. "i see that you receive him kindly, that you speak to him politely, that you listen to his compliments, apparently with pleasure. that's a great deal for a young girl to do." and he lifted his eyebrows. "i have done it to please you--because he is a friend of yours," she cried. "thank you," he cried, curtly. then befell a silence. she played with an antique coin attached to her watch-chain, and kept her eyes cast down. "so," he began presently, "so you won't marry luigi caracciolo?" "no. never." "he's a splendid fellow, though. he has a noble name, a handsome fortune. and he loves you." "i don't love him, and i won't marry him." "love isn't necessary in marriage," said cesare coldly. "not for others, perhaps. for me it is necessary," she cried, pained in the bottom of her heart by this apothegm. "you know nothing about life, my dear. a marriage for love and a marriage for convenience are equally likely to turn out happily or unhappily. and of what use is passion? of none." she bowed her head, not convinced, obstinate in her faith, but respecting the man who spoke to her. "if you don't care for luigi caracciolo, you ought to try not to see him." "i will avoid him." "but he will seek you." "i'll stay in the house." "he'll write to you." "i have already said i won't answer him." "he will persevere; i know him. the prize at stake is important. he will persevere." "you will tell him that the marriage is impossible." "ah, no, my dear. i shan't be the bearer of any such ungracious message." "aren't you--aren't you my guardian?" "yes, i am your guardian. but i heartily wish francesco acquaviva had not chosen me. frankly, i would prefer to be nothing to you." "am i--so bad?" she pleaded, with tears in her eyes. "i don't know whether you are good or bad. i don't waste my time trying to make such distinctions. i only know that he's a fine young fellow, handsome and rich, who loves you, and that you, without a single earthly reason, refuse him. i know that he is anxious to marry you, in spite of the fact that you don't care for him, in spite of--pass me the word--in spite of the extravagance of your character. excuse me, dear anna, but i want to ask you whether you think it will be easy to find another husband?" "how can i tell?" "i ask, do you think another will be likely to ask you for your hand?" "excuse me. i don't understand," she said, turning pale, because she did understand. "my dear, have you forgotten the past?" "what past?" she demanded, proudly. "nothing but a flight from home, my dear. a day passed at pompeii with a young man. nothing else." "oh, heavens!" she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "don't cry out, anna. this is a serious moment. you must control yourself. remember that what you did respectable girls don't do. luigi caracciolo knows nothing about it, or nothing definite. but a man who did know about it, wouldn't marry you, my dear. it's hard; it's cruel; but it's my duty to tell it to you. marry him; marry luigi. that is the advice of a friend, of a true friend, anna. marry luigi caracciolo." "i committed a great fault," she said, in a dull voice, "but haven't you forgiven me, you and laura?" "yes, yes. but husbands--but young men about to marry, don't pardon such faults. with what jealous care i have kept that secret! i have guarded it as if i were your father. and now you let a chance like this slip away! not realising that such a chance may never come again! but another man, an equal of caracciolo, where is he to be found?" "it is true that i committed a great fault," she said, returning always to the same idea; "but my honour was untouched." "i am the only person who knows that." "it is enough for me that you know it." "anna, anna, you're a foolish child; that's what you are. you fall in love with a penniless nobody, you escape from your home, you risk your honour, and you are saved by a miracle. afterwards, you are ill, you get well, you forget the young beggar; and then when a fine fellow like caracciolo falls in love with you, you refuse him. you're mad, anna. marry luigi caracciolo. i beg you to marry him." "you can't ask me that," she murmured. "love is a fancy. marry caracciolo." "i can't." "but why not? it's not a sufficient reason to say that you don't love him." "look for another reason, then," she said. "i'll find it." cesare dias had spoken these words in a threatening tone, unusual to him. he rarely lost his temper. after a long pause he asked, smiling sarcastically, "you are in love with some one else, i suppose?" anna did not answer. she wrung her hands and hid her eyes. "why don't you answer? you've fallen in love again, have you not?" "again? what do you mean?" she exclaimed. "i mean that to explain your refusal of luigi caracciolo, you must be in love with some other man. you little girls believe that passion is everlasting. you believe in faithfulness that lasts, if not beyond the grave, at least up to its brink. are you still in love with giustino morelli?" "oh, don't insult me like that," she cried, in a convulsion of sobs. "calm yourself," said he, studying her with cold curiosity, while she wept. "for pity's sake, don't think that of me," she besought him; "say anything that i deserve, but not that, not that." "calm yourself," repeated dias. "we will speak of this another day." "listen, listen," she cried. "don't go away yet. forgive me, first, for having interfered with one of your plans. but marry luigi caracciolo--i can't, indeed i can't. i never can. you smile at my word _never_. you are right, the human heart is such a fickle thing. forgive me. but you will see that i am not wrong. you will never never have any more trouble with me. i will be so obedient, so meek. i will do everything you wish. compared to you i am such a little, poor, worthless thing." she was weeping. giustino morelli and luigi caracciolo had disappeared from the conversation; only cesare dias and anna acquaviva remained in it. he listened with growing curiosity. if in one sense he had lost a battle, in another his vanity had gained a victory. a smile passed over his face. "don't cry," he said. "oh, let me cry. i am so unhappy, so miserable. i have played away my life so foolishly. but i didn't know. i swear to you, i didn't understand. now all is over. i am a lost woman----" "don't exaggerate." "oh, you yourself said it. you are right. a respectable girl, who holds dear her honour, who is jealous of her reputation, doesn't fly from her home, doesn't throw herself into the arms of a man. you are right--you only--you are always right--you who are so wise. but if you knew--if you knew what it is like, this madness that springs up from my heart to my brain--if you knew how i lose my head, when my feelings get the better of me--you would be sorry for me." "don't cry any more," he said, very low. "ah, if tears could only wash out the past," she sighed. "good-bye, anna," he said, rising. "don't go away." and she took his hand. "i haven't said anything to you yet. i haven't explained. you are going away angry with me. but you are right. the sooner it is finished the better. to-day i have no strength. i irritate you. women who make scenes are always tiresome. but you ought to know, you ought. i will write to you--i will write everything. you permit me to, don't you? say that you permit me. i can't live unless you let me write and tell you everything." "write," he said, softly. "and you forgive me?" "i have nothing to forgive. write. good-bye, anna." she sat down. dias went away. laura and stella came into the room. "well, is the marriage arranged?" asked stella, not noticing anna's red eyes and pale cheeks. "no. it will never be arranged." an hour later laura asked: "are you in love with cesare dias?" "yes," answered anna, simply. vi. anna's letter to cesare dias ran thus: "i don't know what name to call you by, whether by your own name, so soft and proud, or whether by that of friend, which says so much, and yet says nothing. i don't know whether i should write here the word that my respect for you imposes upon me, or the word that my heart inspires. perhaps i had better call you by no name at all; perhaps i ought not to struggle against the unconquerable superior will that dominates me. i am so poor a creature, i am so devoid of moral strength, that the best part of my soul is unconscious of what it does, and when i attempt to act, i am defeated from the outset; is it not true? ah, there is never an hour of noble and fruitful battle in my heart! only an utter ignorance of things, of feelings, a complete surrender to the sweetness of love, and, thereby, the loss of all peace, all hope! "how you must despise me. you are just and wise. you can't help despising a poor weak thing like me, a woman whose heart is always open, whose imagination is always ready to take fire, whose changeable mind is never fixed, whose veins, though cured of their great fever, are still burning, as if her rebellious blood could do nothing but burn, burn, burn. if you despise me--and your eyes, your voice, your manner, all tell me that you do--you are quite right. i never seem to be doing wrong, yet i am always doing it; and then, when i see it, it is too late to make good my error, to recover my own happiness, or to restore that of others. ah, despise me, despise me; you are right to despise me. i bend to every wind that blows, like a broken reed. i am overturned and rent by the tempest, for i know neither how to defend myself nor how to die. despise me; no one can despise me as you can, no one has so good a right to do it. "when you are away from me, i can think of you with a certain amount of courage, trusting to your kindness, to your charity, to forgive me my lack of strength. when you are away from me, i feel myself more a woman, braver; i can dream of being something to you, not an equal, no, but a humble follower in the things of the soul. dreams, dreams! when you are with me, all my faith in myself disappears; i recognise how feeble i am, how extravagant, how incoherent; no more, never more, can i hope for your indulgence. "i think of my past--justly and cruelly you reproached me with it--and i find in it such a multitude of childish illusions, such an entirely false standard of life and love, such a monstrous abandonment of all right womanly traditions, that my shame rushes in a flame to my face. have you not noticed it? "before that fatal day at pompeii--the first day of my real existence--i had a treasury of feelings, of impressions, of ideas, my own personal ones, by which my life was regulated, or rather by which it was disturbed; they were swept away, they were destroyed, they disappeared from my soul on that day. to you, who showed me how great my fault was, to you, who trampled down all that i had cared for, i bow my head, i bow my spirit. you were right. you are right. you only are right. you are always right. i want to convince you that i see the truth clearly now. let me walk behind you, let me follow you, as a servant follows her master. ah, give me a little strength you who are strong, you who have never erred, you who have conquered yourself and the world. give me strength, you who seem to me the model of calmness and justice--above all hazards, because you have known how to suffer in silence, above all human joy, because you understand its emptiness; and yet so kind, so indulgent, so quick to forgive, because you are a man and never forget to be a man. "you despise me, that is certain; for all strong natures must despise weakness. but it is also certain that you pity me, because i am buffeted about by the storms of life, without a compass, without a star. i have already once been wrecked; in that wreck i left behind me years of health and hope, the best part of my youthful faith. and now i am in danger of being wrecked again, utterly and for ever, unless you save me. "say what you will to me; do what you will with me. insult me, after having despised me. but don't leave me to my weakness, don't withdraw your support from me. it is my only help. "what shall i call you? friend? "friend, i shall be lost if you do not save me, if you refuse to allow my soul to follow yours, strengthened by your strength, if you cast me out from your spiritual presence, if you do not give me the support that my life finds in yours. friend, friend, friend, don't cast me off. say what you will, do what you will, but don't separate me from you. if you do, i shall die. i, a beggar, knock at your door." the letter continued-- "you wounded me profoundly when you said that it was perhaps giustino morelli, the man for whose sake i refused to marry luigi caracciolo. i can't hear the bare name of morelli, without shuddering with contempt. it isn't that i am angry with him, no, no. it is that he does not exist for me; he is the vain shadow of a dead man. on the evening of "the huguenots,"--ah me! that music sings constantly in my soul, i shall never forget it--he was there, and i didn't see him, i wouldn't see him. i don't hate him. he was a poor, weak fool; honest perhaps, for you have said so; but small in heart and mind! and thus my contempt for him is really contempt for myself, who made an idol of him. how was i ever able to be so blind? when i think of it, i wring my hands in desperation, for it was before him that i burned the first pure incense of my heart. i shall never forgive myself." cesare dias read this letter twice through. then he left his house to go about his affairs and his pleasures. returning home, he read it for a third time. thereupon he wrote the following note, which he immediately sent off. "dear anna,--all that you say is very well; but i don't know yet who the man is that you love.--very cordially, cesare dias." she read it, and answered with one line: "i love you.--anna acquaviva." cesare dias waited a day before he replied: "dear anna,--very well. and what then?--cesare dias." in the exaltation of her passion she had taken a step whereby she risked her entire future happiness; and she knew it. she had taken the humiliating step of declaring her love. would dias hate her? she had expected an angry letter from him, a letter saying that he would never see her again; instead of which she had received a colourless little note, neither warm nor cold, treating her declaration as he might have treated any most ordinary incident of his day. that was the unkindest cut of all. cesare dias was simply indifferent. for her, love was a tragedy; for him, it was an ordinary incident of his day. what to do now? she could not think. what to do? what to do? had he himself not asked, with light curiosity: "and what then?" he had asked it with the sort of curiosity one might show for the continuation of a novel one was reading. all night long she sobbed upon her pillow. "what is the matter?" asked laura, waking up. "nothing. go to sleep." in the morning she wrote to him again: "why do you ask me _what then_? i don't know; i cannot answer. god has allowed me to love a second time. i know nothing of 'then.' i only know one thing--i love you. perhaps you have known it too, this long while. my eyes, my voice, my words wherein my soul knelt before you, must have told you that i loved you. have you not seen me bow my proud head daily in humility before you? i began to love you that evening when we came home together from pompeii, when my fever was beginning. afterwards, my whole nature was transformed by my love of you. i don't ask you to love me. perhaps you are bound by other loves, past loves. perhaps you have never loved, and wish never to love. perhaps i don't please you, either spiritually or bodily. what is passing in your mind? who knows? i only know that you are strong and wise, that you never turn aside, that you follow your noble path tranquilly, in the triumphant calm of your greatness. have you loved? will you love? who knows? all i ask is that you will let me love you, without being separated from you. i ask that you will promise to wish me well, not as your ward, not as your sister, but as a poor girl who loves you with all her soul and life. i don't ask you to change your habits in any way; the least of your habits, the least of your desires, is sacred to me. live as you have always lived, only remember that in a corner of naples there is a heart that finds its only reason for existence in your existence, and continue from time to time to give it a minute of your presence. my love will be a silent companion to you. "are you not the same man who said to me, with a voice that trembled with pity, in that dark, empty room at the inn in pompeii, while i felt that i was dying--are you not the same man who said, _my poor child, my poor child_? "you pitied me. you do pity me. you will pity me. i know it, i know it. and that is the 'then' of my love. "don't write to me. i should be afraid to read what you might write. "ah, how i love you! how i love you! "anna acquaviva." cesare dias was very thoughtful after he had read this letter. his vanity, the vanity of a man of forty, was flattered by it. and anna's love, for the present, at any rate, seemed to be entirely obedient and submissive. but would it remain so? cesare dias had had a good deal of experience. anna's he knew to be a proud and self-willed character; would it always remain on its knees, like this? some day she would not be content only to love, she would demand to be loved in return. he did not answer the letter. he was an enemy to letter writing in general, to the writing of love letters in particular; and, anyhow, what could he say? for two days he did not call upon her. on the third day, he arrived as usual, at two o'clock. anna, during these days, had lived in a state of miserable suspense and nervousness. "what is the matter with her?" stella martini asked of laura. "i don't know." but the governess tormented her with questions, and at last she answered impatiently: "i think she is in love." "again?" "yes, again." "and with whom?" "she has never told me to tell you," cried laura, leaving the room. "what is the matter with you?" stella asked of anna. "you are suffering. why do you conceal your sorrow from me?" "if i am suffering, it's my own fault," said anna. "only god can help me." "can't i help you? you are in deep grief." "deep grief." "you have placed your hopes where they can't be realised? again?" "again." "why, dear? explain it to me." "because it is my destiny, perhaps." "you are young, beautiful, and rich. you ought to be the mistress of your destiny. it is only poor solitary people who have to submit to destiny." "i am poorer than the poorest beggar that asks for alms in the street." "don't talk like that," said stella, gently, taking her hand. "tell me about it." "i can't tell you about it, i can't. it is stronger than i am," said anna, and her anguish seemed to suffocate her. "tell me nothing, then, darling. i understand. i'm only a poor servant; but i love you so. and i want to tell you, anna, that there are no sorrows that can't be outlived." "if heaven doesn't help me, my sorrow will kill me." "the only irremediable sorrow in this world is the death of some one whom we love," said stella, shaking her head. "you will see." "i would rather die than live like this." "but is the case quite desperate? is there no ray of light?" "perhaps." "is it a man on whom your hope depends?" "yes." "do i know him?" but anna put her fingers on her lips, to silence stella. the bell had rung. and, at the sound of it, stella heard a great sigh escape from anna's breast. "what is it?" she asked. "nothing, nothing," said anna, passing her pocket-handkerchief over her face. "go to the drawing-room." "must i leave you alone?" "i beg you to. i am so upset. i want a minute of peace." "and you will come afterwards?" "i'll come when i can--when i am calm again." stella went slowly away. in the drawing-room she found dias, who was showing a copy of the illustrated _figaro_ to laura. dias bowed and asked, "and anna?" "she will come presently." "is she well?" "not ill." "then she is not well?" "i don't think so. but you will see for yourself." he and laura returned to the engravings in the _figaro_, which were very good. stella left them. anna entered the room. her heart was beating wildly. she did not speak. she sat down at the opposite side of the table on which the newspaper was spread out. dias said, referring to the pictures, "they're very clever." "very clever," agreed laura. dias bowed to anna, smiling, and asking, "how do you do?" "well," she answered. "signora martini told me that she feared you were not very well." "it's her affection for me, that imagines things. i am quite well." in his tone she could feel nothing more than pity for her. "i am only a little nervous." "it's the weather, the sirocco," said dias. "yes, the sirocco," repeated anna. "you'll be all right when the sun shines," said he. "when the sun shines, perhaps," she repeated mechanically. laura rose, and left the room. after a silence, cesare dias said, "it is true, then, that you love me?" anna looked at him. she could not speak. she made a gesture that said yes. "i should like to know why," he remarked, playing with his watch-chain. she looked her surprise, but did not speak. "yes, why," he went on. "you must have a reason. there must be a reason if a woman loves one man and not another. tell me. perhaps i have virtues whose existence i have never suspected." anna, confused and pale, looked at him in silence. he was laughing at her; and she besought him with her gaze to have pity upon her. "forgive me, anna. but you know it is my bad habit not to take seriously things that appear very serious to others. my raillery hurts you. but some day you must really try to tell me why you care for me." "because you are you," she said softly. "that's a very profound reason," he answered smiling. "but it would require many hours of meditation to be understood. and, of course, you will always love me?" "always." "may i say something that will pain you?" "say it," she sighed. "it seems to me, then, that you are slightly changeable. a year ago you thought you loved another, and would love him always. confess that you have utterly forgotten him. and in another year--what will my place be?" but he checked himself. she had become livid, and her eyes were full of tears. "i have pained you too much. nothing gives pain like the truth," he said. "but there, smile a little. don't you think smiles are as interesting as tears? you're very lovely when you smile." and obediently she smiled. "well, then, this eternal love," he went on, "what are we to do about it?" "nothing. i only love you." "does that suffice?" "i must make it suffice." "you are easily satisfied. will you always be so modest in your hopes?" "the future is in the hands of god," said she, not having the courage to lie. "ah! that is what i want to talk about--the future. you are hoping something from the future. otherwise you would not be satisfied. the future, indeed! you are twenty. you have never thought of my age, have you?" "it doesn't matter. for me you are young." "and i will come to love you? that is your hope?" "i have asked for nothing. don't humiliate me." he bowed, slightly disconcerted. he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little portfolio in red leather, which he opened, drawing forth two or three letters. "i have brought your letters with me. letters are so easily lost, and other people read them. so, having learned their contents, i return them to you." she did not take them. "what!" he cried, "aren't you glad to get them back? but there's nothing women wish so much as to get back the letters they have written." "tear them up--you," she murmured. "it's not nice to tear up letters." "tear them, tear them." "as you like," he said, tearing them up. she closed her eyes while he was doing it. then she said with a sad smile: "so, it is certain, you don't care for me?" "i mustn't contradict you," he answered gallantly. he took her hand to bid her good-bye. slowly she went back to her bedroom. there she found stella martini. "do you remember, stella, that day i left you in the church of santa chiara?" "yes; i remember." "well, now i tell you this--never forget it. on that day i signed my own death-sentence." vii. the villa caterina was embowered amongst the flowering orange-trees of sorrento. on the side towards the town the villa had a beautiful italian garden, where white statues gleamed amidst green leaves, and where all day long one could listen to the laughing waters of fountains. from the garden a door led directly into a big drawing-room. on the other side of the house a broad terrace looked over the sea. this was the summer home of the acquaviva family. it was bigger and handsomer than the house in naples. there was greater freedom, greater luxury, greater cheerfulness here, than in the gloomy palace of the piazza dei gerolomini. the girls were very fond of villa caterina, and their father, francesco acquaviva, had been very fond of it. he had named it for his wife. it was here that the couple had passed all the summers of their married life; it was here that caterina acquaviva had died. the girls had a sweet, far-away memory of their mother; in her room at the villa she was almost like a living presence to them. when the spring came anna began to speak of going to sorrento. she felt that if she could get away from naples she might experience a change of soul. the broad light and ceaseless murmur of the sea would calm her and strengthen her. when laura or stella asked her, "what is the matter?" she would answer, "i don't like being _here_." she said nothing of her great sorrow. she shut it into her heart, and felt that it was killing her by inches. she passed long hours in silent meditation, her eyes fixed vaguely upon the air; when spoken to, she would start nervously, and look at her interlocutor as if she had suddenly been called back from a distant land of dreams. those who loved her saw her moral and physical trouble. she stayed in the house day after day; she gave up her walks; she went no more to the theatre. she had lost her interest in the things that used to please her. she was very gentle, very kind to everybody. to cesare dias she showed an unfailing tenderness. she was often silent before him. when he spoke to her, she would reply with a look, a look of such deep melancholy that even his hard heart was touched. she was very different to the impetuous creature of former times. when the spring came, with its languorous warmth, her weakness increased. in spite of all her efforts to conquer her desire to do so, she would spend long hours writing to cesare. it was her only way of showing the love that was consuming her. it was a great comfort, and, at the same time, a great pain. she wrote at great length, confusedly, with the disorder and the monotony of a spirit in distress; and as she wrote she would repeat her written phrases aloud, as if he were present, and could respond. she wrote thrilling with passion, and her cheeks burned. but, after she had committed her letters to the post, she would wish them back, they seemed so cold, so absurd, so grotesque, and she cursed the moment in which she had put pen to paper. cesare dias never answered her. how could she expect him to, indeed? had he not torn her first letters up, under her eyes? whenever his servant brought him one of anna's letters he received it with a movement of impatience. he was not altogether displeased, however. he read them with a calm judicial mind, amused at their "rhetoric," and forbore to answer them. he went less frequently to her house than formerly. they were rarely alone together now. but sometimes it happened that they were; and then, observing her pale face, her eyes red from weeping, he asked: "what is it? why do you go on like this?" "what do you wish me to do?" she returned. "i want you to be merry, to laugh." "that--that is impossible," she said, drooping her eyes to hide the tears in them. and dias, fearing a scene, was silent. he was a man of much self-control, but he confessed to himself that he would not be able, as she was, to bear an unrequited love with patience. anna was a woman, a woman in the full sense of the word. she had hoped to win his heart; but now she relinquished hope. and one day, in may, she wrote him a letter of farewell; she would never write again; it was useless, useless. she bade him farewell; she said she would like to go away, go away from naples to sorrento, to the villa caterina, where her mother had loved and died. she begged laura and stella to take her to sorrento. and stella wrote to dias to ask his permission. he replied at once, saying he thought the change of air would be capital for anna. they had best leave at once. he could not call to bid them good-bye, but he would soon come to see his dear girls at the villa. stella said: "dias has written to me." "when?" asked anna. "yesterday. he says he can't come to bid us good-bye, he's too busy." "of course--too busy. will you give me the letter?" "it's a very kind letter," said stella. she saw that anna's hand was trembling as it held the white paper. anna did not return it. "dias is very kind," said anna. they left naples on the last day of may. when they reached the villa, the two girls went directly to their mother's room. laura opened the two windows that looked out upon the sea and let in the sunlight, and she moved from corner to corner, taking note of the dust on the furniture. anna knelt at the praying-desk, above which hung a cross, an image of the virgin, and a miniature of her mother. laura asked: "are you going to stay here?" anna did not answer. "when you come away bring me the key," said the wise minerva, and went off, softly closing the door behind her. "where is anna?" asked stella. "she is still up there," said laura. "what is she doing?" "weeping, or praying, or thinking. i don't know." "poor anna," sighed stella. how long did anna remain on her knees before the image of the virgin and the portrait of her mother? no one disturbed her. she kept murmuring: "oh, holy virgin! oh, my mother!" alternately. when she came away, having closed the windows and locked the door, she was so pale that stella said: "you have stayed up there too long. it has done you harm." "no, no," anna answered; "i am very well; i am so much better. i am glad we have come here. i should like to live here always." but stella was not reassured. and at night the thought of her pupil troubled her and would not let her sleep. sometimes she would get up and go to the door of anna's room. there was always a light burning within. two or three times she had entered; anna lay motionless on her bed, with her eyes closed. then stella had put out the light. "why do you leave your light burning at night?" she asked anna one day. "because i am afraid of the dark." thereupon stella had prepared a little lamp for her, with a shade of opalescent crystal that softened its light; and almost every night stella would go to anna's room to see whether she was asleep. her pale face in the green rays of the lamp had the semblance of a wreck slumbering at the bottom of the sea. sometimes, hearing stella's footsteps, anna opened her eyes and smiled upon her; then relapsed into her stupor. for it was not sleep; it was a sort of bodily and mental torpor that kept her motionless and speechless. stella returned to her own room, in no wise reassured. and what most worried this good woman was the long visit which anna made every day to the room of her dead mother. the villa was delightful during these first weeks of the summer, with its fragrant garden, its big, airy, cheerful, luxurious apartments, its splendid view of the sea. in the cool and perfumed mornings, in the evenings that palpitated with starlight, every window and balcony had its special fascination. but anna saw and felt nothing of all this; her mother's room alone attracted her. there she passed long hours kneeling beside the bed, or seated at a window, silent, gazing off at the sea, with a white expressionless face. sometimes stella came to the door and called: "anna--anna!" "here i am," she answered, starting out of her reverie. "come away; it is late." "i am coming." but she did not move; it was necessary to call her again and again. her stations there exhausted her. she would return from them with dark circles under her eyes, her lips colourless, the line of her profile sharpened and accentuated. stella felt a great pity for her, a great longing to be of help to her. she tried to persuade her to cut short her vigils in her mother's room. "you ought not to stay so long. it is bad for you." "no, no," anna answered. "if you knew the peace i find there." "but a young girl like you ought to wish for the excitements of life, not the peace." "there are no more flowers for margaret," quoted anna, going to the window and looking towards the sea. during the whole month of june, a lovely month at sorrento, where the mornings are warm and the evenings fresh, anna fell away visibly in health and spirits. laura and stella did not interfere with her, but it saddened them to witness her decline. stella's anxiety was almost motherly. when she saw anna's pale, peaked face, when she noticed her transparent hands, a voice from within called to her that she must do something for the poor girl. one day she said, "signor dias has promised to come here for a visit. but he's delaying a little. perhaps he'll come for the bathing season." "you will see. he'll not come at all," replied anna, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. "he's so kind, and he has promised. he will come." "i don't believe it," anna answered sadly. indeed, he neither came nor wrote. the first fortnight of july had passed; the bathing season had already begun. sorrento was full of people. in the evening, till late into the night, from every window, from every balcony, and from the big brilliantly lighted drawing-rooms of the hotels, came the sounds of singing and dancing, the tinkling of mandolines, the laughter of women--a gay, passionate, summer music. the villas were protected from the sun by blue and white striped awnings, which fluttered in the afternoon breeze like the sails of ships. at night the moon bathed houses, country, and sea in a radiance dazzling as snow. anna, in the midst of all this merriment, this health and beauty, felt only the more profoundly a great longing to end her life. it was seldom now that she so much as moved from one room to another. in the evening, when stella and laura would go out to call upon their friends, anna would seat herself in an easy-chair on the terrace of the villa, and fix her eyes upon the sky, where the milky way trembled in light. and on the sea beyond her, people were singing in boats, or sending up fireworks from yachts. round about her sounded the thousand voices of the glorious summer night, voices of joy, voices of passion. anna neither saw nor heard. but in stella's face she could not help noticing an expression of sympathy which seemed to say, "i have divined--i have guessed." and in the kiss which stella gave her, before going out, on the evening of the th of july, anna felt an even deeper affection than usual. laura and stella were going to a dance at the villa victoria. "be strong and you will be happy," stella said, and her kiss seemed meant as a promise of good news. but the poor child did not understand. she took stella's words as one of those vague efforts at consolation which people make for those who are inconsolable, and shook her head, smiling sadly. lovely in her white frock, laura too came and kissed her. and then she heard the carriage drive away. anna left the drawing-room and went out upon the terrace. there was a full moon; its light was so brilliant one might have read by it. there was something divinely beautiful in the view--from the horizon to the arch of the sky, from the hills behind her, covered with olives and oranges, to the sea before her. and she felt all the more intensely the sorrow of her broken life. she lay back in her easy-chair, with her eyes closed. "good evening," said cesare dias. she opened her eyes, but she could not speak. she could only look at him, and she did so with such an expression of desolate joy that he told himself: "this woman really loves me." he appeared to be very thoughtful. he drew up a chair, and sat down next to her. "are you surprised to see me, anna? didn't i promise to come?" "i thought--that you had forgotten. it is so easy to forget." "i always keep my promise," he declared. when had she heard him speak like this before, with this voice, this inflexion--when? ah, she remembered: when she was ill, when they thought she was going to die. so it was pity for one threatened with death that had brought him to sorrento; it was pity that banished its habitual irony from his voice. "the air of sorrento hasn't cured you," he said, bending a little to look at her. "it hasn't cured me. it has cured me of nothing. i think i shall never be cured. there is no country in the world that can cure me." "there is only one doctor who can do you any good--that doctor is yourself." he opened his silver cigarette-case, took out a cigarette, and lit it. she watched the vacillating flame of his match, and for a moment did not speak. "it is easy to say that," she went on finally, with a feeble voice. "but you know i am a weak creature. that is why you have so much compassion for me. i shall never be cured, cesare." "are you sure?" "i am sure. i have tried. my love has proved itself stronger than i. it is destroying me. my heart can no longer endure it." he looked off into the clear air of the night, watching the spiral of his cigarette smoke. "and all those beautiful spiritual promises," he said, "that wonderful structure of abnegation, of sacrifice, of unrequited love, has come to nothing! those plans for the future, which you conceived in such lofty unselfishness, have failed?" "failed, failed," she exclaimed, with a sigh, gazing up at the starry sky, as if to reproach it with her own unhappiness. "all that i wrote to you was absurd, a passing illusion. all my plans were based upon absurdities. perhaps there are people in the world who are so perfectly made that they can be contented to love and not be loved in return; they are fortunate, they are noble; they live only for others; they are purity incarnate. but i am a miserable, selfish woman, nothing else; i have expected too much; and i am dying of my selfishness, of my pride." she raised herself in her chair, grasping its arms nervously with her hands, and shaking her beautiful head, wasted by grief. he was silent. he threw away his cigarette, which had gone out. the soft moonlight covered all things. "i am so earthly," she went on. "i have prayed for a better nature, for an angelic heart, raised above all human desires, that i might simply love you, and wish for nothing else. i have exhausted myself with prayers and tears, trying thus to forget that you could not care for me. i have forbidden myself the great comfort of writing to you. i left naples, and came here, far from you--from you who were, who are my light, my life. in vain, i have passed whole days here, praying to my mother and to the madonna to free me from these terrible, heavy, earthly chains that bind me to that longing to be loved, and that are killing me. no use, no use! my prayers have not been answered. i have come away from them with a greater ardour, a more intense longing, than ever. i am a woman. i am a woman who doesn't know how to lift herself above womanly things, who, womanlike, longs to be loved, and who will never, never be consoled for the love she cannot have." after a long pause, he asked, "and what do you wish me to do, anna?" "nothing." "nothing?" "there is nothing to be done. all is ended; all is over. or, rather, nothing has ever been begun." "anna, i assure you, it grieves me to see you suffer." "thank you. but what can you do for me? it is all due to my own folly. i admit that i am unbalanced, extravagant. i know it. i am paying dearly for my folly; ah, the expiation is hard. it is all due to my one mistake, my one fault. everybody is very kind to me, more than kind. but i have sinned, and i must expiate my sin." "but how is it all to end?" he cried. "do you know what the simplest solution would be?" "what?" "my death. ah, to rest! to rest for ever, under the earth, in a dark grave!" "don't say that. people don't die of love." "yes that is true. there is indeed no recognised disease called _love_. neither ancient nor modern doctors are acquainted with it; they have never discovered it in making their autopsies. but love is such a subtle deceiver! it is at the bottom of all mortal illnesses. it is at the bottom of those wasting declines from which people suffer for years, people who have loved too much, who have not been loved enough. it is in those maladies of the heart, where the heart bursts with emotion or dries up with despair. it is in those long anæmias which destroy the body fibre by fibre, sapping its energies. it is in that nervousness which makes people shiver with cold and burn with insupportable heat. oh, no one dies suddenly of love. we die slowly, slowly, of troubles that have so many names, but are really all just this--that we can endure to love no longer, and that we are not loved. who will ever know the right name of the illness from which i shall die? the doctor will write a scientific word on paper, to account for my death to you, to laura, to stella. but you know, you at least, that i shall die because you do not love me." "calm yourself, anna." "i am calm. i have no longer the shadow of a hope. but i am calm, believe me. i have to tell you these things because they well up from my soul of their own accord. i am an absolutely desperate woman, but i am calm, i shall always be calm. don't answer me. everything that you can say i have already said to myself. all is ended. why should i not be calm?" "but, if you no longer hope for anything, then you have hoped for something. for what?" he asked, with a certain curiosity. "oh, heavens!" she cried. "that you should ask me that!" "tell me, anna. you see that i ask it with sympathy, with lively sympathy." "but you must have forgotten what love is like, if you ask me to tell you what its hopes are," she exclaimed. "one hopes for everything when one loves. from the moment when i first trembled at the sound of your voice, from the moment when first the touch of your hand on mine thrilled me with delight, from the moment when first the words you spoke, whether they were hard or kind, scornful or friendly, seemed to engrave themselves upon my spirit, from the moment when i first realised that i was yours--yours for life, from that moment i have hoped that you might love me. from that moment it has been my dream that you might love me, with a love equal to my own, with a self-surrender equal to my own, with an absolute concentration of all your heart and soul, as i love you. that has been the sublime hope that my love has cherished." "it was an illusion," he said softly, looking off upon the broad shining sea, bathed in the moonlight. "i know it. why do you remind me of it? why are we talking of it? my soul had fallen into a torpor. but now you rouse me from it. my heart throbs as if you had reopened its wound. don't tell me again that you don't care for me. i know it, i know it." "anna, anna, why do you torment yourself like this?" "ah, yes, i have known it a long while now. my great hope died little by little, day by day, as i saw how unlike me you were, how far from me; as i understood your contempt for me, your pity; as i realised that there were secrets in your life which i could not know; as i perceived that the differences of our ages and tastes had bred differences of feeling. in a hundred ways, voluntarily and involuntarily, you showed me that love did not exist for you, either that you would never love, or, at any rate, that you would never love me. i read my sentence written in letters of flame on my horizon. and yet, you see, in spite of the blows that fate had overwhelmed me with, i was not resigned. i told myself that a young and ardent woman could not thus miserably lose herself and her love. i thought that there was a way of saving herself which ought to be tried, a humble way, but one that i could pursue in patience. shall i tell you my other dream?" "yes, tell me." "well, i dreamed that you would let me unite my weak and stormy youth to your warm and serene maturity, in such a manner as to complete more profoundly and more intimately the work of protection that francesco acquaviva had confided to you at his death. you saved me at pompeii. that seemed to sanction a supreme act of devotion on my part. my dream was simple and modest. i would love you with all my strength, but in silence; i would live with you, loving and following you like a fond shadow. every hour, every minute, i would be able to offer you unspoken, but eloquent proofs of my love. i would be your satellite, circling round you, drinking in the light of my sun. i would watch my chance to do for you, to serve you, to make you happy. and in this way, never asking for gratitude, asking for nothing, i would spend my life, to its last day, blessing you, worshipping you, for your kindness in letting me be near you, in letting me love you. ah, what a vision! it would be worthy of me, to make such a sacrifice of every personal desire; and worthy of you to lift a poor girl up to the happiness of seeing you every day, of sharing your home and your name." "you would like me to marry you?" asked dias. "your wife, your mistress, your friend, your servant--whatever you wish will suffice for me. to be where you are, to live my life out near to you----" "i am old," he said, coldly, bitterly. "i am young, but i am dying, cesare." "old age is a sad thing, anna. it freezes one's blood and one's heart." "what does it matter? i don't ask you to love me. i only want to love you." "will you never ask it of me?" "never." "promise." "i promise." "by whatever you hold most sacred, will you promise it?" "by heaven that hears me, by the blessed souls of my mother and father who watch over me; by my affection for my sister laura; by the holiest thing in my heart, that is, by my love for you, i promise it, i swear it, i will never ask you to love me." "you won't complain of me, and of my coldness?" "i will never complain. i will regard you as my greatest benefactor." "you will let me live as i like?" "you will be the master. you shall dispose of your life and of mine." "you will let me go and come, come and go, without finding fault, without recriminations?" "when you go out i will await in patience the happy hour of your return." he was silent for a moment. there was another question on his mind, and he hesitated to ask it. but with burning eyes, with hands clasped imploringly, she waited for him to go on. "you won't torment me with jealousy?" he asked at last. "oh, heavens!" she cried, stretching out her arms and beating her brow with her hands; "must i endure that also?" "as you wish," he said, coldly. "i see that i displease and offend you. i am making demands that are beyond your strength. well, let us drop the subject." and he rose as if to go away. she moved towards him and took his hand. "no, no; don't leave me. for pity's sake stay a little longer. let us talk--listen to me. you ask me not to be jealous; i'll not be jealous. at least, you'll not see my jealousy. do you wish me to visit the woman you're in love with, or have been in love with, or the woman who's in love with you? do you wish me to receive the women who are your friends? i'll do it--i'll do everything. put me to the most dreadful trial--i'll endure it. ask me to go to the furthest pass a soul and body can reach--i'll do it for you." "i wish to be free, heart-free, that is all," he said, firmly. "as you are to-day, so you will always be--free in heart," she responded. "listen to me, anna, and understand me clearly. for a moment try to escape from your own personality, forget that you are you, and that you love me. for a moment consider calmly and carefully the present and the future. anna, i am old, and you are young; and the discrepancy of our ages which now seems trifling to you, in ten years' time will seem terrible, for i can only decline, while you will grow to maturity. in your imagination you have conceived an ideal of me which doesn't correspond to the truth, and which the future will certainly correct, to your sorrow. between our characters and our temperaments there is a profound gulf; we have no reason to believe that the future can close it up. if i am making a sacrifice, as i confess i am, in speaking to you thus, it is certain that you would make a more painful and a more lasting one in living with me. think of it, think of it. think of my age, of your illusions which must inevitably be destroyed, of our mutual sacrifice. anna, there is still time." she looked at him, surprised to hear him speak in this earnest way, the man who was accustomed to dominate all his own emotions. he was really moved; his brow was knitted; and on it, for the first time, anna could read a secret distress. there was something almost like shyness in his eyes; he seemed less distant, less strong perhaps, than he had ever seemed to her before, but more human, more like other people, who suffer and weep. "anna, anna," he went on, "put aside all selfishness, and be yourself the judge. judge whether i ought to consent to what you wish. i have told you cruelly, brutally, what i shall expect from you in return from my sacrifice. i have repeated to you again and again what a grave step it is that you propose. now, my dear child be calm, and judge for yourself." she was leaning with her two hands on the parapet of the terrace, and kept her eyes cast down. "but why," she asked slowly, in a low voice, "why are you willing--you who are so wise, so cold, who despise all passion, as you do--why are you willing to make this sacrifice? who has persuaded you? who has won you?" "i am willing because you have told me that there is no other way of saving you; because stella martini has written to me saying that i ought to save you; because i myself feel that i ought to save you." "it is for pity then that you are willing to do this thing?" "you have said it," he replied, not wishing to repeat the unkind word. "god bless you for your pity," she said humbly, crossing her hands as in prayer. there was a deep silence. he stood with his head bowed, thinking, and waiting for her to speak. she was looking at the sky as if she wished to read there the word of her destiny. but in her heart and in her mind, from the sky, and from the glorious landscape, only one word could she, would she, hear. "well, anna, what have you to say?" "why do you ask? i love you, and without you i should die. anything is better than death. you are my life." "then you will be my wife and my friend," he said resolutely. "thank you, love," and she knelt before him. * * * * * when he had gone away, she bent down and kissed devotedly the wall of the terrace, where he had leaned, speaking to her. and then she went to each of the big vases that stood in a row along the terrace, and picked all the flowers that grew in them, the roses, the geraniums, the jasmine-buds, and pressed them to her bosom in a mass, because they had listened to her talk with him. and before re-entering the house, she looked again, with brilliant eyes full of happiness, upon the sea and the sky and the wide moonlit landscape. within the house every one was asleep. the servant who was sitting up for laura and stella nodded in the anti-chamber. anna was quite alone, and her heart danced for joy. silently she passed through the house, and entered her mother's room. "oh, mamma, mamma, it is you who have done this," she said. end of part i. part ii i. anna wore a pink dressing-gown of soft wool, with a low-cut sailor's collar and monk's-sleeves, so that her throat and wrists, round and pale with the warm pallor of ivory, were left uncovered. her hair was drawn up in a rich mass on the top of her head, and confined by two or three pins of yellow tortoise-shell. her black eyes were radiant with youth and love. she opened the door of her room. she had a little clock in a case of blue velvet lightly ornamented with silver; cesare had given it to her during their honeymoon, and she always kept it by her. she looked at this, and saw that it was already eleven. the april sunshine poured merrily into the room, brightening the light colours of the upholsteries, touching with fire her bronze jewel-case, her hanging lamp of ancient venetian wrought iron, and the silver frame of her looking-glass, and giving life to the blue forget-me-nots on the white ground of her carpet. it was eleven. and from the other end of the apartment (where, with stella martini she occupied two or three rooms) laura had sent to ask at what hour they were to start for the campo di marte. anna had told the servant to answer that they would start soon after noon, and that she was getting ready. for a moment she stood still in the middle of her room, undecided whether or not to move in the direction that her feet seemed inclined to take of their own will--pretty little feet, in black slippers embroidered with pearls. then she opened the door. a short passage separated her room from her husband's. her husband's room had a second door, letting into a small hall, whence he could leave the house without anna's knowing it, without her hearing so much as a footstep. she crossed the passage slowly, and leaned against the door, not to listen, but as if she lacked courage to knock. at last, very softly, she gave two quick raps with her knuckles. there was a minute of silence. she would never have dared to knock a second time, already penitent for having ventured to disturb her lord and master. a cold quiet voice from within inquired, "who is it?" "it's i, cesare," she said, bending down, as if to send the words through the keyhole. "wait a moment, please." patiently, with her bejewelled hand on the knob, and the train of her pink dressing-gown heaped about her feet, she waited. he never allowed her to come in at once, when she knocked at his door, he seemed to take a pleasure in prolonging and subduing her impatience. presently he opened the door. he was already dressed for the campo di marte, in the appropriate costume of a lover of horse-racing. "ah, my dear lady," he said, bowing with that fine gallantry which he always showed to women, "aren't you dressed yet?" and as he spoke he looked at her with admiring eyes. she was so young and fresh, and living, with her beautiful round throat, her flower-like arms issuing from her wide monk's sleeves, and her tiny feet in their black slippers, that he took her hand, drew her to him, and kissed her on the lips. a single kiss; but her eyes lightened softly, and her red lips remained parted. he stretched himself in an easy-chair, near his writing-desk, and puffed a cigarette. all the solid and simple yet elegant furniture of the big room which he occupied, was impregnated with that odour of tobacco, which solitary smokers create round themselves like an atmosphere. anna sat down, balancing herself on the arm of a chair covered with spanish leather. one of her feet played with the train of her gown. she looked about, marvelling as she always did, at the vast room a little bleak with its olive plush, its arms, its bookcase, its handful of books in brown bindings, and here and there a bit of carved ivory or a bright-coloured neck-tie, and everywhere the smell of cigarette-smoke. his bed was long and narrow, with a head-piece of carved wood; its coverlet of old brocade fell to the floor in folds, and mixed itself with the antique smyrna carpets that cesare dias had brought home from a journey in the east. attached to the brown head-piece there was a big ivory crucifix, a specimen of cinquecento sculpture, yellow with age. the whole room had a certain severe appearance, as if here the gallant man of the world gave himself to solitary and austere reflections, while his conscience took the upper hand and reminded him of the seriousness of life. the big drawers of his writing desk surely contained many deep and strange secrets. anna had often looked at them with burning, eager eyes, the eyes of one anxious to penetrate the essence of things; but she had never approached them, fearing their mysteries. only, every day, after breakfast, when her husband was away, she had put a bunch of fresh, fragrant flowers in a vase of satsuma, whose yellow surface was crossed by threads of gold, and placed them on the dark old desk, which thereby gained a quality of youth and poetry. he treated the flowers with characteristic indifference. now and then he would wear one of them in his button-hole; oftener he seemed unconscious of their existence. for a week at a time jonquils would follow violets and roses would take the place of mignonette in the satsuma vase, but cesare would not deign to give them a look. this morning, though, he had a tea-rose bud in his button-hole, a slightly faded one that he had plucked from the accustomed nosegay; and anna smiled at seeing it there. "at what time are we going to the races?" she asked, remembering the business that had brought her to his room. "in about an hour," he answered, looking up from a memorandum-book in which he was setting down certain figures with a pencil. "you are coming with us, aren't you?" "yes. and yet--we shall look like a noah's ark. perhaps i'd better go with giulio on the four-in-hand." "no, no; come with us. when we are there you can go where you like." "naturally," he said, making another entry in his note-book. she looked at him with shining eyes; but he continued his calculations, and paid her no attention. only presently he asked: "aren't you going to dress?" "yes, yes," she answered softly. and slowly she went away. while her maid was helping her to put on her english costume of nut-coloured wool, she was wondering whether her husband would like it; she never dared to ask him what his tastes were in such matters; she tried to divine them. before dressing, she secured round her throat by a chain an antique silver reliquary, which enclosed, however, instead of the relics of a saint, the only love letters that he had ever written to her, two little notes that had given her unspeakable pain when she had received them. and as she moved about her room at her toilet, she cast repeated glances at his portrait, which hung over her writing-table. round her right arm she wore six little golden bracelets with pearls suspended from them; and graven upon each bracelet was one letter of his name, cesare. her right hand gleamed with many rings set with precious stones; but on her left hand her wedding-ring shone alone. when she had adjusted her veil over her english felt hat, trimmed with swallows' wings, she looked at herself in the glass, and hesitated. she was afraid she wouldn't please him; her dress was too simple; it was an ordinary morning street costume. suddenly the door opened, and laura appeared. as usual, she wore white, a frock of soft white wool, exquisitely delicate and graceful. her hat was covered with white feathers, that waved with every breath of air. and in her hands she held a bunch of beautiful fresh tea-roses. "oh, how pretty you are!" cried anna. "and who gave you those lovely roses?" "cesare." "give me one--give me one." and she put out her hand. she put it into her button-hole, inexpressibly happy to possess a flower that he had brought to the house and presented to her sister. "when did you see cesare?" she asked, taking up her purse, across which _anna dias_ was stamped, and her sunshade. "i haven't seen him. he sent these flowers to my room." "how kind he is." "very kind," repeated her sister, like an echo. they went into the drawing-room and waited for cesare. he came presently, drawing on his gloves. he was somewhat annoyed at having to go to the races with his family--he who had hitherto always gone as a bachelor, on a friend's four-in-hand, or alone in his own phæton. his bad humour was only partially concealed. "ah, here is the charming minerva!" he cried, perceiving laura. "how smart we are! a proper spring toilet, indeed. good, good! well, let's be off." anna had hoped for a word from him too, but she got none. cesare had seen her dress of nut-coloured wool, and he deemed it unworthy of remark. for a moment all the beauty of the april day was extinguished, and she descended the stairs with heavy steps. but out of doors the air was full of light and gaiety; the streets were crowded with carriages and with pedestrians; on every balcony there were ladies in light colours, with red parasols; and a million scintillating atoms danced in every ray of sunshine. anna told herself she must bear in patience the consequences of the error she had made in putting on that ugly brown frock. laura's face was lovely as a rose under her white hat; and anna rejoiced in her sister's beauty, and in the admiring glances that everybody gave her. "it's going to be beastly hot," said cesare, as they drove into the toledo, where a crowd had gathered to watch the procession of carriages. "the grand stand will be covered. we'll find a good place," said anna. "oh, i'm to leave you when we get there," he reminded her. he was determined to put an end to this family scene as soon as he could. "i must leave a clear field for laura's adorers. i give place to them because i am old." laura smiled. "so, anna, i'll leave you to your maternal duties. i recommend you to keep an especial eye upon luigi caracciolo--upon him in particular." "what do you mean?" anna asked absently. "nothing, dear." "i thought----" she began, without finishing her sentence. bows and smiles and words of greeting were reaching them from every side. they passed or overtook numberless people whom they knew, some in carriages, some on foot. cesare was inwardly mortified by the conjugal exhibition of himself that he was obliged to make, and looked with secret envy at his bachelor friends. but his regret was sharpest when a handsome four-in-hand dashed past, with giulio carafa on the box and the contessa d'alemagna beside him. that dark, vivacious, blue-eyed lady wore a costume of pale yellow silk, and a broad straw hat trimmed with cream-coloured feathers. she carried a bunch of lilac in her hands, lilac that lives but a single day in our ardent climate, and is rich with intoxicating fragrance. all the men on carafa's coach bowed to dias, and the contessa d'alemagna smiled upon him and waved her flowers; and his heart was bitten by a great desire to be there, with them, instead of here, in this stupid domestic party. he was silent; and anna's eyes filled with tears, for she understood what his silence meant. at the sight of her tears his irritation increased. "well, what is it?" he asked, looking at her with his dominating coldness. "nothing," she said, turning her head away, to hide her emotion. that question and answer were equivalent to one of the long and stormy discussions that are usual between husbands and wives. between them such discussions never took place. their life was regulated according to the compact they had made on that moonlit night at sorrento; she realised now that what had then seemed to her a way of being saved was only a way of dying more slowly; but he had kept his word, and she must keep hers. he had married her; she must not reproach him. only sometimes her sorrow appeared too plainly; then he never failed to find a word or a glance to remind her of her promise. to-day, for the thousandth time, he regretted the sacrifice he had made, and cursed his generosity. the whole distance from the toledo to the campo di marte was passed in silence. as they approached the reclusorio, luigi caracciolo drove by them with his tandem. he bowed cordially to them. anna dropped her eyes; laura smiled upon him. "what a handsome fellow!" exclaimed dias, with the sincere admiration of one man of the world for another. "very handsome," said laura, who was accustomed to speak her girlish mind with sufficient freedom. "he pleases you, eh?" inquired cesare, with a smile. "he pleases me," she said, with her habitual freedom and her habitual indifference. "it's a pity he was never able to take anna's fancy," cesare added, with enigmatical irony. "i hate handsome youths," said anna, proudly. "you wouldn't be the impetuous woman that you are, my dear, if you didn't hate everything that other people like. we've got a creature of passion in the family, laura," he said, with a frank expression of scorn. "yes," assented the cruel sister. anna smiled faintly in disdain. again the beauty of the day was extinguished for her; the warm april afternoon was like a dark winter's evening. the rose that laura had given her had fallen to pieces, shedding its petals on the carriage floor. anna would have liked to gather them all up and preserve them. the most she could do, however, was to take a single one that lay in her lap, and put it into the opening of her glove, against the palm of her hand. at the entrance of the racing-grounds they met the contessa d'alemagna again. she smiled graciously upon anna and laura. anna tried to smile in return; laura bowed coldly. "don't you like the contessa d'alemagna?" asked cesare, as he conducted his wife and sister-in-law to their places in the members' stand. "no," said laura. "you're wrong," said he. "that may be. but she's antipathetic to me." "i like her," said anna, feebly. cesare found places for them, and gave them each an opera-glass. then he stood up and said to anna: "you will be all right here?" "perfectly." "nothing i can do for you?" "nothing." "i'll come back for the third race. i'm going now to bet. good-bye." and he went off with the light step of a liberated man. anna watched him as he crossed the turf towards the weighing-stand. she was surrounded by acquaintances, and they were all talking together. being a bride, she received a good deal of attention; dias was popular, and his popularity reflected itself upon her. besides, people found her interesting, with her black, passionate eyes, the pure oval of her face, and her fresh red lips. luigi caracciolo came up to where the sisters were seated. "cesare has deserted you?" he asked, jestingly. "he's gone to bet. he'll soon come back," said anna. "he's betting with the contessa d'alemagna," suggested laura, with one of those perverse smiles which contrasted so oddly with the purity of her face. "then he'll not come back so soon," said luigi, sitting down. "have you never seen the races before?" he asked. "no, i have never seen them," said anna. "it's rather a tiresome sight," said he, pulling his blonde moustaches. "it's interesting to see the people," said anna. "it's the crowd that always gives its interest to a scene," said he, with an intonation of profound thought. laura was looking through her opera-glass. "there's cesare," she cried suddenly. cesare was walking and talking with the beautiful contessa d'alemagna, and two other men, who walked in front of them, occasionally turned and took part in the conversation. as he passed his wife and sister, he looked up and bowed. anna responded, smiling, but her smile was a forced and weary one. luigi caracciolo, feigning not to have noticed this incident, said to her: "that's a charming dress you're wearing. it's an inspiration." "do you like it?" she asked, with a thankful look. "yes. i admire these english fashions. i think our women are wrong to go to a horse-race dressed as if for a garden-party. it's not smart." he took her sunshade and toyed with it, reading the inscription, engraved on its silver handle. "'_attendre pour atteindre._'[a] is that your motto?" he inquired. "yes." "have you never had another?" "never." "it's a wise one," he remarked. "it's a fact that everything comes at last to those who know how to wait." "alas! not everything, not everything," she murmured, sadly. there was a burst of applause from the multitude. the second race was over, and the favourite had won, a naples-bred horse. people crowded about the bookmakers, to receive the value of their bets. "perhaps cesare has won," said laura. "he was always talking about _amarilli_." "cesare always wins," said luigi. "he is not named cesare[b] for nothing," said anna, proudly. "and like the great julius all his victories were won after he had turned forty--especially those in germany."[c] but anna did not hear this malicious pleasantry. she was thinking of other things. by and by her husband came to her. "are you enjoying it, anna?" he asked. "yes, i am enjoying it." "and you, laura?" "oh, immensely," she answered, coldly. "would you like to see the weighing ground?" "yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade. "i can't take _you_," said cesare to his wife, who was gazing imploringly at him. "we should look ridiculous." but she did not appear resigned. "we should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. "thank goodness, we're not perpetually on our wedding journey." they went away, leaving her with a pain in her heart which she felt was killing her. she half closed her eyes, and only one idea was clear in the sorrowful confusion of her mind--that her husband was right. she had broken their agreement; she had promised never to entreat him, never to reproach him. it was weak and wicked of her, she told herself, to have consented to such an agreement--a compact by which her love, her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to suffer. she had made another great mistake when she did that, and this time an irreparable mistake. "ah, you are alone?" said luigi caracciolo, coming up again. "alone." "something is troubling you. what is it?" "i am bored; and a person who is bored bores others." "let us bore ourselves together, signora dias. that will be diverting. i have always wished to bore myself with you, you know." she shook her head, to forbid his referring to the past. "ah, you won't consent? you're very cruel." she put her opera-glass to her eyes, and looked off across the course. "if you're going to treat me as badly as this, you'd better send me away," he said, with some feeling. "the stand is free to all the world," she answered, tormented by the thought that if her husband should come back, he might imagine that she was glad to talk with caracciolo. "you are a domitian in woman's clothes," he cried. "ah, you women! when you don't like a man you destroy him straightway." she did not hear him; or, hearing, she did not understand. "you are too high up for me," he went on. "to descend to my level would be impossible for you and unworthy of you. it's equally impossible for me to rise to yours." "you are quite mistaken. i'm anything rather than a superior being. i'm a human earthly woman, like all others--more than others." "then why do you suffer?" "because love is very bitter." "what love?" "all love. it is bitterer than aloes, bitterer than gall, bitter in life and in death." there was another outburst of applause, and the crowd began to move. the races of the first day were over. anna looked for her husband. he appeared presently, with laura on his arm. "you leave your wife to the most melancholy solitude," said caracciolo, laughing. "i was sure you would keep her company, you're such a true friend to me," laughed cesare. caracciolo gave his arm to anna. "in any case, it wasn't to render you a service," said luigi. "i know your fidelity," said dias. "you are my master." neither of the ladies spoke. anna gave herself up to the happiness of having recovered her husband, of going away with him, of taking him home. he seemed excited and pleased, as if he had enjoyed the events of the afternoon without stopping to analyse their frivolity and emptiness. he had amused himself in his usual way, forgetting for the moment the subtle but constant annoyance of his marriage. he was merry, and he showed his merriment by joking with caracciolo, with laura, even with his wife. anna was very happy. the long day had tired her. but now she felt the warmth and comfort of his presence, and that compensated her for her hours of abandonment. they had some difficulty finding their carriage, but cesare was not impatient. caracciolo, meanwhile, was looking for his own tranquilly, never for a moment neglecting his chivalric duties. when their carriage was discovered, the two men helped the ladies into it; and cesare, standing beside it, disposed of their shawls and their opera-glasses with the carefulness of a model husband, at the same time exchanging a passing word or two with caracciolo. suddenly cesare closed the carriage-door, and said to the coachman--"home." "aren't you coming with us?" anna asked in a low voice. "no. there's a place for me on giulio carafa's four-in-hand. i shall get to naples sooner than you will. the four-in-hand can go outside the line." "four-in-hands are very amusing," said caracciolo, shaking hands with the two women. "shall we have a late dinner?" asked anna. "don't wait dinner for me. i am going to dine at the contessa d'alemagna's, with giulio carafa and marco paliano." "very well," said anna. she watched cesare and luigi as they moved away, puffing their cigarettes. then she said to the coachman, "drive home." during the long drive the sisters scarcely spoke. they were accustomed to respect each other's hours of silence. a soft breeze was blowing from the north. they were both a little pale. perhaps it was the spectacle of the return from the campo di marte, which made them thoughtful; the many carriages, full of people who bore on their faces the signs of happiness due to a fine day of sunshine, passed in the open air, amid the thousand flattering coquetries of love and fancy; the beautiful women, wrapped in their cloaks; the sort of spiritual intoxication that glowed in the eyes of everybody. the streets were lined by an immense crowd of shop-keepers and working-people, who made a holiday pleasure of watching the stream of carriages; and another crowd looked down from the balconies of the houses. presently anna leaned forward and took her shawl and wrapped it round her shoulders. "are you cold?" asked laura, helping her. "yes." laura also put on her shawl; she, too, was cold. luigi caracciolo's tandem passed them. anna did not see him. laura bowed. when they had reached the piazza san ferdinando, anna asked: "would you like to drive about a little?" "no, let us go home." and when they were in the house, "we must go in to dinner," laura said. "i'm not going to dine. i have a headache," said anna. at last she was alone. in her own room she threw aside her hat and veil, her sunshade, her purse, her pocket-handkerchief; she fell into an arm-chair, and was shaken by a storm of sobs and tears. from above her little writing-table cesare's portrait seemed to smile upon the flowers that were placed under it. she raised her eyes, and looked at his beautiful and noble face, which appeared to glow with love and life. a great impulse of passion rose in her heart; she took the portrait and kissed it, and bathed it in her tears, murmuring, "my love, my love, why do you treat me like this? ah, i can only love you, love you; and you are killing me." hours passed unnoticed by her. some one came to her door and asked whether she wished for a lamp; she answered, "no." by-and-bye she saw a white figure standing before her. she recognised laura. and she saw that laura was weeping. she had never seen her weep before. "you are crying. what are you crying for?" she asked. "yes," answered laura, vaguely, with a gesture. and they wept together. footnotes: [a] "wait to win." in french in the original. [b] cæsar. [c] alemagna. a punning reference to the contessa. ii. cesare dias came home one day towards six o'clock, in great good humour. at dinner he found everything excellent, though it was his habit to find everything bad. he ate with a hearty appetite, and told countless amusing stories, of the sort that he reserved for his agreeable moments. he joked with laura, and with anna; he even complimented his wife upon her dress, a new one that she had to-day put on for the first time. he succeeded in communicating his gaiety to the two women. anna looked at him with meek and tender eyes; and as often as he smiled she smiled too. laura, it is true, spoke little, but in her face shone that expression of vivacity, of animation, which had characterised it for some time past. she agreed with everything cesare said, bowing her head. after dinner they all passed into anna's drawing-room. it was her evening at home; and noticing that there were flowers in all the vases--it was in june, just a year after their talk at sorrento--and seeing the silver samovar on the table, cesare asked: "are you expecting people to-night, anna?" "a few. perhaps no one will come." "ah, that's why you've got yourself up so smartly." "did you fancy it was for you, that she had put on her new frock, cesare?" laura asked, jestingly. "i was presumptuous enough to do so; and all presumptions are delusions. i'll bet that luigi caracciolo is coming--the ever faithful one." "i'm sure i don't know," said anna, indifferently. "oh, you hypocrite, anna!" laughed laura. "hypocrite, hypocrite!" repeated cesare, also laughing. "come, i'll warrant that the obstinate fidelity of caracciolo has at last made an impression. admirable! he's been in love with you for a hundred years." "oh, cesare, don't joke about such subjects," anna begged, in pain. "you see, laura, she is troubled." "she's troubled, it's true," affirmed laura. "you're both of you heartless," anna murmured. cesare opened his cigarette case, and playfully offered a cigarette to each of the ladies. "i don't smoke," said laura. "why don't you learn to?" "smoke is bad for the teeth;" and she showed her own, shining like those of beatrice in the tale by edgar poe. "you're right, fair minerva. will you smoke, anna?" "i don't smoke, either," she said, with a soft smile. "you ought to learn. it would be becoming to you. you're dark, you have the spanish type, and a _papelito_[d] would complete your charm." "i will learn, cesare," she assented. "and what's more, smoke calms the nerves. you can't imagine the soothing effect it has. nothing is better to relieve our little sorrows." "give me a cigarette, then," she said at once. "ah, you have little sorrows?" "who knows!" she sighed, putting aside her cigarette. "you have no little sorrows, laura?" asked cesare. "neither little ones nor big ones." "who can boast of having never wept?" said anna, with a melancholy accent. "if we become sentimental, i shall take myself off," said cesare. "no, no, don't go away," anna prayed him. "i would remind you that we've got to pass our whole life-time together," said he, ironically, knocking off the ash of his cigarette. "all our life-time, and more beyond it," said anna, pensively. "and more beyond! it's a grave affair. i will think of it while i am dressing, this evening." "where are you going?" "to take a walk," he answered, rising. "why don't you stay here?" she ventured to ask. "i can't. i'm obliged to go out." "come home early, won't you?" "early--yes," he consented, after a short hesitation. "i'll wait for you, cesare." "yes, yes. good-night." he went off. laura, according to her recent habit, had listened to this dialogue with her eyes half closed, and biting her lips; she said nothing. whenever her sister and her brother-in-law exchanged a few affectionate words (and, indeed, cesare did no more than respond to the affection of anna), she assumed the countenance of a statue, which neither feels nor hears nor sees; or else, she got up and left the room noiselessly. often anna surprised on laura's face a cynical smile that appeared the antithesis of its extreme purity, the irony of an icy virgin who is aware of the falsity and hollowness of love. this evening, when cesare had left them, the sisters remained together for a few minutes. but apparently both their minds were absorbed in deep thought; at any rate they could not keep up a conversation. anna, in her lilac-coloured frock, lay in an easy-chair, leaning her head on her hands, over which her black hair seemed like a warrior's helmet. laura was pulling and playing with the fringe of her white dress. "i'm going; good night," she said suddenly. "why do you go, laura?" asked anna, issuing from her reverie. "there's no use staying. people will be arriving." "but stay for that very reason. you will help me to endure their visits." "oh, that's a task above my strength," said the blonde and beautiful minerva. "then, anyhow, it's you they come to see, my dear." "you'll be married some day yourself," said anna, laughing. she was still in a pleasant mood--a reflection of cesare's gaiety; and then he had promised to come home early. "who knows! good night," and laura rose to go away. "but what are you going to do?" "read a little; then sleep." "what are you reading?" "'_le mot de l'énigme_,'[e] by madame pauline craven." "a mystical romance? do you want to become a nun?" "who knows! good night." anna herself took up a book after laura's departure. it was _adolphe_, by benjamin constant; she had found it one day on her husband's writing-desk. in its cool yet ardent pages one feels the charm of a truthful story, surging up from the heart in a single, vibrant cry of pain. anna had read it two or three times; now she began it again, absent-mindedly. but she did not read long. a few callers came; the marchesa scibilia, her relative, accompanied by gaetano althan, who always liked to go about with old ladies; commander gabriele mari, a man of seventy; and then the prince of gioiosa, a handsome, witty, and intelligent calabrian. the conversation, of course, was a mixture of frivolity and seriousness, as conversations are apt to be in a small gathering like the present, where nobody cares to appear too much in earnest, and everybody tries to speak in paradoxes. the prince di gioiosa was the last to leave; it was then past eleven. "no one else will come," she thought. but she was mistaken. acquaintances passing in the street, and seeing her windows alight, came up to pay their respects. when the last of these had gone, "it is late; no one else will come," she thought again. but again she was mistaken. the servant announced luigi caracciolo; and the handsome young fellow entered, with that english correctness of bearing which somewhat tempered the vivacity of his blonde youthfulness. he was in evening dress, and wore a spray of lilies of the valley in his button-hole. anna gave him her hand amicably. her rings glittered in the lamplight. "starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it softly. "where do you come from?" she asked, with that polite curiosity which implies no real interest. "from the opera," he said, seating himself beside her. "what were they giving?" "'the huguenots'--always the same." "it is always beautiful." "do you remember?" he asked with a tender, caressing voice. "they were singing 'the huguenots' on the evening when i was introduced to you." "yes, yes; i remember that evening," she said, with sudden melancholy. "how horribly i displeased you that night, didn't i? the only thing to approach it was the tremendously delightful impression you made on me." "what nonsense!" she protested kindly. "and your first impression of me has never changed--confess it," he said. "even if that were true, it wouldn't make you very unhappy." "what can you know about that? you beautiful women, admired and loved--what do you know?" "you're right. indeed, we know nothing." but he saw that her mind was away in a land of dreams, far from him. he felt all at once the distance that divided them. "when you come back from your travels let me know, that i may welcome you," he said, with his smooth, caressing voice. "what travels?" "ah! if i knew! if i knew where your thoughts are wandering while i talk to you, i could go with you, i could follow you in your fantasies. instead, i speak, and you don't listen to me. i say serious things to you in a jesting tone, and you understand neither the seriousness nor the joke. you leave me here alone, whilst you roam--who knows where? and i, a humble mortal, without visions, without imagination, i can only wait for your return, my dear lady." if, indeed, there was a certain poetic quality in what he said, there was a deeper poetry still in the tenderness and sweetness of his voice. he sat in front of her, gazing into her face, as if he could not tear himself from that contemplation. she sometimes lowered her eyes, sometimes turned them away, sometimes fixed them upon a page of _adolphe_, which she had kept in her hands. if his gaze embarrassed her, however, his soft voice seemed to calm her nerves. she listened to it, scarcely understanding his words, as one listens to a vague pleasant music. "doesn't it bore you to wait?" she asked. "i am never bored here. when i have this lovely sight before my eyes." "what sight?" she inquired, ingenuously. "your person, my dear lady." "but you can't always be looking at me," she said, laughing, trying to turn the conversation to a jest. "that's a fatal misfortune, as they say in novels. i should like to pass my whole life near to you. instead, i'm obliged to pass it among a lot of people who are utterly indifferent to me. a great misfortune!" "it's not your fault," she said, with a faint smile. "it certainly isn't. but that doesn't console me. shall we try it--passing our lives together? one can overcome misfortunes. our whole lives--that will mean many years." "but i am married," she said, feeling that the talk was becoming dangerous. "oh, that's nothing," he cried emphatically. "caracciolo, i believe you've found the means to see me no more. what do you want from me?" "nothing, dear lady, nothing," he answered, with genuine grief in his face and voice. "then you ought not to risk destroying one of your friendships. what would cesare have said if he had heard you for the last half hour?" "oh, nothing. he couldn't have heard me, you know, because he's never here." "sometimes he is," she said, with sudden emotion. "never, never. don't tell pious fibs." "he's always here." "in your heart. i know it. it's an agreeable home for him, the more so because he can find others of the same sort wherever he goes." "what are you saying?" "one of my usual vulgarities. i'm speaking ill of your husband." "then be quiet." but to soften the severity of this command, she offered him a box of cigarettes. "thanks for your charity," he said. and he began to smoke, looking at one of her slippers of lilac satin embroidered with silver, which escaped from beneath her train. she sat with her elbow on the table, thinking. it was midnight. in a few minutes caracciolo would be gone; and cesare couldn't delay much longer about coming home. luigi caracciolo seemed to divine her thoughts. "after this cigarette, i will leave you. i'm afraid i've given you no great idea of my wit." "i detest witty men." "small harm! i hope you believe, though, that i have a heart." "i believe it." "all the better. one day or another you will remember what i have said to you this evening, and understand it." "perhaps," she said, vaguely. "you had a very happy inspiration, to dress in lilac. it's such a tender colour. that's the tint one sees in the sunsets at venice. have you ever been at venice?" "never." "that's a pity. it's a place full of soft tears. one can make a provision of them there, to last a life-time. trifling loves become deep at venice, and deep loves become indestructible. good-night." "good-night." she gave him her hand, like a white flower issuing from the satin of her sleeve. he touched it lightly with his lips, and went away. not for a moment during her conversation with luigi caracciolo had her husband been absent from anna's mind. and all that the young man said, which constantly implied if it did not directly mention love, had but intensified her one eternal thought. it was now half-past twelve. she rose and rang the bell; and her maid appeared. they left the drawing-room and went into anna's bedroom, which was lighted by a big lamp with a shade of pink silk. her maid helped her to undress, thinking that she was going to bed; but presently anna asked for her tea-gown of cream-coloured crape, and put it on, as if she meant to sit up. she had loosened her hair, and it fell down her back in a single rich black tress. the maid asked if she might go to bed. anna said, "yes." cesare had given orders that no servant should ever sit up for him; he had a curiously wrought little key, a master-key, which he wore on his watch-chain, and which opened every door in his house. thus he could come in at any hour of the night he liked, without being seen or heard. the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her. anna sat down in an easy chair, beside her bed. she still had the volume of _adolphe_ in her hand. she sat still there, while she heard the servant moving about the apartment, shutting the windows. then all was silent. anna got up, and opened the doors between her room and her husband's. so she would be able to hear him when he returned. he could not delay much longer. he had promised her to come home early; he knew that she would wait for him. and, as she had been doing through the whole evening, but with greater intensity than ever, she longed for the presence of her loved one. was not every thing empty and colourless when he was away? and this evening he had been so merry and so kind. his promise resounded in her soul like a solemn vow. she thrilled with tremulous emotion. the softness of the spring night entered into her and exhilarated her. she lay back in her easy-chair, with closed eyes, and dreamed of his coming. she felt an immense need of him, to have him there beside her, to hold his hand in hers, to lean her head upon his shoulder in sweet, deep peace, listening to the beating of his heart, supported by his arms, while his breath fell upon her hair, her eyelids, her lips. a dream of love; vivid and languid, full of delicate ardour and melancholy desire. she surprised herself murmuring his name. "cesare, cesare," she said, trembling with love at the sound of her own voice. suddenly it seemed to her that she heard a noise in her husband's room. then he had come! swiftly, like a flying shadow, she crossed the passage, and looked in. only silence and darkness! she had been mistaken. she leaned on the frame of the door, and remained thus for a long moment. slowly she returned to her own room, thinking that "early" must mean for a man of late habits like cesare two o'clock in the morning. that was it! he would arrive at two. she took up _adolphe_, thinking to divert herself with reading, and thus to moderate her impatience. she opened the book towards the middle, where the passionate struggle between ellenore and adolphe is shown in all its sorrowful intensity. and from the dry, precise words, the hard, effective style, the brief and austere narrative, which was like the cry of a soul destroyed by scepticism, anna derived an impression of fright. ah, in her sincere, youthful faith, what a horror she had of that modern malady which corrupts the mind, depraves the conscience, and kills whatever is most noble in the soul! what could she know, poor, simple, ignorant woman, whose only belief, whose only law, whose only hope was love--what could she know of the spiritual diseases of those who have seen too much, who have loved too much, who have squandered the purest treasures of their feelings? what could she know of the desolating torture of those souls who can no longer believe in anything, not even in themselves, and who have lost their last ideal? she could know nothing; and yet a terror assailed her. perhaps cesare, her husband, was like _adolphe_, who could never more be happy, who could never more give happiness to others. she shuddered, and threw the book aside, in great distress. she got up mechanically, and took from a table a rosary of sandal wood, which a missionary friar had brought from jerusalem. she had never been regular in her devotions; her imagination was too fervid. but religious feelings seemed sometimes to sweep in upon her in great waves of divine love. a child of the south, she only prayed when moved by some strong pain, for which she could find no earthly relief. she forgot to pray when she was happy. now she pressed her rosary to her lips, and began to repeat the long and poetical litany, which domenico de guzman has dedicated to the virgin. ingenuously enough, she thought that in this way the time would pass more rapidly, two o'clock would strike, and cesare would arrive. but she endeavoured in vain to fix her mind upon her orisons; it flew away, before her, to her meeting with her beloved; and though her lips pronounced the words of the _ave_ and the _pater_, their sense escaped her. once or twice she paused for a few minutes, and then went on, confused, beseeching heaven's pardon for her slight attention. when her rosary was finished, it was two precisely. now cesare would come. she could not control her nervousness. she took her lamp and went into her husband's room: she placed the lamp on the writing-desk, and seated herself in one of the leather arm-chairs. she felt easier here; the austerity of the big chamber, with its dark furniture, told her that her husband's soul was above the sterile and frivolous pleasures in which he had already lost the best part of the night. the air still smelt of cigarette smoke. here and there a point of metal gleamed in the lamplight. on a table lay a pair of gloves; they had been worn that day, and they retained the form of his hands. she kissed them, and put them into the bosom of her gown. but where was cesare? she began to pace backwards and forwards, the train of her dress following her like a white wave. why did he not come home? it was late, very late. there were no balls on for that night; no social function could detain him till this hour. where was cesare? ah, cesare, cesare, cesare, her dear love, where was he? she passed her hands over her burning forehead. all at once, looking out into the night, she noticed in the distance the windows of cesare's club, brilliantly lighted. then a sudden peace came to her. he would be there, playing, talking, enjoying the company of his friends, forgetful of the time. it was an old habit of his, and old habits are so hard to break. she remained at the window of his room, with her eyes fixed upon the windows of his club; the light that shone from them was the pole-star of her heart. she opened the window and went out upon the balcony. presently two men issued from the club-house, stood for a moment chatting together at the entrance, and then moved off towards the chiaia. ah, she thought, the company at the club was beginning to break up; at last cesare would come. at the end of ten minutes, four men came out together. these also chatted together for a minute, then separated, two going towards the riviera, two entering the via vittoria. by-and-by one man came out alone, and advanced directly towards dias' house. this, this surely would be he. the man was looking up, towards the balcony. "good-night, signora anna," said the voice of luigi caracciolo. "good-night," she murmured, faint with disappointment. caracciolo had stopped, and was leaning on the railing, gazing up at her. anna drew back out of sight. "good-night, anna," he repeated, very softly. she did not answer. caracciolo went off, slowly, slowly; stopping now and then to look back. she turned her eyes again upon the windows of the club, but they were quite dark; the lights had been extinguished. so caracciolo had been the last to leave; and cesare was not there! she felt terribly cold, all at once. her teeth chattered. she went back into the room, shivering, and had scarcely strength enough to shut the window. she fell upon a chair, exhausted. the clock struck. it was half-past three. and now a hideous suspicion began to torture her. there were no balls to-night, no receptions, no functions. the club was shut up. the cafés were shut up. all talking, eating, drinking, gambling, were over for the night. the life of the night was spent. everybody had gone home to bed. then where was cesare? cesare, her husband, was with a woman! and jealousy began to gnaw her heart. with a woman; that was certain. the truth burned her soul. he could be nowhere else than with a woman. the truth rang in her heart like a trumpet-blast. mechanically she put her fingers to her ears to shut out the words--_with a woman, with a woman_. but what woman? she knew nothing of her husband's secrets, nothing of his past or present loves. she was a mere stranger whom he tolerated, not a friend, not a confidant. she was a troublesome bond upon him, an obstacle to his pleasures, an interference with his habits. no doubt there were older bonds, stronger ties, that kept him from her; or it might be the mere force of a passing fancy. but for what woman, for what woman? in vain she tried to give the woman a name, a living form. oh, certainly not a lady, not a woman of honourable rank and reputation; not the contessa d'alemagna. who then? who then? how much time passed, while she sat there, in a convulsion of tears and sobs, prey to all the anguish of jealousy? the day broke; a greenish, livid light entered the room. the handle of the door turned. cesare came in. he was very pale, with dull, weary eyes. he had a cigarette in his mouth; his lips were blue. the collar of his overcoat was turned up; his hands were in his pockets. he looked at his wife indifferently, coldly, as if he did not recognise her. she rose. her face was ashen. her capacity for feeling was exhausted. "what are you doing here?" he asked. he threw away his cigarette, and took off his hat. how old and used up he looked, with his hair in disorder, his cheeks sunken from lack of sleep. "i was waiting for you," she said. "all night?" "all night." "you have great patience." he opened the door. "good-bye, anna." "good-bye, cesare." and she returned to her own room. footnotes: [d] spanish in the original. [e] the key to the riddle. iii. about the middle of june, in the first summer of his marriage, cesare dias brought his wife and his sister-in-law to the villa caterina at sorrento. he would leave them there, while he went to take the baths at vichy. afterwards he was going to saint-moritz in the engadine, whither betake themselves such persons as desire to be cold in summer, the same who, desiring to be hot in winter, hibernate at nice. anna had secretly wished to accompany her husband upon this journey, longing to be alone with him, far from their usual surroundings; but she was to be left behind. ever since that night when she had sat up till dawn waiting for him, tormented, disillusioned, her faith destroyed, her moral strength exhausted, there had been a coldness between the couple. cesare had lost no time in asserting his independence of her, and had vouchsafed but the vaguest explanations, saying in general terms that a man might pass a night out of his house, chatting with friends or playing cards, for any one of a multitude of reasons. anna had listened without answering. she dreaded above all things having a quarrel with her husband. she closed her eyes and listened. he flung his explanation at her with an air of contempt. she was silent but not satisfied. she could never forget the hours of that night, when, for the first time, she had drained her cup of bitterness to its dregs, and looked into the bottom depths of human wickedness. the sweetness of her love had then been poisoned. as for cesare, he had been exceedingly annoyed by her waiting for him, which seemed to him an altogether extravagant manifestation of her fondness. it annoyed him to have been surprised in the early morning light looking old and ugly; it annoyed him to have to explain his absence; and it annoyed him finally to think that similar scenes might occur again. oh, how he loathed these tragic women and their tragedies! after having hated them his whole life long, them and their tears and their vapourings, behold! he had been trapped into marrying one of them--for his sins; and his rancour at the inconceivable folly he had committed vented itself upon anna. she, sad in the essence of her soul, humble, disheartened, understood her husband's feelings; and by means of her devotion and tenderness sought to procure his pardon for her offence--the offence of having waited for him that night! one day, when anna had been even more penitent and more affectionate than usual, he had indeed made some show of forgiving her, with the pretentious indulgence of a superior being; she had taken his forgiveness as a slave takes a kind word after a beating, smiling with tears in her eyes, happy that he had not punished her more heavily for her fault. but the truth is, he was a man and not an angel. he had forgiven her; yet he still wished to punish her. on no consideration would he take her with him to vichy and saint-moritz. he gave her to understand that their wedding-journey was finished; that it would never do to leave her sister laura alone for two months with no other chaperone than stella martini; that it wasn't his wish to play joseph prudhomme, and travel in the bosom of his family; in short, he gave her to understand in a thousand ways that he wished to go alone; and she resigned herself to staying behind in preference to forcing her company upon him. she flattered herself, poor thing, that this act of submission, so hard for her to make, would restore her to her lord's good graces. he went away, indeed in great good temper. he seemed rejuvenated. the idea of the absolute liberty he was about to enjoy filled him with enthusiasm. he recommended his ladies (as he jokingly called the sisters) not to be too nun-like, but to go out, to receive, to amuse themselves as they wished. anna heard this advice, pale with downcast eyes; laura listened to it with an odd smile on her lips, looking straight into her brother-in-law's face. she too was pale and mute. after his departure a great, sad silence seemed to invade the villa. each of the sisters was pensive and reserved; they spoke but little together; they even appeared to avoid each other. for the rest, the charming youthful serenity of the blonde minerva had vanished; her white brow was clouded with thought. they were in the same house, but for some time they rarely met. anna wrote to cesare twice a day; she told him everything that happened; she opened to him her every fancy, her every dream; she wrote with the effusiveness of a passionate woman, who, too timid to express herself by spoken words, finds her outlet in letters. writing, she could tell him how she loved him, that she was his in body and soul. cesare wrote to her once or twice a week, and not at length; but in each of his notes there would be, if not a word of love, at least some kindly phrase; and upon that anna would live for three or four days--until his next letter arrived. he was enjoying himself; he was feeling better; he would return soon. sometimes he even expressed a wish for her presence, that she might share his pleasure in a landscape or laugh with him at some original fellow-traveller. he always sent his remembrances to laura; and anna would read them out to her. "thank you," was all that laura responded. laura herself wrote a good deal in these days. what was she writing? and to whom? she sat at her little desk, shut up in her room, and covered big sheets of paper with her clear, firm handwriting. if any one entered, she covered what she had written with her blotting-paper, and remained silent, with lowered eyes, toying with her pen. more than once anna had come in. thereupon laura had gathered up her manuscripts, and locked them into a drawer, controlling with an effort the trouble in her face. "what are you writing?" anna asked one day, overcoming her timidity, and moved by a strange impulse of curiosity. "nothing that would interest you," the other answered. "how can you say so?" the elder sister protested, with indulgent tenderness. "whatever pleases you or moves you must interest me." "nothing pleases me and nothing moves me," laura said, looking down. "not even what you are writing?" "not even what i am writing." "how reserved you are! how close you keep your secrets! but why should you have any?" anna insisted affectionately. "yes," said laura, vaguely. she got up and left the room, carrying her key with her. anna never again referred to what her sister was writing. it might be letters, it might be a journal. in july, sorrento filled up with tourists and holiday folk; and the other villas were occupied by their owners. the sisters were invited about a good deal, and lured into the thousand summer gaieties of the town. one of the earliest arrivals was luigi caracciolo. he came to sorrento every season, but usually not till the middle of august, and then to spend no more than a fortnight. he had rather a disdain for sorrento, he who had travelled over the whole of europe. this year he came in the first week of july; and he was determined to stay until anna dias left. he was genuinely in love with her; in his own way, of course. the mystery that hung over her past, and her love for cesare dias, which luigi knew to be unrequited, made her all the dearer to him. he was in love, as men are in love who have loved many times before. sometimes he lost his head a little in her presence, but never more than a little. he retained his mastery of himself sufficiently to pursue his own well-proved methods of love-making. he covered his real passion with a semblance of levity which served admirably to compel anna to tolerate it. she never allowed him--especially at sorrento, where she was alone and where she was very sad--to speak of love; but she could not forbid him to call occasionally at the villa caterina, nor could she help meeting him here and there in the town. and cesare, from saint-moritz, kept writing to her and laura to amuse themselves, to go out, saying that he hated women who lived like recluses. and sometimes he would add a joking message for caracciolo, calling him anna's faithful cavalier; but she, through delicacy, had not delivered them. luigi did not pay too open a court to her, did not affect too great an intimacy; but he was never far from her. for a whole evening he would hover near her at a party, waiting for the moment when he might seat himself beside her; he would leave when she left, and on the pretext of taking a little walk in the moonlight, would accompany the two ladies to the door of their house. he was persevering, with a gentle, continuous, untiring perseverance that nothing could overcome, neither anna's silence, nor her coldness, nor her melancholy. she often spoke to him of cesare, and with so much feeling in her voice that he turned pale, wounded in his pride, disappointed in his desire, yet not despairing, for it is always a hopeful sign when a woman loves, even though she loves another. then the only difficulty (though an immense one) is to change the face of the man she loves to your own, by a sort of sentimental sleight of hand. for various reasons, he was extremely cautious. he was not one of those who enjoy advertising their desires and their discomfitures on the walls of the town. then, he did not wish to alarm anna, and cause her to close her door to him. and besides, he was afraid of the silent watchfulness of laura. the beautiful minerva and the handsome young man had never understood each other; they were given to exchanging somewhat sharp words at their encounters, a remarkable proceeding on the part of laura, who usually talked little, and then only in brief and colourless sentences. her contempt for him was undisguised. it appeared in her manner of looking him over when he wore a new suit of clothes, in her manner of beginning and ending her remarks to him with the phrase, "a handsome young fellow like you." that was rather bold, for a girl, but laura was over twenty, and both the sisters passed for being nice, but rather original, nice but original, as their mother and father had been before them. luigi caracciolo himself thought them odd, but the oddity of anna was adorable, that of laura made him uneasy and distrustful. he was afraid that on one day or another, she might denounce him to cesare, and betray his love for the other's wife. she had such a sarcastic smile sometimes on her lips! and her laughter had such a scornful ring! he imagined the most fantastic things in respect of her, and feared her mightily. "how strange your sister is," he said once to anna, finding her alone. "she's good, though," said anna, thoughtfully. "does she seem so to you?" "yes." "you little know. you're very ingenuous. she's probably a monster of perfidy," he said softly. "why do you say that to me, caracciolo? don't you know that i dislike such jokes?" "if i offend you, i'll hold my tongue. i keep my opinion, though. some day you'll agree with me." "be quiet, caracciolo. you distress me." "it's much better to have no illusions; then we can't lose them, dear lady." "it is better to lose illusions, than never to have had them." "what a deep heart is yours! how i should like to drown in it! let me drown myself in your heart, anna." "don't call me by my name," she said, as if she had heard only his last word. "i will obey," he answered meekly. "you, too, are good," she murmured, absently. "i am as bad as can be, signora," he rejoined, piqued. she shook her head good-naturedly, with the smile of one who would not believe in human wickedness, who would keep her faith intact, in spite of past delusions. and the more luigi caracciolo posed as a depraved character, the more she showed her belief that at the bottom every human soul is good. "everybody is good, according to you," he said. "then i suppose your husband, cesare, is good too?" "too? he is the best of all. he is absolutely good," she cried, her voice softening as it always did when she spoke of cesare. "he who leaves you here alone after a few months of marriage?" "but i'm not alone," she retorted, simply. "you're not alone--you're in bad company," he said, nervously. "do you think so? i wasn't aware of it." "you couldn't tell me more politely that i'm a nonentity. but he, he who is away, and who no doubt invents a thousands pretence to explain his absence to you--can you really say that he is good." "cesare invents no pretences for me," she replied, turning pale. "who says so? he? do you believe him?" "he says nothing. i have faith in him," she answered, overwhelmed to hear her own daily fears thus uttered for her. caracciolo looked at her anxiously. merely to hear her pronounce her husband's name proved that she adored him. luigi was too expert a student of women not to interpret rightly her pallor, her emotion, her distress. he did not know, but he could easily guess that anna wrote to cesare every day, and that he responded rarely and briefly. he understood how heavy her long hours of solitude must be, amid the blue and green of the sorrento landscape, passed in constant longing for her husband's presence. he understood perfectly that she was consumed by secret jealousy, and that he tortured her cruelly when by a word, or an insinuation he inspired her with new suspicions. he could read her heart like an open book; but he loved her all the better for the intense passion that breathed from its pages. he did not despair. sooner or later, he was convinced, he would succeed in overcoming the obstacle in his way. he adopted the ancient method of assailing the character of the absent man. when he would mention some old flame of cesare's, or some affair that still continued, and which his marriage could not break off, or when he would speak of cesare's desertion of his young wife, he saw anna's face change; he knew the anguish that he woke in her heart, and he suffered wretchedly to realise that it was for the love of another man. his weapon was a double-edged sword, that wounded her and wounded him. but what of that? he continued to wield it, believing that thus little by little he could deface the image of cesare dias that anna consecrated with her adoration. anna was always ready to talk of her husband, and that gave him his opportunity for putting in his innuendoes. at the same time it caused him much bitterness of spirit, and sometimes he would say, "we are three. how do you do, cesare?" bowing to an imaginary presence. anna's eyes filled with tears at such moments. "forgive me, forgive me," he cried. "but when you introduce his name into our conversation, you cause me such agony that i feel i am winning my place in heaven. go on: i am already tied to the rack; force your knife into my heart, gentle torturess." and she, at first timidly, but then with the impetuousness of an open and generous nature, would continue to talk of cesare. where was he, what was he doing, when would he return? she would ask; and he by-and-by would interrupt her speculations to suggest that cesare was probably just now on the righi, with the comtesse de béhague, one of his old french loves, whom he met every year in switzerland; and that he would very likely not return to sorrento at all, nor even to naples before the end of october. "i don't believe it, i don't believe it," she protested. "you don't believe it? but it's his usual habit. why should he alter it this year?" "he has me to think of now." "ah, dear anna, dear anna, he thinks of you so little!" "don't call me by my name," she said, making a gesture to forbid him. "if cesare heard me he wouldn't like it--eh?" "i think so." "you hope so, dear lady, which is a very different thing. but he's not jealous." "no; he's not jealous," she repeated, softly, lost in sorrowful meditations. "but what man is?" "he's a man who has never thought of anything but his own pleasure." "sad, sad," she murmured very low. yet, though she thoroughly well understood that a better knowledge of her husband's past life could only bring her greater pain, she began to question luigi caracciolo about cesare's adventures. ah, how ashamed she was to do so! it seemed like violating a confidence; like desecrating an idol that she had erected on the altar of her heart. it seemed like breaking the most sacred condition of love, which is secrecy, to speak thus of her love to a man who loved her. yet the temptation was too strong for her. and cautiously, by hints, she endeavoured to draw from caracciolo some fact, some episode, a detail, a name, a date; she would try to ask indifferently, feigning a slight interest, attempting without success to play the woman of wit--she, poor thing, who was only a woman of heart. caracciolo understood at once, and for form's sake assumed a certain reluctance. then, as if won by her wishes, he would speak; he would give her a fact, an episode, a date, a name, commenting upon it in such wise as, without directly speaking ill of cesare, to underline his hardness of heart and his incapacity for real passion. it was sad wisdom that anna hereby gained. her husband's soul was cold and arid; he had always been the same; nothing had ever changed him. sometimes, sick and tired, she would pray caracciolo by a gesture to stop his talk; she would remain thoughtful and silent, feeling that she had poured a corrosive acid into her own wounds. sometimes laura would be present at these conversations, beautiful, in white garments, with soft, lovely eyes. she listened to caracciolo with close attention, whilst an inscrutable smile played on her virginal lips. he, in deference to the young girl's presence, would, from time to time, drop the subject; then laura would look at him with an expression of ardent curiosity that surprised him, a look that seemed to ask a hundred questions. his narrative of the life of cesare dias succeeded in spoiling anna's holiday, but did not advance his courtship by an inch. he has great patience, and unlimited faith in his method. he knew that a strong passion or a strong desire can overcome in time the most insurmountable obstacles. yet he had moments of terrible discouragement. how she loved him, cesare dias, this beautiful woman! it was a love all the more sad to contemplate, because of the discrepancies of age and character between husband and wife. here was a fresh young girl uncomplainingly supporting the neglect of a worn-out man of forty. one day, unexpectedly, cesare returned. from his wife's pallor, from her trembling, he understood how much he had been loved during his absence. he was very kind to her, very gallant, very tender. he embraced her and kissed her many times, effusively, and told her that she was far lovelier than the ladies of france and switzerland. he was in the best of good humours; and she, laughing with tears in her eyes, and holding his hand as she stood beside him, realised anew how single and absolute was her love for him. two or three times cesare asked, "and laura?" "she's very well. she'll be coming soon." "you haven't found her a husband?" "she doesn't want one." "that's what all girls say." "laura is obstinate. she really doesn't want one. people even think she would like to become a nun." "nonsense." "the strange thing is that once when i asked her if it was true, she answered no." "she's an odd girl," said cesare, a little pensively. "i don't understand her." "ah, for that matter, you understand very little in general," said her husband, caressing her hair to temper his impertinence. "oh, you're right; very little," she answered, with a happy smile. "i'm an imbecile." but laura did not come, though she had been called. anna sent her maid. "she would come at once; she was dressing," was the reply. they waited for her a few minutes longer; and when she appeared in the doorway, dazzling in white, with her golden hair in a rich coil on the top of her head, anna cried, "laura, cesare has come." cesare rose and advanced to meet his sister-in-law. she gave him her hand, and he kissed it. but he saw that she was offering her face; then he embraced her, kissing her cheek, which was like the petal of a camellia. this was all over in an instant, but it seemed a long instant to anna; and she had an instinctive feeling of repulsion when laura, blushing a little, came up and kissed her. it was an instinctive caress on the part of laura, and an instinctive movement of repulsion on that of anna. not that she had the faintest evil thought or suspicion; it was a vague distress, a subtle pain, nothing else. from that day life in the quiet villa caterina became sensibly gayer; there were visits and receptions, dances, and yachting parties. it was an extremely lively season at sorrento. there were a good many foreigners in the town; amongst them two or three wild american girls, who swam, rowed, played croquet and lawn-tennis, were very charming, and had handsome dowries. it became the fashion for the men to make love to these young persons, a thing that was sufficiently unusual in a society where flirtation with unmarried women is supposed to be forbidden. cesare told anna that it was a propitious moment for launching laura; she too had a handsome dowry, and was very lovely, though she lacked perhaps the vivacity of the wild americans; and with the energy of a youth, he took his wife and sister everywhere. luigi caracciolo continued to make his court to anna. with delicate cynicism, cesare, on his return, had inquired whether luigi had faithfully discharged his duty as her cavalier, but anna had turned such talk aside, for it hurt her. laura, however, declared that luigi had accomplished miracles of devotion, and shown himself a model of constancy. "and the lady, what of her?" asked cesare, pulling his handsome black moustaches. "heartless," laura answered, smiling at anna, for whom this joking was a martyrdom. "noble but heartless lady!" repeated cesare. "would you have wished me to be otherwise?" demanded anna, quickly, looking into her husband's eyes. "no; i should not have wished it," was his prompt rejoinder. in spite of this downright pronouncement, in which her husband, for all his cynicism, asserted his invincible right to her fidelity--in spite of the fact that cesare appeared to watch the comings and goings of caracciolo--he openly jested with his wife's follower about his courtship. "well, how is it getting on, luigi?" he asked one day. "badly, cesare. it couldn't be worse," responded luigi, with a melancholy accent that was only half a feint. "and yet i left the field free to you." "yes; you are as generous as the emperors your namesakes; but when you have captured a province you know how to keep it, whether you are far or near." "men of my age always do, luigi." "ah, you have a different tradition." "what tradition?" "you don't love." "what! do you mean to say that you young fellows love?" asked cesare, lifting his eyebrows. "sometimes, you know, we commit that folly." "it's a mistaken method--a grave blunder. i hope that you've not fallen into it." "i don't know," said luigi, looking mysterious. "besides, your question strikes me as prompted by jealousy. i'll say no more. it might end in bloodshed." "i don't think so," laughed cesare. "but you'll drive me to despair, dias. don't you see that your confidence tortures me. for heaven's sake, do me the favour of being jealous." "anything to oblige you, my dear fellow, except that. i've never been jealous of a woman in my life." "and why not?" "because----. one day or another i'll tell you." and putting his arm through luigi's he led him into the drawing-room of the hotel vittoria. such talks were frequent between them; on cesare's side calm and ironical, on luigi's sometimes a little bitter. on their family outings, cesare always gave his arm to laura, for he held it ridiculous for a husband to pair off with his wife; and caracciolo would devote himself to anna. cesare would make him a sign of intelligence, laughing at his assiduity. "rigidly obeying orders, eh?" asked the sarcastic husband. "anyhow, it's she who's given me my orders," answered the other, sadly. "but really, anna, you're putting to death the handsomest lad in christendom!" exclaimed cesare. "the world is the richer for those who die of love," she returned. "sentimental aphorism," said cesare, with a cutting ironical smile. and he went away to dance with laura. between anna and luigi there was a long silence. it was impossible for her to listen to these pleasantries without suffering. the idea that her husband could speak thus lightly of another man's love for her, the idea that he could treat as a worldly frivolity the daily siege that caracciolo was laying to her heart, martyrised her. she was nothing to him, since he could allow another man to court her. he never showed a sign of jealousy, and jealousy pleases women even when they know it is not sincere. she was angry with cesare as much as with luigi. "you jest too much about your feelings for any woman to take them seriously," she said to the latter, one evening, when they were listening to a concert of mandolines and guitars. "you're right," he answered, turning pale. "but once when i never jested, i had equally bad luck. you refused to marry me." he spoke sadly. that she had refused to marry him still further embittered for him her present indifference. how could a woman have refused a rich and handsome youth, for a man who had passed forty, and was effete in mind and body? how had cesare dias so completely taken possession of this woman's heart? the passion of anna for cesare, and that of caracciolo for anna, were much talked of in sorrento society, and the general opinion was that dias must be a tremendous wizard, that he possessed to a supreme degree the art of attracting men and winning women, and that everybody was right to love and worship him. as for caracciolo, his was the story of a failure. caracciolo himself, moved by i know not what instinct of loyalty, of vanity, or of subtle calculation, accepted and even exaggerated his role of an unsuccessful lover. wherever he went, at the theatre, at parties, he showed plainly that he was waiting for anna, and was nervous and restless until she came. his face changed when she entered, bowed to him, gave him her hand; and when she left he followed immediately. perhaps he was glad that all this should be noticed. he knew he could never move her by appearing cold and sceptical; that was cesare's pose, and in it luigi could not hope to rival him. perhaps her sympathies would be stirred if she saw him ardent and sorrowful. in the autumn he perceived that anna was troubled by some new grief. her joy at the return of cesare had given place to a strange agitation. she was pale and silent, with dark circles under her eyes. and he realised that whatever faint liking she had had for himself had been blotted out by a sorrow whose causes were unknown to him. one day he said to her, "something is troubling you?" "yes," she answered frankly. "will you tell me what it is?" "no; i don't wish to," she said, with the same frankness. "am i unworthy of your confidence?" "i can't tell it to you, i can't. it's too horrible," she murmured, with so heart-broken an inflection that he was silent, fearing lest others should witness her emotion. he returned to the subject later on, but without result. anna appeared horror-struck by her own thoughts and feelings. luigi had numberless suspicions. had anna secretly come to love him? or, had she fallen in love with some one else, some one unknown to him? but he soon saw that neither of these suppositions were tenable. he saw that she had not for a moment ceased to love cesare dias, and that her grief, whatever it was, sprang as usual from her love for him. for the first week after his return her husband had been kind and tender to her; then, little by little, he had resumed his old indifference. he constantly neglected her. he went out perpetually with laura, on the pretext that she was too old now to be accompanied only by her governess, and that it was his duty to find a husband for her. sometimes anna went with them, to enjoy her husband's presence. often he and laura would joke together about this question of her marriage. "how many suitors have you?" asked cesare, laughing. "four who have declared themselves; three or four others who are a little uncertain." anna felt herself excluded from their intimacy, and sought in vain to enter it. it made her exceedingly unhappy. she was jealous of her sister, and she hated herself for her jealousy. "i am vile and perfidious since i suspect others of vileness and perfidy," she told herself to. was it possible that cesare could be guilty of such a dreadful sin, that he could be making love to laura? "what's the matter with you? what are you thinking about?" he asked his wife. "nothing, nothing." "what's the matter?" he insisted. "don't ask me, don't ask me," she exclaimed, putting her hand over his mouth. but one evening, when they were alone, and he again questioned her, she answered, "it's because i love you so, cesare, i love you so." "i know it," he said, with a light smile. "but it isn't only that, dear anna." and he playfully ruffled up her black hair. "you're right. it isn't only that. i'm jealous of you, cesare." "and of what woman?" he asked, suddenly becoming cold and imperious. "of all women. if you so much as touch a woman's hand, i am in despair." "of women in general?" "of women in general." "of no one in particular?" she hesitated for a moment. "of no one in particular." "it's fancy, superstition," he said, pulling his moustache. "it's love, love," she cried. "ah, if you should love another, i would kill myself." "i don't think you'll die a violent death," said he, laughing. "remember--darling--i would kill myself." "you'll live to be eighty, and die in your bed," he said, still laughing. for a few days she was reassured. but on the first occasion, when her husband and laura again went out together, her jealousy returned, and she suffered atrociously. her conduct became odd and extravagant. sometimes she treated laura with the greatest kindness; sometimes she was rude to her, and would leave her brusquely, to go and shut herself up in her own room. laura asked no questions. "when are we going to leave sorrento?" anna asked. but her husband did not answer, appearing to wish to prolong their sojourn there. "let us go away, i beg you, cesare." "so soon? naples is empty at this season. there's nothing to do there. we'd have the air of provincials." "that doesn't matter. let us go away, cesare." "you are bored, here in the loveliest spot in the world?" "sorrento is lovely, but i want to go away." "as you wish," he said, suddenly consenting. "give orders to the servants to make ready." and, to avenge himself, he neglected her utterly during the last two or three days, going off constantly with laura. on the eve of their departure luigi caracciolo called, to make his adieux. he found anna alone. "good evening, signora dias," he said, and the commonplace words had an inflection of melancholy. "good evening. you've not gone to the farewell dance at the vittoria?" "i have no farewells to give except to you." "farewell, then," she said, seating herself near him. "farewell," he murmured, smiling, and looking into her eyes. "but we shall meet again within a fortnight." "i don't know whether i shall be receiving so soon. i don't know whether i shall receive at all." "you're going to shut your doors to me?" he asked, turning pale. "not to you only, to everybody. i'm not made for society. i'm out of place in it, out of tune with it. solitude suits me better." "you will die of loneliness. seeing a few devoted friends will do you good." "my troubles are too deep." "don't you think you're a little selfish? if you shut your doors, others will suffer, and you don't care. you are willing to deprive us of the great pleasure of seeing you. but don't you know that the pain we give reacts upon ourselves? don't be selfish." "it's true. i'm perhaps selfish. but who of us is perfect? the most innocent, the purest people in the world, can make others unhappy, without wishing to." he studied her, feeling that he was near to the secret of her sorrow. "sorrento has bored you?" he asked. "not exactly bored me. i have been unhappy here." "more unhappy than at naples?" "more than at naples." "and why?" "i don't know. i carry my unhappiness with me." "did you imagine that sorrento would make over the man you love?" "i hoped----" "nothing can make that man over. he's not bad perhaps; but he's what he is." "it's true." "why, then, do you seek the impossible?" he went on. "and you--aren't you seeking the impossible?" she retorted. "yes. but i stop at wishing for it. you see how reasonable i am. you are sad, very sad, anna, and not for my sake, for another's; yet i should be so happy if i could help you or comfort you in any way." "thank you, thank you," she replied, moved. "i believe that dark days are waiting for you at naples. i don't wish to prophesy evil, anna, but that is my belief." "i'm sure of it," said she, and a sudden desperation showed itself in her face. "well, will you treat me as a friend, and remember me in your moments of pain?" "yes, i will remember you." "will you call me to you?" "i will call upon you as upon a brother." "listen, anna. officially i live with my mother in our old family palace. but my real home is the rey villa in the chiatamone. i promise you, anna, that i am speaking to you now, as i would speak to my dearest sister. remember this, that, beginning a fortnight hence, i will wait there every day till four o'clock in the afternoon, to hear from you. i shall be quite alone in the house, anna. you can come without fear, if you need me. or you can send for me. my dearest hope will be in some way to serve you. i will obey you like a slave. anna, anna, when your hour of trouble arrives, remember that i am waiting for you. when you have need of a friend's help, remember that i am waiting." "but why do you give me your life like this?" "because it is good to give it thus. you, if you loved, would you not do the same?" "i would do the same. i would give my life." "you see! but forget that word love; it escaped me involuntarily. it is not the man who loves you, it is the devoted friend, it is the brother, whom you are to remember. my every day will be at your disposal. i swear that no unhallowed thought shall move me." "i believe you," she said. she gave him her hand. he kissed it. iv. anna was as good as her word, and on her return to naples shut herself up in solitude and silence, receiving no one, visiting no one, spending much of her time in her own room, going in the morning for long walks in the hope of tiring herself out, speaking but little, and living in a sort of moral somnolence that seemed to dull her sorrows. her husband and sister continued to enjoy their liberty, as they had enjoyed it at sorrento. she left them to themselves. she was alternately consumed by suspicions and remorseful for them. in vain she sought comfort from religion, her piety could not bear the contact of her earthly passion, and was destroyed by it. she had gone to her confessor, meaning to tell him everything, but when she found herself kneeling before the iron grating, her courage failed her; she dared not accuse her husband and her sister to a stranger. so she spoke confusedly and vaguely, and the good priest could give her only vague consolation. she abandoned herself to a complete moral prostration. she passed long hours motionless in her easy-chair, or on her bed, in a sort of stupor and often was absent from table, on one pretext or another. "the signora came home an hour ago, and is lying down," said cesare's man-servant. "very good. don't disturb her," returned his master, with an air of relief. "the signora has a headache, and will not come to luncheon," said anna's maid to laura. "very good. stay within call, if she should wish for anything," responded laura, serene and imperturbable. and cesare and laura merrily pursued their intimacy, never bestowing a thought upon her whom they thereby wounded in every fibre of her body, and in the essence of her soul. the anguish of jealousy is like the anguish of death, and anna suffered it to the ultimate pang, at the same time despising herself for it, telling herself that she was the most unjust of women. her sister was purity itself; her husband was incapable of evil; they were superior beings, worthy of adoration; and she was daily thinking of them as criminals, and covering them with mire. often and often, in the rare moments when her husband treated her affectionately, she longed to open her heart and tell him everything. but his manner intimidated her, and she dared not. she wondered whether she might not be mad, and whether her jealousy was not the figment of an infirm mind. she had hoped to find peace in flying from sorrento; now her hope was undeceived; and anna understood that her pain came from within, not from without. to see her sister and her husband together, seated side by side, walking arm in arm, pressing each other's hands, looking and smiling at each other, was more than she could bear; she fled their presence; she left the house for long wanderings in the streets, or shut herself up in her own room, knowing but too well that they would not notice her absence. indeed, it would be like a burden taken from their shoulders, for she was a burden to them, with her pallor and her speechlessness. "they are gay, and i bore them," she told herself. on several occasions, cesare twitted her on the subject of her continual melancholy, demanding its cause; but anna, smarting under his sarcasms, could not answer him. one day, in great irritation, he declared that she had no right to go about posing as a victim, for she wasn't a victim, and her sentimental vapourings bored him immensely. "ah, i bore you; i bore you," cried anna, shaking with suppressed sobs. "yes, unspeakably. and i hope that some day or another you'll stop boring me, do you hear?" "i had better die. that would be best," she sighed. "but can't you live and be less tiresome? is it a task, a mission, that you have undertaken, to bore people?" "i had better die, better die," she sobbed. he went off abruptly, cursing his lot, cursing above all the monstrous error he had made in marrying this foolish creature. and she, who had wished to ask his pardon, found herself alone. later in the same day she noticed that laura treated her with a certain contempt, shrugging her shoulders at the sight of her eyes red from weeping. anna determined that she would try to take on at least the external appearances of contentment. the beautiful neapolitan winter was beginning. she had eight or ten new frocks made, and resolved to become frivolous and vain. whenever she went out she invariably met luigi caracciolo; it was as if she had forewarned him of her itinerary. he had divined it, with that fine intuition which lovers have. they never stopped to speak, however; they simply bowed and passed on. but in his way of looking at her she could read the words of their understanding--"remember, every day, till four o'clock." she threw herself into the excitements of society, going much to the theatre and paying many calls. cesare encouraged this new departure. the people amongst whom she moved agreed that she was very attractive, but whispered that one day or another she would do something wild. "what?" "oh, something altogether extravagant." one evening towards the end of january anna was going to the san carlo; it was a first night. at dinner she asked laura if she would care to accompany her. "no," answered laura, absently. "why not?" "i've got to get up early to-morrow morning, to go to confession." "ah, very well. and you--will you come, cesare?" "yes," he said, hesitating a little. "cousin scibilia is coming too," anna added. "then, if you will permit me, i'll not come till the second act." and he smiled amiably. "have you something to do?" "yes; but we'll come home together." anna turned red and white. there was something half apologetic in her husband's tone, as if he had a guilty conscience in regard to her. but what did that matter? the prospect of coming home together, alone in a closed carriage, delighted her. she went to dress for the theatre. she put on for the first time a gown of blue brocade, with a long train, bold in colour, but admirably setting off the rich ivory of anna's complexion. in her black hair she fixed three diamond stars. she wore no bracelets, but round her throat a single string of pearls. when she was dressed, she sent for her husband. "you're looking most beautiful," he said. he took her hands and kissed them; then he kissed her fair round arms; and then he kissed her lips. she thrilled with joy and bowed her head. "we'll meet at the theatre," he said, "and come home together." she called for the marchesa scibilia, who now lived in the girls' old house in the via gerolomini. and they drove on towards the theatre. but when they reached the toledo they were met by a number of carriages returning. the explanation of this the two ladies learned under the portico of the san carlo. over the white play-bill a notice was posted announcing the sudden indisposition of the prima-donna, and informing the public that there would accordingly be no performance that evening. anna had a lively movement of disappointment, jumping out of her _coupé_ to read the notice for herself. luigi caracciolo was waiting in the shadow of a pillar, sure that she would come. "marchesa, you have a very ferocious cousin," he said, stepping forward to kiss the old lady's hand, and laughing at anna's manifest anger. then he bowed to her, and in his eyes there was the eternal message, "remember, i wait for you every day." she shook her head in the darkness. she was bitterly disappointed. her evening was lost--the evening during which she had counted upon being alone with cesare in their box, alone with him in the carriage, alone with him at home. and her beautiful blue gown; she had put it on to no purpose. "what shall we do?" she asked her cousin. "i'm going home. i don't care to go anywhere else. and you?" "i'm going home, too." she half hoped that she might still find cesare at the house, and so have at least a half hour with him before he went out. he was very slow about dressing; he never hurried, even when he had an urgent appointment. perhaps she would find him in his room, tying his white tie, putting a flower in his button-hole. she deposited the marchesa scibilia at the palace in the via gerolomini, and bade her coachman hurry home. "has the signore gone out?" she asked the porter. no, he had not gone out. the porter was about to pull his bell-cord, to ring for a footman, but anna instinctively stopped him. she wished to surprise her husband. she put her finger to her lips, smiling, as she met one of the maids, and crossed the house noiselessly, arriving thus at the door of cesare's room, the door that gave upon the vestibule, not the one which communicated with the passage between his room and anna's. the door was not locked. she opened it softly. she would surprise her husband so merrily. but, having opened the door, she found herself still in darkness, for cesare had lowered the two _portières_ of heavy olive velvet. a sudden interior force prevented anna's lifting the curtains and showing herself. she remained there behind them, perfectly concealed, and able to see and hear everything that went on in the room, through an aperture. cesare was in his dress-suit, with an immaculate white waistcoat, a watch-chain that went from his waistcoat-pocket to the pocket of his trousers, with a beautiful white gardenia in his button-hole, his handsome black moustaches freshly curled, and his whole air one of profound satisfaction. he was seated in a big leather arm-chair, his fine head resting on its brown cushions, against which the pallor of his face stood out charmingly. he was not alone. laura, dressed in that soft white wool which seemed especially woven for her supple and flowing figure, with a bouquet of white roses in the cincture that passed twice loosely round her waist, with her blonde hair artistically held in place by small combs of tortoise-shell, and forming a sort of aureole about her brow and temples, the glory of her womanly beauty--laura was in cesare's room. she was not seated on one of his olive velvet sofas, nor on one of his stools of carved wood, nor in one of his leather easy-chairs. she was seated on the arm of the chair in which he himself reclined; she was seated side wise, swinging one of her little feet, in a black slipper richly embroidered with pearls, and an open-work black silk stocking. one of her arms was extended across the cushion above cesare's head; and, being higher up than he, she had to bend down, to speak into his face. she was smiling, a strange, deep smile, such as had never been seen before upon the pure red curve of her lips. cesare, with his face turned up, was looking at her; and every now and then he took her hand and kissed it, a kiss that lingered, lingered while she changed colour. he kissed her hand, and she was silent, and he was silent; but it was not a sad silence, not a thoughtful silence. it was a silence in which they seemed to find an unutterable pleasure. they found an unutterable pleasure in their silence, their solitude, their freedom, their intimate companionship, in the kiss he had just given her, and which was the forerunner of many others. anna had arrived behind the curtain at the very moment when cesare was kissing laura's hand. she saw them gazing into each other's eyes, speechless with their emotion. anna could hear nothing but the tumultuous beating of her own heart, a beating that leapt up to her throat, making it too throb tumultuously. the fine white hand of laura remained in cesare's, softly surrendered to him; then, as if the mere contact were not enough, his and her fingers closely interlaced themselves. the girl, who had not removed her eyes from his, smiled languorously, as if all her soul were in her hand, joined now for ever to the hand of cesare; a smile that confessed herself conquered, yet proclaimed herself triumphant. they did not speak. but their story spoke for itself. anna saw how close they were to each other, saw how their hands were joined, saw the glances of passionate tenderness that they exchanged. clearly, in every detail, she witnessed this silent scene of love. her heart, her temples, her pulses, pounded frightfully; her nerves palpitated; and she said to herself: "oh, i am dreaming, i am dreaming." like one dreaming, indeed, she was unable to move, unable to cry out; her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; she could not lift the curtains; she could not advance, she could not tear herself away. she could only stand there rigid as stone, and behold the dreadful vision. every line of it, every passing expression on cesare's or laura's face, burned itself into her brain with fierce and terrible precision. and in her tortured heart she was conscious of but one mute, continuous, childlike prayer--not to see any longer that which she saw--to be freed from her nightmare, waked from her dream. and all her inner forces were bent upon the effort to close her eyes, to lower her eyelids, and put a veil between her and that sight. her prayer was not answered; she could not close her eyes. laura took her bouquet of white roses from her belt, and playfully struck cesare's shoulder with them. then she raised them to her face, breathing in their perfume, and kissing them. smiling, she offered cesare the roses that she had kissed, and he with his lips drank her kisses from them. after that, she kissed them again, convulsively, turning away her head. their eyes burned, his and hers. again he sought her kisses amongst the roses; and she put down her face to kiss them anew, at the same time with him. and slowly, from the cold, fragrant roses, their lips turned, and met in a kiss. their hands were joined, their faces were near together, their lips met in a kiss, and their eyes that had burned, softened with fond light. "perhaps i am mad," anna said to herself, hearing the wild blows of the blood in her brain. and, to make sure, wishing to be convinced that it was all an hallucination, she prayed that they might speak; perhaps they were mere phantoms sent to kill her. no sound issued from their lips. "lord, lord--a word," she prayed in her heart. "a sound--a proof that they are real, or that they are spectres." she heard, indeed, a deep sigh. it came from laura, after their long kiss. the girl jumped up, freed her hands from cesare's, and took two or three steps into the room. she was nearer to anna now. her cheeks were red, her hair was ruffled; and she, with a vague, unconscious movement, lifted it up behind her ears. her lips were parted in a smile that revealed her dazzling teeth. her gaze wandered, proud and sad. "heaven, heaven give her strength to go away. give her strength, give me strength," prayed anna, in her dream, in her madness. but laura had not the strength to go away. she returned to cesare; she sat down at his feet, looking up at him, smiling upon him, holding his hand, adoring him. and cesare, his eyes filled with tears, kissed her lips again and again--a torrent of kisses. "cesare cannot weep. they are phantoms. i am mad," said anna. a terrible fire leapt from her heart to her brain, making her tremble as in a fever; and then a sudden cold seemed to freeze her. she had heard. these phantoms had spoken. they were a man and a woman; they were her husband, cesare, and her sister laura. laura had drawn away from cesare's fury of kisses, and was standing beside him, while he, still seated, held her two hands. they were smiling upon each other. "do you love me?" he asked. "i love you," answered laura. "how much do you love me?" "so much! so much!" "but how much?" "absolutely." "and--how long will you love me, laura?" "always." now anna was shivering with cold. she was not mad. she was not dreaming. her teeth chattered. it seemed as if she had been standing there for a century. she dreaded being discovered, as if she were guilty of a crime. but she could not move, she could not go away. it was too much, too much; she could not endure it! she covered her mouth with her fan, to suffocate her voice, to keep from crying out, and cursing god and love. laura began to speak. "do you love me?" she asked. "yes, i love you." "how much do you love me?" "with all my heart, laura." "how long have you loved me?" "always." "how long will you love me?" "always." unendurable, unendurable! a wild anger tempted anna to enter the room, to tear down the curtains, to scream. it was unendurable. cesare said to laura, very softly, "go away now." "why, love?" "go away. it is late. you must go." "ah, you're a bad love--bad!" "don't say that. don't look like that. go away, laura." and fondly, he put his arm round her waist and led her to the door. she moved reluctantly, leaning her head upon his shoulder, looking up at him tenderly. at the door they kissed again. "good-bye, love," said laura. "good-bye, love," said cesare. the girl went away. cesare came back, looking exhausted, deathlike. he lit a cigarette. anna, holding her breath, crossed the vestibule, the smoking-room, the drawing-room, and at last reached her own room, and shut her door behind her. she had run swiftly, instinctively, with the instinct that guides a wounded animal. her maid came and knocked. she called to her that she did not need her. then some one else knocked. "anna, anna," said the calm voice of her husband. "what do you want?" she had to lean on a chair, to keep from falling; her voice was dull. "was there no performance? or were you ill?" "there was no performance." "have you just returned?" "yes, just returned." but the lie made her blush. "and your highness is invisible? i should like to pay your highness my respects." "no," she answered, with a choking voice. "good-bye, love," he called. "oh, infamous, infamous!" she cried. but he had already moved away, and did not hear. * * * * * for a long while she lay on her bed, burying her face in her pillow, biting it, to keep down her sobs. she was shivering with cold, in spite of the feather coverlet she had drawn over her. all her flesh and spirit were in furious revolt against the thing that she had seen and heard. she rose, and looked round her room. it was in disorder--the dress she had worn, her fan, her jewels tossed pell-mell hither and thither. slowly, with minute care, she gathered these objects up, and put them in their places. then she rang the bell. her maid came, half asleep. "what time is it?" asked anna, forgetting that on the table beside her stood the clock that cesare had given her. "it's one," responded the maid. "so late?" inquired her mistress. "you may go to bed." "and your excellency?" "you can do nothing for me." but the maid began to smooth down the bed. feeling the pillow wet with tears, she said, with the affectionate familiarity of neapolitan servants, "whoever is good suffers." the words went through her heart like a knife. perhaps the servant knew. perhaps she, anna, had been the only blind member of the household. the whole miserable story of her desertion and betrayal was known and commented upon by her servants; and she was an object of their pity! whoever is good suffers! "good night, your excellency, and may you sleep well," said the maid. "thank you. good-night." she was alone again. she had not had the courage to ask whether her husband had come home; he was most probably out, amusing himself in society. for a half hour she lay on her sofa; then she got up. a big lamp burned on her table, but before going away her maid had lighted another lamp, a little ancient pompeian lamp of bronze that in old times had doubtless lighted pompeian ladies to their trysts. anna took this lamp and left her room. the house was dark and silent. she moved towards laura's room; and suddenly she remembered another night, like this, when she had stolen through a dark sleeping house to join giustino morelli on the terrace, and offer to fly with him. giustino morelli, who was he? what was he? a shadow, a dream. a thing that had passed utterly from her life. at her sister's door she paused for a moment, then she opened it noiselessly, and guided by the light of her lamp, approached her sister's bed. laura was sleeping peacefully; anna held up her lamp and looked at her. she smiled in her sleep. "laura!" anna called, so close to her that her breath fell on her cheek. "laura!" her sister moved slightly, but did not wake. "laura! laura!" her sister sat up. she appeared frightened for a moment, but then she composed herself with an effort. "it is i, laura," said anna, putting her lamp on a table. "i see you," returned laura. "get up and come with me." "what for?" "get up and come, laura." "where, anna?" "get up and come," said anna, implacably. "i won't obey you." "oh, you'll come," cried anna, with an imperious smile. "you're mistaken. i'll not come." "you'll come, laura." "no, anna." "you're very much afraid of me then?" "here i am. i'll go where you like," laura said, proudly, resenting the imputation of fear. and she began to dress. anna waited for her, standing up. laura proceeded calmly with her toilet. but when she came to put on her frock of white wool, anna had a mad access of rage, and covered her face with her hands, to shut out the sight. four hours ago, only four hours ago, in that same frock, laura had been kissed by cesare. her sister seemed to her the living image of treachery. laura moved about the room as if she was hunting for something. "what are you doing?" asked anna. "i am looking for something." and she drew from under a pocket-handkerchief her bunch of white roses. "throw those flowers away," cried anna. "and why?" "throw those flowers away, laura, laura." "no." "by our lady of sorrows, i beseech you, throw them away." "you have threatened me. you have no further right to beseech me," said laura quietly, putting the flowers in her belt. "oh god!" cried anna, pressing her hands to her temples. "let us go," she said at last. laura followed her across the silent house to her room. "sit down," said anna. "i am waiting," said laura. "then you don't understand?" asked anna, smiling. "no--i understand nothing." "can't you imagine?" "i have no imagination." "and your heart--does your heart tell you nothing, laura? laura, laura, does your conscience tell you nothing?" "nothing," said the other quietly, lifting up the rich blonde hair behind her ears. the same gesture that anna had seen her make in cesare's room. "laura, you are my husband's mistress," anna said, raising her arms towards heaven. "you're mad, anna." "my husband's mistress, laura." "you're mad." "oh, liar, liar! disloyal and vile woman, who has not even the courage of her love!" cried anna, starting up, with flaming eyes. "beware, anna, beware. strong language at a moment like this is dangerous. say what you've got to say clearly; but don't insult me. don't insult me, because your diseased imagination happens to be excited. do you understand?" "oh, heavens, heavens!" exclaimed anna. "but you can see for yourself, you're mad. you see, you have nothing to say to justify your insults." "oh, madonna, madonna, give me strength," prayed anna, wringing her hands. "do you see?" asked laura. "you've called me here to vilify my innocence." "laura," said poor anna, trembling, "laura, it's no guess of mine, no inference, that you are my husband's mistress. i have not read it in any anonymous letter. no servant has told me it. in such a case as this no one has a right to believe an anonymous letter or a servant's denunciation. one cannot on such grounds withdraw one's respect from a person whom one loves." "well, anna." "but i have seen, i have seen," she cried, prey to so violent an emotion that it seemed to her as if the thing she had seen was visible before her again. "what have you seen?" asked laura, suddenly. "oh, horrible, horrible," cried anna, remembering her vision. "what have you seen?" repeated laura, seizing anna's arm. "oh, what a dreadful thing, what a dreadful thing," she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. but laura was herself consumed with anger and pain; and she drew anna's hands from her face, and insisted, "now--at this very moment--you have got to tell me what you have seen. do you understand?" and the other, turning pale at her threatening tone, replied: "you wish to know what i have seen, laura? and you ask me in a rage of offended innocence, of wounded virtue? you are angry, laura? angry--you? what right have you to be angry, or to speak to me as you have done? aren't you afraid? have you no fear, no suspicions, nothing? you threaten me; you tell me i am mad. you want to know what i have seen; and you are haughty because you deem yourself secure, and me a madwoman. but, to be secure, you should close the doors behind you when you go to an assignation. when you are speaking of love, and kissing, to be secure you should close the doors, laura, close the doors." "i don't understand you," murmured laura, very pale. "this evening, at nine o'clock, when you were in cesare's room--i came home suddenly--you weren't expecting me--you were alone, secure--and i saw through the door----" "what?" demanded the other, with bowed head. "as much as can be seen and heard. remember." laura fell into a chair. "why have you done this? why? why?" asked anna. laura did not answer. "don't you dare to answer? oh, see how base you are! see how perfidious you are. what manner of woman are you? why did you do it?" "because i love cesare." "o lord, lord!" cried anna, breaking into desperate sobs. "don't you know it? haven't your eyes seen it? haven't your ears heard it? do you imagine that a woman such as i am goes into a man's room if she doesn't love him! that she lets him kiss her, that she kisses him, unless she loves him! what more have you to ask! i love cesare." "be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," said anna. "and cesare loves me," laura went on. "be quiet. you are my sister. you are a young girl. don't speak such an infamy. be quiet. don't say that you and cesare are two monsters." "you have seen us together. i love cesare, and he loves me." "monstrous, infamous!" "it may be infamous, but it is so." "but don't you realise what you are doing! don't you feel that it is infamous; don't you understand how dreadful your offence is! am i not your sister--i whom you are betraying!" "i loved cesare from the beginning. you betrayed me." "the excuse of guilt! i loved him, i love him. you are betraying me." "you love him stupidly, and bore him; i love him well." "he's a married man." "he was married by force, anna." "he is my husband." "oh, very slightly!" "laura!" exclaimed anna, wounded to the quick, she who was all wounds. "i'm not blind," said laura, tranquilly. "i can take in the situation." "but your conscience! but your religion! but your modesty, which is soiled by such an atrocious sin!" "i'm not your husband's mistress, you know that yourself." "but you love him. you thrill at the touch of his hand. you kiss him. you tell him you love him." "well, all that doesn't signify that i'm his mistress." "the sin is as great." "no, it's not as great, anna." "it's a deadly sin merely to love another woman's husband." "but i'm not his mistress. be exact." "a change of words; the sin is the same." "words have their importance; they are the symbols of facts." "it's an infamy," said anna. "anna, don't insult me." "insult you! do you pretend that that pretty pure face of yours is capable of blushing under an insult? can your chaste brow be troubled by an insult? you have trampled all innocence and all modesty under foot--you, the daughter of my mother! you have broken your sister's heart--you, the daughter of the same mother! and now you say that i insult you. good!" "you have no right to insult me." "i haven't the right? before such treachery? i haven't the right? before such dishonour?" "if you will call upon your memory, you will see that you haven't the right." "what do you wish me to remember?" "a single circumstance. once upon a time, you, a girl like me, abandoned your home, and eloped with a man you loved, a nobody, a poor obscure nobody. then you deceived me, cesare, and everybody else. by that elopement you dishonoured the graves of your father and mother, and you dishonoured your name which is also mine." "oh, heavens, heavens, heavens!" cried anna. "you passed a whole day out of naples, in an inn at pompeii, alone the whole day with a man you loved, in a private room." "i wasn't giustino morelli's mistress." "exactly. nor am i cesare dias'." "i wasn't giustino morelli's mistress," repeated anna. "i wasn't behind the door, as you were, to see the truth." "oh, cruel, wicked sister--cruel and wicked!" "and please to have the fairness to remember that on that day cesare dias rushed to your rescue. in charity, without saying a word to reproach you, he brought you back to the home you had deserted. in charity, without insulting you, i opened my arms to welcome you. in charity we nursed you through your long illness, and never once did we reproach you. you see, you see, you're unjust and ungrateful." "but you have wounded me in my love, laura. but i adore cesare, and i am horribly jealous of him. i can't banish the thought of your love for him; i can remember nothing but your kisses. i feel as if i were going mad. oh, laura, laura, you who were so pure and beautiful, you who are worthy of a young man's love, why do you throw away your life and your honour for cesare?" "but you? don't you also love him? you too are young. yet didn't you love him so desperately that you would gladly have died, if he hadn't married you? i have followed your example, that is all. as you love him, i love him, anna. we are sisters, and the same passion burns in our veins." "don't say that, don't say it. my love will last as long as my life, laura." "and so will mine." "don't say it, don't say it." "until i die, anna." "don't say it." "my blood is like yours; my nerves are like yours; my heart is as ardent as yours. my soul is consumed with love, as yours is. we are the daughters of the same parents. cesare has fascinated you, cesare has fascinated me." "oh, heavens, heavens! i must kill myself then. i must die!" "bah!" said laura, with a movement of disdain. "i will kill myself, laura." "those who say it don't do it." "you are deceiving yourself, wicked, scornful creature." "those who say it don't do it," repeated laura, laughing bitterly. "but understand me! i can't endure this betrayal. understand! i--i alone have the right to love cesare. he is mine. i won't give him up to anybody. my only refuge, my only comfort, my only consolation is in my love. don't you see that i have nothing else?" "luigi caracciolo loves you, though," said laura, smiling. "what are you saying to me?" "you might fall in love with him." "you propose an infamy to me." "but consider. i love cesare; cesare loves me and not you. but caracciolo loves you. well, why not fall in love with him?" "because it would be infamous." "you are beginning to insult me again, anna. it is late. i am going away." "no, don't go yet, laura. think how terrible this thing is for me. listen to me, laura, and call to aid all your kindness. i have insulted you, it is true; but you can't know what jealousy is like, you can't imagine the unendurable torture of it. call to aid your goodness, laura. think--we were nourished at the same breast, the same mother's hands caressed us. think--we have made our journey in life together. laura, laura, my sister! you have betrayed me; you have outraged me; in the past seven hours i have suffered all that it is humanly possible to suffer; you can't know what jealousy is like. don't be impatient. listen to me. it is a terrible moment. don't laugh. i am not exaggerating. listen to me carefully. laura, all that you have done, i forget it, i forgive it. do you hear? i forgive you. i am sure your heart is good. you will understand all the affection and all the meekness there are in my forgiveness." and as if it were she who were the guilty one, she knelt before her sister, taking her hand, kissing it, bathing it with her tears. laura, seeing this woman whom she had so cruelly wronged kneel before her, closed her eyes, and for a moment was intensely pale. but her soul was strong; she was able to conquer her emotion. for an instant she was silent; then, coming to the supreme question of their existence, she demanded: "and what do you expect in exchange for this pardon?" she had the air of according a favour. "laura, laura, you must be good and great, since i have forgiven you." "what is your price for this forgiveness?" "you must not love cesare any more. bravely you must cast that impure love out of your soul, which it degrades. you must not love him any more. and then, not only will my pardon be complete and absolute, but you will find in me the fondest and tenderest of sisters. i will devote my life to proving to you how much i love you. my sole desire will be to make you happy; i will be your best and surest friend. but you must be good and strong, laura; you must remember that you are my sister; you must forget cesare." "anna, i cannot." "listen, listen. don't answer yet. don't decide yet. don't speak the last word yet, the awful word. think, laura, it is your future, it is your life, that you are staking upon this love: a black future, a fatal certainty of death, if you persist in it. but, on the contrary, if you forget it--if a chaste and innocent impulse of affection for me persuades you to put it from you--what peace, what calm! you will find another man, a worthier man, a man of your own loftiness of spirit, who will understand you, who will make you happy, whom you can love with all your soul, in the consciousness of having done your duty. you will be a happy wife, your husband will be a happy man, you will be a mother, you will have children--you will have children, you! but you must not love cesare any more." "anna, i can't help it." "laura, don't make your mind up yet. for pity's sake, hear me. we must find a way out of it, an escape. you will travel, you will make a journey, a long journey, abroad; that will interest you. i'll ask cousin scibilia to go with you. she has nothing to detain her; she's a widow; she will go. you will travel. you can't think how travelling relieves one's sufferings. you will see new countries, beautiful countries, where your mind will rise high above the petty, every-day miseries of life. laura, laura, see how i pray you, see how i implore you. we have the same blood in our veins. we are children of the same mother. you must not love cesare any more." "anna, i can't help it." anna moved towards her sister; but when she found herself face to face with her, an impulse of horror repelled her. she went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the street, into the great shadow of the night. when she came back, her face was cold, austere, self-contained. her sister felt that she could read a menace in it. "is that your last word?" asked anna. "my last word." "you don't think you can change?" "i don't think so." "you know what you are doing?" "yes, i know." "and you face the danger?" "where is the danger?" asked laura, rising. "don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said anna, carrying her pocket-handkerchief to her lips and biting it. "i ask you if it doesn't strike you as dangerous that two women such as i, anna dias, and you, laura acquaviva, should live together in the same house and love the same man with the same passion?" "it is certainly very dangerous," said laura slowly, standing up, and looking into her sister's eyes. "leave me my husband, laura," cried anna, impetuously. "take him back--if you can. but you can't, you know. you never could." "you're a monster. go away," cried anna, clenching her teeth, clenching her fists, driving her nails into her flesh. "it's at your bidding that i'm here. i came to show that i wasn't afraid of you, that's all." "go away, monster, monster, monster!" "kill me, if you like; but don't call me by that name," cried laura, at last exasperated. "you deserve that i should kill you, it is true. by all the souls that hear me, by the souls of our dead parents, by the madonna, who, with them, is shuddering in heaven at your crime, you deserve that i should kill you!" "but cesare would weep for me," taunted laura, again mistress of herself. "it is true," rejoined anna, icily. "go away then. go at once." "good-bye, anna." "good-bye, laura." leisurely, collectedly, she turned her back upon her sister, and moved away, erect and supple in her white frock, with her light regular footstep. her hand turned the knob of the door, but on the threshold she paused, involuntarily, and looked at anna, who stood in the middle of the room with her head bowed, her cheeks colourless, her eyes expressionless, her lips violet and slightly parted, testifying to her fatigue. laura's hesitation was but momentary. shrugging her shoulders at that spectacle of sorrow, she closed the door behind her, and went off through the darkness to her own room. anna was alone. and within herself she was offering up thanks to the madonna for having that night saved her from a terrible temptation. for, from the dreadful scene that had just passed, only one thought remained to her. she had besought her sister not to love cesare any more, promising in exchange all the devotion of her soul and body; and laura had thrice responded, obstinately, blindly, "i can't help it." well, when for the third time she heard those words, a sudden, immense fury of jealousy had seized her; suddenly a great red cloud seemed to fall before her eyes, and the redness came from a wound in her sister's white throat, a wound which she had inflicted; and the pale girl lay at her feet lifeless, unable for ever to say again that she loved cesare and would not cease to love him. ah, for a minute, for a minute, murder had breathed in anna's poor distracted heart, and she had wished to kill the daughter of her mother! now, with spent eyes, feeling herself lost and dying at the bottom of an abyss, she uttered a deep prayer of thanksgiving to god, for that he had swept the red cloud away, for that he had allowed her to suffer without avenging herself. slowly, slowly she sank upon her knees, she clasped her hands, she said over all the old simple prayers of her childhood, the holy prayers of innocence, praying that still, through all the hopeless misery that awaited her, she might ever be what she had been to-night, a woman capable of suffering everything, incapable of revenge. and in this pious longing her soul seemed to be lifted up, far above all earthly pain. all her womanly goodness and weakness were mingled in her renunciation of revenge. the violent energy which she had shown in her talk with laura had given place to a mortal lassitude. she remained on her knees, and continued to murmur the words of her orisons, but now she no longer understood their meaning. her head was whirling, as in the beginning of a swoon. she dragged herself with difficulty to her bed, and threw herself upon it, inert as a dead body, in utter physical exhaustion. laura had undone her. the whole long scene between them repeated itself over and over in her mind; again she passed from tears to anger, from jealousy to pleading affection; again she saw her sister's pure white face, and the cynical smile that disfigured it, and its hard incapacity for pity, fear, or contrition. laura had overthrown her, conquered her, undone her. anna had gone to her, strong in her outraged rights, strong in her offended love, strong in her knowledge of her sister's treachery; she had expected to see that proud brow bend before her, red with shame; she had expected to see those fair hands clasped and trembling, imploring pardon; she had expected to hear that clear voice utter words of penitence and promises of atonement. but far from that, far from accepting the punishment she had earned, the guilty woman had boldly defended her guilt; she had refused with fierce courage to give way; she had clung to her infamy, challenging her sister to do her worst. anna understood that not one word that she had spoken had made the least impression upon laura's heart, had stirred in it the faintest movement of generosity or affection; she understood that from beginning to end she had failed and blundered, knowing neither how to punish nor how to forgive. "i did not kill her. she has beaten me!" she thought. and yet anna was in the right; and laura, by all human and all moral law, was in the wrong. to love a married man, to love her sister's husband, almost her own brother! anna was right before god, before mankind, before cesare and laura themselves. if, when her sister had refused to surrender her husband to her, she had killed her, no human being would have blamed her for it. "and yet i did not kill her. she has beaten me!" she tried to find the cause of her defeat, overwhelmed by the despair with which good people see wrong and injustice triumph. she sought for the cause of her defeat, but she could find none, none. she was right--according to all laws, human and divine, she was in the right; she alone was right. oh, her agony was insupportable, more and more dreadful as she got farther from the fact, and could see it in its full hideousness, examine and analyse it in its full infamy. "beaten, beaten, beaten! bitterly worsted and overwhelmed!" for the third time in her life she had been utterly defeated. she had not known how to defend herself; she had not known how to assert her rights, and conquer. on that fatal day at pompeii, when giustino morelli had abandoned her; on that fatal night at sorrento, when cesare dias had proposed his mephistophelian bargain to her, whereby she was to renounce love, dignity, and her every prerogative as a woman and a wife; at pompeii and at sorrento she had been worsted by those who were in the wrong, by giustino morelli who could not love, by cesare dias who would not. and now again to-night--to-night, for the third time--betrayed by her husband and her sister--she had not known how to conquer. at naples, as at pompeii, as at sorrento, she who was in the right had been defeated by one who was in the wrong. "but why? why?" she asked herself, in despair. she did not know. it was contrary to all reason and all justice. she could only see the fact, clear, cruel, inexorable. it was destiny. a secret power fought against her, and baffled every effort she attempted. it was a fatality which she bore within herself, a fatality which it was useless to resist. all she could wish for now was that the last word might be spoken soon. "i must seek the last word," she thought. she rose from her bed, and looked at the clock. it was four in the morning. she went to her writing-desk, and, leaning her head upon her hand, tried to think what she had come there to do. then she took a sheet of paper, and wrote a few words upon it. but when she read them over, they displeased her; she tore the paper up, and threw it away. she wrote and tore up three more notes; at last she was contented with this one: "cesare, i must say something to you at once. as soon as you read these words, no matter at what hour of the night or morning, come to my room.--anna." she sealed the note in an envelope, and addressed it to her husband. she left her room, to go to his. the door was locked; she could see no light, hear no sound within. she slipped the letter through the crack above the threshold. "cesare shall speak the last word," she thought. she returned to her own room, and threw herself upon her bed to watch and wait for him. v. anna got up and opened her window, to let in the sun, but it was a grey morning, grey in sky and sea. lead-coloured clouds rested on the hill of posillipo; and the wide neapolitan landscape looked as if it had been covered with ashes. few people were in the streets; and the palm in the middle of the piazza vittoria waved its long branches languidly in the wintry breeze. her eyes were burning and her eyelids were heavy. she went into her dressing-room and bathed her face in cold water. then she combed her hair and fastened it up with a big gold pin. and then she put on a gown of black wool, richly trimmed with jet, a morning street costume. was she going out? she did not know. she dressed herself in obedience to the necessity which women feel at certain hours of the day to occupy themselves with their toilets. but when she came to fasten her brooch, a clover leaf set with black pearls, that laura had given her for a wedding-present, she discovered that one of the pearls was gone. the clover-leaf brings luck, but now this one was broken, and its power was gone. eleven o'clock struck, and somebody tapped discreetly at the door. she could not find her voice, to answer. the knock was repeated. "come in," she said feebly. cesare entered, calm and composed, carrying his hat and ebony walking-stick in his hand. "good-morning. are you going out?" he asked tranquilly. "no. i don't know," she answered, with a vague gesture. all her nerves were tingling, as she looked at the traitor's handsome, wasted face, a face so quiet and smiling. "you had something to say to me?" he reminded her, wrinkling his brow a little. "yes." "i came home late. i didn't want to disturb you," he said, producing a cigarette, and asking permission with a glance to light it. "you would not have disturbed me." "i suppose it's nothing of much importance." "it's a thing of great importance, cesare." "as usual," he said, with the shadow of a smile. "i swear to you by the memory of my mother that nothing is more important." "goodness gracious! act three, scene four!" he exclaimed ironically. "scene last," she said, dully, tearing a few beads from her dress, and fingering them. "so much the better, if we are near the end. the play was rather long, my dear." he was tapping his boot with his walking-stick. "we will cut it short, cesare. i have a favour to ask of you. will you grant it?" "ask, oh lovely lady; and in spite of the fact that last night you closed your door upon me, here i am, ready to serve you." "i have a favour to ask, cesare." "ask it, then, before i go out." "i want to make a long journey with you--to be gone a year." "a second honeymoon? the like was never known." "a journey of a year, do you understand? take me as your travelling companion, your friend, your servant. for a year, away from here, far away." "taking with us our sister, our governess, our dog, our cat, and the whole menagerie?" "we two alone," she said. "ah," said he. "what is your decision?" "i will think about it." "no. you must decide at once." "what's the hurry? are we threatened with an epidemic?" "decide now." "then i decide--no," he said. "and why?" she asked, turning pale. "because i won't." "tell me your reason." "i don't wish to travel." "you have always enjoyed travelling." "well, i enjoy it no more. i am tired, i am old, i will stay at home." "i implore you, let us go away, far from here." "but why do you want to go away?" "listen. don't ask me. say yes." "why do you want to go away, anna?" "because, i want to go. do me the favour." "is my lady flying from some danger that threatens her virtue? from some unhappy love?" "there's something more than my virtue in danger. i am flying from an unhappy love, cesare," she said gravely, shutting her eyes. "heavens! and am i to mix myself up in these tragical complications? no, anna, no, i sha'n't budge." "is there no prayer that can move you. will you always answer no?" "i shall always say no." "even if i begged you at the point of death?" "fortunately your health is excellent," he rejoined, smiling slightly. "we may all die--from one moment to another," she answered, simply. "let us go away together, cesare." "i have said no, and i mean no, anna. don't try to change me. you know it's useless." "then will you grant me another favour? this one you will grant." "let's hear it." "let us go and live alone in the palace in via gerolimini." "in that ugly house?" "let us live there alone together." "alone? how do you mean?" "alone, you and i." "without laura?" "without laura." "ah," he said. she looked at him pleadingly, and in her brown eyes he must have been able to read the sorrowful truth. but he had no pity; he would not spare her the bitter confession of it. "be frank," he said, with some severity. "you wish to separate from your sister!" "yes." "and why? tell me the reason." "i can't tell you. i wish to separate from laura." "when?" "at once. to-day." "indeed? have you had a quarrel? i'll be peacemaker." "i doubt it," she said, with a strange smile. "if you'll tell me what you've quarrelled about, i'll make peace between you." "but why do you ask these questions and make these offers? i want to separate from my sister. that is all." "and i don't wish to," he said, looking coldly into his wife's eyes. "you don't wish to be parted from laura!" she cried, feeling her feet giving way beneath her. "i don't indeed." "then i will go away myself, she cried, her brain reeling. "do as you like," he answered, calmly. "oh, heaven help me," she murmured, under her breath, staggering, losing all her strength. "now we have come to the fainting-fit," said cesare, looking at her scornfully, "and so will end this scene of stupid jealousy." "what jealousy! who has spoken of jealousy?" she asked haughtily. "must i inform you that you have done nothing else for the past half-hour! it strikes me that you have lost the little good sense you ever had. and i give you notice that i'm not going to make myself ridiculous on your account." "you wish to stay with laura!" "not only i, but you too. for the sake of the world's opinion, as well as for our own sakes, we can't desert the girl. she's been confided to our protection. it would be a scandal which i'll not permit you to make. if i have to suffer a hundred deaths, i'll not allow you to make a scandal. do you understand!" she looked at him, changing colour, feeling that her last hope was escaping her. "and then," he went on, "i don't know your reasons for not wishing to live any longer with your sister. she's good, she's well-behaved, she's serious; she gives you no trouble; you have no right to find fault with her. it's one of your whims--it's your everlasting desire to be unhappy. anyhow, your idiotic caprice will soon enough be gratified. laura will soon be married." "do you wish laura to marry!" "i wish it earnestly." "you'll be glad of it!" "most glad," he answered, smiling. ah, in the days of her womanly innocence, before her mind had been opened to the atrocious revelations of their treason, she would not have understood the import of that answer and that smile; but she knew now the whole depth of human wickedness. he smiled, and curled his handsome black moustaches. anna lost her head. "then you are more infamous than laura," she cried. "the vocabulary of othello," he cried, calmly. "but, you know, it has been proved that othello was epileptic." "and he killed desdemona," said anna. "does it strike you that i look like desdemona?" "not you, not you." "and who then?" "laura." "your folly is becoming dangerous, anna." "imminently, terribly dangerous, cesare." "fortunately you take it out in words, not in actions," he concluded, smiling. she wrung her hands. "last night laura owed her life to a miracle," she said. "but what has been going on here?" he exclaimed, agitated, rising to his feet. "and where is laura?" "oh, fear nothing, fear nothing on her account. i've not harmed her. she's alive. she's well. she's very well. no wrinkle troubles her beauty, no anxiety disturbs her mind. fear nothing. she is a sacred person. your love protects her. listen, cesare; she was here last night alone in this room with me; and i had over her the right given me by heaven, given me by men; and i _did not kill her_." cesare had turned slightly pale; that was all. "and if it is permitted to talk in your own high-sounding rhetoric, what was the ground of your right to kill her?" he asked, looking at the handle of his walking-stick, and emphasising the disdainful _you_.[f] "laura has betrayed me. she's in love with you." "nothing but this was lacking! that laura should be in love with me! i'm glad to hear it. you are sure of it? it's an important matter for my vanity. are you sure of it?" "don't jeer at me, cesare. you don't realise what you are doing. don't smile like that. don't drive me to extremes." "there are two of you in love with me--for i suppose you still love me, don't you? it's a family misfortune. but since you both adore me, it's probably not my fault." "cesare, cesare!" "and confess that i did nothing to win you." "you have betrayed me, cesare. you are in love with laura." "are you sure of it?" "sure, cesare." "but bear in mind that certainties are somewhat rare in this world. for the past few minutes i've been examining myself, to discover if indeed i had in my soul a guilty passion for laura. perhaps i am mad about her, without knowing it. but you, who are an expert in these affairs, you are sure of it. have the goodness to explain to me, oh, passionate signora dias, in what manner i have betrayed you, loving your sister. describe to me the whole blackness of my treason. tell me in what my--infamy--consists. wasn't it infamy you called it? i'm not learned in the language of the heart." "oh, god! oh, god!" sobbed anna, her face buried in her hands, horrified at what she heard and saw. "i hope we've not to pass the morning invoking the lord, the virgin, and the saints. what do you suppose they care for your idiocy, anna? they are too wise; and i should be wiser if i cared nothing for it, either. but when your rhetoric casts a slur upon others, it can't be overlooked. i beg you, signora dias, to do your husband the kindness of stating your accusations precisely. set forth the whole atrocity of his conduct. i fold my hands, and sit here on this chair like a king on his judgment-seat. i wait, only adding that you have already used up a good deal of my patience." "but has laura told you nothing?" "nothing, my dear lady." "where is she?" "she's gone to church, i hear." "quietly gone to church?" "do you fancy that all women dance in perpetual convulsions to the tune of their sentiments, signora dias? no, for the happiness of men, no. our dear and wise minerva has gone to mass, for to-day is sunday." "with that horrible sin on her conscience! does she think she can lie even to god? but it's a sacrilege." "ah, we're to have a mystical drama, a passion-play now, are we? dear lady, i see that you have nothing to say to me, and i make my adieux." he started to go, but she barred the way to him. "don't go, cesare; don't leave me. since you will have it so, you shall hear from my lips, though they tremble with horror in pronouncing it, the story of your infamy. i will repeat it to you to-day as i repeated it to laura last night; and i hope it may burn in your heart as it burns in mine. ah, you laugh; you have the boldness to laugh. you treat this talk as a joke. you sneer at my anger. you would like to get away from me. i annoy you. my voice wearies you. and what i have to say to you will perhaps bring a blush of shame even to your face, corrupt man that you are. but you cannot leave me. you are obliged to remain here. you must give me an account of your betrayal. ah, don't smile, don't smile; that will do no good; your smile can't turn me aside. i won't allow you to leave me. remember, cesare, remember what you did last evening. remember and be ashamed. remember how cruel, how wicked, how atrocious it was, what happened last evening between you and my sister. under my eyes cesare, and for long minutes, so that i could have no doubt. i could not imagine that i was mad or dreaming. i saw it all, my ears heard the words you spoke, the sound of your kisses, your long kisses. i could not doubt. oh, how horrible it is for a woman who loves to see the proof that she is betrayed! what new, unknown capacities for sorrow open in her soul! oh, what have you done to me, cesare, you whom i adored! you and my sister laura, what have you done to me!" she fell into a chair, crushing her temples between her hands. "is it your habit to listen at doors? it's not considered good form," said cesare coldly. "do you wish me to die, cesare? how could you forget that i loved you, that i had given you my youth, my beauty, all my heart, all my soul, that i adored you with every breath, that you alone were the reason for my being? you have forgotten all this, forgotten that i live only for you, my love--you have forgotten it?" "these sentiments do you honour, though they're somewhat exaggerated. buy a book of manners, and learn that it's not the thing to listen at doors." "it was my right to listen, do you understand? i was defending my love, my happiness, my all; but the terrible thing i saw has destroyed for ever everything i cared for." "did you really see such a terrible thing?" he asked, smiling. "if i should live a thousand years, nothing could blot it from my mind. oh, i shall die, i shall die; i can only forget it by dying." "you are suffering from cerebral dilatation. it was nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry--it was a jest, anna." "laura said that she loved you. i heard her." "of course, girls of her age always say they're in love." "she kissed you, cesare. i saw her." "and what of that? girls of her age are fond of kissing. they're none the worse for it." "she was in your arms, cesare, and for so long a time that to me it seemed a century." "it's not a bad place, you know, signora dias," he responded, smiling. "oh, how low, how monstrous! and you, cesare, you told her that you loved her. i heard you." "a man always loves a little the woman that is with him. besides, i couldn't tell her that i hated her; it would scarcely have been polite. i know my book of manners. there's at least one member of our family who preserves good form." "cesare, you kissed her." "i'd defy you to have done otherwise, if you'd been a man. you don't understand these matters." "on the lips, cesare." "it's my habit. it's not a custom of my invention, either. it's rather old. i suspect it took its rise with adam and eve." "but she's a young girl, an innocent young girl, cesare." "girls are not so innocent as they used to be, anna. i assure you the world is changing." "she is my sister, cesare." "that's a circumstance quite without importance. relationship counts for nothing." she looked at him with an expression of intense disgust. "you, then, cesare," she said, "have no sense of the greatness of this infamy. she at least, laura, the other guilty person, turned pale, was troubled, trembled with passion and with terror. you--no! here you have been for an hour absolutely imperturable; not a shade of emotion has crossed your brazen face; your voice hasn't changed; you feel no fear, no love, no shame; you are not even surprised. she at least shuddered and cried out; she is an acquaviva! it is true that, though she saw my anger and my despair, she had neither pity nor compunction, but her passion for you, at least, was undisguised. she had feeling, strength, will. but you--no. you, like her, indeed, could see me weep my heart out, could see me convulsed by the most unendurable agony, and have not an ounce of pity for me; but your hardness does not spring, like hers, from love; no, no; from icy indifference. you are as heartless as a tombstone. she, at least, has the courage, the audacity, the effrontery of her wickedness; she declares boldly that she loves you, that she adores you, that she will never cease to love you, that she will always adore you. she is my sister. in her heart there is the same canker that is in mine--a canker from which we are both dying. you--no! love? passion? not even an illusion. nothing but a harmless scene of gallantry! a half-hour of amusing flirtation, without consequence! but what does it mean, then, to say that we love? is it a lie that a man feels justified in telling any woman? and what is a kiss? a fugitive contact of the lips, immediately forgotten? so many false kisses are given in the course of a day and night! nonsense, triviality, rubbish! it's bad form to spy at doors; its exaggeration to call a thing infamous; it's madness to be jealous. and the sin that you have committed, instead of originating in passion, which might in some degree excuse it, you reduce to an every-day vulgarity, a commonplace indecency; my sister becomes a vulgar flirt, you a vulgar seducer, and i a vulgar termagant screaming out her morbid jealousy. the whole affair falls into the mud. my sister's guilty love, your caprice, my despair, all are in the mud, among the most disgusting human garbage, where there is no spiritual light, no cry of sorrow, where everything is permissible, where the man expires and the beast triumphs. do you know what you are, cesare?" "no, i don't know. but if you can tell me, i shall be indebted for the favour." "you are a man without heart, without conscience; a soul without greatness and without enthusiasm; you are a lump of flesh, exhausted by unworthy pleasures and morbid desires. you are a ruin, in heart, in mind, in senses; you belong to the class of men who are rotten; you fill me with fright and with pity. i did not know that i was giving my hand to a corpse scented with heliotrope, that i was uniting my life to the mummy of a gentleman, whose vitiated senses could not be pleased by a young, beautiful, and loving wife, but must crave her sister, her pure, chaste, younger sister! have you ever loved, cesare? have you ever for a moment felt the immensity of real love? in your selfishness you have made an idol of yourself, an idol without greatness. a thing without viscera, without pulses, without emotion! you are corrupt, perverted, depraved, even to the point of betraying your wife who adores you, with her sister whom you do not love! ah, you are a coward, a dastard; that's what you are, a dastard!" she wrung her hands and beat her temples, pacing the room as a madwoman paces her cell. but not a tear fell from her eyes, not a sob issued from her breast. he stood still, his face impenetrable; not one of her reproaches had brought a trace of colour to it. she threw herself upon a sofa, exhausted; but her eyes still burned and her lips trembled. "now that you have favoured me with so amiable a definition of myself," said he, "permit me to attempt one of you." his tone was so icy, he pronounced the words so slowly, that anna knew he was preparing a tremendous insult. instinctively, obeying the blind anger of her love, she repeated, "you are a dastard; that's what you are, a dastard." "my dear, you are a bore--that's what _you_ are." "what do you say?" she asked, not understanding. "you're a bore, my dear." the insult was so atrocious, that for the first time in the course of their talk her eyes filled with tears, and a sigh burst from her lips--lips that were purple, like those of a dying child. it seemed as if something had broken in her heart. "nothing but a bore. i don't employ high-sounding words, you see. i speak the plain truth. you're a bore." another sigh, a sigh of insupportable physical pain, as if the hard word _bore_ had cut her flesh, like a knife. "you flatter yourself that you're a woman of grand passions," he went on, after looking at his watch, and giving a little start of surprise to see how much time he had wasted here. "no? you flatter yourself that you're a creature of impulse, a woman with a fate, a woman destined to a tragic end; and to satisfy this notion, you complicate and embroil and muddle up your own existence, and mortally bore those who are about you. with your rhetoric, your tears, your sobs, your despair, your interminable letters, your livid face and your gray lips, you're enough to bore the very saints in heaven." he pretended not to see her imploring eyes, which had suddenly lost their anger, and were craving mercy. "remember all the stupidities you've committed in the past four or five years," he went on, "and all the annoyance you've given us. you were a handsome girl, rich, with a good name. you might have married any one of a dozen men of your own age, your own rank, gentlemen, who were in love with you. that would have been sensible, orderly; you would have been as happy as happy can be. but what! anna acquaviva, the romantic heroine, condescend to be happy! no, no. that were beneath her! so you had to fancy yourself in love with a beggar whom you couldn't marry." she made a gesture, as if to defend giustino morelli. "oh, did you really love him? thanks for the compliment; you're charming this morning. passion, inequality of position, drama, flight into egypt, fortunately without a child--forgive the impropriety, but it escaped me. morelli, chancing to be a decent fellow, morelli ran away, poor devil! and our heroine treated herself to the luxury of a mortal illness. we, laura, i, everybody, were bored by the flight, bored by the illness. the lesson was a severe one, and most women would have been cured of their inclination towards the theatrical, as well as of their scarlet fever. but not so anna acquaviva. it didn't matter to her that she had risked her reputation, her honour; it didn't matter to her that she had staked the name of her family; all this only excited her imagination. and, behold, she begins her second romance, her second drama, her second tragedy, and enter upon the scene, to be bored to death, signor cesare dias!" "oh, holy virgin, help me," murmured anna, pressing her hands to her temples. "dramatic love for cesare dias, an old man, a man who has never gone in for passion, who doesn't wish to go in for it, who is tired of all such bothersome worries. anna acquaviva gives herself up to an unrequited love, 'one of the most desolating experiences of the soul'--that's a phrase i found in one of your letters. desolation, torture, spasms, despair, bitterness, these are the words which our ill-fated heroine, anna acquaviva, employs to depict her condition to herself and to others. and cesare dias, who had arranged his life in a way not to be bored and not to bore anyone, cesare dias, who is an entirely common and ordinary person, happy in his mediocrity, suddenly finds himself against his will dragged upon the scene as hero! he is the man of mysteries, the man who will not love or who loves another, the superior man, the neighbour of the stars. and nevertheless we find a means of boring him." "ah, cesare, cesare, cesare!" she said, beseeching compassion. "imbecile ought to be added to the name of cesare dias. that's the title which i best deserve. only an imbecile--and i was one for half-an-hour--could have ceded to your sentimental hysterics. i was an imbecile. but to let you die, to complete your tragedy of unrequited love----" "oh, why didn't you let me die?" she cried. "i believe it would have been as well for many of us. what a comfort for you, dear heroine, to die consumed by an unhappy passion! gaspara stampa, properzia de' rossi, and other illustrious ladies of ancient times, with whose names you have favoured me in your letters, would have found their imitator. i'm sure you would have died blessing me." bowing her head, she sighed deeply, as if she were indeed dying. "instead of letting you die, i went through the dismal farce of marrying you. and i assure you that i've never ceased to regret it. i regretted it the very minute after i'd made you my idiotic proposal. ah, well, every man has his moments of inexplicable weakness, and he pays dearly for them. and marriage, alas, hasn't proved a sentimental comedy. with your pretentions to passion, to love, to mutual adoration, you've bored me even more than i expected." "but what, then, is marriage from your point of view?" she cried. "a bothersome obligation, when a man marries a woman like you." "you would have preferred my sister?" she asked, exasperated. but she was at once sorry for this vulgarity; and he speedily punished it. "yes, i should have preferred your sister. she's not a bore. i find her extremely diverting." "she loved you from the beginning," she says. "a pity she didn't tell you so." "a pity. i assure you i should have married her." "ah, very well." but suddenly she raised her eyes to her husband; and at the sight of that beloved person her courage failed her. she took his hand, and said, "ah, cesare, cesare, you are right. but i loved you, i loved you, and you have deceived me with my sister." "signora dias, you have rather a feeble memory," he returned, icily, drawing his hand away. "how do you mean?" "i mean that you easily forget. we are face to face; you can't lie. have i ever told you that i loved you?" "no--never," she admitted, closing her eyes agonised to have to admit it. "have i ever promised to love you?" "no--never." "well, then, according to the laws of love, i've not deceived you, my dear anna. my heart has never belonged to you, therefore it's not been taken from you. i promised nothing, therefore i owe you nothing." "it's true. you're right, cesare," she said; draining this new cup of bitterness that he had distilled for her. "perhaps you will speak to me of the laws of the land. very good; according to the law a man and wife are required to be mutually faithful. a magistrate would say that i had betrayed you. but consider a little. make an effort of memory, anna, and recall the agreement i proposed to you that evening at sorrento, before committing my grand blunder. i told you that i wished to remain absolutely free, free as a bachelor; and you consented. is it true or not true?" "it is true. i consented." "i told you that i would tolerate no interference on your part with my relations with other women; and remember, anna, you consented. is that true or untrue?" "it is true," she said, feeling that she was falling into an abyss. "you see, therefore, that neither according to the laws of love nor according to the laws of marriage have i betrayed you. and if you had a conscience, to adopt your own phraseology, if you had the least loyalty, you would at once confess that i have not betrayed you. you accepted the whole bargain. i am free in heart, and at liberty to do as i like. i have not betrayed you. confess it." "cesare, cesare, be human, be christian; don't require me to say that." "tragedies are one thing, and truth is another, anna. i desire to establish the fact that i haven't betrayed you, my dear. for what i did last night, for what i may have done on any other night, for what i may do any night in the future, i have your own permission. confess it." "i can't say that, do you understand?" she cried. "oh, you are always in the right; you always know how to put yourself in the right. you are right in your selfishness, in your perfidy, in your wickedness, in your frightful corruption; you were right in proposing that disgraceful bargain to me, which i was not ashamed to accept, and which you to-day so justly and so appropriately remind me of. but i believed that to love, to adore a man as i loved and adored you, would be a charm to conquer with; and i have lost. for you are stronger than i; indifference is stronger than love; selfishness is stronger than passion. generous abandonment cannot overcome the refined calculation of a corrupt man. i am wrong, i alone, i confess it--since i loved you to the point of dying for you, since i imagined that that was enough, since i had in my soul the divine hope of winning you by my love. i am wrong, i confess it; yes, i confess it. i cannot love nor hate nor live. i am nothing but a bore, a superfluous person, and a tiresome; it is true; it is true. say it again." "if you wish it, i will." "you are right. you are always right. i have done nothing but blunder. i have always obeyed the mad impulses of my heart. i fled from my home. i ought not to have loved you, and i loved you. i loved you; i have bored you; and i myself, of my free will, gave you permission to betray me. you are the most vicious man i know. you're unredeemed by a thought or a feeling. you horrify me. under the same roof with your wife, you have committed an odious sin--a sin that would make the worst men shudder. and i can't punish you, because i consented to it; because i debased the dignity of my love before you; because indeed i am a cowardly and infamous creature. see how right you are! you have sinned, but so far as i am concerned you are innocent. i am infamous and cowardly, because i ought to have died rather than accept that loathsome bargain. forgive me if i have upbraided you. i'll ask laura's pardon too. no human being is soiled with an infamy so great as mine. forgive me." perhaps he felt in these words the confusion of madness; perhaps he saw the light of madness in her eyes. but he was unmoved. she was a woman who had led him into committing a folly, who had bored him, and, what was more, who would like to continue to bore him in the future. he was unmoved. he was glad to have got the better of her in this struggle. he was unmoved. he thought it time to leave her, if he would retain his advantage. "good-bye, anna," he said, rising. "don't go away, don't go away," she cried, throwing herself before him. "do you imagine that this duet is pleasing?" he asked, drawing on his gloves. "for the rest, we've said all there is to say. i can't think you have any more insults to favour me with." "you hate me, do you?" "no, i don't hate you exactly." "don't go away. don't go away. i must tell you something very serious." "good-bye, anna," he repeated, moving towards the door. "cesare, if you go away, i shall do something desperate," she cried, convulsively tearing her hair. "you'd be incapable. to do anything desperate one must have talent. and you're a fool," he replied, smiling ironically. "cesare, if you go away, i shall die." "bah, bah, you'll not die. to die one must have courage." and he opened the door and went out. she ran to the threshold. he was already at a distance. she heard the street door close behind him. for a few minutes she stood there, fearing to move lest she should fall; then mechanically she turned back. she went to her looking-glass, repaired the disorder of her hair, and put on a hat, a black veil, and a sealskin cloak. she forgot nothing. her pocket-handkerchief was in her muff; in her hand she carried her card-case of carved japanese ivory. at last she left her room, and entered her husband's. a servant was putting it in order; but, seeing his mistress, he bowed and took himself off. she was alone there, in the big brown chamber, in the gray winter daylight. she went to her husband's desk, and sat down before it, as if she were going to write. but, after a moment's thought, she did not write. she opened a drawer, took something from it, and concealed it in her pocket. after that, she passed through the house and out into the street. she crossed the piazza vittoria, and entered the villa nazionale. children were playing by the fountain, and she stopped for a moment to look at them. twice she made the tour of the villa; then she looked at her watch; then she seated herself on one of the benches. there were very few people abroad. the damp earth was covered with dead leaves. she fixed her eyes upon the dial of her watch, counting the minutes and the seconds. all at once she put her hand into her pocket, and felt the thing that she had hidden there. anna rose. it was two o'clock. she left the villa, walking towards the chiatamone. before the door of a little house in the via del chiatamone she stopped. she hesitated for a moment; then she lifted the bronze knocker, and let it fall. the door was opened by luigi caracciolo. he did not speak. he took her hand, and drew her into the house. they crossed two antechambers, hung with old tapestries, ornamented with ancient and modern arms, and with big delft vases filled with growing palms, a smoking-room furnished with rustic swiss chairs and tables, and entered a drawing-room. the curtains were drawn, the lamps lighted. the floor and the walls were covered with oriental carpets; the room was full of beautiful old italian furniture, statues, pictures, bronzes. there were many flowers about, red and white roses, subtly perfumed. caracciolo took a bunch of roses, and gave them to anna. "dear anna--my dear love," he said. a faint colour came to her cheeks. "what is it? tell me, anna. dear one, dear one!" "don't speak to me like that," she said. "do i offend you? i can't think that i offend you--i who feel for you the deepest tenderness, the most absolute devotion." he took her hands. "it is dark here," she said. "the day was so sad, the daylight was so melancholy. i have waited for you so many hours, anna." "i have come, you see." "thank you for having remembered your faithful servant." and delicately he kissed her gloved hand. "why not open the curtains a little?" she asked. he drew aside his curtains, and let in the ashen light. she went to the window, and looked out upon the sea. "anna, anna, come away. somebody might see you." "it doesn't matter." "but i can't allow you to compromise yourself, anna; i love you too much." "i have come here to compromise myself," she said. "then--you love me a little?" he demanded, trying to draw her away from the window. she did not answer. she sat down in an arm-chair. "tell me that you love me a little, anna." "i don't love you." "dear anna, dear anna," he murmured with his caressing voice, "how can i believe you, since you are here. tell me that you love me a little. for three years i have waited for that word. dear anna, sweet anna, you know that i have adored you for so long a time. anna, anna!" "what has happened was bound to happen," she said. "anna, i conjure you,[g] tell me that you love me." she shuddered as she heard him use the familiar pronoun. "do you love me?" "i don't know. i know nothing." "dear one, dear one," he murmured, trembling with hope, in an immense transport of love. he drew nearer to her and kissed her on the cheek. a cry of pain burst from her, and she sprang up, horrified, terrified, and tried to leave the room. "oh, for mercy's sake, forgive me. don't go away. anna, anna, forgive me if i have offended you. i love you so! if you go away i shall die." "people don't die for such slight things." "people die of love." "yes. but one must have courage to die." "don't let us talk of these dismal things. my love, we mustn't talk of things that will sadden you. your beautiful face is troubled. tell me that you forgive me. do you forgive me?" "i forgive you." "i don't believe it. you don't forgive me. you love another." "no, no--no other." "and cesare?" but scarcely had he spoken the fatal name when he saw his error. her eyes blazed; she trembled from head to foot, in a nervous convulsion. "listen," she said. "if you have a heart, if you have any pity, if you wish me to stay here with you, never name him again, never name him." "you are right." but then he added, "and yet you loved him, you love him still." "no. i love no one any more." "why would you not accept me when i proposed for you?" "because." "why did you marry that old man?" "because." "and now why do you love him? why do you love him?" "i don't know." "you see, you do love him," he cried in despair. "oh, god, oh, god!" she sobbed. "oh, i am a fool. forgive me, forgive me. but i love you, and i lose my head. i love you, and i am desperate. and i need to know if you still love him. you will always love him? is it so?" "till death," she said, with a strange look and accent. "say it again." "till death," she repeated, with the same strange intonation. they were silent. luigi caracciolo put his arm round her waist, and drew her slowly towards him. her eyes were fixed and void. she did not feel his arms about her. she did not feel his kisses. he kissed her hair, he kissed her sweet white throat, he kissed her little rosy ear. anna was absorbed in a desperate meditation, far from all human things. he kissed her face, her eyes, her lips; she did not know it. but suddenly she felt his embrace become closer, stronger; she heard his voice change, it was no longer tender and caressing, it was fervid with tumultuous passion, it uttered confused delirious words. silently, looking at him with burning eyes, she tried to disengage herself. "let me go," she said. "anna, anna, i love you so--i have loved you so long!" "let me go, let me go!" "you are my adored one--i adore you above all things." "let me go. you horrify me." he let her go. "but what have you come here for?" he asked, sorrowfully. "i have come to commit an infamy." "anna, anna, you are killing me!" she looked at him fixedly. "what is it, anna? something is troubling you, and you won't tell me what it is. my poor friend! you have come here with an anguish in your heart, wishing to escape from it; you have come here to weep; and i have behaved like a brute, a blackguard." "no, you are good, i shall remember you," and she gave him her hand. "don't go away. tell me first what it is. tell me what you came for. tell me, dearest anna." "it's too long a story, too long," she said, as if in a dream, passing her hand over her brow. "and now i must go, i must go." "no, stop here, talk to me, weep. it will do you good." "i can't." "why?" "my minutes are numbered. you'll understand some day--to-morrow. now i must go." "anna, how can i let you go like this? you have come here to be comforted, and i have treated you shamefully. forgive me." "you are not to blame, not in the least." "but what is it that you are in trouble about, anna? who has been making you miserable, my poor fond soul? whose fault is it? who is to blame? cesare?" "no, i am to blame, i only." "and cesare--you admit it." "no." "cesare is an infamous scoundrel, and i know it," he exclaimed. "it is i who am infamous." "i don't believe you. i should believe no one who said that, anna." "i must be infamous, since i alone am unhappy. i must go." "will you come back?--to-morrow? anna, you are so sad, you are in such distress, i can't let you go." "no one can detain me, no one." "anna, forget that i have spoken to you of love." "i have forgotten it. good-bye." "you musn't go like this. you are too much agitated." "no, i am calm. listen, will you do me a favour? you repeated some verses to me one evening at sorrento--some french verses--do you remember?" "yes. baudelaire's '_harmonie du soir_,'" he answered, surprised by her question. "have you the volume?" "yes." "take it, and copy that poem for me. afterwards i will say good-bye." he went into his library and brought back _les fleurs du mal_. he seated himself at his writing-table, and looked at anna. there was an expression of such immense sorrow in her eyes, that he faltered, and asked, "shall i write?" she bowed her head. while he was writing the first lines, anna turned her back to him. she put her hand into her pocket and brought forth a little shining object of ivory and steel. he in a low voice repeated the verse he was writing--"_valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige_"--when suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and a little cloud of smoke rose towards the ceiling. anna had shot herself through the heart, and fallen to the floor. her little gloved hand held the revolver that she had taken from the drawer of her husband's desk. luigi caracciolo stood rooted to the carpet, believing that he must be mad. so died anna acquaviva, innocent. footnotes: [f] _voi_, instead of the more familiar _tu_, which he had previously employed. [g] having hitherto used the formal _voi_, he now uses the intimate _tu_. _printed by_ ballantyne, hanson and co. _london & edinburgh._ * * * * * transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. a number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. for those words, the variant more frequently used was retained. in some cases there was no predominant variant. the hyphenated variant was chosen in those cases. the name 'björnstjerne björnson' was changed to 'bjørnstjerne bjørnson'. obvious punctuation and printing errors, which were not detected during the printing of the original book, have been corrected. the original book did not have a table of contents. one was added after the introduction. generously made available by villanova university digital library (http://digital.library.villanova.edu) note: images of the original pages are available through villanova university digital library. see https://digital.library.villanova.edu/item/vudl: # no. (eagle series) only a girl's love [illustration] by charles garvice street & smith. publishers. new york * * * * * * _copyright fiction by the best authors_ new eagle series a big new book issued weekly in this line. an unequaled collection of modern romances. the books in this line comprise an unrivaled collection of copyrighted novels by authors who have won fame wherever the english language is spoken. foremost among these is mrs. georgie sheldon, whose works are contained in this line exclusively. every book in the new eagle series is of generous length, of attractive appearance, and of undoubted merit. no better literature can be had at any price. beware of imitations of the s. & s. novels, which are sold cheap because their publishers were put to no expense in the matter of purchasing manuscripts and making plates. all titles always in print to the public:--these books are sold by news dealers everywhere. if your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage. --queen bess by mrs. georgie sheldon --ruby's reward by mrs. georgie sheldon --two keys by mrs. georgie sheldon --edrie's legacy by mrs. georgie sheldon --that dowdy by mrs. georgie sheldon --thrice wedded by mrs. georgie sheldon --witch hazel by mrs. georgie sheldon --tina by mrs. georgie sheldon --virgie's inheritance by mrs. georgie sheldon --audrey's recompense by mrs. georgie sheldon --faithful shirley by mrs. georgie sheldon --grazia's mistake by mrs. georgie sheldon --max by mrs. georgie sheldon --dorothy's jewels by mrs. georgie sheldon --nameless dell by mrs. georgie sheldon --the masked bridal by mrs. georgie sheldon --a true aristocrat by mrs. georgie sheldon --dorothy arnold's escape by mrs. georgie sheldon --geoffrey's victory by mrs. georgie sheldon --wild oats by mrs. georgie sheldon --lost, a pearle by mrs. georgie sheldon --the lily of mordaunt by mrs. georgie sheldon --nora by mrs. georgie sheldon --a hoiden's conquest by mrs. georgie sheldon --the little marplot by mrs. georgie sheldon --the welfleet mystery by mrs. georgie sheldon --brownie's triumph by mrs. georgie sheldon --the forsaken bride by mrs. georgie sheldon --sibyl's influence by mrs. georgie sheldon --a mysterious wedding ring by mrs. georgie sheldon --little miss whirlwind by mrs. georgie sheldon --wedded by fate by mrs. georgie sheldon --his heart's queen by mrs. georgie sheldon --the churchyard betrothal by mrs. georgie sheldon --stella rosevelt by mrs. georgie sheldon --a girl in a thousand by mrs. georgie sheldon --a thorn among roses by mrs. georgie sheldon sequel to "a girl in a thousand" --mona by mrs. georgie sheldon --marguerite's heritage by mrs. georgie sheldon --betsey's transformation by mrs. georgie sheldon --esther, the fright by mrs. georgie sheldon --trixy by mrs. georgie sheldon --the other woman by charles garvice --winifred's sacrifice by mrs. georgie sheldon --edna's secret marriage by charles garvice --helen's victory by mrs. georgie sheldon --when love meets love by charles garvice --earle wayne's nobility by mrs. georgie sheldon --the golden key by mrs. georgie sheldon --a heritage of love by mrs. georgie sheldon sequel to "the golden key" --the magic cameo by mrs. georgie sheldon --the heatherford fortune by mrs. georgie sheldon sequel to "the magic cameo" --better than life by charles garvice --a life's mistake by charles garvice --once in a life by charles garvice --'twas love's fault by charles garvice --queen kate by charles garvice --step by step by mrs. georgie sheldon --put to the test by ida reade allen --with love's aid by wenona gilman --in cupid's chains by charles garvice --a plunge into the unknown by richard marsh --the love that was cursed by geraldine fleming --the thorns of regret by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the outcast of the family by charles garvice --a forced promise by ida reade allen --the old homestead by denman thompson --love's first kiss by emma garrison jones --just a girl by charles garvice --in love's springtime by laura jean libbey --trixie's honor by geraldine fleming --hearts and dollars by ida reade allen --by devious ways by charles garvice --her heart's unbidden guest by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --two wild girls by mrs. charlotte may kingsley --amid scarlet roses by emma garrison jones --heart for heart by charles garvice --the fugitive bride by mary e. bryan --a blue grass heroine by ida reade allen --the yellow face by fred m. white --the story of a passion by charles garvice --the curse of beauty by geraldine fleming --the great awakening by e. phillips oppenheim --a modern juliet by charles garvice --virgie talcott's mission by lucy m. russell --his greatest sacrifice; or, manch by mary e. bryan --mabel's fate by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the ape and the diamond by richard marsh --nell, of shorne mills by charles garvice --katherine's two suitors by geraldine fleming --the crime of love by barbara howard --his father's crime by e. phillips oppenheim --what was she to him? by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a heritage of hate by charles garvice --ida chaloner's heart by lucy randall comfort --love will find the way by wenona gilman --a case of identity by richard marsh --the shadow of her life by charles garvice --slighted love by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --her fatal gift by geraldine fleming --his wife's friend by mary e. bryan --at love's cost by charles garvice --st. elmo by augusta j. evans --the fate of the plotter by louis tracy --married in error by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --love and jealousy by lucy randall comfort --only a working girl by geraldine fleming --love, the tyrant by charles garvice --mabel's sacrifice by charlotte m. stanley --sybilla, the siren by ida reade allen --love is love forevermore by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --john elliott's flirtation by lucy may russell --with all her heart by charles garvice --is love worth while? by geraldine fleming --her husband's other wife by emma garrison jones --philip bennion's death by richard marsh --little phillis' lover by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --maida by charles garvice --as a man lives by e. phillips oppenheim --the tide of fate by wenona gilman --the cardinal moth by fred m. white --marcia drayton by charles garvice --lynette's wedding by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --his madcap sweetheart by emma garrison jones --love at the loom by geraldine fleming --a bachelor girl by lucy may russell --kyra's fate by charles garvice --the joss by richard marsh --my little love by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a daughter of the marionis by e. phillips oppenheim --the lady of beaufort park by wenona gilman --the verdict of the heart by charles garvice --a love concealed by emma garrison jones --cruelly divided by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the strange disappearance of lady delia by louis tracy --love's golden spell by geraldine fleming --a coronet of shame by charles garvice --sinned against by mary e. bryan --if it were true! by wenona gilman --a golden barrier by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a hateful bondage by barbara howard --a girl of spirit by charles garvice --master of men by e. phillips oppenheim --a fair enchantress by ida reade allen --the power of love by geraldine fleming --no time for penitence by wenona gilman --a jest of fate by charles garvice --her sister's secret by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --bitterly atoned by mrs. e. burke collins --gertrude elliott's crucible by mrs. georgie sheldon --the corner house by fred m. white --diana's destiny by charles garvice --love's clouded dawn by wenona gilman --little vixen by mrs. alex mcveigh miller --her heart's challenge by barbara howard --vivian's love story by mrs. e. burke collins --linked by fate by charles garvice --hearts of stone by geraldine fleming --in the service of love by richard marsh --love's devious course by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --told in the twilight by ida reade allen --the mills of the gods by wenona gilman --the man of the hour by sir william magnay --a little barbarian by charlotte kingsley --creatures of destiny by charles garvice --a southern princess by emma garrison jones --a fateful promise by effie adelaide rowlands --the goddess--a demon by richard marsh --from tears to smiles by ida reade allen --tempted by gold by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --better than riches by wenona gilman --when love is young by charles garvice --craven fortune by fred m. white --her life's burden by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the heart of hetta by effie adelaide rowlands --the breath of slander by ida reade allen --my lady beth by mrs. georgie sheldon --the wooing of esther gray by louis tracy --the shadow between them by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --gold in the gutter by charles garvice --master of her fate by geraldine fleming --in full cry by richard marsh --my pretty maid by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --an unhappy bargain by effie adelaide rowlands --true love endures by ida reade allen --india's punishment by laura jean libbey --the castle of the shadows by mrs. c. n. williamson --my own sweetheart by wenona gilman --only a kiss by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --lola dunbar's crime by barbara howard --ruth, the outcast by mrs. mary e. bryan --her dearest love by geraldine fleming --the man of millions by ida reade allen --for another's fault by charlotte m. stanley --the belle of saratoga by lucy randall comfort --the mystery of the unicorn by sir william magnay --the bride's opals by emma garrison jones --one of life's roses by effie adelaide rowlands --the battle of hearts by geraldine fleming --in wolf's clothing by charles garvice --a lost sweetheart by ida reade allen --the stronger passion by mrs. lillian r. drayton --mr. marx's secret by e. phillips oppenheim --had she loved him less! by laura jean libbey --the adventure of princess sylvia by mrs. c. n. williamson --in love's paradise by charlotte m. stanley --at another's bidding by ida reade allen --sold for gold by geraldine fleming --ridgeway of montana by william macleod raine --taken by storm by emma garrison jones --love and a lie by charles garvice --barriers of stone by wenona gilman --ethel's secret by charlotte m. stanley --amber, the adopted by mrs. harriet lewis --no man's wife by ida reade allen --wild and willful by lucy randall comfort --when we two parted by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --love's earnest prayer by geraldine fleming --the price of a kiss by laura jean libbey --a girl from the south by charles garvice --a freak of fate by emma garrison jones --a golden sorrow by charlotte m. stanley --norma's black fortune by ida reade allen --the thoroughbred by edith macvane --diana's peril by dorothy hall --his willing slave by lillian r. drayton --her share of sorrow by wenona gilman --loved at last by geraldine fleming --john hungerford's redemption by mrs. georgie sheldon --his two loves by ida reade allen --eric braddon's love by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --garrison's finish by w. b. m. ferguson --sylvia, the forsaken by charlotte m. stanley --married for money by lucy randall comfort --married in haste by wenona gilman --at her father's bidding by geraldine fleming --the power of gold by ida reade allen --the strength of love by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a soul laid bare by j. k. egerton --the fatal ruby by charles garvice --a strange wooing by richard marsh --a lost love by wenona gilman --a useless sacrifice by emma garrison jones --a will of her own by ida reade allen --that girl named hazel by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --for a flirt's love by geraldine fleming --the world's great snare by e. phillips oppenheim --the heart of a maid by charles garvice --driven from home by wenona gilman --the gypsy's warning by emma garrison jones --without name or wealth by ida reade allen --loyal unto death by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --his lost heritage by effie adelaide rowlands --her priceless love by geraldine fleming --leola's heart by charlotte m. stanley --dare-devil betty by evelyn malcolm --the woman in it by charles garvice --they met by chance by ida reade allen --love conquers pride by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a reckless promise by emma garrison jones --the rose of yesterday by effie adelaide rowlands --the other girl's lover by lillian r. drayton --his unbounded faith by charlotte m. stanley --when love speaks by evelyn malcolm --the man she hated by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --no one to help her by ida reade allen --claire's love-life by lucy randall comfort --love's harvest by adelaide fox robinson --a queen of song by geraldine fleming --nan haggard's confession by mary e. bryan --a married flirt by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the thorns of love by evelyn malcolm --love in a snare by charles garvice --my love kitty by charles garvice --that strange girl by charles garvice --nellie by charles garvice --miss estcourt; or, olive by charles garvice --a virginia goddess by ida reade allen --the love he sought by lillian r. drayton --falsely accused by geraldine fleming --his first sweetheart by lucy randall comfort --all for love by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --what love can cost by evelyn malcolm --lady gay's martyrdom by charlotte may kingsley --his good angel by emma garrison jones --a bartered soul by adelaide fox robinson --in love's shadows by ida reade allen --a love worth winning by geraldine fleming --the fatal kiss by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a lover scorned by lucy randall comfort --after many days by effie adelaide rowlands --an innocent outlaw by william wallace cook --the arm of the law by evelyn malcolm --the reluctant queen by j. kenilworth egerton --the cost of pride by lillian r. drayton --what love made her by geraldine fleming --brave heart by effie adelaide rowlands --between good and evil by charlotte m. stanley --caught in love's net by ida reade allen --love is a mystery by adelaide fox robinson --the glitter of jewels by j. kenilworth egerton --the game of life by effie adelaide rowlands --a dreadful legacy by geraldine fleming --rogers, of butte by william wallace cook --the haunting past by evelyn malcolm --the love that would not die by ida reade allen --the serpent and the dove by charlotte may kingsley --through the shadows by adelaide fox robinson --her kingdom by effie adelaide rowlands --when dark clouds gather by geraldine fleming --her fateful choice by charlotte m. stanley --sorely tried by emma garrison jones to be published during january, . --far above price by evelyn malcolm --bitter sweet by effie adelaide rowlands --a clouded life by ida reade allen --when fate decrees by adelaide fox robinson --the girl who was true by charles garvice to be published during february, . --where love is sent by mrs. e. burke collins --the pride of my heart by laura jean libbey --the girl in red by evelyn malcolm --why did she shun him? by effie adelaide rowlands to be published during march, . --between love and conscience by charlotte m. stanley --spectres of the past by ida reade allen --the hearts of the mighty by adelaide fox robinson --the irony of love by charles garvice to be published during april, . --at arms with fate by charlotte may kingsley --love's young dream by laura jean libbey --her golden secret by effie adelaide rowlands --the stolen bride by evelyn malcolm --love's rugged pathway by ida reade allen to be published during may, . --a love rejected--a love won by geraldine fleming --her life's dark cloud by lillian r. drayton --a hero for love's sake by effie adelaide rowlands --when the heart hungers by charlotte m. stanley to be published during june, . --love given in vain by adelaide fox robinson --the web of life by ida reade allen --love surely triumphs by charlotte may kingsley --the lovely constance by laura jean libbey to be published during july, . --on a sea of sorrow by effie adelaide rowlands --her hated husband by evelyn malcolm --when hearts beat true by geraldine fleming --too quickly judged by ida reade allen in order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in new york city and vicinity. they may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation. the eagle series principally copyrights elegant colored covers "the right books at the right price" while the books in the new eagle series are undoubtedly better value, being bigger books, the stories offered to the public in this line must not be underestimated. there are over four hundred copyrighted books by famous authors, which cannot be had in any other line. no other publisher in the world has a line that contains so many different titles, nor can any publisher ever hope to secure books that will match those in the eagle series in quality. this is the pioneer line of copyrighted novels, and that it has struck popular fancy just right is proven by the fact that for fifteen years it has been the first choice of american readers. the only reason that we can afford to give such excellent reading at such a low price is that our unlimited capital and great organization enable us to manufacture books more cheaply and to sell more of them without expensive advertising, than any other publishers. all titles always in print to the public:--these books are sold by news dealers everywhere. if your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage. --the love of violet lee by julia edwards --for a woman's honor by bertha m. clay --the senator's favorite by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the midnight marriage by a. m. douglas --beautiful but poor by julia edwards --the virginia heiress by may agnes fleming --little sunshine by francis s. smith --the gipsy's daughter by bertha m. clay --the little widow by julia edwards --violet lisle by bertha m. clay --dr. jack by st. george rathborne --the fatal card by haddon chambers and b. c. stephenson --leslie's loyalty by charles garvice (his love so true) --dr. jack's wife by st. george rathborne --mr. lake of chicago by harry dubois milman --a heart's idol by bertha m. clay --elaine by charles garvice --miss pauline of new york by st. george rathborne --a wasted love by charles garvice (on love's altar) --little southern beauty by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --captain tom by st. george rathborne --estelle's millionaire lover by julia edwards --miss caprice by st. george rathborne --theodora by victorien sardou --baron sam by st. george rathborne --a siren's love by robert lee tyler --the blockade runner by j. perkins tracy --mrs. bob by st. george rathborne --pretty geraldine by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the great mogul by st. george rathborne --fedora by victorien sardou --the heart of virginia by j. perkins tracy --the nabob of singapore by st. george rathborne --the colonel's wife by warren edwards --monsieur bob by st. george rathborne --her hearts desire by charles garvice (an innocent girl) --another woman's husband by bertha m. clay --little coquette bonnie by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --a yale man by robert lee tyler --off with the old love by mrs. m. v. victor --the colonel by brevet by st. george rathborne --another man's wife by bertha m. clay --none but the brave by robert lee tyler --her ransom (paid for) by charles garvice --the price he paid by e. werner --woman against woman by effie adelaide rowlands --cleopatra by victorien sardou --the dispatch bearer by warren edwards --major matterson of kentucky by st. george rathborne --gladys greye by bertha m. clay --la tosca by victorien sardou --stella stirling by julia edwards --lawyer bell from boston by robert lee tyler --dora tenney by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --won by the sword by j. perkins tracy --gismonda by victorien sardou --the little cuban rebel by edna winfield --his perfect trust by bertha m. clay --sydney (a wilful young woman) by charles garvice --the spider's web by st. george rathborne --wilful winnie by harriet sherburne --the marquis by charles garvice --the cotton king by sutton vane --under fire by t. p. james --mavourneen from the celebrated play --the yankee champion by sylvanus cobb, jr. --out of the past (marjorie) by charles garvice --the fair maid of fez by st. george rathborne --wedded for an hour by emma garrison jones --captain impudence by edwin milton royle --the locksmith of lyons by prof. wm. henry peck --imogene by charles garvice (dumaresq's temptation) --lorrie; or, hollow gold by charles garvice --a widowed bride by lucy randall comfort --shenandoah by j. perkins tracy --a gentleman from gascony by bicknell dudley --for fair virginia by russ whytal --sweet violet by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --humanity by sutton vane --darkest russia by h. grattan donnelly --a wilful maid (philippa) by charles garvice --the little minister by j. m. barrie --the war reporter by warren edwards --claire by charles garvice (the mistress of court regna) --alice blake by francis s. smith --a goddess of africa by st. george rathborne --sweet cymbeline (bellmaire) by charles garvice --the span of life by sutton vane --a proud dishonor by genie holzmeyer --when london sleeps by chas. darrell --lillian, my lillian by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --carla; or, married at sight by effie adelaide rowlands --a son of mars by st. george rathborne --signa's sweetheart by charles garvice (lord delamere's bride) --whose wife is she? by annie lisle --the cattle king by a. d. hall --a crushed lily by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --half a truth by dora delmar --a fair revolutionist by st. george rathborne --the daughter of the regiment by mary a. denison --she loved him by charles garvice --saved from the sea by richard duffy --'twixt smile and tear (dulcie) by charles garvice --the white squadron by t. c. harbaugh --cecile's marriage by lucy randall comfort --northern lights by a. d. hall --prettiest of all by julia edwards --devil's island by a. d. hall --the girl from hong kong by st. george rathborne --nobody's daughter by clara augusta --the scent of the roses by dora delmar --in sight of st. paul's by sutton vane --a passion flower (madge) by charles garvice --nerine's second choice by adelaide stirling --whose was the crime? by gertrude warden --squire john by st. george rathborne --cast up by the tide by dora delmar --the unseen bridegroom by may agnes fleming --a fatal wooing by laura jean libbey --little lady charles by effie adelaide rowlands --that girl of johnson's by jean kate ludlum --lady evelyn by may agnes fleming --her rescue from the turks by st. george rathborne --a charity girl by effie adelaide rowlands --country lanes and city pavements by maurice m. minton --magdalen's vow by may agnes fleming --under egyptian skies by st. george rathborne --will she win? by emma garrison jones --the man she loved by effie adelaide rowlands --sunset pass by general charles king --the heiress of glen gower by may agnes fleming --a mute confessor by will m. harben --her son's wife by hazel wood --husband and foe by effie adelaide rowlands --a soldier lover by edward s. brooks --who wins? by may agnes fleming --stella, the star by wenona gilman --out of eden by dora russell --his way and her will by frances aymar mathews --miss fairfax of virginia by st. george rathborne --a man of the name of john by florence king --a splendid egotist by mrs. j. h. walworth --couldn't say no by john habberton --the road of the rough by maurice m. minton --the manhattaners by edward s. van zile --thrice lost, thrice won by may agnes fleming --the trials of an actress by wenona gilman --a little radical by mrs. j. h. walworth --that dakota girl by stella gilman --a king and a coward by effie adelaide rowlands --a bar sinister by st. george rathborne --his guardian angel by charles garvice --for honor's sake by laura c. ford --jack gordon, knight errant by barclay north --a slave of circumstances by ernest de lancey pierson --one man's evil by effie adelaide rowlands --a lazy man's work by frances campbell sparhawk --the baronet's bride by may agnes fleming --a legal wreck by william gillette --quo vadis by henryk sienkiewicz --sunlight and gloom by geraldine fleming --the adventures of miss volney by ella wheeler wilcox --beneath a spell by effie adelaide rowlands --the black ball by ernest de lancey pierson --berris by katharine s. macquoid --a captain of the kaiser by st. george rathborne --a harvest of thorns by mrs. h. c. hoffman --a vagabond's honor by ernest de lancey pierson --a sinless crime by geraldine fleming --her faithful knight by gertrude warden --a sailor's sweetheart by st. george rathborne --a woman scorned by effie adelaide rowlands --in god's country by d. higbee --blind elsie's crime by mary grace halpine --marjorie by katharine s. macquoid --only one love by charles garvice --with heart so true by effie adelaide rowlands --if love be love by d. cecil gibbs --a daughter of maryland by g. waldo browne --a chase for a bride by st. george rathborne --she loved but left him by julia edwards --as we forgive by lurana w. sheldon --doubly wronged by adah m. howard --the heiress of egremont by mrs. harriet lewis --olga's crime by frank barrett --only a girl's love by charles garvice --the lost bride by clara augusta --his noble wife by george manville fenn --a life for a love by mrs. l. t. meade --a fatal past by dora russell --the honorable jane by annie thomas --leola dale's fortune by charles garvice --a sister's sacrifice by geraldine fleming --a miserable woman by mrs. h. c. hoffman --the roll of honor by annie thomas --for love and honor by effie adelaide rowlands --his brother's widow by mary grace halpine --for the sake of the family by may crommelin --a woman's atonement, and a mother's mistake by adah m. howard --the earl's heir (lady norah) by charles garvice --a debt of honor by mabel collins --his mother's sin by adeline sergeant --love at saratoga by lucy randall comfort --her humble lover by charles garvice (the usurper; or, the gipsy peer) --woman or witch? by dora delmar --that other woman by annie thomas --don cæsar de bazan by victor hugo --saved by the sword by st. george rathborne --her love and trust by adeline sergeant --a wounded heart (sweet as a rose) by charles garvice --his double self by scott campbell --a modern marriage by clara lanza --true to herself by mrs. j. h. walworth --within love's portals by frank barrett --jeanne, countess du barry by h. l. williams --what love will do by geraldine fleming --a woman's soul by charles garvice (doris; behind the footlights) --when love is true by mabel collins --a handsome sinner by dora delmar --a fashionable marriage by mrs. alex frazer --little miss millions by st. george rathborne --thy name is woman by f. h. howe --a martyred love by charles garvice (iris; or, under the shadow) --an amazing marriage by mrs. sumner hayden --by a golden cord by dora delmar --at a girl's mercy by jean kate ludlum --a siren's heart by effie adelaide rowlands --a woman's faith by henry wallace --an american nabob by st. george rathborne --for gold or soul by lurana w. sheldon --first love is best by s. k. hocking --jeanne (barriers between) by charles garvice --olivia; or, it was for her sake by charles garvice --had she foreseen by dora delmar --with love's laurel crowned by w. c. stiles --so fair, so false by charles garvice (the beauty of the season) --at swords points by st. george rathborne --a romantic girl by evelyn e. green --love's cruel whim by effie adelaide rowlands --so nearly lost by charles garvice (the springtime of love) --laura brayton by julia edwards --nina's peril by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --love's dilemma by charles garvice (for an earldom) --for love alone by wenona gilman --my lady pride (floris) by charles garvice --dr. jack's widow by st. george rathborne --born to betray by mrs. m. v. victor --the lady of darracourt by charles garvice --married in mask by mansfield t. walworth --a change of heart by effie adelaide rowlands --for her only (diana) by charles garvice --a warrior bold by st. george rathborne --a terrible secret and countess isabel by geraldine fleming --the heir of vering by charles garvice --that girl from texas by mrs. j. h. walworth --should she have left him? by barclay north --the spider and the fly by charles garvice (violet) --the false and the true by effie adelaide rowlands --when man's love fades by hazel wood --the queen of the isle by may agnes fleming --stanch as a woman by charles garvice (a maiden's sacrifice) --led by love sequel to by charles garvice "stanch as a woman" --love's golden rule by geraldine fleming --the winning of isolde by st. george rathborne --lady ryhope's lover by emma garrison jones --the heiress of castle cliffe by may agnes fleming --a late repentance by mary a. denison --woven on fate's loom and the by charles garvice snowdrift --a kinsman's sin by effie adelaide rowlands --a maid's fatal love by helen corwin pierce --the dark secret by may agnes fleming --edith lyle's secret by mrs. mary j. holmes --ione by laura jean libbey --stanch of heart by charles garvice (adrien le roy) --millbank by mrs. mary j. holmes --mynheer joe by st. george rathborne --neva's three lovers by mrs. harriet lewis --mildred by mrs. mary j. holmes --the little countess by s. e. boggs --a love match by sylvanus cobb, jr. --the leighton homestead by mrs. mary j. holmes --parted by fate by laura jean libbey --was she wife or widow? by malcolm bell --he loves me, he loves me not by charles garvice (valeria) --my hildegarde by st. george rathborne --aikenside by mrs. mary j. holmes --christine by adeline sergeant --darkness and daylight by mrs. mary j. holmes --stella's fortune by charles garvice (the sculptor's wooing) --miss mcdonald by mrs. mary j. holmes --we parted at the altar by laura jean libbey --rose mather by mrs. mary j. holmes --dear elsie by mary j. safford --a daughter of russia by st. george rathborne --bad hugh. vol. i by mrs. mary j. holmes --bad hugh. vol. ii by mrs. mary j. holmes --her little highness by nataly von eschstruth --little sunshine by adah m. howard --leah's mistake by mrs. h. c. hoffman --tresillian court by mrs. harriet lewis --guy tresillian's fate by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "tresillian court" --the eyes of love by charles garvice --my florida sweetheart by st. george rathborne --marion grey by mary j. holmes --a wronged wife by mary grace halpine --family pride. vol. i by mary j. holmes --family pride. vol. ii by mary j. holmes --a love comedy by charles garvice --wife and woman by mary j. safford --little kit by effie adelaide rowlands --montezuma's mines by st. george rathborne --beryl's husband by mrs. harriet lewis --the spectre's secret by sylvanus cobb, jr. --an only daughter by hazel wood --the ashes of love by charles garvice --the opposite house by nataly von eschstruth --a fool's paradise by mary grace halpine --under a cloud by jean kate ludlum --comrades in exile by st. george rathborne --hearts and coronets by jane g. fuller --the pride of her life by charles garvice --at a great cost by effie adelaide rowlands --edith trevor's secret by mrs. harriet lewis --cecil rosse by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "edith trevor's secret" --true daughter of hartenstein by mary j. safford --transgressing the law by capt. fred'k whittaker --the red slipper by st. george rathborne --forever true by effie adelaide rowlands --john winthrop's defeat by jean kate ludlum --blinded by love by nataly von eschstruth --her double life by mrs. harriet lewis --the sunshine of love by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "her double life" --a lover from across the sea by mary j. safford --yet she loved him by mrs. kate vaughn --a woman against her by effie adelaide rowlands --teddy's enchantress by st. george rathborne --a heroine's plot by katherine s. macquoid --two wives by hazel wood --sundered hearts by mrs. harriet lewis --a mutual vow by harold payne --a resurrected love by seward w. hopkins --on the wings of fate by effie adelaide rowlands --a drama of a life by jean kate ludlum --wooing a widow by e. a. king --back to old kentucky by st. george rathborne --a gilded promise by walter bloomfield --cupid's disguise by fanny lewald --for another's wrong by w. heimburg --the woman who came between by effie adelaide rowlands --a silent heroine by mrs. d. m. lowrey --the rival suitors by j. h. connelly --the captive bride by capt. fred'k whittaker --the haunted husband by mrs. harriet lewis --felipe's pretty sister by st. george rathborne --on a false charge by seward w. hopkins --a girl's kingdom by effie adelaide rowlands --miss mischief by w. heimburg --fettered and freed by eugene charvette --the love that lives by capt. frederick whittaker --were they married? by hazel wood --a girl's first love by elizabeth c. winter --down in dixie by st. george rathborne --brave barbara by effie adelaide rowlands --an insignificant woman by w. heimburg --a sweet little lady by gertrude warden --her sweet reward by barbara kent --lady kildare by mrs. harriet lewis --a woman's way by capt. frederick whittaker --a splendid man by effie adelaide rowlands --a college widow by frank h. howe --a wizard of the moors by st. george rathborne --a tramp's daughter by hazel wood --a fair fraud by emily lovett cameron --the honor of a heart by mary j. safford --her husband and her love by effie adelaide rowlands --breta's double by helen v. greyson --under oath by jean kate ludlum --the rival toreadors by st. george rathborne --the breach of custom by mrs. d. m. lowrey --so like a man by effie adelaide rowlands --little nan by mary a. denison --a princess of the stage by nataly von eschstruth --love before duty by mrs. l. t. meade --in spite of proof by gertrude warden --love's trials by alfred r. calhoun --an angel of evil by effie adelaide rowlands --bound with love's fetters by mary grace halpine --a favorite of fortune by st. george rathborne --when love dawns by adelaide stirling --the bailiff's scheme by mrs. harriet lewis --rosamond's love by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "the bailiff's scheme" --the last of the van slacks by edward s. van zile --a poor girl's passion by gertrude warden --love's probation by elizabeth olmis --love's greatest gift by effie adelaide rowlands --a vixen's treachery by mrs. harriet lewis --adrift in the world by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "a vixen's treachery" --a golden mask by charlotte m. stanley --dr. jack's talisman by st. george rathborne --above all things by adelaide stirling --a stormy wedding by mary e. bryan --a wife's triumph by effie adelaide rowlands --the old life's shadows by mrs. harriet lewis --outside her eden by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "the old life's shadows" --love, the victor by a popular southern author --zina's awaking by mrs. j. k. spender --the wooing of a fairy by gertrude warden --a soldier and a gentleman by j. m. cobban --a strange wedding by mary hartwell catherwood --a shadowed happiness by effie adelaide rowlands --dr. jack and company by st. george rathborne --a sacrifice to love by adelaide stirling --the belle of the season by mrs. harriet lewis --love before pride by mrs. harriet lewis sequel to "the belle of the season" --the siberian exiles by col. thomas knox --for love of sigrid by effie adelaide rowlands --mysterious mr. sabin by e. phillips oppenheim --a perfect fool by florence warden --wedded, yet no wife by may agnes fleming --a little worldling by l. c. ellsworth --miss marston's heart by l. h. bickford --the whistle of fate by richard marsh --the end crowns all by effie adelaide rowlands --divided lives by edgar fawcett --a wonderful woman by may agnes fleming --the french witch by gertrude warden --lucy harding by mrs. mary j. holmes --the price of jealousy by maud howe --my lady of dreadwood by effie adelaide rowlands --a speedy wooing by the author of "as common mortals" --the girl he loved by adelaide stirling --voyagers of fortune by st. george rathborne --norine's revenge by may agnes fleming --the missing heiress by c. h. montague --a chase for love by seward w. hopkins --andrew leicester's love by effie adelaide rowlands --my lady cinderella by mrs. c. n. williamson --love and spite by adelaide stirling --her husband's secret by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --fair maid marian by mrs. emma garrison jones --a lady in black by florence warden --evelyn, the actress by wenona gilman --selina's love-story by effie adelaide rowlands --a secret foe by gertrude warden --a mad betrothal by laura jean libbey --lottie and victorine by lucy randall comfort --a penniless princess by emma garrison jones --doctor jack's paradise mine by st. george rathborne --a sensational case by florence warden --the temptation of mary barr by effie adelaide rowlands --tiny luttrell by e. w. hornung (author of "raffles, the amateur cracksman") --florabel's lover by laura jean libbey --they looked and loved by mrs. alex. mcveigh miller --the secret of a letter by gertrude warden --the witch from india by st. george rathborne --a spurned proposal by effie adelaide rowlands --a banker of bankersville by maurice thompson --a sacrifice of pride by mrs. louisa parr --sweet kitty clover by laura jean libbey --love and hate by morley roberts --for love and glory by st. george rathborne --adela's ordeal by florence warden --hearts aflame by louise winter --the wiles of a siren by effie adelaide rowlands --true to his bride by emma garrison jones --a forgotten love by adelaide stirling --lotta, the cloak model by laura jean libbey --the trifler by archibald eyre --companions in arms by st. george rathborne --the fighting chance by gertrude lynch --a heart's triumph by effie adelaide rowlands --a daughter of darkness by ida reade allen --her evil genius by adelaide stirling --the veiled bride by laura jean libbey --in love's name by emma garrison jones --well worth winning by st. george rathborne --the career of mrs. osborne by helen milecete --tempted by love by effie adelaide rowlands --saved from herself by adelaide stirling --pity--not love by laura jean libbey --at the court of the maharaja by louis tracy _the best of everything!_ our experience with the american reading public has taught us that it expects better reading than readers of any other nationality. why? because americans, as a rule, are better educated and more intelligent. we make it a point to cater to all classes of readers with our paper-covered novels. if a man likes adventure or detective stories, he can find more and better ones in the s. & s. novel list than he can among the cloth books. if a woman wants love, society, or mystery stories, the s. & s. catalogue again contains just what she wants at the lowest possible price. if a boy wants up-to-date baseball, athletic, or treasure-hunt stories, he cannot get anything that will please him so much as the books in the medal and new medal libraries, no matter how much he has to spend for his reading matter. here are a few suggestions: books for men. the nick carter stories in the new magnet library. the howard w. erwin stories in the far west library. the william wallace cook stories in the new fiction library. the dumas stories in the select library. books for women. the mrs. georgie sheldon stories in the new eagle series. the charles garvice stories in the new eagle series. the bertha clay stories in the bertha clay library. the southworth stories in the southworth library. the mrs. mary j. holmes stories in the eagle and select libraries. books for boys. the burt l. standish stories in the new medal library. the horatio alger stories in the medal and new medal libraries. the oliver optic stories in the medal and new medal libraries. the edward c. taylor stories in the new medal library. send for our complete catalogue and look these stories up. it will pay you. street & smith, _publishers_, new york * * * * * * only a girl's love by charles garvice [illustration] new york street & smith, publishers why take a chance? most everybody thinks that the public library is a mighty fine institution--teaches people to read, and all that. well, so it does, but does any one ever think of the great risk that a person, who takes a book out of a public library, runs of catching some contagious disease? every time a bacteriological examination is made of the public-library book, germs of every known disease are found among its pages. probably, from your own experience, you know that lots of people never think of taking a book from the public library, until some one in their family is sick and wants something to read. as records prove that ninety per cent of the demand for books at the public libraries is for works of fiction, it strikes us that the reading public would do better to patronize the s. & s. novel list which contains hundreds of books to be found in the public libraries, and many hundreds of others just as good and interesting. the price of the s. & s. novels is a low one indeed to pay for protection from disease-laden literature. why run the risk, then, when you can get a fresh, clean book for little money and thus insure your health? street & smith, _publishers_ new york the s. & s. novels have no rivals our books have a field entirely their own. they are the only novels to which new, first-class titles are being added every week. no news dealer's stock is complete without them. that's why every up-to-date dealer carries a good assortment of them on his shelves. street & smith, _publishers_ new york only a girl's love. chapter i. it is a warm evening in early summer; the sun is setting behind a long range of fir and yew-clad hills, at the feet of which twists in and out, as it follows their curves, a placid, peaceful river. opposite these hills, and running beside the river, are long-stretching meadows, brilliantly green with fresh-springing grass, and gorgeously yellow with newly-opened buttercups. above, the sunset sky gleams and glows with fiery red and rich deep chromes. and london is almost within sight. it is a beautiful scene, such as one sees only in this england of ours--a scene that defies poet and painter. at this very moment it is defying one of the latter genus; for in a room of a low-browed, thatched-roofed cottage which stood on the margin of the meadow, james etheridge sat beside his easel, his eyes fixed on the picture framed in the open window, his brush and mahl-stick drooping in his idle hand. unconsciously he, the painter, made a picture worthy of study. tall, thin, delicately made, with pale face crowned and set in softly-flowing white hair, with gentle, dreamy eyes ever seeking the infinite and unknown, he looked like one of those figures which the old florentine artists used to love to put upon their canvases, and which when one sees even now makes one strangely sad and thoughtful. the room was a fitting frame for the human subject; it was a true painter's studio--untidy, disordered, and picturesque. finished and unfinished pictures hung or leant against the walls, suits of armor, antique weapons, strange costumes littered the floor or hung limply over mediæval chairs; books, some in bindings which would have made the mouth of a connoisseur water, lay open upon the table or were piled in a distant corner. and over all silence--unbroken save by the sound of the water rushing over the weir, or the birds which flitted by the open window--reigned supreme. the old man sat for some time listening to nature's music, and lost in dreamy admiration of her loveliness, until the striking of the church clock floated from the village behind the house; then, with a start, he rose, took up his brushes, and turned again to the easel. an hour passed, and still he worked, the picture growing beneath the thin, skillful hand; the birds sank into silence, the red faded slowly from the sky, and night unfolded its dark mantle ready to let it fall upon the workaday world. silence so profound took to itself the likeness of loneliness; perhaps the old man felt it so, for as he glanced at the waning light and lay his brush down, he put his hand to his brow and sighed. then he turned the picture on the easel, made his way with some little difficulty, owing to the litter, across the room, found and lit an old briar-wood pipe, and dropping into the chair again, fixed his eyes upon the scene, and fell into the dreamy state which was habitual with him. so lost in purposeless memory was he, that the opening of the door failed to rouse him. it was opened very gently and slowly, and as slowly and noiselessly a young girl, after pausing a moment at the threshold, stepped into the room, and stood looking round her and at the motionless figure in the chair by the window. she stood for full a minute, her hand still holding the handle of the door, as if she were not certain of her welcome--as if the room were strange to her, then, with a little hurried pressure of her hand to her bosom, she moved toward the window. as she did so her foot struck against a piece of armor, and the noise aroused the old man and caused him to look round. with a start he gazed at the girl as if impressed with the idea that she must be something unsubstantial and visionary--some embodiment of his evening dreams, and so he sat looking at her, his artist eye taking in the lithe, graceful figure, the beautiful face, with its dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, its clearly penciled brows, and soft, mobile lips, in rapt absorption. it is possible that if she had turned and left him, never to have crossed into his life again, he would have sunk back into dreamland, and to the end of his days have regarded her as unreal and visionary; but, with a subtle, graceful movement, the girl threaded the maze of litter and disorder and stood beside him. he, still looking up, saw that the beautiful eyes were dim, that the exquisitely curved lips were quivering with some intense emotion, and suddenly there broke upon the silence a low, sweet voice: "are you james etheridge?" the artist started. it was not the words, but the tone--the voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb, then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning, he answered: "yes, that is my name. i am james etheridge." her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said: "you do not know me? i am stella--your niece, stella." the old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled. "stella--my niece--harold's child!" "yes," she said, in a low voice, "i am stella." "but, merciful heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation, "how did you come here? why--i thought you were at the school there in florence--why--have you come here alone?" her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite scene beyond, and at that moment her look was strangely like his own. "yes, i came alone, uncle," she said. "merciful heaven!" he murmured again, sinking into his chair. "but why--why?" the question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled perplexity and bewilderment. stella's eyes returned to his face. "i was unhappy, uncle," she said, simply. "unhappy!" he echoed, gently--"unhappy! my child, you are too young to know what the word means. tell me"--and he put his long white hand on her arm. the touch was the one thing needed to draw them together. with a sudden, yet not abrupt movement, she slid down at his side and leant her head on his arm. "yes, i was very unhappy, uncle. they were hard and unkind. they meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne. and then--then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely. there was no one--no one to care for me--to care whether one lived or died. uncle, i bore it as long as i could, and then i--came." the old man's eyes grew dim, and his hand rose gently to her head, and smoothed the rich, silky hair. "poor child! poor child!" he murmured, dreamily, looking not at her, but at the gloaming outside. "as long as i could, uncle, until i felt that i must run away, or go mad, or die. then i remembered you, i had never seen you, but i remembered that you were papa's brother, and that, being of the same blood, you must be good, and kind, and true; and so i resolved to come to you." his hand trembled on her head, but he was silent for a moment; then he said, in a low voice: "why did you not write?" a smile crossed the girl's face. "because they would not permit us to write, excepting under their dictation." he started, and a fiery light flashed from the gentle, dreamy eyes. "no letters were allowed to leave the school unless the principals had read them. we were never out alone, or i would have posted a letter unknown to them. no, i could not write, or i would have done so, and--and--waited." "you would not have waited long, my child," he murmured. she threw back her head and kissed his hand. it was a strange gesture, more foreign than english, full of the impulsive gracefulness of the passionate south in which she had been born and bred; it moved the old man strangely, and he drew her still closer to him as he whispered-- "go on!--go on!" "well i made up my mind to run away," she continued. "it was a dreadful thing to do, because if i had been caught and brought back, they would have----" "stop, stop!" he broke in with passionate dread. "why did i not know of this? how did harold come to send you there? great heaven! a young tender girl! can heaven permit it?" "heaven permits strange things, uncle," said the girl, gravely. "papa did not know, just as you did not know. it was an english school, and all was fair and pleasant outside--outside! well the night just after i had received the money you used to send me each quarter, i bribed one of the servants to leave the door open and ran away. i knew the road to the coast and knew what day and time the boat started. i caught it and reached london. there was just enough money to pay the fare down here, and i--i--that is all, uncle." "all?" he murmured. "a young, tender child!" "and are you not angry?" she asked, looking up into his face. "you will not send me back?" "angry! send you back! my child, do you think if i had known, if i could have imagined that you were not well treated, that you were not happy, that i would have permitted you to remain a day, an hour longer than i could have helped? your letters always spoke of your contentment and happiness." she smiled. "remember, they were written with someone looking over my shoulder." something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had uttered for many a long year, was smothered on the gentle lips. "i could not know that--i could not know that, stella! your father thought it best--i have his last letter. my child, do not cry----" she raised her face. "i am not crying; i never cry when i think of papa, uncle, why should i? i loved him too well to wish him back from heaven." the old man looked down at her with a touch of awe in his eyes. "yes, yes," he murmured; "it was his wish that you should remain there at school. he knew what i was, an aimless dreamer, a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian for a young girl. oh, yes, harold knew. he acted for the best, and i was content. my life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless for a young girl, and i thought that all was right, while those fiends----" she put her hand on his arm. "do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle. you will let me stay with you, will you not? i shall not think your life lonely; it will be a paradise after that which i have left--paradise. and, see, i will strive to make it less lonely; but"--and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear--"but perhaps i shall be in your way?" and she looked round. "no, no," he said, and he put his hand to his brow. "it is strange! i never felt my loneliness till now! and i would not have you go for all the world!" she wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there was silence for a space; then he said: "how old are you, stella?" she thought a moment. "nineteen, uncle." "nineteen--a child!" he murmured; then he looked at her, and his lips moved inaudibly as he thought, "beautiful as an angel," but she heard him, and her face flushed, but the next moment she looked up frankly and simply. "you would not say that much if you had seen my mamma. _she_ was beautiful as an angel. papa used to say that he wished you could have seen her; that you would have liked to paint her. yes, she was beautiful." the artist nodded. "poor, motherless child!" he murmured. "yes, she was beautiful," continued the girl, softly. "i can just remember her, uncle. papa never recovered from her death. he always said that he counted the days till he should meet her again. he loved her so, you see." there was silence again; then the artist spoke: "you speak english with scarcely an accent, stella." the girl laughed; it was the first time she had laughed, and it caused the uncle to start. it was not only because it was unexpected, but because of its exquisite music. it was like the trill of a bird. in an instant he felt that her childish sorrow had not imbittered her life or broken her spirit. he found himself almost unconsciously laughing in harmony. "what a strange observation, uncle!" she said, when the laugh had died away. "why i am english! right to the backbone, as papa used to say. often and often he used to look at me and say: 'italy has no part and parcel in you beyond your birth, stella; you belong to that little island which floats on the atlantic and rules the world.' oh, yes, i am english. i should be sorry to be anything else, notwithstanding mamma was an italian." he nodded. "yes, i remember harold--your father--always said you were an english girl. i am glad of that." "so am i," said the girl, naively. then he relapsed into one of his dreamy silences, and she waited silent and motionless. suddenly he felt her quiver under his arm, and heave a long, deep sigh. with a start he looked down; her face had gone wofully pale to the very lips. "stella!" he cried, "what is it? are you ill? great heaven!" she smiled up at him. "no, no, only a little tired; and," with naive simplicity, "i think i am a little hungry. you see, i only had enough for the fare." "heaven forgive me!" he cried, starting up so suddenly as almost to upset her. "here have i been dreaming and mooning while the child was starving. what a brainless idiot i am!" and in his excitement he hurried up and down the room, knocking over a painting here and a lay figure there, and looking aimlessly about as if he expected to see something in the shape of food floating in the air. at last with his hand to his brow he bethought him of the bell, and rang it until the little cottage resounded as if it were a fire-engine station. there was a hurried patter of footsteps outside, the door was suddenly opened, and a middle-aged woman ran in, with a cap very much awry and a face startled and flushed. "gracious me, sir, what's the matter?" she exclaimed. mr. etheridge dropped the bell, and without a word of explanation, exclaimed--"bring something to eat at once, mrs. penfold, and some wine, at once, please. the poor child is starving." the woman looked at him with amazement, that increased as glancing round the room she failed to see any poor child, stella being hidden behind the antique high-backed chair. "poor child, what poor child! you've been dreaming, mr. etheridge!" "no, no!" he said, meekly; "it's all true, mrs. penfold. she has come all the way from florence without a morsel to eat." stella rose from her ambush. "not all the way from florence, uncle," she said. mrs. penfold started and stared at the visitor. "good gracious me!" she exclaimed; "who is it?" mr. etheridge rubbed his brow. "did i not tell you? it is my niece--my niece stella. she has come from italy, and--i wish you'd bring some food. bring a bottle of the old wine. sit down and rest, stella. this is mrs. penfold--she is my housekeeper, and a good woman, but,"--he added, without lowering his tone in the slightest, though he was evidently under the idea that he was inaudible--"but rather slow in comprehension." mrs. penfold came forward, still flushed and excited, and with a smile. "your niece, sir! not mr. harold's daughter that you so often have spoken of! why, how did you come in, miss?" "i found the door open," said stella. "good gracious me! and dropped from the clouds! and that must have been an hour ago! and you, sir," looking at the bewildered artist reproachfully, "you let the dear young thing sit here with her hat and jacket on all that time, after coming all that way, without sending for me." "we didn't want you," said the old man, calmly. "want me! no! but the dear child wanted something to eat, and to rest, and to take her things off. oh, come with me, miss! all the way from florence, and mr. harold's daughter!" "go with her, stella," said the old man, "and--and," he added, gently, "don't let her keep you long." the infinite tenderness of the last words caused stella to stop on her way to the door; she came back, and, putting her arms around his neck, kissed him. then she followed mrs. penfold up-stairs to her room, the good woman talking the whole while in exclamatory sentences of astonishment. "and you are mr. harold's daughter. did you see his portrait over the mantel-shelf, miss? i should have known you by that, now i come to look at you," and she looked with affectionate interest into the beautiful face, as she helped stella to take off her hat. "yes, i should have known you, miss, in a moment? and you have come all the way from italy? dear me, it is wonderful. and i'm very glad you have, it won't be so lonely for mr. etheridge. and is there anything else you want, miss? you must excuse me for bringing you into my own room; i'll have a room ready for you to-night, your own room, and the luggage, miss----" stella smiled and blushed faintly. "i have none, mrs. penfold. i ran--i left quite suddenly." "dearie me!" murmured mrs. penfold, puzzled and sympathetic. "well, now, it doesn't matter so long as you are here, safe, and sound. and now i'll go and get you something to eat! you can find your way down?" "yes," stella said. she could find her way down. she stood for a moment looking through the window, her long hair falling in a silky stream down her white shoulders, and the soft, dreamy look came into her eyes. "is it true?" she murmured. "am i really here at home with someone to love me--someone whom i can love? or is it only a dream, and shall i wake in the cold bare room and find that i have still to endure the old life? no! it is no dream, it is true!" she wound up the long hair and went down to find that mrs. penfold had already prepared the table, her uncle standing beside and waiting with gentle impatience for her appearance. he started as she entered, with a distinct feeling of renewed surprise; the relief from uncertainty as to her welcome, the kindness of her reception had already refreshed her, and her beauty shone out unclouded by doubt or nervousness. the old man's eyes wandered with artistic approval over the graceful form and lovely face, and he was almost in the land of dreams again when mrs. penfold roused him by setting a chair at the table, and handing him a cobwebbed bottle and a corkscrew. "miss stella must be starving, sir!" she said, suggestively. "yes, yes," he assented, and both of them set to work exhorting and encouraging her to eat, as if they feared she might drop under the table with exhaustion unless she could be persuaded to eat of everything on the table. mr. etheridge seemed to place great faith in the old port as a restorative, and had some difficulty in concealing his disappointment when stella, after sipping the first glass, declined any more on the score that it was strong. at last, but with visible reluctance, he accepted her assertion that she was rescued from any chance of starvation, and mrs. penfold cleared the table and left them alone. a lamp stood on the table, but the moonbeams poured in through the window, and instinctively stella drew near the window. "what a lovely place it is, uncle!" she said. he did not answer, he was watching her musingly, as she leant against the edge of the wall. "you must be very happy here." "yes," he murmured, dreamily. "yes, and you think you will be, stella." "ah, yes," she answered, in a low voice, and with a low sigh. "happier than i can say." "you will not feel it lonely, shut up with an old man, a dreamer, who has parted with the world and almost forgotten it?" "no, no! a thousand times no!" was the reply. he wandered to the fireplace and took up his pipe, but with a sudden glance at her laid it down again. slight as was the action she saw it, and with the graceful, lithe movement which he had noticed, she glided across the room and took up the pipe. "you were going to smoke, uncle." "no, no," he said, eagerly. "no, a mere habit----" she interrupted him with a smile, and filled the pipe for him with her taper little fingers, and gave it to him. "you do not want me to wish that i had not come to you uncle?" "heaven forbid!" he said, simply. "then you must not alter anything in your life; you must go on as if i had never dropped from the clouds to be a burden upon you." "my child!" he murmured, reproachfully. "or to make you uncomfortable. i could not bear that, uncle." "no, no!" he said, "i will alter nothing, stella; we will be happy, you and i." "very happy," she murmured, softly. he wandered to the window, and stood looking out; and, unseen by him, she drew a chair up and cleared it of the litter, and unconsciously he sat down. then she glided to and fro, wandering round the room noiselessly, looking at the curious lumber, and instinctively picking up the books and putting them in something like order on the almost empty shelves. every now and then she took up one of the pictures which stood with their faces to the wall, and her gaze would wander from it to the painter sitting in the moonlight, his white hair falling on his shoulders, his thin, nervous hands clasped on his knee. she, who had spent her life in the most artistic city of the world, knew that he was a great painter, and, child-woman as she was, wondered why the world permitted him to remain unknown and unnoticed. she had yet to learn that he cared as little for fame as he did for wealth, and to be allowed to live for his art and dream in peace was all he asked from the world in which he lived but in which he took no part. presently she came back to the window, and stood beside him; he started slightly and put out his hand, and she put her thin white one into it. the moon rose higher in the heavens, and the old man raised his other hand and pointed to it in silence. as he did so, stella saw glide into the scene--as it was touched by the moonbeams--a large white building rearing above the trees on the hill-top, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise. "what house is that, uncle? i had no idea one was there until this moment!" "that is wyndward hall, stella," he replied, dreamily; "it was hidden by the shadow and the clouds." "what a grand place!" she murmured. "who lives there uncle?" "the wyndwards," he answered, in the same musing tone, "the wyndwards. they have lived there for hundreds of years, stella. yes, it is a grand place." "we should call it a palace in italy, uncle." "it is a palace in england, but we are more modest. they are contented to call it the hall. an old place and an old race." "tell me about them," she said, quietly. "do you know them--are they friends of yours?" "i know them. yes, they are friends, as far as there be any friendship between a poor painter and the lord of wyndward. yes, we are friends; they call them proud, but they are not too proud to ask james etheridge to dinner occasionally; and they accuse him of pride because he declines to break the stillness of his life by accepting their hospitality. look to the left there, stella. as far as you can see stretch the lands of wyndward--they run for miles between the hills there." "they have some reason to be proud," she murmured, with a smile. "but i like them because they are kind to you." he nodded. "yes, the earl would be more than kind, i think----" "the earl?" "yes, lord wyndward, the head of the family; the lord of wyndward they call him. they have all been called lords of wyndward by the people here, who look up to them as if they were something more than human." "and does he live there alone?" she asked, gazing at the gray stone mansion glistening in the moonlight. "no, there is a lady wyndward, and a daughter--poor girl." "why do you say poor girl?" asked stella. "because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise than an object of tender pity. she is an invalid; you see that window--the one with the light in it?" "yes," stella said. "that is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa, looking down the valley all the day!" chapter ii. "poor girl!" murmured stella. there was silence for a moment. "and those three live there all alone?" she said. "not always," he replied, musingly. "sometimes, not often, the son leycester comes down. he is viscount trevor." "the son," said stella. "and what is he like?" the question seemed to set some train of thought in action; the old man relapsed into silence for a few minutes. then suddenly but gently he rose, and going to the other end of the room, fetched a picture from amongst several standing against the wall, and held it toward her. "that is lord leycester," he said. stella took the canvas in her hand, and held it to the light, and an exclamation broke involuntarily from her lips. "how beautiful he is!" the old man took the picture from her, and resting it on his knees, gazed at it musingly. "yes," he said, "it is a grand face; one does not see such a face often." stella leant over the chair and looked at it with a strange feeling of interest and curiosity, such as no simply beautiful picture would have aroused. it was not the regularity of the face, with its clear-cut features and its rippling chestnut hair, that, had it been worn by a wyndward of a hundred years ago, would have fallen in rich curls upon the square, well-formed shoulders. it was not the beauty of the face, but a something indefinable in the carriage of the head and the expression of the full, dark eyes that attracted, almost fascinated, her. it was in a voice almost hushed by the indescribable effect produced by the face, that she said: "and he is like that?" "it is lifelike," he answered. "i, who painted it, should not say it, but it is like him nevertheless--that is leycester wyndward. why did you ask?" stella hesitated. "because--i scarcely know. it is such a strange face, uncle. the eyes--what is it in the eyes that makes me almost unable to look away from them?" "the reflection of a man's soul, stella," he said. it was a strange answer, and the girl looked down at the strange face interrogatively. "the reflection of a man's soul, stella. the wyndwards have always been a wild, reckless, passionate race; here, in this village, they have innumerable legends of the daring deeds of the lords of wyndward. murder, rapine, and high-handed tyranny in the olden times, wild license and desperate profligacy in these modern ones; but of all the race this leycester wyndward is the wildest and most heedless. look at him, stella, you see him here in his loose shooting-jacket, built by poole; with the diamond pin in his irreproachable scarf, with his hair cut to the regulation length: i see him in armor with his sword upraised to watch the passionate fire of his eyes. there is a picture in the great gallery up yonder of one of the wyndwards clad just so, in armor of glittering steel, with one foot on the body of a prostrate foe, one hand upraised to strike the death-dealing blow of his battle-ax. yes, leycester wyndward should have lived four centuries back." stella smiled. "has he committed many murders, uncle, burnt down many villages?" the old man started and looked up at the exquisite face, with its arch smile beaming in the dark eyes and curving the red, ripe lips, and smiled in response. "i was dreaming, stella; an odd trick of mine. no, men of his stamp are sadly circumscribed nowadays. we have left them no vent for their natures now, excepting the gambling-table, the turf, and----" he roused suddenly. "yes, it's a beautiful face, stella, but it belongs to a man who has done more harm in his day than all his forefathers did before him. it is rather a good thing that wyndward hall stands so firmly, or else leycester would have melted it at ecarte and baccarat long ago." "is he so bad then?" murmured stella. her uncle smiled. "bad is a mild word, stella; and yet--look at the face again. i have seen it softened by a smile such as might have been worn by an innocent child; i have heard those lips laugh as--as women are supposed to laugh before this world has driven all laughter out of them; and when those eyes smile there is no resisting them for man or woman." he stopped suddenly and looked up. "i am wandering on like an old mill. put the picture away, stella." she took it from him and carried it across the room, but stood for a moment silently regarding it by the lamp light. as she did so, a strange fancy made her start and set the picture on the table suddenly. it seemed to her as if the dark eyes had suddenly softened in their intense fixed gaze and smiled at her. it was the trick of a warm, imaginative temperament, and it took possession of her so completely that with a swift gesture she laid her hand over the dark eyes and so hid them. then, with a laugh at her own folly, she put the picture against the wall and went back to the window and sat beside the old man. "tell me about your past life, stella," he said, in a low voice. "it seems to me as if you had always been here. you have a quiet way of speaking and moving about, child." "i learnt that while papa was ill," she said, simply. "sometimes he would sit for hours playing softly, and i did not wish to disturb him." "i remember, i remember," he murmured. "stella, the world should have known something of him; he was a born musician." "he used to say the same of you, uncle; you should have been a famous artist." the old man looked up with a smile. "my child, there are many men whom the world knows nothing of--luckily for them. your father and i were dreamers, both; the world likes men of action. can you play?" she rose and stood for a moment hesitating. in the corner of the room there was a small chamber organ--one of those wonderful instruments which in a small space combine the grand tones of a cathedral organ with the melodious softness of a flute. it was one of the few luxuries which the artist had permitted himself, and he was in the habit of playing snatches of verdi and rossini, of schubert and mozart, when the fading light compelled him to lay the brush aside. stella went up to it softly and seated herself, and presently began to play. she attempted no difficult fugue or brilliant march, but played a simple florentine vesper hymn, which she had heard floating from the devout lips of the women kneeling before the altar of the great church in florence, and presently began to sing it. the old man started as the first clear bird-like notes rose softly upon the evening air, and then covering his face with his hands went straight to dreamland. the vesper hymn died softly, slowly out, and she rose, but with a gesture of his hand he motioned her to remain at the organ. "you have your father's voice, stella; sing again." she sang a pleasant ditty this time, with a touch of pathos in the refrain, and hearing a slight noise as she finished, looked round, and saw the old man rise, and with quivering lips turn toward the door. the young girl's sweet voice had brought back the past and its dead too plainly, and he had gone out lest she should see his emotion. stella rose and went to the window, and stood looking into the night. the moonlight was glinting the river in the distance, and falling in great masses upon the lawn at her feet. half unconsciously she opened the window, and stepping out, found herself in a small garden, beautifully kept and fragrant with violets; her love for flowers was a passion, and she stepped on to the path in search of them. the path led in zigzag fashion to a little wooden gate, by which the garden was entered from the lane. stella found some violets, and looking about in search of further treasure store, saw a bunch of lilac blossom growing in the lane side. to open the gate and run lightly up the side of the bank was the impulse of the moment, and she obeyed it; there were still deeper masses of flowers a little further down, and she was walking toward them when she heard the sound of a horse galloping toward her. for a moment she was so startled by the unexpected sound that she stood looking toward the direction whence it came, and in that moment a horse and rider turned the corner and made full pelt for the spot where she was standing. stella glanced back toward the little white gate to discover that it was not in sight, and that she had gone further than she intended. it was of no use to attempt to get back before the horseman reached her, there was only time to get out of the way. lightly springing up the bank, she stood under the lilac tree and waited. as she did so, the horse and man came out of the shadow into the moonlight. to stella, both looked tremendously big and tall in the deceptive light, but it was not the size, but the attitude of the rider which struck her and chained her attention. she could not see his face, but the figure was that of a young man, tall and stalwart, and full of a strange, masterful grace which displayed itself in the easy, reckless way in which he sat the great animal, and in the poise of the head which, slightly thrown back, seemed in its very attitude eloquent of pride and defiance. there was something strange and unusual about the whole bearing that struck stella, unused as she was to meeting horsemen in an english country lane. as he came a little nearer she noticed that he was dressed in evening dress, excepting his coat, which was of velvet, and sat loosely, yet gracefully, upon the stalwart frame. in simple truth the rider had thrown off his dress coat for a smoking jacket, and still wore his dress boots. stella saw the moonlight shining upon them and upon a ruby, which blazed sullenly upon the white hand which held the whip. as if rider and horse were one, they came up the lane, and were abreast of her, the man all unconscious of her presence. but not so the horse; his quick, restless eye had caught sight of the shimmer of stella's dress, and with a toss of the head he swerved aside and stood still. the rider brought his eyes from the sky, and raising his whip, cut the horse across the flank, with a gesture of impatient anger; but the horse--a splendid, huge-boned irish mare, as fiery and obstinate as a lion--rose on its hind legs instantly, and the whip came down again. "confound you! what is the matter?" exclaimed its master. "go on, you idiot!" the horse pricked its ears at the sound of the familiar voice, but stood stock still, quivering in every limb. stella saw the whip raised again, and instinctively, before she was aware of it, her womanly protest sprang from her lips. "no! no!" at the sound of the eager, imploring voice, the rider kept his whip poised in the air, then let his arm fall, and dragging rather than guiding the horse, forced it near the hedge. "who is it? who are you?" he demanded, angrily. "what the----" then he stopped suddenly, and stared speechlessly, motionless, and transfixed--horse and rider, as it were, turned to stone. tall and graceful, with that grace which belongs to the girlhood which stands on the threshold of womanhood, with her exquisite face fixed in an expression of mingled fear and pity, and a shyness struggling with maidenly pride, she made a picture which was lovely enough to satisfy the requirements of the most critical and artistic mind--a picture which he who looked upon it carried with him till the day he died. for a moment he sat motionless, and as he sat the moon fell full upon his face, and stella saw the face of the portrait whose eyes she had but a few minutes since hidden from her sight. a lifetime of emotion may pass in a minute; a life's fate hangs upon the balance of a stroke of time. it was only for a moment that they looked into each other's eyes in silence, but that moment meant so much to each of them! it was the horse that broke the spell by attempting to rise again. with a slight movement of the hand leycester wyndward forced him down, and then slid from the saddle and stood at stella's feet, hat in hand. even then he paused as if afraid, lest a word should cause the vision to vanish into thin air; but at last he opened his lips. "i beg your pardon." that was all. four words only, and words that one hears daily; words that have almost lost their import from too familiar commonplace, and yet, as he said them, they sounded so entirely, so earnestly, so intensely significant and full of meaning that all the commonplace drifted from them, and they conveyed to the listener's ear a real and eager prayer for forgiveness; so real and earnest that to have passed them by with the conventional smile and bow would have been an insult, and impossible. but it was not only the words and the tone, but the voice that thrilled through stella's soul, and seemed to wake an echoing chord. the picture which had so awed her had been dumb and voiceless; but now it seemed as if it had spoken even as it had smiled, and for a moment she felt a woman's desire to shut out the sound, as she had shut out the smiling eyes. it was the maidenly impulse of self-protection, against what evil she did not know or dream. "i beg your pardon," he said again, his voice deep and musical, his eyes raised to hers. "i am afraid i frightened you. i thought i was alone here. will you forgive me?" stella looked down at him, and a faint color stole into her cheeks. "it is i who should beg pardon; i am not frightened, but your horse was--and by me?" he half glanced at the horse standing quiet enough now, with its bridle over his arm. "he is an idiot!" he said, quickly; "an obstinate idiot, and incapable of fear. it was mere pretense." "for which you punished him," said stella, with a quick smile. he looked up at her, and slowly there came into his eyes and his lips that smile of which mr. etheridge had spoken, and which stella had foreseen. "you are afraid i am going to whip him again?" "yes," she said, with simple directness. he looked at her with a curious smile. "you are right," he said; "i was. there are times when he requires a little correction; to-night is one of them. we have not seen each other for some little time, and he has forgotten who is master. but i shall not forget your 'no,' and will spare the whip; are you satisfied?" it was a strange speech, closing with a strangely abrupt question. it was characteristic of the speaker, who never in all his life probably had known for a moment what nervousness or embarrassment meant. judging by his tone, the easy flow of the musical voice, the frank, open manner, one would have imagined that this meeting with a strange and beautiful girl was the most matter-of-fact affair. "are you satisfied?" he repeated, as stella remained silent, trying to fight against the charm of his simple and direct manner. "if not, perhaps that will do it?" and taking the whip, a strong hunter's crop, in both his white hands, he broke it in two as easily as if it were a reed, and flung it over his shoulder. stella flushed, but she laughed, and her dark eyes beamed down upon him with serious archness. "does not that look as if you were afraid you should not keep your promise?" he smiled up at her. "it does," he said--"you are right; i may have been tempted beyond my strength. he is a bad-tempered beast, and i am another. why do you laugh----?" he broke off, his voice changing as subtly as some musical instrument. stella hesitated a moment. "i beg you will tell me--i shall not be offended." she laughed, and clung with one hand to the lilac, looking down on him. "i was thinking how fortunate it was that he could not whip you. it is not fair, as you are both so bad-tempered, that one only should get punished." he did not laugh, as another man would have done; but there came into the dark eyes a flash of surprised amusement, such as might have shone in those of the giant gulliver when some liliputian struck him with a pin-sized stick; and his lips parted with a smile. "it was a natural reflection," he said, after a pause. "will you let me help you down?" stella shook her head. somehow she felt safe up there above him, where but the dark eyes could reach her. "thank you, no; i am gathering some lilac. do not trouble." and she turned slightly from him, and stretched up her hand for a branch above her head. the next moment he sprang up the bank lightly, and stood beside her. "permit me," he said. and with one sweep he drew the fragrant branch within her reach. "and now will you come down?" he asked, as if she were some willful child. stella smiled, and he held out his hand. she put hers into it, and his fingers closed over it with a grasp firm as steel, but as smooth as a woman's. as the warm fingers closed over hers, which were cold with her long grasp of the branch above her head, a thrill ran through her and caused her to shudder slightly. "you are cold," he said, instantly. "the spring evenings are treacherous. have you far to go?" "i am not cold, thanks," she said, with quick alarm, for there was a look in his eyes and a movement of his hand which seemed to give warning that he was about to take his coat off. "i am not at all cold!" "have you far to go?" he repeated, with the air, gentle as it was, of a man who was accustomed to have his questions answered. "not far; to the little white gate there," she answered. "the little white gate--to etheridge's, the artist's?" he said gently, with a tone of surprise. stella bent her head; his eyes scanned her face. "you live there--are staying there?" "yes." "i never saw you in wyndward before." "no, i was never here till to-night." "till to-night?" he echoed. "i knew that i had not seen you before." there was something in the tone, wholly unlike commonplace flattery, that brought the color to stella's face. they had reached the gate by this time, he walking by her side, the bridle thrown over his arm, the great horse pacing quiet and lamb-like, and stella stopped. "good-night," she said. he stopped short and looked at her, his head thrown back, as she had seen it as he rode toward her, his eyes fixed intently on her face, and seeming to sink through her downcast eyes into her soul. "good-night," he replied. "wait." it was a word of command, for all its musical gentleness, and stella, woman-like, stopped. "i am going away," he said, not abruptly, but with calm directness. "if you have only come to-night i shall not be able to learn your name; before i go, will you tell it me?" stella smiled. "why not?" he said, as she hesitated. "my name is stella etheridge, i am mr. etheridge's niece." "stella!" he repeated. "stella! thank you. i shall not forget. my name," and he raised his hat with a simple gesture of proud humility, "is wyndward--leycester wyndward." "i know it," said stella, and the next moment she could have called the impulsive words back again. "you know it!" he said; "and came here only to-night! how is that?" stella's brows contracted, dark and full they met across her brow in true southern fashion, and lent a significant eloquence to her face; she would have given much to avoid answering. "how is that?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers. "it is very simple," she said, as if vexed at her hesitation. "i saw your portrait and--knew you." he smiled a curious smile. "knew me before we met! i wonder----" he paused and his eyes seemed to read her thoughts. "i wonder whether you were prejudiced by what you saw by that forshadowing of me? is that a fair question?" "it is a strange one," said stella. "is it? i will not press it. good-night!" and he raised his hat. "good-night, and good-bye," she said, and impulsively again she held out her hand. his eyes showed no surprise, whatever he may have felt, as he took her hand and held it. "no," he said, as he let her draw it away. "not good-bye. i have changed my mind. i shall not go. it is only good-night," and with a smile flashing out of his eyes, he leapt upon his horse and was gone. chapter iii. stella stood watching until the big chestnut had borne its master out of sight, and down the lane, across the meadow; she caught one more glimpse of them as he rode through the ford, the water dashing up a silver shower of spray as high as the horse's head; then they vanished in the shadow of the woods which engirdled wyndward hall. but she still stood, lost in a dreamy reverie that was not thought, until her uncle's voice came floating down the garden, and with a start she ran up the path and stood breathless before him. the old man's placid face wore a slight look of anxiety, which faded instantly as he said: "where have you been, stella? i thought you had changed your mind, and flown back to italy again. mrs. penfold is searching the meadows wildly." stella laughed, as she put her arm round his neck. "you will not get rid of me so easily, uncle. no, i have only been down the pretty lane at the end of the garden. see, here are some flowers; are they not sweet? you shall have them for your table, and they shall stand within sight while you are at work." and she filled a vase with water, and arranged them. "but the flowers are not all the fruits of my wandering, uncle," she went on; "i have had an adventure." he was strolling up and down with his pipe in his mouth, his hands folded behind him. "an adventure!" "yes," she nodded. "i have met--can you guess whom?" he smiled. "mr. fielding, the clergyman? it is his usual evening stroll." "no." "perhaps an old lady in a lace shawl, with a fat pug by her side. if so, you have made an acquaintance with the great mrs. hamilton, the doctor's wife." "no, it was not anybody's wife, uncle--it was a man. you shan't guess any more; but what do you say to lord leycester?" "lord leycester!" said mr. etheridge. "i did not even know he was at home. lord leycester! and does my picture do him justice?" he asked, turning to her with a smile. she bent over the flowers, ashamed of the meaningless blush which rose to her face. "yes, uncle, it is like him; but i could not see very distinctly you know. it was moonlight. he was riding a great, huge chestnut horse." "i know," he murmured, "and tearing along like a lost spirit. he flashed past like a meteor, i expect. no, you could not see him, and cannot judge of my portrait." "but he didn't flash past. he would have done, no doubt, but the chestnut declined. i think it was frightened by me, for i was standing on the bank." "and he stopped?" asked mr. etheridge. "it was a wonder; such a little thing even as the shying of his horse was sufficient to rouse the devil in him! he stopped!" "because he was obliged," said stella, in a low voice, a deep blush of maidenly shame rising to her face, as she remembers that it was she who had really stopped him. "and was he very furious?" "no; the proverbial lamb could not have been more quiet," said stella, with a musical laugh. mr. etheridge laughed. "he must have been in a good humor. it was strange his being out to-night. the hall is full of people from town; but it would not matter to him if he wanted to ride, though the prince himself were there; he would go. and my picture?" "did him justice, uncle. yes, he is very handsome; he wore a loose velvet coat to-night of a dark purple; i did not know gentlemen wore such colors now." "a smoking coat," he explained. "i think i can see him. no doubt he had obeyed the impulse of the moment--had jumped up and left them there at the hall--saddled his own horse and tore away across the river. well, you have probably seen the last of him for some time, stella. he rarely stays at the hall more than a day or two. town has too great a charm for him." stella's lips opened, and she was about to reply that he had suddenly resolved to stay, but something stopped the words on her lips. presently there was a knock at the door, and mrs. penfold came in with the candles. "you have given me quite a turn, miss stella," she said, with a smile of reproach; "i thought you were lost. your room is quite ready now, miss." stella went up to the old man and kissed him. "good-night, uncle," she murmured. "good-night, my child," he said, his eyes dwelling on her tenderly, but with something of the bewildered look clouding them; "good-night, and happy dreams for this, your first night at home." "at home!" murmured stella; "at home! you are very good to me, uncle," and she kissed him again. mrs. penfold had done wonders in so short a time permitted her, and stella found herself standing alone in a tiny room, modestly but comfortably--oh, so comfortably!--furnished, with its white bed and its old-fashioned dimity curtains framing the lattice window. as her gaze wandered round the room, her glorious eyes grew moist. it was all so sudden, so sweet a contrast to the gaunt, bare room, which, for a weary year she had shared with a score of girls as miserable as herself; so sudden that she could scarcely believe it was real. but youth is ever ready to accept the surprises of life, and she fell asleep--fell asleep to dream that she was back in the wretched school in italy, and chained to a stone wall from which all her efforts to free herself were unavailing, but presently she thought that a tall, stalwart figure came riding down on a big chestnut horse, and that with one sweep of his strong hand he broke her chains asunder, and, lifting her into his saddle, bore her away. then the scene changed; she seemed to be following her rescuer who, with his handsome face turned over his shoulder, drew her on continually with a strange fascinating smile. all through her dreams the smiling eyes haunted her, and once she stretched out her hands to keep it from her, but even in the action the gesture of repulse turned in a strange, subtle manner to one of entreaty and welcome, and she drew the smile, as it were, to her bosom, and folded her hands over it. a girlish fancy, perhaps, but such fancies influence a life for good or ill, for joy or misery. lord leycester wyndward, of whose smile stella was dreaming, had ridden up the hills, the great chestnut scarcely breaking his pace, but breathing hard and defiantly from its wide, red nostrils--had ridden up the hills and through the woods, and reached the open plateau lying round the hall. a noble park occupied the plateau--a park of chestnuts and oaks, which were the pride of the county. through the park wound the road, gleaming white in the moonlight, to the front gates of wyndward. the lodge-keeper heard the beat of the chestnut's feet, for which he had been listening intently, and threw open the gates, and lord leycester entered the grounds. they were vast in extent and exquisitely laid out, the road winding between a noble avenue of trees that arched overhead. the present earl's grandfather had gone in for arboriculture, and the way was lined for fifty feet back with rare shrubs and conifers. so serpentine was the road that the great gray mansion broke upon the gaze suddenly, mentally startling him who approached it for the first time. to lord leycester it was a familiar sight, but familiar as it was he glanced up at it with what was almost a nod of approval. like most men of his nature, he possessed a passionate love and appreciation for the beautiful, and there was to-night a strange, indefinable fire in his hot blood which made him more than usually susceptible to the influence of the scene. a sweeping curve of the road led to the terrace which stretched along the whole front of the house, and by which the principal entrance was gained. lord leycester struck off to the right, and entered a modern courtyard, three sides of which were occupied by the admirable stables. a couple of grooms had been listening as intently as the lodge-keeper, and as he entered the yard they hurried forward silently and took the chestnut. lord leycester dropped to the ground, patted the horse, which made a playfully-affectionate snap at his arm, and, ascending a flight of steps, entered the lower end of the long hall, which stretched through the building. the hall was softly but sufficiently lighted by shaded lamps, supported by huge figures in bronze, which diffused a charming glow upon the innumerable pictures upon the panels of dark oak. from the vaulted roof hung tattered flags, most of them borne by the earlier wyndwards, some of them bestowed by the graceful hands of dead and gone princes; the somewhat gloomy aspect of the place was lightened by the gleaming armor of the knightly effigies which stood at regular intervals upon the tesselated floor, and by the deep crimson of the curtains which screened the heavy doors and tall windows. the whole scene, the very atmosphere, as it seemed, was characteristic of an ancient and powerful race. notwithstanding that the house was full of guests, and that a brilliant party was at that moment in the drawing-room, not a sound penetrated the vast hall. the two or three servants who were standing by the doors or sitting on the benches, talking in hushed voices, were silent the moment he entered, and one came forward to receive any commands. notwithstanding the brusqueness which is the salient characteristic of our present life, the old world state and formality still existed at wyndward. be as exacting and capricious as you might, you had no fear of meeting with inattention or disrespect from the army of servants, whose one aim and purpose in life seemed to be to minister to the wants and moods of their superiors. it was a princely house, conducted in stately fashion, without regard to cost or trouble, and the servants, from the pages to the countess's own maid, were as proud of their position, in its degree, as the lord of wyndward of his. "send oliver to me," said lord wyndward, as he passed the man. "i am going to my room." he went up the stairs, and passing along the principal corridor, entered a room fronting the park. it was one of a suite which consisted of a sort of sitting-room, a dressing-room, and beyond a bedroom. the sitting-room gave pretty plain indications of the owner's tastes and dispositions. it was a medley of objects connected with sport and art. here a set of boxing-gloves and foils; a gun-rack, well stocked; fishing-rods and whips hung over the antique fireplace with the wide open hearth and dog-irons. on one side of the room hung a collection of etchings, unique and priceless; on another half a dozen gems in oil, while against the third stood a piano, and an easel upon which rested a canvas displaying a half-finished venus rising from her cradle of sea foam; for upon this, the only son of the house, the partial gods had bestowed many gifts; any one of which, had he been a poor man, would have made the world regard him as one of its masters. but as it was, he painted and played for amusement only, and there were only a few of his friends, and only those who were most intimate, who suspected that the wild, reckless leycester could do more than ride like a centaur and shoot like a north american indian. how were they to know, seeing that he rarely spoke of art, and never of his own passionate love of it? had they known, it would have given them a key to much in his character which puzzled and bewildered them; they would have been nearer understanding how it was that in one man could be combined the soft tenderness of a southern nature with the resolute, defiant recklessness of the northern. he entered the room and went to the fireplace in which a log was burning brightly, to guard against the too frequent treachery of an early summer evening, and flinging his hat on to a chair, passed his hand through his hair with a thoughtful yet restless smile. "stella!" he murmured. "stella! that was wrong. a star should be fair and golden, all light and sunshine, while she--great heaven! what eyes! it was surely the sweetest, loveliest face that a man ever looked upon. no wonder that coming upon it so suddenly--with my thoughts a hundred miles away, coming upon it suddenly as it shone up above me--that i should think it only a vision! if that face as i saw it could smile out from the academy next spring, what crowds of fools would gather round to gape and stare at it? if--yes, but who could do it? no one! no one! as well try and catch the sunlight on a brush and paint it on the canvas--as well try----" he broke off suddenly, his eye caught by the venus aphrodite smiling from the easel, and going across to it, stood and contemplated it. "venus with a pale pink face and meaningless blue eyes, with insipid yellow hair and simpering smile! never more will venus take that semblance for me. no, she will be as i saw her to-night, with dark silken hair, and sweeping lashes shading the dark brown eyes, in which one sees the soul peering from their depths. that is venus, not this," and with a smile of derision he took up a brush and drew a dark, broad effacing line across the fair face. "so departs forever all my former dreams of womanly loveliness. loveliness! i have never seen it until to-night. stella! a star! yes, she is rightly named, after all. she shone down on me like a star, and i--great heaven!--was like one bewitched! while she--she made a laughing-stock of me. compared me with the nag, and treated me like a school-boy too big to be whipped but not too large to be laughed at. "by jove it is not a thing to be proud of; called to task by a girl--a little slip of a girl not yet a woman! and yet i would not have missed that laugh and the light scorn of those dark eyes, though they lighted up at my expense. stella----" there was a knock at the door, and his valet, oliver, entered. lord leycester stared at him a moment abstractedly, then roused himself from his reverie. "what is it, oliver?" "you sent for me, my lord." "oh, yes! i had forgotten. i will wash and get into my other coat." oliver passed noiselessly into the other room and assisted his master to change the velvet smoking-jacket for the dress coat, brushed the thick, short-cut chestnut hair into order, and opened the door. "where are they all?" he asked. "are any of them in the smoking-room?" "yes, my lord, lord barton and captain halliday; the marquis of sandford and sir william are in the billiard-room." lord leycester nodded, and went down the stairs across the hall; a servant drew a curtain aside and opened a door, and lord leycester entered a small ante-room, one side of which opened into a long-stretching fernery, from which came the soft trip trip of fountains, and the breath which filled the whole atmosphere with a tropical perfume. a couple of footmen in gorgeous livery were standing beside a double curtain, and at a sign from lord leycester they drew it apart. lord leycester passed through and down a small corridor lined with statuary, at the end of which was another curtain. no passage, or door, or ante-room but was thus masked, to shut out the two things which the earl held as abominations--draught and noise. with the opening of these curtains the large saloon was revealed like the scene on the stage of a theater. it was a magnificent room in keeping with the rest of the place, richly but not gorgeously decorated, and lighted by wax candles shining through faintly hued globes. at one end stood a grand piano in white and ormolu, and a lady was playing and singing, while others were standing round with tea-cups in their hands. near the fireplace was a table, upon which stood a silver tea equipage, with which the countess was busied. lady wyndward was still in her prime, notwithstanding that lord leycester was twenty-three; she had been married at eighteen, and was now in the perfection of matronly beauty; one had only to glance at her to learn from whence leycester had got his strange beauty. near her stood a tall, thin gentleman with proud, haughty, clean-cut face, and iron gray hair, worn rather long and brushed back from a white, lofty brow. it was the earl. his dark piercing eyes were bent upon the ground as he stood listening to the music, but he saw leycester enter, and raised his head as a slight frown crossed his face. lady wyndward saw the frown and sought the cause, but her face showed no signs of surprise or displeasure. it was calm and impassive at all times, as if its owner disdained the weakness of ordinary mortals. leycester paused a moment, taking in the scene; then he crossed the room, and went up to the table. lady wyndward looked up with her serene, imperial smile. "will you have some tea, leycester?" "thanks," he said. she gave him his cup, and as he took it a young man left the group at the piano, and came up to him laughing. "where have you been, leycester?" he asked, putting his hand on the broad shoulder. it was lord charles guildford, leycester's most intimate friend. between these two existed an affection which was almost, say rather more than fraternal. they had been together at eton, where leycester, the great, stalwart lad, had fought the slight frail boy's battles; they had lived in the same rooms at oxford, had been comrades in all the wild escapades which made their term at college a notorious one, and they were inseparable. leycester had grown from a tall lad into a stalwart man; lord charles--or charlie, as he was called--had fulfilled the promise of his frail boyhood, and developed into a slight, thin, fair-haired youth, with the indolent grace which sometimes accompanies weakness, and the gentle nature of a woman. leycester turned to him with a smile, and the earl looked up to hear the answer; the countess busied herself with the teapot, as if she were not listening as intently. "i went for a galop, charlie," said leycester. "you fellows were half asleep in the smoking-room, and i had listened to barton's indian story for the hundredth time, and it got rather slow; then i remembered that the chestnut had been eating his head off for the last five weeks, and thought i would give him a turn." the earl frowned and turned away; lord charles laughed. "pretty behavior!" he exclaimed; "and here were we hunting all over the place for you." "why didn't you come into the drawing-room to us, lord leycester?" said a beautiful girl who was sitting near; "we should not have bored you with any indian stories." "but, you see, i should have bored you, lady constance," he said. the girl smiled up into his face. "perhaps you would," she said. "you are more considerate than i thought." "i never venture into the ladies' sanctum after dinner till the tea is announced," he retorted. "i have an idea, shared by my sex generally, that it is not safe--that, in short, you are too ferocious." "and you prefer riding about the country till we quiet down. are we quiet now, or do we look ferocious?" and she smiled up at him from behind her fan with a plain invitation. he sat down beside her and began to talk the infinite nothings which came to his lips so easily, the trivial small change which his musical voice and rare smile seemed to transform to true coin; but while he talked his thoughts were wandering to the dark-haired girl who had shone down upon him from her green and fragrant bower in the lane, and he found himself picturing her in the little room at the cottage in the meadows, amongst the curious litter of the old artist's studio; and gradually his answers grew disjointed and inconsequential. he got up presently, got up abruptly, and wandered across the room stopping to exchange a word or two with one and the other, his tall, graceful figure towering above those of the other men, his handsome head thrown back musingly. many an admiring and wistful glance followed him from among the women, and not a few would have exerted all their fascinations to keep him by their side, had they not known by experience, that when he was in his present mood he was deaf to the voice and smile of the charmer, charmed she never so wisely. chapter iv. the countess watched him from her table, and, looking up at the earl, murmured: "leycester is in one of his restless moods to-night." "yes," he said, with a sigh. "what is it?--do you know?" "no," she said, calmly. "he was all right at dinner." "why can he not behave like other people?" said the earl, sadly. "can you fancy any other man leaving his father's guests and riding about the country?" "leycester never was like any other," she said, not without a touch of pride. "he is as he is, and nothing can alter him." the earl was silent for a moment, his long white hands folded behind his back, his dark eyes fixed on the floor. "has he told you of his last escapade--his last mad freak?" he said, in a low voice. "yes," she answered, calmly. "he has never concealed anything from me." "it is nearly twenty thousand pounds. even wyndward must feel such strains as this." the countess raised her head. "i know," she said; "he has told me everything. it was a point of honor. i did not quite understand; horse-racing is a pastime with which i have little sympathy, though we have always owned race-horses. it was a point of honor. some one had been taking advantage of his name to act dishonestly, and he withdrew the horse. he could take no other course," he says. the earl sighed. "no doubt. but it is mad folly, and there is no end to it--if he could see some limit! why does he not marry?" the countess glanced at the handsome face. "he will not marry until he meets with some one he can love." the earl looked round the room at the many beautiful graceful women who adorned it, and sighed impatiently. "he is hard to please." "he is," assented the countess, with the same touch of pride. "it is time he married and settled," continued the earl. "for most men a year or two would not matter, but with him--i do not like to think that the title rests only on our two lives, as mine must be near its close." "algernon!" "and on his, which is risked daily." he stooped, silenced by the sudden look of pain in the beautiful eyes. "why do you not speak to him? he will do anything for you." the countess smiled. "everything but that. no, i cannot speak to him; it would be useless. i do not wish to weaken my influence." "get lilian to speak to him," he said. the countess sighed. "lilian!" she murmured; "she would not do it. she thinks him something more than human, and that no woman in the world can be good enough to--to hold his stirrup or fill his wineglass." the earl frowned. "between you," he said, "you have spoiled him." the countess shook her head gently. "no, we have not. he is now as a man what he was as a boy. do you remember what nelson said, when hardy asked him why he did nothing while one of their ships was fighting two of the enemy's? 'i am doing all i can--watching.'" before the earl could reply, a cabinet minister came up and engaged him in conversation, and the countess rose and crossed the room to where an elderly lady sat with a portfolio of engravings before her. it was the dowager countess of longford, a tiny little woman with a thin wrinkled face, and keen but kindly gray eyes that lit up her white face and made it remarkable. she was dressed as simply as a quakeress, excepting for some old and priceless lace which softened the rigor of her plainly made gray satin dress. she looked up as the younger countess approached, and made room for her on the sofa. lady wyndward sat down in silence, which was unbroken for a minute. then the old countess said without looking at her-- "the boy grows handsomer every day, ethel!" lady wyndward sighed. "what is the matter?" asked the other, with a keen smile. "what has he been doing now, burning a church or running off with a lord mayor's daughter?" "he has not been doing anything very much," answered lady wyndward. "except losing some money." the old countess raised her eyebrows lightly. "that does not matter." "not much. no, he has not been doing anything; i wish he would. that's what is the matter." "i understand," retorted the other. "he is most dangerous when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some piece of madness beyond the ordinary. well, my dear, if you will give the world such a creature you must put up with the consequences--be prepared to pay the penalty. i should be quite content to do so." "ah, you don't know," said the countess, with a smile that had something pathetic in it. "yes, i do," retorted the old lady, curtly. "and i envy you still. i love the boy, ethel. there is not a woman of us in the room, from the youngest to the oldest, who does not love him. you cannot expect one whom the gods have so favored to behave like an ordinary mortal." "why not? it is just what algernon has said to me." "i thought as much. i was watching you two. of all things, beware of this: don't let algernon interfere with him. it is a strange thing to say, but his father is the worst man in all the world to attempt to put the bridle on leycester. it is we women who alone have the power to guide him." "that is where my fear lies," said the countess. "it is the thought of what may happen in that quarter which fills me with daily dread." "there is only one safeguard--marry him," remarked the old countess, but with a comical smile. the countess sighed. "again, that is what algernon says. you both say it as calmly as if you told me to give him a cup of tea." the old countess was silent for a moment, then she said-- "where is lenore beauchamp?" lady wyndward was almost guilty of a start. "you read my thoughts," she said. the old lady nodded. "she is the only woman who can really touch him. ask her here; let them be together. she will be glad to come." "i am not sure, lenore is proud; she might guess why we wanted her." the old lady drew up her head as haughtily as if she was leycester's mother. "and then? is there any girl among them who would not jump at the chance? i don't mean because he is the heir to wyndward; he is enough in himself without that." "it is well you are not his mother; you would have made him what he is not now--vain." the old lady sighed. "i know it. but you are wrong about lenore. if she ever cared for anyone, it is leycester. she is proud, but love levels pride, and she may put forth her power. if she should, not even leycester can withstand her. ask her down, and leave the rest to her--and providence." the countess sat for a moment in silence, then she put her hand upon the thin, wrinkled hand, unadorned by a single gem. "i have always you to come to. i think you understand him better than his own mother." "no," said the old lady, "but i love him nearly as well." "i will write at once," said the countess. and she rose and crossed to the ante-room. there was a writing-table amongst the furniture; the servants saw her go to it, and noiselessly left the room. she took up the pen and thought a moment, then wrote: "my dear lenore,--will you come down and spend a week with us? we have a few friends with us, but we are not complete without you. do not say 'no,' but come. i do not name any day, so that you may be free to fix your own." "yours affectionately, "ethel wyndward." "p.s.--leycester is with us." as she wrote the signature she heard a step behind her, which she knew was leycester's. he stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his hand on her white shoulder. "writing, mother?" he said. the countess folded her letter. "yes. where are you going?" he pointed to the louis quatorze clock that ticked solemnly on a bracket. "ten o'clock, mother," he said, with a smile. "oh, yes; i see," she assented. he stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young man's filial pride in a mother's beauty, and, bending down, touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out. the countess looked after him with softened eyes. "who could help loving him?" she murmured. humming an air from the last opera bouffe, he ran lightly up the staircase and passed along the corridor, but as he reached the further end and knocked at a door, the light air died upon his lips. a low voice murmured, "come in;" and opening the door gently, he entered. the room was a small one, and luxuriously furnished in a rather strange style. on the first entrance, a stranger would have been struck by the soft and delicate tints which pervaded throughout. there was not a brilliant color in the apartment; the carpet and hangings, the furniture, the pictures themselves were all of a reposeful tint, which could not tire the eye or weary the sense. the carpet was a thick persian rug, which deadened the sound of footsteps, costly hangings of a cool and restful gray covered the walls, save at intervals; the fire itself was screened by a semi-transparent screen, and the only light in the room came from a lamp which was suspended by a silver chain from the ceiling, and was covered by a thick shade. on a couch placed by the window reclined a young girl. as leycester entered, she half rose and turned a pale, but beautiful face toward him with an expectant smile. beautiful is a word that is easily written, and written so often that its significance has got dulled: it fails to convey any idea of the ethereal loveliness of lilian wyndward. had mr. etheridge painted a face with leycester's eyes, and given it the delicately-cut lips and spiritual expression of one of raphael's angels, it would have been a fair representation of lilian wyndward. "it is you leycester," she said. "i knew you would come," and she pointed to a small traveling clock that stood on a table near her. he went up to her and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her face against his, her eyes looking into his with rapt devotion. "how hot you are, dear. is it hot down there?" "awfully," he said, seating himself beside her, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "there is not a breath of air moving, and if there were the governor would take care to shut it out. this room is deliriously cool, lil; it is a treat to come into it." "is it?" she said, with a glad eagerness. "you really think it is. i like to hear you say that." "yes, it's the prettiest room in the house. what is it smells so sweet?" "lilac," she said, and she pointed to a bunch on the table. he started slightly, and, stretching out his hand, took a spray out of the epergne. "i thought it was lilac," he said, quietly. "i noticed it when i came in." she took the spray from him and fastened it in his coat, against which her hands looked white as the driven snow. "you shall take it to your own room, ley," she said. "you shall take them all." "not for worlds, lil," he said. "this will do." "and what are they doing?" she asked. "the usual thing," he replied; "playing, singing, rubber at whist, and boring each other to death generally." she smiled. "and what have you been doing?" "assisting in the latter amusement," he answered, lightly. "they told me you had gone out," she said. he nodded. "yes, i took the chestnut for a spin." she laughed, a soft, hushed laugh. "and left them the first night! that was like you, ley!" "what was the use of staying? it was wrong, i suppose. i am unfortunate! yes, i went for a ride." "it was a lovely evening. i watched the sunset," and she looked at the window. "if i had known you were going, i would have looked for you. i like to see you riding that big chestnut. you went across the meadows?" "yes," he said, "across the meadows." he was silent for a minute, then he said, suddenly, "lil, i have seen a vision to-night." "a vision, ley!" she repeated, looking up at him eagerly. he nodded. "a vision. the most beautiful girl i have ever seen, excepting you, lil!" she made no protest, but smiled. "ley! a girl! what was she like?" "i can't tell you," he said. "i came upon her in a moment. the chestnut saw her first, and was human enough to be struck motionless. i was struck too!" "and you can't tell me what she was like?" "no; if i were to describe her with usual phrases you would smile. you women always do. you can't help being a woman, lil!" "was she dark or fair?" "dark," he replied. "i did not know it at the time; it was impossible to think whether she was dark or fair while one looked at her, but i remembered afterward. lil, you remember that picture i sent you from paris--the picture of the girl with the dark eyes and long, silky hair--not black, but brown in the sunlight, with long lashes shading the eyes, and the lips curved in a half-serious smile as she looks down at the dog fawning at her feet?" "i remember, ley. was she like that?" "yes; only alive. fancy the girl in the picture alive. fancy yourself the dog she was smiling at! i was the dog!" "ley!" "and she spoke as well as smiled. you can imagine the voice that girl in the picture would have. soft and musical, but clear as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half mockery. it was the voice of the girl i met in the lane this evening." "ley! ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. i am very grateful." "poetry! it is truth. but you are right; such a face, such a voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives." "and you are not hard, ley! but the girl! who is she? what is her name?" "her name"--he hesitated a moment, and his voice unconsciously grew wonderfully musical--"is stella--stella." "stella!" she repeated. "it is a beautiful name." "is it not? stella!" "and she is--who?" "the niece of old etheridge, the artist, at the cottage." lilian's eyes opened wide. "really, ley, i must see her!" his face flushed, and he looked at her. she caught the eager look, and her own paled suddenly. "no," she said, gravely. "i will not see her. ley--you will forget her by to-morrow." he smiled. "you will forget her by to-morrow. ley, let me look at you!" he turned his face to her, and she looked straight into his eyes, then she put her arm round his neck. "oh, ley! has it come at last?" "what do you mean?" he asked, not angrily, but with a touch of grimness, as if he were afraid of the answer. "ley," she said, "you must not see her again. ley, you will go to-morrow, will you not?" "why?" he asked. "it is not like you to send me away, lil." "no, but i do. i who look forward to seeing you as the sweetest thing in my life--i who would rather have you near me than be--other than i am--i who lie and wait and listen for your footsteps--i send you, ley. think! you must go, ley. go at once, for your own sake and for hers." he rose, and smiled down at her. "for my sake, perhaps, but not for hers. you foolish girl, do you think all your sex is as partial as you are? you did not see her as i saw her to-night--did not hear her ready wit at my expense. for her sake! you make me smile, lil." "i cannot smile, ley. you will not stay! what good can come of it? i know you so well. you will not be content until you have seen your venus again, and then--ah, ley, what can she do but love you, and love you but to lose you? ley, all that has gone before has made me smile, because with them i knew you were heart-whole; i could look into your eyes and see the light of laughter in their depths; but not this time, ley--not this time. you must go. promise me!" his face went pale under her gaze, and the defiant look, which so rarely shone out in her presence, came into his eyes, and about his lips. "i cannot promise, lil," he said. chapter v. for love lay lurking in the clouds and mist, i heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side: "'tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am i-- in every quiet valley, on every mountain side!" in the clear, bird-like tones of stella's voice the musical words floated from the open window of her room above and through the open french windows of the old man's studio. with a little start he turned his head away from the easel and looked toward the door. stella had only been in the house three days, but he had already learned something of her habits, and knew that when he heard the beautiful voice singing at the window in the early morning, he might expect to see the owner of the voice enter shortly. his expectation was not doomed to disappointment. the voice sounded on the stairs, in the hall, and a moment afterward the door opened and stella stood looking smilingly into the room. if he had thought her beautiful and winsome on that first evening of her coming, when she was weary with anxiety and traveling, and dressed in dust-stained clothes, be sure he thought her more beautiful still, now that the light heart felt free to reveal itself, and the shabby dress had given place to the white and simple but still graceful morning gown. mrs. penfold had worked hard during those three days, and with the aid of the dulverfield milliner had succeeded in filling a small wardrobe for "her young lady," as she had learned to call her. the old artist, ignorant of the power of women in such direction, had watched the transformation with inward amazement and delight, and was never tired of hearing about dresses, and hats, jackets, and capes, and was rather disappointed than otherwise when he found that the grand transformation had been effected at a very small cost. bright and beautiful she stood, like a vision of youth and health in the doorway, her dark eyes laughingly contemplating the old man's gentle stare of wonder,--the look which always came into his eyes when she appeared. "did i disturb you by my piping, uncle?" she asked as she kissed him. "oh no, my dear," he answered, "i like to hear you,--i like to hear you." she leant against his shoulder, and looked at his work. "how beautiful it is!" she murmured. "how quickly it grows. i heard you come down this morning, and i meant to get up, but i was so tired--lazy, wasn't i?" "no, no!" he said, eagerly. "i am sorry i disturbed you. i came down as quietly as i could. i knew you would be tired after your dissipation. you must tell me all about it." "yes, come to breakfast and i will tell you." "must i?" he said, glancing at his picture reluctantly. he had been in the habit of eating his breakfast by installments, painting while he ate a mouthful and drank his cup of coffee, but stella insisted upon his changing what she called a very wicked habit. "yes, of course! see how nice it looks," and she drew him gently to the table and forced him into a chair. the old man submitted with a sigh that was not altogether one of regret, and still humming she sat opposite the urn and began to fill the cups. "and did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, gazing at her dreamily. "oh, very much; they were so kind. mrs. hamilton is the dearest old lady; and the doctor--what makes him smile so much, uncle?" "i don't know. i think doctors generally do." "oh, very well. well, he was very kind too, and so were the miss hamiltons. it was very nice indeed, and they took so much notice of me--asked me all sorts of questions. sometimes i scarcely knew what to answer. i think they thought because i had been brought up in italy, i ought to have spoken with a strong accent, and looked utterly different to themselves. i think they were a little disappointed, uncle." "oh," he said, "and who else was there?" "oh, the clergyman, mr. fielding--a very solemn gentleman indeed. he said he didn't see much of you, and hoped he should see me in church." mr. etheridge rubbed his head and looked rather guilty. "i expect that was a back-handed knock for me, stella," he said rather ruefully. "you see i don't go to church often. i always mean to go, but i generally forget the time, or i wander into the fields, or up into the woods, and forget all about the church till it's too late." "but that's very wicked, abominably so," said stella, gravely, but with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "i must look after your morals as well as your meals, i see, uncle." "yes," he assented, meekly--"do, do." "well, then there was a mr. adelstone, a young gentleman from london. he was quite the lion of the evening. i think he was a nephew of mr. fielding's." the old man nodded. "yes; and did you like him?" stella thought a moment, holding the cream-jug critically over the coffee-cup. "not much, uncle. it was very wrong, and very bad taste, i am afraid, for they all seemed to admire him immensely, and so did he himself." mr. etheridge looked at her rather alarmed. "i must say, stella, you get too critical. i don't think we are quite used to it." she laughed. "i don't fancy mr. adelstone was at all conscious of adverse criticism; he seemed quite satisfied with everybody, himself in particular. he certainly was beautifully dressed, and he had the dearest little hands and feet in the world; and his hair was parted to a hair, and as smooth as a black-and-tan terrier's; so that he had some grounds for satisfaction." "what did he do to offend you, stella?" asked the old man, rather shrewdly. she laughed again, and a little touch of color came into her face, but she answered quite frankly: "he paid me compliments, uncle." "that doesn't offend your sex generally, stella." "it offends me," said stella, quickly. "i--i detest them! especially when the man who pays them does it with a self-satisfied smile which shows that he is thinking more of his own eloquence and gallantry than of the person he is flattering." the old man looked at her. "will you oblige me by telling me your age again?" he said. she laughed. "am i too wise, uncle? well, never mind--i'll promise to be good and stupid, if you like. but you are not eating any breakfast; and you must not keep looking at that odious easel all the time, as if you were longing to get back to it. did you ever see a jealous woman?" "no, never." "well, if you don't want to, you must not confine all your attention to your work." "i don't think there is much fear of that when you are near," he said, meekly. she laughed, and jumped up to kiss him with delight. "now that was a splendid compliment, sir! you are improving rapidly--mr. adelstone himself couldn't have done it more neatly." scarcely had the words left her lips than the door opened. "mr. adelstone," said mrs. penfold. a young man, tall and dark, and faultlessly dressed, stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. he was undeniably good-looking, and as he stood with a smile upon his face, looked at his best. a severe critic might have found fault with his eyes, and said that they were a little too small and a little too near together, might also have added that they were rather shifty, and that there was something approaching the sinister in the curves of the thin lips; but he was undeniably good-looking, and notwithstanding his well cut clothes and spotless boots with their gray gaiters, his white hands with the choice selection of rings, there was an indication of power about him; no one could have suspected him of being a fool, or lacking the power of observation; for instance, as he stood now, smiling and waiting for a welcome, his dark eyes took in every detail of the room without appearing to leave stella's face. mr. etheridge looked up with the usual confused air with which he always received his rare visitors, but stella held out her hand with a smile calm and self-possessed. there is a great deal of the woman even about a girl of nineteen. "good-morning, mr. adelstone," she said. "you have come just in time for a cup of coffee." "i ought to apologize for intruding at such an unseasonable hour," he said, as he bent over her hand, "but your good housekeeper would not hear of my going without paying my respects. i am afraid i'm intruding." "not at all, not at all," murmured the artist. "here's a chair," and he rose and cleared a chair of its litter by the simple process of sweeping it on to the floor. mr. adelstone sat down. "i hope you are not tired after your mild dissipation last night?" he asked of stella. she laughed. "not at all. i was telling uncle how nice it was. it was my first party in england, you know." "oh, you musn't call it a party," he said. "but i am very glad you enjoyed it." "what beautiful flowers," said stella, glancing at the bouquet. he handed them to her. "will you be so kind as to accept them?" he said. "i heard you admire them in the conservatory last night and i brought them for you from the rectory green-house." "for me?" exclaimed stella, open-eyed. "oh, i didn't know! i am so sorry you should have troubled. it was very kind. you must have robbed the poor plants terribly." "they would be quite consoled if they could know for whom their blossoms were intended," he said, with a low bow. stella looked at him with a smile, and glanced half archly at her uncle. "that was very nice," she said. "poor flowers! it is a pity they can't know! can't you tell them? there is a language of flowers, you know!" mr. adelstone smiled. he was not accustomed to have his compliments met with such ready wit, and was nonplussed for a moment, while his eyes dropped from her face with a little shifty look. mr. etheridge broke the rather embarrassing pause. "put them in the vase for her, mr. adelstone, will you, please, and come and have some breakfast. you can't have had any." he waited until stella echoed the invitation, then drew up to the table. stella rang for cup and saucer and plates, and poured him out some coffee; and he plunged into small talk with the greatest ease, his keen eyes watching every graceful turn of stella's arm, and glancing now and again at the beautiful face. it was very good small talk, and amusing. mr. adelstone was one of those men who had seen everything. he talked of the london season that was just coming on, to stella, who sat and listened, half amused, half puzzled, for london was an unknown land to her, and the string of names, noble and fashionable, which fell from his ready tongue, was entirely strange to her. then he talked of the coming academy to mr. etheridge, and seemed to know all about the pictures that were going to be exhibited, and which ones would make a stir, and which would fail. then he addressed himself to stella again. "you must pay london a visit, miss etheridge; there is no place like it the whole world through--not even paris or rome." stella smiled. "it is not very likely that i shall see london for a long time. my uncle does not often go, although it is so near, do you?" "no, no," he assented, "not often." "perhaps you are to be congratulated," said mr. adelstone. "with all its charms, i am glad to get away from it." "you live there?" said stella. "yes," he said, quietly, welcoming the faint look of interest in her eyes. "yes; i live in chambers, as it is called, in one of the old law inns. i am a lawyer!" stella nodded. "i know. you wear a long black gown and a wig." he smiled. "and address a jury; and do you say 'm'lud' instead of 'my lord,' as people in novels always make barristers say?" "i don't know; perhaps i do," he answered, with a smile; "but i don't address a jury, or have an opportunity of calling a judge 'my lud,' or 'my lord,' often. most of my work is done at my chambers. i am very glad to get down into the country for a holiday." "are you going to stay long?" asked mr. etheridge, with polite interest. mr. adelstone paused a moment, and glanced at stella before answering. "i don't know," he said. "i meant going back to-day, but--i think i have changed my mind." stella was only half listening, but the words caused her to start. they were the same as those which lord leycester had uttered three nights ago. mr. adelstone's keen eyes saw the start, and he made a mental note of it. "ah! it is beautiful weather," said mr. etheridge. "it would be a pity to leave wyndward for london now." "yes: i shall be more than ever sorry to go now," said mr. adelstone, and his glance rested for a moment on stella's face, but it was quite lost, for stella's eyes were fixed on the scene beyond the window dreamily. with almost a start she turned to him. "let me give you some more coffee!" "no, thanks," he said; then, as stella rose and rang the bell, he walked to the easel. "that will be a beautiful picture, mr. etheridge," he said, viewing it with a critical air. "i don't know," said the artist, simply. "you will exhibit it?" "i never exhibit anything," was the quiet reply. "no! i am surprised!" exclaimed the young man, but there was something in the quiet manner of the old man that stopped any further questions. "no," said mr. etheridge; "why should i? i have"--and he smiled--"no ambition. besides i am an old man, i have had my chance; let the young ones take theirs, i leave them room. you are fond of art?" "very," said mr. adelstone. "may i look round?" the old man waved his hand, and took up his brush. jasper adelstone wandered round the room, taking up the canvases and examining them; stella stood at the window humming softly. suddenly she heard him utter an involuntary exclamation, and turning round saw that he had the portrait of lord leycester in his hand. his face was turned toward her, and as she turned quickly, he was in time to catch a sinister frown of dislike, which rested for a moment on his face, but vanished as he raised his eyes and met hers. "lord leycester," he said, with a smile and an uprising of the eyebrows. "a remarkable instance of an artist's power." "what do you mean?" asked stella, quietly, but with lowered eyes. "i mean that it is a fair example of ideality. mr. etheridge has painted a likeness of lord leycester, and added an ideal poetry of his own." "you mean that it is not like him?" she said. mr. etheridge painted on, deaf to both of them. "no," he said, looking at the picture with a cold smile. "it is like him, but it--honors him. it endows him with a poetry which he does not possess." "you know him?" said stella. "who does not?" he answered, and his thin lips curled with a smiling sneer. a faint color came into stella's face, and she raised her eyes for a moment. "what do you mean?" "i mean that lord leycester has made himself too famous--i was going to say infamous--" a vivid crimson rushed to her face, and left it pale again the next instant. "do not," she said, then added quickly, "i mean do not forget that he is not here to defend himself." he looked at her with a sinister scrutiny. "i beg your pardon. i did not know he was a friend of yours," he said. she raised her eyes and looked at him steadily. "lord leycester is no friend of mine," she said, quietly. "i am glad of it," he responded. stella's eyes darkened and deepened in a way peculiar to her, and her color came. it was true that lord leycester was no friend of hers, she had but seen and spoken with him by chance, and for a few moments; but who was this mr. adelstone that he should presume to be glad or sorry on her account? he was quick to see that he had made a slip, and quick to recover himself. "pray forgive me if i have presumed too far upon our slight acquaintance, but i was only thinking at that moment that you had been so short a time in england as to be ignorant of people who are well known to us with whom they have lived, and that you would not know lord leycester's real character." stella inclined her head gravely. something within her stirred her to take up arms in the absent man's defense; the one word "infamous," stuck and rankled in her mind. "you said that lord leycester was 'infamous,'" she said, with a grave smile. "surely that is too strong a word." he thought a moment, his eyes resting on her face keenly. "perhaps, but i am not sure. i certainly used it as a play upon the word 'famous,' but i don't think even then that i did him an injustice. a man whose name is known all over the country--whose name is familiar as a household word--must be notorious either for good or evil, for wisdom or folly. lord leycester is not famous for virtue or wisdom. i cannot say any more." stella turned aside, a faint crimson dyeing her face, a strange thrill of pity, ay, and of impatience, at her heart. why should he be so wicked, so mad and reckless--so notorious that even this self-satisfied young gentleman could safely moralize about him and warn her against making his acquaintance! "oh, the pity of it--the pity of it!" as shakespeare has it--that one with such a beautiful, god-look face, should be so bad. there was a few moments' silence. jasper adelstone still stood with the picture in his hand, but glancing at stella's face with covert watchfulness. for all his outward calmness, his heart was beating quickly. stella's was the sort of beauty to make a man's heart beat quickly, or not at all; those who came to offer at her shrine would offer no half-measured oblations. as he watched her his heart beat wildly, and his small, bright eyes glittered. he had thought her beautiful at the party last night, where she had outshone all the other girls of the village as a star outshines a rushlight; but this morning her loveliness revealed itself in all its fresh purity, and he--jasper adelstone, the critical man of the world, the man whose opinion about women was looked upon by his companions in lincoln's-inn and the bachelors' haunts at the west-end as worth having--felt his heart slipping from him. he put the picture down and approached her. "you have no idea how beautiful and fresh the meadows are. will you stroll down to the river with me?" he said, resolving to take her by surprise and capture her. but he did not know stella. she was only a school-girl--innocent and ignorant of the ways of men and the world; but, perhaps, because of that--because she had not learnt the usual hackneyed words of evasion--the ordinary elementary tactics of flirtation, she was not to be taken by surprise. with a smile she turned her eyes upon him and shook her head. "thank you; no, that is impossible. i have all my household duties to perform, and that"--pointing to the sun with her white slim hand--"reminds me that it is time i set about them." he took up his hat instantly, turning to hide the frown that knitted his brow and spoiled his face, and went up to the painter to say "good-morning." mr. etheridge started and stared at him; he had quite forgotten his presence. "good-morning, good-morning--going? i beg your pardon. won't you stop and take some tea with us?" "mr. adelstone would like some dinner first, uncle," said stella. then she gave him her hand. "good-morning," she said, "and thank you very much for the flowers." he held her hand as long as he dared, then passed out. stella, perhaps unconsciously, gave a sigh of relief. "very nice young fellow, my dear," said mr. etheridge, without taking his eyes from the canvas. "very clever, too. i remember him quite a little boy, and always said he would make his way. they say that he has done so. i am not surprised. jasper----" "jasper!" said stella. "what a horrible name." "eh? horrible? i don't know--i don't know." "but i do," said stella, laughing. "well, what were you going to say?" "that jasper adelstone is the sort of man to insist upon having anything he sets his heart upon." "i am glad to hear it," said stella, as she opened the door, "for his sake; and i hope, also for his sake, that he won't set his mind upon the sun or the moon!" and with a laugh she ran away. in the kitchen mrs. penford was awaiting her with unconcealed impatience. upon the white scrubbed table stood the preparations for the making of pastry, an art which stella, who had insisted upon making herself useful, had coaxed mrs. penfold into teaching her. at first that good woman had insisted that stella should do nothing in the little household. she had announced with terrible gravity that such things weren't becoming to a young lady like miss stella, and that she had always done for mr. etheridge, and she always would; but before the second day had passed stella had won the battle. as mrs. penfold said, there was no resisting the girl, who mingled willfulness with bewitching firmness and persuasion, and mrs. penfold had given in. "you'll cover yourself with flour, miss stella, and give your uncle the indigestion, miss, that you will," she remonstrated. "but the flour will brush off, and uncle needn't eat pies and puddings for a little while; i'll eat them, i don't mind indigestion," stella declared, and she made a delightfully piquant little apron, which completed mrs. penfold's conquest. with a song upon her lips she burst into the kitchen and caught up the rolling pin. "am i not awfully late?" she exclaimed. "i was afraid you would have done it all before i came, but you wouldn't be so mean as to take an advantage, would you?" mrs. penfold grunted. "it's all nonsense, miss stella, there's no occasion for it." stella, with her hand in the flour, elevated the rolling-pin in heroic style. "mrs. penfold!" she exclaimed, with the air of a princess, "the woman, be her station what it may, who cannot make a jam roley-poley or an apple tart is unworthy the name of an englishwoman. give me the jam; stop though, don't you think rhubarb would be very nice for a change?" "i wish you'd go and play the organ, miss stella, and leave the rhubarb alone." "man cannot live on music," retorted stella; "his soul craves for puddings. i wonder whether uncle's soul craves for jam or rhubarb. i think i'll go and ask him," and dropping the rolling-pin--which mrs. penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on the floor--she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and ran into the studio. "uncle! i have come to lay before you the rival claims of rhubarb and strawberry jam. the one is sweet and luscious to the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young, but somewhat sour----" "good heavens! what are you talking about?" exclaimed the bewildered painter, staring at her. "rhubarb or jam. now, noble roman, speak or die!" she exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart with rippling laughter. mr. etheridge stared at her with all an artist's admiration in his eyes. "oh! the pudding," he said, then he suddenly stopped, and stared beyond her. chapter vi. stella heard a step on the threshold of the window, and turning to follow the direction of his eyes, saw the stalwart form of lord leycester standing in the window. he was dressed in a suit of brown velveteen, with tight-fitting breeches and stockings, and carried a whip in his hand with which he barred the entrance against a couple of colleys, a huge mastiff, and a skye terrier, the last barking with furious indignation at being kept outside. even at the moment of surprise, stella was conscious of a sudden reluctant thrill of admiration for the graceful figure in the close-fitting velvet, and the handsome face with its dark eyes regarding her with a grave, respectful intenseness. "back dogs!" he said. "go back, vix!" then as they drew back, the big ones throwing themselves down on the path with patient obedience, he came into the room. "i beg your pardon," he said, standing before stella, his head bent. "i thought mr. etheridge was alone, or i should not have entered in this rough fashion." as he spoke in the lane, so now it was no meaningless excuse, but with a tone of most reverential respect and proud humility, stella, girl-like, noticed that he did not even venture to hold out his hand, and certainly mr. adelstone's self-satisfied smile and assured manner rose in her mind to contrast with this stately, high-bred humility. "do not apologize; it does not matter," she said, conscious that her face had grown crimson and that her eyes were downcast. "does it not? i am forgiven," and he held out his hand. stella had crossed her hands behind her as he entered with an instinctive desire to hide her bare arms and the flour, now she put out her hand a few inches and held it up with a smile. "i can't," she said. he looked at the white hand--at the white arm so beautifully molded that a sculptor would have sighed over it in despair at his inability to imitate it, and he still held out his hand. "i do not mind the flour," he said, not as mr. adelstone would have said it, but simply, naturally. stella gave him one small taper finger and he took it and held it for a moment, his eyes smiling into hers; then he relinquished it, with not a word of commonplace compliment, but in silence, and turned to mr. etheridge. "it is quite hopeless to ask you to forgive me for interrupting you i know, so i won't ask," he said, and there was in his voice, stella noticed, a frank candor that was almost boyish but full of respect. at once it seemed to intimate that he had known and honored the old man since he, leycester, was a boy. "how are you, my lord?" said mr. etheridge, giving him his long, thin hand, but still keeping a hold, as it were, on his beloved easel. "taking the dogs for a walk? are they safe? take care, stella!" for stella was kneeling down in the midst of them, making friends with the huge mastiff, much to the jealous disgust of the others, who were literally crowding and pushing round her. lord leycester looked round and was silent for a moment; his eyes fixed on the kneeling girl rather than on the dogs. then he said, suddenly: "they are quite safe," and then he added, for stella's behalf, "they are quite safe, miss etheridge." stella turned her face toward him. "i am not afraid. i should as soon think of biting them as they would dream of biting me, wouldn't you?" and she drew the mastiffs great head on to her lap, where it lay with his big eyes looking up at her piteously, as he licked her hand. "great heavens, what a herd of them!" said mr. etheridge, who loved dogs--on canvas. "i ought not to have brought them," said lord leycester, "but they will be quite quiet, and will do no harm, i assure you." "i don't care if they don't bite my niece," said mr. etheridge. "there is no fear of that," he said, quietly, "or i should not allow her to go near them. please go on with your work, or i shall think i am a nuisance." mr. etheridge waved him to a chair. "won't you sit down?" he said. lord leycester shook his head. "i have come to ask you a favor," he said. mr. etheridge nodded. "what is it?" lord leycester laughed his rare laugh. "i am trembling in my shoes," he said. "my tongue cleaves to my mouth with nervousness----" the old painter glanced round at him, and his face relaxed into a smile as his eyes rested on the bold, handsome face and easy grace of the speaker. "yes, you look excessively frightened," he said. "what is it?" it was noticeable that, excepting in his first greeting, the old man had not given him the benefit of his title; he had known him when leycester had been a boy, running in and out of the cottage, always followed by a pack of dogs, and generally doing some mischief. "i want you to do a little scene for me." the old man groaned and looked at his picture firmly. "you know the glade in the woods opening out opposite the small island. i want you to paint it." "i am sorry," began the old man. lord leycester went on, interrupting him gently: "have you seen it lately?" he said, and as he spoke stella came into the room enticing the mastiff after her, with a handful of biscuits she had taken from the cheffonier. "it is very beautiful. it is the loveliest bit on the whole river. right up from the stream it stretches green, with the young spring leaves, to the sky above the hill. in the open space between the trees the primroses have made a golden carpet. i saw two kingfishers sailing up it as i stood and looked this morning, and as i looked i thought how well, how delightfully you would put it on canvas. think! the bright green, the golden foreground, the early summer sky to crown the whole, and reflected in the river running below." mr. etheridge paused in his work and listened, and stella, kneeling over the dog, listened too, with down-bent face, and wondered how the painter could stand so firm and obstinate. to her the voice sounded like the sweetest music set to some poem. she saw the picture as he drew it, and in her heart the music of the words and voice found an echoing harmony. forgotten was the other man's warning; vain it would have been if he had repeated it at that moment. as well associate the darkness of a winter's night with the bright gladness of a summer's morning, as think of evil in connection with that noble face and musical voice. mr. etheridge paused, but he shook his head. "very fine, very temptingly put; you are a master of words, leycester; but i am immovable as a rock. indeed your eloquence is wasted; it is not an impressionable man whom you address. i, james etheridge, am on this picture. i am lost in my work, lord leycester." "you will not do it?" the old man smiled. "i will not. to another man i should present an excuse, and mask my refusal. with you anything but a simple 'no' is of no avail." lord leycester smiled and turned away. "i am sorry," he said. "i meant it for a present to my sister lilian." again stella's eyes turned toward him. this man--infamous! the old man put down his brush and turned upon him. "why didn't you say so at first?" he said. lord leycester smiled. "i wanted to see if you would do something for me--for myself," he said, with infinite _naivete_. "you want it for lady lilian," said mr. etheridge. "i will do it, of course." "i shan't say thank you," said lord leycester. "i have nothing to thank you for. she shall do that. when will you come----" "next week--next month----" "now at once," said lord leycester, stretching out his hand with a peculiar gesture which struck stella by its infinite grace. the old man groaned. "i thought so! i thought so! it would always be now at once with you." "the spring won't wait for you! the green of those leaves is changing now, very slowly, but surely, as we speak; in a week it will be gone, and with it half--all the beauty will go too. you will come now, will you not?" mr. etheridge looked round with comical dismay, then he laughed. lord leycester's laugh chimed in, and he turned to stella with the air of a man who has conquered and needs no more words. "you see," said mr. etheridge, "that is the way i am led, like a pig to market, will i or will i not! and the sketch will take me, how long?" "a few hours!" "and there will be all the things to drag down----" lord leicester strode to an old-fashioned cabinet. "i will carry them, and yourself into the bargain if you like." then, with his hand upon the cabinet, he stopped short and turned to stella. "i beg your pardon!--i am always sinning. i forgot that there was now a presiding spirit. i am so used to taking liberties with your uncle's belongings; i know where all his paraphernalia is so well, that----" stella rose and smiled at them. "your knowledge is deeper than my uncle's, then," she said. "do not beg pardon of me." "may i?" he said, and he opened the cabinet and took out the sketching-pad and color-box; then, with some difficulty, he disentangled a folding camp-stool from a mass of artistic litter in a corner, and then prepared to depart. mr. etheridge watched these proceedings with a rueful countenance, but seeing that resistance had long passed out of his power, he said: "where is my hat, stella? i must go, i suppose." lord leycester opened the door for her, and she went out, followed by all the dogs, and fetched the soft felt hat, holding it by the very tips of her fingers. with a sigh, mr. etheridge dropped it on his head. "give me some of the things," he said; but lord leycester declined. "not one," he said, laughing. and mr. etheridge, without another word, walked out. lord leycester stood looking at stella, a wistful eagerness in his eyes. "i have gone so far," he said, "that i am emboldened to venture still further. will you come too?" stella started, and an eager light flashed for a moment in her eyes; then she held out her hands and laughed. "i have to make a pudding," she said. he looked at the white arms, and then at her, with an intensified eagerness. "if you knew how beautiful the morning is--how grand the river looks--you would let the pudding go." stella shook her head. he inclined his head, too highly bred to persist. "i am so sorry," he said, simply. "i am sorry now that i have gained my way. i thought that you would have come." stella stood silent, and, with something like a sigh, put down the things and held out her hand; but as he took the finger which she gave him, his face brightened, and a light came into his eyes. "are you still firm?" "i would not desert the pudding for anything, my lord," said stella, naively. at the "my lord," a slight shade covered his face, but it went again instantly, as he said: "well, then, will you come when the inevitable pudding is made? there," he said, eagerly, and still holding her hand he drew her to the window and pointed with his whip, "there's the place! it is not far--just across the meadows, and through the first gate. do you see it?" "yes," said stella, gently withdrawing her hand. "and you will come?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers with their intent earnestness. at that instant the word--the odious word--"infamous" rang in her ears, and her face paled. he noticed the sudden pallor, and his eyes grew dark with earnest questioning. "i see," he said, quietly, "you will not come!" what was it that moved her? with a sudden impulse she raised her eyes and looked at him steadily. "yes, i will come!" she said. he inclined his head without a word, called to the dogs, and passed out. stella stood for a moment looking after them; then she went into the kitchen--not laughing nor singing, but with a strange gravity; a strange feeling had got possession of her. she felt as if she was laboring under some spell. "charmed" is an often misused word, but it is the right word to describe the sensation. was it his face or his voice that haunted her? as she stood absently looking down at the table, simple words, short and commonplace, which he had used rang in her ears with a new meaning. mrs. penfold stood and regarded her in curious astonishment. she was getting used to stella's quickly changing moods, but the sudden change bewildered her. "let me do it, miss stella," she pleaded, but stella shook her head firmly; not by one inch would she swerve from her cause for all the beautiful voice and noble face. in rapt silence she finished her work, then she went up-stairs and put on her hat and came down. as she passed out of the house and down the path, the mastiff leaped the gate and bounded toward her, and the next moment she saw lord leycester seated on a stile. he dropped down and came toward her. "how quick you have been," he said, "i thought a pudding was a mystery which demanded an immensity of time." stella looked up at him, her dark brows drawn to a straight line. "you waited for me?" she said. "no," he said, simply, "i came back. i did not like to think that you should come alone." stella was silent. "are you angry?" he asked, in a low voice. stella was silent for a moment, then she looked at him frankly. "no," she said. if she had but said "yes," and turned back! but the path, all beautiful with the bright coloring of spring stretched before her, and she had no thought of turning back, no thought or suspicion of the dark and perilous land toward which she was traveling by his side. already the glamour of love was falling upon her like the soft mist of a summer evening; blindly, passively she was moving toward the fate which the gods had prepared for her. chapter vii. side by side they walked across the meadows; the larks rising before them and soaring up to the heavens with a burst of song; the river running in silvery silence to the sea; the green trees waving gently in the summer breeze; and above them the long stretching gray masonry of wyndward hall. lord leycester was strangely silent for some minutes since that "are you angry?" and stella, as she walked by his side, stooping now and again to gather a cowslip, glanced up at his face and wondered whether her uncle could be mistaken, whether they were not all deceived in thinking the quiet, graceful creature with the beautiful face and dreamy, almost womanly, soft eyes, wild and reckless, and desperate and altogether bad. she almost forgot how she had seen him on that first night of their meeting, with his whip upraised and the sudden fire of anger in his eyes. presently he spoke, so suddenly that stella, who had been lost in her speculations respecting him, started guiltily: "i have been wondering," he said, "how mr. etheridge takes the change which your presence must make in the cottage." stella looked up with surprise, then she smiled. "he bears it with admirable resignation," she said, with that air of meek archness which her uncle found so amusing. lord leycester looked down at her. "that is a rebuke for the presumption of my remark?" he said. "no," said stella. "i did not mean to be presumptuous. think. your uncle has lived the whole of his life alone, the life of a solitary, a hermit; suddenly there enters into that life a young and beau--a young girl, full of the spirit of youth and its aspirations. it must make a great change." "as i said," says stella, "he bears it with pious fortitude." then she added, in a lower voice, "he is very good to me." "he could not be otherwise," was the quiet response. "i mean that he could not be anything but good, gentle, and loving with any living thing. i have known him since i was a boy," he added. "he was always the same, always living a life of dreams. i wonder whether he takes you as a dream?" "a very substantial and responsible one, then," said stella, with her little laugh. "one that lasts through the daytime." he looked at her with that strange intent look which she had learned that she could not meet. "and you?" he said. "i?" said stella, though she knew what he meant. he nodded. "how do you like the change?--this still, quiet life in the thames valley. are you tired of it already? will you pine for all the gayeties you have left?" stella looked up at him--his eyes were still fixed on hers. "i have left no gayeties," she said. "i left a bare and horrid school that was as unlike home as the desert of sahara is like this lovely meadow. how do i feel? as if i had been translated to paradise--as if i, who was beginning to think that i was alone in the world i had no business to be in, had found some one friend to love----" she paused, and he, glancing at the black waistband to her white dress, said, with the tenderest, most humble voice: "i beg your pardon. will you forgive me?--i did not know----" and his voice broke. stella looked up at him with a smile shining through the unshed tears. "how--why should you know? yes, i was quite alone in the world. my father died a year ago." "forgive me," he murmured; and he laid his hand with a feather's weight on her arm. "i implore you to forgive me. it was cruel and thoughtless." "no," said stella. "how should you know?" "if i had been anything better than an unthinking brute, i might have guessed." there was a moment's pause, then stella spoke. "yes, it is paradise. i had no idea england was like this, they called it the land of fogs." "you have not seen london on a november evening," he said, with a laugh. "most foreigners come over to england and put up at some hotel at the west-end, and judge the whole land by the london sample--very few come even so far as this. you have not been to london?" "i passed through it," said stella, "that is all. but i heard a great deal about it last night," she added, with a smile. "yes!" he said, with great interest--"last night?" "yes, at mrs. hamilton's. she was kind enough to ask me to an evening party, and one of the guests took great pains to impress me with the importance and magnificence of london." he looked at her. "may i ask who she was?" he said. "it was not a she, but a gentleman. it was mr. adelstone." lord leycester thought a moment. "adelstone. adelstone. i don't know him." before she was quite aware of it the retort slipped from her lips. "he knows you." he looked at her with a thoughtful smile. "does he? i don't remember him. stay, yes, isn't he a relation of mr. fielding's?" "his nephew," said stella, and feeling the dark, penetrating eyes on her she blushed faintly. it annoyed her, and she struggled to suppress it, but the blush came and he saw it. "i remember him now," he said; "a tall, thin dark man. a lawyer, i believe. yes, i remember him. and he told you about london?" "yes," said stella, and as she remembered the conversation of a few hours ago, her color deepened. "he is very amusing and well-informed, and he took pity on my ignorance in the kindest way. i was very grateful." there was something in her tone that made him look at her questioningly. "i think," he said, "your gratitude is easily earned." "oh, no," she retorted; "i am the most ungrateful of beings. isn't that uncle sitting there?" she added, quickly, to change the subject. he looked up. "yes, he is hard at work. i did not think i should have won him. it was my sister's name that worked the magic charm." "he is fond of your sister," said stella, thoughtfully. his eyes were on her in an instant. "he has spoken of her?" he said. stella could have bitten her tongue out for the slip. "yes," she said. "he--he told me about her--i asked him whose house it was upon the hills." "meaning the hall?" he said, pointing with his whip. "yes, and he told me. i knew by the way he spoke of your sister that he was fond of her. her name is lilian, is it not?" "yes," he said, "lilian," and the name left his lips with soft tenderness. "i think every one who knows her loves her. this picture is for her." stella glanced up at his face; anything less imperious at that moment it would be impossible to imagine. "lady lilian is fond of pictures?" she said. "yes," he said; "she is devoted to art in all its forms. yes, that little sketch will give her more pleasure than--than--i scarcely know what to say. what are women most fond of?" stella laughed. "diamonds, are they not?" "are you fond of them?" he said. "i think not." "why not?" she retorted. "why should i not have the attributes of my sex? yes, i am fond of diamonds. i am fond of everything that is beautiful and costly and rare. i remember once going to a ball at florence." he looked at her. "only to see it!" she exclaimed. "i was too young to be seen, and they took me in a gallery overlooking the great salon; and i watched the great ladies in their beautiful dresses and shining gems, and i thought that i would give all the world to be like one of them; and the thought spoiled my enjoyment. i remember coming away crying; you see it was so dark and solitary in the great gallery, and i felt so mean and insignificant." and she laughed. he was listening with earnest interest. every word she said had a charm for him; he had never met any girl--any woman--like her, so frank and open-minded. listening to her was like looking into a crystal lake, in which everything is revealed and all is bright and pure. "and are you wiser now?" he asked. "not one whit!" she replied. "i should like now, less than then, to be shut up in a dark gallery and look on at others enjoying themselves. isn't that a confession of an envious and altogether wicked disposition?" "yes," he assented, with a strange smile barely escaping from under his tawny mustache. "i should be right in prophesying all sorts of bad endings to you." as he spoke he opened the gate for her, driving the dogs back with a crack of his whip so that she might pass first--a small thing, but characteristic of him. the painter looked up. "keep those dogs off my back, leycester," he said. "well, stella, have you concocted your poison?" stella went and looked over his shoulder. "yes, uncle," she said. "you have been long enough to make twenty indigestible compounds," he said, gazing at the view he was sketching. stella bent her head, to hide the blush which rose as she remembered how slowly they had walked across the meadows. "how are you getting on?" said lord leycester. the old man grunted. "pretty well; better than i shall now you have come to fidget about." lord leycester laughed. "a pretty plain hint that our room is desired more than our company, miss etheridge. can we not vanish into space?" stella laughed and sank down on the grass. "it is uncle's way of begging us to stay," she said. lord leycester laughed, and sending the dogs off, flung himself down almost at her feet. "did i exaggerate?" he said, pointing his whip at the view. "not an atom," replied stella. "it is beautiful--beautiful, and that is all that one can find to say." "i wish you would be content to say it and not insist upon my painting it," replied mr. etheridge. lord leycester sprang to his feet. "that is the last straw. we will not remain to be abused, miss etheridge," he said. stella remained immovable. he came and stood over her, looking down at her with wistful eagerness in silence. "what lovely woods," she said. "you were right; they are carpeted with primroses. we have none in our meadow." "would you like to go and get some?" he asked. stella turned her face up to him. "yes, but i don't care to swim across." he smiled, and went down to the bank, unfastened a boat, and leaping into it, called to her. stella sprang to her feet with the impulsive delight of a girl at the sight of a boat, when she had expected nothing better than rushes. "is it a boat--really?" she exclaimed. "come and see," he said. she went down to the water's edge and looked at it. "how did it come there?" she asked. "i pay a fairy to drop a boat from the skies whenever i want it." "i see," said stella, gravely. he laughed. "how did you think i came across? did you think i swam?" and he arranged a cushion. she laughed. "i forgot that; how stupid of me." "will you step in?" he said. stella looked back at her uncle, and hesitated a moment. "he will assure you that i shall not drown you," he said. "i am not afraid--do you think i am afraid?" she said, scornfully. "yes, i think that at this moment you are trembling with nervousness and dread." she put her foot--he could not help seeing how small and shapely it was--on the gunwale, and he held out his hand and took hers; it was well he did so, for the boat was only a small, lightly built gig, and her sudden movement had made it rock. as it was, she staggered slightly, and he had to take her by the arm. so, with one hand grasping her hand and the other her arm, he held her for a moment--for longer than a moment. then he placed her on the cushion, and seating himself, took up the sculls and pushed off. stella leant back, and of course dropped one hand in the water. not one woman out of twenty who ever sat in a boat can resist that impulse to have closer communion with the water; and he pulled slowly across the stream. the sun shone full upon them, making their way a path of rippling gold, and turning stella's hair into a rich brown. little wonder that, as he sat opposite her, his eyes should rest on her face, and less that, thus resting, its exquisite beauty and freshness and purity should sink into the soul of him to whom beauty was the one thing worth living for. unconscious of his rapt gaze, stella leant back, her eyes fixed on the water, her whole attention absorbed by its musical ripple as it ran through her fingers. in silence he pulled the sculls, slowly and noiselessly; he would not have spoken and broken the spell for worlds. before him, as he looked upon her, rose the picture of which he had spoken to his sister last night. "but more beautiful," he mused--"more beautiful! how lost she is! she has forgotten me--forgotten everything. oh, heaven! if one were to waken her into love!" for an instant, at the thought, the color came into his face and the fire to his eyes; then a half guilty, half repentful feeling struck through him. "no, it would be cruel--cruel: and yet to see the azure light shining in those eyes--to see those lips half parted with the breath of a great passion, would be worth--what? it would make amends for all that a man might suffer, though he died the next moment, if those eyes smiled, if those lips were upturned, for love of him!" so lost were they that the touching of the boat and the bank made them start. "so soon," murmured stella. "how beautiful it is! i think i was dreaming." "and i know that i was," he said, with a subtle significance, as he rose and held out his hand. but stella sprang lightly on shore without accepting it. he tied up the boat and followed her; she was already on her knee, picking the yellow primroses. without a word, he followed her example. sometimes they were so near together that she could feel his breath stirring her hair--so near that their hands almost met. at last she sank on to the mossy ground with a laugh, and, pointing to her hat, which was full of the spring earth-stars, said laughingly: "what ruthless pillage! do not pick any more; it is wanton waste!" "are you sure you have plenty?" he said. "why hesitate when there are such millions?" "no, no more!" she said. "i feel guilty already!" he glanced at the handful he had gathered, and she saw the glance and laughed. "you do not know what to do with those you have, and still want more. see, you must tie them in bundles. "show me," he said, and he threw himself down beside her. she gathered them up into bundles, and tied them with a long stem of fern, and he tried to do the same, but his hands, white and slender as they were, were not so deft as hers, and he held the huge bundle to her. "you must tie it," he said. she laughed and put the fern round, but it broke, and the primroses fell in a golden shower over their hands. they both made a grasp at them, and their hands met. for a moment stella laughed, then the laugh died away, for he still held her hand, and the warmth of his grasp seemed stealing upward to her heart. with something like an effort she drew her hand away, and sprang to her feet. "i--i must go," she said. "uncle will wonder where i have gone," and she looked down at the water with almost frightened eagerness. "he will know you are here, quite safe," he said. "wait, do not go this moment. up there, above our heads, we can see the river stretching away for miles. it is not a step; will you come?" she hesitated a moment, then she turned and walked beside him between the trees. a step or two, as he said, and they reached a sort of plateau, crowned by a moss-grown rock, in which some rough steps were hewn. he sprang up the steps and reached the top, then bent down and held out his hand. stella hesitated a moment. "it will repay your trouble; come," he said, and she put her hand in his and her foot on the first step, and he drew her up beside him. "look!" he said. an exclamation of delight broke from stella's lips. "you are not sorry you came?" "i did not think it would be so lovely," she said. he stood beside her, not looking at the view, but at her dark eyes dilating with dreamy rapture--at her half-parted lips, and the sweet, clear-cut profile presented to him. she turned suddenly, and to hide the look of admiration he raised his hand and pointed out the objects in the view. "and what is that little house there?" asked stella. "that is one of the lodges," he said. "one of the lodges--one of your own lodges, you mean?" she asked. he nodded lightly, "yes." "and all this between here and that lodge belongs to you?" "no, not an inch," he said, laughing. "to my father." "it is a great deal," she said. "too much for one man, you think?" he said, with a smile. "a great many other people think so too. i don't know what you would think if you knew how much we wyndwards have managed at one time or the other to lay our acquiring grasp on. this is one of our smallest estates," he said, simply. stella looked at the view dreamily. "one of the smallest? yes, i have heard that you are very rich. it must be very nice." "i don't know," he said. "you see one cannot tell until one has been poor. i don't think there is anything in it. i don't think one is any the happier. there is always something left to long for." she turned her dark eyes on him with a smile of incredulity. "what can you possibly have to long for?" she said. he looked at her with a strange smile; then suddenly his face grew grave and wistful--almost sad, as it seemed to her. "you cannot guess, and i cannot tell you; but believe me that, as i stand here, there is an aching void in my heart, and i do long for something very earnestly." the voice was like music, deep and thrilling; she listened and wondered. "and you should be so happy," she said, almost unconsciously. "happy!" he echoed, and his dark eyes rested on hers with a strange expression that was half-mocking, half-sad. "do you know what the poets say?" "'count no man happy till he dies,' do you mean?" said stella. "yes," he said. "i do not think i know what happiness means. i have been pursuing it all my life; sometimes have been within reach of it but it has always evaded me--always slipped from my grasp. sometimes i have resolved to let it go--to pursue it no longer; but fate has decreed that man shall always be seeking for the unattainable--that he who once looks upon happiness with the eyes of desire, who stretches out his hands toward her, shall pursue her to the end." "and--but surely some get their desire." "some," he said, "to find that the prize is not worth the race they have run for it; to find that they have wearied of it when it is gained; to find that it is no prize at all, but a delusive blank; all dead sea fruit that turns to dust upon the lips." "not all; surely not all!" she murmured, strangely moved by his words. "no; not all," he said, with a hidden light in his eyes that she did not see. "to some there comes a moment when they know that happiness--real true happiness--lies just beyond their grasp. and the case of rich men is more to be pitied than all others. what would you say if i told you that it was mine?" she looked up at him with a gentle smile, not on her lips but in her eyes. "i should say that i was very sorry," she murmured. "i should say that you deserved----" she stopped short, smitten by sudden remembrance of all she had heard of him. he filled up the pause with a laugh: a laugh such as she had not heard upon his lips till now. "you were right to stop," he said. "if i get all the happiness i deserve--well, no man will envy me." "let us go down now," said stella, gently; "my uncle----" he leapt down, and held up his hand. chapter viii. stella put hers into it, but reluctantly, and tried to spring, but her dress caught and she slipped forward. she would have fallen but that he was on the alert to save her. quite simply and naturally he put his arms round her and lifted her down. only for a moment he held her in his embrace, her panting form close to his, her face almost resting on his shoulders, but that moment roused the blood in his fiery heart, and her face went pale. "are you hurt?" he murmured. "no, no!" she said, and she slipped out of his arms and stood a little away from him, the color coming and going in her face; it was the first time that any man's arms, save her father's, had ever encircled her. "are you quite sure?" he repeated. "quite," she said, then she laughed. "what would have happened if i had slipped?" "you would have sprained your ankle," he said. "sprained my ankle, really?" she repeated, with open eyes. "yes, and i should have had to carry you down to the boat," he said, slowly. she looked away from him. "i am glad i did not slip." "and i," he said, "am--glad also." she stooped and picked up the primroses and ran down the slope, her cheeks aflame, a feeling that was something like shame, and yet too full of a strange, indefinable joy to be sullen shame, took possession of her. with light feet, her hat swinging in her hand, she threaded her way between the trees and sprang on to the grassy road beside the river bank. he did not follow so quickly, but stood for a moment looking at her, his face pale, his eyes full of a strange, wistful restlessness. then stella heard his step, firm and masterful, behind her. a sudden impulse tempted her sorely to jump into the boat and push off--she could pull a pair of sculls--and her hand was on the edge of the boat, when she heard the sound of bells, and paused with astonishment. looking up she saw a tiny phæton drawn by a pair of cream-white ponies coming along the road; it was the bells on their harness that she had heard. they came along at a fair pace, and stella saw that the phæton was being driven by a coachman in dark-brown livery, but the next moment all her attention was absorbed by the young girl who sat beside him. she was so fair, so lovely, so ethereal looking, that stella was spellbound. a book was in her hand--ungloved and small and white as a child's--but she was not reading. she held it so loosely that as the phæton came along the top of the bank which hid stella, the book dropped from the lax grasp of the white fingers. the girl uttered an exclamation, and stella, obeying one of her sudden impulses, sprang lightly up the bank, and picking up the book, held it toward her. her appearance was so sudden that lady lilian was startled and for a moment the pale face was dyed with a faint color; even after the moment had passed she sat speechless, and the surprise in her eyes gave place to a frank, generous admiration. "oh, thank you--thank you!" she said. "how kind of you. it was so stupid of me to drop it. but where did you come from--the clouds?" and there was a delicious hint of flattery in the look that accompanied the words. "quite the reverse," said stella, with her open smile. "i was standing below there, by the boat." and she pointed. "oh?" said lady lilian. "i did not see you." "you were looking the other way," said stella, drawing back to allow the carriage to proceed; but lady lilian seemed reluctant to go, and made no sign to the coachman, who sat holding the reins like an image of stone, apparently deaf and dumb. for a few strokes of time's scythe the two girls looked at each other--the one with the pale face and the blue eyes regarding the fresh, healthful beauty of the other with sad, wistful gaze. then lady lilian spoke. "what beautiful primroses! you have been gathering them on the slopes?" with a suggestion of a sigh. "yes," said stella. "will you take them?" "oh, no, no; i could not think of robbing you." stella smiled with her characteristic archness. "it is i who have been the thief. i have been taking what did not belong to me. you will take these?" lady lilian was too well bred to refuse; besides, she thirsted for them. "if you will give them to me, and will not mind picking some more," she said. stella laid the bunch on the costly sables which wrapped the frail figure. lady lilian put them to her face with a caressing gesture. "you are, like me, fond of flowers?" she said. stella nodded. "yes." then there was a pause. above them, unseen by lilian, forgotten by stella, stood lord leycester. he was watching and waiting with a strange smile. he could read the meaning in his sister's eyes; she was longing to know more of the beautiful girl who had sprang like a fairy to her side. with a faint flush, lady lilian said: "you--you are a stranger, are you not? i mean you do not live here?" "yes," said stella; "i live"--and she smiled and pointed to the cottage across the meadow--"there." lady lilian started, and lord leycester seized the moment, and coming down, quietly stood by stella's side. "leycester!" exclaimed lilian, with a start of surprise. he smiled into her eyes, his strange, masterful, irresistible smile. it was as if he had said, "did i not tell you? can you withstand her?" but aloud he said: "let me make the introduction in due form. this is miss etheridge, lilian. miss etheridge, this is my sister. as the french philosopher said, 'know each other.'" lady lilian held out her hand. "i am very glad," she said. stella took the thin, white hand, and held it for a moment; then lady lilian looked from one to the other. lord leycester interpreted the glance at once. "miss etheridge has intrusted herself on the watery deep with me," he said. "we came across to gather flowers, leaving mr. etheridge to paint there." and he waved his hand across the river. lady lilian looked. "i see," she said--"i see. and he is painting. is he not clever? how proud you must be of him!" stella's eyes grew dark. it was the one word wanting to draw them together. she said not a word. "your uncle and i are old friends," lady lilian continued. "sometime when--when i am stronger, i am coming to see him--when the weather gets warmer--" stella glanced at the frail form clad in sables, with a moistened eye--"i am going to spend a long afternoon among the pictures. he is always so kind and patient, and explains them all to me. but, as i am not able to come to you, you will come and see me, will you not?" there was a moment's silence. lord leycester stood looking over the river as if waiting for stella's reply. stella looked up. "i shall be very glad," she said, and lord leycester drew a breath, almost of relief. "you will, will you not?" said lady lilian, with a sweet smile. "yes, i will come," said stella, almost solemnly. "you will find me poor company," said the daughter of the great earl, with meek humility. "i see so little of the world that i grow dull and ignorant; but i shall be so glad to see you," and she held out her hand. stella took it in her warm, soft fingers. "i will come," she said. lady lilian looked at the coachman, who, though his eyes were fixed in quite another direction, seemed to see the glance, for he touched the horses with the whip. "good-bye," she said, "good-bye." then, as the phæton moved on, she called out, in her low, musical voice, that was a low echo of her brother's: "oh, leycester, lenore has come!" leycester raised his hat. "very well," he said. "good-bye." stella stood a moment looking after her. strangely enough the last words rang in her ears with a senseless kind of insistence and emphasis. "lenore has come!" she found herself repeating them mentally. recalling herself she turned swiftly to lord leycester. "how beautiful she is!" she said, almost in a whisper. he looked at her with gratitude in his eloquent eyes. "yes." "so beautiful and so kind!" stella murmured, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "i can see her face now. i can hear her voice. i do not wonder that you love her as you do." "how do you know that i love her?" he said. "brothers, generally----" stella stopped him with a gesture. "no man with a heart warmer than a stone could help loving her." "and so you agree that my heart is warmer than a stone. thank you for that, at least," he said, with a smile that was not at all unselfish. stella looked at him. "let us go now," she said. "see, uncle is getting his things together." "not without the primroses," he said; "lilian will break her heart if you go without any. let me get some," and he went up the slope. stella stood in thought. the sudden meeting with the fairy-like creatures, had filled her with strange thoughts. she understood now that rank and money are not all that is wanted for earthly happiness. so lost in thought was she that she did not hear the sound of a horse coming along the mossy road, though the animal was coming at a great pace. lord leycester's ears were freer or quicker however, for he caught the sound and turned round. turned round in time to see a huge bay horse ridden by a tall, thin, dark young man, almost upon the slim form, standing with its back to it. with something like an oath on his lips, he dropped the flowers and with one spring stood between her and the horse, and seizing the bridle with both hands threw the beast, with sheer force, on to its haunches. the rider had been staring at the river, and was taken by surprise so complete, that, as the horse rose on its legs, he was thrown from the saddle. stella, alarmed by the noise, turned and swerved out of the path. and so they were grouped. lord leycester, pale with furious passion, still holding the reins and forcing the horse in an iron grip, and the erstwhile rider lying huddled up on the mossy road. he lay still, only for a moment, however; the next he was on his feet and advancing toward lord leycester. it was jasper adelstone. his face was deadly pale, making, by contrast, his small eyes black as coals. "what do you mean?" he exclaimed, furiously, and half-unconsciously he raised his whip. it was an unlucky gesture, for it was all that was needed to rouse the devil in lord leycester's breast. with one little irresistible gesture he seized the whip arm and the whip, and flinging the owner to the ground again with one movement, broke the whip, and flung it on the top of him with the other. it was all done in a second. with all the will in the world, stella had no time to interpose before the rash act was accomplished; but now she sprang between them. "lord leycester," she cried, pale and horror-stricken, as she gazed into his face, white and working with passion; all its beauty gone, and with the mask of a fury in its place. "lord leycester!" at the sound of her voice--pleading, expostulating, rebuking--a shiver ran through him, his hand fell to his side, and still holding the now plunging and furious horse with a grip of steel, he stood humbly before her. not so jasper adelstone. with a slow, sinuous movement he rose and shook himself, and glared at him. speechless from the sheer breathlessness of furious hate he stood and looked at the tall, velvet-clad figure. stella was the first to break the silence. "oh, my lord!" she said. at the sound of her reproachful voice, lord leycester's face paled. "forgive me," he said, humbly. "i beg--i crave your forgiveness; but i thought you were in danger, you were--you were!" then, at the thought, his fiery passion broke out again, and he turned to the silent, white-faced jasper. "what the devil do you mean by riding in that fashion?" jasper adelstone's lips moved, and at last speech came. "you shall answer for this, lord leycester." it was the worst word he could have said. in an instant all lord leycester's repentances fled. with a smothered oath on his lips, he advanced toward him. "what! is that all you have to say? do you know, you miserable wretch, that you nearly rode over this lady--yes, rode over her? answer for it! confound you----" and he raised his arm. but stella, all her wits on the _qui vive_, was in time, and her own arms were wound about his, on which the muscles stood thick and prominent--like iron bands. with a gesture he became calm again, and there was a mute prayer for pardon in his eyes as he looked at her. "do not be afraid," he murmured, between his lips; "i will not hurt him. no, no." then he pointed to the horse. "mount, sir, and get out of my sight. stop!" and the fiery passion broke out again. "no, by heaven, you shall not, until you have begged the lady's pardon." "no, no!" said stella. "but i say 'yes!'" said lord leycester, his eyes blazing. "is every tailor to ride through the chase and knock down whom he will? ask for pardon, sir, or----" jasper stood looking from one to the other. "no, no!" said stella. "it was all an accident. please, pray do not say another word. mr. adelstone, i beg you will go without another word." jasper adelstone hesitated for a moment. "miss stella," he said, hoarsely. alas! it was oil on the smoldering fire. "miss stella!" exclaimed lord leycester. "who gave you the right to address this lady by her christian name, sir?" jasper bit his lip. "miss etheridge, you cannot doubt that i am heartily sorry that this unpleasant contretemps should have been caused by my carelessness. i was riding carelessly----" "like an idiot!" broke in lord leycester. "and did not see you. no harm would have resulted, however, if this man--if lord leycester wyndward had not, with brutal force, thrown me from the saddle. i should have seen you in time, and, as i say, no harm would have been done. all that has occurred is this man--lord leycester wyndward's--fault. again i beg your pardon." and he bent his head before her. but as he did so a malignant gleam shot out of his eyes in the direction of the tall, stalwart figure and white, passionate face. "no, no, there is no occasion!" said stella, trembling. "i do not want you to beg my pardon. it was only an accident. you did not expect to see anyone here--i--i--oh, i wish i had not come." lord leycester started. "do not say that," he murmured. then aloud: "here is your horse, sir; mount him and go home, and thank your stars the lady has escaped without a broken limb." jasper stood a moment looking at him, then, with another inclination of the head, he slowly mounted the horse. lord leycester, his passion gone, stood calm and motionless for a moment, then raised his hat with an old-world gesture. "good-day to you, and remember to ride more carefully in future." jasper adelstone looked down at him with a malignant smile on his thin lips. "good-day, my lord. i shall remember. i am not one to forget. no, i am not one to forget," and striking spurs into the horse, he rode off. chapter ix. "who is 'lenore,' uncle?" it was the evening of the same day--a day never to be forgotten by stella, a day marked with a white stone in her mental calendar. never would she be able to look upon a field of primroses, never hear the music of the river running over the weir, without remembering this morning the first she had spent with lord leycester. it was evening now, and the two--the painter and the girl--were sitting by the open window, looking out into the gloaming, he lost in memory, she going over and over again the incidents of the morning, from the visit of mr. jasper adelstone to his encounter with lord leycester. it was strange, it was almost phenomenal--for stella was frankness and candor itself--that she had said nothing of the encounter to her uncle; once or twice she had opened her lips--once at dinner, and once again as she sat beside him, leaning her arm on his chair while he smoked his pipe--she had opened her lips to tell him of that sudden outburst of fury on the part of lord leycester--that passionate rage which proved all that the painter had said of his hot temper to be true, but she had found some difficulty in the recital which had kept her silent. she had told him of her walk in the woods, had told him of her meeting with lady lilian, but of that passionate encounter between the two men she said nothing. when jasper had ridden on, pale and livid with suppressed passion, lord leycester had stood looking at her in silence. now, as she sat looking into the gloaming, she saw him in her mind's eye still, his beautiful eyes eloquent with remorse and humility, his clear-cut lip quivering with the sense of his weakness. "will you forgive me?" he said, at last, and that was all. without another word, he had offered to help her into the boat, help which stella had disregarded, and had rowed her across to her uncle. without a word, but with the same penitent, imploring look in his eyes, he raised his hat and left her--had gone home to the hall, to his sister lady lilian, and to lenore. ever since she had heard the name drop softly from lady lilian's lips it had rung in her ears. there was a subtle kind of charm about it that half fascinated, half annoyed her. and now, leaning her head on her arm, and with her dark eyes fixed on the stars which glittered merrily in the sky, she put the question: "who is lenore, uncle?" he stirred in his chair and looked at her absently. "lenore, lenore? i don't know, stella, and yet the name sounds familiar. where did you hear it? it's scarcely fair to spring a question like that on me; you might ask me who is julia, louisa, anna maria----" stella laughed softly. "i heard it this morning, uncle. lady lilian told her brother as she left us that 'lenore had come.'" "ah, yes," he said. "now i know. so she has come, has she? who is lenore?" and he smiled. "there is scarcely another woman in england who would need to ask that question, stella." "no?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with surprise. "why? is she so famous?" "exactly, yes; that is just the word. she is famous." "for what, uncle? is she a great actress, painter, musician--what?" "she is something that the world, nowadays, reckons far above any of the classes you have named, stella--she is a great beauty." "oh, is that all!" said stella, curtly. "all!" he echoed, amused. "yes," and she nodded. "it seems so easy." "so easy!" and he laughed. "yes," she continued; "so very easy, if you happen to be born so. there is no merit in it. and is that all she is?" he was staggered by her _sang froid_ for a moment. "well, i was scarcely fair, perhaps. as you say, it is very easy to be a great beauty--if you are one--but it is rather difficult if you are not; but lenore is something more than that--she is an enchantress." "that's better," remarked stella. "i like that. and how does she enchant? does she keep tame snakes, and play music to them, or mesmerize people, or what?" the painter laughed again with great enjoyment at her _naivete_. "you are quite a cynic, stella. where did you learn the trick; from your father, or is it a natural gift? no, she does not keep tame snakes, and i don't know that she has acquired the art of mesmerism; but she can charm for all that. first, she is, really and truly, very beautiful----" "tell me what she is like?" interrupted stella, softly. the old man paused a moment to light his pipe. "she is very fair," he said. "i know," said stella, dreamily, and with a little smile; "with yellow hair and blue eyes, and a pink and white complexion, and blue veins and a tiny mouth." "all wrong," he said, with, a laugh. "you have, woman-like, pictured a china doll. lenore is as unlike a china doll as it is possible to imagine. she has golden hair it is true--but golden hair, not yellow; there is a difference. then her eyes are not blue; they are violet." "violet!" "violet!" he repeated, gravely. "i have seen them as violet as the flowers that grow on the bank over there. her mouth is not small; there was never yet a woman worth a fig who had a small mouth. it is rather large than otherwise, but then it is--a mouth." "expressive?" said stella, quietly. "eloquent," he corrected. "the sort of mouth that can speak volumes with a curve of the lip. you think i exaggerate? wait until you see her." "i don't think," said stella, slowly, "that i am particularly desirous of seeing her, uncle. it reminds we of what they say of naples--see naples and die! see lenore and die!" he laughed. "well, it is not altogether false; many have seen her--many men, and been ready to die for love of her." stella laughed, softly. "she must be very beautiful for you to talk like this, uncle. she is charming too?" "yes, she is charming," he said, low; "with a charm that one is bound to admit at once and unreservedly." "but what does she do?" asked stella, with a touch of feminine impatience. "what does she not?" he answered. "there is scarcely an accomplishment under the sun or moon that she has not at her command. in a word, stella, lenore is the outcome of the higher civilization; she is the type of our latest requirement, which demands more than mere beauty, and will not be satisfied with mere cleverness; she rides beautifully and fearlessly; she plays and sings better than one-half the women one hears at concerts; they tell me that no woman in london can dance with greater grace, and i have seen her land a salmon of twenty pounds with all the skill of a scotch gillie." stella was silent a moment. "you have described a paragon, uncle. how all her women friends must detest her." he laughed. "i think you are wrong. i never knew a woman more popular with her sex." "how proud her husband must be of her," murmured stella. "her husband! what husband? she is not married." stella laughed. "not married! such a perfection unmarried! is it possible that mankind can permit such a paragon to remain single. uncle, they must be afraid of her!" "well, perhaps they are--some of them," he assented, smiling. "no," he continued, musingly; "she is not married. lenore might have been married long before this: she has had many chances, and some of them great ones. she might have been a duchess by this time if she had chosen." "and why did she not?" said stella. "such a woman should be nothing less than a duchess. it is a duchess whom you have described, uncle." "i don't know," he said, simply. "i don't think anyone knows; perhaps she does not know herself." stella was silent for a moment; her imagination was hard at work. "is she rich, poor--what, uncle?" "i don't know. rich, i should think," he answered. "and what is her other name, or has she only one name, like a princess or a church dignitary?" "her name is beauchamp--lady lenore beauchamp." "lady!" repeated stella, surprised. "she has a title, then; it was all that was wanted." "yes, she is the daughter of a peer." "what a happy woman she must be;--is she a woman or a girl, though. i have imagined her a woman of thirty." he laughed. "lady lenore is--is"--he thought a moment--"just twenty-three." "that's a woman," said stella, decidedly. "and this wonderful creature is at the hall, within sight of us. tell me, uncle, do they keep her in a glass case, and only permit her to be seen as a curiosity at so much a head? they ought to do so, you know." he laughed, and his hand stroked her hair. "what is it voltaire says, stella," he remarked. "'if you want a woman to hate another, praise her to the first one.'" stella's face flushed hotly, and she laughed with just a touch of scorn. "hate! i don't hate her, uncle--i admire her; i should like to see her, to touch her--to feel for myself the wonderful charm of which you speak. i should like to see how she bears it; it must be strange, you know, to be superior to all one's kind." "if she feels strange," he said, thoughtfully, "she does not show it. i never saw more perfect grace and ease than hers. i do not think anything in the world would ruffle her. i think if she were on board a ship that was going down inch by inch, and she knew that she was within, say, five minutes of death, she would not flinch, or drop for a moment the smile which usually rests upon her lips. that is her charm, stella--the perfect ease and perfect grace which spring from a consciousness of her power." there was silence for a moment. the painter had spoken in his usual dreamy fashion, more like communion with his own thoughts than a direct address to his hearer, and stella, listening, allowed every word to sink into her mind. his description impressed her strongly, more than she cared to admit. already, so it seemed to her, she felt fascinated by this beautiful creature, who appeared as perfect and faultless as one of the heathen goddesses--say diana. "where does she live?" she asked, dreamily. he smoked in silence for a moment. "live? i scarcely know; she is everywhere. in london in the season, visiting in country houses at other times. there is not a house in england where she would not be received with a welcome accorded to princes. it is rather strange that she should be down here just now; the season has commenced, most of the visitors have left the hall, some of them to be in their places in parliament. it is rather strange that she should have come down at this time." stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession of her--why, she scarcely knew. "i should think that everyone would be glad to come to wyndward hall at any time--even lady lenore beauchamp," she said, in a low voice. he nodded. "wyndward hall is a fine place," he said, slowly, "but lady lenore is accustomed to--well, to palaces. there is not a ball-room in london where her absence will not be noticed. it is strange. perhaps"--and he smiled--"lady wyndward has some motive." "some motive?" repeated stella, turning her eyes toward him. "what motive can she have?" "there is leycester," he said, musingly. "leycester?" the word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a vivid crimson dyed her face. "lord leycester, i mean." "yes," he answered. "nothing would please his mother more than to see him marry, and he could not marry a more suitable person than lenore. yes, that must be it, of course. well, he could not do better, and as for her, though she has refused greater chances, there is a charm in being the future countess of wyndward, which is not to be despised. i wonder whether he will fall into the trap--if trap it is intended to be." stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the stars. he saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent look in her eyes. there was also a dull aching in her heart which was scarcely distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed and shamed her. what could it matter to her--to her, stella etheridge, the niece of a poor painter--whom lord leycester, future earl of wyndward, married? nothing, less than nothing. but still the dull aching throbbed in her heart, and his face floated between her and the stars, his voice rang in her ears. how fortunate, how blessed, some women were! here, for instance, was this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful, noble, and reigning like a queen in the great world, and yet the gods were not satisfied, but they must give her leycester wyndward! for of course it was impossible that he should resist her if she chose to put forth her charm. had not her uncle just said that she could fascinate?--had she not even evidently fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who had seen and who knew the world so well? for a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the dull aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly as to startle the old man. "what is the matter, stella?" he asked. "nothing, nothing," she said. "shall we have lights? the room is so dark and still, and----" her voice broke for a moment. she went to the mantel-shelf and lit a candle, and as she did so she looked up and saw her face reflected in the antique mirror and started. was that her face?--that pale, half-startled visage looking at her so sadly. with a laugh she put the dark hair from her brow, and gliding to the organ began to play; feverishly, restlessly at first, but presently the music worked its charm and soothed her savage breast. yes, she was savage, she knew it, she felt it! this woman had everything, while she---- the door opened and a stream of light broke in from the lamp carried by mrs. penfold. "are you there, miss stella? oh, yes, there you are! i thought it was mr. etheridge playing; you don't often play like that. there's a note for you." "a note! for me!" exclaimed stella, turning on her stool with amazement. mrs. penfold smiled and nodded. "yes, miss; and there's an answer, please." stella took the note hesitatingly, as if she half expected it to contain a charge of explosive dynamite; the envelope was addressed in a thin, beautiful hand to miss stella etheridge. stella turned the envelope over and started as she saw the arms stamped upon it. she knew it, it was the wyndward crest. for a moment she sat looking down at it without offering to open it, then with an effort she tore it open, slowly, and read the note enclosed. "dear miss etheridge:--will you redeem the promise you made me this afternoon and come and see me? will you ask mr. etheridge to bring you to dine with them to-morrow at eight o'clock? i say 'them' because i dine always alone; but perhaps you will not mind coming to me after dinner for a little while. do not let mr. etheridge refuse as he generally does, but tell him to bring you for my sake." "yours very truly, "lilian wyndward." stella read it and re-read it as if she could not believe her senses. lady lilian's invitation had sounded so vague that she had scarcely remembered it, and now here was a direct invitation to wyndham hall, and to dinner. "well, miss?" said mrs. penfold. stella started. "i will give you the answer directly," she said. then she went across to her uncle and stood beside him, the letter in her hand. he was lost in thought, and quite unsuspicious of the thunder-clap preparing for him. "uncle, i have just got a letter." "eh? where from, stella?" "from lady lilian." he looked up quickly. "she has asked me to dinner to-morrow." "no!" he said. she put the letter in his hand. "read it, will you, my dear?" he said. and she read it, conscious that her voice trembled. "well?" he said. "well?" she repeated, with a smile. he put his hand to his brow. "to dinner--to-morrow? oh, dear me! well, well! you would like to go?" and he looked up at her. "of course you would like to go." she looked down, her face was delicately flushed--her eyes shone. "of course," he said. "well, say 'yes.' it is very kind. you see, stella, your wish is gratified almost as soon as you utter it. you will see your paragon--lady lenore." she started, and her face went pale. "i have changed my mind," she said, in a low voice. "i find i don't want to see her so badly as i thought. i think i don't care to go, uncle." he stared at her. she was still an enigma to him. "nonsense, child! not care to see wyndward hall! nonsense! besides, it's lady lilian; we must go, stella." she still stood with the letter in her hand. "but--but, uncle--i have nothing to wear." "nothing to wear!" and he looked at her up and down. "nothing fit for wyndward hall," she said. "uncle, i don't think i care to go." he laughed gently. "you will find something to wear between now and half-past seven to-morrow," he said, "or my faith in mrs. penfold's resources will be shaken. accept, my dear." she went slowly to the table and wrote two lines--two lines only. "dear lady lilian.--we shall be very glad indeed to come and see you to-morrow. yours very truly," "stella etheridge." then she rang the bell and gave the note to mrs. penfold. "i am going to wyndward hall to-morrow," she said, with a smile, "and i have got nothing to wear, mrs. penfold!" and she laughed. mrs. penfold threw up her hands after the manner of her kind. "to the hall, miss stella, to-morrow! oh, dear, what shall we do?" then she glanced at the arm-chair, and beckoned stella out of the room. "come up-stairs, then, and let us see what we can manage. to the hall! think of that!" and she threw up her head proudly. stella sat on a chair, looking on with a smile, while the scanty wardrobe was overhauled. scanty as it was it contained everything that was needful for such use as stella might ordinarily require, but a dinner at the hall was quite out of the ordinary. at last, after holding up dress after dress, and dropping it with a shake of the head, mrs. penfold took up a cream sateen. "that's very pretty," said stella. "but it's only sateen!" exclaimed mrs. penfold. "it looks like satin--a little," said stella "by candlelight, at least." "and they have real satin, and silks, and velvets," deplored mrs. penfold, eagerly. "nobody will notice me," said stella, consolingly. "it doesn't matter." mrs. penfold glanced at her with a curious smile. "will they not, miss stella? i don't know, i think they will; but it must be this dress or nothing; you can't go in a cotton, or the black merino, and the muslin you wore the other night----" "wouldn't do at all," said stella. "we'll make this sateen do, mrs. penfold. i think it looks very nice; the lace is good, isn't it?" "the lace?" said mrs. penfold, thoughtfully, then her face brightened. "wait a moment," she said, and she dropped the dress and hurried from the room, returning in a few moments with a small box. "speaking of lace just reminded me, miss stella, that i had some by me. it was made by my mother--i don't know whether it's good," and as she spoke she opened the box and lifted some lace from the interior. "why it's point!" "point, is it, miss? i didn't know. then it is good." "good!" exclaimed stella--"it's beautiful, delicious, heavenly. and will you lend it to me?" "no, i'll give it to you if you will take it, miss stella," said the good woman, with a proud smile. "no, no, not for worlds, but i will wear it if you'll let me?" said stella, and she took a long strip and put it round her throat. "oh, it is beautiful, beautiful! it would make the poorest dress look handsome! i will take great care of it, indeed i will." "what nonsense, dear miss stella! how glad i am i thought of it. and it does look pretty now you wear it," and she looked at the beautiful face admiringly. "and you'll want gloves--let me see--yes, you have got some cream gloves; they'll go with the dress, won't they? now, you go down-stairs, and i'll look the things out and tack the lace on. going to the hall? i'm so glad, miss stella." "are you?" said stella, softly, as she went down-stairs, "i don't know whether i'm glad or sorry!" chapter x. the great clock in the hall stables chimed the half-hour--half-past seven, and the sound came floating down the valley. mr. etheridge stood at the door clad in evening dress, which, old-fashioned and well-worn as it was, sat upon him with a gracious air, and made him look more distinguished than ever. the fly was waiting at the door, and he glanced at his watch and took a step toward the stairs, when a light appeared above, and a light step sounded over his head. the next moment a vision, as it seemed to him, floated into sight, and came down upon him. stella was in the cream sateen dress--the exquisite lace was clinging round her slender, graceful throat--there was a red rose in her hair; but it was not the dress, nor the lace, nor the rose even, which chained the painter's eye--it was the lovely girlish face. the excitement had brought a dash of warm color in the clear olive cheeks and a bright light into the dark eyes; the lips were half-apart with a smile, and the whole face was eloquent of youth's fresh tide of life and spirits. if they had had all howell and james' stock to choose from, they could not have chosen a more suitable dress--a more becoming color; the whole made a fitting frame for the girlish beauty. "well, uncle!" she said, with a little blush. "what have you done to yourself, my child?" he said, with simple open-eyed wonder. "isn't she--isn't it beautiful?" murmured mrs. penfold, in an ecstasy. "but then, if it had been a morning cotton, it would have been all the same." and she proceeded to wrap a woolen shawl round her so carefully as if she was something that might be destroyed at too hard a touch. "mind she has this wound round her like this when she comes out, sir, and be sure and keep the window up." "and don't let the air breathe on me, or i shall melt, uncle," laughed stella. "upon my word, i'm half disposed to think so," he muttered. then they entered the fly--mrs. penfold disposing the short train of the despised sateen with gingerly care--and started. "how have you managed it all?" asked the old man, quite bewildered. "i feel quite strange conveying a brilliant young lady." "and i feel--frightened out of my life," said stella, with a little breath and a laugh. "then you conceal your alarm with infinite art," he retorted. "that's just it," she assented. "my heart is beating like a steam hammer, but, like an indian at the stake, i am determined to smile to the end. they will be very terrible, uncle, will they not?" "who?" he asked. "the countess and the paragon--i mean lady lenore beauchamp. i shall have to be careful, or i shall be calling her the paragon to her face. what would she do, uncle?" "smile and pass it by with a gracious air," he said, laughing. "you are a clever and a bold girl, stella, but even you could not take 'a rise,' as we used to say in my school-days, out of lady lenore." "i am not clever, and i am trembling like a mouse," said stella, with a piteous little pout. "you'll stand by me, uncle, won't you?" he laughed. "i think you are quite able to defend yourself, my dear," he said. "never knew one of your sex who was not." the fly rumbled over the bridge and entered the long avenue, and stella, looking out, saw the lights of the house shining at the end of the vista. "what a grand place it is," she murmured, almost to herself. "uncle, i feel as if i were about to enter another world; and i am, i think. i have never seen a countess in my life before; have been shut up within the four walls of a school. if she says one word to me i shall expire." he laughed, and began to feel for the sketch which he had brought with him. "you will not find her so very terrible," he said. the fly got to the end of the avenue at last, and wound round the broad drive to the front entrance. it loomed so large and awe-inspiring above them, that stella's heart seemed to sink; but her color came again as two tall footmen, in grand, but not gorgeous, livery, came down the broad steps and opened the fly door. she would not let them see that she was--afraid. afraid; yes that was the word which described her feelings as she was ushered into the hall, and she looked round at its vastness. there were several other footmen standing about with solemn faces, and a maid dressed in black, with a spotless muslin cap, came forward with what seemed to stella solemn and stately steps, and asked her, in almost a reverential whisper, whether she would come up-stairs; but stella shook her head, and was about to unwind the shawl, when the maid, with a quick but respectful movement, undertook the task, going through it with the greatest care and attention. then her uncle held his arm and she put her hand upon it, and in the instant, as if they had been waiting and watching, though their eyes had been fixed on the ground, two footmen drew aside the curtains shutting off the corridor to the drawing-room, and another footman paced slowly and with head erect before them. it was all so solemn, the dim yet sufficient light, the towering hall, with its flags and armor, the endless curtains, with their gold fringe, that stella was reminded of some gothic cathedral. the white gleaming statues seemed to look down at her, as she passed between them, with a frown of astonishment at her audacity in entering their solemn presence, the very silence seemed to reproach her light footsteps on the thickly-carpeted mosaic floor. she began to be overpowered, but suddenly she remembered that she too was of ancient birth, that she was an etheridge, and that the man whose arm she was leaning upon was an artist, and a great one, and she held her head erect and called the color to her face. it was not a moment too soon, for another pair of curtains were drawn aside, and the next instant she stood on the threshold of the drawing-room, and she heard a low but distinct voice say-- "mr. and miss etheridge." she had not time to look round; she saw, as in a flash, the exquisite room, with its shaded candles and softly-gleaming mirrors, saw several tall, black-coated, white-chested forms of gentlemen, and richly-dressed ladies; then she was conscious that a tall, beautiful, and stately lady was gliding across the room toward them, and knew it was the countess. lady wyndward had heard the announcement and had risen from where she was sitting with the countess of longford to welcome the guests. the painter was a favorite of hers, and if she could have had her will he would have been a frequent visitor at the hall. when lilian had told her of her meeting with mr. etheridge's niece and asked permission to invite her, she had assented at once, expecting to see some well-subdued middle-aged woman. why she should have thus pictured her she could not have told; perhaps because mr. etheridge was old and so subdued himself. she had scarcely listened to lilian's description, and leycester had said no word. but now as she came forward and saw a young and beautiful girl, graceful and self-possessed, dressed with perfect taste, and looking as distinguished as if she had gone through a couple of london seasons, when the vision of stella, in all her fresh young loveliness, broke upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, an infinite surprise took possession of her, and for a moment she half paused, but it was only for a moment, and by no change in her face, however slight, was her surprise revealed. "how do you do, mr. etheridge? it was so kind of you to come. i know how great an honor this is, and i am grateful." this is what stella heard in the softest, most dulcet of voices--"kind, grateful!" this was how a countess welcomed a poor painter. a glow of light seemed to illumine stella's mind. she had expected to see a tall stately woman dressed in satin and diamonds, and with a courtly severe manner, and instead here was a lady with a small gentle voice and a face all softness and kindness. in an instant she had learned her first lesson--that a mark of high rank and breeding is pure gentleness and humility. the queen sits beside the bed of a sick peasant; the peer thanks the waiter who hands him his umbrella. "yes, it was very good of you to come. and this is your niece? how do you do, miss etheridge? i am very glad to see you." stella took her gloved hand, her courage came instantly, and she raised her eyes to the beautiful, serene face, little guessing that as she did so, the countess was filled with surprise and admiration as the dark orbs raised. "we are quite a small party," said the countess. "nearly all our friends have left us. we should have been in town before this, but lord wyndward is detained by business." as she spoke the earl approached them, and stella saw a tall, thin, noble-looking man bending before her as if he were expecting a touch of her hand. "how do you do, mr. etheridge? we have managed to entice you from your hermitage at last, eh? how do you do, miss etheridge? i hope you didn't feel the cold driving." stella smiled, and she knew why every approach was screened by curtains. the earl drew the painter aside, and the countess, just laying her fingers on stella's arm, guided her to the old countess of longford. "mr. etheridge's niece," she said; then, to stella, "this is lady longford." stella was conscious of a pair of keen gray eyes fixed on her face. "glad to know you, my dear," said the old lady. "come and sit beside me, and tell me about your uncle; he is a wonderful man, but a very wicked one." "wicked!" said stella. "yes, wicked," repeated the old lady, with a smile on her wrinkled face. "all obstinate people are wicked; and he is obstinate because he persists in hiding himself away instead of coming into the world and consenting to be famous, as he should be." stella's heart warmed directly. "but perhaps now that you have come, you will persuade him to leave his shell." "do you mean the cottage? i don't think anything would persuade him to leave that. why should he? he is quite happy." the countess looked at her. "that's a sensible retort," she said. "why should he? i don't know--i don't know what to answer. but i owe him a grudge. do you know that he has persistently refused to come and see me, though i have almost gone on my knees to him?" stella smiled. "he does not care to go anywhere," she said. "if he went anywhere, i am sure he would come to you." the old countess glanced at her approvingly. "that was nicely said," she murmured. "how old are you?" "nineteen," said stella, simply. "then you have inherited your uncle's brains," the old lady replied, curtly. "it is not given to every girl to say the right thing at nineteen." stella blushed, and looked round the room. there were ten or twelve persons standing and sitting about, some of them beautiful women, exquisitely dressed, talking to some gentlemen; but lord leycester was not amongst the latter. she was conscious of that, although she scarcely knew that she was looking for him. she wondered which was lady lenore. there was a tall, fair girl leaning against the piano, but somehow stella did not think it was the famous beauty. the clock on the bracket struck eight, and she saw the earl take out his watch and glance at it mechanically; and as he did so, a voice behind her said: "dinner is served, my lady." nobody took any notice however, and the countess did not show by sign or look that she heard. suddenly the curtains at the other end of the room were swung apart, and a tall form entered. though her eyes were fixed on another part of the room, she knew who it was, and for a moment she would not look that way, then she directed her eyes slowly, and saw that her instinct had not misled her. it was leycester! for a moment she was conscious of a feeling of surprise. she thought she knew him well, but in that instant he looked so different that he seemed almost a stranger. she had not seen him before in evening dress, and the change from the velvet coat and knickerbockers to the severe, but aristocratic, black suit struck her. like all well-made, high-bred men he looked at his best in the dress which fashion has decreed shall be the evening costume of gentlemen. she had thought him handsome, noble, in the easy, careless suit of velvet, she knew that he was distinguished looking in his suit of evening sables. with his hand upon the curtain he stood, his head erect, his eyes not eagerly, but commandingly, scanning the room. she could not tell why or how she knew, but she knew that he was looking for her. presently he sees her, and a subtle change came over his face, it was not a smile so much as a look of satisfaction, and she knew again that a frown would have settled on his white brow if she whom he sought had not been there. with a high but firm step he came across the room and stood before her, holding out his hand. "you have come," he said; "i thought you would not come. it is very kind of mr. etheridge." she gave him her hand without a word. she knew that the keen gray eyes of the old lady beside her were fixed on her face. he seemed to remember too, for in a quieter, more commonplace, tone, he added: "i am late; it is an habitual fault of mine." "it is," said the old countess. he turned his smile upon her. "are you going to scold me?" "i am not fond of wasting my time," she said. "come and sit down for a minute if you can." he glanced at the clock. "am i not keeping you all waiting?" he said. lady longford shook her head. "no; we are waiting for lenore." "then she is not here!" thought stella. "oh, lenore!" he said, with a smile. "well, no one will dare to scold her." as he spoke the curtain parted, and someone entered. framed by the curtain that fell behind her in crimson folds stood a girl--not yet a woman, for all her twenty-three years--of wonderful beauty, with deep golden hair and violet eyes. stella knew her at once from her uncle's description, but it was not the beauty that surprised her and made her start; it was something more than that. it was the nameless, indescribable charm which surrounded her; it was the grace which distinguished her figure, her very attitude. she stood a moment, with a faint half-smile upon her lips, looking round; then she glided with a peculiar movement, that struck stella as grace itself, to lady wyndward, and bent her head down to the countess. stella could not hear what she said, but she knew that she was apologizing for her tardiness by the way the earl, who was standing by, smiled at her. yes, evidently lady lenore would not be scolded for keeping dinner waiting. stella sat watching her; she felt her eyes riveted to her in fact, and suddenly she was aware that the violet eyes were fixed on hers. she saw the beautiful lips move, saw the earl make answer, and then watched them move together across the room. whither were they going? to her surprise they came toward her and stopped in front of her. "miss etheridge," said the earl, in his low, subdued voice, "let me introduce lady lenore beauchamp to you." stella looked up, and met the violet eyes fixed on her. for a moment she was speechless; the eyes, so serene and full and commanding, seemed to seek out her soul and to read every thought it held; to read it so closely and clearly that her own eyes dropped; then with an effort she held out her hand, and as the great beauty's closed softly over it she raised her lids again, and so they stood looking at each other, and lord leycester stood beside with the characteristic smile on his face. chapter xi. as stella looked up at the great beauty, she felt for the first time that her own dress, pretty as it was, was only sateen. she had not been conscious of it before, but she felt it now in the presence of this exquisitely-dressed woman. in very truth, lady lenore was well-dressed; it was not only that her costumes came from redfern's or worth's, and her millinery from louise, but lenore had acquired the art of wearing the productions of these artistes. when looking at her, one was forcibly reminded of the frenchman's saying, that the world was divided into two classes--the people who were clothed and the people who wore their clothes. lady lenore belonged to those who wear their clothes; the beautiful dress sat upon her as if she had been made to it, instead of it to her; not a piece of lace, not a single article of jewelry, but sat in its place gracefully and artistically. to-night she wore a dress composed of some soft and readily-draping material, neither cashmere nor satin--some one of the new materials which have come over from the far east, and of which we scarcely yet know the names. it was of the most delicate shade of grayish-blue, which was brought out and accentuated by the single camellia resting amidst the soft lace on her bosom. the arms were bare from the elbows, exquisitely, warmly white and beautifully formed; one heavy bracelet, set with huge indian pearls, lined the wrist; there were similar huge pearls in the rings on her fingers, and in the pendant which hung by a seed-pearl necklace. imagine a beautiful, an almost faultlessly-beautiful face, rising from the delicate harmony of color--imagine a pair of dark eyes, now blue, now violet, as she stood in repose or smiled, and fringed, by long, silken lashes--and you may imagine the bare material outward beauty of lenore beauchamp, but no words can describe what really was the charm of the face--its wonderful power of expression, its eloquent mobility, which, even when the eyes and lips were in repose, drew you to watching and waiting for them to speak. stella, though she had scarcely heard those lips utter a word knew what her uncle meant when he said that there was a peculiar fascination about her which went beyond her mere beauty; and, as she looked, a strange feeling crossed stella's mind. she remembered an old story which she had heard years ago, when she was sitting on the lap of her italian nurse--the story of the strange and beautiful indian serpent which sits beneath the tree, and fixing its eyes upon the bird overhead, draws and charms it with its spell, until the bird drops senseless and helpless to its fate. but even as she thought of this she was ashamed of the idea, for there is nothing serpent-like in lenore's beauty; only this stella thought, that if ever those eyes and lips smiled and murmured to a man "i love you," that man must drop; resistance would be vain and useless. all this takes long to write; it flashed across stella's mind in a moment, even as they looked at each other in silence; then at last lady lenore spoke. "have you been gathering primroses to-day?" she said, with a smile. it was a strange way of beginning an acquaintance, and stella felt the color mount to her face; the words recalled the whole of the scene of yesterday morning. the speaker intended that they should. "no," she said, "not to-day." "miss etheridge gathered enough yesterday for a week, did you not?" said lord leycester, and the voice sounded to stella like an assistance. she half glanced at him gratefully, and met his eyes fixed on her with a strange light in them that caused hers to drop again. "i must find this wonderful flower-land," said lady lenore. "lilian was quite eloquent about it last night." "we shall be happy to act as pioneers in the discovery," he said, and stella could not help noticing the "we." did he mean she and he? at that moment lady wyndward came toward them, and murmured something to him, and he left them and offered his arm to a lady at the other end of the room; then lady wyndward waved her fan slightly and smiled, and a tall, thin, fair-haired man came up. "lord charles, will you take charge of miss etheridge?" lord guildford bowed and offered his arm. "i shall be delighted," he said, and he smiled down at stella in his frank way. there was a general movement, ladies and gentlemen were pairing off and moving toward the door, beside which stood the two footmen, with the solemn air of soldiers attending an execution. "seven minutes late," said lord charles, glancing up at the clock as they passed. "we must chalk that up to lady lenore. i admire and envy her courage, don't you, miss etheridge? i should no more dare to be late for dinner at wyndward than--than--what's the most audacious thing you can think of?" stella smiled; there was something catching in the light-hearted, frank, and free tones of the young viscount. "standing on a sofa in muddy boots has always been my idea of a great social crime," she said. he laughed approvingly, and his laugh seemed to float lightly through the quiet room. "that's good--that's awfully good!" he said, with intense enjoyment. "standing on a sofa--that's awfully good! must tell leycester that! did you ever do it, by the way?" "never," said stella, gravely, but with a smile. "no!" he said. "do you know i think you are capable of it if you were provoked?" "provoked?" said stella. "dared, i mean," he explained. "you know we used to have a game at school called 'dare him?' i expect all fellows have played it. one fellow does the most extraordinary things and dares the other fellows to do it. leycester used to play it best. he was a regular good hand at it. the worst of it was that we all used to get thrashed; the masters didn't care about half-a-dozen fellows flinging stones at the windows and climbing on to the roof at the dead of night." "poor masters!" said stella. he laughed. "yes, they didn't have a particularly fine time of it when leycester was at school." as he spoke, he glanced at the tall figure of lord leycester in front of them with an admiring air such as a school-boy might wear. "there isn't much that leycester wouldn't dare," he said. they entered the dining-room, a large room lined with oak and magnificently furnished, in which the long table with its snowy cloth, and glittering plate and glass, shone out conspicuously. lord guildford found no difficulty in discovering their seats, each place being distinguished by a small tablet bearing the name of the intended occupant. as stella took her seat, she noticed a beautiful bouquet beside her serviette, and saw that one was placed for every lady in the room. a solemn, stately butler, who looked like a bishop, stood beside the earl's chair, and with a glance and a slight movement of his hand directed the noiseless footmen. a clergyman said grace, and the dinner commenced. stella, looking round, saw that her uncle was seated near lady wyndward, and that lady lenore was opposite herself. she looked round for lord leycester, and was startled to hear his voice at her left. he was speaking to lady longford. as she turned to look at him she happened to catch lady wyndward's eye also fixed upon him with a strange expression, and wondered what it meant; the next moment she knew, for, bending his head and looking straight before him, he said-- "do you like your flowers?" stella took up the bouquet; it was composed almost entirely of white blossoms, and smelt divinely. "they are beautiful," she said. "heliotrope and camellias--my favorite flowers." "it must have been instinct," he said. "what do you mean?" she asked. "i chose them," he said, in the same low voice. "chose them?" she retorted. "yes," and he smiled. "that was what made me late. i came in here first and had a grand review of the bouquets. i was curious to know if i could guess your favorite flowers." "you--you--changed them!" said stella, with a feeling of mild horror. "lord guildford asked me just now what i considered the most audacious act a man would commit. i know now." he smiled. "i changed something else," he said. stella looked at him inquiringly. there was a bold smile in his dark eyes. he pointed to the little tablet bearing his name. "this. i found it over the way there, next to that old lady in the emeralds. she is a dreadful old lady--beware of her. she is a politician, and she always asks everybody who comes near her what they think of the present parliament. i thought it would be nicer to come over here." the color crept slowly into stella's face, and her eyes dropped. "it was very wrong," she said. "i am sure lady wyndward will be angry. how could you interfere with the arrangements? they all seem so solemn and grand to me." he laughed softly. "they are. we always eat our meals as if they were the last we could expect to have--as if the executioner was waiting outside and feeling the edge of the ax impatiently. there is only one man here who dares to laugh outright." "who is that?" asked stella. he nodded to lord guildford, who was actively engaged in bending his head over his soup with the air of a hungry man. "charlie," he said--"lord guildford, i mean. he laughs everywhere, don't you, charlie?" "eh? yes, oh, yes. what is he telling you about me, miss etheridge? don't believe a word he says. i mean to have him up for libel some day." "he says you laugh everywhere," said stella. lord charles laughed at once, and stella looked round half alarmed, but nobody seemed to faint or show any particular horror. "nobody minds him," said lord leycester, balancing his spoon. "he is like the king's jester, licensed to play wheresoever he pleases." "i'm fearfully hungry," said lord charles. "i've been in the saddle since three o'clock--is that the _menu_, miss etheridge? let us mark our favorite dishes," and he offered her a half-hold of the porcelain tablet on which was written the items of the various courses. stella looked down the long list with something like amused dismay. "it's dreadfully long," she said. "i don't think i have any favorite dishes." "no; not really!" he demanded. "what a treat! will you really let me advise you?" "i shall be most grateful," said stella. "oh, this is charming," said lord guildford. "next to choosing one's own dinner, there is nothing better than choosing one for someone else. let me see;" and thereupon he made a careful selection, which stella broke into with an amused laugh. "i could not possibly eat all these things," she said. "oh, but you must," he said. "why, i have been most careful to pick out only those dishes suitable for a lady's delicate appetite; you can't leave one of them out, you can't, indeed, without spoiling your dinner." "my dear," said the countess, bending forward, "don't let him teach you anything, except to take warning by his epicureanism; he is only anxious that you should be too occupied to disturb him." lord charles laughed. "that is cruel," he said. "you take my advice, miss etheridge; there are only two things i understand, and those are a horse and a good dinner." meanwhile the dinner was proceeding, and to stella it seemed that "good" scarcely adequately described it. one elaborate course after another followed in slow succession, borne in by the richly-liveried footmen on the massive plate for which wyndward hall was famous. dishes which she had never heard of seemed to make their appearance only to pass out again untouched, excepting by the clergyman, lord guildford, and one or two other gentlemen. she noticed that the earl scarcely touched anything beyond a tiny piece of fish and a mutton cutlet; and lord guildford, who seemed to take an interest in anything connected with the dinner, remarked, as he glanced at the stately head of the house-- "there is one other person present who is of your way of thinking, miss etheridge--i mean the earl. he doesn't know what a good dinner means. i don't suppose he will taste anything more than the fish and a piece of cheshire. when he is in town and at work----" "at work? said stella. "in the house of lords, you know; he is a member of the cabinet." stella nodded. "he is a statesman?" "exactly. he generally dines off a mutton chop served in the library. i've seen him lunching off a penny biscuit and a glass of water. terrible, isn't it?" stella laughed. "perhaps he finds he can work better on a chop and a glass of water," she said. "don't believe it!" retorted lord guildford. "no man can work well unless he is well-fed." "guildford ought to know," said lord leycester, audibly. "he does so much work." "so i do," retorts lord charles. "stay and keep you in order, and if that isn't hard work i don't know what is!" this was very amusing for stella; it was all so strange, too, and so little what she imagined; here were two peers talking like school-boys for her amusement, as if they were mere nobodies and she were somebody worth amusing. every now and then she could hear lady lenore's voice, musical and soft, yet full and distinct; she was talking of the coming season, and stella heard her speak of great people--persons' names which she had read of, but never expected to hear spoken of so familiarly. it seemed to her that she had got into some charmed circle; it scarcely seemed real. then occasionally, but very seldom, the earl's thin, clear, high-bred voice would be heard, and once he looked across at stella herself, and said: "will you not try some of those rissoles, miss etheridge? they are generally very good." "and he never touches them," murmured lord charles, with a mock groan. she could hear her uncle talking also--talking more fluently than was his wont--to lady wyndward, who was speaking about the pictures, and once stella saw her glance in her direction as if they had been speaking of her. the dinner seemed very long, but it came to an end at last, and the countess rose. as stella rose with the rest of the ladies, the old countess of longford locked her arm in hers. "i am not so old that i can't walk, and i am not lame, my dear," she said, "but i like something young and strong to lean upon; you are both. you don't mind?" "no!" said stella. "yes, i am strong." the old countess looked up at her with a glance of admiration in her gray eyes. "and young," she said significantly. they passed into a drawing-room--not the one they had entered first, but a smaller room which bore the name of "my lady's." it was exquisitely furnished in the modern antique style. there were some beautiful hangings that covered the walls, and served as background for costly cabinets and brackets, upon which was arranged a collection of ancient china second to none in the kingdom. the end of the room opened into a fernery, in which were growing tall palms and whole miniature forests of maidenhair, kept moist by sparkling fountains that fell with a plash, plash, into marble basins. birds were twitting and flitting about behind a wire netting, so slight and carefully concealed as to be scarcely perceptible. no footman was allowed to enter this ladies' paradise; two maids, in their soft black dresses and snowy caps, were moving about arranging a table for the countess to serve tea upon. it was like a scene from the "arabian nights," only more beautiful and luxurious than anything stella had imagined even when reading that wonderful book of fairy-tales. the countess went straight to her table and took off her gray-white gloves, some of the ladies settled themselves in the most indolent of attitudes on the couches and chairs, and others strolled into the fern house. the old countess made herself comfortable on a low divan, and made room for stella beside her. "and this is your first visit to wyndward hall, my dear?" she said. "yes," answered stella, her eyes still wandering round the room. "and you live in that little village on the other side of the river?" "yes," said stella, again. "it is very pretty, is it not?" "it is, as pretty as anything in one of your uncle's pictures. and are you quite happy?" stella brought her eyes upon the pale, wrinkled face. "happy! oh, yes, quite," she said. "yes, i think you are," said the old lady with a keen glance at the beautiful face and bright, pure eyes. "then you must keep so, my dear," she said. "but isn't that rather difficult?" said stella, with a smile. lady longford looked at her. "that serves me right for meddling," she said. "yes, it is difficult, very difficult, and yet the art is easy enough; it contains only one rule, and that is 'to be content.'" "then i shall continue to be happy," said stella; "for i am very content." "for the present," said the old lady. "take care, my dear!" stella smiled; it was a strange sort of conversation, and there was a suggestion of something that did not appear on the surface. "do you think that i look very discontented, then?" she asked. "no," said the old lady, eying her again. "no, you look very contented--at present. isn't that a beautiful forest?" it was an abrupt change of the subject, but stella was equal to it. "i have been admiring it since i came in," she said; "it is like fairy land." "go and enter it," said the old countess--"i am going to sleep for exactly ten minutes. will you come back to me then? you see, i am very frank and rude; but i am very old indeed." stella rose with a smile. "i think you are very kind to me," she said. the old countess looked up at the beautiful face with the dark, soft eyes bent down on her; and something like a sigh of regret came into her old, keen eyes. "you know how to make pretty speeches, my dear," she said. "you learnt that in italy, i expect. mind you come back to me." then, as stella moved away, the old lady looked after her. "poor child!" she murmured--"poor child! she is but a child; but he won't care. is it too late, i wonder? but why should i worry about it?" but it seemed as if she must worry about it, whatever it was, for after a few minutes' effort to sleep, she rose and went across to the tea-table. lady wyndward was making tea, but looked up and pushed a chair close beside her. "what is it?" she asked, with a smile. "who is she?" asked the countess, taking a cup and stirring the tea round and round, very much as betty the washerwoman does--very much indeed. lady wyndward did not ask "who?" but replied in her serene, placid voice directly: "i don't know. of course, i know that she is mr. etheridge's niece, but i don't know anything about her, except that she has just come here from italy. she said that she was not happy there." "she is very beautiful," murmured the countess. "she is--very," assented lady wyndward. "and something more than distinguished. i never saw a more graceful girl. she is only a child, of course." "quite a child," assented lady wyndward again. there was a pause, then the old countess said, almost abruptly: "why is she here?" lady wyndward filled a cup carefully before replying. "she is a friend of lilian's," she said; "at least she invited her." "i thought she was rather a friend of leycester's," said the old lady, dryly. lady wyndward looked at her, and a faint, a very faint color came into her aristocratic face. "you mean that he has noticed her?" she said. "very much! i sat next to him at dinner. was it wise to put him next to her? a child's head is quickly turned." "i did not arrange it so," replied lady wyndward. "i put his tablet next to lenore's, as usual; but it got moved. i don't know who could have done it." "i do," said the old lady. "it was leycester himself. i am sure of it by the way he looked." lady wyndward's white brow contracted for a moment. "it is like him. he will do or dare anything for an hour's amusement. i ought to be angry with him!" "be as angry as you like, but don't let him know that you are," said the old lady, shrewdly. lady wyndward understood. "how beautiful lenore looks to-night," she said, looking across the room where lady lenore stood fanning herself, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on a picture. "yes," assented the old countess. "if i were a man i should not rest until i had won her; if i were a man--but then men are so different to what we imagine them. they turn aside from a garden lily to pluck a wayside flower----" "but they come back to the lily," said lady wyndward, with a smile. "yes," muttered the old countess, suavely; "after they have grown tired of the wild flower and thrown it aside." as she spoke the curtains were withdrawn and the gentlemen came sauntering in. no one rests long over the wine, nowadays; the earl scarcely drank a glass after the ladies left; he would fill his glass--fill two perhaps, but rarely did more than sip them. lord leycester would take a bumper of claret--the cellars were celebrated for the chateau margaux. to-night it seemed as if he had taken an additional one, for there was a deeper color on his face, and a brighter light in his eyes than usual; the light which used to shine there in his school-days, when there was some piece of wildness on, more mad than usual. lord guildford came in leaning lightly upon his arm, and he was talking to him in a low voice. "one of the most beautiful faces i have ever seen, ley: not your regular cut-out-to-pattern kind of face, but fresh and--and--natural. the sort of face venus might have had when she rose from the sea that fine morning----" "hush!" said lord leycester, with a slight start, and he thought of the picture in his room, the picture of the venus with the pale, fair face, across which he had drawn the defacing brush that night he had come home from his meeting with stella. "hush! they will hear you! yes, she is beautiful." "yes, beautiful! take care, take care, ley!" muttered lord charles. leycester put his hand from him with a smile. "you talk in parables to-night, charlie, and don't provide the key. go and get some tea." he went himself toward the table and got a cup, but his eyes wandered round the room, and the old countess and lady wyndward noticed the searching glance. "leycester," said his mother, "will you ask lenore to sing for us?" he put down his cup and went down the room to where she was sitting beside the earl. "my mother has sent me as one of her ambassadors to the queen of music," he said. "will your majesty deign to sing for us?" she looked up at him with a smile, then gave her cup to one of the maids, and put her hand upon his arm. "do you know that this is the first time you have spoken to me since--since--i cannot remember?" "one does not dare intrude upon royalty too frequently; it would be presumptuous," he said. "in what am i royal?" she asked. "in your beauty!" he said, and he was the only man in the room who would have dared so pointed a reply. "thanks," she said, with a calm smile; "you are very frank to-night." "am i? and why not? we do not hesitate to call the summer sky blue or the ocean vast. there are some things so palpable and generally acknowledged that to be reserved about them would be absurd." "that will do," she said. "since when have you learnt such eloquent phrases? what shall i sing, or shall i sing at all?" "to please me you have but to sing to please yourself!" he said. "find me something then," she said, and sat down with her hands folded, looking a very queen indeed. he knelt down beside the canterbury, and, as at a signal, there was a general gathering round the piano, but she still sat calm and unconscious, very queen-like indeed. leycester found a song, and set it up for her, opened the piano, took her bouquet from her lap, and waited for her gloves, the rest looking on as if interference were quite out of the question. slowly she removed her gloves and gave them to him, touched the piano with her jeweled fingers, and began to sing. at this moment stella, who had been wandering round the fernery, came back to the entrance, and stood listening and absorbed. she had never heard so beautiful a voice, not even in italy. but presently, even while a thrill of admiration was running through her, she became conscious that there was something wanting. her musical sense was unsatisfied. the notes were clear, bell-like, and as harmonious as a thrush's, the modulation perfect; but there was something wanting. was it heart? from where she stood she could see the lovely face, with its dark violet eyes upturned, its eloquent mouth curved to allow the music vent, and the loveliness held her inthralled, though the voice did not move her. the song came to an end, and the singer sat with a calm smile receiving the murmurs of gratitude and appreciation, but she declined to sing again, and stella saw lord leycester hand her her gloves and bouquet and stand ready to conduct her whither she would. "he stands like her slave, to obey her slightest wish," she thought. "ah! how happy she must be," and with a something that was almost a sigh, she turned back into the dim calm of the fernery; she felt strangely alone and solitary at that moment. suddenly there was a step behind her, and looking up she saw lord leycester. "i have found you!" he said, and there was a ring of satisfaction and pleasure in his voice that went straight to her heart. "where have you been hiding?" she looked up at the handsome face full of life and strong manhood, and her eyes fell. "i have not been hiding," she said. "i have been here." "you are right," he said, seating himself beside her; "this is the best place; it is cool and quiet here; it is more like our woods, is it not, with the ferns and the primroses?" and at the "our" he smiled into her eyes. "it is very lovely here," she said. "it's all lovely. how beautifully she sings!" she added, rather irrelevantly. "sings?" he said. "oh, lenore! yes, she sings well, perfectly. and that reminds me. i have been sent to ask you to make music for us." stella shrank back with a glance of alarm. "i? oh, no, no! i could not." he smiled at her. "but your uncle----" "he should not!" said stella, with a touch of crimson. "i could not sing. i am afraid." "afraid! you?" he said. "of what?" "of--of--everything," she said, with a little laugh. "i could not sing before all these people. i have never done so. besides, to sing after lady lenore would be like dancing a hornpipe." "i should be content if you would dance a hornpipe," he said. "i should think it good and wise." "are you laughing at me?" she said, looking up at the dark eyes. "why?" "laughing at you?" he repeated. "i! i could not. it is you who laugh at me; i think you are laughing at me most times. you will not sing, then?" "i cannot," she said. "then you shall not," he responded; "you shall not do anything you do not like. but some time you will sing for us, will you not? your uncle has been telling us about your voice, and how you came by it," and his own voice grew wonderfully gentle. "my father, he meant," said stella, simply. "yes; he could sing. he was a great musician, and when i think of that, i am inclined to resolve never to open my lips again." there was a moment's pause. stella sat pulling a piece of maidenhair apart, her eyes downcast; his eyes were reading her beautiful face, and noting the graceful turns of the white neck. someone was playing the grand piano, and the music floated in and about the tall palms. it was an intoxicating moment for him! the air was balmy with perfumes from the exotics, the warm blood was running freely in his veins, the beauty of the girl beside him seemed to entrance him. instinctively his hand, being idly near her, went toward hers, and would have touched it, but suddenly one of the maids entered, and with a slow, respectful air approached them. she held a silver salver, on which lay a small note, folded in a lover's knot. lord leycester looked up; the interruption came just in time. "for me?" he said. "for miss etheridge, my lord," replied the maid, with a courtesy. "for me?" echoed stella, taking the note. "i can guess who it is from," he said, with a smile. "lilian is growing impatient--if she is ever that." stella unfolded the note. this was it: "will you come to me now, if you care to?" "oh, yes, i will go at once," she said, standing up. he rose with a sigh. "it is the first time i have envied lilian anything," he said, in a low voice. "this way, if you please, miss," said the maid. "a moment--a moment only," said lord leycester, and as stella stopped, he gathered a few sprays of maidenhair from the margin of the fountain. "it is a peace-offering. will you take it to her? i promised that i would ask you to go directly after dinner," he said, softly. "yes," said stella, and as she took it there rose once more in her mind the word jasper adelstone had spoken--"infamous." this man who sent his sister such a message in such a voice! "thanks," he said. "but it was scarcely necessary. i have sent her something more beautiful, more precious." stella did not understand far a moment, then as her eyes met his, she knew that he meant herself, and the color flooded her face. "you should not say that," she said, gravely, and before he could answer she moved away, and followed the maid. the maid led her through the hall and up the broad stairs, across the corridor and knocked at lady lilian's door. stella entered, and a grave peace seemed to fall upon her. lady lilian was lying on the couch by the window, and raised herself to hold out her hand. "how good of you to come!" she said, eagerly, and as the voice broke on stella's ear, she knew what lady lenore's voice wanted. "you think me very selfish to bring you away from them all do you not?" she added, still holding stella's hand in her white, cool one. "no," said stella, "i am very glad to come. i would have come before, but i did not know whether i might." "i have been waiting, and did not like to send for you," said lady lilian, "and have you had a pleasant evening?" stella sank into a low seat beside the couch, and looked up into the lovely face with a smile. "i have had a wonderful evening!" she said. lady lilian looked at her inquiringly. "wonderful," said stella, frankly. "you see i have never been in such a place as this before; it all seems so grand and beautiful--more beautiful than grand indeed, that i can scarcely believe it is real." "it is real--too real," said lady lilian, with a smile and a little sigh. "i daresay you think it is very nice, and i--do you know what i think?" stella shook her head. "i think, as i look down at your little cottage, how beautiful, how nice your life must be." "mine!" said stella. "well, yes, it is very nice. but this is wonderful." "because you are not used to it," said lady lilian. "ah! you would soon get tired of it, believe me." "never," breathed stella, looking down; as she did so she saw the maidenhair, and held it up. "lord leycester sent these to you," she said. a loving light came into lady lilian's eyes as she took the green, fragrant sprays. "leycester?" she said, touching her cheek with them. "that is like him--he is too good to me." stella looked across the room at a picture of the madonna rising from the earth, with upturned, glorious eyes. "is he?" she murmured. "oh, yes, yes, there never was a brother like him in all the wide world," said lady lilian, in a rapt voice. "i cannot tell you how good he is to me; he is always thinking of me--he who has so much to think of. i fancy sometimes that people are apt to deem him selfish and--and--thoughtless, but they do not know----" "no," said stella again. the voice sounded like music in her ears--she could have listened forever while it sung his song; and yet that word suddenly rang out in discord, and she smiled. "he seems very kind," she said--"he is very kind to me." lady lilian looked at her suddenly, and an anxious expression came into her eyes. it was not many nights ago that she had implored leycester to see no more of the girl with the dark eyes and silky hair; and here was the girl sitting at her feet, and it was her doing! she had not thought of that before; she had been so fascinated by the fresh young beauty, by the pure, frank eyes, that she had actually acted against her own instincts, and brought her into leycester's path! "yes, he is very kind to everybody," she said. "and you have enjoyed yourself? have they been singing?" "yes, lady beauchamp." "lenore," said lilian, eagerly. "ah, yes; does she not sing beautifully, and is she not lovely?" "she sings beautifully, and she is very lovely," said stella, still looking at the madonna. lady lilian laughed softly. "i am very fond of lenore. you will like her very much when you know her better. she is--i was going to say--very imperial." "that would be right," said stella; "she is like a queen, only more beautiful than most queens have been." "i am so glad you admire her," said lady lilian; then she paused a moment, and her white hand fell like a thistle down on the dark head beside her. "shall i tell you a secret?" stella looked up, with a smile. "yes; i will promise to keep it." lilian smiled down at her. "how strangely you said that--so gravely. yes, i think you would keep a secret to the death. but this is not one of that sort; it is only this--that we hope, all of us, that lenore will become my sister." stella did not start; did not remove her eyes from the pale, lovely face, but into those eyes a something came that was not wonder nor pain, but a strong, indefinable expression, as if she were holding her breath in the effort to suppress any sign of feeling. "do you mean that lord leycester will marry her?" she said, distinctly. lady lilian nodded. "yes, that is it. would it not be nice?" stella smiled. "for lord leycester?" lady lilian laughed her soft laugh. "what a strange girl you are," she said, smoothing the silky hair. "what am i to say to that? well--yes, of course. and for lenore, too," she added, with a touch of pride. "yes, for lady lenore also," said stella, and her eyes went back to the madonna. "we are all so anxious to see leycester married," went on lady lilian, with a smile. "they say he is--so wild, i think it is, they say! ah, they do not see him as i see him. do you think he is wild?" stella paled. the strain was great, her heart was beating with suppressed throbs. the gentle girl did not know how she was torturing her with such questions. "i?" she murmured. "i do not know. i cannot tell. how should i? i scarcely know your brother." "ah, no, i forget," said lady lilian. "to me it seems as if we had known each other so long, and we only met the other morning for a few minutes. how is it? do you possess some charm, and did you conceal it in the flowers you gave me, so that i am under a spell, stella? that is your name, isn't it? it is a beautiful name; are you angry with me for calling you by it?" "angry! no!" said stella, putting up her warm, firm hand, and touching the thin white one resting on her hair. "no, i like you to call me by it." "and you will call me by mine--lilian?" "if you wish it," said stella. "yes, i will." "and we shall be great friends. see, i have kept your flowers quite cool and fresh," and she pointed to a vase in which the primroses stood at the other end of the room. "i love wild flowers. they are heaven's very own, are they not? no human hand does anything for them, or helps them to grow." stella listened to the low, beautiful voice with a rapt awe. lady lilian looked down at her with a smile. "i wonder whether you would grant me a favor if i asked it?" she said. "i would do anything for you," said stella, looking up at her. "will you go and play for me?" she said. "i know that you can play and sing because i have looked into your eyes." "suppose i say that i cannot," said stella, laughing softly. "you cannot!" said lady lilian. "i am never mistaken. leycester says that i am a witch in such matters." "well, i will try," said stella, and she crossed the room and opened the tiny piano, and began to play a sonata by schubert. "i cannot play like lady lenore," she said, almost to herself, but lady lilian heard her. "you play exquisitely," she said. "no, i can't play," repeated stella, with almost a touch of impatience; then she looked up and saw the madonna, and on the impulse of the moment began to sing gounod's "ave maria." there is no more exquisite piece of devotional music in the world, and it was stella's favorite. she had sung it often and often in the dreary school-days, with all her longing heart in her voice; she had sung it in solemn aisled cathedrals, while the incense rose to the vaulted roof; but she had never sung it as she sang it now--now that the strange, indefinable pain was filling her heart with wistful vague longing. lady lilian leant forward--her lips parted, her eyes filling with tears--so rapt that she did not notice that the door had opened, and that lord leycester stood in the room. when she did see him he held up his hand to silence any word of greeting, and stood with his head lowered, his eyes fixed on stella's face, upturned, white, and rapt. as he listened, his handsome face grew pale, his dark eyes deepened with intense emotion; he had stood beside the piano down-stairs while lady lenore had been singing, with a calm, polite attention; here and at this moment his heart beat and throbbed with an intense longing to bend and kiss the upturned face--with an intense longing to draw the eyes toward his--to silence the exquisite voice--to change its imploring prayer into a song of love. all unconsciously stella sang on till the end, that last, lingering, exquisite, long-drawn sigh; then she turned and saw him, but she did not move--only turned pale, her eyes fixed on his. and so they looked at each other. with an effort he broke the spell, and moved. but he did not speak to her at once, but to lilian. "i have brought you something," he said, in a low voice, and he held up the sketch. lady lilian uttered a cry of delight. "and it is for me! oh, leycester, that is nice! it is beautiful! i know who painted it--it was your uncle, stella! oh, yes, i know!" "you are right," said leycester, then he went toward stella. "how can i thank you?" he said, in a low voice. "i know now why you would not sing to to us down-stairs! you were quite right. i would not have you sing to a mob in a drawing-room after dinner. what shall i say?--what can i say?" stella looked up pale and almost breathless beneath the passionate fire that burned in his eyes. "i did not know you were here," she said, at last. "or you would not have sung. i am glad i came--i cannot say how glad! you will not sing again?" "no, no," she said. "no," he said. "i did not think you would, and yet i would give something to hear you once--only once more." "no," said stella, and she rose and went back to her seat. "isn't it beautiful?" said lady lilian, in a murmur. "i have been richly endowed to-night. your song and this picture. how exquisite it was! where did you learn to sing like that?" "nowhere," said leycester. "that cannot be learnt!" lilian looked at him; he was still pale, and his eyes seemed to burn with suppressed eagerness. "go and thank mr. etheridge," she said. "presently," he said, and he came and put his hand on her arm. "presently! let me rest here a little while. it is paradise after----" he paused. "you shall not rest," she said. "go and sing something, ley." then, as stella looked up, she laughed softly. "did you not know he could sing? he is a bad, wicked, indolent boy. he can do all sorts of things when he likes, but he never will exert himself. he will not sing, now will you?" he stood looking at stella, and as if constrained to speak and look at him, stella raised her eyes. "will you sing?" she said, almost inaudibly. as if waiting for her command, he bent his head and went to the piano. his fingers strayed over the notes slowly for a moment or two, then he said, without turning his head: "have you seen these flowers?" stella did not wish to move; but the voice seemed to draw her, and she rose and crossed to the piano. he looked up. "stay," he murmured. she hesitated a second, then stood with downcast eyes, which, hidden as they were, seemed to feel his ardent gaze fixed upon her. he still touched the keys gently, and then, without further prelude, he began in a low voice: "i wandered down the valley in the eventide, the birds were singing sweetly in the summer air, the river glided murm'ring to the ocean wide, but still no peace was there; for love lay lurking in the ferny brake; i saw him lying with his bow beside; he cried, 'sweetheart, we will never, never part!' by the river in the valley at the eventide. "i fled to the mountains, to the clouds and mist, where the eagle and the hawk share their solitary throne; 'here at least,' i cried, 'wicked love i can deride, he will leave me here at peace alone.' but love lay lurking in the clouds and mist; i heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side, ''tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am i, in every quiet valley, on every mountain side.'" with his eyes fixed on hers, he sang as if every word were addressed to her; his voice was like a flute, mellow and clear, and musical, but it was not the voice but the words that seemed to sink into stella's heart as she listened. it seemed to her as if he dared her to fly, to seek safety from him--his love, he seemed to say, would pursue her in every quiet valley, on every mountain side. for a moment she forgot lady lenore, forgot everything; she felt helpless beneath the spell of those dark eyes, the musical voice; her head drooped, her eyes closed. "'tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am i, in every quiet valley, on every mountain side." was it to be so with her? would his presence haunt her ever and everywhere? with a start she turned from him and glided swiftly to the couch as if seeking protection. lady lilian looked at her. "you are tired," she said. "i think i am," said stella. "leycester take her away; i will not have her wearied, or she will not come again. you will come again, will you not?" "yes," said stella, "i will come again." lord leycester stood beside the open door, but lilian still clung to her hand. "good-night," she said, and she put up her face. stella bent and kissed her. "good-night," she answered, and passed out. they went down the stairs in silence, and reached the fernery; then he stopped short. "will you not wait a moment here?" he said. stella shook her head. "it must be late," she said. "a moment only," he said. "let me feel that i have you to myself for a moment before you go--you have belonged to others until now." "no, no," she said--"i must go." and she moved on; but he put out his hand, and stopped her. "stella!" she turned, and looked at him most piteously; but he saw only her loveliness before him like a flower. "stella," he repeated, and he drew her nearer, "i must speak--i must tell you--i love you!" chapter xii. "i love you," he said. only three words, but only a woman can understand what those three words meant to stella. she was a girl--a mere child, as lady wyndward had said; never, save from her father's lips, had she heard those words before. even now she scarcely realized their full meaning. she only knew that his hand was upon her arm; that his eyes were fixed on hers with a passionate, pleading entreaty, combined with a masterful power which she felt unable to resist. white and almost breathless she stood, not downcast, for her eyes felt drawn to his, all her maidenly nature roused and excited by this first declaration of a man's love. "stella, i love you!" he repeated, and his voice sounded like some low, subtle music, which rang through her ears even after the words had died from his lips. pale and trembling she looked at him, and put her hand to gently force his grasp from her arm. "no, no!" she panted. "but it is 'yes,'" he said, and he took her other hand and held her a close prisoner, looking into the depths of the dark, wondering, troubled eyes. "i love you, stella." "no," she repeated again, almost inaudibly. "it is impossible!" "impossible!" he echoed, and a faint smile flitted across the eager face--a smile that seemed to intensify the passion in his eyes. "it seems to me impossible not to love you. stella, are you angry with me--offended? i have been too sudden, too rude and rough." at his tender pleading her eyes drooped for the first time. too rough, too rude! he, who seemed to her the type of knightly chivalry and courtesy. "i should have remembered how pure and delicate a flower my beautiful love was," he murmured. "i should have remembered that my love was a star, to be approached with reverence and awe, not taken by storm. i have been too presumptuous; but, oh, stella, you do not know what such love as mine is! it is like a mountain torrent hard to stem; it sweeps all before it. that is my love for you, stella. and now, what will you say to me?" as he spoke he drew her still nearer to him; she could feel his breath stirring her hair, could almost hear the passionate beating of his heart. what should she say to him? if she allowed her heart to speak she would hide her face upon his breast and whisper--"take me." but, girl as she was, she had some idea of all that divided them; the very place in which they stood was eloquent of the difference between them; between him, the future lord of wyndward, and she, the poor painter's niece. "will you not speak to me?" he murmured. "have you not a single word for me? stella, if you knew how i long to hear those beautiful lips answer me with the words i have spoken. stella, i would give all i possess in the world to hear you say, 'i love you!'" "no, no," she said, again, almost pantingly. "do not ask me--do not say any more. i--i cannot bear it!" his face flushed hotly for a moment, but he held her tightly, and his eyes searched hers for the truth. "does it pain you to hear that i love you?" he whispered. "are you angry, sorry? can you not love me, stella? oh, my darling!--let me call you my darling, mine, if only for once, for one short minute! see, you are mine, i hold you in both hands! be mine for a short minute at least, while you answer me. are you sorry? can you not give me a little love in return for all the love i bear you? cannot you, stella?" panting now, and with the rich color coming and going on her face, she looks this way and that like some wild, timid animal seeking to escape. "do not press me, do not force me to speak," she almost moans. "let me go now." "no, by heaven!" he says, almost fiercely. "you shall not, must not go, until you have answered me. tell me, stella, is it because i am nothing to you, and you do not like to tell me so? ah! better the truth at once, hard as it may be to bear, than suspense. tell me, stella." "it--it--is not that," she says, with drooping head. "what is it, then?" he whispers, and he bends his head to catch her faintly whispered words, so that his lips almost touch her face. from the drawing-room comes the sound of some one playing; it recalls all the grandeur of the scene, all the high mightiness of the house to which he belongs--of which he is so nearly the head, and it gives her strength. slowly she raises her head and looks at him. there is infinite tenderness, infinite yearning, and suppressed maidenly passion in her eyes. "it is not that," she says. "but--do you forget?" "forget!" he asks, patiently, gently, though his eyes are burning with impetuous eagerness. "do you forget who i am--who you are?" she says, faintly. "i forget everything except that you are to me the most lovely and precious of creatures on god's earth," he says, passionately. then, with a touch of his characteristic pride, "what need have i to remember anything else, stella?" "but i have," she said. "oh yes, it is for me to remember. i cannot--i ought not to forget. it is for me to remember. i am only stella etheridge, an artist's niece, a nobody--an insignificant girl, and you--oh, lord leycester!" "and i?" he says, as if ready to meet her fairly at every point. "and you!"--she looks around--"you are a nobleman; will be the lord of all this beautiful place--of all that you were showing me the other day. you should not, ought not to tell me that--that--what you have told me." he bent over her, and his hand closed on her arm with a masterful caressing touch. "you mean that because i am what i am--that because i am rich i am to be made poor; because i have so much--too much, that the one thing on earth which would make the rest worth having is to be denied me." he laughed almost fiercely. "better to be the poorest son of the soil than lord of many acres, if that were true, stella. but it is not. i do not care whether i am rich or poor, noble or nameless--yes, i do! i am glad for your sake. i have never cared before. i have never realized it before, but i do now. i am glad now. do you know why?" she shook her head, her eyes downcast. "because i can lay them all at your feet," and as he speaks he bends on one knee beside her and draws her hand with trembling hands to his heart. "see, stella, i lay them at your feet. i say take them, if you think them worth--take them, and make them worth having; no, i say rather, share them with me? set against your love, my darling, title, lands, wealth--are all worthless dross to me. give me your love, stella; i must, i will have it!" and he presses a passionate clinging kiss on her hand. frightened by his vehemence, stella draws her hand away and shrinks back. he rises and draws her to a seat, standing beside her calm and penitent. "forgive me, stella! i frighten you! see, i will be quite gentle and quiet--only listen to me!" "no, no," she murmurs, trembling, "i must not. think--if--if--i said what you wish me to say, how could i meet the countess? what would they say to me? they would blame me for stealing your love." "you have not stolen; no nun from a convent could have been more free from artifice than you, stella. you have stolen nothing; it is i who have _given_--given you all." she shook her head. "it is the same," she murmured. "they would be so displeased. oh, it cannot be." "it cannot be?" he repeated, with a smile. "but it has already come to pass. am i one to love and unlove in a breath, stella? look at me!" she raises her eyes, and meets his eager, passionate gaze. "do i look like one to be swayed as a reed by any passing wind, gentle or rough? no, stella, such love as i feel for you is not to be turned aside. even if you were to tell me that you do not, cannot love me, my love would not die; it has taken root in my heart--it has become part of myself. there is not one hour since i saw you that i have not thought about you. stella, you have come to me even in my sleep; i have dreamed that you whispered to me, 'i love you.' let the dream be a true one. oh, my life, my darling, let your heart speak, if it is to say that it loves me. see, stella, you are all the world to me--do not rob me of happiness. you do not doubt my love?" doubt his love! that was not possible for her to do, since every word, every look, bore the impress of truth. but still she would not yield. even as he spoke, she fancied she could see the stern face of the earl looking at her with hard condemnation--could see the beautiful eyes of the countess looking down at her with cold displeasure and wondering, amazed scorn. footsteps were approaching, and she rose hurriedly, to fly from him if need be. but lord leycester was not a man to be turned aside. as she rose he took her arm gently, tenderly, with loving persuasion, and drew her near to him. "come with me," he said. "do not leave me for a moment. see, the door is open--it is quite warm. we shall be alone here. oh, my darling, do not leave me in suspense." she was powerless to resist, and he led her on to the terrace outside. out into the dusky night, odorous with the breath of the flowers, and mystical in the dim light of the stars. a gentle summer, zephyr-like air stirred the trees; the sound of the water falling over the weir came like music up the hillside. a nightingale sang in the woods below them; all the night seemed full of slumberous passion and unspoken love. "we are alone here, stella," he murmured. "now answer me. listen once more, darling! i am not tired of telling you; i shall never tire of it. listen! i love you--i love you!" the stars grew dull and misty before her eyes, the charm of his voice, of his presence, was stealing over her; the passionate love which burnt in her heart for him was finding its way through cool prudence, her lips were tremulous. a sigh, long and deep, broke from them. "i love you!" he replied, as if the words were a spell, as indeed they were--a spell not to be resisted. "give me your answer, stella. come close to me. whisper it! whisper 'i love you,' or send me away. but you will not do that; no, you shall not do that!" and forgetful of his vow to be gentle with her, he put his arm round her, drew her to him and--kissed her. it was the first kiss. a thrill ran through her, the sky seemed to sink, the whole night to pause as if it were waiting. with a little shudder of exquisite pleasure, mingled with that subtle pain which ecstasy always brings in its train, she laid her head upon his breast, and hiding her eyes, murmured-- "i love you!" if the words meant much to him--to him the man of the world before whom many a beautiful woman had been ready to bow with complaisant homage--if they meant much to him, how much more did they mean to her? all her young maiden faith spoke in those three words. with them she surrendered her young, pure life, her unstained, unsullied heart to him. with a passion as intense as his own, she repaid him tenfold. for a moment he was silent, his eyes fixed on the stars, his whole being thrilling under the music--the joy of this simple avowal. then he pressed her to him, and poured a shower of kisses upon her hair and upon her arm which lay across his breast. "my darling, my darling!" he murmured. "is it really true? can i--dare i believe it: you love me? oh, my darling, the whole world seems changed to me. you love me! see, stella, it seems so wonderful that i cannot realize it. let me see your eyes, i shall find the truth there." she pressed still closer to him, but he raised her head gently--in his very touch was a caress, and it was as if his hands kissed her--and looked long into the rapt, upturned eyes. then he bent his head slowly, and kissed her once--hungrily, clingingly. stella's eyes closed and her face paled under that passionate caress, then slowly and with a little sigh she raised her head and kissed him back again, kiss for kiss. no word was spoken; side by side, with her head upon his breast, they stood in silence. for them time had vanished, the whole world seemed to stand still. half amazed, with a dim wonder at this new delight which had entered her life, stella watched the stars and listened to the music of the river. something had happened to change her whole existence, it was as if the old stella whom she knew so well had gone, and a new being, wonderfully blessed, wonderfully happy, had taken her place. and as for him, for the man of the world, he too stood amazed, overwhelmed by the new-born joy. if any one had told him that life held such a moment for him, he would not have believed it; he who had, as he thought, drained the cup of earthly pleasure to the dregs. his blood ran wildly through his veins, his heart beat madly. "at last," he murmured; "this is love." but suddenly the awakening came. with a start she looked up at him and strove to free herself, vainly, from his embrace. "what have i done?" she whispered, with awe-subdued voice. "done!" he murmured, with a rapt smile. "made one man happier than he ever dreamed it possible for mortal to be. that is all." "ah, no!" she said; "i have done wrong! i am afraid!--afraid!" "afraid of what? there is nothing to make you afraid. can you speak of fear while you are in my arms--with your head on my breast? lean back, my darling; now speak of fear." "yes, even now," she whispered. "now--and i am so happy!" she broke off to herself, but he heard her. "so happy! is it all a dream? tell me." he bent and kissed her. "is it a dream, do you think?" he answered. the crimson dyed her face and neck, and her eyes drooped. "and you are happy?" he said. "think what i must be. for a man's love is deeper, more passionate than a woman's, stella. think what i must be!" she sighed and looked up at him. "but still it is wrong! i fear that. all the world will say that." "all the world!" he echoed, with smiling scorn. "what have we to do with the world? we two stand outside, beyond it. our world is love--is our two selves, my darling." "all the world," she said. "ah! what will they say?" and instinctively she glanced over her shoulder at the great house with the glow of light streaming from its many windows. "even now--now they are wondering where you are, expecting, waiting for you. what would they say if they knew you were here with me--and--and all that has happened?" his eyes darkened. he knew better than she, with all her fears, what they would say, and already he was braving himself to meet the storm, but he smiled to re-assure her. "they will say that i am the most fortunate of men. they will say that the gods have lavished their good gifts with both hands--they have given me all the things that you make so much of, and the greatest of all things--the true sole love of a pure, beautiful angel." "oh, hush, hush!" she murmured. "you are an angel to me," he said, simply. "i am not worthy to touch the hem of your dress! if i could but live my worthless, sinful life over again, for your sake, my darling, it should be purer and a little less unworthy of you." "oh, hush!" she murmured. "you unworthy of me! you are my king!" strong man as he was he was stirred and moved to the depths of his being at the simple words, eloquent of her absolute trust and devotion. "my stella," he murmured, "if you knew all; but see, my life is yours from henceforth. i place it in your hands, mold it as you will. it is yours henceforth." she was looking at him, all her soul in her eyes, and at his words of passionate protestation, a sudden thrill ran through her, then as instantly, as if a sudden cold hand had come between them, she shivered. "mine," she breathed, fearfully, "until they snatch it from me." chapter xiii. he started. the words had almost the solemnity of a prophesy. "who will dare?" he said; then he laughed. "my little, fearsome, trembling darling!" he murmured, "fear nothing or rather, tell me what you fear, and whom." she glanced toward the windows. "i fear them all!" she said, quietly and simply. "my father?" she inclined her head and let her head fall upon his shoulder. "the countess, all of them. lord leycester----" he put his hand upon her lips softly. "what was that i heard?" he said, with tender reproach. she looked up. "leycester," she whispered. he nodded. "would to heaven the name stood alone," he said, almost bitterly. "the barrier you fancy stands between us would vanish and fade away then. never, even in sport, call me by my title again, my darling, or i shall hate it!" she smiled. "i shall never forget it," she said. "they will not let me. i am not lady lenore." he started slightly, then looked down at her. "thank heaven, no!" he said, with a smile. stella smiled almost sadly. "she might forget; she is noble too. how beautiful she is!" "is she?" he said, smiling down at her. "to me there is only one beautiful face in the world, and--it is here," and he touched it with his finger--"here--my very own. but what is lenore to us to-night, my darling? why do you speak of her?" "because--shall i tell you?" he nodded, looking down at her. "because they said--lady lilian said, that----" she stopped. "well?" "that they wished you to marry her," she whispered. he laughed, his short laugh. "she might say the same of several young ladies," he said. "my mother is very anxious on the point. yes, but wishes are not horses, or one could probably be persuaded to mount and ride as their parents wish them--don't that sound wise and profound? i shall not ride to lady lenore; i have ridden to your feet, my darling!" "and you will never ride away again," she murmured. "never," he said. "here, by your side, i shall remain while life lasts!" "while life lasts!" she repeated, as if the words were music. "i shall have you near me always. ah, it sounds too beautiful! too beautiful!" "but it will be true," he said. the clock chimed the hour. stella started. "so late!" she said, with a little sigh. "i must go!" and she glanced at the windows with a little shudder. "if i could but steal away without seeing them--without being seen! i feel--" she paused, and the crimson covered her face and neck--"as if they had but to glance at me to know--to know what has happened," and she trembled. "are you so afraid?" he said. "really so afraid? well, why should they know?" she looked up eagerly. "oh, no, do not let them know! why should we tell them; it--it is like letting them share in our happiness; it is our secret, is it not?" "let us keep it," he said, quietly, musingly. "why should they know, indeed! let us keep the world outside, for a while at least. you and i alone in our love, my darling." with his arm round her they went back to the fernery, and here she drew away from him, but not until he had taken another kiss. "it is our real 'good night,' you know," he said; "the 'good-night' we shall say presently will mean nothing. this is our 'good-night.' happy dreams, my angel, my star!" stella clung to him for a moment with a little reluctant sigh, then she looked up at him with a smile. "i am afraid i am awfully tumbled and tangled," she said, putting her hand to her hair. he smoothed the silken threads with his hand, and as he did so drew the rose from her hair. "this is mine," he murmured, and he put it in his coat. "oh, no!" she exclaimed. "and this is how you keep our secret! do you not think every eye would notice that great rose, and know whence it came?" "yes, yes, i see," he said. "after all, a woman is the one for a secret--the man is not in the field; but then it will be safe here," and he put the rose inside the breast of his coat. then trying to look as if nothing had happened, trying to look as if the whole world had not become changed for her, stella sauntered into the drawing-room by his side. and it really seemed as if no one had noticed their entrance. stella felt inclined to congratulate herself, not taking into consideration the usages of high breeding, which enable so many people to look as if they were unaware of an entrance which they had been expecting for an hour since. "no one seems to notice," she whispered behind her fan, but lord leycester smiled--he knew better. she walked up the room, and lord leycester stopped before a picture and pointed to it; but he did not speak of the picture--instead, he murmured: "will you meet me by the stile by the river to-morrow evening, stella?" "yes," she murmured. "i will bring the boat, and we will row down the stream. will you come at six o'clock?" "yes," she said again. if he asked her to meet him on the banks of the styx, she would have answered as obediently. then mr. etheridge approached with the countess, and before he could speak lord leycester took the bull by the horns, as it were. "lilian is delighted with the sketch," he said. "we left her filled with gratitude, did we not miss etheridge?" stella inclined her head. the large, serene eyes of the countess seemed to penetrate to the bottom of her heart and read her--their--secret already. "i think we must be going, stella; the fly has been waiting some time," said her uncle in his quiet fashion. "so soon!" murmured the countess. but mr. etheridge glanced at the clock with a smile, and stella held out her hand. as she did so, she felt rather than saw the graceful form of lady lenore coming toward them. "are you going, miss etheridge?" she said, her clear voice full of regret. "we have seen so little of you; and i meant to ask you so much about italy. i am so sorry." and as she spoke, she looked full into poor stella's eyes. for a moment stella was silent and downcast, then she raised her eyes and held out her hand. "it is late," she murmured. "yes, we must go." as she looked up, she met the gaze of the violet eyes, and almost started, for there seemed to be shining in them a significant smile of mocking scorn and contemptuous amusement; they seemed to say, quite plainly: "you think that no one knows your secret. you think that you have triumphed, that you have won him. poor simple child, poor fool. wait and see!" if ever eyes spoke, this is what lady lenore's seemed to say in that momentary glance, and as stella turned aside, her face paled slightly. "you must come and see us again, miss etheridge," said the countess, graciously. "lilian has extorted a solemn promise to that effect," said leycester, as he shook hands with mr. etheridge. then he held out his hand to stella, but in spite of prudence he could not part from her till the last moment. "let me take you to your carriage," he said, "and see that you are well wrapped up." the countess's eyes grew cold, and she looked beyond them rather than at them, and stella murmured something about trouble, but he laughed softly, and drawing her hand on his arm led her away. all the room saw it, and a sort of thrill ran through them; it was an attention he paid only to such old and honored friends as the old countess and lenore. "oh, why did you come?" whispered stella, as they reached the hall. "the countess looked so angry." he smiled. "i could not help it. there, not a word more. now let me wrap this round you;" and, of course, as he wrapped it round her, he managed to convey a caress in the touch of his hand. "remember, my darling," he murmured, almost dangerously loud, as he put her into the fly. "to-morrow at six." then he stood bareheaded, and the last stella saw was the light of tender, passionate love burning in his dark eyes. she sank back in the furthermost corner of the fly in silent, rapt reflection. was it all a dream? was it only a trick of fancy, or did she feel his passionate kisses on her lips and face entangled in her hair. had she really heard lord leycester wyndward declare that he loved her? "are you asleep, stella?" said her uncle, and she started. "no, not asleep, dear," she said. "but--but tired and so happy!" the word slipped out before she was aware of it. but the unsuspecting recluse did not notice the thrill of joy in the tone of her reply. "ah, yes, just so, i daresay. it was something new and strange to you. it is a beautiful place. by the way, what do you think of lady lenore?" stella started. "oh, she is very beautiful, and as wonderful as you said, dear," she murmured. "yes, isn't she. she will make a grand countess, will she not?" "what!" said stella. he smiled. "wonderful creatures women are, to be sure. for the life of me i could not tell in exact words how the countess managed to give me the impression, but she did give it me, and unmistakably." "what impression!" said stella. he laughed. "that matters were settled between lord leycester and lady lenore, and that they were to be married. they will make a fine match, will they not?" "yes--no--i mean yes," said stella, and a happy smile came into her eyes as she leant back. no, it was not lady lenore he was going to marry--not the great beauty with the golden hair and violet eyes, but a little mere nobody, called stella etheridge. she leant back and hugged her secret to her bosom and caressed it. the fly trundled along after the manner of flys, and stopped at last at the white gate in the lane. mr. etheridge got out and held his hand for stella, and she leapt out. as she did so, she uttered a slight cry, for a tall figure was standing beside the gate in the light by the lamps. "bless my soul, what's the matter?" exclaimed mr. etheridge, turning round. "oh, it's you, mr. adelstone." "i am very sorry to have startled you, miss stella," said jasper adelstone, and he came forward with his hat raised by his left hand; his right was in a sling. stella's gentle eyes saw it, and her face paled. "i was taking a stroll through the meadows and looked in. mrs. penfold said that you had gone to the hall. coming back from the river i heard the fly, and waited to say 'good-night.'" "it is very kind," murmured stella, her eyes still fixed on the useless arm with a kind of fascination. "come in and have a cigar," said mr. etheridge. "ah! what is the matter with your arm, man?" jasper looked at him, then turned his small keen eyes on stella's face. "a mere trifle," he said. "i--met with an accident the other day and sprained it. it is a mere nothing. no, i won't come in, thanks. by-the-way, i'm nearly forgetting a most important matter," and he put his left hand in his pocket and drew something out. "i met the post-office boy in the lane, and he gave me this to save his legs," and he held out a telegram envelope. "a telegram for me!" exclaimed mr. etheridge. "wonders will never cease. come inside, mr. adelstone." but jasper shook his head. "i will wish you good-night, now," he said. "will you excuse my left hand, miss stella?" he added, as he extended it. stella took it; it was burning, hot, and dry. "i am so sorry," she said, in a low voice. "i cannot tell how sorry i am!" "do not think of it," he said. "pray forget it, as--i do," he added, with hidden irony. "it is a mere nothing." stella looked down. "and i am sure that--lord leycester is sorry." "no doubt," he said. "i am quite sure lord leycester did not want to break my arm. but, indeed, i was rightly punished for my carelessness, though, i assure you, that i should have pulled up in time." "yes, yes; i am sure of that. i am sure i was in no danger," said stella, earnestly. "yes," he said, in a low voice. "there was really no necessity for lord leycester to throw me off my horse, or even to insult me. but lord leycester is a privileged person, is he not?" "i--i don't know what you mean!" said stella, faintly. "i mean that lord leycester may do things with impunity which others cannot even think of," and his sharp eyes grew to her face, which stella felt was growing crimson. "i--i am sure he will be very sorry," she said, "when he knows how much you are hurt, and he will apologize most sincerely." "i have no doubt," he said, lightly, "and, after all, it is something to have one's arm sprained by lord leycester wyndward, is it not? it is better than a broken heart." "a broken heart! what do you mean?" said stella, her face flushed, her eyes challenging his with a touch of indignation. he smiled. "i meant that lord leycester is as skilled in breaking hearts as limbs. but i forgot i must not say anything against the heir to wyndward in your hearing. pray forgive me. good-night." and, with a bow and a keen look from his small eyes, he moved away. stella stood looking after him for a moment, and a shiver ran through her as if from a cold wind. breaking hearts! what did he mean? an exclamation from her uncle caused her to turn suddenly. he was standing in the light of the window, with the open telegram in his hand, his face pale and anxious. "great heaven!" he muttered, "what am i to do?" chapter xiv. "what shall i do?" exclaimed mr. etheridge. stella came to him quickly, with a little cry of dismay. "what is it, uncle? are you ill--is it bad news? oh, what is the matter?" and she looked up into his pale and agitated face with anxious concern. his gaze was fixed on vacancy, but there was more than abstraction in his eyes--there was acute pain and anguish. "what is it, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "pray tell me." at the words he started slightly, and crushed the telegram in his hand. "no, no!" he said--"anything but that." then, composing himself with an effort, he pressed her hand and smiled faintly. "yes, it is bad news, stella; it is always bad news that a telegram brings." stella led him in; his hands were trembling, and the dumb look of pain still clouded his eyes. "will you not tell me what it is?" she murmured, as he sank into his accustomed chair and leant his white head on his hand. "tell me what it is, and let me help you to bear it by sharing it with you." and she wound her arm around his neck. "don't ask me, stella. i can't tell you--i cannot. the shame would kill me. no! no!" "shame!" murmured stella, her proud, lovely face paling, as she shrank back a little; but the next moment she pressed closer to him, with a sad smile. "not shame for you, dear; shame and you were never meant to come together." he started, and raised his head. "yes, shame!" he repeated, almost fiercely, his hands clinched--"such bitter, debasing shame and disgrace. for the first time the name we have held for so many years will be stained and dragged in the dirt. what shall i do?" and he hid his face in his hands. then, with a sudden start, he rose, and looked round with trembling eagerness. "i--i must go to london," he said, brokenly. "what is the time? so late! is there no train? stella, run and ask mrs. penfold. i must go at once--at once; every moment is of consequence." "go to london--to-night--so late? oh, you cannot!" exclaimed stella, aghast. "my dear, i must," he said more calmly. "it is urgent, most urgent business that calls for me, and i must go." stella stole out of the room, and was about to wake mrs. penfold, when she remembered having seen a time-table in the kitchen, and stealing down-stairs again, hunted until she found it. when she took it into the studio, she found her uncle standing with his hat on and his coat buttoned. "give it to me," he said. "there is a train, an early market train that i can catch if i start at once," and with trembling fingers he turned over the pages of the time-book. "yes, i must go, stella." "but not alone, uncle!" she implored. "not alone, surely. you will let me come with you." he put his hand upon her arm and kissed her, his eyes moist. "stella, i must go alone; no one can help me in this matter. there are some troubles that we must meet unaided except by a higher power; this is one of them. heaven bless you, my dear; you help me to bear it with your loving sympathy. i wish i could tell you, but i cannot, stella--i cannot." "do not then, dear," she whispered. "you will not be away long?" "not longer than i can help," he sighed. "you will be quite safe, stella?" "safe!" and she smiled sadly. "mrs. penfold must take care of you. i don't like leaving you, but it cannot be helped! child, i did not think to have a secret from you so soon!" at the words stella started, and a red flush came over her face. she, too, had a secret, and as it flashed into her mind, from whence the sudden trouble had momentarily banished it, her heart beat fast and her eyes drooped. "there should be no secrets between us two," he said. "but--there--there--don't look so troubled, my dear. i shall not be long gone." she clung to him to the last, until indeed the little white gate had closed behind him, then she went back to the house and sat down in his chair, and sat pondering and trembling. for a time the secret trouble which had befallen her uncle absorbed all her mind and care, but presently the memory of all that had happened to her that evening awoke and overcame her sorrow, and she sat with clasped hands and drooping head recalling the handsome face and passionate voice of lord leycester. it was all so wonderful, so unreal, that it seemed like a stage play, in which the magnificent house formed the scene and the noble men and women the players, with the tall, stalwart, graceful form of lord leycester for the hero. it was difficult to realize that she too took a part, so to speak, in the drama, that she was, in fact, the heroine, and that it was to her that all the passionate vows of the young lord had been spoken. she could feel his burning kisses on her lips; could feel the touch of the clinging, lingering caresses on her neck; yes, it was all real; she loved lord leycester, and he, strange and wonderful to add, loved her. why should he do it? she marveled. who was she that he should deign to shower down upon her such fervent admiration and passionate devotion? mechanically she rose and went over to the venetian mirror, and looked at the reflection which beamed softly in the dim light. he had called her beautiful, lovely! she shook her head and smiled with a sigh as she thought of lady lenore. there were beauty and loveliness indeed! how had it happened that he had passed her by, and chosen her, stella? but it was so, and wonder, and gratitude and love welled up in her heart and filled her eyes with those tears which show that the cup of human happiness is full to overflowing. the clock struck the hour, and with a sigh, as she thought of her uncle, she turned from the glass. she felt that she could not go to bed; it was far pleasanter to sit up in the stillness and silence and think--think! to take one little incident after another, and go over it slowly and enjoyingly. she wandered about her room in this frame of mind, filled with happiness one moment as she thought of the great good which the gods had given unto her, then overwhelmed by a wave of troubled anxiety as she remembered that her uncle, the old man whose goodness to her had won her love, was speeding on the journey toward his secret trouble and sorrow. wandering thus she suddenly bethought her of a picture that stood with its face to the wall, and swooping down on it, as one does on a suddenly remembered treasure, she took up leycester wyndward's portrait, and gazing long and eagerly at it, suddenly bent and kissed it. she knew now what the smile in those dark eyes meant; she knew now how the lovelight could flash from them. "uncle was right," she murmured with a smile that was half sad. "there is no woman who could resist those eyes if they said 'i love you.'" she put the portrait down upon the cabinet, so that she could see it when she chose to look at it, and abstractedly began to set the room in order, putting a picture straight here and setting the books upon their shelves, stopping occasionally to glance at the handsome eyes watching her from the top of the cabinet. as often happens when the mind is set on one thing and the hands upon another, she met with an accident. in one corner of the room stood a three-cornered what-not of japanese work, inclosed by doors inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl; in attempting to set a bronze straight upon the top of this piece of furniture while she looked at the portrait of her heart's lord and master, she let the bronze slip, and in the endeavor to save it from falling, overturned the what-not. it fell with the usual brittle sounding crash which accompanies the overthrow of such bric-a-brac, and the doors being forced open, out poured a miscellaneous collection of valuable but useless articles. with a little exclamation of self-reproach and dismay, stella went down on her knees to collect the scattered curios. they were of all sorts; bits of old china from japan, medals, and coins of ancient date, and some miniatures in carved frames. stella eyed each article as she picked it up with anxious criticism, but fortunately nothing appeared the worse for the downfall, and she was putting the last thing, a miniature, in its accustomed place, when the case flew open in her hand and a delicately painted portrait on ivory looked up at her. scarcely glancing at it, she was about to replace it in the case, when an inscription on the back caught her eye, and she carried case and miniature to the light. the portrait was that of a boy, a fair-haired boy, with a smiling mouth and laughing blue eyes. it was a pretty face, and stella turned it over to read the inscription. it consisted of only one word, "frank." stella looked at the face again listlessly, but suddenly something in it--a resemblance to someone whom she knew, and that intimately--flashed upon her. she looked again more curiously. yes, there could be no doubt of it; the face bore a certain likeness to that of her uncle. not only to her uncle, but to herself, for raising her eyes from the portrait to the mirror she saw a vague something--in expression only perhaps--looking at her from the glass as it did from the portrait. "frank, frank," she murmured; "i know no one of that name. who can it be?" she went back to the cabinet, and took out the other miniatures, but they were closed, and the spring which she had touched accidentally of the one of the boy she could not find in the others. there was an air of mystery about the matter, which not a little heightened by the lateness of the hour and the solemn silence that reigned in the house, oppressed and haunted her. with a little gesture of repudiation she put the boy's face into its covering, and replaced it in the cabinet. as she did so she glanced up at that other face smiling down at her, and started, and a sudden thought, half-weird, half-prophetical, flashed across her mind. it was the portrait of lord leycester which had greeted her on the night of her arrival, and foreshadowed all that had happened to her. was there anything of significance in this chance discovery of the child's face? with a smile of self-reproach she put the fantastic idea from her, and setting the beloved face in its place amongst the other canvases, took the candle from the table, and stole quietly up-stairs. but when she slept the boy's face haunted her, and mingled in her dreams with that of lord leycester's. chapter xv. lord leycester stood for a minute or two looking after the carriage that bore stella and her uncle away; then he returned to the house. they were a hot-headed race, these wyndwards, and leycester was, to put it mildly, as little capable of prudence or calculation as any of his line; but though his heart was beating fast, and the vision of the beautiful girl in all her young unstained loveliness danced before his eyes as he crossed the hall, even he paused a moment to consider the situation. with a grim smile he felt forced to confess that it was rather a singular one. the heir of wyndward, the hope of the house, the heir to an ancient name and a princely estate, had plighted his troth to the niece of a painter--a girl, be she beautiful as she might, without either rank or wealth, to recommend her to his parents! he might have chosen from the highest and the wealthiest; the highest and the wealthiest had been, so to speak, at his feet. he knew that no dearer wish existed in his mother's heart of hearts than that he should marry and settle. well, he was going to marry and settle. but what a marriage and settlement it would be! instead of adding luster to the already illustrious name, instead of adding power to the already influential race of wyndward, it would, in the earl and countess's eyes, in the opinion of the world, be nothing but a mesalliance. he paused in the corridor, the two footmen eying him with covert and respectful attention, and a smile curved his lips as he pictured to himself the manner in which the proud countess would receive his avowal of love for stella etheridge, the painter's niece. even as it was, he was quite conscious that he had gone very far indeed this evening toward provoking the displeasure of the countess. he had almost neglected the brilliant gathering for the sake of this unknown girl; he had left his mother's oldest friends, even lady lenore herself, to follow stella. how would they receive him? with a smile half-defiant, half anticipatory of amusement, he motioned to the servants to withdraw the curtain, and entered the room. some of the ladies had already retired; lady longford had gone for one, but lady lenore still sat on her couch attended by a circle of devoted adherents. as he entered, the countess, without seeming to glance at him, saw him, and noticed the peculiar expression on his face. it was the expression which it always wore when he was on the brink of some rashly mad exploit. leycester had plenty of courage--too much, some said. he walked straight up to the countess, and stood over her. "well, mother," he said, almost as if he were challenging her, "what do you think of her?" the countess lifted her serene eyes and looked at him. she would not pretend to be ignorant of whom he meant. "of miss etheridge?" she said. "i have not thought about her. if i had, i should say that she was a very pleasant-looking girl." "pleasant-looking!" he echoed, and his eyebrows went up. "that is a mild way of describing her. she is more than pleasant." "that is enough for a young girl in her position," said the countess. "or in any," said a musical voice behind him, and lord leycester, turning round, saw lady lenore. "that was well said," he said, nodding. "she is more than pleasant," said lady lenore, smiling at him as if he had won her warmest approbation by neglecting her all the evening. "she is very pretty, beautiful, indeed, and so--may i say the word, dear lady wyndward?--so fresh!" the countess smiled with her even brows unclouded. "a school-girl should be fresh, as you put it lenore, or she is nothing." lord leycester looked from one to the other, and his gaze rested on lady lenore's superb beauty with a complacent eye. to say that a man in love is blind to all women other than the one of his heart is absurd. it is not true. he had never admired lady lenore more than he did this moment when she spoke in stella's defense; but he admired her while he loved stella. "you are right, lenore," he said. "she is beautiful." "i admire her exceedingly," said lady lenore, smiling at him as if she knew his secret and approved of it. the countess glanced from one to the other. "it is getting late," she said. "you must go now, lenore." lady lenore bowed her head. she, like all else who came within the circle of the mistress of wyndward, obeyed her. "very well, i am a little tired. good-night!" lord leycester took her hand, but held it a moment. he felt grateful to her for the word spoken on stella's behalf. "let me see you to the corridor," said lord leycester. and with a bow which comprehended the other occupants of the room, he accompanied her. they walked in silence to the foot of the stairs, then lady lenore held out her hand. "good-night," she said, "and happy dreams." he looked at her curiously. was there any significance in her words?--did she know all that had passed between stella and himself? but nothing more significant met his scrutiny than the soft languor of her eyes, and pressing her hand as he bent over it, he murmured: "i wish you the same." she nodded smilingly to him, and went away, and he turned back to the hall. as he did so the billiard-room door opened, and lord charles put out his head. "one game, ley?" he said. lord leycester shook his head. "not to-night, charlie." lord charles looked at him, then laughed, and withdrew his head. leycester sauntered down the hall and back again; he felt very restless and disinclined for bed; stella's voice was ringing in his ears, stella's lips still clung with that last soft caress to his. he could not face the laughter and hard voices of the billiard-room; it would be profanation! with a sudden turn he went lightly up the stairs and entered his own room. throwing himself into a chair, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, to call up a vision of the girl who had rested on his breast--whose sweet, pure lips had murmured "i love you!" "my darling!" he whispered--"my darling love! i have never known it till now. and i shall see you to-morrow, and hear you whisper that again, 'i love you!' and it's me she loves, not the viscount and heir to wyndward, but _me_, leycester! leycester--it was a hard, ugly name until she spoke it--now it sounds like music. stella, my star, my angel!" suddenly his reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. with a start, he came back to reality, and got up, but before he could reach the door it opened, and the countess came in. "not in bed?" she said, with a smile. "i have only just come up," he replied. the countess smiled again. "you have been up nearly half an hour." he was almost guilty of a blush. "so long!" he said, "i must have been thinking." and he laughed, as he drew a chair forward. he waited until she was seated before he resumed his own; never, by word or deed, did he permit himself to grow lax in courtesy to her; and then he looked up at her with a smile. "have you come for a chat, my lady?" he said, calling her by her title in the mock-serious way in which he was accustomed to address her when they were alone. "yes, i have come for a chat, leycester," she said, quietly. "does that mean a scold?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, but still smiling. "your tone is suspicious, mother. well, i am at your mercy." "i have nothing to scold you for," said the countess, leaning back in the comfortable chair--all the chairs were comfortable in these rooms of his. "do you feel that you deserve one?" lord leycester was silent. if he had answered he might have been compelled to admit that perhaps there was some excuse for complaint in regard to his conduct that evening; silence was safest. "no, i have not come to scold you, leycester. i don't think i have ever done that," said the countess, softly. "no, you have been the best of mothers, my lady," he responded. "i never saw you in an ill temper in my life; perhaps that is why you look so young. you do look absurdly young, you know," he added, gazing at her with affectionate admiration. when the countess seemed lost in thought, leycester added: "devereux says that the majority of english wives and mothers look so girlish that he believes it must be the custom to marry them when they are children." the countess smiled. "lord devereux is master of fine phrases, leycester. yes, i was married very young." then she looked round the room: a strange reluctance to commence the task she had set herself took possession of her. "you have made your rooms very pretty, leycester." he leant back, watching her with a smile. "you haven't come to talk about my rooms, mother." then she straightened herself for her work. "no, leycester, i have come to talk about you." "rather an uninteresting subject. however, proceed." "you may make it very hard for me," said the countess, with a little sigh. he smiled. "then you have come to scold?" "no, only to advise." "that is generally the same thing under another name." "i do not often do it," said the countess, in a low voice. "forgive me," he said, stooping forward and kissing her. "now, mother, fire away. what is it? not about that race money--you don't want me to give up the horses?" the countess smiled almost scornfully. "why should i, leycester; they cost a great deal of money, but if they amuse you, why----" and she shrugged her shoulders slightly. "they do cost a great deal of money," he said, with a laugh, "but i don't know that they amuse me very much. i don't think anything amuses me very greatly." then the countess looked at him. "when a man talks like that, leycester, it generally means that it is time he was married!" he half expected what was coming, but he looked grave; nevertheless he turned to her with a smile. "isn't that rather a desperate remedy, my lady?" he said. "i can give up my horses if they cease to amuse me and bore me too much; i can give up most of the other so-called amusements, but marriage--supposing that should fail? it would be rather serious." "why should it fail?" "it does sometimes," he retorted, gravely. "not when love enters into it," she answered, gently. he was silent, his eyes bent on the ground, from which seemed to rise a slim, girlish figure, with stella's face and eyes. "there is no greater happiness than that which marriage affords when one is married to the person one loves. do you think your father has been unhappy, leycester?" he turned to her with a smile. "every man--few men have his luck, my lady. will you find me another lady ethel?" she colored. this was a direct question, and she longed to answer it, but she dared not--not just yet. "the world is full of fond, loving women," she said. he nodded. he thought he knew one at least, and his eyes went to that mental vision of stella again. "leycester, i want to see you married and settled," she murmured, after a pause. "it is time; it is fitting that you should be. i'll put the question of your own happiness aside for the moment; there are other things at stake." "you would not like me to be the last earl of wyndward, mother? the title would die with me, would it not?" "yes," she said. "that must not be, leycester." he shook his head with a quiet smile. no, it should not be, he thought. "i wonder," she continued, "that the thing has not come about before this, and without any word of mine. i don't think you are very hard-hearted, unimpressionable, leycester. you and i have met some beautiful women, and some good and pure ones. i should not have been surprised if you had come to me with the confession of your conquest long ago. you would have come to me, would you not, leycester?" she asked. a faint flush stole over his face, and his eyes dropped slightly. he did not answer for a moment, and she went on as if he had assented. "i should have been very glad to have heard of it. i should have welcomed your choice very heartily." "are you sure?" he said, almost mechanically. "quite," she answered, serenely. "your wife will be a second daughter to me, i hope, leycester. i know that i should love her if you do; are we ever at variance?" "never until to-night," he might have answered, but he remained silent. what if he should turn to her with the frank openness with which he had gone to her in all his troubles and joys, and say: "i have made my choice--welcome her. she is stella etheridge, the painter's daughter." but he could not do this; he knew so well how she would have looked at him, saw already with full prophetic insight the calm, serene smile of haughty incredulity with which she would have received his demand. he was silent. "you wonder why i speak to you about this to-night, leycester?" "a little," he said, with a smile that had very little mirth in it; he felt that he was doing what he had never done before--concealing his heart from her, meeting her with secrecy and evasion, and his proud, finely-tempered mind revolted at the necessity for it. "a little. i was just considering that i had not grown older by a score of years, and had not been doing anything particularly wild. have they been telling you any dreadful stories about me, mother, and persuading you that matrimony is the only thing to save me from ruin?" and he laughed. the countess colored. "no one tells me any stories respecting you, leycester, for the simple reason that i should not listen to them. i have nothing to do with--with your outer life, unless you yourself make me part and parcel of it. i am not afraid that you will do anything bad or dishonorable, leycester." "thanks," he said, quietly. "then what is it, mother? why does this advice press so closely on your soul that you feel constrained to unburden yourself?" "because i feel that the time has come," she said; "because i have your happiness and welfare so closely at heart that i am obliged to watch over you, and secure them for you if i can." "there never was a mother like you!" he said, gently. "but this is a serious step, my lady, and i am--shall i say slightly unprepared. you speak to me as if i were a sultan, and had but to throw my handkerchief at any fair maid whom i may fancy, to obtain her!" the countess looked at him, and for a moment all her passionate pride in him shone in her eyes. "is there no one to whom you think you could throw that handkerchief, leycester?" she asked, significantly. his face flushed, and his eyes glowed. at that moment he felt the warm lips of his girl-love resting on his own. "that is a blunt question, my lady," he said; "would it be fair to reply, fair to her, supposing that there be one?" "in whom should you confide but in me?" said the countess, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, hauteur softened by love. he looked down and turned the ruby ring on his finger. if he could but confide in her! "in whom else but in me, from whom you have, i think, had few secrets? if your choice is made, you would come to me, leycester? i think you would; i cannot imagine your acting otherwise. you see i have no fear"--and she smiled--"no fear that your choice would be anything but a good and a wise one. i know you so well, leycester. you have been wild--you yourself said it, not i!" "yes," he said, quietly. "but through it all you have not forgotten the race from whence you sprung, the name you bear. no, i do not fear that most disastrous of all mistakes which a man in your position can make--a mesalliance." he was silent, but his brows drew together. "you speak strangely, my lady," he said, almost grimly. "yes," she assented, calmly, serenely, but with a grave intensity in her tone which lent significance to every word--"yes, i feel strongly. every mother who has a son in your position feels as strongly, i doubt not. there are few mad things that you can do which will not admit of remedy and rectification; one of them, the worst of them, is a foolish marriage." "marriages are made in heaven," he murmured. "no," she said, gently, "a great many are made in a very different place. but why need we talk of this? we might as well discuss whether it would be wise of you to commit manslaughter, or burglary, or suicide, or any other vulgar crime--and indeed a mesalliance would, in your case, strongly resemble one, suicide; it would be social suicide, at least; and from what i know of your nature, leycester, i do not think that would suit you." "i think not," he said, grimly. "but, mother, i am not contemplating a matrimonial union with one of the dairymaids, not at present." she smiled. "you might commit a mesalliance with one in higher position, leycester. but why do we talk of this?" "i think you commenced it," he said. "did i?" she said, sweetly. "i beg your pardon. i feel as if i had insulted you by the mere chance mention of such a thing; and i have tired you, too." and she rose with queenly grace. "no, no," he said, rising, "i am very grateful, mother; you will believe that?" "will you be more than that?" she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder, and sliding it round his neck. "will you be obedient?" and she smiled at him lovingly. "will i get out the handkerchief, do you mean?" he asked, looking at her with a curious gaze. "yes," she replied; "make me happy by throwing it." "and suppose," he said, "that the favored damsel declines the honor?" "we will risk that," she murmured, with a smile. he laughed. "one would think you had already chosen, mother," he said. she looked at him, with the smile still shining in her eyes and on her lips. "suppose i have? there is no matchmaker like a mother." he started. "you have? you surprise me! may one ask on whom your choice has fallen, sultaness?" "think," she said, in a low voice. "i am thinking very deeply," he answered, with hidden meaning. "if i were left to choose for you, i should be very exacting, leycester, don't you think?" "i am afraid so," he said, with a smile. "every goose thinks her bantling a swan, and would mate it with an eagle. forgive me, mother!" she inclined her head. "i should require much. i should want beauty, wealth----" "of which we have too much already. go on." "rank, and what is still better, a high position. the wyndwards cannot troop with crows, leycester." "beauty, wealth, rank, and a mysterious sort of position. a princess, perhaps, my lady?" a proud light shone in her eyes. "i should not feel abased in the presence of a princess, if you brought her to me," she said, with that serene hauteur which characterized her. "no, i am satisfied with less than that, leycester." "i am relieved," he said, smiling. "and this exalted personage--paragon i should say--who is she?" "look round--you need not strain your vision," she returned: "i can see her now. oh, blind, blind! that you cannot see her also! she whom i see is more than all these; she is a woman with a loving heart in her bosom, that needs but a word to set it beating for--you!" his face flushed. "i can think of no one," he said. "you make one ashamed, mother." "i need not tell you her name, then?" she said. but he shook his head. "i must know it now, i think," he said, gravely. she was silent a moment, then she said in a low voice: "it is lenore, leycester." he drew away from her, so that her arm fell from his shoulder, and looked her full in the face. before him rose the proud, imperial figure, before him stood the lovely face of lenore, with its crown of golden hair, and its deep, eloquent eyes of violet, and beside it, hovering like a spirit, the face of his girl-love. the violet eyes seemed to gaze at him with all the strength of conscious loveliness, seemed to bend upon him with a glance of defiance, as if they said--"i am here, waiting: i smile, you cannot resist me!" and the dark, tender eyes beside them seemed to turn upon him with gentle, passionate pleading, praying him to be constant and faithful. "lenore!" he said, in a low voice. "mother, ought you to have said this?" she did not shrink from his almost reproachful gaze. "why should i hesitate when my son's happiness is at stake?" she said, calmly. "if i saw a treasure, some pearl of great price, lying at your feet, and felt that you were passing it by unnoticed and disregarded, should i be wrong in speaking the word that would place it in your grasp? your happiness is my--life leycester! if ever there was a treasure, a pearl of great price among women, it is lenore. are you passing her by? you will not do that!" never, since he could remember, had he seen her so moved. her voice was calm and even, as usual, but her eyes were warm with an intense earnestness, the diamonds trembled on her neck. he stood before her, looking away beyond her, a strange trouble at his heart. for the first time he saw--he appreciated, rather--the beautiful girl whom, as it were, she held up to his mental gaze. but that other, that girl-love whose lips still seemed to murmur, "i love you, leycester!" what of her! with a sudden start he moved away. "i do not think you should have spoken," he said. "you cannot know----" the countess smiled. "a mother's eyes are quick," she said. "a word and the pearl is at your feet, leycester." he was but a man, warm-blooded and impressionable, and for a moment his face flushed, but the "i love you" still rang in his ears. "if that be so, all the more cause for silence, mother," he said. "but i hope you are mistaken." "i am not mistaken," she said. "do you think," and she smiled, "that i should have spoken if i had not been sure? oh, leycester," and she moved toward him, "think of her! is there any beauty so beautiful as hers; is there any one woman you have ever met who possessed a tithe of her charms! think of her as the head of the house; think of her in my place----" he put up his hand. "think of her," she went on, quickly, "as your own, your very own! leycester, there is no man born who could turn away from her!" almost involuntarily he turned and went to the fireplace, and leant upon it. "there is no man, who, so turning, but would in time give all that he possessed to come back to her!" then her voice changed. "leycester, you have been very good. are you angry?" "no," he said, and he went to her; "not angry, but--but troubled. you think only of me, but i think of lenore." "think of her still!" she said; "and be sure that i have made no mistake. if you doubt me, put it to the test----" he started. "and you will find that i am right. i am going now, leycester. good-night!" and she kissed him. he went to the door and opened it; his face was pale and grave. "good-night," he said, gently. "you have given me something to think of with a vengeance," and he forced a smile. she went out without a word. her maid was waiting for her in her dressing-room, but she passed into the inner room and sank down in a chair, and for the first time her face was pale, and her eyes anxious. "it has gone further than i thought," she murmured. "i, who know every look in his eyes, read his secret. but it shall not be. i will save him yet. but how? but how?" poor stella! lord leicester, left alone, fell to pacing the room, his brow bent, his mind in a turmoil. he loved his mother with a passionate devotion, part and parcel of his nature. every word she had said had sunk into his mind; he loved her, and he knew her; he knew that she would rather die than give her consent to his marriage with such an one as stella, pure and good and sweet though she was. he was greatly troubled, but he stood firm. "come what will," he murmured, "i cannot part with her. _she_ is my treasure and pearl of great price, and i have not passed her by. my darling!" suddenly, breaking into his reverie, came a knock at the door. he went to open it but it opened before he could reach it, and lord charles walked in. there was a smile on his handsome, light-hearted face, which barely hid an expression of affectionate sympathy. "anything the matter, old man?" he said, closing the door. "yes--no--not much--why?" said leycester, forcing a smile. "why!" echoed lord charles, thrusting his hands into the huge pockets of his dressing-gown, and eying him with mock reproach. "can you ask when you remember that my room is exactly underneath yours, and that it sounds as if you had turned this into the den of a traveling menagerie? what are you wearing the carpet out for, ley?" and he sat down and looked up at the troubled face with that frank sincerity which invites confidence. "i'm in a fix," said leycester. "come on," said lord charles, curtly. "i can't. you can't help me in this," said leycester, with a sigh. lord charles rose at once. "then i'll go. i wish i could. what have you been doing, ley?--something to-night, i expect. never mind; if i can help you, you'll let me know." leycester threw him a cigar-case. "sit down and smoke, charlie," he said. "i can't open my mind, but i want to think, and you'll help me. is it late?" "awfully," said lord charles with a yawn. "what a jolly evening it has been. i say, ley, haven't you been carrying it on rather thick with that pretty girl with the dark eyes?" leycester paused in his task of lighting a cigar, and looked down at him. "which girl?" he said, with a little touch of hauteur in his face. "the painter's niece," said lord charles. "what a beautiful girl she is! reminds me of a what-do-you-call-it." "what is that?" "a--a gazelle. it's rather a pity that she should be intended for that saucy lawyer fellow." "what?" asked lord leycester, quietly. "haven't you heard?" said lord charles, grimly. "the fellows were talking about it in the billiard-room." "about what?" demanded lord leycester, still quietly, though his eyes glittered. stella the common talk of the billiard-room. it was desecration. "oh, it was longford, he knows the man!" "what man?" "this jasper adelstone she is engaged to." lord leycester held the cigar to his lips, and his teeth closed over it with a sudden fierce passion. coming upon all that had passed, this was the last straw. "it's a lie!" he said. lord charles looked up with a start, then his face grew grave. "perhaps so," he said; "but, after all, it can't matter to you, ley." lord leycester turned away in silence. chapter xvi. jasper adelstone was in love. it was some time before he would bring himself to admit it even to himself, for he was wont to pride himself on his superiority to all attacks of the tender passion. often and often had he amused himself and his chosen companions by ridiculing the conditions of those weak mortals who allowed themselves to be carried away by what he termed a weak and contemptible affection for the other sex. marriage, he used to say, was entirely a matter of business. a man didn't marry until he was obliged, and then only did so to better himself. as to love, and that kind of thing--well, it was an exploded idea--a myth which had died out; at any rate, too absurd a thing altogether for a man possessed of common sense--for such a man, for instance, as jasper adelstone. he had seen plenty of pretty women and was received by them with anything but disfavor. he was good-looking, almost handsome, and would have been that if he could have got rid of the sharp, cunning glint of his small eyes; and he was clever and accomplished. he was just the man, it would have been supposed, to fall a victim to the tender passion; but he had stuck fast by his principles, and gone stealthily along the road to success, with his cold smile ready for everyone in general, and not a warm beam in his heart for anyone in particular. and now! yes, he was in love--in love as deeply, unreasoningly, as impulsively as the veriest school-boy. this was very annoying! it would have been very annoying if the object of his passion had been an heiress or the lady of title whom he had in his inmost mind determined to marry, if he married at all; for he would have preferred to have attained to his ambition without any awkward and inconvenient love-making. but the girl who had inspired him with this sudden and unreasoning passion was, much to his disgust, neither an heiress nor an offshoot of nobility. she was a mere nobody--the niece of an obscure painter! she was not even in society! there was no good to be got by marrying her, none whatever. she could not help him a single step on his ambitious path through life. on the first evening of his meeting with stella, when the beauty, and, more than her beauty, the nameless charm of her bright, pure freshness, overwhelmed and startled him, he took himself to task very seriously. "jasper," he said, "you won't go and make a fool of yourself, i hope! she is entirely out of your line. she is only a pretty girl; you've seen a score, a hundred as pretty, or prettier; and she's a mere nobody! oh, no, you won't make a fool of yourself--you'll go back to town to-morrow morning." but he did not go back to town; instead, he went into the conservatory at the rectory, and made up a bouquet and took it to the cottage, and sank deeper still into the mire of foolishness, as he would have called it. but even then it was not too late. he might have escaped even then by dint of calling up his selfish nature and thinking of all his ambitions; but stella unfortunately roused--what was more powerful in him than his sudden love--his self-conceit. she actually dared to defend lord leycester wyndward! that was almost the finishing stroke, unwittingly dealt by stella, and he went away inwardly raging with incipient jealousy. but the last straw was yet to come that should break the back of all his prudent resolves, and that was the meeting with stella and lord leycester in the river-woods, and lord leycester's attack on him. that moment--the moment when he lay on the ground looking up at the dark, handsome, angry, and somewhat scornful face of the young peer--jasper adelstone registered a vow. he vowed that come what would, by fair means or foul, he would have stella. he vowed that he would snatch her from the haughty and fiery young lord who had dared to hurl him, jasper, to the dust and insult him. what love he already possessed for her suddenly sprang up into a fierce flame of jealous passion, and as he rode home to the rectory he repeated that vow several times, and at once, without the loss of an hour, began to hunt about for some means to fulfill it. he was no fool, this jasper adelstone, for all his conceit, and he knew the immense odds against him if lord leycester really meant anything by his attention to stella; he knew what fearful advantages leycester held--all the court cards were in his hands. he was handsome, renowned, noble, wealthy--a suitor whom the highest in the land would think twice about before refusing. he almost guessed, too, that stella already loved leycester; he had seen her face turned to the young lord--had heard her voice as she spoke to him. he ground his teeth together with vicious rage as he thought of the difference between her way of speaking to him and to leycester. "but she shall speak to me, look at me like that before the game is over," he swore to himself. "i can afford to wait for my opportunity; it will come, and i shall know how to use it. curse him! yes, i am determined now. i will take him from her." it was a bold, audacious resolution; but then jasper was both bold and audacious in the most dangerous of ways, in the cold, calculating manner of a cunning, unscrupulous man. he was clever--undoubtedly clever; he had been very successful, and had made that success by his own unaided efforts. already, young as he was, he was beginning to be talked about. when people were in any great difficulty in his branch of the law, they went to him, sure of finding him cool, ready, and capable. his chambers in the inn held a little museum of secrets--secrets about persons of rank and standing, who were supposed to be quite free from such inconvenient things as skeletons in cupboards. people came to him when they were in any social fix; when they owed more money than they could pay; when they wanted a divorce, or were anxious to hush up some secret, whose threatened disclosure involved shame and disgrace, and jasper adelstone was always ready with sound advice, and, better still, some subtle scheme or plan. yes, he was a successful man, and had failed so seldom--almost never--that he felt he could be confident in this matter, too. "i have always done well for others," he thought. "i have gained some difficult points for other people; now i will undertake this difficult matter for myself." he went home to the rectory and pondered, recalling all he knew of old etheridge. it was very little, and the rector could tell him no more than he knew already. james etheridge lived the life of a recluse, appearing to have no friends or relations save stella; nothing was known about his former life. he had come down into the quiet valley some years ago, and settled at once in the mode of existence which was palpable to all. "is he, was he, ever married?" asked jasper. the rector thought not. "i don't know," he said. "he certainly hasn't been married down here. i don't think anything is known about him." and with this jasper had to be content. all the next day, after his meeting with stella and leycester, he strolled about the meadows hoping to see her, but failed. he knew he ought to be in london, but he could not tear himself away. his arm felt a little stiff, and though there was nothing else the matter with it, he bound it up and hung it in a sling, explaining to the rector that he had fallen from his horse. then he heard of the party at the hall, and grinding his teeth with envy and malice, he stole into the lane and watched stella start. in his eyes she looked doubly beautiful since he had sworn to have her, and he wandered about the lane and meadows thinking of her, and thinking, too, of lord leycester all that evening, waiting for her to return, to get one look at her. fortune favored him with more than a look, for while he was waiting the boy from the post-office came down the lane, and jasper, with very little difficulty, persuaded him to give up the telegram to his keeping. i am sorry to say that jasper was very much tempted to open that telegram, and if he resisted the temptation, it was not in consequence of any pangs of conscience, but because he thought that it would scarcely be worth while. "it is only some commission for a picture," he said to himself. "people don't communicate secretly by telegram excepting in cipher." so he delivered it unopened as we know, but when he heard that sudden exclamation of the old man's he was heartily sorry he had not opened it. when he parted from stella at the gate, he walked off down the lane, but only until out of sight, and then returned under the shadow of the hedge and waited. he could see into the studio, and see the old man sitting in the chair bowed with sorrow; and stella's graceful figure hovering about him. "there was something worth knowing in that telegram," he muttered. "i was a fool not to make myself acquainted with it. what will he do now?" he thought the question out, still watching, and the old man's movements seen plainly through the lighted windows--for stella had only drawn the muslin curtain too hurriedly and imperfectly--afforded an answer. "he is going up to town," he muttered. he knew that there was an early market train, and felt sure that the old man was going by it. hastily glancing at his watch, he set his hat firmly on his head, dipped his arm out of the sling, and ran toward the rectory; entering by a side door he went to his room, took a bag containing some papers, secured his coat and umbrella, and leaving a note on the breakfast-table to the effect that he was suddenly obliged to go to town, made for the station. as he did not wish to be seen, he kept in the shadow and waited, and was rewarded in a few minutes by the appearance of mr. etheridge. there was no one on the station beside themselves, and jasper had no difficulty in keeping out of the old man's way. a sleepy porter sauntered up and down, yawning and swinging his lantern, and jasper decided that he wouldn't trouble him by taking a ticket. the train came up, mr. etheridge got into a first-class carriage, and jasper, waiting until the last moment, sprang into one at the further end of the train. "never mind the ticket," he said to the porter. "i'll pay at the other end." the train was an express from wyndward, and jasper, who knew how to take care of himself, pulled the curtains closed, drew a traveling cap from his bag, and curling himself up went to sleep, while the old man, a few carriages further off, sat with his white head bowed in sorrowful and wakeful meditation. when the train arrived at the terminus, jasper, awaking from a refreshing sleep, drew aside the curtain and watched mr. etheridge get out, waited until he approached the cab-stand, then following up behind him nearer, heard him tell the cabman to drive him to king's hotel, covent garden. then jasper called a cab and drove to the square in which his chambers were situated, dismissed the cab, and saw it crawl away out of sight, and climbed up the staircase which served as the approach to the many doors which lined the narrow grim passages. on one of these doors his name was inscribed in black letters; he opened this door with a key, struck a light, and lit a candle which stood on a ledge, and entered a small room which served for the purpose of a clerk's office and a client's waiting-room. beyond this, and communicating by a green baize door, was his own business-room, but there were still other rooms behind, one his living-room, another in which he slept, and beyond that a smaller room. he entered this, and holding the light on high allowed its rays to fall upon a man lying curled up on a small bed. he was a very small man, with a thin, parchment-lined face, crowned by closely-cropped hair, which is ambiguously described as auburn. this was jasper's clerk, factotum, slave. he it was who sat in the outer office and received the visitors, and ushered them into jasper's presence or put them off with excuses. he was a singular-looking man, no particular age or individuality. some of jasper's friends were often curious as to where jasper had picked him up, but jasper always evaded the question or put it by with some jest, and scrivell's antecedents remained a mystery. that he was a devoted and never tiring servant was palpable to all; in jasper's presence he seemed to live only to obey his will and anticipate his wishes. now, at the first touch of jasper's hand, the man started and sat bolt upright, screening his eyes from the light and staring at jasper expectantly. "awake, scrivell?" asked jasper. "yes, sir, quite," was the reply; and indeed he looked as if he had been on the alert for hours past. "that's right. i want you. get up and dress and come into the next room. i'll leave the candle." "you needn't, sir," was the reply. "i can see." jasper nodded. "i believe you can--like a cat," he said, and carried the card with him. in a few minutes--in a very few minutes--the door opened and scrivell entered. he looked wofully thin and emaciated, was dressed in an old but still respectable suit of black, and might have been taken for an old man but for the sharp, alert look in his gray eyes, and the sandy hair, which showed no signs of gray. jasper was sitting before his dressing-table opening his letters, which he had carried in from the other room. "oh, here you are," he said. "i want you to go out." scrivell nodded. "do you know king's hotel, covent garden?" asked jasper. "king's? yes, sir." "well, i want you to go down there." he paused, but he might have known the man would not express any surprise. "yes, sir," he said, as coolly as if jasper had told him to go to bed again. "i want you to go down there and keep a look-out for me. a gentleman has just driven there, an old man, rather bent, with long white hair. understand?" "yes," was the quiet reply. "he will probably go out the first thing, quite early. i want to know where he goes." "only the first place he goes to?" was the question. jasper hesitated. "suppose you keep an eye upon him generally till, say one o'clock, then come back to me. i want to know his movements, you understand, scrivell!" "i understand, sir," was the answer. "any name?" jasper hesitated a moment, and a faint color came into his face. somehow he was conscious of a strange reluctance to mention the name--her name; but he overcame it. "yes, etheridge," he said, quietly, "but that doesn't matter. don't make any inquiries at the hotel or elsewhere, if you can help it." "very good, sir," said the man, and noiselessly he turned and left the room. little did stella, dreaming in the cottage by the sweet smelling meadows and the murmuring river, think that the first woof of the web which jasper adelstone was spinning for her was commenced that night in the grim chambers of lincoln's-inn. as little did lady wyndward guess, as she lay awake, vainly striving to find some means of averting the consequences of her son's "infatuation" for the painter's niece, that a keener and less scrupulous mind had already set to work in the same direction. chapter xvii. jasper undressed and went to bed, and slept as soundly as men of his peculiar caliber do sleep, while scrivell was standing at the corner of a street in covent garden, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the entrance to king's hotel. a little after nine jasper awoke, had his bath, dressed, went out, got some breakfast, and sat down to work, and for the time being forgot--actually forgot--that such an individual as stella etheridge existed. that was the secret of his power, that he could concentrate his attention on one subject to the absolute abnegation of all others. several visitors put in an appearance on business, jasper opening the door by means of a wire which drew back the handle, without moving. at about half-past twelve someone knocked. jasper opened the door, and a tall, fashionably-dressed young gentleman entered. it was a certain captain halliday, who had been one of the guests at wyndward hall on the first night of our introduction there. captain halliday was a man about town; one who had been rich, but who had worked very hard to make himself poor--and nearly succeeded. he was a well-known man, and a member of a fast club, at which high play formed the chief amusement. jasper knew him socially, and got up--a thing he did not often do--to shake hands. "how do you do?" he said, motioning him to a chair. "anything i can do for you?" it was generally understood by jasper's acquaintances that jasper's time was money, and they respected the hours devoted by him to business. captain halliday smiled. "you always come to the point, adelstone," he replied. "yes, i want a little advice." jasper sat down and clasped his hands over his knee; they were very white and carefully-kept hands. "hope i may be able to give it to you. what is it?" "well look here," said the captain, "you don't mind my smoking a cigarette, do you? i can always talk better while i am smoking." "not at all--i like it," said jasper. "but the lady clients?" said the captain, with a little contraction of the eyelids, which was suspiciously near a wink. "i don't think they mind," said jasper. "they are generally too occupied with their own business to notice. a light?" and he handed the wax tapers which stood on his desk for sealing purposes. the captain lighted his cigarette slowly. it was evident that the matter upon which he required advice was delicate, and only to be attacked with much deliberation. "look here!" he began; "i've come upon rather an awkward business." jasper smiled. it not unfrequently happened that his clients came to him for money, and not unfrequently he managed to find some for them--of course through some friend, always through some friend "in the city," who demanded and obtained a tolerably large interest. jasper smiled, and wondered how much the captain wanted, and whether it would be safe to lend it. "what is it?" he said. "you know the rookery?" asked the captain. jasper nodded. "i was there the other night--i'm there every night, i'm afraid," he added; "but i am referring to the night before last----" "yes," said jasper, intending to help him. "and luck went against you, and you lost a pile." "no, i didn't," said the captain; "i won a pile." "i congratulate you," said jasper, with a cool smile. "i won a pile!" said the captain, "from all round; but principally from a young fellow--a mere boy, who was there as a visitor, introduced by young bellamy--know young bellamy?" "yes, yes," said jasper--he was very busy. "everybody knows bellamy. well!" "well, the young fellow--i was awfully sorry for him, and tried to persuade him to turn it up, but he wouldn't. you know what youngsters are when they are green at this confounded game?" jasper nodded again rather more impatiently. scrivell would be back directly, and he was anxious to hear the result of his scrutiny. "luck went with him at first, and he won a good deal, but it turned after a time and i was the better by a cool hundred and fifty; i stopped at that--it was too much as it was to win from a youngster, and he gave me his i o u." the captain paused and lit another cigarette. "next morning, being rather pressed--did i tell you i went home with gooch and one or two others and lost the lot?" he broke off, simply. jasper smiled. "no, you did not mention it, but i can quite believe it. go on." "next morning, being rather pressed--i wanted to pay my own i o u's--i looked him up to collect his." "and he put you off, and you want me to help you," said jasper, smiling behind his white hand. "no, i don't. i wish you'd hear me out," said the captain, not unnaturally aggrieved by the repeated interruption. "i beg your pardon!" said jasper. "i thought i should help to bring you to the point. but, there, tell it your own way." "he didn't refuse; he gave me a bill," said the captain; "said he was sorry he couldn't manage the cash, but expecting me to call had got a bill ready." "which you naturally declined to accept from a perfect stranger," said jasper. "which i did nothing of the sort," said the captain, coolly. "it was backed by bellamy, and that was good enough for me. bellamy's name written across the back, making himself responsible for the money, if the young fellow didn't pay." "i understand what a bill is," said jasper, with a smile. "of course," assented the captain, puffing at his cigarette, "bellamy's name, mind, which was good enough for me." "and for most people." "well, i meant to get some fellow to discount this, get some money for it, you know, but happening to meet bellamy at the club, it occurred to me that he mightn't like the bill hawked about, so i asked him if he'd take it up. see?" "quite. whether he'd give you the money for it--the hundred and fifty pounds. i see," said jasper. "well?" "well, i put it rather delicately--there was a lot of fellows about--and he didn't seem to understand me. 'what bill do you mean, old man?' he said. 'i took an oath not to fly any more paper a year ago, and i've kept it, by george!'" jasper leant forward slightly; the keen, hard look which comes into the eyes of a hound that suddenly scents game, came into his. but this time he did not speak; as was usual with him when interested, he remained silent. "well, i flatter myself i played a cool hand," said the captain, complacently flicking the ash from his cigarette. "i knew the bill was a--a----" "forgery," said jasper, coldly. the captain nodded gravely. "a forgery. but i felt for the poor young beggar, and didn't want to be hard on him; so i pretended to bellamy that i'd made a mistake and meant somebody else, and explained that i'd been at the champagne rather freely the other night; and--you know bellamy--he was satisfied." "well?" said jasper, in a low voice. "well, then i took a cab, and drove to percival street----" he paused abruptly, and bit his lip; but jasper, though he heard the address, and had stamped it, as it were, on his memory, showed no sign of having noticed it, and examined his nails curiously. "i drove to the young fellow's rooms, and he confessed to it. poor young beggar! i pitied him from the bottom of my heart--i did indeed. wrong, i know. justice, and example, and all that, you'll say; but if you'd seen him, with his head buried in his hands, and his whole frame shaking like a leaf, why, you'd have pitied him yourself." jasper put up his hand to his mouth to hide a sneer. "very likely," he said--"most likely. i have a particularly soft heart for--forgers." the captain started slightly. it was a horrible word! "i don't believe the young beggar meant it, not in cold blood, you know; but he was so knocked of a heap by my dropping down upon him, and so afraid of looking like a welsher that the idea of the bill struck him, and he did it. he swears that bellamy and he are such chums, that bellamy wouldn't have minded." "ah," said jasper, with a smile, "the judge and jury will look at that in a different light." "the judge and jury! what do you mean?" demanded the captain. "you don't think i'm going to--what's-its-name--prosecute?" "then what are you here for?" jasper was going to say, but politely corrected it to "then what can i do for you?" "well, here's the strange part of the story! i went home to find the bill and tear it up----" jasper smiled again, and again hid the delicate sneer. "but if you'll believe me, i couldn't find it! what do you think i'd done with it?" "i don't know," said jasper. "lit your cigar with it!" "no; in a fit of absence of mind--we'll call it champagne cup and brandy-and-soda!--i'd given it to old murphy with some other bills in payment of a debt. think of that! there's that poor young beggar almost out of his mind with remorse and terror, and that old wretch, murphy, has got that bill! and if it isn't got from him he'll have the law of young--of the boy as sure as fate is fate!" "yes; i know murphy," said jasper with delicious coolness. "he'd be so wild that he'd not rest satisfied until he'd sent your fast young friend across the herring-pond." "but he mustn't! i should never forgive myself! think of it, adelstone! quite a young boy--a curly-headed young beggar that ought to be forgiven a little thing of this sort!" "a little thing!" and jasper laughed. he also rose and looked as if he had already expended as much of his time as he could afford. "well?" he said. "well!" echoed the captain. "now i want you to send for that bill, adelstone, and get it at once." "certainly," said jasper. "i may be permitted to mention that you are doing rather a--well, very injudicious thing? you are losing a hundred and fifty pounds to save your gentleman from--well, departing for that bourne to which he will certainly sooner or later wend. he will get transported sooner or later; a youngster who begins like this always goes on. why lose a hundred and fifty pounds? but there," he added, seeing a look of quiet determination on the captain's honest, if simple, face, "that is your business; mine is to give you advice, and i've done it. if you'll write a check for the amount, i'll send my clerk over to murphy's. he is out at present, but he'll be back," looking at the clock, "before you have written the check," and he handed the captain a pen, and motioned him politely to the desk. but the captain changed color, and laughed with some embarrassment. "look here," he said, "look here, adelstone, it isn't quite convenient to write a check--confound it! you talk as if i had the old balance at my bankers! i can't do it. i ask you to lend me the money--see?" jasper gave a start of surprise though he felt none. he knew what had been coming. "i'm very sorry, my dear fellow," he said. "but i'm afraid i can't do it. i am very short this morning, and have some heavy matters to meet. i've been buying some shares for a client, and am quite cleared out for the present." "but," pleaded the captain, earnestly, more earnestly than he had ever pleaded for a loan on his own account, "but think of the youngster, adelstone." then jasper smiled--a hard, cold smile. "excuse me, halliday," he said, thrusting his hands in his pockets, "but i have been thinking of him, and i can't see my way to doing this for a young scoundrel----" "he's no scoundrel," said the captain, with a flush. "a young forger, then, if you prefer it, my dear fellow," said jasper, with a cold laugh, "who ought to be punished, if anyone deserves punishment. why, it is compounding a felony!" he added, virtuously. "oh, come!" said the captain, with a troubled smile, "that's nonsense, you talking like that! i want the matter hushed up, adelstone." "well, though i don't agree with you, i won't argue the matter," said jasper, "but i can't lend you the money to hush it up with, halliday. if it were for yourself, now----" there was something in jasper's cold face, in his compressed, almost sneering lips, and hard, keen eyes, that convinced the captain any further time expended in endeavoring to soften jasper adelstone's heart would be time wasted. "never mind," he said, "i'm sorry i've taken up your time. good-morning. of course this is quite confidential, you know, eh?" jasper raised his eyebrows and smiled pleasantly. "my dear halliday, you are in a lawyer's office. nothing that occurs within these walls gets out, unless the client wishes it. your little story is as safely locked up in my bosom as if you had never told it. good-morning." the captain put on his hat and turned to go, but at that moment the door opened and scrivell entered. "i beg pardon," he said, and drew back, but paused, and, instead of going out, walked up to jasper's desk, and laid a piece of paper on it. jasper took it up eagerly. there was one line written on it, and it was this: " percival street!" jasper did not start; he did not even change color, but his lips tightened, and a gleam of eagerness shot from his eyes. with the paper in his hand, he looked up carelessly. "all right, scrivell. oh, by the way, just run after captain halliday, and tell him i should like another word with him." scrivell disappeared, and in another minute the captain re-entered. he still looked rather downcast. "what is it?" he said, with his hand on the door. jasper went and closed it; then he laughed in his quiet, noiseless way. "i'm afraid you'll think me a soft kind of lawyer, halliday, but this story of yours has touched me; it has, indeed!" the captain nodded, and dropped into a chair. "i thought it had," he said, simply. "touch anybody, wouldn't it?" "yes, yes!" said jasper, with a sigh. "it's very wrong, you know--altogether out of the line, but i suppose you've set your heart on hushing it up, eh?" "i have, indeed," said the captain, eagerly. "and if you knew all you'd say the same." "haven't you told me all?" said jasper, quietly. "i don't mean the boy's name; you can keep that if you like." "no, i don't mean to conceal anything, if you'll help me," said the captain ingenuously. "of course if you had decided not to, i should have kept dark about his name." "of course," said jasper, with a smile; and he glanced at the slip of paper. "well, perhaps you'd better tell me all, hadn't you?" "i think i had," assented the captain. "well, the youngster's name is--etheridge?" "ether--how do you spell it?" asked jasper, carelessly. the captain spelt it. "not a common name, and he's anything but a common boy; he's a handsome youngster, and i couldn't help pitying him, because he has been left to himself so much--no friends, and all that sort of thing." "how's that?" asked jasper, with his eyes cast down, a hungry eagerness eating at his heart. there was some mystery after all, then, about the old man! "well, it is this way. it seems he's the son of an old man--a painter, or a writer, or something, who lives away in the country, and who can't bear this boy near him." "why?" asked jasper, examining his nails. "because he's like his mother," said the captain, simply. "and she----?" said jasper, softly. "she ran away with another man, and left her boy behind----" "i understand." "yes," resumed the captain. "usual thing, the husband, this boy's father, was awfully cut up; left the world and buried himself and sent the boy away, treated him very well, though, all the same; sent him to eton, and to cambridge, under the care of a tutor, and that sort of thing, but couldn't bear to see him. he's up now for the holidays--the boy, i mean!" "i understand," said jasper, in a low voice. "quite a story, isn't it? and"--he paused to throw the piece of paper on the fire--"do you think the boy has communicated with the father ever since?" "heaven knows--not unlikely. he said something about telegraphing." "oh, yes; just so," said jasper, carelessly. "well, it will be inconvenient, but i suppose i must do what you want. the sooner we get this over the better," and he sat down and drew out his check book. "thanks, thanks!" muttered the captain. "i didn't think a good fellow like you would stand back; i didn't, indeed!" "i ought not to do it," murmured jasper, with a shake of the head, as he rang the bell. "take this letter to murphy, and wait, scrivell," he said. scrivell disappeared noiselessly. "by the way," said jasper, "have you mentioned this to any one excepting me?" "not to a soul," replied the captain; "and you bet, i shall not of course." "of course," said jasper, with a smile; "it wouldn't be worth spending a hundred and fifty to hush it up if you did. mention such a thing to one person--excepting me, of course,"--and he smiled--"and you let the whole world know. where did you get all this information?" "from bellamy, the boy's chum," said the captain. "he asked me to look him up occasionally." "i see," said jasper. "you won't mind my writing a letter or two, will you?" "go on," said the captain, lighting the fifth cigarette. jasper went to a cupboard and brought out a small bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. "the generous glow of so virtuous an action--which by-the-way is strictly illegal--suggests something to drink," he said, with a smile. the captain nodded. "i didn't know you did this sort of thing here," he said, looking round. "i don't as a rule," said jasper, with a dry smile. "will you slip that bolt into the door?" the captain, greatly enjoying anything in the shape of an irregularity, did as he was bidden, and the two sat and sipped their wine, and jasper threw off his dry business air and chatted about things in general until scrivell knocked. jasper opened the door for him and took an envelope from his hand and carried it to the desk. "well?" said the captain, eagerly. "all right," said jasper, holding up the bill. the captain drew a long breath of relief. "i feel as if i had done it myself," he said, with a laugh. "poor young beggar, he'll be glad to know he's to get off scot free." "ah!" said jasper. "by-the-way, hadn't you better drop him a line?" "right," exclaimed the captain, eagerly; "that's a good idea. may i write it here?" jasper pushed a sheet of plain paper before him and an envelope. "don't date it from here," he said; "date it from your lodgings. you don't want him to know that anybody else knows anything about it, of course." "of course not! how thoughtful you are. that's the best of a lawyer--always keeps his head cool," and he drew up a chair, and wrote not in the best of hands or the best of spelling: "dear mr. etheridge--i've got--you know what. it is all right. nothing more need be said. be a good boy for the future." "yours truly, "harry halliday." "how's that?" he asked, handing the note to jasper. jasper looked up; he was bending over his desk, apparently writing a letter, and looked up with an absent expression. "eh?" he said. "oh, yes; that will do. stop though, to set his mind quite at rest, better say that you have destroyed it--as you have, see!" and he took the envelope and held it over the taper until it burnt down nearly to his finger, dropping the remaining fragment on the desk and allowing it to turn and smolder away. the captain added the line to that effect. "now your man can run with it, if you'll be so good." jasper smiled. "no," he said. "i think not. i'll send a commissionaire." he rang the bell and took up the letter. "send this by the commissionaire," he said. "there is no answer. tell him to give it in and come away." "and now i'm off," said the captain. "i'll let you have a check in a day or two, adelstone, and i'm very much obliged to you." "all right," said jasper, with a slightly absent air as if his mind was already engaged with other matters. "no hurry; whenever it's convenient. good-bye!" he went back to his desk before the captain had left the room, and bent over his letter, but as the departing footsteps died away, he sprang up, locked the door, and drawing a slip of paper from under his blotting pad, held it before him with both hands and looked down at it with a smile of eager triumph. it was the forged bill. without a word or gesture he looked at it for a full minute, gloating over it as if it were some live, sentient thing lying in his path and utterly at his mercy; then at last he raised his head, and his lips parted with a smile of conscious power. "so soon!" he muttered; "so soon! fate is with me! she is mine! my beautiful stella! yes, she is mine, though a hundred lord leycesters stood between us!" chapter xviii. when stella awoke in the morning it was with a start that she remembered the scene of last night, and that she was, with the exception of mrs. penfold, alone in the cottage. while she was dressing she recalled the incidents of the eventful evening--the party at the hall, the telegram, and, not least, the finding of the mysterious miniature. but, above all, there shone out clear and distinct the all-important fact that lord leycester loved her, and that she had promised to meet him this evening. but for the present there was much on her mind. she had to meet mrs. penfold, and communicate the information that mr. etheridge had suddenly been called to london on important business. she could not suppress a smile as she pictured mrs. penfold's astonishment and curiosity, and wondered how she should satisfy the latter without betraying the small amount of confidence which her uncle had placed in her. she went down-stairs to find the breakfast laid, and mrs. penfold hovering about with unconcealed impatience. "where's your uncle, miss stella?" she asked. "i do hope he hasn't gone sketching before breakfast, for he is sure to forget all about it, and won't come back till dinner-time, if he does then." "uncle has gone to london," said stella. "to--where?" demanded mrs. penfold. then stella explained. "gone to london last night; hasn't slept in his bed! why, miss, how could you let him?" "but he was obliged to go," said stella, with a little sigh and a rueful glance at the empty chair opposite her own. "obliged!" exclaimed mrs. penfold. "whatever was the matter? your uncle isn't obliged to go anywhere, miss stella!" she added with a touch of pride. stella shook her head. "there was a telegram," she said. "i don't know what the business was, but he was obliged to go." mrs. penfold stood stock-still in dismay and astonishment. "it will be the death of him!" she breathed, awe-struck. "he never goes anywhere any distance, and starting off like that, miss stella, in the dead of night, and after being out at the hall--why it's enough to kill a gentleman like him who can't bear any noise or anything sudden like." "i'm very sorry," said stella. "he said that he was obliged to go." "and when is he coming back?" asked mrs. penfold. stella shook her head. "i don't know. i hope to-day--i do hope to-day! it all seems so quiet and lonely without him." and she looked round the room, and sighed. mrs. penfold stood, with the waiter in her hand, staring at the beautiful face. "you--you don't know what it is, miss stella?" she asked, in a low voice, and with a certain significance in her tone. stella looked up at her. "no, i don't know--uncle did not tell me," she replied. mrs. penfold looked at her curiously, and seemed lost in thought. "and you don't know where he's gone, miss stella? i don't ask out of curiosity." "i'm sure of that," said stella, warmly. "no, i don't know." "and you don't guess?" stella looked up at her with wide open eyes, and shook her head. mrs. penfold turned the waiter in her hand, then she said suddenly: "i wish mr. adelstone was here." stella started. "mr. adelstone!" mrs. penfold nodded. "yes, miss stella. he is such a clever young gentleman, and he's so friendly, he'd do anything for your uncle. he always was friendly, but he's more so than ever now." "is he?" said stella. "why?" mrs. penfold looked at her with a smile, which died away before stella's look of unconsciousness. "i don't know, miss stella; but he is. he is always about the cottage. oh, i forgot! he called yesterday, and left something for you." and she went out, returning presently with a bouquet of flowers. "i took them in the pantry, to keep cool and fresh. aren't they beautiful, miss?" "very," said stella, smelling them and holding them a little way from her, after the manner of her sex. "very beautiful. it is very kind of him. are they for uncle, or for me?" mrs. penfold smiled. "for you, miss stella. is it likely he'd leave them for your uncle?" "i don't know," said stella; "he is uncle's friend, not mine. will you put them in water, please?" mrs. penfold took them with a little air of disappointment. it was not in this cool manner that she expected stella to receive the flowers. "yes, miss; and there's nothing to be done?" "no," said stella; "except to wait for my uncle's return." mrs. penfold hesitated a moment, then she went out. stella made an effort to eat some breakfast, but it was a failure; she felt restless and listless; a spell seemed to have been cast over the little house--a spell of mystery and secrecy. after breakfast she took up her hat and wandered about the garden, communing with herself, and ever watching the path across the meadows, though she knew that her uncle could not possibly return yet. the day wore away and the evening came, and as the daylight gave place to sunset, stella's heart beat faster. all day she had been thinking--dreaming of the hour that was now so near at hand, longing for and yet almost dreading it. this love was so strange, so mysterious a thing, that it almost frightened her. almost for the first time she asked herself whether she was not doing wrong--whether she had not better stay at home and give up this precious meeting. but she mentally pictured lord leycester's waiting for her--mentally called up the tone of his voice welcoming her, and her conscience was stilled. "i must go!" she murmured, and as if afraid lest she should change her mind, she put on her hat, and went down the path with a quick step. but she turned back at the gate, and called to mrs. penfold. "i am going for a stroll," she said, with a sudden blush. "if uncle returns while i am away, tell him i shall not be long." and then she went across the meadows to the river bank. all was silent save the thrushes in the woods and the nightingale with its long liquid note and short "jug, jug," and she sank down upon the grassy bank and waited. the clock struck the hour of appointment, and her heart beat fast. suppose he did not come! her cheek paled, and a faint sickening feeling of disappointment crept over her. the minutes passed, hours they seemed, and then with a sudden resolution she rose. "he will not come," she murmured. "i will go back; it is better so!" but even as the words left her lips sadly, a light skiff shot from the shadow of the opposite bank and flew across the river. it was lord leycester, she knew him though his back was turned toward her and he was dressed in a suit of boating flannel, and her heart leapt. with practiced ease he brought the skiff alongside the bank and sprang up beside her, both hands outstretched. "my darling!" he murmured, his eyes shining with a greeting as passionate as his words--"have you been waiting long? did you think i was not coming?" stella put her hands in his and glanced up at him for a moment; her face flushed, then paled. "i--i--did not know," she said, shyly, but with a little smile lurking in the corner of her red lips. "you knew i should come," he went on. "what should, what could, prevent me? stella! i was here before you. i have been lying under that tree, watching you; you looked so beautiful that i lay there feasting my eyes, and reluctant to move lest i should dispel the beautiful vision." stella looked across and her eyes drooped. "you where there while i--i was thinking that you had perhaps--forgotten!" "forgotten!" and he laughed softly. "i have been looking forward to this hour; i dreamt of it last night. can you say the same, stella?" she was silent for a moment, then she looked up at him shyly, as a soft "yes" dropped from her lips. he would have drawn her close to him, but she shrank back with a little frightened gesture. "come," he said, and he drew her gently toward the boat. stella hesitated. "suppose," she said, "someone saw us," and the color flew to her face. "and if!" he retorted, with a sudden look of defiance, which melted in a moment. "there is no fear of that, my darling; we will go down the back water. come." there was no resisting that low-voiced mingling of entreaty and loving command. with the tenderest care he helped her into the boat and arranged the cushion for her. "see," he said, "if we meet any boat you must put up your sunshade, but we shall not where we are going." stella leant back and watched him under her lowered lids as he rowed--every stroke of the strong arm sending the boat along like an arrow from the bow--and an exquisite happiness fell upon her. she did not want him to speak; it was enough for her to sit and watch him, to know that he was within reach of her hand if she bent forward, to feel that he loved her. he rowed down stream until they came to an island; then he guided the boat out of the principal current into a back water, and rested on his oars. "now let me look at you!" he said. "i haven't had an opportunity yet." stella put up her sunshade to shield her face, and laughingly he drew it away. "that is not fair. i have been thirsting for a glance from those dark eyes all day. i cannot have them hidden now. and what are you thinking of?" he asked, smilingly, but with suppressed eagerness, "there is a serious little look in those eyes of yours--of mine! they are mine, are they not, stella? what is it?" "shall i tell you?" she answered, in a low voice. "yes," he said. "you shall whisper it. let me come nearer to you," and he sank down at her feet and put up his hand for hers. "now then." stella hesitated a moment. "i was thinking and wondering whether this--whether this isn't very wrong, le--leycester." the name dropped almost inaudibly, but he heard it and put her hand to his lips. "wrong?" he said, as if he were weighing the question most judiciously. "yes and no. yes, if we do not love each other, we two. no, if we do. i can speak for myself, stella. my conscience is at rest because i love you. and you?" her hand closed in his. "no, my darling," he said, "i would not ask you to do anything wrong. it may be a little unconventional, this stolen half-hour of ours--perhaps it is; but what do you and i care for the conventional? it is our happiness we care for," and he smiled up at her. it was a dangerously subtle argument for a girl of nineteen, and coming from the man she loved, but it sufficed for stella, who scarcely knew the full meaning of the term "conventional," but, nevertheless, she looked down at him with a serious light in her eye. "i wonder if lady lenore would have done it," she said. a cloud like a summer fleece swept across his face. "lenore?" he said, then he laughed. "lenore and you are two very different persons, thank heaven. lenore," and he laughed, "worships the conventional! she would not move a step in any direction excepting that properly mapped out by mrs. grundy." "you would not ask her, then?" said stella. he smiled. "no, i should not," he said, emphatically and significantly. "i should not ask anyone but you, my darling. would you wish me to?" "no, no," she said hastily, and she laughed. "then let us be happy," he said, caressing her hand. "do you know that you have made a conquest--i mean in addition to myself?" "no," she said. "i?" "yes, you," he repeated. "i mean my sister lilian." "ah!" said stella, with a little glad light in her eyes. "how beautiful and lovable she is!" he nodded. "yes, and she has fallen in love with you. we are very much alike in our tastes," he said, with a significant smile. "yes, she thinks _you_ beautiful and lovable." stella looked down at the ardent face, so handsome in its passionate eagerness. "did you--did you tell her?" she murmured. he understood what she meant, and shook his head. "no; it was to be a secret--our secret for the present, my darling. i did not tell her." "she would be sorry," said stella. "they would all be sorry, would they not?" she added, sadly. "why should you think of that?" he expostulated, gently. "what does it matter? all will come right in the end. they will not be sorry when you are my wife. when is it to be, stella?" and his voice grew thrillingly soft. stella started, and a scarlet blush flushed her face. "ah, no!" she said, almost pantingly, "not for very, very long--perhaps never!" "it must be very soon," he murmured, putting his arm around her. "i could not wait long! i could not endure existence if we should chance to be parted. stella, i never knew what love meant until now! if you knew how i have waited for this meeting of ours, how the weary hours have hung with leaden weight upon my hands, how miserably dull the day seemed, you would understand." "perhaps i do," she said softly, and the dark eyes dwelt upon his musingly as she recalled her own listlessness and impatience. "then you must think as i do!" he said, quick to take advantage. "say you do, stella! think how very happy we should be." she did think, and the thought made her tremble with excess of joy. "we two together in the world! where we would go and what we would do! we could go to all the beautiful places--your own italy, switzerland! and always together--think of it." "i am thinking," she said with a smile. he drew closer and put her arm around his neck. the very innocence and purity of her love inflamed his passion and enhanced her charms in his sight. he had been loved before, but never like this, with such perfect, unquestioning love. "well, then, my darling, why should we wait? it must be soon, stella." "no, no," she said, faintly. "why should it? i--i am very happy." "what is it you dread? is it so dreadful the thought that we should be alone together--all in all to each other?" "it is not that," said stella, her eyes fixed on the line of light that fell on the water from the rising moon. "it is not that. i am thinking of others." "always of others!" he said, with tender reproach. "think of me--of ourselves." "i wish----" she said. "wish," he coaxed her. "see if i cannot gratify it. i will, if it be possible." "it is not possible," she said. "i was going to say that i wish you were not--what you are." "you said something like that last night," he said. "darling, i have wished it often. you wish that i were plain mr. brown." "no, no," she said, with a smile; "not that." "that i were a mr. wyndward----" "with no castle," she broke in. "ah, if that could be! if you were only, say, a workman! how good that would be! think! you would live in a little cottage, and you would go to work, and come home at night, and i should be waiting for you with your tea--do they have tea or dinner?" she broke off to inquire, with a laugh. "you see," he said, returning her laugh, "it would not do. why, stella, you were not made for a workman's wife; the sordid cares of poverty are for different natures to yours. and yet we should be happy, we two." and he sighed wistfully. "you would be glad to see me come home, stella?" "yes," she said, half seriously, half archly. "i have seen them in italy, the peasants' wives, standing at the cottage doors, the hot sunset lighting up their faces and their colored kerchiefs, waiting for their husbands, and watching them as they climbed the hills from the pastures and the vineyards, and they have looked so happy that i--i have envied them. i was not happy in italy, you know." "my stella!" he murmured. his love for her was so deep and passionate, his sympathy so keen that half phrases were as plainly understood by him as if she had spoken for hours. "and so you would wait for me at some cottage door?" he said. "well, it shall be so. i will leave england, if you like--leave the castle and take some little ivy-green cottage." she smiled, and shook her head. "then they would have reason to complain," she said; "they would say 'she has dragged him down to her level--she has taught him to forget all the duties of his rank and high position--she has'--what is it tennyson says--'robbed him of all the uses of life, and left him worthless.'" lord leycester looked up at the exquisite face with a new light of admiration. this was no mere pretty doll, no mere bread-and-butter school-girl to whom he had given his love, but a girl who thought, and who could express her thoughts. "stella!" he murmured, "you almost frighten me with your wisdom. where did you learn such experience? well, it is not to be a cottage, then; and i am not to work in the fields or tend the sheep. what then remains? nothing, save that you take your proper place in the world as my wife;" the indescribable tenderness with which he whispered the last word brought the warm blood to her face. "where should i find a lovelier face to add to the line of portraits in the old hall? where should i find a more graceful form to stand by my side and welcome my guests? where a more 'gracious ladye' than the maiden i love?" "oh, hush! hush!" whispered stella, her heart beating beneath the exquisite pleasure of his words, and the gently passionate voice in which they were spoken. "i am nothing but a simple, stupid girl, who knows nothing except----" she stopped. "except!" he pressed her. she looked at the water a moment, then she bent down, and lightly touched his hand with her lips. "except that she loves you!" it was all summed up in this. he did not attempt to return the caress; he took it reverentially, half overwhelmed with it. it was as if a sudden stillness had fallen on nature, as if the night stood still in awe of her great happiness. they were silent for a minute, both wrapped in thoughts of the other, then stella said suddenly, and with a little not-to-be-suppressed sigh: "i must go! see, the moon is almost above the trees." "it rises early to-night, very," he said, eagerly. "but i must go," she said. "wait a moment," he pleaded. "let us go on shore and walk to the weir--only to the weir; then we will come back and i will row you over. it will not take five minutes! come, i want to show it to you with the moon on it. it is a favorite spot of mine; i have often stood and watched it as the water danced over it in the moonlight. i want to do so this evening, with you by my side. i am selfish, am i not?" he helped her out of the boat, almost taking her in his arms, and touching her sleeve with his lips; in his chivalrous mood he would not so far take advantage of her in her helplessness as to kiss her face, and they walked hand in hand, as they used to do in the good old days when men and women were not ashamed of love. why is it that they should be now? why is it that when a pair of lovers indulge on the stage in the most chaste of embraces, a snigger and a grin run through the audience? in this age of burlesque and satire, of sarcasm and cynicism, is there to be no love making? if so, what are poets and novelists to write about--the electric light and the science of astronomy? they walked hand in hand, leycester wyndward viscount trevor, heir to wyndward and an earldom, and stella, the painter's niece, and threaded the wood, keeping well under the shadows of the high trees, until they reached the bank where the weir touched. lord leycester took her to the brink and held her lightly. "see," he said, pointing to the silver stream of water; "isn't that beautiful; but it is not for its beauty only that i have brought you to the river. stella, i want you to plight your troth to me here." "here?" she said, looking up at his eager face. "yes; this spot is reported haunted--haunted by good fairies instead of evil spirits. we will ask them to smile on our betrothal, stella." she smiled, and watched his eyes with half-serious amusement; there was a strange light of earnestness in them. stooping down he took up a handful of the foaming water and threw a few drops on her head and a few on his own. "that is the old danish rite, stella," he said. "now repeat after me-- "'come joy or woe, come pain or pleasure, come poverty or richest treasure, i cling to thee, love, heart unto heart, till death us sever, we will not part.'" stella repeated the words after him with a faint smile on her lips, which died away under the glow of his earnest eyes. then, as the last words dropt hurriedly from her lips, he took her in his arms and kissed her. "now we are betrothed, stella, you and i against all the world." as he spoke a cloud sailed across the moon, and the shadows now at their feet suddenly changed from silver to dullish lead. stella shuddered in his arms, and clung to him with a little convulsive movement that thrilled him. "let us go," she said; "let us go. it seems almost as if there were spirits here! how dark it is!" "only for a moment, darling!" he said. "see?" and he took her face and turned it to the moonlight again. "one kiss, and we will go." with no blush on her face, but with a glow of passionate love in her eyes, she raised her face, looked into his for a moment, then kissed him. then they turned, and went toward the boat; but this time she clung to his arm, and her head nestled on his shoulder. as they turned, something white and ghost-like moved from behind the trees, in front of which they had been standing. it stood in the moonlight looking after them, itself so white and eerie that it might have been one of the good fairies; but that in its face--beautiful enough for any fairy--there glittered the white, angry, threatening look of an evil spirit. was it the nearness of this exquisitely-graceful figure in white which by some instinct stella had felt and been alarmed at? the figure watched them for a moment until they were out of sight, then it turned and struck into a path leading toward the hall. as it did so, another figure--a black one this time--came out of the shadow, and crossed the path obliquely. she turned and saw a white, not unhandsome, face, with small keen eyes bent on her. she, the watcher, had been watched. for a moment she stood as if half-tempted to speak, but the next drew the fleecy shawl round her head with a gesture of almost insolent hauteur. but she was not to escape so easily; the dark, thin figure slipped back, and stooping down picked up the handkerchief, which in her sweeping gesture she had let drop. "pardon!" he said. she looked at him with cool disdain, then took the handkerchief, and with an inclination of her head that was scarcely a bow would have passed on again, but he did not move from her path, and hat in hand stood looking at her. proud, fearless, imperiously haughty as she was, she felt constrained to stop. he knew by the mere fact of her stopping that he had impressed her, and he at once followed up the advantage gained. if she had wanted to pass him without speaking she should have taken no notice of the handkerchief, and gone on her way. no doubt she now wished that she had done so, but it was too late now. "will you permit me to speak to you?" he said, in a quiet, almost a constrained voice, every word distinct, every word full of significance. she looked at him, at the pale face with its thin, resolute lips and small, keen eyes, and inclined her head. "if you intend to speak to me, sir, i apprehend that i cannot prevent it. you will do well to remember that we are not alone here." still uncovered, he bowed. "your ladyship has no need to remind me of that fact. no deed or word of mine will cause you to wish for a protector." "i have yet to learn that," she said. "you appear to know me, sir!" no words will convey any idea of the haughty scorn expressed by the icy tone and the cold glance of the violet eyes. a faint smile, deferential yet self-possessed, swept across his face. "there are some so well known to the world that their faces are easily recognized even in the moonlight; such an one is the lady len----" she put up her hand, white and glittering with priceless gems, and at the commanding gesture he stopped, but the smile swept across his face again, and he put up his hand to his lips. "you know my name; you wish to speak to me?" he inclined his head. "what have you to say to me?" she had not asked his name; she had treated him as if he were some beggar who had crept up to her carriage as it stood at rest, and by a mixture of bravado and servility gained her ear. there was a fierce, passionate resentment at this treatment burning in his bosom, but he kept it down. "is it some favor you have to ask?" she said, with cold, pitiless hauteur, seeing that he hesitated. "thanks," he said. "i was waiting for a suggestion--i must put it in that way. yes, i have to ask a favor. my lady, i am a stranger to you----" she waved her hand as if she did not care so much as a withered blade of grass for his personal history, and with a little twitch of the lips he continued: "i am a stranger to you, but i still venture to ask your assistance." she looked and smiled like one who has known all along what was coming, but to please his own whim, had waited quite naturally. "exactly," she said. "i have no money----" then he started and stood before her, and what there was of manliness awoke within him. "money!" he said. "are you mad?" lady lenore stared at him haughtily. "i fear that you are," she said. "did you not demand--_ask_ is too commonplace a word to describe a request made by a man of a woman alone and unprotected--did you not demand money, sir?" "money!" he repeated; then he smiled. "you are laboring under a misapprehension," he said. "i am in no need of money. the assistance i need is not of a pecuniary kind." "then what is it?" she asked, and he detected a touch of curiosity in the insolently-haughty voice. "be good enough to state your desire as briefly as you can, sir, and permit me to go on my way." then he played a card. with a low bow he raised his hat, and drew from the path. "i beg your ladyship's pardon," he said, respectfully, but with a scarcely feigned air of disappointment. "i see that i have made a mistake. i apologize most humbly for having intruded upon your good nature, and i take my leave. i wish your ladyship good-evening," and he turned. lady lenore looked after him with cold disdain, then she bit her lip and her eyes dropped, and suddenly, without raising her voice, she said: "wait!" he turned and stood with his hand thrust in the breast of his coat, his face calm and self-possessed. she paused a moment and eyed him, struggling, if the truth were known, and no doubt he knew it, with her curiosity and her pride, which last forbade her hold any further converse with him. at last curiosity conquered. "i have called you back, sir, to ask the nature of this mistake you say that you have made. your conduct, your manner, your words are inexplicable to me. be good enough to explain." it was a command, and he inclined his head in respectful recognition. "i am a student of nature, my lady," he said, in a low voice, "and i am fond of rambling in the woods here, especially at moonlight; it is not a singular fancy." her face did not flush, but her eyes gleamed; she saw the sneer in the words. "go on, sir," she said, coldly. "chance led me to-night in the direction of the river. i was standing admiring it when two individuals--the two individuals who have just left us--approached. suspecting a love tryst, i was retreating, when the moon revealed to me that one of the individuals was a person in whom i take a great interest." "which?" she asked, coldly and calmly. "the young lady," he replied, and his eyes drooped for a moment. "that interest rather than curiosity,"--her lips curled, and she looked up at him with infinite scorn--"interest rather than curiosity prompted me to remain and, an unwilling listener, i heard the strange engagement--betrothal, call it what you will--that took place." he paused. she drew the shawl round her head and eyed him askance. "in what way does this concern me, sir?" she demanded, haughtily. "pardon! you perceive my mistake," he said, with a fitting smile. "i was under the impression that as _interest_ or _curiosity_ prompted you also to listen, you might be pleased to assist me." she bit her lip now. "how did you know that i was listening?" she demanded. he smiled. "i saw your ladyship approach; i saw you take up your position behind the tree, and _i saw your face as they talked_." as she remembered all that that face must have told him, her heart throbbed with a wild longing to see him helpless at her feet; her face went a blood red, and her hands closed tightly on the shawl. "well, sir?" she said at last, after a pause, during which he had stood eying her under his lowered lids. "granting that you are right in your surmises, how can i assist you, supposing that i choose to do so?" he looked at her full in the face. "by helping me to prevent the fulfillment of the engagement--betrothal, which you and i have just witnessed," he said, promptly and frankly. she was silent a moment, her eyes looking beyond him as if she were considering, then she said: "why should i help you? how do you know that i take any interest in--in these two persons?" "you forget," he said, softly. "i saw your face." she started. there was something in the bold audacity of the man that proved him the master. "if i admit that i do take some interest, what proof have i that i shall be following that interest by confiding in you?" she asked, haughtily, but less haughtily than hitherto. "i can give you a sufficient proof," he said, quietly. "i--love--her." she started. there was so calm and cool and yet intense an expression in his voice. "you love her?" she repeated. "the girl who has just left us?" "the young lady," he said, with a slight emphasis, "who has just plighted her troth to lord leycester wyndward." there was silence for a moment. his direct statement of the case had told on her. "and if i help you--if i consent--what shape is my assistance to take?" "i leave that to you," he said. "i can answer for her, for stella etheridge--that is her name." "i do not wish to mention names," she said, coldly. "quite right," he said. "trees have ears, as you and i have just proved." she shuddered at the familiar, confident tone in his voice. "i will not mention names," he repeated, "let us say 'him' and 'her.' candidly--and between us, my lady, there should be nothing but candor--i have sworn that nothing shall come of this betrothal. i love her, and--i--hate him." she looked at him. his face was deadly white, and his eyes gleamed, but a smile still played about his lips. "you," he continued, "hate her, and--love--him." lady lenore started, and a crimson flush of shame stained her fair face. "how dare you!" she exclaimed. he smiled. "i have shown you my hand, my lady; i know yours. will you tell me that i am wrong? say the word--say that you are indifferent how matters go--and i will make my bow and leave you." she stood and looked at him--she could not say the word. he had spoken the truth; she did love lord leycester with a passion that surprised her, with a passion that had not made itself known to her until to-night, when she had seen him take into his arms another woman--had heard his protestations of love for another woman, and seen him kiss another woman. wounded pride, self-love, passionate desire, all fought for mastery within her bosom, and the man who stood calmly before her knew it. he read every thought of her heart as it was mirrored on the proud, beautiful face. "i do not understand," she said. "you come to me a perfect stranger, and make these confessions." he smiled. "i come to you because you and i desire to accomplish one end--the separation of these two persons. i come to you because i have already found some means toward such an end, and i believe you are capable of devising and carrying out the remainder. lady lenore----" "do not utter my name," she said, looking round uneasily. "--you, and you alone, can help me. as i have said, i can influence the girl, you can influence him. i have worked hard for that influence--have plotted, and planned, and schemed for it. cleverness, ingenuity--call it what you will--has been exerted by me; you have only to exert your--pardon me--your beauty." with a gesture, she drew the shawl nearer her face--it was like profanation to hear him speak of her beauty. "--together we conquer; alone, i think, we should fail, for though i hold her in a cleft stick i cannot answer for him. he is headstrong and wild, and in a moment might upset my plans. your task--if you accept it--is to see that he does not. will you accept it?" she paused. "what is your hold over her?" she asked, curiously. he smiled. "pardon me if i decline to answer. be assured that i have a hold upon her. your hold on him is as strong as that of mine on her. will you exert it?" she was silent. "think," he said. "let me put the case clearly. for his own good you ought not to hesitate. what good can come of such a marriage--a viscount, an earl, marry the niece of a painter, an obscure nobody! it is for his own good--the husband of stella--i forgot!--no names. as her husband he sinks into insignificance, as yours he rises to the height which his position and yours entitle him to. can you hesitate?" no tempter since the world began, not even the serpent at the foot of the apple-tree in eden, could have put it more ingeniously. she wavered. reluctant to make a compact with a man and a stranger, and such a man! she stood and hesitated. he drew out his watch. "it is getting late," he said. "i see your ladyship declines the alliance i offer you. i wish you 'good-night,'" and he raised his hat. she put forth her hand; it was as white as her face. "stop," she said, "i agree." "good," he said, with a smile. "give me your hand," and he held out his. she hesitated, but she put her hand in his; the mental strength of the man overcame her repugnance. "so we seal our bargain. all i ask your ladyship to do is to watch, and to strike when the iron is hot. when that time comes i will give you warning." and his hand closed over hers. a shudder ran through her at the contact; his hand was cold as ice. "there is no chance that these two will keep their compact now," he said; "you and i will prevent it. good-night, my lady." "stop!" she said, and he turned. "you have not told me your name--you know mine." he smiled at her--a smile of victory and self-confidence. "my name is jasper adelstone," he said. her lips repeated the name. "shall i see you safely into the hall?" "no, no," she said. "go, if you please." he inclined his head and left her, but he did not go until she had entered the private park by another gate, and her figure was lost to sight. lord leycester rowed stella across the river, and parted from her. "good-night, my beloved," he whispered. "it is not for long. i shall see you to-morrow. good-night! i shall wait here until i see you enter the lane; you will be safe then." he held her in his arms for a moment, then he let her go, and stood on the bank watching her. she sped across the meadows and entered the lane breathless. pausing for a moment to recover her composure, she went on to the gate and opened it. as she did so a slight, youthful figure slipped out of the shadow and confronted her. she uttered a slight cry and looked up. at that moment the moonlight fell upon the face in front of her. it was the same face in the miniature. the same face, though changed from boyhood to youth. it was "frank!" chapter xix. it was the face she had seen in the miniature, changed from childhood to youth. the same blue eyes, frank, confiding, and womanish--the same golden hair clustering in short curls, instead of falling on the shoulders as in the picture--the same smiling mouth, with its little touch of weakness about the under lip. a taking, a pretty rather than a handsome face; it ought to have belonged rather to a girl than a boy. stella stared, and doubted the evidence of her senses. her dream flashed across her mind and made her heart beat with a sudden emotion, whether of fear or pleasure she could not tell. who was this boy, and what was he doing there leaning on the gate as if the place belonged to him, and he had a right to be there? she took a step nearer, and he opened the gate for her. stella entered, and he raised his hat, allowing the moonbeams to fall on his yellow hair, and smiled at her, very much as a child might smile, with grave, open-eyed admiration and greeting. "are you--you _are_ stella!" he said, in a voice that made her start,--it was so like her uncle's, but softer and brighter. "my name is stella!" she said, filled with wonder. he held out his hand frankly, but with a little timid shyness. "then we are cousins," he said. "cousins?" exclaimed stella, but she gave him her hand. "yes, cousins," he said. "you are stella, uncle harold's daughter, are you not? well, i am frank." she had felt it. "frank?" she repeated, amazedly. he nodded. "yes, i am your cousin frank. i hope"--and a cloud settled on his face--"i hope you are not sorry?" "sorry!" she uttered, feeling stupid and confused. "no, i am not sorry! i am very glad--of course i am very glad!" and she held out her hand this time. "but i didn't know!" "no," he said, with a little sigh. "no, i suppose you did not." a step was heard behind them, and mr. etheridge appeared. stella ran to him with a glad cry and put her arms round his neck. "uncle!" he kissed her, and parting the hair from her forehead, looked into her eyes tenderly. "yes, stella, i am back," he said; there was a sad weariness in his voice, and he looked haggard and tired. "and"--he hesitated, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder--"i have brought someone with me. this--is frank," he hesitated again, "my son." stella suppressed a start, and smiled up at him as if the announcement were one of the most natural. "i am so glad," she whispered. he nodded. "yes, yes," and his gaze wandered to the face of the boy who stood looking at them with a little faint smile, half timid, half uneasy. "frank has come to stop with us for a time. he is going to the university." "yes," said stella, again. she felt that there was some mystery, felt that the boy was connected in some way with that telegram and the hurried visit to town, and with her characteristic gentleness and tact hastened to smooth matters. "i'll go and see if mrs. penfold has made proper arrangements," she said. mr. etheridge looked after her as she went into the house; the boy's voice startled him. "how beautiful she is!" he murmured, a faint flush on his cheek, a light of boyish admiration in his eyes. "i didn't know i had such a beautiful cousin, so----" "no," said the old man, warmly. "go on, frank. wait." the boy paused and mr. etheridge put his hand on his shoulder. "she is as good as she is beautiful. she is an angel, frank. i need not say that she knows--nothing." the boy's face flushed, then went pale, and his eyes drooped. "thank you, sir," he said, gratefully. "no," and he shuddered, "i wouldn't have her know for--for the world." then he went in. stella was flitting about the room seeing the laying of a cloth for an impromptu meal. he paused at the window as if afraid to approach or disturb her, but she saw him and came to him with that peculiar little graceful gait which her uncle had noticed so particularly on the first night of her coming. "i am so glad you have come!" she said. "uncle must be glad, too!" "yes," he said, in a low voice. "you are glad, really glad!" her beautiful eyes opened, and she smiled. "very glad. you must come in and have some supper. it is quite ready," and she went and called her uncle. the old man came in and sat down. the boy waited until she pointed to a chair, into which he dropped obediently. mr. etheridge offered no explanation of his visit to london, and she asked for none; but while he sat with his usual silent, dreamy taciturnity, she talked to him. frank sat and listened, scarcely taking his eyes off her. presently mr. etheridge looked up. "where have you been this evening, stella?" he asked. a sudden blush covered her face, but though frank saw it, his father did not. "i have been into the woods," she said, "to the river." he nodded. "very beautiful. the witches' trysting-place, they call it," he added, absently. stella's face paled, and she hung her head. "you were rather late, weren't you?" "yes--too late," said stella, guiltily. if she might only tell him! "i won't be so late again." he looked up. "you will have frank to keep you company now," he said. stella turned to the boy with a smile that was still eloquent of guilt. "i shall be very glad," she said, feeling dreadfully deceitful. "you know all the pretty places, no doubt, and must act as _cicerone_." his eyes dropped. "no, i don't," he said. "i haven't been here before." "frank has been at school," said mr. etheridge, quietly. "you will have to be the _cicerone_," and he rose and wandered to the window. stella rang the bell, wheeled up the arm-chair, and got the old man's pipe, hanging over him with marked tenderness, and the boy watched her with the same intent look. then she came back to her seat, and took out some work. "you are not going to work to-night?" he said, leaning his elbows on the table and his head upon his hands--small, white, delicate hands, to match the face. "this is only make-believe," she said. "don't you know the old proverb about idle hands?" and she laughed. he started, and his face paled. stella wondered what she had said to affect him, and hurried on. "i can't sit still and do nothing, can you?" "yes, for hours," he said, with a smile; "i am awfully idle, but i must get better habits; i must follow your example. i mean to read while i'm down here--read hard, don't you know. shall i begin to-night?" he asked, his eyes upon her with almost slavish intentness. "not to-night," she said, with a laugh; "you must be tired. you have come from london, haven't you?" "yes," he said; "and i am rather tired. i would rather sit and watch you, if you don't mind." she shook her head. "not in the least. you can tell me about your school." "i would rather sit and watch you in silence," he said, "unless you like to talk. i should like that." he seemed a queer boy; there was something almost sad in his quietness, but stella felt that it was only temporary. "he is tired, poor boy," she thought. presently she said: "how old are you?" "seventeen," he said. she looked at him. "i did not think you were so old," she said, with a laugh. he smiled. "few persons do. yes; i am seventeen." "why, you are quite a man," she said, with a laugh. he blushed--proving his boyhood--and shook his head. "stella," came the old man's voice, "will you play something?" she rose instantly, and glided to the organ and began to play. she had been playing some little time; then she commenced to sing. suddenly she heard a sound suspiciously like a sob close to her side, and looking round saw that the boy had stolen to a low seat near her, and was leaning his face upon his hands. she stopped, but with a sudden gesture and a look toward her, the silent, seated figure motioned her to go on. she finished--it was the "ave maria,"--and then bent down to him. "you are tired!" she whispered. the voice was so sweet, so kind, so sisterly, that it went straight to the bottom of the lad's heart. he looked up at her, with that expression in his eyes which one sees in the eyes of a faithful, devoted dog then bent and kissed the sleeve of her dress. all the tenderness of stella's nature welled up at the simple act, and with a little murmur she bent down and put her lips to his forehead. his face flushed and he shrank back. "don't!" he said, in a strained voice. "i am not worthy!" for answer she stooped again and kissed him. he did not shrink this time, but took her hand and held it with a convulsive grasp, and something trembled on his lip, when he started and stared toward the window. stella turned her head quickly and stared also, for there, standing with his face turned toward them, with his eyes fixed on them, stood jasper adelstone. she rose, but he came forward with his finger on his lip. "he is asleep," he said, glancing at the chair, and he held out his hand. stella took it; it was hot and dry. "i ought to apologize for coming in so late," he said in a cautious voice; "but i was passing, and the music proved too great a temptation. will you forgive me?" "certainly," said stella. "we are very glad to see you. this is my cousin frank," she added. the small eyes that had been fixed on her face turned to the boy's, and a strange look came into them for a second, then, in his usual tone, he said: "indeed! home for a holiday, i suppose? how do you do?" and he held out his hand. frank came out of the shadow and took it, and jasper held his hand and looked at him with a strange smile. "you have not introduced me," he said to stella. stella smiled. "this is mr. adelstone, a friend of uncle's," she said. jasper adelstone looked at her. "will you not say a friend of yours also?" he asked, gently. stella laughed. "i beg your pardon; yes, if i may. i'll say a friend of ours." "and yours too, i hope," said jasper adelstone to frank. "yes, thank you," answered the boy; but there was a strange, ill-concealed shyness and reluctance in his manner. stella drew a chair forward. "won't you sit down?" she asked. he sat down. "i am afraid i have interrupted you," he said. "will you go on--do, please?" stella glanced at her uncle. "i am afraid i should wake him," she said. he looked disappointed. "some other time," said stella. "thanks," he said. "uncle is very tired to-night; he has just come from london." "indeed!" said jasper, with well-feigned surprise. "i have been to london also. that reminds me, i have ventured to bring some music for you--for your uncle!" and he drew a book from his pocket. stella took it, and uttered a little exclamation of pleasure. it was a volume of italian songs; some of them familiar to her, all of them good. "how nice, how thoughtful of you!" she said. "some of them are old favorites of mine. uncle will be so pleased. thank you very much." he put his hand to his mouth. "i am glad there are some songs you like," he said. "i thought that perhaps you would prefer italian to english?" "yes--yes," said stella, turning over the leaves. "very much prefer it." "perhaps some night you will allow me to hear some of them?" "indeed, you shall!" she said, lightly. "i may have an opportunity," he went on, "for i am afraid i shall be rather a frequent visitor." "yes?" said stella, interrogatively. "the fact is," he said, hesitatingly, and he could have cursed himself for his hesitation and awkwardness--he who was never awkward or irresolute at other times--he who had faced the proud disdain of lady lenore and conquered it!--"the fact is that i have some business with your uncle. a client of mine is a patron of the fine arts. he is a very wealthy man, and he is anxious that mr. etheridge, whom he greatly admires, should paint him a picture on a subject which he has given to me! it is rather a difficult subject--i mean it will require some explanation as the picture progresses, and i have promised, if mr. etheridge will permit me, to give the explanation." stella nodded. she had taken up her work again, and bent over it, quite unconscious of the admiration with which the two pair of eyes were fixed on her--the guarded, passionate, wistful, longing in the man's, the open awe-felt admiration of the boy's. "but," she said with a smile, "you know how--i was going to say obstinate--my uncle is; do you think he will paint it?" "i hope to be able to persuade him," he said, with a modest smile. "perhaps he will do it for me; i am an old friend, you know." "is it for you, then?" she asked. "no, no," he said, quickly; "but this art-patron is a great friend of mine, and i have pledged myself to persuade mr. etheridge." "i see," said stella. jasper was silent a moment, his eyes wandering round the room in search of the flowers--_his_ flowers. they were nowhere to be seen; but on her bosom were the wild blossoms which lord leycester had gathered. a dark shade crossed his face for a moment, and his hands clinched, but he composed himself. the time would come when she would wear _his_ flowers and his alone--he had sworn it! he turned to frank with a smile. "are you going to stay at home for long?" he asked. frank had withdrawn into the shadow, where he had been watching stella and jasper's faces alternately. he started visibly. "i don't know," he said. "i hope we shall see a great deal of each other," he said. "i am staying at the rectory, taking holiday also." "thank you," said frank, but not overjoyously. jasper rose. "i must go now," he said, "good-night." he took stella's hand and bent over it; then, turning to the boy, "good-night. yes," he added, and he held the small hands with a tight pressure, "we must see a good deal of each other, you and i." then he stole out noiselessly. as he disappeared, frank heaved a sigh of relief, and stella looked at him. he was still standing as he had stood when jasper held his hand, looking after him; and there was a strange look on his face which aroused stella's attention. "well?" she said, with a smile. frank started, and looked down at her with a smile. "is it true," he asked, "that he is a great friend of my father's?" stella nodded. "i suppose so, yes." "and of yours?" he said, intently. stella hesitated. "i have known him such a short time," she said, almost apologetically. "i thought so," he said. "he is not a friend of yours--you don't like him?" "but"--said stella. "i know it," he said, "as well as if you had told me; and i am glad of it." there was a tone of suppressed excitement in his voice--a restless, uneasy look in his eyes, which astonished stella. "why?" she said. "because," he answered, "i do not like him. i"--and a shiver ran through him--"i hate him." stella stared. "you hate him!" she exclaimed. "you have only seen him for a few minutes! ought you to say that?" "no, i suppose not," he replied; "but i can't help it. i hate him! there is something about him that--that----" he hesitated. "well?" "that makes me afraid. i felt while he was talking as if i was being smothered! don't you know what i mean?" "yes," said stella, quickly. it was that she had felt herself sometimes, when jasper's low, smooth voice was in her ears. but she felt that it was foolish to encourage the boy's fancy. "but that is nonsense!" she said. "he is very kind and considerate. he has sent me some beautiful flowers----" "he has?" he said, gloomily. "and this music." frank took up the book and eyed it scornfully, and threw it on the table as if he were tempted to pitch it out of the window. "what does he do it for!" he demanded. "i don't know--only out of kindness." frank shook his head. "i don't believe it! i--i wish he hadn't! i beg your pardon. have i offended you?" he added, contritely. "no," said stella, laughing. "not a bit, you foolish boy," and she leant on her elbows and looked up at him with her dark eyes smiling. he came nearer and looked down at her. "i am glad you don't like him." "i didn't say----" "but i know it. because i shouldn't like to hate anyone you liked," he added. "then," said stella, with her rare, musical laugh, "as it's very wicked to hate anyone, and i ought to help you to be good, the best thing i can do is to like mr. adelstone." "heaven forbid!" he said, so earnestly, so passionately, that stella started. "you are a wicked boy!" she said, with a smile. "i am," he said, gravely, and his lips quivered. "but if anything could make me better it would be living near you. you are not offended?" "not a bit," laughed stella; "but i shall be directly, so you had better go to bed. your room is quite ready, and you look tired. good-night," and she gave him her hand. he too bent over it, but how differently to jasper! and he touched it reverently with his lips. "good-night," he said; "say good-night to my father for me," and he went out. chapter xx. one hears of the devotion of a dog to its master, the love of a horse for its rider; such devotion, such love stella received from the boy frank. he was a very singular boy, and strange; he soon lost the air of melancholy and sadness which hung about him on the first night of his arrival, and became happier and sometimes even merry; there was always a certain kind of reserve about him. as stella--knowing nothing of the history of the forged bill--said, he had his thinking fits, when he used to sit with his head in his hands, his eyes fixed on vacancy. but these fits were not of frequent occurrence, and oftener he was in the best of boyish moods, chatty and cheerful, and "chaffy." his devotion to stella, indeed, was extraordinary. it was more than the love of a brother, it was not the love of a sweetheart, it was a kind of worship. he would sit for hours by her side, more often at her feet listening to her singing, or watching her at work. he was never so happy as when he was with her, walking in the meadows, and he would gladly lay aside his fishing rod or his book, to hang about with her in the garden. there had never been anyone so beautiful as stella--there had never been anyone so good. the boy looked up to her with the same admiration and love with which the devotee might regard his patron saint. his attachment was so marked that even his father, who noticed so little, observed it and commented on it. "frank follows you like a dog, stella," he said, the third evening after the boy's arrival. "don't let him bother you; he has his reading to get through, and there's the river and his rod. send him about his business if he worries you." stella laughed. "frank worry me!" she exclaimed lightly. "he is incapable of such a thing. there never was such a dear considerate boy. why, i should miss him dreadfully if he were to go away for an hour or two even. no, he doesn't bother me in the slightest, and as to his books and his rod, he shamelessly confessed yesterday, that he didn't care for any of them half as much as he cared for me." the old man looked up and sighed. "it is strange," he said, "you seem to be the only person who ever had any influence over him." "i ought to be very proud, then," said stella, "and i am. no one could help loving him, he is so irresistible." the old man went on with his work with a little sigh. "then he's so pretty!" continued stella. "it is a shame to call a boy pretty, but that is just what he is." "yes," said mr. etheridge, grimly. "it is the face of a girl, with all a girl's weakness." "hush," said stella, warningly. "here he comes. well, frank," she said, as he came in, his slim form dressed in boating flannels, his rod in his hand. "what have you been doing--fishing?" "no," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "i meant to, but you said that you would come out directly, and so i waited. are you ready? it doesn't matter--i'll wait. i suppose it's the pudding, or the custards, or the canary wants feeding. i wish there were no puddings or canaries." "what an impatient boy it is," she exclaimed, with a laugh. "well, now i'm ready." "let's go down to the river," he said. "there's someone fishing there--at least, he's supposed to be fishing, but he keeps his eyes fixed in this direction, so that i don't imagine he is getting much sport." "what is he like?" said stella. "like?" said frank. "oh, a tall, well-made young fellow, in brown velvet. a man with a yellow mustache." stella's face flushed, and she glanced round at her uncle. "let us go," she said. "i know who it is. it is lord leycester." "not lord leycester wyndward," exclaimed frank. "not really! i should like to see him. do you know him, stella?" "yes--a little," said stella, shyly. "a little." "yes, it is lord leycester," said stella, and the color came to her face. "i have heard so much about lord leycester," said frank, eagerly; "everybody knows him in london. he is an awful swell, isn't he?" stella smiled. "you will teach me the most dreadful slang, frank," she said. "is he such a 'swell,' as you call him?" "oh, awful; there isn't anything that he doesn't do. he drives a coach and four, and he's the owner of two of the best race horses in england, and he's got a yacht--the 'gipsy,' you know--and, oh, there's no end to his swelldom. and you know him?" "yes," said stella, and her heart smote her, that she could not say: "i know him so well that i am engaged to be married to him." but she could not; she had promised, and must keep her promise. frank could not get over his wonder and admiration. "why, he's one of the most popular men in london," he said. "let me see! there's something else i heard about him. oh, yes, he is going to be married." "is he?" said stella, and a little smile came about her lips. frank nodded. "to a swell as great as himself. to lady lenore beauchamp." the smile died away from stella's lips, and her face paled. it was false and ridiculous, but the mere rumor struck her, not with a dagger's but a pin's point. "is he?" she said, feeling deceitful and guilty, and she walked on in silence to the river's bank, while frank ran on telling all he knew of lord leycester's swelldom. according to frank he was a very great swell indeed, a sort of prince amongst men, and as stella listened her heart went out to the boy in gratitude. and she was to marry this great man! they reached the river's bank, and lord leycester, who had been watching them, put down his rod and came across. stella held out her hand, her face crimson with a warm blush, her eyes downcast. "how do you do, stel--miss etheridge?" he said, pressing her hand; then he glanced at frank. "this is my cousin, frank," said stella. "frank etheridge." frank, with his blue eyes wide open with awe, looked up at the handsome face of the "awful swell," and bowed respectfully; but lord leycester held out his hand, and smiled at him--the rare sweet smile. "how do you do, mr. etheridge?" he said, warmly, and at the greeting the boy's heart leaped up and his face flushed. "i am very glad to meet you," went on leycester, in his frank way--just the way to enslave a boy--"very glad, indeed, for i was feeling bored to death with rod and line. are you fond of fishing? will you come for a row? do you think you can persuade your cousin to accompany us?" frank looked up eagerly at stella, who stood, her beautiful face downcast and grave, but for the little tremulous smile of happiness which shone in the dark eyes and played about the lips. "do, stella!" he said, "do let us go!" stella looked up with a smile, and lord leycester helped her into the boat. "you can row?" he said to frank. "yes," said frank, eagerly, "i can row." "you shall pull behind me, then," said leycester. they took up sculls, and lord leycester, as he leaned forward for the stroke, spoke in a low tone: "my darling! have you wondered where i have been?" stella glanced at frank, pulling away manfully. "he cannot hear," whispered leycester; "the noise of the sculls prevents him. are you angry with me for being away?" she shook her head. "you haven't missed me?" "i have missed you!" she said, sharply. his heart leaped at the plain, frank avowal. "i have been to london," he said. "there has been some trouble about some foolish, tiresome horses; i was obliged to go. stella, every hour seemed an age to me! i dared not write; i could not send a message. stella, i want to speak to you very particularly. will he be offended if i get rid of him. he seems a nice boy!" "frank is the dearest boy in the world," she said, eagerly. leycester nodded. "i did not know mr. etheridge had a son--it is his son?" "yes," she said; "neither did i know it; but he is the dearest boy." leycester looked round. "frank," he said--"you don't mind my calling you frank?" frank colored. "it is very friendly of your lordship." leycester smiled. "i shall think you are offended if you address me in that way," he said. "my name is leycester. if you call me 'my lord,' i shall have to call you 'sir.' i can't help being a lord, you know. it's my misfortune, not my fault." frank laughed. "i wish it was my misfortune, or my fault," he said. leycester smiled. "there is a jack just opposite where i was fishing; i saw him half an hour ago. would you like to try for him?" frank put the sculls up at once. "all right," said leycester, and he pulled for the shore. "you'll find my rod quite ready. you'll stay here stel--miss etheridge. we'll pull about gently till frank has caught his fish." frank sprang to land and ran to the spot where leycester had left his rod, and leycester sculled up stream again for a few strokes, then he put the sculls down and leant forward, and seized stella's hand. "he will see you," said stella, blushing. "no, he will not," he retorted, and he bent until his lips touched her hand. "stella, i want to speak to you very seriously. you must promise you will not be angry with me." stella looked at him with a smile. "is it so serious," she said, in that low, murmuring voice which a woman uses when she speaks to the man she loves. "very," he said, gravely, but with the bold, defiant look in his eyes which presaged some bold, defiant deed. "stella, i want you to marry me." stella started, and her hand closed spasmodically on his. "i want you to marry me soon," he went on--"at once." "oh, no, no!" she said, in a whisper, and her hand trembled in his. marry him at once! the thought was so full of immensity that it overwhelmed her. "but it must be 'yes! yes! yes!'" he said. "my darling, i find that i cannot live without you. i cannot! i cannot! you will take pity on me!" take pity on him--the great lord leycester; the most popular man in london; the heir to wyndward; the hero of whom frank had been speaking so enthusiastically; while she was but stella etheridge, the painter's penniless niece. "what am i to say? what can i say?" she said, in a low voice, her eyes downcast, her heart beating fast. "i will tell you," he said. "you must say 'yes,' my darling, to all i ask you." there was a moment's pause, in which she felt that indeed she must say 'yes' to anything he asked her. "listen, darling," he went on, caressing her hand, his eyes fixed on her face wistfully. "i have been thinking of this love of ours, thinking of it night and day, and i feel that you and i can do no good by waiting. you are happy--yes, because you are a woman; but i am not happy, because, perhaps, that i am a man. i shall not be happy until we are one--until you are my very own. stella, we must be married at once." "not at once," she pleaded. "at once," he said; and there was a strange, eager, impatient light in his eyes. "stella, i can speak to you as i can speak to no one else--you and i are one in thought--you are my other self. my darling, i would go through fire to save you a moment's pain, not only pain, but uneasiness and annoyance." her fingers closed on his hand, and her eyes, raised to his face for a moment, plainly said, "i believe it;" but her lips said nothing. "stella, there would be pain and annoyance to you, if--if we were to make known our love. it is a foolish, stupid, idiotic world; but as the world is, we must accept it--we cannot alter it. if we were to declare our love, all sorts of people would be arrayed against us. do you think your uncle would consent to it?" stella thought a moment. "i know what you mean," she said, in a low voice. "no, uncle would not consent. but it is not that only. lady wyndward--the earl--no one of your people would consent." his lips curled. "about their consent i care little," he said, in the quiet, defiant manner peculiar to him. "but i do care for your happiness and peace of mind, and i fear they might make you unhappy and--uncomfortable. so, stella, i think you and i had better walk to church one fine morning, and say 'nothing to nobody.'" stella started. "secretly, do you mean? oh, leycester!" "my darling! is it not best? then when it is all over, and you are my very own, nobody will say anything, because it will be no good to say anything! stella, it must be so! if we waited until we got everybody's consent, we might wait until we were as old as methuselah!" "but uncle!" murmured stella. "he has been so good to me." "and i will be good to you!" he murmured, with such sweet significance that the beautiful face crimsoned. "he only wants to see you happy, and i will make you happy, my darling--my own!" as he spoke he took her hand, and held it to his lips as if he never meant to part with it, and stella could not find a word to say. if she had found a word it would have been 'yes.' he was silent a moment--thinking. then he said-- "stella, you think i have some plan ready, but i have not. i would not even think of a plan till i got your consent. now i have got your consent--i have, haven't i?" stella was silent, but her hand closed over his. "i will think. i will make a plan. we shall want some one to help us." he thought a moment, then he looked up with a smile. "i know! it shall be--frank!" "frank!" exclaimed stella. he nodded. "yes, i like him. i like him because he likes you. stella, that boy adores you." stella smiled. "he is a dear good boy." "he shall help us. he shall be our mercury, and carry messages. do you know, stella, that you and i have never written to each other since we have been engaged? when i was in london, i longed for some memento of you, some written line, something you had touched. you will write now, darling, and frank shall act as messenger. i will think it all out, and send you word, if i do not see you. frank and i must be good friends. it is quite true that the boy adores you. i can see it in his eyes. that is no wonder--anybody, everybody who knows you must adore you, my darling." something has been said of the infinite charm possessed by leycester, a charm quite irresistible when he chose to exert it. this morning he exerted it to the utmost extent. stella felt in dreamland and under a spell. if he had asked her to go to land and marry him there and then--if he had asked her to follow him to the ends of the world, she would have felt bound to so follow him. she forgot time and place and everything as she listened to him, for a time at least, but as the boat drifted down to the spot where they had left frank, she remembered the boy, and looked up with a start. "frank is not there," she said. "where has he gone?" leycester looked up smiling. "you are a sister to him!" he said. "he must have wandered down the bank. he is all right." then he looked down the river, and a sudden light came into his eyes. "the foolish boy," he said. "he has gone on to the weir." "the weir!" exclaimed stella. "don't be frightened," he said. "he is all right. he is standing on the wooden stage over the weir." stella looked round. "he will fall!" she said. "isn't it very dangerous?" it did look dangerous. frank had climbed on to the weir bars and was standing over a narrow beam, his legs apart, his eyes fixed on the big float which danced in the foaming water. "he is all right," said leycester. "i'll tell him to come off. don't be alarmed, my darling. you have gone quite pale!" "call to him to come off at once," said stella. leycester rowed to land, and they both walked to the weir, a few paces only. "better come off there, frank," called out leycester. frank looked round. "i've just had a touch," he said. "there is a tremendous jack there, or perhaps it's a trout; he'll come again directly." "come off," said leycester. "you are frightening stella--your cousin." "all right," said frank, but at the moment the fish, jack or trout, seized the bait, and with an exultant cry, frank jerked his rod. "i've got him!" he shouted. "it's a monster! have you got a net lord--i mean leycester?" "no, bother the net and the fish too," said leycester. "leave the fish and come off; your cousin is alarmed." "oh, very well," said frank, and he jerked the rod to get clear of the fish, and at the same moment turned warily toward the shore. but the fish--jack or trout--had got a firm hold, and was not disposed to go, and making a turn to the open river, put a strain on the rod which frank had not expected. it was a question whether he should drop the rod or cling on. he decided on the latter, and the next moment he missed his footing and fell into the foaming water. stella did not utter a cry--it was not her way of expressing her emotion--but she grasped leycester's arm. "all right, my darling," he murmured; "it is all right," and as he spoke, he put her hand from his arm gently and tenderly. the next moment he had torn off his coat, and springing on the weir stood for just a second to calculate the distance, and dived off. stella, even then, did not shriek, but she sank speechless on the bank, and with clasped hands and agonized terror, watched the struggle. lord leycester rose to the surface almost instantly. he was a skilled diver and a powerful swimmer, and he had not lost his presence of mind for a moment. it was a terrible place to jump from--a still more terrible place from which to rescue a drowning person; but lord leycester had done the thing before, and he was not afraid. he saw the boy's golden head come up a few yards beyond where he, lord leycester, rose, and he struck out for it. a few stokes, and he reached and grasped him. "don't cling to me, my boy" he gasped. "no fear, lord leycester!" gasped frank, in return. then lord leycester seized him by the hair, and striking out for the shore, fought hard. it was a hard fight. the recoil of the stream, as it fell from the weir, was tremendous; it was like forcing one's way through liquid iron. but lord leycester did force his way, and still clinging to the boy's hair, dragged him ashore. dripping wet, they stood and looked at each other. then lord leycester laughed; but frank, the boy, did not. "lord leycester," he said, speaking pantingly, "you have saved my life." "nonsense!" said leycester, shaking himself; "i have had a pleasant bath, that's all!" "you have saved my life," said frank, solemnly. "i should never have been able to force my way through that current alone. i know what a weir stream is." "nonsense," said leycester, again. then he turned to where stella stood, white and trembling. "don't be frightened, stella; don't be frightened, darling!" the word was said before he could recall it, and he glanced at frank. frank nodded. "i know," he said with a smile. "i knew it half an hour ago; since you first spoke to her." "frank!" murmured stella. "i knew he loved you," said frank, calmly. "he could not help it; how could anybody help it who knew you?" leycester laid his hand on the boy's arm. "you must go home at once," he said, gently. "you have saved my life," said frank again. "lord leycester, i shall never forget it. perhaps some day i shall be able to repay you. it seems unlikely; but remember the story of the lion and the mouse." "never mind the lion and the mouse," said leycester, smiling, as he wrung the thames water from his clothes. "you must get home at once." "but i do remember the lion and the mouse," said frank, his teeth chattering. "you have saved my life." meanwhile stella stood wordless and motionless, her eyes wandering from her lover to frank. wordless, because she could find no words to express her admiration for her lover's heroism. at last she spoke. "oh, leycester!" she said, and that was all. leycester took her in his arms and kissed her. "frank," he said, "you must keep our secret." "i would lay down my life for either of you," said the boy, looking up at him. they went down to the boat in silence, and leycester rowed them across in silence; then, as they landed, frank spoke again, and there was a strange light in his eyes. "i know," he said. "i know your secret. i would lay down my life for you!" chapter xxi. stella hurried frank across the meadows, a rather difficult task, as he would insist upon talking, his teeth chattering, and his clothes dripping. "what a splendid fellow, stella! what a happy girl you ought to be--you are!" "perhaps i am," assented stella, with a little smile; "but do you make haste, frank! can't you run any faster? i'll race you to the lane!" "no, you won't," he retorted cheerfully. "you run like a greyhound at the best of times, and now i seem to have got a couple of tons clinging to me, you'd beat me hollow. but, stella! think of him plunging off the beam! many a man would have been satisfied to jump off the bank; if he had, he wouldn't have saved me! he knew that; and he made nothing of it, nothing! and that is the man they call a dandy and a fop!" "never mind what they call him, but run!" implored stella. "i don't know any other man who could have done it," he went on, his teeth chattering; "and how friendly and jolly he was, calling me frank and telling me to call him leycester! stella, what a lucky girl you are; but he is not a bit too good for you after all! no one is too good for you! and he does love you, stella; i could see it by the way he looked at you, and you thought to hide it, and that i shouldn't see it. did you think i was a muff?" "i think you will be laid up with a bad cold, sir, if you don't run!" said stella. "what will uncle say?" frank stopped short and his face paled; he seemed to shrink. "my father must know nothing about it," he said. "don't tell him, stella; i will get in the back way and change. don't tell him!" "but----" said stella. "no, no," he reiterated; "i don't want him to know. it will only trouble him, and"--his voice faltered--"i have given him so much trouble." "very well," said stella. "but come along or you will be ill, and then he must know." this appeared to have the desired effect, and he took her hand and set off at a run. they reached the lane, and were just turning into it, when the tall, thin figure of jasper emerged. both stella and frank stopped, and she felt his hand close in hers tightly. "stella, here's that man adelstone," he said, in a whisper of aversion. "must we stop?" jasper settled that question by raising his hat, and coming forward with outstretched hand. "good-evening!" he said, his small, keen eyes glancing from stella to the boy, and taking in the fact of the wet clothes in a moment. "what is the matter?" "nothing much," said stella with a smile, and hurriedly. "my cousin has fallen into the water. we are hurrying home." "fallen in the water!" said jasper, turning and walking beside them. "how did he manage that?" frank was silent, and stella, with a little flush, said, gravely: "we were on the water----" "i was fishing from the weir," broke in frank, pressing her hand, warningly, "and i fell in; that is all." there was something almost like defiance in the tone and the glance he gave at the sinister face. "into the weir stream!" exclaimed jasper, "and you got ashore! you must be a good swimmer, my dear frank!" "i am--pretty well," said frank, almost sullenly. "perhaps you had the waterman to help you," said jasper, looking from one to the other. then stella, who felt that it would be better to speak out, said, gravely: "lord leycester was near, and leapt in and saved him." jasper's face paled, and an angry light shot from his eyes. "how fortunate that he should happen to be near!" he said. "it was brave of him!" there was a suspicion of a sneer in the thin voice that roused the spirit of the boy. "it was brave," he said. "perhaps you don't know what it is to swim through a weir current, mr. adelstone?" jasper smiled down at the flushed, upturned face. "no, but i think i should have tried if i had been lucky enough to be in lord leycester's place." "i'm very glad you weren't," said frank, in a low voice. "i am sure you would," said stella, quickly. "anyone would. come, frank. good-evening, mr. adelstone." jasper paused and looked at her. she looked very beautiful with her flushed face and eager eyes, and his heart was beating rapidly. "i came out hoping to see you, miss etheridge," he said. "may i come in?" "yes, of course; uncle will be very pleased," she said. "but go in the front way, please; we are going in at the back, because we don't wish uncle to know. it would only upset him. you will not tell him, please?" "you may always rely on my discretion," said jasper. stella, still holding frank's hand, dragged him into the kitchen, and stopped mrs. penfold's exclamation of dismay. "frank has had an accident, mrs. penfold. yes, he fell in the river. i'll tell you all about it afterward; but he must change his things at once--at once. run up, frank, and get into the blanket----" "all right," he said; then, as he went out of the room, he took her by the arm. "don't let that man stay, stella. i--hate him." "my dear frank!" "i hate him! what did he mean by sneering at lord leycester?" "he doesn't like lord leycester," said stella. "who cares?" exclaimed frank, indignantly. "curs are not particularly fond of lions, but----" stella would hear no more, but pushed him up the stairs with anxious impatience; then she went into the studio. as she neared the door she could hear jasper adelstone's voice. he was talking to her uncle, and something in the tone struck her as peculiar, and struck her unpleasantly. there was a tone of familiarity, almost of covert power in it that annoyed her. with her hand on the door she paused, and it seemed to her as if she heard him speak her name; she was not sure, and she would not wait, but with a little heightened color she opened the door and entered. as she did so jasper laid his hand upon the old man's arm as if to call his attention to her entrance, and the painter turned round with a start, and looking at her intently, said, with evident perplexity: "a mere girl--a mere girl, jasper!" and shaking his head, resumed his work. jasper stood a moment, a smile on his face, watching stella from the corner of his eyes; then he said, suddenly: "i have been admiring your roses, miss stella, and breaking the last commandment. i have been coveting them." "oh!" said stella. "pray take any you like, there are such numbers of them that we can spare them; can we not, uncle?" as usual, the painter took no notice, and jasper, in a matter-of-fact voice, said: "do you mind coming out and telling me which i may cut? i only want one or two to take to london with me, to brighten my dull rooms." "certainly," said stella, moving toward the window. "are you going to london?" he muttered something and followed her out, his eyes taking in the lithe grace of her figure with a hungry wistfulness. "now then," said stella, standing in the middle of the path and waving her hand: "which shall it be, white rose or red?" and she smiled up at him. he looked at her for a moment in silence. she had never appeared to him more beautiful than this morning; there was a subtle light of hidden joy shining in her eyes, a glow of youthful hope about her face that set his heart beating with mingled pleasure and pain--delight in the beauty which he had sworn should be his, pain and torture in the thought that another--the hated lord leycester--had already looked upon it that morning. even as he stood silently regarding her, a bitter suspicion smote through his heart that the joyousness which shone from the dark eyes had been set there by lord leycester. he bit his lip and his face went pale, then with a start he came close to her. "give me which you please," he said. "here is a knife." stella took the knife heedlessly and carelessly. there was no significance in the deed; she did not know that he would attach any importance to the fact that she should cut the rose and give it to him with her own hand; if she had so understood it she would have dropped the knife as if it had been an adder. in simple truth she was not thinking of him--scarcely saw him; she was thinking of that lover, the god of her heart, and seeing him as he swam through the river foam. for she was scarcely conscious of jasper adelstone's presence, and in the acuteness of his passion he almost suspected it. "white or red?" she said, knife in hand. he glanced at her. "red," he said, and his lips felt hot and dry. stella cut a red rose--a dark red rose, and with a little womanly gesture put it to her face; it was a little girlish trick, all unthinking, unconsciously done, but it sent the blood to the heart of the man watching her in a sudden, passionate rush. "there," she said; "it is a beauty. they speak of the roses of florence, but give me an english rose, florentine roses are fuller than these, but not so beautiful--oh, not so beautiful! there," and she held it out to him, without looking at him. if she had done so, she would have surely read something in the white constrained face, and small, glittering eyes that would have warned her. he took it without a word. in simple truth he was trying to restrain himself. he felt that the time was not ripe for action--that a word of the devouring passion which consumed him would be dangerous, and he whispered to himself, "not yet! not yet!" but her loveliness, that touch of the rose to his face, overmastered his cool, calculating spirit. "thank you," he said at last; "thank you very much. i shall value it dearly. i shall put it on my desk in my dark, grim room, and think of you." then stella looked up and started slightly. "oh!" she said, hurriedly. "you would like some more perhaps? pray take what you would like," and she held out the knife, and looked upon him with a sudden coldness in the eyes that should have warned him. "no, i want no more," he said. "all the roses that ever bloomed would not add to my pleasure. it is this rose from your hand that i value." stella made a slight movement toward the window, but he put out his hand. "stay one moment--only a moment," he said, and in his eagerness he put out his hand and touched her arm, the arm sacred to leycester. stella shrank back, and a little shudder swept through her. "what--what is it!" she asked, in a low voice that she tried to make calm and cold and repressive. he stood, shutting and opening the knife with a nervous restlessness, as unlike his calm impassability as the streaming torrent that forces its way through the mountain gorge is like the lake at their feet; his eyes fixed on her face with anxious eagerness. "i want to speak to you," he said. "only a few words--a very few words. will you listen to me? i hope you will listen to me." stella stood, her face turned away from him, her heart beating, but coldly and with fear and repugnance, not as it had beat when leycester's low tones first fell upon her ear. he moistened his lips again, and his hand closed over the shut knife with a tight clasp, as if he were striving to regain self-command. "i know it is unwise. i feel that--that you would rather not listen to me, and that i shall do very little good by speaking, but i cannot. there are times, stella----" stella moved slightly at the familiar name. "there are times when a man loses self-control, when he flings prudence to the winds, or rather, lets it slip from him. this is one of those moments, stella--miss etheridge; i feel that i must speak, let it cost me what it may." still silent, she stood as if turned to stone. he put his hand to his brow--his white, thin hand, with its carefully trimmed nails--and wiped away the perspiration that stood in big beads. "miss etheridge, i think you can guess what it is i want to say, and i hope that you will not think any the less of me because of my inability to say it as it should be said, as i would have it said. stella, if you look back, if you will recall the times since first we met, you cannot fail to know my meaning." she turned her face toward him for a moment, and shook her head. "you mean that i have no right to think so. do you think that you, a woman, have not seen what every woman sees so quickly when it is the case--that i have learned to love you!" the word was out at last, and as it left him he trembled. stella did not start, but her face went paler than before, and she shrank slightly. "yes," he went on, "i have learned to love you. i think i loved you the first evening we met; i was not sure then, and--i will tell you the whole truth, i have sworn to myself that i would do it--i tried to fight against it. i am not a man easily given to love; no, i am a man of the world--one who has to make his way in the world, one who has an ambition; and i tried to put you from my thoughts--i tried hard, but i failed." he paused, and eyed her watchfully. her face was like a mask of stone. "i grew to love you more day by day--i was not happy away from you. i carried your image up with me to london--it came between me and my work; but i was patient--i told myself that i should gain nothing by being too rash--that i must give you time to know me, and to--to love me." he paused and moistened his lips, and looked at her. why did she not speak--of what was she thinking? at that moment, if he could but have known it, she was thinking of her true lover--of the young lord who had not waited and calculated, but who had poured the torrent of his passionate love at her feet--had taken her in his arms and made her love him. and as she thought, how small, how mean this other man seemed to her! "i gave you mine--i meant to give you more," he continued; "i want to do something worthy of your love. i am--i am not a rich man, stella--i have no title--as yet----" stella's eyes flashed for a moment, and her lips closed. it was an unlucky speech for him. "no, not yet; but i shall have riches and title--i have set my mind on them, and there is nothing that i have set my mind on that i have not got, or will not get--nothing!" he repeated, with almost fierce intensity. still she did not speak. like a bird charmed, fascinated by a snake, she stood, listening though every word was torture to her. "i have set my mind on winning your love, stella. i love you as few men love, with all my heart and soul. there is nothing i would not do to win you, there is nothing i would--pause at." a faint shudder stole through her; and he saw it, and added, quickly: "i would do anything to make you happy--move heaven and earth to see you always smiling as you smiled this morning. stella, i love you! what have you to say to me?" he stopped, white and seemingly exhausted, his thin lips tightly compressed, his whole frame quivering. chapter xxii. stella, turned her eyes upon him, and something like pity took possession of her for a moment. it was a womanly feeling, and it softened her reply. "i--am very sorry," she said, in a low voice. "sorry!" he repeated, hoarsely, quickly. "do not say that!" "yes--i am very sorry," she repeated. "i--i--did not know----" "did not know that i loved you!" he retorted, almost sharply. "were you blind? every word, every look of mine would have told you, if you had cared to know----" her face flushed, and she raised her eyes to his with a flash of indignation. "i did not know!" she breathed. "forgive me!" he pleaded hoarsely. "i--i am very unfortunate. i offend and anger you! i told you that i should not be able to say what i had to say with credit to myself. pray forgive me. i meant that though i tried to hide my love, it must have betrayed itself. how could it be otherwise? stella, have you no other word for me?" "none," she said, looking away. "i am very sorry. i did not know. but it could not have been. never." he stood regarding her, his breath coming in long gasps. "you mean you never can love me?" he asked. stella raised her eyes. "yes," she said. his hand closed over the knife until the back of the blade pressed deeply into the quivering palm. "never is--is a long day," he said, hoarsely. "do not say 'never.' i will be patient; see, i am patient, i am calm now, and will not offend you again! i will be patient and wait; i will wait for years, if you will but give me hope--if you will but try to love me a little!" stella's face paled, and her lips quivered. "i cannot," she said, in a low voice. "you--you do not understand. one cannot teach oneself to love--cannot _try_. it is impossible. besides--you do not know what you ask. you do not understand!" "do i not?" he said, and a bitter sneer curled the thin lips. "i do understand. i know--i have a suspicion of the reason why you answer me like this." stella's face burnt for a moment, then went pale, but her eyes met his steadily. "there is something behind your refusal; no girl would speak as you do unless there was something behind. there is someone else. am i not right?" "you have no right to ask me!" said stella, firmly. "my love gives me the right to ask. but i need not put the question, and there is no necessity for you to answer. if you have been blind, i have not. i have seen and noted, and i tell you, i tell you plainly, that what you hope for cannot be. i say cannot--shall not be!" he added, between his closed teeth. stella's eyes flashed as she stood before him glorious in her loveliness. "have you finished?" she asked. he was silent, regarding her watchfully. "if you have finished, mr. adelstone, i will leave you." "stay," he said, and he stood in the path so that she could not pass him, "stay one moment. i will not ask you to reconsider your reply. i will only ask you to forgive me." his voice grew hoarse, and his eyes drooped. "yes, i will beg you to forgive me. think of what i am suffering, and you will not refuse me that. forgive me, stella--miss etheridge! i have been wrong, mad, and brutal; but it has sprung from the depth of my love; i am not altogether to blame. will you say that you will forgive me, and that--that we remain friends?" stella paused. he watched her eagerly. "if--if," he said quickly, before she could speak--"if you will let this pass as if it had not been--if you will forget all i have said--i will promise not to offend again. do not let us part--do not send me away never to see you again. i am an old friend of your uncle's; i should not like to lose his friendship; i think i may say that he would miss mine. let us be friends, miss etheridge." stella inclined her head. "thank you, thank you," he said, meekly, tremulously; "i shall be very grateful for your friendship, miss stella. i will keep the rose to remind me of your forbearance," and he was patting the rose in his coat, when stella with a start stretched out her hand. "no! give it me back, please," she said. he stood eying her. "let me keep it," he said; "it is a little thing." "no!" she said, firmly, and her face burnt. "you must not keep it. i--i did not think when i gave it to you! give it me back, please," and she held out her hand. he still hesitated, and stella, overstrained, made a step toward him. "give it me," she said. "i must--i will have it!" an angry flush came on his face, and he held the rose from her. "it is mine," he said. "you gave it to me; i cannot give it back." the words had scarcely left his lips, when the rose was dashed from his hand, and frank stood white and panting between them. "how dare you!" he gasped, passionately, his hands clinched, his eyes gleaming fiercely upon the white face. "how dare you!" and with a savage exclamation the boy dashed his foot on the flower, and ground it under his heel. the action, so full of scornful defiance, spurred jasper back to consciousness. with a smothered oath he grasped the boy's shoulders. frank turned upon him with the savage ferocity of a wild animal, with upraised arm. then, suddenly, like a lightning flash, jasper's face changed and a convulsive smile forced itself upon his lips. he caught the arm and held it, and smiled down at him. "my dear frank," he murmured. "what is the matter?" so sudden was the change, so unexpected, that stella, who had caught the boy's other arm, stood transfixed. frank gasped. "what did you mean by keeping the rose?" he burst out. jasper laughed softly. "oh, i see!" he said, nodding with amused playfulness. "i see. you were watching--from the window, perhaps, eh?" and he shook his arm playfully. "and like a great many other spectators, took jest for earnest! impetuous boy!" frank looked at the pale, smiling face, and at stella's downcast one. "is it true?" he asked stella, bluntly. "oh, come!" said jasper, reproachfully. "isn't that rather rude? but i must forgive you, and i do it easily, my dear frank, when i remember that your sudden onslaught was prompted by a desire to champion miss stella! now come, you owe me a rose, go and cut me one, and we will be friends--great friends, will we not?" frank slid from his grasp, but stood eying him suspiciously. "you will not?" said jasper. "still uncertain lest it should have been sober earnest? then i will cut one for myself. may i?" and he smiled at stella. stella did not speak, but she inclined her head. jasper went to one of the standards and cut a red rose deliberately and carefully, and placed it in his coat, then he cut another, and with a smile held it to stella. "will that do instead of the one the stupid boy has spoiled?" he said, laughing. stella would have liked to refuse it, but frank's eyes were upon her. slowly she held out her hand and took the rose. a smile of triumph glittered for a moment in jasper's eyes, then he put his hand on frank's shoulder. "my dear frank," he said, in a soft voice, "you must be careful; you must repress that impulsive temper of yours, must he not?" and he turned to stella and held out his hand. "good-bye! it is so dangerous, you know," he murmured, holding stella's hand, but keeping his smiling eyes fixed on the boy's face. "why, some of these days you will be doing someone an injury and find yourself in prison, doing as they call it, six months' hard labor, like a common thief--or forger!" and he laughed, as if it were the best joke in the world. not so frank. as the bantering words left the thin, smiling lips, frank recoiled suddenly, and his face went white. jasper looked at him. "and now you are sorry?" he said. "tell me it was only your fun! why, my dear boy, you wear your heart on your sleeve! well, if you would really like to beg my pardon, you may do it." the boy turned his white face toward him. "i--beg--your--pardon," he said, as if every word cost him an agony, and then, with a sudden twitch of the face, he turned and went slowly with bent head toward the house. jasper looked after him with a steely, cruel glitter in his eyes, and he laughed softly. "dear boy!" he murmured; "i have taken so fond a liking for him, and this only deepens it! he did it for your sake. you did not think i meant to keep the rose! no; i should have given it to you! but i may keep this! i will! to remind me of your promise that we may still be friends!" and he let her hand go, and walked away. chapter xxiii. lord leycester was on fire as he strode up the hill to the hall, and that notwithstanding he was wet to the skin. he was on fire with love. he swore to himself, as he climbed up the slope, that there was no one like his stella, no one so beautiful, so lovable and sweet as the dark-eyed girl who had stolen his heart from him that moonlight night in the lane. and he also vowed that he would wait no longer for the inestimable treasure, the exquisite happiness that lay within his grasp. his great wealth, his time honored title seemed as nothing to him compared with the thought of possessing the first real love of his life. he smiled rather seriously as he pictured his father's anger, his mother's dismay and despair, and lil's, dear lilian's, grief; but it was a smile, though a serious one. "they will get over it when it has once been done. after all, barring that she has no title and no money--neither of which are wanted, by the way--she is as delightful a daughter-in-law as any mother or father could wish for. yes; i'll do it!" but how? that was the question. "there is no gretna green nowadays," he pondered, regretfully. "i wish there were! a ride to the border, with my darling by my side, nestling close to me all the way with mingled love and alarm, would be worth taking. a man can't very well put up the banns in any out-of-the-way place, because there are few out-of-the-way places where they haven't heard of us wyndwards. by jove!" he muttered, with a little start--"there is a special license. i was almost forgetting that! that comes of not being used to being married. a special license!" and pondering deeply he reached the house. the party at the hall was very small indeed now, but lady lenore and lord charles still remained. lenore had once or twice declared that she must go, but lady wyndward had entreated her to stay. "do not go, lenore," she had said, with gentle significance. "you know--you must know that we count upon you." she did not say for what purpose she counted upon her, but lenore had understood, and had smiled with that faint, sweet smile which constituted one of her charms. lord charles stayed because leycester was still there. "of course i ought to go, lady wyndward," he said; "you must be heartily tired of me, but who is to play billiards with leycester if i go, or who is to keep him in order, don't you see?" and so he had stayed, with one or two others who were only too glad to remain at the hall out of the london dust and turmoil. by all it was quite understood that lord leycester should be considered as quite a free agent, free to come and go as he chose, and never to be counted on; they were as surprised as they were gratified if he joined them in a drive or a walk, and were never astonished when he disappeared without furnishing any clew to his intentions. lady wyndward bore it all very patiently; she knew that what lady longford had said was quite true, that it was useless to attempt to drive him; but she did say a word to the old countess. "there is something amiss!" she said, with a sigh, and the old countess had smiled and shown her teeth. "of course there is, my dear ethel," she retorted; "there always is where he is concerned. he is about some mischief, i am as convinced as you are. but it does not matter, it will come all right in time." "but will it?" asked lady wyndward with a sigh. "yes, i think so," said the old countess, "and lenore agrees with me, or she would not stay." "it is very good of her to stay," said lady wyndward, with a sigh. "very!" assented the old lady, with a smile. "it is encouraging. i am sure she would not stay if she did not see excuse. yes, ethel it will all come right; he will marry lenore, or rather, she will marry him, and they will settle down, and--i don't know whether you have asked me to stand god-mother to the first child." lady wyndward tried to feel encouraged and confident, but she felt uneasy. she was surprised that lenore still remained. she knew nothing of that meeting between the proud beauty and jasper adelstone. and lenore! a great change had come over her. she herself could scarcely understand it. at night--as she sat before her glass while her maid brushed out the long tresses that fell over the white shoulders like a stream of liquid gold--she asked herself what it meant? was it really true that she was in love with lord leycester? she had not been in love with him when she first came to the hall--she would have smiled away the suggestion if anyone had made it; but now--how was it with her now? and as she asked herself the question, a crimson flush would stain the beautiful face, and the violet eyes would gleam with mingled shame and self-scorn, so that the maid would eye her wonderingly under respectfully lowered lids. yes, she was forced to admit that she did love him--love him with a passion which was a torture rather than a joy. she had not known the full extent of that passion until the hour when she had stood concealed between the trees at the river, and heard leycester's voice murmuring words of love to another. and that other! an unknown, miserable, painter's niece! often, at night, when the great hall was hushed and still, she lay tossing to and fro with miserable longing and intolerable shame, as she recalled that hour when she had been discovered by jasper adelstone and forced to become his confederate. she, the great beauty--before whom princes had bent in homage--to be love-smitten by a man whose heart was given to another--she to be the confederate and accomplice of a scheming, under-bred lawyer. it was intolerable, unbearable, but it was true--it was true; and in the very keenest paroxysm of her shame she would confess that she would do all that she had done, would conspire with even a baser one than jasper adelstone to gain her end. "she!" she would murmur in the still watches of the night--"she to marry the man to whom i have given my love! it is impossible--it shall not be! though i have to move heaven and earth, it shall not be." and then, after a sleepless night, she would come down to breakfast--fair, and sweet, and smiling--a little pale, perhaps, but looking all the lovelier for such paleness, without the shadow of a care in the deep violet eyes. toward leycester her bearing was simply perfection. she did not wish to alarm him; she knew that a hint of what she felt would put him on his guard, and she held herself in severe restraint. her manner to him was simply what it was to anyone else--exquisitely refined and charming. if anything, she adopted a lighter tone, and sought to and succeeded in calling forth his rare laughter. she deceived him completely. "lenore in love with me!" he said to himself more than once; "the idea is ridiculous! what could have made the mother imagine such a thing?" and so they met freely and frankly, and he talked and laughed with her at his ease, little dreaming that she was watching him as a cat watches a mouse, and that not a thing he said or did escaped her. she knew by instinct where he spent the times in which he was missing from the hall, and pictured to herself the meetings between him and the girl who had robbed her of his love. and as the jealousy increased, so did the love which created it. day by day she realized still more fully that he had won her heart--that it was gone to him forever--that her whole future happiness depended upon him. the very tone of his voice, so deep and musical--his rare laugh--the smile that made his face so gay and bright--yes, even the bursts of the passionate temper which lit up the dark eyes with sudden fire, were precious to her. "yes, i love him," she murmured to herself--"it is all summed up in that. i love him." and leycester, still smiling to himself over his mother's "amusing mistake," was all unsuspecting. all his thoughts were of stella. now as he came toward the terrace, she stood with lady longford and lord charles looking down at him. she watched him, her cheek resting on her white hand, her face hidden from the rest by the sunshade, whose lining of hearty blue harmonized with the golden hair, and "her heart hungered," as victor hugo says. "here's leycester," said lord charles. lady longford looked over the balustrade. "what has he been doing? rowing--fishing?" "he went out with a fishing rod," said lord charles, with a grin, "but the fish appear to have devoured it; at any rate leycester hasn't got it now. hullo, old man, where have you been? come up here!" leycester sprang up the steps and stood beside lenore. it was the first time she had seen him that morning, and she inclined her head and held out her hand with a smile. he took her hand; it was warm and soft, his own was still cold from his bath, and she opened her eyes widely. "your hand is quite cold," she said, then she touched his sleeve, "and you are wet. where have you been?" leycester laughed carelessly. "i have met with a slight accident, and gained a pleasant bath." "an accident?" she repeated, not curiously, but with calm, serene interest. "yes," he said, shortly, "a young friend of mine fell into the river, and i joined company, just for company's sake." "i understand," she said with a smile, "you went in to save him." "well, that's putting rather a fine point to it," he said, smilingly. "but it's true. may one ask his name?" leycester flicked a piece of moss from the stone coping and hesitated for a moment: "his name is frank," he said; "frank etheridge." lady lenore nodded. "a pretty name; i don't remember it. i hope he is grateful." "i hope so," said leycester. "i am sure he is more grateful than the occasion merits." the old countess looked round at him. "what is it you say?" she said. "you have been in the river after some boy, and you stand there lounging about in your wet clothes? well, the lad ought to be grateful, for though you will not catch your death, you will in all probability catch a chronic influenza cold, and that's worse than death; it's life with a pocket-handkerchief to your nose. go and change your things at once." "i think i had better, after that fearful prognostication," said leycester, with a smile, and he sauntered off. "etheridge," said lady longford, "that is the name of that pretty girl with the dark eyes who dined here the other night." "yes," said lenore, indifferently, for the old countess looked at her; she knew that the indifference was assumed. "if leycester doesn't take care, he will find himself in danger with those dark eyes. girls are apt to be grateful toward men who rescue their cousins from a watery grave." lady lenore shifted her sunshade and smiled serenely. "no doubt she is very grateful. why should she not be? do you think lord leycester is in danger? i do not." and she strolled away. the old lady glanced at lord charles. "that is a wonderful girl, charles," she said, with earnest admiration. "what, lenore?" he said. "rather. just found it out, lady longford?" "no, mr. impertinence. i have known it all along; but she astonishes me afresh every day. what a great name she would have won on the stage. but she will do better as lady wyndward." lord charles shook his head, and whistled softly. "rather premature that, isn't it?" he said. "leycester doesn't seem very keen in that quarter, does he?" lady longford smiled at him and showed her teeth. "what does it matter how he seems?" she said. "it rests with her--with her. you are a nice boy, charles, but you are not clever." "just exactly what my old schoolmaster used to say before he birched me," said lord charles. "if you were clever, if you were anything else than unutterably stupid, you would go and see that leycester changes his clothes," snapped the old lady. "i'll be bound he is sitting or lounging about in those wet things still!" "a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse," said lord charles, laughing. "i'll go and do as i am bidden. he will probably tell me to go and mind my own business, but here goes," and he walked off toward the house. he found leycester in the hands of his valet, being rapidly transferred from wet flannels to orthodox morning attire, and apparently the valet was not having a particularly easy time of it. lord charles sank into a chair, and watched the performance with amused interest. "what's the matter ley?" he asked, when the man left the room for a moment. "you'll drive that poor devil into a lunatic asylum." "he's so confoundedly slow," answered leycester, brushing away at his hair, which the valet had already arranged, and tugging at a refractory scarf. "i haven't a moment to lose." "may one ask whence this haste?" said lord charles, with a smile. leycester colored slightly. "i've half a mind to tell you, charlie," he said, "but i can't. i'd better keep it to myself." "i'm glad of it," retorted lord charles. "i'm sure it's some piece of madness, and if you told me, you'd want me to take a hand in it." "but that's just it," said leycester, with a laugh. "you've got to take a hand in it, old fellow." "oh!" leycester nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, with a musical laugh. "the best of you, charlie," he said, "is, that one can always rely on you." lord charles groaned. "don't--don't, ley!" he implored. "i know that phrase so well; you always were wont to use it when there was some particularly evil piece of business to be done in the old days. frankly, i'm a reformed character, and i decline to aid and abet you in any further madness." "this isn't madness," said leycester;--"oh, keep outside a moment, oliver, i don't want you;--this is not madness, charlie; it's the sanest thing i've ever done in my life." "i dare say." "it is indeed. look here! i am going up to london." "i guessed that. poor london!" "do stop and listen to me--i haven't a moment to spare. i want you to do a little delicate service for me." "i decline. what is it?" retorts lord charles, inconsistently. "it is very simple. i want you to deliver a note for me." "oh, come, you know! won't one of the army of servants, who devour the land like locusts, serve your turn?" "no; no none will do but yourself. i want this note delivered, at once. and i don't want anyone but our two selves to know anything about it; i don't want it to be carried about in one of the servant's pockets for an hour or two." lord charles stretched his legs and shook his head. "look here, ley, isn't this rather too 'thin?'" he remonstrated. "of course it's to someone of the gentler sex!" leycester smiled. "you are wrong," he said, with a smile. "where's the bradshaw, oliver!" and he opened the door. "put out the note-paper, and then tell them to get a dogcart to take me to the station." "you will want me, my lord?" "no, i am going alone. look sharp!" oliver put out the writing materials and departed, and leycester sat down and stared for a moment at the crested paper. "shall i go?" asked lord charles, ironically. "no, i don't mean to lose sight of you, old fellow," replied leycester. "sit where you are." "can i help you? i am rather good at amorous epistles, especially other people's." "be quiet." then he seized the pen and wrote:-- "my dear frank--i have inclosed a note for stella. will you give it to her when she is alone, and with your own hand! she will tell you that i have asked her to come with you by the eleven o'clock train to-morrow. will you bring her to bruton street? i shall meet you there instead of meeting you at the station. you see i put it quite simply, and am quite confident that you will help us. you know our secret, and will stand by us, will you not? of course you will come without any luggage, and without letting anyone divine your intentions." "yours, my dear frank, "leycester." this was all very well. it was easy enough to write to the boy, because he, leycester, knew that if he had asked frank to walk through fire, frank would do it! but stella? a sharp pang of doubt assailed him as he took up the second sheet of paper. suppose she should not come! he got up and strode to and fro the room, his brows knit, the old look of determination on his face. "drop it, ley," said lord charles, quietly. leycester stopped, and smiled down at him. "you don't know what that would mean, charlie," he said. "perhaps i do to--her, whomsoever it should be." then leycester laughed outright. "you are on the wrong track this time, altogether," he said, "quite wrong." and he sat down and plunged into his letter. like the first, it was very short. "my darling,--do not be frightened when you read what follows, and do not hesitate. think, as you read, that our happiness depends upon your decision. i want you to come, with frank, by the eleven o'clock train to london, whither i am going now. i want you to take a cab and go to bruton street, where i shall be waiting for you. you know what will happen, my darling! before the morrow you and i will have set out on that long journey through life, hand-in-hand, man and wife. my pen trembles as i write the words. you will come, stella? think! i know what you will feel--i know as if i were standing beside you, how you will tremble, and hesitate, and dread the step; but you must take it, dearest! once we are married all will go well and pleasantly. i cannot wait any longer: why should i? i have written to frank, and confided him to your care. trust yourself to him, throw all your doubts and fears to the winds. think only of my love, and, may i add, your own?" "yours ever, "leycester." he inclosed stella's letter in a small envelope, and that, with frank's letter, in a larger one, which he addressed to frank. chapter xxiv. "there," he said, balancing it on his finger and smiling, in his eager, impatient way--"there is the missive, charlie. read the superscription thereof." lord charles took the letter gingerly, and shook his head. "the lad you picked out of the water," he said. "what does it mean? i wish you'd drop it, ley." leycester shook his head. "this is the last time i shall ask you to do me a favor, charlie----" "till the next." "you mustn't refuse. i want you to give this to the boy. you will find him down at etheridge's cottage. you cannot mistake him; he is a fair, delicate-looking boy, with yellow hair and blue eyes." lord charles hesitated and looked up with a grave light in his eyes and a faint flush on his face. "ley," he said, in a low voice, "she is too good, far too good." lord leycester's face flushed. "if it were any other man, charlie," he said, looking him full in the eyes, "i should cut up rough. i tell you that you misunderstand me--and you wrong me." "then," said lord charles, "it is almost a worse case. ley, ley, what are you going to do?" "i am going to do what no man on earth could prevent me doing," said leycester, calmly, but with a fierce light in his eyes. "not even you, charlie." lord charles rose. "give me the letter," he said, quietly. "at any rate, i know when words are useless. is there anything else? shall i order a straight waistcoat? this, mark my words, ley!--this--if it is what i conjecture it to be--this is the very maddest thing you have ever done!" "it is the very wisest and sanest," responded leycester. "no, there is nothing else, charlie. i may wire for you to-morrow. if i do, you will come?" "yes, i will come," said lord charles. oliver knocked at the moment. "the dogcart is waiting, my lord, and there is only just time." leycester and lord charles passed out and down the stairs. the sound of laughter and music floated faintly through the parted curtains of the drawing-room. "what shall i say to them?" asked lord charles, nodding toward the room. leycester smiled, grimly. "tell them," he said, "that i have gone to town _on business_," and he laughed quietly. then suddenly he stopped as if a thought had struck him, and glanced at his watch. "one moment," he said, and ran lightly up the stairs to lilian's room. her maid met him at the door. "her ladyship is asleep," she said. leycester hesitated, then he signed to her to open the door, and entered. lady lilian lay extended on her couch, her eyes closed, a faint, painful smile on her face. he stood and looked at her a moment, then he bent and lightly touched her lips with his. "good-bye, lil," he murmured. "you at least will understand." then he ran down, putting on his gloves, and had one foot on the dogcart step when lady wyndward came into the hall. "leycester," she said, "where are you going?" he turned and looked at her rather wistfully. lord charles fingered the letter in his pocket, and wished himself in peru. "to london, mother," he said. "why?" she asked. it was an unusual question for her, who rarely asked him his intentions, or the why and wherefore, and he hesitated. "on business," he said. she looked at the flushed face and the fire smoldering in his eyes, and then at lord charles, who jingled the money in his pocket, and whistled softly, with an air of pure abstraction. "what is it?" she asked, and an unusual look of trouble and doubt came into her eyes. "nothing that need trouble you, mother," he said. "i shall be back--" he stopped; when should he be back?--"soon," he added. then he stooped and kissed her. lady wyndward looked up into his eyes. "don't go, leycester," she murmured. almost roughly, in his impatience, he put her arm from him. "you don't know what you ask," he said. then in a gentle tone he said "good-bye," and sprang into the cart. the horse rose for a moment, then put his fore feet down and went off like a rocket under the sharp cut of the whip, and lady wyndward, with a sigh of apprehension, turned to where lord charles had stood. had stood; for he had seized the moment of departure to steal off. he had helped leycester in many a mad freak, had stood in with him in many a wild adventure, which had cost them much after trouble and no small amount of money, but lord charles had a shrewd suspicion that this which he was asked to assist in was the climax of all that had gone before. but he felt that he must do it. as we have said, there were times when words were of as little use as chaff with leycester, and this was one of them. ruefully, but unshaken in his devotion, he went up-stairs for his hat and stick, and sauntered down, still wishing that he could have been in peru. "there will be a terrible storm," he muttered. "his people will cut up rough, and i shall, of course, bear some portion of the blame; but i don't mind that! it is ley i am thinking of! will it turn out all right?" he was asking himself the question dolefully and helplessly as he descended the stairs, when he became conscious of the graceful form of lady lenore standing in the hall and looking up at him. she had watched lord leycester's departure from the window; she knew that he was going to town suddenly--knew that lord charles had been closeted with him, and now only needed to glance at lord charles' rueful face to be convinced that something had happened. but there was nothing of this in her smile as she looked up at him, gently fluttering a japanese fan, and holding back the trailing skirts with her white, bejeweled fingers. lord charles started as he saw her. "by jove!" he murmured, "if it is as i think, what will she do?" and with an instinctive dread he felt half inclined to turn and reascend the stairs, but lenore was too quick for him. "we have been looking for you, lord charles," she said, languidly. "some rash individual has proposed lawn-tennis; we want you to play." lord charles looked confused. the letter burnt his pocket, and he knew that he should know no peace until he got rid of it. "awfully sorry," he said; "going down to the post-office to post a letter." lady lenore smiled, and glanced archly at the clock. "no post till seven," she said; "won't it do after our game?" "no post!" he said, with affected concern. "better telegraph," he muttered. "i'll get you a form!" she said, sweetly; "and you can send it by one of the pages." "eh?" he stammered, blushing like a school-boy. "no, don't trouble; couldn't think of it. after all it doesn't matter." then she knew that leycester had given him some missive, and she watched him closely. no poorer hand at deception than poor charles could possibly be imagined; he felt as if the softly-smiling velvet eyes could see into his pocket, and his hand closed over the letter with a movement that she noted instantly. "it is a letter," she thought, "and it is for her." and a pang of jealous fire ran through her, but she still looked up at him with a languid smile. "well, are you coming?" "of course," he assented, with too palpably-feigned alacrity. and he ran down the stairs. she caught up a sun-hat and put it on, and pointed to the racquets that stood in their stand in the hall. she would not let him out of her sight for a moment. "they are all waiting," she said. he followed her on to the lawn. the group stood playing with the balls, and waiting impatiently. lord charles looked round helplessly, but he had no time to think. "shall we play together?" said lenore. "we know each other's play so well." lord charles nodded, not too gallantly. "all right," he said; and as he spoke, his hand wandered to his pocket. the game commenced. they were well matched, and presently lord charles, whose two games were billiards and tennis, got interested. he also got warm, and taking off his coat, flung it on to the grass. lady lenore glanced at it, and presently, as she changed places with him, took off her bracelet and threw it on the coat. "jewelery is superfluous in tennis," she said, with a soft laugh. "we mean to win this set, do we not, lord charles?" he laughed. "if you say so," he replied. "you always win if you mean it." "nearly always," she said, with a significant smile. all the four were enthusiasts, if lenore could be called enthusiastic about anything, and the game was hotly contested. the sun poured down upon their faces, but they played on, pausing occasionally for the usual squabble over the scoring; the servants brought claret and champagne cup; lady wyndward and the earl came out and sat in the shade, watching. "we shall win!" exclaimed lord charles, the perspiration running down his face, his whole soul absorbed in the work, the letter entirely forgotten. "i think so," said lady lenore, but as she spoke she missed a long ball. "how did you manage that?" he inquired. "it is the racquet," she said, apologetically. "it is a little too heavy. it always gets too heavy when i have been playing a little while. i wish i had my other one." "i'll send for it," he said, eagerly. "no, no," she said. "they won't know which it is--they never do." "i'll go for it, then," he said, gracefully. "can't lose the game, you know." "will you?" she said, eagerly. "it stands on the hall table----" "i know," he said. "wait a moment!" he called out to the others, and bolted off. lenore looked after him for a moment, then she glanced round. the other two were standing discussing the game; the on-lookers were gathered round the champagne cup. lady wyndward was lost in thought, with eyes bent to the ground. the beauty's eyes flashed, and her face grew slightly pale. her eyes wandered to the coat, she hesitated for a moment, then she walked leisurely toward it and stooped down and picked up the bracelet. as she did so she turned the coat over with her other hand, and drew the note from the pocket. a glance put her in possession of the address, and she returned the note to its place, and strolled back to the tennis-court with an unmoved countenance; but her heart beat fast, as her acute brain seized upon the problem and worked it out. a note to the boy! a letter which can be confided to no less trusty a hand than lord charles! leycester's sudden departure for london! lord charles's confusion and embarrassment! secresy and mystery! what does it mean? a presentiment seemed to possess her that a critical moment had arrived. she seemed to feel, by instinct, that some movement was in progress by which she should lose all chance of securing leycester. her heart beat fast, so fast that the delicate veins in her white hands throbbed; but she still smiled, and even glided across to lady wyndward, who sat thoughtfully in the shade, looking at the tennis, but thinking of leycester. she looked up as the tall graceful figure approached. "you are tiring yourself to death, my dear," she said, with a sigh. "no, i am enjoying it. what is the matter?" lady wyndward looked at her candidly. "i am troubled about my only troublous subject. leycester has gone off again." "i know," was the quiet answer. "where, i know not; he said london. i don't know why i should feel particularly uneasy, but i do. there is some plot afoot between lord charles and him." "i know it," smiled lenore, "lord charles is not good at keeping a secret. he makes a very bad conspirator." "he would do anything for leycester, any mad thing," sighed lady wyndward. the beautiful face smiled down at her thoughtfully for a moment, then lenore said: "do you think you could keep lord charles on the tennis-lawn, here, for half-an-hour?" "why?" asked lady wyndward. "yes, i think so." "do so, then," replied lady lenore, "i will tell you why afterward. lord charles is very clever, no doubt, but i think i am cleverer, don't you?" "i think you are all that is good and beautiful, my dear," sighed the anxious mother. "dear lady wyndward," softly murmured the beauty. "well, keep him chained here for half-an-hour, and leave the rest to me. i am not apt to ask unreasonable requests, dear." "no. i'll do anything you want or tell me," replied lady wyndward. "i am full of anxious fears, lenore. do you know what it means?" lady lenore hesitated. "no. i do not know, but i think i can guess. see, here he comes." lord charles came striding along, swinging the racquet. "here you are, lady lenore. is that the right one?" "yes," she said, "but i can't play any longer. i am so sorry, but i have hurt my hand. no, it's a mere nothing. i am going in to bathe it." "oh, it's an awful pity," said lord charles. "i am very sorry. well, the game is over. we must play it out another day. i'm going down to the village, and i'll call at the chemist's for a lotion. i expect you have sprained your hand." and suddenly, reminded of his mission, he was walking toward his coat, but lenore glanced at the countess, and lady wyndward stopped him with a word. "we can't have the game stopped," she said. "here is miss dalton dying to play, aren't you, dear?" she said, turning to a young girl who had been watching the game. "yes, i knew it. you must take her in place of lenore. go on, my dear." miss dalton, or miss any one else, would as soon have thought of disobeying lady wyndward as jumping off the top story of the hall, and the girl rose obediently and took the racquet which lenore smilingly held out to her. then what did lenore do? she walked deliberately to lord charles' coat, dropped her bracelet on it, stooped, picked up the bracelet, and abstracted the letter, and concealing the latter in her sunshade, glided toward the house. with fast beating heart she gained her own room and locked the door. then she drew the letter from her sunshade and eyed it as a thief might eye a safe in which lay the treasure he coveted. then she rang the bell and ordered some hot water. "i have sprained my wrist," she said, in explanation, "and i want the water very hot." the maid brought the water and offered to bathe the wrist, but lady lenore sent her away, and locked the door again. then she held the envelope over the steaming jug and watched the paper part. even then she hesitated, even as the note lay open to her. this which she contemplated doing was the meanest act a mortal could be guilty of, and hitherto she had scorned all baseness and meanness. but love is stronger than a sense of right and wrong in some women, and it overcame her scruples. with a sudden compression of the lips she drew out the note and read it, and as she read it her face paled. every word of endearment stabbed her straight to the heart, and made her writhe. "my darling!" she murmured; "my darling! how he must love her!" and for a moment she sat with the letter in her hand overcome by jealousy and misery. then, with a start, she roused herself. let come what might, the thing should not happen. this girl should not be leycester's wife. but how to prevent it? she sat and thought as the precious moments ticked themselves out into eternity, and suddenly she remembered jasper adelstone--remembered him with a scornful contempt, but still remembered him. "any port in a storm," she said; "a drowning man clings to a straw, and he is no straw." then she inclosed the letter in its envelope, and taking out the writing-case wrote on a scented sheet of paper: "meet me by the weir at eight o'clock." this she inclosed in an envelope, and addressed to jasper adelstone, esq., and with the two notes in her hand returned to the tennis lawn. they were still playing--lord charles absorbed in the game, and once more quite oblivious of the letter. she stood and watched them for a minute; then she went and sank down beside the jacket, and hiding the movements with her sunshade, restored leycester's letter to its place. a few minutes afterward the single line she had written was on its way to jasper. chapter xxv. "i am frank etheridge," said frank, looking up at lord charles, as the latter stopped at the little gate in the lane. "yes, i am frank etheridge." and as he repeated the sentence, a shy, almost a timid, apprehensive expression came into his eyes. "all right," said lord charles, looking round with a most inconsistent look of caution on his frank, handsome face. "then i have a letter for you." "for me!" said frank, and his face paled. lord charles eyed him with astonishment. "what is the matter?" he said. "what are you alarmed at? i am not a bailiff--i am only mercury." and he chuckled at the joke at his own expense. "i have a letter for you--from my friend lord leycester." frank's face lit up, and he held out his hand promptly. lord charles took the letter from his pocket and turned it over quickly. "it's got tumbled and creased," he said. "fact is, i ought to have given it to you an hour or two ago, but i was led on to tennis and forgot it." "oh, it's all right," said frank, eagerly. "i am very much obliged, sir. won't you come in? my father and my cousin stella will be glad to see you." but lord charles shook his head, and glanced at the pretty cottage, with its air of peace which surrounded it, with something like a pang of remorse. "i do hope this will all turn out right," he thought. "leycester means well, but he is as likely as not to bungle it in one of his mad humors!" then aloud, he said, "no, i won't come in, but----" he hesitated a moment, "but will you tell your cousin--miss etheridge, that--that----" simple lord charles hesitated and took off his hat, and stared at the maker's name for a moment. "well, look here, you know, if either you or she want any assistance--want a friend, you know--come to me. i shall be at the hall. you understand, don't you? my name is guildford." frank nodded, and took lord charles's extended hand. "thank you, very much, lord guildford," he said. and lord charles, with another rather rueful glance at the cottage, retired. frank tore open the envelope and devoured the contents of the short and pregnant note, then he went in search of stella. she was sitting at the organ, not playing, but touching the keys with her fingers, a rapt look of meditation on her face. mr. etheridge was hard at work making the best of the golden evening light. stella started as the boy came in, and would have spoken, but he put his finger to his lips and beckoned her. they both passed out without attracting the attention of the absorbed artist, and frank drew stella into the garden, and to a small arbor at the further end. she looked at his flushed, excited face with a smile. "what does this mysterious conduct mean, frank?" she asked. he put his arm round her and drew her to a seat. "i've got something for you, stella," he said. "what will you give me for it? it is worth--well, untold treasure, but i'll be satisfied with a kiss." she bent and kissed his forehead. "of course it is nothing," she said, with a laugh; but as he took the letter from his pocket and held it up her face changed. "what is it frank?" he put the letter in her hand, and, with an instinctive delicacy got up and walked away. "read it, stel," he said. "i'll be back directly." stella took the letter and opened it. when frank came back she was sitting with the open letter in her hand, her face very pale, her eyes filled with a strange light. "well!" he said. "oh frank," she breathed, "i cannot do it! i cannot!" "cannot!" he exclaimed. "you must! why, stella, of what are you afraid? i shall be with you." she shook her head slowly. "it is not that. i am not afraid," and there was a touch of pride in her voice. "do you think i am afraid of--of leycester?" "no!" he retorted. "i should think not! i would trust him, if i were in your place, to the end of the world. i know what he has asked you to do, stel, and you--we--must do it!" stella looked at him. "and uncle!" the boy colored, but his eyes met hers steadily. "well, it will not hurt him! he will not mind. he likes lord leycester, and when we come back and tell him he will be only too grateful that it is all over without any fuss or trouble. you know that, stel!" she did know it, but her heart still misgave her. with a touch of color in her pale face at the thought of what "it" meant, she said gently. "he has been a father to me, frank; ah, you do not know!" "yes, i do," he said, shortly; "but a husband is more than a father, stella. and my father won't be any the less fond of you because you are lady leycester wyndward!" "oh, hush--hush!" breathed stella, glancing round as if she feared the very shrubs and flowers might hear. frank threw himself beside her, and laying his hand on her arm, looked up into her beautiful face with eager entreaty. "you will go, stel; you will do what he asks!" and stella looked down at him with gentle wonder. leycester himself could not have pleaded his own cause more earnestly. "don't you see, stel?" he said, answering her look, for she had not spoken; "i would do anything for him--anything! he risked his life for me, but it is not only that; it is because he has treated me so--so--well, i can't explain; but i would do anything for him, stella. i--i love you! you know; but--but i feel as if i should _hate_ you if you refused to do what he asks!" stella's eyes glistened; it made her heart throb to hear the boy's championship of the man she loved. "besides," he continued; "why should you hesitate? for it is for your own happiness--for the happiness of us all! think! you will be the future countess of wyndward, the mistress of the hall." stella looked at him reproachfully. "frank!" "yes, i know you don't care about that, neither do i much, but other people will. my father will be glad--he could not help being so, and then you will be safe." "safe? what do you mean?" asked stella. he hesitated. then he looked up at her with an angry resentful flash in his blue eyes. "stel! i was thinking of that fellow adelstone. i don't like him! i hate him, in fact; and i hate him all the more because he has set his mind upon having you." stella smiled and shook her head. "oh, of course you can't see any harm in him. it's quite right you shouldn't--you are a girl, and don't know the world; but i know something of men, and i say that jasper adelstone is not a man to be trusted." "_i_ don't like him," said stella, in a low tone, "but i am quite 'safe,' as you call it, without marry--without doing what you and leycester wish." "i don't know," he muttered, gloomily. "at any rate, you _would_ be safe then, and--and, stella, you _must_ go. see, now, leycester has trusted you to me--has placed this in my hands. it is as if he said, 'i saved your life--you promised to help me. here is something to do--do it!' and i will. you will go. think, stel!--a few short hours and you will be lady leycester!" she did think of it, and her heart beat tumultuously. yes, she would be safe not only from jasper adelstone, but from lady lenore, whom she feared more than she did twenty jasper adelstones. leycester would be her own, her very own; and though she did not care much for the wyndward coronet, she did care for him. she covered her face with her hands, and sat quite motionless for a few minutes, the boy watching her eagerly, impatiently; then she dropped her hands, and looked down at him with the quiet, grave, resolute smile which he knew so well. "yes, frank, i will do it," was all she said. he kissed her hand gratefully. "think it is lord leycester thanking you, stel," he whispered. "and now for the preparations. you must pack a small bag, and i will do the same, and then i must take them down the lane and hide them; it wouldn't do to go out of the house in the morning with the bags in our hands--mrs. penfold would raise the neighborhood, and we must stroll out as if we were strolling down to the river. but there!"--he broke off, for he saw stella's face, always so eloquent, beginning to show signs of irresolution--"leave it all to me--i'll see to it! lord leycester knew he could trust me." stella sat for a few minutes in silence, thinking of the old man who had received her in her helplessness, who had loved and treated her as a daughter, and whom she was about to deceive. her heart smote her keenly, but still frank had spoken the truth--husband was more than father, and leycester would be her husband. she stooped and kissed the boy. "i must go in now, frank," she said. "do not say any more. i will go, but i cannot talk of it." she went in; the dusk was falling, and the old man stood beside his easel eying it wistfully. she went and drew him away. "no more to-night, uncle," she said, in tones that quivered dangerously. "come and sit down; come and sit and watch the river, as you sat the day i came; do you remember?" "yes--yes, my dear," he murmured, sinking into the chair, and taking the pipe she filled for him. "i remember the day. it was a happy day for me; it would be a miserable day the day you left me, stella!" stella hid her face on his shoulder, and her arm went round his neck. he smoothed her hair in silence. "where is frank?" he asked, dreamily. "in the garden. shall i call him? dear frank! he is a dear boy, uncle!" "yes," he answered, musingly, then he roused slightly. "yes, frank is a good boy. he has changed greatly; i have to thank you for that too, my dear!" "me, uncle?" the old man nodded, his eyes fixed on the distant lights of the hall. "yes, it is your influence, stella. i have watched and noticed it. there is no one in the world who has so much power over him. yes, he is a good boy now, thanks to you!" what could she say? her heart throbbed quickly. her influence! and she was now going to help him to deceive his father--for her sake! in silence she hid her face, and a tear rolled down her cheek and fell upon his arm. "uncle," she murmured, "you know i love you! you know that! you will always remember and believe that, whatever--whatever happens." he nodded all unsuspectingly, and smiled. "what is going to happen, stella?" he asked; but even as he asked his gaze grew dreamy and absent, and she, looking in his face, was silent. * * * * * as the clock struck the hour jasper adelstone threaded his way through the wood, and stood concealed behind the oak by the weir. he had not spent a pleasant time since the avowal of his love to stella, and her refusal. most men would have been daunted and discouraged at such a refusal, so scornfully, so decidedly given, but jasper adelstone was not the sort to be so easily balked. opposition only served to whet his appetite and harden his resolution. he had set his mind upon gaining stella; he had set his mind upon balking lord leycester, and he was not to be turned from his purpose by her refusing his addresses or the petulance of the boy who had chosen to insult and set him at defiance. but he had passed a bad time of it, and was meditating a renewal of the attack when lady lenore's note was brought to him. although it bore no signature, he knew from whence it came, and he knew that something had happened of importance or she would not have sent for him. another man might have vented his spite, and taken revenge for the haughty insolence displayed by her on their former meeting, by keeping her waiting, but jasper adelstone was not altogether a mean man, and certainly not such a fool as to risk an advantage for the sake of gratifying a little private malice. he was punctual to the minute, and stood watching the weir and the path by turns, with a face that was naturally calm and self-possessed, though in reality he was burning with impatience. presently he heard the rustle of a dress, and saw her coming swiftly and gracefully through the trees. she wore a dark dress of some soft stuff, that clung to her supple figure and awoke for a moment his sense of admiration, but only for a moment; bad as he was, he was faithful and of single purpose; he had no thought of anyone but stella. if lady lenore had laid her rank and her wealth at his feet he would have turned from them. lenore came down the path, neither looking to the right nor the left, but straight before her, her head held up haughtily and her whole gait as full of pride and conscious power as if she were treading the floor of a london ball-room. even in doing a mean thing, she could not do it meanly. arrived at the weir she stood for a moment looking down at the water, her gloved hand resting on the wooden sill, and jasper watching her, could not but wonder at her calm self-possession. "and yet," he thought, "she has more at stake than i. she has a coronet--and the man she loves," and the thought gave him courage, as he came out and stood before her, raising his hat. chapter xxvi. she turned and inclined her head haughtily, and waited, as if for him to speak, but jasper remained silent. she had sent for him; he was here! at last she spoke. "you received my note, mr. adelstone?" "i am here," he said, with a slight smile. she bit her lip, her pride revolting at his presence, at his very tone. "i sent for you," she said, after a pause, and in the coldest tone, "because i have some information which i thought would interest you." "your ladyship is very good," he said. "and because," she went on, scorning to accept his thanks, "i thought you might be of service." he inclined his head. he would not meet her half way--would not help her. let her tell him why she had sent for him, and he would throw himself into the case, not till then. "the last time that we met you said words which i am not likely to have forgotten." "i have not forgotten them," he said, "and i am prepared to stand by them." "you profess to be willing--to be eager to prevent a certain occurrence?" "if you mean the marriage of lord leycester and stel--miss etheridge, i am more than willing; i am determined to prevent it!" "you speak with great confidence," she said. "i am always confident, lady lenore," he said. "it is by confidence that great things are achieved; this is only a small one." "and yet it may be beyond your power to achieve," she said, scornfully. "i think not," he retorted, quietly and gravely. "be that as it may," she said, "i have come here this evening to place in your hands a piece of information respecting the girl in whom you profess to take an interest." the blood came to his pale face, and his eyes gleamed with sudden resentment. "by 'the girl,' do you refer to miss stella etheridge?" he said, quietly. "if so, permit me to remind your ladyship that she is a lady!" lady lenore made a gesture of haughty indifference. "call her what you please," she said, coldly, insolently. "i did refer to her." "and to the man in whom you take an interest?" he said, with an insolence that matched her own. the dark red flamed in her face, and she looked at him. "that is a side of the question which we will not enter upon, if you please, mr. adelstone," she said. "i am to understand, then," he said, with quiet scorn, "that you came here this evening by your own appointment to do me a service. is that so?" he had roused her at last. "understand, think what you will," she said, in a low, strange voice; "let there be no parley between us. i wanted to see you and sent for you, and you are here, let that suffice. you wish to prevent the marriage of lord leycester and _the lady_ whom we saw him with at this spot. you speak confidently of your power to do so; you will have a speedy opportunity of testing that power, for lord leycester intends marrying her to-morrow, or at latest the next day." he did not start, neither did he turn pale, but he looked at her calmly, fixedly; she knew that her shaft had told home, and she stood and watched and enjoyed. "how do you know this?" he asked, quietly, in a very low voice. she paused. it was a bitter humiliation to have to admit to this man, whom she regarded as the dust under her feet, that she, the lady lenore, had stooped so low as to steal and read a letter addressed to another person, and that person her rival--but it had to be admitted. "i know it because he wrote and made arrangements for her flight and their clandestine meeting." "how do you know it?" he asked, and his voice was dry and harsh. she paused a moment. "because i saw the letter," she said, eying him defiantly. he smiled--even in his agony and fury he smiled at her humiliation. "you have indeed done much in my service," he said, with a sneer. "yours!" came fiercely to her lips; then she made a gesture of contempt, as if he were beneath her resentment. "you saw the letter," he said. "what were the arrangements? when and where was she to meet him? curse him!" he ground out between his teeth. "she is to go to london by the eleven o'clock train to-morrow, and he will meet her and take her to bruton street," she said, curtly. he choked back the oath that came to his lips. "meet him, and alone!" he muttered, the sweat breaking out on his forehead, his lips writhing. "no, not alone; a boy, her cousin, is to accompany them." "ah!" he said, and a malignant smile curled his lips; "i can scotch that small snake; but him--lord leycester!" and his hands clinched. he took a turn in the narrow path, and then came back to her. "and afterward?" he asked. "what is to follow?" she shook her head with contemptuous indifference, and leant against the wooden rail, looking down at the bubbling, seething water. "i do not know. i imagine, as the boy accompanies her, that he will get a special license, and--marry her. but, perhaps"--and she glanced round at his white face with a malicious smile--"perhaps the boy is a mere blind, and lord leycester will dispose of him." "and then?" "then," she said, slowly. "well, lord leycester's character is tolerably well known; in all probability he will not find it necessary to make the girl--i beg your pardon! the young lady--the future countess of wyndward." she had gone too far. as the cruel, fearful words left her lips in all their biting, merciless scorn and contempt, he sprang upon her and seized her by the arm. her feet slipped, and she turned and clung to him, half her body hanging over the white foaming water. for a moment they stood there, his gleaming eyes threatening death into hers, then, with a sudden long breath as if he had mastered his murderous impulse, he stepped backward, and drew her with him into safety. "take care!" he said, wiping the perspiration from his white forehead with a trembling hand. "your ladyship nearly went too far! you forget that i love this girl, as you call her, though she is an angel of light and a star of nobility beside you, who stoop to open letters and utter slander! take care!" she eyed him with a cruel scorn in her eyes and on her lips, that were white and shamed. "you would murder me," she said. he laughed a low, dry laugh. "i would murder anyone who spoke of her as you spoke," he said, with quiet intensity. "so be warned, my lady. for the future, teach your proud temper respect when it touches her name. besides"--and he made a gesture as of contempt--"it was a foolish lie. you know that he intended nothing of the kind; you know that she is too pure even for his dastardly heart to compass her destruction. i imagine it is that which makes you hate her so. is it not? no matter. now that you are warned, and that you have learnt that i, jasper adelstone, am no mere slave to dance or writhe at your pleasure, we will return to the purport of the meeting. will you not sit down?" and he pointed to the weir stage. she was trembling from sheer physical weakness, combined with impotent rage and fury, but she would rather have died than obey him. "go on," she said. "what have you to say?" "this," he returned. "that this marriage must be prevented, and that miss etheridge's good name must be preserved and protected. i can prevent this marriage even now, at the last hour. i will do so, on the condition that you give me your promise that you will never while life lasts speak of this. i have not much fear that you will do so; even you will hesitate before you proclaim to a third person your capability of opening another person's letters!" "i promise," she said, coldly. "and how will you prevent this? you do not know the man against whom you intend to pit yourself. beware of him! lord leycester is a man who will not be trifled with." "thanks" he retorted. "you are very kind to warn me, especially as you would very much like to see me at lord leycester's feet. but i need no warning. i deal with her, not with him. how, is my affair." she rose. "i will go," she said, coldly. "stay," he said; "you have got your part to do!" she eyed him with haughty surprise. "i?" he nodded. "let me think for a moment," and he took a turn on the path, then he came back and stood beside her. "this is your part," he said, in low, distinct tones, "and remember that the stake you are playing for is as great and greater than mine. i am playing for love, you are playing for love, and for wealth, and rank, and influence, all that makes life worth living for, for such as you." "you are insolent!" "no, i am simply candid. between us two there can be no further by-play or concealment. if she obeys this command of his, and--" and he groaned--"i fear she will obey it! they will start by the eleven o'clock train, and he will await them at the london terminus. they must start by that train but they must not reach the terminus." she started, and eyed him in the dusk. he smiled sardonically. "no, i do not take extreme measures until they are absolutely necessary, lady lenore. it is an easy matter to prevent them reaching the terminus, a very easy one--it is only a matter of a forged note." her lips moved. "a forged note?" he nodded. "yes; having bidden her take a decided course, he must write and alter his instructions. do you not understand?" she was silent, watching him. "a note must come from him--it will be better to write to the boy, because he is not familiar with lord leycester's hand-writing--telling them to get out at the station before london, at vauxhall. they are to get out and go to the entrance, where they will find a brougham, which will take them to him. you understand?" "i understand," she said. "but the note--who is to forge--write it?" he smiled at her with malignant triumph. "you." "i?" he smiled again. "yes, you. who so well able to do it? you are an adept at manipulating correspondence, remember, my lady!" she winced, and her eyes blazed under their lowered lids. "you know his hand-writing, you can easily obtain access to his writing materials; the paper and envelope will bear the wyndward crest. the note can be delivered by a servant from the hall." she was silent, overwhelmed by the power of his cunning, and a reluctant admiration of his resource and ready ingenuity took possession of her. as he had said, he was no slave--no puppet to be worked at will. "you see," he said, after allowing a moment for his scheme to sink into her brain, "the note will be delivered almost at the last moment, at the carriage door, as the train starts. you will do it?" she turned away with a last effort. "i will not!" "good," he said. "then i will find some other means. stella etheridge shall never be lord leycester's wife; but neither shall a certain lady lenore beauchamp." she turned upon him with a scornful smile. "to-morrow, when he stands balked and discomfited, filled with impotent rage, and sees me carry her off before his eyes, i will give him something to console him. this little note to wit, and a full account of _your_ share in this conspiracy which robs him of his prey." "you will not dare!" she breathed, her head erect, her eyes blazing. "dare!" and he laughed. "what is there to dare? come, my lady! it is not my fault if you remain in ignorance of the nature of the man you are dealing with. work with me and i will serve you, desert me--for it would be desertion--and i will thwart you. which is it to be? you will write and send the note!" she moved her hand. "what else?" a gleam of triumph shot from his small eyes. he thought for a moment. "only this" he said, "and it is your welfare that i am now thinking of. when lord leycester returns from his fruitless errand, he will be in a fit state for consolation. you can give it to him. i have greatly over-rated the ingenuity and tact of lady lenore beauchamp if that tact and ingenuity does not enable her to bring lord leycester wyndward to her feet before the month has passed." pale and humiliated, but still meeting his sneering contemptuous gaze with steadfast eyes, she inclined her head. "is that all?" "that is all," he said. "i can rely on you. yes, i think--i am sure i can. after all, our interests are mutual!" she gathered her shawl round her, and moved toward the path. he raised his hat. "when next we meet, lady lenore, it will be as strangers who have nothing in common. the past will have been wiped out from both our minds and our lives. i shall be the chosen husband of stella etheridge and you will be the lady trevor and future countess of wyndward. i never prophesy in vain, my lady; i never prophesied more confidently than i do now. good-night." she did not return his greeting--scarcely looked at him, but glided quietly into the darkness. chapter xxvii. sleep kept afar off from stella's eyelids that night. the momentous morrow loomed before her, at one moment filling her with a nameless dread, at another suffusing her whole being with an equally nameless ecstasy. could it be possible that to-morrow--in a few hours--she would be leycester's wife? there was enough in the reflection to banish sleep for a week. let us do her justice. love and not ambition was the sentiment that moved and agitated her. it was not the thought of the title and the wealth which awaited her, not the future wyndward coronet which set her trembling and her heart throbbing, but the reflection that leycester, her lover, her ideal of all that was great and noble, and manfully beautiful, would be her own, all her own. at an early hour she heard frank wandering up and down outside her door, and at last he knocked. "are you getting up, stel?" he asked, in a whisper. stella opened the door and stood before him in her plain stuff dress, which frank was wont to declare became her better than the satins and silks of a duchess, and he looked up at her with an admiring nod. "that's right!" he said. "i've been up ages. i've taken my bag and hidden it in the lane. is yours ready?" she gave him a small handbag--gave it with a certain reluctance that hung about her still; but he took it eagerly. "that's a good girl! it isn't too big! i can carry both of them. keep up your spirits, stel!" he added, smiling encouragingly, as he stole off with the bag. the warning was not altogether unnecessary, for stella, when she came down stairs and found the old man standing before his easel, his white locks stirred by the light wind which came through the open window, felt very near tears. it was a great blot on her happiness that she could not go to him and throw her arms round his neck and say, "uncle, to-day i am to be married to lord leycester; give me your blessing!" as it was she went up to him and kissed him with more than her usual caressing tenderness. "how quietly happy you always are, dear," she said, with a little tremulous undertone in her voice. "you will always be happy while you have your art, uncle." "eh!" he said, patting her arm, and letting his eye wander over her face. "yes, art is long, life is short, stella. happy! yes; but i like to have you as well as my art. two good things in life should make a man content." "you have frank, too," she said, as she poured out his coffee and drew him to the table. frank came in and breakfast proceeded. they were all very silent; the old man rapt in dreams, as usual--the two young ones stilled by the weight of their guilty secret. once or twice frank pressed stella's feet under the table encouragingly, and when they rose and stella went to the window, he followed her and whispered: "good news, stel!" she turned her eyes upon him. "i've just learned that the fellow adelstone has gone to london. i was half afraid that he might turn up at the last moment and spoil our plans; but the groom at the vicarage, whom i just met, told me that jasper adelstone had been summoned to london on business." stella felt a sense of relief, though she smiled. "mr. adelstone is your _bête noire_, frank," she said. he nodded. "i'd rather have his room than his company, any day." then, after a pause, he added, "i don't think we'd better start together, stel. i'll walk on directly, and you can follow. whatever you do, avoid a collision with mrs. penfold; her eyes are sharp, and there's something in your face this morning that would set her curiosity on the _qui vive_." a few moments afterward he left the room, and stella was left alone. her heart beat fast, and, try as she would, she could not keep her eyes from the silent, patient figure at the easel, and at last she went up and stood beside him. "you seem restless this morning, my child," he said. "meditating any secret crime?" and he smiled. stella started guiltily. "i wonder what you would say, what you would think, uncle," she murmured, with a little laugh that bordered on the hysterical, "if i were to do anything wrong--if i were to deceive you in anything?" he stepped back to look at his picture. "i should say, my dear, that the last shred of faith and trust in women to which i have clung had given way, and landed me in despair." "no, no! don't say that!" she said, quickly. he looked at her with a sad smile. "my dear," he answered, "i do not speak without cause. i have reason to be incredulous as to the faith and honesty of women. but my trust in you is as limitless as the sky yonder. i don't think you will destroy it, stella," and he turned to his picture again. the tears came into stella's eyes, and she clung to his arm in silent remorse. "uncle!" she said, brokenly, then she stopped. the clock chimed the half-hour; it was time that she started, if she intended to obey leycester. unconsciously the old man helped her. "you look pale this morning, my dear," he said, patting her shoulder. "go and run in the meadows and get some color on your cheeks; i miss it." stella took up her hat, which was generally lying about ready to be snatched up, and kissed him without a word, and left the room. five minutes afterward she passed out into the lane and hurried toward the road. frank was waiting for her with boyish impatience. "i thought you were never coming!" he exclaimed. "we haven't over much time," and he slung the two bags together and led the way; but stella paused a moment to look back with a pang at her heart, and it was not until frank seized her arm that she moved toward the railway station. but once there, when the tickets were taken, the excitement buoyed her up. frank, with the two bags, was perpetually on the alert, watching for someone they knew, and preparing to meet them with some excuse. but no one of the village people appeared on the platform, and much to frank's relief, the train drew up. with all the pride of a chief conspirator and guardian, he put stella into a carriage and was stepping in after her, when a groom came up to the door and touched his hat. "mr. etheridge--mr. frank etheridge, sir?" he said, respectfully. frank stared, but the man seemed prepared for some little hesitation, and without waiting for an answer, thrust a note into frank's hand. "from lord guildford, sir," he said. the train moved off, and frank tore open the envelope. "why, stella," he exclaimed, in an excited whisper, though they were alone in the carriage, "it is from lord leycester. look here! he wants us to get out at the station before london--at vauxhall--he has changed his plans slightly," and he held the note out to her. stella took it. it was written on paper bearing the wyndward crest; the hand-writing was exactly like that of lord leycester. no suspicion of its genuineness crossed her mind for a moment, but yet she said: "but--frank--isn't lord leycester in london?" frank thought a moment. "yes," he said; "but he must have sent this down to lord guildford; sent it down by special messenger--special train perhaps. it wouldn't matter to him what trouble or expense he took. and yet how careful he is. he asks us to destroy it at once. tear it up, stella, and throw it out of the window." stella read the note again, and then slowly and reluctantly tore it into small fragments and dropped it out of the window. "of course we must stop," said frank. "i think i know what it is. something had prevented him from meeting us, and he thought you would rather get out at a nearer station than go through the crowd at the terminus. isn't it thoughtful and considerate of him?" "he is always thoughtful and considerate," said stella, in a low voice. then frank launched forth in a pæan of praise. there was nobody like leycester; nobody so handsome and so brave or noble. "you'll be the happiest girl in the whole world, stel," he exclaimed, his blue eyes alight with excitement. "think of it. and, stella, you will let me see you sometimes; you will let me come and stay with you?" and stella, with a moist look about her eyes, put her hand on his arm and murmured: "where my home may be, there will be a sister's welcome for you, frank." "don't be afraid i shall be a nuisance, stel," he said. "i shan't bore you for long. i shall only want to come and see you and share your happiness; and i don't think lord leycester will mind." and stella smiled as she thought in her innermost heart how sure she was of lord leycester not minding. the train was an express one, and stopped at very few stations, but when those stoppages occurred, frank, in his character of guardian, always drew the curtains and kept a watch for intruders, notwithstanding that he had told the guard to lock the door. "you see, it isn't as if you were an ordinary looking girl," he explained; "a man wouldn't get a glimpse of you without wanting to take second, and it's best to be careful. i'm engaged to watch over you, and i must do it." he was so happy, so boyishly gratified at his own importance, that stella could not help laughing. "i believe you are thoroughly enjoying the wickedness of the thing, frank," she said, with a little sigh that had not much of unhappiness. "no," he said; "but i want to hear lord leycester say, 'thank you, frank,' and to see him smile when he says it. do you think he will let me go with you, or will he send me back, stel?" stella shook her head. "i do not know," she answered; "i feel like a person groping in the dark. go with us! yes, you must go with us!" she added. "frank, you must go with me!" "i'll stay with you till doomsday, and go to the end of the world with you," he responded, "if he will let me!" it seemed a long journey to both of them; to frank, in his impatience; to stella, in the whirl of excited and conflicting emotions. but at last they reached vauxhall. frank got the door unlocked and gave up the tickets; then he stepped out on to the platform, telling stella to remain in the carriage for a moment while he examined the ground. but there was not much need for caution; as he stepped out, a thin, strange-looking old man came up to him. "mr. etheridge!" he asked. frank replied in the affirmative. the old man nodded. "all right, sir; the brougham is waiting;" then he looked round expectantly, and frank went and got stella out. the old man just glanced at her, not curiously, but in a mechanical sort of way, as if he were a machine, and he turned toward the carriage and took up the bags. stella laid her hand on frank's arm with a questioning gesture; it was not exactly one of fear or of suspicion, but a strange, instinctive commingling of both sensations. "ask him, frank!" she murmured. frank nodded, understanding her in a moment, and stopped the strange old man. "wait a moment," he said; "you come from----" the man looked round. "better not mention names here, sir," he said. "i am obeying my orders. the brougham is waiting outside." "it is all right," answered frank; "he knows my name. he is quite right to be careful." they followed the man down the stairs; a brougham was in waiting, as he had said, and he put the bags inside and held the door open for them to enter. stella paused--even at that moment she paused with the same instinctive feeling of distrust--but frank whispered, "be quick," and she entered. the old man closed the door. "you know where to drive," said frank, in a low voice. "i know, sir," he said, in the same expressionless, apathetic fashion, and mounted to the box. stella looked at the crowded streets through which they drove at a rapid pace, and a strange feeling of helplessness took possession of her. she would not own to herself that she was disappointed at leycester's not meeting her, but his absence filled her with a vague alarm and disquietude, which she mentally assured herself were foolish and unwoman-like. but the vastness and strangeness of the great city overwhelmed her. "do you know where bruton street is?" she asked, in a low voice. "no," said frank; "but it must be in the west-end somewhere, of course. he must be going to leycester's rooms. i wonder what prevented him from meeting us." stella wondered too, little dreaming that leycester was pacing up and down the platform at waterloo at that moment, and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the train that was, he thought, to bring his love. "i expect," said frank, "that something turned up at the last moment--something to do with the ceremony." a sudden dash of color came into stella's face, but it went again the next moment, and she leant back and watched the people hurrying along the streets, with eyes that scarcely saw them. the brougham, a well appointed one, driven by a man in plain livery, seemed to wind about a great deal and cover a long stretch of ground, but at last it drove under an archway and into a quiet square, and stopped before one of a series of tall and dingy-looking houses. frank let down the window as the old man opened the door. "is this bruton street?" said frank. "yes, sir," said the man, quietly. frank stepped out and looked around. "these are lawyers' offices," he said. "quite right, sir," was the response. "the gentleman is waiting for you." "you mean----" said frank, inquiringly. "lord leycester wyndward," he replied. frank turned to stella. "it is all right," he said, in a low voice. stella got out and looked round. the air of quietude and gloomy depression seemed to strike her, but she put her hand on frank's arm, and then followed the man into the doorway. "come as gently as you can, sir," he muttered. "it's better the young lady shouldn't be seen." frank nodded, and they passed up the stairs. frank threw a glance at the numerous doors. "they are lawyers' chambers," he said, in a low voice. "i think i understand; it is something--some deed or other--leycester wants you to sign." stella did not speak. the chill which had fallen on her as she alighted seemed to grow keener. suddenly the man stopped before a door, the name on which had been covered over with a sheet of paper. could they have seen through it, and read the name of jasper adelstone, there would have been time to draw back, but unsuspectingly they followed the man in, the door closed, and unseen by them, was locked. "this way, sir," said scrivell, and he opened the inner door and ushered them in. "if you'll take a seat for a moment, sir," he said, putting two chairs forward, and addressing frank, "i will tell him you have arrived," and he went out. stella sat down, but frank went to the window and looked out, then he came back to her restlessly and excitedly. "i wonder where he is--why he does not come?" he said, impatiently. stella looked up; her lips were trembling. "there, don't look like that!" he exclaimed, with a smile. "it is all right!" as he spoke he drew near the table aimlessly, and as aimlessly glanced at the piles of papers with which it was strewn. "i am making you nervous with my excitement----" he stopped suddenly, and snatched up one of the papers. it was a folded brief, and bore upon its surface the name of jasper adelstone, written in large letters. he stared at it for a moment as if it had bitten him, then, with an inarticulate cry, he flung it down and sprang toward her. "stella, we have been trapped! come! quick!" stella sprang to her feet, and instinctively moved to the door: but before she had taken a couple of steps the door opened, and jasper adelstone stood before them. chapter xxviii. jasper adelstone closed the door behind him, and stood looking at them. his face was very pale, his lips were tightly compressed, and there was that peculiar look of decision and resolution which stella had often remarked. true it struck her as ominous--a chill, cold and awesome, ran through her--but she stood and confronted him with a face that, though as pale as his own, showed no sign of fear; her eyes met his own with a haughty, questioning gaze. "mr. adelstone," she said, in low, clear, indignant tones, "what does this mean?" before he could make any reply, frank stepped between them, and with crimson face and flashing eyes confronted him. "yes! what does this mean, mr. adelstone?" he echoed. "why have you brought us here--entrapped us?" jasper adelstone just glanced at him, then looked at stella--pale, beautiful and indignant. "i fear i have offended you," he said, in a low, clear voice, his eyes fixed with concentrated watchful intentness on her face. "offended!" echoed stella, with mingled surprise and anger. "there is no question of offense, mr. adelstone. this--this that you have done is an insult!" and her face flushed hotly. he shook his head gravely, and his hands clasped themselves behind his back, where they pecked at each other in his effort to remain calm and self-possessed under her anger and scorn. "it is not an insult; it was not intended as an insult. stella----" "my name is etheridge, mr. adelstone," stella broke in, calmly and proudly. "be good enough to address me by my title of courtesy and surname." "i beg your pardon," he said, in slow tones. "miss etheridge, i am aware that the step i have taken--and i beg you to mark that i do not attempt to deny that it is through my order that you are here----" "we know all that!" interrupted frank, fiercely. "we don't wish for any verbiage from you; we only want, my cousin and i, a direct answer to our question, 'why have you done this?' when you have answered it, we will leave you as quickly as possible. if you don't choose to answer, we will leave you without. in fact, stella"--and he turned with a glance of contempt and angry scorn at the tall motionless figure with the pale face and compressed lips--"in fact, stella, i don't think we much care to know. we had better go, i think, and leave it to someone else to demand an explanation and reparation." jasper did not look at him, took no notice whatever of the boyish scorn and indignation: he had borne stella's; the boy's could not touch him after hers. "i am ready to afford you an explanation," he said to stella, with an emphasis on the 'you.' stella was silent, her eyes turned away from him, as if the very thought of him were distasteful to her. "go on, we are waiting!" exclaimed frank, with all a boy's directness. "i said that i would afford 'you,' miss etheridge," said jasper. "i think it would be better if you were to hear me alone." "what!" shouted frank, drawing stella's arm through his. "alone," repeated jasper. "it would be better for you--for all of us," he repeated, with a significance in his voice that sank to stella's heart. "i won't hear of it!" exclaimed frank. "i am here to protect her. i would not leave her alone with you a moment. you are quite capable of murdering her!" then, for the first time, jasper noticed the boy's presence. "are you afraid that i shall do you harm?" he said, with a cold smile. he knew stella. the cold sneer stung her. "i am not afraid of those i despise," she said, hotly. "go, frank. you will come when i call you." "i shall not move," he responded, earnestly. "this man--this jasper adelstone--has already shown himself capable of an illegal, a criminal act, for it is illegal and criminal to kidnap anyone, and he has kidnapped us. i shall not leave you. you know," and he turned his eyes reproachfully on stella, "i am responsible for you." stella's face flushed, then went pale. "i know," she said, in a low voice and she pressed his arm. "but--but--i think it is better that i should listen to him. you see"--and her voice dropped still lower and grew tremulous, so that jasper adelstone could not hear it--"you see that we are in his power; we are his prisoners almost; and he will not let us go till i have heard him. it will be more prudent to yield. think, frank, who is waiting all this time." frank started, and appeared suddenly convinced. "very well," he whispered. "call me the moment you want me. and, mind, if he is impertinent--he can be, you know--call at once." then he moved to the door, but paused and looked at jasper with all the scorn and contempt he could summon up into his boyish face. "i am going, mr. adelstone; but, remember, it is only because my cousin wishes me to. you will say what you have to say, quickly, please; and say it respectfully, too." jasper held the door for him calmly and stolidly, and frank passed out into the outer office. there he put on his hat and made for the door, struck by a sudden bright idea. he would drive to bruton street and fetch lord leycester. but as he touched the door old scrivell rose from his seat and shook his head. "door's locked, sir," he said. frank turned purple. "what do you mean?" he exclaimed. "let me out at once; immediately." the old man shrugged his shoulders. "orders, sir; orders," he said, in his dry voice, and resumed his work, deaf to all the boy's threats, entreaties, and bribes. jasper closed the door and crossing the room laid his hand on a chair and signed respectfully to stella to sit down, but without a word she drew a little away and remained standing, her eyes fixed on his face, her lips tightly pressed together. he inclined his head and stood before her, one white hand resting on the table, the other thrust into his vest. "miss etheridge," he said, slowly, and with intense earnestness, "i beg you to believe that the course which i have felt bound to adopt has been productive of as much pain and grief to me as it can possibly have been to you----" stella just moved her hand with scornful impatience. "your feelings are a matter of supreme indifference to me, mr. adelstone," she said, icily. "i regret that, i regret it with pain that amounts to anguish," he said, and his lips quivered. "the sentiments of--of devotion and attachment which i entertain for you, are no secret to you----" "i cannot hear this," she said, impatiently. "and yet i must urge them," he said, "for i have to urge them as an excuse for the liberty--the unpardonable liberty as you at present deem it--which i have taken." "it is unpardonable!" she echoed, with suppressed passion. "there is no excuse--absolutely none." "and yet," he said, still quietly and insistently, "if my devotion were less ardent, my attachment less sincere and immovable, i should have allowed you to go on your way to ruin and disaster." stella started and looked at him indignantly. he moved his hand, slightly deprecatory of her wrath. "i will not conceal from you that i knew of your destination, of your appointment." "you acted the spy!" she articulated. "i acted rather the guardian!" he said. "what kind of love, how poor and inactive that would be, which could remain quiescent while the future of its object was at stake!" stella put up her hand to silence him. "i do not care--i will not listen to your fine phrases. they do not move me, mr. adelstone. to your devotion and--and attachment i am indifferent; i refuse to accept them. i await your explanations. if you have none to give, i will go," and she made a movement as if to depart. "wait, i implore, i _advise_ you." stella stopped. "hear me to the end," he said. "you will not permit me to allude to the passionate love which is my excuse and my warranty for what i have done. so be it. i will speak of it no more, if i can so control myself as to refrain from doing so. i will speak of yourself and--and of the man who plots your ruin." stella opened her lips, but refrained from speech, and merely smiled a smile of pitiless scorn. "i speak of lord leycester wyndward," said jasper adelstone, the name leaving his lips as if every word tortured them. "it is true, is it not, that this lord leycester has asked you to meet him at a place in london--at bruton street, his lodgings? it is true that he has told you that he was prepared to make you his wife!" "and you will say that it is a lie, and ask me to believe you--_you_ against _him_!" she broke in, with a laugh that cut him like a whip. "no," he said; "i will admit that it may be true--i think that it is possible that it may be true; and yet, you see, i have braved your wrath and, far worse, your scorn, and balked him." "for a time," she said, almost beneath her breath--"for a time, a short time. i fear, mr. adelstone, that he will demand reparation, heavy reparation at your hands for such 'balking.'" to save her life she could not have suppressed her threat. "i do not fear lord leycester, or any man," he said. "where you are concerned i fear only--yourself." "do you intend giving me the explanation, sir?" she demanded, impetuously. "i have stepped in between him and his prey," he went on, still gravely, "because i thought, i hoped, that were time given you, though it were at the last moment, that you would see the danger which lay before you, and draw back." "thanks!" she said, scornfully--"that is your explanation. having afforded it, be kind enough to open that door and let me depart." "stay!" he said, and for the first time his voice broke and showed signs of the storm that was raging within him. "stay, stella--i implore, i beseech of you! think, consider for one moment to what doom your feet are carrying you! the man proposes--has the audacity to propose--a clandestine elopement, a secret marriage; he treats you as if you were not worthy to be his wife, as if you were the dirt under his feet! do you think, dare you, blinded as you are by a momentary passion, dare you hope that any good can spring from such an union, that any happiness can follow such a shameful marriage? dare you hope that this man's love--love!--which will not brave the temporary anger and contempt of his relations, can be strong enough to last a lifetime? think, stella! he is ashamed of you already; he, the heir to wyndward, is ashamed to make you his bride before the world. he must lower and degrade you by a secret ceremony. what is his love compared with mine--with mine?" and in the fierce emotion of the moment he put his hand upon her arm and held her. with a fierce, angry scorn, which no one who knew stella etheridge could have thought her capable of, she flung his hand from her and confronted him, her beautiful face looking lovely in its scorn and wrath. "silence!" she exclaimed, her breast heaving, her eyes darting lightning. "you--you coward! you dare to speak thus to me, a weak, defenseless girl, whom you have entrapped into listening to you! i dare you to utter them to him--him, the man you traduce and slander. you speak of love; you know not what it is! you speak of shame----" she paused, the word seemed to overcome her. "shame," she repeated, struggling for breath and composure; "you do not know what that is. shall i tell you? i have never felt it until now; i feel it now, because i have been weak enough to remain and listen to you! it is shameful that your hand should have touched me! it is shameful that i should have listened to your protestations of love--love! you speak of the shame which he would bring upon me! well, then--listen for once and all!--if such shame were to befall me from his hand, i would go to meet it, yes, and welcome it, rather than take from yours all the honor which you could extend to me! you say that i am going to ruin and unhappiness! so be it; i accept your words--to silence you, learn from my own lips that i would rather bear such shame and misery with him, than happiness and honor with you. have i--have i," she panted, "spoken plainly enough?" and she looked down at him with passionate scorn. he was white, white as death, his hands hung at his side clinched and burning; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and render speech impossible. her scorn lashed him; every word fell like the thong of a knout, and cut into his heart; and all the while his eyes rested on hers with anguished entreaty. "spare me," he cried, hoarsely, at last. "spare me! i have tried to spare you!" "you--spare me!" she retorted, with a short contemptuous laugh. "yes," he said, wetting his lips, "i have tried to spare you! i tried argument, entreaty, all to no purpose! now--now you compel me to use force!" she glanced at the door, though she seemed to know instinctively that he did not mean physical force. "i would have saved you without this last step," he said, slowly, almost inaudibly. "i call upon you to remember this in the after-time. that not until you had repulsed all my efforts to turn you from your purpose--not until you had lashed me with your scorn and contempt, did i take up this last weapon. if in using it--though i use it as mercifully as i can--it turns and wounds you, bear this in mind, that not until the last did i direct it against you!" stella put her hand to her lips; they were trembling with excitement. "i will not hear another word," she said. "i care as little for your threat--this is a threat----" "it is a threat," he said, with deadly calmness. "as i do for your entreaties. you cannot harm me." "no," he said; "but i can harm those you love." she smiled, and moved to the door. "stay," he said. "for their sakes, remain and hear me to the end." she paused. "you speak of shame," he said, "and fear it as naught. you do not know what it means, and--and--i forget the fearful words that stained your lips. but there are others, those you love, for whom shame means death--worse than death." she looked at him with a smile of contemptuous disbelief. she did not believe one word of the vague threat, not one word. "believe me," he said, "there hangs above the heads of those you love a shame as deadly and awful as that sword which hung above the head of damocles. it hangs by a single thread which i, and i alone, can sever. say but the word and i can cast aside that shame. turn from me to him--to him--and i cut the thread and the sword falls!" stella laughed scornfully. "you have mistaken your vocation," she said. "you were intended for the stage, mr. adelstone. i regret that i have no further time to waste upon your efforts. permit me to go." "go, then," he said, "and the misery of those dear to you be upon your hands, for you will have dealt it, not i! go! but mark me, before you have reached the man who has ensnared you that shame will have fallen; a shame so bitter that it will yawn like a gulf between you and him; a gulf which no time can ever bridge over." "it--it is a lie!" she breathed, her eyes fixed upon his white face, but she paused and did not go. he inclined his head. "no," he said, "it is true, an awful, shameful truth. you will wait and listen?" she looked at him for a moment in silence. "i will wait five minutes--just five minutes," she said, and she pointed to the clock. "and i warn you--it is i who warn you now--that by no word will i attempt to screen you from the punishment which will meet this lie." "i am content," he said, and there was something in the cold tone of assured triumph that struck to her heart. chapter xxix. "five minutes!" said stella, warningly; and she turned her face from him, and kept her eyes fixed on the clock. "it will suffice," said jasper. "i have to ask you to bear with me while i tell you a short history. i will mention no names--you yourself will be able to supply them. all i have to ask of you further is that you will hear me to the end. the history is of father and son." stella did not move; she thought that he referred to the earl and leycester. she had determined to listen calmly until the five minutes were expired, and then to go--to go without a word. "the father was an eminent painter"--stella started slightly, but kept her eyes fixed on the clock--"a man who was highly gifted, of a rare and noble mind, and possessed of undeniable genius. even as a young man his gifts were meeting with acknowledgment. he married a woman above him in station, beautiful, and fashionable, but altogether unworthy of him. as might have been expected, the marriage turned out ill. the wife, having nothing in common with her high-souled husband, plunged into the world, and was swallowed up in its vortex. i do not wish to speak of her further; she brought him shame." stella paled to the lips. "shame so deep that he cast aside his ambition and left the world. casting away his old life, and separating himself entirely from it--separating himself from the child which the woman who had betrayed him had born to him--he settled in a remote country village, forgotten and effaced. the son was brought up by guardians appointed by the father, who could never bring himself to see him. this boy went to school, to college, was launched, so to speak, on the world without a father's care. the evil results which usually follow such a starting followed here. the boy, left to himself, or at best to the hired guardianship of a tutor, plunged into life. he was a handsome, high-spirited boy, and found, as is usual, ready companionship. folly--i will not say vice--worked its usual charm; the boy, alone and uncared for, was led astray. in an unthinking moment he committed a crime----" stella, white and breathless, turned upon him. "it is false!" she breathed. he looked at her steadily. "committed a crime. it was done unthinkingly, on the spur of the moment; but it was done irrevocably. the punishment for the crime was a heavy one--he was doomed to spend the best part of his life as a convict----" stella moaned and put up her hand to her eyes. "it is not true." "doomed to a felon's expiation. think of it. a handsome, high-born, high-spirited, perhaps gifted lad, doomed to a felon's, a convict's fate! can you not picture him, working in chains, clad in yellow, branded with shame----" stella leaned against the door, and hid her face. "it is false--false!" she moaned; but she felt that it was true. "from that doom--one--one whom you have lashed with your scorn--stepped forward to save him." "you?" "i," he said--"even i!" she turned to him slightly. "you did this?" he inclined his head. "i did it," he repeated. "but for me he would be, at this moment, working out his sentence, the just sentence of the outraged law." stella was silent, regarding him with eyes distended with horror. "and he--he knew it?" she murmured, brokenly. "no," he said. "he did not know it; he does not know it even now." stella breathed a sigh, then shuddered as she remembered how the boy frank had insulted and scorned this silent, inflexible man, who had saved him from a felon's fate. "he did not know it!" she said. "forgive him!" he smiled a strange smile. "the lad is nothing to me," he said. "i have nothing to forgive. one does not feel angered at the attack of a gnat; one brushes the insect off, or lets it remain as the case may be. this lad is nothing to me. so far as he is concerned i might have allowed him to take his punishment. i saved him, not for his sake, but for another's." stella leaned against the door. she was beginning to feel the meshes of the net that was drawing closer and closer around her. "for another," he continued, "i saved him for your sake." she moistened her parched lips and raised her eyes. "i--i am very grateful," she murmured. his face flushed slightly. "i did not seek your gratitude; i did not desire that you should even know that i had done this thing. neither he nor you would ever have known it, but--but for this that has happened. it would have gone down with me into my grave--a secret. it would have done so, although you had refused me your love, although you should have given your heart to another. if"--and he paused--"if that other had been a man worthy of you." stella's face flushed, and her eyes flashed, but she remembered all that he had done, and averted her gaze from him. "if that other had been one likely to have insured your happiness, i would have gone my way and remained silent; but it is not so. this man, this lord leycester, is one who will effect your ruin, one from whom i must--i will--save you. it is he who rendered this disclosure necessary." he was silent, and stella stood, her eyes bent on the ground. even yet she did not realize the power he held over her--over those she loved. "i am very grateful," she said at last. "i am fully sensible of all that you have done for us, and i am sorry that--that i should have spoken as i did, though"--and she raised her eyes with a sudden frank wistfulness--"i was much provoked." "what was i to do?" he asked. she shook her head. "could i stand idle and see you drift to destruction?" "i shall not go to destruction," she said, with a troubled look. "you do not know lord leycester--you do not know--but we will not speak of that," she broke off, suddenly. "i will go now, please. i am very grateful, and--and--i hope you will forgive all that has passed!" he looked at her. "i will forgive all--_all_," he emphasized, "if you will turn back; if you will go back to your home, and promise that this thing which he has asked you to do shall not come to pass." she turned upon him. "you have no right----" then she stopped, smitten with a sudden fear by the expression of his face. "i cannot do that," she said, in a constrained voice. he closed his hands tightly together. "do not force me," he said. "you will not force me to compel you?" she looked at him tremblingly. "force!" "yes, force! you speak of gratitude; but i do not rely on that. if you were really grateful to me you would go back; but you are not. i cannot trust to gratitude." then he came closer to her, and his voice dropped. "stella, i have sworn that this shall not be--that he shall not have you! i cannot break my oath. do you not understand?" she shook her head. "no! i know that you cannot prevent me." "i can," he said. "you do not understand. i saved the boy, but i can destroy him." she shrank back. "with a word!" he said, almost fiercely, his lips trembling. "one word, and he is destroyed. you doubt? see!" and he drew a paper from his pocket-book. "the crime he committed was forgery--forgery! here is the proof!" she shrank back still further, and held up her hands as if to shut the paper from her sight. "do not deceive yourself," he said, in his intense voice; "his safety lies in my hands--i hold the sword. it is for you to say whether i shall let it fall." "spare him!" she breathed, panting--"spare me!" "i will spare him--i will save both him and you. stella, say but the word; say to me here, now, 'jasper, i will marry you,' and he is safe!" with a low cry she sank against the door, and looked at him. "i will not!" she panted, like some wild animal driven to bay. "i will not." his face darkened. "you hate me so much?" she was silent, regarding him with the same fearful, hunted look. "you hate me!" he said, between his teeth. "but even that shall not prevent me from having my way. you will learn to hate me less--in time to love me." she shuddered, and he saw the shudder, and it seemed to lash him into madness. "i say you shall! such love as mine cannot exist in vain, cannot be repelled; it must, it must win love in return. i will chance it. when you are my wife--do not shrink, mine you must and shall be!--you will grow to a knowledge of the strength of my devotion, and admit that i was justified----" "no, never!" she panted. he drew back, and let his hand fall on the back of the chair. "is that answer final?" he said hoarsely. "never!" she reiterated. "remember!" he said. "in that word you pronounce the doom of this lad; by that word you let fall the sword, you darken the few remaining years of an old man's life with shame!" white and breathless she sank on to the floor and so knelt--absolutely knelt--to him, with outstretched hands and imploring eyes. he looked at her, his heart beating, his lips quivering, and his hand moved toward the bell. "if i ring this it is to send for a constable. if i ring this, it is to give this lad into custody on a charge of forgery. it is impossible for him to escape, the evidence is complete and damning." his hand touched the bell, had almost pressed it, when stella uttered a word. "stay!" she said, and so hoarse, so unnatural was the sound of her voice, that it went to his heart like a stab. slowly, with the movement of a person numbed and almost unconscious, she rose and came toward him. her face was white, white to the lip, her eyes fixed not on him, but beyond him; she had every appearance of one moving in a dream. "stay?" she said. "do not ring." his hand fell from the bell, and he stood regarding her with eager, watchful eyes. "you--you consent?" he asked hoarsely. without moving her eyes, she seemed to look at him. "tell me," she said, in slow, mechanical tones, "tell me all--all that you wish me to do, all that i must do to save them." her agony touched him, but he remained inflexible, immovable. "it is soon told," he said. "say to me, 'jasper, i will be your wife!' and i am content. in return, i promise that on the day, the hour in which you become my wife, i will give you this paper; upon it the boy's fate depends. once this is destroyed he is safe--absolutely." she held out her hand mechanically. "let me look at it." he glanced at her, scarcely suspiciously but hesitatingly, for a moment, then placed the paper in her hands. she took it, shuddering faintly. "show me!" he put his finger on the forged name. stella's eyes dwelt upon it with horror for a moment, then she held out the paper to him. "he--he wrote that?" "he wrote it," he answered. "it is sufficient to send him----" she put up her hand to stop him. "and--and to earn the paper i must--marry you?" he was silent, but he made a gesture of assent. she turned her head away for a moment, then she looked him full in the eyes, a strange, awful look. "i will do it," she said, every word falling like ice from her white lips. a crimson flush stained his face. "stella! my stella!" he cried. she put up her hand; she did not shrink back, but simply put up her hand, and it was he who shrank. "do not touch me," she said, calmly, "or--or i will not answer for myself." he wiped the cold beads from his brow. "i--i am content!" he said. "i have your promise. i know you too well to dream that you would break it. i am content. in time--well, i will say no more." then he went to the table and pressed the bell. she looked up at him with a dull, numbed expression of inquiry which he understood and answered. "you will see. i have thought of everything. i foresaw that you would yield and have planned everything." the door opened as he spoke, and scrivell came in followed by frank, who hurled scrivell out of the way and sprang before jasper, inarticulate with rage. but before he could find breath for words, his eyes fell upon stella's face, and a change came over him. "what does this mean?" he stammered. "what do you mean, mr. adelstone, by this outrage? do you know that i have been kept a prisoner----" jasper interrupted him calmly, quietly, with an exasperating smile. "you are a prisoner no longer, my dear frank!" "how dare you!" exclaimed the enraged boy, and he raised his cane. it would have fallen across jasper's face, for he made no attempt to ward it, but stella sprang between them, and it fell on her shoulder. "frank," she moaned rather than cried, "you--you must not." "stella," he exclaimed, "stand away from him. i think i shall kill him." she laid her hand upon his arm and looked up into his face with, ah! what an anguish of sorrowful pity and love. "frank," she breathed, pressing her hand to her bosom, "listen to me. he--mr. adelstone was--was right. he has done all for--for the best. you--you will beg his pardon." he stared at her as if he thought that she had taken leave of her senses. "what! what do you say!" he cried, below his breath. "are you mad, stella?" she put her hand to her brow with a strange, weird smile. "i wish--i almost think i am. no, frank, not another word. you must not ask why. i cannot tell you. only this, that--that mr. adelstone has explained, and that--that"--her voice faltered--"we must go back." "go back? not go to leycester?" he demanded, incredulous and astonished. "do you know what you are saying?" she smiled, a smile more bitter than tears. "yes, i know. bear with me, frank." "bear with you? what does she mean? do you mean to say that you have allowed yourself to be persuaded by this--this hound----?" "frank! frank!" "do not stop him," came the quiet, overstrained voice of 'the hound.' "this hound, i said," repeated the boy, bitterly. "has he persuaded you to break faith with leycester? it is impossible. you would not, _could_ not, be so--so bad." stella looked at him, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "have pity, and--and--send him away," she said, without turning to jasper. he went up to frank, who drew back as he approached, as if he were something loathsome. "you are making your cousin unhappy by this conduct," he said. "it is as she says. she has changed her mind." "it is a lie," retorted frank, fiercely. "you have frightened her and tortured her into this. but you shall not succeed. it is easy for you to frighten a woman, as easily as it is to entrap her; but you will sing a different tune before a man. stella, come with me. you must, you _shall_ come. we will go to lord leycester." "it is unnecessary," cried jasper, quietly. "his lordship will be here in a few minutes." stella started. "no, no," she said, and moved to the door. frank, staring at jasper, caught and held her. "is that a lie, too?" he demanded. "if not--if it be true--then we will wait. we shall see how much longer you will be able to crow, mr. adelstone!" "let us go, frank," implored stella. "you will let me go now?" and she turned to jasper. frank was almost driven to madness by her tone. "what has he said and done to change you like this?" he said. "you speak to him as if you were his slave!" she looked at him sadly. jasper shook his head. "wait," he said--"it will be better that you wait. trust me. i will spare you as much as possible; but it will be better that he should learn all that he has to learn from your lips, here and now." she bowed her head, and still holding frank's arm sank into a chair. the boy was about to burst out again, but she stopped him. "hush!" she said, "do not speak, every word cuts me to the heart. not a word, dear--not another word. let us wait." they had not long to wait. there was a sound of footsteps, hurried and noisy, on the stairs--an impatient, resolute voice uttering a question--then the door was thrown open, and lord leycester burst in! chapter xxx. leycester looked round for a moment eagerly, then, utterly disregarding jasper, he hurried across to stella, who at his entrance had made an involuntary movement towards him, but had then recoiled, and stood with white face and tightly-clasped hands. "stella!" he exclaimed, "why are you here? why did you not come to waterloo? why did you send for me?" she put her hand in his, and looked him in the face--a look so full of anguish and sorrow that he stared at her in amazement. "it was i who sent for you, my lord," said jasper, coldly. leycester just glanced at him, then returned to the study of stella's face. "why are you here, stella?" she did not speak, but drew her hand away and glanced at jasper. that glance would have melted a heart of stone, but his was one of fire and consumed all pity. "will you not speak? great heaven, what is the matter with you?" demanded leycester. jasper made a step nearer. leycester turned upon him, not fiercely, but with contempt and amazement, then turned again to stella. "has anything happened at home--to your uncle?" "mr. etheridge is well," said jasper. then leycester turned and looked at him. "why does this man answer for you?" he said. "i did not put any question to you, sir." "i am aware of that, my lord," said jasper, his small eyes glittering with hate and malice, and smoldering fury. the sight of the handsome face, the knowledge that stella loved this man and hated him, jasper, maddened and tortured him, even in his hour of triumph. "i am aware of that, lord leycester; but as your questions evidently distress and embarrass miss etheridge, i take upon myself to answer for her." leycester smiled as if at some strange conceit. "you do indeed take upon yourself," he retorted, with great scorn. "perhaps you will kindly remain silent." jasper's face whitened and winced. "you are in my apartment, lord leycester." "i regret to admit it. i more deeply regret that this lady should be here. i await her explanation." "and what if i say she will not gratify your curiosity?" said jasper, with a malignant smile. "what will happen, do you mean?" asked leycester, curtly. "well, i shall probably throw you out of the window." stella uttered a low cry and laid her hand upon his arm; she knew him so well, and had no difficulty in reading the sudden lightning in the dark eyes, and the resolute tightening of the lips. she knew that it was no idle threat, and that a word more from jasper of the same kind would rouse the fierce, impetuous anger for which leycester was notorious. in a moment his anger disappeared. "i beg your pardon," he murmured, with a loving glance, "i was forgetting myself. i will remember that you are here." "now, sir," and he turned to jasper, "you appear anxious to offer some explanation. be as brief and as quick as you can, please," he added curtly. jasper winced at the tone of command. "i wished to spare miss etheridge," he said. "i have only one desire, and that is to insure her comfort and happiness." "you are very good," said leycester, with contemptuous impatience. "but if that is all you have to say we will rid you of our presence, which cannot be welcome. i would rather hear an account of these extraordinary proceedings from this lady's lips, at first, at any rate; afterwards i may trouble you," and his eyes darkened ominously. then he went up to stella, and his voice dropped to a low whisper. "come, stella. you shall tell me what this all means," and he offered her his arm. but stella shrank back, with a piteous look in her eyes. "i cannot go with you," she murmured, as if each word cost her an effort. "do not ask me!" "cannot!" he said, still in the same low voice. "stella! why not?" "i--i cannot tell you! do not ask me!" was her prayer. "go now--go and leave me!" lord leycester looked from her to frank, who shook his head and glared at jasper. "i don't understand it, lord leycester; it is no use looking to me. i have done as you asked me--at least as far as i was able until i was prevented. we got out at vauxhall as you wished us to do----" "i!" said leycester, not loudly, but with an intense emphasis. "i! i did not ask you to do anything of the kind! i have been waiting for you at waterloo, and thinking that i had missed you and that you had gone on to--to the place i asked you to go to, i hurried there. a man--mr. adelstone's servant, i presume--was waiting, and told me stella was here waiting for me. i came here--that is all!" frank glared at jasper and raised an accusing finger, which he pointed threateningly. "ask _him_ for an explanation!" he said. leicester looked at the white, defiant face. "what jugglery is this, sir?" he demanded. "am i to surmise that--that this lady was entrapped and brought here against her will?" jasper inclined his head. "you are at liberty to surmise what you will," he said. "if you ask me if it was through my instrumentality that this lady was led to break the assignation you had arranged for her, i answer that it was!" "soh!" it was all leycester said, but it spoke volumes. "that i used some strategy to effect my purpose, i don't for a moment deny. i used strategy, because it was necessary to defeat your scheme." he paused. leycester stood upright watching him. "go on," he said, in a hard, metallic voice. "i brought her here that i, her uncle's and guardian's friend, might point out to her the danger which lay in the path on which you would entice her. i have made it clear to her that it is impossible she should do as you wish." he paused again, and leycester removed his eyes from the pale face and looked at stella. "is what this man says true?" he asked, in a low voice. "has he persuaded you to break faith with me?" stella looked at him, and her hands closed over each other. "don't ask her," broke in frank. "she is not in a fit state to answer. this fellow, this jasper adelstone, has bewitched her! i think he has frightened her out of her senses by some threat----" "frank! hush! oh, hush!" broke from stella. lord leycester started and eyed her scrutinizingly, but he saw only anguish and pity and sorrow--not guilt--in her face. "it is true," declared frank. "this is what she has said, and this only since i came back into the room, and i can't get any more out of her. i think, lord leycester, you had better throw him out of the window." leycester looked from one to the other. there was evidently more in the case than could be met by following frank's advice. he put his hand to his head for a moment. "i don't understand," he said, almost to himself. "it is not difficult to understand," said jasper, with an ill-concealed sneer. "the lady absolutely refuses to keep the appointment you made--you forced upon her. she declines to accompany you. she----" "silence," said leycester, in a low voice that was more terrible than shouting. then he turned to stella. "is it so?" he asked. she raised her eyes, and her lips moved. "yes," she said. he looked as if he could not believe the evidence of his senses. the perspiration broke out on his forehead, and his lips trembled, but he made an effort to control himself, and succeeded. "is what this man says true, stella?" "i--i cannot go with you," she trembled, with downcast eyes. leycester looked round the room as if he suspected he must be dreaming. "what does it mean?" he murmured. "stella;" and now he addressed her as if he were oblivious of the presence of others. "stella, i implore, i command you to tell me. consider what my position is. i--who have been expecting you as--as you know well--find you here, and here you, with your own lips, tell me that all is altered between us; so suddenly, so unreasonably." "it must be so," she breathed. "if you would only go and leave me!" he put his hand on the back of a chair to steady himself, and the chair shook. jasper stood gloating over his emotion. "great heaven!" he exclaimed, "can i believe my ears? is this you, stella--speaking to me in these words and in this fashion? why!--why!--why!" and the questions burst forth from him passionately. she clasped her hands, and looked up at him. "do not ask me--i cannot tell. spare me!" leycester turned to frank. "will you--will you leave us, my dear frank?" he said, hoarsely. frank went out slowly, then leycester turned to jasper. "hear me," he said. "you have given me to understand that the key of this enigma is in your possession; you will be good enough to furnish me with it. there must be no more mystery. understand once for all, and at once, that i will have no trifling." "leycester!" he put up his hand to her, gently, reassuringly, "do not fear; this gentleman has no need to tremble. this matter lies between us three--at present, rather, it lies between you two. i want to be placed on an equality, that is all." and he smiled a fiercely-bitter smile. "now, sir!" jasper bit his lips. "i have few words to add to what i have already said. i will say them, and i leave it to miss etheridge to corroborate them. you wish to know the reason why she did not meet you as you expected, and why she is here instead, and under my protection?" leycester moved his hand impatiently. "the question is easily answered. it is because she is my affianced wife!" said jasper quietly. leycester looked at him steadily, but did not show by a sign that he had been smitten as his adversary had hoped to smite him. instead, he seemed to recover coolness. "i have been told," he said, quietly and incisively, "that you are a clever man, mr. adelstone. i did not doubt it until this moment. i feel that you must be a fool to hope that i should accept that statement." jasper's face grew red under the bitter scorn; he raised his hand and pointed tremblingly to stella. "ask her," he said, hoarsely. leycester turned to her with a start. "for form's sake," he said, almost apologetically, "i will ask you, stella. is this true?" she raised her eyes. "it is true," she breathed. leycester turned white for the first time, and seemed unable to withdraw his eyes from hers for a moment, then he walked up to her and took her hands. "look at me!" he said, in a low, constrained voice. "do you know that i am here?--i--am--here!--that i came here to protect you? that whatever this man has said to force this mad avowal from your lips i will make him answer for! stella! stella! if you do not wish to drive me mad, look at me and tell me that this is a lie!" she looked at him sadly, sorrowfully. "it is true--true," she said. "of your own free will?--you hesitate! ah!" she flung her hands before her eyes for a moment to gain strength to deal him the blow, then with white constrained face she said-- "of my own free will!" he dropped her hands, but stood looking at her. jasper's voice aroused him from the stupor which fell upon him. "come, my lord," he said, in a dry, cold voice, "you have received your answer. let me suggest that you have inflicted more than enough pain upon this lady, and let me remind you that as i am her affianced husband i have the right to request you to leave her in peace." leycester turned to him slowly, but without speaking to him went up to stella. "stella," he said, and his voice was harsh and hoarse. "for the last time i ask you--for the last time!--is this true? have you betrayed me for this man? have you promised to be--his wife?" the answer came in a low clear voice: "it is true. i shall be his wife." he staggered slightly, but recovered himself, and stood upright, his hands clasped, the veins on his forehead swelling. "it is enough," he said. "you tell me that it is of your own free will. i do not believe that. i know that this man has some hold upon you. what it is i cannot guess. i feel that you will not tell me, and that he would only lie if i asked him. but it is enough for me. stella--i call you so for the last time--you have deceived me; you have kept this thing hidden from me. may heaven forgive you, i cannot!" then he took his hat and turned to leave the room. as he did so she swayed toward him, and almost fell at his feet, but jasper glided toward her and held her, and, as leycester turned, he saw her leaning on jasper, her arm linked in his. without a word leycester opened the door and went out. frank sprang toward him, but leycester put him back with a firm grasp. "oh, lord leycester!" he cried. leycester paused for a moment, his hand on the boy's arm. "go to her," he said. "she has lied to me. there is something between her and that man. i have seen her for the last time," and before the boy could find a word of expostulation or entreaty, leycester pushed him aside and went out. chapter xxxi. leycester went down the stairs with the uncertain gait of a drunken man, and having reached the open air stood for a moment staring round him as if he were bereft of his senses; as indeed he almost was. the shock had come so suddenly that it had deprived him of the power of reasoning, of following the thing out to its logical conclusion. as he walked on, threading his way along the crowded thoroughfare, and exciting no little attention and remark by his wild, distraught appearance, he realized that he had lost stella. he realized that he had lost the beautiful girl who had stolen into his heart and absorbed his love. and the manner of his losing her made the loss so bitter! that a man, that such a creature as this jasper adelstone, should come between them was terrible. if it had been any other, who was in some fashion his own equal--charlie guildford, for instance, a gentleman and a nobleman--it would have been bad enough, but he could have understood it. he would have felt that he had been fairly beaten; but jasper adelstone! then it was so evident that love was not altogether the reason of her treachery and desertion; there was something else; some secret which gave that man a hold over her. he stopped short in the most crowded part of the strand, and put his hand to his brow and groaned. to think that his stella, his beautiful child-love, whom he had deemed an angel for innocence, should share a secret with such a man. and what was it? was there shame connected with it? he shuddered as the suspicion crossed his mind and smote upon his heart. what had she done to place her so utterly in jasper adelstone's hands? what was it? the question harassed and worried him to the exclusion of all other sides of the case. was it something that had occurred before he, leycester, had met her? she had known this jasper adelstone before she knew leycester; but he remembered her speaking of him as a conceited, self-opinioned young man; he remembered the light scorn with which she had described him. no, it could not have happened thus early. when then? and where was it? he could find no solution to the question; but the terrible result remained, that she had delivered herself, body and soul, into the hands of jasper adelstone, and was lost to him, leycester! striking along, careless of where he was going, he found himself at last in pall mall. he entered one of his clubs, and went to the smoking-room. there he lit a cigar, and took out the marriage license and looked at it long and absently. if all had gone right, stella would have been his, if not by this time, a very little later, and they would have gone to italy, they two, together and alone--with happiness. but now it was all changed--the cup had been dashed from his lips at the last moment, and by--jasper adelstone! he sat, with the unsmoked cigar in his fingers, his head drooped upon his breast, the nightmare of the secret mystery pressing on his shoulders. it was not only the loss of stella, it was the feeling that she had deceived him that was so bitter to bear; it was the existence of the secret understanding between the two that so utterly overwhelmed him. he could have married stella though she had been a beggar in the streets, but he could have no part or lot in the woman who shared a secret with such a one as jasper adelstone. the smoking-room footman hovered about, glancing covertly and curiously at the motionless figure in the deep arm-chair; acquaintances sauntered in and gave him good-bye; but leycester sat brooding over his sorrow and disappointment, and made no response. a more miserable young man it would have been impossible to find in all london than this viscount and heir to an earldom, with all his immense wealth and proud hereditary titles. the afternoon came, hot and sultry, and to him suffocating. the footman, beginning to be seriously alarmed by the quiescence of the silent figure, was just considering whether it was not his duty to bring him some refreshment, or rouse him by offering him the paper, when leycester rose, much to the man's relief, and walked out. within the last few minutes he had decided upon some course of action. he could not stay in london, he could not remain in england; he would go abroad--go right out of the way, and try and forget. he smiled to himself at the word, as if he should ever forget the beautiful face that had lain upon his breast, the exquisite eyes that had poured the lovelight into his, the sweet girl-voice that had murmured its maiden confession in his ear! he called a cab, and told the man to drive to waterloo; caught a train, threw himself into a corner of the carriage, and gave himself up to the bitterness of despair. dinner was just over when his tall figure passed along the terrace, and the ladies were standing under the drawing-room veranda enjoying the sunset. a little apart from the rest stood lenore. she was leaning against one of the iron columns, her dress of white cashmere and satin trimmed with pearls standing out daintily and fairy-like against the mass of ferns and flowers behind her. she was leaning in the most graceful air of abandon, her sunshade lying at her feet, her hands folded with an indolent air of rest on her lap; there was a serene smile upon her lips, a delicate languor in her violet eyes, an altogether at-peace-with-all-the-world expression which was in direct contrast with the faint expression of anxiety which rested on the handsome face of the countess. every now and then, as the proud and haughty woman, but anxious mother, chatted and laughed with the women around her, her gaze wandered to the open country with an absent, almost fearful expression, and once, as the sound of a carriage was heard on the drive, she was actually guilty of a start. but the carriage was only that of one of the guests, and the countess sighed and turned to her duties again. lenore, with head thrown back, watched her with a lazy smile. she was suffering likewise, but she had something tangible to fear, something definite to hope; the mother knew nothing, but feared all things. presently lady wyndward happened to come within the scope of lenore's voice. "you look tired to-night, dear," she said. the countess smiled, wearily. "i will admit a little headache," she said; then she looked at the lovely indolent face. "you look well enough, lenore!" lady lenore smiled, curiously. "do you think so!" she answered. "suppose i also confessed a headache!" "i should outdo you even then," said the countess, with a sigh, "for i have a heartache!" lenore put out her hand, white and glittering with pearls and diamonds, and laid it on the elder woman's arm with a little caressing gesture peculiar to her. "tell me dear," she whispered. the countess shook her head. "i cannot," she said, with a sigh. "i scarcely know myself. i am quite in the dark, but i know that something has happened or is happening. you know that leycester went suddenly yesterday?" lady lenore moved her head in assent. the countess sighed. "i am always fearful of him." lenore laughed, softly. "so am i. but i am not fearful on this occasion. wait until he comes back." the countess shook her head. "when will that be? i am afraid not for some time!" "i think he will come back to-night," said lenore, with a smile that was too placid to be confident or boastful. the countess smiled and looked at her. "you are a strange girl, lenore," she said. "what makes you think that?" lenore turned the bracelet on her arm. "something seems to whisper to me that he will come," she said. "look!" and she just moved her hand toward the terrace. leycester was coming slowly up the broad stone steps. lady wyndward made a move forward, but lenore's hand closed over her arm, and she stopped and looked at her. lenore shook her head, smiling softly. "better not," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. "not yet. leave him alone. something has happened as you surmised. i have such keen eyes, you know, and can see his face." so could lady wyndward by this time, and her own turned white at sight of the pale, haggard face. "do not go to him," whispered lenore, "do not stop him. leave him alone; it is good advice." lady wyndward felt instinctively that it was, and so that she might not be tempted to disregard it, she turned away and went into the house. leycester came along the terrace, and raising his eyes, heavy and clouded, saw the ladies, but he only raised his hat and passed on. then he came to where the figure in white, glimmering with pearls and diamonds, leaned against the column and he hesitated a moment, but there was no look of invitation in her eyes, only a faint smile, and he merely raised his hat again and passed on; but, half unconsciously, he had taken in the loveliness and grace of the picture that she made, and that was all that she desired for the present. with heavy steps he crossed the hall, climbed the stairs, and entered his own room. his man oliver, who had been waiting for him and hanging about, came in softly, but stole out again at sight of the dusky figure lying wearily on the chair; but presently leycester called him and he went back. "get a bath ready, oliver," he said, "and pack a portmanteau; we shall leave to-night." "very good, my lord," was the quiet response, and then he went to prepare the bath. leycester got up and strode to and fro. though she had never entered his rooms, the apartments seemed full of her; from the easel stared the disfigured venus which he had daubed out on the first night he had seen her. on the table, in an etruscan vase of crystal, were some of the wild flowers which her hand had plucked, her lips had pressed. these he took--not fiercely but solemnly--and threw out of the window. suddenly there floated upon the air the strains of solemn music. he started. he had almost forgotten lilian; the great sorrow and misery had almost driven her from his memory. he sat the vase down upon the table, and went to her room; she knew his knock, and bade him come in, still playing. but as he entered, she stopped suddenly, and the smile which had flown to her face to welcome him disappeared. "ley!" she breathed, looking up at his pale, haggard face and dark-rimmed eyes; "what has happened? what is the matter?" he stood beside her, and bent and kissed her; his lips were dry and burning. "ley! ley!" she murmured, and put her white arm round his neck to draw him down to her, "what is it?" then she scanned him with loving anxiety. "how tired you look, ley! where have you been? sit down!" he sank into a low seat at her feet, and motioned to the piano. "go on playing," he said. she started at his hoarse, dry voice, but turned to the piano, and played softly, and presently she knew, rather than saw, that he had hidden his face in his hands. then she stopped and bent over him. "now tell me, ley!" she murmured. he looked up with a bitter smile that cut her to the heart. "it is soon told, lil," he said, in a low voice, "and it is only an old, old story!" "ley!" "i can tell you--i could tell only you, lil--in a very few words. i have loved--and been deceived." she did not speak, but she put her hand on his head where it lay like a peaceful benediction. "i have staked my all, all my happiness and peace, upon a cast and have lost. i am very badly hit, and naturally i feel it very badly for a time!" "ley!" she murmured, reproachfully, "you must not talk to _me_ like this; speak from your heart." "i haven't any left, lil!" he said; "there is only an aching void where my heart used to be. i lost it weeks ago--or was it months or years? i can't tell which now!--and she to whom i gave it, she whom i thought an angel of purity, a dove of innocence, has thrown it in the dirt and trampled upon it!" "ley, ley, you torture me! of whom are you speaking?" "of whom should i be speaking but the one woman the world holds for me?" "lenore!" she murmured, incredulously. "lenore!" and he laughed bitterly. "no; she did not pronounce her name so. i am speaking and thinking of stella etheridge." her hand trembled, but she did not withdraw it. "stella?" "yes," he said, and his lips twitched. "a star. a star that will shine in another man's bosom, not in mine as i, fool that i was, dreamed that it would. lil, i believe that there is only one good woman in the world, and she sits near me now." "oh, ley, ley--but tell me!" "there is so little to tell," he said, wearily. "i cannot tell you all. this will suffice, that to-night i expected and hoped to have been able to call her my wife, instead--well, you see, i am sitting here!" "your wife?" she murmured. "stella etheridge your wife. was that--that wise, ley?" "wise! what have i to do with wisdom?" he retorted. "i loved her--loved her passionately, madly, as i never, nor shall ever, love another woman! heaven help me, i love her now! don't you see that is the worst part of it. i know, as surely as i am sitting here, that my life has gone. it has gone to pieces on the rocks like a goodly ship, and there is an end of it!" there was silence for a moment, then she spoke, and, woman-like, her thoughts were of the woman. "but she, ley? how is it with her?" he laughed again, and the gentle girl shuddered. "don't ley," she murmured. "she will be all right," he said. "women are made like that--all excepting one," and he touched her dress. "and yet--and yet," she murmured, troubled and sorrowful, "now i look back i am sure that she loved you, ley! i remember her face, the look of her eyes, the way she spoke your name. oh, ley, she loved you!" "she did--perhaps. she loves me now so well, that on our wedding-day--wedding-day!--she allows a man to step in between us and claim her as his own!" maddened by the memory which her words had called up he would have risen, but she held him down with a gentle hand. "a man! what man, ley?" "one called jasper adelstone, a lawyer; a man it would be gross flattery to call even a gentleman! think of it, lil. picture it! i wait to receive my bride, and instead of it happening so, i am sent for to meet her at this man's chambers. there i am informed that all is over between us, and that she is the affianced wife of mr. jasper adelstone." "but the reason--the reason?" "there is none!" he exclaimed, rising and pacing the room, "i am vouchsafed no reason. the bare facts are deemed sufficient for me. i am cast adrift, as something no longer necessary or needful, without word of reason or even of rhyme!" and he laughed. she was silent for a moment, then a murmur broke from her lips. "poor girl!" he stooped and looked down at her. "do not waste your pity, lil," he said, with a grim smile. "with her own lips she declared that what she did she did of her own free will!" "with this man standing by her side?" he started, then he shook his head. "i know what you mean!" he said, hoarsely. "and do you not see that that is the worst of it. she is in his power; there is some secret understanding between them. can i marry a woman who is in another man's power so completely that she is forced to break her word to me, to jilt me for him!--can i?" his voice was so hoarse and harsh as to be almost inarticulate, and he stood with outstretched, appealing hands, as if demanding an answer. what could she say? for a moment she was silent, then she put out her hand to him. "and you have left her with him, ley?" the question sent all the blood from his face. "yes," he said, wearily, "i have left her with her future husband. possibly, probably, by this time she has become his wife. one man can procure a marriage license as easily as another." "you did that! what would papa and my mother have said?" she murmured. he laughed. "what did, what should i care? i tell you i loved her madly; you do not know, cannot understand what such love means! know, then, lil, that i would rather have died than lose her--that, having lost her, life has become void and barren for me--that the days and hours until i forget her will be so much time of torture and regret, and vain, useless longing. i shall see her face, hear her voice, wherever i may be, in the day or in the night; and no pleasure, no pain will efface her from my memory or my heart." "oh, ley!--my poor ley!" "thus it is with me. and now i have come to say 'good-bye.'" "good-bye. you are going--where?" "where?" he echoed, with the same discordant laugh. "i neither know nor care. i am afraid all places will be alike for awhile. the whole earth is full of her; there is not a wild flower that will not remind me of her, not a sound of music that will not recall her voice. if i meet a woman i shall compare her with my stella--_my_ stella! no, jasper adelstone's! oh, heaven! i could bear all but that. if she were dead, i should have at least one comfort--the consolation of knowing that she had belonged to no other man--that in some other remote world we might meet again, and i might claim her as mine! but that is denied to me. my white angel is stained and besmirched, and is mine no longer!" worn out by the passion of his grief, he dropped on the seat at her feet, and hid his face in his hands. she put her arm round his neck, but spoke no word. words at such moments are like gnats round a wound--they can only irritate, they cannot heal. they sat thus motionless for some minutes, then he rose, calmer but very white and worn. "this is weak of me, worse than weak, inconsiderate, lil," he said, with a wan smile. "you have so much of your own sorrows that you should be spared the recital of other people's woes. i will go now. good-bye, lil!" "oh, what can i do for you?" she murmured. "my dear! my dear!" he stooped and kissed her, and looked down at her pale face so full of sorrow for his sorrow, and his heart grew calmer and more resigned. "nothing, lil," he said. "yes," she said in a low voice; "if i can do nothing else i can pray for you, ley!" he smiled and stroked her hair. "you are an angel, lil," he said, softly. "if all women were made like you, there would be no sin and little sorrow in the world. in the future that lies black and drear before me i shall think of you. yes, pray for me, lil. good-bye!" and he kissed her again. she held him to the last, then when he had gone she buried her face in her hands and cried. but suddenly she sat up and touched the bell that stood near her. "crying will do no good for my ley," she murmured. "i must do more than that. oh, if i could be strong and hale like other girls for an hour, one short hour! but i will, i must do something! i cannot see him suffer so and do nothing!" her one special maid, a girl who had been with her since her childhood and knew every mood and change in her, came in and hurried to her side at the sight of her tear-dimmed eyes. "oh, lady lilian, what is the matter? you have been crying!" "a little, jeanette," she said, smiling through her tears. "i am in great trouble--lord leycester is in great trouble----" "i have just met him, my lady, looking so ill and worried." "yes, jeanette; he is in great trouble, and i want to help him," and then, with fear and trembling, she announced an intention she had suddenly formed. jeanette was aghast for a time, but at last she yielded, and hurried away to make the preparation for the execution of her beloved mistress's wishes. chapter xxxii. as the door closed on lord leycester, stella's heart seemed to leave her bosom; it was as if all hope had fled with him, and as if her doom was irrevocably fixed. for a moment she did not realize that she was leaning upon jasper adelstone for support, but when her numbed senses woke to a capacity for fresh pain, and she felt his hand touching hers, she shrank away from him with a shudder, and summoning all her presence of mind, turned to him calmly: "you have worked your will," she said, in a low voice. "what remains? what other commands have you to lay upon me?" he winced, and the color struggled to his pale face. "in the future," he said, in a low voice, "it will be your place to command, mine to obey those commands, willingly, cheerfully." stella waved her hand with weary impatience. "i am in your hands," she said; "what am i to do now? where am i to go? no! i know that; i will go back----" then she stopped, and a look of pain and fear came upon her beautiful face as she thought of the alarm with which her uncle would discover her flight, and the explanation which he would demand. "how can i go back? what can i say?" "i have thought of that," he said, in a low voice. "i had foreseen the difficulty, and i have provided against it. i know that what i have done may only increase your anger, but i did it for the best." "what have you done?" asked stella. "i have telegraphed to your uncle to say that i had tempted you and frank to run up to town, and that i would bring you back this evening. i knew he would not be anxious then, seeing that frank was with you." stella stared at the firm, self-reliant face. he had provided for every contingency, had foreseen everything, and had evidently felt so assured of the success of his plans. she could not refrain a slight shudder as she realized what sort of a man this was who held her in his power. she felt that it were as useless to attempt to escape him as it would be for a bird to flutter against the bars of its cage. "have i done wrong?" he asked, standing beside her, his head bent, his whole attitude one of deference and humility. she shook her head. "no, i suppose not. it does not matter if he can be spared pain." "he shall be," he responded. "i will do all in my power to render both him and you and frank happy." she looked at him with a pitiful smile. "happy!" "yes, happy!" he repeated, with low but intense emphasis. "remember, that, though i have won you by force, i love you; that i would die for you, yes, die for you, if need were----" she rose--she had sunk into a chair--and put her hand to her brow. "let me go now, please," she said, wearily. he put on his hat, but stopped her with a gesture. "frank," he said. she knew what he meant, and inclined her head. jasper went to the door and called him by name, and he entered. jasper laid his hand on his shoulder and kept it there firmly, notwithstanding the boy's endeavor to shrink away from him. "frank," he said, in his low, quiet voice, "i want to say a few words to you. let me preface them with the statement that what i am going to say your cousin stella fully endorses." frank, looking at stella--he had not taken his eyes from her face--said: "is that so, stella?" she inclined her head. "i want you," said jasper--"we want you, we ask you, my dear frank, to erase from your memory all that has occurred here this morning, and before that; remember only that your cousin stella is my affianced wife. i am aware that the suddenness of the thing causes you surprise, as is only natural; but get over that surprise, and learn, as soon as possible, to recognize it as an inevitable fact. of all that has passed between--between"--he hesitated at the hated name, and drew a little breath--"lord leycester and stella, nothing remains--nothing! we will forget all that, will we not, stella?" she made the same gesture. "and we ask you to do the same." "but!" exclaimed frank, white with suppressed excitement and indignation. jasper glanced at stella, almost with an air of command, and stella went over to frank and laying her hand on his arm, bent and kissed him. "it must be so, dear," she said in a low tremulous whisper. "do not ask me why, but believe it. it is as he has said, inevitable. every word from you in the shape of a question will add to my mis--will only pain me. do not speak, dear, for my sake!" he looked from one to the other, then he took her hand with a curious expression in his face. "i will not ask," he said. "i will be silent for your sake." she pressed his hand and let it drop. "come!" said jasper with a smile, "that is the right way to take it, my dear frank. now let me say a word for myself, it is this, that you do not possess a truer friend and one more willing and anxious to serve you than jasper adelstone. is that not so?" and he looked at stella. "yes," she breathed. frank stood with his eyes cast down; he raised them for a moment and looked jasper full in the face, then lowered them again. "and now," said jasper, with a smile and in a lighter voice, "you must take some refreshment," and he went to the cupboard and brought out some wine. frank turned away, but stella, nerving and forcing herself, took the glass he extended to her and put the edge to her lips. jasper seemed satisfied, though he saw that she had not touched a drop. "let me see," he said, taking out his watch, "there is a train back in half an hour. shall we catch that?" "are you coming back with us?" said frank in a quiet voice. jasper nodded. "if you will allow me, my dear frank," he said, calmly. "i won't keep you a moment." he rang the bell as he spoke and scrivell entered. there was no sign of any kind either in his face or his bearing that he was conscious of anything out of the ordinary having happened; he came in with his young old face and colorless eyes, and stood waiting patiently. jasper handed him some letters, and gave him instructions in a business tone, then asked if the brougham was waiting. "yes, sir," said scrivell. "come then!" said jasper, and scrivell held the door open and bowed with the deepest respect as they passed out. it was so sudden a change from the storm of passion that had just passed over them all, that frank and stella felt bewildered and benumbed, which was exactly as jasper wished them to feel. his manner was deferential and humble but fully self-possessed; he put stella in the brougham, and insisted quietly upon frank sitting beside her, he himself taking the front seat. stella shrank back into the corner, and lowered her veil. frank sat staring out of the window, and avoiding even a glance at the face opposite him. jasper made no attempt to break the silence, but sat, his eyes fixed on the passers-by, the calm, inscrutable expression on his face never faltering, though a triumph ran through his veins. the train was waiting, and he put them into a carriage, lowered the window and drew the curtain for stella, and at the last moment bought a bunch of flowers at the refreshment-bar, and laid it beside her. then he got in and unfolded a newspaper and looked through it. scarcely a word was spoken during the whole journey; it was an express train, but it seemed ages to stella before it drew up at wyndward station. jasper helped her to alight, she just touching his hand with her gloved fingers, and they walked across the meadow. as they came in sight of the hall, shining whitely in the evening sunlight, stella raised her eyes and looked at it, and a cold hand seemed to grasp her heart. as if he knew what was passing in her mind, jasper took her sunshade and put it up. "the sun is still hot," he said; and he held it so as to shut the hall from her sight. they came to the lane--to the spot where stella had stood up on the bank and looked down at the upturned eyes which she had learned to love; she breathed a silent prayer that she might never see them again. jasper opened the gate, and a smile began to form on his lips. "prepare for a scolding," he said, lightly. "you must put all the blame on me." but there was no scolding; the old man was seated in his arm-chair, and eyed them with mild surprise and anxiety. "stella," he said, "where have you been? we have been very anxious. how pale and tired you look!" jasper almost stepped before her to screen her. "it is all my fault, my dear sir," he said. "lay the blame on me. i ought to have known better, i admit, but i met the young people on their morning stroll and tempted them to take a run to town. it was done on the spur of the moment. you must forgive us!" mr. etheridge looked from one to the other and patted stella's arm. "you must ask mrs. penfold," he said, with a smile. "she will be difficult to appease, i'm afraid. we have been very anxious. it was--well, unlike you, stella." "i hope i shall be able to appease mrs. penfold," said jasper. "i want her good word; i know she has some influence with you, sir." he paused, and the old man looked up, struck by some significance in his tone. jasper stood looking down at him with a little smile of pleading interrogation. "i have come as a suppliant for your forgiveness on more accounts than one," he continued. "i have dared to ask stella to be my wife, sir." stella started, but still looked out beyond him at the green hills and the water glowing in the sunset. mr. etheridge put his hand on her head and turned her face. "stella!" "you wish to know what she has answered, sir," said jasper to spare stella making any reply. "with a joy i cannot express, i am able to say that she has answered 'yes.'" "is that so, my dear?" murmured the old man. stella's head drooped. "this--this--surprises me!" he said in a low voice. "but if it is so, if you love him, my dear, i will not say 'no.' heaven bless you, stella!" and his hand rested upon her head. there was silence for a moment, then he started and held out his other hand to jasper. "you are a fortunate man, jasper," he said. "i hope, i trust you will make her happy!" jasper's small eyes glistened. "i will answer for it with my life," he said. chapter xxxiii. "oh, my love, my love!" she stood with her arms outstretched toward the white walls of the hall, the moon shining over meadow and river, the night jay creaking in silence. in all her anguish and misery, in all her passionate longing and sorrow, these were the only words that her lips could frame. all was still in the house behind her. frank, worn out with excitement, had gone to his own room. the old man sat smoking, dreaming and thinking of his little girl's betrothal. jasper had gone--he was too wise to prolong the strain which he knew she was enduring--and she had crept out into the little garden and stood leaning against the gate, her eyes fixed on the great house, which at that moment perhaps held him--leycester--who, a few short hours ago, was hers, and in a low voice the cry broke from her lips: "oh, my love, my love!" it was a benediction, a farewell, a prayer, in one; all her soul seemed melting and flowing toward him in the wail. all the intense longing of her passionate nature to fly to his protecting arms and tell him all--to tell him that she still loved him as the flowers love the sun, the hart the waterbrook--was expressed in the words; then, as she remembered he could not hear them--that it would avail nothing if he could hear them, her face dropped into her hands, and she shut out the hall from her hot, burning eyes. she had not yet shed one tear; if she could but have wept, the awful tightening round her brain, the burning fire in her eyes, would have been assuaged; but she could not weep, she was held in thrall, benumbed by the calamity that had befallen her. she, who was to have been leycester's bride, was now the betrothed of--jasper adelstone. and yet, as she stood there, alone in her misery, she knew that were it to be done again she would do it. to keep shame and disgrace from the old man who loved her as a father--the boy who loved her as a brother, she would have laid down her life; but this was more than life. the sacrifice demanded of her, and which she had yielded, was worse than death. death! she looked up at the blue vault of heaven with aching, longing eyes. if she could but die--die there and then, before jasper could lay his hand upon her! if she could but die, so that he, leycester, might come and see her lying cold and white, but still his--his! he would know then that she loved him, that without him she would not accept even life. he would look down at her with the odd light in his dark eyes, perhaps stoop and kiss her--and now he would never kiss her again! how often have blind mortals clamored to the gods for this one boon which they will not yield. when sorrow comes, the cry goes up--"give us death!" but the gods turn a deaf ear to the prayer. "live," they say, "the cup is not yet drained; the task is not yet done." and she was young, she thought, with a sigh, "so young, and so strong," she might live for--for years! oh, the long, dreary vista of years that stretched before her, down which she would drag with tired feet as jasper adelstone's wife. no thought of appealing to him, to his mercy, ever occurred to her; she had learned to know him, during that short hour in london, so well as to know that any such appeal would be useless. the sphinx rearing its immovable head above the dreary desert could not be more steadfast, more unyielding than this man who held her in his grasp. "no," she murmured, "i have taken up this burden; i must carry it to the end. would to heaven that end were nigh." she turned with dragging step toward the house, scarcely hearing, utterly heedless of the sound of approaching wheels; even when they stopped outside the gate she did not notice; but suddenly a voice cried, in low and tremulous accents, "stella!" and she turned, with her hand pressed to her bosom. she knew the voice, and it went to her heart like a knife. it was not _his_, but so like, so like. she turned and started, for there, standing in the moonlight, leaning on the arm of her maid, was lady lilian. the two stood for a moment regarding each other in silence, then stella came nearer. lady lilian held out her hand, and stella came and took her by her arm. "wait for me in the lane, jeanette," said lady lilian. "you will let me lean on you, stella," she added, softly. stella took her and led her to a seat, and the two sat in silence. stella with her eyes on the ground, lilian with hers fixed on the pale, lovely face--more lovely even than when she had last seen it, flushed with happiness and love's anticipation. a pang shot through the tender heart of the sick girl as she noted the dark rings under the beautiful eyes, the tightly drawn lips, the wan, weary face. "stella," she murmured, and put her arm round her. stella turned her face; it was almost hard in her effort at self-control. "lady lilian----" "lilian--only lilian." "you have come here--so late!" "yes, i have come, stella," she murmured, and the tears sprang to her eyes, drawn thither by the sound of the other voice, so sad and so hopeless. "i could not rest, dear. you would have come to me, stella, if i had--if it had happened to me!" stella's lips moved. "perhaps." lilian took her hand--hot and feverish and restless. "stella, you must not be angry with me----" a wan smile flickered on the pale face. "angry! look at me. there is nothing that could happen to-night that would rouse me to anger." "oh, my dear, my dear! you frighten me!" stella looked at her with awful calm. "do i?" then her voice dropped. "i am almost frightened at myself. why have you come?" she asked almost sharply. "because i thought you needed me--some one, some girl young like yourself. do not send me away, stella. you will hear what i have come to say?" "yes, i will hear," said stella, wearily, "though no words that can be spoken will help me, none." "stella, i--i have heard----" stella looked at her, and her lips quivered. "you have seen him--he has told you?" she breathed. lilian bent her head. "yes, dear, i have seen him. oh, stella, if you had seen him as i have done!--if you had heard him speak! his voice----" stella put up her hand. "don't!--spare me!" she uttered, hoarsely. "but why--why should it be?" murmured lilian, clinging to her hand. "why, stella, you cannot guess how he loves you? there never was love so deep, so pure, so true as his!" a faint flush broke over the pale face. "i know it," she breathed. then, with a sharp, almost fierce energy, "have you come to tell me that--me who know him so well? was it worth while? do you think i do not know what i have lost?" "you promised not to be angry with me, stella." "forgive me--i--i scarcely know what i am saying! you did not come for that; what then?" "to hear from your own lips, stella, the reason for this. bear with me, dear! remember that i am his sister, that i love him with a love only second to yours! that all my life i have loved him, and that my heart is breaking at the sight of his unhappiness. i have come to tell you this--to plead for him--to plead with you for yourself! do not turn a deaf ear, a cold heart to me, stella! do not, do not!" and she clung to the hot hands, and looked up at the white face with tearful, imploring eyes. "you say you know him; you may do so; but not so well as i, his sister. i know every turn of his nature--am i not of the same flesh and blood? stella, he is not like other men--quick to change and forget. he will never bend and turn as other men. stella, you will break his heart!" stella turned on her like some tortured animal driven to bay. "do i not know it! is it not this knowledge that is breaking my heart--that has already broken it?" she retorted wildly. "do you think i am sorrowing for myself alone? do you think me so mean, so selfish? listen, lady lilian, if--if this separation were to bring him happiness i could have borne it with a smile. if you could come to me and say, 'he will forget you and his love in a week--a month--a year!' i would welcome you as one who brings me consolation and hope. who am i that i should think of myself alone?--i, the miserable, insignificant girl whom he condescended to bless with his love! i am--nothing! nothing save what his love made me. if my life could have purchased his happiness i would have given it. lady lilian you do not know me----" the tempest of her passion overawed the other weak and trembling girl. "you love him so!" she murmured. stella looked at her with a smile. "i love him," she said, slowly. "i will never say it again, never! i say it to you that you may know and understand how deep and wide is the gulf which stretches between us--so wide that it can never, never be overpassed." "no, no, you shall not say it." stella smiled bitterly. "i think i know why you have come, lilian. you think this a mere lovers' quarrel, that a word will set straight. quarrel! how little you know either him or me. there never could have been a quarrel between us--one cannot quarrel with oneself! his word, his wish were law to me. if he had said 'do this,' i should have done it--if he had said 'go thither,' i should have gone; but once he laid his command on me, and i obeyed. there is nothing i would not have done--nothing, if he had bidden me. i know it now--i know now that i was like a reed in his hands now that i have lost him." lilian put her hand upon her lips. "you shall not say it!" she murmured, hoarsely. "nothing can part you--nothing can stand against such love! you are right. i never knew what it meant until to-night. stella, you cannot mean to send him away--you will not let anything save death come between you?" stella looked at her with aching eyes that, unlike lilian's, were dry and tearless. "death!" she said, "there are things worse than death----" "stella!" "words one cannot mention, lest the winds should catch them up and spread them far and wide. not even death could have divided us more effectually than we are divided." lilian shrank back appalled. "what is it you say?" she breathed. "stella, look at me! you will, you must tell me what you mean." stella did look at her, with a look that was awful in its calm despair. "i was silent when _he_ bade me speak; do you think that i can open my lips to you?" lilian hid her face in her hand, tremblingly. "oh, what is it?--what is it?" she murmured. there was silence for a moment, then stella laid her hand on lilian's arm. "listen," she said, solemnly. "i will tell you this much, that you may understand how hopeless is the task which you have undertaken. if--if i were to yield, if i were to say to him 'come back! i am yours, take me!' you--_you_, who plead so that my heart aches at your words--would, in the coming time, when the storm broke and the cost of my yielding had to be paid--you would be the first to say that i had done wrong, weakly, selfishly. you would be the first, because you are a woman, and know that it is a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for those she loves! have i made it plain?" lilian raised her head and looked at her, and her face went white. "is--is that true?" "it is so true, that if i were to tell you what separates us, you would go without a word; no! you would utter that word in a prayer that i might remain as firm and unyielding as i am!" so utterly hopeless were the words, the voice, that they smote on the gentle heart with the force of conviction. she was silent for a moment, then, with a sob, she held out her arms. "oh, my dear, my dear! stella, stella!" she sobbed. stella looked at her for a moment, then she bent and kissed her. "do not cry," she murmured, no tear in her own eye. "i can not cry, i feel as if i shall never shed another tear! go now go!" and she put her arm round her. lilian rose trembling, and leant upon her, looking up into her face. "my poor stella!" she murmured. "he--he called you noble; i know now what he meant! i think i understand--i am not sure, even now; but i think, and--and, yes, i will say it, i feel that you are right. but, oh, my dear, my dear!" "hush! hush!" breathed stella, painfully. "do not pity me----" "pity! it is a poor, a miserable word between us. i love, i honor you, stella!" and she put her arm round stella's neck. "kiss me, dear, once!" stella bent and kissed her. "once--and for the last time," she said, in a low voice. "henceforth we must be strangers." "not that, stella; that is impossible, knowing what we do!" "yes, it must be," was the low, calm response. "i could not bear it. there must be nothing to remind me of--him," and her lips quivered. lilian's head drooped. "oh, my poor boy!" she moaned. "stella," she said, in a pleading whisper, "give me one word to comfort him--one word?" stella turned her eyes upon her; they had reached the gate, the carriage was in sight. "there is no word that i can send," she said, almost inaudibly. "no word but this--that nothing he can do can save us, that any effort will but add to my misery, and that i pray we may never meet again." "i cannot tell him that! not that, stella!" "it is the best wish i can have," said stella, "i do wish it--for myself, and for him. i pray that we never meet again." lilian clung to her to the last, even when she had entered the carriage, and to the last there was no tear in the dark sorrowful eyes. white and weary she stood, looking out into the night, worn out and exhausted by the struggle and the storm of pent-up emotion, but fixed and immovable as only a woman can be when she has resolved on self-sacrifice. a few minutes later, lilian stood on the threshold of leycester's room. she had knocked twice, scarcely daring to use her voice, but at last she spoke his name, and he opened the door. "lilian!" he said, and he took her in his arms. "shut the door," she breathed. then she sank on to his breast and looked up at him, all her love and devotion in her sorrowful eyes. "oh, my poor darling," she murmured. he started and drew her to the light. "what is it! where have you been?" he asked, and there was a faint sound of hope in his voice, a faint light in his haggard face, as she whispered-- "i have seen her!" "seen her--stella?" and his voice quivered on the name. "yes. oh, ley! ley!" his face blanched. "well!" he said, hoarsely. "ley, my poor ley! there is no hope." his grasp tightened on her arm. "no hope!" he echoed wearily. she shook her head. "ley, i do not wonder at you loving her! she is the type of all that is beautiful and noble----" "you--you torture me!" he said, brokenly. "so good and true and noble," she continued, sobbing; "and because she is all this and more you must learn to bear it, ley!" he smiled bitterly. "you must bear it, ley; even as she bears it----" "tell me what it is," he broke in, hoarsely. "give me something tangible to grapple with, and--well, then talk to me of bearing it!" "i cannot--she cannot," she replied, earnestly, solemnly. "even to me, heart to heart, she could not open her lips. ley! fate is against you--you and her. there is no hope, no hope! i feel it; i who would not have believed it, did not believe it even from you! there is no hope, ley!" he let her sink into a chair and stood beside her, a look on his face that was not good to see. "is there not?" he said, in a low voice. "you have appealed to her. there is still one other to appeal to; i shall seek him." she looked up, not with alarm but with solemn conviction. "do not," she said, "unless you wish to add to her sorrow! no, ley, if you strike at him, the blow must reach her." "she told you that?" "yes; by word, by look. no, ley, there is no hope there. you cannot reach him except through her, and you will spare her that. 'tell him,' she said, 'that any effort he makes will add to my misery. tell him that i pray we may never meet again.'" she paused a moment. "ley, i know no more of the cause than you, but i know this, that she is right." he stood looking down at her, his face working, then at last he answered: "you are a brave girl, lil," he said. "you must go now; even you cannot help me to bear this. 'pray that we may never meet again,' and this was to have been our marriage day!" chapter xxxiv. i have carefully avoided describing lord leycester wyndward as a "good" man. if to be generous, single-minded, impatient of wrong and pitiful of the wronged; if to be blessed, cursed with the capacity for loving madly and passionately; if to be without fear, either moral or physical, be heroic, then he was a hero; but i am afraid it cannot be said that he was "good." before many weeks had elapsed since his parting with stella, the world had decided that he was indeed very bad. it is scarcely too much to say that his name was the red rag which was flourished in the eyes of those righteous, indignant bulls whose mission in life it is to talk over their fellow-creatures' ill deeds and worry them. one mad exploit after another was connected with his name, and it soon came to pass that no desperate thing was done within the circle of the higher class, but he was credited with being the ringleader, or at least with having a hand in it. it was said that at that select and notorious club, "the rookery," lord leycester was the most desperate of gamblers and persistent of losers. rumor went so far as to declare that even the wyndward estates could not stand the inroads which his losses at the gaming table were making. it was rumored, and not contradicted, that he had "plunged" on the turf, and that his stud was one of the largest and most expensive in england. the society papers were full of insinuating paragraphs hinting at the wildness of his career, and prophesying its speedy and disastrous termination. he was compared with the lost characters of past generations--likened to lord norbury, the marquis of waterford, and similar dissipated individuals. his handsome face and tall, thin, but still stalwart figure, had become famous, and people nudged each other and pointed him out when he passed along the fashionably-frequented thoroughfares. his rare appearance in the haunts of society occasioned the deepest interest and curiosity. one enterprising photographer had managed, by the exercise of vast ingenuity, to procure his likeness, and displayed copies in his window; but they were speedily and promptly withdrawn. there was no reckless hardihood with which he was not credited. men were proud of possessing a horse that he had ridden, because their capability of riding it proved their courage. scandal seized upon his name and made a hearty and never-ending meal of it; and yet, by some strange phenomenal chance, no one heard it connected with that of a woman. some said that he drank hard, rode hard, and played hard, and that he was fast rushing headlong to ruin, but no one ever hinted that he was dragging a member of the fair sex with him. he was seen occasionally in drags bound to richmond, or at bohemian parties in st. john's wood, but no woman could boast that he was her special conquest. it was even said that he had suddenly acquired a distinct distaste for female society, and that he had been heard to declare that, but for the women, the world would still be worth living in. it was very sad; society was shocked as well as curious, dismayed as well as intensely interested. mothers with marriageable daughters openly declared that something ought to be done, that it was impossible that such a man, the heir to such a title and estates should be allowed to throw himself away. the deepest pity was expressed for lady wyndward, and one or two of the aforesaid mammas had ventured, with some tremors, to mention his case to that august lady. but they got little for their pains, save a calm, dignified, and haughty rebuff. never, by word, look, or sign did the countess display the sorrow which was imbittering her life. the stories of his ill-doings could not fail to reach her ears, seeing that they were common talk, but she never flushed or even winced. she knew when she entered a crowded room, and a sudden silence fell, to be followed by a spasmodic attempt at conversation, that those assembled were speaking of her son, but by no look or word did she confess to that knowledge. only in the secrecy of her own chamber did she let loose the floodgates of her sorrow and admit her despair. the time had come when she felt almost tempted to regret that he had not married "the little girl---the painter's niece," and settled down in his own way. she knew that it was broken off; she knew, or divined that some plot had brought about the separation, but she had asked no questions, not even of lenore, who was now her constant companion and chosen friend. between them leycester's name was rarely mentioned. not even from her husband would she hear aught of accusation against the boy who had ever been the one darling of her life. once old lady longford had pronounced his name, had spoken a couple of words or so, but even she could not get the mother to unburden her heart. "what is to be done?" the old lady had asked, one morning when the papers had appeared with an account of a mad exploit in which the well-known initials lord y---- w---- had clearly indicated his complicity. "i do not know," she had replied. "i do not think there is anything to be done." "do you mean that he is to be allowed to go on like this, to drift to ruin without a hand to stay him?" demanded the old lady almost wrathfully; and the countess had turned on her angrily. "who can do anything to stay him? have you yourself not said that it is impossible, that he must be left alone?" "i did, yes, i did," admitted the old countess, "but things were not so bad then, not nearly. all this is different. there is a woman in the case, ethel!" "yes," said the countess, bitterly, "there is," and she felt tempted to echo the assertion which leycester had been reputed to utter, "that if there had been no women the world would have been worth living in." then lady longford had attempted to "get at" leycester through his companion lord charles, but lord charles had plainly intimated his helplessness. "going wrong," he said, shaking his head. "if leycester's going wrong, so am i, because, don't you see, i'm bound to go with him. always did, you know, and can't leave him now; too late in the day." "and so you'll let your bosom friend go to the dogs"--the old lady had almost used a stronger word--"rather than say a word to stop him?" "say a word!" retorted lord charles, ruefully. "i've said twenty. only yesterday i told him the pace couldn't last; but he only laughed and told me that was his business, and that it would last long enough for him." "lord charles, you are a fool!" exclaimed the old lady. and lord charles had shook his head. "i daresay i am," he said, not a whit offended. "i always was where leycester was concerned." the one creature in the world--excepting stella--who could have influenced him, knew nothing of what was going on. the excitement of her visit to stella, and her terrible interview during it, had utterly prostrated the delicate girl, and lilian lay in her room in the mansion in grosvenor square, looking more like the flower namesake than ever. the doctor had insisted that no excitement of any kind was to be permitted to approach her, and they had kept the rumors and stories of leycester's doings from her knowledge. he came to see her sometimes, and even in the darkened room she could see the ravages which the last few months had made with him; but he was always gentle and considerate toward her, and in response to her loving inquiries always declared that he was well--quite well. stella's name, by mutual consent, was never mentioned between them. it was understood that that page of his life was closed for ever; but after every visit, when he had left her, she lay and wept over the knowledge that he had not forgotten her. she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. as stella had said, leycester was not one to love and unlove in a day--in a week--in a month! so the summer had crept on to the autumn. not one word has he heard of stella. though she was in his thoughts day and night, alike in the hour of the wildest dissipation, and in the silent watches of the night, he had heard no word of her. all his efforts were directed towards forgetting her. and yet if he picked up a paper or a book and chanced to come upon her name--stella!--a pang shot through his heart, and the blood fled from his face. the autumn had come, and london was almost deserted, but there were some who clung on still. there are some to whom the shady side of pall mall and their clubs are the only paradise; and the card-rooms of the rookery are by no means empty. in the middle of september, when half "the town" was in the country popping at the birds, leycester and lord charles were still haunting pall mall. "better go down and look at the birds," said lord charles one night, morning rather, for it was in the small hours. "what do you say to running down to my place, ley?" "my place" was vernon grange, a noble elizabethan mansion, standing right in the center of one of the finest shooting districts. the grange was at present shut up, the birds running wild, the keepers in despair, all because lord leycester could not forget stella, and his friend would not desert him! "suppose we start to-morrow morning," went on lord charles, struggling into his light over-coat and yawning. "we can take some fellows down!--plenty of birds, you know. had a letter from the head keeper yesterday; fellow quite broken-hearted, give you my word! come on, ley! i'm sick of this, i am, indeed. i hate the place," and he glanced sleepily at the dimly lit hall of the rookery. "what's the use of playing ecarte and baccarat night after night; it doesn't amuse you even if you win!" leycester was striding on, scarcely appearing to hear, but the word "amuse" roused him. "nothing 'amuses,' charles," he said, quietly. "nothing. everything is a bore. the only thing is to forget, and the cards help me to do that, for a little while, at least--a little while." lord charles nearly groaned. "they'll make you forget you've anything to lose shortly," he said. "we've been going it like the very deuce, lately, ley!" leycester stopped and looked at him, wearily, absently. "i suppose we have, charles," he said; "why don't you cut it? i don't mind it; it is a matter of indifference to me. but you! you can cut it. you shall go down to-morrow morning, and i'll stay." "thanks," said the constant friend. "i'm in the same boat, ley, and i'll pull while you do. when you are tired of this foolery, we'll come to shore and be sensible human beings again. i shan't leave the boat till you do." "you'll wait till it goes down?" "yes, i suppose i shall," was the quiet response, "if down it must go." leycester walked on in silence for a minute. "what a mockery it all is!" he said, with a half smile. "yes," assented lord charles, slowly; "some people would call it by a stronger name, i suppose. i don't see the use of it. the use--why it's the very ruination. ley, you are killing yourself." "and you." "no," said lord charles, coolly, "i'm all right--i've got nothing on my mind. i'm bored and used-up while it lasts, but when it's over i can turn in and get to sleep. you can't--or you don't." leycester thrust his hands in his pockets in silence, he could not deny it. "i don't believe you sleep one night out of three," said lord charles. "you've got the mad fever, ley. i wish it could be altered." leycester walked on still more quickly. "you shall go down to-morrow, charles," he said. "i don't think i'll come." "why not?" leycester stopped and put his hand on his arm, and looked at him with a feverish smile on his face. "simply because i cannot--i cannot. i hate the sight of a green field. i hate the country. heaven! go down there! charlie, you know dogs can't bear the sight of water when they are queer. you've got a river down there, haven't you? well, the sight of that river, the sound of that stream, would drive me mad! i cannot go, but you shall." lord charles shook his head. "very well. where now! let us go home." leycester stopped short. "good-night," he said. "go home. don't be foolish, charlie--go home." "and you!" leycester put his hand on his arm slowly, and looked round. "not home," he said--"not yet. i'm wakeful to-night." and he smiled grimly. "the thought of the meadow and the river has set me thinking. i'll go back to the 'rookery.'" lord charles turned without a word, and they went back. the tables were still occupied, and the entrance of the two men was noticed and greeted with a word here and there. lord charles dropped on to a chair and called for some coffee--a great deal of coffee was drank at the "rookery"--but leycester wandered about from table to table. presently he paused beside some men who were playing baccarat. they had been playing since midnight, and piles of notes, and gold, and i o u's told pretty plainly of the size of the stakes. leycester stood leaning on the back of a chair, absently watching the play, but his thoughts were wandering back to the meadows of wyndward, and he stood once more beside the weir stream, with the lovely face upon his breast. but suddenly a movement of one of the players opposite him attracted his attention, and he came back to the present with a start. a young fellow--a mere boy--the heir to a marquisate, lord bellamy--the reader will not have forgotten him--had dropped suddenly across the table, his outstretched hands still clutching the cards. there was an instant stir, the men started to their feet, the servants crowded up; all stood aghast. leycester was the first to recover presence of mind, and, hurrying round the table, picked the boy up in his strong arms. "what's the matter, bell?" he said; then, as he glanced at the white face, with the dark lines round the eyes, he said in his quiet, composed voice: "he has fainted; fetch a doctor, some of you." and lifting him easily in his arms, he carried him in to an adjoining room. lord charles followed with a glass of water, but leycester put it aside with the one word-- "brandy." lord charles brought some brandy and closed the door, the others standing outside aghast and frightened. leycester poured some of the spirit through his closed teeth, and the boy came back to life--to what was left for him of life--and smiled up at him. "the room was hot, bell," said leycester, in his gentle way; he could be gentle even now. "i wanted you to go home two--three--hours ago! why didn't you go?" "you--stayed----" gasped the boy. leicester's lips twitched. "i!" he said. "that is a different matter." the boy's head drooped, and fell back on leycester's arm. "tell them not to stop the game," he said; "let somebody play for me!" then he went off again. the doctor came, a fashionable, hardworked man, a friend both of leycester's and guildford's, and bent over the lad as he lay. "it's a faint," said lord charles, nervously; "nothing else, eh, doctor?" the doctor looked up. "my brougham is outside," he said. "i will take him home." leycester nodded, and carried the slight frame through the hall and placed it in the brougham. the doctor followed. the cool air revived the boy, and he made an effort to sit up, looking round as if in search of something; at last his wandering sight fell on leycester's, and he smiled. "that's right, bell!" said leycester; "you will be well to-morrow; but mind, no more of this!" and he took the small white hand. the heir to a marquisate clung to the hand, and smiled again. "no, there will be no more of it, leycester," he breathed, painfully. "there will be no more of anything for me; i have seen the last of the rookery--and of you all. leycester, i am dying!" leycester forced a smile to his white face. "nonsense, bell," he said. the boy raised a weak, trembling finger, and pointed to the doctor's face. "look at him," he said. "he never told a lie in his--life. ask him." "tell them to drive on, my lord," said the doctor. the boy laughed, an awful laugh; then his face changed, and even as the brougham moved on, he clung to leycester's hand, and bending forward, panted: "leycester--good-bye!" leycester stood, white and motionless as a statue, for the space of a minute; then he turned to lord charles, who stood biting his pale lips and looking after the brougham. "i will go with you to-morrow," he said, hoarsely. chapter xxxv. time--which lord leycester had been so recklessly wasting in "riotous living"--passed very quiet indeed in the thames valley, beneath the white walls of wyndward hall. during the months which elapsed since that fearful parting between the two lovers, life had gone on at the cottage just as before, with the one great exception that jasper adelstone had become almost a daily visitor, and that stella was engaged to him. that was all the difference, but what a difference it was! lord leycester gone--her tried, her first lover, the man who had won her maiden heart--and in his place this man whom she--hated. but yet she fought the battle womanfully. she had made a bargain--she had sacrificed herself for her two loved ones, had given herself freely and unreservedly, and she strove to carry out her part of the compact. she looked a little pale, a little graver than of old, but there was no querulous tone of complaint about her; if she did not laugh the frank, light-hearted laugh that her uncle used to declare was like the "voice of sunlight," she smiled sometimes; and if the smile was rather sad than mirthful, it was very sweet. the old man noticed nothing amiss; he thought she had grown quieter, but set the change down to her betrothal; he went on painting, absorbed in his work, scarcely heeding the world that ran by him so merrily, so sadly, and was quite content. jasper's quiet, low-toned voice did not disturb him, and he would go on painting while they were talking near him, dead to their presence. since that last blow his boy's crime had struck him, he had lived more entirely and completely in his art than ever. of the two, frank and stella, perhaps it was frank who seemed the most changed. he had grown thinner and paler, and more girlish and delicate-looking than ever. it had been arranged that he should go up to the university for the next term, but mr. hamilton, the old doctor, who had been called in to see to a slight cough which the boy had started, had hummed and hawed, and advised that the 'varsity should be shelved for the present. "was he ill?" stella had asked, anxiously--very anxiously, for, woman-like, she had grown to love with a passionate devotion the boy for whom she had sacrificed herself. "n--o; not ill," the old doctor had said. "certainly not ill," and he went on to explain that frank was delicate--that all boys with fair hair and fair complexions were more or less delicate. "but he has such a beautiful color," said stella, nervously. "y--es; a nice color," said the old man, and that was all she could get out of him. but the cough did not go; and as the autumn mists stole up from the river and covered the meadows with a filmy veil, beautiful to behold, the cough got worse; but the beautiful color did not go either, and so stella was not very anxious. as for frank himself, he treated his ailments with supreme indifference. "do i take any medicine?" he said, in answer to stella's questioning. "yes, i take all the old woman--i beg his pardon!--the doctor sends. it isn't very unpleasant, and though it doesn't do me much good apparently, it seems to afford you and the aforesaid old woman some satisfaction, and so we are pleased all round." "you don't seem to take any interest in things, frank," said stella, one morning, when she had come into the garden to look at the trees that drew a long line of gold and brown and yellow along the river bank, and had found him leaning on the gate, his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed on the hall, very much as she had first seen him, the night he had come home. he looked round at her and smiled faintly. "why don't you go and try the fish?" she said. "or--or--go for a ride? you only wander about the gardens or in the meadows." he looked at her curiously. "why do not you?" he said, slowly, his large blue eyes fixed on her face, which grew slowly blush-red under his regard. "you do not seem to take much interest in things, stel. you don't go and fish, or--or--take a drive, or anything. you only wander about the garden, or in the meadows." the long lashes swept her cheeks, and she struggled with a sigh. his words had told home. "but--but," she said falteringly, "i am not a boy. girls should stay at home and attend to their duties." "and walk and move as if they were in a dream--as if their hearts and souls were divorced from their bodies--and miles, miles away," he said, waving his thin white hand in the air slowly. her lips quivered, and she turned her face away, but only for a moment; it was back upon him with a smile again. "you are a foolish, fanciful boy!" she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and caressing his cheek. "perhaps so," he said. "'my fancies are more than all the world to me,' says the poet, you know," he added, bitterly. stella's heart ached. "are you angry with me, frank?" she said. "don't be!" he shook his head. "no, not angry," he said, looking out at the mist that was rising. she smothered a sigh; she understood his reproach; not a moment of the day but he accused her in his heart of betraying lord leycester; if he could but have known why she had done it; but that he never would know! "you are a fanciful boy," she said, with a forced lightness. "what are you dreaming about now, i wonder?" "i was wondering too," he answered, without looking at her, "i was wondering--shall i tell you----" she answered "yes," with her hand against his cheek. "i was wondering where lord leycester was, and how----" her hand dropped to her side and pressed her heart; the sudden mention of the name had struck her like a blow. he glanced round. "i beg your pardon," he said, "i forgot; his name was never to be mentioned, was it? i will not sin again--in word. in thought--one can't help one's thoughts, stel!" "no," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "thoughts are free," he said; "mine are not, however; they are always flying after him--after him, the best and noblest of men, the man who saved my life. you see, though i may not speak of him, it would be ungrateful to forget him!" "frank!" at her tone of piteous supplication and almost reproach, he turned and put his hand on her arm. "forgive me, stel! i didn't mean to hurt you, but--but--well it is so hard to understand, so hard to bear! to feel, to know that he is far away and suffering, while that man, jasper adelstone--i beg your pardon, stel! there! i will say no more!" "do not," she murmured, her face white and strained, but resigned--"do not. besides, you are wrong; he has forgotten by this time." he turned and looked at her with a sudden anger; then he smiled as the exquisite beauty of her face smote him. "you wrong him and yourself. no, stel, men do not forget such a girl as you----" "no more!" she said, almost in a tone of command. he shook his head, and the cough came on and silenced him. she put her arm round his neck. "that cough," she said. "you must go in, dear! look at the mist. come, come in!" he turned in silence and walked beside her for a few steps. then he said tremulously: "stella, let me ask one question, and then i will be silent--for always." "well?" she said. "have you heard from him?--do you know where he is?" she paused a moment to control her voice, then she said: "i have heard no word; i do not know whether he is alive or dead." he sighed and his head dropped upon his breast. "let us go in," he said, then he started, for his ears, particularly sharp, had caught the sound of a well-known footstep. "there is--jasper," he said, with a pause before the name, and he drew his arm away and walked away from her. stella turned with a strange set smile on her face, the set smile which she had learnt to greet him with. he came up the path with his quick and peculiar suppressed step, his hand outstretched. he would have taken her in his arms and kissed her--if he had dared. but he could not. with all his determination and resolution he dared not. there was something, some mysterious halo about his victim which kept him almost at arm's length; it was as if she had surrounded herself by a magic circle which he could not pass. he took her hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it, his eyes drinking in her beauty and grace with a thirsty wistfulness. "my darling," he murmured, in his soft, low voice, "out so late. will you not catch cold?" "no," she said, and like her smile her voice seemed set and tutored. "i shall not catch cold, i never do under any circumstance. but i have just sent frank in, he has been coughing terribly--he does not seem at all strong." he frowned with swift impatience. "frank is all right," he said, and there was a touch of jealousy in his voice. "are you not unduly anxious about the boy--you alarm yourself without cause." "alarm myself," she repeated, ready to be alarmed at the suggestion. "i--don't think, i hope i am not alarmed. why should i be?" she said, anxiously. the jealousy grew more pronounced. "there is no reason whatever," he said, shortly. "the boy is all right. he has been getting his feet wet and caught cold, that is all." stella smiled. "yes, that is all," she said, "of course. but it is strange dr. hamilton doesn't get rid of it for him." "perhaps he doesn't help the doctor," he retorted. "boys always are careless about themselves. but don't let frank absorb all the conversation," he said. "let us talk of ourselves," and he kissed her hand again. "yes," said stella, obediently. he kept her hand in his and pressed it. "i have come to speak to you to-night, stella, about ourselves, darling. i want you to be very good to me!" she looked forward at the lighted room with the same set expression, waiting patiently, obediently, for him to proceed. there was no response in her touch or in her face. he noticed it--he never failed to notice it, and it maddened him. he set his teeth hard. "stella, i have been waiting month after month to say what i am going to say now; but i couldn't wait any longer, my darling, my own, i wish the marriage to take place." she did not start, but she turned and looked at him, and her face shone whitely in the darkness, and he felt a faint shudder in the hand imprisoned in his. "will you not speak?" he said, after a moment, almost angry, because of the tempest of passion and breathed tenderness that possessed him. "have you nothing to say, or will you say 'no?' i almost expect it." "i will not say no," she said, at last, and her voice was cold and strained. "you have a right--the right i have given you--to demand the fulfillment of our bargain." "good heaven!" he broke in, passionately. "why do you talk like this? shall i never, never win you to love me? will you never forget how we came together?" "do not ask me," she said, almost pleaded, and her face quivered. "indeed--indeed, i try, try--try hard to forget the past, and to please you!" it was piteous to hear and see her, and his heart ached; but it was for himself as well as for her. "do you doubt my love?" he said, hoarsely. "do you think any man could love you better than i do? does that count as nothing with you?" "yes, yes," she said, slowly, sadly. "it does count. i--i----" then she looked down. "why will you speak of love between us?" she said. "ask me--tell me to do anything, and i will do it, but do not speak of love!" he bit his lip. "well," he said, with an effort, "i will not. i see i cannot touch your heart yet. but the time will come. you cannot stand against a love like mine. and you will let our marriage be soon?" "yes," she said, simply. he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it, hungrily, and she forced back the shudder which threatened to overmaster her. "by soon," he murmured, as they walked toward the house, "i mean quite soon--before the winter." stella did not speak. "let it be next month, darling," he murmured. "i shall not feel sure of you until you are my very own. once you are mine beyond question, i will teach you to love me." stella looked at him, and a strange, despairing smile, more bitter and sad than tears, shone on her pale lips. teach her to love him! as if love could be taught! "i am not afraid," he said, answering her smile; "no one could withstand it--not even you, though your heart were adamant." "it is not that," she said, in a low voice, as she thought of the dull aching which was its pittance by day and night. they went into the house. mr. etheridge was wandering about the room, smoking his pipe, his head upon his breast, buried in thought, as usual. frank was lying back in the old arm-chair; he looked wearily-fragile and delicate, but the beautiful color shone in his face. he looked up and nodded as jasper entered, but jasper was not satisfied with the nod, and went over to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder, at which the boy winced and shrank faintly; he never could bear jasper to touch him, and always resented it. "well, frank," he said, with his faint smile, "how's the cold to-night?" frank murmured something indistinctly, and shifted in his seat. "not so well, eh?" said jasper. "it seems to me that a change would do you good. what do you say to going away for a little while?" the boy looked up at stella with a glance of alarm. leave stella! "i don't want to go away," he said, shortly. "i am quite well. i hate a change." stella came up to his chair, and knelt beside him. "it would do you good, dear," she said, in her low, musical voice. he bent near her. "do you mean--alone?" he asked. "i don't want to go alone--i won't, in fact." "no, not alone, certainly," said jasper, with his smile. "i think some one else wants a change too." and he looked at stella tenderly. "i'll go if stella goes," said frank, curtly. "what do you say, sir?" said jasper to the old man. he stared, and the proposal had to be put to him _in extenso_; he had not heard a word of what had been said. "go away! yes, if you like. but why? frank's cold? i don't suppose any other place is better for a cold is it? it is? very well then. you don't want me to come, i suppose?" "well----" said jasper. "i couldn't do it!" exclaimed the old man, almost with alarm. "i should be like a fish out of water. i couldn't paint away from the river and the meadows. oh, it's impossible! besides, you don't want an old man pottering about," and he looked at stella and smiled grimly. "i couldn't go without you," said stella, quietly. "nonsense," he said; "there's the other old woman, mrs. penfold, take her; she can go. it will do her good, though she hasn't a cold." then he stopped in front of the boy and looked at him, with the strange reserved, almost sad, expression which always came upon his race when he regarded him. "yes," he said, in a low voice; "he wants a change. i haven't noticed; he looks thin and unwell. yes, you had better go! where will you go?" stella shook her head with a smile, but jasper was ready. "let me see," he said, thoughtfully. "we don't want a cold place, the change would be too great; and we don't want too hot a place. what do you say to cornwall?" the old man nodded. stella smiled again. "i haven't anything to say," she said. "would you like cornwall, frank?" he looked from one to the other. "what made you think of cornwall?" he asked jasper, suspiciously. jasper laughed softly. "it seemed to me just the place to suit you. it is mild and clear, and just what you want. besides, i remember a little place near the sea, a sheltered village in a bay--carlyon they call it--that would just do for us. what do you say? let me see, where is the map?" he went and got a map and spreading it out on the table, called to stella. "this is it," he said, then in a low voice he whispered: "there is a pretty, secluded little church there, stella. why should we not be married there?" she started, and her hand fell on the map. "i am thinking of you, my darling," he said. "for my part i should like to be married here----" "no, not here," she faltered, as she thought of standing before the altar in the wyndward church and seeing the white walls of the hall as she uttered her marriage vow. "not here." "i understand," he said. "then why not there? your uncle could come down for that, i think." she did not speak, and with a smile of satisfaction he folded the map. "it is all settled," he said. "we go to carlyon. you will come down for a little while, i hope, sir. we shall want you." the old man pushed the white hair off his forehead. "eh?" he asked. "what for?" "to give stella away," replied jasper. "she has promised to marry me there." the old man looked at her. "why not here?" he asked, naturally, but stella shook her head. "very well," he said. "it is a strange fancy, but girls are fanciful. off you go, then, and don't make more fuss than you can help." so stella's fate was settled, and the day, the fatal day, loomed darkly before her. chapter xxxvi. lord charles was too glad to gain leycester's consent to leave town to care where they went, and to prevent all chance of leycester's changing his mind, this stanch and constant friend went with him to his rooms and interviewed the patient oliver. "go away, sir?" said that faithful and long-suffering individual. "i'm glad of it! his lordship--and you too, begging your pardon, my lord--ought to have gone long ago. it's been terrible hot work these last few weeks. i never knew his lordship so wild. and where are we going, my lord?" that was the question. leycester rendered no assistance whatever, beyond declaring that he would not go where there was a houseful of people. he had thrown himself into a chair, and sat moodily regarding the floor. bellamy's sudden illness and prophetic words had given him a shock. he was quite ready to go anywhere, so that it was away from london, which had become hateful to him since the last hour. lord charles lit a pipe, and oliver mixed a soda-and-brandy for him, and they two talked it over in an undertone. "i've got a little place in the doone valley, devonshire, you know," said lord charles, talking to oliver quite confidentially. "it's a mere box--just enough for ourselves, and we should have to rough it, rough it awfully. but there's plenty of game, and some fishing, and it's as wild as a march hare!" "that's just what his lordship wants," said oliver. "i know him so well, you see, my lord. i must say that i've taken the way we've been going on lately very serious; it isn't the money, that don't matter, my lord; and it isn't altogether the wildness, we've been wild before, my lord, you know." lord charles grunted. "but that was only in play like, and there is no harm in it; but this sort of thing that's being going on hasn't been play, and it ain't amused his lordship a bit; why he's more down than when we came up." "that's so, oliver," assented lord charles, gloomily. "i don't know what it was, and it isn't for me to be curious, my lord," continued the faithful fellow, "but it's my opinion that something went wrong down at the hall, and that his lordship cut up rough about it." lord charles, remembering that letter and the beautiful girl at the cottage, nodded. "perhaps so," he said. "well, we'll go down to the doone valley. better pack up to-night, or rather this morning. i'll go home and get a bath, and we'll be off at once. fish out the train, will you?" oliver, who was a perfect master of "bradshaw," turned over the leaves of that valuable compilation, and discovered a train that left in the afternoon, and lord charles "broke it" to leycester. leycester accepted their decision with perfect indifference. "i shall be ready," he said, in a dispassionate, indifferent way. "tell oliver what you want." "it's a mere box in a jungle," said lord charles. "a jungle is what i want," said leycester, grimly. with the same grim indifference he started by that afternoon train, smoking in silence nearly all the way down to barnstaple, and showing no interest in anything. oliver had telegraphed to secure seats in the coach that leaves that ancient town for the nearest point to the valley, and early the next morning they arrived. a couple of horses and a dogcart had been sent on--how oliver managed to get them off was a mystery, but his command of resources at most times amounted to the magical--and they drove from teignmouth to the valley, and reached the "hut," as it was called. it was in very truth a mere box, but it was a box set in the center of a sportsman's paradise. lonely and solitary it stood on the edge of the deer forest, within sound of a babbling trout-stream, and in the center of the best shooting in devonshire. oliver, with the aforesaid magic, procured a couple of servants, and soon got the little place in order; and here the two friends lived, like hermits in a dell. they fished and shot and rode all day, returning at night to a plain, late dinner; and altogether led a life so different to that which they had been leading as it was possible to imagine. lord charles enjoyed it. he got brown, and as fit and "as hard as nails," as he described it, but leycester took things differently. the gloom which had settled upon him would not be dispelled by the mountain air and the beauty of the exquisite valley. always and ever there seemed some cloud hanging over him, spoiling his enjoyment and witching the charm from his efforts at amusement. while charles was killing trout in the stream, or dropping the pheasants in the moors, leycester would wander up and down the valley, gun or rod in hand, using neither, his head drooping, his eyes fixed in gloomy retrospection. in simple truth he was haunted by a spirit which clung to him now as it had clung to him in those days of feverish gayety and dissipation. the vision of the slim, beautiful girl whom he loved was ever before him, her face floated between him and the mountains, her voice mingled with the stream. he saw her by day, he dreamed of her by night. sometimes he would wake with a start, and fancy that she was still his own, and that they were standing by the weir, her hand in his, her voice whispering, "leycester, i love you!" distance only lent enchantment to her beauty and her grace. in a word, he could not forget her! sometimes he wondered whether he had been right in yielding her up to jasper adelstone so quietly; but as he recalled that morning, and stella's face and words, he felt that he could not have done otherwise. yes, he had lost her, she had gone forever, yet he could not forget her. it seemed very strange, even to himself. after all, there were so many beautiful women he could have chosen; some he had been almost in love with, and yet he had forgotten them. what was there about stella to cling to him so persistently? he remembered every little unconscious trick of voice and manner, the faint little smile that curved her lip, the deep light in the dark eyes as they lifted to his, asking, taking his love. there was a special little trick or mannerism she had, a way of bending her head and looking at him half over her shoulder, that simply haunted him; she came--the vision of her--to the side of his chair and his bed, and looked at him so, and he could see the graceful curve of the delicate neck. ah, me! ah, me! it was very weak and foolish, perhaps, that a strong man of the world should be held in such thrall by a simple girl, just a girl; but men are made so, and will so be held, when they are strong and true, till the world ends. it was very slow for charlie--very slow and very rough, but he was one of those rare friends who stick close in such a time. he fished, and shot, and rode, and walked, and was always cheerful and never obtrusive; but though he never made any remark, he could not but notice that leycester was in a bad way. he was getting thinner and older looking, and the haggard lines, which the wild town life had begun to draw, deepened. lord charles was beginning to be afraid that the doone valley also would fail. "ever hear anything of your people, ley?" he asked one night, as they sat in the living room of the hut. the night was warm for the time of year, and they sat by the open window smoking their pipes, and clad in their shooting suits of woolen mixture. leycester was leaning back, his head resting on his hand, his eyes fixed on the starlit sky, his long knickerbockered legs outstretched. "my people?" he replied, with a little movement as of one waking from a dream. "no. i believe they are in the country somewhere." "didn't leave any address for them?" leycester shook his head. "no. i have no doubt they know it, however; oliver is engaged to lilian's maid, jeanette, and doubtless writes to her." charles looked at him. "getting tired of this, old man?" he asked, quietly. "no," said leycester. "not at all. i can keep it up as long as you like. if you are tired, we will go. don't imagine that i am insensible to the boredom you are undergoing, charlie. but i advised you to let me go my way alone, did i not?" "that's so," was the cheerful response. "but i didn't choose, did i? and i don't now. but all the same, i should like to see you look a little more chippy, ley." leycester looked up at him and smiled, grimly. "i wonder whether you were ever in any trouble in your life, charlie," he said. lord charles drained the glass of whisky and water that stood beside him. "yes," he said; "but i'm like a duck, it pours off my back, and there i am again." "i wish i were like a duck!" said leycester, with bitter self-scorn. "charlie, you have the misfortune to be tied to a haunted man. i am haunted by the ghost of an old and lost happiness, and i can't get rid of it." charlie looked at him and then away. "i know," he said; "i haven't said anything, but i know. well, i am not surprised; she is a beautiful creature, and one of the sort to stick in a man's mind. i'm very sorry, old man. there isn't any chance of its coming right?" "none whatever," said leycester, "and that is why i am a great fool in clinging to it." he got up and began to pace the room, and the color mounted to his haggard face. "i cannot--i cannot shake it off. charlie, i despise myself; and yet, no, no, to love her once was to love her for always--to the end." "there's another man, of course," said lord charles. "didn't it occur to you to--well, to break his neck, or put a bullet through him, or get him appointed governor of the cannibal islands, ley? that used to be your style." leycester smiled grimly. "this man cannot be dealt with in any one of those excellent ways, charlie," he said. "if it's the man i suppose, that fellow jasper addled egg--no, adelstone, i should have tried the first at any rate," said lord charles, emphatically. leycester shook his head. "it's a bad business," he said, curtly, "and there is no way of making it a good one. i will go to bed. what shall we do to-morrow?" and he sighed. lord charles laid his hand on his arm and kept him for a moment. "you want rousing, ley," he said. "rousing, that's it! let's have the horses to-morrow and take a big spin; anywhere, nowhere, it doesn't matter. we'll go while they can." ley nodded. "anything you like," he said, and went out. lord charles called to oliver, who was standing outside smoking a cigar--he was quite as particular about the brand as his master: "where did you say the earl and countess were, oliver?" he asked. "at darlingford court, my lord." "how far is it from here? can we do it to-morrow with the nags?" oliver thought a moment. "if they are taken steadily, my lord; not as his lordship has been riding lately; as if the horse were cast iron and his own neck too." lord charles nodded. "all right," he said, "we'll do it. lord leycester wants a change again, oliver." oliver nodded. "we'll run over there. needn't say anything to his lordship--you understand." oliver quite understood, and went off to the small stable to see about the horses, and lord charles went to bed chuckling over his little plot. when they started in the morning, leycester asked no questions and displayed the supremest indifference to the route, and lord charles, affecting a little indecision, made for the road to which oliver had directed him. the two friends rode almost in silence as was their wont, leycester paying very little attention to anything excepting his horse, and scarcely noticing the fact that lord charles seemed very decided about the route. once he asked a question; it was when the evening was drawing in, and they were still riding, as to their destination, but lord charles evaded it: "we shall get somewhere, i expect," he said quietly. "there is sure to be an inn--or something." and leycester was content. about dusk they reached the entrance to darlingford. there was no village, no inn. leycester pulled up and waited indifferently. "what do we do now?" he asked. lord charles laughed, but rather consciously. "look here," he said: "i know some people who have got this place. we'd better ride up and get a night's lodging." leycester looked at him, and smiled suddenly. "isn't this rather transparent, charlie?" he said, calmly. "of course you intended to come here from the very start, very well." "well, i suspect i did," said lord charles. "you don't mind?" leycester shook his head. "not at all. they will let us go to bed, i suppose. you can tell them that you are traveling keeper to a melancholy monomaniac, and they'll leave me alone. mind, we start in the morning." "all right," said lord charles, chuckling inwardly--"of course; quite so. come on." they rode up the avenue, and to the front of a straggling stone mansion, and a groom came forward and took their horses. lord charles drew leycester's arm within his. "we shall be sure of a welcome." and he walked up a broad flight of steps. but leycester stopped suddenly; for a figure came out of one of the windows, and stood looking down at them. it was a woman, gracefully and beautifully dressed in some softly-hued evening robe. he could not see her face, but he knew her, and turned almost angrily to lord charles. but lord charles had slipped away, muttering something about the horses, and leycester went slowly up. lenore--it was she--awaited his approach all unconsciously. she could not see him as plainly as he saw her, and she took him for some strange chance visitor. but as he came up and stood in front of her she recognized him, and, with a low cry, she moved toward him, her lovely face suddenly smitten pale, her violet eyes fixed on him yearningly. "leycester!" she said, and overcome for the moment by the suddenness of his presence, she staggered slightly. he could do no less than put his arm round her, for he thought she would have fallen, and as he did so his heart reproached him, for the one word "leycester," and the tone told her story. his mother was right. she loved him. "lenore," he said, and his deep, grave, musical voice trembled slightly. she lay back in his arms for a moment, looking up at him with an expression of helpless resignation in her eyes, her lovely face revealed in the light which poured from the window full upon her. "lenore," he said, huskily, "what--what is this?" her eyes closed for a moment, and a faint thrill ran through her, then she regained her composure, and putting him gently from her, she laughed softly. "it was your fault," she said, the exquisite voice tremulous with emotion. "why do you steal upon us like a thief in the night, or--like a ghost? you frightened me." he stood and looked at her, and put his hand to his brow. he was but mortal, was but a man with a man's passions, a man's susceptibility to woman's loveliness, and he knew that she loved him. "i----" he said, then stopped. "i did not know. charlie brought me here. who are here?" "they are all here," she said, her eyes downcast. "i will go and tell them lest you frighten them as you frightened me," and she stole away from him like a shadow. he stood, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the ground. she was very beautiful, and she loved him. why should he not make her happy? make one person happy at least? not only one person, but his mother, and lilian--all of them. as for himself, well! one woman was as good as another, seeing that he had lost his darling! and this other was the best and rarest of all that were left. "leycester!" it was his mother's voice. he turned and kissed her; she was not frightened, she did not even kiss him, but she put her hand on his arm, and he felt it tremble, and the way she spoke the word told of all her past sorrow at his absence, and her joy at his return. "you have come back to us!" she said, and that was all. "yes, i have come back!" he said, with something like a sigh. she looked at him, and the mother's heart was wrung. "have you been ill, leycester?" she asked, quietly. "ill, no," he said, then he laughed a strange laugh. "do i look so seedy, my lady?" "you look----" she began, with sad bitterness, then she stopped. "come in." he followed her in, but at the door he paused and looked out at the night. as he did so, the vision of the slim, graceful girl, of his lost darling, seemed to float before him, with pale face, and wistful, reproachful eyes. he put up his hand with a strange, despairing gesture, and his lips moved. "good-bye!" he murmured. "oh, my lost love, good-bye!" chapter xxxvii. lord charles' little plot had succeeded beyond his expectation. he had restored the prodigal and shared the fatted calf, as he deserved to do. although it was known all over the house, in five minutes, that lord leycester, the heir, had returned, there was no fuss, only a pleasant little simmer of welcome and satisfaction. the countess had gone to the earl, who was dressing for dinner, to tell him the news. "leycester has returned," she said. the earl started and sent his valet away. "what!" "yes, he has come back to us," she said, sinking into a seat. "where from?" he demanded. she shook her head. "i don't know. i don't want to know. he must be asked no questions. lord charles brought him. i always loved charles guildford." "so you ought, out of pity," said the earl, grimly, "seeing that your son has almost led him to ruin." then the countess fired up. "there must be no talk of that kind," she said. "you do not want to see him go again? no word must be said unless you want to drive him away. he has been ill." "i am not surprised," said the earl, still a little grimly, "a man can't lead the life he has been leading and keep his health, moral or physical." "but that is all past," said the countess confidently. "i feel that is all past. if you do not worry him he will stay, and all will go well." "oh, i won't worry his imperial highness," said the earl, with a smile, "that is what you want me to say, i suppose. and the girl--what about her?" "i don't know," said the countess with all a mother's supreme indifference for the fate of any other than her son. "she is past, too. i am sure of that. how thankful i am that lenore is here." "ah," said the earl who could be sarcastic when he liked. "so she is to be sacrificed as a thank-offering for the prodigal's return, is she? poor lenore, i am almost sorry for her. she is too good for him." "for shame," exclaimed the countess, flushing; "no one is too good for him. and--and she will not deem it a sacrifice." "no, i suppose not," he said, fumbling at his necktie. "it is well to be born with a handsome face, and a dare-devil temper, because all women love you then, and the best and fairest think it worth while to offer themselves up. poor lenore! well, i'll be civil to his highness, notwithstanding that he has spent a small fortune in two months, and declined to honor my house with his presence. there," he added, touching her cheek and smiling, "don't be alarmed. we will kill the fatted calf and make merry--till he goes off again." the countess was satisfied with this, and went down to find leycester and lord charles standing near the fire. though they had only rented the place for a month, curtains were up on all the doors, and there was a fire in all the sitting-rooms, and in the earl's apartments. the countess held out her hand to lord charles. "i am very glad to see you, charlie," she said, with her rare smile. "you can give me a kiss if you like," and charlie, as he blushed and kissed the white forehead, knew that she was thanking him for bringing her son back to her. "but we've got to go back at once," he said, with a laugh. "we can't sit down in this rig out," and he looked ruefully at his riding suit. the countess shook her head. "you shall sit down in a smock frock if you like," she said. "but there is no occasion. i have brought leycester's things down, and--it's not the first time you have borrowed suits from each other, i expect." "not by a many!" laughed lord charles. "i'll go and dress. where is ley?" leycester had gone out of the room quietly, and was then sitting beside lilian, his hand in hers, her head upon his breast. "you have come back to us, ley?" she said, caressing his hand. "it has been so long and weary waiting! you will not go again?" he paused a moment, then he looked at her. "no," he said, in a low voice. "no, lil, i shall not go again." she kissed him, and as she did so, whispered, anxiously: "and--and--stella, ley?" his face contracted with a frown of pain and trouble. "that is all past," he said, using his mother's words; and she kissed him again. "how thin and worn you look. oh, ley!" she murmured, with sorrowful, loving reproach. he smiled with a touch of bitterness. "do i? well, i will wax fat and grow mirthful for the future," he said, rising. "there is the dinner bell." "come to me afterward, ley," she pleaded, as she let him go, and he promised. there was to be no fuss, but it was noteworthy that several of leycester's favorite dishes figured in the menu, and that there was a special indian curry for lord charles. leycester did not descend to the dining-room till ten minutes after the time, and the greeting between father and son was characteristic of the two men. the earl put out his thin, white hand, and smiled gravely. "how do you do, leycester," he said. "will you have the lafitte or the chateau margaux? the weather is fine for the time of year." and leycester said, quietly: "i hope you are well, sir. the margaux, i suppose, charles? yes, we have had some good weather." that was all. he went to his place and sat down quietly and composedly, as if he had dined with them for months without a break, and as if the papers had not been chronicling his awful doings. the earl could not suppress a pang of pity as he glanced across at the handsome face and saw how worn and haggard it looked, and he bent his head over his soup with a sigh. leycester looked round the table presently, and then turned to the countess. "where is lenore?" he asked. the countess paused a moment. "she has rather a bad headache, and begged to be excused," she said. leycester bent his head. "i am sorry," he remarked. then the countess talked, and lord charles helped her. he was in the best of spirits. the dinner was excellent, and the curry admirable, considering the short notice; and he was delighted with the success of his maneuver. he rattled on in his humorous style, told them all about the hut, and represented that they lived somewhat after the manner of savages. "eat our meals with a hunting knife, don't we, leycester? i hope you'll excuse us if we don't hold our forks properly. i daresay we shall soon get into the way of it again." all this was very well, and the earl smiled and grew cheerful; but the countess, watching the haggard, handsome face beside her, saw that leycester was absorbed and pre-occupied. he passed dish after dish, and the margaux stood beside him almost untouched. she was still anxious and fearful, and as she rose she threw a glance at the earl, half of entreaty, half of command, that he would not "say anything." "it is nice to get back to the old wine," said charlie, leaning back in his chair, and eying his glass with complacent approval. "whisky and water is a fine drink, but one tires of it; now this----" and he reached the claret jug expressively. the earl talked of politics and the coming hunting season, and still leycester was silent, eying the white cloth and fingering the stem of his wine glass. "will you hunt this year, leycester?" said the earl, addressing him at last. he looked up gravely. "i don't know, sir; only a day a week if i do." "we shall go to leicestershire, of course," said the earl. "i shall have to be up for the season, but you can take charge if you will." leycester inclined his head. "will you see to the horses?" asked the earl. leycester thought a moment. "i shall only want two," he said; "the rest will be sold." "do you mean the stud?" asked the earl, with a faint air of surprise. "yes," said leycester, quietly. "i shall sell them all. i shall not race again." the earl understood him; the old wild life was to come to an end. but he put in a word. "is that wise?" he said. "i think so," said leycester. "quite enough money has been spent. yes, i shall sell." "very well," assented the earl, who could not but agree with the remark respecting money. "after all, i imagine one tires of the turf. i always thought it a great bore." "so it is--so it is," said lord charles, cheerfully. "everything is a bore." the earl smiled. "not everything," he said. "leycester, you are not touching the wine," he added, graciously. leycester filled his glass and drank it, and then, to charles' surprise, refilled it, not once only, but twice and thrice, as if he had suddenly become thirsty. presently the earl, after vainly pushing the decanter to them, rose, and they followed him into the drawing-room. the countess sat at her tea-table, and beside her was lenore. she was rather paler than usual, and the beautiful eyes were of a deep violet under the long sweeping lashes. she was exquisitely dressed, but there was not a single jewel about her; a spray of white orchid nestled on her bosom and shone in her golden hair, showing the exquisite delicacy of the fair face and throat. leycester glanced at her, but took his cup of tea without a word, and lord charles made all the conversation, as at the dinner-table. presently leycester put down his cup and walked to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, stood looking out at the night. there was a flush of color in his face, owing perhaps to the margaux, and a strange light in his eyes. what did he see in the darkness? was it the spirit of stella to whom he had said farewell? he stood wrapt in thought, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh of charlie behind him; then suddenly he turned and went up to the silent figure with the while flower in its bosom and its hair, and sat down beside her. "are you better?" he asked. she just glanced at him, and smiled slowly. "yes, i am quite well. it was only a headache." "are you well enough to come on to the terrace--there is a terrace, is there not?" "a balcony." "will you come? it is quite warm." she rose at once, and he took up a shawl and put it round her, and offered her his arm. she just laid her finger-tips on it, and he led her to the window. she drew back, and smiled over her shoulder. "it is a capital offence to open a window at night." "i forgot," he said. "you see, i am so great a stranger, that i fail to remember the habits of my own people. will you show me the way round?" "this way," she said; and opening a small door, she took him into a conservatory, and thence to the balcony. they were silent for a moment or two--he looking at the stars, she with eyes bent to the ground. he was fighting for resolution and determination, she was silently waiting, knowing what was passing in his heart, and wondering, with a throbbing heart, whether her hour of triumph had come. she had stooped to the very dust to win him, to snatch him from that other girl who had ensnared him; but as she stood now and glanced at him--at the tall, graceful figure, and the handsome face, all the handsomer in her eyes for its haggardness--she felt that she could have stooped still lower if it had been possible. her heart beat with expectant passion--she longed for the moment when she could rest upon his breast and confess her love. why did he not speak? he turned to her at last, and spoke. "lenore," he said, and his voice was deep and earnest, almost solemn, "i want to ask you a question. will you answer me?" "ask it," she said, and she raised her eyes to his with a sudden flash. "when you saw me to-night, when i came in unexpectedly, you were--moved. was it because you were glad to see me?" she was silent a moment. "is that a fair question?" she murmured. "yes," he said. "yes, lenore; we will not trifle with each other, you and i. if you were glad to see me, do not hesitate to say so; it is not idle vanity that prompts the question." she faltered and turned her head away. "why will you press me?" she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. "do you wish to see me ashamed?" then she turned to him suddenly, and the violet eyes met his with a light of passionate love in their depths. "but i will answer it," she said. "yes, i was glad." he was silent for a moment, then he drew closer to her and bent over her. "lenore, will you be my wife?" she did not speak, but looked at him. "will you be my wife?" he repeated, almost fiercely; her supreme loveliness was telling upon him; the light in her eyes was sinking to his heart and stirring his pulses. "tell me, lenore, do you love me?" her head drooped, then she sighed. "yes, i love you," she said, and almost imperceptibly swayed toward him. he took her in his arms, his heart beating, his brain whirling, for the memory of that other love seemed to haunt him even at that moment. "you love me!" he murmured, hoarsely, looking back on the night of the past. "can it be true, lenore? you!" she nestled on his breast and looked up at him, and from the pale face the dark eyes gleamed passionately. "leycester," she breathed, "you know i love you! you know it!" he pressed her closer to him, then a hoarse cry broke from him. "god forgive me!" it was a strange response at such a moment. "why do you say that?" she asked, looking up at him; his face was haggard and remorseful, anything but as a lover's face should be, but he smiled gravely and kissed her. "it is strange!" he said, as if in explanation--"strange that i should have won your love, i who am so unworthy, while you are so peerless!" she trembled a little with a sudden qualm of fear. if he could but know of what she had been guilty to win him! it was she who was unworthy! but she put the fear from her. she had got him, and she did not doubt her power to hold him. "do not speak of unworthiness," she murmured, lovingly. "we have both passed through the world, leycester, and have learned to value true love. you have always had mine," she added, in a faint whisper. what could he do but kiss her? but even as he took her in his arms and laid his hand on the shapely head with its golden wealth, a subtle pain thrilled at his heart, and he felt as if he were guilty of some treachery. they stood for some time almost in silence--she was too wise to disturb his mood--side by side; then he put her arm in his. "let us go in," he said. "shall i tell my mother to-night, lenore?" "why not," she murmured, leaning against him, and with the upturned eyes glowing into his with suppressed passion and devotion. "why not? will they not be glad, do you think?" "yes," he said, and he remembered how differently stella had spoken. "after all," he thought with a sigh, "i shall make a great many persons happy and comfortable. very well," he said, "i will see them." he stooped to kiss her before they passed into the light, and she did not shrink from his kiss; but put up her lips and met it with one in return. there were men, and not a few, who would have given some years of their life for such a kiss from the beautiful lenore, but he, leycester, took it without a thrill, without an extra heartbeat. there was not much need to tell them what had happened; the countess knew in a moment by lenore's face--pale, but with a light of triumph glowing in it--that the hour had come, and that she had won. in her graceful manner, she went up to the countess, and bent over to kiss her. "i am going up now, dear," she said, in a whisper. "i am rather tired." the countess embraced her. "not too tired to see me if i come?" she said, in a whisper, and lady lenore shook her head. she put her hand in leycester's for a moment, as he opened the door for her, and looked into his face; but he would not let her go so coldly, and raising her hand to his lips, said-- "good-night, lenore." the earl started and stared at this familiar salutation, and lord charles raised his eyebrows; but leycester came to the fire, and stood looking into it for a minute in silence. then he turned to them and said, in his quiet way-- "lenore has promised to be my wife. have you any objection, sir?" the earl started and looked at him, and then held out his hand with an emphatic nod. "objection! it is about the wisest thing you ever did, leycester." leycester smiled at him strangely, and turned to his mother. she did not speak, but her eyes filled, and she put her hand on his shoulder and kissed him. "my dear leycester, i congratulate you!" exclaimed charlie, wringing his hand and beaming joyously. "'pon my word, this is the--the happiest thing we've come across for many a day! by george!" and having dropped leycester's hand, he seized that of the earl, and wrung that, and would in turn have seized the countess's, had she not given it to him of her own free will. "we have to thank you in some measure for this, charles," she said, in a low voice, and with a grateful smile. leycester leant against the mantel-shelf, his hands behind him, his face set and thoughtful, almost absent, indeed. he had the appearance of a man in a dream. the earl roused him with a word or two. "this is very good news, leycester." "i am very glad you are pleased, sir," said leycester, quietly. "i am more than pleased, i am delighted," responded the earl, in his quiet way. "i may say that it is the fulfillment of a hope i have cherished for some time. i trust, more, i believe, you will be happy. if you are not," he added, with a smile, "it will be your own fault." leycester smiled grimly. "no doubt, sir," he said. the old earl passed his white hands over each other--just as he did in the house when he was about to make a speech. "lenore is one of the most beautiful and charming women it has been my fate to meet; she has been regarded by your mother, and i may say by myself, as a daughter. the prospect of receiving her at your hands as one in very truth affords me the most intense pleasure." "thank you, sir," said leycester. the earl coughed behind his hand. "i suppose," he said, with a glance at the haggard face, "there will be no delay in making your happiness complete?" leycester almost started. "you mean----?" "i mean your marriage," said the earl, staring at him, and wondering why he should be so dense and altogether grim, "of course, of course, your marriage. the sooner the better, my dear leycester. there will be preparations to make, and they always take time. i think, if you can persuade lenore to fix an early date, i would see harbor and harbor"--the family solicitors--"at once. i need hardly say that anything i can do to expedite matters i will do gladly. i think you always had a fancy for the place in scotland--you shall have that; and as to the house in town, well if you haven't already thought of a place, there is the house in the square----" leycester's face flushed for a moment. "you are very good to me, sir," he said; and for the first time his voice showed some feeling. "nonsense!" said the earl cordially. "you know that i would do anything, everything to make your future a happy one. talk it over with lenore!" "i will, sir," said leycester. "i think i will go up to lilian now, she expects me." the earl took his hand and shook it as he had not shaken it for many a day, and leycester went up-stairs. the countess had left the room, but he found her waiting for him. "good-night, mother," he said. "oh, leycester, you have made me--all of us--so happy!" "ay," he said, and he smiled at her. "i am very glad. heaven knows i have often enough made you unhappy, mother." "no, no," she said, kissing him; "this makes up for all--for all!" leycester watched her as she went down-stairs, and a sigh broke from him. "not one of them understands, not one," he murmured. but there was one watching for him who understood. "leycester," she said, holding out her hands to him and almost rising. he sat on the head of the couch and put his hand on her head. "mamma has just told me, ley," she murmured. "i am so glad, so glad. i have never been so happy." he was silent, his fingers caressing her cheek. "it is what we have all been hoping and praying for, ley! she is so good and sweet, and so true." "yes," he said, little guessing at her falsity. "and, ley--she loves you so dearly." "aye," he said, with almost a groan. she looked up at him and saw his face, and her own changed color; her hand stole up to his. "oh, ley, ley," she murmured, piteously. "you have forgotten all that?" he smiled, not bitterly but sadly. "forgotten? no," he said; "such things are not easily forgotten. but it is past, and i am going to forget now, lil." even as he spoke he seemed to see the loving face, with its trusting smile, floating before him. "yes, ley, dear ley, for her sake. for lenore's sake." "yes," he said, grimly, "for hers and for my own." "you will be so happy; i know it, i feel it. no one could help loving her, and every day you will learn to love her more dearly, and the past will fade away and be forgotten, ley." "yes," he said, in a low, absent voice. she said no more, and they sat hand in hand wrapped in thought. even when he got up to go he said nothing, and his hand as it held hers was as cold as ice. chapter xxxviii. it had come so suddenly as to almost overwhelm her; the great gift of the gods that she had been waiting, aye, and plotting for, had fallen to her at last, and her cup of triumph was full to overbrimming, but at the same time she, as lord charles would have put it, "kept her head." she thoroughly understood how and why she had gained her will. she could read leycester as if he were a book, and she knew that, although he had asked her to be his wife, he had not forgotten that other girl with the brown hair and dark eyes--that "stella," the painter's niece. this was a bitter pang to her, a drop of gall to her cup, but she accepted it. just as jasper said of stella, so she said of leycester. "i will make him love me!" she thought. "the time shall come when he will wonder how he came to think of that other, and be filled with self-contempt for having so thought of her." and she set about her work well. some women in the hour of their triumph, would have shown their delight, and so worried, or perhaps disgusted, their lover; but not so did lady lenore. she took matters with an ineffable calm and serenity, and never for one moment allowed it to be seen how much she had gained on that eventful evening. to leycester her manner was simply charming. she exerted herself to win him without permitting the effort to be even guessed at. her very beauty seemed to grow more brilliant and bewitching. she moved about the place "like a poem," as lord charles declared. her voice, always soft and musical, with unexpected harmonies, that charmed by their very surprises, was like music; and, more important still, it was seldom heard. she exacted none of the privileges of an engaged woman; she did not expect leycester to sit with her by the hour, or walk about with her all day, or to whisper tender speeches, and lavish secret caresses. indeed, she almost seemed to avoid being alone with him; in fact she humored him to the top of his bent, so that he did not even feel the chain with which he had bound himself. and he was grateful to her; gradually the charm of her presence, the music of her voice, the feeling that she belonged to him told upon him, and he found himself at times sitting, watching, and listening to her with a strange feeling of pleasure. he was only mortal and she was not only supremely beautiful, but supremely clever. she had set herself to charm him, and he would have been less, or more than man, if he had been able to resist her. so it happened that he was left much to himself, for charlie, thinking himself rather _de trop_ and in the way, had taken himself off to join his shooting party, and leycester spent most of his time wandering about the coast or riding over the hills, generally returning at dinner-time tired and thoughtful, and very often expecting some word or look of complaint from his beautiful betrothed. but they never came. exquisitely dressed, she always met him with the same serene smile, in which there was just a suggestion of tenderness she could not express, and never a question as to where he had been. after dinner he would come and sit beside her, leaning back and watching her, too often absently, and listening to her as she talked to the others. to him she very seldom said much, but if he chanced to ask her for anything--to play or to sing--she obeyed instantly, as if he were already her lord and master. it touched him, her simple-minded devotion and thorough comprehension of him--touched him as no display of affection on her part would have done. "heaven help her, she loves me!" he thought, often and often. "and i!" one evening they chanced to be alone together--he had come in after dinner, having eaten some sort of meal at a shooting lodge on the adjoining estate--and found her seated by the window, her white hands in her lap, a rapt look on her face. she looked so supremely lovely, so rapt and solitary that his heart smote him, and he went up to her, his step making no sound on the thick carpet, and kissed her. she started and looked up with a burning blush which transfigured her for a moment, then she said, quietly: "is that you, leycester? have you dined?" "yes," he said, with a pang of self-reproach. "why should you think of that? i do not deserve that you should care whether i dine or not." she smiled up at him; her eyebrows arched themselves. "should it not? but i do care, very much. have you?" he nodded impatiently. "yes. you do not even ask me where i have been?" "no," she murmured, softly. "i can wait until you tell me; it is for you to tell me, and for me to wait." such submission, such meekness from her who was pride and hauteur personified to others, amazed him. "by heaven, lenore!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, "there never was a woman like you." "no?" she said. "i am glad you will have something that is unique then." "yes," he said, "i shall." then he said, suddenly, "when am i to possess my gem, lenore?" she started, and turned her face from him. he looked down at her, and put his hand on her shoulder, white and warm and responsive to his touch. "lenore, let it be soon. we will not wait. why should we? let us make ourselves and all the rest of them happy." "will it make you happy?" she asked. it was a dangerous question, but the impulse was too strong. "yes," he said, and indeed he thought so. "can you say the same, lenore?" she did not answer, but she took his hand and laid it against her cheek. it was the action of a slave--a beautiful and exquisitely-graceful woman, but a slave. he drew his hand away and winced with remorse. "come," he said, bending over her, "let me tell them that it shall be next month." "so soon?" she murmured. "yes," he said, almost impatiently. "why should we wait? they are all impatient. i am impatient, naturally, but they all wish it. let it be next month, lenore." she looked up at him. "very well," she said, in a low voice. he bent over her, and put his arm round her, and there was something almost desperate in his face as he looked up at her. "lenore," he said, in a low voice, "i wish, to heaven i wish i were worthy of you!" "hush!" she whispered, "you are too good to me. i am quite content, leycester--quite content." then, as her head rested on his shoulder, she whispered, "there is only one thing, leycester, i should like----" she paused. "what is it, lenore?" "it is about the place," she said. "you will not mind where it takes place, will you? i do not want to be married at wyndward." this was so exactly in accordance with his own wishes that he started. "not at wyndward!" he said, hesitating. "why?" she was silent a moment. "fancy," she said, with a little rippling laugh. "fancies are permitted one at such times, you know." "yes, yes," he said. "i know my mother and father would wish it to be there--or in london." "nor in london," she said, almost quickly. "leycester, why should it not be here?" he was silent. this again would be in accordance with his own desire. "i should like a quiet wedding," she said. "oh! very quiet." "you!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "you, whose marriage would at any time have so much interest for the world in which you have moved--reigned, rather!" she laughed again. "it has always been one of my day-dreams to steal away to church with the man i loved, and be married without the usual fuss and formality." he looked at her with a gleam of pleasure and relief in his eyes, little dreaming that it was for his sake she had made the proposal. "how strange!" he muttered. "it--well, it is unlike what one fancies of you, lenore." "perhaps," she said, with a smile, "but it is true, nevertheless. if i may choose, i would like to go down to the little church there, and be married like a farmer's daughter, or, if not that exactly, as quietly as possible." he rose and stood looking out of the window, thoughtfully. "i shall never understand you, lenore." he said; "but this pleases me very much indeed. it has always been my day-dream, as you call it,"--he smothered a sigh. "certainly it shall be as you wish! why should it not be?" "very well," she said; "then that is agreed. no announcements, no fuss, no st. george's, hanover square, and no bishop!" and she rose and laughed softly. he looked at her, and smiled. "you appear in a new light every day, lenore," he said. "if you had expressed my own thoughts and desires, you could not have hit them off more exactly; what will the mother say?" the countess had a great deal to say about the matter. she declared that it was absurd, that it was worse than absurd; it was preposterous. "it is all very well to talk of a farmer's daughter, my dear, but you are not a farmer's daughter; you are lady lenore beauchamp, and he is the next earl. the world will say you have both taken leave of your senses." lenore looked at her with a sudden gleam in her violet eyes. "do you think i care?" she said, in a low voice--leycester was not present. "i would not care whether we were married in westminster abbey, by the archbishop himself, with all the court in attendance, or in a village chapel. it is not i, though i say so. it is for him. say no more about it, dear lady wyndward; his lightest wish is law to me." and the countess obeyed. the passionate devotion of the haughty beauty astonished even her, who knew something of what a woman's love can be capable of. "my dear," she murmured, "do not give way too much." the beauty smiled a strange smile. "it is not a question of giving way," she retorted, with suppressed emotion. "it is simply that his wish is my law; i have but to obey--it will always be so, always." then she slipped down beside the countess, and looked up with a sudden pallor. "do you not understand yet how i love him?" she said, with a smile. "no, i do not think anyone can understand but myself--but myself!" the earl offered no remonstrance or objection. "what does it matter!" he said. "the place is of no consequence. the marriage is the thing. the day leycester is married, a heavy load of care and apprehension and i shall be divorced. let them be married where they like, in heaven's name." so harbor and harbor were set to work, and the principal of that old-established and aristocratic firm came all the way down to devonshire, and was closeted with the earl for a couple of hours, and the settlement deeds were put in hand. lady lenore's fortune, which was a large one, was to be settled upon herself, supplemented by another large fortune from the hand of the earl. so large, that the lawyer ventured on a word of remonstrance, but the earl put it aside with a wave of the hand. "it is the same amount as that which was settled upon the countess," he said. "why should my son's wife have less?" quiet as the betrothal had been, and quietly as the nuptials were to be, rumors had spread, and presents were arriving daily. if lenore could have found any particular pleasure in precious gems, and gold-fitted dressing-bags, and ivory prayer-books, there they were in endless variety for her delight, but they afforded her none beyond the fact of their being evidence of her coming happiness. one present alone brought her joy, and that was leycester's, and that not because the diamonds of which the necklet was composed were large and almost priceless, but for the fact that he fastened the jewels round her neck with his own hands. "these are my necklets," she murmured, taking his hands as they touched her neck and pressing them. how could he resist her? and yet as the time moved on with that dogged obstinacy which it assumes for us while we would rather have it pause awhile, something of the old moodiness seemed to take possession of him. the long walks and rides grew longer, and often he would not return until late in the night, and then weary and listless. at such times it was lenore who made excuses for him, if by chance the countess uttered a word of comment or complaint. "why should he not do as he likes?" she said, with a smile. "it is i who am the slave, not he." but alone in her chamber, where already the signs of the approaching wedding were showing themselves in the shape of new dresses and wedding _trousseau_, the anguish of unrequited love overmastered her. pacing to and fro, with clasped hands and pale face, she would utter the old moan, the old prayer, which the gods have heard since the world was young: "give me his love--give me his love! take all else but let his heart turn to me, and to me only!" if stella could have known it, she was justly avenged already. not even the anguish she had endured surpassed that of the proud beauty who had helped to rob her, and who had given her own heart to the man who had none to give her in return. chapter xxxix. "it certainly must have been made a hundred years after the rest of the world," said mr. etheridge. "where on earth did you hear of it, jasper?" they were standing, the painter, jasper, and stella, on the little stretch of beach that fronted the tiny village of carlyon, with its cluster of rough-stone cottages and weather-beaten church, the whole nestling under the shadow of the cornish cliffs that kept the east winds at bay and offered a stern face to the wild seas which so often roared and raged at its base. jasper smiled. "i can't exactly say, sir," he answered. "i met with it by chance, and it seemed to me just the place for our young invalid. you like it, stella, i hope?" and he turned to stella with a softened smile. stella was leaning on the old man's arm, looking out to sea, with a far-away expression in her dark eyes. "yes," she said, quietly; "i like it." "stella likes any place that is far from the madding crowd," remarked mr. etheridge, gazing at her affectionately. "you don't appear to have got back your roses yet, my child, however." "i am quite well," she said, not so wearily as indifferently. "i am always well. it is frank who is ill, you know, uncle." "ay, ay," he said, with the expression of gravity which always came upon him when the boy was mentioned. "he looks very pale and thin, poor boy." stella sighed, but jasper broke in cheerfully-- "better than when he first came," he said. "i noticed the difference directly i saw him. he will pick up his strength famously, you will see." stella sighed again. "you must make sketches of this coast," said jasper, as if anxious to get away from the subject. "it is particularly picturesque, especially about the cliffs. there is one view in particular which you should not fail to take; you get it from the top of the cliff there." "rather a dangerous perch," said mr. etheridge, shading his eyes and looking up. "yes, it is," assented jasper. "i have been trying to impress the fact upon stella. it is her favorite haunt, she tells me, and i am always in fear and trembling when i see her mounting up to it." the old man smiled. "you will soon have the right to protect her," he said, glancing at the church. "have you made all the arrangements?" jasper's face flushed as he answered, but stella's remained pale and set. "yes, everything is ready. the clergyman is a charming old gentleman, and the church is a picture inside. i tell stella that one could not have chosen a more picturesque spot." and he glanced toward her with the watchful smile. stella turned her face away. "it is very pretty," she said, simply. "shall we go in now? frank will be expecting us." "you must know," said jasper, "that we are leading the most rustic of lives--dinner in the middle of the day, tea at five o'clock." "i see," said mr. etheridge. "quite a foretaste of arcadia! but, after all," he added, perhaps remembering the long journey which he had been compelled to take, and which he disliked, "i can't see why you should not have been married at wyndward." jasper smiled. "and risk the chance of lord leycester turning up at the last moment and making a scene," he might have answered, if he had replied candidly; but instead, he said, lightly: "oh, that would have been too commonplace for such a romantic man as your humble servant, sir." mr. etheridge eyed him in his usual grave, abstracted way. "you are the last person i should have accused of a love of the romantic," he said. "then there was frank," added jasper, in a lower voice, but not too low to reach stella, for whom the addition was intended; "he wanted a change, and he would not have come without stella." they entered the cottage, in the tiny sitting-room of which mrs. penfold had already set the tea. frank was lying on a sofa whose metallic hardness had been mitigated by cushions and pillows; and certainly if he was pulling up his strength, as jasper asserted, it was at a very slow rate. he looked thinner than ever, and there was a dark ring under his eyes which made the hectic flush still more beautiful by contrast than when we saw him last. he greeted their entrance with a smile at stella, and a cold evasive glance at jasper. she went and smoothed the pillow at his head; but, as if ashamed that the other should see his weakness, he rose and walked to the door. the old man eyed him sadly, but smiled with affected cheerfulness. "well, frank, how do you feel to-night? you must be well to the front to-morrow, you know, or you will not be the best man!" frank looked up with a sudden flush, then set down without a word. "i shall be very well to-morrow," he said. "there is nothing the matter with me." jasper, as usual, cut in with some remark to change the subject, and, as usual, did all the talking; stella sat silent, her eyes fixed on the distant sun sinking slowly to rest. the word "to-morrow" rang in her ears; this was the last day she could call her own; to-morrow, and all after to-morrows would be jasper's. all the past, full of its sweet hopes and its passionate love, had gone by and vanished, and to-morrow she would stand at the altar as jasper adelstone's bride. it seemed so great a mockery as to be unreal, and at times she found herself regarding herself as another person, in whom she took the merest interest as a spectator. it could not be that she, whom leycester wyndward had loved, should be going to marry jasper adelstone! then she would look at the boy, so thin, and wan, and fading, and love would give her strength to carry out her sacrifice. to-night he was very dear to her, and she sat holding his hand under the table; the thin, frail hand that closed with a spasmodic gesture of aversion when jasper's smirkish voice broke in on the conversation. it was wonderful how the boy hated him. presently she whispered--"you must go and lie down again, frank." "no, not here," he said. "let me go outside." and she drew his hand through her arm and went out with him. jasper looked after them with a smile. "quite touching to see frank's devotion to stella," he said. the old man nodded. "poor boy!" he said--"poor boy!" jasper cleared his throat. "i think he had better come with us on our wedding trip," he said. "it will give stella pleasure, i know, and be a comfort to frank." the old man nodded. "you are very kind and considerate," he said. "not at all," responded jasper. "i would do anything to insure stella's happiness. by-the-way, speaking of arrangements, i have executed a little deed of settlement----" "was that necessary?" asked mr. etheridge. "she comes to you penniless." "i am not a rich man," said jasper, meekly, "but i have secured a sufficient sum upon her to render her independent." the old man nodded, gratefully. "you have behaved admirably," he said; "i have no doubt stella will be happy. you will bear with her, i hope, jasper, and not forget that she is but a girl--but a girl." jasper inclined his head for a moment in silence. bear! little did the old man know how much he, jasper, had to bear. they sat talking for some little time, jasper listening, as he talked, to the two voices outside--the clear, low, musical tones of stella, the thin weak voice of the boy. presently the voices ceased, and after a time he went out. frank was sitting in the sunset light, his head on his hands. "where is stella?" asked jasper, almost sharply. frank looked up at him. "she has escaped," he said, sardonically. jasper started. "what do you mean?" "she has gone on the cliffs for a stroll," said frank, with a little smile at the alarm he had created and intended to create. jasper turned upon him with a suppressed snarl. he was battling with suppressed excitement to-night. "what do you mean by escaped?" he demanded. the hollow sunken eyes glared up at him. "what did you think i meant?" he retorted. "you need not be frightened, she will come back," and he laughed bitterly. jasper glanced at him again, and after a moment of hesitation turned and went into the house. meanwhile stella was climbing the steep ascent to the bit of table-land on the cliff. she felt suffocated and overwhelmed. "to-morrow! to-morrow!" seemed to ring in her ears. was there no escape? as she looked down at the waves rolling in beneath her, and beating their crested heads against the rocks, she almost felt as if she could drop down to them and so find escape and rest. so strong was the feeling, the temptation, that she shrank back against the cliff, and sank down on dry and chalky turf, trembling and confused. suddenly, as she thus sat, she heard a man's step coming up the cliff, and thinking it was jasper, rose and pushed the hair from her face with an effort at self-command. but it was not jasper, it was a straighter, more stalwart figure, and in a moment, as he stood to look at the sea, she knew him. it was leycester, and with a low, inarticulate cry, she shrank back against the cliff and watched him. he stood for a while motionless, leaning on his stick, his back turned from her, then he took up a pebble and dropped it down into the depths beneath, sighed, and to her intense relief, went down again. but though he had not spoken, the sight of him, his dearly-loved presence so near her, shook her to her center. white and breathless she leaned against the hard rock, her eyes strained to catch the last glimpse of him; then she sank on to the ground and hiding her face in her hands burst into tears. they were the first tears that she had shed since that awful day, and every drop seemed of molten fire that scorched her heart as it flowed from it. if ever she had persuaded herself that the time might come when she would cease to love him, she knew, now that she had seen him again, that she could not so hope again. never while life was left to her should she cease to love him. and to-morrow, to-morrow. "oh, my love, my love!" she murmured, stretching out her hands as she had done that night in the garden, "come back to me! i cannot let you go! i cannot do it! i cannot!" nerved by the intensity of her grief she sprang to her feet, and swiftly descended the cliff. near the bottom there were two paths, one leading to the village, the other to the open country beyond. instinctively she took the one leading to the village, and so missed leycester, for he had gone down the other. had she but made a different choice, had she turned to the right instead of the left, how much would have been averted; but she sped, almost breathlessly to the left, and instead of leycester found jasper waiting for her. with a low cry she stopped short. "where is he?" she asked, almost unconsciously. "let me go to him!" jasper stared at her, then he grasped her arm. "you have seen him!" he said, not roughly, not fiercely, but with a suppressed fury. there was a rough seat cut out of the stone beside her, and she sank into it, shrinking away from his eager watching in quest of that other. "you have seen him!" he repeated, hoarsely. "do not deny it!" the insult conveyed in the words recalled her to herself. "yes!" she said, meeting his gaze steadily; "i have seen him. why should i deny it?" "no," he said; "and you will not deny that you were running after him when i--i stopped you. you will admit that, i suppose?" "yes," she answered, with a deadly calm, "i was following him." he dropped her arm which he had held, and pressed his hand to his heart to still the pang of its throbbing. "you--you are shameless!" he said at last, hoarsely. she did not speak. "do you realize what to-night is?" he said, glaring down at her. "this is our marriage eve; do you hear--our marriage eve?" she shuddered, and put up her hands to her face. "did you plan this meeting?" he demanded, with a fierce sneer. "you will admit that, i suppose? it is only a mere chance that i did not find you in his arms; is that so? curse him! i wish i had killed him when i met him just now!" then the old spirit roused itself in her bosom, and she looked up at him with a scornful smile on her beautiful, wasting face. "you!" she said. that was all, but it seemed to drive him mad. for a moment he stood breathless and panting. the sight of his fury and suffering--for the suffering was palpable--smote her. her mood changed suddenly; with a cry she caught his arm. "oh, jasper, jasper! have pity on me!" she cried; "have pity. you wrong me, you wrong him. he did not come to see me; he did not know i was here! we have not spoken--not a word, not a word!" and she moaned; "but as i stood and watched him, and saw how changed he was, and heard him sigh, i knew that he had not forgotten, and--and my heart went out to him. i--i did not mean to speak, to follow him, but i could not help it. jasper, you see--you see, it is impossible--our marriage, i mean. have pity on me and let me go! for your own sake let me go! think, think! what satisfaction, what joy can you hope for? i--i have tried to love you, jasper, but--but i cannot! all my life is his! let me go!" he almost flung her from him, then caught her again with an oath. "by heaven, i will not!" he cried, fiercely. "once for all, i will not! take care, you have made me desperate! it is your fault if i were to take you at your word." he paused for breath; then his rage broke out again, more deadly for its sudden, unnatural quietude. "do you think i am blind and bereft of my senses not to see and understand what this means? do you think you are dealing with a child? you have waited your time, and bided your chance, and you think it has come. would you have dared to do this a month ago? no, there was no certainty of the boy's death then; but now--now that you see he will die, you think my power is at an end----" with a cry she sprang to her feet and confronted him, terror in her face, an awful fear and sorrow in her eyes. as the cry left her lips, it seemed to be echoed by another close behind them, but neither of them noticed it. "frank--die!" she gasped. "no, no; not that! tell me that you did not mean it, that you said it only to frighten me." he put her imploring hand away with a bitter sneer. "you would make a good actress," he said, "do you mean to tell me that you were not counting on his death? do you mean to tell me that you would not have wound up the scene by begging for more time--time to allow you to escape, as you would call it! you think that once the boy is dead you can slip from your bargain and laugh at me! you are mistaken; since the bargain was struck, i have strove, as no man ever strove, to make it easy for you, to win your love, because i loved you. i love you no longer, but i will not let you go. love you! as there is a heaven above us, i hate you to-night, but you shall not go." she shrank from him cowering, as he towered above her, like some beautiful maiden in the old myths shrinking from some devouring monster. "listen to me," he said, hoarsely, "to-morrow i either give this paper"--and he snatched the forged bill from his breast pocket and struck it viciously with his quivering hand--"i either give it into your hands as my wife, or i give it to the nearest magistrate. the boy will die! it rests with you whether he dies at peace or in a jail." white and trembling she sat and looked at him. "this is my answer to your pretty prayer," he said, with a bitterness incredible. "it is for you to decide--i use no further argument. soft speeches and loving words are thrown away upon you; besides, the time has passed for them. there is no love, no particle of love, in my heart for you to-night--i simply stand by my bond." she did not answer him, she scarcely heard him; she was thinking of that sad face that had appeared to her for a moment as if in reproach, and vanished ghost-like; and it was to it that she murmured: "oh, my love--my love!" he heard her; and his face quivered with speechless rage; then he laughed. "you made a great mistake," he said, with a sneer--"a very great mistake, if you are invoking lord leycester wyndward. he may be your love, but you are not his! it is a matter of small moment--it does not weigh a feather in the balance between us--but the truth is, 'your love' is now lady lenore beauchamp's!" stella looked up at him, and smiled wearily. "a lie? no," he said, shaking his head tauntingly. "i have known it for weeks past. it is in every london paper. but that is nothing as between you and me--i stand by my bond. to-morrow the boy's fate lies in your hands or in that of the police. i have no more to say--i await your answer. i do not even demand it to-night--no doubt you would be----" she arose, white and calm, her eyes fixed on him. "--i say i await your answer till to-morrow. acts, not words, i require. fulfill your part of the bargain, and i will fulfill mine." as he spoke he folded the forged bill which, in his excitement, had blown open, and put it slowly into his pocket again; then he wiped his brow and looked at her, biting his lip moodily. "will you come with me now," he said, "or will you wait and consider your course of action?" his question seemed to rouse her; she raised her head, and disregarding his proffered arm, went slowly past him to the house. he followed her for a few steps, then stopped, and with his head on his breast, went toward the cliffs. his fury had expended itself, and left a confused, bewildering sensation behind. for the time it really seemed, as he said, that his baffled love had turned to hate. but as he thought of her, recalling her beauty, his hate shrank back and returned to its old object. "curse him!" he hissed, "it is he who has done this! if he had not come to-night this would not have happened. curse him! from the first he has stood in my path. let her go! to him! never! no, to-morrow she shall be mine in spite of him, she cannot draw back, she will not!" then his brain cleared; he began to upbraid himself for his violence. "fool, fool!" he muttered, hoarsely, as he climbed the path, scarcely heeding where he went. "i have lost her love forever! why did i not bear with her a few hours longer? i have borne with her so long that i should have borne with her to the end! it was that cry of hers that maddened me! heaven! to think that she should love him so; that she should have clung to him so persistently, him whom she had not seen for months, and keep her heart steeled against me who have hung about her like a slave! but i will be her slave no longer, to-morrow makes me her master." as he muttered this sinister threat, he found that he had reached the end of the cutting that had been made in the cliff, and turned mechanically. the wind was blowing from the sea, and the sound of the waves rose from the depths beneath, crying hoarsely and complainingly as if in harmony with his mood. he paused a moment and looked down abstractedly. "i would rather have her lying dead there," he muttered, "than that there should be a chance of her going back to him. no! he shall never have her. to-morrow shall set that fear at rest forever. to-morrow!" with a long breath he turned from the edge of the cliff, to descend, but as he did so he felt a hand on his arm, and looking up he saw the thin, frail figure of the boy standing in the path. he was so wrapt in his own thoughts that he was startled, and made a movement to throw the hand off roughly, but it stuck fast, and with an effort to command himself, he said: "well, what are you doing up here?" as he put the question, he saw by the fading light that the boy's face was deathly white--that for once the beautiful, fatal flush of red was absent. "you are not fit to be out at this time of night," he said, harshly. "what are you doing up here?" the boy looked at him, still retaining his hold, and standing in his path. "i have come to speak to you, jasper," he said, and his thin voice was strangely set and earnest. jasper looked down at him impatiently. "well," he said, roughly, "what is it? couldn't you wait until i came in." the boy shook his head. "no," he said, and there was a strange light in his eyes, which never for a moment left the other's face. "i wanted to see you alone." "well, i am alone--or i wish i were," retorted jasper, brutally. "what is it?" then he put his hand on the boy's shoulder and looked at him more closely. "oh, i see!" he said, with a sneer. "you've been playing eavesdropper! well," and he laughed cruelly, "listeners hear no good of themselves, though you heard no news." a slight contraction of the thin lips was the only sign that the fell shaft had sped home. "yes," he said, calmly and sternly; "i have been eavesdropping; i have heard every word, jasper." jasper nodded. "then you can indorse the truth of what i said, my dear frank," and he smiled, evilly. "i have no doubt you have not forgotten your little escapade." "i have not forgotten," was the response. "very good. then i should advise you, if you care for your own safety and your cousin's welfare, to say nothing of the family honor, to advise her to come to terms--my terms. you have heard them, no doubt!" "i have heard about them," said the boy. "i have--" he stopped a second to cough, but his hold on jasper's sleeve did not relax even during the paroxysm--"i have heard them. i know what a devil you are, jasper adelstone. i have long guessed it, but i know now." jasper laughed. "thanks! and now you have discharged yourself of your venom, my young asp, we will go down. take your hand from my coat, if you please." "wait," said the boy, and his voice seemed to have grown stronger; "i have not done yet. i have followed you here, jasper, for a purpose; i have come to ask you for--for that paper." calmly and dispassionately the request was made, as if it were the most natural in the world. to say that jasper was astonished does not describe his feelings. "you--must be mad!" he exclaimed; then he laughed. "you will not give it to me?" was the quiet demand. jasper laughed again. "do you know what that precious piece of hand-writing of yours cost me, my dear frank? one hundred and fifty pounds that i shall never see again, unless your friend holiday takes to paying his debts." "i see," said the boy, slowly, and his voice grew reflective; "you bought it from him? no!"--with a sudden flash of inspiration--"he was a gentleman! by hook or by crook you stole it!" jasper nodded. "never mind how i got it, i have got it," and he struck his breast softly. the sunken eyes followed the gesture, as if they would penetrate to the hidden paper itself. "i know," he said, in a low voice; "i saw you put it there." "and you will not see it again until i hand it to stella, to-morrow, or give it to the magistrate before whom you will stand, my dear lad, charged with forgery." the word had scarcely left his lips, but the boy was upon him, his long, thin arms--endued for a moment, as it seemed, with a madman's strength--encircling jasper's neck. not a word was uttered, but the thin, white face, lit up by the gleaming eyes, spoke volumes. jasper was staggered, not frightened, but simply surprised and infuriated. "you--you young fool!" he hissed. "take your arms off me." "give it to me! give it to me!" panted the boy, in a frenzy. "give it to me! the paper! the paper!" and his clutch tightened like a band of steel. jasper smothered an oath. the path was narrow; unconsciously, or intentionally, the frenzied lad had edged them both, while talking, to the brink, and jasper was standing with his back to it. in an instant he realized his danger; yes, danger! for, absurd as it seemed, the grasp of the weak, dying boy could not be shaken off; there was danger. "frank!" he cried. "give it me!" broke in the wild cry, and he pressed closer. with an awful imprecation, jasper seized him and bore him backward, but as he did so his foot slipped, and the boy, falling upon him, thrust a hand into jasper's breast and snatched the paper. jasper was on his feet in a moment, and flying at him tore the paper from his grasp. the boy uttered a wild cry of despair, crouched down for a moment, and then with that one wild prayer upon his lips: "give it me!" hurled himself upon his foe. for quite a minute the struggle, so awful in its inequality, raged between them. his opponent's strength so amazed jasper that he was lost to all sense of the place in which they stood; in his wild effort to shake the boy off he unconsciously approached the edge of the cliff. unconsciously on his part, but the other noticed it, even in his frenzy, and suddenly, as if inspired, he shrieked out-- "look! leycester! he is there behind you!" jasper started and turned his head; the boy seized the moment, and the next the narrow platform on which they had stood was empty. a wild hoarse shriek rose up, and mingled with the dull roar of the waves beneath, and then all was still! chapter xl. leycester had reached carlyon on foot. he had left the house in the morning, simply saying that he was going for a walk, and that they were not to wait any meal for him. during the last few days he had wandered in this way, seemingly desirous of being alone, and showing no inclination toward even charlie's society. lady wyndward half feared that the old black fits was coming on him; but lenore displayed no anxiety; she even made excuses for him. "when a man feels the last hour of his liberty approaching, he naturally likes to use his wings a little," she said, and the countess had smiled approvingly. "my dear, you will make a model wife; just the wife that leycester needs." "i think so; i do, indeed," responded lenore, with her frank, charming smile. so leycester was left alone to his own wild will during those last few days, while the dressmakers and upholsterers were hard at work preparing for "the" day. he could not have told why he came to carlyon. he did not even know the name of the little village in which he found himself. with his handsome face rather grave and weary-looking, he had tramped into the inn, and sunk down into the seat which had supported many a generation of carlyon fisherman and many sea-coast travelers. "this is carlyon, sir," said the landlord, in answer to leycester's question, eying the tall figure in its knee breeches and shooting jacket. "yes, sir, this is carlyon; have you come from st. michael's, sir?" leycester shook his head; he scarcely heard the old man. "no," he answered; "but i have walked some distance," and he mentioned the place. the old man stared. "phew! that's a long walk, sir; a main long walk. and what can i get you to eat, sir?" leycester smiled rather wearily. he had heard the question so often in his travels, and knew the results so perfectly. "anything you like," he said. the landlord nodded in approval at so sensible an answer, and went out to consult his wife, who had been staring at the handsome traveler from behind the half-open door of the common living room. presently he came out with the result. the gentleman could have a bit of fish and a chop, and some falmouth potatoes. leycester nodded indifferently--anything would do. both the fish and the chop were excellent, but leycester did anything but justice to them. a strange feeling of restlessness seemed to have taken possession of him, and when he had lit his cigar, instead of sitting down and taking it comfortably, he felt compelled to get up and wander to the door. the evening was drawing in; there were a fairish number of miles between him and home--it was time for him to start, but still he leant against the door and looked at the sea and cliffs that rose in a line with the house. at last he paid his reckoning, supplemented it with a half-crown for the landlord in his capacity of waiter, and started. but not homeward; the cliff seemed to exercise a strange fascination for him, and obeying the impulse which was almost irresistible, he set off for the path that ascended to the summit, and strode upward. a great peace was upon the scene, a great unrest and unsatisfied desire was in his heart. all the air seemed full of stella; her voice mingled, for him, in the plash of the waves. thinking of her with a deep, sorrowful wistfulness, he climbed on and--passed her. stood within reach of her as she cowered and shrank against the wall of chalk, and all unconscious of her nearness he turned and came down. the evening had grown chilly and keen, but his walk had made him hot, and he turned into the inn to get a glass of ale. the landlord was surprised to see him again, and said so, and leycester stood, with the glass in his hand, explaining that he had been up the cliff to look at the view. "aye, sir, and a grand view it is," said the old man, with pardonable pride. "man and boy i've growed under the shadow of that cliff, and i know every inch of it, top and bottom. mighty dangerous it is too, sir," he added, reflectively. "it's not one or two, but nigh upon a score o' accidents as i've known on that cliff." "the path is none too wide," said leycester. "no, sir, and in the dark----" he stopped suddenly, and started. "what was that?" he exclaimed. "what is the matter?" leycester asked. the old man caught his arm suddenly, and pointed to the cliff. leycester looked up, and the glass fell from his hand. there, on the giddy height, clearly defined against the sky, were two figures, locked together in what appeared a deadly embrace. "look!" exclaimed the old man. "the glass--give me the glass!" leycester caught up a telescope that stood on a seat beside them and gave it to him; he himself did not need a glass to see the dark, struggling figures, they were all too plain. for one second they stood as if benumbed, and then the echo of the shriek smote upon their ears, and the cliff was bare. the old man dropped the telescope and caught leycester's arm as he made a bound toward the path. "no, no, sir!" he exclaimed. "no use to go up there, the boat! the boat!" and he ran to the beach. leycester followed him like a man in a dream, and tearing off his coat, seized an oar mechanically. there was not a soul in sight, the peace of the autumn evening rested on sea and shore, but in leycester's ears the echo of that awful death-shriek rung as plainly as when he had first heard it. the landlord of the inn, an old sailor, rowed like a young man, and the boat rose over the waves and cleaved its way round the bay as if a dozen men were pulling. not a word was spoken, the great beads of sweat stood on their foreheads, their hearts throbbed in unison with every stroke. presently leycester saw the old man relax his stroke and bend peering over the boat, and suddenly he dropped his oar and sprang up, pointing to a dark object floating on the top of the waves. leycester rose too, calm and acute enough now, and in another minute jasper adelstone was lying at their feet. leycester uttered no cry as his eyes fell upon the pale, set face, but he sank down in the boat and put his hands to his eyes. when he looked up he saw the old man quietly putting his oar into its place. "yes, sir," he said, gravely answering leycester's glance, "he is dead, stone dead; row back, sir." "but the other!" said leycester, in a whisper. the old man shook his head and glanced upward at the cliff. "he is up there, sir. alive or dead, he is up there. he didn't fall into the sea or we should have met him." "then--then," said leycester, his voice struggling for calm, "he may be alive!" "we shall soon see, sir; row for life or death." leycester needed no further prompting, and the boat sped back. by the time they had gained the shore a crowd had collected, and leycester felt, rather than saw, that the motionless, lifeless form that had haunted him from its place at the bottom of the boat was carried off--felt, rather than was conscious, that he was speeding up the cliff followed by the landlord and half-a-dozen fishermen. silent and breathless they gained the top, and stood for a moment uncertain; then leycester saw one of them step forward with a rope. "now, mates," the old man said, "which of us goes down?" there was a moment's silence, then leycester stepped forward and took up the rope. "i," he said. it was but a word, but no one ventured to dispute his decision. quietly and calmly they fastened the rope round his waist, leaving a loop lower down. he had left his coat in the boat, and stood bareheaded for a moment. the old man stood beside him, calm and grave. "hold tight, sir," he said; "and if--if--you find him, sling the rope round him and give the word." leycester nodded, held up his hand, and the next moment was swinging in the air. slowly and steadily, inch by inch, they lowered him down the awful depths amidst a death-like silence. suddenly his voice broke it, coming up to them in one word-- "stop!" breathless they waited, then they felt the rope jerk and they pulled up. a great sob of relief rather than a cheer rose as he appeared, bearing on his arm the slight figure of poor frank. gently but swiftly they unwound the ropes and laid him down at leycester's feet, and the old man knelt beside him. leycester did not speak, but stood panting and pale. the old man looked up. "give me a hand, boys," he said, slowly and sternly. "he is alive!" "alive!" said leycester, hoarsely. "alive," repeated the old man. "yes, sir, you have saved him, but----" leycester followed them down the cliff, followed them to the inn. then, as the thin, wasted figure disappeared within the house, he sank on to the bench at the door, and covered his face with his hands. was it an awful dream?--would he awake presently and find himself at home, and this dreadful nightmare vanished? suddenly he felt a hand upon his arm, and looking up, saw a staid, elderly man, with "doctor" written plainly on his face. "i beg your pardon, sir," he said. "you know this poor lad?" leycester nodded. "so i understood from a word you let drop on the cliff. as that is the case, perhaps you would not mind breaking it to his friends?" "his friends?" asked leycester, mechanically. the doctor nodded. "they are staying at that cottage," he said, pointing. "they should be here at once." leycester rose, dazed for a moment; then he said, in a low voice: "i understand. yes, i will do it." without another word, he strode off. it was no great distance, but he had not to traverse it, short as it was. at the turn of the road a slight, girlish figure came flitting toward him. it was stella. he stopped irresolute, but at that moment she had no thought even for him. without hesitating, she came toward him, her face pale, her hands outstretched. "leycester! where is he?" without thinking he put his arm round her and she rested on his breast for a moment. "stella, my stella! be brave." she uttered a little inarticulate cry, and hid her face for a moment, then she raised her head, and looked at him. "take me to him!" she moaned, "take me to him. oh my poor boy! my poor boy!" in silence he led her to the inn, and she passed up the stairs. the fishermen gathered round the door drew back and turned their eyes from him with respectful sympathy, and he stood looking out at the sea. the minutes passed, years they seemed to him, then he heard the doctor's voice. "will you go up-stairs, my lord?" leycester started, and slowly ascended the stairs. stretched on a small bed lay the poor erring boy, white and death-like, already in the shadow of death. beside him knelt stella, her hand clasping his, her face lying beside his. he looked up as leycester entered, and raised a thin white hand to beckon him near. instinctively leycester knelt beside him. "you want to see me, frank?" the boy raised his eyelids heavily, and seemed to make a great struggle for strength. "leycester," he said, "i--i have something to give you. you--you will understand what it means. it was the charm that bound her to him. i have broken it--broken it! it was for my sake she did it, for mine! i did not know it till to-night. take it, leycester," and slowly he drew from his breast the forged paper. leycester took it, deeming the boy delirious, and frank seemed to read his thought. "you will understand," he panted. "i--i--forged it, and he knew it, and held the knowledge and the paper over her head. you saved my life, leycester: i give you something better than life, leycester; i give you--her--stella!" his lips quivered, and he seemed sinking; but he made a last effort. "i--i am dying, leycester. i am glad, very, very glad. i don't wish to live. it is better that i should die!" "frank!" broke from stella's white lips. "don't cry, stella. while i lived he--he would have held you bound. now i am dying----" then his voice failed and his eyes closed, but they saw his lips move, and stella, bending over him, heard the words--"forgive, forgive!" with a loud cry she caught him in her arms, but he had passed away, even beyond her love, and the next moment she fell fainting, still holding him to her bosom, as a mother holds her child. an hour afterward leycester was pacing the beach, his arms folded across his breast, his head bent, a storm of conflicting emotions raging within. the boy had spoken truly. the time had come when he understood fully the lad's words. he had gleaned much from the forged bill, which, all torn and stained, lay hidden in his pocket; but the full meaning of the mystery had been conveyed to him by the delirious words of stella, who lay in a high fever. he had just left her, and was now waiting for the doctor, waiting for his verdict--life or death. life or death! he had often heard, often used the words, but never until this moment knew their import. presently the doctor joined him, and leycester uttered the one word: "well?" "she will live," he said. leycester raised his head and drew a long breath. the doctor continued: "yes, i think i may say she will pull through. i shall know more to-morrow. you see, she has undergone a severe strain; i do not allude to the tragic incidents of the evening; those in themselves are sufficient to try a young girl; but she has been laboring under extreme nervous pressure for months past." leycester groaned. "come, come, my lord," said the doctor, cheerfully. "you may depend upon me. i should not hold out hope unless i had good reason for so doing. we shall save her, i trust and believe." leycester inclined his head; he could not speak. the doctor looked at him gravely. "if you will permit me, my lord," he said, "i would suggest that you should now take some rest. you are far from strong yourself." leycester smiled grimly. "far from strong," repeated the doctor, emphatically. "and there is a great deal more endurance before you. be advised and take some rest, my lord. "the landlord has been speaking to me, sir, about the unfortunate man you found. it seems that there are papers and valuables--jewelry, and such like. will your lordship take charge of them until the police arrive? i understand that you knew him." "yes, i knew him," said leycester. he had, in truth, almost forgotten jasper adelstone. "i will take charge of the things, if you wish it." "follow me, then," said the doctor. they went to the inn, and up the stairs, with that quiet, subdued step with which men approach the presence of grim death, and stood beside the bed upon which lay all that remained of the man who had so nearly wrecked two lives. leycester looked down at the white face, calm and expressionless--looked down with a solemn feeling at his heart, and the doctor drew some papers from the coat. "these are them," he said, "if your lordship will take charge of them." leycester took them, and as he did so, he glanced mechanically at them as they lay in his hand, and uttered an exclamation. there in his hand lay the note which lenore had written, bidding jasper adelstone meet her in the wood. he knew the writing in a moment, and before he had time to prevent it, had read the few pregnant words. the doctor turned round. "what is the matter?" leycester stood, and for the first time that awful night trembled. the idea of treachery and deceit so connected with lenore utterly unnerved him. he knew, he felt as if by instinct, that he held in his hand a link in the chain of cunning and chicanery which had so nearly entangled him, and the thought that her name would become the prey of the newspapers was torture. "doctor," he said, and his voice trembled, "i have seen by accident a letter written to this unfortunate man. it consists of a few lines only. it will compromise a lady whose good name is in my keeping----" the doctor held up his hand. "your lordship will be guided by your sense of honor," he said. leycester inclined his head and put the note in his pocket. then they went down, and the doctor strode off to the cottage and left leycester still pacing the beach. yes, the boy had spoken truly. he saw it all now. he knew how it had been brought to pass that stella had been entrapped into jasper's chambers; he saw the unscrupulous hand of a woman weaving the threads of the net in which they had been entangled. minute details were not necessary, that little note in the dainty hand-writing told its own story; jasper adelstone and lady lenore beauchamp had been in league together; death had squared the reckoning between him and the man, but he had still to settle the tragic account with the woman. the night passed, and the dawn broke, and the little doctor returning, weary and exhausted, found the tall figure still pacing the beach. chapter xli. lenore sat in her dainty room, her long golden hair flooding her white shoulders, her fair face reflected in the venetian mirror with its edging of antique work and trimming of lace. not even a venetian mirror could have desired to hold a fairer picture; youth, beauty, and happiness, smiled from its surface. the rich, delicately curved lips smiled to-night, with an ineffable content, and serene satisfaction. there was a latent gleam of triumph in the violet eyes, eloquent of triumph and victory. she had conquered; the desire of her life was nearly within her grasp; two days--forty-eight hours--more and leycester wyndward would be hers. an ancient name, an historic title, an immense estate were to be hers. to do her justice at this moment, she thought neither of the title nor the estate; it was of the man, of the man with his handsome face, and musical voice, and _debonnaire_ manner that she thought. if they had come and told her, there where she sat, that it had been discovered that he was neither noble nor rich, she would not have cared, it would not have mattered. it was the man, it was leycester himself, for whom she had plotted and schemed, and she would have been content with him alone. even now, as she looked at the beautiful reflection in the mirror, it was with no thought of her own beauty, all her thoughts were of him; and the smile that crossed the red lips was called up by no spirit of vanity, but by the thought that in forty-eight hours, the wish and the desire of her life would be gratified. in silence the maid brushed out the wealth of golden tresses, of which she was almost as proud as the owner herself; she had heard a whisper in the servants' hall, but it was not for her to speak. it was a rumor that something had happened to lord leycester, that he had not returned yet, and that one of the wild fits, with which all the household were familiar, had seized him, and that he was off no one knew where. it was not for her to speak, but she watched her beautiful mistress covertly, and thought how quickly she could dispel the smile of serenity which sat upon the fair face. quiet as the wedding was intended to be, there was necessarily some stir; the society papers had got hold of it, and dilated upon it in paragraphs, in which lenore was spoken of as "our reigning beauty," and leycester described as the son of a well-known peer, and a man of fashion. quite an army of upholsterers had been at work at the house in grosvenor square, and another army of milliners and dressmakers had been preparing the bride's _trousseau_. a pile of imperials and portmanteaus stood in the dressing-room, each bearing the initials "i," with the coronet. one or two of the beauchamps, the present earl and a brother--together with three young lady cousins, who were to act as bridesmaids--had been invited, and were to arrive the following evening. certainly there must be some slight fuss, and lenore, as she thought of leycester's absence, ascribed it to his dislike to the aforesaid fuss, and his desire to escape from it. the maid went at last, and lenore, with a happy sigh, went to sleep. at that time leycester was pacing the beach at carlyon, and jasper and poor frank were lying dead. surely if dreams come to warn one of impending trouble, lady lenore should have dreamed to-night; but she did not. she slept the night through without a break, and rose fresh and beautiful, with only twenty-four hours between her and happiness. but when she entered the breakfast-room, and met the pale, anxious face of the countess, and the grave one of the earl, a sudden spasm of fear, scarcely fear, but apprehension, fell upon her. "what is the matter?" she asked, gliding to the countess, and kissing her. "nothing--really nothing, dear," she said, attempting to speak lightly. "where is leycester?" she asked. "that is it," replied the countess, pouring out the coffee, and keeping her eye fixed on the cup. "the foolish boy hasn't returned yet." "not returned?" echoed lenore, and a faint flush came into her face. "where did he go?" "i don't know, my dear lenore, and i cannot find out. he didn't tell you?" lenore shook her head, and fastened a flower in her dress with a hand that quivered faintly. "no. i did not ask him. i saw him go." "was he on foot, or riding?" asked the earl. "on foot," said lenore. "he was in his shooting clothes, and i thought he was going for a walk on the hills." the earl broke his piece of toast with a little irritable jerk. "it is annoying," he said. "it is extremely inconsiderate of him, extremely. to-day, of all others, he should have remained at home." "he will be here presently," said lenore, calmly. the countess sighed. "nothing--of course nothing could have happened to him." she merely made the suggestion in a suppressed, hushed, anxious voice. lenore laughed--actually laughed. "happened to him, to leycester!" she said, with proud contempt. "what could have happened to him? leycester is not the sort of man to meet with accidents. pray do not be uneasy, dear; he will come in directly, very tired, and very hungry, and laugh at us." "i give him credit for better manners," said the earl, curtly. he was angry and annoyed. as he had said to the countess before lenore came in, he had hoped and believed that leycester had given up this sort of boyish nonsense, and intended to act sensibly, as became a man who had settled to marry. there was a moment's pause while the earl buttered his toast, still irritably; then lady wyndward said almost to herself-- "perhaps lilian knows?" "no," said lenore, quickly, "she does not, or she would have told me. i saw her last night the last thing, and she did not know he was out. do not tell her." the countess glanced at her gratefully. "she would only be anxious and fret," said lenore. "while i am not, and shall not be," she added, with a smile. "i am not afraid that leycester has run away from me." she looked up as she spoke, and flashed her beauty upon them, as it were, and smiled, and the mother felt reassured. certainly it did not seem probable that any man would run away from her. she herself felt no fear, not even when the morning grew to noon and the noon to evening. she went about the house superintending the packing of the multitudinous things, arranging the epergnes, playing the piano even, and more than once the light air from the french opera floated through the room. lord beauchamp and the rest of the visitors were to arrive about seven, just in time to dress for dinner, and the stir that had reigned in the house grew accentuated as the time approached. lenore went to her room at six to dress; she meant to look her best to-night, as well indeed as she meant to look on the following day; and her maid knew by the attention which her mistress had paid to the wardrobe that every care would be expected from her ministering hands. just before she went to her room she met the countess on the stairs; they had not seen very much of each other during the day; there was a great deal to do, and the countess, notwithstanding her rank, was a housekeeper in something more than name. "lenore," she said, then stopped. the beauty bent over from her position on a higher step and kissed her. "i know, dear--he has not come yet. well, he will be here by dinner-time. why are you so anxious? i am not." and she laughed. it certainly encouraged the countess, and she even called up a smile. "what a strange girl you are, lenore," she said. "one would have thought that you, before all of us, would have been uneasy." lenore shook her head. "no, dear; i feel--i feel that he will come. now see if my prophecy comes true." and she went up the stairs, casting a serene and confident smile over her shoulder. "i will wear that last blue dress of worth's, and the pearls," she said to her maid, and the girl started. the dress had just arrived, and was supposed to be reserved for future london triumphs. "the last, my lady?" lenore nodded. "yes; i want to look my best to-night; and if i were not afraid of being thought too pronounced, i would wear my diamonds." the girl arranged the beautiful hair in its close curls of gold, and fastened the famous pearls upon the white wrists and round the dainty throat; and lenore surveyed herself in the venetian mirror. a smile of satisfaction slowly lit up her face. "well?" she said, over her shoulder. "beautiful," breathed the girl, who was proud of her mistress's loveliness. "oh, beautiful, my lady! but isn't it a pity to wear it to-night?" lenore shook her head. "i would wear a better if i had it," she said, softly. "now go down-stairs, and tell me when lord leycester returns." the girl stared and then smiled. after all then they had been worrying themselves about nothing; her ladyship had received a message from him and knew when to expect him! she went down and crowed over them in the servants' hall, and watched for lord leycester. seven o'clock chimed from the stables, and the carriage that had been sent to meet the guests returned. lord beauchamp was a tall, stately old gentleman who hated traveling as he hated anything else that gave him any trouble or inconvenience, and the rest were tired and dusty, and generally pining for soap and water. the earl and countess met them in the hall, and in the bustle and fuss leycester was not missed. "do not hurry, lord beauchamp," said the poor countess. "we will make the dinner half-past eight," and she wished in her heart that she could postpone it altogether; for leycester had not come. "what shall we do--what shall we do?" she exclaimed, as the earl stood at her dressing-room door with his coat in his hand. "do!" he retorted. "go on without him. this comes of humoring an only son till he develops into a lunatic. poor lenore! i pity her!" and he went out frowning. "he has not come, my lady!" murmured the maid, entering lenore's room a few minutes afterwards. "lord beauchamp's party have arrived, but lord leycester has not come." lenore was standing by the open window, and she turned with a sudden smile. the sound of horse's feet had struck upon her ear. "yes, he has," she said. "he is here now," and she closed the window and sat down calmly. leycester rode into the courtyard on the horse that he had borrowed from the doctor, and, throwing the bridle to a groom, ascended the stone steps and made his way through the hall. excepting some of the servants, there was no one about, they had all gone to their dressing-rooms, and he went up the stairs in silence and uninterrupted. with bent head and dragging step, for the long vigil and hours of excitement had told upon him, he stood before lilian's room. it was worthy of notice that in this awful coming back of his he went to her first, as a matter of course, and knocking gently, went in. it was dark, and the lamp was burning softly, but she, accustomed to the dim light, saw plainly that something had happened. "leycester!" she exclaimed. "why--how is this, dear? where have you been all day and all last night? you did not come to me and----" she stopped as he sat down beside her and put his hand upon her head. the hand was burning hot, his face was white and haggard and worn, and yet in some way strangely peaceful, with a far-away, dreamy expression upon it--"leycester, where have you been?" he bent and kissed her. "lil," he said, and there was a great peace in his voice though it was weary and husky, "you will be a brave good girl while i tell you!" "ah, leycester!" was all she murmured. "well, lil, i have found her--i have got her back--my poor stella." her hand closed on his, and her delicate face went white as ivory. "got her back!" "yes," he said, in low tones. "i have found out the mystery--no, not i. it was solved for me by a mightier hand than any human one--by death, lil." "death, leycester! she is not dead! oh, stella--stella!" "heaven forbid," he breathed. "no, no; she is alive, though fearfully near death still. i left her lying white and still and weak as a broken lily--my poor, sweet darling!--but she is alive, thank heaven!--she is alive! and now can you bear to hear what separated us, lil?" "tell me," she said. sitting there, with her loving, sympathizing heart beating against his, he told her the strange story. sobs, low and moving, broke from her as he told of the boy's death, and an awful chill fell on her as he spoke as shortly as he could of the fate that had befallen jasper adelstone; but when he came to speak of that short damning note that he had found--that note in the hand-writing of lenore, and hinted at her share in the conspiracy--the gentle heart grew cold and terrified, and she hid her face for a moment, then she looked up and clasped her hands round his neck. "oh, ley, ley! deal gently with her! forgive her! we all need forgiveness! forgive her; she did it out of her love for you, and has suffered, and will suffer! deal gently with her!" he bit his lip, and his brow darkened. "ley, ley!" the gentle creature pleaded, "think of her now waiting for you, think of her who was to be your wife. she loved you. ley, she loves you still; and that will be her punishment! ley, you will not be hard with her!" her prayer prevailed; he drew a long breath. "no, lil," he said, in a low voice, "i will not be hard with her. but as for love! true love does not stand by and see its beloved suffer as i have suffered; not true love. there is a passion which men libel by calling love--that is what she has borne for me. love! think of her? yes; i will think of her; but how am i to forget my beautiful, suffering darling, lying so white and wan and broken," and he hid his face in his hands. presently he rose and kissed her. "i am going to her," he said. "do not fear! i have given you my word; i will deal gently with her." she let him go without another word, and he went straight to lenore's sitting-room, travel-stained and haggard, and unrefreshed. the maid heard his knock, and opened the door, and passed out as he entered and stood in the middle of the room. there was a faint rustle in the adjoining room, and then she came floating toward him in all her loveliness, the faint, ethereal blue making her white skin to shame the rare and costly pearls. she was dazzling in her supreme loveliness, and at any other time he would have been moved, but now it was as if a deadly, venomous serpent, glorious in its scaly beauty, lay coiled before him. she came forward, her hands outstretched, her eyes glowing with a passionate welcome, and then stopped. not a word passed for a moment; the two, she in all her costly attire and loveliness, he in his stained cord suit and with his haggard face, confronted each other. she read her doom at a glance, but the proud, haughty spirit did not quail. "well?" she said at last. chivalrous to the last, even in this moment, he pointed to a seat, but she made a gesture of refusal and stood, her white hands clasped tightly, her head erect, her eyes glowing. "well? you have come back?" "yes, i have come back, lady lenore," he said, his voice dry and hoarse. she smiled bitterly at the "lady." "you are late," she said. "was it worth while coming back?" it was a proud and insolent question, but he bore with her. "i came back for your sake," he said. "for mine!" and she smiled incredulously. she could smile still, though an icy hand was closing round her heart, and wringing the life blood out of it. "for yours. it was not fitting that you should hear from other lips than mine that from this hour you and i are as far apart as pole from pole." she inclined her head. "so be it. there is no appeal from such a sentence. but may i ask you to explain; dare i venture so far?" and her lip curled. "do you think you dare?" he said, sternly. she inclined her head, his sternness struck her like a blow. "you have come to tell me, have you not?" she said. "where have you been?" "i have come from carlyon," he said. "from whom?" "from the girl from whom your base scheming separated me," he said, sternly. "ah," she breathed, but her eyes opened with a wild stare. "you--you have gone back to her?" he waved his hand. "let there be no word of her between us," he said; "your lips shall not profane her name." she turned white and her hand went to her heart. "forgive me," he said, hoarsely. had he not promised to deal gently with her? "i have not come to utter reproaches--i came to shield you, if that were possible." "to shield!--from what?" she demanded, in a low murmur. "from the consequences of your crime," he said. "what that is, i have only learnt to-night; but for a chance accident the world would know to-morrow that lady lenore beauchamp had stooped so low as to become the accomplice of jasper adelstone in a vile conspiracy." she waved her hand. "he dare not speak. i defy him!" leycester held up his hand. "he is beyond your defiance," he said--"jasper adelstone is dead!" she made a gesture of contemptuous indifference. "what is that to me?" she said, hoarsely. "why do you speak to me of him or any other man? is it not enough that i have failed? have you come to gloat over me? what is it that you want?" he thrust his hand in his breast, and drew forth the note. "i have come to restore this to you," he said. "i took it from the dead man's bosom--took it to save your reputation. the story it told me i have heard in fact from the lips of the girl you have plotted against and wronged. it is at her bidding that i am here--here to save you from scandal, and to cover if possible your retreat." "at her's--at stella etheridge's?" she breathed, as though the name would choke her. he waved his hand. "you will leave this house to-night. i have made all arrangements necessary, and you will start in an hour's time." she laughed discordantly. "and if i say i will not?" he looked at her sternly. "then i will tell the story to my mother and you shall hear your dismissal from her lips. choose!" she dropped into a chair, and made a gesture of scorn. "tell whom you please," she said. "i am your affianced wife, my people are under your roof at this moment; go to them and tell them that you have deserted me for a low-born girl!" he turned and strode to the door; but ere he had reached it the reaction had come. with a low cry, she flew to him and sank at his feet, her hands clasped on his arm, her face upturned with an awful imploration. "leycester, leycester! do not leave me! do not go! leycester, i was wrong, wicked, base, vile; but it was all for you--for you! leycester, listen to me! you will not go! do not fling me from you! look at me, leycester!" he did look at her, lovely in her abandon and despair, and then averted his eyes; it horrified him to see her so low and degraded. "you will not look at me!" she wailed; "you will not! oh, heaven! am i so changed? am i old, ugly, hideous? leycester, you have called me beautiful a hundred--a thousand times; and now you will not look at me! you will leave me! you shall not; i will hold you like this forever--forever! ah!"--for he had made a movement to disengage himself--"you will not hurt me! yes; kill me, kill me here at your feet! i would rather die so than live without you. i cannot, leycester! listen, i love you; i love you twenty thousand times better than that wretched girl can do! leycester, i will give my life for you! see, i am kneeling here at your feet! you will not spurn me, you cannot repel me! leycester! oh, my darling, my love! do what you will with me, but do not spurn me! oh, my love, my love!" it was piteous, it was awful, to see and hear her, and the strong man trembled and turned pale, but his heart was stone and ice toward her; the white, wan face of his darling came between them, and made the flushed, passion-distorted face at his feet seem hideous and repellant. "rise!" he said, sternly. "no, no; i will not," she moaned. "i will die at your feet! leycester, you will kill me! i have lost all for your sake, pride and honor, and now my fair name, for you cannot shield me; and you will thrust me aside. leycester, you cannot! you cannot! oh, my love, my love, do not spurn me from you!" and still on her knees, she bent her head upon his arm, and poured a storm of passionate, broken kisses upon his hand. that roused him. with an exclamation of abhorrence, he threw her grasp off, and stood with his hand on the door. she sprang to her feet, and, white and breathless, looked at him as if she would read his soul; then throwing her hands above her head, she fell to the ground. he stood for a moment or two bending over her, thinking her senseless, but it was simply mental and physical exhaustion, and when he strode to the bell, she opened her eyes and held up her hand to stop him. "no," she murmured. "let no one see me. go now. go!" he went to the door, and she rose and supported herself against a chair. "good-bye, leycester," she said. "i have lost you--and all! all!" it was the last words he heard her utter for many and many a year. chapter xlii. "after all, there is nothing like english scenery; this is very beautiful. i don't suppose you could get a greater variety of opal tints in one view than lies before us now, but there is something missing. it is all too beautiful, too rich, too gorgeous; one finds one's breath coming too quickly, and one longs for just a dash of english gloom to tone down the brilliant colors and give a relief." it was mr. etheridge who spoke. he was standing beside a low rustic seat which fronted the world-famous view from the piazza at nice. the sun was dropping into the horizon like a huge ball of crimson fire, the opal tints of the sky stretched far above their heads and even behind them. it was one blaze of glory in which a slim, girlish figure, leaning far back in the seat, seemed bathed. she was pale still, was this stella, this little girl heroine of ours, but the dark look of trouble and leaden sorrow had gone, and the light of youth and youthful joy had come back to the dark eyes; the faint, ever ready smile hovered again about the red, mobile lips. "sorrow" says goethe, "is the refining touch to a woman's beauty," and it refined stella's. she was lovely now, with that soft, ethereal loveliness which poets sing of, and artists paint, and we poor penman so vainly strive to describe. she looked up with a smile. "homesick, uncle?" she murmurs. the old man strokes his beard, and glances at her. "i plead guilty," he says. "you cannot make a hermit crab happy if you take him out of his shell, and the cottage is my shell, stella." she sighed softly, not with unhappiness, but with that tender reflectiveness which women alone possess. "i will go back when you please, dear," she says. "hem!" he grunts. "there is someone else to consult, mademoiselle; that someone else seems particularly satisfied to remain where we are; but then i suppose he would be contented to remain anywhere so that a certain pale-faced, insignificant chit of a girl were near him." a faint blush, a happy flush spreads over the pale face, and the long lashes droop over the dark eyes. "at any rate we must ask him," says the old man; "we owe him that little attention at least, seeing how much long-suffering patience he has and continues to display." "don't, uncle," murmurs the half-parted lips. "it is all very well to say 'don't,'" retorts the old man with a grim smile. "seriously, don't you think that you are, to use an americanism, playing it rather low down on the poor fellow?" "i--i--don't know what you mean," she falters. "permit me to explain then," he says, ironically. "i--i don't want to hear, dear." "it is fitting that girls should be made to hear sometimes," he says, with a smile. "what i mean is simply this, that, as a man with something approaching a conscience and a fellow feeling for my kind, i feel it my duty to point out to you that, perhaps unconsciously, you are leading leycester the sort of life that the bear who dances on hot bricks--if any bear ever does--is supposed to lead. here for months, after no end of suffering----" "i have suffered too," she murmurs. "exactly," he assents, in his gently-grim way; "but that only makes it worse. after months of suffering, you allow him to dangle at your heels, you drag him at your chariot wheels, tied him at your apron strings from france to italy, from italy to switzerland, from switzerland back to france again, and gave him no more encouragement than a cat does a dog." the faint flush is a burning crimson now. "he--he need not come," she murmurs, panting. "he is not obliged." "the moth--the infuriated moth, is not obliged to hover about the candle, but he does hover, and generally winds up by scorching his wings. i admit that it is foolish and unreasonable, but it is none the less true that leycester is simply incapable, apparently, of resting outside the radius of your presence, and therefore i say hadn't you better give him the right to remain within that radius and----" she put up her hand to stop him, her face a deeper crimson still. "permit me," he says, obstinately, and puffing at his pipe to emphasize. "once more the unfortunate wretch is on tenterhooks; he is dying to take possession of you, and afraid to speak up like a man because, possibly, you have had a little illness----" "oh, uncle, and you said yourself that you thought i should have died." he coughs. "ahem! one is inclined to exaggerate sometimes. he is afraid to speak because in his utter sensitiveness he will insist upon considering you an invalid still, whereas you are about as strong and healthy now as, to use another americanism, 'they make 'em.' now, stella, if you mean to marry him, say so; if you don't mean to, say so, and for goodness sake let the unfortunate monomaniac go." "leycester is not a monomaniac, uncle," she retorts, in a low, indignant voice. "yes, he is," he says, "he is possessed by a mania for a little chit of a girl with a pale face and dark eyes and a nose that is nothing to speak of. if he wasn't an utterly lost maniac he would have refused to dangle at your heels any longer, and gone off to someone with some pretension to a regular facial outline." he stops, for there comes the sound of a firm, manly tread upon the smooth gravel path, and the next instant leycester's tall figure is beside them. he bends over the slight, slim, graceful figure, a loving, reverential devotion in his handsome face, a faint anxiety in his eyes and in his voice as he says, in that low, musical undertone which has charmed so many women's ears: "have you no wrap on, stella? these evenings are very beautiful but treacherous." "there isn't a breath of air," says stella, with a little laugh. "yes, yes!" he says, and puts his hand on the arm that rests on the seat, "you must be careful, indeed you must, my darling, i will go and get you a----" "blanket and a suit of sables," broke in the old man, with good humorous banter. "allow me, i am young and full of energy, and you are old and wasted and wearied, watching over a sick and perhaps dying girl, who eats three huge meals a day, and can outwalk weston. i will go," and he goes and leaves them, stella's soft laughter following him like music. leycester stands beside her looking down at her in silence. for him that rustic seat holds all that is good and worth having in life, and as he looks, the passionate love that burns so steadily in his heart glows in his eyes. for weeks, for months he has watched her--watched her patiently as now--watched her from the shadow of death, into the world of life; and though his eyes and the tone of his voice have spoken love often and often, he has so tutored his lips as to refrain from open speech. he knows the full measure of the shock which had struck her down, and in his great reverence and unfathomable love for her, he has restrained himself, fearing that a word might bring back that terrible past. but now, to-night, as he sees the faint color tinting the clear cheeks--sees the sunset light reflected in her bright eyes--his heart begins to beat with that throb which tells of long-suppressed passion clamoring for expression. maiden-like, she feels something of what is passing through his mind, and a great shyness falls upon her. she can almost hear her heart beat. "won't you sit down?" she says, at last, in that little, low, murmuring voice, which is such sweet music in his ears. and she moves her dress to make room for him. he comes round, and sinks in the seat beside her. "can you not feel the breeze now?" he asks. "i wish i had brought a wrap with me, on the chance of your having forgotten it." she looks round at him, with laughter in her eyes and on her lips. "did you not hear what uncle said?" she asks. "don't you know that he was laughing, actually laughing at me? when will you _begin_ to believe that i am well and strong and ridiculously robust? don't you see that the people at the hotel are quite amused with your solicitude respecting my delicate state of health?" "i don't care anything about the people at the hotel," he says, in that frank, simple way which speaks so plainly of his love. "i know that i don't mean you to catch cold if i can help it!" "you--you are very good to me," she says, and there is a slight tremor in her voice. he laughs his old short, curt laugh, softened in a singular way. "am i? you might say that a man was particularly 'good' because he showed some concern for the safety of a particularly precious stone!" her eyes droop, and, perhaps unconsciously, her arm draws a little nearer to him. "you are good," she says, "but i am not a precious stone, by any means." "you are all that is rare and precious to me, my darling," he says; "you are all the world to me. stella!----" he stops, alarmed lest he should be alarming her, but his arm slides round her, and he ventures to draw her nearer to him. it is the only embrace he has ventured to give her since that night when she fell into his arms at the cottage door at carlyon, and he half fears that she will shrink from him in the new strange shyness that has fallen upon her; but she does not, instead she lets her head droop until it rests upon his breast, and the strong man's passion leaps full force and masterful in a moment. "stella!" he murmurs, his lips pressed to hers, which do not swerve, "may i speak? will you let me? you will not be angry?" she does not look angry; her eyes fixed on his have nothing but submissive love in them. "i have waited,--it seems so long--because i was afraid to trouble you, but i may speak now, stella?" and he draws her closer to him. "will you be my wife--soon--soon?" he waits, his handsome face eloquent in its entreaty and anxiety, and she leans back and looks up at him, then her gaze falters. a little quiver hovers on her lips, and the dark eyes droop. is it "yes"? if so, he alone could have heard it. "my poor darling!" he murmurs, and he takes her face in his hands and turns it up to him. "oh, my darling, if you knew how i loved you--how anxiously i have waited! and it shall be soon, stella! my little wife! my very own!" "yes!" she said, and, as in the old time, she raises herself in his arms and kisses him. * * * * * "and--and the countess, and all of them!" she murmurs, but with a little quaint smile. he smiles calmly. "not to-night, darling, do not let us talk of the outside world to-night. but see if 'all of them,' as you put it, are not exactly of one mind; one of them is," and he takes out a letter from his pocket. "from lilian!" she says, guessing instinctively. leycester nods. "yes, take it and read; you will find your name in every line. stella, it was this letter that gave me courage to speak to you to-night. a woman knows a woman after all--you will read what she says. 'are you still afraid, ley,' she writes, 'ask her!' and i have asked. and now all the past will be buried and we shall be happy at last. at last, stella, where--where shall it be?" she is silent, but she lifts the letter to her lips and kisses it. "what do you say to paris?" he asks. "paris!" she echoes, flushing. "yes," he says, "i have been talking to the old doctor, and he thinks you are strong enough to have a little excitement now, and thinks that a tour in paris would be the very thing to complete things. what do you say," he goes on, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice, but watching her with eager eyes, "if we start at the end of the week, that will give you time to make your preparations, won't it?" "oh, no, no----!" "then say the beginning of next," he returns, magnanimously, "and we will be married about wednesday"--she utters a faint exclamation, and turns pale and red by turns, but he is steadfast--"and then we can have a gay time of it before we settle down." "settle down," she says, with a little longing sigh. "how sweet it sounds--but next week!" "it is a cruel time to wait," he declares, drawing her nearer to him, "cruel--next week! it is months, years, ages----" "hush!" she says, struggling gently away from him, "here is uncle." it is uncle, but he is innocent of wraps. "going to stay out all night?" he asks, with fine irony. "why, where are the wraps?" demands leycester. "eh? oh, nonsense!" says the old man. "do you want to commit suicide together by suffocation? it's as warm as an oven. oh, for my little garden, and the cool room." "you shall have it in a week or two," says leycester, with a smile of ineffable satisfaction. "we are going to take you to paris, and then will come and stay with you----" "oh, will you? and who asked you, mr. jackanapes?" "why, you wouldn't refuse shelter to your niece's husband?" retorts leycester, laughing. "oh, that's it!" says the old man. "allow me to wish you good-night. i'll leave you to your midsummer madness--no, to your autumn wisdom, for, upon my word, it's the most sensible word i've heard you utter for months past!" and he goes; but before he goes he lays his hand upon the sleek head and whispers: "that's a good girl! now be happy." * * * * * they were married in paris, very quietly, very happily. lord charles came over from scotland, leaving the grouse and the salmon, to act as best man, and it was an open question which of the two men looked happiest--he or the bridegroom. lord charles had never heard of that forged note and his inadvertent share in the plot that had worked so much harm, and he never would hear of it; and furthermore he never quite understood how it was that stella etheridge and not lady lenore became leycester's wife; but he was quite satisfied and quite assured that it was the best of all possible arrangements. "leycester's the happiest man in the world, and he used to be the most wretched, and so there's an end of it," he declared, whenever he spoke of the match. "and," he would add, "the man who could have the moral cheek to be anything but absurdly happy with such an angel as lady stella wouldn't be fit to be anywhere out of a lunatic asylum." they were married, and charlie went back to the grouse, and the painter went back to the cottage and mrs. penfold, leaving the young couple to have their gay time of it in the gayest city of the world. it was not particularly gay after all, but it was ecstatically joyous. they went to the theaters and concerts and enjoyed themselves like boy and girl, and leycester found himself continually amazed at the youthfulness which remained in him. "i have begun to live for the first time," he declared one day. "i only existed before." as for stella, the days went by in a sort of ecstatic dream, and only a little cloud lined the golden sky--the earl and countess still hardened their hearts. though not a week passed without bringing a letter full of love and longing from lilian, the old people made no sign. in the proud countess' eyes her son's wife was still stella etheridge, the painter's niece, and she could not forgive her for--making leycester happy. it would have made stella miserable if anything could have done so, but leycester's love and watchful care often kept the cloud back--for a time. they stayed in paris until a little bijou place in park lane was ready, then they went home and took quiet possession. it was the most charming of little nests--leycester had given jackson and graham _carte blanche_--and formed a fitting casket for the beautiful young viscountess. "after all, ley," she said, as she sat upon his knee on their first evening and looked round her exquisite room, "it is almost as good as the little laborer's cottage i used to picture for myself." "yes, it only needs that i should sit in my shirt sleeves and smoke a long pipe, doesn't it?" he said, laughing. for some weeks they did almost lead an isolated life; they were always together, never tired or wearied of each other. of stella, with her exquisite variety, with her ever changing mirth and rare, delicate wit, it would certainly have been difficult for any man to tire, and what woman would have wearied of the devoted attention of such a man as leycester! they lived quietly for a little time, but as the season commenced people got scent of them, and soon the world swooped down upon them. stella protested at first, but she was powerless to resist, and soon the names of lord and lady trevor appeared in the fashionable lists. then came a surprise. like lord byron, she woke one morning to find herself famous; the world had pronounced her a beauty, and had elected her to one of its thrones. men almost fought for the honor of inserting their names upon her ball-cards; women copied her dress, and envied her; the photographers would have hung her portraits in their windows if she had not been too wary to have one taken. she had become a reigning queen. leycester did not mind; he knew her too well to be afraid that it would spoil her, and it amused him to find that the world was rowing in the same boat with him--had gone mad over his little stella. now it was a gay time, but still the countess made no sign. the wyndwards were away on the continent in the winter, and in the spring they went down to the hall. letters came from lilian regularly, and she grew more pathetic as time rolled on, she was pining for leycester. stella urged him to sink his pride and go down to the hall, but he would not. "where i go i take my wife," he said, in his quiet way, and stella knew that it was useless to urge him. but one day when it chanced that stella was at home resting after a grand ball at which she had reigned supreme, a brougham drove up to the door, and while she was just preparing to say "not at home," the servant opened the door of the boudoir, and there stood the tall, graceful, lady-like figure of lilian. stella sprang forward and caught her in her arms, with a cry that brought leycester bounding up-stairs. the two girls clung to each other for at least five minutes, crying softly, and uttering little piteous monosyllables, after the manner of their kind; then lilian turned to leycester. "oh, ley, don't be angry. i've come!" she cried. "so i see, lil," he said, kissing her. "and how glad we are i need not say." "and she shall never go again, shall she?" exclaimed stella, with her arm round the fragile form. "why, i don't mean to!" said lilian, piteously. "you won't send me away, will you, stella? i can't live without him, i can't indeed. you will let me stay, won't you? i shan't be in the way. i'll creep into a corner, and efface myself; and i shan't be very much trouble, because i am so much stronger now, and--oh, you will let me stay?" there is no need to set down in hard, cold, black letters their answer. "there is only one thing more i want to make my happiness complete," said stella; and they knew that she meant the reconciliation of leycester with the old people. so lilian stayed, and made an additional sunshine and joy in the little house; and it amused leycester to see how soon she too fell at the feet of the new beauty and worshipped her. "if any one could be too good for you, ley," she said, "stella would be that one." well, time passed; the season was at its height, and the countess came to town. the earl had been in his place in the upper house from the beginning of the season, of course; but the countess had remained at the hall nursing her disappointment. she came up in time for one of the state balls, at which her presence was indispensable. it was the great official ball of the season, and crowded to excess. the countess arrived with the earl just before the small hours, and after the usual ceremonies and exchanges of salutations with the great world which she had left for so many months, she had time to look round the room. she did so with a little inward tremor, for she knew that leycester and "his wife" were to be present. to her relief--and disappointment--they had not arrived. for all her pride and hauteur the mother's heart ached. but if they were not there, their reputation had preceded them. she heard stella's name every five minutes, heard the greatest in the land regretting her absence, and wondering what kept her away. presently, toward two o'clock, there was a perceptible stir in the magnificent salon, and the murmur went up: "lord and lady trevor!" the countess turned pale for a moment, then looked toward the door and saw a beautiful woman--or a girl still--entering, leaning upon leycester's arm. society does for a man or woman what a lapidary does for a precious stone. it was precious when it first came into his hands, but when it leaves them it is polished! stella had become, if the word is allowable when applied to her, the pink of refinement and delicacy, "polished." she had learnt, unconsciously, to wear diamonds, and that with princes. as she came in now, a crowd of "the best" people came round her and did homage, and the countess, looking on, saw with her own eyes, what she had heard rumored, that this daughter-in-law of hers, this penniless niece, had become a power in the land. it amazed her at first, but as she watched she lost her wonder. it was only natural and reasonable; there was no more beautiful or noble looking woman in the room. the band began to play a waltz, the crowds began to move, dancing and promenading. the countess sat amongst the dowagers, pale and smiling, but with an aching heart. where was leycester? presently four persons approached her. charlie, with stella on his arm, leycester with another lady. suddenly, not seeing her, charlie stopped, and stella turning, found herself face to face with the countess. for a moment the proud woman melted, then she hardened her heart and turned her head aside. leycester, who been been watching, passed in front of her, and he put his hand out. "leycester!" but he drew stella's arm within his--she was white and trembling--and looking his mother in the face sternly, passed on with stella. "take me home, leycester," she moaned. "oh, take me home! how can she be so cruel?" but he would not. "no," he said. "this is your place as much as hers. my poor mother, i pity her. oh, pride, pride! you must stay." of course the incident had been noticed and remarked, and, amongst the persons who had seen it was a prince of the blood. this distinguished individual was not only a prince but a gentle-hearted man, and as princes can take things as they please, he disregarded the best name on his ball programme and walking straight up to stella, begged with that grand humility which distinguishes him, for the honor of her hand. stella, pale and beautifully pathetic in her trouble, faltered an excuse, an excuse to a royal command. but he would not take it. "a few turns only, lady trevor, i implore. i will take care of her, leycester," he added in a murmur, and he led stella away. they took a few turns, then he stopped. "you are tired," he said: "will you let me take you into the cool?" he drew her arm through his, but instead of "taking her into the cool," as he phrased it, in his genial way, he marched straight up to the countess. "lady wyndward," he said; and his clear, musical voice was just audible to those around, "your daughter has been too gracious to her devoted adherents, and tired herself in the mazy dance. i resign her to your maternal care." stella would have shrunk back, but the countess, who knew what was due to royalty, rose and took the fair, round arm in her matronly one. "come," she said, "his royal highness is right--you must rest." all in a dream, stella allowed herself to be led into a shaded recess, all fresh with ferns and exotica. then she woke, and murmuring-- "thank you," was for flying; but the countess held out her arms suddenly, and for the first time--well, for many years--burst into tears, not noisy sobbing, but quiet, flooding tears. "oh, my dear!" she murmured, brokenly. "forgive me! i am only a proud, wicked old woman!" stella was in her arms in an instant, and thus leycester found them. when old lady longford heard of this scene, she was immensely amused in her cynical way. "it would have served you right my dear," she told the countess, "if she had turned round and said, 'yes, you are a very wicked old woman,' and walked off." so stella's cup of happiness was full to the brim. it is not empty yet, and will not be while love stands with upraised hand to replenish it. she is a girl still, even now that there is a young leycester to run about the old man's studio and upset the pictures and add to the litter, and it is the old painter's oft expressed opinion that she will be a girl to the end of the chapter. "stella, you see," he is fond of remarking, whenever he hears her sweet voice carolling about the little cottage--and it is as often heard there as at the hall--"stella, you see, was born in italy, and italians--good italians--never grow old. they manage to keep a heart alive in their bosoms and laughter on their lips at a period when people of colder climes are gloomy and morosely composing their own epitaphs. there is one comfort for you, leycester, you have got a wife who will never grow old." [the end.] great stories by a great author _the new fiction series_ issued quarterly letters of congratulation have been showered upon us from all over the country by enthusiastic readers who say that had we not announced that mr. cook wrote all of these stories, it would have been very difficult to determine it. the reason is that mr. cook is a widely traveled man and has, therefore, been enabled to lay the plot of one of his stories in the "land of little rain," another on the high seas, another in spain and spanish america, and to write a railroad story that a reader of thirty years' experience decided must have been written by a veteran railroad man. if stories of vigorous adventure are wanted, stories that are drawn true to life and give that thrill which all really good fiction ought to give, the books listed here are what you want. _all titles always in print_ to the public:--these books are sold by news dealers everywhere. if your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage. _by william wallace cook_ --the desert argonaut. --a quarter to four. --thorndyke, of the "bonita." --a round trip of the year . --the gold gleaners. --the spur of necessity. --the mysterious mission. --the goal of a million. --marooned in . --running the signal. --his friend, the enemy. --in the web. --a deep sea game. --the paymaster's special. --adrift in the unknown. --jim dexter, cattleman. --juggling with liberty. --back from bedlam. --a river tangle. --an innocent outlaw. --billionaire pro tem and the trail of the billy doo. --rogers of butte. --in the wake of the "simitar." --his audacious highness. --at daggers drawn. --the eighth wonder. --the catspaw. --the cotton bag. --little miss vassar. --cast away at the pole. --the testing of noyes. --the fateful seventh. --montana. --the deserter. --the sheriff of broken bow. --wanted--a highwayman. --frisbie, of san antone. --his last dollar. published during jan., . --fools for luck. published during march, . --dare, of darling & co. published during may, --trailing the "josephine." bertha clay library issued semi-monthly the only complete line of bertha m. clay's stories. many of these titles are copyrighted and cannot be found in any other edition. all titles always in print to the public:--these books are sold by news dealers everywhere. if your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to the price per copy to cover postage. --a bitter atonement. --dora thorne. --a golden heart. --lord lisle's daughter. --the mystery of colde fell; or, "not proven." --diana's discipline; or, sunshine and roses. --a dark marriage morn. --hilda's lover; or, the false vow; or, lady hutton's ward. --her mother's sin; or, a bright wedding day. --one against many. --for another's sin; or, a struggle for love. --at war with herself. --evelyn's folly. --a haunted life. --lady damer's secret. --his wife's judgment. --lady castlemaine's divorce; or, put asunder. --two fair women; or, which loved him best? --wife in name only. --the sin of a lifetime. --the world between them. --prince charlie's daughter. --a thorn in her heart. --a struggle for a ring. --the shadow of a sin. --a rose in thorns. --a woman's love story. --the romance of a black veil. --redeemed by love; or, love's conflict; or, love works wonders. --lord lynne's choice. --set in diamonds. --the romance of a young girl; or, the heiress of hill-drop. --a woman's war. --on her wedding morn, and her only sin. --weaker than a woman. --love's warfare. --a nameless sin. --a mad love. --hilary's folly; or, her marriage vow. --madolin's lover. --the belle of lynn; or, the miller's daughter. --lover and husband. --beauty's marriage, and between two sins. --the duke's secret. --her second love. --addie's husband, and arnold's promise. --a true magdalen; or, one false step. --for a woman's honor. --claribel's love story; or, love's hidden depths. --a fiery ordeal. --the gipsy's daughter. --golden gates. --the squire's darling, and walter's wooing. --violet lisle. --griselda. --one false step. --a heart's idol. --the earl's error, and letty leigh. --another woman's husband. --wedded and parted, and fair but false. --his perfect trust. --gladys greye. --in love's crucible. --'twixt love and hate. --fair but faithless. --a heart's bitterness. --marjorie dean. --between two hearts. --her martyrdom. --thorns and orange blossoms. --a bitter bondage. --a guiding star. --a fair mystery. --another man's wife. --an ideal love. --the earl's atonement. --between two loves. --a dead heart, and love for a day. --a fatal dower. --lady latimer's escape, and other stories. --a woman's error. --guelda. --beyond pardon. --if love be love. --a coquette's conquest. --in cupid's net, and so near and yet so far. --under a shadow. --at any cost, and a modern cinderella. --margery daw. --a woman's temptation. --the actor's ward. --repented at leisure. --james gordon's wife. --for life and love, and more bitter than death. --in shallow waters. --a broken wedding ring. --dream faces. --two kisses, and the fatal lilies. --a hidden terror. --wedded hands. --from out the gloom. --her first love. --a bitter reckoning. --thrown on the world. --irene's vow. --his wedded wife. --lord elesmere's wife. --a woman's vengeance. --a queen amongst women, and an unnatural bondage. --the queen of the county. --a struggle for the right. --the paths of love. --blossom and fruit. --the story of an error. --the white witch. --lady muriel's secret. --the hidden sin. --for a dream's sake. --the gambler's wife. --a great mistake. --society's verdict. --lady gwendoline's dream. --the rival heiresses. --a bride from the sea, and other stories. --a woman's trust. --a dream of love. --the sins of the father. --for love of her. --a loving maid. --a heart of gold. --the price of a bride. --love in a mask. --a woman's witchery. --the burden of a secret. --one woman's sin. --how will it end? --the hand without a wedding ring. --a sinful secret. --lady marchmont's widowhood. --the broken trust. --lady ethel's whim. --a wife's peril. --the tragedy of lime hall. --lady ona's sin. --a bitter courtship. --a tragedy of love and hate. --a stolen heart. --every inch a queen. --a maid's misery. --love's redemption. --the sunshine of his life. --the lost lady of haddon. --the love of lady aurelia. --his great temptation. --an evil heart. --gladys' wedding day. --lost for love. --on with the new love. --a fateful passion. --a captive heart. --a deceptive lover. --an untold passion. --a purchased love. --the queen of his soul. --a pilgrim of love. --the girl of his heart. --a wife's devotion. --the price of love. --when love and hate conflict. --a misguided love. --the chains of jealousy. --a loveless engagement. --a heart's worship. --a queen triumphant. --between love and ambition. --true love's reward. --a poisoned heart. --what it cost her. --paying the penalty. --the old love or the new? --her honored name. --a coquette's victim. --an ocean of love. --sweeter than life. --for her heart's sake. --her beautiful foe. --a soul ensnared. --a heart forlorn. --strong in her love. --fair as a lily. --her bitter sorrow. --hester's husband. --an artful plotter. --a vixen's love. --the dawn of love. --love's coronet. --the unbroken vow. --her heart's hero. --an exacting love. --a wild rose. --in defiance of fate. --lack of gold. --two true hearts. --baffled by fate. --two men and a maid. --a cruel revenge. --the flower of love. --mistress of her fate. --the wooing of a maid. --a blighted blossom. --love's conquest. --for old love's sake. --love's debt. --her heart's victory. --tender and true. --the love he spurned. --withered flowers. --when woman wills. --love's twilight. --true to his first love. --suffered in silence. --a modest passion. --beyond all dreams. --loved and lost. --the bride of the manor. --love, the avenger. --wedded at dawn. --a shattered romance. --with love at the helm. --her faith rewarded. --love finds a way. --an ardent wooing. --love grown cold. --love hath wings. --when hot tears flow. --the wages of deceit. --love and the world. --love's sweet hour. --faithful and true. --sunshine and shadow. --for love or wealth? --a crown of faith. --the harvest of sin. --a secret sorrow. --in quest of love. --beyond atonement. --a girl's awakening. --the hero of her dreams. --love's burden. --only a flirt. --when love is kind. --an elusive lover. --the hour of temptation. --where love leads. --her struggle with love. --in spite of fate. --can this be love? --the love of his youth. --enchained by passion. --the new love or the old? --at her heart's command. --cast upon his care. --all else forgot. --sinner or victim? --answered in jest. --her heart's problem. --rich in his love. --for better, for worse. --love's caprice. --when hearts are young. --in the golden city. --a love victorious. --her heart's delight. --the heart of his heart. --even this sacrifice. --love's crown jewel. --suffered in vain. --in love's bondage. --lady viola's secret. --adrift on love's tide. --the quest of his heart. --under cupid's seal. --earlescourt's love. --dearer than life. --toward love's goal. --her heart's surrender. --tempted to forget. --the love that blinds. --a daughter of misfortune. --when false tongues speak. --a tempting offer. --with love's strong bonds. --that plain little girl. --and this is love! --the secret of estcourt. --for his love's sake. --outside love's door. --at love's fountain. --a lucky girl. --a dream come true. --by love's order. --fettered for life. --beyond the shadow. --the love that won. --fair to look upon. --a daughter of eve. --when cupid frowns. --the wiles of love. --what the world said. --mabel and may. --her love and his. --a captive fairy. --her sacred trust. --a child of caprice. --he dared to love. --while the world scoffed. --on love's highway. --one of love's slaves. --the lure of the flame. --a love in the balance. --a woman of whims. --in a siren's web. --the tie that binds. --love's harsh mandate. --love's carnival. --with heart and voice. --in love's hands. --hearts of oak. --a garland of love. --among love's briers. --love never fails. --the other man's choice. --a lady of quality. --on love's demand. --a fugitive from love. --his sweetheart's promise --the schoolgirl bride. --her one ambition. --love for love. --his fault or hers? --new loves for old. --her proudest possession. --cupid always wins. --love is life indeed. --when scorn greets love. --love's potent charm. --by love alone. --when love conspires. --no thought of harm. --cupid's prank. --a sad awakening. --what could she do? --sharing his burden. --steadfast in her love. --a love despised. --one life, one love. --when hope is lost. --a heart unclaimed. --his dearest wish. --her cup of sorrow. --when love is curbed. --a pitiful mistake. --a love profound. --a bitter sacrifice. --what love is worth. --when life's roses bloom. --her only choice. --forged on love's anvil. --she hated him! --when love's charm is broken. --led by destiny. published during january, . --when others sneered. --golden fetters. published during february, . --the love that prospered. --the song of the siren. published during march, . --love's gentle whisper. --the girl who won. published during april, . --the love that was stifled. --the love of a lifetime. published during may, . --her one mistake. --at war with fate. published during june, . --when love lures. --'twixt wealth and want. published during july, --love's pleasant dreams. in order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in new york city and vicinity. they may not reach the readers, at a distance, promptly, on account of delays in transportation. best copyrights [illustration] years ago, one of our readers said that the s. & s. novels were "the right books at the right price," and the term still applies to all of the titles in the s. & s. lines. our novels are principally copyrights by the best authors, such as: =charles garvice= =mrs. georgie sheldon= =nicholas carter= =richard marsh= =burt l. standish= =geraldine fleming= =ida reade allen= =e. phillips oppenheim= and dozens of others whose work usually appears between cloth covers. send for our complete catalogue. you will be surprised at the value it contains. [illustration] street & smith :: publishers :: new york * * * * * * transcriber's note: numerous printer errors have been corrected. there were so many printer errors that these have been corrected without being documented. the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. the love affairs of pixie, by mrs george de horne vaizey. ________________________________________________________________________ here we have yet again the lovable pixie, the youngest child of the o'shaughnessy family, who had all been brought up at knock castle, in ireland, and about whom two previous books have been written. none of the family can quite get their minds round the fact that pixie is now old enough to have affairs, and even to marry, especially as they are all aware how very plain she is. but pixie has other ideas. she becomes engaged to stanor vaughan, a very good-looking young rising businessman, whose very rich but disabled uncle is his guardian. the uncle suggests that stanor should go to america for a couple of years, to become a bit more mature. meanwhile there is very nasty and sudden accident to little jack, an angelic little boy, whom everybody adores. will he survive? eventually stanor returns to london. but things have sorted themselves out rather better than we would have thought after the first few chapters. this book was printed in a very heavy type on thinnish paper. it was a mistake to scan it on the default brightness setting, and it was very difficult to clean out all the misreads. there may yet be a few, but not many, i hope. these will be taken out eventually, i hope. ________________________________________________________________________ the love affairs of pixie, by mrs george de horne vaizey. chapter one. the question of noses. when pixie o'shaughnessy had reached her twentieth birthday it was borne in upon her with the nature of a shock that she was not beautiful. hitherto a buoyant and innocent self-satisfaction, coupled with the atmosphere of love and admiration by which she was surrounded in the family circle, had succeeded in blinding her eyes to the very obvious defects of feature which the mirror portrayed. but suddenly, sharply, her eyes were opened. "did it ever occur to you, bridgie, my dear, that i've grown-up _plain_?" she demanded of her sister, mrs victor, as the two sat by the fire one winter afternoon, partaking luxuriously of strong tea and potato cakes, and at the sound of such a surprising question mrs victor started as if a crack of thunder had suddenly pealed through the quiet room. she stared in amazement; her big, grey eyes widened dramatically. "my good child," she demanded sternly, "whatever made you think of asking such a preposterous question?" "'twas borne in on me!" sighed pixie sadly. "it's the way with life; ye go jog-trotting along, blind and cheerful, until suddenly ye bang your head against a wall, and your eyes are opened! 'twas the same with me. i looked at myself every day, but i never saw. habit, my dear, blindfolded me like a bandage, and looking at good-looking people all day long it seemed only natural that i should look nice too. but this morning the sun shone, and i stood before the glass twisting about to try on my new hat, and, bridgie, the truth was revealed! _my nose_!" "what's the matter with your nose?" demanded mrs victor. her own sweet, delicately cut face was flushed with anger, and she sat with stiffened back staring across the fireplace as if demanding compensation for a personal injury. pixie sighed, and helped herself to another slice of potato cake. "it scoops!" she said plaintively. "as you love me, bridgie, can you deny it scoops?" and as if to illustrate the truth of her words she twisted her head so as to present her little profile for her sister's inspection. truly it was not a classic outline! sketched in bare outline it would have lacerated an artist's eye, but then more things than line go to the making up a girlish face: there is youth, for instance, and a blooming complexion; there is vivacity, and sweetness, and an intangible something which for want of a better name we call "charm." mrs victor beheld all these attributes in her sister's face, and her eyes softened as they looked, but her voice was still resentful. "of course it scoops. it always _did_ scoop. i like it to scoop." "i like them straight!" persisted pixie. "and it isn't as if it stopped at the nose. there's my mouth--" bridgie's laugh had a tender, reminiscent ring. "the mammoth cave of kentucky! d'you remember the major's old name? he was _proud_ of your mouth. and you had no chin as a child. you ought to be thankful, pixie, that you've grown to a chin!" "i am," cried pixie with unction. "it would be awful to slope down into your neck. all the same, me dear, if it was my eyes that were bigger, and my mouth that was smaller, it would be better for all concerned." she was silent for some moments, staring thoughtfully in the fire. from time to time she frowned, and from time to time she smiled; bridgie divined that a thought was working, and lay back in her seat, amusedly watching its development. "there's a place in paris," continued pixie thoughtfully at last, "an institute sort of place, where they repair noses! you sort of go in, and they look at you, and there are models and drawings, and _you choose your nose_! the manager is an expert, and if you choose a wrong style he advises, and says another would suit you better. i'd love a greek one myself; it's so _chic_ to float down straight from the forehead, but i expect he'd advise a blend that wouldn't look too _epatant_ with my other features.--it takes a fortnight, and it doesn't hurt. your nose is gelatine, not bone; and it costs fifty pounds." "wicked waste!" cried mrs victor, with all the fervour of a matron whose own nose is beyond reproach. "fifty pounds on a nose! i never heard of such foolish extravagance." "esmeralda paid eighty for a sealskin coat. a nose would last for life, while if a single moth got inside the brown paper--whew!" pixie waved her hands with the frenchiness of gesture which was the outcome of an education abroad, and which made an amusing contrast with an irish accent, unusually pronounced. "i'd think nothing of running over to paris for a fortnight's jaunt, and having the nose thrown in. fancy me walking in on you all, before you'd well realised i was away, smart and smiling with a profile like clytie, or a sweet little acquiline, or a neat and wavey one, like your own. you wouldn't know me!" "i shouldn't!" said bridgie eloquently. "now let's pretend!" pixie hitched her chair nearer to the fire, and placed her little feet on the fender with an air of intense enjoyment. in truth, tea-time, and the opportunity which it gave of undisturbed parleys with bridgie, ranked as one of the great occasions of life. every day there seemed something fresh and exciting to discuss, and the game of "pretend" made unfailing appeal to the happy irish natures, but it was not often that such an original and thrilling topic came under discussion. a repaired nose! pixie warmed to the theme with the zest of a skilled _raconteur_. ... "you'd be sitting here, and i'd walk in in my hat and veil--a new-fashioned scriggley veil, as a sort of screen. we'd kiss. if it was a long kiss, you'd feel the point, being accustomed to a button, and that would give it away, but i'd make it short so you'd notice nothing, and i'd sit down with my back to the light, and we'd talk. `take off your hat,' you'd say. `in a moment,' i'd answer. `not yet, me dear, my hair's untidy.' `you look like a visitor,' you'd say, `with your veil drawn down.' `it's a french one,' i'd say. `it becomes me, doesn't it? three francs fifty,' and you'd frown, and stare, and say, `_does_ it? i don't know! you look-- different, pixie. you don't look--yourself!'" the real pixie gurgled with enjoyment, and bridgie victor gurgled in response. "then i'd protest, and ask what was the matter, and say if there _was_ anything, it must be the veil, and if there _was_ a change wasn't it honestly for the better, and i'd push up my veil and smile at you; smile languidly across the room. i can see your face, poor darling! all scared and starey, while i turned round s-lowly, s-lowly, until i was sideways towards you, with me elegant grecian nose..." bridgie shuddered. "i'd not live through it! it would break my heart. with a grecian nose you might be patricia, but you couldn't possibly be pixie. it's too horrible to think of!" but pixie had in her nature a reserve of obstinacy, and in absolutely good-natured fashion could "hang on" to a point through any amount of discouragement. "now, since you mention it, that's another argument in my favour," she said quickly. "it's hard on a girl of twenty to be bereft of her legal name because of incompatibility with her features. now, with a grecian nose--" bridgie sat up suddenly, and cleared her throat. the time had come to remember her own position as married sister and guardian, and put a stop to frivolous imaginings. "may i ask," she demanded clearly, "exactly in what manner you would propose to raise the fifty pounds? your nose is your own to do what you like with--or will be at the end of another year--but--" "the fifty pounds isn't! i know it," said pixie. she did not sigh, as would have seemed appropriate at such a moment, but exhibited rather a cheerful and gratified air, as though her own poverty were an amusing peculiarity which added to the list of her attractions. "of course, my dear, nobody ever dreamt for a moment it could be _done_, but it's always interesting to pretend. don't we amuse ourselves for hours pretending to be millionaires, when you're all of a flutter about eighteen-pence extra in the laundry bill? i wonder at _you_, bridgie, pretending to be practical." "i'm sorry," said bridgie humbly. a pang of conscience pierced her heart, for had it not been her own extravagance which had swelled the laundry bill by that terrible eighteen-pence? penitence engendered a more tender spirit, and she said gently-- "we love your looks, pixie. to us you seem lovely and beautiful." "bless your blind eyes! i know i do. but," added pixie astonishingly, "i wasn't thinking of you!" "_not_!" a moment followed of sheer, gaping surprise, for bridgie victor was so accustomed to the devotion of her young sister, so placidly, assured that the quiet family life furnished the girl with, everything necessary for her happiness, that the suggestion of an outside interest came as a shock. "_not_!" she repeated blankly. "then--then--who?" "my lovers!" replied pixie calmly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ and looking back through the years, it always seemed to bridgie victor that with the utterance of those words the life of pixie o'shaughnessy entered upon a new and absorbing phase. chapter two. pixie's views on marriage. bridgie victor sat gazing at her sister in a numb bewilderment. it was the first, the very first time that the girl had breathed a word concerning the romantic possibilities of her own life, and even bridgie's trained imagination failed to rise to the occasion. pixie! lovers! lovers! pixie! ... the juxtaposition of ideas was too preposterous to be grasped. pixie was a child, the baby of the family, just a bigger, more entertaining baby to play with the tinies of the second generation, who treated her as one of themselves, and one and all scorned to bestow the title of "aunt." there was a young patricia in the nursery at knock castle, and a second edition in the victor nursery upstairs; but though the baptismal name of the little sister had been copied, not even the adoring mothers themselves would have dreamed of borrowing the beloved pet name, pixie's nose might not be to her approval; it might even scoop--to be perfectly candid, it _did_ scoop--but it had never yet been put out of joint. the one and only, the inimitable pixie, she still lived enthroned in the hearts of her brothers and sisters, as something specially and peculiarly their own. so it was that a pang rent bridgie's heart at the realisation that the little sister was grown-up, was actually twenty years of age--past twenty, going to be twenty-one in a few more months, and that the time was approaching when a stranger might have the audacity to steal her from the fold. to her own heart, bridgie realised the likelihood of such a theft, and the naturalness thereof: outwardly, for pixie's benefit she appeared shocked to death. "l-lovers!" gasped bridgie. "lovers! is it you, pixie o'shaughnessy, i hear talking of such things? i'm surprised; i'm shocked! i never could have believed you troubled your head about such matters." "but i do," asserted pixie cheerfully. "lots. not to say _trouble_, exactly, for it's most agreeable. i pretend about them, and decide what they'll be like. when i see a man that takes my fancy, i add him to the list. mostly they're clean-shaved, but i saw one the other day with a beard--" she lifted a warning finger to stay bridgie's cry of protest. "not a straggler, but a naval one, short and trim; and you wouldn't believe how becoming it was! i decided then to have one with a beard. and they are mostly tall and handsome, and rolling in riches, so that i can buy anything i like, nose included. but one must be poor and sad, because that," announced pixie, in her most radiant fashion, "would be good for my character. i'd be sorry for him, the creature! and, as they say in books, 'twould soften me. would you say honestly, now, bridgie, that i'm in _need_ of softening?" "i should not. i should say you were soft enough already. _too_ soft!" declared bridgie sternly. "`them,' indeed! plural, i'll trouble you! just realise, my child, that there are not enough men to go round, and don't waste time making pictures of a chorus who will never appear. if you have _one_ lover, it will be more than your share; and it's doubtful if you ever get that." "i doubt it," maintained pixie sturdily. "i'm plain, but i've a way. you know yourself, me dear, i've a way! ... i'm afraid i'll have lots; and that's the trouble of it, for as sure as you're there, bridgie, i'll accept them all! 'twouldn't be in my heart to say no, with a nice man begging to be allowed to take care of me. i'd love him on the spot for being so kind; or if i didn't, and i saw him upset, it would seem only decent to comfort him, so 'twould end the same way. ... it breaks my heart when the girls refuse the nice man in books, and i always long to be able to run after him when he leaves the room--ashy pale, with a nerve twitching beside his eye--and ask him will i do instead! if i feel like that to another girl's lover, what will i do to my own?" bridgie stared aghast. her brain was still reeling from the shock of hearing pixie refer to the subject of lovers at all, and here was yet another problem looming ahead. with a loving grasp of her sister's character, she realised that the protestations to which she had just listened embodied a real danger. pixie had always been "the soft-heartedest creature," who had never from her earliest years been known to refuse a plea for help. it would only be in keeping with her character if she accepted a suitor out of pure politeness and unwillingness to hurt his feelings. bridgie was a happy wife, and for that very reason was determined that if care and guidance, if authority, and persuasion, and precept, and a judicious amount of influence could do it, pixie should never be married, unless it were to the right man. she therefore adopted her elderly attitude once more, and said firmly-- "it's very wicked and misguided even to talk in such a way. when the time comes that a man asks you to marry him--if it ever comes--it will be your first and foremost duty to examine your own heart and see if you love him enough to live with him all his life, whether he is ill or well, or rich or poor, or happy or sad. you will have to decide whether you would be happier with him in trouble or free by yourself, and you'd have to remember that it's not always too easy managing a house, and-- and walking about half the night with a teething baby, and darning socks, when you want to go out, and wearing the same dress three years running, even if you love the man you've married. of course, some girls marry rich husbands--like esmeralda; but that's rare. far more young couples begin as we did, with having to be careful about every shilling; and that, my dear, is _not_ agreeable! you need to be _very_ fond of a man to make it worth while to go on short commons all your life. you need to think things over very carefully, before you accept an offer of marriage." pixie sat listening, her head cocked to one side, with the air of a bright, intelligent bird. when bridgie had finished speaking she sighed and knitted her brows, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. it was obvious that she was pondering over what had been said, and did not find herself altogether in agreement with the rules laid down. "you mean," she said slowly, "that i should have to think altogether of _myself_ and what would suit _me_ and make _me_ happy? that's strange, now; that's very strange! to bring a girl up all her life to believe it's her duty in every small thing that comes along to put herself last and her family in front, and then when she's a grown-up woman, and a man comes along who believes, poor thing! that she could help him and make him happy, _then_ just at that moment you tell her to be selfish and think only of herself. ... 'tis not that way i'll conduct my love affairs!" cried pixie o'shaughnessy. her eyes met bridgie's, and flashed defiance. "when i meet a man who needs me i'll find my own happiness in helping _him_!" "bless you, darling!" said bridgie softly. "i am quite sure you will. ... it's a very, very serious time for a woman when the question of marriage comes into her life. you can't treat it _too_ seriously. i have not thought of it so far in connection with you, but now that i do i'll pray about it, pixie! i'll pray for you, that you may be guided to a right choice. you'll pray that for yourself, won't you, dear?" "i will," said pixie quietly. "i do. and for him--the man i may marry. i've prayed for him quite a long time." "the ... the _man_!" bridgie was so surprised as to appear almost shocked. "my dear, you don't know him!" "but he is alive, isn't he? he must be, if i'm going to marry him. alive, and grown-up, and living, perhaps, not so far away. perhaps he's an orphan, bridgie; or if he has a home, perhaps he's had to leave it and live in a strange town. ... perhaps he's in lodgings, going home every night to sit alone in a room. perhaps he's trying to be good, and finding it very hard. perhaps there's no one in all the world to pray for him but just me. _bridgie_! if i'm going to love him how can i _not_ pray?" mrs victor rose hurriedly from her seat, and busied herself with the arrangement of the curtains. they were heavy velvet curtains, which at night-time drew round the whole of the large bay window which formed the end of the pretty, cosy room. bridgie took especial pleasure in the effect of a great brass vase which, on its oaken pedestal, stood sharply outlined against the rich, dark folds. she moved its position now, moved it back into its original place, and touched the leaves of the chrysanthemum which stood therein with a caressing hand. six years' residence in a town had not sufficed to teach the one-time mistress of knock castle to be economical when purchasing flowers. "i can't live without them. it's not my fault if they are dear!" she would protest to her own conscience at the sight of the florist's bill. and in truth, who could expect a girl to be content with a few scant blossoms when she had lived all her early age in the midst of prodigal plenty! in spring the fields had been white with snowdrops. sylvia sent over small packing-cases every february, filled with hundreds and hundreds of little tight bunches of the spotless white flowers, and almost every woman of bridgie's acquaintance rejoiced with her on their arrival. after the snowdrops came on the wild daffodils and bluebells and primroses. they arrived in cases also, fragrant with the scent which was really no scent at all, but just the incarnation of everything fresh, and pure, and rural. then came the blossoming of trees. bridgie sighed whenever she thought of blossom, for that was one thing which would _not_ pack; and the want of greenery too, that was another cross to the city dweller. she longed to break off great branches of trees, and place them in corners of the room; she longed to wander into the fields and pick handfuls of grasses, and honeysuckle, and prickly briar sprays. who could blame her for taking advantage of what compensation lay within reach? this afternoon, however, the contemplation of the tawny chrysanthemums displayed in the brass vase failed to inspire the usual joy. bridgie's eyes were bright indeed as she turned back into the room, but it was the sort of brightness which betokens tears repressed. she laid her hand on the little sister's shoulders, and spoke in the deepest tone of her tender irish voice-- "what has been happening to you, my pixie, all this time when i've been treating you as a child? have you been growing up quietly into a little woman?" pixie smiled up into her face--a bright, unclouded smile. "faith," she said, radiantly, "i believe. i have!" chapter three. nearly twenty-one! bridgie rang the bell to have the tea-things removed and a message sent to the nursery that the children might descend without further delay. it was still a few minutes before the orthodox hour, but the conversation had reached a point when a distraction would be welcome, and jack and patsie were invariably prancing with impatience from the moment when the smell of hot potato cakes ascended from below. they came with a rush, pattering down the staircase with a speed which made bridgie gasp and groan, and bursting open the door entered the room at the double. jack was five, and wore a blue tunic with an exceedingly long-waisted belt, beneath which could be discerned the hems of abbreviated knickers. patricia was three, and wore a limp white frock reaching to the tips of little red shoes. she had long brown locks, and eyes of the true o'shaughnessy grey, and was proudly supposed to resemble her beautiful aunt joan. jack was fair, with linty locks and a jolly brown face. his mouth might have been smaller and still attained a fair average in size, but for the time being his pretty baby teeth filled the cavern so satisfactorily, that no one could complain. both children made straight for their mother, smothered her with "bunnie" hugs, and then from the shelter of her arms cast quick, questioning glances across the fireplace. there was in their glance a keenness, a curiosity, almost amounting to _awe_, which would at once have arrested the attention of an onlooker. it was not in the least the smiling glance of recognition which is accorded to a member of the household on meeting again after one of the short separations of the day; it resembled far more the half-nervous, half-pleasurable shrinking from an introduction to a stranger, about whom was wrapped a cloak of deepest mystery. as for pixie herself she sat bolt upright in her seat, staring fixedly into space, and apparently unconscious of the children's presence. presently jack took a tentative step forward, and patsie followed in his wake. half a yard from pixie's chair they stopped short with eager, craning faces, with bodies braced in readiness for a flying retreat. "pixie!" no answer. still the rigid, immovable figure. still the fixed and staring eye. "p-ixie!" the eyes rolled; a deep, hollow voice boomed forth-- "i'm _not_ pixie!" the expected had happened. they had known it was coming; would have been bitterly disappointed if it had failed, nevertheless they writhed and capered as though overcome with amazement. "p-ixie, pixie, who--are--you--now?" "i'm a wild buffalo of the plains!" answered pixie unexpectedly, and as a wild buffalo she comported herself for the next half-hour, ambling on hands and knees round the room, while the children wreathed her neck with impromptu garlands made of wools from their mother's work-basket, and made votive offerings of sofa cushions, footstools, and india-rubber toys. in the midst of the uproar bridgie jumped from her seat and flew to the door, her ears sharp as ever to hear the click of her husband's latch-key. the greeting in the narrow hall was delightfully lover-like for a married couple of six years' standing, and they entered the drawing-room arm-in-arm, smiling with a contentment charming to witness. captain victor was satisfied that no one in the world possessed such an altogether delightful specimen of womanhood as his "bride." she was so sweet, so good, so unselfish, and in addition to these sterling qualities, she was so cheerful, so spontaneous, so unexpected, that it was impossible for life to grow dull and monotonous while she was at the head of the household. he acknowledged tenderly, and with a shrug of the shoulders to express resignation, that she _might_ have been a cleverer housekeeper and just a thought more economical in expenditure! but considering her happy-go-lucky upbringing under the most thriftless of fathers, the darling really deserved more praise for what she accomplished than blame for what was left undone. bridgie, on the contrary, considered that dick worried his head ridiculously about ways and means. not for the world and all that it contained would she have accused him of being _mean_: she merely shrugged _her_ shoulders and reminded herself that he was english, poor thing! english people had a preference for seeing money visibly in their purses before they spent it, while she herself had been brought up in a cheerful confidence that it would "turn up" somehow to pay the bills which had been incurred in faith. captain victor displayed not the faintest astonishment at discovering his sister-in-law on all fours, nor did he appear overcome to be introduced to her as a buffalo of the plains. he smiled at her almost as tenderly as at his own babies, and said-- "how do, buff! pleased to have met you. so kind of you to make hay in my drawing-room," which reproof brought pixie quickly to her rightful position. that was another english characteristic of dick victor--he hated disorder, and was not appreciative of uproar on his return from a day's work. therefore there were picture-books in waiting for his return, and after a few minutes parleying pixie cajoled the children into the dining-room on the plea of a bigger and more convenient table for the display of their treasures, leaving the husband and wife alone. dick lay back in his easy chair, and stretched himself with an involuntary sigh of relief. he was devoted to his children, but a quiet chat with bridgie was the treat _par excellence_ at this hour of the day when he was tired and in need of rest. he stretched out a hand towards her, and she stroked it with gentle fingers. "ye're tired, dear. will i get you a cup of tea? it's not long since it went out. if i poured some hot-water in the pot..." dick shuddered. "thank you, ma'am, _no_! if i have any, i'll have it fresh, but i don't care about it to-day. it's nice just to rest and talk. anything happened to you to-day?" "there always does. it's the most exciting thing in the world to be the mistress of a household," said bridgie, with relish. there were few days when captain victor was not treated to a history of accidents and contretemps on his return home, but unlike most husbands he rather anticipated than dreaded the recital, for bridgie so evidently enjoyed it herself, taking a keen retrospective joy over past discomfitures. the victor household had its own share of vicissitudes, more than its share perhaps, but through them all there survived a spirit of kindliness and good fellowship which took away more than half the strain. maidservants arriving in moods of suspicion and antagonism found themselves unconsciously unarmed by the cheery, kindly young mistress, who administered praise more readily than blame, and so far from "giving herself airs" treated them with friendly kindliness and consideration. on the very rare occasions when a girl was poor-spirited enough to persist in her antagonism, off she went with a month's money in her pocket, for the peace of her little home was the greatest treasure in the world to bridgie victor, and no hireling could be allowed to disturb it. the service in the little house might not be as mechanically perfect as in some others, the meals might vary in excellence, but that was a secondary affair. "if a bad temper is a necessary accompaniment of a good cook, then--give me herbs!" she would cry, shrugging her pretty shoulders, and her husband agreed--with reservations! he was a very happy, a very contented man, and every day of his life he thanked god afresh for his happy home, for his children, for the greatest treasure of all, sweet bridget, his wife! to-day, however, the disclosure had nothing to do with domestic revolutions, and bridgie's tone in making her announcement held an unusual note of tragedy. "dick, guess what! you'll never guess! pixie's grown-up!" for a moment captain victor looked as was expected of him--utterly bewildered. he lay back in his chair, his handsome face blank and expressionless, the while he stared steadily at his wife, and bridgie stared back, her distress palpably mingled with complacence. speak she would not, until dick had given expression to his surprise. she sat still, therefore, shaking her head in a melancholy mandarin fashion, which had the undesired effect of restoring his complacence. "my darling, what unnecessary woe! it's astounding, i grant you; one never expected such a feat of pixie; but the years _will_ pass--there's no holding them, unfortunately. how old is she, by the way? seventeen, i suppose--eighteen?" "_twenty_--nearly twenty-one!" bridgie's tone was tragic, and dick victor in his turn looked startled and grave. he frowned, bit his lip, and stared thoughtfully across the room. "twenty-one? is it possible? grown-up, indeed! bridgie, we should have realised this before. we have been so content with things as they were that we've been selfishly blind. if pixie is over twenty we have not been treating her fairly. we have treated her too much as a child. we ought to have entertained for her, taken her about." bridgie sighed, and dropped her eyelids to hide the twinkle in her eyes. like most husbands dick preferred a quiet domestic evening at the end of a day abroad: like most wives bridgie would have enjoyed a little diversion at the end of a day at home. sweetly and silently for nearly half a dozen years she had subdued her preferences to his, feeling it at once her pleasure and her duty to do so, but now, if duty suddenly assumed the guise of a gayer, more sociable life, then most cheerfully would irish bridgie accept the change. "i think, dear," she said primly, "it _would_ be wise. esmeralda has said so many a time, but i took no notice. i never did take any notice of esmeralda, but she was right this time, it appears, and i was wrong. imagine it! pixie began bemoaning that she was not pretty, and it was not herself she was grieving for, or you, or _me_!"--bridgie's voice sounded a crescendo of amazement over that last pronoun--"but whom do you suppose? you'll never guess! her future _lovers_!" it was just another instance of the provokingness of man that at this horrible disclosure dick threw himself back in his chair in a peal of laughter; he laughed and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes, and bridgie, despite herself, joined in the chorus. the juxtaposition of pixie and lovers had proved just as startling to him as to his wife, but while she had been scandalised, he was frankly, whole-heartedly amused. "pixie!" he cried. "pixie with a lover! it would be about as easy to think of patsie. dear, quaint little pixie! who dares to say she isn't pretty? her funny little nose, her big, generous mouth are a hundred times more charming than the ordinary pretty face. i'll tell you what it is, darling,"--he sobered suddenly;--"pixie's lover, whoever he may be, will be an uncommonly lucky fellow!" husband and wife sat in silence for some moments after this, hand in hand, as their custom was in hours of privacy, while the thoughts of each pursued the same subject--pixie's opening life and their own duty towards it. on both minds was borne the unwilling realisation that their own home was not the ideal abode to afford the experience of life, the open intercourse with young people of her own age which it was desirable that the girl should now enjoy. as a means of adding to his income captain victor had accepted the position of adjutant to a volunteer corps in a northern city, and, as comparatively new residents, his list of acquaintances was but small. esmeralda, or to speak more correctly, joan, the second daughter of the o'shaughnessy family, as the wife of the millionaire, geoffrey hilliard, possessed a beautiful country seat not sixty miles from town, while jack, the eldest brother, had returned to the home of his fathers, knock castle, in ireland, on the money which his wife had inherited from her father, after he had become engaged to her in her character of a penniless damsel. jack was thankful all his life to remember that fact, though his easy-going irish nature found nothing to worry about in the fact that the money was legally his wife's, and not his own. both esmeralda as a society queen, and sylvia as chatelaine of knock, had opportunities of showing life to a young girl, with which bridgie in her modest little home in a provincial town could not compete. nevertheless, the heart of the tender elder sister was loath to part from her charge at the very moment when watchfulness and guidance were most important. she fought against the idea; assured herself that there was time, plenty of time. what, after all, was twenty-one? in two, three years one might talk about society; in the meantime let the child be! and captain victor, in his turn, looked into the future, and saw his bridgie left sisterless in this strange town, bereft all day long of the society of the sweetest and most understanding of companions, and he, too, sighed, and asked himself what was the hurry. surely another year, a couple of years! and then, being _one_ in reality as well as in name, the eyes of husband and wife met and lingered, and, as if at the sweep of an angel's wing, the selfish thoughts fell away, and they faced their duty and accepted it once for all. bridgie leaned her head on her husband's shoulder and sighed thankfully. "i have you, dick, and the children! 'twould be wicked to complain." and dick murmured gruffly-- "i want no one but you," and held her tightly in his arms, while bridgie sniffed, and whimpered, like one of her own small children. "but if p-ixie--_if_ pixie is unhappy--if any wretched man breaks pixie's heart--" "he couldn't!" dick victor said firmly. "no man could. that's beyond them. heart's like pixie's don't break, honey! i don't say they, may not ache at times, but breaking is a different matter. your bantling is grown-up: you can keep her no longer beneath your wing. she must go out into the world, and work and suffer like the rest, but she'll win through. pixie the woman will be a finer creature than pixie the child!" but bridgie hid her face, and the tears rushed into her eyes, for hers was the mother's heart which longed ever to succour and protect, and pixie was the child whom a dying father had committed to her care. it was hard to let pixie go. chapter four. the invitation. the immediate consequence of the pixie pronouncement was a correspondence between her two elder sisters, wherein bridgie ate humble-pie, and esmeralda rode the high horse after the manner born. "you were right about pixie, darling. it _is_ dull for her here in this strange town, where we have _so_ few friends; and now that she is nearly twenty-one it does not seem right to shut her up. she ought to go about and see the world, and meet boys and girls of her own age. and so, dear, would it be convenient to you to have her for a few months until you go up to town? your life in the country will seem a whirl of gaiety after our monotonous jog-trot, and she has been so useful and diligent, helping me these last years with never a thought for her own enjoyment, that she deserves all the fun she can get. i am sad at parting from her, but if it's for her good i'll make the effort. she has two nice new frocks, and i could get her another for parties." thus bridgie. esmeralda's reply came by return--the big, slanting writing, plentifully underlined-- "_at last_, my dear, you have come to your senses. for a sweet-tempered person, you certainly have, as i've told you before, a surprising amount of obstinacy. in future do try to believe that in matters of worldly wisdom i know best, and be ruled by me! "pixie can come at once--the sooner the better, but for pity's sake, my dear, spare me the frocks. felice can run her up a few things to last until i have time to take her to town. if i am to take her about, she must be dressed to please _me_, and do _me_ credit. "we have people coming and going all the time, and i'll be thankful to have her. i wouldn't say so for the world, bridgie, but you _have_ been selfish about pixie! never a bit of her have i had to myself; she has come for the regular christmas visits, of course, and sometimes in summer, but it's always been with you and dick and the children; it's only the leavings of attention she's had to spare for any one else. now my boys will have a chance! perhaps she can keep them in order--_i_ can't! they are the pride and the shame, and the joy and the grief, and the sunshine and the--thunder and lightning and earthquake of my life. bridgie, did you ever think it would feel like that to be a mother? i thought it would be all pure joy, but there's a big ache mixed in-- "geoff was so naughty this morning, so disobedient and rude, and i prayed, bridgie--i shut myself in my room and prayed for patience, and then went down and spoke to him so sweetly. you'd have loved to hear me. i said: `if you want to grow up a good, wise man like father, you must learn to be gentle and polite. did you ever hear father speak rudely to me?'--`oh, no,' says he, quite simply, `_but i've often heard you speak rudely to him_!' now, what was a poor misguided mother to say to that? especially when it was true! you are never cross, so your youngsters can never corner you like that; but i am--often! which proves that i need pixie more than you do, and she'd better hurry along." pixie came lightly into the dining-room, just as bridgie was reading the last words of the letter. she was almost invariably late for breakfast, a fact which was annoying to captain victor's soldierly sense of punctuality. he looked markedly at the clock, and pixie said genially, "i apologise, me dear. the young need sleep!" then she fell to work at her porridge with healthy enjoyment. she wore a blue serge skirt and a bright, red silk shirt, neatly belted by a strip of patent-leather. the once straggly locks were parted in the middle, and swathed round a little head which held itself jauntily aloft; her eyes danced, her lips curved. it was a bare eight o'clock in the morning, a period when most people are languid and half-awake. but there was no languor about pixie; she looked intensely, brilliantly alive. a stream of vitality seemed to emanate from her little form and fill the whole room. the dog stirred on the rug and rose to his feet; the canary hopped to a higher perch and began to sing; dick victor felt an access of appetite, and helped himself to a second egg and more bacon. "this is wednesday," announced pixie genially, "and it's fine. i love fine wednesdays! it's a habit from the old school-time, when they were half-holidays, and meant so, much. ... i wonder what nice thing will happen to-day." husband and wife exchanged a glance. they knew and loved this habit of expecting happiness, and looking forward to the joys rather than the sorrows of the future, which had all her life, been characteristic of pixie o'shaughnessy. they realised that it was to this quality of mind, rather than to external happenings, that she owed her cheerful serenity, but this morning it was impossible not to wonder how she would view the proposed change of abode. "i've had a letter from esmeralda," announced bridgie baldly from behind the urn, and, quick as thought, pixie's sharp eyes searched her face. "but that's not nice. it's given you a wrinkle. take no notice, and she'll write to-morrow to say she's sorry. she's got to worry or die, but there's no reason why you should die too. roll it up into spills, and forget all about it." "i can't--it's important. and she's not worrying. it's very--" bridgie paused for a moment, just one moment, to swallow that accusation of selfishness--"_kind_! pixie darling, it's about _you_." "me!" cried pixie, and dropped her spoon with a clang. bridgie had already pushed back her chair from the table; pixie pushed hers to follow suit. such a prosaic affair as breakfast had plainly vanished from their thoughts, but captain victor had by no means forgotten, nor did it suit him to face emotional scenes to an accompaniment of bacon and eggs. "_after_ breakfast, please!" he cried, in what his wife described as his "barracks" voice, and which had the effect in this instance of making her turn on the tap of the urn so hurriedly that she had not had time to place her cup underneath. she blushed and frowned. pixie deftly moved the toast-rack so as to conceal the damage, and proceeded to eat a hearty breakfast with undiminished appetite. it was not until captain victor had left the room to pay his morning visit to the nursery, that bridgie again referred to her sister's letter, and then her first words were of reproach. "how you could sit there, pixie, eating your breakfast, as calm as you please, when you knew there was news--news that concerned yourself!" "i was hungry," said pixie calmly. "and i love excitement; it's the breath of my nostrils. all the while i was making up stories, with myself as heroine. i'm afraid it will be only disappointment i'll feel when you tell me. truth is so tame, compared to imagination. besides, there was dick!" she smiled a forbearing, elderly smile. "you can't live in the house with dick without learning self-control. he's so--" "he's not!" contradicted dick's wife, with loyal fervour. "dick was quite right; he always is. it was his parents who were to blame for making him english." she sighed, and stared reflectively out of the window. "we ought to be thankful, pixie, that we are irish through and through. it means so much that english people can't even understand-- seeing jokes when they are sad, and happiness when they are bored and being poor and not caring, and miserable and forgetting, and interested, and excited--" "every single hour!" concluded pixie deeply, and they laughed in concert. in the contemplation of the advantages of an irish temperament they had come near forgetting the real subject of discussion, but the sight of the letter on the table before her recalled it to bridgie's remembrance. she straightened her back and assumed an air of responsibility, a natural dramatic instinct prompting her to play her part in appropriate fashion. "dick and i have been feeling, my dear, that as you are now really grown-up, you ought to be having a livelier time than we can give you in this strange town, and esmeralda has been saying the same thing for years past. she feels we have been rather selfish in keeping you so much to ourselves, and thinks that it is her turn to have you to live with her for a time. we think so too, pixie. not for altogether, of course. for three or four months, say; and then you might go over to knock, and come back to us again for christmas. of course, darling, you understand that we don't _want_ you to go!" pixie stared silently across the table. she had grown rather white, and her brows were knitted in anxious consideration. "bridget victor," she said solemnly, "is it the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth you are telling me, or is it just an excuse to get me out of the way? if there's any trouble, or worry, or illness, or upset coming on, that you want to spare me because i'm young, you'd better know at once that it will only be the expense of the journey wasted, for on the very first breath of it i'd fly back to you if it was across the world!" "i know it," said bridgie, and blinked back a tear. "but it's the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, pixie, that we are the happiest, and the healthiest, and the contentedest little family in the country, and there's no need to worry about us. we were thinking only of you, and you are free in this instance to think only of yourself." "that's agreeable!" was pixie's comment. the frown left her brow and she smiled, the wide lips parting to show brilliantly white little teeth, teeth very nearly as pretty and infantile as those belonging to the small patsie upstairs. beholding that smile, bridgie had no doubt as to the verdict which she was about to hear, and suffered an unreasoning pang of disappointment. "then i'll confess to you, my dear," continued pixie affably, "that i find myself just in the mood for excitement. so long as you are well there's nothing on earth i'd love so much at this moment as to go off on a junket. if esmeralda wants to give me a good time, let the poor thing have her way--_i'll_ not hinder her! i'll go, and i'll love it; but i'll not promise how long i shall stay--all sorts of things may happen." "yes," said bridgie dreamily, "all sorts of things!" and so pixie o'shaughnessy went forth to meet her fate. chapter five. in marble halls. mrs geoffrey hilliard, _nee_ joan o'shaughnessy, was the second daughter of the family, and had been christened esmeralda "for short" by the brothers and sisters of whom she had been alternately the pride and the trial. the fantastic name had an appropriateness so undeniable that even joan's husband had adopted it in his turn for use in the family circle, reserving the more dignified "joan" for more ceremonious occasions. "esmeralda" had been a beauty from her cradle, and would be a beauty if she lived to be a hundred, for her proud, restless features were perfectly chiselled, and her great grey eyes, with the long black lashes on the upper and lower lid, were as eloquent as they were lovely. when she was angry, they seemed to send out veritable flashes of fire; when she was languid, the white lids drooped and the fringed eyelashes veiled them in a misty calm; when she was loving, when she held her boys in her arms, or spoke a love word in her husband's ear, ah! then it was a joy indeed to behold the beauty of those limpid eyes! they "melted" indeed, not with tears, but with the very essence of tenderness and love. "esmeralda's so nice that you couldn't believe she was so horrid!" pixie had declared once in her earlier years, and unfortunately there was still too much truth in the pronouncement. seven years of matrimony, and the responsibility of two young sons, had failed to discipline the hasty, intolerant nature, although they had certainly deepened the inner longing for improvement. joan devotedly loved her husband, but accepted as her right his loyal devotion, and felt bitterly aggrieved when his forbearance occasionally gave way. she adored her two small sons, and her theories on motherhood were so sweet and lofty that bridgie, listening thereto, had been moved to tears. but in practice the theories were apt to go to the wall. to do joan justice she would at any time have marched cheerfully to the stake if by so doing she could have saved her children from peril, but she was incapable of being patient during one long rainy afternoon, when confinement in the house had aroused into full play those mischievous instincts characteristic of healthy and spirited youngsters; and if any one imagines that the two statements contradict each other, he has yet to learn that heroic heights of effort are easier of accomplishment than a steady jog-trot along a dull high-road. joan hilliard's reflections on the coming of her younger sister were significant of her mental attitude. "pixie's no trouble. she's such an easy soul. she fits into corners and fills in the gaps. she'll amuse the boys. it will keep them in good humour to have her to invent new games. she'll keep geoff company at breakfast when i'm tired. i'll get some of the duty visits over while she's here. she'll talk to the bores, and be so pleased at the sound of her own voice that she'll never notice they don't answer. and she'll cheer me up when _i'm_ bored. and, of course, i'll take her about--" pixie's amusement, it will be noticed, was but a secondary consideration to joan's own ease and comfort; for though it may be a very enjoyable experience to be a society beauty and exchange poverty for riches, no one will be brave enough to maintain that such an experience is conducive to the growth of spiritual qualities. sweet-hearted bridgie might possibly have come unscathed through the ordeal, but esmeralda was made of a different clay. pixie started alone on the three hours' journey, for the victor household possessed no maid who could be spared, and husband and wife were both tied by home duties; moreover, being a modern young woman, she felt perfectly competent to look after herself, and looked forward to the experience with pleasure rather than dread. bridgie was inclined to be tearful at parting, and pixie's artistic sense prompted a similar display, but she found herself simply incapable of forcing a tear. "it's worse for you than for me," she confessed candidly, "for you've nothing to do, poor creature! but go home to cold mutton and darning, while i'm off to novelty and adventure. that's why the guests sometimes cry at a wedding, out of pity for themselves, because they can't go off on a honeymoon with a trousseau and an adoring groom. they pretend it's sympathetic emotion, but it isn't; it's nothing in the world but selfish regret. ... don't cry, darling; it makes me feel so mean. think of the lovely _tete-a-tete_ this will mean for dick and you!" "yes--in the evenings. i'll love that!" confessed bridgie, with the candour of her race. "but oh, pixie, the long, dull days, and no one to laugh with me at the jokes the english can't see, or to make pretend!--" "ah!" mourned pixie deeply, "i'll miss that, too! the times we've had, imagining a fortune arriving by the afternoon post, and spending it all before dinner! all the fun, and none of the trouble. but it's dull, imagining all by oneself! and dick's no good. he calls it waste of time! i shall marry an irishman, bridgie, when my time comes!" "get into the train and don't talk nonsense!" said bridgie firmly. she felt it prophetic that on this eve of departure pixie's remarks should again touch on husbands and weddings, but not for the world would she have hinted as much. she glanced at the other occupant of the carriage--a stout, middle-aged woman, and was on the point of inviting her chaperonage when a warning gleam in pixie's eyes silenced the words on her lips. so presently the train puffed out of the station, and bridgie victor turned sadly homewards even as pixie seated herself with a bounce, and smiled complacently into space. "that's over!" she said to herself with a sigh of relief, glad as ever, to be done with painful things and able to look forward to the good to come. "she thinks she's miserable, the darling, but she'll be as happy as a grig the moment she gets back to dick and the children. that's the worst of living with married sisters! they can manage so well without you. i'd prefer some one who was frantic if i turned my back--" she smiled at the thought, and met an ingratiating smile upon the face of her travelling companion. the companion was stout and elderly, handsomely dressed, and evidently of a sociable disposition. it was the height of her ambition on a railway journey to meet another woman to whom she could shout confidences for hours upon end, but it was rarely that her sentiments were returned. fate had been kind to her to-day in placing pixie o'shaughnessy in the same carriage. "the young lady seemed quite distressed to leave you. is she your sister?" "she is. do you think we are alike?" "i--i wouldn't go so far as to say _alike_!" the large lady said blandly; "but there's a _look_! as i always say, there's no knowing where you are with a family likeness. my eldest girl--may--takes after her father; felicia, the youngest, is the image of myself; yet they've been mistaken for each other times and again. it's a turn of the chin.--is she married?" "who? bridgie--my sister? oh yes--very much. six years." "dear me! she looks so young! my may is twenty-seven. she has had her chances, of course. any children?" "wh--" pixie's mind again struggled after the connection. "oh, two--a boy and a girl. they are called," she added, with a benevolent consciousness of sparing further effort, "patrick and patricia." "irish, evidently," the large lady decided shrewdly. "rather awkward, isn't it, about pet names, and laundry marks, and so forth? however. ... and so you've been paying her a visit, i suppose, and are returning to your home?" "one of my homes," corrected pixie happily. "i have three. two sisters and one brother. and they all like to have me. my parents are dead." her tone showed that the loss referred to was of many years' standing; nevertheless, the stout lady hurriedly changed the conversation, as though fearful of painful reminiscences. "i have been having a morning's shopping. we live _quite_ in the country, and i come to town every time i need a new gown. i have been arranging for one this morning, for a wedding. so difficult, when one has no ideas! i chose purple." pixie cocked her head on one side and thoughtfully pursed her lips. "very nice! yes, purple's so--_portly_!" she surprised a puckering of the large lady's face, and hastened to supplement the description. "portly, and--er--regal, and _duchessy_, don't you think? i met a duchess once--she was rather like you--and _she_ wore purple!" the large lady expanded in a genial warmth. her lips opened in a breathless question-- "how was the bodice made?" pixie reflected deeply. "i can't exactly _say_! but it was years ago. it would be quite _demode_. for a wedding, of course, you must be up to date. weddings make a fuss for months, and are so _soon_ over--i mean for the guests. they are not _much_ fun." "where did you meet the duchess?" "oh, at my sister's--the one i am going to now. in her town house, at a reception one afternoon. she had a purple dress with lace, and a queen victoria sort of bonnet with strings, and little white feathers sticking up in the front; and she had a--" pixie smiled into space with reminiscent enjoyment--"_beautiful_ sense of humour!" the large lady looked deeply impressed, and, beginning at the topmost ribbon on pixie's hat, stared steadily downward to the tip of the little patent-leather shoe, evidently expecting to find points of unusual interest in the costume of a girl whose sister entertained a duchess in her town house. the train had rattled through a small hamlet and come out again into the open before she spoke again. "do you see many of them?" "which? what? bonnets? feathers? i don't think i quite--" "duchesses!" said the large lady deeply. and pixie, who still preserved her childish love of cutting a dash, fought with, and overcame an unworthy temptation to invent several such titles on the spot. "not--many," she confessed humbly, "but, you see, i'm so young--i'm hardly `out.' the sister with whom i've been living has not been able to entertain. where i'm going it is different. i expect to be very gay." the large lady nodded brightly. "quite right! quite right! only young once. laugh while you may. i like to see young things enjoying themselves. ... and then you'll be getting engaged, and marrying." "oh, of course," assented pixie, with an alacrity in such sharp contrast with the protests with which the modern girl sees fit to meet such prophecies, that the hearer was smitten not only with surprise but anxiety. an expression of real motherly kindliness shone in her eyes as she fixed them upon the girl's small, radiant face. "i hope it will be `of course,' dear, and that you may be very, very happy; but it's a serious question. i'm an old-fashioned body, who believes in love. if it's the real thing it _lasts_, and it's about the only thing upon which you can count. health comes and goes, and riches take wing. when i married papa he was in tin-plates, and doing well, but owing to american treaties (you wouldn't understand!) we had to put down servants and move into a smaller house. now, if i'd married him for money, how should i have felt _then_?" pixie wagged her head with an air of the deepest dejection. she was speculating as to the significance of tin-plates, but thought it tactful not to inquire. "i hope--" she breathed deeply--"i hope the tin-plates--" and her companion gathered together her satchel and cloak in readiness for departure at the next station, nodding a cheerful reassurance. "oh, yes; _quite_ prosperous again! have been for years. but it only shows. ... and papa has attacks of gout. they are trying, my dear, to _me_, as well as to himself; but if you love a man--well, it comes easier. ... here's my station. so glad to have met you! i'll remember about the purple." the train stopped, and the good lady alighted and passed through the wicket-gate, and her late companion watched her pass with a sentimental sigh. "`ships that pass in the night, and signal each other in passing.' she took to me, and i took to her. she'll talk about me all evening to may and felicia, and the tin-plate papa, and ten chances to one we'll never meet again. `it's a sad world, my masters!'" sighed pixie, and dived in her bag for a chocolate support. the rest of the journey brought no companion so confidential, and pixie was heartily glad to arrive at her destination, and as the train slackened speed to run into the station, to catch a glimpse of esmeralda sitting straight and stately in a high cart ready to drive her visitor back to the hall. motors were very well in their way--useful trainlets ready to call at one's own door and whirl one direct to the place where one would be, but the girl who had hunted with her father since she was a baby of four years old was never _so_ happy as when she was in command of a horse. as the new-comer climbed up into the high seat the beautiful face was turned towards her with a smile as sweet and loving as bridgie's own. "well, pixie! ah, dearie, this is good. i've got you at last." "esmeralda, _darling_! what an angel you look!" "don't kiss me in public, _please_," snapped esmeralda, becoming prosaic with startling rapidity at the first hint of visible demonstration. she signalled to the groom, and off they went, trotting down the country lane in great contentment of spirits. "how's everybody?" asked esmeralda. "well? that's right. you can tell me the details later on. now, you have just to forget bridgie for a bit, and think of _me_. i've wanted you for years, and i told bridgie to her face she was selfish to keep you away. if i'm not a good example, you can take example by my faults, and isn't that just as good? and there's so much that i want you to do. you always loved to help, didn't you, pixie?" "i did," assented pixie, but the quick ears of the listener detected a hint of hesitation in the sound. the dark eyebrows arched in haughty questioning, and pixie, no whit abashed, shrugged her shoulders and confessed with a laugh: "but to tell you the truth, my dear, it was not so much for helping, as for having a good time for myself, that i started on this trip. bridgie said i'd been domestic long enough, and needed to play for a change, and there's a well of something bubbling up inside me that longs, simply _longs_, for a vent. of course, if one could combine the two..." joan hilliard looked silently into the girl's bright face and made a mental comparison. she thought of the round of change and amusement which constituted her own life, and then of the little house in the northern city in which pixie's last years had been spent; of the monotonous, if happy, round of duties, every day the same, from year's end to year's end, of the shortage of means, of friends, of opportunities, and a wave of compunction overwhelmed her. esmeralda never did things by halves; neither had she any false shame about confessing her faults. "i'm a selfish brute," she announced bluntly. "i deserve to be punished. if i go on like this i _shall_ be some day! i'm always thinking of myself, when i'm not in a temper with some one else. it's an awful thing, pixie, to be born into the world with a temper. and now, geoff has inherited it from me." she sighed, shook the reins, and brightened resolutely. "never mind, you _shall_ have a good time, darling! there's a girl staying in the house now--you'll like her--and two young men, and lots of people coming in and out." pixie heaved a sigh of beatific content. "to-night? at once? that's what i love--to tumble pell-mell into a whirl of dissipation. i never could bear to wait. i'm pining to see geoffrey and the boys, and all your wonderful new possessions. you must be happy, esmeralda, to have so much, and be so well, and pretty, and rich. aren't you just burstingly happy?" joan did not answer. she stared ahead over the horse's head with a strange, rapt look in the wonderful eyes. an artist would have loved to paint her at that moment, but it would not have been as a type of happiness. the expression spoke rather of struggle, of restlessness, and want--a spiritual want which lay ever at the back of the excitement and glamour, clamouring to be filled. pixie looked at her sister, just once, and then averted her eyes. hers was the understanding which springs from love, and she realised that her simple question had struck a tender spot. instead of waiting for an answer she switched the conversation to ordinary, impersonal topics, and kept it there until the house was reached. tea was waiting in the large inner hall, and the girl visitor came forward to be introduced and shake hands. she was a slim, fair creature with masses of hair of a pale flaxen hue, swathed round her head, and held in place by large amber pins. not a hair was out of place--the effect was more like a bandage of pale brown silk than ordinary human locks. her dress was made in the extreme of the skimpy fashion, and her little feet were encased in the most immaculate of silk shoes and stockings. she looked pixie over in one quick, appraising glance, and pixie stared back with widened eyes. "my sister, patricia o'shaughnessy," declaimed esmeralda. whereupon the strange girl bowed and repeated, "miss pat-ricia o'shaughnessy. pleased to meet you," in a manner which proclaimed her american birth as unmistakably as a flourish of the stars and stripes. then tea was brought in, and two young men joined the party, followed by the host, geoffrey hilliard, who gave the warmest of welcomes to his little sister-in-law. his kiss, the grasp of his hand, spoke of a deeper feeling than one of mere welcome, and pixie had an instant perception that geoffrey, like his wife, felt in need of help. the first glance had shown him more worn and tired than a man should be who has youth, health, a beautiful wife, charming children, and more money than he knows how to spend; but whatever hidden troubles might exist, they were not allowed to shadow this hour of meeting. "sure, and this is a sight for sore eyes!" he cried, with a would-be adaptation of an irish accent. "you're welcome, pixie--a hundred times welcome. we're overjoyed to see you, dear." pixie beamed at him, with an attention somewhat diverted by the two young men who stared at her from a few yards' distance. one was tall and fair, the other dark and thick set, and when esmeralda swept forward to make the formal introductions it appeared that the first rejoiced in the name of stanor vaughan, and the second in the much more ordinary one of robert carr. "my sister patricia," once more announced mrs hilliard, and though the young men ascribed pixie's blush to a becoming modesty, it arose in reality from annoyance at the sound of the high-sounding title which had been so persistently dropped all her life. surely esmeralda was not going to insist upon "patricia!" for a few moments everybody remained standing, the men relating their experiences of the afternoon, while esmeralda waited for some further additions to the tea-table, and pixie's quick-seeing eyes roamed here and there gathering impressions to be stored away for later use. she was too excited, too interested, to talk herself, but her ears were as quick as her eyes, and so it happened that she caught a fragment of conversation between miss ward and the tall mr vaughan, which was certainly not intended for her ears. "...a _sister_!" he was repeating in tones of incredulous astonishment. "a sister! but how extraordinarily unlike! she must have thrown in her own beauty to add to mrs hilliard's share!" "oh, hush!" breathed the girl urgently. "_she heard_!" stanor vaughan lifted his head sharply and met pixie's watching eyes fixed upon him. his own glance was tense and shamed, but to his amazement hers was friendly, humorous, undismayed. there was no displeasure in her face, no hint of humiliation nor discomfiture-- nothing, it would appear, but serene, unruffled agreement. stanor vaughan had not a good memory: few events of his youth remained with him after middle life, but when he was an old, old man that moment still remained vivid, when, in the place of rebuke, he first met the radiance of pixie. o'shaughnessy's broad, sweet smile. chapter six. a talk about men--and pickles. stanor vaughan was deputed to take pixie in to dinner that evening, an arrangement which at the beginning of the meal appeared less agreeable to him than to his partner. he cast furtive glances at the small, plain, yet mysteriously attractive little girl, who was the sister of the beautiful mrs hilliard, the while she ate her soup, and found himself attacked by an unusual nervousness. he didn't know what to say: he didn't know how to say it. he had made a bad start, and he wished with all his heart that he could change places with carr and "rot" with that jolly miss ward. all the same, he found himself curiously attracted by this small miss o'shaughnessy, and he puzzled his handsome head to discover why. there was no beauty in the little face, and, as a rule, stanor, as he himself would have expressed it, had "no use" for a girl who was plain. what really attracted him was the happiness and serenity which shone in pixie's face, as light shines through the encircling glass, for to human creatures as to plants the great necessity of life is sun, and its attraction is supreme. walk along a crowded street and watch the different faces of the men and women as they pass by--grey faces, drab faces, white faces, yellow faces, faces sad and cross, and lined and dull, faces by the thousand blank of any expression at all, and then here and there, at rare, rare intervals, a _live_ face that speaks. you spy it afar off--a face with shining eyes, with lips curled ready for laughter, with arching brows, and tilted chin, and every little line and wrinkle speaking of _life_. that face is as a magnet to attract not only eyes, but hearts into the bargain; the passers-by, rouse themselves from their lethargy to smile back in sympathy, and pass on their way wafting mental messages of affection.--"what a _dear_ girl!" they cry, or "woman," or "man," as the case may be. "what a charming face! i should like to know that girl." and the girl with the happy face goes on _her_ way, all the happier for the kindly, thoughts by which she is pursued. when strangers were first introduced to pixie o'shaughnessy they invariably catalogued her as a plain-looking girl; when they had known her for an hour they began to feel that they had been mistaken, and at the end of a week they would have been prepared to quarrel with their best friend if he had echoed their own first judgment. the charm of her personality soon overpowered the physical deficiency. stanor vaughan was as yet too young and prosperous to realise the real reason of pixie's attraction. he decided that it was attributable to her trim, jaunty little figure and the unusual fashion in which she dressed her hair. also she wore a shade of bright flame-coloured silk which made a special appeal to his artistic eye, and he approved of the simple, graceful fashion of its cut. "looks as if she'd had enough stuff!" he said to himself, with all a man's dislike of the prevailing hobble. he pondered how to open the conversation, asking himself uneasily what punishment the girl would award him for his _faux pas_ of the afternoon. would she be haughty? she didn't look the kind of little thing to be haughty! would she be cold and aloof? somehow, glancing at the irregular, piquant little profile, he could not imagine her aloof. would she snap? ah! now he was not so certain. he saw distinct possibilities of snap, and then, just as he determined that he really must make the plunge and get it over, pixie leaned confidentially toward him and said below her breath-- "_please_ talk! make a start--any start--and i'll go on. ... it's your place to begin." "er--er--" stammered stanor, and promptly forgot every subject of conversation under the sun. he stared back into the girl's face, met her honest eyes, and was seized with an impulse of confession. "before i say anything else, i--i ought to apologise, miss o'shaughnessy. i'm most abominably ashamed. i'm afraid you overheard my--er--er--w-what i said to miss ward at tea--" "of course i heard," said pixie, staring. "what could you expect? not four yards away, and a great bass voice! i'm not _deaf_. but there's no need to feel sorry. i thought you put it very nicely, myself!" "nicely!" he stared in amaze. "_nicely_! how could you possibly--" "you said i had given esmeralda my share. i'd never once looked at it in that way; neither had any one else. and it's _so soothing_. it gives me a sort of credit, don't you see, as well as a pride." she was speaking honestly, transparently honestly; it was impossible to doubt that, with her clear eyes beaming upon him, her lips curling back in laughter from her small white teeth. there was not one sign of rancour, of offence, of natural girlish vanity suffering beneath a blow. "good sport!" cried stanor, in a voice, however, which could be heard by no one but himself. his embarrassment fell from him, but not his amazement; _that_ seemed to increase with each moment that passed. his glance lingered on pixie's face, the while he said incredulously-- "it's--it's wonderful of you. i've known heaps of girls, but never one who would have taken it like that. you don't seem to have a scrap of conceit--" "ex-cuse me," corrected miss o'shaughnessy. for the first time she seemed to be slightly ruffled, as though the supposition that she could be bereft of any quality, or experience common to her kind was distinctly hurtful to her pride. "i _have_! heaps! but it's for the right things. i've too much conceit to be conceited about things about which i've no _right_ to be conceited. i'm only conceited about things about which i'm--" "conceited enough to know are worth being jolly well conceited about," concluded stanor, and they laughed together in merry understanding. "that's it," agreed pixie, nodding. "i used to be conceited about being plain, because it was so unusual in our family that it was considered quite distinguished, and my father used to boast at the hunt that he had the ugliest child in the county, though it was himself that said it. but," she gave the slightest, most ephemeral of sighs, "i've lived through that. i'm conceited now about--other things." "lots of them, i'm sure. there must be lots," agreed stanor, with a sincerity which condoned the banality of the speech. "about your good nature for one thing, i should say, and your generosity in forgiving a blundering man, and your jolly disposition which makes you smile when another girl would have been wild. i can understand all those and a lot more, but, just as a matter of curiosity, i should like to know what are you conceited about _most_?" pixie o'shaughnessy smiled. there was evidently no doubt in her own mind as to her reply. the slim figure straightened, the little head tilted in air. quick and crisp came the reply-- "i can make people do what i like!" "can you, though!" exclaimed stanor blankly. the statement seemed to threaten a mysteriously personal application, and he relapsed into a ruminating silence, the while his companion employed herself cheerfully with her dinner and the looks and conversation of her companions. it was one of pixie's special gifts to be able to do at least three things at the same time with quite a fair amount of success. she could, for instance, write a business-like letter while carrying on an animated conversation with a friend, and keeping an eye on a small child tottering around the room. brain, eyes, and limb were alike so alert that what to slower natures would have been impossible, to her involved no effort at all. therefore, when about two minutes later stanor opened his lips again to utter a short, urgent "_how_?" she had not the slightest difficulty in switching back to the subject, though she had been at the moment in the midst of an absorbing calculation as to the number of yards of lace on a dress of a lady farther down the table, and in drawing mental designs of the way it was put on, to enclose to bridgie in her next letter home. "how?" "i _understand_ them," said pixie deeply. "you can open any door if you have the key, but most people go on banging when it's shut. i wait till i find my key, and then i keep it ready until the moment arrives when i wish to get in." stanor's broad shoulders gave an involuntary movement which might almost have been taken for a shiver. once again he felt a mysterious conviction of a personal application. all his life long the phrase had rung in his ears, "i don't understand you!" "if i could once understand you!" and for lack of that understanding there had been trouble and coldness between himself and his nearest relative. proverbially he was difficult to understand; and he had prided himself on the reputation. who wanted to be a simple, transparent fellow, whom any one could lead? this was the first time in his life that he had come into contact with a girl who announced herself an expert understander of human nature. he wondered vaguely what, given the initial success, pixie would wish him to do, hesitated on the point of inquiry, thought better of it and turned the conversation to impersonal topics. after dinner pixie sat on a sofa in the drawing-room enjoying a temporary _tete-a-tete_ with the other girl visitor. miss ward's hair was, if possible, smoother than ever, and she wore a velvet dress almost exactly matching it in shade, which seemed to pixie's unsophisticated eyes an extraordinarily sumptuous garment for a young girl to wear. her eyes were brown, too--bright, quick-glancing eyes full of interest and curiosity. when she spoke her nationality became once more conspicuous. "miss pat-ricia o'shaughnessy, i guess you and i have got to be real good friends! i've been spoiling for another girl to enjoy this trip with me. if you're having a good time, it makes it twice as good to have a girl to go shares, and compare notes, and share the jokes. you look to me as if you could enjoy a joke." "i was brought up to them," pixie affirmed. "i couldn't live without. there's nothing to eat, nor to drink, nor to do, nor to have that i couldn't give up at a pinch, but a sense of humour i--must have! if you feel the same, we're friends from this minute. ... would you mind telling me as a start just exactly who you are?" miss ward's face fell. her white brows knitted in a frown. "i'm an amurrican," she announced. "mr and mrs hilliard had an introduction to my people when they visited the states, and when i came over to europe they invited me here. i'm proud to death of being an amurrican; that's of course! but there's something else. you might as well know it first as last." she straightened herself and drew a fluttering breath. "i'm in trade! i'm ward's unrivalled piquant pickles!" "wh-what?" pixie stammered in confusion, as well she might, for the announcement was unusual, to say the least of it. "pickles! cauliflower, and cabbage, and little snippets of vegetables floating in piquant sauce, in fat, square bottles. i make them in my factory. if you went over to the states you'd see my placards on every wall, and inside magazines, and on the back sheets of newspapers--a big, fat man eating a plate of cold meat with ward's unrivalled piquants by his side. they used to be my father's: now they're mine. _i_ am the unrivalled piquant pickles. i run the factory. the profits grow more e-normous every year. there's no other partners in it, only me!" if at the beginning of her speech the speaker had made an affectation of humility, she certainly ended on a note of pride, and pixie's admiration was transparently evident. "think of that now! a whole factory, and pickles, too! i adore pickles, especially the fat, cauliflowery bits. and to see one's own name on the hoardings! i'd be so proud!" "honest injun, you would? you don't feel proud and lofty because i'm in trade, and had a grandfather who couldn't read, while _your_ ancestors have been grandees for centuries? many english people _do_, you know. they have a way of looking at me as if i were a hundred miles away, and stunted at that. and others who _do_ receive me don't trouble to hide that it's for the sake of the dollars. a girl likes to be cared for for _herself_: she wants people should judge her by what she _is_. it's a big handicap, pat-ricia, to be too rich." "i'll take your word for it, me dear, having no experience," said pixie graciously; "but i'd like to be tried. as for caring--no one could help it. i do already, and i've only known you three hours, and esmeralda said you were nice enough to be irish, and it isn't the easiest thing in the world to please _her_ fancy." "she's a beautiful princess. she's been real sweet to me over here. i'm crazy about her!" honor affirmed in the slow, dragging voice which went so quaintly with her exaggerated language. "but one mrs hilliard don't make a world. you've got to be just as good to me as you know how, pat-ricia, for i've got no one belonging to me on this side nearer than an elderly cousin, twice removed, and it's a lonesome feeling. "you see, it isn't only what people think of _me_, it's the mean, suspicious feelings i've gotten towards _them_, as the result of being brought up an heiress. if i could tell you all i've endoored! the things i've been told! the things i've overheard! twenty-three men have asked me to marry them, and there wasn't an honest heart among the crowd. i'm not a new-fashioned girl: i'm made so's i'd love my own home; but sure as fate i'll die an old maid, for _i_ run away from fortune-hunters, and the honest men run away from me. if a man happened to be poor and proud, it would be a pretty stiff undertaking to propose to the biggest pickle factory in the world, and i guess i don't make it any easier. you see it's like this: the more i'm anxious that--that, er--er," she stammered uncertainly for a moment, then with forcible emphasis brought out a plural pronoun, "_they_ should care for me really and truly for _myself_, the more i think that they only think--" "exactly!" interrupted pixie, nodding. "i quite understand." and indeed she looked so exceedingly alert and understanding that honor flushed all over her small, pale face, and made haste to change the conversation. "how did you get on with your partner at dinner? pretty well, eh? he can be real charming when he likes, and there's no doubt but he's good to look at. i've met him quite a good deal since i've been over here, for he's been staying at several houses at the same time. from a european point of view, we seem quite old friends, and i've a kind of fellow-feeling for him, poor boy, for he's a sufferer from my complaint of being too well off for his own good." pixie nodded several times without speaking, her lips pursed in knowing, elderly fashion. "that accounts for it," she said, and when honor queried eagerly as to her meaning, her reply had a blighting insinuation. "i'm accustomed to soldiers--men who can fight." "that's not fair!" cried honor sharply. she straightened herself and tilted her head at an aggressive angle. "that's not fair. i guess stanor vaughan and i have to go through our own military training, and it's a heap more complicated than marching round a barrack yard! we're bound to make our own weapons, and our enemies are the worst that's made--the sort that comes skulking along in the guise of friends. there aren't any bands playing, either, to cheer us along, and when we win there are no medals and honours, only maybe an aching heart!" she drew herself up with a startled little laugh. "mussy! listen to me sermonising.--i guess i'd better get back to facts as fast as i know how. ... when i said stanor was _too_ well off, i didn't mean money exactly, but things are too easy for him all round. he's handsome, and strong, and clever, and charming, and there's an uncle in the background who plays fairy godfather and plans out his life ahead, so that he has nothing to worry about like other young men. he's not an old uncle really: he's almost young, but he had an accident as a boy which laid him up for quite a spell, and turned him into a shy recluse. then when at last he recovered, he was lame, so of course he was cut off from active life, and i guess from what i've heard that he's sensitive about it. anyway, he lives all alone, and has adopted stanor as a kind of son, and fusses over him like a hen with one chick--a bit more than the young man appreciates, i fancy." "how fuss? in what way?" "oh! ambitious, don't you know," miss ward explained vaguely. "all the things he ever wanted to be and to do, and couldn't, he is determined that stanor shall do for him. he is clever, and studious, and serious, so he is set on it that the poor boy should be a book-worm, too, and put study before everything else, and have serious ideas on--er--er--the responsibility of property." honor frowned at the tips of her small satin shoes. "drains, you know, and cottages, and overcrowding the poor. of course that kind of thing comes easy enough when you are thirty-five and lame, but poor stanor is only twenty-four, and as handsome as paint. it's difficult to be serious-minded at twenty-four, and patient with people who fuss!" pixie knitted her brows with an air of perturbation. "but i hope he is nice to his uncle. it would be so hard to be hurt in your body and hurt in your mind at the same time. it's bad enough for him, poor creature, to have to sit still and live his life through another. his heart is not crippled, nor his mind, nor his will, and fancy, me dear, going on being patient, day after day, year after year, while your body held you back, and you longed, and couldn't, and felt the spirit to move a mountain, and were obliged to lie still on a sofa!" pixie bounced in a characteristic fashion on her own sofa corner, and whisked a minute pocket-handkerchief to her eyes. "excuse me, me dear, will you change the conversation? i was always soft-hearted, but red eyes at a dinner party are not _a la mode_. ... let's talk about pickles!--" chapter seven. pixie is dull. geoffrey hilliard and his two guests entered the drawing-room, and pixie's eyes turned to greet them with a smile. she was longing to talk to each one of them in turns, and with her usual complacency was assured that each would reciprocate the wish. but the next moment brought with it a jar, for geoffrey crossed the room to join his wife, and the two younger men made a bee-line for the chair by the _other_ side of the sofa, whereon honor sat ensconced! it was only a minute, less than a minute, before stanor had established a lead, and mr carr's deviation to the left was a triumph of smiling composure; nevertheless, pixie's sharp eyes had seen and understood, and her heart felt a natural girlish pang. at twenty it is hard to accept with resignation the part of second fiddle, and pixie's generosity had its limits--as whose has not? she had looked at honor's pretty face and costly gown, had heard of her wealth and independence with the purest and most ungrudging pleasure, but when it became a case of superior popularity, that was a very different matter! positively, it was quite an effort to twist her lips into a smile to greet mr carr, and it made matters no better to perceive the artificiality of his response. he was a man several years older than the handsome stanor, and his type of face was so essentially legal that his profession as barrister could be guessed even before it was known. his chin was the most pronounced feature of the face--it was really interesting to discover just how assertive a chin could be. it was a prominent, deeply indented specimen, which ascribed to itself so much power of expression that even the eyes themselves played a secondary part. the tilt of it, the droop of it, the aggressive tilt forward were each equally eloquent, and, one felt sure, must make equal appeal to a british jury. at this moment, however, there was no jury at hand--only pixie o'shaughnessy, feeling very small and snubbed in her corner of the sofa, and robbed for the moment of her accustomed aplomb by the blighting consciousness that she was not wanted. robert carr's chin was leaning very dejectedly forward; he would have voted his companion a tongue-tied little bore if stanor vaughan had not taken the opportunity of a moment when his host was absent from the dining-room to recount her "sporting" forgiveness of his own _faux pas_. "that's the right sort. i like that girl!" had been robert's reply, and the good impression was strong enough to withstand a fair amount of discouragement. so he discoursed to pixie on the subject of pictures, of which she knew nothing; and she switched the conversation round to music, of which he knew less; and she cast furtive glances of longing towards the other couple, who were laughing and chattering together with every appearance of enjoyment, and he kept his eyes rigorously averted, while his chin drooped ever lower and lower in growing depression. later on the whole party played several rather foolish games, of which pixie had never heard before, and in which she consequently did not shine, which was still another depressing circumstance to add to the list. when esmeralda escorted her sister upstairs to bed she said blightingly, "you were very dull to-night, pixie. were you shy, by any chance? _please_ don't be shy; it's such poor form!" which was not the most soothing night-cap in the world for a young woman who had privately made up her mind to take society by storm. not since the first night in the dormitory at holly house had pixie felt so lone and lorn as she did when the door was shut, and she was left alone in the big, luxurious bedroom. she stood before a swing mirror, gazing at her own reflection, contrasting it with those of esmeralda and honor, and reflecting on her sister's parting words. "this," said she to herself, with melancholy resignation--"this is the sort of discipline that is good for the young! at this rate i'll grow so chastened that they won't recognise me when i go home." for a whole, minute she stood mute and motionless, pondering over the prospect; then the light danced back into her eyes, she shrugged her shoulders, and composedly began her undressing. the next day broke bright and warm, and after a leisurely breakfast the four visitors strolled about for an hour, looking at the dogs and horses and playing with the two small boys, who were making all the mischief they could on the cedar lawn, while their french nurse looked on with sympathetic enjoyment. marie was quite a character in the household, and was admitted to a degree of intimacy rarely accorded to an english domestic. she was that somewhat unusual combination, a parisian protestant, but in other respects remained one of the most typically french creatures who was ever born. meet her in any quarter of the world, in any nation, in any garb, and for no fraction of a moment could the beholder doubt her nationality. she was french in appearance, in expression, in movement, in thought, in character, and in deed; lovable, intelligent, vivacious, easily irritated, but still more easily pleased, sharp of tongue, tender of heart, and full to overflowing with humour. in appearance marie was small and slight, with a sallow complexion which was the bane of her life, black hair and beautiful white teeth. no one could call her handsome, but she had certainly an attraction of her own. this morning pixie arrived upon the scene in time to overhear a typical conversation between the nurse and her two charges. geoff, the elder of the two brothers, a handsome, imperious youngster, having overheard a chance remark as to his own likeness to his mother, was engaged in a rigorous cross-questioning of marie, on the subject. "marie, am i beautiful?" "leetle boys are not beautiful. it is enough when they are good." "my mother is beautiful. mr carr says i am like my mother." "ugly people can be like beautiful people. how can a dirty little boy be like a _belle grande dame_? regard thy hands! four times already have they been scrubbed." "my hands can be clean when i like. i was talking of if i was beautiful." "silence, miserable one! the appearance is of no account," pronounced marie boldly. "to be good is better than beauty." geoffrey drew his brows together in a frown. he was displeased, and when he was displeased he made himself felt. "i should fink, marie," he said deliberately, "that you must be the goodest person in all the world." the inference was plain, so plain that sensitive little jack coloured up to the roots of his hair. jack was the sweetest and most lovable of children--a flaxen-haired cherub, whose winning face and gentle ways made him universally beloved. among the children of the second generation he stood out pre-eminently, and every one of his aunts and uncles enshrined him in a special niche of affection. pixie had known many searchings of heart because of her own partiality, but was fain to console herself by the thought that jack was even more like the beloved bridgie than bridgie's own sturdy, commonplace son. as for jack, he loved everybody, marie among the number, and, feeling her depreciated, rushed stutteringly to the rescue. "oh, geoff!" he cried eagerly. "you souldn't! you souldn't, geoff! i know somefing that's uglier than marie--" geoff's scowl deepened. he might insinuate, but a barefaced putting into words outraged his feelings. his eyes sent out flashes of lightning at the innocent little blunderer, but marie's eyes shone; her face was one beam of tender amusement. "what then, _cherie_? tell thy marie!" "m-monkeys!" lisped jack. the roar of derision which greeted this consolatory statement brought the startled tears into jack's eyes, but marie's arms wrapped round him, and her voice cooed in his ear. "little pigeon! little cabbage! weep not, my darling! marie does not laugh. marie understands. it is true! the monkeys are more ugly than i." pixie turned, to find esmeralda standing beside her, her brows frowning, while her lips smiled. she put her hand through her sister's arm and drew her away. "leave them alone; marie manages them best. poor, weeny jack! he meant so well!" she drew a long sigh. "those two boys are just a newer edition of their parents. little jack is geoffrey over again--just the same kind, patient, sensitive disposition; and geoff is me. when he is in one of his moods it's like looking at myself in a mental glass. i'm furious with him for showing me how hateful i can be, and at the same time i understand what he is feeling so well that my heart nearly breaks with sympathy. it's terrible to feel that one is showing a bad example to one's own child, when one cares so much that at any moment one would be willingly flayed alive to do him good!" "improve your example, me dear--wouldn't that be simpler!" cried pixie, with an air of breezy common sense which was in startling contrast to the other's tragic fervour. there was a time for everything, pixie reflected, and it did _not_ seem a judicious moment for a hostess to indulge in heroics, what time the members of her house-party were advancing to meet her with faces wreathed in expectancy. they made a goodly picture in the spring sunshine--the little trim girl and the two tall men attired in the easy country kit which is so becoming to the anglo-saxon type. the young hostess looked at them and gave a start of recollection. "oh, of course! i was forgetting. ... we have been arranging a picnic. geoff has ordered the big car for eleven. he is to drive us a twenty-mile spin to the beginning of frame woods. the chauffeur will go on by train and meet us there, to take the car round by the high-road and meet us a few miles farther on with the hampers. the woods are carpeted with primroses just now, so we shall enjoy the walk, and it will give us an appetite for lunch." pixie gave a little prance of jubilation. "lovely! lovely! i adore picnics! we'll gather, sticks to boil a kettle, to make tea, and boil eggs, like we used to do at home when any one had a birthday. and the sticks always fell in, and the water got smoked!" honor and the two men had joined the sisters by this time, and stood looking on with amusement. "miss o'shaughnessy seems to appreciate smoked tea," said stanor, and pixie sturdily defended her position. "i don't; it's hateful! but you can have _nice_ tea every day, of your life, and the game _is_ worth the candle! you can always pour it away and drink milk, and you've had all the fun--gathering the wood, and stoking, and looking at the smoke, and the blaze, and hearing the crackle, and smelling the dear, _woody_ smell--" "and blacking your hands, and spoiling your temper, and waiting for--how many hours does it take for a watched kettle to boil?--and in the end throwing away the result! you're easily pleased, miss o'shaughnessy!" "i _am_, praise be!" assented pixie, with a fervour which brought four pairs of eyes upon her with a mingling of interest and admiration. so far as features were concerned, it was a plain little face on which they gazed; yet no one could have called it plain at that moment, for, it was irradiated by that rarest of all beauties, an expression of radiant contentment. in comparison with that face those of the beholders appeared tired and discouraged, old before their time, by reason of drooping lips, puckered brows, and wrinkled foreheads; and it was evident that they themselves were aware of the fact, and stood, as it were, as amateurs before a master. robert carr poked forward his chin, and stared at her between narrowed eyes. handsome stanor smiled approval, honor slipped a little hand through her arm, and esmeralda sighed and frowned, and said with a shrug-- "oh, we've lived past that, pixie! nowadays we take thermos bottles, and luncheon baskets, and hot-water dishes, and dine just as-- uninterestingly as we do at home! english people wouldn't thank you for a scramble. you must wait until you go back to knock to jack and sylvia, and even there the infection is creeping. jack is developing quite a taste for luxury." "i like it myself. dear mrs hilliard, please let us have luxuries to-day!" stanor pleaded; and joan turned back to the house to superintend arrangements, while the four young people sauntered slowly about the grounds. honor's hand still rested on pixie's arm, and her voice had a wistful tone as she said-- "i'd like to fix a picnic _your_ way some time, pat-ricia! it would be a heap more fun. it must be fine to be a large family and make believe together. it's a problem for an only child to make mischief all by itself. ... did you have real good times in that old castle with the funny name?" "we did!" affirmed pixie eloquently. "there were so many of us, and so little to go round, that we were kept busy contriving and scheming the whole time, and, when _that_ failed, falling back on imagination to fill in the gaps. it's more comfortable to be rich, but it's not half so exciting. when you have very few things, and wait an age for them, it's thrilling beyond words when they _do_ arrive. when bridgie re-covered the cushions in the drawing-room we all came to call in a string, and sat about on chairs, discussing the weather and studying the colour effects from different angles. then we turned on the light and pretended to be a party. i suppose esmeralda never _notices_ a cushion!" pixie sighed, and honor stared, and robert carr looked from one to the other, his thin lips twitching in sarcastic fashion. chapter eight. a long, long letter. from pixie o'shaughnessy to bridgie victor: "not a moment have i had to write to you, honey, since the first wee note, and i've been here a whole three days. it's the most distracting thing in the world when you've nothing to do, and takes up more time than you'd believe. i think of you all in the morning in the dear little house, every one bustling round, and only longing for more hands and legs to get along the quicker, while here we sit, the six of us, dawdling over breakfast, with not a thing to think of but how to waste the time until we can decently begin to eat again! it isn't energetic, and it isn't useful, and it isn't wise, or noble, or improving, or anything of the kind, but i won't disguise from you, my dear, that, by way of a change, it's exceedingly agreeable to the feelings. "in esmeralda's language, there is no one here at present, which means that there are three other visitors besides my important self, and, what is more, my dear, there's a full-fledged romance being acted under my very eyes. here's luck! aren't things kind to happen so conveniently for me? "_heroine_. honor ward, aged twenty-four. orphan. proprietress of piquant pickles factory, cheeving, massachusetts, usa. honor, who is of fair and pleasing exterior, is spending a year in europe visiting various friends and connections. honor is sensitive as to her enormous fortune, and suspects:-- "_robert carr, hero in chief_, of being attracted thereby. robert carr is a barrister engaged in climbing the ladder. he loves honor, but resents her attitude, and talks assiduously to:-- "_patricia o'shaughnessy_, youngest scion of the house. patricia is plain, but fascinating, and of noble disposition. she is anxious to reconcile the lovers. the more so as she herself prefers the companionship of:-- "_stanor vaughan, secondary hero_, a beauteous youth of fair estate. stanor being ardently in love with himself, does not return her passion. he treats her with sisterly affection. patricia hides her chagrin beneath a mask of gaiety. "how's that for a start, honey? pretty thrilling, eh? don't be anxious about the mask! it's so life-like that it deceives even myself into believing that it's the genuine article, but when dramatic happenings are around, it isn't pixie o'shaughnessy who will stand aside and take no part! "on wednesday we went for a picnic. it was meant to be a picnic _de luxe_, but fate was kind to us, and it turned out very alfresco indeed. we started in the big car, geoffrey driving, and all sorts of good things piled up in hampers, and at an appointed place the chauffeur met us and took possession, while we walked on through the woods. such woods, bridgie; all sweet, and dim, and green, the trunks of the great old beeches standing up straight and tall like the pillars of a great cathedral, and sweet, innocent little primroses peeping up through the moss, and last year's leaves crackling under foot. those primroses went straight to my head; i felt quite fey. "strictly, between me and your sisterly ear, i was _very amusing indeed_, and they all appreciated me very much! and we laughed and talked, and finally began to sing. "`you have a quite too beautiful voice, miss o'shaughnessy. won't you sing to us in the drawing-room to-night?' "`how sweet of you! really, i shall be _too_ charmed!' (this is the orthodox fashionable manner of speaking. let us be fashionable or die!) "we sang glees. esmeralda and i took contralto; there was practically no treble, for honor's squeak was drowned fathoms deep; geoffrey and mr carr droned bass, and stanor vaughan took tenor, rather out of tune it's true, but no man with that profile could be expected to condescend to _bass_! we sang `come and _see_ the daylight dawning, on the meadow far away,' and mr carr said he must really make a point of going some day, and we've planned an early walk for next week, if any one can wake up in time. we roared `all among the barley,' until the primroses looked quite abashed, and turned into `good-night, good-night beloved,' to soothe them down again, and we grew so intimate and festive, and they all said, `what next, miss o'shaughnessy, what next?' really, my dear, i was a _succes fou_. "but more is yet to come. it was so lovely and we were enjoying ourselves so much, that we dallied about, and took extra little detours, so that it was nearly two o'clock when we arrived at the appointed spot, and imagine, my dear, our thwarted hunger and thirst, when not a vestige of a car could we behold! it was no use _waiting_, because if all had gone right it should have been waiting for us for an hour at least. so we held a council of war at the side of the road. "_esmeralda_. `i shall give dawson notice _at once_! he has made some stupid mistake, and gone to the wrong place. i've no patience with blunderers.' (she hasn't.) "_geoffrey_. `something may have gone wrong with the car. don't blame the poor fellow till you are sure he deserves it.' "_stanor_. `i don't care one rap about dawson. i want my lunch! _with_ the luxuries! what price expectation _now_, miss o'shaughnessy?' "_honor_. `i'm sorry to be disagreeable, but i've a blister on my heel. if it's a case of walking back, i must bid you all a fond adieu and take to a forest life.' "_robert carr_. `what can you expect if you start out on a country walk in ball-room slippers?' "honor said: `they aren't, and, anyway, i don't expect sympathy from _you_,' and _i_ said: `isn't there an opening into the road a little nearer the village where the car may be waiting all the time?' "`mrs dick,' quoted geoffrey,--`your common sense is invaluable!' and off he started in advance while we all trailed in the rear, along the dusty high-road this time, and not by any means in a singing mood. esmeralda stalked, and honor limped. she hadn't done it a bit before, so it came on rather suddenly, and stanor offered her his arm, and she hung upon it, and mr carr talked politics to me, and i tried to quote dick's remarks and appear intelligent, but it didn't come off. "it was a mile, and more. it seemed like three, and when we arrived at the opening the car was not there. we sat down against the dusty hedgerow and gave way to despair. here we were stranded five weary miles from our base, i.e. the hampers, and what were we going to do? every one had a different suggestion, but the object of them all was the same--_get something to eat_. it's humiliating how greedy people become when they are defrauded of a meal! dawson and the car were forgotten, everything was forgotten, and when i said that doctors were agreed that we ate too much, and an occasional starve was the most healthy thing that could happen, they looked coldly on me, and stanor said doctors might keep their theories, but give him _foie gras_! finally we agreed to be scouts and go forth on a foraging expedition through the tiny village, seeking what we might devour. geoffrey was the scout-master, and we were to meet him at the second lamp-post and report. "there were half a dozen cottages, one shop, and a yard where they sold coal and fresh eggs. so that meant a cottage each, and the stores thrown in. our orders were to knock on each door and stand close so as to have a good view of the interior when it was opened. if it was a dirty interior we were to dissemble, and ask the way; if it was clean, we were to say, `oh, if you please, we are stranded motorists, and do you supply plain teas?' in case of _two_ being clean, the choice was to be left with the scout-master, who would decide between them with tact and discretion. "bridgie, it _was_ sport! they were _all_ clean, and they _all_ supplied plain teas, but the astounding part was that no one could supply milk! (esmeralda says she has never yet raided an english cottage where they _could_.) and they all offered the same bill of fare--tea with tinned milk, eggs, and spring onions! we chose the biggest and airiest cottage, ordered eggs, looked haughtily at onions, adjourned to the village store and tried to discover some accessories among the rope, firewood, and linoleum. there was tinned salmon, but esmeralda said she objected to us dying on her hands, and loaf sugar, and treacle, and bull's-eyes in a glass bottle, and gingerbread biscuits (but the snap had departed, and they were so soft that you could have rolled them in balls), and some _very_ strong-looking cheese, and rows of dried herrings packed in a box. "it was hobson's choice, so we bought a herring apiece, and insisted on having each one wrapped up in paper, and carrying it across the road in our own separate hands, and _i_ bought a pound of bull's-eyes. they are such encouraging things on a long walk! "it was a _delicious_ tea. the milk was rather greasy and hard to mix, but if you didn't think about it, it tasted almost as good as real, the eggs were fresh, and the herrings so good that stanor ran across the road for more, and we made time with bread and butter until they were cooked. and we gave not a thought to the motor; it was only when the sixth plate of bread and butter had been eaten to a crumb that we remembered the miles between us and the nearest station. five or six it was, nothing to trouble ordinary people, even if they would have preferred a comfortable car, but there was honor! she had slipped off her shoe under the table, and when she tried to put it on again it hurt so badly that she could hardly hobble across the room, and there was not a vehicle within miles. "we all fussed and wondered what could be done, except mr carr, who strolled calmly out of the house without a word, lighting a cigarette as he went, and after that honor's foot got so suddenly worse that the tears came to her eyes. five minutes later when we were still fussing and settling nothing, back he came, and in his hands, what do you think?--you'd never guess--a pair of men's carpet slippers! i remember in a dim, sub-conscious fashion having seen them hanging up in drab and crimson bunches from the ceiling of the shop, but it had never occurred to me that they were to _wear_!" "`you can walk in these!' said mr carr coolly, and without waiting to hear honor's reply, he went down on his knees, and began unbuttoning her shoe. she has the daintiest mite of a foot you ever saw--it looked like a doll's in his big, strong hand--but she wasn't a bit grateful. there was a look on her face which sent all the others crowding to the door, but she glared at me to stay, and, being curious, i obeyed. "`mr carr,' says she,--`this is too much! it is usual in my country for a man to ask a girl what she wants, before he takes it upon himself to dictate!' "he went on unfastening the shoe. "occasionally one meets people who don't know what they _do_ want! "`well, i reckon i _do_. and it don't happen to be carpet slippers. i'd look a guy. what are you taking off that shoe for anyway? that foot's all right!' "`it wouldn't be right long. one flat shoe and one french heel make a poor pair. you are going to wear both.' "`they're miles too large. they'd fall off on the road.' "`oh, no they won't. i'll take care of that,' he said coolly, and took from his pocket two strong black bootlaces which he proceeded to criss-cross over the instep and round the ankles. she sat quite still watching him, her eyes very bright, her hands twisted together on her lap. when he had finished she put out her feet and stared at them--they _did_ look boats!--then she looked down at him. he was still kneeling, and there was not a sound to be heard in that kitchen but the tick of the old clock and the beat, beat, beat of pixie o'shaughnessy's heart. "`don't you care,' said she softly, `a mite _how_--i--look?' "`not a mite,' says he coolly. `i care how you _feel_!' "there was a look in his eyes which was not carpet slippers, far from it, and honor leaped up and swept to the door with what was intended to be a haughty `sweep,' but the slippers pad-padded at each step in a sort of shuffle, which was the unhaughtiest thing you could possibly imagine. then mr carr gathered up the two tiny brown shoes and dusted them carefully with his handkerchief, and slipped one into each pocket of his norfolk coat. honor never bothered about her shoes: i suppose you don't when you own factories, but mr carr walked all the way with his hands in his pockets as if he had got something there that he liked to hold. "the children of the village followed us as we went, and called out, `hi, look at her feet! hi, miss, is there room for me in them slippers?' as of course they would, bless them! and i will say for her she took it smiling. "two miles along the road the car met us, poor dawson apoplectic with distress and confusion. the engine had gone wrong, and he had had a terrible time getting it put right, and was distracted because he could find no way of sending on the hampers. we tumbled in and whirled home in peace and safety, but some of us were glad it had not come before. "don't you wonder how i've accomplished this mammoth letter? there are so many times a day in this house when one has to dress in something different, to do the next thing on the programme, and experience has proved that i change in about a quarter the time taken by the others, so down i sit and fill up the wait by scribbling a page or two more, and i hope, my dear, the result will amuse you. "i wear my best clothes all day long, eat indigestible food, go to bed late, get up later, and have esmeralda's maid to do my hair. you'd think it would need an effort to change into a fine lady all at once, but it doesn't; you just slip in, and feel like a sleek, stroked cat. my dear, i was born to be a society belle! "pixie." chapter nine. a rift. "let me break it to you tenderly," said mrs hilliard to her guests at breakfast on the morning after the picnic, "that on thursday there is a bazaar, and that it's no use any of you making plans for that day or the morning before. the real reason why i invited you all just at this particular time is that you might assist, and be bright and pleasant and make my stall a success." she smiled beguilingly as she spoke, and no one could be more beguiling than joan when it suited her own purpose. but her blandishments failed to propitiate her hearers, who one and all laid down knives and forks and fell back in their seats in attitudes expressive of dismay. "a bazaar. _assist_? what bazaar? where? what for? this is too sudden! why were we not warned?" joan twinkled mischievously. "i was afraid you would run away. people are so surly about bazaars. it's in the village; for a parish nurse. she's new, and needs a cottage and furniture, and clothes and salary, and the money has to be found. i wanted geoffrey to give it right out, it's so much simpler, but he wouldn't. he thought it was right that other people should help." geoffrey hilliard said nothing. it was true that he thought it a wrong attitude for a whole parish to depend upon the gifts of one rich man, but an even stronger reason had been his desire to induce his wife to take some active interest in her poorer neighbours and to occupy herself on their behalf. when joan had unwillingly consented to take the principal stall at the bazaar, he had complacently expected a succession of committee meetings and sewing-bees, which would make a wholesome interest in a life spent too entirely in self-gratification; but the weeks had passed by, and the bazaar was at hand, and so far he had observed no symptoms of work on its behalf. he sat silently, waiting to glean information through the questioning of his guests. "i've taken part in bazaars before now. i'm an expert at bazaars. bridgie has had part of a stall several times for things for the regiment; but _where is your work_?" demanded pixie sternly. "when you take part in a bazaar it means every room crowded out with cushions and tidies, and mats and pincushions, and sitting up at nights, finishing off and sewing on prices, and days of packing up at the end, to say nothing of circulars and invitations, and your own aprons and caps. i haven't noticed a bit of fuss. how _can_ you be going to have a bazaar without any fuss?" she looked so accusingly at her sister as she spoke that the others laughed, but there was a hint of uneasiness in the manner in which joan glanced at her husband before replying. "there isn't any. why should there be? fancy work isn't my _forte_, and it would bore me to sobs _living_ bazaar for months ahead. i've sent money to order ready-mades, and there are a pile of packing-cases stored away upstairs which will provide more than we want. they _ought_ to do, considering the money i've spent! i expect the things will be all right." "haven't you _looked_?" cried pixie blankly, while geoffrey flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered a sarcastic "charity made easy!" which brought an answering flash into his wife's eyes. "is there anything particularly estimable in upsetting a whole house and wasting time in manufacturing fal-lals which nobody needs? i fail to see it," she retorted sharply, and geoffrey shrugged again, his face grim and displeased. it was not a pleasant moment for the listeners, and one and all were grateful to stanor vaughan for the easy volubility, with which he dashed to the rescue. "i'll open the cases for you, mrs hilliard. i'm a nailer at opening cases; ought to have been a furniture remover by profession. give me wood and nails, and a litter of straw and sawdust, and i'm in my element. better take 'em down to the hall and unpack them there, i suppose? safest plan with breakables. jolly good crockery you get from abroad! i was at winter sports with my sister, and she fell in love with a green pottery cruse business, half a franc, and as big as your head. i argued with her for an hour, but it was no good, buy it she would, and cuddled it in her arms the whole way home! if you have any green cruses, mrs hilliard, i'll buy a dozen!" esmeralda thanked him, and proceeded to explain her arrangements in a manner elaborately composed. it appeared that she had displayed considerable ingenuity in the way of saving herself trouble. "i sent instructions to each place that every article was to be marked in plain figures. we shall just have to translate them into english money and add on a little more. it's unnecessary to re-mark everything afresh. i've engaged a joiner to be at the hall ready to fix up any boards or shelves which we may need, and of course he'll unpack. there's not the slightest reason for any one else to break his nails; there will be enough work for us on the day." "are we to be dressed up in fancy character? it's all so sudden that i'd like to know the worst at once," sighed honor plaintively. "i've been a swiss maiden, and i've been a dolly varden, and i've been the old woman that lived in a shoe, so i guess i can bear another turn of the screw. but i look real sweet in my new blue gown." "wear it, then, wear it. it's ridiculous dressing up in daylight in a village hall. let every one wear what suits them best." "wait till you see my waistcoat!" cried stanor, and they rose from the table laughing, and breakfast was at an end. pixie made straight for the nursery. she was jarred and troubled by the scene which had just taken place, all the more so as it was by no means the first occasion during her short visit when geoffrey and joan had unmistakably "jarred." in the old days at knock castle esmeralda's tantrums had been accepted as part of the daily life, but six years spent in the sunshine of bridgie's home made a difference between husband and wife seem something abnormal and shocking. imagine dick sneering at bridgie! imagine bridgie snapping back and relapsing into haughty indifference! the thing was preposterous, unthinkable! could that be the reason of esmeralda's unrest, that she and her husband had outgrown their love? pixie felt it equally impossible at that moment to sit quietly alone, or to talk naturally to her fellow-guests, but experience had proved that the most absolutely certain method of getting out of herself was to court the society of children. so she shut herself in the nursery with the two small boys, who took eery advantage of the unexpected treat without troubling their heads as to how it had come about. meantime the three guests started off on the usual morning peregrination of the grounds, and joan followed her husband to his study, found him staring aimlessly out of the window, and accosted him in cold and biting tones. "geoffrey, i wish to speak to you. you are entitled to your own opinions, but the next time that you find them in opposition to mine i should be obliged if you would reserve your remarks until we are alone. if you have no consideration for me, you might at least consider your guests; it cannot be agreeable for them to overhear our differences." geoffrey did not move. he stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head drooping forward on his breast, an air of weariness and depression in every line of his figure. for a minute there was silence, then he spoke, slowly, and with frequent breaks, as though considering each word as it came-- "that is true.--i was to blame.--i should have waited, as you say.--it shall not occur again, joan. i apologise." esmeralda looked at him. the fire died from her eyes, her lips trembled. quick to anger, she was equally quick to penitence, and a soft word could melt her hardest mood. she made a very lovely picture at that moment, but her husband's back was still turned. he kept his head rigorously turned aside as he crossed to his desk and seated himself on his swivel chair. "i have ordered the car for eleven, as you wished." "thank you." joan knew herself to be dismissed, but she had no intention of obeying. for her impetuous nature half-measures did not exist, and a peace that was not peace with honour seemed unworthy the name. she leaned over her husband's desk, facing him with earnest eyes. "geoffrey! why were you so cross? it was unreasonable. i shall do quite well at my stall. people are sick to death of cushions and cosies, but they will snap at my beautiful things from abroad, which they don't often have a chance of buying." "i am sure of it." "then why--why--? what on earth put you into such a bait?" geoffrey put down his pen and drew a long sigh. it was easy to see that he dreaded a discussion, and was most unwillingly drawn into its toils. "since you ask me, joan, i was disappointed that you had taken so little personal trouble over the affair. i could have given the money easily enough; when i refused i was thinking more of you than of any one else. i hoped this bazaar might be the means of taking you out of yourself, of bringing you in contact with people whose lives are not altogether given up to self-indulgence. your one idea seems to have been to avoid such a course." "you would have liked me to have sewing meetings here as mrs ewart has at the vicarage: plain sewing from two to four, and then tea and buns. you would have liked to see me sitting in the evening embroidering wild roses on tray cloths, and binding shaving-cases with blue ribbon?" "i would," said geoffrey sturdily. he did not smile, as he had been expected to do, but sat grim and grave, refusing to be cajoled. esmeralda's anger mounted once more. "then i call it stupid and bigoted, and i absolutely disagree. if i'm to waste my time, i'll waste it in my own way, not in perpetrating atrocities to disfigure another home. and i hate village sewing meetings and the dull, ugly frumps who go to them." mr hilliard took up his pen, squared his elbows, and quietly began to write. "geoffrey, can't you answer when i speak to you! i'm not a child to be cowed and snubbed! i--i hate you when you get into this superior mood!" geoffrey lifted his face--was it the strong east light which made it suddenly appear so lined and worn? there was no anger in his face, only a very pitiful sadness. "i am afraid there are many moods in which you `hate' me, esmeralda." the look on his face, the sound of the old pet name were too much for the warm irish heart. in a moment his wife was on her knees beside him, holding his hands, pressing them to her lips, stroking them with caressing fingers. "geoff, geoff, it isn't true; you know it isn't. i always love you, i always did. you know it is true. i was ready to marry you when i thought you hadn't a penny. i wanted nothing but yourself." "i never forget it," said geoffrey deeply; "i never can. sometimes-- sometimes i wish it had been true, it might have been better for us both. `all that riches can buy' has not made a happy woman of you, esmeralda." he stroked back the hair from her broad, low brow, looking with troubled eyes at the fine lines which already marked its surface. "i can give my wife many treasures, but apparently not the thing she needs most of all--the happiness which dick victor manages to provide for bridgie on a few hundreds a year!" "bridgie is bridgie, and i'm myself; we were born different. it's not fair to compare us, and the advantages are not all on one side. if she has not had my opportunities, she has escaped the temptations; she might have grown selfish too. sometimes i hate money, geoffrey; it's a millstone round one's neck." "no!" geoffrey squared his shoulders. "it's a lever. i am glad to be rich; my father worked hard for his money--it was honourably gained, and i'm proud to inherit it. it is a responsibility, a heavy one, if you like, but one is bound to have responsibilities in life, and it's a fine thing to have one which holds such possibilities. i mean to bring up the boys to take that view. but--" he paused heavily--"i'd give it up to-morrow if it could purchase peace and tranquillity, a rest from this everlasting strain!" something tightened over joan's heart; a chill as of fear passed through her blood. geoffrey spoke quietly, so sanely, with an unmistakable air of knowing his own mind. and his manner was so cool, so detached, not one lover-like word or action had he vouchsafed in answer to her own. a chill passed through joan's veins, the chill of dismay which presages disaster. at that moment she divined the certainty of what she had never before even dimly imagined--the waning of her husband's love. like too many beautiful young wives, she had taken for granted that her place in her husband's heart was established for life, independent of any effort to retain it. she had not realised that love is a treasure which must needs be guarded with jealous care, that the delicate cord may be strained so thin that a moment may come when it reaches breaking-point. that moment had not come yet; surely, surely, it could not have come, but she felt the shadow. "don't you love me any more, geoffrey?" she asked faintly. "in spite of all my faults, do you love me still like you did?" it was the inevitable ending to a dissension, the inevitable question which he had answered a hundred times, and if to-day there was a new tone in the voice which spoke it, geoffrey was not sensitive enough to notice. few men would mark such differences in a moment of tension. "i love you, joan," he answered wearily. "you are my wife; but you've rubbed off the bloom!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ joan got up quietly from her knees and crossed to the door. the voice within declared that geoffrey would call her back, that he would leap after her and clasp her in his arms, as he had done a score of times in like circumstances, that he would implore forgiveness for his cruel words. she walked slowly, pausing as she went to put a chair against the wall, to alter the position of a vase of flowers. she reached the door and cast a swift glance behind. geoffrey had gone back to his writing; his pen travelled swiftly across the page; he did not raise his head. chapter ten. pixie gives joan a tonic. a romp with the children restored pixie's elastic spirits, and brought a revived wish for her friends' society. she leaned out of the window and beheld a game of tennis on in obvious need of a fourth player, waved gaily in response to a general beckoning, and tripped downstairs singing a glad refrain. and then, in the corridor outside her boudoir, behold a pale and tragic esmeralda summoning her with a dramatic hand. pixie flounced, and a quiver of indignation stiffened her small body. a whole hour of a lovely spring morning had already been spent in struggling to overcome the depression caused by the scene at breakfast, and here was joan obviously preparing a second edition. pixie was no niggard in sympathy, but for the moment she had other views. two charming young men were waiting without in the sunshine, and any ordinary human girl prefers the sunshine and masculine society, to a room indoors and an hysterical sister. therefore, being excessively human, pixie flounced, and looked bored and impatient. she entered the room and shut the door behind her. "what's the matter _now_?" the answer was sufficiently unexpected. "pixie, if i die will you promise me faithfully to live here and take charge of my orphan boys?" "i will not!" snapped pixie sharply. it was just what might have been expected for esmeralda to picture her own tragic death as the result of a passing squall. quite possibly she had been sitting for the last hour picturing the stages of her own decline and the grief of the survivors. strong common sense was the best remedy she could have. "i hope to have my own home to look after. and they are too spoiled. i wouldn't undertake the charge." "somebody," croaked esmeralda deeply, "somebody must look after my boys!" "don't you worry about that. geoffrey'll marry again. they always do when the children are young." this was deliberate cruelty, but the strain was severe. stanor was standing, racket in hand, gazing up at the window. the sunshine lit up his handsome face, his expectant smile. pixie gave another flounce and turned impatiently to meet the next lament; but esmeralda was silent, her hands were clasped on her knee, and tears--_real_ tears--shone in her eyes. it was a rare thing for joan to cry; the easy tears which rose to her sisters' eyes in response to any emotion, pleasurable or the reverse, these were not for her. looking back over the history of their lives, pixie could count the number of times when she had seen joan cry. the outside world vanished from her memory in response to that appeal. "esmeralda! _darling_! you are not ill? you are not really suffering?" joan shook her head. "quite strong," she murmured miserably; "too strong. only it seems impossible to live on in such misery. it's gone--the mainspring, everything! i can't drag along! thank god, pixie, you are here! i never could bottle up my feelings. it's geoffrey--he doesn't love me any more. i'm not imagining it--it's true! he told me himself." "what did he say?" demanded pixie practically. she displayed no dismay at the announcement, being used to her sister's exaggerations, and feeling abundantly convinced in her own mind that this was but another example. geoffrey was cross this morning, but five days' residence under his roof had abundantly demonstrated that his love was not dead. "now, what exactly _did_ he say?" she repeated, and joan faltered out the dread words. there was silence in the room for a long minute. then pixie drew in her breath with a sharp intake. "the _bloom_!" she repeated softly. "the _bloom_!" the beautiful significance of the term seemed to occupy her mind to the exclusion of the personal application. she had a vision of love as the apotheosis of human affection, a wondrous combination of kindliness, sympathy, courtesy, patience, unselfishness--all these, _and something more_--that mysterious, intangible quality which geoffrey hilliard had so aptly described. given "the bloom," affection became idealised, patience a joy, and selfishness ceased to exist, since the well-being of another was preferred before one's own; courtesy and sympathy followed automatically, as attendant spirits who could not be separated. affection might exist, did often exist, in churlish, unlovely form, giving little happiness either to the giver or the recipient love, the highest, was something infinitely precious, a treasure to be guarded with infinite care, lest in the stress of life its bloom should be destroyed. joan, looking with anxious inquiry in her sister's face, read there an earnestness even exceeding her own. "oh, _no_!" cried pixie strongly. "not that, not that, esmeralda. not the bloom. it mustn't go; it's too precious. it means everything. you mustn't _let_ it go!" "but i told you it _had_ gone. it's too late." "no!" pixie shook her head. "i know better. there's time yet, if you'll be warned. last night, when you were comforting jack after his tumble, geoffrey sat watching you as dick watches bridgie. it can't be all gone, when he looks like that. he has loved you, been proud of you, been patient with you for--how long is it you have been married? seven years, and you need a lot of patience, esmeralda! i suppose it's come to this--that you've used up all the patience he has." it said volumes for joan's penitence that she allowed such a statement to pass unchallenged, and even assented to it with meekness. "i suppose that's it. for the first few years it was all right. when i got angry he only laughed; then he began to get impatient himself, and this last year things have been going from bad to worse. when he spoke straight out it was easier; there was a row royal, and a grand `make up' at the end, but now he's so cold and calm." esmeralda's lip trembled at the remembrance of the scene downstairs of the averted figure writing stolidly at the desk. she stared before her in silence for a dismal moment, then added sharply: "and what in the world set him off at a tangent this morning, of all others? there have been dozens of times when i should have expected him to be furious, and he's been as mild as a lamb; and then of a sudden, when i was all innocent and unsuspicious, to flare up like that! there's no sense in it!" "it's always the way with men. you can't reckon on them," announced pixie, with the seasoned air of one who has endured three husbands at least. "dick's the same--an angel of patience till just the moment when you've made sure of him, and then in a moment he snaps off your head--my head, i mean, never bridgie's. there's too much--bloom." she put her little head on one side and pursed her lips in thought, with the characteristic pixie air which carried joan back to the days of childhood. "now, isn't it odd, esmeralda, how people cultivate almost every good quality, and leave love to chance? they practise patience and unselfishness, but seem to think love is beyond control. it comes, or--it goes. _tant mieux_! _tant pis_! my dear, if i married a husband who loved me as geoffrey loved you, it would be the big work of my life to keep him at it, and i'd expect it to _be_ work! you get nothing worth having without trouble, so why should you expect an exception for the very _best_ thing? and the poor man deserves some encouragement. _i'd give it to him_!" joan's lips twisted into a sad smile. "you understand a great deal, pixie--more than i do, it seems, even after seven years! i never looked at things in that light. i just expected geoffrey to keep on adoring, whatever i did. what made you think such things?" "nature!" said pixie promptly. "and, my dear, i'm clever at loving--i always was. it's my only gift, and i _have_ studied it just as other people study drawing and music. what you have to do, esmeralda, is to forget everything and every one else for a while, and comfort geoffrey. don't make a scene and worry the poor man. don't make a grand programme of reformation, for that will put him off at the start. just begin to-night and be sweet to him for a change. if you feel temper coming on, have it out on me! i'm used to you from a child, and if i get too much of it i can always run away and leave you; geoffrey can't. it's mean to take advantage of a man that's bound." "if he _wanted_ to go," began joan haughtily, then subsided into tears and helplessness. "pixie! pixie! it's so difficult! what can i do?" "d'you need _me_ to tell you? isn't it the _easiest_ thing in the world to make love to your own husband, in your own house? talk of propinquity! always ready, always handy, if you can't manage _that_! my dear girl, the game's in your own hands." "can a leopard change its spots?" "we're not talking of leopards; we're talking of women--and they _can_ bridle their tongues!" again joan was silent. _could she_? a great martyrdom, or heroic effort, these she would have faced gladly, counting them a small price to pay for her husband's love; but then how to subdue hasty impulses, to keep a watch over her tongue--this seemed beyond her strength. and yet the treasure which was threatened was of such inestimable value. it was impossible to contemplate life without it. human life is uncertain, and though she would not allow herself to dwell upon such a possibility, joan had realised in her heart that a day might dawn when she would have to part from husband or son. death might come, she might have to say farewell to the dear human presence, but never, never had she imagined for a moment that she might be compelled to live on, having bidden farewell to _love_! geoffrey her lover, geoffrey her husband, geoffrey the father of her boys, was it a fact or a dreadful nightmare that he had sat, untouched by her appeal, and confessed that ... that... joan winced, unable to bear the repetition, and locked her hands more closely on her knee. pixie glanced furtively through the window. stanor had turned back to the tennis-ground and the three-handed game had been resumed. she stifled a pang of disappointment and sat quietly waiting for further confidences, but presently joan said quietly-- "thank you, pixie. now--will you go? i want to think. you've been very sweet." "more bracing than sweet, my dear; but it was what you needed!" pixie rose with an alacrity which the other was, fortunately, too preoccupied to notice, dropped a kiss on the lovely bent neck, and walked quickly from the room. joan had had the relief which her nature demanded of giving expression to her feelings; now it was best that she should be alone. pixie had done her best to help, and now sunshine and stanor were waiting! in another five minutes she was playing tennis as whole-heartedly as though it were her only business in life. meanwhile joan sat alone in her upstairs room, struggling with all the force of her ardent, undisciplined nature to brace herself for the struggle which lay before her. prayer had become of late a mechanical, stereotype repetition of phrases; to-day there were no phrases--hardly, indeed, any definite words. in the extreme need of life she took refuge in that voiceless cry for help, that child-like opening of the heart which is the truest relationship between the soul and god. she sat with closed eyes and lifted face, penitent, receptive, waiting to be blessed. for the time being doubts were forgotten, everything seemed straight and plain. then, being esmeralda, the wayward, the undisciplined, the mood of exultation faded, and depression held her once more. the heavenly help and guidance seemed far-off and unreal. she was seized with impetuous necessity to act at once, to act for herself. pixie's proposals failed to satisfy her ardent desires. to wait weeks or months for the reward she craved was beyond endurance. she must contrive something big, something soon, something that would demonstrate to geoffrey her anxiety to please him. she racked her brain to find a way. poor, impatient, undisciplined esmeralda! how little she dreamed of the tragic consequences of that hour! chapter eleven. pixie talks on love. the immediate cause of geoffrey's displeasure having been in connection with the bazaar, it appeared to joan that it was in that connection also that she must make an amend. he had complained that she had failed in interest and personal energy: by a supreme effort, then, she must demonstrate how his words had taken root. it was the eleventh hour; any one but an impulsive irish woman would have realised the futility of organising any fresh feature, and would have contented herself with doing well what was already planned, but such tame methods were not for the woman who had been esmeralda o'shaughnessy. she was accustomed to acting in haste; at home, at knock, the most extensive entertainments had been organised at a few hours' notice, and how much easier it would be now with a staff of trained servants at her command and a purse full of money to buy the necessary accessories, instead of being obliged to manufacture all that was required out of ordinary household goods. joan heaved a sigh of regret for the memory of those gay old days when a sheet and a pillow-case had provided a fancy costume which had captivated geoffrey at a glance, then knitted her brows afresh in the effort to think out some scheme appropriate to the occasion. the vicar's wife had lamented a lack of music which would afford variation from the prosaic business of buying and selling. at the time joan had suspected a hint, and had resolutely turned a deaf ear. she hated singing to strangers, she hated singing in a building notably deficient in acoustic properties, she had not the faintest intention of victimising herself for the sake of a village throng. but now, with the new impetus driving her on, nothing seemed too hard or distasteful. the vicar's wife should have her music--music with such accessories as it had never entered her modest head to imagine, music which should be the feature _par excellence_ of the bazaar. joan's was a quick, inventive brain; within half an hour she had mentally arranged her programme, made a list of the necessary accessories, and planned how they should be procured. when the little party were again assembled for luncheon she was able to state her plans with an air of complete assurance which left them breathless with astonishment. she had decided to provide two short concerts, one in the afternoon, one in the evening. she would sing two songs; pixie should do the same. they would all join in appropriate part songs. by way of a climax the last number on the programme should be illustrated by a _tableau vivant_. she proposed to write special words to a well-known air which, together with the tableau, should illustrate the benefits which the bazaar was destined to provide for the villagers. the tableau should represent a scene in a cottage interior in which were grouped four figures--a child suffering from an accident, a distraught mother, a helpless father, and in the background, bending beneficently over the patient, the parish nurse. esmeralda looked around for approval, and met the stare of blank and doubtful faces. "er--a bit lugubrious, isn't it, mrs hilliard?" ventured stanor at last, voicing the general impression so strongly that esmeralda's imagination instantly took another leap. "certainly not, for i should have a second tableau to follow to show the happy convalescence--child sitting up in bed, pale but smiling, nurse bringing in bunch of flowers, father and mother, with outstretched hands, pouring out thanks." "that's better! that's more like it!" the murmur of approval passed down the table. pixie laid her head on one side in smiling consideration. yes, it would go; arranged with esmeralda's skill and taste the scenes would be pretty and touching, especially when seen to the accompaniment of her beautiful voice. the shortness of the time allowed for preparation troubled pixie no more than her sister. she smiled at esmeralda and nodded a cheery encouragement. "i'll be the distracted mother, and weep into my apron. honor will look a duck in a cap. who's to be the little victim?" "jack, of course. he'll look too sweet," said jack's proud mother. "can't you imagine him, sitting up in bed with his curls peeping out beneath his bandages--he must have bandages--smiling like a little angel! he'd bring down the house. the people would love to see him." then for the first time geoffrey spoke. so far he had listened to the conversation in a silence which both his wife and sister-in-law felt to be disappointingly unsympathetic. now his objections were put into words-- "isn't jack rather young and--er--sensitive for such a public role? i should have thought that your concert would be complete without troubling about a tableau. in any case, there are plenty of village children." "not with jack's face. he is sensitive, of course, but he's not shy; he'd enjoy the excitement. and we should be there; he could come to no harm." "and the evening performance? would you propose that he sat up for that also?" joan pressed her lips together in the struggle for patience. really geoffrey was too bad! what did he mean? what did he want? the whole scheme had been planned to give him pleasure, and here he was, silent, disapproving, throwing cold water. the effort at restraint made her voice sound unnatural even in her own ears. "if we had the tableau in the afternoon, it would hardly do to leave it out in the evening--the only time when the villagers themselves will be able to be present." before geoffrey could reply the heel of pixie's shoe pressed firmly on his foot beneath the table, and a warning glance silenced his words. a moment later, when the discussion of pros and cons waxed loud at the far end of the table, she whispered an explanation-- "don't object, don't argue. it's to _please you_! you said she had taken no trouble." geoffrey hilliard's glance of comprehension had in it more of weariness than elation. pixie noting the fact, felt a rising of irritation, and mentally dubbed him ungracious and unreasonable, as esmeralda had done before her. both failed to appreciate the fact that sudden spasms of energy were by no means an innovation in the family history, and what the tired man was really longing for was that ordered peace and tranquillity which form the english idea of home. he made no further objections, however, and joan threw herself whole-heartedly into her preparations, determined on a success which must win approval as by a _tour de force_. the three days following were far from peaceful, but if the master of the house kept aloof from the stir and bustle, his guests threw themselves into it with every appearance of enjoyment. strains of music sounded from the drawing-room and mingled with the tap-tapping of hammers from an upper room where realistic scenery was being manufactured under joan's able supervision. the new system of thoroughness demanded, moreover, that the stored-up cases should be opened, and the contents unpacked, dusted, and re-priced, a work in itself of many hours. the four guests started thereon with equal vigour, but honor took an early opportunity of slipping away. she was tired, she had a headache, she must finish a book, there were half a dozen stock excuses, each one of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. she made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room without leaving time for protest. whereupon robert carr attacked the work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in his case, going through the form of an excuse. then the two workers who were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on the most stiff and formal of terms. stanor laughed at the sight, but pixie's practical mind could not reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour. "where's the sense of it?" she asked. "where's the fun? to play truant to sit on a bench and sulk! wouldn't it be far more fun, now, to work up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and--me?" but stanor knew better. "not a bit of it," he returned. "they'd rather quarrel by themselves all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people as ourselves. it's a symptom of the disease. of course, you have grasped the fact that they _are_ suffering from a disease?" "i have. i can use my eyes. but _why_?" cried pixie, rounding on him with sudden energy, "_why_, will you tell me, can't they be happy and comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? what's the sense of pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling when you might--" "quite so," assented stanor, laughing. "odd, isn't it; but they _will_, you know. never any knowing what they _will_ do when it takes them like that. besides, in this case there are complications. miss ward has pots of money, and poor old carr has nothing but what he makes. he'll get on all right--a fellow with that chin is bound to get on--but it takes time, and meantime it's a bit of an impasse. a fellow doesn't mind his wife having _some_ money--it's a good thing for her as well as for himself--but when it comes to a pile like that--well, if he has any self-respect, he simply can't do it!" "if _i_ had a pile, i'd expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly as i'd take it from him. if he didn't, i should feel he didn't love me enough." "you'd be wrong there. he might love you enough to wish to save you from a jolly uncomfortable position. it's not right that a man should be dependent upon his wife. puts him in a false position." "not if he really loved her. how could it? he'd realise then that in a life together there would be no `yours' or `mine.' it would all be `_ours_.'" stanor lifted his head to look at her, and pixie's clear eyes met his in a full frank gaze which held no shadow of embarrassment. here was something quite new--a girl who could speak about love to a young man without a trace of self-consciousness or flirtation, yet with an earnestness which demonstrated a keen personal interest. stanor had many girl friends with whom he had often discussed the subject, but invariably a certain amount of self-consciousness had crept in, which had shown itself alternately in cynicism or sentimentality. now, to his own amazement, he realised that _he_ was the one to feel embarrassment, while pixie confided her sentiments as placidly as if he had been a maiden aunt. he stared at her as she stood before him, a trim, quaint little figure enveloped in a print overall, beneath which her feet appeared absurdly small and doll-like, and as he looked his heart gave a curious, unexpected leap. he had felt that leap before, and the meaning of it was no mystery to him, though in this particular instance it was sufficiently astonishing. handsome, accomplished, the presumptive heir to a fortune, stanor vaughan had been a pet of society for the last half-dozen years, and being by nature susceptible to girlish charm had more than once imagined himself seriously in love. there had been, for example, that beautiful blonde whose society had turned a summer holiday into a veritable idyll. he had been on the verge of proposing to her when his uncle had suddenly summoned him home, and--well, somehow the restless misery of the first few days had disappeared with surprising rapidity, the vision had grown dim, and finally faded from sight. again it had been a charming brunette, and this time he had been sure of himself, perfectly sure. he was awaiting an opportunity to speak when again a summons had arrived, a pleasant one this time, since it took the form of an invitation to accompany his uncle on a prolonged continental tour. there had been no time to think. he had barely time to pack his bag and be off. and at the end of a month, well! he had begun to hesitate and doubt, and the episode ended like the first. curious, when he came to think about it, how the runkle had in both cases played the part of _deus ex machina_. it was coincidence, of course, pure coincidence, for the old fellow had not known the girls even by name, but it _was_ odd! as for his own part in the proceeding, both girls had been unusually charming specimens of the modern society girl, it was natural enough that he should have been impressed, but if it was really the fact that he was falling in love with this irish pixie, that was another, and a very different matter. with a darting thought stanor recalled his impressions on first meeting the girl a week before, and his own outspoken surprise at the insignificance of the sister of his beautiful hostess. a plain, odd little creature, that had been the involuntary verdict, but almost immediately it had been amended. plain, but charming; distinctly the little thing had charm! now, at the expiration of six days it had come to this, that his eyes no longer noted the faulty outline, but found a continual joy in watching the play of expression, the vivid life and interest of the sparkling little face. this was the real thing at last, stanor told himself: it must be the real thing! mingled with all his excitement and perturbation, he was conscious of a thrill of self-appreciation. it was not every man of his age who would put beauty of character before that of feature. he threw a deliberate _empressement_ into his gaze, and said meaningly-- "your husband, miss pixie, will be a lucky man!" "he will so," agreed pixie warmly. she gave a soft, musical laugh as if the thought were a pleasant one to dwell on, but stanor was sensitive enough to realise that his own image played no part in her dreams. she took up her pen and returned to the scribbling of prices on small paper labels. "russian lace, five shillings a yard. russian lacquer collar-box. don't you hate that shiny red? of course, when i talked of fortunes i was only putting myself in her place. i've nothing. none of us have. when my lover comes, there'll be only--_me_!" the words sounded modest enough, but there was a complacence in the tilt of the head which told another story. pixie o'shaughnessy had no pity to waste on the man who should win herself. stanor's lip twisted in a self-conscious smile. the other girls had been rich. he pondered for a moment, and then said suddenly-- "i wonder, miss pixie, with your temperament, and--er--under the circumstances that you have not been fired with the modern craze to do something before now. girls nowadays don't seem happy unless they have some work--" "but i _have_, i have! did you think i was idle?" she looked at him with reproachful eyes. "this is a holiday. i'm sampling luxury for a change, and i won't deny it's agreeable, but at home all the year i'm at work from morning to night. i don't know how to get _through_ my work." so she had a profession then, after all! stanor felt an amused conviction that whatever the post might be the little thing would fill it uncommonly well. small and child-like as she appeared, she yet carried with her that air of assurance which is the heritage of the capable. it interested him to consider for a moment what particular role she had adopted, and more than one possibility had passed through his head before he put the question into words-- "and what exactly _do_ you do, miss pixie?" she stared at him blankly. "now, if you'd asked me to say what i do _not_ do, it would have been easier. have you any sort of idea what it means to keep a home going with big ideas and little means, and a cook-general to thwart your efforts? if you have, you can imagine the list. dusting, sewing, mending, turning, making, _un_-making, helping bridgie, amusing the children, soothing the servants, humouring dick, making dresses, trimming hats, covering cushions, teaching the alphabet, practising songs, arranging flowers, watering plants, going to shops, making up parcels, writing notes, making--" stanor held up his hands in protest. "stop! have pity on me! what an appalling list! isn't it nearly done? my ears are deafened! i am overcome with the thought of such activity!" nevertheless the smile with which he regarded her was distinctly approving, for, like most men, he preferred domestic women who did not despise home work. "i'll tell you what it is," he added warmly, "mrs victor is like the other fellow--jolly lucky to have you! there are precious few girls who would give up their whole lives to a sister." "bridgie is more than a sister. she's meant father and mother and home to me for over ten years. my parents died when i was so young." "like mine. that's a point of union between us. my uncle has played the part of your bridgie." "he has; i know it. he's lame," answered pixie swiftly, and was amazed at the heat with which the young fellow replied-- "lame? who said so? who told you? what does it matter if he _is_ lame?" "not one bit. i was only--sorry. i didn't mean to be unkind or to repeat anything i shouldn't. why are you vexed?" he shrugged his shoulders, and snapped the scissors over a coil of string. "oh, nothing. gets on one's nerves a bit that's all. he's such a fine fellow, he would have been such a brick, but that wretched lameness has spoiled it all. till he was eighteen he was as strong as a horse--a fine, upstanding young giant he must have been. then came the accident--pitched from his horse against a stone wall--and for twelve solid years he lay on his back. that made him only thirty, but you would never have believed it to see him. he was a lot more like a man of fifty." pixie laid her pen on the table, and rested her chin in the clasped hands. her eyes looked very large and wistful. "twelve years on one's back would be pretty long. one would live so fast _inside_ all the while one's body was idle. 'twould age you. if it had happened when he was fifty, 'twould have been easier, but at eighteen one feels so lively and awake. anything, _anything_ would seem better than to do just nothing! to wake each morning and know there was nothing before one all the long hours, but to lie still! other people would get accustomed to it for you--that would be one of the bits which would hurt the most--for you'd never be accustomed yourself. and which would be worst, do you think--the days when it was dull and the room was dark, or the days when the sun blazed, begging him to come out?" stanor shook himself with an involuntary shiver. "don't!" he cried sharply. "don't talk like that! what an imagination you have! i've been enough cut up about it, goodness knows, but i never realised all that it meant. ... well! he is better now, so we needn't grouse about it any more. it's only that's it's left a mark! he was turned in a moment from a boy into an old man--his youth was killed, _and he can't get it back_! that's one reason why he's so jolly anxious about me. like most fellows he sets an exaggerated value on the things he has missed himself, and it's a craze with him to--as he calls it--`safeguard my youth.' he is trying to live his own lost days again through me, poor fellow, and it's a poor game. outsiders take for granted that i'm his heir, but that's bosh. fellows of thirty-five don't worry about heirs. he has never mentioned the subject; all he _has_ done is to give me every chance in the way of education, and to promise me a good `start off.' i'd have been ready to tackle serious work at once, but he is against a fellow having real responsibility until he's had time to feel his feet. i've had to work, of course--he's keen on that; but he's keen on recreation, too, and freedom from responsibility. he believes, poor chap, that if a fellow has freedom between twenty and thirty, he is better fitted to take up responsi--" stanor stopped short suddenly, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. "i wonder!" he repeated blankly; "i wonder!" for the first time revelation had come home to him with a flash that his uncle's interference in those two incipient love affairs had not been coincidence, but a deeply matured plan. he recalled occasions when chance words had betrayed a surprising acquaintance with his own doings, the houses at which he visited, and the feminine members of those households. unsuspecting himself, he had doubtless betrayed more than he knew. in more ways than one his uncle had determined to safeguard his freedom during these early years! stanor set his lips. the discovery was no more pleasant to him than it would be to any other young man of his age. a certain amount of "management" a fellow must be ready to accept from one who had been so generous a friend, but this was going too far. the runkle must be shown that in purely personal matters his nephew would allow no one to interfere! the frown continued for several minutes, but finally gave place to a smile, for a consideration of the present position had led him to a comfortable conclusion. the runkle would be on a wrong tack this time! if he scented any attraction among the members of mrs hilliard's house-party, it would of a certainty be attributed to the pretty american heiress, honor ward. no one would suspect for a moment that the fastidious stanor vaughan had been laid captive by a plain and penniless irish pixie! chapter twelve. the bazaar. the morning of the bazaar was radiantly fine, so that one fear at least was banished from the hearts of the anxious stall-holders. no excuse now for patrons living at a distance! no room for written regrets, enclosing minute postal-orders. any one who wanted to come, _could_ come, and woe betide the contents of their purse! mrs hilliard's stall was placed in the centre of the hall, and in accordance with her own directions had been made in the shape of a great round table, within the hollowed centre of which she and her girl helpers could be protected from the crowd, while without attendant sprites in the persons of the two young men hovered about ready to do their bidding. not a single article of needlework appeared upon the stall; not a solitary pincushion, nor handkerchief sachet, nor nightdress bag, not even so much as an inoffensive tray cloth. there was pottery from portugal, and pottery from france, pottery from switzerland in the shape of jam and marmalade jars, originally purchased for twopence apiece, and offered for sale at an alarming sacrifice for a shilling. there were beads from venice, and tiles from holland, and fans from spain, and a display of venetian glass especially provided for the entrapment of county families. there was dainty english china (on sale or return), and flagons of eau de cologne, and white and blue della noblia plaques from florence, and a dozen other dainty and perishable treasures. "everything!" exclaimed pixie proudly, as she stood with arms akimbo to view the completed stall, "everything can break! not one single thing that you couldn't smash in a twinkling, and no bother about it. it's what i call a most _considerate_ stall, the most considerate i've ever seen!" esmeralda laughed with complacent understanding, but the two men stared aghast. "is it the object of purchasers to get rid of their purchases as soon as they are made? then why do they bother to--" "it is, and they have to. it's expected of them, and they can't escape, but you need to be soft-hearted and live in a poor neighbourhood to understand the horror of the bazaar habit. i'll tell you a story to the point." pixie's eyes danced, she preened herself for prospective enjoyment. "there was once a rich old lady, and she sent a pink satin cushion as a contribution to my sister bridgie's stall at a military bazaar three years ago. 'twas a violent pink, with sprays of dog roses and a frill of yellow lace, and not a soul would look at it if they had been paid for the trouble. 'twas tossed about the stall for two whole days, and on the third, just at the closing, the colonel's wife came in with five pounds in her pocket which had arrived by post for the cause. she wandered about like a lost sheep from one stall to another, looking for anything that would be of any use to anybody in the world, and it was an ageing process to get rid of four pounds five. then she stuck. in the whole room there was not one thing she'd have been paid to buy. "and then 'twas bridgie's chance, and she beguiled her with the cushion for fifteen shillings, saying the down itself was worth it. so she bought it to make weight, and sent it to the major's wife, with her dear love, for christmas. the major's wife wore it on the sofa for a whole afternoon when the colonel's wife came to tea, and then packed it away in the spare room wardrobe till a young curate brought back a bride, and then she shook it up and ironed the lace and sent it, with all best wishes, for a wedding present. the curate's wife wore it for one afternoon, just in the same way, and then _she_ packed it away, and when christmas came round she said to her husband that the colonel's wife had been so kind and helpful, and wouldn't it be nice to make a slight return if it were within their means, and what about the cushion? so on the very next christmas the colonel's wife got a nice fat parcel, and when it was opened, there, before her eyes--" "ha, ha ha!" "ho, ho, ho!" the two young men anticipated the point with roars of laughter, and pixie whisked round to the other side of the stall to cock her head at a pyramid of green pottery, and move the principal pieces an inch to the right, a thought to the left, with intent to improve the _coup d'oeil_. to the masculine eye it did not seem possible that such infinitesimal touches could have the slightest effect, but then bazaars are intended primarily for the entrapment of women, and pixie knew very well that with them first impressions were all important. every shopkeeper realises as much, which is the reason why he labels his goods just a farthing beneath the ultimate shilling. the feminine conscience might possibly shy at paying a whole three shillings for a bauble which could be done without, but, let the eye catch sight of an impressive _two_, and the small eleven three-farthings is swallowed at a gulp! at two o'clock the bazaar was formally opened in a ceremony which took exactly ten minutes, and was so dull that it appeared to have lasted a long half-hour. geoffrey hilliard, as squire of the village, gave an elaborate explanation of the pressing need of a parish nurse, which his hearers already understood far better than he did himself; the wife of a neighbouring squire said that she had found a parish nurse a great acquisition in her own village, and she had very much pleasure in declaring the bazaar open, and the vicar returned thanks to the neighbouring squire's wife for her kindness in "being present among us to-day," and then every one clapped feebly, and the bazaar had begun. the few county people who were present sauntered round esmeralda's stall, bought trophies of china and glass, and promptly whirled away in their motors, feeling that they had nobly discharged a duty. there was no denying the fact that it was a dull occasion, and an arduous one into the bargain for sales-women who wanted to get rid of their wares. the hall was sparsely filled, and the good ladies who were present had come with a certain amount of money in their purses, and a fixed idea of the manner in which they intended to spend it. they would pay for admission, they would pay for tea, they would pay for the concert-- conceivably they might even indulge in a second tea--they would purchase buttonholes of hot-house flowers, patronise side shows, and possibly expend a few shillings at the grocery stall ("should have to buy them in any case, my dear!") but there the list of their expenditure came to an end. even when honor and pixie were driven out of their fastness, and walked boldly to and fro, hawking tempting selections from the stall, they met with but little success, for if there is no money left in the purse, the best will in the world cannot produce it. "wouldn't you like to buy this lovely little plaque of della robbia, from florence?" inquired pixie genially of a group of portly matrons. "reduced to seven and six. ten shillings at the beginning of the afternoon. less than cost price!" "very pretty!" murmured the ladies, and the portliest of them went a step further and added: "_and_ cheap!" but no one showed the faintest disposition to buy. "it would look so well in the dark corner of the drawing-room!" suggested pixie, drawing a bow at a venture, and the three faces instantly became thoughtful and intent. "that's true. it might do that. does it hang?" "it is made to hang," pixie exhibited the holes pierced in the china, "but i should _prefer_ it on a bracket! a bracket nailed across a corner at just the right height, and the plaque put across it, so that you could see it from all parts of the room.--is your drawing-room blue?" "pale blue." "how charming! it would just set off this darker shade." "mine is not blue. it is pink." "but think of the contrast! blue and pink! what could be sweeter? it would look perfect against your walls! shall i make it up safely in a box? we have a special parcels department." "not to-day, thank you," said the owner of the blue drawing-room. "i'll think of it," said the owner of the pink. the silent third asked tentatively: "could you make it five?" the next group were more hopeless still. they didn't like della robbia. common, they called it, that bright yellow and blue. pixie was informed that if she offered the plaque for nothing it would be declined. she carried it dejectedly back to the stall, piled a tray with marmalade jars, gave it to stanor to carry, and started off on another promenade. "marmalade jars! fine marmalade jars! who will buy my marmalade jars?" chanted the young man loudly, and the audience giggled, and listened with indulgent looks, even went so far as to finger the jars themselves, admire the design, and marvel how they could have been made for the price, but not a single one of the number had a vacancy for such an article in the home. even when stanor suggested that the jars were not dedicated to marmalade alone, but might be used for jam, for honey, for syrup, the supply seemed ridiculously out of proportion to the demand, and half an hour's exercise of his own pleading, seconded by pixie's beguilements, brought in a total result of three shillings, which, to say the least of it, seemed inadequate. "at this rate," said esmeralda, "we shall have a van-load to take home!" honor, seated dejectedly on an inverted packing-chest, discoursed in a thin, monotonous tone on the glories of charity sales in the states. they were always crowded, it appeared; policemen stood at the doors to prevent a crush; the buying was in the nature of a competition. young girls offering wares for sale found themselves surrounded by throngs of millionaires, bidding against each other for the privilege of obtaining any article which she was pleased to offer. having accomplished a purchase, it became the overwhelming desire of the purchaser to present the article in question as a votive offering to the fair sales-woman herself. ... such a recital was hardly calculative to enliven the occasion. esmeralda frowned, and pixie sighed, and for the first time in her existence doubted the entire superiority of being born a briton. she remembered her rebuffs with the della robbia plaque and thought wistfully of those millionaires! the concert, however, was a success: the room was filled, the audience was appreciative, and lovely little jack in the character of an invalid evoked storms of applause. the spirits of the performers were improved by their success, but as the audience now cleared off rapidly on dinner intent, there seemed no reason why geoffrey, stanor, and robert carr should not follow their example. the suggestion was made, esmeralda vouchsafed a gracious permission, and went off herself to parley with another stall-holder. the three men made for the door, with relief written on every line of their figures, and the two girls remained on duty seated on packing-cases. "at home in the states," remarked honor severely, "the men would not be _paid_ to run off home to dine in comfort, leaving the girls alone to work." "on sandwiches!" supplemented pixie sadly, "and stewed tea!" she was hungry herself, and could have appreciated a well-cooked meal. "i'd like to know some american men," she opined. "you must be longing to get back to them, as they are so much more appreciative and polite than our men over here!" honor blushed, and regarded the points of her neat little shoes. "there are a great many things, pat-ricia," she said slowly, "that a girl ought to do if she were logical, and consistent, and acted up to what she preached. but she isn't, and she don't. i'm not in a mite of a hurry to get back..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the hall was packed to overflowing for the evening concert, additional chairs were placed down the aisles, and even after they were filled, a number of people had to be content with standing places at the back. the performers peeping round the corner of the stage felt a mingling of nervousness and excitement, and vociferously instructed every one else to pull his or her self together, and do his or her best. it soon became apparent, however, that the audience was indulgent to the point of boredom, applauding with consistency each item, good or bad, and demanding thereto an encore. esmeralda's entrance brought down the house, pixie's irish ditties evoked shouts of applause, and the part songs but narrowly escaped being turned into choruses. it was, indeed, a village audience of the old-fashioned kind, assembled together in pleasant, friendly spirit, with the object of being amused, and determined that that object should be fulfilled. the squire was a favourite, as he well deserved to be, and his beautiful wife was regarded with a fervent admiration, which her very aloofness had served to heighten. other ladies might call round at cottage doors, and talk intimately concerning book clubs, and dorcas societies, but no one expected such condescension from mrs geoffrey hilliard. she whizzed along in her great green car, or cantered past on her tall brown horse, followed by a groom in livery, vouchsafing a gracious smile in return for bows and curtseys. on sundays she sat ensconced in the great square pew, a vision of stately beauty. ... the good dames of the village felt it the great privilege of this evening to see the squire's lady without her hat, with diamonds flashing at her throat, smiling, laughing, singing--a goddess descended from her pedestal to make merry on their behalf. and so at last in the midst of this simple happiness came the time for the last item on the programme--that double tableau which every person in the hall was fated to remember, to the last day of his life! chapter thirteen. the accident. the curtain drew up on the first tableau. joan sang appropriate words in the sweetest tones of her rich contralto voice, her eyes, like those of the audience, riveted on the face of the little invalid as he lay on his truckle bed. white-cheeked, bandaged, reclining, the transformation in the child's appearance was astounding. considered as a piece of stage-craft, joan had every reason to congratulate herself on the result, but the mother's heart felt a pang of dismay. the representation was too life-like! just so would the darling look if the illness were real, not imaginary. in the afternoon he had not looked so ghastly. was the double excitement too much for his strength? joan's eyes turned from the stage to the first row of seats, where her husband had his place. geoffrey looked worried; his brows contracted as he watched his son. unconsciously joan quickened the pace of the last verse of her song. she was anxious to get to the second tableau, to see jack sitting up, smiling, his eyes alert. the curtain fell. a low murmur from the audience swelled into somewhat forced applause. the villagers also, joan realised, had felt the scene to be almost too realistic. behind the scenes honor as nurse and pixie as mother propped the child's back with cushions, and showered kisses on his white cheeks. "smile, jackey, smile!" they cried. "now you are a getting-well boy, and all the people will see you, and be so pleased! just once more, darling, and then away we go, driving off home to supper in the car. now a big smile!" the curtain rose. jack smiled his sweet, baby smile, and the audience burst into cheers of hearty relief. every one was smiling--not only the invalid, but also the mother, the father, the neat, complacent nurse. esmeralda's voice swelled in glad content. that last scene had been horrible; never, never again would she attempt to simulate so dreadful a reality! what a comfort to see the darling once more bonnie and smiling. half an hour more and he would be safe in bed. the curtain fell, was lifted again in response to a storm of applause, the piano strummed out the first bars of "god save the king," and the audience, stumbling to their feet, began to join in the strain. suddenly, startlingly, a shriek rent the air, rising shrill above the heavy chorus of voices--the piercing, treble shrieks of a young child, followed by loud cries for help and a stampede of feet behind the curtain. the music ceased. geoffrey hilliard and his wife rushed with one accord up the steps leading to the platform, the village doctor edged his way hurriedly through the crowded hall, the real parish nurse, wearing for the first time her new uniform, followed in his wake. and still the treble shrieks continued--the terrible, childish shrieks. the women in the audience shivered and turned pale. _master jack_! and only a moment before he had been playing at sickness. it was ill-work trifling with serious things. the pretty lamb! what could have happened? behind the curtain all was horror and confusion, a ghastly nightmare exaggeration of the scene just depicted. there on the same bed lay jack, writhing in torture, the bandages charred and blackened, a terrible smell of burning in the air. bending over him in torment stood the real father and mother; coming forward with calm, capable help came the veritable nurse. how had it happened? how? by what terrible lapse of care had the precious child been allowed to fall into danger? the mother's glance was fierce in its wrath and despair, but the explanation when it came was but too simple. jack had been bidden to sit still in bed until his clothes should be brought; from the adjoining dressing-room. but for a moment pixie had left his side, but in that moment a child-like impatience and restlessness had asserted itself with fatal consequences. jack had leapt up, rushed to the table, clutched at a glass of milk placed ready for his own refreshment, and in so doing had brought his bandaged head across the flame of an open candle, one of the small "properties" of the cottage scene. in an instant he was in flames; he threw up his little arm and the sleeve of the nightshirt caught the blaze; he ran shrieking to and fro, dodging pursuit, fighting, struggling, refusing to be held. for a moment the beholders had been too aghast for action; then pixie leapt for the blankets, while stanor overtook the child, tripped him up, wrapped and pressed and wrapped again; unfolded with trembling hands-- it was no one's fault. no one could be blamed. jack was old enough to understand and obey, was proverbially docile and obedient. under the same circumstances at home he would have been left without a qualm. the unusual circumstances had created an unusual restlessness not to be anticipated. even at that bitter moment joan realised that if it was a question of blame, she herself was at fault in having allowed the child to take part in the tableau against her husband's better judgment. a smaller nature might have found relief in scattering blame wholesale, but there was a generosity in irish esmeralda's nature which lifted her above the temptation. in the midst of her anguish she spared a moment to comfort pixie by a breathless "not your fault!" before she became unconscious of everything but the moaning figure on the bed. the treatment of jack's burns was completed with praiseworthy expedition. the local chemist flew on winged feet to his shop in the village street, whence he brought back all that was required. nurse and doctor sent away the relatives, and worked with swift, tender fingers; and presently a swathed, motionless figure was carried out to an impromptu ambulance, fitted up inside the great car, while the late audience stood massed together in the street, looking on silent and motionless--silent as to speech, but from every heart in that crowd went up a cry to god, and every mother in the village knelt that night beside her bed and prayed with tears for the life of little jack hilliard, and for the support and comfort of his father and mother. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ jack lay motionless in the darkened room, a tiny form outlined beneath the bedclothes; on the pillow was a swathe of bandages, with barely an inch between to show the small, scarred face. the night before, with tossing curls, flushed cheeks, and curving coral lips, he had lain a picture of childish beauty, at sight of which his parents' hearts had glowed with tenderness and pride as they paid their good-night visit. "he looks flushed. all this rehearsing is exciting. i shall be glad when the tableaux are over," geoffrey had said, and joan had whispered back ardently-- "but so _lovely_! if he looks like that to-morrow!" and this was to-morrow; and there on the bed lay jack, shorn, blinded, tortured--a marble image that moaned, and moaned... through the night telephone and telegraph had been busy summoning the most skilful aid. here at least was one blessing of wealth--that the question of expense need never be considered. this man for eyes, that man for skin, a third for shock to the nerves; the cleverest nurses, the newest appliances--the wonderful wires summoned them each in turn. throughout the night motor-cars whirled up the drive, tall men in top coats, nurses in cloaks and bonnets, dismantled and passed into the house, mysterious cases were hurried up back stairways. joan and her husband were banished from the sickroom, and sat in her boudoir awaiting the verdict. it was the first time they had been alone together since the accident, and when the door closed behind them joan glanced at her husband with a quivering fear. his face was white and drawn. he looked old, and bowed, and broken, but there was no anger in his face. "geoffrey! will you ever forgive me?" for all answer he held out his arms. the old look of love was in his eyes, the old beautiful softness; there was no bitterness in his look, no anger, not the faintest shadow of blame. "dearest, don't! we both suffer. we must keep strong. we must help each other." "geoff, you warned me. you said it would be bad. it was against your wish ... it's my fault!" "darling, darling, don't make it worse!" he pressed her head against his shoulder with tender, soothing touches. "no one could have foreseen. i feared for excitement only; there was no thought of danger. we have enough to bear, sweetheart. don't torture yourself needlessly." "it's my doing, it's my punishment; i brought it about. i've been cold, and selfish, and ungrateful. i had so much i ought to have been so thankful, but i was discontented--i made you wretched. god gave me a chance--" she pushed him away with frenzied hands and paced wildly, up and down the room--"a chance of salvation by happiness, and i was too mean, too poor to take it. geoff, do you remember that poem of stevenson's, `the celestial surgeon'? they have been rinking in my head all night, those last lines, those dreadful lines. i _was_ `obdurate.' all the blessings which had been showered upon me left me dead; it needed this `darting pain' to `_stab my dead heart wide awake_!'" she repeated the words with an emphasis, a wildness which brought an additional furrow into geoffrey's brow. he sighed heavily and sank down on a corner of the sofa. all night long body and mind had been on the rack; he was chill, faint, wearied to death. the prospect of another hysterical scene was almost more than he could endure, yet through all his heart yearned over his wife, for he realised that, great as was his own sorrow, hers was still harder to bear. he might reason with her till doomsday, he might prove over and again that for the night's catastrophe she was as free from blame as himself, yet esmeralda, being esmeralda, would turn her back on reason and persist in turning the knife in her own wound. speech failed him; but the voiceless prayer of his heart found an answer, for no words that he could have spoken could have appealed to his wife's heart as did his silence and the helpless sorrow of his face. she came running to him, fell at his feet, and laid her beautiful head upon his knee. "geoff, it's so hard, for i _was_ trying! in my own foolish way i was trying to please, you. i may have been hasty, i may have been rash, but i _did_ mean to do right.--i did try! i've loved you all the time, geoff, but i was spoiled. you were too good to me. my nature was not fine enough to stand it. i _presumed_ on your love. i imagined, vain fool! that nothing could kill it, and then you opened my eyes. _you_ said yourself that i had worn you out.--it killed me, geoff, to think you had grown tired!" "joan, darling, let's forget all that. i've been at fault too; there were faults on both sides, but we have _always_ loved each other; the love was there just as surely as the sun is behind the clouds. and now ... we _need_ our love... i--i'm worn out, dear. i can't go through this if you fail me. bury the past, forget it. you are my wife, i am your husband--we _need_ each other. our little child!" they clung together, weeping. in each mind was a great o'ershadowing dread, but the dread was not the same. the father asked of himself-- would the boy _die_? the mother--would he live, blinded, maimed, crippled? the door opened, a small face peered in and withdrew. pixie had seen the entwined arms, the heads pressed together, and realised that she was not needed. she crept away, and sat alone watching the slow dawn. the verdict of the specialists brought no lessening of the strain. it was too soon to judge; the shock was severe, and it was a question of strength holding out. too soon to talk about the eyes. that must be left. there were injuries, no doubt, but in the present condition of inflammation and collapse it was only possible to wait. and to wait was, to the distracted mother, the most unbearable torture she could have had to endure. the great house was quiet as the grave; the three guests had departed, little geoff had been carried away by the vicar's wife to the refuge of her own full, healthful nursery. the boy was shocked and silenced by the thought of his brother's danger, but at five years of age a continuance of grief is as little to be expected as desired, and nothing could be left to chance. a cry beneath the window, a sudden, unexpected noise might be sufficient to turn the frail balance. pixie was alone, more helplessly, achingly alone than she had been in her life. the doors of the sickroom were closed against her. joan had no need of her. joan wanted geoffrey--geoffrey, only--geoffrey alone to herself. even bridgie's telegraphed offer had been refused. "not now! no. don't let her come--later on," esmeralda said, and turned restlessly away, impatient even of the slight interruption. if it had been an ordinary, middle-class house, wherein sudden illness brings so much strain and upset, pixie would have expended herself in service, and have found comfort in so doing, but in the great ordered house all moved like a well-oiled machine. meals appeared on the table at the ordinary hours, were carried away untouched, to be replaced by others equally tempting, equally futile. banks of flowers bloomed in the empty rooms, servants flitted about their duties; there was no stir, no stress, no overwork, no need at all for a poor little sister-in-law; nothing for her to do but wander disconsolately from room to room, from garden to garden, to weep alone, and pour out her tender heart in a passion of love and prayer. "christ, there are so many little boys in your heaven--leave us jack! god, have pity on esmeralda! she's his mother. ... _her beloved son ... must he go_?" the silent house felt like a prison. pixie opened a side door and crept out into the garden. the sun was shining cloudlessly, the scent of flowers hung on the air, the birds sang blithely overhead; to a sorrowful heart there seemed something almost brutal in this indifference of nature. how could the sun shine when a little innocent human soul lay suffering cruel torture in that upper room? pixie made her way to her favourite seat at the end of a long, straight path, bordered on each side by square-cut hedges of yew. on the north side the great bush had grown to a height of eight or ten feet, with a width almost as great; on the southern side the hedge was kept trimmed to a level of four feet, to allow a view of the sloping park. for two hundred yards the path lay straight as a die between those grand old hedges; occasionally a peacock strutted proudly along its length, trailing its tail over the gravel, and then the final touch of picturesqueness was given to the scene, but even the approach of an ordinary humdrum human had an effect of dignity, of importance, in such old-world surroundings. it gratified pixie's keen sense of what it dramatically termed "a situation" to place herself in this point of vantage and act the part of audience; and to-day, though no one more interesting than a gardener was likely to appear, she yet made instinctively for the accustomed place. the sombre green of the yew was more in accord with her mood than the riot of blossom in the gardens beyond, and she was out of sight of those terrible upper windows. at any moment, as it seemed, a hand from within might stretch out to lower those blinds ... could one live through the moment that saw them fall? pixie leaned back in her seat, and lived dreamily over the happenings of the last three days. the morning after the accident the three visitors had made haste to pack, and depart in different directions--honor and robert carr to town, stanor vaughan to friends at the other side of the county. honor had relied on robert's escort, but he had hurried off by the nine o'clock train, excusing himself on the score of urgent business, which fact added largely to the girl's depression. it was four, o'clock. all day long pixie had been alone, unneeded, unobserved, for joan refused to leave the nursery floor, even for meals, and geoffrey remained by her side. looking back over the whole course of her life, the girl could not remember a time when she had been so utterly thrown on herself. always there had been some one at hand to love, to pity, to demand. at school, at the time of her father's death, there had been a bevy of dear girl friends--saintly margaret, spectacled kate, clara of the high forehead and long upper lip, lottie, pretty and clever, each vieing with the other to minister to her needs. pixie followed in thought the history of each old friend. margaret had become a missionary and had sailed for far-off china, clara was mistress in a high school, lottie lived in india, married to a soldier husband, kate was domiciled as governess in scotland. all were far away, all engrossed in new interests, new surroundings. later on, in pixie's own life, a lonely time had come when she had been sent to paris, to finish her education in the home of the dear school mademoiselle. she had been lonely then, it is true--homesick, homeland-sick, so sick that she had even contemplated running away. but how good they had been to her;--mademoiselle and her dear old father-- how wise, how tactful, above all, how _kind_! monsieur had died a few years before and gone to his last "repose," and mademoiselle--marvellous and incredible fact--mademoiselle had married a grey-bearded, bald-headed personage whom her english visitor had mentally classed as a contemporary of "_mon pere_" and tottering on the verge of dotage. it appeared, however, by after accounts, that he was barely fifty, which dick victor insisted was an age of comparative vigour. "quite a suitable match!" he had pronounced it, but pixie obstinately withheld her approval. mademoiselle, as mademoiselle, would have been a regular visitor for life; madame, the wife of a husband exigent in disposition, and deeply distrustful of "_le mer_" must perforce stay dutifully at home in paris, and was therefore lost to her english friends. ah! the years--what changes they brought! what toll they demanded! so many friends lost to sight, drifted afar by the stream of life. so many changes, so _many_ breaks. _what would the years bring next_? pixie shut her eyes and leaned back in her seat, and being young, and sad, and faint, and hungry, and very, very tired, mother nature came to her aid, and laying gentle fingers on the closed lids sealed them in sleep, her kindliest gift. pixie slept, and round the corner of this straight green hedge fate came marching towards her, with footsteps growing momentarily louder, and louder upon the gravel path. chapter fourteen. a proposal of marriage. stanor vaughan stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets looking down upon pixie's pale, unconscious face. he had motored thirty miles to hear the latest news of the little patient--that was certainly _one_ reason of his visit; but a second had undoubtedly been to see once more the little patient's aunt! at the house he had been informed that miss o'shaughnessy was in the garden, and had tracked her without difficulty to her favourite seat, and now there she lay, poor, sweet, tired little soul! with her head tilted back against the hedge, and the wee mites of hands crossed upon her lap--an image of weariness and dejection. stanor vaughan felt within him the stirrings of tenderness and pity with which a strong man regards weakness in any form. pixie was by nature such a jaunty little thing that it seemed doubly pathetic to see her so reduced. a fellow wanted to take her up in his arms, and comfort her, and make her smile again. a flush rose in stanor's cheeks as he recalled an incident of the night of the accident. after the hurried return to the house, the three guests had sat alone, waiting in miserable suspense for the doctor's verdict, but pixie had disappeared. no one knew where she had gone. honor searched for her in vain, and at last in an access of anxiety stanor himself took up the quest. he found her at last, perched on the wide window-seat of an upper window, but all his persuasions could not move her from her post. "let me stay here!" she persisted. "it comforts me. i can see--i can see the _lights_!" "you mean the motor lamps as they come up the drive?" "no," she said simply, "i mean the stars." stanor was as unimaginative as most men of his age, and his first impression was that the poor little thing was off her head. he crept downstairs and rang for a basin of the good warm soup with which he and his companions had been provided an hour before. when it was brought he carried the tray carefully up three long flights of stairs, and besought of pixie to drink it forthwith. she shook her head, and all his persuasions could not rouse her to the exertion; but being an obstinate young man, he but set his lips and determined to succeed. this time, however, he resorted to force instead of persuasion, for, having placed the tray on a corner of the sill, he filled the spoon with soup and held it determinedly to the girl's lips. now, if she moved or made a fuss, the soup would assuredly be spilled, and no living girl would voluntarily pour soup over her frock! but pixie made no fuss. meekly, obediently as a little bird, she opened her lips, and swallowed, and swallowed again and again, until the bowl was emptied of its contents. there was something so trustful and unconscious about the action that the young man felt the smart of tears in his eyes--the first tears he had known for many a long year. when the soup had been finished he went away again, and came back with a warm shawl which he had procured from a maid. in wrapping it round the quiescent figure his hands had accidentally come in contact with hers, and finding them cold as ice, it seemed the natural thing to chafe them gently between his own. quite natural also pixie appeared to find the action, for the cold little fingers had tightened affectionately round his own. it was left to him to flush and feel embarrassed; pixie remained placidly unmoved. the memory of those moments was vivid with stanor as he stood this morning looking down on the sleeping girl. all through the three days of separation her image had pursued him, and he had longed increasingly to see her again. the tragic incidents of that long night had had more effect in strengthening his dawning love than many weeks of placid, uneventful lives. it had brought them heart to heart, soul to soul; all the little veneers and conventions of society had been thrust aside, and it seemed to him that the crisis had revealed her altogether sweet and true. when a young man is brought suddenly face to face with death, when it is demonstrated before his eyes that the life of the youngest among us hangs upon a thread, he is in the mood to appreciate the higher qualities. stanor had told himself uneasily that he had been "too slack," that he had not thought enough about "these things." the friends with whom he had consorted were mostly careless pleasure-lovers like himself, but this little girl was made of a finer clay. to live with her would be an inspiration: she would "pull a fellow together." ... there was, however, to be quite honest, another and less worthy impetus which urged stanor forward, but over this he preferred to draw a mental veil. we are all guilty of the absurdity of posing for our own benefit, and stanor, like the rest, preferred to believe himself actuated wholly by lofty motives rather than partially by the wounded pride of a young man who has just discovered that he has been "managed" by an elder! he sat down on the seat beside pixie, and laid his hand gently over hers. they opened automatically to receive it; even before she lifted her lids he felt the welcoming touch; and felt it characteristic of her nature. "_you_!" she cried gladly, "mr vaughan, 'tis you! oh, that's nice! was i sleeping, that i didn't see you come? i thought i should never sleep again. jack can't sleep! if he slept he might get well." "he is sleeping now," said stanor quietly. "a man was sent to the lodge to answer all inquiries, so that there should not be even a crunch on the path. he is sleeping soundly and well. if he sleeps on--" pixie nodded, her face aglow. "oh, thank god! _how_ i thank him! sleep will make all the difference. ... till now it's been nothing but a moment's nap and awake again, with a scream. we've _agonised_ for sleep! i could not have gone off so soundly if i hadn't known, _inside_, that jack was asleep too. when you love anyone very, very much, what touches them touches you. you can't keep apart. you mayn't always know it with your _mind_, but the best part of you, the part that feels, _it_ knows!" she smiled in his face with frank, glad eyes, but stanor flushed and looked at the ground. "should you know it, if _i_ were unhappy, pixie? i should know it about you. i came this afternoon partly, mostly, because i knew how you'd be feeling, and i thought, i hoped, that i might help. does it help you, pixie, to have me sitting beside you, instead of being alone? ought i to have come, or stayed away?" "i'm glad you came; i love to have you. i've been sad before this, but i've never been sad by myself! esmeralda isn't my sister at this moment, she's just jack's mother, and there's only one person who can help her, and that is jack's father. later on 'twill change!" a flash of joy lit up the white face. "do you know what i'm waiting for? if jack lives, as soon as he's conscious and out of pain he'll send for me! he'll want me to tell him stories, and the stronger he grows the more stories he'll want! he'll need me then--they'll all need me!" "of course they'll need you. other people need you, pixie, besides your relations. why do you always go back to them? i was speaking of myself. _i_ need you! i've felt all at sea without you these last days. i never met a girl like you before. most girls are all one way or another--so serious that they're dull, or so empty-headed that it's a waste of time to talk to them. you--you are such a festive little thing, pixie; a fellow could never be dull in your company, and yet you're so good! you have such sweet thoughts; you are so unselfish, so kind." "_go_ on!" cried pixie urgently. "_go_ on!" her cheeks had flushed, her eyes sparkled with animation. "it's the most reviving thing in the world to hear oneself praised, i could listen to it for hours. in what particular way, now, would you say that i was `_sweet_?'" she peered at him, complacent, curious, blightingly unconscious of his emotions, and the young man felt a stirring of hot impatience. insinuation and innuendo were of no use where pixie o'shaughnessy was concerned; an ordinary girl might scent a proposal afar off and amuse herself by an affectation of innocence, but nothing short of a plain declaration of love would convince pixie of his sincerity. "pixie," he said suddenly, "look at me!" he took her hands in his, and drew her round so as to face him as they sat. "look at me, pixie," he repeated. "look in my eyes. tell me, what do you see?" pixie looked, her own eyes wide and amazed. her fingers stirred within his hands with a single nervous twitch, and then lay still, while into her eyes crept an expression of wonder and awe. "i don't know.--i don't know. ... what do i see?" "love, pixie! my love. my love for you. ... i've fallen in love with you, darling; didn't you know? i knew it that last evening when we were together upstairs. i've known it better and better each day since; and to-day i couldn't stay away, i couldn't wait any longer. ... pixie, do you love me too?" "of course i love you. how could i help it?" cried pixie warmly. her fingers tightened round his with affectionate pressure, her eyes beamed encouragingly upon him. never could there have been a warmer, a more spontaneous response, and yet, strange to relate, its very ardour had a chilling effect, for stanor, though young, was experienced enough to realise that it is not in this fashion that a girl receives a declaration of love from the man of her heart. he himself had struggled with shyness and agitation; he was conscious of flushed cheeks, of a hoarseness of voice, of the beating of pulses; then surely a girl taken by surprise, faced suddenly, with the question of such enormous import, should not be less moved than he. the words died upon his lips; involuntarily his hands relaxed their grasp. there was a moment of impossible impasse and strain before, with a realised effort, he forced himself to express a due delight. "that makes me very happy, pixie. i--i was afraid you might not care. i'm not half good enough for you, i know that, but i'll do my best. i'll do everything i can to make you happy. i'm not rich, you know, darling; we should have to live on what i can make independently of the uncle, for he has peculiar views. he doesn't wish me to marry." "_marry_!" repeated pixie deeply. she sat bolt upright in her seat, her eyes suddenly alight with interest and excitement. incredible as it might appear, stanor realised that this was the first moment when the idea of marriage had entered her brain. "is it _marrying_ you are talking about? you want _me_ to marry you?" "you funny little soul. of course i want it. why else should i talk about loving?" "i thought," she said sighing, "it was just nice feeling! it's natural for people to love each other. when they live together in the same house and come through trouble. ... and we're both attractive. ... you don't need to marry every one you love!" "i do," declared stanor, "when it's a girl--when it's _you_! i want to have you for my own, and keep you to myself, and how can i do that if you're not my wife? if you love me, you must want to be with me too. don't you, dear, don't you wish it? shouldn't you like to be my wife?" pixie tilted her head in her well-known attitude of consideration. "i--i think i should!" she pronounced judicially. "i liked you from the moment we met, and you've a good disposition. dispositions are important in marriage. and i'm domestic; you like domestic girls, and it's convenient when you're poor. ... on how much a head would you expect me to keep house?" but that was too much for stanor's endurance; he seized her in his strong arms and shook her with a tender violence. "pixie, you little witch, don't be so blightingly matter-of-fact! i'm making you a declaration of love. kindly receive it in a suitable fashion. ... a--a fellow expects a girl to be a little--er--sentimental and poetic, and--er--overcome, don't you know, not to begin at once to talk of _how much a head_!" "i've never been proposed to before. you must excuse me if i make mistakes. i'm quite willing to be sentimental; i dote upon sentiment," declared pixie in anxious propitiation. ... "let's go back to where you were talking about me! tell me _exactly_ what it is that you most admire?" stanor had been hoping for a little adulation for himself, but he gallantly stifled his feelings and proceeded to offer the incense which he believed would be most acceptable. "your character, darling. your sweet and tender heart!" "how nice," said pixie flatly. she sat silent for a moment and then ventured tentatively, "_not_ my personal charm?" "_and_ your personal charm. both! you've more personal charm than any girl i know." this was something like! pixie beamed content. at this moment she felt really "engaged," and agreed rapturously with all the encomiums which she had heard given to this happy condition. success emboldened her to further flights. "the first time you met me you didn't admire me then! my _appearance_, i mean! you remember you said--" "i did. yes! but you were so sweet in forgiving me that i admired you instantly for _that_!" cried stanor, skilfully turning the subject to safer ground. "and when you're my wife, pixie, you will seem the most beautiful woman in the world in my eyes. it is very unworldly of you to consent without asking more about my affairs, for i am a poor match for you, little one. it takes years for a man to make a decent income in business, and i have so little experience. my uncle has always promised to buy me a partnership in some good firm, but of course there would have to be some preliminary training. and if he did not ... approve..." "but he _must_ approve; we must make him. we couldn't marry without his consent. he's been so good to you!" "he has, uncommonly good; but when it comes to marrying, it's a fellow's own affair. i shall go my own way..." "he's lame!" "dear little girl, what has that to do with the case in point?" "well, i think it has!" persisted pixie obstinately. "it has to me. we must be nice to him, stanor, and _make_ him be pleased, whether he wants to or not. ... did you notice how naturally i called you `stanor'?" "i did! couldn't you manage to put something before it by way, of completion?" "nice stanor! handsome stanor! clever, sensible, discriminating stanor!" "quite so," said the discriminating one dryly, "but i should have liked--" suddenly he burst into a ringing boyish laugh. "this is the _rummiest_ proposal that was ever made!" pixie looked anxious. "is it? `rum'? what exactly does `rum' mean, applied to a proposal? it didn't sound approving. it's my very own proposal, and i won't have it abused. i've enjoyed it very much. ... i think we shall be very happy, stanor, when we are married and settled down in our own little house." stanor looked at her keenly, and as he looked he sighed. "dear little pixie," he said gently, "i hope we shall!" chapter fifteen. esmeralda is troubled. "engaged!" cried esmeralda shrilly. "engaged! you! to stanor vaughan? pixie o'shaughnessy, i never heard such nonsense in my life." "then you've listened to an uncommon amount of sense. i should not have thought it, to judge from your actions," returned pixie, nettled, "'twould be interesting to hear what strikes you as so ridiculous about it!" it was three days after stanor's unexpected visit with its momentous consequences, but in consideration of the anxiety of jack's parents, the news had been withheld until the boy had been pronounced out of danger. only this morning had the glad verdict been vouchsafed. jack would live; given a steady, even improvement, with no unforeseen complications, he would live, and in a few weeks time be up and about once more. the eye trouble would be more lasting, for the child was of a peculiarly sensitive nature, and the shock seemed inclined to localise itself in the eyes. the sight itself would be saved, but for some years to come it would need the most careful tending. he must wear darkened spectacles; be forbidden to read; be constantly under skilled care. given such precautions the sight would probably become normal in later years... when the first verdict was given, the father, and mother clung to one another in an ecstasy of relief and thankfulness. throughout those last terrible days, when every conscious breath had carried with it a prayer, joan had looked deep into her own soul and beheld with opened eyes the precipice on which she stood. how far, how far she had travelled since those early married days, when, with her first-born in her arms, her highest ambition had been that she should be enabled so to train him that he should grow up, to be, in the words of the beautiful old phrase, "a soldier of christ!" of late years she had had many ambitions for her boys, but they had been ambitions of the world, worldly. the old faith had been gradually neglected and allowed to sink into the background of life. in her own strength she had walked, in her own weakness she had failed. yet now, in default of punishment, goodness and mercy were once more to be her portion! all the nobility in joan's nature rose up as she pledged herself afresh to a new--a higher life! jack would live, their boy would live--that was for days the one thought of which the parents were conscious. for the father it was perfect joy, but for the mother there still remained a pang. only esmeralda herself ever knew the anguish of grief which she endured on account of her baby's altered looks. little jack, with his angel face, his halo of curls, his exquisite, innocent eyes, had been a joy to behold. waking, sleeping, merry, sad--at one and every moment, of his life the mere sight of him had been as an open sesame to the hearts of those who beheld. the knife turned in his mother's heart at the thought of _jack_ shorn, scarred, spectacled. she dared not confide her grief to her husband. he would not understand. _looks_! what could looks matter, when the child had been delivered from death? joan could see in imagination the expression on his face, hear the shocked tones of his voice; she would not betray her feelings and risk a break of the new, sweet understanding between them. all men were alike. there were occasions when only another woman could understand. joan went upstairs to the empty nursery and found marie weeping in her chair. "_petite lapin! petite cherie! petite ange_! comfort thyself, madame," she sobbed, "we can have glasses like the young american--she who visited madame last year. no rims hardly to be observed! and the hair--that will grow--of a surety it will grow. a little long upon the forehead, and _voila_! the scar is hid. ... a little care, madame, a little patience, and he will be once more our _petit amour_!" "marie," said her mistress firmly, "looks are a secondary affair. we ought to be too thankful to _think_ of looks!" "_c'est vrai_, madame," replied marie demurely, "_c'est vrai_," and joan hilliard went back to her room with a lightened heart, and determined to write at once to town to ask particulars concerning rimless spectacles. and now here was pixie, with this preposterous, ridiculous tale! at sight of her young sister joan had felt a pang of contrition. she had forgotten all about her these last terrible days. poor girl! she must have been terribly lonely, but that was the best of pixie--she was always ready to forgive and forget. joan kissed her warmly, murmured apologies, and inquired affectionately how the long days had been passed. and then--out it came! "why ridiculous?" echoed joan. "my dear, how could it be anything else? five days ago, when we were all together, there wasn't a sign of such a thing. stanor was attracted by you, of course; but he was not in love. he was always cheerful, always merry. how different from poor robert, who is eating his heart out for honor ward!" "i hope," said pixie deeply, "that stanor will always _keep_ cheerful. it won't be my fault if he does not. no man shall `eat his heart out' for me if i can help it!" joan glanced at her quickly. she had caught the tone of pain in the beautiful voice, and softened to it with instant response. "yes, dear, of course. you'd never flirt, you're too honest, but, all the same, pixie, i stick to my opinion. i don't believe for a moment that stanor vaughan is in love with you, and i'm positively sure that _you_ are not in love with him!" "can you look into my heart, esmeralda, and see what is there?" "yes, i can. in this instance i can. fifty times better than you can yourself. you are pleased, you are flattered, you are interested. you were miserable and lonely, (that's my fault, for leaving you alone. i don't know what bridgie will say to me!) and stanor was sorry for you, you appealed to his chivalry, and you were just in the mood to be swept off your feet, without realising what it all meant. pixie, when you told me just now, you were quite calm, you never even blushed!" "i don't think," reflected pixie thoughtfully, "i ever blushed in my life." it occurred to her uncomfortably that stanor also had noticed the omission, and had felt himself defrauded thereby. she wondered uneasily if one could _learn_ to blush! as for esmeralda, the words carried her back in a rush to the dear days of childhood, when the little sister had been the pet and pride of the family. indeed, and pixie had had no need to blush! her very failings had been twisted round to pose as so many assets in her favour, while her own happy self-confidence had instilled the belief that every one wanted her, every one appreciated. what cause had pixie o'shaughnessy to blush? "mavourneen!" cried esmeralda tenderly, "i know. thank god you've never needed to blush or feel afraid, but, pixie, when love comes, it's different, everything is different! it's a new birth. the old confidence goes, for it's a new life that lies ahead, and one stands trembling on the brink. ... if what you feel is the right thing, you'll understand. pixie, dear, do i seem the wrong person to talk like this? you know how it has been with us. we drifted apart--geoff and i--so far apart that i thought ... i can't talk of it--you know what i thought-- but, pixie think! if the feeling between us had not been the _real_ thing, if we had married on affection only, where should we have been now? geoffrey loved me so much that he bore with me, through all these years of strain, and when this great trouble came, he forgave me at once, forgave everything, blotted it right out, and thought of nothing but how to help me most. a cloud had rolled up between us, but it was _only_ a cloud, the love was there all the time, hidden, like the sun, ready to shine out again. ... oh, pixie, dear, the right thing is so wonderful, so grand, that i can't let you miss it for the sake of a mistake. you are so young. you don't understand. let me write to stanor to-night and tell him it's a mistake, that you didn't know your own mind!" "you may talk till doomsday, esmeralda," said pixie quietly, "but i shall keep my word!" mentally pixie had been deeply impressed by the other's confidences, and not a little perturbed thereby, but it was against her sense of loyalty to allow such feelings to appear. to her own heart she confessed that she was altogether without this strange sense of elation, this mysterious new birth which esmeralda considered all important under the circumstances. she was certainly happy, for with stanor's coming the cloud which had hovered over the house had begun to disperse. she had opened her own eyes to the good news of jack's first sleep, and each day the improvement had continued, while stanor motored over, to sit by her side, cheering her, saying loving, gentle things, building castles in the air of a life together. ... yes, she was _very_ happy, but ... she had been happy before, there was nothing astoundingly, incredibly _new_ in her sensations. pixie sent her thoughts back into the past, endeavouring to recall recollections of joan's engagement, of bridgie's, of jack's. yes, certainly they had all become exceedingly different under the new conditions. she recalled in especial bridgie's face beneath her bridal veil. child as she herself had been at that time she had been arrested by that expression: nor had she been allowed to forget it, for from time to time during the last six years she had seen it again. "the _shiny_ look!" she had christened it in her thoughts. sweet and loving were bridgie's eyes for every soul that breathed, but that one particular look shone for one person alone! pixie's heart contracted in a pang of longing; it was almost like the pang she had felt in the drawing-room of holly house on that dread afternoon when the news of her father's death had been broken to her--a pang of longing, a sore, sore feeling of something wanting. she shivered, then drew herself together with indignant remembrance. she was _engaged_! what sentiments were these for an engaged girl? how could she feel a blank when still more love was added to her share? "if you talk till doomsday, esmeralda, i'll keep my word. stanor loves me and says i can help him. i said i would, and, me dear, _i will_! we've been through a lot of trouble this last week, isn't it a pity to try to make more for no good? my mind's made up!" joan hilliard was silent. in her heart of hearts she realised that there was nothing more to say. pixie was pixie. as well try to move a mountain from its place, as persuade that sweet, loving, most loyal of creatures to draw back from a solemn pledge. something might be done with stanor perhaps, or, failing stanor, through that erratic person, his uncle. she must consult with geoffrey and bridgie, together they might insist upon a period of waiting and separation before a definite engagement was announced. pixie was still under age. until her twenty-first birthday her guardians might safely demand a delay. joan knew that stanor vaughan had had passing fancies before now, and had little belief that the present entanglement would prove more lasting. circumstances had induced a special intimacy with pixie, but when they were separated he would repent.--if he himself set pixie free! ... so far did joan's thoughts carry her, then, looking at the girl's happy face, she felt a sharp pang of contrition. "me dear, i want you to be happy! if it makes you happy to marry stanor, i'll give you my blessing, and the finest trousseau that money can buy. you're young yet, and he has his way to make. you'll have to wait patiently, for a few years, until he can make a home, but it's a happy time, being engaged. i feel defrauded myself to have had so little of it. storing up things in a bottom drawer, and picking up old furniture at sales, and polishing it up so lovingly, thinking of where it is going, and letters coming and going, and looking forward to the time when he'll come down next--'tis a beautiful time. three or four years ought to pass like a trice!" "besides leaving plenty of time to change your mind. i know you, me dear!" cried pixie shrewdly. "i see through you! you'll be relieved to hear that the date has not been mentioned, but you can start with the trousseau as soon as you please. i'll take it in quarterly instalments, and spin out the pleasure, besides sparing my friends the shock of seeing me suddenly turn grand. my affianced suitor is coming to proffer a formal demand for my hand. will ye be kind to him now, and give him some tea?" "i will," said joan readily. to herself she added: "we are all alike, we o'shaughnessys, we will be led, but we will _not_ be driven. it's no use appearing to object! things must just take their course..." chapter sixteen. the "runkle" intervenes. as little jack continued to progress towards convalescence, the attention of the household became increasingly absorbed by the astounding fact of pixie's projected engagement. bridgie, detained at home by malapropos ailments on the part of the children, wrote urgent letters by daily posts, contradicting herself on every point saving one alone--the advisability of delay. geoffrey hilliard as host, dick victor as guardian, jack, pat, and miles as brothers, proposed, seconded, and carried by acclamation the same waiting policy. and no one who has the faintest knowledge of human nature will need to be told that such an attitude had the effect of rousing the youthful lovers to the liveliest impatience. stanor in particular was moved to rebellion. his pride was hurt by so lukewarm a reception of his addresses, which was all the more disagreeable for being unexpected. the hilliards had shown so much friendship and hospitality to him as a friend, that he had taken for granted that they would welcome him in a closer relationship. he was not a great _parti_ it was true, but then by her own confession pixie had no fortune of her own, and had been accustomed to modest means. stanor did not say to himself in so many words that he happened to possess an exceptionally handsome and popular personality, he refused even to frame a definite thought to that effect; nevertheless the consciousness was there, and added to his chagrin. lounging along the country lanes, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, stanor told himself that it was a disappointing old world: a fellow always imagined that when he got engaged he would have the time of his life; in books a fellow was represented as walking upon air, in a condition of rapture too intense for belief--it was disappointing to find his own experience fall so short of the ideal! sweet little pixie, of course, was a beguiling creature. stanor would not admit any shortcomings in his _fiancee_, but he did allow himself to wonder tentatively if he had spoken too soon: if she were not, perhaps, a trifle young to understand the meaning of the new claim. the daily interviews which he had been vouchsafed had been full of interest and charm, but they had not succeeded in stifling the doubt which had marred the first minutes of acceptance, for alas! it was when pixie was the most affectionate that her lover was most acutely conscious of the subtle want. and then, as if there was not already enough worry and trouble, there was the runkle. ... the runkle would be bound to put in his oar! stanor had delayed sending word of his engagement to the man who stood to him in the place of a father, silencing his conscience by the assertion that there was yet nothing to announce. until pixie's guardians came down from their present unnatural position, there might be an understanding, but there could not be said to be a formal engagement. it was pixie herself who finally forced him to dispatch the news. it was stanor's first experience of arguing a point with a woman, and a most confusing experience he found it. pixie invariably agreed with every separate argument as he advanced it, saw eye to eye with him on each separate point, sympathised warmly with his scruples, and then at the very moment when she was expected to say "yes" to the final decision, said "no," and stuck to it with conviction. questioned as to the reason of such inconsistency, she had only one excuse to plead, and she pled it so often and with such insistence that it seemed easier to give in than to continue the argument. "yes, but he's lame!" came back automatically as the answer to every remonstrance, till stanor shrugged his shoulders and sat down to write his letter. pixie _was_ indeed, as the family had it, "the soft-heartedest creature!" he loved her for it, but none the less depression seized him anew. now there would be the runkle to tackle! more arguments! more objections! a fellow ought to be jolly happy when he was married, to make up for all the fuss and agitation which went before... stanor's letter of announcement was short and to the point, for he was not in the mood to lapse into sentiment. by return of post came the runkle's reply, short also, and non-committal--nothing more, in fact, than the announcement that he preferred to discuss the matter in person, and would the following day arrive at a certain hotel, where he bade his nephew meet him. stanor therefore made his excuses to his hostess, packed his bag, and dispatched a letter of explanation to his _fiancee_, unconscious of the fact that she was at that very hour receiving information first hand. it came about in the most natural, and simple fashion. as pixie, roaming the grounds bareheaded to gather a bouquet of wild flowers to present to the little invalid, emerged suddenly upon the drive, she found a tall, grey-coated stranger leaning against a tree in an attitude expressive of collapse. he was very tall, and very thin; the framework of his shoulders was high and broad, but from them the coat seemed to flap around a mere skeleton of a frame. his hair was dark, his complexion pale, and leaning back with closed eyes he looked so alarmingly ill and spent, that, dropping the flowers to the ground, pixie leaped forward to the rescue. "you're ill. ... let me help! there's a seat close by. ... lean on me!" the stranger opened his eyes, and pixie started as most people _did_ start when they first looked into stephen glynn's eyes, which were of that deep, intense blue which is romantically dubbed purple and fringed with dark lashes, which added still further to their depth. they were sad eyes, tired eyes, eyes of an exceeding and pitiful beauty, eloquent of suffering and repression. they looked out under dark, level brows, and with their intense earnestness of expression flooded the thin face with life. as she met their gaze pixie drew a quick, gasping breath of surprise. the stranger in his turn looked surprised and startled; he bent his head in involuntary salute, and glanced down at the tiny arm offered for his support. six foot two he stood in his stockinged feet, and there was this scrap of a girl offering her little doll-like arm for support! his lips twitched, and pixie pounced on the meaning with her usual agility. "but i'm wiry," she announced proudly. "you wouldn't believe my strength till you try it. just for a few yards. ... round the corner by the oak-tree. _please_!" "you are too kind. i am not ill, but the walk from the station is very steep and i found it tiring, that's all. i shall be glad to rest for a moment, but i assure you no help is needed." he took a step forward as he spoke, a quick, halting step, and pixie looking on, exclaimed sharply-- "_the runkle_! stanor's runkle! it is _you_!" the stranger looked down sharply, his dark brows puckering in astonishment. "i am stephen glynn--`the runkle,' as my nephew is pleased to call me. but you--you cannot be--" pixie nodded vehemently. "i _am_!--pixie o'shaughnessy. going to be your niece. i made stanor write to tell you.--" they seated themselves on the bench under the oak-tree, and turning, faced each other in a long, curious silence, during which each face assumed a puzzled expression. "but you are younger than i expected!" cried pixie. "that is exactly what i was on the point of saying to _you_," returned mr glynn. "and yet we know exactly how old we both are--twenty and thirty-five!" pixie continued volubly. "but you know how it is with young men--they have no patience to explain! you'd be amused if you could see the image i'd made of you in my own mind. i expect 'twas the same with yourself?" "it was," agreed mr glynn, and for a moment imagined that his disappointment was his own secret--only for a moment, however, then pixie tilted her head at him with a sideways nod of comprehension. "knowing, of course, that i was a sister of the beautiful mrs hilliard! no wonder you are disappointed!" the eyes smiled sympathy at him, and the wide lips parted in the friendliest of smiles. "you'll like me better when you know me!" "i--i am quite sure," stammered mr glynn, and then drew himself up suddenly, as if doubtful if agreement were altogether polite under the circumstances. once more his lips twitched, and as their eyes met he and pixie collapsed together into an irresistible laugh. he laughed well, a rare and charming accomplishment, and pixie regarded him with benign approval. "quite romantic, isn't it? the noble kinsman journeying in state to demand the hand of the charming maid, falls ill of the perils of the way, and encounters a simple cottage maid gathering flowers, who succours the stranger in distress. their identity is then revealed. ... i _do_ love romances!" cried pixie gushingly. "and it's much nicer having an interview out here than in a stuffy room ... please, mr kinsman--begin!" he frowned, bit at his under lip, and moved restlessly on the seat, glancing once and again at the girl's bright, unclouded face. "i'm afraid," he began slowly, "that the matter is not altogether as simple as you suppose. stanor is not in a position to marry without my consent. i think he has not sufficiently appreciated this fact. if he had consulted me in the first instance i should have endeavoured to prevent--" she turned her eyes upon him like a frightened child. there was no trace of anger, nor wounded pride--those he could have faced with ease-- but the simple shock of the young face smote on his heart. "i had not seen you, remember!" he cried quickly. "my decision had no personal element. i object at this stage to stanor becoming engaged to--anybody. he has, no doubt, explained to you our relationship. his parents being dead, i made myself responsible for his training. he may have explained to you also my wish that for a few years he should be free to enjoy his youth without any sense of responsibility?" pixie nodded gravely. "he has. i understood. you had missed those years yourself, and knew they could never come back, so you gave them to him as a gift--young, happy years without a care, that he could treasure up in his mind and remember all his life. 'twas a big gift! stanor, and i are grateful to you--" stephen glynn looked at her: a long, thoughtful glance. the programme which he had mapped out for his nephew had been unusual enough to attract much notice. he had been alternately annoyed and amused by the criticism of his neighbours, all of whom seemed incapable of understanding his real motives. it seemed a strange thing that it should be reserved for this slip of a girl to see into his inmost heart. he was touched and impressed, but that "stanor and i" hardened him to his task. "thank you. you _do_ understand. at the moment stanor may perhaps be inclined to question the wisdom of my programme, but i think in after years he will, as you say, look back. the fact remains, however, that he has not yet tackled the real business of life. he has had, with my concurrence, plenty of change and variety, which i believe in the end will prove of service in his life's work, and he has stood the test. many young fellows of his age would have abused their opportunities. he has not done so. my only disappointment has been that he has developed no definite taste, but has been content to flit from one fancy to the next, always carried away by the latest novelty on the horizon." once again she tilted her head and scanned him with her wide, clear eyes. "you mean _me_?" she said quickly. "i'm the `latest novelty!' you mean that he'll change about me, too? isn't that what you mean?" "my dear--miss o'shaughnessy," (incredible though it appeared, stephen had been on the verge of saying "pixie," pure and simple) "you leap too hastily to conclusions. i am afraid i must appear an odious person! believe me, i had no intention of rushing into the very heart of this matter as we have done. my plan was to call upon your sister and explain to her my position--" "'tis not my sister's business, 'tis mine," interrupted pixie firmly. "and it would be a waste of time talking to her, for she'd agree with every word you said. they don't _want_ me to be engaged. they think i'm too young. if you have anything to say, say it to _me_. _i'm_ the person to be convinced." she settled herself more comfortably as she spoke, turning towards him with one arm resting on the back of the bench, and her head leaning against the upturned hand. the sun shone on her face through the flickering branches. no, she was not pretty; not in the least the sort of girl stanor was accustomed to fancy. yet there was something extraordinarily attractive about the little face, with its clear eyes, its wide, generous mouth, its vivacity of expression. already, after a bare ten minutes' acquaintance, stephen glynn so shrank from the prospect of hurting pixie o'shaughnessy that it required an effort to keep an unflinching front. "i agree with your people," he said resolutely, "that you and stanor are too young, and that this matter has been settled too hastily. apart from that, i should object to any engagement until he has proved his ability to work for a wife. i have a position in view for him in a large mercantile house in new york. after a couple of years' experience there he would come back to the london house, and, if his work justified it, i am prepared to buy him a partnership in the firm. he would then be his own master, free to do as he chose, but for these two years he must be free, with no other responsibility than this work." "you think," queried pixie slowly, "that i should interfere ... that he would do his work better without me?" "it's not a question of thinking, miss o'shaughnessy. i am not content to think. i want to make _sure_ that stanor will settle seriously to work and keep in the same mind. he is a good fellow, a dear fellow, but, hitherto at least, he has not been stable." "he has never been engaged before?" "not actually. i have been forewarned in time to prevent matters reaching that length. twice over--" a small hand waved imperiously for silence. "i don't _think_," said pixie sternly, "that you have any right to tell me things like that. if stanor wants me to know, he can tell me himself. it's his affair. i am not at all curious." she drew a fluttering breath, and stared down at the ground, and a silence followed during which stephen was denouncing himself as a hard-hearted tyrant, when suddenly a minute voice spoke in his ear-- "were they--_pretty_?" it was impossible to resist the smile which twitched at his lips. unpleasant as was the nature of his errand, he, the most unsmiling of men, had already twice over been moved to merriment. stephen was reflecting on the incongruity of the fact, when pixie again answered his unspoken retort. "it's not curiosity, it's interest. _quite_ a different thing! and even if they _were_, it's much more serious when a man cares for a girl for her--er--mental attractions, because they go on getting better, instead of fading away like a pretty face. it's very difficult to know what is right. ... i've promised stanor, and he has promised me, and it seems a poor way of showing that you know your own mind, to break your word at the beginning!" "i don't ask you to break your word, miss o'shaughnessy; only to hold it in abeyance. i am speaking in stanor's interests, which we have equally at heart. i know his character--forgive me!--better than you can do, and i am asking you to help me in arranging a probation which i _know_ to be wise under the circumstances. let him go to new york a free man; let him work and show his mettle, and at the end of two years, if you are both of the same mind, i will give you every help in my power: but meantime there must be no engagement, no _tie_, no regular correspondence. you must both be perfectly free. i am sorry to appear hard-hearted, but these are my conditions, and i can't see my way to alter them." "well--why not?" cried pixie unexpectedly. "what's two years? they'll pass in no time. and men hate writing. stanor will be relieved not to have to bother about the mails. he can do without letters. he will know that i am waiting." she held out her hand with a sudden, radiant smile. "and _you_ will be pleased! it is the least we can do to consider your wishes. if i persuade stanor--if i send him away alone to work," the small fingers tightened ingratiatingly over his, "you _will_ like me, won't you? you will think of me as a real niece?" stephen glynn's deep blue eyes stared deeply into hers. he did not deliberately intend to put his thoughts into speech; if he had given himself a moment to think he would certainly not have done so, but so strong was the mental conviction that the words seemed to form themselves without his volition. "you don't love him! you could not face a separation so easily if you loved him as you should..." for the first time a flash of real anger showed itself on pixie's face. her features hardened; the child disappeared and he caught a glimpse of the woman that was to be. "what right have you to say that?" she asked deeply. "you prove to me that it would be for stanor's good to wait, and then say i cannot love him because i agree! _you_ love him, yet you can hurt him and bring him disappointment when you feel it is right. i understood that, so i was not angry, but in return you might understand _me_!" "forgive me!" cried stephen. "i should not have said it. you deserved a better return for your kindness. i suppose i must seem very illogical, but it did not occur to me that the two cases were on a parallel. the love of a _fiancee_ is not as a rule as well balanced as that of an uncle, miss o'shaughnessy!" "it _ought_ to be," asserted pixie. "it ought to be everything that another love is, and more! a man's future wife ought to be the person of all others to be reasonable, and unselfish, and logical where he is concerned, even if it means separation for a _dozen_ years." no answer. stephen gazed blankly into space as if unconscious of her words. "_oughtn't_ she?" "er--theoretically, miss o'shaughnessy, she _ought_!" "very well, then. i am proud that i _am_, and so ought you to be, too. ... it's strange how i'm misunderstood! my family say the same thing-- esmeralda, geoffrey, stanor himself, and it hurts, for no one before has ever doubted if i could love..." she was silent for a minute, twisting her fingers together in restless fashion, then looking suddenly into his face she asked: "what do you know about it to be so sure? have _you_ ever been in love?" stephen flushed. "never. no. i was--my accident cut me off from all such things." "what a pity! she would have helped you through." she smiled into his eyes with a beautiful sweetness. "well, mr glynn, if i am too reasonable to please you, perhaps stanor will make up for it. you mayn't find it so easy to influence _him_." "i'm sure of that. i look forward to a stiff time, but if you are on my side we shall bring him round. now perhaps i had better continue my way to the house and see mrs hilliard. this is pre-eminently your business, as you say, but still--" "she'll expect it! yes--" pixie rose to her feet with an air of depression--"and she'll _crow_! they'll _all_ crow! it's what they wanted, and when you come and lay down an ultimatum, they'll rejoice and triumph." her small face assumed an aspect of acute dejection. "that's the worst of being the youngest. ... it's a trying thing when your family insist on sitting in committees about your own affairs, when you understand them so much better yourself. i'm not even supposed to understand the feelings of my own heart without a sister to translate them for me. shouldn't you think, now, a girl of twenty--nearly twenty-one--is old enough to know that?" "i don't think it is a foregone conclusion. more things than years go to the formation of character, miss o'shaughnessy, and if you will allow me to say so, you seem to me very young for your age." "_i_ always was," sighed pixie sadly. "they've said that all my life. some people always _are_ young, and some are old. there was a girl at school, middle-aged at thirteen, poor creature, and had been from her birth. my sister bridgie will never be more than seventeen if she lives to a hundred, and i mean myself to stick at twenty. it doesn't mean trying to look younger than you are, or being ashamed of your age, and silly, and frivolous: it's just keeping your _heart_ young!" the man, who was young in years and old in heart, looked down at the girl with a very sad smile. she spoke as if it were such an easy thing to do: he knew by bitter experience that under such circumstances as his own it was of all tasks the most difficult. to stand aside during the best years; to see the tide of life rush by, and have no part in the great enterprise; and then to regain his powers when youth had passed, and the keen savour of youth had died down into a dull indifference; to be dependent for love on the careless affection of a lad,--how was it possible for a man to keep his heart warm in such circumstances as these? "life has been kind to you," he answered dryly, and pixie flung him a quick retort-- "i have been kind to _it_! if i'd chosen i might have found it hard enough. we were always poor. i never remember a time when i hadn't to pretend and make up, because it was impossible to get what i wanted. then i was sent to school, and i hated going, and my father died when i was away, and they told me the news with not a soul belonging to me anywhere near, and i loved my father _far_ more than other girls love theirs! ... then we left knock. ... if _you'd_ lived in a castle, and gone to a villa in a street, with a parlour in front and a dining-room behind looking out on the kitchen wall, _you_ wouldn't talk about life being kind--! "i was in france for years being educated, and not able to repine because it was a friend and she'd taken me cheaply. perhaps you'd say that was luck, and an advantage, and it _was_, but all the same it's hard on a young thing to have to enjoy herself in a foreign language, and spend the holidays with a maiden lady and a snuffy old _pere_, because there wasn't enough money to come home. yes," concluded pixie, with a smirk of satisfaction, "i've had my trials, and now i'm to be crossed in love, and have my young lover rent from me. ... you couldn't have the audacity to call life easy after that!" stephen tried valiantly to look sympathetic, but it was useless; he was obliged to smile, and pixie smiled with him, adding cheerily-- "anyway, it's living! ... and i do love it when things happen. it's so _dreadfully_ interesting to be alive." the man who was old before his time looked down upon the girl with a wistful glance. small as she was, insignificant as she had appeared at first sight, he had never seen any one more intensely, vitally alive. her tiny feet skimmed the ground, her tiny head reared itself jauntily on the slender neck, the brilliance of her smile, the embracing kindliness of her glance more than compensated for the plainness of her features. like most people who made the acquaintance of pixie o'shaughnessy, stephen glynn was already beginning to fall under her spell and marvel at the blindness of his first impression. she was _not_ plain; she was _not_ insignificant; she was, on the contrary, unusually fascinating and attractive! "but she does not love him," stephen repeated to himself. "she does not know what love means. when she does--when she has grown into a woman, and understands--what a wife, what a companion she will make!" chapter seventeen. thinking alike. pixie's prophecy that her relatives would "crow" on hearing mr glynn's ultimatum, was fulfilled in spirit, if not in letter. geoffrey and joan hilliard assumed their most staid and dignified airs for the important interview, referred to "my sister patricia" with a deference worthy of a royal princess, and would have stanor's guardian to understand that the man was not born who was worthy to be her spouse; all the same, as mortal young men went, they had nothing to say against stanor vaughan, and if time proved him to be in earnest, both in love and work, they would be graciously pleased to welcome him into the family. then, the business part of the interview being ended, the ambassador was invited to stay to lunch, and esmeralda swept from the room, leaving the two men to a less formal colloquy over their cigarettes. "it's a comfort to find that we think alike on this matter," began geoffrey, holding out a match for his guest's benefit. "i have felt rather guilty about it, for pixie was left too much to herself during our little fellow's illness. she was in trouble herself, poor little soul, and, being lonely, was no doubt unduly susceptible to sympathy. neither my wife nor i suspected any attachment before the night of the boy's accident, and if things had gone on in a normal way i doubt if the engagement would have come off. pixie is very young; we have hardly accustomed ourselves to the idea that she is grown-up. this is the first visit she had paid to us by herself, so that we feel responsible." "you are uncertain of her feelings? i had the same doubt myself, but when i said as much miss o'shaughnessy was indignant. she insists that she does love the boy." geoffrey hilliard laughed. "it would be difficult to find the person whom pixie does _not_ love. he is handsome, and he was kind to her when she was lonely. she loves him as she loves a dozen other friends. but--" "_but_!" repeated stephen glynn eloquently. he who had missed the greatest of earthly gifts yet realised enough of its mystery to join in that eloquent protest. he smoked in silence for several moments, while his thoughts wandered backwards. "_she would have helped you through_!" the echo of those words rang in his ears; he heard again the musical tone of the soft irish voice, saw again the sweet, deep glance. strange that those words had in the very moment of utterance uprooted the conviction of years! lying prisoner on his couch, he had been thankful, in a grim, embittered fashion which had belied the true meaning of the word, that love had not entered into his life. it would have been but another cross to bear, since no woman could be expected to be faithful to a maimed and querulous invalid. now in a lightning flash he realised that there were women--this irish pixie, for example--whose love could triumphantly overcome such an ordeal. _she_ would have "_helped him through_" and, supported and cheered by her influence, his recovery would doubtless have been far more speedy. he straightened himself, and said quickly-- "miss o'shaughnessy would make a charming wife. for stanor's sake i could not wish anything better than that she may be ready to fulfil her promise at the end of the two years." "there's no doubt about that," said geoffrey gravely. "she will be ready. there's more than a grain of obstinacy in pixie's nature--very amiable obstinacy, no doubt, but it may be just as mischievous on such occasions as the present. she has given her word and she'll stick to it, even if she recognises that she has made a mistake. we may talk, but it will have no effect. unless your nephew himself releases her, she will feel as much bound as if they had been married in westminster abbey. it's the way she's made--the most faithful little creature under the sun! it will be our duty to protect her against herself, by making the young fellow understand that for her sake, almost more than his own, he must be honest, and not allow a mistaken sense of honour to urge him to repeat his proposal if his heart is not in it. he could make pixie his wife, but he could never make her happy. the most cruel fate that could happen to that little soul would be to be married to a man who did not love her absolutely!" stephen glynn nodded, his lips pressed together in grim determination. "he shall understand. if i know stanor, there will be no difficulty, in persuading him. he is a good lad, but it is not in him to sacrifice himself. i have been so anxious to secure him an unclouded youth that he is hardly to be blamed for putting his own interests in the foreground." "it's a fault that many of us suffer from in the early twenties," said geoffrey, lightly. he thought the conversation had lasted long enough, and was glad when the sound of the gong came as an interruption and he could escort his guest to the dining-room, where the two ladies were already waiting. luncheon was a cheerful meal despite the somewhat difficult position of the diners, and stephen glynn felt the pang of the lonely as he absorbed the atmosphere of love and sympathy. the beautiful hostess looked tired and worn, but her eyes brightened as she looked at her husband, and, in a quiet, unostentatious fashion, he watched incessantly over her comfort. it was easy to see that the trial through which this husband and wife had passed had but riveted the bond between them and brought them into closest sympathy, while the little sister comported herself with a brisk cheeriness which was as far as possible removed from the attitude of the proverbial damsel crossed in love. the time passed so pleasantly that the visitor was unfeignedly sorry when it was time to make his farewells. pixie ran upstairs for the small son and heir, who had by now returned home, and in her absence stephen exchanged a few last words with esmeralda. "i am immensely relieved and thankful that you and your husband feel with me in this matter. and miss o'shaughnessy has been wonderfully forgiving! she does not appear to bear me any rancour." esmeralda gave a short, impatient laugh. "_rancour_! _pixie_! you know very little of my sister, mr glynn, to suggest such a possibility. she is incapable of rancour!" pixie returned at this moment, leading geoff by the hand, and when the great car glided up to the door, she and the boy went out together to see the last of the departing guest. stephen stepped haltingly into the car, and leaned over the side to wave his own farewells. pixie smiled, and waved in reply, and the sun shone down on her uncovered face. stephen would have been thankful if he could have carried away that picture as a last impression, but as the car moved slowly from the door, she stepped back into the shadow of the porch, and he caught a last glimpse of her standing there, gazing after him with a grave, fixed gaze. chapter eighteen. "i will be true." stephen glynn's dreaded interview with his nephew was a typical example of the unexpectedness of events, for instead of the indignant opposition which he had feared, his proposition was listened to in silence, and accepted with an alacrity, which was almost more disconcerting than revolt. in truth stanor saw in the proposal an escape from what had proved a disappointing and humiliating position. his pride had been hurt by the attitude of pixie's relatives, and he could not imagine himself visiting at their houses with any degree of enjoyment. a dragging engagement in england would therefore be a trying experience to all concerned, and it seemed a very good way out of the difficulty to pass the time of waiting abroad. from his own point of view, moreover, he was relieved not to begin his business life in london, where so far he had been free to pursue his pleasures only. to be cooped up in a dull city office, while but a mile or two away his friends were taking part in the social functions of the season, would be an exasperating experience, whereas in new york he would be troubled by no such comparisons, but would find much to enjoy in the novelty of his surroundings. two years would soon pass, and at the end he would come home to an assured position, marry pixie, and live happily ever after. he sat gazing thoughtfully into space, the fingers of his right hand slowly stroking his chin, a picture of handsome, young manhood, while the deep blue eyes of stephen glynn watched him intently from across the room. a long minute of silence; then the two pairs of eyes met, and stanor found himself flushing with a discomfort as acute as mysterious. he straightened himself, and put a hasty question-- "what does pixie say?" "miss o'shaughnessy was--" stephen hesitated over the word--"she seemed to think that my wishes should have weight. she will consent to anything that seems for your good. she said that two years would quickly pass." stanor frowned. the thought had passed through his own brain, but no man could approve of such sentiments on the part of a _fiancee_. there was an edge of irritation in his voice-- "of course your wishes should be considered. i don't need any one to teach me that. i am quite willing to go to america and do my best. i shall be glad of the change, but it's nonsense to talk of not being bound. we _are_ bound! we need not correspond regularly, if you make a point of that. i don't think much of letters in any case. writing once a week, or once in two or three months, can make no difference. there's only _one_ thing that counts!" stephen assented gravely. "just so. from what i have seen of miss o'shaughnessy, i realise that her only hope of happiness is to marry a man who can give her a whole-hearted love." stanor's glance held a mingling of surprise and displeasure--surprise that the runkle should offer any opinion at all on matters sentimental; displeasure, that any one should dictate to him concerning pixie's welfare. he switched the conversation back to more practical matters. "when shall i start? the sooner the better. if the post is open there is no object in wasting time." his face lit up with sudden animation. "i say! could we manage it in a fortnight, should you think? miss ward is sailing by the `louisiana,' and it would be topping if i could go by the same boat. i might wire to-day about a berth." "who is miss ward?" "honor ward--an american. awfully jolly! no end of an heiress! i've met her a good deal this year, and she was staying at the hilliards' at the time of the accident. awfully fond of pixie, and a real good sort!" he laughed shortly.--"we _ought_ to go out together, for we are mentally in the same boat. she had intended to stay over the summer, but ... her romance has gone wrong too!" "indeed!" stephen was not interested in miss ward's romance, but he made no objection to the sending of a wire to the liverpool office of the steamship company, and before evening the berth was secured and stanor's departure definitely dated. "i'll spend the rest of the time with pixie," was stanor's first determination, but each hour that passed brought with it a recollection of some new duty which must needs be performed. one cannot leave one's native land, even for a couple of years, without a goodly amount of preparation and leave-taking, and the time allotted to pixie dwindled down to a few hasty visits of a few hours' duration, when the lovers sat together in the peacock walk, and talked, and built castles in the air, and laughed, and sighed, and occasionally indulged in a little, mild sparring, as very youthful lovers are apt to do. "i must say you are uncommonly complacent about my going! a fellow hardly expects the girl he's engaged to, to be in such uproarious spirits just on the eve of their separation," stanor would grumble suddenly at the end of one of his _fiancee's_ mirthful sallies, whereupon pixie, her vanity hurt by his want of appreciation, would snap out a quick retort. "if i'm sad you want me to be glad, and if i'm glad you're annoyed that i'm not sad! there's no pleasing you! you ought to be thankful that i'm so strong and self-controlled. ... would it make it easier; if i were hanging round your neck in hysterics?" "oh, bar hysterics! but a tear or two now and then... suppose it was bridgie who was going instead of me?--would you be as strong and self-controlled?" "if bridgie were going i'd ... i'd jump--" in the midst of her passionate declaration pixie drew herself up, shot a frightened glance, and concluded lamely, "i'd ... be very much distressed!" "that's not what you were going to say. you were going to say that you'd jump into the water and swim after her, or some such nonsense. you can be perfectly cool and calm about _my going_, but when it comes to bridgie--" "if it'll please you better, i'll begin to howl this minute! i don't often, but when i do, it seems as if i could never stop. i _thought_," pixie added reproachfully, "when a girl was engaged the man thought her perfect, and everything she did, and she sat listening while he sang her praises from morn to night. but _you_ find fault--" "i don't call it finding fault to wish you would show more feeling! it's the best sort of compliment, if you could only see it." "i like my compliments undiluted, not wrapped up in reproaches, like powder in jam. besides, you're fairly complacent yourself! i heard you telling geoffrey that you expected to have a real good time." "and suppose i did? what about that? would you prefer me to be lonely, and miserable?" "oh _dear_!" cried pixie poignantly; "we're quarrelling! whose fault was it? was it mine? i'm sorry, stanor. _don't_ let's quarrel! i want you to be happy. could i love you if i didn't do that? i want it more than anything else. honor is coming to-morrow, and i shall ask her to look after you for me. she knows so many people, and is so rich that she has the power to help. she will be glad to have you so near. _why_ is she going home so _soon_, stanor? i thought--" "so did we all, but it's fallen through somehow. i met carr in town looking the picture of woe, but, naturally, he didn't vouchsafe any explanation. honor will probably unburden herself to you to-morrow." "she will. if she doesn't i shall ask her," said pixie calmly. "i'm crossed in love myself, so i can understand. it's no use trying to sympathise till you've had a taste of the trouble yourself. has it ever occurred to you to notice the mad ways most people set about sympathising? sticking needles all over you while they're trying to be kind. sympathising is an art, you know, and you have to adapt it to each person. some like a little and some like a lot, and some like cheering up, and others want you to cry with them and make the worst of everything, and then it's off their minds and they perk up. bridgie and i used to think sometimes of hiring ourselves out as professional sympathisers, for there seems such a lack of people who can do it properly." "suppose you give me a demonstration now! you haven't been too generous in that respect, pixie." pixie looked at him, her head on one side, her eyes very intent and serious. "you don't _need_ it," she said simply, and stanor looked hurt and discomfited, and cast about in his mind for a convincing retort which should prove beyond doubt the pathos of his position, failed to find it, and acknowledged unwillingly to himself that as a matter of fact he _was_ very well satisfied with the way in which things were going. pixie was right--she usually _was_ right; it might, perhaps, be more agreeable if on occasions she could be judiciously blind! he adopted the pained and dignified air which experience had taught him was the surest method of softening pixie's heart, and in less than a minute she was hanging on his arm and contradicting all her former statements. stanor was very much in love as he travelled back to town that day, and the two years of waiting seemed unbearably long. perhaps, if he got on unusually well, the runkle might be induced to shorten the probation. he would sound him at the end of the first year. the next day honor ward made a farewell visit to the hall, and took lunch with the family in the panelled dining-room, where she had joined in many merry gatherings a few weeks before. pixie saw the brown eyes flash a quick glance at the place which had been allotted to robert carr, but except for that glance there was no sign of anything unusual in either looks or manner. honor was as neat, as composed, as assured in manner as in her happiest moments, and the flow of her conversation was in no wise moderated. her hurried departure was explained by a casual "i guessed i'd better," which mr and mrs hilliard accepted as sufficient reason for a girl who had no ties, and more money than she knew how to use. even pixie's lynx-eyes failed to descry any sign of heart-break. but when the meal was over and the two girls retired upstairs for a private chat, honor's jaunty manners fell from her like a cloak, and she crouched in a corner of the sofa, looking suddenly tired and worn. for the moment, however, it was not of her own affairs that she elected to speak. "pat-ricia," she began suddenly, turning her honey-coloured eyes on her friend's face with a penetrating gaze, "i guess this is about the last real talk you and i are going to get for a good long spell. there's no time for fluttering round the point. what i've got in my mind i'm going to _say_! what in the land made you get engaged to stanor vaughan?" "because he asked me, of course!" replied pixie readily, and the american girl gave a shrug of impatience. "if another man had asked you, then, it would have been just the same. you would have accepted him for, the same reason!" pixie's head reared proudly; her eyes sent out a flash. "that's horrid, and you _meant_ it to be! i shan't answer your questions if you're going to be rude." "i'm not rude, patricia o'shaughnessy. you're a real sweet girl, and i want you should be as happy as you deserve, which you certainly won't be if you don't take the trouble to understand your own heart. what's all this nonsense about being bound and not bound, and waiting for two years without writing, he on one side of the ocean, and you on another? i can understand an old uncle proposing it--it's just the sort of scheme an old uncle _would_ propose--but it won't work out, patricia, you take my word for that!" "thank you, my dear, i prefer to take my own; and he's _not_ old. he has the most beautiful eyes you ever beheld. what do you suppose stanor would say if he knew you were talking to me like this?" "i'm not saying a word against stanor! who could say a word against such an elegant creature? he's been a good friend to me, and he's going to make a first-rate man when he gets to work, and has something to think about besides his beautiful self. america'll knock the nonsense out of him. at the end of two years, it will be another man who comes home, a _man_ instead of a boy, just as you will probably be a woman instead of a girl. it's the most critical time in life, when that change is taking place, and you'd better believe i know what i'm talking about. if i were in your place i'd move mountains, patricia, if mountains had to be moved, but i'd make sure that the man i loved didn't go through it apart from me!" "but if the mountain happened to be an uncle, and the uncle had done everything, and was willing to go on doing everything, and was older and wiser, and knew better than you? oh, dearie me," concluded pixie impatiently, "_everybody_ seems against me! i'm lectured and thwarted on every side, i've not been brought up to it, and it's most depressing. and it's not a bit of good, either; it's my own life, and i shall do as i like. and what about yourself, me dear? you are very brave about lecturing me. suppose _i_ take a turn! why are you going back to america and leaving robert carr behind? what have you been doing to him?" "i asked him to marry me, and he refused." pixie sat stunned with surprise and consternation. honor's voice had been flat and level as usual, not a break or quiver had broken its flow, but there was a pallor round the lips, a sudden sharpening of the features, which spoke eloquently enough, and smote the hearer to the heart. "oh, me dear, forgive me!" she cried deeply. "i'm ashamed. don't say any more. i'd no right to ask." "i meant to tell you. i'd have told you in any case. you guessed how it was when we were here. you can't be in love like that and _not_ show it.--i thought of him all day; i dreamt of him all night ... when he was out of the room i was wretched; when he came in i knew it by instinct; before i could see him i knew it! in a crowded room i could hear every word he said, see every movement. ... when i was sitting alone, and heard his voice in the distance, my heart leapt--it made me quite faint. i _loved_ him, pixie!" pixie sat staring with startled gaze. she did not speak, and for a moment it seemed that her thoughts had wandered from the story on hand, for her eyes had an _inward_ look, as though she were puzzling out a problem which concerned herself alone. she started slightly as honor again began to speak, and straightened herself with a quick air of attention. "sometimes i thought he loved me too, but he was not the sort of man who would choose to marry an heiress. my money stood between us. so i ... i tried to make it easier by showing him ... how i felt. when we went back to london he said good-bye, and refused my invitations, but i met him by accident, and," she straightened herself with a gesture of pride, "i am not ashamed of what i did. it would have been folly to sacrifice happiness for the sake of a convention ... i _asked_ him--" "and?" "_he cared_!" honor said softly. "i had my hour, pixie, but it was _only_ an hour, for at the end we got to business, and that wrecked it all. i've told you about my factory. over here in england, when people have looked at me through monocles, there _have_ been times when i've been ashamed of pickles, but at home i'm proud! father started as a working lad, and built up that great business, brick by brick. three thousand `hands' are employed in the factory, but they were never `hands' to him, patricia, they were _souls_! he'd been a working man himself, and there was not one thing in their lives he didn't know and understand. one of the first things i can remember, right away back in my childhood, is being taken to a window to see those men stream past, and being told they were my friends and that i was to take care of them. he had no airs, my pappa; he never gave himself frills, or pretended to be anything different from what he was--there was only one thing he was proud of, and that was that his men were the happiest and most contented in the states. when he died he left me more than his money, he left me his _men_!" honor paused, her eyes bright with suppressed feeling, and pixie, keen as ever to appreciate an emotional situation, drew a fluttering breath. "yes, yes! how beautiful! how fine! all those lives ... honor, aren't you proud?" "i've told you before, my dear. the best part of me is proud and glad, but we're pretty complex creatures, and i guess a big duty is bound to come up against a pleasure now and then. at the moment i was speaking of, it was one man against three thousand, and the one man weighed down the scale." "but ... but i don't understand." pixie puckered her brows in bewilderment. "why couldn't you have both?" "i thought i could, patricia. i calculated, as my work was full-fledged, and his had hardly begun, that he would be willing to come over with me. it's a pretty stiff proposition for a woman to run a big show like that, and i'd have been glad of help. _he_ allowed i'd have to sell up and keep house for him in england, and make a splash among the big-wigs to help him in his career. he put it as politely as he knew how, but he made me understand that it was beneath his dignity to live in america and work in pickles, and he guessed if i sold out i could find a buyer who would look after the men as well as or better than i did myself. so--" she waved her small white hands--"there we were! he wouldn't, and i couldn't! that's the truth, patricia. i could _not_! i don't dispute that another person might not manage as well as i, that's not the question. it's my work, it's my responsibility; those men were left to _me_, and i can't desert. so the dream's over, my dear, and i'm going back to real hard life." pixie nodded, the big tears standing in her eyes. "i should have done the same. he didn't love you _enough_." honor gave a quivering laugh. "he said the same of me. couldn't seem to see any difference between the two `give-ups'; but there _is_ a difference, patricia. well, my dear, that's the end of it. we said good-bye, and there's no reason why we should meet again. ... our lives lie in different places, and it's no use trying to join them." "honor, dear, are you very unhappy?" honor's neat little features puckered in a grimace. "i wouldn't go so far as to say i feel exactly gay, patricia, but don't you worry about me. i'll come up smiling. you wouldn't have me pine for the sake of a man who wouldn't have me when he got the chance? i guess honor p ward has too much grit for that!" pixie nodded slowly. "but you mustn't be too hard on him, honor--it's natural to want to live in one's own country, and he loves _his_ work just as you do yours. he'll be a judge some day--chins like that always _do_ succeed--and ambition means so much to a man. you might have been pleased for your own sake; but would you have thought more of _him_ as a _man_ if he'd thrown it all up and lived on your pickles?" honor brought her eyebrows together in a frown. "now, pixie o'shaughnessy, don't you go taking his part! i guess i've got about as much sense of justice as most, and in a few months' time i'll see the matter in its right light, but for the moment i'm injured, and i _choose_ to feel injured; and i expect my friends to feel injured too. i've offered myself to an englishman, and he's refused to have me. there's no getting; away from that fact, and it's not a soothing experience for a free-born american. i'm through with englishmen from this time forth!" "except stanor! be kind to stanor. he's always liked you, honor, and he knows no one in america. promise me to be kind to stanor, and see him as often as you can!" honor's brown eyes searched pixie's face with a curious glance. then, rising from her chair, she crossed the room and kissed her warmly upon the cheek. "yes, i'll look after him. i'll do anything you want, and nothing you _don't_ want. you can trust me, my dear. remember that, won't you? you're a real sweet thing, patricia!" pixie laughed with characteristic complacence. "yes; but why especially at this moment? i always _am_, aren't i? and how superfluous, me dear, to talk of trust? what have i got to trust?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a fortnight later geoffrey and joan hilliard, stephen glynn, and pixie journeyed to liverpool to see the last of the travellers. the little party stood together on the deck of the great vessel, surrounded on every side by surge and bustle, but silent themselves with the silence which falls when the heart is full. travelling down to liverpool they had been quite a merry party, and there had been no effort in keeping the conversation afloat; but the last moments sealed their lips. honor drew a few yards apart with the elderly, kindly-faced maid who was her faithful attendant; stephen glynn and the hilliards strolled away in an opposite direction. pixie and her lover stood alone. "well, little girl... this is good-bye! don't forget me, darling..." pixie gulped. "take care of yourself, stanor. be happy! ... i want you to be happy." "i shall be wretched!" said stanor hotly. "i'm leaving you. oh! pixie--" he broke off suddenly as the last bell sounded its warning note, and bent to kiss her lips; "good-bye, my little love!" the tears poured down pixie's face as she turned aside, and geoffrey hilliard led her tenderly down the gangway on to the landing-stage, where they stood together, tightly jammed in the crowd which watched the great steamer slowly move into the stream. stanor and honor were standing together leaning over the towering hull; their faces were pale, but they were smiling bravely, and pixie wiped away her own tears and waved an answering hand. esmeralda was holding her hand in a tender pressure; geoffrey on one side, and stephen glynn on the other were regarding her with anxious solicitude. she smiled back with tremulous gratitude and gripped esmeralda's hand. though stanor was going, there was still much left, so many people to care and be kind. the great vessel quivered and moved slowly forward. honor drew a little white handkerchief from her bag and waved it in the air; on all sides the action was repeated, accompanied by cries of farewell mingled with sounds of distress. pixie caught the sound of a sob, and craned forward to look in the face of a girl about her own age who stood on the other side of stephen glynn. she wore a small, close-fitting cap, which left her face fully exposed as it strained towards that moving deck, and on the small white features was printed a very extremity of anguish. she was not crying; her glazed eyes showed no trace of tears, she seemed unconscious of the deep sobs which issued from her lips; every nerve, every power was concentrated in the one effort to behold to the last possible moment one beloved face. instinctively pixie's eyes followed those of the girl's, and beheld a man's face gazing back, haggard, a-quiver, almost contorted with suffering. the story was plain to read. they also were lovers--this man and this girl. they also were facing years of separation, and the moment of parting held for them the bitterness of death. pixie o'shaughnessy glanced from one to the other, and then thoughtfully, deliberately along the deck to the spot where stood her own lover, handsome stanor, bending his head to overhear a remark from honor, stroking his blonde moustache. he looked dejected, depressed; but compared with the depth of emotion on the other man's face, such meagre expressions faded into nothingness. the moment during which she gazed at his face held for pixie the significance of years; then once more her eyes returned to the girl by her side... with every minute now the great vessel was slipping farther and farther from the stage; the faces of her passengers would soon cease to be distinguishable; in a few minutes they would be lost to sight, yet pixie's gaze remained riveted on the girl by her side, and on her own face was printed a mute dismay which one onlooker at least was quick to read. "_she understands_!" stephen glynn said to himself. "that girl's face has been an object lesson stronger than any words. she understands the difference." a moment later he met pixie's eyes, and realised afresh the truth of his diagnosis; but she drew herself up with a sort of defiance, and turned sharply aside. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in the train returning to town pixie sat mute and pallid, and was waited upon assiduously by her sister and brother. to them it seemed natural enough that the poor child should collapse after the strain of parting. only one person understood the deepest reason of her distress. he offered none of the conventional words of sympathy, and forebore to echo esmeralda's rosy pictures of the future. it brought another pang to pixie's sore heart to realise that he _understood_. "but i will be true," she repeated to herself with insistent energy; "i will be true. i have given my word." she felt very tired and spent as she lay back in the corner of her cushioned seat. on heart and brain was an unaccustomed weight; her very limbs felt heavy and inert, as if the motive power had failed. virtue had gone out of her. at the sight of that anguished face, the years of pixie's untroubled girlhood had come to an end. henceforth she was a woman, carrying her own burden. "but i will be true," she repeated gallantly; "i will be true!" chapter nineteen. pixie seeks advice. a tall young man lay stretched upon a narrow bed which filled an entire wall of the one and only sitting-room in a diminutive london flat. on the wall opposite was a fireplace and a small sideboard; against the third wall stood a couple of upright chairs. in the centre of the room stood a table. a wicker arm-chair did duty for an invalid tray, and held a selection of pipes, books, and writing materials, also a bottle of medicine, and a plate of unappetising biscuits. the young man took up one of the biscuits, nibbled a crumb from the edge, and aimed the remainder violently at a picture at the other end of the room. it hit, and the biscuit broke into pieces, but the glass remained intact, a result which seemed far from satisfactory to the onlooker. he fumbled impatiently for matches with which to light his pipe, touched the box with the tips of his outstretched fingers, and jerked it impatiently, whereupon it rolled on to the floor to a spot just a couple of inches beyond the utmost stretch of his arm. there it lay--obvious and aggravating, tempting, baffling, inaccessible. pipe and tobacco lay at hand to supply the soothing which he so sorely needed at the end of a lonely, suffering day, and for the want of that box they might as well have been a mile away! a bell was within reach, but what use to ring that when no one was near to hear? the slovenly woman who called herself a working housekeeper found it necessary to sally forth each afternoon on long shopping expeditions, and during her absence her master had to fend for himself as best he might. dislocation of the knee was the young man's malady, just a sharp, swift rush at cricket, a slip on the dry grass, and pat o'shaughnessy shuddered every time he thought of the hours and days which followed that fall. he had asked to be taken home, for the tiny flat was a new possession, and as such dear to his heart. and to his home they carried him, and there he had lain already for longer than he cared to think. he had progressed to the point when he had been able to dismiss an excellent but uncongenial nurse, and manage with an hour's assistance morning and night; and what with reading the newspapers, smoking his pipe, and writing an occasional letter the first part of the day passed quickly enough. lunch was served at one o'clock on a papier-mache tray spread with a crumpled tray cloth. it was a tepid, tasteless, unappetising meal, for the working housekeeper knew neither how to work nor to cook, and pat invariably sent it away almost untasted; yet every day he looked forward afresh to the advent of one o'clock and the appearance of the tray. it was something to happen, something to do, a change from the reading, of which he was already getting tired. but, after lunch, after he had wakened from the short siesta; and realised that it was not yet three o'clock, and that six, seven hours still remained to be lived through before he could reasonably hope to settle for the night--that was a dreary time indeed, and pat, whose interests lay all outdoors, knew no means of lightening it. for the first week of his confinement pat had had a string of visitors. the members of his cricket team had appeared to express sympathy and encouragement; some of the men against whom he had been playing had also put in an appearance; "fellows" had come up from "the office," but in the busy life of london a man who goes _on_ being ill is apt to find himself left alone before many weeks have passed. there was only one man who never failed to put in an appearance at some hour of the day, and on that man's coming pat o'shaughnessy this afternoon concentrated every power in his possession. "they say if you wish hard enough you can make a fellow do what you like. if there's any truth in it, glynn ought to come along pretty soon. how am i going to lie here all afternoon and stare at those miserable matches? that wretched woman might be buying the town ... wish to goodness she'd fetch something fit to eat. if that doctor fellow won't tell me to-morrow how much longer i have to lie here, i'll--i'll get up and walk, just to spite him!" pat jerked defiantly and immediately gave a groan of pain. not much chance of walking yet awhile! he wriggled to the edge of the sofa, and made another unsuccessful stretch for the matchbox, but those baffling two inches refused to be mastered. pat looked around in a desperate search for help, seized a biscuit, and aimed it carefully for the farther edge of the box, which, hit at the right angle, might perhaps have been twitched nearer to the sofa, but though pat had considerable skill in the art of throwing, he had no luck this afternoon. biscuit after biscuit was hurled with increasing violence, as temper suffered from the strain of failure, and each time the matchbox jumped still farther _away_, while another shower of biscuit crumbs bespattered the carpet. then at last when the plate was emptied, and the last hope gone, deliverance came at the sound of the opening of the front door, and a quick, well-known whistle. glynn! no one else knew the secret of the hidden key. pat halloed loudly in response, and the next moment stephen stood in the doorway, looking with bewildered eyes at the bespattered carpet. "what's this? playing aunt sally? rather a wanton waste of biscuits, isn't it?" "try 'em, and see! soft as dough. give me that matchbox, glynn, like a good soul. it fell off my chair, and i've been lying here pining for a smoke, and making pot shots of it, till i felt half mad.--if you only knew--" stephen glynn _did_ know. it was that knowledge which brought him regularly day by day to the little flat at the top of eighty odd stairs. he walked across the room, his limp decidedly less in evidence through the passage of the years, reclaimed the matchbox, and seated himself on the edge of the couch. "light up, old fellow! it will do you good." pat struck the match and sucked luxuriously. there was no need to make conversation to glynn. he was a comfortable fellow who always understood. it was good to see him sitting there, to look at his fine, grave face, and realise that boredom was over, and the happiest hour of the day begun. "i say, glynn, i _made_ you, come! mesmerised you. it drives a fellow crazy to be done by a couple of inches. they say if you concentrate your thoughts--" "i arranged this morning to call at five o'clock. i should say by the look of things you had concentrated on biscuits. ... where's that old woman?" glynn inquired. "shopping. always is. and never buys anything by the taste of the food. you should have seen my lunch! i'll be a living skeleton at this rate." pat spoke laughingly, but the hearer frowned, and looked quickly at the sharpened face, on which weeks of solitary confinement had left their mark. "why don't you round into her?" "daren't! might make off and leave me in the lurch. they do, you know. fellows have told me. any one is better than no one at all when you are minus a leg." "and about that letter? the time limit runs out to-morrow. you know what i threatened?" pat shrugged impatiently. "you and your threats! what's the sense in worrying when it's got to _end_ in worrying, and can do no good? i've told you till i'm tired-- the hilliards are abroad, dick victor is down with rheumatism, and bridgie makes sure he's going to die every time his finger aches. she'd leave him if i died first, i suppose, but i wouldn't make too sure even of that. 'twould have finished her altogether to know that i was lying here all these weeks. however!" pat shrugged again, "you've got your way, bad luck to you! bridgie wrote to ask me to run down over a sunday, to cheer victor, so there was nothing for it but to own up. she'll write me reams of advice and send embrocations. serve you jolly well right if i rubbed them on _you_ instead!" "fire away, i don't mind! your muscles would be the better for a little exercise." stephen glynn leaned back in his chair and looked affectionately at pat's dark, handsome face. twelve months before the two men had been introduced at a dinner following a big cricket match in which pat had distinguished himself by a fine innings. stephen glynn from his seat on the grand stand had applauded with the rest of the great audience, and looking at the printed card in his hand had wondered whether by chance p.d. o'shaughnessy was any relation of the irish pixie to whom stanor vaughan had wished to be engaged. the wonder changed to certainty a few hours later on as he was introduced to the young player, and met the gaze of his straight, dark eyes! pat was the handsomest of the three brothers, nevertheless it was not so much of beautiful joan hilliard that the beholder was reminded, at this moment, as of the younger sister, who had no beauty at all, for esmeralda's perfect features lacked the irradiation of kindliness and humour which characterised pat and pixie alike. stephen glynn was not given to sudden fancies, but pat o'shaughnessy walked straight into his heart at that first meeting, and during the year which followed the acquaintance so begun had ripened into intimacy. stephen spent a great part of his time in chambers in town, where the young man became a welcome guest, and no sooner had pat soared to the giddy height of possessing a flat of his own, and settled down as a householder, than the accident had happened which made him dependent on the visits of his friends. pat was aware of stephen's connection with his family, and more especially with pixie, but after one brief reference the subject had been buried, though pixie herself was frequently mentioned. there was a portrait of her on pat's mantelpiece to which stephen's eyes often strayed during his visits to the flat. truth to tell it was not a flattering portrait. pixie was unfortunate so far as photography was concerned, since all her bad points were reproduced and her charm disappeared. stephen wondered if stanor were gazing at the same photograph in new york, and if his imagination were strong enough to supply the want. for himself he had no difficulty. so vivid was his recollection that even as he looked the set face of the photograph seemed to flash into smiles... "well, i am glad you have given in," he said, continuing his sentence after a leisurely pause, "because my threat was real. i should certainly have written to your people if you hadn't done it yourself. you are not being properly looked after, young man. to put it bluntly, you are not having enough to eat. when do you expect that obnoxious old female to come back and make tea?" "'deed, i've given over expecting," said pat despondently. "most days i'm ready to drink the teapot by the time she brings it in. it's a toss up if we _get_ it at all to-day as she's gone out." stephen rose to his tall height and stood smiling down at the tired face. "you shall have it, my boy. i'll make it myself. it won't be the first time. have you any idea where the crocks live? i don't want to upset--" before he could complete his sentence, a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door, causing both hearers to start with astonishment. so loud, so vigorous, so long continued was the assault, that the first surprise deepened into indignation, and pat's dark eyes sent out a threatening flash. "this is _too_ strong! lost her key, i suppose, and expects me to crawl on all fours to let her in. you go, glynn, and send her straight here to me! i'll give her a bit of my mind. i'm just in the mood to do it. leaving me alone for hours and then knocking down my door--!" stephen glynn crossed the floor, his face set into an alarming sternness, for his irritation against his friend's neglectful domestic had been growing for weeks, and this was the culminating point. he seized the handle, turned it quietly, and jerked the door open with a disconcerting suddenness which had the effect of precipitating the new-comer into his arms. "me _dear_!" she cried rapturously, as she fell, but the same moment she was upright again, bolt upright, scorching him with disdainful glance. "it's not!--where am i? ... they _said_ it was mr o'shaughnessy's flat!" "it is! it is! pixie! pixie! come in, come quick! oh, you blessed little simpleton, what's the meaning of this? you'd no business to come. there's no room for you. i'm nearly well now. there's no need-- i--i--oh, _pixie_!" and poor, tired, hungry pat lay back weakly in his sister's arms, and came perilously near subsiding into tears. it had been hard work keeping up his pecker all these long weeks, it was so overwhelmingly home-like to see pixie's face, and listen to her deep mellow tones... "there's _got_ to be room, me dear, for i've come to stay. how dare you be ill by yourself? it's a bad effect london has had on you to make you so close and secretive. you! who yelled the roof down if you as much as scratched your finger! we got the note this morning--" "glynn made me send it. he's been worrying at me for weeks. glynn!" pat raised his voice to a cry. "where are you? come in, you beggar. it's pixie! my sister pixie. come and shake hands." stephen and pixie advanced to meet each other, red in the face and bashful of eye. the encounter at the door had been so momentary that she had hardly had time to recognise the pale face with the deep blue eyes, but for him the first note of her voice had been sufficient. "i--i thought you were pat!" "i--i thought you were the cook." she straightened at that, with a flash of half-resentful curiosity. "_why_? am i so like her? and do you always--" "no, i don't. never. but to-day she was out and your brother wanted--" "oh, never mind, never mind!" pat was too greedy for attention to suffer a long explanation. "what does it matter? she's a wretch, pixie, and she goes out and leaves me to starve. that good samaritan was going to make tea when we heard your knock." "i'll make it for you!" pixie said smiling, but she seated herself by pat's side as she spoke, and slid her hand through his arm, as though realising that for the moment her presence was the most welcome of all refreshments. she wore a smartly cut tweed coat and skirt, and a soft felt hat with a pheasant's wing, and her brown shoes looked quite preposterously small and bright. in some indefinable way she looked older and more responsible than the pixie of two years before, and stephen noticed the change and wondered as to its cause. "i think i will go now," he said hastily; "your sister will look after you, o'shaughnessy, and you will have so much to talk about. i'll come again!" but pat was obstinate; he insisted that his friend should stay on, and appealed to pixie for support, which she gave with great good will. "please do! we'll talk the better for having an audience. won't we now, pat? we were always vain." "we were!" pat assented with unction. "especially yourself. even as a child you played up to the gallery." he took her hand and squeezed it tightly between his own. "pixie, i can't believe it! it's too nice to be true. and bridgie, what does she say? does she approve of your coming?" "she did one moment, and the next she didn't. she was torn in pieces, the poor darling, wanting to come to you herself, and to stay with dick at the same time. you know what she is when dick is ill! his temperature has only to go up one point, to have her weeping about homes for soldiers' orphans, and pondering how she can get most votes. he's buried with military honours, poor richard, every time he takes a cold. so i was firm with her, and just packed my things and came off. at my age," she straightened herself proudly, "one must assert oneself! i asked her what was the use of being twenty-two, and how she'd have liked it herself if she'd been thwarted at that age, and she gave in and packed up remedies." pixie picked up the brown leather bag which lay on the floor, and opening it, took out the contents in turns, and laid them on the sofa. "a tonic to build up the system. beef-juice, to ditto. embrocation to be applied to the injured part. ... tabloids. home-made cake. ... oh, that tea! i'd forgotten. i'll make it at once, and we'll eat the cake now." she jumped up and looked appealingly towards stephen. "will you show me the kitchen? i don't know my way through these lordly fastnesses!" they went out of the room together, while pat called out an eager, "don't be long!" it was only a step into the tiny kitchen. in another moment stephen and pixie stood within its portals, and she had closed the door behind with a careful hand. her face had sobered, and there was an anxious furrow in her forehead. "he looks _ill_!" she said breathlessly. "worse than i expected. he said he was getting well. please tell me honestly--is it _true_?" "perfectly true in one sense. the knee is doing well, but his general health has suffered. he has been lonely and underfed, and at the first there was considerable pain. i did my best to make him write to you before, for he is not fit to be left alone. that servant is lazy and inefficient." pixie glanced round the untidy room with her nose tilted high. "'twill be a healthful shock for her to come back and find a mistress in possession. we'll have a heart to heart talk to-morrow morning," she announced, with so quaint an assumption of severity that stephen was obliged to laugh. she laughed with him, struggling out of her coat, and looking round daintily for a place to lay it. "that nail on the door! there's not a clean spot. now for the kettle! you fill it, while i rummage. what's the most unlikely place for the tea? it will be there. she's the sort of muddler who'd leave it loose among the potatoes." "it's in the caddy. the brown box on the dresser. i've found it before." "the caddy!" pixie looked quite annoyed at so obvious a find. "oh, so it is. where's the butter then, and the bread, and the sugar? where's the spoons? where does she put the cloths? rake out that bottom bar to make a draught. does he get feverish at nights? it's a mercy i brought a cake, for i don't believe there's a _thing_. does he take it strong?" she was bustling about as she spoke, opening and shutting drawers, standing on tip-toe to peer over kitchen shelves, lifting the lids of dishes upon the dresser. one question succeeded fast upon another, but she did not trouble herself to wait for a reply, and stephen, watching with a flickering smile, was quite nonplussed when at last she paused, as if expectant of an answer. "what strong?" "_tea_! what else could it be? we were talking of tea." "i beg your pardon. so we were. yes, he does like it strong, and there's only one set of cups, white with a gold rim. there were two left the other day, but it's quite possible they have disappeared. she is a champion breaker." "we'll have tumblers then," pixie said briskly. "the nicest tea i ever had was at a seaside inn where we made it ourselves in a bedroom to save the expense. oh, _here_ they are, and here's the milk. now we shan't be long!" then suddenly, standing before the cupboard door, and tilting her head over her shoulder, "_when did you hear from stanor_?" she asked, in a still, altered voice which struck like a blow. stephen glynn gave no outward sign of surprise, yet that sudden question had sent racing half a dozen pulses, as voicing the words in his own mind. "when did you hear from stanor? _what_ do you hear from stanor?" the first sight of the girl's face had added intensity to the curiosity of years--a curiosity which within the last months had changed into anxiety. he hesitated before answering the simple question. "he does not write often. we had a good deal of correspondence when he decided to stay in new york the extra six months. he seems to have acclimatised wonderfully, and to be absorbed in his work, unusually absorbed for his age." "but that is what you wanted. you must be pleased about that," pixie said quietly. she was arranging the cups and saucers on the tray, but she looked at him as she spoke, a straight, sweet look, which yet held so much sadness that it cut like a knife. "miss o'shaughnessy," he cried impetuously, "can you forgive me? i took too much upon myself. i did it for the best, but--two years is too long. one settles down. it was a blow to me when he stayed on, for my own sake, and--" pixie nodded gravely. "yes. we were both sorry. we wanted of course to see him, but you should not blame him for loving his work. you blamed him before because he was changeable; now he has done so well, you must be proud." she smiled at him with determined cheerfulness. "_i_ am proud. and it is not as if it were making him ill. he finds time to play. honor ward often writes and she tells me--" "miss ward seems an adept at play," returned stephen dryly. in truth, the lavishness of the entertainments which honor had planned during the past two years had called the attention of even the english papers. pixie had read aloud descriptions thereof in the journals in the northern town where captain victor was still stationed, and bridgie listening thereto had exclaimed in horror: "special liveries for all the men-servants just for that one evening! how wicked! all that money for a few hours, when poor children are starving, and myself wanting a velvet coat..." at first pixie had divined that honor was trying to drown her sorrow in gaiety, and was even guilty of a girlish desire to "show off" before her former lover, but as the months grew into years it was impossible to read her letters and not realise that her enjoyment was real, not feigned, and that she had outgrown regret. yes, honor was happy; and to judge from her accounts stanor was happy too, able even in his busiest days to spare time to join the revels, and, indeed, to help in their organisation. "miss ward is an adept at play. i don't approve of these gorgeous entertainments," said stephen, and pixie's eyes lightened with a mischievous flash. "seems to me you are never satisfied! now for myself nothing could be gorgeous enough!" she held out a brown teapot with a broken spout. "the water's boiling. pour it in please, and don't splash! i'll carry it right in, for pat is impatient. we mustn't keep him waiting." she waited until the pot was safely on the tray, and then added a warning: "please don't talk about--things--before pat. he'd worry, but i'd like your advice. another time, perhaps, when we are alone." her eyes met his, gravely beseeching, and he looked searchingly back. yes, she had suffered. it was no longer the face of a light-hearted child. loyal as ever, pixie would not listen to a word against her friend, but what secret was she hiding in her heart? chapter twenty. stephen is answered. for three days after pixie's arrival stephen glynn absented himself from the flat, and on the fourth day found a stormy, welcome awaiting him. "ah, glynn, is that you?" drawled pat coldly. "hope you haven't inconvenienced yourself, don't you know. after so many _duty_ visits you are evidently thankful to be rid of me. _pray_ don't put yourself out any more on my account." stephen shook hands with pixie and seated himself beside the bed with undaunted composure. "rubbish, old fellow! and you know it. if you have enjoyed my visits, so have i. but of course now that miss o'shaughnessy--" "if it's myself that's the obstacle i can stay in my room, but if you've any pity on me, _come_!" interrupted pixie. "my life's not worth living towards the end of the afternoon when pat is watching the clock, and fidgeting for the ring of the bell. i'm only his sister, you see, and he wants a _man_! i'll stay out of the room if you'd rather; though i'm not saying," she concluded demurely, "that i wouldn't be glad of a change of society myself!" "it's horribly dull for the poor girl! she doesn't like to leave me, and i don't like her going about alone. you might take her about a bit, glynn, if you weren't so neglectful and unfriendly! to-morrow's sunday, and she's dying to go to the abbey..." "may i have the pleasure, miss o'shaughnessy?" cried stephen promptly, and pixie wrinkled her nose and said-- "you couldn't say anything else but yes, but i'll not spite myself just for the sake of seeming proud. come and take me, and come back to lunch. you'll get a good one. i've made some changes in this establishment." "she telegraphed to the hilliards' housekeeper, and she sent off a kitchen-maid--a broth of a girl who romps through the work. and cooks-- you wait and see! i lie and dream of the next meal!" pat chuckled, with restored equanimity. "but if i _am_ living in the lap of luxury _i'm_ not going to be chucked by you, old fellow," he added. "the more one has the more one wants. i've grown to count on your afternoon visit, and it upsets me to go without. my temperature has gone up every night from sheer aggravation. isn't that true now, pixie?" "more blame to, you!" said pixie. but her eyes met stephen's with an anxiety which was not in keeping with her tone, and, in truth, after four days' absence the face on the pillow appeared to the onlooker, woefully drawn and white, stephen registered a vow that pat's temperature should not rise again through any neglect of his own. "all right, pat," he said. "i'll come as usual, and if it's inconvenient you can turn me out; and if miss o'shaughnessy will accept me for an escort i'll be proud to take her about. we'll begin with the abbey to-morrow." "that's all right; i thought you would. what's the good of a prospective uncle if he can't make himself useful!" it was the first time pat had made any reference to stanor vaughan, for, like the rest of the family, his pride had been stung by the non-appearance of pixie's love, at the expiration of the prescribed two years. pat knew that occasional letters passed between the young couple, and that the understanding between them appeared unbroken, but it was a poor sort of lover who would voluntarily add to the term of his exile. during the four days which pixie had spent in the flat, almost every subject under the sun had been discussed but the one which presumably lay nearest the girl's heart, and that had been consistently shunned. it was only a desire to justify a claim on his friend's services which had driven pat to refer to the subject now, and he sincerely wished he had remained silent as he noted the effect of his words. stephen and pixie stared steadily into space. neither spoke, neither smiled; their fixed, blank eyes appeared to give the impression that they had not heard his words. in another moment the silence would have become embarrassing had not pixie rung the bell and given an order for tea. "is this your first experience of living in a flat, miss o'shaughnessy? how do you like it, as far as you've got?" stephen asked, with a valiant resolve to second pixie's efforts, and she turned her face towards him, slightly flushed, but frank and candid as ever. "i love it--it's so social! you know everyone's business as well as your own. the floors are _supposed_ to be sound-proof, but really they're so many sounding-boards. the couple above had a quarrel last night--at the high points we could hear every word. it was as good as a theatre, though, of course--" she lengthened her face with a pretence of gravity--"'twas very sad! but they've made it up to-day, because she's singing. she has one song that she sings a dozen times every day ... something about parting from a lover. pat says she's been at it for months past--`_since_ we parted _yester_ eve.' ... she feels it, poor creature! i suggested to pat that we might board him, so that he might always be on the spot, and she wouldn't have to part. he says it would be worth the money. ... the lady below sings `come back to erin' by the hour. she's _always_ singing it! we thought of sending a polite note to say that we had given her request every consideration, but that owing to the unsettled condition of politics in that country we really did not see our way to move. ... and they have anthracite stoves." "why shouldn't they?" stephen asked. he had greeted pixie's description with the delight of one who finds a painful situation suddenly irradiated by humour, but the anthracite stoves conveyed no meaning. "why shouldn't they, if they choose?" pixie scowled disapproval. "_so_ selfish! noise like earthquakes every time they rake. i wake every morning thinking i'm dead. this morning i counted sixty separate rakes! now, here's a problem for you, mr glynn--how can you avenge yourself on an upstairs flatter? if it's below: it's quite easy--you just bang with the poker; but how can you do that on your own ceiling? 'tis no consolation to break the plaster!" the tea was carried in as she spoke, and she rose to seat herself at the table, giving a friendly smile at the trim maid who had replaced the arrant "housekeeper." "hot scones, moffatt? you _do_ spoil us!" she said cordially, and the girl left the room abeam with content. "she adores me--all maids do," announced pixie, with her complacent air well to the fore. "it's the way i treat them. my sister, now--bridgie victor--she's a coward with her maids. she lies awake half the night rehearsing the best ways of hinting that she'd prefer pastry lighter than lead, after begging us all as a personal favour to eat it in case cook should be hurt. when i have a house--" she stopped short and busied herself with her duties, and neither of her listeners questioned her further on the subject. tea was a merry meal, and pat consumed the dainty fare with undisguised enjoyment. "that's the pull of an accident," he declared, as he helped himself to a third scone, "_ye can eat_! it's awful to think of poor beggars on a diet. ... let's have muffins to-morrow, pixie, _swimming_ with butter. glynn's coming!" "don't tempt me! i am coming to lunch, but you won't want me to stay on." "rubbish! we _do_. stay for the whole day, and pixie shall sing to us. it's the least she can do, if you take her to church." stephen looked at his hostess with a glance curiously compounded of dread and expectation. music was the passion of his life, so true a passion that it was torture to him to hear the travesties which passed under its name. bearing in mind the very small proportion of girls who could really sing, he wished that the proposal had never been made, since the result would probably mean a jarring episode in a delightful day. "but you have no piano," he said uncertainly. "how can--" "it's not a piano would stop me, if i wanted to sing. i don't need an accompaniment," pixie declared, and stephen shuddered in spirit. unaccompanied songs were terrible ordeals to the listeners. eyes as well as ears were tortured. one never knew where to look! he pondered as he drank his tea how the situation could be ameliorated, if not escaped, and reminded himself thankfully that if necessary he could hire a piano and send it in. then, looking up, he met pat's eyes fixed upon him with a quizzical smile. pat showed at times an uncomfortable faculty for, reading his friends' thoughts, and stephen realised that it was in force at this minute, and was thankful that at least it did not find vent in words. pixie's happy complacence about her own powers was so far removed from ordinary conceit that he dreaded to wound it. he therefore hastily changed the conversation, and avoided the subject of music for the rest of his call. the next morning, after arranging for pat's comfort, pixie retired to her eerie, and spent what appeared to the invalid an unconscionably long time over her toilette. after the cheerful manner of flats, by slightly raising the voice it was easy to carry on a conversation with a person in an adjoining room, and pat therefore favoured his sister with a statement that he "expected to see something pretty fetching, after all this time!" "ha! ha!" cried pixie in return, and her voice gave no hint of modesty. nevertheless, and for all his expectations, pat gave a gasp of surprise when a few minutes later she sailed into the room. she wore a coat and skirt of a soft, mouse-coloured velvet, very quiet and nondescript in hue, and the hat, with its curling brim, was covered with the same material. so far, very douce and quiet; but entirely round the hat, and curling gracefully over one side, was a magnificent ostrich plume, which was plainly the pride of its owner's heart. she tossed her head in answer to pat's uplifted hands, pirouetted round and round, and struck a telling attitude. "yes! _ain't_ i smart? me dear, regard the feather! i've longed for years to possess a scrumptious feather, and have talked by the hour, trying to convince bridgie it was economical in the end. but she wouldn't. she said 'twas expensive at the start, and she couldn't see any further. sometimes she _is_ dense. she can't help it, poor creature, living with dick! however, esmeralda did, and she bought it in paris to match my coat. it measures a yard, loved one! and _isn't_ it kind of it to turn blue at the end? that little touch of blue just behind my ear _does_ set me off! honest indian, patrick! if you didn't know better, and came suddenly into the room, wouldn't you think i was a pretty girl?" "i should!" answered pat; but a moment later he added, with true brotherly candour, "but you're not." "all the more credit to me!" retorted pixie glibly. she lifted a chair which stood at the left of the fireplace, carried it to a similar position on the right, and seated herself upon it. "this side's the best.--i must sit here, and let mr glynn see my splendour in full blast. won't he be pleased?" "he'll never notice. glynn's above hats," pat maintained; but, nevertheless, he could not take his own eyes off the dainty grey figure, with the piquant face smiling beneath the brim of the wide hat, and that fascinating little tip of blue ending the long, grey plume. his admiration showed in his eyes, but he felt it his duty to be bracing in words. "i never thought i should live to see _you_ conceited about clothes!" "ye _do_ get these shocks in life. it's a sad old world!" answered pixie, and grimaced at him saucily, as she buttoned her glove. and, after all, stephen glynn never did notice the feather. for a ten-pound note he could not have described the next day a single article of pixie's attire. he was aware, however, it was pleasant to walk about with pixie o'shaughnessy, and that passers-by seemed to envy him his post, and he was relieved that she was disfigured by none of the extremes of an ugly fashion; and, after all, nine men out of ten rarely get beyond this point. they sallied forth together, bidding pat sleep all morning so as to be ready to talk all afternoon, and descended the gaunt stone stairs to the hall. they walked quietly, but with enjoyment in each other's company. the usual crowd blocked the abbey door, and stephen and pixie stood waiting under the statue of the "third great canning" for some time, before at last they were escorted to seats in the nave. the sermon, unfortunately, they could not hear, but the exquisite service was to both a deep delight. remembering the conversation of the night before, stephen dreaded lest pixie should be one of the mistaken ones who sing persistently through an elaborate choral service, thereby nullifying its effect for those around. he was thankful to find that his fears were unnecessary, but once or twice in an unusually beautiful refrain he imagined that his ear caught the sound of a deep, rich note--a soft echo of the strain itself, evoked by an irresistible impulse. he looked inquiringly at his companion, but her head was bent and the brim of her hat concealed her face. her stillness, her reverence appealed to his heart, for it was easy to see that she was enjoying the music not as a mere concert, but, above all things, as an accompaniment to the words themselves. one time, when he glanced at her as she rose from her knees, he surprised a glimmer of tears in her _eyes_, and the sight brought a stab to his heart. why should she cry? what was the reason of the air of repression and strain which from time to time flitted across her face? if it were stanor's doing. ... stephen frowned, and resolutely turned his attention to the service. they came out of the abbey to the majestic strains of the organ--out of the dim, blurred light shining shaft-like across the glowing mosaic of gold, and marble, and great jewelled windows, into the hard, everyday world. the pavements were crowded with pedestrians hurrying here and there; restaurants had opened their doors, tobacco merchants and newspaper vendors were hard at work, and country-bred pixie stared around in amazed disapproval. they crossed the crowded thoroughfares and, led by stephen, found quiet byways in which it was possible to talk in comparative comfort alone. "it was better even than i expected, and that's saying so much! it does one good to go to a service like that. it's so _big_!" "the--the abbey?" queried stephen vaguely, and pixie gave a quick denial. "no. _no_! not only the building--everything! there's an atmosphere of peace, and dignity, and calm. one gets away from littleness and quarrelling. it's so sad when people quarrel about religion, and one sect disputes with another..." "it is indeed," replied stephen, sighing. "the chances of conciliation would be so much greater if they fought with honey, not with gall. ... the world needs kindness--" "oh, it does! there is such sorrow, such pain!" pixie's voice rang suddenly sharp, and a wave of emotion flitted over her face. she raised her eyes to his, and said suddenly, in a voice of melting pathos: "_her face_! ... that girl's face! all these years i've never forgotten. ... it's lain _here_!" she touched her heart with an eloquent finger. "all these years--every night--i've prayed that they might meet..." she shook her head with a determined gesture, as though shaking off a haunting thought. "i couldn't forget, you see, because--it taught me ... things i had not understood--!" "yes," said stephen dully. for his life he could not have said another word. he waited with dread to hear the next words. "but it was _worth_ learning!" pixie said bravely. "i was glad to learn. love is such a big, big thing. when it is given to you it's a big responsibility. you must not fail; nothing in the world must make you fail!" stephen said no word. the questions which had filled his brain for the last five days were answered now. there was no more room for doubt. pixie o'shaughnessy was ready and waiting to marry stanor vaughan at any time when it pleased him to come home and claim her promise. chapter twenty one. a musical evening. pixie had recovered her spirits by the time that the flat was reached, but the invalid was discovered in a distinctly "grumpy" mood. like many enforced stay-at-homes, his unselfishness bore him gallantly over the point of speeding the parting guests, and expressing sincere good wishes for their enjoyment. but the long, long hours spent alone, the contrast between their lot and his own, the rebellious longing to be up and doing, all these foes preyed upon the mind, and by the time that the voyagers returned, a cool, martyr-like greeting replaced the kindliness of the farewell, which was sad, and selfish, and unworthy, but let those suspend their judgment who have never been tried! "really? oh! _quite_ well, thank you. did you really?" ... the cold, clipped sentences fell like ice on the listeners' ears, and pixie, going out of the room, turned a swift glance at stephen glynn, and wrinkled her nose in an expressive grimace. somehow or other stephen felt his spirits racing upward at sight of that grimace. there was a suggestion of intimacy about it, amounting even to confidence: it denoted a _camaraderie_ of spirit which was as flattering as it was delightful. pat, as usual, recovered his good humour at the sight of food, and thoroughly enjoyed the simple but well-cooked meal, while pixie and stephen tactfully avoided the subject of their morning's excursion. time enough later on to describe the beauties of that abbey service! "moffatt is going out this afternoon. a friend is to call for her and bring her back this evening. it will be a change for the creature," announced pixie when the meal was finished, and, meeting pat's eye, she added quickly, "i'll make tea." "what about supper?" queried pat sternly. "if there's a meal in the week which i enjoy better than another it is sunday night supper. what's going to happen about it to-night?" "'deed i don't know. don't fuss! it's beyond me to think two meals ahead. there's cold meat. ... i'll rummage up something when it comes to the time." pat turned gloomily to his friend. "_you'd_ better be off, glynn. i asked you to stay for the day, but in view of unforeseen circumstances. ... pixie evidently puts moffatt's pleasure before our food." "_i do_!" cried pixie sturdily. stephen smiled, his bright, transforming smile, and said quickly-- "i'll stay! i'd like to, if you will just excuse me one moment while i telephone to my man. you have a telephone, i think, in the basement?" pixie shuddered. "they have; in an ice-box, where every draught that was ever born whirls around your feet, and if you speak loud enough, every maid in the place will hear what you say. it's quite diverting to listen!" stephen went off laughing, and pixie shook up pat's pillows, bathed his hands, and kissed him several times on the tip of his nose, a proceeding which he considered offensive to his dignity, and then went off to change the crushable velvet skirt for a house dress of her favourite rose hue--a quaint little garment made in a picturesque style, which had no connection whatever with the prevailing fashion. when she returned to the sitting-room she seated herself on the floor beside the fire, and pat, now entirely restored to equanimity and a little ashamed of his previous ill-humour, himself inquired about the morning's experiences. like all the o'shaughnessys he was intensely musical, and during his sojourn in london had taken every opportunity to hear all the good concerts within reach. he now wanted to hear about the music in the abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it pixie drew a deep sigh of enjoyment. "oh, pat, a boy sang `oh, for the wings'! if you could have heard it!-- a clear, clear voice, so thrillingly sweet, soaring away up to that wonderful roof. and he sang with such feeling." ... she began softly humming the air, and stephen knew then for a certainty whence had come those rich, soft notes which had come to his ears in the abbey. "sing it, pixie, sing it!" cried pat impatiently. "you promised, and it's one of my favourites. go on; i'll accompany!" stephen looked round inquiringly. no piano was in the room, no musical instrument of any kind, and pat lay helpless upon his bed. how, then, could he accompany? the o'shaughnessy ingenuity had, however, overcome greater difficulties than this, and it was not the first time by many that pat had hummed an effective and harmonious background to his sister's songs. as for pixie, she opened her mouth and began to sing as simply and naturally as a bird. she had a lovely voice, mezzo-soprano in range, and though she now kept it sweetly subdued, the hearer realised that it had also considerable power. she sang as all true singers do--as if the action gave to herself the purest joy, her head tilted slightly on one side, as if to listen more intently to each clear, sweet note as it fell from her lips. ... "_oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove; far away, far away would i roam_." ... the words blotted out for the hearers the gathering twilight in the prosaic little room; far away, far away soared their thoughts to heights lofty and beautiful. "_in the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest_." ... how had so young a thing learnt to put so wonderful a meaning into that last word? pat's rolling accompaniment swelled and sank; now and again for a phrase he softly joined in the words, and in the concluding phrase still another voice joined in in a soft tenor note agreeable to hear. pixie's eyes met stephen's with a glow of triumph. "he _sings_!" she cried quickly. "pat, he sings--pure tenor! oh, what music we can have, what trios! isn't it delightful? you can have real concerts now, old man, without leaving the flat!" "it was a very beautiful solo, miss o'shaughnessy," said stephen gravely. he was still too much under the influence of the strain to think of future events. as long as he lived he would remember to-day's experience, and see before him the picture of pixie o'shaughnessy in her rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. her unconsciousness had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply. "'tis a gift; we all have it. the concerts we had at knock, and every one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our own hands! i was the flute. d'ye remember, pat, the way i whistled a flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?" "i do not," said pat. "i was the 'cello myself, fiddling with a ruler on me own knees, double pedalling with _two_ knees! i had no thought for flutes. ye made the most noise, i'll say that for ye!" as usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable hint of an irish accent. stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a wish to hear the exhibition on another day. "but do sing us something else now," he said; "something worthy to come after `the wings.'" and for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer see one another across the room, pixie sang one beautiful strain after another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of the little room. it was not show singing--rather was it a series of "tryings over," prefaced by "oh, do you know this?" or "don't you love that bit?" so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse took him, till at times all three were singing together. the hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! pat had fallen asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen, now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable moffatt. "we might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around," pixie suggested, but stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too far ahead, and pled for delay. "it's rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a stretch, don't you think?" he asked persuasively. "it would spoil my appetite. can't we just--be quiet?" "you can," was pixie's candid answer; "i'm going to write! i've the greediest family for letters; do as i will, there's never a time when somebody isn't grumbling! never mind me, if you want to smoke; i approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. can i get you a book?" stephen shook his head. pat's library did not appeal to his more literary taste, and he announced himself content without further employment. "oh, well then, _talk_! it won't disturb me," said pixie easily; "i'll just listen or not, according as it's interesting. i'm accustomed to it with bridgie. if you want to set her tongue going, just sit down and begin to write..." stephen, however, had no intention of taking advantage of the permission. he was abundantly content to sit in his comfortable chair, enjoy his novel surroundings (how very cheerful and attractive a _clean_ kitchen could be!) smoke his cigarette, and watch pixie scribbling at fever pace over innumerable pages of notepaper. there were frequent snatches of conversation, but invariably it was pixie herself who led the way. "d'you illustrate your letters when you write them?" she asked at one time. "i always do! realistic, you know, and saves time. at this present moment--" she drew back from the table, screwing up one eye, and holding aloft her pen in truly professional fashion--"i'm drawing _you_!" "may i see?" "you may. ... it's not _quite_ right about the chair legs, they get so mixed up. perspective never was my strong point," said pixie, holding out a sheet and pointing to the masterpiece in question with the end of her pen. "there!" stephen looked and beheld a rough drawing of a preternaturally thin man, with preternatural large eyes, holding a cigarette in a hand joined to an arm which had evidently suffered severe dislocation. it was the type of drawing affected by schoolboys and girls, yet it had a distinct cleverness of its own. despite the cart-wheel eyes and the skeleton frame there _was_ a resemblance--there was more than a resemblance, it was actually _like_, and stephen acclaimed the fact by a shout of laughter. "i say! could i have it? it's uncommonly good!" pixie shook her head. "it's for bridgie.--ye notice the mouth? did you know it twisted when you thought? aren't they _nice_, narrow boots? i'll do one for you another day. ... turn over the page! there's another of pat, as he will look at the supper to-night." the second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for pat, reclining on a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented so precisely his expression when injured, that stephen shouted once again. "_succes fou_!" commented pixie jauntily, as she settled herself once more to her work. "quite a gift, haven't i? couldn't do pretties to save my life, but i _can_ caricature! now, please, _do_ be quiet! i must get on..." half an hour later a loud rapping on the wall announced the awakening of the invalid, who was once more discovered in a fractious mood. "asleep! nonsense! for two minutes, perhaps. how d'you suppose _any_ fellow could sleep, with you two shrieking with laughter every two minutes! if you choose to keep your jokes to yourself, all right, it's nothing to me; but it's half-past seven. ... where's supper?" even as he spoke another rap sounded on the front door--a brisk, imperative rap which brooked no delay. pixie darted forward, imagining a surprise visit from the doctor, and found herself confronted by a man in black, standing sentinel over a hamper. "mr o'shaughnessy's flat, madam? i have instructions from mr glynn--" "all right, saunders, bring it in, bring it in!" cried stephen quickly. he met pixie's eyes, flushed, and stammered-- "it's ... supper!" he said lamely. "i telephoned. it seemed a good plan, and i thought that, pat.--do you _mind_?" "_mind_!" repeated pixie, laughing. "faith i do! i mind very much; but it's the right way about; it won't be cold mutton, after all! i'll have to draw another picture." the man carried the hamper into the sitting-room, unpacked it deftly, and laid the contents on the table. soup, smoking hot from a thermos flask, chicken and salad, a shape of cream, and a fragrant pineapple. pat's lips ceased to droop, his eyebrows to peak: his dark eyes lit with enjoyment. "good old glynn!" he cried. "what a great idea! now let's begin, and eat right through..." as he took part in the happy meal which followed, stephen glynn reflected that generosity in giving went also with generosity in receiving. pat and his sister would cheerfully give away their last penny to a friend in need. it never occurred to them to show less readiness to accept when it came to their own turn. never was a surprise more happily planned; never was a surprise more heartily enjoyed. chapter twenty two. he loved her. for the next week all went well. pat's improvement, though slow, was so sure that a definite date was named on which he should be allowed to take his first few steps. the doctor grimaced to pixie as he gave this promise, as if to insinuate that the experiment would not be pleasant, but pat was prepared--in theory at least--for anything and everything, if thereby he might regain his freedom. stephen glynn paid daily visits to the flat, and, in addition, escorted pixie to various "sights" of the great city, in which, to tell the honest truth, she showed but little interest. music was a passion with her, but of pictures she had no knowledge, and little appreciation. the antiques in the national gallery left her cold and bored, though she was full of interest in what seemed to her companion the most uninteresting men and women who were employed in copying the canvases. when with the frankness of criticism which he had learned from herself he rallied her on this inconsistency, pixie's answer was characteristic-- "one is dead, and the other's alive. the most uninteresting live person means more to me than a world of pictures. that girl in the grey dress had tears in her eyes. ... did you see? she looks so poor. perhaps she wants to sell her copy, and no one will buy! there was a man talking to the fat woman next to her as we passed through before. he was writing something in his pocket-book. i believe he was buying the picture, and the poor grey girl felt so sad.--if esmeralda were here, i'd make her buy her copy, too." "it's a very _bad_ copy!" stephen pronounced. then he looked down at the girl, and the transforming smile lit up his face. "all the same-- would i do instead of `esmeralda'? i'll buy it at once, if you wish it!" the grey eyes brightened, beamed, then clouded with uncertainty. "really? ought you? are you sure? it may cost--" "that's my affair! leave that to me. would you like me to buy it?" "i would!" came back at once in the deepest tone of the eloquent irish voice, and at that stephen strode forward, his limp hardly observable on the wide, smooth floor, and came to a halt by the grey girl's side. then followed what was to one spectator at least, a delightful scene. the surprise on the grey girl's face, the incredulity, the illimitable content, as the tall stranger made known his request, took out his pocket-book and handed her a card. emotional pixie had the softness of tears in her own eyes as stephen rejoined her, and they walked away together down the long room. "well," he said smiling, "on your head be it! now she'll go on painting atrocities, and wasting good time, when she might be sweeping a floor! it's against my principles to encourage the desecration of art." "why did you do it then?" pixie demanded heartlessly, but next moment she smiled a beautiful smile. "_i know_! thank you! never mind about desecration. art can look after itself, and _she_ can't! and even if that particular picture isn't beautiful, you have given me another that is, the picture of her happy face! i think," she concluded slowly, "it's going to help me.--it will be a contrast to turn, to, when i see--_that other_!" she sighed, as she invariably did, when referring to those moments on the liverpool landing-stage, but she shook off the depression with a characteristic gesture, a defiant little shake not only of the head, but of the whole body, and cried briskly: "now let's imagine what she does when she goes home with that cheque!" at home in the little flat, music made part of every day's programme. pixie, seated on the hearthrug, would sing irish ballads in a voice of crooning sweetness, she and pat would join in duets, occasionally stephen was persuaded to join in a trio, and presently, as the performers became "worked up" to their task, they would recall one by one performances of bygone days, and perform them afresh for the delectation of their visitor. pixie whistled a bird-like accompaniment to pat's deep drone; pat, retiring bashfully beneath a sheet, whistled in his turn not only an air, but actually at the same time an accompaniment thereto, a soprano and contralto combination of sounds, so marvellous to hear that he was compelled to repeat the performance unmasked, before stephen would believe in its authenticity. fired by the success of their efforts, combs were then produced, and, swathed in paper, turned into wind instruments of wondrous amenability. surprising effect of a duet upon combs! again, when towards the end of the week the repertoire gave out, and "what shall we sing next?" to fail of an answer, pixie revived another old "knock" accomplishment, which was neither more nor less than impromptu recitatives and choruses. a bass recitative by pat, on the theme--"_and she went--to find some mat-ches. and there--were--none... tum-tum_!" led the way to the liveliest of choruses, in which, goaded by outstretched fingers and flashing eyes, stephen was forced to take his part. "_there were none!--there were none_!" piped pixie in the treble. "_and she went--and she went_!" rumbled pat in the bass. "_matches! matches_!" fell from stephen's lips, on a repeated high tenor note. through ever-increasing intricacies and elaborations ran the chorus, until at last at a signal from the soprano it approached its close, the three singers proclaimed in unison that "_there--were--none_!" and promptly fell back in their seats in paroxysms of laughter. in the course of the last twenty years, had he laughed as much as he had done within the last wonderful week? stephen asked himself the question as he walked home the night after the singing of the "matches" chorus, and there was little hesitation about the answer. a week, ten days of unshadowed happiness and companionship, and then a cloud arose. pat was not _well_; he grew worse; he grew seriously ill. the knee itself had done all that was expected of it, but the first attempt at walking, to which the poor fellow had looked forward as to a festival, proved in reality a painful and depressing experience. back in his bed, limp with pain and exhaustion, poor pat realised his own weakness with a poignancy of disappointment. he had expected to be able to walk at once, though not perhaps for any length of time, and these few stumbling steps had been a bitter revelation. all these weeks of confinement and suffering, and now a long and dragging convalescence! pat's heart swelled with bitterness and rebellion. despite the presence of pixie and the constant visits of his friend, he was sick, sick to death of the one small room, and the monotonous indoor life, and as a young man successfully started in a young business, he longed with ardour to get back to his work. the world looked very black to pat o'shaughnessy for the rest of that day, and atmospheric conditions did not help to cheer him. it was raining, a slow, relentless rain, and in the air for days past had been a rawness, a chill which crept to the very bone. pixie drew the curtains over every chink, and hung a shawl over the end of pat's bed to still further screen him from draughts, but pat was not in the mood to be coddled, and had that shawl whisked to the ground before one could say jack robinson. he was curt and silent in his manner, and--rare and significant sign!--partook of a fragmentary tea. nothing was right; everything was wrong; his patience was exhausted, and though he remained studiously polite to his friend, with his sister he unrestrainedly "let himself go." "don't wriggle, pixie! ... don't shout!--don't tell us that story all over again. ... don't lean against my bed. ... don't sit between me and the fire!" so on it went all through the afternoon, which as a rule was so cheery and peaceful, and if pixie preserved a placid composure, stephen glynn was far from following her example. he relapsed into a frigid silence, which added but another element to the general discomfort. the final stroke came when pixie lifted the despised shawl and attempted to wrap it round pat's shoulders, and was rudely repulsed, and told to mind her own business and not be a fool. then, with his air of _grand seigneur_, stephen glynn rose from his chair and made his adieux. cold as crystal was his manner as he extended his hand to the invalid on his bed, and pixie followed him on to the little landing, apologetic and miserable. "you are going so soon? if you could stay and talk hard it might divert him from himself. he _needs_ diverting!" "i cannot," stephen declared. "it's beyond me. after all you have done--after all your care, to speak to you so rudely!--" he had passed through the front door of the flat, and pixie stood within the threshold, her hand clasping the handle of the door, her face, tired and strained, raised to his own. "he didn't!" she cried quickly. "oh, he didn't. it wasn't pat who spoke--it was the pain, the pain, and the tiredness and the disappointment. they force out the words. haven't you found that yourself? but his heart doesn't mean them. he's all raw and hurting, and i worried him. ... i shouldn't have done it! you must be angry with me, not with pat." stephen gave her a long, strange look. "i think i--" he began, and stopped short suddenly. "what?" queried pixie, and there was a long pause. "i--don't know!" he answered dreamily then, and without a word of farewell turned away and descended the steps. but he did know. in the moment in which he had stood facing her while she pled her brother's cause, the secret of his own heart was revealed. never under any circumstances could he be angry with pixie o'shaughnessy. he loved her; she was for him the one woman in the world; with all the stored-up love of his empty life he loved her, and longed for her for his own. that was the reason of his happiness during the past days, of the extraordinary new zest and interest in life which had filled his mind; of his content in pixie's contentment, his anxiety for her anxiety, his furious resentment when she was abused. and he loved her. he loved her when she lapsed into her irish brogue, and said "me dear"; he loved her when she assumed frenchified airs, struck attitudes, and cried "_ma foi_!" he loved her when she was sad, when she was glad, when she was youthful and mischievous, when she was serious and old, when she walked beside him in the street in the hat with the curling feather, when she sat on the hearthrug in her rose-hued dress crooning songs in her soft, sweet voice. always, and always, he loved her; she had crept into his heart like a ray of sunshine lighting up unused rooms; she had melted his coldness, as the south wind melts the frost. he loved pixie, and pixie was going to marry stanor vaughan... stephen glynn stepped shuddering into the clammy street, and away up on the fifth floor landing pixie still stood motionless, holding the handle of that open door, repeating to herself dreamily that he would come back, he must come back! he had never said good-bye! chapter twenty three. complications. on the following afternoon stephen glynn failed to pay his daily visit to the flat. after the revelation of the night before he had neither the strength nor the courage to encounter pixie anew. little use to shut the stable door after the steed had flown, but he must at least have time to think, to face the future, and decide upon his own course. and then at seven o'clock came the ring of the telephone, and pixie's voice speaking piteously in his ear-- "is it you? you yourself? oh, why didn't you come? i was waiting for you. i wanted you. pat's ill! he's ill, and he won't let me send for the doctor. oh, do come round!" "i'm coming!" stephen said, and hung up the receiver. pixie wanted him, that settled the matter. in half an hour's time his car stopped before the entrance to the flat, and the chauffeur was bidden to wait for further orders, while his master mounted the long flights of steps. pixie was seated beside the fire, and the glance of her eyes spoke of a warning which he was quick to understand. pat was not to suspect that his friend had been summoned on his behalf. he turned towards the bed, and said lightly-- "sorry to be late, old man. how goes it? tried the walking again?" "this morning. yes. but--" pat shrugged wearily--"not since. got a head--" stephen looked at him critically. bright eyes, flushed cheeks, shortened breath, all the danger signals to the fore. "bit feverish, old man, that's the trouble! exerting yourself too much perhaps. good thing i didn't come to tire you further. get that doctor fellow to give you something to cool you down, and give you a good night's rest, and the little cherub will wake up bright as a button." "shan't!" pat cried. "no more doctors! sick of the sight of doctors! what have doctors done for _me_? chained here all these weeks, and worse at the end! i can look after myself." "taken your temperature by any chance?" "what's the good? don't _you_ start worrying, glynn! i've had enough of it from pixie. i'm not going to be worried with temperatures." "don't behave like a child, o'shaughnessy. no one wants to worry you with doctors if it can be helped. i don't wonder you are tired of them, but you can't run risks. take your temperature like a sensible fellow, and if it's under a hundred, i'll leave you in peace. otherwise i go downstairs this minute and telephone for braithey. where's the thermometer, miss o'shaughnessy? now then, in with it!" pat scowled, but submitted. the glass tube was held between set lips, and a silence ensued which stephen made no effort to break. pixie waited expectantly for him to join her, but he kept his position by the bed, without so much as turning his head in her direction. and upon entering he had avoided her glance, had dropped her hand after the most perfunctory, clasp, and last night he had gone away without even saying good-night. ... she had offended him: certainly she must have offended him, pixie told herself, though _how_ she was unable to think. she stared into the fire, feeling tired, and sad, and discouraged. "three minutes. yes, that's enough. let me see! i'm getting quite clever with these puzzling things. ye-es!" with a deft jerk of his wrist stephen shook the thermometer, and returned it to it's case. "slightly up! no escape for it, pat. braithey must come!" "i won't see him. i won't see him if he comes! look here, glynn, it's my affair! leave me alone, there's a good fellow! i can look after myself..." stephen walked steadily to the door. "i'll take good care you don't. that's enough, patrick, don't waste your strength! i'm going downstairs to telephone, and if braithey's at home my car shall bring him round. it's waiting outside." he disappeared, and the storm burst over pixie's head, but she bore it meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. _everything_ seemed going wrong! the sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to gloom. pixie's thoughts made a lightning review of those different days. how perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! until this moment she had not fully realised their perfection. "ah, now, pat, stop! don't worry, boy! it's not my head! ... wait till to-morrow and you'll be better than ever, and think of the trouble it'll give you to apologise. ... it's because we _care_!" "wish to goodness you didn't then," cried the impenitent one. however he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion he was forced into silence. stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone message. he preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the room together. then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced reiteration of "ah-ah!" the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious presentation of the tongue. pat went through the performance with the air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes. "that's right! that's right! lie still and rest. we'll soon have you all right again. have a little nap if you can, while i give miss o'shaughnessy my instructions in the er--er--" doctor braithey reminded himself in time that there _was_ no second sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently--"in the hall!" they went out into the tiny passage, and stephen and pixie waited for the verdict. "well! the right lung is touched. he has taken a chill. now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther." he cast an inquiring glance at pixie. "d'you know anything about poulticing?" "yes, everything! i've helped my sister with her children, and i brought the things..." "that's well! poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. here! you understand, in this position," he tapped himself in illustration. "i'll send in medicines, and we'll see how he is to-morrow morning. if he is no better you'll need help. we'll see about that when i call." a few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty. "i--suppose i can be of no use! pat ought to be quiet, and i'm no hand at poulticing. you are sure you can manage alone?" pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. _why_ wouldn't he stay? why did he so obviously not _want_ to stay? "i can. it will be all right. moffatt will help me." "and to-morrow ... to-morrow you must get a nurse!" "no!" cried pixie with sudden energy, "i will not. i'll have no stranger. i'll have bridgie." her heart swelled at the sound of the beloved name; she felt a helpless longing to cast herself on that faithful breast. "bridgie must come. there's no room for a nurse in this tiny place. bridgie could share my room." "we'll telegraph for her," glynn said. "i will come round after breakfast, and if pat is not quite himself, i'll telegraph at once. she could be with you by tea-time." he was kind and considerate. he was thoughtful for her comfort, ready to help by deed as well as word. pixie could not explain to herself wherein lay the want, but the reality of it gnawed at her heart, and darkened still further the hours of that long, anxious night. despite poultices, despite medicine, there was no doubt even to pixie's inexperienced eyes that pat was worse the next morning. his breathing was heavier, he was hotter, more restless. without waiting for stephen she sent the little maid to telephone to the doctor, and through the same medium dispatched a summoning wire to bridgie in her northern home. the succeeding hours were filled with a nightmare-like struggle against odds which palpably increased with every hour. stephen came in and out, turned himself into a messenger to obtain everything that was needed, sent round a hamper of cooked dainties which would provide the small household for days to come, drove to the station to meet bridgie and bring her to the flat, and oh! the joy, the relief, the blessed consciousness of help, which came to nurse and patient alike at the sight of that sweet, fair face! in one minute bridgie had shed her hat and coat, in the second moment she was scorching herself by the fire, to remove all trace of chill before she approached the bedside, in the third she was sitting beside it--calm, sweet, capable, with the air of having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay until the end. for the next few days pat had a sharp struggle for his life. pneumonia clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was heard all over the little flat. there was a dreadful night when hope was well-nigh extinguished, when stephen glynn and the two sisters seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and pat himself to face the end. "shall i--die?" he gasped, and bridgie's answering smile seemed to hold an angelic sweetness. "i hope not, dear lad. there's so much work for you to do down here, but if you do--it's going home! mother's there, and the major! they'll welcome you!" but pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. he had loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of his work. he fought for his life, and the fight was hard. into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life and the eternal grows thin and faint. _would pat live to see the morning_? that was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every other thought. afterwards, looking back, pixie could recall certain incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. being gently forced into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing, placed suddenly in her hands by stephen glynn, always by stephen, who seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended with tenderest care. once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence, as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully--_how_ pitifully she herself could never know-- "was it _my fault_? was there _anything_ i could have done?" "no, dear," he said simply. "it is not your fault." pixie was certain that he had said "dear." the rhythm of it remained in her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. he had been sorry for her, _so_ sorry! and he was so much older, and he was stanor's uncle. why should he not say "dear?" short and sharp was the attack, but by god's mercy the crisis passed, and brought relief. weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, pat slept, and took his first steps back towards life. at last the danger was over, and pat's natural vigour of constitution made the convalescence unusually quick, but even when he was comparatively well again, bridgie refused in an altogether amazing and unprecedented manner to return to her beloved home. she suggested not once, but many times in succession, that pixie should return in her place to take the head of the household, but here pat grew obstinate in his turn. no! pixie had had all the dull work of nursing; he was not going to allow her to return until she had had some fun. and when he began to go out for walks, pray, who was going to accompany him, if pixie went away? "you'd be off after her, the moment you saw me on my feet. don't deny it, for i know better!" pat declared, and bridgie blushed, and did not deny it. already she was pining for dick and the children; already counting the hours to her return, _but_... movement was evidently in the air; perhaps it was caused by the bright, spring days which had replaced the former gloom. pat on his bed discussed a possible holiday before returning to work. "it might hurry things," he said. "what do you say, pixie, seaside or country? must go somewhere where there's something to _do_! winter garden, concerts, bands, people to look at. i want to be amused. we'll have a week somewhere, and blow expense. you might come too, glynn, and bring the car." glynn was sitting in his usual place beside the fire; bridgie was by the bed; pixie prone on the hearthrug. during the last few days the invalid had been sufficiently strong to enjoy the society of his fellows, had even called upon pixie to sing, and had apparently greatly enjoyed the hearing, though bridgie seemed for once unappreciative, and had discouraged further efforts. now his mind had turned on to holidays, and he had made this direct appeal to stephen, which seemed to find scant favour from two out of the three hearers. bridgie frowned, and stared at the carpet; stephen's pale face showed a discomfited flush. "you shall have the car with pleasure. it shall take you wherever you decide to go, and be at your service for as long as you please, but for myself, i must get home. i--i am not usually in town for so long at a time. there are several things waiting attention which should not be delayed. i must get back..." there was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised the futility of the excuse. stephen's estate was in the hands of a capable agent: an extra week's absence could make little difference; moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally intended to stay for some considerable time in town. plain, therefore, as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not _want_ to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he did not for the moment desire more of their company in town. bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected, _relieved-looking_ smile. "there's no end to the work on a big estate. the major--my father--used to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine muddle of it himself, poor darling! but my brother jack agrees with him. he's educated miles to look after the irish property, and so does geoffrey hilliard. ... it's true he is away half his time--" at the best of times bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it straight away. she mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence. "of course we won't take your car. you will need it for your business excursions!" pat said icily. "we are very much indebted to you for letting us have the use of it here. it's been of great service, hasn't it, pixie?" "it has! i don't know what we'd have done without it. we _are_ grateful," agreed pixie warmly. her voice out of all the four was the only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with unembarrassed friendliness. nevertheless bridgie, looking on, felt a cramp of pain. how much older pixie had grown in appearance! the lines of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before now had surely deepened during the last weeks! anxiety, no doubt, the strain of nursing--bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the sight of pain on a young face! "come, pixie," she said, rising, "we'll make tea! i promised pat potato cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that's to-day. we'll have a feast!--" "leave them to themselves," she said confidingly to pixie when the kitchen was reached. "they'll shake down better without us. pat's fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the potato cakes will soothe him. i'm sorry for mr glynn. really, you know, dear, pat's _exacting_!" "'deed he is. it's no wonder he is tired of it." bridgie needed no explanation as to the significance of that second he. "he's been fussing about us for weeks, and now he'll go home and rest. it's a good thing! will i mash the potatoes for you, bridgie?" "thank you, darling," said bridgie humbly, but her face remained troubled. once more, and with all her heart, she wished that pixie were safe at home. the rumble of men's voices could be heard from the kitchen--an amicable rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to time. bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. she decided that stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since over tea he alluded to an old promise to take pixie to the temple, and included bridgie in an invitation for the following sunday. "and then i must be off--on monday--or--or perhaps on tuesday," he said vaguely. "one day next week." "i leave on monday too," said bridgie, and ate her potato cake with recovered zest. chapter twenty four. he loves you. that evening pat showed early signs of fatigue, and requested bridgie to settle him for the night, bidding the while so marked a farewell to pixie that she had no alternative but to retire forthwith to her own room. truth to tell she was not sorry, for sleep had been an uncertain quantity of late, and the prospect of a long undisturbed night was agreeable. she dallied over her undressing, and when bridgie joined her half an hour later, sat perched upon the bed, dressing-gowned, her hands clasped round her knees, watching with admiring eyes the picture of her sweet-faced sister seated before the dressing-table engaged in brushing out her long fair hair. "you've a fine head of hair, me dear! it's wearing well. ... d'you remember the day you and esmeralda had the trick played on you about going to bed, and sat up half the night brushing and combing to tire out the other?" "i do so," answered bridgie, but it was but a faint smile which she gave to the memory of that youthful joke. she parted her hair with a sweep of the brush, and gazing at her sister between the long gold strands said suddenly, and earnestly, "pixie!" "me dear?" "there's something i want to say. ... to-morrow mr glynn will be here. pat's asked him to come back after church. he is going away on monday, so it will be the last time. be _careful_, darling! think what you're about. you don't want to be unkind--" pixie stared--a stunned, incredulous stare. "unkind! to _him_! are you raving? what am i to be careful about?" "oh--oh--_everything_!" bridgie's breath came in a gasp of helplessness. it had been difficult to speak, but a sense of duty had driven her on, and now it was too late to stop. "don't--don't talk to him so much. don't look at him." (did pixie realise how instinctively her eyes sought stephen's for sympathy and appreciation?) "don't sit by the fire and sing." a flush spread over pixie's cheek; her eyes widened. "_why_? doesn't he like it? isn't it _nice_?" "oh-oh, _pixie_!" cried bridgie helplessly. a vision rose before her of a little figure in a rose-coloured gown, of the firelight playing on the upturned face. she heard again, the deep crooning notes which filled the room with sweetness. to herself, a sister, the picture was full of charm--what must it be to a lonely man, in love for the first time in thirty-five years? she rose from her chair and came across to the bed: face to face, within the stretch of an arm, the sisters waited in silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out a long minute. "pixie," whispered bridgie breathlessly, "_don't you know_?" "what?" "don't you know, pixie, that he loves you?" "who loves me?" "stephen glynn. oh, pixie, didn't you see?" the colour faded from pixie's face; she threw out her hand as if to ward off a threatened danger. there was a note almost of anger in her reply-- "it's not true; it's not! it couldn't be true. ... he care for me! for me! you're mad, bridgie! you're dreaming! there's nothing..." "oh, pixie, there _is_! i saw it the first evening. i'd have spoken before, but pat was so ill. then i tried--you know how. i tried!--to send you away. i knew that every day was making it harder for him, more difficult to forget. i was so _sorry_ for him! pixie, he is thirty-five, and has suffered so much. it's hard on a man when he gets to that age, and--" "_don't_!" cried pixie sharply. she thrust out her hand once more, and cowered as if from a blow. "bridgie, i can't bear it! don't torture me, bridgie. ... it _isn't_ true! you are making it up. ah, bridgie, it's because you love me yourself that you think every one must do the same! he's--stanor's uncle ... pat's friend--he was just kind like other friends. ... he never said a word ... looked a look." suddenly, unexpectedly the blood flared in her face as memory took her back to the hour when she stood at the door of the flat and watched stephen's abrupt descent down the flagged stairway. "oh, bridgie, are ye sure? are ye _sure_? how are ye sure? it's so easy to be deceived! bridgie, you've no _right_ to say it if you are not sure. i don't believe you! nothing could make me believe unless he said--" "pixie, he has said!" the words fell from bridgie's lips as though in opposition to her judgment she were compelled to speak them. "pat was hurt that he was going; he reproached him to-night after we left; they had a discussion about it, and he said stephen glynn said that he daren't stay, he daren't see more of you. ... pat does not think he meant to say it, it just--said itself! and afterwards he set his lips, and put on his haughty air, and turned the conversation, and pat dared not say another word. but he had said enough. ... his face! ... his voice! ... pat did not believe he could feel so much. he cares desperately, pixie." pixie sat motionless--so silent, so motionless, that not a breath seemed to stir her being. bridgie waited, her face full of motherly tenderness, but the silence was so long, so intense, that by degrees the tenderness changed into anxiety. it was unlike emotional pixie to face any crisis of life in silence; the necessity to express herself had ever been her leading characteristic, so that lack of expression was of all things the most startling, in her sister's estimation. she stretched out her hand, and laid it on the bowed shoulder with a firm, strengthening touch. "pixie! look up! speak to me! what are you thinking, dear?" pixie raised her face, a set face, which to the watching eyes seemed apiece with the former silence. there seemed _no_ expression on it; it was a lifeless mask which had been swept of expression. as the blank eyes looked into her own and the lips mechanically moved, bridgie had the sensation of facing a stranger in the place of the beloved little sister. "i am honoured!" said pixie flatly. "i am honoured!" she rose slowly from the bed, moving stiffly as though the mere physical effort were a strain, and passing by bridgie's inviting arms walked over to the dressing-table and began to loosen her own hair. "you have finished, bridgie? i'm not in your way?" she asked quietly, and bridgie faltered a weak "no!" and felt that the world was coming to an end. pixie silent; pixie dignified; pixie quietly but unmistakably holding her sister and guardian at arm's length, this was an experience petrifying in its unexpectedness! she had not spoken on the impulse of a moment; for days past she had been nerving herself to open pixie's eyes. at the bottom of her heart had lain a dawning hope that such an opening might not be in vain, for pixie had never really loved stanor vaughan. at the time of their engagement she had not even understood what love meant; during the years of their separation there had been nothing but an occasional letter to preserve his image in her mind, and when the allotted two years were over, stanor himself had voluntarily extended his exile. bridgie set her lips as she recalled a fact so hurtful to her sister's dignity. she heard again pat's voice, echoing the sentiments of her own heart. "tell her, bridgie! she ought to know. he's worth a thousand of that other fellow. don't let her throw away the substance for the shadow." so she had spoken, and a new pixie--a pixie she had never even imagined in dreams--had listened, and made her reply. "i am honoured!" she had said, and straightway, sweetly, courteously, irrevocably, had closed the subject. bridgie bent her head and plaited her hair in the two long ropes which made her nightly coiffure. she was thankful of the employment, thankful of an excuse to hide her face; she listened to the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece and asked herself what she should do next. the incredible had come to pass, and she, bridgie, sister, guardian, married woman, mother of a family, was nervous in pixie's presence! not for any bribe that could have been offered would she have ventured to hint at that hope which she and pat had shared in common. suddenly through the little flat rang the sound of the postman's knock. the last of the many deliveries of the day had arrived, and bridgie peeping out of the door spied a couple of white envelopes prone on the mat. she crept out to get them, thankful of the diversion, and was overjoyed to behold on one her husband's writing. "one for me, pixie, and one for you--an enclosure forwarded from home. i'm so glad to get mine. it's nice for the postmen in london to have sundays free, but we country people _do_ miss letters," she said glibly, as she handed pixie her share of the spoil, and seated herself in the one comfortable chair which the room afforded, to enjoy to the full the welcome message from home. perhaps dick had divined the double anxiety which was burdening his wife, perhaps he realised how long she would feel a sunday without news, perhaps out of his own loneliness had arisen a need for words--in any case, that special letter was the longest and, to bridgie's heart, the dearest which she had received since her departure from home. he told her of the children, and of their latest sayings; he told her of himself and his work; he comforted her, where she needed comfort, cheered her, where she needed cheer, called her by the sweet love names which she most loved to hear, and held before her eyes the prospect of a swift return. and bridgie reading that letter thanked god for the thousandth time, because on her--undeserving--had been bestowed the greatest gift which a woman can receive--the gift of a faithful love! ten minutes had passed before she had read and re-read her precious letter, but when she turned her head it was to find pixie standing in the same position as that in which she had seen her last, gazing down upon a sheet of paper on which a few short lines were written in a masculine writing. at bridgie's movement she raised her head, and spoke in a curiously low, level voice-- "it is from stanor. he has sailed for home. honor ward and a party of friends were crossing, and he decided at the last moment to come with them. we shall see him on thursday next." chapter twenty five. stanor comes back. it was thursday morning. with the doctor's permission pat's bed had been carried back to the minute apartment which was grandiloquently termed a "dressing-room." a sofa took its place in the dining-room, and with the aid of a stick he could walk from one refuge to another, and enjoy what--after the confinement of the past months--appeared quite an exciting variety of scene. bridgie victor was still a joint occupant of the "best" bedroom, for since pat refused to part with pixie it was plainly the elder sister's duty to stay on over the important meeting with stanor vaughan. the modern girl scoffs at the idea of chaperonage, but the o'shaughnessys were not modern. bridgie felt the impulse to protect, and pixie's piteous "_stay_ with me, bridgie!" marked the one moment of weakness which she had shown. so bridgie remained in london, comforted by the knowledge that her husband was well and her children in good hands, and seldom in her life had five days passed so slowly. sunday itself had seemed a week long, the atmosphere strained and unreal, each member of the little party talking to pass the time, uttering platitudes, and discussing every imaginable subject under the sun but just the one which filled every mind. no need to bid pixie to be discreet, to warn her not to sing, nor glance too frequently in a certain direction--a talking automaton could not have shown less sign of feeling. as for stephen glynn, the news of his nephew's sudden return obviously came to him as a shock, but as a man of the world he was an adept in hiding his feelings, and though he curtailed his visit, so long as he was in the flat he exerted himself to preserve an ordinary demeanour. his adieux also were of the most commonplace description. "it's hardly worth while to say good-bye. we shall meet, we shall certainly meet before long. i will write to welcome stanor, and you--" he held pixie's hand and looked down at her with an inquiring glance--"you will let me hear your--news?" "i will," answered pixie simply. bridgie would have given a fortune to be able to see what was in "the child's" head at that moment, to know what she was really thinking. the sisters walked together to the door, pat, on his stick, bringing up the rear, and stood watching stephen descend. once and again he looked up, smiled, and waved his hand, and as he did so his eyes had the same piteous glance which pixie had noticed on their first meeting. the expression of those upturned eyes hurt all three onlookers in different degrees, and sent them back to their little room with downcast looks. "now he'll bury himself in the country again and mope! it's been the making of him being here in town. goodness knows what will happen to him now!" said pat, dropping on to the couch with an impatient sigh, and bridgie murmured softly-- "the dear, man! the dear man! so hard for, him to be alone. but you needn't be anxious, pat. he's so _good_. he'll be looked after! ... don't you think, now, his eyes are the least thing in the world like dick's?" "not the least least!" snapped pixie, and that was her one contribution to the conversation. and now it was thursday--thursday afternoon, within an hour, of the time fixed by telegram for stanor's arrival. pat had elected to stay in bed, in consequence of what he called headache and his sisters translated as "sulks." he didn't want to see the fellow. ... what was the fellow to him? didn't know how the fellow had the face to turn up at all, after dawdling away an extra six months. hoped to goodness the fellow would make short work of it and be off, as he wanted to get up for dinner. in her heart bridgie agreed with each sentiment in turn, but she felt it her duty to be stern and bracing. "'deed, and i hope so, too! else i shall have to sit here, and you're not the best company. i'm your guest, me dear--if you haven't the heart to be civil ye might at least have the good manners! my little jack would never dr-eam--" "little prig he must be, then," mumbled pat; but the reproof went home, and he grumbled no more. just before the clock struck the hour bridgie paid a flying visit to the little sitting-room to see that the tea-table was set, the kettle on the hob, the dish of hot scones on the brass stand in the fender, and everything ready to hand, so that no one need enter unless specially summoned. she found pixie standing gazing into the fire, and started with surprise and disappointment. "_pixie_, your dress! that dull old thing? why not your pink? me dear, you've time. ... there's still time. ... run off and change it!" but pixie shook her head. "bridgie, _don't fuss_!" she said, and there was a note in her voice which checked the words on bridgie's lips. she literally dared not say any more, but her heart was heavy with disappointment. she had been so anxious that pixie should look her best for this important interview, had been so complacently satisfied that the rose-coloured gown was as becoming as it could be, and now the aggravating, mysterious little thing had deliberately left it hanging in the wardrobe, and put on instead an old brown dress which had been a failure at the beginning, and was now well advanced in middle age. one result of pixie's sojourn in paris had been an acquired faculty for making the best of herself: she put on her clothes with care, she wore them "with an air," she dressed her hair with neat precision, and then with a finger and thumb gave a tweak here, a pat there, which imparted to the final effect something piquant and attractive. to-day it appeared as if that transforming touch had been forgotten, and bridgie, looking on, felt that pang of distress which all motherly hearts experience when their nurslings show otherwise than at their best. "are you not going to sit with pat?" inquired pixie at the end of a pregnant silence, and at that very obvious hint bridgie retired perforce, repeating gallantly to herself, "looks don't matter! looks don't matter! they don't matter a bit!" and believing just as much of what she said as would any other young woman of her age. another ten minutes and the sound of the electric bell rang sharply round the flat. the door opened and shut, and moffatt, entering the sitting-room in advance, announced loudly-- "mr vaughan!" a tall, fair man entered with a rapid step. pixie looked at him, and felt a consciousness of unutterable strangeness. this was not the man from whom she had parted on the deck of that ocean-bound steamer! this man was older, broader; the once lazy, laughter-loving eyes were keen and shrewd. his shoulders also were padded into the exaggerated square, characteristic of american tailors. "well--pixie!" even the voice was strange. it had absorbed the american accent, the american clip and drawl. pixie had the consciousness of struggling with stiffened features which refused to smile. "well--stanor!" he took her hand and held it in his, the while he stared down at her upturned face. his brows contracted, as though what he saw was more painful than pleasant. "i guess you've been having a bad time," he said. "i was sorry to hear your brother's been sick." "he is better now," pixie said, and gently withdrew her hand. _two and a half years' waiting, and this was the meeting_! she drew herself up, with the little air of dignity which she knew so well how to assume, and waved him to a seat. "won't you sit down? i will give you some tea. it is all ready, and the kettle is boiling. when did you arrive in town?" "two hours ago. i went straight to my hotel to write some letters, and then came along here. ... this is your brother's apartment? nice little place! it's good news that he is better! hard luck on him to be bowled over like that!" the accent, the intonation carried pixie's thoughts irresistibly towards another speaker, whose memory war associated with her own first meeting with stanor. on the spur of the moment she mentioned her name. "where is honor ward? is she in london, too?" stanor started; over his features passed a quiver as of anxiety or dread. he glanced across the fireplace, and the new keenness in his eyes became still more marked. "er--no! she stopped half way. later on ... perhaps--" "she is quite well?" again a moment's hesitation. "fairly well, only ... very tired." "i don't wonder she is tired; she does so much. always rushing about after something new. they seem very restless people in america." "they're alive, anyway; they don't rust! they're bound to get the most that's possible out of life, and they get it! it shakes a fellow up to get out of the rut here and have a taste of their methods." "you like it--better than _home_?" pixie paused, teapot in hand, to cast upon him a glance full of patriotic reproach, whereat he laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "isn't home the place where one settles down, and which feels to be most congenial?" "you find america more congenial than england?" he shrugged again, and the old gleam of laughter showed in his eyes. "now look here, isn't it bad luck to begin asking embarrassing questions straight away off? i hoped i was going to avoid this point! if you must have the truth--i _do_! america suits me!"--his smile was full of complacence--"i suit america. that's not by any means a sure thing. many englishmen throw up the sponge and return home. they can't adapt themselves, don't _want_ to adapt themselves. in my case i had had no business experience in england, so i began with an open mind without prejudice, and--it _went_: i like the life, i like the people. i like the climate. the climate is answerable for a lot of the extra energy which you over here call `restlessness.' you want to do just about twice as much beneath those skies!" he cast an impatient glance towards the window. "it's all so _grey_! ... i've had a headache straight on the last two days." "tea's ready now; it will do you good. there are hot scones in that dish," pixie said quietly. the greyness of the street seemed to have entered the room--to have entered her heart. it was _all_ grey. ... "we knew, of course, that you _must_ like it, when you stayed so long." now there was something which was _not grey_. stanor's face flushed a painful red; he looked at his cup, at the floor, in the fire, at anything but in pixie's face. his voice was hard with repressed embarrassment. "er--just so; you would, of course! there was work on hand. i waited to see it through. when a man has spent two years in the same place so many claims arise, in social life as well as in work. it is difficult for him to break away at a moment's notice. he is hardly his own master." "i'm sure it is. and when there was work you were quite right to stay on. it would have been wrong to have left it unfinished." stanor, looked up sharply, met clear, honest eyes, which looked back into his without a trace of sarcasm. she _meant_ it! voice and look alike were transparently genuine. at that moment she was essentially the pixie of old, the pixie to whom it came naturally to believe the best. the flush on stanor's cheeks deepened as he realised the nature of the "work" which had made his excuse. his voice deepened with the first real note of intimacy. "that's like you, pixie! you always understood. ... and now tell me about yourself. what's happened to you since i heard last? six months ago, was it? no! barely four. didn't you write for christmas? been jogging along as usual at home, playing games with the babies?" "yes; just jogging," said pixie. then of a sudden her eyes flashed. "`over here' we don't find the `best of life' in a _rush_! it comes to some of us quite satisfactorily in a jog! `i guess,' as you say, that my life as been as much `worth while' as if i'd spent it in a round of pink luncheons and green teas, as your american friends seem to do." the unexpected happened, and, instead of protesting, stanor sighed, and looked of a sudden grave and depressed. "you're right there, pixie; that's so, if you are built the right way! but some of us--" he checked himself, and began afresh in a voice of enforced enthusiasm. "well!--and then you came up here to nurse your brother, and found the runkle already in possession. i _was_ surprised to read about that in your letter at liverpool. odd, isn't it, how things come about? and how _is_ the old fellow?" again pixie's eyes sent out a flash. how was it that every fresh thing that stanor said seemed to hurt her in a new place? "considering his great years and infirmities, the old fellow seems surprisingly well." "halloo, what's this?" stanor stared in surprise. "said the wrong thing, have i? what have i said? he seems old, you know, if he isn't actually so in years. i used to look upon him as a patriarch. not so much his looks as his character. such a sombre old beggar!" "he wasn't sombre with _us_!" memory flashed back pictures of stephen's face as he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, listening to those impromptu concerts which had enlivened pat's convalescence. pixie saw him as he leaned forward in his chair, waving his hand baton-like, heard his voice, joining lustily in the "matches" chorus. in that very room--in the very chair in which stanor now sat. ... what centuries seemed to have lolled by, between that day, and this! "wasn't he? that's good! i'm glad to hear that," stanor said perfunctorily. "it takes time, of course, to get out of invalid ways. i shall have to be running down to see him one of these days." "oh, of course; he'll expect you. and then--then you'll begin your work over here. in london, i suppose?" "i ... er ... the firm is in town. there--er--there will be a lot to arrange." suddenly stanor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes searching her face. "pixie, this is an odd sort of conversation for our first meeting! ... we've got wrong somehow. ... can't we get right? why waste time on generalities. ... are you _glad_ to see me back, pixie?" "i am!" pixie's eyes gazed back without a flicker. "when i got your letter i was--thankful! i think it was--time--you came back." "have you missed me, pixie, while, i've been away?" now she hesitated, but her eyes remained steady and candid. "it had been such a little time, you know; and you had never stayed with us at home. i could hardly _miss_ you out of my life, but i ... _thought_ of you!" "did you, pixie? did you, little pixie? ... i wonder _what_ you thought!" pixie did not answer that question. the answer would have been too long, too complicated. she smiled, a wistful little smile, and turned away her head. then stanor rose. she heard him rise, heard the chink of the tea-things on the tray as he pressed upon it in rising, heard his footsteps passing round the table towards her chair, heard in a sickening silence his summoning voice-- "pixie!" "stanor!" they looked at each other;--white, strained, tense. "pixie, will you marry me?" "yes, stanor, i will. if you want me..." chapter twenty six. "what have i done?" there was a moment's silence, a moment which seemed like an hour. then stanor spoke-- "thank you, pixie!" he put his arms round her, made as if to kiss her cheek, but the small hands held him off with unexpected strength. "not yet! not yet! you haven't answered my question!" "what question?" "_if you want me_?" the grey eyes were very near his own. they seemed to search into his very soul. "_do_ you want me, stanor?" "pixie, what a question! you ... you _know_ the answer." "i think i do." she nodded her head with a grave certainty. "i'm sure i do. ... you _don't_ want me, stanor!" he started at that, and his hands relaxed their hold. the dull red flush mounted once more to his forehead, his lips twitched, and twitched again. the man was suffering, and the marks of his pain were plain to read. "why ... should you say that? pixie, what is it? i explained about that extra six months. ... you said you understood. it was part of the agreement that we were not to write except on occasions. were my letters wrong? didn't they please you? i was never a good hand at letter-writing. was that it? what was it? what have i done, pixie, to make you doubt me?" "i don't think," said pixie dreamily, "you have done anything." it seemed for a moment as if she had nothing more to say, then suddenly she asked another question: "stanor! that day in liverpool, on the landing-stage, did you notice a girl standing near me--a girl with a fur cap?" "no, pixie. i noticed only one girl--yourself!" "she was parting from a man--her lover or husband--who was leaning over the rail and looking down at her. stanor ... they ... _cared_! they loved each other. ... all these years i have had their faces in my heart. i looked at them, and i looked at you, and i understood the difference!" "i was miserable enough, pixie. all men do not show their feelings in the same way." "i knew you were sorry. i was sorry, too. ... i'm not blaming you. i've no right to blame you. i have waited for you, and you've come back. you have asked me to marry you. stanor!" she clasped his arms with her hands, her eyes intently gazing into his. "i'll tell you the truth about myself.--i was a child when you went away. i didn't know how to love. now i do! if you love me, stanor, with your whole heart and soul, more than any one in the world, more than _anything_ in the world, then marry me, dear, and i'll make you happy! if you don't ... if there is any doubt in your mind, if there is some one else who has grown nearer to you while you've been away--i shouldn't be angry, stanor, only," her voice shook, a quiver passed over the upturned face, "please tell me _now_! be honest! it's for all our lives, remember. ... we've no right to spoil our lives. god gave them to us; we're responsible to him. _it will_ spoil them, stanor, if there's not real, real love between us. now tell me ... look in my eyes and tell me, stanor ... _do_ you want me?" but he could not face her. he wrenched himself free of her grasp, turned towards the mantelpiece, and with a groan buried his face in his hands. "pixie, you ... you shame me ... you cover me with shame! i ought to have known that i could not deceive you. ... you are not the sort to be deceived. ... it's worse than you think. ... when the temptation came, i could have kept out of the way ... she wanted me to keep away, but i wouldn't do it. i followed her wherever she went--i--you'd better know the whole truth, and then you'll understand the kind of fellow i am. it's not my fault that i wasn't married months ago, that you didn't read it in the papers without a word of preparation! that's what i wanted ... what i proposed. it was she who refused. it is her doing that i _am_ here to-day. she would have nothing to say to me till i had asked you first.--i wanted to stay on in america, settle down there, and keep out of the way--" he had spoken with his face hidden; now, as he finished speaking, he remained in the same position, and not a sound came to his ears but the ticking of the clock in the corner. he might have been alone in the room; a miserable conviction seized him that he _was_ alone, that between himself and the girl by his side there had arisen an impenetrable wall. as for pixie she had promised not to be angry, but it appeared to her at that moment that she had never before known what anger meant. it burned within her--a flame of indignation and wounded faith, a throwing back on herself of all the arduous mental battles of the last few days. never, even to herself, had pixie acknowledged that she had learned to love stephen glynn. that it hurt her to know of his love for her; hurt intolerably to see him depart, were truths which could not be ignored, but while stanor lived and was faithful it was impossible even to contemplate love for another man. pixie had enough knowledge of her own nature to realise that she could be happy in giving stanor a happiness which he could only gain through her. it was as natural to her to be happy as for a flower to lift its face in the sun, but for both the sun was needed. a more introspective soul would have realised that there were degrees in happiness, and that she would be missing the best; pixie with characteristic simplicity accepted what seemed to her the right step, and shut her mind against vain regrets. but--stanor did not want her. he was _not_ faithful. he had had so little consideration for her feelings that he would have let her read of his marriage in a public print. he had appeared now only at the command of another. "i think," said pixie deeply, "you are a cowardly man. i am sorry for the girl you are going to marry. she seems to have a conscience, but it would have been kinder of her if she had made you tell me the truth without first trying to spoil my life. i suppose you _would_ have married me if i had said `yes,' or was it only a form which you never intended to keep?" "you are hard on me, pixie, but i deserve it. i have no excuses to make. my only comfort is that i have not ruined your happiness. like you, i have learnt my lesson, and i can see one thing clearly: you don't love me, pixie!" "no, i don't love you, but i have kept myself for you. i have closed my heart to every other thought. i _would_ have loved you if you had needed me. nothing, nothing in the world could have made me deceive you!" "i knew it! we both knew it! honor said--" "_honor_!" pixie's cry rang sharp. "is it honor? honor ward?" somehow the knowledge seemed an additional hurt; she sat down on a chair and clasped her cold hands. the brain flashed back memories of occasions dating back to the very beginning of stanor's life in america, when his name and honor's had been coupled together. "honor ward and i." "stanor vaughan and i." ... memories of an earlier occasion still when honor had said with _empressement_. "you can trust me, pixie!" even then, had she foreseen what might happen--even then, with her knowledge of her own character and stanor's, seen danger ahead? well, honor _had_ been loyal! from stanor's manner, even more than his words, it was obvious that had there been no impediment in the way as regards her own wishes, yet she had refused him, had sent him home to keep his troth. after that first sharp moment pixie had no coldness in her heart towards honor ward. stanor was talking, moving restlessly to and fro, telling the story of the past years in jerky, disconnected sentences, blaming himself, exonerating honor. the sound of his words penetrated to pixie's brain, but not the sense. it seemed to her useless to listen; there was nothing more to be said. suddenly she rose from her seat with an air of decision. "i think you had better go. bridgie, my sister--mrs victor--is here. i would rather you didn't see her. she will be angry; they will all be angry. they are fond of me, you see; and they will think i have been humiliated. i am _not_ humiliated! no one can humiliate me but myself; but just at first they won't be reasonable. ... will you please go?" "pixie, don't think about me ... think of yourself! i will leave it to you to tell your own story.--i have asked you to marry me, and you have refused. ... tell them that ... tell them that _you_ refused, that it was _your_ doing, not mine--" the glance of the grey eyes gave him a hot tingling of shame. "you don't understand," said pixie softly. "i am _proud_ of being the faithful one! you don't understand..." she laid her hand on the door, but stanor stopped her with another question-- "and--honor? what shall i say to honor? she thinks so much of you. she'll do nothing without your consent. some day when she comes to london ... will you ... see her, pixie?" pixie shook her head. "it would hurt us both, and do no good. give her my love. as for you-- i can't give her what is not mine. ... you belong to _her_, so there's nothing more to be said. ... i hope you will make her happy." "i will--i will! at this moment i seem to you an unmitigated scoundrel, but things will be different. ... we shall settle in america. i will help her with her work. we'll work together. i'd give my life for her ... i _will_ give it! i'll make amends..." he stood still, waiting as if there were still more to be said. "my uncle will be angry, but it is his doing. if it had not been for him, we should have been married years ago. he shouldn't blame me for what he has brought about. his is the blame. if i see him--_when_ i see him--can i say anything from you?" "tell him," said pixie clearly, "that i am grateful to him. _his is the praise_!" chapter twenty seven. honor's letter. bridgie _was_ angry. it was rarely indeed that her placid nature was roused to wrath, but she did the thing thoroughly when she was about it. in a flow of eloquence, worthy of esmeralda herself, she revived incidents in pixie's life, dating from babyhood onwards, to prove to the chairs and tables, and any odd pieces of furniture which might happen to be listening, the blameless and beautiful character of the maid who had even been spurned ("spurned" was the word used) by a recreant unworthy the name of scoundrel. she dived into the past, and pictured the feelings of those past and gone; she projected herself into the future, and bequeathed a corsican legacy of revenge. she lavished blame on joan, geoffrey, herself, jack and sylvia, pat and miles, even the beloved dick himself, and refused to hear a word in honor's defence. the only person who came unscathed through the ordeal was stephen glynn, whom, it would appear, had absorbed in himself the wisdom which every one else had so shamefully lacked. when bridgie ended pat began. the news had had an unexpected effect, in rousing the invalid and restoring him to a feeling of health more powerfully than a hundred tonics could have done. for the first time for weeks past he forgot himself and his woes, and behold a new man, with a strength and vitality astounding to witness. pat announced his intention of sallying forth and thrashing the beggar forthwith; he dealt bitterly with the squeamishness of the english law with regard to duels, declared in the same breath that he could never have believed in the possibility of such behaviour, and that he had prophesied it from the first. he adjured pixie repeatedly, and with unction, to "buck up!" and when the poor girl protested valiantly that she _was_ bucking, immediately adjured her to be honest, for pity's sake, and "let herself go!" an ordinary person would have found such a form of comfort far from soothing, but pixie was an o'shaughnessy herself, and it _did_ soothe her. she understood that bridgie and pat were relieving themselves by saying all that they felt, _more_ than they felt, and that presently the storm would pass and the sun shine again. by to-morrow all bitterness would have passed. she sat in her chair and submitted meekly to be lectured and cajoled, wrapped in a shawl, provided with a footstool, ordered to bed, supplied with smelling-salts, and even--tentatively-- with sal-volatile, but she made no attempt to still the storm. she knew that it would be useless! finally pat stumped off to his bedroom, to draft a rough copy of a letter intended to be the most scathing communication which had ever passed through the post; and bridgie, very white and shaken, seated herself on a chair by her sister's side. "pixie, dear--i'm afraid we've not been helpful. ... i lost my head, but it was such a shock.--i flew into a passion without hearing what you had to say for yourself. ... darling, tell me--tell me honestly--_how do you feel_?" "i feel--" pixie raised both hands, and moved them up and down above her shoulders, as though balancing a heavy load--"as though a great ton weight had been rolled off my shoulders. ... bridgie! you are angry; i was angry too, but now i've had time to think. ... there have been two and a half years since he went away--that's about nine hundred days. ... bridgie! if you only knew it--there's not been one day out of all that nine hundred when you hadn't more cause to pity me than you have to-day!--" suddenly, passionately, she burst into tears. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ two days later bridgie victor returned home. the need for chaperonage was over, and it was abundantly evident that pixie was in no need of consolation. the first shock of disillusionment over, it was pre-eminently relief that she felt--relief from a bond which had weighed more and more heavily as time passed by. if stanor had come home, looking his old self, caring for her, depending on her as he had done during the days of their brief engagement, she would have been ready and willing to give him her life, but it had been a strange man who had entered the sitting-room of the little flat, a man with a strange face, and a strange voice, and a heart that belonged to another girl. pixie was _free_; the bonds which had bound her were loosed, and with each hour that passed her liberty became more sweet. she shared in her sister's relief that the understanding with stanor had been known to no one outside the family, for no human girl enjoys being pitied for such an experience, and pixie had her own full share of conceit. it was comforting to know that there would be no talk, no fuss; that she could go her way, free from the consciousness of watching eyes. on the morning of bridgie's departure two letters arrived by the first post, and were read in silence by their respective owners. bridgie's was in a man's handwriting, and the perusal of its lines brought a flush to her cheeks and the glimmer of tears to her eyes. she put it in her pocket when she had finished reading, and remained densely oblivious of her sister's hints. "what does he say?" "who?" "mr glynn, of course. don't pretend! i know his writing." "he's very ... very--i don't know exactly _what_ he is, pixie. he is as we all were at first--upset!" "what does he say?" "oh, er--er--the usual things. sorry. ashamed. it's so difficult for him, because, of course, in a certain sense it _is_ his doing. ... naturally, he feels--" "what does he say?" "pixie, _don't_ go on repeating that! it's stupid. i've _told_ you! and there's a message for you. he thanks you for _your_ message, (i didn't know you had sent one!) and says it was `like you.' what did you say?" but pixie did not enlighten her. "i think he ought to have written to me!" she said decisively. "after all, bridgie, it is my business, not yours. i thought he _would_ write." bridgie had the grace to blush. "but just at first, dear, it is difficult.--he feels it so much. it's easier to a third person. later on, in a few months' time, when things have settled down, he wants to come north to see us. it will be easier then..." "oh!" pixie seemed of a sudden as eager to avoid the subject as she had been to continue it. she handed her own letter across the table with a short "from honor! you may read it," and thereby protected herself against the scrutiny of bridgie's eyes. the sheet was covered with a large, straggling handwriting, and pixie, reading it, had seemed to hear honor's very voice speaking to her. "my dear patricia,--i guess you may not want to hear from me, but i'm bound to write, and maybe i can say a few things that will help us both. you're feeling pretty badly at the moment. but i want you just to realise that i've been feeling that way for a good year back, and to try to see both sides. "it began, patricia, through our both feeling lone and lorn and trying to comfort each other. you'll recollect you _asked_ me to be good to him! things went on all right for a spell, but before we knew where we were that friendship had got to be too important to us both. there wasn't a thought of disloyalty in it, patricia, on his part or mine, and the very first time i had an inkling of what was happening i went off west for a tour of four months. i presume it was too late by that time, for when i went home (i was bound to go home!) matters didn't seem to have mended. after a while we had it out--it was bound to come some time--and i told stanor straight he'd either got to make a clean breast of things to you or never see me again. up till then, i guess, we'd behaved as well as any two youngsters could have been expected to do under the circumstances, but after that things went to pieces. he _wouldn't_ tell, and he _couldn't_ keep away! i'm not defending stanor. he's shown up pretty badly over this business. he's been weak, and obstinate, and dishonourable. i don't delude myself a mite, but, you see, pixie, i love him! it's the real thing with both of us this time, and that makes a mighty difference. i can see his faults and feel sorry about them, but it don't make me love him any the less; and if all my money were to pan out to-morrow he'd be sorry, but he'd love me just the same. so there it was, pixie--and a wearing time i've had of it, fighting against his wishes--and my own! in the end i decided to join some friends and come over to europe, and leave him to think things over by himself. maybe i guessed he'd follow and be forced to meet you. it's difficult to understand one's own motives at these times. anyway, before i knew where i was he'd taken a berth in the same boat, and--here we are! "stanor says you have grown-up, and look different. you are both different after these years apart, and, anyway, it was a mistake from the beginning, patricia, and wouldn't have worked out. now, _we_ suit each other, and the life we are going to lead will bring out the best in us both! he seems to you pretty contemptible at this moment, but there's so many sides to one human creature, and that is only one side. he's got lots of others that are good and true-- "yesterday i had an ordeal. i was introduced to the `runkle.' why didn't i know he was like that? he was quite courteous--he couldn't be anything else. but his eyes, (what eyes!) made arches at me, as if to say, `he prefers _her_!' and i felt frozen stiff. now i shan't rest satisfied till that man's my friend, but it will take time-- "pixie, we're going to be married quite soon--as soon as ever we can fix up the necessary formalities, spend a honeymoon in switzerland, and get back to our work. i don't ask to see you--just at the moment it would do no good, but couldn't you just manage to send me a line to melt this stone in my heart? i'd be so happy if it wasn't there. but it won't melt till i hear from you, that you understand, and you forgive! "lovingly,--honor." bridgie read and sighed, folded the sheet carefully, and sighed again. "it's so _difficult_,"--she began. "what is difficult?" "to be as angry with people as you would like!" replied bridgie unexpectedly. "you start by thinking that all the right is on your own side, and all the wrong on theirs, and that you're a martyr and they are brutes, and that your case is proven and there's not a word that could be said in their defence; and then of a sudden--" she lifted the letter in her hand--"you get _this_! and they _have_ a side, and they are not brutes; and instead of being angry you have to be--you are forced into being--sorry instead! it does feel hard! i didn't _want_ to be sorry for honor ward..." "i'm not sorry for her," said pixie softly, "i'm glad. she's going to be happy. ... bridgie, dear, what can i send her, for a wedding present?" chapter twenty eight. pixie finds her happiness. as soon as pat had sufficiently recovered, he and pixie travelled to ireland to spend a few weeks in the old homestead, now blooming in fresh beauty under the management of jack o'shaughnessy and sylvia his wife. the great hall which had been of old so bare and desolate was now embellished with turkey carpets and tapestried walls: so far as the eye could reach there was not one shabby, nor broken, nor patched-up article; in sight; the damp and fusty odour which had filled the great drawing-room, and which for years had been associated with state apartments in pixie's youthful mind, was a thing of the past. even in the chilliest weather the room remained warm, for electric radiators, cunningly hidden from sight, dispelled the damp, and were kept turned on night and day, "whether they were needed, or whether they were not," to the delight and admiration of the irish staff. for pure extravagance, for pure pagan delight in extravagance, the irishman _and_ woman are hard to beat. the very warmth and generosity of their nature makes it abhorrent to them to stint in any direction, which is one reason, out of many, for the prevailing poverty of the land. jack and sylvia made delightful hosts, and it was a very happy and a very merry quartette which passed those spring days together in knock castle. they were complete in themselves, and any suggestion of "a party" was instantly vetoed by the visitors, who announced their desire to remain "just as we are." sylvia and pixie rode or drove about the country, pulling up every half mile or so to chat with cottagers, who were all eager to see miss pixie, to invoke blessings on her head, and--begging her honour's pardon!--to sigh a sigh for the memory of the times that were no more. on frequent occasions this same curious, and to english-bred sylvia, inexplicable regret for the days of old was manifested by the dwellers on the country-side. "_what did they want_?" she asked herself impatiently. "what could they wish for that had not already been done?" repaired cottages, improved sanitation, higher wages, perquisites without number--since the new reign all these things had been bestowed upon these ungratefuls, and still they dared to regret the past! sylvia had not yet grasped the fact that her birth and upbringing made a chasm between herself and her tenants which no kindness could span. they would burn her peat, waste her food, accept, and more or less waste again, all that she chose to bestow, but given a choice between the present days of plenty and the lean, bare years of the reign of the jovial "major" and his brood, they would enthusiastically have acclaimed the latter's return. occasionally something of the same spirit would manifest itself in the o'shaughnessys themselves, as when jack's voice would take on an apologetic tone in telling his brother of some improvement in the estate, or pixie gazing at the old persian carpet in the dining-room would sigh regretfully, "there _used_ to be a hole!" on such occasions sylvia was sometimes forced to depart on a visit to the nursery and relieve her feelings by a stamp _en route_. when she returned jack's twinkling eyes would search her face, and he would take an early opportunity of passing her chair and touching her with a caressing hand, and once more all would be peace and joy. jack and his wife heard from pat's lips all details as to stanor vaughan and his approaching marriage, but to pixie herself the subject was never mentioned. "anyway, she's not fretting!" said jack. "never saw her brighter and happier. bless her big, little heart! i'm thankful the fellow has taken himself out of her way. she'd never have given him up of her own accord. we've all been so happy in our marriages that we can't stand any second-bests for pixie! when are _you_ going to settle down, old chap?" "oh, about next june year," replied pat calmly. "always said i would about twenty-eight. nice time of year, too, for a honeymoon!" "but ... but..." jack stammered in surprise. "have you met the girl?" "my good man! dozens! there's no difficulty there. faith, i love them all!" sighed handsome pat. well, it was a happy holiday, but there was no sadness when it came to an end, for pat was ready and eager to get back to work, and pixie to the northern town which meant bridgie and home. brother and sister parted with mutual protestations of gratitude and appreciation, and with several quite substantial castles in the air as regards future meetings, and within a few days both had settled down to the routine of ordinary life. "pixie is just the same. all this business has not altered her at all," captain victor said to his wife, and bridgie smiled at him, the same sort of loving, indulgent smile which she bestowed on her small son when he guilelessly betrayed his ignorance. _she_ knew that pixie _had_ altered, felt the alteration every day of her life, in a subtle, indefinite manner which had escaped the masculine observation. there was a certain expression which in quiet moments had been wont to settle on the young face, an expression of repression and strain, which now appeared to have departed for good, a certain reserve in touching upon any subject connected with love and marriage, which was now replaced by eager interest and sympathy. gradually, also, as the months rolled on there came moments when a very radiance of happiness shone out of the grey eyes, and trilled in the musical voice. the time of stephen glynn's visit was drawing near; another week, and he would actually arrive. what would be the result of that visit? bridgie could not tell. in a matter so important she dared not take any definite role, but in her prayers that week she implored the divine father to send to the dearly loved little sister that which he in his wisdom knew to be _best_. and then, as usual, pixie did the unexpected thing. the sisters were sitting together at tea the day before stephen was expected, when suddenly she looked across the room, and said as quietly and naturally as if she had been asking the time-- "do ye think now, bridgie, that he will ask me to marry him?" bridgie started. up to her cheeks flew the red. it was she who was embarrassed, she who stammered and crumbled the hem of the tablecloth. "my dear, i don't know! how should i? how can i possibly know?" "i didn't ask you if you knew. i asked if you _thought_." "i--don't know what to think. ... i know what he _wants_! but he is so sensitive, so humble about himself. he thinks he is too old, and ... and his lameness--he exaggerates things all round. from what he said to me in that letter--" "that letter you wouldn't show me?" "yes. i couldn't, pixie! it was in confidence, and besides, he said nothing _definite_. it was only inferred. it's just because he idealises you so much that he thinks he is not worthy. no one can tell what a man will do when it comes to the time, but what he _means_ to do is evidently--to say nothing!" "oh!" said pixie. she nibbled a fragment of cake for a thoughtful moment, and then said calmly-- "so now i know. thank you, bridgie. _please_ don't say any more!" "no, darling, no, i won't; only please just one thing--it has puzzled me so much, and i have longed to know. ... there's never been any reserve between us--you have confided in me so openly all your life till just these last years. _why_ didn't you tell me you were unhappy about stanor?" "how could i, me dear, when i might be his wife? it wouldn't have been loyal. and it wasn't unhappiness exactly, only--a weight. i was _trying_ to keep on loving him, and hating myself for finding it difficult, but i knew if he came back loving me, and wanting me to help him, the weight would go. but you see, he didn't!" "pixie, dear, one should not need to _try_. that sort of love ought to feel no strain." "if stanor had needed me, i should have married him," pixie said obstinately, "but he didn't, and, me dear, excuse me! it's not the most agreeable subject. ... let's talk of something else." the next day stephen glynn arrived, and put up at an hotel. an agricultural show which was being held in the town made an excuse for his visit; it also made a vantage ground for daily excursions, and gave opportunities of securing _tete-a-tete_ to those anxious to do so. pixie was conscious that several such opportunities had in stephen's case been of intent ignored and allowed to pass by, but never once did she doubt the motive which prompted such neglect. from the moment of their meeting the consciousness of his love had enveloped her. he might set a seal on his lips, but he could not control his eyes, and the wistfulness of that glance made pixie brave. almost the first opportunity for undisturbed conversation came on the afternoon of the third day, when stephen paid an unexpected call at the house to propose an expedition for the evening, and found pixie alone. she was sitting writing in the pretty, flower-decked room, where the french window opened wide to the garden beyond. it was only a mite of a garden, not big enough for even a tennis-court, but so much love and ingenuity had been lavished on its arrangement that it had an astonishing air of space. the flower-covered trellis at the end had an air of being there because it chose, and not in the least because it marked an arbitrary division of land. the one big tree made an oasis of shade, and had a low circular seat round its trunk, and the flowers bloomed in grateful recognition of favours bestowed. there are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large. its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large, professionally-run gardens. bridgie's garden this summer afternoon made a very charming background for the figure of pixie in her white dress, with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match fastening her muslin peter pan collar. she looked very young and fresh and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on stephen's face as he looked at her. for the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal subjects than to open it. stephen was grave and distrait, pixie embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. before ten minutes had passed pixie's laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle which was the very embodiment of merriment, and stephen was perforce laughing in response. he had never been able to resist pixie's laugh. tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty hospitality. it was the first meal of which they had partaken _a deux_, and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into stephen's eyes. perhaps pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly-- "i had a letter this morning from honor vaughan." stephen glynn started, and his face hardened. the subject was evidently unwelcome to the point of pain. "she writes to _you_?" "i write to her! of course she answers. i was always fond of honor." "possibly. before her marriage. as stanor's wife, however--" pixie bent forward, looking him full in the face. "i have no quarrel with stanor's wife. i was angry with _him_. there was something in me which he hurt very much.--i think," she slightly shrugged her shoulder, and a flicker of a smile passed over her face, and was gone, "'twas my pride! it hurt to think he had been _forced_ to come back. if he'd trusted me and told the truth it would have saved suffering for us--all! at the time i felt i could never forgive him, but that passed. i don't say i can ever think of him as i did before, as quite honest and true, but--" the smile flashed back. "can _you_ go on being angry, yourself?" "i--don't think," said stephen slowly, "that `angry' is the right word. i'm disappointed--disappointed with a bitterness which has its root in ten long years of hope and effort. practically i have lived my life through that boy. my great object and desire was to secure for him all that i had missed. i had made no definite promises, it seemed wiser not, but in effect he was my heir, and all i have would have gone to him. now that's over! the future has been taken from me, as well as the past. america has absorbed him. he has already, through his wife, more money than he can use, and the role of an english country gentleman has lost its attractions for him. there was a time in my first outburst of indignation when i should have felt it a relief to have had some power of retaliation, but, as you say, that passed. ... he was the only person whom i could in any sense claim as my own, and--i've lost him! he is independent of me now. i can do no more for him." the dark eyes were full of pain. "that is, after all, the thing that hurts the most. the lad has faults, but i loved him. i lived through him; now i can do no more, and our lives fall apart. there's a big blank!" pixie did not answer. her face was very pale; in her ears was a loud thudding noise, which seemed mysteriously to be inside her own breast. "as for his wife, she may be a good girl--she appears to have behaved in an honourable fashion--but to me it's a new type, and i can't pretend that i'm not prejudiced. there is only one thing that is satisfactory. the boy is honestly in love, even to the extent of abandoning his career to assist in the management of a pickle factory." there was an inflection in the tone in which these last words were pronounced which brought pixie's eyes upon him in reproach. "they are very _good_ pickles! i can't see that making them is any less dignified than `bulling' and `bearing' cotton--whatever that may mean!-- stanor used to write of it in his letters. honor's father loved his workmen, and made her promise to go on looking after them as he had done. she doesn't need any more money; it would be easier for her to retire and hand over the factory to some one else. it's for the men's sake that she keeps it on, and to keep her promise to her father. mr glynn, you _must_ love honor. she's good, and true, and honourable, and she's--stanor's wife!" "how could he? how could he?" stephen rose impetuously, and began pacing up and down, a rare excitement growing in voice and manner. "when he could have had _you_! ... good? yes! she may be good--i'm not denying the girl's good points. she has behaved well. she has her attractions--stanor evidently thinks her beautiful--but--_he might have had you_! ... he has chosen this girl with her ordinary attractions, instead of _your_ sweetness, _your_ sunshine, _your_ generosity, _your_ kindness! your voice, pixie; your eyes ... your _love_! he was so blind ... so deaf. ... the substance was his, and for a shadow--a poor, faint shadow--" pixie had risen in her turn. red as a rose she stood before him, with shrinking eyes, but hands held out in sweet, courageous invitation. "if ye think so much of me as all that," said the deep voice breathlessly, "_wouldn't ye like me for yourself_?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ten minutes later the miracle, the wonder, was as marvellous as ever: as incredible to the man whose life was suddenly irradiated with sunshine. "pixie! pixie!" he cried. "my youth! ... will you give it back to me, sweetheart--the youth that i lost?" "beloved!" said pixie, and her voice was as the swell of a deep organ note. "it was not lost. it's been waiting for you--" she touched her heart with an eloquent gesture--"here!" the end. page images generously made available by early canadiana online (http://www.canadiana.org/cihm/) note: images of the original pages are available through early canadiana online. see http://www.canadiana.org/eco/itemrecord/ ?id= df fb c the mermaid "lady, i fain would tell how evermore thy soul i know not from thy body, nor thee from myself, neither our love from god." a love tale by l. dougall author of beggars all, what necessity knows, etc. new york d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company. contents. book i. chapter page i.--the bent twig ii.--the sad-eyed child iii.--lost in the sea iv.--a quiet life v.--seen through blear eyes vi.--"from hour to hour we ripe----" vii.--"a sea change" viii.--belief in the impossible ix.--the sea-maid's music x.--towed by the beard xi.--years of discretion book ii. i.--the hand that beckoned ii.--the isles of st. magdalen iii.--between the surf and the sand iv.--where the devil lived v.--devilry vi.--the sea-maid vii.--the grave lady viii.--how they lived on the cloud ix.--the sick and the dead x.--a light-giving word xi.--the lady's husband xii.--the maiden invented xiii.--white birds; white snow; white thoughts xiv.--the marriage scene book iii. i.--how we hunted the seals ii.--once more the vision iii.--"love, i speak to thy face" iv.--hope born of spring v.--to the higher court vi.--"the night is dark" vii.--the wild waves whist viii.--"god's in his heaven" ix.--"god's puppets, best and worst" x.--"death shrive thy soul!" xi.--the riddle of life xii.--to call a spirit from the vasty deep xiii.--the evening and the morning the mermaid. _book i._ chapter i. the bent twig. caius simpson was the only son of a farmer who lived on the north-west coast of prince edward's island. the farmer was very well-to-do, for he was a hard-working man, and his land produced richly. the father was a man of good understanding, and the son had been born with brains; there were traditions of education in the family, hence the name caius; it was no plan of the elder man that his son should also be a farmer. the boy was first sent to learn in what was called an "academy," a school in the largest town of the island. caius loved his books, and became a youthful scholar. in the summer he did light work on the farm; the work was of a quiet, monotonous sort, for his parents were no friends to frivolity or excitement. caius was strictly brought up. the method of his training was that which relies for strength of character chiefly upon the absence of temptation. the father was under the impression that he could, without any laborious effort and consideration, draw a line between good and evil, and keep his son on one side of it. he was not austere--but his view of righteousness was derived from puritan tradition. a boy, if kindly treated, usually begins early to approve the only teaching of which he has experience. as a youth, caius heartily endorsed his father's views, and felt superior to all who were more lax. he had been born into that religious school which teaches that a man should think for himself on every question, provided that he arrives at a foregone conclusion. caius, at the age of eighteen, had already done much reasoning on certain subjects, and proved his work by observing that his conclusions tallied with set models. as a result, he was, if not a reasonable being, a reasoning and a moral one. we have ceased to draw a distinction between nature and the forces of education. it is a great problem why nature sets so many young people in the world who are apparently unfitted for the battle of life, and certainly have no power to excel in any direction. the subjective religion which caius had been taught had nourished within him great store of noble sentiment and high desire, but it had deprived him of that rounded knowledge of actual life which alone, it would appear, teaches how to guide these forces into the more useful channels. then as to capacity, he had the fine sensibilities of a poet, the facile introspection of the philosophical cast of mind, without the mental power to write good verse or to be a philosopher. he had, at least in youth, the conscience of a saint without the courage and endurance which appear necessary to heroism. in mockery the quality of ambition was bestowed upon him but not the requisites for success. nature has been working for millions of years to produce just such characters as caius simpson, and, character being rather too costly a production to throw away, no doubt she has a precise use for every one of them. it is not the province of art to solve problems, but to depict them. it is enough for the purpose of telling his story that a man has been endowed with capacity to suffer and rejoice. chapter ii. the sad-eyed child. one evening in early summer caius went a-fishing. he started to walk several miles to an inlet where at high tide the sea-trout came within reach of the line. the country road was of red clay, and, turning from the more thickly-settled district, caius followed it through a wide wood of budding trees and out where it skirted the top of low red cliffs, against which the sea was lapping. then his way led him across a farm. so far he had been walking indolently, happy enough, but here the shadow of the pain of the world fell upon him. this farm was a lonesome place close to the sea; there was no appearance of prosperity about it. caius knew that the farmer, day by name, was a churl, and was said to keep his family on short rations of happiness. as caius turned off the public road he was not thinking specially of the bleak appearance of the particular piece of farmland he was crossing, or of the reputation of the family who lived upon the increase of its acres; but his attention was soon drawn to three children swinging on a gate which hung loosely in the log fence not far from the house. the eldest was an awkward-looking girl about twelve years of age; the second was a little boy; the youngest was a round-limbed, blond baby of two or three summers. the three stood upon the lowest bar of the gate, clinging to the upper spars. the eldest leaned her elbows on the top and looked over; the baby embraced the middle bar and looked through. they had set the rickety gate swinging petulantly, and it latched and unlatched itself with the sort of sound that the swaying of some dreary wind would give it. the children seemed to swing there, not because they were happy, but because they were miserable. as caius came with light step up the lane, fishing gear over his shoulder, the children looked at him disconsolately, and when he approached the gate the eldest stepped down and pulled it open for him. "anything the matter?" he asked, stopping his quick tread, and turning when he had passed through. the big girl did not answer, but she let go the gate, and when it jerked forward the baby fell. she did not fall far, nor was she hurt; but as caius picked her up and patted her cotton clothes to shake the dust out of them, it seemed to him that he had never seen so sad a look in a baby's eyes. large, dark, dewy eyes they were, circled around with curly lashes, and they looked up at him out of a wistful little face that was framed by a wreath of yellow hair. caius lifted the child, kissed her, put her down, and went on his way. he only gave his action half a thought at the time, but all his life afterwards he was sorry that he had let the baby go out of his arms again, and thankful that he had given her that one kiss. his path now lay close by the house and on to the sea-cliff behind. the house stood in front of him--four bare wooden walls, brown painted, and without veranda or ornament; its barns, large and ugly, were close beside it. beyond, some stunted firs grew in a dip of the cliff, but on the level ground the farmer had felled every tree. the homestead itself was ugly; but the land was green, and the sea lay broad and blue, its breast swelling to the evening sun. the air blew sweet over field and cliff, add the music of the incoming tide was heard below the pine-fringed bank. caius, however, was not in the receptive mind which appreciates outward things. his attention was not thoroughly aroused from himself till the sound of harsh voices struck his ear. between the farmhouse and the barns, on a place worn bare by the feet of men and animals, the farmer and his wife stood in hot dispute. the woman, tall, gaunt, and ill-dressed, spoke fast, passion and misery in all her attitude and in every tone and gesture. the man, chunky in figure and churlish in demeanour, held a horsewhip in his hand, answering his wife back word for word in language both profane and violent. it did not occur to caius that the whip was in his hand otherwise than by accident. the men in that part of the world were not in the habit of beating their wives, but no sooner did he see the quarrel than his wrath rose hot against the man. the woman being the weaker, he took for granted that she was entirely in the right. he faltered in his walk, and, hesitating, stood to look. his path was too far off for him to hear the words that were poured forth in such torrents of passion. the boy's strong sentiment prompted him to run and collar the man; his judgment made him doubt whether it was a good thing to interfere between man and wife; a certain latent cowardice in his heart made him afraid to venture nearer. the sum of his emotions caused him to stop, go on a few paces, and stop to look and listen again, his heart full of concern. in this way he was drawing further away, when he saw the farmer step nearer his wife and menace her with the whip; in an instant more he had struck her, and caius had run about twenty feet forward to interfere, and halted again, because he was afraid to approach so angry and powerful a man. caius saw the woman clearly now, and how she received this attack. she stood quite still at her full stature, ceasing to speak or to gesticulate, folded her arms and looked at her husband. the look in her hard, dark face, the pose of her gaunt figure, said more clearly than any passionate words, "hold, if you value your life! you have gone too far; you have heaped up punishment enough for yourself already." the husband understood this language, vaguely, it might be, but still he understood enough to make him draw back, still growling and menacing with the whip. caius was too young to understand what the woman expressed; he only knew strength and weakness as physical things; his mind was surging with pity for the woman and revenge against the man; yet even he gathered the knowledge that for the time the quarrel was over, that interference was now needless. he walked on, looking back as he went to see the farmer go away to his stables and the wife stalk past him up toward the byre that was nearest the sea. as caius moved on, the only relief his mind could find at first was to exercise his imagination in picturing how he could avenge the poor woman. in fancy he saw himself holding day by the throat, throwing him down, belabouring him with words and blows, meting out punishment more than adequate. all that he actually did, however, was to hold on his way to the place of his fishing. the path had led him to the edge of the cliff. here he paused, looking over the bank to see if he could get down and continue his walk along the shore, but the soft sandy bluff here jutted so that he could not even see at what level the tide lay. after spending some minutes in scrambling half-way down and returning because he could descend no further, he struck backwards some paces behind the farm buildings, supposing the descent to be easier where bushes grew in the shallow chine. in the top of the cliff there was a little dip, which formed an excellent place for an outside cellar or root-house for such farm stores as must be buried deep beneath the snow against the frost of winter. the rough door of such a cellar appeared in the side of this small declivity, and as caius came round the back of the byre in sight of it, he was surprised to see the farmer's wife holding the latch of its door in her hand and looking vacantly into the dark interior. she looked up and answered the young man's greeting with apathetic manner, apparently quite indifferent to the scene she had just passed through. caius, his mind still in the rush of indignation on her behalf, stopped at the sight of her, wondering what he could do or say to express the wild pity that surged within him. but the woman said, "the tide's late to-night," exactly as she might have remarked with dry civility that it was fine weather. "yes," said caius, "i suppose it will be." she was looking into the cellar, not towards the edge of the bank. "with a decent strong tide," she remarked, "you can hear the waves in this cave." whereupon she walked slowly past him back toward her house. caius took the precaution to step after her round the end of the byre, just to see that her husband was not lying in wait for her there. there was no one to be seen but the children at a distance, still swinging on the gate, and a labourer who was driving some cows from the field. caius slipped down on to the red shore, and found himself in a wide semicircular bay, near the point which ended it on this side. he crept round the bay inwards for half a mile, till he came to the mouth of the creek to which he was bound. all the long spring evening he sat angling for the speckled sea-trout, until the dusk fell and the blue water turned gray, and he could no longer see the ruddy colour of the rock on which he sat. all the long spring evening the trout rose to his fly one by one, and were landed in his basket easily enough, and soft-throated frogs piped to him from ponds in the fields behind, and the smell of budding verdure from the land mingled with the breeze from the sea. but caius was not happy; he was brooding over the misery suggested by what he had just seen, breathing his mind after its unusual rush of emotion, and indulging its indignant melancholy. it did not occur to him to wonder much why the object of his pity had made that quick errand to the cellar in the chine, or why she had taken interest in the height of the tide. he supposed her to be inwardly distracted by her misery. she had the reputation of being a strange woman. chapter iii. lost in the sea. there was no moon that night. when the darkness began to gather swiftly, caius swung his basket of fish and his tackle over his shoulder and tramped homeward. his preference was to go round by the road and avoid the day farm; then he thought it might be his duty to go that way, because it might chance that the woman needed protection as he passed. it is much easier to give such protection in intention than in deed; but, as it happened, the deed was not required. the farmstead was perfectly still as he went by it again. he went on half a mile, passing only such friendly persons as it was natural he should meet on the public road. they were few. caius walked listening to the sea lapping below the low cliff near which the road ran, and watching the bats that often circled in the dark-blue dusk overhead. thus going on, he gradually recognised a little group walking in front of him. it was the woman, mrs. day, and her three children. holding a child by either hand, she tramped steadily forward. something in the way she walked, in the way the children walked--a dull, mechanical action in their steps--perplexed caius. he stepped up beside them with a word of neighbourly greeting. the woman did not answer for some moments; when she did, although her words were ordinary, her voice seemed to caius to come from out some far distance whither her mind had wandered. "going to call on someone, i suppose, mrs. day?" said he, inwardly anxious. "yes," she replied; "we're going to see a friend--the children and me." again it seemed that there was some long distance between her and the young man who heard her. "come along and see my mother," he urged, with solicitude. "she always has a prime welcome for visitors, mother has." the words were hearty, but they excited no heartiness of response. "we've another place to go to to-night," she said. "there'll be a welcome for us, i reckon." she would neither speak to him any more nor keep up with his pace upon the road. he slackened speed, but she still shrank back, walking slower. he found himself getting in advance, so he left her. a hundred yards more he went on, and looked back to see her climbing the log fence into the strip of common beside the sea. his deliberation of mind was instantly gone. something was wrong now. he cast himself over the low log fence just where he was, and hastened back along the edge of the cliff, impelled by unformulated fear. it was dark, the dark grayness of a moonless night. the cliff here was not more than twenty feet above the high tide, which surged and swept deep at its base. the grass upon the top was short; young fir-trees stood here and there. all this caius saw. the woman he could not see at first. then, in a minute, he did see her--standing on the edge of the bank, her form outlined against what light there was in sea and sky. he saw her swing something from her. the thing she threw, whatever it was, was whirled outwards, and then fell into the sea. with a splash, it sank. the young man's mind stood still with horror. the knowledge came to him as he heard the splash that it was the little child she had flung away. he threw off his basket and coat. another moment, and he would have jumped from the bank; but before he had jumped he heard the elder girl groaning as if in desperate fear, and saw that mother and daughter were grappled together, their figures swaying backwards and forwards in convulsive struggle. he did not doubt that the mother was trying to drown this child also. another low wild groan from the girl, and caius flung himself upon them both. his strength released the girl, who drew away a few paces; but the woman struggled terribly to get to her again. both the girl and little boy stood stupidly within reach. "run--run--to the road, and call for help!" gasped caius to the children, but they only stood still. he was himself shouting with all his strength, and holding the desperate woman upon the ground, where he had thrown her. every moment he was watching the dark water, where he thought he saw a little heap of light clothes rise and sink again further off. "run with your brother out of the way, so that i can leave her," he called to the girl. he tried with a frantic gesture to frighten them into getting out of the mother's reach. he continued to shout for aid as he held down the woman, who with the strength of insanity was struggling to get hold of the children. a man's voice gave answering shout. caius saw someone climbing the fence. he left the woman and jumped into the sea. down under the cold black water he groped about. he was not an expert swimmer and diver. he had never been under water so long before, but so strong had been his impulse to reach the child that he went a good way on the bottom in the direction in which he had thought he saw the little body floating. then he knew that he came up empty-handed and was swimming on the dark surface, hearing confused cries and imprecations from the shore. he wanted to dive and seek again for the child below, but he did not know how to do this without a place to leap from. he let himself sink, but he was out of breath. he gasped and inhaled the water, and then, for dear life's sake, he swam to keep his head above it. the water had cooled his excitement; a feeling of utter helplessness and misery came over him. so strong was his pity for the little sad-eyed child that he was almost willing to die in seeking her; but all hope of finding was forsaking him. he still swam in the direction in which he thought the child drifted as she rose and sank. it did not occur to him to be surprised that she had drifted so far until he realized that he was out of hearing of the sounds from the shore. his own swimming, he well knew, could never have taken him so far and fast. there was a little sandy island lying about three hundred yards out. at first he hoped to strike the shallows near it quickly, but found that the current of the now receding tide was racing down the channel between the island and the shore, out to the open sea. that little body was, no doubt, being sucked outward in this rush of water--out to the wide water where he could not find her. he told himself this when he found at what a pace he was going, and knew that his best chance of ever returning was to swim back again. so he gave up seeking the little girl, and turned and swam as best he could against the current, and recognised slowly that he was making no headway, but by using all his strength could only hold his present place abreast of the outer point of the island, and a good way from it. the water was bitterly cold; it chilled him. he was far too much occupied in fighting the current to think properly, but certain flashes of intelligence came across his mind concerning the death he might be going to die. his first clear thoughts were about a black object that was coming near on the surface of the water. then a shout reached him, and a stronger swimmer than he pulled him to the island. "now, in the devil's name, caius simpson!" the deliverer was the man who had come over the fence, and he shook himself as he spoke. his words were an interrogation relating to all that had passed. he was a young man, about the same age as caius; the latter knew him well. "the child, jim!" shivered caius hoarsely. "she threw it into the water!" "in there?" asked jim, pointing to the flowing darkness from which they had just scrambled. he shook his head as he spoke. "there's a sort of a set the water's got round this here place----" he shook his head again; he sat half dressed on the edge of the grass, peering into the tide, a dark figure surrounded by darkness. it seemed to caius even then, just pulled out as he was from a sea too strong for him, that there was something horribly bad and common in that they two sat there taking breath, and did not plunge again into the water to try, at least, to find the body of the child who a few minutes before had lived and breathed so sweetly. yet they did not move. "did someone else come to hold her?" caius asked this in a hasty whisper. they both spoke as if there was some need for haste. "noa. i tied her round with your fish-cord. if yo'd have done that, yo' might have got the babby the same way i got yo'." the heart of caius sank. if only he had done this! jim hogan was not a companion for whom he had any respect; he looked upon him as a person of low taste and doubtful morals, but in this jim had shown himself superior. "i guess we'd better go and look after them," said jim. he waded in a few paces. "come along," he said. as they waded round to the inner side of the island, caius slowly took off some of his wet clothes and tied them round his neck. then they swam back across the channel at its narrowest. while the water was rushing past their faces, caius was conscious of nothing but the animal desire to be on the dry, warm shore again; but when they touched the bottom and climbed the bank once more to the place where he had seen the child cast away, he forgot all his fight with the sea, and thought only with horror of the murder done--or was there yet hope that by a miracle the child might be found somewhere alive? it is hope always that causes panic. caius was panic-stricken. the woman lay, bound hand and foot, upon the grass. "if i couldn't ha' tied her," said jim patronizingly, "i'd a quietened her by a knock on the head, and gone after the young un, if i'd been yo'." the other children had wandered away. they were not to be seen. jim knelt down in a business-like way to untie the woman, who seemed now to be as much stunned by circumstances as if she had been knocked as just suggested. a minute more, and caius found himself running like one mad in the direction of home. he cared nothing about the mother or the elder children, or about his own half-dressed condition. the one thought that excited him was a hope that the sea might have somewhere cast the child on the shore before she was quite dead. running like a savage under the budding trees of the wood and across his father's fields, he leaped out of the darkness into the heat and brightness of his mother's kitchen. gay rugs lay on the yellow painted floor; the stove glistened with polish at its every corner. the lamp shone brightly, and in its light caius stood breathless, wet, half naked. the picture of his father looking up from the newspaper, of his mother standing before him in alarmed surprise, seemed photographed in pain upon his brain for minutes before he could find utterance. the smell of an abundant supper his mother had set out for him choked him. when he had at last spoken--told of the blow farmer day had struck, of his wife's deed, and commanded that all the men that could be collected should turn out to seek for the child--he was astonished at finding sobs in the tones of his words. he became oblivious for the moment of his parents, and leaned his face against the wooden wall of the room in a convulsion of nervous feeling that was weeping without tears. it did not in the least surprise his parents that he should cry--he was only a child in their eyes. while the father bestirred himself to get a cart and lanterns and men, the mother soothed her son, or, rather, she addressed to him such kindly attentions as she supposed were soothing to him. she did not know that her attention to his physical comfort hardly entered his consciousness. caius went out again that night with those who went to examine the spot, and test the current, and search the dark shores. he went again, with a party of neighbours, to the same place, in the first faint pink flush of dawn, to seek up and down the sands and rocks left bare by the tide. they did not find the body of the child. chapter iv. a quiet life. in the night, while the men were seeking the murdered child, there were kindly women who went to the house of the farmer day to tend his wife. the elder children had been found asleep in a field, where, after wandering a little while, they had succumbed to the influence of some drug, which had evidently been given them by the mother to facilitate her evil design. she herself, poor woman, had grown calm again, her frenzy leaving her to a duller phase of madness. that she was mad no one doubted. how long she might have been walking in the misleading paths of wild fancy, whether her insane vagaries had been the cause or the result of her husband's churlishness, no one knew. the husband was a taciturn man, and appeared to sulk under the scrutiny of the neighbourhood. the more charitable ascribed his demeanour to sorrow. the punishment his wife had meted out for the blow he struck her had, without doubt, been severe. as for caius simpson, his mind was sore concerning the little girl. it was as if his nature, in one part of it, had received a bruise that did not heal. the child had pleased his fancy. all the sentiment in him centred round the memory of the little girl, and idealized her loveliness. the first warm weather of the year, the exquisite but fugitive beauties of the spring, lent emphasis to his mood, and because his home was not a soil congenial to the growth of any but the more ordinary sentiments, he began at this time to seek in natural solitudes a more fitting environment for his musings. more than once, in the days that immediately followed, he sought by daylight the spot where, in the darkness, he had seen the child thrown into the sea. it soon occurred to him to make an epitaph for her, and carve it in the cliff over which she was thrown. in the noon-day hours in which his father rested, he worked at this task, and grew to feel at home in the place and its surroundings. the earth in this place, as in others, showed red, the colour of red jasper, wherever its face was not covered by green grass or blue water. just here, where the mother had sought out a precipice under which the tide lay deep, there was a natural water-wall of red sandstone, rubbed and corrugated by the waves. this wall of rock extended but a little way, and ended in a sharp jutting point. the little island that stood out toward the open sea had sands of red gold; level it was and covered with green bushes, its sandy beach surrounding it like a ring. on the other side of the jutting point a bluff of red clay and crumbling rock continued round a wide bay. where the rim of the blue water lay thin on this beach there showed a purple band, shading upward into the dark jasper red of damp earth in the lower cliff. the upper part of the cliff was very dry, and the earth was pink, a bright earthen pink. this ribbon of shaded reds lay all along the shore. the land above it was level and green. at the other horn of the bay a small town stood; its white houses, seen through the trembling lens of evaporating water, glistened with almost pearly brightness between the blue spaces of sky and water. all the scene was drenched in sunlight in those spring days. the town, montrose by name, was fifteen miles away, counting miles by the shore. the place where caius was busy was unfrequented, for the land near was not fertile, and a wooded tract intervened between it and the better farms of the neighbourhood. the home of the lost child and one other poor dwelling were the nearest houses, but they were not very near. caius did not attempt to carve his inscription on the mutable sandstone. it was quite possible to obtain a slab of hard building-stone and material for cement, and after carting them himself rather secretly to the place, he gradually hewed a deep recess for the tablet and cemented it there, its face slanting upward to the blue sky for greater safety. he knew even then that the soft rock would not hold it many years, but it gave him a poetic pleasure to contemplate the ravages of time as he worked, and to think that the dimpled child with the sunny hair and the sad, beautiful eyes had only gone before, that his tablet would some time be washed away by the same devouring sea, and that in the sea of time he, too, would sink before many years and be forgotten. the short elegy he wrote was a bad mixture of ancient and modern thought as to substance, figures, and literary form, for the boy had just been dipping into classics at school, while he was by habit of mind a puritan. his composition was one at which pagan god and christian angel must have smiled had they viewed it; but perhaps they would have wept too, for it was the outcome of a heart very young and very earnest, wholly untaught in that wisdom which counsels to evade the pains and suck the pleasures of circumstance. there were only two people who discovered what caius was about, and came to look on while his work was yet unfinished. one was an old man who lived in the one poor cottage not far away and did light work for day the farmer. his name was morrison--neddy morrison he was called. he came more than once, creeping carefully near the edge of the cliff with infirm step, and talking about the lost child, whom he also had loved, about the fearful visitation of the mother's madness, and, with caius, condemning unsparingly the brutality, known and supposed, of the now bereaved father. it was a consolation to them both that morrison could state that this youngest child was the only member of his family for whom day had ever shown affection. the other visitor caius had was jim hogan. he was a rough youth; he had a very high, rounded forehead, so high that he would have almost seemed bald if the hair, when it did at last begin, had not been exceedingly thick, standing in a short red brush round his head. with the exception of this peculiar forehead, jim was an ordinary freckled, healthy young man. he saw no sense at all in what caius was doing. when he came he sat himself down on the edge of the cliff, swung his heels, and jeered unfeignedly. when the work was finished it became noised that the tablet was to be seen. the neighbours wondered not a little, and flocked to gaze and admire. caius himself had never told of its existence; he would have rather no one had seen it; still, he was not insensible to the local fame thus acquired. his father, it was true, had not much opinion of his feat, but his mother, as mothers will, treasured all the admiring remarks of the neighbours. all the women loved caius from that day forth, as being wondrously warm-hearted. such sort of literary folk as the community could boast dubbed him "the canadian burns," chiefly, it seemed, because he had been seen to help his father at the ploughing. in due course the wife of the farmer day was tried for murder, and pronounced insane. she had before been removed to an asylum: she now remained there. chapter v. seen through blear eyes. it was foreseen by the elder simpson that his son would be a great man. he looked forth over the world and decided on the kind of greatness. the wide, busy world would not have known itself as seen in the mind of this gray-haired countryman. the elder simpson had never set foot off the edge of his native island. his father before him had tilled the same fertile acres, looked out upon the same level landscape--red and green, when it was not white with snow. neither of them had felt any desire to see beyond the brink of that horizon; but ambition, quiet and sturdy, had been in their hearts. the result of it was the bit of money in the bank, the prosperous farm, and the firm intention of the present farmer that his son should cut a figure in the world. this stern man, as he trudged about at his labour, looked upon the activities of city life with that same inward eye with which the maiden looks forth upon her future; and as she, with nicety of preference, selects the sort of lover she will have, so he selected the sort of greatness which should befall his son. the stuff of this vision was, as must always be, of such sort as had entered his mind in the course of his limited experience. his grandfather had been an englishman, and it was known that one of the sons had been a notable physician in the city of london: caius must become a notable physician. his newspaper told him of honours taken at the university of montreal by young men of the medical school; therefore, caius was to study and take honours. it was nothing to him that his neighbours did not send their sons so far afield; he came of educated stock himself. the future of caius was prearranged, and caius did not gainsay the arrangement. that autumn the lad went away from home to a city which is, without doubt, a very beautiful city, and joined the ranks of students in a medical school which for size and thorough work is not to be despised. he was not slow to drink in the new ideas which a first introduction to modern science, and a new view of the relations of most things, brought to his mind. in the first years caius came home for his summer vacations, and helped his father upon the farm. the old man had money, but he had no habit of spending it, and expenditure, like economy, is a practice to be acquired. when caius came the third time for the long summer holiday, something happened. he did not now often walk in the direction of the day farm; there was no necessity to take him there, only sentiment. he was by this time ashamed of the emblazonment of his poetic effort upon the cliff. he was not ashamed of the sentiment which had prompted it, but he was ashamed of its exhibition. he still thought tenderly of the little child that was lost, and once in a long while he visited the place where his tablet was, as he would have visited a grave. one summer evening he sauntered through the wood and down the road by the sea on this errand. before going to the shore, he stopped at the cottage where the old labourer, morrison, lived. there was something to gossip about, for day's wife had been sent from the asylum as cured, and her husband had been permitted to take her home again on condition that no young or weak person should remain in the house with her. he had sent his two remaining children to be brought up by a relative in the west. people said he could get more work out of his wife than out of the children, and, furthermore, it saved his having to pay for her board elsewhere. the woman had been at home almost a twelvemonth, and caius had some natural interest in questioning morrison as to her welfare and general demeanour. the strange gaunt creature had for his imagination very much the fascination that a ghost would have had. we care to hear all about a ghost, however trivial the details may be, but we desire no personal contact. caius had no wish to meet this woman, for whom he felt repulsion, but he would have been interested to hear neddy morrison describe her least action, for neddy was almost the only person who had constant access to her house. morrison, however, had very little to tell about mrs. day. she had come home, and was living very much as she had lived before. the absence of her children did not appear to make great difference in her dreary life. the old labourer could not say that her husband treated her kindly or unkindly. he was not willing to affirm that she was glad to be out of the asylum, or that she was sorry. to the old man's imagination mrs. day was not an interesting object; his interest had always been centred upon the children. it was of them he talked chiefly now, telling of letters that their father had received from them, and of the art by which he, morrison, had sometimes contrived to make the taciturn day show him their contents. the interest of passive benevolence which the young medical student gave to morrison's account of these children, who had grown quite beyond the age when children are pretty and interesting, would soon have been exhausted had the account been long; but it happened that the old man had a more startling communication to make, which cut short his gossip about his master's family. he had been standing so far at the door of his little wooden house. his old wife was moving at her household work within. caius stood outside. the house was a little back from the road in an open space; near it was a pile of firewood, a saw-horse and chopping-block, with their accompanying carpet of chips, and such pots, kettles, and household utensils as mrs. morrison preferred to keep out of doors. when old morrison came to the more exciting part of his gossip, he poked caius in the breast, and indicated by a backward movement of his elbow that the old wife's presence hampered his talk. then he came out with an artfully simulated interest in the weather, and, nudging caius at intervals, apparently to enforce silence on a topic concerning which the young man as yet knew nothing, he wended his way with him along a path through a thicket of young fir-trees which bordered the road. the two men were going towards that part of the shore to which caius was bound. they reached the place where the child had been drowned before the communication was made, and stood together, like a picture of the personification of age and youth, upon the top of the grassy cliff. "you'll not believe me," said the old man, with excitement obviously growing within him, "but i tell you, young sir, i've sat jist here behind those near bushes like, and watched the creatur for an hour at a time." "what was it you watched?" asked caius, superior to the other's excitement. "i tell you, it was a girl in the sea; and more than that--she was half a fish." the mind of caius was now entirely scornful. "you don't believe me," said the old man, nudging him again. but caius was polite. "well, now"--good-humouredly--"what did you see?" "i'll tell you jist what i saw." (the old man's excitement was growing.) "you understand that from the top here you can see across the bay, and across to the island and out to sea; but you can't see the shore under the rocky point where it turns round the farm there into the bay, and you can't see the other shore of the island for the bushes on it." "in other words, you can see everything that's before your eyes, but you can't see round a corner." the old man had some perception that caius was humorous. "you believe me that far," he said, with a weak, excited cackle of a laugh. "well, don't go for to repeat what i'm going to tell you further, for i'll not have my old woman frightened, and i'll not have jim hogan and the fellows he gets round him belabouring the thing with stones." "heaven forbid!" a gleam of amusement flitted through the mind of caius at the thought of the sidelight this threw on jim's character. for jim was not incapable of casting stones at even so rare a curiosity as a mermaid. "now," said the old man, and he laughed again his weak, wheezy laugh, "if _you_ told _me_, i'd not believe it; but i saw it as sure as i stand here, and if this was my dying hour, sir, i'd say the same. the first time it was one morning that i got up very early--i don't jist remember the reason, but it was before sun-up, and i was walking along here, and the tide was out, and between me and the island i saw what i thought was a person swimming in the water, and i thought to myself, 'it's queer, for there's no one about these parts that has a liking for the water.' but when i was younger, at pictou once, i saw the fine folks ducking themselves in flannel sarks, at what they called a 'bathing-place,' so the first thing i thought of was that it was something like that. and then i stood here, jist about where you are now, and the woman in the water she saw me--" "now, how do you know it was a woman?" asked caius. "well, i didn't know for certain that day anything, for she was a good way off, near the island, and she no sooner saw me than she turned and made tracks for the back of the island where i couldn't see her. but i tell you this, young sir, no woman or man either ever swam as she swam. have you seen a trout in a quiet pool wag its tail and go right ahead--_how_, you didn't know; you only knew that 'twasn't in the one place and 'twas in t'other?" caius nodded. "well," asked the old man with triumph in his voice, as one who capped an argument, "did you ever see man or woman swim like that?" "no," caius admitted, "i never did--especially as to the wagging of the tail." "but she _hadn't_ a tail!" put in the old man eagerly, "for i saw her the second day--that i'm coming to. she was more like a seal or walrus." "but what became of her the first day?" asked caius, with scientific exactitude. "why, the end of her the first day was that she went behind the island. can you see behind the island? no." the old man giggled again at his own logical way of putting things. "well, no more could i see her; and home i went, and i said nothink to nobody, for i wasn't going to have them say i was doting." "yet it would be classical to dote upon a mermaid," caius murmured. the sight of the dim-eyed, decrepit old man before him gave exquisite humour to the idea. morrison had already launched forth upon the story of the second day. "well, as i was telling you, i was that curious that next morning at daybreak i comes here and squats behind those bushes, and a dreadful fright i was in for fear my old woman would come and look for me and see me squatting there." his old frame shook for a moment with the laugh he gave to emphasize the situation, and he poked caius with his finger. "and i looked and i looked out on the gray water till i had the cramps." here he poked caius again. "but i tell you, young sir, when i saw her a-coming round from behind the bank, where i couldn't see jist where she had come from, like as if she had come across the bay round this point here, i thought no more of the cramps, but i jist sat on my heels, looking with one eye to see that my old woman didn't come, and i watched that 'ere thing, and it came as near as i could throw a stone, and i tell you it was a girl with long hair, and it had scales, and an ugly brown body, and swum about like a fish, jist moving, without making a motion, from place to place for near an hour; and then it went back round the head again, and i got up, and i was that stiff all day i could hardly do my work. i was too old to do much at that game, but i went again next morning, and once again i saw her; but she was far out, and then i never saw her again. now, what do you think of that?" "i think"--after a moment's reflection--"that it's a very remarkable story." "but you don't believe it," said the old man, with an air of excited certainty. "i am certain of one thing; you couldn't have made it up." "it's true, sir," said the old man. "as sure as i am standing here, as sure as the tide goes in and out, as sure as i'll be a-dying before long, what i tell you is true; but if i was you, i'd have more sense than to believe it." he laughed again, and pressed caius' arm with the back of his hard, knotted hand. "that's how it is about sense and truth, young sir--it's often like that." this one gleam of philosophy came from the poor, commonplace mind as a beautiful flash may come from a rough flint struck upon the roadside. caius pondered upon it afterwards, for he never saw neddy morrison again. he did not happen to pass that place again that summer, and during the winter the old man died. caius thought at one time and another about this tale of the girl who was half a fish. he thought many things; the one thing he never happened to think was that it was true. it was clear to him that the old man supposed he had seen the object he described, but it puzzled him to understand how eyes, even though so dim with age, could have mistaken any sea-creature for the mermaid he described; for the man had lived his life by the sea, and even the unusual sight of a lonely white porpoise hugging the shore, or of seal or small whale, or even a much rarer sea-animal, would not have been at all likely to deceive him. it would certainly have been very easy for any person in mischief or malice to have played the hoax, but no locality in the wide world would have seemed more unlikely to be the scene of such a game; for who performs theatricals to amuse the lonely shore, or the ebbing tide, or the sea-birds that poise in the air or pounce upon the fish when the sea is gray at dawn? and certainly the deception of the old man could not have been the object of the play, for it was but by chance that he saw it, and it could matter to no one what he saw or thought or felt, for he was one of the most insignificant of earth's sons. then caius would think of that curious gleam of deeper insight the poor old mind had displayed in the attempt to express, blunderingly as it might be, the fact that truth exceeds our understanding, and yet that we are bound to walk by the light of understanding. he came, upon the whole, to the conclusion that some latent faculty of imagination, working in the old man's mind, combining with the picturesque objects so familiar to his eyes, had produced in him belief in this curious vision. it was one of those things that seem to have no reason for coming to pass, no sufficient cause and no result, for caius never heard that morrison had related the tale to anyone but himself, nor was there any report in the village that anyone else had seen an unusual object in the sea. chapter vi. "from hour to hour we ripe----" the elder simpson gradually learned to expend more money upon his son; it was not that the latter was a spendthrift or that he took to any evil courses--he simply became a gentleman and had uses for money of which his father could not, unaided, have conceived. caius was too virtuous to desire to spend his father's hardly-gathered stores unnecessarily; therefore, the last years of his college life in montreal he did not come home in summer, but found occupation in that city by which to make a small income for himself. in those two years he learned much of medical and surgical lore--this was of course, for he was a student by nature; but other things that he learned were, upon the whole, more noteworthy in the development of his character. he became fastidious as to the fit of his coat and as to the work of the laundress upon his shirt-fronts. he learned to sit in easy attitude by gauzily-dressed damsels under sparkling gaslight, and to curl his fair moustache between his now white fingers as he talked to them, and yet to moderate the extent of the attention that he paid to each, not wishing that it should be in excess of that which was due. he learned to value himself as he was valued--as a rising man, one who would do well not to throw himself away in marriage. he had a moustache first, and at last he had a beard. he was a sober young man: as his father's teaching had been strict, so he was now strict in his rule over himself. he frequented religious services, going about listening to popular preachers of all sorts, and critically commenting upon their sermons to his friends. he was really a very religious and well-intentioned man, all of which stood in his favour with the more sober portion of society whose favour he courted. as his talents and industry gained him grace in the eyes of the dons of his college, so his good life and good understanding made him friends among the more worthy of his companions. he was conceited and self-righteous, but not obviously so. when his college had conferred upon him the degree of doctor of medicine, he felt that he had climbed only on the lower rungs of the ladder of knowledge. it was his father, not himself, who had chosen his profession, and now that he had received the right to practise medicine he experienced no desire to practise it; learning he loved truly, but not that he might turn it into golden fees, and not that by it he might assuage the sorrows of others; he loved it partly for its own sake, perhaps chiefly so; but there was in his heart a long-enduring ambition, which formed itself definitely into a desire for higher culture, and hoped more indefinitely for future fame. caius resolved to go abroad and study at the medical schools of the old world. his professors applauded his resolve; his friends encouraged him in it. it was to explain to his father the necessity for this course of action, and wheedle the old man into approval and consent, that the young doctor went home in the spring of the same year which gave him his degree. caius had other sentiments in going home besides those which underlay the motive which we have assigned. if as he travelled he at all regarded the finery of all that he had acquired, it was that he might by it delight the parents who loved him with such pride. though not a fop, his hand trembled on the last morning of his journey when he fastened a necktie of the colour his mother loved best. he took an earlier train than he could have been expected to take, and drove at furious rate between the station and his home, in order that he might creep in by the side door and greet his parents before they had thought of coming to meet him. he had also taken no breakfast, that he might eat the more of the manifold dainties which his mother had in readiness. for three or four days he feasted hilariously upon these dainties until he was ill. he also practised all the airs and graces of dandyism that he could think of, because he knew that the old folks, with ill-judging taste, admired them. when he had explained to them how great a man he should be when he had been abroad, and how economical his life would be in a foreign city, they had no greater desire than that he should go abroad, and there wax as great as might be possible. one thing that consoled the mother in the heroism of her ambition was that it was his plan first to spend the long tranquil summer by her side. another was that, because her son had set his whole affection upon learning, it appeared he had no immediate intention of fixing his love upon any more material maid. in her timid jealousy she loved to come across this topic with him, not worldly-wise enough to know that the answers which reassured her did not display the noblest side of his heart. "and there wasn't a girl among them all that you fancied, my lad?" with spotless apron round her portly form she was serving the morning rasher while caius and his father sat at meat. "i wouldn't say that, mother: i fancied them all." caius spoke with generous condescension towards the fair. "ay," said the father shrewdly, "there's safety in numbers." "but there wasn't one was particular, caius?" continued the dame with gleeful insinuation, because she was assured that the answer was to be negative. "a likely lad like you should marry; it's part of his duty." caius was dense enough not to see her true sentiment. the particular smile that, in the classification of his facial expressions, belonged to the subject of love and marriage, played upon his lips while he explained that when a man got up in the world he could make a better marriage than he could when comparatively poor and unknown. her woman's instinct assured her that the expression and the words arose from a heart ignorant of the quality of love, and she regarded nothing else. the breakfast-room in which they sat had no feature that could render it attractive to caius. although it was warm weather, the windows were closely shut and never opened; such was the habit of the family, and even his influence had not strength to break through a regulation which to his parents appeared so wise and safe. the meadows outside were brimful of flowers, but no flower found its way into this orderly room. the furniture had that desolate sort of gaudiness which one sees in the wares of cheap shops. cleanliness and godliness were the most conspicuous virtues exhibited, for the room was spotless, and the map of palestine and a large bible were prominent objects. the father and mother were in the habit of eating in the kitchen when alone, and to the son's taste that room, decorated with shining utensils, with its door open to earth and sky, was infinitely more picturesque and cheery; but the mother had a stronger will than her son, and she had ordained that his rise in the world should be marked by his eating in the dining-room, where meals were served whenever they had company. caius observed also, with a pain to which his heart was sensitive, that at these meals she treated him to her company manners also, asking him in a clear, firm voice if he "chose bread" or if he would "choose a little meat," an expression common in the country as an elegant manner of pressing food upon visitors. it was not that he felt himself unworthy of this mark of esteem, but that the bad taste and the bad english grated upon his nerves. she was a strong, comely woman, this housemother, portly in person and large of face, with plentiful gray hair brushed smooth; from the face the colour had faded, but the look of health and strong purpose remained. the father, on the other hand, tended to leanness; his large frame was beginning to be obviously bowed by toil; his hair and beard were somewhat long, and had a way of twisting themselves as though blown by the wind. when the light of the summer morning shone through the panes of clean glass upon this family at breakfast, it was obvious that the son was physically somewhat degenerate. athletics had not then come into fashion; caius was less in stature than might have been expected from such parents; and now, after his years of town life, he had an appearance of being limp in sinew, nor was there the same strong will and alert shrewdness written upon his features. he was a handsome fellow, clear-eyed and intelligent, finer far, in the estimation of his parents, than themselves; but that which rounded out the lines of his figure was rather a tendency to plumpness than the development of muscle, and the intelligence of his face suggested rather the power to think than the power to utilize his thought. after the first glad days of the home-coming, the lack of education and taste, and the habits that this lack engendered, jarred more and more upon caius. he loved his parents too well to betray his just distress at the narrow round of thought and feeling in which their minds revolved--the dogmatism of ignorance on all points, whether of social custom or of the sublime reaches of theology; but this distress became magnified into irritation, partly because of this secrecy, partly because his mind, wearied by study, had not its most wholesome balance. jim hogan at this time made overtures of renewed friendship to caius. jim was the same as of old--athletic, quick-witted, large and strong, with his freckled face still innocent of hair; the red brush stood up over his unnaturally high forehead in such fashion as to suggest to the imaginative eye that wreath of flame that in some old pictures is displayed round the heads of villains in the infernal regions. jim was now the acknowledged leader of the young men of that part who were not above certain low and mischievous practices to which caius did not dream of condescending. caius repulsed the offer of friendship extended to him. the households with which his parents were friendly made great merrymakings over his return. dancing was forbidden, but games in which maidens might be caught and kissed were not. caius was not diverted; he had not the good-nature to be in sympathy with the sort of hilarity which was exacted from him. chapter vii. "a sea change." in the procession of the swift-winged hours there is for every man one and another which is big with fate, in that they bring him peculiar opportunity to lose his life, and by that means find it. such an hour came now to caius. the losing and finding of life is accomplished in many ways: the first proffer of this kind which time makes to us is commonly a draught of the wine of joy, and happy is he who loses the remembrance of self therein. the hour which was so fateful for caius came flying with the light winds of august, which breathed over the sunny harvest fields and under the deep dark shade of woods of fir and beech, waving the gray moss that hung from trunk and branch, tossing the emerald ferns that grew in the moss at the roots, and out again into light to catch the silver down of thistles that grew by the red roadside and rustle their purple bloom; then on the cliff, just touching the blue sea with the slightest ripple, and losing themselves where sky and ocean met in indistinguishable azure fold. through the woods walked caius, and onward to the shore. neddy morrison was dead. the little child who was lost in the sea was almost forgotten. caius, thinking upon these things, thought also upon the transient nature of all things, but he did not think profoundly or long. in his earlier youth he had been a good deal given to meditation, a habit which is frequently a mere sign of mental fallowness; now that his mind was wearied with the accumulation of a little learning, it knew what work meant, and did not work except when compelled. caius walked upon the red road bordered by fir hedges and weeds, amongst which blue and yellow asters were beginning to blow, and the ashen seeds of the flame-flower were seen, for its flame was blown out. caius was walking for the sake of walking and in pure idleness, but when he came near farmer day's land he had no thought of passing it without pausing to rest his eyes for a time upon the familiar details of that part of the shore. he scrambled down the face of the cliff, for it was as yet some hours before the tide would be full. a glance showed him that the stone of baby day's tablet yet held firm, cemented in the niche of the soft rock. a glance was enough for an object for which he had little respect, and he sat down with his back to it on one of the smaller rocks of the beach. this was the only place on the shore where the sandstone was hard enough to retain the form of rock, and the rock ended in the small, sharp headland which, when he was down at the water's level, hid the neighbouring bay entirely from his sight. the incoming tide had no swift, unexpected current as the outgoing water had. there was not much movement in the little channel upon which caius was keeping watch. the summer afternoon was all aglow upon shore and sea. he had sat quite still for a good while, when, near the sunny island, just at the point where he had been pulled ashore on the adventurous night when he risked his life for the child, he suddenly observed what appeared to be a curious animal in the water. there was a glistening as of a scaly, brownish body, which lay near the surface of the waves. was it a porpoise that had ventured so near? was it a dog swimming? no, he knew well that neither the one nor the other had any such habit as this lazy basking in sunny shallows. then the head that was lying backwards on the water turned towards him, and he saw a human face--surely, surely it was human!--and a snow-white arm was lifted out of the water as if to play awhile in the warm air. the eyes of the wonderful thing were turned toward him, and it seemed to chance to see him now for the first time, for there was a sudden movement, no jerk or splash, but a fish-like dart toward the open sea. then came another turn of the head, as if to make sure that he was indeed the man that he seemed, and then the sea-maid went under the surface, and the ripples that she left behind subsided slowly, expanding and fading, as ripples in calm waters do. caius stood up, watching the empty surface of the sea. if some compelling fate had said to him, "there shalt thou stand and gaze," he could not have stood more absolutely still, nor gazed more intently. the spell lasted long: some three or four minutes he stood, watching the place with almost unwinking eyes, like one turned to stone, and within him his mind was searching, searching, to find out, if he might, what thing this could possibly be. he did not suppose that she would come back. neddy morrison had implied that the condition of her appearing was that she should not know that she was seen. it was three years since the old man had seen the same apparition; how much might three years stand for in the life of a mermaid? then, when such questioning seemed most futile, and the spell that held caius was loosing its hold, there was a rippling of the calm surface that gave him a wild, half-fearful hope. as gently as it had disappeared the head rose again, not lying backward now, but, with pretty turn of the white neck, holding itself erect. an instant she was still, and then the perfect arm which he had seen before was again raised in the air, and this time it beckoned to him. once, twice, thrice he saw the imperative beck of the little hand; then it rested again upon the rippled surface, and the sea-maid waited, as though secure of his obedience. the man's startled ideas began to right themselves. was it possible that any woman could be bathing from the island, and have the audacity to ask him to share her sport? he tarried so long that the nymph, or whatever it might be, came nearer. some twelve feet or so of the water she swiftly glided through, as it seemed, without twist or turn of her body or effort; then paused; then came forward again, until she had rounded the island at its nearest point, and half-way between it and his shore she stopped, and looked at him steadily with a face that seemed to caius singularly womanly and sweet. again she lifted a white hand and beckoned him to come across the space of water that remained. caius stood doubtful upon his rock. after a minute he set his feet more firmly upon it, and crossed his arms to indicate that he had no intention of swimming the narrow sea in answer to the beckoning hand. yet his whole mind was thrown into confusion with the strangeness of it. he thought he heard a woman's laughter come across to him with the lapping waves, and his face flushed with the indignity this offered. the mermaid left her distance, and by a series of short darts came nearer still, till she stopped again about the width of a broad highroad from the discomforted man. he knew now that it must be truly a mermaid, for no creature but a fish could thus glide along the surface of the water, and certainly the sleek, damp little head that lay so comfortably on the ripple was the head of a laughing child or playful girl. a crown of green seaweed was on the dripping curls; the arms playing idly upon the surface were round, dimpled, and exquisitely white. the dark brownish body he could hardly now see; it was foreshortened to his sight, down slanting deep under the disturbed surface. if it had not been for the indisputable evidence of his senses that this lovely sea thing swam, not with arms or feet, but with some snake-like motion, he might still have tried to persuade himself that some playful girl, strange to the ways of the neighbourhood, was disporting herself at her bath. it was of no avail that his reason told him that he did not, could not, believe that such a creature as a mermaid could exist. the big dark eyes of the girlish face opened wide and looked at him, the dimpled mouth smiled, and the little white hand came out from the water and beckoned to him again. he was suffering from no delirium; he had not lost his wits. he stamped his foot to make sure that the rock was beneath him; he turned about on it to rest his eyes from the water sparkles, and to recall all sober, serious thought by gazing at the stable shore. his eye stayed on the epitaph of the lost child. he remembered soberly all that he knew about this dead child, and then a sudden flash of perception seemed to come to him. this sweet water-nymph, on whom for the moment he had turned his back, must be the baby's soul grown to a woman in the water. he turned again, eager not to lose a moment of the maiden's presence, half fearful that she had vanished, but she was there yet, lying still as before. of course, it was impossible that she should be the sea-wraith of the lost child; but, then, it was wholly impossible that she should be, and there she was, smiling at him, and caius saw in the dark eyes a likeness to the long-remembered eyes of the child, and thought he still read there human wistfulness and sadness, in spite of the wet dimples and light laughter that bespoke the soulless life of the sea-creature. caius stooped on the rock, putting his hand near the water as he might have done had he been calling to a kitten or a baby. "come, my pretty one, come," he called softly in soothing tones. the eyes of the water-nymph blinked at him through wet-fringed lids. "come near; i will not hurt you," urged caius, helpless to do aught but offer blandishment. he patted the rock gently, as if to make it by that means more inviting. "come, love, come," he coaxed. he was used to speak in the same terms of endearment to a colt of which he was fond; but when a look of undoubted derision came over the face of the sea-maiden, he felt suddenly guilty at having spoken thus to a woman. he stood erect again, and his face burned. the sea-girl's face had dimpled all over with fun. colts and other animals cannot laugh at us, else we might not be so peaceful in our assumption that they never criticise. caius before this had always supposed himself happy in his little efforts to please children and animals; now he knew himself to be a blundering idiot, and so far from feeling vexed with the laughing face in the water, he wondered that any other creature had ever permitted his clumsy caresses. having failed once, he now knew not what to do, but stood uncertain, devouring the beauty of the sprite in the water as greedily as he might with eyes that were not audacious, for in truth he had begun to feel very shy. "what is your name?" he asked, throwing his voice across the water. the pretty creature raised a hand and pointed at some object behind him. caius, turning, knew it to be the epitaph. yes, that was what his own intelligence had told him was the only explanation. explanation? his reason revolted at the word. there was no explanation of an impossibility. yet that the mermaid was the lost child he had now little doubt, except that he wholly doubted the evidence of his senses, and that there was a mermaid. he nodded to her that he understood her meaning about the name, and she gave him a little wave of her hand as if to say good-bye, and began to recede slowly, gliding backward, only her head seen above the disturbed water. "don't go," called caius, much urgency in his words. but the slow receding motion continued, and no answer came but another gentle wave of the hand. the hand of caius stole involuntarily to his lips, and he wafted a kiss across the water. then suddenly it seemed to him that the cliff had eyes, and that it might be told of him at home and abroad that he was making love to a phantom, and had lost his wits. the sea-child only tossed her head a little higher out of the water, and again he saw, or fancied he saw, mirth dancing in her eyes. she beckoned to him and turned, moving away; then looked back and beckoned, and darted forward again; and, doing this again and again, she made straight for the open sea. caius cursed himself that he had not the courage to jump in and swim after her at any cost. but then he could not swim so fast--certainly not in his clothes. "there was something so wonderfully human about her face," he mused to himself. his mind suggested, as was its wont, too many reasonable objections to the prompt, headlong course which alone would have availed anything. while he stood in breathless uncertainty, the beckoning hand became lost in the blur of sparkling ripples; the head, lower now, looked in the water at a distance as like the muzzle of a seal or dog as like a human head. by chance, as it seemed, a point of the island came between him and the receding creature, and caius found himself alone. chapter viii. belief in the impossible. caius clambered up the cliff and over the fence to the highroad. a man with a cartload of corn was coming past. caius looked at him and his horse, and at the familiar stretch of road. it was a relief so to look. on a small green hillock by the roadside thistles grew thickly; they were in flower and seed at once, and in the sunshine the white down, purple flowers, and silver-green leaves glistened--a little picture, perfect in itself, of graceful lines and exquisite colour, having for its background the hedge of stunted fir that bordered the other side of the road. caius feasted his eyes for a minute and then turned homeward, walking for awhile beside the cart and talking to the carter, just to be sure that there was nothing wild or strange about himself to attract the man's attention. the cart raised no dust in the red clay of the road; the monotonous creak of its wheels and the dull conversation of its owner were delightful to caius because they were so real and commonplace. caius felt very guilty. he could not excuse himself to himself for the fact that he had not only seen so wild a vision but now felt the greatest reluctance to make known his strange adventure to anyone. he could not precisely determine why this reluctance was guilty on his part, but he had a feeling that, although a sensible man could not be much blamed for seeing a mermaid if he did see one, such a man would rouse the neighbourhood, and take no rest till the phenomenon was investigated; or, if that proved impossible, till the subject was at least thoroughly ventilated. the ideal man who acted thus would no doubt be jeered at, but, secure in his own integrity, he could easily support the jeers. caius would willingly have changed places with this model hero, but he could not bring himself to act the part. even the reason of this unwillingness he could not at once lay his hand upon, but he felt about his mind far it, and knew that it circled round and round the memory of the sea-maid's face. that fresh oval face, surrounded with wet curls, crowned with its fantastic wreath of glistening weed--it was not alone because of its fresh girlish prettiness that he could not endure to make it the talk of the country, but because, strange as it seemed to him to admit it, the face was to him like the window of a lovely soul. it was true that she had laughed and played; it was true that she was, or pretended to be, half a fish; but, for all that, he would as soon have held up to derision his mother, he would as soon have derided all that he held to be most worthy in woman and all that he held to be beautiful and sacred in ideal, as have done despite to the face that looked at him out of the waves that afternoon. his memory held this face before him, held it lovingly, reverently, and his lips shut firmly over the tale of wonder he might have told. at the gate of one of the fields a girl stood waiting for him. it was his cousin mabel, and when he saw her he knew that she must have come to pay them a visit, and he knew too that she must have come because he was at home. he was not attached to his cousin, who was an ordinary young person, but hitherto he had always rather enjoyed her society, because he knew that it was her private ambition to marry him. he did not attribute affection to mabel, only ambition; but that had pleased his vanity. to-day he felt exceedingly sorry that she had come. mabel held the gate shut so that he could not pass. "where have you been?" asked she, pretending sternness. "just along by the shore." he noticed as he said it that mabel's frock had a dragged look about the waist, and that the seams were noticeable because of its tightness. he remembered that her frocks had this appearance frequently, and he wished they were not so ill-made. "i shan't let you in," cried mabel sportively, "till you tell me exactly what you've been doing for this age." "i have not been serving my age much," he said, with some weariness in his tone. "what?" said mabel. "you asked me what i had been doing for this age," said he. it was miserably stupid to explain. when caius and mabel had sauntered up through the warm fields to the house, his mother met them in the front parlour with a fresh cap on. her cap, and her presence in that room, denoted that mabel was company. she immediately began to make sly remarks concerning mabel's coming to them while caius was at home, about her going to meet him, and their homeward walk together. the mother was comparatively at ease about mabel; she had little idea that caius would ever make love to her, so she could enjoy her good-natured slyness to the full. what hurt caius was that she did enjoy it, that it was just her natural way never to see two young people of opposite sex together without immediately thinking of the subject of marriage, and sooner or later betraying her thought. heretofore he had been so accustomed to this cast of mind that, when it had tickled neither his sense of humour nor his vanity, he had been indifferent to it. to-night he knew it was vulgar; but he had no contempt for it, because it was his mother who was betraying vulgarity. he felt sorry that she should be like that--that all the men and women with whom she was associated were like that. he felt sorry for mabel, because she enjoyed it, and consequently more tenderhearted towards her than he had ever felt before. he had not, however, a great many thoughts to give to this sorrow, for he was thinking continually of the bright apparition of the afternoon. when he went to his room to get ready for tea he fell into a muse, looking over the fields and woods to the distant glimpse of blue water he could see from his window. when he came down to the evening meal, he found himself wondering foolishly upon what food the child lost in the sea had fed while she grew so rapidly to a woman's stature. the present meal was such as fell to the daily lot of that household. in homely blue delft cups a dozen or more eggs were ranged beside high stacks of buttered toast, rich and yellow. the butter, the jugs of yellow cream, the huge platter heaped with wild raspberries--as each of these met his eye he was wondering if the sea-maid ever ate such food, or if her diet was more delicate. "am i going mad?" he thought to himself. the suspicion was depressing. three hours after, caius sough his father as the old man was making his nightly tour of the barns and stables. by way of easing his own sense of responsibility he had decided to tell his father what he had seen, and his telling was much like such confession of sins as many people make, soothing their consciences by an effort that does not adequately reveal the guilt to the listener. caius came up just as his father was locking the stable door. "look here, father; wait a minute. i have something to say. i saw a very curious thing down at the shore to-day, but i don't want you to tell mother, or mabel, or the men." the old man stood gravely expectant. the summer twilight just revealed the outline of his thin figure and ragged hair and beard. "it was in the water swimming about, making darts here and there like a big trout. its body was brown, and it looked as if it had horny balls round its neck; and its head, you know, was like a human being's." "i never heard tell of a fish like that, caius. was it a porpoise?" "well, i suppose i know what a porpoise is like." "about how large was it?" said the elder man, abandoning the porpoise theory. "i should think about five or six feet long." "as long as that? did it look as if it could do any harm?" "no; i should think it was harmless; but, father, i tell you its head looked like a person's head." "was it a shark with a man stuck in its throat?" "n--n--no." not liking to deny this ingenious suggestion too promptly, he feigned to consider it. "it wasn't a dead man's head; it was like a live woman's head." "i never heard of sharks coming near shore here, any way," added the old man. "what distance was it off--half a mile?" "it came between me and the little island off which we lost baby day. it lay half-way between the island and the shore." the old man was not one to waste words. he did not remark that in that case caius must have seen the creature clearly, for it went without saying. "pity you hadn't my gun," he said. caius inwardly shuddered, but because he wished to confide as far as he might, he said outwardly: "i shouldn't have liked to shoot at it; its face looked so awfully human, you know." "yes," assented the elder, who had a merciful heart "it's wonderful what a look an animal has in its eyes sometimes." he was slowly shuffling round to the next door with his keys. "well, i'm sure, my lad, i don't know what it could ha' been, unless 'twas some sort of a porpoise." "we should be quite certain to know if there was any woman paying a visit hereabout, shouldn't we? a woman couldn't possibly swim across the bay." "woman!" the old man turned upon him sternly. "i thought you said it was a fish." "i said she _swam_ like a fish. she might have been a woman dressed in a fish-skin, perhaps; but there isn't any woman here that could possibly be acting like that--and old morrison told me the same thing was about the shore the summer before he died." his father still looked at him sharply. "well, the question is, whether the thing you saw was a woman or a fish, for you must have seen it pretty clear, and they aren't alike, as far as i know." caius receded from the glow of confidence. "it lay pretty much under the water, and wasn't still long at a time." the old man looked relieved, and in his relief began to joke. "i was thinking you must have lost your wits, and thought you'd seen a mermaid," he chuckled. "i'd think it was a mermaid in a minute"--boldly--"if there were such things." caius felt relieved when he had said this, but the old man had no very distinct idea in his mind attached to the mythical word, so he let go the thought easily. "was it a dog swimming?" "no," said caius, "it wasn't a dog." "well, i give it up. next time you see it, you'd better come and fetch the gun, and then you can take it to the musee up at your college, and have it stuffed and put in a case, with a ticket to say you presented it. that's all the use strange fish are that i know of." when caius reflected on this conversation, he knew that he had been a hypocrite. chapter ix. the sea-maid's music. at dawn caius was upon the shore again, but he saw nothing but a red sunrise and a gray sea, merging into the blue and green and gold of the ordinary day. he got back to breakfast without the fact of his matutinal walk being known to the family. he managed also in the afternoon to loiter for half an hour on the same bit of shore at the same hour as the day before without anyone being the wiser, but he saw no mermaid. he fully intended to spend to-morrow by the sea, but he had made this effort to appear to skip to-day to avoid awaking curiosity. he had a horse and buggy; that afternoon he was friendly, and made many calls. wherever he went he directed the conversation into such channels as would make it certain that he would hear if anyone else had seen the mermaid, or had seen the face of a strange woman by sea or land. of one or two female visitors to the neighbourhood within a radius of twenty miles he did hear, but when he came to investigate each case, he found that the visit was known to everyone, and the status, lineage and habits of the visitors all of the same humdrum sort. he decided in his own mind that ten miles was the utmost length that a woman could possibly swim, but he talked boldly of great swimming feats he had seen in his college life, and opined that a good swimmer might even cross the bay from montrose or from the little port of stanhope in the other direction; and when he saw the incredulity of his listeners, he knew that no one had accomplished either journey, for the water was overlooked by a hundred houses at either place, and many a small vessel ploughed the waves. when he went to sleep that night caius was sure that the vision of the mermaid was all his own, shared only by old morrison, who lay in his grave. it was perhaps this partnership with the dead that gave the matter its most incredible and unreal aspect. three years before this lady of the sea had frequented this spot; none but the dead man and himself had been permitted to see her. "well, when all's said and done," said caius to himself, rolling upon a sleepless bed, "it's a very extraordinary thing." next morning he hired a boat, the nearest that was to be had; he got it a mile and a half further up the shore. it was a clumsy thing, but he rowed it past the mouth of the creek where he used to fish, all along the water front of day's farm, past the little point that was the beginning of the rocky part of the shore, and then he drew the boat up upon the little island. he hid it perfectly among the grass and weeds. over all the limited surface, among the pine shrubs and flowering weeds, he searched to see if hiding-place for the nymph could be found. two colts were pastured on the isle. he found no cave or hut. when he had finished his search, he sat and waited and watched till the sun set over the sea; but to-day there was no smiling face rearing itself from the blue water, no little hand beckoning him away. "what a fool i was not to go where she beckoned!" mused caius. "where? anywhere into the heart of the ocean, out of this dull, sordid life into the land of dreams." for it must all have been a dream--a sweet, fantastic dream, imposed upon his senses by some influence, outward or inward; but it seemed to him that at the hour when he seemed to see the maid it might have been given him to enter the world of dreams, and go on in some existence which was a truer reality than the one in which he now was. in a deliberate way he thought that perhaps, if the truth were known, he, dr. caius simpson, was going a little mad; but as he sat by the softly lapping sea he did not regret this madness: what he did regret was that he must go home and--talk to mabel. he rowed his boat back with feelings of blank disappointment. he could not give another day to idleness upon the shore. it was impossible that such an important person as himself could spend long afternoons and evenings thus without everyone's knowledge. he had a feeling, too, born, as many calculations are, of pure surmise, that he would have seen the mermaid again that afternoon, when he had made such elaborate arrangements to meet her, if fate had destined them to meet again at all. no; he must give her up. he must forget the hallucination that had worked so madly on his brain. nevertheless, he did not deny himself the pleasure of walking very frequently to the spot, and this often, in the early hours before breakfast, a time which he could dispose of as he would without comment. as he walked the beach in the beauty of the early day, he realized that some new region of life had been opened to him, that he was feeling his way into new mysteries of beatified thought and feeling. a week passed; he was again upon the shore opposite the island at the sunrise hour. he sat on the rock which seemed like a home to his restless spirit, so associated it was with the first thoughts of those new visions of beauty which were becoming dear to him. he heard a soft splashing sound in the water, and, looking about him, suddenly saw the sea-child's face lifted out of the water not more than four or five yards from him. all around her was a golden cloud of sand; it seemed to have been stirred up by her startled movement on seeing him. for a moment she was still, resting thus close, and he could see distinctly that around her white shoulders there was a coil of what seemed like glistening rounded scales. he could not decide whether the brightness in her eye was that of laughing ease or of startled excitement. then she turned and darted away from him, and having put about forty feet between them, she turned and looked back with easy defiance. his eyes, fascinated by what was to him an awful thing, were trying to penetrate the sparkling water and see the outlines of the form whose clumsy skin seemed to hang in horrid folds, stretching its monstrous bulk under the waves. his vision was broken by the sparkling splash which the maiden deliberately made with her hands, as if divining his curiosity and defying it. he felt the more sure that his senses did not play him false because the arrangement of the human and fishy substance of the apparition did not tally with any preconceived ideas he had of mermaids. caius felt no loathing of the horrid form that seemed to be part of her. he knew, as he had never known before, how much of coarseness there was in himself. his hands and feet, as he looked down at them, seemed clumsy, his ideas clumsy and gross to correspond. he knew enough to know that he might, by the practice of exercises, have made his muscles and brain the expression of his will, instead of the inert mass of flesh that they now seemed to him to be. he might--yes, he might, if he had his years to live over again, have made himself noble and strong; as it was, he was mutely conscious of being a thing to be justly derided by the laughing eyes that looked up at him from the water, a man to be justly shunned and avoided by the being of the white arms and dimpled face. and he sat upon the rock looking, looking. it seemed useless to rise or speak or smile; he remembered the mirth that his former efforts had caused, and he was dumb and still. perhaps the sea-child found this treatment more uninteresting than that attention he had lavished on her on the former occasion; perhaps she had not so long to tarry. as he still watched her she turned again, and made her way swift and straight toward the rocky point. caius ran, following, upon the shore, but after a minute he perceived that she could disappear round the point before, either by swimming or wading, he could get near her. he could not make his way around the point by the shore; his best means of keeping her in sight was to climb the cliff, from which the whole bay on the other side would be visible. like a man running a race for life, he leaped back to a place where it was possible to climb, and, once on the top, made his way by main force through a growth of low bushes until he could overlook the bay. but, lo! when he came there no creature was visible in the sunny sea beneath or on the shelving red bank which lay all plain to his view. far and wide he scanned the ocean, and long he stood and watched. he walked, searching for anyone upon the bank, till he came to day's barns, and by that time he was convinced that the sea-maid had either vanished into thin air or sunk down and remained beneath the surface of the sea. the farm to which he had come was certainly the last place in which he would have thought to look for news of the sportive sea-creature; and yet, because it stood alone there in that part of the earth, he tarried now to put some question to the owner, just as we look mechanically for a lost object in drawers or cupboards in which we feel sure it cannot be. caius found day in a small paddock behind one of the barns, tending a mare and her baby foal. day had of late turned his attention to horses, and the farm had a bleaker look in consequence, because many of its acres were left untilled. caius leaned his elbows on the fence of the paddock. "hullo!" day turned round, asking without words what he wanted, in a very surly way. at the distance at which he stood, and without receiving any encouragement, caius found a difficulty in forming his question. "you haven't seen anything odd in the sea about here, have you?" "what sort of a thing?" "i thought i saw a queer thing swimming in the water--did you?" "no, i didn't." it was evident that no spark of interest had been roused in the farmer by the question. from that, more than anything else, caius judged that his words were true; but, because he was anxious to make assurance doubly sure, he blundered into another form of the same inquiry: "there isn't a young girl about this place, is there?" day's face grew indescribably dark. in an instant caius remembered that, if the man had any feeling about him, the question was the sorest he could have asked--the child, who would now have been a girl, drowned, her sister and brother exiled, and day bound over by legal authority to see to it that no defenceless person came in the way of the wife who had killed her child! a moment more, and day had merely turned his back, going on with his work. caius did not blame him; he respected the man the more for the feeling he displayed. vexed with himself, and not finding how to end the interview, caius waited a minute, and then turned suddenly from the fence, without knowing why he turned until he saw that the constraining force was the presence of day's wife, who stood at the end of the barn, out of sight of her husband, but looking eagerly at caius. she made a sign to him to come. no doubt she had heard what had been said. caius went to her, drawn by the eagerness of her bright black eyes. her large form was slightly clad in a cotton gown; her abundant black hair was fastened rather loosely about her head. her high-boned cheeks were thinner than of old, and her face wore a more excited expression; otherwise, there was little difference in her. she had been sent from the asylum as cured. caius gave her a civil "good-day." "she has come back to me!" said the woman. "who?" "my baby as you've put up the stone to. i've allers wanted to tell you i liked that stone; but she isn't dead--she has come back to me!" now, although the return of the drowned child had been an idea often in his mind of late, that he had merely toyed with it as a beautiful fancy was proved by the fact that no sooner did the mother express the same thought than caius recognised that she was mad. "she has come back to me!" the poor mother spoke in tones of exquisite happiness. "she is grown a big girl; she has curls on her head, and she wears a marriage-ring. who is she married to?" caius could not answer. the mother looked at him with curious steadfastness. "i thought perhaps she was married to you," she said. surely the woman had seen what he had seen in the sea; but, question her as he would, caius could gain nothing more from her--no hint of time or place, or any fact that at all added to his enlightenment. she only grew frightened at his questions, and begged him in moving terms not to tell day that she had spoken to him--not to tell the people in the village that her daughter had come back, or they would put her again in the asylum. truly, this last appeared to cains a not unlikely consequence, but it was not his business to bring it about. it was not for him, who shared her delusion, to condemn her. after that, caius knew that either he was mad or what he had seen he had seen, let the explanation be what it might--and he ceased to care much about the explanation. he remembered the look of heart-satisfaction with which day's wife had told him that her child had returned. the beautiful face looking from out the waves had no doubt wrought happiness in her; and in him also it had wrought happiness, and that which was better. he ceased to wrestle with the difference that the adventure had made in his life, or to try to ignore it; he had learned to love someone far better than himself, and that someone seemed so wholly at one with the nature in which she ranged, and also with the best he could think concerning nature, human or inanimate, that his love extended to all the world for her sake. chapter x. towed by the beard. every morning caius still took his early way along the shore, but on all these walks he found himself alone in possession of the strand and the vast blue of sea and sky. it was disappointing, yet the place itself exercised a greater and greater charm over him. he abstained from fooling away his days by the sea. after his one morning walk he refused himself the luxury of being there again, filling his time with work. he felt that the lady of the lovely face would despise him if he spent his time absurdly. thus some days passed; and then there came a night when he left a bed on which he had tossed wakefully, and went in the hot august night to the side of the sea when no one knew that he went or came. the air was exceedingly warm. the harvest moon in the zenith was flooding the world with unclouded light. the tide was ebbing, and therefore there was in the channel that swift, dangerous current sweeping out to sea of which he had once experienced the strength. caius, who associated his sea-visitant only with the sunlight and an incoming tide, did not expect to see her now; frequent disappointment had bred the absence of hope. he stood on the shore, looking at the current in which he had so nearly perished as a boy. it was glittering with white moon-rays. he thought of himself, of the check and twisting which his motives and ideas had lately received, and as he thought how slight a thing had done it, how mysterious and impossible a thing it was, his mind became stunned, and he faced the breeze, and simply lived in the sweetness of the hour, like an animal, conscious, not of itself, but only of what is external, without past or future. and now he heard a little crooning song from the waters--no words, no tune that could be called a tune. it reminded him more of a baby's toneless cooing of joy, and yet it had a rhythm to it, too, and both joy and pathos in its cadence. across the bright path of the moon's reflection he saw her come. her head and neck were crowned and garlanded with shining weed, as if for a festival, and she stretched out her white arms to him and beckoned to him and laughed. he heard her soft, infant-like laughter. to-night her beckoning was like a breeze to a leaf that is ready to fall. caius ceased to think; he only acted. he threw his cap and coat and boots on the shore. the sea-child, gazing in surprise, began to recede quickly. caius ran into the water; he projected himself toward the mermaid, and swam with all the speed of which he was capable. the salt in his eyes at first obscured his vision. when he could look about, the sea-child had gone out of the track of the moonlight, and, taking advantage of the current, was moving rapidly out to sea. he, too, swam with the current. he saw her curly head dark as a dog's in the water; her face was turned from him, and there was evident movement in her body. for the first time he thought he perceived that she was swimming with arms and feet as a woman must swim. as for caius, he made all the effort that in him lay, and as she receded past the line of the island right out into the moonlit sea, he swam madly after, reckless of the fact that his swimming power gave him no assurance of being able to return, reckless of everything except the one welcome fact that he was gaining on the sea-child. a fear oppressed him that perhaps this apparent effort of hers and her slow motion were only a ruse to lead him on--that at any moment she might dart from him or sink into her familiar depths. but this fear he did not heed as long as she remained in sight, and--yes, across the surface of the warm moonlit water he was slowly but surely gaining upon her. on he swam, making strenuous effort at speed. he was growing exhausted with the unaccustomed exercise; he knew that his strength would not hold out much longer. he hardly knew what he hoped or dreamed would come to pass when he overtook the sea-maiden, and yet he swam for dear love, which was more to him than dear life, and, panting, he came close to her. the sea-maid turned about, and her face flashed suddenly upon him, bright in the moonlight. she put out a glistening arm, perhaps in human feebleness to ward him off, perhaps, in the strength of some unknown means of defence, to warn him that at his peril he approached her. caius, reckless of everything, grasped the white wrist, and, stopping his motion, knowing he could not lie mermaid-fashion with head reared in the water, he turned on his back to float, still holding the small hand in his. he held it, and retained his consciousness long enough to know from that time forth that the hand had actually been in his--a living, struggling hand, not cold, but warm. he felt, too, in that wonderful power which we have in extreme moments of noting detail, that the hand had a ring upon it--it was the left hand--and he thought it was a plain gold ring, but it did not occur to him to think of a wedding-ring. then he knew that this dear hand that he had captured was working him woe, for by it he was drawn beneath the water. even then he did not let go, but, still holding the hand, struck out to regain the surface in one of those wild struggles to which inexpert swimmers resort when they feel the deep receiving them into itself. it would have been better for him if he had let go, for in that vehement struggle he felt the evidence of the sea-maid's power. he remembered--his last thought as he lost consciousness--that with the fishy nature is sometimes given the power to stun an enemy by an electric shock. some shock came upon him with force, as if some cold metal had struck him on the head. as his brain grew dull he heard the water gurgling over him. how long he remained stunned he did not know. he felt the water rushing about his head again; he felt that he had been drowned, and he knew, too--in that foolish way in which the half-awakened brain knows the supposed certainties of dreams--that the white hand he had essayed to hold had grasped his beard firmly under his chin, and that thus holding his head above the surface of the water, she was towing him away to unknown regions. then he seemed to know nothing again; and again he opened his eyes, to find himself lying on a beach in the moonlight, and the sea-maid's face was bending over his. he saw it distinctly, all tender human solicitude written on the moonlit lineaments. as his eyes opened more her face receded. she was gone, and he gazed vacantly at the sky; then, realizing his consciousness more clearly, he sat up suddenly to see where she had gone. it seemed to him that, like a kind enchantress, she had transformed herself to break his passion. yes, he saw her, as he had so often curiously longed to see her, moving over the dry shore--she was going back to her sea. but it was a strange, monstrous thing he saw. from her gleaming neck down to the ground was dank, shapeless form. so a walrus or huge seal might appear, could it totter about erect upon low, fin-like feet. there was no grace of shape, no tapering tail, no shiny scales, only an appearance of horrid quivering on the skin, that here and there seemed glossy in the moonlight. he saw her make her way toilsomely, awkwardly over the shingle of the beach; and when she reached the shining water, it was at first so shallow that she seemed to wade in it like a land-animal, then, when the water was deep enough to rise up well around her, she turned to him once more a quick glance over her shoulder. such relief came with the sight of her face, after this monstrous vision, that he saw the face flash on him as a sword might flash out of darkness when light catches its blade. then she was gone, and he saw the form of her head in the water while she swam swiftly across the silver track of the moonbeams and out into the darkness beyond. caius looked around him with senses still drowsy and head aching sorely. he was in no fairy region that might be the home of mermaids, but on the bit of beach from which he had launched himself into the water. his coat and hat lay near him, and just above the spot where he lay was the rude epitaph of baby day, carved by his own boyish hand so long ago. caius put his hand to his head, and found it badly bruised on one side. his heart was bruised, too, partly by the sight of the monstrous body of the lovely sea-child, partly by the fresh experience of his own weakness and incapacity. it was long before he dragged himself home. it seemed to him to be days before he recovered from the weariness of that secret adventure, and he bore the mark of the bruise on his head for many a day. the mermaid he never saw again. chapter xi. years of discretion. caius simpson took ship and crossed the sea. the influence of the beautiful face remained with him. that which had come to him was the new birth of mind (not spirit), which by the grace of god comes to many an individual, but is more clearly recognised and recorded when it comes in the life of nations--the opening of the inward eye to the meaning and joy of all things that the outward senses have heretofore perceived as not perceiving them. the art of the old world claimed him as her own, as beauty on land and sea had already done. the enjoyment of music and pictures became all-important to him, at first because he searched in them for the soul he had seen in the sea-maid's eyes. caius was of noble birth, because by inheritance and training he was the slave of righteousness. for this reason he could not neglect his work, although it had not a first place in his heart. as he was industrious, he did not fail in it; because it was not the thing he loved best, he did not markedly succeed. it was too late to change his profession, and he found in himself no such decided aptitude for anything else as should make him know that this or that would have been preferable; but he knew now that the genius of the physician was not his, that to do his work because it was duty, and to attain the respectable success which circumstance, rather than mental pre-eminence, gives, was all that he could hope. this saddened him; all his ambition revived under the smarting consciousness of inferiority to his more talented companions. the pleasures of his life came to him through his receptive faculties, and in the consciousness of having seen the wider vision, and being in consequence a nobler man. but all this, which was so much to him for a year or two, grew to be a less strong sensation than that of disappointment in the fact that he could only so meagrely fulfil his father's ideal and his own. there came a sense of dishonesty, too, in having used the old man's money chiefly in acquiring those mental graces which his father could neither comprehend nor value. three years passed. gradually the memory of his love for the sea-maid had grown indistinct; and, more or less unconscious that this love had been the door to the more wealthy gardens of his mind, he inclined to despise it now as he despised the elegy he had written for the child who was drowned. it was his own passion he was inclined to forget and despise; the sea-maid herself was remembered, and respected, and wondered at, and disbelieved in, and believed in, as of old, but that which remains in the mind, never spoken of, never used as a cause of activity of either thought or action, recedes into the latent rather than the active portion of the memory. once, just once, in the first year of his foreign life, he had told to a friend the history of that, his one and only love-story. the result had not been satisfactory. his companion was quite sure that caius had been the subject of an artful trick, and he did not fail to suggest that the woman had wanted modesty. nothing, he observed, was more common than for men who were in love to attribute mental and physical charms to women who were in reality vulgar and blatant. caius, feeling that he could advance no argument, refused to discuss the subject; it was months before he had the same liking for this friend, and it was a sign that what the other called "the sea-myth" was losing its power over him when he returned to this friendship. caius did not make many friends. it was not his nature to do so, and though constant to the few that he had, he did not keep up any very lively intercourse. it was partly because of this notable failure in social duty that, when he at last decided that the work of preparation must be considered at an end, and the active work of life begun, no opening immediately revealed itself to his inquiring gaze. two vacant positions in his native country he heard of and coveted, and before he returned he gathered such testimonials as he could, and sent them in advance, offering himself as a candidate. when he landed in canada he went at once to his first college to beg in person that the influence of his former teachers might be used on his behalf. the three years that had passed without correspondence had made a difference in the attitude of those who could help him; many of his friends also were dispersed, gone from the place. he waited in montreal until he heard that he was not the accepted candidate for the better of the two positions, and that the other post would not be filled till the early spring. caius went home again. he observed that his parents looked older. the leaves were gone from the trees, the days were short, and the earth was cold. the sea between the little island and the red sandstone cliff was utterly lonely. caius walked by its side sometimes, but there was no mermaid there. _book ii._ chapter i. the hand that beckoned. it was evening. caius was watering his father's horses. between the barns and the house the space was grass; a log fence divided it, and against this stood a huge wooden pump and a heavy log hollowed out for a trough. house and barns were white; the house was large, but the barns were many times larger. if it had not been that their sloping roofs of various heights and sizes formed a progression of angles not unpleasant to the eye, the buildings would have been very ugly; but they had also a generous and cleanly aspect which was attractive. caius brought the horses to the trough in pairs, each with a hempen halter. they were lightly-built, well-conditioned beasts, but their days of labour had wrought in them more of gentleness than of fire. as they drank now, the breeze played with their manes and forelocks, brushing them about their drooping necks and meek faces. caius pumped the water for them, and watched them meditatively the while. there was a fire low down in the western sky; over the purple of the leafless woods and the bleak acres of bare red earth its light glanced, not warming them, but showing forth their coldness, as firelight glancing through a window-pane glows cold upon the garden snows. the big butter-nut-tree that stood up high and strong over the pump rattled its twigs in the air, as bare bones might rattle. it was while he was still at the watering that the elder simpson drove up to the house door in his gig. he had been to the post-office. this was not an event that happened every day, so that the letter which he now handed caius might as well as not have been retarded a day or two in its delivery. caius took it, leading the horses to their stalls, and he examined it by the light of the stable lantern. the writing, the appearance of the envelope and post-mark, were all quite unfamiliar. the writing was the fine italian hand common to ladies of a former generation, and was, in caius' mind, connected only with the idea of elderly women. he opened the letter, therefore, with the less curiosity. inside he found several pages of the same fine writing, and he read it with his arm round the neck of one of the horses. the lantern, which he had hung on a nail in the stall, sent down dim candlelight upon the pair. when caius had read the letter, he turned it over and over curiously, and began to read it again, more out of sheer surprise than from any relish for its contents. it was written by one madame josephine le maître, and came from a place which, although not very far from his own home, was almost as unknown to him as the most remote foreign part. it came from one of the magdalen islands, that lie some eighty miles' journey by sea to the north of his native shore. the writer stated that she knew few men upon the mainland--in which she seemed to include the larger island of prince edward--that caius simpson was the only medical man of whom she had any personal knowledge who was at that time unemployed. she stated, also, that upon the island where she lived there were some hundreds of fisher-folk, and that a very deadly disease, that she supposed to be diphtheria, was among them. the only doctor in the whole group refused to come to them, because he feared to take back the infection to the other islands. indeed, so great was the dread of this infection, that no helpful person would come to their aid except an english priest, and he was able only to make a short weekly visit. it was some months now since the disease had first appeared, and it was increasing rather than diminishing. "come," said the letter, "and do what you can to save the lives of these poor people--their need of you is very great; but do not come if you are not willing to risk your life, for you will risk it. do not come if you are not willing to be cut off from the world all the months the ice lies in the gulf, for at that time we have no communication with the world. you are a good man; you go to church, and believe in the divine christ, who was also a physician. it is because of this that i dare to ask you. there is a schooner that will be lying in the harbour of souris for two or three weeks after the time that you receive this letter. then she will come here upon her last winter trip. i have arranged with the captain to bring you to us if you can come." after that the name of the schooner and its captain was given, a list also of some of the things that he would need to bring with him. it was stated that upon the island he would receive lodging and food, and that there were a few women, not unskilled in nursing, who would carry out his instructions with regard to the sick. caius folded the letter after the second reading, finished his work with the horses, and walked with his lantern through the now darkening air to the house. just for a few seconds he stopped in the cold air, and looked about him at the dark land and the starry sky. "i have now neither the belief nor the enthusiasm she attributes to me," said caius. when he got into the bright room he blinked for a moment at the light by which his father was reading. the elder man took the letter in his hard, knotted hand, and read it because he was desired to do so. when finished, he cast it upon the table, returning to his newspaper. "hoots!" said he; "the woman's mad!" and then meditatively, after he had finished his newspaper paragraph: "what dealings have you ever had with her?" "i never had any dealings with her." "when you get a letter from a strange woman"--the father spoke with some heat--"the best thing that you can do with it is to put it in the fire." now, caius knew that his father had, as a usual thing, that kindly and simple way of looking at the actions of his fellow-men which is refinement, so that it was evident that the contents of the letter were hateful. that was to be expected. the point that aroused the son's curiosity was to know how far the father recognised an obligation imposed by the letter. the letter would be hateful just in so far as it was considered worthy of attention. "i suppose," said the young man dubiously, "that we can easily find out at souris whether the statements in the letter are true or not?" the father continued to read his paper. the lamp upon the unpolished walnut table had no shade or globe upon it, and it glared with all the brilliancy of clean glass, and much wick and oil. the dining-room was orderly as ever. the map of palestine, the old bible, and some newly-acquired commentaries, obtruded themselves painfully as ornaments. there was no nook or corner in which anything could hide in shadow; there were no shutters on the windows, for there was no one to pass by, unless it might be some good or evil spirit that floated upon the dark air. mr. simpson continued to read his paper without heeding his son. the mother's voice chiding the maid in the next room was the only sound that broke the silence. "i'll write to that merchant you used to know at souris, father," caius spoke in a business-like voice. "he will be able to find out from all the vessels that come in to what extent there is disease on the magdalens." the exciting cause in caius of this remark was his father's indifference and opposition, and the desire to probe it. "you'll do nothing of the sort." simpson's answer was very testy. "what call have you to interfere with the magdalens?" his anger rose from a cause perhaps more explicable to an onlooker than to himself. in the course of years there had grown in the mind of caius much prejudice against the form and measure of his parents' religion. he would have throttled another who dared to criticise them, yet he himself took a certain pleasure in an opportunity that made criticism pertinent rather than impertinent. it was not that he prided himself on knowing or doing better, he was not naturally a theorist, nor didactic; but education had awakened his mind, not only to difficulties in the path of faith, but to a higher standard of altruism than was exacted by old-fashioned orthodoxy. "i think i'd better write to souris, sir; the letter is to me, you see, and i should not feel quite justified in taking no steps to investigate the matter." how easy the hackneyed phrase "taking steps" sounded to caius! but experience breeds strong instincts. the elder man felt the importance of this first decision, and struck out against it as an omen of ill. "in my opinion you'll do well to let the matter lie where it is. how will you look making inquiries about sick folk as if you had a great fortune to spend upon philanthropy, when it turns out that you have none? if you'd not spent all my money on your own schooling, perhaps you'd have some to play the fine gentleman with now, and send a hospital and its staff on this same schooner." (this was the first reproach of his son's extravagance which had ever passed his lips; it betokened passion indeed.) "if you write you can't do less than send a case of medicines, and who is to pay for them, i'd like to know? i'm pretty well cleared out. they're a hardened lot of wreckers on those islands--i've heard that told of them many a time. no doubt their own filth and bad living has brought disease upon them, if there's truth in the tale; and as to this strange woman, giving no testimony or certificate of her respectability, it's a queer thing if she's to begin and teach you religion and duty. it's a bold and impudent letter, and i suppose you've enough sense left, with all your new fangles, to see that you can't do all she asks. what do you think you can do? if you think i'm going to pay for charity boxes to be sent to people i've no opinion of, when all the missionary subscriptions will be due come the new year, you think great nonsense, that's all." he brought his large hard hand down on the table, so that the board rang and the lamp quaked; then he settled his rounded shoulders stubbornly, and again unfurled the newspaper. this strong declaration of wrath, and the reproaches concerning the money, were a relief to caius. a relief from what? had he contemplated for a moment taking his life in his hand and obeying the unexpected appeal? yet he felt no answering anger in return for the rebuke; he only found himself comfortably admitting that if his father put it on the score of expense he certainly had no right to give time or money that did not belong to him. it was due to his parents that all his occupation should henceforth be remunerative. he put the letter away in his pocket, but, perhaps because he laid it next his heart, the next day its cry awoke within him again, and would not be silenced. christianity was identified in his mind with an exclusive way of life, to him no longer good or true; but what of those stirring principles of socialism that were abroad in the world, flaunting themselves as superior to christianity? he was a child of the age, and dared not deny its highest precepts. who would go to these people if he did not go? as to his father, he had coaxed him before for his own advantage; he could coax him now for theirs if he would. he was sufficiently educated to know that it was more glorious to die, even unrenowned, upon such a mission, than to live in the prosperity that belongs to ordinary covetousness, that should it be his duty to obey this call, no other duty remained for him in its neglect. his personal desire in the matter was neither more nor less noble than are the average feelings of well-meaning people towards such enterprise. he would have been glad to find an excellent excuse to think no more of this mission--very glad indeed to have a more attractive opening for work set before him; but, on the other hand, the thought of movement and of fresh scenes was more attractive than staying where he was. then, it would be such a virtuous thing to do and to have done; his own conscience and everyone who heard of the action must applaud it. and he did not think so much of the applause of others as of the real worthiness of the deed. then, again, if he came back safely in the spring, he hoped by that time the offer of some good post would be waiting for him; and it would be more dignified to return from such an excellent work to find it waiting, than to sit at home humbly longing for its advent. caius went to souris and questioned the merchants, talked to the captains of the vessels in the port, saw the schooner upon which madame le maître had engaged his passage. what seemed to him most strange in the working out of this bit of his life's story, was that all that the letter said appeared to be true. the small island called cloud island, where the pestilence was, and to which he had been invited, was not one at which larger ships or schooners could land, so that it was only from the harbour of another island that the seamen got their news. on all hands it was known that there was bad disease upon cloud island, that no doctor was there, and that there was one lady, a madame le maître, a person of some property, who was devoting herself to nursing the sick. when caius asked who she was, and where she came from, one person said one thing and one another. some of the men told him that she was old, some of them affirmed that she was young, and this, not because there was supposed to be any mystery concerning her, but because no one seemed to have taken sufficient interest in her existence to obtain accurate information. when caius re-entered the gate of his father's farm he had decided to risk the adventure, and obey the letter in all points precisely. "would you let it be said that in all these parts there was no one to act the man but a woman?" he said to his father. to his mother he described the sufferings that this disease would work, all the details of its pains, and how little children and mothers and wives would be the chief sufferers, dying in helpless pain, or being bereft of those they loved best. as he talked, the heart of the good woman rose up within her and blessed her son, acknowledging, in spite of her natural desires, that he was in this more truly the great man than she had fancied him in her wildest dreams of opulence and renown. she credited him with far purer motives than he knew himself to possess. a father's rule over his own money is a very modified thing, the very fact of true fatherhood making him only a partner with his child. caius was under the impression that his father could have refused him the necessary outfit of medical stores for this expedition, but that was not the way old simpson looked at it. "if he must, he must," he said to his wife angrily, gloomily, for his own opinion in the matter had changed little; but to caius he gave his consent, and all the money he needed, and did not, except at first, express his disapproval, so that caius took the less pains to argue the matter with him. it was only at the last, when caius had fairly set out on his journey, and, having said good-bye, looked back to see his father stand at the gate of his own fields, that the attitude of the stalwart form and gray head gave him his first real insight into the pain the parting had cost--into the strong, sad disapproval which in the father's mind lay behind the nominal consent. caius saw it then, or, at least, he saw enough of it to feel a sharp pang of regret and self-reproach. he felt himself to be an unworthy son, and to have wronged the best of fathers. whether he was doing right or wrong in proceeding upon his mission he did not know. so in this mind he set sail. chapter ii. the isles of st. magdalen. the schooner went out into the night and sailed for the north star. the wind was strong that filled her sails; the ocean turbulent, black and cold, with the glittering white of moonlight on the upper sides of the waves. the little cabin in the forecastle was so hot and dirty that to caius, for the first half of the night, it seemed preferable almost to perish of cold upon the deck rather than rock in a narrow bunk below. the deck was a steep inclined plane, steady, but swept constantly with waves, as an incoming tide sweeps a beach. caius was compelled to crouch by what support he could find, and, lying thus, he was glad to cover himself up to the chin with an unused sail, peeping forth at the gale and the moonlight as a child peeps from the coverings of its cot. with the small hours of the night came a cold so intense that he was driven to sleep in the cabin where reigned the small iron stove that brewed the skipper's odorous pot. after he had slept a good way into the next day, he came up again to find the gale still strong and the prospect coloured now with green of wave and snow of foam, blue of sky and snow of winged cloud. the favourable force was still pushing them onward toward the invisible north star. it was on the evening of that day that they saw the islands; five or six hilly isles lay in a half-circle. the schooner entered this bay from the east. before they came near the purple hills they had sighted a fleet of island fishing boats, and now, as night approached, all these made also for the same harbour. the wind bore them all in, they cutting the water before them, gliding round the point of the sand-bar, making their way up the channel of the bay in the lessening light, a chain of gigantic sea-birds with white or ruddy wings. all around the bay the islands lay, their hills a soft red purple in the light of a clear november evening. in the blue sky above there were layers of vapour like thin gray gossamers, on which the rosy light shone. the waters of the bay were calmer than the sea outside, yet they were still broken by foam; across the foam the boats went sweeping, until in the shadow of the isles and the fast-descending night they each furled their sails and stopped their journey. it was in the western side of the bay that the vessels lay, for the gale was from the west, and here they found shelter; but night had descended suddenly, and caius could only see the black form of the nearest island, and the twinkling lights that showed where houses were collected on its shore. they waited there till the moon rose large and white, touching the island hills again into visible existence. it was over one small rocky island that she rose; this was the one that stood sentry at the entrance of the bay, and on either side of it there were moon-lit paths that stretched far out into the gulf. on the nearer island could be seen long sand reaches, and dark rounded hills, and in a hollow of the hills the clustered lights. when the moonlight was bright the master of the schooner lowered a boat and set caius and his traps ashore, telling him that some day when the gale was over he could make his way to the island of cloud. the skipper said that the gale might blow one day, or two, or three, or more, but it could not blow always, and in the meantime there was entertainment to be had for those who could pay for it on the nearer isle. when caius stood upon the beach with his portmanteaus beside him, some half a dozen men clustered round; in their thick garments and mufflers they looked outlandish enough. they spoke english, and after much talking they bore his things to a small house on the hillside. he heard the wind clamour against the wooden walls of this domicile as he stood in its porch before the door was opened. the wind shouted and laughed and shook the house, and whistled and sighed as it rushed away. below him, nearer the shore, lay the village, its white house-walls lit by the moonlight, and beyond he could see the ships in the glittering bay. when the door opened such a feast of warmth and comfort appeared to his eyes that he did not soon forget it, for he had expected nothing but the necessaries of life. bright decoration of home-made rugs and ornaments was on all sides, and a table was laid. they were four spinsters of irish descent who kept this small inn, and all that good housewifery could do to make it comfortable was done. the table was heaped with such dainties as could be concocted from the homely products of the island; large red cranberries cooked in syrup gave colour to the repast. soon a broiled chicken was set before caius, and steaming coffee rich with cream. to these old maids caius was obliged to relate wherefore he had come and whither he was bound. he told his story with a feeling of self-conscious awkwardness, because, put it in as cursory a manner as he would, he felt the heroism of his errand must appear; nor was he with this present audience mistaken. the wrinkled maidens, with their warm irish hearts, were overcome with the thought that so much youth and beauty and masculine charm, in the person of the young man before them, should be sacrificed, and, as it seemed to them, foolishly. the inhabitants of cloud island, said these ladies, were a worthless set; and in proof of it they related to him how the girls of the cloud were not too nice in their notions to marry with the shipwrecked sailors from foreign boats, a thing they assured him that was never done on their own island. italian, or german, or norwegian, or whoever the man might be, if he had good looks, a girl at the cloud would take him! and would not they themselves, caius asked, in such a case, take pity on a stranger who had need of a wife? whereat they assured him that it was safer to marry a native islander, and that no self-respecting woman could marry with a man who was not english, or irish, or scotch, or french. it was of these four latter nationalities that the native population of the islands was composed. but the ladies told him worse tales than these, for they said the devil was a frequent visitor at cloud island, and at times he went out with the fishers in their boats, choosing now one, now another, for a companion; and whenever he went, there was a wonderful catch of fish; but the devil must have his full share, which he ate raw and without cleaning--a thing which no christian could do. he lived in the round valleys of the sand-dune that led to the cloud. it was a convenient hiding-place, because when you were in one valley you could not see into the next, and the devil always leaped into the one that you were not in. as to the pestilence, it was sent as a judgment because the people had these impious dealings with the evil one; but the devil could put an end to it if he would. it was strange to see the four gray-haired sisters as they sat in a row against the wall and told him in chiming sentences these tales with full belief. "and what sort of a disease is it?" asked caius, curious to hear more. "it's the sore throat and the choke, sir," said the eldest sister, "and a very bad disease it is, for if it doesn't stop at the throat, it flies direct to the stomach, sir, and then you can't breathe." caius pondered this description for a few moments, and then he formed a question which was to the point. "and where," said he, "is the stomach?" at which she tapped her chest, and told him it was there. he had eaten somewhat greedily, and when he found that the linen of his bed was snow-white and the bed itself of the softest feathers, he lay down with great contentment. not even the jar and rush of the wind as it constantly assaulted the house, nor the bright moonlight against the curtainless window, kept him awake for a moment. he slept a dreamless sleep. chapter iii. between the surf and the sand. next day the wind had grown stronger; the same clear skies prevailed, with the keen western gale, for the west wind in these quarters is seldom humid, and at that season it was frosty and very dry, coming as it did over the already snow-covered plains of gaspé and quebec. it seemed strange to caius to look out at the glorious sunshine and be told that not a boat would stir abroad that day, and that it would be impossible for even a cart to drive to the cloud island. he knew so little of the place to which he had come that when the spinsters spoke of driving to another island it seemed to him that they spoke as wildly as when they told of the pranks of the evil one. he learned soon that these islands were connected by long sand ridges, and that when the tide was down it was possible to drive upon the damp beach from one to another; but this was not possible, they told him, in a western gale, for the wind beat up the tide so that one could not tell how far it would descend or how soon it would return. there was risk of being caught by the waves under the hills of the dune, which a horse could not climb, and, they added, he had already been told who it was who lived in the sand hollows. in the face of the sunny morning, caius could not forbear expressing his incredulity of the diabolical legend, and his hostesses did not take the trouble to argue the point, for it is to be noted that people seldom argue on behalf of the items of faith they hold most firmly. the spinsters merely remarked that there were a strange number of wrecks on the sand-bar that led to the cloud, and that, go where he would in the village, he would get no sand-pilot to take him across while the tide was beaten up by the wind, and a pilot he must have, or he would sink in the quicksands and never be seen again. caius walked, with the merry wind for a playfellow, down through long rows of fish-sheds, and heard what the men had to say with regard to his journey. he heard exactly what the women had told him, for no one would venture upon the dune that day. then, still in company with the madcap wind, he walked up on the nearer hills, and saw that this island was narrow, lying between blue fields of sea, both bay and ocean filled with wave crests, ever moving. the outer sea beat upon the sandy beach with a roar and volume of surf such as he had never seen before, for under the water the sand-bank stretched out a mile but a little below the sea's level, and the breakers, rolling in, retarded by it and labouring to make their accustomed course, came on like wild beasts that were chafed into greater anger at each bound, so that with ever-increasing fury they roared and plunged until they touched the verge. from the hills he saw that the fish-sheds which stood along the village street could only be a camping place for the fishers at the season of work, for all along the inner sides of the hills there were small farm-houses, large enough and fine enough to make good dwellings. the island was less savage than he had supposed. indignation rose within him that people apparently so well-to-do should let their neighbours die without extending a helping hand. he would have been glad to go and bully some owner of a horse and cart into taking him the last stage of his journey without further delay; but he did not do this, he only roamed upon the hills enjoying the fair prospect of the sea and the sister isles, and went back to his inn about two o'clock. there he feasted again upon the luxurious provision that the spinsters had been making for the appetite that the new air had given him. he ate roast duck, stuffed with a paste of large island mushrooms, preserved since their season, and tarts of bake-apple berries, and cranberries, and the small dark mokok berry--three kinds of tart he ate, with fresh cream upon them, and the spinster innkeepers applauded his feat. they stood around and rejoiced at his eating, and again they told him in chorus that he must not go to the other island where the people were sick. it was just then that a great knock came at the front door; the loudness of the wind had silenced the approaching footsteps. a square-built, smooth-faced man, well wrapped in a coat of ox fur, came into the house, asking for caius simpson by name. his face was one which it was impossible to see without remarking the lines of subtle intelligence displayed in its leathery wrinkles. the eyes were light blue, very quick, almost merry--and yet not quite, for if there was humour in them, it was of the kind that takes its pleasures quietly; there was no proneness to laughter in the hard-set face. when caius heard his own name spoken, he knew that something unexpected had happened, for no one upon the island had asked his name, and he had not given it. the stranger, who, from his accent, appeared to be a canadian of irish parentage, said, in a few curt words, that he had a cart outside, and was going to drive at once to cloud island, that he wished to take the young doctor with him; for death, he observed, was not sitting idle eating his dinner at the cloud, and if anyone was coming to do battle with him it would be as well to come quickly. the sarcasm nettled caius, first, because he felt himself to be caught napping; secondly, because he knew he was innocent. the elder of the spinsters had got behind the stranger, and she intimated by signs and movements of the lips that the stranger was unknown, and therefore mysterious, and not to be trusted; and so quickly was this pantomime performed that it was done before caius had time to speak, although he was under the impression that he rose with alacrity to explain to the newcomer that he would go with him at once. the warning that the old maid gave resulted at least in some cautious questioning. caius asked the stranger who he was, and if he had come from the cloud that day. as to who he was, the man replied that his name was john o'shea, and he was the man who worked the land of madame le maître. "one does not go and come from cloud island in one day at this season," said he. "'tis three days ago since i came. i've been waiting up at the parson's for the schooner. to-day we're going back together, ye and me." he was sparing of language. he shut his mouth over the short sentences he had said, and that influence which always makes it more or less difficult for one man to oppose the will of another caused caius to make his questions as few as possible. was it safe, he asked, to drive to cloud island that day? the other looked at him from head to foot. "not safe," he said, "for women and childer; but for men"--the word was lingered upon for a moment--"yes, safe enough." the innkeepers were too mindful of their manners as yet to disturb the colloquy with open interruption; but with every other sort of interruption they did disturb it, explaining by despairing gestures and direful shakings of the head that, should caius go with this gentleman, he would be driving into the very jaws of death. nevertheless, after o'shea's last words caius had assented to the expedition, although he was uncertain whether the assent was wise or not. he had the dissatisfaction of feeling that he had been ruled, dared, like a vain schoolboy, into the hasty consent. "now, if you are servant to madame le maître at the cloud, how is it that you've never been seen on this island?" it was the liveliest of the sisters who could no longer keep silence. while caius was packing his traps he was under the impression that o'shea had replied that, in the first place, he had not lived long at the cloud, and, in the second, visitors from the cloud had not been so particularly welcome at the other islands. his remarks on the last subject were delivered with brief sarcasm. after he had started on the journey caius wondered that he had not remembered more particularly the gist of an answer which it concerned him to hear. at the time, however, he hastened to strap together those of his bundles which had been opened, and, under the direction of o'shea, to clothe himself in as many garments as possible, o'shea arguing haste for the sake of the tide, which, he said, had already begun to ebb, and there was not an hour to be lost. the women broke forth once more, this time into open expostulation and warning. to them o'shea vouchsafed no further word, but with an annoying assumption that the doctor's courage would quail under their warnings, he encouraged him. "there's a mere boy, a slim lad, on my cart now," he said, "that's going with us; he's no more froightened than a gull is froightened of the sea." caius showed his valour by marching out of the door, a bag in either hand. no snow had as yet fallen on the islands. the grass that was before the inn door was long and of that dry green hue that did not suggest verdure, for all the juices had gone back into the ground. it was swept into silver sheens by the wind, and as they crossed it to reach the road where the cart stood, the wind came against them all with staggering force. the four ladies came out in spite of the icy blast, and attended them to the cart, and stood to watch them as they wended their way up the rugged road that led over a hill. the cart was a small-sized wooden one--a shallow box on wheels; no springs, no paint, had been used in its making. some straw had been spread on the bottom, and on this caius was directed to recline. his bags also were placed beside him. o'shea himself sat on the front of the cart, his legs dangling, and the boy, who was "no more froightened of the journey than a sea-gull is of the sea," perched himself upon one corner of the back and looked out backwards, so that his face was turned from caius, who only knew that he was a slim lad because he had been told so; a long gray blanket-coat with capuchin drawn over the head and far over the face covered him completely. caius opposed his will to the reclining attitude which had been suggested to him, and preferred to sit upon the flat bottom with the desire to keep erect; and he did sit thus for awhile, like a porcelain mandarin with nodding head, for, although the hardy pony went slowly, the jolting of the cart on the rough, frozen road was greater than it is easy for one accustomed to ordinary vehicles to imagine. up the hill they went, past woods of stunted birch and fir, past upland fields, from which the crops had long been gathered. they were making direct for the southern side of the island. while they ascended there was still some shelter between them and the fiercest blast of the gale, and they could still look down at the homely inn below, at the village of fishers' sheds and the dancing waters of the bay. he had only passed one night there, and yet caius looked at this prospect almost fondly. it seemed familiar in comparison with the strange region into which he was going. when the ridge was gained and the descent began, the wind broke upon them with all its force. he looked below and saw the road winding for a mile or more among the farms and groves of the slope, and then out across a flat bit of shrub-covered land; beyond that was the sand, stretching here, it seemed, in a tract of some square miles. the surf was dimly seen like a cloud at its edge. it was not long that he sat up to see the view. the pony began to run down the hill; the very straw in the bottom of the cart danced. caius cast his arms about his possessions, fearing that, heavy though they were, they would be thrown out upon the roadside, and he lay holding them. the wind swept over; he could hear it whistling against the speed of the cart; he felt it like a knife against his cheeks as he lay. he saw the boy brace himself, the lithe, strong muscles of his back, apparent only by the result of their action, swayed balancing against the jolting, while, with thickly-gloved hands, he grasped the wooden ledge on which he sat. in front o'shea was like an image carved of the same wood as the cart, so firmly he held to it. well, such hours pass. after a while they came out upon the soft, dry sand beyond the scrubby flat, and the horse, with impeded footsteps, trudged slowly. the sand was so dry, driven by the wind, that the horse and cart sank in it as in driven snow. the motion, though slow, was luxurious compared to what had been. o'shea and the boy had sprung off the cart, and were marching beside it. caius clambered out, too, to walk beside them. "ye moight have stayed in, mr. doctor," said o'shea. "the pony is more than equal to carrying ye." again caius felt that o'shea derided him. he hardly knew why the man's words always gave him this impression, for his manner was civil enough, and there was no particular reason for derision apparent; for, although o'shea's figure had broadened out under the weight of years, he was not a taller man than caius, and the latter was probably the stronger of the two. when caius glanced later at the other's face, it appeared to him that he derived his impression from the deep, ray-like wrinkles that were like star-fish round the man's eyes; but if so, it must have been that something in the quality of the voice reflected the expression of the face, for they were not in such plight as would enable them to observe one another's faces much. the icy wind bore with it a burden of sparkling sand, so that they were often forced to muffle their faces, walking with heads bowed. since caius would walk, o'shea ordered the boy back into the cart, and the two men ploughed on through the sand beside the horse, whose every hair was turned by the wind, which now struck them sideways, and whose rugged mane and forelock were streaming horizontally, besprinkled with sand. the novelty of the situation, the beauty of the sand-wreaths, the intoxication of the air, the vivid brilliancy of the sun and the sky, delighted caius. the blue of heaven rounded the sandscape to their present sight, a dome of blue flame over a plain whose colour was like that of an autumn leaf become sear. caius, in his exhilaration, remarked upon the strangeness of the place, but either the prospect was too common to o'shea to excite his interest, or the enterprise he meditated burdened his mind; he gave few words in answer, and soon they, too, relapsed into the silence that the boy and the pony had all the time observed. an hour's walk, and another sound rang in their ears beside the whistling of the wind, low at first and fitful, louder and louder, till the roar of the surf was deafening. then they came to the brink and heard all the notes of which the chords of its more distant music had been composed, the gasping sob of the under tow, the rush of the lifting wave as it upreared itself high, the silken break of its foam, the crash of drums with which it fell, the dash of wave against wave, and the cry of the foremost waves that bemoaned themselves prostrate upon the beach. the cart, with its little company, turned into the narrow strip of dark damp sand that the tide had already left bare. here the footing was much firmer, and the wind struck them obliquely. the hardy pony broke into its natural pace, a moderate trot. in spite of this pace, the progress they made was not very swift, and it was already four by the clock. o'shea climbed to his place on the front of the cart; the boy sprang down and ran to warm himself, clapping his gloved hands as he ran. it was not long before caius clambered into his straw seat again, and, sitting, watched the wonder of the waves. so level was the beach, so high was the surf, that from the low cart it seemed that gigantic monsters were constantly arising from the sea; and just as the fear of them overshadowed the fascinated mind, they melted away again into nothingness. as he looked at the waves he saw that their water, mixed with sand, was a yellowish brown, and dark almost to black when the curling top yawned before the downfall; but so fast did each wave break one upon the other that glossy water was only seen in glimpses, and boiling fields of foam and high crests of foam were the main substance of all that was to be seen for a hundred yards from the shore. proceeding thus, they soon came to what was actually the end of the island, and were on the narrow ridge of sand-dunes which extended a distance of some twenty miles to the next island. the sand-hills rising sheer from the shore, fifty, sixty, or a hundred feet in height, bordered their road on the right. to avoid the soft dry sand of their base the pony often trotted in the shallow flow of the foam, which even yet now and then crept over all the damp beach to the high-water mark. the wind was like spur and lash; the horse fled before it. eyes and ears grew accustomed even to the threatening of the sea-monsters. the sun of the november afternoon sank nearer and nearer the level of sand and foam; they could not see the ocean beyond the foam. when it grew large and ruddy in the level atmosphere, and some flakes of red, red gold appeared round it, lying where the edge of the sea must be, like the islands of the blessed, when the crests of the breakers near and far began to be touched with a fiery glow, when the soft dun brown of the sand-hills turned to gold, caius, overcome with having walked and eaten much, and drunk deeply of the wine of the wild salt wind, fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, lying outstretched upon his bed of straw. chapter iv. where the devil lived. caius did not know how long he slept. he woke with a sudden start and a presentiment of evil. it was quite dark, as black as starlight night could be; for the foam of the waves hardly glimmered to sight, except here and there where some phosphorescent jelly was tossed among them like a blue death-light. what had wakened caius was the sound of voices talking ahead of the cart, and the jerk of the cart as it was evidently being driven off the smooth beach on to a very rough and steep incline. he sat up and strove to pierce the darkness by sight. they had come to no end of their journey. the long beach, with its walls of foam and of dune, stretched on without change. but upon this beach they were no longer travelling; the horse was headed, as it were, to the dune, and now began to climb its almost upright side. with an imprecation he threw himself out of the cart at a bound into sand so soft that he sank up to the knees and stumbled against the upright side of the hill. the lower voice he had heard was silent instantly. o'shea stopped the pony with a sharp word of interrogation. "where are you going?" shouted caius. "what are you going to do?" he need not have shouted, for the wind was swift to carry all sounds from his lips to o'shea; but the latter's voice, as it came back to him, seemed to stagger against the force of the wind and almost to fail. "where are we going? well, we're going roight up towards the sky at present, but in a minute we'll be going roight down towards the other place. if ye just keep on at that side of the cart ye'll get into a place where we'll have a bit of shelter and rest till the moon rises." "what is the matter? what are you turning off the road for?" caius shouted again, half dazed by his sleep and sudden awakening, and wholly angry at the disagreeable situation. he was cold, his limbs almost numb, and to his sleepy brain came the sudden remembrance of the round valleys in the dune of which he had heard, and the person who lived in them. his voice was inadequately loud. the ebullition of his rage evidently amused o'shea, for he laughed; and while caius listened to his laughter and succeeding words, it seemed to him that some spirit, not diabolic, hovered near them in the air, for among the sounds of the rushing of the wind and of the sea came the soft sound of another sort of laughter, suppressed, but breaking forth, as if in spite of itself, with irresistible amusement; and although caius felt that it was indulged at his own expense, yet he loved it, and would fain have joined in its persuasive merriment. while the poetical part of him listened, trying to catch this illusive sound, his more commonplace faculties were engaged by the answer of o'shea: "it's just as ye loike, mr. doctor. you can go on towards the cloud by the beach if you've got cat's eyes, or if you can feel with your toes where the quicksands loy; but the pony and me are going to take shelter till the moon's up." "well, where are you going?" asked caius. "can't you tell me plainly? i never heard of a horse that could climb a wall." "and if the little beast is good-natured enough to do it for ye, it's as shabby a trick as i know to keep him half-way up with the cart at his back. he's a cliver little pony, but he's not a floy; and i never knew that even a floy could stand on a wall with a cart and doctor's medicine bags a-hanging on to it. g'tup!" this last sound was addressed to the pony, which in the darkness began once more its astonishing progress up the sand-hill. the plea for mercy to the horse entered caius' reason. the spirit-like laughter had in some mysterious way soothed his heart. he stood still, detaining o'shea no longer, and dimly saw the horse and cart climb up above him. o'shea climbed first, for his tones were heard caressing and coaxing the pony, which he led. caius saw the cart, a black mass, disappear over the top of the hill, which was here not more than twenty feet high. when it was gone he could dimly descry a dark figure, which he supposed to be the boy, standing on the top, as if waiting to see what he would do; so, after holding short counsel with himself, he, too, began to stagger upward, marvelling more and more at the feat of the pony as he went, for though the precipice was not perpendicular, it had this added difficulty, that all its particles shifted as they were touched. there was, however, some solid substance underneath, for, catching at the sand grasses, clambering rather than walking, he soon found himself at the top, and would have fallen headlong if he had not perceived that there was no level space by seeing the boy already half-way down a descent, which, if it was unexpected, was less precipitous, and composed of firmer ground. he heard o'shea and the cart a good way further on, and fancied he saw them moving. the boy, at least, just kept within his sight; and so he followed down into a hollow, where he felt crisp, low-growing herbage beneath his feet, and by looking up at the stars he could observe that its sandy walls rose all around him like a cup. on the side farthest from the sea the walls of the hollow rose so high that in the darkness they looked like a mountainous region. they had gone down out of the reach of the gale; and although light airs still blew about them, here the lull was so great that it seemed like going out of winter into a softer clime. when caius came up with the cart he found that the traces had already been unfastened and the pony set loose to graze. "is there anything for him to eat?" asked caius curiously, glad also to establish some friendly interchange of thought. "one doesn't travel on these sands," said o'shea, "with a horse that can't feed itself on the things that grow in the sand. it's the first necessary quality for a horse in these parts." "what sort of things grow here?" asked caius, pawing the ground with his foot. he could not quite get over the inward impression that the mountainous-looking region of the dune over against them was towered with infernal palaces, so weird was the place. o'shea's voice came out of the darkness; his form was hardly to be seen. "sit yourself down, mr. doctor, and have some bread and cheese--that is, if ye've sufficiently forgotten the poies of the old maids. the things that grow here are good enough to sit on, and that's all we want of them, not being ponies." the answer was once more an insult in its allusion to the pies (caius was again hungry), and in its refusal of simple information; but the tone was more cheerful, and o'shea had relaxed from his extreme brevity. caius sat down, and felt almost convivial when he found that a parcel of bread and cheese and a huge bottle of cold tea were to be shared between them. either the food was perfect of its kind or his appetite good sauce, for never had anything tasted sweeter than the meal. they all three squatted in the darkness round the contents of the ample parcel, and if they said little it was because they ate much. caius found by the light of a match that his watch told it was the hour of seven; they had been at hard travel for more than four hours, and had come to a bit of the beach which could not be traversed without more light. in another hour the moon would be up and the horse rested. when the meal was finished, each rested in his own way. o'shea laid himself flat upon his back, with a blanket over his feet. the boy slipped away, and was not seen until the waving grass on the tops of the highest dunes became a fringe of silver. until then caius paced the valley, coming occasionally in contact with the browsing pony; but neither his walk nor meditation was interrupted by more formidable presence. "ay--ee--ho--ee--ho!" it was a rallying call, a shrill cry, from o'shea. it broke the silence the instant that the moon's first ray had touched the dune. the man must have been lying looking at the highest head, for when caius heard the unexpected sound he looked round more than once before he discovered its cause, and then knew that while he had been walking the whole heaven and earth had become lighter by imperceptible degrees. as he watched now, the momentary brightening was very perceptible. the heights and shadows of the sand-hills stood out to sight; he could see the line where the low herbage stopped and the waving bent began. in the sky the stars faded in a pallid gulf of violet light. the mystery of the place was less, its beauty a thousandfold greater: and the beauty was still of the dream-exciting kind that made him long to climb all its hills and seek in all its hollows, for there are some scenes that, by their very contour, suggest more than they display, and in which the human mind cannot rid itself of the notion that the physical aspect is not all that there is to be seen. but whatever the charm of the place, now that light had revealed it caius must leave it. the party put themselves in line of march once more. the boy had gone on up where the wall of the dell was lowest, and caius tramped beside o'shea, who led the pony. once up from the hollow, their eyes were dazzled at first with the flash of the moonlight upon the water. from the top of the sand ridge they could see the sea out beyond the surf--a measureless purple waste on which far breakers rose and blossomed for a moment like a hedge of whitethorn in may, and sank again with a glint of black in the shadow of the next uprising. they went down once more where they could see nothing but the surf and the sand-hills. the boy had walked far on; they saw his coated and cowled figure swaying with the motion of his walk on the shining beach in front. the tide was at its lowest. what the fishermen had said of it was true: with the wind beating it up it had gone down but a third of its rightful distance; and now the strip that it had to traverse to be full again seemed alarmingly narrow, for a great part of their journey was still to be made. the two men got up on the cart; the boy leaped up when they reached him, before o'shea could bring it to full stop for him, and on they went. even the pony seemed to realize that there was need of haste. they had travelled about two miles more when, in front of them, a cape of rock was seen jutting across the beach, its rocky headland stretching far into the sea. caius believed that the end of their journey was near; he looked eagerly at the new land, and saw that there were houses upon the top of the cliff. it seemed unnecessary even to ask if this was their destination. secure in his belief, he willingly got off the cart at the base of the cliff, and trudged behind it, while o'shea drove up a track in the sand which had the similitude of a road; rough, soft, precipitous as it was, it still bore tracks of wheels and feet, where too far inland to be washed by the waves. the sight of them was like the sight of shore to one who has been long at sea. they went up to the back of the cliff, and came upon its high grassy top; the road led through where small houses were thickly clustered on either side. caius looked for candle, or fire, or human being, and saw none, and they had not travelled far along the street of this lifeless village when he saw that the road led on down the other side of the headland, and that the beach and the dune stretched ahead of them exactly as they stretched behind. "is this a village of the dead?" he asked o'shea. the man o'shea seemed to have in him some freak of perverseness which made it hard for him to answer the simplest question. it was almost by force that caius got from him the explanation that the village was only used during certain fishing seasons, and abandoned during the winter--unless, indeed, its houses were broken into by shipwrecked sailors, whose lives depended upon finding means of warmth. the cart descended from the cliff by the same sandy road, and the pony again trotted upon the beach; its trot was deceptive, for it had the appearance of making more way than it did. on they went--on, on, over this wonderful burnished highroad which the sea and the moonlight had laid for their travel. behind and before, look as they would, they could see only the weird white hills of sand, treeless, almost shadowless now, the seahorses foaming and plunging in endless line, and between them the road, whose apparent narrowing in the far perspective was but an emblem of the truth that the waves were encroaching upon it inch by inch. chapter v. devilry. when the cart and its little company had travelled for almost another hour, a dark object in the midst of the line of foam caught their sight. it was the boy who first saw it, and he suddenly leaned forward, clutching o'shea's arm as if in fear. the man looked steadily. "she's come in since we passed here before." the boy apparently said something, although caius could not catch the voice. "no," said o'shea; "there's cargo aboard of her yit, but the men are off of her." it was a black ship that, sailless and with masts pitifully aslant, was fixed on the sand among the surf, and the movement of the water made her appear to labour forward as if in dying throes making effort to reach the shore. the boy seemed to scan the prospect before him now far more eagerly than before; but the wreck, which was, as o'shea said, deserted, seemed to be the only external object in all that gleaming waste. they passed on, drawing up for a minute near her at the boy's instigation, and scanning her decks narrowly as they were washed by the waves, but there was no sign of life. before they had gone further caius caught sight of the dark outline of another wreck; but this one was evidently of some weeks' standing, for the masts were gone and the hulk half broken through. there was still another further out. the mere repetition of the sad story had effect to make the scene seem more desolate. it seemed as if the sands on which they trod must be strewed with the bleached skeletons of sailors, and as if they embedded newly-buried corpses in their breast. the sandhills here were higher than they had been before, and there were openings between them as if passages led into the interior valleys, so that caius supposed that here in storms or in flood-tides the waves might enter into the heart of the dune. they had not travelled far beyond the first and nearest wreck, when the monotony of their journey was broken by a sudden strange excitement which seized on them all, and which caius, although he felt it, did not at once understand. the pony was jerked back by the reins which o'shea held, then turned staggering inland, and lashed forward by the whip, used for the first time that day. caius, jerked against the side of the cart, lifted up a bruised head, gazing in wonder to see nothing in the path; but he saw that the boy had sprung lightly from the cart, and was standing higher up on the sand, his whole attitude betraying alarm as he gazed searchingly at the ground. in a moment the pony reared and plunged, and then uttered a cry almost human in its fear. then came the sensation of sinking, sinking with the very earth itself. o'shea had jumped from the cart and cut the traces. caius was springing out, and felt his spring guided by a hand upon his arm. he could not have believed that the boy had so much strength, yet, with a motion too quick for explaining words, he was guided to a certain part of the sand, pushed aside like a child to be safe, while the boy with his next agile movement tugged at the portmanteaus that contained the medical stores, and flung them at caius' feet. it was a quicksand. the pony cried again--cried to them for help. caius next found himself with o'shea holding the creature's head, and aiding its mad plunging, even while his own feet sank deeper and deeper. there was a moment when they all three plunged forward together, and then the pony threw itself upon its side, by some wild effort extricating its feet, and caius, prone upon the quivering head, rolled himself and dragged it forward. then he felt strong hands lifting him and the horse together. what seemed strangest to caius, when he could look about and think, was that he had now four companions--the boy, o'shea, and two other men, coated and muffled--and that the four were all talking together eagerly in a language of which he did not understand a word. he shook the wet sand from his clothes; his legs and arms were wet. the pony stood in an entrance to a gap in the sand-hills, quivering and gasping, but safe, albeit with one leg hurt. the cart had sunk down till its flat bottom lay on the top of the quicksand, and there appeared to float, for it sunk no further. a white cloud that had winged its way up from the south-west now drifted over the moon, and became black except at its edges. the world grew much darker, and it seemed colder, if that were possible. it soon occurred to caius that the two men now added to their party had either met o'shea by appointment, or had been lying in wait for the cart, knowing that the quicksand was also waiting to engulf it. it appeared to him that their motives must be evil, and he was not slow to suspect o'shea of being in some plot with them. he had, of course, money upon him, enough certainly to attract the cupidity of men who could seldom handle money, and the medical stores were also convertible into money. it struck him now how rash he had been to come upon this lonely drive without any assurance of o'shea's respectability. these thoughts came to him because he almost immediately perceived that he was the subject of conversation. it seemed odd to stand so near them and not understand a word they said. he heard enough now to know the language they were speaking was the patois that, in those parts, is the descendant of the jersey french. these men, then, were acadians--the boy also, for he gabbled freely to them. either they had sinister designs on him, or he was an obstruction to some purpose that they wished to accomplish. this was evident now from their tones and gestures. they were talking most vehemently about him, especially the boy and o'shea, and it was evident that these two disagreed, or at least could not for some time agree, as to what was to be his fate. caius was defenceless, for so peaceful was the country to which he was accustomed that he carried no weapon. he took his present danger little to heart. there was a strange buoyancy--born, no doubt, of the bracing wind--in his spirit. if they were going to kill him--well, he would die hard; and a man can but die once. a laugh arose from the men; it sounded to him as strange a sound, for the time and place, as the almost human cry of the horse a few minutes before. then o'shea came towards him with menacing gestures. the two men went back into the gap of the sand-hills from whence they must have come. "look here," said o'shea roughly, "do ye value your life?" "certainly." caius folded his arms, and made this answer with well-bred contempt. "and ye shall have your life, but on one condition. take out of your bags what's needed for dealing with the sick this noight, for there's a dying man ye must visit before ye sleep, and the condition is that ye walk on to the cloud by yourself on this beach without once looking behoind ye. moind what i say! ye shall go free--yerself, yer money, and yer midicines--if ye walk from here to the second house that is a loighthouse without once turning yer head or looking behoind ye." he pointed to the bags with a gesture of rude authority. "take out what ye need, and begone!" "i shall do nothing of the sort," replied caius, his arms still folded. the boy had come near enough to hear what was said, but he did not interfere. "and why not?" asked o'shea, a jeer in his tones. "because i would not trust one of you not to kill me as soon as my back was turned." "and if your back isn't turned, and that pretty quick, too, ye'll not live many hours." "i prefer to die looking death in the face; but it'll be hard for the man who attempts to touch me." "oh! ye think ye'll foight for it, do ye?" asked o'shea lightly; "but ye're mistaken there--the death ye shall doie will admit of no foighting on your part." "there is something more in all this business than i understand." apart from the question whether he should die or live, caius was puzzled to understand why his enemies had themselves fallen foul of the quicksand, or what connection the accident could have with the attack upon his life. "there is more in this than i understand," he repeated loudly. "just so," replied o'shea, imperturbable; "there is more than ye can understand, and i offer ye a free passage to a safe place. haven't ye wits enough about ye to take it and be thankful?" "i will not turn my back." caius reiterated his defiance. "and ye'll stroike out with yer fist at whatever comes to harm ye? will ye hit in the face of the frost and the wind if ye're left here to perish by cold, with your clothes wet as they are? or perhaps ye'll come to blows with the quicksand if half a dozen of us should throw ye in there." "there are not half a dozen of you," he replied scornfully. "come and see." o'shea did not offer to touch him, but he began to walk towards the opening in the dune, and dragged caius after him by mere force of words. "come and see for yourself. what are ye afraid of, man? come! if ye want to look death in the face, come and see what it is ye've got to look at." caius followed reluctantly, keeping his own distance. o'shea passed the shivering pony, and went into the opening of the dune, which was now all in shadow because of the black cloud in the sky. inside was a small valley. its sand-banks might have been made of bleached bones, they looked so gray and dead. just within the opening was an unexpected sight--a row of hooded and muffled figures stood upright in the sand. there was something appalling in the sight to caius. each man was placed at exactly the same distance from his fellow; they seemed to stand with heads bowed, and hands clasped in front of their breasts; faces and hands, like their forms, were hooded and muffled. caius did not think, or analyze his emotion. no doubt the regular file of the men, suggesting discipline which has such terrible force for weal or woe, and their attitudes, suggesting motives and thoughts of which he could form not the faintest explanation, were the two elements which made the scene fearful to him. o'shea stopped a few paces from the nearest figure, and caius stopped a few paces nearer the opening of the dune. "ye see these men?" said o'shea. caius did not answer. o'shea raised his voice: "i say before them what i have said, that if ye'll swear here before heaven, as a man of honour, that ye'll walk from here to the loighthouse on the cloud--which ye shall find in the straight loine of the beach--without once turning yer head or looking behoind ye, neither man nor beast nor devil shall do ye any hurt, and yer properties shall be returned to ye when a cart can be got to take them. will ye swear?" caius made no answer. he was looking intently. as soon as the tones of o'shea's voice were carried away by the bluster of the wind, as far as the human beings there were concerned there was perfect stillness; the surf and the wind might have been sweeping the dunes alone. "and if i will not swear?" asked caius, in a voice that was loud enough to reach to the last man in the long single rank. o'shea stepped nearer him, and, as if in pretence of wiping his face with his gloved hand, he sent him a hissing whisper that gave a sudden change of friendliness and confidence to his voice, "don't be a fool! swear it." "are these men, or are they corpses?" asked caius. the stillness of the forms before him became an almost unendurable spectacle. he had no sooner spoken than o'shea appealed to the men, shouting words in the queer guttural french. and caius saw the first man slowly raise his hand as if in an attitude of oath-taking, and the second man did likewise. o'shea turned round and faced him, speaking hastily. the shadow of the cloud was sending dark shudderings of lighter and darker shades across the sand hollow, and these seemed almost like a visible body of the wind that with searching blast drifted loose sand upon them all. with the sweep of the shadow and the wind, caius saw the movement of the lifted hand go down the line. "i lay my loife upon it," said o'shea, "that if ye'll say on yer honour as a man, and as a gintleman, that ye'll not look behoind ye, ye shall go scot-free. it's a simple thing enough; what harm's there in it?" the boy had come near behind caius. he said one soft word, "promise!" or else caius imagined he said it. caius knew at least what the boy wished him to do. the pony moved nearer, shivering with cold, and caius realized that the condition of wet and cold in which they were need not be prolonged. "i promise," he shouted angrily, "and i'll keep the promise, whatever infernal reason there may be for it; but if i'm attacked from behind----" he added threats loud and violent, for he was very angry. before he had finished speaking--the thought might have been brought by some movement in the shadow of the cloud, and by the sound of the wind, or by his heated brain--but the thought came to him that o'shea, under his big fur-coat, had indulged in strange, harsh laughter. caius cared nothing. he had made his decision; he had given his word; he had no thought now but to take what of his traps he could carry and be gone on his journey. chapter vi. the sea-maid. caius understood that he had still three miles of the level beach to tread. at first he hardly felt the sand under his feet, they were so dead with cold. the spray from the roaring tide struck his face sideways. he had time now to watch each variation, each in and out of the dune, and he looked at them eagerly, as the only change that was afforded to the monotony. then for the first time he learned how completely a man is shut out from all one half of the world by the simple command not to look behind him, and all the unseen half of his world became rife, in his thought, with mysterious creatures and their works. at first he felt that he was courting certain death by keeping the word he had given; in the clap of the waves he seemed to hear the pistol-shot that was to be his doom, or the knife-like breath of the wind seemed the dagger in the hand of a following murderer. but as he went on and no evil fate befell, his fear died, and only curiosity remained--a curiosity so lively that it fixed eagerly upon the stretch of the surf behind him, upon his own footsteps left on the soft sand, upon the sand-hills that he had passed, although they were almost the same as the sand-hills that were before. it would have been a positive joy to him to turn and look at any of these things. while his mind dwelt upon it, he almost grudged each advancing step, because it put more of the interesting world into the region from which he was shut out as wholly as if a wall of separation sprang up between the behind and before. by an effort of will he turned his thought from this desire, or from considering what the mysterious something could be that it was all-important for him not to see, or who it was that in this desolate place would spy upon him if he broke his vow. when his activity had set the blood again coursing warmly in his veins, all that was paltry and depressing passed from his mind and heart, as a mist is rolled away by the wind. the sweet, wild air, that in those regions is an elixir of life to the stranger, making him young if he be old, and if he be young making him feel as demigods felt in days of yore, for a day and a night had been doing its work upon him. mere life and motion became to him a delight such as he had never felt before; and when the moon came out again from the other side of the cloud, the sight of her beams upon surf and sand was like a rare wild joy. he was glad that no one interfered with his pleasure, that he was, as far as he knew, alone with the clouds that were winging their way among moonbeams in the violet sky, and with the waves and the wind with which he held companionship. he had gone a mile, it might be more; he heard a step behind him. in vain he tried to convince himself that some noise natural to the lonely beach deceived him. in the high tide of life that the bracing air had brought him, his senses were acute and true. he knew that he heard this step: it was light, like a child's; it was nimble, like a fawn's; sometimes it was very near him. he was not in the least afraid; but do what he would, his mind could form no idea of what creature it might be who thus attended him. no dark or fearful picture crossed his mind just then; all its images were good. the fleet of white clouds that were sailing in the sky rang glad changes upon the beauty of the moonlit scene. half a mile or more caius walked listening to the footstep; then he came on a wrecked boat buried in the sand, its rim laid bare by the tide. caius struck his foot and fell upon it. striking his head, stunned for a moment, then springing up again, in the motion of falling or rising, he knew not how, he saw the beach behind him--the waves that were now nearing the foot of the dune, the track between with his footsteps upon it, and, standing in this track, alert to fly if need be, the figure of a girl. her dress was all blown by the wind, her curling hair was like a twining garland round her face, and her face--ah! that face: he knew it as well as, far better than he knew his own; its oval curves, its dimpled sweetness, its laughing eyes. just for such brief seconds of time as were necessary for perfect recognition he saw it; and then, impelled by his former purpose--no time now for a new volition--he got himself up and walked on, with his eyes in front as before. he thought the sea-maid did not know that he had seen her, for her footsteps came on after his own. or, if she knew, she trusted him not to turn. that was well; she might trust him. never in his life had caius felt less temptation to do the thing that he held to be false. he knew now, for he had seen the whole line of the beach, that there was nothing there for him to fear, nothing that could give any adequate reason to any man to compel him to walk as he now walked. that did not matter; he had given his word. in the physical exaltation of the hour the best of him was uppermost. like the angels, who walk in heavenly paths, he had no desire to be a thing that could stoop from moral rectitude. the knowledge that his old love of the sea was his companion only enhanced the strength of his vow, only made all that the strength of vows mean more dear to him; and the moonlit shore was more beautiful, and life, each moment that he was then living, more absolutely good. so they went on, and he did not try to think where the sea-maid had come from, or whether the gray flapping dress and the girlish step were but the phantom guise that she could don for the hour, or whether, if he should turn and pursue her, she would drop from her upright height into the scaly folds that he had once seen, and plunge into the waves, or whether _that_ had been the masquerade, and she a true woman of the land. he did not know or care. come what come might, his spirit walked the beach that night with the beautiful spirit that the face of the sea-maid interpreted to him. chapter vii. the grave lady. the hills of cloud island were a fair sight to see in the moonlight. when the traveller came close to them, the beach ended obviously in a sandy road which led up on the island. there was a small white wooden house near the beach; there was candlelight within, but caius took no notice of it. the next building was a lighthouse, which stood three hundred yards farther on. the light looking seaward was not visible. he passed the distance swiftly, and no sooner were his feet level with the wall of the square wooden tower, than he turned about on the soft sandy road and faced the wind that had been racing with him, and looked. the scene was all as he might have expected to see it; but there was no living creature in sight. he stood in the gale, bare-headed, looking, looking; he had no desire to enter the house. the sea-maid was not in sight, truly; but as long as he stood alone in the moonlight scene, he felt that her presence was with him. then he remembered the dying man of whom he had been told, who lay in such need of his ministrations. the thought came with no binding sense of duty such as he had felt concerning the keeping of his vow. he would have scorned to do a dishonourable thing in the face of the uplifting charm of the nature around him, and, more especially, in the presence of his love; but what had nature and this, her beautiful child, to do with the tending of disease and death? better let the man die; better remain himself in the wholesome outside. he felt that he would put himself at variance with the companions of the last glorious hour if he attended to the dictates of this dolorous duty. yet, because of a dull habit of duty he had, he turned in a minute, and went into the house where he had been told he would receive guidance for the rest of his journey. he had no sooner knocked at the substantial door on the ground-floor of the lighthouse than it was opened by a sallow-faced, kindly-looking old woman. she admitted him, as if he were an expected comer, into a large square room, in which a lamp and a fire were burning. the room was exquisitely neat and clean, as if the inspector of lighthouses might be looked for at any moment. the woman, who was french, spoke a little english, and her french was of a sort which caius could understand and answer. she placed a chair for him by the heated stove, asked where mr. o'shea and the cart had tarried, listened with great interest to a brief account of the accident in the quicksand, and, without more delay, poured out hot strong coffee, which caius drank out of a large bowl. "are you alone in the house?" asked caius. the impression was strong upon him that he was in a place where the people bore a dangerous or mysterious character. a woman to be alone, with open doors, must either be in league with those from whom danger might be feared, or must possess mysterious powers of self-defence. the woman assured him that she was alone, and perfectly safe. she gave a kindly and careful glance at the traveller's boots, which had been wet, and brought him another pair. it was evident she knew who caius was, and wherefore he had come to the island, and that her careful entertainment of him was prearranged. it was arranged, too, that she should pass him on to the patient for whom his skill was chiefly desired that night as quickly as possible. she gave him only reasonable time to be warmed and fed, telling him the while what a good man this was who had lately been taken so very ill, what an excellent husband and father, how important his life was to the welfare of the community. "for," said she, "he is truly rather rich and very intelligent; so much so that some would even say that he was the friend of madame le maître." her voice had a crescendo of vehemence up to this last name. caius had his marching orders once more. his hostess went out with him to the moonlit road to point his way. she showed him where the road divided, and which path to take, and said that he must then pass three houses and enter the fourth. she begged him, with courteous authority, to hasten. the houses were a good way apart. after half an hour's fast walking, caius came to the appointed place. the house was large, of light-coloured wood, shingled all over roof and sides, and the light and shades in the lapping of the shingles gave the soft effect almost as of feathers in the lesser light of night. it stood in a large compound of undulating grassy ground. the whole lower floor of this house was one room. in the middle of it, on a small pallet bedstead, lay the sick man. beside him was a woman dressed in gray homespun, apparently his wife, and another woman who wore a dress not unlike that of a nun, a white cap being bandaged closely round her forehead, cheeks and chin. the nun-like dress gave her great dignity. she seemed to caius a strong-featured woman of large stature, apparently in early middle age. he was a good deal surprised when he found that this was madame le maître. he had had no definite notion of her, but this certainly did not fulfil his idea. it was but the work of a short time to do all that could be done that night for the sick man, to leave the remedies that were to be used. it was now midnight. the hot stove in the room, causing reaction from the strongly-stimulating air, made him again feel heavy with sleep. the nun-like lady, who had as yet said almost nothing to him, now touched him on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow her. she led him out into the night again, round the house and into a barn, in either side of which were tremendous bins of hay. "your house," she said, "is a long way from here, and you are very tired. in the house here there is the infection." here she pointed him to the hay, and, giving him a warm blanket, bade him good-night. caius shut the door, and found that the place was lit by dusky rays of moonlight that came through chinks in its walls. he climbed the ladder that reached to the top of the hay, and rolled himself and his blanket warmly in it. the barn was not cold. the airiness of the walls was a relief to him after the infected room. never had couch felt more luxurious. chapter viii. how they lived on the cloud. when the chinks of moonlight had been replaced by brighter chinks of sunlight, the new doctor who had come so gallantly to the aid of the sufferers on cloud island opened his eyes upon his first day there. he heard some slight sounds, and looked over the edge of his bed to see a little table set forth in the broad passage between the two stores of hay. a slip of a girl, of about fourteen years of age, was arranging dishes upon it. when caius scrambled down, she informed him, with childish timidity of mien, that madame le maître had said that he was to have his breakfast there before he went in to see "father." the child spoke french, but caius spoke english because it relieved his mind to do so. "upon my word!" he said, "madame le maître keeps everything running in very good order, and takes prodigious care of us all." "oh, oui, monsieur," replied the child sagely, judging from his look of amusement and the name he had repeated that this was the proper answer. the breakfast, which was already there, consisted of fish, delicately baked, and coffee. the young doctor felt exceedingly odd, sitting in the cart-track of a barn and devouring these viands from a breakfast-table that was tolerably well set out with the usual number of dishes and condiments. the big double door was closed to keep out the cold wind, but plenty of air and numerous sunbeams managed to come in. the sunbeams were golden bars of dust, crossing and interlacing in the twilight of the windowless walls. the slip of a girl in her short frock remained, perhaps from curiosity, perhaps because she had been bidden to do so, but she made herself as little obvious as possible, standing up against one corner near the door and shyly twisting some bits of hay in her hands. caius, who was enjoying himself, discovered a new source of amusement in pretending to forget her presence and then looking at her quickly, for he always found the glance of her big gray eyes was being withdrawn from his own face, and child-like confusion ensued. when he had eaten enough, he set to his proper work with haste and diligence. he made the girl tell him how many children there were, and find them all for him, so that in a trice he had them standing in a row in the sunlight outside the barn, with their little tongues all out, that the state of their health might be properly inspected. then he went in to his patient of the night before. the disease was diphtheria. it was a severe case; but the man had been healthy, and caius approved the arrangements that madame le maître had made to give him plenty of air and nourishment. the wife was alone with her husband this morning, and when caius had done all that was necessary, and given her directions for the proper protection of herself and the children, she told him that her eldest girl would go with him to the house of madame le maître. that lady, said she simply, would tell him where he was to go next, and all he was to do upon the island. "upon my word!" said caius again to himself, "it seems i am to be taken care of and instructed, truly." he had a sense of being patronized; but his spirits were high--nothing depressed him; and, remembering the alarming incident of the night before, he felt that the lady's protection might not be unnecessary. when he got to the front of the house, for the first time in the morning light, he saw that the establishment was of ample size, but kept with no care for a tasteful appearance. there was no path of any sort leading from the gate in the light paling to the door; all was a thick carpet of grass, covering the unlevelled ground. the grass was waving madly in the wind, which coursed freely over undulating fields that here displayed no shrubs or trees of any sort. caius wondered if the wind always blew on these islands; it was blowing now with the same zest as the day before; the sun poured down with brilliancy upon everything, and the sea, seen in glimpses, was blue and tempestuous. truly, it seemed a land which the sun and the moon and the wind had elected to bless with lavish self-giving. when caius opened the gate of the whitewashed paling, the girl who was to be his guide came round from the back of the house after him, and on her track came a sudden rush of all the other children, who, with curls and garments flying in the wind and delightful bursts of sudden laughter, came to stand in a row again with their tongues outstretched at caius' retreating form. the girl could only talk french, and she talked very little of that, giving him "yes" or "no" demurely, as they went up the road which ran inland through the island hills, keeping about midway between sea and sea. caius saw that the houses and small farms on either side resembled those which he had seen on the other island. small and rough many of them were; but their whitewashed walls, the strong sunshine, and the large space of grass or pine shrubs that was about each, gave them an appearance of cleanliness. there was no sign of the want or squalor that he had expected; indeed, so prosperous did many of the houses look, that he himself began to have an injured feeling, thinking that he had been brought to befriend people who might very well have befriended themselves. it was when they came out at a dip in the hills near the outer sea again that the girl stopped, and pointing caius to a house within sight, went back. this house in the main resembled the other larger houses of the island; but pine and birch trees were beginning to grow high about it, and on entering its enclosure caius trod upon a gravel path, and noticed banks of earth that in the summer time had held flowers. in front of the white veranda two powerful mastiffs were lying in the sun. these lions were not chained; they were looking for him before he appeared, but did not take the trouble to rise at the sight of him; only a low and ominous rumble, as of thunder beneath the earth, greeted his approach, and gave caius the strong impression that, if need was, they would arise to some purpose. a young girl opened the door. she was fresh and pretty-looking, but of plebeian figure and countenance. her dress was again gray homespun, hanging full and short about her ankles. her manner was different from that of those people he had been lately meeting, for it had that gentle reserve and formality that bespeaks training. she ushered him into a good-sized room, where three other girls like herself were engaged in sewing. sitting at a table with a book, from which she had apparently been reading to them, was the woman in the nun-like dress whom he had met before. the walls of the room were of unpainted pinewood, planed to a satin finish, and adorned with festoons of gray moss such as hangs from forest boughs. this was tied with knots of red bittersweet berries; the feathers of sea-birds were also displayed on the walls, and chains of their delicate-coloured eggs were hanging there. caius had not stepped across the threshold before he began to suspect that he had passed from the region of the real into the ideal. "she is a romantic-minded woman," he said to himself. "i wonder if she has much sense, after all?" then the woman whom he was thus inwardly criticising rose and came across the room to meet him. her perfect gravity, her dignity of bearing, and her gracious greeting, impressed him in spite of himself. pictures that one finds in history and fiction of lady abbesses rose before his mind; it was thus that he classified her. his opinion as to the conscious romance of her life altered, for the woman before him was very real, and he knew in a moment that she had seen and suffered much. her eyes were full of suffering and of solicitude; but it did not seem to him that the suffering and solicitude were in any way connected with a personal need, for there was also peace upon her face. the room did not contain much furniture. when caius sat down, and the lady had resumed her seat, he found, as is apt to be the way in empty rooms, that the chairs were near the wall, and that he, sitting facing her, had left nearly the room's width between them. the sewing maidens looked at them with large eyes, and listened to everything that was said; and although they were silent, except for the sound of their stitching, it was so evident that their thoughts must form a running commentary that it gave caius an odd feeling of acting in company with a dramatic chorus. the lady in front of him had no such feeling; there was nothing more evident about her than that she did not think of how she appeared or how she was observed. "you are very good to have come." she spoke with a slight french accent, whether natural or acquired he could not tell. then she left that subject, and began at once to tell the story of the plague upon the island--when it began, what efforts she and a few others had made to arrest it, the carelessness and obstinacy with which the greater part of the people had fostered it, its progress. this was the substance of what she said; but she did not speak of the best efforts as being her own, nor did she call the people stupid and obstinate. she only said: "they would not have their houses properly cleaned out; they would not wash or burn garments that were infected; they would not use disinfectants, even when we could procure them; they will not yet. you may say that in this wind-swept country there can be nothing in nature to foster such a disease, nothing in the way the houses are built; but the disease came here on a ship, and it is in the houses of the people that it lingers. they will not isolate the sick; they will not----" she stopped as if at a loss for a word. she had been speaking in a voice whose music was the strain of compassion. "in fact," said caius, with some impatience, "they are a set of fools, and worse, for they won't take a telling. your duty is surely done. they do not deserve that you should risk your life nursing them; they simply deserve to be left to suffer." she looked at him for a minute, as if earnestly trying to master a view of the case new to her. "yes," speaking slowly. he saw that her hands, which were clasped in her lap, pressed themselves more closely together--"yes, that is what they deserve; but, you see, they are very ignorant. they do not see the importance of these precautions; they have not believed me; they will not believe you. they think quite honestly and truly that they will get on well enough in doing their own way." "pig-headed!" commented caius. then, perceiving that he had not quite carried her judgment along with his: "you yourself, madam, have admitted that they do not deserve that either you or i should sacrifice our lives to them." "ah, no," she replied, trouble of thought again in her eyes; "they do not deserve that. but what do we deserve--you and i?" there was no studied effect in the question. she was like one trying to think more clearly by expressing her thought aloud. "madam," replied he, the smile of gallantry upon his lips, "i have no doubt that you deserve the richest blessings of earth and heaven. for myself----" he shrugged his shoulders, just about to say conventionally, flippantly, that he was a sad, worthless fellow, but in some way her sincerity made him sincere, and he finished: "i do not know that i have done anything to forfeit them." he supposed, as soon as he had said the words, that she would have a theological objection to this view, and oppose it by rote; but there was nothing of disapproval in her mien; there was even a gleam of greater kindliness for him in her eye, and she said, not in answer, but as making a remark by the way: "that is just as i supposed when i asked you to come. you are like the young ruler, who could not have been conceited because our lord felt greatly attracted to him." before this caius had had a pleasing consciousness, regarding himself as an interesting stranger talking to a handsome and interested woman. now he had wit enough to perceive that her interest in him never dipped to the level of ordinary social relationships. he felt a sense of remoteness, and did not even blush, though knowing certainly that satire, although it was not in her mind, was sneering at him from behind the circumstance. the lady went right on, almost without pause, taking up the thread of her argument: "but when the angels whisper to us that the best blessings of earth and heaven are humility and faith and the sort of love that does not seek its own, do we get up at once and spend our time learning these things? or do we just go on as before, and think our own way good enough? 'we are fools and worse, and will not take a telling.'" a smile broke upon her lip now for the first time as she looked at him. "'pig-headed!'" she said. caius had seen that smile before. it passed instantly, and she sat before him with grave, unruffled demeanour; but all his thoughts and feelings seemed a-whirl. he could not collect his mind; he could not remember what she had said exactly; he could not think what to answer; indeed, he could not think at all. there had been a likeness to his phantastic lady-love of the sea; then it was gone again; but it left him with all his thoughts confounded. at length--because he felt that he must look like a fool indeed--he spoke, stammering the first thing that occurred to him: "the patient that i have seen did not appear to be in a house that was ill-ventilated or--or--that is, he was isolated from the rest of the family." he perceived that the lady had not the slightest knowledge of what it was that had really confused him. he knew that in her eyes, in the eyes of the maidens, it must appear that her home-thrust had gone to his heart, that he had changed the subject because too weak to be able to answer her. he was mortified at this, but he could not retrace his steps in the conversation, for she had already answered him. the household he had already visited, she said, with a few others, had helped her by following sanitary rules; and then she went on talking about what those rules were, what could and could not be done in the circumstances of the families affected. as she talked on, caius knew that the thing he had thought must be false and foolish. this woman and that other maiden were not the same in thought, or character, or deed, or aspect. furthermore, what experience he had made him feel certain that the woman who had known him in that relationship could not be so indifferent to his recognition, so indifferent to all that was in him to which her beauty appealed, as this woman was, and of this woman's indifference he felt convinced. the provision made for the board and lodging of the new doctor was explained to him. it was not considered safe for him to live with any of the families of the island. a very small wooden building, originally built as a stable, but never used, had been hastily remodelled into a house for him. it was some way further down the winding road, within sight of the house of madame le maître. caius was taken to this new abode, and found that it contained two rooms, furnished with the necessities and many of the comforts of life. the stove was good; abundance of fuel was stacked near the house; simple cooking utensils hung in the outer room; adjoining it, or rather, in a bit of the same building set apart, was a small stable, in which a very good horse was standing. the horse was for his use. if he could be his own bed-maker, cook, and groom, it was evident that he would lack for nothing. a man whom madame le maître sent showed caius his quarters, and delivered to him the key; he also said that madame le maître would be ready in an hour to ride over the island with him and introduce him to all the houses in which there was illness. caius was left for the hour to look over his establishment and make friends with his horse. it was all very surprising. chapter ix. the sick and the dead. the bit of road that lay between madame le maître's house and the house allotted to caius led, winding down a hill, through a stunted fir-wood. the small firs held out gnarled and knotty branches towards the road; their needles were a dark rich green. down this road caius saw the lady come riding. her horse was a beautiful beast, hardly more than a colt, of light make and chestnut colour. she herself was not becomingly attired; she wore just the same loose black dress that she had worn in the house, and over the white cap a black hood and cloak were muffled. no doubt in ancient times, before carriages were in use, ladies rode in such feminine wrappings; but the taste of caius had been formed upon other models. he mounted his own horse and joined her on the road without remark. he had found no saddle, only a blanket with girths, and upon this he supposed he looked quite as awkward as she did. the lady led, and they rode on across the island. caius knew that now it was the right time to tell madame le maître what had occurred the night before, and the ill-usage he had suffered. as she appeared to be the most important person on the island, it was right that she should know of the mysterious band of bandits upon the beach--if, indeed, she did not already know; perhaps it was by power of these she reigned. he found himself able to conjecture almost anything. when he had quickened his horse and come beside her for the purpose of relating his adventure, she began to speak to him at once. she told him what number of cases of illness were then on her list--six in all. she told him the number who had already died; and then they came past the cemetery upon the hillside, and she pointed out the new-made graves. it appeared that, although at that time there was an abatement in the number of cases, diphtheria had already made sad ravages among the little population; and as the winter would cause the people to shut up their houses more and more closely, it was certain to increase rather than to diminish. then madame le maître told him of one case, and of another, in which the family bereavement seemed particularly sad. the stories she told had great detail, but they were not tedious. caius listened, and forgot that her voice was musical or that her hood and cloak were ugly; he only thought of the actors in the short sad idylls of the island that she put before him. when they entered the first house, he discovered that she herself had been in the habit of visiting each of the sick every day as nurse, and, as far as her simple skill could go, as doctor too. in this house it was a little child that lay ill, and as soon as caius saw it he ceased to hope for its recovery. they used the new remedies that he had brought with him, and when he looked round for someone who could continue to apply them, he found that the mother was already dead, and the father took no charge of the child--he was not there. a half-grown boy of about fifteen was its only nurse, and he was not deft or wise, although love, or a rude sense of conscience, had kept him from deserting his post. "when we have visited the others, i will come back and remain," said madame le maître. so they rode on down the hill and along the shingled beach that edged a lagoon. here the sea lapped softly and they were sheltered from the wind. here, too, they saw the other islands lying in the crescent they composed, and they saw the waves of the bay break on the sand-bank that was the other arm of the lagoon. still caius did not tell about his adventure of the night before. the lady looked preoccupied, as if she was thinking about the angel of death that was hovering over the cottage they had left. the next house was a large one, and here two children were ill. they were well cared for, for two of the young girls whom he had seen in madame le maître's house were there for the time to nurse them. they took one of these damsels with them when they went on. she was willing to walk, but caius set her upon his horse and led it; in this way they made quicker progress. up a hill they went, and over fields, and in a small house upon a windy slope they found the mother of a family lying very ill. here, after caius had said all that there was to say, and madame le maître, with skilful hands, had done all that she could do in a short time, they left the young girl. at the next and last house of their round, where the day before one child had been ill, they now found three tossing and crying with pain and fever. when it was time for them to go, caius saw his companion silently wring her hands at the thought of leaving them, for the mother, worn out and very ignorant, was the only nurse. it did not seem that it could be helped. caius went out to his horse, and madame le maître to hers, but he saw her stand beside it as if too absent in mind to spring to its back; her face was looking up into the blue above. "you are greatly troubled," said caius. "oh yes," her voice was low, but it came like the sound of a cry. "i do not know what to do. all these months i have begged and entreated the people to keep away from those houses where there was illness. it was their only hope. and now that they begin to understand that, i cannot bring the healthy to nurse the sick, even if they were willing to come. they will take no precautions as we do. it is not safe; i have tried it." she did not look at caius, she was looking at the blue that hung over the sea which lay beneath them, but the weariness of a long long effort was in her tone. "could we not manage to bring them all to one house that would serve as a hospital?" "now that you have come, perhaps we can," she said, "but at present----" she looked helplessly at the door of the house they had left. "at present i will nurse these children," caius said. "i do not need to see the others again until evening." he tied his horse in a shed, and nursed the children until the moon was bright. then, when he had left them as well as might be for the night, he set out to return on his former track by memory. the island was very peaceful; on field or hill or shore he met no one, except here and there a plodding fisherman, who gave him "good-evening" without apparently knowing or caring who he was. the horse they knew, no doubt, that was enough. he made the same round as before, beginning at the other end. at the house where the woman was ill the girl who was nursing her remained. at the next house the young girl, who was dressed for the road, ingenuously claimed his protection for her homeward way. "i will go with you, monsieur, it will be more safe for me." so he put her on his horse, but they did not talk to one another. at the third house they found madame le maître weeping passionately over a dead baby, and the lout of a boy weeping with her. it surprised caius to feel suddenly that he could almost have wept, too, and yet he believed that the child was better dead. someone had been out into the winter fields and gathered the small white everlasting flowers that were still waving there, and twined them in the curls of the baby's hair, and strewed them upon the meagre gray sheet that covered it. when they rode down to the village they were all quite silent. caius felt as if he had lived a long time upon this island. his brain was full of plans for a hospital and for disinfecting the furniture of the houses. he visited the good man in whose barn he had slept the preceding night. he went to his little house and fed himself and his horse. he discovered his portmanteaus that o'shea had promised to deliver, and found that their contents had not been tampered with; but even this did not bring his mind back with great interest to the events of the former night. he was thinking of other things, and yet he hardly knew of what he was thinking. chapter x. a light-giving word. the next morning, before caius went out, he wrote a short statement of all that had occurred beside the quicksand. the motive that prompted him to do this was the feeling that it would be difficult for him to make the statement to madame le maître verbally. he began to realize that it was not easy for him to choose the topics of conversation when they were together. she did not ride with him next day, as now he knew the road, but in the course of the morning he saw her at the house where the three children were ill, and she came out into the keen air with him to ask some questions, and no doubt for the necessary refreshment of leaving the close house, for she walked a little way on the dry, frozen grass. heavy as was the material of her cloak and hood, the strong wind toyed with its outer parts as with muslin, but it could not lift the closely-tied folds that surrounded her face and heavily draped her figure. caius stood with her on the frozen slope. beneath them they could see the whole stretch of the shining sand-dune that led to the next island, the calm lagoon and the rough water in the bay beyond. it did not seem a likely place for outlaws to hide in; the sun poured down on every hill and hollow of the sand. caius explained then that his portmanteaus, with the stores, had arrived safely; but that he had reason to think that the man o'shea was not trusty, that, either out of malice or fear of the companions among whom he found himself, he had threatened his, dr. simpson's, life in the most unwarrantable manner. he then presented the statement which he had drawn up, and commended it to her attention. madame le maître had listened to his words without obvious interest; in fact, he doubted if she had got her mind off the sick children before she opened the paper. he would have liked to go away now, leaving the paper with her, but she did not give him that opportunity. "ah! this is----" then, more understandingly, "this is an account you have written of your journey hither?" caius intimated that it was merely a complaint against o'shea. yet he felt sure, while she was reading it, that, if she had any liveliness of fancy, she must be interested in its contents, and if she had proper appreciation, she must know that he had expressed himself well. when she had finished, however, instead of coveting the possession of the document, she gently gave it back to him. "i am sorry," she said sincerely, "that you were put to inconvenience. it was so kind of you to come, that i had hoped to make your journey as comfortable as possible; but the sands are very treacherous, not because the quicksands are large or deep, but because they shift in stormy weather, sometimes appearing in one place, and sometimes in another. it has been explained"--she was looking at him now, quite interested in what she was saying--"by men who have visited these islands, that this is to be accounted for by the beds of gypsum that lie under the sand, for under some conditions the gypsum will dissolve." the explanation concerning the gypsum was certainly interesting, but the nature of the quicksand was not the point which caius had brought forward. "it is this fact, that one cannot tell where the sand will be soft, that makes it necessary to have a guide in travelling over the beach. the people here become accustomed to the appearance of the soft places, but it seems that o'shea must have been deceived by the moonlight." "i do not blame him for the accident," said caius, "but for what happened afterwards." her slight french accent gave to each of her words a quaint, distinct form of its own. "o'shea is--he is what you might call _funny_ in his way of looking at things." she paused a moment, as if entirely conscious of the inadequacy of the explanation. "i do not think," she continued, as if in perplexity, "that i can explain this matter any more; but if you will talk to o'shea----" "madam," burst out caius, "can it be that there is a large band of lawless men who have their haunts so near this island, and you do not know of it? that," he added, with emphatic reproach, "is impossible." "i never heard of any such band of men." madame le maître spoke gently, and the dignity of her gentleness was such that caius was ashamed of his vehemence and his reproach. what he wondered at, what he chafed at, was, that she showed no wonder concerning an incident which her last statement made all the more remarkable. she began to turn to go towards the house, and the mind of caius hit upon the one weak point in her own acknowledged view of the matter. "you have said that it is not safe for a stranger to walk upon the sands without a guide; if you doubt my statement that these men threatened my life, it yet remains that i was left to finish my journey alone. i do not believe that there was danger myself. i do not believe that a man would sink over his head in these holes; but according to their belief and yours, madam----" he stopped, for she had turned round with a distinct flash of disapproval in her eyes. "i do not doubt your statement." she paused, and he knew that his accusation had been rude. "it would not occur to me"--there was still the slight quaintness of one unaccustomed to english--"that you could do anything unworthy of a gentleman." another pause, and caius knew that he was bound over to keep the peace. "i think o'shea got himself into trouble, and that he did the best he could for you; but o'shea lives not far from your own house. he is not my servant, except that he rents my husband's land." she paused again. caius would have urged that he had understood otherwise, or that hitherto he had not found o'shea either civil or communicative; but it appeared that the lady had something more to say after her emphasis of pause, and when she said it caius bid her good-day without making further excuse or justification. she said: "i did not understand from o'shea that he allowed you to walk on the sands without some one who would have warned you if there had been danger." when caius was riding on his way, he experienced something of that feeling of exaltation that he had felt in the presence of his inexplicable lady-love. had he not proof at least now that she was no dream or phantasy, and more than that, that she inhabited the same small land with him? these people knew her; nay (his mind worked quickly), was it not evident that she had been the link of connection between them and himself? she knew him, then--his home, his circumstances, his address. (his horse was going now where and how it would; the man's mind was confounded by the questions that came upon it pell-mell, none waiting for an answer.) in that other time when she had lived in the sea, and he had seen her from the desolate bit of coast, who was she? where had she really lived? in what way could she have gained her information concerning him? what could have tempted her to play the part of a fishy thing? he remembered the monstrous skin that had covered her; he remembered her motion in the water. then he thought of her in the gray homespun dress, such as a maid might trip her garden in, as he had seen her travelling between the surf and the dune in the winter blast. well, he lived in an enchanted land; he had to deal with men and women of no ordinary stuff and make, but they acknowledged their connection with her. he was sure that she must be near him. the explanation must come--of that, burning with curiosity as he was, he recked little. a meeting must come; all his pulses tingled with the thought. it was a thought of such a high sort of bliss to him that it seemed to wrap and enfold his other thoughts; and when he remembered again to guide his horse--all that day as he went about his work--he lived in it and worked in it. he went that evening to visit o'shea, who lived in a good-sized house half a mile or so from his own. from this interview, and from the clue which madame le maître had given, he began strongly to suspect that, for some reason unknown, o'shea's threatenings were to be remembered more in the light of a practical joke than as serious. as to where the men had come from who had played their part, as to where the boy had gone to, or whether the boy and the lady were one--on these heads he got no light. the farmer affected stupidity--affected not to understand his questions, or answered them with such whimsical information on the wrong point that little was revealed. yet caius did not quarrel with o'shea. was it not possible that he, rude, whimsical man that he was, might have influence with the sea-maid of the laughing face? next morning caius received a formal message--the compliments of madame le maître, and she would be glad if he would call upon her before he went elsewhere. he passed again between the growling mastiffs, and found the lady with her maidens engaged in the simple household tasks that were necessary before they went to their work of mercy. madame le maître stood as she spoke to him: "when i wrote to you i said that if you came to us you would have no chance of returning until the spring. i find that that is not true. our winter has held off so long that another vessel from the mainland has called--you can see her lying in the bay. she will be returning to picton to-morrow. i think it right to tell you this; not that we do not need you now as much as we did at first; not but that my hope and courage would falter if you went; but now that you have seen the need for yourself, how great or how little it is, just as you may think, you ought to reconsider, and decide whether you will stay or not." caius spoke hastily: "i will stay." "think! it is for four months of snow and ice, and you will receive no letters, see no one that you could call a friend." "i will stay." "you have already taught me much; with the skill that you have imparted and the stores that you have brought, which i will pay for, we should be much better off than if you had not come. we should still feel only gratitude to you." "i have no thought of leaving." "remember, you think now that you have come that it is only a handful of people that you can benefit, and they will not comprehend the sacrifice that you have made, or be very grateful." "yes, i think that," replied caius, admitting her insight. "at the same time, i will remain." she sighed, and her sigh was explained by her next words: "yet you do not remain for love of the work or the people." caius felt that his steady assertion that he would remain had perhaps appeared to vaunt a heroism that was not true. he supposed that she had seen his selfishness of motive, and that it was her time now to let him see that she had not much admiration for him, so that he might make his choice without bias. "it is true that i do not love the people, but i will pass the winter here." if the lady had had the hard thought of him that he attributed to her, there was no further sign of it, for she thanked him now with a gratitude so great that silent tears trembled in her eyes. chapter xi. the lady's husband. it was impossible but that caius should take a keen interest in his medical work. it was the first time that he had stood alone to fight disease, and the weight of the responsibility added zest to his care of each particular case. it was, however, natural to him to be more interested in the general weal than in the individual, more interested in a theoretical problem than in its practical working. his mind was concerned now as to where and how the contagion hid itself, reappearing as it had done, again and again in unlikely places; for there could be assuredly no home for it in air, or sea, or land. nor could drains be at fault, for there were none. next to this, the subject most constantly in his mind was the plan of the hospital. madame le maître had said to him: "i have tried to persuade the people to bring their sick to beds in my house, where we would nurse them, but they will not. it is because they are angry to think that the sick from different families would be put together and treated alike. they have great notions of the differences between themselves, and they cannot realize the danger, or believe that this plan would avert it; but now that you have come, no doubt you will be able to explain to them more clearly. perhaps they will listen to you, because you are a man and a doctor. also, what i have said will have had time to work. you may reap where i have sown." she had looked upon him encouragingly, and caius had felt encouraged; but when he began to talk to the people, both courage and patience quickly ebbed. he could not countenance the plan of bringing the sick into the house where madame le maître and the young girls lived. he wanted the men who were idle in the winter time to build a temporary shed of pine-wood, which would have been easy enough, but the men laughed at him. the only reason that caius did not give them back scorn for scorn and anger for their lazy indifference was the reason that formed his third and greatest interest in his work; this was his desire to please madame le maître. if he had never known and loved the lady of the sea, he thought that his desire to please madame le maître would have been almost the same. she exercised over him an inexplicable influence, and he would have felt almost superstitious at being under this spell if he had not observed that everyone who came much in contact with her, and who was able to appreciate her, was ruled also, and that, not by any claim of authority she put forth, but just because it seemed to happen so. she was more unconscious of this influence than anyone. those under her rule comprised one or two of the better men of the island, many of the poor women, the girls in her house, and o'shea. with regard to himself, caius knew that her influence, if not augmented, was supplemented, by his belief that in pleasing her he was making his best appeal to the favour of the woman he loved. he never from the first day forgot his love in his work. his business was to do all that he could to serve madame le maître, whose heart was in the healing of the people, but his business also was to find out the answer to the riddle in which his own heart was bound up. the first step in this, obviously, was to know more about madame le maître and o'shea. the lady he dared not question; the man he questioned with persistency and with what art he could command. it was one night, not a week after his advent, that he had so far come to terms with o'shea that he sat by the stove in the latter's house, and did what he could to keep up conversation with little aid from his host. o'shea sat on one wooden chair, with his stockinged feet crossed upon another, and his legs forming a bridge between. he was smoking, and in the lamplight his smooth, queer face looked like a brown apple that had begun to shrivel--just begun, for o'shea was not old, and only a little wrinkled. his wife came often into the room, and stood looking with interest at caius. she was a fair woman, with a broad tranquil face and much light hair that was brushed smoothly. caius talked of the weather, for the snow was falling. then, after awhile: "by the way, o'shea, _who_ is madame le maître?" the other had not spoken for a long time; now he took his clay pipe out of his mouth, and answered promptly: "an angel from heaven." "ah, yes; that, of course." caius stroked his moustache with the action habitual to drawing-room gallantry; then, instead of persisting, he formed his question a little differently: "who is mr. le maître?" "sea-captain," said o'shea. "oh! then _where_ is he?" "don't know." "isn't that rather strange, that his wife should be here, and that you should not know where the husband is?" "i can't see the ships on the other side of the world." "where did he go to?" "well, when he last sailed"--deliberately--"he went to newcastle. his ship is what they call a tramp; it don't belong to any loine. so at newcastle she was hired to go to africy. like enough, there she got cargo for some place else." "oh! a very long voyage." "she carries steam; the longest voyage comes to an end quick enough in these days." "has madame le maître always lived on this island? was she married here?" "she came here a year this october past. she came from a place near the pierced rock, south of gaspé basin. i lived there myself. i came here because the skipper had good land here that she said i could farm." caius meditated on this. "then, you have known her ever since she was a child?" "saw her married." "what does her husband look like?" "well"--a long pause of consideration--"like a man." "what sort of a man?" "neither like you nor me." "i never noticed that we were alike." "you trim your beard, i haven't any; the skipper, he's hairy." caius conceived a great disgust for the captain. he felt pretty well convinced also that he was no favourite with o'shea. he would have liked much to ask if madame le maître liked her husband, but if his own refinement had not forbidden, he had a wholesome idea that o'shea, if roused, would be a dangerous enemy. "i don't understand why, if she is married, she wears the dress of a religious order." "never saw a nun dressed jist like her. guess if you went about kissing and embracing these women ye would find it an advantage to be pretty well covered up; but"--here a long time of puffing at the pipe--"it's an advantage for more than women not to see too much of an angel." "has she any relations, anyone of her own family? where do they live?" there was no answer. "i suppose you knew her people?" o'shea sprang up and opened the house door, and the snow drove in as he held it. "i thought," he said, "i heard a body knocking." "no one knocked," said caius impatiently. "i heard someone." he stood looking very suspiciously out, and so good was his acting, if it was acting, that caius, who came and looked over his shoulder, had a superstitious feeling when he saw the blank, untrodden snow stretching wide and white into the glimmering night. he remembered that the one relative he believed the lady to have had appeared to him in strange places and vanished strangely. "you didn't hear a knock; you were dreaming." caius began to button on his coat. "i wasn't even asleep." o'shea gave a last suspicious look to the outside. "o'shea," said caius, "has--has madame le maître a daughter?" the farmer turned round to him in astonishment. "bless my heart alive, no!" the snow was only two or three inches deep when caius walked home; it was light as plucked swan's-down about his feet. everywhere it was falling slowly in small dry flakes. there was little wind to make eddies in it. the waning moon had not yet risen, but the landscape, by reason of its whiteness, glimmered just visible to the sight. chapter xii. the maiden invented. the fishing-boats and small schooners were dragged high up on the beach. the ice formed upon the bay that lay in the midst of the islands. the carpet of snow grew more and more thick upon field and hill, and where the dwarf firwoods grew so close that it could not pass between their branches, it draped them, fold above fold, until one only saw the green here and there standing out from the white garment. in these days a small wooden sleigh was given to caius, to which he might harness his horse, and in which he might sit snug among oxskins if he preferred that sort of travelling to riding. madame le maître still rode, and caius discarded his sleigh and rode also. missing the warmth of the skins, he was soon compelled by the cold to copy robinson crusoe and make himself breeches and leggings of the hides. in these first weeks one hope was always before his eyes. in every new house which he entered, at every turn of the roads, which began to be familiar to him, he hoped to see the maiden who had followed him upon the beach. he dreamed of her by night; he not only hoped, he expected to see her each day. it was of course conceivable that she might have returned to some other island of the group; but caius did not believe this, because he felt convinced she must be under the protection of his friends; and also, since he had arrived the weather had been such that it would have been an event known to all the fishermen if another party had made a journey along the sands. when the snow came the sands were impassable. as soon as the ice on the bay would bear, there would be coming and going, no doubt; but until then caius had the restful security that she was near him, and that it could not be many days before he saw her. the only flaw in his conclusion was that the fact did not bear it out; he did not see her. at length it became clear that the maiden was hiding herself. caius ceased to hope that he would meet her by chance, because he knew he would already have done so if it were not willed otherwise. then his mind grew restless again, and impatient; he could not even imagine where she could lie hidden, or what possible reason there could be for a life of uncomfortable concealment. caius had not allowed either o'shea or madame le maître to suspect that in his stumble he had involuntarily seen his companion on the midnight journey. he did not think that the sea-maid herself knew that he had seen her there. he might have been tempted now to believe that the vision was some bright illusion, if its reality had not been proved by the fact that madame le maître knew that he had a companion, and that o'shea had staked much that he should not take that long moonlight walk by her side. since the day on which he had become sure that the sea-maid had such close and real connection with human beings that he met every day, he had ceased to have those strange and uncomfortable ideas about her, which, in half his moods, relegated her into the region of freaks practised upon mortals by the denizens of the unseen, or, still farther, into the region of dreams that have no reality. however, now that she had retired again into hiding, this assurance of his was small comfort. he would have resolutely inquired of madame le maître who it was who had been sent to warn him of danger if need be upon the beach, but that the lady was not one to allow herself willingly to be questioned, and in exciting her displeasure he might lose the only chance of gaining what he sought. then, too, with the thought of accosting the lady upon this subject there always arose in his mind the remembrance of the brief minute in which, to his own confounding, he had seen the face of the sea-maid in the lady's own face, and a phantom doubt came to him as to whether she were not herself the sea-maid, disfigured and made aged by the wrappings she wore. he did not, however, believe this. he had every reason to refuse the belief; and if he had had no other, this woman's character was enough, it appeared to him, to give the lie to the thought. a more intelligent view concerning that fleeting likeness was that the two women were nearly related to one another, the younger in charge of the elder; and that the younger, who had for some purpose or prank played about in the waters near his home, must have lived in some house there, must have means of communication with the place, and must have acquainted madame le maître with his position when the need of a physician arose. what was so dissatisfying to him was that all this was the merest conjecture, that the lady whom he loved was a person whom he had been obliged to invent in order to explain the appearances that had so charmed him. he had not a shadow of proof of her existence. the ice became strong, and bridged over the bay that lay within the crescent of islands. all the islands, with their dunes, were covered with snow; the gales which had beaten up the surf lessened in force; and on the long snow-covered beaches there was only a fringe of white breakers upon the edge of a sea that was almost calm. the first visitor of any importance who came across the bay was the english clergyman. nearly all the people on cloud island were protestants, in so far as they had any religion. they were not a pious people, but it seemed that this priest had been exceedingly faithful to them in their trouble, and when he had been obliged to close the church for fear of the contagion, had visited them regularly, except in those few weeks between the seasons when the road by the beach had been almost impassable. caius was first aware of the advent of this welcome visitor by a great thumping at his door one morning before he had started on his daily round. on opening it, he saw a hardy little man in a fur coat, who held out his hand to him in enthusiastic greeting. "well, now, this is what i call being a good boy--a very good boy--to come here to look after these poor folk." caius disclaimed the virtue which he did not feel. "motives! i don't care anything about motives. the point is to do the right thing. i'm a good boy to come and visit them; you're a good boy to come and cure them. they are not a very grateful lot, i'm sorry to say, but we have nothing to do with that; we're put here to look after them, and what we feel about it, or what they feel about it, is not the question." he had come into caius' room, stamping the snow off his big boots. he was a spare, elderly man, with gray hair and bright eyes. his horse and sleigh stood without the door, and the horse jingled its bells continually. here was a friend! caius decided at once to question this man concerning madame le maître, and--that other lady in whose existence he believed. "the main thing that you want on these islands is nerve," said the clergyman. "it would be no good at all now"--argumentatively--"for the bishop to send a man here who hadn't nerve. you never know where you'll meet a quicksand, or a hole in the ice. chubby and i nearly went under this morning and never were seen again. some of these fellows had been cutting a hole, and--well, we just saw it in time. it would have been the end of us, i can tell you; but then, you see, if you are being a good boy and doing what you're told, that does not matter so much." it appeared that chubby was the clergyman's pony. in a short time caius had heard of various other adventures which she and her master had shared together. he was interested to know if any of them would throw any light upon the remarkable conduct of o'shea and his friends; but they did not. "the men about here," he said--"i can't make anything out of them--are they lawless?" "you see"--in explanatory tone--"if you take a man and expose him to the sea and the wind for half his life, you'll find that he is pretty much asleep the other half. he may walk about with his eyes open, but his brain's pretty much asleep; he's just equal to lounging and smoking. there are just two things these men can do--fish, and gather the stuff from wrecks. they'll make from eight dollars a day at the fishing, and from sixteen to twenty when a wreck's in. they can afford to be idle the rest of the time, and they are gloriously idle." "do they ever gather in bands to rob wrecked ships, or for other unlawful purposes?" "oh no, not in the least! oh no, nothing of the kind! they'll steal from a wreck, of course, if they get the chance; but on the sly, not by violence. their worst sin is independence and self-righteousness. you can't teach the children anything in the schools, for instance, for the parents won't have them punished; they are quite sure that their children never do anything wrong. that comes of living so far out of the world, and getting their living so easily. i can tell you, utopia has a bad effect on character." caius let the matter go for that time; he had the prospect of seeing the clergyman often. another week, when the clergyman had come to the island and caius met him by chance, they had the opportunity of walking up a long snowy hill together, leading their horses. caius asked him then about madame le maître and o'shea, and heard a plain consecutive tale of their lives and of their coming to the island, which denuded the subject of all unknown elements and appeared to rob it of special interest. captain le maître, it appeared, had a life-long lease of the property on cloud island, and also some property on the mainland south of gaspé basin; but the land was worth little except by tillage, and, being a seaman, he neglected it. his father had had the land before him. pembroke, the clergyman, had seen his father. he had never happened to see the son, who would now be between forty and fifty years of age; but when madame le maître had come to look after the farm on cloud island, she had made herself known to him as in charge of her husband's affairs. she found that she could not get the land worked by the islanders, and had induced o'shea, who it seemed was an old farm hand of her own father's, to settle upon this farm, which was a richer one than the one he had had upon the mainland. the soil of the islands, pembroke said, was in reality exceedingly rich, but in no case had it ever been properly worked, and he was in hopes that now madame le maître might produce a model farm, which would be of vast good in showing the islanders how much they lost by their indifferent manner of treating their land. "why did she come to the islands?" "conscientiousness, i think. the land here was neglected; the people here certainly present a field white to harvest to anyone who has the missionary spirit." "is she--is she very devout?" asked caius. "well, yes, in her own way she is--mind, i say in her own way. i couldn't tell you, now, whether she is protestant or papist; i don't believe she knows herself." "he that sitteth between two stools----" suggested caius, chiefly for want of something to say. "well, no, i wouldn't say that. bless you! the truest hearts on god's earth don't trouble about religious opinions; they have got the essential oil expressed out of them, and that's all they want." to caius this subject of the lady's religion appeared a matter in which he had no need to take interest, but the other went on: "she was brought up in a convent, you know--a country convent somewhere on the gaspé coast, and, from what she tells me, the nuns had the good policy to make her happy. she tells me that where the convent gardens abutted on the sea, she and her fellows used to be allowed to fish and row about. you see, her mother had been a catholic, and the father, being an old miser, had money, so i suppose the sisters thought they could make a nun of her; and very likely they would have done, for she is just that sort, but the father stopped that little game by making her marry before he died." "i always had an idea that the people on the coast up there were all poor and quite uneducated." "well, yes, for the most part they are pretty much what you would see on these islands; but our bishop tells me that, here and there, there are excellent private houses, and the priests' houses and the convents are tolerably well off. but, to tell you the truth, i think this lady's father had some education, and his going to that part of the country may be accounted for by what she told me once about her mother. her mother was a dancer, a ballet-dancer, a very estimable and pious woman, her daughter says, and i have no doubt it is true; but an educated man who makes that sort of marriage, you know, may prefer to live out of the world." caius was becoming interested. "if she has inherited her mother's strength and lightness, that explains how she gets on her horse. by jove! i never saw a woman jump on a horse without help as she does." "just so; she has marvellous strength and endurance, and the best proof of that, is the work she is doing nowadays. why, with the exception of three days that she came to see my wife, and would have died if she hadn't, she has worked night and day among these sick people for the last six months. she came to see my wife pretty much half dead, but the drive on the sand and a short rest pretty well set her up again." pembroke drifted off here into discourse about the affairs of his parish, which comprised all the protestant inhabitants of the island. his voice went on in the cheerful, jerky, matter-of-fact tone in which he always talked. caius did not pay much heed, except that admiration for the sweet spirit of the man and for the pluck and hardihood with which he carried on his work, grew in him in spite of his heedlessness, for there was nothing that pembroke suspected less than that he himself was a hero. "pretty tough work you have of it," said caius at last; "if it was only christening and marrying and burying them all, you would have more than enough to do, with the distances so great." "oh, bless you! my boy, yes; it's the distance and the weather; but what are we here for but to do our work? life isn't long, any way, but i'll tell you what it is--a man needs to know the place to know what he can do and what he can't. now, the bishop comes over for a week in summer--i don't know a finer man than our bishop anywhere; he doesn't give himself much rest, and that's a fact; but they've sent him out from england, and what does he know about these islands? he said to me that he wanted me to have morning service every sunday, as i have it at harbour island, and service every sunday afternoon here on the cloud." "he might as well have suggested that you had morning service on the magdalens, afternoon service in newfoundland, and evening service in labrador." "exactly, just as possible, my boy; but they had the diphtheria here, so i couldn't bring him over, even in fair weather, to see how he liked the journey." all this time caius was cudgelling his brains to know how to bring the talk back to madame le maître, and he ended by breaking in with an abrupt inquiry as to how old she was. a slight change came over pembroke's demeanour. it seemed to caius that his confidential tone lapsed into one of suspicious reserve. "not very old"--dryly. caius perceived that he was being suspected of taking an undue interest in the benefactress of the island. the idea, when it came from another, surprised him. "look here! i don't take much interest in madame le maître, except that she seems a saint and i'd like to please her; but what i want to know is this--there is a girl who is a sister, or niece, or daughter, or some other relation of hers, who is on these islands. who is she, and where is she?" "do you mean any of the girls she has in her house? she took them from families upon the island only for the sake of training them." "i don't mean any of those girls!"--this with emphasis. "i don't know who you mean." caius turned and faced him. do what he would, he could not hide his excited interest. "you surely must know. it is impossible that there should be a girl, young, beautiful and refined, living somewhere about here, and you not know." "i should say so--quite impossible." "then, be kind enough to tell me who she is. i have an important reason for asking." "my dear boy, i would tell you with all the pleasure in the world if i knew." "i have seen her." caius spoke in a solemn voice. the priest looked at him with evident interest and curiosity. "well, where was she, and who was she?" "you must know: you are in madame le maître's confidence; you travel from door to door, day in and day out; you know everybody and everything upon these islands." "i assure you," said the priest, "that i never heard of such a person." chapter xiii. white birds; white snow; white thoughts. by degrees caius was obliged to give up his last lingering belief in the existence of the lady he loved. it was a curious position to be in, for he loved her none the less. two months of work and thought for the diseased people had slipped away, and by the mere lapse of time, as well as by every other proof, he had come to know that there was no maiden in any way connected with madame le maître who answered to the visions he had seen, or who might be wooed by the man who had ceased to care for all other women for her sweet sake. after caius had arrived the epidemic had become worse, as it had been prophesied it would, when the people began to exclude the winter air from their houses. in almost every family upon the little isle there was a victim, and caius, under the compelling force of the orders which madame le maître never gave and the wishes she never expressed, became nurse as well as doctor, using what skill he had in every possible office for the sick, working early and late, and many a time the night through. it was not a time to prattle of the sea-maid to either madame le maître or o'shea, who both of them worked at his side in the battle against death, and were, caius verily believed, more heroic and successful combatants than himself. some solution concerning his lady-love there must be, and caius neither forgot nor gave up his intention of probing the lives of these two to discover what he wished; but the foreboding that the discovery would work him no weal made it the easier to lay the matter aside and wait. they were all bound in the same icy prison; he could afford patience. the question of the hospital had been solved in this way. madame le maître had taken o'shea and his wife and children to live with her, and such patients as could be persuaded or forced into hospital were taken to his house and nursed there. then, also, as the disease became more prevalent, people who had thus far refused all sanitary measures, in dire fear opened their doors, and allowed caius and o'shea to enter with whitewash brushes and other means of disinfection. caius was successful in this, that, in proportion to the number of people who were taken ill, the death-rate was only one third of what it had been before he came. he and his fellow-workers were successful also in a more radical way, for about the end of january it was suddenly observed among them that there were no new cases of illness. the ill and the weak gradually recovered. in a few more weeks the angels of death and disease retired from the field, and the island was not depopulated. whether another outbreak might or might not occur they could not tell; but knowing the thoroughness of the work which they had done, they were ready to hope that the victory was complete. gradually their work ceased, for there was no one in all the happy island who needed nursing or medical attendance. caius found then how wonderfully free the place was from all those ailments which ordinarily beset humanity. this was in the middle of february, when the days were growing long, and even the evening was bright and light upon the islands of snow and the sea of ice. it appeared to caius that madame le maître had grown years older during the pestilence. deep lines of weariness had come in her face, and her eyes were heavy with want of sleep and sympathetic tears. again and again he had feared that the disease would attack her, and, indeed, he knew that it had only been the constant riding about the island hills in the wonderful air that had kept the little band of workers in health. as it was, o'shea had lost a child, and three of the girls in the house of madame le maître had been ill. now that the strain was over, caius feared prostration that would be worse than the disease itself for the lady who had kept up so bravely through it all; but, ever feeling an impossibility in her presence of speaking freely of anything that concerned herself, he had hardly been able to express the solicitude he felt before it was relieved by the welcome news that she had travelled across the bay to pay a visit to pembroke's wife. she had gone without either telling caius of her intention or bidding him good-bye, and, glad as he was, he felt that he had not deserved this discourtesy at her hands. indeed, looking back now, he felt disposed to resent the indifference with which she had treated him from first to last. not as the people's doctor. in that capacity she had been eager for his services, and grateful to him with a speechless, reverent gratitude that he felt to be much more than his due; but as a man, as a companion, as a friend, she had been simply unconscious of his existence. when she had said to him at the beginning, "you will be lonely; there is no one on the island to whom you can speak as a friend," he perceived now that she had excluded herself as well as the absent world from his companionship. it seemed to him that it had never once occurred to her that it was in her power to alter this. truly, if it had not been for pembroke, the clergyman, caius would never have had a companionable word; and he had found that there were limits to the interest he could take in pembroke, that the stock of likings and disliking that they had in common was not great. then, too, since the day on which he had questioned him so vehemently about the relatives of madame le maître, he fancied that the clergyman had treated him with apprehensive reserve. at the time when he had little or nothing to do, and when madame le maître had left cloud island, caius would have been glad enough to go and explore the other islands, or to luxuriate again in the cookery of the old maids at the inn at which he had first been housed. two considerations kept him from this holiday-taking. in the first place, in fear of a case of illness he did not like to leave the island while its benefactress was away; and, secondly, it was reported that all visitors from the cloud were ruthlessly shut out from the houses upon the other islands, because of the unreasoning terror which had grown concerning the disease. whether he, who carried money in his pocket, would be shut out from these neighbouring islands also, he did not care to inquire. he felt too angry with the way the inhabitants behaved to have any dealings with them. the only means of amusement that remained to caius in these days were his horse and a gun that o'shea lent him. with his lunch in his pocket, he rode upon the ice as far as he might go and return the same day. he followed the roads that led by the shores of the other islands; or, where the wind had swept all depth of snow from the ice, he took a path according to his own fancy on the untrodden whiteness. colonies of arctic gulls harboured on the island, and the herring gulls remained through the winter; these, where he could get near their rocks upon the ice, he at first took delight in shooting; but he soon lost the zest for this sport, for the birds gave themselves to his gun too easily. he was capable of deriving pleasure from them other than in their slaughter, and often he rode under their rocky homes, noting how dark their white plumage looked against their white resting-places, where groups of them huddled together upon the icy battlements and snowdrift towers of the castles that the frost had built them. he would ride by slowly, and shoot his gun in the air to see them rise and wheel upward, appearing snow-white against the blue firmament; and watched them sink again, growing dark as they alighted among the snow and ice. his warning that he himself must be nearing home was to see the return of such members of the bird-colony as had been out for the deep-sea fishing. when he saw them come from afar, flying high, often with their wings dyed pink in the sunset rays, he knew that his horse must gallop homeward, or darkness might come and hide such cracks and fissures in the ice as were dangerous. the haunts of the birds which he chiefly loved were on the side of the islands turned to the open sea, for at this time ice had formed on all sides, and stretched without a break for a mile or so into the open. there was a joy in riding upon this that made riding upon the bay tame and uninteresting; for not only was the seaward shore of island and dune wilder, but the ice here might at any time break from the shore or divide itself up into large islands, and when the wind blew he fancied he heard the waves heaving beneath it, and the excitement which comes with danger, which, by some law of mysterious nature, is one of the keenest forms of pleasure, would animate his horse and himself as they flew over it. his horse was not one of the native ponies; it was a well-bred, delicately-shaped beast, accustomed to be made a friend of by its rider, and giving sympathetic response to all his moods. the horse belonged to madame le maître, and was similar to the one she rode. this, together with many other things, proved to caius that the lady who lived so frugally had command of a certain supply of money, for it could not be an easy or cheap thing to transport good horses to these islands. whatever he did, however his thoughts might be occupied, it was never long before they veered round to the subject that was rapidly becoming the one subject of absorbing interest to him. before he realized what he did, his mind was confirmed in its habit; at morn, and at noontime, and at night, he found himself thinking of madame le maître. the lady he was in love with was the youthful, adventurous maiden who, it seemed, did not exist; the lady that he was always thinking of was the grave, subdued, self-sacrificing woman who in some way, he knew not how, carried the mystery of the other's existence within herself. his mind was full of almost nothing but questions concerning her, for, admire and respect her as he might, he thought there was nothing in him that responded with anything like love to her grave demeanour and burdened spirit. chapter xiv. the marriage scene. by riding across the small lagoon that lay beside cloud island to the inward side of the bay, and then eastward some twelve miles toward an island that was little frequented, the last of the chain on this horn of the crescent, one came under the highest and boldest façade of cliffs that was to be found in all that group. it was here that caius chanced to wander one calm mild day in early march, mild because the thermometer stood at less than ° below the freezing point, and a light vault of pearly cloud shut in the earth from the heaven, and seemed, by way of contrast with other days, to keep it warm. he had ridden far, following out of aimless curiosity the track that had been beaten on the side of the bay to this farthest island. it was a new road for him; he had never attempted it before; and no sooner had he got within good sight of the land, than his interest was wholly attracted by the cliffs, which, shelving somewhat outward at the top, and having all their sides very steep and smooth, were, except for a few crevices of ice, or an outward hanging icicle, or here and there a fringe of icicles, entirely free from snow and ice. he rode up under them wonderingly, pleased to feast his eyes upon the natural colour of rock and earth, and eager, with what knowledge of geology he had, to read the story they told. this story, as far as the history of the earth was concerned, was soon told; the cliffs were of gray carboniferous limestone. caius became interested in the beauty of their colouring. blue and red clay had washed down upon them in streaks and patches; where certain faults in the rock occurred, and bars of iron-yielding stone were seen, the rust had washed down also, so that upon flat facets and concave and convex surfaces a great variety of colour and tint, and light and shade, was produced. he could not proceed immediately at the base of the cliffs, for in their shelter the snow had drifted deep. he was soon obliged to keep to the beaten track, which here ran about a quarter of a mile distant from the rock. walking his horse, and looking up as he went, his attention was arrested by perceiving that a whitish stain on a smooth dark facet of the rock assumed the appearance of a white angel in the act of alighting from aërial flight. the picture grew so distinct that he could not take his eyes from it, even after he had gone past, until he was quite weary of looking back or of trying to keep his restive horse from dancing forward. when, at last, however, he turned his eyes from the majestic figure with the white wings, his fancy caught at certain lines and patches of rust which portrayed a horse of gigantic size galloping upon a forward part of the cliff. the second picture brought him to a standstill, and he examined the whole face of the hill, realizing that he was in the presence of a picture-gallery which nature, it seemed, had painted all for her own delight. he thought himself the discoverer; he felt at once both a loneliness and elation at finding himself in that frozen solitude, gazing with fascinated eyes at one portion of the rock after another where he saw, or fancied he saw, sketches of this and that which ravished his sense of beauty both in colour and form. in his excitement to see what would come next, he did not check the stepping of his horse, but only kept it to a gentle pace. thus he came where the road turned round with the rounding cliff, and here for a bit he saw no picture upon the rock; but still he looked intently, hoping that the panorama was not ended, and only just noticed that there was another horse beside his own within the lonely scene. in some places here the snow was drifted high near the track; in others, both the road and the adjoining tracts of ice were swept by the wind almost bare of snow. he soon became aware that the horse he had espied was not upon the road. then, aroused to curiosity, he turned out of his path and rode through shallow snow till he came close to it. the horse was standing quite still, and its rider was standing beside it, one arm embracing its neck, and with head leaning back against the creature's glossy shoulder. the person thus standing was madame le maître, and she was looking up steadfastly at the cliffs, of which this point in the road displayed a new expanse. so silently had the horse of caius moved in the muffling snow that, coming up on the other side, he was able to look at the lady for one full moment before she saw him, and in that moment and the next he saw that the sight of him robbed her face of the peace which had been written there. she was wrapped as usual in her fur-lined cloak and hood. she looked to him inquiringly, with perhaps just a touch of indignant displeasure in her expression, waiting for him to explain, as if he had come on purpose to interrupt her. "i am sorry. i had no idea you were here, or i would not have come." the next moment he marvelled at himself as to how he had known that this was the right thing to say; for it did not sound polite. her displeasure was appeased. "you have found my pictures, then," she said simply. "only this hour, and by chance." by this time he was wondering by what road she had got there. if she had ridden alone across the bay from harbour island, where the pembrokes lived, she had done a bold thing for a woman, and one, moreover, which, in the state of health in which he had seen her last, would have been impossible to her. madame le maître had begun to move slowly, as one who wakes from a happy dream. he perceived that she was making preparations to mount. "i cannot understand it," he cried; "how can these pictures come just by chance? i have heard of the picture rocks on lake superior, for instance, but i never conceived of anything so distinct, so lovely, as these that i have seen." "the angels make them," said madame le maître. she paused again (though her bridle had been gathered in her hand ready for the mount), and looked up again at the rock. caius was not unheedful of the force of that soft but absolute assertion, but he must needs speak, if he spoke at all, from his own point of view, not hers. "i suppose," he said, "that the truth is there is something upon the rock that strikes us as a resemblance, and our imagination furnishes the detail that perfects the picture." "in that case would you not see one thing and i another?" now for the first time his eyes followed hers, and on the gray rock immediately opposite he suddenly perceived a picture, without definite edge it is true, but in composition more complete than anything he had seen before. what had formerly delighted him had been, as it were, mere sketches of one thing or another scattered in different places, but here there was a large group of figures, painted for the most part in varied tints of gray, and blue, and pink. in the foreground of this picture a young man and young woman, radiant both in face and apparel, stood before a figure draped in priestly garments of sober gray. behind them, in a vista, which seemed to be filled with an atmosphere of light and joy, a band of figures were dancing in gay procession, every line of the limbs and of the light draperies suggesting motion and glee. how did he know that some of these were men, and some were women? he had never seen such dresses as they wore, which seemed to be composed of tunics and gossamer veils of blue and red. yet he did know quite distinctly which were men and which were women, and he knew that it was a marriage scene. the bride wore a wreath of flowers; the bridegroom carried a sheaf or garland of fruit or grain, which seemed to be a part of the ceremony. caius thought he was about to offer it to the priest. for some minutes the two looked up at the rock quite silently. now the lady answered his last remark: "what is it you see?" "you know it best; tell me what it is." "it is a wedding. don't you see the wedding dance?" he had not got down from his horse; he had a feeling that if he had alighted she would have mounted. he tried now, leaning forward, to tell her how clearly he had seen the meaning, if so it might be called, of the natural fresco, and to find some words adequately to express his appreciation of its beauty. he knew that he had not expressed himself well, but she did not seem dissatisfied at the tribute he paid to a thing which she evidently regarded with personal love. "do you think," she said, "that it will alter soon, or become defaced? it has been just the same for a year. it might, you know, become defaced any day, and then no one would have seen it but ourselves. the islanders, you know, do not notice it." "ah, yes," said caius; "beauty is made up of two parts--the objects seen and the understanding eye. we only know how much we are indebted to training and education when we find out to what extent the natural eye is blind." this remark did not seem to interest her. he felt that it jarred somehow, and that she was wishing him away. "but why," he asked, "should angels paint a marriage? they neither marry----" he stopped, feeling that she might think him flippant if he quoted the text. "because it is the best thing to paint," she said. "how the best?" "well, just the best human thing: everyone knows that." "has her marriage been so gloriously happy?" said caius to himself as the soft assurance of her tones reached his ears, and for some reason or other he felt desolate, as a soul might upon whom the door of paradise swung shut. then irritably he said: "_i_ don't know it. most marriages seem to me----" he stopped, but she had understood. "but if this picture crumbles to pieces, that does not alter the fact that the angels made it lovely." (her slight accent, because it made the pronunciation of each word more careful, gave her speech a quaint suggestion of instruction that perhaps she did not intend.) "the idea is painted on our hearts in just the same way; it is the best thing we can think of, except god." "yet," urged caius, "even if it is the best from our point of view, you will allow that it is written that it is not a heavenly institution. the angels should try to teach us to look at something higher." "the words do not mean that. i don't believe there is anything higher for us. i don't believe people are not married in heaven." with sweet unreason she set aside authority when it clashed with her opinion. to caius she had never been so attractive as now, when, for the first time to him, she was proving herself of kin to ordinary folk; and yet, so curiously false are our notions of sainthood that she seemed to him the less devout because she proved to be more loving. "you see"--she spoke and paused--"you see, when i was at school in a convent i had a friend. i was perfectly happy when i was with her and she with me; it was a marriage. when we went in the garden or on the sea, we were only happy when we were with each other. that is how i learned early that it is only perfect to be two. ah, when one knows what it is to be lonely, one learns that that is true; but many people are not given grace to be lonely--they are sufficient to themselves. they say it is enough to worship god; it is a lie. he cannot be pleased; it is selfish even to be content to worship god alone." "the kind of marriage you think of, that perhaps may be made in heaven." caius was feeling again that she was remote from him, and yet the hint of passionate loneliness in tone and words remained a new revelation of her life. "is not religion enough?" he asked this only out of curiosity. "it is not true religion if we are content to be alone with god; it is not the religion of the holy christ; it is a fancy, a delusion, a mistake. have you not read about st. john? ah, i do not say that it is not often right to live alone, just as it may be right to be ill or starving. that is because the world has gone wrong; and to be content, it is to blaspheme; it is like saying that what is wrong is god's ideal for us, and will last for ever." caius was realizing that as she talked she was thinking only of the theme, not at all of him; he had enough refinement in him to perceive this quite clearly. it was the first time that she had spoken of her religion to him, and her little sermon, which he felt to be too wholly unreasonable to appeal to his mind, was yet too wholly womanly to repel his heart. some dreamy consciousness seemed to come to her now that she had tarried longer than she wished, and perhaps that her subject had not been one that she cared to discuss with him. she turned and put her hand on the pommel, and sprang into the saddle. he had often seen her make that light, wonderful spring that seated her as if by magic on her horse's back, but in her last weeks of nursing the sick folk she had not been strong enough to do it. he saw now how much stronger she looked. the weeks of rest had made her a different woman; there was a fresh colour in her cheek, and the tired lines were all gone. she looked younger by years than when he saw her last--younger, too, than when he had first seen her, for even then she was weary. if he could only have seen the line of her chin, or the height of her brow, or the way her hair turned back from her temples, he thought that he might not have reckoned the time when he had first seen her in the sick-room at cloud island as their first meeting. "you are going on?" said madame le maître. "unless i can be of service to you by turning with you." he knew by the time of day that he must turn shortly; but he had no hope that she wanted him to go with her. "you can do me more service," she said, and she gave him a little smile that was like the ghost of the sea-maid's smile, "by letting me go home alone." he rode on, and when he looked back he saw that her horse was galloping and casting up a little cloud of light snow behind it, so that, riding as it were upon a small white cloud, she disappeared round the turn of the cliffs. caius found no more pictures that day that he felt to be worthy of much attention. he went back to the festive scene of the marriage, and moving his horse nearer and further from it, he found that only from the point where the lady had taken her stand was it to be distinctly seen. twenty yards from the right line of vision, he might have passed it, and never known the beauty that the streaks and stains could assume. when he went home he amused himself by seeking on the road for the track of the other horse, and when he found that it turned to cloud island he was happier. the place, at least, would not be so lonely when the lady was at home. _book iii._ chapter i. how he hunted the seals. at this time on the top of the hills the fishermen were to be seen loitering most of the day, looking to see if the seals were coming, for at this season the seals, unwary creatures, come near the islands upon the ice, and in the white world their dark forms can be descried a long distance off. there was promise of an easy beginning to seal-fishing this year, for the ice had not yet broken from the shore on the seaward side of the island, and there would not at first be need of boats. caius, who had only seen the fishermen hanging about their doors in lazy idleness, was quite unprepared for the excitement and vigour that they displayed when this first prey of the year was seen to approach. it was the morning after madame le maître had returned to her home that caius, standing near his own door, was wondering within himself if he might treat her like an ordinary lady and give her a formal call of welcome. he had not decided the point when he heard sounds as of a mob rushing, and, looking up the road that came curving down the hill through the pine thicket, he saw the rout appear--men, women and children, capped and coated in rough furs, their cheeks scarlet with the frost and exercise, their eyes sparkling with delight. singly down the hill, and in groups, they came, hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, some driving in wooden sleighs, some of them beating such implements of tinware as might be used for drums, some of them shouting words in that queer acadian french he could not understand, and all of them laughing. he could not conceive what had happened; the place that was usually so lonely, the people that had been so lazy and dull--everything within sight seemed transformed into some mad scene of carnival. the crowd swept past him, greeting him only with shouts and smiles and grimaces. he knew from the number that all the people from that end of the island were upon the road to the other end, and running after with hasty curiosity, he went far enough to see that the news of their advent had preceded them, and that from every side road or wayside house the people came out to join in the riotous march. getting further forward upon the road, caius now saw what he could not see from his own door, a great beacon fire lit upon the hill where the men had been watching. its flame and smoke leaped up from the white hill into the blue heaven. it was the seal-hunting, then, to which all the island was going forth. caius, now that he understood the tumult, experienced almost the same excitement. he ran back, donned clothes suitable for the hunt across the ice, and, mounting his horse, rode after the people. they were all bound for the end of the island on which the lighthouse stood, for a number of fish-sheds, used for cooking and sleeping in the fishing season, were built on the western shore not far from the light; and from the direction in which the seals had appeared, these were the sheds most convenient for the present purpose. by the time caius reached the sheds, the greater number of the fishermen were already far out upon the ice. in boots and caps of the coarse gray seal-skin, with guns or clubs and knives in their hands, they had a wild and murderous aspect as they marched forward in little bands. the gait, the very figure, of each man seemed changed; the slouch of idleness had given place to the keen manner of the hunter. on shore the sheds, which all winter had been empty and lonely, surrounded only by curling drifts, had become the scene of most vigorous work. the women, with snow-shovels and brooms, were clearing away the snow around them, opening the doors, lighting fires in the small stoves inside, opening bags and hampers which contained provision of food and implements for skinning the seals. the task that these women were performing was one for the strength of men; but as they worked now their merriment was loud. all their children stood about them, shouting at play or at such work as was allotted to them. some four or five of the women, with amazonian strength, were hauling from one shed a huge kettle, in which it was evidently meant to try the fat from certain portions of the seal. caius held his horse still upon the edge of the ice, too well diverted with the activity on the shore to leave it at once. behind the animated scene and the row of gray snow-thatched sheds, the shore rose white and lonely. except for the foot-tracks on the road by which they had come, and the peak of the lighthouse within sight, it would have seemed that a colony had suddenly sprung to life in an uninhabited arctic region. it was from this slope above the sheds that caius now heard himself hailed by loud shouting, and, looking up, he saw that o'shea had come there to overlook the scene below. some women stood around him. caius supposed that madame le maître was there. o'shea made a trumpet of his hands and shouted that caius must not take his horse upon the ice that day, for the beast would be frightened and do himself harm. caius was affronted. the horse was not his, truly, but he believed he knew how to take care of it, yet, as it belonged to a woman, he could not risk disobeying this uncivil prohibition. although he was accustomed to the rude authority which o'shea assumed whenever he wished to be disagreeable, caius had only learned to take it with an outward appearance of indifference--his mind within him always chafed; this time the affront to his vanity was worse because he believed that madame le maître had prompted, or certainly permitted, the insult. it did not soothe him to think that, with a woman's nervousness, she might have more regard for his safety than that of the horse. the brightness died out of the beautiful day, and in a lofty mood of ill-used indifference he assured himself that a gentleman could take little interest in such barbarous sport as seal-hunting. at any rate, it would go on for many a day. he certainly had not the slightest intention of dismounting at o'shea's command in order to go to the hunt. caius held his horse as quiet as he could for some ten minutes, feigning an immense interest in the occupation of the women; then leisurely curvetted about, and set his horse at a light trot along the ice close by the shore. he rode hastily past the only place where he could have ascended the bank, and after that he had no means of going home until he had rounded the island and returned by the lagoon. the distance up to the end was seven miles. caius rode on under the lonely cliffs where the gulls wintered, and threading his way upon smooth places on the ice, came, in the course of not much more than an hour, up to the end of the cliffs, crossed the neck of the sand-bar, and followed the inward shore till he got back to the first road. now, on this end of the island very few families lived. caius had only been upon the road he was about to traverse once or twice. the reason it was so little built upon was that the land here belonged entirely to the farm of madame le maître, which stretched in a narrow strip for a couple of miles from o'shea's dwelling to the end of the island. the only point of interest which this district had for caius was a cottage which had been built in a very sheltered nook for the accommodation of two women, whose business it was to care for the poultry which was kept here. caius had been told that he might always stop at this lodge for a drink of milk or beer or such a lunch as it could afford, and being thirsty by reason of hard riding and ill-temper, he now tried to find the path that led to it. chapter ii. once more the vision. when caius turned up the farm road, which was entirely sheltered between gentle slopes, the bright march sun felt almost hot upon his cheek. the snow road under his horse's hoofs was full of moisture, and the snowy slopes glistened with a coating of wet. he felt for the first time that the spring of the year had come. he was not quite certain where lay the cottage of which he was in quest; and, by turning up a wrong path, he came to the back of its hen-houses. at first he only saw the blank wall of a cowshed and two wooden structures like old-fashioned dovecotes, connected by a high fence in which there was no gate. up to this fence he rode to look over it, hoping to speak to the people he heard within; but it was too high for him to see over. passing on, he brought his head level with a small window that was let into the wall of one of the hen-houses. the window had glass in it which was not at all clean, but a fragment of it was broken, and through this caius looked, intending to see if there was any gate into the yard which he could reach from the path he was on. through the small room of deserted hen-roosts, through the door which was wide open on the other side, he saw the sunny space of the yard beyond. all the fowls were gathered in an open place that had been shovelled between heaps of hard-packed snow. there were the bright tufts of cocks' tails and the glossy backs of hens brown and yellow; there were white ducks, and ducks that were green and black, and great gray geese of slender make that were evidently descended from the wild goose of the region. on the snow-heaps pigeons were standing--flitting and constantly alighting--with all the soft dove-colours in their dress. in front of the large feathered party was a young woman who stood, basin in hand, scattering corn, now on one side, now on another, with fitful caprice. she made game of the work of feeding them, coquettishly pretending to throw the boon where she did not throw it, laughing the while and talking to the birds, as if she and they led the same life and talked the same language. caius could not hear what she said, but he felt assured that the birds could understand. for some few minutes caius looked at this scene; he did not know how long he looked; his heart within him was face to face with a pain that was quite new in his life, and was so great that he could not at first understand it, but only felt that in comparison all smaller issues of life faded and became as nothing. beyond the youthful figure of the corn-giver caius saw another woman. it was the wife of o'shea, and in a moment her steadfast, quiet face looked up into his, and he knew that she saw him and did not tell of his presence; but, as her eyes looked long and mutely into his, it seemed to him that this silent woman understood something of the pain he felt. then, very quietly, he turned his horse and rode back by the path that he had come. the woman he had seen was the wife of the sea-captain le maître. he said it to himself as if to be assured that the self within him had not in some way died, but could still speak and understand. he knew that he had seen the wife of this man, because the old cloak and hood, which he knew so well, had only been cast off, and were still hanging to the skirts below the girlish waist, and the white cap, too, had been thrown aside upon the snow--he had seen it. as for the girl herself, he had loved her so long that it seemed strange to him that he had never known until now how much he loved her. her face had been his one thought, his one standard of womanly beauty, for so many years that he was amazed to find that he had never known before how beautiful she was. a moment since and he had seen the march sunshine upon all the light, soft rings of curling hair that covered her head, and he had seen her laughter, and the oval turn of the dimpled chin, and within the face he had seen what he knew now he had always seen, but never before so clearly--the soul that was strong to suffer as well as strong to enjoy. by the narrow farm-path which his horse was treading caius came to the road he had left, and, turning homeward, could not help coming in front of the little cottage whose back wall he had so lately visited. he had no thought but of passing as quickly as might be, but he saw o'shea's wife standing before the door, looking for him with her quiet, eager eyes. she came out a few steps, and caius, hardly stopping, stooped his head to hear what she had to say. "i won't tell her," said the woman; then she pleaded: "let her be, poor thing! let her be happy while she can." she had slipped back into the house; caius had gone on; and then he knew that he had this new word to puzzle over. for why should he be supposed to molest the happy hours of the woman he loved, and what could be the sorrow that dogged her life, if her happy hours were supposed to be rare and precious? o'shea's wife he had observed before this to be a faithful and trusted friend of her mistress; no doubt she spoke then with the authority of knowledge and love. caius went home, and put away his horse, and entered his small house. everything was changed to him; a knowledge that he had vaguely dreaded had come, but with a grief that he had never dreamed of. for he had fancied that if it should turn out that his lady-love and madame le maître were one, his would only be the disappointment of having loved a shadow, a character of his own creating, and that the woman herself he would not love; but now that was not what had befallen him. all the place was deserted; not a house had shown a sign of life as he passed. all the world had gone after the seals. this, no doubt, was the reason why the two women who had not cared for the hunting had taken that day for a holiday. caius stood at his window and looked out on the sea of ice for a little while. he was alone in the whole locality, but he would not be less alone when the people returned. they had their interests, their hopes and fears; he had nothing in common with any of them; he was alone with his pain, and his pain was just this, that he was alone. then he looked out further and further into the world from which he had come, into the world to which he must go back, and there also he saw himself to be alone. he could not endure the thought of sharing the motions of his heart and brain with anyone but the one woman from whom he was wholly separated. time might make a difference; he was forced to remember that it is commonly said that time and absence abate all such attachments. he did not judge that time would make much difference to him, but in this he might be mistaken. a man who has depth in him seldom broods over real trouble--not at first, at least. by this test may often be known the real from the fanciful woe. caius, knew, or his instincts knew, that his only chance of breasting the current was, not to think of its strength, but to keep on swimming. he took his horse's bits and the harness that had been given him for his little sleigh, cleaning and burnishing everything with the utmost care, and at the same time with despatch. he had some chemical work that had been lying aside for weeks waiting to be done, and this afternoon he did it. he had it on his mind to utilize some of his leisure by writing long letters that he might post when it was possible for him to go home; to-night he wrote two of them. while he was writing he heard the people coming in twos and threes along the road back to their houses for the night. he supposed that o'shea had got home with the girls he had been escorting, and that his wife had come home, and that madame le maître had come back to her house and taken up again her regular routine of life. chapter iii. "love, i speak to thy face." caius thought a good deal about the words that o'shea's wife had said to him. he did not know exactly what she meant, nor could he guess at all from what point of view concerning himself she had spoken; but the general drift of her meaning appeared to be that he ought not to let madame le maître know where and how he had seen her the day before. in spite of this, he knew that he could neither be true to himself, nor to the woman he was forced to meet daily, if he made any disguise of the recognition which had occurred. he was in no hurry to meet her; he hoped little or nothing from the interview, but dreaded it. next day he went without his horse out to where the men were killing the seals upon the edge of the ice. the warm march sun, and the march winds that agitated the open sea, were doing their work. to-day there was water appearing in places upon the ice where it joined the shore, and when caius was out with a large band of men upon the extreme edge of the solid ice, a large fragment broke loose. there were some hundred seals upon this bit of ice, which were being butchered one by one in barbarous fashion, and so busy were the men with their work that they merely looked at the widening passage of gray water and continued to kill the beasts that they had hedged round in a murderous ring. it was the duty of those on the shore to bring boats if they were needed. the fragment on which they were could not float far because the sea outside was full of loose ice, and, as it happened, when the dusk fell the chasm of water between them and the shore was not too broad to be jumped easily, for the ice, having first moved seaward, now moved landward with the tide. for two or three days caius lent a hand at killing and skinning the gentle-eyed animals. it was not that he did not feel some disgust at the work; but it meant bread to the men he was with, and he might as well help them. it was an experience, and, above all, it was distraction. when the women had seen him at work they welcomed him with demonstrative joy to the hot meals which they prepared twice a day for the hunters. caius was not quite sure what composed the soups and stews of which he partook, but they tasted good enough. when he had had enough of the seal-hunt it took him all the next day to cleanse the clothes he had worn from the smell of the fat, and he felt himself to be effeminate in the fastidiousness that made him do it. during all these days the houses and roads of the island were almost completely deserted, except that caius supposed that, after the first holiday, the maids who lived with madame le maître were kept to their usual household tasks, and that their mistress worked with them. at last, one day when caius was coming from a house on one of the hills which he had visited because there was in it a little mortal very new to this world, he saw madame le maître riding up the snowy road that he was descending. he felt glad, at the first sight of her, that he was no longer a youth but had fully come to man's estate, and had attained to that command of nerve and conquest over a beating heart that is the normal heritage of manhood. this thought came to him because he was so vividly reminded of the hour in which he had once before sought an interview with this lady--even holding her hand in his--and of his ignominious repulse. in spite of the sadness of his heart, a smile crossed his face, but it was gone before he met her. he had quite given up wondering now about that seafaring episode, and accepted it only as a fact. it did not matter to him why or how she had played her part; it was enough that she had done it, and all that she did was right in his eyes. the lady's horse was walking slowly up the heavy hill; the reins she hardly held, letting them loose upon its neck. it was evident that with her there was no difference since the time she had last seen caius; it appeared that she did not even purpose stopping her horse. caius stopped it gently, laying his hand upon its neck. "what is it?" she asked, with evident curiosity, for the face that he turned to her made her aware that there was something new in her quiet life. it was not easy to find his words; he did not care much to do so quickly. "i could not go on," he said, "without letting you know----" he stopped. she did not answer him with any quick impatient question. she looked at the snowy hill in front of her. "well?" she said. "the other day, you know," he said, "i rode by the back of your poultry farm, and--i saw you when you were feeding the birds." "yes?" she said; she was still looking gravely enough at the snow. the communication so far did not affect her much. "then, when i saw you, i knew that i had seen you before--in the sea--at home." a red flush had mantled her face. there was perhaps an air of offence, for he saw that she held her head higher, and knew what the turn of the neck would be in spite of the clumsy hood; but what surprised him most was that she did not express any surprise or dismay. "i did not suppose," she said, in her own gentle, distant way, "that if you had a good memory for that--foolish play, you would not know me again." her manner added: "i have attempted no concealment." "i did not know you in that dress you wear"--there was hatred for the dress in his tone as he mentioned it--"so i supposed that you did not expect me to know who you were." she did not reply, leaving the burden of finding the next words upon him. it would seem that she did not think there was more to say; and this, her supreme indifference to his recognition or non-recognition, half maddened him. he suddenly saw his case in a new aspect--she was a cruel woman, and he had much with which to reproach her. "'that foolish play,' as you call it----" he had begun angrily, but a certain sympathy for her, new-born out of his own trouble, stopped him, and he went on, only reproach in his tone: "it was a sad play for me, because my heart has never been my own since. i could not find out who you were then, or where you hid yourself; i do not know now, but----" he stopped; he did not wish to offend her; he looked at the glossy neck of the horse he was holding. "i was young and very foolish, but i loved you." the sound of his own low sad tones was still in his ears when he also heard the low music of irrepressible laughter, and, looking up, he saw that the recollection which a few minutes before had made him smile had now entirely overcome the lady's gravity. she was blushing, she was trying not to laugh; but in spite of herself she did laugh more and more heartily, and although her merriment was inopportune, he could not help joining in it to some extent. it was so cheerful to see the laughter-loving self appear within the grave face, to be beside her, and to have partnership in her mirth. so they looked in each other's eyes, and they both laughed, and after that they felt better. "and yet," said he, "it was a frolic that has worked sorrow for me." "come," said she, lifting her reins, "you will regret if you go on talking this way." she would have gone on quite lightly and contentedly, and left him there as if he had said nothing of love, as if their words had been the mere reminiscence of a past that had no result in the present, as if his heart was not breaking; but a fierce sense of this injustice made him keep his hold of her bridle. she could weep over the pains of the poor and the death of their children. she should not go unmindful that his happiness was wrecked. "do you still take me for the young muff that i used to be, that you pay no heed to what i say? i would scorn to meet you every day while i must remain here and conceal from you the fact which, such is my weakness, is the only fact in life for me just now. my heart is breaking because i have found that the woman i love is wholly out of my reach. can you not give that a passing thought of pity? i have told you now; when we meet, you will know that it is not as indifferent acquaintances, but as--enemies if you will, for you, a happy married woman--will count me your enemy! yet i have not harmed you, and the truth is better at all costs." she was giving him her full attention now, her lips a little parted as if with surprise, question plainly written upon her face. he could not understand how the cap and hood had ever concealed her from him. her chief beauty lay, perhaps, in the brow, in the shape of the face, and in its wreath of hair--or at least in the charm that these gave to the strong character of the features; but now that he knew her, he knew her face wholly, and his mind filled in what was lacking; he could perceive no lack. he looked at her, his eyes full of admiration, puzzled the while at her evident surprise. "but surely," she said, "you cannot be so foolish--you, a man now--to think that the fancy you took to a pretty face, for it could have been nothing more, was of any importance." "such fancies make or mar the lives of men." "of unprincipled fools, yes--of men who care for appearance more than sympathy. but you are not such a man! it is not as if we had been friends; it is not as if we had ever spoken. it is wicked to call such a foolish fancy by the name of love; it is desecration." while she was speaking, her words revealed to caius, with swift analysis, a distinction that he had not made before. he knew now that before he came to this island, before he had gone through the three months of toil and suffering with josephine le maître, it would truly have been foolish to think of his sentiment concerning her as more than a tender ideal. now, that which had surprised him into a strength of love almost too great to be in keeping with his character, was the unity of two beings whom he had believed to be distinct--the playmate and the saint. "whether the liking we take to a beautiful face be base or noble depends, madame, upon the face; and no man could see yours without being a better man for the sight. but think: when i saw the face that had been enshrined for years in my memory yesterday, was it the face of a woman whom i did not know--with whom i had never spoken?" he was not looking at her as he spoke. he added, and his heart was revealed in the tone: "_you_ do not know what it is to be shut out from all that is good on earth." there came no answer; in a moment he lifted his eyes to see what response she gave, and he was astonished to detect a look upon her face that would have become an angel who had received some fresh beatitude. it was plain that now she saw and believed the truth of his love; it appeared, too, that she felt it to be a blessing. he could not understand this, but she wasted no words in explanation. when her eyes met his, the joy in her face passed into pity for a minute; she looked at him quietly and frankly; then she said: "love is good in itself, and suffering is good, and god is good. i think," she added very simply, as a child might have done, "that you are good, too. do not fear or be discouraged." then, with her own hand, she gently disengaged his from the bridle and rode up the hill on her errand of mercy. chapter iv. hope born of spring. "love is good; suffering is good; god is good"--that was what she had answered him when he had said that for her sake he was shut out from all that was good on earth. his heart did not rebel so bitterly against this answer as it would have done if he had not felt assured that she spoke of what she had experienced, and that his present experience was in some sort a comradeship with her. then, again, there was the inexplicable fact that the knowledge of the way in which he regarded her had given her pleasure; that was a great consolation to him, although he did not gather from it any hope for the future. her whole manner indicated that she was, as he supposed her to be, entirely out of his reach, not only by the barrier of circumstance, but by her own deliberate preference; and yet he was certain that she was glad that he loved her. what did that mean? he had so seen her life that he knew she was incapable of vanity or selfish satisfaction; when she was glad it was because it was right to be glad. caius could not unravel this, and yet, deep within him, he knew that there was consistency in it. had she not said that love in itself was good? it must be good, then, both to the giver and receiver. he felt a certain awe at finding his own poor love embraced in such a doctrine; he felt for the first time how gross and selfish, how unworthy, it was. it was now the end of march; the snow was melting; the ice was breaking; it might be three or four weeks before ships could sail in the gulf, but it would not be longer. there was no sign of further outbreak of diphtheria upon the island. caius felt the time of his going home to be near; he was not glad to think of leaving his prison of ice. two distinct efforts were made at this time to entertain him. o'shea made an expedition to the island of the picture rocks, and, in rough kindliness, insisted upon taking caius with him, not to see the rocks--o'shea thought little of them. they had an exciting journey, rowing between the ice-floes in the bay, carrying their boat over one ice fragment and then another, launching it each time into a sea of dangers. they spent a couple of days entertained by the chief man of this island, and came back again at the same delightful jeopardy of their lives. after this mr. pembroke took caius home with him, driving again over the sand-dune, upon which, now that the drifts had almost melted, a road could be made. all winter the dunes had been absolutely deserted, impassable by reason of the depth of snow. it would seem that even the devil himself must have left their valleys at this time, or have hibernated. the chief interest to caius in this expedition was to seek the hollow where he had seen, or thought he had seen, the band of mysterious men to which o'shea introduced him; but so changed was the appearance of the sand by reason of the streams and rivulets of melting snow, and so monotonous was the dune, that he grew confused, and could not in the least tell where the place had been. he paid a visit to pembroke's house, and to the inn kept by the old maids, and then went back to his own little wooden domicile with renewed contentment in its quaint appointments, in its solitude, but above all in its nearness to that other house in which the five women lived guarded by the mastiffs. caius knew well enough that these plans for his amusement had been instigated by madame le maître. she was keeping out of his way, except that now and then he met her upon the roads and exchanged with her a friendly greeting. the only satisfaction that caius sought for himself at this time was an occasional visit to o'shea's house. all winter there had been growing upon him a liking for the man's wife, although the words that he exchanged with her were at all times few. now the feeling that he and she were friends had received a distinct increase. it was a long time since caius had put to anyone the questions which his mind was constantly asking concerning madame le maître. apart from any thought of talking about the object of their mutual regard, it was a comfort to him to be in the presence of o'shea's wife. he felt sure that she understood her mistress better than anyone else did, and he also suspected her of a lively sympathy with himself, although it was not probable that she knew more concerning his relation to josephine le maître than merely the fact that it would be hard for any man to see so much grace and beauty and remain insensible. caius sat by this woman's hearth, and whittled tops and boats for her children on the sunny doorstep when the days grew warm at noon, and did not expect any guerdon for doing it except the rest that he found in the proximity and occupation. reward came to him, however. the woman eyed him with more and more kindliness, and at length she spoke. it was one day towards the end of the month, when the last film of snow had evaporated from many a field and slope, and the vivid green of grass appeared for the first time to gladden the eyes, although many an ice-wreath and snowy hollow still lay between. on such a day the sight of a folded head of saxifrage from which the pearls are just breaking makes the heart of man bound with a pleasure that has certainly no rational cause which is adequate. caius came up from the western shore, where he had been watching a distant ship that passed on the other side of the nearer ice-floes, and which said, by no other signal than that of her white sails, that winter was gone. the sea, whose rivers and lakes among the ice had of late looked so turbid by reason of frozen particles in the water, was clear now to reflect once more the blue above it, and the ice-cakes were very white in the sunshine. caius turned his back upon this, and came up a stony path where large patches of the hill were green; and by chance he came upon o'shea's wife, who was laying out linen to bleach at some distance from her own house. close to her caius saw the ledge of rock on which the first flowers of the year were budding, and straightway fell in love with them. knowing that their plants would flourish indoors as well as out, he stooped to lift the large cakes of moss in which their roots were set. the woman, who wore a small pink shawl tied over her head and shoulders, came near to where he was stooping, and made no preface, but said: "he's dead, sir; or if he isn't, and if he should come back, o'shea will kill him!" caius did not need to ask of whom she spoke. "why?" he asked. "why should o'shea want to kill him?" "it would kill her, sir, if he came back to her. she couldn't abide him no ways, and o'shea says it's as good one murder should be done as another, and if he was hung for it he wouldn't mind. o'shea's the sort of man that would keep his word. he'd just feel it was a kind of interesting thing to do, and he worships her to that extent. but i feel sure, sir, that le maître is dead. god would not be so unkind as to have me and the children bereft in that way." her simple belief in her husband's power to settle the matter was shocking to caius, because he felt that she probably knew her husband perfectly. "but why," said he again, "would it kill her if he came back?" "well, what sort of a decent man is it that would have stayed away from her all these years, poor lamb? why, sir, she wasn't but a child at the convent when her father had them married, and she back to school, and he away to his ship, and never come to see her since." caius turned as he knelt upon the grass, and, holding the emerald moss and saxifrage plants in his hand, looked up at her. "he went away two years ago," he said, repeating defiantly what he believed he had heard. "he went away six year ago," corrected she; "but it's two years now since aught was heard of him, and his ship went down, sir, coming back from afriky--that we know; but word came that the crew were saved, but never a word from him, nor a word of him, since." "did she"--his throat would hardly frame the words--a nervous spasm impeded them; yet he could not but ask--"did she care for him?" "oh well, sir, as to that, he was a beautiful-looking man, and she but a child; but when she came to herself she wrote and asked him never to come back; she told me so; and he never did." "well, that at least was civil of him." caius spoke in full earnest. "no, sir; he's not civil; he's a beast of a man. there's no sort of low trick that he hasn't done, only it can't be proved against him; for he's the sort of beast that is a snake; he only married madame for the money he'll get with her. it was when _she_ learned that that she wrote to him not to come back; but he never sent an honest word to say whether he'd stay away or not. she knows what he is, sir, for folks that he'd cheated and lied to come to her to complain. young as she is, there's white threads in her hair, just to think that he might come back at any time. it's making an old woman of her since she's come of an age to think; and she the merriest, blithest creature that ever was. when she first came out of the convent, to see her dance and sing was a sight to make old eyes young." "yes," said caius eagerly, "i know it was--i am sure it was." "oh, but you never saw her, sir, till the shadow had come on her." "do you know when it was i first saw her?" said caius, looking down at the grass. "she told me 'twas when she went to prince edward's land, the time she went to see the wife of her father's brother. 'twas the one time that o'shea let her out of his sight; but no one knew where she was, so if the captain had come at that time he couldn't have found her without coming to o'shea first. and the other time that o'shea let her go was the first winter she came here, for he knew no one could come at the islands for the snow, and we followed by the first ship in spring." "couldn't she get a separation?" "o'shea says the law is that way made that she couldn't." "if she changed her name and went away somewhere----" caius spoke thoughtfully. "and that's what o'shea has been at her to do, for at least it would give her peace; but she says, no, she'll do what's open and honest, and god will take care of her. and i'm sure i hope he will. but it's hard, sir, to see a young thing, so happy by nature as her, taking comfort in nothing but prayers and hymns and good works, so young as she is; it's enough to make the angels themselves have tears in their eyes to see it." at this the woman was wiping her own eyes; and, making soft sniffing sounds of uncultivated grief, she went back to her work of strewing wet garments upon the grass. caius felt that o'shea's wife had read the mind of the angels aright. chapter v. to the higher court. if caius, as he went his way carrying the moss and budding flowers, could have felt convinced with o'shea's wife that le maître was dead, he would have been a much happier man. he could not admit the woman's logic. still, he was far happier than he had been an hour before. le maître might be dead. josephine did not love le maître. he felt that now, at least, he understood her life. having the flowers, the very first darlings of the spring, in his hand, he went, in the impulse of the new sympathy, and knocked at her house door. he carried his burden of moss, earth, moisture, and little gray scaly insects that, having been disturbed, crawled in and out of it, boldly into the room, whose walls were still decorated with the faded garlands of the previous autumn. "let me talk to you," said caius. the lady and the one young girl who happened to be with her had bestirred themselves to receive his gift. making a platter serve as the rock-ledge from which the living things had been disturbed, they set them in the window to grow and unfold the more quickly. they had brought him a bowl also in which to wash his hands, and then it was that he looked at the lady of the house and made his request. he hardly thought she would grant it; he felt almost breathless with his own hardihood when he saw her dismiss the girl and sit before him to hear what he might have to say. he knew then that had he asked her to talk to him he would have translated the desire of his heart far better. "o'shea's wife has been talking to me," he said. "about me?" "i hope you will forgive us. i think she could not help speaking, and i could not help listening." "what did she say?" it was the absolutely childlike directness of her thoughts and words that always seemed to caius to be the thing that put the greatest distance between them. "i could not tell you what she said; i would not dare to repeat it to you, and perhaps she would not wish you to know; but you know she is loyal to you, and what i can tell you is, that i understand better now what your life is--what it has been." then he held out his hands with an impulsive gesture towards her. the large table was between them; it was only a gesture, and he let his hands lie on the table. "let me be your friend; you may trust me," he said. "i am only a very ordinary man; but still, the best friendship i have i offer. you need not be afraid of me." "i am not afraid of you." she said it with perfect tranquillity. he did not like her answer. "are we friends, then?" he asked, and tried to smile, though he felt that some unruly nerve was painting the heaviness of his heart in his face. "how do you mean it? o'shea and his wife are my friends, each of them in a very different way----" she was going on, but he interrupted: "they are your friends because they would die to serve you; but have you never had friends who were your equals in education and intelligence?" he was speaking hastily, using random words to suggest that more could be had out of such a relation than faithful service. "are you my equal in intelligence and education?" she asked appositely, laughter in her eyes. he had time just for a momentary flash of self-wonder that he should so love a woman who, when she did not keep him at some far distance, laughed at him openly. he stammered a moment, then smiled, for he could not help it. "i would not care to claim that for myself," he said. "rather," she suggested, "let us frankly admit that you are the superior in both." he was sitting at the table, his elbows upon it, and now he covered his face with his hands, half in real, half in mock, despair: "what can i do or say?" he groaned. "what have i done that you will not answer the honest meaning you can understand in spite of my clumsy words?" then he had to look at her because she did not answer, and when he saw that she was still ready to laugh, he laughed, too. "have you never ceased to despise me because i could not swim? i can swim now, i assure you. i have studied the art. i could even show you a prize that i took in a race, if that would win your respect." "i am glad you took the prize." "i have not yet learned the magic with which mermaids move." "no, and you have not heard any excuse for the boldness of that play yet. and i was almost the cause of your death. ah! how frightened i was that night--of you and for you! and again when i went to see mr. pembroke before the snow came, and the storm came on and i was obliged to travel with you in o'shea's great-coat--that again cannot seem nice to you when you think of it. why do you like what appears so strange? you came here to do a noble work, and you have done it nobly. why not go home now, and be rid of such a suspicious character as i have shown myself to be? wherever you go, our prayers and our blessings will follow you." caius looked down at the common deal board. there were dents and marks upon it that spoke of constant household work. at length he said: "there is one reason for going that would seem to me enough: if you will tell me that you neither want nor need my companionship or help in any way; but if you cannot tell me that----" "want," she said very sadly. "ah, do you think i have no heart, no mind that likes to talk its thoughts, no sympathies? i think that if _anyone_--man, woman, or child--were to come to me from out the big world, where people have such thoughts and feelings as i have, and offer to talk to me, i could not do anything else than desire their companionship. do you think that i am hard-hearted? i am so lonely that the affection even of a dog or a bird would be a temptation to me, if it was a thing that i dared not accept, because it would make me weaker to live the life that is right. that is the way we must tell what is right or wrong." in spite of himself, he gathered comfort from the fact that, pausing here, without adequate reason that was apparent, she took for granted that the friendship he offered would be a source of weakness to her. she never stooped to try to appear reasonable. as she had been speaking, a new look had been coming out of the habitual calmness of her face, and now, in the pause, the calm went suddenly, and there was a flash of fire in her eyes that he had never seen there before: "if i were starving, would you come and offer me bread that you knew i ought not to eat? it would be cruel." she rose up suddenly, and he stood before her. "it is cruel of you to tantalize me with thoughts of happiness because you know i must want it so much. i could not live and not want it. go! you are doing a cowardly thing. you are doing what the devil did when our lord was in the wilderness. but he did not need the bread he was asked to take, and i do not need your friendship. go!" she held out the hand--the hand that had so often beckoned to him in play--and pointed him to the door. he knew that he was standing before a woman who had been irritated by inward pain into a sudden gust of anger, and now, for the first time, he was not afraid of her. in losing her self-control she had lost her control of him. "josephine," he cried, "tell me about this man, le maître! he has no right over you. why do you think he is not dead? at least, tell me what you know." it seemed that, in the confusion of conflicting emotions, she hardly wondered why he had not obeyed her. "oh, he is not dead!" she spoke with bitterness. "i have no reason to suppose so. he only leaves me in suspense that he may make me the more miserable." and then, as if realizing what she had said, she lifted her head again proudly. "but remember it is nothing to you whether he is alive or dead." "nothing to me to know that you would be freed from this horrible slavery! it is not of my own gain, but of yours, i am thinking." he knew that what he had said was not wholly true, yet, in the heat of the moment, he knew that to embody in words the best that might be was to give himself the best chance of realizing it; and he did not believe now that her fierce assertion of indifference for him was true either, but his best self applauded her for it. for a minute he could not tell what josephine would do next. she stood looking at him helplessly; it seemed as though her subsiding anger had left a fear of herself in its place. but what he dreaded most was that her composure should return. "do not be angry with me," he said; "i ask because it is right that i should know. can you not get rid of this bond of marriage?" "do you think," she asked, "that the good god and the holy virgin would desire me to put myself--my life--all that is sacred--into courts and newspapers? do you think the holy mother of god--looking down upon me, her child--wants me to get out of trouble in _that_ way?" josephine had asked the question first in distress; then, with a face of peerless scorn, she seemed to put some horrid scene from before her with her hand. "the dear god would rather i would drown myself," she said; "it would at least be"--she hesitated for a word, as if at a loss in her english--"at least be cleaner." she had no sooner finished that speech than the scorn died out of her face: "ah, no," she cried repentant; "the men and women who are driven to seek such redress--i--i truly pity them--but for me--it would not be any use even if it were right. o'shea says it would be no use, and he knows. i don't think i would do it if i could; but i could not if i would." "surely he is dead," pleaded caius. "how can you live if you do not believe that?" she came a little nearer to him, making the explanation with child-like earnestness: "you see, i have talked to god and to the holy mother about this. i know they have heard my prayers and seen my tears, and will do what is good for me. i ask god always that le maître may not come back to me, so now i know that if" (a gasping sigh retarded for a moment the breath that came and went in her gentle bosom) "if he does come back it will be god's will. who am i that i should know best? shall i choose to be what you call a 'missionary' to the poor and sick--and refuse god's will? god can put an end to my marriage if he will; until he does, i will do my duty to my husband: i will till the land that he left idle; i will honour the name he gave me. i dare not do anything except what is very, very right, because i have appealed to the court of heaven. you asked me just now if i did not want and need friendship; it does not matter at all what i want, and whatever god does not give me you may be sure i do not need." he knew that the peace he dreaded had come back to her. she had gone back to the memory of her strength. now he obeyed the command she had given before, and went out. chapter vi. "the night is dark." caius went home to his house. inconsistency is the hall-mark of real in distinction from unreal life. a note of happy music was sounding in his heart. the bright spring evening seemed all full of joy. he saw a flock of gannets stringing out in long line against the red evening sky, and knew that all the feathered population of the rocks was returning to its summer home. something more than the mere joy of the season was making him glad; he hardly knew what it was, for it appeared to him that circumstances were untoward. it was in vain that he reasoned that there was no cause for joy in the belief that josephine took delight in his society; that delight would only make her lot the harder, and make for him the greater grievance. he might as well have reasoned with himself that there was no cause for joy in the fact of the spring; he was so created that such things made up the bliss of life to him. caius did not himself think that josephine owed any duty to la maître; he could only hope, and try to believe, that the man was dead. reason, common-sense, appeared to him to do away with what slight moral or religious obligation was involved in such a marriage; yet he was quite sure of one thing--that this young wife, left without friend or protector, would have been upon a very much lower level if she had thought in the manner as he did. he knew now that from the first day he had seen her the charm of her face had been that he read in it a character that was not only wholly different to, but nobler than, his own. he reflected now that he should not love her at all if she took a stand less high in its sweet unreasonableness, and his reason for this was simply that, had she done otherwise, she would not have been josephine. the thought that josephine was what she was intoxicated him; all the next day time and eternity seemed glorious to him. the islands were still ringed with the pearly ring of ice-floes, and for one brief spring day, for this lover, it was enough to be yet imprisoned in the same bit of green earth with his lady, to think of all the noble things she had said and done, and, by her influence, to see new vistas opening into eternity in which they two walked together. there was even some self-gratulation that he had attained to faith in heaven. he was one of those people who always suppose that they would be glad to have faith if they could. it was not faith, however, that had come to him, only a refining and quickening of his imagination. quick upon the heels of these high dreams came their test, for life is not a dream. between the magdalen islands and the mainland, besides the many stray schooners that came and went, there were two lines of regular communication--one was by a sailing vessel which carried freight regularly to and from the port of gaspé; the other was by a small packet steamer that once a week came from nova scotia and prince edward's island, and returned by the same route. it was by this steamer, on her first appearance, that caius ought reasonably to return to his home. she would come as soon as the ice diminished; she would bring him news, withheld for four months, of how his parents had fared in his absence. caius had not yet decided that he would go home by the first trip; the thought of leaving, when it forced itself upon him, was very painful. this steamer was the first arrival expected, and the islanders, eager for variety and mails, looked excitedly to see the ice melt or be drifted away. caius looked at the ice ring with more intense longing, but his longing was that it should remain. his wishes, like prayers, besought the cold winds and frosty nights to conserve it for him. it so happened that the gaspé schooner arrived before the southern packet, and lay outside of the ice, waiting until she could make her way through. so welcome was the sight that the islanders gathered upon the shores of the bay just for the pleasure of looking at her as she lay without the harbour. caius looked at her, too, and with comparative indifference, for he rejoiced that he was still in prison. upon that day the night fell just as it falls upon all days; but at midnight caius had a visitor. o'shea came to him in the darkness. caius was awakened from sound sleep by a muffled thumping at his door that was calculated to disturb him without carrying sharp sound into the surrounding air. his first idea was that some drunken fellow had blundered against his wall by mistake. as the sounds continued and the full strangeness of the event, in that lonely place, entered his waking brain, he arose with a certain trepidation akin to that which one feels at the thought of supernatural visitors, a feeling that was perhaps the result of some influence from the spirit of the man outside the door; for when he opened it, and held his candle to o'shea's face, he saw a look there that made him know certainly that something was wrong. o'shea came in and shut the door behind him, and went into the inner room and sat down on the foot of the bed. caius followed, holding the candle, and inspected him again. "sit down, man." o'shea made an impatient gesture at the light. "get into bed, if ye will; there's no hurry that i know of." caius stood still, looking at the farmer, and such nervousness had come upon him that he was almost trembling with fear, without the slightest notion as yet of what he feared. "in the name of heaven----" he began. "yes, heaven!" o'shea spoke with hard, meditative inquiry. "it's heaven she trusts in. what's heaven going to do for her, i'd loike to know?" "what is it?" the question now was hoarse and breathless. "well, i'll tell you what it is if ye'll give me time"--the tone was sarcastic--"and you needn't spoil yer beauty by catching yer death of cold. 'tain't nicessary, that i know of. there's things that are nicessary; there's things that will be nicessary in the next few days; but that ain't." for the first time caius did not resent the caustic manner. its sharpness was turned now towards an impending fate, and to caius o'shea had come as to a friend in need. mechanically he sat in the middle of the small bed, and huddled its blankets about him. the burly farmer, in fur coat and cap, sat in wooden-like stillness; but caius was like a man in a fever, restless in his suspense. the candle, which he had put upon the floor, cast up a yellow light on all the scant furniture, on the two men as they thus talked to each other, with pale, tense faces, and threw distorted shadows high up on the wooden walls. perhaps it was a relief to o'shea to torture caius some time with this suspense. at last he said: "he's in the schooner." "le maître? how do you know?" "well, i'll tell ye how i know. i told ye there was no hurry." if he was long now in speaking, caius did not know it. upon his brain crowded thoughts and imaginations: wild plans for saving the woman he loved; wild, unholy desires of revenge; and a wild vision of misery in the background as yet--a foreboding that the end might be submission to the worst pains of impotent despair. o'shea had taken out a piece of paper, but did not open it. "'tain't an hour back i got this. the skipper of the schooner and me know each other. he's been bound over by me to let me know if that man ever set foot in his ship to come to this place, and he's managed to get a lad off his ship in the noight, and across the ice, and he brought me this. le maître, he's drunk, lyin' in his bunk; that's the way he's preparing to come ashore. it may be one day, it may be two, afore the schooner can get in. le maître he won't get off it till it's in th' harbour. i guess that's about all there is to tell." o'shea added this with grim abstinence from fiercer comment. "does she know?" caius' throat hardly gave voice to the words. "no, she don't; and i don't know who is to tell her. i can't. i can do most things." he looked up round the walls and ceiling, as if hunting in his mind for other things he could not do. "i'll not do that. 'tain't in my line. my wife is adown on her knees, mixing up prayers and crying at a great rate; and says i to her, 'you've been a-praying about this some years back; i'd loike to know what good it's done. get up and tell madame the news;' and says she that she couldn't, and she says that in the morning you're to tell her." o'shea set his face in grim defiance of any sentiment of pity for caius that might have suggested itself. caius said nothing; but in a minute, grasping at the one straw of hope which he saw, "what are you going to do?" he asked. o'shea smoothed out the letter he held. "well, you needn't speak so quick; it's just that there i thought we might have our considerations upon. i'm not above asking advoice of a gintleman of the world like yerself; i'm not above giving advoice, neither." he sat looking vacantly before him with a grim smile upon his face. caius saw that his mind was made up. "what are you going to do?" he asked again. at the same moment came the sharp consciousness upon him that he himself was a murderer, that he wanted to have le maître murdered, that his question meant that he was eager to be made privy to the plot, willing to abet it. yet he did not feel wicked at all; before his eyes was the face of josephine lying asleep, unconscious and peaceful. he felt that he fought in a cause in which a saint might fight. "what i may or may not do," said o'shea, "is neither here nor there just now. the first thing is, what you're going to do. the schooner's out there to the north-east; the boat that's been used for the sealing is over here to the south-west; now, there ain't no sinse, that i know of, in being uncomfortable when it can be helped, or in putting ourselves about for a brute of a man who ain't worth it. it's plain enough what's the easy thing to do. to-morrow morning ye'll make out that ye can't abide no longer staying in this dull hole, and offer the skipper of one of them sealing-boats fifty dollars to have the boat across the ice and take you to souris. then ye will go up and talk plain common-sinse to madame, and tell her to put on her man's top-coat she's worn before, and skip out of this dirty fellow's clutches. there ain't nothing like being scared out of their wits for making women reasonable--it's about the only time they have their sinses, so far as i know." "if she won't come, what then?" caius demanded hastily. "my woife says that if ye're not more of a fool than we take ye for, she'll go." there was something in the mechanical repetition of what his wife had said that made caius suspect. "you don't think she'll go?" o'shea did not answer. "that is what you'll do, any way," he said; "and ye'll do it the best way ye know how." he sat upon the bed some time longer, wrapped in grim reserve. the candle guttered, flared, burned itself out. the two men were together in the dark. caius believed that if the first expedient failed, and he felt it could not but fail, murder was their only resource against what seemed to them intolerable evil. o'shea got up. "perhaps ye think the gintleman that is coming has redeeming features about him?" a fine edge of sarcasm was in his tone. "well, he hain't. before we lost sight of him, i got word concarning him from one part of the world and another. if i haven't got the law of him, it's because he's too much of a sneak. he wasn't anything but a handsome sort of beast to begin with; and, what with drinking and the life he's led, he's grown into a sort of thing that had better go on all fours like nebuchadnezzar than come nigh decent people on his hind-legs. why has he let her alone all these years?" the speech was grimly dramatic. "why, just because, first place, i believe another woman had the upper hand of him; second place, when he married madame it was the land and money her father had to leave her that made him make that bargain. he hadn't that in him that would make him care for a white slip of a girl as she was then, and, any way, he knew that the girl and the money would keep till he was sick of roving. it's as nasty a trick as could be that he's served her, playing dead dog all these years, and coming to catch her unawares. i tell ye the main thing he has on his mind is revenge for the letters she wrote him when she first got word of his tricks, and then, too, he's coming back to carouse on her money and the money she's made on his father's land, that he niver looked to himself." o'shea stalked through the small dark rooms and went out, closing the outer door gently behind him. caius sat still, wrapped in his blankets. he bowed his head upon his knees. the darkness was only the physical part of the blackness that closed over his spirit. there was only one light in this blackness--that was josephine's face. calm he saw it, touched with the look of devotion or mercy; laughing and dimpled he saw it, a thing at one with the sunshine and all the joy of earth; and then he saw it change, and grow pale with fear, and repulsion, and disgust. around this one face, that carried light with it, there were horrid shapes and sounds in the blackness of his mind. he had been a good man; he had preferred good to evil: had it all been a farce? was the thing that he was being driven to do now a thing of satanic prompting, and he himself corrupt--all the goodness which he had thought to be himself only an organism, fair outside, that rotted inwardly? or was this fear the result of false teaching, the prompting of an artificial conscience, and was the thing he wished to do the wholesome and natural course to take--right in the sight of such deity as might be beyond the curtain of the unknown, the force who had set the natural laws of being in motion? caius did not know. while his judgment was in suspense he was beset by horrible fears--the fear that he might be driven to do a villainous deed, the greater fear that he should not accomplish it, the awful fear, rising above all else in his mind, of seeing josephine overtaken by the horrible fate which menaced her, and he himself still alive to feel her misery and his own. no, rather than that he would himself kill the man. it was not the part that had been assigned to him, but if she would not save herself it would be the noblest thing to do. was he to allow o'shea, with a wife and children, to involve himself in such dire trouble, when he, who had no one dependent upon him, could do the deed, and take what consequences might be? he felt a glow of moral worth like that which he had felt when he decided upon his mission to the island--greater, for in that his motives had been mixed and sordid, and in this his only object was to save lives that were of more worth than his own. should he kill the man, he would hardly escape death, and even if he did, he could never look josephine in the face again. why not? why, if this deed were so good, could he not, after the doing of it, go back to her and read gratitude in her eyes? because josephine's standard of right and wrong was different from his. what was her standard? his mind cried out an impatient answer. "she believes it is better to suffer than to be happy." he did not believe that; he would settle this matter by his own light, and, by freeing her and saving her faithful friends, be cut off from her for ever. it would be an easy thing to do, to go up to the man and put a knife in his heart, or shoot him like a dog! his whole being revolted from the thought; when the deed came before his eyes, it seemed to him that only in some dark feverish imagination could he have dreamed of acting it out, that of course in plain common-sense, that daylight of the mind, he could not will to do this. then he thought again of the misery of the suffering wife, and he believed that, foreign as it was to his whole habit of life, he could do this, even this, to save her. then again came over him the sickening dread that the old rules of right and wrong that he had been taught were the right guides after all, and that josephine was right, and that he must submit. the very thought of submission made his soul rise up in a mad tempest of anger against such a moral law, against all who taught it, against the god who was supposed to ordain it; and so strong was the tempest of this wrath, and so weak was he, perplexed, wretched, that he would have been glad even at the same moment to have appealed to the god of his fathers, with whom he was quarrelling, for counsel and help. his quarrel was too fierce for that. his quarrel with god made trust, made mere belief even, impossible, and he was aware that it was not new, that this was only the culminating hour of a long rebellion. chapter vii. the wild waves whist. next morning, when caius walked forth into the glory of the april sunshine, he felt himself to be a poor, wretched man. there was not a fisherman upon the island, lazy, selfish as they were, and despised in his eyes, that did not appear to him to be a better man than he. all the force of training and habit made the thing that he was going to do appear despicable; but all the force of training and habit was not strong enough to make his judgment clear or direct his will. the muddy road was beginning to steam in the sunshine; the thin shining ice of night that coated its puddles was melting away. in the green strip by the roadside he saw the yellow-tufted head of a dandelion just level with the grass. the thicket of stunted firs on either side smelt sweet, and beyond them he saw the ice-field that dazzled his eyes, and the blue sea that sparkled. from this side he could not see the bay and the ship of fate lying at anchor, but he noticed with relief that the ice was not much less. there was no use in thinking or feeling; he must go on and do what was to be done. so he told himself. he shut his heart against the influence of the happy earth; he felt like a guest bidden by fate, who knew not whether the feast were to be for bridal or funeral. that he was not a strong man was shown in this--that having hoped and feared, dreamed and suffered, struggling to see a plain path where no path was, for half the night, he now felt that his power of thought and feeling had burned out, that he could only act his part, without caring much what its results might be. it was eight o'clock. he had groomed his horse, and tidied his house, and bathed, and breakfasted. he did not think it seemly to intrude upon the lady before this hour, and now he ascended her steps and knocked at her door. the dogs thumped their tails on the wooden veranda; it was only of late they had learned this welcome for him. would they give it now, he wondered, if they could see his heart? as he stood there waiting for a minute, he felt that it would be good, if possible, to have laid his dilemma fairly before the canine sense and heart, and to have let the dogs rise and tear him or let him pass, as they judged best. it was a foolish fancy. it was o'shea's wife who opened the door; her face was disfigured by crying. "you have told her?" demanded caius, with relief. the woman shook her head. "it was the fine morning that tempted her out, sir," she said. "she sent down to me, saying how she had taken a cup of milk and gone to ride on the beach, and i was to come up and look after the girls. but look here, sir"--eagerly--"it's a good thing, i'm thinking, for her spirits are high when she rides in fine weather, and she's more ready for games and plays, and thinking of pleasure. she's gone on the west shore, round by the light, for o'shea he looked at the tracks. do you get your horse and ride after, where you see her tracks in the sand." caius went. he mounted his horse and rode down upon the western shore. he found the track, and galloped upon it. the tide was low; the ice was far from shore; the highway, smoothed by the waves, was firm and good. caius galloped to the end of the island where the light was, where the sealing vessels lay round the base of the lighthouse, and out upon the dune, and still the print of her horse's feet went on in front of him. it was not the first time that he and she had been upon the dune together. a mile, two miles, three; he rode at an easy pace, for now he knew that he could not miss the rider before him. he watched the surf break gently on the broad shallow reach of sand-ridges that lay between him and the floating ice. and when he had ridden so far he was not the same man as when he mounted his horse, or at least, his own soul, of which man has hardly permanent possession, had returned to him. he could now see, over the low mists of his own moods, all the issues of josephine's case--all, at least, that were revealed to him; for souls are of different stature, and it is as the head is high or low that the battlefield is truly discerned. long before he met her he saw josephine. she had apparently gone as far as she thought wise, and was amusing herself by making her horse set his feet in the cold surf. it was a game with the horse and the wavelets that she was playing. each time he danced back and sunned himself he had to go in again; and when he stood, his hind-feet on the sand and his fore-feet reared over the foam, by way of going where she wished and keeping himself dry, caius could see her gestures so well that it seemed to him he heard the tones of playful remonstrance with which she argued the case. when she perceived that caius intended to come up to her, she rode to meet him. her white cap had been taken off and stuffed into the breast of her dress; the hood surrounded her face loosely, but did not hide it; her eyes were sparkling with pleasure--the pure animal pleasure of life and motion, the sensuous pleasure in the beauty and the music of the waves; other pleasures there might be, but these were certain, and predominated. "why did you come?" she asked the question as a happy child might ask of its playmate--no hint of danger. to caius it was a physical impossibility to answer this question with the truth just then. "is not springtime an answer?" he asked, then added: "i am going away to-day. i came for one last ride." she looked at him for a few moments, evidently supposing that he intended to go to harbour island to wait there for his ship. if that were so, it seemed that she felt no further responsibility about her conduct to him. his heart sank to see that her joy in the spring and the morning was such that the thought of parting did not apparently grieve her much. in a moment more her eyes flashed at him with the laughter at his expense which he knew so well; she tried not to laugh as she spoke, but could not help it. "i have been visiting the band of men who were going to murder you the night you came. would you like to see them?" "if you will take care of me." as she turned and rode before him he heard her laughing. "there," she said, stopping and pointing to the ground--"there is the place where the quicksand was. i have not gone over it this morning. sometimes they last from one season to another; sometimes they change themselves in a few days. i was dreadfully frightened when we began to sink, but it was you who saved the pony." "don't," said caius--"don't attempt to make the best of me. i would rather be laughed at." he spoke lightly, without feeling, and that seemed to please her. "i think," she said candidly, "we behaved very badly; but it was o'shea's fault--i only enjoyed it. and i don't see what else we could have done, because those two french sailors had to watch if anyone came to steal from the wreck, and they were going to help us so far as to go to the sheds on the cliff for boards to get up the cart; but o'shea could not have stayed all night with the bags unless i had left him my coat as well as his own." "you might have trusted me," said caius. still he spoke with no sensibility; she grew more at her ease. "o'shea wouldn't; and i couldn't control o'shea. and then we had to meet so often, that i could not bear that you should know i had worn a man's coat. i had to do it, for i couldn't drive home any other way." here a pause, and her mind wandered to another recollection. "those men we met brought us word that one of my friends was so ill; i had to hurry to him. in my heart i thought you would not respect me because i had worn a man's coat; and because---- yes, it was very naughty of me indeed to behave as i did in the water that summer. even then i did try to get o'shea to let me walk with you, but he wouldn't." she had been slowly riding through a deep, soft sand-drift that was heaped at the mouth of the hollow, and when they had got through the opening, caius saw the ribs of one side of an enormous wreck protruding from the sand, about six feet in height. a small hardy weed had grown upon their heads in tufts; withered and sear with the winter, it still hung there. the ribs bent over a little, as the men he had seen had bent. "the cloud-shadows and the moonlight were very confusing," remarked josephine; "and then o'shea made the two sailors stand in the same way, and they were real. i never knew a man like o'shea for thinking of things that are half serious and half funny. i never knew him yet fail to find a way to do the thing he wanted to do; and it's always a way that makes me laugh." if josephine would not come away with him, would o'shea find a way of killing le maître? and would it be a way to make her laugh? with the awful weight of the tidings he brought upon his heart, all that he said or did before he told them seemed artificial. "i thought"--half mechanically--"that i saw them all hold up their hands." "did you?" she asked. "the first two did; o'shea told them to hold up their hands." "there is something you said a minute ago that i want to answer," he said. she thought he had left the subject of his illusion because it mortified him. "you said"--he began now to feel emotion as he spoke--"that you thought i should not respect you. i want to tell you that i respected you as i respect my mother, even when you were only a mermaid. i saw you when i fell that night as we walked on this beach. if you had worn a boy's coat, or a fishskin, always, i had sense enough to see that it was a saint at play. have you read all the odd stories about the saints and the virgin--how they appear and vanish, and wear odd clothes, and play beneficent tricks with people? it was like that to me. i don't know how to say it, but i think when good people play, they have to be very, very good, or they don't really enjoy it. i don't know how to explain it, but the moderate sort of goodness spoils everything." caius, when he had said this, felt that it was something he had never thought before; and, whatever it might mean, he felt instinctively that it meant a great deal more than he knew. he felt a little shabby at having expressed it from her religious point of view, in which he had no part; but his excuse was that there was in his mind at least the doubt that she might be right, and, whether or not, his mission just then was to gain her confidence. he brushed scruples aside for the end in view. "i am glad you said that," she said. "i am not good, but i should like to be. it wasn't becoming to play a mermaid, but i didn't think of that then. i didn't know many things then that i know now. you see, my uncle's wife drowned her little child; and afterwards, when she was ill, i went to take care of her, and we could not let anyone know, because the police would have interfered for fear she would drown me. but she is quite harmless, poor thing! it is only that time stopped for her when the child was drowned, and she thinks its little body is in the water yet, if we could only find it. i found she had made that dress you call a fishskin with floats on it for herself, and she used to get into the sea, from the opening of an old cellar, at night, and push herself about with a pole. it was the beautiful wild thing that only a mad person with nice thoughts could do. but when she was ill, i played with it, for i had nothing else to do; it was desecration." "i thought you were like the child that was lost. i think you are like her." "she thought so, too; she used to think sometimes that i was her little daughter grown up. it was very strange, living with her; i almost think i might have gone mad, too, if i hadn't played with you." it was very strange, caius thought, that on this day of all days she should be willing to talk to him about herself, should be willing to laugh and chat and be happy with him. the one day that he dare not listen long, that he must disturb her peace, was the only time that she had seemed to wish to make a friend of him. "when you lived so near us," he asked, "did you ever come across the woods and see my father's house? did you see my father and mother? i think you would like them if you did." "oh, no," she said lightly; "i only knew who you were because my aunt talked about you; she never forgot what you had done for the child." "do not turn your horse yet." he allowed himself to be urgent now. "i have something to say to you which must be said. i am going home; i do not want to wait for the steamer; i want to bribe one of those sealing vessels to start with me to-day. i have come to ask you if you will not come with me to see my mother. you do not know what it is to have a mother. mothers are very good; mine is. you would like to be with her, i know; you would have the calm of feeling taken care of, instead of standing alone in the world." he said all this without letting his tone betray that that double-thoughted mind of his was telling him that this was doubtful, that his mother might be slow to believe in josephine, and that he was not sure whether josephine would be attracted by her. josephine looked at him with round-eyed surprise; then, apparently conjecturing that the invitation was purely kind, purely stupid, she thanked him, and declined it graciously. "is there no folly with which you would not easily credit me?" he smiled faintly in his reproach. "do you think i do not know what i am saying? i have been awake all night thinking what i could do for you." for a moment he looked at her helplessly, hoping that some hint of the truth would come of itself; then, turning away his face, he said hoarsely: "le maître is on the gaspé schooner. o'shea has had the news. he is lying drunk in his berth." he did not turn until he heard a slight sound. then he saw that she had slipped down from her horse, perhaps because she was afraid of falling from it. her face was quite white; there was a drawn look of abject terror upon it; but she only put her horse's rein in his hand, and pointed to the mouth of the little valley. "let me be alone a little while," she whispered. so caius rode out upon the beach, leading her horse; and there he held both restive animals as still as might be, and waited. chapter viii. "god's in his heaven." caius wondered how long he ought to wait if she did not come out to him. he wondered if she would die of misery there alone in the sand-dune, or if she would go mad, and meet him in some fantastic humour, all the intelligence scorched out of her poor brain by the cruel words he had said. he had a notion that she had wanted to say her prayers, and, although he did not believe in an answering heaven, he did believe that prayers would comfort her, and he hoped that that was why she asked to be left. when he thought of the terror in her eyes, he felt sanguine that she would come with him. now that he had seen her distress, it seemed to him worse than any notion he had preconceived of it. it was right that she should go with him. when she had once done that, he would stand between her and this man always. that would be enough; if she should never care for him, if he had nothing more than that, he would be satisfied, and the world might think what it would. if she would not go with him--well, then he would kill le maître. his mind was made up; there was nothing left of hesitation or scruple. he looked at the broad sea and the sunlight and the sky, and made his vow with clenched teeth. he laughed at the words which had scared him the night before--the names of the crimes which were his alternatives; they were made righteousness to him by the sight of fear in a woman's face. it is one form of weakness to lay too much stress upon the emotion of another, just as it is weak to take too much heed of our own emotions; but caius thought the sympathy that carried all before it was strength. after awhile, waiting became intolerable. leading both horses, he walked cautiously back to a point where he could see josephine. she was sitting upon the sandy bank near where he had left her. he took his cap in his hand, and went with the horses, standing reverently before her. he felt sure now that she had been saying her prayers, because, although her face was still very pallid, she was composed and able to speak. he wished now she had not prayed. "you are very kind to me." her voice trembled, but she gave him a little smile. "i cannot pretend that i am not distressed; it would be false, and falsehood is not right. you are very, very kind, and i thank you----" she broke off, as if she had been going to say something more but had wearily forgotten what it was. "oh, do not say that!" his voice was like one pleading to be spared a blow. "i love you. there is no greater joy to me on earth than to serve you." "hush," she said; "don't say that. i am very sorry for you, but sorrow must come to us all in some way." "don't, don't!" he cried--"don't tell me that suffering is good. it is not good; it is an evil. it is right to shun evil; it is the only right. the other is a horrid fable--a lie concocted by priests and devils!" "suppose you loved someone--me, for instance--and i was dead, and you knew quite certainly that by dying you would come to where i was--would you call death good or evil?" he demurred. he did not want to admit belief in anything connected with the doctrine of submission. "i said 'suppose,'" she said. "i would go through far more than death to come near you." "suffering is just a gate, like death. we go through it to get the things we really want most." "i don't believe in a religion that calls suffering better than happiness; but i know you do." "no, i don't," she said, "and god does not; and people who talk as if he did not want us to seek happiness--even our own happiness--are making to themselves a graven image. i will tell you how i think about it, because i have been alone a great deal and been always very much afraid, and that has made me think a great deal, and you have been very kind, for you risked your life for my poor people, and now you would risk something more than that to help me. will you listen while i try to tell you?" caius signified his assent. he was losing all his hope. he was thinking that when she had done talking he would go and get ready to do murder; but he listened. "you see," she began, "the greatest happiness is love. love is greedy to get as well as to give. it is all nonsense talking about love that gives and asks for no return. we only put up with that when we cannot get the other, and why? why should we think it the grandest thing to give what we would scorn to take? you, for instance--you would rather have a person you loved do nothing for you, yet enjoy you, always demanding your affection and presence, than that he or she should be endlessly generous, and indifferent to what you give in return." "yes." he blushed as he said it. "well then, it is cant to speak as if the love that asks for no return is the noblest. now listen. i have something very solemn to say, because it is only by the greatest things that we learn what the little ought to be. when god came to earth to live for awhile, it was for the sake of his happiness and ours; he loved us in the way that i have been saying; he was not content only to bless us, he wanted us to enjoy him. he wanted that happiness from us; and he wanted us to expect it from him and from each other; and if we had answered, all would have been like the first marriage feast, where they had the very best wine, and such lots of it. but, you see, we couldn't answer; we had no souls. we were just like the men on cloud island who laughed at you when you wanted them to build a hospital. the little self or soul that we had was of that sort that we couldn't even love each other very much with it, and not him at all. so there was only one way, and that was for us to grow out of these stupid little souls, and get good big ones, that can enjoy god, and enjoy each other, and enjoy everything perfectly." she looked up over the yellow sand-hills into the deep sunny sky, and drew a long breath of the april air involuntarily. "oh," she said, "a good, big, perfect soul could enjoy so much." it seemed as if she thought she had said it all and finished the subject. "well," said caius, interested in spite of himself, "if god wanted to make us happy, he could have given us that kind of soul." "ah, no! we don't know why things have to grow, but they must; everything grows--_you_ know that. for some reason, that is the best way; so there was just one way for those souls to grow in us, and he showed us how. it is by doing what is quite perfectly right, and bearing all the suffering that comes because of it, and doing all the giving side of love, because here we can't get much. pain is not good in itself; it is a gate. our souls are growing all through the gate of the suffering, and when we get to the other side of it, we shall find we have won them. god wants us to be greedy for happiness; but we must find it by going through the gate he went through to show us the way." caius stood before her holding the horses; even they had been still while she was speaking, as if listening to the music of her voice. caius felt the misery of a wavering will and conflicting thoughts. "if i thought," he said, "that god cared about happiness--just simple happiness--it would make religion seem so much more sensible; but i'm afraid i don't believe in living after death, or that he cares----" what she said was wholly unreasonable. she put out her hand and took his, as if the hand-clasp were a compact. "trust god and see," she said. there was in her white face such a look of glorious hope, that caius, half carried away by its inspiration, still quailed before her. after he had wrung her hand, he found himself brushing his sleeve across his eyes. as he thought that he had lost her, thought of all that she would have to endure, of the murder he still longed to commit, and felt all the agony of indecision again, and suspected that after this he would scruple to commit it--when all this came upon him, he turned and leaned against one of the horses, sobbing, conscious in a vague way that he did not wish to stop himself, but only craved her pity. josephine comforted him. she did not apparently try to, she did not do or say anything to the purpose; but she evinced such consternation at the sight of his tears, that stronger thoughts came. he put aside his trouble, and helped her to mount her horse. they rode along the beach slowly together. she was content to go slowly. she looked physically too exhausted to ride fast. even yet probably, within her heart, the conflict was going forward that had only been well begun in her brief solitude of the sand valley. caius looked at her from time to time with feelings of fierce indignation and dejection. the indignation was against le maître, the dejection was wholly upon his own account; for he felt that his plan of help had failed, and that where he had hoped to give strength and comfort, he had only, in utter weakness, exacted pity. caius had one virtue in these days: he did not admire anything that he did, and he did not even think much about the self he scorned. with regard to josephine, he felt that if her philosophy of life were true it was not for him to presume to pity her. so vividly had she brought her conception of the use of life before him that it was stamped upon his mind in a brief series of pictures, clear, indelible; and the last picture was one of which he could not think clearly, but it produced in him an idea of the after-life which he had not before. then he thought again of the cloud under which josephine was entering. her decision would in all probability cut down her bright, useful life to a few short years of struggle and shame and sorrow. at last he spoke: "but why do you think it right to sacrifice yourself to this man? it does not seem to me right." he knew then what clearness of thought she had, for she looked with almost horror in her face. "sacrifice myself for le maître! oh no! i should have no right to do that; but to the ideal right, to god--yes. if i withheld anything from god, how could i win my soul?" "but how do you know god requires this?" "ah! i told you before. why will you not understand? i have prayed. i know god has taken this thing in his own hand." caius said no more. josephine's way of looking at this thing might not be true; that was not what he was considering just then. he knew that it was intensely true for her, would remain true for her until the event of death proved it true or false. this was the factor in the present problem that was the enemy to his scheme. then, furthermore, whether it were true or false, he knew that there was in his mind the doubt, and that doubt would remain with him, and it would prevent him from killing le maître; it would even prevent him from abetting o'shea, and he supposed that that abetting would be necessary. here was cause enough for dejection--that the whole miserable progress of events which he feared most should take place. and why? because a woman held a glorious faith which might turn out to be delusion, and because he, a man, had not strength to believe for certain that it was a delusion. it raised no flicker of renewed hope in caius to meet o'shea at the turn of the shore where the boats of the seal fishery were drawn up. o'shea had a brisk look of energy that made it evident that he was still bent upon accomplishing his design. he stopped in front of the lady's horse, and said something to her which caius did not hear. "have ye arranged that little picnic over to prince edward's," he called to caius. caius looked at josephine. o'shea's mere presence had put much of the spiritual aspect of the case to flight, and he suddenly smarted under the realization that he had never put the question to her since she had known her danger--never put the request to her strongly at all. "come," said josephine; "i am going home. i am going to send all my girls to their own homes and get the house ready for my husband." o'shea, with imperturbable countenance, pushed off his hat and scratched his head. "i was thinking," he remarked casually, "that i'd jist send mammy along with ye to prince edward." (mammy was what he always called his wife.) "i am thinking he'll be real glad to see her, for she's a real respectable woman." "who?" asked josephine, puzzled. "prince edward, that owns the island," said o'shea. "and she's that down in the mouth, it's no comfort for me to have her; and she can take the baby and welcome. it's a fair sea." he looked to the south as he spoke. "i'd risk both her and the brat on it; and skipper pierre is getting ready to take the boat across the ice." caius saw that resolution had fled from josephine. she too looked at the calm blue southern sea, and agonized longing came into her eyes. it seemed to caius too cruel, too horribly cruel, that she should be tortured by this temptation. because he knew that to her it could be nothing but temptation, he sat silent when o'shea, seeing that the lady's gaze was afar, signed to him for aid; and because he hoped that she might yield he was silent, and did not come to rescue her from the tormentor. o'shea gave him a look of undisguised scorn; but since he would not woo, it appeared that this man was able to do some wooing for him. "of course," remarked o'shea, "i see difficulties. if the doctor here was a young man of parts, i'd easier put ye and mammy in his care; but old skipper pierre is no milksop." josephine looked, first alert, as if suspecting an ill-bred joke, and then, as o'shea appeared to be speaking to her quite seriously, forgetting that caius might overhear, there came upon her face a look of gentle severity. "that is not what i think of the doctor; i would trust him more quickly than anyone else, except you, o'shea." the words brought to caius a pang, but he hardly noticed it in watching the other two, for the lady, when she had spoken, looked off again with longing at the sea, and o'shea, whose rough heart melted under the trustful affection of the exception she made, for a moment turned away his head. caius saw in him the man whom he had only once seen before, and that was when his child had died. it was but a few moments; the easy quizzical manner sat upon him again. "oh, well, he hasn't got much to him one way or the other, but----" this in low, confidential tones. caius could not hear her reply; he saw that she interrupted, earnestly vindicating him. he drew his horse back a pace or two; he would not overhear her argument on his behalf, nor would he trust o'shea so far as to leave them alone together. the cleverness with which o'shea drove her into a glow of enthusiasm for caius was a revelation of power which the latter at the moment could only regard curiously, so torn was his heart in respect to the issue of the trial. he was so near that their looks told him what he could not hear, and he saw josephine's face glow with the warmth of regard which grew under the other's sneers. then he saw o'shea visibly cast that subject away as if it was of no importance; he went near to her, speaking low, but with the look of one who brought the worst news, and caius knew, without question, that he was pouring into her ears all the evil he had ever heard of le maître, all the detail of his present drunken condition. caius did not move; he did not know whether the scene before him represented satan with powerful grasp upon a soul that would otherwise have passed into some more heavenly region, or whether it was a wise and good man trying to save a woman from her own fanatical folly. the latter seemed to be the case when he looked about him at the beach, at the boats, at the lighthouse on the cliff above, with a clothes-line near it, spread with flapping garments. when he looked, not outward, but inward, and saw josephine's vision of life, he believed he ought to go forward and beat off the serpent from the dove. the colloquy was not very long. then o'shea led josephine's horse nearer to caius. "madame and my wife will go with ye," he said. "i've told the men to get the boat out." "i did not say that," moaned josephine. her face was buried in her hands, and caius remembered how those pretty white hands had at one time beckoned to him, and at another had angrily waved him away. now they were held helplessly before a white face that was convulsed with fear and shame and self-abandonment. "there ain't no particular hurry," remarked o'shea soothingly; "but mammy has packed up all in the houses that needs to go, and she'll bring warm clothes and all by the time the boat's out, so there's no call for madame to go back. it would be awful unkind to the girls to set them crying; and"--this to caius--"ye jist go and put up yer things as quick as ye can." his words were accompanied by the sound of the fishermen putting rollers under the small schooner that had been selected. the old skipper, pierre, had begun to call out his orders. josephine took her hands from her face suddenly, and looked towards the busy men with such eager hungry desire for the freedom they were preparing for her that it seemed to caius that at that moment his own heart broke, for he saw that josephine was not convinced but that she had yielded. he knew that mammy's presence on the journey made no real difference in its guilt from josephine's standpoint; her duty to her god was to remain at her post. she had flinched from it out of mere cowardice--it was a fall. caius knew that he had no choice but to help her back to her better self, that he would be a bastard if he did not do it. three times he essayed to speak; he had not the right words; then, even without them, he broke the silence hurriedly: "i think you are justified in coming with me; but if you do what you believe to be wrong--you will regret it. what does your heart say? think!" it was a feeble, stammered protest; he felt no dignity in it; he almost felt it to be the craven insult seen in it by o'shea, who swore under his breath and glared at him. josephine gave only a long sobbing sigh, as one awakening from a dream. she looked at the boat again, and the men preparing it, and then at caius--straight in his eyes she looked, as if searching his face for something more. "follow your own conscience, josephine; it is truer than ours. i was wrong to let you be tempted," he said. "forgive me!" she looked again at the boat and at the sea, and then, in the stayed subdued manner that had become too habitual to her, she said to o'shea: "i will go home now. dr. simpson is right. i cannot go." o'shea was too clever a man to make an effort to hold what he knew to be lost; he let go her rein, and she rode up the path that led to the island road. when she was gone o'shea turned upon caius with a look of mingled scorn and loathing. "ye're afraid of le maître coming after ye," he hissed; "or ye have a girl at home, and would foind it awkward to bring her and madam face to face; so ye give her up, the most angel woman that ever trod this earth, to be done to death by a beast, because ye're afraid for yer own skin. bah! i had come to think better of ye." with that he cut at the horse with a stick he had in his hand, and the creature, wholly unaccustomed to such pain and indignity, dashed along the shore, by chance turning homeward. caius, carried perforce as upon the wings of the wind for half a mile, was thrown off upon the sand. he picked himself up, and with wet clothes and sore limbs walked to his little house, which he felt he could no longer look upon as a home. he could hardly understand what he had done; he began to regret it. a man cannot see the forces at work upon his inmost self. he did not know that josephine's soul had taken his by the hand and lifted it up--that his love for her had risen from earth to heaven when he feared the slightest wrong-doing for her more than all other misfortune. chapter ix. "god's puppets, best and worst." all that long day a hot sun beat down upon the sea and upon the ice in the bay; and the tide, with its gentle motion of flow and ebb, made visibly more stir among the cakes of floating ice, by which it was seen that they were smaller and lighter than before. the sun-rays were doing their work, not so much by direct touch upon the ice itself as by raising the temperature of all the flowing sea, and thus, when the sun went down and the night of frost set in, the melting of the ice did not cease. morning came, and revealed a long blue channel across the bay from its entrance to harbour island. the steamer from souris had made this channel by knocking aside the light ice with her prow. she was built to travel in ice. she lay now, with funnel still smoking, in the harbour, a quarter of a mile from the small quay. the gaspé schooner still lay without the bay, but there was a movement of unfurling sails among her masts, by which it was evident that her skipper hoped by the faint but favourable breeze that was blowing to bring her down the same blue highway. it was upon this scene that caius, wretched and sleepless, looked at early dawn. he had come out of his house and climbed the nearest knoll from which the bay could be seen, for his house and those near it looked on the open western sea. when he reached this knoll he found that o'shea was there before him, examining the movements of the ship with his glass in the gray cold of the shivering morning. the two men stood together and held no communication. pretty soon o'shea went hastily home again. caius stood still to see the sun rise clear and golden. there were no clouds, no vapours, to catch its reflections and make a wondrous spectacle of its appearing. the blue horizon slowly dipped until the whole yellow disc beamed above it; ice and water glistened pleasantly; on the hills of all the sister isles there was sunshine and shade; and round about him, in the hilly field, each rock and bush cast a long shadow. between them the sun struck the grass with such level rays that the very blades and clumps of blades cast their shadows also. caius had remained to watch if the breeze would strengthen with the sun's uprising, and he prayed the forces of heat and cold, and all things that preside over the currents of air, that it might not strengthen but languish and die. what difference did it make, a few hours more or less? no difference, he knew, and yet all the fresh energy the new day brought him went forth in this desire that josephine might have a few hours longer respite before she began the long weary course of life that stretched before her. caius had packed up all his belongings. there was nothing for him to do but drive along the dune with his luggage, as he had driven four months before, and take the steamer that night to souris. the cart that took him would no doubt bring back le maître. caius had not yet hired a cart; he had not the least idea whether o'shea intended to drive him and bring back his enemy or not. that would, no doubt, be josephine's desire. caius had not seen josephine or spoken to o'shea; it mattered nothing to him what arrangement they would or would not make for him. as he still stood watching to see if the breeze would round and fill the sails which the gaspé schooner had set, o'shea came back and called from the foot of the knoll. caius turned; he bore the man no ill will. josephine's horse had not been injured by the accident of yesterday, and his own fall was a matter of complete indifference. "i'm thinking, as ye packed yer bags, ye'll be going for the steamer." o'shea spoke with that indefinable insult in his tone which had always characterized it in the days of their first intercourse, but, apart from that, his manner was crisp and cool as the morning air; not a shade of discouragement was visible. "i am going for the steamer," said caius, and waited to hear what offer of conveyance was to be made him. "well, i'm thinking," said o'shea, "that i'll just take the boat across the bay, and bring back the captain from harbour island; but as his honour might prefer the cart, i'll send the cart round by the dune. there's no saying but, having been in tropical parts, he may be a bit scared of the ice. howsomever, knowing that he's in that haste to meet his bride, and would, no doubt, grudge so much as a day spent between here and there on the sand, i'll jist give him his chice; being who he is, and a foine gintleman, he has his right to it. as for you"--the tone instantly slipped into insolent indifference--"ye can go by one or the other with yer bags." it was not clear to caius that o'shea had any intention of himself escorting le maître if he chose to go by the sand. this inclined him to suppose that he had no fixed plan to injure him. what right had he to suppose such plan had been formed? the man before him wore no look of desperate passion. in the pleasant weather even the dune was not an unfrequented place, and the bay was overlooked on all sides. caius could not decide whether his suspicion of o'shea had been just or a monstrous injustice. he felt such suspicion to be morbid, and he said nothing. the futility of asking a question that would not be answered, the difficulty of interference, and his extreme dislike of incurring from o'shea farther insult, were enough to produce his silence. behind that lay the fact that he would be almost glad if the murder was done. josephine's faith had inspired in him such love for her as had made him save her from doing what she thought wrong at any cost; but the inspiration did not extend to this. it appeared to him the lesser evil of the two. "i will go with the boat," said caius. "it is the quicker way." he felt that for some reason this pleased o'shea, who began at once to hurry off to get the luggage, but as he went he only remarked grimly: "they say as it's the longest way round that is the shortest way home. if you're tipped in the ice, mr. doctor, ye'll foind that true, i'm thinking." caius found that o'shea's boat, a heavy flat-bottomed thing, was already half launched upon the beach, furnished with stout boat-hooks for pushing among the ice, as well as her oars and sailing gear. he was glad to find that such speedy departure was to be his. he had no thought of saying good-bye to josephine. chapter x. "death shrive thy soul!" it was an immense relief to stand in the boat with the boat-hook, whose use demanded all the skill and nerve which caius had at command. for the most part they could only propel the boat by pushing or pulling the bits of ice that surrounded it with their poles. it was a very different sort of travel from that which they had experienced together when they had carried their boat over islands of ice and launched it in the great gaps between them. the ice which they had to do with now would not have borne their weight; nor was there much clear space for rowing between the fragments. o'shea pushed the boat boldly on, and they made their journey with comparative ease until, when they came near the channel made by the steamship, they found the ice lying more closely, and the difficulty of their progress increased. work as they would, they were getting on but slowly. the light wind blew past their faces, and the gaspé schooner was seen to sail up the path which the steamer had made across the bay. "the wind's in the very chink that makes her able to take the channel. i'm thinking she'll be getting in before us." o'shea spoke with the gay indifference of one who had staked nothing on the hope of getting to the harbour first; but caius wondered if this short cut would have been undertaken without strong reason. a short period of hard exertion, of pushing and pulling the bits of ice, followed, and then: "i'm thinking we'll make the channel, any way, before she comes by, and then we'll just hail her, and the happy bridegroom can come off if he's so moinded, being in the hurry that he is. 'tain't many bridegrooms that makes all the haste he has to jine the lady." caius said nothing; the subject was too horrible. "ye and yer bags could jist go on board the ship before the loving husband came off; ye'd make the harbour that way as easy, and i'm thinking the ice on the other side of the bay is that thick ye'd be scared and want me to sit back in my boat and yelp for help, like a froightened puppy dog, instead of making the way through." cains thought that o'shea might be trying to dare him to remain in the boat. he inclined to believe that o'shea could not alone enter into conflict with a strong unscrupulous man in such a boat, in such a sea, with hope of success. at any rate, when o'shea, presuming on his friendship with the skipper, had accomplished no less a thing than bringing the sailing vessel to a standstill, caius was prepared to board her at once. the little boat was still among the ice, but upon the verge of clear water. the schooner, already near, was drifting nearer. o'shea was shouting to the men on her deck. the skipper stood there looking over her side; he was a short stout man, of cheery aspect. several sailors, and one or two other men who might be passengers, had come to the side also. beside the skipper stood a big man with a brown beard; his very way of standing still seemed to suggest habitual sluggishness of mind or manner; yet his appearance at this distance was fine. caius discovered that this was le maître; he was surprised, he had supposed that he would be thin and dark. "it's captain le maître i've come for; it's his wife that's wanting to see him," o'shea shouted. "he's here!" the skipper gave the information cheerfully, and le maître made a slight sign showing that it was correct. "i'll just take him back, then, in the boat with me now, for it's easy enough getting this way, but there's holes in the sand that makes drivin' unpleasant. howsomever, i can't say which is the best passage. this city gentleman i've got with me now thinks he's lost his life siveral times already since he got into this boat." he pointed to caius as he ended his invitation to le maître. the men on the schooner all grinned. it was o'shea's manner, as well as his words, that produced their derision. caius was wondering what would happen if le maître refused to come in the boat. suspicion said that o'shea would cause the boat to be towed ashore, and would then take the captain home by the quicksands. would o'shea make him drunk, and then cast him headfirst into the swallowing sand? it seemed preposterous to be harbouring such thought against the cheerful and most respectable farmer at his side. what foundation had he for it? none but the hearing of an idle boast that the man had made one day to his wife, and that she in simplicity had taken for earnest. le maître signified that he would go with o'shea. indeed, looked at from a short distance, the passage through the ice did not look so difficult as it had proved. o'shea and caius parted without word or glance of farewell. caius clambered over the side of the schooner; the one thought in his mind was to get a nearer view of le maître. this man was still standing sleepily. he did not bear closer inspection well. his clothes were dirty, especially about the front of vest and coat; there was everything to suggest an entire lack of neatness in personal habits; more than that, the face at the time bore unmistakable signs that enough alcohol had been drunk to benumb, although not to stupefy, his faculties: the eye was bloodshot; the face, weather-beaten as it was, was flabby. in spite of all this, caius had expected a more villainous-looking person, and so great was his loathing that he would rather have seen him in a more obnoxious light. the man had a certain dignity of bearing; his face had that unfurrowed look that means a low moral sense, for there is no evidence of conflict. his eyes were too near each other; this last was, perhaps, the only sign by which nature from the outset had marred a really excellent piece of manly proportion. caius made these observations involuntarily. as le maître stepped here and there in a dull way while a chest that belonged to him was being lowered into the boat, caius could not help realizing that his preconceived notions of the man as a monster had been exaggerated; he was a common man, fallen into low habits, and fixed in them by middle age. le maître got into the boat in seaman-like fashion. he was perfectly at home there, and dull as his eye looked, he tacitly assumed command. he took o'shea's pole from him, stepped to the prow, and began to turn the boat, without regarding the fact that o'shea was still holding hasty conversation with the men on the schooner concerning the public events of the winter months--the news they had brought from the mainland. everything had been done in the greatest haste; it was not twelve minutes after the schooner had been brought to a stand when her sails were again turned to catch the breeze. the reason for this haste was to prevent more sideways drifting, for the schooner was drifting with the wind against the floating ice amongst which o'shea's boat was lying. the wind blew very softly; her speed when sailing had not been great, and the drifting motion was the most gentle possible. caius had not taken his eyes from the boat. he was watching the strength with which le maître was turning her and starting her for cloud island. he was watching o'shea, who, still giving back chaff and sarcasm to the men on the schooner, was forced to turn and pick up the smaller pole which caius had relinquished; he seemed to be interested only in his talk, and to begin to help in the management of the boat mechanically. the skipper was swearing at his men and shouting to o'shea with alternate breath. the sails of the schooner had hardly yet swelled with the breeze when o'shea, bearing with all his might against a bit of ice, because of a slip of his pole, fell heavily on the side of his own boat, tipping her suddenly over on a bit of ice that sunk with her weight. le maître, at the prow, in the violent upsetting, was seen to fall headlong between two bits of ice into the sea. "by----! did you ever see anything like that?" the skipper of the schooner had run to the nearest point, which was beside caius. then followed instantly a volley of commands, some of which related to throwing ropes to the small boat, some concerning the movement of the schooner, for at this moment her whole side pressed against all the bits of ice, pushing them closer and closer together. the boat had not sunk; she had partially filled with water that had flowed over the ice on which she had upset; but when the weight of le maître was removed and o'shea had regained his balance, the ice rose again, righting the boat and almost instantly tipping her toward the other side, for the schooner had by this time caused a jam. it was not such a jam as must of necessity injure the boat, which was heavily built; but the fact that she was now half full of water and that there was only one man to manage her, made his situation precarious. the danger of o'shea, however, was hardly noticed by the men on the schooner, because of the horrible fact that the closing of the bits of ice together made it improbable that le maître could rise again. for a moment there was an eager looking at every space of blue water that was left. if the drowning man could swim, he would surely make for such an aperture. "put your pole down to him where he went in!" the men on the schooner shouted this to o'shea. "put the rope round your waist!" this last was yelled by the skipper, perceiving that o'shea himself was by no means safe. a rope that had been thrown had a noose, through which o'shea dashed his arms; then, seizing the pole, he struck the butt-end between the blocks of ice where le maître had fallen. it seemed to caius that the pole swayed in his hands, as if he were wrenching it from a hand that had gripped it strongly below; but it might have been only the grinding of the ice. o'shea thrust the pole with sudden vehemence further down, as if in a frantic effort to bring it better within reach of le maître if he were there; or, as caius thought, it might have been that, feeling where the man was, he stunned him with the blow. standing in a boat that was tipping and grinding among the ice, o'shea appeared to be exercising marvellous force and dexterity in thus using the pole at all. the wind was now propelling the schooner forward, and her pressure on the ice ceased. o'shea threw off the noose of the rope wildly, and looked to the men on the vessel, as if quite uncertain what to do next. it was a difficult matter for anyone to decide. to leave him there was manifestly impossible; but if the schooner again veered round, the jamming of the ice over the head of la maître would again occur. the men on the schooner, not under good discipline, were all shouting and talking. "he's dead by now, wherever he is." the skipper made this quiet parenthesis either to himself or to caius. then he shouted aloud: "work your boat through to us!" o'shea began poling vigorously. the ice was again floating loosely, and it was but the work of a few minutes to push his heavy boat into the open water that was in the wake of the schooner. there was a pause, like a pause in a funeral service, when o'shea, standing ankle-deep in the water which his boat held, and the men huddled together upon the schooner's deck, turned to look at all the places in which it seemed possible that the body of le maître might again be seen. they looked and looked until they were tired with looking. the body had, no doubt, floated up under some cake of ice, and from thence would speedily sink to a bier of sand at the bottom of the bay. "by----! i never saw anything like that." it was the remark which began and ended the episode with the skipper. then he raised his voice, and shouted to o'shea: "it's no sort of use your staying here! make the rope fast to your boat, and come up on deck!" but this o'shea would not do. he replied that he would remain, and look about among the ice a bit longer, and that, any way, it would be twice as far to take his boat home from harbour island as from the place where he now was. the schooner towed his boat until he had baled the water out and got hold of his oars. the ice had floated so far apart that it seemed easy for the boat to go back through it. during this time excited pithy gossip had been going on concerning the accident. "you did all a man could do," shouted the captain to o'shea consolingly, and remarked to those about him: "there wasn't no love lost between them, but o'shea did all he could. o'shea might as easy as not have gone over himself, holding the pole under water that time." the fussy little captain, as far as caius could judge, was not acting a part. the sailors were french; they could talk some english; and they spoke in both languages a great deal. "his lady won't be much troubled, i dare say, from all i hear." the captain was becoming easy and good-natured again. he said to caius: "you are acquainted with her?" "she will be shocked," said caius. he felt as he spoke that he himself was suffering from shock--so much so that he was hardly able to think consecutively about what had occurred. "they won't have an inquest without the body," shouted the captain to o'shea. then to those about him he remarked: "he was as decent and good-natured a fellow as i'd want to see." the pronoun referred to le maître. the remark was perhaps prompted by natural pity, but it was so instantly agreed to by all on the vessel that the chorus had the air of propitiating the spirit of the dead. chapter xi. the riddle of life. the schooner slowly moved along, and lay not far from the steamship. the steamship did not start for souris until the afternoon. caius was put on shore there to await the hour of embarking. in his own mind he was questioning whether he would embark with the steamer or return to cloud island; but he naturally did not make this problem known to those around him. the skipper and several men of the schooner came ashore with caius. there was a great bustle as soon as they reached the small wharf because of what they had to tell. it was apparent from all that was told, and all the replies that were made, that no shadow of suspicion was to fall upon o'shea. why should it? he had, as it seemed, no personal grudge against le maître, whose death had been evidently an accident. a man who bore an office akin to that of magistrate for the islands came down from a house near the harbour, and the story was repeated to him. when caius had listened to the evidence given before this official personage, hearing the tale again that he had already heard many times in a few minutes, and told what he himself had seen, he began to wonder how he could still harbour in his mind the belief in o'shea's guilt. he found, too, that none of these people knew enough about josephine to see any special interest attaching to the story, except the fact that her husband, returning from a long voyage, had been drowned almost within sight of her house. "ah, poor lady! poor lady!" they said; and thus saying, and shaking their heads, they dispersed to eat their dinners. caius procured the bundle of letters which had come for him by this first mail of the year. he sauntered along the beach, soon getting out of sight and hearing of the little community, who were not given to walking upon a beach that was not in this case a highroad to any place. he was on the shingle of the bay, and he soon found a nook under a high black cliff where the sun beat down right warmly. he had not opened his letters; his mind did not yet admit of old interests. the days were not long passed in which men who continued to be good husbands and fathers and staunch friends killed their enemies, when necessary, with a good conscience. had o'shea a good conscience now? would he continue to be in all respects the man he had been, and the staunch friend of josephine? in his heart caius believed that le maître was murdered; but he had no evidence to prove it--nothing whatever but what o'shea's wife had said to him that day she was hanging out her linen, and such talk occurs in many a household, and nothing comes of it. now josephine was free. "what a blessing!" he used the common idiom to himself, and then wondered at it. could one man's crime be another man's blessing? he found himself, out of love for josephine, wondering concerning the matter from the point of view of the religious theory of life. perhaps this was heaven's way of answering josephine's appeal, and saving her; or perhaps human souls are so knit together that o'shea, by the sin, had not blessed, but hindered her from blessing. it was a weary round of questions, which caius was not wise enough to answer. another more practical question pressed. did he dare to return now to cloud island, and watch over josephine in the shock which she must sustain, and find out if she would discover the truth concerning o'shea? after a good while he answered the question: no; he did not dare to return, knowing what he did and his own cowardly share in it. he could not face josephine, and, lonely as she was, she did not need him; she had her prayers, her angels, her heaven. perhaps time, the proverbial healer of all wounds, would wash the sense of guilt from his soul, and then he could come back and speak to josephine concerning this new freedom of hers. then he remembered that some say that for the wound of guilt time no healing art. could he find, then, other shrift? he did not know. he longed for it sorely, because he longed to feel fit to return to josephine. but, after all, what had he done of which he was ashamed? what was his guilt? had he felt any emotion that it was not natural to feel? had he done anything wrong? again he did not know. he sat with head bowed, and felt in dull misery that o'shea was a better man than he--more useful and brave, and not more guilty. he opened his letters, and found that in his absence no worse mishap had occurred at home than that his father had been laid up some time with a bad leg, and that both father and mother had allowed themselves to worry and fret lest ill should have befallen their son. caius embarked on the little steamship that afternoon, and the next noon found him at home. the person who met him on the threshold of his father's house was jim hogan. jim grinned. "since you've taken to charities abroad," he said, "i thought i'd begin at home." jim's method of beginning at home was not in the literal sense of the proverb. it turned out that he had been neighbouring to some purpose. old simpson could not move himself about indoors or attend to his work without, and jim, who had not before this attached himself by regular employment, had by some freak of good-nature given his services day by day until caius should return, and had become an indispensable member of the household. "he's not a very respectable young man," said the mother apologetically to her son, while she was still wiping her tears of joy; "but it's just wonderful what patience he's had in his own larky way with your father, when, though i say it who shouldn't, your father's been as difficult to manage as a crying baby, and jim, he just makes his jokes when anyone else would have been affronted, and there's father laughing in spite of himself sometimes. so i don't know how it is, but we've just had him to stop on, for he's took to the farm wonderful." an hour after, when alone with his father, simpson said to him: "your mother, you know, was timorous at night when i couldn't help myself; and then she'd begin crying, as women will, saying as she knew you were dead, and that, any way, it was lonesome without you. so when i saw that it comforted her a bit to have someone to cook for, i encouraged the fellow. i told him he'd nothing to look for from me, for his father is richer than i am nowadays; but he's just the sort to like vagary." jim went home, and caius began a simple round of home duties. his father needed much attendance; the farm servants needed direction. caius soon found out, without being told, that neither in one capacity nor the other did he fulfil the old man's pleasure nearly so well as the rough-and-ready jim. even his mother hardly let a day pass without innocently alluding to some prank of jim's that had amused her. she would have been very angry if anyone had told her that she did not find her son as good a companion. caius did not tell her so, but he was perfectly aware of it. caius had not been long at home when his cousin mabel came to visit them. this time his mother made no sly remarks concerning mabel's reason for timing her visit, because it seemed that mabel had paid a long and comforting visit while he had been at the magdalen islands. mabel did not treat caius now with the unconscious flattery of blind admiration, neither did she talk to him about jim; but her silence whenever jim's name was mentioned was eloquent. caius summed all this up in his own mind. he and jim had commenced life as lads together. the one had trodden the path of virtue and laudable ambition; the other had just amused himself, and that in many reprehensible ways; and now, when the ripe age of manhood was attained in that state of life to which--as the catechism would have it--it had pleased god to call them, it was jim who was the useful and honoured man, not caius. it was clear that all the months and years of his absence had enabled his parents to do very well without their son. they did not know it, but in all the smaller things that make up the most of life, his interests had ceased to be their interests. caius had the courage to realize that even at home he was not much wanted. if, when jim married mabel, he would settle down with the old folks, they would be perfectly happy. on his return, caius had learned that the post for which he had applied in the autumn had not been awarded to him. he knew that he must go as soon as possible to find out a good place in which to begin his professional life, but at present the state of his father's bad leg was so critical, and the medical skill of the neighbourhood so poor, that he was forced to wait. all this time there was one main thought in his mind, to which all others were subordinate. he saw his situation quite clearly; he had no doubts about it. if josephine would come to him and be his wife, he would be happy and prosperous. josephine had the power to make him twice the man he was without her. it was not only that his happiness was bound up in her; it was not only that josephine had money and could manage it well, although he was not at all above thinking of that; it was not even that she would help and encourage and console him as no one else would. there was that subtle something, more often the fruit of what is called friendship than of love, by which josephine's presence increased all his strong faculties and subdued his faults. caius knew this with the unerring knowledge of instinct. he tried to reason about it, too: even a dull king reigns well if he have but the wit to choose good ministers; and among men, each ruling his small kingdom, they are often the most successful who possess, not many talents, but the one talent of choosing well in friendship and in love. ah! but it is one thing to choose and another to obtain. caius still felt that he dared not seek josephine. since le maître's death something of the first blank horror of his own guilt had passed away, but still he knew that he was not innocent. then, too, if he dared to woo her, what would be the result? that last admonition and warning that he had given her when she was about to leave the island with him clogged his hope when he sought to take courage. he knew that popular lore declared that, whether or not she acknowledged its righteousness, her woman's vanity would take arms against it. caius had written to josephine a letter of common friendliness upon the occasion of her husband's death, and had received in return a brief sedate note that might, indeed, have been written by the ancient lady whom the quaint italian handwriting learned in the country convent had at first figured to his imagination. he knew from this letter that josephine did not suppose that blame attached to o'shea. she spoke of her husband's death as an accident. caius knew that she had accepted it as a deliverance from god. it was this attitude of hers which made the whole circumstance appear to him the more solemn. so caius waited through the lovely season in which summer hovers with warm sunshiny wings over a land of flowers before she settles down upon it to abide. he was unhappy. a shade, whose name was failure, lived with him day by day, and spoke to him concerning the future as well as the past. debating much in his mind what he might do, fearing to make his plight worse by doing anything, he grew timid at the very thought of addressing josephine. happily, there is something more merciful to a man than his own self--something which in his hour of need assists him, and that often very bountifully. chapter xii. to call a spirit from the vasty deep. it was when the first wild-flowers of the year had passed away, and scarlet columbine and meadow-rue waved lightly in the sunny glades of the woods, and all the world was green--the new and perfect green of june--that one afternoon caius, at his father's door, met a visitor who was most rarely seen there. it was farmer day. he accosted caius, perhaps a little sheepishly, but with an obvious desire to be civil, for he had a favour to ask which he evidently considered of greater magnitude than caius did when he heard what it was. day's wife was ill. the doctor of the locality had said more than once that she would not live many days, but she had gone on living some time, it appeared, since this had been first said. day did not now call upon caius as a medical man. his wife had taken a fancy to see him because of his remembered efforts to save her child. day said apologetically that it was a woman's whim, but he would be obliged if caius, at his convenience, would call upon her. it spoke much for the long peculiarity and dreariness of day's domestic life that he evidently believed that this would be a disagreeable thing for caius to do. day went on to the village. caius strolled off through the warm woods and across the hot cliffs to make this visit. the woman was not in bed. she was dying of consumption. the fever was flickering in her high-boned cheeks when she opened the door of the desolate farmhouse. she wore a brown calico gown; her abundant black hair was not yet streaked with gray. caius could not see that she looked much older than she had done upon the evening, years ago, when he had first had reason to observe her closely. he remembered what josephine had told him--that time had stood still with her since that night: it seemed true in more senses than one. a light of satisfaction showed itself in her dark face when, after a moment's inspection, she realized who he was. "come in," she said briefly. caius went in, and had reason to regret, as well on his own account as on hers, that she shut the door. to be out in the summer would have been longer life for her, and to have the summer shut out made him realize forcibly that he was alone in the desolate house with a woman whose madness gave her a weird seeming which was almost equivalent to ghostliness. when one enters a house from which the public has long been excluded and which is the abode of a person of deranged mind, it is perhaps natural to expect, although unconsciously, that the interior arrangements should be very strange. instead of this, the house, gloomy and sparsely furnished as it was, was clean and in order. it lacked everything to make it pleasant--air, sunshine, and any cheerful token of comfort; but it was only in this dreary negation that it failed; there was no positive fault to be found even with the atmosphere of the kitchen and bare lobby through which he was conducted, and he discovered, to his surprise, that he was to be entertained in a small parlour, which had a round polished centre table, on which lay the usual store of such things as are seen in such parlours all the world over--a bible, a couple of albums, a woollen mat, and an ornament under a glass case. caius sat down, holding his hat in his hand, with an odd feeling that he was acting a part in behaving as if the circumstances were at all ordinary. the woman also sat down, but not as if for ease. she drew one of the big cheap albums towards her, and began vigorously searching in it from the beginning, as if it were a book of strange characters in which she wished to find a particular passage. she fixed her eyes upon each small cheap photograph in turn, as if trying hard to remember who it represented, and whether it was, or was not, the one she wanted. caius looked on amazed. at length, about the middle of the book, she came to a portrait at which she stopped, and with a look of cunning took out another which was hidden under it, and thrust it at caius. "it's for you," she said; "it's mine, and i'm going to die, and it's you i'll give it to." she looked and spoke as if the proffered gift was a thing more precious than the rarest gem. caius took it, and saw that it was a picture of a baby girl, about three years old. he had not the slightest doubt who the child was; he stood by the window and examined it long and eagerly. the sun, unaided by the deceptive shading of the more skilled photographer, had imprinted the little face clearly. caius saw the curls, and the big sad eyes with their long lashes, and all the baby features and limbs, his memory aiding to make the portrait perfect. his eager look was for the purpose of discovering whether or not his imagination had played him false; but it was true what he had thought--the little one was like josephine. "i shall be glad to have it," he said--"very glad." "i had it taken at montrose," said the poor mother; and, strange to say, she said it in a commonplace way, just as any woman might speak of procuring her child's likeness. "day, he was angry; he said it was waste of money; that's why i give it to you." a fierce cunning look flitted again across her face for a moment. "don't let him see it," she whispered. "day, he is a bad father; he don't care for the children or me. that's why i've put her in the water." she made this last statement concerning her husband and child with a nonchalant air, like one too much accustomed to the facts to be distressed at them. for a few minutes it seemed that she relapsed into a state of dulness, neither thought nor feeling stirring within her. caius, supposing that she had nothing more to say, still watched her intently, because the evidences of disease were interesting to him. when he least expected it, she awoke again into eagerness; she put her elbows on the table and leaned towards him. "there's something i want you to do," she whispered. "i can't do it any more. i'm dying. since i began dying, i can't get into the water to look for her. my baby is in the water, you know; i put her in. she isn't dead, but she's there, only i can't find her. day told me that once you got into the water to look for her too, but you gave it up too easy, and no one else has ever so much as got in to help me find her." the last part of the speech was spoken in a dreary monotone. she stopped with a heart-broken sigh that expressed hopeless loneliness in this mad quest. "the baby is dead," he said gently. she answered him with eager, excited voice: "no, she isn't; that's where you are wrong. you put it on the stone that she was dead. when i came out of th' asylum i went to look at the stone, and i laughed. but i liked you to make the stone; that's why i like you, because nobody else put up a stone for her." caius laid a cool hand on the feverish one she was now brandishing at him. "you are dying, you say"--pityingly. "it is better for you to think that your baby is dead, for when you die you will go to her." the woman laughed, not harshly, but happily. "she isn't dead. she came back to me once. she was grown a big girl, and had a wedding-ring on her hand. who do you think she was married to? i thought perhaps it was you." the repetition of this old question came from her lips so suddenly that caius dropped her hand and stepped back a pace. he felt his heart beating. was it a good omen? there have been cases where a half-crazed brain has been known, by chance or otherwise, to foretell the future. the question that was now for the second time repeated to him seemed to his hope like an instance of this second sight, only half understood by the eye that saw it. "it was not your little daughter that came back, mrs. day. it was her cousin, who is very like her, and she came to help you when you were ill, and to be a daughter to you." she looked at him darkly, as if the saner powers of her mind were struggling to understand; but in a minute the monomania had again possession of her. "she had beautiful hair," she said; "i stroked it with my hand; it curled just as it used to do. do you think i don't know my own child? but she had grown quite big, and her ring was made of gold. i would like to see her again now before i die." very wistfully she spoke of the beauty and kindness of the girl whose visit had cheered her. the poor crazed heart was full of longing for the one presence that could give her any comfort this side of death. "i thought i'd never see her again." she fixed her dark eyes on caius as she spoke. "i was going to ask you, after i was dead and couldn't look for her any more, if you'd keep on looking for her in the sea till you found her. but i wish you'd go now and see if you couldn't fetch her before i die." "yes, i will go," answered caius suddenly. the strong determination of his quick assent seemed to surprise even her in whose mind there could be no rational cause for surprise. "do you mean it?" "yes, i mean it. i will go, mrs. day." a moment more she paused, as if for time for full belief in his promise to dawn upon her, and then, instead of letting him go, she rose up quickly with mysterious looks and gestures. her words were whispered: "come, then, and i'll show you the way. come; you mustn't tell day. day doesn't know anything about it." she had led him back to the door of the house and gone out before him. "come, i'll show you the way. hush! don't talk, or someone might hear us. walk close to the barn, and no one will see. i never showed anyone before but her when she came to me wearing the gold ring. what are you so slow for? come, i'll show you the way to look for her." impelled by curiosity and the fear of increasing her excitement if he refused, caius followed her down the side of the open yard in which he had once seen her stand in fierce quarrel with her husband. it had seemed a dreary place then, when the three children swung on the gate and neither the shadow of death nor madness hung over it; it seemed far more desolate now, in spite of the bright summer sunlight. the barns and stable, as they swiftly passed them, looked much neglected, and there was not about the whole farmstead another man or woman to be seen. as the mad woman went swiftly in front of him, caius remembered, perhaps for the first time in all these years, that after her husband had struck her upon that night, she had gone up to the cowshed that was nearest the sea, and that afterwards he had met her at the door of the root-house that was in the bank of the chine. it was thither she went now, opening the door of the cowshed and leading him through it to a door at the other end, and down a path to this cellar cut in the bank. the cellar had apparently been very little used. the path to it was well beaten, but caius observed that it ran past the cellar down the chine to a landing where day now kept a flat-bottomed boat. they stood on this path before the heavy door of the cellar. rust had eaten into the iron latch and the padlock that secured it, but the woman produced a key and opened the ring of the lock and took him into a chamber about twelve feet square, in which props of decaying beams held up the earth of the walls and roof. the place was cold, smelling strongly of damp earth and decaying roots; but, so far, there was nothing remarkable to be seen; just such a cellar was used on his father's farm to keep stores of potatoes and turnips in when the frost of winter made its way through all the wooden barns. in three corners remains of such root stores were lying; in the fourth, the corner behind the door, nearest the sea, some boards were laid on the floor, and on them flower-pots containing stalks of withered plants and bulbs that had never sprouted. "they're mine," she said. "day dursn't touch them;" and saying this, she fell to work with eager feverishness, removing the pots and boards. when she had done so, it was revealed that the earth under the boards had broken through into another cellar or cave, in which some light could be seen. "i always heard the sea when i was in this place, and one day i broke through this hole. the man that first had the farm made it, i s'pose, to pitch his seaweed into from the shore." she let her long figure down through the hole easily enough, for there were places to set the feet on, and landed on a heap of earth and dried weed. when caius had dropped down into this second chamber, he saw that it had evidently been used for just the purpose she had mentioned. the seaweed gathered from the beach after storms was in common use for enriching the fields, and someone in a past generation had apparently dug this cave in the soft rock and clay of the cliff; it was at a height above the sea-line at which the seaweed could be conveniently pitched into it from a cart on the shore below. some three or four feet of dry rotten seaweed formed its carpet. the aperture towards the sea was almost entirely overgrown with such grass and weeds as grew on the bluff. it was evident that in the original cutting there had been an opening also sideways into the chine, which had caved in and been grown over. the cellar above had, no doubt, been made by someone who was not aware of the existence of this former place. to caius the secret chamber was enchanted ground. he stepped to its window, framed in waving grasses, and saw the high tide lapping just a little way below. it was into this place of safety that josephine had crept when she had disappeared from his view before he could mount the cliff to see whither she went. she had often stood where he now stood, half afraid, half audacious, in that curious dress of hers, before she summoned up courage to slip into the sea for daylight or moonlight wanderings. he turned round to hear the gaunt woman beside him again talking excitedly. upon a bit of rusty iron that still held its place on the wall hung what he had taken to be a heap of sacking. she took this down now and displayed it with a cunning look. "i made it myself," she said, "it holds one up wonderful in the water; but now i've been a-dying so long the buoys have burst." caius pityingly took the garment from her. her mad grief, and another woman's madcap pleasure, made it a sacred thing. his extreme curiosity found satisfaction in discovering that the coarse foundation was covered with a curious broidery of such small floats as might, with untiring industry, be collected in a farmhouse: corks and small pieces of wood with holes bored through them were fastened at regular intervals, not without some attempt at pattern, and between them the bladders of smaller animals, prepared as fishermen prepare them for their nets. larger specimens of the same kind were concealed inside the neck of the huge sack, but on the outside everything was comparatively small, and it seemed as if the hands that had worked it so elaborately had been directed by a brain in which familiarity with patchwork, and other homely forms of the sewing-woman's art, had been confused with an adequate idea of the rough use for which the garment was needed. some knowledge of the skill with which fishermen prepare their floats had also evidently been hers, for the whole outside of the garment was smeared or painted with a brownish substance that had preserved it to a wonderful extent from the ravages of moisture and salt. it was torn now, or, rather, it seemed that it had been cut from top to bottom; but, besides this one great rent, it was in a rotten condition, ready to fall to pieces, and, as the dying woman had said, many of the air-blown floats had burst. caius was wondering whether the occasion on which this curious bathing-dress had been torn was that in which he, by pursuing josephine, had forced her to cease pushing herself about in shallow water and take to more ordinary swimming. he looked around and saw the one other implement which had been necessary to complete the strange outfit; it, too, was a thing of ordinary appearance and use: a long pole or poker, with a handle at one end and a small flat bar at the other, a thing used for arranging the fire in the deep brick ovens that were still in use at the older farmsteads. it was about six feet long. the woman, seeing his attention directed to it, took it eagerly and showed how it might be used, drawing him with her to the aperture over the shore and pointing out eagerly the landmarks by which she knew how far the shallow water extended at certain times of the tide. her topographical knowledge of all the sea's bed within about a mile of the high-water mark was extraordinarily minute, and caius listened to the information she poured upon him, only now beginning to realize that she expected him to wear the dress, and take the iron pole, and slip from the old cellar into the tide when it rose high enough, and from thence bring back the girl with the soft curls and the golden ring. it was one of those moments in which laughter and tears meet, but there was a glamour of such strange fantasy over the scene that caius felt, not so much its humour or its pathos, as its fairy-like unreality, and that which gave him the sense of unreality was that to his companion it was intensely real. "you said you would go." some perception of his hesitation must have come to her; her words were strong with insistence and wistful with reproach. "you said you would go and fetch her in to me before i die." then caius put back the dress she held on the rusty peg where it had hung for so long. "i am a man," he said. "i can swim without life-preservers. i will go and try to bring the girl back to you. but not now, not from here; it will take me a week to go and come, for i know that she lives far away in the middle of the deep gulf. come back to the house and take care of yourself, so that you may live until she comes. you may trust me. i will certainly bring her to you if she's alive and if she can come." with these promises and protestations he prevailed upon the poor woman to return with him to her lonely home. caius had not got far on his road home, when he met day coming from the village. caius was full of his determination to go for josephine by the next trip of the small steamer. his excuse was valid; he could paint the interview from which he had just come so that josephine would be moved by it, would welcome his interference, and come again to nurse her uncle's wife. thus thinking, he had hurried along, but when he met day his knight-errantry received a check. "your wife ought not to be alone," he said to day. "no; that's true!" the farmer replied drearily; "but it isn't everybody she'll have in the house with her." "your son and daughter are too far away to be sent for?" "yes"--briefly--"they are in the west." caius paused a moment, thinking next to introduce the subject which had set all his pulses bounding. because it was momentous to him, he hesitated, and while he hesitated the other spoke. "there is one relation i've got, the daughter of a brother of mine who died up by gaspé basin. she's on the magdalens now. i understood that you had had dealings with her." "yes; i was just about to suggest--i was going to say----" "i wrote to her. she is coming," said day. chapter xiii. the evening and the morning. josephine had come. all night and all the next day she had been by her aunt's bedside; for day's wife lay helpless now, and death was very near. this much caius knew, having kept himself informed by communication with the village doctor, and twenty-four hours after josephine's arrival he walked over to the day farm, hoping that, as the cool of the evening might relax the strain in the sick-room, she would be able to speak to him for a few minutes. when he got to the dreary house he met its owner, who had just finished his evening work. the two men sat on wooden chairs outside the door and watched the dusk gathering on sea and land, and although they did not talk much, each felt glad of the other's companionship. it was nine years since caius had first made up his mind that day was a monster of brutality and wickedness; now he could not think himself back into the state of mind that could have formed such a judgment when caius had condemned day, he had been a religions youth who thought well of himself; now his old religious habits and beliefs had dropped off, but he did not think well of himself or harshly of his neighbour. in those days he had felt sufficient for life; now all his feeling was summed up in the desire that was scarcely a hope, that some heavenly power, holy and strong, would come to his aid. it is when the whole good of life hangs in a trembling balance that people become like children, and feel the need of the motherly powers of heaven. caius sat with day for two hours, and josephine did not come down to speak to him. he was glad to know that day's evening passed the more easily because he sat there with him; he was glad of that when he was glad of nothing that concerned himself. day and caius did not talk about death or sorrow, or anything like that. all the remarks that they interchanged turned upon the horses day was rearing and their pastures. day told that he had found the grass on the little island rich. "i remember finding two of your colts there one day when i explored it. it was four years ago," said caius dreamily. day took no interest in this lapse of time. "it's an untidy bit of land," he said, "and i can't clear it. 'tisn't mine; but no one heeds the colts grazing." "do you swim them across?" asked caius, half in polite interest, half because his memory was wandering upon the water. "they got so sharp at swimming, i had to raise the fence on the top of the cliff," said day. the evening wore away. in the morning caius, smitten with the fever of hope and fear, rose up at dawn, and, as in a former time he had been wont to do, ran to the seashore by the nearest path and walked beside the edge of the waves. he turned, as he had always done, towards the little island and the day farm. how well he knew every outward curve and indentation of the soft red shelving bank! how well he knew the colouring of the cool scene in the rising day, the iridescent light upon the lapping waves, the glistening of the jasper red of the damp beach, and the earthen pinks of the upper cliffs! the sea birds with low pathetic note called out to him concerning their memories of the first dawn in which he had walked there searching for the body of the dead baby. then the cool tints of dawn passed into the golden sunrise, and the birds went on calling to him concerning the many times in which he had trodden this path as a lover whose mistress had seemed so strange a denizen of this same wide sea. caius did not think with scorn now of this old puzzle and bewilderment, but remembered it fondly, and went and sat beneath baby day's epitaph, on the very rock from which he had first seen josephine. it was very early in the morning; the sun had risen bright and warm. at that season even this desolate bit of shore wag garlanded above with the most lovely green; the little island was green as an emerald. caius did not intend to keep his present place long. the rocky point where the red cliff ended hid any portion of the day farm from his view, and as soon as the morning was far enough advanced he intended to go and see how the owner and his household had fared during the night. in the meantime he waited, and while he waited fate came to him smiling. once or twice as he sat he heard the sound of horse's feet passing on the cliff above him. he knew that day's horses were there, for they were pastured alternately upon the cliff and upon the richer herbage of the little island. he supposed by the sounds that they were catching one of them for use on the farm. the sounds went further away, for he did not hear the tread of hoofs again. he had forgotten them; his face had dropped upon his hands; he was looking at nothing, except that, beneath the screen of his fingers, he could see the red pebbles at his feet. something very like a prayer was in his heart; it had no form; it was not a thing of which his intellect could take cognizance. just then he heard a cry of fear and a sound as if of something dashing into the water. the sounds came from behind the rocky point. caius knew the voice that cried and he rose up wildly, but staggered, baffled by his old difficulty, that the path thither lay only through deep water or round above the cliff. then he saw a horse swimming round the red rocks, and on its back a woman sat, not at ease--evidently distressed and frightened by the course the animal was taking. to caius the situation became clear. josephine had thought to refresh herself after her night's vigil by taking an early ride, and the young half-broken horse, finding himself at large, was making for the delicacies which he knew were to be found on the island pasture. josephine did not know why her steed had put out to sea, or whither he was going. she turned round, and, seeing caius, held out her hand, imploring his aid. caius thanked heaven at that moment it was true that josephine kept her seat upon the horse perfectly, and it was true that, unless the animal intended to lie down and roll when he got into the deep grass of the island, he had probably no malicious intention in going there. that did not matter. josephine was terrified by finding herself in the sea and she had cried to him for aid. a quick run, a short swim, and caius waded up on the island sands. the colt had a much longer distance to swim, and caius waited to lay his hand on the bridle. for a minute or two there was a chase among the shallow, rippling waves, but a horse sinking in heavy sand is not hard to catch. josephine sat passive, having enough to do, perhaps, merely to keep her seat. when at length caius stood on the island grass with the bridle in his hand, she slipped down without a word and stood beside him. caius let the dripping animal go, and he went, plunging with delight among the flowering weeds and bushes. caius himself was dripping also, but, then, he could answer for his own movements that he would not come too near the lady. josephine no longer wore her loose black working dress; this morning she was clad in an old habit of green cloth. it was faded with weather, and too long in the skirt for the fashion then in vogue, but caius did not know that; he only saw that the lower part of the skirt was wet, and that, as she stood at her own graceful height upon the grass, the wet cloth twisted about her feet and lay beside them in a rounded fold, so that she looked just now more like the pictures of the fabled sea-maids than she had ever done when she had floated in the water. the first thing josephine did was to look up in his face and laugh; it was her own merry peal of low laughter that reminded him always of a child laughing, not more for fun than for mere happiness. it bridged for him all the sad anxieties and weary hours that had passed since he had heard her laugh before; and, furthermore, he knew, without another moment's doubt, that josephine, knowing him as she did, would never have looked up to him like that unless she loved him. it was not that she was thinking of love just then--that was not what was in her face; but it was clear that she was conscious of no shadow of difference between them such as would have been there if his love had been doomed to disappointment. she looked to him to join in her laughter with perfect comradeship. "why did the horse come here?" asked josephine. caius explained the motives of the colt as far as he understood them; and she told how she had persuaded her uncle to let her ride it, and all that she had thought and felt when it had run away with her down the chine and into the water. it was not at all what he could have believed beforehand, that when he met josephine they would talk with perfect contentment of the affairs of the passing hour; and yet so it was. with graver faces they talked of the dying woman, with whom josephine had passed the night. it was not a case in which death was sad; it was life, not death, that was sad for the wandering brain. but josephine could tell how in those last nights the poor mother had found peace in the presence of her supposed child. "she curls my hair round her thin fingers and seems so happy," said josephine. she did not say that the thin hands had fingered her wedding-ring; but caius thought of it, and that brought him back the remembrance of something that had to be said that must be said then, or every moment would become a sin of weak delay. "i want to tell you," he began--"i know i must tell you--i don't know exactly why, but i must--i am sorry to say anything to remind you--to distress you--but i hated le maître! looking back, it seems to me that the only reason i did not kill him was that i was too much of a coward." josephine looked off upon the sea. the wearied pained look that she used to wear when the people were ill about her, or that she had worn when she heard le maître was returning, came back to her face, so that she seemed not at all the girl who had been laughing with him a minute before, but a saint, whose image he could have worshipped. and yet he saw then, more clearly than he had ever seen, that the charm, the perfect consistency of her character, lay in the fact that the childlike joy was never far off from the woman's strength and patience, and that a womanly heart always underlay the merriest laughter. they stood silent for a long time. it is in silence that god's creation grows. at length josephine spoke slowly: "yes, we are often very, very wicked; but i think when we are so much ashamed that we have to tell about it--i think it means that we will never do it again." "i am not good enough to love you," said caius brokenly. "ah! do not say that"--she turned her face away from him--"remember the last time you spoke to me upon the end of the dune." caius went back to the shore to get the boat that lay at the foot of the chine. the colt was allowed to enjoy his paradise of island flowers in peace. the end. advertisements appleton's town and country library. published semimonthly. . _the steel hammer._ by louis ulbach. . _eve._ a novel. by s. baring-gould. . _for fifteen years._ a sequel to the steel hammer. by louis ulbach. . _a counsel of perfection._ a novel. by lucas malet. . _the deemster._ a romance. by hall caine. . _a virginia inheritance._ by edmund pendleton. . _ninette_: an idyll of provence. by the author of véra. . "_the right honourable._" by justin mccarthy and mrs. campbell-praed. . _the silence of dean maitland._ by maxwell gray. . _mrs. lorimer_: a study in black and white. by lucas malet. . _the elect lady._ by george macdonald. . _the mystery of the "ocean star."_ by w. clark russell. . _aristocracy._ a novel. . _a recoiling vengeance._ by frank barrett. with illustrations. . _the secret of fontaine-la-croix._ by margaret field. . _the master of rathkelly._ by hawley smart. . _donovan:_ a modern englishman. by edna lyall. . _this mortal coil._ by grant allen. . _a fair emigrant._ by rosa mulholland. . _the apostate._ by ernest daudet. . _raleigh westgate_; or, epimenides in maine. by helen kendrick johnson. . _arius the libyan_: a romance of the primitive church. . _constance, and calbot's rival._ by julian hawthorne. . _we two._ by edna lyall. . _a dreamer of dreams._ by the author of thoth. . _the ladies' gallery._ by justin mccarthy and mrs. campbell-praed. . _the reproach of annesley._ by maxwell gray. . _near to happiness._ . _in the wire-grass._ by louis pendleton. . _lace._ a berlin romance. by paul lindau. . _american coin._ a novel. by the author of aristocracy. . _won by waiting._ by edna lyall. . _the story of helen davenant._ by violet fane. . _the light of her countenance._ by h. h. boyesen. . _mistress beatrice cope._ by m. e. le clerc. . _the knight-errant._ by edna lyall. . _in the golden days._ by edna lyall. . _giraldi;_ or, the curse of love. by ross george dering. . _a hardy norseman._ by edna lyall. . _the romance of jenny harlowe_, and _sketches of maritime life._ by w. clark russell. . _passion's slave_. by richard ashe-king. . _the awakening of mary fenwick._ by beatrice whitby. . _countess loreley._ translated from the german of rudolf menger. . _blind love._ by wilkie collins. . _the dean's daughter._ by sophie f. f. veitch. . _countess irene._ a romance of austrian life. by j. fogerty. . _robert browning's principal shorter poems._ . _frozen hearts._ by g. webb appleton. . _djambek the georgian._ by a. g. von suttner. . _the craze of christian engelhart._ by henry faulkner darnell. . _lal._ by william a. hammond, m.d. . _aline._ a novel. by henry gr�ville. . _joost avelingh._ a dutch story. by maarten maartens. . _katy of catoctin._ by george alfred townsend. . _throckmorton._ a novel. by molly elliot seawell. . _expatriation._ by the author of aristocracy. . _geoffrey hampstead._ by t. s. jarvis. . _dmitri._ a romance of old russia. by f. w. bain, m.a. . _part of the property._ by beatrice whitby. . _bismarck in private life._ by a fellow-student. . _in low relief._ by morley roberts. . _the canadians of old._ a historical romance. by philippe gasp�. . _a squire of low degree._ by lily a. long. . _a fluttered dovecote._ by george manville fenn. . _the nugents of carriconna._ an irish story. by tighe hopkins. . _a sensitive plant._ by e. and d. gerard. . _doña luz._ by juan valera. translated by mrs. mary j. serrano. . _pepita ximenez._ by juan valera. translated by mrs. mary j. serrano. . _the primes and their neighbors._ by richard malcolm johnston. . _the iron game._ by henry f. keenan. . _stories of old new spain._ by thomas a. janvier. . _the maid of honor._ by hon. lewis wingfield. . _in the heart of the storm._ by maxwell gray. . _consequences._ by egerton castle. . _the three miss kings._ by ada cambridge. . _a matter of skill._ by beatrice whitby. . _maid marian, and other stories._ by molly elliot seawell. . _one woman's way._ by edmund pendleton. . _a merciful divorce._ by f. w. maude. . _stephen ellicott's daughter._ by mrs j. h. needell. . _one reason why._ by beatrice whitby. . _the tragedy of ida noble._ by w. clark russell. . _the johnstown stage, and other stories._ by robert h. fletcher. . _a widower indeed._ by rhoda broughton and elizabeth bisland. . _the flight of the shadow._ by george macdonald. . _love or money._ by katharine lee. . _not all in vain._ by ada cambridge. . _it happened yesterday._ by frederick marshall. . _my guardian._ by ada cambridge. . _the story of philip methuen._ by mrs. j. h. needell. . _amethyst_: the story of a beauty. by christabel r. coleridge. . _don braulio._ by juan valera. translated by clara bell. . _the chronicles of mr. bill williams._ by richard malcolm johnston. . _a queen of curds and cream._ by dorothea gerard. . _"la bella" and others._ by egerton castle. . "_december roses._" by mrs. campbell-praed. . _jean de kerdren._ by jeanne schultz. . _etelka's vow._ by dorothea gerard. . _cross currents._ by mary a. dickens. . _his life's magnet._ by theodora elmslie. . _passing the love of women._ by mrs. j. h. needell. . _in old st. stephen's._ by jeanie drake. . _the berkeleys and their neighbors._ by molly elliot seawell. . _mona maclean, medical student._ by graham travers. . _mrs. bligh._ by rhoda broughton. . _a stumble on the threshold._ by james payn. . _hanging moss._ by paul lindau. . _a comedy of elopement._ by christian reid. . _in the suntime of her youth._ by beatrice whitby. . _stories in black and white._ by thomas hardy and others. ½. _an englishman in paris._ notes and recollections. . _commander mendoza._ by juan valera. . _dr. paull's theory._ by mrs. a. m. diehl. . _children of destiny._ by molly elliot seawell. . _a little minx._ by ada cambridge. . _capt'n davy's honeymoon._ by hall caine. . _the voice of a flower._ by e. gerard. . _singularly deluded._ by sarah grand. . _suspected._ by louisa stratenus. . _lucia, hugh and another._ by mrs. j. h. needell. . _the tutor's secret._ by victor cherbulies. . _from the five rivers._ by mrs. f. a. steel. . _an innocent impostor, and other stories._ by maxwell gray. . _ideala._ by sarah grand. . _a comedy of masks._ by ernest dowson and arthur moore. . _relics._ by francis macnab. . _dodo: a detail of the day._ by e. f. benson. . _a woman of forty._ by esm� stuart. . _diana tempest._ by mary cholmondeley. . _a recipe for diamonds._ by c. j. cutliffe hyne. . _christina chard._ by mrs. campbell-praed. . _a gray eye or so._ by frank frankfort moore. . _earlscourt._ by alexander allardyce. . _a marriage ceremony._ by ada cambridge. . _a ward in chancery._ by mrs. alexander. . _lot ._ by dorothea gerard. . _our manifold nature._ by sarah grand. . _a costly freak._ by maxwell gray. . _a beginner._ by rhoda broughton. . _a yellow aster._ by mrs. mannington caffyn ("iota"). . _the rubicon._ by e. f. benson. . _the trespasser._ by gilbert parker. . _the rich miss riddell._ by dorothea gerard. . _mary fenwick's daughter._ by beatrice whitby. . _red diamonds._ by justin mccarthy. . _a daughter of music._ by g. colmore. . _outlaw and lawmaker._ by mrs. campbell-praed. . _dr. janet of harley street._ by arabella kenealy. . _george mandeville's husband._ by c. e. raimond. . _vashti and esther._ . _timar's two worlds._ by m. jokai. . _a victim of good luck._ by w. e. norris. . _the trail of the sword._ by gilbert parker. . _a mild barbarian._ by edgar fawcett. . _the god in the car._ by anthony hope. . _children of circumstance._ by mrs. m. caffyn ("iota"). . _at the gate of samaria._ by william j. locke. . _the justification of andrew lebrun._ by frank barrett. . _dust and laurels._ by mary l. pendered. . _the good ship mohock._ by w. clark russell. . _noemi._ by s. baring-gould. . _the honour of savelli._ by s. levett yeats. . _kitty's engagement._ by florence warden. each, mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . * * * * * georg ebers's romances. cleopatra. translated from the german by mary j. safford. volumes. a thorny path. (per aspera.) translated by clara bell. volumes. an egyptian princess. translated by eleanor grove. volumes. uarda. translated by clara bell. volumes. homo sum. translated by clara bell. volume. the sisters. translated by clara bell. volume. a question. translated by mary j. safford. volume. the emperor. translated by clara bell. volumes. the burgomaster's wife. translated by mary j. safford. volume. a word, only a word. translated by mary j. safford. volume. serapis. translated by clara bell. volume. the bride of the nile. translated by clara bell. volumes. margery. (gred.) translated by clara bell. volumes. joshua. translated by mary j. safford. volume. the elixir and other tales. translated by mrs. edward h. bell. vol. each of the above, mo, paper cover, cents per volume; cloth, cents. set of volumes, cloth, in box, $ . . also, mo edition of the above (except "a question," "the elixir," "cleopatra," and "a thorny path"), in volumes, cloth, $ . each. * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co., publishers, fifth avenue. * * * * * novels by hall caine. _the manxman._ by hall caine. mo. cloth, $ . . "a story of marvelous dramatic intensity, and in its ethical meaning has a force comparable only to hawthorne's 'scarlet letter.'"--_boston beacon._ "a work of power which is another stone added to the foundation of enduring fame to which mr. caine is yearly adding."--_public opinion._ "a wonderfully strong study of character; a powerful analysis of those elements which go to make up the strength and weakness of a man, which are at fierce warfare within the same breast: contending against each other, as it were, the one to raise him to fame and power, the other to drag him down to degradation and shame. never in the whole range of literature have we seen the struggle between these forces for supremacy over the man more powerfully, more realistically delineated, than mr. caine pictures it."--_boston home journal._ "'the manxman' is one of the most notable novels of the year, and is unquestionably destined to perpetuate the fame of hall caine for many a year to come."--_philadelphia telegraph._ "the author exhibits a mastery of the elemental passions of life that places hum high among the foremost of present writers of fiction."--_philadelphia inquirer._ _the deemster. a romance of the isle of man._ by hall caine. mo. cloth, $ . . "hall caine has already given us some very strong and fine work, and 'the deemster' is a story of unusual power.... certain passages and chapters have an intensely dramatic grasp, and hold the fascinated reader with a force rarely excited nowadays in literature."--_the critic._ "one of the strongest novels which has appeared for many a day."--_san francisco chronicle._ "fascinates the mind like the gathering and bursting of a storm."--_illustrated london news._ "deserves to be ranked among the remarkable novels of the day."--_chicago times._ "remarkably powerful, and is undoubtedly one of the strongest works of fiction of our time. its conception and execution are both very fine."--_philadelphia inquirer._ _capt'n davy's honeymoon. a manx yarn._ by hall caine. mo. paper, cts.; cloth, $ . . "a new departure by this author. unlike his previous works, this little tale is almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. it is not always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but it looks as though mr. hall caine would be one of the exceptions."--_london literary world._ "it is pleasant to meet the author of 'the deemster' in a brightly humorous little story like this.... it shows the same observation of manx character, and much of the same artistic skill."--_philadelphia times._ * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. * * * * * novels by maarten maartens. _the greater glory. a story of high life._ by maarten maartens, author of "god's fool," "joost avelingh," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "until the appletons discovered the merits of maarten maartens, the foremost of dutch novelists, it is doubtful if many american readers knew that there were dutch novelists. his 'god's fool' and 'joost avelingh' made for him an american reputation. to our mind this just published work of his is his best.... he is a master of epigram, an artist in description, a prophet in insight."--_boston advertiser._ "it would take several columns to give any adequate idea of the superb way in which the dutch novelist has developed his theme and wrought out one of the most impressive stories of the period.... it belongs to the small class of novels which one can not afford to neglect."--_san francisco chronicle._ "maarten maartens stands head and shoulders above the average novelist of the day in intellectual subtlety and imaginative power."--_boston beacon._ _god's fool._ by maarten maartens. mo. cloth, $ . . "throughout there is an epigrammatic force which would make palatable a less interesting story of human lives or one less deftly told."--_london saturday review. _ "perfectly easy, graceful, humorous.... the author's skill in character-drawing is undeniable."--_london chronicle._ "a remarkable work."--_new york times._ "maarten maartens has secured a firm footing in the eddies of current literature.... pathos deepens into tragedy in the thrilling story of 'god's fool.'"--_philadelphia ledger._ "its preface alone stamps the author as one of the leading english novelists of to-day."--_boston daily advertiser._ "the story is wonderfully brilliant.... the interest never lags; the style is realistic and intense; and there is a constantly underlying current of subtle humor.... it is, in short, a book which no student of modern literature should fail to read."--_boston times._ "a story of remarkable interest and point."--_new york observer._ _joost avelingh._ by maarten maartens. mo. cloth, $ . . "so unmistakably good as to induce the hope that an acquaintance with the dutch literature of fiction may soon became more general among us."--_london morning post._ "in scarcely any of the sensational novels of the day will the reader find more mature or more human nature."--_london standard._ "a novel of a very high type. at once strongly realistic and powerfully idealistic."--_london literary world._ "full of local color and rich in quaint phraseology and suggestion."--_london telegraph._ "maarten maartens is a capital story-teller."--_pall mall gazette._ "our english writers of fiction will have to look to their laurels."--_birmingham daily post._ * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co. fifth avenue. * * * * * _round the red lamp._ by a. conan doyle, author of "the white company," "the adventures of sherlock holmes," "the refugees," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . the "red lamp," the trade-mark, as it were, of the english country practitioner's office, is the central point of these dramatic stories of professional life. there are no secrets for the surgeon, and, a surgeon himself as well as a novelist, the author has made a most artistic use of the motives and springs of action revealed to him in a field of which he is the master. "a volume of bright, clever sketches, ... an array of facts and fancies of medical life, and contains some of the gifted author's best work."--_london daily news._ _a flash of summer._ by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of "love letters of a worldly woman," "aunt anne," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "the story is well written and interesting, the style is limpid and pure as fresh water, and is so artistically done that it is only a second thought that notices it."--_san francisco call._ _the lilac sunbonnet. a love story._ by s. r. crockett, author of "the stickit minister," "the raiders," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "a love story pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has escaped us."--_new york times._ _maelcho._ by the hon. emily lawless, author of "grania," "hurrish," etc. mo. cloth, $ . . "a paradox of literary genius. it is not a history, and yet has more of the stuff of history in it, more of the true national character and fate, than any historical monograph we know. it is not a novel, and yet fascinates us more than any novel."--_london spectator._ _the land of the sun. vistas mexicanas._ by christian reid, author of "the land of the sky," "a comedy of elopement," etc. illustrated. mo. cloth, $ . . in this picturesque travel romance the author of "the land of the sky" takes her characters from new orleans to fascinating mexican cities like guanajuato, zacarecas, aguas calientes, guadalajara, and of course the city of mexico. what they see and what they do are described in a vivacious style which renders the book most valuable to those who wish an interesting mexican travel-book unencumbered with details, while the story as a story sustains the high reputation of this talented author. * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. * * * * * books by mrs. everard cotes (sara jeannette duncan). _vernon's aunt._ with many illustrations. mo. cloth, $ . . "her characters, even when broadly absurd, are always consistent with themselves, and the stream of fun flows naturally on, hardly ever flagging or forced."--_london athenæum._ _a daughter of to-day._ a novel, mo. cloth, $ . . "the book is well worth the attention it demands, and if the conviction at last slowly dawns upon the reader that it contains a purpose, it is one which has been produced by the inevitable law of reaction, and is cleverly manipulated."--_london athenæum._ "this novel is a strong and serious piece of work; one of a kind that is getting too rare in these days of universal crankiness."--_boston courier._ "a new and capital story, full of quiet, happy touches of humor."--_philadelphia press._ _a social departure: how orthodocia and i went round the world by ourselves._ with illustrations by f. h. townsend. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "widely read and praised on both sides of the atlantic and pacific, with scores of illustrations which fit the text exactly and show the mind of artist and writer in unison."--_new york evening post._ "it is to be doubted whether another book can be found so thoroughly amusing from beginning to end."--_boston daily advertiser._ "a brighter, merrier, more entirely charming book would be, indeed, difficult to find."--_st. louis republic._ _an american girl in london._ with illustrations by f. h. townsend. mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "one of the most naïve and entertaining books of the season."--_new york observer._ "so sprightly a book as this, on life in london as observed by an american, has never before been written."--_philadelphia bulletin._ "overrunning with cleverness and good-will."--_new york commercial advertiser._ _the simple adventures of a mem-sahib._ with illustrations by f. h. townsend. mo. cloth, $ . . "it is like traveling without leaving one's armchair to read it. miss duncan has the descriptive and narrative gift in large measure, and she brings vividly before us the street scenes, the interiors, the bewilderingly queer natives, the gayeties of the english colony."--_philadelphia telegraph._ * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. * * * * * ada cambridge's novels. _my guardian._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "a story which will, from first to last, enlist the sympathies of the reader by its simplicity of style and fresh, genuine feeling.... the author is _au fait_ at the delineation of character."--_boston transcript._ "the _dénouement_ is all that the most ardent romance-reader could desire."--_chicago evening journal._ _the three miss kings._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "an exceedingly strong novel. it is an australian story, teeming with a certain calmness of emotional power that finds expression in a continual outflow of living thought and feeling."--_boston times._ "the story is told with great brilliancy, the character and society sketching is very charming, while delightful incidents and happy surprises abound. it is a triple love-story, pure in tone, and of very high literary merit."--_chicago herald._ _not all in vain._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "a worthy companion to the best of the author's former efforts, and in some respects superior to any of them."--_detroit free press._ "its surprises are as unexpected as frank stockton's, but they are the surprises that are met with so commonly in human experience.... a better story has not been published in many moons."--_philadelphia inquirer._ _a marriage ceremony._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "'a marriage ceremony' is highly original in conception, its action graceful though rapid, and its characters speaking with that life and sprightliness that have made their author rank as a peer of delineators."--_baltimore american._ "this story by ada cambridge is one of her best, and to say that is to at once award it high praise."--_boston advertiser._ "it is a pleasure to read this novel."--_london athenæum._ _a little minx._ mo. paper, cents; cloth, $ . . "a thoroughly charming new novel, which is just the finest bit of work its author has yet accomplished."--_baltimore american._ "the character of the heroine is especially cleverly drawn."--_new york commercial advertiser._ the press on ada cambridge's books. "many of the types of character introduced would not have disgraced george eliot."--vanity fair. * * * * * new york: d. appleton & co., fifth avenue. love at second sight by ada leverson first published london, (book three of the little ottleys) to tacitus chapter i an appalling crash, piercing shrieks, a loud, unequal quarrel on a staircase, the sharp bang of a door.... edith started up from her restful corner on the blue sofa by the fire, where she had been thinking about her guest, and rushed to the door. 'archie--archie! come here directly! what's that noise?' a boy of ten came calmly into the room. 'it wasn't me that made the noise,' he said, 'it was madame frabelle.' his mother looked at him. he was a handsome, fair boy with clear grey eyes that looked you straight in the face without telling you anything at all, long eyelashes that softened, but gave a sly humour to his glance, a round face, a very large forehead, and smooth straw-coloured hair. already at this early age he had the expressionless reserve of the public school where he was to be sent, with something of the suave superiority of the university for which he was intended. edith thought he inherited both of these traits from her. * * * * * she gazed at him, wondering, as she had often wondered, at the impossibility of guessing, even vaguely, what was really going on behind that large brow. and he looked back observantly, but not expressively, at her. she was a slim, fair, pretty woman, with more vividness and character than usually goes with her type. like the boy, she had long-lashed grey eyes, and _blond-cendre_ hair: her mouth and chin were of the burne-jones order, and her charm, which was great but unintentional, and generally unconscious, appealed partly to the senses and partly to the intellect. she was essentially not one of those women who irritate all their own sex by their power (and still more by their fixed determination) to attract men; she was really and unusually indifferent to general admiration. still, that she was not a cold woman, not incapable of passionate feeling, was obvious to any physiognomist; the fully curved lips showed her generous and pleasure-loving temperament, while the softly glancing, intelligent, smiling eyes spoke fastidiousness and discrimination. her voice was low and soft, with a vibrating sound in it, and she laughed often and easily, being very ready to see and enjoy the amusing side of life. but observation and emotion alike were instinctively veiled by a quiet, reposeful manner, so that she made herself further popular by appearing retiring. edith ottley might so easily have been the centre of any group, and yet--she was not! women were grateful to her, and in return admitted that she was pretty, unaffected and charming. today she was dressed very simply in dark blue and might have passed for archie's elder sister. 'it isn't anything. it wasn't my fault. it was her fault. madame frabelle said _she_ would teach me to take away her mandolin and use it for a cricket bat. she needn't teach me; i know already.' 'now, archie, you know perfectly well you've no right to go into her room when she isn't there.' 'how can i go in when she is there?... she won't let me. besides, i don't want to.' 'it isn't nice of you; you ought not to go into her room without her permission.' 'it isn't her room; it's your room. at least, it's the spare room.' 'have you done any harm to the mandolin?' he paused a little, as he often did before answering, as if in absence of mind, and then said, as though starting up from a reverie: 'er--no. no harm.' 'well, what have you done?' 'i can mend it,' he answered. 'madame frabelle has been very kind to you, archie. i'm sorry you're not behaving nicely to a guest in your mother's house. it isn't the act of a gentleman.' 'oh. well, there are a great many things in her room, mother; some of them are rather jolly.' 'go and say you're sorry, archie. and you mustn't do it again.' 'will it be the act of a gentleman to say i'm sorry? it'll be the act of a story-teller, you know.' 'what! aren't you sorry to have bothered her?' 'i'm sorry she found it out,' he said, as he turned to the door. 'these perpetual scenes and quarrels between my son and my guest are most painful to me,' edith said, with assumed solemnity. he looked grave. 'well, she needn't have quarrelled.' 'but isn't she very kind to you?' 'yes, she isn't bad sometimes. i like it when she tells me lies about what her husband used to do--i mean stories. she's not a bad sort.... is she a homeless refugette, mother?' 'not exactly that. she's a widow, and she's staying with us, and we must be nice to her. now, you won't forget again, will you?' 'right. but i can mend it.' 'i think i'd better go up and see her,' said edith. archie politely opened the door for his mother. 'i shouldn't, if i were you,' he said. edith slowly went back to the fire. 'well, i'll leave her a little while, perhaps. now do go and do something useful.' 'what, useful? gracious! i haven't got much more of my holidays, mother.' 'that's no reason why you should spend your time in worrying everybody, and smashing the musical instruments of guests that are under your roof.' he looked up at the ceiling and smiled, as if pleased at this way of putting it. 'i suppose she's very glad to have a roof to her mouth--i mean to her head,' he hurriedly corrected. 'but, mother, she isn't poor. she has an amber necklace. besides, she gave dilly sixpence the other day for not being frightened of a cow. if she can afford to give a little girl sixpence for every animal she says she isn't afraid of!'... 'that only proves she's kind. and i didn't say she was poor; that's not the point. we must be nice and considerate to anyone staying with us--don't you see?' he became absent-minded again for a minute. 'well, i shouldn't be surprised if she'll be able to use it again,' he said consolingly--'the mandolin, i mean. besides, what's the good of it anyway? i say, mother, are all foreigners bad-tempered?' 'madame frabelle is not a foreigner.' 'i never said she was. but her husband was. he used to get into frightful rages with her sometimes. she says he was a noble fellow. she liked him awfully, but she says he never understood her. do you suppose she talked english to him?' 'that's enough, archie. go and find something to do.' as he went out he turned round again and said: 'does father like her?' 'why, yes, of course he does.' 'how funny!' said archie. 'well, i'll say i'm sorry ... when i see her again.' edith kissed him, a proceeding that he bore heroically. he was kissable, but she seldom gave way to the temptation. then she went back to the sofa. she wanted to go on thinking about that mystery, her guest. chapter ii madame frabelle had arrived about a fortnight ago, with a letter of introduction from lady conroy. lady conroy herself was a vague, amiable irishwoman, with a very large family of children. she and edith, who knew each other slightly before, had grown intimate when they met, the previous summer, at a french watering-place. the letter asked edith, with urgent inconsequence, to be kind to madame frabelle, of whom lady conroy said nothing except that she was of good family--she had been a miss eglantine pollard--and was the widow of a well-to-do french wine merchant. she was described as a clever, interesting woman who wished to study english life in her native land. it did not surprise lady conroy in the least that an englishwoman should wish to study english in england; but she was a woman who was never surprised at anything except the obvious and the inevitable. edith had not had the faintest idea of asking madame frabelle to stay at her very small house in sloane street, for which invitation, indeed, there seemed no possible need or occasion. yet she found herself asking her visitor to stay for a few days until a house or a hotel should be found; and bruce, who detested guests in the house, seconded the invitation with warmth and enthusiasm. as bruce was a subconscious snob, he may have been slightly influenced by the letter from lady conroy, who was the wife of an unprominent cabinet minister and, in a casual way, rather _grande dame_, if not exactly smart. but this consideration could not weigh with edith, and its effect on bruce must have long passed away. madame frabelle accepted the invitation as a matter of course, made use of it as a matter of convenience, and had remained ever since, showing no sign of leaving. edith was deeply interested in her. * * * * * and bruce was more genuinely impressed and unconsciously bored by madame frabelle than by any woman he had ever met. yet she was not at all extraordinary. she was a tall woman of about fifty, well bred without being distinguished, who could never have been handsome but was graceful, dignified, and pleasing. she was neither dark nor fair. she had a broad, good-natured face, and a pale, clear complexion. she was inclined to be fat; not locally, in the manner of a pincushion, but with the generally diffused plumpness described in shops as stock size. she was not the sort of modern woman of fifty, with a thin figure and a good deal of rouge, who looks young from the back when dancing or walking, and talks volubly and confidentially of her young men. she had, of course, nothing of the middle-aged woman of the past, who at her age would have been definitely on the shelf, doing wool-work or collecting recipes there. nor did she resemble the strong-minded type in perpetual tailor-made clothes, with short grey hair and eye-glasses, who belongs to clubs and talks chiefly of the franchise. madame frabelle was soft, womanly, amiable, yet extremely outspoken, very firm, and inclined to lay down the law. she was certainly charming, as bruce and edith agreed every day (even now, when they were beginning to wonder when she was going away!). she had an extraordinary amount of personal magnetism, since she convinced both the ottleys, as she had convinced lady conroy, that she was wonderfully clever: in fact, that she knew everything. a fortnight had passed, and edith was beginning to grow doubtful. was she so clever? did she know everything? did she know anything at all? long arguments, that grew quite heated and excited at luncheon or dinner, about the origin of a word, the author of a book, and various debatable questions of the kind, invariably ended, after reference to a dictionary or an encyclopaedia, in madame frabelle proving herself, with an air of triumph, to be completely and entirely wrong. she was as generally positive as she was fatally mistaken. yet so intense a belief had she in her intuition as well as in her own inaccurate information that her hypnotised hosts were growing daily more and more under her thumb. she took it for granted that everyone would take her for granted--and everyone did. was all this agreeable or otherwise? edith thought it must be, or how could they bear it at all? if it had not been extremely pleasant it would have been simply impossible. the fair, gentle, pretty edith, who was more subtle than she appeared on the surface, while apparently indolent, had a very active brain. madame frabelle caused her to use it more than she had ever done before. edith was intensely curious and until she understood her visitor she could not rest satisfied. she made her a psychological study. for example, here was a curious little point. madame frabelle did not look young for her age, nor did she seem in the least inclined to wish to be admired, nor ever to have been a flirt. the word 'fast', for example, would have been quite grotesque as associated with her, though she was by no means prudish as to subjects of conversation, nor prim in the middle-class way. yet somehow it would not have seemed incongruous or surprising if one had found out that there was even now some romance in her life. but, doubtless, the most striking thing about her--and what made her popular--was her intense interest in other people. it went so far as to reach the very verge of being interference; but she was so pleasant that one could scarcely resent it either as curiosity or intrusion. since she had stayed with the ottleys, she appeared to think of no-one and nothing else in the world. one would think that no-one else existed for her. and, after all, such extreme interest is flattering. bruce, archie, edith, even dilly's nurse, all had, in her, an audience: interested, absorbed, enchanted. who could help enjoying it? * * * * * edith was still thinking about madame frabelle when a few minutes later, bruce came in. bruce also was fair, besides being tall, good-looking and well built. known by their friends for some reason as the little ottleys, these two were a rather fine-looking pair, and (at a casual glance) admirably suited to one another. they appeared to be exactly like thousands of other english married couples of the upper middle class between thirty and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting; but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his wife. most people smiled when bruce's name was mentioned, and it was usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly ass, which proves he was not unpopular. on the other hand, edith was described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you forget it. when bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, edith had said she was quite sure they hadn't. perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried. 'oh, please don't move, edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'oh, please do move.' 'i like to see you comfortable.' there was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air of self-sacrifice bruce was apt to show at such moments. 'your hair's coming down, edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague embarrassment. as a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be but, by this observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality, exactly as trim and neat as always. 'well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me, bruce?' 'oh yes. oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, i wonder if you could help me about something? you could do me a really great service by helping me to find a certain book.' 'why, of course, bruce, with pleasure. what is the book?' asked the amiable wife, looking alert. bruce looked at her with pity. 'what is the book? my dear edith, don't you see i shouldn't have come to you about it if i knew what the book was.' 'i beg your pardon, bruce,' said edith, now feeling thoroughly in the wrong, and looking round the room. 'but if you can't give me the name of the book i scarcely see how i can find it.' 'and if i knew its name i shouldn't want your assistance.' it seemed a deadlock. going to the bookcase, edith said: 'can't you give me some idea of what it's like?' 'certainly i can. i've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.' edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and cross-questioned bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. she asked whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the library, whether it was stevenson, whether it was french, or if it was suitable for the children. to all of these questions he returned a negative. 'suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'what a fantastic idea! do you think i should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for the children?' 'but, bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest idea of what book it is, how shall i possibly be able to help?' 'quite so ... quite so. never mind, edith, don't trouble. if i say that it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, i hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. if there were a place for everything, and everything in its place--however! never mind. it's a small matter, and it can't be helped. i know, edith dear, you were not brought up to be strictly orderly. some people are not. i don't blame you; not in the least. still, when dilly grows up i shall be sorry if--' 'bruce, it's nothing to do with order. the room is perfectly tidy. it's a question of your memory. you don't remember the name of the book.' 'pardon me, it's not a question of remembering the name; that would be nothing. anyone can forget a name. that wouldn't matter.' 'oh, then, you mean you don't even know in the least what you want?' at this moment bruce decided it was time to find the book, and suddenly sprang, like a middle-aged fawn, at the writing-table, seizing a volume triumphantly. 'there it is--the whole time!' he said, 'staring at you while you are helplessly looking for it. oh, edith, edith!' he laughed amiably. 'how like a woman that is! and the very book a few inches from your hand! well, well, never mind; it's found at last. i hope, dear, in the future you will be more careful. we'll say no more about it now.' edith didn't point out to bruce that the book was a novel; that it was blue; that it belonged to the library, was french, and that it was still suitable for the children. 'well, well,' he said, sitting down with the book, which he had never wanted at all, and had never even thought of when he came to the room first, 'well, well, here it is! and now for the point i was going to tell you when i came in.' 'shall we have tea, dear?' said edith. 'tea? oh, surely not. it's only just four. i don't think it's good for the servants having tea half-an-hour earlier than usual. it's a little thing--yes, i know that, but i don't believe in it. i like punctuality, regularity--oh, well, of course, dear, if you wish it.' 'no, i don't at all! i thought you might.' 'oh no. i like punctuality, er--and, as a matter of fact, i had tea at the club.' laughing, edith rang the bell. bruce lighted a cigarette, first, with his usual courtesy, asking her permission. 'i'll tell you about _that_ when woodhouse has gone,' he said mysteriously. 'oh, can't you tell me anything about it now? i wouldn't have ordered tea if i'd known that!' he enjoyed keeping her waiting, and was delighted at her interest. he would have made it last longer, but was unable to bear his own suspense; so he said: 'before i say any more, tell me: where is madame frabelle?' chapter iii 'madame frabelle's in her own room. she stays there a good deal, you know. i fancy she does it out of tactfulness.' edith spoke thoughtfully. 'what does she do there?' bruce asked with low-toned curiosity, as he stood up and looked in the glass. 'she says she goes there to read. she thinks it bores people to see a visitor sitting reading about the house; she says it makes them get tired of the sight of her.' 'but she can't be reading all those hours, surely?' and bruce sat down, satisfied with his appearance. 'one would think not. i used to think she was probably lying on the sofa with cold cream on her face, or something of that sort. but she doesn't. once i went in,' edith smiled, 'and found her doing swedish exercises.' 'good heavens! what a wonderful woman she is! do you mean to say she's learning swedish, as well as all the other languages she knows?' 'no, no. i mean physical exercises. but go on, bruce. i'm getting so impatient.' bruce settled himself down comfortably, blew a ring of smoke, and then began slowly: 'i never dreamt, edith--' 'oh, bruce, are you going to tell me everything you never dreamt? we shall take weeks getting to the point.' 'don't be absurd. i'll get to the point at once then. look here; i think we ought to give a dinner for madame frabelle!' 'oh, is that all? of course! i've been wondering that you didn't wish to do it long before now.' 'have you? i'll tell you why. thinking madame frabelle was a pal, er--a friend--of the conroys, it stood to reason, don't you see, that she knew everyone in london; or could, if she liked--everyone worth knowing, i mean. under these circumstances there was no point in--well--in showing off our friends to her. but i found out, only last night'--he lowered his voice--'what do you think? she isn't an intimate friend of lady conroy's at all! she only made her acquaintance in the drawing-room of the royal hotel two days before she came to london!' edith laughed. 'how delightful! then why on earth did lady conroy send her to us with a letter of introduction? why just us?' 'because she likes you. besides, it's just like her, isn't it? and she never said she had known her all her life. we jumped to that conclusion. it was our own idea.' 'and how did you find it out?' 'why, when you went up to the children and left me alone with madame frabelle yesterday evening, she told me herself; perfectly frankly, in her usual way. she's always like that, so frank and open. besides, she hadn't the slightest idea we didn't know it.' 'i hope you didn't let her think--' edith began. 'edith! as if i would! well, that being so'--he lit another cigarette--'and under the circumstances, i want to ask some people to meet her. see?' 'she seems very happy with us alone, doesn't she? not as if she cared much for going out.' 'yes, i know; that's all very well. but i don't want her to think we don't know anyone. and it seems a bit selfish, too, keeping her all to ourselves like this.' 'who do you want her to meet, dear?' 'i want her to meet the mitchells,' said bruce. 'it's only a chance, of course, that she hasn't met them already here, and i've told mitchell at the foreign office a good deal about her. he's very keen to know her. very keen indeed,' he added thoughtfully. 'and then the mitchells will ask her to their house, of course?' 'i know they will,' said bruce, rather jealously. 'well, i shan't mind her going there--once or twice--it's a very pleasant house, you know, edith. and she likes celebrities, and clever people, and that sort of thing.' 'mrs mitchell will count her as one, no doubt.' 'i daresay! what does that matter? so she is.' 'i know she is, in a way; but, bruce, don't you wonder why she stays here so long? i mean, there's no question of its not being for--well, for, say, interested reasons. i happen to know for a fact that she has a far larger income for herself alone than we have altogether. she showed me her bank-book one day.' 'why?' 'i don't know. she's so confidential, and perhaps she wanted me to know how she was placed. and--she's not that sort of person--she's generous and liberal, rather extravagant i should say.' 'quite so. still, it's comfortable here, and saves trouble--and she likes us.' bruce again looked up toward the mirror, though he couldn't see it now. 'well, i don't mind her being here; it's a nice change, but it seems odd she hasn't said a word about going. well, about the dinner. who else shall we have, edith? let it be a small, intimate, distinguished sort of dinner. she hates stiffness and ceremony. she likes to have a chance to talk.' 'she does, indeed. all right, you can leave it to me, bruce. i'll make it all right. we'll have about eight people, shall we?' 'she must sit next to me, on my left,' bruce observed. 'and not lilies of the valley--she doesn't like the scent.' madame frabelle was usually designated between them by the personal pronoun only. 'all right. but what was the delicate, difficult matter that someone consulted you about, bruce?' 'ah, i was just coining to that.... hush!' the door opened. madame frabelle came in, dressed in a violet tea-gown. 'tea?' said edith, holding out a cup. 'yes, indeed! i'm always ready for tea, and you have such delightful tea, edith dear!' (they had already reached the point of christian names, though edith always found eglantine a little difficult to say.) 'it's nice to see you back so early, mr ottley.' 'wouldn't you like a slice of lemon?' said bruce. to offer her a slice of lemon with tea was, from bruce, a tribute to the lady's talents. 'oh no! cream and sugar, please.' madame frabelle was looking very pleasant and very much at her ease as she sat down comfortably, taking the largest chair. 'i'm afraid that archie has been bothering you today,' edith said, as she poured out tea. 'what!' exclaimed bruce, with a start of horror. 'oh no, no, no! not the least in the world, mr ottley! he's a most delightful boy. we were only having some fun together--about my mandolin; that was all!' (edith thought of the sounds she had heard on the stairs.) 'i'm afraid i got a little cross. a thing i very seldom do.' madame frabelle looked apologetically at edith. 'but we've quite made it up now! oh, and by the way, i want to speak to you both rather seriously about your boy,' she went on earnestly. she had a rather powerful, clear, penetrating voice, and spoke with authority, decision, and the sort of voluble fluency generally known as not letting anyone else get a word in edgeways. 'about our boy?' said bruce, handing the toast to her invitingly, while edith put a cushion behind her back, for which madame frabelle gave a little gracious smile. 'about your boy. do you know, i have a very curious gift, mr ottley. i can always see in children what they're going to make a success of in life. without boasting, i know you, edith, are kind enough to believe that i'm an extraordinary judge of character. oh, i've always been like that. i can't help it. i'll tell you now what you must make of your boy,' she pursued. 'he is a born musician!' 'a musician!' exclaimed both his parents at once, in great astonishment. madame frabelle nodded. 'that boy is a born composer! he has genius for music. look at his broad forehead! those grey eyes, so wide apart! i know, just at first one thinks too much from the worldly point of view of the success of one's son in life. but why go against nature? the boy's a genius!' 'but,' ventured edith, 'archie hasn't the slightest ear for music!' 'he dislikes music intensely,' said bruce. 'simply loathes it.' 'he cried so much over his piano lessons that we were obliged to let him give them up. it used to make him quite ill--and his music mistress too,' edith said. 'i remember she left the last time in hysterics.' 'yes, by jove, i remember too. pretty girl she was. she had a nervous breakdown afterwards,' said bruce rather proudly. 'no, dear; you're thinking of the other one--the woman who began to teach him the violin.' 'oh, am i?' madame frabelle nodded her head with a smile. 'nothing on earth to do with it, my dear! the boy's a born composer all the same. with that face he must be a musician!' 'really! funny he hates it so,' said bruce thoughtfully. 'but still, i have no doubt--' 'believe me, you can't go by his not liking his lessons,' assured madame frabelle, as she ate a muffin. 'that has nothing to do with it at all. the young mozart--' 'mozart? i thought he played the piano when he was only three?' 'handel, i mean--or was it meyerbeer? at any rate you'll see i'm right.' 'you really think we ought to force him against his will to study music seriously, with the idea of his being a composer when he grows up, though he detests it?' asked his mother. madame frabelle turned to edith. 'won't you feel proud when you see your son conducting his own opera, to the applause of thousands? won't it be something to be the mother of the greatest english composer of the twentieth century?' 'it would be rather fun.' 'we shan't hear quite so much about strauss, elgar, debussy and all those people when archie ottley grows up,' declared madame frabelle. 'i hear very little about them now,' said bruce. 'well, how should you at the foreign office, or the golf-links, or the club?' asked edith. bruce ignored edith, and went on: 'perhaps he'll turn out to be a lionel monckton or a paul rubens. perhaps he'll write comic opera revues or musical comedies.' 'oh dear, no,' said their guest, shaking her head decidedly. 'it will be the very highest class, the top of the tree! the real thing!' 'madame frabelle _may_ be right, you know,' said bruce. she leant back, smiling. 'i _know_ i'm right! there's simply no question about it.' 'well, what do you think we ought to do about it?' said edith. 'he goes to a preparatory school now where they don't have any music lessons at all.' 'all the better,' she answered. 'the sort of lessons he would get at a school would be no use to him.' 'so i should think,' murmured edith. 'leave it, say, for the moment, and when he comes back for his next holidays put him under a good teacher--a really great man. and you'll see!' 'i daresay we shall,' said bruce, considerably relieved at the postponement. 'funny though, isn't it, his not knowing one tune from another, when he's a born musician?' it flashed across edith what an immense bond of sympathy it was between bruce and madame frabelle that neither of them was burdened with the slightest sense of humour. when he presently went out (each of them preferred talking to her alone, and she also enjoyed a _tête-à-tête_ most) madame frabelle drew up her chair nearer to edith and said: 'my dear, i'm going to tell you something. don't be angry with me, or think me impertinent, but you've been very kind to me, and i look upon you as a real friend.' 'it's very sweet of you,' said edith, feeling hypnotised, and as if she would gladly devote her life to madame frabelle. 'well, i can see something. you are not quite happy.' 'not happy!' exclaimed edith. 'no. you have a trouble, and i'd give anything to take it away.' madame frabelle looked at her with sympathy, pressed her hand, then looked away. edith knew she was looking away out of delicacy. delicacy about what? it was an effort not to laugh; but, oddly enough, it was also an effort not to feel secretly miserable. she wondered, though, what she was unhappy about. she need not have troubled, for madame frabelle was quite willing to tell her. she was, indeed, willing to tell anyone anything. perhaps that was the secret of her charm. chapter iv it was utterly impossible, literally out of the question, that madame frabelle could know anything about the one trouble, the one danger, that so narrowly escaped being almost a tragedy, in edith's life. it was three years since bruce, always inclined to vague, mild flirtations, had been positively carried off his feet, and literally taken away by a determined young art student, with red hair, who had failed to marry a friend of his. while edith, with the children, was passing the summer holidays at westgate, bruce had sent her the strangest of letters, informing her that he and mavis argles could not live without one another, and had gone to australia together, and imploring her to divorce him. the complication was increased by the fact that at that particular moment the most charming man edith had ever met, aylmer ross, that eloquent and brilliant barrister, had fallen in love with her, and she had become considerably attracted to him. her pride had been hurt at bruce's conduct, but she had certainly felt it less bitterly, in one way, because she was herself so much fascinated by aylmer and his devotion. * * * * * but edith had behaved with cool courage and real unselfishness. she felt certain that brace's mania would not last, and that if it did he would be miserable. strangely, then, she had declined to divorce him, and waited. her prophecy turned out correct, and by the time they arrived at their journey's end the red-haired lady was engaged to a commercial traveller whom she met on the boat. by then bruce and she were equally convinced that in going to australia they had decidedly gone too far. * * * * * so brace came back, and edith forgave him. she made one condition only (which was also her one revenge), that he should never speak about it, never mention the subject again. aylmer ross, who had taken his romance seriously to heart, refused to be kept as _l'ami de la maison,_ and as a platonic admirer. deeply disappointed--for he was prepared to give his life to edith and her children (he was a widower of independent means)--he had left england; she had never seen him since. all this had been a real event, a real break in edith's life. for the first few months after she suffered, missing the excitement of aylmer's controlled passion, and his congenial society. gradually she made herself--not forget it--but put aside, ignore the whole incident. it gave her genuine satisfaction to know that she had made a sacrifice for bruce's sake. she was aware that he could not exist really satisfactorily without her, though perhaps he didn't know it. he needed her. at first she had endeavoured to remain separated from him, while apparently living together, from who knows what feeling of romantic fidelity to aylmer, or pique at the slight shown her by her husband. then she found that impossible. it would make him more liable to other complications and the whole situation too full of general difficulties. so now, for the last three years, they had been on much the same terms as they were before. bruce had become, perhaps, less patronising, more respectful to her, and she a shade more gentle and considerate to him, as to a child. for she was generous and did not forgive by halves. there were moments of nervous irritation, of course, and of sentimental regret. on the whole, though, edith was glad she had acted as she did. but if occasionally she felt her life a little dull and flat, if she missed some of the excitement of that eventful year, it was impossible for anyone to see it by her manner. what could madame frabelle possibly know about it? what did that lady really suppose was the matter? * * * * * 'what do you think i'm unhappy about?' edith repeated. madame frabelle, as has been mentioned, was willing to tell her. she told her, as usual, with fluency and inaccuracy. edith was much amused to find how strangely mistaken was this authoritative lady as to her intuitions, how inevitably _à faux_ with her penetrations and her instinctive guesses. madame frabelle said that she believed edith was beginning to feel the dawn of love for someone, and was struggling against it. (the struggle of course in reality had long been over.) who was the person? 'i haven't met him yet,' madame frabelle said; 'but isn't there a name i hear very often? your husband is always talking about him; he told me i was to make the acquaintance of this great friend of his. something tells me it is he. i shall know as soon as i see him. you can't hide it from me!' who was the person bruce was always mentioning to madame frabelle? certainly not aylmer ross--he had apparently forgotten his existence. 'are you referring to--?' madame frabelle looked out of the window and nodded. 'yes--mr mitchell!' edith started, and a smile curved her lips. 'it's always the husband's great friend, unfortunately,' sighed eglantine. 'oh, my dear' (with the usual cheap, ready-made knowingness of the cynic), 'i've seen so much of that. now i'm going to help you. i'm determined to leave you two dear, charming people without a cloud, when i go.' 'you're not thinking of going?' 'not yet ... no. not while you let me stay here, dear. i've friends in london, and in the country, but i haven't looked them up, or written to them, or done anything since i've been here. i've been too happy. i couldn't be bothered. i am so interested in you! another thing--may i say?--for i feel as if i'd known you for years. you think your husband doesn't know it. you are wrong.' 'am i really?' 'quite. last night a certain look when he spoke of the mitchells showed me that bruce is terribly jealous. he doesn't show it, but he is.' 'but--mrs mitchell?' suggested edith. 'she's one of our best friends--a dear thing. by the way, we're asking them to dine with us on tuesday.' 'i'm delighted to hear it. i shall understand everything then. isn't it curious--without even seeing them--that i know all about it? i think i've a touch of second sight.' 'but, eglantine, aren't you going a little far? hadn't you better wait until you've seen them, at least. you've no idea how well the mitchells get on.' 'i've no doubt of it,' she replied, 'and, of course, i don't know that he--mr mitchell, i mean--even realises what you are to him. but _i_ do!' edith was really impressed at the dash with which madame frabelle so broadly handled this vague theme. 'wait till you do see them,' she said, rather mischievously, declining to deny her friend's suggestion altogether. 'odd i should have guessed it, isn't it?' madame frabelle was evidently pleased. 'you'll admit this, edith, from what your husband says i gather you see each other continually, don't you?' 'very often.' 'bruce and he are together at the foreign office. bruce thinks much of him, and admires him. with it all i notice now and then a tinge of bitterness in the way he speaks. he was describing their fancy-dress ball to me the other day, and really his description of mr mitchell's costume would have been almost spiteful in any other man.' 'well, but mr mitchell is over sixty. and he was got up as a black poodle.' 'yes; quite so. but he's a fine-looking man, isn't he? and very pleasant and hospitable?' 'oh yes, of course.' 'on your birthday last week that magnificent basket of flowers came from mr mitchell,' stated eglantine. 'certainly; from the mitchells rather. but, really, that's nothing. i think you'll be a little disappointed if you think he's at all of the romantic type.' 'i didn't think that,' she answered, though of course she had; 'but something told me--i don't know why--that there's some strange attraction.... i never saw a more perfect wife than you, nor a more perfect mother. but these things should be nipped in the bud, dear. they get hold of you sometimes before you know where you are. and think,' she went on with relish, 'how terrible it would be practically to break up two homes!' 'oh, really, i must stop you there,' cried edith. 'you don't think of elopements, do you?' 'i don't say that, necessarily. but i've seen a great deal of life. i've lived everywhere, and just the very households--_ménages,_ as we say abroad--that seem most calm and peaceful, sometimes--it would be, anyhow, very dreadful, wouldn't it--to live a double life?' edith thought her friend rather enjoyed the idea, but she said: 'you don't imagine, i hope, that there's anything in the nature of an intrigue going on between me and mr mitchell?' 'no, no, no--not now--not yet--but you don't quite know, edith, how one can be carried away. as i was sitting up in my room--thinking--' 'you think too much,' interrupted edith. 'perhaps so--but it came to me like this. i mean to be the one to put things right again, if i can. my dear child, a woman of the world like myself sees things. you two ought to be ideally happy. you're meant for one another--i mean you and bruce.' 'do you think so?' 'absolutely. but this--what shall i say?--this fascination is coming between you, and, though you don't realise it, it's saddening bruce's life; it will sadden yours too. at first, no doubt, at the stage you're in, dear, it seems all romance and excitement. but later on--now, edith, promise me you won't be angry with me for what i've said? it's a terrible freedom that i've taken, i know. really a liberty. but if i were your'--she glanced at the mirror--'elder sister, i couldn't be fonder of you. don't think i'm a horrid, interfering old thing, will you?' 'indeed i don't; you're a dear.' 'well, we won't speak of it any more till after tuesday,' said madame frabelle, 'and take my advice: throw yourself into other things.' she glanced round the room. 'it's a splendid idea to divert your thoughts; why don't you refurnish your boudoir?' edith had often noticed the strange lack in eglantine of any sense of decoration. she dressed charmingly, but with regard to surroundings she was entirely devoid of taste. she had the curious provincialism so often seen in cosmopolitans who have lived most of their lives in hotels, without apparently noticing or caring about their surroundings. edith made rather a hobby of decoration, and she had a cultured and quiet taste, and much knowledge on the subject. she guessed madame frabelle thought her rooms too plain, too colourless. instead of the dull greys and blues, and surfaces without design, she felt sure her friend would have preferred gorgeous patterns, and even a good deal of gilt. probably at heart madame frabelle's ideal was the crimson plush and stamped leather and fancy ceilings of the lounge in a foreign hotel. 'i rather like my room, you know,' said edith. 'and so do i. it's very charming. but a change, dear--a change of _entourage_, as we say abroad, would do you good.' 'well, we must really think that out,' said edith. 'that's right. and you're not cross?' 'cross? i don't know when i've enjoyed a conversation so much,' said edith, speaking with perfect truth. chapter v the ottleys and madame frabelle were in the drawing-room awaiting their guests. (i say advisedly their guests, for no-one could help regarding madame frabelle as essentially the hostess, and queen of the evening.) one would fancy that instead of entertaining more or less for the last twelve years the young couple had never given a dinner before; so much suppressed excitement was in the air. bruce was quiet and subdued now from combined nervousness and pride, but for the few days previous he had been terribly trying to his unfortunate wife; nothing, according to him, could be good enough for the purpose of impressing madame frabelle, and he appeared to have lost all his confidence in edith's undeniable gift for receiving. the flowers, the menu, the arrangement of the eight people--for the dinner was still small, intimate and distinguished, as he had first suggested--had been subjected to continual and maddening changes in its scheme. everyone had been disengaged and everyone had accepted--then he wished he had asked other people instead. when edith was dressed bruce put the last touch to his irritating caprices by asking edith to take out of her hair a bandeau of blue that he had first asked her to put in. every woman will know what agony that must have caused. the pretty fair hair was waved and arranged specially for this ornament, and when she took it out the whole scheme seemed to her wrong. however, she looked very pretty, dressed in vaporous tulle of a shade of blue which only a faultless complexion can bear. edith's complexion was her strong point. when she was a little flushed she looked all the better for it, and when she was pale it seemed to suit her none the worse. hers was the sort of skin with a satiny texture that improves under bright sunshine or electric light; in fact the more brilliantly it was lighted the better it looked. madame frabelle (of course) was dressed in black, _décolletée,_ and with a good deal of jet. a black aigrette, like a lightning conductor, stood up defiantly in her hair. though it did not harmonise well with the somewhat square and _bourgeois_ shape of her head and face, and appeared to have dropped on her by accident, yet as a symbol of smartness it gave her a kind of distinction. it appeared to have fallen from the skies; it was put on in the wrong place, and it did not nestle, as it should do, and appear to grow out of the hair, since that glory of womanhood, in her case of a dull brown, going slightly grey, was smooth, scarce and plainly parted. madame frabelle really would have looked her best in a cap of the fashion of the sixties. but she could carry off anything; and some people said that she did. edith had been allowed by her husband _carte blanche_ in the decoration of their house. this was fortunate, as _mise-en-scène_ was a great gift of hers; no-one had such a sense as edith for arranging a room. she had struck the happy mean between the eccentric and the conventional. anything that seemed unusual did not appear to be a pose, or a strained attempt at being different from others, but seemed to have a reason of its own. for example, she greatly disliked the usual gorgeous _endimanché_ drawing-room and dark conventional dining-room. the room in which she received her guests was soft and subdued in colour and not dazzling with that blaze of light that is so trying to strangers just arrived and not knowing their way about a house (or certain of how they are looking). the room seemed to receive them kindly; make them comfortable, and at their ease, hoping they looked their best. the shaded lights, not dim enough to be depressing, were kind to those past youth and gave confidence to the shy. there was nothing ceremonious, nothing chilly, about the drawing-room; it was essentially at once comfortable and becoming, and the lights shone like shaded sunshine from the dull pink corners of the room. on the other hand, the dining-room helped conversation by its stimulating gaiety and daintiness. the feminine curves of the furniture, such as is usually kept for the drawing-room, were all pure louis-quinze. it was deliriously pretty in its pink and white and pale green. in the drawing-room the hosts stood by one of those large, old-fashioned oaken fireplaces so supremely helpful to conversation and _tête-à-têtes_. in edith's house there was never any general conversation except at dinner. people simply made friends, flirted, and enjoyed themselves. as the clock struck eight the mitchells were announced. edith could scarcely control a laugh as mr mitchell came in, he looked so utterly unlike the dangerous lover madame frabelle had conjured up. he was immensely tall, broad, loosely built, large-shouldered, with a red beard, a twinkle in his eye, and the merriest of laughs. he was a delightful man, but there was no romance about him. besides, edith remembered him as a black poodle. * * * * * mrs. mitchell struck a useful note, and seemed a perfect complement to her husband, the ideal wife for him. she was about forty-five, but being slim, animated, and well dressed (though entirely without _chic_), she seemed a good deal younger. mr. mitchell might have been any age between sixty and sixty-five, and had the high spirits and vitality of a boy. it was impossible to help liking this delightful couple; they fully deserved their popularity. in the enormous house at hampstead, arranged like a country mansion, where they lived, mr. mitchell made it the object of his life to collect bohemians as other people collect venetian glass, from pure love of the material. his wife, with a silly woman's subtlety, having rather lower ideals--that is to say, a touch of the very human vulgarity known as social ambition--made use of his bohemianism to help her on in her mundane success. this was the principle of the thing. if things were well done--and they always were at her house--would not a duke, if he were musical, go anywhere to hear the greatest tenor in europe? and would not all the greatest celebrities go anywhere to meet a duke? * * * * * next the two young conistons were announced. miss coniston was a thin, amiable, artistic girl, who did tooling in leather, made her own dresses, recited, and had a pale, good-looking, too well-dressed, disquieting young brother of twenty-two, who seemed to be always going out when other people came in, but was rather useful in society, being musical and very polite. the music that he chose generally gave his audience a shock. being so young, so pale, and so contemporary, one expected him to sing thin, elusive music by debussy, fauré, or ravel. he seemed never to have heard of these composers, but sang instead threatening songs, such as, 'i'll sing thee songs of araby!' or defiant, teetotal melodies, like 'drink to me only with thine eyes!' his voice was good, and louder and deeper than one would expect. he accompanied himself and his sister everywhere. she, by the way, to add to the interest about her, was said to be privately engaged to a celebrity who was never there. alice and guy coniston were orphans, and lived alone in a tiny flat in pelham gardens. he had been reading for the bar, but when the war broke out he joined the new army, and was now in khaki. * * * * * but the _clou_ and great interest of the evening was the arrival of sir tito landi, that most popular of all italian composers. with his white moustache, pink and white complexion, and large bright blue eyes, his dandified dress, his eyeglass and buttonhole, he had the fresh, fair look of an englishman, the dry brilliance of a parisian, the _naïveté_ of a genius, the manners of a courtier, and behind it all the diabolic humour of the neapolitan. he was small, thin and slight, with a curious dignity of movement. * * * * * 'ah, tito,' cried bruce cordially. 'here you are!' the dinner was bright and gay from the very beginning, even before the first glass of champagne. it began with an optimistic view of the war, then, dropping the grave subject, they talked of people, theatres, books, and general gossip. in all these things madame frabelle took the lead. indeed, she had begun at once laying down the law in a musical voice but with a determined manner that gave those who knew her to understand only too well that she intended to go steadily on, and certainly not to stop to breathe before the ices. sir tito landi, fixing his eyeglass in his bright blue eye, took in madame frabelle in one long look, and smiled at her sympathetically. 'what do you think of her?' murmured edith to landi. hypnotised and slightly puzzled as she was by her guest, she was particularly curious for his opinion, as she knew him to be the best judge of character of her acquaintance. he had some of the capriciousness of the spoilt, successful artist, which showed itself, except to those whom he regarded as real friends, in odd variations of manner, so that edith could not tell at all by his being extremely charming to madame frabelle that he liked her, or by his being abrupt and satirical that he didn't. an old friend and a favourite, she could rely on what he told her. 'c'est une bonne vieille,' he said. 'bonne, mais bête!' 'really?' edith asked, surprised. landi laughed. 'bête comme ses pieds, ma chère!' returning to decent language and conventional tone, he went on with a story he was telling about an incident that had happened when he was staying with some royalties. his stories were short, new, amusing, and invariably suited to his audience. anything about the court he saw, at a glance, would genuinely interest madame frabelle. edith was amused as she saw that lady becoming more and more convinced of landi's importance, and of his respectful admiration. * * * * * long before dinner was over there was no doubt that everyone was delighted with madame frabelle. she talked so well, suited herself to everyone, and simply charmed them all. yet why? edith was still wondering, but by the time she rose to go upstairs she thought she began to understand her friend's secret. people were not charmed with eglantine because she herself was charming, but because she was charmed. madame frabelle was really as much interested in everyone to whom she spoke as she appeared to be; the interest was not assumed. a few little pretences and affectations she might have, such as that of knowing a great deal about every subject under the sun--of having read everything, and been everywhere, but her interest in other people was real. that was what made people like her. young coniston, shy, sensitive and reserved as he was, had nevertheless told her all about his training at braintree, the boredom of getting up early, the dampness of the tents, and how much he wanted to be sent to the front. she admired his valour, was interested in his music, and at her persuasion he promised to sing her songs of araby after dinner. when the ladies were alone eglantine's universal fascination was even more remarkable. mrs. mitchell, at her desire, gave her the address of the little dressmaker who ran up mrs. mitchell's blouses and skirts. this was an honour for mrs. mitchell; nothing pleased her so much as to be asked for the address of her dressmaker by a woman with a foreign name. as to miss coniston, she was enraptured with eglantine. madame frabelle arranged to go and see her little exhibition of tooled leather, and coaxed out of the shy girl various details about the celebrity, who at present had an ambulance in france. she adored reciting, and miss coniston, to gratify her, offered to recite a poem by emile cammaerts on the spot. as to mr. mitchell, madame frabelle drew him out with more care and caution. with the obstinacy of the mistaken she still saw in mr. mitchell's friendly looks at his hostess a passion for edith, and shook her grey head over the blindness of the poor dear wife. bruce hung on her words and was open-mouthed while she spoke, so impressed was he at her wonderful cleverness, and at her evident success with his friends. later on landi, sitting in the ingle-nook with edith, said, as he puffed a cigar: 'tiens, ma chère edith, tu ne vois pas quelque chose?' 'what?' he always talked french, as a middle course between italian and english, and edith spoke her own language to him. 'elle. la mère frabelle,' he laughed to himself. 'elle est folle de ton mari!' 'oh, really, landi! that's your fancy!' he mimicked her. 'farncy! farncy! je me suis monté l'imagination, peut-être! j'ai un rien de fièvre, sans doute! c'est une idée que j'ai, comme ça. eh bien! non! nous verrons. je te dis qu'elle est amoureuse de bruce.' 'he is very devoted to her, i know,' said edith, 'and i daresay he's a little in love with her--in a way. but she--' 'c'est tout le contraire, chère. lui, c'est moins; il est flatté. il la trouve une femme intelligente,' he laughed. 'mais elle! tu est folle de ne pas voir ça, edith. enfin! si ça l'amuse?' with a laugh he got up, to loud applause, and went to the little white enamelled piano. there, with a long cigar in his mouth, he struck a few notes, and at once magnetised his audience. the mere touch of his fingers on the piano thrilled everyone present. he sang a composition of his own, which even the piano-organ had never succeeded in making hackneyed, 'adieu, hiver,' and melodious as only italian music can be. blue beams flashed from his eyes; he seemed in a dream. suddenly in the most impassioned part, which he was singing in a composer's voice, that is, hardly any voice, but with perfect art, he caught madame frabelle's eye, and gave her a solemn wink. she burst out laughing. he then went on singing with sentiment and grace. all the women present imagined that he was making love to them, while each man felt that he, personally, was making love to his ideal woman. such was the effect of landi's music. it made the most material, even the most unmusical, remember some little romance, some _tendresse_, some sentiment of the past; landi seemed to get at the soft spot in everybody's heart. all the audience looked dreamy. edith was thinking of aylmer ross. where was he now? would she ever see him again? had she been wise to throw away her happiness like that? she tried to put the thought aside, but she observed, with a smile, that madame frabelle looked--and not when he was looking at her--a shade tenderly at bruce. edith remembered what landi had said: 'si ça l'amuse?' she found an opportunity to tell him that madame frabelle believed in her own intuitions, and had got it into her head that she and mr. mitchell were attached to one another. 'naturellement. elle veut s'excuser; la pauvre.' 'but she really believes it.' 'elle voit double, alors!' exclaimed landi. chapter vi edith and madame frabelle had long talks next day over the little dinner-party, and the people of their intimate circle whom she had met. she was delighted with landi, though a little frightened of him, as most people were when they first knew him, unless he really liked them immensely. she impressed on edith to beware of mr. mitchell. bruce, for once, had really been satisfied with his own entertainment, and declared to edith that madame frabelle had made it go off splendidly. edith was growing to like her more and more. in a house where bruce lived it was certainly a wonderful help to have a third person often present--if it was the right person. the absurd irritations and scenes of fault-finding that she had become inured to, but which were always trying, were now shorter, milder, or given up altogether. bruce's temper was perennially good, and got better. then the constant illnesses that he used to suffer from--he was unable to pass the military examination and go to the front on account of a neurotic heart--these illnesses were either omitted entirely or talked over with madame frabelle, whose advice turned out more successful than that of a dozen specialists. 'an extraordinary woman she is, you know, edith,' he said. 'you know that really peculiar feeling i sometimes have?' 'which, dear?' 'you know that sort of emptiness in the feet, and heaviness in the head, and that curious kind of twitching of the eyelids that i get?' 'yes, i know. well, dear?' 'well, madame frabelle has given me a complete cure for it. it seems her husband (by the way, what a brute he must have been, and what a life that poor woman led! however, never mind that now) had something very much of the same kind, only not quite so bad.' 'which, dear?' 'how do you mean "which"? which what?' 'which peculiar feeling?' 'what peculiar feeling are we talking about?' 'i said, which peculiar feeling did mr. frabelle have?' 'what are you trying to get at, edith?' he looked at her suspiciously. edith sighed. 'was it the heaviness in the feet, or the lightness in the head, or was it the twitching of the eyelid which mr. frabelle used to suffer from?' 'oh, ah! yes, i see what you mean. it seemed he had a little of them all. but what do you think she used to do?' 'i haven't the slightest idea.' 'there's some stuff called tisane--have you ever heard of it?' bruce asked. 'it's a simple remedy, but a very good thing. well, he used to use that.' 'did he bathe his eye with it?' 'oh, my dear edith, you're wool-gathering. do pull yourself together. he drank it, that's what he did, and that's what i'm going to do. eg--madame frabelle would go straight down into the kitchen and show you how to make it if you like.' 'i don't mind, if cook doesn't,' said edith. 'oh, we'll see about that. anyway she's going to show me how to get it made. 'then there's another thing madame frabelle suggested. she's got an idea it would do me a world of good to spend a day in the country.' 'oh, really? sounds a good idea.' 'yes. say, on the river. she's not been there for years it seems. she thinks she would rather enjoy it.' 'i should think it would be a capital plan,' said edith. 'well, how about next saturday?' said bruce, thinking he was concealing his eagerness and satisfaction. 'saturday? oh yes, certainly. saturday, by all means, if it's fine. what time shall we start?' he started at once, but was silent. 'saturday, yes,' edith went on, after a glance at him. 'only, i promised to take the two children to an afternoon performance.' 'did you though?' bruce brightened up. 'rather hard luck on them to disappoint them. mind you, edith, i don't believe in spoiling children. i don't think their parents should be absolute slaves to them; but, on the other hand, i don't think it's good for them to disappoint them quite so much as that; and, after all--well, a promise to a child!' he shook his head sentimentally. 'perhaps it's a fad of mine; i daresay it is; but i don't like the idea of breaking a promise to a child!' 'it does seem a shame. too bad.' 'you agree with me? i knew you would. i've heard you say the same yourself. well then, look here, edith; suppose we do it--suppose you do it, i mean. suppose you go with archie and dilly. they're to lunch with my mother, aren't they?' 'yes, dear. but we were to have fetched them from there and then taken them on to the theatre!' 'well, do it, then, my dear girl! stick to your plan. don't let me spoil your afternoon! gracious heaven! i--i--why, i can quite well take madame frabelle myself.' he looked at the barometer. 'the glass is going up,' he said, giving it first a tap and then a slight shake to encourage it to go up higher and to look sharp about it. 'so that's settled, then, dear. that's fixed up. i'll take her on the river. i don't mind in the very least. i shall be only too pleased--delighted. oh, don't thank me, my dear girl; i know one ought to put oneself out for a guest, especially a widow ... under these circumstances over in england ... during the war too ... hang it, it's the least one can do.'... bruce's murmurings were interrupted by the entrance of the lady in question. he made the suggestion, and explained the arrangement. she consented immediately with much graciousness. 'i dote on the river, and haven't been for years.' 'now where would you like to go?' he asked. 'what part of the river do you like? how about maidenhead?' 'oh, any part. don't ask me! anything you suggest is sure to be right. you know far more about these things than i do. but maidenhead--isn't it just a little commonplace? a little noisy and crowded, even now?' 'by jove, yes, you're quite right. madame frabelle's perfectly right, edith, you know. well, what about shepperton?' 'shepperton? oh, charming! dear little town. but it isn't exactly what i call the river, if you know what i mean. i mean to say--' 'well, could you suggest a place?' said bruce. 'oh, i'm the worst person in the world for suggesting anything,' said madame frabelle. 'and i know so little of the river. but how about kingston?' 'kingston? oh, capital. that would be charming.' 'kyngestown, as it used to be called' (madame frabelle hastened to show her knowledge) 'in the days when saxon kings were crowned there. am i wrong or not? oh, surely yes.... wasn't it kingston? didn't great caesar cross the river there? and the roman legions camp upon the sloping uplands?' bruce gasped. 'you know everything!' he exclaimed. 'oh no. i remember a little about the history,' she said modestly, 'ah, poor, weak king edwy!' 'yes, indeed,' said bruce, though he had no recollection of having heard the gentleman mentioned before. 'poor chap!' 'too bad,' murmured edith. 'how he must have hated that place!' said madame frabelle. 'rather. i should think so indeed.' 'however, _you_ won't,' said edith adroitly changing the subject, seeing her husband getting deeper out of his depth. most of the evening madame frabelle read up baedeker, to the immense astonishment of bruce, who had never before thought of regarding the river from the historical and geographical point of view. the next day, which was fine, if not warm, the two started off with a certain amount of bustle and a bundle of rugs, madame frabelle in a short skirt with a maritime touch about the collar and what she called a suitable hat and a dark blue motor veil. she carried off the whole costume to admiration. archie seemed rather bewildered and annoyed at this division of the party. 'but, mother, we're going out to lunch with grandmother.' 'i know, darling. i'll come and fetch you from there.' conventional and restrained as archie usually was, he sometimes said curious things. edith saw by his dreamy expression he was going to say one now. he looked at her for a little while after his father's departure and then asked: 'mother!' 'yes, darling.' 'is madame frabelle a nice little friend for father?' edith knew he had often heard her and the nurse or the governess discussing whether certain children were nice little friends for him or dilly. 'oh yes, dear, very nice.' 'oh.' the cook came in for orders. 'you're going to lunch all alone then, aren't you, mother?' 'yes, i suppose i must. i don't mind. i've got a nice book.' archie walked slowly to the door, then said in a tone of envious admiration which contained a note of regret: 'i suppose you'll order a delicious pudding?' * * * * * she went to fetch the children, who were excited at the prospect of a theatre. the elder mrs ottley was a pleasant woman, who understood and was utterly devoted to her daughter-in-law. fond as she was of her son, she marvelled at edith's patience and loved her as much as she loved bruce. though she had never been told, for she was the sort of woman who does not require to be told things in order to know them, she knew every detail of the sacrifice edith had once made. she had been almost as charmed by aylmer ross as her daughter-in-law was, and she had considered edith's action nearly sublime. but she had never believed edith was at that time really in love with aylmer. she had said, after bruce's return: 'it mustn't happen again, you know, edith.' 'what mustn't?' 'don't spoil bruce. you've made it almost too easy for him. don't let him think he can always be running away and coming back!' 'no, never again,' edith had answered, with a laugh. now they never spoke of the subject. it was a painful one to mrs ottley. today that lady seemed inclined to detain edith, and make her--as archie feared--late for the rising of the curtain. 'you really like madame frabelle so much, dear?' 'really i do,' said edith. 'the more i know her, the more i like her. she's the most good-natured, jolly, kind woman i've ever seen. landi likes her too. that's a good sign.' 'and she keeps bruce in a good temper?' said mrs ottley slyly. 'well, why shouldn't she? i'm not afraid of madame frabelle,' edith said, laughing. 'after all, bruce may be thirty-seven, but she's fifty.' 'she's a wonderful woman,' admitted mrs. ottley, who had at first disliked her, but had come round, like everyone else. 'very very nice; and really i do like her. but you know my old-fashioned ideas. i never approve of a third person living with a married couple.' 'oh--living! she's only been with us about a month.' 'but you don't think she's going away before the end of the season?' 'you can't call it a season. and she can't easily settle down just now, on account of the war. many of her relations are abroad, and some in the country. she hasn't made up her mind where to live yet. she has never had a house of her own since her husband died.' 'yes, i see.' 'do come, mother!' urged archie. 'all right, darling.' 'will i have to take my hat off?' pouted dilly, who had on a new hat with daisies round it, in which she looked like a baby angel. she had a great objection to removing it. 'yes, dear. why should you mind?' 'my hair will be all anyhow if i have to take it off in the theatre,' said dilly. 'don't be a silly little ass,' archie murmured to his sister. 'why, in some countries women would be sent to prison unless they took their hats off at a play!' the three reached the theatre in what even archie called good time. this meant to be alone in the dark, gloomy theatre for at least twenty minutes, no-one present as yet, except two or three people eating oranges in the gallery. he liked to be the first and the last. edith was fancying to herself how madame frabelle would lay down the law about the history of kingston, and read portions of the guide-book aloud, while bruce was pointing out the scenery. the entertainment, which was all odds and ends, entertained the children, but rather bored her. archie was learning by heart--which was a way he had--the words of a favourite song now being sung-- 'kitty, kitty, isn't it a pity, in the city you work so hard,-- with your one, two, three, four, five, six, three, seven, five, cerrard? kitty, kitty, isn't it a pity, that you're wasting so much time? with your lips close to the telephone, when they might be close to mine_!' when edith's eye was suddenly attracted by the appearance of a boy in khakis, who was in a box to her right. he looked about seventeen and was tall and good-looking; but what struck her about him was his remarkable likeness in appearance and in movement to aylmer ross. even his back reminded her strongly of her hero. there was something familiar in the thick, broad shoulders, in the cool ease of manner, and in the expression of the face. but could that young man--why, of course, it was three years ago when she parted with aylmer ross, teddy was fourteen; these years made a great difference and of course all plans had been changed on account of the war. aylmer, she thought, was too old to have been at the front. the boy must be in the new army. she watched him perpetually; she felt a longing to go and speak to him. after a while, as though attracted by her interest, he turned round and looked her straight in the face. how thrilled she felt at this likeness.... they were the very last to go out, and edith contrived to be near the party in the box. she dropped something and the young man picked it up. she had never seen him, and yet she felt she knew him. when he smiled she could not resist speaking to him. 'thank you. excuse me. are you the son of mr. aylmer ross?' 'i am. and i know you quite well by your photograph,' he said in exactly aylmer's pleasant, casual voice. 'you were a great friend of my father's, weren't you?' 'yes. where are you now?' he was at aldershot, but was in town on leave. 'and where's your father?' 'didn't you know? my father's at the front. he's coming over on leave, too, in a fortnight.' 'really? and are you still at jermyn street?' 'oh yes. father let his house for three years, but we've come back again. jolly little house, isn't it?' 'very. and i hope we shall see you both,' said edith conventionally. the boy bowed, smiled and walked away so quickly that archie had no time for the salute he had prepared. he was wonderfully like aylmer. edith was curiously pleased and excited about this little incident. chapter vii madame frabelle and bruce arrived at waterloo in good time for the . train, which bruce had discovered in the abc. they wished to know where it started, but nobody appeared interested in the subject. guards and porters, of whom they inquired, seemed surprised at their questions and behaved as if they regarded them as signs of vulgar and impertinent curiosity. at waterloo no-one seems to know when a train is going to start, where it is starting from, or where it is going to. madame frabelle unconsciously assumed an air of embarrassment, as though she had no responsibility for the queries and excited manner of her companion. she seemed, indeed, surprised when bruce asked to see the station-master. here things came to a head. there was no train for kingston at . ; the one at that hour was the southampton express; and it was worse than useless for bruce and madame frabelle. 'then the abc and bradshaw must both be wrong,' said bruce reproachfully to madame frabelle. an idea occurred to that resourceful lady. 'perhaps the . was only to start on other days, not on saturdays.' she turned out to be right. however, they discovered a train at twenty minutes to twelve, which would take them where they wanted, though it was not mentioned, apparently, in any timetable, and could only be discovered by accident by someone who was looking for something else. they hung about the station until it arrived, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, as people do when they have arrived too early for a train. meanwhile they abused bradshaw, and discussed the weather. bruce said how wonderful it was how some people always knew what sort of weather it was going to be. madame frabelle, who was getting sufficiently irritable to be epigrammatic, said that she never cared to know what the weather was going to be; the weather in england was generally bad enough when it came without the added misery of knowing about it beforehand. bruce complained that she was too continental. he very nearly said that if she didn't like england he wondered she hadn't remained in france, but he stopped himself. at last the train arrived. bruce had settled his companion with her back to the engine in a corner of a first-class carriage, and placed her rugs in the rack above. as they will on certain days, every little thing went wrong, and the bundle promptly fell off. as she moved to catch it, it tumbled on to her hat, nearly crushing the crown. unconsciously assuming the expression of a christian martyr, madame frabelle said it didn't matter. bruce had given her _the gentlewoman_, _the world_, _the field_, _punch_, and _the london mail_ to occupy the twenty-five minutes or so while they waited for the train to start. the journey itself was much shorter than this interval. knowing her varied interests, he felt sure that these journals would pretty well cover the ground, but he was rather surprised, as he took the seat opposite her, to see that she read first, in fact instantly started, with apparent interest, on _the london mail_. with a quick glance he saw that she was enjoying 'what everybody wants to know'--'why the earl of blank looked so surprised when he met the pretty little blonde lady who had been said to be the friend of his wife walking in bond street with a certain dark gentleman who until now he had always understood to be her _bête noire_,' and so forth. as an example to her he took up _the new statist_ and read a serious article. when they arrived it was fine and sunny, and they looked at once for a boat. it had not occurred to him before that there would be any difficulty in getting one. he imagined a smart new boat all ready for him, with fresh, gay cushions, and everything complete and suitable to himself and his companion. he was rather irritated when he found instead that the best they could do for him was to give him a broken-down, battered-looking thing like an old chest, which was to be charged rather heavily for the time they meant to spend on the river. it looked far from safe, but it was all they could do. so they got in. bruce meant to show his powers as an oarsman. he said madame frabelle must steer and asked her to trim the boat. in obedience to his order she sat down with a bang, so heavily that bruce was nearly shot up into the air. amiable as she always was, and respectfully devoted as bruce was to her, he found that being on the river has a mysterious power of bringing out any defects of temper that people have concealed when on dry ground. he said to her: 'don't do that again. do you mind?' as politely as he could. she looked up, surprised. 'i beg your pardon, mr ottley?' 'don't do that again.' 'don't do what? what did i do?' 'why, i asked you to trim the boat.' 'what did i do? i merely sat down.' he didn't like to say that she shouldn't sit down with a bump, and took his place. 'if you like,' she said graciously, 'i'll relieve you there, presently.' 'how do you mean--relieve me?' 'i mean i'll row--i'll sit in the stern--row!' 'perhaps you've forgotten the names of the different parts of a boat. madame frabelle?' 'oh, i think not, mr ottley. it's a good while since i was on the river, but it's not the sort of thing one forgets, and i'm supposed to have rather a good memory.' 'i'm sure you have--a wonderful memory--still, where i'm sitting is not the stern.' there was a somewhat sulky silence. they admired the scenery of the river. madame frabelle said she loved the distant glimpses of the grey old palace of the tudors, and asked him if he could imagine what it was like when it was gay all day with the clanking of steel and prancing horses and things. 'how i love hampton court!' she said. 'it looks so quiet and peaceful. i think i should like to live there. think of the evenings in that wonderful old place, with its panelled walls, and the echo of feet that are no longer there, down the cold, stone corridors--' bruce gave a slight laugh. 'echo of feet that are no longer there? but how could that be? dear me, how poetical you are, madame frabelle!' 'i mean the imaginary echo.' 'imaginary--ah, yes. you're very imaginative, aren't you, madame frabelle? well, i don't know whether it's imagination or not, but, do you know, i fancy that queer feeling of mine seems to be coming on again.' 'what queer feeling?' 'i told you about it, and you were very sympathetic the other night, before dinner. a kind of emptiness in the feet, and a hollowness in the head, the feeling almost, but not quite, of faintness.' 'it's nearly two o'clock. perhaps you're hungry,' said madame frabelle. bruce thought this was not fair, putting all the hunger on to him, as if she had never felt anything so prosaic. madame frabelle always behaved as if she were superior to the weaknesses of hunger or sleep, and denied ever suffering from either. 'it may be. i had no breakfast,' said bruce untruthfully, as though it were necessary to apologise for requiring food to sustain life. 'nor did i,' said madame frabelle hastily. 'well, don't you feel that you would like a little lunch?' 'oh no--oh dear, no. still, i dare say some food would do you good, mr ottley--keep you up. i'll come and watch you.' 'but you must have something too.' 'must i? oh, very well, just to keep you company.' they got out very briskly, and, leaving their battered-looking coffin (called ironically the _belle of the river_), they walked with quick steps to the nearest hotel. here they found a selection of large, raw-looking cold beef, damp, tired-looking ham, bread, cheese, celery, and dessert in the form of dry apples, oranges, and brazil nuts that had long left their native land. bruce decided that the right thing to drink was shandy-gaff, but, to keep up her continental reputation, madame frabelle said she would like a little light wine of the country. 'red, white, or blue?' asked bruce, whose spirits were rising. she laughed very heartily, and decided on a little red. they had an adequate, if not exquisite, lunch, then madame frabelle said she would like to go over hampton court. a tedious guide offered to go with them, but madame frabelle said she knew all about the place better than he did, so they wandered through the beautiful old palace. 'oh, to think of king charles ii's beauties living there--those lovely, languid ladies--how charming they were!' exclaimed madame frabelle. 'they wore very low dresses,' said bruce, who felt rather sleepy and stupid, and as if he didn't quite know what he was saying. madame frabelle modestly looked away from the pictures. 'how exquisite the garden is.' he agreed, and they went out and sat, somewhat awkwardly, on an uncomfortable stone seat. there was a delicious half-hour of real summer sun--'one of those april days that seem a forecast of june,' as madame frabelle said. 'how much better it is to be here in the beautiful fresh air than squeezed into a stuffy theatre,' remarked bruce, who was really feeling a shade jealous of edith for seeing the revue that he had wished to see. 'yes, indeed. there's nothing like england, i think,' she said rather irrelevantly. 'how exactly our tastes agree.' 'do they?' her hand was on the edge of the seat. somehow or other bruce's had gone over it. she didn't appear to notice it. 'what small hands you have!' he remarked. 'oh no! i take sixes,' said the lady, whose size was really three-quarters more than that. he insisted on looking at the grey suède glove, and then examined her rings. 'i suppose these rings have--er--associations for you, madame frabelle?' 'ah!' she said, shaking her head. 'this one--yes, this one--the sapphire recalls old memories.' she sighed; she had bought it in the brompton road. 'a present from your husband, i suppose?' said bruce, with a tinge of bitterness. 'ah!' she answered. she thought he was getting a little sentimental, too early in the day, and, with an effort at energy, she said: 'let's go back to the river.' they went back, and now bruce began to show off his rowing powers. he had not practised for a long time, and didn't get along very quickly. she admired his athletic talents, as though he had been a winner of the diamond sculls. 'if i'd stuck to it, you know,' he said, rather apologetically, 'i'd have done well in the rowing line. at one time--a good while ago--i thought of going in for henley, in the regatta, you know. but with that beastly foreign office one can't keep up anything of that sort.' 'i suppose not.' 'my muscle,' said bruce, sticking out his arm, and hitting it rather hard, 'is fairly good, you know. not bad for a london man who never has any practice.' 'no indeed.' 'my arm was about seventeen inches round just below the elbow at one time,' bruce said, 'a few years ago.' 'just fancy! splendid!' said madame frabelle, who remembered that her waist was not much more a good while ago. he told her a good many anecdotes of his prowess in the past, until tea-time. madame frabelle depended greatly on tea; anything else she could do without. but a cup of tea in the afternoon was necessary to her well-being, and her animation. she became rather drowsy and absent by four o'clock. bruce again suggested their landing and leaving the _belle of the river_, as they had not thought of bringing a tea-basket. after tea, which was a great success, they became very cheery and jolly. they went for a walk and then back to their boat. this was the happiest time of the day. when they reached the station, about half-past six, they found a disagreeable crowd, pushing, screaming, and singing martial songs. as they got into their first-class carriage about a dozen third-class passengers sprang in, just as the train started. bruce was furious, but nothing could be done, and the journey back to town was taken with madame frabelle very nearly pushed on to his knee by a rude young man who practically sat on hers, smoking a bad cigarette in her face. they tacitly agreed to say nothing about this, and got home in time for dinner, declaring the day to have been a great success. bruce had really enjoyed it. madame frabelle said she had; though she had a certain little tenderness, half of a motherly kind, for bruce, she far preferred his society in a comfortable house. she didn't really think he was the ideal companion for the open air. and he was struck, as he had often been before, by her curious way of contradicting herself in conversation. she took any side and argued in favour of it so long as it was striking or romantic. at one moment she would say with the greatest earnestness, for instance, that divorce should not be allowed. marriage should be for ever, or not at all. at another moment she would argue in favour of that absurd contradiction in terms known as free love, _forgetting_ that she had completely changed round since earlier in the conversation. this was irritating, but he was still impressed with her infallibility, and edith remarked more every day how curious that infallibility was, and how safe it was to trust. whenever madame frabelle knew that something was going to happen, it didn't, and whenever she had an intuition that something was going to occur, _then_ it was pretty safe. it never would. in the same way she had only to look at a person to see them as they were not. this was so invariable it was really very convenient to have her in the house, for whatever she said was always wrong. one had _merely_ to go by contraries and her prophecies were most useful. 'it's been jolly for you,' bruce said to edith, 'having a ripping time in town while i'm taking your visitors about to show them england.' 'you wouldn't have cared for the theatre,' she said. 'but, fancy, i met aylmer's son there--aylmer ross, you know. aylmer himself is at the front. they have taken their old house again. he means to come back there.' 'well, i really can't help it,' said bruce rather fretfully. '_i_ should be at the front if it weren't for my neurotic heart. the doctor wouldn't hear of passing me--at least one wouldn't. any fellow who would have done so would be--not a careful man. however, i don't know that it wouldn't have been just as good to die for my country, and get some glory, as to die of heart trouble here.' he sighed. 'oh no, you won't,' said edith reassuringly; 'you look the picture of health.' 'i've got a bit of sunburn, i think,' said bruce, popping up to look in the glass. 'funny how i do catch the sun. i asked dr pollock about it one day.' 'really--did you consult him about your sunburn?' 'yes. what are you smiling at, he said it's caused by the extreme delicacy of the mucous membrane; nothing to be anxious about.' 'i don't think i am anxious; not particularly. and don't worry, my dear boy; it's very becoming,' said edith. bruce patted her head, and gave her a kiss, smiling. chapter viii 'we're lunching with the mitchells today,' said edith. 'oh yes. i remember. i'm looking forward to it,' graciously said madame frabelle. 'it's a pity your husband can't come, isn't it? ah, you naughty girl, i don't believe you think so!' madame frabelle, archly shook her finger at edith. 'eglantine, have you really seriously talked yourself into thinking that mr mitchell is anything to me?' 'i don't say, dear,' said madame frabelle, sitting down comfortably, and bringing out her knitting, 'that you yourself are aware of it. i don't say that you're in love with him, but that he is devoted to you anyone with half-an-eye can see. and some day,' she shook her head, 'some day your interest in him may take you by surprise.' 'it is _your_ interest in him that surprises me,' said edith. 'he's a good friend, and we like him very much. but for anything else!--' 'if so, it's really rather wonderful,' mused eglantine, 'that you've never had a thought, even the merest dream, beyond your husband; that it has never even occurred to you that anyone else might have suited your temperament better.' edith dropped her book, and picked it up again. her friend thought she saw, whether through stooping or what not, an increase of colour in her face. 'it isn't everyone,' continued madame frabelle, 'who would appreciate your husband as you do. to me he is a very charming man. i can understand his inspiring a feeling almost of motherly interest. i even feel sometimes,' she laughed, 'as if it would be a pleasure to look after him, take care of him. i think it would not have been a bad thing for him to have married a woman a little older than himself. but you, edith, you're so young. you see, you might have made a mistake when you married him. you were a mere girl, and i could imagine some of his ways might irritate a very young woman.' after a moment she went on: 'i suppose bruce was very handsome when you married him?' 'yes, he was. but he hasn't altered much.' 'yet, as i told you before, edith, though i think you an ideal wife, you don't give me the impression of being in love with him. i hope you don't take this as an impertinence, my dear?' 'not at all. and i'm not sure that i am.' 'yet your mother-in-law told me the other day that you had been such a marvellous wife to him. that you had even made sacrifices. you have never had anything to forgive, surely?' 'oh no, never,' hastily said edith, fearing that mrs ottley was a little inclined to be indiscreet. 'she told me that bruce had been occasionally attracted--only very slightly--by other women, but that you were the only person he really cared for.' 'oh, i doubt if he ever thinks much of anyone else,' said edith. * * * * * a characteristic of the mitchells' entertainments was that one always met there the people they had met, even for the first time, at one's own house. here were the conistons, and landi, whom edith was always delighted to see. it was a large and gay lunch. edith was placed some distance from mr mitchell. of course there was also a novelty--some lion or other was always at the mitchells'. today it consisted of a certain clergyman, called the rev. byrne fraser, of whom mrs mitchell and her circle were making much. he was a handsome, weary-looking man of whom more was supposed than could conveniently be said. his wife, who adored him, admitted that though he was an excellent husband, he suffered from rheumatism and religious doubts, which made him occasionally rather trying. there had been some story about him--nobody knew what it was. madame frabelle instantly took his side, and said she was sure he had been ill-treated, though she knew nothing whatever about it. she was placed next to him at table and began immediately on what she thought was his special subject. 'i understand that you're very modern in your views,' she said, smiling. 'i!' he exclaimed in some surprise. 'really you are quite mistaken. i don't think i am at all.' 'really? oh, i'm so glad--i've such a worship myself for tradition. i'm so thankful that you have, too.' 'i don't know that i have,' he said. 'it's true, then, what i heard--i felt it was the moment i looked at you, mr fraser--i mean, that you're an atheist.' 'a _what_?' he exclaimed, turning pale with horror. 'good heavens, madame, do you know what my profession is?' he seemed utterly puzzled by her. she managed, all the same, somehow or other to lure him into a conversation in which she _heartily_ took his side. by the end of lunch they were getting on splendidly, though neither of them knew what they were talking about. and this was one of the curious characteristics of madame frabelle. nobody made so many gaffes, yet no-one got out of them so well. to use the lawyer's phrase, she used so many words that she managed to engulf her own and her interlocutor's ideas. no-one, perhaps, had ever talked so much nonsense seriously as she did that day, but the rev. byrne fraser said she was a remarkable woman, who had read and thought deeply. also he was enchanted with her interest in him, as everybody always was. edith thought she had heard mr mitchell saying something to the others that interested her. she managed to get near him when the gentlemen joined them in the studio, as they called the large room where there was a stage, a piano, a parquet floor, and every possible arrangement for amusement. madame frabelle moved quickly away, supposing that edith wished to speak to him for his sake, whereas really it was in order to have repeated something she thought she had heard at lunch. 'did i hear you saying anything about your old friend, aylmer ross?' she asked. 'yes, indeed. haven't you heard? the poor fellow has been wounded. he was taken into hospital at once, fortunately, and he's getting better, and is going to be brought home almost immediately, to the same old house in jermyn street. i think his son is to meet him at the station today. we must all go and see him. capital chap, aylmer. i always liked him. he's travelled so much that--even before the war--i hadn't seen him for three years.' 'was the wound serious?' asked edith, who had turned pale. 'they were anxious at first. now he's out of danger. but, poor chap, i'm afraid he won't be able to move for a good while. his leg is broken. i hear he's got to be kept lying down two or three months.' 'qu'est ce qu'il y a, edith?' asked landi, who joined her. 'i've just heard some bad news,' she said, 'but don't speak about it.' she told him. 'bien. du calme, mon enfant; du calme!' 'but, i'm anxious, landi.' 'ca se voit!' 'do you think--' 'ce ne sera rien. it's the best thing that could happen to him. he'll be all right.... i suppose you want to see him, edith?' 'he may not wish to see me,' said edith. 'oh yes, he will. you were the first person he thought of,' answered landi. 'why, my dear, you forget you treated him badly!' 'then, if he'd treated _me_ badly he wouldn't care to see me again, you mean?' 'c'est probable,' said landi, selecting with care a very large cigar from a box that was being handed round. 'now, be quite tranquil. i shall go and see him directly i leave here, and i'll let you hear every detail. will that do?' 'thanks, dear landi!... but even if he wishes to see me, ought i to go?' 'that i don't know. but you will.' he lighted the long cigar. chapter ix next morning edith, who always came down to breakfast, though somewhat late, found on her plate a letter from lady conroy, that most vague and forgetful of all charming irishwomen. it said: 'my dear mrs ottley, do excuse my troubling you, but could you give me a little information? someone has asked me about madame frabelle. i know that she is a friend of yours, and is staying with you, and i said so; also i have a sort of idea that she was, in some way, connected with you by marriage or relationship, but of that i was not quite sure. i fancy that it is due to you that i have the pleasure of knowing her, anyhow. 'could you tell me who she was before she married? what her husband was, and anything else about her? that she is most charming and a very clever woman i know, of course, already. to say she is a friend of yours is enough to say that, but the rest i forget. 'hoping you will forgive my troubling you, and that you are all very well, i remain, yours most sincerely. 'kathleen conroy 'p.s.--i began to take some lessons in nursing when i came across a most charming and delightful girl, called dulcie clay. do you happen to know her at all? her father married again and she was not happy at home, and, having no money, she went in for nursing, seriously (not as i did), but i'm afraid she is not strong enough for the profession. remember me to madame frabelle.' edith passed the letter to bruce. 'isn't this too delightful?' she said; 'and exactly like her? she sends madame frabelle to me with a letter of introduction, and then asks me who she is!' 'well,' said bruce, who saw nothing of the absurdity of the situation, 'lady conroy is a most charming person. it looks almost as if she wanted to decline responsibility. i wouldn't annoy her for the world. you must give her all the information she wants, of course.' 'but all i know i only know from her.' 'exactly. well, tell her what she told you. madame frabelle told us candidly she made her acquaintance at the hotel! but it's absurd to tell lady conroy that back! we can't!' edith found the original letter of introduction, after some searching, and wrote to lady conroy to say that she understood madame frabelle, who was no connection of hers, was a clever, interesting woman, who wished to study english life in her native land. she was '_of good family; she had been a miss eglantine pollard, and was the widow of a well-to-do french wine merchant_.' (this was word for word what lady conroy had told her.) she went on to say that she '_believed madame frabelle had several friends and connections in london_.' 'the mitchells, for instance,' suggested bruce. 'yes, that's a good idea. "_she knows the mitchells very well_,"' edith went on writing. '"_i think you know them also; they are very great friends of ours. mr mitchell is in the foreign office_."' 'and the conistons?' suggested bruce. 'yes. "_she knows the conistons; the nice young brother and sister we are so fond of. she has other friends in london, i believe, but she has not troubled to look them up. the more one sees of her the more one likes her. she is most charming and amiable and makes friends wherever she goes. i don't think i know anything more than this, dear lady conroy. yours very sincerely, edith ottley. p.s.--i have not met miss dulcie clay_."' bruce was satisfied with this letter. edith herself thought it the most amusing letter she had ever written. 'the clergyman whom she met at lunch yesterday, by the way,' said bruce, 'wouldn't it sound well to mention him?' edith good-naturedly laughed, and added to the letter: '"_the rev. byrne fraser knows our friend also, and seems to like her_."' 'the only thing is,' said bruce, after a moment's pause, 'perhaps that might do her harm with lady conroy, although he's a clergyman. there have been some funny stories about the rev. byrne fraser.' 'he certainly liked her,' said edith. 'he wrote her a long letter last night, after meeting her at lunch, to go on with their argument, or conversation, or whatever it was, and she's going to hear him preach on sunday.' 'do you feel she would wish lady conroy to know that she's a friend of the rev. byrne fraser?' asked bruce. 'oh, i think so; or i wouldn't have said it.' edith was really growing more and more loyal in her friendship. there certainly was something about madame frabelle that everybody, clever and stupid alike, seemed to be attracted by. later edith received a telephone call from landi. he told her that he had seen aylmer, who was going on well, that he had begged to see her, and had been allowed by his doctor and nurse to receive a visit from her on saturday next. he said that aylmer had been agitated because his boy was going almost immediately to the front. he seemed very pleased at the idea of seeing her again. edith looked forward with a certain excitement to saturday. * * * * * a day or two later edith received a letter from lady conroy, saying: 'my dear edith, thank you so much for your nice letter. i remember now, of course, madame frabelle was a friend of the mitchells, whom i know so well, and like so much. what dears they are! please remember me to them. i knew that she had a friend who was a clergyman, but i wasn't quite sure who it was. i suppose it must have been this mr fraser. she was a miss pollard, you know, a very good family, and, as i always understood, the more one knows of her the better one likes her. 'thanks again for your note. i am longing to see you, and shall call directly i come to london. ever yours, 'kathleen conroy 'p.s.--madame f's husband was a french wine merchant, and a very charming man, i believe. by the way, also, she knows the conistons, i believe, and no doubt several people we both know. miss clay has gone to london with one of her patients.' bruce didn't understand why edith was so much amused by this letter, nor why she said that she should soon write and ask lady conroy who madame frabelle was, and that she would probably answer that she was a great friend of edith's and of the mitchells, and the rev. byrne fraser. 'she seems a little doubtful about fraser, doesn't she?' bruce said. 'i mean lady conroy. certainly she's got rather a funny memory; she doesn't seem to have the slightest idea that she sent her to you with a letter of introduction. now we've taken all the responsibility on ourselves.' 'well, really i don't mind,' said edith. 'what does it matter? there's obviously no harm in madame frabelle, and never could have been.' 'she's a very clever woman,' said bruce. 'i'm always interested when i hear what she has to say about people. i don't mind telling you that i'm nearly always guided by it.' 'so am i,' said edith. indeed edith did sincerely regard her opinion as very valuable. she found her so invariably wrong that she was quite a useful guide. she was never quite sure of her own judgement until madame frabelle had contradicted it. * * * * * when edith went to call on aylmer in the little brown house in jermyn street, she was shown first into the dining-room. in a few minutes a young girl dressed as a nurse came in to speak to her. she seemed very shy and spoke in a soft voice. 'i'm miss clay,' she said. 'i've been nursing for the last six months, but i'm not very strong and was afraid i would have to give it up when i met mr ross at boulogne. he was getting on so well that i came back to look after him and i shall stay until he is quite well, i think.' evidently this was the dulcie clay lady conroy had mentioned. edith was much struck by her. she was a really beautiful girl, with but one slight defect, which some people perhaps, would have rather admired--her skin was rather too dark, and a curious contrast to her beautiful blue eyes. as a rule the combination of blue eyes and dark hair goes with a fair complexion. dulcie clay had a brown skin, clear and pale, such as usually goes with the spanish type of brunette. but for this curious darkness, which showed up her dazzling white teeth, she was quite lovely. it was a sweet, sensitive face, and her blue eyes, with long eyelashes like little feathers, were charming in their soft expression. her smile was very sweet, though she had a look of melancholy. there was something touching about her. she was below the usual height, slight and graceful. her hair, parted in the middle, was arranged in the madonna style in two thick natural waves each side of her face. she had none of the bustling self-confidence of the lady nurse, but was very gentle and diffident. surely aylmer must be in love with her, thought edith. then miss clay said, in her low voice: 'you are mrs ottley, aren't you? i knew you at once.' 'did you? how was that?' a little colour came into the pale, dark face. 'mr ross has a little photograph of you,' she said, 'and once when he was very ill he gave me your name and address and asked me to send it to you if anything happened.' as she said that her eyes filled with tears. 'oh, but he'll be all right now, won't he?' asked edith, with a feeling of sympathy for miss clay, and a desire to cheer the girl. 'yes, i think he'll be all right now,' she said. 'do come up.' chapter x it was a curious thing about madame frabelle that, though she was perfectly at ease in any society, and really had seen a good deal of the world, all her notions of life were taken from the stage. she looked upon existence from the theatrical point of view. everyone was to her a hero or a heroine, a villain or a victim. to her a death was a _dénouement_; a marriage a happy ending. had she known the exact circumstances in which edith went to see the wounded hero, madame frabelle's dramatic remarks, the obvious observations which she would have showered on her friend, would have been quite unendurable. therefore edith chose to say merely that she was going to see an old friend, so as not to excite her friend's irritable imagination by any hint of sentiment or romance on the subject. during her absence in the afternoon, it happened that mrs mitchell had called, with a lady whom she had known intimately since tuesday, so she was quite an old friend. madame frabelle had received them together in edith's place. on her return madame frabelle was full of the stranger. she had, it seemed been dressed in bright violet, and did nothing but laugh. whether it was that everything amused her, or merely that laughter was the only mode she knew of expressing all her sentiments, impressions and feelings, madame frabelle was not quite sure. her name was miss radford, and she was thirty-eight. she had very red cheeks, and curly black hair. she had screamed with laughter from disappointment at hearing mrs ottley was out; and shrieked at hearing that madame frabelle had been deputed to receive them in her place. mrs mitchell had whispered that she was a most interesting person, and madame frabelle thought she certainly was. it appeared that mrs mitchell had sent the motor somewhere during their visit, and by some mistake it was a long time coming back. this had caused peals of laughter from miss radford, and just as they had made up their minds to walk home the motor arrived, so she went away with mrs mitchell, giggling so much she could hardly stand. miss radford also had been highly amused by the charming way the boudoir was furnished, and had laughed most heartily at the curtains and the pictures. edith was sorry to have missed her. she was evidently a valuable discovery, one of their new treasures, a rare _trouvaille_ of the mitchells. madame frabelle then told edith and bruce that she had promised to dine with the mitchells one day next week. edith was pleased to find that eglantine, and also bruce, who had by now returned home, were so full of mrs mitchell's visit and invitation, that neither of them asked her a single question about aylmer, and appeared to have completely forgotten all about him. * * * * * as madame frabelle left them for a moment, edith observed a cloud of gloom over bruce's expressive countenance. he said: 'well, really! upon my word! this is a bit too much! mind you, i'm not at all surprised. in fact, i always expected it. but it is a bit of a shock, isn't it, when you find old friends throwing you over like this?' he walked up and down, much agitated, repeating the same thing in different words: that he had never been so surprised in his life; that it was what he had always known would happen; that it was a great shock, and he had always expected it. at last edith said: 'i don't see anything so strange about it, bruce. it's natural enough they should have asked her.' 'oh, is it? how would they ever have known her but for us?' 'how could they ask her without knowing her? besides we went there last. we lunched with them only the other day.' 'that's not the point. you have missed the point entirely. unfortunately, you generally do. you have, in the most marked way, a woman's weakness, edith. you're incapable of arguing logically. i consider it a downright slight; no, not so much a slight as an insult--perhaps injury is the _mot juste_--to take away our guest and not ask us. not that i should have gone. i shouldn't have dreamed of going, in any case. for one thing we were there last; we lunched there only the other day. besides, we're engaged to dine with my mother.' 'mrs mitchell knew that; that's why she asked madame frabelle because she would be alone.' 'oh, how like you, edith! always miss the point--always stick up for everyone but me! you invariably take the other side. however, perhaps it is all for the best; it's just as well. nothing would have induced me to have gone--even if i hadn't been engaged, i mean. i'm getting a bit tired of the mitchells; sick of them. their tone is frivolous. and if they'd pressed me ever so much, nothing in the world would have made me break my promise to my mother.' 'well, then, it's all right. why complain?' bruce continued, however, in deep depression till they received a message from the mitchells, asking edith if she and her husband couldn't manage to come, all the same, if they were not afraid of offending the elder mrs ottley. they could go to bruce's mother at any time, and the mitchells particularly wanted them to meet some people tomorrow night--a small party, unexpectedly got up. 'of course you won't go,' said edith to bruce from the telephone. 'you said you wouldn't under any circumstances. i'll refuse, shall i?' 'no--no, don't! certainly not! of course i shall go. accept immediately. they're quite right, it is perfectly true we can go to my mother any other day. besides, i don't think it's quite fair to old friends like the mitchells to throw them over when they particularly want us and ask us as a special favour to them, like this.' 'you don't think, perhaps, that somebody else has disappointed them, and they asked us at the last minute, to fill up?' suggested edith, to whom this was perfectly obvious. bruce was furious at this suggestion. 'certainly not!' he exclaimed. 'the idea of such a thing. as if they would treat me like that! decidedly we will go.' 'all right,' she said, 'just as you wish. but your mother will be disappointed.' bruce insisted. of course the invitation was accepted, and once again he was happy! * * * * * and at last edith was able to be alone, and to think over her meeting with aylmer. a dramatic meeting under romantic circumstances between two people of the anglo-saxon race always appears to fall a little flat; words are difficult to find. when she went in, to find him looking thin and weak, pale under his sunburn, changed and worn, she was deeply thrilled and touched. it brought close to her the simple, heroic manner in which so many men are calmly risking their lives, taking it as a matter of course, and as she knew for a fact that he was forty-two and had gone into the new army at the very beginning of the war, she was aware he must have strained a point in order to join. she admired him for it. he greeted her with that bright expression in his eyes and with the smile that she had always liked so much, which lighted up like a ray of sunshine the lean, brown, somewhat hard, face. she sat down by his side, and all she could think of to say was: 'well, aylmer?' he answered: 'well, edith! here you are.' he took her hand, and she left it in his. then they sat in silence, occasionally broken by an obvious remark. * * * * * when he had left three years ago both had parted in love, and aylmer in anger. he had meant never to see her again, never to forgive her for her refusal to use bruce's escapade as a means of freeing herself, to marry him. yet now, when they met they spoke the merest commonplaces. and afterwards neither of them could ever remember what had passed between them during the visit. she knew it was short, and that it had left an impression that calmed her. somehow she had thought of him so much that when she actually saw him again her affection seemed cooler. had she worn out the passion by dint of constancy? that must be strange. unaccountably, touched as she was at his wishing to see her just after he had nearly died, the feeling now seemed to be more like a warm friendship, and less like love. the little nurse had seen her out. edith saw that she had been crying. evidently she was quite devoted to aylmer, and, poor girl, she probably regarded edith as a rival. but edith would not be one, of that she was determined. she wondered whether their meeting had had the same effect on aylmer. she thought he had shown more emotion than she had. 'he will be better now,' dulcie clay had said to her at the door. 'please come again, mrs ottley.' edith thought that generous. it seemed to her that dulcie was as frank and open as a child. edith, at any rate, could read her like a book. it made her feel sorry for the girl. as edith analysed her own feelings she wondered why she had felt no jealousy of her--only gratitude for her goodness to aylmer. all her sensations were confused. only one resolution was firm in her mind. whether he wished it or not, they should never be on the terms they were before. it could only lead to the same ending--to unhappiness. no; after all these years of separation, edith would be his friend, and only his friend. of that she was resolved. chapter xi 'lady conroy,' said bruce thoughtfully, at breakfast next day, 'is a very strict roman catholic.' bruce was addicted to volunteering information, and making unanswerable remarks. madame frabelle said to edith in a low, earnest tone: 'pass me the butter, dear,' and looked attentively at bruce. 'i sometimes think i shouldn't mind being one myself,' bruce continued; 'i should rather like to eat fish on fridays.' 'but you like eating fish on thursdays,' said edith. 'and mr ottley never seems to care very much for meat.' 'unless it's particularly well cooked--in a particular way,' said edith. 'fasts,' said madame frabelle rather pompously, 'are meant for people who like feasts.' 'how true!' he gave her an admiring glance. 'i should not mind confessing, either,' continued bruce, 'i think i should rather like it.' (he thought he was having a religious discussion.) 'but you always do confess,' said edith, 'not to priests, perhaps, but to friends; to acquaintances, at clubs, to girls you take in to dinner. you don't call it confessing, you call it telling them a curious thing that you happen to remember.' 'he calls it conversing,' said madame frabelle. she then gave a slight flippant giggle, afterwards correcting it by a thoughtful sigh. 'the rev. byrne fraser, of course, is very high church,' bruce said. 'i understood he was anglican. by the way, was aylmer ross a roman catholic?' 'i think he is.' bruce having mentioned his name, edith now told him the news about her visit to their friend. bruce liked good news--more, perhaps, because it was news than because it was good--yet the incident seemed to put him in a rather bad temper. he was sorry for aylmer's illness, glad he was better, proud of knowing him, or, indeed, of knowing anyone who had been publicly mentioned; and jealous of the admiration visible in both edith and madame frabelle. this medley of feeling resulted in his taking up a book and saying: 'good heavens! again i've found you've dog's-eared my book, edith!' 'i only turned down a page,' she said gently. 'no, you haven't; you've dog's-eared it. it's frightfully irritating, dear, how you take no notice of my rebukes or my comments. upon my word, what i say to you seems to go in at one ear and out at the other, just like water on a duck's back.' 'how does the water on a duck's back get into the dog's ears?--i mean the duck's ears. oh, i'm sorry. i won't do it again.' bruce sighed, flattened out the folded page and left the room with quiet dignity, but caught his foot in the mat. both ladies ignored the accident. when he had gone, madame frabelle said: 'poor edith!' 'bruce is only a little tidy,' said edith. 'i know. my husband was dreadfully untidy, which is much worse.' 'i suppose they have their faults.' 'oh, men are all alike!' exclaimed madame frabelle cynically. 'only some men,' said edith. 'besides, to a woman--i mean, a nice woman--there is no such thing as men. there is a man; and either she is so fond of him that she can talk of nothing else, however unfavourably, or so much in love with him that she never mentions his name.' 'men often say women are all alike,' said madame frabelle. 'when a man says that, he means there is only one woman in the world, and he's in love with her, and she is not in love with him.' 'men are not so faithful as women,' remarked madame frabelle, with the air of a discovery. 'perhaps not. and yet--well, i think the difference is that a man is often more in love with the woman he is unfaithful to than with the woman he is unfaithful with. with us it is different.... madame frabelle, i think i'll take archie with me today to see aylmer ross. tell bruce so, casually; and will you come with me another day?' 'with the greatest pleasure,' said madame frabelle darkly, and with an expressive look. (neither she nor edith had any idea what it expressed.) edith found aylmer wonderfully better. the pretty little nurse with the dark face and pale blue eyes told her he had had a peaceful night and had bucked up tremendously. he was seated in an arm-chair with one leg on another chair, and with him was arthur coniston, a great admirer of his. it was characteristic of aylmer, the moment he was able, to see as many friends as he was allowed. aylmer was a very gregarious person, though--or perhaps because--he detested parties. he liked company, but hated society. arthur coniston, who always did his best to attract attention by his modest, self-effacing manner, was sitting with his handsome young head quite on one side from intense respect for his host, whom he regarded with the greatest admiration as a man of culture, and a judge of art. he rejoiced to be one of the first to see him, just returned after three years' absence from england, and having spent the last three months at the front. arthur coniston (also in khaki), who was a born interviewer, was anxious to know aylmer's impression of certain things over here, after his long absence. 'i should so very much like to know,' he said, 'what your view is of the attitude to life of the post-impressionists.' aylmer smiled. he said: 'i think their attitude to life, as you call it, is best expressed in some of lear's nonsense rhymes: "_his aunt jobiska said, 'everyone knows that a pobble is better without his toes_.'"' archie looked up in smiling recognition of these lines, and edith laughed. 'excuse me, but i don't quite follow you,' said young coniston gravely. 'why, don't you see? of course, lear is the spirit they express. a portrait by a post-impressionist is sure to be "a dong with a luminous nose." and don't you remember, "_the owl and the pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat_"? wouldn't a boat painted by a post-impressionist be pea-green?' 'perfectly. i see that. but--why the pobble without its toes?' 'why, the sculptor always surrenders colour, and the painted form. each has to give up something for the limitation of art. but the more modern artist gives up much more--likeness, beauty, a few features here and there--a limb now and then.' 'ah yes. i quite see what you mean. like the statuary of rodin or epstein. one sees really only half the form, as if growing out of the sketchy sculpture. and then there's another thing--i hope i'm not wearying you?' 'no, indeed. it's great fun: such a change to hear about this sort of thing again.' 'the futurists?' asked arthur. 'what is your view of them?' 'well, of course, they are already past, they always were. but i should say their attitude to life is that of the man who is looking at the moon reflected in a lake, but can't see it; he sees the reflection of a coal-scuttle instead.' 'ah yes. they see things wrong, you mean. they're not so real, not so logical, as the post-impressionists.' 'yes, the futurist is off the rails entirely, and he seems to see hardly anything but railways. but all that noisy nonsense of the futurists always bored me frightfully,' aylmer said. 'affectation for affectation, i prefer the pose of depression and pessimism to that of bullying and high spirits. when the affected young poet pretended to be used up and worn out, one knew there was vitality under it all. but when i see a cheerful young man shrieking about how full of life he is, banging on a drum, and blowing on a tin trumpet, and speaking of his good spirits, it depresses me, since naturally it gives the contrary impression. it can't be real. it ought to be but it isn't. if the noisy person meant what he said, he wouldn't say it.' 'i see. the modern _poseurs_ aren't so good as the old ones. odle is not so clever as beardsley.' 'of course not. beardsley had the gift of line--though he didn't always know where to draw it--but his illustrations to wilde's work were unsuitable, because beardsley wanted everything down in black and white, and wilde wanted everything in purple and gold. but both had their restraints, and their pose was reserve, not flamboyance.' 'i think you mean that if people are so sickening as to have an affectation at all, you would rather they kept it quiet,' said edith. 'exactly! at least, it brings a smile to one's lips to see a very young man pretend he is bored with life. i have often wondered what the answer would be from one of these chaps, and what he would actually say, if you held a loaded pistol to his head--i mean the man who says he doesn't think life worth living.' 'what do you think he would say?' asked coniston. 'he would scream: "good heavens! what are you doing? put that down!"' said edith. 'she's right,' said aylmer. 'she always is.' dulcie came in and brought tea. 'i hope we're not tiring him,' edith asked her. 'oh no. i think it does him good. he enjoys it.' she sat down with archie and talked to him gently in the corner. 'after living so much among real things,' coniston was saying, 'one feels half ashamed to discuss our old subjects.' however, he and aylmer continued to talk over books and pictures, coniston hanging on his lips as though afraid of missing or forgetting a word he said. presently edith told aylmer about their new friend, madame frabelle. he was very curious to see her. 'what is she like?' he asked. 'i can't imagine her living with you. is she a skeleton at the feast?' 'a skeleton!' exclaimed coniston. 'good heavens--no! quite the contrary.' 'a skeleton who was always feasting would hardly remain one long,' suggested edith. 'anyhow,' said aylmer, 'the cupboard is the proper place for a skeleton.' archie had joined the group round aylmer. edith sat in a corner for some time, chatting with dulcie. they arranged that bruce was to call the next day, and edith and madame frabelle the day after. when they went away archie, who had listened very closely to the conversation, said: 'what a lot of manners mr coniston has! what did he mean by saying that spanish painters painted a man in a gramophone?' edith racked her brain to remember the sentence. then she said, with a laugh: 'oh yes, i know! mr coniston said: "the spanish artists painted--to a man--in monochrome." i can't explain it, archie. it doesn't matter. why did you leave miss clay and come back to us?' 'why, i like her all right, but you get tired of talking to women. i get bored with dilly sometimes.' 'then you're looking forward to going back to school?' 'i shall like the society of boys of my own sex again,' he said grandly. 'you're not always very nice to dilly, archie. i've noticed when anything is given to her, you always snatch at it. you must remember ladies first.' 'yes, that's all very well. but then dilly takes it all, and only gives me what's left.' archie looked solemn. chapter xii 'edith,' said bruce, next morning, with some importance of manner, 'i've had a letter from aylmer--aylmer ross, you know--asking me, _most_ particularly, to call on him.' 'oh, really,' said edith, who knew it already, as she had asked him to write to bruce. 'he wants me to come at half-past four,' said bruce, looking over the letter pompously. 'four-thirty, to the minute. i shall certainly do it. i shan't lose a minute.' 'i'm afraid you'll have to lose a few minutes,' said edith. 'it's only ten o'clock.' bruce stared at her, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. he thought it would be a suitable punishment for her not to see it. obviously he was not in the best of humours. not being sure what was wrong, edith adopted the simple plan of asking what he meant. 'what do i mean!' exclaimed bruce, who, when his grievances, were vague, relied on such echoes for his most cutting effects. 'you ask me what i mean? mean, indeed!' he took some toast and repeated bitterly: 'ah! you may well ask me what i mean!' 'may i? well, what were the observations you didn't approve of?' 'why ... what you said. about several minutes being lost before half-past four.' 'oh, bruce dear, i didn't mean any harm by it.' 'harm, indeed!' repeated bruce. 'harm! it isn't a question of actual harm. i don't say that you meant to injure me, nor even, perhaps, to hurt my feelings. but it's a way of speaking--a tone--that i think extremely _déplacé_, from you to me. do you follow me, edith? from _you_ to _me_.' 'that's a dark saying. well, whatever i said i take it back, if you don't like it. will that do?' bruce was mollified, but wouldn't show it at once. 'ah,' he said, 'that's all very well. these sort of things are not so easily taken back. you should think before you speak. prevention is better than cure.' 'yes, and a stitch in time saves nine--though it doesn't rhyme. and it's no good crying over spilt milk, and two heads are better than one. but, really, bruce, i didn't mean it.' 'what didn't you mean?' 'good heavens, i really don't know by now! i'm afraid i've utterly forgotten what we were talking about,' said edith, looking at the door with some anxiety. she was hoping that madame frabelle would soon come down and cause a diversion. 'look here, edith,' said bruce, 'when an old friend, an old friend of yours and mine, and at one time a very intimate friend--next door to a brother--when such a friend as that has been wounded at the front, fighting for our country--and, mind you, he behaved with remarkable gallantry, for it wasn't really necessary for him to go, as he was beyond the age--well, when a friend does a thing like that, and comes back wounded, and writes, with his own hand, asking me to go and see him--well, i think it's the least i can do! i don't know what _you_ think. it seems to _me_ the right thing. if you disagree with me i'm very sorry. but, frankly, it appears to me that i ought to go.' 'who could doubt it?' 'read the letter for yourself,' said bruce, suddenly taking it out of his pocket and giving it to her. 'there, you see. "dear ottley," he says.' here bruce went to her side of the table and leant over her, reading the letter aloud to her over her shoulder, while she was reading it to herself. '"dear ottley,--if you could look in tomorrow about half-past four, i should be very glad to see you. yours sincerely, aylmer ross." fairly cordial, i think, isn't it? or not? perhaps you think it cold. would you call it a formal letter?' bruce took the letter out of her hand and read it over again to himself. 'very nice, dear,' said edith. 'so i thought.' he put it away with a triumphant air. edith was thinking that the writing was growing stronger. aylmer must be better. 'i say, i hope it isn't a sign he's not so well, that he wants to see me. i don't call it a good sign. he's depressed. he thinks i'll cheer him up.' 'and i'm sure you will. ah, here's madame frabelle.' 'i'm afraid i'm a little late,' said their guest, with her amiable smile. 'oh dear, no--not at all, not at all,' said bruce, who was really much annoyed at her unpunctuality. 'of course, if you'd been a minute later i shouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing you at all before i went to the office--that's all. and what does that matter? good heavens, _that's_ of no importance! good gracious, this is liberty hall, i hope--isn't it? i should be very sorry for my guests to feel tied in any way--bound to be down at any particular time. will you have some coffee? edith, give madame frabelle a cup of coffee. late? oh dear, no; certainly not!' he gave a short, ironical laugh. 'well, i think i'm generally fairly punctual,' said madame frabelle, beginning her breakfast without appearing to feel this sarcasm. 'what made me late this morning was that archie and dilly came into my room and asked me to settle a kind of dispute they were having.' 'they regard you quite as a magistrate,' said edith. 'but it was too bad of them to come and bother you so early.' 'oh no. not at all. i assure you i enjoy it. and, besides, a boy with archie's musical talents is bound to have the artistic temperament, you know, and--well--of course, we all know what that leads to--excitement; and finally a quarrel sometimes.' 'if he were really musical i should have thought he ought to be more harmonious,' edith said. 'oh, by the way, edith, did you consult landi about him?' bruce inquired. 'you said you intended to.' 'oh yes, i did. landi can see no sign of musical genius yet.' 'dear, dear!' said bruce. 'ah, but i am convinced he's wrong. wait a few years and you'll find he'll agree with me yet,' said madame frabelle. 'i'm not at all sure, either, that a composer like landi is necessarily the right person to judge of youthful genius.' 'perhaps not. and yet you'd think he'd know a bit about it, too! i mean to say, they wouldn't have made him a baronet if he didn't understand his profession. excuse my saying so, won't you?' 'not at all,' she answered. 'it doesn't follow. i mean it doesn't follow that he's right about archie. did he try the boy's voice?' she asked edith. 'very much.' 'how?' 'well, he asked archie to sing a few notes.' 'and did he?' 'yes, he did. but they weren't the notes landi asked him to sing.' 'oh!' 'then landi played him two tunes, and found he didn't know one from the other.' 'well, what of that?' 'nothing at all. except that it showed he had no ear, as well as no voice. that is all.' madame frabelle would never own she was beaten. 'ah, well, well,' she said, shaking her head in an oracular way. 'you wait!' 'certainly. i shall.' 'by the way, i may be a little late for dinner tonight. i'm going to see an old friend who's been wounded in the war,' bruce told madame frabelle proudly. it had always been something of an ordeal to edith when she knew that aylmer and bruce were alone together. it was a curious feeling, combined of loyalty to bruce (she hated him to make himself ridiculous), loyalty to aylmer, and an indescribable sense of being lowered in her own eyes. when they seemed friendly together it pained her self-respect. most women will understand the sensation. however, she knew it had to be, and would be glad when it was over. chapter xiii the next evening bruce came in, holding himself very straight, with a slightly military manner. when he saw his wife he just stopped himself from saluting. 'that's a man!' he exclaimed. 'that's a splendid fellow.' edith didn't answer. 'you don't appreciate him. in my opinion aylmer ross is a hero.' 'i hope he's better?' 'better! he would say so, anyhow. ah, he's a wonderful chap!' bruce hummed tipperary below his breath. edith was surprised to find herself suffering no less mental discomfort and irritation while bruce talked about aylmer and praised him than she used to feel years ago. it seemed as if three years had passed and altered nothing. she answered coldly. bruce became more enthusiastic. he declared that she didn't know how to value such a fine character. 'women,' he repeated, 'don't know a hero when they see one.' evidently if bruce had had his way aylmer would have been covered with dso's and vc's; nothing was good enough for him. on the other hand, if edith had praised aylmer, bruce would have been the first to _debiner_ his actions, undervalue his gifts, and crab him generally. edith was not one of those women, far more common than is supposed, who consider themselves aggrieved and injured when a discarded lover consoles himself with someone else. nor was she one of the numerous people who will not throw away what they no longer want for fear someone else will pick it up. she had such a strong sympathy for dulcie clay that she had said to herself several times she would like to see her perfectly happy. edith was convinced that the nurse adored her patient, but she was not at all sure that he returned the admiration. edith herself had only seen him alone once, and on that occasion they had said hardly anything to each other. he had been constrained and she had been embarrassed. the day that arthur coniston was there and they talked of pictures, aylmer had given her, by a look, to understand that he would like to see her again alone, and she knew perfectly well, even without that, that he was longing for another _tête-à-tête_. however, the next day edith went with madame frabelle. this was a strangely unsatisfactory visit. edith knew his looks and every tone of his voice so well that she could see that aylmer, unlike everybody else, was not in the least charmed with madame frabelle. she bored him; he saw nothing in her. madame frabelle was still more disappointed. she had been told he was brilliant; he said nothing put commonplaces. he was supposed to be witty; he answered everything she said literally. he was said to be a man of encyclopaedic information; but when madame frabelle questioned him on such subjects his answers were dry and short; and when she tried to draw him out about the war, he changed the subject in a manner that was not very far from being positively rude. leaving them for a moment, edith went to talk to dulcie. 'how do you think he's getting on?' she said. 'he's getting well; gradually. he seems a little nervous the last day or so.' 'do you think he's been seeing too many people?' 'he hasn't seen more than the doctor has allowed. but, do you know, mrs. ottley, i think it depends a great deal who the people are.' she waited a moment and then went on in a low voice: 'you do him more good than anyone. you see, he's known you so long,' she added gently, 'and so intimately. it's no strain--i mean he hasn't got to make conversation.' 'yes, i see,' said edith. 'mr. ross hasn't any near relations--no mother or sister. you seem to take their place--if you understand what i mean.' edith thought it charmingly tactful of her to put it like that. 'i'm sure _you_ take their place,' edith said. dulcie looked down. 'oh, of course, he hasn't to make any effort with me. but then _i_ don't amuse him, and he wants amusement, and change. it's a great bore for a man like that--so active mentally, and in every way--to have to lie perfectly still, especially when he has no companion but me. i'm rather dull in some ways. besides, i don't know anything about the subjects he's interested in.' 'don't talk nonsense,' said edith, smiling. 'i should imagine that just to look at you would be sufficient.' 'oh, mrs. ottley! how can you?' she turned away as if rather pained than pleased at the compliment. 'i haven't very high spirits,' she said. 'i'm not sure that i don't sometimes depress him.' 'on the contrary; i'm sure he wouldn't like a breezy, restless person bouncing about the room and roaring with laughter,' edith said. she smiled. 'perhaps not. but there might be something between. he will be able to go for a drive in a week or two. i wondered whether, perhaps, you could take him out?' 'oh yes; i dare say that could be arranged.' 'i have to go out all tomorrow afternoon. i wondered whether you would come and sit with him, mrs. ottley?' 'certainly i will, if you like.' 'oh, please do! i know he's worrying much more about his son than anybody thinks. you see, the boy's really very young, and i'm not sure he's strong.' 'i suppose neither of them told the truth about their age,' said edith. 'it reminds one of the joke in _punch_: "where do you expect to go if you tell lies? to the front."' miss clay gave a little laugh. then she started. a bell was heard ringing rather loudly. 'i'll tell him you're coming tomorrow, then,' she said. they returned to aylmer's room. he was looking a little sulky. he said as edith came in: 'i thought you'd gone without saying good-bye. what on earth were you doing?' 'only talking to miss clay,' said edith, sitting down by him. 'how sweet she is.' 'charming,' said madame frabelle. 'wonderfully pretty, too.' 'she's a good nurse,' said aylmer briefly. 'she's been awfully good to me. but i do hope i shan't need her much longer.' he spoke with unnecessary fervour. 'oh, mr ross!' exclaimed madame frabelle. 'i'm sure if i were a young man i should be very sorry when she had to leave me!' 'possibly. however, you're not a young man. neither am i.' there was a moment's silence. this was really an exceptional thing when madame frabelle was present. edith could not recall one occasion when eglantine had had nothing to say. aylmer must have been excessively snubbing. extraordinary i wonder of wonders! he had actually silenced madame frabelle! all aylmer's natural politeness and amiability returned when they rose to take their leave. he suddenly became cordial, cheery and charming. evidently he was so delighted the visitor was going that it quite raised his spirits. when they left he gave edith a little reproachful look. he did not ask her to come again. he was afraid she would bring madame frabelle. 'well, edith, i thoroughly understand your husband's hero-worship for that man,' said madame frabelle (meaning she thoroughly misunderstood it). 'i've been studying his character all this afternoon.' 'do tell me what you think of him!' 'edith, i'm sorry to say it, but it's a hard, cold, cruel nature.' 'is it really?' 'mr aylmer ross doesn't know what it is to feel emotion, sentiment, or tenderness. principle he has, perhaps, and no doubt he thinks he has great self-control, but that's only because he's absolutely incapable of passion of any kind.' edith smiled. 'i see you're amused at my being right again. it is an odd thing about me, i must own. i never make a mistake,' said madame frabelle complacently. as they walked home, she continued to discourse eloquently on the subject of aylmer. she explained him almost entirely away. there was nothing madame frabelle fancied herself more on than physiognomy. she pointed out to edith how the brow showed a narrow mind, the mouth bitterness. (how extraordinarily bored aylmer must have been to give that impression of all others, thought her listener.) and the eyes, particularly, gave away his chief characteristic, the thing that one missed most in his personality. 'and what is that?' 'can't you see?' 'no, i don't think i can.' 'he has no sense of humour!' said madame frabelle triumphantly. after a few moment's pause, edith said: 'what do you think of miss clay?' 'she's very pretty--extremely pretty. but i don't quite like to say what i think of her. i'd rather not. don't ask me. it doesn't concern me.' 'as bad as that? oh, do tell me. you're so interesting about character, eglantine.' 'dear edith, how kind of you. well, she's very, very clever, of course. most intellectual. a remarkable brain, i should say. but she's deep and scheming; it's a sly, treacherous face.' 'really, i can't see that.' madame frabelle put her hand on edith's shoulder. they had just reached the house. 'ah, you don't know so much of life as i do, my dear.' 'i should have said she is certainly not at all above the average in cleverness, and i think her particularly simple and frank.' 'ah, but that's all put on. you'll see i'm right some day. however, it doesn't matter. no doubt she's a very good nurse.' 'don't abuse her to bruce,' said edith, as they went in. 'certainly not. but why do you mind?' 'i don't know; i suppose i like her.' madame frabelle laughed. 'how strange you are!' she lowered her voice as they walked upstairs, and said: 'to tell the real truth, she gave me a shiver down the spine. i believe that girl capable of anything. that dark skin with those pale blue eyes! i strongly suspect she has a touch of the tarbrush.' 'my dear! nonsense. you can't have looked at her fine little features and her white hands.' 'why is she so dark?' 'there may have been italian or spanish blood in her family,' said edith, laughing. 'it's not a symptom of crime.' 'there may, indeed,' replied madame frabelle in a tone of deep meaning, as they reached the door of her room. 'but, mark my words, edith, that's a dangerous woman!' * * * * * an event had occurred in the ottley household during their absence. archie had brought home a dog and implored his mother to let him keep it. 'what sort of dog is it?' asked edith. 'come and look at it. it isn't any particular _sort_. it's just a dog.' 'but, my dear boy, you're going to school the day after tomorrow, and you can't take it with you.' 'i know; but i'll teach dilly to look after it.' it was a queer, rough, untidy-looking creature; it seemed harmless enough; a sort of dobbin in _vanity fair_ in the canine world. 'it's an inconsistent dog. its face is like a terrier's, and its tail like a sort of spaniel,' said archie. 'but i think it might be trained to a bloodhound.' 'you do, do you? what use would a bloodhound be to dilly?' 'well, you never know. it might be very useful.' 'i'm afraid there's not room in the house for it.' 'oh, mother!' both the children cried together. 'we _must_ keep it!' 'was it lost?' she asked. archie frowned at dilly, who was beginning to say, 'not exactly.' 'tell me how you got it.' 'it was just walking along, and i took its chain. the chain was dragging on the ground.' 'you stole it,' said dilly. archie flew at her, but edith kept him back. 'stole it! i didn't! its master had walked on and evidently didn't care a bit about it, poor thing. that's not stealing.' 'if master archie wants to keep a lot of dogs, he had better take them with him to school,' said the nurse. 'i don't want nothing to do with no dogs, not in this nursery.' 'there's only one thing to be done, archie; you must take care of it for the next day or two, and i shall advertise in the paper for its master.' 'oh, mother!' 'don't you see it isn't even honest to keep it?' archie was bitterly disappointed, but consoled at the idea of seeing the advertisement in the paper. 'how can we advertise it? we don't know what name it answers to.' 'it would certainly be difficult to describe,' said edith. they had tried every name they had ever heard of, and dilly declared it had answered to them all, if answering meant jumping rather wildly round them and barking as if in the very highest spirits, it certainly had. 'it'll be fun to see my name in the paper,' said archie thoughtfully. 'indeed you won't see your name in the paper.' 'well, i found it,' said archie rather sulkily. 'yes; but you had no right to find it, and still less to bring it home. i don't know what your father will say.' bruce at once said that it must be taken to scotland yard. dilly cried bitterly, and said she wanted it to eat out of her hand, and save her life in a snowstorm. 'it's not a st bernard, you utter little fool,' said her brother. 'well, it might save me from drowning,' said dilly. she had once seen a picture, which she longed to realise, of a dog swimming, holding a child in its mouth. she thought it ought to be called faithful or rover. all these romantic visions had to be given up. madame frabelle said the only thing to do was to take it at once to the battersea dogs' home, where it would be 'happy with companions of its own age'. immediately after dinner her suggestion was carried out, to the great relief of most of the household. the nurse said when it had gone that she had 'known all along it was mad, but didn't like to say so.' 'but it took such a fancy to me,' said archie. 'perhaps that was why,' said dilly. * * * * * the children were separated by force. chapter xiv for a woman who was warm-hearted, sensitive and thoughtful, edith had a singularly happy disposition. first, she was good-tempered; not touchy, not easily offended about trifles. such vanity as she had was not in an uneasy condition; she cared very little for general admiration, and had no feeling for competition. she was without ambition to be superior to others. then, though she saw more deeply into things than the generality of women, she was not fond of dwelling on the sad side of life. very small things pleased her, while trifles did not annoy her. hers was not the placidity of the stupid, fat, contented person who never troubles about other people. she was rather of a philosophical turn, and her philosophy tended to seeing the brighter side. where she was singularly fortunate was that though she felt pleasure deeply--a temperament that feels pain in proportion--her suffering, though acute, seldom lasted long. there was an elasticity in her disposition that made her rebound quickly from a blow. her affections were intense, but she did not suffer the usual penalty of love--a continual dread of losing the loved object. if she adored her children and was thankful for their health and beauty, she was not exactly what is called an anxious mother. she thought much about them, and was very determined to have her own way in anything concerning them. that, indeed, was a subject on which she would give way to no-one. but as she had so far succeeded in directing them according to her own ideas, she was satisfied. and she was very hopeful. she could look forward to happiness, but troubles she dealt with as they arose. certainly, after the first few months of their marriage, bruce had turned out a disappointment. but now that she knew him, knew the worst of him, she did not think bad. he had an irritating personality. but most people had to live with someone who was a little irritating; and she was so accustomed to his various ways and weaknesses that she could deal with them unmoved, almost mechanically. she did not take him seriously. she would greatly have preferred, of course, that he should understand her, that she could look up to him and lean on him. but as this was not so, she made the best of it, and managed to be contented enough. three years ago she had not even known she could be deeply in love. she had loved aylmer ross. but even at that time, when bruce gave her the opportunity, by his wild escapade with miss argles, to free herself and marry aylmer--her ideal of divine happiness at the time--somehow she could not do it. she had a curious sense of responsibility towards bruce, which came in the way. often since then she had had regrets; she had even felt it had been a mistake to throw away such a chance. but she reflected that she would have regrets anyhow. it would have worried her to know that bruce needed her. for all that, she knew he did, if unconsciously. so she had made up her mind to content herself with a life which, though peaceful, was certainly, to her temperament, decidedly incomplete. edith had other sources of happiness more acute than that of the average. she took an intense and keen enjoyment in life itself. everything interested her, amused her. she was never bored. she so much enjoyed the mere spectacle of life that she never required to be the central figure. when she had to play the part of a mere spectator it didn't depress her; she could delight in society and in character as if at a theatre. on the other hand, as she had a good deal of initiative and a strong personality, she could also revel in action, in playing a principal part. under a quiet manner her courage was daring and her spirit high. unless someone or something was actively tormenting her, to an extent quite insupportable, she was contented, even gay. her past romance with aylmer had naturally opened to her a source of delight that she knew nothing of before. since she had seen him again she scarcely knew how she felt about it. this day she was to see him again alone, because he wished it, and because dulcie clay had begged her to gratify the wish. why was it, she asked herself, that the little nurse desired they should be alone together? it was perfectly clear, to a woman with edith's penetration, that dulcie was in love with aylmer. also, she was equally sure that the girl believed aylmer to be devoted to her, edith. then it must be the purest unselfishness. dulcie probably, she thought, loved him with a kind of hopeless worship. she had seen him ill and weak, she pitied him, she wanted him to be happy. in return for this generosity edith felt a generous kindness for her, a sympathy that she would never have believed she could feel at seeing such a beautiful girl on those rather intimate terms with aylmer. it must mean, simply, that edith knew aylmer cared for her still. a look was enough to convince her that at least he still took a great and deep interest in her. and she wanted to come to an understanding with him, or she could have avoided a _tête-à-tête_. during the three years he had been away the feeling had calmed down, but the ideal was still there, and the memory. whenever bruce was maddening--which was fairly often--when she heard music, when she saw beautiful scenery, when she was reading a romantic book, when any other man admired her, aylmer was always in her thoughts. when edith saw him again she was not sure that she had not worn out her passion by dwelling on it. but that might easily be caused by the mere _gêne_ of the first two or three meetings. there is a shyness, a sort of coldness, in meeting again a person one has passionately loved. to see the dream in flesh and blood, the thought made concrete, once more brings poetry down to prose. then the terms they met on now were changed. he was playing such a different part. instead of the strong, determined man who had voluntarily left her, refusing to know her as a friend, and reproaching her bitterly for playing with him, as he called it, here was a broken invalid, a pathetic figure who appealed to entirely different sentiments. there is naturally something maternal in a woman's feeling to a sick man. there was also the halo that surrounds the wounded hero. he was not ill through weakness, but through strength and courage. she found herself thinking of him day and night, but it was in a different way. it might be because he had not yet referred to their past love affair. edith dressed with unusual care to go and see him today. even if a woman wishes to discourage or to break off all relations with a man, she doesn't, after all, wish to leave a disagreeable impression. her prettiness and charm--of which she was modestly but confidently aware, by her experience of its effect--was a great satisfaction. it was remarkably noticeable today. in front of the glass edith hesitated between her favourite plain sailor hat and a new black velvet toque, which shaded her eyes, contrasting with the fair hair of which very little showed, and giving her an aspect of dashing yet discreet coquetry. she looked younger in the other sailor hat (so she decided when she put it on again) and more as she used to look. which was the more attractive? she decided on novelty, and went out, finally, in the toque. of course only another woman could have appreciated the remarkable fact that she could wear at thirty-five such a small hat and yet look fresh. certainly a brim was more flattering to most women of her age, but the contour of edith's face was still as youthful as ever; she had one of those clearly shaped oval faces that are not disposed to growing thick and broad, or to haggardness. the oval might be a shade wider than it was three years ago; that was all the more becoming; did it not make the features look smaller? * * * * * as she went out she laughed at herself for giving so much thought to her appearance. it was as though she believed she was going to play an important part in the chief scene of a play. once dressed, as usual she lost all self-consciousness, and thought of outside things. miss clay was out, as she had told edith she would be, and the servant showed her in. she saw at once that aylmer, also, had been looking forward to this moment with some excitement. he, too, had dressed with special care; and she knew, without being told, that orders had been given to receive no other visitors. he was sitting in an arm-chair, with the bandaged leg on the other chair, a small table by his side laid for tea. even a kettle was boiling (no doubt to avoid interruption). it was his old brown library, where she had occasionally seen him with others in the old days. but this was literally the first time she had seen him in his own house alone. it was essentially a man's room. comfortable, but not exactly luxurious; very little was sacrificed to decoration. there were a few very old dark pictures on the walls. the room was crammed with books in long, low bookcases. on the mantelpiece was a pewter vase of cerise-coloured carnations. an uncut _english review_ was in his hand, but he threw it on the floor with a characteristic gesture as she came in. 'you look very comfortable,' said edith, as she took her seat in the arm-chair placed for her. he answered gravely, speaking in his direct, quick way, with his sincere manner: 'it was very good of you to come.' 'shall i pour out your tea?' 'yes. let's have tea and get it over.' she laughed, took off her gloves, and he watched her fingers as they occupied themselves with the china, as though he were impatient for the ceremony to be finished. while she poured it out and handed it to him he said not a word. she saw that he looked pale and seemed rather nervous. each tried to put the other at ease, more by looks than words. edith saw it would worry him to make conversation. they knew each other well enough to exchange ideas without words. he had something to say and she would not postpone it. that would irritate him. 'there,' said aylmer, giving a little push to the table. 'do you want any more tea?' 'no, thanks.' 'well--do you mind coming a little nearer?' she lifted the little table, put it farther behind his chair, placed the arm-chair closer to him by the fire, and sat down again. he looked at her for some time with a serious expression. then he said, rather abruptly and unexpectedly: 'what a jolly hat!' 'oh, i _am_ glad you like it!' exclaimed edith. 'i was afraid you'd hate it.' for the first time they were talking in their old tone, she reflected. 'no, i like it--i love it.' he lowered his voice to say this. 'i'm glad,' she repeated. 'and i love you,' said aylmer as abruptly, and in a still lower voice. she didn't answer. 'look here, edith. i want to ask you something.' 'yes.' he seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. he was agitated. 'have you forgotten me?' 'you can see i haven't, or i wouldn't be here,' she answered. 'don't fence with me. i mean, really. are you the same as when i went away?' 'aylmer, do you think we had better talk about it?' 'we must. i must. i can't endure the torture of seeing you just like anybody else. you know i told you--' he stopped a moment. 'you told me you'd never be a mere friend,' she said. 'but everything's so different now!' 'it isn't different; that's where you're wrong. you're just the same, and so am i. except that i care for you far more than i ever did.' 'oh, aylmer!' 'when i thought i was dying i showed your little photograph to miss clay. i told her all about it. i suppose i was rather mad. it was just after an operation. it doesn't matter a bit; she wouldn't ever say a word.' 'i'm sure she wouldn't.' 'i had to confide in somebody,' he went on. 'i told her to send you back the photograph, and i told her that my greatest wish was to see you again.' 'well, my dear boy, we have met again! do change your mind from what you said last! i mean when you went away.' she spoke in an imploring tone. 'do you wish to be friends, then?' she hesitated a moment, then said: 'yes, i do.' chapter xv after a moment's pause he said: 'you say everything's changed. in a way it is. i look at things differently--i regard them differently. when you've been up against it, and seen life and death pretty close, you realise what utter rot it is to live so much for the world.' edith stared. 'but ... doesn't it make you feel all the more the importance of principle--goodness and religion, and all that sort of thing? i expected it would, with you.' 'frankly, no; it doesn't. now, let us look at the situation quietly.' after an agitated pause he went on: 'as far as i make out, you're sacrificing yourself to bruce. when he ran away with that girl, and begged you to divorce him, you could have done it. you cared for me. everything would have been right, even before the world. no-one would have blamed you. yet you wouldn't.' 'but that _wasn't_ for the world, aylmer; you don't understand. it was for myself. something in me, which i can't help. i felt bruce needed me and would go wrong without me--' 'why should you care? did he consider you?' 'that isn't the point, dear boy. i felt as if he was my son, so to speak--a sort of feeling of responsibility.' 'yes, quite. it was quixotic rubbish. that's my opinion. there!' edith said nothing, remembering he was still ill. 'well,' he went on, 'now, he _hasn't_ run away from you. he's stayed with you for three years; utterly incapable of appreciating you, as i know he is, bothering you to death.' 'oh, aylmer!' 'don't i know him? you're wasting and frittering yourself away for nothing.' 'the children--' 'don't you think i'd have looked after the children better than he?' 'yes, i do, aylmer. but he _is_ their father. they may keep him straight.' 'i consider you're utterly wasted,' he said. 'well! he's stuck to you, apparently, for these last three years (as far as you know), and now i'm going to ask you something entirely different, for the last time. when i was dying, or thought i was, things showed themselves clearly enough, i can tell you. and i made up my mind if i lived to see you, to say this. leave bruce, with me!' she stared at him. 'in six weeks, when he's tired of telling his friends at the club about it, he'll make up his mind, i suppose, if you insist, or even without, to divorce you. but do you suppose he'll keep the children? no, my dear of course he won't. you'll never have to leave them. i would never ask you that. now listen!' he put his hand over hers, not caressingly, but to keep her quiet. 'he'll want to marry again, won't he?' 'very likely,' she answered. 'probably already he's in love with that woman what's-her-name--madame frabelle--who's staying with you.' edith gave a little laugh. 'perhaps he's in love with her already,' continued aylmer. 'quite impossible!' said edith calmly. 'she's a very good sort. she's not a fool, like the girl. she'd look after bruce very well.' 'so she would,' answered edith. 'bruce will adore her, be under her thumb, and keep perfectly 'straight', as you call it--as straight as he ever would. won't he?' she was silent. 'you'll get the children then, don't you see?' 'yes. with a bad reputation, with a cloud on my life, to bring up dilly!' he sighed impatiently, and said: 'you see, you don't see things as they really are, even now. how could you ever possibly hurt dilly? you're only thinking of what the world says, now. 'hear me out,' he went on. 'is this the only country? after the war, won't everything be different? thank goodness, i'm well provided for. you needn't take a farthing. leave even your own income to bruce if you like. you know i've five thousand a year now, edith?' 'i didn't know it. but that has nothing on earth to do with it,' she answered. 'bosh! it has a great deal to do with it. i can afford to bring your children up as well as teddy, my boy. we can marry. and in a year or two no one would think any more about it.' 'you bewilder me,' said edith. 'i want to. think it over. don't be weak. i'm sorry, dear, to ask you to take the blame on your side. it's unfair; but after all, perhaps, it's straighter than waiting for an opportunity (which you could easily get in time) of finding bruce in the wrong.' her face expressed intense determination and disagreement with his views. 'don't answer me,' he said, 'think--' 'my dear boy, you must let me answer you. will you listen to me?' 'go on, edith. i'll always listen to you.' 'you don't realise it, but you're not well,' she said. he gave an impatient gesture. 'how like a woman! as soon as i talk sense you say i'm not well. a broken leg doesn't affect the brain, remember.' 'no, aylmer; i don't mean that. but you've been thinking this over till you've lost your bearings, your sense of proportion....' 'rot! i've just got it! that's what you mean. it comes to this, my dear girl'--he spoke gently. 'of course, if you don't care for me, my suggestion would be perfectly mad. perhaps you don't. probably you regard our romance as a pretty little story to look back on.' 'no, i don't, unless--' 'i won't ask you straight out,' he said. 'i don't suppose you know yourself. but, if you care for me, as i do for you'--he spoke steadily--'you'll do as i ask.' 'i might love you quite as much, and yet not do it.' 'i know it's a big thing. it's a sacrifice, in a way. but don't you see, edith, that if you still like me, your present life is a long, slow sacrifice to convention, or (as you say) to a morbid sense of responsibility?' she looked away with a startled expression. 'well, do you love me?' he said rather impatiently, but yet with his old charm of tenderness and sincerity. 'i have never changed. as you know, after the operation, when they thought i was practically done in--it may seem a bit mad, but i was really more sane than i have ever been--i told dulcie clay all about it.' she stopped him. 'i know you did, my dear, and i don't blame you a bit. she's absolutely loyal. but now, listen. has nothing occurred to you about her?' 'nothing, except that i'm hoping to get rid of her as soon as possible.' 'she's madly in love with you, aylmer.' he looked contemptuous. 'she's a dear girl,' said edith. 'i feel quite fond of her.' 'really, i don't see how she comes in. you are perverse, edith!' 'i'm not perverse. i see things.' 'she's never shown the slightest sign of it,' said aylmer. 'i think it's your imagination. but even if it's not, it isn't my business, nor yours.' 'i think it is, a little.' 'if you talk like that, i'll send her away today.' 'oh, aylmer! how ungrateful of you to say such a thing! she's been an angel.' he spoke wearily. 'i don't want _angels_! i want _you_!' he suddenly leant forward and took her hands. she laughed nervously. 'what a compliment.' then she disengaged herself and stood up. aylmer sighed. 'now you're going to say, ought you to talk so much? what is your temperature? oh, women _are_ irritating, even the nicest, confound them!' edith was unable to help laughing. 'i'm afraid i _was_ going to say something like that.' 'now, are you going to say you won't answer me for fear it will excite me?' 'don't talk nonsense,' said edith. '_i_ take you seriously enough. don't worry!' he looked delighted. 'thank heaven! most women treat a wounded man as if he were a sick child or a lunatic. it's the greatest rot. i'm nearly well.' edith looked round for his tonic, but stopped herself. 'are you going now?' he asked. 'no, aylmer. i thought of stopping a few minutes, if you don't mind.' 'shall we talk of something else,' said aylmer satirically, 'to divert my thoughts? hasn't it been lovely weather lately?' she smiled and sat down again. 'would you like to know how soon the war will be over?' he went on. 'oddly enough, i really don't know!' 'are you going back when you've recovered?' she asked abruptly. 'of course i'm going back; and i want to go back with your promise.' then he looked a little conscience-stricken. 'dear edith, i don't want to rush you. forgive me.' they both sat in dead silence for five minutes. he was looking at the black velvet toque on the fair hair, over the soft eyes. she was staring across at the cherry-coloured carnations in the pewter vase on the mantelpiece. as has been said, they often exchanged ideas without words. he remarked, as she glanced at a book: 'yes, i have read _a life of slavery_. have you? do you think it good?' 'splendid,' edith answered; 'it's a labour of hate.' he laughed. 'quite true. one can't call it a labour of love, though it was written to please the writer--not the public.' 'i wonder you could read it,' said edith, 'after what you've been through.' 'it took my thoughts off life,' he said. 'why? isn't it life?' 'of course it is. literary life.' edith looked at the clock. 'when am i going to see you again?' he asked in a rather exhausted voice. 'whenever you like. what about taking you out for a drive next week?' 'right.' 'i'll think over what you said,' said edith casually as she stood up. 'what a funny little speech. you're _impayable_! oh, you are a jolly girl!' '"jolly" girl,' repeated edith, not apparently pleased. 'i'm thirty-five, with a boy at school and a growing girl of seven!' 'you think too much of the almanac. i'm forty-one, with a son at the front.' 'how on earth did you get your commissions?' 'in the usual way. teddy and i told lies. he said he was eighteen and i said i was thirty-nine.' 'i see. of course.' he rang the bell. 'will you write to me, dear edith?' 'no. i'll come and see you, aylmer.' 'are you going to bring archie, bruce, or madame frabelle?' 'neither.' 'do leave madame frabelle at home.' 'though you don't like her, you might pronounce her name right! she's such a clever woman.' 'she's an utter fool,' said aylmer. 'same thing, very often,' said edith. 'don't worry. good-bye.' she went away, leaving him perfectly happy and very hungry. * * * * * hardly had she gone when miss clay came in and brought him some beef-tea on a tray. chapter xvi to edith's joy, as they entered the mitchell's huge, familiar drawing-room, the first person she saw was her beloved confidant, sir tito landi. this was the friend of all others whom she most longed to see at this particular moment. the extraordinary confidence and friendship between the successful italian composer and edith ottley needs, perhaps, a word of explanation. he was adored equally in the artistic and the social worlds, and was at once the most cynical of don juans and the most unworldly of don quixotes. he was a devoted and grateful friend, and a contemptuous but not unforgetful enemy. it was not since his celebrity that edith had first met him; she had known him intimately all her life. from her earliest childhood she had, so to speak, been brought up on landi; on landi's music and landi's views of life. he had been her mother's music teacher soon after he first made a name in london; and long before he was the star whose singing or accompanying was a rare favour, and whose presence gave a cachet to any entertainment. how many poor italians--yes, and many people of other nationalities--had reason to bless his acquaintance! how kind, how warm-hearted, how foolishly extravagant on others was landi! his brilliant cleverness, which made him received almost as an englishman among english people, was not, however, the cleverness of the _arriviste_. although he had succeeded, and success was his object, no one could be less self-interested, less pushing, less scheming. in many things he was a child. he would as soon dine at pagani's with a poor sculptor, or a poor and plain woman who was struggling to give lessons in italian, as with the most brilliant hostess in london. and he always found fashion and ceremony a bore. he was so great a favourite in england that he had been given that most english of titles, a knighthood, just as though he were very rich, or political, or a popular actor. in a childish way it amused him, and he was pleased with it. but though he was remarkable for his courtly tact, he loved most of all to be absolutely free and bohemian, to be quite natural among really sympathetic, witty, or beautiful friends. he liked to say what he thought, to go where he wished, and to make love when he chose, not when other people chose. he had long been a man with an assured position, but he had changed little since he was twenty-one, and arrived from naples with only his talent, his bright blue eyes, his fair complexion, his small, dignified figure and his daring humour. yet the music he wrote indicated his sensitive and deeply feeling nature, and though his conversation could hardly be called other than cynical, nor his jokes puritanical, there was always in him a vein of genuine--not sentimental, but perhaps romantic--love and admiration for everything good; good in music, good in art, good in character. he laid down no rules of what was good. 'tout savoir c'est tout pardonner' was perhaps his motto. but he was very unexpected; that was one of his charms. he would pass over the most extraordinary things--envious slights, small injuries, things another man would never forgive. on the other hand, he retained a bitter memory, not at all without its inclination for repayment, for other trifles that many would disregard. * * * * * ever since she was a child edith had been his special favourite. he loved the privilege of calling her edith, of listening to her confidences, of treating her with loving familiarity. it was a joke between them that, while he used formerly to say, 'cette enfant! je l'ai vue en jupe courte, vous savez!' he had gradually reached the point of declaring, 'je l'ai vue naître!' almost with tears in his eyes. this explains why landi was the only creature to whom edith could tell everything, and did. must not all nice people have a confidant? and no girl or woman friend--much as they might like her, and she them--could ever take the place of landi, the wise and ever-sympathetic. there was something in his mental attitude that was not unfeminine, direct and assertive as he was. he had what is generally known as feminine intuition, a quality perhaps even rarer in women than in men. * * * * * tonight the persistently hospitable mrs mitchell had a large party. dressed in grey, she was receiving her guests in the big room on the ground floor, and tactfully directing the conversation of a crowd of various and more or less interesting persons. it was one of those parties that had been described as a russian salad, where one ran an equal risk--or took an equal chance--of being taken to dinner by charlie chaplin or winston churchill, and where society and the stage were equally well represented. young officers on leave and a few pretty girls filled the vacancies. as bruce, edith and madame frabelle came in together, landi went straight to edith's side. looking at her through his eyeglass, he said, as if to himself, in an anxious tone: 'elle a quelquechose, cette enfant; oui, elle a quelquechose,' and as the last guest had not arrived he sat down thoughtfully by her on the small sofa. 'yes, landi, there is something the matter. i'm longing to tell you about it. i want your advice,' said edith, smiling. 'tout se sait; tout se fait; tout s'arrange,' sententiously remarked landi, who was not above talking oracular commonplaces at times. 'oh, it isn't one of those things, landi.' 'not? are you sure? don't be sad, edith. be cheerful. tiens! tiens! tiens! how excited you are,' he went on, as she looked at him with perfect composure. 'you will think i have reason to be excited when i tell you.' he smiled in an experienced way. 'i'll sit next to you at dinner and you shall tell me everything. tiens! la vieille qui voit double!' he bowed politely as madame frabelle came up. 'dear sir tito, _what_ a pleasure to see you again! your lovely songs have been ringing in my ears ever since i heard them!' 'where did you hear them? on a piano-organ?' he asked. 'you're too bad! isn't he naughty? no, when you sang here last.' mr mitchell came up, and madame frabelle turned away. 'dieu merci! la pauvre! elle me donne sur les nerfs ce soir,' said landi. 'i shall sit next to you whether the cards are placed so or not, edith, and you'll tell me everything between the soup and the ices.' 'i will indeed.' 'madame meetchel,' he said, looking round through his eyeglass, 'is sure to have given you a handsome young man, someone who ought to drive bruce wild with jealousy, but doesn't, or ... or ...' 'or some fly-blown celebrity.' 'sans doute!' the door opened and the last guest appeared. it was young coniston (in khaki), who was invariably asked when there was to be music. he was so useful. he approached landi at once. 'ah, cher maître, quel plaisir!' he said with his south kensington accent and his oxford manner. (he had been a cambridge man.) 'c'est vrai?' asked landi, who had his own way of dismissing a person in a friendly way. coniston began talking to him of a song. landi waved him off and went up to mrs mitchell, said something which made her laugh and blush and try to hit him with her fan--the fan, the assault and the manner were all out of date, but mrs mitchell made no pretence at going with the times--and his object was gained. * * * * * sir tito took edith in to dinner. chapter xvii as they found their places at the long table (sir tito had exchanged cards, as though he meant to fight a duel with edith's destined partner) of course the two turned their backs to one another. on her other side was mr mitchell. when madame frabelle noticed this, she gave edith an arch shake of the head, and made a curious warning movement with her hand. edith smiled at her in astonishment. she had utterly forgotten her friend's fancy about the imaginary intrigue supposed to be going on between her and mr mitchell, and she wondered what the gesture meant. sir tito also saw it, and, turning round to edith, said in a low voice: 'qu'est-ce-qu'elle a, la vieille?' 'i really don't know. i never understand signs. i've forgotten the code, i suppose!' mr mitchell, after a word to the person he had taken down, gladly turned to edith. he always complained that the host was obliged to sit between the oldest and the most boring guests. it was unusual for him to have so pretty a neighbour as edith. but he was a collector: his joy was to see a heterogeneous mass of people, eating and laughing at his table. for his wife there were a few social people, for him the bohemians, and always the younger guests. 'not bad--not bad, is it?' he said, looking critically round down the two sides of the table, while his kind pink face beamed with hospitable joy. 'you've got a delightful party tonight.' 'what i always say is,' said mr mitchell; 'let them enjoy themselves! dash it, i hate etiquette.' he lowered his voice. 'bruce is looking pretty blooming. not so many illnesses lately has he?' 'not when he's at home,' said edith. 'ah! at the f o the dear fellow does, i'm afraid, suffer a good deal from nerves,' said mr mitchell, especially towards the end of the day. about four o'clock, i mean, you know! you know old bruce! good sort he is. i see he hasn't got the woman i meant him to sit next to, somehow or other. i see he's next to miss coniston.' 'oh, he likes her.' 'good, good. thought she was a bit too artistic, and high-browed, as the americans say, for him. but now he's used to that sort of thing, isn't he? madame frabelle, eh? wonderful woman. no soup, edith: why not?' 'it makes me silent,' said edith; 'and i like to talk.' mitchell laughed loudly. 'ha ha! champagne for mrs ottley. what are you about?' he looked up reprovingly at the servant. mr mitchell was the sort of man who never knows, after twenty years' intimate friendship, whether a person takes sugar or not. edith allowed the man to fill her glass. she knew it depressed mr mitchell to see people drinking water. so she only did it surreptitiously, and as her glass was always full, because she never drank from it, mr mitchell was happy. a very loud feminine laugh was heard. 'that's miss radford,' said mr mitchell. 'that's how she always goes on. she's always laughing. she was immensely charmed with you the day she called on you with my wife.' 'was she?' said edith, who remembered she herself had been out on that occasion. 'tremendously. i can't remember what she said: i think it was how clever you were.' 'she saw madame frabelle. i wasn't at home.' 'ha ha! good, very good!' mr mitchell turned to his other neighbour. 'eh bien,' said sir tito, who was waiting his opportunity. 'commence!' at once edith began murmuring in a low voice her story of herself and aylmer, and related today's conversation in jermyn street. sir tito nodded his head occasionally. when he listened most intently, he appeared to be looking round the table at other people. he lifted a glass of champagne and bowed over it to mrs mitchell; then he put his hand to his lips and blew a kiss. 'who's that for?' edith asked, interrupting herself. 'c'est pour la vieille.' 'madame frabelle! why do you kiss your hand to her?' 'to keep her quiet. look at her: she's so impressed, and thinks it so wicked, that she's blushing and uncomfortable. i've a splendid way, edith (pardon), of silencing all these elderly ladies who make love to me. i don't say "ferme!" i'm polite to them.' edith laughed. sir tito was not offended. 'yes, you needn't laugh, my dear child. i'm not old enough yet pour les jeunes; at any rate, if i am they don't know it. i'm still pursued by the upper middle-age class, with gratitude for favours to come (as they think).' 'well, what's your plan?' he giggled. 'i tell madame frabelle, madame meetchel, lady everard--first, that they have beautiful lips; then, that i can't look at them without longing to kiss them. lady everard, after i said that, kept her hand before her face the whole evening, so as not to distract me, and drive me mad. consequently she couldn't talk.' 'do they really believe you?' 'evidemment!... i wonder,' he continued mischievously, as he refused wine, 'whether madame frabelle will confess to you tonight about my passion for her, or whether she will keep it to herself?' 'i dare say she'll tell me. at least she'll ask me if i think so or not.' 'si elle te demande, tu diras que tu n'en sais rien! well, i think....' 'what?' 'you must wait. wait and see. really, it's impossible, my dear child, for you to accept an invitation for an elopement as if it were a luncheon-party. not only that, it's good for aylmer to be kept in doubt. excellent for his health.' 'really?' 'when i say his health, i mean the health and strength of his love for you. you must vacillate, edith. souvent femme varie. you sit on the fence, n'est-ce-pas? well, offer the fence to him. but, take it away before he sits down. voilà!' edith laughed. 'but then this girl, miss clay, she's always there. and i like her.' 'what is her nationality?' 'how funny you should ask that! i think she must be of spanish descent. she's so quiet, so religious, and has a very dark complexion. and yet wonderful light blue eyes.' 'quelle histoire! qu'est-ce-que ça fait?' 'the poor girl is mad about aylmer. he doesn't seem to know it, but he makes her worse by his indifference,' edith said. 'why aren't you jealous of her, ma chère? no, i won't ask you that--the answer is obvious.' 'i mean this, that if i can't ever do what he wishes, i feel she could make him happy; and i could bear it if she did.' 'spanish?' said landi, as if to himself. 'olé! olé! does she use the castanets, and wear a mantilla instead of a cap?' 'how frivolous and silly you are. no, of course not. she looks quite english, in fact particularly so.' 'and yet you insist she's spanish! well, my advice is this. if he has a secret alliance with spain, you should assume the balkan attitude.' 'good gracious! what's that?' 'we're talking politics,' said landi, across the table. 'politics, and geography! fancy, meetchel, mrs ottley doesn't know anything about the balkans!' 'ha, very good,' said mitchell. 'capital. what a fellow you are!' he gave his hearty, clubbable laugh. mr mitchell belonged to an exceptionally large number of clubs and was a favourite at all. his laugh was the chief cause of his popularity there. 'il est fou,' said landi quietly to edith. 'quel monde! i don't think there are half-a-dozen sane people at this table.' 'oh, landi!' 'and if there are, they shouldn't by rights be admitted into decent society. but the dear meetchels don't know that; it's not public. i adore them both,' he went on, changing his satirical tone, and again apparently drinking the health of mrs mitchell, who waved her hand coquettishly from the end of the long table. 'now listen, my child. don't see aylmer for a little while.' 'he wants me to take him out for a drive.' 'take him for a drive. but not this week. how madame frabelle loves bruce!' he went on, watching her. 'really, landi, i assure you you're occasionally as mistaken as she is. and she thinks i'm in love with our host.' 'that's because _elle voit double_. i don't.' 'what makes you think....' 'i read between the lines, my dear--between the lines on madame frabelle's face.' 'she hasn't any.' 'oh, go along,' said landi, who sometimes broke into peculiar english which he thought was modern slang. raising his voice, he said: 'the dinner is _exquis--exquis_,' so that mr mitchell could hear. 'i can't help noting what you've eaten tonight, landi, though i don't usually observe these things,' edith said. 'you've had half-a-tomato, a small piece of vegetable marrow, and a sip of claret. aren't you going to eat anything more?' 'not much more. i look forward to my coffee and my cigar. oh, how i look forward to it!' 'you know very well, landi, they let you smoke cigarettes between the courses, if you like.' 'it would be better than nothing. we'll see presently.' 'might i inquire if you live on cigars and coffee?' 'no,' he answered satirically; 'i live on eau sucré. and porreege. i'm scotch.' 'i can't talk to you if you're so silly.' 'you'll tell me the important part on the little sofa upstairs in the salon,' he said. 'after dinner. tonight, here, somehow, the food and the faces distract one--unless one is making an acquaintance. i know you too well to talk at dinner.' 'quite true. i ought to take time to think then.' 'there's no hurry. good heavens! the man has waited four years; he can wait another week. quelle idée!' 'he's going back,' said edith, 'as soon as he's well. he wants me to promise before he goes.' 'does he! you remind me of the man who said to his wife: "good-bye, my dear, i'm off to the thirty years' war." it's all right, edith. we'll find a solution, i have no fears.' she turned to mr mitchell. * * * * * the rest of the evening passed pleasantly. alone with the women, madame frabelle was the centre of an admiring circle, as she lectured on 'dress and economy in war-time,' and how to manage a house on next to nothing a year. all the ladies gasped with admiration. edith especially was impressed; because the fact that madame frabelle was a guest, and was managing nothing, did not prevent her talking as if she had any amount of experience on the subject, although, by her own showing she had been staying at hotels ever since the war began, except the last weeks she had spent with the ottleys. the men soon joined them. a group of war valetudinarians, amongst whom bruce was not the least emphatic, told each other their symptoms in a quiet corner. they described their strange shiverings down the spine; the curious fits of hunger that came on before meals; the dislike to crossing the road when there was an accident; the inability to sleep, sometimes taking the form of complete insomnia for as much as twenty minutes in the early morning. they pitied each other cordially, though neither listened to the other's symptoms, except in exchange for sympathy with their own. 'the war has got on my nerves; i can't think of anything else,' bruce said. 'it's an _idée fixe_. i pant for the morning when the newspaper's due, and then i can't look at it! not even a glance! odd, isn't it?' the rev. byrne fraser, who gave his wife great and constant anxiety by his fantasies, related how he had curious dreams--the distressing part of which was that they never came true--about the death of relatives at the front. another man also had morbid fancies on the subject of the casualty list, and had had to go and stay at a farm so as to 'get right away from it all'. but he soon left, as he had found, to his great disappointment, that his companions there were not intellectual, and could not even talk politics or discuss literature. and yet they went in (or so he had heard) for 'intensive culture'!... presently sir tito played his italian march. the musical portion of the party, and the unmusical alike, joined in the chorus. then the party received a welcome addition. valdez, the great composer, who had written many successful operas and had lived so much abroad that he cared now for nothing but british music, looked in after a patriotic concert given in order to help the unengaged professionals. always loyal to old friends, he had deserted royalty itself tonight to greet mrs. mitchell and was persuaded by adoring ladies to sing his celebrated old song, 'after several years.' it pleased and thrilled the audience even more than landi's 'adieu hiver'. indeed, tonight it was valdez who was the success of the evening. middle-aged ladies who had loved him for years loved him now more than ever. young girls who saw him now for the first time fell in love, just as their mothers had done, with his splendid black eyes and commanding presence, and secretly longed to stroke at least every seventh wave of his abundant hair. when edith assured him that his curls were 'like a flock of goats on mount gilead' he laughed, declared he was much flattered at the comparison, and kissed her hand with courtly grace. young mr. cricker, who came because he wasn't asked, insisted on dancing like nijinsky because he was begged not to, but his leaps and bounds were soon stopped by a few subalterns and very young officers on leave, who insisted, with some fair partners, on dancing the fox trot to the sound of a gramophone. * * * * * for a few moments on the little sofa edith managed to convey the rest of her confidence to landi. she pointed out how hurried, how urgent, how pressing it was to give an answer. 'he wants a war elopement, i see,' said landi. 'mais ça ne se fait pas!' 'then what am i to say?' 'rien.' 'but, landi, you know i shan't really ever...' 'would it give you pleasure to see him married to the spanish girl?' 'she's not exactly spanish--she only looks it. don't laugh like that!' 'i don't know why, but spain seems always to remind me of something ridiculous. onions--or guitars.' 'well, i shouldn't mind her nearly so much as anyone else.' 'you don't mind her,' said landi. 'vous savez qu'il ne l'épouse pas? what would you dislike him to do most?' 'i think i couldn't bear anyone else to take my place exactly,' admitted edith. 'c'est ça! you don't want him to be in love with another married woman with a husband like bruce? well, my dear, he won't. there is no other husband like bruce. landi promised to consider the question, and she arranged to go and see him at his studio before seeing aylmer again. * * * * * as they went out of the house miss coniston ran after madame frabelle and said eagerly: 'oh, do tell me again; you say _soupe à la vinaigre_ is marvellously nourishing and economical. i can have it made for my brother at our flat?' 'of course you can! it costs next to nothing.' arthur coniston came up. 'and tastes like nothing on earth, i suppose?' he grumbled in his sister's ear. 'you can't give me much less to eat than you do already.' 'oh, arthur!' his sister said. 'aren't you happy at home? i think you're a pessimist.' 'a pessimist!' cried mitchell, who was following them into the hall. 'oh, i hate pessimists! what's the latest definition of them? ah, i know; an optimist is a person who doesn't care what happens as long as it doesn't happen to him.' 'yes,' said edith quickly, 'and a pessimist is the person who lives with the optimist.' 'dear, dear. i always thought the old joke was that an optimist looks after the eyes, and a pessimist after the feet!' cried madame frabelle as she fastened her cloak. 'why, then, he ought to go to a cheer-upadist!' said mr mitchell. and they left him in roars of laughter. chapter xviii dulcie clay, in her neat uniform of grey and white, with the scarlet cross on the front of her apron, was sitting in the room she occupied for the moment in aylmer's house in jermyn street. it was known as 'the second best bedroom'. as she was anxious not to behave as if she were a guest, she used it as a kind of boudoir when she was not in attendance. it was charmingly furnished in the prim chippendale style, a style dainty, but not luxurious, that seemed peculiarly suited to dulcie. she was in the window-seat--not with her feet up, no cushions behind her. unlike edith, she was not the kind of woman who rested habitually; she sat quite upright in the corner. a beautiful little mahogany table was at her right, with a small electric lamp on it, and two books. one of the books was her own choice, the other had been lent to her by aylmer. it was a volume of bernard shaw. she could make neither head nor tail of it, and the prefaces, which she read with the greatest avidity, perplexed her even more than the books themselves. every now and then a flash of lightning, in the form of some phrase she knew, illumined for a second the darkness of the author's words. but soon she closed the thick volume with the small print and returned to _the daisy chain_. dulcie was barely one-and-twenty. she carried everywhere in her trunk a volume called _the wide, wide world_. she was never weary of reading this work with the comprehensive title; it reminded her of schooldays. it was comforting, like a dressing-gown and slippers, like an old friend. whether she had ever thoroughly understood it may be doubted. if any modern person nowadays were to dip into it, he would find it, perhaps, more obscure than george meredith at his darkest. secretly dulcie loved best in the world, in the form of reading matter, the feuilletons in the daily papers. there was something so exciting in that way they have of stopping at a thrilling moment and leaving you the whole day to think over what would come next, and the night to sleep over it. she preferred that; she never concentrated her mind for long on a story, or any work of the imagination. she was deeply interested in her own life. she was more subjective than objective--though, perhaps, she had never heard the words. unconsciously she dealt with life only as it related to herself. but this is almost universal with young girls who have only just become conscious of themselves, and of their importance in the world; have only just left the simple objectiveness of the child who wants to look at the world, and have barely begun to feel what it is to be an actor rather than a spectator. not that any living being could be less selfish or vain, or less of an egotist than dulcie. if she saw things chiefly as they were related to herself, it was because this problem of her life was rather an intricate one. her position was not sufficiently simple to suit her simple nature. her mother, who had been of spanish descent, had died young; her father had married again. he was the sort of man who always married again, and if his present wife, with whom he was rather in love, had passed away he would have undoubtedly married a third time. some men are born husbands; they have a passion for domesticity, for a fireside, for a home. yet, curiously, these men very rarely stay at home. apparently what they want is to have a place to get away from. the new stepmother, who was young and rather pretty, was not unkind, but was bored and indifferent to the little girl. dulcie was sensitive; since her father's second marriage she had always felt in the way. whether her stepmother was being charming to her husband, or to some other man--she was always charming to somebody--dulcie felt continually that she was not wanted. her father was kind and casual. he told everyone what he believed, that his second wife was an ideal person to bring up his little daughter. therefore it came upon him as a surprise when she told him she was grown up, and still more that she wished to leave home and be a nurse. mrs. clay had made no objection; the girl rather depressed her, for she felt she ought to like her more than she did, so she 'backed up' with apparent good nature the great desire to go out and do something. dulcie had inherited three hundred a year from her mother. her father had about the same amount of his own to live on. he believed that he added to it by mild gambling, and perhaps by talking a good deal at his club of how he had been born to make a fortune but had had no luck. his second wife had no money. dulcie, therefore, was entirely independent. no obstacles were placed in her way--the particular form that her ambition took was suggested by the war, but in any case she would have done something. she had taken the usual means of getting into a hospital. gentle, industrious, obedient and unselfish, she got on well. her prettiness gained her no enemies among the women as she was too serious about her work at this time to make use of her beauty by attracting men. yet dulcie was unusually feminine; she had a natural gift for nursing, for housekeeping, for domesticity. she was not artistic and was as indifferent to abstractions and to general ideas as the ideal average woman. she was tactful, sweet, and, she had been called at school, rather a doormat. her appearance was distinguished and she was not at all ordinary. it is far from ordinary, indeed it is very rare, to be the ideal average woman. she took great interest in detail; she would lie awake at night thinking about how she would go the next day to a certain inexpensive shop to get a piece of ribbon for one part of her dress to match a piece of ribbon in another part--neither of which would ever be seen by any human being. such men as she saw liked and admired her. her gradual success led her to being sent abroad to a military hospital. she inspired confidence, not because she had initiative, but because one knew she would do exactly as she was told, which is, in itself, a great quality. at boulogne she made the acquaintance at once of aylmer, and of _the coup de foudre_. she worshipped him at first sight. so she thought herself fortunate when she was allowed to come back to london with him. under orders she continued her assiduous attention. everyone said she was a perfect nurse. occasionally she went to see her father. he greeted her with warmth and affection, and told her all about how, on account of racing being stopped, he was gradually becoming a pauper. when she began telling him of the events in which she was absorbed he answered by giving her news of the prospects for the cambridgeshire. in the little den in the house in west kensington, where he lived, she would come in and say in a soft voice: 'papa dear, you know i shan't be able to stop much longer.' 'much longer where?' 'why, with my patient, mr ross--mr aylmer ross.' 'shan't you? mind you, my dear, there are two good three-year-olds that are not to be sneezed at.' he shook his head solemnly. it had never occurred to dulcie for a moment to sneeze at three-year-olds. she hardly knew what they were. 'but what do you advise for me, papa?' 'my dear child, i can't advise. you can't select with any approach to confidence between buttercup and beautiful doll. mind you, i'm very much inclined to think that more haste may win yet. look how he ran in august, when nobody knew anything about him!' 'yes, i know, papa, but--' she gave it up. 'go and see your mother, dear; go and ask her about it,' and he returned to the racing intelligence. strange that a man who had not enough to live on should think he could add to his income by backing losers. still, such was mr clay's view of life. besides, he was just going out; he was always just going out. she would then go and see her stepmother, who greeted her most affectionately. dulcie only kept half her little income for herself at present, a considerable advantage to a woman like mrs clay, who declared she was 'expected to dress up to a certain standard, though, of course, simply during war-time.' she would kiss the girl and drag her up to her bedroom to show her a new coat and skirt, or send the general servant up to bring down the marvellously cheap little tea-gown that had just come home. both her parents, it will be seen, were ready enough to talk to her, but they were not prepared to listen. all the warmth and affection that she had in her nature very naturally was concentrated on her patient. dulcie now sat in the window-seat, wondering what to do. she was sadly thinking what would happen when the time came for her to leave. in her mind she knew perfectly well that what several people had said was true: the profession she had chosen was too arduous for her physical strength. besides, now she could not bear the idea of nursing anyone else after aylmer. she was trying to make up her mind to take something else--and she could not think what. a girl like dulcie clay, who has studied only one thing really thoroughly, could be fitted only to be a companion either to children, whom she adored, or to some tedious elderly lady with fads. she knew she would not do for a secretary; she had not the education nor the gift for it. the thought of going back to the stepmother who showed so clearly her satisfaction and high spirits in having got rid of her, and of being again the unwanted third in the little house in west kensington, was quite unbearable. she had told much of her position to edith, who was so sympathetic and clever. it would have been a dream of hers, a secret dream, to teach edith's little girl, whom she had once seen, and loved. yet that would have been in some ways rather difficult. as she looked out of the window, darkened with fog, she sighed. if she had been the governess at edith's house, she would be constantly seeing aylmer. she knew, of course, all about aylmer's passion. it would certainly be better than nothing to see him sometimes. but the position would have been painful. also, she disliked bruce. he had given her one or two looks that seemed rather to demand admiration than to express it; he had been so kind as to give her a few hints on nursing; how to look after a convalescent; and had been exceedingly frank and kind in confiding to her his own symptoms. as she was a hospital nurse, it seemed to him natural to talk rather of his own indisposition than on any other subject. dulcie was rather highly strung, and bruce got terribly on her nerves; she marvelled at edith's patience. but then edith.... no, she could not go to the ottleys. her other gift--a beautiful soprano voice--also was of hardly any use to her, as she was now placed. when she sang she expressed herself more completely than at any other time, but that also she had not been taught thoroughly; she had been taught nothing thoroughly. a companion! though she had not absolutely to earn her living, and kept only half of her little inheritance for herself, what was to become of her? well, she wouldn't think about it any more that day. at any rate aylmer talked as though she was to remain some time longer. when he had returned suddenly to the house in jermyn street, a relative had hastily obtained for him the necessary servants; his former valet was at the front; they were all new to him and to his ways, and he had no housekeeper. dulcie did the housekeeping--could she take that place in his house? no, she knew that she was too young, and everyone else would have said she was too pretty. only as a nurse would it be correct for her to be his companion. and from fear of embarrassing him she was hardly ever with him alone. she thought he was abrupt, more cool to her since their return, and guessed the reason; it was for fear of compromising her. how angelic of him; what a wonderful man--how fortunate his first wife must have been. and the boy, teddy--the charming boy so like his father, whom she had only seen for a day or two before he left to go out. teddy's presence would help to make it more difficult for her to remain. in that very short time the boy had distinctly shown her by his marked attention how much he admired her. he thought her lovely. he was devoted to music and she had sung to him. aylmer also liked music, but apparently did not care to hear her sing. on the occasion that she did, it seemed to irritate him. indeed, she knew she was merely the most amateurish of musicians, and could just accompany herself in a few songs, though the voice itself was a rare gift.... how perfect aylmer had been!... there was a sharp ring. she closed the book, turned out the little electric lamp and went downstairs. she was looking ideally pretty in the becoming uniform, but uniforms are always becoming, whatever the uniforms or the people may be. the reason of this is too obscure to fathom. one would say that to dress to suit oneself would be more becoming to men and women. yet, in fact, the limitation and the want of variety in this sort of dress had a singular attraction. however, if she had chosen it to suit her, nothing could have been more becoming. the severity of the form, the dull colour, relieved by the large scarlet cross, showed off to the greatest advantage her dense dark hair, her madonna-like face and the slim yet not angular lines of her figure. dulcie's beauty was of a kind that is thrown into relief by excessive plainness of dress. chapter xix as she came in, aylmer looked at her with more observation than usual, and he acknowledged to himself that she was pretty--remarkably pretty, quite a picture, as people say, and he liked her, as one likes a confidante, a reliable friend. he trusted her, remembering how he had given himself away to her that dreadful day in the boulogne hospital.... and she had another quality that pleased him immensely; she was neither coquettish nor affected, but simple and serious. she appeared to think solely of her duties, and in aylmer's opinion that was just what a nurse should do. * * * * * but edith's remark that dulcie was madly in love with him had made a certain impression on his mind. indeed, everything edith said, even a merely trivial observation, was of importance to aylmer. edith wouldn't have said that unless she meant it. if it was true, did it matter? aylmer was very free from vanity and masculine coquetry. he had a good deal of pride and great self-respect. like almost every human being who is superior to the average, he didn't think ill of himself; there were things that he was proud of. he was proud, secretly, of having gone into the army and of having been wounded. it made him feel he was not on the shelf, not useless and superannuated. he took a certain pride also in his judgement, his excellent judgement on pictures and literature. perhaps, even, having been a spoilt only child, he was privately proud of some of his faults. he knew he was extravagant and impatient. the best of everything was barely good enough for aylmer. long before he inherited the property that had come to him a year ago he had never been the sort of young man who would manage on little; who would, for example, go to the gallery by underground or omnibus to see a play or to the opera. he required comfort, elbow-room, ease. for that reason he had worked really hard at the bar so as to have enough money to live according to his ideas. not that he took any special interest in the bar. his ideal had always been--if it could be combined--to be either a soldier or a man of leisure, devoted to sport, literature and art. now he had asserted himself as a soldier, and he meant to go back. but he looked forward to leisure to enjoy and indulge his favourite tastes, if possible, with the only woman he had ever been deeply in love with. he was particularly attractive to women, who liked his strong will and depth of feeling, his assertive manner and that feeling of trust that he inspired. women always know when a man will not treat them badly. teddy's mother, his first wife, he had really married out of pity. when she died everyone regarded it as a tragedy except himself. he still worshipped his mother, whose little miniature he kept always by him, and he had always fancied that edith resembled her. this was simply an _idée d'amoureux_, for there was no resemblance. his mother, according to the miniature, had the dark hair and innocent expression that were the fashion at the time, while edith was fair, with rather dark eyebrows, grey eyes and the mouth and chin characteristic of burne-jones's and rossetti's pictures. but though she might be in appearance a burne-jones, she was very modern. his favourite little photograph of her that he had shown, in his moment of despair, to dulcie, showed a charming face, sensuous yet thoughtful, under a large hat. she had fur up to her chin, and was holding a muff; it was a snapshot taken the winter before they had parted. aylmer worshipped these two women: his dead mother and the living woman whom he had never given up entirely. how unlike were both the types to dulcie clay, with her waved madonna hair, dark skin, large, clear blue eyes, softened by eyelashes of extraordinary length. her chin was very small, her mouth fine, rather thin; she had a pathetic expression; one could imagine her attending, helping, nursing, holding a child in her arms, but not his intellectual equal, guiding and directing like his mother; and without the social brilliance and charm of edith. * * * * * seeing him looking at her with a long, observant look, dulcie became nervous and trembled slightly. she waited for him to speak. 'come here, miss clay. i want to speak to you.' instantly she sat down by him. 'i wanted to say--you've been most awfully kind to me.' dulcie murmured something. 'i'm nearly well now--aren't i?' 'dr wood says you can go out driving next week.' 'yes; but i don't mean that. i mean, i'm well in myself?' he spoke quickly, almost impatiently. 'the doctor says you're still suffering from nervous shock;' she answered in a toneless voice, professionally. 'still, very soon i shan't need any attendance that a valet or a housekeeper couldn't give me, shall i?' 'no, i suppose not.' 'well, my dear miss clay--of course, i shall hate you to go,' he said politely, 'but don't you think we ought to be thinking--' he stopped. she answered: 'of course i'll go whenever you and dr wood think it right.' 'you see,' he went on, 'i know i shall need a housekeeper, especially when teddy comes back. he's coming back on leave next week'--aylmer glanced at the telegram in his hand--'and, well--' 'you don't think i could--' 'of course you would make a splendid housekeeper,' he laughed. 'you are already, but--' she didn't wish to make him uncomfortable. evidently he was thinking what she knew herself. but she was so reluctant to go. 'don't you think i could remain here for a little while?' she said modestly. 'to do the housekeeping and be useful? you see, i've nowhere to go really.' 'but, my dear girl, excuse me, don't you see you're rather too--young. it would be selfish of me to let you.' he wished to say that it would be compromising, but a certain consciousness prevented his saying it. he felt he would be ridiculous if he put it into words. 'just as you like. how soon do you think i ought to go?' though she tried not to show it, there was a look almost of despair in her face. her eyes looked startled, as if trying not to shed tears. he was very sorry for her, but tried to hide it by a cool and impatient manner. 'well, shall we say in about a fortnight?' 'certainly.' she looked down. 'i shall miss you awfully,' he said, speaking more quickly than usual to get it over. she gave a very small smile. 'er--and then may i ask what you're thinking of doing next?' 'that was just what i was thinking about,' she answered rather naïvely. 'there are so few things i can do.' then fearing this sentence sounded like begging to remain, she hastily added: 'and of course if i don't go home i might be a companion or look after children.' 'i wonder if mrs ottley--' began aylmer. 'she has a dear little girl, and i've heard her say she would soon want someone.' 'dilly?' said dulcie, with a slight smile. 'yes, dilly.' there was a moment of intense awkwardness between them. then dulcie said: 'i'm afraid that wouldn't quite do. i'm not clever enough.' 'oh, rot. you know enough for a child like that. i shall speak to mrs ottley about it.' 'it's very, very kind of you, but i would rather not. i think i shall try to be a companion.' 'what's the name of that woman,' aylmer said good-naturedly, 'that irish woman, wife of one of the cabinet ministers, who came to the hospital at boulogne and wanted to have lessons?' 'lady conroy,' dulcie answered. 'yes, lady conroy. supposing that she needed a secretary or companion, would you dislike that?' 'oh, no, i should like it very much.' 'right. i'll get mrs ottley to speak to her about it. she said she was coming to london, didn't she?' 'yes. i got to know her fairly well,' said dulcie. 'she's very charming.' 'she's celebrated for her bad memory,' aylmer said, with a smile. 'she declares she forgets her own name sometimes. once she got into a taxi and told the man to drive home. when he asked where that was, she said it was his business to know. she had forgotten her address.' they both laughed. 'i'll go tomorrow,' said dulcie, 'and see my stepmother, if you don't want me in the afternoon. or, perhaps, the day you go for a drive would be better.' 'tell me, miss clay, aren't you happy at home?' 'oh, it isn't that. they don't want me. i'm in the way. you see, they've got used to my being out of the house.' 'but, excuse me--you don't earn your own living really?' 'no, that isn't really necessary. but i don't want to live at home.' her face showed such a decided distaste to the idea that he said no more. 'you're looking very well today,' dulcie said. he sighed. 'i feel rather rotten. i can't read, can't settle to anything.' she looked at him sympathetically. he felt impelled to go on. 'i'm a bit worried,' he continued. 'about your son?' 'no, not about him so much, though i wish he would get a flesh wound and be sent back,' his father said, laughing. 'but about myself.' she looked at him in silence. 'you know--what i told you.' she made no answer, looking away to give him time to speak. 'i've made a suggestion,' he said slowly.... 'if it's accepted it'll alter all my life. of course i shall go out again. but still it will alter my life.' suddenly, overpowered by the longing for sympathy, he said to himself aloud. 'i wonder if there's a chance.' 'i don't know what it is,' she murmured, but instinctively she had guessed something of it. 'i don't want to think about it any more at present.' 'shall i read to you?' 'yes, do.' she quietly arranged a pillow behind him and took up a newspaper. he often liked her to read to him; he never listened to a word of it, but it was soothing. she had taken up 'this morning's gossip' from _the daily mail_, and she began in the soft, low, distinct voice reading from the rambler: 'lord redesdale says that when lord haldane's scheme for a territorial army was on foot he took it to the--' aylmer stopped her. 'no--not that' 'shall i read you a novel?' 'i think i should like to hear some poetry today,' he answered. she had taken up a pretty, tiny little book that lay on his table, called _lyrists of the restoration_, and began to read aloud: '_phyllis is my only joy, faithless as the winds or seas, sometimes cunning, sometimes coy, yet she never fails to please_.' 'oh, please, stop,' aylmer cried. she looked up. 'it tinkles like an old-fashioned musical-box. try another.' 'what would you like?' she asked, smiling. he took up a french book and passed it to her. 'you'll think i'm very changeable, but i should like this. read me the beginning of _la-bos_.' and she began. he listened with his eyes closed, lulled by the curious technique, with its constant repetitions and jewelled style, charmed altogether. she read french fluently enough. 'that's delightful,' he said, but he soon noticed she was stumbling over the words. no, it was not suitable for her to read. he was obstinate, however, and was determined she should read him something. * * * * * so they fell back on _northanger abbey_. chapter xx lady conroy had arrived home in carlton house terrace, complaining of a headache. she remained on the sofa in her sitting-room for about five minutes, during which time she believed she had been dozing. in reality she had been looking for her glasses, dropping her bag and ringing the bell to send a servant for a handkerchief. she was a handsome woman of thirty-eight, with black hair turning a little grey, grey irish eyes and a wonderfully brilliant complexion. she must have been a remarkably good-looking girl, but now, to her great vexation, she was growing a little too fat. she varied between treatments, which she scarcely began before she forgot them, and utter indifference to her appearance, when she declared she was much happier, letting herself go in loose gowns, and eating everything of which she had deprived herself for a day or two for the sake of her figure. lady conroy had often compared herself to the old woman who lived in a shoe, because of her large family. her friends declared she didn't remember how many children she had. she loved them, but there were certainly weeks when she didn't see the younger ones, for she was constantly absorbed in various different subjects. besides, she spent most of her life in looking for things. she was hopelessly careless and had no memory at all. suddenly she glanced at the watch on her wrist, compared it with the splendid empire clock on the mantelpiece, and went with a bewildered look to the telephone on her writing-desk. having gone through a considerable amount of torture by calling up the wrong number and absently ringing off as soon as she had got the right one, she at last found herself talking to edith. 'oh, is that you, dear? how lucky to catch you! yes.... yes.... i came back yesterday. dying to see you. can't you come round and see me? oh, you've got on your hat; you were just coming? of course, i forgot! i knew i had an appointment with someone! how soon will you be here?... in a quarter of an hour? good! could you tell me the time, dear?... four o'clock, thanks. my watch is wrong, and they've never wound the clock up all the time i've been away. good-bye. don't be long.... how soon did you say you could come?... oh, about a quarter of an hour! do hurry!... i say, i've something very particular to tell you. it's about... oh, i'm detaining you. very well. i see. au revoir.' as she waited for her visitor, lady conroy walked round the room. nearly everything on which she cast her eye reminded her of a different train of thought, so that by the time edith was announced by the footman she had forgotten what she wanted to tell her. 'how sweet you look, dear!' cried lady conroy, welcoming her most affectionately. 'how dear of you to come. you can't think how i was longing to see you. can you tell me what day it is?' 'why, it's thursday,' edith said, laughing. 'don't you remember? you wired to me to come and see you today.' 'of course; so i did. but, surely, i didn't ask you to come on thursday?' 'i assure you that you did.' 'fancy! how stupid of me! thursday is my day at home. dear, dear, dear. i forgot to tell standing; there will be no proper tea. oh, i've brought such a nice french maid--a perfect wonder. she knows everything. she always knows what i want. one moment, dear; i'll ring for her and give her orders. wait a minute, though.' she took edith's hand and patted it affectionately. 'nobody knows i've come back; it'll be all right. we shan't have any visitors. i'm bursting with news to tell you.' 'and i'm longing to hear what it is.' lady conroy's charming, animated face became blank. she frowned slightly, and a vague look came into her eyes--the pathetic look of someone who is trying to remember. 'wait a minute--what is it? oh yes. you know that woman you introduced me to at dieppe?' 'what woman?' 'don't you know, dear? good heavens, it was you who introduced her--you ought to know.' 'do you mean madame frabelle?' asked edith, who was accustomed to lady conroy, and could follow the drift of her mind. 'capital! that's it. how wonderful of you! yes, madame frabelle. how do you like her?' 'very much. but i didn't introduce her to you. you sent her to me.' 'did i? well, it's very much the same. look here, edith dear. this is what i want to ask you. i remember now. oh, do you mind ringing the bell for me? i must tell marie about the tea, in case people call.' edith obeyed. 'you see, dear,' went on her hostess, 'i've undertaken a terrific number of things--belgian refugees, weekly knitting, hundreds of societies--all sorts of war work. well, you know how busy i am, even without all that, don't you? thank heaven the boys are at school, but there are the children in the nursery, and i don't leave them--at least hardly ever--to their nurse. i look after them myself--when i think of it. oh, they've grown such heavenly angels--too sweet! and how's your pet, dilly?' 'very well. but do go on.' 'how right of you to keep me to the point, darling. that's where you're such a comfort always. do you mind passing me my glasses? thanks.' she put them on and immediately took them off. she only needed them for reading. 'oh yes. i wanted to consult you about something, edith.' the footman came in. 'oh, standing, send marie to me at once.... bother the man, how he keeps worrying! well, edith dear, as i've got all this tremendous lot of work to do, i've made up my mind, for the sake of my health, i simply must have a sort of secretary or companion. you see?' 'i quite see. you spoke of it before.' 'well, how do you think that woman you introduced to me, madame frabelle--how do you think she would--? oh, marie, today's my day at home; isn't it, edith?' 'today is thursday,' said edith. 'thursday! oh, my dear. thursday's not my day at home. well, anyhow, never mind about that. what was i saying, marie?' marie remained respectfully waiting, with a tight french smile on her intelligent face. 'oh, i know what it was. marie, i want you to look after certain things for me here--anyhow, at present. i want you to tell the cook that i want tea at four o'clock. oh no, it's half-past four--well, at five. and there's something i particularly want for tea. what is it?' she asked, looking at edith. immediately answering herself she said: 'i know, i want muffins.' 'madame want "nuffing"?' said marie. 'no, no, no! don't be so stupid. it's an english thing, marie; you wouldn't understand. something i've forgotten to tell the cook about. it's so cosy i always think in the winter in london. it always cheers me up. you know, what is it?... i know--muffins--_muffins_!' she said the word carefully to the french maid. edith came to the rescue. 'tell the cook,' she said, 'for madame, that she wants some muffins for tea.' 'oh, oui. ah, oui, bien, madame. merci, madame.' as the maid was going away lady conroy called out: 'oh, tell the cook it doesn't matter. i won't have them today.' 'bien, madame.' edith was already in a somewhat hilarious mood. lady conroy didn't irritate her; she amused her almost more than any friend she had. besides, once she could be got to concentrate on any one subject, nobody was more entertaining. edith's english humour delighted in her friend's irish wit. there was something singularly irish in the way lady conroy managed to make a kind of muddle and untidiness all round her, when she had been in a room a minute or two. when she had entered the room, it was a fine-looking apartment, rather sparsely furnished, with very little in it, all severest first empire style. there were a few old portraits on striped pale green walls, and one large basket of hot-house flowers on a small table. yet, since her entrance, the room already looked as if several people had been spending the week in it without tidying it up. almost mechanically edith picked up her bag, books, newspaper, cigarettes and the glasses. 'well, then, you don't think madame frabelle would do?' said lady conroy. 'my dear lady conroy, madame frabelle wouldn't dream of going as a companion or secretary. you want a young girl. she's about fifteen years older than you are and she's staying with me as my guest. i shouldn't even suggest such a thing.' 'why not? it wouldn't be at all a hard place.' 'no, i know. but she doesn't want a place. she's very well off, remember.' 'good heavens, she can't have much to do then if she's only staying with you,' said lady conroy. 'oh, she has plenty of engagements. no, i shouldn't advise madame frabelle. but i do know of someone.' 'do you? oh, darling edith, how sweet of you. oh, just ring the bell for me, will you?' edith rang. 'i want to send for marie, my maid, and tell her to order some muffins for tea. i forgot to tell the cook.' 'but you have already ordered and countermanded them.' 'oh, have i?--so i have! never mind, don't ring. it doesn't matter. who do you know, dear?' standing appeared in answer to the bell. 'what do you want, standing? you mustn't keep bothering and interrupting me like this. oh, tea? yes, bring tea. and tell marie i shan't want her after all.' lady conroy leant back against her cushions and with a sigh went on: 'you see, i'm in the most terrible muddle, dear edith. i don't know where to turn.' she turned to her writing-table and opened it. 'look at this, now,' she said rather triumphantly. 'this is all about my war work. oh no, it isn't. it's an advertisement from a washer-woman. gracious, ought i to keep it, do you think? no, i don't think i need.' she folded it up and put it carefully away again. 'don't you think yourself i need someone?' 'yes, i do. i think it would be very convenient for you to have a nice girl with a good memory to keep your things in order.' 'that's it,' cried lady conroy, delighted, as she lit a cigarette. 'that's it--someone who will prevent me dropping cigarette ash all over the room and remember my engagements and help me with my war work and write my letters and do the telephoning. that's all i shall want. of course, if she could do a little needlework--no, no, that wouldn't do. you couldn't expect her to do brainwork as well as needlework.' edith broke in. 'do you remember mentioning to me a girl you met at boulogne--a nurse called dulcie clay?' 'perfectly well,' answered lady conroy, puffing away at her cigarette, and obviously not speaking the truth. edith laughed. 'no, my dear, you don't. but it doesn't matter. well, this girl has been nursing mr aylmer ross, and he doesn't need her any more--at least he won't after next week. would you see her and judge for yourself? you might try her.' 'i'm sure i shall if i take her. i'm afraid i'm a trying person. i try everyone dreadfully. oh, by the way, edith, i met such a perfect angel coming over. he was a wounded soldier. he belongs to the black watch. doesn't the name black watch thrill you? he's in the irish guards, so, of course, my heart went out to him.' 'the irish guards as well?' 'oh no. that was another man.' she put her hand to her forehead. 'i'm worrying you, dear, with my bad memory. i'm so sorry. well, then, you'll see madame frabelle for me?' 'i will if you like, but not as a companion. it's miss clay.' 'miss clay,' repeated lady conroy. 'ah, here's tea. do you take milk and sugar. edith?' 'let me pour it out,' said edith, to whom it was maddening to see the curious things lady conroy did with the tea-tray. she was pouring tea into the sugar basin, looking up at edith with the sweetest smile. 'i can't stay long,' edith went on. 'i'm very sorry, dear, but you remember i told you i'm in a hurry.... i've an appointment at landi's studio.' 'landi? and who is that?' 'you know him--the composer--sir tito.' 'oh, darling sir tito! of course i do know him!' she smiled reminiscently. 'won't you have anything to eat, dear? do have a muffin! oh, bother, there are none. i wonder how it is cook always forgets? then you're going to send madame frabelle to see me the day after tomorrow?' edith took both her hands and shook them, laughing, as she stood up. 'i will arrange to send miss clay to see you, and if you like her, if you don't mind waiting about ten days or a fortnight, you might engage her. it would be doing her a great kindness. she's not happy at home.' 'oh, poor girl!' 'and she went as a nurse,' continued edith, 'chiefly because she couldn't think of anything else to do. she isn't really strong enough for nursing.' 'isn't she? how sad, poor girl. it reminds me of a girl i met at boulogne. so pretty and nice. in very much the same position really. she also wasn't happy at home--' 'this is the same girl,' said edith. 'you wrote to me about her.' 'did i? good heavens, how extraordinary! what a memory you've got, edith. well, then, she's sure to do.' 'still, you'd better have an interview,' said edith. 'don't trouble to ring. i must fly, dear. we'll soon meet again.' lady conroy followed her to the door into the hall, pouring forth questions, sympathy and cheerful communications about the charming young man in the black watch. just before edith escaped her friend said: 'oh, by the by, i meant to ask you something. who is madame frabelle?' chapter xxi sir tito lived in a flat in mayfair, on the second floor of a large corner house. on the ground floor was his studio, which had two entrances. the studio was a large, square, white room, containing a little platform for pupils. a narrow shelf ran all the way round the dado; this shelf was entirely filled with the most charming collection of english and french china, little cottages, birds and figures. above the shelf was a picture-rail, which again was filled all the way round with signed photographs of friends. everything in the room was white, even the piano was _laqué_ white, and the furniture, extremely luxurious and comfortable, was in colour a pale and yet dull pink. a curtain separated it from another smaller room, which again had a separate entrance into the hall on the left, and, through a very small dressing-room, led into the street on the right side. sir tito was waiting for edith, spick, span and debonair as always (although during the war he had discarded his buttonhole). he was occupied, as he usually was in his leisure time, not in playing the piano or composing, but--in making photograph frames! this was his hobby, and people often said that he took more pleasure in the carving, cutting out, gumming and sticking together of these objects than in composing the melodies that were known and loved all over the world. as soon as edith came in he showed her a tiny frame carved with rosebuds. 'regarde,' he said, his eyes beaming. 'voilà! c'est mignon, n'est-ce-pas? on dirait un petit coeur! ravissante, hein?' he gazed at it lovingly. 'very sweet,' said edith, laughing. 'who is it for?' 'why, it's for your _mignonne_, dilly. i've cut out a photograph of hers in the shape of a heart. gentil, n'est ce pas?' he showed it to her with childish pleasure. then he put all traces of the work carefully away in a drawer and drew edith near to the fire. 'i've just a quarter of an hour to give you,' said sir tito, suddenly turning into a serious man of business. and, indeed, he always had many appointments, not a few of which were on some subject connected with love affairs. like aylmer, but in a different way, sir tito was always being consulted, but, oddly enough, while it was the parents and guardians usually who went to aylmer, husbands worried about their wives, mothers about their children; to the older man it was more frequently the culprit or the confidant himself or herself who came to confide and ask for help and advice. edith said: 'the dreadful thing i've to tell you, landi, is that i've completely changed.' 'comment?' 'yes. i'm in love with him all over again.' 'c'est vrai?' 'yes. i don't know how and i don't know why. when he first made that suggestion, it seemed wild--impossible. but the things he said--how absolutely true it is. landi, my life's been wasted, utterly wasted.' landi said nothing. 'i believe i was deceiving myself,' she went on. 'i've got so accustomed to living this sort of half life i've become almost _abrutie_, as you would say. i didn't realise how much i cared for him. now i know i always adored him.' 'but you were quite contented.' 'because i made myself so; because i resolved to be satisfied. but, after all, there's something in what he says, landi. my life with bruce is only a makeshift. nothing but tact, tact, tact. oh, i'm so tired of tact!' she sighed. 'it seems to me now really too hard that i should again have such a great opportunity and should throw it away. you see, it is an opportunity, if i love him--and i'm not deceiving myself now. i'm in love with him. the more i think about it the more lovely it seems to me. it would be an ideal life, landi.' he was still silent. she continued: 'you see, aylmer knows so well how much the children are to me, and he would never ask me to leave them. there's no question of my ever leaving them. and bruce wouldn't mind. bruce would be only too thankful for me to take them. and there's another thing--though i despised the idea at the time, there's a good deal in it. i mean that aylmer's well off, so i should never be a burden. he would love to take the responsibility of us all. i would leave my income to bruce; he would be quite comfortable and independent. oh, he would take it. he might be a little cross, but it wouldn't last, landi. he would be better off. he'd find somebody--someone who would look after him, perhaps, and make him quite happy and comfortable. you're shocked?' '�a ne m'étonne pas. it's the reaction,' said landi, nodding. 'how wonderful of you to understand! i haven't seen him again, you know. i've just been thinking. in fact, i'm surprised at myself. but the more i reflect on what he said, the more wonderful it seems.... think how he's cared for me all this time!' 'sans doute. you know that he adores you. but, edith, it's all very well--you put like that--but could you go through with it?' 'i believe i could now,' she answered. 'i begin to long to. you see, i mistook my own feelings, landi; they seemed dulled. i thought i could live without love--but why should i? what is it that's made me change so? why do i feel so frightened now at the idea of losing my happiness?' 'c'est la guerre,' said sir tito. 'the war? what has that to do with it?' 'everything. unconsciously it affects people. though you yourself are not fighting, aylmer has risked his life, and is going to risk it again. this impresses you. to many temperaments things seem to matter less just now. people are reckless.' 'is it that?' asked edith. 'perhaps it is. but i was so completely deceived in myself.' 'i always knew you could be in love with him,' said landi. 'but wait a moment, edith--need the remedy be so violent? i don't ask you to live without love. why should a woman live without the very thing she was created for? but you know you hate publicity--vulgar scandal. nobody loathes it as you do.' 'it doesn't seem to matter now so much,' edith said. 'it's the war.' 'well, whatever's the cause, all i can tell you is that i'm beginning to think i shall do it! i want to!... i can't bear to refuse again. i haven't seen him since our talk. i changed gradually, alone, just thinking. and then you say--' 'many people have love in their lives without a violent public scandal,' he repeated. 'yes, i know. i understand what you mean. but i hate deceit, landi. i don't think i could lead a double life. and even if i would, he wouldn't!' she spoke rather proudly. 'pauvre garçon!' said sir tito. 'je l'admire.' 'so do i,' said edith. 'aylmer's not a man who could shake hands with bruce and be friends and deceive him. and you know, before, when i begged him to remain ... my friend ... he simply wouldn't. he always said he despised the man who would accept the part of a tame cat. and he doesn't believe in platonic friendship: aylmer's too honest, too _real_ for that.' 'but, edith, oh, remember, before,' said landi taking her hand, 'even when bruce ran away with another woman, you couldn't bear the idea of divorce.' 'i know. but i may have been wrong. besides, i didn't care for him as i do now. and i'm older now.' 'isn't this rather sudden, my dear?' 'only because i've let myself go--let myself be natural! oh, _do_ encourage me--give me strength, landi! don't let me be a coward! think if aylmer goes out again and is killed, how miserable i should feel to have refused him and disappointed him--for the second time!' 'wait a moment, edith. suppose, as you say, he goes out again and is killed, and you _haven't_ disappointed him, what would your position be then?' she couldn't answer. 'how is it your conscientiousness with regard to bruce doesn't come in the way now? why would it ruin him less now than formerly?' 'bruce doesn't seem to matter so much.' 'because he isn't fighting?' asked sir tito. 'oh no, landi! i never thought of that. but you know he always imagines himself ill, and he's quite all right really. he'll enjoy his grievance. i _know_ he won't be unhappy. and he's older, and he's not tied to that silly, mad girl he ran away with. and besides, i'm older. this is probably _my_ last chance!' she looked at landi imploringly, as if begging his permission. he answered calmly: '�coute, chérie. when do you see him again?' 'i'm to take him for a drive tomorrow.' 'my dear edith, promise me one thing; don't undertake anything yet.' 'but why not?' 'you mustn't. this may be merely an impulse; you may change again. it may be a passing mood.' 'i don't think it is,' said edith. 'anyhow, it's my wish at present. it's the result of thinking, remember--not of his persuasion.' 'go for a drive, but give him no hope yet.' he took both her hands. 'make no promise, except to me. don't i know you well? i doubt if you could do it.' 'yes, i could! i could go through _anything_ if i were determined, and if i had the children safe.' 'never mind that for the present. live for the day. will you promise me that?' she hesitated for a moment. then he said: 'really, dear, it's too serious to be impulsive about. take time.' 'very well, landi. i promise you that.' 'then we'll meet again afterwards and talk it over. i'll come and see you.' 'very well. and mustn't i tell him anything? not make him a little bit happy?' 'tell him nothing. be nice to him. enjoy your drive. put off all decision at present.' he looked at her. her eyes were sparkling, her colour, her expression were deepened. she looked all animation, with more life than he had ever seen in her.... somehow the sight made his heart ache a little, a very little. poor girl! of course she had been starving for love, and hidden the longing under domestic interests, artistic, social, but human. but she deserved real love, a real lover. she was so loyal, so true herself. 'tiens! you look like a lamp that has been lighted,' said sir tito, chuckling a little to himself. 'eh, bien!--and the pretty nurse? does she still dance the cachuca? i know i'm old-fashioned, but it's impossible for me not to associate everything spanish with the ridiculous. i think of guitars, mantillas, sombreros, or--what else is it? ah, i know--onions.' 'she isn't even spanish, really!' 'then why did you deceive me?' said landi, a shade absently, with a glance at his watch and another in the mirror. 'she can't remain with aylmer. she knows it herself. i'm trying to arrange for her to become a companion for lady conroy.' he laughed. 'you are more particular about her being chaperoned than you were last week.' 'landi, aylmer will never care for her. she's a dear, but he won't.' 'tu ne l'a pas revu? lui--aylmer?' 'no, but he's written to me.' 'oh, for heaven's sake, my child, burn the letters! i daresay it won't be difficult; they are probably all flames already.' 'i did have one lovely letter,' said edith. she took it out of her dress. he glanced at it. 'mon dieu! to think that a pupil of mine drives about in a taxi-cab with compromising letters in her pocket! non, tu est folle, véritablement, edith.' to please him she threw it into the fire, after tearing a small blank piece of the paper off, and putting this unwritten-on scrap back in the bodice of her dress. as she hurried away, she again promised him not to undertake anything, nor to allow aylmer to overpower her prudent intention during their drive. 'what time do you start? i think i shall come too,' said sir tito, pretending to look at his engagement-book. he burst out laughing at her expression. 'ah, i'm not wanted! tiens! if you're not very careful _one_ person will go with you, i can tell you. and that will be madame frabelle.' 'no, she won't. indeed not! it's the last day of archie's holidays.' 'he's coming with you?' 'on the front seat, with the chauffeur,' said edith. there was a ring at the bell. he lifted the curtain and caressingly but firmly pushed her through into the other room. * * * * * sir tito had another appointment. chapter xxii while this drama was taking place in the little house in sloane street, madame frabelle, who lived for romance, and was always imagining it where it didn't exist, was, of course, sublimely unconscious of its presence. she had grown tired of her fancy about edith and mr mitchell, or she made herself believe that her influence had stopped it. but she was beginning to think, much as she enjoyed her visit and delighted in her surroundings, that it was almost time for her at least to _suggest_ going away. she had made edith's friends her own. she was devoted to edith, fonder of the children than anyone except their grandmother, and strangely, considering she was a visitor who gave trouble, she was adored by the servants and by everyone in the house, with the single exception of archie. she was carrying on a kind of half-religious flirtation with the rev. byrne fraser, who was gradually succeeding in making her very high church. sometimes she rose early and left the house mysteriously. she went to mass. there was a dreamy expression in her eyes when she came back. a slight perfume of incense, instead of the lavender water that she formerly affected, was now observable about her. she went to see the 'london group' and the 'new english' with young coniston, who explained to her all he had learnt from aylmer, a little wrong; while she assured him that she knew nothing about pictures, but she knew what she liked. she bought book-bindings from miss coniston, and showed her how to cook macaroni and how to make cheap but unpalatable soup for her brother. and she went to all the war concerts and bazaars got up by valdez, to meetings for the serbians arranged by mrs mitchell and to lady conroy's knitting society for the refugees. she was a very busy woman. but it was not these employments that were filling her mind as she sat in her own room, looking seriously at herself in the glass. something made her a little preoccupied. she was beginning to fear that bruce was getting too fond of her. the moment the idea occurred to her, it occurred to bruce also. she had a hypnotic effect on him; as soon as she thought of anything he thought of it too. something in her slight change of manner, her cautious way of answering, and of rustling self-consciously out of the room when they were left alone together, had this effect. bruce was enchanted. madame frabelle thought he was getting too fond of her! then, he must be! perhaps he was. he certainly didn't like the idea at all of her going away and changed the subject directly she mentioned it. he had always thought her a very wonderful person. he was immensely impressed by her universal knowledge and agreeable manners and general charm. still, madame frabelle was fifteen years older than bruce, and bruce himself was no chicken. although he was under forty, his ideal of himself was that he liked only very young girls. this was not true. but as he thought it was, it became very much the same thing. as a matter of fact, only rather foolish girls were flattered at attentions from bruce. married women preferred spirited bachelors, and attractive girls preferred attractive boys. in fact, bruce was not wanted socially, and he felt a little bit out of it among the men through not being among the fighters. the fact that he told everyone that he was not in khaki because he was in consumption didn't seem to make him more interesting to the general public. his neurotic heart bored his friends at the club. in fact there was not a woman, even his mother, except madame frabelle, who cared to listen to his symptoms. that she did so, and with sympathy, was one of her attractions. but as long as she had listened to them in a sisterly, friendly way, he regarded her only as a friend--a friend of whom he was very proud, and whom he respected immensely. as has been said, she impressed him so much that he did not know she bored him. when she began rustling out of the room when they were left alone, and looking away, avoiding his eye when he stared at her absently, things were different, and he began to feel rather flattered. of course it would be an infernal shame, and not the act of a gentleman, to take advantage of one's position as a host by making love to a fascinating guest. but there was so much sympathy between them! it is only fair to say that the idea would never have occurred to bruce unless it had first occurred to madame frabelle. if a distinguished-looking woman in violet velvet leaves the room five minutes after she's left alone with one--even though she has grey hair--it naturally shows that she thinks one is dangerous. the result of it all was that when bruce heard edith was taking aylmer for a drive, he apologised very much indeed for not going with her. he said, frankly, much as he liked aylmer, wounded heroes were rather a bore. he hoped aylmer would forgive him. and madame frabelle had promised to take him to the oratory. she disapproved of his fancy of becoming a catholic; she was not one herself, though she was extremely high, and growing daily higher, but the music at the oratory on that particular day was very wonderful, and they agreed to go there. and afterwards--well, afterwards they might stroll home, or--go and have tea in bond street. * * * * * it was the last day of archie's holidays, and though it was rather cold his mother insisted on taking him with her. aylmer tried to hide the shade that came over his face when he saw the boy, but remembering that he had undertaken to be a father to him, he cheered up as soon as archie was settled. it was a lovely autumn day, one of those warm indian-summer days that resemble early spring. there is the same suggestion of warmer sunshine yet to come; the air has a scent as of growing things, the kind of muffled hopes and suppressed excitement of april is in the deceptive air. this sort of day is dangerous to charming people not in their very first youth. * * * * * in high spirits and beyond the speed limit they started for richmond. chapter xxiii a week later aylmer and his son were sitting looking at each other in the old brown library. teddy had come over for ten days' leave from somewhere in france. everyone, except his father, was astonished how little he had changed. he seemed exactly the same, although he had gone through strange experiences. but aylmer saw a different look in his eyes. he looked well and brisk--perhaps a little more developed and more manly; his shoulders, always rather thick and broad, seemed even broader, although he was thinner. but it was the expression of the eyes that had altered. those eyes had _seen things_. in colour pale blue, they had a slightly strained look. they seemed paler. his sunburn increased his resemblance to his father, always very striking. both had large foreheads, clearly cut features and square chins. aylmer was, strictly speaking, handsomer. his features more refined, more chiselled. but teddy had the additional charm of extreme youth--youth with the self-possession and ease that seemed, as it were, a copy--as his voice was an echo--of his father. the difference was in culture and experience. teddy had gone out when he was just on the point of going to balliol, yet seemed to have something of the oxford manner, characteristic of his father--a manner suave, amiable, a little ironical. he had the unmistakable public-school look and his training had immensely improved his appearance. aylmer was disappointed that the very first thing his son insisted on doing was to put on evening clothes and go to the empire. that was where the difference in age told. aylmer would not have gone to the empire fresh from the fighting line. he made no objection, and concealed the tiniest ache that he felt when teddy went out at once with major willis, an elder friend of his. quite as old, aylmer thought to himself, as _he_ was. but not being a relative, he seemed of the same generation. the next evening teddy spent at home, and sat with his father, who declared himself to be completely recovered, but was still not allowed to put his foot to the ground, miss clay was asked to sing to them. her voice, as has been said, was a very beautiful one, a clear, fine soprano, with a timbre rare in quality, and naturally thrilling. she had not been taught well enough to be a public success perhaps, but was much more accomplished than the average amateur. teddy delighted in it. she sang all the popular songs--she had a way that was almost humorous of putting refinement into the stupidest and vulgarest melody. and then she sang some of those technically poor but attaching melodies that, sung in a certain way, without sickening sentimentality or affectation, seem to search one's soul and bring out all that there is in one of romance. she looked very beautiful, that aylmer admitted to himself, and she sang simply and charmingly; that he owned also. why did it irritate him so intensely to see teddy moved and thrilled, to see his eyes brighten, his colour rise and to see him obviously admiring the girl? when she made an excuse to leave them teddy was evidently quite disappointed. the next day aylmer limped down to the library. to his great surprise he heard voices in the room dulcie used for her sitting-room. he heard teddy begging her to sing to him again. he heard her refuse and then teddy's voice asking her to go out to tea with him. aylmer limped as loudly as he could, and they evidently heard him, but didn't mind in the least. he didn't want miss clay to stop at home. he was expecting edith. 'hang it, let them go!' he said to himself, and he wondered at himself. why should he care? why _shouldn't_ she flirt with the boy if she liked, or rather--for he was too just not to own that it was no desire of hers--why shouldn't the boy make up to her? whatever the reason was, it annoyed him. annoyance was soon forgotten when mrs ottley was announced. since their drive to richmond there had been a period of extraordinary happiness and delight for edith. not another word had been said with reference to aylmer's proposal. he left it in abeyance, for he saw to his great joy and delight that she was becoming her old self, more than her old self. edith was completely changed. the first thing she thought of now in the morning was how soon she should see him again. she managed to conceal it well, but she was nervous, absent, with her eyes always on the clock, counting the minutes. when other people were present she was cool and friendly to aylmer, but when they were alone he had become intimate, delightful, familiar, like the time, three years ago, when they were together at the seaside. but her mother-in-law had then been in the house. and the children. everything was so conventional. now she was able to see him alone. really alone.... his eyes welcomed her as she came in. having shut the door quietly, she reached his chair in a little rush. 'don't take off your hat. i like that hat. that was the hat you wore the day i told you--' 'i'm glad it suits me,' she said, interrupting. 'does it really? isn't it too small?' 'you know it does.' he was holding her hand. he slowly took off the glove, saying: 'what a funny woman you are, edith. why do you wear grey gloves? nobody else wears grey gloves.' 'i prefer white ones, but they won't stay white two minutes' 'i like these.' 'tell me about teddy. don't, aylmer!' aylmer was kissing her fingers one by one. she drew them away. 'teddy! oh, there's not much to tell.' then he gave a little laugh. 'i believe he's fallen in love with miss clay.' 'has he really? well, no wonder; think how pretty she is.' 'i know. is she? i don't think she's a bit pretty.' 'she's to see lady conroy tomorrow, you know,' edith said, divining an anxiety or annoyance in aylmer on the subject. 'yes. will it be all right?' 'oh yes.' 'well, teddy's going back on monday anyway, and i certainly don't need a nurse any more. headley will do all i want.' headley was the old butler. 'what scent do you use, edith?' 'i hardly ever use any. i don't care for scent.' 'but lately you have,' he insisted. 'what is it? i think i like it.' 'it's got a silly name. it's called omar khayyám.' 'i thought it was oriental. i think you're oriental, edith. though you're so fair and english-looking. how do you account for it?' 'i can't think,' said edith. 'perhaps you're a fair circassian,' said he. 'do you think yourself you're oriental?' 'i believe i am, in some ways. i like lying down on cushions. i like cigarettes, and scent, and flowers. i hate wine, and exercise, and cricket, and bridge.' 'that isn't all that's needed. you wouldn't care for life in a harem, would you?' he laughed. 'you with your independent mind and your cleverness.' 'perhaps not exactly, but i can imagine worse things.' 'i shall take you to egypt,' he said. 'you've never been there, have you?' 'never.' her eyes sparkled. 'yes, i shall take you to see the sphinx. for the first time.' 'oh, you can't. you're looking very well, aylmer, wonderfully better.' 'i wonder why? you don't think i'm happy, do you?' 'i am,' said edith. 'because you're a woman. you live for the moment. i'm anxious about the future.' 'oh, oh! you're quite wrong. it's not women who live for the moment,' said edith. 'no, i don't know that the average woman does. but then you're not an average woman.' 'what am i?' 'you're edith,' he answered, rather fatuously. but she liked it. she moved away. 'now that's awfully mean of you, taking advantage of my wounded limb.' she rang for tea. 'and that's even meaner. it's treacherous,' he said, laughing. she sat down on a chair at a little distance. 'angel!' he said, in a low, distinct voice. 'it is not for me to dictate,' said edith, in a tone of command, 'but i should think it more sensible of you not to say these things to me--just now.' the servant came in with tea. chapter xxiv just before archie went back to school he made a remark that impressed edith strangely. quite dressed and ready to start, as he was putting on his gloves, he fell into one of his reveries. after being silent for some time he said: 'mother!' 'yes, darling?' 'why doesn't father fight?' 'i told you before, darling. your father is not very strong.' 'mother!' 'yes, dear?' 'is aylmer older than father?' 'yes. aylmer's four years older. why?' 'i don't know. i wish i had a father who could fight, like aylmer. and i'd like to fight too, like teddy.' 'aylmer hasn't any wife and children to leave. teddy's eighteen; you're only ten.' 'mother!' 'yes, dear?' 'i wish i was old enough to fight. and i wish father was stronger.... do you think i shall ever fight in this war?' 'good heavens, dear! i hope it isn't going to last seven years more.' 'i wish it would,' said archie ferociously. 'mother!' 'yes, darling?' 'but what's the matter with father? he seems quite well.' 'oh, he isn't very well. he suffers from nerves.' 'nerves! what's nerves?' 'i think, darling, it's time for us to start. where's your coat?' she drove him to the station. most of the way he was very silent as she put him in the train he said. 'mother, give my love to aylmer.' 'all right, dear.' he then said: 'mother, i wish aylmer was my father.' 'oh, archie! you mustn't say that.' * * * * * but she never forgot the boy's remark. it had a stronger influence on her action later than anything else. she knew archie had always had a great hero-worship for aylmer. but that he should actually prefer him to bruce! she didn't tell aylmer that for a long time afterwards. * * * * * before returning to the front teddy had become so violently devoted to miss clay that she was quite glad to see him go. she received his attentions with calm and cool friendliness, but gave him not the smallest encouragement. she was three years older, but looked younger than her age, while teddy looked much older, more like twenty-two. so that when on the one or two occasions during his ten days' leave they went out together, they didn't seem at all an ill-assorted couple. and whenever aylmer saw the two together, it created the greatest irritation in him. he hardly knew which vexed him more--dulcie for being attractive to the boy, or the boy for being charmed by dulcie. it was absurd--out of place. it displeased him. a day or two after teddy's departure dulcie went to see lady conroy, who immediately declared that dulcie was extraordinarily like a charming girl she had met at boulogne. dulcie convinced her that she was the same girl. 'oh, how perfectly charming!' said lady conroy. 'what a coincidence! _too_ wonderful! well, my dear, i can see at a glance that you're the very person i want. your duties will be very, _very_ light. oh, how light they will be! there's really hardly anything to do! i merely want you to be a sort of walking memorandum for me,' lady conroy went on, smiling. 'just to recollect what day it is, and what's the date, and what time my appointments are, and do my telephoning for me, and write my letters, and take the dog out for a walk, and _sometimes_ just hear my little girls practise, and keep my papers in order. oh, one can hardly say exactly--you know the sort of thing. oh yes! and do the flowers,' said lady conroy, glancing round the room. 'i always forget my flowers, and i won't let marie do them, and so there they are--dead in the vases! and i do like a few live flowers about, i must say,' she added pathetically. dulcie said she thought she could undertake it. 'well, then, won't you stay now, and have your things sent straight on? oh, do! i do wish you would. i've got two stalls for the st james's tonight. my husband can't come, and i can't think of anybody else to ask. i should love to take you.' dulcie would have enjoyed to go. the theatre was a passion with her, as with most naïve people. she made some slight objection which lady conroy at once waved away. however, dulcie pointed out that she must go home first, and as all terms and arrangements absolutely suited both parties, it was decided that dulcie should go to the play with her tonight and come the next day to take up her duties. she asked lady conroy if she might have her meals alone when there were guests, as she was very shy. a charming little sitting-room, opening out of the drawing-rooms, was put at her disposal. 'oh, certainly, dear; always, of course, except when i'm alone. but you'll come when i ask you, now and then, won't you? i thought you'd be very useful sometimes at boring lunches, or when there were too many men--that sort of thing. and i hear you sing. oh, that will be delightful! you'll sing when we have a few tedious people with us? i adore music. we'll go to some of those all-british concerts, won't we? we must be patriotic. do you know it's really been my dream to have a sweet, useful, sympathetic girl in the house. and with a memory too! charming!' dulcie went away fascinated, if slightly bewildered. it was a pang to her to say good-bye to aylmer, the more so as he showed, in a way that was perfectly obvious to the girl, that he was pleased to see her go, though he was as cordial as possible. she had been an embarrassment to him of late. it was beginning to be what is known as a false position, since headley the butler could now look after aylmer. except for a limp, he was practically well. anyone who has ever nursed a person to whom they are devoted, helped him through weakness and danger to health again, will understand the curious pain she felt to see him independent of her, anxious to show his strength. still, he had been perfect. she would always remember him with worship. she meant never to love anyone else all her life. when she said good-bye she said to him: 'i do hope you'll be very happy.' he laughed, coloured a little, and said as he squeezed her hand warmly: 'you've been a brick to me, miss clay. i shall certainly tell you if i ever am happy.' she wondered what that meant, but she preferred to try to forget it. * * * * * when dulcie arrived, as she had been told, at a quarter to eight, dressed in a black evening dress (she didn't care to wear uniform at the theatre), she found lady conroy, who was lying on the sofa in a tea-gown, utterly astonished to see her. 'my dear! you've come to dine with me after all?' 'no, indeed. i've dined. you said i was to come in time to go to the play.' 'the play? oh! i forgot. i'm so sorry. i've sent the tickets away. i forgot i'd anyone to go with me. i'm afraid it can't be helped now. are you very disappointed? poor child. well, dear, you'll dine with me, anyhow, as you've come, and i can tell you all about what we shall have to do, and everything. we'll go to the theatre some other evening.' dulcie was obliged to decline eating two dinners. she had not found it possible to get through one--her last meal at aylmer's house. however, as she had no idea what else to do, she remained with lady conroy. and she spent a very pleasant evening. lady conroy told her all about herself, her husband, her children and her friends. she told her the history of her life, occasionally branching off on to other subjects, and referring to the angel she had met on a boat who was in the black watch, and who, dulcie gathered, was a wounded officer. lady conroy described all the dresses she had at present, many that she had had in former years, and others that she would like to have had now. she gravely told the girl the most inaccurate gossip about such of her friends as dulcie might possibly meet later. she was confidential, amusing, brilliant and inconsequent. she appeared enchanted with dulcie, whom she treated like an intimate friend at sight. and dulcie was charmed with her, though somewhat confused at her curious memory. indeed, they parted at about eleven the best possible friends; lady conroy insisting on sending her home in her car. dulcie, who had a sensitive and sensible horror of snobbishness, felt sorry to know that her father would casually mention that his daughter was staying with the conroys in carlton house terrace, and that her stepmother would scold her unless she recollected every dress she happened to see there. still, on the whole she felt cheered. she had every reason to hope that she would be as happy as a companion, in love without hope of a return, could be under any circumstances. chapter xxv madame frabelle and edith were sitting side by side in edith's boudoir. madame frabelle was knitting. edith was looking at a book. it was a thin little volume of essays, bound by miss coniston. 'what is the meaning of this design?' edith said. 'it seems to me very unsuited to chesterton's work! olive-green, with twirly things on it!' 'i thought it rather artistic,' answered madame frabelle. 'it looks like macaroni, or spaghetti. perhaps the idea was suggested by your showing her how to cook it,' said edith, laughing. madame frabelle looked gravely serene. 'no--i don't think that had anything to do with it.' 'how literal you are, eglantine!' 'am i? i think you do me injustice, edith dear,' returned the amiable guest with a tinge of stateliness as she rolled up her wool. edith smiled, put down her book, looked at the clock and rearranged the large orange-coloured cushion behind her back. then she took the book up again, looked through it and again put it down. 'you're not at all--forgive me for saying so--not the least bit in the world restless today, edith darling, are you?' said madame frabelle in a calm, clear, high voice that edith found quite trying. 'oh, i hope not--i think not.' 'ah, that's well,' and madame frabelle, with one slight glance at her hostess, went on knitting. 'i believe i miss archie a good deal,' said edith. 'ah, yes, you must indeed. i miss the dear boy immensely myself,' sympathetically said madame frabelle. but edith thought madame frabelle bore his loss with a good deal of equanimity, and she owned to herself that it was not surprising. the lady had been very good to archie, but he had teased her a good deal. like the boy scouts, but the other way round, he had almost made a point of worrying her in some way or other every day. edith could never persuade him to change his view of her. he said she was a fool. somehow, today edith felt rather pleased with him for thinking so. all women are subject to moods, particularly, perhaps, those who have a visitor staying with them for a considerable time. there are moments of injustice, of unfairness to the most charming feminine guest, from the most gentle hostess. and also there are, undoubtedly, times when the nicest hostess gets a little on one's nerves. so--critical, highly strung--madame frabelle was feeling today. so was edith. madame frabelle was privately thinking that edith was restless, that she had lost her repose, that her lips were redder than they used to be. had she taken to using lip salve too? she was inclined to smile, with a twinkle in her eye, at madame frabelle's remarks, a shade too often. and what was edith thinking of at this moment? she was thinking of archie's remarks about madame frabelle. that boy had genius! but there would be a reaction, probably during, or immediately after, tea-time, for these two women were sincerely fond of one another. the irritating fact that edith was eighteen years younger than her guest made eglantine feel sometimes a desire to guide, even to direct her, and if she had the disadvantage in age she wanted at least the privilege of gratifying her longing to give advice. the desire became too strong to be resisted. the advantage of having something to do with her hands while she spoke was too great a one not to be taken advantage of. so madame frabelle said: 'edith dear.' 'yes?' 'i've been wanting to say something to you.' edith leant forward, putting her elbows on her knees and her face on her hands, and said: 'oh, _do_ tell me, eglantine. what is it?' 'it is simply this,' said the other lady, calmly continuing her knitting.... 'very often when one's living with a person, one doesn't notice little things a comparative stranger would observe. is that not so?' 'what have you observed? what's it about?' 'it is about your husband,' said madame frabelle. 'what! bruce?' asked edith. 'naturally,' replied madame frabelle dryly. 'what have you observed about bruce?' 'i have observed,' replied madame frabelle, putting her hand in the sock that she was knitting, and looking at it critically, her head on one side, 'i have observed that bruce is not at all well.' 'oh, i'm sorry you think that. it's true he has seemed rather what he calls off colour lately.' 'he suffers,' said madame frabelle, as if announcing a great discovery,' he suffers from nerves.' 'i know he does, my dear. who should know it better than i do? but--do you think he is worse lately?' 'i do. he is terribly depressed. he says things to me sometimes that--well, that really quite alarm me.' 'i'm sorry. but you mustn't take bruce too seriously, you know that.' 'indeed i don't take him too seriously! and i've done my best either to change the subject or to make him see the silver lining to every cloud,' madame frabelle answered solemnly, with a shake of her head. 'i think what bruce complains of is the want of a silver lining to his purse,' edith said. 'you are jesting, edith dear.' 'no, i'm not. he worries about money.' 'but only incidentally,' said madame frabelle. 'bruce is really worried about the war.' 'naturally. but surely--i suppose we all are.' 'but mr. ottley takes it particularly to heart,' said madame frabelle, with a kind of touching dignity. edith looked at her in a little surprise. why did she suddenly call bruce 'your husband' or 'mr. ottley'? 'why this distant manner, eglantine?' said edith, half laughing. 'i thought you always called him bruce.' 'i beg your pardon; yes, i forgot. well, don't you see, edith dear, that what we might call his depression, his melancholy point of view, is--is growing worse and worse?' edith got up, walked to the other end of the room, rearranged some violets in a copper vase and came back to the sofa again. madame frabelle followed her with her eyes. then edith said, picking up the knitting: 'take care, dear, you're losing your wool. yes; perhaps he is worse. he might be better if he occupied his mind more.' 'he works at the foreign office from ten till four every day,' said madame frabelle in a tone of defence; 'he looks in at his club, where they talk over the news of the war, and then he comes home and we discuss it again.... really, edith, i scarcely see how much more he could do!' 'oh, my dear, but don't you see all the time he doesn't do anything?--anything about the war, i mean. now both you and i do our little best to help, in one way or another. you especially, i'm sure, do a tremendous lot; but what does bruce do? nothing, except talk.' 'that's just it, edith. i doubt if your husband is in a fit state of health to strain his mind by any more work than he does already. he's not strong, dear; remember that.' 'of course, i know; if he were all right he wouldn't be here,' said edith.' i suppose he really does suffer a great deal.' 'what was it again that prevented him joining?' asked madame frabelle, with sympathetic tenderness. 'neurotic heart,' answered edith. though she tried her very utmost she could not help the tone of her voice sounding a little dry and ironical. of course, she did not in the least believe in bruce's neurotic heart, but she did not want madame frabelle to know that. 'ah! ah! that must cause him a great deal of pain, but i think so far his worst symptoms are his nervous fears. look at last night,' continued madame frabelle, and now she put down her knitting and folded it into her work-basket.' last night, because there was no moon, and it wasn't raining, and fairly clear, mr ott--bruce had absolutely made up his mind there would be a zeppelin raid. it was his own idea.' 'not quite, dear. young coniston, who is a special constable, rang up and told him that there was a chance of the zeppelins last night.' 'well, perhaps so. at any rate he believed it. well, instead of being satisfied when i told him that i had got out my mask, that i saw to the bath being left half-filled with water, helped your husband to put two large bags of sand outside his dressing-room--in spite of all that, do you know what happened in the middle of the night?' 'i'm afraid i don't,' said edith. 'since archie went back to school i have had dilly in my room, and we both slept soundly all night.' 'did you? i fancied i saw a light in your room.' this was quite true. edith was writing a very long letter. 'ah, perhaps.' 'well, at three o'clock in the morning, fancy my surprise to hear a knock at my door!' 'i wonder i didn't hear a knock at mine,' said edith. 'your husband was afraid to disturb the little girl. most considerate, i thought. well, he knocked at my door and said that he was unable to sleep, that he felt terribly miserable and melancholy, in fact was wretched, and that he felt on the point of cutting his throat.... don't be frightened, dear. i don't mean that he really _meant_ it,' said madame frabelle, putting her hand on edith's. 'poor fellow! but what a shame to disturb you.' 'i didn't mind in the least. i was only too pleased. well, what do you think i did? i got up and dressed, went down to the library and lighted the fire, and sat up for half-an-hour with your husband trying to cheer him up!' 'did you really?' edith smiled. 'it was very sweet of you, eglantine.' 'not at all; i was only too glad. i made a cup of tea, bruce had a whisky and soda, we had a nice talk, and i sent him back quite cheerful. still, it just shows, doesn't it, how terribly he takes it all?' 'rather hard on you, eglantine; quite improper too,' laughed edith as she rang the bell. madame frabelle ignored this remark. 'if i could only feel at all that i've done a little good during my stay here, i shall be quite satisfied.' 'oh! but you mustn't dream yet of--' began edith. there was a ring at the bell. 'why, here is bruce, just in time for tea.' edith went to meet him in the hall. although he came in with his key, he invariably rang the bell, so that the maid could take his coat and stick. 'hallo, edith,' he said, in a rather sober tone. 'how are you? and where is madame frabelle?' chapter xxvi bruce came in with a rather weary air, and sat down by the fire. madame frabelle was presiding at the tea-table. 'how are you feeling, bruce?' edith asked. 'oh, pretty rotten. i had a very bad night. how are you, madame frabelle?' 'oh, very well. tea?' 'poor bruce!' said edith kindly. 'oh, and poor madame frabelle,' she added, with a smile. bruce gave madame frabelle a slightly reproachful look as he took a cup of tea from her. 'i've been telling edith,' said that lady in a quiet, dignified way. 'what about?' 'about last night,' said madame frabelle, passing bruce the buttered toast without looking at him, as if avoiding his glance. 'i'm really very much ashamed of it,' said bruce. 'you can't think how kind she was to me, edith.' 'i'm sure she was,' said edith. 'oh, you won't have a bad night like that again,' said madame frabelle cheerily. 'i'm sure i hope not.' he gave a dark, despairing look, and sighed. 'upon my word, if it hadn't been for her i don't know what i would have done.' he shook his head and stroked his back hair. suddenly edith felt intensely bored. madame frabelle and bruce were looking at each other with such intense sympathy, and she knew they would repeat in different words what they had said already. they were so certain to go over the same ground again and again!... edith felt she was not wanted. but that didn't annoy her. she was merely thinking of an excuse to get away from them. 'by the way, how's aylmer, edith?' asked bruce. 'getting on well. i believe he's been ordered out of town.' 'to the seaside? for god's sake don't let him go to the east coast!' 'the east coast is quite as safe as any other part of england, _i_ think.' said madame frabelle. 'oh, he'll take his chance,' edith replied. 'i expect he'll miss _you_, my dear,' said bruce. 'you've been so jolly good to him lately.' 'naturally,' said madame frabelle, a little quickly, very smoothly, and with what edith thought unnecessary tact. 'naturally. anyone so kind-hearted as edith would be sure to try and cheer up the convalescence of a wounded friend. have a _foie-gras_ sandwich, edith?' edith felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh at something in the hospitable, almost patronising tone of her guest. 'oh, edith likes going to see him,' said bruce to madame frabelle. 'so do i, if it comes to that. we're all fond of old aylmer, you know.' 'i know. i quite understand. you're great friends. personally, i think mr ross has behaved splendidly.' madame frabelle said this with an air of self-control and scrupulous justice. 'you don't care very much about him, i fancy,' said bruce with the air of having made a subtle discovery. she raised one eyebrow slightly. 'i won't say that. i see very excellent points in him. i admit there's a certain coldness, a certain hard reserve about his character that--well, frankly, it doesn't appeal to me. but i hope i am fair to him. he's a man i respect.... yes, i respect him.' 'but he doesn't amuse you--what?' said bruce. 'the fact is, he has no sense of humour,' said madame frabelle. 'fancy your finding that out now!' said bruce, with a broad smile. 'funny! ha ha! very funny! do you know, it never occurred to me! but now i come to think of it--yes, perhaps that's what's the matter with him. mind you, i call him a jolly, cheery sort of chap. quite an optimist--a distinct optimist. you never find aylmer depressed.' 'no, not depressed. it isn't that. but he hasn't got--you won't either of you be angry with me for what i say, will you?' 'oh no, indeed.' 'you won't be cross with me, edith? perhaps i ought not to say it.' 'yes, do tell us,' urged edith. 'well, what i consider is the defect in aylmer ross is that he has brains, but no temperament.' 'excellent!' cried bruce. 'perfectly true. temperament! that's what he wants!' edith remembered hearing that phrase used in her presence to madame frabelle--not about aylmer, but about someone else. it was very characteristic of madame frabelle to catch up an idea or a phrase, misapply it, and then firmly regard it as her own. bruce shook his head. 'brains, but no temperament! excellent!' 'mind you, that doesn't prevent him being an excellent soldier,' went on madame frabelle. 'oh dear, no. he's done jolly well,' said bruce. 'i think i know what she means--don't you, edith?' 'i'm sure _she_ does,' said edith, who had her doubts. 'i don't know that i do quite know what people mean when they say other people haven't got temperament. the question is--what _is_ temperament?' 'oh, my dear, it's a sort of--a something--an atmosphere--a sympathy. what i might call the magnetism of personality!' 'that's right!' said bruce, passing his cup for another cup of tea. 'aylmer's hard, hard as nails.' 'hasn't he got the name of being rather warm-hearted and impulsive, though?' suggested edith. 'oh, he's good-natured enough,' said bruce. 'very generous. i've known him to do ever so many kind things and never let a soul except the fellow he'd helped know anything about it.' 'you don't understand me,' said madame frabelle. 'i don't doubt that for a moment. he's a generous man, because he has a sense of duty and of the claims of others. but he has the effect on me--' 'go on, eglantine.' 'frankly, he chills me,' said madame frabelle. 'when i went to see him with edith, i felt more tired after a quarter of an hour's talk with him than i would--' she glanced at bruce. 'than you would after hours with landi, or bruce, or byrne fraser, or young coniston,' suggested edith. 'that's what i mean. he's difficult to talk to.' 'i have no doubt you're right,' said edith. 'well, she generally is,' said bruce. 'the only thing is she's so infernally deep sometimes, she sees things in people that nobody else would suspect. oh, you do, you know!' 'oh, do i?' said madame frabelle modestly. 'yes, i think you do,' said edith, who by this time felt inclined to throw the tea-tray at her guest. the last fortnight edith's nerves had certainly not been quite calm. formerly she would have been amused at the stupidity of the conversation. now she felt irritated, bored and worried, except when she was with aylmer. there was a moment's silence. bruce leant back and half shut his eyes. madame frabelle softly put a cushion behind his shoulder, putting a finger on her lip as she looked at edith. edith suddenly got up. 'you won't think it horrid of me, bruce? i've got to go out for a few minutes.' 'oh no, no, no!' said bruce. 'certainly not. do go, my dear girl. you'll be back to dinner?' 'dinner? of course. it isn't a quarter to six.' her eyes were bright. she looked full of elasticity and spirit again. 'i quite forgot,' she said, 'something that i promised to do for mrs mitchell. and she'll be disappointed if i don't.' 'i know what it is,' said madame frabelle archly. 'it's about that society for the belgians,'--she lowered her voice--'i mean the children's _lingerie_!' 'that's it,' said edith gratefully. 'well, i'll fly--and be back as soon as i can.' bruce got up and opened the door for her. 'for heaven's sake don't treat me with ceremony, my dear edith,' said madame frabelle. she made a little sign, as much as to say that she would look after bruce. but she was not very successful in expressing anything by a look or a gesture. edith had no idea what she meant. however, she nodded in return, as if she fully comprehended, and then ran up to her room, put on her hat, and, too impatient to wait while the servant called a cab, walked as quickly as possible until she met one near the top of sloane street. it was already very dark. 'twenty-seven jermyn street,' said edith as she jumped in. * * * * * ten minutes later she was sitting next to aylmer. 'only for a second; i felt i must see you.' 'fool! angel!' said aylmer, beaming, and kissing her hand. 'bruce is too irritating for words today. and madame frabelle makes me sick. i can't stand her. at least today.' 'oh, edith, don't tell me you're jealous of the woman! i won't stand it! i shan't play.' 'good heavens, no! not in the least. but her society's so tedious at times. she has such a pompous way of discovering the obvious.' 'i do believe you object to her being in love with bruce,' said aylmer reproachfully. 'that's a thing i will _not_ stand.' 'indeed i don't. besides, she's not. who could be?... and don't be jealous of bruce, aylmer.... i know she's very motherly to him, and kind. but she's the same to everyone.' they talked on for a few minutes. then edith said: 'good-bye. i must go.' 'good-bye,' said aylmer. 'oh! are you going to let me go already?' she asked reproachfully. she leant over him. some impulse seemed to draw her near to him. 'you're using that omar khayyám scent again,' he said. 'i wish you wouldn't.' 'why? you said you liked it.' 'i do like it. i like it too much.' she came nearer. aylmer gently pushed her away. 'how unkind you are!' she said, colouring a little with hurt feeling. 'i can't do that sort of thing,' said aylmer in a low voice. 'when once you've given me your promise--but not before.' 'oh, aylmer!' 'i won't rush you. you'll see i'm right in time, dear girl.' 'you don't love me!' suddenly exclaimed edith. 'but that's where you're wrong. i do love you. and i wish you'd go.' she looked into his eyes, and then said, looking away: 'are you really going out of town?' 'i'm ordered to. but i doubt if i can stand it.' 'well, good-bye, aylmer dear.' 'fiend! are you going already? cruel girl!' 'why you've just sent me away!' 'i can stand talking to you, edith. talking, for hours. but i can't stand your being within a yard of me.' 'thank you so much,' she said, laughing, and arranging her hat in front of the mirror. he spoke in a lower voice: 'how often must i tell you? you know perfectly well.' 'what?' 'i'm not that sort of man.' 'what sort?' after a moment's pause he said: 'i can't kiss people.' 'i'm very glad you can't. i have no wish for you to kiss _people_.' 'i can't kiss. i don't know how anyone can. i can't do those things.' she pretended not to hear, looked round the room, took up a book and said: 'will you lend me this, aylmer?' 'no, i'll give it you.' 'good-bye.' 'good-bye, darling,' said aylmer, ringing the bell. the butler called her a cab, and she drove to mrs mitchell's. when she got to the door she left a message with the footman to say she hadn't been able to see about that matter for mrs mitchell yet, but would do it tomorrow. just as she was speaking mr mitchell came up to the door. 'hallo, hallo, hallo!' he cried in his cheery, booming voice. 'hallo, edith! how's bruce?' 'why, you ought to know. he's been with you today,' said edith. 'he seems a bit off colour at the foreign office. won't you all three come and dine with us tomorrow? no party. i'm going to ring up and get aylmer. it won't hurt him to dine quietly with us.' 'we shall be delighted,' said edith. mr mitchell didn't like to see her go, but as he was longing to tell his wife a hundred things that interested them both, he waved his hand to her, saying: 'good-bye. the war will be over in six months. mark my words! and then won't we have a good time!' 'dear mr mitchell!' said edith to herself as she drove back home in the dark. chapter xxvii landi was growing rather anxious about his favourite, for it was quite obvious to him that she was daily becoming more and more under the spell. curious that the first time she should have found the courage to refuse, and that now, after three years' absence and with nothing to complain of particularly on the subject of her husband, she should now be so carried away by this love. she had developed, no doubt. she was touched also, deeply moved at the long fidelity aylmer had shown. he was now no longer an impulsive admirer, but a devotee. even that, however, would not have induced her to think of making such a break in her life if it hadn't been for the war. yes, sir tito put it all down to the war. it had an exciting, thrilling effect on people. it made them reckless. when a woman knows that the man she loves has risked his life, and is only too anxious to risk it again--well, it's natural that she should feel she is also willing to risk something. valour has always been rewarded by beauty. and then her great sense of responsibility, her conscientiousness about bruce--no wonder that had been undermined by his own weak conduct. how could edith help feeling a slight contempt for a husband who not only wouldn't take any chances while he was still within the age, but positively imagined himself ill. true, bruce had always been a _malade imaginaire_; like many others with the same weakness, his valetudinarianism had been terribly increased by the anxiety and worry of the war. but there was not much sympathy about for it just now. while so much real suffering was going on, imaginary ills were ignored, despised or forgotten. bruce hated the war; but he didn't hate it for the sake of other people so much as for his own. the interest that the world took in it positively bored him--absurd as it seems to say so, edith was convinced that he was positively jealous of the general interest in it! he had great fear of losing his money, a great terror of zeppelins; he gave way to his nerves instead of trying to control them. edith knew his greatest wish would have been, had it been possible, to get right away from everything and go and live in spain or america, or somewhere where he could hear no more about the war. such a point of view might be understood in the case, say, of a great poet, a great artist, a man of genius, without any feeling of patriotism, or even a man beyond the age; but bruce--he was the most ordinary and average of human beings, the most commonplace englishman of thirty-seven who had ever been born; that bruce should feel like that did seem to edith a little--contemptible; yet she was sorry for him, she knew he really suffered from insomnia and nerves, though he looked a fine man and had always been regarded as a fair sportsman. he had been fair at football and cricket, and could row a bit, and was an enthusiastic golfist; still, edith knew he would never have made a soldier. bruce wanted to be wrapped up in cotton wool, petted, humoured, looked up to and generally spoilt. * * * * * but what sir tito felt most was the thought of his favourite, who had forgiven her husband that escapade three years ago, now appearing in an unfavourable light. she had been absolutely faithful to bruce in every way, under many temptations, and he knew she was still absolutely faithful. aylmer and edith were neither of them the people for secret meetings, for deception. it was not in her to _tromper_ her husband while pretending to be a devoted wife, and it was equally unlike aylmer to be a false friend. landi was too much of a man of the world to have been particularly shocked, even if he had known they had both deceived bruce. privately, for edith's own sake he almost wished they had. he hated scandal to touch her; he thought she would feel it more than she supposed. but, after all, he reflected, had they begun in that way it would have been sure to end in an elopement, with a man of aylmer's spirit and determination. aylmer, besides, was far too exclusive in his affections, far too jealous, ever to be able to endure to see edith under bruce's thumb, ordered about, trying to please him; and indeed landi was most anxious that they should not be alone too much, in case, now that edith cared for him so much, his feelings would carry him away.... yes, if it once went too far the elopement was a certainty. would the world blame her so very much? that bruce would let her take the children landi had no doubt. he would never stand the bother of them; he wouldn't desire the responsibility; his pride might be a little hurt, but on the whole sir tito shrewdly suspected, as did edith herself, that there would be a certain feeling of relief. bruce had become such an egotist that, though he would miss edith's devotion, he wouldn't grudge her the care of the children. aylmer had pledged her his faith, his whole future; undoubtedly he would marry her and take the children as his own; still, edith would bear the brunt before the world. this sir tito did not fancy at all, and instinctively he began to watch bruce. he felt very doubtful of him. the man who had flirted with the governess, who had eloped with the art student--was it at all likely that he was utterly faithful to edith now? it was most unlikely. and edith's old friend hoped that things would be adjusted in fairness to her. he knew she would be happy with aylmer. why should she not at thirty-five begin a new life with the man she really cared for--a splendid fellow, a man with a fine character, with all his faults, who felt the claims of others, who had brains, pluck, and a sense of honour? but aylmer was going out again to the front. until he returned again, nothing should be done. they should be patient. chapter xxviii dulcie had now been settled down with lady conroy for about a week. she found her luxurious life at carlton house terrace far more congenial than she had expected. her own orderly ways were obviously a great comfort to her employer, and though lady conroy turned everything to chaos as soon as dulcie had put it straight, still she certainly had a good effect on things in general. she had a charming sitting-room to herself, and though she sometimes sighed for the little chippendale room with the chintzes, at jermyn street, she was on the whole very contented. lady conroy was a delightful companion. she seldom pressed dulcie to come down to meals when there were guests. occasionally she did so, but so far the only person dulcie had met more than once was valdez, the handsome composer, who was trying so hard, with the help of lady conroy and his war emergency concerts, to assist such poor musicians as were suffering from the war, and at the same time to assert the value of british music. dulcie had been immensely struck by the commanding appearance and manner of valdez, known everywhere as a singer, a writer of operas and a favourite of foreign royalties. landi she had often met at aylmer's, but, privately, she was far more impressed by valdez; first, he was english, though, like herself, of spanish descent, and then he had none of the _méchanceté_ and teasing wit that made her uncomfortable with landi. he treated her with particularly marked courtesy, and he admired her voice, for lady conroy had good-naturedly insisted on her singing to him. he had even offered, when he had more time, to give her a few lessons. lady conroy told her a hundred interesting stories about him and dulcie found a tinge of romance about him that helped to give piquancy to her present life. * * * * * dulcie was very much afraid of lord conroy, though he didn't appear to notice her. in his own way he was as absent-minded as his wife, to whom he was devoted, but whose existence was entirely independent of his. lord conroy had his own library, his own secretary, his own suite of rooms, his own motor, he didn't even tell his wife when he intended to dine out, and if he occasionally spoke to her of the strained political situation which now absorbed him, it certainly wasn't when dulcie was there. with his grey beard and dark, eyebrows, and absent, distinguished manner, he was exactly what dulcie would have dreamed of as an ideal cabinet minister. he evidently regarded his wife, despite her thirty-eight years and plumpness, almost as a child, giving her complete freedom to pursue her own devices, admiring her appearance, and smiling at her lively and inconsequent conversation; he didn't seem to take her seriously. dulcie was particularly struck by the fact that they each had their own completely distinct circle of friends, and except when they gave a party or a large dinner these friends hardly met, and certainly didn't clash. as everyone in the house had breakfasts independently, and as dulcie didn't even dine downstairs unless lady conroy was alone, she saw very little of the man whom she knew to be a political celebrity, and whose name was on almost everybody's lips just now. she heard from his wife that he was worried and anxious, and hoped the war wouldn't last much longer. there were no less than seven children, from the age of twelve downwards. two of these lived in the schoolroom with the governess, one boy was at school, and the rest lived in the nursery with the nurse. one might say there were five different sets of people living different lives in different rooms, in this enormous house. sometimes dulcie thought it was hardly quite her idea of home life, a thing lady conroy talked of continually with great sentiment and enthusiasm, but it was pleasant enough. since she was here to remember engagements and dates everything seemed to go on wheels. one day, feeling very contented and in good spirits, she had gone to see her father with an impulse to tell him how well she was getting on. directly the door was opened by the untidy servant dulcie felt that something had happened, that some blow had fallen. everything looked different. she found her father in his den surrounded by papers, his appearance and manner so altered that the first thing she said was: 'oh, papa! what's the matter?' her father looked up. at his expression she flew to him and threw her arms round him. then, of course, he broke down. strange that with all women and most men it is only genuine sympathy that makes them give way. with a cool man of the world, or with a hard, cold, heartless daughter who had reproached him, mr clay would have been as casual as an undergraduate. at her sweetness he lost his self-control, and then he told her everything. * * * * * it was a short, commonplace, second-rate story, quite trivial and middle-class, and _how_ tragic! he had gambled, played cards, lost, then fallen back on the resource of the ill-judged and independent-minded--gone to the professional lenders. mr clay was not the sort of man who would ever become a sponge, a nuisance to friends. he was far too proud, and though he had often helped other people, he had never yet asked for help. in a word, the poor little house was practically in ruins, or rather, as he explained frankly enough (giving all details), unless he could get eighty pounds by the next morning his furniture would be sold and he and his wife would be turned out. mr clay had a great horror of a smash. he was imprudent, even reckless, but had the sense of honour that would cause him to suffer acutely, as dulcie knew. of course she offered to help; surely since she had three hundred a year of her own she could do something, and he had about the same....the father explained that he had already sold his income in advance. and her own legacy had been left so that she was barred from anticipation. dulcie, who was practical enough, saw that her own tiny income was absolutely all that the three would have to live on until her father got something else, and that bankruptcy was inevitable unless she could get him eighty pounds in a day. 'it's so little,' he said pathetically, 'and just to think that if blue boy hadn't been scratched i should have been bound to--well, well, i know. i'm not going to bet any more.' she made him promise to buck up, she would consult her friends.... lady conroy would perhaps be angelic and advance her her salary. (of course she loathed the idea when she had been there only a week of being a nuisance and--but she must try.) it was worth anything to see her father brighten up. he told her to go and see her stepmother. mrs. clay received her with the tenderest expressions and poured out her despairs and her troubles; she also confided in dulcie that she had some debts that her husband knew nothing of and must _never_ know. if only dulcie could manage to get her thirty pounds--surely it would be easy enough with all her rich friends!--it would save her life. dulcie promised to try, but begged her not to bother so much about dress in future. 'of course i won't, darling! you're a pet and an angel. _darling_ dulcie! the truth is i adore your father. and he always told me that he fell in love with me because i looked so smart! i was so terrified of losing his affection by getting dowdy, don't you see? besides, he doesn't take the slightest notice what i wear, he never knows what i've got on! always betting or absorbed in the racing intelligence; it's really dreadful.' dulcie promised anything, at least to do her best, if only mrs clay would be kind, sweet to her father. 'don't scold him, don't reproach him,' she begged. 'i'm sure he'll be terribly ill unless you're very patient and sweet to him. and i promise he shall never know about your debts.' mrs clay looked at her in wonder and gratitude. the real reason dulcie took on herself the wife's separate troubles and resolved to keep them from her father was that she felt sure that if he reproached his wife she would retort and then there would be a miserable state of feud in the house, where at least there had been peace and affection till now. dulcie couldn't endure the idea of her father being made unhappy, and she thought that by making her stepmother under an obligation to her, she would have a sort of hold or influence and could make her behave well and kindly to her husband. dulcie hadn't the slightest idea how she was going to do it, but she would. she never even thought twice about giving up her income to her father. she was only too delighted to be able to do it. and she believed that his pride and sense of honour might really even make him stop gambling. and then there was some chance of happiness for the couple again. * * * * * dulcie had really undertaken more of a sacrifice for her stepmother, whom she rather disliked, than for her father, whom she adored, but it was for his sake. she left them cheered, grateful, and relying on her. * * * * * when she got home to her charming room at carlton house terrace she sat down, put her head in her hands and began to think. she had undertaken to get a hundred and ten pounds in two days. how was she to do it? of course she knew that aylmer ross would be able and willing, indeed enchanted, to come to the rescue. he was always telling her that she had saved his life. she would like to get his sympathy and interest, to remind him of her existence. but she was far too much in love with him still to endure the thought of a request for money--that cold douche on friendship! she would rather go to anyone in the world than aylmer. what about edith ottley? edith had been kindness itself to her; it was entirely through edith that she had this position as secretary and companion at a salary of a hundred a year which now would mean so much to her. she admired edith more than any woman she knew; she thought her lovely, elegant, clever, fascinating and kindness itself. yet she would dislike to ask edith even more than aylmer. the reason was obvious. edith was her rival. of course it was not her fault. she had not taken aylmer away from her, she was his old friend, but the fact remained that her idol was in love with edith. and dulcie was so constituted that she could ask neither of them a favour to save her life. lady conroy then.... but how awkward, how disagreeable, how painful to her pride when she had been there only a week and lady conroy treated her almost like a sister!... there was a knock at the door. 'come in!' said dulcie, surprised. no-one ever came to her little sitting-room at this hour, about half-past five. who could it be? to her utter astonishment and confusion the servant announced mr valdez. * * * * * dulcie was sitting on the sofa, still in her hat and coat, her eyes red with crying, for she had utterly given way when she got home. she was amazed and confused at seeing the composer, who came calmly in, holding a piece of music in his hand. 'good morning, miss clay. please forgive me. i hope i'm not troubling you? they told me lady conroy was out but that you were at home and up here; and i hoped--' he glanced at the highly decorated little piano. this room had been known as the music-room before it was given to dulcie. 'oh, not at all,' she said in confusion, looking up and regretting her crimson and swollen eyes and generally unprepared appearance. he immediately came close to her, sat down on a chair opposite her sofa, leant forward and said abruptly, in a tone of warm sympathy: 'you are distressed. what is it, my child? i came up to ask you to play over this song. but i shall certainly not go now till you've told me what's the matter.' 'oh, i can't,' said dulcie, breaking down. he insisted: 'you can. you shall. i'm sure i can help you. go on.' whether it was his personality which always had a magnetism for her, or the reaction of the shock she had had, dulcie actually told him every word, wondering at herself. he listened, and then said cooly: 'my dear child, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. people mustn't worry about trifles. just before the war i won a lot of money at monte carlo. i simply don't know what to do with it. stop!' he said, as she began to speak. 'you want a hundred and ten pounds. you shall have it in half-an-hour. i shall go straight back to claridge's in a taxi, write a cheque, get it changed--for you won't know what to do with a cheque, or at any rate it would give you more trouble--and send you the money straight back by my servant or my secretary in a taxi.' he stood up. 'not another word, my dear miss clay. don't attach so much importance to money. it would be a bore for you to have to bother lady conroy. i understand. don't imagine you're under any obligation; you can pay it me back just whenever you like and i shall give it to the war emergency concerts.... now, _please_, don't be grateful. aren't we friends?' 'you're too kind,' she answered. he hurried to the door. 'when my secretary comes back she will ask to see you. if anyone knows you have a visitor say i sent you the music or tickets for the concert. good-bye. cheer up now!' in an hour from the time valdez had come in to see her, father and stepmother had each received the money. the situation was saved. * * * * * dulcie marvelled at the action and the manner in which it was done. but none who knew valdez well would have been in the least surprised. he was the most generous of men, and particularly he could not bear to see a pretty girl in sincere distress through no fault of her own. it was dulcie's simple sincerity that pleased him. he came across very little of it in his own world. that world was brilliant, distinguished, sometimes artistic, sometimes merely _mondain_. but it was seldom sincere. he liked that quality best of all. he certainly was gifted with it himself. * * * * * from this time, though valdez still encouraged dulcie to sing and occasionally accompanied her, the slight tinge of flirtation vanished from his manner. she felt he was only a friend. did she ever regret it? perhaps, a little. chapter xxix 'bruce, said edith, 'i've just had a letter from aylmer, from eastcliff.' 'oh yes,' said bruce. 'got him off to the seaside at last, did they?' it was a sunday afternoon. bruce was sitting in a melancholy attitude on a sofa in edith's boudoir; he held _the weekly dispatch_ in his hand, and was shaking his head over a pessimistic article when his wife came in. bruce was always depressed now, and if he felt a little more cheerful for a moment he seemed to try and conceal it. no doubt his melancholy was real enough, but it was also partly a pose and a profession. having undertaken to be depressed, he seemed to think it wrong to show a gleam of brightness. besides, on sundays madame frabelle usually listened to him; and this afternoon she had gone, unaccompanied, to hear the rev. byrne fraser preach. bruce felt injured. he had grown to feel quite lost without her. 'he's very dull there,' said edith. 'i dare say he is,' he answered. 'i'm sure _i_ should feel half inclined to cut my throat if i were alone, with a game leg, at a place like that. besides, they've had the zepps there already once. just the place for them to come again.' 'he's very bored. but he's much better, and he's going back to the front in a fortnight.' 'in a fortnight! good heavens! pretty sharp work.' 'it is, indeed. he's counting the hours till he can get off.' bruce, sighing, lighted his cigarette. 'i wondered if you'd mind, bruce, if i went down for the day to see him?' 'mind! oh _dear_, no! of course, go. i think it's your duty, poor old chap. i wondered you didn't run down for the weekend.' 'i didn't like to do that,' she said. 'why on earth not?' said bruce. 'hard luck for a poor chap with no-one to speak to. going back again; so soon too.' 'well, if you don't mind i _might_ go down tomorrow for a couple of days, and take dilly.' 'do,' said bruce eagerly; 'do the kid good.' edith looked at him closely. 'wouldn't you miss her, now that archie's at school too? wouldn't the house seem very quiet?' 'not a bit!' exclaimed bruce with emphatic sincerity. 'not the least bit in the world! at least, of course, the house _would_ seem quiet, but that's just what i like. i _long_ for quiet--yearn for it. you don't half understand my condition of health, edith. the quieter i am, the less worried, the better. of course, take dilly. _rather_! i'd _like_ you to go!' 'all right. i'll go tomorrow morning till tuesday or wednesday. but wouldn't it seem the least bit rude to madame frabelle? she talks of going away soon, you know.' 'oh, she won't mind,' said bruce decidedly. 'i shouldn't bother about her. we never treat her with ceremony.' * * * * * when, a little bit later, madame frabelle came in (with a slight perfume of incense about her, and very full of a splendidly depressing sermon she had heard), she heartily agreed with bruce. they both persuaded edith to run down on the monday and stay till wednesday evening at least. 'perhaps we shall never meet again,' said bruce pleasantly, as edith, dilly and the nurse were starting; 'either the zeppelins may come while you're away, or they may set your hotel at eastcliff on fire. just the place for them.' 'well, if you want me you've only to telephone, and i can be back in a little more than an hour.' madame frabelle accompanied edith to the station. she said to her on the way: 'do you know, edith, i'm half expecting a telegram which may take me away. i have a relative who is anxious for me to go and stay with her, an aunt. but even if i did go, perhaps you'd let me come back to you after?' edith assented. somehow she did not much believe either in the telegram nor the relative. she thought that her friend talked like that so as to give the impression that she was not a fixture; that she was much sought after and had many friends, one or two of whom might insist on her leaving the ottleys soon. aylmer was at the little eastcliff station to meet them. except that he walked with the help of a stick, he seemed well, and having put dilly, the nurse and the luggage in a cab, he proposed to edith to walk to the hotel. 'this _was_ angelic of you, edith. how jolly the child looks!--like a live doll.' 'you didn't mind my bringing her?' 'why, i'm devoted to her. but, you know, i hope it wasn't done for any conventional reasons. headley and i are in the annexe, nearly half-a-mile from you.' 'i know,' said edith. 'and when you see the people here, my dear, nobody on earth that counts or matters!--people whom you've never seen before and never will again. but i've been counting the minutes till you came. it really isn't a bad little hole.' he took her down to a winding path covered in under trees, which led to the sea by steps cut in the rock. they sat down on a bench. the sea air was fresh and soothing. 'this is where i sit and read--and think about you. well, edith, are you going to put me out of my suspense? how much longer am i to suffer? let me look at you.' she looked up at him. he smiled at what he saw. 'it'll be rather jolly to have two days or so here all to ourselves,' he said, 'but it will be far from jolly unless you give me that promise.' 'but doesn't the promise refer to after you come back again?' she said in a low voice. 'i don't ask you to come away until i'm back again. but i want you to promise before that you will.' nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but after dinner, when dilly had been put to bed, it was so warm that they could come out again, and then she said: 'aylmer, don't worry yourself any more. i mean to do it.' 'you do!' he looked at her ecstatically. 'oh, edith! i'm too happy! do you quite realise, dear, what it is?... i've been waiting for you for four years. ever since that night i met you at the mitchells'. do you know that before the war, when i came into that money, i was wild with rage. it seemed so wasted on me. i had no use for it then. and when i first met you i used to long for it. i hated being hard up.... the first time i had a gleam of hope was when they told me i'd got over the operation all right. i couldn't believe my life would be spared, for nothing. and now--you won't change your mind again?' edith convinced him that she would not. they sat hand in hand, perhaps as near perfect happiness as two human beings can be.... 'we shall never be happier than we are now,' said edith in a low voice. 'oh, shan't we?' he said. 'rubbish! rot! what about our life when i come back again?--every dream realised!' 'and yet your going to risk it,' said edith. 'naturally; that's nothing. i shall come back like a bad penny, don't you worry. edith, say you mean it, _again_.' 'say i mean what?' 'say you love me, you'll marry me. you and the children will belong to me. you won't have any regrets? swear you won't have any regrets and remorse!' 'i never will. you know, aylmer, i am like that. most women know what they want till they've got it, and then they want something else! but when i get what i want i don't regret it.' 'i know, my darling sensible angel!... edith, to think this might have happened three years ago!' 'but then i _would_ have had regrets.' 'you only thought so,' he answered. 'i should have made you forget them very soon! don't you feel, my dear, that we're made for each other? i know it.' 'aylmer, how shall i be able to bear your going out again? it will be like a horrible nightmare. and perhaps all we've both gone through may be for nothing!' 'no, now i've got your promise everything will be all right.... i feel i shall come back all right.... look here, darling, you need not be unhappy with bruce. we're not going to deceive him. and when i come back, we'll tell him. not till then. there is really no need.' they walked together to the annexe, which was entered by a small flight of stone steps from the garden. here aylmer had a little suite of rooms. edith went into the sitting-room with him and looked round. 'it's ten o'clock and you're here for your health! call headley and go to bed, there's a good boy.' he held both her hands. 'i mustn't ask you to stay.' '_aylmer_! with dilly here! and bruce let me come down to look after you! he was quite nice about it.' 'all right, dear, all right.... i know. no. i'm looking forward to when i come back.... go, dear, go.' edith walked very slowly down the steps again. he followed her back into the garden. 'and suppose--you didn't come back,' she said in a very low voice. aylmer glanced round: there was no-one in the garden. 'i'm on my honour here,' he said. 'go, dear, go. go in to dilly.' he gave her a little push. 'one kiss,' said edith. he smiled. 'darling girl, i've told you before that's a thing i can't do. i really oughtn't to be alone with you at all until we're quite free....' 'but i feel we're engaged,' said edith simply. 'is it wrong to kiss your fiancée?' 'engaged? of course we're engaged. wrong? of course it's not wrong! only... i _can't_! haven't got the self-command.... i do believe you're made of ice, edith--i've often thought so.' 'yes,' said edith, 'i dare say you're right.' aylmer laughed. 'nonsense! good night, my darling--don't catch cold. and, edith.' 'yes, aylmer?' 'i'll meet you here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.' 'yes, aylmer.' 'then you'd better go back in the afternoon. it won't do for you to stay another night here. oh, edith, how happy we _shall_ be!' he watched her as she walked across the garden and went into the hotel at the front door. then he went indoors. * * * * * the next day edith, dilly and the nurse went back to london early in the afternoon. chapter xxx edith, during the short journey home, sat with a smile on her lips, thinking of a little scene she had seen before leaving eastcliff from the hall, known as the lounge, of the hotel. she had watched dilly, beaming with joy, playing with a particularly large air-ball, bright rose colour, that aylmer had bought her from a well-known character of the place, a very old woman, who made her living by the sale of these old-fashioned balloons. dilly was enchanted with it. she had said to aylmer when the old woman passed with a quantity of them. 'they look like flowers; they ought to have a pretty scent,' which amused him immensely. as she held it in her hand, pressing it with her tiny finger, a tragedy happened. the air-ball burst. edith could hardly help laughing at seeing dilly's expression. it was despair--gradual horror--shock, her first disillusion! then as tears were welling up in the large blue eyes--she was saying: 'oh, it's dead!'--edith saw aylmer snatch the collapsed wreck from the child's hand and run as fast as he could (which was not very fast, and only when leaning on a stick) after the old woman.... he caught her as she turned the corner, brought back a pink and a blue air-ball and gave them to dilly, one for each hand. the child beamed again, happier than at first, threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. how touched and delighted edith was! would bruce _ever_ have done such a thing? aylmer had so thoroughly appreciated the little drama of joy, disillusion and consolation shown in the expression in dilly's lovely little face. had anything been wanting to edith's resolution this small incident would have decided it. * * * * * when they arrived home, a day sooner than they were expected, the servant told edith at the door that madame frabelle had gone away. 'gone without seeing me?' 'yes, madam. a telegram came for her and she left last night. here is a letter for you, madam.' edith ran into the dining-room and tore it open. 'my dearest edith (it said), 'to my great regret a wire i half expected came, and i was compelled to leave before your return, to join my relative, who is ill. i can't tell you how sorry i am not to say good-bye and thank you for your dear kind hospitality. but i'll write again, a long letter. i hope also to see you later. i will give you my address next time. 'may i say one word? i can't say half enough of my gratitude for your kindness and friendship, but, apart from that, may i mention that i fear your husband _is very unwell indeed_, his nerves are in a terrible state, and i think his condition is more serious than you suppose. he should be humoured in everything, not worried, and allowed to do whatever he likes. don't oppose any of his wishes, dear. i say this for your and his own good. don't be angry with him or anybody. never think me wanting in gratitude and friendship. 'truly, i am still your affectionate friend, 'eglantine.' what a strange letter. how like her to lay down the law about bruce! it irritated edith a little, also it made the future seem harder. about four o'clock landi called unexpectedly. he always came just when edith wanted him most, and now she confided in him and told him of her promise to aylmer. he approved of their resolution to wait till aylmer returned from the front and to have nothing on their conscience before. he was indeed much relieved at the postponement. 'and how is the spanish girl?' he asked. 'how does she get on with lady conroy?' 'oh, all right. she's not spanish at all. she had rather a blow last week, poor girl. her father nearly went bankrupt; she was quite in despair. it seems your friend valdez came to the rescue in the most generous way, and she's immensely grateful.' 'he helped her, did he?' said landi, smiling. 'he seems to have behaved most generously and charmingly. do you think he is in love with her, landi?' 'very likely he will be now.' 'and she--she adores aylmer. will she fall in love with valdez out of gratitude?' 'c'est probable. c'est à espérer.... enfin-mais toi, mon enfant?' 'and where is madame frabelle?' asked landi. edith looked at the postmark. 'apparently she's at liverpool, of all places; but she may be going somewhere else. i haven't got her address. she says she'll write.' 'c'est ça.... when does aylmer return to the front?' 'he goes before the board tomorrow and will know then.' that evening, when bruce came in, edith was struck by his paleness and depression; and she began to think madame frabelle was right; he must be really ill. then, if he was, could she, later, be so cruel as to leave him? she was in doubt again.... 'very bad news in the evening papers,' he said. 'is it so bad?' 'edith,' said bruce, rather solemnly, without listening, 'i want to speak to you after dinner. i have something serious to say to you'. 'really?' 'yes, really.' edith wondered. could bruce suspect anything? but apparently he didn't, since he spoke in a very friendly way of aylmer, saying that he hoped he wouldn't stop away long.... the dinner passed in trivial conversation. she described eastcliff, the hotel, the people. bruce appeared absent-minded. after dinner she went to join him in the library, where he was smoking, and said: 'well, bruce, what is it you have to say to me?' 'good heavens,' said bruce, looking at his writing-desk, 'if i've spoken of this once i've spoken of it forty times! the inkstand is too full!' 'oh! i'm so dreadfully sorry,' said edith, feeling the strangeness of bruce's want of sense of proportion. he had, as it seemed, to speak to her about some important matter. yet the inkstand being too full attracted his attention, roused his anger! she remembered he had said these very words the day he came back from his elopement with the art student. edith looked round the room, while bruce smoked. and so she had really made up her mind! she _meant_ to leave him! not that she intended to see aylmer again now, except once, perhaps, to say good-bye. but still, she really intended to change her whole life when he returned again. she felt rather conscience-stricken, but was glad when she looked at bruce that there had never been anything as yet but platonic affection between her and aylmer, which she could have no cause to blush for before bruce. and how grateful she felt to aylmer for his wonderful self-control. thanks to that, she could look bruce in the face.... bruce was speaking. 'edith,' he said with some agitation, 'i wish to tell you something.' she saw he looked pale and nervous. 'what is it, bruce?' she asked kindly. 'it's this,' he said in a somewhat pompous tone, 'i am in a very strange condition of health. i find i can no longer endure to live in london; i must get away from the war. the doctor says so. if i'm to keep sane, if i'm not to commit suicide, i must give up this domestic life.' she stared at him. 'yes, i'm sorry, i've tried to endure it,' he went on. 'i can't stand the responsibility, the anxiety of the children and everything. i'm--i'm going away.' she said nothing, looking at him in silence. 'yes. i'm going to america. i've taken my passage. i'm going on friday.... i thought of leaving without telling you, but i decided it was better to be open.' 'but, bruce, do you mean for a trip?' he stood up and looked at her full in the face. 'no, i don't mean for a trip. i want to live in america.' 'and you don't want me to come too?' 'no, edith; i can't endure married life any longer. it doesn't suit me. three years ago i offered you your freedom and you refused to take it; i offer it you again now. you are older, you are perfectly fit to manage your life and the children's without me. i must be free--free to look after my health and to get away from everything!' 'you mean to leave us altogether then?' said edith, feeling unspeakably thankful. 'exactly. that's just what i do mean.' 'but will you be happy--comfortable--alone in america?' he walked across the room and came back. 'edith, i'm sorry to pain you, but i shall not be alone.' edith started, thinking of madame frabelle's letter ... from liverpool! evidently they were going away together. 'of course i give up the foreign office and my salary there, but you have some money of your own, edith; it will be enough for you and the children to live quietly. and perhaps i shall be able to afford to send you part of my income that my father left me when i get something to do over there,' he added rather lamely. 'you mean to get something to do?' 'yes; when i'm strong enough. i'm very ill--very.' there was a long pause, then edith said kindly: 'have you any fault to find with me, bruce?' 'edith, you are a perfect mother,' he said in a peculiar tone which sounded to edith like an echo of madame frabelle. 'i've no fault to find with you either as a wife. but i'm not happy here. i'm miserable. i implore you not to make a scene. don't oppose me; forgive me--on account of my health. this will save my life.' if he only knew how little she wished to oppose him! she stood up. 'bruce, you shall do exactly as you like!' he looked enchanted, relieved. 'i hope you will be happy and well, and i shall try to be. may i just ask--is madame frabelle going to america?' 'edith, i will not deny it. we mean to throw in our lot together! look out! you'll have the inkstand over!' she had moved near the writing-table. edith stopped herself from a hysterical laugh. 'you won't mind if i go down to the club for an hour?' 'certainly not.' 'and, edith--say what you can to my mother, and comfort her. tell her it's to save my going off my head, or committing suicide. will you say that?' 'i will,' she replied. five minutes later the door banged. bruce had gone to the club. he hadn't told her he had taken a room there, and the same evening he sent up for his luggage. he did not wish to see edith again. just before he went out, as if casually for an hour at the club, edith had said: 'would you like to come and see dilly asleep?' it had occurred to her that at least he had been frank and honest, and for that he deserved to see dilly again. 'edith, my nerves won't stand scenes. i'd better not. i won't see her.' 'oh, very well!' she cried indignantly. 'i offered it for your sake. i would rather you _didn't_ see her.' 'try not to be angry, edith. perhaps--some day--' 'no. never.' 'you would never let me come back again to see you all?' 'never. never.' 'edith.' 'yes.' 'oh! nothing. you needn't be so cross. remember my health.' 'i do,' said edith. 'and--edith.' 'yes, bruce?' 'don't forget about that inkstand, will you? it's always filled just a little too full. it's--it's very awkward.... remember about it, won't you?' 'yes. good night.' 'good night.' and bruce went to the club. * * * * * the next day edith felt she could neither write nor telephone to aylmer. just once--only once, for a long time--she must see him. she confided in landi, who invited them both to tea at his studio for once only and was urgent in impressing patience on them. * * * * * when edith arrived with this thrilling piece of news to announce she found aylmer alone in the pretty white studio. landi was expected back every moment from a lesson at a pupil's house. * * * * * aylmer was beaming with joy. 'oh, my dear!' he cried, 'i'm not going away at all! they won't have me! they've given me an appointment at the war office.' 'oh, aylmer! how wonderful! i know now--i couldn't have borne your going out again--now.' he put his arm round her. ah! this, she felt, was real love--it wrapped her round, it lifted her off her feet. 'but now, aylmer, we mustn't meet, for a long time.' 'but, why not? what is it? something has happened!' 'aylmer, i needn't keep my promise now.' 'what do you mean?' 'aylmer, bruce wants to leave me. he's going to leave me--to desert me. and the children, too.' 'what! do you mean--do you mean--like before?' 'yes. but this time he won't come back. and he wants me to divorce him. and--this time--i shall!' 'edith! and do you mean--will he want to marry again?' 'yes, of course! and she'll take care of him--he'll be all right.' 'oh, edith!' exclaimed aylmer. 'thank heaven for madame frabelle!' the love of ulrich nebendahl by jerome k. jerome author of "paul kelver," "three men in a boat," etc., etc. new york dodd, mead & company copyright, , by jerome k. jerome copyright, , by dodd, mead & company published, september, the love of ulrich nebendahl perhaps of all, it troubled most the herr pfarrer. was he not the father of the village? and as such did it not fall to him to see his children marry well and suitably? marry in any case. it was the duty of every worthy citizen to keep alive throughout the ages the sacred hearth fire, to rear up sturdy lads and honest lassies that would serve god, and the fatherland. a true son of saxon soil was the herr pastor winckelmann--kindly, simple, sentimental. "why, at your age, ulrich--at your age," repeated the herr pastor, setting down his beer and wiping with the back of his hand his large uneven lips, "i was the father of a family--two boys and a girl. you never saw her, ulrich; so sweet, so good. we called her maria." the herr pfarrer sighed and hid his broad red face behind the raised cover of his pewter pot. "they must be good fun in a house, the little ones," commented ulrich, gazing upward with his dreamy eyes at the wreath of smoke ascending from his long-stemmed pipe. "the little ones, always my heart goes out to them." "take to yourself a wife," urged the herr pfarrer. "it is your duty. the good god has given to you ample means. it is not right that you should lead this lonely life. bachelors make old maids; things of no use." "that is so," ulrich agreed. "i have often said the same unto myself. it would be pleasant to feel one was not working merely for oneself." "elsa, now," went on the herr pfarrer, "she is a good child, pious and economical. the price of such is above rubies." ulrich's face lightened with a pleasant smile. "aye, elsa is a good girl," he answered. "her little hands--have you ever noticed them, herr pastor--so soft and dimpled." the pfarrer pushed aside his empty pot and leaned his elbows on the table. "i think--i do not think--she would say no. her mother, i have reason to believe--let me sound them--discreetly." the old pastor's red face glowed redder, yet with pleasurable anticipation; he was a born matchmaker. but ulrich the wheelwright shuffled in his chair uneasily. "a little longer," he pleaded. "let me think it over. a man should not marry without first being sure he loves. things might happen. it would not be fair to the maiden." the herr pfarrer stretched his hand across the table and laid it upon ulrich's arm. "it is hedwig; twice you walked home with her last week." "it is a lonesome way for a timid maiden; and there is the stream to cross," explained the wheelwright. for a moment the herr pastor's face had clouded, but now it cleared again. "well, well, why not? elsa would have been better in some respects, but hedwig--ah, yes, she, too, is a good girl a little wild perhaps--it will wear off. have you spoken with her?" "not yet." "but you will?" again there fell that troubled look into those dreamy eyes. this time it was ulrich who, laying aside his pipe, rested his great arms upon the wooden table. "now, how does a man know when he is in love?" asked ulrich of the pastor who, having been married twice, should surely be experienced upon the point. "how should he be sure that it is this woman and no other to whom his heart has gone out?" a commonplace-looking man was the herr pastor, short and fat and bald. but there had been other days, and these had left to him a voice that still was young; and the evening twilight screening the seared face, ulrich heard but the pastor's voice, which was the voice of a boy. "she will be dearer to you than yourself. thinking of her, all else will be as nothing. for her you would lay down your life." they sat in silence for a while; for the fat little herr pfarrer was dreaming of the past; and long, lanky ulrich nebendahl, the wheelwright, of the future. that evening, as chance would have it, ulrich returning to his homestead--a rambling mill beside the river, where he dwelt alone with ancient anna--met elsa of the dimpled hands upon the bridge that spans the murmuring muhlde, and talked a while with her, and said good-night. how sweet it had been to watch her ox-like eyes shyly seeking his, to press her dimpled hand and feel his own great strength. surely he loved her better than he did himself. there could be no doubt of it. he pictured her in trouble, in danger from the savage soldiery that came and went like evil shadows through these pleasant saxon valleys, leaving death and misery behind them: burnt homesteads; wild-eyed women, hiding their faces from the light. would he not for her sake give his life? so it was made clear to him that little elsa was his love. until next morning, when, raising his eyes from the whirling saw, there stood before him margot, laughing. margot, mischief-loving, wayward, that would ever be to him the baby he had played with, nursed, and comforted. margot weary! had he not a thousand times carried her sleeping in his arms. margot in danger! at the mere thought his face flushed an angry scarlet. all that afternoon ulrich communed with himself, tried to understand himself, and could not. for elsa and margot and hedwig were not the only ones by a long way. what girl in the village did he not love, if it came to that: liesel, who worked so hard and lived so poorly, bullied by her cross-grained granddam. susanna, plain and a little crotchety, who had never had a sweetheart to coax the thin lips into smiles. the little ones--for so they seemed to long, lanky ulrich, with their pleasant ways--ulrich smiled as he thought of them--how should a man love one more than another? the herr pfarrer shook his head and sighed. "that is not love. gott in himmel! think what it would lead to? the good god never would have arranged things so. you love one; she is the only woman in the world for you." "but you, yourself, herr pastor, you have twice been married," suggested the puzzled wheelwright. "but one at a time, ulrich--one at a time. that is a very different thing." why should it not come to him, alone among men? surely it was a beautiful thing, this love; a thing worthy of a man, without which a man was but a useless devourer of food, cumbering the earth. so ulrich pondered, pausing from his work one drowsy summer's afternoon, listening to the low song of the waters. how well he knew the winding muhlde's merry voice. he had worked beside it, played beside it all his life. often he would sit and talk to it as to an old friend, reading answers in its changing tones. trudchen, seeing him idle, pushed her cold nose into his hand. trudchen just now was feeling clever and important. was she not the mother of the five most wonderful puppies in all saxony? they swarmed about his legs, pressing him with their little foolish heads. ulrich stooped and picked up one in each big hand. but this causing jealousy and heartburning, laughing, he lay down upon a log. then the whole five stormed over him, biting his hair, trampling with their clumsy paws upon his face; till suddenly they raced off in a body to attack a floating feather. ulrich sat up and watched them, the little rogues, the little foolish, helpless things, that called for so much care. a mother thrush twittered above his head. ulrich rose and creeping on tiptoe, peeped into the nest. but the mother bird, casting one glance towards him, went on with her work. whoever was afraid of ulrich the wheelwright! the tiny murmuring insects buzzed to and fro about his feet. an old man, passing to his evening rest, gave him "good-day." a zephyr whispered something to the leaves, at which they laughed, then passed upon his way. here and there a shadow crept out from its hiding-place. "if only i could marry the whole village!" laughed ulrich to himself. but that, of course, is nonsense! the spring that followed let loose the dogs of war again upon the blood-stained land, for now all germany, taught late by common suffering forgetfulness of local rivalries, was rushing together in a mighty wave that would sweep french feet for ever from their hold on german soil. ulrich, for whom the love of woman seemed not, would at least be the lover of his country. he, too, would march among those brave stern hearts that, stealing like a thousand rivulets from every german valley, were flowing north and west to join the prussian eagles. but even love of country seemed denied to ulrich of the dreamy eyes. his wheelwright's business had called him to a town far off. he had been walking all the day. towards evening, passing the outskirts of a wood, a feeble cry for help, sounding from the shadows, fell upon his ear. ulrich paused, and again from the sombre wood crept that weary cry of pain. ulrich ran and came at last to where, among the wild flowers and the grass, lay prone five human figures. two of them were of the german landwehr, the other three frenchmen in the hated uniform of napoleon's famous scouts. it had been some unimportant "affair of outposts," one of those common incidents of warfare that are never recorded--never remembered save here and there by some sad face unnoticed in the crowd. four of the men were dead; one, a frenchman was still alive, though bleeding copiously from a deep wound in the chest that with a handful of dank grass he was trying to staunch. ulrich raised him in his arms. the man spoke no german, and ulrich knew but his mother tongue; but when the man, turning towards the neighbouring village with a look of terror in his half-glazed eyes, pleaded with his hands, ulrich understood, and lifting him gently carried him further into the wood. he found a small deserted shelter that had been made by charcoal-burners, and there on a bed of grass and leaves ulrich laid him; and there for a week all but a day ulrich tended him and nursed him back to life, coming and going stealthily like a thief in the darkness. then ulrich, who had thought his one desire in life to be to kill all frenchmen, put food and drink into the frenchman's knapsack and guided him half through the night and took his hand; and so they parted. ulrich did not return to alt waldnitz, that lies hidden in the forest beside the murmuring muhlde. they would think he had gone to the war; he would let them think so. he was too great a coward to go back to them and tell them that he no longer wanted to fight; that the sound of the drum brought to him only the thought of trampled grass where dead men lay with curses in their eyes. so, with head bowed down in shame, to and fro about the moaning land, ulrich of the dreamy eyes came and went, guiding his solitary footsteps by the sounds of sorrow, driving away the things of evil where they crawled among the wounded, making his way swiftly to the side of pain, heedless of the uniform. thus one day he found himself by chance near again to forest-girdled waldnitz. he would push his way across the hills, wander through its quiet ways in the moonlight while the good folks all lay sleeping. his foot-steps quickened as he drew nearer. where the trees broke he would be able to look down upon it, see every roof he knew so well--the church, the mill, the winding muhlde--the green, worn grey with dancing feet, where, when the hateful war was over, would be heard again the saxon folk-songs. another was there, where the forest halts on the brow of the hill--a figure kneeling on the ground with his face towards the village. ulrich stole closer. it was the herr pfarrer, praying volubly but inaudibly. he scrambled to his feet as ulrich touched him, and his first astonishment over, poured forth his tale of woe. there had been trouble since ulrich's departure. a french corps of observation had been camped upon the hill, and twice within the month had a french soldier been found murdered in the woods. heavy had been the penalties exacted from the village, and terrible had been the colonel's threats of vengeance. now, for a third time, a soldier stabbed in the back had been borne into camp by his raging comrades, and this very afternoon the colonel had sworn that if the murderer were not handed over to him within an hour from dawn, when the camp was to break up, he would before marching burn the village to the ground. the herr pfarrer was on his way back from the camp where he had been to plead for mercy, but it had been in vain. "such are foul deeds!" said ulrich. "the people are mad with hatred of the french," answered the herr pastor. "it may be one, it may be a dozen who have taken vengeance into their own hands. may god forgive them." "they will not come forward--not to save the village?" "can you expect it of them! there is no hope for us; the village will burn as a hundred others have burned." aye, that was true; ulrich had seen their blackened ruins; the old sitting with white faces among the wreckage of their homes, the little children wailing round their knees, the tiny broods burned in their nests. he had picked their corpses from beneath the charred trunks of the dead elms. the herr pfarrer had gone forward on his melancholy mission to prepare the people for their doom. ulrich stood alone, looking down upon alt waldnitz bathed in moonlight. and there came to him the words of the old pastor: "she will be dearer to you than yourself. for her you would lay down your life." and ulrich knew that his love was the village of alt waldnitz, where dwelt his people, the old and wrinkled, the laughing "little ones," where dwelt the helpless dumb things with their deep pathetic eyes, where the bees hummed drowsily, and the thousand tiny creatures of the day. they hanged him high upon a withered elm, with his face towards alt waldnitz, that all the village, old and young, might see; and then to the beat of drum and scream of fife they marched away; and forest-hidden waldnitz gathered up once more its many threads of quiet life and wove them into homely pattern. they talked and argued many a time, and some there were who praised and some who blamed. but the herr pfarrer could not understand. until years later a dying man unburdened his soul so that the truth became known. then they raised ulrich's coffin reverently, and the young men carried it into the village and laid it in the churchyard that it might always be among them. they reared above him what in their eyes was a grand monument, and carved upon it: "greater love hath no man than this." transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/fourphaseslovet heysgoog . this volume includes the following short-stories: a. eye-blindness and soul-blindness.; b. marion; c. la rabbiata; and d. "by the banks of the tiber." four phases of love by paul heyse. * * * translated by e. h. kingsley. london: g. routledge & co. farringdon street; new york: , beekman street. . eye-blindness and soul-blindness. * * * chapter i. at the open window, which looked out into the little flower-garden, stood the blind daughter of the village sacristan, refreshing herself in the cool breeze that swept across her hot cheeks; her delicate, half-developed form trembled, her cold little hands lay folded in each other upon the window-sill. the sun had already set, and the night-flowers were beginning to scent the air. further within the room sat a blind boy on a stool, at the old spinet, playing wild melodies. he might have been about fifteen years old--only, perhaps, a year older than the girl. whoever had heard and seen him, now throwing up his large eyes, and now turning his head towards the window, would never have suspected his privation--so much energy, and even impetuosity, lay in his every movement. suddenly he broke off in the midst of a religious hymn, which he seemed to have altered wildly after his own fancy. "you sighed!" he said, turning his face towards her. "i! no, clement--why should i sigh? i only shrank together as the wind blew in so strongly!" "but you _did_ sigh. do you think that i did not hear it as i played?--and i feel even here how you are trembling." "yes; it has grown so cold." "you cannot deceive me. if you were cold you would not stand at the open window. but i know why you sigh and tremble!--because the doctor is coming to-morrow, and will prick our eyes with needles--that is what makes you so afraid; and yet he said how soon it would all be over, and that it would only be like the prick of a pin. and _you_, who used to be so brave and patient, that my mother always mentioned you as an example when i was little and cried when anything hurt me, though you were only a girl--have you now lost all your courage? do you never think of the happiness we have to look forward to?" she shook her little head, and answered, "how can you think that i am afraid of the passing pain! but i am oppressed with silly, childish thoughts, which i cannot drive away. ever since the day that the doctor the baron sent for came down from the castle to your father, and mother called us out of the garden--ever since that hour something weighs upon me and will not go away. you were so full of joy that you did not perceive it; but when your father began to pray, and blessed god for this mercy, my heart was silent and did not follow his prayer. i thought within myself, 'what have i to be thankful for?' and could not understand." thus she spoke in a quiet resigned voice. the boy again struck a few light chords. between the sharp whizzing tones, peculiar to the instrument on which he played, rang the distant songs of home-returning peasants--a contrast, like that of _their_ bright active life, with the dream-life of these blind children. the boy seemed to feel it. he rose quickly, walked with a firm step to the window--for he knew the room and all its furniture--and said, as he threw back his bright fair locks, "you are incomprehensible, mary! our parents and all the village congratulate us. will it not be a gain after all? until it was promised me i never asked much about it. we are blind, they say; i never understood what was wanting in us. when we sat without there by the wood, and travellers came by, and said, 'poor children!' i felt angry, and thought, 'what have they to pity in us?' but that we are different from others, i know well enough. they often talked about things which i could not understand, yet which must be very beautiful. and now that we are going to know them too, the longing never leaves me day nor night." "i was contented as i was," said mary, sadly, "i was so happy, and should have liked to be as happy all my life. it will all be different now! have you never heard people complain that the world is full of sorrow and care--and did we know care?" "because we did not know the world--and i _will_ know it at all risks! i suffered myself to be pleased with groping about in the dark with you, and being obliged to do nothing, but not always! often, when my father taught us history, and told us about heroes and bold deeds, i asked him if any of them had been blind? but whoever had done anything great could see. and then i often plagued myself all day long with thoughts about it. then when i played on the spinet, or was allowed to play on the organ, in your father's place, i forgot my uneasiness for a time; but when it came back, i thought, 'must you always play the organ, and go the few hundred paces up and down the village that you know; and must no one out of the village ever know you; and must none ever name you after you are dead?' look you, mary,--since the doctor has been at the castle, i hope that i yet may become a perfect man; and then i will go out into the world and take the path that pleases me, and i shall have nothing to ask any one!" "and not me, clement?" she said it uncomplainingly and without reproach. but the boy answered vehemently, "sister mary, do not talk such nonsense--i cannot bear it! do you think that i would leave you alone at home and steal away amongst strangers? do you not trust me?" "i know well what happens when young men go from the village to the town, or on their wanderings, no one goes with them, not even their own sisters. and here too, even before they are grown up, the boys run away from the little girls and go into the woods with each other, and mock the girls when they meet them. till now they have left you and me together, and we played and learned with each other. you were blind like me--what did you want with the other boys? but when you can see, and want to sit in the house with me, they will laugh at you, as they do at everyone who won't go with them. and then--then you will go quite away for a long, long time, and i had grown so accustomed to be with you." she had spoken the last words with difficulty; then her sorrow overcame her and she sobbed aloud. clement drew her closely to him, stroked her cheek, and said entreatingly, "you _must_ not cry! i will never go away from you! never! never! rather than do that i will remain blind and forget everything. i _will_ not leave you if it makes you cry. come, be calm, be cheerful. you should not heat yourself, the doctor said, because it is so bad for your eyes, darling, darling mary!" he pressed her closer in his arms and kissed her for the first time in his life. his mother called to him from the neighbouring parsonage-house. he led the still weeping girl to an arm-chair by the wall, let her sink gently into it and hastened out. shortly after, two dignified looking men strode down from the castle-hill towards the village. the rector, a tall, powerful figure, with all the strength and majesty of an apostle, and the sacristan, a slender man with an expression of humility about him, and whose hair was already as white as snow. they had both been invited by the baron to spend the afternoon with himself and the doctor, who had come from the town, at his invitation, to examine the children's eyes, and to try the effects of an operation. he had again assured both the rejoicing fathers of his hopes of a perfect cure, and had begged them to hold themselves in readiness for the following day. the mothers had decided on preparing all that was necessary in the parsonage, for they were unwilling to separate the children on the day which was to restore them that light of which they had been together so long deprived. when the two fathers reached their homes, which lay just opposite to each other, the rector pressed his old friend's hand, and said with a moistening eye, "god be with us and them!" then they separated. the sacristan entered his house--all was still--the maid was without in the garden. he entered his chamber and rejoiced in the stillness which permitted him to be alone with his god. as he stepped over the threshold, he started--his child had arisen from the chair and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes; her bosom heaved painfully; her cheeks and lips were blanched. he spoke to her and entreated her to calm herself, and asked her earnestly, "what has happened to you?" she answered but with tears which she herself understood not. chapter ii. they had placed the children in bed in two upper rooms of the rectory looking towards the north. in the absence of shutters, the windows were carefully covered with dark curtains, so that in the brightest day scarcely a ray of light could creep in. the rector's wide orchard overshadowed the walls, and kept at a distance the murmur of external life. the doctor had recommended that particular care should be taken of the little girl; all that depended on him had succeeded; now, in quiet, must nature do the rest; and the girl's easily excitable temperament required the most careful attention and precaution. at the decisive moment, mary had been firm, when her mother burst into tears, as she heard the doctor's footstep on the stairs, she had gone to her and encouraged her. the doctor began with the boy, who, excited but of good courage, sat down and bore all; only at first he would not allow anyone to hold him during the operation, but at mary's entreaties he at last permitted it to be done. when the doctor, after some seconds had elapsed, removed his hands from the boy's eyelids, he screamed loudly with joyous terror. mary recoiled. then she bore without a murmur the passing pain. but tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame trembled; so that the doctor hastily placed a bandage over her eyes, and assisted her himself to her room; for her knees trembled under her. there, on her couch, sleep and fainting struggled long over her, whilst the boy declared that he was perfectly well, and only lay down at his father's earnest entreaties. but he did not sleep at once. coloured forms--coloured now for the first time--glided by him, full of mystery; forms which, as yet, were nothing to him, and which were to become so much, if the people were right who wished him joy. he asked his father and mother, as they sat by his bedside, about innumerable things, which truly the most profound science could hardly have solved. what does _it_ know of the well-springs of life? his father entreated him to have patience, for with god's help he would soon be able to resolve his doubts more clearly for himself. now, rest was necessary for him, and above all for mary, whom he might so easily awake with his talking. then he was silent, and listened through the wall. he begged them, in whispers, to open the door, that he might hear whether she slept or was not sighing from pain. his mother did as he wished. then he lay motionless and listened, and the breathing of his sleeping little friend, as it sighed softly in and out, sang him, too, at last, to sleep. so they lay for hours. the village without was more quiet than usual. when a peasant had to pass the rectory with his cart, he guarded carefully against noise. even the children, who may have been told by their master, did not storm out of the school as noisily as was their wont, but went in twos and threes, whispering, and glancing shily at the house, as they passed to more distant play-grounds. only the song of the birds ceased not among the branches; but when has _its_ sound disturbed or wearied a rest-seeking child of man? the bells of the cows returning from pasture first awakened the two children. the boy's first question was, whether mary had inquired for him yet? he asked her then, in a low voice, how she was. her heavy sleep had hardly refreshed her, and her eyes burned under their light covering. but she forced herself to say that she was better, and chatted gaily with clement, over whose lips streamed the wildest thoughts. late, when the moon had already risen from behind the wood, hesitating little hands knocked at the rector's door. it was the little village girls, who brought a garland of their fairest garden flowers for mary, and a nosegay for clement. when they brought them to the boy, his face brightened; their scent and cool sprinkling of dew refreshed him. "thank them for me very much. they are good girls; i am ill now, but when i can see i will defend them against the boys." mary, when they laid the garland on her bed, pressed it gently back with pale little hands, and said, "i cannot, mother! i feel giddy when flowers are so near me! take them to clement, too." she soon sank again into her feverish half-sleep. the wholesome approach of day tranquillized her at last, and the doctor, who came early, found her freer from danger than he had dared to hope. long he sat by the boy's bedside, listened smiling to his strange questions, warned him kindly to be patient and quiet, and left with the best prognostications. much use recommending calmness and patience to one who has at last caught a distant glimpse of a new and highly praised land! his father was obliged, as often as his duties permitted him, to go up to his room and talk to him. the door then was not to be shut, that mary might hear the beautiful stories too. legends of pious men and women on whom god had laid and removed heavy sufferings were repeated. the tale of poor henry, for whom the pious maiden was willing in her humility to sacrifice herself, and how god brought all to a happy ending was related, and all the edifying histories which the worthy man was able to recollect. when the pious rector glided gradually from tale to prayer, or the mother with her clear voice sang a hymn of thanksgiving, clement folded his hands, or sang with her; but directly after he began new questionings, which showed that he took more interest in the stories than in the hymns. mary asked about nothing. she was friendly with every one, and no one suspected what deep thoughts and questions were seething in her little breast. they grew visibly better from day to day, and on the fourth day after the operation the doctor permitted them to get up. he himself supported the little girl, as she stepped, weak and trembling, across the darkened room towards the open door, in which the boy stood, stretching forth his hands, joyously seeking hers. then he grasped her hand firmly, and entreated her to lean on him, which she did confidingly. they paced to and fro in the chamber together, and he, with that delicate sense of locality so peculiar to the blind, guided her carefully past the different pieces of furniture. "how are you now? he asked her. "i am well," was her answer, "to-day as ever." "come," he said, quickly, "lean on me, you are weak still, it would refresh you to breathe a little sweet meadow air out of doors, for the air here is thick and heavy. but it is not good for us yet, the doctor says. our eyes would get sore, and be blind again, if they were to look out into the light too soon. oh, i know already what light and darkness mean. no flute note is so sweet as when your eyes can do that. it hurt me, i must say, yet i could have looked for ever into the beautiful coloured world, so blissful was the pain. you will feel it too. but it must be many days before we are so happy. but then i will do nothing all day long but see. i want to know so many things, mary. they say that each thing has a different colour. i wonder what colours your face and mine are? dark or bright? it would be horrible if they were not very bright. shall i know you with my eyes? now, touching you so, i could pick you out with my little finger from all the other people in the world. but in future we shall have to learn to know each other all anew again. i know now that your hair and cheeks are soft to touch, will they be so to my eyes? i want to know so much, and it is so long to wait." after this fashion he chattered incessantly, without remarking how silently she walked beside him. many of his words had sunk deep into her heart. it had never occurred to her that she too was to see, and she hardly knew what to think about it. she had heard of mirrors, without understanding what was meant. she thought now that when a person who saw opened his eyes, his own face appeared to him. when she was again in her little bed, and her mother thought she slept, the idea flashed across her mind. "it would be horrible if our faces were not bright!" she had heard of ugly and beautiful, and she knew that ugly people were pitied, and often less loved than others. "oh, if i should be ugly," she thought to herself, "and he care no more about me. it used to be all the same when he played with my hair and called it silken threads. that will all cease now if he sees that i am ugly; and he--even if he _is_ ugly, i will never let him know it, because i shall love him still. but no! i _know_ that he _cannot_ be ugly--he _cannot_ be." long she lay restless with sorrow and anxiety. the air was sultry; without, in the garden, the nightingales called complainingly to each other, and a sobbing west wind beat against the window panes. she was entirely alone in the chamber, for her mother's bed, which had been placed beside hers, had been removed on account of the closeness of the room. and besides, they no longer thought a night watcher necessary, as her fever had entirely disappeared. and just on this very evening it returned again, and tossed her to and fro, until, long after midnight, a short, heavy sleep fell upon her. meanwhile the storm, which had circled muttering around the horizon half the night, approached in its might, spread itself over the forest, and then paused. the wind was still. a crash of thunder burst in upon mary's sleep. half dreaming she sprang up; she knew not what she sought or thought, a nameless anxiety forced her to rise, her pillow was so hot. now she stood by the side of her bed and heard the strong rain rushing down without. but it cooled not her feverish brow. she tried to collect herself and think, but found nothing within her soul but the miserable thought with which she had fallen asleep. a strange determination arose within her. she would go to clement now he was alone; what prevented her from putting an end to her uncertainty, and seeing both herself and him? she thought but of this alone, and every word of the doctor was forgotten; so she went unhesitatingly, just as she had arisen from her couch, towards the door which stood half open, found the end of the bed, crept on her little bare feet, to the side of the sleeping boy, and bending over him, with bated breath, tore the bandage hastily from her eyes. but she started when all remained dark as before. she had forgotten that it was night, and that she had been told that in the night all people were blind. she had fancied that a light streamed from an eye that saw, and lighted both itself and what it looked upon. now she felt the boy's breath soft upon her cheek, but she could distinguish no form. already terrified, and in despair, she wished to go back. there flamed through the now uncovered window-panes a flash one second long--then another and another--the air waved to and fro with the intensity of light--thunder and rain-stream without increased in roar; but she gazed for one short moment on the curly brow that lay softly pressed on the pillow before her--then the vision vanished into the darkness, her eyes gushed with tears, and, overcome with unspeakable terror, she rushed to her room, replaced the bandage, and sank upon her bed, feeling, with a sense of unalterable conviction, that she had seen for the first and the last time. chapter iii. weeks have passed away. for the first time, the young powers of the eyes are to be tested by light. the doctor, who had, in the meantime, directed the simple treatment of the children from the town, arrived at the village on a cloudy day, in order to be present himself and to enjoy the fruit of his cure with them. instead of the curtains, they had weaved garlands of boughs before the windows, and decked both rooms gaily with green branches and flowers. the baron himself, and all in the village who were connected with either of the families, had arrived to wish both parents and children happiness, and to enjoy the surprise of the healed ones. mary pressed herself, with a sad anxiety, amongst the boughs in the corner, when clement, flushed with delight, was placed opposite to her, and seized her hand. he had entreated to be allowed to see her first of all. at the same moment they loosed the coverings from their eyes. a cry of utter inexpressible joy rang from the boy's lips. he remained fixed on the same spot,--a glorified smile upon his face,--moving his bright eyeballs hither and thither. he had forgotten that mary was to stand before him, and knew not as yet what the human form might be. she, too, did nothing to put him in mind of her. she stood, motionless, only lightly moving her eyelids, which overshadowed bright brown dead eyes. yet they had no suspicion of the truth. "the wondrous things," they thought, "which seem so strange to her at first, have paralysed her for a time." but when the boy's delight broke loudly forth, they told him "that is mary:" and he stretched out his hand towards her cheeks in his old manner, and said, "you have a bright face!" then her tears flowed apace, she shook her head hastily, and said, hardly intelligibly, "it is still dark here! it is all as it used to be!" who can describe the misery of the next few hours! the doctor, deeply affected, led her to a chair by the window, and examined her eyes. the thin grey film of the cataract which he had removed had not reappeared. nothing distinguished the pupils from those of health but their lifeless sorrowful fixedness. "the nerve is paralysed," he said, "some sudden vehement light must have destroyed it." the sacristan's wife fainted, she fell pale as death in her husband's arms. clement at first hardly understood what had happened. his soul was too full of its newly-gained existence. but mary lay bathed in tears, and would answer none of the doctor's questions. even later, they could learn nothing from her. "she did not know how it had happened. they must forgive her for having cried so childishly. she would bear all as it had been appointed. had she ever known anything different?" when they had made clement clearly understand the misfortune, he was beside himself, sprang towards her, and cried incessantly, "you _shall_ see too! i will have nothing more than you! ah! now i know for the first time what you have lost! one does not see oneself; but all around have eyes, and look at us as if they loved us. and they shall look at you so too, only be patient and do not cry." and then he asked for the doctor, and rushed to him, beseeching him with tears to help mary. the bright drops stood in the good man's eyes--he restrained himself with difficulty, and persuaded the boy to be tranquil; "he would see what could be done," and gave him hopes, in order to avoid an excitement which might be dangerous for him. he did not conceal the hopeless truth from the parents. but the boy's sorrow seemed to have comforted mary. she sat still by the window, and called him gently to her. "you must not be so sorry," she said, "it all comes from god. be happy, as i am happy, that you are cured. you know already that i never wished very much for it. and now i should be quite contented if it did not grieve my parents so. but they will grow used to it, and you too, and so it will be as well--if you only love me as you used to do--that i remain as i was." he would not be comforted, and the doctor insisted on the children being separated. they took clement down into the large room below, where the people from the village pressed around him. they shook his hand, one after another, and spoke kindly words; but the crowd stupified him. he only said, "do you know yet that mary is blind still?" and then began to weep afresh. it was high time to replace the bandage and to take him to a cool and quiet room. there he lay down, exhausted with joy, sorrow, and weeping. his father spoke gently and piously to him, which did him but little good; even in his sleep he wept, and seemed to dream painfully. but on the following day, curiosity, desire for information, and astonishment asserted their rights, and his sorrow for mary only appeared when he happened to see her. he visited her in the early morning and asked her whether she had not altered or got better during the night. but then the bright world that opened itself before him claimed all his attention, and when he returned to mary it was only to tell her of some new wonder, often checking himself in the midst of his rapid narration, as a glance at his poor little friend reminded him what pain his joy must cost her. but, in truth, it did _not_ cause her much pain; she wanted nothing for herself; to hear him talk so enthusiastically was pleasure enough for her. but when he began to come more rarely, fancying that he made her sad, or was silent because all other interests vanished before the one on which he did not dare to speak, she became uneasy; formerly she had seldom been separated from him during the day, now she was much alone. her mother, indeed, often came to sit with her; but the cheerfulness of the once lively woman had departed, since her darling hopes had been so rudely crushed; she could say nothing to her child but mere words of comfort which her own heavy sighs belied, and which could be but of little use to mary. how much of what she now suffered had she foreseen? and yet the sense of separation gave her inexpressible pain. now she sat often again under the boughs in her father's garden and span. when clement came to her, her poor eyes gleamed strangely. he was ever kind to her, sat down on the bench beside her, and caressed her hair and cheeks as in the old times. she begged him once not to be so silent. when he told her about the world and the new things he had learned each day about it, it did not make her feel envious. but when he did not come at all she was so lonely. she never put him in mind, by a single word, of the promise he had given her one evening never to leave her; she had long ago renounced it. she seemed doubly dear to him, he had no longer to be guarded before her. his heart overflowed, and he talked for hours about the sun and moon and stars, and the flowers, and the trees; and, above all, how their parents and she herself looked. she trembled with happiness in her inmost heart, when he told her innocently, that she was prettier than all the other girls in the village. then he told her how graceful she was, and that she had such a pretty head, and dark, soft eyebrows. he had seen himself, too, in a looking-glass, but he was not nearly so pretty; he did not want to be, and it was all the same to him, as long as he grew up to be a clever man. men appeared generally not to be so pretty as women. she did not understand all of this, but this much she did understand, that she pleased him, and what could she desire more? they never returned to this subject; but he was indefatigable in describing the beautiful world to her. when he came not, she thought over his words, and grew almost jealous of this world which robbed her of him; gradually this feeling of enmity grew stronger, and, at last, became more powerful than her pleasure at his happiness. above all things she hated the sun, for she knew that he was the brightest of all, and in her obscure notions, _bright_ and beautiful were one and the same thing. nothing discomposed her more than his bursts of admiration over the setting sun, when he was with her of an evening. he had never spoken of _her_ in such words, and why did he forget her so utterly over this scene that he never saw the tears that her strange jealous sorrow forced into her eyes? but still heavier grew her heart, when the rector, as soon as the doctor permitted it, began anew the education of his son. previous to his cure, clement had passed the greater part of his day in practising music; religious instruction, history, mathematics, and a little latin, were all which formerly had appeared necessary or possible; and mary had been permitted to share his lessons, which, after all, included only the most necessary information. now, when the boy exhibited the strongest inclination towards natural science, he was set seriously to work, and prepared for one of the higher classes of the town school. his steady will worked unceasingly onwards, and his really superior talents enabled him in a surprisingly short time to bring himself up to his age, and to recover lost time. he sat many hours, even then, with his books, in the sacristan's garden. but the old way of talking was out of the question, and mary felt, but too well, that she was doubly parted, both from instruction and from the friend of her childhood. chapter iv. autumn interrupted for a time the boy's studies. the rector determined to take him with him for some days into the neighbouring mountains, before the winter set in, to show him hill-side and valley, and to let him have a wider look into that world which already seemed so beautiful to him, even on the barren village plains. when the boy was told of it he asked, "and we shall take mary with us too?" they tried to dissuade him from it, but without her he refused to travel. "even if she does not see anything, they say the mountain air is so healthy, and she has been so pale and thin for a long time, and will be quite lonely without me." so they did as he wished; the little maiden was lifted into the carriage beside him, and a short day's journey brought them to the foot of the mountain range. now began the journey on foot. patiently the boy led his blind little friend, more reserved than ever. often he longed to climb this or that isolated rock-peak which promised him a new view, but he supported her as she went, and would not desert his post, however much his parents begged him. only when they had reached some eminence, and were seated at rest in a shady nook, did he leave the maiden, and sought his own way amongst the dangerous rocks, collecting curious stones, or flowers that did not grow in the plains below. when he returned to the resting-place he had ever something for mary--berries, or a sweet-scented flower, or the soft nest of a bird which the wind had dislodged from its tree. she received everything cheerfully from him, and seemed more contented than she had been at home. and she was so, too; for she breathed the same air with him all the day long. but even then her foolish jealousy accompanied her, and she felt angry with the mountains, whose autumnal beauty, she fancied, only made the world dearer to him, and widened the separation between them. her strange manner struck the rector's wife. she talked with her husband now and again about the child, who was as dear to them as their own, and both placed her obstinate melancholy to the account of her disappointed hopes; and yet she regretted nothing that had been promised, or that she had been told to expect--only what she had already known and enjoyed. at the end of the second day's journey they were to pass the night at a lonely house celebrated for the neighbourhood of a magnificent waterfall. they had a long day's journey, and the women were quite tired out. when they reached the house, the rector led his wife within, without proceeding onward to the chasm, from which the roar of the waterfall could be plainly heard. mary, too, was very tired, but she insisted on following clement, who cared not to rest so soon; so they climbed together higher up the steps, and ever louder the sound of the roaring water was borne towards them. half-way up the steep path mary's last strength deserted her: "i will sit here," she said; "go on to the end, and come back for me when you have seen enough." he begged her to let him take her back to the house first, but she was already seated, and so he left her, and advanced towards the roar, deeply affected by the solitude and majesty of the scene. the girl sat on a stone and awaited his return. she thought that he lingered very long away. a cold shiver struck through her, and the distant muttering thunder of the fall terrified her, "why does he not come back?" she thought to herself; "he will forget me in his joy now as ever. i wish i could find my way back to the house, that i might get warm." so she sat, full of anxiety, and listening intently. suddenly she fancied that she distinguished his voice calling to her; trembling, she started up. what should she do? almost involuntarily she took a step forward, but her foot slipped, she tottered and fell. fortunately the stones near the path were overgrown with moss, but still the fall nearly stunned her, and she cried wildly for help. in vain! her voice could not reach clement, who stood close to the abyss, surrounded by the roarings of the fall, and the house was far too distant. a bitter pain shot through her heart as she lay there between the stones, neglected and helpless. with tears of despair in her eyes, she raised herself painfully. all that she loved best seemed to her at this moment hateful, and the bitterness of her soul permitted no thought of the nearness of the omnipresent to rise before her. so clement found her when, for her sake, he tore himself away from the witchery of the marvellous scene. "i come!" he cried to her from a distance. "it is fortunate that you did not go with me. the path above is so narrow that the smallest slip would cost a life! how unfathomably deep it plunged, and roared and sprang up in clouds of spray, till one's senses were lost! feel how sprinkled i am with the fine water-spray!--but what is the matter with you? you are as cold as ice, and your lips tremble. come--i was wrong to leave you in the chilly air--god forbid that it should have made you ill!" she remained obstinately silent, and permitted herself to be led back to the house. the rector's wife was alarmed. the girl's sweet, delicate features were strangely disturbed. they hastened to give her a warm draught and to put her in her bed, without learning more from her than that she was not well. and ill, indeed, she was--and so ill, that she longed for it all to be over. she hated the life that showed itself so hostile to her. in bitter, god-forgotten thinking she lay, and of her own will broke the last threads which bound her to mankind. "i will go out to morrow," she said, darkly, to herself; "he shall lead me himself to the cliff where a false step costs a life--and my death will not cost him much! why should he for ever bear the burden which he has laid on himself out of mere compassion?" ever stronger the unholy determination twined itself about her heart. what had become of the old bright, loving courage in this short month of concealed sorrow? she even thought on the consequences of her sin without horror, and said, defyingly, to herself, "they will manage to become reconciled to it as they have become reconciled to my remaining blind, and he will be freed from that picture of misery that destroys all his pleasure in that beautiful world he loves so much." that was ever the last thought when a feeling of uncertainty rose within her. in the room next to hers, only separated from it by a thin partition, sat the rector and his wife. clement was still loitering about under the trees without, unable to tear himself from the stars, and the mountains, and the muffled music of the waterfall. "i feel very uneasy," said the rector's wife, "at mary's being so sad and reserved; the slightest occurrence agitates her. if it lasts she will be quite worn out. i wish you would talk to her, and try to persuade her not to take what cannot be altered so deeply to heart." "i am afraid that i should speak in vain," said the rector. "if what she has already been taught, and the love of her parents, and our daily care of her, have not spoken to her heart, mere human words will be of no avail. if she had learned humility before god, she would have submitted to his will, which has left her so much to be thankful for, with gratitude instead of murmuring." "but he has taken much from her." "ay, indeed! but not all, or for ever! that is my hope and my prayer. the power of loving, and of looking on all as worthless compared to the love of god and man, seems to have gone from her; but it returns when we return to god! as she now is she longs not for him, she hugs her discontent and hatred too closely to her heart--but her heart is too true to bear this miserable companionship much longer; then when it is free from discontent, god will enter into it, and love will find its old place again, and then she will have an inward light to guide her, though night may still hang before her eyes." "god grant it! and yet the thought of her future makes me very unhappy." "she will not be lost, if she is not determined to lose herself. even were all who now love her and tend her to be called away, all human kindness would not have died. and if she marks well the hand of god, and the way he would lead her, she will bless her blindness, which from her childhood upwards has kept her from the false glitter of the world, and brought her nearer to what is true." clement interrupted the conversation. "you cannot think," he cried, "how beautiful the night is. i would give one of my eyes, if mary could have it, to see this glory of the stars! i hope the noise of the waterfall does not keep her awake. i cannot forgive myself for letting her sit so long in the cold." "speak lower, dearest son," said the mother; "she is sleeping close to us, and the best thing you can do is to go to rest too." whisperingly the boy bade them "good-night!" when his mother went into mary's room, she found her tranquil, and apparently sleeping. that strange expression of her features had given place to a sweet tranquillity. the storm had passed over, and had destroyed nothing of the beautiful within her. even shame and regret hardly made themselves felt, so powerfully reigned within her the joyous peace which had been preached to her from the neighbouring room. for the evil gains its influence over us slowly and creepingly; the victory of the good is soon decided. chapter v. her friends remarked with astonishment, the next morning, the change which had passed over her. the rector's wife could not but believe that mary had overheard their conversation through the partition. "so much the better." said the rector; "now i shall have nothing more to say." most moving was the lovingness of manner which mary showed towards clement and his parents. she wished for nothing more than to be permitted to belong to them. she received their love almost with surprise, as something to which she had no claim. she did not, indeed, speak much more than before, but what she said was cheerful and kindly. there was a deprecating shrinking expression about her whole being, as if she was silently entreating forgiveness. she took clement's arm again when they walked. she often begged that she might be allowed to sit down and rest, not that she was tired, but in order to leave the boy in freedom to clamber where he would. she smiled when he returned and told her all that he had seen: her old jealousy had disappeared since she had begun to demand nothing more for herself than the happiness of knowing him happy. thus strengthened and fortified, she ended the journey. and happy for her that she was so strengthened; for, when she arrived at home, she found her mother lying ill of a dangerous complaint, which ended fatally a few days after her return. and now, after the acute sorrow of the first few weeks had become lessened, her sad and altered life demanded duties from her which formerly she would hardly have been equal to. her household cares occupied her early and late. in spite of her privation, she knew every cranny of the small house thoroughly, and if she herself was but seldom able to help with her own hands, yet she was clever and full of forethought in ordering all things so that her sorrowing father should want for nothing. a wonderful power and confidence came over her. where in old times it had taken many a squabble to induce man and maid to do what was right, now a single gentle word from her sufficed. and if anything wrong happened, or work was done with an ill will, a steady glance from those large blind eyes quelled the most rebellious. since she felt that she must be cheerful for the sake of her father--since she understood that she must work and shape her life herself--the hours became ever rarer in which she felt the separation from clement so painfully; and at last, when he was obliged to go to the high school in the town, she was able to say farewell to him, even more composedly than the others. it is true that she went about for weeks as in a dream--as if the best half of her being had been torn away from her. but soon she was as cheerful as before, sang her favourite songs to herself, and rallied her father till she won a smile from him. when the rector's wife came across with letters from the town? and read her news and messages from clement, her heart beat quickly, and she lay longer at night without sleep visiting her eyelids. the next morning she was bright and cheerful as before. at the vacation clement returned to his parents, and his first walk was to the sacristan's house. mary distinguished his step already in the distance, remained fixed where she was, and listened whether he would ask for her. she smoothed her hair, which still rolled in tresses down her slender neck, hastily with her hands, and rose from her work. as he entered the door every trace of excitement had vanished from her features. cheerfully she gave him her hand, and begged him to sit near her and to talk to her. then he forgot how the time flew by, and had to be called by his mother, who begrudged his long absence from her; for he seldom remained the whole vacation at the village, but wandered into the mountains, to which his growing affection for natural science attracted him. the years rolled on their accustomed way; the old people withered slowly, and the young ones bloomed rapidly. when clement returned once again at easter, and mary arose from her spinning wheel, he was astonished to see how tall and stately she had grown since the autumn. "you are quite a woman," he said; "and i, too, am no longer a child; only feel how my beard has grown over my winter studies." a blush flitted across her cheek as he took her hand and placed it on his chin, to let her feel the newly-sprung down. he had, too, many more things to tell her than the first time he returned. the tutor with whom he lived had daughters, and these daughters had lady friends. he was obliged to describe them one and all with the greatest accuracy. "i can make nothing out of the girls," he said; "they are silly and frivolous, and chatter too much. there is one, cecilia, that i can endure a little better than the others, because she can hold her tongue, and does not make grimaces in order to look pretty. but what do they bother me for? the other evening, when i went into my room, i found a bunch of flowers on my table, and let it lie, and never took the trouble to put it in water, though i was sorry for the flowers; but it annoyed me. and the next day there was such a giggling and whispering amongst the girls that i could not speak to them for anger. why cannot they leave me alone? they know that i have no time for their nonsense!" not one word of all this did mary lose, and spun an endless thread of strange thoughts out of it. she was almost in danger of injuring herself with fruitless dreamings, if a too well grounded cause of anxiety and real sorrow had not saved her. her father, who had for a long time been able to do his duty with difficulty, had a paralytic stroke, and lay nearly a year perfectly helpless, until a second attack put an end to his sufferings. not for an hour did his child leave his side. even when the vacations brought clement home again, she only permitted herself to talk to him during his short visits to the sickroom. she grew ever more firm, ever more self-denying. she complained to no one, and would have required the help of none had her blindness permitted her to do all herself. and thus her misfortune, which had tutored her soul, accustomed her also to household duties, neglected by many a seeing one. she kept the strictest order over all things of which she had the care, and no amount of cleanliness could satisfy her, as she was unable to judge by the eye when the least speck of dust was removed. the tears sprang into clement's eyes when he saw her busied washing her crippled father, or combing out his thin locks. she had grown pale in the close air of the sick-room; but her brown eyes had a deeper light from that very cause, and in all her common household work, the true nobility of her whole being only became the more evident. the old man died, his successor took possession of the cottage, and mary found a welcome refuge in the rectory. clement, who in the mean time had gone to a distant university, and who was unable to visit home twice a-year as formerly, was informed of all these changes by letters, which reached him but rarely, and were answered irregularly. now and then his letters contained a note for mary, in which he expressed himself condescendingly and jestingly, so unlike his old self, and addressed her as if she were still a child, so that his mother shook her head and said nothing of it before his father. mary had these strange letters carefully read to her, begged them, and preserved them. after her father's death she received a short excited letter from him, in which he neither endeavoured to comfort her nor said a word showing a participation with her sorrow, only earnest entreaties to take care of her health, and to be quiet, and to let him know exactly how she was. this was in winter, and this letter the last to mary. they expected a visit from him at easter. he remained away, and wrote that he could not resist the opportunity of accompanying a celebrated professor on a botanical tour. his father was satisfied, and mary succeeded at last in calming the mother's disappointment. he arrived unannounced at whitsuntide on foot, untired by a long march since daybreak, with healthy cheeks, and he was a full-grown man. so he entered the quiet house, in which his mother was sitting alone, for it was the saturday evening before the feast-day. with a cry of joy the startled woman clasped him round the neck. "so you," she cried, as she loosened herself from his arms, and took a step backwards to measure the long absent one with the full gaze of love, "so you have returned to us once again, unkind, forgetful one. you still remember the way to your father and mother. god be praised! i thought that you had made up your mind never to return till you were a professor, and then perhaps my poor old eyes might never have rejoiced in the sight of you again _here below_. but i will not scold you. you are faithful. you are the old clement. and you will give me such a whitsun feast as i have not had for many a day, to me and your father, and to us _all_. "mother," he said, "how happy i am to be here once again! i could not bear at last to remain longer away. i do not know how it happened, i made no resolution beforehand. i felt that i must get home. one bright morning, instead of going to lecture, i walked through the town-gates, and strode away as if i fled from sin. i accomplished such journeys as i had never made before, good as i used to be on foot. where is my father? where is mary?" "don't you hear him." said the mother, "your father is above in his study." they heard the firm step of the old man as he paced to and fro above them. "all is as it used to be," continued the mother. "that has been his saturday's walk for the twenty years that i have known him. and mary is out in the field with our people. i have sent her out because she will not let me do anything. when she is at home she would make me sit in the corner with my hands in my lap, if she had her own way, and do everything herself. we have some new servants now, and i like her to look over them until they have got used to her. how astonished she will be to find you here! but come, i will bring you to your father, just to let him see you, and it will soon be dinner time. come, he will not be angry at _your_ disturbing him." she led her son, stepping lightly before him, but still holding his hand in hers, up the stairs. gently she opened the door, beckoned to clement, and stepping backwards herself, pushed him in. "there he is," she cried; "at last you have him." the old man started as out of deep thought. "who?" he asked, almost impatiently. then he looked in his son's face, brightly lighted by a gleam of sun. "clement," he cried, between astonishment and joy, "you here?" "i longed for home," said the son, and pressed the proffered hand warmly. "i shall stay here for the feast, father, if you have room for me, now that mary is under your roof." "how can you talk so," interrupted his mother, quickly; "if i had seven sons i could find place for them all. but i will leave you to your father. i must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." she was already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other; "i have disturbed you," said clement, at last; "you were writing your sermon; tell me if i shall go." "you only disturb one who has disturbed himself. since this morning have i paced to and fro, thinking on my text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth. i have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that i cannot shake off." he went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way to which lay through the churchyard. there it glowed tranquil with its flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "come here, clement," said the old man, gently; "place yourself by me. do you see that grave to the left, with primroses and monthly roses? you have never seen that one before. do you know who sleeps there? my good, true friend, the father of our mary!" he left the window at which his son, deeply struck, remained standing. he paced again to and fro through the chamber, and in the silence they could hear the sand crackle under his steady tread. "aye!" said the old man, with a deep sigh, "no one knew him as i knew him; no one gained so much from him, no one lost so much with him as i did. what knew he of the world and its wisdom; that is but folly before god. what he knew was all revealed to him from within, and from the holy book, and from sorrow. he has become blessed, because he _was_ blessed." after a pause he spoke again: "whom have i now to shame when i am proud of heart, and save me when my faith wavers; and to decide the thoughts that accuse and excuse me? the world grows too wise for me! what i hear i understand not, and what i read my soul _will_ not understand, for it is grief to it! how many rise up and think that they speak with tongues? and, behold! it is but lip-work! and the mockers hear it and rejoice therein. mine old friend, would i were where thou art." clement turned. he had never before heard his father talk of the sorrows of his own soul. he went to him and sought for words of consolation. "cease, my son," said the old man, checking him, "what can _you_ give me, that heaven could not have given me better? see, it was shortly after his death, i slept above here. the night awoke me with its storm and rain; i felt sad, even to death; then he appeared to me--a light shone about him--he was in his garments as when he lived--he spoke not, but stood at the foot of my bed, and looked calmly down upon me. at first, it oppressed me sorely! i was not enough grown in grace to look on the face of a glorified being. the next day i felt the peace that it had left behind it. from that time it came not again until last night. i had been reading a book in the evening, blasphemous against god and god's word; i had gone to my bed in anger--then it was that, after midnight, i again started suddenly from my sleep, and he stood before me--dressed as at the first time, but with the bible in his hand, open, and written with letters of gold. he pointed to a passage with his finger, but there came a gleam from out the leaves, so that i gazed on it in vain, and for the fullness of the light could read never a word! i drew myself nearer to him, half rising up; he stood--pity and love in his face, which changed to grief as i strove to read and could not. then the tears sprang to my eyes--from the brightness, they grew dark---and he vanished softly away, and left me weeping." the old man had gone again to the window, and clement saw a strong shudder pass over him. "father!" he cried, and seized his nerveless hand--it was damp and cold; "father, you alarm me! you should send for the physician." "to the physician!" cried the old man, almost angrily, and stretched himself up in every limb, "i am well. therein it lies. my soul longs and strives for death, and my body selfishly withstands it!" "these dreams, father, agitate you." "dreams! i tell you that i was awake, as i am at this moment." "i do not doubt, father, that you were awake; but so much the more does this severe attack, which pursues you with visions even when you are awake, alarm me. see! even now you are quite overcome by the mere recollection, and your pulse rises. i know, little of a doctor as i am, that you had fever last night and are under its influence now." "and you think that you know as much as _that_ poor worm!" cried the old man. "oh, the marvellous wisdom! oh, the gracious science! but what right have i to complain? do i not deserve punishment for blurting out god's secrets, and making my full heart a mark for the scorner? is this the fruit of your learning? do you expect to gather figs from this bramble? but i know you well--you miserable ones, who make new gods for the people, and in your hearts worship yourselves alone--your days are numbered." he went towards the door; his bare forehead was flushed. he did not look towards clement, who stood gazing on the floor; suddenly he felt his father's hand on his shoulder. "tell me openly, my son, are you as far gone already as those whose ravings i have read of with shuddering? do you already hold, with those sleek materialists, that the miracle is ridiculous, and the _spirit_ but a tale told from one to another, and to which man listens? has neither thy youth, nor the seeds of thankfulness god sowed in your heart, been able to choke those weeds? answer me, clement!" "father," said the young man, after some consideration, "how shall i answer you this thing? i have dedicated my whole life to the consideration of this question. i have heard it decided in different ways, by men whose opinions i revere. amongst my dearest friends are some who think what you condemn. i hear and learn and do not venture as yet to decide." "he who is not for me is against me, saith the lord." "how can i be against _him_? how can i be against the _spirit_? who ventures to ignore the spiritual, even though he binds it to the material? do not its miracles remain what they were, even though they may be the result of natural causes? is it a disgrace to a noble statue that it is hewn out of stone?" "you speak like them all; so they intoxicate you with dark similes, so they deafen you with high sounding words, that you may not hear the still small voice within you; and you have come to keep whitsuntide holy with _us_?" "i came because i loved you." there was silence between them. several times the old man opened his mouth as if about to speak, and then pressed his lips firmly together again. they heard mary's voice below in the house, and clement stepped, listening, back from the window, at which he had been standing sorrowfully. "it is mary," said the old man; "have you forgotten _her_ too? did the recollection of your childhood's playmate never pass before your soul, when your blasphemous companions endeavoured to destroy your pure, godly childishness of heart with their miserable sneers? did _she_ never remind you of the wonders the spirit can perform--even when it is deprived of sense--alone, out of itself. i should say of god, in a humble heart, which is rich in faith?" clement repressed the answer which rose ready to his lips. they heard the light step of the blind girl on the stairs. the door opened, and with flushing cheek mary stood on the threshold; "clement," she cried, fixing the bright brown eyes on the spot where he really stood. he approached her and took the hand that waited for his. "oh! what pleasure you have given your parents! welcome, welcome! how quiet you are!" she added. "dearest mary, yes, i am here once again. i was _obliged_ to come to see you all. how well you look, and you have grown so tall." "i have gained a fresh life since the spring. the winter was heavy for me. i am so happy with your father and mother, clement! good day, dearest father." she added, "we went out so early that i could not press your hand;" she took it now. "go below my child;" said the old man, "clement will go with you--you can show him your garden. there is yet a little time before dinner. think on my words, clement." the young people went. "what is the matter with the father?" asked mary, when they were below. "his voice sounded strangely, and yours too. was he angry with you?" "i found him excited. he seems ill. has he not complained of anything?" "not to me; but he has been restless, and sometimes silent for hours together. it struck my mother, too. has he been harsh towards you?" "we had a discussion about serious things; he asked me, and i could not deny my opinions." the girl became thoughtful; not until they reached the open air did her face brighten. "is it not beautiful here?" she asked, spreading out her hands. "i really did not recognize it again," he answered. "what a wonderful place you have made out of the little barren spot! ever since i can remember there were only a few fruit trees, and mallows and alders; and now it is full of roses!" "yes," she said. "your mother used not to care about the garden then, and now she delights in it the sacristan's son, who has learned gardening in the town, gave me the first rose bush, and planted it himself; then we added others and now it is quite beautiful. but the finest are not in flower yet." "and you take care of them yourself?" "you are astonished at it, because i cannot see," she said gaily; "but i understand what is good for plants. i can tell by the scent when one is fading, or going out of flower, or wants watering; they always tell me. but, indeed, i cannot gather you a flower; for they prick my fingers." "i will do it for you," he said, and broke off a spray from one of the monthly roses. she took it "you have gathered so many buds with it!" she said. "i will keep one for myself, and place it in water. take the blooming one again for yourself." they wandered along the trim paths till the mother called them to table. clement was reserved before his father; but mary, usually so shy at taking part in the conversation, had to-day a hundred things to tell and to ask about. even the old man gradually lost the impression of his first conversation with his son, and the old trusting feeling soon regained its place between them again. but during the next day it was impossible to avoid fresh causes of dissention. the old man wished to be enlightened on the state of theology at the university, and the conversation soon wandered to more general subjects. the more clement tried to avoid disagreeable points, the more vehemently the old man pressed him. many an anxious involuntary, glance from his mother sustained him, indeed, in his determination to avoid definite explanations; but when he parried a question, or answered with an unmeaning word, the enforced silence wrung his very heart. mary managed, even, to revive the old tone again for a time; but he saw that she too suffered, and avoided her when he met her alone, for he knew that she would have asked him, and felt that from her he could conceal nothing. a shadow seemed to pass over him when he came into her presence. was it the recollection of that childish promise to which he had been so untrue? was it the belief that in the difference of opinion which had estranged him from his parents, she ranged herself silently on their side? and yet he felt a yearning towards her which grew ever more irresistible--a longing which he could not ignore, and which he struggled against fiercely; for he was full of his science and of his prospects, and avoided, with the selfishness of fancied inward strength, all that might clog his onward way. "i will be a traveller,--a foot traveller." he often said to himself. "i must carry a light bundle!" it made him heavy at heart when he contemplated the possibility of his being chained to a wife, who would demand a part of his being for herself. and a _blind_ wife! one that he must always fear to leave for a moment! here in the village, where all went on its simple way, and to which she had been accustomed since her childhood, _here_ she was protected from all the confusing accidents which she could not fail to encounter in the town. so he persuaded himself that he should do _her_ an injustice if he married her: whether he grieved _her_ or not by his determination, was a point that he avoided considering. he expressed himself still more openly when he departed. on the last day, when he had embraced his parents, and had been told that mary was in the garden, he left a farewell for her, and with beating heart went down the village street, and then crossed, sideways, over the fields towards the forest. the garden opened into the fields too, and his nearest way would have been through a little wicket-gate. he made a wide _détour_. but when he reached the fields, he was unable to follow the narrow path through the springing corn without casting one glance round; so he stood still in the mild sunshine, and looked back over the huts and the houses. behind the hedge which surrounded his father's garden, he saw the slender figure of the blind girl. her face was turned towards him, but she dreamed not that he was so near her. hot and hasty sprang the tears to his eyes; but he repressed them with a powerful effort. then he sprang like a madman over the ditches and paths back to the hedge. she started. "farewell, mary!" he said, with a clear voice, "i am going away again, perhaps for a year!" he passed his trembling hand over her forehead and temples. "farewell! you are going?" she said. "one thing i beg of you,--write oftener to your parents; your mother longs for it so; and send me a greeting, too, sometimes." "yes;" he answered, absently. then he departed. "clement!" she cried, once again, after he had left her. he heard her, but did not look round. "it is well that he did not hear me," she said gently to herself. "and what had i to say to him?" chapter vi. from that day the son never remained long at his father's house. each time he came he found his father harsher and more impatient--his mother ever with the same love, but more reserved towards him--mary, tranquil, but silent when the men spoke; she also showed herself but seldom. on a bright day late in autumn, we find clement once more in the room in which, as a boy, he had passed the time devoted to his cure. one of his friends and fellow-students had accompanied him; they had both passed the usual time at the university, and they were just returned from a long journey, in the course of which wolf had been unwell, and wished to recruit himself in the quiet of the village. clement was obliged to acquiesce, although, amongst all his friends, this was the very one he thought most unlikely to suit his father. he managed, however, to fall into the ways of thinking of the old people with unexpected tact and dexterity, and particularly won the mother's heart by the lively interest he pretended to take in all household matters; he was also able to give her many little bits of advice, and relieved a complaint under which she laboured by some simple remedy; for he had prepared himself to succeed an old uncle who was an apothecary, a profession for which his inclinations and acquirements really unfitted him; yet he was of an easy disposition and delighted to be quiet and to enjoy himself from time to time. he had never had much real feeling in common with clement, and so at his first step into the rectory he felt himself in an utterly strange atmosphere, and would certainly have seized the smallest excuse for leaving a circle which constrained and wearied him, had not the blind girl struck him, at the first glance, as a remarkable problem to be solved. it is true she avoided him as much as she could. the first time he took her hand she withdrew it from his with an inexpressible disquietude, and quite lost her self-command, yet he hung about her for hours at a time, watched her way of managing affairs, and examined with a gay recklessness, which it was impossible to be angry with, the means by which she kept up a communication with the outer world, and studied the way in which the senses she had preserved, made up for the one she had lost; he could not understand why clement thought so little of her. _he_, however, avoided meeting her more than ever, and particularly when he found her in wolf's company; then he grew pale and turned away, and the villagers often met him in lonely forest paths, seemingly lost in gloomy reveries. he was returning one evening from a melancholy distant wandering, and had just passed from the wood into the corn-fields, when he met wolf advancing towards him. wolf was more excited than usual. after a long visit to mary, who had interested him even more than ever, he had gone to the little village inn, and had drunk so much of the country wine, that he took a fancy to wander about the fields in the cool of the evening to refresh himself. "you will not get rid of me so soon!" he cried to clement. "i must study your little blind witch a little more first; she is cleverer than a dozen women in the town, who only use their eyes to ogle god's man; and now she keeps me in order; it is really marvellous!" "so much the better for you if she tames you a little." said clement, sharply. "tame! that she will never make me! when i look at her, and her graceful figure and beautiful face, faith, it is not to grow tamer! don't believe that i would do her any harm; but do you know that i sometimes think that if she did ever love any one, it would be a wonderful love; one like her, who sees not, only _feels_, and such _feeling_, so delicate and strong and charming, such as one never can find elsewhere; he will be a happy man round whose neck she throws her arms!" "you would do better to keep your thoughts to yourself." "why? whom do they harm? and whom should i injure if i were to make her, at least, a little in love with me, just to see how the nerves will extricate themselves out of the difficulty? so much of the inner fire is usually cooled by the eyes--but here-- "beware how you try experiments upon her!" clement burst out. "i tell you solemnly, that for the future, i will neither hear nor see aught of this--so beware!" wolf cast a keen side-long glance at him, seized his arm, and said laughing, "i really believe that you are in love with the girl and want to keep the experiment for yourself. how long have you grown so particular? you used to listen readily enough when i said what i thought of women." "i am not your teacher! what have i to do with your foul thoughts? but i think that i _have_ a right to prevent your sullying one with them who is so dear to me, and who is a thousand times too pure to breathe the same air with you." "oho! oho!" said wolf, carelessly. "too good! too good! you are a fine fellow, clement! a very fine fellow! out of my sunshine, my dear boy." he gave him a slight blow and turned away. clement stood still; his cheeks grew suddenly pale. "you shall explain what you mean by these words," he said sternly. "not such a fool! ask others if you want to know. you will soon find one who has a greater fancy to preach to deaf ears than i have." "what do you mean? who are the others? who dares to speak ill of her? who?" he held wolf with a hand of iron. "fool!" growled wolf, angrily; "you spoil my walk with your tedious cross-questionings. let me go free!" "not from this place do you move till you have given me an explanation;" said clement, wild with rage. "indeed! go and settle it with the sacristan's son if you happen to be jealous; poor devil! to go on with him till he was ready to jump out of his skin, and then to give him his marching orders. pah! is that honourable? he complained to me, and i consoled him. she is just like other women, i told him, a coquette. now she is trying it on upon me, but we know how to manage matters, and are not going to let our mouths be shut, and have other good fellows fall into the same snare." "retract your words!" shouted clement, almost beside himself, shaking wolf violently by the arm. "why? it is true, and i can prove it. go--you are a child!" "and you--are a scoundrel!" "oho! now it is your turn to eat your words." "i retract not a syllable!" "then you know the consequences. you shall hear from me as soon as i get to town." therewith he turned coolly away from him and went towards the village. clement stood for a time rooted to the spot. "miserable wretch!" burst from his lips. his bosom laboured violently--a bitter agony nested within it. he threw himself upon the ground amongst the corn, and lay long, recalling a thousand times over each word which had so terribly moved him. when he returned to the house late in the evening, he found, contrary to his expectation, that the family were still together. wolf was not there. the old man paced with firm steps through the chamber; his mother and mary sate with their work in their laps, contrary to the custom of the house at so late an hour. when clement entered, his father paused in his walk, and turned his head gravely towards him. "what had passed between you and your friend? he departed whilst we were in the fields, and has left but a scanty greeting behind him; when we returned home we found a messenger removing his luggage. have you quarrelled? why else should he have left this house so hastily?" "we had a dispute. i am happy not to find him under this roof." "and what did you quarrel about?" "i cannot tell you, father. i would willingly have avoided it; but there are things which an honest man cannot hear spoken. i long knew that he was wild, and spared neither himself nor others; but i never saw him before as he was to-day." the father looked steadily at his son, and asked in a low voice-- "and how will it be arranged?" "as is the custom amongst men of honour," answered clement, firmly. "do you know how _christians_ are accustomed to arrange quarrels?" "i _do_ know, but cannot do it. if he had insulted _me_, i could have forgiven him, and spared him his punishment; but he has slandered one who is dearer to me than myself." "a woman, clement?" "yes, a woman!" "and you love this woman?" "i love her!" said the young man, in a low voice. "i thought that it was thus." cried the old man. "the town has destroyed you. you have become one of the children of this world, following after strange women, and swaggering for them, and making of them the false idols of your folly! but i tell you that, so long as i live, i will labour to bring you back to the lord, and will shatter your idols! has god wrought a miracle in you that you should deny him? aye, it were better that you sate still in darkness, and that the door had for ever remained shut through which the spirit of lies has crept into your heart!" the young man restrained himself with difficulty. "who has given you the right, father," he cried at last, "who has given you the right of accusing me of ignoble inclinations? because i must do what must be done in this world to restrain the insolence of the base, am _i_ therefore base? there are different ways of fighting against the spirit of evil. yours is the way of peace, because you have to deal with men in the aggregate. i stand opposed to a single man, and know what i have to do." "_thou_ canst not change him," the old man cried angrily: "wilt thou tread god's ordinances under thy feet? he is no son of mine who raises his hand against his brother. i forbid the meeting in the strength of my priestly and paternal power. beware how you brave it." "so you cast me from your house," said clement gloomily. the mother, who had burst into tears, arose, and rushed towards her son. "mother," he said sternly, "i am a man, and may not be false to myself." he approached the door, and glanced over towards mary, who sought him sorrowfully with her great blind eyes. his mother followed him; her sobs choked her voice. "do not retain him, wife," cried the old man; "he is no longer a child of ours if he be not a child of god. let him go whither he will; he is dead to us." mary heard the door shut, and the mother fall to the ground with a cry from her inmost mother's heart. then the palsied feeling which had kept her seated went from her. she arose, went to the door, and with a powerful effort bore the fainting woman to her bed. the old man stood by the window and spoke not a word; his clasped hands trembled violently. a quarter of an hour later, some one knocked at the door of clement's room. he opened it, and mary stood before him. the room was in confusion. she struck her foot against his travelling trunk, and said sorrowfully, "what are you going to do, clement?" then his rigid grief gave way; he seized her hands, and pressed his eyes, in which the hot tears stood, against them. "i _must_ do it," he said; "i have long felt that i have lost his love; perhaps he will feel, when i am far away from him, that i have never ceased to be his son." she raised him up. "do not weep so, or i shall never have the strength to utter what i _must_ say. your mother would say it, did your father not forbid her. the sound of his voice told me how hard it was for him to be so stern; but thus he will remain. i know him well. he believes that his sternness is a duty to god, to make him offer up his own heart as a sacrifice." "and do _you_ think that it is required of him?" "no, clement! i know but little of the world, and know not the nature of the laws which force men of honour to fight. but i know you well enough to know that the mere opinion of the world would never prevent your considering honestly what is right and what is wrong--even in this case. you may owe it to the world, and to the woman you love;--but still, you owe more to your parents than to either. i know not the girl they have slandered, and may not be able quite to understand the depth of the pain it must give you not to do all for her.--do not interrupt me. do not think that i have any fear that for her sake you might withdraw from me those last scanty remains of friendship these last years of separation have spared me.--i give you up utterly to her, if she but makes you happy.--but you have no right to do, even for her sake, what you contemplate doing, even were she a thousand times dearer to you than father or mother. you have no right to leave your father's house in anger, and so close the door for ever on yourself. your father is old, and will take his opinions to the grave with him. he would have had to sacrifice the essence and substance of his whole life if he had given way. you sacrifice to him the passing respect that you may possess in the eyes of strangers. for if the girl you love so can desert you because you refuse to bring down your father's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, she has never, never been worthy of you"-- her voice failed her. he had thrown himself on a chair, and groaned bitterly. she stood ever near the door, and waited for his answer. across her brow lay a strange anxious expression, as if she listened even to him with her very eyes. suddenly he sprang up, laid his hands upon her shoulders, and cried, "it was for _thee_ that i would have done it, and for _thy_ sake alone will conquer my own heart!" then he rushed past her, and down the narrow stairs. she remained above. his last words had quivered in her very soul, and a stream of blissful thoughts swept through her fearful, half-incredulous heart. she seated herself trembling on the travelling-trunk. "for thee! for thee!" still rang in her ears. she almost feared his return. if he should have meant differently?--and how was it possible that he should not mean differently? what was she to him? at last she heard him returning--her agitation gained on her; she arose, and moved towards the door. he entered, clasped her in his arms, and told her all! "it is _i_ who am blind," he cried; "_you_ are the seeing one--the prophetess! what were i now without thy light? lost for all eternity! driven from all the hearts i love through mine own miserable blindness! and now--now--all again mine--aye, and more than i knew of--more than i dared to hope for!" she hung mute and agitated upon his neck; all her long-suppressed love burst forth, and glowed in her kisses, despising the tepid rendering of mere words. the day dawned upon their happiness. now he learned, too, what she had so long kept silent, and what this same room had seen, in which they now, for ever irrevocably united, pressed each other's hands, and parted in the light of the breaking day. in the course of the day a letter arrived from wolf, dated the night before, from the next village. "clement need not trouble himself," he wrote. "he retracted all he had said; he knew best that it was all an idle lie; anger and wine had put it into his head. he had really thought, when he saw him so cold about it, that it would only have cost him a word to win the girl; and when he saw that clement was in earnest, he had slandered what he felt was for ever beyond his reach. he should not think him worse than he was, and excuse him to the girl and his parents, and not quite give him up for ever." when clement read these lines to mary, she said, with some emotion, "i only pity him. i never felt comfortable when he was near me, and how much he might have spared both us and himself! but i can think of him calmly now. how much have i to thank him for!" marion. * * * when holy saint louis wore the crown of france, the good old town of arras was just six hundred years younger than it is now. that she was a thousand times merrier she had to thank, not her youth alone, but, before even that, the noble guild of poets who resided within her walls, and who, by their ballads and miracle-plays, and pleasant rhyming romances, spread her fame over all fair france. now it happened one early spring about the time, that in a garden in arras, behind the house of one of these valiant singers, a young woman was busied tying up vines to their trellises. she was beautifully formed, of that pleasant roundness that usually indicates a cheerful soul within, and she had a sweet, gentle face. her calm dark eyes swept now and then over the garden as if they knew neither joy nor sorrow; but her hands were active and dreamed not. after the fashion of well-to-do townswomen, she wore her fair hair adorned with many an artful ribbon ornament, and her gown was tucked up for work, and, perhaps, possibly also, for the sake of her darling little feet. as the charming vision wandered in her tranquil activity still further into the garden, there appeared at the door of the house which opened into it, a man, who formed both in face and manner a most remarkable contrast to her. he was of middle size, with a keen eye, and irregular features. his black cloak indifferently concealed his high left shoulder, and his legs seemed to have been made after very different patterns. but still his figure, however incongruous its parts might seem, was brought into a striking unison by the boldness and vivacity of his carriage; and about his mouth there played an expression that must have made him dangerous in sarcasm, or very charming in a more kindly humour. he gazed for a while at the fair young gardener, and seemed to enjoy her beauty. he shook his head irresolutely. at last he plucked the barrel-cap with the green cock's-feather deeper over his forehead, and strode towards her. the fair woman looked round, her cheek coloured slightly, and her eyes brightened. she let her hands fall by her side, and gazed silently at him as he neared her. "good-day, marion!" said the man, almost roughly. "is there any one beside yourself in the garden?" "no, adam." "it is well--i wish to speak with you. you are a good wife, marion, and do your duty; but yet i must tell you that i cannot endure you any longer!" the bright cheeks grew pale as death; but she was silent and looked steadily before her. "no!" continued adam; "longer i cannot bear it! you are very lovely, marion, and that i know now, four weeks after our wedding, better than i did when i courted you, but--you are so wearisome, marion! i will not say that you are absolutely without sense; but the holy virgin only knows whether it is asleep, or waiting in good hope of some mighty thought, when it is to appear. i have waited long for it, and now my patience is at an end. have you once, only once, since we have been man and wife chattered amusingly, or made one single joke? or have my brightest strokes of wit ever found more favour from you than half a smile? have you not ever gone calmly on your way like a statue? what is the use of my now and then making the discovery that you really are flesh and blood, when from morning to night i am obliged to laugh at my own jokes by myself, and so applaud my own rhymes with my own hands. fool that i was! i should have thought of it sooner--when i fell in love with you! _now_, i thought, she will begin to thaw! confess yourself--have we not wearied each other as thoroughly as any wedded pair in christendom?" the young wife remained obstinately silent, but her eyes filled with heavy drops. adam broke a young twig hastily from the tree, and continued-- "i will not say that other women are, in the long-run, better, or more amusing--i do not say so; and i have at least to thank you for showing me so early that i have made a great mistake in taking a wife. but, for the third time--i can stand it no longer! am i to mope and fritter away my young life in this hole, merely because i had the luck to think you pretty? and am i never to set foot in paris, at the king's court, in the chambers of princes, where my talent would bring me honour and distinction?--and never set a foot in the houses of learned doctors of the university, where there are more clever things said in one hour than you produce in a year? and all this because you are a pretty woman--for you are one--and, by chance, my proper wife! may the devil bake me into a pancake if i stand it!" he paced up and down a few times, gesticulating vehemently, glanced sideways at his wife, and began again. "are you not a standing proof that i am right? why don't you cry, as any other ordinary woman would do, and fall upon my neck and beseech me to remain, and say that i am your darling adam--your only love--your handsome adam, though, by-the-bye, i am not handsome, and promise everything, whether you can perform it or not? there you stand, and don't know how to help yourself! am i to give up my art and my young years for the pleasure of staring at you? and supposing we should have children, and they take after you! do you expect that i shall be able to compose the stupidest birthday ode, with six or seven boys and girls, all as lovely as pictures, and as stupid, sitting round me and staring at me? but we will not part in enmity; and so i tell you, in all love and friendship, that you can no longer be my wife! i will away to paris as soon as i can raise money enough for the journey; you can return to your parents, or, if you like, you can go to my old uncle, who is so fond of you; he will take good care of you--you shall want for nothing; and if you should have a child, i will keep it as my own--but, remain with you i _cannot_, marion! by my soul's salvation! a poet i am, and a poet i will remain--and weariness is poison to the merrie art! now i am going to my uncle--be a good girl, and let us part friends." he stretched out his hand towards her, but she saw it not for tears. he thought it needless on that account to wait and see whether she would behave as he had told her other women would do under the circumstances; he turned hastily towards the door and disappeared into the house. an hour after the wedded pair had thus parted "in friendship," the door of a stately house, in which lived the rich senator, adam's uncle, was thrown open, and adam stepped hastily out, in high excitement. he hurried onwards without regarding which way he took, and now and then scraps of his internal conversation with himself burst forth, as he clenched his fist or twisted his fingers in his long round-cut hair. "the old shark!" he growled. "and yet he had got rags of virtuous poverty to cover the nakedness of his avarice! what is it to him if i and my wife choose to agree to a friendly separation? i wish he would take her himself, if it were not a pity for her, pretty young thing! truly, whether i moulder here or not touches not his money-bags; but, to travel and to see the world, and gain wisdom--ay! that pinches master money-bags sore! pah! because he gave me the cottage, and arranged my household, am i to freeze in arras, and blunder about with those rogues of balladmakers, and hide my light under a bushel? if i am obliged to travel like a mountebank, and train dogs and apes to get to paris, i'll do it! i'll show the old gold-scratcher that adam de la halle is no petticoat knight, but knows how to follow his own way." and this same way of his own carried him this time to the three golden lilies, the best tavern in the good old town of arras. there were but few guests in the drinking-room at this hour. adam seated himself in a corner, and did not look up until the host, bringing him wine, greeted him respectfully, "you come as if called for, master adam," said mine host of the lilies. "there is one of my guests, see you--the man sitting yonder by the stove and looking towards you. well, a week ago he brought a troop of players into the town, to play the great passion-piece at easter, in the cathedral the reverend gentlemen there sent for them; and now it wants fourteen days to the time, and they are all loitering about idle and eating their pay before they get it; and their director lodges with me, and drinks stoutly on the score. 'sir,' i said to him just before you came in, 'sir,' said i, 'if you could manage to scrape together a little money by your art in the mean time, it would do both you and me good.'--'ay!' said he, 'if we had only a decent piece, a mystery, or a miracle; for i have left my whole bundle of plays behind at cambria, all except the passion-piece.'--'eh, sir!' said i. 'here with us the country is alive with gay minstrels, troubadours, and ballad-singers and there is master adam de la halle, who is worth them all put together.'--'by st. nicholas,' said my man, 'i would give him half the receipts if he would write me a piece, and it succeeded'--and just at that moment you came through the door, and so he sent me to ask you." adam rose up, swallowed his wine hastily, and then went straight to the leader of the strollers, who sprang from his seat respectfully, and bowed low. they conversed for a short time, and then shook hands. "so be it," said adam; "within eight days your people shall play. and the day after i shall receive my money, and now our lady preserve you. i will go and set about your affair at once." so he went, and after his fashion, he growled something between his teeth, that sounded very much like "i'll make them remember me." eight days had passed away, and marion sat in her chamber one afternoon, with eyes red with weeping, and cheeks pale with sorrow, so intently engaged turning over old letters which she had in her lap that she did not hear the door open, and one of her old playmates enter. when her friend called her by name, she sprang up startled. "good day, perette," she said; "what brings you here?" "or rather, what keeps _you_ here?" answered the girl, saucily; "you sit and you cry, and you never think of going near the three lilies, where your husband's new piece is to be acted by the strange players. what a wife you are! i should be the first to go if i had a husband who could charm half the town into the courtyard of an old inn. what have you got there? have you been studying all the old songs your adam made on you? i should think that you ought to have them all at your fingers' ends now like your rosary." the poor wife began to weep bitterly. "don't you know then," she sobbed, "and is not the whole town of arass talking about it--that he is going to paris, and intends to leave me behind, and is never, never coming back again?" "bah! nonsense," cried perette, "what has put all that into your head?" "he said it to me himself, word for word; and since that time he has never eaten at home, and only returns very late at night, and sleeps below in the saloon." "well, well, he has had his hands full of his new play, and then men are always fanciful, marion, and must always be doing something to plague us; but, god be praised! all are not dead that do not laugh. dry your eyes, be a sensible woman, and come with me to the play. what will your husband think of you if you don't even wish to see a play he has written himself?" so half comforting, half scolding, she drew the sorrowing young wife out of her room to the three lilies. there all was gay enough. a number of the townspeople were seated on benches in the spacious courtyard. the windows of the low buildings at the side had been chosen as boxes by the more distinguished of the burghers. and the stage was erected in a large barn at the end of the yard, the mighty doors having been removed for that purpose. marion and perette arrived at the moment of the exit of dame avaritia, who had spoken the prologue, and assured many rich burghers of the town of her further protection. not a place was left free for our two fair sight-seers, either in the courtyard, or at the windows. but perette was not to be daunted, and knowing the house, she made her way through a side building, and advanced with marion up to the barn. here they placed themselves behind the great linen cloths with which the stage had been fenced off, and peeped through a rent in the curtain at the play, unhindered by the actors, who, in their fantastic dresses, sought to pay their court to the two pretty women. marion took not the slightest notice of them, and stood rooted to one spot. perette exercised the sharpness of her little tongue on the player folk now and then, and, in common parlance, gave them quite as good, or perhaps better than they brought. but master adam, little dreaming that his young wife was watching him, had, in the meantime, advanced from the other side in his own character and costume. he began in smooth verses to bewail his sorrows. he wanted to go to paris, and never a _sou_ had he in his pockets, and his _millionaire_ of an uncle had, just at this moment, been attacked by the most hopeless complaint in the world, an obstinate avarice, so that from him there was nothing to hope. to him entered a doctor, whom adam consulted as to whether it was possible to cure avarice, for he could show him a splendid specimen of it, if he wished to try his hand. whereupon the doctor broke forth into a learned dissertation on the different varieties of the disease, distinguishing those curable from those incurable; and in the case which adam described, he had but little doubt that he could be of service, if he was only permitted to see the patient himself. then a third personage advanced, so ridiculously like adam's venerable uncle in figure and manner and dress, that the laughter of the spectators seemed never coming to an end. to this worthy gentleman the doctor advanced with great politeness, felt his pulse, and looked gravely at his tongue, asked about this and that, and then made some more pointed inquiries about specific symptoms of the miser fever, from which he understood he suffered. upon which the old gentleman burst into a great rage, upbraided his rascally nephew soundly for accusing him of having such a scandalous complaint, and declared the grounds upon which he refused to assist him on his journey to paris. the principal reason was, that adam was only just married, and had already grown tired of his wife, who nevertheless was, as all arras knew, a perfect model of beauty and virtue. in ever-increasing irritation had poor marion been an unsuspected participator in all this conversation--and who could blame a virtuous wife for feeling irritated--when all at once she saw her domestic sorrows made a butt for a laughing public. she took no heed of the polished verses and comical grimaces with which the conversation of the three actors was adorned, and which so delighted the audience. with a bitter anxiety, and forgetting all else, she now listened to the answer her husband was to give to her uncle. when, however, adam drily explained to the audience that a pretty woman was not necessarily an amusing one, and that his marion's mouth was better adapted for kisses than conversation, that nevertheless no one grew wiser by kissing, but, on the contrary, by witty conversation; and that he would present any one amongst them, who had ever heard his marion give utterance to an observation at all bordering on the witty, the sum of two golden crowns; then the poor listener could no longer restrain herself. with one bound she was on the stage, and stood with glowing eyes and angry brow directly opposite to him who had so basely slandered her. "are you not ashamed, adam?" she cried in the midst of his harangue; "are you not ashamed to speak thus of your own wedded wife before all the town? oh, if you had ever loved me, only a little, a little, that speech would never have passed your lips! and now tell me, have i deserved it from you? have i ever caused you one hour's grief? have i not done everything to please you? and now will you speak ill of me before all arras?" so angry and heart-grieved, amidst tears and sobbings, scolded the poor beauty. the audience who took it all for part of the play, laughed at first, aye, and some amongst them were mischievous enough to enjoy their neighbour's domestic discomfort. when, however, they began to see that it was the veritable marion herself, the worst of them lost their gaiety and stared astonished at the stage. but adam, much as he was startled at first by this sudden apparition, quickly recovered himself, and cried loudly and undauntedly, "my good fellow-townsmen, this does not belong to our play; this woman fell suddenly in amongst us, and does not belong to our company at all. let me entreat some of you to lead her away. you hear that she does not talk verse, like all the actors who have the honour of performing this most remarkable farce before your worthinesses!" therewith, he took marion gently by the hand, to lead her from the stage. but she shook herself free, and encouraged by the demand of some amount the spectators, that she should be permitted to remain, and fight for her own cause, cried, "aye! and i _will_, i say too! and make you all the judges of whether i have not been badly played upon. it is true that i am naturally silent, but is it to be considered a fault, on my part, if i do what you men are always throwing in the teeth of us poor women, letting alone all useless chattering, and listening quietly to what my husband has to say?" "marion is right." "long live marion! she shall speak again!" shouted the spectators, laughing, and waving her encouragement. "and," she continued, growing even more eloquent, "if i have no right to be here because i do not speak verses, i know enough and of the very best too! my husband, who slanders me now, wrote them on me himself before we were married; and you shall hear them that you may know how double-tongued he is, and what fair words he once had for my praise, although he now has only complaints." therewith she stepped to the edge of the stage and sang the following verses, with a voice that threatened to desert her-- "cheeks as red and eyes as dancing, arms and necks like lilies glancing, you may find in arras town. hearts as soft and limbs as rounded, forms with every grace surrounded, you may meet with, up and down! but with wisdom no one's blest, like the maiden i love best!" a shout of laughter answered this strophe; some began to sing the _réfrain_ and others joined them. but a voice from the crowd asked, "but how can you prove, fair marion, that this lady of whom he talks is not another than yourself?" "listen again," cried marion, "there is no doubt about it." then she sang-- "others may more sweetly sing, lighter through the dancers swing, never a straw i care! prattle half an hour free, marion's rosy lips to me, that's a pleasure rare! prettier, wittier ne'er was known, than my marion, darling one!" this time the whole audience sang the _réfrain_ with her, and then resounded loud cheerings for the songstress, who stood with the tears still in her eyes, frightened at her own boldness, but lovelier than ever on the stage. adam sprang from the back of the scene and cried, "silence, good burghers all! i too have a word to say." all were silent, and curious to know how he would manage to bring himself into grace again. he said, "there is not one amongst you who cannot perceive that my dear wife here has blamed me terribly, and managed to get all the laughter on her side; for that, i thank her from the very bottom of my soul: i tell you all truly that my heart quivered with joy at each word she spoke, and when, at last, she hit upon the charming idea of making my own words witness against me, i said quietly to myself, master adam, you are a rogue if you desert such a model of a wife, though it rained honours and doubloons in paris! and so i come penitently hoping that my dear fellow-townsmen will intercede for me with my wife, that she may take her insolent, reckless husband back to her heart and love, and forget what his slanderous tongue has said of her." as he said this with ah emotion, which no one had ever seen him under before, there was a deep silence in the court--marion smiled at him with an assuring kindness--fell upon his neck, and said, "you dear, mischievous man." then broke from all the windows and benches a universal shout of congratulation. but adam, freeing himself from the arms of his wife, grasped her hand firmly, and cried, "i owe you the third song." it runs thus-- "let those who will to paris wander, and time and gold for learning squander, for me i mean at home to rest! all the knowledge that's worth knowing lies, fresh springing, ever blowing, in a gentle woman's breast. wiser woman ne'er was known than the one----i call mine own!" we need hardly say how gaily all joined in the _réfrain_ this time. just, however, as they were all in full song, there arose a noise of contention before the house; certain people had kindly let adam's uncle know that his nephew had introduced his honourable presentment on the stage, and the old gentlemen came, with a company of archers, firmly determined to make his irreverent nephew pay dearly for his indiscretion. the people were now busied in the house explaining to him the favourable turn things had taken, and when he heard of adam's recantation and the renunciation of the paris idea, he permitted himself to be pacified, became gracious and forgave the saucy poet, who approached humbly with marion on his arm; and in order to strike a joyous blow against the accusation of avarice, he gave a grand banquet that very evening at the three lilies, where marion was obliged to dance with all the great people of the town. the play was quite spoilt for the good burghers of arras; but we have, however, so much faith in their good heartedness, as to believe that the miracle, as performed by marion, pleased them more than if, as was originally intended, the angel gabriel and half a dozen of his body guard, had descended from heaven and kicked dame avaritia out of the country with due honour. it is possible that there might have been never a miser the less in arras for it, and now, at least, there was one happy pair the more. la rabbiata. * * * chapter i. the sun had not yet risen. over vesuvius lay a broad grey sweep of mist, which spread itself out towards naples, and overshadowed the little towns along the coast. the sea was tranquil, but on the marina, which is situate in a narrow inlet under the high torrentine cliffs; fishermen and their wives were already busied, dragging in with stout ropes the net boats, which had been fishing at sea during the night. others cleaned up their boats, shook out the sails, and brought oars and spars out of the great railed vaults, cut deep in the rock, in which they kept their tackle at night. no one was idle. for even the old people, who were no longer able to go to sea, ranged themselves amongst the long rows of those who drew the nets, and here and there there stood an old woman with her distaff on one of the flat roofs, or took care of the children, whilst her daughter helped her husband at his work. "look there, rachella! there is our padre, eurato," said an old woman, to a little thing of ten years old, who swung its little spindle by her side; "he has just stepped into the boat. antonino is going to take him over to capri. maria santissima! how sleepy the holy man looks still!" and therewith she waved her hand towards a kindly looking little priest, who had seated himself cautiously in a boat below her, having first carefully raised his black coat and spread it over the seat. the people on the shore paused in their work to see their padre start, who nodded and greeted them kindly right and left. "why must he go to capri, grandmother?" asked the child. "have the people over there got no priest of their own that they are obliged to borrow ours?" "do not be so silly," answered the old woman, "they have plenty of priests, and beautiful churches, and a hermit too--which we have not. but there is a noble signora there, who stopped once a long time here at lorento, and was so ill that the padre was often obliged to carry her the hoste, when she did not think that she should live through the night. well, the holy virgin helped her, and she got strong and well again, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. when she went from here to go over to capri, she left a pretty heap of ducats behind for the church and the poor people, and said that she would not go until our padre promised to visit her over there, that she might confess to him, for it is wonderful how fond she is of him; and we may bless ourselves that we have a padre who has gifts like an archbishop, and who is asked after by all the great people. the madonna be with him." and therewith she nodded down towards the boat which was just putting off. "shall we have fine weather, my son?" asked the little priest, looking thoughtfully towards naples. "the sun is not up yet," answered the young man; "it will soon scatter that bit of fog when it rises." "so, let us start at once, and avoid the heat." antonino was in the act of grasping the long oar, in order to push off the boat, when he suddenly checked himself, and looked up towards the steep path which led from the little town of lorento, down towards the marina. a slender girlish form was visible above, tripping hastily over the rough stones, and waving a handkerchief she carried a small bundle under her arm, and was poorly enough dressed; yet she had an almost noble, though rather wild way of throwing her head back on her shoulders, and the black tresses which she wore twined round her forehead decked her like a coronet. "what are we waiting for?" asked the little priest. "there is some one coming down who wants to go to capri. if you will permit it, padre, we shall not go the slower, for it is only a young girl, hardly eighteen." just as he spoke the girl appeared round the end of the wall which bordered the winding path. "lauretta!" cried the padre, "what can she want in capri?" antonino shrugged his shoulders. the girl approached with hasty steps, looking straight before her. "good day! la rabbiata!" cried some of the young sailors. they might indeed have said more if the proximity of their padre had not kept them a little in order, for the short defiant manner with which the girl received their greetings seemed to irritate them vastly. "good day, lauretta!" cried the padre, "how goes it with you? do you want to go over to capri with us?" "if you will permit me, padre." "you must ask antonino there. he is the patron of the boat. every one is master of his own, and god of us all." "here is a half carolus," said lauretta, without looking at the young boatman, "can i go over for it?" "you may want it more than i;" murmured antonino, and moved some baskets filled with oranges on one side to make room. he was going to sell them at capri, for the rocky islet does not produce enough for its numerous visitors. "i will not go with you for nothing." said the girl; and the dark eyebrows drew together. "come, my child." said the padre, "he is an honest young fellow, and does not want to get rich from your poverty; there--step in," and he reached her his hand, "and seat yourself near me. see there! he has spread his jacket for you that you may sit the softer. he was not half so thoughtful of me. but young blood! young blood! it is always so! they will take more care of one little girl, then of ten holy fathers." "well, well! you need not make any excuses, 'tonino; it is god's law that like should cling to like." in the mean time, lauretta had slipped into the boat, and seated herself, first pushing the jacket on one side without saying a word. the young fisherman let it be, and muttered something between his teeth. then he pushed stoutly against the beach, and the little bark flew lightly out into the bay. "what have you got in your bundle?" asked the padre, as they swept over the sea, just beginning to be freckled with the first sunbeams. "thread, silk, and a little loaf, padre, i am going to sell the silk to a woman in capri, who makes ribbons, and the thread to another." "did you spin it yourself?" "yes, padre." "if i remember rightly, you have learned to weave ribbons too?" "yes, padre, but my mother is so much worse, that i cannot leave her for long at a time; and we are too poor to buy a loom." "much worse! dear, dear, when i saw her at easter, she was sitting up." "the spring is always the worst time for her. since we had the great storm and the earthquake, she has been obliged to keep her bed from pain." "don't weary of prayers and supplications to the holy virgin, my child,--she alone can help her. and be good and industrious, that your prayers may be heard." after a pause. "as you came across the beach, they called after you, 'good day, la rabbiata.' why do they call you so? it is not a pretty name for a christian girl, who ought to be humble and gentle." the girl's brown face glowed, and her eyes sparkled. "they laugh at me, because i will not dance and sing and gossip, like the others. they might let me go my own way. i do them no harm." "but you might be friendly with every one. others, who lead easier lives may dance and sing; but kindly words may be given even by a sorrowful heart." she looked steadily down, and drew the black eyebrows still closer together, as if she wished to shroud the dark eyes entirely under them. for a while they, voyaged on in silence. the sun now stood glorious over the mountains. the peak of vesuvius ranged high over the bank of mist which still wrapped its flanks, and the houses on the plains of lorento gleamed whitely from amongst the green orange gardens. "have you never heard any thing more of that painter, lauretta," asked the padre, "that neapolitan, who wanted to marry you?" she shook her head. "he wanted to paint your picture--why did you drive him away?" "why did he want it? there are plenty prettier than i. and then, who knows what he might have done with it? he might have bewitched me with it, and endangered my soul, or even have killed me, my mother says." "don't believe such wicked things," said the padre, gravely, "are you not always in the hand of god, without whose permission not a hair can fall from your head? and do you think that a man with a poor picture like that can be stronger than the lord god? you might have seen that he wished you well. would he have wanted you to marry him if he had not?" she was silent. "then why did you send him away? they said that he was an honest man and well to do, and could have kept you and your mother in comfort. much more so than you can do now with your poor spinning and silk-weaving." "we are poor people." she said, impetuously. "and my mother has been ill a long time. we should only have been a burden to him; and i am not fit to be a signora. when his friends came to see him, he would have been ashamed of me." "what nonsense! i tell you that he was a good man, and, moreover, he was willing to settle in lorento. another like him will not come again in a hurry; he seemed sent straight from heaven to assist you." "i will never have a husband, never!" she said almost fiercely, and as if to herself. "have you taken a vow, or do you intend to enter a cloister?" she shook her head. "the people are right in accusing you of obstinacy, even if the name be not a pretty one. do you forget that you are not alone in the world, and that this resolution of yours makes your sick mother's life and illness still more bitter? what possible grounds can you have for casting aside each honest hand which stretches itself out to assist you and her? answer me, lauretta?" "i have, indeed, good grounds," she said, low and hesitatingly, "but i cannot tell them." "not tell them? not even to me? not even to your old father confessor, whom you used to trust, and who you know means so well towards you? will you?" she nodded. "so, lighten your heart, my child. if you are _in_ the right, i will be the first to _do_ you right; but you are young, and know but little of the world, and you might repent by-and-by at having ruined your happiness for life for the sake of a childish fancy." she cast a shy, rapid glance towards the young man, who sat rowing steadily behind them in the boat, with his woollen cap plucked deeply over his brows, gazing sideways at the sea, and seemingly lost in his own reflections. the padre observed her glance, and bent his head nearer to her. "you did not know my father," she whispered, and her eyes gleamed darkly. "your father! he died, if i remember rightly, when you were hardly ten years old. what can your father, whose soul may be in paradise, have to do with your caprice?" "you did not know him, padre: you did not know that he was the cause of all my mother's illness." "how so?" "because he ill-treated her, and beat her, and trampled her under his feet! i remember the night well when he used to come home in a rage! she never said an angry word to him--did all that he wished; but he beat her till i thought my heart would have broken, and used to draw the coverlid over my head, and pretend to be asleep, but cried all the night through. and when he saw her lying on the floor, he changed suddenly, and raised her up, and kissed her, till she cried that he was suffocating her. my mother forbad me ever to say a word about it. but it had such an effect upon her, that she has never been well all these long years since he has been dead; and if she should die soon, which the madonna forbid, i know well who killed her." the little priest shook his head, and seemed undecided as to what extent he should justify his penitent. at last he said, "forgive him, as your mother has forgiven him. do not fasten your thoughts on that sad picture, lauretta. better times will come for you, and you will forget all this." "never shall i forget it," she cried, shuddering; "and i tell you, padre, that i will remain a maiden, and be subject to no one who may ill-treat me one moment and caress me the next. if any one tries to strike me or to kiss me now, i know how to defend myself; but my mother could not defend herself, or ward off the blows or the kisses, because she loved him; and i will love no one so much as to give him the power of making me ill and miserable." "now, are you not a child, talking as a child, and knowing nothing of what happens in the world? are all men like your father, giving way to every fancy and ill-humour, and beating their wives? have you not seen kind-hearted men enough who live in peace and unity with their wives?" "no one knew either how my father treated my mother, for she would have died a thousand times rather than have said any thing, or complained of him, and all because she loved him. if that is what love does, closing one's lips when one should cry for help, and disarming one against worse than one's worst enemy could do, never shall my heart entrust itself to a man's keeping." "i tell you that you are a child, and do not know what you are talking about. much this heart of yours will ask you whether it is to love or not when its time is come! all those fine fancies you have got into that little head won't help you much _then_! and that painter, did you also inform him that you expected him to ill-treat you?" "his eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with her--i know those eyes! a man can give that look, too, who can think of beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. i shuddered when i saw those eyes again." then she remained obstinately silent the padre, too, did not speak. he ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his mouth. when, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of capri, antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow waves, and placed him respectfully upon the shore; but lauretta would not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other, splashed hastily to the shore. "i am going to stop some time at capri to-day," said the padre, "so you need not wait for me; possibly i may not return home till to-morrow. and you, lauretta, remember me to your mother; i shall see you again this week. you are going back to-night?" "if i have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress. "you know that i must go back," said antonino, in what he intended as a tone of indifference; "i will wait for you till the ave maria; if you do not come then, it will be all the same to me." "you must be in time, lauretta," said the little priest; "you must not leave your mother alone all night. is it far where you are going?" "to anacapri." "and i to capri. god guard you, my child! and you, my son!" lauretta kissed his hand, and said a farewell, which the padre and antonino might have divided between them. antonino, however, did not claim his share of it; he took off his cap to the padre, and did not look at lauretta. when, however, they had both turned their backs upon him, he permitted his glance to follow the padre as he strode carefully up the stony beach, but for a very short distance, and then directed it to the girl, who was mounting the hill to the right, holding his hand over his eyes to shade them from the bright sun. when she reached the place where the road begins to run between the walls, she paused for a moment, as if to take breath, and turned round. the marina lay at her feet, above her towered the steep cliffs, and before her spread the sea in all its azure beauty. it was, indeed, a view well worth the pause. chance so willed it that her glance, sweeping past antonino's boat, encountered the one which he had sent after her. they both made a movement, like persons who wish to excuse themselves--"a mere matter of accident;" and then the girl continued her way with closely-compressed lips. chapter ii. it was only an hour after midday, and antonino had been sitting long on a bench before the little fishing osteria. something seemed to be passing through his mind, for every five minutes he sprang up, stepped out into the sun, and examined carefully the paths which led right and left to the two island towns. "the weather looked suspicious," he told the hostess; "it was clear enough now, but he knew this colour of the sea and sky; it had looked just like this before the last great storm, when the english family were saved with such difficulty. she must remember it?" "no." "well, she would remember what he had said, if it changed before night." "have you many visitors over there?" asked the hostess, after a pause. "they are just beginning to come. we have had hard times till now. the bathers have not arrived yet." "the spring was late. have you done better here in capri?" "i should not have managed to get macaroni twice a week if it had depended on the boat. now and then a letter to take to naples, or a gentleman who wanted a row on the sea or to fish--that was all. but you know that my uncle has got the great orange garden, and is a rich man. 'tonino,' he said to me, 'as long as i live you shall not want, and afterwards you will be cared for.' so i got through the winter with god's help." "has your uncle children?" "no; he was never married; he was long in foreign countries where he managed to scrape many a good piaster together; now he has an idea of setting up a large fishery, and is going to put me at the head of the whole affair to see that he gets his rights." "so you are a made man, antonino." the young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "each one has his burden to bear," he said. then he sprang up and looked right and left at the weather, though he must have known that there was but one weather-side. "let me bring you another flask, your uncle can pay for it," said the hostess. "only one glass more, my head is warm already." "it won't get into your head, you can drink as much as you like of it. here is my husband just coming, you must sit down and chat with him a bit." and truly the stately patron of the inn approached them just at that moment down the hill, with his net on his shoulder, and his red cap set jauntily sideways on his ringletted hair. he had been into the town with fish, ordered by the great lady for our little friend the padre of lorento. when he caught sight of the young fisherman he waved him a hearty greeting; then seating himself near him on the bench, began to question and talk. his wife had just brought a fresh flask of pure unadulterated capri, when the shore sand to their left crackled, and lauretta advanced towards them from the road to anacapri. she greeted them with a hasty nod, and stopped irresolutely. antonino sprang up; "i must away," he said; "it is a girl from lorento who came this morning with the padre, and must go back this evening to her sick mother." "well, but it is a long time before night," said the host, "she will have time enough to drink a glass of wine. here, wife, bring a clean glass." "thank you, i do not wish to drink," said lauretta, remaining at some little distance. "pour out, wife, pour out, she wants pressing." "let her alone," said the young man, "she has a will of her own, when once she has made up her mind, no one can make her alter it." and therewith he took a hasty leave, and ran down to his boat, to set the sail, and stood waiting for the girl. she waved a greeting back to the hostess, and then with hesitating steps approached the boat. she glanced on all sides, as if she hoped for the arrival of other passengers; but the marina was deserted; the fishermen slept, or were away at sea with their nets and hooks. a few women and children sat in their doorways, sleeping or spinning; and the strangers who had come across in the morning, delayed their return until the cooler evening. she was prevented from looking around her long, for before she could turn round, antonino had taken her in his arms and carried her like a child to the boat. then he sprang in after her, and with a few strokes from the oars, they were in the open sea. she seated herself in the fore-part of the boat, with her back half turned towards him, so that he could only see her _en profil_. the expression of her face was even more haughty than usual; the dark hair hung low over the broad low forehead, and around her finely cut nostrils quivered an expression of defiance; her swelling lips were firmly compressed. after they had sailed on in silence for some time, she felt the sun burning her face, so she took her bread out and threw the handkerchief over her hair; then she began to eat, to dine in fact, for she had eaten nothing at capri. antonino did not contemplate this long in silence. he took two oranges out of the basket which he had brought over full in the morning, and said, "here is something to eat with your bread, lauretta--don't think that i kept them for you, they fell out of the basket into the boat, and i found them when i brought the empty ones back." "you had better eat them yourself, my bread is enough for me." "they are so refreshing in the heat, and you have had such a long walk." "they gave me a glass of water above there, that refreshed me enough." "as you please," he said, and let them fall back into the basket again. fresh silence. the sea was like a mirror, and hardly rustled round the boat's keel--even the white seamews, that had their nests amongst the rocks, pursued their prey without a cry. "you could take the two oranges home to your mother," antonino again began. "we have some at home, and when they are gone, i can go and buy more." "but take them to her with a kind word from me. "she does not know you." "you can tell her who i am." "_i_ do not know you." it was not the first time that she had thus denied him. a year before, when the painter had just arrived at lorento, it chanced one summer evening that antonino and some other young fellows of the town were playing boicia on an open piece of ground near the high-street--then it was that the neapolitan first saw lauretta, who, bearing a water-jar on her head, swept by without seeming to notice his presence. struck with her beauty, he stood gazing at her, forgetting that he was just in the centre of the play-ground, and might have cleared it in two steps. a ball, thrown by no friendly hand, struck him on the ancle, and reminded him that that was not the place to lose himself in reveries. he looked round as if he expected an apology; the young fisherman who had thrown the ball, stood silent and defiant amongst his companions, and the stranger thought it his best policy to avoid a discussion and go. but people had talked about the affair at the time, and spoke anew about it when the painter began openly to pay his court to lauretta. "i do not know him," she had said angrily, when the painter asked her whether she refused him for the sake of this uncivil youth. and yet the story had reached her ears too; and since that time, whenever she met antonino, she recognized him well enough. and now they sat in the boat like the bitterest enemies, and the heart of each beat fiercely. antonine's usually good-tempered face was deeply flushed. he struck his oars into the water till the foam splashed over them, and his lips moved from time to time as if he spoke evil words. she pretended not to observe it, put on her most indifferent expression, bent over the side of the boat and let the water run through her fingers; then she took off her handkerchief and arranged her hair as if she had been alone; only her eyebrows still drew together, and in vain she held her wet hand against her burning cheeks to cool them. now they reached the centre of the bay, and far or near there was not a sail to be seen--the island was far behind them, before them the coast lay bathed in sun-mist; not even a seamew broke in upon the intense solitude. antonino glanced around him. an idea seemed to force its way through his mind; the flush fled quickly from his cheek, and he dropped the oars. in spite of herself, lauretta looked around excited, but fearless. "i must make an end of this," burst from the fisherman's lips; "it has lasted too long already; i wonder that it has not sent me mad before this! you do not know me, you say? have you not long enough seen how i passed you like a madman, with my heart bursting to speak to you? you saw it, for then you put on your evil look and turned your back upon me." "what had i to talk to you about?" she answered shortly. "i saw long ago that you wanted to attach yourself to me; but i do not want to be gossipped about for nothing, and less than nothing, for i will never marry you, neither you nor any one!" "nor any one? you will not always say that, because you sent away the painter. bah! you were a child then. you will get lonesome some day, and then, mad as you are, you will take the first that comes." "no one knows his future. perhaps i may change my mind; what is it to you if i do?" "what is it to me?" he cried, and sprang so violently from his seat that the boat rocked again. "what is that to me! and you can ask me that, when you know how i feel towards you? unhappy shall it be for him who is received better than i have been!" "have i engaged myself to you? am i to blame if you let your brain wander? what right have you over me?" "oh!" he cried, "truly is it not written down. no lawyer has signed it and sealed it. but i feel that i have as much right over you as i have to enter heaven if i die an honest man. do you think that i will look on calmly when you go to church with another, and the girls pass by me and shrug their shoulders? do you think that i will be so insulted?" "do what you like. i shall not trouble myself, scold as you may. i too will do as _i_ please." "you shall not say so long," he cried, and his whole frame quivered. "i am man enough not to let my life be destroyed by such fancies. do you know that you are here in my power, and must do as _i_ will?" she shrank together, and her eyes gleamed at him. "murder me if you like." she said, slowly. "we must not do things by halves." he replied, sadly; "there is room for both of us in the sea, i cannot save you, child," and he spoke almost compassionately, dreamingly. "but we must dive below, both of us--and at once--and now," he shrieked, madly seizing her by both arms. but in an instant he drew back his right hand, the blood streamed from it--she had bitten him to the bone. "_must_ i do what you will?" she cried, freeing herself from him with a sudden turn; "let us, see whether i am in your power." and then she sprang over the gunwale of the boat and disappeared for a moment beneath the waves. she soon rose again; her clothes dung tightly around her; the water had loosened her hair, which hung in heavy masses around her neck. she struck out boldly with her arms, and swam, without a sound, steadily from the boat towards the shore. sudden terror seemed to have paralyzed antonino. he stood bent forward in the boat, his eyes fixed staringly upon her, as if a miracle was being enacted before them. then he shook himself, sprang to the oars, and rowed with all the strength he could command towards her, whilst the boarding of his boat grew ever redder from his free-streaming blood. in a moment he was by her side, rapidly as she swam. "for the sake of the ever blessed virgin," he cried, "come into the boat! i have been a madman, god knows what took away my reason. it struck into my brain like lightning from heaven, and burnt in me, till i knew not what i did or said. i do not ask you to forgive me, only save your life, and come into the boat again." she swam on as if she heard not. "you can never reach the land, it is still two miglia off. think of your mother: if anything happened to you, she would die of grief!" she measured with a glance the distance from the shore. then, without saying a word, she swam to the boat, and seized the gunwale. he moved across to help her; his jacket, which was lying on the seat, slid off into the sea as the boat heeled over with the girl's weight. she swung herself lithely up, and regained her former seat. when he saw her safe, he seized the oars again. but she spread out her dripping garments and wrung the water from her hair. as she did it, she glanced at the flooring of the boat, and saw the blood; then she cast a hasty look at his hand, which wielded the oar as unwounded. "there," she said, and reached him her handkerchief. he shook his head and rowed onwards. at last she rose, stepped over to him, and bound the handkerchief tightly over the deep wound. then, in spite of his resistance, she took one of the oars from him, and seating herself opposite to him, though without looking at him, her gaze fixed on oar reddened with his blood, helped on the boat with vigorous strokes. they were both pale and silent. as they neared the land they met the fishermen who were moving to sea to cast their nets for the night. they greeted antonino, and laughed at lauretta: neither of them answered a word. the sun was still high over procida when they reached the marina. lauretta shook her gown, now nearly dried, and sprang on shore. the old spinning woman who had seen them start in the morning stood again on her roof. "what is the matter with your hand, 'tonino?" she called down to him. "jesus! the boat is swimming in blood!" "'tis nothing, commare," answered the young man; "i tore it on a nail that stuck out too far. it will be well by to-morrow. the blood is only near the hand, and that makes it look worse than it is." "i will come and put some herbs upon it, comparello. wait, i will be down with you directly." "don't trouble yourself, commare; it is all over now and to-morrow it will be gone and forgotten. i have a good skin that soon grows over a wound." "addio!" said lauretta, turning towards the path that led up from the beach. "good night," called the fisherman after her, without looking towards her. then he took his tackle out of the boat, and his baskets, and strode up the narrow stone steps to his hut. chapter iii. there was no one but himself in the two rooms, through which he now paced to and fro. through the unglazed windows, only closed by wooden shutters, the wind blew in still more refreshingly than on the calm sea, and the solitude pleased him. he paused before the little picture of the virgin, and gazed thoughtfully at the silver paper star-glory pasted around it. yet he thought not of prayer. for what should he pray now, when he had nothing more to hope for! and to-day the sun seemed to stand still. he longed for night, for he was weary, and the loss of blood had affected him more than he would confess. he felt a violent pain in his hand, seated himself on a stool, and loosened the bandage. the repressed blood sprang forwards again, and his hand was much swollen around the wound. he washed it carefully, and held it long in the cold water. when he withdrew it he could plainly see the marks of lauretta's teeth. "she was right," he said to himself; "i was a brute and deserved no better. i will send her back her handkerchief to-morrow morning by giuseppe, for me shall she never see again." he washed the handkerchief carefully, and spread it out in the sun, after he had bound up his maimed limb again as well as he could with his left hand and his teeth. then he threw himself upon his bed and closed his eyes. the bright moon and the pain of his hand awoke him out of a half sleep. he sprang up to calm the throbbing beat of the blood in cold water, when he heard a rustling at his door. "who is there?" he said, and opened it. lauretta stood before him. without saying much she entered. she threw aside the handkerchief she had worn over her head, and placed a basket on the table. then she drew a deep sigh. "you are come for your handkerchief," he said; "you might have spared yourself the trouble, for tomorrow morning i should have asked giuseppe to take it to you." "it is not for the handkerchief," she answered, hastily; "i have been on the mountain gathering herbs that are good for wounds--there!" and she raised the cover of her basket. "too much trouble," he said, without any harshness--"too much trouble. it is better already--much better; and even if it were worse, i have deserved it. what do you do here so late? if any one were to see you--you know how they talk, though they know not what they say?" "i do not trouble myself about them," she answered vehemently; "but your hand i _must_ see, and put herbs upon it, for you can never do it with your left." "i assure you that there is no necessity for such trouble!" "then let me see it, that i may believe it." she seized his hand before he could prevent her, and untied the bandage. when she saw the angry swelling, she shrank together, and screamed "jesus, maria!" "it is a little swollen," he said; "a day and a night will put it all right again." she shook her head. "you will not be at sea again for a week!" "the day after to-morrow, i hope--what does it matter?" in the mean time she had found a basin, and washed the wound afresh, which he suffered her to do like a child; then she laid the healing leaves of the herbs upon it, which soon assuaged the burning pain, and bound up the hand with strips of linen which she had brought with her. when she had finished, he said, "i thank you--and listen--if you will do me one kindness more--'forgive me for letting such madness get possession of me to-day, and forget all that i have said and done. i do not know myself how it all happened. _you_ never gave me any cause for it--never, never! and you shall never more hear anything from me that can annoy you." "it is _i_ who have to pray for your pardon," she said, interrupting him; "_i_ should have told you all, differently and better, and not have irritated you by my rude manner; and now, even this wound----" "it was necessary, and high time that i was brought to my senses! and, as i said, it is of no consequence--do not talk of forgiveness. you have done me good, and i thank you for it. and now go to rest, and there--there is your handkerchief--you can take it with you now." he offered it to her, but she stood still and seemed to struggle with herself; at last, she said, "you have lost your jacket on my account, and i know that you had the money for the oranges in your pockets. it struck me just now--i cannot replace it at once, for i have not sufficient, and if i had it would belong to my mother; but here i have the silver cross that the painter laid on the table the last time he was with us; i have never seen it since, and do not care to keep it longer in my box. if you sell it--it is well worth a couple of piastres, my mother said--it would help to repair your loss, and what may be wanting i will try to gain by spinning at night, when my mother is asleep." "i shall not take it!" he said, shortly, pushing back the glittering cross she had taken from her pocket. "you _must_ take it," she cried; "who knows how long you may be laid up with your hand? there it lies, and i will never set my eyes on it again!" "then throw it into the sea!" "it is no present that i make you--it is only what you have a right to, and what i owe you." "a right to! i have no right to anything from you! if you should happen to meet me in future, do me one kindness--do not look at me, that i may not think that you are putting me in mind of how i have offended you. and now--good night!--and let it be the last." he laid her handkerchief in the basket, placed the cross on the top of it, and closed the lid. when he looked up and saw her face, he started. large, heavy tears rolled over her cheeks--she let them run their course unheeded. "maria santissima!" he cried. "are you ill? you tremble from head to foot!" "it is nothing," she said--"i will go home:" and turned towards the door. then a burst of weeping overcame her; she pressed her forehead against the doorpost, and sobbed loud and vehemently. before he could reach her, she turned suddenly round and cast herself upon his neck. "i cannot, cannot bear it," she cried, and clung to him like a dying man to life. "i cannot bear to hear you saying kind words to me, and telling me to leave you, with all the fault on my conscience! beat me--trample me under your feet--curse me--or, if it be true that you love me _still_, after all the ill that i have done you, then take me and keep me, and make of me what you will, but send me not thus away from you----" fresh vehement sobs interrupted her. he held her awhile in his arms, stricken dumb. "if i love you still!" he cried. "holy madonna! do you think that all my heart's blood has run out of that little wound? do you not feel it beating in my breast, as if it would spring out, and to you? if _you_ only say it to try me--or from pity to me--there, go, and i will even forget this too! you shall not think that you are indebted to me because you know what i suffer for you." "no!" she said, firmly, raising her forehead from his shoulder, and gazing passionately in his face with her wet eyes--"i love you; and if i only say it _now_, i have long feared and fought against it--and now will i change, for i can no longer bear to look at you when you pass me in the street: and now i will kiss you too," she said, "that you may say if you doubt again, 'she has kissed me!' and, lauretta kisses no one but the man she takes as her husband." she kissed him thrice, and then freed herself from his arms, and said, "good night, darling! now sleep, and heal your hand; and do not come with me, for i fear no one now--but thee!" therewith she glided through the doorway, and disappeared in the shadow of the wall; but he looked long through the window, and over the sea, over which all the stars seemed trembling. the next time the little padre curato emerged from the confessional, by which lauretta had been a long time kneeling, he laughed quietly to himself. "who would have thought it," he murmured, "that god would so soon have taken pity on this strange heart? and i was blaming myself for not having attacked the demon of obstinacy more fiercely! but our eyes are too short-sighted for the ways of heaven! and now, may god bless them both, and let me live till lauretta's eldest boy can go to sea in his father's place." ay! ay! ay! la rabbiata! "by the banks of the tiber." chapter i. it was late in january. the first snow hung upon the mountains, and the sun, shrouded by mists, had only melted away a narrow band around their feet. but the waste of the campagna bloomed like spring. only the sombre boughs of the olive trees, that here and there followed in rows the gentle undulations of the plain, or surrounded some lonely cabin, and the frosted scrubby bushes that grew about the road, still showed the effects of winter. at this time of the year the scattered herds are collected within hurdles, near the huts of the campagnuoli, which are generally placed under the shelter of some hillock, and scantily enough protected from the weather by straw piled up from the ground; whilst those amongst the herdsmen who can sing or play the bagpipe have left, to wander about rome as pifferari, to serve the artists as models, or to support their poor frozen existences by some similar industry. the dogs are now the herds of the campagna, and sweep through the deserted waste in packs, maddened by hunger, and no longer restrained by the herdsmen, on whose poverty they are only a burden. towards evening, when the wind began to blow more strongly, a man emerged from the porta pia, and wandered along the carriage-road which runs between the country houses. his cloak hung carelessly from his sturdy shoulders, and his broad grey hat was pushed back from his forehead. he gazed towards the mountains till the road became more enclosed, and only permitted him a narrowed glance of the distance between the garden walls. the confinement seemed to oppress him. he lost himself again dejectedly in the thoughts to escape which he had sought the free air. a stately cardinal tripped by with his suite without his observing or greeting him. the carriage following its master first reminded him of his omission. from tivoli rolled carriages and light vehicles, full of strangers, who had taken a fancy to see the mountains and cascades under snow. he cast not a glance at the pretty faces of the young englishwomen, with whose blue veils the tramontane played. hastily he turned from the road, sideways to the left, along a field-path which first ran past mills and wine-shops, and then led out into the midst of the waste of the campagna. and now he paused for a moment, breathing deeply, and enjoying the freedom of the broad wintry sky. the shrouded sun gleamed redly over all, lighted up the ruins of the aqueduct, and tinged with rose the snow on the sabine hills. behind him lay the town. not far from him a clock began to strike, but lightly, through the opposing wind. it made him restless; as though he wished to prevent the least sound of life from reaching him, and he strode onward. he soon left the narrow path, which swept up and down the waves of the plain, swung himself over the rails which had guarded the pasturing herds during the summer, and buried himself still deeper and deeper in the solitary darkness. a stillness reigned there as deep as that on a sleeping sea. one could almost hear the rustle of the crows' wings as they floated over the waste. no cricket chirped, no ritornella of the home-returning market-woman reached his ear from the distant road. it pleased him. he struck his staff against the hard earth, and rejoiced in the sound with which she answered him. "she does not say much," he said, in the dialect of the lower class of romans; "but she means honestly, and cares in silence for her babbling children who trample her under their feet. would i never needed to hear their voices again, these windy rogues; my ears are sore with their smooth phrases! as if i were nothing--as if i knew not better on what those things depend, about which they love to chatter--because i only know how to create them! "and yet i live on them, and must keep a good countenance when they sniff and sneer at my work. accidenti!" he cursed on his beard--an echo answered him: he looked, startled around; no hut, no hillock was there within a circle of half a mile, and he could not believe in the neighbourhood of man. at last he stepped onward, and thought "a gust of wind mocked thee!" then suddenly it sounded again, nearer and clearer. he stood and listened keenly. "am i near a cabin, or a fold where the cattle are lowing? it cannot be--it sounded differently--it _sounds_ differently; and now--now"--and a shudder shook his whole frame. "it is the dogs," he said slowly. the cry came nearer and nearer, hoarse as that of wolves; no barking or yelping, but a snarling howl, which the voice of the wind swept together into one uninterrupted, terrible melody. a paralyzing power seemed to exist in it, for the traveller stood motionless, his mouth and eyes rigidly open, his face half turned towards the side from which the battle-cry of the raging brutes swelled towards him. at last he shook himself with fierce determination. "it is too late! they have long had the scent; and in this twilight i should fall before the tenth step if i tried to fly. well, like a dog have i lived! and now, to be destroyed by my fellows!--there is sense in it! if i had a knife i would make it easier for my guests; but this"--and he tried the strong iron spike of his staff--"if there be but few of them, who knows whether my hunger may not survive theirs?" he threw his cloak around him, so as to have his right arm free, and to form with its many folds a sort of protection to his left, and grasped his staff. with cold-blooded determination he examined the ground on which he stood. he found it free from grass, stony, and hard. "they may come!" he said, planting himself firmly upon his feet. he saw them now, and counted them in the gloaming. five he counted, and then a sixth. they rave like fiends from hell--long-limbed, skeleton brutes! "wait!" and he raised a heavy stone; "we must declare war according to custom." therewith he hurled the stone at the nearest, twenty paces from him. a redoubled howling answered--the pack was checked for a moment. one of them lay struggling on the ground. "armistice!" said the man. his lips trembled, his heart throbbed heavily against his left arm, which grasped his cloak spasmodically; but the lids over the keen eyes winked not. he saw his enemies break forth again, and their eyes glared through the darkness. they came on in couples, the largest first. a second stone rebounded from the bony chest of one of the leaders, and the ravening brute sprang, hoarsely snarling, against the dark form. a thrust, and he fell backwards on the sward, and the staff, whirled quickly round, striking heavily on his open jaws. a horseman galloped through the grey of the winter's night, some few hundred paces from the scene of the struggle, over the pathless campagna. he pierced through the darkness towards the spot from whence the howling reached him, at short intervals, and saw a man standing, tottering, giving way, and again standing firm, as his enemies relinquished the attack, and once more stormed on him from all sides. the horseman shuddered; he plunged the spurs into his horse's flanks, and flew towards them. the sound of the horse's hoofs reached the ear of the struggling man, but it seemed as if the sudden terror of hope deprived him of his last remaining strength; his arm sank, his brain whirled, and he felt himself torn down from behind,--tottered, and fell to the ground. through the mists of approaching unconsciousness he heard the sound of pistol-shots, and then fainted. when he recovered, and opened his eyes, he saw the face of a young man bending over him, on whose knee his head was resting, and whose hand was rubbing his temples with fresh-plucked wet grass. the horse stood steaming near them, and at his feet lay two dogs, writhing in the agonies of death. "are you wounded?" he heard asked. "i know not." "you live in rome?" "near the tritone." the other helped him to rise. he could not stand. his left foot was in great pain. he was bareheaded; his cloak in rags; the coat and arm, torn and bloody; his face pale and haggard. without speaking, he permitted himself to be supported by his preserver, who rather bore than led him the few paces to the horse; at last he gained the saddle, the other took the bridle and led him slowly towards the town. at the first osteria outside the walls they halted. the young man called to the hostess to bring wine: when the wounded man had drunk a glassful his face became more animated, and he said:-- "you have done me a service, sir. possibly the time may come when i shall curse it, instead of thanking you for it. but i thank you for it now. one clings to life as to other bad habits. one knows that the air is full of fever and rottenness, and the worthless steam of mankind, and yet thinks that each breath one draws in is a good thing." "you are inclined to speak ill of mankind." "i never knew one who did not take me for a fool if i spoke well of them. pardon me. you are not a roman?" "i am a german." "bless god for it." they reached the gate in silence, and turned into the piazza barberini. the wounded man pointed to a small house in the corner of the place, ruinous and dark. when the horse stopped before the humble door, its rider let himself slide off before the other could assist him, but then sank helplessly down. "it is worse than i thought." he said; "do me one kindness more, and help me in,--here is the key." the young man supported him, called to a boy to hold the horse, and to a loiterer to open the door. it was quite dark within, the damp cold struck unpleasantly upon them. he bore him as directed, to the left, into a large bare room. "where is your bed?" asked the german. "where you will; but i would rather lie over there by the wall. this brave old palazzo! they are going to pull it down in the spring; i fancy that it will not have the patience to wait for them." "and you still remain here?" "it is the cheapest way of getting buried," said the man, drily. "i can play the host here gratis." in the mean time, the boy had struck fire, and lighted the little brass lamp that stood in the window. the young man helped the wounded one to a coverlid spread on some straw, and covered him scantily enough with his tattered cloak. with a deep sigh the powerful frame sank down, and the eyes closed. the german gave the boy money and directions, and then went out without leave-taking, sprang up on his horse, and rode hastily away. in about a quarter of an hour he returned, bringing with him a surgeon. whilst the latter examined and bound up the wounds on arm and leg, which the wounded man permitted him to do without a murmur escaping him, the young german looked around the room: it was bare, and the plaster had fallen in large masses from the walls. the joists of the ceiling stood naked and blackened, the wretched window let in the cutting night air, there was but little furniture. meanwhile the boy brought in an armful of wood, and made a fire on the hearth. as it gleamed up redly some dusty clay figures and plaster casts became visible in the corner. a large dolphin which bore a dead boy on its back, a medusa in relief, colossal, the hair, not yet vivified into serpents, curled wildly around the sorrow-laden brow. he could not remember that he had ever seen this rendering in an antique. casts from the arms, bust, and feet of a young girl, amongst hasty sketches in clay, stood and lay in confusion. on a table were the different kinds of apparatus used by cameo-cutters, and some sticks with half-finished works, for the most part medusa heads, resembling the great one, but with different degrees of passion and grandeur. uncut shells, casts of gems, and casts in glass and plaster, lay in a box near them. "i think there is no danger," said the surgeon, at last. "let them get some ice, and make the boy sit up and keep the bandages cool during the night. they have treated you roughly, senor carlo! but what on earth induced you to wander about the campagna at this time of night, and this time of year?" "this obstinate rascal, the chimney," answered the artist, "he refused to do his duty unless one stuffed his throat with faggots. i was out of temper with my old palazzo, señor vottore, and felt inclined to give him a kick or two, to warm us both; and so i thought it better to run away before it came to blows between us." "you are ill looked after here," said the good-natured little man, wiping his spectacles, which had become suddenly dimmed. "my wife shall send you another coverlid, and i will see you again tomorrow. sleep will soon come, and he is the doctor who beats us all." the young man accompanied him to the door, and spoke a few words with him in the passage. "i only know him by name," said the doctor. "he goes his own strange misanthropical way. prefers sitting in the wine-shop with the lowest faccini, and squanders what he earns. but there is not a man in rome who is his equal at a cameo. he inherits it from his father, giovanni bianchi, who has long been dead." "are his wounds really not dangerous?" "if he only spares himself and not the ice. he has limbs of iron, or he could not have made head so long against the brutes. five, do you say? the fool-hardy man! but that is just one of his tricks. well, well, he will sleep now. dispel your anxiety, señor theodore." he was already asleep, when theodore returned to his room, although he had turned his face towards the blazing fire. theodore studied him long. he was very handsome, though the nose was a little too thin; his hair here and there sprinkled with grey; his beard untended; from between the breathing, half-opened lips gleamed the white teeth. when theodore raised the cloak to place fresh ice on the wounds, he perceived the great strength of his limbs. he sent the boy away, after he had brought a fresh supply of wood and ice, and ordered him to return in the morning. he then drew a chair to the side of the hearth, and seated himself, wrapped in his cloak, to watch. it was about ten o'clock, the bright night reigned without over the deserted square, and the slender stream from the fountain plashed lightly into the triton's shell. from a neighbouring house he heard a girl's voice, singing:-- "chi sa se mai ti soverrai di me!" the refrain of an old sorrowful song. then it ceased, but hummed wordless within him still. he fancied himself again at the edge of the abyss at tivoli, on the footway opposite the cascades, which in wintry scantiness gushed down from their many mouths. they walked, but not arm in arm, near each other; he and that fair girl and her lively little companion, who hastened unweariedly along the narrow, toilsome path. "we ought to have returned with your parents, mary," she said more than once in english; "indeed, we ought to do so now. look, child! there they are up above by the cascade, and will soon be sitting comfortably by the fire in the sibyl, and here the wind is cutting our very noses off; yours is quite red already; dear me! how cold you look, child! the wind blows so chilly across the water too. you said that it would, sir, and warned us fairly; but our pet must have her fancies. bless me, we have seen the view in the autumn already, and in the summer too, and then rode safely and comfortably down the path that we are half stumbling, half sliding down now." "it is not much farther, dear miss betsy," said the girl, laughing, "and the path will improve. our friend offered you his arm; why did you refuse it?" the little woman drew closer to her, and said softly, "my dear mary, what a question to ask! you know that i have my reasons for declining to be helped down hills by unmarried young gentlemen! when one slips and holds him tight to save oneself from falling, he might take each pinch for a proof of affection; you quite shock me, child!" mary smiled almost imperceptibly; then she went calmly on her way. her dark bonnet hid all her face from the young man except the waving brown curls. "it was intended as no mere compliment, sir." she said, glancing unembarrassed towards him; "when my father confessed that your absence had caused him pain: if i remember rightly, you have only called on us four times since my poor brother's death." "four times!" he cried; "and have you counted them?" "we must often hear the number from him. 'since i lost edward,' he says frequently, 'i care to talk to no one who has not known him; how can they ever learn to know _me_?' then he always refers to you, and praises you, and misses you so much." "i confess," said theodore, "that the kindness and heartiness with which your parents greeted me when we met here, surprised and affected me very much; and i too have wanted companionship this winter more than formerly. in the one before, which was my first, i drew back from nothing which pressed itself forward and promised to be advantageous. i see now that i have only lost. the society here is in contradiction to the place. it feels it itself, and as it still desires to be something, it is obliged to overstrain itself: that is discordant and neutralizes the productive disposition of thoughtful men like myself; so now i live only for myself, or for some few who have fared no better than i have, and yet from my youth up i have been accustomed to find permanent happiness in pure family existence alone." "you have been long away from your parents?" "i have lost them." he said gently; "they both died in the same week; then i went over the alps, and god knows whether i shall ever return!" they passed beneath the light shadow of the olive plantation--the path was perfectly dry--over them, amongst the branches, the sun glanced from the fleeting snow, which it had thawed upon the leaves, till they had glimmered as from a soft spring shower. the little friend was in the best possible humour, and talked of her wanderings about rome. people suspected that she was writing a book about rome. however that might be, it was clearly proved that she had done such violence to her well-grounded opinions, as to permit it to be reported that she had explored the baths of caracalla with an entirely unknown and youthful italian, and had not even refused his offer of protection to her own house. "do you believe, mary," she cried now, "that i could easily make up my mind never to see my dear old england again? you know that at first we did not intend to stop here a single month. for you must know, sir, that i come of an old family, and my first ancestor fell at hastings, winning his bit of land for himself and his descendants. and so my little bit of england is as much mine as the big one of a great landowner; and who likes to leave his own behind him? and yet who knows whether i might not be induced to pass the rest of my life here, if it were not dishonourable to forget one's fatherland, even though it forgets us and the good service our forefathers have done it?" "i do not know." answered theodore, laughing, "you only do old england a service if you conquer a bit of rome for yourself, and so tread in the footsteps of your forefathers." "you are pleased to be witty!" she said, and gave him a light tap with her fan. "but even suppose that i were of an age which made your joke more appropriate, do you seriously think--supposing that there was any foundation for your innuendo, and any one _should_ trouble himself about me,--do you think, i repeat, that english and italian, or more properly roman character, would in the long run, be able to get on together?" "you know, my dear miss betsy, that love works wonders, fills up valleys and pulls down mountains. as far as mere _character_ goes, i am not afraid. if the sentiments agree, what may the heart not do? i have seen more marriages rendered unhappy by difference of taste, than from difference of feeling. but what roman would not share in your taste for everything roman, for example?" "you are right," she said; "at the bottom, love is a matter of taste." then she drew her green veil over her face, and seemed to wish to be left to her own reflections. the two young people went a little in advance, for they heard miss betsy beginning to talk half aloud to herself, as was often her custom, and they had no wish to overhear her dreamings. "good creature!" said mary, with her gentle voice; "the journey has quite unsettled her. she always used to have strange ideas, but in england they took an innocent political direction; but with her first step on the continent arose this strange fancy of inventing experiences, which has already indeed given us much anxiety on the journey, but which has perhaps as often afforded an excuse for a hearty laugh." "this fantastic state of being must have suited her charmingly when she was younger," said theodore; "older people generally discover that they have quite enough to do to meet adventures as they happen, and are by no means inclined to seek them. it is to be hoped that she will soon be as little in earnest with her new roman friend, as he seems to have been with her from the beginning." "i saw them both returning home. he was a good-looking man, with rather insolent, but still fine eyes, and much younger than she is." "what restrained you from giving an opinion on the question which miss betsy proposed?" asked theodore, after a pause. "which one?" "whether individuals of different nations are suited to each other?" mary was silent for a while. "the more people want from each other," she said, at last, "and the more they wish to give each other, the closer the connection between them ought to be--at least, i think so." "and even, i once knew an englishman who had married a creole, they both took life easily and gaily. he was happy at having a handsome wife, and she appeared satisfied because he could shower wealth upon her. and yet there was always something between them, something climatic, live where they would. they were never really happy with each other." "they were from different zones. but if they both had had northern blood----" "it may be so; and yet i can understand it by my own feelings. i was brought up amongst the mountains, and have only accustomed myself by slow degrees to the soft roman air. now it is winter; without there lies the fair pure snow. when we are seated this evening with my father and mother by the fire, and the kettle sings, and i see all that belong to my life around me, i could easily be _entirely_ happy. and yet i confess that it is just at that moment that the home-longing might seize me for the old country-house in england, where the old oak-trees stand before the window, and the snowy field lies behind the garden, far less beautiful than the campagna beyond them, and the english sky shrouded with heavy mist, so unlike this clear horizon, which should cheer and refresh me. yet it is foreign, and something foreign like this might exist between people." they had hitherto carried on the conversation in english. he now began to talk german, which she too spoke perfectly, with the exception of a slight accent. "permit me," he said, "to speak to you in my own language. you made me share your feelings of home-longing when you talked of your winter quietness. you put me in mind of my old german winters, which now lie so far behind me, and can never be to me again what they were. i heard again the light sound of the raven brushing through the bare branches, and breaking the dry twigs, till a fine cloud of snow fell past the window like crystal dust. my mother lay there ill on her bed for months together. she could not, and would not, longer endure the noise and bustle of the town. before that time the old country-house had only seen summer visitors, cheerful hunters, and gay promenaders. then it became the winter retreat where my mother recovered from her wearying journeys to the baths." "you were with her then?" "for the first year or two, only for a week at a time. the last winter, however, she would not let me leave her. i sat the whole day by her, worked, and talked now and then, or played her favourite airs, those simple old ballads which are now quite out of fashion. the little room opened into the garden by several tall windows. i can see my father now pacing up and down on the terrace before it, with his bear-skin cap and short pipe. he could not bear the close air of the room for long at a time. but he seldom left his post, and whoever had business with him must seek him there. now and then he came in to us for a quarter of an hour at a time. i can never forget the look with which my poor mother used to greet him then. she had beautiful bright blue eyes." "and she died then?" "in the spring. my father soon afterwards. he met with an accident in riding. after my mother left us he had no rest, mounted the wildest horses, and often remained away half the day, much as i used to entreat him to spare himself i understood him. i could never free myself from a secret terror. i was in the right." they had arrived at the foot of the path, and stood still to wait for their companion; mary paused some steps from him, so that when he turned and looked round over the country, he had her full face towards him. the fair, bright features were clouded with sadness, and there was a moist gleaming under the drooping eyelids. when she raised them, he saw the blue eyes resting full and seriously on the landscape before her. he knew this look already. he had avoided it hitherto, for he knew the power that lay in it. now he surrendered himself wholly to it for the first time. "mary!" he said. she moved not nor looked towards him. then their meditative little friend rejoined them. the conversation was resumed as they mounted the ascent to tivoli. but mary took no part in it. when they left tivoli in the early twilight, gayer from the cheerful supper, and theodore had helped the ladies into the carriage, the old man said confidentially to him, "i will not get in until i know when we are to meet you again, my dear sir. i have an affair to settle which interests me and mine deeply, and on which i wish much to consult you. it concerns our poor edward, and i know that you will come the sooner when you learn that we reckon on your assistance." "come this evening," said the mother. he promised it. when they brought him his horse, he saw an anxious expression on mary's face. he sprang into the saddle, and gently humouring the spirited animal, rode beside the carriage for some way. then he lagged behind, rode more slowly, and let the evening slip away without observing it. the night surprised him. he gave his horse the spur, and rode across the waste with the intention of making a short cut, and thus it was that he arrived so opportunely in bianchi's neighbourhood. he shook himself now, threw fresh wood upon the fire, and fixed his dark eyes thoughtfully upon it. "what will they think," he said to himself, "at my strange absence? what will _she_ think? it is too late now to send a messenger, and where, indeed, could i get one? she will sit at home, and never dream of what this day may mean! or, "chi sa se mai!" then he attended to the sick man, walked up and down, and studied the medusa head, on which the firelight shone warmly--strangely like the tints of ebbing life when the reluctant blood struggles with the death-terror. it affected him powerfully. at last he was obliged to turn away his eyes; and now, for the first time, observed some loose figures, some of them of corroded pompeian bronze, and others by a newer hand, as life-like and reckless as they. near them lay a torn and dusty copy of "ariosto." he seized it, and read it eagerly. it was the only book he was able to discover. so passed the hours. long after midnight the sleeping man groaned heavily, and struck out his arms in his dreams. as theodore arranged his disordered couch, and spread the coverlid over him afresh, he awoke fully, and half arose. he felt around him, as if for a weapon, and asked, in a determined voice,-- "who are you?" "a friend!--do you not recognize me?" answered theodore. "it is false!--i have none." shouted the wounded man, striving to raise himself upon his feet. the pain of his wounds brought back recollection. he sank down again, and collected himself thoroughly. he lay still for awhile, and then said, more quietly, "you _are_ one. now i recollect you. what are you doing here at this hour? why are you not gone home? are _you_ different from the other sons of men, who only do good in order to sleep more soundly? go!--you have earned your rest. why do you watch my dreams?" "the doctor insists upon having your wounds kept cool during the night. i could not trust to a stranger." "are _you_ not one?" "no; not for a couple of pauls; but for your own sake i do this." the other lay silent awhile. then he said, with a strange excitement, "you would do me a kindness by going. it makes me feel ill to have a man moving about me. when it comes to thanking, i am more clumsy than an old man courting a young girl." "do not trouble yourself about thanks. i stay because you want me. if you could manage without me, you should not have to complain of my being in your way." "i cannot sleep when i know that you are sitting; and freezing there." theodore stirred the fire. "i hope that you feel, even over there, how warm i must be here." after a pause, during which the sick man had lain with closed eyes, he asked-- "you are a lutheran, sir?"----"yes." "i knew it," said bianchi to himself; "he wishes to rob the church of a soul--he does it all for that! they are no better than we are." "the fever makes you rave." said theodore emphatically; "say what you will." they were both silent for a long time. theodore placed fresh ice upon the wounds, as before; and bianchi lay with his face turned towards the wall, motionless, as though he slept. suddenly, as theodore was again busied about him, he turned round, and raised himself half up. with the wounded arm he clutched towards theodore's hand, and grasped it with his burning one, and said, low and slowly--"you are good! you are good! you are a man!" his weakness overcame him; he fell back upon the straw, and burst into a convulsive fit of weeping. as the tears ceased to flow, he slept anew. chapter ii. when he awoke, the bright morning light was forcing its way through the crevices in the shutters, and making a sunny twilight around him. he saw the boy by his bedside, and the doctor, and heard that theodore had gone into the town early in the morning, as soon as the boy came in, without saying anything about his return. thus he passed half the day, restless, dreaming, listening towards the door. two mice, which he had tamed, and for whom he had hitherto ever had a caress, even in his moments of deepest gloom and misery, now came into the middle of the room, blinked their bright little eyes at him, squeaked, and flourished about, without his casting a glance towards them. the boy, not knowing that they were permitted guests, frightened them away. some one knocked. it was somebody who brought the artist an order for a pair of ear-rings, in red shell. bianchi let him depart without speaking to him; nor did he say a word to a sculptor of his acquaintance, who had heard of the terrible adventure of the previous night, and was good-hearted enough to visit the solitary being. meanwhile, theodore, already early in the day, had mounted the stone steps of the large house in which mary's parents resided. the old servant opened the door. "they waited long for you last night," he said. "i was sent to your lodgings, but you had not returned. miss mary thought that you must have met with some accident, as you were on horseback. but, god be praised! you are safe." theodore did not answer; he heard music within--a sonata of beethoven--suddenly it ceased; a stool was pushed back, a gown rustled. as he entered, mary stood before him; she seemed to have paused suddenly in the middle of the room on her way to the door; she tried to speak; her cheeks flushed. he seized her hand eagerly with both of his, and now saw that she had been weeping. "mary!" he said, "i find that i have more to crave pardon for than i expected--you have been uneasy about me!" she tried to smile. "i am delighted to find that there was no reason for it," she said. "something prevented you; it was very foolish to think the worst at once. i will go and call my parents." he held her back entreatingly. "you have been weeping, mary!" "it is nothing; i had a bad night, and the music just now agitated me." he let her hand fall. she remained standing on the same spot, supporting herself against a chair. he took one turn up and down the room, and stood before her; he grasped her hand again, stammered out a word, and then pressed her passionately to his breast. she rested weeping blissfully and silently in his arms. "we will go to my parents," said mary, when she had had a little recovered the emotion of that first embrace. "come!" she took him gently by the hand. he longed to remain alone with her; it seemed to him as though she would be separated from him again when they came into the presence of others; yet he permitted her to lead him. they found her parents together in her mother's boudoir. as he entered he felt a longing to entreat his loved one to be silent on what had just passed between them, he felt incapable of talking calmly over it, or of meeting any one but herself in his blissful intoxication. it had already passed her lips. the mother, a stately, ceremonious woman, clasped him heartily in her arms; formal as she usually was, she could not hear the pleasant news without saying some heartfelt words of blessing, which, kindly as they were meant, still sounded foreign and strange to theodore's state of feeling. her father said nothing. he pressed his future son-in-law warmly by the hand, and kissed his daughter's forehead. theodore described the adventures of the previous evening. mary leant her head on his breast, and when he told of the combat, threw her arm timidly around her lover, as if to assure herself that all was past, and that she really possessed him again in safety. her mother made a sign to her, which, slight as it was, did not escape theodore. she removed her arm, and sat near him without touching him. he felt pained; he felt, too, when after some hours he was obliged to leave, and kissed her again with his whole heart on the threshold, that she avoided him shily, and at first turned away her lips from his. he departed with a strange confusion of feeling--a weight upon his heart--and an obstinate deadened glow in every vein. he stood still for a moment before the door; the street was deserted, he pressed his feverish forehead against the cool stone pillars, and stretched forth his arms as if he would draw down a part of the heavens and press it to his breast, and then went somewhat more calmly on his way to the tritone. a passionate flush passed over bianchi's haggard features, as he recognized theodore's footsteps without. he raised himself and gazed eagerly and fully at him as he entered--taller and more manly than he had appeared to him the evening before. theodore went to him and said, "you have rallied, bianchi, and the doctor is satisfied. keep quiet, i entreat you; you must let me walk up and down a little, my ideas are in a whirl, and my thoughts will not allow me to rest." he told him not from whence he came, nor that within the last few hours he had bound his fate to a woman; but there lay a glory on him, from which bianchi could not turn away his eyes. he had laid aside his hat, and thrown his cloak over one shoulder, his head sprang freely from the broad chest--the short curled hair was a little disordered--his forehead massive and noble; and thus, with an absent look, and his arms folded across his cloak, he seemed almost to have forgotten the purpose of his visit as he paced up and down, he struck his foot against the burning logs, and gazed at the fire. at last he turned, and said-- "tell me about yourself, bianchi!" "what would you know?" the tone of this question, doubtful, almost distrustful, and yet submissive and compliant, struck theodore's delicate ear. he drew a stool near the couch, seized bianchi's hand and said-- "i wish to know nothing, except how you feel now; and if you are in no humour to talk, make a sign with your hand, which now betrays but slight remains of your fever." he felt the pressure of the hand, which then withdrew itself hesitatingly from his. "you will soon be so well that we shall be able to part without the necessity of meeting again. for the present you must resign yourself to my intrusiveness; for you must know that i have made up my mind not to let the carelessness of a stupid boy be the destruction of such an artist as you are." "as _i_ am!" and he laughed sadly. "do _you_ know what i am? who knows it not? a day labourer am i, cutting shells for women, with a woman's patience, whose stout arms are ashamed of him when they encounter a piece of marble. well, perhaps, yesterday the matter was arranged so that the poor cripples will have nothing to reproach themselves for in future!" "you talk strangely--as if there were not room enough within a circle of two inches for a soul that can at times express itself in two words." "for the idea, possibly, but hardly for the execution." "you must have experienced that," said theodore. "but are you _obliged_ to do what is so disagreeable to you?" the sick man cast a quiet look around the four bare walls, and said-- "i have got so used to the amount of luxury you see about you; i did, indeed, once think of beginning a large work without there in the square, eating my artichoke by the fountain at noon, and sleeping at night at the foot of my work. but one is effeminate and fears the weather, and cowardly, and afraid of the gossipping. besides, i cannot do without the wine or--" "but if you had an opportunity of working in marble without any discomfort to yourself," interrupted theodore. the sick man started up excitedly. "do you know what you are doing with your thoughtless questions?" he cried, and his eyes sparkled. "look in that corner; there have i cast one on the top of the other, all that used to come to me with such questions. the dust is burying these impertinent babblers day by day, and my eyes know already that it is an unpardonable sin for them to wander towards them. and yet i was fool enough to allow myself to hope again when they said that models were to be sent in for the monument to the last pope. for a couple of weeks i thought and dreamt of nothing else, and worked it out with energy, and was myself satisfied with my work. fool that i was, to be deluded by such fancies. that was yesterday. i wrapped the model in a cloth, and bore it myself all the way to the cardinal secretary of state,--for my soul hung upon it, and i thought another might let it fall. and then i was obliged to give the rascally servants civil words and my last scudo before they would even permit me to enter. inside it was all black and red and violet, with their reverences' stockings, and they stared at me from head to foot, because i had run out of my studio without thinking of taking off my old working-jacket. i thought, 'let them stare;' took courage, and stepped with a bow and my work before his eminence. i saw at once that he was in a bad temper, and that his neighbour had already tasted some of its effects. i told him shortly why i was there, and begged to be permitted to show my sketch. the old fellow nodded, after his custom, cast a glance over the figures, which looked doubly noble amongst all those rogues, and said, 'not bad. but 'twont do, 'twont do; wants noblesse, my son, and more direct reference to the holy church. take it home and beat it up. the clay is wet still.' i stood like a man in a madhouse. beat it up! as if my loftiest ideas were broth. whilst i stood there, unable to utter a word, up stepped the monsignori, stuck their learned spectacles on their noses, and abused it before and behind till they did not leave a nail's breadth without a spot of blame, just as when the old wolf half kills a sheep, and then hands it over to her whelps to worry and whet their milk-teeth upon. if i could only have spoken and described all that had passed through my brain whilst i was at work on the model, perhaps the old man might have looked at it differently, for they say that he has a good-enough head. but just at this unlucky moment he was full of ill temper, and poured it all out over me. so at last i got tired of this chattering, this whizzing of children's painted bird-bolts, not one of which hit the matter, and every one the man, for they pricked me like needles. another would have shaken himself laughingly, and perhaps have won the day. but i--how was i to do it? my father did not make much talk over his cameos, and when he died, rome was neither more agitated nor stiller, and i have ever kept out of the way of your learned men; so i stole away from them this time too, and swore never to have aught to do with them again. as i passed along the repelta i got into a rage, and threw my model into the tiber. 'let it melt there,' said i to myself; and i felt relieved, and took a fancy to go and walk about the campagna. there you found me." "you must not abuse the _savant_," said theodore, laughingly, after a pause, in order to bring the other, who had sunk into a reverie, back to the subject. "your instinct did not deceive you when you felt an antipathy to my being near you. for i am here in rome for the purpose of poking about old parchments, and digging out long-buried matters, about which but few are interested. histories of the old italian towers, state papers, and judicial reports. and so we are doubly-separated individuals." "_you_ may be, and do what you like," said bianchi, quickly, and half aside. "you are good and handsome, and a german." "you little know german learning. it is even more horrible than the roman. i myself have a secret terror of it. it has a power of glaring at feeble souls, that turns them into stone, like those poor rogues who gazed on the face of the medusa." "the medusa?" "you must know her better than i do. have you not thrown her away there in the corner and left her, half begun and half ended, cut upon the shells on your work-table?" "i do not know much about it. when i was quite a boy, my father gave me a part of it to work at. i loved the head, for i had but little pleasure, and the dark death in the beautiful woman's face fascinated me. afterwards i saw the circular one in the villa ludovisi, and never rested until i had made a copy of it as well as i could at home. it is more human and passionate there, than in the grecian one, where it is reduced to a mere mask. i have never asked what they meant by it, and reading annoys me." "if you like, i will read the story to you, as told by one of the old poets?" "do--and soon and--when do you return?" he asked, as theodore arose. "to-night," said the young man; "but not to read to you, for you are not well enough yet. i will not listen. i know what you are going say. but a sick man must not have a will of his own." when he returned in the evening, he found wine upon the table, and a comfortable cushioned chair placed by the hearth. bianchi slept, and the boy whispered that he had made him buy the wine and borrow the chair from a neighbour, and that he had not been quiet or slept until he had seen all done as he wished. chapter iii. the next evening theodore read, from an old italian "ovid," the fable of the medusa, as he had promised. he looked from time to time over his book towards bianchi, whose eyes were fixed upon the ceiling. theodore's calm voice seemed to bind him with a spell; the tale which he read, to move his innermost soul--so the other read on. when he arose, bianchi drew a deep breath, and cried, "you are going!--you do not know how i have enjoyed it! these tales were to me but mutilated old statues, the limbs scattered about, the head far from the trunk, and all weather-beaten and decayed. as you read it, all drew itself together again, and now stands entire before me. oh! that my arms were but sound again--my fingers tremble at the thought of kneading a piece of clay--but that is not to be--and you go--you smile! i can guess where you are going! well--enjoy your youth. but now i think for the first time of the nights i have made you pass." "they would have been more lonely than they have been here--and you cannot guess where i go, bianchi. i am going to pay court to two old people, and only now and then the soft hand of their daughter touches my arm in secret. all my enjoyment is seeing--hoping." "and you can confess that so quietly, and not gnash your teeth with impatience and longing? i fear that i, too, once passed such a fruitless lovetime. like a worm i grovelled on the ground, and cursed the eyes which had played me so bitter a trick." "i bless them! and when i suspect such madness in my blood, i refresh my dull soul in the free air, up and down the forum, or roam away to the capucines, where now the snow is resting against the stem of the palm-tree; it must struggle through the winter, too, however warm its heart may be." "can you deny that it plagues and worries you more than the whole affair is worth? it makes one idle and womanly, and that is the worst of all. if we were not fools, longing for the impossible, all were well, one as good as another, if she were pretty and kind." "i think not. i require something more than _any one_ can give me, unless i am to leave her for the sake of some other." "who spoke of that?"--"both of us, i think." "not i," said bianchi. "i never could dream that you know your own advantages so little--with your face and your years." he said no more, seemingly out of humour. "let it be as it may." said theodore, earnestly, "and let each one care for himself, and be glad that the other can be happy after his own fashion." they never touched upon this subject again. bianchi seemed to have entirely forgotten it, and theodore did not agitate it. the old bitterness and fierceness of the sick man returned more and more as his wounds healed, and those rare touches of gentleness which he had shown to his friend disappeared for ever. he avoided giving him his hand; he never spoke of himself nor his feelings, never asked theodore about his plans nor his past life, and hardly ever called him by his name; yet he never avoided theodore's frequent visits, nor refused the little comforts which he brought him. only once, when he saw some fruit in a basket, arranged beneath a layer of the earliest violets, with that delicate taste which belongs to a woman's hand alone, he placed the present coldly, and without saying a word, upon the mantelpiece. theodore was silent; when he went he took the basket with him as he had brought it. still he continued to read to him--old poets, extracts from dante and tasso, and, at last, machiavelli. the old deities, whose statues, scattered about rome, had hitherto been to him merely fine carvings, semi-vivified by indistinct ideas, now became clear and living. it seemed as if he now for the first time saw with his waking eyes the world in which he had so long wandered in dreams. and the desire to go abroad awoke in him, and he longed to visit, personally, all that his imagination had clearly, and for the first time, thoroughly grasped. the almond-trees blossomed crimson in the gardens of monte pincio, when he first stood on the parapet and looked over broad rome towards the hills. below him lay the town, noisy and sunny; the river glimmered brightly. on st. angelo fluttered the broad folds of the standard in the wind that breathed softly from the sea, and overhead stretched the soft, delicate blue of the roman march sky. bianchi supported himself upon his staff, and looked darkly from under his eyebrows, as was his wont when he struggled against the promptings of his own heart. theodore also stood buried in thought; at last he turned his gaze from the distance, looked seriously at bianchi, and said, "you are recovered; in a few days more you will be below there in your new studio and i think that we shall still find a little time to spend together, even though i, too, shall be obliged to keep closer to my work, and must somewhat curtail the pleasure of being with you. it so happens that i shall have a reason for visiting you much oftener than you might otherwise permit--that is, if you will consecrate the new studio by undertaking a work in which i am personally much interested. the matter is this: a family with whom i am intimate has settled here, perhaps permanently. the man, a german, formerly lived in england, and married an englishwoman, who brought him two children, a son and a daughter. the son, who was attacked by consumption, tried the climate of rome as his last chance of recovery, and so the whole family emigrated with him. i loved him well, as did every one who knew him, and can hardly believe that i saw so much worth and nobleness sink into the earth--there, by the pyramid of cestus. that was last winter. his parents wish to erect a monument to him, with a relief which may shadow forth his character and honour his memory. i know no one to whom i would so willingly intrust this work as yourself." "you may depend upon me, theodore," said the sculptor; "i will do what within me lies." "would you not like to know his parents, and learn from them the idea which they wish to be carried out on the monument?" the other was silent for a while. "no," he said, quietly: "i wish for no acquaintances, and love not tears. you loved him--that is enough: i will do it for _you_. you must not misunderstand me," he continued, after a pause. "i should be of no use there. whoever wants me must attack me like a bear in his den. if i cannot escape, i can manage to get upon my hind legs almost politely, and growl my word with them. but even that is tiresome. i will say nothing and show nothing until the model is so far advanced that even the laity may see what it means--then they may come." they spoke of other matters. bianchi grew even brighter and almost joyous, whilst a shadow lay on theodore's face. so they remained all the day together, and they both felt it like a leave-taking. for the first time the open, common-place day was around them--the rattle of carriages, and the whirl of laughing passengers. bianchi did not take theodore's arm. slowly he walked near him, glancing at the women and the girls, many of whom seemed to know him, and here and there nodding to an acquaintance without stopping to speak to him. when he had passed, people stood still, whispering, pointing towards him, and following him with glances in which pity, respect, and a certain kind of fear, seemed mingled. he himself appeared not to observe it. he looked straight before him, often over the heads of the people, towards the villas without the walls, and the broad campagna, and his eyes glittered. "what are you thinking of?" asked theodore. "i am thinking how my mice will bear their fate when the old palace is pulled about their ears, and the bright daylight peeps into all their private holes and comers. i know that they have had a family lately. poor fools! to love to linger under the same roof without learning anything from one! how i rejoice that i am poor, and free, and alone, and can carry all my belongings with me in a hand-cart!" he stretched out his arms, and waved them in the sir, as if he poised the burden that awaited them. he looked younger and fresher than he had ever done before. in the evening he asked theodore to accompany him to a tavern, in which, before his accident, he had spent many a night. "you shall see what good roman society is, and the remains of nobler races," he said. "they are a little mistrustful of foreign elements, that step in without knowing what they want, or perhaps who know only too well. they say that it is not much better in nobler houses. let them do what they like, and drink your wine without making much fuss: they let me do as i please, even if i bring a german with me, for they rather look up to me." he led him a few streets distant from the sistine, to the beautiful fountain of bernini, the fontana di trivi. opposite the lofty grottoed and niched façade, in the centre of which the water-god stands above the artificial rocks, and rules the streams, which burst out from all sides into the deep bason, there stood a mean-looking old house, with a smoky lantern over the door. they entered the spacious chamber, which occupied the whole breadth of the house, and served as a drinking-room. at the further end the fire on the hearth played against the blackened wall, and to the right a flight of steps led to the upper story. no furniture was to be seen except benches and tables, on and around which a mixed, silent company was gathered. a boy bore plates of fried fish, salad, and macaroni, and disappeared from time to time through a trap-door, to rise to the surface again, bearing fresh-filled flasks. a joyous welcome resounded from the lower end of the room as the two friends entered. "eccolo!" cried a portly woman, who forced her way through the crowd towards the door, drying her hands on her apron. "eccolo! welcome a thousand times, ser carlo!" and she gave him her hand heartily. "a mezzo of frascati, chico; of the new, that came in yesterday. only think, ser carlo! who do you think that i was just talking about to my domenico this very moment? i said to him, 'domenicuccio,' said i, 'you are a bear and a brute, never to go and see how it fares with our ser carlo; for i, as you well know, have my hands full with the children and the guests, and you yourself to look after, you stupid animal! and it will seem a thousand years till i see him again, fine fellow that he is!' 'lalla mia!' says he, 'to-morrow i will see about it; and,' says he, 'if you have no objection, lalla, i think that he won't refuse a little drop of the new wine, just a barilotto!' said i, 'well, cuccio, that is just the very best idea you have had all these ten years that we have been married!' and just then girolamo came in, and said that he had seen you on the pincio, and i said, 'blessed be the virgin! then it won't be long before we see him here;' and just at that moment you opened the door and stood before us! and really it has done you good--you have grown handsomer, ser carlo. i would not believe girolamo, but positively the madonna has wrought a miracle on you. i have not prayed all through my rosary for nothing!" "so i have to thank you, sera lalla, that i have not gone mad, and am quit for a little lameness? you have got the best wife in rome, domenico,--a saint! a real treasure of grace! ay, here i am once more!" and he shook the host, a heavy-looking, insinuating sort of fellow, vehemently by the hand; "and this gentleman that you see here is my friend, who saved me from the jaws of the dogs. but, holla! there sits my noble gigi over there, and eats and drinks, and can't even give his throat time to say 'good evening.' shame on you, gigi! to treat old friends, and one, moreover, who has risen, like saint lazarus, from the dead, in such a frosty fashion!" "he has asked after you more than all the others put together," whispered the hostess. "he could not take his glass for a week at a time when they began to talk about you. he was only afraid of visiting you." the man of whom the good woman spoke sat at one of the centre tables, propped up tightly against the wall, and continued steadily thrusting large pieces of food into his mouth. he was good-looking, his bald head covered with a little skull-cap, his black coat buttoned up to his throat, and a certain air of decency about him, which distinguished him from the others, without showing, at the same time, any particular pretension. bianchi stepped up to him, and greeted him across the table with a wave of the hand. "dear ser gigi," he said, "do not distress yourself--we understand each other." he remarked now for the first time that the worthy man's eyes were glimmering moistly, and that he only continued eating in order to prevent his joyous embarrassment being marked. "he is a singer," whispered bianchi to his companion; "he keeps to the churches, and sings on festal days. they wanted to give him the tonsure, because he has some education and is decent-looking, but it did not quite suit him. they are all free men, as many as sit here. come, my friend gigi will make room for us near himself." meanwhile, the boy brushed down the table with a by no means clean napkin, and placed a large open flask before them. theodore seated himself, whilst bianchi had to shake hands and answer questions about the room. a reeking brass lamp flared with its thin, redly-burning wicks over the table. it took theodore some time to become accustomed to the atmosphere of tobacco-smoke and rancid oil, but he soon forgot all, at the sight of a striking couple, who sat at the table directly opposite to him. one was a young girl in the costume of albano--the red jacket closed neatly round the just ripening bosom, above it was folded the lace collar, and large silver pins held the flat white handkerchief, which did not conceal the shape of her head, firmly on her hair. her face was in the fresh bloom of youth, beauty, and health--three virtues which love to be kept together in such a situation. only the expression of the mouth had a shy softness and yieldingness about it, almost irresolute and sorrowful, and the large eyelids so entirely covered the eyes that only a narrow dark gleaming line betrayed that they slept not. she ate from the plate before her, slowly and indifferently, and drank but little wine, whilst her brown cheeks glowed ever with the same fire. beside her sat an old woman in a roman costume, blinking vivaciously about her, but silent, and busied with her wine and food, which she enjoyed greedily. they had nothing whatever in common, and yet seemed to belong to each other. when bianchi at last came to take his seat, and had emptied his first glass, he started back with an almost comic expression of astonishment, and cried, "madonna santa! what beauty! how did you come by such a neighbour, ser gigi? a niece of yours? or only a forgotten child, that appeared before your eyes by chance? blessed be her mother." "chè, chè!"' said the singer, seriously. "i wish you were right. ask her yourself where she comes from. the sweet little mouth would not bestow a word upon me." bianchi cast a keen glance on the old woman, and growled to himself, "so, so, i fancy we understand each other." the old woman remarked it, and said, as she emptied the rest of the bottle into her glass, "a bashful thing, gentlemen! a poor shy orphan; lived with the wicked people up in the mountains when i found her, and took pity on the young creature. how easily one is lost, when one gets into wrong hands. i brought her with me to rome, for the virgin's sake, and keep her here as well as a poor old woman can, in all honour and virtue--poor thing. look up, caterina, when the gentlemen speak to you." the girl obeyed, and let her large calm eyes rest for a moment on bianchi, and let them sink again almost immediately. the artist half-raised himself from his seat and bent over towards her. "you are called caterina?" "yes," she answered, in a deep but soft voice. "how old are you?"----"eighteen years." "you have left a lover behind in albano, or perhaps more than one?" she shook her head. "how you talk!" interrupted the old woman, hastily. "'tis a good girl, i tell you, and as innocent as the madonna. should i have got so fond of her else?" "well, well! if i believe it, i believe her face, and not yours, mother. can she dance? the gentleman here is a stranger, and i should like him to learn what a real salterello is like." theodore said a few words--"that it would be a great favour." the old woman beckoned to the hostess; caterina arose silently. soon the nearest tables were pushed aside, to leave a small space clear, and lalla brought the tambourine. whilst the old woman seated herself in a corner with it, the other guests crowded round one after the other, and the boy who had been serving them prepared himself for his part in the dance, bianchi whispered in his friend's ear: "look at that form, and the delicacy of the hands and feet, and how she stands there, a perfect figure! such as i never saw before--blameless even to the darling little ears--and as yet hardly knowing herself! to be obliged to let checo dance with her! i understood it pretty well once. but now, i conjure you, let your eyes do their best. a miracle will be performed." theodore needed not the prompting. he leaned against a table, and turned not his eyes from caterina. at the first vehement notes of the tambourine the girl began the dance; lalla stood near he old woman and clattered the castanets. señor luigi, the singer, sat immovable behind his table, and began to hum an air with the first notes. soon he sang the song and the words cheerily out. the words, which theodore could not understand, the feverish restlessness of the monotoned instruments, and above all, the strange witchery of the dancing girl, by degrees so confused his ideas, that he felt as if he had been gazing into a new and unknown world. all that he had known, loved, possessed, retreated into a vacuous gloom, which deprived it of all colouring; forms, thoughts, wishes, and hopes whirled through his soul to the dull notes of the tambourine, as to a great review. he cast them all aside. it was as though a voice called within him, "they are all worthless and dead. here alone is life and bliss." when the dance ceased he awoke from his dream, and looked wildly around. he seized his hat. "are you going? already? now?" asked bianchi, astonished. "i see that you don't enjoy yourself amongst my friends here." "you mistake me," answered theodore, looking gloomily before him. "how gladly would i remain. how gladly--but i have given a promise. i must pay a visit--we shall see each other to-morrow, bianchi." "oh!" murmured bianchi. "pity, pity! how you will amuse yourselves, you and the others! pity, pity!" he laughed sharply and bitterly as theodore turned away, and yet he did not seem sorry at his going. on getting into the open air, the young man stood long opposite the fountain, and drew into his confused soul the breath of the water, and the living rushing of its fall. the moon lighted up the head and part of the chest of the water god, below the drops only glanced out of the darkness. he descended the steps, and drank as if to wash away the intoxication of his soul, and then seated himself upon the edge of the bason. he remembered the old saying, that whoever drank of this fountain would lose his home-longing for rome; and then he fell into painful reveries. when the noise of the tambourine reached his ear anew from the osteria, he started up in terror, with difficulty he forced himself to pass the door, and to follow one of the neighbouring streets. when in the distance, the deadened sound again reached him, he paused for a moment and seemed to wrestle with himself; then he went resolutely farther down into the town to mary's house. chapter iv. there was a pause in the conversation when he entered. his bride arose, advanced to meet him, and took his hand warmly. he let a keen passing glance rest for a moment on the noble face which looked up so frankly to his, and then approached her mother, who greeted him heartily, and bent forward in her easy-chair to shake his hand. like her daughter, she was still dressed in black; but wore her hair gathered under a grey gauze cap, whilst mary's brown locks were kept in order by a narrow black ribbon across her brow. her father, too, received him kindly, and introduced him to two gentlemen, strangers, who were seated at the brightly-lighted table. they were englishmen, brothers, old friends of the house, who had arrived from england but shortly before. for their convenience, the conversation was carried on in english. "you are late, dear theodore," said the mother; "we wanted you whilst we were describing to our friends the last hours of poor edward. my poor eyes did their duty but feebly then, and mary and her father were both ill, as you know. we all felt the loss more than you did, for you hardly knew him; and so you were the most self-possessed, and better able to realize what rests upon our memories only as a horrible agitated dream, even now almost incredible!" theodore felt a reluctance to talk. the quiet, of the room, the feeling of agitation with which he entered, strange faces, and a strange tongue, all oppressed him in the highest degree. and now, at this same moment, when he had but just been face to face with an existence so full of magical bliss, he was expected to describe the death-bed of poor edward to strangers. they thought that it was his sorrow that prevented his answering. he had seated himself near mary, and gazed long on her delicate, pale brow. its unruffled, snowy stillness disturbed him. her blue eyes, that beamed clear, and happy, and calmly, had to-day lost their power over him. he felt distinctly that it was his own incapacity which prevented his enjoying this noble face as formerly, that made him no longer wait longingly for each word from those charming lips, or feel each smile penetrate into his inmost soul. he struggled for awhile against this insensibility, which caused him bitter agony,--it was in vain! she was conscious of the existence of some struggle going on within him; but the presence of the others prevented her grasping closer, by her fervent participation in its sorrows, the heart which was separating itself from her. one of the strangers asked about the monument which was intended to be erected to edward. theodore roused himself, and mentioned that that very day he had entrusted the work to a friend, of whose character and circumstances he gave a slight sketch. mary's parents knew more of him; but the disjointed picture did not seem to satisfy the stranger. "it were to be wished,"' he said, "that this man could be conscious of some trace of edward's inner nature in his own being, so that he might be able to identify himself with the delicate form and short blessed life of our lost friend, as something beloved. he seems to be, from your description, a violent, inflexible man, to whom nothing can be more incomprehensible than our edward's idea of living only for others, and of shaping his last sigh into a wish for the happiness of those he loved." "he is rough and energetic," answered theodore; "but the beautiful affects him, and he looks upon what is noble with reverence and awe. i remarked, when i read homer to him, how powerfully the idyllic, i might say the feminine, passages of the poem moved him." "possibly because they accorded more with his artistic fulness than the barren uniformity of battle and danger. and yet it is one thing to possess a mind capable of being affected by certain common-place, natural, heathen emotions, and another to have one by which the blessings of our religion are appreciated. edward was a christian; your friend at best is but a professing roman catholic." "i cannot deny," interrupted the mother, "that i have thought much on this point already. before we intrust a work like this, which we have all so much at heart, to a stranger, it were at least advisable to have a sketch made which we could discuss and decide upon." "i know him, dearest mother," said theodore, emphatically. "if it were his custom to throw his first ideas upon a scrap of paper, it would be easy enough to discuss the matter with him; but he always prefers, first, to work up his subject in clay of the intended size; and he has, besides, particularly entreated that in this case he may be permitted to labour for a time without letting any one see it. that it depends upon your approval, he knows already." then there ensued a pause, in which the rather excitedly-spoken words of the young man echoed disagreeably. mary went to the piano and endeavoured to charm away the discord with music. only with theodore was it ineffectual. the simple ballad had no power over one in whose ear the maddening tones of the tambourine again awoke spectrally, and the echo of the marvellous song of the chorister overwhelmed the pure voice. he saw bianchi's firm gaze fastened upon him, and heard again the words, "there will be a miracle performed!" and here, where he was now, all was strange, and tame, and wonderless. after the song, mary seated herself again by his side. she spoke german to him; she asked about his amusements and his employments, about bianchi. he talked absently, and thus half-confusedly, as if to himself, he told her about the osteria and the girl's dancing. as he glanced up from time to time, he marked a clouded tension over the delicate brows. the conversation between them died away. the father asked about english families, on which subject the guests talked eagerly. it was without interest to theodore, and so he became again absorbed by his whirling thoughts. at last he departed. the strangers had taken up their residence with mary's parents. it seemed to him as though he were doubly driven unhappy from this circle which once was his own--doubly--by himself and by others. chapter v. nowhere are impure inclinations, doubtful relationships, and undecided wishes more embarrassing and unbearable than in rome. the vast _entourage_, replete with evidences of pure human vigour and firm will, is only to be endured, without envy and pain, by those who, in the narrow circle of their own actions, can feel certain of their own healthiness and rectitude of soul. he paced for hours up and down the banks of the tiber before bianchi's door, gazing over to where st. peter's rose mightily above the broad masses of the vatican. the strangely agitated state of his friend did not escape bianchi's penetration. but he never attempted to discover its cause, as he avoided conversations upon personal subjects or inner experiences. this same restless manner seemed to attach closer to theodore day by day. he was tamer and more cheerful in all his words and actions since his sickness. when he heard theodore's knock, he threw a cloth over his clay sketch and opened hastily. he was still sparing of the smallest proofs of his affection, but his face could not conceal the fact that the presence of his friend was all in all to him. he sat by the window, and worked diligently at his cameo shells whilst they talked, or a book inspirited them both. through theodore's intervention he had found customers for his cameos, who paid him twice as much as the dealers had hitherto given him, yet his new dwelling was in no respect more richly furnished than his former one. truly the sun gilded the naked walls on which the medusa's head hung, and before the window lay the exquisite distance. one evening, in sunny may, when all was solitary without, on the banks of the tiber, and the flies played undisturbed over the bushes, the knocker on bianchi's door resounded more loudly and vehemently than usual. he arose from his work, before which he had been sitting pondering, and did not, as usual, throw the cloth over it. "he may see it to day," he said to himself, "if it really be he who thunders so immeasurably!" and therewith he opened the door. theodore burst in impetuously--his face was vividly flushed, and his eyes gleamed, "bianchi," he cried, "bianchi, i come from her! i have seen her--spoken to her! the miracle has penetrated again into my inmost soul! and you, best, unkindest one--did you not tell me that she was gone, away to her mountains, run away from the old woman, and however the story went? or did you really hear it? for she is here--not a footstep has she stirred out of rome these two months long. speak, bianchi, what say you? bless the fate that led me to her side, which makes me feel still out of my senses for joy." he walked up and down the room without looking round. he did not perceive that bianchi had remained standing by the door, pale as death, following his steps with a searching glance: "caterina!" at last broke from his lips. "caterina!" cried theodore, "she herself, she herself--lovely and calm, and heaven and hell in her eyes, as on that never-to-be-forgotten evening, only without that bitter sadness about the lips, and in a roman dress!--listen how it happened: i was sitting at home, in the heat, idling over my books, and at last felt forced to wander out. some streets distant, i fell in with a stream of people in their holiday clothes, hastening in one direction, and asked one of them 'whither away?' 'to the monte pincio, to see the races and the chariots,' he answered. i had no will of my own, so i allowed myself to be carried onwards, and, at last, purposeless, reached the summit with them. you saw the scaffolding which they were still working at yesterday? to-day the seats were filled tier above tier, so that i had difficulty in finding a place, unpleasant enough, as i at first thought, for the sun was opposite to me, and glimmered in my eyes as i looked across the stage. as i was considering whether i should go, or how i should try to protect myself against it, and was standing in my place, i looked down and discovered a silk parasol, and an enchanting glance of a head and neck beneath it; i sat down again, and bending under the parasol, asked my fair neighbour whether i might share its shelter with her. she turned round, and i felt as if a flash of lightning had passed through my heart when i saw who it was. she seemed to recognize me too, and did not answer. at this moment i discovered the old woman beside her; she was talkative and polite, and bade caterina share her parasol with me. bianchi--how she did it! managing the parasol in her little hand, half-embarrassed, half-confidingly, and then how modestly and sensibly she answered my eager questions with that sweet low voice--it is all indescribable. i sat enchanted, blind to all around, beneath the little roof, alone with her, and built it up in fancy into a cottage for us two, in which i could have listened to hours, days, years, passing by us as carelessly as if eternity was already my own. what eyes had i for the play? but i watched the impression that the wild course had upon caterina; her joy broke forth when one chariot swept rushing round the corner before the others, or made some daring turn. how she rejoiced when one of the noble animals, steaming and snorting from its victory, was led near us! 'holy nature!' i cried within myself, 'how unadulterated and unadorned thou laughest from those bright eyes! how must he be drawn towards thee, body and soul, on whom those eyes but smile!' it came to an end; the people left the benches, and my neighbours arose too. when i begged to be permitted to conduct them through the crowd to their house, the girl refused, calmly, but firmly; the old woman winked and grinned behind her back, and made signs which i could not fully understand; but i still kept myself at some little distance behind them, and descended the hill after them down into the town. at last they entered a house. i did not dare to knock, but i stood before the door for half an hour, as if rooted to the spot, and saw the curtain move, but she did not appear; once only the repulsive face of the old woman showed itself at the window; she did not see me, as i was concealed in the shadow of the houses--and so, at last, i tore myself away, and here i am, if it can be called being here, when the floor seems to glow under my feet, and my soul recoils at finding itself in the presence of other human beings." he threw himself into a chair. he did not observe that bianchi still remained standing by the door, or that he had not uttered a sound since he entered--he looked straight before him. "to-day, for the first time," he began again, "after miserable weeks of pressure and despondency, to drink in a full draught of life, to enjoy one hour which raises me above myself--who would not float so for ever with swelling sails out into the open sea?--but to crawl along the coast in a tattered boat, to turn and wind at the will of the shore, and after all to be cast away on a pebble!--miserable cowardice!" at these words he raised his eyes, and they caught the model opposite him. the evening sun shone redly through the window, and the sharply-defined figures stood out in bold relief. a youth stood by a river's bank, by which the bow of a boat, bearing the wild form of the grisly ferryman, was waiting. one foot of the parting one was already on the gunwale, but the face and the outstretched arms, waving a farewell, were turned towards the opposite side, where a fair female figure, with a cornucopia, sat under a fruit-laden tree, with her head bowed in a noble attitude of sorrow; the genius of love leaned by her side, his torch reversed, expiring, with his eyes clinging to the youth, as if it were possible to hold him back; but between them stood, stern and implacable, the ghastly forms of the parcæ. theodore stared speechlessly at the head of the youth, whose features calmed him irresistibly. he had given bianchi a portrait of edward, which mary had painted but a few days before his death. it showed the noble features in all the beauty of the approaching transfiguration; and the eyes, in particular, were movingly free and large. at the same time, now that all the mere accidental accessories had melted away, one saw the striking likeness between the brother and sister--one so great as to be almost distressing to the survivors. it struck theodore for the first time--he saw mary before him in her hour of sorrow or of lofty excitement, when her eyes shone more darkly from out the gentle face, and the serious lips were half-opened, as were the sighing ones of her brother. he could no longer remain seated--he stepped close up to the model, the strife ceased within him. so he remained till the evening glow departed, and the face withdrew itself from him into the quick coming darkness; then he went, without a word, towards the door, by which bianchi had remained standing, grasped the hand of his friend, pressed it without feeling how clammy and cold it was, and departed. bianchi shrank as the door closed. he looked with a troubled gaze and absent thoughts around him. so he remained leaning against the wall, incapable of moving. his determination had long been formed, but his limbs would not obey his will. the night arrived. at last he was able to raise himself, and stood battling with the tremor that fell upon him, his clenched hand pressed against his eyes. then he uttered one single hollow cry, and felt that he had again attained the mastery over himself. he left the house with a steady step. none of all the numerous promenaders who were enjoying the coolness of the night remarked him, so calmly he looked around. he reached at last the part where caterina lived, and knocked, without hesitation, at the door of a small house. it opened, and he entered the passage. he glanced up the stone staircase, down which a ray of light streamed. above, with a lamp, stood caterina. the man revelled for a moment in the perfect beauty of the young girl, who, leaning over the balustrade, holding the lamp out before her, was agitated with the most charming expression of love at recognizing the well-known face below in the shade. she nodded, and smiled, and waved a greeting to him. "come, come!" she cried, as he loitered below. he strode slowly up the steps; but when the light of the lamp fell upon his face, all her smiles and joy died away from her lips. "carlo! you are ill," she said to him. he pressed her gently back, and shook his forefinger warningly. "be still," he said; "come within, caterina--come!" she followed him in breathless anxiety. the little room was mean, but clean and neatly kept. flowers stood in the window; a bird hung in its cage, and began to chirp as the lamp-light disturbed it. on the table lay a simple guitar. the old woman had been sitting near it, at her work. she arose, greeting the new arrival cringingly and confidently. "good evening, signer carlo," she cried; "how goes it? you have just come at the right moment. the poor foolish thing there--not a song would please her, not a string was in tune; and even the bird that you gave her, too, sang too loud for her. 'daughter,' said i, 'he will be here directly--he who is dearer to you than your eyes, silly girl that you are.' 'mama,' said she, 'i feel so anxious--my heart beats so--i know not why.' 'hush, hush!' said i; 'you are a child, to have such a gentleman, who bears you in his very hands, and watches and cares for you like his own heart'"-- --"and who will punish you, you witch!" shrieked bianchi, striding close up to her--"you poison, you baseness! thank your grey hairs that you do not feel the weight of my hand!" he shook her violently by the shoulder. the old woman trembled. "do not play such rough jokes upon a poor old woman," she stammered; "you have frightened me so that i shall have the gout. what! speak gently. signer carlo, and do not utter such unchristian words, enough to make one cross and bless oneself! what have you to say against the poor old neuna?" "what?" foamed bianchi, and thrust her from him so violently that she sank upon her knees,--"you dare to ask? to play the virtuous to my very face, after you have betrayed me? away! out of the house, and that without tarrying or whimpering--for i know you, and i ought to have known that you could be no fit guardian, and that treachery nestles in your withered breast!" the old woman had raised herself, and waited with assumed humility a few feet from him, by the window. "you are right, signor carlo," she said; "i ought not to have done it; but i pitied the poor lonely creature, because she never got a glimpse of the world sunday nor working day, and seeing nothing but the roofs opposite, or the dark streets and the little bits of starry sky at midnight, when you take her out now and then. 'child,' said i, 'he is so kind that he cannot be angry with you, when you tell him this evening that you have been to see the races with me.' she did not like to go, poor thing; but i saw how much she wished it, and so persuaded her. and what harm is done? if you had not made all this noise about it, she would only have had a pleasure the more." "go!" said bianchi, with inexorable calmness; "not one word more." the old woman glided to the girl, who was seated on a chair in the corner, with downcast eyes. "daughter!" she whispered, "do _you_ try him." caterina cast a glance at bianchi's face, and shook her head. "it is useless," she answered. "let me stop the night here at least," begged the old woman, and approached the man a step nearer. "where shall i rest my old head?--how can i collect my little things?" "go!" re-echoed the man;--"_your_ things! you have nothing but what i have given you. go, or"-- he raised his hand. the old woman trembled. muttering a confused medley of curses, prayers, and threats, she glided from the house. "caterina," said bianchi slowly, without looking up, "it is over! after to-day you see me not again! do not ask me why, and do not be unhappy at the idea that you have made me angry. i have only been so with that she-fiend who has just gone from us. you are good, and will be happy, even though you do not see me again. another will come, and will knock at your door--the same who sat by your side at the races. open to him, greet him and love him--and be true to him! you must not tell him that you know me; you must never utter my name before him. but keep still at home, as you have hitherto done; and, should you chance to go out, avoid that part of the town that lies below by the tiber. promise me all this, caterina!" he waited for an answer. instead of it, there came a sob from the corner that cut through his very heart. "do not weep!" he said, as calmly as he could; "you hear that i do not go from you in anger, and you will be happy. all will be better for you than it has been hitherto. you will love the other better than you have loved me!" "never!" groaned from the lips of the poor girl. her sobs prevented her saying more. but in that one sound spoke out a true vehement avowal of boundless affection. bianchi's darkened brow brightened. he looked up joyously--turned round and approached her. beside herself, she rushed towards him, and he received her as she pressed him unconsciously to her arms. he kissed her forehead. "hush!" he said, "thou and i--we must collect ourselves. it is now as well as it was, and better. but it cannot remain so. it cannot or i shall be lost. come!" he said, "make a bundle of your best and favourite things, and what you will want for a journey. hasten, caterina. i think that we shall see each other again--but not here. have patience." she looked at him with her large eyes. she understood nothing--she anticipated nothing--mechanically she did as he directed her. "where are we going?" she asked, timidly, when all was ready. "come," he said. he extinguished the light. the bird in its cage fluttered eagerly against the wires. the guitar gave out a saddened note as he struck against it in the darkness. both their hearts beat violently--and so they went. chapter vi. theodore's mind was in a strange state when he left bianchi's house. as soon as he felt the cool air breathe upon his face, the feeling of depression which so weighed upon him, as he stood before the model, left him at once. even the secret remorse in the background of his thoughts almost served to intensify his mental clearness, as the shadow does the light. the former of the two girls passed before his mind's eye, and his heart never faltered for a moment. yet it was unjust towards the stranger--a feeling of wonder struck through it still, when it recollected all the beauties of that marvellous face. but it beat high and fiercely, when it recollected the time of his first knowing and loving, of his growing passion for mary. and what had changed in the interim? had she not remained the same? truly, delicacy and a feeling of propriety had restrained her in the presence of others. but she had told him, with all the ever-increasing intensity of her whole being--with her eyes, which never moved from him as long as he was near her; with her hands, that were so loth to leave his when he went, that she had utterly and unrestrictedly abandoned her whole existence to him. "can i blame in her," he said to himself, "that she sits in awe of her puritanical mother--that she did not break this old bond of reverence at the same moment that she bound herself to me?" as if he had to confess to her all with which he had these weeks long made his life miserable, he felt constrained to see her. he knew that the english visitors, who had annoyed him so, had left rome the day before. he felt as if all was now to begin anew. in this state of freshly-awakened happiness he sprang up the steps of the house. but a few moments before, miss betsy had been standing in mary's chamber, about to take her leave. the girl was seated by the piano, in the shade, with her hands grasping the arms of her chair, as if afraid that she should sink down upon the floor, if she did not support herself. "take my advice, child," said the little woman, at the end of a long conversation. "directly he appears, and without any beating about the bush, tell him that he will only lose time in trying to excuse himself. do that, mary--i advise you; he is young enough to grow a better man, if he begins in time. it is scandalous and, dear heart, much as i wish it, i cannot retract a word that i spoke in my first burst of anger. god has, however, brought other sinners to himself before now; if he only had more religion; you must confess that i have often spoken to him about it, and now you see i was right; shame upon him, child, to have no more respect for you! i looked round, fortunately none of your acquaintances were sitting near us, for respectable people do not go into this part of the circus, but into the private boxes, unless, indeed, they want to study the people. but he spoilt the whole play for me; and i cannot forgive him. dear me! if you had been with me, you would have died upon the spot! _do_ you think that he took his eyes off her for a moment? and she seemed to know him--an old passion--and that might be some excuse for him; for he has found girls pretty enough before he knew you. but people ought to have some self-respect, at least in public, and pretend not to recognise each other. well, well, child, when you talk to him seriously and once for all, he will shrink in his shoes; but if _you_ will not do it--willingly as i would spare you--my principles require me to tell it all to your parents, that they may bring him to his senses. it would be too great a disgrace and misfortune for a family like yours to receive such a frivolous person into its circle. have you never heard of any old roman flirtation which he gave up on your account?" "no," said the girl, in a low voice. how could she confess that the description of her officious tale-bearer brought a picture vividly before her mind, which had once before caused her an anxious day? the day after theodore had told her about the dance in the osteria, she had walked arm-in-arm with him through the town. from out a lowly window looked a lovely face, which she pointed out to her friend. he had been unable to repress a sudden start, and the girl, too, seemed to recognize him. "it is the girl from albano of last night," he said, and then turned the conversation suddenly to another subject. but the face had impressed itself feature by feature upon her memory. "do not be down-hearted, my child," said miss betsy, passing her hand over mary's hair, "and don't fret. human beings, and men in particular, are not angels. dear me! who has not had to bear the like. do you talk seriously to him, and all will come right. good night, my child; i will come and see you to-morrow. heaven bless you!" she left hastily. without she met theodore, who nearly ran against her. "pardon me," he said; "a bridegroom who is hastening to his bride may be excused for being in a hurry. is it not so, dear miss betsy?" he did not remark the cold expression with which she greeted him. "you will find mary----indeed she was not expecting you." he greeted her hastily again, and rushed into the room. for the first time he found her alone, standing at the window, in the darkness, her hair loosened about her face. in his heart he fervently blessed the good fortune that seemed so willing to pave the way for a perfect reconciliation. gently he approached her. she did not move. he passed his arm around her waist, and called her by her name. she started and turned round, and he saw her eyes, gleaming wet with tears. "you are weeping, mary, my own love--you are weeping," he cried, and would have pressed her closer to his heart. she resisted him without speaking. she closed her eyes and repressed her tears, and shook her head. "no!" she said, at last, "i am not weeping. it is passed! it is well!" he took a turn up and down the room. he knew not how it happened, but in one moment all his joyousness had gone. "what is the grief." he said, at last, after a pause, "which _i_ may not know! if you but knew with what a feeling of happiness i stepped over this threshold, what a gleam of joy passed through me at finding you at last alone! and now you are so distant, and more reserved than under all the restraints of society. you know not _what_ amount of sorrow you heap upon both of us." she remained silent, and kept her eyes firmly closed. she compared within herself the words he spoke, with those that had but just before so chilled her heart, his glances with those which her old friend had described, and which had been directed to another. she felt something within her which would gladly have pleaded for him, but too many voices cried against it. she had listened to miss betsy's tale as if it related neither to herself nor to him, like something incomprehensible, which she possessed no power of appreciating. but yet it was the last straw upon the burden, which she had borne for weeks past. theodore deceived himself when he fancied that he alone had suffered from his miserable overexcited dreamings. that he was altered, that the first glow of love had paled, that his heart was no longer sure of itself had not escaped mary's penetration. whilst he was present she controlled herself for his sake, for the world she would not have let him see that she doubted him; and when she was alone she blamed herself, and said that she had seen falsely, and seen more than existed; that a man had thoughts sometimes that absorbed him, and followed him even into the presence of his love. and she knew too that the restraint her mother imposed annoyed him more day by day. and yet just at this moment a feeling of the deepest agony burst through all, and closed her lips and heart at the very time when words were so much wanted. she hoped for nothing from questionings, and of reproaches she would not suffer herself to think. she felt no acute pain, but as if paralyzed, so that she felt not that he was near her, and yet would have received a deathblow had he left her. so they stood in miserable self-deception opposite each other. he had already taken his hat, intending to put an end to this unbearable situation, when her mother entered. he must remain. lights were brought. the women seated themselves, whilst he stood, answering in monosyllables, and cursing a thousand times both himself and his miserable fate. and, as everything disagreeable invariably heaps itself together at such moments, the mother began to talk of edward's monument. he could not conceal that he had seen it that day for the first time, and was obliged to describe the feeling and execution of the work. he roused himself a little. "it is incomparable," he said; "i cannot express how it affected me. edward himself, living but at the same time, glorified. and most marvellous, revealed through some strange inspiration of art, his very attitude, that peculiar, kindly way he had of bending his head forward, a peculiarity of which i never said a word to bianchi." "what you tell us may be perfectly true, dearest theodore," said the mother, after some reflection; "i must confess, however, that the additional figures, as you describe them, are so utterly repugnant to me, that i feel that i could never pray at my son's grave whilst the stone presented to me these strange fabulous forms, which horrify instead of elevating the mind." "they are symbols, mother, symbols of the most exquisite feelings, not foreign to your own when once you appreciate their meaning. would you not have been affected had an italian poet written a poem on edward in his own language, even though it was not your own mother tongue?" "true; but then it would only be the expression which would seem strange to me; but here the idea of the representation that repels my holiest feelings, is so strong that i run away and feel that i can have nothing in common with it." "you speak harshly!" "i wonder that you think it harsh, dear theodore, when it is the natural feeling of a woman and a christian." "and you are in rome, and see each day the wonders of bygone races, and enjoy the deeds of a thousand different spirits, each of which is different from your own, and yet can close your heart and turn away here--here, where a spirit for your sake has brought up out of his inmost soul all that it possessed." "i do not dispute his good-will. but, just because it touches me so nearly and is done for my sake, i feel more susceptible against what is wrong; the best intentions may be ungrateful to us when they have no respect for our own feelings." theodore approached mary, who had sat silent, at her work. "mary," he said, "has bianchi's effort offended you too?" "no;" she said gently; "but my mother is right. one cannot love what is strange to us--at least i cannot! a man possibly." he only partly understood her words, but he understood that she withdrew herself from him. an unspeakable feeling of agony seized him. it was not irritation--no little feeling of bitterness--which made him bow silently and leave them. he felt that he must collect himself--rouse up his crushed spirits. he would have talked wildly had he stayed. "it shall not be," he said to himself, when he reached the street. "she is right; we were and should have ever remained strangers to each other. i looked upon my longing to throw my whole heart upon her anew, as fruitless. no wonder that at last she became wearied of it! but it was horrible that it should happen just on this day when i had so sweetly deceived myself, so blissfully lied to my soul, and was more full of hoping than ever! it was horrible, yet wholesome. now am i cured for ever of this presumptuous amiable self-deception!" then he thought of bianchi. "in pity." he said, "i should have spared him this; he will have something to throw into the tiber again. no; he shall not. i will keep this monument for myself, to warn me in future how i trust mankind." so he reached his dwelling; he lighted his lamp and sat down to write. he began a letter to mary, calm and gentle--after the first few lines, the lie became apparent--for it seethed and boiled and surged within him, till he threw the pen upon the table, and sprang up to go--he knew not whither. at last he went again into the night, towards bianchi's house. should he seek him out, tell him all? conceal all from him? or only in his neighbourhood struggle for decision and composure? he knew not clearly--but solitude he could not bear. only a young and narrow moon stood above the roofs, but the houses were bright, the windows and balconies alive with people. along the corso rolled a gay stream of careless promenaders, refreshing themselves in the cool evening; laughing girlish faces, foreign and roman, lightly dressed, as they had just escaped from the close rooms. the street was like a long corridor near a ball-room, where the company wander in cool twilight between the dances. here and there music floated through the open windows, and a girl's voice amongst the crowd sang lightly to the air. theodore was obliged to cross the stream. he seemed to himself like one departed, who has nothing more to do with life, but who is forced to revisit some friend in order to reveal to him some forgotten duty before he departs for ever. he buried himself in the small deserted streets which lead down to the tiber, and passed along without the power of grasping any one train of thought firmly; at last, wearied by the fruitless endeavour, he let his spirit dive along the empty waste of sorrow, as across a shoreless, waveless sea. thus he reached a part of the river bank called the ripa grande, where the boats lie which ply to ostia and to the little post steamer and other shipping; from there down to the ripetta there are still some hundred paces, and no direct connection by the water. he turned, however, to the right, towards the broader street, as a loud altercation reached his ears from the summit of the landing-steps. he heard the sound of a voice through it which made him stop suddenly; he approached the crowd, the individuals composing which he could only distinguish gradually by the light of a flaring street lamp. the dispute seemed to be about a girl that a sailor had seized by the arm and was endeavouring to drag off--another tried to separate them--"let her go, pietro;" he cried. "how long have you taken cargoes of women, kidnapper that you are? see, she is crying, poor thing! she does not want to go back into your hole of a cabin, she has good reasons--" "the devil take you!" shouted the other, dragging at the girl. "she will have reasons enough! but the man who brought her, and paid me well too, said, 'ship her to ostia and place her in safe hands there, and take care she don't get back again.' he had his reasons too, i fancy, and reasons that he backed with good arguments. the baggage! she has been up to some mischief! if she was the blessed innocent she pretends to be now, why did she not make a fuss when the man brought her? but what do you think? then she was as quiet as a mouse, only cried and sobbed, and kissed the man till it made him quite sad, and he promised to come and see her in ostia; and now, why should she take a fancy to run away--the cat! as soon as i turned my back--and struggled and screamed half along the street when i wanted to do my duty and place her in safety again? tell me that if you can! no! away with the witch, and hold your jaw; and _accidenti_ on any one who gets in my way." "i _cannot_, i _will_ not go back," cried the girl's voice: "this man is false; he insulted me shamefully; he breaks his agreement; save me!" "who will believe you, you liar! who only lie to get away, and to abuse me? away with your hands, i say, and back to the cabin." "halt!" thundered a voice suddenly. the contending parties turned round startled, and saw theodore breaking through the crowd to place his hand on the girl's arm. "she is mine." he cried, "and goes with me." there was a pause. caterina had recognized the young man instantaneously. wavering between joy and bitter doubt, she stood with downcast eyes. "do you take us for children?" cried the sailor, "to think that we are going to be made fools of by the first fellow who comes by? if you want a sweetheart, you will find plenty on the corso for gold and good words. who told you to thrust your oar in, and with a style as if you had the best right in the world?" "i have," said theodore, loudly and firmly; "i have--for she is my wife!" "his wife!" ran through the crowd. the nearest drew back a step. "your wife! that you must prove--or it may be,--halt!" interrupted the sailor. "tell us her name, sir, her name! a husband generally knows so much of his wife, even though he don't know what she is about in the streets late at night." "caterina," said theodore, "do you know me?" "yes," answered the girl. "caterina!" murmured the sailor; "it is right--so the other one called her." "you will go with me, caterina?" said theodore--"you will tell me the reason why you have left me, and forced me to seek you up and down the streets of rome in anger and fear? so! to ostia? and he was going to meet you there? it is enough--come!" he spoke so sternly, and with a face in which sorrow and anger were so plainly written that no one doubted him for a moment. "it is her husband," they whispered: "she was going to run off with the other. god pity him, when he falls into his hands, as she has done!" caterina did nothing to undeceive them. obediently she ascended the steps by theodore's side; and her astonishment at being saved by _him_, to escape whom she had fallen into the danger, resembled the conscious confusion of a discovered criminal. the sailor alone did not seem perfectly convinced. he looked at the piece of gold which theodore had thrown to him, and growled, "if it was all right, the gentleman would not have put his hand in his pocket. well, i am doubly paid, at all events: what does it matter to me?" chapter vii. he walked beside her through two or three streets, holding her hand in his. but neither looked at the other, nor did a word pass between them, till suddenly he released her hand, and asked, "whither shall i take you, caterina?" "i know not," she answered. "to the via margatta?" "no!" and she shrank together: "the old woman would find me there--or he." "who?" "i may not name him--least of all to you--he has forbidden me." "then it is bianchi." said theodore, in a hollow voice. she did not deny it. as they passed along, the misgiving which had arisen in his breast became stronger. the strange silence of the artist, while he described to him the scene at the circus, and his meeting with the girl, were now explained and obvious for the first time. "had we but confided to each other what was nearest to our hearts!" he sighed of himself and his friend. he knew not all as yet. when they reached the house where theodore lodged, he produced a key, and opened the door. caterina stepped back. "i do not enter with you," she said. "no! rather would i sleep on the steps of santo maria maggiore, than there within"-- "child," he said, "i am no longer now what i might have seemed but a few hours ago! thou art as safe with me as with a brother." she looked at him in the darkness, as keenly as she could, and it seemed as if some strange light struck her. "i know," she said, remaining still some steps from the door; "he has arranged it all with you. he came and tried to persuade me that he had sold me to you, or given me to you. i was to love you as i had loved him. '_i cannot_,' i told him, and i swore it in my soul, and he saw clearly enough that it was true. then he wished to entrap me, and brought me down to the boat, and ran to tell you that i was below, and that you might go and take me.--but i will never be yours--no, though you were a thousand times his friend, and though he should murder me a thousand times when i did not do his will! go! i can find my way back to my mountains again, and you can tell him--what you will, and--farewell!" she turned away. hardly had theodore time to arouse himself from his astonishment, and to overtake her. he seized her by the hand. "caterina," he said, "when i swear that you shall be to me as a sister, and that i will take you back to your carlo again as you left him--you cannot hesitate to enter my house!" "you could do that? you would do that?" she asked, stopping hesitatingly. "it is impossible; you do not know him; no one can alter _him_!" "trust!" he said. the hope that spoke so sweetly to her, came to his assistance. she forced herself gently from him, and followed him into the house. as soon as she reached his chamber, still in darkness, she seated herself on a stool close by the door, her bundle, which she had carried with her, resting on her lap. he struck a light, and spoke not again, but turned over his papers mechanically, purposeless. his forehead glowed when he thought of bianchi's deed. the exquisite consciousness of his utter devotion, which the past hour had taught him, supported him, when the feeling that mary was lost to him for ever would have crushed him. whilst he was thus dreaming about the future and nerving himself to bear his fate, he heard a light breathing from the door. he looked up and saw that caterina had wept herself into a heavy sleep. gently he stepped to her side--her head had sunk upon her shoulder, her arms hung down, her breast heaved with sorrow-laden dreams. he raised her gently and cautiously, and bore her in his arms to a sofa which stood near the wall. as he laid her down his face approached her cheek, he felt the warm breath from her lips, the scent from her hair swept around him, the beauty of her limbs rested blooming before him; but all ill passion had gone from him--he raised himself, spread out his cloak over the sleeping girl, and went to his room. not until the lesser stars were dwindling into darkness did he snatch a short and restless sleep; but no thought of caterina disturbed it. chapter viii. in the bright morning he entered bianchi's workshop. he started as the haggard, pallid face of his friend looked up to him from the work-table. his hair seemed to have grown suddenly greyer, his eyes darker; and yet a kindly expression played about the compressed lips when he recognised theodore. "you have passed a bad night." said theodore, "and i am the cause of it." "i lay awake." said bianchi, calmly; "but why do you trouble yourself about the fancies that now and then drive my rest from me? let us talk about better things--talk, read, and, above all, stay if you can. let it be so--it gives me a strange pleasure to-day to hear your voice." "bianchi, it is useless to hide yourself under a cloak of words when your whole heart lies open before me--i know all!" "you know all!--then keep secret what you know," said bianchi, vehemently; "keep it secret--never speak a word to me about it. it lies behind me, far behind me! ay!" he continued, "think of it as you will, only let all be as it was--promise me that." theodore stood deeply pained; he remembered that he, too, in a few days would look upon all here as if it lay far, far behind him; but he could not confess that to him, for fear of being unable to perform what he had now to do. "i must speak, nevertheless," he said, at last. "had i kept silent yesterday, when i shivered your happiness with my foolish words, i should have spared you much; then you had not cast away the pearl, to which i, poor fool! in a presumptuous, self-forgetting moment, stretched out my hand." bianchi was silent--a hot flush passed over him, he tried to speak. "if i brought her back to you, and said, 'there you have her again; i do not envy you, for my heart hangs on another jewel, and it requires no sacrifice to bind us to each other,'--would you believe me, carlo?" he saw the shifting of overwhelming emotions flit across the face of his friend. the artist supported himself against the table, his head pressed against his breast which laboured violently; his lips moved themselves, soundless. theodore went to the door, and called "caterina!" she had stood without, death and life before her; as she stepped slowly and with hesitating foot over the threshold, she saw carlo standing by the table with arms outstretched towards her. his knees shook under him--with a cry of joy she cast herself upon his neck. the door had remained open--theodore had his back turned towards it, lost in reverie over the relief of edward, which stood sideways on its scaffolding. he heard a light rustling behind him, and turned round. at the same moment caterina freed herself from bianchi's arms, and started. they saw three stranger forms standing hesitating in the open doorway--an elderly pair and a fair young girl. theodore remembered her. "we disturb you," said the old gentleman; "pray pardon us; but the door was wide open--we will come again at a more convenient time, signor bianchi." "enter," said bianchi; "you do not disturb me. those whom you see here are a friend and--my wife--signora bianchi." he laid an emphasis on the last words, and glanced at caterina, who looked up to him in a transport of happiness. meanwhile, theodore had retreated from before the monument. the father greeted him with his old heartiness, and then turned towards the relief. he exchanged no greeting with the women. the old lady had, at bianchi's first word, advanced towards the artist's work, and stood speechless before it. mary's glance rested but for a short time on the statue of her brother, and then flew to caterina. she remembered her well. whilst her parents stood leaning upon each other, deeply affected, before the relief, unable to tear themselves away from it, she approached theodore; she spoke gently to him, she took his hand, her eyes overflowed. they interchanged vows, confessions, self-accusations--each anticipating the other, each outbidding the other in assurances of boundless love. no one overheard them; for even bianchi, though he spoke not, forgot all in the eyes of his wife. at last mary's father went to him and pressed his hand--his eyes were moistened--the mother wept silently in her handkerchief. "you know enough," said the old man; "it is needless for us to speak only one thing--when do you begin its execution in marble! i have altered my plan; i only wish a stone to be placed over my son's grave, bearing a simple inscription. this relief i must place in the room where he lived, on the place where stood his couch; we cannot consecrate the spot better. but the time will seem very long to me till it is our own. you will be the best judge of the marble. do not delay for an hour!" meanwhile the mother had recovered her composure. she turned and gave theodore her hand, drew him towards her and kissed him on the lips, which she had done but once before, on the day when she betrothed her child to him--then they all left the studio. the sky was clear and serene, and brightly shone the sun over the banks of the tiber. the end. * * * * * printed by cox and wyman, great queen street, london. note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/loveironmonger randiala transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). love and the ironmonger by f. j. randall london: john lane, the bodley head new york: john lane company. mcmviii william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. contents chapter page i. what came to george early through a keyhole ii. a young man in search of bad habits iii. george early proves that knowledge is power iv. three worms that turned v. a new lodger in leytonstone vi. lamb chops and tomato sauce vii. an erring husband improves against his will viii. george early holds fortune in his arms ix. the man who laughed last and loudest x. hero worship xi. cupid takes a hand xii. an ironmonger in love xiii. a fortnight's holiday xiv. "tommy morgan" xv. aunt phoebe surprises her nephew xvi. george early and the giant alcohol xvii. advice gratis xviii. the disadvantages of trying to be good xix. a shot that missed fire xx. a dark man of foreign appearance xxi. follow my leader xxii. blind man's bluff xxiii. first stop, hastings xxiv. a strawberry mark xxv. name o' phoebe _love and the ironmonger_ _a plain tale of upper thames street_ chapter i--_what came to george early through a keyhole_ the offices of fairbrother and co. were in the full swing of business when george early sauntered in and took his accustomed place at a small desk. "what time do you call this?" asked the head clerk severely, looking up from a ledger. george looked at his watch. "half-past eight," he said intelligently; "that makes me half an hour late, doesn't it? matter of fact, old chap, i----" "that'll do," said the head clerk; "just you keep your place. and keep your time, too," he added warningly, "or else there'll be a vacancy in this office." he marched off with a ledger under his arm, and george, with a wink at his nearest colleague, pulled a morning paper from an inner pocket and consulted the sporting column. fairbrothers' was an easy-going firm, that had the reputation of being good to its employees. if a man once got a seat on an office-stool there he was considered to have a berth for life, supposing of course that the iron trade and upper thames street continued to exist. fairbrothers' never dismissed a man unless he was a downright rogue, and in such a case it was believed that they secretly looked after him if he happened to be in a very bad way. nobody in the office minded much what was said unless old joe fairbrother, the venerable head of the concern, happened to say it. if there was a threat of dismissal from anybody else the threatened man affected contrition and laughed up his sleeve. and although this general air of safety was as soothing to thomas parrott, the head clerk, as to anybody else, that admirable man's sense of duty compelled him to occasionally sound a warning note to his subordinates. this morning the head clerk was in a bad temper, and found fault with everybody, especially with george early. "who's been upsetting polly?" asked george, looking round; "seems to have got 'em, doesn't he?" "wants a cracker," said the shorthand clerk; "got a bad attack of the pip." "if he'd like his poll scratched," said george, impudently, "he's only got to say so." a red-haired junior chimed in. "it ain't that," he said; "polly's looking for a new perch. thinks old joe'll be wanting a manager soon." any reference to the head of the firm interested george. "what's the matter with old joe?" he asked. "matter? what ain't the matter? you mean. got one foot in the grave and the other on the edge. the poor old chap's fairly breaking up." george turned thoughtfully to his work, but his mind ran on other things; the decay of the head of the firm opened up possibilities of promotion. a manager would be wanted soon. to jump from the position of clerk to manager was unusual, but unusual things of that sort had a fascination for george early. the work would just suit him; he always felt he was born to command. compared with the other men in the office, george was quite a new hand; but the other men had less imagination and less confidence, and if they chose to follow the method of rising step by step it was their own affair. the offices of fairbrother and co. were large and roomy, and occupied the lower part of an old-fashioned building in upper thames street, adjoining a warehouse and a wharf. on the first floor facing the street and next to the showrooms was a large, handsome room. this was the private office of old joseph fairbrother, and no robber's cave with its glittering treasures had a greater fascination for any ambitious young man than had this apartment for george early. the large roomy armchairs and the big safe appealed to him strongly. he liked to picture himself sitting in the biggest chair and sternly inquiring why certain orders had not been despatched a week ago; and he never went inside the door without the hope of coming out with an increase of salary. the private office now became to george what the deserted wing of a country mansion is to the family ghost. if there was anything to go upstairs, he got it by hook or crook, and became the envoy. he liked to go best when the old gentleman was there, and when he wasn't george would look round the room, admire the handsome furniture, and stay as long as he dared. sometimes he would carry up two letters and find that the room was empty. then he would bring one down to make a second journey. one morning he went up without anything at all. on this occasion he had seen old fairbrother in the lower office preparing to go out. george glanced around quickly, hoping that an umbrella or something of the sort had been left behind, so that he might dash after the retreating brougham. there was nothing. "just my luck!" he murmured, crossing to the window. he looked out into the street, and, seeing that the brougham had departed, selected the biggest armchair, and from its depths thoughtfully perused the court column of a daily newspaper lying at hand. unfortunately he became so absorbed that he did not hear the familiar rattle of his employer's brougham as it returned and drew up outside, and it was not till the head of the firm was half-way up the stairs that he scented danger. with alacrity george looked for means of escape, and at once turned to that which seemed easy and safe. this retreat was a private staircase which led direct from the room to the upper floors of the warehouse. he skipped across and closed the door behind him quickly and softly. a second later old joseph fairbrother entered the room, and, as he did so, george early found himself in another fix, for instead of passing through the door of the private staircase he had entered a tiny, box-like room which stood beside it. this room had no other outlet, and the venturesome clerk was a prisoner until his master chose to take himself off. the young man selected the keyhole as a means of learning what was happening. it was a large keyhole, and he had ample means of proving that, so far as looks went, "old joe" had "one foot in the grave," as had been affirmed. to-day he looked older and more decrepit than usual, and for five minutes he did nothing but sit and look at the fire. at the end of that time somebody else entered the room. george waited anxiously for the other party to come within range, and when he did so it proved to be parrott. "sit down, mr. parrott," said joseph fairbrother; "one moment--hand me a cigar, please, and take one yourself." the head clerk nervously helped himself to a cigar, and followed the lead of his chief as he lit up. for another five minutes the old gentleman gazed abstractedly into the fire, finally shifting his gaze to the face of parrott, who looked at everything in the room except his employer. "mr. parrott," said old fairbrother, solemnly, "do you know why i have brought you here?" the head clerk looked up with a start and coughed. he did not know why he had been brought there. "then i'll tell you," said his master. "i have made my will, parrott, and i'm going to talk about a little legacy i have left you." parrott didn't know what to do, so he looked as bright as he could, and cleared his throat, as if to reply. "wait a minute," said the old gentleman, lifting a finger; "don't you thank me till you know what you're getting. i've had my eye on you, parrott, for a good many years; i've watched you grow from a boy upwards, and i've noticed your good points and your bad ones. you're not the only one i have watched, but you're the only one i'm going to talk about now. when i have had my little say with you, there are others i shall talk to." he took a long pull at his cigar, and allowed his eyes to rest on the uncomfortable parrott, who seemed somewhat more doubtful of the issue of the interview than he had been a while ago. "you're not my ideal of a man, parrott," he continued; "but, of course, we all have our faults. you're a good man at your duty, and you believe in others doing their duty, which is right enough. there are not many in the office that love you, and i dare say you put it down to their selfishness and ignorance, or perhaps to envy. it isn't that, parrott; it is you they don't like. they like a man who's sociable and one of them, and who's affable and generous. they don't like you because you're mean." this home-thrust sent the colour rushing to the face of the head clerk, and the blood of his ancestors prompted him to get up and say-- "really, sir, i----" "all right, all right," interrupted his master, "this is just between ourselves. i don't say that you are all to blame. these things are sometimes born in us, and we are not always able to root them out. now, don't you interrupt me, but listen to what i've got to say. "you are a mean man, parrott; but i am of opinion that you are mean by habit, and not by nature. habits are things that we can get rid of if we choose. i want you to get rid of your habit. "you know me, and you know that if i can use my wealth to reform a man, i will do it. i might leave a lot of money to societies, and still do little good with it; i might distribute it over a large surface so that it benefited nobody. that's not my way. i should be doing more good by making sure of three or four men. you need reforming, parrott, because meanness is a curse, and no man who has it badly, as you have, will ever be the ideal of his fellow-creatures. "i have made my will, and i have left you an income to begin on the day of my death. you will not have long to wait. when i die you will receive the sum of five hundred pounds yearly so long as you live." parrott nearly jumped out of his chair with joy. "stop a bit!" cried old fairbrother; "there are a few conditions tacked on to this. first and foremost is this: you will receive this income on condition that you get rid of your habit of meanness. that is to say, if a man asks you for a loan of half a crown, or half a sovereign, or, in fact, wants to borrow anything from you, you shall lend it him. my lawyer will have the matter in hand, parrott, and if it can be proved that you cling to your habit of meanness, and do not oblige a man when asked to do so, your income ceases. "i shall not interfere with your position here. it will be the same when my successor takes the management. and this contract will be known to nobody but ourselves and my lawyer. now, what do you say? will five hundred pounds a year help you to get rid of that habit of yours? don't be afraid to say so if you would rather not have the legacy." george early listened in amazement, as the head clerk murmured his thanks; and his astonishment was further increased by the astounding ingenuity of "old joe," who laid bare the plan of the legacy in its minutest detail. the lawyers were to follow their own methods in keeping observation on the legatees, and in due course would warn them of a breach of agreement. three warnings were accorded before the legacy was lost. "not a word to any one, mind," said joseph fairbrother, as parrott prepared to depart. "just put yourself in training, that's all. send mr. busby to me." the head clerk departed, and a few minutes later busby came in. albert busby was the firm's cashier, one of the oldest of the staff, yet still a young man, being under forty. in appearance he was the most pious of black-haired sunday school teachers; in reality it was difficult to get a word of truth from his lips. lying was not part of his business, but distinctly a hobby, and it came as naturally to him as if he had been taught from birth. old fairbrother offered busby a cigar, then delineated his character in the same way as he had done that of parrott a legacy of £ a year awaited busby if he chose to give up his habit of lying and stick to the truth. of course, busby readily consented. he said for the future no lie should ever pass his lips. "you'll lose the money if it does," said "old joe," laconically. the third and last man to be interviewed was gray--jimmy gray, the accountant. gray's face told its own tale, and those who couldn't read it had only to note gray's movements, which were too often in the direction of a public-house. the drink habit had gray fairly in its toils, but he was willing to give it up for £ a year, and he honestly believed he could. when "old joe" stood alone once more, he took another long look at the fire. then he gave a sigh, a smile, a shrug of the shoulders, and ended by putting on his hat and departing. as soon as he was safely out of earshot, george early stretched himself and walked thoughtfully into the middle of the big room. having arrived there, he gave voice to three words, audibly and distinctly: "well, i'm hanged!" planting himself before the fire, he went musingly over the whole scene again. it was astounding. three legacies of five hundred pounds a year each! george early could scarcely realize the significance of it. presently, as he carefully thought over the matter, he began to smile, then to laugh; and when he finally returned to his office-stool, by way of a tour through the warehouse, he was bubbling over with mirth. chapter ii--_a young man in search of bad habits_ the first thing that struck george early on his arrival at the office next morning, was the extreme seriousness of the three legatees. gray looked so sober and miserable that george was surprised at it passing unnoticed. for once busby sat quietly in his office-seat, instead of entertaining gray with some fictional incident of the night before. and parrott was too occupied with his thoughts to give black looks to the late comers. "a nice lot they are to get £ a year!" thought george. "i call it a sin. it's a dead waste of money!" he strolled over to gray's desk. "morning, mr. gray," he said affably. "good morning," said gray, in a voice hoarse with temperance. "back that little thing yesterday?" asked george, in a whisper. "you know--flower-of-the-field for the sub.?" "no," said gray. "i did it," whispered george--"ten to one. bit o' luck, wasn't it?" gray assented, and george leaned over the desk to be out of hearing of busby. he touched gray on the hand with one forefinger. "i've got a drop of scotch in the desk," he said; "real old stuff. going to have a nip?" a flash of eagerness came into gray's eyes, and then died away. "no, thanks," he said hastily; "i don't think i will. the fact is, i--i don't feel up to it this morning." "blue ribbon?" asked george, opening his eyes in wonder. "no--oh no," answered gray, with some confusion; "no, nothing of that." "then have a drop," said george, enjoying the struggles of his victim. "it's ten years old, and strong enough to break the bottle. got it from a friend of mine who works in a distillery." gray's eyes glistened; but george moved off to busby's desk before he had time to give way. busby looked up and nodded, then went on with his work. this was something out of the ordinary for busby, who rarely missed an opportunity to gossip. george early chuckled to himself and began to sharpen a pencil. "saw you last night, mr. busby," he said presently. "nice little girl, that sister-in-law of yours. fine figure she has, too." busby rubbed his chin a moment, and became deeply interested in his work. "she's not my sister-in-law," he said slowly. "no?" said george, surprised. "now, look here, you told me that little girl was your wife's sister. you don't mean to say she's--she's no relation?" busby made no reply, and george began to chuckle audibly. "you sly dog!" he laughed. "well, you are a sly dog! fancy you trotting out a nice little girl like that! and i'll bet your wife doesn't know it. i'll bet she doesn't--does she?" busby frowned and flicked over some papers. "i say, early, just you clear off; i've got a lot to do this morning," he whispered. "oh, get out!" said george. "you know i want to hear all about it. you are a lucky beggar! did you kiss her? i'll bet you kissed her a few times. so would i. and, fancy, your wife knowing all about it, too!" "she doesn't!" blurted out busby, with reckless truthfulness. "not know it?" cried george. "well, you are a devil! come on, old chap, tell us the yarn. i suppose you took her out for the evening--eh? the little minx! and she knows you're a married man." "she doesn't!" cried busby, with another burst of frankness. "great scott!" said george. "did she----" "look here, early," began busby, growing red in the face; "didn't i tell you i was busy?" george early gave another audible chuckle, and went back to his stool, after pinching busby's arm as a token of his appreciation of such devilry. before settling himself, he looked over towards the desk of the head clerk; but that estimable man was evidently not in a mood for conversation. "i'll touch his tender spot later on," said george to himself. "they are all taking it very seriously; and so would i if i had the chance. £ a year for keeping sober! good heavens! it makes me mad to think of it." work was out of the question with george that morning, his head was full of legacies. "i wonder if old joe would spring another five hundred if he found a good case," he mused. "there'd be no harm in trying him, anyway." there seemed to be something in this idea, so george endeavoured to fix upon a sound serviceable vice likely to arouse the interest of the head of the firm. "i might become a chronic borrower," he thought; "that's a pretty bad habit. a man who borrows money is always a nuisance to his friends and acquaintances. but whether it's worth five hundred or not is another question. there are several objections, i'm afraid. i dare say old joe would prefer to have a borrower here to help polly reform; besides he'd know that as soon as people stop lending the habit ceases. that's no good." george wrote down all the vices he could think of without being able to find one strong enough. there were plenty of second and third-rate failings, but not one that might be called of the first water. "it's just like those selfish brutes," he said bitterly, "to monopolize the only decent bad habits there are! i shouldn't wonder if the artful hounds got wind of it a long time ago, and went about drinking and telling lies under old joe's nose just to get the money. men like those are capable of anything." in this unenviable state of mind george early went out to a bread-shop, and gloomily watched all the lunchers in the hope of discovering some objectionable practice that he had missed. the only habit that seemed to be noticeable was flirtation, and as george was doubtful of its viciousness he finished his coffee and strolled towards billingsgate. here the first really healthy suggestion came to him. he got it by treading on the toe of a market porter, who cursed him with a volubility that only time and a natural leaning that way could have made perfect. instead of replying with some graceful oaths of his own, george felt inclined to invite his unknown friend to a drink. "swearing's a habit," said george chuckling, "and a damn bad habit too. yes, by st. christopher, that ought to do for old joe! there's something rich about a vice like that, and if it doesn't hit him in the eye straight away he's not the benevolent old man i take him to be." somebody ran into george as he entered the office, and mr. early promptly rattled out a string of oaths, just by way of practice. the language that afternoon was such as fairbrothers' had never known since the firm started. george swore at the office-boys and his fellow-clerks for no apparent reason; and whenever he had occasion to make a remark naturally inoffensive, he seasoned it with unparliamentary expressions. he deftly mixed his obscenity with a good humour that was unmistakable, so that no person could say his language was anything but a vicious habit. "this suits me down to the ground," thought george; "i should never have believed i could pick up anything so quickly; it's easier than learning french." when george early started on a thing he didn't do it by halves. in the present case he made such rapid progress that he was firmly convinced the following morning would see him proficient. he remembered with pleasure that it was the morning on which joseph fairbrother was to show some fair sunday school teachers over the building. nothing could be better. on their arrival he would drop some tame expletives sufficient to arouse the attention of the lady visitors; on their departure he would try something a little stronger. some of them would be sure to point out his depravity to the principal, and as soon as that charitable gentleman began to keep his ears open george felt sure he could give him all the language he wanted. that night the ambitious clerk wallowed in an atmosphere of profanity. he cursed the 'bus conductor and the 'bus driver, and the passengers, according to their size and fighting weight. he swore at every one who pushed against him, and a good many who didn't. he cursed dogs and telegraph-boys, and even lamp-posts. once he nearly said something rude to a policeman, and only just pulled up in time to save himself. his landlady objected to swearing, so george got through the evening meal quickly, and sallied forth to the saloon of a neighbouring inn. there he meant to go into training in earnest, and he hoped also to pick up a few choice expressions that would make a pleasant variation in the day's vocabulary. he made a bad start by swearing at the landlord, who threatened to put him outside; but luckily a sailor came in and backed him up, and swore at the landlord himself in four different languages. after this george got along like a house on fire. his education advanced so rapidly that the next morning it was as much as he could do to speak without being offensive. he carefully laid his plans for the day as he rode to the city; he determined to put in a good morning's work about the office so that everybody might know swearing was his special vice, in case old joe made early inquiries; then he would spread the report that all his family used bad language, so that people might talk about it. "bit of luck i went to billingsgate yesterday," he thought, as he jumped off the bus. "when i come into the five hundred i'll go down and find the chap who did me a good turn and give him a day out." he sauntered into the office three-quarters of an hour late, and began to whistle a ribald tune as he took off his coat. somebody called out to him in a stage whisper. george took no notice, but swore at his hat when it dropped off the hook. "early," said the voice again. "early!" "well, what the devil do you want?" said george, in a loud voice. "s--sh!" cried the voice again, and george looked round to see a group of solemn-looking faces. "hallo!" he cried, looking from one to another, "what's the trouble?" "s--sh!" cried busby, lifting his hand. "mr. fairbrother's dead." "what?" cried george, aghast. "well, i'm hanged!" he said, looking round at the group. "if that isn't just my luck!" * * * * * for the second time, george early was unable to tackle his morning work. he could only sit gloomily at his desk and use up the language he had learned overnight in reviling fate for treating him so scandalously. then he began to go over the events of the interviews again, and soon his countenance cleared so considerably that he was able to discuss the lamentable decease of the firm's head without a pang. not only did his spirits rise, but they became positively hilarious towards midday; so much so that he shocked all those--and they were many--who felt gravity to be the order of the moment. "where's polly?" asked george, as the lunch-hour approached. he was directed to the head clerk's private office, and into this he went at once, closing the door behind him. parrott was busy with a sheaf of correspondence, and he looked up to see george early standing easily a few yards away. "got a few minutes to spare?" asked george, coming forward, and leaning on the desk. the head clerk frowned; he resented familiarity. "what do you want?" he asked. "oh, it's just a small matter," said george; "i want to borrow half a crown." parrott dropped the letters he was holding, and looked up in amazement. "what?" he said faintly. "half a crown," said george; "i want to borrow one." parrott looked at george, and george looked at parrott. then parrott put his hand slowly in his pocket, pulled out some coins, and put a half-crown on the edge of the desk. george whipped it up, and put it in his pocket. "thanks, old chap," he said, and went out of the office whistling, while the head clerk sat staring at the half-open door like a man in a trance. chapter iii--_george early proves that knowledge is power_ the firm of fairbrother went on in the usual way after the loss of its head. there was some speculation as to who would succeed old joseph fairbrother, and a good deal of surprise when it turned out to be a daughter, a pleasant young lady of twenty-two or so, who arrived from australia just before the funeral. if the old gentleman had timed his own death he could not have summoned his daughter with more precision. that the young lady was not steeped in grief at the loss of her parent must be put down to the fact, as confided to the head clerk, that she had lived in australia the greater part of her life, and had scarcely known her father. more of her family history it is not necessary to tell here, except that, together with an aunt, she took up her residence at brunswick terrace, her father's comfortable west end residence. miss ellen fairbrother assumed command, and occupied the big office-chair much more frequently than "old joe" had done. there were no alterations in the staff, and no new rules. miss fairbrother was as quiet and inoffensive as her father, and seemed sensible of the fact that she could not improve on his work. she therefore allowed things to go as they had been going. parrott and the other important members of the firm consulted the new chief, and jogged along in the same way as before. nobody was different, except george early. he alone had changed with the change of management. to be sure, three others had changed, but not in the same way. he was an ambitious young man, was george, and it seemed as though he had seen in this new state of affairs an opportunity for the advancement of no less a person than himself. that a casual observer might have assumed; a keen observer would have noticed that this change began at the moment when he left the private office with parrott's half-crown in his pocket. what the staff generally began to notice was that george had a great deal more confidence now than he had in the days of "old joe." he was less familiar with his fellow-clerks, and more chummy with his superiors. he never said "sir" to the head clerk, and the head clerk never found fault with anything he did. but as the clerks had a pretty easy time themselves, they did little more than merely notice these changes. among those who were disturbed by george early's tactics and who understood them better was thomas parrott. for the first time in his life he had lent a man money without questioning his _bona fides_. the legacy compelled him to do it, and he did it. but no sooner had george got out of the office than the head clerk began to think over things, and to wonder if his nature would be able to stand the strain that it might be subjected to. with the arrival of miss fairbrother, he withdrew to the small private office on the ground floor, and ventured out of it only when he was compelled. george made a note of this move, and on the whole quite approved of it; as things were about to shape themselves he could not have wished for anything better. he walked in one morning, and closed the door carefully behind him. parrott looked up with some uneasiness, but made no remark. he waited for his subordinate to speak; but as george early seemed in no hurry to forego his inspection of the almanacks on the wall, he asked if miss fairbrother had arrived. "not yet," said george, without turning his head. "she doesn't hurry herself. no more would i if i had her job." parrott coughed sternly in reply to this free remark concerning the head of the firm. "do you want to see me, early?" he asked, with an attempt at discipline. "oh yes," said george, as if obliged for the reminder; "i was just going to thank you for that half-crown i borrowed. by the way, i'm a bit short this week; have you got five shillings you could let me have a couple of days? beastly nuisance being short." parrott turned white, and nerved himself to bear the shock. "what do you mean, early, by coming here to borrow money from me?" he said. george put his hand over his mouth and coughed. "because i know you're the right sort," he said diplomatically. "i know you've got a heart, and you wouldn't refuse a man who is hard up." "it'll get round the office," said parrott, "and i shall have everybody borrowing from me." "why should they?" asked george, innocently. "of course not," said parrott, seeing the need for caution. "well, i'll let you have the money this time, early. you needn't tell anybody else; because if others started to borrow money from me, i should have to refuse everybody. do you see?" "i see," said george. he pocketed the money and went out, leaving the head clerk in a very disturbed state of mind. in spite of his impecunious state, george early did not seek his usual coffee-shop for lunch that day. he passed it by on the other side, and stopped to look at the bill of fare outside a city restaurant. having examined the menus of other restaurants, he entered one where a man in uniform stood at the door. turning into an alcove, george came face to face with gray, who was preparing to begin on a prime rump-steak. gray started, and seemed anything but pleased to see george. "didn't know you came here," said george--"thought you went to the plume of feathers." "i've given it up," said gray. "best thing," said george. "it isn't nice to be seen going into a public-house, is it?" gray nearly choked himself with a piece of steak, and looked at his companion out of the corner of his eye. "smell of whisky here," said george, suddenly, eyeing gray's glass. "they told me you'd signed the pledge." gray reddened, and affected not to notice. "better not go near the missis," said early, referring to miss fairbrother. "awful stuff to smell, whisky." gray was on the point of retorting, but changed his mind, and said-- "what are you going to have?" "nothing, thanks," said george, stiffly. "don't come any of that with me, please." "what are you talking about?" said gray, beginning to bluster. "all right," said george, darkly; "that'll do. what i know, i know." "what's the mystery?" asked gray. "you'd better get it off your chest, if it's anything important." "it _is_ important," said george, with a frown. "and what i would do is to advise a certain party to be careful. i don't want to do any spying, but duty's duty." gray changed colour, and proceeded with his steak; while george buried himself in the columns of the _daily telegraph_, and preserved a countenance of spartan-like severity. having finished his meal, george coolly took out a notebook and proceeded to make a few entries. he could see that gray was watching him narrowly, and he purposely endeavoured to put more secrecy into the performance. when it came to settling up, george had some difficulty in finding the cash, although it was only in his right-hand pocket. "funny thing," he said; "i had a half-sovereign a little while ago." the waiter stood by stolidly with the bill on a salver. "would you care to take this?" said gray, meekly, pushing forward a half-sovereign from among his change. "i dare say you'll find it presently." "thanks," said george. "i'll settle up with that, and give it to you as we go along. i shall find it," he said in a determined voice. he didn't find it. but gray said it didn't matter; he could pay him back any time. during the afternoon george early was in excellent spirits, and when he left the office in the evening his usual fare of tea and toast was supplanted by a sumptuous meal at a foreign café, after which he avoided his usual haunts at walworth, and travelled to the suburban retreat of clapham. here he sought out a quiet, respectable square, and stationed himself in the shadow of a doorway, opposite a corner house with railings. he remained patiently for a quarter of an hour, when the door of the corner house opened, and a man that might be easily recognized as busby came out. without hesitation busby walked slowly across the square, turned down one street, up another, and across another, george early following. eventually busby entered the free library, stayed a few minutes, came out, and walked off briskly in another direction. george smiled to himself as he found busby's destination to be a well-lighted billiard saloon. having seen him safely inside, he turned away and retraced his steps to the corner house in the square. this time he passed through the front garden, and rang the bell. a diminutive maid answered him, to be superseded by mrs. busby. george early inquired politely for her husband. he was not in, mrs. busby said. george knew that, but didn't say so. he simply said that he was one of fairbrother's men, who happened to be in the district, looking for a house that was near the free library, and he thought his old friend might be able to give him some assistance. "how funny!" cried mrs. busby. "why, he's only just gone round to the free library himself. he spends all his evenings there, he's so fond of books! he will be sorry he missed you!" "i'm sure he will," said george. "what a pity you did not come a little earlier!" said mrs. busby. "i would if i'd known." "you see," said the little woman, "albert is so studious. he'll sit for hours and hours in the library, reading all sorts of books, and he can tell the most wonderful stories. i don't suppose you'd believe them if you heard." "i don't suppose i should," said george. "nobody does," said mrs. busby, with pride. "they hear his stories, and they smile, but they don't know where they came from." "it's a good job they don't," thought george. mrs. busby gave her visitor elaborate directions for finding the library, and hoped he would come back to supper. george said he would be delighted, if it was only to hear some of her husband's stories. halfway across the square he turned round to take another look at the house. "nice little woman that," he said to himself. "i think i'll go back to supper." he lit a cigarette, and started off to find his old friend busby. the cashier was in the midst of a game of billiards and winning easily, consequently he was in high spirits. he welcomed george, and wondered whatever had brought him to that district. "house-hunting," said george. "i've just been round to the free library, looking up particulars." at the mention of the free library, busby became more serious, and the next shot he made was a bad one. "you're getting on well," said george, looking at the score. "so i ought," said busby; "it isn't often i win. these beggars are too good for me." "you'll win this time," said george; "that'll be good news for the missis." busby lighted his pipe to avoid a reply, and then made another bad shot. "you've brought me bad luck," he growled, turning to george. "it isn't that," said george, "you played in the wrong way. i was looking just now at the book on billiards in the free library, and----" "damn the free library," said busby, savagely, making a miss. busby played badly for the rest of the game, and withdrew sulkily into a corner. george sat by his side, and endeavoured to cheer him up. "what's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "you don't mean to say mrs. b. will be disappointed because you lost?" busby gave him a pitying glance, and uttered these amazing words-- "she won't know anything about it." george looked at him incredulously. "you don't mean to say you'll tell her you won?" "shan't tell her anything," said busby. "she thinks i'm in the free library." he was rewarded with a severe look from george, who said, in a serious tone-- "it isn't right, old chap; no man ought to deceive his wife. tell the truth and shame the devil. that's my motto." "keep your motto," said busby, rudely. "i don't want it. i bet you'd do the same if you were married." "i wouldn't," said george, decidedly. "no, not for--not for £ i wouldn't." busby was just raising a glass to his lips, but his hand began to shake so that he had to put it down. he mopped his brow, pulled out his watch, and thought it was about time he was getting home. "let's see, you're going the station way, i suppose?" he said when they got outside. "i'm going your way," said george. "i'm coming home to supper, old man, to hear some of your stories." "what?" roared busby. "those you find in the books at the free library," said george. "i shall enjoy them, i'll be bound." "look here," said busby, assuming a threatening attitude, "that's enough of it." "no, it isn't, old chap," said george. "i promised the missis i'd come back with you from the free library, so, of course, i must. besides," he added gravely, "i shall have to tell her you were not there." busby laughed hilariously. "you are a funny devil!" he said. "well, good night." he turned away, and george followed him closely. they went on in this way for twenty yards, when busby turned, and said in low, fierce tones. "you're following me. now, i give you warning, early. i've had enough of your nonsense lately. take my tip and clear off while you're safe. you'll get none of our supper." george folded his arms, and assumed a theatrical posture. "albert busby," he said firmly, "it can't be done. i don't want your supper. i'm coming with you, albert busby, to see that--you--tell--the--truth." busby collapsed, and had to support himself against a lamp-post. "what do you mean?" he asked faintly. "i know all," said george, in sepulchral tones. "all? all what?" "you know what. i'm obeying the will of a dead man. did you ever hear of old joe fairbrother?" that was enough for busby. he turned away his head and gave vent to a groan. "you don't mean to say he put you on my track?" gasped busby. george waved his hand. "the secrets of the dead must be kept," he said. "ask me no more." the next hundred yards were traversed in silence. they passed the free library just as the doors were closing, and turned off towards the square where stood the corner house with railings. suddenly busby stopped in the middle of the pavement and put one hand on the arm of his friend. "early," he said, "you're not going to give me away, are you?" george drew himself up. "the commands of a dead man----" he began. "stop that bosh," said busby, irritably. "i don't want fanny to know all about this; what are you going to tell her,--that's the question?" "it isn't," said george; "the question is, what are you going to tell her?" "she doesn't know all the facts of this business," said busby, addressing a lamp-post on the other side of the road. "she soon will," said george. "she doesn't know it's five hundred," said the unhappy man; "she thinks it's fifty." "don't worry," said george; "i'll tell her everything." "she thinks," he mumbled with a foolish laugh, "that old joe left me fifty pounds a year to improve my education, because i'm so studious!" george laughed now. "i wonder what she'll say," he cried, "when i tell her the truth!" busby seized his wrist with dramatic savagery. "she must never know!" he hissed. "let go my wrist, you silly fool!" cried george; "you're pinching me. and don't breathe in my ear." "she must never know," repeated busby, folding his arms; "it would break up the home, and part us for ever. she couldn't bear to think i'd deceived her, and i dare say she'd waste away and break her heart. i should, too; and you'd be responsible for two deaths. promise me, early, that you'll keep your mouth shut, at least for to-night." george covered his eyes with one hand and endeavoured to brace himself up for the effort. "i'll try," he said nobly; "but i may break down in the morning; i can't be sure of myself." "that won't matter," said busby, "you won't be here then." "i'm afraid i shall," said george; "you see, i unfortunately came out without any money to take me home, so i shall have to ask you to put me up for the night." busby viewed this prospect with cold disapproval, and after some discussion prevailed upon george early to accept the loan of a half-sovereign to take a cab home. having arrived at this satisfactory stage they entered the little front gate of the busby cottage, george having insisted on keeping his appointment at supper. two hours later he left, accompanied to the front gate by his friend, whose hand he shook repeatedly, finally waving him farewell across the square. "what a nice man!" cried mrs. busby; "and how fond he is of you, albert!" albert's answer was not distinguishable. chapter iv--_three worms that turned_ george early came down to breakfast next morning half an hour after his usual time, blithely humming a tune. mrs. haskins had it on the tip of her tongue to say something caustic, but refrained. "quarter past eight," said george, looking at the watchmaker's over the way. "yes, indeed," said mrs. haskins. "i've done all i could to get you up in time. i'm only flesh and blood; i can't keep the time back." "tea hot?" said george, cheerfully ignoring this outburst. "it was half an hour ago. it's been standing on the 'ob--boiled and stewed and the lord knows what else. just what i always do say----" "well, don't say it again," said george; "make some more. what's this--a kipper? don't care for kippers this morning. let's have some ham and eggs, and send carrie out for the _morning post_." "that's all, mrs. haskins," as the landlady hesitated. "oh, stop a minute! i'll have a rabbit for dinner at seven sharp." mrs. haskins stood by the door with the tea cosy in her hand and amazement on her face. "shall i write it down?" said george. "ham and eggs, _morning post_, rabbit." he sat down in the armchair and put one foot on the mantelpiece, while mrs. haskins groped her way out of the room and slipped down the first flight of stairs. "parrott good, gray good, busby good. yes," said george to himself with a smile of satisfaction; "it's the luckiest thing i've struck for many a day. this is going to be a picnic. they hadn't a word to say--not a word. of course not. what could they say?" he asked a china dog on the mantelshelf. "nothing." he got up and looked out of the window. the jeweller's shop opposite looked a paltry, second-rate establishment. hansoms crawling by the end of the street were merely things that you held up a finger to. what was a fur overcoat like that man had on over the way? "fifteen hundred pounds a year!" said george in delicious contemplation. "fifteen hundred golden sovereigns, and a dip in the lucky bag for yours truly. all prizes and no blanks!" the _morning post_ arrived. "hallo!" said george, "already? i suppose the breakfast'll come up in course of time." carrie sniffed. "you needn't put on airs," she said loftily. "i suppose you think you're everybody because you're going to have rabbit for dinner." "look here," said george, with affected hauteur; "you mustn't speak to me like that: i never take impudence from maid-servants. if you're not careful i shall speak to your mistress, and then you won't get a character when you leave. take your feet off the carpet." carrie giggled. "what is it?" she asked; "five shillings rise, or some money left you? i'm particular to know, because i always like to treat people according to their position." it was just a quarter past nine when george reached the office. business was in full swing, and an air of concern appeared on the faces of several junior clerks as george early hung up his hat. to be a quarter of an hour late was a crime many were guilty of, but to saunter in at nine-fifteen was tempting fate. "missed your train?" asked matthews, a sympathetic youth with freckles. "train?" said george; "don't be silly. my coachman overslept himself. is she here?" "rather; got a new hat. looks spiffing." "i didn't ask about her hat," said george. "where's polly?" "upstairs in her office." "go and tell him i'm here, and ask if there's any telegrams for me." matthews was tickled at this display of humour, and told george that he'd got a nerve. he informed him that busby and gray had both arrived late; that busby was in a beastly temper, but that gray was in the best of spirits. george smiled at the news concerning busby. "it's that studying at the library," he said to himself facetiously. "no man can expect to keep his spirits up if he goes slogging away studying books, after putting in a full day at business. he wants recreation, a game of billiards, for instance. but that's the worst of these conscientious johnnies; they get fifty pounds a year left them for study, and study they will, even if it means an early tomb." somebody went by, humming-- "for i am too diddley um tum tum, and i am too diddley ay!" "hallo!" said george. "who's going to be 'queen o' the may' to-day?" "that's gray," whispered matthews; "see him skip up the step?" george turned in time to catch the graceful back-kick of a tweed leg as somebody disappeared through the door. "seems to have an elastic step this morning." "it's the leytonstone air," said matthews; "you get it like that off wanstead flats." "p'raps so," said george; "i don't think he got that off wanstead flats. i think i know where he got it." "where?" "you get on with your work, and don't be inquisitive." gray's exuberance had calmed down towards the middle of the day, and when he started out in search of lunch his face wore a more thoughtful expression. the elasticity of his step was not at all noticeable, if it existed. it is doubtful if one in twenty of the people he met would have guessed that he had recently come into five hundred pounds a year, or even fivepence. in queen victoria street he stopped on the kerbstone, and looked about him. hungry clerks and typists flitted by in quest of milk and buns. gray chinked his money and crossed the road. before turning up a narrow side street he stopped again, and looked round. then he carefully walked on. on his left, three doors up, was a tea-shop. gray looked in, and passed on. a couple of warehouses and a restaurant came next, and a narrow alley beyond. gray turned into this alley, and followed its tortuous length for some distance until it emptied itself and gray into a sort of paved square, where the noise of traffic was reduced to a steady hum. there was one noticeable house in the square, a dull-looking building with a projecting lamp. people passed in and out. it was a public-house. instead of hurrying by with averted gaze, gray stopped and glanced sideways at the bill of fare in a brass frame. he really hadn't the least curiosity to know what joints were on, and what entrées off, he was just asking himself a question which he couldn't answer. another man had stopped to read the bill on the other door-post, and as he did so, gray looked up. it was george early. for reasons best known to himself, gray was angry. "what the devil do you want?" he asked, addressing george. "want?" said george, surprised; "i'm looking at the bill." "what do you want?" shouted gray, fiercely, moving a step nearer. "i want to be measured for a suit of clothes," said george, innocently. "this is a tailor's, isn't it?" "this is a public-house," said gray, in a low, murderous tone, "and you--you're following me." a whisky bill stared george full in the face, and his pleasant expression gave way to a look of concern. "a public-house?" he said, stepping back. "why, so it is. what's this, gray? you don't mean to tell me you----" "i tell you this," said gray in a fierce whisper, thrusting his face close to george's; "if i catch you following me about----" "stop!" said the other, in commanding tones; "this is no laughing matter. you have said enough, gray, and i have seen you with my own eyes." he pulled out a note-book. gray laughed ironically. "damn your note-books," he said. "i don't know what you're after, but i know that it'll take more than a silly cuckoo like you to upset me." "be careful," said george; "you know what lawyers are when they like to be nasty." gray thrust himself forward offensively. "i suppose you think you know something," he said, looking at the other man's eyebrows from a distance of two inches. george early's face expanded in a smile, "i do," he said. "oh?" "yes. but," said george, "i'm the only one in the firm who knows. exclusive information, as they say." "i see," said gray, who had been deliberating. "well, look here"--he tapped george early on the chest with one forefinger to emphasize each word--"i know something also, so that's two of us. you're a clever bantam, you are, but you'll have to get up a bit earlier to get over me. you just keep your eyes open, and see which of us gets tired first." with that he marched off. george followed. a tea-shop loomed up in the distance, and gray entered and seated himself at a table. george went in and took a seat opposite. for the rest of the day gray made himself offensive, frequently requesting george to keep an eye on him, and to have his note-book handy. he went out of his way to offer some points in detective work, particularly on the subject of tracking, and advised the purchase of a little book entitled "nightingale nick, the boy detective." this was not the worst. george observed gray in close consultation with busby, and afterwards with parrott, both of whom adopted an attitude most aggressive. "they're in league against me," thought the blackmailer. this proved to be somewhere near the truth, for on endeavouring to negotiate a loan of five shillings from the head clerk that worthy smilingly replied that he would have been pleased to lend it if he had happened to have it, but the sum of tenpence was all he possessed. he wouldn't think of refusing it, he would only ask george to wait till he got it out of the savings bank. he offered eightpence, keeping twopence for his fare home. "that's the game, is it?" thought george. busby wouldn't speak at all. he replied to all questions by nods and other facial expressions. he shrugged his shoulders in a most expressive way when asked about the new books in the free library, and merely laughed when the subject of billiards was mentioned. "after all, a man can't lie in a laugh," said george. "he can't lie if he doesn't speak. he's done me, and that's straight. wait a minute"--brightening up--"i'd forgotten the missis. i've got him there safe enough." "old man," he said to busby later in the day, "i'd forgotten to mention it, but the missis asked me to run over to supper again to-night. you can tell her to expect me at nine." busby found his tongue. "well, fancy that!" he said, smiling and apologetic. "i'm sorry, old chap, she must have forgotten it." "why?" asked george. "she went off to her mother's this morning for a month. what a nuisance! i'm awfully sorry! but, i say, early, you can come down just the same, old chap. we'll have supper together, and run over to the free library for an hour afterwards." "thanks," said george. "i will." "that's right," said busby, "do." george didn't go, he went home to his rabbit dinner and abused his landlady in a most outrageous manner. "in all my days," said mrs. haskins to her gouty aunt, "i've never been talked to like that. bless my soul! if you ask me about it, i say let 'im get the _morning post_ and take a flat in kensington, and them as laughs last laughs most!" george early got to the office next morning at his proper time, surprising the staff as much as by his lateness the day before. his conduct throughout the day was most exemplary, and he bore the sneers of busby and the taunts of gray with meekness and resignation. parrott found fault with his work, and went to the verge of bullying him. george obeyed his instructions, and knuckled under in a most abject manner, going so far as to call the head clerk "sir," and ask for a day off to bury his uncle. "a day off!" said gray, chuckling to himself; "i think he needs it. i like a man to come playing the old soldier with me, and think he's going to get off best." busby was highly gratified at the turn affairs had taken. he had had to pay his wife's fare to her mother's, certainly, and give her a ten-pound note; but, taking into consideration early's previous victory, things looked very promising. parrott said nothing, but as he saw george go meekly out of the office he smiled, which meant a very great deal, for parrott only smiled on the most rare occasions. chapter v--_a new lodger in leytonstone_ on the next day, as gray left the office for liverpool street station _en route_ for leytonstone, he ran into a man carrying a black bag. "hang you!" said the man. "look where you're going." "your fault," retorted gray, "stupid!" "who's that?" the man stopped. "is that jimmy gray?" "why, it's lambert," said gray. "how are you, old man?" they shook hands cordially, and slapped each other in the familiar old pal style. "why, what are you doing down this way?" said gray. "jimmy," said the other eagerly, "you're the very chap i've been looking for. i wouldn't have missed you for anything." "funds low?" asked gray. "it isn't that," said lambert. he opened the black bag and drew forth a notebook that bulged with cards and bits of paper. one of the cards he placed in the hands of gray. "society of old friends," read gray. "a new social club for business men; secretary, charles lambert, esq." "guinea a year," said lambert, "and the membership complete all but one. exceptional chance, jimmy. spacious club-rooms, billiards, and all the rest. open as soon as members' list complete. my boy, it's a chance you ought not to miss." "i know," said gray; "they always are." "don't take my word," said lambert. "come and look for yourself. i'm off there now. just by the g.p.o.--come along." an hour later gray resumed his walk to liverpool street, a member of the society of old friends. "that settles one thing," he said, as he got into the leytonstone train. "emily is sure to swallow this, and it'll give me a bit more time off." gray, like busby, had not been quite honest with his wife on the subject of the fairbrother legacy. as a matter of fact, at this moment she knew nothing whatever about it, and had not the faintest idea that her husband was one penny richer by the death of the head of the firm. gray had intended that she should benefit, but, like many another cautious husband, he feared that sudden wealth might turn her brain. he would break it to her gently, at the rate of a pound a week at first. having got thus far, he looked about for the best way of presenting the legacy. no opening had presented itself until to-night, but he believed that he had at last solved the problem. mrs. gray was on the doorstep when her husband arrived at the leytonstone villa. "how late you are, james!" james replied by kissing her affectionately, much to her surprise. "couldn't help it, em. one of the men away from the office, and jimmy had to stay. "'jimmy had to stay, my dear! jimmy had to stay!'" he sang. he was in a most amiable mood, a fact that would not have passed the notice of his wife if she hadn't happened to be in an amiable mood also. they sat down to a meat tea, and gray attacked a steak vigorously. "jim," said mrs. gray, dimpling, and sipping a cup of tea, "what do you think?" gray arrested the progress of a piece of steak to his mouth, and said, "what?" keeping his mouth open, apparently to take in the answer with the meat. "guess," said mrs. gray, stirring the tea-leaves in the bottom of her cup. "can't," said gray. "anything the matter?" "no, you old stupid," said his wife, placing her cup firmly down in the saucer; "only that i have some good news, jim." "for me, dear?" "good news for both of us, jim," said mrs. gray. gray smiled. "so have i, emily. i've some good news for both of us also." mrs. gray opened her eyes wide, and then pouted. "oh, you know all about it. you are a nasty thing." "i don't know," said gray. "i only know what i have to tell you, and that isn't what you have to tell me." sunshine again on mrs. gray's face. "tell me your news, jim," she said eagerly. "tell me yours first," said the sly jim. "no, jim; do tell me yours." "well," said gray, "i've had a glorious piece of luck. it hasn't come just at once; but i've been saving it up till i was sure that there was no mistake. there's a new club starting, dear, and i've got the secretaryship--worth about sixty pounds a year. think of that--another pound a week income! isn't it grand?" "splendid, jim!" breathed mrs. gray. "of course," said gray, hurriedly, "there'll be a lot of work, and i shall often have to stay there late in the evening. but i don't mind that, so long as--so long as you have a little more money for yourself." "thank you, jim dear; but i do hope you won't overwork yourself. but, i say, jim, wait till i tell you my news; perhaps you won't need to work so hard, then. i've let the front room at last, jim, and splendid terms--a pound a week, breakfast and meat tea, full board sundays. isn't that good?" "bravo!" cried gray. "why, i'm dashed if you haven't done as well as i have!" "it's all settled," cried mrs. gray. "i only let it this morning, and the boxes came in this afternoon. look!" she displayed two half-crowns in a plump little hand. "deposit." "you're a champion," said her husband. "we shall be so rich we sha'n't know what to do with the money. when does the old lady come in? is she a widow?" "don't be stupid, jim!" jim smiled. "well, you know, dear, i thought----" mrs. gray suddenly placed a hand over his mouth. "that'll do, you wicked deceiver. do you think you can play such games with me? as if i didn't know that you'd had a hand in it. you don't want me to thank you, you bad old jimmy, but i shall." "but, my dear----" "now, do be quiet," said mrs. gray. "i know all about it, so there! you were thinking how much i wanted a little extra money, and what a silly i was not to be able to let the room myself, and that's why you did it, now isn't it?" gray smiled, and tried to look as cunning as a monkey. "i'm so glad," went on mrs. gray. "it will be such a help; especially as he's a nice man. i should hate to have a grumpy lodger." "i hope he hasn't got a beard," said gray. "i know you like beards, but i might get jealous." "don't be horrid, jim; you know he hasn't got a beard." "perhaps his hair's red," continued the relentless jim. "now i come to think of it, you are rather partial to red hair." "you know it isn't," said mrs. gray, with a pout. "you are a tease, jim." "how do i know," said jim, innocently, "when i've never seen the man? he may be a chinaman for all i know." mrs. gray ignored this remark, and began to clear the tea. "i like his name," she said presently. "glad of that," said her husband. "what is it--piper or snooks?" "if your name wasn't jim, jim, i think i should like it to be george. george is the next best name to jim." "oh, his name's george?" "you know it is. and, jim, supposing you two men----" mrs. gray suddenly stopped talking, for her husband had risen from his chair with a terrible frown on his face. before she could speak he caught her in a grip of iron. "why, jim, whatever----" "his name," he said, in a terrible whisper--"tell me his other name." "don't, jim; you are silly----" "quick!" said gray. "name! name!" mrs. gray gasped. "i don't--jim----" "is it early," said jim; "george early?" "of course. you must be crazy, going on like that!" gray released his hold and stared blankly at the carpet. then he gave vent to his feelings in an outburst of invectives, which, being unintelligible to his wife, put that lady into a high state of indignation. what might have been a scene was dispelled by the rattle of a key in the front lock. mrs. gray swept out of the room, and a minute later her husband and george early had the sitting-room to themselves. "good evening," said george, sweetly. "good evening," said gray. there was silence for a while, during which time gray rammed a pipe with old judge. george selected a comfortable armchair, and lit a cigarette. "so you've been burying your uncle," said gray, with a sneer. "i hope you buried him deep." "pretty deep, thanks," said george. gray planted his back to the fireplace, and looked sideways at his enemy. "i hope it's a big grave," he said, "in case there's another death in the family." "there won't be another death," said george; "we're pretty hardy." "you're a clever devil," said gray, in a tone that belied his words. "if all the family are as clever as you, they'll be in parliament soon--or jail. i suppose you think you've got the best of me; but you'll find that two can play at this game." "that's what i thought," said george. "it was because i couldn't get along without you that i came down here." gray accepted the situation for the time being with sullen resignation, and mrs. gray, entering the room timidly and finding the new lodger in good spirits, brightened up and forgot her husband's outburst. in half an hour george knew all the local news and scandal, and was on the best terms with mrs. gray, if not with her husband. "do you know," said mrs. gray, "at first i had a horrid thought that you and jim were not friends. wasn't it silly of me?" "absurd," said george. "we're like brothers." "ah," said mrs. gray, "but there's one thing you don't know. jim only heard it for certain to-day." "that's nothing," said gray, suddenly; "he knows all about that." "oh, you mean----" said george, looking at his landlord. "where are my slippers?" bawled gray, irritably, suddenly groping about the fireplace. "they're never here when----" "i'll get them, jimmy!" mrs. gray skipped away to the kitchen. "not a word, mind," said gray, in a fierce whisper to george. "i won't have that business discussed here. i'm secretary to the 'old friends' society,' at sixty pounds a year. that's good enough for you." "it's good enough for you, i suppose you mean," said george. "well, remember--not a word." "i'm not sure that i should be doing right----" "you fool, do you want to ruin me? i haven't told her yet, and i can't let her hear it from you." "why not?" asked george. "you ass!" said gray, excitedly. "i can't explain here. i don't want her to know." "quick!" said george, as mrs. gray's footsteps sounded in the passage; "shake hands, and i'll keep your secret." the pair grasped hands dramatically. "yes," said mrs. gray; "it's a splendid thing for jim, isn't it?" "splendid thing for the club," said george. "they know what they're about; you can take my word for it. where could they find a man, i should like to know, with the ability, the splendid gifts, and the remarkable knowledge of your husband? he's a man," said george, fixing a keen eye on the paper gray was reading, "he's a man in a thousand. an orator, a politician, a scientist, a man of the world. his intellect----" "that'll do," snapped gray. "no," said george, "i won't stop. why should i? the position is a big one; but you are as good as the position." "that's what i say," said mrs. gray, who approved of all george said. "they're getting a man," went on george, "who will fill an honourable position with honour. the right man, too. for secretary you must have a man who is punctual, a teetotaler, and----" "oh, but jim isn't----" "don't interrupt, emily," said gray, irritably; "you know what he means." "but he said----" "oh, don't argue! what's the time? i want to run out for half an hour. i suppose you'll come as far as the corner--er--george?" "jimmy, old friend," said george, with an affectionate glance, "you know i will." the next morning george and his landlord travelled to town together. gray didn't take at all kindly to the new arrangement, but gave vent to his feelings in sudden outbursts of profanity. "i suppose i'm going to have you hanging to me like a leech as long as i've got a penny in my pocket," he said bitterly. george looked hurt. "it's your company i want, jimmy," he said meekly. "a bachelor wants a cheerful pal. you ought to know that, you've been a bachelor yourself." "you'll have to clear out," said gray, darkly. "i won't have you in my house, i tell you straight." there was an absence of sprightliness in gray's manner at the office that day. he sat in gloomy solitude at his desk, nursing his wrath. all efforts on the part of busby to draw him into conversation were useless. george, on the contrary, was in good spirits, so cheerful, in fact, that parrott and busby began to feel a little uncomfortable. "he's up to some mischief," thought the head clerk. "i shall have to keep my eye on him." his fears were confirmed a little later on in the afternoon. the freckled matthews entered his office and asked permission for one of the carmen to speak with him. "who is it?" asked parrott. "old josh. wants to see you particularly." old josh was ushered in--a little tubby, weather-beaten old man with a squeaky voice. he entered at once into a recital of family woes, in which his son-in-law, who was out of work, figured prominently. before his daughter married the family had been comfortably off--always had a good dinner on sundays, never knew what it was to want a shilling; week in and week out there was the money; and there were they all happy and comfortable. his son-in-law had had bad luck, and that bad luck meant help from the old people, and the worry of it had made the missis ill; and, what with one thing and another, the family funds had fallen low, there was rent in arrears, and things had come to a crisis. "well," said parrott, "i'll see what i can do, but of course, you know, you're getting the highest limit of wages the firm allows. perhaps i may be able to make it another shilling. i'll see what i can do, benson." benson murmured his thanks, and proceeded to launch forth into a fresh budget of troubles. "very well," said parrott, nervously. "i'll let you know as soon as i've seen miss fairbrother." old josh twirled his cap for a moment and then said-- "the fact of it is, sir, you see, it ain't so much the shilling a week, which is welcome, though small. it's the present needs, as you may say, that knocks us over." "i see," said parrott, plunging into the perusal of a pile of papers. "well, i'll be sure to let you know." old josh then made an effort and blurted out: "a party told me, sir, as how the present needs might be put right by a certain sum o' money down, which i may say would be a fi' pun note. i make bold, sir, to ask you for the loan of that sum, which will be a god-send and a generous action." parrott turned pale and stared. "what's that you say?" "a matter of five pounds, sir," said old josh. "if my son-in-law had done as i told him, it wouldn't have been for me, sir----" "never mind your son-in-law, i'm very busy just now," said parrott. "then i suppose it's no good my----" parrott waved his hand. "you'd better come--come and see me later. i can't talk now." old josh went off highly gratified, with many apologies for the disturbance. the next person to enter was george early, summoned by special messenger. "early," said the head clerk, "your work has been very unsatisfactory lately, and although you've been warned several times it doesn't seem to improve. you set a bad example to the others, and i feel it my duty to bring this matter to a close. you are a smart young fellow, but you don't quite suit the firm. i dare say you will be valuable to somebody else, so i set you at liberty a week from now." "thanks," said george; "then it's no good asking for a rise in salary?" "you are dismissed," said parrott. "how did old josh get on?" asked george, complacently. "i have nothing further to say," said the head clerk, firmly. "you may go back to your work." "thanks again," said george; "but i have something further to say. i may be valuable to another firm, but i prefer to remain here. that's because i'm a smart fellow, as you say. i don't want to be hard on you, but i can't have any nonsense like this, so i may as well say so at once. the bad example i set to others i have had under consideration, and i find that my abilities are wasted in the ordinary clerking. i've therefore decided to talk over with you the matter of taking a higher position, where i shan't have to sit with ordinary clerks and corrupt 'em. i needn't explain to you that it will be to your advantage to help me up, because a man with your foresight will see that at once. just you think it over, and we'll have a little confab in a day or two." he went out of the office and closed the door softly. at the week-end george heard that miss fairbrother was thinking of taking a secretary, and had cast a favourable eye upon himself, assisted in the operation by the head clerk. chapter vi--_lamb chops and tomato sauce_ thomas parrott was treating himself to half an hour's serious meditation, selecting for his purpose the big armchair in mrs. carey's sitting-room. it was only on wednesdays that the sitting-room was deserted, because then the two other lodgers were detained at business, and parrott was free to have his dinner in solitude. with mrs. carey's permission, he took his dinner on wednesdays in the company of miss lucy perkins, the future mrs. parrott. it was nearly seven now, and miss perkins was due in half an hour. the head clerk had intended to take advantage of the comfortable legacy left him by setting up an establishment of his own. it had been his intention to fix the wedding day the week before, and thus bring to a close his forty years of bachelorhood; but he had put it off; under the circumstances he was uncertain how to act. the cause of the disquiet was the pecuniary demands of george early, who had developed a habit of borrowing that had become alarming. the first half-crown had lengthened into five shillings, which in turn became ten; the previous day had seen a rise to a sovereign. parrott had remonstrated, but remonstrance was lost upon the imperturbable george, who remarked that it was only out of kindness he had been persuaded to cut the sum so low. he said that he hoped the small loan would not be refused, as it would give him pain to have to report the matter to the lawyers, who evidently wanted rousing up. he then pointed out to parrott that he was really doing him a service, by helping him to break his beastly habit of meanness. "i could get him the sack," thought the head clerk. "that would be one way to get rid of him." he strangled the idea a moment afterwards. george early out of work would be an even greater danger. he thought out various plans of bribery, intimidation, kidnapping, and even garrotting, but none of these suggested a possible solution. in the midst of his meditations the front-door bell rang. "that's lucy," said the head clerk, rising and smoothing down his hair before the glass. "i mustn't say anything to-night. it'll have to be postponed till i can be sure the money is my own." he brushed a speck off his well-preserved dress-suit and flicked over his shoes. then he stirred the fire and went to meet his _fiancée_. as he opened the door a well-known voice caught his ear. it was not lucy's; it was a man's voice. he knew it well; it was george early's voice. "damn him!" said parrott, savagely. "what the deuce does he want now? i'll wring his neck if he tries to borrow more money already!" george was speaking most affably to mrs. carey. "i'll just tell mr. parrott that you're here," said the fussy old lady. "thank you," said george; "and i'll come with you. it's most fortunate that he's at home. i know he wouldn't like to have missed me." the head clerk looked around him frantically. there was no escape; he was caught like a rat in a trap. he felt that he would sooner have brained the relentless george than lend him a single sixpence. he rushed to the window; it was too high to jump from, and already george was on the landing. a sudden idea struck him, and he picked up his patent boots and dived into the great clothes-cupboard that opened into the sitting-room. mrs. carey knocked and entered, followed by george. "a gentleman to see----" the landlady stopped and looked round. "not here?" said george. "well, now," said mrs. carey, "bless my soul, i could have bet a penny-piece i heard the poker rattle five minutes ago!" "i heard a rattling noise," said george. in the minute or two that mrs. carey occupied in ascending a further flight of stairs to the bedroom parrott debated whether he should spring out and throttle his enemy or await events. at any rate, george must go when he found the man he wanted was not at home. he decided to stay awhile in the cupboard. mrs. carey returned from a fruitless search. she thought her lodger must have run out to post a letter. "i'll wait a bit," said george. he placed his silk hat carefully on the side table, and took a seat in the armchair vacated by the head clerk. parrott fumed as he took note of george early's dress through a crack of the door. his patent boots were new, and he wore an expensive tie; sprays of flowers worked in silk adorned his waistcoat; his gloves were a fashionable grey, and on the little finger of his left hand a ring glittered. these articles of dress were not lost upon mrs. carey, who took advantage of george's affability to stand a moment and comment on the weather. their pleasant chat was interrupted by another ring at the front-door bell. "hang it!" muttered the wretched parrott. "that's lucy, and i can't get out of this beastly hole!" instead of mrs. carey descending to show up the young lady, she allowed susan, the maid-of-all-work, to do that service, and explained to miss perkins the reason of her presence with the gentleman visitor. miss perkins thought it funny that mr. parrott should not be there to meet her, and by the toss of her head george guessed that she was not a little piqued. mrs. carey left them together till the return of the absent _fiancé_. miss perkins was a milliner by trade, but not in trade at present. fortune had smiled upon her mamma a year previously to the tune of two thousand pounds, and with this comfortable sum mrs. perkins lived in a villa at paddington until such time as thomas parrott should rob her of her child. both mother and daughter considered the match a desirable one, though they would have liked to know with more certainty the extent of the head clerk's fortune. "do you find it very warm here?" said george, making himself agreeable. "let me open the window just a little." "it might be cooler," said miss perkins, dabbing her face with a handkerchief. "that's the worst of these old houses," said the young man, magnificently; "they're so pokey. the rooms are like rabbit hutches." "give me kensington for a decent house," said miss perkins, trying to look as though she lived there. "or bayswater," said george. "i couldn't bear to live in a part like this," said miss perkins. "i always did 'ate 'ammersmith." from unhealthy houses they drifted into more personal topics, and george told miss perkins that he was a member of the firm of fairbrothers. they discussed the ornaments and the furniture, examined the pictures, and laughed together at the family likenesses. and to all appearances they didn't seem to mind much if parrott came back or not. then, for decency's sake, george said, "he's a long time posting that letter," to which miss perkins agreed without appearing to be much disturbed. and while they were both chattering and laughing mrs. carey came up and vowed upon her life that the lamb chops would be ruined. there was tomato sauce too, and a pudding, specially prepared to the order of the head clerk. it was a shame to have it spoilt, mrs. carey said, and both miss perkins and george early agreed. unfortunately, thomas parrott had left lying on the side table an invitation to dinner that he had declined the day before. george pounced upon it and read it out. "that's where he's gone," said miss perkins, viciously. "it's a shame," cried mrs. carey. "i'm surprised," said george, "that any man should so far forget himself as to leave a lady in this awkward position. if it wasn't that i'm a stranger here i should feel inclined to ask mrs. carey to allow me to do the honour of----" he hesitated and looked at miss perkins, who began to toy with a salt-spoon. "of course," said mrs. carey, accepting the situation graciously, though a little uneasily. "if mr. parrott wouldn't mind, i'm sure i---- it does seem a pity to have the dinner wasted." "it would be a sin," said george. he looked at his watch and began to brush his hat, and perform those little preparations that preface departure, maintaining in the mean time an indifference likely to settle quickly the doubts of mrs. carey. "i'll bring it up," said the landlady, suddenly opening the door. "don't go till you've had a bit of dinner, sir. i'll explain it to mr. parrott." mrs. carey bustled downstairs, and george and miss perkins prepared themselves for a pleasant evening. the dinner was an immense success. the only thing that saved it from disaster was the horror that parrott had of bringing ridicule upon himself. but for this the irate prisoner would have burst the door of his prison-house and brought confusion on the diners. george filled miss perkins' glass and his own to the brim. he had discovered a full bottle of claret in the cupboard, and brought it out in honour of the lady. together they emptied the bottle, and enjoyed it; the lamb chops disappeared, and mrs. carey's puddings followed them, and throughout the evening they seasoned each course with a natural good humour. george was in the best of spirits. he praised the cooking, compared the sparkling wine to miss perkins' eyes, and attacked the food with a relish that only comes to a man when he is feasting at another man's expense. "you may smoke," said miss perkins, graciously, settling herself in an armchair. george did so, borrowing for the time one of the head clerk's cigars, with the permission of that gentleman's _fiancée_. the sight of his beloved on one side of the fire and his enemy on the other was too much for parrott. already his cramped position had exhausted him, he began to scheme for some means of escape. george now shifted his position, so as to put his back to the light, at the same time putting his back to the cupboard. if only lucy would do the same, he might slip out and down the stairs, the cupboard being near the door. the next moment she did so, and, quick as lightning, parrott opened the door noiselessly, and put one foot out. unfortunately for him, george was standing before the looking-glass, and this movement caught his eye. in the excitement of the moment he dropped the china dog he was examining, which so startled miss perkins that parrott was forced to draw back for fear of being observed. george gathered up the pieces, and began to laugh. the idea of parrott being in the cupboard while the lamb chops were being eaten was too good to be passed over lightly, it gave a new zest to the entertainment. "what are you laughing at?" asked miss perkins, still suffering from the shock. george laughed louder. "i was thinking," he said, "how your _fiancé_ will laugh when he comes home and asks for the lamb chops for supper, and finds they're eaten." this tickled miss perkins immensely, and she and george laughed again in unison. "serve him right," said miss perkins. "what does it matter?" said george, throwing away his cigar, and taking a fresh one. "what does what matter?" asked miss perkins. "about the chops, when he's got you." to this embarrassing question miss perkins vouchsafed no reply, merely adopting an air of superiority, and tapping the toes of her shoes together. "if i were in his position," said george, loud enough for the man in the cupboard to hear, "i'd get married to-morrow." miss perkins blushed, and laughed. "you wouldn't be so silly," she said. "anyhow, i'd marry you at once," said george, "just to make sure"--slowly--"that i didn't lose you." miss perkins, who was now in an excellent temper, changed the conversation by wondering what time mr. parrott would return. "he'd be back sharp enough if he knew you were here," said george. "with you," added miss perkins, with pretty wit. this made them both laugh. "i wonder what he'd think if he'd been hidden away here all the time," said george, audaciously. miss perkins turned pale, and looked round the room. "it's all right," said george; "it's only my fun." the little milliner tossed her head. "i shouldn't care," she said defiantly. "i don't believe you would," said george, with admiring eyes. "but i know what you would say. you'd just say this." he leaned forward, and whispered. miss perkins shrieked with laughter, and george's loud guffaw shook the ornaments. it was as much as parrott could do to keep his feelings under control. even now he had notions of dashing from his hiding-place. early would go too far one of these times; he was doing this purposely. "i say," said george, suddenly, "when is the wedding coming off? i suppose you've got the house all ready." "not quite," said miss perkins, with some reticence. "oh," said george, "i thought it would be all right, seeing that his luck at the office had changed." miss perkins pricked up her ears. "you know all about that, of course," said george, warming up to the subject, and watching the door of the cupboard out of the tail of his eye. "no," said miss perkins astonished, "what was that?" "why, you see," said george, "it was this way." he paused to relight his cigar, and carefully noted the brawny fist that came slowly out of the cupboard and shook in his direction. "when old fairbrother died----" began george. the cupboard door creaked. miss perkins heard it, but was too excited to take any notice. george began again. "when old fairbrother died, he left----" an audible rustling now came from the cupboard. "what's that?" said miss perkins. "i heard something." "so did i," said george. "whatever can it be?" "perhaps it's a cat," ventured miss perkins. "sounded just like a cat to me," said george. miss perkins lifted up a corner of the tablecloth, and knelt on the floor to peer under the table. george lifted up another corner, and knelt beside her. together they looked underneath, and all that parrott heard were muffled voices and a little giggle from his _fiancée_. when they both rose, very red in the face, miss perkins cried "oh!" and it was then seen that george's watch chain had become entangled in the lace of her sleeve. when miss perkins tried to undo it her head came very near to george early's, and parrott gnashed his teeth. only the thoughts of absolute disgrace kept him in his narrow cell. "what a good thing he isn't here to see this!" breathed george. "it was your fault," said miss perkins, stifling a laugh; "your----" "listen," said george. "i heard it again." they listened, but there was no sound. "perhaps it's under the table, after all," said the young man artfully. "i only looked in one corner." the brawny fist again appeared from the cupboard door. "i think i'll go now," said miss perkins, apparently aware at last that a flirtation was in progress, and that the landlady had ears. "if there is anybody concealed here," said george, lifting up a corner of the tablecloth again, "i pity him when mr. parrott comes in. if there's one thing that he can't bear, it's deception of any sort. goodness knows what he'd do to anybody who deceived him! i believe he'd kill him." miss perkins put on her hat in silence, and with some haste. if her lover came in, matters might be awkward. "you are going to paddington, i think," said george; "we'd better have a cab." "no, thank you," said the little milliner, doubtful how to act; "i'm not quite sure if thomas would like it." "ah," said george, with a catch in his voice, "you don't know him as well as i do. it's the very thing he'd suggest. we're just like brothers, the two of us; we lend each other money, wear each other's clothes, go to each other's houses, and do everything we can for each other. if he wanted my girl, i----" "what!" said miss perkins, sharply. "if he wanted anything--anything----" said george. "you said a girl," said miss perkins. "ah, i only said 'if'!" replied george, "but you may be sure that if he were here now, he'd say, 'george, my old friend, take lucy home in a cab. you're my comrade, and i'd trust you anywhere.'" miss perkins said no more, but led the way downstairs, and as george followed, he heard the door of the cupboard creak, and knew that the prisoner was at last free. an hour later he returned, and inquired for the head clerk again. "i don't think he's in yet," said the landlady; "i haven't heard him." "i think you'll find he's in," said george. mrs. carey found the head clerk in, much to her astonishment, and ushered george up, after having hastily explained the lamb-chop incident. "hallo, old man!" said george, closing the door carefully, and choosing an armchair. "hard luck for you being shut up there, wasn't it?" parrott rose slowly, and deliberately took off his coat. "now," he said, facing his junior, "what have you got to say about it?" george early lit a cigarette, threw the match away, and then looked up. "what i have got to say," he said slowly, leaning forward, and looking the head clerk in the eyes, "is that if you don't put on that coat at once and sit down, i'll--i'll borrow ten pounds!" "what!" said parrott, in a hoarse whisper. "i mean it," said george. chapter vii--_an erring husband improves against his will_ george early certainly showed some shrewdness when he took up his position as secretary to miss fairbrother, for his address and appearance underwent a process of swift renovation. he brushed his hair very nicely, shaved every morning, and attuned his voice to the ear that was to receive its melody during business hours. miss fairbrother approved of george; he was neither uncouth nor dense like a good many other men who are clerks. he knew just when to be formal, and when his business features might relax into a smile. nothing embarrassed him. he took over the little problems of the big office and smoothed them out comfortably--not by himself, but by the help of other men downstairs. when something puzzled miss fairbrother, as most business affairs did, george immediately cleared the air by affirming that gray or busby or parrott could explain it, and to gray or busby or parrott george went. letters, orders, bills, complaints, came up daily to the desk of the fair employer, laying the foundation of many a thin line on the white brow; letter, order, bill, and complaint were picked up and laid down by turns, jumbled, mixed, and sighed over. then the little bell would tinkle, and from his office adjoining in would come george, bright-eyed, confident, and submissive. could he understand to what this letter referred? miss fairbrother didn't remember the matter. this complaint about stoves. who was responsible for the delay, and was it usual to allow discount in this other case, as the customer asserted? george didn't know; but if you think that george was fool enough ever to admit it, you have quite mistaken his character. george would attend to all these matters, and see that everything was put right. he did so too, and took upon himself a good deal of authority downstairs, which was his peculiar way. "a man might rise to a good position here," he said to himself, flicking a speck off his fancy waistcoat. "there is nothing going downstairs; it's up here where the salary is, and the good jobs and all the rest of it. besides, feminine society is much more in my line. women are so much more easy to manage--in business. who knows, some day i may be giving a rise to others: you never---- come in!" "gentleman to see miss fairbrother." a large man of the country builder type tramped in. "you want," said george, with the air of one about to confer a favour, "to see miss fairbrother?" "that's it, m'lad. shall i go in?" "if you will be so kind as to sit down," said george, with affability, "i will find out if the lady can see you. our busiest time this; four people inside now." "i know, i know, my lad. i have been dealing here this thirty year." "really?" said george. "yes," said the builder. "i knew your missis when she was a little 'un, two year old. they tell me she's grown a fine lass." "she has," said george. he went inside. miss fairbrother was engaged in the unbusinesslike occupation of looking over a pile of draper's patterns. "a gentleman to see me? joseph brown,--i don't know the name. what does he want?" "wants to gossip and give a small order, i should say," said george. "i suppose you may send him in," said miss fairbrother, abstractedly, feasting her eyes upon a square figured watered silk. "is he a nice man?" "harmless," said george; "but probably a talker. he's been dealing here thirty years. old acquaintance, he says." "oh!" said miss fairbrother, looking up, "what else did he say?" the ghost of a smile lit up george's face. "said he knew you when you were--so high." he gave a guess at the height of a two-year-old girl. against her will, miss fairbrother's face flushed. she looked doubtfully at the door, then at the patterns, and said-- "please say i'm very busy. perhaps you can settle the matter yourself; i really am busy, you know," and she pulled a fresh box of patterns from under the desk, and spread them out before her. after some trouble george convinced joseph brown that the four customers inside would occupy miss fairbrother's attention for at least two hours, and advised him to call again. miss fairbrother spent the rest of the day in poring over the pages of fashion-books, leaving george to wrestle with the problems of the firm in the shape of business correspondence. "lucky thing she's got a good business staff," mused george. "the old man knew what he was doing when he tied those three beggars to the firm with five hundred pounds each. not but what he might have found better men--myself, for instance. however, i mustn't grumble." george did not grumble; on the contrary, his good humour was inexhaustible, and his temper as even as a man's temper could be, considering that he held a position of responsibility. he worked now much more than he had ever worked before; but it may safely be assumed that he was not doing it for the fun of the thing; that there was money in it, or that he did it with a purpose; in other words, that he knew what he was about. so far as the legatees were concerned, miss fairbrother's secretary did not see fit to relax his vigilance. perhaps he felt that the apathy of "old joe's" lawyers made it necessary in the interests of justice that a private person should take up the case, or perhaps he found it useful to have the men under his thumb; whatever his reasons were it is certain that his eyes were as watchful as ever, and equally certain that his victims strongly disapproved of his attention. "it's my duty," he said to gray, when that gentleman brutally asked how long he intended to intrude upon his home comforts. "hang your duty!" said gray; "we don't want you." "i'm a good lodger," said george; "ask your wife if i don't give complete satisfaction. she hasn't grumbled, that i'm aware of. you know you've always wanted a lodger, and now you've got one you're not satisfied." gray was certainly a long way from being satisfied. since the advent of george early his home had become as sanctimonious as an a.b.c. shop. he was obliged to conduct himself according to the creed of the new lodger, who held over his head the grim sword of exposure. he came home early when george willed it, and attended to his duties as secretary of the old friends' society when george saw fit to grant him an evening off. mrs. gray was just as pleasant with the new lodger as her husband was annoyed with him. gray had had a partiality for scotch whisky that had at times left much in his character to be desired as a husband. his wife confided this much to george, who promised to lead the erring husband from his wicked ways. he was as good as his word, and in due course the whisky bottle disappeared. other bad habits of gray's also were toned down considerably, and james gray's wife was not slow to show her appreciation by holding up george early as a model young man, and an excellent lodger. "my time will come," said gray, savagely, to george; "and when it does i shan't forget you." "i hope not," said george, "i've been more than a brother to you." elated by the growing fortunes of the family, and the reformation of her husband, mrs. gray proceeded to lay out the extra cash that flowed into the family coffers in new strips of oil-cloth and art muslin. in her pursuit of these useful articles she kept a watchful eye on the local drapers' sales, and joined the mad rush that followed the opening doors on the first day. fancy curtains of weird colours greeted the eyes of her husband in all parts of the house, and odd forgotten corners sprang into new life under a mantle of carpet remnants. george early's bedroom was not neglected, and, in order to show her gratitude for the good he had done, mrs. gray determined to surprise him by gracing that virtuous apartment with a brand new bookshelf, on which the dozen odd volumes of his leisure might repose with dignity. with this object in view, she started out one morning to stratford, hugging a catalogue wherein it was stated that among other things "bookshelves of artistic design" were to be "absolutely thrown away." in due course mrs. gray reached the scene of battle, and joined the great throng of combatants all eager for the fray. it was a mighty crowd, but mrs. gray, who knew something of stratford and its inhabitants, was convinced that the five-shilling mantles, skirts, and blouses would engage their attention before books and bookshelves. her reckoning, wise as it may seem, was somewhat out; as she discovered when, hot and panting, she reached the bookshelf counter. they had sold like hot cakes. one solitary bookshelf, abashed at its loneliness, and still bearing the glaring red sale ticket, reposed on the long counter. "bookshelves," gasped mrs. gray to the nearest assistant. "here you are, ma'am, the last one." "oh! haven't you any others?" the crowd surged, and it was only by an effort that little mrs. gray got back to the counter. "bookshelves," she gasped again to the perspiring draper. "last one, better have it while you can," said the man. "oh, well, i----" "how much is this bookshelf?" said a voice. mrs. gray's hand grasped it convulsively. "this is sold," she cried; "i've bought it." "i beg pardon, ma'am, i didn't hear you say----" "i spoke first," said the other lady, laying a hand on the bookshelf; "you've no right----" "excuse me----" "it's no use talking, i----" "but i was here first, before you ever----" "take the money, please, one and----" "do nothing of the sort. i've already bought----" "now ladies, ladies, ladies!" cried the assistant. "but you know----" began mrs. gray indignantly to the man. "how ridiculous! you heard me say i'd have it. why----" "you didn't!" "i did." "but i was here long----" "mind your heads!" screamed a porter, forcing his way through. "here you are!" cried the assistant; "here's another one, so you'll both be satisfied." mrs. gray surged out triumphantly with her bookcase, her rival following with the duplicate. together they stood on the kerbstone waiting for the leytonstone tram. mrs. gray was a good-tempered little body, and now that she had got what she wanted she was pleased to be gracious; so when she caught her rival's eye a smile crept about her lips, which brought forth an answering smile, showing that the temper of each was but short, and that no malice was borne. they got on the same tram, and mrs. gray at once held out the olive branch. "i hope you didn't think me very rude," she said; "but i did so want this for a very special purpose, that i could have done anything rather than go without." "so could i," said the other eagerly; "you must have thought me rude, too, but i was mad to get it." "really? oh, i didn't think you rude. i'm sure i----" "oh, but think how i screamed. you were not so rude as----" "i screamed too. aren't they nice?" "lovely!" harmless chatter and apologies filled the journey, and the friendship was strengthened by both getting out at the same point. "do come in and have a cup of tea," said mrs. gray; "have you time?" the other had heaps of time. "but i hardly like to after my rudeness," she said. "you mean my rudeness," said mrs. gray, poking the key in the front door. by the time that the tea was ready each knew a great deal of the family history of the other, and the bookshelves again came under discussion. "i've so wanted to get a bookshelf," said mrs. gray. "you know, i've a lodger who's such a clever man, and so steady, that i thought he would appreciate this more than anything else." "really? well, my husband's very studious; he loves books, and there's nothing he likes so much as a bookshelf, unless it's a book. he doesn't know i'm buying this; it's to be a surprise." "so is mine." "he will be glad. you'd never believe how fond he is of books. he spends all his spare hours in the free library; that will show you how studious he is. while i'm staying down here with mother, he keeps in our house all alone because it's near the library; while if he came down here he would lose an hour away from his books." when they finally parted mrs. busby extracted a promise from mrs. gray to take tea with her on the following day, and mrs. gray declared it would give her the greatest pleasure to do so. fervent kisses and exclamations of surprise at what the respective husbands would think closed the interview. the respective husbands heard about the meeting in due course; gray from his wife, and busby from george early. on the occasion of his imparting this information george took the opportunity to borrow a few pounds from busby, which the cashier lent with some reluctance. on the same day mrs. busby received a wire recalling her to clapham. chapter viii--_george early holds fortune in his arms_ the constant surveillance of the irrepressible george was beginning to tell upon gray. the golden dreams inspired by the possession of five hundred pounds a year were slowly fading, and he began to look back with some relish to the days when he could cheerfully call for a whisky-and-soda. what was the use of this wealth without the means of enjoying it? certainly he might hoard it up for a year or two, then cast off the yoke. but could he live through the trial? besides, the blackmailer must have his due, which considerably diminished the sum. gray firmly believed that george had taken infinite pains to worry him, instead of apportioning his vigilance equally among the three legatees. why couldn't he go and live with busby or parrott? gray could only suppose that these schemers had outwitted the wily george, and it made him mad to feel that he couldn't do the same. busby especially irritated gray, for lately he had put on airs till his manner became overbearing. "if i could only discover what he's being paid to keep off, i'd make it warm for him," thought gray, savagely. he pondered over the various drawbacks he had noticed in busby previous to old joe's death, but couldn't call to mind any special vice among them. "he was always a mean-spirited cuss altogether," he thought. "i suppose he's getting the money to take a sunday school class and sing hymns." gray sounded george on the subject, but met with a cool reception. "you know my principles," said george. "do you suppose i'd tell another man's secrets?" "no, of course not," said gray. "you wouldn't do anything wrong; you're such a good young man." george smiled at this subtle flattery. "i'd like to have a go at that hound," gray said with emphasis. "he's been putting on airs a bit too much lately, and as you don't seem to be able to keep him under, you might hand over the responsibility to somebody else." "i might," said george; "but it wouldn't be right. you ought not to ask me such a thing." "of course i ought not. i'd give a sovereign to know, all the same." this tempting offer was lost upon the secretary, who busied himself with his work. "i believe i'd venture two," said gray, "just to get a smack at him. what do you say to that?" "it'd be worth it," said george. "well, jot it down," said gray, "and i'll hand you the cash. you needn't be afraid of my giving the game away to any one else." "i wonder you can ask me to do such a thing for a paltry two pounds," said george. "now, if you'd offered five----" "i'll see you hanged before you get a fiver out of me," said gray, rudely. seeing, however, that george was indifferent as to whether he spoke or not, he presently ventured to offer him three pounds, and finally grudgingly promised five. the secretary showed no inclination to impart the secret until the money was produced, and even then was loath to speak. "it's a mean action," he said, fingering the note lovingly. "i'm not sure that i ought to tell." "you're sure enough of the money, anyway," gray pointed out. "i'll do it for you!" said george, pocketing the money suddenly. "you're not a bad sort, gray. and i know that you won't try to make money out of it, because that would be robbing me of my little bit. between ourselves, i must say that there's not another man in the building i'd do a good turn to so willingly as you. you're a man, gray, that a fellow can depend on, and i'll always stick up for you, come what may. i like you because you are honest and----" "hang the honesty, and stop that rot!" said gray. "tell me what i've paid for." george held up his hand, then tiptoed to the door of miss fairbrother's room. having satisfied himself that there were no listeners, he drew gray out on the staircase, closing the door behind them. when gray returned to his seat in the lower office it was with the consciousness that he had paid a big price for a very small secret. he looked over at busby, sitting complacently at his work, and mused on the garrulity of old age that had led joseph fairbrother to try to reform such a man. "there's something solid about my failing," he thought. "drink has ruined many men, and it's worth all the money i get to keep off it. but to allow five hundred pounds a year to a person like busby for not swearing gets over me. why, a man like that would be afraid to swear. it's a waste of money." so potent is the spirit of vengeance that gray could not wait for an opportunity, but must needs force his new-found knowledge upon the unsuspecting busby. avoiding his lodger at the hour of closing, gray followed his new enemy homewards. there was a sprightliness in the foot of busby as he tripped nimbly along on the greasy pavement, and a stubbornness in that of gray as he followed. fortune favoured the man from leytonstone before the couple had gone the whole length of the street. busby placed his heel upon some slippery substance, and cleaved at the air with his hands. he regained his balance and uttered a most emphatic "damn!" a second later he was looking into the stern, relentless eye of james gray. "i was nearly over," said busby, easily, recognizing his colleague. "those fools who throw orange-peel on the pavement ought to be prosecuted. mind you don't step on it." gray said nothing, but kept a piercing eye on the face of the cashier. "do you want me?" said busby, "or are you coming my way? don't stand there looking like that." gray took busby's arm in a vice-like grip. "i heard it," he said, solemnly. "heard it?" said busby. "i was close behind," said gray. "you didn't know it, but i was there." busby misunderstood. "i wish you'd been in front," he said, "then perhaps you'd have found the orange-peel first. i was as near as a touch going over. when you've quite done with my arm i'll have it for personal use." "don't try to fool me," said gray, sternly, without relaxing his hold. "i know what i heard, and you know what i heard." busby's temper now began to get out of hand. "i don't know what you heard," he said, "but i know that you're making a juggins of yourself. leave go my arm!" gray complied. "now, what do you want?" asked busby, offensively. gray lifted one finger dramatically, without appearing to notice the last remark. "i give you warning," he said, in a sepulchral voice. "beware!" busby began to laugh. "there's something wrong with you, jimmy; you'd better see a doctor. come and have a whisky." "no," shouted gray. "i refuse to have your whisky." "oh, all right," said busby. "i won't force it on you. you used not to want asking twice; but i've noticed you've been off it a bit lately." gray winced visibly under this remark, and proceeded to turn the conversation. he drew nearer to busby, and whispered hoarsely-- "i've warned you once, but the next time i may tell. be careful, and remember that gray is the man who knows." with this melodramatic exclamation, he turned and disappeared up a side alley with appropriate mystery. busby stood looking after him, quite at a loss to understand. "the man who knows? what the dickens is he talking about?" being satisfied that gray was either drunk or labouring under a delusion, he continued his walk towards fleet street. gray went home alone that evening, the wounds of the past weeks soothed by this new ointment of retaliation. at the tea-table sat his loving wife, charming as only a woman can be with news on the tip of her tongue. "hallo!" said gray, who saw that something had happened. "you've had some money left you." mrs. gray opened her mouth, perplexed. "you've found a purse," said her husband, "with three pounds in it, a lock of hair, and some love-letters." "jim!" "you haven't? then somebody's given you a valuable recipe for the complexion, or is it a new hair-wash?" "what's the matter with you?" "i know," said gray. "you've got another lodger. if that isn't right, i give it up." "i don't know what you're talking about," said mrs. gray; "but it's most ridiculous, whatever it is. i had something to tell you; but if you don't want to listen, why, of course, it doesn't matter." "it does matter," said gray. "i've been trying to guess." this was not quite what mrs. gray expected, for who among us likes to be read? news, to be news, must burst like a thunder-clap, especially if it isn't very interesting. seeing that she had been anticipated, the little woman was not anxious to talk; but, seeing that to hold what she had intended to divulge would have been more worrying than to tell it, she poured out the story of her meeting with mrs. busby, the family gossip, and, lastly, the legacy left by mr. fairbrother. "it's a shame!" she cried hotly. "you ought to have got a legacy, too, jim; you're as good as mr. busby, i'm sure! why shouldn't you get a legacy for studying books?" "i may get one yet," said the uncomfortable jim, affecting to pass it over lightly. "these things often take a long time in the lawyers' hands. i dare say i shall get one later on." inwardly he was smarting from a fresh wound, which he managed to calm by a great effort. george early had got the better of him again! he had made a fool of him, and charged five pounds for it. he waited for george to come home. it so happened that he was doomed to disappointment, for some hours at least. george, with the five pounds chinking in his pocket, had decided to take an evening off, after the cares of a business day in the city, and was at the very moment that gray awaited him partaking of a comfortable seven-course dinner in no less luxurious a place than the café royal. it was evident, too, from the negligent manner in which he ordered a coffee and benedictine, that he had no intention of hurrying home. gray had therefore ample time in which to think out his plan of argument. * * * * * no sign of impending trouble was visible on the face of george as he emerged leisurely from the gaily lighted restaurant, and stood in contemplation for awhile on the pavement, enjoying his havana. the fingers of his right hand were in his pocket, toying with the ample balance of gray's fiver, and his train of thought, instead of leading him, as might have been quite natural, to dwell on the ingenuousness of his landlord, turned to the usefulness of money as an aid to the enjoyment of life. george early was not so young as to have never thought of this before; but who can help ruminating on the advantages of wealth amid the luxuriousness of regent street? on one side a jeweller's, heavy with gems, flashes its wealth insultingly upon passers-by; next door, a furrier calmly displays a two-hundred guinea wrap; lower down, half a dozen shops are surmounted by the royal arms, and only by turning into a side street can one realize the significance of any coin under a sovereign. in regent street, every other vehicle bears the stamp of wealth, with its spotless coachmen, and horses better groomed than half the men in the city. languid young lords stroll by arm in arm, displaying a dazzling amount of shirt-front; elaborately coiffured ladies, fresh from some park lane boudoir, trip across the pavement, and dive into gorgeous restaurants. now and again a son of toil passes, but his poverty is swamped by the surrounding glitter. george looked on at this everyday scene with a comfortable feeling that for the time being he was one of the _élite_. he eyed the dress-suits with the air of a connoisseur, and approved of the toilette of every pretty woman that passed. among his other fancies, george had a keen eye for a good figure and trim ankles, and it must be put down to his good taste in frocks and frills that he narrowly observed one young lady in particular, who stood for quite five minutes on the edge of the kerb without appearing to have made up her mind what to do next. when a man is attracted by a feminine figure that presents a graceful and pleasing back view, he comes in time to speculate upon the looks of the owner, and, if the back view is accorded long enough, to have a natural desire to see if good looks or the reverse are her portion. this is precisely how george felt; but as the figure continued to stand on the edge of the kerb, he was forced to stroll up the street to satisfy his curiosity. as he did so, the lady made up her mind suddenly, and crossed the road at the same time as two hansom cabs came along in opposite directions. to an observer like george the moment for crossing was obviously ill-timed. the lady hesitated, went forward, then started back. the drivers yelled, the horses slid, the lady screamed, and george dashed forward--just in time to drag her out of danger. in less than two minutes a crowd had gathered, and george, much to his own amazement, was handing the lady into a hansom cab, and, what is more, getting in beside her. for the lady was miss fairbrother, head of the old-established firm of fairbrother and co., and employer of george himself. it was all so odd and strange and sudden, george couldn't believe it. even when he assisted her out and up the steps of the fairbrother mansion; even when he paid the cab-man, and walked away, and found that he was really in kensington, it didn't seem real. he had a faint remembrance of hearing her say "thank you, mr. early," and of his having explained the occurrence to the butler; but it was all hazy and incomprehensible. the night was still young when george again set foot in piccadilly. he had seen fit to walk all the way back, it suited his frame of mind. from dreaming of the odd chance that should throw him into miss fairbrother's arms, or her into his, he had come to recalling the plain facts of the adventure, incident by incident, more minutely each time, till he stood still, metaphorically, in the middle of regent street, with one arm round the slender waist of his employer. george was conscious now that it was a very slender waist, although he hadn't been aware of it at the time. he recollected, too, many other details that he had observed imperfectly in the rush of events. her head had dropped on his shoulder, and one fair hand had clutched convulsively at his coat. he could see the red lips, the soft cheeks, the dimpled chin, the brown hair, close to his own. she wore an elaborate straw-hat creation that had grazed his forehead, the spot glowed even now as he recalled it. but what he chiefly realized now was that delicious sense of pleasure he had had in holding her in his arms for two seconds, a feeling that the exigencies of the moment had strongly necessitated his suppressing. his present leisure calling for no such harsh measure, he was at liberty to halt, in his fancy, and gaze, in his fancy, at the red lips and dimples of miss ellen fairbrother. in his present mood, and with his present faculty for handling the subject, he could have gone on from regent street to brunswick terrace, backwards and forwards, for the rest of the evening, halting each time for a considerable period in the middle of regent street, with cabs behind and before, and miss fairbrother's head on his shoulder. he could have gone on doing this, and have asked for no other amusement, if the bustling activity of piccadilly had not led his mind away from the subject. the real truth is that george woke up from his dream in a most unpleasant fashion. in plain words, something descended very heavily on george's right foot. to recount all that george said, and the uncomplimentary remarks he made on the other man's want of grace, together with the personal allusions to his figure, and what he would have done to himself if he had had such feet, would not be fitting in a respectable book like this. such detail is also quite irrelevant. what has to be recorded is that in one of the intervals of vituperation the other man said suddenly-- "george!" a look of astonishment appeared on the face of george early, and in a moment his resentment fled. he said, "well, i'm hanged!" and laughed. the man he was consigning to other regions was busby. under the circumstances, there was nothing to do but retire to the nearest hostelry, and endeavour, by means of the flowing bowl, to re-establish amicable relations. this was done without demur on the part of either combatant; in fact, the fracture seemed likely to be the means of making a strong friendship out of what had been at best a mere business acquaintance. george toasted "his friend busby," and paid for the drinks, whereupon busby toasted "his pal george," and called for more. at the third round, busby, feeling that some explanation of his presence in that part was necessary, confided to george that he was on his way to a smoking concert, a confession that prompted george to give some information regarding himself, which he did with due caution, especially that part relating to the five-pound note. "he's a sly dog, gray," said busby; "i'll bet you had a tough job to get a fiver out of him." george agreed. "i couldn't be close like that, early, old chap. you know that what i give i give freely. i don't blame any man for making a bit when he gets the chance. it's nothing to me to tip you a sovereign out of a little windfall like that." "of course it isn't," said george, "nor two for that matter." "no, nor two, you know well enough that i wouldn't make the slightest bother. but gray, he's that close----" "close!" said george; "he worships it. he keeps every farthing." "i couldn't be mean like that. it's a pity that he hasn't got a few more to tackle him harder than you do." "so it is," said george. "he ought to have me!" said busby. "why, if i knew--but, of course, it's no business of mine. it would be a spree to get at him. it'd be a picnic to let him see that i knew all about it. he'd have a fit." the thought of gray writhing under the knowledge that a second man possessed his secret pleased busby immensely, and his merriment only subsided on his observing that george was not enjoying the joke. "don't you be afraid, old chap," he said. "i wouldn't ask you to tell anything that you didn't want to." "i know you wouldn't," said george. "you're not that sort." but the idea having entered into the head of busby was not easy to get rid of. perhaps, in spite of his unwillingness to draw secrets from his friend george, he had some idea of doing so when he invited that young gentleman to turn his steps towards the smoking concert, and be passed in as a friend. from what we have seen of george early, it seems doubtful that he could be easily led into imparting knowledge that was of sterling value to himself, while he kept it to himself; but one can never tell what a man will do for friendship's sake when under the influence of alcoholic liquor. george early and busby went to the concert, and encored the choruses with great gusto. at intervals they had refreshments, and in due course made their way to charing cross in a very friendly spirit. probably george had imbibed as freely as busby, but to all appearances the cashier had surrendered himself unreservedly to the strength of what he had taken. in this mood he was inclined to refer to the subject of gray's legacy, which he did at intervals, and at which times george, with his usual skill, let his own tongue run loose within bounds. "you're a close dog," said busby, at length, "nearly as close as gray himself." "what!" said george in astonishment. "you wouldn't have me tell----" "tell, be hanged!" said busby. "he deserves it, doesn't he? isn't he an outsider? doesn't everybody know he is? why, i'd tell anything about a man like that. everybody knows he's a mean----" "ssh!" said george, looking behind him. "don't shout; somebody'll hear you." "what does it marrer? let 'em hear. everybody knows he's mean." "ssh!" said george again. "ssh! yourself," said busby, giving him a playful punch. "let 'em hear, i say. what does it marrer? what does----" he stopped suddenly, and caught george by the arm. they looked each other steadily in the eye, and then busby burst into a wild, silly laugh. "it's no good, georgie. it's no good, old man. you've done it--you've given him away. you've fairly given him away; now, haven't you? that's the secret--i've got it!" george walked sullenly on without replying, until busby persuasively urged him not to take it to heart. "you're too clever for me," said george. "never mind, old man, i won't cut you out if i can help it." "look here," said george, putting on his most serious air; "don't you go borrowing all his loose cash just because he's obliged to lend it. that won't be fair, you know. you must give me a chance." busby magnanimously promised that george should not be made to suffer more than he could help. elated with his success in one direction, he next began to hazard a guess at the prominent vice of parrott, which resulted in george's imploring him to "draw it mild" for the sake of friendship. but, being started, it was no easy matter to stop a man like busby. the only course for george early to take was to dexterously swap the vices of parrott and gray, which he did with great success. when busby hit upon the drink question, george was seized with a trembling fit, and busby laughed again in triumph. "i told you you were too clever for me," said george. "all i hope is that you won't over-do it." busby hilariously swore at his two absent confreres, and vowed to "tickle them up a bit," just to pay off old scores. having embraced his friend, he rolled into a cab, and trundled off to the suburbs. "he's too clever for me," said george, facetiously, with a smile, as the cab rolled off--"they all are. but i dare say i shall pull through. now for a small select hotel, and bed." instead of seeking the small hotel straight away, he stood for a full five minutes gazing absently across trafalgar square. busby and the smoking concert were entirely forgotten, and george stood again in the middle of regent street, with one arm round his employer's waist. chapter ix--_the man who laughed last and loudest_ gray was not in a good temper when he reached the office next morning. he felt that george early had added insult to injury by absenting himself after procuring five pounds by the meanest of tricks that man could resort to. his fierce wrath of the night before had settled down into a steady glow of bitter resentment, and at times he felt that only a swift and sudden display of physical force could compensate him for so cruel a deception. fuel was added to the glowing fire within every time he recalled his own insane behaviour towards busby on the previous evening. his temper was not improved by observing that the cashier's eye roved in his direction several times during the morning, and that there sparkled in it a light of insolent familiarity. he had a great mind to show his appreciation of this attention as an office-boy would have done--by placing his thumb to his nose and extending his fingers. such a course was, however, rendered unnecessary by the cashier coming forward to pass the time of day. "i thought you were rather interested in me this morning," said gray. "perhaps i owe you something." busby grinned. "i don't think so, old man," he said. "i wish you did." "if i did," said gray, with brutal frankness, "i'd pawn my watch to pay up, sooner than be in your debt." "don't take it like that, old man," said busby, affably. "don't 'old man' me," said gray. "keep your familiarity for your friends." "now you're getting out of temper," said the cashier, who was in a most angelic mood, and inclined to be considerate. "i don't want to talk to you," said gray, offensively. "i'm sorry for that, gray," said busby. "i wanted you to do me a favour." "you'll be doing me a favour," retorted gray, "by taking yourself out of my sight--the sooner the better." "i want," said busby--"i want you to lend me ten bob, jimmy." "i'll see you shot first," said gray. busby's reply to this discourteous remark was to fold his arms and assume a dramatic posture. "you refuse?" he hissed. it was an exciting moment. "i don't lend money to people like you," said gray. "gray," said busby, solemnly, "i have asked you for the loan of ten shillings." "that's half a sovereign," said gray. "do you refuse to lend it?" "i wouldn't lend you twopence," was the reply. in spite of this plain answer, busby kept his ground, and said in a low, severe voice, "i'll give you one more chance, gray. do you refuse?" gray now understood the situation, which had not been clear to him before. it relieved him immensely to find that he was not the only victim of the new private secretary. assuming a proper reluctance to continue the conversation, he said in a milder tone-- "you know this is my busy day, busby. i'll see you later on." "later on won't do for me," said busby, severely, secretly delighted at the change of affairs. "you've been insolent, and you shall pay the price. i want your answer now." gray affected to be seized with fear, and said hoarsely, clutching the desk-- "what do you know?" busby was wild with delight. "everything," he said. gray put one hand in his pocket, and said, in a stage whisper, "ten shillings?" "ten shillings," repeated busby. gray took his hand from his pocket and resumed his work. "go and hang yourself," he said brutally, dropping the mask. "i'm surprised at a cute chap like you allowing that cuckoo, early, to bluff you. it's no go, old man, he's had you on a bit of toast." this sudden change of front convinced busby at once that gray was speaking the truth, and a red glow of indignation overspread his features. as soon as he was able, he delivered himself of a scathing denunciation of the unlucky george, accompanied by threats of vengeance. misfortune having established more friendly relations between the two, busby at once confessed to the knowledge of parrott's drinking habits, at which gray started, and then laughed contemptuously. "all bluff," he said. "it must be stopped," said busby, fiercely. "we'll be the laughing-stock of the place if it gets about. besides, it's dangerous." gray agreed; and the two entered thereupon into a dark and deadly conspiracy, which had for its initial object the abasement of george early. the next step was to secure parrott's support. this was soon done, and the three conspirators now endeavoured to find some means of putting their adversary _hors de combat_. it was, however, much easier to discover the necessity than the means for removing such an obstacle. "he's too artful for us," said gray. "he's the slyest devil i've ever come across." "i could get him the sack," said parrott, severely; "but i don't see that that would do any good." "more likely harm," put in gray, quickly. "he'd never pay me any rent, and he'd be sure to blackmail me for pocket-money." "and come to me," added busby, "when he wanted money for clothes. my missis thinks he's 'such a nice young man,' too." "he wouldn't be above trying to get money out of me, either," said parrott, cautiously. "above it? he'd do it with all the pleasure in the world." "we can't kidnap him and lock him in a dungeon. he's one of those slippery brutes that would wriggle out of it, and be down on us worse than ever." nothing short of a swift and sudden death seemed possible to repress the terrible george; but all decided that, with the present unsympathetic attitude of the law towards this means of removing troublesome persons, nothing in that direction could be thought of. gray suggested a pleasant little scheme for taking george early on a holiday trip, and getting him to fall over a high cliff, but it didn't sound feasible to his co-conspirators. if he would only tumble down a well, or slip in front of a steam-roller, the problem might comfortably be solved. any such plan would, of course, need his active co-operation, which it was felt he would be disinclined to give, even to secure the peace of mind of three such good fellows as parrott, gray, and busby. at this point of the confab, when the frown of perplexity sat equally heavy on the brow of each legatee, the door of parrott's office opened, and the trio beheld none other than the subject of their thoughts. no protecting angel had been at work warning george of the plot that was being hatched against his person, for his smile was as serene and beautiful as the morning sun that filtered in through the window panes; his manner was as easy and debonnaire as usual. "good morning all," he said affably. "lovely morning, isn't it?" nobody answered. "it's quite a treat," said george, looking about him, "to be alive on a morning like this, and to see all your old friends with smiling faces. now, if i were asked----" "what do you want?" asked parrott, sharply. "to be sure," said george. "what do i want?" he laughed cheerfully. "what do we all want"--looking around--"but to be comfortable and cheerful? plenty to eat and drink; money, and the love of our friends. eh, busby?" the cashier gnashed his teeth. "in this life," began george, sitting on the edge of the table, and stretching forth one hand. "in this life----" "that's enough," said parrott. "remember where you are." "infernal cheek!" vociferated gray, scowling at his lodger. "i beg your pardon," said george, contritely. "business is business, of course. i beg your pardon. it was the glorious morning that made me feel like it; and when i came in and saw all my old friends looking so happy--there, i beg your pardon." "early," said parrott, rising, and fixing a cold eye upon the secretary. "i have had to speak several times about your conduct in the firm. i have had to warn you. i shall not warn you again. leniency is quite lost upon some people, and the only way to bring a man to his senses is to show him what he is--to put him in his place. you have had your opportunities; you have failed to make use of them, and to show proper respect to your superiors. this can go on no longer; there must be a change." "quite right," agreed george; "there must be a change." "i have done what i could for you," said parrott, with a terrible frown; "but all to no purpose. you have brought this upon yourself, and you must suffer for it. to-day i shall hold a conference with miss fairbrother, and settle the matter. you need not ask for mercy, either from myself or from mr. gray, or mr. busby; we are done with you. your chances in this firm have been crushed under your own feet." "i see," said george, coolly. "that reminds me that i have a letter for you from miss fairbrother. it was enclosed in one sent to myself." he handed over the note, and settled himself in parrott's armchair while he re-read his own. there was a painful silence as parrott read miss fairbrother's letter, which in turn was perused by gray and busby. in view of the recent proceedings, it was somewhat disconcerting. it ran-- "dear mr. parrott, "i shall not be at the office to-day, probably not all the week, owing to an unfortunate accident last night, the shock of which has upset me. but for the timely assistance of mr. early, i should probably not be alive to write this note. you are doubtless aware that mr. early has of late shown a thorough knowledge of the affairs of the firm; and i wish you, therefore, to make it known that during my absence he is to take my place. he will consult me on business matters when he considers it necessary. "yours faithfully, "ellen fairbrother." during the perusal of this letter, george pulled forth a huge cigar, carefully nipped the end and lit it. from the depth of his comfortable seat he surveyed with a masterful eye the three men who now stood undecidedly by the table. "now, my men," he said presently, directing a glance at gray and busby; "you have heard the views of your superior on duty and obedience. i don't want you to crush your chances under your own heels. get to work, there's good fellows; follow a good example while you have one. i don't want mr. parrott to have to hold a conference with me about you." busby sidled towards the door with a snigger, and went out with his hand over his mouth. gray assumed an insolent swagger. hesitating a moment, he looked down upon george early with an intention of throwing off a scathing epigram on his exit. not finding anything to the point, he swore softly, and banged the door. george got up leisurely, and prepared to follow. "i shall be upstairs, parrott," he said with a drawl. "be sure to knock before you come in." chapter x--_hero worship_ on arriving in his office upstairs, george seated himself comfortably, and read miss fairbrother's note for the sixth or seventh time. he was not one of those men who are prostrated by a sudden change of fortune, but there were materials in this epistle with which even the most unimaginative man might build castles in the air. taking it word for word, it was at the least most soothing to the heart of george. the note was as follows:-- "dear mr. early, "how can i thank you for your prompt and brave assistance last evening? you saved my life. i shudder to think of what might have happened to me had you not been there. i am sure i should have been killed. i am too much upset to come to the office to-day. please come to brunswick terrace this afternoon, that i may thank you personally for the great service you did me. "the enclosed note for mr. parrott directs him to consult you on all affairs of the firm while i am away. you must take my place until i am quite well; you know everything about the business, as i am well aware by the valuable assistance you have so often given me. "please do not fail to come this afternoon. "always yours gratefully, "ellen fairbrother." george lunched that day at the carlton, and from there proceeded in a hansom cab to brunswick terrace. miss fairbrother had elected to remove her aunt for the time being, so that the interview was quite private. the ordeal of being thanked by a rich young lady whose life you have saved must be a most embarrassing one to most men; to george it did not prove so. he found himself much more at ease than he had expected to be. the embarrassment was all on miss fairbrother's side. she was not sparing in her praise of what she called "his noble action," but, though her voice had the ring of honesty, and her words were sincere, she found it easier to look at the pictures and the furniture than at george early. whenever she caught his eye, the pink glow in her cheeks deepened, and her fingers toyed nervously with the lace on her gown. any young man with a proper regard for the delicate sensibilities of the fair sex would, on finding a young lady so prettily confused, make a valiant effort to put her at her ease. this george did by assuming a very modest demeanour and concentrating his gaze on the hearthrug. it was effectual, for it gave miss fairbrother confidence, and led her to speak of the valuable help george had given to the firm since he had accepted the office of junior clerk, facts which surprised george, and were a testimonial to miss fairbrother's skill as an inventor. "i feel sure," she said impulsively, "that some day you will be a partner in the firm." "no," said george, modestly; "i shouldn't think so." "oh, but i am sure you will! you are so--you know so many things. doesn't it surprise the others to find how much you know?" george valiantly suppressed a sudden fit of coughing. "now you come to mention it," he said, "i think it does." "i'm sure it must do," said miss fairbrother, warmly. "i think courage and cleverness are things that people cannot help noticing. and unselfishness; think how noble it is to do things for others!" "splendid!" said george. "but you can't help it if it's born in you." "it isn't always that," said miss fairbrother. "some men are very brave. they give their lives up to benefiting their fellow-creatures, and watching over them as if they were helpless little children." "yes," said george, turning his imagination to the past; "my old father used to say, 'never mind yourself, george; others first--others first, m' lad.'" "i knew it," cried miss fairbrother, with a brightening of the eye that george didn't fail to notice. "you've been following that good advice in spite of all obstacles. oh, if only everybody would fight and overcome difficulties like that!" "it's been a bit hard," said george, reminiscently. "but think of the victory," cried miss fairbrother, "when you look back on what you have done." "ah! if people only knew." "yes," a little doubtfully; "but of course you don't exactly want people to know." "that's just it; they mustn't know a word about it." "if they did?" she breathed. "it wouldn't do," said george; "they wouldn't all be so grateful as you." miss fairbrother's fingers grew nervous again, and the point of one tiny little shoe attracted all her attention. george, looking out of the corner of one eye, felt that matters were progressing most satisfactorily. "i suppose," said miss fairbrother, softly, without turning her head, "you've--you've saved other people before?" george at once became so modest and so concerned about the inside lining of his hat, that miss fairbrother looked up, and added quickly-- "you have; i'm sure you have. do tell me about it! oh, i should like to know!" george took out his handkerchief and rubbed his nose very hard, a performance that may have been actuated by emotion or equivocation. "i don't want to talk about it," he said, with a suspicion of huskiness in his throat. "perhaps they were very ungrateful," miss fairbrother observed sympathetically. "that's it," said george; "some people don't deserve to be saved." "i'm afraid i haven't given you much but my thanks." "don't mention it. it's a pleasure to save any one like you. i'd like to do it every day." miss fairbrother suddenly became so interested in something she saw outside the window that only one pink ear was visible to her rescuer. "when i think of yesterday," continued george, leaning forward and speaking slowly, "i can't understand why i called up that cab so soon and put you in it, and why i didn't stand there holding you." he paused a moment, but miss fairbrother never moved. the pink ear seemed to be growing pinker. george went on daringly-- "that ride home in the cab was a ride i shall always think about. i don't think i took my eyes off you once all the way. how could i, when----" here the conversation, which threatened to take an alarming turn, was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a maid with tea. that interval of a few minutes so destroyed the continuity of george early's argument that he decided to abandon it. miss fairbrother, having satisfied her curiosity through the window pane, immediately on the entrance of the tea affected to forget what he had been talking of, and invited him with an uncommon lightness of spirits to draw nearer to the small tea-table. whatever george early may have thought of the lady's charms on the previous evening, he was now convinced that they were many and various. in the office she was usually bored and a little bewildered, and at times inclined to be cross about business problems. her speech was frequently plaintive, and her hair out of curl. here, with all the worries of business left behind, she was demure, pretty, and altogether charming. her eyes sparkled, and the little frowns that were apt to pucker her fair brow gave place to smiling lines around the mouth. in that big office she looked out of place, a frail and worried little body; in this drawing-room she was in perfect harmony with her surroundings, while george seemed out of place there. he felt out of place too, at first; but being of a nature that easily adapts itself to circumstances, he was soon chattering as pleasantly as if he'd been used to drawing-rooms all his life. it was evident that miss fairbrother approved of him, and felt satisfied that her rescuer was a young man of noble ideas and a true hero. she was probably not unaware that he was also a good-looking young man, with well-brushed hair, and a smile that was not without charm. these things she had doubtless overlooked before in the worries of business. george was not a man to miss opportunities, in spite of the adverse criticism of his fellow-workers in the firm of fairbrother. having created a good impression, he knew that the next thing to do was to make it lasting. afternoon tea and pleasant conversation with a girl you have rescued from an untimely death are not among the unsweetened things of this world, but george saw fit to bring his visit to an early close by evincing an earnest desire to return to fairbrothers' on business which could not be neglected. miss fairbrother approved of his close application to the firm's affairs, but was not sure that she had thanked him sufficiently for what he had done for her. george assured her that by supplying him with a final cup of tea the debt would be fully paid. whereat miss fairbrother laughed--a sweet, tinkling, little darling of a laugh. whereat george laughed--a polite, hearty, good-humoured laugh. what more natural than that george's big manly hand should press miss fairbrother's little finger in taking that cup of tea, and that miss fairbrother should blush and hurriedly pour out an extra cup for herself? what more natural than that george should look at her out of the corner of his eye, and find her looking at him out of the corner of her eye; and that they should both be ashamed at having caught each other in the very act? nothing more natural, surely. but george knew what a good many men would not have known--that this was the very moment to go. and go he did. "good-bye," said miss fairbrother, smiling and holding out a very pretty white hand; "i'm very grateful to you." "good-bye," said george, taking the pretty hand in his; "i'm glad i was there." george walked away in a most satisfied frame of mind. he halted half-way up the terrace and looked back at the great portico and massive windows of the fairbrother mansion. "nice house that," he said; "nice girl too--devilish nice girl!" then he called a hansom and drove to liverpool street, for, urgent as the firm's business happened to be, his own at the moment was of more consequence. that night when gray got home his lodger's room was vacant; george early had moved into west end lodgings. chapter xi--_cupid takes a hand_ upper thames street is not what it used to be in the days when fairbrothers' was young. one by one the low, grimy warehouses are disappearing, to give place to noble edifices with elaborate office room and electric light. bit by bit the narrow roadway becomes widened, and the blocking of traffic less frequent. the language there is not what it used to be. ancient carmen, who have become locally notorious over victories on the question of choking the narrowest thoroughfare, and who have displayed powers of flowery repartee that no cabman dare challenge, now ride sorrowfully along in silence. not many of them are left; the newness is killing them off and placing smart young uniformed men in their places. the public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are, for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried on as usual during alterations." the beer there is not what it used to be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it regularly enough, and can speak from experience. everything in upper thames street is affected by the march of progress; and nothing more noticeably than the city man's caterer. forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the nearest tavern or a cook-shop. in the one you met red-faced men who swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as themselves. the young man with the clean collar was not catered for then as he is to-day. there were young men then, of course--though not many with clean collars--but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were not so educated to beer. where they lunched is a mystery. i suspect that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o' grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly correct. i suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing. now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. it is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday london. no class of the london worker is neglected; none so obscure, strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. boiled beef and carrots have fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks, who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young man with the clean collar. for him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the restaurant, the café, lyons', the a.b.c., the mecca, and others. snacks of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve him and smile upon him. he sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile, gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. when my lord has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. here again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. here are draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. all for the young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for--the best customer of the city caterer. upper thames street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations, has not been neglected by the caterer. it has its sprinkling of smart tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. to various of these the office youths of fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in particular go two members whom we will follow. henry cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the girls. his companion, william budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also, but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest in affairs that don't concern him. cacklin has a strong partiality for sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. when he cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. billy budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money, favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses the scorn of cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be chummy with the waitress on "buns"! "rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his sandwich. "if you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the want of a bit of meat." "no fear," said billy. "what about old busby? i saw him 'aving a bun and milk yesterday." "busby," said cacklin, with a sneer; "a lot he hurts himself. i'd like his job at half the price, and keep my grandmother out of the money." depreciation of other people's abilities was a sad failing with cacklin. he had at various times expressed his willingness to take over the work of many of his superiors and do it with "one hand tied behind him," besides showing them "a thing or two" about office work, if they so desired it. "here, what do y' think!" said billy, suddenly, stuffing his mouth full of bun, "saw old polly last night and his girl. nice little daisy, too, she was. called him 'thomas'--'oh, thomas!'" billy was convulsed for a few minutes at his own vulgar wit; much to the disgust of his companion, whose attitude towards the fair sex was distinctly _blasé_. "she's no catch," said cacklin; "i'd like him to see the little bit of goods i met up at richmond last sunday. great scott! old man, she was rippin'; and quite a kid--only seventeen. she was fair gone, too; i had a regular howling job to get away from her. promised to meet her on thursday, just to get away!" cacklin laughed at the recollection of his own subterfuge, and tipped a wink to the waitress, who replied with a haughty stare. "i say," said billy, turning in his usual way to other people's affairs; "early's fairly got it, ain't he?" "what do you mean by 'fairly got it'?" said cacklin, annoyed at the indifference of the waitress. "why, got it with her--the missis. they went off together this morning in a hansom, as chummy as you like. handed her in, he did, and put it on like winking when he spoke to the cabman; laughin' and talkin' like blazes, they were." cacklin winked again, but this time at billy budd. "if you want to know anything, my boy," he said, "you put your money on early. he knows his book, you take my tip. i've watched the game from the beginning, and i know a thing or two about it. the others may think they're fly, and he may bamboozle them; but he'd have to get up before six to get over me on that lay." he paused to light a cigarette, and then leant back in his seat. "now i'll tell you a bit more," he said, with a knowing squint. "mr. george early's playing up to hook her, and he'll do it, too. put that in your cigarette-holder, my son. she'll be mrs. george early soon, if you want to know anything." "no fear," said billy. "oh?" said cacklin. "well, if you like to bet on it i'll lay you a quid that it comes off. i'll lay you a level quid that he marries her. and it's a certainty, too, you'd lose the money." "she wouldn't marry him," said billy, stolidly. "wouldn't she?" said cacklin. "you don't know anything about women, my boy. i suppose she hasn't had him up at her 'ouse much the last three weeks, eh? only about four times a week. they haven't been up in the office together much, have they? they ain't been out and about much, either? i didn't meet 'em at earl's court, did i, and watkins didn't see 'em go to the trocadero together, did he? you've had your eyes shut. why, he's been following her about, and she's been running after him when he didn't, ever since the first day he did the bossing up in her office." "what about saving her life? matthews said she was chased by a mad horse, and early saved her just as she was going to be trampled to death." "matthews is a silly fool. i know all about his saving her: i've heard the true story. she's cracked on him over that, and thinks him a hero. all women are the same. there was a fine gel cracked on me once through helping her over the road on a wet day. if early takes my tip, he'll keep the game up for all it's worth." "what sort of boss d' you think he'd be?" said billy. "thunderin' good!" said cacklin, briefly. "he ought to give us all a rise if he marries her," said william budd, ruminating. "so he will, you can bet," said the junior clerk. "early's the right sort of chap to boss the show; he's been putting the other chaps in their places a bit in the last few weeks. about time, too. he's made polly sit up, and gray's been nearly off his crumpet. a lot of lazy 'ounds, they are; rousing up the other chaps when they sleep all day themselves." with this summary verdict on his superiors, cacklin produced a draught-board and prepared to give a scientific display of his powers, in a friendly game with billy. this game was a regular feature in mr. cacklin's lunch-hour, and usually resulted in his making all the scientific moves while his opponent won the game; whereupon he would enter into a lengthy explanation of his slight error in not huffing at the right time, by which action he would have taken four kings and literally "romped home." the present game came to an end in the usual way, cacklin ascribing his defeat to his own generosity in giving his opponent "a chance" at a critical moment. "now i'll have a cheque if you _don't_ mind," he said, in sweetly insinuating tones to the waitress. "i must get back and start the men at work, and see my lady secretary about her holidays." "get back and sweep out the passage, you mean," said the girl, pertly. cacklin ignored this rude remark, and lit a fresh cigarette. "who was that young feller i saw you with last night?" he said, winking at billy. "keeper of the monkey-house, of course. lucky thing he didn't see you." "don't be saucy now," said the junior clerk, pleasantly, "or i sha'n't take you up the river on sunday. give him my love this evening, and mind you're home by ten." "take him off," said the girl to billy; "the coffee's got in his head." chapter xii--_an ironmonger in love_ master cacklin's observations on the friendship existing between george early and his employer were not without a great deal of truth, strange as it may appear. george early and miss fairbrother were on friendly terms--very friendly terms, in fact. that first interview at brunswick terrace had been followed by many others; interviews that ostensibly had a business purpose, but that drifted off into cold lunch and a flower show; or afternoon tea and small-talk. occasionally the conversation would take a turn that left miss fairbrother somewhat embarrassed, and george early saying things that had nothing to do with the iron trade at all. it was obvious, too, that these interviews were by no means disagreeable to either george or his employer; but that both were in a high state of excitement afterwards when alone. miss fairbrother had returned to the firm after a week's absence, and resumed her accustomed seat in the big private office. but george no longer assumed the modest demeanour of the private secretary; his desk was placed in the big room, and the clerks who drifted in and out on affairs of business invariably found the pair chatting in a most unbusiness-like manner. moreover, miss fairbrother declined to enter into most of the hardware problems submitted to her, but begged that "mr. early" might be consulted instead. "mr. early" became a person of importance, from whom a hint was as good as an order; to whom the general office staff said "sir," and the three legatees adopted an attitude of sullen respect. the firm's members drew their own conclusions on the question of the friendship. it was clear that george had rendered his employer a great service, and that she was duly grateful to him, perhaps something more. it was clear, too, that george did not intend to miss any opportunities, either in the way of friendship or his own advancement; for on the first score he was clearly in favour, and on the second he was already drawing a bigger salary. whether or not he was scheming for a nearer and dearer position than that of mere _employé_ to miss fairbrother, it was not for anybody to say; but the fact remained that he appeared daily in gorgeous raiment, visited frequently at brunswick terrace, travelled with his employer in hansoms, and had been escorting the lady to places of amusement. these things clearly indicated that miss fairbrother "approved" of george in no ordinary sense. just how matters really stood between them was known to nobody but george and miss fairbrother, and perhaps miss fairbrother's aunt. it was not for the young lady, even in her position of employer, to unbend any more than any other of her sex, supposing she had matrimonial designs. queens may propose, but even they dislike the job; for they are only women after all, and it is quite natural for a woman to wish to be wooed and asked for. and however strong george early may have considered his chances to be, it is certain that he was not the sort of young man to spoil them by prematurely placing his heart upon his sleeve. it may have been the extreme brightness of the sun that persuaded miss fairbrother one morning to express a strong disinclination for work. it was the day after cacklin's confidence to william budd, and even in upper thames street the weather was as fair as summer weather can be. "how lovely the river looks!" said the young lady, fixing a pair of bright eyes on a dilapidated steamer that ploughed its way gracefully towards westminster. "just the sort of day for a trip to hampton court," said george. "pity we can't shift the office up there, isn't it?" "i don't know; i've never been there." "ah"--bestowing an affectionate glance upon a curl on her left shoulder--"you've missed one of the best sights on the river." "don't!" said miss fairbrother; "you'll make me want to go. and you know"--slowly--"how busy we are." if the papers on miss fairbrother's desk were any criterion, it did not take much to make the firm busy. "of course," said george, proceeding with caution, "if you wish to go, i can look after everything. it's a shame not to take advantage of a bright day; it may rain to-morrow." "i've heard that hampton court is very pretty." "it's a sight that nobody should miss on a day like this." miss fairbrother laughed. "the grass there is greener than anywhere else on the river, the water's clearer, and the swans are whiter," said george. "how do you get there?" the secretary laid down his pen and paused to consider. "there's waterloo," he said--"trains rather stuffy and porters grumpy. then there's a waggonette from piccadilly--horses bony and seats rickety. then there's----" "i don't think i'll go," said miss fairbrother. "i should," said george. "the boat from westminster is very comfortable. you can get lunch on board, and it's really a most delightful trip." miss fairbrother was silent for a moment. "no," she said slowly; "i don't think i'll go." george turned round and winked at a bookcase, then rose slowly and walked to the window, where miss fairbrother stood watching the sunlit surface of the river. "there's a sudden slackness of orders to-day," he said. "if you wouldn't mind, i'd like to take a day off myself and go on the river." miss fairbrother smiled, and george went on-- "i shouldn't think of asking if it were not quite possible to leave things; but, of course, if you think it inadvisable, i'll willingly----" "certainly not," said miss fairbrother. "take the day by all means." "thank you," said george, politely. "then in that case, as i know the river well, i'm sure you'll allow me to----" miss fairbrother blushed and looked away. "it's a comfortable boat," urged george, "and the trip is really splendid. my old landlady's son was the purser last year, and he used to say that they've cured more invalids on that trip than half the hospitals in london." a smile broke out on miss fairbrother's face, and george immediately reached for his hat. "hansom?" he said. "please"--softly. as they bowled along towards westminster george early sat upright in his seat, and replied to miss fairbrother's sallies with a brightness that surprised even himself. something inside him seemed to be whispering that this was going to be a day of days--one of those bright periods when everything goes with a comfortable rattle, and you don't _think_, but _know_, there is going to be fireworks in the evening, although you haven't seen the programme. poverty, crime, trouble, hardship, and everything ugly is deadened; you hear only the voice of your companion, see only the glint of the sunshine, the white frocks and clean collars, new houses and green trees. you start off with your machinery going at a gentle, thump-thump pace, like the steamer, and you keep it up while the day lasts. george enjoyed that trip, and miss fairbrother enjoyed it too. it's astonishing how it improves a young woman's looks and a young man's temper to ride on a steamboat, even when both were agreeable before. there were many things to see, most of which george had to explain. what he didn't know he invented, which didn't make much difference, as it is probable miss fairbrother was listening more to george's voice than to what he said. there were many occasions when george had to take miss fairbrother's arm, and once when the boat lurched he was obliged to catch her round the waist; none of which incidents upset the good feeling existing between them, but rather increased it. at hampton court they did the usual round through the palace, and were for the first time that day a little bored. like a good many other people, they found that the faded relics of dead-and-gone monarchs are not only uninteresting, but very depressing, so much so that the sight of a new windsor chair that king george never sat upon becomes an object of unusual interest and a welcome relief. "i never thought," said miss fairbrother, "that kings and their furniture could be so uninteresting. i think i enjoyed seeing the soldiers on guard more than the royal furniture." "yes," said george; "and i think i enjoy being out here, sitting by the river, more than either the furniture or the soldiers." "it's delightfully quiet and soothing." "it's grand. i've never seen much of the country in my life, but i do enjoy it when i get a glimpse." "in australia," said miss fairbrother, "i saw very little of town life. we lived in the country most of the time." "and you were sorry to leave it?" "at first. since i've been here i think i like england quite as well--especially london. there's no place like london, i'm sure." "perhaps not," said george, absently. "no place in australia," said miss fairbrother, confidently. "i'd like to go there," said george; "i believe it's a fine country." "oh, it's very nice"--casually. "the colonials are fine fellows." miss fairbrother picked a blade of grass and examined it critically. george looked at a launch coming down the river. it was a crowded launch, and the antics of the men on board attracted his attention. as he continued to look he observed that miss fairbrother shifted her glance from the blade of grass to his own features. she looked at the launch as he turned round. "lucky fellows!" said george. "a steam launch is one of the things i covet." "really?" said miss fairbrother, quickly. "not exactly covet," said george; "but it's a nice way of seeing the country." "i think i prefer a quiet spot like--like----" "like this"--softly. a faint blush caused miss fairbrother to turn her attention to some boats coming up the river. "it's very nice here, isn't it?" she said. "at present it is," said george. miss fairbrother wilfully misunderstood. "in the winter, of course, it's very cold and damp." "so it is in the summer." "how can that be?" she looked up smiling. "when one is alone," said george, "the greenest field might be uninteresting and the warmest day cold." miss fairbrother blushed and laughed. she made no secret now of the fact that she understood the compliment. "you think i am not in earnest," said george, boldly, placing one hand upon hers, as it plucked the grass blade by blade. "i am quite serious; i should never have enjoyed the trip alone--you know i shouldn't." her eyes were upon the grass, where she managed to wriggle one finger of the imprisoned hand and press the soft earth with its pink nail. "don't do that," said george; "you'll make your fingers dirty." he lifted the hand and examined the small pink finger. "it's a pretty name," he said irrelevantly. their eyes met for a second, then hers were covered by the long lashes. "ellen, i mean," said george. "i always liked that name, but i suppose it wouldn't do to call you by it." her breath came faster. "i suppose it wouldn't do?" said george. he looked at her cheek, now crimson, and leant nearer. "ellen," he whispered softly. a launch on the river hooted shrilly in the distance, and a boisterous laugh from the opposite bank echoed faintly over the water. george leant nearer till his shoulder touched hers. his arm that had rested idly behind slid round her waist with gentle pressure. "it wouldn't do, would it?" the launch hooted again, and a boatman on the water yelled something undistinguishable to another boatman. "ellen!" miss fairbrother's tongue was evidently incapable of utterance, for there was still no response. then george early's arm tightened about the slim form of his employer and drew it into a closer embrace. his head bent until her breath came softly on his cheek. and then-- then george early kissed her. a venerable angler looking for worms five minutes later stopped, suddenly transfixed, to see a young man and young woman with arms so lovingly entwined and lips pressed together. * * * * * there was a bright moon that evening as the hampton court boat bumped against the pier at westminster. the people streamed up into the roadway, and one couple popped into a hansom. "trocadero? right you are, sir," said the cabman. two hours later another cab took the couple to brunswick terrace. the lady was helped out by the gentleman, with whom she conversed for five minutes in the shadow of the porch. as they parted, the gentleman said-- "good night, my darling." "good night, george dear," said the lady. chapter xiii--_a fortnight's holiday_ it would be difficult to say exactly how fairbrothers' took the news of george early's engagement to its chief, for it did not burst upon the staff in an official proclamation, but leaked out, and was generally credited as a mere rumour. that miss fairbrother should be absent from the office for ten days was not considered an extraordinary circumstance in the light of recent events, nor was it anything extraordinary for george early to assume a tone of importance in affairs of the firm; but among the bright youths who copied the fairbrother letters and handled the fairbrother ledgers there were some detective spirits that did not fail to notice certain irregularities in the speech of the new manager. more than one pair of eyebrows in the counting-house were lifted noticeably when the unusual "i" supplanted the usual "we," and certain dark and prophetic allusions by the manager as to what he would do about some particular affair "in a few weeks," brought the heads of the staff together at times when business was of more importance than desultory conversation. in spite of rumours, the staff would probably have remained in the dark until the official announcement, had miss fairbrother not paid a flying visit to upper thames street and come under the eagle eye of william budd. that precocious youth singled out the engagement ring in a twinkling, and by lunch-time the whole office knew that miss fairbrother had found a husband. with one accord they fixed upon george early as the lucky man. the office enjoyed its secret for one whole day; on the next parrott was summoned to brunswick terrace, and instructed to take over the affairs of the firm while miss fairbrother changed her name to early, and took a fortnight's holiday for the purpose of getting used to it. it was only fitting that her aunt phoebe should hold a formal conversation with the prospective husband, and to this interview george early went with the confident feeling that it would end amicably. it was not exactly the sort of interview that he expected, yet he could not say that he was any the less pleased at the prospect before him. aunt phoebe shook hands, and intimated that her niece had gone out for the afternoon. "you have had my congratulations," she said, "and i have only to repeat to begin with that you are a very lucky man." george beamed and murmured his thanks. "i don't hold with any of her nonsense about you being a hero, you know," she went on; "it's time enough to praise you when i've found that you're a good husband. and for my part i'm inclined to hope that you're a much more ordinary man, for i've no faith in heroes as husbands." george coughed, and put his hat on the table. "before you marry," said aunt phoebe, practically, "it's just as well that you should know your prospects. if you have any idea of taking the fairbrother fortune in your own hands, you'll be disappointed, for that is to remain entirely at the disposal of my niece, who is guided by me in her business affairs. i may as well say that i have some control over her and the property that will not be affected by her marriage. you need not fear that she will not be generous to you. your position will be formally that of head of the firm; and, so far as income is concerned, nobody will guess that you are not the owner entirely." "if it's all the same to you," said george, "i'd rather not hear any more on the subject." "indeed?" said aunt phoebe, coldly. "i've got to call on a tailor at four o'clock, and it's now half-past three." "this is a time to be serious," said aunt phoebe, severely. "it isn't," said george; "it's a time to be married. that's quite enough for me just at present." "i want you to understand about the property." "i don't want to know. do what you like with it. i'll leave it to you." aunt phoebe promptly vacated her seat, and impatiently rang the bell and ordered tea. george thereupon, for the twenty-fifth time that day, consulted a note-book in which a confused mass of scribble spread itself over many pages. he was obliged to confess to himself that for the first time within his remembrance his brain was in a chaotic state. on confiding this intelligence to aunt phoebe, her ruffled feelings became smooth, for the most unintelligent person would have seen at once that this simple fact had revealed in george the common failing of the ordinary man. * * * * * george early and miss fairbrother were married, and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that they went on the continent for a fortnight, and met with the usual discomforts familiar to other travellers, and faced them with the heroic fortitude common in other honeymoon couples. if george was in any way different from another man in a similar position, it lay in the fact of his not waking up and wondering if his good fortune were a dream. george early always met windfalls with a familiar nod, and took them as a matter of course; which is, after all, not a bad idea, if you can bring yourself to it, and if you happen to be one who runs in the way of good fortune. he did not, as may be supposed, allow his thoughts to run immediately on the prospect before him, nor form any notions of having "a high old time when he got his hands on the cash." you can never tell how marriage and good fortune will affect a man, and i don't suppose there was a person in upper thames street who could give a near guess as to how it would affect george early. nobody, not even george himself, could have told you, though he could probably have guessed nearer than other people. but that it changed his fortunes and those of other members of the firm, will be seen as the history progresses. some evidences of change in upper thames street were already apparent, even before mr. and mrs. early had returned from the honeymoon. three men had watched the growing friendship of the two with absorbing interest, and read the marriage announcement with some approval. they did so from motives of selfishness. in this change of affairs they saw relief from irritation that had tried their tempers and touched their pockets. parrott watched his increasing hoard with miserly satisfaction, and had already begun to weigh the merits of streatham and upper tooting as suburban retreats, where, in company with the economical wife of his choice, he might enjoy the fruits of married life, and be free from the harassing demands of the blackmailer. george early single was a source of increasing danger, but george early married to a rich wife might be put out of his reckoning. upon reflection, a man might well assume at this stage that old fairbrother's legacies bid fair to effect the purpose for which they were instituted. here were three men who might have been led away from faults that were eating into the soul of each, had not an impudent blackmailer stepped in at the beginning and torn from their clutches the healing medicine. who knows but that they now might be well on the way to reform; that parrott might be cheerfully handing crisp bank-notes to needy friends, busby speaking the clarion voice of truth, and gray quaffing copious draughts of bright sparkling water in place of the noxious intoxicant of his habit? at the time of george early's marriage, it must be admitted no evidence of reform had appeared, although nearly a month had elapsed since the hush-money had been asked for and paid. parrott had successfully resisted the appeals of those who sought to relieve him of sundry half-crowns and pieces of gold; and busby, as of yore, deceived all who came in his way, with a tongue that had lost none of its cunning. if the truth must be told, the head clerk had grown closer than ever, and had gone so far as to turn a deaf ear to an urgent request for a shilling. mrs. gray noticed with regret that her husband's fondness for whisky had suddenly revived, and sighed deeply as she thought of the splendid lodger she had lost. "so fond he was of you, too, jimmy," she said. "who's fond of me?" asked gray. "why, mr. early. you didn't drink so much of that horrid stuff when he was here. he had such a good influence over you." "i know he had," said gray, filling his glass. "now he's got somebody who'll have an influence over him. poor old george!" "oh, jimmy! do you think she'll be cruel to him? why ever did he marry her?" "couldn't help it, i suppose," said her husband. "perhaps he's going to reform her. poor old george!" "jimmy," said mrs. gray, severely, "it's a shame for you to laugh. you ought to have prevented the marriage, if she's a horrid creature who'll worry his life out. you know he's been a good friend to you." "has he?" said gray. "i'd forgotten that. then i'll be a good friend to him. i'll go and be his lodger. no, i won't; i'll go and tell mrs. early that he's one of the best." gray helped himself to a further supply and toasted the new governor as "one of the best," in which mrs. gray, although a temperate little body, joined. "when do you go to the club again, jimmy?" said mrs. gray. "club? what club?" said gray, who was arriving at that state when the truth begins to leak out unawares. "why, your club, of course; you're the secretary." "am i? hooray! hooray for the secretary!" "you are the secretary, aren't you, jimmy?" said mrs. gray. "course i am. you just said so. hooray for----" "jimmy!" mrs. gray clutched his arm and took the glass from his hand. "have you been deceiving me? tell me if you belong to the club or not, and if you're really the secretary? oh, jimmy!" mrs. gray sat down and burst into tears. if anything was calculated to bring gray into a sober state, it was the tears of his wife. he was not a model husband, but he had some affection for the little woman who adored and cared for him, and the sight of her weeping awoke him to the error he had made. gray had put his arm about her and lifted her up. "i'm the secretary, little woman. now don't cry any more. it's all right. i'm the secretary." "you're not," sobbed mrs. gray; "i know you're not. you've been deceiving me, you wicked thing, and i--i won't forgive you. you don't belong to the club at all--you know you don't." "i tell you i'm the secretary, don't i?" persisted gray. "i don't--don't believe you. you've been tel--telling me stories, jimmy. it's a sha--shame to tell me stories. you oughtn't to do it." "look here," said gray, taking her in his arms; "do you want me to prove what i say? do you?" "ye--yes," she sobbed. "then ask george. if you won't believe me, ask him." mrs. gray's sobs ceased and she began to dry her eyes. gray reached over and helped himself to a little more whisky. "ask him," he said, taking a drink. in a little while mrs. gray, very much ashamed of herself, put her arms about her husband's neck and kissed him. "i'm very sorry, jimmy," she said, "i do believe you." mrs. gray didn't ask george, and her husband continued in his dangerous career of intemperance. it was a pity that he did so, for with the good start as a teetotaler he had got during george early's residence, he might have reformed and prevented the trouble that came, as trouble always does when you look for it. chapter xiv--_"tommy morgan"_ there was a mild hum of excitement in the offices of messrs. fairbrother. the honeymoon was over, and mr. george early had returned. he was already sitting in the big upstairs office, discussing business problems with a calmness and intelligent interest that surprised everybody. those who had imagined him lolling in the armchairs, smoking expensive cigars, and telling his employés not to bother him but to look after the orders themselves, were more than astonished, and at once came to the conclusion that george early had reformed. the three legatees were among those who watched this business activity with satisfaction. if george early had decided to throw all his energies into the business it was certain that he would give no thought to trivial questions of blackmail, nor waste his time in bothering about the reform of men in whom he was not interested. nevertheless he had not forgotten it, as gray found out on the occasion of one of his visits upstairs. "how's your wife, gray?" asked the new master. gray replied that she was in the best of health. "i hope she'll remain so," said george; "she's a good little woman, and she deserves a good husband. now that you've given up the drink she ought to be very happy." "she's happy enough," said gray. george said that he was glad to hear it. "i suppose you've given up the secretaryship of the old friends' club?" he said severely. "perhaps i have, perhaps i haven't," said gray, who resented this catechism. "i shall give it up when it suits me; and this job, too, when i feel inclined." "don't do anything rash, now," said george; "i don't want to interfere with your affairs. you know that's not my way." "of course i do," said gray; "you wouldn't think of such a thing." "all i want, gray," said george, "is to see you on the right path. you've got a good wife, a good home, and a good income. stick fast to your business, and you'll be a successful man. punctuality, perseverance, and temperance are the three rules for success, as you've heard me say many times. you have seen me climb the ladder step by step, until i have reached my present position. how has it been done? i need not tell you, gray." "no," said gray; "i'd rather you didn't." "don't be afraid that i shall interfere with you," said george; "i know that i can trust you to go along the straight path. as i said to my wife the other day, 'if there's one man in the firm i can trust, it's james gray.'" "thanks," said gray. "if you've quite finished, i'll go down and send up somebody else." left alone, george early smiled to himself, ruminated for a few moments, and then proceeded to examine the papers before him. he had no intention of ruling with an iron hand, nor of exacting homage from the employés. he wanted to be in command, and at present he held that position, would be contented with it, too, while the interest lasted. by-and-by, perhaps, he would aspire to positions in the public service, become a sheriff, and eventually lord mayor. these things were very vague as yet, for at present the distraction of a big position, a wife, and a west end mansion he found sufficient. he did not forget to put the head clerk and the cashier quite at their ease with respect to the legacies they were enjoying, nor to acquaint them, as he had done gray, with the high opinion he had of their abilities. parrott received his sermon with the stolidity one expects of a man whose sense of humour is under the average; and busby, who knew exactly in what spirit he was being received, affected to be pleased, and wished george success in his new position. taking into consideration his humble start not many months previous, it must be conceded that george early made a very good impression on his first day as proprietor of the old-established firm of fairbrother. it was a curious coincidence that on this very day another young bridegroom took over the affairs of an old-established firm in the city of london; and as these two firms have already had business relations sufficient to put them on a nodding acquaintance, and are likely to have further relations of an exciting nature, it will not be amiss to see how matters are proceeding with bridegroom number two, especially as his first efforts in his new post indirectly concern bridegroom number one. dibbs and dubbs is a name familiar to all city youths whose business or pleasure it is to pass through st. paul's passage in queen victoria street. the names stare at everybody from a brass plate, polished to a high degree of brilliancy, whereon it is further announced that these gentlemen follow the honourable profession of the law, and are to be found on the first floor within. dibbs, it may be mentioned, has long passed into the unknown, and dubbs, having wrestled for a considerable time with failing health, has recently followed him, leaving his son-in-law, but newly married, to attend to such clients as remain faithful, and to see that the brass plate keeps its position and its lustre. the young lawyer, no less indefatigable than george early, proceeded to do both these things as soon as he arrived in st. paul's passage. having set the office-boy to work on the brass plate, he made a searching investigation of the contents of the office, and discovered that the firm itself was on the verge of following the lamented partners, unless some one with grit, energy, and ability was able to set to work and instil new life into it. this, without a moment's hesitation, he decided to do himself. he sat down in the only easy-chair, and opened a long envelope labelled "fairbrother," one of the few envelopes he had found in the safe. the contents of it were evidently of a highly interesting nature, for they drew from the reader exclamations of astonishment as from time to time he turned over the folios and re-read portions of them. having finished, he rang a bell on the table. "mole," he said to the clerk who entered, "do you know anything of the affairs of fairbrothers'?" "no, sir," said the clerk, promptly. "nothing whatever?" "never heard the name before, sir," said the young man, decisively. "good," replied the lawyer; "be ready in half an hour to go out for me on an important mission." "yes, sir," said the clerk, with alacrity. an important mission was evidently of very rare occurrence at dibbs and dubbs, for the clerk promptly retired to his obscure office and executed a war-dance. in half an hour the bell rang, and he returned to the outer office. "read that carefully," said his master, handing him a brief note. mole proceeded to do so with knitted brows. "you understand thoroughly what you have to do?" "i've got it pat," said the clerk, putting the note in his pocket. "good," said the lawyer again. "here's half a sovereign. now go, and report to me as soon as you return." the importance of this mysterious mission can only be seen by following in the footsteps of the departing clerk. that he is to act the part of a sleuth-hound is evident at once from his movements. on reaching the dark landing of the narrow staircase, his first act was to look carefully about him. being assured that he was alone, he struck a match, and by its flickering light read carefully the note given him in the office. this seemed a superfluous performance, with the sun shining outside; but the detective knows his own business best. the next act of mr. mole was to pull off his trilby hat and tuck it behind the gas-meter, its place being supplied by a cloth cap drawn from a back trouser pocket. with the peak of this cap pulled well down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up, mole descended the staircase on tiptoe and reached the door. he looked up and down the court without turning his head, a feat only possible by turning the eyes till scarcely any part was visible but the whites. apparently satisfied that all was well, he started off in the direction of st. paul's, keeping to the sides with the same pertinacity that a mariner hugs the shore. he avoided st. paul's churchyard, but kept to the narrow thoroughfare until he reached paternoster row, where he threaded his way through numerous courts and emerged on ludgate hill, near the old bailey. giving a familiar nod to the old building, he darted across the road, and made his way along water lane to upper thames street. here a quick change was effected, which consisted in pulling the cap-peak rakishly over one eye, undoing the bottom buttons of his waistcoat, and covering his collar with a shabby muffler. then, producing a clay pipe, he slouched along for some distance, taking note of the buildings with apparent carelessness. he halted before a gateway labelled "iron wharf," beneath which was the well-known name of fairbrother. this was evidently mr. mole's destination, for he entered the gateway and walked towards the warehouse, where a number of vans were loading. inside the roomy ground floor stacks of iron gutters and rows of stoves lined the walls. pulley wheels and new sinks lay in heaps, marked with mysterious chalk hieroglyphics. trollies trundled over the floor, and cries of "below!" and "take a turn!" resounded from the upper regions, where goods were being lowered to the vans. "what are you after, mister?" a bearded man in a disreputable-looking coat and a sack apron accosted mole. "bit of old iron," said mole. "that the way up?" nodding to a wooden staircase. "that's the way until we get wings. what floor do you want?" "don't want a floor," said mole; "got two at home. guess again." "p'raps you want something else?" said the man, looking hard at mole's nose. "if so, you can have it." "thanks," said mole. "i'll see you when i come down." he ascended the staircase to the first floor. it appeared to be deserted, except for stacks of gas-stoves and iron mantelpieces. mole walked round and examined the mechanism of the cooking apparatus until a footstep sounded. "hallo, there," said a voice. "want a stove?" another bearded and ragged ruffian appeared. "how much?" asked mole. "what size do you want?"--pulling out a rule. "never mind about the size," said mole. "i'm looking for somebody." "you won't find any one in there," said the man, as mole opened a small oven door. "looking for a man name o' bray," continued mole. "jay? there's plenty of them about here. they're in every day, pulling the stuff about--tons of 'em." "almost as plentiful as whiskers, i suppose," said mole. "got a man here name o' bray?" the ragged salesman had turned to a small desk, and was poring deeply over a long order sheet marked "to-day certain" in bold writing. "what d'yer think of that?" said mole, producing a long cigar, and putting it on the desk. "try it after dinner." the man examined it closely and at a distance. "name o' bray you said, didn't you?" "bray," said mole. "don' know 'im," said the man. "no bray here. it wouldn't be wilkinson, i s'pose?" mole intimated with some heat that it was as likely to be sasselovitch as wilkinson. "bray, bray, bray. don't mean gray, do you?" said the man. "gray? now, that's near it," said mole. "i wonder if it could be gray! never seen the man myself, but a friend of mine in south africa asked me to find him if i could when i got home. is there a man here named gray?" "down in the office," said the man. "ah! what sort of a' chap is he, now? i didn't want to see him especially, i just want----" "tommy!" a yell came from the yard below. "hallo!" said the whiskered man, shuffling to the goods door that overlooked the yard. "hallo there!" there was no response. "here you are," he said suddenly to mole. "that's gray, going up the yard. tail coat--see! going out to lunch." "good," said mole. "i think i'll go after him." he scuttled down the stairs, and reached the street just as gray turned up a court on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. like a bloodhound, mole followed him. along queen victoria street went the pair, the guileless gray in front, his relentless pursuer twenty paces behind. gray stopped at the windows of a typewriting establishment; mole became absorbed in a new system of drainage displayed at an estate agent's. gray went on a bit further, and stopped again; mole did the same. presently gray, having dived into a passage, came out in cannon street and entered a restaurant; mole waited long enough to stow away his pipe and muffler, turn down his collar and set the cloth cap at a proper elevation, and then followed. gray had seated himself at an unoccupied table in a cosy corner, and was reading the bill of fare. mole proceeded with caution. having hesitated between a seat near the front window and one by the fireplace, he finally settled himself opposite gray at the same table. gray ordered a steak, and mole decided on a chop. as the waiter was departing, mole called him back and gave minute directions about the cooking, intimating at the same time that he would like something to drink. a precocious youth with hair elaborately oiled and brushed rushed forward. "get me some whisky," said mole; "and, look here!"--eyeing him sternly--"i don't want any of your cheap wash. ask for 'tommy morgan.'" "you won't get that about here," said the boy, decisively. "can get you 'killarney' or 'mcnab' or 'jimmy jenkins.'" "look here," said mole, gripping his arm; "you can get 'tommy morgan' if you try. but it's no good you going to common public-houses. try a high-class place, and remember that there's twopence for yourself. cut off!" "isn't it a funny thing, now," said mole, addressing his remarks to the cruet and gray, "that i have all this trouble to get a drop of good whisky? mind you"--boldly addressing gray--"i don't wonder at it, for the price is high, and it isn't everybody that can appreciate the flavour of 'tommy morgan!' it knocks 'em over. it's all strength and flavour." "must be pretty good," said gray. "it is," said mole, "to those who understand whisky. to others it's nothing out of the ordinary." "they say 'mcnab' is good stuff," ventured gray. "ordinary men may drink 'mcnab!'" said mole, picking up the _times_ and looking at it severely. "the whisky-drinker who has once tried 'tommy morgan' will never touch anything else. i've taken whisky since i was seven years old--was brought up on it; father drank it--grandfather too, and great-grandfather. we've been in the trade for generations. i don't suppose there's another man of my age who's a better judge of whisky than i am." the precocious youth returned with the whisky in a tumbler. "i got it, sir. had to go to the blue crown. they charged a penny extra." "good," said mole. "now i can enjoy my dinner. if they'd charged a shilling for it," he said to gray, speaking as a connoisseur, "it would have been worth the money." he took a mouthful of the whisky-and-water, and closed his eyes with dreamy satisfaction. gray called out to the retreating boy. "how far do you have to go for whisky?" he asked. "not far, sir," said the boy. "shan't be five minutes." "well, get me some whisky--the same," pointing to mole's glass. "i beg your pardon," said mole, suddenly. "allow me to say a word. don't," lowering his voice, "don't take this unless you are used to whisky. don't take it merely as a spirit, either. but----" he put one finger on gray's sleeve and paused significantly, "if you want flavour--_flavour_, then try it." gray did try it, and was obliged to confess that he didn't notice anything special about it. mole was not surprised; in fact, he said that he should have been surprised if gray had noticed the flavour. whiskies like "tommy morgan" were an acquired taste, you had to get used to them. when once you were used to them--when once you were used to "tommy morgan," then-- "it's like nectar," said mole, draining his glass. gray agreed that good whisky was hard to get, and confessed that he had tried many sorts in his time. he didn't drink it regularly, but liked it good when he did have it. "i drink nothing else but 'tommy,'" said mole, in confidence; "and i carry it with me always. i've just been round the country, and have run out of it till i get home. got heaps at home, my brother-in-law is a partner in the firm." "i must try a bottle," said gray; "where's the london office?" "no," said mole, lifting his hand; "i introduced it. you must allow me to send you a bottle free. try that, and if you like it, order as many bottles as you please." gray and mole parted with enthusiasm, mole promising to send a bottle of "tommy morgan" to the address given him. mole could not be certain when they would next meet, as he was off to liverpool and ireland the next day, and might be travelling for months. "lucky meeting that," said gray, as he went back to the office. "what sort of man was he?" said mrs. gray, when she heard of the affable stranger. "not very nice really i should think. seems to me rather unlucky to meet a man named mole on a friday." chapter xv--_aunt phoebe surprises her nephew_ "oh, george dear, do be careful!" cried mrs. early. "no harm done," said george. "there is, you bad boy! you've upset the salt. throw a bit over your left shoulder--quick!" george obeyed. "coffee or tea, dear?" "coffee," said george, briskly; "plenty of it." mrs. early took up the coffee-pot and put it down again quickly with an expression of horror. "oh, look what you've done now!" she cried. "what? upset the mustard?" said george. "you've crossed the knives. separate them; it's terribly unlucky." again george obeyed. "it's made me quite nervous," said mrs. early, pouring out the coffee. "i'm sure something is going to happen. there!" as a spoon slipped off the table, "a stranger's coming!" george looked across the table into the wide-open eyes of his wife. "i know," he said intelligently: "it's the sweep; these chimneys are in a terrible state. i told martha about it the other day." "it isn't the sweep," said mrs. early; "its a stranger who brings bad news. something's happened." george pondered for a moment, and then said-- "it must be that hat you sent to the milliner. shop burnt out, i expect." "it's worse than that," said mrs. early, pressing one hand cautiously to her heart. "i can feel it." "you're right," said george, as he opened a letter brought in by martha. "it's worse than that." mrs. early grasped the table with both hands. "is it too bad for me to hear?" she whispered. george leant his head upon one hand, and frowned heavily at the tablecloth. "i suppose i'd better tell you," he said hoarsely. "give me your hand. are you calm now?" "quite," said mrs. early, shaking. "tell me." "are you sure you won't faint?" "i'll--i'll try not to." "then, listen," said george. "your aunt phoebe is coming to stay with us." he threw a letter across the table, and drew back in time to dodge the serviette thrown by his indignant spouse. "george," said mrs. early, tragically, "i hate you!" "then come and give me a kiss," said george. for answer mrs. early tossed her head, which necessitated her husband's going round the table to kiss her. this he continued to do until his wife reversed her decision. "and yet," said mrs. early, "i can't get over the feeling that something is going to happen." george looked up with the light of intelligence in his eyes. "what is it?" said his wife. "perhaps martha's going to give notice. i've seen a soldier hanging about the front lately, and she asked me yesterday if the flats in the suburbs were very dear?" mrs. early gasped, and closed her mouth ominously. "that must be it," she said in a terrible whisper. "don't worry," said george; "it hasn't happened yet." as he left for upper thames street his wife told him brightly that she believed that martha was quite safe, as she had asked to have her bedroom whitewashed at christmas. "funny creatures, women," thought george, as he bowled along in a hansom to the office. "always getting some queer notions in their heads, always making mountains out of molehills. good creatures, too," he mused. "only got to be fond of 'em and tell 'em so, and they're ready to do anything for you. well, i'm a lucky brute!" the last thought was sufficiently good for george for the rest of the journey, and it was still strong upon him as he looked round the magnificent room he occupied at fairbrothers'. "big and roomy," said he, standing with his back to the fire; "warm, cosy, and comfortable. easy-chairs, cigars, drinks, and amusement in the shape of work. after work, a gorgeous house in kensington, a good dinner, and a charming wife to talk to. what more could a man wish for?" he lit a cigarette and looked about him. "i took to this room from the first, something seemed to draw me to it; it's been my lucky room from the very beginning. i didn't think on the morning i came up here and overheard that little conversation that it was going to be the foundation of my fortune. it was a friday, too, if i remember rightly. that's one for the people who say that friday isn't a lucky day." a knock came at the door, and gray entered. "ah, gray," said george, seating himself at a desk, "i was ruminating over things when you entered and broke the spell." "i've got something to ruminate over myself," said gray, bitterly. "i want to have a little talk with you." george looked up and waited for him to continue. "you needn't look so innocent," said gray; "you can't bluff me now. i'm used to it." george raised his eyebrows, and endeavoured to find a solution to the mystery in the countenance of his visitor. "have a good look," said gray, "so that you'll know me again." "i know you, gray," said his master, pleasantly, "and i must remind you that i am the principal of this establishment. if you have any complaint to lodge you had better make it by letter. my time is precious." "it was a low-down trick," said gray, fiercely. he began to pace up and down the apartment. "what's a low-down trick? explain yourself." "oh, don't come that game with me," said gray, irritably. "you've been giving me away, and you know it!" "i don't," said george. "i beg your pardon, gray, but i don't know it." "do you mean to say you haven't been putting the lawyers on my track?" he asked in a terrible voice. "lawyers? what lawyers?" gray snatched a blue paper from his pocket, and threw it on the table. "look at that," he demanded, "and then get out of it if you can!" george early picked up the paper and read-- "to mr. james gray. "warning! "sir, "we are empowered under the will of the late joseph fairbrother to give you fair warning that you are not abiding by the rules of the agreement under which you received a legacy from the said gentleman hereinbefore mentioned. it having come to our knowledge that you, in the presence of a witness, did partake of alcoholic liquor on a date subsequent to that on which the legacy came into operation, you are hereby warned to discontinue the practice under pain of losing the said legacy, and forfeiting all moneys forthwith. "we are, sir, "yours faithfully, "dibbs & dubbs. "first warning." george turned over the paper and stared at it. "well, i'm hanged!" he said. "what are you going to do about it?" asked gray, sullenly. "do?" said george. "nothing. gray," he continued quietly, "upon my soul i haven't breathed a word of your secret to any person but yourself. somebody must have told the lawyers, but, believe me, i had no hand in it." "then who is it?" said gray. "perhaps the lawyers themselves are doing it." "they've left me alone previously. why should they begin now? if i find the man who did it," said gray in a low, terrible voice, "heaven help him!" it was not possible to tell mrs. gray of this misfortune, so her husband, to account for his worried look, was forced to give out that he had lost the secretaryship of the old friends' club. some miscreant had libelled him and declared that he was a great drinker, and the club handed over the secretaryship to a temperance member. "just what i thought," said mrs. gray, sorrowfully; "friday's an unlucky day, jimmy; and when you told me his name, i had a creepy feeling all over me. i'm not surprised." "what are you talking about?" said her husband, irritably. "told you whose name?" "why, that man, jimmy; 'mould,' wasn't it?" gray smothered a profane word. "the skulking hound! why, of course, he's the man who did it. let me set eyes on him again. him and his wonderful 'tommy morgan.' i'll give him 'tommy morgan'--i'll break his head!" "oh, jimmy, do be careful of yourself!" pleaded little mrs. gray. "i'll be right enough, em. i'll give him 'tommy morgan'!" gray kept a keen eye open for the versatile mole, but he never appeared again in the cannon street restaurant; nor was gray sharp enough to catch a glimpse of him in st. paul's passage, although he haunted that place in a revengeful spirit for some days. probably a week of temperance and an abnormal sense of safety were responsible for the yearning to taste liquor that seized gray one evening as he returned home. he determined to try his luck, so instead of journeying to leytonstone he got out at stratford, and struck off into a by-street. having traversed one street after another, looking cautiously behind him at intervals, he selected an ill-lighted public-house and slipped into the private bar. luck favoured him, the compartment was quite empty. the stiff glass of whisky-and-water seemed the sweetest he had ever tasted, it warmed the heart and left a delightful flavour in the mouth. as gray turned to depart, the partition shook, and a cough arrested his attention. he looked up and saw the face of mole peering over the top. gray was furious. all the enmity he had engendered in the past week appeared in full force at a second's command. he rushed to the door of the next compartment. it was empty. he tried the next bar, and caught sight of a figure disappearing down the street. as gray followed, the man began to run. it was an exciting chase, but mole was too slippery for his pursuer, and gray, after a vigorous hunt, was forced to confess himself beaten. when george early went through his morning letters an officious-looking blue envelope happened to be on the top. it bore the mark of dibbs and dubbs, and was addressed to "james gray, esq." it had evidently been put there by mistake. george called a boy and sent the letter downstairs. later in the day he was able, by careful observation, to conclude that gray had received a second warning from the lawyers. "for mrs. gray's sake," said george to himself, "i must see into this matter. it won't do for gray to lose that legacy. i must talk to him seriously--threaten him, if necessary. he'll be careful for a few days; i'll wait, and when he's in the right mood point out the terrible consequences of his keeping to the drink." with this virtuous resolution george early dismissed the question, but bethought himself to mention it at the dinner-table that evening. "gray has had his second warning," he said, looking across at aunt phoebe. "i've given him plenty of advice. i suppose i shall have to threaten him now." aunt phoebe looked very cross, and said that she really had no patience with men. "well, it serves him right, that's all i can say. i shouldn't threaten him. let him go on. it's to your interest; it will punish him to lose the money, and i'm not sure that it won't do you some good to have it. i really think you'd be better as a teetotaler, too." "what's all that to do with gray?" asked george in astonishment. "for goodness' sake turn over to me all your knowledge of the complications of these fairbrother wills and legacies. i'm continually getting surprises." "i thought you knew all the complications of the legacies," said aunt phoebe, raising her eyebrows. "it seems to me that i don't," said george. "why, don't you know that if mr. gray loses his legacy, it reverts to you, and that you get the money, and have to abide by the conditions as he did?" "what!" george leapt out of his seat like a man shot, and had to hold the table to steady himself. his wife and aunt shrieked simultaneously. "what's that you say!" roared george. "me take the legacy? me be a teetotaler, and take over the--the----" he sat down in his seat at the earnest request of his aunt, who declared that he ought to be ashamed of himself to frighten his poor darling wife by roaring like a lion. "i don't understand," said george, in a dazed fashion. "me take the--gray lose his legacy, and me take it?" mrs. early having recovered and scolded her "naughty boy," aunt phoebe begged her nephew to be calm, and repeated her former statement. it was quite correct; if the legacies were lost while miss fairbrother remained unmarried, they were to go to charities, but in the event of miss fairbrother being married the legacies, together with the conditions, would revert to her husband. it was mr. fairbrother's express wish, because he said his daughter's husband might need reforming, and if he didn't there would be no harm done. "very kind of him," said george; "and what about the husband? i suppose he can't lose the legacies--he's got them for life?" "no," said aunt phoebe; "if he loses them the money goes to charities." george gave a sigh of relief. "i'm afraid i should lose them," he said. "however, it wouldn't much matter?" it was aunt phoebe's turn to be surprised. "wouldn't much matter, do you say?" she almost shrieked. "do you mean to tell me that you don't know all the terrible conditions attached to these legacies?" george turned pale, and his wife was threatened with hysterics. "what are the conditions?" asked george, hoarsely. aunt phoebe rose to her feet. "the conditions," she said, in an awesome voice, "are these: if the legacies revert to you, and you lose them, the fairbrother fortune goes too. _every penny of your wife's income goes to charities!_" george early's jaw dropped, and he sat in a helpless heap. his little wife burst into tears. presently george roused himself and took a glass of wine. "aunt phoebe," he said; "did old fairbrother put those conditions in his will with regard to the three legacies?" "i have said so," was the reply. "they were entirely the idea of mr. joseph fairbrother himself." "then all i can say," said george--"all i can say is that he was a silly old fool!" chapter xvi--_george early and the giant alcohol_ master cacklin was perched upon a high stool, eagerly devouring a report of the match between teddy sneffler and the midget, for the bantam championship, when a succession of soft squeaky footsteps fell on his ear. as they ascended the stairs he turned his head. the paper was quickly thrust into his desk, and the cacklin pen began to move with marvellous rapidity. a bell rang, loudly and impatiently. "who's that?" said william budd, appearing from an obscure corner. "guvnor," said cacklin. "upstairs--sharp!" "who said the guvnor was here?" inquired busby, coming forward and looking at the clock, which pointed to a quarter past nine. "it's right enough," said cacklin; "just come in. something on the board, i expect." william budd entered the upstairs room with that feeling of suppressed excitement which always arises when the "guvnor" appears in the office an hour before his usual time. "i want mr. gray," said george, sharply. "yes, sir." the boy disappeared. in five minutes he reappeared. "mr. gray's out, sir." "say i want him as soon as he comes in." "yes, sir." george fingered the letters on his desk, looked at the post-marks, and put them down without opening any. he walked to the window and stood for five minutes looking at the traffic outside. his usual imperturbability had deserted him to-day, chased away by the events of the previous evening. he walked up and down the big office, lit a cigarette, and paused at intervals to look in the mirror over the mantelshelf. "lucky thing i got that information last night," he said presently. "that ass gray is sure to make a fool of himself unless i take him in hand--sure to do it. and that old idiot, too! 'legacies revert to his daughter's husband.' never heard of such rot in my life." he touched the bell again, and again the surprised budd appeared. "mr. gray," said george. "not come back, sir," said the boy. "find him--find him!" said the new master. "when did he go out--how long ago?" "dunno, sir," said the boy. "find out. be sharp!" the offices below were aroused into activity by the peremptory orders to find gray. william budd's version of his brief interview created some excitement. he described george early as walking up and down the office with arms waving, and eyes starting from his head. he ordered gray to be found, dead or alive. budd was not sure that he didn't see a revolver lying on the desk. ten o'clock struck, but no gray appeared. office-boys and junior clerks had spurted east and west. nobody knew where gray had gone, and there appeared to be no reason why he should leave the office. he might have gone out on the firm's business, but if so nobody knew of it. wild were the conjectures as to what was in store for him when he returned, and why he had disappeared. at lunch-time gray was still absent, and the latest news in the counting-house was that the "guvnor" had gone out to lunch with a slow, firm step, and a napoleonic sternness of brow. while this excitement was rife in upper thames street, mrs. gray was busy with her work in the little leytonstone house. if her husband had important business of his own to transact, it was clear she did not know it. she had just put up a pair of clean curtains to the front window, and lovingly caressed a pink bow that held one of them back, when a sharp knock came at the front door. mrs. gray opened it, and started back in surprise, "well, i never! this is a surprise! how do you do, mr. early? won't you come in?" george early did go in. moreover, he shook hands, and said that it was a pleasure to him to find mrs. gray looking so well. his smile was perhaps not so brilliant as of yore, but mrs. gray put that down to the worries of managing a large business, and the severity necessary to his position. mrs. gray thought it very kind of her old lodger not to forget his landlady. she hoped mrs. early was well. george was pleased to say that mrs. early was in excellent health and spirits. "and how are you getting on now?" said george, when he had passed as lightly as possible over his change of position. "you have another lodger, i suppose?" mrs. gray was sorry to say that she hadn't. jimmy was very well, but some horrid person had accused him of drinking, and he had lost the secretaryship of the club. "it's a shame!" said george. "but, between ourselves, i'm afraid there's some truth in it." "truth in what?" said mrs. gray, fearfully. "he drinks," said george, solemnly. "now, what did he have this morning?" "nothing but his breakfast," cried mrs. gray. "he had his breakfast and went off as usual." "good," thought george; "then he isn't here?" "the fact is," he said, "i came down especially to see you about this. he must be got to sign the pledge, and we must keep the closest watch upon him to see that he never takes anything." "is it so bad as that?" said mrs. gray, with wide-open eyes. "it is," said george, mysteriously, "for you." "what do you mean?" said mrs. gray. "he has always been a friend of mine," said george, absently, "and i'll never let it be said that i haven't stretched out a hand to help him. besides, he doesn't do it of his own accord, as you may say. and it isn't as if you weren't a good wife to him, because i know that you are." "whatever is the matter?" cried mrs. gray, clasping her hands frantically. "he must sign the pledge," said george again. "you're a good wife to him, and he doesn't do it willingly." "doesn't do what?"--wildly. george laid one hand upon mrs. gray's sleeve, and looked steadily into her eyes. "does he ever talk in his sleep?" he asked. "i don't think so--not much. i haven't noticed." "never mentions the name flora, alice, or may, i suppose?" "i don't think--you don't mean to say----" "never speaks of christabel--chrissy, does he?" mrs. gray burst into tears. george sighed, and tried to comfort her by little pats on the shoulder. "there, there; you mustn't blame him," he said. "it isn't his fault, you know." mrs. gray cried louder, and her little form shook with emotion. "he--he goes with other girls. i k-know he does!" she cried. "oh! oh! oh!" "'tisn't jimmy," said george, soothingly. "it's the whisky." "oh! oh!" cried mrs. gray. "he--he goes with other girls!" "he doesn't," said george, boldly. "i won't hear it. you shan't blame him. it isn't fair!" mrs. gray grew calmer, but still continued to sob. she was always prepared to back up the opinions of george, whom she held to be a man of excellent qualities, with an idolatrous affection for her husband. "it isn't fair that you should go against him when he is not to blame," said george. "you should save him from them." mrs. gray wiped her eyes meekly. "what you must do," said george, "is to insist on his signing the pledge. that's the only way. and you must make him promise you never to touch another drop of drink. when he's had a glass he's a different man, and isn't responsible for his actions." "does it--does it make him look at other girls?" asked mrs. gray, tremblingly. "it does," said george. "you've guessed it at once. it makes him terribly affectionate, too. why, when alice--you see, it's a very peculiar disease, very common in turkey. as soon as you begin to drink, you get an idea that every girl's in love with you. and the worst of it is that a man might propose without knowing it. now, flora--well, the only thing for him to do is to sign the pledge and keep it." "he shall sign it to-morrow," said mrs. gray, firmly. "i shouldn't let him know that i've been here," said george. "he'll only worry himself, thinking there's something wrong with his work." "who's flora?" asked mrs. gray, the fierce light of jealousy kindling in her eye. "don't you bother about her. she won't come down here." "she'd better not," said mrs. gray, with compressed lips. "i'd give her flora--or may--or chrissy, if she came here!" "i believe you would," said george, with admiration. "i'll smash every whisky-bottle in the place," said mrs. gray, whose indignation was now rising to fever pitch. "not another drop shall he touch if i know it! i'll soon see about flora!" george prepared to depart, perfectly satisfied that his mission had been a success. he took the hand of his old landlady, and said, with some emotion-- "don't be too hard on him. you don't know how--how it cuts me to the heart to see him do wrong. but remember that he's my old chum. together we'll drag him away from this curse. he's my chum and your husband--the best fellow that ever lived. let us save him, and be gentle to him at the same time. goodbye, good-bye!" george wrung her hand, and hurried off, to all appearances only just in time to prevent the tears coming. mrs. gray looked after him down the street, and felt her heart glow. "ah, jimmy," she murmured, shaking her head, "you don't realize how much that friend has done for you!" george travelled back to the office, and reached it just as the office staff was preparing to give up work for the day. "i suppose gray's here," he said, summoning a junior clerk. "what time did he get back?" the clerk coughed discreetly. "'fraid he hasn't come back yet, sir," he said. "send mr. busby to me." the youth departed. "not back yet!" said george, looking hard at the fireplace. "i wonder what he's up to. if the lunatic is out drinking, they'll be on his track, as sure as fate. busby," he said, as the cashier entered, "what has become of gray?" busby could give no solution to the problem. "he put on his hat and went off about half-past eight," he said. "i didn't notice anything peculiar about him, except that he swore rather more than usual. i noticed that he looked several times at a blue paper he got by this morning's post, and----" "what!" yelled the master, springing out of his chair. "a blue paper," repeated busby, dodging behind the desk in alarm. george grasped him by the collar fiercely. "you say he got a blue paper this morning!" he cried. "y-yes," said busby, promptly putting himself in the defensive. george cast him off. "enough!" he said. "go!" "it was a blue envelope," said busby, "and when he opened it----" "go, will you!" "there was a long blue paper inside," said the cashier, moving across the carpet. "so i----" george picked up a heavy bill file and flung it just as busby skipped out of the door. "he's done it!--the silly, stupid idiot has done it, and it's on me! and i've been down to his house and made a fool of myself!" on arriving at brunswick terrace george early's fears were confirmed by the sight of a formidable blue envelope addressed to himself. a document inside set forth the fact, in legal phraseology, that james gray had forfeited his claim to the fairbrother's annuity, and that the said annuity had now fallen to mr. george early, husband of ellen fairbrother. the said george early was duly warned of the terrible issues at stake, consequent upon his not observing the rules of the legacy, the aforesaid issues leading to the ultimate forfeiture of the fairbrother estates by the said george early's wife. "well, i'm a teetotaler now," said george, resignedly. "there's no getting out of it." "it's better for you," said aunt phoebe. "i never did believe in drink." "nobody asked you to," said her nephew. "i don't believe in it. i take it for my health." nevertheless, he interviewed the smart young lawyer at dibbs and dubbs, who confirmed everything that had been said on the forfeiture of the estate. "we shall watch you closely," he said brightly to george, rubbing his hands. "on behalf of the trustees of the 'very dark african mission,' who will benefit by the estate, i am directed to watch--you--very--closely." "that's right," said george. "you keep your eye on me. i wish you luck!" chapter xvii--_advice gratis_ gray appeared at his desk the next morning at his usual hour. the office learned in due course that he had had some trouble and had taken a day off. the loss of an annuity of five hundred pounds a year did not appear to weigh on him so heavily as might have been supposed. at half-past ten he went upstairs, in response to a request for his presence. george early was occupying his accustomed place, perhaps a little paler than usual, but very intent on business. "you sent for me," said gray. "i did," said his master. "i should like you to explain your strange absence from business yesterday." gray grinned. "i was burying my grandmother," he said. he received a look of severe reproof. "i believe i am right in assuming that you were out making a beast of yourself," said george. "i was out with flora," replied gray. george coughed and became interested in a letter. "as you did not turn up yesterday," he explained, "i felt it my duty to inquire about you. in the interests of yourself and your wife i endeavoured to do you a good turn." "thanks," said gray. "i'll do the same for you when the time comes." "go back to your work," ordered his master, "and don't let it occur again." "it's no good asking you to have a drink, i suppose?" said gray. george early turned pale and swore softly. "i suppose you know all," he said. "everything," gray confessed. "you're not the only artful one in the firm." "i'll sack you if you're not careful," cried george. gray laughed. he opened the door to go out, but paused on the threshold. "keep your eye on the other two," he said significantly. george rested awhile from his labours, in order to curse for the hundredth time the imbecility of the late venerable head of the firm. the worst of a legacy such as he was blessed with was that nobody but himself realized the hardships of it. when he grumbled his wife soothed him with soft words; but he knew that in her heart she believed it was good for him to be a teetotaler. what troubled him more than this was the terrible probability of receiving fifteen hundred pounds a year instead of five hundred. if parrott and busby should fail as gray had done, and the three legacies came to him, life would not be worth living. he must make his plans at once, without a moment's delay. the rest of the morning was devoted to a straight talk with busby, in which george pointed out that having taken the place of the late venerable head of the firm, he was prepared to adhere to his principles. he exhorted busby to shun the ways of the untruthful as he would a fiery furnace, and to walk henceforth among those who were honest. he promised to forward without delay a life-sized portrait of george washington, which busby might hang in his bedroom. parrott was treated to a similar discourse, and urged to respond with alacrity to all requests for pecuniary assistance. "generosity," said george, sagely, "is its own reward. it is sinful to have money and to keep it to ourselves. let us give it to those who are poor, especially when they ask for it." for the better safety of their master's interests the two legatees were informed that the lawyers had at last woke up, and had terrible sleuth-hounds on their track, under whose deadly eyes gray had fallen a victim. the next morning the office staff, on taking up their duties, were electrified to see the walls of the building adorned with the newest of religious texts, including such good counsel as "honesty is the best policy," "tell the truth and shame the devil," "it is more blessed to give than to receive." "seems to me," observed cacklin, "that the boss is going to start a sunday school, and he wants us all to join his class." "perhaps they're put up to give the new chap a good start," said william budd. "what new chap?" "chap in matthews' place." "matthews gone?" "got a new job," explained billy; "asked the boss if his cousin could take his place here. there's the new feller. see?" "he's a nice piece of pie-crust," said cacklin, critically. "here!" he called to the youth, who stood awkwardly near the doorway. "what name?" "bailey, sir," replied the youth. "any relation to old bailey?" inquired cacklin. billy grinned. "no, sir," said the youth. "all right," said cacklin; "wait over there. decent sort of chap," he remarked, flattered by the youth's respectful attitude. this opinion was echoed throughout the office during the three following days. on the fourth, busby received a blue envelope from dibbs and dubbs. on the fifth, bailey met a friend outside the office at closing time, and pointed out to him the form of parrott wending his way to blackfriars, whereupon the friend immediately left bailey and went also to blackfriars. three days after this incident, parrott himself received a blue letter from the lawyers. energetic as was george early, these incidents passed without his notice, illustrating the truth of the adage about the best laid schemes of mice and men going "aft agley." not that he was negligent, the personal attention he gave to the head clerk and the cashier was quite pathetic. they lunched with him, had tea in his private office, and frequently went to brunswick terrace to dinner. sometimes the master would even accompany them home. busby was promoted to the post of private secretary at an increased salary, and a great deal of parrott's time was spent upstairs in the big office. at intervals, mr. george early sent them little gifts of books, wherein the value of truth on the one hand, and generosity on the other, were set forth. if george early had only known the qualities of the new head of dibbs and dubbs, things might have been different. that energetic young man, intent upon earning the fees due to him, and with a keen eye to future business, shadowed the legatees everywhere. george found it a comparatively easy matter to keep to temperance with so much at stake, but busby, conscious of his own defects and the pernicious results of habit, hardly dared to open his mouth. parrott, too, was sorely tried by the constant demands on his purse, and the mind-raking trials of sorting out spies from "hard-ups." arriving early one morning at the office, the principal discovered among the letters two of the fatal blue envelopes. they were addressed to busby and parrott. with feverish haste he awaited the two subordinates, and then learned with indignation that these were the second warnings of each. "to think," said george, addressing his crestfallen secretary, "that after all the trouble i've taken you couldn't keep an honest tongue in your head. of course, it's of no consequence to me, except that i shall be sorry to see you lose the money." "it's easy to make a mistake," faltered busby. "easy be hanged!" replied his master. "you should have been careful. come in!" as a knock sounded. a boy entered, and said, "gentleman to see you, sir." "can't see any one now," said george, irritably. "you go, busby, and see who it is, say i'll see him later." busby went gloomily down the stairs. the warning had cast a black cloud over his prospects, and his nerves, never under perfect control, were in an unsatisfactory condition. only those who experience a sudden accession to wealth can adequately realize the sensation of feeling that it is going to be as suddenly snatched away. at the present moment he would have welcomed a snug log cabin in an uninhabited island, where the absence of people would preclude the necessity of lying. a tall stranger came forward as he reached the lower office. "are you mr. early?" he asked. "no," said busby, "you----" "i wanted to see him," said the stranger. "fact is," replied the cashier, "he's not here. can you call again about eleven?" the stranger smiled, and pulled out a card-case. "yes," said busby, taking the card absently. "i'll make an appointment for you at eleven." the stranger departed, and busby carried the piece of cardboard upstairs. "what's this?" said george, glancing at the card. "dibbs and dubbs." busby let fall the inkstand he was lifting, and grasped the desk with both hands. the two men stared at each other. "i've done it," said busby, feebly, dropping back in a chair; "it's all over." he laughed hysterically and wiped away some moisture from one eye. "it's all over," he repeated in a silly, stupid way. "speak out," said george, hoarsely, trying to shake off a numbness that was creeping over him. "what have you done? what have you done? out with it!" "told him--told him you were not here." it is safe to say that the flow of profanity delivered by the new master of fairbrothers' on receiving this intelligence was such as had never before resounded in the chief office during the firm's existence. busby was too intent on his own loss to take much heed of it, or to wonder why the loss of five hundred pounds a year to his secretary should have such an effect on george early, master of thousands. he lay back in a limp heap, feebly repeating at intervals, "i've done it; it's all over." animated by a faint hope that all was not lost, george summoned the office-boy. that youth, with quick intelligence and some pride, confessed that he had "told the gentleman mr. early was upstairs." as a reward mr. early swore at him, and sacked him on the spot. an hour later the worried ironmonger sat alone in the big room. he had dispensed with his secretary's services for the rest of the day, and had given strict orders that no one was to be admitted to his presence. the appalling significance of his position was beginning to dawn upon him. already he had two of the legacies, and the third was obviously a mere matter of time. "you can't knock sense into the heads of these brutes," he reflected bitterly; "they don't understand generosity. parrott'll go down as sure as my name's george." he sat upright and tried to review the situation. a stiff glass of brandy would have been a help, but that was out of the question. this second legacy, of which he would probably receive notice in the morning, was ten times worse than the first. all his life george had been accustomed to equivocation, and to bind himself to speaking the whole truth and nothing but the truth was like asking him to keep his eyes shut for the rest of his life. he regretted the afternoons he had stayed away from sunday school. he was positive that he would fail. and the third legacy would be even more appalling than the other two, for there was no doubt that the secret would get out. gray, busby, and parrott would be sure to get news of all three, and heaven knows how many more people besides, and then he would be simply besieged for money. it would be an impossible situation, and most unjust. he could see a most disastrous end to all his schemes. himself brought to poverty, and with him a wife who had been reared in luxury. the representative of dibbs and dubbs did not appear at eleven o'clock, so george decided to leave the stuffy atmosphere of upper thames street and cool his brow on a thames steamboat. before leaving he confided to parrott in the strictest confidence the calamity that had befallen his colleague, and urged him, while there was yet time, to reform. "give," said george, strenuously, "with a free hand. i know it's hard for you to do it, but do it. and look here"--as a brilliant thought struck him--"i'll stand half the debts, just to help you to get over the habit of refusing." he went away more pleased than he had hoped to be. it really was a good idea that, and he could well afford it. parrott did not look very hopeful in spite of the generous offer; probably he had less faith in himself, knowing himself better. "maybe," thought george, as he wended his way along upper thames street, "i shall be able to think of some scheme to dodge all this. i used to have a few ideas at one time. i suppose there's some one on my track from the infernal lawyers now." he turned round sharply, and observed a young man stop and bend a searching gaze on a bill announcing property for sale. "that's the man. i must be careful to do the george washington act, and stick hard to temperance principles." as he proceeded on his way, the young man, who was no other than the relentless mole, carefully followed him. it was late in the afternoon when he returned to brunswick terrace. during his wanderings he had not been able to shake off his pursuer, who tarried on the opposite side of the road as he entered the house. as he expected, a legal document awaited him, announcing the reversion of the second legacy. "what a shame!" cried mrs. early, hotly, when she heard the news. "i do think papa might have shown a little more feeling." "more feeling, my dear?" aunt phoebe bristled up. "really, i'm surprised at you. for my part, i rejoice, and i can't understand why your husband doesn't do so. surely it is a blessing to know that one is always telling the truth." "oh, i'm overwhelmed with joy," groaned george--"never felt happier in my life." "we shall all be pleased, i think, to feel that we can rely on every word you say," said aunt phoebe, quietly. "ah," said george, "it's different here. of course, at home it doesn't count. it isn't like----" his aunt held up her hands. "i beg your pardon," she said; "i must differ. i give you warning; i must differ. it would be far from my wish to have to say a word that would injure either of you, but in the interests of truth and justice----" "truth and justice be hanged!" "in the interests of truth and justice," persisted aunt phoebe, "i should be compelled--compelled to speak." mrs. early burst into tears and cried, "oh, aunt phoebe, how can you be so horrid!" george protested in most vehement language, but aunt phoebe was firm. "i couldn't sleep at night," she said, "for feeling that i had acted wrongfully. no, i couldn't do it." "well, i'd sooner you kept awake," said george, unfeelingly, "if you can't trust yourself." aunt phoebe prepared to serve tea, and said curiously-- "i wonder that the habit of truth was not grounded in you when you were a sunday school teacher. may i ask how many scholars you had?" "you may not," replied her nephew, irritably. why the devil did she want to remind him of that bit of polite fiction! aunt phoebe looked meaningly at her niece. "were you ever a sunday school teacher?" she said, boldly continuing the attack. "no!" blurted out george. "there!" she folded her arms and looked again at her niece, whose sobs began afresh. "did you ever----" "oh, give me some tea," cried the wretched man. "i'm not going to sit here and be catechized like this." "in the interests of my niece i demand it," continued his relentless aunt; "how many lives did you save before that affair in regent street?" "i can't remember," said george, sullenly. "my memory's bad." aunt phoebe smiled triumphantly. george proceeded to drink his tea in silence. "i suppose," continued the old lady, "you never fell in love with any young ladies before you met my niece? never took them up the river, and----" george groaned and clapped his hand to his head. "it's coming on," he said hoarsely. mrs. early ran to him at once. "what is it, darling?" she cried. "let me get to the couch," said george in a low voice; "take my arm." "is it your poor head?" asked his wife, anxiously. george groaned again. "i think it's a fit coming on." "oh, let me get the doctor. aunt, send for the doctor--quick!" "i don't think the doctor is needed," said aunt phoebe, pursing her lips. "if it gets worse we can throw some cold water over him." "it isn't so bad as that," said george, hastily. "it's--it's my head." "poor, poor head!" said mrs. early, smoothing his hair. "the truth's been too much for him," said aunt phoebe. "aunt, how can you!" cried mrs. early, tearfully. "i'm sure george is very, very unwell." he managed to squeeze out another groan. "perhaps he'd better have some more tea," said aunt phoebe. "what is it?" to a maid who had entered. "letter for the master, ma'am." "another blue envelope," said aunt phoebe, taking the letter. george looked up and stifled a curse. "don't open it," he said. "i know what it is." what could it be but the third and final legacy? he burst into a profuse perspiration, and smothered his wrath in the cushions of the sofa. "is oo better now, dearie?" asked his wife. george raised himself into a sitting position. "it's gone off a bit," he said. "i think i'll go out and walk it off." a new idea had come into his head, and he wanted solitude to think it over. "i shouldn't go out, dearie," advised mrs. early, anxiously. "your poor head might get bad again." george kissed her and summoned up a feeble smile. "it's better now, pet," he said; "a walk will just put me right." he took the blue letter into the hall and opened it. it was as he suspected. parrott had evidently had the third warning that morning, and not the second. outside george found the patient figure of mole taking careful observation. he appeared not to notice him, but turned away in the direction of hyde park. the cool air revived him, and he sat listening to the band for half an hour. finding in its music no solution to the problems confronting him, he turned out of the gate and strolled along piccadilly. "it was in this neighbourhood that i did the heroic act and let myself in for this," thought george. "i only wish i could find a way out of it here." food was necessary to keep up his strength, so he entered the café royal and ordered a sumptuous dinner. the indefatigable sleuth-hound did likewise at a respectful distance. "now," thought george, as he emerged with the satisfied feeling that only a good dinner can give, "now i must try to think it out. i had luck in this spot before--if you can call it luck. perhaps i'll get the same again." but the goddess of fortune failed to appear, nor did george succeed in meeting her during his subsequent two hours' stroll. all his own ideas went down before the ingenious complications conceived by the late head of the fairbrother firm. he sighed deeply as he stood on the doorstep at brunswick terrace searching for his latch-key. the sigh was succeeded by a smile. before inserting the key in the lock george turned and looked thoughtfully at a ghostly figure on the other side of the road. "well," he said with a valiant attempt at hilarity, "i'll try being good for a time, and see how that works." chapter xviii--_the disadvantages of trying to be good_ at breakfast next morning mr. george early was a model of politeness and urbanity. his courteousness obtruded itself so much that aunt phoebe could scarcely refrain from remarking upon it. after watching him closely, she decided that the night had effected one of those great changes sometimes observable in men after a crisis. he had turned over a new leaf. without delay she put this to the test. "i suppose," she remarked, smiling pleasantly at her nephew, "that i may rely upon you for a ten-pound subscription to the 'friendly friday evenings for mothers society?'" george was all attention at once. "most certainly," he said. "i'm very glad you mentioned it. a noble institution." "i'm pleased to hear you say that," said his aunt. "you were not always on the society's side, and i'm glad to find that your views have changed." george shook his head sorrowfully. "i'm afraid that i have not been altogether free from error," he faltered. "darling!" cried mrs. early, who foresaw a display of feeling, and was apprehensive of trouble. "no," said her husband, gravely, raising his right hand; "i have not. in the light of certain events--by the wisdom of a certain person no longer with us, i see it. i have been wrong. i admit it." "you have not been wrong, darling!" cried mrs. early, impulsively. "ellen," said aunt phoebe, in remonstrance, "i'm surprised at you. i admire the spirit that prompts your husband to make these confessions. please do not interrupt." "i have told lies," said george, penitently. mrs. early frowned and sighed. "i have drunk whisky, and acquired habits that made my presence obnoxious to the fair creatures, both youthful and aged--i mean experienced--with whom good fortune placed me." aunt phoebe coughed. "there are many things," said george, looking at the ceiling, "that i would not have done had i known all i know now." observing that aunt phoebe's eyes were on the tablecloth, he winked at the fireplace. "but i hope that it is not too late to make amends." "there is still time," said his aunt, fervently, "to repent and lead a better life." "it is that which makes me glad," said george. having generously paid the ten-pound subscription and left behind him an impression of wholesome righteousness, mr. early stepped into a hansom cab and drove to upper thames street. here his calm demeanour and amiability, contrasted with the feverishness of the last few days, caused a general raising of eyebrows. to the head clerk, who humbly apologized for his stupidity george was gentleness itself. instead of rating him he sympathized; so that parrott, who imagined that he had at last got a fair inkling of george early's character, went away more mystified than ever. the other ex-legatees received the news with surprise and some apprehension. doubtless they had stored away in their minds various plans for enriching themselves at their master's expense, intending to profit by their own experience. gray certainly had, and the rumours did not prevent his putting one into execution very promptly. he appeared in the chief's office an hour after that gentleman arrived. he received a cheerful welcome, to which he responded. "i suppose you know my errand," he said, smiling maliciously, and rubbing his hands together. his master looked up, thought a moment, and regretted that he could not call to mind anything important concerning himself and gray. but whatever it was, he promised that it should receive his attention. "it's a question of money," said gray. "a little loan of five pounds to begin with. i suppose i need not use any arguments in favour of my case; you already understand the business well." "dear me!" said george; "i hope no misfortune has befallen you, gray, that you need this money. you did quite right to come to me. you shall certainly have it." "thanks," said gray. "i always prefer to have my men come straight to me. some people may think me hard, but i tell you, gray, i can't bear to feel that any of my employés are uncomfortable or in want." "glad to hear it." "yes, gray, you shall certainly have the loan. it is not convenient to give it you at once, but you shall have it." "oh," said gray, rubbing his chin; "i'd prefer to have it now." "that's very unfortunate," said george; "i hate to inconvenience anybody. it quite grieves me." "i dare say it does," gray said sarcastically. "perhaps you can tell me when i'll get it." "that i can," replied his master, cheerfully; "the moment i have the money here for you i'll ring the bell and give it you." gray drew himself up and folded his arms. "i take that to be a refusal," he said bluntly. "and i must point out to you the consequences to yourself if i mention it in the right quarter. now, what's it to be?" "it's to be five pounds when i ring the bell." "and suppose i refuse to wait your pleasure?--as i don't see why i should." "you must do it or go without," replied his master. "i may as well mention, gray, that i have decided to get rid of those men whom i find to have bad habits. recognizing myself the principles of truth and temperance, i could not keep men with so little respect for themselves and the good name of a firm like this as to be addicted to the vices." "i don't see how that will help you," gray pointed out. "if i am not receiving wages here, i shall be more in need of money than ever, and i should have to make my demands greater. so by sacking me you won't be doing yourself any good." george waved his hand. "the interview is now closed," he said. gray departed, but reminded his chief that he should expect to hear the bell ring before the day was out. no other incident occurred, and george early began to persuade himself that his new plans would act admirably. his ingenious handling of gray must have acted as a damper on the others. elated with this success, his behaviour at home that evening was even more commendable than in the morning, and he fell to eulogizing old fairbrother with an emphasis that seemed a little unwarranted, even to aunt phoebe. gray made another application the next morning for his loan, and repeated it before midday, each time being quietly but firmly put off by his master. "all i hope is," said gray, on the last occasion, "that you won't force me to do anything unpleasant. i'm not sure that this delay doesn't amount to a refusal. perhaps i ought to consult the solicitors." but he didn't do so, and george early began to make his way about the iron warehouse with more confidence than he had done since the legacies first began to threaten him. as he stepped out of the showrooms into the warehouse that afternoon, a man who had been hovering mysteriously about a gas stove turned towards him. "anybody about?" he said, inquiringly. "what can i do for you?" asked george, in his best salesman style. "want a gas stove," said the man. "i've heard a lot about your 'little wonder,' and i'd like to have one, if it's up to the mark." "that's the very stove," said george, pointing to the one the man had been handling. "so i see, and if all you say of it is true, that's just the stove for me. but is it?" "is what?" "is that true?" said the man, holding up a fairbrother pamphlet, in which the merits of the particular stove were described in glowing terms. george suddenly realized that he was in a difficult situation, but, with the fairbrother legacy fresh upon him, he stuck to his principles. "all lies," he said. "what?" cried the man; "it won't cook a chicken and a joint of beef, two vegetables and a pudding, and air the clothes at the same time, all at the cost of a farthing?" "no," said george. "all bunkum, eh?" "not a word of truth in it." "i'm glad you told me that," said the man. "i like people to be straightforward. perhaps the 'little midget' that's made by oldboys up the street, is a better stove, eh?" "much better," said the unfortunate salesman. "well, now," said the man, "i wanted a few other things, but i'm not sure about dealing here, after what you've said. see that set of broken stove bars; how soon would you promise to get me a new set like it?" "in four days," said george. "four days, eh? and when should i get 'em if i ordered them to-day?" "in about two weeks." "oh, that's the sort of promise you make, is it? can't be trusted?" "never," said george. then the man, who seemed to have suddenly developed an insatiable curiosity, led george early into discussing all sorts of affairs concerning the firm, and obtained from him the most startling admissions. he was an insinuating little man, and he resisted every effort that his victim made to end the conversation, until the head of fairbrothers found himself uttering the most alarming truths, and being led like a monkey on a string. eventually the man left, and george early found himself sitting on a portable copper by one of the warehouse doors overlooking the river, gazing blankly at the rising mists. gradually he came back to a realization of affairs, and began to discover that he had made a fool of himself. with the same discovery came the sounds of cautious footsteps; a voice that he recognized as belonging to gray said, "it's all right," and asked, "where's polly?" the head of the firm left his position on the copper, and stood in the shadow of one of the iron fireproof doors. any conspiracy taking place in the building was his affair without doubt. another person having joined the conspirators, george listened with interest. "any luck?" asked busby. "none," answered gray. "he's put me off so far, and i thought it best to let it go at that for the present. i don't know how to force his hand. we must come to some decision about what we are going to do while there's the chance." "not so loud," cautioned busby, lowering his voice; "you don't know who may be about." "there's nobody up here," said gray, irritably, but the two lowered their voices, so that george early could only catch a word here and there. the caution was relaxed after a while, when gray said-- "then that's fixed up. i'll tackle him tomorrow, and let him see that we mean business. won't little georgie swear! we'll have a hundred each down to begin with; no paltry fivers." george shivered. "two hundred," said parrott, greedily. "one'll do to start," said gray. "that'll be only a mite to what we'll get later." "will he pay up, d'you think?" asked busby. "pay?" said gray. "he can't help it. look what he's got to lose if he don't pay; he's had his turn, and now we'll have ours." judging by gray's tone, george felt convinced that he meant all he said. he was not sure now that he had been quite wise in having laughed so much at gray's expense. "suppose he dodges us, and doesn't turn up at the office?" gray laughed. "we'll go to his house," he said; "that'll be tit for tat. we'll get a bit of our own back." george listened to the retreating footsteps, and a fierce indignation sprang up within him. so violent was it that he daren't come out from the shadow of the iron door until it had abated somewhat. then he cautiously made his way back to his own room, put on his hat, and went home. chapter xix--_a shot that missed fire_ the conspirators turned up at the office in a hopeful spirit next morning. early as the hour was, gray had evidently been assisting his courage with some beverage that cheers and yet inebriates. "who's going up first?" he asked in a confidential whisper. "i'd sooner steady my nerves a bit; i'm better in the afternoon." "let polly go, then," said busby. "i'm a bit shaky myself in the mornings; must be the train journey." parrott, when consulted, did not seem to relish the idea much, and suggested that they should go together. union would be strength. "perhaps it would be better," agreed busby. "anyhow," said the head clerk, "there's all the day yet. we don't want to rush it. let us give him time to get here and settle down to work." this was agreed upon, and the matter was left until the morning's work was well under way, when it was taken in hand again. "now," said gray, "this is the best time to begin. he'll be in the middle of the correspondence, and there's no fear of interruption." at that moment master cacklin slapped a bundle of letters down on busby's desk, and set gray's nerves all on edge again. "pardon, sir," he said impudently, "hope i didn't disturb you. s'pose you've heard the new rule, gents." "you cut along," said busby. "grand idea," said cacklin; "every one's got to come up chaperoned by his grandmother. if he ain't got a grandmother he gets the lady lodger instead. what do you think of it, eh?" "now, clear out," said gray, threateningly. "excepting the guvnor," added cacklin; "and he brings his aunt. darling little bit o' sugar-stuff she is, too, i give yer my word." and the genial youth affected to put his lower jaw into a position from which it would not return to the normal. "what's all that rot?" asked gray, who scented some truth in the nonsense. mr. cacklin obligingly informed his hearers that their respected chief had been accompanied to the office that morning by his aunt, who was now settled in the biggest armchair upstairs with her hat and jacket off, as if she meant to stay. gray and busby exchanged glances. "that settles it, for the present," said busby, as cacklin disappeared; "we can't go while she's there." "she'll be off after lunch," said gray. "on the whole i think it's better to tackle him after lunch." but aunt phoebe did not go after lunch; she returned to the office with her nephew, and never left it till the two of them departed together at the close of business. "it was bad luck," said gray; "but we'll get him to-morrow safe enough." on the morrow, however, fortune was equally unkind to the blackmailers, for this time mrs. early herself accompanied her husband to the office, and settled comfortably in the big armchair, as her aunt had done on the previous day. at lunch they went out together and returned together. "we must bide our time," gray said comfortingly to his co-conspirators. "we'll have him right enough presently." when, however, the morrow brought aunt phoebe again, and lunch-time saw her return with george early, gray could scarcely contain himself for rage. "it's a plant," he said fiercely; "a put-up job. he's doing it on purpose, so as we shan't get him alone." and there seemed to be some truth in what he said, for whenever george early left his office to enter the showrooms, or tour the warehouse, his aunt always accompanied him. together they interviewed customers, inspected the barges at the wharf, pulled stoves about, and went over the numerous incidents of an ironmonger's day. once gray plucked up courage, and boldly entered the upstairs office. aunt phoebe was seated at george's desk writing, while george himself lolled in an armchair, reading a paper. the lady looked up inquiringly as gray advanced. "it's a little matter i'd like to see mr. early about," he said, with a cough. "i think you may tell me," said the lady. "i understand most of mr. early's business." "you can tell my aunt, gray," called out george, from behind the paper. "if i could see mr. early alone----" "mr. early has no secrets from his family," said aunt phoebe, at which george coughed and gray frowned. after two or three futile attempts to attain his object, gray was forced to retire with the feeble excuse of having forgotten something. aunt phoebe looked meaningly at george, who nodded. the chaperon game continued, and the three men were reduced to such straits as tracking the cab home to kensington, and taking turns to keep watch on the house, all without avail. perhaps not entirely without avail, for towards the end of a fortnight george early's bright looks gave way to a peevishness he could ill conceal. aunt phoebe's temper was affected too, and frequent bickerings were reported by those who came in their way. whenever master cacklin happened to be the person, he gave to those below stairs a description that was most graphic and inspiring. "she's wearing him out," said busby, who clutched at these fragments in an endeavour to cheer his fellows. gray shook his head. "no fear of that," he said; "he's one of those men that would keep it up just for the pleasure of annoying us. i know him." george early did keep it up, and succeeded in completely outwitting his trackers, until gray, tired of waiting for his revenge and a sight of the firm's money, called a council to discuss some change of plans. neither busby nor parrott had any suggestion to make, so gray unfolded his own idea. not a bad plan either, the others agreed. gray proposed that the three should make a bargain with the lawyers, by which they were to receive a certain fixed sum, say five hundred pounds, for information of george early's lapses from grace. having got this promise, they could, if they felt disposed, hold it threateningly over the chief's head, and demand a higher sum to keep silence. of course the lawyers, not having the detective facilities of the three, would gladly accept their services; of this they felt assured. it was arranged that gray should take the next morning off with a bad cold, and pay a visit to dibbs and dubbs, to arrange matters. this new scheme so occupied the thoughts of the precious trio that they missed the news of a breezy outburst between george and his beloved aunt, resulting in the lady bouncing off and leaving her nephew to himself. all unconscious of this missed opportunity, gray made his way the next morning to st. paul's passage, passed the resplendent brass plate of the lawyers' office, and climbed the dark staircase. the new head of the firm, who had now sufficient confidence to print his own name of dawkins as successor to the departed, received the informer with some interest, which, being a lawyer, he was not foolish enough to disclose. "you know my name, i dare say," said gray, with a cough. the lawyer coughed in sympathy, and warmed his hands by the fire. "i remember it well, mr. gray. i'm afraid we were a little sharp on you some time ago, but all a matter of business, you know. quite a matter of business. if we can be as energetic on your behalf, we shall be delighted, my dear sir; delighted, i assure you." he coughed again, sat down, and looked inquiringly at gray. "of course," said gray, throwing one hand languidly over the back of his chair, "i hold a position of some importance at fairbrothers, as you doubtless know." mr. dawkins bowed. "and i am constantly, i may say continually, with the head of the firm." mr. dawkins bowed again. "now, it struck me," said gray, leaning forward and gazing shrewdly at the young lawyer, "that i might be of some service to you over this legacy business. of service to you and myself at the same time." mr. dawkins raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. "for reasons of my own," he went on, realizing for the first time that his proposal was a blackguardly one, "i am disposed to assist you towards the end for which you are working. in this, my two friends, who enjoyed the legacies at the same time as myself, are willing to help. the three of us, in fact, to cut the matter short, will work together. and i can assure you that we shall work in earnest." at gray's vehement tones the lawyer stuck a thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat, and laughed. "getting a bit of your own back, eh?" gray nodded. "we have exceptional opportunities," he added. "opportunities which you, as a man of business, will understand are not open to the ordinary detective, nor for that matter to an extraordinary one. one or other of us can be always at his elbow." "his very shadow, in fact," said the lawyer. "exactly," said gray. "what is more," he added, with a look intended to convey a volume of sinister meaning, "we know his weaknesses." the lawyer rose, and adopted a more negligent attitude against the mantelpiece. "you offer yourselves to me as amateur detectives, in fact, mr. gray; and purpose informing me of any lapse on the part of mr. early respecting the matter concerned in the late mr. fairbrother's will?" gray leaned back, and bowed to indicate that mr. dawkins had summed up the matter perfectly. "and for which," said mr. dawkins, "you naturally expect some recompense." "that could be arranged," said gray. the lawyer toyed playfully with the seal on his watch-chain, and studied in turn his visitor's hat, coat, and boots. "mr. early has risen considerably in the firm, i believe," he said presently. "yes," said gray, shortly. "but you still enjoy his confidence, of course?" gray nursed his knee with all the nonchalance he could comfortably affect. "if anybody has the chance to drop upon an error of judgment on his part," he said, "i think i know who it is." mr. dawkins smiled. "you have a good deal of confidence, mr. gray. now, from what i have heard of mr. george early, he can, if he is so disposed, set himself a task, and dare some of the boldest to turn him from it. when a young man makes up his mind on temperance, and has a good deal at stake, i'm inclined to think he won't easily run risks." gray tapped the crown of his hat impatiently. "he may keep off whisky for a bit," said he, "but the others are not so easy. where we come in promptly is on the borrowing score, and the little departures from truth. they'll be our first bull's-eyes, mr. dawkins." the lawyer's eyes lit up suddenly. he left the mantelshelf, and sat down. "may i ask, mr. gray, if you saw mr. george early yesterday?" "i think so," said gray; "yes, of course, many times." "but not this morning?" "not yet; why?" "then you do not know," said the lawyer, in slow, even tones, "that mr. early has already forfeited two of the three legacies. it is now only the temperance legacy that he holds." this news almost bereft gray of speech. he murmured something unintelligible, and sat staring at the lawyer with open mouth. "yes," went on mr. dawkins. "mr. early threw them over voluntarily, and already has our notices. "of course he does not need the money, and he is doubtless very sure that the temperance legacy is alone sufficient for his purpose. on the whole, i must admit, although i am working against him, that it is a devilishly smart move. i tell you candidly, mr. gray, that i think it an infernally smart move." gray roused himself slowly, and got up from the chair. "as to the temperance business, mr. gray," said the lawyer, with a laugh, "i'm afraid that'll be a hard nut to crack, eh? for my part, i assure you, i think it pretty tough." but gray was not in the mood for further discussion. he drifted out of the office, and walked unsteadily down the stairs. chapter xx--_a dark man of foreign appearance_ mr. dawkins had guessed aright in supposing that george early felt safe on the temperance question; his old confidence returned at once. he started to enjoy life in real earnest. when at business, he stuck fast to the firm's affairs, and when away, as was not infrequent now, he went everywhere and saw everything as people with health and money do. mrs. early enjoyed herself immensely, and even aunt phoebe, who had once felt she could never forgive her nephew for his recklessness, began to assume a placid air, and agreed to prolong her visit to brunswick terrace. perhaps the alcohol restriction was a thorn in george early's side; but if so, he grieved in secret, for in public you would never dream that he had a care. the keen-eyed mole and his watchful band doggedly followed their quarry, and used every artifice known to the modern detective to catch him napping; to all of which the legatee submitted patiently, and clung to the teetotal habit like a fanatic. having disposed of the truth-telling business, and being desirous of paying off old scores to the last fraction, george would often take customers in hand himself, and, followed by gray with a note-book, tax his imagination to the utmost over such prosaic things as cooking-ranges, gulley-pipes, and girders. to all this fiction gray would listen, conscious that much of the elaboration was at his expense. at a time when the legacies were, so far as gray and co. were concerned, quite a thing of the past, a dark man of foreign appearance, with black hair and well-curled moustaches, made his appearance in the fairbrother showrooms, and desired to see the principal. he was expensively dressed, and was accompanied by a friend, whose business it seemed to be to echo the abstract statements of the foreign man and agree with his conclusions. george early appeared, and learned that the foreign gentleman, whose name was caroli, desired to choose many elaborate articles for an english mansion about to be built. to so distinguished and wealthy a customer the pick of the fairbrother goods were drawn forth, and ably eulogized by the chief himself. "what can be said of a stove like that?" said caroli, appealing to his friend, as a magnificent invention of burnished brass and copper scintillated before them. "that is a stove to be considered," said caroli's friend. "it is magnificent!" said caroli. "splendid!" said his friend. "the pattern exactly," said george, solemnly, "as supplied to his majesty. chosen by the queen herself from among fourteen hundred stoves." they passed along in procession, followed by menials ready to drag forth hidden treasures, strip and lay bare their beauty to the eye of caroli. cost was nothing to the wealthy foreigner. he wanted beauty, and looked at everything with an artist's eye. doubtless an hereditary trait of his noble ancestors. "without beauty i could not live," cried caroli. "beauty is the very heart of life," echoed his friend. "those leaves are not real, but the artist's soul is in them," cried caroli. "they are the perfection of art," said his friend. the leaves, which happened to be on a wrought-iron gate, were, george informed his customers, designed from a pattern originally executed by the king's sister. with exclamation and acclamation, volubility on caroli's part, and parrot-like earnestness on that of his friend, ingenious fiction by george early, patient scribbling by the order clerk, and continuous perspiring by the menials, the best part of two hours went by before george led his noble patron to the chief office. there the principals sat and talked, while the paid hirelings drew up a clean account of the goods chosen and their cost. caroli glanced at it, and tossed it aside to continue an interesting account of something that happened to somebody at monte carlo, in which he had succeeded in getting the attention of george early. in his foreign way, caroli gesticulated, and held george with his eyes through the most exciting part of the narrative. it was a long story, too, and if anybody else had been there, they would have noticed that george early's glance had become a fixed stare, and that caroli's gesticulations had developed mysteriously into the passes commonly used by music-hall mesmerists. his speech had altered strangely, too, and had taken a more commanding tone. he told george that he (george) was caroli's friend, that caroli was his distinguished customer, and that they had spent a pleasant morning. he said also that to commemorate this auspicious occasion they would drink together. whereupon caroli suddenly produced a flat bottle of spirits and a glass, drank himself, handed some to his friend, and then poured out a glassful for george. what would happen? george was a teetotaler. surely he would not do as this man suggested; and yet he appeared to offer no opposition. did he realize what he was about to do--what serious issues were at stake? to the amazement of gray, who had silently entered the room, george early lifted the glass at caroli's command, and drank off the spirit. * * * * * the worst of this lapse on the part of george early was that he knew nothing about it. he remembered some mesmeric influence, in which caroli had been the agent, but knew nothing of the whisky until his customers had gone, when he recalled the taste and gray described the scene. in addition came the usual letter from the lawyers. who could be at the bottom of it? mr. dawkins strenuously and indignantly denied any complicity in the affair. nobody else could be interested but the philanthropic institution to whom the property would go. but who dare accuse any of these pious gentlemen? gray knew. he had had the shrewdness to follow the great caroli, and he discovered that some of the pious gentlemen were not so pious as they seemed. having got that far, he was able to make a bargain with caroli in order to keep the facts to himself. of course the magnificent array of goods for the country mansion went back to their shelves. caroli did not appear again. although his great desire was to meet the foreign gentleman once more and settle accounts with him, george early chose the wiser course of putting himself under the chaperonage of his wife or her aunt, when away from home, in order to combat any further attacks. and aunt phoebe performed her duty nobly. so nobly that george early's enemies would have to wait until her vigil was relaxed. they did wait--and when the time came, made the most of it. one afternoon aunt phoebe entered her niece's room in a great state of vexation. something alarming had occurred. you could tell that by the way she flounced in, jerking her head sharply, and giving little emphatic thumps at nothing with her clenched hands. george, who followed her, sat in a dazed way on the first chair he came to. mrs. early feared the worst, and her fears were realized. "bless you, i can't say how it happened," said aunt phoebe, her indignation almost depriving her of speech. "we were coming home in a hansom cab, and drove oxford street way as i had to make a call about some gloves. i wasn't away a quarter of an hour, i should think, but when i came back he was gone. gone--wafted away." "gone?" echoed her niece. "missing," said aunt phoebe, with a wave of her hand. "i found him standing on the pavement a little later trying to recollect who he was. all he seems to know of it is that a mysterious man told him i had been taken ill, and was carried into a wine-shop. a wine-shop, of all places! instead of me he found there the foreign person. what happened, goodness only knows, except that he's been drinking!" mrs. early clasped her hands and gazed tearfully at her husband, who sat looking in a forlorn way at the carpet. "what's to be done?" asked mrs. early, in a loud whisper. "to be done?" said aunt phoebe. "that's what's worrying me. another turn like this, and the two of you are beggars. think of it--beggars!" "it's a shame!" cried mrs. early, indignantly. "it's a conspiracy," said her aunt, darkly. "and i shall make it my business to find the conspirators. if that sharpshoes of a lawyer isn't at the bottom of it, then somebody else is. one thing's certain, there must be no more office work for the present. and before the day is out we must decide what is to be done. the first thing i should advise is your getting rid of those three men. they've certainly had a hand in this business." towards evening george early regained his normal condition, and expressed himself very forcibly about the way in which he had been treated. "i'm afraid it won't do you any good to stand there using language," said aunt phoebe, shortly. "it would be more interesting to know what you propose doing." george had nothing to propose at the moment, but promised to try to think of something. having taken the edge off his resentment, he said that, as matters stood, there was only one thing to be done, and he meant to do it. so the trio sat far into the night discussing the new proposals. chapter xxi--_follow my leader_ the detectives of dibbs and dubbs usually began their sentry-go at brunswick terrace as the clock struck eight. on the morning following george early's second encounter with caroli, mole was at his post at six. looking over the bedroom curtains at half past, george noted the fact and swore softly. he completed his toilet, and, picking up the shabby portmanteau he had packed the night before, made his way to the back door. the sleek top hat and frock coat of business had disappeared, and george stood arrayed in the loudest of check suits, covered by a loose light coat; on his head was a cloth cap. in this array he made his way out of the back gate, traversed the passage sacred to the tradesmen who supplied brunswick terrace, and emerged in a mews, which led to a main thoroughfare at right angles to that where the patient mole kept watch. george peeped cautiously round the corner: the coast was clear. he hailed a disconsolate cabman, who had all but given up hope of a fare, and drove off to victoria. arrived at the station, some strategy was necessary to make sure that the detectives were really evaded. george narrowly watched the movements of the men who loitered about the platform, and made feints of leaving the station to see if any would follow him. finding that nobody took any interest in his movements, he approached the booking clerk and ordered his ticket in a whisper. the train and george went off soon after seven without any further excitement than the frantic barking of a dog, that had been left behind. it was perfectly obvious that george early intended to checkmate his enemies by discreetly withdrawing from london for a time. in the seclusion of the country he would be able to formulate some plan of campaign by which both lawyers and blackmailers would find that they had met their match. george got out at a small station forty miles or so down the line. the only other passenger to alight was a young woman with three paper parcels, who had evidently too many personal troubles to be concerned in watching the movements of any young man. having inquired of the one porter the whereabouts of the wheatsheaf inn, the fugitive chief of fairbrothers' had the satisfaction of finding a three-mile walk before him. the landlord of the wheatsheaf was not troubled much with visitors, although he advertised his house as the most popular in the country. george found himself to be the one and only guest. "what is there to do about here?" he asked, when he had disposed of a substantial meal. "do?" said the landlord, evasively. "it depends on what you want to do." "i'm not particular," said george. "i've come down for a bit of a change. any fishing here?" the landlord lifted one hand, and wagged his head. "you've hit on the one thing we haven't got. anything but fishing." "shooting?" said george. "not at this time o' the year. you won't get shooting anywheres just now." fishing and shooting were all that george could think of, and he was not an adept at either. "if you'll take my advice," said the landlord, looking his visitor over critically, "you'll just go easy at first. you've been overdoing it, i can see, and you're fair run down. you don't want no shootin' nor fishin', but plenty of good grub and a drop of good beer. i've seen young fellers the same way before. you take my tip and go easy." as there appeared to be nothing else to do, george had to be content with this programme. he walked out for the rest of the morning, and for the greater part of the afternoon; the evening was spent in the bar-parlour, where the landlord's old cronies drank george's health and advised him to "take it easy." next morning the landlord handed over a telegram, which read-- "have discharged all three--very indignant; take care of yourself; new men coming in to-day--ellen." "now my little beauties," said george, smiling, "we'll see how you like that. perhaps your friend caroli can mesmerize some one into giving you a new job." three days of inaction passed, and george had not seen fit to desert his country retreat. it was slow work walking, eating, and drinking, and the new master of fairbrothers' was beginning to fall back on the philosophy of the ancients, that wealth and position invariably have their disadvantages. this morning it was raining, and he stood at the inn door debating whether he should brave the elements or retire to the bar-parlour. the problem was solved for him swiftly in an unexpected fashion. a carrier's cart, much bespattered and glistening with wet, had turned a bend in the road and was now approaching the inn at a jog-trot. as george looked at the man tucked up under the hood behind the old white horse, another face peering from between the parcels attracted his attention. a keen glance satisfied him that this belonged to no other person in the world than mrs. gray's husband. he turned indoors and went upstairs swiftly and silently. there was nobody about, and george slipped into his bedroom, holding the door open that he might the better hear any conversation which ensued. he anticipated some lively proceedings. "early?" said the landlord. "yes, the gentleman's out, i think." "indeed!" said the voice of gray. "perhaps you'll be so good as to make sure that he is out, if you please. it's very important that i should see him now." "perhaps i will," said the landlord, "and perhaps i won't." the fact that gray had not ordered anything, but had only asked for a visitor in a peremptory voice, did not help to recommend him. "you might give me a whisky," said gray, in a milder tone, observing his mistake. "do you think mr. early will be long before he comes back?" the landlord didn't know, but called to the stable-boy and told him to see if mr. early was in his bedroom. "i'll go with him, if you don't mind," said gray. george seized his hat as these remarks reached him, and looked about the room. there was no way out, so he promptly crawled under the bed. somebody knocked and entered. "ain't here," said the voice. "are you sure this is his room?" said gray, entering and looking about. "this is the room all right," said the boy; "'e ain't 'ere." some words ensued on the landing by gray endeavouring to make a search of the house, from which he was finally persuaded by the landlady, a portly dame of fifteen stone. as the departing footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs, george came forth with a smile. "find him?" said the landlord downstairs to the boy. "ain't there," said the boy. "now i come to think of it," said the landlord, who had taken a dislike to gray, "he went down to the post-office just before you came in. you'll catch him up if you hurry; it's only a couple of miles." gray prepared to depart. "if i should miss him," he said, "you can say the gentleman who called came from--from mrs. early." the landlord grunted, and gray went off, having first satisfied himself that the man he wanted was not lurking about outside. from his bedroom window george watched until gray was nearly out of sight, and at once prepared to take advantage of so favourable an opportunity for slipping off. to go down the stairs would mean creating suspicion; he raised the window and looked out; nobody was about he promptly climbed into the sill, dropped into the yard below, and walked round to the front. "hallo!" said the landlord, "there's been a man here for you. come from mrs. early, he said." "ah!" said george, surprised; "where is he? i must see him at once." "i told him you went to the post-office," said the landlord; "he was a rough-looking customer, and very disrespectful. i thought he'd come begging, perhaps." "he's a scoundrel," said george, indignantly; "i expect the lazy brute won't come back. i must go after him at once; how long has he been gone?" "quarter of an hour," said the landlord; "i hope i didn't do wrong in----" "that's all right," said george; "who's trap is that outside?" "that's my trap, sir," said the landlord. "if you'd like to----" "i'll borrow it," said george, "and go after him." he ran out, and jumped into the trap. in another minute he was driving off full speed to the station. "here, hi!" yelled the landlord, rushing out "he's going the wrong way. that ain't the way to the post-office. hi! jim, run after him--quick! tell him----" george heard the shouts, but drove straight ahead. he did the three miles in twenty minutes, and reached the station just as a train steamed out. it was a down train, but george would have boarded it promptly if he could have done so; any escape was better than none. he stood on the platform cursing his luck, when a familiar voice fell on his ear. he darted into the waiting-room, and peered through the window. what he saw did not add anything to the joy of his position, rather the reverse. two men were wrangling with a porter; one was parrott, the other busby. "i'm done now," thought george; "they've got me fairly. they're going to hold me up while that foreign hound gets on to me again." he looked round the waiting-room, but it offered no escape. there was only one thing to do--to go off in the trap again; and george was about to do it, when a london train rushed into the platform. he hesitated; if he could get across the line, he'd be safe. he waited feverishly for a few minutes, hoping that busby and parrott would move, but they did not. the guard's whistle blew. "here goes," said george. he picked up a water-bottle, and hurled it at the outside window. a terrific crash followed, and the landlord's pony started off with a mad gallop. parrott and busby rushed through the waiting-room into the street. as they did so, george darted across the platform, and jumped down on to the rails. the train was moving away from the opposite side. grasping a hand-rest, he climbed the nearest carriage, and opened the door. "hi! stand away!" yelled a porter. "it's early!" screamed a voice, which george recognized as busby's. safe inside, with the train gathering speed, he leaned out of the window, and waved his cap. the two men were dancing frantically on the platform. "stop him!" roared parrott; "stop the train!" but it was too late to follow this advice, and as the train rushed off george beheld his old colleagues gesticulating wildly around a solitary, powerless porter. the journey started, the young man's thoughts were soon fully occupied. it was evident that the three men were fairly on his track, and had no intention of giving up the chase. if once they caught him they would keep him, and bring caroli along to settle the third legacy. he could see through it all quite plainly. and, so far, he had not succeeded in finding a plan to properly check them. george lit a cigarette, and settled himself moodily in the corner as the train pulled up at a station. presently the door of his compartment opened, and the guard appeared, accompanied by a porter and the station-master. "that's the chap," said the guard, pointing at george. the solitary passenger glared at him in dignified silence. "now then, m'lad," said the station-master; "you'll have to get out here." "i'm going to victoria, my man," said george, quietly. "i've got orders to detain you; suspicious character," said the station-master, authoritatively. "you're sure this is the one?"--to the guard. "that's him," said the guard. "look here," said george, darkly, as the station-master got into the carriage; "you'd better be careful what you're doing; i don't want any of you men to get into trouble, so i give you warning." "he got in at coddem?" said the station-master, turning to the guard. "coddem," said the guard. "now, come along," said the station-master, impatiently. george sat up, and looked him severely in the eye. "where's your authority for detaining me?" he asked. "there'll be a row and heavy damages over this." "it's all right," said the station-master; "i had a wire from coddem to detain you--suspicious character." "you've got the wrong man," said george. "guard, start the train." the station-master made up his mind quickly, and caught george by the arm. "give us a hand here, joe," he said to the porter. "enough." george rose with dignity. "i'll go with you. it'll mean the sack for you all, this affair. please don't say i didn't warn you." "don't you worry about us," said the station-master. "right away, there!" "stop a bit," said the prisoner, pulling out a note-book; "i'll take your number please, mr. guard." the guard smiled pleasantly, and displayed his number, gratuitously offering his name and address, and the age of his grandfather. "if they should ask you," he said cheerfully, as he swung off in the moving train, "you can say i've been vaccinated." with much elaboration george entered all particulars in his book, including the porter's number and description, a note of the station-master's whiskers, the time, and other odd things that gave weight to the occasion. "if you'll promise not to attempt to escape," said the station-master, "you can wait in the booking-office until they come for you." "no, thank you," said george, stiffly; "this is a criminal affair, and you must take the full consequences of it. it's just as well for you, perhaps, that you do not realize how serious it is." "my orders are to detain you," said the man, stolidly. "where to?" asked the porter, as they halted by the booking-office. "in the cloak-room," said the station-master. "i've got the guard's word that he's the man." "there's no getting out of it," said george, as he was thrust into a small room cumbered with dusty trunks and parcels. "i warned you twice!" with the confidence of official rectitude the station-master gave the door a slam and boldly turned the key. "suspicious character that," george heard him say to a passenger. "ay," said the other, "looked a smart young chap." "a dangerous man in my opinion," said the station-master, "but he won't be here long; there's some people coming by the next train to identify him." "oh," thought george, "are there? so they've done me, after all." he gave vent to his feelings in a few choice expletives, and listened with dull curiosity to the retreating footsteps of his captors. he looked about him at the odd trunks and parcels, and finally noted that his hurried exit from the wheatsheaf inn had not improved his general appearance. "no brushes here, of course," said george, looking round. "what's this?" he picked up a parcel in two straps with a handle. it proved to be a light dust coat. george used it to rub the mud splashes off his clothes and improve the appearance of his boots. he climbed up and looked through the narrow fanlight. there was not a living soul to be seen. "i suppose i'm in this infernal place for a couple of hours," he grumbled. "what's that?" he listened; signs of life were evident in a basket by the window. george gave it a sharp tap. a short bark greeted him. "a dog!" he read the label, "snooks, to be left till called for." "sorry for snooks," said george, pulling out his pocket-knife, "but i must have amusement." he cut the cord, and a small fox terrier bounded out and nearly went into a state of drivelling idiocy in his efforts to show gratitude for release. "good boy!" said george, fondling the dog. "wonder if there's any more here?" he overhauled the parcels. "hallo!" a faint mew arose from another basket. "this is a feline member; name of wilkins." he cut the strap and released a black kitten. "good!" said george, "that's a sign of luck." the cat jumped to the floor, and in two seconds a furious and terrific combat ensued, followed by a wild chase. over trunks, baskets, bags and parcels went wilkins' cat, followed madly by snooks' dog. there was a momentary parley on a hat-box, and the chase continued afresh, ending as suddenly as it began by wilkins' cat disappearing through the fanlight. in spite of this disappointment snooks' dog wagged his tail and looked up gratefully at george for the brief excitement. "this is going to be a beanfeast, i can see," smiled the captive. "if i can't get out of this place i'll make some trouble for that officious old fool. suspicious character, he said i was! what's this?--more old clothes?" he pulled a plaid overcoat from under a pile of parcels and examined it. in one of the pockets he found a flask of whisky which he tasted, and promptly abandoned. from that he made a searching investigation of the room, overhauling other people's property without respect to name or rank, and displaying an inquisitive curiosity in the contents of small handbags. a square tin box puzzled him completely. he tapped it, and peered into the small holes on the top. "there's some mystery here," thought george. "perhaps it's an infernal machine, put here by one of the station-master's enemies. a man like that is sure to have enemies. i'll open it." this was easier said than done, but the most obstinate of boxes like the most intricate of locks must give way before the perseverance of man. george exerted all his strength in a supreme effort and pulled. he was successful; the lid flew off with unexpected suddenness, and the contents came out in a shower. george put down the box and laughed. "well," he said, "who'd have thought of finding frogs in a cloak-room. go it, snooks!" snooks' dog needed no urging, but jumped and twirled and barked with astounding rapidity. the frogs with equal mobility spread themselves over the room, and afforded the prisoner amusement for a good quarter of an hour. a small battalion of them found refuge in a large hamper filled with farm produce. george watched this attempt at ambush with great interest. so far the prisoner's confinement had met with no interruption from without. stealthy footsteps approached the door once, but on this occasion he contrived to push a handbag through the fanlight and had the satisfaction of knowing that joe, the porter, received it on his head. a few rude country oaths from joe were the last sign of life from the platform. george had not entirely given up hopes of escape, and the sound of footsteps on the platform warning him that the next train was nearly due, he began to take note of his position. if he stayed quietly where he was the pursuers would come up with him, and never leave him until they had accomplished their purpose, which, of course, was obvious. they could easily smooth over the station-master with a five-pound note. there was no way of escape but by smashing open the door, an almost impossible task; the window was barred, and the ceiling looked too strong for escape by way of the roof. one thing only offered a way out and that was the fire-place, which george examined with interest. it was a fire-place with a very large grate, and an immense fire-guard of closely plaited wire surrounding it. george surveyed it quietly for a few moments, then collected an armful of brown paper and stuffed it in the grate. having seen that the trap was firmly pulled down to prevent any smoke ascending the chimney, he sat down to await the arrival of the train. he had not long to wait; in a few minutes he heard the signal bell go, and immediately afterwards the clanging of a hand-bell and the stentorian voice of a porter announcing the london train. george struck a match quickly, applied it to the paper in the grate, closed the fire-guard to prevent any danger, and crouched down by the door. in less than half a minute a volume of rich smoke ascended to the ceiling and began to pour through the fanlight. chapter xxii--_blind man's bluff_ the station-master had just appeared on the platform in readiness for the train when the half-dozen waiting passengers began to dance wildly and run to and fro. "hi! fire!" yelled a man in corduroys. "station's afire!" "where?" cried the station-master. "what the----" "it's the cloak-room!" yelled joe, the porter. "that chap----" "get the key--quick!" "fire!" yelled the man in corduroys. "fire!" roared a ploughboy and a man with a gun. the station-master ran up to the door, thumped at it, and shouted, while the porter, who had doubled along the platform and back again, cried, "open the door!" "where's the key?" roared the station-master. "gimme the key!" "get the key!" yelled the man in corduroys. "key, key! fire!" shouted the ploughboy and the man with the gun. "you've got it!" cried the porter. "you didn't gimme----" "i gave it you!" shouted the station-master, dancing and waving his arms. "you didn't!" "water!" yelled the man in corduroys. "water, water!" shouted the ploughboy and the man with the gun. a blue haze of smoke hovered over the platform as the london train ran in, and in two minutes the driver and stoker, guards, and a score of passengers joined the excited crowd. from every carriage heads appeared, and a medley of voices said-- "it's a fire!" "i've got it!" said the voice of the station-master, huskily, as he rushed forward in his shirt-sleeves and fumbled at the lock of the cloak-room. "stand back there!" cried the man in corduroys, as joe ran up slopping two pails of water over the feet of the passengers, followed by the ploughboy and the man without his gun slopping two more each. "stand back!" yelled a dozen voices. the lock turned, the doors flew open and out came a cloud of smoke. with it came george early, just in time to miss a deluge. two lady passengers got their feet wet and shrieked, and no fewer than six men swore volubly in the approved custom of their own locality. george, being about the only one inclined to leave the fire to take care of itself, immediately, under cover of the smoke, made for the station exit. his object was to get safely out of sight and leave no clue to his whereabouts. the station stood in an isolated position a good two miles from the nearest village, and george early's only avenue of escape was a narrow road bordered by high hedges. he looked round quickly, just as a youth, attracted by the commotion, left his bicycle and hurried on to the platform. without hesitation the fugitive borrowed the machine, and went off down the road at top speed. halfway he turned to see how matters were progressing in the rear, and descried three figures following at a rapid pace on foot. george didn't need to look twice to see who they were. at the first bend of the road he swung the bicycle over a hedge and abandoned it. turning off at a right angle he ran along under cover of another hedge bordering a meadow, and was just about to congratulate himself on having eluded his pursuers, when a shout of discovery went up. off went george again, over a smooth green towards a clump of trees. loud cries now sounded in the rear, and the fugitive, turning to discover the cause of them, saw the three men wildly gesticulating. he hesitated a moment, but as they still followed he started off again. the cause of the row was now apparent: his pursuers were signalling to some men in the fields ahead of him to bar his passage. it was evident that they meant to do so from the way they began to form a ring. "i'm surrounded," thought george, slowing down. he looked about him for a last chance, and swore at his slender opportunities. nothing presented itself but a tall old oak. to be surrounded and taken like a runaway convict was too galling; george made for the tree and prepared to climb. his breath was nearly done, but he easily reached the lower branches, and by the time a ring of twenty men had reached the vicinity, was able to pull himself nearly to the top. "what's he done?" asked a farm labourer, as gray and his colleagues in a profuse state of perspiration joined the group. "we're after him," said busby. "you needn't tell us that, mate," said another man. "what do yer want him for?" "set fire to the railway station," said gray. "liar!" came a voice from the clouds. "go up after him," said parrott, pushing busby forward. "let jimmy go," said busby. "keep 'em off," said george. "they're after my money!" gray came forward promptly and said, "a sovereign for the first man who fetches him down!" "two pound each to the men who hold 'em while i get away," yelled george. a faint cheer from the labourers. "look here," cried gray; "he can't pay you! i'll give five pounds to the man who brings him down." george booed and dropped a branch on gray's head. "i'm after them quids," said a strapping farm-hand, throwing off his coat and clambering up the tree. "pull him down!" cried george. "you'll all get in gaol for this if you're not careful." another man followed the first one, and a third followed the second. "five pound to the one who gets him," yelled gray, encouragingly. george tore off a branch and hit out at the first man as he came within reach. the man grew angry and grabbed at george's leg. missing it, he clutched at the tree, and received a boot on his fingers. the howl that followed unnerved the third man, who descended in haste on to parrott's shoulders. george now climbed out to the end of a branch and worried the man that was overhauling him. "you'll get six months for this," he said in a terrible voice. "come on," said the man, "you'd better give in. i've got you fair." "come a bit further," said george, now on the end of the branch. the second man, who had been manoeuvring by a different route, now appeared and made a grab at george's collar. the first man, fearful of losing his prize, did the same. george clutched at both, and the next moment, with a mighty crack, the branch gave way, and the three went tumbling down through the lower branches. the first man picked himself up and rubbed his leg; the second man swore, gazed ruefully at a tear in his trousers, and sucked a bleeding thumb; george lay quite still. the three men from fairbrothers' ran forward. "here you are!" said one of the labourers. "now, where's the five pound?" "hold on!" said the second man. "we brought him down together! that's half each!" gray looked down at the still form of his late master and turned white. george was lying just as he had fallen, with blood trickling from a scratch across the forehead. "you've done something now!" said gray. "you've killed him!" "what!" said the first man in a whisper. "he's done for!" said gray, anxious to avoid paying now that affairs had taken a serious turn. number two gave one look at george, then edged out of the crowd and bolted. "it seems to me," said a man with black whiskers, "that it's you fellows who've done this chap to death, hunting him like a wild beast, and then trying to put the blame on to honest working men." the crowd murmured approval at this speech, and gray knelt down and tried to rouse mrs. early's husband. "he's breathing!" he said. "fetch some water!" "can't get no water here," said black whiskers. "better take him down the village afore he pegs out." "take him down to the village," chimed in the others. the ex-legatees, being in the minority, and not knowing what else to do, assisted in carrying george as directed. three of the men accompanied them, the others returning to their work. the procession moved slowly, and eventually came in sight of a red-brick house. "that's the parson's," said one of the men. "we'll take him there; he's a bit of a doctor." the parson received the insensible man graciously, and heard the story of the accident. george was carried into the library and laid on a sofa, and after a brief examination the parson said he believed the case was not very serious, but that the patient must remain where he was for the present. "you are staying in the village?" he said, looking somewhat unfavourably at gray and his companions. "we're not," said gray. "but we shall stay now to hear how he gets on." "very well," said the clergyman. "i shall be pleased to give you information of his progress. meanwhile, you need not consult a doctor. i think i can manage the case." the vicar was one of those men with a smattering of medical knowledge, insufficient to enable him to cure anybody, but sufficient to give him a wild anxiety to want to. he shut the door softly on the three men and returned to the library. "strange!" he muttered. "i can find no symptoms of this man having had a heavy blow, and the state of unconsciousness is different from the ordinary." "perhaps it's shock, pa," said his daughter, who had ventured to take a look at george. "true. very likely. perhaps you are right, my dear." he felt george's pulse and examined the scratch on his forehead, which was clearly but a trivial hurt. "perhaps you are right, my dear. but come along. i'll get you to go down to the town for me and get a prescription made up." as they left the library george's right eyelid flickered slightly, as their footsteps echoed down the passage the lid began to open, and by the time all sound of them had ceased it was lifted to its fullest extent. the left eyelid followed the right one, and george early lay with both eyes open. then his head moved slowly, and his eyes having cautiously surveyed the room, his features broke into a broad smile. whether or not george's tongue would have begun to wag will never be known, for at that moment footsteps sounded outside the door, and the vicar entered. he found the patient as he had left him. "he's coming to, i think; there seems to have been a slight movement," he murmured. george's face twitched, and he uttered a faint--a very faint--groan. "ah!" said the vicar, as if it was the pleasantest sound in the world, "i thought so--i thought so!" by the time that the vicar's daughter returned george was fully conscious, but evidently still suffering from shock. "i won't use that now, my dear," said her father. "i think we can effect a cure by simpler methods. do you feel any pain?" he said to george. there was no response, and george appeared to be unconscious that any one was speaking. "he doesn't hear you, pa," said the vicar's daughter. "do you feel any pain?" said the parson in a mild shout. there was no response. "his hearing's affected by the shock," said the vicar, wisely. "i've known such cases, though they are rare." he motioned to george to attract his attention, and repeated the question. george looked in a scared sort of way, and put his hand to his ear. the vicar shouted loudly, then louder still. george shook his head, and made a feeble motion for the question to be written down. "it's as i thought," said the vicar to his daughter that evening. "the sudden shock has brought on complete deafness and a temporary paralysis of the faculties. he must stay here to-night, and we shall see how he has progressed to-morrow." "will his friends in the village take him away, papa?" "i don't think so. he has intimated to me that they are undesirable men, and my private opinion is that they are up to no good. i've written to the address of a doctor friend of his, who will come down to-morrow, and with whom i shall be interested to discuss the peculiarities of the case. it is a most singular occurrence." "very, pa," said his daughter. on the morrow george was in much the same state as previously, so far as hearing was concerned; his sight also appeared to be affected. the fall had not, however, in any way injured his appetite, for he managed to eat a hearty breakfast. the vicar nodded his head, and said that he had known such cases before; it was as he thought. to the inquiries of gray and the others he sent word that the invalid was progressing favourably, but could not converse with visitors. george's friend, the doctor, arrived about midday. he proved to be one john cattermole, a walworth chemist, to whom george, in his clerking days, had applied occasionally for relief in bodily ailments, and very frequently for assistance in pecuniary difficulties. in the hour of prosperity george had not forgotten cattermole, and now, when the tide of fortune had turned against him, he knew that his call for help would be answered. the friendly chemist arrived hot and dusty, in a frock coat and silk hat much the worse for wear. "a clever man," thought the parson; "has the utter disregard of appearances common to genius." he greeted him warmly. "you will agree with me, i think, that it is a most remarkable occurrence," said the vicar, when they eventually visited george, who sat in the library staring at a bookcase. "i do," said cattermole, laconically. the vicar continued to pour forth his opinions, and relate instances of cases he had known, during which harangue george managed to apprise his friend of the state of affairs by a most unmistakable wink. being thus informed, cattermole became more amiable, and begged a private interview with the patient for a special examination. "i think he will agree with me, my dear," said the vicar to his daughter; "he is one of the most enlightened men i have ever met, and one of the few who seemed to attach any weight to my opinion." "he didn't say much, pa." "it is not what he said, my dear; it's the way he looked and listened. you don't understand clever men as i do." a quarter of an hour elapsed, and cattermole left the library. "it is shock," he said quietly. "as i thought," said the vicar. "exactly," said the other; "you have treated the case perfectly." "my dear sir----" "i mean it," said cattermole, smiling. "now i wonder if you could supply me with some bandages? and perhaps you have such a thing as a green shade for the eyes. both hearing and sight are affected, but there is no danger in travelling. we shall return to town immediately." "my dear sir, i have all you require. and you must allow me--i insist on ordering the carriage for you." when george early emerged from the parsonage to enter the carriage his head was enveloped in bandages, covered by a black silk neck-cloth. a green shade covered his eyes. the shock had evidently affected his limbs also, for he moved very slowly, supported on one side by the vicar, and on the other by cattermole. both accompanied him to the station, and it was perhaps due to the grave nature of the report that morning that they performed the journey without interruption from the discharged trio. those worthies, on hearing later that george had left, abused the parson shamefully, and pointed out to the station-master that such a dunderhead as himself ought not to be allowed on any station down the line. the sight of george and his bandages had stopped the station-master's tongue; and while he described the fire scare, and how it proved to be nothing, to the vicar, he kept the story of the prisoner's misdeeds in the cloak-room, and the heavy claim for damages he should prefer against him, to himself. seeing how friendly the vicar was with the young man, it was not his business to injure himself by interfering. the company would claim in due course. george and his doctor friend went off in a first-class carriage, accompanied by the hearty wishes of the vicar. that worthy man grasped george's inanimate hand, and shook it warmly, exchanged a few pregnant remarks with cattermole, and waved a good-bye with his handkerchief. even joe and the station-master touched their hats as the train departed. the conspirators allowed themselves to get well out of hearing, and then george pulled off the green shade and roared. cattermole took it up, and roared too. chapter xxiii--_first stop, hastings_ "now the question is," said george, as the train rattled along, "what am i going to do when i get to london?" "you'll have a nice restful time," said cattermole. "i'm not so sure of it," said george, whose respect for the energy and ingenuity of gray and his companions was much greater now than it had been. "those blood-suckers won't leave me till they've got what they're after. i'm a peaceable man, and i don't want to spend the rest of my days playing follow my leader about the country. i suppose we go to brunswick terrace; is that the scheme?" "no, this is the scheme," said cattermole; "we get out here. put your bandage on." "sevenoaks," said george, taking a hurried glance through the window as they pulled up. "we break the journey here," said cattermole, "and put 'em off the scent. you'll have to keep on doing that until you've struck the wonderful idea that is going to leave you in possession of the money without risk." "then the sooner i strike it, the better." cattermole led his invalid friend into the waiting-room and ordered a porter to fetch a cab. half a dozen passengers looked on sympathetically as the two men entered the vehicle and the cabman closed the door softly. "you can't dodge those fellows so easily," said george, doubtfully, as the cab went off at a walking pace. "they'll find out we've come here and follow us." "it's all right," said cattermole. "i took tickets to london, and broke the journey here because you were too ill to go further. they won't find you." after a slow drive up an interminably long hill the cab stopped before an inn of countrified appearance where the two men met with a cordial welcome. "my friend is an invalid," cattermole explained, "and we've come here because i'm told it's quiet." the landlord informed him that it was the quietest spot in the neighbourhood. it was especially fortunate too that there were no other visitors. "i shall have to leave you for a bit now," said cattermole, when they had done justice to a good hot meal and were safely out of earshot in the long garden. "shop'll be going to the dogs if i don't get back to-day." "how long are you going for?" asked george, anxiously. "not long," said cattermole; "back to-morrow night. in the mean time you can think the business over." before departing he called the waitress aside and gave her explicit directions about taking care of the invalid, emphasizing his remarks with a gift of five shillings. george sat in the garden and thought the matter over till the dutiful waitress led him in to tea. then he sat in the deserted smoking-room and thought it over again till he was led away to dinner, after which he thought it over till bed-time. secure in his bedroom, with the blinds drawn, he lit a cigar and did the rest of his thinking with his eyes open. "three days of this," he said to his image in the glass, "would about do for me. it's the slowest game i ever took on. i'd sooner be fighting station-masters and climbing trees. we'll get out of this and try something else when catty comes back." the attention bestowed upon george by the waitress was quite pathetic. she waited on him at breakfast-time, cut up his bacon and eggs and sugared his coffee to her own taste. each of these little services was accompanied by a cheerful flow of conversation such as people are wont to indulge in for their own gratification when attending sick children and babies. "come along," she said cheerfully, when breakfast was over; "now we'll give you a nice seat by the drawing-room fire, because it's cold and damp outside. there now, isn't that nice and comfortable?" as george was settled in a big armchair with his feet on a stool. receiving no reply, and expecting none, she poked the fire into a blaze, and then brought the cook to look at the visitor. that lady, being of a sentimental turn of mind, gazed sorrowfully at george's good-looking features, and whispered her sympathy to the waitress. "you can speak out, mrs. baily," said the girl; "he can't hear a word." "bless my 'eart now," said the cook; "pore young feller! my nephew 'arry was just the same. reg'lar handsome, and deaf as a brazen image." "he's blind, too," said the girl; "isn't it a shame?" "ah," sighed the cook; "p'raps,"--looking meaningly at the rosy features of the waitress--"p'raps it's as well for some people." the waitress blushed, and told the cook she was a caution. "them chins," said the cook, significantly, taking stock of george's features, "are a sign of a flirt. baily had that sort of chin." "i like brown hair in a man," observed the waitress, sentimentally; "especially with blue eyes." "i s'pose his are blue?" said the cook. "how should i know?" said the girl, flushing. "i adore blue eyes," the cook said curiously; "'ave a look." "you romantic old thing!" cried the waitress, laughing and approaching george. to obtain a good view of his eyes it was necessary to kneel on the hearthrug and peer under the green shade. she did so, and the intelligent look that met her was most confusing. "they're blue, ain't they?" said the cook. "i--i can't see properly," replied the girl; "i think they're brown." she took another peep and looked straight into george early's eyes. as she did so george closed one eye in a manner that made the waitress scramble to her feet with a red face. "are they brown?" asked the cook. "i don't know," said the girl, hastily. "i must get on with my work: i'm all behind." the cook went back to her kitchen very reluctantly, and the waitress busied herself in clearing the breakfast-table. * * * * * it was unfortunate for george early that the train conveying his enemies to london should stop for several minutes at sevenoaks till an express had overtaken it and rushed on ahead. during that time, an interesting conversation between a porter and a local drayman drifted into the carriage where gray and his companion sat. "young feller, he was," said the porter, "and his head all bandaged and a shade on his eyes. i arst 'im for 'is ticket, and the doctor, 'e says, 'don't talk to 'im,' 'e says; ''e's deaf, and blind too,' 'e says." gray got up, and leaned out of the window. "funny thing is," continued the porter, "that when the cab went off, i 'eard the two of 'em talking. now, if 'e was deaf, 'ow----" the guard's whistle blew suddenly, and the engine hooted. "come on," said gray, quickly, turning to the others; "get out here; we're on their track." he jumped on to the platform. "look here----" began busby. "make up y' mind there," yelled the station-master, getting out of temper. parrott and busby scrambled out together, and fell over a truck. "don't know where you want to go to, some of you, i should think," said the station-master. he slammed the door, and commented volubly on the indecision of people who caused the company's trains to be late, and then blamed it on to the officials. "we must find the cabman," said gray, when they got outside the station. the cabman was easily found, and for a small consideration he was able to recall exactly where he went on the day previous. armed with the fullest information, the three men made their way to the inn on the hill. the waitress was just clearing away the breakfast things when they arrived. george heard the well-known voice of gray, and started in his chair. a cold perspiration broke out over him, but he remained as the waitress had left him, resting in the armchair with his feet on a stool. "the gentleman's here," said the girl, ushering the three men into george's presence; "but he can't hear a word you say, he's stone deaf, and blind too," she added. "what a pity!" said gray, in an unfeeling voice. "you'd better wait till his friend the doctor comes," said the girl. "he'll be back this evening." "perhaps he'll know me if i speak loudly," said gray. he walked across the room, and bellowed "george!" into the ear of his late master. beyond a slightly perceptible shiver, there was no indication that the man in the chair had heard. "take the shade off his eyes," said busby. "you musn't," protested the girl; "he----" but gray did so, and found george early with his eyes closed. a shake made him open them, but, as they looked vacantly at the opposite wall, there was no sign of recognition in them. "he can't see anything," said the waitress. "perhaps he don't want to," said gray. "it's a shame to say that," cried the girl, indignantly. "you--you ought to be sorry for him." "so we are," said gray; "we're all sorry for him. we're old friends of his, and we've come to see him. tell the cook we're going to stay to lunch; we'll all have lunch with our old friend george." "i can't allow you to be with him here," said the girl, "because he's left in my charge, and he must be kept quiet." "of course he must," said gray; "the less you say to him the better he'll like it. we'll leave him alone now, but we shan't be far away." this last was uttered in a tone that the girl considered unnecessarily loud. having seen her charge left unmolested, she went off, and consulted the cook on the question of luncheon. gray and his friends had no intention of being outwitted this time, and they kept a watchful eye on the room where george sat, one of their number having first despatched a telegram to "caroli, london." with the prospect of lively proceedings before him, the master of fairbrothers' kept to his arm-chair by the fire, swearing softly to himself as he vainly endeavoured to think out a way of escape. with good fortune, and the waitress's help, he might manage to keep even with his opponents until cattermole came, but they would not lose sight of him afterwards, he was sure of that. the luncheon hour passed without further trouble, but no new idea had presented itself. experience had taught gray and his colleagues to exercise the greatest vigilance with so slippery a customer as their old employer, and they were careful to do so. george looked round the old-fashioned room in which he sat, and deplored the fact that it lacked those useful secret exits so convenient in old days to a man in a tight corner. such an aid would have enabled him to vanish cleverly. there was not even a panel or a family picture to swing generously forward and disclose a yawning hole. a fanlight of modern construction gaped in one corner, but it was doubtful if a grown man could have squeezed himself through this. it looked into a small parlour, where the landlord's buxom wife sat and superintended the affairs of the household. despairing of escape in that direction, george settled himself down in gloomy meditation, evolving all kinds of schemes for outwitting his wily enemies, every one of which proved unworkable. his train of thought was in due course interrupted by the sound of voices from the next room. somebody was in conference with the landlady, and the few words that fell distinctly upon the ears of george early drove any further cogitation for the moment clean out of his head. he gave his whole attention to the conversation. one of the speakers was gray. "the fact is," george heard that gentleman say, "he isn't quite right--a bit touched in the upper story. you know what i mean. we didn't want to mention it, but i thought it best to let you know the facts." "deary me, now," said the landlady in a hushed voice; "to think o' that. well, i can sympathize, for, believe me, nobody knows better--and the gentleman that brought him didn't mention a word----" "that man," interrupted gray, "means no good to him. i want to get him away before they come in contact again. if they meet to-night----" "he won't be here," said the landlady. "he telegraphed to my good man, saying he couldn't get down till to-morrow." "damn!" said george, under his breath. "as i was saying," she proceeded; "if anybody knows what that trouble is--meaning his head being wrong--if anybody knows, it's my own blessed self. a boy o' mine was just the same, a twin o' that young fellow there"--evidently indicating somebody in the same room. "dreadful affliction!" said gray. "sometimes, when i look at--at george, and think of it, it makes me that sorry for him i don't know what to do." "ah, i can well believe that! i was the same with little ernest. he wouldn't have nobody touch him but me. he knew his own mother. sometimes i used to say as he wasn't so mad after all." "bad thing to have meddlers," said gray. "that's why i want to get him away. you see, we're--we're his keepers, and we want to get him back quietly to--to the asylum. already his mind has been set against us, and if he's left much longer, we shan't get control of him. now, if your husband could lend me a trap, we'd get off almost at once." "i dare say that could be done." "much the best thing for everybody," said gray, in pleased tones. "much the best." "yes," said the landlady, going back to her light-headed son. "many's the time he's sat in that very chair you're a-sitting in now, a-playin' with his little billy-gee--his little wooden horse--and a-sayin' 'erny good boy,' all the time. dear little feller; only seven, too. such a one for names! moggles, he used to call me. deary me, to think of it!" "very sad," said gray. "very sad." "yes, indeed, and that's why i always feel for any one like that. i suppose it's memories." "they're better off--better off where they are. i dare say it was a blow at the time, but as the years go along----" "that's true," said the landlady, jumping up to give directions to a maid. "they say time softens the blow. and yet," she added, as gray got up to go, "it's nice to really know. my little erny was lost, and from that day to this we never knew if he lived or died. not but what it's pretty certain he did die, for he wouldn't have lived without me. well, i suppose i musn't worry you with my troubles. i'll speak to my husband about the trap." george returned to his seat by the fire, and marvelled at the impudence of gray in his new _rôle_ of lunatic attendant. "it would serve them right if i turned mad for a bit," he said spitefully, "and did a little damage all round. there's no accounting for what mad people will do." he turned this idea over thoughtfully in his mind, wondering if it couldn't be put to account in some way. his reflections were disturbed afresh by the sound of the landlady's voice. this time it came from the hotel hall. somebody opened the door of george's room. "come in," said the voice of gray. "he's perfectly harmless. it's a sad case. he thinks that his eyes are bad, and that he can't talk or hear." "deary me!" said the landlady; "and does it take three of you to look after him?" gray was about to reply, when george started to his feet, and began to tremble visibly. "what is it?" asked the landlady, in a loud whisper. "don't be afraid; it's only one of his tricks." but george had turned towards the landlady, and was holding out his arms. it was as if a chord in his memory, long dormant, had suddenly been struck when he heard her voice. "he won't hurt you," said parrott and busby in one chant. then george electrified the landlady. it was simply done. he stood there, turned towards her, and spoke. "moggles!" he said, in an awful voice. the landlady gasped. a chord in her memory had been touched, too. "moggles!" said george again. "don't mind him," said gray, "he goes off like that sometimes." "that voice," said the landlady, now beginning to tremble again. "can it be----" "moggles!" "my boy!" the landlady cried out with a half-shriek. "it must be. let me see him." gray saw through the trick at once, and laughed out loud. "don't you be deceived, ma'am," he said, tearing the shade away from george early's eyes. "it's a game he's playing. look at him; that's not your boy." george blinked his eyes, and looked as foolish as he could. "i don't know," said the landlady, excitedly. "he's about the right size." "erny good boy," said george, smiling vacantly. the landlady shrieked again. "it is!" she cried, "it is! i'll fetch my husband." in the interval, george early had a rough time with the three men, being threatened and sworn at without mercy. "it's my move," said george. "don't you worry." when the buxom landlady returned with an equally buxom spouse, george had wriggled away from his captors, and was crouching in a corner. "want moggles," he said, in a whining voice. "there!" cried the landlady turning to her husband, who stood with open mouth, scratching his head. "did you hear that?" "it's his play," said gray. "come along,"--turning to the others. "we'd better see about getting him away." "erny good boy," said george. "there!" cried the landlady again. "now don't you think i'm right?" the landlord nodded his head sagely. "blamed if i don't, too!" "come along," said gray; "get his hat and coat. we must make a start." "stop a bit," said the landlady; "i believe that young man is my own long-lost son that i haven't seen since he was seven years old. didn't you hear him call me 'moggles'?" gray laughed again. "that's a trick," he said; "his name is george early. you've made a mistake." "erny good boy," said george. "three bad men take erny away." urged by his wife, the landlord now promptly claimed george as his lost son, and said he should resist any attempt at removal. gray and his colleagues carried on a wordy war, and offered all kinds of proof of their own avowals, while george sat and stroked the landlady's hand. "i declare to you that his name is george early," said gray, vehemently. "want billy-gee," said george. "that settles it," cried the innkeeper, suddenly. "there's no fraud about that. he's our boy right enough." by the time that caroli arrived george was safely settled in the landlord's best parlour, undergoing the ordeal of comparison with his twin-brother albert, a sportive young man, full of strange oaths, and inclined to doubt the genuineness of his newly-found brother. george bore his ill nature with good humour, and played the lunatic quite successfully. if he could keep the protection of the landlord and his wife, he did not doubt that some avenue of escape would open before long. fortunately, the obstreperous albert was leaving early the next morning for a few weeks, and george would have the field to himself. the four conspirators had engaged rooms in the inn for the night, but george managed to put his newly-found parents on their guard against any efforts at kidnapping. "he can sleep in the little room next to albert, and leave the door open," said the fond mother. "and then albert can lock the door when he goes off in the morning." "thanks," said albert, sourly. "he's harmless enough, bless his heart," said the old lady, smiling at george. "it does seem funny that his hair has changed colour." "keep your eye on the cash-box," said albert, "or you'll find that change colour before the morning." george lay in bed with a peaceful smile on his face when the ungracious albert lumbered upstairs; and complacently bore the candle-light scrutiny which the other bestowed on him for the space of two seconds. long after the noises of the house had ceased he lay awake searching his brain for the scheme that was to place his enemies _hors de combat_. it was all very well to outwit them for a day or two, but something lasting was needed. he could not go on dodging about the country in the fashion of the last few days. as the church clock struck one he got out of bed and peered through the window which looked out on the roadway. he had a suspicion that caroli and his assistants were taking every precaution to prevent his giving them the slip. patient observation for half an hour rewarded his effort, a man that he recognized as busby came out of the shadow of a gateway opposite, leisurely crossed the road, and disappeared at the side of the inn. presently he as leisurely returned to the gateway, and was lost in the gloom. george got back into bed and pondered while the clock struck two, and afterwards three. then he got out again and walked to where the landlady's son lay wrapped in slumber. by his bed stood a clock, on a table. the alarm was set for half-past three. his new brother made it fifteen minutes later. then having gathered up the slumbering man's clothes he carried them into his own room, transferred the contents of the pockets to his own, and made an exchange of suits; emptying albert's match-box with great care into the water-jug. when he got back into his bed his own gaudy check clothes lay in albert's room. "he'll be off before it's light," said george, snuggling between the sheets. "it's a chance in a hundred, but i can't afford to miss anything." when the alarm went off there was a noise of yawning and grunting followed by a brief silence. ten minutes passed, then a footstep bumped on the floor. by the sounds that followed george reckoned that albert was bewailing the loss of his matches. presently a figure in dishabille walked to the window of george's room and consulted a clock by a thin streak of light from an outdoor lamp. it was albert; and as a result he swore volubly and hurried back to his own room. a few minutes of hasty toilet interspersed with oaths, and somebody clattered down the stairs. "he'll lose that train if he isn't careful," said george to himself. "and the wicked fellow hasn't locked my door." a dull boom of a door closing. "now for it," said george, jumping out of bed and peering through the window. he heard the footsteps of the retreating albert going off at a trot. as they died away a man ran across the road, disappeared at the inn side, and reappeared again after an interval. it was busby, and he started off down the road in pursuit of the landlady's son. a few minutes later and another figure followed him, to be followed shortly by two others. "hooray!" said george, as they disappeared. "the suit did it." without hesitating, he got into the clothes left behind, wrote a note to the landlady, and was outside the house in a quarter of an hour. acting with due caution, he avoided the high road and reached the station as the sun burst into a blaze of glory over the trees. "four men?" said the porter he consulted. "yes, and there won't 'arf be some trouble about it, too. got in when the train was moving. not a blooming ticket among the lot." "scandalous!" said george. "where did they go to?" "first stop, hastings; that's all i knows," said the porter. "and quite enough, too. what's the next train up?" chapter xxiv--_a strawberry mark_ george early travelled a few miles up the line, then made up his mind to cut across country. changing his plans, he took to the railway again as far as new cross, and thought the matter out over a good breakfast. finally he decided to return to brunswick terrace and make his home a stronghold until he could defy his enemies. having thus wasted several hours, he went forward for the third time. at cannon street a surprise awaited him. hastily correcting himself as he was about to enter the buffet, he turned to the station exit, and in passing through ran against a lady. "i beg your pardon," said the lady. "beg your--what, ellen? why, how did you know i was coming here?" cried george. "really, i--" the lady gasped, hesitating. "who told you i was coming to cannon street?" "what do you mean? i don't know you!" the lady stared at him, and uttered these words with a look of astonishment on her face. george laughed in spite of his mood. "well, you've been getting yourself up in some new clothes; but i suppose you're my lawful wife just the same," he said. "anyway, this is no time for acting, ellen." "i beg your pardon," said the lady, quietly. "you've evidently made a mistake. you certainly know my christian name, but you don't know me; i've never set eyes on you in my life before." george found refuge in sarcasm. "go on," he said; "don't mind me. you'll say i'm not your husband presently." "you're certainly not," said the lady, firmly, preparing to continue on her way. "go on," said george, exasperated; "say you're not mrs. early; say you were never miss fairbrother; say you----" "how do you know my name is fairbrother?" "was--not is." "i say _is_," said the lady, severely. "do you know anybody named fairbrother?" "i once knew a girl named fairbrother," said george, in a playful spirit. "she was a very adorable creature, so i married her. the first time i met her was in upper thames street, the last in cannon----" "ah!" the lady gasped and held out her hand. "you don't mean to tell me she's married? then you must be her husband?" "no, i'm her grandfather," said george. "look here, ellen, stop this rot and talk sense. i can't stand here talking----" "i'm not your wife," said the lady, sharply. "i've just arrived from australia, and i'm going to visit miss fairbrother. we're cousins." george opened his mouth, shut it again, and looked frightfully sheepish. ellen's cousin! of course, his wife had got a cousin in australia. he had heard of her; tops she was called--evidently a pet name. but what in the world was she doing wandering about cannon street alone? and what did she mean by looking so tremendously like his own wife? it was obvious, though, now that she was a young person with much more confidence than his own ellen. but, after all, why was she here at all? what was the matter with australia? "i've come over post-haste," said the lady in a business-like manner. "got a cable, and went on board next day; not even time to write." "anybody ill?" asked george. his cousin-in-law laughed. "no, not so bad as that; i've had a little property left me. we soon leave australia when there's property here, don't we?" with an effort george joined in the laugh. girls from australia inheriting property was not a favourite topic with him at the moment. miss fairbrother's modest boxes were placed on a four-wheeler, and the two drove off to brunswick terrace. on the way george heard a good deal of the childhood of his wife and of the great fun the two cousins used to have together. no doubt these anecdotes were highly humorous, but george was not in the mood for them. mrs. early was just starting for upper thames street when they arrived at brunswick terrace, and she rushed to the hall on hearing her husband's voice. as soon as she and her cousin set eyes on one another there was a double shriek. "babs!" "tops!" kisses, endearing epithets, squeezes, playful pats; more kisses, questions--numberless questions. george looked on in gloomy silence. "you darling scrumptious old tops!" "you precious pet! you old babs!" more embraces, kisses, and squeezes. "keep it up," said george, in a bitter aside to the hatstand; "never mind the husband. what does it matter if i've been harried about the country by a lot of low ruffians, chased from one place to another, bandaged and made a madman? what does it matter, eh?" he repeated, looking hard at a barometer that pointed to "very dry." "very dry," said george, noticing it; "suppose i'm very dry, what of that? what of it? what does it matter?" raising his voice. mrs. early suddenly tore herself from the embrace of her cousin, and threw her arms about her husband's neck. "oh, you dear old georgy-porgy! what a shame to leave him all alone! what a naughty bad old girl!" somewhat mollified by this display of affection, george at last was prevailed upon to smile, and to give a brief account of his adventures, without moving from the spot. his wife assured him that everything would come right, and declared that his pursuers were the worst and horridest men in the world. she then gave him three special kisses for finding tops, and bade him take a good look at that young lady from a distance of six feet, and say if she wasn't the dearest, sweetest, and prettiest girl in the world. george did so, and diplomatically gave it as his opinion that she was the "second prettiest." mrs. early dimpled, and, after vowing that her husband was a dear old stupid, warned him to prepare for a special favour. "what is it?" asked the young man. mrs. early looked first at her husband, then at her cousin, and then placing her hands behind her, and looking as regal and magnanimous as possible, she said-- "george, you may kiss tops." like a dutiful husband, george obeyed, but not before mrs. early had received a scolding from her cousin, who received the salute under protest. at dinner that evening george almost forgot his woes in the unceasing flow of conversation. miss fairbrother's legacy was the chief topic. in spite of the urgent cable presaging "a valuable property," this appeared to be nothing more than "a freehold house at brixton with a long garden." "it'll be nice to live in without rent," said miss fairbrother; "but of course i shall have to work for my bread-and-butter. anyhow, i shall be near babs, so it's worth having on that account." aunt phoebe gave her reminiscences of the sailing of the two cousins for australia at the age of two years each, with a graphic description of the scene at the docks. "your papa was in the height of his success then," she said to mrs. early, "and his brother was doing well. the strangest thing was that they both married when nearly fifty, and both were left widowers within three years with a baby-girl each. i offered to take care of the two of you, but as your aunt mary was going a voyage to australia, and the change was thought good for you, away you both went with her. of course we never dreamt of her staying there and you two staying with her." "if papa was doing well when i went away, what became of his fortune?" asked miss fairbrother. "he married again," said aunt phoebe, "and lost the greater part of it through the extravagance of his wife. i'm glad he managed to keep a house out of it for you; it was little enough to do." "poor papa!" "yes, i suppose he deserves to be pitied," said aunt phoebe. "but john never had the good sense of joseph. they were both j. fairbrother's, but the one j. was very different from the other in business ability. i always thought it absurd that john should imitate joseph in calling his baby-girl by the same name. you were born within a week of each other, and both named ellen." "what a funny thing," said mrs. early, laughing, "that we never got mixed up!" "yes, indeed," said aunt phoebe. "i remember your poor father telling your aunt mary, with a smile, to be sure to keep you separate." "'they're separate enough!' said john, laughing. 'one's got a strawberry mark, mary, and remember the strawberry mark's mine.' then your father----" "aunt," said miss fairbrother, in a queer voice, "did you say the strawberry mark was on john's baby or on----" "john fairbrother's baby-girl had a strawberry mark," said aunt phoebe; "that's how we knew the difference, you were so much alike." mrs. early and her cousin looked at each other. george put down the glass he was raising to his lips and looked at them both. aunt phoebe rose from her seat suddenly and said-- "what is it? you don't mean to say----" mrs. early drew up the sleeve of her gown and exposed the bare, pretty arm, with its significant birth-mark. "john's girl!" gasped her aunt. there was a deathly silence. the clock on the mantelshelf ticked away in regular monotonous beats, every sound in the street could be heard distinctly, and of the four people at the table three were looking in wonderment at the birthmark on mrs. early's arm. george, on whom the significance of the whole thing had dawned with great rapidity, sat with his mouth open until he had thoroughly grasped the situation. then he said in a feeble whisper-- "would somebody mind passing the brandy?" chapter xxv--_name o' phoebe_ an elephant 'bus stopped at the corner of new bridge street to pick up a passenger, and then struggled on again towards blackfriars bridge. "by the way, cattermole," said a man in a top hat to his friend in a bowler, "what was the result of that little skirmish in the country you told me about some time ago?" the walworth chemist laughed and buttoned up his coat. "that all ended in smoke," he said. "i got a wire telling me not to bother about going down again, as my friend had given them the slip and got away." "but they got some money out of him, i suppose? it was a money job, wasn't it?" "yes, but they didn't get any money, as it happened. it turned out that my friend's wife wasn't the heiress to the property; it really belonged to her cousin." "he had to hand it over, then?" "yes, the wife's cousin took the property, and i'm told she has enough business ability to run three firms as big as that." "hard luck for your friend!" "oh i not such hard luck. he's a sort of manager there. he draws a decent salary, and they have a freehold house in brixton. they're not badly off. the three men got their old positions back, so everything's pretty comfortable." "blackfriars!" yelled the 'bus conductor, "elephant, kennington, and brixton. now for brix--ton!" a man jumped on and clambered up to the top. "what--george!" cattermole and george early shook hands, and george was introduced to the man in the top hat. "business good?" asked cattermole. "splendid!" said george. he whispered in his friend's ear. cattermole held out his hand again. "i congratulate you, old man!" he said. "what are you going to call her?" instead of replying directly george poured some further confidence into his friend's ear, and accompanied the recital by sundry taps on his friend's coat-sleeve. "no!" said cattermole at the finish. "worth as much as fifteen thousand! she's your aunt, isn't she?" "my wife's," said george, in a whisper. "i thought she professed to be poor?" "so she does"--with a wink. "you're a devil for finding out things," said cattermole, with some admiration. "so i suppose you're going to call the girl----" "phoebe," said george. cattermole laughed, and his friend, who had caught some scraps of the conversation, laughed also. george joined them. "i suppose it'll work all right?" said cattermole. "coming to stay a month," said george; "you can leave the rest to me." "well, i hope you're backing a winner," said cattermole. "it's a cert," said george. "baby holds the reins." "elephant!" yelled the 'bus conductor. "we get off here," said cattermole. he and his friend shook hands and went down the steps. george changed his seat for one next to the driver, and the 'bus rattled on to brixton. latest fiction. the judgment of paris: a novel. by m. p. willcocks, author of "the wingless victory." crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _miss willcocks' success with "the wingless victory" has been notable, the more so when it is remembered that it was only her second book. her new story deals with devonshire, where she is so much at home in describing the beauties of her native county._ companions: a novel. by hugh de sÉlincourt, author of "a boy's marriage" and "the strongest plume." crown vo, _s._ the bishop's scapegoat: a novel. by t. b. clegg, author of "the love child" and "the wilderness." crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _the bishop of capricarnia, when a vicar, for one moment forgot his cloth in remembering his manhood. the far-reaching results of this lapse form the subject of mr. cleggs new novel. eventually the bishop discovers the suffering which ensued from his crime and the punishment which providence has meted out to him._ the finances of sir john kynnersley. by a. c. fox-davies, barrister-at-law, author of "the mauleverer murders," "the dangerville inheritance," etc. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _this book creates an arch type of the clever swindler, and represents the series of episodes by which he amasses an enormous fortune and finally relapses into private life and respectability. the episodes are so cleverly devised that in all probability they could have been carried through in real life without risk of detection and with complete immunity from unpleasant consequences._ the chichester intrigue: a novel. by thomas cobb, author of "mrs. erricker's reputation," "the dissemblers," etc. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _lambert amory is placed in a difficult situation by the discovery, amongst the papers of the late alfred chichester (who, "if not the most inspired actor on the english stage, was reputed the handsomest"), of some passionate love letters from, it appears, the woman whom his friend, sir hugo warbrook, desires to marry. the story treats of the effect on varying temperaments, and also of lambert's efforts to remove any doubt concerning the writer's identity._ the child of chance: a novel. by maxime formont. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _a novel which had the good fortune to be immensely discussed in paris when it came out recently in serial form. the author deals boldly, but without offence, with the rights of motherhood. he points out that while contemporary drama and fiction are largely concerned with the justification of illicit love, no one has raised the question of the rights of maternity as a thing desirable in itself, not merely accepted as a consequence of sexual passion._ the gates that shall not prevail: a novel. by herbert m. farrington. _s._ [asterism] _a story dealing with the progress of a movement which became known as the great crusade, and which, inaugurated and carried on by one "brother paul," a cleric of an unconventional type, had for its object the bringing of christianity "from the region of an impracticable theology into the market-places of the world." interwoven with this is the tale of "brother paul's" temptation at the hands of a woman, and how he learned the lesson he had tried to teach._ ashes: a novel. translated from the italian of grazia deledda. by helen hester colvill. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _this is a story of sardinia by grazia deledda, the well-known and popular sardinian authoress. it is a picture of simple country life, set in a poetic though sombre background. anania is a love child, deserted by his mother ali for his good. he is brought up by his father in comfortable circumstances; but always is haunted by the thought of his lost mother, whom he seeks even in rome. at last he finds her in the mountain village of his birth. she is in the last stage of degradation and misery; but anania leaves all, even his sweetheart, that he may take charge of and rescue her._ lady julia's emerald: a novel. by helen hester colvill. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _lesley was the daughter of a woman of genius, and she hoped she had genius herself. she set out to follow her star; but she made great mistakes, and was doubted and misunderstood even by those who loved her best. for a time she was the fashion; then came a sudden downfall, which her enemies called the exposure of an adventuress. she never succeeded in the high tasks she had set herself; but she brought back victor penruddocke to his lost faith in womanhood, and she learned herself that even for a child of genius love is the surest guide into the higher life._ love and the ironmonger: a novel. by f. j. randall. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _a humorous story, chiefly concerning the bequests of a benevolent, self-made merchant, who endeavours to reform some of his intemperate and untruthful employés. peculiar knowledge of these legacies falls in the way of a junior clerk, who blackmails the legatees and uses his power as a lever for his own advancement. in doing so he creates many absurd situations, and is able to exercise extensively his natural humour. love and a wealthy young lady intervene, together with a reversion of the legacies, so that the blackmailed turn on the blackmailer and pay him back in his own coin._ the master knot: a novel. by alice birkhead. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _this is a story of two women who differ widely in character and fortune, but whose fates are intertwined. each struggles to untie the knot of destiny--to find that human hands are powerless to unloose it, and that it binds together the fluttering strands of the life, before held free, till security brings happiness even as youth passes and desires become less strong._ absolution: a novel. by clara viebig. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _on the publication of this remarkable book in germany last autumn, a lengthy review appeared in the "westminster gazette," from which the following passages are selected:--"in germany this book of the sombre purple cover and the design of a halo surrounding the strange title is everywhere. it is on train and steamer, in little odd bookshops of sleepy country towns, and (often in strange company) among the best-displayed wares in the shop-windows of the main streets of great cities. 'it is a terrible book,' people say as they sit poring over its pages, but we doubt whether any one, having taken it up, lays it aside as too 'terrible' before he has reached the abrupt, dramatic end.... the face of a woman, young and proud, and very beautiful, haunts the pages of the new novel by the most powerful of the woman writers of germany."_ the isle of maids: a novel. by m. t. hainsselin. crown vo, _s._ [asterism] _a story dealing with the adventures of two young men fresh from oxford, who decide, by way of a holiday, to find an uninhabited island and live for a time away from civilisation. they select one of the Ægean group in the mediterranean. many brisk adventures and stirring scenes follow, interspersed with love-making. the treatment is uncommon, and has the advantage of not belonging to the usual hackneyed category of stories, while the handling of grotesque situations brought about by the impulsiveness of the hero is humorous and entertaining._ by mrs. john lane the champagne standard crown vo. _s._ fourth edition _morning post:_--"the author's champagne overflows with witty sayings too numerous to cite." _academy:_--"mrs. lane may congratulate herself on having that blessed sense of humour which is one of the most valuable possessions in life." _pall mall gazette:_--"mrs. lane's papers on our social manners and foibles are the most entertaining, the kindest, and the truest that have been offered us for a long time.... the book shows an airy philosophy that will render it of service to the social student." _athenæum:_--"mrs. lane treats each subject with such freshness and originality that the work is as entertaining as it is suggestive." kitwyk crown vo. _s._ with numerous illustrations by albert sterner, howard pyle, and george wharton edwards. _times:_--"mrs. lane has succeeded to admiration, and chiefly by reason of being so much interested in her theme that she makes no conscious effort to please.... everyone who seeks to be diverted will read 'kitwyk' for its obvious qualities of entertainment." by gertrude atherton senator north crown vo. _s._ seventeenth edition _new york herald:_--"in the description of washington life mrs. atherton shows not only a very considerable knowledge of externals, but also an insight into the underlying political issues that is remarkable." _outlook:_--"the novel has genuine historical value." the aristocrats crown vo. _s._ twenty-third thousand _the times:_--"clever and entertaining.... this gay volume is written by some one with a pretty wit, an eye for scenery, and a mind quick to grasp natural as well as individual characteristics. her investigations into the american character are acute as well as amusing." _the onlooker:_--"i have no hesitation in recommending it strongly to my readers' notice.... it contains the most delicious satire and the brightest writing that has been published for a long time." by grant allen the woman who did crown vo. _s._ _d._ net twenty-fourth edition _sketch:_--"none but the most foolish or malignant reader of 'the woman who did' can fail to recognise the noble purpose which animates its pages.... label it as one will, it remains a clever, stimulating book. a real enthusiasm for humanity blazes through every page of this, in many ways, most remarkable and significant little book.... even its bitterest enemies must feel a thrill of admiration for its courage." _pall mall gazette:_--"his sincerity is undeniable. and in the mouth of herminia are some very noble and eloquent passages upon the wrongs of our marriage system." _scotsman:_--"the story is as remarkable for its art as for its daring." the british barbarians crown vo. _s._ _d._ net second edition _academy:_--"there can be no doubt that mr. grant allen is sincere in what he here expounds, and if for no other reason, 'the british barbarians' at least deserves consideration." _vanity fair:_--"the book is a clever, trenchant satire on the petty conventionalities of modern life." anonymous the ms. in a red box crown vo. _s._ second edition _speaker:_--"it is that rarest and most welcome of works, a good romance of pure fiction.... the use made of local colour and historical incident is one of the author's unknown triumphs.... in these respects ... it is the best novel that has appeared since 'lorna doone.' one of the most exciting books of its own kind that we have ever read." by richard bagot the just and the unjust crown vo. _s._ third edition _spectator:_--"it is purely a novel of society, and is interesting chiefly because it gives real portraits of the world as we know it. readers who like a novel dealing with the world they live in, and peopled, not with dummies, but with real live characters, will find 'the just and the unjust' a thoroughly amusing and interesting book." _manchester guardian:_--"there is much brilliant writing in the book, the style is excellent, and the characters are admirably drawn." _st. james's gazette:_--"mr. richard bagot has put some capital work into his new novel, 'the just and the unjust.' the plot is good, the story is well constructed, and delicate situations are delicately handled." _westminster gazette:_--"mr. bagot knows the world of which he writes, and the character studies in this volume are drawn with subtlety." by arnold bennett a man from the north crown vo. _s._ _d._ _black and white:_--"a work that will come to the jaded novel reader as a splendid surprise." _outlook:_--"literary insight and comprehension." _daily chronicle:_--"admirably fresh and brisk, vibrating with a wild, young ecstasy." by h. h. bashford the manitoban by the author of "tommy wideawake" crown vo. _s._ _morning post:_--"nothing save admiration will be felt for the sketches of canadian life and character." _literary world:_--"mr. bashford's clever and absorbing story." by harry bentley the love of his life crown vo. _s._ _standard:_ "a story uncommonly rich in observation and in promise." by ex-lieut. bilse life in a garrison town (aus einer kleinen garnison) with portrait of the author, summary of the court-martial, introduction by arnold white, and new preface written by the author in prison. crown vo. _s._ fourth edition _truth:_--"the disgraceful exposures of the book were expressly admitted to be true by the minister of war in the reichstag. what the book will probably suggest to you is, that german militarism is cutting its own throat, and will one day be hoist with its own petard." dear fatherland crown vo. _s._ _daily telegraph:_--"at once fascinating and disgusting.... the book is a terrible indictment of the soulless and brutalised militarism of the fatherland.... a strong book, and one to be read by all interested in the present and future of the german empire." by t. b. clegg the love child crown vo. _s._ second edition _truth:_--"a singularly powerful book.... the painful story grips you from first to last." _daily telegraph:_--"a strong and interesting story, the fruit of careful thought and conscientious workmanship.... mr. clegg has presented intensely dramatic situations without letting them degenerate into the melodramatic." _pall mall gazette:_--"mr. clegg's book is one that will be remembered." the wilderness crown vo. _s._ by g. k. chesterton the napoleon of notting hill with seven illustrations and a cover design by w. graham robertson, and a map of the seat of war. crown vo. _s._ mr. james douglas, in the _star:_--"an allegorical romance, a didactic fantasy, a humorous whimsy. it is not easy to say what it means; mr. chesterton himself probably does not know." _daily mail:_--"mr. chesterton, as our laughing philosopher, is at his best in this delightful fantasy." _westminster gazette:_--"it is undeniably clever. it scintillates--that is exactly the right word--with bright and epigrammatic observations, and it is written throughout with undoubted literary skill." by victoria crosse the woman who didn't crown vo. _s._ _d._ third edition _speaker:_--"the feminine gift of intuition seems to be developed with almost uncanny strength, and what she sees she has the power of flashing upon her readers with wonderful vividness and felicity of phrase.... a strong and subtle study of feminine nature, biting irony, restrained passion, and a style that is both forcible and polished." by george egerton keynotes crown vo. _s._ _d._ net ninth edition _st. james's gazette:_--"this is a collection of eight of the prettiest short stories that have appeared for many a day. they turn for the most part on feminine traits of character; in fact, the book is a little psychological study of woman under various circumstances. the characters are so admirably drawn, and the scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare vividness, that we cannot help being almost spell-bound by their perusal." _daily news:_--"singularly artistic in its brilliant suggestiveness." _literary world:_--"these lovely sketches are informed by such throbbing feeling, such insight into complex woman, that we with all speed and warmth advise those who are in search of splendid literature to purchase 'keynotes' without delay." discords crown vo. _s._ _d._ net sixth edition _daily telegraph:_--"these masterly word-sketches." _literary world:_--"she has given, times without number, examples of her ripening powers that astonish us. her themes astound; her audacity is tremendous. in the many great passages an advance is proved that is little short of amazing." _speaker:_--"the book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and, let us add, has heart. it is representative; it is, in the hackneyed phrase, a human document." symphonies crown vo. s. second edition _st. james's gazette:_--"there is plenty of pathos and no little power in the volume before us." _daily new:_--"the impressionistic descriptive passages and the human touches that abound in the book lay hold of the imagination and linger in the memory of the reader." _daily telegraph:_--"the story entitled 'a chilian episode' is actually alive with the warm light and the sensuous climate of the bay of valparaiso." fantasias crown vo. _s._ _d._ net _daily chronicle:_--"these fantasias' are pleasant reading--typical scenes or tales upon the poetry and prose of life, prostitution, and the beauty of dreams and truth." _academy:_--"the writing is often extremely clever: the clever, self-conscious writing of one who has read much." by the author of "elizabeth's children" the young o'briens crown vo. _s._ _vanity fair:_--"a delightful book ... the majority will say as we do--read it." helen alliston crown vo. _s._ _literary world:_--"a succession of delighting chapters, ending with one in which the author excels herself." elizabeth's children crown vo. _s._ fifth edition. _daily telegraph:_--"the book is charming ... the author ... has a delicate fanciful touch, a charming imagination ... skilfully suggests character and moods ... is bright and witty, and writes about children with exquisite knowledge and sympathy." by w. s. jackson helen of troy, n.y. crown vo. _s._ _daily chronicle:_--"the story is at once original, impossible, artificial, and very amusing. go, get the work and read." nine points of the law crown vo. _s._ _manchester guardian:_--"the kindly humorous philosophy of this most diverting story is as remarkable as its attractive style. there is hardly a page without something quotable, some neat bit of phrasing or apt wording of a truth." by a. c. fox-davies crown vo. _s._ each vol. the dangerville inheritance _morning post:_--"mr. fox-davies has written a detective story of which gaboriau might have been proud." the mauleverer murders _daily express:_--"a really splendid detective story, ... most ingenious, worthy of gaboriau at his best." the finances of sir john kynnersley by herbert flowerdew a celibate's wife crown vo. _s._ second edition _speaker:_--"mr. flowerdew does undoubtedly exhibit a power of graphic and vivid narration." the realist _pall mall gazette:_--"those who love a story which will hold their attention closely from the first page to the last, need not go further than 'the realist.'" by harold frederic march hares crown vo. _s._ _d._ net third edition mrs. albert grundy observations in philistia fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ net second edition by elizabeth godfrey the winding road crown vo. _s._ second edition _literary world:_--"a carefully written story... miss godfrey has the mind of a poet; her pages breathe of the beautiful in nature." the bridal of anstace crown vo. _s._ _westminster gazette:_--"an individual charm and a sympathetic application have gone to the conception of miss godfrey's book, a remarkable power of characterisation to its making, and a refined literary taste to its composition." by valentina hawtrey perronelle crown vo. _s._ _times:_--"the story is a passionate one, a thing of lightning flashes of pleasure and pain.... with no display of effort, with no laborious introduction of correct detail, she wraps everything in an atmosphere of old paris. here is all the mediæval delight in beautiful things, in craftsmanship; here all the cruelty and brutality, all the passion and stress, and the brave uncertainty of life." _pall mall gazette:_--"a piece of exquisite literary work." by richard garnett the twilight of the gods and other stories crown vo. _s._ second edition _daily chronicle:_--"a subtle compound of philosophy and irony. let the reader take these stories as pure fun--lively incident and droll character--and he will be agreeably surprised to find how stimulating they are." _times:_--"here is learning in plenty, drawn from all ages and most languages, but of dryness or dulness not a sentence. the book bubbles with laughter.... his sense of humour has a wide range." by annie e. holdsworth a new paolo and francesca crown vo. _s._ _bookman:_--"picturesque, intense, and poetical." by j. henry harris cornish saints & sinners with illustrations by l. raven-hill. crown vo. _s._ the earl of iddesleigh luck o' lassendale crown vo. _s._ mr. a. t. quiller-couch, in the _daily news_:--"it puzzles me how any man who admires 'mansfield park' intelligently can treat 'luck o' lassendale' as a thing of no account." charms crown vo. _s._ _st. james's gazette:_--"a charming and pathetic tale, absorbing to the end." by henry harland the cardinal's snuff-box a new edition, with title-page, cover design, end papers, and nearly drawings by g. c. wilmshurst. crown vo. _s._ th thousand _academy:_--"the drawings are all excellent in style and really illustrative of the tale." _times:_--"a book among a thousand." _spectator:_--"a charming romance." _saturday review:_--"wholly delightful." _pall mall gazette:_--"dainty and delicious." my friend prospero crown vo. _s._ third edition _times:_--"there is no denying the charm of the work, the delicacy and fragrancy of the style, the sunny play of the dialogue, the vivacity of the wit, and the graceful flight of the fancy." _world:_--"the reading of it is a pleasure rare and unalloyed." the lady paramount crown vo. _s._ fifty-fifth thousand comedies and errors crown vo. _s._ third edition mr. w. l. courtney, in the _daily telegraph_:--"a kind of younger pater, emancipated from those cramping academic bonds which occasionally injured mr. pater's work. mr. harland is younger, freer, with juvenile spirits and a happy keenness and interest in life. he is more of a creator and less of a critic; perhaps some day he will even achieve the same kind of literary distinction as that which adorned his older rival." mr. henry james, in _fortnightly review_:--"mr. harland has clearly thought out a form.... he has mastered a method and learned how to paint.... his art is all alive with felicities and delicacies." grey roses crown vo. _s._ _d._ net fourth edition _daily telegraph:_--"'grey roses' are entitled to rank among the choicest flowers of the realms of romance." _spectator:_--"really delightful. 'castles near spain' is as near perfection as it could well be." mademoiselle miss crown vo. _s._ _d._ third edition _speaker:_--"all through the book we are pleased and entertained." by richard le gallienne the quest of the golden girl: a romance crown vo. _s._ fifteenth edition the romance of zion chapel crown vo. _s._ second edition the book bills of narcissus crown vo. _s._ _d._ net second edition the worshipper of the image crown vo. _s._ _d._ net painted shadows. crown vo. _s._ second edition by a. e. j. legge the ford crown vo. _s._ second edition _standard:_--"an impressive work ... clever and thoughtful. 'the ford' deserves to be largely read." mr. james douglas, in _star_:--"it is full of finely phrased wit and costly satire. it is modern in its handling, and it is admirably written." mutineers crown vo. _s._ _speaker:_--"an interesting story related with admirable lucidity and remarkable grasp of character. mr. legge writes with polish and grace." both great and small crown vo. _s._ _saturday review:_--"we read on and on with increasing pleasure." by william j. locke crown vo. price _s._ each the belovÈd vagabond _truth:_--"certainly it is the most brilliant piece of work mr. locke has done." the morals of marcus ordeyne mr. c. k. shorter, in _sphere_:--"a book which has just delighted my heart." _truth:_--"mr. locke's new novel is one of the most artistic pieces of work i have met with for many a day." mr. l. f. austin, in _daily chronicle_:--"mr. locke succeeds, indeed, in every crisis of this most original story." _vanity fair:_--"a very striking work." idols _daily telegraph:_--"a brilliantly written and eminently readable book." derelicts _daily chronicle:_--"mr. locke tells his story in a very true, very moving, and very noble book. if anyone can read the last chapter with dry eyes we shall be surprised. 'derelicts' is an impressive and important book." the usurper _world:_--"this quite uncommon novel." where love is _standard:_--"a brilliant piece of work." the white dove _times:_--"an interesting story, full of dramatic scenes." at the gate of samaria crown vo. price _s._ _d._ each vol. a study in shadows the demagogue and lady phayre by charles marriott the column crown vo. _s._ thirteenth thousand _daily news:_--"a notable book ... an important book. a novel which brings together strong and subtle power of suggesting character, remarkable humour, and all the best faculties of the writers known to every one." mr. w. l. courtney, in _daily telegraph_:--"whoever mr. charles marriott may be, he has written a very remarkable novel.... let us be thankful to mr. charles marriott. he has written a book very fresh, very original, very interesting and suggestive. he has handled situations in the true spirit of an artist. his style is careful. above all, he thinks for himself." _truth:_--"the promising work of a powerful pen." love with honour crown vo. _s._ mr. w. l. courtney, in _daily telegraph_:--"mr. marriott handles his scenes in the true spirit of an artist. there are chapters in this book which are not only picturesquely written, but intrinsically vivid and strong." _outlook:_--"mr. charles marriott and the public are equally to be congratulated." the house on the sands crown vo. _s._ _daily telegraph:_--"mr. marriott's new book has all the qualities of a good novel and many of the qualities of a great one.... it contains some superb character drawing, much subtlety of wit and genuine epigram." by constance e. maud an english girl in paris crown vo. _s._ fourth edition _onlooker:_--"'an english girl in paris' is _tout à fait parisienne_. it is _chic_, it is amusing, and it is artistic." _westminster gazette:_--"a delightful book--a book which keeps one constantly interested and amused; a book through which there is a constant ripple of humour." _outlook:_--"a charming book; and a piece of literature as well." by t. baron russell borlase and son crown vo. _s._ _bookman:_--"judged as literature, we know of no novel published this year that is likely to rank higher than 'borlase and son.' the people are intensely human; the life it describes is every-day life; its events grip the attention and haunt the memory, as things do that have really happened." _vanity fair:_--"demands attention as a very notable book." _daily chronicle:_--"an author who thoroughly knows what he is writing about.... the details of the life in the peckham draper's are made interesting to the reader by the sheer force of their realism.... borlase senior is an admirable piece of character drawing." _st. james's gazette:_--"mr. russell has evidently learned his subject from inside, and he has a ready pen as well as the real faculty of making his reader see what he himself has seen." _morning leader:_--"the real originality of the book lies in the author's remarkable knowledge of, and insight into, the life which he describes, and his power of making his personages live and move." a guardian of the poor crown vo. _s._ _pall mall gazette:_--"mr. baron russell has succeeded so admirably, so convincingly, in this difficult task, that i only check the eulogies quivering at the point of my pen for fear they may read like 'gush.'" mr. coulson kernahan, in the _temple magazine_:--"haunting, and all the more haunting because pictured with such realism and such art. mr. russell is the zola of camberwell and peckham." the mandate crown vo. _s._ _graphic:_--"besides its merits of originality, it has those of a remarkably virile style, and of a capacity for the portrayal of real passion which we trust to meet again." _bookman:_--"original and striking.... there is unmistakable talent in the book. mr. russell should go far." _outlook:_--"a peculiar blending of careful realism with careful sensation. the main characters are well drawn." _morning leader:_--"'the mandate' is a novel out of the common, and is stamped with the impress of no little creative power." by hermann sudermann the undying past a translation of "es war" by beatrice marshall crown vo. _s._ fifth thousand _standard:_--"it is practically impossible to have anything but praise for this powerful and virile translation of sudermann's impressive work.... the book does not even suggest to one that it is a story originally written in another language." regina; or, the sins of the fathers a translation of "der katzensteg," by beatrice marshall crown vo. _s._ third edition _spectator:_--"the author has handled his terrible theme with wonderful force and simplicity." _st. james's gazette:_--"a striking piece of work, full of excitement and strongly-drawn character." by henry sienkiewicz the field of glory crown vo. _s._ fifth thousand _spectator:_--"a spirited, picturesque romance ... full of adventures, related with all the author's picturesqueness of detail and vigour of outline." by a. c. thynne sir bevill crown vo. _s._ _academy:_--"altogether delightful, setting the reader amid broom and heather on the devon moors, or by the sounding sea on the cornish coast.... all the everyday life is admirably rendered, and many of the side characters are brilliantly sketched." by fiona macleod mountain lovers crown vo. _s._ new edition by g. s. street the wise and the wayward crown vo. _s._ _academy:_--"mr. street writes easily, with distinction ... he wields a fine swiftly-poised phrase, and has the gift of throwing his characters and situations into strong relief, happily and without tediousness." _westminster gazette:_--"the cleverness of mr. street's analyse is undeniable." _world:_--"distinctly a book to be read." the autobiography of a boy fcap. vo. _s._ _d._ net fifth edition _pall mall gazette:_--"a creation in which there appears to be no flaw." _review of reviews:_--"a most brilliant satire." _world:_--"a delicate and delightful piece of literature." the trials of the bantocks crown vo. _s._ _d._ net _saturday review:_--"mr. street has a very delicate gift of satire." _black and white:_--"all very funny, and quite in the best style of mr. street's humour." _times:_--"a piece of irony that is full of distinction and wit." by hugh de sÉlincourt. a boy's marriage crown vo. _s._ second edition _evening standard:_--"exceedingly realistic ... but does not give the impression that anything is expatiated upon for the sake of effect.... a daring but sincere and simple book ... likely to attract a great deal of attention." the strongest plume crown vo. _s._ _academy:_--"an uncomfortable story for the conventionally minded. it deals a deadly blow to the ordinary accepted notions of the respectable." by edith wharton the greater inclination crown vo. _s._ new edition by handasyde for the week end crown vo. _s._ _standard:_--"only a woman, surely, would write such deep and intimate truth about the heart of another woman and the things that give her joy when a man loves her." _globe:_--"the story is really the narrative of how blanche and mortimer keppel loved each other, and loved honour more.... the dialogue is piquant, wise, entertaining, and full of good things." by h. b. marriott watson at the first corner crown vo. _s._ _d._ net _saturday review:_--"admirably conceived and brilliantly finished." galloping dick: a romance crown vo. _s._ _daily telegraph:_--"an always attractive theme ... a thoroughly effective style." by m. p. willcocks widdicombe crown vo. _s._ _evening standard:_--"a fine ... unusual novel ... striking studies of women." the wingless victory crown vo. _s._ third edition _times:_--"such books are worth keeping on the shelves even by the classics, for they are painted in colours that do not fade." _tribune:_--"splendid ... a novel to read and to remember." _glasgow news:_--"an enthralling book." london: john lane, the bodley head, vigo st., w. new york: john lane company, - , west nd st. * * * * * * transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. none famous players-lasky corp. starring gloria swanson with rodolph valentino new york the macaulay company_ printed in the u.s.a. illustrations facing page rodolph valentino, as lord bracondale and elinor glyn, the author _frontispiece_ "she wondered what love was--" "once upon a time there was a fairy prince and princess--" what could he say to her-- _beyond the rocks_ i the hours were composed mostly of dull or rebellious moments during the period of theodora's engagement to mr. brown. from the very first she had thought it hard that she should have had to take this situation, instead of sarah or clementine, her elder step-sisters, so much nearer his age than herself. to do them justice, either of these ladies would have been glad to relieve her of the obligation to become mrs. brown, but mr. brown thought otherwise. a young and beautiful wife was what he bargained for. to enter a family composed of three girls--two of the first family, one almost thirty and a second very plain--a father with a habit of accumulating debts and obliged to live at bruges and inexpensive foreign sea-side towns, required a strong motive; and this josiah brown found in the deliciously rounded, white velvet cheek of theodora, the third daughter, to say nothing of her slender grace, the grace of a young fawn, and a pair of gentian-blue eyes that said things to people in the first glance. poor, foolish, handsome dominic fitzgerald, light-hearted, débonair irish gentleman, gay and gallant on his miserable pension of a broken and retired guardsman, had had just sufficient sense to insist upon magnificent settlements, certainly prompted thereto by clementine, who inherited the hard-headedness of the early defunct scotch mother, as well as her high cheek-bones. that affair had been a youthful _mésalliance_. "you had better see we all gain something by it, papa," she had said. "make the old bore give theodora a huge allowance, and have it all fixed and settled by law beforehand. she is such a fool about money--just like you--she will shower it upon us; and you make him pay you a sum down as well." captain fitzgerald fortunately consulted an honest solicitor, and so things were arranged to the satisfaction of all parties concerned except theodora herself, who found the whole affair far from her taste. that one must marry a rich man if one got the chance, to help poor, darling papa, had always been part of her creed, more or less inspired by papa himself. but when it came to the scratch, and josiah brown was offered as a husband, theodora had had to use every bit of her nerve and self-control to prevent herself from refusing. she had not seen many men in her nineteen years of out-at-elbows life, but she had imagination, and the one or two peeps at smart old friends of papa's, landed from stray yachts now and then, at out-of-the-way french watering-places, had given her an ideal far, far removed from the personality of josiah brown. but, as sarah explained to her, such men could never be husbands. they might be lovers, if one was fortunate enough to move in their sphere, but husbands--never! and there was no use theodora protesting this violent devotion to darling papa, if she could not do a small thing like marrying josiah brown for him! theodora's beautiful mother, dead in the first year of her runaway marriage, had been the daughter of a stiff-necked, unforgiving old earl; she had bequeathed her child, besides these gentian eyes and wonderful, silvery blond hair, a warm, generous heart and a more or less romantic temperament. the heart was touched by darling papa's needs, and the romantic temperament revolted by josiah brown's personality. however, there it was! the marriage took place at the consulate at dieppe, and a perfectly miserable little bride got into the train for paris, accompanied by a fat, short, prosperous, middle-class english husband, who had accumulated a large fortune in australia, quite by accident, in a comparatively few years. josiah brown was only fifty-two, though his head was bald and his figure far from slight. he had a liver, a chest, and a temper, and he adored theodora. captain fitzgerald had felt a few qualms when he had wished his little daughter good-bye on the platform and had seen the blue stars swimming with tears. the two daughters left to him were so plain, and he hated plain people about him; but, on the other hand, women must marry, and what chance had he, poor, unlucky devil, of establishing his theodora better in life? josiah brown was a good fellow, and he, dominic fitzgerald, had for the first time for many years a comfortable balance at his bankers, and could run up to paris himself in a few days, and who knows, the american widow, fabulously rich--jane anastasia mcbride--might take him seriously! captain dominic fitzgerald was irresistible, and had that fortunate knack of looking like a gentleman in the oldest clothes. if married for the third time--but this time prosperously, to a fabulously rich american--his well-born relations would once more welcome him with open arms, he felt sure, and visions of the best pheasant shoots at old beechleigh, and partridge drives at rothering castle floated before his eyes, quite obscuring the fading smoke of the paris train. "a pretty tough, dull affair marriage," he said to himself, reminded once more of theodora by treading on a white rose in the station. "hope to heavens sarah prepared her for it a bit." then he got into a _fiacre_ and drove to the hotel, where he and the two remaining misses fitzgerald were living in the style of their forefathers. josiah brown's valet, mr. toplington, who knew the world, had engaged rooms for the happy couple at the grand hotel. "we'll go to the ritz on our way back," he decided, "but at first, in case there's scenes and tears, it's better to be a number than a name." mademoiselle henriette, the freshly engaged french maid, quite agreed with him. the grand, she said, was "_plus convenable pour une lune de miel_--" lune de miel! ii it was a year later before theodora saw her family again. a very severe attack of bronchitis, complicated by internal catarrh, prostrated josiah brown in the first days of their marriage, and had turned her into a superintendent nurse for the next three months; by that time a winter at hyères was recommended by the best physicians, and off they started. hyères, with a semi-invalid, a hospital nurse, and quantities of medicine bottles and draught-protectors, is not the ideal place one reads of in guide-books. theodora grew to hate the sky and the blue mediterranean. she used to sit on her balcony at costebelle and gaze at the olive-trees, and the deep-green velvet patch of firs beyond, towards the sea, and wonder at life. she longed to go to the islands--anywhere beyond--and one day she read _jean d'agrève_; and after that she wondered what love was. it took a mighty hold upon her imagination. it seemed to her it must mean life. it was the beginning of may before josiah brown thought of leaving for paris. england would be their destination, but the doctors assured him a month of paris would break the change of climate with more safety than if they crossed the channel at once. costebelle was a fairyland of roses as they drove to the station, and peace had descended upon theodora. she had fallen into her place, a place occupied by many wives before her with irritable, hypochondriacal husbands. she had often been to paris in her maiden days; she knew it from the point of view of a cheap boarding-house and snatched meals. but the unchecked gayety of the air and the _façon_ had not been tarnished by that. she had played in the tuilleries gardens and watched ponchinello at the rond point, and later been taken once or twice to dine at a cheap café in the bois by papa. and once she had gone to robinson on a coach with him and some aristocratic acquaintances of his, and eaten luncheon up the tree, and that was a day of the gods and to be remembered. but now they were going to an expensive, well-managed private hotel in the avenue du bois, suitable to invalids, and it poured with rain as they drove from the gare de lyon. [illustration: "she wondered what love was."] all this time something in theodora was developing. her beautiful face had an air of dignity. the set of her little greek head would have driven a sculptor wild--and josiah brown was very generous in money matters, and she had always known how to wear her clothes, so it was no wonder people stopped and turned their heads when she passed. josiah brown possessed certainly not less than forty thousand a year, and so felt he could afford a carriage in paris, and any other fancy he pleased. his nerves had been too shaken by his illness to appreciate the joys of an automobile. thus, daily might be seen in the avenue des acacias this ill-assorted pair, seated in a smart victoria with stepping horses, driving slowly up and down. and a number of people took an interest in them. towards the middle of may captain fitzgerald arrived at the continental, and theodora felt her heart beat with joy when she saw his handsome, well-groomed head. oh yes, it had been indeed worth while to make papa look so prosperous as that--so prosperous and happy--dear, gay papa! he was about the same age as her husband, but no one would think of taking him for more than forty. and what a figure he had! and what manners! and when he patted her cheek theodora felt at once that thrill of pride and gratification she had always experienced when he was pleased with her, from her youngest days. she was almost glad sarah and clementine should have remained at dieppe. thus she could have papa all to herself, and oh, what presents she would send them back by him when he returned! josiah brown despised dominic fitzgerald, and yet stood in awe of him as well. a man who could spend a fortune and be content to live on odds and ends for the rest of his life must be a poor creature. but, on the other hand, there was that uncomfortable sense of breeding about him which once, when captain fitzgerald had risen to a situation of dignity during their preliminary conversations about theodora's hand, had made josiah brown unconsciously say "sir" to him. he had blushed and bitten his tongue for doing it, and had blustered and patronized immoderately afterwards, but he never forgot the incident. they were not birds of a feather, and never would be, though the exquisite manners of dominic fitzgerald could carry any situation. josiah was not altogether pleased to see his father-in-law. he even experienced a little jealousy. theodora's face, which generally wore a mask of gentle, solicitous meekness for him, suddenly sparkled and rippled with laughter, as she pinched her papa's ears, and pulled his mustache, and purred into his neck, with joy at their meeting. it was that purring sound and those caressing tricks that josiah brown objected to. he had never received any of them himself, and so why should dominic fitzgerald? captain fitzgerald, for his part, was enchanted to clasp his beautiful daughter once more in his arms; he had always loved theodora, and when he saw her so quite too desirable-looking in her exquisite clothes, he felt a very fine fellow himself, thinking what he had done for her. it was not an unnatural circumstance that he should look upon the idea of a dinner at the respectable private hotel, with his son-in-law and daughter, as a trifle dull for paris, or that he should have suggested a meal at the ritz would do them both good. "come and dine with me instead, my dear child," he said, with his grand air. "josiah, you must begin to go out a little and shake off your illness, my dear fellow." but josiah was peevish. not to-night--certainly not to-night. it was the evening he was to take the two doses of his new medicine, one half an hour after the other, and he could not leave the hotel. then he saw how poor theodora's face fell, and one of his sparks of consideration for the feelings of others came to him, and he announced gruffly that his wife might go with her father, if she pleased, provided she crept into her room, which was next door to his own, without the least noise on her return. "i must not be disturbed in my first sleep," he said; and theodora thanked him rapturously. it was so good of him to let her go--she would, indeed, make not the least noise, and she danced out of the room to get ready in a way josiah brown had never seen her do before. and after she had gone--captain fitzgerald came back to fetch her--this fact rankled with him and prevented his sleep for more than twenty minutes. "my sweet child," said captain fitzgerald, when he was seated beside his daughter in her brougham, rolling down the champs-elysées, "you must not be so grateful; he won't let you out again if you are." "oh, papa!" said theodora. they arrived at the ritz just at the right moment. it was a lovely night, but rather cold, so there were no diners in the garden, and the crowd from the restaurant extended even into the hall. it was an immense satisfaction to dominic fitzgerald to walk through them all with this singularly beautiful young woman, and to remark the effect she produced, and his cup of happiness was full when they came upon a party at the lower end by the door; prominent, as hostess, being jane anastasia mcbride--the fabulously rich american widow. in a second of time he reviewed the situation; a faint coldness in his manner would be the thing to draw--and it was; for when he had greeted mrs. mcbride without gush, and presented his daughter with the air of just passing on, the widow implored them with great cordiality to leave their solitary meal and join her party. nor would she hear of any refusal. the whole scene was so novel and delightful to theodora she cared not at all whether her father accepted or no, so long as she might sit quietly and observe the world. mrs. mcbride had perceived immediately that the string of pearls round mrs. josiah brown's neck could not have cost less than nine thousand pounds, and that her frock, although so simple, was the last and most expensive creation of callot soeurs. she had always been horribly attracted by captain fitzgerald, ever since that race week at trouville two summers ago, and fate had sent them here to-night, and she meant to enjoy herself. captain fitzgerald acceded to her request with his usual polished ease, and the radiant widow presented the rest of her guests to the two new-comers. the tall man with the fierce beard was prince worrzoff, married to her niece, saidie butcher. saidie butcher was short, and had a voice you could hear across the room. the sleek, fair youth with the twinkling gray eyes was an englishman from the embassy. the disagreeable-looking woman in the badly made mauve silk was his sister, lady hildon. the stout, hook-nosed bird of prey with the heavy gold chain was a western millionaire, and the smiling girl was his daughter. then, last of all, came lord bracondale--and it was when he was presented that theodora first began to take an interest in the party. hector, fourteenth lord bracondale of bracondale (as she later that night read in the _peerage_) was aged thirty-one years. he had been educated at eton and oxford, served for some time in the fourth lifeguards, been unpaid attaché at st. petersburg, was patron of five livings, and sat in the house of lords as baron bracondale; creation, ; seat, bracondale chase. brothers, none. sister living, anne charlotte, married to the fourth earl of anningford. theodora read all this over twice, and also even the predecessors and collateral branches--but that was while she burned the midnight oil and listened to the snorts and coughs of josiah brown, slumbering next door. for the time being she raised her eyes and looked into lord bracondale's, and something told her they were the nicest eyes she had ever seen in this world. then when a voluble french count had rushed up, with garrulous apologies for being late, the party was complete, and they swept into the restaurant. theodora sat between the western millionaire and the russian prince, but beyond--it was a round table, only just big enough to hold them--came her hostess and lord bracondale, and two or three times at dinner they spoke, and very often she felt his eyes fixed upon her. mrs. mcbride, like all american widows, was an admirable hostess; the conversation never flagged, or the gayety for one moment. the western millionaire was shrewd, and announced some quaint truths while he picked his teeth with an audible sound. "this is his first visit to europe," princess worrzoff said afterwards to theodora by way of explanation. "he is so colossally rich he don't need to worry about such things at his time of life; but it does make me turn to hear him." captain fitzgerald was in his element. no guest shone so brilliantly as he. his wit was delicate, his sallies were daring, his looks were insinuating, and his appearance was perfection. theodora had every reason to tingle with pride in him, and the widow felt her heart beat. "isn't he just too bright--your father, mrs. brown?" she said as they left the restaurant to have their coffee in the hall. "you must let me see quantities of you while we are all in paris together. it is a lovely city; don't you agree with me?" and theodora did. lord bracondale was of the same breed as captain fitzgerald--that is, they neither of them permitted themselves to be superseded by any other man with the object of their wishes. when they wanted to talk to a woman they did, if twenty french counts or russian princes stood in the way! thus it was that for the rest of the evening theodora found herself seated upon a sofa in close proximity to the man who had interested her at dinner, and mrs. mcbride and captain fitzgerald occupied two arm-chairs equally well placed, while the rest of the party made general conversation. hector bracondale, among other attractions, had a charming voice; it was deep and arresting, and he had a way of looking straight into the eyes of the person he was talking to. theodora knew at once he belonged to the tribe whom sarah had told her could never be husbands. she wondered vaguely why, all the time she was talking to him. why had husbands always to be bores and unattractive, and sometimes even simply revolting, like hers? was it because these beautiful creatures could not be bound to any one woman? it seemed to her unsophisticated mind that it could be very nice to be married to one of them; but there was no use fighting against fate, and she personally was wedded to josiah brown. lord bracondale's conversation pleased her. he seemed to understand exactly what she wanted to talk about; he saw all the things she saw and--he had read _jean d'agrève_!--they got to that at the end of the first half-hour, and then she froze up a little; some instinct told her it was dangerous ground, so she spoke suddenly of the weather, in a banal voice. meanwhile, from the beginning of dinner, lord bracondale had been saying to himself she was the loveliest white flower he had yet struck in a path of varied experiences. her eyes so innocent and true, with the tender expression of a fawn; the perfect turn of her head and slender pillar of a throat; her grace and gentleness, all appealed to him in a maddening way. "she is asleep to the whole of life's possibilities," he thought. "what can her husband be about, and _what_ an intoxicatingly agreeable task to wake her up!" he had lived among the world where the awaking of young wives, or old wives, or any woman who could please man, was the natural course of the day. it never even struck him then it might be a cruel thing to do. a woman once married was always fair game; if the husband could not retain her affections that was his lookout. hector bracondale was not a brute, just an ordinary englishman of the world, who had lived and loved and seen many lands. he read theodora like an open book: he knew exactly why she had talked about the weather after _jean d'agrève_. it thrilled him to see her soft eyes dreamy and luminous when they first spoke of the book, and it flattered him when she changed the conversation. as for theodora, she analyzed nothing, she only felt that perhaps she ought not to speak about love to one of those people who could never be husbands. captain fitzgerald, meanwhile, was making tremendous headway with the widow. he flattered her vanity, he entertained her intelligence, and he even ended by letting her see she was causing him, personally, great emotion. at last this promising evening came to an end. the russian prince, with his american princess, got up to say good-night, and gradually the party broke up, but not before captain fitzgerald had arranged to meet mrs. mcbride at doucet's in the morning, and give her the benefit of his taste and experience in a further shopping expedition to buy old bronzes. "we can all breakfast together at henry's," he said, with his grand manner, which included the whole party; and for one instant force of habit made theodora's heart sink with fear at the prospect of the bill, as it had often had to do in olden days when her father gave these royal invitations. then she remembered she had not been sacrificed to josiah brown for nothing, and that even if dear, generous papa should happen to be a little hard up again, a few hundred francs would be nothing to her to slip into his hand before starting. the rest of the party, however, declined. they were all busy elsewhere, except lord bracondale and the french count--they would come, with pleasure, they said. theodora wondered what josiah would say. would he go? and if not, would he let her go? this was more important. "then we shall meet at breakfast to-morrow," lord bracondale said, as he helped her on with her cloak. "that will give me something to look forward to." "will it?" she said, and there was trouble in the two blue stars which looked up at him. "perhaps i shall not be able to come; my husband is rather an invalid, and--" but he interrupted her. "something tells me you will come; it is fate," he said, and his voice was grave and tender. and theodora, who had never before had the opportunity of talking about destiny, and other agreeable subjects, with beautiful englishmen who could only be--lovers--felt the red blood rush to her cheeks and a thrill flutter her heart. so she quickened her steps and kept close to her father, who could have dispensed with this mark of affection. "dearest child," he said, when they were seated in the brougham, "you are married now and should be able to look after yourself, without staying glued to my side so much--it is rather bourgeois." poor theodora was crushed and did not try to excuse herself. "i am afraid josiah won't go, papa dear," she said, timidly; "and in case he does not allow me to either, i want you to have these few louis, just for the breakfast. i know how generous you are, and how difficult things have been made for you, darling." and she nestled to his side and slipped about eight gold pieces, which she had fortunately found in her purse, into his hand. captain fitzgerald was still a gentleman, although a good many edges of his sensitive perceptions had been rubbed off. he kissed his daughter fondly while he murmured: "merely a loan, my pet, merely a loan. you were always a jewel to your old father!" whenever her parent accused himself of being "old," theodora knew he was deeply touched, and her tender heart overflowed with gladness that she was able to smooth the path of such a darling papa. "i will come and see you in the morning, my child," he said, as they stopped at the door of her hotel, "and i will manage josiah." so theodora crept up to her apartment, comforted; and in the salon it was she caught sight of the _peerage_. josiah brown bought one every year and travelled with it, although until he met the fitzgerald family he had not known a single person connected with it; but it pleased him to be able to look up his wife's name, and to read that her mother was the daughter of a real live earl and her father the brother of a baronet. "hector! i like the name of hector," were the last coherent thoughts which floated through the brain of theodora before sleep closed her broad, white lids. meanwhile, lord bracondale had gone on to sup at the café de paris, with marion de beauvoison and esclarmonde de chartres; and among the diamonds and pearls and scents and feathers he suddenly felt a burning disgust, and a longing to be out again in the moonlight--alone with his thoughts. "mais qu'as tu, mon vieux chou?" they said. "ce bel hector chéri--il a un béguin pour quelqu'un--mais ce n'est pas pour nous autres!" iii josiah brown cut the top off his _oeuf à la coque_ with a knife at his _premier déjeuner_ next day. the knife grated on the shell in a determined way, and theodora felt her heart sink at the prospect of broaching the subject of the breakfast at the café henry. "i am so glad the rain has stopped," she said, nervously. "it was raining when i woke this morning." "indeed," replied josiah. "and what kind of an evening did you pass with that father of yours?" "a very pleasant one," said theodora, crumbling her roll. "papa met some old friends, and we all dined together at the ritz. i wish you had been able to come, it might have done you good, it was so gay!" "i am not fit for gayety," said her husband, peevishly, scooping out spoonfuls of yolk. "and who were the party, pray?" theodora obediently enumerated them all, and the high-sounding title of the russian prince, to say nothing of the english lord and lady, had a mollifying effect on josiah brown. he even remembered the name of bracondale--had he not been a grocer's assistant in the small town of bracondale for a whole year in his apprenticeship days? "papa wants us to breakfast to-day with him at henry's for you to meet some of them," theodora said, with more confidence. josiah had taken a second egg and his frown was gone. "we'll see about it, we'll see about it," he grunted; but his wife felt more hopeful, and was even unusually solicitous of his wants in the way of coffee and marmalade and cream. josiah was shrewd if he did happen to be deeply self-absorbed in his health, and he noticed that theodora's eyes were brighter and her step more elastic than usual. he knew he had bought "one of them there aristocrats," as his old aunt, who had kept a public-house at new norton, would have said. bought her with solid gold--he had no illusions on this subject, and he quite realized if the solid gold had not been amassed out of england, so that to her family he could be represented as "something from the colonies--rather rough, but such a good fellow"--even captain fitzgerald's impecuniosity and rapacity would not have risen to his bait. he was also grateful to theodora--she had been so meek always, and such a kind and unselfish nurse. with his impaired constitution and delicate chest he had given up all hopes of looking on her as a wife again, just yet; but, as a nurse and an ornament--a peg to hang the evidences of his wealth upon--she was little short of perfection. he could have been frantically in love with her if she had only been the girl from the station bar in melbourne. josiah brown was not a bad fellow. by the time mr. toplington advanced in his dignified way with the accurately measured tonic on a silver tray and the single acid drop to remove the taste, josiah brown had decided to go and partake food with his father-in-law at henry's. if he had been good enough to entertain the governor of australia, he was quite good enough for russian princes or english lords, he told himself. thus it was that captain fitzgerald, who came in person in a few minutes to indorse his invitation, found an unusually cordial reception awaiting him. "i am too delighted, my dear josiah," he said, "that you have decided to come out of your shell. moping would kill a cat; and i shall order you the plainest chicken and soufflé aux fraises." "josiah can eat almost anything, papa. i don't think you need worry about that," said theodora, who hoped to make her husband enjoy himself. and then captain fitzgerald left to meet his widow. all the morning, while she walked up and down under the trees in the avenue du bois beside her husband, who leaned upon her arm, theodora's thoughts were miles away. she felt stimulated, excited, intensely interested in the hour, afraid they would be late. twice she answered at random, and josiah got quite cross. "i asked you which you considered would do me most good when we return to england, to continue seeing sir baldwin once a week or to have dr. wilton permanently in the house with us, and you answer that you quite agree with me! agree with what? agree with which? you are talking nonsense, girl!" theodora apologized gently, and her white velvet cheeks became tinged with wild roses. it seemed as if the victoria, with its high-steppers, would never come and pick them up; and it must be at least quarter of an hour's drive to henry's. she did not understand where it was exactly, but papa had said the coachman would know. if some one had told her, as clementine certainly would have done had she been there, that she was simply thus interested and excited because she wished to see again lord bracondale, she would have been horrified. she never had analyzed sensations herself, and the day had not yet arrived when she would begin to do so. at last they were rolling down the champs-elysées. the mass of chestnut blooms in full glory, the tender green still fresh and springlike, the sky as blue as blue, and every creature in the street with an air of gayety--that paris alone seems to inspire in the human race. it entered into her blood, this rush of spring and hope and laughter and life, and a radiant creature got out of the carriage at henry's door. the two men were waiting for them--lord bracondale and the french count--her father and mrs. mcbride had not yet appeared. theodora introduced them to her husband, and lord bracondale said: "mrs. mcbride is always late. i have found out which is your father's table; don't you think we might go and sit down?" and they did. theodora got well into the corner of the velvet sofa, the count on one side and lord bracondale on the other, with josiah beyond the count. they made conversation. the frenchman was voluble and agreeable, and the next ten minutes passed without incident. josiah, not quite at ease, perhaps, but on the whole not ill-pleased with his situation. the count took all ups and downs as of the day's work, sure of a good breakfast, sooner or later, unpaid for by himself. and lord bracondale's thoughts ran somewhat thus: "she is even more beautiful in daylight than at night. she can't be more than twenty--what a skin! like a white gardenia petal--and, good lord, what a husband! how revolting, how infamous! i suppose that old schemer, her father, sold her to him. her eyes remind one of forgotten fairy tales of angels. can anything be so sweet as that little nose and those baby-red lips. she has a soul, too, peeping out of the blue when she looks up at one. she reminds me of praxiteles' psyche when she looks down. why did i not meet her long ago? i believe i ought not to stay now--something tells me i shall fall deeply into this. and what a voice!--as gentle and caressing as a tender dove. a man would give his soul for such a woman. as guileless as an infant saint, too--and sensitive and human and understanding. i wish to god i had the strength of mind to get up and go this minute--but i haven't--it is fate." "oh, how naughty of papa," said theodora, "to be so late! are you very hungry, josiah? shall we begin without them?" but at that moment, with rustling silks and delicate perfume, the widow and captain fitzgerald came in at the door and joined the party. "i am just too sorry," the lady said, gayly. "it is all captain fitzgerald's fault--he would try to restrain me from buying what i wanted, and so it made me obstinate and i had to stay right there and order half the shop." "how i understand you!" sympathized lord bracondale. "i know just that feeling of wanting forbidden fruit. it makes the zest of life." he had foreseen the disposition of the party, and by sitting in the outside corner seat at the end knew he would have theodora almost _en tête-à-tête_, once they were all seated along the velvet sofa beyond josiah brown. "what do you do with yourself all the time here?" he asked, lowering his voice to that deep note which only carries to the ear it is intended for. "may one ever see you again except at a chance meal like this?" "i don't know," said theodora. "i walk up and down in the side allées of the bois in the morning with my husband, and when he has had his sleep, after déjeuner, we drive nearly all the afternoon, and we have tea, at the pré catalan and drive again until about seven, and then we come in and dine, and i go to bed very early. josiah is not strong enough yet for late hours or theatres." "it sounds supernaturally gay for paris!" said lord bracondale; and then he felt a brute when he saw the cloud in the blue eyes. "no, it is not gay," she said, simply. "but the flowers are beautiful, and the green trees and the chestnut blossoms and the fine air here, and there is a little stream among the trees which laughs to itself as it runs, and all these things say something to me." he felt rebuked--rebuked and interested. "i would like to see them all with you," he said. that was one of his charms--directness. he did not insinuate often; he stated facts. "you would find it all much too monotonous," she answered. "you would tire of them after the first time. and you could if you liked, too, because i suppose you are free, being a man, and can choose your own life," and she sighed unconsciously. and there came to hector bracondale the picture of her life--sacrificed, no doubt, to others' needs. he seemed to see the long years tied to josiah brown, the cramping of her soul, the dreary desolation of it. then a tenderness came over him, a chivalrous tenderness unfelt by him towards women now for many a long day. "i wonder if i can choose my life," he said, and he looked into her eyes. "why can you not?" she hesitated. "and may i ask you, too, what you do with yourself here?" he evaded the question; he suddenly realized that his days were not more amusing than hers, although they were filled up with racing and varied employments--while the thought of his nights sickened him. "i think i am going to make an immense change and learn to take pleasure in the running brooks," he said. "will you help me?" "i know so little, and you know so much," and her sweet eyes became soft and dreamy. "i could not help you in any way, i fear." "yes, you could--you could teach me to see all things with fresh eyes. you could open the door into a new world." "do you know," she said, irrelevantly, "sarah--my eldest sister--sarah told me it was unwise ever to talk to strangers except in the abstract--and here are you and i conversing about our own interests and feelings--are not we foolish!" she laughed a little nervously. "no, we are not foolish because we are not strangers--we never were--and we never will be." "are not strangers--?" "no--do you not feel that sometimes in life one's friendships begin by antipathy--sometimes by indifference--and sometimes by that sudden magnetism of sympathy as if in some former life we had been very near and dear, and were only picking up the threads again, and to such two souls there is no feeling that they are strangers." theodora was too entirely unsophisticated to remain unmoved by this reasoning. she felt a little thrill--she longed to continue the subject, and yet dared not. she turned hesitatingly to the count, and for the next ten minutes lord bracondale only saw the soft outline of her cheek. he wondered if he had been too sudden. she was quite the youngest person he had ever met--he realized that, and perhaps he had acted with too much precipitation. he would change his tactics. the count was only too pleased to engage the attention of theodora. he was voluble; she had very little to reply. things went smoothly. josiah was appreciating an exceedingly good breakfast, and the playful sallies of the fair widow. all, in fact, was _couleur de rose_. "won't you talk to me any more?" lord bracondale said, after about a quarter of an hour. he felt that was ample time for her to have become calm, and, beautiful as the outline of her cheek was, he preferred her full face. "but of course," said theodora. she had not heard more than half what the count had been saying; she wished vaguely that she might continue the subject of friendship, but she dared not. "do you ever go to versailles?" he asked. this, at least, was a safe subject. "i have been there--but not since--not this time," she answered. "i loved it: so full of memories and sentiment, and old-world charm." "it would give me much pleasure to take you to see it again," he said, with grave politeness. "i must devise some plan--that is, if you wish to go." she smiled. "it is a favorite spot of mine, and there are some alleés in the park more full of the story of spring than your bois even." "i do not see how we can go," said theodora. "josiah would find it too long a day." "i must discuss it with your father; one can generally arrange what one wishes," said lord bracondale. at this moment mrs. mcbride leaned over and spoke to theodora. she had, she said, quite converted mr. brown. he only wanted a little cheering up to be perfectly well, and she had got him to promise to dine that evening at armenonville and listen to the tziganes. it was going to be a glorious night, but if they felt cold they could have their table inside out of the draught. what did theodora think about it? theodora thought it would be a delicious plan. what else could she think? "i have a large party coming," mrs. mcbride said, "and among them a compatriot of mine who saw you last night and is dying to meet you." "really," said theodora, unmoved. lord bracondale experienced a sensation of annoyance. "i shall not ask you, bracondale," the widow continued, playfully. "just to assert british superiority, you would try to monopolize mrs. brown, and my poor herryman hoggenwater would have to come in a long, long second!" josiah felt a rush of pride. this brilliant woman was making much of his meek little wife. lord bracondale smiled the most genial smile, with rage in his heart. "i could not have accepted in any case, dear lady," he said, "as i have some people dining with me, and, oddly enough, they rather suggested they wanted armenonville too, so perhaps i shall have the pleasure of looking at you from the distance." the conversation then became general, and soon after this coffee arrived, and eventually the adieux were said. mrs. mcbride insisted upon theodora accompanying her in her smart automobile. "you leave your wife to me for an hour," she said, imperiously, to josiah, "and go and see the world with captain fitzgerald. he knows paris." "my dear, you are just the sweetest thing i have come across this side of the atlantic," she said, when they were whizzing along in her car. "but you look as if you wanted cheering too. i expect your husband's illness has worried you a good deal." theodora froze a little. then she glanced at the widow's face and its honest kindliness melted her. "yes, i have been anxious about him," she said, simply, "but he is nearly well now, and we shall soon be going to england." mrs. mcbride had not taken a companion on this drive for nothing, and she obtained all the information she wanted during their tour in the bois. how josiah brown had bought a colossal place in the eastern counties, and intended to have parties and shoot there in the autumn. how theodora hoped to see more of her sisters than she had done since her marriage. the question of these sisters interested mrs. mcbride a good deal. for a man to have two unmarried daughters was rather an undertaking. what were their ages--their habits--their ambitions? theodora told her simply. she guessed why she was being interrogated. she wished to assist her father, and to say the truth seemed to her the best way. sarah was kind and humorous, while clementine had the brains. "and they are both dears," she said, lovingly, "and have always been so good to me." mrs. mcbride was a shrewd woman, full of american quickness, lightning deduction, and a phenomenal insight into character. theodora seemed to her to be too tender a flower for this world of east wind. she felt sure she only thought good of every one, and how could one get on in life if one took that view habitually! the appallingly hard knocks fate would give one if one was so trusting! but as the drive went on that gentle something that seemed to emanate from theodora, the something of pure sweetness and light, affected her, too, as it affected other people. she felt she was looking into a deep pool of crystal water, so deep that she could see no bottom or fathom the distance of it, but which reflected in brilliant blue god's sky and the sun. "and she is by no means stupid," the widow summed up to herself. "her mind is as bright as an american's! and she is just too pretty and sweet to be eaten up by these wolves of men she will meet in england, with that unromantic, unattractive husband along. i must do what i can for her." by the time she had dropped theodora at her hotel the situation was quite clear. of course the girl had been sacrificed to josiah brown; she was sound asleep in the great forces of life; she was bound to be hideously unhappy, and it was all an abominable shame, and ought to have been prevented. but mrs. mcbride never cried over spilled milk. "if i decide to marry her father," she thought, as she drove off, "i shall keep my eye on her, and meanwhile i can make her life smile a little perhaps!" iv theodora did not wonder why she felt in no exalted state of spirits as she dressed for dinner. she seldom thought of herself at all, or what her emotions were, but the fact remained there was none of the excitement there had been over the prospect of breakfast. her husband, on the contrary, seemed quite fussy. "a devilish fine woman," he had described mrs. mcbride. "acts like a tonic upon me; does me more good than a pint of champagne!" "is she not delightful?" agreed theodora; "so very kind and gay. i am sure the dinner will do you good, josiah, and perhaps we might give one in return. what do you say?" josiah said, "certainly!" he could give a meal with the best of them! they would consult that father of hers, who knew paris so well, and ask him to help them to arrange a regular "slap-up treat." and so they arrived at armenonville. it was a divine night, quite warm, and a soft three-quarter moon. mrs. mcbride had everything arranged to perfection. their table was just where it should be, the menu was all that heart of gourmet could desire, and the company sparkling. theodora found herself seated beside mr. harryman hoggenwater and an elderly austrian, and before the _hors d'oeuvres_ were cleared away both gentlemen had decided to make love to her. it was when the _bisque d'écrevisses_ was being handed she became conscious that, not two tables off, there was an empty one simply arranged with flowers, and almost at the same instant lord bracondale and his party arrived upon the scene. all theodora's perceptions seemed to be sharpened. she knew without turning her head the table was for them, and that they were advancing towards it. she had felt their arrival almost before their automobile stopped; and now she would not look up. a strange sensation, as of excitement, tingled through her. she longed to ascertain if the woman was good-looking who made the third in this party of three. she peeped eventually--with the corner of her eye. lord bracondale had so placed his guests that he himself faced theodora, and the lady had her back turned to her. thus theodora's curiosity could not be gratified. "she is english," she decided; "that round shaped back always is--and very well-bred looking, and not much taste in dress. i wonder if she is old or young--and if that is the husband. yes, he is unattractive--it must be the husband--and oh, i wonder what they are talking about! lord bracondale seems so interested!" and if she had known it was-- "really, monica, how fortunate to have secured you at short notice like this," lord bracondale was saying. "i only found i had a free evening at breakfast, and i met jack on my way to the polo-ground just in the nick of time." "we love coming," mrs. ellerwood replied. "for unsophisticated english people it is a great treat. we go back on saturday--every one will be asking what is keeping you here so long." "my plans are vague," lord bracondale said, casually. "i might come back any day, or i may stay until well into june--it quite depends upon how amused i am. i rather love paris." and to himself he was thinking-- "how i wish that atrocious woman over there with the paradise plume would keep her hat out of the way. ah, that is better! how lovely she looks to-night! what an exquisite pose of head! and what are those two damned foreigners saying to her, i wonder. underbred brute, the american, herryman hoggenwater! what a name! she is laughing--she evidently finds him amusing. abominably cattish of the widow not to ask me. i wonder if she has seen me yet. i want to make her bow to me. ah!" for just then magnetism was too strong for theodora, and, in spite of her determination, their eyes met. a thrill, little short of passion, ran through lord bracondale as he saw the wild roses flushing her white cheeks--the exquisite flattery to his vanity. yes, she had seen him, and it already meant something to her. he raised his champagne glass and sipped a sip, while his eyes, more ardent than they had ever been, sought her face. and theodora, for her part, felt a flutter too. she was angry with herself for blushing, such a school-girlish thing to do, sarah had always told her. she hoped he had not noticed it at that distance--probably not. and what did he mean by drinking her health like that? he--oh, he was-- "now, truly, mrs. brown, you are cruel," mr. herryman hoggenwater said, pathetically, interrupting her thoughts. "i tell you i am simply longing to know if you will come for a drive in my automobile, and you do not answer, but stare into space." theodora turned, and then the young american understood that for all her gentle looks it would be wiser not to take this tone with her. he admired her frantically, he was just "crazy" about her, he told mrs. mcbride later. and so now he exerted himself to please and amuse her with all the vivacity of his brilliant nation. theodora was enjoying herself. environment and atmosphere affected her strongly. the bright pink lights, the sense of night and the soft moon beyond the wide open balcony windows, the scents of flowers, the gayety, and, above all, the knowledge that lord bracondale was there, gazing at her whenever opportunity offered, with eyes in which she, unlearned as she was in such things, could read plainly admiration and unrest. it all went to her head a little, and she became quite animated and full of repartee and sparkle, so that josiah brown could hardly believe his eyes and ears when he glanced across at her. this his meek and quiet mouse! his heart swelled with pride when mrs. mcbride leaned over and said to him: "you know, mr. brown, you have got the most beautiful wife in the world, and i hope you value her properly." it was this daring quality in his hostess josiah appreciated so much. "she's not afraid to say anything, 'pon my soul," he said to himself. "i rather think i know my own possession's value!" he answered aloud, with a pompous puffing out of chest, and a cough to clear the throat. the austrian prince on theodora's right hand pleased her. he had a quiet manner, and the freemasonry of breeding in two people, even of different nations, drew her to talk naturally to him in a friendly way. he was a fatalist, he told her; what would be would be, and mortals like himself and herself were just scattered leaves, like barks floating down a current where were mostly rocks ahead. "then must we strike the rocks whether we wish it or no?" asked theodora. "cannot we help ourselves?" "ah, madame, for that," he said, "we can strive a little and avoid this one and that, but if it is our fate we will crash against them in the end." "what a sad philosophy!" said theodora. "i would rather believe that if one does one's best some kind angel will guide one's bark past the rocks and safely into the smooth waters of the pool beyond." "you are young," he said, "and i hope you will find it so, but i fear you will have to try very hard, and circumstances may even then be too strong for you." "in that case i must go under altogether," said theodora; but her eyes smiled, and that night at least such a possibility seemed far enough away from her. the austrian looked across at her husband. such marriages were rare in his country, and he had thought so too in england. he wondered what their story could be. he wondered how soon she would take a lover--and he realized how infinitely worth while that lover would find his situation. he wished he were not so old. if she must break up her bark on the rocks, he could take the place of steersman with pleasure. but he was a courteous gentleman and he said none of these things aloud. meanwhile, lord bracondale was not enjoying his dinner. for the first time for several years he found himself jealous! he, unlike theodora, knew the meaning of every one of his sensations. "she is certainly interested in prince carolstein," he thought, as he watched her; "he has a european reputation for fascination. she has not looked this way once since the entrées. i wish i could hear what they are talking about. as for that young puppy hoggenwater, i would like to kick him round the room! lord, look how he is leaning over her! it sickens me! the young fool!" mrs. ellerwood turned round in her seat and surveyed the room. they had almost come to the end of dinner, and could move their chairs a little. she had the true englishwoman's feeling when among foreigners--that they were all there as puppets for her entertainment. "look, hector," she said--they were cousins--"did you ever see such a lovely woman as that one over there among the large party, in the black chiffon dress?" then hector committed a _bêtise_. "where?" said he, his eyes persistently fixed in another direction. "there; you can't mistake her, she looks so pure white, and fair, among all these frenchwomen the one with the blue eyes and the lovely hat with those sweeping feathers. she is exquisitely dressed, and both those men look fearfully devoted to her. can't you see? oh, you are stupid!" "my dear monica," said jack ellerwood, who joined rarely in the conversation, "hector has been sitting facing this way all through dinner. he is a man who can appreciate what he sees, and i do not fancy has missed much--have you, hector?" and he smiled a quiet smile. mrs. ellerwood looked at lord bracondale and laughed. "it is i who am stupid," she said. "naturally you have seen her all the time, and know her probably. are they cocottes, or americans, or russian princesses, or what?--the whole collection?" "if you mean that large party in the corner, they are most of them friends and acquaintances of mine," he said, rather icily--she had annoyed him--"and they belong to the aristocracies of various nations. does that satisfy you? i am afraid they are none of them demimondaines, so you will be disappointed this time!" mrs. ellerwood looked at him; she understood now. "he is in love with the white woman," she thought; "that is why he was so anxious to dine here to-night, when jack suggested madrid; that is why he stays in paris. it is not esclarmonde de chartres after all! how excited aunt milly will be! i must find out her name." "she is a beautiful creature," said jack ellerwood, as if to himself, while he carefully surveyed theodora from his position at the side of the table. hector bracondale's irritation rose. relations were tactless, and he felt sorry he had asked them. "you must tell me her name, hector," pleaded mrs. ellerwood; "the very white, pretty one i mean." "now just to punish your curiosity i shall do no such thing." "hector, you are a pig." "probably." "and so selfish." "possibly." "why mayn't i know? you set a light to all sorts of suspicions." "doubly interesting for you, then." "provoking wretch!" "don't you think you would like some coffee? the waiter is trying to hand you a cup." mrs. ellerwood laughed. she knew there was no use teasing him further; but there were other means, and she must employ them. theodora had become the pivot upon which some of her world might turn. the object of this solicitude was quite unconscious of the interest she had created. she did not naturally think she could be of importance to any one. had she not been the youngest and snubbed always? the same thought came to her that was conjuring the brain of lord bracondale: would there be a chance to speak to-night, or must they each go their way in silence? he meant to assist fate if he could, but having monica ellerwood there was a considerable drawback. mrs. mcbride's party were to take their coffee in one of the _bosquets_ outside, and all got up from their table in a few minutes to go out. they would have to pass the _partie à trois_, who were nearer the door. monica would take her most searching look at them, lord bracondale thought; now was the time for action. so as mrs. mcbride came past with captain fitzgerald, he rose from his seat and greeted her. "you have been exceedingly mean," he whispered. "what are you going to do for me to make up for it?" the widow had a very soft spot in her heart for "ce beau bracondale," as she called him, and when he pleaded like that she found him hard to resist. "come and see me to-morrow at twelve, and we will talk about it," she said. "to-morrow!" exclaimed lord bracondale; "but i want to talk to her to-night!" "get rid of your party, then, and join us for coffee," and the widow smiled archly as she passed on. theodora bowed with grave sweetness as she also went by, and most of the others greeted hector, while one woman stopped and told him she was going to have an automobile party in a day or two, and she hoped he would come. when they had all gone on mrs. ellerwood said: "i wonder why americans are so much smarter than we poor english? i can't bear them as a nation though, can you?" "yes," said lord bracondale. "i think the best friends i have in the world are american. the women particularly are perfectly charming. you feel all the time you are playing a game with really experienced adversaries, and it makes it interesting. they are full of resource, and you know underneath you could never break their hearts. i am not sure if they have any in their own country, but if so they turn into the most wonderful and exquisite bits of mechanism when they come to europe." "and you admire that." "certainly--hearts are a great bore." "you were always a cynic, hector; that is perhaps what makes you so attractive." "am i attractive?" "i can't judge," said mrs. ellerwood, nettled for a moment. "i have known you too long, but i hear other women saying so." "that is comforting, at all events," said lord bracondale. "i always have adored women." "no, you never have, that is just it. you have let them adore you, and utterly spoil you; so now sometimes, hector, you are insupportable." "you just said i was attractive." "i shall not argue further with you," said mrs. ellerwood, pettishly. "and i think we ought to be saying good-night, hector," interrupted the silent jack. "we are making an early start for fontainebleau to-morrow, and monica likes any amount of sleep." this did not suit mrs. ellerwood at all; but if jack spoke seldom he spoke to some purpose when he did, and she knew there was no use arguing. so with a heart full of ungratified curiosity, she at last allowed herself to be packed into hector's automobile and driven away. "of course he'll go and join that other party now, jack! what _did_ you make me come away for, you tiresome thing!" she said to her husband. "he has done me many a turn in the past," said jack, laconically. "then you think--?" but jack refused to think. v theodora was sitting rather on the outskirts of the party in the _bosquet_, her two devoted admirers still on either side of her. all the chairs were arranged informally, and hers was against the opening, so that it proved easy for lord bracondale to come up behind her unperceived. she believed he had gone. she could not see distinctly from where she was, but she had thought she saw the automobile whizzing by. she recognized mrs. ellerwood's hat. an unconscious feeling of blankness came over her. she grew more silent. a lady beyond the prince spoke to him, and at that moment mr. hoggenwater rose to put down her coffee-cup, and in this second of loneliness a deep voice said in her ear: "i could not go--i wanted to say good-night to you!" then theodora experienced a new emotion; she could not have told herself what it was, but suddenly a gladness spread through her spirit; the moon looked more softly bright, and her sweet eyes dilated and glowed, while that voice, gentle as a dove's, trembled a little as she said: "lord bracondale! oh, you startled me!" he drew a chair and sat down behind her. "how shall we get rid of your hogginheimer millionaire?" he whispered. "i feel as if i wanted to kill every one who speaks to you to-night." the half light, the moon, paris, and the spring-time! theodora spent the next hour in a dream--a dream of bliss. mrs. mcbride, with her all-seeing eye, perceived the turn events had taken. she was full of enjoyment herself; she had quite--almost quite--decided to listen to the addresses of captain fitzgerald, therefore her heart, not her common-sense, was uppermost this night. it could not hurt theodora to have one evening of agreeable conversation, and it would do herryman hoggenwater a great deal of good to be obstacled; thus she expressed it to herself. that last success with princess waldersheim had turned his empty head. so she called him and planted him in a safe place by an american girl, who would know how to keep him, and then turned to her own affairs again. the prince was a man of the world, and understood life. so theodora and lord bracondale were left in peace. the latter soon moved his chair to a position where he could see her face, rather behind her still, which entailed a slightly leaning over attitude. they were beyond the radius of the lights in the _bosquet_. lord bracondale was perfectly conversant with all moves in the game; he knew how to talk to a woman so that she alone could feel the strength of his devotion, while his demeanor to the world seemed the least compromising. theodora had not spoken for a moment after his first speech. it made her heart beat too fast. "i have been watching you all through dinner," he continued, with only a little pause. "you look immensely beautiful to-night, and those two told you so, i suppose." "perhaps they did!" she said. this was her first gentle essay at fencing. she would try to be as the rest were, gay and full of badinage. "and you liked it?" with resentment. "of course i did; you see, i never have heard any of these nice things much. josiah has always been too ill to go out, and when i was a girl i never saw any people who knew how to say them." she had turned to look at him as she said this, and his eyes spoke a number of things to her. they were passionate, and resentful, and jealous, and full of something disturbing. thrills ran through poor theodora. his eyes had been capable of looking most of these things before to other women, when he had not meant any of them, but she did not know that. "well," he said, "they had better not return or recommence their compliments, because i am not in the mood to be polite to them to-night." "what is your mood?" asked theodora, and then felt a little frightened at her own daring. "my mood is one of unrest--i would like to be away alone with you, where we could talk in peace," and he leaned over her so that his lips were fairly close to her ear. "these people jar upon me. i would like to be sitting in the garden at amalfi, or in a gondola in venice, and i want to talk about all your beautiful thoughts. you are a new white flower for me, as different as an angel from the other women in the world." "am i?" said she, in her tender tones. "i would wish that you should always keep that good thought of me. we shall soon go our different ways. josiah has decided to leave next week, and we are not likely to meet in england." "yes, we are likely to meet--i will arrange it," he said. there was nothing hesitating about hector bracondale--his way with women had always been masterful--and this quality, when mixed with a sudden bending to their desires, was peculiarly attractive. to-night he was drifting--drifting into a current which might carry him beyond his control. it was now several years since he had been in love even slightly. his position, his appearance, his personal charm, had all combined to spoil a nature capable of great things. life had always been too smooth. his mother adored him. he had an ample fortune. every marriageable girl in his world almost had been flung at his head. women of all classes with one consent had done their best to turn him into a coxcomb and a beast. but he continued to be a man for all that, and went his own way; only as no one can remain stationary, the crust of selfishness and cynicism was perhaps thickening with years, and his soul was growing hidden still deeper beneath it all. from the beginning something in theodora had spoken to the best in him. he was conscious of feelings of dissatisfaction with himself when he left her, of disgust with the days of unmeaning aims. he had begun out of idle admiration; he had continued from inclination; but to-night it was _plus fort que lui_, and he knew he was in love. the habit of indulging any emotion which gave him pleasure was still strong upon him; it was not yet he would begin to analyze where this passion might lead him--might lead them both. it was too deliciously sweet to sit there and whisper to her sophistries and reasonings, to take her sensitive fancy into new worlds, to play upon her feelings--those feelings which he realized were as fine and as full of tone as the sounds which could be drawn from a stradivarius violin. it was a night of new worlds for them both, for if theodora had never looked into any world at all, he also had never even imagined one which could be so quite divine as this--this shared with her in the moonlight, with the magic of the tzigane music and the soft spring night. he had just sufficient mastery over himself left not to overstep the bounds of respectful and deep interest in her. he did not speak a word of love. there was no actual sentence which theodora felt obliged to resent--and yet through it all was the subtle insinuation that they were more than friends--or would be more than friends. and when it was all over, and theodora's pulses were calmer as she lay alone on her pillow, she had a sudden thrill of fear. but she put it aside--it was not her nature to think herself the object of passions. "i would be a very silly woman to flatter myself so," she said to herself, and then she went to sleep. lord bracondale stayed awake for hours, but he did not sup with esclarmonde de chartres or marion de beauvoison. and the café de paris--and maxims--and the afterwards--saw him no more. once again these houris asked each other, "mais qu'est-ce qu'il a! ce bel hector? oú se cache-t-il?" vi before she went to bed in her hotel in the rue de rivoli, monica ellerwood wrote to her aunt. "paris, _may th_. "my dear aunt milly,--we have had a delicious little week, jack and i, quite like an old honeymoon pair--and to-day we ran across hector, who has remained hidden until now. he is looking splendid, just as handsome and full of life as ever, so it does not tell upon his constitution, that is one mercy! not like poor ernest bretherton, who, if you remember, was quite broken up by her last year. and i have one good piece of news for you, dear aunt milly. i do not believe he is so frantically wrapped up in this esclarmonde de chartres woman after all--in spite of that diamond chain at monte carlo. for to-night he took us to dine at armenonville--although jack particularly wanted to go to the madrid--and when we got there we saw at once why! there was a most beautiful woman dining there with a party, and hector never took his eyes off her the whole of dinner, jack says--i had my back that way--and he got rid of us as soon as he could and went and joined them. very young she looked, but i suppose married, from her pearls and clothes--american probably, as she was perhaps too well dressed for one of us; but quite a lady and awfully pretty. hector was so snappish about it, and would not tell her name, that it makes me sure he is very much in love with her, and jack thinks so too. so, dear aunt milly, you need have no more anxieties about him, as she can't have been married long, she looks so young, and so must be quite safe. jack says hector is thoroughly able to take care of himself, anyway, but i know how all these things worry you. if i can find out her name before i go i will, though perhaps you think it is out of the frying-pan into the fire, as it makes him no more in the mood to marry morella winmarleigh than before. unless, of course, this new one is unkind to him. we shall be home on saturday, dear aunt milly, and i will come round to lunch on sunday and give you all my news. "your affectionate niece, "monica ellerwood." which epistle jarred upon hector's mother when she read it over coffee at her solitary dinner on the following night. "poor dear monica!" she said to herself. "i wonder where she got this strain from--her father's family, i suppose--i wish she would not be so--bald." then she sat down and wrote to her son--she was not even going to the opera that night. and if she had looked up in the tall mirror opposite, she would have seen a beautiful, stately lady with a puckered, plaintive frown on her face. if a woman absolutely worships a man, even if she is only his mother, she is bound to spend many moments of unhappiness, and lady bracondale was no exception to the general rule. hector had always gone his own way, and there were several aspects of his life she disapproved of. these visits to paris--his antipathy to matrimony--his boredom with girls--such nice girls she knew, too, and had often thrown him with!--his delight in big-game shooting in alarming and impossible countries--and, above all, his absolute indifference to morella winmarleigh, the only woman who really and truly in her heart of hearts lady bracondale thought worthy of him, although she would have accepted several other girls as choosing the lesser evil to bachelorhood. but morella winmarleigh was perfection! she owned the enormous property adjoining bracondale; she was twenty-six years old, of unblemished reputation, nice looking, and not--not one of those modern women who are bound to cause anxieties. under any circumstances one could count upon morella winmarleigh behaving with absolute propriety. a girl born to be a mother-in-law's joy. but hector persistently remained at large. it was not that he openly defied his mother--he simply made love to her whenever they were together, twisted her round his finger, and was off again. "to see mother with hector," lady annigford said, "is a wonderful sight. although i adore him myself, i am not at the stage she is! she sits there beaming on him exactly like an exceedingly proud and fond cat with new kittens. he treats her as if she were a young and beautiful woman, caresses her, pets her, pays not the least attention to anything she says, and does absolutely what he pleases!" hector and lady bracondale together had often made the women who were in love with him jealous. when she had finished her letter the stately lady read it over carefully--she had a certain tact, and hector must be cajoled to return, not irritated. monica's epistle, in spite of that touch of vulgarity which she had deplored, had held out some grains of comfort. she had been getting really anxious over this affair with the--french person. even to herself lady bracondale would not use any of the terms which usually designate ladies of the type of esclarmonde de chartres. since her brother-in-law evermond had returned from monte carlo bringing that disturbing story of the diamond chain, she had been on thorns--of such a light mind and always so full of worldly gossip, evermond! hector had gone from monte carlo to venice, and then to paris, where he had been for more than a month, and she had heard that men could become quite infatuated and absolutely ruined by these creatures. so for him to have taken a fancy to a married american was considerably better than that. she had met several members of this nation herself in england, and were they not always very discreet, with well-balanced heads! so altogether the puckered frown soon left her smooth brow, and she was able to resume the knitting of a tie she was doing for her son, with a spirit more or less at rest, though she sighed now and then as she remembered morella winmarleigh could not be expected to wait forever--and her cherished vision of perfectly behaved, vigorously healthy grandchildren was still a long way from being realized. for with such a mother what perfect children they would be! this was always her final reflection. vii at twelve o'clock punctually lord bracondale was ushered into mrs. mcbride's sitting-room at the ritz, the day after her dinner-party at armenonville. he expected she would not be ready to receive him for at least half an hour; having said twelve he might have known she meant half-past, but he was in a mood of impatience, and felt obliged to be punctual. he was suffering more or less from a reaction. he had begun towards morning to realize the manner in which he had spent the evening was not altogether wise. not that he had the least intention of not repeating his folly--indeed, he was where he was at this hour for no other purpose than to enlist the widow's sympathy, and her co-operation in arranging as many opportunities for similar evenings as together they could devise. after all, she only kept him waiting twenty minutes, and he had been rather amused looking at the piles of bric-à-brac obsequious art dealers had left for this rich lady's inspection. a number of spurious bronzes warranted pure antique, clocks, brocades, what not, lying about on all the available space. "and i wonder what it will look like in her marble palace halls," he thought, as he passed from one article to another. "i am just too sorry to keep you, mon cher bracondale," mrs. mcbride said, presently, suddenly opening the adjoining door a few inches, "but it is a quite exasperating hat which has delayed me. i can't get the thing on at the angle i want. i--" "mayn't i come and help, dear lady?" interrupted hector. "i know all about the subject. i had to buy forty-seven at monte carlo, and see them all tried on, too--and only lately! do ask marie to open that door a little wider; i will decide in a minute how it should be." "insolent!" said the widow, who spoke french with perfect fluency and a quite marvellously pure american accent. but she permitted the giggling and beaming marie to open the door wide, and let hector advance and kiss her hand. he then took a chair by the dressing-table and inspected the situation. seven or eight dainty bandboxes strewed the floor, some of their contents peeping from them--feathers, aigrettes, flowers, impossible birds--all had their place, and on the sofa were three _chef d'oeuvres_ ruthlessly tossed aside. while in the widow's fair hands was a gem of gray tulle and the most expensive feather heart of woman could desire. "you see," she said, plaintively, "it is meant to go just so," and she placed it once more upon her head, a handsome head of forty-five, fresh and well preserved and comely. "but the vile-tempered thing refuses to stay there once i let go, and no pin will correct it." "base ingratitude," said lord bracondale, with feeling; "but couldn't you stuff these in the hiatus," and he tenderly lifted a bunch of nut-brown curls from the dressing-table. "they would fill up the gap and keep the fractious thing steady." "of course they would," said mrs. mcbride; "but i have a rooted objection to auxiliary nature trimmings. that bunch was sent with the hat, and marie has been trying to persuade me to wear it ever since we began this struggle. but i won't! my hair's my own, and i don't mean to have any one else's alongside of it. there is my trouble." "if milor were to hold madame's 'at one side, while i de other, madame might force her emerald parrot pin through him," suggested marie, which advice was followed, and the widow beamed with satisfaction at the gratifying result. "there!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, "that will do; and i am just ready. gloves, handkerchief--oh! and my purse, marie." and in five minutes more she was leading the way back into her sitting-room. "i have not ordered lunch until one o'clock," she said, "so we have oceans of time to talk and tell each other secrets. sit down, jeune homme, and confess to me." she pointed to a _bergère_, but it was filled with italian embroideries. "marie, take this rubbish away!" she called, and presently some chairs were made clear. "and what must i confess?" asked hector, when they were seated. "that i am frantically in love with you, and your coldness is driving me wild?" "certainly not!" said the widow, while she rose again and began to arrange some giant roses in a wonderful basket which looked as if it had just arrived--her shrewd eye had seen the card, "from captain fitzgerald, with his best bonjour." "certainly not! we are going to talk truth, or, to punish you, i shall not ask you to meet her again, and i shall warn her father of your strictly dishonorable intentions." "you would not be so cruel!" "yes i would. and it is what i ought to do, anyway. she is as innocent as a woolly lamb, and unsophisticated and guileless, and will probably be falling in love with you. you take the wind out of the sails of that husband of hers, you see!" "do i?" said hector, with overdone incredulity. she looked at him. his long, lithe limbs stretched out, every line indicative of breeding and strength. she noted the shape of his head, the perfect grooming, his lazy, insolent grace, his whimsical smile. englishmen of this class were certainly the most provokingly beautiful creatures in the world. "it is because they have done nothing but order men, kill beasts, and subjugate women for generations," she said to herself. "lazy, naughty darlings! if they came to our country and worked their brains a little, they would soon lose that look. but it would be a pity," she added--"yes, a pity." "what are you thinking of?" asked lord bracondale, while she gazed at him. "i was thinking you are a beautiful, useless creature. just like all your nation. you think the world is made for you; in any case, all the women and animals to kill are." "what an abominable libel! but i am fond of both things--women and animals to kill." "and you class them equally--or perhaps the animals are ahead." "indeed not always," said hector, reassuringly. "some women have quite the first place." "you are too flattering!" retorted the widow. "those sentiments are all very well for your own poor-spirited, down-trodden women, but they won't do for americans! a man has to learn a number of lessons before he is fitted to cope with them." "oh, tell me," said hector. "he has got to learn to wait, for one thing, to wait about for hours if necessary, and not to lose his temper, because the woman can't make up her mind to be in time for things, or to change it often as to where she will dine. then he has to learn to give up any pleasure of his own for hers--and travel when she wants to travel, or stay home when she wants to go alone. if he is an englishman he don't have brains enough to make the money, but he must let her spend what he has got how she likes, and not interfere with her own." "and in return he gets?" "the woman he happens to want, i suppose." and the widow laughed, showing her wonderfully preserved brilliant white teeth. "you enunciate great truths, belle dame!" said hector, "and your last sentence is the greatest of all--'_the woman he happens to want._'" "which brings us back to our muttons--in this case only a defenceless baby lamb. now tell me what you are here for, trying to cajole me with your good looks and mock humility." "i am here to ask you to help me to see her again, then," said hector, who knew when to be direct. "i have only met her three times, as you know, but i have fallen in love, and she is going away next week, and there is only one paris in the world." "you can do a great deal of mischief in a week," mrs. mcbride said, looking at him again critically. "i ought not to help you, but i can't resist you--there! what can we devise?" it is possible the probability of theodora's father making a fourth may have had something thing to do with her complaisance. anyway, it was decided that if feasible the four should spend a day at versailles. they should go in their two automobiles in time for breakfast at the réservoirs. they would start, theodora in mrs. mcbride's with her, and captain fitzgerald with lord bracondale, and each couple could spend the afternoon as they pleased, dining again at the réservoirs and whirling back to paris in the moonlight. a truly rural and refreshing programme, good for the soul of man. "and i can rely upon you to get rid of the husband?" said lord bracondale, finally. "i do not see the poetry of the affair with his bald head and mutton-chop whiskers as an accessory." "leave that to captain fitzgerald and myself," mrs. mcbride said, proudly. "i have a scheme that mr. brown shall spend the day with clutterbuck r. tubbs, examining some new machinery they are both interested in. leave it to me!" the part of _deus ex machina_ was always a rôle the widow loved. then they descended to an agreeable lunch in the restaurant, with a numerous party of her friends as usual, and lord bracondale felt afterwards full of joy and hope, to continue his sinful path unrepenting. the days that intervened before theodora saw him again were uneventful and full of blankness. the walks in the bois appeared more tedious than ever in the morning, the drives in the acacias more exasperating. it was a continual alertness to see if she caught sight of a familiar face, but she never did. fate was against them, as she sometimes is when she means to compensate soon after by some glorious day of the gods. and although lord bracondale called at her hotel and walked where he thought he should see her, and even drove in the acacias, they had no meeting. josiah did not feel himself sufficiently strong to stand the air of theatres, and they went nowhere in the evenings. he was keeping himself for his own dinner-party, which was to take place at the madrid on the monday. captain fitzgerald had arranged it, and besides mrs. mcbride several of his friends were coming, and a special band of wonderfully talented tziganes, who were delighting paris that year, had been engaged to play to them. if only the weather should remain fine all would be well. a surprise awaited theodora on saturday morning. a friendly note from mrs. mcbride arrived, asking her if she would spend the day with her at versailles, as she had asked her husband to do her a favor and lunch with mr. clutterbuck r. tubbs. theodora awaited josiah's presence at the _premier déjeuner_, which they took in their salon, with absolute excitement. he came in, a pompous smile on his face. "good-day, my love," he said, blandly. "that charming widow writes me this morning, asking if i will do her a favor, and take her friend, mr. clutterbuck tubbs, to examine that machinery for the separation of fats we both have an interest in, and he suggests i should lunch with him, as he is very anxious to have my opinion upon the merits of it." "yes," said theodora. "she also says," referring to the letter in his hand, "she will take charge of you for the day, and take you to versailles, which i know you wish to go to. she wants an answer at once, as she will call for you at twelve o'clock if we accept." "i have heard from her, too," said theodora. "what shall you answer, josiah?" and she looked out of the window. "oh, i may as well go, i think. there is money in the invention, or that old gimlet-eye would not be so keen about it; i talked the matter over with him at armenonville the other night." "then shall you write or shall i?" said theodora, as evenly as she could. "her servant is waiting." viii theodora hummed to herself a glad little _chansonnette_ as she changed her breakfast negligee for the freshest and loveliest of her spring frocks. she did not know why she was so happy. there had been no word of any one else being of the party, only she and mrs. mcbride, but versailles would be exquisite on such a day, and something whispered to her that she might not yawn. the most radiant vision awaited the widow, when, with unusual punctuality, her automobile stopped at the hotel door. she came in. she was voluble, she flattered josiah. so good of him to take mr. tubbs--and she hoped it would not tire him. theodora should be well looked after. they might be late and even dine at versailles, she said, and mr. brown was not to be anxious--_she_ would be responsible for the safe return of his beautiful little wife. (theodora was five foot seven at least, but her small head and extreme slenderness gave people the feeling she was little--something to be protected and guarded always.) josiah was affable. mrs. mcbride's words were so smooth and so many, he had no time to feel theodora was going to dine out without him, or that anything had been arranged for ultimate ends. the automobile had almost reached suresnes before the widow said to her guest: "your father and lord bracondale have promised to meet us at the réservoirs. captain fitzgerald told me how you wanted to go to versailles, and how your husband is not strong enough to take these excursions, so i thought we might have this little day out there, while he is engaged with mr. clutterbuck tubbs." "how sweet of you!" said theodora. as they rushed through the smiling country, both women's spirits rose, and mrs. mcbride's were the spirits of experience and did not mount without due cause. since she had been a girl in dakota and passionately in love with her first husband--the defunct mcbride was a second venture--she had not met a man who could quicken her pulse like captain fitzgerald. it was a curious coincidence that they both had already two partners to regret. it was an extra link between them, and jane mcbride, who was superstitious, read the omen to mean that this time each had met his true mate. "if he is irresistible to-day, i think i shall clinch matters," she was saying to herself. while theodora's musings ran: "how beautiful versailles will look, and i dare say he will know all about its history, and be able to tell me interesting things; and oh! i am so glad i put on this frock, and oh! i am so happy." and aloud they spoke of paradise plumes and the new gray, and the merits and demerits of callot and doucet and jeanne valez. and the widow said some bright american things about husbands and the world in general that conveyed crisp truths. the drive seemed all too short, and there were their two cavaliers in the court-yard awaiting them at the réservoirs, having arrived just before them. to the end of her life theodora will remember that glorious may day. its even minutest detail, the color of the chestnut-trees, the tint of the sky, the scent in the air, every line of his figure and turn of his head, every look in his eyes--and they were many and varied--and also and alas! every growing emotion in her own heart. but at the moment all was gladness, and exquisite, young, irresponsible joy. _sans arrière-pensée_ or disquieting reflection. she wondered which of the two men was the handsomer as she got out of the automobile--dear, darling papa or lord bracondale; both were quite show creatures of their age, and both were of the same class and knowledge of _savoir-vivre_. every one said such polite and gracious things, it was all so smooth and gay, and it seemed so natural that they should take a turn up towards the château while breakfast was being prepared. half-past one o'clock was time enough to eat, the widow said. "i want to show you a number of spots i love," hector announced, choosing a different path to the other pair. "and it is a day we can be happy in, can't we?" "i want to be happy," said theodora. "then we shall go no farther now; we shall sit on this seat and admire the view. see, we are quite alone and undisturbed; all the world has gone home to breakfast." then he looked at her, and though he really did try at this stage to be reasonable, something of the intense attraction he felt for her blazed in his eyes. she was sufficiently delectable a picture to turn the sagest head. there was something so absolutely pure white about that skin, it seemed good to eat, flawless, unlined, unblemished, under this brilliant light. the way her silvery blond hair grew was just the right way a woman's hair ought to grow, he thought; low on a high, broad brow, rippling and soft, and quantities of it. what could it be like to caress it, to run one's fingers through it, to bury one's face in it? ah! and then there were her tender eyes, dewy and shadowed with dark lashes, and so intensely blue. his glance wandered farther afield. such a figure! slender and graceful and fine. there was something almost childish about it all; the innocent look of a very young girl, with the polish of the woman, garbed by an artist. it seemed the great pearls in her ears were not more milkily white than her throat, and he was sure were also her little slender hands, that did not fidget, but lay idly in her lap, holding her blue parasol. he would like to have taken off her gloves to see. passionate devotion was surging up in his breast. and he was an englishman, and it was still the morning. there was no moon now and he had not even breakfasted! this shows sufficiently to what state he had come. "i want you to tell me all about versailles," she said, looking to the left and the gray wing beyond the chapel. "its histories and its meanings. i used to read about it all after sarah brought me here once for our treat, but you probably are learned upon the subject, and i want to know." "i would much rather hear what you did when sarah brought you here for your treat," he said. "oh! it was a very simple day," and she leaned back and laughed softly at the recollection. "papa was very hard up at that time, you know, and we were rather poor, so we came as cheaply as we could, sarah, clementine, and i, and i remember there were some very snuffy men in the train--we could not go first-class, you see--and one of them rather frightened me." "the brute!" said hector. "i think i was about fourteen." "and even then perfectly beautiful, i expect," he commented to himself. "we walked up from the station, and oh! we saw all the galleries and we ran all over the park, but we missed the way to trianon somehow and never saw that, and when we got back here we were too tired to start again. we had only had sandwiches, you see, that we brought with us, and some funny little drinks at a café down there," and she pointed vaguely towards the lake, "because we found we had only one franc fifty between us all. but we were so happy, and clementine knows a great deal, and told us many things which were quite different from what was in the guide-books--but it seems so long, long ago. do you know it must be six years." and she looked at him seriously. "half a lifetime!" agreed hector, with a whimsical smile. "oh! you are laughing at me!" she said, and there was a cloud in the blue stars which looked up at him. he made a movement nearer her--while his deep voice took every tone of tenderness. "indeed, indeed i am not--you dear little girl! i love to hear of your day. i was only smiling to think that six years ago you were a baby child, and i was then an old man in feeling--let me see, i was twenty-five, and i was in russia." he stopped suddenly; there were some circumstances which, sitting there beside her, he would rather not remember connected with russia. this was one of the peculiarities of theodora. there was something about her which seemed to wither up all low or vicious things. it was not that she filled people with ascetic thoughts of saints and angels and their mother in heaven, only she seemed suddenly to enhance simple joys with beauty and charm. they talked on for half an hour, and with every moment he discovered fresh qualities of sweetness and light in her gentle heart. she was not ill educated either, but she had never speculated upon things, she took them for granted just as they were, and _jean d'agrève_ was probably the only awakening book she had ever read. hector all at once seemed to realize his mother's vision, and to understand for the first time what marriage might mean. that to possess this exquisite bit of god's finished work for his very own, to live with her in the country, at old bracondale, to see her honored and adored, surrounded by little children--his children--would be a dream of bliss far, far beyond any dream he had ever known. a domestic, tender dream of sweetness that he had always laughed at before as a final thing when life's other joys should be over, and now it seemed suddenly to be the only heaven and completion of his soul's desire. then he remembered josiah brown with a hideous pang of pain and bitterness--and they went in to lunch. * * * * * theodora was so gay! captain fitzgerald and mrs. mcbride were already seated when they joined them in the restaurant. most of the other visitors had finished--it was almost two o'clock. there was a good deal of black middle in the widow's eyes, theodora noticed, and wondered to herself if she had had a happy and exciting hour too. papa looked complacent and handsomer than ever, she thought. she did hope it was going well. and she wondered how they were to dispose of their afternoon. the widow soon settled this. she had, she said, a wild desire to rush through the air for a little--she _must_ have her chauffeur go at full speed--somewhere--anywhere--her nerves needed calming! and captain fitzgerald had agreed to accompany her. their destination was unknown, and they might not be back for tea, so lord bracondale must take the greatest care of theodora and give her some if they did not turn up. they certainly would for dinner, but eight o'clock would be time enough for that. when your destination is unknown you can never say how many hours it will take to get there and back, she pointed out. and no one felt inclined to argue with her about this obvious truth! now if theodora had been a free unmarried girl, or a freer widow, it is highly probable fate would not have arranged this long afternoon in blissful surroundings undisturbed by any one. as it was, who knows if the goddess settled it with a smile on her lip or a tear in her eye? it was settled, at all events, and looked as if it were going to contain some moments worth remembering. ix "and what is your pleasure, fair queen?" hector said, as they listened to the diminishing noise of the widow's mercédès. "we are alone, and we have the world before us. issue your commands." "no," said theodora, and she pouted her red lips. "i want you to settle that. i want you to arrange for whatever you think would give me the greatest pleasure. then i shall know if you understand me and guess what i would like." this was the most daring speech she had ever made, and she was surprised at her own temerity. "very well," he said. "that means you belong to me until they return," and a thrill ran through him. "has not your father, has not your hostess, given you into my charge? and, now you yourself have sealed the compact, we shall see if i can make you happy." as he said the words "you belong to me," theodora thrilled too--a sensation as of an electric shock almost quivered through her. belonged to him--ah!--what would that mean? he called his chauffeur, who started the automobile and drove under the covered _porte cochère_ where they stood. lord bracondale had not spoken all the time he was helping her in and arranging rugs with the tenderest solicitude, but when they were settled and started--it was a coupé with a great deal of glass about it, so that they got plenty of air--he turned to her. "now, do you know what i am going to do with you, madame? i shall only unfold my plans bit by bit, and watch your face to see if i have chosen well. i am going to take you first to the petit trianon, and we are going to walk leisurely through the rooms. i am not going to worry you with much sight-seeing and tourists and lessons of history, but i want you to glance at this setting of the life picture of poor marie antoinette, because it is full of sentiment and it will make you appreciate more the _hameau_ and her playground afterwards. something tells me you would rather see these things than all the fine pictures and salons of the stiff château." "oh yes," said theodora; "you have guessed well this time." "then here we are, almost arrived," he said, presently. they had been going very fast, and could see the square, white house in front of them, and when they alighted at the gates she found the guardian was an old friend of lord bracondale's, and they were left free to wander alone in the rooms between the batches of tourists. but every one knows the petit trianon, and can surmise how its beauties appealed to theodora. "oh, the poor, poor queen!" she said, with a sad ring in her expressive voice, when they came to the large salon; "and she sat here and played on her harpsichord--and i wonder if she and fersen were ever alone--and i wonder if she really loved him--" then she stopped suddenly; she had told herself she must never talk about love to any one. it was a subject that she must have nothing to do with. it could never come her way, now she was married to josiah brown, and it would be unwise to discuss it, even in the abstract. the same beautiful, wild-rose tint tinged the white velvet as once before when she had spoken of _jean d'agrève_, and again lord bracondale experienced a sensation of satisfaction. but this time he would not let her talk about the weather. the subject of love interested him, too. "yes, i am sure she did," he said, "and i always shall believe fersen was her lover; no life, even a queen's, can escape one love." "i suppose not," said theodora, very low, and she looked out of the window. "love is not a passion which asks our leave if he may come or no, you see," hector continued, trying to control his voice to sound dispassionate and discursive--he knew he must not frighten her. "love comes in a thousand unknown, undreamed-of ways. and then he gilds the world and makes it into heaven." "does he?" almost whispered theodora. "and think what it must have been to a queen, married to a tiresome, unattractive bourbon--and fersen was young and gallant and thoughtful for her slightest good, and, from what one hears and has read, he must have understood her, and been her friend as well--and sometimes she must have forgotten about being a queen for a few moments--in his arms--" theodora drew a long, long breath, but she did not speak. "and perhaps, if we knew, the remembrance of those moments may have been her glory and consolation in the last dark hours." "oh! i hope so!" said theodora. then she walked on quickly into the quaint, little, low-ceilinged bedroom. oh, she must get out into the air--or she must talk of furniture, or curtain stuffs, or where the bath had been! love, love, love! and did it mean life after all?--since even this far-off love of this poor dead queen had such power to move her. and perhaps fersen was like--but this last thought caused her heart to beat too wildly. there were no roses now, she was very pale as she said: "it saddens me, this. let us go out into the sun." they descended the staircase again almost in silence, and on through the little door in the court-yard wall into the beautiful garden beyond. "show me where she was happy, where you know she was happy before any troubles came. i want to be gay again," said theodora. so they walked down the path towards the _hameau_. "what have i done?" lord bracondale wondered. "her adorable face went quite white. her soul is no longer the open book i have found it. there are depths and depths, but i must fathom them all." "oh, how i love the spring-time!" exclaimed theodora, and her voice was full of relief. "look at those greens, so tender and young, and that peep of the sky! oh, and those dear, pretty little dolls' houses! let us hasten; i want to go and play there, and make butter, too! don't you?" "ah, this is good," he said; "and i want just what you want." her face was all sweet and joyous as she turned it to him. "let's pretend we lived then," she said, "and i am the miller's daughter of this dear little mill, and you are the bailiff's son who lives opposite, and you have come with your corn to be ground. oh, and i shall make a bargain, and charge you dear!" and she laughed and swung her parasol back, while the sun glorified her hair into burnished silver. "what bargain could you make that i would not agree to willingly?" he asked. "perhaps some day i shall make one with you--or want to--that you will not like," she said, "and then i shall remind you of this day and your gallant speech." "and i shall say then as i say now. i will make any bargain with you, so long as it is a bargain which benefits us both." "ah, you are a normand, you hedge!" she laughed, but he was serious. they walked all around the _laiterie_, and all the time she was gay and whimsical, and to herself she was saying, "i am unutterably happy, but we must not talk of love." "now you have had enough of this," lord bracondale said, when they were again in view of the house, "and i am going to take you into a forest like the babes in the woods, and we shall go and lose ourselves and forget the world altogether. the very sight of these harmless tourists in the distance jars upon me to-day. i want you alone and no one else. come." and she went. "i have never been here before," said theodora, as they turned into the forest of marly. "and you have been wise in your choice so far. i love trees." "you see how i study and care for the things which belong to me," said hector. it gave him ridiculous pleasure to announce that sentence again--ridiculous, unwarrantable pleasure. theodora turned her head away a little. she would like to have continued the subject, but she did not dare. presently they came to a side _allée_, and after going up it about a mile the automobile stopped, and they got out and walked down a green glade to the right. oh, and i wonder if any of you who read know the forest of marly, and this one green glade that leads down to the centre of a star where five avenues meet? it is all soft grass and splendid trees, and may have been a _rendezvous de chasse_ in the good old days, when life--for the great--was fair in france. it is very lonely now, and if you want to spend some hours in peace you can almost count upon solitude there. "now, is not this beautiful?" he asked her, as they neared the centre, "and soon you will see why i carry this rug over my arm. i am going to take you right to the middle of the star until you see five paths for you to choose from, all green and full of glancing sunlight, and when you have selected one we will penetrate down it and sit under a tree. is it good--my idea?" "very good," said theodora. then she was silent until they reached the _rond-point_. there was that wonderful sense of aloofness and silence--hardly even the noise of a bird. only the green, green trees, and here and there a shaft of sunlight turning them into the shade of a lizard's back. an ideal spot for--poets and dreamers--and lovers--theodora thought. "now we are here! look this way and that! five paths for us to choose from!" then something made theodora say, "oh, let us stay in the centre, in this one round place, where we can see them all and their possibilities." "and do you think uncertain possibilities are more agreeable perhaps than certain ends?" he asked. "i never speculate," said theodora. "as you will, then," he said, while he looked into her eyes, and he placed the rug up against a giant tree between two avenues, so that their view really only extended down three others now. "we have turned our backs on the road we came," he said, "and on another road that leads in a roundabout way to the grande avenue again. so now we must look into the unknown and the future." "it seems all very green and fair," said theodora, and she leaned back against the tree and half closed her eyes. he lay on the grass at her feet, his hat thrown off beside him, and in a desert island they could not have been more alone and undisturbed. the greatest temptation that hector bracondale had ever yet had in his life came to him then. to make love to her, to tell her of all the new thoughts she had planted in his soul, of the windows she had opened wide to the sunlight. to tell her that he loved her, that he longed to touch even the tips of her fingers, that the thought of caressing her lips and her eyes and her hair drove the blood coursing madly through his veins. that to dream of what life could be like, if she were really his own, was a dream of intoxicating bliss. and something of all this gleamed in his eyes as he gazed up at her--and theodora, all unused to the turbulence of emotion, was troubled and moved and yet wildly happy. she looked away down the centre avenue, and she began to speak fast with a little catch in her breath, and hector clinched his hands together and gazed at a beetle in the grass, or otherwise he would have taken her in his arms. "tell me the story of all these avenues," she said; "tell me a fairy story suitable to the day." and he fell in with her mood. so he began: [illustration: "once upon a time there was a fairy prince and princess."] "once upon a time there was a fairy prince and princess, and a witch had enchanted them and put them in a green forest, but had set a watch-dog over love--so that the poor cupid with his bow and arrows might not shoot at them, and they were told they might live and enjoy the green wood and find what they could of sport and joy. but cupid laughed. 'as if,' he said, 'there is anything in a green wood of good without me--and my shafts!' so while the watch-dog slept--it was a warm, warm day in may, just such as this--he shot an arrow at the prince and it entered his heart. then he ran off laughing. 'that is enough for one day,' he said. and the poor prince suffered and suffered because he was wounded and the princess had not received a dart, too--and could not feel for him." "was she not even sympathetic?" asked theodora, and again there was that catch in her breath. "yes, she was sympathetic," he continued, "but this was not enough for the prince; he wanted her to be wounded, too." "how very, very cruel of him," said theodora. "but men are cruel, and the prince was only a man, you know, although he was in a green forest with a lovely princess." "and what happened?" asked theodora. "well, the watch-dog slept on, so that a friendly zephyr could come, and it whispered to the prince: 'at the end of all these allées, which lead into the future, there is only one thing, and that is love; he bars their gates. as soon as you start down one, no matter which, you will find him, and when he sees your princess he will shoot an arrow at her, too.'" "oh, then the princess of course never went down an allée," said theodora--and she smiled radiantly to hide how her heart was beating--"did she?" "the end of the story i do not know," said lord bracondale; "the fairy who told it to me would not say what happened to them, only that the prince was wounded, deeply wounded, with love's arrow. aren't you sorry for the prince, beautiful princess?" theodora opened her blue parasol, although no ray of sunshine fell upon her there. she was going through the first moment of this sort in her life. she was quite unaccustomed to fencing, or to any intercourse with men--especially men of his world. she understood this story had himself and herself for hero and heroine; she felt she must continue the badinage--anything to keep the tone as light as it could be, with all these new emotions flooding her being and making her heart beat. it was almost pain she experienced, the sensation was so intense, and hector read of these things in her eyes and was content. so he let his voice grow softer still, and almost whispered again: "and aren't you sorry for the prince--beautiful princess?" "i am sorry for any one who suffers," said theodora, gently, "even in a fairy story." and as he looked at her he thought to himself, here was a rare thing, a beautiful woman with a tender heart. he knew she would be gentle and kind to the meanest of god's creatures. and again the vision of her at bracondale came to him--his mother would grow to love her perhaps even more than morella winmarleigh! how she would glorify everything commonplace with those tender ways of hers! to look at her was like looking up into the vast, pure sky, with the light of heaven beyond. and yet he lay on the grass at her feet with his mind full of thoughts and plans and desires to drag this angel down from her high heaven--into his arms! because he was a man, you see, and the time of his awakening was not yet. x man is a hunter--a hunter always. he may be a poor thing and hunt only a few puny aims, or he may be a strong man and choose big game. but he is hunting, hunting--something--always. and primitive life seems like the spectrum of light--composed of three primary colors, and white and black at the beginning and ending of it. and the three colors of blue, red, and yellow have their counterparts in the three great passions in man--to hunt his food, to continue his species, and to kill his enemy. and white and black seem like birth and death--and there is the sun, which is the soul and makes the colors, and allows of all combinations and graduations of beautiful other shades from them for parallels to all other qualities and instincts, only the original are those great primary forces--to hunt his food, to continue his species, and to kill his enemy. and if this is so to the end of time, man will be the same, i suppose, until civilization has emasculated the whole of nature and so ends the world! or until this wonderful new scientist has perfected his researches to the point of creating human life by chemical process, as well as his present discovery of animating jellyfish! who knows? but by that time it will not matter to any of us! meanwhile, man is at the stage that when he loves a woman he wishes to possess her, and, in a modified form, he wishes to steal her, if necessary, from another, or kill the enemy who steals her from him. but the sun of the soul is there, too, so the poor old world is not in such a very bad case after all. and how the _bon dieu_ must smile sadly to himself when he looks down on priests and nuns and hermits and fanatics, and sees how they have distorted his beautiful scheme of things with their narrow ideas. trying to eliminate the red out of his spectrum, instead of ennobling and glorifying it all with the sun of the soul. and all of you who are great reasoners and arguers will laugh at this ridiculous little simile of life drawn by a woman; but i do not care. i have had my outburst, and said what i wanted to. so now we can get back to the two--who were not yet lovers--under their green tree in the forest of marly. "but you must be able to guess the end," theodora was saying; "and oh, i want to know, if all the roads were barred by love--how did they get out of the wood?" "they took him with them," said lord bracondale, and he touched the edge of her dress gently with a wild flower he had picked in the grass, while into his eyes crept all the passion he felt and into his voice all the tenderness. now if theodora had ever read _la faute de l'abbé mouret_ she would have known just what proximity and the spring-time was doing for them both. but she had not read, and did not know. all she was conscious of was a wild thrilling of her pulses, an extraordinary magnetic force that seemed to draw her--draw her nearer--nearer to what? even that she did not know or ask herself. beyond that it was danger, and she must fly from it. "i do not want to talk of any of those things to-day," she said, suddenly dropping her parasol between them. "i only want to laugh and be amused, and as you were to devise schemes for my happiness, you must amuse me." he looked up at her again and he noticed, for all this brave speech, that her hands were trembling as she clutched the handle of her blue parasol. triumph and joy ran through him. he could afford to wait a little longer now, since he knew that he must mean something, even perhaps a great deal, to her. and so for the next half-hour he played with her, he skimmed over the surface of danger, he enthralled her fancy, and with every sentence he threw the glamour of his love around her, and fascinated her soul. all his powers of attraction--and they were many--were employed for her undoing. and theodora sat as one in a dream. at last she felt she _must_ wake--must realize that she was not a happy princess, but theodora, who must live her dull life--and this--and this--where was it leading her to? so she clasped her hands together suddenly, and she said: "but do you know we have grown serious, and i asked you to amuse me, lord bracondale!" "i cannot amuse you," he said, lazily, "but shall i tell you about my home, which i should like to show you some day?" and again he began to caress the farthest edge of her dress with his wild flower. just the smallest movement of smoothing it up and down that no one could resent, but which was disturbing to theodora. she did not wish him to stop, on the contrary--and yet-- "yes, i would like to hear of that," she said. "is it an old, old house?" "oh, moderately so, and it has nooks and corners and views that might appeal to you. i believe i should find them all endowed with fresh charm myself, if i could see them with you"--and he made the turning-point of his flower a few inches nearer her hand. theodora said nothing; but she took courage and peeped at him again. and she thought how powerful he looked, and how beautifully shaped; and she liked the fineness of the silk of his socks and his shirt, and the cut of his clothes, and the wave of his hair--and last of all, his brown, strong, well-shaped hands. and then she fell to wondering what the general scheme of things could be that made husbands possess none of these charms; when, if they did, it could all be so good and so delicious, instead of a terribly irksome duty to live with them and be their wives. "you are not listening to a word i am saying!" said hector. "where were your thoughts, cruel lady?" she was confused a little, and laughed gently. "they were away in a land where you can never come," she said. he raised himself on his elbow, and supported his head on his hand, while he answered, eagerly: "but i must come! i want to know them, all your thoughts. do you know that since we met on monday you have never been for one instant out of my consciousness. and you would not listen then to what i told you of friendship when it is born of instantaneous sympathy--it is because in some other life two souls have been very near and dear. and that is our case, and i want to make you feel it so, as i do. tell me that you do--?" "i do not know what i do feel," said theodora. "but perhaps--could it be true that we met when we lived before; and when was that? and who were we?" "it matters not a jot," said he. "so long as you feel it too--that we are not only of yesterday, you and i. there is some stronger link between us." for one second they looked into each other's eyes, and each read the other's thoughts mirrored there; and if his said, in conscious, passionate words, "i love you," hers were troubled and misty with possibilities. then she jumped up from her seat suddenly, and her voice trembled a little as she said: "and now i want to go out of the wood." he rose too and stood beside her, while he pointed to the glade to the left of the centre they were facing. "we must penetrate into the future then," he said, "because i told my chauffeur to meet us on the road where i think that will lead to. we cannot go back by the way we have come." and she did not answer; she was afraid, because she remembered all those avenues were barred by--love. as he walked beside her, hector bracondale knew that now he must be very, very careful in what he said. he must lull her fears to sleep again, or she would be off like a lark towards high heaven, and he would be left upon earth. so he exerted himself to interest and amuse her in less agitating ways. he talked of his home and his mother and his sister. he wanted theodora to meet them. she would like anne, he said, and his mother would love her, he knew. and again the impossible vision same to him, and he felt he hated the face of morella winmarleigh. usually when he had been greatly attracted by a married woman before, he had unconsciously thought of her as having the qualities which would make her an adorable mistress, a delicious friend, or a holiday amusement. there had never been any reverence mixed up with the affair, which usually had the zest of forbidden fruit, and was hurried along by passion. it had always only depended upon the woman how far he had got beyond these stages; but, as he thought of theodora, unconsciously a picture always came to him of what she would be were she his wife. and it astonished him when he analyzed it; he, the scoffer at bonds, now to find this picture the fairest in the world! and as yet he was hardly even dimly growing to realize that fate would turn the anguish of this desire into a chastisement of scorpions for him. things had always been so within his grasp. "we shall go to england on tuesday," theodora said, as they sauntered along down the green glade. "it is so strange, you know, but i have never been there." "never been to england!" hector exclaimed, incredulously. "no!" and she smiled up at him. all was at peace now in her mind, and she dared to look as much as she pleased. "no. papa used to go sometimes, but it was too expensive to take the whole family; so we were left at bruges generally, or at dieppe, or where we chanced to be. if it was the summer, often we have spent it in a normandy farm-house." "then how have you learned all the things you know?" he asked. "that was not difficult. i do not know much," she said, gently, "and sarah taught me in the beginning, and then i went to convents whenever we were in towns, and dear papa was so kind and generous always; no matter how hard up he was he always got the best masters available for me--and for clementine. sarah is much older, and even clementine five years." "i wonder what on earth you will think of it--england, i mean?" he was deeply interested. "i am sure i shall love it. we have always spoken of it as home, you know. and papa has often described my grandfather's houses. both my grandfathers had beautiful houses, it seems, and he says, now that i am rich and cannot ever be a trouble to them, the family might be pleased to see me." she spoke quite simply. there never was room for bitterness or irony in her tender heart. and hector looked down upon her, a sort of worship in his eyes. "papa's father is dead long ago; it is his brother who owns beechleigh now," she continued--"sir patrick fitzgerald. they are irish, of course, but the place is in cambridgeshire, because it came from his grandmother." "yes, i know the old boy," said hector. "i see him at the turf--a fiery, vile-tempered, thin, old bird, about sixty." "that sounds like him," said theodora. "and so you are going to make all these relations' acquaintance. what an experience it will be, won't it?" his voice was full of sympathy. "but you will stay in london. they are all there now, i suppose?" "my grandfather borringdon, my mother's father, never goes there, i believe; he is very old and delicate, we have heard. but i have written to him--papa wished me to do so; for myself i do not care, because i think he was unkind to my mother, and i shall not like him. it was cruel never to speak to her again--wasn't it?--just because she married papa, whom she loved very much--papa, who is so handsome that he could never have really been a husband, could he?" then she blushed deeply, realizing what she had said. and the quaintness of it caused hector to smile while he felt its pathos. how _could_ they all have sacrificed this beautiful young life between them! and he slashed off a tall green weed with his stick when he thought of josiah brown--his short, stumpy, plebeian figure and bald, shiny head, his common voice, and his pompousness--josiah brown, who had now the ordering of her comings and goings, who paid for her clothes and gave her those great pearls--who might touch her and kiss her--might clasp and caress her--might hold her in his arms, his very own, any moment of the day--or night! ah, god! that last thought was impossible--unbearable. and for one second hector's eyes looked murderous as they glared into the distance--and theodora glanced up timidly, and asked, in a sympathetic voice: what was it? what ailed him? "some day i will tell you," he said. "but not yet." then he asked her more about her family and her plans. they would stay in london at claridge's for a week or so, and go down to bessington hall for whitsuntide. it would be ready for them then. josiah had had it all furnished magnificently by one of those people who had taste and ordered well for those who could afford to pay for it. she was rather longing to see it, she said--her future home--and she could have wished she might have chosen the things herself. not that it mattered much either way. "i am very ignorant about houses," she explained, "because we never really had one, you see, but i think, perhaps, i would know what was pretty from museums and pictures--and i love all colors and forms." he felt sure she would know what was pretty. how delightful it would be to watch her playing with his old home! the touches of her gentle fingers would make everything sacred afterwards. at last they came to the end of the green glade--and temptation again assailed him. he _must_ ruffle the peace of her soft eyes once more. "and here is the barrier," he said, pointing to a board with "_terrain réservé_" upon it--_réserveé pour la chasse de monsieur le président_, "the barrier which love keeps--and i want to take him with us as the prince and princess did in the fairy tale." "then you must carry him all by yourself," laughed theodora. "and he will be heavy and tire you, long before we get to versailles." this time she was on her guard--and besides they were walking--and he was no longer caressing the edge of her dress with his wild flower; it was almost easy to fence now. but when they reached the automobile and he bent over to tuck the rug in--and she felt the touch of his hands and perceived the scent of him--the subtle scent, not a perfume hardly, of his coat, or his hair, a wild rush of that passionate disturbance came over her again, making her heart beat and her eyes dilate. and hector saw and understood, and bit his lips, and clinched his hands together under the rug, because so great was his own emotion that he feared what he should say or do. he dared not, dared not chance a dismissal from the joy of her presence forever, after this one day. "i will wait until i know she loves me enough to certainly forgive me--and then, and then--" he said to himself. but fate, who was looking on, laughed while she chanted, "the hour is now at hand when these steeds of passion whose reins you have left loose so long will not ask your leave, noble friend, but will carry you whither they will." xi they were both a little constrained upon the journey back to versailles--and both felt it. but when they turned into the porte st. antoine theodora woke up. "do you know," she said, "something tells me that for a long, long time i shall not again have such a happy day. it can't be more than half-past five or six--need we go back to the reservoirs yet? could we not have tea at the little café by the lake?" he gave the order to his chauffeur, and then he turned to her. "i, too, want to prolong it all," he said, "and i want to make you happy--always." "it is only lately that i have begun to think about things," she said, softly--"about happiness, i mean, and its possibilities and impossibilities. i think before my marriage i must have been half asleep, and very young." and hector thought, "you are still, but i shall awake you." "you see," she continued, "i had never read any novels, or books about life until _jean d'agrève_. and now i wonder sometimes if it is possible to be really happy--really, really happy?" "i know it is," he said; "but only in one way." she did not dare to ask in what way. she looked down and clasped her hands. "i once thought," she went on, hurriedly, "that i was perfectly happy the first time josiah gave me two thousand francs, and told me to go out with my maid and buy just what i wished with it; and oh, we bought everything i could think sarah and clementine could want, numbers and numbers of things, and i remember i was fearfully excited when they were sent off to dieppe. but i never knew if i chose well or if they liked them all quite, and now to do that does not give me nearly so much joy." soon they drew up at the little café and ordered tea, which he guessed probably would be very bad and they would not drink. but tea was english, and more novel than coffee for theodora, and that she must have, she said. she was so gracious and sweet in the pouring of it out, when presently it came, and the elderly waiter seemed so sympathetic, and it was all gay and bright with the late afternoon sun streaming upon them. "the garçon takes us for a honeymoon couple," hector said; "he sees you have beautiful new clothes, and that we have not yet begun to yawn with each other." but theodora had not this view of honeymoons. to her a honeymoon meant a nightmare, now happily a thing of the past, and almost forgotten. "do not speak of it," she said, and she put out her hands as if to ward off an ugly sight, and hector bent over the table and touched her fingers gently as he said: "forgive me," and he raged within himself. how could he have been so gauche, so clumsy and unlike himself. he had punished them both, and destroyed an illusion. he meant that she should picture herself and him as married lovers, and she had only seen--josiah brown. they both fell into silence and so finished their repast. "i want you to walk now," hector said, "through some delicious allées where i will show you enceladus after he was struck by the thunders of zeus. you will like him, i think, and there is fine greensward around him where we can sit awhile." "i was always sorry for him," said theodora; "and oh, how i would like to go to sicily and see Ætna and his fiery breath coming forth, and to know when the island quakes it is the poor giant turning his weary side!" to go to sicily--and with her! the picture conjured up in hector's imagination made him thrill again. then he told her about it all, he charmed her fancy and excited her imagination, and by the time they came to their goal the feeling of jar had departed, and the dangerous sense of attraction--of nearness--had returned. it was nearly seven o'clock, and here among the trees all was in a soft gloom of evening light. "is not this still and far away?" he said, as they sat on an old stone bench. "i often stay the whole morning here when i spend a week at versailles." "how peaceful and beautiful! oh, i would like a week here, too!" and theodora sighed. "you must not sigh, beautiful princess," he implored, "on this our happy day." the slender lines of her figure seemed all drooping. she reminded him more than ever of the fragment of psyche in the naples museum. "no, i must not sigh," she said. "but it seems suddenly to have grown sad--the air--what does it mean? tell me, you who know so many things?" there was a pathos in her voice like a child in distress. it communicated itself to him, it touched some chords in his nature hitherto silent. his whole being rushed out to her in tenderness. "it seems to me it is because the time grows nearer when we must go back to the world. first to dinner with the others, and then--paris. i would like to stay thus always--just alone with you." she did not refute this solution of her sadness. she knew it was true. and when he looked into her eyes, the blue was troubled with a mist as of coming tears. then passion--more mighty than ever--seized him once more. he only felt a wild desire to comfort her, to kiss away the mist--to talk to her. ah! "theodora!" he said, and his voice vibrated with emotion, while he bent forward and seized both her hands, which he lifted to his face--she had not put on her gloves again after the tea--her cool, little, tender hands! he kissed and kissed their palms. "darling--darling," he said, incoherently, "what have i done to make your dear eyes wet? oh, i love you so, i love you so, and i have only made you sad." she gave a little, inarticulate cry. if a wounded dove could sob, it might have been the noise of a dove, so beseeching and so pathetic. "oh, please--you must not," she said. "oh, what have you done!--you have killed our happy day." and this was the beginning of his awakening. he sat for many moments with his head buried in his hands. what, indeed, had he done!--and they would be turned out of their garden of eden--and all because he was a brute, who could not control his passion, but must let it run riot on the first opportunity. he suffered intensely. suffered, perhaps, for the first time in his life. she had not said one word of anger--only that tone in her voice reached to his heart. he did not move and did not speak, and presently she touched his hands softly with her slender fingers, it seemed like the caress of an angel's wing. "listen," she said, so gently. "oh, you must not grieve--but it was too good to be true, our day. i ought to have known to where we were drifting, i am wicked to have let you say all you have said to-day, but oh, i was asleep, i think, and i only knew that i was happy. but now you have shown me--and oh, the dream is broken up. come, let us go back to the world." then he raised his eyes to her face, and they were haggard and miserable. how her simple speech, blaming herself who was all innocent, touched his heart and filled him with shame at his unworthiness. "oh, forgive me!" he pleaded. "oh, please forgive me! i am mad, i think, i love you so--and i had to tell you--and yes, i will say it all now, and then you can punish me. from the first moment i looked into your angel eyes it has been growing, you are so true and so sweet, and so miles beyond all other women in the world. each minute i have loved you more--and all the time i thought to win you. yes, you may well turn away, and shrink from me now that you know the brute i am. i thought i would make you love me, and you would forgive me then. but i have suddenly seen your soul, my darling, and i am ashamed, and i can only ask you to forgive me and let me worship you and be your slave--i will not ask for any return--only to worship you and be your slave--that i may show you i am not all brute and may earn your pardon." and then theodora's blindness fell from her and she knew that she loved him--she had faced the fact at last. and all over her being there thrilled a mad, wild joy. it surged up and crushed out fear and pain--for just one moment--and then she too, in her turn, covered her face with her hands. "oh, hush! hush!" she said. "what have you done--what have we both done!" it was characteristic of her that now she realized she loved him she did not fence any longer, she never thought of concealing it from him or of blaming him. they were sinners both, he and she equally guilty. another woman might have argued, "he is fooling me; perhaps he has said these things before--i must at least hide my own heart," but not theodora. her trust was complete--she loved him--therefore he was a perfect knight--and if he was wicked she was wicked too. her gentian eyes were full of tears as she let fall her hands and looked at him. "oh yes, i have been asleep--i should have known from the beginning why, why i wanted to see you so much--i should never have come--and i should have understood in the wood that we could not leave it without bringing love with us--and now we may not be happy any more." and then it was his turn to be exalted with wild joy. "do you know what you have said," he whispered, breathless. "your words mean that you love me--theodora--darling mine." and once again passion blazed in his eyes, and he would have taken her in his arms; but she put up her hands and gently pushed him from her. "yes," she said, simply, "i love you, but that only makes it all the harder--and we must say good-bye at once, and go our different ways. you who are so strong and know so much--i trust you, dear--you must help me to do what is right." she never thought of reproaching him, of telling him, as she very well could have done, that he had taken cruel advantage of her unsophistication. all her mind was full of the fact that they were both very sad and wicked and must help each other. "i _cannot_ say good-bye," he said, "now that i know you love me, darling; it is impossible. how can we part--what will the days be--how could we get through our lives?" she looked at him, and her eyes were the eyes of a wounded thing--dumb and pitiful, and asking for help. then the something that was fine and noble in hector bracondale rose up in him--the crust of selfishness and cynicism fell from him like a mask. he suddenly saw himself as he was, and she--as she was--and a determination came over him to grow worthy of her love, obey her slightest wish, even if it must break his heart. he dropped upon his knees beside her on the greensward, and buried his face in her lap. "darling--my queen," he said. "i will do whatever you command--but oh, it need not be good-bye. don't let me sicken and die out of your presence. i swear, on my word of honor, i will never trouble you. let me worship you and watch over you and make your life brighter. oh, god! there can be no sin in that." "i trust you!" she said, and she touched the waves of his hair. "and now we must not linger--we must come at once out of this place. i--i cannot bear it any more." and so they went--into an _allée_ of close, cropped trees, where the gloom was almost twilight; but if there was pain there was joy too, and almost peace in their hearts. all the anguish was for the afterwards. love, who is a god, was too near to his kingdom to admit of any rival. "hector," she whispered, and as she said his name a wild thrill ran through him again. "hector--the austrian prince at armenonville said life was a current down which our barks floated, only to be broken up on the rocks if it was our fate; and i said if we tried very hard some angel would steer us past them into smooth waters beyond; and i want you to help me to find the angel, dear--will you?" but all he could say was that she was the angel, the only angel in heaven or earth. and so they came at last to the bason de neptune, and on through the side door into the réservoirs--and there was the widow's automobile that moment arrived. xii every one behaved with immense propriety--they said just what they should have said, there was no _gêne_ at all. and when they went up the stairs together to arrange their hair and their hats for dinner, the elder woman slipped her arm through theodora's. "i am going to marry your father, my dear," she said, "and i want you to be the first to wish me joy." the dinner went off with great gayety. the widow especially was full of bright sayings, and captain fitzgerald made the most devoted lover. not too elated by his good-fortune, and yet thoroughly happy and tender. he continually told himself that fate had been uncommonly kind to mix business and pleasure so dexterously, for if the widow had not possessed a cent, he still would have been glad to marry her. he had been quite honest with her on their drive, explaining his financial situation and his disadvantages, which he said could only be slightly balanced by his devotion and affection--but of those he would lay the whole at her feet. and the widow had said: "now look here, i am old enough just to know what my money is worth--and if you like to put it as a business speculation for me, i consider, in buying the companion for the rest of my life who happens to suit me, i am laying out the sum to my own advantage." after that there was no more to be said, and he had spent his time making love to her like any romeo of twenty, and both were content. all through dinner a certain strange excitement dominated theodora. she felt there would be more deep emotion yet to come for her before the day should close. how were they going back to paris? the moon had risen pure and full, she could see it through the windows. the night was soft and warm, and when the last sips of coffee and liqueurs were finished it was still only nine o'clock. on an occasion when no personal excitement was stirring captain fitzgerald he probably would have hesitated about approving of theodora spending the entire evening alone with lord bracondale. she was married, it was true--but to josiah brown--and dominic fitzgerald knew his world. to-night, however, neither the widow nor he had outside thoughts beyond themselves. indeed, mrs. mcbride was so overflowing with joy she had almost a feeling of satisfaction in the knowledge that the others would possibly be happy too--when she thought of them at all! again she decided the situation for every one, and again fate laughed. there was no use staying any longer at versailles, because the park gates were shut and they could not stroll in the moonlight, but a drive back and a few turns in the bois with a little supper at madrid would be a fitting ending to the day. "you must meet us at madrid at half-past ten," she said; "and dominic"--the name came out as if from long habit--"telephone for a table in the bosquet--numero --i like that garçon best, he knows my wants." and so they got into their separate automobiles. "let us have all the windows down," said theodora, "to get all the beautiful air--it is such a lovely night." her heart was beating as it had never beat before. how could she control herself! how keep calm and ordinary during the enchanting drive! her hands were cold as ice, while flaming roses burned in the white velvet cheeks. and hector saw it all and understood, and passion surged madly in his veins. for a mile or two there was silence--only the moonlight and the swift rushing through the air, and the wild beating of their hearts. and so they came to the long, dark stretch of wood by st. cloud. and the devil whispered sophistries and fate continued to laugh. then passion was too strong for him. "darling," he said, and his fine resolutions fled to the winds, while his deep voice was hoarse and broken. "my darling!--god! i love you so--beyond all words or sense--oh, let us be happy for this one night--we must part afterwards i know, and i will accept that--but just for to-night there can be no sin and no harm in being a little happy--when we are going to pay for it with all the rest of our lives. let us have the memory of one hour of bliss--the angels themselves could not grudge us that." one hour of bliss out of a lifetime! would it be a terrible sin, theodora wondered, a terrible, unforgivable sin to let him kiss her--to let him hold her just once in his arms. there was no light in the coupé--he had seen to that--only the great lamps flaring in the road and the moonlight. she clasped her hands in an agony of emotion. she was but a dove in the net of an experienced fowler, but she did not know or think of that, nor he either. they only knew they loved each other passionately, and this situation was more than they could bear. "oh, i trust you!" she said. "if you tell me it is not a terrible sin i will believe you--i do not know--i cannot think--i--" but she could speak no more because she was in his arms. the intense, unutterable joy--the maddening, intoxicating bliss of the next hour! to have her there, unresisting--to caress her lips and eyes and hair--to murmur love words--to call her his very own! nothing in heaven could equal this, and no hell was a price too great to pay--so it seemed to him. it was the supremest moment of his life; and how much more of hers who knew none other, who had never received the kisses of men or thrilled to any touch but his! after a little she drew herself away and shivered. she knew she was wicked now--very, very wicked--but it was again characteristic of her that having made her decision there was no vacillation about her. the die was cast--for that night they were to be happy, and all the rest of her life should be penitence and atonement. but to-night there was no room for anything but joy. she had never dreamed in her most secret thoughts of moments so gloriously sweet as these--to have a lover--and such a lover! and it was true--it must be true--that they had lived before, and all this passion was not the growth of one short week. it seemed as if it was all her life, all her being--it could mean nothing now but hector--hector--hector! and over and over again he made her whisper in his ear that she loved him--nor could she ever tire of hearing him say he worshipped her. oh, they were foolish and tender and wonderful, as lovers always are. he had given his orders beforehand and the chauffeur was a man of intelligence. they drove in the most beautiful _allée_ when they came to the bois--and no incident ruffled the exquisite peace and bliss of their time. suddenly hector became aware of the fact it was just upon half-past ten, and they were almost in sight of madrid, which would end it all. and a pang of hideous pain shot through him, and he did not speak. in the distance the lights blazed into the night, and the sight of them froze theodora to ice. it was finished then--their hour of joy. "my darling," he exclaimed, passionately, "good-bye, and remember all my life is in your hands, and i will spend it in worship of you and thankfulness for this hour of yourself you have given to me. i am yours to do with as you will until death do us part." "and i," said theodora, "will never love another man--and if we have sinned we have sinned together--and now, oh, hector, we must face our fates." her voice tore his very heartstrings in its unutterable pathos. and in that last passionate kiss it seemed as if they exchanged their very souls. then they drove into the glare of the restaurant lights, having tasted of the knowledge of good and evil. xiii "what have i done? what have i done?" hector groaned to himself in anguish as he paced up and down his room at the ritz an hour after the party had broken up, and he had driven mrs. mcbride back in his automobile, leaving hers to father and daughter. all through supper theodora had sat limp and white as death, and every time she had looked at him her eyes had reminded him of a fawn he had wounded once at bracondale, in the park, with his bow and arrow, when he was a little boy. he remembered how fearfully proud he had been as he saw it fall, and then how it had lain in his arms and bled and bled, and its tender eyes had gazed at him in no reproach, only sorrow and pain, and a dumb asking why he had hurt it. all the light of the stars seemed quenched, no eyes in the world had ever looked so unutterably pathetic as theodora's eyes, and gradually as they sat and talked platitudes and chaffed with the elderly fiancées, it had come to him how cruel he had been--he who had deliberately used every art to make her love him--and now, having gained his end, what could he do for her? what for himself? nothing but sorrow faced them both. he had taken brutal advantage of her gentleness and innocence--when chivalry alone should have made him refrain. he saw himself as he was--the hunter and she the hunted--and the knowledge that he would pay with all the anguish and regret of a passionate, hopeless love--perhaps for the rest of his life--did not balance things to his awakened soul. if his years should be one long, gnawing ache for her, what of hers? and she was so young. his life, at all events, was a free one; but hers tied to josiah brown! and this thought drove him to madness. she belonged to josiah brown--not to him whom she loved--but to josiah brown, plebeian and middle-aged and exacting. he knew now that he ought to have gone away at once, the next day after they had met. his whole course of conduct had been weak and absolutely self-indulgent and wicked. who was he to dare to have raised his eyes to this angel, and try to scorch even the hem of her clothing! and now he had only brought suffering upon her and dimmed the light in god's two stars, which were her eyes. and then wild passion shook him, and he could only live again the divine moments when she had nestled unresisting in his arms. would it have made things better or worse if he had not yielded to the temptation of that hour of night and solitude? after all, the sin was in making her love him, not in just holding her and kissing her lips. and at least, at least, they would have that exquisite memory of moments of unutterable bliss to keep for the rest of their lives. his windows were wide open, and he leaned upon the balcony and gazed out at the moon. what good had all his life been? what benefit had he brought to any one? then he seemed to see a clear vision of theodora's short existence. every picture she had unconsciously shown him was of some gentle thought of unselfishness for others. and now he had laid a burden upon her shoulders, when he would not hurt a hair of her head--that dear, exquisite head which had lain upon his breast only two hours ago, and could never lie there again. he knew this was the end. then anguish and remorse seized him, and he buried his face on his crossed arms. and theodora staggered up to her room like one half dead. mercifully josiah brown, had gone to bed, leaving a message with henriette, theodora's maid, that on no account was she to make any noise or disturb him. henriette adored her mistress--as who did not who served her?--and she felt distressed to see madame so pale. doubtless madame had had a most tiring day. madame had, and was thankful when at last she was left alone with her thoughts. then she, too, opened wide the windows and gazed at the moon. she had no cause for remorse for evil conduct like hector. she had made no plans for the entrapping of any soul, and yet she felt forlorn and wicked. oh yes, she was awake now and knew where she had been drifting. and so love had come at last, and indeed, indeed it meant life. this blast had struck her, and she had been blind in not recognizing it at once. but oh, how sweet it was!--love--and it seemed as if it could make everything good and fair. if he and she who loved each other could have belonged to each other, surely they might have shed joy and gladness and kindness on all around. then she lay on her bed and did not try to reason any more; she only knew she loved hector bracondale with all her heart and being, and that she was married to josiah brown. and what would the days be when she never saw him? and he, too, he would be sad--and then there was poor josiah--who was so generous to her. he could not help being vulgar and unsympathetic, and her duty was to make him happy. well, she could do that, she would try her very best to do that. but thrills ran through her with the recollection of the moments in the drive to paris--oh, why had no one told her or warned her all her life about this good thing love? at last, worn out with all emotions, sleep gently closed her eyes. and fate up above laughed no more. her sport was over for a time, she had made a sorry ending to their happy day. xiv josiah had been too much fatigued on his machinery hunt with mr. clutterbuck r. tubbs. they had lunched too richly, he said, and stood about too long, and so all the sunday he was peevish and fretful, and required theodora's constant attention. she must sit by his bedside all the morning, and drive round and round all the afternoon. he told her she was not looking well. these excursions did not suit either of them, and he would be glad to get to england. he asked a few questions about versailles, and theodora vouchsafed no unnecessary information. nor did she tell him of her father's good-fortune. the widow had expressly asked her not to. she wished it to appear in the new york _herald_ first of all, she said. and they could have a regular rejoicing at the banquet on monday night. "men are all bad," she had told theodora during their ante-dinner chat. "selfish brutes most of them; but nature has arranged that we happen to want them, and it is not for me to go against nature. your father is a gentleman and he keeps me from yawning, and i have enough money to be able to indulge that and whatever other caprices i may have acquired; so i think we shall be happy. but a man in the abstract--don't amount to much!" and theodora had laughed, but now she wondered if ever she would think it was true. would hector ever appear in the light of a caprice she could afford, to keep her from yawning? could she ever truly say, "he don't amount to much!" alas! he seemed now to amount to everything in the world. the unspeakable flatness of the day! the weariness! the sense of all being finished! she did not even allow herself to speculate as to what hector was doing with himself. she must never let her thoughts turn that way at all if she could help it. she must devote herself to josiah and to getting through the time. but something had gone out of her life which could never come back, and also something had come in. she was awake--she, too, had lived for one moment like in _jean d'agrève_--and it seemed as if the whole world were changed. captain fitzgerald did not appear all day, so the sunday was composed of unadulterated josiah. but it was only when theodora was alone at last late at night, and had opened wide her windows and again looked out on the moon, that a little cry of anguish escaped her, and she remembered she would see hector to-morrow at the dinner-party. see him casually, as the rest of the guests, and this is how it would be forever--for ever and ever. * * * * * lord bracondale had passed what he termed a dog's day. he had gone racing, and there had met, and been bitterly reproached by, esclarmonde de chartres for his neglect. _qu'est-ce qu'il a eu pour toute une semaine?_ he had important business in england, he said, and was going off at once; but she would find the bracelet she had wished for waiting for her at her apartment, and so they parted friends. he felt utterly revolted with all that part of his life. he wanted nothing in the world but theodora. theodora to worship and cherish and hold for his own. and each hour that came made all else seem more empty and unmeaning. just before dinner he went into the widow's sitting-room. she was alone, marie had said in the passage--resting, she thought, but madame would certainly see milord. she had given orders for him to be admitted should he come. "now sit down near me, beau jeune homme," mrs. mcbride commanded from the depths of her sofa, where she was reclining, arrayed in exquisite billows of chiffon and lace. "i have been expecting you. it is not because i have been indulging in a little sentiment myself that my eyes are glued shut--you have a great deal to confess--and i hope we have not done too much harm between us." hector wanted sympathy, and there was something in the widow's directness which he felt would soothe him. he knew her good heart. he could speak freely to her, too, without being troubled by an over-delicacy of _mauvaise honte_, as he would have been with an englishwoman. it would not have seemed sacrilege to the widow to discuss with him--who was a friend--the finest and most tender sentiments of her own, or any one else's, heart. he drew up a _bergère_ and kissed her hand. "i have been behaving like a damned scoundrel," he said. "my gracious!" exclaimed mrs. mcbride, with a violent jerk into a sitting position. "you don't say--" then, for the first time for many years, a deep scarlet blush overspread hector's face, even up to his forehead--as he realized how she had read his speech--how most people of the world would have read it. he got up from his chair and walked to the window. "oh, good god!" he said, "i don't mean that." the widow fell back into her pillows with a sigh of relief. "i mean i have deliberately tried to make her unhappy, and i have succeeded--and myself, too." "that is not so bad then," and she settled a cushion. "because unhappiness is only a thing for a time. you are crazy for the moon, and you can't get it, and you grieve and curse for a little, and then a new moon arises. what else?" "well, i want you to sympathize with me, and tell me what i had better do. shall i go back to england to-morrow morning, or stay for the dinner-party?" "you got as far, then, as telling each other you loved each other madly--and are both suffering from broken hearts, after one week's acquaintance." "don't be so brutal!" pleaded hector. and she noticed that his face looked haggard and changed. so her shrewd, kind eyes beamed upon him. "yes, i dare say it hurts; but having broken up your cake, you can't go on eating it. why, in heaven's name, did you let affairs get to a climax?" "because i am mad," said hector, and he stretched out his arms. "i cannot tell you how much i love her. haven't you seen for yourself what a darling she is? every dear word she speaks shows her beautiful soul, and it all creeps right into my heart. i worship her as i might an angel, but i want her in my arms." mrs. mcbride knew the english. they were not emotional or _poseurs_ like some other nations, and hector bracondale was essentially a man of the world, and rather a whimsical cynic as well. so to see him thus moved must mean great things. she was guilty, too, for helping to create the situation. she must do what she could for him, she felt. "you should pull yourself together, mon cher bracondale," she said; "it is not like you to be limp and undecided. you had better stay for the party, and make yourself behave like a gentleman, and how you mean to continue. we have passed the days when 'oh no, we never mention him' is the order, and 'never meeting,' and that sort of thing. you are bound to meet unless you go into the wilds. and you must face it and try to forget her." "i can never forget her," he said, in a deep voice; "but, as you say, i must face it and do my best." "you see," continued the widow, "the girl has only been married a year, and her husband is the most unattractive human being you could find along a sidewalk of miles; but he is her husband, anyway, and she may have children." hector clinched his hands in a convulsive movement of anguish and rage. "and you must realize all these possibilities, and settle a path for yourself and stick to it." "oh, i couldn't bear that!" he said. "it would be better i should take her away myself now, to-day." "you will do no such thing!" said the widow, sternly, and she sat up again. "you forget i am going to marry her father, and i shall look upon her as my daughter and protect her from wolves--do you hear? and what is more, she is too good and true to go with you. she has a backbone if you haven't; and she'll see it her duty to stick to that lump of middle-class meat she is bound to--and she'll do her best, if she suffers to heart-break. it is she, the poor, little white dove, that you and i have wounded between us, that i pity, not you--great, strong man!" mrs. mcbride's eyes flashed. "oh, you are all the same, you englishmen. beasts to kill and women to subjugate--the only aims in life!" "don't!" said hector. "i am not the animal you think me. i worship theodora, and i would devote my life and its best aims to secure her happiness and do her honor; but don't you see you have drawn a picture that would drive any man mad--" "i said you had to face the worst, and i calculate the worst for you would be to see her with some little browns along. my! how it makes you wince! well, face it then and be a man." he sat for a moment, his head buried in his hands--then-- "i will," he said, "i will do what i can; but oh, when you have the chance you will be good to her, won't you, dear friend?" "there, there!" said the widow, and she patted his hand. "i had to scold you, because i see you have got the attack very badly and only strong measures are any good; but you know i am sorry for you both, and feel dreadfully, because i helped you to it without enough thought as to consequences." there was silence for a few minutes, and she continued to stroke his hand. "dominic has run down to dieppe to see those daughters of his," she said, presently, "and won't be back to-night. i meant to be all alone and meditate and go to bed early; but you can dine with me, if you wish, up here, and we will talk everything over. our plans for the future, i mean, and what will be best to do; i kind of feel like your mother-in-law, you know." which sentence comforted him. this woman was his friend, and so kind of heart, if sometimes a little plain-spoken. * * * * * and late that night he wrote to theodora. "my darling," he began. "i must call you that even though i have no right to. _my_ darling--i want to tell you these my thoughts to-night, before i see you to-morrow as an ordinary guest at your dinner-party. i want you to know how utterly i love you, and how i am going to do my best with the rest of my life to show you how i honor you and revered you as an angel, and something to live for and shape my aims to be worthy of the recollection of that hour of bliss you granted me. dearest love, does it not give you joy--just a little--to remember those moments of heaven? i do not regret anything, though i am all to blame, for i knew from the beginning i loved you, and just where love would lead us. but it was not until i saw the peep into your soul, when you never reproached me, that i began to understand what a brute i had been--how unworthy of you or your love. darling, i don't ask you to try and forget me--indeed, i implore you not to do so. i think and believe you are of the nature which only loves once in a lifetime, and i am world-worn and experienced enough to know i have never really loved before. how passionately i do now i cannot put into words. so let us keep our love sacred in our hearts, my darling, and the knowledge of it will comfort and soothe the anguish of separation. beloved one, i am always thinking of you, and i want to tell you my vision of heaven would be to possess you for my wife. my happiest dream will always be that you are there--at bracondale--queen of my home and my heart, darling. _my_ darling! but however it may be, whether you decide to chase away every thought of me or not, i want you to know i will go on worshipping you, and doing my utmost to serve you with my life.--for ever and ever your devoted lover." and then he signed it "hector," and not "bracondale." the widow had promised to give it into theodora's own hand on the morrow. he added a postscript: "i want you to meet my mother and my sister in london. will you let me arrange it? i think you will like anne. and oh, more than all i want you to come to bracondale. write me your answer that i may have your words to keep always." * * * * * mrs. mcbride came round in the morning to the private hotel in the avenue du bois, to ask the exact time of the dinner-party, she said. she wanted to see for herself how things were going. and the look in theodora's eyes grieved her. "i am afraid it has gone rather deeply with her," she mused. "now what can i do?" theodora was unusually sweet and gentle, and talked brightly of how glad she was for her father's happiness, and of their plans about england; but all the time jane mcbride was conscious that the something which had made her eyes those stars of gracious happiness was changed--instead there was a deep pathos in them, and it made her uncomfortable. "i wish to goodness i had let well alone, and not tried to give her a happy day," she said to herself. just before leaving, she slipped hector's letter into theodora's hand. "lord bracondale asked me to give you this, my child," she said, and she kissed her. "and if you will write the answer, will you post it to him to the ritz." all over theodora there rushed an emotion when she took the letter. her hands trembled, and she slipped it into the bodice of her dress. she would not be able to read it yet. she was waiting, all ready dressed, for josiah to enter any moment, to take their usual walk in the bois. then she wondered what would the widow think of her action, slipping it into her dress--but it was done now, and too late to alter. and their eyes met, and she understood that her future step-mother was wide awake and knew a good many things. but the kind woman put her arm round her and kissed her soft cheek. "i want you to be my little daughter, theodora," she said. "and if you have a heartache, dear, why i have had them, too--and i'd like to comfort you. there!" xv the dinner-party went off with great éclat. had not all the guests read in the new york _herald_ that morning of captain fitzgerald's good-fortune? he with his usual _savoir-vivre_ had arranged matters to perfection. the company was chosen from among the nicest of his and mrs. mcbride's friends. the invitations had been couched in this form: "i want you to meet my daughter, mrs. josiah brown, my dear lady," or "dear fellow," as the case might be. "she is having a little dinner at madrid on monday night, and so hopes you will let me persuade you to come." and the french count, and mr. clutterbuck r. tubbs and his daughter, theodora had asked herself. also the austrian prince. the party consisted of about twenty people--and the menu and the tziganes were as perfect as they could be, while the night might have been a night of july--it happened to be that year when paris was blessed with a gloriously warm may. lord bracondale was late: had not the post come in just as he was starting, and brought him a letter, whose writing, although he had never seen it before, filled him with thrills of joy. theodora had found time during the day to read and reread his epistle, and to kiss it more than once with a guilty blush. and she had written this answer: "i have received your letter, and it says many things to me--and, hector, it will comfort me always, this dear letter, and to know you love me. "i have led a very ordinary life, you see, and the great blast of love has never come my way, or to any one whom i knew. i did not realize, quite, it was a real thing out of books--but now i know it is; and oh, i can believe, if circumstances were different, it could be heaven. but this cannot alter the fact that for me to think of you much would be very wrong now. i do love you--i do not deny it--though i am going to try my utmost to put the thought away from me and to live my life as best i can. i do not regret anything either, dear, because, but for you, i would never have known what life's meaning is at all--i should have stayed asleep always; and you have opened my eyes and taught me to see new beauties in all nature. and oh, we must not grieve, we must thank fate for giving us this one peep into paradise--and we must try and find the angel to steer our barks for us beyond the rocks. listen--i want you to do something for me to-night. i want you not to look at me much, or tempt me with your dear voice. it will be terribly hard in any case, but if you will be kind you will help me to get through with it, and then, and then--i hardly dare to look ahead--but i leave it all in your hands. i would like to meet your mother and sister--but when, and where? i feel inclined to say, not yet, only i know that is just cowardice, and a shrinking from possible pain in seeing you. so i leave it to you to do what is best, and i trust to your honor and your love not to tempt me beyond bearing-point--and remember, i am trying, trying hard, to do what is right--and trying not to love you. "and so, good-bye. i must never say this again--or even think it unsaid; but to-night, oh! yes, hector, know that i love you! theodora." and all the way to madrid, as he flew along in his automobile, his heart rejoiced at this one sentence--"yes, hector, know that i love you!" the rest of the world did not seem to matter very much. how fortunate it is that so often providence lets us live on the pleasure of the moment! he sat on her left hand--the austrian prince was on her right--and studiously all through the repast he tried to follow her wishes and the law he had laid down for himself as the pattern of his future conduct. he was gravely polite, he never turned the conversation away from the general company, including her neighbors in it all the time, and only when he was certain she was not noticing did he feast his eyes upon her face. she was looking supremely beautiful. if possible, whiter than usual, and there was a shadow in her eyes as of mystery, which had not been there before--and while their pathos wrung his heart, he could not help perceiving their added beauty. and he had planted this change there--he, and he alone. he admired her perfect taste in dress--she was all in pure white, muslin and laces, and he knew it was of the best, and the creation of the greatest artist. she looked just what _his_ wife ought to look, infinitely refined and slender and stately and fair. morella winmarleigh would seem as a large dun cow beside her. then suddenly they both remembered it was only a week this night since they had met. only seven days in which fate had altered all their lives. the austrian prince wondered to himself what had happened. he had not been blind to the situation at armenonville, and here they seemed like polite hostess and guest, nothing more. "they are english, and they are very well bred, and they are very good actors," he thought. "but, mon dieu! were i ce beau jeune homme!" and so it had come to an end--the feast and the tziganes playing, and theodora will always be haunted by that last wild hungarian tune. music, which moved every fibre of her being at all times, to-night was a torture of pain and longing. and he was so near, so near and yet so far, and it seemed as if the music meant love and separation and passionate regret, and the last air most passionate of all, and before the final notes died away hector bent over to her, and he whispered: "i have got your letter, and i love you, and i will obey its every wish. you must trust me unto death. darling, good-night, but never good-bye!" and she had not answered, but her breath had come quickly, and she had looked once in his eyes and then away into the night. and so they shook hands politely and parted. and next day mr. and mrs. josiah brown crossed over to england. xvi it was pouring with rain the evening lord bracondale arrived from paris at the family mansion in st. james's square. he had only wired at the last moment to his mother, too late to change her plans; she was unfortunately engaged to take morella winmarleigh to the opera, and was dining early at that lady's house, so she could only see him for a few moments in her dressing-room before she started. "my darling, darling boy!" she exclaimed, as he opened the door and peeped in. "streatfield, bring that chair for his lordship, and--oh, you can go for a few minutes." then she folded him in her arms, and almost sobbed with joy to see him again. "well, mother," he said, when she had kissed him and murmured over him as much as she wished. "here i am, and what a sickening climate! and where are you off to?" "i am going to dine with morella winmarleigh," said lady bracondale, "early, to go to the opera, and then i shall take her on to the brantingham's ball. won't you join us at either place, hector? i feel it so dreadfully, having to rush off like this, your first evening, darling." she stood back and looked at him. she must see for herself whether he was well, and if this riotous life she feared he had been leading lately had not too greatly told upon him. her fond eyes detected an air of weariness: he looked haggard, and not so full of spirits as he usually was. alas! if he would only stay in england! "i am rather tired, mother; i may look in at the opera, but i can't face a ball. how is anne, and what is she doing to-night?" he said. "anne has a bad cold. we have had such weather--nothing but rain since sunday night! she is dining at home and going to bed early. i have just had a telephone message from her; she is longing to see you, too." "i think i shall go round and dine with her then," said hector, "and join you later." they talked on for about ten minutes before he left her to dress, running against streatfield in the passage. she had known him since his birth, and beamed with joy at his return. he chaffed her about growing fat, and went on his way to telephone to his sister. "his lordship looks pale, my lady," said the demure woman, as she fastened lady bracondale's bracelet. she, too, disapproved of paris and bachelorhood, but she did not love morella winmarleigh. "oh, you think so, streatfield?" lady bracondale exclaimed, in a worried voice. "now that we have got him back we must take great care of him. his lordship will join me at the opera. are you sure he likes those aigrettes in my hair?" "why, it's one of his lordship's favorite styles, my lady. you need have no fears," said the maid. and thus comforted, lady bracondale descended the great staircase to her carriage. she was still a beautiful woman, though well past fifty. her splendid, dark hair had hardly a thread of gray in it, and grew luxuriantly, but she insisted upon wearing it simply parted in the middle and coiled in a mass of plaits behind, while one braid stood up coronet fashion well at the back of her head. she was addicted to rich satins and velvets, and had a general air of victorian repose and decorum. there was no attempt to retain departed youth; no golden wigs or red and white paint disfigured her person, which had an immense natural dignity and stateliness. it made her shiver to see some of her contemporaries dressed and arranged to represent not more than twenty years of age. but so many modern ways of thought and life jarred upon her! "mother is still in the early seventies; she has never advanced a step since she came out," anne always said, "and i dare say she was behind the times even then." meanwhile, hector was dressing in his luxurious mahogany-panelled room. everything in the house was solid and prosperous, as befitted a family who had had few reverses and sufficient perspicacity to marry a rich heiress now and then at right moments in their history. this early georgian house had been in the then lady bracondale's dower, and still retained its fine carvings and old-world state. "how shall i see her again?" was all the thought which ran in lord bracondale's head. "she won't be at a ball, but she might chance to have thought of the opera. it would be a place mr. brown would like to exhibit her at. i shall certainly go." lady anningford was tucked up on a sofa in her little sitting-room when her brother arrived at her charming house in charles street. her husband had been sent off to a dinner without her, and she was expecting her brother with impatience. she loved hector as many sisters do a handsome, popular brother, but rather more than that, and she had fine senses and understood him. she did not cover him with caresses and endearments when she saw him; she never did. "poor hector has enough of them from mother," she explained, when monica ellerwood asked her once why she was so cold. "and men don't care for those sort of things, except from some one else's sister or wife." "dear old boy!" was all she said as he came in. "i am glad to see you back." then in a moment or two they went down to dinner, talking of various things. and all through it, while the servants were in the room, she prattled about paris and their friends and the gossip of the day; and she had a shocking cold in her head, too, and might well have been forgiven for being dull. but when they were at last alone, back in the little sitting-room, she looked at him hard, and her voice, which was rather deep like his, grew full of tenderness as she asked: "what is it, hector? tell me about it if i can help you." he got up and stood with his back to the wood fire, which sparkled in the grate, comforting the eye with its brightness, while the wind and rain moaned outside. "you can't help me, anne; no one can," he said. "i have been rather badly burned, but there is nothing to be done. it is my own fault--so one must just bear it." "is it the--eh--the frenchwoman?" his sister asked, gently. "good lord, no!" "or the american monica came back so full of?" "the american? what american? surely she did not mean my dear mrs. mcbride?" "i don't know her name," anne said, "and i don't want you to say a thing about it, dear, if i can't help you; only it just grieves me to see you looking so sad and distrait, so i felt i must try if there is anything i can do for you. mother has been on thorns and dying of fuss over this frenchwoman and the diamond chain--("how the devil did she hear about that?" thought hector)--until monica came back with a tale of your devotion to an american." "one would think i was eighteen years old and in leading-strings still, upon my word," he interrupted, with an irritated laugh. "when will she realize i can take care of myself?" "never," said lady anningford, "until you have married morella winmarleigh; then she would feel you were in good hands." he laughed again--bitterly this time. "morella winmarleigh! i would not be faithful to her for a week!" "i wonder if you would be faithful to any woman, hector? i have often thought you do not know what it means to love--really to love." "you were perfectly right once. i did not know," he said; "and perhaps i don't now, unless to feel the whole world is a sickening blank without one woman is to love--really to love." anne noticed the weariness of his pose and the vibration in his deep voice. she was stirred and interested as she had never been. this dear brother of hers was not wont to care very much. in the past it had always been the women who had sighed and longed and he who had been amused and pleased. she could not remember a single occasion in the last ten years when he had seemed to suffer, although she had seen him apparently devoted to numbers of women. "and what are you going to do?" she asked, with sympathy, "she is married, of course?" "yes." "hector, don't you want me to speak about it?" he took a chair now by his sister's sofa, and he began to turn over the papers rather fast which lay on a table near by. "yes, i do," he said, "because, after all, you can do something for me. i want you to be particularly kind to her, will you, anne, dear?" "but, of course; only you must tell me who she is and where i shall find her." "you will find her at claridge's, and she is only the wife of an impossible australian millionaire called brown--josiah brown." "poor dear hector, how terrible!" thought anne. "it is not the american, then?" she said, aloud. "there never was any american," he exclaimed. "monica is the most ridiculous gossip, and always sees wrong. if she had not jack to keep her from talking so much she would not leave one of us with a rag of character." "i will go to-morrow and call there, hector," lady anningford said. "my cold is sure to be better; and if she is not in, shall i write a note and ask her to lunch? the husband, too, i suppose?" "i fear so. anne, you are a brick." then he said good-night, and went to the opera. left to herself, lady anningford thought: "i suppose she is some flashy, pretty creature who has caught hector's fancy, the poor darling. one never has chanced to find an australian quite, quite a lady. i almost wish he would marry morella and have done with it." then she lay on her sofa and pondered many things. she was a year older than her brother, and they had always been the closest friends and comrades. lady anningford was more or less a happy and contented woman now, but there had been moments in her life scorched by passion and infinite pain. long ago in the beginning when she first came out she had had the misfortune to fall in love with cyril lamont, married and bad and attractive. it had given him great pleasure to evade the eye of lady bracondale, pure dragon and strict disciplinarian. anne was a good girl, but she was eighteen years old and had tasted no joy. she was not an easy prey, and her first year had passed in storms of emotion suppressed to the best of her powers. the situation had been full of shades and contrasts. the outward, a strictly guarded lamb, the life of the world and aristocratic propriety; and the inward, a daily growing mad love for an impossible person, snatched and secret meetings after tea in country-houses, walks in kensington gardens, rides along lonely lanes out hunting, and, finally, the brink of complete ruin and catastrophe--but for hector. "where should i be now but for hector?" her thoughts ran. hector was just leaving eton in those days, and had come up and discovered matters, while she sobbed in his arms, at the beginning of her second season. he had comforted her and never scolded a word, and then he had gone out armed with a heavy hunting-crop, found cyril lamont, and had thrashed the man within an inch of his life. it was one of hector's pleasantest recollections, the thought of his cowering form, his green silk smoking-jacket all torn, and his eyes sightless. cyril lamont's talents had not run in the art of self-defence, and he had been very soon powerless in the hands of this young athlete. the lamonts went abroad that night, and stayed there for quite six months, during which time anne mended her broken heart and saw the folly of her ways. hector and she had never alluded to the matter all these years, only they were intimate friends and understood each other. lady bracondale adored hector and was fond of anne, but had no comprehension of either. anne was a _frondeuse_, while her mother's mind was fashioned in carved lines and strict boundaries of thought and action. xvii meanwhile, hector reached the opera, and made his way to the omnibus box where he had his seat. he felt he could not stand morella winmarleigh just yet. the second act of "faust" was almost over, and with his glass he swept the rows of boxes in vain to find theodora. he sat a few minutes, but restlessness seized him. he must go to the other side and ascertain if she could be discovered from there. morella winmarleigh's box commanded a good view for this purpose, so after all he would face her. he looked up at her opposite. she sat there with his mother, and she seemed more thoroughly wholesomely unattractive than ever to him. he hated that shade of turquoise blue she was so fond of, and those unmeaning bits and bows she had stuck about. she was a large young woman with a stolid english fairness. her hair had the flaxen ends and sandy roots one so often sees in those women whose locks have been golden as children. it was a thin, dank kind of hair, too, with no glints anywhere. her eyes were blue and large and meaningless and rather prominent, and her lightish eyelashes seemed to give no shade to them. morella's orbs just looked out at you like the bow-windows of a sea-side villa--staring and commonplace. her features were regular, and her complexion, if somewhat all too red, was fresh withal; so that, possessing an income of many thousands, she passed for a beauty of exceptional merit. she had a good maid who used her fingers dexterously, and did what she could with a mistress devoid of all sense of form or color. miss winmarleigh went to the opera regularly and sat solidly through it. the music said nothing to her, but it was the right place for her to be, and she could talk to her friends before going on to the numerous balls she attended. if she loved anything in the world she loved hector bracondale, but her feelings gave her no anxieties. he would certainly marry her presently, the affair would be so suitable to all parties; meanwhile, there was plenty of time, and all was in order. the perfect method of her account-books, in which the last sixpence she spent in the day was duly entered, translated itself to her life. method and order were its watchwords; and if the people who knew her intimately--such as her chaperon, mrs. herrick, and her maid, gibson--thought her mean, she was not aware of their opinion, and went her way in solid rejoicing. lady bracondale was really attached to her. morella's decorum, her absence of all daring thought in conversation, pleased her so. she had none of that feeling when with miss winmarleigh she suffered in the company of her daughter anne, who said things so often she did not quite understand, yet which she dimly felt might have two meanings, and one of them a meaning she most probably would disapprove of. she loved anne, of course, but oh, that she could have been more like herself or morella winmarleigh! both women saw hector in the omnibus box, and saw him leave it, and were quite ready with their greetings when he joined them. miss winmarleigh had a slight air of proprietorship about her, which every one knew when hector was there. and most people thought as she did, that he would certainly marry her in the near future. he was glad it was not between the acts--there was no excuse for conversation after their greeting, so he searched the house in peace with his glasses. and although he was hoping to see theodora, his heart gave a great bound of surprised joy when, on the pit tier, almost next the box he had just left, he discovered her. he supposed it was a box often let to strangers that season, as he could not remember whose the name was as he had passed. he got back into the shadow, that his gaze should not be too remarkable. she had not caught sight of him yet, or so it seemed. there she sat with her husband and another woman, whom he recognized as one of those kind creatures who go everywhere in society and help strangers when suitably compensated for their trouble. where on earth could she have come across mrs. devlyn? he wondered. a poisonous woman, who would fill her ears with tales of all the world. then he guessed, and rightly, the introduction had been effected by captain fitzgerald, who would probably have known her in his own day. theodora appeared wrapped in the music, and was an enthralling picture of loveliness; her fineness seemed to make all the women's faces who were near look coarse, and her whiteness turned them into gypsies. she wore a gown of black velvet with no relief whatever, only her dazzling skin and her great pearls. he feasted his eyes upon her--eyes hungry with a week's abstinence; for he had felt it more prudent to remain in paris for some days after she had left. he looked round the rest of the house, and understood all the other men could, and probably would, gaze too. and then he began to feel hot and jealous! this was different from paris, where she was more or less a tourist; but here, how long would she be left in peace without siege being laid to her? he knew his world and the men it contained. yes, at that moment the door at the back of the box opened and delaval stirling came in, josiah brown making way for him to sit in front. delaval stirling--this was too much! and theodora turned with her adorable smile and greeted him, so it showed they had met before--greeted him with pleasure. good god! how much could happen in a week! why had he stayed in paris? if morella winmarleigh had glanced round at his face, even her thick perceptions must have grasped the disturbance which was marked there, as he stood back in the shadow and gazed with angry eyes. the moment she had seen him come into the box mrs. devlyn had said, "i want you to notice a man over there, mrs. brown, in the box exactly opposite; on the grand tier--do you see?" "yes," said theodora, and she perceived him shaking hands with miss winmarleigh before he caught sight of her, so she was forearmed and turned to the stage. "he is nice-looking, don't you think so?" continued mrs. devlyn, without a pause. "he is going to marry that girl in the box; she is one of the richest heiresses of the day--miss winmarleigh. i always point out hector bracondale to strangers or foreigners; he is quite a show englishman." "bracondale? lord bracondale?" interrupted josiah brown. "we met him in paris, did we not, my love?" turning to theodora. "he dined with us our last evening. where is he?" "oh, you know him, then!" said mrs. devlyn, disappointed. "i wanted to be the first to point him out to you. they will make a handsome pair, won't they--he and miss winmarleigh?" "very," said theodora, listlessly, with an air of dragging her thoughts from the music with difficulty, while she suddenly felt sick and cold. "and are they to be married soon?" "i don't know exactly; but it has been going on for years, and we all look upon it as a settled thing. she is always about with his mother." "is that lord bracondale's mother--the lady with the coronet of plaits and the huge white aigrette with the diamond drops in it?" theodora asked. her voice was schooled, and had no special tones in it. but oh, how she was thrilling with interest and excitement underneath! "yes, that is lady bracondale. she is quite a type; always dresses in that old-fashioned way, and won't know a soul who is not of her own set. she is a cousin of one of my husband's aunts. i must introduce you to her." "she looks pretty haughty," announced josiah brown. "i should not care to tread on her toes much." and then he remembered he had seen her years ago driving through the little town of bracondale. theodora asked no more questions. she kept her eyes fixed on the stage, but she knew hector had raised his glasses now and was scanning the box, and had probably seen her. what ought it to matter to her that he should be going to marry miss winmarleigh? he could be nothing to her--only--only--but perhaps it was not true. this woman, mrs. devlyn, whom she began to feel she should dislike very much, had said it was looked upon as settled, not that it was a fact. how could a man be going to marry one woman and make desperate love to another at the same time? it was impossible--and yet--she would _not_ look in any case. she would not once raise her eyes that way. and so in these two boxes green jealousy held sway, and while hector glared across at theodora she smiled at delaval stirling, and spoke softly of the music and the voices, though her heart was torn with pain. "do you see hector bracondale is back again, delaval?" mrs. devlyn said. "do you know why he stayed in paris so long? i heard--" and she whispered low, so that theodora only caught the name "esclarmonde de chartres" and their modulated mocking laughter. how they jarred upon her! how she felt she should hate london among all these people whose ways she did not know! she turned a little, and josiah's vulgar familiar face seemed a relief to her, and her tender eyes melted in kindliness as she looked at him. "you are very pale to-night, my love," he said. "would you like to go home?" but this she would not agree to, and pulled herself together and tried to talk gayly when the curtain went down. and hector blamed his own folly for having come up to this box at all. here he must be glued certainly for a few moments; now that they could talk, politeness could not permit him to fly off at once. "the house is very full," miss winmarleigh said--it was a remark she always made on big nights--"and yet hardly any new faces about." "yes," said hector. "does it compare with the opera-house in paris, hector?" miss winmarleigh hardly ever went abroad. "no," said hector.--not only had delaval stirling retained his seat, but chris harford, mrs. devlyn's brother, had entered the box now and was assiduously paying his court. "damned impertinence of the woman, forcing her relations upon them like that," he thought.--"oh--er--no--that is, i think the paris opera-house is a beastly place," he said, absently, "a dull, heavy drab brown and dirty gilding, and all the women look hideous in it." "really," said morella. "i thought everything in paris was lovely." "you should go over and see for yourself," he said, "then you could judge. i think most things there are lovely, though." miss winmarleigh raised her glasses now and examined the house. her eyes lighted at last on theodora. "dear lady bracondale," she said, "do look at that woman in black velvet. what splendid pearls! do you think they are real? who is it, i wonder, with florence devlyn?" but hector felt he could not stay and hear their remarks about his darling, so he got up, and, murmuring he must have a talk to his friends in the house, left the box. he was thankful at least theodora was sitting on the pit tier--he could walk along the gangway and talk to her from the front. she saw him coming and was prepared, so no wild roses tinged her cheeks, and her greeting was gravely courteous, that was all. an icy feeling crept over him. what was the change, this subtle change in voice and eyes? he suddenly had the agonizing sensation of being a great way off from her, shut out of paradise--a stranger. what had happened? what had he done? every one knows the opera-house, and where he would be standing, and the impossibility of saying anything but the most banal commonplaces, looking up like that. then josiah leaned forward, proud of his acquaintanceship with a peer, and said in a distinct voice: "won't you come into the box, lord bracondale? there is plenty of room." he had not taken to either delaval stirling or chris harford, and thought a change of company would not come amiss. they had ignored him, and should pay for it. hector made his way joyfully to the back, and, entering, was greeted affably by his host, so the other two men got up to leave to make room for him. he sat down behind theodora, and mrs. devlyn saw it would be wiser to conciliate josiah by her interested conversation. she hoped to make a good thing out of this millionaire and his unknown wife, and it would not do to ruffle him at this stage of the affair. theodora hardly turned, thus hector was obliged to lean quite forward to speak to her. "i have seen my sister to-night," he said, "and she wants so much to meet you. i said perhaps she would find you to-morrow. will you be at home in the afternoon any time?" "i expect so," replied theodora. she was longing to face him, to ask him if it was true he was going to marry that large, pink-faced young woman opposite, who was now staring down upon them with fixed opera-glasses; but she felt frozen, and her voice was a frozen voice. hector became more and more unhappy. he tried several subjects. he told her the last news of her father and mrs. mcbride. she answered them all with the same politeness, until, maddened beyond bearing, he leaned still farther forward and whispered in her ear: "for god's sake, what is it? what have i done?" "nothing," said theodora. what right had she to ask him any question, when for these seven nights and days since they had parted she had been disciplining herself not to think of him in any way? she must never let him know it could matter to her now. "nothing? then why are you so changed? ah, how it hurts!" he whispered, passionately. and she turned and looked at him, and he saw that her beautiful eyes were no longer those pure depths of blue sky in which he could read love and faith, but were full of mist, as of a curtain between them. he put his hand up to touch the little gold case he carried always now in his waistcoat-pocket, which contained her letter. he wanted to assure himself it was there, and she had written it--and it was not all a dream. theodora's tender heart was wrung by the passionate distress in his eyes. "is that your mother over there you were with?" she asked, more gently. "how beautiful she is!" "yes," he said, "my mother and morella winmarleigh, whom the world in general and my mother in particular have decided i am going to marry." she did not speak. she felt suddenly ashamed she could ever have doubted him; it must be the warping atmosphere of mrs. devlyn's society for these last days which had planted thoughts, so foreign to her nature, in her. she did not yet know it was jealousy pure and simple, which attacks the sweetest, as well, as the bitterest, soul among us all. but a thrill of gladness ran through her as well as shame. "and aren't you going to marry her, then?" she said, at last. "she is very handsome." hector looked at her, and a wave of joy chased out the pain he had suffered. that was it, then! they had told her this already, and she hated it--she cared for him still. "surely you need not ask me," he said, deep reproach in his eyes. "you must be very changed in seven days to even have thought it possible." the shame deepened in theodora. she was, indeed, unlike herself to have been moved at all by mrs. devlyn's words, but she would never doubt again, and she must tell him that. "forgive me," she said, quite low, while she looked away. "i--of course i ought to be pleased at anything which made you happy, but--oh, i hated it!" "theodora," he said, "i ask you--do not act with me ever--to what end? we know each other's hearts, and i hope it would pain you were i to marry any other woman, as much as in like circumstances it would pain me." "yes, it would pain me," she said, simply. "but, oh, we must not speak thus! please, please talk of the music, or the--the--oh, anything but ourselves." and he tried hard for the few moments which remained before the curtain rose again. tried hard, but it was all dust and ashes; and as he left the box and returned to his own seat next door his heart felt like lead. how would he be able to follow the rules he had laid down for himself during his week of meditations in paris alone? "you see, dear lady bracondale," morella winmarleigh had been saying, "hector knows that woman with the pearls. he is sitting talking to her now." "hector knows every one, morella. lend me your glasses, mine do not seem to work to-night. yes, i suppose by some she would be considered pretty," lady bracondale continued, when the lorgnette was fixed to her focus. "what do you think, dear?" "pretty!" exclaimed miss winmarleigh. "oh no! much too white, and, oh--er--foreign-looking. we must find out who she is." the matter was not difficult. half the house had been interested in the new-comer, the beautiful new-comer with the wonderful pearls, who must be worth while in some way, or she would not be under the wing of florence devlyn. by the time hector again entered their box in the last act, miss winmarleigh had obtained all the information she wanted from one of the many visitors who came to pay their court to the heiress. and the information reassured her. only the wife of a colonial millionaire; no one of her world or who could trouble her. early next morning, while she sat in her white flannel dressing-gown, her hair screwed in curling-pins, after the brantinghams' ball, she wrote in her journal the customary summary of her day, and ended with: "h.b. returned--same as usual, running after a new woman, nobody of importance; but i had better watch it, and clinch matters between him and me before goodwood. ordered the pink silk after all, from the new little dressmaker, and beat her down three pounds as to price. begun marvaloso hair tonic." then, as it was broad daylight, after carefully replacing in its drawer this locked chronicle of her maiden thoughts, she retired to bed, to sleep the sleep of those just persons whose digestions are as strong as their absence of imagination. xviii next day lady anningford called, as she had promised, at claridge's, and found mrs. brown at home, although it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. she had not two minutes to wait in the well-furnished first-floor sitting-room, but during that time she noticed there were one or two things about which showed the present occupant was a woman of taste, and there were such quantities of flowers. flowers, flowers, everywhere. theodora entered already dressed for her afternoon drive. she came forward with that perfect grace which characterized her every movement. if she felt very timid and nervous it did not show in her sweet face, and lady anningford perceived hector had every excuse for his infatuation. "i am so fortunate to find you at home, mrs. brown," she said. "my brother has told me so much about you, and i was longing to meet you. may we sit down on this sofa and talk a little, or were you just starting for your drive?" "of course we may sit down," said theodora. "my drive does not matter in the least. it was so good of you to come." and her inward thought was that she would like hector's sister. anne's frankness and _sans gêne_ were so pleasing. they exchanged a few agreeable sentences while each measured the other, and then lady anningford said: "you come from australia, don't you?" "australia!" smiled theodora, while her eyes opened wide. "oh no! i have never been out of france and belgium and places like that. my husband lived in melbourne for some years, though." "i thought it could not be possible," quoth anne to herself. "then you don't know much of england yet?" she said, aloud. "it is my first visit; and it seems very dull and rainy. this is the only really fine day we have had since we arrived." anne soon dexterously elicited an outline of theodora's plans and what she was doing. they would only remain in town until whitsuntide, perhaps returning later for a week or two; and mrs. devlyn, to whom her father had sent her an introduction, had been kind enough to tell them what to do and how to see a little of london. she was going to a ball to-night. the first real ball she had ever been to in her life, she said, ingenuously. and lady anningford looked at her and each moment fell more under her charm. "the ball at harrowfield house, i expect, to meet the king of guatemala," she said, knowing lady harrowfield was florence devlyn's cousin. "that is it," said theodora. "then you must dance with hector--my brother," she said. she launched his name suddenly; she wanted to see what effect it would have on theodora. "he is sure to be there, and he dances divinely." she was rewarded for her thrust: just the faintest pink came into the white velvet cheeks, and the blue eyes melted softly. to dance with hector! ah! then the radiance was replaced by a look of sadness, and she said, quietly: "oh, i do not think i shall dance at all. my husband is rather an invalid, and we shall only go in for a little while." no, she must not dance with hector. those joys were not for her--she must not even think of it. "how extraordinarily beautiful she is!" anne thought, when presently, the visit ended, she found herself rolling along in her electric brougham towards the park. "and i feel i shall love her. i wonder what her christian name is?" theodora had promised they would lunch in charles street with her the next day if her husband should be well enough after the ball. and anne decided to collect as many nice people to meet them as she could in the time. at the corner of grosvenor square she met an old friend, one colonel lowerby, commonly called the crow, and stopped to pick him up and take him on with her. he was the one person she wanted to talk to at this juncture. she had known him all her life, and was accustomed to prattle to him on all subjects. he was always safe, and gruff, and honest. "i have just done something so interesting, crow," she told him, as they went along towards regent's park, to which sylvan spot she had directed her chauffeur, to be more free to talk in peace to her companion. some of her friends were capable of making scandals, even about the dear old crow, she knew. "and what have you done?" he asked. "of course you have heard the tale from uncle evermond, of hector and the lady at monte carlo?" he nodded. "well, there is not a word of truth in it; he is in love, though, with the most beautiful woman i have ever seen in my life--and i have just been to call upon her. and to-morrow you have got to come to lunch to meet her--and tell me what you think." "very well," said the crow. "i was feeding elsewhere, but i always obey you. continue your narrative." "i want you to tell me what to do, and how i can help them." "my dear child," said the crow, sententiously, as was his habit, "help them to what? she is married, of course, or hector would not be in love with her. do you want to help them to part or to meet? or to go to heaven or to hell? or to spend what monica ellerwood calls 'a saturday to monday amid rural scenery,' which means both of those things one after the other!" "crow, dear, you are disagreeable," said lady anningford, "and i have a cold in my head and cannot compete with you in words to-day." "then say what you want, and i'll listen." "hector met them in paris, it seems, and must have fallen wildly in love, because i have never seen him as he is now." "how is he?--and who is 'them'?" "why, she and the husband, of course, and hector is looking sad and distrait--and has really begun to feel at last." "serve him right!" "crow, you are insupportable! can you not see i am serious and want your help?" "fire away, then, my good child, and explain matters. you are too vague!" so she told him all she knew--which was little enough; but she was eloquent upon theodora's beauty. "she has the face of an angel," she ended her description with. "always mistrust 'em," interjected the crow. "such a figure and the nicest manner, and she is in love with hector, too, of course--because she could not possibly help herself--could she?--if he is being lovely to her." "i have not your prejudiced eyes for him--though hector certainly is a decent fellow enough to look at," allowed colonel lowerby. "but all this does not get to what you want to do for them." "i want them to be happy." "permanently, or for the moment?" "both." "an impossible combination, with these abominably inconsiderate marriage laws we suffer under in this country, my child." "then what ought i to do?" "you can do nothing but accelerate or hinder matters for a little. if hector is really in love, and the woman, too, they are bound to dree their weird, one way or the other, themselves. you will be doing the greatest kindness if you can keep them apart, and avoid a scandal if possible." "my dear crow, i have never heard of your being so thoroughly unsympathetic before." "and i have never heard of hector being really in love before, and with an angel, too--deuced dangerous folk at the best of times!" "then there are mother and morella winmarleigh to be counted with." "neither of them can see beyond their noses. miss winmarleigh is sure of him, she thinks--and your mother, too." "no; mother has her doubts." "they will both be anti?" "extremely anti." "to get back to facts, then, your plan is to assist your brother to see this 'angel,' and smooth the path to the final catastrophe." "you worry me, crow. why should there be a catastrophe?" "is she a young woman?" "a mere baby. certainly not more than twenty or so." "then it is inevitable, if the husband don't count. you have not described him yet." "because i have never seen him," said lady anningford. "hector did say last night, though, that he was an impossible australian millionaire." "these people have a strong sense of personal rights--they are even blood-thirsty sometimes, and expect virtue in their women. if he had been just an english snob, the social bauble might have proved an immense eye-duster; but when you say australian it gives me hope. he'll take her away, or break hector's head, before things become too embarrassing." "crow, you are brutal." "and a good thing, too. that is what we all want, a little more brutality. the whole of the blessed show here is being ruined with this sickly sentimentality. flogging done away with; every silly nerve pandered to. by jove! the next time we have to fight any country we shall have an anæsthetic served round with the rations to keep tommy atkins's delicate nerves from suffering from the consciousness of the slaughter he inflicts upon the enemy." "crow, you are violent." "yes, i am. i am sick of the whole thing. i would reintroduce prize-fighting and bear-baiting and gladiatorial shows to brace the nation up a bit. we'll get jammed full of rotten vices like those beastly foreigners soon." "i did not bring you into regent's park to hear a tirade upon the nation's needs, crow," anne reminded him, smiling, "but to get your sympathy and advice upon this affair of hector. you know you are the only person in the world i ever talk to about intimate things." "dear queen anne," he said, "i will always do what i can for you. but i tell you seriously, when a man like hector loves a woman really, you might as well try to direct niagara falls as to turn him any way but the one he means to go." "he wants me to be kind to her. do you advise me just to let the thing drop, then?" "no; be as kind as you like--only don't assist them to destruction." "she goes into the country on saturday for whitsuntide, as we all do. hector is going down to bracondale alone." "that looks desperate. i shall see hector, and judge for myself." "you must be sure to go to the ball at harrowfield house to-night, then," anne said. "they are both going. i say both because i know she is, and so, of course, hector will be there too. i shall go, naturally, and then we can decide what we can do about it after we have seen them together." and all this time theodora was thinking how charming anne was, and how kind, and that she felt a little happier because of her kindness. and, hard as it would be, she would not leave josiah's side that night or dance with hector. and hector was thinking-- "what is the good of anything in this wide world without her? i _must_ see her. for good or ill, i cannot keep away." he was deep in the toils of desire and passionate love for a woman belonging to someone else and out of his reach, and for whom he was hungry. thus the primitive forces of nature were in violent activity, and his soul was having a hard fight. it was the first time in his life that a woman had really mattered or had been impossible to obtain. he had always looked upon them as delightful accessories: sport first, and woman, who was only another form of sport, second. he had not neglected the obligations of his great position, but they came naturally to him as of the day's work. they were not real interests in his life. and when stripped of the veneer of civilization he was but a passionate, primitive creature, like numbers of others of his class and age. while the elevation of theodora's pure soul was an actual influence upon him, he had thought it would be possible--difficult, perhaps--but possible to obey her--to keep from troubling her--to regulate his passion into worship at a distance. but since then new influences had begun to work--prominent among them being jealousy. to see her surrounded by others--who were men and would desire her, too--drove him mad. josiah was difficult enough to bear. the thought that he was her husband, and had the rights of this position, always turned him sick with raging disgust; but that was the law, and a law accepted since the beginning of time. these others were not of the law--they were the same as himself--and would all try to win her. he had no fear of their succeeding, but, to watch them trying, and he himself unable to prevent them, was a thought he could not tolerate. he had no settled plan. he did not deliberately say to himself: "i will possess her at all costs. i will be her lover, and take her by force from the bonds of this world." his whole mind was in a ferment and chaos. there was no time to think of the position in cold blood. his passion hurried him on from hour to hour. this day after the opera, when the hideous impossibility of the situation had come upon him with full force, he felt as lancelot-- "his mood was often like a fiend, and rose and drove him into wastes and solitudes for agony, who was yet a living soul." there are all sorts of loves in life, but when it is the real great passion, nor fear of hell nor hope of heaven can stem the tide--for long! he had gone out in his automobile, and was racing ahead considerably above the speed limit. he felt he must do something. had it been winter and hunting-time, he would have taken any fences--any risks. he returned and got to ranelagh, and played a game of polo as hard as he could, and then he felt a little calmer. the idea came to him as it had done to anne. lady harrowfield was florence devlyn's cousin; she would probably have squeezed an invitation for her protégées for the royal ball to-night. he would go--he must see theodora. he must hold her in his arms, if only in the mazes of the waltz. and the thought of that sent the blood whirling madly once more in his veins. everything he had looked upon so lightly up to now had taken a new significance in reference to theodora. florence devlyn, for instance, was no fit companion for her--florence devlyn, whom he met at every decent house and had never before disapproved of, except as a bore and a sycophant. xix harrowfield house, as every one knows, is one of the finest in london; and with the worst manners, and an inordinate insolence, lady harrowfield ruled her section of society with a rod of iron. indeed, all sections coveted the invitations of this disagreeable lady. her path was strewn with lovers, and protected by a proud and complacent husband, who had realized early he never would be master of the situation, and had preferred peace to open scandal. she was a woman of sixty now, and, report said, still had her lapses. but every incident was carried off with a high-handed, brazen daring, and an assumption of right and might and prerogative which paralyzed criticism. so it was that with the record of a _demimondaine_--and not one kind action to her credit--lady harrowfield still held her place among the spotless, and ruled as a queen. there was not above two years' difference between her age and lady bracondale's; indeed, the latter had been one of her bridesmaids; but no one to look at them at a distance could have credited it for a minute. lady harrowfield had golden hair and pink cheeks, and her _embonpoint_ retained in the most fashionable outline. and if towards two in the morning, or when she lost at bridge, her face did remind on-lookers of a hideous colored mask of death and old age--one can't have everything in life; and lady harrowfield had already obtained more than the lion's share. this night in june she stood at the top of her splendid staircase, blazing with jewels, receiving her guests, among whom more than one august personage, english and foreign, was expected to arrive; and an unusually sour frown disfigured the thick paint of her face. it all seemed like fairy-land to theodora as, accompanied by josiah, and preceded by mrs. devlyn, she early mounted the marble steps with the rest of the throng. she noticed the insolent stare of her hostess as she shook hands and then passed on in the crowd. she felt a little shy and nervous and excited withal. every one around seemed to have so many friends, and to be so gay and joyous, and only she and josiah stood alone. for mrs. devlyn felt she had done enough for one night in bringing them there. it was an immense crowd. at a smaller ball theodora's exquisite beauty must have commanded instant attention, but this was a special occasion, and the world was too occupied with a desire to gape at the foreign king to trouble about any new-comers. certainly for the first hour or so. josiah was feeling humiliated. not a creature spoke to them, and they were hustled along like sheep into the ballroom. a certain number of men stared--stared with deep interest, and made plans for introductions as soon as the crowd should subside a little. theodora was perfectly dressed, and her jewels caused envy in numbers of breasts. she was too little occupied with herself to feel any of josiah's humiliation. this society was hers by right of birth, and did not disconcert her; only no one could help being lonely when quite neglected, while others danced. presently, a thin, ill-tempered-looking old man made his way with difficulty up to their corner; he had been speaking to mrs. devlyn across the room. "i must introduce myself," he said, graciously, to theodora. "i am your uncle, patrick fitzgerald, and i am so delighted to meet you and make your acquaintance." theodora bowed without _empressement_. she had no feeling for these relations who had been so indifferent to her while she was poor and who had treated darling papa so badly. "i only got back to town last night, or i and my wife would have called at claridge's before this," he continued. and then he said something affable to josiah, who looked strangely out of place among this brilliant throng. for whatever may compose the elements of the highest london society, the atoms all acquire a certain air after a little, and if within this _fine fleur_ of the aristocracy there lurked some jews and philistines and infidels of the middle classes, they were not quite new to the game, and had all received their gloss. so poor josiah stood out rather by himself, and sir patrick fitzgerald felt a good deal ashamed of him. theodora's fine senses had perceived all this long ago--the contrast her husband presented to the rest of the world--and it had made her stand closer to him and treat him with more deference than usual; her generous heart always responded to any one or anything in an unhappy position. and through all his thick skin josiah felt something of her tenderness, and glowed with pride in her. sir patrick fitzgerald continued to talk, and even paid his niece some bluff compliments. her manner was so perfect, he decided! gad! he could be proud of his new-found relation. and though the husband was nothing but a grocer still, and looked it every inch, by jove, he was rich enough to gild his vulgarity and be tolerated among the highest. thus the uncle was gushing and lavish in his invitations and offers of friendship. they must come to beechleigh for whitsuntide. he would hear of no refusal. going home! oh, what nonsense! home was a place one could go to at any time. and he would so like to show them beechleigh at its best, where her father had lived all his young life. josiah was caught by his affable suggestions. why should they not go? only that morning he had received a letter from his agent at bessington hall to say the place, unfortunately, would not be completely ready for them. why, then, should they not accept this pleasant invitation? theodora hesitated--but he cut her short. "i am sure it is very good of you, sir patrick, and my wife and i will be delighted to come," he said. by this time the excitement of the royal entrance and quadrille had somewhat subsided, and several people felt themselves drawn to be presented to the beautiful young woman in white with the really fine jewels, and before she knew where she was, theodora found herself waltzing with a wonderfully groomed, ugly young marquis. she had meant not to dance--not to leave her husband's side; but fate and josiah had ordered otherwise. "not dance! what nonsense, my love! go at once with his lordship," he had said, when sir patrick had presented lord wensleydown. and wincing at the sentence, theodora had allowed herself to be whirled away. her partner was not more than nine-and-twenty; but he had all the blasé airs of a man of forty. he began to say _entreprenant_ things to theodora after three turns round the room. she was far too unsophisticated to understand their ultimate meaning, but they made her uncomfortable. he gazed at her loveliness with that insulting look of sensual admiration which some men think the highest compliment they can pay to a woman. and just in the middle of all this, hector bracondale arrived upon the scene. he had been searching for her everywhere; in that crowd one could miss any one with ease. he stood and watched her before she caught sight of him--watched her pure whiteness in the clutches of this beast of prey. saw his burning looks; noted his attitude; imagined his whisperings--and murderous feelings leaped to his brain. how dared wensleydown! how dared any one! ah, god! and he was powerless to prevent it. she was the wife of josiah brown over there, smiling and complacent to see _his_ belonging dancing with a marquis! "hector, dearest, what is the matter?" exclaimed lady anningford, coming up at that moment to her brother's side. she was with colonel lowerby, and they had made a tour of the rooms on purpose to see theodora. "you appear ready to murder some one. what has happened?" hector looked straight at her. she was a very tall woman, almost his height, and she saw pain and rage and passion were swimming in his eyes, while his deep voice vibrated as he answered: "yes, i want to murder some one--and possibly will before the evening is over." "hector! crow, leave me with him, like the dear you always are," she whispered to colonel lowerby, "and come and find me again in a few minutes." "hector, what is it?" she asked, anxiously, when they stood alone. "look!" said lord bracondale. "look at wensleydown leaning over theodora." he was so moved that he uttered the name without being aware of it. "did you ever see such a damned cad as he is? good god, i cannot bear it!" "he--he is only dancing with her," said anne, soothingly. what had come to her brother, her whimsical, cynical brother, who troubled not at all, as a rule, over anything in the world? "only dancing with her! i tell you i will not bear it. where is the crow? why did you send him off? i can't stay with you; i must go and speak to her, and take her away from this." "hector, for heaven's sake do not be so mad," said lady anningford, now really alarmed. "you can't go up and seize a woman from her partner in the middle of a waltz. you must be completely crazy! dear boy, let us stay here by the door until the music finishes, and then i will speak to her before they can leave the room to sit out." she put her hand on his arm to detain him, and started to feel how it trembled. what passion was this? surely the crow was right, after all, and it could only lead to some inevitable catastrophe. anne's heart sank; the lights and the splendor seemed all a gilded mockery. at that moment morella winmarleigh advanced with evermond le mesurier--their uncle evermond--who, having other views for his own amusement, left her instantly at anne's side and disappeared among the crowd. "how impossible to find any one in this crush!" miss winmarleigh said. there was a cackly tone in her voice, especially when raised above the din of the music, which was peculiarly irritating to sensitive ears. hector felt he hated her. anne still kept her hand on his arm, and flight was hopeless. just then a royalty passed with their hostess, and claimed lady anningford's attention, so hector was left sole guardian of morella winmarleigh. she cackled on about nothing, while his every sense was strained watching theodora, to see that she did not leave the room without his knowledge. she was whirling still in the maze of the waltz, and each time she passed fresh waves of rage surged in hector's breast, as he perceived the way in which lord wensleydown held her. "why, there is the woman who was at the opera last night," exclaimed morella, at last. "how in the world did an outsider like that get here, i wonder? she is quite pretty, close--don't you think so, hector? oh, i forgot, you know her, of course; you talked to her last night, i remember." hector did not answer; he was afraid to let himself speak. morella winmarleigh was looking her best. a tonged, laced, flounced best; and she was perfectly conscious of it, and pleased with herself and her attractions. she meant to keep lord bracondale with her for the rest of the evening if possible, even if she had to descend to tricks scarcely flattering to her own vanity. "do let us go for a walk," she said. "i have not yet seen the flower decorations in the yellow salon, and i hear they are particularly fine." hector by this time was beside himself at seeing theodora converging with her partner towards the large doors at the other end of the ballroom. "no," he said. "i am very sorry, but i am engaged for the next dance, and must go and hunt up my partner. where can i take you?" hector engaged for a dance? an unknown thing, and of course untrue. what could this mean? who would he dance with? that colonial creature? this must be looked into and stopped at once. miss winmarleigh's thin under-lip contracted, and a deeper red suffused her blooming cheeks. "i really don't know," she said. "i am quite lost, and i am afraid you can't leave me until i find some one to take care of me." and she giggled girlishly. that such a large cow of a woman should want protection of any sort seemed quite ridiculous to hector--maddeningly ridiculous at the present moment. theodora had disappeared, having seen him standing there with morella winmarleigh, who she had been told he was going to marry. he was literally white with suppressed rage. the royalty had commandeered anne, and among the dozens of people he knew there was not one in sight with whom he could plant morella winmarleigh; so he gave her his arm, and hurried along the way theodora had disappeared. "are you going to beechleigh for whitsuntide?" morella asked. "i am, and i think we shall have a delightful party." hector was not paying the least attention. theodora was completely out of sight now, and might be lost altogether, for all they were likely to overtake her among this crowd and the numberless exits and entrances. "beechleigh!" he mumbled, absently. "who lives there? i don't even know. i am going home." "why, hector, of course you know! the fitzgeralds--sir patrick and lady ada. every one does." then it came to him. these were theodora's uncle and aunt. was it possible she could be going there, too? he recollected she had told him in paris her father had written to this brother of his about her coming to london. she might be going. it was a chance, and he must ascertain at once. sir patrick fitzgerald he knew at the turf, and now that he thought of it he knew lady ada by sight quite well, and he was aware he would be a welcome guest at any house. if theodora was going, he expected the thing could be managed. meanwhile, he must find her, and get rid of morella winmarleigh. he hurried her on through the blue salon and the yellow salon and out into the gallery beyond. theodora had completely disappeared. miss winmarleigh kept up a constant chatter of commonplaces, to which, when he replied at all, he gave random answers. and every moment she became more annoyed and uneasy. she had known hector since she was a child. their places adjoined in the country, and she saw him constantly when there. her stolid vanity had never permitted the suggestion to come to her that he had always been completely indifferent to her. she intended to marry him. his mother shared her wishes. they were continually thrown together, and the thought of her as a probable ending to his life when all pleasures should be over had often entered his head. before he met theodora, if he had ever analyzed his views about morella, they probably would have been that she was a safe bore with a great many worldly advantages. a woman who you could be sure would not take a lover a few years after you had married her, and whom he would probably marry if she were still free when the time came. his flittings from one pretty matron to another had not caused her grave anxieties. he could not marry them, and he never talked with girls or possible rivals. so she had always felt safe and certain that fate would ultimately make him her husband. but this was different--he had never been like this before. and uneasiness grabbed at her well-regulated heart. "ah, there is my mother!" he exclaimed, at last, with such evident relief that morella began to feel spiteful. they made their way to where lady bracondale was standing. she beamed upon them like a pleased pussy-cat. it looked so suitable to see them thus together! "dearest," she said to morella, "is not this a lovely ball? and i can see you are enjoying yourself." miss winmarleigh replied suitably, and her stolid face betrayed none of her emotion. "mother," said hector, "i wish you would introduce me to lady ada fitzgerald when you get the chance. i see her over there." this was so obvious that morella, who never saw between the lines, preened with pleasure. after all, he wished to spend whitsuntide with her, and this anxiety to find lady bracondale had been all on that account. lady bracondale, who was acquainted with miss winmarleigh's plans, made the same interruption, and joy warmed her being. she was only too pleased to do whatever he wished. and the affair was soon accomplished. hector made himself especially attractive, and lady ada fitzgerald decided he was charming. the way paved for possible contingencies, he escaped from this crowd of women, and once more began his search for theodora. she would certainly return to josiah some time. to go straight to him would be the best plan. josiah was standing absolutely alone by one of the windows in the ballroom, and looked pitiably uncomfortable and ill at ease in his knee-breeches and silk stockings. he had experienced such pleasure when he had tried them on, and had enjoyed walking through the hall at claridge's to his carriage, knowing the people there would be aware it meant he was going to meet the most august royalty. but now he felt uncomfortable, and kept standing first on one leg, then on the other. theodora had not returned to him yet: the next dance had not begun. this great world contained discomfort as well as pleasure, he decided. hector walked straight over to him and was excessively polite and agreeable, and josiah's equanimity was somewhat restored. what could have happened to theodora? where had that beast wensleydown taken her? not to supper--surely not to supper?--were lord bracondale's thoughts. and then with the first notes of the next dance she reappeared. it seemed to him she was looking superbly lovely: a faint pink suffused her cheeks, and her eyes were shining with the excitement of the scene. a mad rush of passion surged over hector; his turn had come, he thought. lord wensleydown seemed loath to release her, and showed signs of staying to talk awhile. so hector interposed at once. "may i not have this dance? i have been looking for you everywhere," he said. theodora told him she was tired, and she stood close to her husband; tired--and also she was quite sure josiah would be bored left all alone, so she wished to stay with him. but mrs. devlyn made a reappearance just then, and as they spoke they saw josiah give her his arm and lead her away. thus theodora was left standing alone with lord bracondale. fate seemed always to nullify her good intentions. it was an exquisite waltz, and the music mounted to both their brains. for one moment the room appeared to reel in front of her, and then she found herself whirling in his arms. oh, what bliss it was, after this long week of separation! what folly and maddening bliss! her senses were tingling; her lithe, exquisite, willowy body thrilled and quivered in his embrace. and they both realized what a waltz could be, as a medium for joy. "we will only have two turns until the crowd gets impossible again," he whispered, "and then i will take you to supper." lady anningford had been rejoined by the crow, and now stood watching them. she and her companion were silent for a moment, and then: "by jove!" colonel lowerby said. "she is certainly worth going to hell for, to look at even--and they don't appear as if they would take long on the road." xx "oh, crow, dear, what are we to do, then?" said lady anningford. "surely, surely you don't anticipate any sudden catastrophe? in these days people never run away--" "no," said the crow. "they stay at home until the footman, or the man's last mistress, or the woman's dearest friend, send anonymous letters to the husband." "but--" "well, i tell you, queen anne, to me this appears serious. i know hector pretty well, and i have never seen him as far gone as this before. the woman--she is a mere child--looks as unsophisticated as a baby, and probably is. she won't have the least idea of managing the affair. she will tumble headlong into it." "well, what is to be done, then?" exclaimed anne, piteously. "you had better talk to him quietly. he is very fond of you. though nothing, i am afraid, will be of the least use," said the crow. "but if she is going into the country they won't meet," reasoned anne. "you saw the dreadful-looking husband just now. will he be the colonial who will object, do you think, or the english snob who won't?" but the crow refused to give any more opinions except in general. it all came, he said, from the ridiculous marriage laws in this over-civilized country. why should not people eminently suited to each other be allowed to be happy? "it is too bad, crow," said anne. "you take it for granted that hector has the most dishonorable intentions towards mrs. brown. he may worship her quite in the abstract." "fiddle-dee-dee, my child!" said colonel lowerby. "look at him! you don't understand the fundamental principles of human nature if you say that. when a man is madly in love with a woman, nature says, 'this is your mate,' not a saint of alabaster on a church altar. there are numbers of animals about who find a 'mate' in every woman they come across. but hector is not that sort. look at his face--look at him now they are passing us, and tell me if you see any abstract about it?" anne was forced to admit she did not; and it was with intense uneasiness she saw her brother and his partner stop, and disappear through one of the doors towards the supper-room. when her mother perceived the situation--or morella--disagreeable moments would begin at once for everybody! meanwhile, the culprits were extremely happy. with the finest and noblest intention in the world, theodora was too young, and too healthy, not to have become exhilarated with the dance and the scene. something whispered, why should she not enjoy herself to-night? what harm could there be in dancing? every one danced--and josiah, himself, had left her alone. hector had not said a word that she must rebuke him for; they had just waltzed and thrilled, and been--happy! and now she was going to eat some supper with him, and forget there were any to-morrows. they found a secluded corner, and spent half an hour in perfect peace. hector was an artist in pleasing women--and to-night, though he never once transgressed in words, she could feel through it all that he loved her--loved her madly. his voice was so tender and deep, and his thought for her slightest wish and comfort so evident; he was masterful, too, and settled what she was to do--where to sit, and now and then he made her look at him. he was just so wildly happy he could not stop to count the cost; and while he worshipped her more deeply than when they had sat on the soft greensward at versailles, even the whole sight of her pure soul now could not stop him--now he knew she loved him, and that there were possible others on the scene. she had trusted him--had appealed to his superior strength; he did not forget that fact quite--but here at a ball was not the place to analyze what it would mean. they were just two guests dancing and supping like the rest, and were supremely content. he found out where she was going for whitsuntide, but said nothing of his own intentions. the blindness and madness of love was upon him and held him in complete bondage. the first shock, which her look of the wounded fawn had given him, was over. they had suffered, and made good resolutions, and parted, and now they had met again. and he could not, and would not, think where they might drift to. to be near her, to look into her eyes, to be conscious of her personality was what he asked at the moment, what he must have. the rest of time was a blank, and meaningless. it is not every man who loves in this way--fortunately for the rest of the world! many go through life with now and then a different woman merely as an episode, as far as anything but a physical emotion is concerned. sport, or their own ambitions, fill up their real interests, and no woman could break their hearts. but hector was not of these. and this woman had it in her power to make his heaven or hell. they had both passed through moments of exalted sentiment, even a little dramatic in their tragedy and renunciation, but circumstance is stronger always than any highly strung emotion of good or evil. at the end of their good-bye at madrid their story should have closed, as the stories in books so often do, with the hero and heroine worked up to some wonderful pitch of self-sacrifice and drama. they so seldom tell of the flatness of the afterwards. the impossibility of retaining a balance on this high pinnacle of moral valor, where circumstance, which is a commonplace and often material thing, decrees that the lights shall not be turned out with the ring-down of the curtain. unless death finishes what is apparently the last act, there is always the to-morrow to be reckoned with--out of the story-book. so while exalted--he by his sudden worship of that pure sweetness of soul in theodora which he had discovered, she by her innocence and desire to do right--they had been able to tune their minds to an idea of a tender good-bye, full of sentiment and vows of abstract devotion, and adherence to duty. and if he had gone to the ends of the earth that night the exaltation, as a memory, might have continued, and time might have healed their hurts--time and the starvation of absence and separation. but fate had decreed they should meet again, and soon; and all the forces which precipitate matters should be employed for their undoing. for all else in life hector was no weakling. he had always been a strong man, physically and morally. his views were the views of the world. it seemed no great sin to him to love another man's wife. all his friends did the same at one period or another. it was only when theodora had awakened him that he had begun even to think of controlling himself. it was to please her, not because he was really convinced of the right and necessity of their course of action, that he had said good-bye and agreed to worship her in the abstract. he had been highly moved and elevated by her that night in paris. and when he wrote the letter his honest intention had been to follow its words. he did not recognize the fact that without the zeal of blind faith as to the right, human nature must always yield to inclination. so they sat there and ate their supper, and forgot to-morrow, and were radiantly happy. as they had gone down the stairs monica ellerwood had joined lady bracondale in the gallery above. "oh! look, aunt milly!" she had said. "hector is with the american i told you about in paris. do you see, going down to supper. oh, isn't she pretty! and what jewels--look!" and lady bracondale had moved forward in a manner quite foreign to her usual dignity to catch sight of them. "it is the same woman he talked to at the opera last night," she said. "she is not an american, but a mrs. brown, an australian millionaire's wife, we were told. she is certainly pretty. oh--eh--you said hector was devoted to her in paris?" "why, of course! you can ask jack." "i do not think we need worry, though, dear, because i am happy to say hector shows great signs of wishing to be with morella." and with this pleasing thought she had turned the conversation. "i think we must go back now," said theodora, after she had finished the last monster strawberry on her plate. "josiah may be waiting for me." oh, she had been so happy! there was that sense vibrating through everything that he loved her, and they were together--but now it must end. so they made their way up the stairs and back to the ballroom. mrs. devlyn had abandoned josiah, and he stood once more alone and supremely uncomfortable. a pang of remorse seized theodora; she wished she had not stayed so long; she would not leave him again for a moment. he had supped, it appeared, been hurried over it because mrs. devlyn wished to return, and was now feeling cross and tired. he was quite ready to leave when theodora suggested it, and they said good-night to hector and descended to find their carriage. but in that crowd it was not such an easy matter. there was a long wait in the hall, where they were joined by the assiduous marquis and delaval stirling. and hector, from a place on the stairs, had all his feelings of jealous rage aroused again in watching them while he was detained where he was by his hostess. meanwhile, sir patrick fitzgerald had gone about telling every one of the beauty of his new-found niece, and had brought his wife to be introduced to her just after theodora had left. since his scapegrace brother was going to make such an advantageous marriage, and this niece had proved a lovely woman, and rich withal, he quite admitted the ties of blood were thicker than water. lady ada was not of like opinion; she had enough relations of her own, and resented his having asked the browns to beechleigh for whitsuntide. "my party was all made up but for one extra man," she said, "whom i think i have found; and we did not need these people." xxi lord bracondale arrived at his sister's house in charles street about a quarter of an hour before her luncheon guests were due. anne rushed down to see him, meeting her husband on the stairs. "oh, don't come in yet, billy, like a darling," she said, "i want to talk to hector alone." and the meek and fond lord anningford had obediently retired to his smoking-room. "well, hector," she said, when she had greeted him, "and so you are going to the fitzgeralds' for whitsuntide, and not to bracondale, mother tells me this morning. she is in the seventh heaven, taking it for a sign, as you had to manoeuvre so to be asked, that things are coming to a climax between you and morella." "morella? is she going?" said hector, absently. he had quite forgotten that fact, so perfectly indifferent was he to her movements, and so completely had his own aims engrossed him. "why--dear boy!" anne gasped. the whole scene, highly colored by repetition, had been recounted to her. how morella had told him of her plans, and how he had at once got introduced to lady ada, and played his cards so skilfully that the end of the evening produced the invitation. "oh yes, of course, i remember she is going," he said, impatiently. "anne, you haven't asked that beast wensleydown to-day, have you?" "no, dear. what made you think so?" "i saw you talking to him in the park this morning, and i feared you might have. i shall certainly quarrel with him one of these days." "you will have an opportunity, then, at beechleigh, as he will be there. he is always with the fitzgeralds," anne said, and she tried to laugh. "but don't make a scandal, hector." she saw his eyes blaze. "he is going there, is he?" he said, and then he stared out of the window. anne knew nothing of the relationship between theodora and sir patrick. she never for a moment imagined the humble browns would be invited to this exceptionally smart party. and yet she was uneasy. why was hector going? what plan was in his head? not morella, evidently. but she had never believed that would be his attraction. and hector was too preoccupied to enlighten her. "is mother coming to lunch?" he asked. "yes, by her own request. i had not meant to ask her--oh, well, you know, she is never very pleased at your having new friends, and i thought she might fix mrs. brown with that stony stare she has sometimes, and we would be happier without her; but she was determined to come." "it is just as well," he said, "because she will have to get accustomed to it. i shall ask my friends the browns down to bracondale on every occasion, and as she is hostess there the stony stare won't answer." "manage her as best you may," said anne. "but you know how she can be now and then--perfectly annihilating to unfortunate strangers." hector's finely chiselled lips shut like a vise. "we shall see," he said. "and who else have you got? none of the harrowfield-devlyn crew, i hope--" "hector, how strange you are! i thought you and lady harrowfield were the greatest friends, so of course i asked her. no one in london can make a woman's success as she can." "or mar it so completely if she takes a dislike! have you ever heard of her doing a kindness to any one? i haven't!" he said, irritably. then he walked to the window and back quickly. "i tell you i am sick of it all, anne. last night, whoever i spoke to had something vile to impute or insinuate about every one they mentioned; and lady harrowfield, with a record of her own worse than the lowest, rode a high horse of virtue, and was more spiteful than all the rest put together. i loathe them, the whole crew. what do they know of anything good or pure or fine? painted jezebels, the lot of them!" "hector!" almost screamed lady anningford. "what has come over you, my dear boy?" "i will tell you," he said; and his voice, which had been full of passion, now melted into a tone of deep tenderness. "i love a woman whose pure goodness has taught me there are other possibilities in life beyond the aims of these vile harpies of our world--a woman whose very presence makes one long to be better and nobler, whose dear soul has not room for anything but kind and loving thoughts of sweetness and light. oh, anne, if i might have her for my own, and live away down at bracondale far from all this, i think--i think i, too, could learn what heaven would mean on earth." "dear hector!" said anne, who was greatly moved. "oh, i am so sorry for you! but what is to be done? she is married to somebody else, and you will only injure her and yourself if you see too much of her." "i know," he said. "i realize it sometimes--this morning, for instance--and then--and then--" he did not add that the thought of lord wensleydown and the rest swarming round theodora drove him mad, deprived him of his power of reasoning, and filled him with a wild desire to protect her, to be near her, to keep her always for himself, always in his sight. "anne," he said, at last, "promise me you will go out of your way to be kind to her. don't let these other odious women put pin-points into her, because she is so innocent, and all unused to this society. she is just my queen and my darling. will you remember that?" and as anne looked she saw there were two great tears in his eyes--his deep-gray eyes which always wore a smile of whimsical mockery--and she felt a lump in her throat. this dear, dear brother! and she could do nothing to comfort him--one way or another. "hector, i will promise--always," she said, and her voice trembled. "i am sure she is sweet and good; and she is so lovely and fascinating--and oh, i wish--i wish--too!" then he bent down and kissed her, just as his mother and lady harrowfield came into the room. anne felt glad she had not informed them they were to meet the browns, as was her first intention. she seemed suddenly to see with hector's eyes, and to realize how narrow and spiteful lady harrowfield could be. most of the guests arrived one after the other, and were talking about the intimate things they all knew, when "mr. and mrs. brown" were announced, and the whole party turned to look at them, while lady harrowfield tittered, and whispered almost audibly to her neighbor: "these are the creatures florence insisted upon my giving an invitation to last night. i did it for her sake, of course, so wretchedly poor she is, dear florence, and she hopes to make a good thing out of them. look at the man!" she added. "has one ever sees such a person, except in a pork-butcher's shop!" "i have never been in one," said hector, agreeably, a dangerous flash in his eyes; "but i hear things are too wonderfully managed at harrowfield house--though i had no idea you did the shopping yourself, dear lady harrowfield." she looked up at him, rage in her heart. hector had long been a hopeless passion of hers--so good-looking, so whimsical, and, above all, so indifferent! she had never been able to dominate and ride rough-shod ever him. when she was rude and spiteful he answered her back, and then neglected her for the rest of the evening. but why should he defend these people, whom, probably, he did not even know? she would watch and see. then they went in to luncheon, without waiting for two or three stray young men who were always late. and theodora found herself sitting between the crow and a sleek-looking politician; while poor josiah, extremely ill at ease, sat at the left hand of his hostess. anne had purposely not put hector near theodora; with her mother there she thought it was wiser not to run any risks. lady bracondale was sufficiently soothed by her happy dream of the cause of hector's visit to beechleigh to be coldly polite to theodora, whom anne had presented to her before luncheon. she sat at the turn of the long, oval table just one off, and was consequently able to observe her very carefully. "she is extremely pretty and looks well bred--quite too extraordinary," she said to herself, in a running commentary. "grandfather a convict, no doubt. she reminds me of poor minnie borringdon, who ran off with that charming scapegrace brother of patrick fitzgerald. i wonder what became of them?" lady bracondale deplored the ways of many of the set she was obliged to move in--delicia harrowfield, for instance. but what was one to do? one must know one's old friends, especially those to whom one had been a bridesmaid! the crow, who had begun by being determined to find theodora as cunning as other angels he was acquainted with, before the second course had fallen completely under her spell. no one to look into her tender eyes could form an adverse opinion about her; and her gentle voice, which only said kind things, was pleasing to the ear. "'pon my soul, hector is not such a fool as i thought," colonel lowerby said to himself. "this seems a bit of pure gold--poor little white lady! what will be the end of her?" and opposite, hector, with great caution, devoured her with his eyes. theodora herself was quite happy, though her delicate intuition told her lady harrowfield was antagonistic to her, and hector's mother exceedingly stiff, while most of the other women eyed her clothes and talked over her head. but they all seemed of very little consequence to her, somehow. she was like the sun, who continues to shine and give warmth and light no matter how much ugly imps may look up and make faces at him. theodora was never ill at ease. it would grieve her sensitive heart to the core if those she loved made the faintest shade of difference in their treatment of her--but strangers! they counted not at all, she had too little vanity. both her neighbors, the young politician and the crow, were completely fascinated by her. she had not the slightest accent in speaking english, but now and then her phrasing had a quaint turn which was original and attractive. anne was not enjoying her luncheon-party. the impression of sorrow and calamity which the conversation with her brother had left upon her deepened rather than wore off. josiah's commonplace and sometimes impossible remarks perhaps helped it. she seemed to realize how it must all jar on hector. to know his loved one belonged to this worthy grocer--to understand the hopelessness of the position! anne was proud of her family and her old name. it was grief, too, to think that after hector the title would go to evermond le mesurier, the unmarried and dissolute uncle, if he survived his nephew, and then would die out altogether. there would be no more baron bracondales of bracondale, unless hector chose to marry and have sons. oh, life was a topsy-turvy affair at the best of times, she sighed to herself. just before the ladies left the table, josiah had announced their intended visit to beechleigh, and his wife's relationship to sir patrick fitzgerald and the old earl borringdon. it came as a thunderclap to lady anningford. this accounted for hector's eagerness to obtain the invitation--accounted for theodora's exceeding look of breeding--accounted for many things. she only trusted her mother had not heard the news also. so much better to leave her in her fool's paradise about morella. if lady harrowfield knew, she said nothing about it. she absolutely ignored theodora, as though she had never shaken hands with her in her own house the night before. theodora wondered at her manners--she did not yet know mayfair. the conversation turned upon some of the wonderful charities they were all interested in, and theodora thought how good and kind of them to help the poor and crippled. and she said some gentle, sympathetic things to a lady who was near her. and anne thought to herself how sweet and beautiful her nature must be, and it made her sadder and sadder. presently they all began to discuss the ball at harrowfield house. it had been too lovely, they said, and lady harrowfield joined in with one of her sharp thrusts. "of course it could not be just as one would have wished. i was obliged to ask all sorts of people i had never even heard of," she said. "the usual grabbing for invitations, you know, to see the royalties. really, the quaint creatures who came up the stairs! i almost laughed in their faces once or twice." "but don't you like to feel what pleasure you gave them, the poor things?" theodora said, quite simply, without the least sarcasm. "you see, i know you gave them pleasure, because my husband and i were some of them--and we enjoyed it, oh, so much!" and she smiled one of her adorable smiles which melted the heart of every one else in the room. but of lady harrowfield she made an enemy for life. the venomous woman reddened violently--under her paint--while she looked this upstart through and through. but theodora was quite unconscious of her anger. to her lady harrowfield seemed a poor, soured old woman very much painted and ridiculous, and she felt sorry for unlovely old age and ill-temper. meanwhile, lady bracondale was being favorably impressed. she was a most presentable young person, this wife of the australian millionaire, she decided. anne took the greatest pains to be charming to theodora. they were sitting together on a sofa when the men came into the room. hector could keep away no longer. he joined them in their corner, while his face beamed with joy to see the two people he loved best in the world apparently getting on so well together. "what have you been talking about?" he asked. "nothing very learned," said anne. "only the children. i was telling mrs. brown how fordy's pony ran away in the park this morning, and how plucky he had been about it." "they are rather nice infants," said hector. "i should like you to see them," and he looked at theodora. "mayn't we have them down, anne?" lady anningford adored her offspring, and was only too pleased to show them; but she said: "oh, wait a moment, hector, until some of these people have gone. lady harrowfield hates children, and fordy made some terrible remarks about her wig last time." "i wish he would do it again," said hector. "she took the skin off every one the whole way through lunch." "but colonel lowerby told me she was one of the cleverest women in london!" exclaimed theodora; "and surely it is not very clever just to be bitter and spiteful!" "yes, she is clever," said anne, with a peculiar smile, "and we are all rather under her thumb." "it is perfectly ridiculous how you pander to her!" hector said, impatiently. "i should never allow my wife to have anything but a distant acquaintance with her if i were married," and he glanced at theodora. lady anningford's duties as hostess took her away from them then, and he sat down on the sofa in her place. "oh, how i hate all this!" he said. "how different it is to paris! it grates and jars and brings out the worst in one. these odious women and their little, narrow ways! you will never stay much in london--will you, theodora?" "i have always to do what josiah wishes, you know; he rather likes it, and means us to come back after whitsuntide, i think." hector seemed to have lost the power of looking ahead. whitsuntide, and to be with her in the country for that time, appeared to him the boundary of his outlook. what would happen after whitsuntide? who could say? he longed to tell her how his thoughts were forever going back to the day at versailles, and the peace and beauty of those woods--how all seemed here as though something were dragging him down to the commonplace, away out of their exalted dream, to a dull earth. but he dared not--he must keep to subjects less moving. so there was silence for some moments. theodora, since coming to london, had begun to understand it was possible for beautiful englishmen to be husbands now and then, and that the term is not necessarily synonymous with "bore" and "duty"--as she had always thought it from her meagre experience. she could not help picturing what a position of exquisite happiness some nice girl might have--some day--as hector's wife. and she looked out of the window, and her eyes were sad. while the vision which floated to him at the same moment was of her at his side at bracondale, and the delicious joy of possessing for their own some gay and merry babies like fordy and his little brother and sister. and each saw a wistful longing in the other's eyes, and they talked quickly of banal things. xxii the crow stayed on after all the other guests had left. he knew his hostess wished to talk to him. it had begun to pour with rain, and the dripping streets held out no inducement to them to go out. they pulled up their two comfortable arm-chairs to the sparkling wood fire, and then colonel lowerby said: "you look sad, queen anne. tell me about it." "yes, i am sad," said anne. "the position is so hopeless. hector loves her--loves her really--and i do not wonder at it; and she seems just everything that one could wish for him. a thousand times above morella in intellect and understanding. all the things hector and i like she sees at once. no need of explaining to her, as one has to to mother and morella always." "yes," said the crow. he did not argue with her as usual. "it seems so fearful to think of her forever bound to that dreadful old grocer, whom she treats with so much deference and gentleness. the whole thing has made me sad. hector is perfectly miserable; and, do you know, they are going to beechleigh for whitsuntide. sir patrick fitzgerald is her uncle--and, of course, hector is going, too, and--" she did not finish her sentence. her voice died away in a pathetic note as she gazed into the fire. the crow fidgeted; he had been devoted to anne since she was a child of ten, and he hated to see her troubled. "look here," he said. "i investigated her thoroughly at luncheon, and i don't often make a mistake, do i?" "no," said anne. "well--?" "well, she appeared to me to have some particular quality of sweetness--you were right about her looking like an angel--and i think she has got an angel's nature more or less; and when people are really like that there is some one up above looks after them, and i don't think we need worry much--you and i." "dear old crow!" said anne; "you do comfort me. but all the same, angel or not, hector is so attractive--and he is a man, you know, not one of these anæmic, artistic, æsthetic things we see about so often now; and thrown together like that--how on earth will they be able to help themselves?" the crow was silent. "you see," she continued, "beyond morella, who is too absolutely unalluring and respectable to come to harm anywhere, and miss linwood, who only cares for bridge, there will hardly be another woman in the house who has not got a lover, and the atmosphere of those things is catching--don't you think so?" "it is nature," said colonel lowerby. "a woman in possession of her health and faculties requires a mate, and when her husband is attending to sport or some other man's wife, she is bound to find one somewhere. i don't blame the poor things." "oh, nor i!" said anne. "i don't ever blame any one. and just one, because you love him, seems all right, perhaps. it is six different ones in a year, and a seventh to pay the bills, that i find vulgar." "dans les premières passions, les femmes aiment l'amant; et dans les autres, elles aiment l'amour," quoted the crow. "it was ever the same, you see. it is the seventh to pay the bills that seems vulgar and modern." "billy and i stayed there for the pheasant shoot last november, and i assure you we felt quite out of it, having no little adventures at night like the rest. lady ada is the picture of washed-out respectability herself, and so--to give her some reflected color, i suppose--she asks always the most go-ahead, advanced section of her acquaintances." "well, i shall be there this time," said the crow; "she invited me last week." this piece of news comforted lady anningford greatly. she felt here would be some one to help matters if he could. "morella will be perfectly furious when she gets there and finds she was not the reason of hector's empressement for the invitation. and in her stolid way she can be just as spiteful as lady harrowfield." "yes, i know." then they were both silent for a while--anne's thoughts busy with the mournful idea of the end of the house of bracondale should hector never marry, and the crow's of her in sympathy, his eyes watching her face. at last she spoke. "i believe it would be best for hector to go right away for a year or so," she sighed. "but, however it may be, i fear, alas! it can only end in tears." xxiii beechleigh was really a fine place, built by vanbrugh in his best days. three tiers of fifteen tall windows looked to the north in a front and two short wings, while colonnades led down to splendid wrought-iron gates, and blocks of buildings constructed in the same stately style. fifteen more windows faced the south; and the centre one of the first floor led, with sweeping steps, to a terrace, while seven casements adorned each of the eastern and western sides. on the southern side the view, for that rather flat country, was superb. it gave, from a considerable elevation--through a wide opening of giant oaks and elms--a peep of the lake a mile below, and on in a long avenue of turf to a vista of smiling country. on the splendid terrace peacocks spread their tails, and vases of carved stone broke at intervals the gray old balustrade. inside the house was equally nobly planned: all the rooms of great height and perfect proportion, and filled with pictures and tapestries and bronzes and antiques of immense value. it had come to these spendthrift irish fitzgeralds through their grandmother, the last of an old ducal race. and two generations of hibernian influence had curtailed the fine fortune which went with it, until sir patrick often felt it no easy matter to make both ends meet in the luxurious and gilded fashion which was necessary to himself and his friends. if he and lady ada pinched and scraped when alone, keeping few servants on board wages, the parties, at all events, were done with all their wonted regal splendor. "i shall stay with you, patrick, as long as you can afford this cook," lady harrowfield said once to him; "but when you begin to economize, don't trouble to ask me. i hate poor people, when it shows." a promising son, on the true fitzgerald lines, was at oxford now, and gave many anxious crows'-feet full opportunity of developing round his mother's faded eyes. a plain daughter, barbara, was pushed into corners and left much to herself. and a brilliant, flashing, up-to-date niece of lady ada's took always the first place. mildred was so clever, and her lovers were so well chosen, and so thoroughly of the right set or of great wealth; while a puny husband was helped to something in south africa, when the man in possession was a jew--or as agent for tea and jam in the colonies--when he happened to be only a colossally successful englishman. and once, during a prominent politician's reign, poor willie verner enjoyed a few months in his own land as secretary to a newly started radical club. this whitsuntide party was perhaps the smartest of the year. by saturday evening over thirty people would be gathered together under the beechleigh roof. josiah, though exceedingly proud and pleased at the invitation, felt nervous at the thought of the visit. not so mr. toplington, who, although he knew he should probably have to blush for his master, and might get a very secondary place in the "room," still felt he would hold his own when he could let it be known what magnificent wages he received from mr. brown. "a long sight more than i'd get out of any lord," he thought. "and money is money. and all classes feels it." theodora, on the contrary, was neither proud nor pleased. she looked forward to the visit with excitement and dread. hector would be there, among all these people whom she did not know. and her awakened heart had begun to tell her that she loved him wildly, and to see him could only be alternate mad joy and remorse and anguish. it was still drizzling on the saturday afternoon when they arrived. so tea awaited them in the great saloon which made the centre of the north side of the house. several of the rest of the guests had come down in the same train, but they did not know them, nor did any of them trouble themselves much to speak to them on the short drive from the station. a few words, that was all, addressed to theodora. josiah was ignored. sir patrick had always been an excellent host. his genial irish smile, when in action, concealed the ill-tempered lines of his thin old face. he greeted his guests cordially, and made them welcome to his home. lady ada had the inherited bad manners of her family, the de baronsvilles, who had come over with the conqueror, and when one has a _cachet_ like that there is no need to trouble one's self further. thus, while mildred flashed brilliant witticisms about, plain barbara saw after the guests' tea and sugar, and if they took cream or lemon, and tiresome things like that. and as every one knew every one else, and the same party met continuously all over england, things were very gay and friendly. only theodora and josiah were completely out of it all, and several of the guests, who resented the intrusion of these strangers into their charmed circle, would take care on every opportunity to make them feel it. hector did not get there until half an hour later, in his automobile, which was the mode of arrival with more than two-thirds of the company. and until the dressing-gong sounded, a continuous teuf-teuf-teuf might have been heard as, one after another, the cars whizzed up to the door. of course, in a troop of over thirty people, naturally some had kind hearts and good manners, but the prevailing tone of this coterie of _crème de la crème_ was one of pure selfishness and blunt and material brutality. if you were rich and suited them, you were given a nickname probably, and were allowed to play cards with them, and lose your money for their benefit. if you were non-congenial you did not exist--that was all. you might be sitting in a chair, but they only saw it and an empty space--you did not even cumber their ground. to do them justice, they preferred people of their own exalted station; outsiders seldom made their way into this holy of holies, however rich they were--unless, of course, they happened to be mildred's lovers. that situation for a man held special prerogatives, and was greatly coveted by pretenders to this circle of grace. intellectual intelligence was not important. some of the women of this select company had been described by an agricultural duke who had stayed there as having just enough sense to come in out of the rain. sir patrick fitzgerald occasionally departed from the strict limits of this set in the big parties--especially lately, when money was becoming scarcer, several financial friends who could put him on to good things had been included, the result being that lady harrowfield had not always shed the light of her countenance upon the festivities. lord harrowfield drew most of his income from a great, populous manufacturing city in the north, so neither he nor his countess had need to smile at mere wealth. and lady harrowfield had said, frankly, "let me know if it is a utility party, patrick, or for just ourselves, because if you are going to have these creatures i sha'n't come." this time, however, she had not been so exigent. it happened to suit some other arrangements of hers to spend whitsuntide at beechleigh, so she consented to chaperon morella winmarleigh without asking for a list of the guests. hector had never conformed to any special set; he went here, there, and everywhere, and was welcomed by all. but somehow, until this occasion, beechleigh had never seen him within its gates, although lady harrowfield had praised him, and mildred had sighed for him in vain. he saw the situation at a glance when he came into the saloon: josiah and theodora sitting together, neglected by every one but barbara. they could not have been more than half an hour in the house, he knew, for he had found out when the trains got in. barbara was a good sort; he remembered now he had met her before somewhere. she had evidently taken to the new cousin; but mildred had not. hitherto mildred had been the undisputed and acknowledged beauty of every party, and she resented theodora's presence because she was clever enough not to have any illusions upon the matter of their mutual looks. she saw theodora was beautiful and young and charming, and had every advantage of perfect paris clothes. uncle patrick had been a fool to ask her, and she must take measures to suppress her at once. sir patrick, on the other hand, was very pleased with himself for having given the invitation. he had made inquiries, and found that josiah was a man of great and solid wealth, with interests in several things which could be of particular use to himself, and he meant to obtain what he could out of him. as for theodora, no living man could do anything but admire her, and sir patrick was not an irishman for nothing. hector behaved with tact; he did not at once fly to his darling, but presently she found him beside her. and the now habitual thrill ran over her when he came near. he saw the sudden, convulsive clasp of her little hands together; he knew how he moved her, and it gave him joy. the next batch of arrivals contained lord wensleydown, who showed no hesitation as to his desired destination in the saloon. he made a bee-line for theodora, and took a low seat at her feet. hector, with more caution, was rather to one side. rage surged up in him, although his common-sense told him as yet there was nothing he could openly object to in wensleydown's behavior. the little picture of these five people--barbara engaging josiah, and the two men vying with each other to please theodora--was gall and wormwood to mildred. freddy wensleydown had always been one of her most valued friends, and for hector she had often felt she could experience a passion. lord wensleydown had an immense _cachet_. he was exceedingly ugly and exceedingly smart, and was known to have quite specially attractive methods of his own in the art of pleasing beautiful ladies. he was always unfaithful, too, and they had to make particular efforts to retain him for even a week. hector knew him intimately, of course; they had been in the same house at eton, and were comrades of many years' standing, and until theodora's entrance upon the scene, hector had always thought of him as a coarse, jolly beast of extremely good company and quaintness. but now! he had no words adequate in his vocabulary to express his opinion about him! to theodora he appeared an ugly little man, who reminded her of the statue of a satyr she knew in the louvre. that was all! at this juncture lady harrowfield, accompanied by morella winmarleigh, her lord, and one of her _âmes damnées_, a certain captain forester, appeared upon the scene. their entrance was the important one of the afternoon, and lady ada and sir patrick could not do enough to greet and make them welcome. the saloon was so large and the screens so well arranged, that for the first few seconds neither of the ladies perceived the fact of theodora's presence. but when it burst upon them, both experienced unpleasant sensations. lady harrowfield's temper was bad in any case on account of the weather, and here, on her arrival, that she should find the impertinent upstart who had made her look foolish at the anningford luncheon, was an extra straw. morella felt furious. it began to dawn upon her this might be hector's reason in coming, not herself at all; and one of those slow, internal rages which she seldom indulged in began to creep in her veins. thus it was that poor theodora, all unconscious of any evil, was already surrounded by three bitter enemies--mildred, lady harrowfield, and morella winmarleigh. it did not look as though her whitsuntide could be going to contain much joy. it was a good deal after six o'clock by now. bridge-tables had already appeared, and most of the company had commenced to play. barbara saw the look in mildred's eye as she came across, and, ignoring theodora quite, tried to carry off lord wensleydown. "you must come, freddy," she said. "lady harrowfield wants to begin her rubber." barbara, knowing what this move meant, and blushing for her cousin's rudeness, nervously introduced theodora to her. "how d' do," said mildred, staring over her head. "don't detain lord wensleydown, please, because lady harrowfield hates to be kept waiting." theodora rose and smiled, while she said to barbara: "i am rather tired. mayn't i go to my room for a little rest before dinner?" "take him, lady mildred, do," said hector; "we don't want him," and he laughed gayly. his beautiful, tender angel might be a match for these people after all. at any rate, he would be at her side to protect her from their claws. lord wensleydown frowned. mildred was being a damned nuisance, he said to himself, and he insisted upon accompanying theodora to the bottom of the great staircase, which rose to magnificent galleries in the hall adjoining the saloon. sir patrick had advanced and engaged josiah in conversation. he knew his guests' ways and how they would boycott him, and, with a serious question like those australian shares on the _tapis_, he was not going to have josiah insulted and ruffled just yet. "don't stay up-stairs all the time," hector had managed to whisper, while mildred and lord wensleydown stood arguing; "they are sure not to dine till nine; there are two hours before you need dress, and we can certainly find some nice sitting-room to talk in." but theodora, with immense self-denial, had answered: "no, i want to write a long letter to papa and my sisters. i won't come down again until dinner." and he was forced to be content with the memory of her soft smile and the evident regret in her eyes. xxiv theodora was greatly interested in beechleigh. to her the home of her fathers was full of sentiment, and the thought that her grandfather had ruled there pleased her. how she would love and cherish it were it her home now! every one of these fine things must have some memory. then the pictures of as far back as she could remember came to her, and she saw again their poor lodgings in the cheap foreign towns and their often scanty fare. and with a fresh burst of love and pride in him, she remembered her father's invariable cheerfulness--cheerfulness and gayety--in such poverty! and after he had been used to--this! for all the descriptions of captain fitzgerald had given her no idea of the reality. now she knew what love meant, and could realize her mother's story. oh, she would have acted just in the same way, too. dominic had been forgiven by his brother after his first wife's death, and had come back to enjoy a short spell of peace and prosperity. and who could wonder that lady minnie borringdon, in her first season, and full of romance, should fall headlong in love with his wonderfully handsome face, and be only too ready to run off with him from an angry and unreasonable parent! she was a spoiled and only child who had never been crossed. then came that fatal derby, and the final extinction of all sympathy with the scapegrace. the fitzgeralds had done enough for him already, and lord borringdon had no intention of doing anything at all, so the married lovers crept away in high disgrace, and spent a few months of bliss in a southern town, where the sun shone and the food was cheap, and there poor, pretty minnie died, leaving theodora a few hours old. and now at beechleigh theodora looked out of her window on the north side--the southern rooms were kept for greater than she--and from there she could see a vast stretch of park, with the deer cropping the fine turf, and the lions frowning while they supported the ducal coronet over the great gates at the end of the court-yard and colonnade. it was truly a splendid inheritance, and she glowed with pride to think she was of this house. so she wrote a long letter to her dear ones--her sisters at dieppe, and papa, still in paris, and even one to mrs. mcbride. and then she read until her maid came to dress her for dinner. her room was a large one, and numberless modern touches of comfort brought up-to-date the early georgian furniture and the shabby silk hangings. a room stamped with that something which the most luxurious apartments of the wealthiest millionaire can never acquire. josiah looked in upon her as she finished dressing. he was, he said, most pleased with everything, and if they were a little unused to such company, still nothing could be more cordial than sir patrick's treatment of him. meanwhile, on their way up to dress, mildred had gone in to morella's room, and the two had agreed that mrs. brown should be suppressed. it was with extra displeasure miss winmarleigh had learned of theodora's relationship to sir patrick, and that after all she could not be called a common colonial. there was no question about the fitzgerald and borringdon families, unfortunately, while morella's grandfather had been merely a coal merchant. "i don't think she is so wonderfully pretty, do you, mildred?" she said. but mildred was a clever woman, and could see with her eyes. "yes, i do," she answered. "don't be such a fool as to delude yourself about that, morella. she is perfectly lovely, and she has the most deevie paris clothes, and lord bracondale is wildly in love with her." "and apparently freddy wensleydown, too," snapped morella, who was now boiling with rage. "well, she is not likely to enjoy herself here," said mildred, with her vicious laugh, which showed all her splendid, sharp teeth, as she went off to dress, her head full of plans for the interloper's suppression. first she must have a few words with barbara. there must be none of her partisanship. poor, timid barbara would not dare to disobey her, she knew. that settled, she did not fear that she would be able to make theodora suffer considerably during the five days she would be at beechleigh. sir patrick was busy with some new arrivals who had come while they were dressing, so not a soul spoke to theodora or josiah when they got down to the great, white drawing-room, from which immensely high mahogany doors opened into an anteroom hung with priceless tapestry and containing cabinets of rare china. from thence another set of splendid carved doors gave access to the dining-room. neither lord wensleydown or hector was in the room at first, so there was no man even to talk to them. lady ada had not introduced them to any one. and there they stood: josiah ill at ease and uncomfortable, and theodora quite apparently unconscious of neglect, while she looked at a picture. all the younger women were thinking to themselves: "who are these people? we don't want any strangers here--poaching on our preserves. and what perfect clothes! and what pearls! why on earth did ada ask them?" and soon the party was complete, and theodora found herself going in to dinner with her cousin pat, who arrived upon the scene at the very last minute, having come from oxford by a late train. mildred had taken care that neither lord wensleydown or hector should be anywhere near theodora. she had secured lord bracondale for herself, and did her best all through the repast to fascinate him. and while he answered gallantly and paid her the grossest compliments, she knew he was laughing in his sleeve all the time, and it made her venom rise higher and higher. patrick fitzgerald, the younger, was a dissipated, vicious youth, with his mother's faded coloring and none of the fitzgerald charm. how infinitely her father surpassed any of the family she had seen yet, theodora thought. she did not enjoy her dinner. the youth's conversation was not interesting. but it was not until the ladies left the dining-room that her real penance began. it seemed as if all the women crowded to one end of the drawing-room round lady harrowfield, and talked and whispered to one another, not one making way for theodora or showing any knowledge of her presence. barbara had gone off up to her room. she was too frightened of mildred to disobey her, and she felt she would rather not be there to see their hateful ways to the dear, little, gentle cousin whom she thought she could love so much. theodora subsided on a sofa, wondering to herself if these were the manners of the great world in general. she hoped not; but although no human creature could be quite happy under the circumstances, she was not greatly distressed until she distinctly caught the name of "mr. brown" from the woman josiah had taken in amid a burst of laughter, and saw mildred, with a glance at her, ostentatiously suppress the speaker, who then continued her narration in almost a whisper, amid mocking titters of mirth. then anger burned in theodora's gentle soul. they were talking about josiah, of course, and turning him into ridicule. she wondered, what would be the best to do. she was too far away to attempt to join in the conversation, or to be even able to swear she had heard aright, although there was no doubt in her own mind about it. so she sat perfectly still on her great sofa, her hands folded in her lap, while two bright spots of wild rose flushed her cheeks. she did not even pick up a book. there she sat like an alabaster statue, and most of the women were conscious of the exquisitely beautiful picture she made. they could not stand in this packed group all the time, the whole dozen or more of them, and they gradually broke up into twos and threes about the large room. they were delightfully friendly with one another, and all seemed in the best of spirits and tempers. most of them had no ulterior motive in their behavior to theodora; it was merely the feeling that they were not the hostess and responsible. it was none of their business if ada neglected her guests, and they all knew plenty of people and did not care to enlarge their acquaintance gratuitously. so when they came in from the dining-room more than one of the men understood the picture they saw, of the beautiful, little, strange lady seated alone, while the other women chatted together in groups. hector was feeling irritated and excited, and longing to get near theodora. he guessed lord wensleydown would have the same desire, and had no intention of being interfered with. he felt he could not bear to spend an evening watching the little brute daring to lean over her. he should kill him, or commit some violence, he knew. thus prudence, which at another time would have held him--would have made him remember what was best for her among this crowd of hostile women--flew to the winds. he must go to her--must show her he loved and would protect her, and, above all, that he would permit no other man to usurp his place. and theodora, who had been suffering silently a miserable feeling of loneliness and neglect, felt her heart bound with joy at the sight of his loved, familiar face, and she welcomed him more warmly than she had ever done before. "have these demons of women been odious to you, darling?" he whispered, hardly conscious of the term of endearment he had used. "do not mind them; it is only jealousy because you are so beautiful and young." "they have not been anything at all," she said, softly; "they have just left me alone and kept to themselves, and--and laughed at josiah, and that has made me very angry, because--what has he done to them?" "i loathe them all!" said hector. "they are hardly fit to be in the same room with you, dear queen--and if you really belonged to me i would take you away from them now--to-night." his voice was a caress, and that sentence, "belonged to me," always made her heart beat with its pictured possibilities. oh, how she loved him! could anything else in the world really matter while he could sit there and she could feel his presence and hear his tender words? and so they talked awhile, and then they looked up and surveyed the scene. josiah had been joined by sir patrick, and they were earnestly conversing by the fireplace. one or two pairs sat about on the sofas; but the general company showed signs of flocking off to the bridge-tables, which were laid out in another drawing-room beyond. and the couples joined them gradually, until only lord wensleydown and morella winmarleigh remained near and watched them with mocking eyes. hector had never before realized that morella could have so much expression in her face. how could he ever have thought under any conceivable circumstances, even at the end of his life, it would be possible to marry her! how thankful he felt he had never paid her any attention, or from his behavior given color to his mother's hopes. he remembered a fairy story he had read in his youth, where a magic power was given to the hero of discovering what beast each human being was growing into by grasping their hands. and he wondered, if the gift had been his, what he should now find was the destiny of those two in front of him! wensleydown, no doubt, would be a great, sensual goat and morella a vicious mule. and the idea made him laugh as he turned to theodora again, to feast his eyes on her pure loveliness. the crow, who had arrived late and been among the last to enter the drawing-room before dinner, had not yet had an opportunity of speaking to mrs. brown, as he had been dragged off among the first of the bridge-players. presently mildred looked through the door from the room beyond and called: "freddy and morella, come and play; we must have two more to make up the numbers. uncle patrick will bring lord bracondale presently." josiah and theodora did not count at all, it seemed! "what intolerable insolence!" said hector, through his teeth. "i shall not play bridge or stir from here." and lord wensleydown called back: "do give one a moment to digest one's dinner, dear lady mildred. miss winmarleigh does not want to come yet, either. we are very--interested--and happy here." morella tittered and played with her fan. the dull, slow rage was simmering within her. even her vanity could not misinterpret the meaning of hector's devotion to mrs. brown. he was deeply in love, of course, and she, morella, was robbed of her hopes of being lady bracondale. her usually phlegmatic nature was roused in all its narrow strength. she was like some silent, vengeful beast waiting a chance to spring. and so the evening wore away. sir patrick drew josiah into the bridge-room, and made him join one of the tables where they were waiting for a fourth--josiah, who was a very bad player, and did not really care for cards! but luck favored him, and the woman opposite restrained the irritable things she had ready to say to him when she first perceived how he played his hand. and all the while hector sat by theodora, and learned more and more of her fair, clear mind. all the thoughts she had upon every subject he found were just and quaint and in some way illuminating. it was her natural sweetness of nature which made the great charm--that quality which mrs. mcbride had remarked upon, and which every one felt sooner or later. nothing of the ascetic saint or goody _poseuse_. she did not walk about with a book of poems under her arm, and wear floppy clothes and talk about her own and other people's souls. she was just human and true and attractive. theodora had perhaps no religion at all from the orthodox point of view; but had she been a mohommedan or a confucian or a buddhist, she would still have been theodora, full of gentleness and goodness and grace. the entire absence of vanity and self-consciousness in her prevented her from feeling hurt or ruffled even with these ill-mannered women. she thought them rude and unpleasant, but they could not really hurt her except by humiliating josiah. her generosity instantly fired at that. both she and hector perceived that morella and lord wensleydown sat there watching them for no other reason but to disconcert and tease them, and it roused a spirit of resistance in both. while this was going on they would not move. and hector employed the whole of his self-control to keep himself from making actual love to her, and they talked of many things, and she understood and was grateful. presently, apparently, morella could stand it no longer, for she rose rather abruptly and said to lord wensleydown: "come, let us play bridge." they went on into the other room, and theodora and lord bracondale were left quite alone. "i should like to find josiah," said theodora. "shall we not go, too?" and they also followed upon the others' heels. lady ada happened to be out at her table, and some tardy sense of her duties as a hostess came to her, for she crossed over to where theodora stood by the door and made some ordinary remark about hoping it would be fine on the morrow so they could enjoy the gardens. and while she talked and looked into the blue eyes something attracted and softened her. she was very gentle and pretty, after all, the new niece, she decided, and mildred had been quite wrong in saying she was an upstart and must be snubbed. lady ada had a nervous way of blinking her light lashes in a fashion which suggested she might suffer from headache. to theodora she seemed a sad woman, full of cares, and she felt a kindly pity for her and no resentment for her rudeness. mildred looked up, and a frown of annoyance darkened her face. the "creature" should certainly not make a conquest of her hostess if she could help it! it was the first time theodora had ever been into a company of people like this, and her eyes wandered over the scene when lady ada had to go back to her place. "tell me what you are thinking of?" said hector, in her ear. "i was thinking," she answered, "it is so interesting to watch people's faces. it seems to me so queer a way to spend one's time, the whole of one's intelligence set upon a game of cards and a few pieces of money for hours and hours together." "they don't look attractive, do they?" he laughed. "no, they look haggard, and worried, and old," she said. "even the young ones look old and watchful, and so intent and solemn." lady harrowfield had been losing heavily, and a deep mauve shade glowed through all her paint. she was a bad loser, and made all at her table feel some of her chagrin and wrath. in fact, candidates for the light of her smile found it advisable to let her win when things became too unpleasant. there was a dreary silence over the room, broken by the scoring and remarks upon the games, and those who were out wandered into the saloon beyond, where iced drinks of all sorts were awaiting the weary. "every one must enjoy themselves how they can, of course," said theodora. "it is absurd to try and make any one else happy in one's own way, but oh, i hope i shall not have to pass the time like that, ever! i don't think i could bear it." the voices became raised at the table where josiah sat. he had made some gross mistake in the game and his partner was being fretful over it. her complaints amounted to real rudeness when the counting began. she had lost twenty pounds on this rubber, all through his last foolish play, she let it be known. josiah was angry with himself and deeply humiliated. he apologized as well as he could, but to no purpose with the wrathful dame. and theodora slipped behind his chair, and laid her hand upon his shoulder in what was almost a caress, and said, in a sweet and playful voice: "you are a naughty, stupid fellow, josiah, and of course you must pay the losses of both sides to make up for being such a wicked thing," and she patted his shoulders and smiled her gentle smile at the angry lady, as though they were children playing for counters or sweets, and the twenty pounds was a nothing to her husband, as indeed it was not. josiah would cheerfully have paid a hundred to finish the unpleasant scene. he was intensely grateful to her--grateful for her thought for him and for her public caress. and the lady was so surprised at the turn affairs had taken that she said no more, and, allowing him to pay without too great protest, meekly suggested another rubber. but josiah was not to be caught again. he rose, and, saying good-night, followed his wife and lord bracondale into the saloon. xxv after the rain and gloom of the week, sunday dawned gloriously fine. there was to be a polo match on monday in the park, which contained an excellent ground--patrick and his oxford friends against a scratch team. the neighborhood would watch them with interest. but the sunday was for rest and peace, so all the morning the company played croquet, or lay about in hammocks, and more than half of them again began bridge in the great egyptian tent which served as an out-door lounge on the lawn. it was reached from the western side down wide steps from the terrace, and beautiful rose gardens stretched away beyond. theodora had spent a sleepless night. there was no more illusion left to her on the subject of her feelings. she knew that each day, each hour, she was growing more deeply to love hector bracondale. he absorbed her thoughts, he dominated her imagination. he seemed to mean the only thing in life. the situation was impossible, and must end in some way. how could she face the long months with josiah down at their new home, with the feverish hopes and fears of meetings! it was too cruel, too terrible; and she could not lead such a life. she had thought in paris it would be possible, and even afford a certain amount of quiet happiness, if they could be strong enough to remain just friends. but now she knew this was not in human nature. sooner or later fate would land them in some situation of temptation too strong for either to resist--and then--and then--she refused to face that picture. only she writhed as she lay there and buried her face in the fine pillows. she did not permit herself any day-dreams of what might have been. romauld himself, as he took his vows, never fought harder to regain his soul from the keeping of claremonde than did theodora to suppress her love for hector bracondale. towards morning, worn out with fatigue, she fell asleep, and in her dreams, released from the control of her will, she spent moments of passionate bliss in his arms, only to wake and find she must face again the terrible reality. and cruellest thought of all was the thought of josiah. she had so much common-sense she realized the position exactly about him. she had not married him under any false impression. there had been no question of love--she had frankly been bought, and had as frankly detested him. but his illness and suffering had appealed to her tender heart--and afterwards his generosity. he was not unselfish, but, according to his lights, he heaped her with kindness. he could not help being common and ridiculous. and he had paid with solid gold for her, gold to make papa comfortable and happy, and she must fulfil her part of the bargain and remain a faithful wife at all costs. this visit must be the last time she should meet her love. she must tell him, implore him--he who was free and master of his life; he must go away, must promise not to follow her, must help her to do what was right and just. she had no sentimental feeling of personal wickedness now. how could it be wicked to love--to love truly and tenderly? she had not sought love; he had come upon her. it would be wicked to give way to her feelings, to take hector for a lover; but she had no sense of being a wicked woman as things were, any more than if she had badly burned her hand and was suffering deeply from the wound; she would have considered herself wicked for having had the mischance thus to injure herself. she was intensely unhappy, and she was going to try and do what was right. that was all. and god and those kind angels who steered the barks beyond the rocks would perhaps help her. hector for his part, had retired to rest boiling with passion and rage, the subtle, odious insinuations of mildred ringing in his ears. the remembrance of the menace on morella's dull face as she had watched theodora depart, and, above all, wensleydown's behavior as they all said good-night: nothing for him actually to take hold of, and yet enough to convulse him with jealous fury. oh, if she were only his own! no man should dare to look at her like that. but josiah had stood by and not even noticed it. passionate jealousy is not a good foster-parent for prudence. the sunday came, and with it a wild, mad longing to be near her again--never to leave her, to prevent any one else from so much as saying a word. others besides wensleydown had begun to experience the attraction of her beauty and charm. if considerations of wisdom should keep him from her side, he would have the anguish of seeing these others take his place, and that he could not suffer. and as passion in a man rages higher than in the average woman, especially passion when accelerated by the knowledge of another's desire to rob it of its own, so hector's conclusions were not so clear as theodora's. he dared not look ahead. all he was conscious of was the absolute determination to protect her from wensleydown--to keep her for himself. and fate was gathering all the threads together for an inevitable catastrophe, or so it seemed to the crow when the long, exquisite june sunday evening was drawing to a close and he looked back on the day. he would have to report to anne that the two had spent it practically together; that morella had a sullen red look on her face which boded ill for the part she would play, when she should be asked to play some part; that mildred had done her best to render theodora uncomfortable and unhappy, and thus had thrown her more into hector's protection. the other women had been indifferent or mocking or amused, and lady harrowfield had let it be seen she would have no mercy. her comments had been vitriolic. hector and theodora had not gone out of sight, or been any different to the others; only he had never left her, and there could be no mistaking the devotion in his face. for the whole day sir patrick had more or less taken charge of josiah. he was finding him more difficult to manipulate over money matters than he had anticipated. josiah's vulgar, round face and snub nose gave no index to his shrewdness; with his mutton-chop whiskers and bald head, josiah was the personification of the smug grocer. as she went to dress for dinner it seemed to theodora that her heart was breaking. she was only flesh and blood after all, and she, too, had felt her pulses throbbing wildly as they had walked along by the lake, when all the color and lights of the evening helped to excite her imagination and exalt her spirit. they had been almost alone, for the other pair who composed the _partie carrée_ of this walk were several yards ahead of them. each minute she had been on the verge of imploring him to say good-bye--to leave her--to let their lives part, to try to forget, and the words froze on her lips in the passionate, unspoken cry which seemed to rise from her heart that she loved him. oh, she loved him! and so she had not spoken. there had been long silences, and each was growing almost to know the other's thoughts--so near had they become in spirit. when she got to her room her knees were trembling. she fell into a chair and buried her face in her hands. she shivered as if from cold. josiah was almost angry with her for being so late for dinner. theodora hardly realized with whom she went in; she was dazed and numb. she got through it somehow, and this night determined to go straight to her room rather than be treated as she had been the night before. but one of the women whom the intercourse of the day had drawn into conversation with her showed signs of friendliness as they went through the anteroom, and drew her towards a sofa to talk. she was fascinated by theodora's beauty and grace, and wanted to know, too, just where her clothes came from, as she did not recognize absolutely the models of any of the well-known _couturières_, and they were certainly the loveliest garments worn by any one in the party. one person draws another, and soon theodora had three or four around her--all purring and talking frocks. and as she answered their questions with gentle frankness, she wondered what everything meant. did any of them feel--did any of them love passionately as she did?--or were they all dolls more or less bored and getting through life? and would she, too, grow like them in time, and be able to play bridge with interest until the small hours? later some of the party danced in the ballroom, which was beyond the saloon the other way, and now a definite idea came to hector as he held theodora in his arms in the waltz. they could not possibly bear this life. why should he not take her away--away from the smug grocer, and then they could live their life in a dream of bliss in italy, perhaps, and later at bracondale. he had a great position, and people soon forget nowadays. his pulses were bounding with these wild thoughts, born of their nearness and the long hours of strain. to-morrow he would tell her of them, but to-night--they would dance. and theodora felt her very soul melt within her. she was worn out with conflicting emotions. she could not fight with inclination any longer. whatever he should say she would have to listen to--and agree with. she felt almost faint. and so at the end of the first dance she managed to whisper: "hector, i am tired. i shall go to bed." and in truth when he looked at her she was deadly white. she stopped by her husband. "josiah," she said, "will you make my excuses to lady ada and uncle patrick? i do not feel well; i am going to my room." hector's distress was intense. he could not carry her up in his arms as he would have wished, he could not soothe and pet and caress her, or do anything in the world but stand by and see josiah fussing and accompanying her to the stairs and on to her room. she hardly said the word good-night to him, and her very lips were white. wensleydown's face, as he stood with mildred, drove him mad with its mocking leer, and if he had heard their conversation there might have been bloodshed. josiah returned to the saloon, and made his way to the bridge-room to sir patrick and his hostess; but hector still leaned against the door. "he'll probably go out on the terrace and walk in the night by himself," thought the crow, who had watched the scene, "and these dear people will say he has gone to meet her, and it is a ruse her being ill. they could not let such a chance slip, if they are both absent together." so he walked over to hector and engaged him in conversation. hector would have thought of this aspect himself at another time, but to-night he was dazed with passion and pain. "come and smoke a cigar on the terrace, crow," he said. "one wants a little quiet and peace sometimes." and then the crow looked at him with his head on one side in that wise way which had earned for him his sobriquet. "hector, old boy, you know these damned people here and their ways. just keep yourself in evidence, my son," he said, as he walked away. and hector thanked him in his heart, and went across and asked morella to dance. up in her room theodora lay prostrate. she could reason no more--she could only sob in the dark. next day she did not appear until luncheon-time. but the guests at beechleigh always rose when they pleased, and no one remarked her absence even, each pair busy with their own affairs. only barbara crept up to her room to see how she was, and if she wanted anything. theodora wondered why her cousin should have been so changed from the afternoon of their arrival. and barbara longed to tell her. she moved about, and looked out of the window, and admired theodora's beautiful hair spread over the pillows. then she said: "oh, i wish you came here often and mildred didn't. she is a brute, and she hates you for being so beautiful. she made me keep away, you know. do you think me a mean coward?" her poor, plain, timid face was pitiful as she looked at theodora, and to her came the thought of what barbara's life was probably among them all, and she said, gently: "no, indeed, i don't. it was much better for you not to annoy her further; she might have been nastier to me than even she has been. but why don't you stand up for yourself generally? after all, you are uncle patrick's daughter, and she is only your mother's niece." "they both love her far more than they do me," said barbara, with hanging head. and then they talked of other things. barbara adored her home, but her family had no sentiment for it, she told theodora; and pat, she believed, would like to sell the whole thing and gamble away the money. just before luncheon-time, when theodora was dressed and going down, josiah came up again to see her. he had fussed in once or twice before during the morning. this time it was to tell her a special messenger had come from his agent in london to inform him his presence was absolutely necessary there the first thing on tuesday morning. some turn of deep importance to his affairs had transpired during the holiday. so he would go up by an early train. he had settled it all with sir patrick, who, however, would not hear of theodora's leaving. "the party does not break up until wednesday or thursday, and we cannot lose our greatest ornament," he had said. "i do not wish to stay alone," theodora pleaded. "i will come with you, josiah." but josiah was quite cross with her. "nothing of the kind," he said. these people were her own relations, and if he could not leave her with them it was a strange thing! he did not want her in london, and she could join him again at claridge's on thursday. it would give him time to run down to bessington to see that all was ready for her reception. he was so well now he looked forward to a summer of pleasure and peace. "a second honeymoon, my love!" he chuckled, as he kissed her, and would hear no more. and having planted this comforting thought for her consolation he had quitted the room. left alone theodora sank down on the sofa. her trembling limbs refused to support her; she felt cold and sick and faint. a second honeymoon. oh, god! xxvi at luncheon, when theodora descended from her room, the whole party were assembled and already seated at the several little tables. the only vacant place left was just opposite hector. and there they faced each other during the meal, and all the time her eyes reminded him of the wounded fawn again, only they were sadder, if possible, and her face was pinched and pale, not the exquisite natural white of its usual fresh, soft velvet. something clutched at his heart-strings. what extra sorrow had happened to her since last night? what could he do to comfort and protect her? there was only one way--to take her with him out of it all. after the first nine days' wonder, people would forget. it would be an undefended suit when josiah should divorce her, and then he would marry her and have her for his very own. and what would they care for the world's sneers? his whole being was thrilled and exalted with these thoughts; his brain was excited as with strong wine. to have her for his own! even the memory of his mother only caused him a momentary pang. no one could help loving theodora, and she--his mother--would get over it, too, and learn her sweetness and worth. he was wildly happy now that he had made up his mind--so surely can passionate desire block out every other feeling. the guests at their table were all more or less civil. theodora's unassuming manner had disarmed them, and as savage beasts had been charmed of old by orpheus and his lute, so perhaps her gentle voice had soothed this company--the women, of course; there had been no question of the men from the beginning. mildred's programme to make mrs. brown suffer was not having the success her zeal in promoting it deserved. the weather was still glorious, and after lunch the whole party flocked out on the terrace. a terrible nervous fear was dominating theodora. she could not be alone with hector, she did not dare to trust herself. and there would be the to-morrow and the wednesday--without josiah--and the soft warmth of the evenings and the glamour of the nights. oh, everything was too cruel and impossible! and wherever she turned she seemed to see in blazing letters, "a second honeymoon!" the first was a horrible, fearsome memory which was over long ago, but the thought of a second--now that she knew what love meant, and what life with the loved one might mean--oh, it was unbearable--terrible--impossible! better, much better, to die and have done with it all. she kept close to barbara, and when barbara moved she feverishly engaged the crow in conversation--any one--something to save her from any chance of listening to hector's persuasive words. and the crow's kind heart was pained by the hunted expression in her eyes. they seemed to ask for help and sanctuary. "shall we walk down to the polo-field, mrs. brown?" he said, and she gladly acquiesced and started with him. if she had been a practised coquette she could not have done anything more to fan the flame of hector's passion. lady harrowfield had detained him on the top of the steps, and he saw her go off with the crow and was unable to rush after them. and when at last he was free he felt almost drunk with passion. he had learned of josiah's intended departure on the morrow, and that theodora would join him again on the thursday, and his mind was made up. on wednesday night he would take her away with him to italy. she should never belong to josiah any more. she was his in soul and mind already, he knew, and she should be his in body, too, and he would cherish and love and protect her to the end of his life. every detail of his plan matured itself in his brain. it only wanted her consent, and that, when opportunity should be given him to plead his cause, he did not greatly fear would be refused. hitherto he had ever restrained himself when alone with her, had dominated his desire to make love to her; had never once, since paris, given way to passion or tender words during their moments together. but he remembered that hour of bliss on the way from versailles; he remembered how she had thrilled, too, how he had made her feel and respond to his every caress. yes--she was not cold, his white angel! he was playing in the scratch team of the polo match, and the wild excitement of his thoughts, coursing through his blood, caused him to ride like a mad thing. never had he done so brilliantly. and theodora, while she was every now and then convulsed with fear for him, had moments of passionate admiration. the crow remained at her side in the tent. he knew hector would not be jealous of him, and the instinct of the brink of calamity was strong upon him, from the look in theodora's eyes. he used great tact--he turned the conversation to anne and the children, and then to lady bracondale and hector's home, all in a casual, abstract way, and he told her of lady bracondale's great love for her son, and of her hopes that he would marry soon, and how that hector would be the last of his race--for evermond le mesurier did not count--and many little tales about bracondale and its people. it was all done so wisely and well; not in the least as a note of warning. and all he said sank deep into theodora's heart. she had never even dreamed of the plan which was now matured in hector's brain--of going away with him. he, as really a lover, was not for her, that was a foregone conclusion. it was the fear of she knew not what which troubled her. she was too unsophisticated and innocent to really know--only that to be with him now was a continual danger; soon she knew she would not be able to control herself, she must be clasped in his arms. and then--and then--there was the picture in front of her of josiah and the "second honeymoon." thus while she sat there gazing at the man she passionately loved playing polo, she was silently suffering all the anguish of which a woman's heart is capable. the only possible way was to part from hector forever--to say the last good-bye before she should go, like a sheep, to the slaughter. when she was once more the wife of josiah she could never look upon his face again. and if hector had known the prospect that awaited her at bessington hall, it would have driven him--already mad--to frenzy. the day wore on, and still theodora's fears kept her from allowing a tête-à-tête when he dismounted and joined them for tea. but fate had determined otherwise. and as the soft evening came several of the party walked down by the river--which ran on the western side below the rose-gardens and the wood of firs--to see barbara's many breeds of ducks and water-fowl. then hector's determination to be alone with her conquered for the time. theodora found herself strolling with him in a path of meeting willows, with a summer-house at the end, by the water's bank. they were quite separated from the others by now. they, with affairs of their own to pursue, had spread in different directions. and it was evening, and warm, and june. there was a strange, weird silence between them, and both their hearts were beating to suffocation--hers with the thought of the anguish of parting forever, his with the exaltation of the picture of parting no more. they came to the little summer-house, and there they sat down and surveyed the scene. the evening lights were all opalescent on the water, there was peace in the air and brilliant fresh green on the trees, and soft and liquid rose the nightingale's note. so at last hector broke the silence. "darling," he said, "i love you--i love you so utterly this cannot go on. i must have you for my own--" and then, as she gasped, he continued in a torrent of passionate words. he told her of his infinite love for her; of the happiness he would fill her life with; of his plan that they should go away together when she should leave beechleigh; of the joy of their days; of the tender care he would take of her; and every and each sentence ended with a passionate avowal of his love and devotion. then a terrible temptation seized theodora. she had never even dreamed of this ending to the situation; and it would mean no second honeymoon of loathsome hours, but a glorious fulfilment of all possible joy. for one moment the whole world seemed golden with happiness; but it was only of short duration. the next instant she remembered josiah and her given word. no, happiness was not for her. death and sleep were all she could hope for; but she must not even hope for them. she must do what was right, and be true to herself, _advienne que pourra_. and perhaps some angel would give her oblivion or let her drink of lethe, though she should never reach those waters beyond the rocks. he saw the exaltation in her beautiful face as he spoke, and wild joy seized him. then he saw the sudden droop of her whole body and the light die out of her eyes, and in a voice of anguish he implored her: "darling, darling! won't you listen to what i say to you? won't you answer me, and come with me?" "no, hector," she said, and her voice was so low he had to bend closer to hear. he clasped her to his side, he covered her face with kisses, murmuring the tenderest love-words. she did not resist him or seek to escape from his sheltering, strong arms. this was the end of her living life, why should she rob herself of a last joy? she laid her head on his shoulder, and there she whispered in a voice he hardly recognized, so dominated it was by sorrow and pain: "it must be good-bye, beloved; we must not meet. ah! never any more. i have been meaning to say this to you all the day. i cannot bear it either. oh, we must part, and it must end; but oh, not--not in that way!" he tried to persuade her, he pleaded with her, drew pictures of their happiness that surely would be, talked of italy and eternal summer and exquisite pleasure and bliss. and all the time he felt her quiver in his arms and respond to each thought, as her imagination took fire at the beautiful pictures of love and joy. but nothing shook her determination. at last she said: "dearest, if i were different perhaps, stronger and braver, i could go away and live with you like that, and keep it all a glorious thing; but i am not--only a weak creature, and the memory of my broken word, and josiah's sorrow, and your mother's anguish, would kill all joy. we could have blissful moments of forgetfulness, but the great ghost of remorse would chase for me all happiness away. dearest, i love you so; but oh, i could not live, haunted like that; i should just--die." then he knew all hope was over, and the mad passion went out of him, and his arms dropped to his sides as if half life had fled. she looked up in his face in fear at its ghastly whiteness. and at this moment, through the parted willows, there appeared the sullen, mocking eyes of morella winmarleigh. she pushed the bushes aside, and, followed by lord wensleydown, she came towards the summer-house. her slow senses had taken in the scene. hector was evidently very unhappy, she thought, and that hateful woman had been teasing him, no doubt. thus her banal mind read the tragedy of these two human lives. xxvii morella winmarleigh had been taking an evening stroll with lord wensleydown. they had come upon the two in the summer-house quite by accident, but now they had caught them they would stick to them, and make their walk as tiresome as possible, they both decided to themselves. after very great emotion such as hector and theodora had been experiencing, to have this uncongenial and hateful pair as companions was impossible to bear. neither hector or theodora stirred or made room for them on the seat. "isn't this a sweet place, lord wensleydown?" miss winmarleigh said. "why have you never brought me here before? how did you find it, hector?" turning to him in a determined fashion. "you will have to show us the way back, as we are quite lost!" and she giggled irritatingly. "the first turn to the right at the end of the willows," said hector, with what politeness he could summon up, "and i am sure you will be able to get to the house quite safely. as you are in such a hurry, don't let us keep you. mrs. brown and i are going the other way by the river, when we do start." "oh, we are not in a hurry at all," said lord wensleydown. "do come with us, mrs. brown, we are feeling so lonely." theodora rose. she could bear no more of this. "let us go," she said to hector, and they started, leading the way. and for a while they heard the others in mocking titters behind them, but presently, when near the house, they quickened their pace, and were again alone and free from their tormentors. they had not spoken at all in this hateful walk, and now he turned to her. "my darling," he said, "life seems over for me." "and for me, too, hector," she said. "and when we come to this dark piece of wood i want you to kiss me once more and say good-bye forever, and go out of my life." there was a passionate sob in her voice. "and oh! _bien-aimé_, please promise me you will leave to-morrow. do not make it more impossible to bear than it already is." but he was silent with pain. a mad, reckless revolt at fate flooded all his being. it was past eight o'clock now, and when they came to the soothing gloom of the dark firs he crushed her in his arms, and a great sob broke from him and rent her heart. "my darling, my darling! good-bye," he said, brokenly. "you have taught me all that life means; all that it can hold of pleasure and pain. henceforth, it is the gray path of shadows; and oh, god take care of you and grant us some peace." but she was sobbing on his breast and could not speak. "and remember," he went on, "i shall never forget you or cease to worship and adore you. always know you have only to send me a message, a word, and i will come to you and do what you ask, to my last drop of blood. i love you! oh, god! i love you, and you were made for me, and we could have been happy together and glorified the world." then he folded her again in his arms and held her so close it seemed the breath must leave her body, and then they walked on silently, and silently entered the house by the western garden door. the evening was a blank to theodora. she dressed in her satins and laces, and let her maid fasten her wonderful emeralds on throat and breast and hair. she descended to the drawing-room and walked in to dinner with some strange man--all as one in a dream. she answered as an automaton, and the man thought how beautiful she was, and what a pity for so beautiful a woman to be so stupid and silent and dull. "almost wanting," was his last comment to himself as the ladies left the dining-room. then theodora forced herself to speak--to chatter to a now complacent group of women who gathered round her. those emeralds, and the way the diamonds were set round them, proved too strong an attraction for even lady harrowfield to keep far away. she was going to have her rubies remounted, and this seemed just the pattern she would like. so the time passed, and the men came into the room. but hector was not with them. he had found a telegram, it transpired, which had been waiting for him on his return, and it would oblige him to go to bracondale immediately, so he was motoring up to london that night. he had acted his part to the end, and no one guessed he was leaving the best of his life behind him. when theodora realized he was gone she suddenly felt very faint; but she, too, was not of common clay, and breeding will tell in crises of this sort, so she sat up and talked gayly. the evening passed, and at last she was alone for the night. there are moralists who will assure us the knowledge of having done right brings its own consolation. and in good books, about good women, the heroine experiences a sense of peace and satisfaction after having resigned the forbidden joy of her life. but theodora was only a human being, so she spent the night in wild, passionate regret. she had done right with no stern sense of the word "right" written up in front of her, but because she was so true and so sweet that she must keep her word and not betray josiah. she did not analyze anything. life was over for her, whatever came now could only find her numb. by an early train josiah left for london. "take care of yourself, my love," he had said, as he looked in at her door, "and write to me this afternoon as to what train you decide to leave by on thursday." she promised she would, and he departed, thoroughly satisfied with his visit among the great world. the day was spent as the other days, and after lunch theodora escaped to her room. she must write her letter to josiah for the afternoon's post. she had discovered the train left at eleven o'clock. it did not take her long, this little note to her husband, and then she sat and stared into space for a while. the terrible reaction had begun. there was no more excitement, only the flatness, the blank of the days to look forward to, and that unspeakable sense of loss and void. and oh, she had let hector go without one word of her passionate love! she had been too unnerved to answer him when he had said his last good-bye to her in the wood. she seized the pen again which had dropped from her hand. she would write to him. she would tell him her thoughts--in a final farewell. it might comfort him, and herself, too. so she wrote and wrote on, straight out from her heart, then she found she had only just time to take the letters to the hall. she closed hector's with a sigh, and picking up josiah's, already fastened, she ran with them quickly down the stairs. there was an immense pile of correspondence--the accumulation of whitsuntide. the box that usually received it was quite full, and several letters lay about on the table. she placed her two with the rest, and turned to leave the hall. she could not face all the company on the lawn just yet, and went back to her room, meeting morella winmarleigh bringing some of her own to be posted as she passed through the saloon. when miss winmarleigh reached the table curiosity seized her. she guessed what had been theodora's errand. she would like to see her writing and to whom the letters were addressed. no one was about anywhere. all the correspondence was already there, as in five minutes or less the post would go. she had no time to lose, so she picked up the last two envelopes which lay on the top of the pile and read the first: to josiah brown, esq., claridge's hotel, brook street, london, w. and the other: the lord bracondale, bracondale chase, bracondale. "the husband and--the lover!" she said to herself. and a sudden temptation came over her, swift and strong and not to be resisted. here would be revenge--revenge she had always longed for! while her sullen rage had been gathering all these last days. she heard the groom of the chambers approaching to collect the letters; she must decide at once. so she slipped theodora's two missives into her blouse and walked towards the door. "there is another post which goes at seven, isn't there, edgarson?" she asked, "and the letters are delivered in london to-morrow morning just the same?" "yes, ma'am, they arrive by the second post in london," said the man, politely, and she passed on to her room. arrived there, excitement and triumph burned all over her. here, without a chance of detection, she could crush her rival and see her thoroughly punished, and--who knows?--hector might yet be caught in the rebound. she would not hesitate a second. she rang for her maid. "bring me my little kettle and the spirit-lamp. i want to sip some boiling water," she said. "i have indigestion. and then you need not wait--i shall read until tea." she was innocently settled on her sofa with a book when the maid returned. she was a well-bred servant, and silently placed the kettle and glass and left the room noiselessly. morella sprang to her feet with unusual agility. her heavy form was slow of movement as a rule. the door once locked, she returned to the sofa and began operations. the kettle soon boiled, and the steam puffed out and achieved its purpose. the thin, hand-made paper of the envelope curled up, and with no difficulty she opened the flap. hector's letter first and then josiah's. all her pent-up, concentrated rage was having its outlet, and almost joy was animating her being. hector's was a long letter; probably very loving, but that did not concern her. it would be most unladylike to read it, she decided--a sort of thing only the housemaids would do. what she intended was to place them in the wrong envelopes--hector's to josiah, and josiah's to hector. it was a mistake any one might make themselves when they were writing, and theodora, when it should be discovered, could only blame her own supposed carelessness. even if the letter was an innocent one, which was not at all likely. oh, dear, no! she knew the world, however little girls were supposed to understand. she had kept her eyes open, thank goodness; and it would certainly not be an epistle a husband would care to read--a great thing of pages and pages like that. but even if it were innocent, it was bound to cause some trouble and annoyance; and the thought of that was honey and balm to her. she slipped them into the covers she had destined for them and pressed down the damp gum. so all was as it had been to outward appearance, and she felt perfectly happy. then when she descended to tea she placed them securely in the box under some more of her own for the seven-o'clock post, and went her way rejoicing. xxviii next morning, over a rather late breakfast in his sitting-room at claridge's, josiah's second post came in. all had gone well with his business in the city the day before, and in the afternoon he had run down to bessington hall, returning late at night. he was feeling unusually well and self-important, and his thoughts turned to pleasant things: to the delight of having theodora once more as a wife; of his hope of founding a family--the browns of bessington--why not? had not a boy at the gate called him squire? "good-day to 'e, squire," he had said, and that was pleasant to hear. if only his tiresome cough would keep off in the autumn, he might himself shoot the extensive coverts he had ordered to be stocked on the estate. he had heard there were schools for would-be sportsmen to learn the art of handling a gun, and he would make inquiries. all the prospect was fair. he picked up his letters and turned them over. nothing of importance. ah, yes! there was theodora's. the first letter she had ever written him, and such a long one! what could the girl have to say? surely not all that about trains! he opened the envelope with a knife which lay by his plate, and this is what he read--read with whitening face and sinking heart: "beechleigh, _june th_. hector, my beloved!--oh, for this last time i must think of you as that! dearest, we are parted now and may never meet again, and the pain of it all kept me silent yesterday, when my heart was breaking with the anguish and longing to tell you how i loved you, how you were not going away suffering alone. oh, it has all crept upon us, this great, great love! it was fate, and it was useless to struggle against it. only we must not let it be the reason of our doing wrong--that would be to degrade it, and love should not live in an atmosphere of degradation. i could not go away with you, could not have you for my lover without breaking a bargain--a bargain over which i have given my word. of course i did not know what love meant when i was married. in france one does not think of that as connected with a husband. it was just a duty to be got through to help papa and my sisters. but my part of the bargain was myself, and in return for giving that i have money and a home, and papa and sarah and clementine are comfortable and happy. and as josiah has kept his side of it, so i must keep mine, and be faithful to him always in word and deed. dearest, it is too terrible to think of this material aspect to a bond which now i know should only be one of love and faith and tenderness. but it _is_ a bond, and i have given my word, and no happiness could come to us if i should break it, _as josiah has not broken his_. and oh, hector, you do not know how good he has always been to me, and generous and indulgent! it is not his fault that he is not of our class, and i must do my utmost to make him happy, and atone for this wound which i have unwittingly given him, and which he is, and must always remain, unconscious of. oh, if something could have warned me, after that first time we met, that i would love you--had begun to love you--even then there would have been time to draw back, to save us both, perhaps, from suffering. and yet, and yet, i do not know, we might have missed the greatest and noblest good of all our lives. dearest, i want you to keep the memory of me as something happy. each year, when the spring-time comes and the young fresh green, i want you to look back on our day at versailles, and to say to yourself, 'life cannot be all sad, because nature gave the earth the returning spring.' and some spring must come for us, too--if only in our hearts. "and now, o my beloved, good-bye! i cannot even tell to you the anguish which is wringing my heart. it is all summed up in this. i love you! i love you! and we must say forever a farewell! "theodora. "p.s.--i am sending this to your home." as he read the last words the paper slipped from josiah's nerveless hands, and for many minutes he sat as one stricken blind and dumb. then his poor, plebeian figure seemed to crumple up, and with an inarticulate cry of rage and despair he fell forward, with his head upon his out-stretched arms across the breakfast-table. how long he remained there he never knew. it seemed a whole lifetime later when he began to realize things--to know where he was--to remember. "oh, god!" he said. "oh, god!" he picked up the letter and read it all over again, weighing every word. who was this thief who had stolen his wife? hector? hector? yes, it was lord bracondale; he remembered now he had heard him called that at beechleigh. he would like to kill him. but was he a thief, after all? or was not--he--josiah the thief? to have stolen her happiness, and her life. her young life that might have been so fair, though how did he know that at the time! he had never thought of such things. she was what he desired, and he had bought her with gold. no, he was not a thief, he had bought her with gold, and because of that she was going to keep to her bargain, and make him a true and faithful wife. "oh, god!" he said again. "oh, god!" presently the business method of his life came back to him and helped him. he must think this matter over carefully and see if there was any way out. it all looked black enough--his future, that but an hour ago had seemed so full of promise. he rang for the waiter and gave orders to have the breakfast things taken away. that accomplished, he requested that he should not be disturbed upon any pretext whatsoever. and then, drawn up to his writing-table, he began deliberately to think. yes, from the beginning theodora had been good and meek and docile. he remembered a thousand gentle, unselfish things she had done for him. her patience, her kindness, her unfailing sympathy in all his ills, the consideration and respect with which she treated him. when--when could this thing have begun? in paris? only these short weeks ago--was love so sudden a passion as that? then he turned to the letter again and once more read it through. poor theodora, poor little girl, he thought. his anger was gone now; nothing remained but an intolerable pain. and this lord--of her own class--her own class! how that thought hurt. what of him? he was handsome and young, and just the mate for theodora. and she had said good-bye to him, and was going to do her best to make him--josiah--happy. he gave a wild laugh. oh, the mockery of it all, the mockery of it all! well, if she could renounce happiness to keep her word, what could he do for her in return? she must never know of the mistake she had made in putting the letters into the wrong envelopes. that he could save her from. but the man? he would know--for he must have got the note intended for him--josiah. what must be done about that? he thought and thought. and at last he drew a sheet of paper forward and wrote, in his neat, clerklike hand, just a few lines. and these were they: "my lord,--you will have received, i presume, a communication addressed to you and intended for me. the enclosed speaks for itself. i send it to you because it is my duty to do so. if i were a young man, though i am not of your class, i would kill you. but i am growing old, and my day is over. all i ask of you is never, _under any circumstances_, to let my wife know of her mistake about the letters. i do not wish to grieve her, or cause her more suffering than you have already brought upon her. "believe me, "yours faithfully, "josiah brown." then he got down the _peerage_ and found the correct form of superscription he must place upon the envelope. he folded the two letters, his own and theodora's, and, slipping them in, sealed the packet with his great seal which was graven with a deep j.b. and lest he should change his mind, he rang the bell for the waiter, and had it despatched to the post at once--to be sent by express. if possible it must reach lord bracondale at the same time as the other letter--theodora's letter to himself in the wrong envelope. and then poor josiah subsided into his chair again, and suffered and suffered. he was conscious of nothing else--just intense, overwhelming suffering. when his secretary, from his office in the city, came in about luncheon-time to transact some important business, he was horrified and distressed to see the change in his patron; for josiah looked crumpled and shrivelled and old. "i caught a chill coming from bessington last night," he explained, "and i will send for toplington to give me a draught if you will kindly touch the bell." then he tried to concentrate his mind on his affairs and get through the day. but the gray look kept growing and growing, and the secretary decided towards evening to suggest sending for theodora. josiah, however, would not hear of this. he was not ill, he said, it was merely a chill; he would be quite restored by a night's rest, and mrs. brown would be with him, anyway, in the morning. of what use to alarm her unnecessarily. but he had unfortunately mislaid her letter with the exact time of her train, so he had better telegraph to her before six o'clock to make sure. he wrote it out himself. just: "stupidly mislaid your letter. what time did you say for the carriage to meet your train? "josiah." and about eight o'clock her reply came, and then he went to bed, wondering if he had reached the summit of human suffering or if there would be more to come. xxix late that night, in the old panelled library at bracondale, hector walked up and down. he, too, was suffering, suffering intensely, his only grain of comfort being that he was alone. his mother was away in the north with anne, and he had the place to himself. in his hand was theodora's letter. as josiah had calculated, knowing cross-country posts, both his and hers had arrived at the same time. hector paced and paced up and down, his thoughts maddening him. and so three people were unhappy now--not he and his beloved one alone. this was the greater calamity. but how he had misjudged josiah! the common, impossible husband had behaved with a nobility, a justice, and forbearance which he knew his own passionate nature would not have been capable of. it had touched him to the core, and he had written at once in reply, enclosing theodora's letter about the arrival of the train. "dear sir,--i am overcome with your generosity and your justice. i thank you for your letter and for your magnanimity in forwarding the enclosure it contained. i understand and appreciate the sentiment you express when you say, had you been younger you would have killed me, and i on my side would have been happy to offer you any satisfaction you might have wished, and am ready to do so now if you desire it. at the same time, i would like you to know, in deed, i have never injured you. my deep and everlasting grief will be that i have brought pain and sorrow into the life of a lady who is very dear to us both. my own life is darkened forever as well, and i am going away out of england for a long time as soon as i can make my arrangements. i will respect your desire never to inform your wife of her mistake, and i will not trouble either of you again. only, by a later post, i intend to answer her letter and say farewell. "believe me, "yours truly, "bracondale." this he had despatched some hours ago, but his last good-bye to theodora was not yet written. what could he say to her? how could he tell her of all the misery and anguish, all the pain which was racking his being; he, who knew life and most things it could hold, and so could judge of the fact that nothing, nothing, counted now but herself--and they should meet no more, and it was the end. a blank, absolute end to all joy. nothing to exist upon but the remembrance of an hour or two's bliss and a few tender kisses. and as josiah had done, he could only say: "oh, god! oh, god!" on top of his large escritoire there stood a minute and very perfect copy of the fragment of psyche, which he had so intensely admired. he turned to it now as his only consolation; the likeness to theodora was strong; the exact same form of face, and the way her hair grew; the pure line of the cheek, and the angle which the head was set on to the column of her throat--all might have been chiselled from her. how often had he seen her looking down like that. perhaps the only difference at all was that theodora's nose was fine, and not so heavy and greek; otherwise he had her there in front of him--his theodora, his gift of the gods, his psyche, his soul. and wherever he should wander--if in wildest africa or furthest india, in alaska or tibet--this little fragment of white marble should bear him company. it calmed him to look at it--the beautiful greek thing. and he sat down and wrote to his loved one his good-bye. [illustration: what could he say to her.] he told her of his sorrow and his love, and how he was going away from england, he did not yet know where, and should be absent many months, and how forever his thoughts from distant lands would bridge the space between them, and surround her with tenderness and worship. and her letter, he said, should never leave him--her two letters; they should be dearer to him than his life. he prayed her to take care of herself, and if at any time she should want him to send for him from the ends of the earth. bracondale would always find him, sooner or later, and he was hers to order as she willed. and as he had ended his letter before, so he ended this one now: "for ever and ever your devoted "lover." after this he sat a long time and gazed out upon the night. it was very dark and cloudy, but in one space above his head two stars shone forth for a moment in a clear peep of sky, and they seemed to send him a message of hope. what hope? was it, as she had said, the thought that there would be a returning spring--even for them? xxx and the summer wore away and the dripping autumn came, and with each week, each day almost, josiah seemed to shrivel. it was not very noticeable at first, after the ten days of sharp illness which had prostrated him when he received the fatal letter. he appeared to recover almost from that, and they went down to bessington hall at the beginning of july. but there was no further talk of a second honeymoon. theodora's tenderness and devotion never flagged. if her heart was broken she could at least keep her word, and try to make her husband happy. and so each one acted a part, with much zeal for the other's welfare. it was anguish to josiah to see his wife's sweet face grow whiter and thinner; she was so invariably bright and cheerful with him, so considerate of his slightest wish. his pride and affection for her had turned into a sort of adoration as the days wore on. he used to watch her silently from behind a paper, or when she thought he slept. then the mask of smiles fell from her, and he saw the pathetic droop of her young, fair head and the mournful gloom that would creep into her great, blue eyes. and he was the stumbling-block to her happiness. she had sent away the man she loved in order to stay and be true to him, to minister to his wants, and do her utmost to render him happy. oh, what could he do for her in return? what possible thing? he lavished gifts upon her; he lavished gifts upon her sisters, upon her father; their welfare, he remembered, was part of the bargain. at least she would know these--her dear ones--had gained by it, and, so far, her sacrifice had not been in vain. this thought comforted him a little. but the constant gnawing ache at his heart, and the withdrawal of all object to live for, soon began to tell upon his always feeble constitution. of what use was anything at all? his house or his lands! his pride in his position--even his title of "squire," which he often heard now. all were dead-sea fruit, dust and ashes; there never would be any browns of bessington in the years to come. there never would be anything for him, never any more. for a week in september captain and mrs. dominic fitzgerald had paid them a visit, and the brilliant bride had cheered them up for a little and seemed to bring new life with her. she expressed herself as completely satisfied with her purchase in the way of a husband; it was just as she had known, three was a lucky number for her, and dominic was her soul's mate, and they were going to lead the life they both loved, of continual movement and change and gayety. but the situation at bessington distressed her. "why, my dear, they are just like a couple of sick paroquets," she said to her husband. "mr. brown don't look long for this world, and theodora is a shadow! what in the lord's name has been happening to them?" but dominic could not enlighten her. before they left she determined to ascertain for herself. the last evening she said to theodora, who was bidding her good-night in her room: "i had a letter from your friend lord bracondale last week, from alaska. he asks for news of you. did you see him after he came from paris? he was only a short while in england, i understand." "yes, we saw him once or twice," said theodora, "and we made the acquaintance of his sister." "he always seemed to be very fond of her. is she a nice sort of woman?" "very nice." "i hear the mother is clean crazy with him for going off again and not marrying that heiress they are so set upon. but why should he? he don't want the money." "no," said theodora. "was he at beechleigh when you were there?" "yes." "and miss winmarleigh, too?" "yes, she was there." "oh!" said mrs. fitzgerald. "a great lump of a woman, isn't she?" "she is rather large." this was hopeless--a conversation of this sort--jane fitzgerald decided. it told her nothing. theodora's face had become so schooled it did not, even to her step-mother's sharp eyes, betray any emotion. "i am glad if the folly is over," she thought to herself. "but i shouldn't wonder if it wasn't something to do with it still, after all. if it is not that, what can it be?" then she said aloud: "he is going through america, and we shall meet him when we get back in november, most likely. i shall persuade him to come down to florida with us, if i can. he seems to be aimlessly wandering round, i suppose, shooting things; but florida is the loveliest place in the world, and i wish you and josiah would come, too, my dear." "that would be beautiful," said theodora, "but josiah is not fit for a long journey. we shall go to the riviera, most probably, when the weather gets cold." "have you no message for him then, theodora, when i see him?" and now there was some sign. theodora clasped her hands together, and she said in a constrained voice: "yes. tell him i hope he is well--and i am well--just that," and she walked ever to the dressing-table and picked up a brush, and put it down again nervously. "i shall tell him no such thing," said her step-mother, kindly, "because i don't believe it is true. you are not well, dear child, and i am worried about you." but theodora assured her that she was, and all was as it should be, and nothing further could be got out of her; so they kissed and wished each other good-night. and jane fitzgerald, left to herself, heaved a great sigh. next day, after this cheery pair had gone, things seemed to take a deeper gloom. the mention of hector's name and whereabouts had roused theodora's dormant sorrows into activity again; and with all her will and determination to hide her anguish, josiah could perceive an added note of pathos in her voice at times and less and less elasticity in her step. once he would have noticed none of these things, but now each shade of difference in her made its impression upon him. and so the time wore on, their hearts full of an abiding grief. when october set in josiah caught a bad cold, which obliged him to keep to his bed for days and days. he did not seem very ill, and assured his wife he would be all right soon; but by november, sir baldwin evans, who was sent for hurriedly from london, broke it gently to theodora that her husband could not live through the winter. he might not even live for many days. then she wept bitter tears. had she been remiss in anything? what could she do for him? oh, poor josiah! and josiah knew that his day was done, as he lay there in his splendid, silk-curtained bed. but life had become of such small worth to him that he was almost glad. "now, soon she can be happy--my little girl," he said to himself, "with the one of her class. it does not do to mix them, and i was a fool to try. but her heart is too kind ever to quite forget poor old josiah brown." and this thought comforted him. and that night he died. then theodora wept her heart out as she kissed his cold, thin hand. when they got the telegram in new york at mrs. fitzgerald's mansion, hector was just leaving the house, and captain fitzgerald ran after him down the steps. "my son-in-law, josiah brown, is dead," he said. "my wife thought you would be interested to hear. poor fellow, he was not very old either--only fifty-two." hector almost staggered for a moment, and leaned against the gilded balustrade. then he took off his hat reverently, while he said, in his deep, expressive voice: "there lived no greater gentleman." and captain fitzgerald wondered if he were mad or what he could mean, as he watched him stride away down the street. but when he told his wife, she understood, for she had just learned from hector the whole story. and perhaps--who knows? far away in shadowland josiah heard those words, "there lived no greater gentleman." and if he did--they fell like balm on his sad soul. xxxi it was eighteen months after this before they met again--hector and theodora; and now it was may, and the flowers bloomed and the birds sang, and all the world was young and fair--only morella winmarleigh was growing into a bitter old maid. at twenty-eight people might have taken her for a matron of ten years older. she had wondered for weeks what was the result of her action with the letters. she hoped daily to hear of some catastrophe and scandal falling upon the head of theodora. but she heard nothing. it was only after josiah's death that details were wafted to her through the fitzgeralds. how poor mr. brown had never really recovered from a slight stroke he had had on leaving beechleigh, and of theodora's goodness and devotion to him, and of his worship of her. and morella had the maddening feeling that if she had left well alone this death might never have occurred, and her hated rival might not now be a free and beautiful widow, with no impediment between herself and hector when they should choose to meet. she had meant to be revenged and punish them, and it seemed she had only cleared their path to happiness. there was really no justice in this world! theodora had gone to meet her father and step-mother in paris. her sisters were married and very happy, she hoped. prosperity had wonderfully embellished their attractions, and even sarah had found a mate. and lady bracondale remained her placid, stately self. her grief and disappointment over hector's departure from england had passed away by now, as so had her treasured dream of receiving morella winmarleigh as a daughter. but anne whispered to her that she need not worry forever, and some day soon her brother might choose a bride whom even she would love. hector had continued his wanderings over the world for many months after josiah's death. he felt, should he return to england, nothing could keep him from theodora. and she, too, had travelled and explored fresh scenes, and was now a supremely beautiful and experienced woman--courted and flattered, and besieged by many adorers. but she was still theodora, with only one love in her heart and one dream in her soul--to meet hector again and spend the rest of her life in the shelter of his arms. she heard of him often through her step-mother; and sometimes she saw anne--and both hector and she understood, and knew the time would come when they could be happy. jane anastasia fitzgerald had romantic notions. this pretty pair, whom she looked upon as of her own producing, must meet again under her auspices in like circumstances as they had done on the happy and never-to-be-forgotten day when she herself had promised her heart and hand to dominic fitzgerald. "there is something lucky about versailles," she said, "and they shall experience it, too!" so she planned a picnic, and arranged it with hector before he reached paris. he was not to show himself or communicate with theodora; he was just to be there at the réservoirs and wait for their arrival. and the gods smiled--and the day was fine--and the trees were green--as had been another day, two years ago. and oh, the wild, mad joy that surged up in their hearts when their eyes met once more! they could not speak, it seemed, even the words of politeness; so they wandered away into the spring woods, silent and glad; and it was not until they reached the shrine of old enceladus that hector clasped theodora again in his arms, and gave rein to all the passionate love and delirious happiness which was flooding his being. there one can leave them--together--for always--looking out upon the realization of that fair dream of life. safe in each other's arms, in those smooth waters, beyond the rocks. the end * * * * * a beautifully illustrated edition of three weeks the famous romantic novel by elinor glyn now ready at the same price as "beyond the rocks" the world has felt upon its hot lips the perfumed kisses of the beautiful heroine of "three weeks." the brilliant flame that was her life has blazed a path into every corner of the globe. it is a world-renowned novel of consuming emotion that has made the name of its author, elinor glyn, the most discussed of all writers of modern fiction. what the critics have said about it percival pollard in _town topics_: "it is a book to make one forget that the world is gray. be as sad, as sane as you like, for all the other days of your life, but steal one mad day, i adjure you, and read 'three weeks.'" _the western christian advocate_: "the power and beauty of its descriptions and the pathos of its scenes are undeniable." _the brooklyn eagle_: "a cleverly told tale, full of dainty sentiment, of poetic dreaming and dramatic incident." _the san francisco argonaut_: "we feel inclined to throw at her (the heroine) neither stones nor laurels, but rather to congratulate the author upon a powerful story that lays a grip upon the mind and heart." _the detroit free press_: "no wonder that 'three weeks' is one of the best sellers." +they were alone....+ the magic of the desert night had closed about them. cairo, friends,--civilization as she knew it--were left far behind. she, an unbeliever, was in the heart of the trackless wastes with a man whose word was more than law. and yet, he was her slave! "i shall ask nothing of you until you shall love me," he promised. "you shall draw your curtains, and until you call, you shall go undisturbed." and she believed him! do you want to see luxury beyond your imagination to conjure,--feel the softness of silks finer than the gossamer web of the spider--hear the night voices of the throbbing desert, or sway to the jolting of the clanking caravan? egypt, arabia pass before your eyes. the impatient cursing of the camel men comes to your ears. your nostrils quiver in the acrid smoke of the little fires of dung that flare in the darkness when the caravan halts. the night has shut off prying eyes. yashmaks are lowered. white flesh gleams against burnished bands of gold. the children of allah are at home. and the promise he had given her?... let joan conquest, who knows and loves the east, tell you in +desert love+ _for sale wherever books are sold, or from_ +the macaulay company+ +publishers+ + - w. th st.+ +new york+ _+"i have owned a hundred women!"+_ he answered defiantly. the girl recoiled as from a blow. was this man who paraded his conquests before her the same one who had feasted so freely on her lips that moonlit night in grand canary? she was his prisoner now. he had stolen her and brought her to his stronghold in the desert. her father was also a captive. pansy langham's life had crashed in ruins about her. what good were her millions now? the mask had been removed. raoul le-breton was the sultan casim el ammeh!--a mohammedan! and yet she wanted no man's kisses but his. love for him consumed her, but race and religion stood between them. little did she guess that the arab had foreseen this minute, that he had trailed her father, sir george for fifteen years. the englishman, a captain at the time, had killed his father. casim el ammeh had not forgotten. revenge was his at last! he had intended having his way with her and then selling her as a slave--a fate more cruel than a white man could conceive. but love--an emotion an arab scoffs at--had come to thwart him. was he to forego his oath of an eye for an eye, or open the doors of his harem and seek forgetfulness? _read_ +a son of the sahara+ +by louise gerard+ who gives you the real thrill of the great desert _for sale wherever books are sold or from_ +the macaulay company+ +publishers+ + - w. th street+ +new york+ +famous novels by victoria cross+ +life's shop window+ it tears the garments of conventionality from woman, presenting her as she must appear to the divine eye. +hilda against the world+ fancy a married man, denied divorce by law, falling desperately in love with a charming maiden waiting for love. +a girl of the klondike+ a stirring story of love, intrigue and adventure, woven about a proud, reckless heroine. +six women+ a half-dozen of the most vivid love stories that ever lit up the dusk of a tired civilization. +the night of temptation+ the self-sacrifice of woman in love. regina, the heroine, gives herself to a man for his own sake. the world, however, exacts a severe price for her unconventional conduct. +six chapters of a man's life+ a bold, brilliant, defiant presentation of the relations of men and women who find themselves in situations never before conceived. +to-morrow+ a daring innovation of great strength and almost photographic intensity, that appeals to the lovers of sensational fiction; wise, witty, yet touchingly pathetic. +daughters of heaven+ as life cannot be described, but must be lived, so this book cannot be revealed--it must be read. its daring situations and tense moments will thrill you. +over life's edge+ no one but victoria cross could have written this thrilling tale of a girl who left the gayeties of london to dwell in a lonely cavern until the man, who loved her with the passion of impetuous youth, found her. +the life sentence+ a beautifully written story, full of life, nature, passion and pathos. the weaknesses of a proud, cultured woman lead to a strange climax. +the macaulay company+ + - west th street+ +new york+ +send for free illustrated catalog+ the tales of chekhov volume love and other stories by anton tchekhov translated by constance garnett contents love lights a story without an end mari d'elle a living chattel the doctor too early! the cossack aborigines an inquiry martyrs the lion and the sun a daughter of albion choristers nerves a work of art a joke a country cottage a blunder fat and thin the death of a government clerk a pink stocking at a summer villa love "three o'clock in the morning. the soft april night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. i can't sleep, i am so happy! "my whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. i can't analyse it just now--i haven't the time, i'm too lazy, and there--hang analysis! why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? is he in a state to do it?" this was more or less how i began my love-letter to sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom i had fallen in love. i began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. i spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel i had to write to order. and it was not because i tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because i wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's study and communes with one's own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one's window. between the lines i saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as i. i wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if i turned my eyes away i had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. through that trellis sasha gazed at me after i had said goodbye to her. when i was saying good-bye to sasha i was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when i saw through the trellis two big eyes, i suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that i was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that i had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities. it is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one's hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. there are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. the town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. he is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between. if the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. i, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as i gazed at it i reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings. i beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain. well, to facts. . . . next morning at midday, sasha's maid brought me the following answer: "i am delited be sure to come to us to day please i shall expect you. your s." not a single comma. this lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word "delighted," the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. in the sprawling but diffident handwriting i recognised sasha's walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips. . . . but the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. in the first place, poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should i go to sasha's house to wait till it should occur to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? it would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one's raptures simply because of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. i sent an answer by the maid asking sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. my suggestion was readily accepted. i had struck the right chord, as the saying is. between four and five o'clock in the afternoon i made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. there was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don't like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound--if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. when i went up to sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back i could read a devilish lot of mystery. it seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: hush! . . . the girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape. to add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil. not to spoil the effect, i had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper. from what i remember now, i was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows. . . . there was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any ivan sidoritch or sidor ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. how is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? whether the love is "the real thing" or not? from the park i took sasha home with me. the presence of the beloved woman in one's bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. you make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it. fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac's words. sasha listened to me with attention, but i soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. the future of which i talked interested her only in its external aspect and i was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. she was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why i had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. she examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something. "please collect old stamps for me!" she said, making a grave face. "please do." then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it. "why don't you stick little labels on the backs of your books?" she asked, taking a look at the bookcase. "what for?" "oh, so that each book should have its number. and where am i to put my books? i've got books too, you know." "what books have you got?" i asked. sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said: "all sorts." and if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: "all sorts." later i saw sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. if the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, i maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. an engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can't be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom i have mentioned above. every day as soon as i had a free moment i hastened to my fiancée. as i went i usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. i always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door i should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. but it always turned out otherwise in fact. every time i went to see my fiancée i found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (and by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles' worth of things). there was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. bugles scrunched under one's feet. the two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out sasha's little head with a thread between her teeth. all the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where i could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold. in spite of my feelings, i had to sit in the dining-room and converse with pimenovna, one of the poor relations. sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object. "wait, wait, i shan't be a minute," she would say when i raised imploring eyes to her. "only fancy that wretch stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!" and after waiting in vain for this grace, i lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane i had bought. or i would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol. "oh, we are going to the arcade," she would say. "we have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat." my outing is knocked on the head. i join the ladies and go with them to the arcade. it is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. i felt ashamed when sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble's worth. when they came out of the shop, sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on. yes, it is a bore to be engaged! i'm glad it's over. now i am married. it is evening. i am sitting in my study reading. behind me on the sofa sasha is sitting munching something noisily. i want a glass of beer. "sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . ." i say. "it's lying about somewhere." sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence. . . . five minutes pass--ten. . . i begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation. "sasha, do look for the corkscrew," i say. sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. her munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other. . . . i get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. at last it is found and the beer is uncorked. sasha remains by the table and begins telling me something at great length. "you'd better read something, sasha," i say. she takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips . . . . i look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought. "she is getting on for twenty. . . ." i reflect. "if one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! the boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence." but i forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. i remember in my old lovelace days i have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now i forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; i forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though sasha's mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. the explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, i really don't know. lights the dog was barking excitedly outside. and ananyev the engineer, his assistant called von schtenberg, and i went out of the hut to see at whom it was barking. i was the visitor, and might have remained indoors, but i must confess my head was a little dizzy from the wine i had drunk, and i was glad to get a breath of fresh air. "there is nobody here," said ananyev when we went out. "why are you telling stories, azorka? you fool!" there was not a soul in sight. "the fool," azorka, a black house-dog, probably conscious of his guilt in barking for nothing and anxious to propitiate us, approached us, diffidently wagging his tail. the engineer bent down and touched him between his ears. "why are you barking for nothing, creature?" he said in the tone in which good-natured people talk to children and dogs. "have you had a bad dream or what? here, doctor, let me commend to your attention," he said, turning to me, "a wonderfully nervous subject! would you believe it, he can't endure solitude--he is always having terrible dreams and suffering from nightmares; and when you shout at him he has something like an attack of hysterics." "yes, a dog of refined feelings," the student chimed in. azorka must have understood that the conversation was concerning him. he turned his head upwards and grinned plaintively, as though to say, "yes, at times i suffer unbearably, but please excuse it!" it was an august night, there were stars, but it was dark. owing to the fact that i had never in my life been in such exceptional surroundings, as i had chanced to come into now, the starry night seemed to me gloomy, inhospitable, and darker than it was in reality. i was on a railway line which was still in process of construction. the high, half-finished embankment, the mounds of sand, clay, and rubble, the holes, the wheel-barrows standing here and there, the flat tops of the mud huts in which the workmen lived--all this muddle, coloured to one tint by the darkness, gave the earth a strange, wild aspect that suggested the times of chaos. there was so little order in all that lay before me that it was somehow strange in the midst of the hideously excavated, grotesque-looking earth to see the silhouettes of human beings and the slender telegraph posts. both spoiled the ensemble of the picture, and seemed to belong to a different world. it was still, and the only sound came from the telegraph wire droning its wearisome refrain somewhere very high above our heads. we climbed up on the embankment and from its height looked down upon the earth. a hundred yards away where the pits, holes, and mounds melted into the darkness of the night, a dim light was twinkling. beyond it gleamed another light, beyond that a third, then a hundred paces away two red eyes glowed side by side--probably the windows of some hut--and a long series of such lights, growing continually closer and dimmer, stretched along the line to the very horizon, then turned in a semicircle to the left and disappeared in the darkness of the distance. the lights were motionless. there seemed to be something in common between them and the stillness of the night and the disconsolate song of the telegraph wire. it seemed as though some weighty secret were buried under the embankment and only the lights, the night, and the wires knew of it. "how glorious, o lord!" sighed ananyev; "such space and beauty that one can't tear oneself away! and what an embankment! it's not an embankment, my dear fellow, but a regular mont blanc. it's costing millions. . . ." going into ecstasies over the lights and the embankment that was costing millions, intoxicated by the wine and his sentimental mood, the engineer slapped von schtenberg on the shoulder and went on in a jocose tone: "well, mihail mihailitch, lost in reveries? no doubt it is pleasant to look at the work of one's own hands, eh? last year this very spot was bare steppe, not a sight of human life, and now look: life . . . civilisation. . . and how splendid it all is, upon my soul! you and i are building a railway, and after we are gone, in another century or two, good men will build a factory, a school, a hospital, and things will begin to move! eh!" the student stood motionless with his hands thrust in his pockets, and did not take his eyes off the lights. he was not listening to the engineer, but was thinking, and was apparently in the mood in which one does not want to speak or to listen. after a prolonged silence he turned to me and said quietly: "do you know what those endless lights are like? they make me think of something long dead, that lived thousands of years ago, something like the camps of the amalekites or the philistines. it is as though some people of the old testament had pitched their camp and were waiting for morning to fight with saul or david. all that is wanting to complete the illusion is the blare of trumpets and sentries calling to one another in some ethiopian language." and, as though of design, the wind fluttered over the line and brought a sound like the clank of weapons. a silence followed. i don't know what the engineer and the student were thinking of, but it seemed to me already that i actually saw before me something long dead and even heard the sentry talking in an unknown tongue. my imagination hastened to picture the tents, the strange people, their clothes, their armour. "yes," muttered the student pensively, "once philistines and amalekites were living in this world, making wars, playing their part, and now no trace of them remains. so it will be with us. now we are making a railway, are standing here philosophising, but two thousand years will pass--and of this embankment and of all those men, asleep after their hard work, not one grain of dust will remain. in reality, it's awful!" "you must drop those thoughts . . ." said the engineer gravely and admonishingly. "why?" "because. . . . thoughts like that are for the end of life, not for the beginning of it. you are too young for them." "why so?" repeated the student. "all these thoughts of the transitoriness, the insignificance and the aimlessness of life, of the inevitability of death, of the shadows of the grave, and so on, all such lofty thoughts, i tell you, my dear fellow, are good and natural in old age when they come as the product of years of inner travail, and are won by suffering and really are intellectual riches; for a youthful brain on the threshold of real life they are simply a calamity! a calamity!" ananyev repeated with a wave of his hand. "to my mind it is better at your age to have no head on your shoulders at all than to think on these lines. i am speaking seriously, baron. and i have been meaning to speak to you about it for a long time, for i noticed from the very first day of our acquaintance your partiality for these damnable ideas!" "good gracious, why are they damnable?" the student asked with a smile, and from his voice and his face i could see that he asked the question from simple politeness, and that the discussion raised by the engineer did not interest him in the least. i could hardly keep my eyes open. i was dreaming that immediately after our walk we should wish each other good-night and go to bed, but my dream was not quickly realised. when we had returned to the hut the engineer put away the empty bottles and took out of a large wicker hamper two full ones, and uncorking them, sat down to his work-table with the evident intention of going on drinking, talking, and working. sipping a little from his glass, he made pencil notes on some plans and went on pointing out to the student that the latter's way of thinking was not what it should be. the student sat beside him checking accounts and saying nothing. he, like me, had no inclination to speak or to listen. that i might not interfere with their work, i sat away from the table on the engineer's crooked-legged travelling bedstead, feeling bored and expecting every moment that they would suggest i should go to bed. it was going on for one o'clock. having nothing to do, i watched my new acquaintances. i had never seen ananyev or the student before. i had only made their acquaintance on the night i have described. late in the evening i was returning on horseback from a fair to the house of a landowner with whom i was staying, had got on the wrong road in the dark and lost my way. going round and round by the railway line and seeing how dark the night was becoming, i thought of the "barefoot railway roughs," who lie in wait for travellers on foot and on horseback, was frightened, and knocked at the first hut i came to. there i was cordially received by ananyev and the student. as is usually the case with strangers casually brought together, we quickly became acquainted, grew friendly and at first over the tea and afterward over the wine, began to feel as though we had known each other for years. at the end of an hour or so, i knew who they were and how fate had brought them from town to the far-away steppe; and they knew who i was, what my occupation and my way of thinking. nikolay anastasyevitch ananyev, the engineer, was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man, and, judging from his appearance, he had, like othello, begun the "descent into the vale of years," and was growing rather too stout. he was just at that stage which old match-making women mean when they speak of "a man in the prime of his age," that is, he was neither young nor old, was fond of good fare, good liquor, and praising the past, panted a little as he walked, snored loudly when he was asleep, and in his manner with those surrounding him displayed that calm imperturbable good humour which is always acquired by decent people by the time they have reached the grade of a staff officer and begun to grow stout. his hair and beard were far from being grey, but already, with a condescension of which he was unconscious, he addressed young men as "my dear boy" and felt himself entitled to lecture them good-humouredly about their way of thinking. his movements and his voice were calm, smooth, and self-confident, as they are in a man who is thoroughly well aware that he has got his feet firmly planted on the right road, that he has definite work, a secure living, a settled outlook. . . . his sunburnt, thicknosed face and muscular neck seemed to say: "i am well fed, healthy, satisfied with myself, and the time will come when you young people too, will be well-fed, healthy, and satisfied with yourselves. . . ." he was dressed in a cotton shirt with the collar awry and in full linen trousers thrust into his high boots. from certain trifles, as for instance, from his coloured worsted girdle, his embroidered collar, and the patch on his elbow, i was able to guess that he was married and in all probability tenderly loved by his wife. baron von schtenberg, a student of the institute of transport, was a young man of about three or four and twenty. only his fair hair and scanty beard, and, perhaps, a certain coarseness and frigidity in his features showed traces of his descent from barons of the baltic provinces; everything else--his name, mihail mihailovitch, his religion, his ideas, his manners, and the expression of his face were purely russian. wearing, like ananyev, a cotton shirt and high boots, with his round shoulders, his hair left uncut, and his sunburnt face, he did not look like a student or a baron, but like an ordinary russian workman. his words and gestures were few, he drank reluctantly without relish, checked the accounts mechanically, and seemed all the while to be thinking of something else. his movements and voice were calm, and smooth too, but his calmness was of a different kind from the engineer's. his sunburnt, slightly ironical, dreamy face, his eyes which looked up from under his brows, and his whole figure were expressive of spiritual stagnatio--mental sloth. he looked as though it did not matter to him in the least whether the light were burning before him or not, whether the wine were nice or nasty, and whether the accounts he was checking were correct or not. . . . and on his intelligent, calm face i read: "i don't see so far any good in definite work, a secure living, and a settled outlook. it's all nonsense. i was in petersburg, now i am sitting here in this hut, in the autumn i shall go back to petersburg, then in the spring here again. . . . what sense there is in all that i don't know, and no one knows. . . . and so it's no use talking about it. . . ." he listened to the engineer without interest, with the condescending indifference with which cadets in the senior classes listen to an effusive and good-natured old attendant. it seemed as though there were nothing new to him in what the engineer said, and that if he had not himself been too lazy to talk, he would have said something newer and cleverer. meanwhile ananyev would not desist. he had by now laid aside his good-humoured, jocose tone and spoke seriously, even with a fervour which was quite out of keeping with his expression of calmness. apparently he had no distaste for abstract subjects, was fond of them, indeed, but had neither skill nor practice in the handling of them. and this lack of practice was so pronounced in his talk that i did not always grasp his meaning at once. "i hate those ideas with all my heart!" he said, "i was infected by them myself in my youth, i have not quite got rid of them even now, and i tell you--perhaps because i am stupid and such thoughts were not the right food for my mind--they did me nothing but harm. that's easy to understand! thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of the insignificance and transitoriness of the visible world, solomon's 'vanity of vanities' have been, and are to this day, the highest and final stage in the realm of thought. the thinker reaches that stage and--comes to a halt! there is nowhere further to go. the activity of the normal brain is completed with this, and that is natural and in the order of things. our misfortune is that we begin thinking at that end. what normal people end with we begin with. from the first start, as soon as the brain begins working independently, we mount to the very topmost, final step and refuse to know anything about the steps below." "what harm is there in that?" said the student. "but you must understand that it's abnormal," shouted ananyev, looking at him almost wrathfully. "if we find means of mounting to the topmost step without the help of the lower ones, then the whole long ladder, that is the whole of life, with its colours, sounds, and thoughts, loses all meaning for us. that at your age such reflections are harmful and absurd, you can see from every step of your rational independent life. let us suppose you sit down this minute to read darwin or shakespeare, you have scarcely read a page before the poison shows itself; and your long life, and shakespeare, and darwin, seem to you nonsense, absurdity, because you know you will die, that shakespeare and darwin have died too, that their thoughts have not saved them, nor the earth, nor you, and that if life is deprived of meaning in that way, all science, poetry, and exalted thoughts seem only useless diversions, the idle playthings of grown up people; and you leave off reading at the second page. now, let us suppose that people come to you as an intelligent man and ask your opinion about war, for instance: whether it is desirable, whether it is morally justifiable or not. in answer to that terrible question you merely shrug your shoulders and confine yourself to some commonplace, because for you, with your way of thinking, it makes absolutely no difference whether hundreds of thousands of people die a violent death, or a natural one: the results are the same--ashes and oblivion. you and i are building a railway line. what's the use, one may ask, of our worrying our heads, inventing, rising above the hackneyed thing, feeling for the workmen, stealing or not stealing, when we know that this railway line will turn to dust within two thousand years, and so on, and so on. . . . you must admit that with such a disastrous way of looking at things there can be no progress, no science, no art, nor even thought itself. we fancy that we are cleverer than the crowd, and than shakespeare. in reality our thinking leads to nothing because we have no inclination to go down to the lower steps and there is nowhere higher to go, so our brain stands at the freezing point--neither up nor down; i was in bondage to these ideas for six years, and by all that is holy, i never read a sensible book all that time, did not gain a ha'porth of wisdom, and did not raise my moral standard an inch. was not that disastrous? moreover, besides being corrupted ourselves, we bring poison into the lives of those surrounding us. it would be all right if, with our pessimism, we renounced life, went to live in a cave, or made haste to die, but, as it is, in obedience to the universal law, we live, feel, love women, bring up children, construct railways!" "our thoughts make no one hot or cold," the student said reluctantly. "ah! there you are again!--do stop it! you have not yet had a good sniff at life. but when you have lived as long as i have you will know a thing or two! our theory of life is not so innocent as you suppose. in practical life, in contact with human beings, it leads to nothing but horrors and follies. it has been my lot to pass through experiences which i would not wish a wicked tatar to endure." "for instance?" i asked. "for instance?" repeated the engineer. he thought a minute, smiled and said: "for instance, take this example. more correctly, it is not an example, but a regular drama, with a plot and a dénouement. an excellent lesson! ah, what a lesson!" he poured out wine for himself and us, emptied his glass, stroked his broad chest with his open hands, and went on, addressing himself more to me than to the student. "it was in the year --, soon after the war, and when i had just left the university. i was going to the caucasus, and on the way stopped for five days in the seaside town of n. i must tell you that i was born and grew up in that town, and so there is nothing odd in my thinking n. extraordinarily snug, cosy, and beautiful, though for a man from petersburg or moscow, life in it would be as dreary and comfortless as in any tchuhloma or kashira. with melancholy i passed by the high school where i had been a pupil; with melancholy i walked about the very familiar park, i made a melancholy attempt to get a nearer look at people i had not seen for a long time--all with the same melancholy. "among other things, i drove out one evening to the so-called quarantine. it was a small mangy copse in which, at some forgotten time of plague, there really had been a quarantine station, and which was now the resort of summer visitors. it was a drive of three miles from the town along a good soft road. as one drove along one saw on the left the blue sea, on the right the unending gloomy steppe; there was plenty of air to breathe, and wide views for the eyes to rest on. the copse itself lay on the seashore. dismissing my cabman, i went in at the familiar gates and first turned along an avenue leading to a little stone summer-house which i had been fond of in my childhood. in my opinion that round, heavy summer-house on its clumsy columns, which combined the romantic charm of an old tomb with the ungainliness of a sobakevitch,* was the most poetical nook in the whole town. it stood at the edge above the cliff, and from it there was a splendid view of the sea. *a character in gogol's _dead souls.--translator's note._ "i sat down on the seat, and, bending over the parapet, looked down. a path ran from the summer-house along the steep, almost overhanging cliff, between the lumps of clay and tussocks of burdock. where it ended, far below on the sandy shore, low waves were languidly foaming and softly purring. the sea was as majestic, as infinite, and as forbidding as seven years before when i left the high school and went from my native town to the capital; in the distance there was a dark streak of smoke--a steamer was passing--and except for this hardly visible and motionless streak and the sea-swallows that flitted over the water, there was nothing to give life to the monotonous view of sea and sky. to right and left of the summer-house stretched uneven clay cliffs. "you know that when a man in a melancholy mood is left _tête-à-tête_ with the sea, or any landscape which seems to him grandiose, there is always, for some reason, mixed with melancholy, a conviction that he will live and die in obscurity, and he reflectively snatches up a pencil and hastens to write his name on the first thing that comes handy. and that, i suppose, is why all convenient solitary nooks like my summer-house are always scrawled over in pencil or carved with penknives. i remember as though it were to-day; looking at the parapet i read: 'ivan korolkov, may , .' beside korolkov some local dreamer had scribbled freely, adding: "'he stood on the desolate ocean's strand, while his soul was filled with imaginings grand.' and his handwriting was dreamy, limp like wet silk. an individual called kross, probably an insignificant, little man, felt his unimportance so deeply that he gave full licence to his penknife and carved his name in deep letters an inch high. i took a pencil out of my pocket mechanically, and i too scribbled on one of the columns. all that is irrelevant, however. . . you must forgive me--i don't know how to tell a story briefly. "i was sad and a little bored. boredom, the stillness, and the purring of the sea gradually brought me to the line of thought we have been discussing. at that period, towards the end of the 'seventies, it had begun to be fashionable with the public, and later, at the beginning of the 'eighties, it gradually passed from the general public into literature, science, and politics. i was no more than twenty-six at the time, but i knew perfectly well that life was aimless and had no meaning, that everything was a deception and an illusion, that in its essential nature and results a life of penal servitude in sahalin was not in any way different from a life spent in nice, that the difference between the brain of a kant and the brain of a fly was of no real significance, that no one in this world is righteous or guilty, that everything was stuff and nonsense and damn it all! i lived as though i were doing a favour to some unseen power which compelled me to live, and to which i seemed to say: 'look, i don't care a straw for life, but i am living!' i thought on one definite line, but in all sorts of keys, and in that respect i was like the subtle gourmand who could prepare a hundred appetising dishes from nothing but potatoes. there is no doubt that i was one-sided and even to some extent narrow, but i fancied at the time that my intellectual horizon had neither beginning nor end, and that my thought was as boundless as the sea. well, as far as i can judge by myself, the philosophy of which we are speaking has something alluring, narcotic in its nature, like tobacco or morphia. it becomes a habit, a craving. you take advantage of every minute of solitude to gloat over thoughts of the aimlessness of life and the darkness of the grave. while i was sitting in the summer-house, greek children with long noses were decorously walking about the avenues. i took advantage of the occasion and, looking at them, began reflecting in this style: "'why are these children born, and what are they living for? is there any sort of meaning in their existence? they grow up, without themselves knowing what for; they will live in this god-forsaken, comfortless hole for no sort of reason, and then they will die. . . .' "and i actually felt vexed with those children because they were walking about decorously and talking with dignity, as though they did not hold their little colourless lives so cheap and knew what they were living for. . . . i remember that far away at the end of an avenue three feminine figures came into sight. three young ladies, one in a pink dress, two in white, were walking arm-in-arm, talking and laughing. looking after them, i thought: "'it wouldn't be bad to have an affair with some woman for a couple of days in this dull place.' "i recalled by the way that it was three weeks since i had visited my petersburg lady, and thought that a passing love affair would come in very appropriately for me just now. the young lady in white in the middle was rather younger and better looking than her companions, and judging by her manners and her laugh, she was a high-school girl in an upper form. i looked, not without impure thoughts, at her bust, and at the same time reflected about her: 'she will be trained in music and manners, she will be married to some greek--god help us!--will lead a grey, stupid, comfortless life, will bring into the world a crowd of children without knowing why, and then will die. an absurd life!' "i must say that as a rule i was a great hand at combining my lofty ideas with the lowest prose. "thoughts of the darkness of the grave did not prevent me from giving busts and legs their full due. our dear baron's exalted ideas do not prevent him from going on saturdays to vukolovka on amatory expeditions. to tell the honest truth, as far as i remember, my attitude to women was most insulting. now, when i think of that high-school girl, i blush for my thoughts then, but at the time my conscience was perfectly untroubled. i, the son of honourable parents, a christian, who had received a superior education, not naturally wicked or stupid, felt not the slightest uneasiness when i paid women _blutgeld_, as the germans call it, or when i followed high-school girls with insulting looks. . . . the trouble is that youth makes its demands, and our philosophy has nothing in principle against those demands, whether they are good or whether they are loathsome. one who knows that life is aimless and death inevitable is not interested in the struggle against nature or the conception of sin: whether you struggle or whether you don't, you will die and rot just the same. . . . secondly, my friends, our philosophy instils even into very young people what is called reasonableness. the predominance of reason over the heart is simply overwhelming amongst us. direct feeling, inspiration--everything is choked by petty analysis. where there is reasonableness there is coldness, and cold people--it's no use to disguise it--know nothing of chastity. that virtue is only known to those who are warm, affectionate, and capable of love. thirdly, our philosophy denies the significance of each individual personality. it's easy to see that if i deny the personality of some natalya stepanovna, it's absolutely nothing to me whether she is insulted or not. to-day one insults her dignity as a human being and pays her _blutgeld_, and next day thinks no more of her. "so i sat in the summer-house and watched the young ladies. another woman's figure appeared in the avenue, with fair hair, her head uncovered and a white knitted shawl on her shoulders. she walked along the avenue, then came into the summer-house, and taking hold of the parapet, looked indifferently below and into the distance over the sea. as she came in she paid no attention to me, as though she did not notice me. i scrutinised her from foot to head (not from head to foot, as one scrutinises men) and found that she was young, not more than five-and-twenty, nice-looking, with a good figure, in all probability married and belonging to the class of respectable women. she was dressed as though she were at home, but fashionably and with taste, as ladies are, as a rule, in n. "'this one would do nicely,' i thought, looking at her handsome figure and her arms; 'she is all right. . . . she is probably the wife of some doctor or schoolmaster. . . .' "but to make up to her--that is, to make her the heroine of one of those impromptu affairs to which tourists are so prone--was not easy and, indeed, hardly possible. i felt that as i gazed at her face. the way she looked, and the expression of her face, suggested that the sea, the smoke in the distance, and the sky had bored her long, long ago, and wearied her sight. she seemed to be tired, bored, and thinking about something dreary, and her face had not even that fussy, affectedly indifferent expression which one sees in the face of almost every woman when she is conscious of the presence of an unknown man in her vicinity. "the fair-haired lady took a bored and passing glance at me, sat down on a seat and sank into reverie, and from her face i saw that she had no thoughts for me, and that i, with my petersburg appearance, did not arouse in her even simple curiosity. but yet i made up my mind to speak to her, and asked: 'madam, allow me to ask you at what time do the waggonettes go from here to the town?' "'at ten or eleven, i believe. . . .'" "i thanked her. she glanced at me once or twice, and suddenly there was a gleam of curiosity, then of something like wonder on her passionless face. . . . i made haste to assume an indifferent expression and to fall into a suitable attitude; she was catching on! she suddenly jumped up from the seat, as though something had bitten her, and examining me hurriedly, with a gentle smile, asked timidly: "'oh, aren't you ananyev?' "'yes, i am ananyev,' i answered. "'and don't you recognise me? no?' "i was a little confused. i looked intently at her, and--would you believe it?--i recognised her not from her face nor her figure, but from her gentle, weary smile. it was natalya stepanovna, or, as she was called, kisotchka, the very girl i had been head over ears in love with seven or eight years before, when i was wearing the uniform of a high-school boy. the doings of far, vanished days, the days of long ago. . . . i remember this kisotchka, a thin little high-school girl of fifteen or sixteen, when she was something just for a schoolboy's taste, created by nature especially for platonic love. what a charming little girl she was! pale, fragile, light--she looked as though a breath would send her flying like a feather to the skies--a gentle, perplexed face, little hands, soft long hair to her belt, a waist as thin as a wasp's--altogether something ethereal, transparent like moonlight--in fact, from the point of view of a high-school boy a peerless beauty. . . . wasn't i in love with her! i did not sleep at night. i wrote verses. . . . sometimes in the evenings she would sit on a seat in the park while we schoolboys crowded round her, gazing reverently; in response to our compliments, our sighing, and attitudinising, she would shrink nervously from the evening damp, screw up her eyes, and smile gently, and at such times she was awfully like a pretty little kitten. as we gazed at her every one of us had a desire to caress her and stroke her like a cat, hence her nickname of kisotchka. "in the course of the seven or eight years since we had met, kisotchka had greatly changed. she had grown more robust and stouter, and had quite lost the resemblance to a soft, fluffy kitten. it was not that her features looked old or faded, but they had somehow lost their brilliance and looked sterner, her hair seemed shorter, she looked taller, and her shoulders were quite twice as broad, and what was most striking, there was already in her face the expression of motherliness and resignation commonly seen in respectable women of her age, and this, of course, i had never seen in her before. . . . in short, of the school-girlish and the platonic her face had kept the gentle smile and nothing more. . . . "we got into conversation. learning that i was already an engineer, kisotchka was immensely delighted. "'how good that is!' she said, looking joyfully into my face. 'ah, how good! and how splendid you all are! of all who left with you, not one has been a failure--they have all turned out well. one an engineer, another a doctor, a third a teacher, another, they say, is a celebrated singer in petersburg. . . . you are all splendid, all of you. . . . ah, how good that is!' "kisotchka's eyes shone with genuine goodwill and gladness. she was admiring me like an elder sister or a former governess. 'while i looked at her sweet face and thought, it wouldn't be bad to get hold of her to-day!' "'do you remember, natalya stepanovna,' i asked her, 'how i once brought you in the park a bouquet with a note in it? you read my note, and such a look of bewilderment came into your face. . . .' "'no, i don't remember that,' she said, laughing. 'but i remember how you wanted to challenge florens to a duel over me. . . .' "'well, would you believe it, i don't remember that. . . .' "'well, that's all over and done with . . .' sighed kisotchka. 'at one time i was your idol, and now it is my turn to look up to all of you. . . .' "from further conversation i learned that two years after leaving the high school, kisotchka had been married to a resident in the town who was half greek, half russian, had a post either in the bank or in the insurance society, and also carried on a trade in corn. he had a strange surname, something in the style of populaki or skarandopulo. . . . goodness only knows--i have forgotten. . . . as a matter of fact, kisotchka spoke little and with reluctance about herself. the conversation was only about me. she asked me about the college of engineering, about my comrades, about petersburg, about my plans, and everything i said moved her to eager delight and exclamations of, 'oh, how good that is!' "we went down to the sea and walked over the sands; then when the night air began to blow chill and damp from the sea we climbed up again. all the while our talk was of me and of the past. we walked about until the reflection of the sunset had died away from the windows of the summer villas. "'come in and have some tea,' kisotchka suggested. 'the samovar must have been on the table long ago. . . . i am alone at home,' she said, as her villa came into sight through the green of the acacias. 'my husband is always in the town and only comes home at night, and not always then, and i must own that i am so dull that it's simply deadly.' "i followed her in, admiring her back and shoulders. i was glad that she was married. married women are better material for temporary love affairs than girls. i was also pleased that her husband was not at home. at the same time i felt that the affair would not come off. . . . "we went into the house. the rooms were smallish and had low ceilings, and the furniture was typical of the summer villa (russians like having at their summer villas uncomfortable heavy, dingy furniture which they are sorry to throw away and have nowhere to put), but from certain details i could observe that kisotchka and her husband were not badly off, and must be spending five or six thousand roubles a year. i remember that in the middle of the room which kisotchka called the dining-room there was a round table, supported for some reason on six legs, and on it a samovar and cups. at the edge of the table lay an open book, a pencil, and an exercise book. i glanced at the book and recognised it as 'malinin and burenin's arithmetical examples.' it was open, as i now remember, at the 'rules of compound interest.' "'to whom are you giving lessons?' i asked kisotchka. "'nobody,' she answered. 'i am just doing some. . . . i have nothing to do, and am so bored that i think of the old days and do sums.' "'have you any children?' "'i had a baby boy, but he only lived a week.' "we began drinking tea. admiring me, kisotchka said again how good it was that i was an engineer, and how glad she was of my success. and the more she talked and the more genuinely she smiled, the stronger was my conviction that i should go away without having gained my object. i was a connoisseur in love affairs in those days, and could accurately gauge my chances of success. you can boldly reckon on success if you are tracking down a fool or a woman as much on the look out for new experiences and sensations as yourself, or an adventuress to whom you are a stranger. if you come across a sensible and serious woman, whose face has an expression of weary submission and goodwill, who is genuinely delighted at your presence, and, above all, respects you, you may as well turn back. to succeed in that case needs longer than one day. "and by evening light kisotchka seemed even more charming than by day. she attracted me more and more, and apparently she liked me too, and the surroundings were most appropriate: the husband not at home, no servants visible, stillness around. . . . though i had little confidence in success, i made up my mind to begin the attack anyway. first of all it was necessary to get into a familiar tone and to change kisotchka's lyrically earnest mood into a more frivolous one. "'let us change the conversation, natalya stepanovna,' i began. 'let us talk of something amusing. first of all, allow me, for the sake of old times, to call you kisotchka.' "she allowed me. "'tell me, please, kisotchka,' i went on, 'what is the matter with all the fair sex here. what has happened to them? in old days they were all so moral and virtuous, and now, upon my word, if one asks about anyone, one is told such things that one is quite shocked at human nature. . . . one young lady has eloped with an officer; another has run away and carried off a high-school boy with her; another--a married woman--has run away from her husband with an actor; a fourth has left her husband and gone off with an officer, and so on and so on. it's a regular epidemic! if it goes on like this there won't be a girl or a young woman left in your town!' "i spoke in a vulgar, playful tone. if kisotchka had laughed in response i should have gone on in this style: 'you had better look out, kisotchka, or some officer or actor will be carrying you off!' she would have dropped her eyes and said: 'as though anyone would care to carry me off; there are plenty younger and better looking . . . .' and i should have said: 'nonsense, kisotchka--i for one should be delighted!' and so on in that style, and it would all have gone swimmingly. but kisotchka did not laugh in response; on the contrary, she looked grave and sighed. "'all you have been told is true,' she said. 'my cousin sonya ran away from her husband with an actor. of course, it is wrong. . . . everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him, but i do not condemn them or blame them. . . . circumstances are sometimes too strong for anyone!' "'that is so, kisotchka, but what circumstances can produce a regular epidemic?' "'it's very simple and easy to understand,' replied kisotchka, raising her eyebrows. 'there is absolutely nothing for us educated girls and women to do with ourselves. not everyone is able to go to the university, to become a teacher, to live for ideas, in fact, as men do. they have to be married. . . . and whom would you have them marry? you boys leave the high-school and go away to the university, never to return to your native town again, and you marry in petersburg or moscow, while the girls remain. . . . to whom are they to be married? why, in the absence of decent cultured men, goodness knows what sort of men they marry--stockbrokers and such people of all kinds, who can do nothing but drink and get into rows at the club. . . . a girl married like that, at random. . . . and what is her life like afterwards? you can understand: a well-educated, cultured woman is living with a stupid, boorish man; if she meets a cultivated man, an officer, an actor, or a doctor--well, she gets to love him, her life becomes unbearable to her, and she runs away from her husband. and one can't condemn her!' "'if that is so, kisotchka, why get married?' i asked. "'yes, of course,' said kisotchka with a sigh, 'but you know every girl fancies that any husband is better than nothing. . . . altogether life is horrid here, nikolay anastasyevitch, very horrid! life is stifling for a girl and stifling when one is married. . . . here they laugh at sonya for having run away from her husband, but if they could see into her soul they would not laugh. . . .'" azorka began barking outside again. he growled angrily at some one, then howled miserably and dashed with all his force against the wall of the hut. . . . ananyev's face was puckered with pity; he broke off his story and went out. for two minutes he could be heard outside comforting his dog. "good dog! poor dog!" "our nikolay anastasyevitch is fond of talking," said von schtenberg, laughing. "he is a good fellow," he added after a brief silence. returning to the hut, the engineer filled up our glasses and, smiling and stroking his chest, went on: "and so my attack was unsuccessful. there was nothing for it, i put off my unclean thoughts to a more favourable occasion, resigned myself to my failure and, as the saying is, waved my hand. what is more, under the influence of kisotchka's voice, the evening air, and the stillness, i gradually myself fell into a quiet sentimental mood. i remember i sat in an easy chair by the wide-open window and glanced at the trees and darkened sky. the outlines of the acacias and the lime trees were just the same as they had been eight years before; just as then, in the days of my childhood, somewhere far away there was the tinkling of a wretched piano, and the public had just the same habit of sauntering to and fro along the avenues, but the people were not the same. along the avenues there walked now not my comrades and i and the object of my adoration, but schoolboys and young ladies who were strangers. and i felt melancholy. when to my inquiries about acquaintances i five times received from kisotchka the answer, 'he is dead,' my melancholy changed into the feeling one has at the funeral service of a good man. and sitting there at the window, looking at the promenading public and listening to the tinkling piano, i saw with my own eyes for the first time in my life with what eagerness one generation hastens to replace another, and what a momentous significance even some seven or eight years may have in a man's life! "kisotchka put a bottle of red wine on the table. i drank it off, grew sentimental, and began telling a long story about something or other. kisotchka listened as before, admiring me and my cleverness. and time passed. the sky was by now so dark that the outlines of the acacias and lime trees melted into one, the public was no longer walking up and down the avenues, the piano was silent and the only sound was the even murmur of the sea. "young people are all alike. be friendly to a young man, make much of him, regale him with wine, let him understand that he is attractive and he will sit on and on, forget that it is time to go, and talk and talk and talk. . . . his hosts cannot keep their eyes open, it's past their bedtime, and he still stays and talks. that was what i did. once i chanced to look at the clock; it was half-past ten. i began saying good-bye. "'have another glass before your walk,' said kisotchka. "i took another glass, again i began talking at length, forgot it was time to go, and sat down. then there came the sound of men's voices, footsteps and the clank of spurs. "'i think my husband has come in . . . .' said kisotchka listening. "the door creaked, two voices came now from the passage and i saw two men pass the door that led into the dining-room: one a stout, solid, dark man with a hooked nose, wearing a straw hat, and the other a young officer in a white tunic. as they passed the door they both glanced casually and indifferently at kisotchka and me, and i fancied both of them were drunk. "'she told you a lie then, and you believed her!' we heard a loud voice with a marked nasal twang say a minute later. 'to begin with, it wasn't at the big club but at the little one.' "'you are angry, jupiter, so you are wrong . . . .' said another voice, obviously the officer's, laughing and coughing. 'i say, can i stay the night? tell me honestly, shall i be in your way?' "'what a question! not only you can, but you must. what will you have, beer or wine?' "they were sitting two rooms away from us, talking loudly, and apparently feeling no interest in kisotchka or her visitor. a perceptible change came over kisotchka on her husband's arrival. at first she flushed red, then her face wore a timid, guilty expression; she seemed to be troubled by some anxiety, and i began to fancy that she was ashamed to show me her husband and wanted me to go. "i began taking leave. kisotchka saw me to the front door. i remember well her gentle mournful smile and kind patient eyes as she pressed my hand and said: "'most likely we shall never see each other again. well, god give you every blessing. thank you!' "not one sigh, not one fine phrase. as she said good-bye she was holding the candle in her hand; patches of light danced over her face and neck, as though chasing her mournful smile. i pictured to myself the old kisotchka whom one used to want to stroke like a cat, i looked intently at the present kisotchka, and for some reason recalled her words: 'everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him.' and i had a pang at my heart. i instinctively guessed how it was, and my conscience whispered to me that i, in my happiness and indifference, was face to face with a good, warm-hearted, loving creature, who was broken by suffering. "i said good-bye and went to the gate. by now it was quite dark. in the south the evenings draw in early in july and it gets dark rapidly. towards ten o'clock it is so dark that you can't see an inch before your nose. i lighted a couple of dozen matches before, almost groping, i found my way to the gate. "'cab!' i shouted, going out of the gate; not a sound, not a sigh in answer. . . . 'cab,' i repeated, 'hey, cab!' "but there was no cab of any description. the silence of the grave. i could hear nothing but the murmur of the drowsy sea and the beating of my heart from the wine. lifting my eyes to the sky i found not a single star. it was dark and sullen. evidently the sky was covered with clouds. for some reason i shrugged my shoulders, smiling foolishly, and once more, not quite so resolutely, shouted for a cab. "the echo answered me. a walk of three miles across open country and in the pitch dark was not an agreeable prospect. before making up my mind to walk, i spent a long time deliberating and shouting for a cab; then, shrugging my shoulders, i walked lazily back to the copse, with no definite object in my mind. it was dreadfully dark in the copse. here and there between the trees the windows of the summer villas glowed a dull red. a raven, disturbed by my steps and the matches with which i lighted my way to the summer-house, flew from tree to tree and rustled among the leaves. i felt vexed and ashamed, and the raven seemed to understand this, and croaked 'krrra!' i was vexed that i had to walk, and ashamed that i had stayed on at kisotchka's, chatting like a boy. "i made my way to the summer-house, felt for the seat and sat down. far below me, behind a veil of thick darkness, the sea kept up a low angry growl. i remember that, as though i were blind, i could see neither sky nor sea, nor even the summer-house in which i was sitting. and it seemed to me as though the whole world consisted only of the thoughts that were straying through my head, dizzy from the wine, and of an unseen power murmuring monotonously somewhere below. and afterwards, as i sank into a doze, it began to seem that it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, and that the whole world consisted of nothing but me. and concentrating the whole world in myself in this way, i thought no more of cabs, of the town, and of kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation i was so fond of: that is, the sensation of fearful isolation when you feel that in the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist. it is a proud, demoniac sensation, only possible to russians whose thoughts and sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as their plains, their forests, and their snow. if i had been an artist i should certainly have depicted the expression of a russian's face when he sits motionless and, with his legs under him and his head clasped in his hands, abandons himself to this sensation. . . . and together with this sensation come thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of death, and of the darkness of the grave. . . . the thoughts are not worth a brass farthing, but the expression of face must be fine. . . . "while i was sitting and dozing, unable to bring myself to get up--i was warm and comfortable--all at once, against the even monotonous murmur of the sea, as though upon a canvas, sounds began to grow distinct which drew my attention from myself. . . . someone was coming hurriedly along the avenue. reaching the summer-house this someone stopped, gave a sob like a little girl, and said in the voice of a weeping child: 'my god, when will it all end! merciful heavens!' "judging from the voice and the weeping i took it to be a little girl of ten or twelve. she walked irresolutely into the summer-house, sat down, and began half-praying, half-complaining aloud. . . . "'merciful god!' she said, crying, 'it's unbearable. it's beyond all endurance! i suffer in silence, but i want to live too. . . . oh, my god! my god!' "and so on in the same style. "i wanted to look at the child and speak to her. so as not to frighten her i first gave a loud sigh and coughed, then cautiously struck a match. . . . there was a flash of bright light in the darkness, which lighted up the weeping figure. it was kisotchka!" "marvels upon marvels!" said von schtenberg with a sigh. "black night, the murmur of the sea; she in grief, he with a sensation of world--solitude. . . . it's too much of a good thing. . . . you only want circassians with daggers to complete it." "i am not telling you a tale, but fact." "well, even if it is a fact . . . it all proves nothing, and there is nothing new in it. . . ." "wait a little before you find fault! let me finish," said ananyev, waving his hand with vexation; "don't interfere, please! i am not telling you, but the doctor. . . . well," he went on, addressing me and glancing askance at the student who bent over his books and seemed very well satisfied at having gibed at the engineer--"well, kisotchka was not surprised or frightened at seeing me. it seemed as though she had known beforehand that she would find me in the summer-house. she was breathing in gasps and trembling all over as though in a fever, while her tear-stained face, so far as i could distinguish it as i struck match after match, was not the intelligent, submissive weary face i had seen before, but something different, which i cannot understand to this day. it did not express pain, nor anxiety, nor misery--nothing of what was expressed by her words and her tears. . . . i must own that, probably because i did not understand it, it looked to me senseless and as though she were drunk. "'i can't bear it,' muttered kisotchka in the voice of a crying child. 'it's too much for me, nikolay anastasyitch. forgive me, nikolav anastasyitch. i can't go on living like this. . . . i am going to the town to my mother's. . . . take me there. . . . take me there, for god's sake!' "in the presence of tears i can neither speak nor be silent. i was flustered and muttered some nonsense trying to comfort her. "'no, no; i will go to my mother's,' said kisotchka resolutely, getting up and clutching my arm convulsively (her hands and her sleeves were wet with tears). 'forgive me, nikolay anastasyitch, i am going. . . . i can bear no more. . . .' "'kisotchka, but there isn't a single cab,' i said. 'how can you go?' "'no matter, i'll walk. . . . it's not far. i can't bear it. . . .' "i was embarrassed, but not touched. kisotchka's tears, her trembling, and the blank expression of her face suggested to me a trivial, french or little russian melodrama, in which every ounce of cheap shallow feeling is washed down with pints of tears. "i didn t understand her, and knew i did not understand her; i ought to have been silent, but for some reason, most likely for fear my silence might be taken for stupidity, i thought fit to try to persuade her not to go to her mother's, but to stay at home. when people cry, they don't like their tears to be seen. and i lighted match after match and went on striking till the box was empty. what i wanted with this ungenerous illumination, i can't conceive to this day. cold-hearted people are apt to be awkward, and even stupid. "in the end kisotchka took my arm and we set off. going out of the gate, we turned to the right and sauntered slowly along the soft dusty road. it was dark. as my eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness, i began to distinguish the silhouettes of the old gaunt oaks and lime trees which bordered the road. the jagged, precipitous cliffs, intersected here and there by deep, narrow ravines and creeks, soon showed indistinctly, a black streak on the right. low bushes nestled by the hollows, looking like sitting figures. it was uncanny. i looked sideways suspiciously at the cliffs, and the murmur of the sea and the stillness of the country alarmed my imagination. kisotchka did not speak. she was still trembling, and before she had gone half a mile she was exhausted with walking and was out of breath. i too was silent. "three-quarters of a mile from the quarantine station there was a deserted building of four storeys, with a very high chimney in which there had once been a steam flour mill. it stood solitary on the cliff, and by day it could be seen for a long distance, both by sea and by land. because it was deserted and no one lived in it, and because there was an echo in it which distinctly repeated the steps and voices of passers-by, it seemed mysterious. picture me in the dark night arm-in-arm with a woman who was running away from her husband near this tall long monster which repeated the sound of every step i took and stared at me fixedly with its hundred black windows. a normal young man would have been moved to romantic feelings in such surroundings, but i looked at the dark windows and thought: 'all this is very impressive, but time will come when of that building and of kisotchka and her troubles and of me with my thoughts, not one grain of dust will remain. . . . all is nonsense and vanity. . . .' "when we reached the flour mill kisotchka suddenly stopped, took her arm out of mine, and said, no longer in a childish voice, but in her own: "'nikolay anastasvitch, i know all this seems strange to you. but i am terribly unhappy! and you cannot even imagine how unhappy! it's impossible to imagine it! i don't tell you about it because one can't talk about it. . . . such a life, such a life! . . .' "kisotchka did not finish. she clenched her teeth and moaned as though she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain. "'such a life!' she repeated with horror, with the cadence and the southern, rather ukrainian accent which particularly in women gives to emotional speech the effect of singing. 'it is a life! ah, my god, my god! what does it mean? oh, my god, my god!' "as though trying to solve the riddle of her fate, she shrugged her shoulders in perplexity, shook her head, and clasped her hands. she spoke as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded me of a celebrated little russian actress. "'great god, it is as though i were in a pit,' she went on. 'if one could live for one minute in happiness as other people live! oh, my god, my god! i have come to such disgrace that before a stranger i am running away from my husband by night, like some disreputable creature! can i expect anything good after that?' "as i admired her movements and her voice, i began to feel annoyed that she was not on good terms with her husband. 'it would be nice to have got on into relations with her!' flitted through my mind; and this pitiless thought stayed in my brain, haunted me all the way and grew more and more alluring. "about a mile from the flour mill we had to turn to the left by the cemetery. at the turning by the corner of the cemetery there stood a stone windmill, and by it a little hut in which the miller lived. we passed the mill and the hut, turned to the left and reached the gates of the cemetery. there kisotchka stopped and said: "'i am going back, nikolay anastasyitch! you go home, and god bless you, but i am going back. i am not frightened.' "'well, what next!' i said, disconcerted. 'if you are going, you had better go!' "'i have been too hasty. . . . it was all about nothing that mattered. you and your talk took me back to the past and put all sort of ideas into my head. . . . i was sad and wanted to cry, and my husband said rude things to me before that officer, and i could not bear it. . . . and what's the good of my going to the town to my mother's? will that make me any happier? i must go back. . . . but never mind . . . let us go on,' said kisotchka, and she laughed. 'it makes no difference!' "i remembered that over the gate of the cemetery there was an inscription: 'the hour will come wherein all they that lie in the grave will hear the voice of the son of god.' i knew very well that sooner or later i and kisotchka and her husband and the officer in the white tunic would lie under the dark trees in the churchyard; i knew that an unhappy and insulted fellow-creature was walking beside me. all this i recognised distinctly, but at the same time i was troubled by an oppressive and unpleasant dread that kisotchka would turn back, and that i should not manage to say to her what had to be said. never at any other time in my life have thoughts of a higher order been so closely interwoven with the basest animal prose as on that night. . . . it was horrible! "not far from the cemetery we found a cab. when we reached the high street, where kisotchka's mother lived, we dismissed the cab and walked along the pavement. kisotchka was silent all the while, while i looked at her, and i raged at myself, 'why don't you begin? now's the time!' about twenty paces from the hotel where i was staying, kisotchka stopped by the lamp-post and burst into tears. "'nikolay anastasyitch!' she said, crying and laughing and looking at me with wet shining eyes, 'i shall never forget your sympathy . . . . how good you are! all of you are so splendid--all of you! honest, great-hearted, kind, clever. . . . ah, how good that is!' "she saw in me a highly educated man, advanced in every sense of the word, and on her tear-stained laughing face, together with the emotion and enthusiasm aroused by my personality, there was clearly written regret that she so rarely saw such people, and that god had not vouchsafed her the bliss of being the wife of one of them. she muttered, 'ah, how splendid it is!' the childish gladness on her face, the tears, the gentle smile, the soft hair, which had escaped from under the kerchief, and the kerchief itself thrown carelessly over her head, in the light of the street lamp reminded me of the old kisotchka whom one had wanted to stroke like a kitten. "i could not restrain myself, and began stroking her hair, her shoulders, and her hands. "'kisotchka, what do you want?' i muttered. 'i'll go to the ends of the earth with you if you like! i will take you out of this hole and give you happiness. i love you. . . . let us go, my sweet? yes? will you?' "kisotchka's face was flooded with bewilderment. she stepped back from the street lamp and, completely overwhelmed, gazed at me with wide-open eyes. i gripped her by the arm, began showering kisses on her face, her neck, her shoulders, and went on making vows and promises. in love affairs vows and promises are almost a physiological necessity. there's no getting on without them. sometimes you know you are lying and that promises are not necessary, but still you vow and protest. kisotchka, utterly overwhelmed, kept staggering back and gazing at me with round eyes. "'please don't! please don't!' she muttered, holding me off with her hands. "i clasped her tightly in my arms. all at once she broke into hysterical tears. and her face had the same senseless blank expression that i had seen in the summer-house when i lighted the matches. without asking her consent, preventing her from speaking, i dragged her forcibly towards my hotel. she seemed almost swooning and did not walk, but i took her under the arms and almost carried her. . . . i remember, as we were going up the stairs, some man with a red band in his cap looked wonderingly at me and bowed to kisotchka. . . ." ananyev flushed crimson and paused. he walked up and down near the table in silence, scratched the back of his head with an air of vexation, and several times shrugged his shoulders and twitched his shoulder-blades, while a shiver ran down his huge back. the memory was painful and made him ashamed, and he was struggling with himself. "it's horrible!" he said, draining a glass of wine and shaking his head. "i am told that in every introductory lecture on women's diseases the medical students are admonished to remember that each one of them has a mother, a sister, a fiancée, before undressing and examining a female patient. . . . that advice would be very good not only for medical students but for everyone who in one way or another has to deal with a woman's life. now that i have a wife and a little daughter, oh, how well i understand that advice! how i understand it, my god! you may as well hear the rest, though. . . . as soon as she had become my mistress, kisotchka's view of the position was very different from mine. first of all she felt for me a deep and passionate love. what was for me an ordinary amatory episode was for her an absolute revolution in her life. i remember, it seemed to me that she had gone out of her mind. happy for the first time in her life, looking five years younger, with an inspired enthusiastic face, not knowing what to do with herself for happiness, she laughed and cried and never ceased dreaming aloud how next day we would set off for the caucasus, then in the autumn to petersburg; how we would live afterwards. "'don't worry yourself about my husband,' she said to reassure me. 'he is bound to give me a divorce. everyone in the town knows that he is living with the elder kostovitch. we will get a divorce and be married.' "when women love they become acclimatised and at home with people very quickly, like cats. kisotchka had only spent an hour and a half in my room when she already felt as though she were at home and was ready to treat my property as though it were her own. she packed my things in my portmanteau, scolded me for not hanging my new expensive overcoat on a peg instead of flinging it on a chair, and so on. "i looked at her, listened, and felt weariness and vexation. i was conscious of a slight twinge of horror at the thought that a respectable, honest, and unhappy woman had so easily, after some three or four hours, succumbed to the first man she met. as a respectable man, you see, i didn't like it. then, too, i was unpleasantly impressed by the fact that women of kisotchka's sort, not deep or serious, are too much in love with life, and exalt what is in reality such a trifle as love for a man to the level of bliss, misery, a complete revolution in life. . . . moreover, now that i was satisfied, i was vexed with myself for having been so stupid as to get entangled with a woman whom i should have to deceive. and in spite of my disorderly life i must observe that i could not bear telling lies. "i remember that kisotchka sat down at my feet, laid her head on my knees, and, looking at me with shining, loving eyes, asked: "'kolya, do you love me? very, very much?' "and she laughed with happiness. . . . this struck me as sentimental, affected, and not clever; and meanwhile i was already inclined to look for 'depth of thought' before everything. "'kisotchka, you had better go home,' i said, or else your people will be sure to miss you and will be looking for you all over the town; and it would be awkward for you to go to your mother in the morning.' "kisotchka agreed. at parting we arranged to meet at midday next morning in the park, and the day after to set off together to pyatigorsk. i went into the street to see her home, and i remember that i caressed her with genuine tenderness on the way. there was a minute when i felt unbearably sorry for her, for trusting me so implicitly, and i made up my mind that i would really take her to pyatigorsk, but remembering that i had only six hundred roubles in my portmanteau, and that it would be far more difficult to break it off with her in the autumn than now, i made haste to suppress my compassion. "we reached the house where kisotchka's mother lived. i pulled at the bell. when footsteps were heard at the other side of the door kisotchka suddenly looked grave, glanced upwards to the sky, made the sign of the cross over me several times and, clutching my hand, pressed it to her lips. "'till to-morrow,' she said, and disappeared into the house. "i crossed to the opposite pavement and from there looked at the house. at first the windows were in darkness, then in one of the windows there was the glimmer of the faint bluish flame of a newly lighted candle; the flame grew, gave more light, and i saw shadows moving about the rooms together with it. "'they did not expect her,' i thought. "returning to my hotel room i undressed, drank off a glass of red wine, ate some fresh caviare which i had bought that day in the bazaar, went to bed in a leisurely way, and slept the sound, untroubled sleep of a tourist. "in the morning i woke up with a headache and in a bad humour. something worried me. "'what's the matter?' i asked myself, trying to explain my uneasiness. 'what's upsetting me?' "and i put down my uneasiness to the dread that kisotchka might turn up any minute and prevent my going away, and that i should have to tell lies and act a part before her. i hurriedly dressed, packed my things, and left the hotel, giving instructions to the porter to take my luggage to the station for the seven o'clock train in the evening. i spent the whole day with a doctor friend and left the town that evening. as you see, my philosophy did not prevent me from taking to my heels in a mean and treacherous flight. . . . "all the while that i was at my friend's, and afterwards driving to the station, i was tormented by anxiety. i fancied that i was afraid of meeting with kisotchka and a scene. in the station i purposely remained in the toilet room till the second bell rang, and while i was making my way to my compartment, i was oppressed by a feeling as though i were covered all over with stolen things. with what impatience and terror i waited for the third bell! "at last the third bell that brought my deliverance rang at last, the train moved; we passed the prison, the barracks, came out into the open country, and yet, to my surprise, the feeling of uneasiness still persisted, and still i felt like a thief passionately longing to escape. it was queer. to distract my mind and calm myself i looked out of the window. the train ran along the coast. the sea was smooth, and the turquoise sky, almost half covered with the tender, golden crimson light of sunset, was gaily and serenely mirrored in it. here and there fishing boats and rafts made black patches on its surface. the town, as clean and beautiful as a toy, stood on the high cliff, and was already shrouded in the mist of evening. the golden domes of its churches, the windows and the greenery reflected the setting sun, glowing and melting like shimmering gold. . . . the scent of the fields mingled with the soft damp air from the sea. "the train flew rapidly along. i heard the laughter of passengers and guards. everyone was good-humoured and light-hearted, yet my unaccountable uneasiness grew greater and greater. . . . i looked at the white mist that covered the town and i imagined how a woman with a senseless blank face was hurrying up and down in that mist by the churches and the houses, looking for me and moaning, 'oh, my god! oh, my god!' in the voice of a little girl or the cadences of a little russian actress. i recalled her grave face and big anxious eyes as she made the sign of the cross over me, as though i belonged to her, and mechanically i looked at the hand which she had kissed the day before. "'surely i am not in love?' i asked myself, scratching my hand. "only as night came on when the passengers were asleep and i was left _tête-à-tête_ with my conscience, i began to understand what i had not been able to grasp before. in the twilight of the railway carriage the image of kisotchka rose before me, haunted me and i recognised clearly that i had committed a crime as bad as murder. my conscience tormented me. to stifle this unbearable feeling, i assured myself that everything was nonsense and vanity, that kisotchka and i would die and decay, that her grief was nothing in comparison with death, and so on and so on . . . and that if you come to that, there is no such thing as freewill, and that therefore i was not to blame. but all these arguments only irritated me and were extraordinarily quickly crowded out by other thoughts. there was a miserable feeling in the hand that kisotchka had kissed. . . . i kept lying down and getting up again, drank vodka at the stations, forced myself to eat bread and butter, fell to assuring myself again that life had no meaning, but nothing was of any use. a strange and if you like absurd ferment was going on in my brain. the most incongruous ideas crowded one after another in disorder, getting more and more tangled, thwarting each other, and i, the thinker, 'with my brow bent on the earth,' could make out nothing and could not find my bearings in this mass of essential and non-essential ideas. it appeared that i, the thinker, had not mastered the technique of thinking, and that i was no more capable of managing my own brain than mending a watch. for the first time in my life i was really thinking eagerly and intensely, and that seemed to me so monstrous that i said to myself: 'i am going off my head.' a man whose brain does not work at all times, but only at painful moments, is often haunted by the thought of madness. "i spent a day and a night in this misery, then a second night, and learning from experience how little my philosophy was to me, i came to my senses and realised at last what sort of a creature i was. i saw that my ideas were not worth a brass farthing, and that before meeting kisotchka i had not begun to think and had not even a conception of what thinking in earnest meant; now through suffering i realised that i had neither convictions nor a definite moral standard, nor heart, nor reason; my whole intellectual and moral wealth consisted of specialist knowledge, fragments, useless memories, other people's ideas--and nothing else; and my mental processes were as lacking in complexity, as useless and as rudimentary as a yakut's. . . . if i had disliked lying, had not stolen, had not murdered, and, in fact, made obviously gross mistakes, that was not owing to my convictions--i had none, but because i was in bondage, hand and foot, to my nurse's fairy tales and to copy-book morals, which had entered into my flesh and blood and without my noticing it guided me in life, though i looked on them as absurd. . . . "i realised that i was not a thinker, not a philosopher, but simply a dilettante. god had given me a strong healthy russian brain with promise of talent. and, only fancy, here was that brain at twenty-six, undisciplined, completely free from principles, not weighed down by any stores of knowledge, but only lightly sprinkled with information of a sort in the engineering line; it was young and had a physiological craving for exercise, it was on the look-out for it, when all at once quite casually the fine juicy idea of the aimlessness of life and the darkness beyond the tomb descends upon it. it greedily sucks it in, puts its whole outlook at its disposal and begins playing with it, like a cat with a mouse. there is neither learning nor system in the brain, but that does not matter. it deals with the great ideas with its own innate powers, like a self-educated man, and before a month has passed the owner of the brain can turn a potato into a hundred dainty dishes, and fancies himself a philosopher . . . . "our generation has carried this dilettantism, this playing with serious ideas into science, into literature, into politics, and into everything which it is not too lazy to go into, and with its dilettantism has introduced, too, its coldness, its boredom, and its one-sidedness and, as it seems to me, it has already succeeded in developing in the masses a new hitherto non-existent attitude to serious ideas. "i realised and appreciated my abnormality and utter ignorance, thanks to a misfortune. my normal thinking, so it seems to me now, dates from the day when i began again from the a, b, c, when my conscience sent me flying back to n., when with no philosophical subleties i repented, besought kisotchka's forgiveness like a naughty boy and wept with her. . . ." ananyev briefly described his last interview with kisotchka. "h'm. . . ." the student filtered through his teeth when the engineer had finished. "that's the sort of thing that happens." his face still expressed mental inertia, and apparently ananyev's story had not touched him in the least. only when the engineer after a moment's pause, began expounding his view again and repeating what he had said at first, the student frowned irritably, got up from the table and walked away to his bed. he made his bed and began undressing. "you look as though you have really convinced some one this time," he said irritably. "me convince anybody!" said the engineer. "my dear soul, do you suppose i claim to do that? god bless you! to convince you is impossible. you can reach conviction only by way of personal experience and suffering!" "and then--it's queer logic!" grumbled the student as he put on his nightshirt. "the ideas which you so dislike, which are so ruinous for the young are, according to you, the normal thing for the old; it's as though it were a question of grey hairs. . . . where do the old get this privilege? what is it based upon? if these ideas are poison, they are equally poisonous for all?" "oh, no, my dear soul, don't say so!" said the engineer with a sly wink. "don't say so. in the first place, old men are not dilettanti. their pessimism comes to them not casually from outside, but from the depths of their own brains, and only after they have exhaustively studied the hegels and kants of all sorts, have suffered, have made no end of mistakes, in fact--when they have climbed the whole ladder from bottom to top. their pessimism has both personal experience and sound philosophic training behind it. secondly, the pessimism of old thinkers does not take the form of idle talk, as it does with you and me, but of _weltschmertz_, of suffering; it rests in them on a christian foundation because it is derived from love for humanity and from thoughts about humanity, and is entirely free from the egoism which is noticeable in dilettanti. you despise life because its meaning and its object are hidden just from you, and you are only afraid of your own death, while the real thinker is unhappy because the truth is hidden from all and he is afraid for all men. for instance, there is living not far from here the crown forester, ivan alexandritch. he is a nice old man. at one time he was a teacher somewhere, and used to write something; the devil only knows what he was, but anyway he is a remarkably clever fellow and in philosophy he is a . he has read a great deal and he is continually reading now. well, we came across him lately in the gruzovsky district. . . . they were laying the sleepers and rails just at the time. it's not a difficult job, but ivan alexandritch, not being a specialist, looked at it as though it were a conjuring trick. it takes an experienced workman less than a minute to lay a sleeper and fix a rail on it. the workmen were in good form and really were working smartly and rapidly; one rascal in particular brought his hammer down with exceptional smartness on the head of the nail and drove it in at one blow, though the handle of the hammer was two yards or more in length and each nail was a foot long. ivan alexandritch watched the workmen a long time, was moved, and said to me with tears in his eyes: "'what a pity that these splendid men will die!' such pessimism i understand." "all that proves nothing and explains nothing," said the student, covering himself up with a sheet; "all that is simply pounding liquid in a mortar. no one knows anything and nothing can be proved by words." he peeped out from under the sheet, lifted up his head and, frowning irritably, said quickly: "one must be very naïve to believe in human words and logic and to ascribe any determining value to them. you can prove and disprove anything you like with words, and people will soon perfect the technique of language to such a point that they will prove with mathematical certainty that twice two is seven. i am fond of reading and listening, but as to believing, no thank you; i can't, and i don't want to. i believe only in god, but as for you, if you talk to me till the second coming and seduce another five hundred kisothchkas, i shall believe in you only when i go out of my mind . . . . goodnight." the student hid his head under the sheet and turned his face towards the wall, meaning by this action to let us know that he did not want to speak or listen. the argument ended at that. before going to bed the engineer and i went out of the hut, and i saw the lights once more. "we have tired you out with our chatter," said ananyev, yawning and looking at the sky. "well, my good sir! the only pleasure we have in this dull hole is drinking and philosophising. . . . what an embankment, lord have mercy on us!" he said admiringly, as we approached the embankment; "it is more like mount ararat than an embankment." he paused for a little, then said: "those lights remind the baron of the amalekites, but it seems to me that they are like the thoughts of man. . . . you know the thoughts of each individual man are scattered like that in disorder, stretch in a straight line towards some goal in the midst of the darkness and, without shedding light on anything, without lighting up the night, they vanish somewhere far beyond old age. but enough philosophising! it's time to go bye-bye." when we were back in the hut the engineer began begging me to take his bed. "oh please!" he said imploringly, pressing both hands on his heart. "i entreat you, and don't worry about me! i can sleep anywhere, and, besides, i am not going to bed just yet. please do--it's a favour!" i agreed, undressed, and went to bed, while he sat down to the table and set to work on the plans. "we fellows have no time for sleep," he said in a low voice when i had got into bed and shut my eyes. "when a man has a wife and two children he can't think of sleep. one must think now of food and clothes and saving for the future. and i have two of them, a little son and a daughter. . . . the boy, little rascal, has a jolly little face. he's not six yet, and already he shows remarkable abilities, i assure you. . . . i have their photographs here, somewhere. . . . ah, my children, my children!" he rummaged among his papers, found their photographs, and began looking at them. i fell asleep. i was awakened by the barking of azorka and loud voices. von schtenberg with bare feet and ruffled hair was standing in the doorway dressed in his underclothes, talking loudly with some one . . . . it was getting light. a gloomy dark blue dawn was peeping in at the door, at the windows, and through the crevices in the hut walls, and casting a faint light on my bed, on the table with the papers, and on ananyev. stretched on the floor on a cloak, with a leather pillow under his head, the engineer lay asleep with his fleshy, hairy chest uppermost; he was snoring so loudly that i pitied the student from the bottom of my heart for having to sleep in the same room with him every night. "why on earth are we to take them?" shouted von schtenberg. "it has nothing to do with us! go to tchalisov! from whom do the cauldrons come?" "from nikitin . . ." a bass voice answered gruffly. "well, then, take them to tchalisov. . . . that's not in our department. what the devil are you standing there for? drive on!" "your honour, we have been to tchalisov already," said the bass voice still more gruffly. "yesterday we were the whole day looking for him down the line, and were told at his hut that he had gone to the dymkovsky section. please take them, your honour! how much longer are we to go carting them about? we go carting them on and on along the line, and see no end to it." "what is it?" ananyev asked huskily, waking up and lifting his head quickly. "they have brought some cauldrons from nikitin's," said the student, "and he is begging us to take them. and what business is it of ours to take them?" "do be so kind, your honour, and set things right! the horses have been two days without food and the master, for sure, will be angry. are we to take them back, or what? the railway ordered the cauldrons, so it ought to take them. . . ." "can't you understand, you blockhead, that it has nothing to do with us? go on to tchalisov!" "what is it? who's there?" ananyev asked huskily again. "damnation take them all," he said, getting up and going to the door. "what is it?" i dressed, and two minutes later went out of the hut. ananyev and the student, both in their underclothes and barefooted, were angrily and impatiently explaining to a peasant who was standing before them bare-headed, with his whip in his hand, apparently not understanding them. both faces looked preoccupied with workaday cares. "what use are your cauldrons to me," shouted ananyev. "am i to put them on my head, or what? if you can't find tchalisov, find his assistant, and leave us in peace!" seeing me, the student probably recalled the conversation of the previous night. the workaday expression vanished from his sleepy face and a look of mental inertia came into it. he waved the peasant off and walked away absorbed in thought. it was a cloudy morning. on the line where the lights had been gleaming the night before, the workmen, just roused from sleep, were swarming. there was a sound of voices and the squeaking of wheelbarrows. the working day was beginning. one poor little nag harnessed with cord was already plodding towards the embankment, tugging with its neck, and dragging along a cartful of sand. i began saying good-bye. . . . a great deal had been said in the night, but i carried away with me no answer to any question, and in the morning, of the whole conversation there remained in my memory, as in a filter, only the lights and the image of kisotchka. as i got on the horse, i looked at the student and ananyev for the last time, at the hysterical dog with the lustreless, tipsy-looking eyes, at the workmen flitting to and fro in the morning fog, at the embankment, at the little nag straining with its neck, and thought: "there is no making out anything in this world." and when i lashed my horse and galloped along the line, and when a little later i saw nothing before me but the endless gloomy plain and the cold overcast sky, i recalled the questions which were discussed in the night. i pondered while the sun-scorched plain, the immense sky, the oak forest, dark on the horizon and the hazy distance, seemed saying to me: "yes, there's no understanding anything in this world!" the sun began to rise. . . . a story without an end soon after two o'clock one night, long ago, the cook, pale and agitated, rushed unexpectedly into my study and informed me that madame mimotih, the old woman who owned the house next door, was sitting in her kitchen. "she begs you to go in to her, sir . . ." said the cook, panting. "something bad has happened about her lodger. . . . he has shot himself or hanged himself. . . ." "what can i do?" said i. "let her go for the doctor or for the police!" "how is she to look for a doctor! she can hardly breathe, and she has huddled under the stove, she is so frightened. . . . you had better go round, sir." i put on my coat and hat and went to madame mimotih's house. the gate towards which i directed my steps was open. after pausing beside it, uncertain what to do, i went into the yard without feeling for the porter's bell. in the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not locked. i opened it and walked into the entry. here there was not a glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked smell of incense. groping my way out of the entry i knocked my elbow against something made of iron, and in the darkness stumbled against a board of some sort which almost fell to the floor. at last the door covered with torn baize was found, and i went into a little hall. i am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending to alarm the reader, but the picture i saw from the passage was fantastic and could only have been drawn by death. straight before me was a door leading to a little drawing-room. three five-kopeck wax candles, standing in a row, threw a scanty light on the faded slate-coloured wallpaper. a coffin was standing on two tables in the middle of the little room. the two candles served only to light up a swarthy yellow face with a half-open mouth and sharp nose. billows of muslin were mingled in disorder from the face to the tips of the two shoes, and from among the billows peeped out two pale motionless hands, holding a wax cross. the dark gloomy corners of the little drawing-room, the ikons behind the coffin, the coffin itself, everything except the softly glimmering lights, were still as death, as the tomb itself. "how strange!" i thought, dumbfoundered by the unexpected panorama of death. "why this haste? the lodger has hardly had time to hang himself, or shoot himself, and here is the coffin already!" i looked round. on the left there was a door with a glass panel; on the right a lame hat-stand with a shabby fur coat on it. . . . "water. . . ." i heard a moan. the moan came from the left, beyond the door with the glass panel. i opened the door and walked into a little dark room with a solitary window, through which there came a faint light from a street lamp outside. "is anyone here?" i asked. and without waiting for an answer i struck a match. this is what i saw while it was burning. a man was sitting on the blood-stained floor at my very feet. if my step had been a longer one i should have trodden on him. with his legs thrust forward and his hands pressed on the floor, he was making an effort to raise his handsome face, which was deathly pale against his pitch-black beard. in the big eyes which he lifted upon me, i read unutterable terror, pain, and entreaty. a cold sweat trickled in big drops down his face. that sweat, the expression of his face, the trembling of the hands he leaned upon, his hard breathing and his clenched teeth, showed that he was suffering beyond endurance. near his right hand in a pool of blood lay a revolver. "don't go away," i heard a faint voice when the match had gone out. "there's a candle on the table." i lighted the candle and stood still in the middle of the room not knowing what to do next. i stood and looked at the man on the floor, and it seemed to me that i had seen him before. "the pain is insufferable," he whispered, "and i haven't the strength to shoot myself again. incomprehensible lack of will." i flung off my overcoat and attended to the sick man. lifting him from the floor like a baby, i laid him on the american-leather covered sofa and carefully undressed him. he was shivering and cold when i took off his clothes; the wound which i saw was not in keeping either with his shivering nor the expression on his face. it was a trifling one. the bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side, only piercing the skin and the flesh. i found the bullet itself in the folds of the coat-lining near the back pocket. stopping the bleeding as best i could and making a temporary bandage of a pillow-case, a towel, and two handkerchiefs, i gave the wounded man some water and covered him with a fur coat that was hanging in the passage. we neither of us said a word while the bandaging was being done. i did my work while he lay motionless looking at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were ashamed of his unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was giving me. "now i must trouble you to lie still," i said, when i had finished the bandaging, "while i run to the chemist and get something." "no need!" he muttered, clutching me by the sleeve and opening his eyes wide. i read terror in his eyes. he was afraid of my going away. "no need! stay another five minutes . . . ten. if it doesn't disgust you, do stay, i entreat you." as he begged me he was trembling and his teeth were chattering. i obeyed, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. ten minutes passed in silence. i sat silent, looking about the room into which fate had brought me so unexpectedly. what poverty! this man who was the possessor of a handsome, effeminate face and a luxuriant well-tended beard, had surroundings which a humble working man would not have envied. a sofa with its american-leather torn and peeling, a humble greasy-looking chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and a wretched oleograph on the wall, that was all i saw. damp, gloomy, and grey. "what a wind!" said the sick man, without opening his eyes, "how it whistles!" "yes," i said. "i say, i fancy i know you. didn't you take part in some private theatricals in general luhatchev's villa last year?" "what of it?" he asked, quickly opening his eyes. a cloud seemed to pass over his face. "i certainly saw you there. isn't your name vassilyev?" "if it is, what of it? it makes it no better that you should know me." "no, but i just asked you." vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face to the back of the sofa. "i don't understand your curiosity," he muttered. "you'll be asking me next what it was drove me to commit suicide!" before a minute had passed, he turned round towards me again, opened his eyes and said in a tearful voice: "excuse me for taking such a tone, but you'll admit i'm right! to ask a convict how he got into prison, or a suicide why he shot himself is not generous . . . and indelicate. to think of gratifying idle curiosity at the expense of another man's nerves!" "there is no need to excite yourself. . . . it never occurred to me to question you about your motives." "you would have asked. . . . it's what people always do. though it would be no use to ask. if i told you, you would not believe or understand. . . . i must own i don't understand it myself. . . . there are phrases used in the police reports and newspapers such as: 'unrequited love,' and 'hopeless poverty,' but the reasons are not known. . . . they are not known to me, nor to you, nor to your newspaper offices, where they have the impudence to write 'the diary of a suicide.' god alone understands the state of a man's soul when he takes his own life; but men know nothing about it." "that is all very nice," i said, "but you oughtn't to talk. . . ." but my suicide could not be stopped, he leaned his head on his fist, and went on in the tone of some great professor: "man will never understand the psychological subtleties of suicide! how can one speak of reasons? to-day the reason makes one snatch up a revolver, while to-morrow the same reason seems not worth a rotten egg. it all depends most likely on the particular condition of the individual at the given moment. . . . take me for instance. half an hour ago, i had a passionate desire for death, now when the candle is lighted, and you are sitting by me, i don't even think of the hour of death. explain that change if you can! am i better off, or has my wife risen from the dead? is it the influence of the light on me, or the presence of an outsider?" "the light certainly has an influence . . ." i muttered for the sake of saying something. "the influence of light on the organism . . . ." "the influence of light. . . . we admit it! but you know men do shoot themselves by candle-light! and it would be ignominious indeed for the heroes of your novels if such a trifling thing as a candle were to change the course of the drama so abruptly. all this nonsense can be explained perhaps, but not by us. it's useless to ask questions or give explanations of what one does not understand. . . ." "forgive me," i said, "but . . . judging by the expression of your face, it seems to me that at this moment you . . . are posing." "yes," vassilyev said, startled. "it's very possible! i am naturally vain and fatuous. well, explain it, if you believe in your power of reading faces! half an hour ago i shot myself, and just now i am posing. . . . explain that if you can." these last words vassilyev pronounced in a faint, failing voice. he was exhausted, and sank into silence. a pause followed. i began scrutinising his face. it was as pale as a dead man's. it seemed as though life were almost extinct in him, and only the signs of the suffering that the "vain and fatuous" man was feeling betrayed that it was still alive. it was painful to look at that face, but what must it have been for vassilyev himself who yet had the strength to argue and, if i were not mistaken, to pose? "you here--are you here?" he asked suddenly, raising himself on his elbow. "my god, just listen!" i began listening. the rain was pattering angrily on the dark window, never ceasing for a minute. the wind howled plaintively and lugubriously. "'and i shall be whiter than snow, and my ears will hear gladness and rejoicing.'" madame mimotih, who had returned, was reading in the drawing-room in a languid, weary voice, neither raising nor dropping the monotonous dreary key. "it is cheerful, isn't it?" whispered vassilyev, turning his frightened eyes towards me. "my god, the things a man has to see and hear! if only one could set this chaos to music! as hamlet says, 'it would-- "confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, the very faculties of eyes and ears." how well i should have understood that music then! how i should have felt it! what time is it?" "five minutes to three." "morning is still far off. and in the morning there's the funeral. a lovely prospect! one follows the coffin through the mud and rain. one walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched scenery. the muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. . . . one's trousers drenched to the knees. the never-ending streets. the time dragging out like eternity, the coarse people. and on the heart a stone, a stone!" after a brief pause he suddenly asked: "is it long since you saw general luhatchev?" "i haven't seen him since last summer." "he likes to be cock of the walk, but he is a nice little old chap. and are you still writing?" "yes, a little." "ah. . . . do you remember how i pranced about like a needle, like an enthusiastic ass at those private theatricals when i was courting zina? it was stupid, but it was good, it was fun. . . . the very memory of it brings back a whiff of spring. . . . and now! what a cruel change of scene! there is a subject for you! only don't you go in for writing 'the diary of a suicide.' that's vulgar and conventional. you make something humorous of it." "again you are . . . posing," i said. "there's nothing humorous in your position." "nothing laughable? you say nothing laughable?" vassilyev sat up, and tears glistened in his eyes. an expression of bitter distress came into his pale face. his chin quivered. "you laugh at the deceit of cheating clerks and faithless wives," he said, "but no clerk, no faithless wife has cheated as my fate has cheated me! i have been deceived as no bank depositor, no duped husband has ever been deceived! only realise what an absurd fool i have been made! last year before your eyes i did not know what to do with myself for happiness. and now before your eyes. . . ." vassilyev's head sank on the pillow and he laughed. "nothing more absurd and stupid than such a change could possibly be imagined. chapter one: spring, love, honeymoon . . . honey, in fact; chapter two: looking for a job, the pawnshop, pallor, the chemist's shop, and . . . to-morrow's splashing through the mud to the graveyard." he laughed again. i felt acutely uncomfortable and made up my mind to go. "i tell you what," i said, "you lie down, and i will go to the chemist's." he made no answer. i put on my great-coat and went out of his room. as i crossed the passage i glanced at the coffin and madame mimotih reading over it. i strained my eyes in vain, i could not recognise in the swarthy, yellow face zina, the lively, pretty _ingénue_ of luhatchev's company. "_sic transit_," i thought. with that i went out, not forgetting to take the revolver, and made my way to the chemist's. but i ought not to have gone away. when i came back from the chemist's, vassilyev lay on the sofa fainting. the bandages had been roughly torn off, and blood was flowing from the reopened wound. it was daylight before i succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. he was raving in delirium, shivering, and looking with unseeing eyes about the room till morning had come, and we heard the booming voice of the priest as he read the service over the dead. when vassilyev's rooms were crowded with old women and mutes, when the coffin had been moved and carried out of the yard, i advised him to remain at home. but he would not obey me, in spite of the pain and the grey, rainy morning. he walked bareheaded and in silence behind the coffin all the way to the cemetery, hardly able to move one leg after the other, and from time to time clutching convulsively at his wounded side. his face expressed complete apathy. only once when i roused him from his lethargy by some insignificant question he shifted his eyes over the pavement and the grey fence, and for a moment there was a gleam of gloomy anger in them. "'weelright,'" he read on a signboard. "ignorant, illiterate people, devil take them!" i led him home from the cemetery. ---- only one year has passed since that night, and vassilyev has hardly had time to wear out the boots in which he tramped through the mud behind his wife's coffin. at the present time as i finish this story, he is sitting in my drawing-room and, playing on the piano, is showing the ladies how provincial misses sing sentimental songs. the ladies are laughing, and he is laughing too. he is enjoying himself. i call him into my study. evidently not pleased at my taking him from agreeable company, he comes to me and stands before me in the attitude of a man who has no time to spare. i give him this story, and ask him to read it. always condescending about my authorship, he stifles a sigh, the sigh of a lazy reader, sits down in an armchair and begins upon it. "hang it all, what horrors," he mutters with a smile. but the further he gets into the reading, the graver his face becomes. at last, under the stress of painful memories, he turns terribly pale, he gets up and goes on reading as he stands. when he has finished he begins pacing from corner to corner. "how does it end?" i ask him. "how does it end? h'm. . . ." he looks at the room, at me, at himself. . . . he sees his new fashionable suit, hears the ladies laughing and . . . sinking on a chair, begins laughing as he laughed on that night. "wasn't i right when i told you it was all absurd? my god! i have had burdens to bear that would have broken an elephant's back; the devil knows what i have suffered--no one could have suffered more, i think, and where are the traces? it's astonishing. one would have thought the imprint made on a man by his agonies would have been everlasting, never to be effaced or eradicated. and yet that imprint wears out as easily as a pair of cheap boots. there is nothing left, not a scrap. it's as though i hadn't been suffering then, but had been dancing a mazurka. everything in the world is transitory, and that transitoriness is absurd! a wide field for humorists! tack on a humorous end, my friend!" "pyotr nikolaevitch, are you coming soon?" the impatient ladies call my hero. "this minute," answers the "vain and fatuous" man, setting his tie straight. "it's absurd and pitiful, my friend, pitiful and absurd, but what's to be done? _homo sum_. . . . and i praise mother nature all the same for her transmutation of substances. if we retained an agonising memory of toothache and of all the terrors which every one of us has had to experience, if all that were everlasting, we poor mortals would have a bad time of it in this life." i look at his smiling face and i remember the despair and the horror with which his eyes were filled a year ago when he looked at the dark window. i see him, entering into his habitual rôle of intellectual chatterer, prepare to show off his idle theories, such as the transmutation of substances before me, and at the same time i recall him sitting on the floor in a pool of blood with his sick imploring eyes. "how will it end?" i ask myself aloud. vassilyev, whistling and straightening his tie, walks off into the drawing-room, and i look after him, and feel vexed. for some reason i regret his past sufferings, i regret all that i felt myself on that man's account on that terrible night. it is as though i had lost something. . . . mari d'elle it was a free night. natalya andreyevna bronin (her married name was nikitin), the opera singer, is lying in her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. she lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little daughter who lives somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt. . . . the child is more precious to her than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers . . . and she would be glad to think about her till morning. she is happy, at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying undisturbed, dozing and dreaming of her little girl. all at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a harsh abrupt ring in the entry. before ten seconds have passed the bell tinkles a second time and a third time. the door is opened noisily and some one walks into the entry stamping his feet like a horse, snorting and puffing with the cold. "damn it all, nowhere to hang one's coat!" the singer hears a husky bass voice. "celebrated singer, look at that! makes five thousand a year, and can't get a decent hat-stand!" "my husband!" thinks the singer, frowning. "and i believe he has brought one of his friends to stay the night too. . . . hateful!" no more peace. when the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious footsteps in her bedroom. . . . it is her husband, _mari d'elle_, denis petrovitch nikitin. he brings a whiff of cold air and a smell of brandy. for a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to be looking for something. . . . "what do you want?" his wife moans, when she is sick of his fussing about. "you have woken me." "i am looking for the matches, my love. you . . . you are not asleep then? i have brought you a message. . . . greetings from that . . . what's-his-name? . . . red-headed fellow who is always sending you bouquets. . . . zagvozdkin. . . . i have just been to see him." "what did you go to him for?" "oh, nothing particular. . . . we sat and talked and had a drink. say what you like, nathalie, i dislike that individual--i dislike him awfully! he is a rare blockhead. he is a wealthy man, a capitalist; he has six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. money is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. he does not eat it himself nor give it to others. money ought to circulate, but he keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to part with it. . . . what's the good of capital lying idle? capital lying idle is no better than grass." _mari d'elle_ gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, puffing, sits down at his wife's feet. "capital lying idle is pernicious," he goes on. "why has business gone downhill in russia? because there is so much capital lying idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. it's very different in england. . . . there are no such queer fish as zagvozdkin in england, my girl. . . . there every farthing is in circulation . . . . yes. . . . they don't keep it locked up in chests there . . . ." "well, that's all right. i am sleepy." "directly. . . . whatever was it i was talking about? yes. . . . in these hard times hanging is too good for zagvozdkin. . . . he is a fool and a scoundrel. . . . no better than a fool. if i asked him for a loan without security--why, a child could see that he runs no risk whatever. he doesn't understand, the ass! for ten thousand he would have got a hundred. in a year he would have another hundred thousand. i asked, i talked . . . but he wouldn't give it me, the blockhead." "i hope you did not ask him for a loan in my name." "h'm. . . . a queer question. . . ." _mari d'elle_ is offended. "anyway he would sooner give me ten thousand than you. you are a woman, and i am a man anyway, a business-like person. and what a scheme i propose to him! not a bubble, not some chimera, but a sound thing, substantial! if one could hit on a man who would understand, one might get twenty thousand for the idea alone! even you would understand if i were to tell you about it. only you . . . don't chatter about it . . . not a word . . . but i fancy i have talked to you about it already. have i talked to you about sausage-skins?" "m'm . . . by and by." "i believe i have. . . . do you see the point of it? now the provision shops and the sausage-makers get their sausage-skins locally, and pay a high price for them. well, but if one were to bring sausage-skins from the caucasus where they are worth nothing, and where they are thrown away, then . . . where do you suppose the sausage-makers would buy their skins, here in the slaughterhouses or from me? from me, of course! why, i shall sell them ten times as cheap! now let us look at it like this: every year in petersburg and moscow and in other centres these same skins would be bought to the . . . to the sum of five hundred thousand, let us suppose. that's the minimum. well, and if. . . ." "you can tell me to-morrow . . . later on. . . ." "yes, that's true. you are sleepy, _pardon_, i am just going . . . say what you like, but with capital you can do good business everywhere, wherever you go. . . . with capital even out of cigarette ends one may make a million. . . . take your theatrical business now. why, for example, did lentovsky come to grief? it's very simple. he did not go the right way to work from the very first. he had no capital and he went headlong to the dogs. . . . he ought first to have secured his capital, and then to have gone slowly and cautiously . . . . nowadays, one can easily make money by a theatre, whether it is a private one or a people's one. . . . if one produces the right plays, charges a low price for admission, and hits the public fancy, one may put a hundred thousand in one's pocket the first year. . . . you don't understand, but i am talking sense. . . . you see you are fond of hoarding capital; you are no better than that fool zagvozdkin, you heap it up and don't know what for. . . . you won't listen, you don't want to. . . . if you were to put it into circulation, you wouldn't have to be rushing all over the place . . . . you see for a private theatre, five thousand would be enough for a beginning. . . . not like lentovsky, of course, but on a modest scale in a small way. i have got a manager already, i have looked at a suitable building. . . . it's only the money i haven't got. . . . if only you understood things you would have parted with your five per cents . . . your preference shares. . . ." "no, _merci_. . . . you have fleeced me enough already. . . . let me alone, i have been punished already. . . ." "if you are going to argue like a woman, then of course . . ." sighs nikitin, getting up. "of course. . . ." "let me alone. . . . come, go away and don't keep me awake. . . . i am sick of listening to your nonsense." "h'm. . . . to be sure . . . of course! fleeced. . . plundered. . . . what we give we remember, but we don't remember what we take." "i have never taken anything from you." "is that so? but when we weren't a celebrated singer, at whose expense did we live then? and who, allow me to ask, lifted you out of beggary and secured your happiness? don't you remember that?" "come, go to bed. go along and sleep it off." "do you mean to say you think i am drunk? . . . if i am so low in the eyes of such a grand lady. . . i can go away altogether." "do. a good thing too." "i will, too. i have humbled myself enough. and i will go." "oh, my god! oh, do go, then! i shall be delighted!" "very well, we shall see." nikitin mutters something to himself, and, stumbling over the chairs, goes out of the bedroom. then sounds reach her from the entry of whispering, the shuffling of goloshes and a door being shut. _mari d'elle_ has taken offence in earnest and gone out. "thank god, he has gone!" thinks the singer. "now i can sleep." and as she falls asleep she thinks of her _mari d'elle_, what sort of a man he is, and how this affliction has come upon her. at one time he used to live at tchernigov, and had a situation there as a book-keeper. as an ordinary obscure individual and not the _mari d'elle_, he had been quite endurable: he used to go to his work and take his salary, and all his whims and projects went no further than a new guitar, fashionable trousers, and an amber cigarette-holder. since he had become "the husband of a celebrity" he was completely transformed. the singer remembered that when first she told him she was going on the stage he had made a fuss, been indignant, complained to her parents, turned her out of the house. she had been obliged to go on the stage without his permission. afterwards, when he learned from the papers and from various people that she was earning big sums, he had 'forgiven her,' abandoned book-keeping, and become her hanger-on. the singer was overcome with amazement when she looked at her hanger-on: when and where had he managed to pick up new tastes, polish, and airs and graces? where had he learned the taste of oysters and of different burgundies? who had taught him to dress and do his hair in the fashion and call her 'nathalie' instead of natasha?" "it's strange," thinks the singer. "in old days he used to get his salary and put it away, but now a hundred roubles a day is not enough for him. in old days he was afraid to talk before schoolboys for fear of saying something silly, and now he is overfamiliar even with princes . . . wretched, contemptible little creature!" but then the singer starts again; again there is the clang of the bell in the entry. the housemaid, scolding and angrily flopping with her slippers, goes to open the door. again some one comes in and stamps like a horse. "he has come back!" thinks the singer. "when shall i be left in peace? it's revolting!" she is overcome by fury. "wait a bit. . . . i'll teach you to get up these farces! you shall go away. i'll make you go away!" the singer leaps up and runs barefoot into the little drawing-room where her _mari_ usually sleeps. she comes at the moment when he is undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair. "you went away!" she says, looking at him with bright eyes full of hatred. "what did you come back for?" nikitin remains silent, and merely sniffs. "you went away! kindly take yourself off this very minute! this very minute! do you hear?" _mari d'elle_ coughs and, without looking at his wife, takes off his braces. "if you don't go away, you insolent creature, i shall go," the singer goes on, stamping her bare foot, and looking at him with flashing eyes. "i shall go! do you hear, insolent . . . worthless wretch, flunkey, out you go!" "you might have some shame before outsiders," mutters her husband . . . . the singer looks round and only then sees an unfamiliar countenance that looks like an actor's. . . . the countenance, seeing the singer's uncovered shoulders and bare feet, shows signs of embarrassment, and looks ready to sink through the floor. "let me introduce . . ." mutters nikitin, "bezbozhnikov, a provincial manager." the singer utters a shriek, and runs off into her bedroom. "there, you see . . ." says _mari d'elle_, as he stretches himself on the sofa, "it was all honey just now . . . my love, my dear, my darling, kisses and embraces . . . but as soon as money is touched upon, then. . . . as you see . . . money is the great thing. . . . good night!" a minute later there is a snore. a living chattel groholsky embraced liza, kept kissing one after another all her little fingers with their bitten pink nails, and laid her on the couch covered with cheap velvet. liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, and lay down. groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over. he was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her. how pretty she seemed to him, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun! there was a complete view from the window of the setting sun, golden, lightly flecked with purple. the whole drawing-room, including liza, was bathed by it with brilliant light that did not hurt the eyes, and for a little while covered with gold. groholsky was lost in admiration. liza was so incredibly beautiful. it is true her little kittenish face with its brown eyes, and turn up nose was fresh, and even piquant, his scanty hair was black as soot and curly, her little figure was graceful, well proportioned and mobile as the body of an electric eel, but on the whole. . . . however my taste has nothing to do with it. groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love and out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty. he loved her, and blind love finds ideal beauty everywhere. "i say," he said, looking straight into her eyes, "i have come to talk to you, my precious. love cannot bear anything vague or indefinite. . . . indefinite relations, you know, i told you yesterday, liza . . . we will try to-day to settle the question we raised yesterday. come, let us decide together. . . ." "what are we to do?" liza gave a yawn and scowling, drew her right arm from under her head. "what are we to do?" she repeated hardly audibly after groholsky. "well, yes, what are we to do? come, decide, wise little head . . . i love you, and a man in love is not fond of sharing. he is more than an egoist. it is too much for me to go shares with your husband. i mentally tear him to pieces, when i remember that he loves you too. in the second place you love me. . . . perfect freedom is an essential condition for love. . . . and are you free? are you not tortured by the thought that that man towers for ever over your soul? a man whom you do not love, whom very likely and quite naturally, you hate. . . . that's the second thing. . . . and thirdly. . . . what is the third thing? oh yes. . . . we are deceiving him and that . . . is dishonourable. truth before everything, liza. let us have done with lying!" "well, then, what are we to do?" "you can guess. . . . i think it necessary, obligatory, to inform him of our relations and to leave him, to begin to live in freedom. both must be done as quickly as possible. . . . this very evening, for instance. . . . it's time to make an end of it. surely you must be sick of loving like a thief?" "tell! tell vanya?" "why, yes!" "that's impossible! i told you yesterday, michel, that it is impossible." "why?" "he will be upset. he'll make a row, do all sorts of unpleasant things. . . . don't you know what he is like? god forbid! there's no need to tell him. what an idea!" groholsky passed his hand over his brow, and heaved a sigh. "yes," he said, "he will be more than upset. i am robbing him of his happiness. does he love you?" "he does love me. very much." "there's another complication! one does not know where to begin. to conceal it from him is base, telling him would kill him. . . . goodness knows what's one to do. well, how is it to be?" groholsky pondered. his pale face wore a frown. "let us go on always as we are now," said liza. "let him find out for himself, if he wants to." "but you know that . . . is sinful, and besides the fact is you are mine, and no one has the right to think that you do not belong to me but to someone else! you are mine! i will not give way to anyone! . . . i am sorry for him--god knows how sorry i am for him, liza! it hurts me to see him! but . . . it can't be helped after all. you don't love him, do you? what's the good of your going on being miserable with him? we must have it out! we will have it out with him, and you will come to me. you are my wife, and not his. let him do what he likes. he'll get over his troubles somehow. . . . he is not the first, and he won't be the last. . . . will you run away? eh? make haste and tell me! will you run away?" liza got up and looked inquiringly at groholsky. "run away?" "yes. . . . to my estate. . . . then to the crimea. . . . we will tell him by letter. . . . we can go at night. there is a train at half past one. well? is that all right?" liza scratched the bridge of her nose, and hesitated. "very well," she said, and burst into tears. patches of red came out of her cheeks, her eyes swelled, and tears flowed down her kittenish face. . . . "what is it?" cried groholsky in a flutter. "liza! what's the matter? come! what are you crying for? what a girl! come, what is it? darling! little woman!" liza held out her hands to groholsky, and hung on his neck. there was a sound of sobbing. "i am sorry for him . . ." muttered liza. "oh, i am so sorry for him!" "sorry for whom?" "va--vanya. . . ." "and do you suppose i'm not? but what's to be done? we are causing him suffering. . . . he will be unhappy, will curse us . . . but is it our fault that we love one another?" as he uttered the last word, groholsky darted away from liza as though he had been stung and sat down in an easy chair. liza sprang away from his neck and rapidly--in one instant--dropped on the lounge. they both turned fearfully red, dropped their eyes, and coughed. a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty, in the uniform of a government clerk, had walked into the drawing-room. he had walked in unnoticed. only the bang of a chair which he knocked in the doorway had warned the lovers of his presence, and made them look round. it was the husband. they had looked round too late. he had seen groholsky's arm round liza's waist, and had seen liza hanging on groholsky's white and aristocratic neck. "he saw us!" liza and groholsky thought at the same moment, while they did not know what to do with their heavy hands and embarrassed eyes. . . . the petrified husband, rosy-faced, turned white. an agonising, strange, soul-revolting silence lasted for three minutes. oh, those three minutes! groholsky remembers them to this day. the first to move and break the silence was the husband. he stepped up to groholsky and, screwing his face into a senseless grimace like a smile, gave him his hand. groholsky shook the soft perspiring hand and shuddered all over as though he had crushed a cold frog in his fist. "good evening," he muttered. "how are you?" the husband brought out in a faint husky, almost inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite groholsky, straightening his collar at the back of his neck. again, an agonising silence followed . . . but that silence was no longer so stupid. . . . the first step, most difficult and colourless, was over. all that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search of matches or on some such trifling errand. both longed intensely to get away. they sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled at their beards while they ransacked their troubled brains for some means of escape from their horribly awkward position. both were perspiring. both were unbearably miserable and both were devoured by hatred. they longed to begin the tussle but how were they to begin and which was to begin first? if only she would have gone out! "i saw you yesterday at the assembly hall," muttered bugrov (that was the husband's name). "yes, i was there . . . the ball . . . did you dance?" "m'm . . . yes . . . with that . . . with the younger lyukovtsky . . . . she dances heavily. . . . she dances impossibly. she is a great chatterbox." (pause.) "she is never tired of talking." "yes. . . . it was slow. i saw you too. . ." groholsky accidentally glanced at bugrov. . . . he caught the shifting eyes of the deceived husband and could not bear it. he got up quickly, quickly seized bugrov's hand, shook it, picked up his hat, and walked towards the door, conscious of his own back. he felt as though thousands of eyes were looking at his back. it is a feeling known to the actor who has been hissed and is making his exit from the stage, and to the young dandy who has received a blow on the back of the head and is being led away in charge of a policeman. as soon as the sound of groholsky's steps had died away and the door in the hall creaked, bugrov leapt up, and after making two or three rounds of the drawing-room, strolled up to his wife. the kittenish face puckered up and began blinking its eyes as though expecting a slap. her husband went up to her, and with a pale, distorted face, with arms, head, and shoulders shaking, stepped on her dress and knocked her knees with his. "if, you wretched creature," he began in a hollow, wailing voice, "you let him come here once again, i'll. . . . don't let him dare to set his foot. . . . i'll kill you. do you understand? a-a-ah . . . worthless creature, you shudder! fil-thy woman!" bugrov seized her by the elbow, shook her, and flung her like an indiarubber ball towards the window. . . . "wretched, vulgar woman! you have no shame!" she flew towards the window, hardly touching the floor with her feet, and caught at the curtains with her hands. "hold your tongue," shouted her husband, going up to her with flashing eyes and stamping his foot. she did hold her tongue, she looked at the ceiling, and whimpered while her face wore the expression of a little girl in disgrace expecting to be punished. "so that's what you are like! eh? carrying on with a fop! good! and your promise before the altar? what are you? a nice wife and mother. hold your tongue!" and he struck her on her pretty supple shoulder. "hold your tongue, you wretched creature. i'll give you worse than that! if that scoundrel dares to show himself here ever again, if i see you--listen!--with that blackguard ever again, don't ask for mercy! i'll kill you, if i go to siberia for it! and him too. i shouldn't think twice about it! you can go, i don't want to see you!" bugrov wiped his eyes and his brow with his sleeve and strode about the drawing-room, liza sobbing more and more loudly, twitching her shoulders and her little turned up nose, became absorbed in examining the lace on the curtain. "you are crazy," her husband shouted. "your silly head is full of nonsense! nothing but whims! i won't allow it, elizaveta, my girl! you had better be careful with me! i don't like it! if you want to behave like a pig, then . . . then out you go, there is no place in my house for you! out you pack if. . . . you are a wife, so you must forget these dandies, put them out of your silly head! it's all foolishness! don't let it happen again! you try defending yourself! love your husband! you have been given to your husband, so you must love him. yes, indeed! is one not enough? go away till . . . . torturers!" bugrov paused; then shouted: "go away i tell you, go to the nursery! why are you blubbering, it is your own fault, and you blubber! what a woman! last year you were after petka totchkov, now you are after this devil. lord forgive us! . . . tfoo, it's time you understood what you are! a wife! a mother! last year there were unpleasantnesses, and now there will be unpleasantnesses. . . . tfoo!" bugrov heaved a loud sigh, and the air was filled with the smell of sherry. he had come back from dining and was slightly drunk . . . . "don't you know your duty? no! . . . you must be taught, you've not been taught so far! your mamma was a gad-about, and you . . . you can blubber. yes! blubber away. . . ." bugrov went up to his wife and drew the curtain out of her hands. "don't stand by the window, people will see you blubbering. . . . don't let it happen again. you'll go from embracing to worse trouble. you'll come to grief. do you suppose i like to be made a fool of? and you will make a fool of me if you carry on with them, the low brutes. . . . come, that's enough. . . . don't you. . . . another time. . . . of course i . . liza . . . stay. . . ." bugrov heaved a sigh and enveloped liza in the fumes of sherry. "you are young and silly, you don't understand anything. . . . i am never at home. . . . and they take advantage of it. you must be sensible, prudent. they will deceive you. and then i won't endure it. . . . then i may do anything. . . . of course! then you can just lie down, and die. i . . . i am capable of doing anything if you deceive me, my good girl. i might beat you to death. . . . and . . . i shall turn you out of the house, and then you can go to your rascals." and bugrov (_horribile dictu_) wiped the wet, tearful face of the traitress liza with his big soft hand. he treated his twenty-year-old wife as though she were a child. "come, that's enough. . . . i forgive you. only god forbid it should happen again! i forgive you for the fifth time, but i shall not forgive you for the sixth, as god is holy. god does not forgive such as you for such things." bugrov bent down and put out his shining lips towards liza's little head. but the kiss did not follow. the doors of the hall, of the dining-room, of the parlour, and of the drawing-room all slammed, and groholsky flew into the drawing-room like a whirlwind. he was pale and trembling. he was flourishing his arms and crushing his expensive hat in his hands. his coat fluttered upon him as though it were on a peg. he was the incarnation of acute fever. when bugrov saw him he moved away from his wife and began looking out of the other window. groholsky flew up to him, and waving his arms and breathing heavily and looking at no one, he began in a shaking voice: "ivan petrovitch! let us leave off keeping up this farce with one another! we have deceived each other long enough! it's too much! i cannot stand it. you must do as you like, but i cannot! it's hateful and mean, it's revolting! do you understand that it is revolting?" groholsky spluttered and gasped for breath. "it's against my principles. and you are an honest man. i love her! i love her more than anything on earth! you have noticed it and . . . it's my duty to say this!" "what am i to say to him?" ivan petrovitch wondered. "we must make an end of it. this farce cannot drag on much longer! it must be settled somehow." groholsky drew a breath and went on: "i cannot live without her; she feels the same. you are an educated man, you will understand that in such circumstances your family life is impossible. this woman is not yours, so . . . in short, i beg you to look at the matter from an indulgent humane point of view. . . . ivan petrovitch, you must understand at last that i love her--love her more than myself, more than anything in the world, and to struggle against that love is beyond my power!" "and she?" bugrov asked in a sullen, somewhat ironical tone. "ask her; come now, ask her! for her to live with a man she does not love, to live with you is . . . is a misery!" "and she?" bugrov repeated, this time not in an ironical tone. "she . . . she loves me! we love each other, ivan petrovitch! kill us, despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but we can no longer conceal it from you. we are standing face to face--you may judge us with all the severity of a man whom we . . . whom fate has robbed of happiness!" bugrov turned as red as a boiled crab, and looked out of one eye at liza. he began blinking. his fingers, his lips, and his eyelids twitched. poor fellow! the eyes of his weeping wife told him that groholsky was right, that it was a serious matter. "well!" he muttered. "if you. . . . in these days. . . . you are always. . . ." "as god is above," groholsky shrilled in his high tenor, "we understand you. do you suppose we have no sense, no feeling? i know what agonies i am causing you, as god's above! but be indulgent, i beseech you! we are not to blame. love is not a crime. no will can struggle against it. . . . give her up to me, ivan petrovitch! let her go with me! take from me what you will for your sufferings. take my life, but give me liza. i am ready to do anything. . . . come, tell me how i can do something to make up in part at least! to make up for that lost happiness, i can give you other happiness. i can, ivan petrovitch; i am ready to do anything! it would be base on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . . i understand you at this moment." bugrov waved his hand as though to say, 'for god's sake, go away.' his eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture--in a moment they would see him crying like a child. "i understand you, ivan petrovitch. i will give you another happiness, such as hitherto you have not known. what would you like? i have money, my father is an influential man. . . . will you? come, how much do you want?" bugrov's heart suddenly began throbbing. . . . he clutched at the window curtains with both hands. . . . "will you have fifty thousand? ivan petrovitch, i entreat you. . . . it's not a bribe, not a bargain. . . . i only want by a sacrifice on my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. would you like a hundred thousand? i am willing. a hundred thousand?" my god! two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of the unhappy ivan petrovitch. russian sledges with tinkling bells began racing in his ears. . . . "accept this sacrifice from me," groholsky went on, "i entreat you! you will take a load off my conscience. . . . i implore you!" my god! a smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a may shower, passed the window through which bugrov's wet eyes were looking. the horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts. people in straw hats, with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishing-rods and bags. . . . a schoolboy in a white cap was holding a gun. they were driving out into the country to catch fish, to shoot, to walk about and have tea in the open air. they were driving to that region of bliss in which bugrov as a boy--the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon--had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and the river banks. oh, how fiendishly seductive was that may! how happy those who can take off their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent of fresh hay. bugrov's heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him shiver. a hundred thousand! with the carriage there floated before him all the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years of his life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his department or in his wretched little study. . . . a river, deep, with fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade, flowers, arbours, a luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the existence of an aeolian harp from german romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the scents that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood. . . . to get up at five, to go to bed at nine; to spend the day catching fish, talking with the peasants. . . . what happiness! "ivan petrovitch, do not torture me! will you take a hundred thousand?" "h'm . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!" muttered bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. he muttered it, and bowed his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer. "good," said groholsky, "i agree. i thank you, ivan petrovitch . . . . in a minute. . . . i will not keep you waiting. . . ." groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of the drawing-room. bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . . he was ashamed . . . . there was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing temples! he was rich! liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would come to her window and fling her away from it. she went into the nursery, laid herself down on the nurse's bed, and curled herself up. she was shivering with fever. bugrov was left alone. he felt stifled, and he opened the window. what glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! it would be good to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage . . . . out there, far beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas, the air was sweeter still. . . . bugrov actually smiled as he dreamed of the air that would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of his villa and admire the view. a long while he dreamed. . . . the sun had set, and still he stood and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out of his mind the image of liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams. "i have brought it, ivan petrovitch!" groholsky, re-entering, whispered above his ear. "i have brought it--take it. . . . here in this roll there are forty thousand. . . . with this cheque will you kindly get twenty the day after to-morrow from valentinov? . . . here is a bill of exchange . . . a cheque. . . . the remaining thirty thousand in a day or two. . . . my steward will bring it to you." groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. the heap was big, and of all sorts of hues and tints. never in the course of his life had bugrov seen such a heap. he spread out his fat fingers and, not looking at groholsky, fell to going through the bundles of notes and bonds. . . . groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room, looking for the dulcinea who had been bought and sold. filling his pockets and his pocket-book, bugrov thrust the securities into the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of water, dashed out into the street. "cab!" he shouted in a frantic voice. at half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the paris hotel. he went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of groholsky's apartments. he was admitted. groholsky was packing his things in a portmanteau, liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. they were both frightened when bugrov went in to them. they fancied that he had come for liza and had brought back the money which he had taken in haste without reflection. but bugrov had not come for liza. ashamed of his new get-up and feeling frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood at the door in the attitude of a flunkey. the get-up was superb. bugrov was unrecognisable. his huge person, which had never hitherto worn anything but a uniform, was clothed in a fresh, brand-new suit of fine french cloth and of the most fashionable cut. on his feet spats shone with sparkling buckles. he stood ashamed of his new get-up, and with his right hand covered the watch-chain for which he had, an hour before, paid three hundred roubles. "i have come about something," he began. "a business agreement is beyond price. i am not going to give up mishutka. . . ." "what mishutka?" asked groholsky. "my son." groholsky and liza looked at each other. liza's eyes bulged, her cheeks flushed, and her lips twitched. . . . "very well," she said. she thought of mishutka's warm little cot. it would be cruel to exchange that warm little cot for a chilly sofa in the hotel, and she consented. "i shall see him," she said. bugrov bowed, walked out, and flew down the stairs in his splendour, cleaving the air with his expensive cane. . . . "home," he said to the cabman. "i am starting at five o'clock to-morrow morning. . . . you will come; if i am asleep, you will wake me. we are driving out of town." ii it was a lovely august evening. the sun, set in a golden background lightly flecked with purple, stood above the western horizon on the point of sinking behind the far-away tumuli. in the garden, shadows and half-shadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the golden light was still playing on the tree-tops. . . . it was warm. . . . rain had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant air still fresher. i am not describing the august of petersburg or moscow, foggy, tearful, and dark, with its cold, incredibly damp sunsets. god forbid! i am not describing our cruel northern august. i ask the reader to move with me to the crimea, to one of its shores, not far from feodosia, the spot where stands the villa of one of our heroes. it is a pretty, neat villa surrounded by flower-beds and clipped bushes. a hundred paces behind it is an orchard in which its inmates walk. . . . groholsky pays a high rent for that villa, a thousand roubles a year, i believe. . . . the villa is not worth that rent, but it is pretty. . . . tall, with delicate walls and very delicate parapets, fragile, slender, painted a pale blue colour, hung with curtains, _portières_, draperies, it suggests a charming, fragile chinese lady. . . . on the evening described above, groholsky and liza were sitting on the verandah of this villa. groholsky was reading _novoye vremya_ and drinking milk out of a green mug. a syphon of seltzer water was standing on the table before him. groholsky imagined that he was suffering from catarrh of the lungs, and by the advice of dr. dmitriev consumed an immense quantity of grapes, milk, and seltzer water. liza was sitting in a soft easy chair some distance from the table. with her elbows on the parapet, and her little face propped on her little fists, she was gazing at the villa opposite. . . . the sun was playing upon the windows of the villa opposite, the glittering panes reflected the dazzling light. . . . beyond the little garden and the few trees that surrounded the villa there was a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its immensity, its white masts. . . . it was so delightful! groholsky was reading an article by anonymous, and after every dozen lines he raised his blue eyes to liza's back. . . . the same passionate, fervent love was shining in those eyes still. . . . he was infinitely happy in spite of his imaginary catarrh of the lungs. . . . liza was conscious of his eyes upon her back, and was thinking of mishutka's brilliant future, and she felt so comfortable, so serene . . . . she was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering reflection on the windows of the villa opposite as by the waggons which were trailing up to that villa one after another. the waggons were full of furniture and all sorts of domestic articles. liza watched the trellis gates and big glass doors of the villa being opened and the men bustling about the furniture and wrangling incessantly. big armchairs and a sofa covered with dark raspberry coloured velvet, tables for the hall, the drawing-room and the dining-room, a big double bed and a child's cot were carried in by the glass doors; something big, wrapped up in sacking, was carried in too. a grand piano, thought liza, and her heart throbbed. it was long since she had heard the piano, and she was so fond of it. they had not a single musical instrument in their villa. groholsky and she were musicians only in soul, no more. there were a great many boxes and packages with the words: "with care" upon them carried in after the piano. they were boxes of looking-glasses and crockery. a gorgeous and luxurious carriage was dragged in, at the gate, and two white horses were led in looking like swans. "my goodness, what riches!" thought liza, remembering her old pony which groholsky, who did not care for riding, had bought her for a hundred roubles. compared with those swan-like steeds, her pony seemed to her no better than a bug. groholsky, who was afraid of riding fast, had purposely bought liza a poor horse. "what wealth!" liza thought and murmured as she gazed at the noisy carriers. the sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness and limpidity, and still the furniture was being driven up and hauled into the house. at last it was so dark that groholsky left off reading the newspaper while liza still gazed and gazed. "shouldn't we light the lamp?" said groholsky, afraid that a fly might drop into his milk and be swallowed in the darkness. "liza! shouldn't we light the lamp? shall we sit in darkness, my angel?" liza did not answer. she was interested in a chaise which had driven up to the villa opposite. . . . what a charming little mare was in that chaise. of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . a gentleman in a top hat was sitting in the chaise, a child about three, apparently a boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little hands. . . . he was waving his little hands and shouting with delight. liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched forward. "what is the matter?" asked groholsky. "nothing. . . i only . . . i fancied. . . ." the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of the chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a skip and a hop ran gaily in at the glass door. the door opened noisily and he vanished into the darkness of the villa apartments. two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most respectfully led it to the gate. soon the villa opposite was lighted up, and the clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. the gentleman in the top hat was having his supper, and judging by the duration of the clatter of crockery, his supper lasted long. liza fancied she could smell chicken soup and roast duck. after supper discordant sounds of the piano floated across from the villa. in all probability the gentleman in the top hat was trying to amuse the child in some way, and allowing it to strum on it. groholsky went up to liza and put his arm round her waist. "what wonderful weather!" he said. "what air! do you feel it? i am very happy, liza, very happy indeed. my happiness is so great that i am really afraid of its destruction. the greatest things are usually destroyed, and do you know, liza, in spite of all my happiness, i am not absolutely . . . at peace. . . . one haunting thought torments me . . . it torments me horribly. it gives me no peace by day or by night. . . ." "what thought?" "an awful thought, my love. i am tortured by the thought of your husband. i have been silent hitherto. i have feared to trouble your inner peace, but i cannot go on being silent. where is he? what has happened to him? what has become of him with his money? it is awful! every night i see his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . . why, only think, my angel--can the money he so generously accepted make up to him for you? he loved you very much, didn't he?" "very much!" "there you see! he has either taken to drink now, or . . . i am anxious about him! ah, how anxious i am! should we write to him, do you think? we ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know." groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy chair exhausted by painful reflection. leaning his head on his fists he fell to musing. judging from his face, his musings were painful. "i am going to bed," said liza; "it's time." liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes. she used to go to bed at ten o'clock and get up at ten. she was fond of her comfort. she was soon in the arms of morpheus. throughout the whole night she had the most fascinating dreams. . . . she dreamed whole romances, novels, arabian nights. . . . the hero of all these dreams was the gentleman in the top hat, who had caused her to utter a shriek that evening. the gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from groholsky, was singing, was beating groholsky and her, was flogging the boy under the window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . . oh, dreams! in one night, lying with one's eyes shut, one may sometimes live through more than ten years of happiness . . . . that night liza lived through a great variety of experiences, and very happy ones, even in spite of the beating. waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly did her hair, and without even putting on her tatar slippers with pointed toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah. shading her eyes from the sun with one hand, and with the other holding up her slipping clothes, she gazed at the villa opposite. her face beamed . . . . there could be no further doubt it was he. on the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front of the glass door. a tea service was shining and glistening on the table with a silver samovar at the head. ivan petrovitch was sitting at the table. he had in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and was drinking tea. he was drinking it with great relish. that fact could be deduced from the smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached liza's ears. he was wearing a brown dressing-gown with black flowers on it. massive tassels fell down to the ground. it was the first time in her life liza had seen her husband in a dressing-gown, and such an expensive-looking one. mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from drinking his tea. the child jumped up and down and tried to clutch his papa's shining lip. after every three or four sips the father bent down to his son and kissed him on the head. a grey cat with its tail in the air was rubbing itself against one of the table legs, and with a plaintive mew proclaiming its desire for food. liza hid behind the verandah curtain, and fastened her eyes upon the members of her former family; her face was radiant with joy. "misha!" she murmured, "misha! are you really here, misha? the darling! and how he loves vanya! heavens!" and liza went off into a giggle when mishutka stirred his father's tea with a spoon. "and how vanya loves misha! my darlings!" liza's heart throbbed, and her head went round with joy and happiness. she sank into an armchair and went on observing them, sitting down. "how did they come here?" she wondered as she sent airy kisses to mishutka. "who gave them the idea of coming here? heavens! can all that wealth belong to them? can those swan-like horses that were led in at the gate belong to ivan petrovitch? ah!" when he had finished his tea, ivan petrovitch went into the house. ten minutes later, he appeared on the steps and liza was astounded . . . . he, who in his youth only seven years ago had been called vanushka and vanka and had been ready to punch a man in the face and turn the house upside down over twenty kopecks, was dressed devilishly well. he had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, exquisite brilliant boots, a piqué waistcoat. . . . thousands of suns, big and little, glistened on his watch-chain. with much _chic_ he held in his right hand his gloves and cane. and what swagger, what style there was in his heavy figure when, with a graceful motion of his hand, he bade the footman bring the horse round. he got into the chaise with dignity, and told the footmen standing round the chaise to give him mishutka and the fishing tackle they had brought. setting mishutka beside him, and putting his left arm round him, he held the reins and drove off. "ge-ee up!" shouted mishutka. liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after them. if she had looked in the glass she would have been surprised at her flushed, laughing, and, at the same time, tear-stained face. she was vexed that she was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she could not for some reason shower kisses on him at once. for some reason! . . . away with all your petty delicacies! "grisha! grisha!" liza ran into groholsky's bedroom and set to work to wake him. "get up, they have come! the darling!" "who has come?" asked groholsky, waking up. "our people . . . vanya and misha, they have come, they are in the villa opposite. . . . i looked out, and there they were drinking tea. . . . and misha too. . . . what a little angel our misha has grown! if only you had seen him! mother of god!" "seen whom? why, you are. . . . who has come? come where?" "vanya and misha. . . . i have been looking at the villa opposite, while they were sitting drinking tea. misha can drink his tea by himself now. . . . didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who arrived!" groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale. "arrived? your husband?" he asked. "why, yes." "what for?" "most likely he is going to live here. they don't know we are here. if they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank their tea and took no notice." "where is he now? but for god's sake do talk sense! oh, where is he?" "he has gone fishing with misha in the chaise. did you see the horses yesterday? those are their horses . . . vanya's . . . vanya drives with them. do you know what, grisha? we will have misha to stay with us. . . . we will, won't we? he is such a pretty boy. such an exquisite boy!" groholsky pondered, while liza went on talking and talking. "this is an unexpected meeting," said groholsky, after prolonged and, as usual, harrassing reflection. "well, who could have expected that we should meet here? well. . . there it is. . . . so be it. it seems that it is fated. i can imagine the awkwardness of his position when he meets us." "shall we have misha to stay with us?" "yes, we will. . . . it will be awkward meeting him. . . . why, what can i say to him? what can i talk of? it will be awkward for him and awkward for me. . . . we ought not to meet. we will carry on communications, if necessary, through the servants. . . . my head does ache so, lizotchka. my arms and legs too, i ache all over. is my head feverish?" liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot. "i had dreadful dreams all night . . . i shan't get up to-day. i shall stay in bed . . . i must take some quinine. send me my breakfast here, little woman." groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. he drank warm water, moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered, and induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him. he was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. liza had continually to interrupt her inquisitive observations and run from the verandah to his room. at dinner-time she had to put on mustard plasters. how boring all this would have been, o reader, if the villa opposite had not been at the service of my heroine! liza watched that villa all day long and was gasping with happiness. at ten o'clock ivan petrovitch and mishutka came back from fishing and had breakfast. at two o'clock they had dinner, and at four o'clock they drove off somewhere in a carriage. the white horses bore them away with the swiftness of lightning. at seven o'clock visitors came to see them--all of them men. they were playing cards on two tables in the verandah till midnight. one of the men played superbly on the piano. the visitors played, ate, drank, and laughed. ivan petrovitch guffawing loudly, told them an anecdote of armenian life at the top of his voice, so that all the villas round could hear. it was very gay and mishutka sat up with them till midnight. "misha is merry, he is not crying," thought liza, "so he does not remember his mamma. so he has forgotten me!" and there was a horrible bitter feeling in liza's soul. she spent the whole night crying. she was fretted by her little conscience, and by vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to mishutka and kiss him. . . . in the morning she got up with a headache and tear-stained eyes. her tears groholsky put down to his own account. "do not weep, darling," he said to her, "i am all right to-day, my chest is a little painful, but that is nothing." while they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa opposite. ivan petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing nothing but a morsel of goose dripping with fat. "i am very glad," said groholsky, looking askance at bugrov, "very glad that his life is so tolerable! i hope that decent surroundings anyway may help to stifle his grief. keep out of sight, liza! they will see you . . . i am not disposed to talk to him just now . . . god be with him! why trouble his peace?" but the dinner did not pass off so quietly. during dinner precisely that "awkward position" which groholsky so dreaded occurred. just when the partridges, groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the table, liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and groholsky began wiping his face with his dinner napkin. on the verandah of the villa opposite they saw bugrov. he was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his head. "go in, liza, go in," groholsky whispered. "i said we must have dinner indoors! what a girl you are, really. . . ." bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . . "is that you?" bawled ivan petrovitch, "you! are you here too?" groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to say, "my chest is weak, and so i can't shout across such a distance." liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round before her eyes. bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which groholsky and liza were dining. alas for the partridges! "how are you?" he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big hands in his pockets. "are you here? are you here too?" "yes, we are here too. . . ." "how did you get here?" "why, how did you?" "i? it's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! but don't put yourselves out--eat your dinner! i've been living, you know, ever since then . . . in the oryol province. i rented an estate. a splendid estate! but do eat your dinner! i stayed there from the end of may, but now i have given it up. . . . it was cold there, and--well, the doctor advised me to go to the crimea. . . ." "are you ill, then?" inquired groholsky. "oh, well. . . . there always seems, as it were . . . something gurgling here. . . ." and at the word "here" ivan petrovitch passed his open hand from his neck down to the middle of his stomach. "so you are here too. . . . yes . . . that's very pleasant. have you been here long?" "since july." "oh, and you, liza, how are you? quite well?" "quite well," answered liza, and was embarrassed. "you miss mishutka, i'll be bound. eh? well, he's here with me. . . . i'll send him over to you directly with nikifor. this is very nice. well, good-bye! i have to go off directly. . . . i made the acquaintance of prince ter-haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an armenian. so he has a croquet party to-day; we are going to play croquet. . . . good-bye! the carriage is waiting . . . ." ivan petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, ran home. "unhappy man," said groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched him go off. "in what way is he unhappy?" asked liza. "to see you and not have the right to call you his!" "fool!" liza was so bold to think. "idiot!" before evening liza was hugging and kissing mishutka. at first the boy howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles. for three days groholsky and liza did not see bugrov. he had disappeared somewhere, and was only at home at night. on the fourth day he visited them again at dinner-time. he came in, shook hands with both of them, and sat down to the table. his face was serious. "i have come to you on business," he said. "read this." and he handed groholsky a letter. "read it! read it aloud!" groholsky read as follows: "my beloved and consoling, never-forgotten son ioann! i have received the respectful and loving letter in which you invite your aged father to the mild and salubrious crimea, to breathe the fragrant air, and behold strange lands. to that letter i reply that on taking my holiday, i will come to you, but not for long. my colleague, father gerasim, is a frail and delicate man, and cannot be left alone for long. i am very sensible of your not forgetting your parents, your father and your mother. . . . you rejoice your father with your affection, and you remember your mother in your prayers, and so it is fitting to do. meet me at feodosia. what sort of town is feodosia--what is it like? it will be very agreeable to see it. your godmother, who took you from the font, is called feodosia. you write that god has been graciously pleased that you should win two hundred thousand roubles. that is gratifying to me. but i cannot approve of your having left the service while still of a grade of little importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service. i bless you always, now and hereafter. ilya and seryozhka andronov send you their greetings. you might send them ten roubles each--they are badly off! "your loving father, "pyotr bugrov, _priest._" groholsky read this letter aloud, and he and liza both looked inquiringly at bugrov. "you see what it is," ivan petrovitch began hesitatingly. "i should like to ask you, liza, not to let him see you, to keep out of his sight while he is here. i have written to him that you are ill and gone to the caucasus for a cure. if you meet him. . . you see yourself. . . . it's awkward. . . h'm. . . ." "very well," said liza. "we can do that," thought groholsky, "since he makes sacrifices, why shouldn't we?" "please do. . . . if he sees you there will be trouble. . . . my father is a man of strict principles. he would curse me in seven churches. don't go out of doors, liza, that is all. he won't be here long. don't be afraid." father pyotr did not long keep them waiting. one fine morning ivan petrovitch ran in and hissed in a mysterious tone: "he has come! he is asleep now, so please be careful." and liza was shut up within four walls. she did not venture to go out into the yard or on to the verandah. she could only see the sky from behind the window curtain. unluckily for her, ivan petrovitch's papa spent his whole time in the open air, and even slept on the verandah. usually father pyotr, a little parish priest, in a brown cassock and a top hat with a curly brim, walked slowly round the villas and gazed with curiosity at the "strange lands" through his grandfatherly spectacles. ivan petrovitch with the stanislav on a little ribbon accompanied him. he did not wear a decoration as a rule, but before his own people he liked to show off. in their society he always wore the stanislav. liza was bored to death. groholsky suffered too. he had to go for his walks alone without a companion. he almost shed tears, but . . . had to submit to his fate. and to make things worse, bugrov would run across every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some quite unnecessary bulletin concerning the health of father pyotr. he bored them with those bulletins. "he slept well," he informed them. "yesterday he was put out because i had no salted cucumbers. . . he has taken to mishutka; he keeps patting him on the head." at last, a fortnight later, little father pyotr walked for the last time round the villas and, to groholsky's immense relief, departed. he had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. liza and groholsky fell back into their old manner of life. groholsky once more blessed his fate. but his happiness did not last for long. a new trouble worse than father pyotr followed. ivan petrovitch took to coming to see them every day. ivan petrovitch, to be frank, though a capital fellow, was a very tedious person. he came at dinner-time, dined with them and stayed a very long time. that would not have mattered. but they had to buy vodka, which groholsky could not endure, for his dinner. he would drink five glasses and talk the whole dinner-time. that, too, would not have mattered. . . . but he would sit on till two o'clock in the morning, and not let them get to bed, and, worse still, he permitted himself to talk of things about which he should have been silent. when towards two o'clock in the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne, he would take mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before groholsky and liza: "mihail, my son, what am i? i . . . am a scoundrel. i have sold your mother! sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the lord punish me! mihail ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? lost! gone! sold into slavery! well, i am a scoundrel." these tears and these words turned groholsky's soul inside out. he would look timidly at liza's pale face and wring his hands. "go to bed, ivan petrovitch," he would say timidly. "i am going. . . . come along, mishutka. . . . the lord be our judge! i cannot think of sleep while i know that my wife is a slave . . . . but it is not groholsky's fault. . . . the goods were mine, the money his. . . . freedom for the free and heaven for the saved." by day ivan petrovitch was no less insufferable to groholsky. to groholsky's intense horror, he was always at liza's side. he went fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one occasion, taking advantage of groholsky's having a cold, carried her off in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring her back till night! "it's outrageous, inhuman," thought groholsky, biting his lips. groholsky liked to be continually kissing liza. he could not exist without those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before ivan petrovitch. it was agony. the poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon had compassion on him. ivan petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a whole week. visitors had come and carried him off with them . . . and mishutka was taken too. one fine morning groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and beaming. "he has come," he said to liza, rubbing his hands. "i am very glad he has come. ha-ha-ha!" "what are you laughing at?" "there are women with him." "what women?" "i don't know. . . . it's a good thing he has got women. . . . a capital thing, in fact. . . . he is still young and fresh. come here! look!" groholsky led liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa opposite. they both held their sides, and roared with laughter. it was funny. ivan petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa opposite, smiling. two dark-haired ladies and mishutka were standing below, under the verandah. the ladies were laughing, and loudly talking french. "french women," observed groholsky. "the one nearest us isn't at all bad-looking. lively damsels, but that's no matter. there are good women to be found even among such. . . . but they really do go too far." what was funny was that ivan petrovitch bent across the verandah, and stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of one of the french girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the verandah. after lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up mishutka too. the ladies ran down and the proceedings were repeated. "powerful muscles, i must say," muttered groholsky looking at this scene. the operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being lifted. groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah. but liza watched and laughed! what did she care? it was not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would have put her, as a woman, to shame, but of ladies. in the evening, ivan petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . . "you mustn't imagine they are just anybody," he said. "it is true they are french. they shout at the top of their voices, and drink . . . but we all know! the french are brought up to be like that! it can't be helped. . . . the prince," ivan petrovitch added, "let me have them almost for nothing. . . . he said: 'take them, take them. . . .' i must introduce you to the prince sometime. a man of culture! he's for ever writing, writing. . . . and do you know what their names are? one is fanny, the other isabella. . . . there's europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . the west! good-bye!" ivan petrovitch left liza and groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to his ladies. all day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of crockery came from his villa. . . . the lights were not put out till far into the night. . . . groholsky was in bliss. . . . at last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again. ivan petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one. but alas, destiny has no heart. she plays with the groholskys, the lizas, the ivans, and the mishutkas as with pawns. . . . groholsky lost his peace again. . . . one morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him, and moved him to intense indignation. under the verandah of the villa opposite stood the french women, and between them liza. she was talking and looking askance at her own villa as though to see whether that tyrant, that despot were awake (so groholsky interpreted those looks). ivan petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted isabella into the air, then fanny, and then liza. when he was lifting liza it seemed to groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . . liza too flung one leg over the parapet. . . . oh these women! all sphinxes, every one of them! when liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, groholsky, pale, with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at his last gasp and moaning. on seeing liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the bedroom. "so that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor. "so that's it! very much obliged to you! it's revolting, madam! immoral, in fact! let me tell you that!" liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. when women feel that they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they are conscious of being in fault, they shed tears only. "on a level with those depraved creatures! it's . . . it's . . . it's . . . lower than any impropriety! why, do you know what they are? they are kept women! cocottes! and you a respectable woman go rushing off where they are. . . and he . . . he! what does he want? what more does he want of me? i don't understand it! i have given him half of my property--i have given him more! you know it yourself! i have given him what i have not myself. . . . i have given him almost all. . . . and he! i've put up with your calling him vanya, though he has no right whatever to such intimacy. i have put up with your walks, kisses after dinner. . . . i have put up with everything, but this i will not put up with. . . . either he or i! let him go away, or i go away! i'm not equal to living like this any longer, no! you can see that for yourself! . . . either he or i. . . . enough! the cup is brimming over. . . . i have suffered a great deal as it is. . . . i am going to talk to him at once--this minute! what is he, after all? what has he to be proud of? no, indeed. . . . he has no reason to think so much of himself . . . ." groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . he went to ivan petrovitch three days later. when he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. he was amazed at the wealth and luxury with which bugrov had surrounded himself. velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs. . . . one was positively ashamed to step on the carpet. groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury. . . . and the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked into the drawing-room--plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it. . . . nut shells were strewn about in the windows. bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when groholsky walked in . . . . with a red face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much agitated. mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing-room, and was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream. "it's awful, grigory vassilyevitch!" bugrov began on seeing groholsky, "such disorder . . . such disorder . . . please sit down. you must excuse my being in the costume of adam and eve. . . . it's of no consequence. . . . horrible disorderliness! i don't understand how people can exist here, i don't understand it! the servants won't do what they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is expensive. . . . stop your noise," bugrov shouted, suddenly coming to a halt before mishutka; "stop it, i tell you! little beast, won't you stop it?" and bugrov pulled mishutka's ear. "that's revolting, ivan petrovitch," said groholsky in a tearful voice. "how can you treat a tiny child like that? you really are. . ." "let him stop yelling then. . . . be quiet--i'll whip you!" "don't cry, misha darling. . . . papa won't touch you again. don't beat him, ivan petrovitch; why, he is hardly more than a baby. . . . there, there. . . . would you like a little horse? i'll send you a little horse. . . . you really are hard-hearted. . . ." groholsky paused, and then asked: "and how are your ladies getting on, ivan petrovitch?" "not at all. i've turned them out without ceremony. i might have gone on keeping them, but it's awkward. . . . the boy will grow up . . . . a father's example. . . . if i were alone, then it would be a different thing. . . . besides, what's the use of my keeping them? poof . . . it's a regular farce! i talk to them in russian, and they answer me in french. they don't understand a thing--you can't knock anything into their heads." "i've come to you about something, ivan petrovitch, to talk things over. . . . h'm. . . . it's nothing very particular. but just . . . two or three words. . . . in reality, i have a favour to ask of you." "what's that?" "would you think it possible, ivan petrovitch, to go away? we are delighted that you are here; it's very agreeable for us, but it's inconvenient, don't you know. . . . you will understand me. it's awkward in a way. . . . such indefinite relations, such continual awkwardness in regard to one another. . . . we must part. . . . it's essential in fact. excuse my saying so, but . . . you must see for yourself, of course, that in such circumstances to be living side by side leads to . . . reflections . . . that is . . . not to reflections, but there is a certain awkward feeling. . . ." "yes. . . . that is so, i have thought of it myself. very good, i will go away." "we shall be very grateful to you. . . . believe me, ivan petrovitch, we shall preserve the most flattering memory of you. the sacrifice which you. . ." "very good. . . . only what am i to do with all this? i say, you buy this furniture of mine! what do you say? it's not expensive, eight thousand . . . ten. . . . the furniture, the carriage, the grand piano. . . ." "very good. . . . i will give you ten thousand. . . ." "well, that is capital! i will set off to-morrow. i shall go to moscow. it's impossible to live here. everything is so dear! awfully dear! the money fairly flies. . . . you can't take a step without spending a thousand! i can't go on like that. i have a child to bring up. . . . well, thank god that you will buy my furniture. . . . that will be a little more in hand, or i should have been regularly bankrupt. . . ." groholsky got up, took leave of bugrov, and went home rejoicing. in the evening he sent him ten thousand roubles. early next morning bugrov and mishutka were already at feodosia. iii several months had passed; spring had come. with spring, fine bright days had come too. life was not so dull and hateful, and the earth was more fair to look upon. . . . there was a warm breeze from the sea and the open country. . . . the earth was covered with fresh grass, fresh leaves were green upon the trees. nature had sprung into new life, and had put on new array. it might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up in man when everything in nature is renewed, and young and fresh . . . but it is hard for man to renew life. . . . groholsky was still living in the same villa. his hopes and desires, small and unexacting, were still concentrated on the same liza, on her alone, and on nothing else! as before, he could not take his eyes off her, and gloated over the thought: how happy i am! the poor fellow really did feel awfully happy. liza sat as before on the verandah, and unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees near it through which there was a peep at the dark blue sea. . . . as before, she spent her days for the most part in silence, often in tears and from time to time in putting mustard plasters on groholsky. she might be congratulated on one new sensation, however. there was a worm gnawing at her vitals. . . . that worm was misery. . . . she was fearfully miserable, pining for her son, for her old, her cheerful manner of life. her life in the past had not been particularly cheerful, but still it was livelier than her present existence. when she lived with her husband she used from time to time to go to a theatre, to an entertainment, to visit acquaintances. but here with groholsky it was all quietness and emptiness. . . . besides, here there was one man, and he with his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old grandfather for ever shedding tears of joy. it was boring! here she had not mihey sergeyitch who used to be fond of dancing the mazurka with her. she had not spiridon nikolaitch, the son of the editor of the _provincial news_. spiridon nikolaitch sang well and recited poetry. here she had not a table set with lunch for visitors. she had not gerasimovna, the old nurse who used to be continually grumbling at her for eating too much jam. . . . she had no one! there was simply nothing for her but to lie down and die of depression. groholsky rejoiced in his solitude, but . . . he was wrong to rejoice in it. all too soon he paid for his egoism. at the beginning of may when the very air seemed to be in love and faint with happiness, groholsky lost everything; the woman he loved and. . . that year bugrov, too, visited the crimea. he did not take the villa opposite, but pottered about, going from one town to another with mishutka. he spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing cards. he had lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the french women, who, between ourselves, had robbed him a bit. he had grown thin, lost his broad and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas. ivan petrovitch from time to time visited groholsky's villa. he brought liza jam, sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her ennui. groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of mishutka, who could not under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of the privilege of seeing his mother. bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a few words, departed. and those few words he said not to liza but to groholsky . . . . with liza he was silent and groholsky's mind was at rest; but there is a russian proverb which he would have done well to remember: "don't fear the dog that barks, but fear the dog that's quiet. . . ." a fiendish proverb, but in practical life sometimes indispensable. as he was walking in the garden one day, groholsky heard two voices in conversation. one voice was a man's, the other was a woman's. one belonged to bugrov, the other to liza. groholsky listened, and turning white as death, turned softly towards the speakers. he halted behind a lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and listen. his arms and legs turned cold. a cold sweat came out upon his brow. he clutched several branches of the lilac that he might not stagger and fall down. all was over! bugrov had his arm round liza's waist, and was saying to her: "my darling! what are we to do? it seems it was god's will. . . . i am a scoundrel. . . . i sold you. i was seduced by that herod's money, plague take him, and what good have i had from the money? nothing but anxiety and display! no peace, no happiness, no position . . . . one sits like a fat invalid at the same spot, and never a step forwarder. . . . have you heard that andrushka markuzin has been made a head clerk? andrushka, that fool! while i stagnate. . . . good heavens! i have lost you, i have lost my happiness. i am a scoundrel, a blackguard, how do you think i shall feel at the dread day of judgment?" "let us go away, vanya," wailed liza. "i am dull. . . . i am dying of depression." "we cannot, the money has been taken. . . ." "well, give it back again." "i should be glad to, but . . . wait a minute. i have spent it all. we must submit, my girl. god is chastising us. me for my covetousness and you for your frivolity. well, let us be tortured. . . . it will be the better for us in the next world." and in an access of religious feeling, bugrov turned up his eyes to heaven. "but i cannot go on living here; i am miserable." "well, there is no help for it. i'm miserable too. do you suppose i am happy without you? i am pining and wasting away! and my chest has begun to be bad! . . . you are my lawful wife, flesh of my flesh . . . one flesh. . . . you must live and bear it! while i . . . will drive over . . . visit you." and bending down to liza, bugrov whispered, loudly enough, however, to be heard several yards away: "i will come to you at night, lizanka. . . . don't worry. . . . i am staying at feodosia close by. . . . i will live here near you till i have run through everything . . . and i soon shall be at my last farthing! a-a-ah, what a life it is! dreariness, ill . . . my chest is bad, and my stomach is bad." bugrov ceased speaking, and then it was liza's turn. . . . my god, the cruelty of that woman! she began weeping, complaining, enumerating all the defects of her lover and her own sufferings. groholsky as he listened to her, felt that he was a villain, a miscreant, a murderer. "he makes me miserable. . . ." liza said in conclusion. after kissing liza at parting, and going out at the garden gate, bugrov came upon groholsky, who was standing at the gate waiting for him. "ivan petrovitch," said groholsky in the tone of a dying man, "i have seen and heard it all. . . it's not honourable on your part, but i do not blame you. . . . you love her too, but you must understand that she is mine. mine! i cannot live without her! how is it you don't understand that? granted that you love her, that you are miserable. . . . have i not paid you, in part at least, for your sufferings? for god's sake, go away! for god's sake, go away! go away from here for ever, i implore you, or you will kill me. . . ." "i have nowhere to go," bugrov said thickly. "h'm, you have squandered everything. . . . you are an impulsive man. very well. . . . go to my estate in the province of tchernigov. if you like i will make you a present of the property. it's a small estate, but a good one. . . . on my honour, it's a good one!" bugrov gave a broad grin. he suddenly felt himself in the seventh heaven. "i will give it you. . . . this very day i will write to my steward and send him an authorisation for completing the purchase. you must tell everyone you have bought it. . . . go away, i entreat you." "very good, i will go. i understand." "let us go to a notary . . . at once," said groholsky, greatly cheered, and he went to order the carriage. on the following evening, when liza was sitting on the garden seat where her rendezvous with ivan petrovitch usually took place, groholsky went quietly to her. he sat down beside her, and took her hand. "are you dull, lizotchka?" he said, after a brief silence. "are you depressed? why shouldn't we go away somewhere? why is it we always stay at home? we want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to make acquaintances. . . . don't we?" "i want nothing," said liza, and turned her pale, thin face towards the path by which bugrov used to come to her. groholsky pondered. he knew who it was she expected, who it was she wanted. "let us go home, liza," he said, "it is damp here. . . ." "you go; i'll come directly." groholsky pondered again. "you are expecting him?" he asked, and made a wry face as though his heart had been gripped with red-hot pincers. "yes. . . . i want to give him the socks for misha. . . ." "he will not come." "how do you know?" "he has gone away. . . ." liza opened her eyes wide. . . . "he has gone away, gone to the tchernigov province. i have given him my estate. . . ." liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at groholsky's shoulder to save herself from falling. "i saw him off at the steamer at three o'clock." liza suddenly clutched at her head, made a movement, and falling on the seat, began shaking all over. "vanya," she wailed, "vanya! i will go to vanya. . . . darling!" she had a fit of hysterics. . . . and from that evening, right up to july, two shadows could be seen in the park in which the summer visitors took their walks. the shadows wandered about from morning till evening, and made the summer visitors feel dismal. . . . after liza's shadow invariably walked the shadow of groholsky. . . . i call them shadows because they had both lost their natural appearance. they had grown thin and pale and shrunken, and looked more like shadows than living people. . . . both were pining away like fleas in the classic anecdote of the jew who sold insect powder. at the beginning of july, liza ran away from groholsky, leaving a note in which she wrote that she was going for a time to "her son" . . . for a time! she ran away by night when groholsky was asleep . . . . after reading her letter groholsky spent a whole week wandering round about the villa as though he were mad, and neither ate nor slept. in august, he had an attack of recurrent fever, and in september he went abroad. there he took to drink. . . . he hoped in drink and dissipation to find comfort. . . . he squandered all his fortune, but did not succeed, poor fellow, in driving out of his brain the image of the beloved woman with the kittenish face . . . . men do not die of happiness, nor do they die of misery. groholsky's hair went grey, but he did not die: he is alive to this day. . . . he came back from abroad to have "just a peep" at liza . . . . bugrov met him with open arms, and made him stay for an indefinite period. he is staying with bugrov to this day. this year i happened to be passing through groholyovka, bugrov's estate. i found the master and the mistress of the house having supper. . . . ivan petrovitch was highly delighted to see me, and fell to pressing good things upon me. . . . he had grown rather stout, and his face was a trifle puffy, though it was still rosy and looked sleek and well-nourished. . . . he was not bald. liza, too, had grown fatter. plumpness did not suit her. her face was beginning to lose the kittenish look, and was, alas! more suggestive of the seal. her cheeks were spreading upwards, outwards, and to both sides. the bugrovs were living in first-rate style. they had plenty of everything. the house was overflowing with servants and edibles. . . . when we had finished supper we got into conversation. forgetting that liza did not play, i asked her to play us something on the piano. "she does not play," said bugrov; "she is no musician. . . . hey, you there! ivan! call grigory vassilyevitch here! what's he doing there?" and turning to me, bugrov added, "our musician will come directly; he plays the guitar. we keep the piano for mishutka--we are having him taught. . . ." five minutes later, groholsky walked into the room--sleepy, unkempt, and unshaven. . . . he walked in, bowed to me, and sat down on one side. "why, whoever goes to bed so early?" said bugrov, addressing him. "what a fellow you are really! he's always asleep, always asleep . . . the sleepy head! come, play us something lively. . . ." groholsky turned the guitar, touched the strings, and began singing: "yesterday i waited for my dear one. . . ." i listened to the singing, looked at bugrov's well-fed countenance, and thought: "nasty brute!" i felt like crying. . . . when he had finished singing, groholsky bowed to us, and went out. "and what am i to do with him?" bugrov said when he had gone away. "i do have trouble with him! in the day he is always brooding and brooding. . . . and at night he moans. . . . he sleeps, but he sighs and moans in his sleep. . . . it is a sort of illness. . . . what am i to do with him, i can't think! he won't let us sleep. . . . i am afraid that he will go out of his mind. people think he is badly treated here. . . . in what way is he badly treated? he eats with us, and he drinks with us. . . . only we won't give him money. if we were to give him any he would spend it on drink or waste it . . . . that's another trouble for me! lord forgive me, a sinner!" they made me stay the night. when i woke next morning, bugrov was giving some one a lecture in the adjoining room. . . . "set a fool to say his prayers, and he will crack his skull on the floor! why, who paints oars green! do think, blockhead! use your sense! why don't you speak?" "i . . . i . . . made a mistake," said a husky tenor apologetically. the tenor belonged to groholsky. groholsky saw me to the station. "he is a despot, a tyrant," he kept whispering to me all the way. "he is a generous man, but a tyrant! neither heart nor brain are developed in him. . . . he tortures me! if it were not for that noble woman, i should have gone away long ago. i am sorry to leave her. it's somehow easier to endure together." groholsky heaved a sigh, and went on: "she is with child. . . . you notice it? it is really my child. . . . mine. . . . she soon saw her mistake, and gave herself to me again. she cannot endure him. . . ." "you are a rag," i could not refrain from saying to groholsky. "yes, i am a man of weak character. . . . that is quite true. i was born so. do you know how i came into the world? my late papa cruelly oppressed a certain little clerk--it was awful how he treated him! he poisoned his life. well . . . and my late mama was tender-hearted. she came from the people, she was of the working class. . . . she took that little clerk to her heart from pity. . . . well . . . and so i came into the world. . . . the son of the ill-treated clerk. how could i have a strong will? where was i to get it from? but that's the second bell. . . . good-bye. come and see us again, but don't tell ivan petrovitch what i have said about him." i pressed groholsky's hand, and got into the train. he bowed towards the carriage, and went to the water-barrel--i suppose he was thirsty! the doctor it was still in the drawing-room, so still that a house-fly that had flown in from outside could be distinctly heard brushing against the ceiling. olga ivanovna, the lady of the villa, was standing by the window, looking out at the flower-beds and thinking. dr. tsvyetkov, who was her doctor as well as an old friend, and had been sent for to treat her son misha, was sitting in an easy chair and swinging his hat, which he held in both hands, and he too was thinking. except them, there was not a soul in the drawing-room or in the adjoining rooms. the sun had set, and the shades of evening began settling in the corners under the furniture and on the cornices. the silence was broken by olga ivanovna. "no misfortune more terrible can be imagined," she said, without turning from the window. "you know that life has no value for me whatever apart from the boy." "yes, i know that," said the doctor. "no value whatever," said olga ivanovna, and her voice quivered. "he is everything to me. he is my joy, my happiness, my wealth. and if, as you say, i cease to be a mother, if he . . . dies, there will be nothing left of me but a shadow. i cannot survive it." wringing her hands, olga ivanovna walked from one window to the other and went on: "when he was born, i wanted to send him away to the foundling hospital, you remember that, but, my god, how can that time be compared with now? then i was vulgar, stupid, feather-headed, but now i am a mother, do you understand? i am a mother, and that's all i care to know. between the present and the past there is an impassable gulf." silence followed again. the doctor shifted his seat from the chair to the sofa and impatiently playing with his hat, kept his eyes fixed upon olga ivanovna. from his face it could be seen that he wanted to speak, and was waiting for a fitting moment. "you are silent, but still i do not give up hope," said the lady, turning round. "why are you silent?" "i should be as glad of any hope as you, olga, but there is none," tsvyetkov answered, "we must look the hideous truth in the face. the boy has a tumour on the brain, and we must try to prepare ourselves for his death, for such cases never recover." "nikolay, are you certain you are not mistaken?" "such questions lead to nothing. i am ready to answer as many as you like, but it will make it no better for us." olga ivanovna pressed her face into the window curtains, and began weeping bitterly. the doctor got up and walked several times up and down the drawing-room, then went to the weeping woman, and lightly touched her arm. judging from his uncertain movements, from the expression of his gloomy face, which looked dark in the dusk of the evening, he wanted to say something. "listen, olga," he began. "spare me a minute's attention; there is something i must ask you. you can't attend to me now, though. i'll come later, afterwards. . . ." he sat down again, and sank into thought. the bitter, imploring weeping, like the weeping of a little girl, continued. without waiting for it to end, tsvyetkov heaved a sigh and walked out of the drawing-room. he went into the nursery to misha. the boy was lying on his back as before, staring at one point as though he were listening. the doctor sat down on his bed and felt his pulse. "misha, does your head ache?" he asked. misha answered, not at once: "yes. i keep dreaming." "what do you dream?" "all sorts of things. . . ." the doctor, who did not know how to talk with weeping women or with children, stroked his burning head, and muttered: "never mind, poor boy, never mind. . . . one can't go through life without illness. . . . misha, who am i--do you know me?" misha did not answer. "does your head ache very badly?" "ve-ery. i keep dreaming." after examining him and putting a few questions to the maid who was looking after the sick child, the doctor went slowly back to the drawing-room. there it was by now dark, and olga ivanovna, standing by the window, looked like a silhouette. "shall i light up?" asked tsvyetkov. no answer followed. the house-fly was still brushing against the ceiling. not a sound floated in from outside as though the whole world, like the doctor, were thinking, and could not bring itself to speak. olga ivanovna was not weeping now, but as before, staring at the flower-bed in profound silence. when tsvyetkov went up to her, and through the twilight glanced at her pale face, exhausted with grief, her expression was such as he had seen before during her attacks of acute, stupefying, sick headache. "nikolay trofimitch!" she addressed him, "and what do you think about a consultation?" "very good; i'll arrange it to-morrow." from the doctor's tone it could be easily seen that he put little faith in the benefit of a consultation. olga ivanovna would have asked him something else, but her sobs prevented her. again she pressed her face into the window curtain. at that moment, the strains of a band playing at the club floated in distinctly. they could hear not only the wind instruments, but even the violins and the flutes. "if he is in pain, why is he silent?" asked olga ivanovna. "all day long, not a sound, he never complains, and never cries. i know god will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to prize him. such a treasure!" the band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a lively waltz for the opening of the ball. "good god, can nothing really be done?" moaned olga ivanovna. "nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to know what to do! you must understand that i can't bear the loss of him! i can't survive it." the doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved a sigh, and paced slowly about the drawing-room. there followed a succession of oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the questions which lead to nothing. the band had already played a quadrille, a polka, and another quadrille. it got quite dark. in the adjoining room, the maid lighted the lamp; and all the while the doctor kept his hat in his hands, and seemed trying to say something. several times olga ivanovna went off to her son, sat by him for half an hour, and came back again into the drawing-room; she was continually breaking into tears and lamentations. the time dragged agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no end. at midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased altogether, the doctor got ready to go. "i will come again to-morrow," he said, pressing the mother's cold hand. "you go to bed." after putting on his greatcoat in the passage and picking up his walking-stick, he stopped, thought a minute, and went back into the drawing-room. "i'll come to-morrow, olga," he repeated in a quivering voice. "do you hear?" she did not answer, and it seemed as though grief had robbed her of all power of speech. in his greatcoat and with his stick still in his hand, the doctor sat down beside her, and began in a soft, tender half-whisper, which was utterly out of keeping with his heavy, dignified figure: "olga! for the sake of your sorrow which i share. . . . now, when falsehood is criminal, i beseech you to tell me the truth. you have always declared that the boy is my son. is that the truth?" olga ivanovna was silent. "you have been the one attachment in my life," the doctor went on, "and you cannot imagine how deeply my feeling is wounded by falsehood . . . . come, i entreat you, olga, for once in your life, tell me the truth. . . . at these moments one cannot lie. tell me that misha is not my son. i am waiting." "he is." olga ivanovna's face could not be seen, but in her voice the doctor could hear hesitation. he sighed. "even at such moments you can bring yourself to tell a lie," he said in his ordinary voice. "there is nothing sacred to you! do listen, do understand me. . . . you have been the one only attachment in my life. yes, you were depraved, vulgar, but i have loved no one else but you in my life. that trivial love, now that i am growing old, is the one solitary bright spot in my memories. why do you darken it with deception? what is it for?" "i don't understand you." "oh my god!" cried tsvyetkov. "you are lying, you understand very well!" he cried more loudly, and he began pacing about the drawing-room, angrily waving his stick. "or have you forgotten? then i will remind you! a father's rights to the boy are equally shared with me by petrov and kurovsky the lawyer, who still make you an allowance for their son's education, just as i do! yes, indeed! i know all that quite well! i forgive your lying in the past, what does it matter? but now when you have grown older, at this moment when the boy is dying, your lying stifles me! how sorry i am that i cannot speak, how sorry i am!" the doctor unbuttoned his overcoat, and still pacing about, said: "wretched woman! even such moments have no effect on her! even now she lies as freely as nine years ago in the hermitage restaurant! she is afraid if she tells me the truth i shall leave off giving her money, she thinks that if she did not lie i should not love the boy! you are lying! it's contemptible!" the doctor rapped the floor with his stick, and cried: "it's loathsome. warped, corrupted creature! i must despise you, and i ought to be ashamed of my feeling. yes! your lying has stuck in my throat these nine years, i have endured it, but now it's too much--too much." from the dark corner where olga ivanovna was sitting there came the sound of weeping. the doctor ceased speaking and cleared his throat. a silence followed. the doctor slowly buttoned up his over-coat, and began looking for his hat which he had dropped as he walked about. "i lost my temper," he muttered, bending down to the floor. "i quite lost sight of the fact that you cannot attend to me now. . . . god knows what i have said. . . . don't take any notice of it, olga." he found his hat and went towards the dark corner. "i have wounded you," he said in a soft, tender half-whisper, "but once more i entreat you, tell me the truth; there should not be lying between us. . . . i blurted it out, and now you know that petrov and kurovsky are no secret to me. so now it is easy for you to tell me the truth." olga ivanovna thought a moment, and with perceptible hesitation, said: "nikolay, i am not lying--misha is your child." "my god," moaned the doctor, "then i will tell you something more: i have kept your letter to petrov in which you call him misha's father! olga, i know the truth, but i want to hear it from you! do you hear?" olga ivanovna made no reply, but went on weeping. after waiting for an answer the doctor shrugged his shoulders and went out. "i will come to-morrow," he called from the passage. all the way home, as he sat in his carriage, he was shrugging his shoulders and muttering: "what a pity that i don't know how to speak! i haven't the gift of persuading and convincing. it's evident she does not understand me since she lies! it's evident! how can i make her see? how?" too early! the bells are ringing for service in the village of shalmovo. the sun is already kissing the earth on the horizon; it has turned crimson and will soon disappear. in semyon's pothouse, which has lately changed its name and become a restaurant--a title quite out of keeping with the wretched little hut with its thatch torn off its roof, and its couple of dingy windows--two peasant sportsmen are sitting. one of them is called filimon slyunka; he is an old man of sixty, formerly a house-serf, belonging to the counts zavalin, by trade a carpenter. he has at one time been employed in a nail factory, has been turned off for drunkenness and idleness, and now lives upon his old wife, who begs for alms. he is thin and weak, with a mangy-looking little beard, speaks with a hissing sound, and after every word twitches the right side of his face and jerkily shrugs his right shoulder. the other, ignat ryabov, a sturdy, broad-shouldered peasant who never does anything and is everlastingly silent, is sitting in the corner under a big string of bread rings. the door, opening inwards, throws a thick shadow upon him, so that slyunka and semyon the publican can see nothing but his patched knees, his long fleshy nose, and a big tuft of hair which has escaped from the thick uncombed tangle covering his head. semyon, a sickly little man, with a pale face and a long sinewy neck, stands behind his counter, looks mournfully at the string of bread rings, and coughs meekly. "you think it over now, if you have any sense," slyunka says to him, twitching his cheek. "you have the thing lying by unused and get no sort of benefit from it. while we need it. a sportsman without a gun is like a sacristan without a voice. you ought to understand that, but i see you don't understand it, so you can have no real sense. . . . hand it over!" "you left the gun in pledge, you know!" says semyon in a thin womanish little voice, sighing deeply, and not taking his eyes off the string of bread rings. "hand over the rouble you borrowed, and then take your gun." "i haven't got a rouble. i swear to you, semyon mitritch, as god sees me: you give me the gun and i will go to-day with ignashka and bring it you back again. i'll bring it back, strike me dead. may i have happiness neither in this world nor the next, if i don't." "semyon mitritch, do give it," ignat ryabov says in his bass, and his voice betrays a passionate desire to get what he asks for. "but what do you want the gun for?" sighs semyon, sadly shaking his head. "what sort of shooting is there now? it's still winter outside, and no game at all but crows and jackdaws." "winter, indeed," says slyunka, hooing the ash out of his pipe with his finger, "it is early yet of course, but you never can tell with the snipe. the snipe's a bird that wants watching. if you are unlucky, you may sit waiting at home, and miss his flying over, and then you must wait till autumn. . . . it is a business! the snipe is not a rook. . . . last year he was flying the week before easter, while the year before we had to wait till the week after easter! come, do us a favour, semyon mitritch, give us the gun. make us pray for you for ever. as ill-luck would have it, ignashka has pledged his gun for drink too. ah, when you drink you feel nothing, but now . . . ah, i wish i had never looked at it, the cursed vodka! truly it is the blood of satan! give it us, semyon mitritch!" "i won't give it you," says semyon, clasping his yellow hands on his breast as though he were going to pray. "you must act fairly, filimonushka. . . . a thing is not taken out of pawn just anyhow; you must pay the money. . . . besides, what do you want to kill birds for? what's the use? it's lent now--you are not going to eat them." slyunka exchanges glances with ryabov in embarrassment, sighs, and says: "we would only go stand-shooting." "and what for? it's all foolishness. you are not the sort of man to spend your time in foolishness. . . . ignashka, to be sure, is a man of no understanding, god has afflicted him, but you, thank the lord, are an old man. it's time to prepare for your end. here, you ought to go to the midnight service." the allusion to his age visibly stings slyunka. he clears his throat, wrinkles up his forehead, and remains silent for a full minute. "i say, semyon mitritch," he says hotly, getting up and twitching not only in his right cheek but all over his face. "it's god's truth. . . . may the almighty strike me dead, after easter i shall get something from stepan kuzmitch for an axle, and i will pay you not one rouble but two! may the lord chastise me! before the holy image, i tell you, only give me the gun!" "gi-ive it," ryabov says in his growling bass; they can hear him breathing hard, and it seems that he would like to say a great deal, but cannot find the words. "gi-ive it." "no, brothers, and don't ask," sighs semyon, shaking his head mournfully. "don't lead me into sin. i won't give you the gun. it's not the fashion for a thing to be taken out of pawn and no money paid. besides--why this indulgence? go your way and god bless you!" slyunka rubs his perspiring face with his sleeve and begins hotly swearing and entreating. he crosses himself, holds out his hands to the ikon, calls his deceased father and mother to bear witness, but semyon sighs and meekly looks as before at the string of bread rings. in the end ignashka ryabov, hitherto motionless, gets up impulsively and bows down to the ground before the innkeeper, but even that has no effect on him. "may you choke with my gun, you devil," says slyunka, with his face twitching, and his shoulders, shrugging. "may you choke, you plague, you scoundrelly soul." swearing and shaking his fists, he goes out of the tavern with ryabov and stands still in the middle of the road. "he won't give it, the damned brute," he says, in a weeping voice, looking into ryabov's face with an injured air. "he won't give it," booms ryabov. the windows of the furthest huts, the starling cote on the tavern, the tops of the poplars, and the cross on the church are all gleaming with a bright golden flame. now they can see only half of the sun, which, as it goes to its night's rest, is winking, shedding a crimson light, and seems laughing gleefully. slyunka and ryabov can see the forest lying, a dark blur, to the right of the sun, a mile and a half from the village, and tiny clouds flitting over the clear sky, and they feel that the evening will be fine and still. "now is just the time," says slyunka, with his face twitching. "it would be nice to stand for an hour or two. he won't give it us, the damned brute. may he . . ." "for stand-shooting, now is the very time . . ." ryabov articulated, as though with an effort, stammering. after standing still for a little they walk out of the village, without saying a word to each other, and look towards the dark streak of the forest. the whole sky above the forest is studded with moving black spots, the rooks flying home to roost. the snow, lying white here and there on the dark brown plough-land, is lightly flecked with gold by the sun. "this time last year i went stand-shooting in zhivki," says slyunka, after a long silence. "i brought back three snipe." again there follows a silence. both stand a long time and look towards the forest, and then lazily move and walk along the muddy road from the village. "it's most likely the snipe haven't come yet," says slyunka, "but may be they are here." "kostka says they are not here yet." "maybe they are not, who can tell; one year is not like another. but what mud!" "but we ought to stand." "to be sure we ought--why not?" "we can stand and watch; it wouldn't be amiss to go to the forest and have a look. if they are there we will tell kostka, or maybe get a gun ourselves and come to-morrow. what a misfortune, god forgive me. it was the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to the pothouse! i am more sorry than i can tell you, ignashka." conversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest. the sun has set and left behind it a red streak like the glow of a fire, scattered here and there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of those clouds: their edges are red, but they themselves are one minute grey, at the next lilac, at the next ashen. in the forest, among the thick branches of fir-trees and under the birch bushes, it is dark, and only the outermost twigs on the side of the sun, with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly in the air. there is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves. it is still; nothing stirs. from the distance comes the subsiding caw of the rooks. "we ought to be standing in zhivki now," whispers slyunka, looking with awe at ryabov; "there's good stand-shooting there." ryabov too looks with awe at slyunka, with unblinking eyes and open mouth. "a lovely time," slyunka says in a trembling whisper. "the lord is sending a fine spring . . . and i should think the snipe are here by now. . . . why not? the days are warm now. . . . the cranes were flying in the morning, lots and lots of them." slyunka and ryabov, splashing cautiously through the melting snow and sticking in the mud, walk two hundred paces along the edge of the forest and there halt. their faces wear a look of alarm and expectation of something terrible and extraordinary. they stand like posts, do not speak nor stir, and their hands gradually fall into an attitude as though they were holding a gun at the cock. . . . a big shadow creeps from the left and envelops the earth. the dusk of evening comes on. if one looks to the right, through the bushes and tree trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the after-glow. it is still and damp. . . . "there's no sound of them," whispers slyunka, shrugging with the cold and sniffing with his chilly nose. but frightened by his own whisper, he holds his finger up at some one, opens his eyes wide, and purses up his lips. there is a sound of a light snapping. the sportsmen look at each other significantly, and tell each other with their eyes that it is nothing. it is the snapping of a dry twig or a bit of bark. the shadows of evening keep growing and growing, the patches of crimson gradually grow dim, and the dampness becomes unpleasant. the sportsmen remain standing a long time, but they see and hear nothing. every instant they expect to see a delicate leaf float through the air, to hear a hurried call like the husky cough of a child, and the flutter of wings. "no, not a sound," slyunka says aloud, dropping his hands and beginning to blink. "so they have not come yet." "it's early!" "you are right there." the sportsmen cannot see each other's faces, it is getting rapidly dark. "we must wait another five days," says slyunka, as he comes out from behind a bush with ryabov. "it's too early!" they go homewards, and are silent all the way. the cossack maxim tortchakov, a farmer in southern russia, was driving home from church with his young wife and bringing back an easter cake which had just been blessed. the sun had not yet risen, but the east was all tinged with red and gold and had dissipated the haze which usually, in the early morning, screens the blue of the sky from the eyes. it was quiet. . . . the birds were hardly yet awake . . . . the corncrake uttered its clear note, and far away above a little tumulus, a sleepy kite floated, heavily flapping its wings, and no other living creature could be seen all over the steppe. tortchakov drove on and thought that there was no better nor happier holiday than the feast of christ's resurrection. he had only lately been married, and was now keeping his first easter with his wife. whatever he looked at, whatever he thought about, it all seemed to him bright, joyous, and happy. he thought about his farming, and thought that it was all going well, that the furnishing of his house was all the heart could desire--there was enough of everything and all of it good; he looked at his wife, and she seemed to him lovely, kind, and gentle. he was delighted by the glow in the east, and the young grass, and his squeaking chaise, and the kite. . . . and when on the way, he ran into a tavern to light his cigarette and drank a glass, he felt happier still. "it is said, 'great is the day,'" he chattered. "yes, it is great! wait a bit, lizaveta, the sun will begin to dance. it dances every easter. so it rejoices too!" "it is not alive," said his wife. "but there are people on it!" exclaimed tortchakov, "there are really! ivan stepanitch told me that there are people on all the planets--on the sun, and on the moon! truly . . . but maybe the learned men tell lies--the devil only knows! stay, surely that's not a horse? yes, it is!" at the crooked ravine, which was just half-way on the journey home, tortchakov and his wife saw a saddled horse standing motionless, and sniffing last year's dry grass. on a hillock beside the roadside a red-haired cossack was sitting doubled up, looking at his feet. "christ is risen!" maxim shouted to him. "wo-o-o!" "truly he is risen," answered the cossack, without raising his head. "where are you going?" "home on leave." "why are you sitting here, then?" "why . . . i have fallen ill . . . i haven't the strength to go on." "what is wrong?" "i ache all over." "h'm. what a misfortune! people are keeping holiday, and you fall sick! but you should ride on to a village or an inn, what's the use of sitting here!" the cossack raised his head, and with big, exhausted eyes, scanned maxim, his wife, and the horse. "have you come from church?" he asked. "yes." "the holiday found me on the high road. it was not god's will for me to reach home. i'd get on my horse at once and ride off, but i haven't the strength. . . . you might, good christians, give a wayfarer some easter cake to break his fast!" "easter cake?" tortchakov repeated, "that we can, to be sure. . . . stay, i'll. . . ." maxim fumbled quickly in his pockets, glanced at his wife, and said: "i haven't a knife, nothing to cut it with. and i don't like to break it, it would spoil the whole cake. there's a problem! you look and see if you haven't a knife?" the cossack got up groaning, and went to his saddle to get a knife. "what an idea," said tortchakov's wife angrily. "i won't let you slice up the easter cake! what should i look like, taking it home already cut! ride on to the peasants in the village, and break your fast there!" the wife took the napkin with the easter cake in it out of her husband's hands and said: "i won't allow it! one must do things properly; it's not a loaf, but a holy easter cake. and it's a sin to cut it just anyhow." "well, cossack, don't be angry," laughed tortchakov. "the wife forbids it! good-bye. good luck on your journey!" maxim shook the reins, clicked to his horse, and the chaise rolled on squeaking. for some time his wife went on grumbling, and declaring that to cut the easter cake before reaching home was a sin and not the proper thing. in the east the first rays of the rising sun shone out, cutting their way through the feathery clouds, and the song of the lark was heard in the sky. now not one but three kites were hovering over the steppe at a respectful distance from one another. grasshoppers began churring in the young grass. when they had driven three-quarters of a mile from the crooked ravine, tortchakov looked round and stared intently into the distance. "i can't see the cossack," he said. "poor, dear fellow, to take it into his head to fall ill on the road. there couldn't be a worse misfortune, to have to travel and not have the strength. . . . i shouldn't wonder if he dies by the roadside. we didn't give him any easter cake, lizaveta, and we ought to have given it. i'll be bound he wants to break his fast too." the sun had risen, but whether it was dancing or not tortchakov did not see. he remained silent all the way home, thinking and keeping his eyes fixed on the horse's black tail. for some unknown reason he felt overcome by depression, and not a trace of the holiday gladness was left in his heart. when he had arrived home and said, "christ is risen" to his workmen, he grew cheerful again and began talking, but when he had sat down to break the fast and had taken a bite from his piece of easter cake, he looked regretfully at his wife, and said: "it wasn't right of us, lizaveta, not to give that cossack something to eat." "you are a queer one, upon my word," said lizaveta, shrugging her shoulders in surprise. "where did you pick up such a fashion as giving away the holy easter cake on the high road? is it an ordinary loaf? now that it is cut and lying on the table, let anyone eat it that likes--your cossack too! do you suppose i grudge it?" "that's all right, but we ought to have given the cossack some. . . . why, he was worse off than a beggar or an orphan. on the road, and far from home, and sick too." tortchakov drank half a glass of tea, and neither ate nor drank anything more. he had no appetite, the tea seemed to choke him, and he felt depressed again. after breaking their fast, his wife and he lay down to sleep. when lizaveta woke two hours later, he was standing by the window, looking into the yard. "are you up already?" asked his wife. "i somehow can't sleep. . . . ah, lizaveta," he sighed. "we were unkind, you and i, to that cossack!" "talking about that cossack again!" yawned his wife. "you have got him on the brain." "he has served his tsar, shed his blood maybe, and we treated him as though he were a pig. we ought to have brought the sick man home and fed him, and we did not even give him a morsel of bread." "catch me letting you spoil the easter cake for nothing! and one that has been blessed too! you would have cut it on the road, and shouldn't i have looked a fool when i got home?" without saying anything to his wife, maxim went into the kitchen, wrapped a piece of cake up in a napkin, together with half a dozen eggs, and went to the labourers in the barn. "kuzma, put down your concertina," he said to one of them. "saddle the bay, or ivantchik, and ride briskly to the crooked ravine. there you will see a sick cossack with a horse, so give him this. maybe he hasn't ridden away yet." maxim felt cheerful again, but after waiting for kuzma for some hours, he could bear it no longer, so he saddled a horse and went off to meet him. he met him just at the ravine. "well, have you seen the cossack?" "i can't find him anywhere, he must have ridden on." "h'm . . . a queer business." tortchakov took the bundle from kuzma, and galloped on farther. when he reached shustrovo he asked the peasants: "friends, have you seen a sick cossack with a horse? didn't he ride by here? a red-headed fellow on a bay horse." the peasants looked at one another, and said they had not seen the cossack. "the returning postman drove by, it's true, but as for a cossack or anyone else, there has been no such." maxim got home at dinner time. "i can't get that cossack out of my head, do what you will!" he said to his wife. "he gives me no peace. i keep thinking: what if god meant to try us, and sent some saint or angel in the form of a cossack? it does happen, you know. it's bad, lizaveta; we were unkind to the man!" "what do you keep pestering me with that cossack for?" cried lizaveta, losing patience at last. "you stick to it like tar!" "you are not kind, you know . . ." said maxim, looking into his wife's face. and for the first time since his marriage he perceived that he wife was not kind. "i may be unkind," cried lizaveta, tapping angrily with her spoon, "but i am not going to give away the holy easter cake to every drunken man in the road." "the cossack wasn't drunk!" "he was drunk!" "well, you are a fool then!" maxim got up from the table and began reproaching his young wife for hard-heartedness and stupidity. she, getting angry too, answered his reproaches with reproaches, burst into tears, and went away into their bedroom, declaring she would go home to her father's. this was the first matrimonial squabble that had happened in the tortchakov's married life. he walked about the yard till the evening, picturing his wife's face, and it seemed to him now spiteful and ugly. and as though to torment him the cossack haunted his brain, and maxim seemed to see now his sick eyes, now his unsteady walk. "ah, we were unkind to the man," he muttered. when it got dark, he was overcome by an insufferable depression such as he had never felt before. feeling so dreary, and being angry with his wife, he got drunk, as he had sometimes done before he was married. in his drunkenness he used bad language and shouted to his wife that she had a spiteful, ugly face, and that next day he would send her packing to her father's. on the morning of easter monday, he drank some more to sober himself, and got drunk again. and with that his downfall began. his horses, cows, sheep, and hives disappeared one by one from the yard; maxim was more and more often drunk, debts mounted up, he felt an aversion for his wife. maxim put down all his misfortunes to the fact that he had an unkind wife, and above all, that god was angry with him on account of the sick cossack. lizaveta saw their ruin, but who was to blame for it she did not understand. aborigines between nine and ten in the morning. ivan lyashkevsky, a lieutenant of polish origin, who has at some time or other been wounded in the head, and now lives on his pension in a town in one of the southern provinces, is sitting in his lodgings at the open window talking to franz stepanitch finks, the town architect, who has come in to see him for a minute. both have thrust their heads out of the window, and are looking in the direction of the gate near which lyashkevsky's landlord, a plump little native with pendulous perspiring cheeks, in full, blue trousers, is sitting on a bench with his waistcoat unbuttoned. the native is plunged in deep thought, and is absent-mindedly prodding the toe of his boot with a stick. "extraordinary people, i tell you," grumbled lyashkevsky, looking angrily at the native, "here he has sat down on the bench, and so he will sit, damn the fellow, with his hands folded till evening. they do absolutely nothing. the wastrels and loafers! it would be all right, you scoundrel, if you had money lying in the bank, or had a farm of your own where others would be working for you, but here you have not a penny to your name, you eat the bread of others, you are in debt all round, and you starve your family--devil take you! you wouldn't believe me, franz stepanitch, sometimes it makes me so cross that i could jump out of the window and give the low fellow a good horse-whipping. come, why don't you work? what are you sitting there for?" the native looks indifferently at lyashkevsky, tries to say something but cannot; sloth and the sultry heat have paralysed his conversational faculties. . . . yawning lazily, he makes the sign of the cross over his mouth, and turns his eyes up towards the sky where pigeons fly, bathing in the hot air. "you must not be too severe in your judgments, honoured friend," sighs finks, mopping his big bald head with his handkerchief. "put yourself in their place: business is slack now, there's unemployment all round, a bad harvest, stagnation in trade." "good gracious, how you talk!" cries lyashkevsky in indignation, angrily wrapping his dressing gown round him. "supposing he has no job and no trade, why doesn't he work in his own home, the devil flay him! i say! is there no work for you at home? just look, you brute! your steps have come to pieces, the plankway is falling into the ditch, the fence is rotten; you had better set to and mend it all, or if you don't know how, go into the kitchen and help your wife. your wife is running out every minute to fetch water or carry out the slops. why shouldn't you run instead, you rascal? and then you must remember, franz stepanitch, that he has six acres of garden, that he has pigsties and poultry houses, but it is all wasted and no use. the flower garden is overgrown with weeds and almost baked dry, while the boys play ball in the kitchen garden. isn't he a lazy brute? i assure you, though i have only the use of an acre and a half with my lodgings, you will always find radishes, and salad, and fennel, and onions, while that blackguard buys everything at the market." "he is a russian, there is no doing anything with him," said finks with a condescending smile; "it's in the russian blood. . . . they are a very lazy people! if all property were given to germans or poles, in a year's time you would not recognise the town." the native in the blue trousers beckons a girl with a sieve, buys a kopeck's worth of sunflower seeds from her and begins cracking them. "a race of curs!" says lyashkevsky angrily. "that's their only occupation, they crack sunflower seeds and they talk politics! the devil take them!" staring wrathfully at the blue trousers, lyashkevsky is gradually roused to fury, and gets so excited that he actually foams at the mouth. he speaks with a polish accent, rapping out each syllable venomously, till at last the little bags under his eyes swell, and he abandons the russian "scoundrels, blackguards, and rascals," and rolling his eyes, begins pouring out a shower of polish oaths, coughing from his efforts. "lazy dogs, race of curs. may the devil take them!" the native hears this abuse distinctly, but, judging from the appearance of his crumpled little figure, it does not affect him. apparently he has long ago grown as used to it as to the buzzing of the flies, and feels it superfluous to protest. at every visit finks has to listen to a tirade on the subject of the lazy good-for-nothing aborigines, and every time exactly the same one. "but . . . i must be going," he says, remembering that he has no time to spare. "good-bye!" "where are you off to?" "i only looked in on you for a minute. the wall of the cellar has cracked in the girls' high school, so they asked me to go round at once to look at it. i must go." "h'm. . . . i have told varvara to get the samovar," says lyashkevsky, surprised. "stay a little, we will have some tea; then you shall go." finks obediently puts down his hat on the table and remains to drink tea. over their tea lyashkevsky maintains that the natives are hopelessly ruined, that there is only one thing to do, to take them all indiscriminately and send them under strict escort to hard labour. "why, upon my word," he says, getting hot, "you may ask what does that goose sitting there live upon! he lets me lodgings in his house for seven roubles a month, and he goes to name-day parties, that's all that he has to live on, the knave, may the devil take him! he has neither earnings nor an income. they are not merely sluggards and wastrels, they are swindlers too, they are continually borrowing money from the town bank, and what do they do with it? they plunge into some scheme such as sending bulls to moscow, or building oil presses on a new system; but to send bulls to moscow or to press oil you want to have a head on your shoulders, and these rascals have pumpkins on theirs! of course all their schemes end in smoke . . . . they waste their money, get into a mess, and then snap their fingers at the bank. what can you get out of them? their houses are mortgaged over and over again, they have no other property--it's all been drunk and eaten up long ago. nine-tenths of them are swindlers, the scoundrels! to borrow money and not return it is their rule. thanks to them the town bank is going smash!" "i was at yegorov's yesterday," finks interrupts the pole, anxious to change the conversation, "and only fancy, i won six roubles and a half from him at picquet." "i believe i still owe you something at picquet," lyashkevsky recollects, "i ought to win it back. wouldn't you like one game?" "perhaps just one," finks assents. "i must make haste to the high school, you know." lyashkevsky and finks sit down at the open window and begin a game of picquet. the native in the blue trousers stretches with relish, and husks of sunflower seeds fall in showers from all over him on to the ground. at that moment from the gate opposite appears another native with a long beard, wearing a crumpled yellowish-grey cotton coat. he screws up his eyes affectionately at the blue trousers and shouts: "good-morning, semyon nikolaitch, i have the honour to congratulate you on the thursday." "and the same to you, kapiton petrovitch!" "come to my seat! it's cool here!" the blue trousers, with much sighing and groaning and waddling from side to side like a duck, cross the street. "tierce major . . ." mutters lyashkevsky, "from the queen. . . . five and fifteen. . . . the rascals are talking of politics. . . . do you hear? they have begun about england. i have six hearts." "i have the seven spades. my point." "yes, it's yours. do you hear? they are abusing beaconsfield. they don't know, the swine, that beaconsfield has been dead for ever so long. so i have twenty-nine. . . . your lead." "eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . . yes, amazing people, these russians! eleven . . . twelve. . . . the russian inertia is unique on the terrestrial globe." "thirty . . . thirty-one. . . . one ought to take a good whip, you know. go out and give them beaconsfield. i say, how their tongues are wagging! it's easier to babble than to work. i suppose you threw away the queen of clubs and i didn't realise it." "thirteen . . . fourteen. . . . it's unbearably hot! one must be made of iron to sit in such heat on a seat in the full sun! fifteen." the first game is followed by a second, the second by a third. . . . finks loses, and by degrees works himself up into a gambling fever and forgets all about the cracking walls of the high school cellar. as lyashkevsky plays he keeps looking at the aborigines. he sees them, entertaining each other with conversation, go to the open gate, cross the filthy yard and sit down on a scanty patch of shade under an aspen tree. between twelve and one o'clock the fat cook with brown legs spreads before them something like a baby's sheet with brown stains upon it, and gives them their dinner. they eat with wooden spoons, keep brushing away the flies, and go on talking. "the devil, it is beyond everything," cries lyashkevsky, revolted. "i am very glad i have not a gun or a revolver or i should have a shot at those cattle. i have four knaves--fourteen. . . . your point. . . . it really gives me a twitching in my legs. i can't see those ruffians without being upset." "don't excite yourself, it is bad for you." "but upon my word, it is enough to try the patience of a stone!" when he has finished dinner the native in blue trousers, worn out and exhausted, staggering with laziness and repletion, crosses the street to his own house and sinks feebly on to his bench. he is struggling with drowsiness and the gnats, and is looking about him as dejectedly as though he were every minute expecting his end. his helpless air drives lyashkevsky out of all patience. the pole pokes his head out of the window and shouts at him, spluttering: "been gorging? ah, the old woman! the sweet darling. he has been stuffing himself, and now he doesn't know what to do with his tummy! get out of my sight, you confounded fellow! plague take you!" the native looks sourly at him, and merely twiddles his fingers instead of answering. a school-boy of his acquaintance passes by him with his satchel on his back. stopping him the native ponders a long time what to say to him, and asks: "well, what now?" "nothing." "how, nothing?" "why, just nothing." "h'm. . . . and which subject is the hardest?" "that's according." the school-boy shrugs his shoulders. "i see--er . . . what is the latin for tree?" "arbor." "aha. . . . and so one has to know all that," sighs the blue trousers. "you have to go into it all. . . . it's hard work, hard work. . . . is your dear mamma well?" "she is all right, thank you." "ah. . . . well, run along." after losing two roubles finks remembers the high school and is horrified. "holy saints, why it's three o'clock already. how i have been staying on. good-bye, i must run. . . ." "have dinner with me, and then go," says lyashkevsky. "you have plenty of time." finks stays, but only on condition that dinner shall last no more than ten minutes. after dining he sits for some five minutes on the sofa and thinks of the cracked wall, then resolutely lays his head on the cushion and fills the room with a shrill whistling through his nose. while he is asleep, lyashkevsky, who does not approve of an afternoon nap, sits at the window, stares at the dozing native, and grumbles: "race of curs! i wonder you don't choke with laziness. no work, no intellectual or moral interests, nothing but vegetating . . . . disgusting. tfoo!" at six o'clock finks wakes up. "it's too late to go to the high school now," he says, stretching. "i shall have to go to-morrow, and now. . . . how about my revenge? let's have one more game. . . ." after seeing his visitor off, between nine and ten, lyashkevsky looks after him for some time, and says: "damn the fellow, staying here the whole day and doing absolutely nothing. . . . simply get their salary and do no work; the devil take them! . . . the german pig. . . ." he looks out of the window, but the native is no longer there. he has gone to bed. there is no one to grumble at, and for the first time in the day he keeps his mouth shut, but ten minutes passes and he cannot restrain the depression that overpowers him, and begins to grumble, shoving the old shabby armchair: "you only take up room, rubbishly old thing! you ought to have been burnt long ago, but i keep forgetting to tell them to chop you up. it's a disgrace!" and as he gets into bed he presses his hand on a spring of the mattress, frowns and says peevishly: "the con--found--ed spring! it will cut my side all night. i will tell them to rip up the mattress to-morrow and get you out, you useless thing." he falls asleep at midnight, and dreams that he is pouring boiling water over the natives, finks, and the old armchair. an inquiry it was midday. voldyrev, a tall, thick-set country gentleman with a cropped head and prominent eyes, took off his overcoat, mopped his brow with his silk handkerchief, and somewhat diffidently went into the government office. there they were scratching away. . . . "where can i make an inquiry here?" he said, addressing a porter who was bringing a trayful of glasses from the furthest recesses of the office. "i have to make an inquiry here and to take a copy of a resolution of the council." "that way please! to that one sitting near the window!" said the porter, indicating with the tray the furthest window. voldyrev coughed and went towards the window; there, at a green table spotted like typhus, was sitting a young man with his hair standing up in four tufts on his head, with a long pimply nose, and a long faded uniform. he was writing, thrusting his long nose into the papers. a fly was walking about near his right nostril, and he was continually stretching out his lower lip and blowing under his nose, which gave his face an extremely care-worn expression. "may i make an inquiry about my case here . . . of you? my name is voldyrev. and, by the way, i have to take a copy of the resolution of the council of the second of march." the clerk dipped his pen in the ink and looked to see if he had got too much on it. having satisfied himself that the pen would not make a blot, he began scribbling away. his lip was thrust out, but it was no longer necessary to blow: the fly had settled on his ear. "can i make an inquiry here?" voldyrev repeated a minute later, "my name is voldyrev, i am a landowner. . . ." "ivan alexeitch!" the clerk shouted into the air as though he had not observed voldyrev, "will you tell the merchant yalikov when he comes to sign the copy of the complaint lodged with the police! i've told him a thousand times!" "i have come in reference to my lawsuit with the heirs of princess gugulin," muttered voldyrev. "the case is well known. i earnestly beg you to attend to me." still failing to observe voldyrev, the clerk caught the fly on his lip, looked at it attentively and flung it away. the country gentleman coughed and blew his nose loudly on his checked pocket handkerchief. but this was no use either. he was still unheard. the silence lasted for two minutes. voldyrev took a rouble note from his pocket and laid it on an open book before the clerk. the clerk wrinkled up his forehead, drew the book towards him with an anxious air and closed it. "a little inquiry. . . . i want only to find out on what grounds the heirs of princess gugulin. . . . may i trouble you?" the clerk, absorbed in his own thoughts, got up and, scratching his elbow, went to a cupboard for something. returning a minute later to his table he became absorbed in the book again: another rouble note was lying upon it. "i will trouble you for one minute only. . . . i have only to make an inquiry." the clerk did not hear, he had begun copying something. voldyrev frowned and looked hopelessly at the whole scribbling brotherhood. "they write!" he thought, sighing. "they write, the devil take them entirely!" he walked away from the table and stopped in the middle of the room, his hands hanging hopelessly at his sides. the porter, passing again with glasses, probably noticed the helpless expression of his face, for he went close up to him and asked him in a low voice: "well? have you inquired?" "i've inquired, but he wouldn't speak to me." "you give him three roubles," whispered the porter. "i've given him two already." "give him another." voldyrev went back to the table and laid a green note on the open book. the clerk drew the book towards him again and began turning over the leaves, and all at once, as though by chance, lifted his eyes to voldyrev. his nose began to shine, turned red, and wrinkled up in a grin. "ah . . . what do you want?" he asked. "i want to make an inquiry in reference to my case. . . . my name is voldyrev." "with pleasure! the gugulin case, isn't it? very good. what is it then exactly?" voldyrev explained his business. the clerk became as lively as though he were whirled round by a hurricane. he gave the necessary information, arranged for a copy to be made, gave the petitioner a chair, and all in one instant. he even spoke about the weather and asked after the harvest. and when voldyrev went away he accompanied him down the stairs, smiling affably and respectfully, and looking as though he were ready any minute to fall on his face before the gentleman. voldyrev for some reason felt uncomfortable, and in obedience to some inward impulse he took a rouble out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk. and the latter kept bowing and smiling, and took the rouble like a conjuror, so that it seemed to flash through the air. "well, what people!" thought the country gentleman as he went out into the street, and he stopped and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. martyrs lizotchka kudrinsky, a young married lady who had many admirers, was suddenly taken ill, and so seriously that her husband did not go to his office, and a telegram was sent to her mamma at tver. this is how she told the story of her illness: "i went to lyesnoe to auntie's. i stayed there a week and then i went with all the rest to cousin varya's. varya's husband is a surly brute and a despot (i'd shoot a husband like that), but we had a very jolly time there. to begin with i took part in some private theatricals. it was _a scandal in a respectable family_. hrustalev acted marvellously! between the acts i drank some cold, awfully cold, lemon squash, with the tiniest nip of brandy in it. lemon squash with brandy in it is very much like champagne. . . . i drank it and i felt nothing. next day after the performance i rode out on horseback with that adolf ivanitch. it was rather damp and there was a strong wind. it was most likely then that i caught cold. three days later i came home to see how my dear, good vassya was getting on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that has little flowers on it. vassya, of course, i did not find at home. i went into the kitchen to tell praskovya to set the samovar, and there i saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like playthings. i ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too. i ate very little, but only fancy, i began having a sharp pain at once--spasms . . . spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, i am dying. vassya runs from the office. naturally he clutches at his hair and turns white. they run for the doctor. . . . do you understand, i am dying, dying." the spasms began at midday, before three o'clock the doctor came, and at six lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o'clock in the morning. it strikes two. . . . the light of the little night lamp filters scantily through the pale blue shade. lizotchka is lying in bed, her white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background of the red cushion. shadows from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns on her pale face and her round plump shoulders. vassily stepanovitch is sitting at her feet. the poor fellow is happy that his wife is at home at last, and at the same time he is terribly alarmed by her illness. "well, how do you feel, lizotchka?" he asks in a whisper, noticing that she is awake. "i am better," moans lizotchka. "i don't feel the spasms now, but there is no sleeping. . . . i can't get to sleep!" "isn't it time to change the compress, my angel?" lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and gracefully turns her head on one side. vassily stepanovitch with reverent awe, scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers, changes the compress. lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water which tickles her, and lies down again. "you are getting no sleep, poor boy!" she moans. "as though i could sleep!" "it's my nerves, vassya, i am a very nervous woman. the doctor has prescribed for stomach trouble, but i feel that he doesn't understand my illness. it's nerves and not the stomach, i swear that it is my nerves. there is only one thing i am afraid of, that my illness may take a bad turn." "no, lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!" "hardly likely! i am not afraid for myself. . . . i don't care, indeed, i shall be glad to die, but i am sorry for you! you'll be a widower and left all alone." vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife's society, and has long been used to solitude, but lizotchka's words agitate him. "goodness knows what you are saying, little woman! why these gloomy thoughts?" "well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it. you'll even get married again." the husband clutches his head. "there, there, i won't!" lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to be prepared for anything." "and all of a sudden i shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes. and lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother, her husband, her cousin varya with her husband, her relations, the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she whispers her last farewell. all are weeping. then when she is dead they dress her, interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress (it suits her) and lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs, full of flowers. there is a smell of incense, the candles splutter. her husband never leaves the coffin, while the admirers of her talent cannot take their eyes off her, and say: "as though living! she is lovely in her coffin!" the whole town is talking of the life cut short so prematurely. but now they are carrying her to the church. the bearers are ivan petrovitch, adolf ivanitch, varya's husband, nikolay semyonitch, and the black-eyed student who had taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy. it's only a pity there's no music playing. after the burial service comes the leave-taking. the church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with tassels, and . . . lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for ever, there is the sound of hammering nails. knock, knock, knock. lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes. "vassya, are you here?" she asks. "i have such gloomy thoughts. goodness, why am i so unlucky as not to sleep. vassya, have pity, do tell me something!" "what shall i tell you?" "something about love," lizotchka says languidly. "or some anecdote about jews. . . ." vassily stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be cheerful and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his ears, makes an absurd face, and goes up to lizotchka. "does your vatch vant mending?" he asks. "it does, it does," giggles lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch from the little table. "mend it." vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and wriggling and shrugging, says: "she can not be mended . . . in vun veel two cogs are vanting. . . ." this is the whole performance. lizotchka laughs and claps her hands. "capital," she exclaims. "wonderful. do you know, vassya, it's awfully stupid of you not to take part in amateur theatricals! you have a remarkable talent! you are much better than sysunov. there was an amateur called sysunov who played with us in _it's my birthday_. a first-class comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . we all roared; stay, i will show you how he walks." lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor, barefooted and without her cap. "a very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's voice. "anything pretty? anything new under the moon? ha, ha, ha!" she laughs. "ha, ha, ha!" vassya seconds her. and the young pair, roaring with laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one another about the room. the race ends in vassya's catching his wife by her nightgown and eagerly showering kisses upon her. after one particularly passionate embrace lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is seriously ill. . . . "what silliness!" she says, making a serious face and covering herself with the quilt. "i suppose you have forgotten that i am ill! clever, i must say!" "sorry . . ." falters her husband in confusion. "if my illness takes a bad turn it will be your fault. not kind! not good!" lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. her former languor and expression of martyrdom return again, there is a sound of gentle moans. vassya changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at home and not gadding off to her aunt's, sits meekly at her feet. he does not sleep all night. at ten o'clock the doctor comes. "well, how are we feeling?" he asks as he takes her pulse. "have you slept?" "badly," lizotchka's husband answers for her, "very badly." the doctor walks away to the window and stares at a passing chimney-sweep. "doctor, may i have coffee to-day?" asks lizotchka. "you may." "and may i get up?" "you might, perhaps, but . . . you had better lie in bed another day." "she is awfully depressed," vassya whispers in his ear, "such gloomy thoughts, such pessimism. i am dreadfully uneasy about her." the doctor sits down to the little table, and rubbing his forehead, prescribes bromide of potassium for lizotchka, then makes his bow, and promising to look in again in the evening, departs. vassya does not go to the office, but sits all day at his wife's feet. at midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. they are agitated and alarmed, they bring masses of flowers and french novels. lizotchka, in a snow-white cap and a light dressing jacket, lies in bed with an enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her own recovery. the admirers of her talent see her husband, but readily forgive his presence: they and he are united by one calamity at that bedside! at six o'clock in the evening lizotchka falls asleep, and again sleeps till two o'clock in the morning. vassya as before sits at her feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays at being a jew, and in the morning after a second night of suffering, liza is prinking before the looking-glass and putting on her hat. "wherever are you going, my dear?" asks vassya, with an imploring look at her. "what?" says lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared expression, "don't you know that there is a rehearsal to-day at marya lvovna's?" after escorting her there, vassya having nothing to do to while away his boredom, takes his portfolio and goes to the office. his head aches so violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye shuts of itself and refuses to open. . . . "what's the matter with you, my good sir?" his chief asks him. "what is it?" vassya waves his hand and sits down. "don't ask me, your excellency," he says with a sigh. "what i have suffered in these two days, what i have suffered! liza has been ill!" "good heavens," cried his chief in alarm. "lizaveta pavlovna, what is wrong with her?" vassily stepanovitch merely throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the ceiling, as though he would say: "it's the will of providence." "ah, my boy, i can sympathise with you with all my heart!" sighs his chief, rolling his eyes. "i've lost my wife, my dear, i understand. that is a loss, it is a loss! it's awful, awful! i hope lizaveta pavlovna is better now! what doctor is attending her?" "von schterk." "von schterk! but you would have been better to have called in magnus or semandritsky. but how very pale your face is. you are ill yourself! this is awful!" "yes, your excellency, i haven't slept. what i have suffered, what i have been through!" "and yet you came! why you came i can't understand? one can't force oneself like that! one mustn't do oneself harm like that. go home and stay there till you are well again! go home, i command you! zeal is a very fine thing in a young official, but you mustn't forget as the romans used to say: 'mens sana in corpore sano,' that is, a healthy brain in a healthy body." vassya agrees, puts his papers back in his portfolio, and, taking leave of his chief, goes home to bed. the lion and the sun in one of the towns lying on this side of the urals a rumour was afloat that a persian magnate, called rahat-helam, was staying for a few days in the town and putting up at the "japan hotel." this rumour made no impression whatever upon the inhabitants; a persian had arrived, well, so be it. only stepan ivanovitch kutsyn, the mayor of the town, hearing of the arrival of the oriental gentleman from the secretary of the town hall, grew thoughtful and inquired: "where is he going?" "to paris or to london, i believe." "h'm. . . . then he is a big-wig, i suppose?" "the devil only knows." as he went home from the town hall and had his dinner, the mayor sank into thought again, and this time he went on thinking till the evening. the arrival of the distinguished persian greatly intrigued him. it seemed to him that fate itself had sent him this rahat-helam, and that a favourable opportunity had come at last for realising his passionate, secretly cherished dream. kutsyn had already two medals, and the stanislav of the third degree, the badge of the red cross, and the badge of the society of saving from drowning, and in addition to these he had made himself a little gold gun crossed by a guitar, and this ornament, hung from a buttonhole in his uniform, looked in the distance like something special, and delightfully resembled a badge of distinction. it is well known that the more orders and medals you have the more you want--and the mayor had long been desirous of receiving the persian order of the lion and the sun; he desired it passionately, madly. he knew very well that there was no need to fight, or to subscribe to an asylum, or to serve on committees to obtain this order; all that was needed was a favourable opportunity. and now it seemed to him that this opportunity had come. at noon on the following day he put on his chain and all his badges of distinction and went to the 'japan.' destiny favoured him. when he entered the distinguished persian's apartment the latter was alone and doing nothing. rahat-helam, an enormous asiatic, with a long nose like the beak of a snipe, with prominent eyes, and with a fez on his head, was sitting on the floor rummaging in his portmanteau. "i beg you to excuse my disturbing you," began kutsyn, smiling. "i have the honour to introduce myself, the hereditary, honourable citizen and cavalier, stepan ivanovitch kutsyn, mayor of this town. i regard it as my duty to honour, in the person of your highness, so to say, the representative of a friendly and neighbourly state." the persian turned and muttered something in very bad french, that sounded like tapping a board with a piece of wood. "the frontiers of persia"--kutsyn continued the greeting he had previously learned by heart--"are in close contact with the borders of our spacious fatherland, and therefore mutual sympathies impel me, so to speak, to express my solidarity with you." the illustrious persian got up and again muttered something in a wooden tongue. kutsyn, who knew no foreign language, shook his head to show that he did not understand. "well, how am i to talk to him?" he thought. "it would be a good thing to send for an interpreter at once, but it is a delicate matter, i can't talk before witnesses. the interpreter would be chattering all over the town afterwards." and kutsyn tried to recall the foreign words he had picked up from the newspapers. "i am the mayor of the town," he muttered. "that is the _lord mayor_ . . . _municipalais_ . . . vwee? kompreney?" he wanted to express his social position in words or in gesture, and did not know how. a picture hanging on the wall with an inscription in large letters, "the town of venice," helped him out of his difficulties. he pointed with his finger at the town, then at his own head, and in that way obtained, as he imagined, the phrase: "i am the head of the town." the persian did not understand, but he gave a smile, and said: "goot, monsieur . . . goot . . . . ." half-an-hour later the mayor was slapping the persian, first on the knee and then on the shoulder, and saying: "kompreney? vwee? as _lord mayor_ and _municipalais_ i suggest that you should take a little _promenage . . . kompreney? promenage._" kutsyn pointed at venice, and with two fingers represented walking legs. rahat-helam who kept his eyes fixed on his medals, and was apparently guessing that this was the most important person in the town, understood the word _promenage_ and grinned politely. then they both put on their coats and went out of the room. downstairs near the door leading to the restaurant of the 'japan,' kutsyn reflected that it would not be amiss to entertain the persian. he stopped and indicating the tables, said: "by russian custom it wouldn't be amiss . . . _puree, entrekot_, champagne and so on, kompreney." the illustrious visitor understood, and a little later they were both sitting in the very best room of the restaurant, eating, and drinking champagne. "let us drink to the prosperity of persia!" said kutsyn. "we russians love the persians. though we are of another faith, yet there are common interests, mutual, so to say, sympathies . . . progress . . . asiatic markets. . . . the campaigns of peace so to say. . . ." the illustrious persian ate and drank with an excellent appetite, he stuck his fork into a slice of smoked sturgeon, and wagging his head, enthusiastically said: "_goot, bien._" "you like it?" said the mayor delighted. "_bien_, that's capital." and turning to the waiter he said: "luka, my lad, see that two pieces of smoked sturgeon, the best you have, are sent up to his highness's room!" then the mayor and the persian magnate went to look at the menagerie. the townspeople saw their stepan ivanovitch, flushed with champagne, gay and very well pleased, leading the persian about the principal streets and the bazaar, showing him the points of interest of the town, and even taking him to the fire tower. among other things the townspeople saw him stop near some stone gates with lions on it, and point out to the persian first the lion, then the sun overhead, and then his own breast; then again he pointed to the lion and to the sun while the persian nodded his head as though in sign of assent, and smiling showed his white teeth. in the evening they were sitting in the london hotel listening to the harp-players, and where they spent the night is not known. next day the mayor was at the town hall in the morning; the officials there apparently already knew something and were making their conjectures, for the secretary went up to him and said with an ironical smile: "it is the custom of the persians when an illustrious visitor comes to visit you, you must slaughter a sheep with your own hands." and a little later an envelope that had come by post was handed to him. the mayor tore it open and saw a caricature in it. it was a drawing of rahat-helam with the mayor on his knees before him, stretching out his hands and saying: "to prove our russian friendship for persia's mighty realm, and show respect for you, her envoy, myself i'd slaughter like a lamb, but, pardon me, for i'm a--donkey!" the mayor was conscious of an unpleasant feeling like a gnawing in the pit of the stomach, but not for long. by midday he was again with the illustrious persian, again he was regaling him and showing him the points of interest in the town. again he led him to the stone gates, and again pointed to the lion, to the sun and to his own breast. they dined at the 'japan'; after dinner, with cigars in their teeth, both, flushed and blissful, again mounted the fire tower, and the mayor, evidently wishing to entertain the visitor with an unusual spectacle, shouted from the top to a sentry walking below: "sound the alarm!" but the alarm was not sounded as the firemen were at the baths at the moment. they supped at the 'london' and, after supper, the persian departed. when he saw him off, stepan ivanovitch kissed him three times after the russian fashion, and even grew tearful. and when the train started, he shouted: "give our greeting to persia! tell her that we love her!" a year and four months had passed. there was a bitter frost, thirty-five degrees, and a piercing wind was blowing. stepan ivanovitch was walking along the street with his fur coat thrown open over his chest, and he was annoyed that he met no one to see the lion and the sun upon his breast. he walked about like this till evening with his fur coat open, was chilled to the bone, and at night tossed from side to side and could not get to sleep. he felt heavy at heart. there was a burning sensation inside him, and his heart throbbed uneasily; he had a longing now to get a serbian order. it was a painful, passionate longing. a daughter of albion a fine carriage with rubber tyres, a fat coachman, and velvet on the seats, rolled up to the house of a landowner called gryabov. fyodor andreitch otsov, the district marshal of nobility, jumped out of the carriage. a drowsy footman met him in the hall. "are the family at home?" asked the marshal. "no, sir. the mistress and the children are gone out paying visits, while the master and mademoiselle are catching fish. fishing all the morning, sir." otsov stood a little, thought a little, and then went to the river to look for gryabov. going down to the river he found him a mile and a half from the house. looking down from the steep bank and catching sight of gryabov, otsov gushed with laughter. . . . gryabov, a large stout man, with a very big head, was sitting on the sand, angling, with his legs tucked under him like a turk. his hat was on the back of his head and his cravat had slipped on one side. beside him stood a tall thin englishwoman, with prominent eyes like a crab's, and a big bird-like nose more like a hook than a nose. she was dressed in a white muslin gown through which her scraggy yellow shoulders were very distinctly apparent. on her gold belt hung a little gold watch. she too was angling. the stillness of the grave reigned about them both. both were motionless, as the river upon which their floats were swimming. "a desperate passion, but deadly dull!" laughed otsov. "good-day, ivan kuzmitch." "ah . . . is that you?" asked gryabov, not taking his eyes off the water. "have you come?" "as you see . . . . and you are still taken up with your crazy nonsense! not given it up yet?" "the devil's in it. . . . i begin in the morning and fish all day . . . . the fishing is not up to much to-day. i've caught nothing and this dummy hasn't either. we sit on and on and not a devil of a fish! i could scream!" "well, chuck it up then. let's go and have some vodka!" "wait a little, maybe we shall catch something. towards evening the fish bite better . . . . i've been sitting here, my boy, ever since the morning! i can't tell you how fearfully boring it is. it was the devil drove me to take to this fishing! i know that it is rotten idiocy for me to sit here. i sit here like some scoundrel, like a convict, and i stare at the water like a fool. i ought to go to the haymaking, but here i sit catching fish. yesterday his holiness held a service at haponyevo, but i didn't go. i spent the day here with this . . . with this she-devil." "but . . . have you taken leave of your senses?" asked otsov, glancing in embarrassment at the englishwoman. "using such language before a lady and she . . . ." "oh, confound her, it doesn't matter, she doesn't understand a syllable of russian, whether you praise her or blame her, it is all the same to her! just look at her nose! her nose alone is enough to make one faint. we sit here for whole days together and not a single word! she stands like a stuffed image and rolls the whites of her eyes at the water." the englishwoman gave a yawn, put a new worm on, and dropped the hook into the water. "i wonder at her not a little," gryabov went on, "the great stupid has been living in russia for ten years and not a word of russian! . . . any little aristocrat among us goes to them and learns to babble away in their lingo, while they . . . there's no making them out. just look at her nose, do look at her nose!" "come, drop it . . . it's uncomfortable. why attack a woman?" "she's not a woman, but a maiden lady. . . . i bet she's dreaming of suitors. the ugly doll. and she smells of something decaying . . . . i've got a loathing for her, my boy! i can't look at her with indifference. when she turns her ugly eyes on me it sends a twinge all through me as though i had knocked my elbow on the parapet. she likes fishing too. watch her: she fishes as though it were a holy rite! she looks upon everything with disdain . . . . she stands there, the wretch, and is conscious that she is a human being, and that therefore she is the monarch of nature. and do you know what her name is? wilka charlesovna fyce! tfoo! there is no getting it out!" the englishwoman, hearing her name, deliberately turned her nose in gryabov's direction and scanned him with a disdainful glance; she raised her eyes from gryabov to otsov and steeped him in disdain. and all this in silence, with dignity and deliberation. "did you see?" said gryabov chuckling. "as though to say 'take that.' ah, you monster! it's only for the children's sake that i keep that triton. if it weren't for the children, i wouldn't let her come within ten miles of my estate. . . . she has got a nose like a hawk's . . . and her figure! that doll makes me think of a long nail, so i could take her, and knock her into the ground, you know. stay, i believe i have got a bite. . . ." gryabov jumped up and raised his rod. the line drew taut. . . . gryabov tugged again, but could not pull out the hook. "it has caught," he said, frowning, "on a stone i expect . . . damnation take it . . . ." there was a look of distress on gryabov's face. sighing, moving uneasily, and muttering oaths, he began tugging at the line. "what a pity; i shall have to go into the water." "oh, chuck it!" "i can't. . . . there's always good fishing in the evening. . . . what a nuisance. lord, forgive us, i shall have to wade into the water, i must! and if only you knew, i have no inclination to undress. i shall have to get rid of the englishwoman. . . . it's awkward to undress before her. after all, she is a lady, you know!" gryabov flung off his hat, and his cravat. "meess . . . er, er . . ." he said, addressing the englishwoman, "meess fyce, je voo pree . . . ? well, what am i to say to her? how am i to tell you so that you can understand? i say . . . over there! go away over there! do you hear?" miss fyce enveloped gryabov in disdain, and uttered a nasal sound. "what? don't you understand? go away from here, i tell you! i must undress, you devil's doll! go over there! over there!" gryabov pulled the lady by her sleeve, pointed her towards the bushes, and made as though he would sit down, as much as to say: go behind the bushes and hide yourself there. . . . the englishwoman, moving her eyebrows vigorously, uttered rapidly a long sentence in english. the gentlemen gushed with laughter. "it's the first time in my life i've heard her voice. there's no denying, it is a voice! she does not understand! well, what am i to do with her?" "chuck it, let's go and have a drink of vodka!" "i can't. now's the time to fish, the evening. . . . it's evening . . . . come, what would you have me do? it is a nuisance! i shall have to undress before her. . . ." gryabov flung off his coat and his waistcoat and sat on the sand to take off his boots. "i say, ivan kuzmitch," said the marshal, chuckling behind his hand. "it's really outrageous, an insult." "nobody asks her not to understand! it's a lesson for these foreigners!" gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments and remained in the costume of adam. otsov held his sides, he turned crimson both from laughter and embarrassment. the englishwoman twitched her brows and blinked . . . . a haughty, disdainful smile passed over her yellow face. "i must cool off," said gryabov, slapping himself on the ribs. "tell me if you please, fyodor andreitch, why i have a rash on my chest every summer." "oh, do get into the water quickly or cover yourself with something, you beast." "and if only she were confused, the nasty thing," said gryabov, crossing himself as he waded into the water. "brrrr . . . the water's cold. . . . look how she moves her eyebrows! she doesn't go away . . . she is far above the crowd! he, he, he . . . . and she doesn't reckon us as human beings." wading knee deep in the water and drawing his huge figure up to its full height, he gave a wink and said: "this isn't england, you see!" miss fyce coolly put on another worm, gave a yawn, and dropped the hook in. otsov turned away, gryabov released his hook, ducked into the water and, spluttering, waded out. two minutes later he was sitting on the sand and angling as before. choristers the justice of the peace, who had received a letter from petersburg, had set the news going that the owner of yefremovo, count vladimir ivanovitch, would soon be arriving. when he would arrive--there was no saying. "like a thief in the night," said father kuzma, a grey-headed little priest in a lilac cassock. "and when he does come the place will be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry. all the neighbours will flock here. mind now, do your best, alexey alexeitch. . . . i beg you most earnestly." "you need not trouble about me," said alexey alexeitch, frowning. "i know my business. if only my enemy intones the litany in the right key. he may . . . out of sheer spite. . . ." "there, there. . . . i'll persuade the deacon. . . i'll persuade him." alexey alexeitch was the sacristan of the yefremovo church. he also taught the schoolboys church and secular singing, for which he received sixty roubles a year from the revenues of the count's estate. the schoolboys were bound to sing in church in return for their teaching. alexey alexeitch was a tall, thick-set man of dignified deportment, with a fat, clean-shaven face that reminded one of a cow's udder. his imposing figure and double chin made him look like a man occupying an important position in the secular hierarchy rather than a sacristan. it was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the ground before the bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the deacon yevlampy avdiessov, remain on his knees for two hours by order of the head priest of the district. grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humiliation. on account of the rumours of the count's approaching visit he had a choir practice every day, morning and evening. the choir practice was held at the school. it did not interfere much with the school work. during the practice the schoolmaster, sergey makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur. this is how the choir practice was conducted. alexey alexeitch would come into the school-room, slamming the door and blowing his nose. the trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the school-tables. the tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. they all took their places. alexey alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note with the tuning fork. "to-to-li-to-tom . . . do-mi-sol-do!" "adagio, adagio. . . . once more." after the "amen" there followed "lord have mercy upon us" from the great litany. all this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. it was sung indolently, unconsciously. alexey alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice. it was all slow, there was nothing interesting. . . . but before the "cherubim" hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music. the sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his violin. the preparations lasted a couple of minutes. "take your places. look at your music carefully. . . . basses, don't overdo it . . . rather softly." bortnyansky's "cherubim" hymn, no. , was selected. at a given signal silence prevailed. all eyes were fastened on the music, the trebles opened their mouths. alexey alexeitch softly lowered his arm. "piano . . . piano. . . . you see 'piano' is written there. . . . more lightly, more lightly." when they had to sing "piano" an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread alexey alexeitch's face, as though he was dreaming of a dainty morsel. "forte . . . forte! hold it!" and when they had to sing "forte" the sacristan's fat face expressed alarm and even horror. the "cherubim" hymn was sung well, so well that the school-children abandoned their copies and fell to watching the movements of alexey alexeitch. people stood under the windows. the schoolwatchman, vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinner-knife in his hand and stood listening. father kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had sprung from out of the earth. . . . after 'let us lay aside all earthly cares' alexey alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to father kuzma in excitement. "it puzzles me, father kuzma," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "why is it that the russian people have no understanding? it puzzles me, may the lord chastise me! such an uncultured people that you really cannot tell whether they have a windpipe in their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. were you choking, or what?" he asked, addressing the bass gennady semitchov, the innkeeper's brother. "why?" "what is your voice like? it rattles like a saucepan. i bet you were boozing yesterday! that's what it is! your breath smells like a tavern. . . . e-ech! you are a clodhopper, brother! you are a lout! how can you be a chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? ech, you are an ass, brother!" "it's a sin, it's a sin, brother," muttered father kuzma. "god sees everything . . . through and through . . . ." "that's why you have no idea of singing--because you care more for vodka than for godliness, you fool." "don't work yourself up," said father kuzma. "don't be cross. . . . i will persuade him." father kuzma went up to gennady semitchov and began "persuading" him: "what do you do it for? try and put your mind to it. a man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . . er . . tender." gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as though the words did not apply to him. after the "cherubim" hymn they sang the creed, then "it is meet and right"; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so right on to "our father." "to my mind, father kuzma," said the sacristan, "the old 'our father' is better than the modern. that's what we ought to sing before the count." "no, no. . . . sing the modern one. for the count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to mass in petersburg or moscow. . . . in the churches there, i imagine . . . there's very different sort of music there, brother!" after "our father" there was again a great blowing of noses, coughing and turning over of pages. the most difficult part of the performance came next: the "concert." alexey alexeitch was practising two pieces, "who is the god of glory" and "universal praise." whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the count. during the "concert" the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm. the expression of benevolence was continually alternating with one of alarm. "forte!" he muttered. "andante! let yourselves go! sing, you image! tenors, you don't bring it off! to-to-ti-to-tom. . . . sol . . . si . . . sol, i tell you, you blockhead! glory! basses, glo . . . o . . . ry." his bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and altos. his left hand was continually pulling the ears of the young singers. on one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass gennady under the chin with his bent thumb. but the choristers were not moved to tears or to anger at his blows: they realised the full gravity of their task. after the "concert" came a minute of silence. alexey alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on the window-sill, and turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant eyes. in the listening crowd he observed to his immense annoyance the deacon avdiessov. the deacon, a tall thick-set man with a red pock-marked face, and straw in his hair, stood leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously. "that's right, sing away! perform your music!" he muttered in a deep bass. "much the count will care for your singing! he doesn't care whether you sing with music or without. . . . for he is an atheist." father kuzma looked round in a scared way and twiddled his fingers. "come, come," he muttered. "hush, deacon, i beg." after the "concert" they sang "may our lips be filled with praise," and the choir practice was over. the choir broke up to reassemble in the evening for another practice. and so it went on every day. one month passed and then a second. . . . the steward, too, had by then received a notice that the count would soon be coming. at last the dusty sun-blinds were taken off the windows of the big house, and yefremovo heard the strains of the broken-down, out-of-tune piano. father kuzma was pining, though he could not himself have said why, or whether it was from delight or alarm. . . . the deacon went about grinning. the following saturday evening father kuzma went to the sacristan's lodgings. his face was pale, his shoulders drooped, the lilac of his cassock looked faded. "i have just been at his excellency's," he said to the sacristan, stammering. "he is a cultivated gentleman with refined ideas. but . . . er . . . it's mortifying, brother. . . . 'at what o'clock, your excellency, do you desire us to ring for mass to-morrow?' and he said: 'as you think best. only, couldn't it be as short and quick as possible without a choir.' without a choir! er . . . do you understand, without, without a choir. . . ." alexey alexeitch turned crimson. he would rather have spent two hours on his knees again than have heard those words! he did not sleep all night. he was not so much mortified at the waste of his labours as at the fact that the deacon would give him no peace now with his jeers. the deacon was delighted at his discomfiture. next day all through the service he was casting disdainful glances towards the choir where alexey alexeitch was booming responses in solitude. when he passed by the choir with the censer he muttered: "perform your music! do your utmost! the count will give a ten-rouble note to the choir!" after the service the sacristan went home, crushed and ill with mortification. at the gate he was overtaken by the red-faced deacon. "stop a minute, alyosha!" said the deacon. "stop a minute, silly, don't be cross! you are not the only one, i am in for it too! immediately after the mass father kuzma went up to the count and asked: 'and what did you think of the deacon's voice, your excellency. he has a deep bass, hasn't he?' and the count--do you know what he answered by way of compliment? 'anyone can bawl,' he said. 'a man's voice is not as important as his brains.' a learned gentleman from petersburg! an atheist is an atheist, and that's all about it! come, brother in misfortune, let us go and have a drop to drown our troubles!" and the enemies went out of the gate arm-in-arm. nerves dmitri osipovitch vaxin, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly impressed by the spiritualistic séance at which he had been present. as he undressed and got into his solitary bed (madame vaxin had gone to an all-night service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and heard. it had not, properly speaking, been a séance at all, but the whole evening had been spent in terrifying conversation. a young lady had begun it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thought-reading. from thought-reading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits to ghosts, from ghosts to people buried alive. . . . a gentleman had read a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin. vaxin himself had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with spirits. he had called up among others the spirit of his deceased uncle, klavdy mironitch, and had mentally asked him: "has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house to my wife?" to which his uncle's spirit had replied: "all things are good in their season." "there is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and . . . terrible . . ." thought vaxin, as he got into bed. "it's not the dead but the unknown that's so horrible." it struck one o'clock. vaxin turned over on the other side and peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the blue light of the lamp burning before the holy ikon. the flame flickered and cast a faint light on the ikon-stand and the big portrait of uncle klavdy that hung facing his bed. "and what if the ghost of uncle klavdy should appear this minute?" flashed through vaxin's mind. "but, of course, that's impossible." ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped intelligence, but vaxin, nevertheless, pulled the bed-clothes over his head, and shut his eyes very tight. the corpse that turned round in its coffin came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased mother-in-law, of a colleague who had hanged himself, and of a girl who had drowned herself, rose before his imagination. . . . vaxin began trying to dispel these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the more haunting the figures and fearful fancies became. he began to feel frightened. "hang it all!" he thought. "here i am afraid in the dark like a child! idiotic!" tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . he heard the clock in the next room. the church-bell chimed the hour in the churchyard close by. the bell tolled slowly, depressingly, mournfully. . . . a cold chill ran down vaxin's neck and spine. he fancied he heard someone breathing heavily over his head, as though uncle klavdy had stepped out of his frame and was bending over his nephew. . . . vaxin felt unbearably frightened. he clenched his teeth and held his breath in terror. at last, when a cockchafer flew in at the open window and began buzzing over his bed, he could bear it no longer and gave a violent tug at the bellrope. "dmitri osipitch, _was wollen sie?_" he heard the voice of the german governess at his door a moment later. "ah, it's you, rosalia karlovna!" vaxin cried, delighted. "why do you trouble? gavrila might just . . ." "yourself gavrila to the town sent. and glafira is somewhere all the evening gone. . . . there's nobody in the house. . . . _was wollen sie doch?_" "well, what i wanted . . . it's . . . but, please, come in . . . you needn't mind! . . . it's dark." rosalia karlovna, a stout red-cheeked person, came in to the bedroom and stood in an expectant attitude at the door. "sit down, please . . . you see, it's like this. . . . what on earth am i to ask her for?" he wondered, stealing a glance at uncle klavdy's portrait and feeling his soul gradually returning to tranquility. "what i really wanted to ask you was . . . oh, when the man goes to town, don't forget to tell him to . . . er . . . er . . . to get some cigarette-papers. . . . but do, please sit down." "cigarette-papers? good. . . . _was wollen sie noch?_" "_ich will_ . . . there's nothing i will, but. . . but do sit down! i shall think of something else in a minute." "it is shocking for a maiden in a man's room to remain. . . . mr. vaxin, you are, i see, a naughty man. . . . i understand. . . . to order cigarette-papers one does not a person wake. . . . i understand you. . . ." rosalia karlovna turned and went out of the room. somewhat reassured by his conversation with her and ashamed of his cowardice, vaxin pulled the bedclothes over his head and shut his eyes. for about ten minutes he felt fairly comfortable, then the same nonsense came creeping back into his mind. . . . he swore to himself, felt for the matches, and without opening his eyes lighted a candle. but even the light was no use. to vaxin' s excited imagination it seemed as though someone were peeping round the corner and that his uncle's eyes were moving. "i'll ring her up again . . . damn the woman!" he decided. "i'll tell her i'm unwell and ask for some drops." vaxin rang. there was no response. he rang again, and as though answering his ring, he heard the church-bell toll the hour. overcome with terror, cold all over, he jumped out of bed, ran headlong out of his bedroom, and making the sign of the cross and cursing himself for his cowardice, he fled barefoot in his night-shirt to the governess's room. "rosalia karlovna!" he began in a shaking voice as he knocked at her door, "rosalia karlovna! . . . are you asleep? . . . i feel . . . so . . . er . . . er . . . unwell. . . . drops! . . ." there was no answer. silence reigned. "i beg you . . . do you understand? i beg you! why this squeamishness, i can't understand . . . especially when a man . . . is ill . . . how absurdly _zierlich manierlich_ you are really . . . at your age. . . ." "i to your wife shall tell. . . . will not leave an honest maiden in peace. . . . when i was at baron anzig's, and the baron try to come to me for matches, i understand at once what his matches mean and tell to the baroness. . . . i am an honest maiden." "hang your honesty! i am ill i tell you . . . and asking you for drops. do you understand? i'm ill!" "your wife is an honest, good woman, and you ought her to love! _ja!_ she is noble! . . . i will not be her foe!" "you are a fool! simply a fool! do you understand, a fool?" vaxin leaned against the door-post, folded his arms and waited for his panic to pass off. to return to his room where the lamp flickered and his uncle stared at him from his frame was more than he could face, and to stand at the governess's door in nothing but his night-shirt was inconvenient from every point of view. what could he do? it struck two o'clock and his terror had not left him. there was no light in the passage and something dark seemed to be peeping out from every corner. vaxin turned so as to face the door-post, but at that instant it seemed as though somebody tweaked his night-shirt from behind and touched him on the shoulder. "damnation! . . . rosalia karlovna!" no answer. vaxin hesitatingly opened the door and peeped into the room. the virtuous german was sweetly slumbering. the tiny flame of a night-light threw her solid buxom person into relief. vaxin stepped into the room and sat down on a wickerwork trunk near the door. he felt better in the presence of a living creature, even though that creature was asleep. "let the german idiot sleep," he thought, "i'll sit here, and when it gets light i'll go back. . . . it's daylight early now." vaxin curled up on the trunk and put his arm under his head to await the coming of dawn. "what a thing it is to have nerves!" he reflected. "an educated, intelligent man! . . . hang it all! . . . it's a perfect disgrace!" as he listened to the gentle, even breathing of rosalia karlovna, he soon recovered himself completely. at six o'clock, vaxin's wife returned from the all-night service, and not finding her husband in their bedroom, went to the governess to ask her for some change for the cabman. on entering the german's room, a strange sight met her eyes. on the bed lay stretched rosalia karlovna fast asleep, and a couple of yards from her was her husband curled up on the trunk sleeping the sleep of the just and snoring loudly. what she said to her husband, and how he looked when he woke, i leave to others to describe. it is beyond my powers. a work of art sasha smirnov, the only son of his mother, holding under his arm, something wrapped up in no. of the _financial news_, assumed a sentimental expression, and went into dr. koshelkov's consulting-room. "ah, dear lad!" was how the doctor greeted him. "well! how are we feeling? what good news have you for me?" sasha blinked, laid his hand on his heart and said in an agitated voice: "mamma sends her greetings to you, ivan nikolaevitch, and told me to thank you. . . . i am the only son of my mother and you have saved my life . . . you have brought me through a dangerous illness and . . . we do not know how to thank you." "nonsense, lad!" said the doctor, highly delighted. "i only did what anyone else would have done in my place." "i am the only son of my mother . . . we are poor people and cannot of course repay you, and we are quite ashamed, doctor, although, however, mamma and i . . . the only son of my mother, earnestly beg you to accept in token of our gratitude . . . this object, which . . . an object of great value, an antique bronze. . . . a rare work of art." "you shouldn't!" said the doctor, frowning. "what's this for!" "no, please do not refuse," sasha went on muttering as he unpacked the parcel. "you will wound mamma and me by refusing. . . . it's a fine thing . . . an antique bronze. . . . it was left us by my deceased father and we have kept it as a precious souvenir. my father used to buy antique bronzes and sell them to connoisseurs . . . mamma and i keep on the business now." sasha undid the object and put it solemnly on the table. it was a not very tall candelabra of old bronze and artistic workmanship. it consisted of a group: on the pedestal stood two female figures in the costume of eve and in attitudes for the description of which i have neither the courage nor the fitting temperament. the figures were smiling coquettishly and altogether looked as though, had it not been for the necessity of supporting the candlestick, they would have skipped off the pedestal and have indulged in an orgy such as is improper for the reader even to imagine. looking at the present, the doctor slowly scratched behind his ear, cleared his throat and blew his nose irresolutely. "yes, it certainly is a fine thing," he muttered, "but . . . how shall i express it? . . . it's . . . h'm . . . it's not quite for family reading. it's not simply decolleté but beyond anything, dash it all. . . ." "how do you mean?" "the serpent-tempter himself could not have invented anything worse . . . . why, to put such a phantasmagoria on the table would be defiling the whole flat." "what a strange way of looking at art, doctor!" said sasha, offended. "why, it is an artistic thing, look at it! there is so much beauty and elegance that it fills one's soul with a feeling of reverence and brings a lump into one's throat! when one sees anything so beautiful one forgets everything earthly. . . . only look, how much movement, what an atmosphere, what expression!" "i understand all that very well, my dear boy," the doctor interposed, "but you know i am a family man, my children run in here, ladies come in." "of course if you look at it from the point of view of the crowd," said sasha, "then this exquisitely artistic work may appear in a certain light. . . . but, doctor, rise superior to the crowd, especially as you will wound mamma and me by refusing it. i am the only son of my mother, you have saved my life. . . . we are giving you the thing most precious to us and . . . and i only regret that i have not the pair to present to you. . . ." "thank you, my dear fellow, i am very grateful . . . give my respects to your mother but really consider, my children run in here, ladies come. . . . however, let it remain! i see there's no arguing with you." "and there is nothing to argue about," said sasha, relieved. "put the candlestick here, by this vase. what a pity we have not the pair to it! it is a pity! well, good-bye, doctor." after sasha's departure the doctor looked for a long time at the candelabra, scratched behind his ear and meditated. "it's a superb thing, there's no denying it," he thought, "and it would be a pity to throw it away. . . . but it's impossible for me to keep it. . . . h'm! . . . here's a problem! to whom can i make a present of it, or to what charity can i give it?" after long meditation he thought of his good friend, the lawyer uhov, to whom he was indebted for the management of legal business. "excellent," the doctor decided, "it would be awkward for him as a friend to take money from me, and it will be very suitable for me to present him with this. i will take him the devilish thing! luckily he is a bachelor and easy-going." without further procrastination the doctor put on his hat and coat, took the candelabra and went off to uhov's. "how are you, friend!" he said, finding the lawyer at home. "i've come to see you . . . to thank you for your efforts. . . . you won't take money so you must at least accept this thing here. . . . see, my dear fellow. . . . the thing is magnificent!" on seeing the bronze the lawyer was moved to indescribable delight. "what a specimen!" he chuckled. "ah, deuce take it, to think of them imagining such a thing, the devils! exquisite! ravishing! where did you get hold of such a delightful thing?" after pouring out his ecstasies the lawyer looked timidly towards the door and said: "only you must carry off your present, my boy . . . . i can't take it. . . ." "why?" cried the doctor, disconcerted. "why . . . because my mother is here at times, my clients . . . besides i should be ashamed for my servants to see it." "nonsense! nonsense! don't you dare to refuse!" said the doctor, gesticulating. "it's piggish of you! it's a work of art! . . . what movement . . . what expression! i won't even talk of it! you will offend me!" "if one could plaster it over or stick on fig-leaves . . ." but the doctor gesticulated more violently than before, and dashing out of the flat went home, glad that he had succeeded in getting the present off his hands. when he had gone away the lawyer examined the candelabra, fingered it all over, and then, like the doctor, racked his brains over the question what to do with the present. "it's a fine thing," he mused, "and it would be a pity to throw it away and improper to keep it. the very best thing would be to make a present of it to someone. . . . i know what! i'll take it this evening to shashkin, the comedian. the rascal is fond of such things, and by the way it is his benefit tonight." no sooner said than done. in the evening the candelabra, carefully wrapped up, was duly carried to shashkin's. the whole evening the comic actor's dressing-room was besieged by men coming to admire the present; the dressing-room was filled with the hum of enthusiasm and laughter like the neighing of horses. if one of the actresses approached the door and asked: "may i come in?" the comedian's husky voice was heard at once: "no, no, my dear, i am not dressed!" after the performance the comedian shrugged his shoulders, flung up his hands and said: "well what am i to do with the horrid thing? why, i live in a private flat! actresses come and see me! it's not a photograph that you can put in a drawer!" "you had better sell it, sir," the hairdresser who was disrobing the actor advised him. "there's an old woman living about here who buys antique bronzes. go and enquire for madame smirnov . . . everyone knows her." the actor followed his advice. . . . two days later the doctor was sitting in his consulting-room, and with his finger to his brow was meditating on the acids of the bile. all at once the door opened and sasha smirnov flew into the room. he was smiling, beaming, and his whole figure was radiant with happiness. in his hands he held something wrapped up in newspaper. "doctor!" he began breathlessly, "imagine my delight! happily for you we have succeeded in picking up the pair to your candelabra! mamma is so happy. . . . i am the only son of my mother, you saved my life. . . ." and sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the doctor. the doctor opened his mouth, tried to say something, but said nothing: he could not speak. a joke it was a bright winter midday. . . . there was a sharp snapping frost and the curls on nadenka's temples and the down on her upper lip were covered with silvery frost. she was holding my arm and we were standing on a high hill. from where we stood to the ground below there stretched a smooth sloping descent in which the sun was reflected as in a looking-glass. beside us was a little sledge lined with bright red cloth. "let us go down, nadyezhda petrovna!" i besought her. "only once! i assure you we shall be all right and not hurt." but nadenka was afraid. the slope from her little goloshes to the bottom of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely deep abyss. her spirit failed her, and she held her breath as she looked down, when i merely suggested her getting into the sledge, but what would it be if she were to risk flying into the abyss! she would die, she would go out of her mind. "i entreat you!" i said. "you mustn't be afraid! you know it's poor-spirited, it's cowardly!" nadenka gave way at last, and from her face i saw that she gave way in mortal dread. i sat her in the sledge, pale and trembling, put my arm round her and with her cast myself down the precipice. the sledge flew like a bullet. the air cleft by our flight beat in our faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at us, nipped us cruelly in its anger, tried to tear our heads off our shoulders. we had hardly strength to breathe from the pressure of the wind. it seemed as though the devil himself had caught us in his claws and was dragging us with a roar to hell. surrounding objects melted into one long furiously racing streak . . . another moment and it seemed we should perish. "i love you, nadya!" i said in a low voice. the sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the wind and the whirr of the runners was no longer so terrible, it was easier to breathe, and at last we were at the bottom. nadenka was more dead than alive. she was pale and scarcely breathing. . . . i helped her to get up. "nothing would induce me to go again," she said, looking at me with wide eyes full of horror. "nothing in the world! i almost died!" a little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into my eyes, wondering had i really uttered those four words or had she fancied them in the roar of the hurricane. and i stood beside her smoking and looking attentively at my glove. she took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the ice-hill. the riddle evidently would not let her rest. . . . had those words been uttered or not? . . . yes or no? yes or no? it was the question of pride, or honour, of life--a very important question, the most important question in the world. nadenka kept impatiently, sorrowfully looking into my face with a penetrating glance; she answered at random, waiting to see whether i would not speak. oh, the play of feeling on that sweet face! i saw that she was struggling with herself, that she wanted to say something, to ask some question, but she could not find the words; she felt awkward and frightened and troubled by her joy. . . . "do you know what," she said without looking at me. "well?" i asked. "let us . . . slide down again." we clambered up the ice-hill by the steps again. i sat nadenka, pale and trembling, in the sledge; again we flew into the terrible abyss, again the wind roared and the runners whirred, and again when the flight of our sledge was at its swiftest and noisiest, i said in a low voice: "i love you, nadenka!" when the sledge stopped, nadenka flung a glance at the hill down which we had both slid, then bent a long look upon my face, listened to my voice which was unconcerned and passionless, and the whole of her little figure, every bit of it, even her muff and her hood expressed the utmost bewilderment, and on her face was written: "what does it mean? who uttered _those_ words? did he, or did i only fancy it?" the uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience. the poor girl did not answer my questions, frowned, and was on the point of tears. "hadn't we better go home?" i asked. "well, i . . . i like this tobogganning," she said, flushing. "shall we go down once more?" she "liked" the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the sledge she was, as both times before, pale, trembling, hardly able to breathe for terror. we went down for the third time, and i saw she was looking at my face and watching my lips. but i put my handkerchief to my lips, coughed, and when we reached the middle of the hill i succeeded in bringing out: "i love you, nadya!" and the mystery remained a mystery! nadenka was silent, pondering on something. . . . i saw her home, she tried to walk slowly, slackened her pace and kept waiting to see whether i would not say those words to her, and i saw how her soul was suffering, what effort she was making not to say to herself: "it cannot be that the wind said them! and i don't want it to be the wind that said them!" next morning i got a little note: "if you are tobogganning to-day, come for me.--n." and from that time i began going every day tobogganning with nadenka, and as we flew down in the sledge, every time i pronounced in a low voice the same words: "i love you, nadya!" soon nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia. she could not live without it. it is true that flying down the ice-hill terrified her as before, but now the terror and danger gave a peculiar fascination to words of love--words which as before were a mystery and tantalized the soul. the same two--the wind and i were still suspected. . . . which of the two was making love to her she did not know, but apparently by now she did not care; from which goblet one drinks matters little if only the beverage is intoxicating. it happened i went to the skating-ground alone at midday; mingling with the crowd i saw nadenka go up to the ice-hill and look about for me . . . then she timidly mounted the steps. . . . she was frightened of going alone--oh, how frightened! she was white as the snow, she was trembling, she went as though to the scaffold, but she went, she went without looking back, resolutely. she had evidently determined to put it to the test at last: would those sweet amazing words be heard when i was not there? i saw her, pale, her lips parted with horror, get into the sledge, shut her eyes and saying good-bye for ever to the earth, set off. . . . "whrrr!" whirred the runners. whether nadenka heard those words i do not know. i only saw her getting up from the sledge looking faint and exhausted. and one could tell from her face that she could not tell herself whether she had heard anything or not. her terror while she had been flying down had deprived of her all power of hearing, of discriminating sounds, of understanding. but then the month of march arrived . . . the spring sunshine was more kindly. . . . our ice-hill turned dark, lost its brilliance and finally melted. we gave up tobogganning. there was nowhere now where poor nadenka could hear those words, and indeed no one to utter them, since there was no wind and i was going to petersburg--for long, perhaps for ever. it happened two days before my departure i was sitting in the dusk in the little garden which was separated from the yard of nadenka's house by a high fence with nails in it. . . . it was still pretty cold, there was still snow by the manure heap, the trees looked dead but there was already the scent of spring and the rooks were cawing loudly as they settled for their night's rest. i went up to the fence and stood for a long while peeping through a chink. i saw nadenka come out into the porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . . the spring wind was blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . . it reminded her of the wind which roared at us on the ice-hill when she heard those four words, and her face became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled down her cheek, and the poor child held out both arms as though begging the wind to bring her those words once more. and waiting for the wind i said in a low voice: "i love you, nadya!" mercy! the change that came over nadenka! she uttered a cry, smiled all over her face and looking joyful, happy and beautiful, held out her arms to meet the wind. and i went off to pack up. . . . that was long ago. now nadenka is married; she married--whether of her own choice or not does not matter--a secretary of the nobility wardenship and now she has three children. that we once went tobogganning together, and that the wind brought her the words "i love you, nadenka," is not forgotten; it is for her now the happiest, most touching, and beautiful memory in her life. . . . but now that i am older i cannot understand why i uttered those words, what was my motive in that joke. . . . a country cottage two young people who had not long been married were walking up and down the platform of a little country station. his arm was round her waist, her head was almost on his shoulder, and both were happy. the moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it seemed, envying their happiness and regretting her tedious and utterly superfluous virginity. the still air was heavy with the fragrance of lilac and wild cherry. somewhere in the distance beyond the line a corncrake was calling. "how beautiful it is, sasha, how beautiful!" murmured the young wife. "it all seems like a dream. see, how sweet and inviting that little copse looks! how nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are! they add a special note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, civilization in the distance. . . . don't you think it's lovely when the wind brings the rushing sound of a train?" "yes. . . . but what hot little hands you've got. . . that's because you're excited, varya. . . . what have you got for our supper to-night?" "chicken and salad. . . . it's a chicken just big enough for two . . . . then there is the salmon and sardines that were sent from town." the moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a cloud. human happiness reminded her of her own loneliness, of her solitary couch beyond the hills and dales. "the train is coming!" said varya, "how jolly!" three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. the stationmaster came out on the platform. signal lights flashed here and there on the line. "let's see the train in and go home," said sasha, yawning. "what a splendid time we are having together, varya, it's so splendid, one can hardly believe it's true!" the dark monster crept noiselessly alongside the platform and came to a standstill. they caught glimpses of sleepy faces, of hats and shoulders at the dimly lighted windows. "look! look!" they heard from one of the carriages. "varya and sasha have come to meet us! there they are! . . . varya! . . . varya. . . . look!" two little girls skipped out of the train and hung on varya's neck. they were followed by a stout, middle-aged lady, and a tall, lanky gentleman with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden with bags, and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the governess the grandmother. "here we are, here we are, dear boy!" began the whiskered gentleman, squeezing sasha's hand. "sick of waiting for us, i expect! you have been pitching into your old uncle for not coming down all this time, i daresay! kolya, kostya, nina, fifa . . . children! kiss your cousin sasha! we're all here, the whole troop of us, just for three or four days. . . . i hope we shan't be too many for you? you mustn't let us put you out!" at the sight of their uncle and his family, the young couple were horror-stricken. while his uncle talked and kissed them, sasha had a vision of their little cottage: he and varya giving up their three little rooms, all the pillows and bedding to their guests; the salmon, the sardines, the chicken all devoured in a single instant; the cousins plucking the flowers in their little garden, spilling the ink, filled the cottage with noise and confusion; his aunt talking continually about her ailments and her papa's having been baron von fintich. . . . and sasha looked almost with hatred at his young wife, and whispered: "it's you they've come to see! . . . damn them!" "no, it's you," answered varya, pale with anger. "they're your relations! they're not mine!" and turning to her visitors, she said with a smile of welcome: "welcome to the cottage!" the moon came out again. she seemed to smile, as though she were glad she had no relations. sasha, turning his head away to hide his angry despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome to his voice as he said: "it is jolly of you! welcome to the cottage!" a blunder ilya sergeitch peplov and his wife kleopatra petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily. on the other side in the little drawing-room a love scene was apparently taking place between two persons: their daughter natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called shchupkin. "he's rising!" whispered peplov, quivering with impatience and rubbing his hands. "now, kleopatra, mind; as soon as they begin talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and we'll go in and bless them. . . . we'll catch him. . . . a blessing with an ikon is sacred and binding. . . he couldn't get out of it, if he brought it into court." on the other side of the door this was the conversation: "don't go on like that!" said shchupkin, striking a match against his checked trousers. "i never wrote you any letters!" "i like that! as though i didn't know your writing!" giggled the girl with an affected shriek, continually peeping at herself in the glass. "i knew it at once! and what a queer man you are! you are a writing master, and you write like a spider! how can you teach writing if you write so badly yourself?" "h'm! . . . that means nothing. the great thing in writing lessons is not the hand one writes, but keeping the boys in order. you hit one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . besides, there's nothing in handwriting! nekrassov was an author, but his handwriting's a disgrace, there's a specimen of it in his collected works." "you are not nekrassov. . . ." (a sigh). "i should love to marry an author. he'd always be writing poems to me." "i can write you a poem, too, if you like." "what can you write about?" "love--passion--your eyes. you'll be crazy when you read it. it would draw a tear from a stone! and if i write you a real poem, will you let me kiss your hand?" "that's nothing much! you can kiss it now if you like." shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap. "take down the ikon," peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded his wife with his elbow. "come along, now!" and without a second's delay peplov flung open the door. "children," he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully, "the lord bless you, my children. may you live--be fruitful--and multiply." "and--and i bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "may you be happy, my dear ones! oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to shchupkin. "love my girl, be good to her. . . ." shchupkin's mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. the parents' attack was so bold and unexpected that he could not utter a single word. "i'm in for it! i'm spliced!" he thought, going limp with horror. "it's all over with you now, my boy! there's no escape!" and he bowed his head submissively, as though to say, "take me, i'm vanquished." "ble-blessings on you," the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears. "natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side. kleopatra, give me the ikon." but at this point the father suddenly left off weeping, and his face was contorted with anger. "you ninny!" he said angrily to his wife. "you are an idiot! is that the ikon?" "ach, saints alive!" what had happened? the writing master raised himself and saw that he was saved; in her flutter the mamma had snatched from the wall the portrait of lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon. old peplov and his wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the room, holding the portrait aloft, not knowing what to do or what to say. the writing master took advantage of the general confusion and slipped away. fat and thin two friends--one a fat man and the other a thin man--met at the nikolaevsky station. the fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe cherries. he smelt of sherry and _fleur d'orange_. the thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. he smelt of ham and coffee grounds. a thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up came into view behind his back. "porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "is it you? my dear fellow! how many summers, how many winters!" "holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "misha! the friend of my childhood! where have you dropped from?" the friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears. both were agreeably astounded. "my dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "this is unexpected! this is a surprise! come have a good look at me! just as handsome as i used to be! just as great a darling and a dandy! good gracious me! well, and how are you? made your fortune? married? i am married as you see. . . . this is my wife luise, her maiden name was vantsenbach . . . of the lutheran persuasion. . . . and this is my son nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. this is the friend of my childhood, nafanya. we were boys at school together!" nafanail thought a little and took off his cap. "we were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "do you remember how they used to tease you? you were nicknamed herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and i was nicknamed ephialtes because i was fond of telling tales. ho--ho! . . . we were children! . . . don't be shy, nafanya. go nearer to him. and this is my wife, her maiden name was vantsenbach, of the lutheran persuasion. . . ." nafanail thought a little and took refuge behind his father's back. "well, how are you doing my friend?" the fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. "are you in the service? what grade have you reached?" "i am, dear boy! i have been a collegiate assessor for the last two years and i have the stanislav. the salary is poor, but that's no great matter! the wife gives music lessons, and i go in for carving wooden cigarette cases in a private way. capital cigarette cases! i sell them for a rouble each. if any one takes ten or more i make a reduction of course. we get along somehow. i served as a clerk, you know, and now i have been transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. i am going to serve here. and what about you? i bet you are a civil councillor by now? eh?" "no dear boy, go higher than that," said the fat man. "i have risen to privy councillor already . . . i have two stars." the thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. he squirmed, he doubled together, crumpled up. . . . his portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple up too. . . . his wife's long chin grew longer still; nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform. "your excellency, i . . . delighted! the friend, one may say, of childhood and to have turned into such a great man! he--he!" "come, come!" the fat man frowned. "what's this tone for? you and i were friends as boys, and there is no need of this official obsequiousness!" "merciful heavens, your excellency! what are you saying. . . ?" sniggered the thin man, wriggling more than ever. "your excellency's gracious attention is like refreshing manna. . . . this, your excellency, is my son nafanail, . . . my wife luise, a lutheran in a certain sense." the fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness that the privy councillor was sickened. he turned away from the thin man, giving him his hand at parting. the thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body and sniggered like a chinaman: "he--he--he!" his wife smiled. nafanail scraped with his foot and dropped his cap. all three were agreeably overwhelmed. the death of a government clerk one fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called ivan dmitritch tchervyakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls, gazing through an opera glass at the _cloches de corneville_. he gazed and felt at the acme of bliss. but suddenly. . . . in stories one so often meets with this "but suddenly." the authors are right: life is so full of surprises! but suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . "aptchee!!" he sneezed as you perceive. it is not reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. all men sneeze. tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by his sneezing. but then he was overcome with confusion. he saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering something to himself. in the old gentleman, tchervyakov recognised brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the department of transport. "i have spattered him," thought tchervyakov, "he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. i must apologise." tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear. "pardon, your excellency, i spattered you accidentally. . . ." "never mind, never mind." "for goodness sake excuse me, i . . . i did not mean to." "oh, please, sit down! let me listen!" tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. he gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. he began to be troubled by uneasiness. in the interval, he went up to brizzhalov, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered: "i spattered you, your excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . i didn't do it to . . . ." "oh, that's enough . . . i'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!" said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently. "he has forgotten, but there is a fiendish light in his eye," thought tchervyakov, looking suspiciously at the general. "and he doesn't want to talk. i ought to explain to him . . . that i really didn't intend . . . that it is the law of nature or else he will think i meant to spit on him. he doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!" on getting home, tchervyakov told his wife of his breach of good manners. it struck him that his wife took too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened, but when she learned that brizzhalov was in a different department, she was reassured. "still, you had better go and apologise," she said, "or he will think you don't know how to behave in public." "that's just it! i did apologise, but he took it somehow queerly . . . he didn't say a word of sense. there wasn't time to talk properly." next day tchervyakov put on a new uniform, had his hair cut and went to brizzhalov's to explain; going into the general's reception room he saw there a number of petitioners and among them the general himself, who was beginning to interview them. after questioning several petitioners the general raised his eyes and looked at tchervyakov. "yesterday at the _arcadia_, if you recollect, your excellency," the latter began, "i sneezed and . . . accidentally spattered . . . exc. . . ." "what nonsense. . . . it's beyond anything! what can i do for you," said the general addressing the next petitioner. "he won't speak," thought tchervyakov, turning pale; "that means that he is angry. . . . no, it can't be left like this. . . . i will explain to him." when the general had finished his conversation with the last of the petitioners and was turning towards his inner apartments, tchervyakov took a step towards him and muttered: "your excellency! if i venture to trouble your excellency, it is simply from a feeling i may say of regret! . . . it was not intentional if you will graciously believe me." the general made a lachrymose face, and waved his hand. "why, you are simply making fun of me, sir," he said as he closed the door behind him. "where's the making fun in it?" thought tchervyakov, "there is nothing of the sort! he is a general, but he can't understand. if that is how it is i am not going to apologise to that _fanfaron_ any more! the devil take him. i'll write a letter to him, but i won't go. by jove, i won't." so thought tchervyakov as he walked home; he did not write a letter to the general, he pondered and pondered and could not make up that letter. he had to go next day to explain in person. "i ventured to disturb your excellency yesterday," he muttered, when the general lifted enquiring eyes upon him, "not to make fun as you were pleased to say. i was apologising for having spattered you in sneezing. . . . and i did not dream of making fun of you. should i dare to make fun of you, if we should take to making fun, then there would be no respect for persons, there would be. . . ." "be off!" yelled the general, turning suddenly purple, and shaking all over. "what?" asked tchervyakov, in a whisper turning numb with horror. "be off!" repeated the general, stamping. something seemed to give way in tchervyakov's stomach. seeing nothing and hearing nothing he reeled to the door, went out into the street, and went staggering along. . . . reaching home mechanically, without taking off his uniform, he lay down on the sofa and died. a pink stocking a dull, rainy day. the sky is completely covered with heavy clouds, and there is no prospect of the rain ceasing. outside sleet, puddles, and drenched jackdaws. indoors it is half dark, and so cold that one wants the stove heated. pavel petrovitch somov is pacing up and down his study, grumbling at the weather. the tears of rain on the windows and the darkness of the room make him depressed. he is insufferably bored and has nothing to do. . . . the newspapers have not been brought yet; shooting is out of the question, and it is not nearly dinner-time . . . . somov is not alone in his study. madame somov, a pretty little lady in a light blouse and pink stockings, is sitting at his writing table. she is eagerly scribbling a letter. every time he passes her as he strides up and down, ivan petrovitch looks over her shoulder at what she is writing. he sees big sprawling letters, thin and narrow, with all sorts of tails and flourishes. there are numbers of blots, smears, and finger-marks. madame somov does not like ruled paper, and every line runs downhill with horrid wriggles as it reaches the margin. . . . "lidotchka, who is it you are writing such a lot to?" somov inquires, seeing that his wife is just beginning to scribble the sixth page. "to sister varya." "hm . . . it's a long letter! i'm so bored--let me read it!" "here, you may read it, but there's nothing interesting in it." somov takes the written pages and, still pacing up and down, begins reading. lidotchka leans her elbows on the back of her chair and watches the expression of his face. . . . after the first page his face lengthens and an expression of something almost like panic comes into it. . . . at the third page somov frowns and scratches the back of his head. at the fourth he pauses, looks with a scared face at his wife, and seems to ponder. after thinking a little, he takes up the letter again with a sigh. . . . his face betrays perplexity and even alarm. . . ." "well, this is beyond anything!" he mutters, as he finishes reading the letter and flings the sheets on the table, "it's positively incredible!" "what's the matter?" asks lidotchka, flustered. "what's the matter! you've covered six pages, wasted a good two hours scribbling, and there's nothing in it at all! if there were one tiny idea! one reads on and on, and one's brain is as muddled as though one were deciphering the chinese wriggles on tea chests! ough!" "yes, that's true, vanya, . . ." says lidotchka, reddening. "i wrote it carelessly. . . ." "queer sort of carelessness! in a careless letter there is some meaning and style--there is sense in it--while yours . . . excuse me, but i don't know what to call it! it's absolute twaddle! there are words and sentences, but not the slightest sense in them. your whole letter is exactly like the conversation of two boys: 'we had pancakes to-day! and we had a soldier come to see us!' you say the same thing over and over again! you drag it out, repeat yourself . . . . the wretched ideas dance about like devils: there's no making out where anything begins, where anything ends. . . . how can you write like that?" "if i had been writing carefully," lidotchka says in self defence, "then there would not have been mistakes. . . ." "oh, i'm not talking about mistakes! the awful grammatical howlers! there's not a line that's not a personal insult to grammar! no stops nor commas--and the spelling . . . brrr! 'earth' has an _a_ in it!! and the writing! it's desperate! i'm not joking, lida. . . . i'm surprised and appalled at your letter. . . . you mustn't be angry, darling, but, really, i had no idea you were such a duffer at grammar. . . . and yet you belong to a cultivated, well-educated circle: you are the wife of a university man, and the daughter of a general! tell me, did you ever go to school?" "what next! i finished at the von mebke's boarding school. . . ." somov shrugs his shoulders and continues to pace up and down, sighing. lidotchka, conscious of her ignorance and ashamed of it, sighs too and casts down her eyes. . . . ten minutes pass in silence. "you know, lidotchka, it really is awful!" says somov, suddenly halting in front of her and looking into her face with horror. "you are a mother . . . do you understand? a mother! how can you teach your children if you know nothing yourself? you have a good brain, but what's the use of it if you have never mastered the very rudiments of knowledge? there--never mind about knowledge . . . the children will get that at school, but, you know, you are very shaky on the moral side too! you sometimes use such language that it makes my ears tingle!" somov shrugs his shoulders again, wraps himself in the folds of his dressing-gown and continues his pacing. . . . he feels vexed and injured, and at the same time sorry for lidotchka, who does not protest, but merely blinks. . . . both feel oppressed and miserable . . . . absorbed in their woes, they do not notice how time is passing and the dinner hour is approaching. sitting down to dinner, somov, who is fond of good eating and of eating in peace, drinks a large glass of vodka and begins talking about something else. lidotchka listens and assents, but suddenly over the soup her eyes fill with tears and she begins whimpering. "it's all mother's fault!" she says, wiping away her tears with her dinner napkin. "everyone advised her to send me to the high school, and from the high school i should have been sure to go on to the university!" "university . . . high school," mutters somov. "that's running to extremes, my girl! what's the good of being a blue stocking! a blue stocking is the very deuce! neither man nor woman, but just something midway: neither one thing nor another. . . i hate blue stockings! i would never have married a learned woman. . . ." "there's no making you out . . .", says lidotchka. "you are angry because i am not learned, and at the same time you hate learned women; you are annoyed because i have no ideas in my letter, and yet you yourself are opposed to my studying. . . ." "you do catch me up at a word, my dear," yawns somov, pouring out a second glass of vodka in his boredom. under the influence of vodka and a good dinner, somov grows more good-humoured, lively, and soft. . . . he watches his pretty wife making the salad with an anxious face and a rush of affection for her, of indulgence and forgiveness comes over him. "it was stupid of me to depress her, poor girl . . . ," he thought. "why did i say such a lot of dreadful things? she is silly, that's true, uncivilised and narrow; but . . . there are two sides to the question, and _audiatur et altera pars_. . . . perhaps people are perfectly right when they say that woman's shallowness rests on her very vocation. granted that it is her vocation to love her husband, to bear children, and to mix salad, what the devil does she want with learning? no, indeed!" at that point he remembers that learned women are usually tedious, that they are exacting, strict, and unyielding; and, on the other hand, how easy it is to get on with silly lidotchka, who never pokes her nose into anything, does not understand so much, and never obtrudes her criticism. there is peace and comfort with lidotchka, and no risk of being interfered with. "confound them, those clever and learned women! it's better and easier to live with simple ones," he thinks, as he takes a plate of chicken from lidotchka. he recollects that a civilised man sometimes feels a desire to talk and share his thoughts with a clever and well-educated woman. "what of it?" thinks somov. "if i want to talk of intellectual subjects, i'll go to natalya andreyevna . . . or to marya frantsovna. . . . it's very simple! but no, i shan't go. one can discuss intellectual subjects with men," he finally decides. at a summer villa "i love you. you are my life, my happiness--everything to me! forgive the avowal, but i have not the strength to suffer and be silent. i ask not for love in return, but for sympathy. be at the old arbour at eight o'clock this evening. . . . to sign my name is unnecessary i think, but do not be uneasy at my being anonymous. i am young, nice-looking . . . what more do you want?" when pavel ivanitch vyhodtsev, a practical married man who was spending his holidays at a summer villa, read this letter, he shrugged his shoulders and scratched his forehead in perplexity. "what devilry is this?" he thought. "i'm a married man, and to send me such a queer . . . silly letter! who wrote it?" pavel ivanitch turned the letter over and over before his eyes, read it through again, and spat with disgust. "'i love you'" . . . he said jeeringly. "a nice boy she has pitched on! so i'm to run off to meet you in the arbour! . . . i got over all such romances and _fleurs d'amour_ years ago, my girl. . . . hm! she must be some reckless, immoral creature. . . . well, these women are a set! what a whirligig--god forgive us!--she must be to write a letter like that to a stranger, and a married man, too! it's real demoralisation!" in the course of his eight years of married life pavel ivanitch had completely got over all sentimental feeling, and he had received no letters from ladies except letters of congratulation, and so, although he tried to carry it off with disdain, the letter quoted above greatly intrigued and agitated him. an hour after receiving it, he was lying on his sofa, thinking: "of course i am not a silly boy, and i am not going to rush off to this idiotic rendezvous; but yet it would be interesting to know who wrote it! hm. . . . it is certainly a woman's writing. . . . the letter is written with genuine feeling, and so it can hardly be a joke. . . . most likely it's some neurotic girl, or perhaps a widow . . . widows are frivolous and eccentric as a rule. hm. . . . who could it be?" what made it the more difficult to decide the question was that pavel ivanitch had not one feminine acquaintance among all the summer visitors, except his wife. "it is queer . . ." he mused. "'i love you!'. . . when did she manage to fall in love? amazing woman! to fall in love like this, apropos of nothing, without making any acquaintance and finding out what sort of man i am. . . . she must be extremely young and romantic if she is capable of falling in love after two or three looks at me. . . . but . . . who is she?" pavel ivanitch suddenly recalled that when he had been walking among the summer villas the day before, and the day before that, he had several times been met by a fair young lady with a light blue hat and a turn-up nose. the fair charmer had kept looking at him, and when he sat down on a seat she had sat down beside him. . . . "can it be she?" vyhodtsev wondered. "it can't be! could a delicate ephemeral creature like that fall in love with a worn-out old eel like me? no, it's impossible!" at dinner pavel ivanitch looked blankly at his wife while he meditated: "she writes that she is young and nice-looking. . . . so she's not old. . . . hm. . . . to tell the truth, honestly i am not so old and plain that no one could fall in love with me. my wife loves me! besides, love is blind, we all know. . . ." "what are you thinking about?" his wife asked him. "oh. . . my head aches a little. . ." pavel ivanitch said, quite untruly. he made up his mind that it was stupid to pay attention to such a nonsensical thing as a love-letter, and laughed at it and at its authoress, but--alas!--powerful is the "dacha" enemy of mankind! after dinner, pavel ivanitch lay down on his bed, and instead of going to sleep, reflected: "but there, i daresay she is expecting me to come! what a silly! i can just imagine what a nervous fidget she'll be in and how her _tournure_ will quiver when she does not find me in the arbour! i shan't go, though. . . . bother her!" but, i repeat, powerful is the enemy of mankind. "though i might, perhaps, just out of curiosity . . ." he was musing, half an hour later. "i might go and look from a distance what sort of a creature she is. . . . it would be interesting to have a look at her! it would be fun, and that's all! after all, why shouldn't i have a little fun since such a chance has turned up?" pavel ivanitch got up from his bed and began dressing. "what are you getting yourself up so smartly for?" his wife asked, noticing that he was putting on a clean shirt and a fashionable tie. "oh, nothing. . . . i must have a walk. . . . my head aches. . . . hm." pavel ivanitch dressed in his best, and waiting till eight o'clock, went out of the house. when the figures of gaily dressed summer visitors of both sexes began passing before his eyes against the bright green background, his heart throbbed. "which of them is it? . . ." he wondered, advancing irresolutely. "come, what am i afraid of? why, i am not going to the rendezvous! what . . . a fool! go forward boldly! and what if i go into the arbour? well, well . . . there is no reason i should." pavel ivanitch's heart beat still more violently. . . . involuntarily, with no desire to do so, he suddenly pictured to himself the half-darkness of the arbour. . . . a graceful fair girl with a little blue hat and a turn-up nose rose before his imagination. he saw her, abashed by her love and trembling all over, timidly approach him, breathing excitedly, and . . . suddenly clasping him in her arms. "if i weren't married it would be all right . . ." he mused, driving sinful ideas out of his head. "though . . . for once in my life, it would do no harm to have the experience, or else one will die without knowing what. . . . and my wife, what will it matter to her? thank god, for eight years i've never moved one step away from her. . . . eight years of irreproachable duty! enough of her. . . . it's positively vexatious. . . . i'm ready to go to spite her!" trembling all over and holding his breath, pavel ivanitch went up to the arbour, wreathed with ivy and wild vine, and peeped into it . . . . a smell of dampness and mildew reached him. . . . "i believe there's nobody . . ." he thought, going into the arbour, and at once saw a human silhouette in the corner. the silhouette was that of a man. . . . looking more closely, pavel ivanitch recognised his wife's brother, mitya, a student, who was staying with them at the villa. "oh, it's you . . ." he growled discontentedly, as he took off his hat and sat down. "yes, it's i" . . . answered mitya. two minutes passed in silence. "excuse me, pavel ivanitch," began mitya: "but might i ask you to leave me alone?? . . . i am thinking over the dissertation for my degree and . . . and the presence of anybody else prevents my thinking." "you had better go somewhere in a dark avenue. . ." pavel ivanitch observed mildly. "it's easier to think in the open air, and, besides, . . . er . . . i should like to have a little sleep here on this seat. . . it's not so hot here. . . ." "you want to sleep, but it's a question of my dissertation . . ." mitya grumbled. "the dissertation is more important." again there was a silence. pavel ivanitch, who had given the rein to his imagination and was continually hearing footsteps, suddenly leaped up and said in a plaintive voice: "come, i beg you, mitya! you are younger and ought to consider me . . . . i am unwell and . . . i need sleep. . . . go away!" "that's egoism. . . . why must you be here and not i? i won't go as a matter of principle." "come, i ask you to! suppose i am an egoist, a despot and a fool . . . but i ask you to go! for once in my life i ask you a favour! show some consideration!" mitya shook his head. "what a beast! . . ." thought pavel ivanitch. "that can't be a rendezvous with him here! it's impossible with him here!" "i say, mitya," he said, "i ask you for the last time. . . . show that you are a sensible, humane, and cultivated man!" "i don't know why you keep on so!" . . . said mitya, shrugging his shoulders. "i've said i won't go, and i won't. i shall stay here as a matter of principle. . . ." at that moment a woman's face with a turn-up nose peeped into the arbour. . . . seeing mitya and pavel ivanitch, it frowned and vanished. "she is gone!" thought pavel ivanitch, looking angrily at mitya. "she saw that blackguard and fled! it's all spoilt!" after waiting a little longer, he got up, put on his hat and said: "you're a beast, a low brute and a blackguard! yes! a beast! it's mean . . . and silly! everything is at an end between us!" "delighted to hear it!" muttered mitya, also getting up and putting on his hat. "let me tell you that by being here just now you've played me such a dirty trick that i'll never forgive you as long as i live." pavel ivanitch went out of the arbour, and beside himself with rage, strode rapidly to his villa. even the sight of the table laid for supper did not soothe him. "once in a lifetime such a chance has turned up," he thought in agitation; "and then it's been prevented! now she is offended . . . crushed!" at supper pavel ivanitch and mitya kept their eyes on their plates and maintained a sullen silence. . . . they were hating each other from the bottom of their hearts. "what are you smiling at?" asked pavel ivanitch, pouncing on his wife. "it's only silly fools who laugh for nothing!" his wife looked at her husband's angry face, and went off into a peal of laughter. "what was that letter you got this morning?" she asked. "i? . . . i didn't get one. . . ." pavel ivanitch was overcome with confusion. "you are inventing . . . imagination." "oh, come, tell us! own up, you did! why, it was i sent you that letter! honour bright, i did! ha ha!" pavel ivanitch turned crimson and bent over his plate. "silly jokes," he growled. "but what could i do? tell me that. . . . we had to scrub the rooms out this evening, and how could we get you out of the house? there was no other way of getting you out. . . . but don't be angry, stupid. . . . i didn't want you to be dull in the arbour, so i sent the same letter to mitya too! mitya, have you been to the arbour?" mitya grinned and left off glaring with hatred at his rival. none the story of an untold love paul leicester ford [illustration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright by paul leicester ford all rights reserved sixty-fifth thousand the story of an untold love i _february , ._ there is not a moment of my life that you have shared with me which i cannot recall with a distinctness fairly sunlit. my joys and my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures, have faded one by one from emotions into memories, quickening neither pulse nor thought when they recur to me, while you alone can set both throbbing. and though for years i have known that if you enshrined any one in your heart it would be some one worthier of you, yet i have loved you truly, and whatever i have been in all else, in that one thing, at least, i have been strong. nor would i part with my tenderness for you, even though it has robbed me of contentment; for all the pleasures of which i can dream cannot equal the happiness of loving you. to god i owe life, and you, maizie, have filled that life with love; and to both i bow my spirit in thanks, striving not to waste his gift lest i be unworthy of the devotion i feel for you. if i were a stronger man, i should not now be sobbing out my heart's blood through the tip of a pen. instead of writing of my sorrow, i should have battled for my love despite all obstacles. but i am no alexander to cut the knot of entanglements which the fates have woven about me, and so, midas-like, i sit morbidly whispering the hidden grief, too great for me to bear in silence longer. i can picture my first glimpse of you as vividly as my last. that dull rainy day of indoor imprisonment seems almost to have been arranged as a shadowbox to intensify the image graved so deeply on my memory. the sun came, as you did, towards the end of the afternoon, as if light and warmth were your couriers. when i shyly entered the library in answer to my father's call, you were standing in the full sunlight, and the thought flashed through my mind that here was one of the angels of whom i had read. you were only a child of seven,--to others, i suppose, immature and formless; yet even then your eyes were as large and as serious as they are to-day, and your curling brown hair had already a touch of fire, as if sunshine had crept thereinto, and, liking its abiding-place, had lingered lovingly. "don," cried my father, as i stood hesitating in the doorway, "here's a new plaything for you. give it a welcome and a kiss." i hung back, half in shyness, and half in fear that you were of heaven, and not of earth, but you came forward and kissed me without the slightest hesitation. the details are so clear that i remember you hardly had to raise your head, though i was three years the older. your kiss dispelled all my timidity, and from the moment of that caress i loved you. not that i am so foolish as to believe i then felt for you what now i feel, but by the clear light of retrospect i can see that your coming brought a new element into my life,--an element which i loved from the first, though with steadily deepening intensity, and i cannot even now determine at what point a boy's devotion became a lover's. to the silent and lonely lad you were an inspiration. what i might have grown to be had you not been my father's ward i do not like to think, for i was not a strong boy, and my shyness and timidity had prompted me to much solitude and few friends, to much reading and to little play. but it was decreed that you were to be the controlling influence of my life, and in the first week you worked a revolution in my habits. i wonder if now, when you see so many men eager to gratify your slightest wish, you ever think of your earliest slave, whom you enticed to the roof to drop pebbles or water on the passers-by, and into the cellar to bury a toy soldier deep in the coal? does memory ever bring back to you how we started to paint the illustrations in kingsborough's mexican antiquities, or how we built a fire round a doll on the library rug, in imitation of the death of an inca of peru as pictured in dear old garcilasso de la vega's royal commentaries? you were a lazy child about reading, but when not tempting me into riotous mischief, you would sit by me in the library and let me show you the pictures in the old books, and i smile now to think what my running versions of the texts must have been. our favorite books were the nuremberg chronicle and de bry's voyages, for the pictures of which, since the latin was beyond me, i invented explanations and even whole stories,--stories over which you grew big-eyed and sleepless, and which we both came to believe so firmly that we never dreamed them to be the cause for the occasional outburst of laughter from my father, when he was in the library. even in those days you veiled your witchery and mischief-loving nature behind that serious face with its curved but unsmiling mouth. keen as many of our pleasures were and blithe as were our pranks, i can scarcely remember a smile upon your face. now and then the merriest of laughs rang out, fairly infectious in its happiness and joy, but of so rare recurrence as to win for you the sobriquet of "madam gravity." your inscrutability allured and charmed me then as i have seen it fascinate others since. i shall never understand you, and yet i think i misunderstand you less than others do, for you cannot hide from me the quick thought and merry nature which you keep so well hidden from them; and often when others think you most abstracted or sedate, i know you are holding high carnival with puck and momus. again and again i have noted your gravity in the most humorous situations or with the most ridiculous of persons, and have smiled in secret with you. last summer, when my mother won such a laugh by telling, as something that had happened to her personally, the old story from peele's "merrie conceits" which we had read as children, you looked grave, though the incident had twice the humor to you that it had to the others. in my own merriment i could not help glancing at you, and though neither of us laughed, we understood each other's amusement. evidently you were not used to having your mood comprehended, for after a moment you seemed to realize that i was responding to what you had thought unknown to all. you looked startled and then puzzled, and i suppose that i became even more of a mystery to you than ever. you could not know that my knowledge of you came from those early days when your nature was taking shape. without my memory of you as a child you would be as great an enigma to me as to the rest of your friends, and so no doubt it is a small thing in which to glory. but it gives me joy to feel that i understand you better, and at this very moment know more of your thoughts than your husband ever will. i owe to you many dark closetings and whippings that i never deserved. my mother complained that from being a troublesome child i had become a fiend of mischief, but my father laughed and predicted that you would make a man of me. i wonder if you ever think of him, and what your thought is? we both so loved him that i cannot believe he has passed entirely out of your heart. how ready he was to be our comrade! whether tired or busy he would join us, not as mentor but as playfellow; and now that i know what there was to depress his spirits at that time, i marvel at his cheer and courage. would that i had one half of the bravery with which he met his troubles! perhaps he was right in his assumption that you would have made a man of me. i do not recollect any act of mine which bore the semblance of courage except the rescue of the street dog from those boys. i hated to see the poor beast tortured, but i feared the roughs, and so stood faltering while you charged among them. not till one of them struck you was i driven to help, but i can still feel the fury which then took possession of me. i was blind with rage, and a great weight seemed pressing on my chest as i rushed among the boys and fought, hardly conscious of the blows i gave or received; indeed, the whole thing was a haze until i found myself sitting on the sidewalk, crying. for days i went about with a bandage over my eye; but my father drank my health that night, and i remember his pat of approval, and hear his "bravo, donald, i'm proud of you." it was significant that i received all the praise, and you none; my courage was questionable, yours was not. those happy, thoughtless years! the one kill-joy was my mother, and she made your life and mine so grievous with her needless harshness, quick temper, and neglect of our comfort that i think she must have made my father's equally miserable. dimly i can recollect her sudden gusts of temper, and his instant dismissal of us from the room when they began. do you remember how he used to come up to the nursery to smoke, often staying till our bedtime, and then how we could hear him go downstairs and out of the front door? we did not know that he went to his club, nor at what hour he returned; and if we had it would have meant nothing to us. but we both knew he found no pleasure with my mother, and we felt he was right, for in avoiding her he was but doing what was our chief endeavor. i have heard many express admiration for her beauty, for her church and charitable work, for her brilliancy in society, for her executive ability, and for her general public spirit. her neglect of family duties, her extravagance, her frequent absences, and her fatigued petulance when at home were known only to her household. our servants rarely remained a month with us,--were changed so often as to destroy all possibility of comfort; but we three were not free to follow their example, and so our misery made us the dearer to one another. i am proud to think that, close as we drew together, my father never uttered in my presence a single word of criticism or complaint against my mother, and i should be the better man if, instead of writing these unfilial words, i left them unsaid. indeed, i will not spend more of my evening on these old memories, but begin on my work. do you remember, maizie, how my father taught us to give him and each other a parting word? "good-night, father. good-night, maizie. god bless you both," it used to be. he sleeps now in his grave, and three years ago you barred your door to me, but still i can say as of old, "good-night, maizie. god bless and keep you, dear." ii _february ._ to put all this on paper is weak and aimless, yet it seems to ease my sadness. i suppose a scribbler unconsciously comes to write out whatever he feels, as a nervous woman plays her emotions away on a piano. if this is so, why should not i salve my grief in any way that lessens it? those old days had such happiness in them that the mere memory brings some to me, and to sit here at my study table and write of the past is better than idle dwelling on the present. you were jubilant when first told that we were all to go to europe for a summer, and laughed at my fears and despondency. could i have had an intuition of coming evil, or was my alarm due to the engravings of those terrible sea-monsters with which mercator populated the oceans in his "atlas sive cosmographicæ," and to the pictures and tales in bloodthirsty old exquemelin's "bucaniers of america"? our notions of what the trip meant were evidently not very clear, for at once we set to storing up provisions, and weeks before the time of sailing we were the proud possessors of a cracker-box full of assorted edibles, a jar of olives we had pilfered, and a small pie you had cajoled the cook into making for us. how we loved and gloated over that pie! daily we sorted our sea-stores, added new supplies, and ate what clearly could be kept no longer. my mother found us one day deeply engrossed in the occupation, cuffed us both, and sent the olives back to the pantry and the tin box to the ash-barrel. as for the pie, such hot words passed about it between "madame" and "monsieur philippe" that our cook left us without warning. we were again punished for being the cause of his desertion, and that evening father dined at his club. the different effects my mother's gusts of anger had on you and on me were curiously distinctive. you met them fearlessly and stubbornly, while to me the moments of her fury were moments in which i could scarcely breathe, and of which i felt the terror for hours after. i sometimes wonder if the variance was because i had learned to fear the outbursts even as a baby, whereas your character had partly formed before you encountered them. who knows but a change of circumstances might have made me the fearless one, and you the timorous? at least i should be glad to think that i might have been like you in courage and spirit, even though it is impossible to imagine that you could ever be like me. it is a singular turn of life's whirligig that when my mother tried to pain you last autumn by her cruel remarks, you were helpless to retort, and owed your escape to my help. what a delight the ocean voyage was to us! those were the times of ten-day trips, still dear to all true lovers of the sea; and had our wishes been consulted, thrice ten would have been none too long for our passage. the officers, the crew, the stewards, and the passengers were no more proof against your indefinable spell than was i, and it seemed quite as if the boat were your private yacht, with all on board seeking only to serve you. our pleasure was so intense that we planned an ideal future, in which i was to become the captain of a steam-ship, and you were to live on the vessel in some equally delightful if impossible capacity. the last time i was in paris, i walked several miles merely to look at the outside of our pension, and then went on and sat dreaming in the little park near it in which we passed so many hours of our stay in that city. as of old, the place was full of children and nurses, and i understood what had puzzled me not a little in recollection,--how you and i, without mingling with them, had learned so quickly the language they chattered. do you remember their friendly advances, met only by rebuffs? my coldness flowed from shyness, and yours from a trait that people to this day call haughtiness, but which i know to be only a fastidious refinement that yields acquaintance to few and friendship to fewer. from the moment you came into my life i craved no other friend, and you seemed equally content. what was there in me that won for me what you gave so rarely? was there an instinct of natural sympathy, or was it merely pity for me in the loving heart you masked behind that subtle face? it is indicative of what children we still were that during the whole of our sojourn in paris neither of us was conscious that our standard of living had changed. we lodged in a cheap pension; instead of our own carriage we used the omnibus; and a thousand other evidences told the story of real economy; yet not one we observed except the disappearance of our _bonne_, and this was noted, not as a loss, but as a joy to both. after the nurse was gone my father became more than ever our comrade, and a better one two children never had. oh, those long excursions to versailles, montmartre, and fontainebleau, our boat trips up and down the seine, and our shorter jaunts within the city! what happiness it was to us when he came in whistling and cried, "donald, maizie, you are horribly bad children, and i'm going to take you on a lark to punish you!" after time spent in filling our lunch-basket with big rolls bought at the _boulangerie_, a few sous' worth of cherries or other fruit lengthily bargained for with the _fruitier_, and a half litre of cheap wine, plus whatever other luxuries our imaginations or our appetites could suggest, away we would go for a long day of pure delight, whether passed under green trees or wandering through galleries and museums. my father was an encyclopædia of information, and had the knack of making knowledge interesting to the child mind. he could re-create a bygone period from a battle-axe or a _martel de fer_, the personality of a queen from her lace ruff or stomacher, and the history of plant growth from a fern or flower. if his mind had been allowed to expand when he was young, instead of being stunted in a broker's office, i believe he might have been one of the world's great writers or critics. under such stimulating tutelage our progress in those two years was really wonderful. no subject my father touched upon could remain dull; we were at a receptive age when the mind is fresh and elastic for all that interests it, and paris was a great picture-book to illustrate what he taught us. we did not know we were studying far deeper into subjects than many educated people ever go. i laugh still at your telling the old german on the train to sèvres the history of the faust plot, and at his amazed "ach, zo!" to hear such erudition pour from your childish lips. i think you were the cleverer and the quicker, but there was no competition, only fellowship about our learning. i suppose you were above rivalry, as you are above all mean things. and that is your chief glory to me. in those seven years of closest companionship, and in these last three years of lesser intercourse but far keener observation, i have never known you to do a mean thing or to speak a mean thought. i almost feel it treason to couple the word with you, or deny a trait so impossible for you to possess, and of which you have always shown such scorn and hatred. at this moment i know that i should only have to speak to part you forever from--ah, what foolishness i am writing, tempting me to even greater meanness than his, and so to deserve the greater contempt from you! thinking me base, you closed your doors to me three years ago, and i love you the better that not even for auld lang syne could you pardon what is so alien to you. if the day ever comes when you again admit me to your friendship, i shall be happy in knowing that you think me above baseness or meanness; for you would not compound with them, maizie, be the circumstances what they might. our paris life would not have been so happy and careless but for the slight part my mother had in it. so little did we see of her in those years that i think of her scarcely as one of us. i remember dimly a scene of hot anger between her and my father,--he standing passively by the high porcelain stove, while she raged about the room. so great was her fury that once, in passing, as i crouched scared and silent on the sofa, she struck me,--a blow which brought my father to my side, where he stood protectingly while the storm lasted, with his hand resting lovingly on my shoulder. my vague impression is that the outburst was only a protest against the poor lodgings, but it may have occurred when some explanation took place between my parents. i can see my mother now, sitting on the little balcony overlooking the garden of our pension, snarling an ill-natured word at us as you and i tried to play consultation games of chess against my father. he gave us odds at first of the rook and two pawns, but finally only of a knight. oh, the triumph of those victories! how we gloried in them, and how delighted our antagonist was when we conquered him! little we minded what my mother did except when we happened to be alone with her, and i think that the dear father played bad chess with us rather than good at the cafés, and made us his companions wherever he went, to save us from her severity. i can recall very clearly her constant difficulties with our landlady and the servants, which finally culminated in a request that we should seek lodgings elsewhere. do you recollect madame vanott's clasping us both in her arms and filling our hands with bonbons, when the time of parting came? i do not know where we removed to, my sole remembrance of the next few weeks being of my mother's complaints of lodgings, food, servants, and french life generally. we moved three times within a month, fairly expelled by our landlords because they could not live at peace with "la madame." our last exodus began in an angry scene between her and the housewife, in which a gendarme played a part, and from which you and i fled. the next morning we learned that my mother had determined to return to america, and leave us to live our own life. three days later we said emotionless good-bys, my father going as far as havre with her. her departure set us asking questions, and my father's replies explained many things which, in our childish talks, we had gravely discussed. he told us how his own wealth had been lost in wall street, barely enough being left for a competence even in europe. of my mother's leaving us he spoke sadly. "she never pretended to care for me," he said, "but i loved her and was willing to marry her. the wrong was mine, and we should not blame her if, when i can no longer give what was her price, she does not choose to continue the one-sided bargain." at the time her absence seemed to you and me only a relief, but now, as i look back, i know that my father never ceased to love her,--all the more, perhaps, because his love had never been requited,--and that separation must have been the final wrecking of his life. yet from the day she left us i never heard him speak an angry word, and sorrow that would have crushed most men seemed to make him the gentler and sweeter. i wish--ah! the clock is striking three, and if i am to bring working power to working hours i must stop writing. good-night, dear one. iii _february ._ after my mother left us we did not stay in paris, but went to ischl, which we made merely the point of departure for walking tours which often lasted for weeks. several times i have spoken of the region to you, hoping to draw from you some remark proving a recollection of those days, but you always avoid reply. yet i am sure they are not forgotten, for miles of the tyrol and alps are as familiar to me as the garnishings of a breakfast-table. my father had the tact and kindly humor that make a man equally at home and welcome in _gasthaus_ and _schloss_. though we traveled with only a knapsack, his breeding and education were so patent to whomsoever we met that we spent many a night inside of doors with armorial coats of many quarterings carved above them, and many a day's shooting and fishing followed. yet pleasant as was this impromptu and "gentle" hospitality, i think we were all quite as happy when our evenings were spent among the peasants, drinking beer, talking of farming and forestry, singing songs, or listening to the blare of the peripatetic military band. my father was a fine german scholar, and you and i acquired the language as quickly and as easily as we learned french. we always had books in our pockets, and used to lie for hours under the trees, reading aloud. long discussions followed over what we had conned, enriched by the thousand side-lights my father could throw on any subject. to most people reading is a resort to save themselves from thinking, but my father knew that pitfall, and made us use books as a basis for thought on our own part. after a volume was finished we would each write a criticism of it, and the comparison of my boyish attempts with his brilliant, comprehensive, and philosophic work taught me more of writing than all the tuition i ever had. my craving for knowledge, always strong, became inordinate, probably because the acquisition of it was made so fascinating that i learned without real exertion. i began to find limits even to my father's erudition, and chafed under them. he reviewed his greek that he might impart it to us, as he had long before taught us latin, and together we all three studied spanish and italian. i was not satisfied, for my desire for the one thing my father was unable to teach was not appeased by the twenty which he could. i begged for regular tuition, and, indulgent as he always was, he took us to heidelberg, where i was enrolled in the gymnasium. yet the long hours of separation that this entailed made little difference in our relations, since except for these we were inseparable. whenever my school-work left us time to quit heidelberg we made walking tours, and we availed ourselves of the summer holiday to see far-away lands. the great libraries were our chief goals, but everything interested us, from the archaic plough we saw in the field to the masterpiece of the gallery. i do not know whether i was dull for my years, but i do know that you were precocious and had no difficulty in keeping up with me in my studies. indeed, thanks to your own brightness and to the long hours spent with my father while i was reciting, you went ahead of me in many respects. it makes me very happy now to think of what you two were to each other, and to know that you are so largely indebted to him for the depth and brilliance of mind that i hear so often commented upon. and i love you all the better because you made those years so happy to him by your love and companionship. last winter mrs. blodgett accused me of being a misogynist, and proved her point by asking me to tell the color of agnes's eyes. you and agnes only laughed when i miscolored them, but mrs. blodgett was really nettled. "there!" she said. "apparently, agnes and i are the only women you ever go to see or pretend to care for, and yet you think so little of us that you don't know the color of our eyes." had she only asked me to describe your eyes in place of agnes's i should not have erred, but i suppose even then the world would be justified in thinking i do not care for woman's society. certainly you, of all others, have the right to think so, after my twice refusing your friendship; and yet it is my love of you far more than my studies or shyness that has made me indifferent to other women. and so far from being a misogynist, i care for as few men as women. you perhaps recall how much apart i kept myself from my fellow students, and how my father had to urge me to join them in the fencing and chess contests? later, at the university, after you had left us, i entered more eagerly into the two pastimes, and succeeded in making myself a skilled swordsman. as for chess, i learned to play the game you tested last october on the veranda of my fancy. you looked courteously grave when, after our initial battle, i had to ask from you the odds of a pawn, and never dreamed that i fathomed your secret triumph over your victory. you are so delightfully human and womanly, after all, maizie, to any one who can read your thoughts. it is a pleasure to see your happiness in the consciousness of your own power, and i grudge you victory over me no more than over other men. yet while you play better chess, i think you could not conquer me quite as easily if i were not much more interested in studying the player than the play. perhaps but for you i should have made friends, for later, at leipzig, despite my shyness and studiousness, i seemed fairly popular; but so long as i had you i cared for no other friend, and after our separation i could form no new tie. neither in love nor in friendship have you ever had a rival in my heart. our happiness ended the day when johann, the poor factotum of our lodging-place, found us in the castle park and summoned us back to the house, where my father and mr. walton were awaiting you. the news that we were to be parted came so suddenly that we could not believe it. i stood in stunned silence, while you declared that you would not go with your uncle; even in that terrible moment speaking more like a queen issuing orders than like a rebel resisting authority. we both appealed to my father, and the tears stood in his eyes as he told us we must be parted. mr. walton sat with the cool and slightly bored look that his worldly face wears so constantly, and i presume it was impossible for him to understand our emotion. your luggage had been packed while we were being summoned, and i carried your bag down to the carriage, in the endeavor to do you some last little service. we did not even go through the form of a farewell, but, tearless and speechless, held each other's hands till my father gently separated us. to this day the snap of a whip causes me to catch my breath, it brings back so vividly the crack with which mr. walton's cabman whipped up his horse. fate was merciful, for she gave me no glimpse of the future, and so left me the hope that we should not be parted long. i question if the delicate lad of those days could have borne the thought that our separation, enforced by others, would in time be continued by you. the life was too happy to last; and yet i do not know why i write that, for i do not believe that god's children are born to be wretched, and i would sooner renounce my faith in him than believe him so cruel to his own creations. the sadness and estrangement in my life are all of human origin, and mine, it seems to me, has been a fuller cup of bitterness than most men have to drink. or am i only magnifying my own sufferings, and diminishing those of my fellow mortals? to the world i am a fortunate man, with promise of even greater success. do all the people about me, who seem to be equally prosperous, bury away from sight some grief like mine that beggars joy? can you, maizie, in the tide and triumph of your beauty and wealth, hide any such death-wound to all true happiness? pray god you do not. good-night, my darling. iv _february ._ after you were gone i fled to my room, crawling under the window-seat, much as a mortally wounded animal tries to hide itself. here my father found me many hours later, speechless and shivering. he drew me from my retreat, and i still remember the sting of the brandy as he poured it down my throat. afterwards the doctor came, to do nothing; but all that night my father sat beside me, and towards morning he broke down my silence, and we talked together over the light which had gone out of our lives, till i fell asleep. he told me that the death of your two aunts had made you a great heiress, and rendered your continuance with us, in our poverty, impossible. "she's gone away out of our class, donald," my father said sadly, "and in the change of circumstances her mother wouldn't have made me her guardian. it was better for all of us to let her uncle take her back to new york." even in my own grief i felt his sorrow, and though he did not dodge my questions, i could see how the subject pained him, and avoided it thenceforth. how strangely altered my life would have been if i had insisted on knowing more! the doctor came several times afterwards, for i did not rally as i should have done, and at last he ordered a year's cessation of studies and plenty of exercise. it was a terrible blow to me at the time, for i was on the point of entering the university of leipzig; but now i can see it was all for the best, since the time given to our tours through spain and italy was well spent, and the delay made me better able to get the full value of the lectures. moreover, that outdoor life added three inches to the height and seventeen pounds to the weight of the hitherto puny boy. for a time my father made my health his care, and insisted on my walking and fencing daily; but after that long holiday he need not have given it a thought, for i grew steadily to my present height, and while always of slender build, i can outwalk or outwork many a stockier man. my university career was successful; it could hardly have failed to be, with my training. i fear that i became over-elated with my success, not appreciating how much it was due to my father's aid and to the kindness of two of my instructors. for my ph. d. i made a study of the great race movements of the world, in which my predilection for philology, ethnology, and history gave me an especial interest. i so delighted my professor of philology by my enthusiasm and tirelessness that he stole long hours from the darling of his heart to aid me. (i need hardly add that i do not allude to frau jastrow, but to his verb-roots of fifty-two languages and dialects of indo-germanic origin, to be published some day in seventeen volumes, quarto.) he even brought me bundles of his manuscript to read and criticise. our relations were as intimate as were possible between a professor and a student, and despite his reputation for ill temper the only evidence he ever gave me of it was a certain querulousness over the gaps in human knowledge. my doctor's thesis on a study of the influence of religion in the alienation and mixture of races--which, with a vanity i now laugh over, i submitted not merely in latin, but as an original work in four other languages--was not only the delight of both my dear professors, but was well considered outside the university. at jastrow's urging, poor buchholtz printed editions in all five languages; and as only the german had any sale worth mentioning, he ever after looked gloomy at a mere allusion to the title. but though it earned me no royalties, it won me the kellermann prize, given every fifth year for the best original work on an historical subject. on our first arrival in leipzig my father sought literary employment from the great publishers of that city of books, and soon obtained all the "review" and "hack" writing that he wished. he encouraged me to help him in the work, and in my training probably lay his chief inducement, for he was paid at starvation rates in that land of hungry authors. the labor quickly taught me the technical part of authorship, the rock which has wrecked so many hopes. our work brought us, too, the acquaintance of many literary men, and thus gave us our pleasantest society, and one peculiarly fitted to develop me. furthermore, we secured command of the unlimited books stored on the publishers' shelves, which we used as freely as if they were our own private library. very quickly i began to do more than help my father in his work; i myself tried to write. he put many a manuscript in the fire, after going over the faults with me, but finally i wrote something that he let me send to an editor. his admirable judgment must have been warped by his fatherly love, for the article was rejected. a like fate befell many others, but at last one was accepted, and i do not know which of us was the more delighted when it was published in the "zeitschrift für deutsche philologie." by my father's advice it was signed with a pseudonym; for he pointed out that i was still too young for editors who knew me to give my manuscript a reading, and that a german name would command greater respect from them than an english one. i received twenty marks for that first article, and spent it in secret the next day. had you known of my pleasure in the gift, and the hopes that went with it, i think you would have sent a line of acknowledgment to the hungry-hearted fellow who, after four years of separation, still longed for a token from you. three times had i written, without response, but i thought the beauty of the photograph would so appeal to you that it must bring me back a word from you, and lived in the hope for six months. my father joked me genially about what i had done with that vast wealth, pretending at moments that he believed it had been avariciously hoarded, and at other times that it had been squandered in riotous living, till one day, when all hope of acknowledgment had died, his chaff wrung from me an exclamation of pain, suppressed too late to be concealed from him. so closely attuned had we become that he understood in an instant what it meant, and, laying his hand on my shoulder, he appealed, "forgive me, my boy! i have been very cruel in my thoughtlessness!" nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from our work, he asked, "she never replied?" and when i shook my head, the saddest look i ever saw in him came upon his face. he seemed about to speak impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, "bear up, donald, and try to forget her." i could only shake my head again, but he understood. "she's feminine quicksilver," he groaned, "and i can't get the dear girl out of my blood, either." we gripped each other's hands for a moment, and i said, "good-night, father," and he replied, "god help you, my boy." how happy we should have been could we have bidden you, "good-night, maizie!" v _february ._ i cannot clearly fix the time when first i decided upon a life of letters, and presume it was my father's influence which determined me. after the publication of my first article, all the time i could spare from my studies was devoted to writing. most of it was magazine work, but two text-books were more ambitious flights. undertaken at my father's suggestion, the books were revised by him, till they should have been published with his name, and not my pseudonym, on the title-page. this i urged, but he would not hear of it, insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. i understand his motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all his plans. thanks to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it to the immature mind, both books attained a large sale almost immediately on their publication. my father's abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we ever had. after the publication of several of my articles, in reading the deutsche rundschau i found an interesting critique signed with the name i had adopted as a pseudonym. i laughingly called my father's attention to it, yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my work should go to another, for the first literary offspring are very dear to an author's heart. from that time i was constantly meeting with the name, but stupidly failed to recognize my father's brilliant, luminous touch till the publication of another article of my writing revealed the truth to me; for at the end of this i found again my pseudonym, though i had signed my own name. on my sending an indignant letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof of my article, at the bottom of which "donald maitland" was struck out, and "rudolph hartzmann" substituted. my father had made the change in the last revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see them. in a moment the veil was gone from my eyes, and, grieved and angry, i charged him with the deception. i do not like to think of what i said or of the gentleness with which he took it. the next day, when i was cooler, he pleaded with me to let him continue signing the name to his articles; but i insisted that i would not permit the double use, and the only concession he could win from me was that i would still keep the name provided he refrained from using it again. how could i resist his "don, i never asked anything but this of you. i am an old man with no possibility of a career. you are all i have to love or work for in this world. let me try to help you gain a name." oh, father, if i had only understood, i would not have been so cruel as to deny your request, but would have sacrificed my own honesty and allowed the lie rather than have refused what now i know to have been so dear a wish. i even resented what i thought a foolish joke of his, when he registered us constantly at hotels as "rudolph hartzmann and father." it is poetic justice that in time i should stoop to so much greater dishonesty than that which i was intolerant of in him. owing as much to his articles as to those i subsequently wrote, my pseudonym became a recognized one in the world of letters, and my work soon commanded a good price. furthermore, considerable interest was excited as to the author. there is a keen delight in anonymous publication, for one does not get the one-sided chatter that acknowledged authors receive, and often i have sat in the midst of a group of littérateurs and scholars and heard my articles talked over. i was tempted even to discuss one,--disparaging it, of course,--and can remember the way my father hid his laughter when a member of the party said, "maitland, you ought to write an article refuting hartzmann, for you've got the knowledge to do it." it amuses me to think how vain and elated i became over what now i see was only 'prentice work. i am glad you did not know me in those years of petty victory, and that before we met i had been saddened and humbled. some one at mr. whitely's dinner, this winter, asked what was a sufficient income, and you, maizie, gravely answered, "a little more than one has," which made us all laugh. if you had not been the quicker and the wittier, and thus forestalled me, i should have said, "enough to satisfy the few or many wishes each person creates within himself which money can satisfy." thanks to my prize, my writings, and the profits of my text-books, i obtained this. in fact, the three so lengthened my purse that i fancy few millionaires have ever felt so truly rich; for i was enabled to gratify my greatest wish. in our visits to spain, italy, and constantinople, i had garnered all that i could find bearing on the two great race movements of the moors and turks, which so changed the world's history; but i had discovered that i needed more than the documentary materials to write clearly of them. i longed to go to their source, and then follow the channels along which those racial floods had rushed, till, encountering the steel armor and gunpowder of europe, they had dashed in scattered spray, never to gather force again. in my eagerness i had been for making the attempt before, but my father had urged our limited means and the shortness of my university vacations as bars to my wishes. my degree removed the one objection, and my earnings and prize the other. few persons would care to undertake the travel we planned with the pittance we had earned, but it was enough for us. how fortunate it is for me that my student life and travels trained me to absolute self-denial and frugality! otherwise these last three years of closest economy and niggardliness would have been hard to bear. by the influence of professor humzel, working first through his former pupil, baron weiseman, secondly through giers, and thirdly through i know not whom, we secured permission to join a russian surveying party, and thus safely and expeditiously reached the mountains of the altai range. we did not stay with the party after they began their work, but assuming native dress we turned southward; plunging instantly among the medley of peoples and tongues which actually realizes the mythical babel. turkish, hebrew, arabic, and sanskrit i had mastered in varying degrees, and they were an "open sesame" to the dialects we encountered, while the hot sun and open-air life soon colored us so deeply that we passed for men of a distant but not alien race. following nature's routes, once man's only paths, we wandered leisurely: to tashkend on horseback, to bokhara on foot, by boat down the amoo to khiva, and on to teheran, then by caravan to bagdad, up the euphrates, gradually working through asia minor. stopping at smyrna for a brief rest, we took boat to cyprus, from thence crossed to damascus, and from jerusalem traveled along the caravan route to mecca. passing over the red sea to egypt, we skirted the south coast of the mediterranean, till we reached the pillars of hercules. you ought to have made that pilgrimage. in speaking of my book you expressed the wish that you might make such a trip, and those years would have been as great a playtime to you as to us. you could have borne the exposure, rough though the life was, and it would have been as compound oxygen to your brave and venturesome nature. i confess i do not like to think of that dazzlingly pure skin burned to any such blackness as i saw in my mirror on reaching the end of our journeyings; for truly no better arab in verisimilitude strolled about the native quarter of tangier in may, , than donald maitland. my long study of those older races and three years' life spent among them have not made me accept their dogma of fatalism, yet i must believe that something stronger than chance produced our meeting in that moorish town. down streams, over mountains, and across deserts, seas, and oceans, our paths had converged; on foot, mounted, by rail or boat, we came together as if some hidden magnet were drawing us both. a thousand chances were against our meeting, even when we were in the same town; for you were housed in the best hotel, while we lodged in a little jewish place in the berber quarter. in another day my father and i should have crossed to spain, without so much as a visit to the european section. but for that meeting i should have returned to leipzig, and passed a contented life as a herr doctor and professor; for though my heart was still warm with love of you, it had been denied and starved too long to have the strength to draw me from the path my head had marked out. yet i would not now accept the unemotional and peaceful career i had planned in lieu of my present life; for if my love is without hope, it is still love, and though you turned me away from your door with far less courtesy than you would shut out a beggar, yet i am near you and see you constantly, and that is worth more to me than peace. good-night, my love. god bless you. vi _february ._ it was thought of you which led to our meeting. after the evening meal of dried salt fish, pancakes, dates, and coffee, my father and i wandered out to the sok, and, as was our wont, sat down among the people. refusing the hasheesh water and sweetmeats which the venders urged upon us, "to make you dream of your love joyfully," we listened to the story-tellers and the singers. some one with a fine natural voice sang presently an arabic love-song:-- "my love, so lovely yet so cruel, why came you so to torture me? could i but know the being who has caused you thus to hate me! once i saw and gazed upon your lovely form each hour, but now you ever shun me. yet still each night you come in dreams for me to ask, who sent you? your answer is, him whom i love, and you bid me then forget my passion. but i reply, if it was not for love, how could the world go on?" it was a song i had heard and loved in many lands and many dialects, but that night it stirred me deeply, and brought to mind your image, ever dear. i sat and dreamed of you till the farrago about me became unbearable; and whispering a word to my father, i rose and strode away, with a yearning truly mastering. i could have had no thought that you were near, for when we stood far closer i was still unconscious of your presence. but if not an intuition, i ask what could it be? wandering through the narrow streets without purpose or goal, i presently saw looming above me the great hill on which stands the alcassaba. climbing in the brilliant moonlight up the steep and ill-conditioned road, and passing that jumble of buildings upon which so many races and generations have left their impress, i strolled along the wall to a ruined embrasure at the corner overlooking the sea. how long i stood there leaning upon the parapet i do not know. not till you were close upon me was i conscious that my solitude was ended. i heard footsteps, but was too incurious to turn and glance at the intruders. nay, more, when that harsh, strident, american voice demanded, "there, isn't that great?" i felt so irritated by both tone and words that but for the seeming rudeness i should have moved away at once. you spoke so low i could not hear your reply, and i wonder what you said,--for his "great" applied to such beauty must have rasped much more on your artistic sense than it did on mine. "and this black fellow in the turban standing here," continued the strident voice, "he fits, too, like the paper on the wall, though probably he's a sentry taking forty winks on the sly. it makes an american mad to see how slack things are run over here." i heard a gentle "hush," and then a murmur as you went on speaking. "none of these black fellows speak english," came the self-assured voice again. then, though i could have heard his natural tone full fifty feet away, the man called much louder: "hey! what's the name of that point out there?" i should have chosen to make no answer; but remembering the courtesy and dignity of the race i was impersonating, i replied without turning, "cape spartel." you must have said something, for a moment later he laughed, saying, "not a bit of it. now see me jolly him up." i heard footsteps, and then some one leaned against the parapet, close beside me. "backsheesh," he intimated, and jingled some coins in his pocket. i stood silent, so he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "are you one of the palace guards?" unsuppressed by my monosyllabic "no," he persisted by saying, "what's your business, then?" jingling his coins again. "stop pulling me, mai," he added, as an aside. "i am a stranger in tangier," i answered quietly. "from whereabouts?" he questioned. "the east." "oh, you're one of the wise men, are you?" he observed jocosely. "are you a jew or a mohammedan?" "not the latter, fortunately for you." "and why fortunately?" he nagged. "because a true believer would have taken the question as a deadly insult." "they'd be welcome," he laughed, "though it is rather irritating to be mistaken for a jew. i shouldn't like it myself." i thought of the dignified jew traders who had made part of our caravan in the journey from bagdad to damascus, and answered, "there is little danger of that." "i guess not," he assented. "but if you aren't a jew or a mohammedan, what are you?" he had spoiled my mood, and since it was gone i thought i would amuse myself with the man. "a seeker of knowledge from the altai mountains," i responded. "never heard of them," he announced; "or is it your choctaw for those?" he added, pointing towards the dark masses of the atlas mountains. i smiled and answered, "they are many moons' travel from here." "oh!" he exclaimed. "how did you happen to come?" "to follow after those gone before." "i see," he said. "relatives, i suppose? hope you found them well?" "no," i replied, carrying on the humor, "dying." he jingled his coins, and asked, "anything to be done for them?" "nothing." "what's the complaint?" "civilization in the abstract, repeating rifles and rapid-firing guns in the concrete." "eh!" he ejaculated. then the lowest and sweetest of voices said, "won't you tell us what you mean?" was it my irritation that the man before me, rather than the subtler-passioned people i knew so well, was the dominant type of the moment, or was it the sympathy your voice stirred within me, which made me speak? in a moment i was sketching broadly the inhumanity of this thing we call christian civilization, which, more grasping than the inquisition, has overrun the world, tearing the lands from their owners, and, not content with this spoliation, demands of its victims that they shall give up the customs of many centuries' evolution, and conform to habits, governments, and religions which their very instincts make impossible; and because they cannot change, but break out, these believers in the golden rule shoot them down. i protested at the mockery of calling civilized a world held at peace by constant slaughter, or of styling the national jack ketches of humanity christian nations! i protested against the right of one man to hold another barbaric because he will not welcome his master, greet with joy the bands of steel we call railroads, and crush his nature within the walls of vast factories, to make himself the threefold slave of society, government, and employer. and finally, i gloried in the fact that though the white races had found a weapon against the black and yellow ones which enabled them to overrun and subjugate, yet nature had provided nature's people with the defense of climate,--a death-line to the whites; and behind that line the colored races are unconquerable in the sense of conquest being extinction. i knew the other side, that altruistic tenet of political economy defined in brief as "the greatest good of the greatest number," and in my mind held the even balance of the historian between the two; but to this utilitarian, modern, self-satisfied american i had to urge the rights of races thousands of years our senior, and far in advance of us in the knowledge and amenities that make life worth the most. you both were silent till i ended; but i had best left unspoken what your companion could not understand, for when i finished he inquired, "what mountains did you say you came from?" and when i told him, he added laughingly, "you must have some pretty good stump speaking in your elections." "we are very grateful for your explanation," you thanked me gently. "never been in america?" he surmised; and except for you i should have told him that i was his countryman, it would have been so adequate a retort to his inference. but your voice and manner had made me so ashamed of my earlier mood that i merely answered, "yes." "humph!" he grunted in surprise; and as if to prove his incorrigibility he continued, "thought your ideas were too back-number for that." i could not help laughing, and the moment my laugh became articulate yours too overflowed your lips, as a spring breaks past its edges and falls rippling over pebbles. that laugh, so well remembered, revealed your presence to me. my heart beat quickly and my head whirled dizzily, and in my bewilderment i took a step backward, quite forgetting the embrasure, till a stone gave way and i felt that i was falling. then my consciousness went from me, and when thought came surging backward i lay a moment quiet, thinking it must have been a dream. "he's coming round all right," i heard, and at the sound i opened my eyes. you were leaning over me with the moonlight shining on your face, and i caught my breath, you were so beautiful. "you've given us a scare," continued the man, on whose knee my head was resting. "you want to keep your wits about you better. pretty poor business tumbling off walls, but that's what comes of having ruins. you won't be quite so cocky in the future about your run-out races." i felt his laughter justified, but hardly heeded it, my thoughts were so engaged. you were wetting my forehead with brandy, and i lay there too happy to speak. "now let me raise you a bit higher," the man offered kindly, "so you can get your addled senses back." he lifted me, and i groaned at the sudden terrible pain that shot up my leg. "hello!" he cried, laying me gently down. "something wrong, after all? what is it?" "my leg," i moaned. "here, maizie, hold his head, while i appoint an investigating committee," he ordered, and in another moment i felt your arms about me, and in my joy at your touch i almost forgot my torture. "well, you've broken one of your walking-sticks," the man informed me, after a gentler touching of it than i thought possible to his nature. "now, maizie, if you'll sit and hold his head, i'll get a litter. you won't mind staying here alone, will you?" "it is my wish," you acceded calmly. "o. k.," he said, rising, and even in his kindness he could not help but seize the opportunity to glorify his country. "if this had happened in new york, mr. altai, we'd have had an ambulance here five minutes ago! civilization isn't all bad, i tell you, as you'd find out if you'd give it a chance." the moment he was gone i tried to speak, and murmured "maizie;" but you let me get no further, saying "hush," and putting your hand softly over my lips. i suppose you thought me merely repeating the name he had called you, while i loved your touch too deeply to resist the hand i longed to kiss. now i am glad i did not speak, for if i had it would have robbed me of my last sweet moment with you. long before i thought it possible, and far too soon, indeed, despite my suffering, we heard men approaching. when the torch-bearers came climbing over the rocks, my first desire was to see how much of your beauty was owing to the moonlight, and my heart leaped with exultation to find that you were beautiful even in the livid glare of the torches. "now, mr. altai," your companion remarked, "where shall we take you?" and i gave him the name of the hotel. a moment later, as they lifted me, i again fainted, but not till i had kissed your hand. you snatched it away, and did not hear my weakly whispered "good-night, maizie." vii _february ._ the setting of my leg, that night, was so long and exhausting an operation that after it was done i was given an opiate. instead of bringing oblivion the drug produced a dreamy condition, in which i was cognizant of nothing that happened about me, and saw only your face. i knew i ought to sleep, and did my best to think of other things; but try as i might, my thought would return and dwell upon your beauty. i have often wished i had been born an artist, that i might try to paint your portrait, for words can no more picture you than they can transmit the fragrance of a violet. indeed, to me the only word which even expresses your charm is "radiant," and that to others, who have never seen you, would suggest little. no real beauty can be described, for it rests in nothing that is tangible. in truth, to speak of your glorious hair, the whiteness of your brow and throat, the brilliant softness of your eyes, or the sweetness yet strength of your tender though unsmiling lips is to make but a travesty of description. i have heard painters talk of your hair and try to convey an idea of its beauty, but i know it too well even to make the attempt. when we were gazing at the rainbow, last autumn, and you said that if its tints could be transferred to a palette you believed it would be possible to paint anything, i could not help correcting, "except your hair." you laughed, and declared, "i did not know you ever made that kind of a speech!" whereupon agnes cried, "didn't i ever tell you, maizie, the compliment the doctor paid you last winter?" i thought she was alluding to my retort when my mother asserted that your eyes were so large and lustrous that, to her, they were "positively loud." indignant at such a remark, agnes had appealed to me to deny it. not caring to treat the malicious speech seriously, i had answered that i could not agree, though i had sometimes thought your eyes "too dressy for the daytime,"--a joke i have heard so often quoted that it is apparently in a measure descriptive, yet one which i should have felt mortified at hearing repeated to you. fortunately agnes's reference was to another remark of mine, in which, speaking of your mouth, i had crudely translated a couple of lines from a persian poem:-- "in vain you strive to speak a bitter word-- it meets the sweetness of your lips ere it is heard." you were too used to compliments to be embarrassed when the lines were repeated, and only looked at me in a puzzled way. i do not wonder you were surprised at the implied admiration of the two speeches, after my apparent coldness and indifference. my behavior must seem to you as full of contradictions as your beauty is to me. to say your great attraction is the radiance--the verve, spirit, and capacity for enthusiasm--of which one cannot fail to be conscious is to deny the calm dignity with which you bear yourself, yet both these qualities belong to you. the world insists that you are proud and distant, and your face has the clean-cut features which we associate with patrician blood, while your height and figure, and the set and carriage of your head upon that slender throat, suggest a goddess. but i, who understand you so much better than the world, know that your proud face overlies the tenderest of natures, and is not an index, but a mask of feelings you do not care to show. as for the people who criticise you most, they would be the last to do so if they were not conscious of the very superiority they try to lessen.--ah, how foolish it is to write all this, as if i needed to convince myself of what i know so well! and even if this were for the eye of others, to those who know you not it would be but the extravagant idealism for which a lover is proverbial. when i awoke from the sleep my dreaming had drifted into, my first request of my father was to find your whereabouts. he told me that a dragoman had come that morning to inquire for me,--and had left what now he showed me,--a great bunch of roses and a basket of fruit, with the card of "mr. foster g. blodgett, fifth avenue," on the back of which was written:-- "with sincere regrets that a previously formed plan of leaving tangier this morning prevents our seeing our courteous instructor of last night, and with hopes that he may have a quick and easy recovery from his accident." the card was a man's, but the handwriting was feminine, and the moment my father turned his back i kissed it. i was further told that the servant had asked my name and taken it down, giving me the instant hope that when you knew to whom you had been so merciful, you would even disarrange your plans to let me have a moment's glimpse of you. but though i listened all the afternoon hopefully and expectantly, you never came. i felt such shyness about you, i did not speak to my father of your beauty, and he did not question me at all. our native hotel, built in eastern fashion about a court, with only blank outside walls, was no place in which to pass a long invalidism, and three days later my father had me carried to the steamer, and, crossing to gibraltar, we traveled by easy railroad trips to leipzig. we had left our belongings with jastrow, and he begged us, on our arrival, to become members of his household, which we were only too glad to do for a time. his joy over my return was most touching, and he and humzel both seemed to regard me very much as if i were the creation of their own brains, who was to bring them immortal fame in time. my father had long before counseled me to be a pursuer of knowledge, and not of money; telling me the winning of the latter narrowed the intellect and stunted the finer qualities of one's nature, making all men natural enemies, while the acquisition of the former broadened one's mind, developed the nobility within, and engendered love of one's associates. these two men illustrated his theory, and had my tendency been avaricious i think their unselfish love and example would have made me otherwise. and yet, how dare i claim to be free from sordidness, when all my thoughts and hopes and daily life are now bent on winning money? my leg was far too troublesome to permit me to sit at a desk, but my father insisted on being my scribe; and thus, lying on a lounge, i began part of the work i had so long planned, taking up for my first book the turkish irruption, the crusades against the saracens, and their subsequent history. thinking so much of you, both as the child who had won my boyish heart and as the beautiful woman whose face had fascinated and moved me so deeply, i do not know how, except for my work, i should have lived through those long and weary months of enforced inaction while my leg so slowly knit. more as recreation from this serious endeavor than as supplementary labor, i gathered the articles i had written for the deutsche rundshau and the revue des deux mondes from time to time in our travels, and with new material from my journal i worked the whole into a popular account of what we had seen and done. while i still used a walking-stick i was reading proof of the german edition, and my english replica, rather than translation, was under negotiation through my publisher for london and new york editions. my father, who busied himself with a french version, insisted that the book would be a great success, and the articles under my assumed name had been so well noticed that i was myself hopeful of what better work in book form might do for my reputation; for against his advice, i had determined to abandon my pseudonym. but all these schemes and hopes were forgotten in the illness of my father. contrary to my wishes, he had overworked himself in the french translation, while his life, for months of my enforced inactivity, had been one long service, impossible for me to avoid or refuse without giving him pain. this double exertion proved too great a strain. the day after he sent the manuscript to paris, as he sat conning the sheets of the concluding chapter of my history, he laid them down without a word, and, leaning forward, quietly rested his head upon the table. i was by his side and had him on the sofa in an instant, where he lay unconscious till the doctor came. we were told that it was a slight stroke, and by the next day he seemed quite well. but slowly he lost the use of one side, and within a week was helpless. i like to remember that i was well enough to tend him as he had tended me. he lingered for a month, sweet and gentle as always; then, one evening, as i sat beside him, he opened his eyes and said, "good-night, don. good-night, maizie." and with those words his loving soul went back to its creator. i found about his neck a ribbon to which was attached a locket containing the long tress you cut off for him that day in the bois, one of my mother's curls, and a little tow-colored lock which i suppose was my own hair before it darkened,--a locket i have since worn unchanged, because, sadly discordant though such association has become, i cannot bring myself to separate what he tied together. it seems to symbolize his love for all of us. the kindness of my friends i can never forget. i was so broken down as really to be unfit for thought, and their generous foresight did everything possible to spare me trouble or pain. especially to professor and frau jastrow do i owe an unpayable debt, for they made me feel that there was still some one in whose love i stood first; and had i been the child who had never come to them, i question if they could have done more for me than they did. one thing that i had to do myself was to notify my mother of my father's death. from the time she had quitted us my father and i had avoided mention of her; but during his illness he asked me to write in case of his death, and gave me her new york address, from which i inferred that in some way he had kept himself informed concerning her, though i feel very certain that she had never written him. that i had never tried to learn anything myself was due to the estrangement, but still more to my interest in my studies and work. now i wrote her, as i had promised, telling her briefly the circumstances of my father's illness and death, and offering to write fuller details if she wished to know them. i would not feign love for her, but i wrote tenderly of him and without coldness to her. she never replied. kind as were all my intimates, i craved more than friendship, however loving it might be. one of the two great loves of my life had gone out from it, and, in the gap it left, the other became doubly dear to me. the wish to see you grew and strengthened each day, until at last it shaped my plans, and i announced my intention to visit america; making the specious explanation that, after my long invalidism and grief, the change would be the best specific for me. at this time i received the offer of appointment as professor extraordinarius of philology and ethnology under jastrow, another manifestation of his love; but till i had seen you i would not bind myself by accepting, and through his influence i was given three months to consider my answer. i seem doomed never to requite the services of those i love the most, but i am glad that in the nine months which i passed under his roof my knowledge of the eastern dialects had pushed his work so much nearer completion. leaving all my possessions behind except the manuscript of my history, i started on my voyage of love. for two days i tarried in paris, settling my little property. i had long known that the flotsam of my father's fortune, wrecked in wall street, was a few bonds deposited with paris bankers; and when i called upon the firm it was merely to continue the old arrangement, by which they cut the coupons and placed them to my bank credit. it was in this visit that i searched out our old pension, and sat dreaming in the park. how could i imagine, remembering those days of closest love and sympathy, and knowing too your kindness to one you thought a mere eastern stroller, that you could have changed so to your former friend? the most curious fact to me, in looking back upon that time, is that the idea never occurred to me that you were a married woman. it never entered my thoughts that a beauty which fascinated and drew me so far from my natural orbit must be an equally powerful charm to other men. as for mr. blodgett, i never gave him a second thought, not even accounting for his relations with you. my foolishness, i suppose, is typical of the scholar's abstraction and impracticality. as the steamer neared new york, my impatience to see you increased apace. far from longing for our old ten-day passage, i found a voyage of seven days too long. ridiculous as it may seem, i almost lost my temper at the slowness of the customs examination. i believe i was half mad, and only marvel that i did so sane a thing as to go to a hotel, change my clothes, and dine, before attempting to see you. i ascertained mr. walton's address the moment i reached my hotel, and sent a messenger there to inquire your whereabouts. he brought me back word that mr. walton was absent from the city, but the servant had informed him that you still lived with your uncle and that you were in town. i cannot tell you the surprise and joy i felt when, on arriving at your house on madison avenue that evening, i discovered it to be our old habitat. it seemed as if your selection of that as your home, probably from sentiment, was a bow of promise for the future, and i rang the bell, almost trembling with emotion and happiness. the footman showed me to the drawing-room and took my card. all inside, so far as i could see, was changed past the point of recognition, but everything was beautiful, and i felt in that one room that no decorator's conventional taste had formed its harmony, but that an artistic sense had planned the whole. what a contrast it was to the old days of untasteful and untidy richness! i sat but a moment before the footman returned. looking not at me, but over my head, and with an attitude and air as deferential as if i were the guest of all others most welcome, he said, "miss walton declines the honor of mr. maitland's acquaintance, and begs to be excused." the blow came so suddenly, and was so crushing, that for a moment i lost my dignity. "there must be some mistake!" i exclaimed. "you gave miss walton my card?" the footman only bowed assent. "go to miss walton and say i must see her a moment." "miss walton instructed me to add, in case mr. maitland persisted, that she prefers to hold no intercourse with mr. maitland and will receive no messages from him." pride came to my rescue, and i passed silently into the hall. the servant opened the door, and i went out from my old home, never to enter it more. at the foot of the steps i turned and looked back, hardly yet believing what i had been told. even in the sting and humiliation of that moment my love was stronger than the newer sensations. i said, "good-night, maizie. god keep you," and walked away. viii _february ._ i sat for hours in my room, that night, trying to find some solution of the mystery and groping for a future course of action. i thought of a visit to my mother, on the chance that she would give me the key to the puzzle, but could not bring myself to it. rejecting that idea, i decided to seek out mr. blodgett, who, being your friend, might know the reason for what you had done. finding on inquiry, the next morning, that mr. blodgett was a member of one of the chief banking firms of new york, i went to his office. the ante-room was well filled with people anxious to see the great banker, and the door-boy refused me access to him without giving my name and business. knowing that "donald maitland" would mean nothing to mr. blodgett, and might even fail to secure me an audience, i wrote on a slip of paper, "a seeker of knowledge from the altai mountains." nor was i wrong, for the boy, on his return, gave me immediate entrance, and another moment brought me face to face with my once-disliked countryman. his hand was extended to greet me, but as he looked at my face his arm dropped in surprise. "your name, please?" he demanded, with a business-like clip to his voice, at the same time picking up and glancing quickly at three or four cards and slips of paper that were on the corner of his desk. "i am the attorney for ancient peoples," i announced, smiling, "come to thank the new world for its kindness to a broken-legged man." instantly mr. blodgett smiled too, and again extended his hand. "glad to see you," he said. "sit down." then looking at me keenly, he added, "you've done a lot of bleaching or scrubbing since we met." "in the interval my face has been hidden from the sun-god of my fathers." "ah!" then his americanism cropped out by a question: "are you european or asiatic?--for you are too dark to be the one, and too white to be the other." "my parents were american, and i was born in new york." "the deuce you were! then why were you masquerading in arab dress and with a brown face in tangier, and why did you say you came from some mountains in asia?" "i was for the time an arab, and i was last from the altai mountains," i explained, and smilingly added, "is my explanation satisfactory?" "well, i suppose you spoke by the book," he replied. "wherever you were born, i'm glad to see--hold on!" he cried, interrupting his own speech. "why did you call yourself dr. rudolph hartzmann, of leipzig, if you were an american?" "i did not," i denied, startled by his question, for my identity with the pseudonym was known only to my professors and publishers. "you weren't living in tangier under the name of hartzmann?" he inquired. "no." "then how came it that when my servant was sent to leave some fruit and flowers for you and inquire your name, he was told that you were dr. rudolph hartzmann, of leipzig?" "are you serious?" i questioned, as much puzzled as he for the moment. "never more so. i remember our astonishment to think that any european should have so dark a skin and live in the native quarter." "mr. blodgett," i explained, "i did not know till this moment that a pen name i have used to sign my writings had been given you, but it was a joke of my father's to register me under it, and my only theory is that he had given some one in the hotel that name, and, by mischance, your servant was misinformed." he was too good a business man to look as skeptical as he probably felt, and merely asked, "what is your real name, then?" "donald maitland, son of william maitland." his eyes gave a startled wink and he screwed his lips into position for a whistle, but checking the inclination, he merely turned his revolving-chair so that he looked out of a window. he sat thus for a moment, and then, facing me, he questioned, with a sudden curtness of voice and manner, "what is your business with me?" "i have taken the liberty of calling on the supposition that you are a friend of miss walton." "i am." "miss walton was once my father's ward, yet last night she refused to see me. can you tell me why?" "the reason is rather obvious," he asserted crisply. "will you tell me what it is?" he looked at me from under his gray eyebrows. "is that all you want of me?" he demanded. "yes." "well, then, miss walton refused to see you because she despises you." i felt my cheeks burn, but i gripped the arm of my chair and waited till i could speak coolly; then i asked, "for what?" "you are ignorant of the fact that your father embezzled a part of miss walton's fortune, and that you and he have since lived upon it?" he exclaimed, with no veiling of his contempt. i sat calmly, for the idea was too new, and i had too many connecting links to recall, to have the full horror of the disgrace come home to me at once. he did not give me time for thought, but interrogated, "well?" having to speak, i asked, "you are sure of what you say?" "sure!" he ejaculated. "why, it's been known to every one for years, and i was one of the trustees appointed by the court to look out for miss walton's interest in what property your father couldn't take with him!" "if you are a trustee of miss walton," i said, growing cool in my agony of shame, "can you spare me five minutes and answer some questions?" that i did not deny knowledge of the wrong seemed to raise me in his opinion, for he nodded his head and looked less stern. "how much did my father--how much did miss walton lose?" i inquired. "one hundred and thirty thousand was all the property he could negotiate, and we succeeded, by bidding in his house over the mortgage and by taking the library at a valuation, in recovering twenty-six thousand." "was that amount net?" "yes." "then in the amount due miss walton was one hundred and four thousand dollars?" "yes." "thank you, mr. blodgett," i added, rising. "i am only sorry, after your former kindness, to have given you this further trouble. i am grateful for both." in my shame i did not dare to offer him my hand, but he held out his. "mr. maitland," he rejoined, "i'm a pretty good judge of men, and i don't believe you have done wrong knowingly." "i never dreamed it," i almost sobbed, shaking his hand. "it's pretty rough," he said. "i hope you won't show the white feather by doing anything desperate?" i shook my head, and walked to the door. as i reached it a new thought occurred to me, and, turning, i asked, "what has the legal rate of interest been since ?" for reply he touched an electric button on his desk, and i heard the lock click in the door by which i stood. he pulled a chair near his own, and commanded, "come here and sit down," in such a peremptory tone that i obeyed. "why did you ask that question?" he catechised. "that i may find out how much i owe miss walton." "what for?" "to attempt restitution." "i hope you know what you're talking about?" "i'm still rather confused, but so much i can see clearly enough." "how much property have you?" "my father left me something over thirty-one thousand dollars." "thirty-one from one hundred and four leaves seventy-three." "and interest," i corrected. "i thought that was what you were driving at," he surmised calmly. he pulled out a volume from its repository in his desk, and turned backwards and forwards in the book for a few moments, taking off figures on a sheet of paper. "eight years at five per cent makes the whole over one hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars less thirty-one." "thank you." "where can you get the balance?" "i must earn it." he looked at me with a slightly quizzical expression and asked, "how?" "that i have yet to think out." "any business?" "i have the offer of a professorship at leipzig, but that's out of the question now." "why?" "it would give me only two thousand a year at first, and the interest on the debt will be over six thousand annually." "what do you know?" he questioned. "most of the languages and dialects of europe and asia, and a good deal of history and ethnology. i am fairly read in arts, sciences, and religions, and i know something of writing," i answered, smiling at the absurdity of mentioning such knowledge in the face of such a condition. "humph! and you'd have sold all that for two thousand a year?" "i think so." "well, that only proves that a man had better cultivate his gumption, and not his brains!" "if he wishes to make money," i could not help retorting gently. "you're just like maizie!" he sniffed, and his going back to your familiar name in my presence was the best compliment he could have paid me. "you two ought to have died young and gone to heaven, where there's nothing to do but cultivate the soul." "i wish we had!" "why don't you go to your mother?" "for what?" "for the money." "has she money?" "yes. she had a little money when she married your father, which she kept tight hold of; her mother's death, two years ago, gave her more, and she has just married a rich man." "i don't know yet what i shall do," i replied, rising. "well," he advised kindly, "before you blow your brains out or do anything else that's a waste of good material, come and see me again." "thank you," i responded. "and, mr. blodgett, as a favor, i ask that all i have told you, and even my presence in new york, shall be confidential between us." "nonsense!" he growled. "i shall tell maizie all about it." "miss walton least of any," i begged. "why don't you insist, too, that mrs. blodgett, who intends that i shall inform her nightly of everything i know, sha'n't be told?" he queried. "it grieves me to be a marplot of connubial confidences," i rejoined, responding to his smile, "but this must be between us." "have your own way," he acceded, and then laughed. "i'll have a good time over it, for i'll let mrs. blodgett see there is a secret, and she'll go crazy trying to worm it out of me." he shook my hand again, and i felt ashamed to think that his voice and manner had once made me hold him in contempt. i went back to the hotel, and thought over the past, seeing how blind i had been. now for the first time everything became clear. i understood the trip to europe and our remaining there, why my mother had left us, why mr. walton had been permitted to take you from us without protest, why we had not mingled with americans, and my father's motives in making me write under a pen name, in registering me at hotels by it, and in giving that name to your servant. now it was obvious why he never signed his articles, and why he appealed to me to let him aid me to make a reputation: it was his endeavor to atone to me for the wrong he had done. good-night, my love. ix _february ._ many times in the last three years i have begun a letter to you, for the thought that you, like the rest of the world, may rank my father with other embezzlers stings me almost to desperation. each time it has been to tear the attempted justification--or i should say, extenuation--into fragments, long before it was completed. in all my trials i have come to realize that nothing i can say can stand him in stead; for whatever i urge is open to suspicion, not merely because it is my interest to condone his act, but still more because it inevitably becomes an indirect justification of myself, and therefore, in a sense, a plea for pardon. at moments, too, when with you, i have had to exercise the greatest self-control not to tell you what i feel. if i were only some one else than donald maitland, so that i might say to you:-- "you should know that your guardian was incapable of the lowness the world imputes to him! i am not trying to belittle the sin, but to distinguish the motive. his wrong was no mean attempt to enrich himself at the expense of one he loved, for his nature was wholly unmercenary, and his transgression originated, not through greed, but through lack of it. like all men of true intellect, he was heedless in money matters, and i am conscious that there was in him, as there is in me, the certain weakness which is almost inevitable with mind cultivation,--an engulfing, as it were, of the big principles of right and wrong in the complexities and the refinements of cultivated thought. his birthright was scholarship, but in place of the life he was fitted for he was forced into wall street, and toiled there without sympathy or aptitude for his work. do you not remember how, aside from our companionship, his books were his one great pleasure? the wealth of mind he gave to us tells the story of how he must have neglected his office in favor of his library. yet though this preference might have made him a poor man, i cannot think his studies would ever have led him into dishonesty. i have never had the heart to trace the history of his act, but mr. blodgett tells me that shortly after his marriage he first began to speculate, and knowing as i do my mother's extravagance and my father's love for her, i can understand the motive. the inevitable result came presently, and, as a temporary expedient, a small part of your property was used. then a desperate attempt was made to recover this by the risking of a larger portion, and after that there was nothing left but confession or flight. i wish he had spoken, but the weakness that produced the first wrong accounts for the second, and i believe his chief thought was of me, and how i might be saved from the consequences of his guilt. unless you have put him wholly out of your heart, you must appreciate that it was no sordid scheme to cheat you, but a surrender to the love strong enough to overcome his honesty. you must know that he loved you too well to wrong you willingly, and i think with pain of what i am sure he must have suffered in his shame at having robbed you. do you not remember the sadness in his face in those later years, and his tenderness to both of us? can you not see that his kindness, his patience, and his care of us were his endeavored atonement?" oh, maizie, i ask nothing for myself, but if you could be brought to think of him, to love him, as you once did, my greatest grief would be ended. bitter as my misery was after mr. blodgett's revelation, there was still some sweetness to make it bearable. for years i had thought of you as heartless and forgetful, and even in my love had hated and despised you at moments, as only love can hate and despise. the world thinks that animosity is always strongest against enemies, though daily it sees the intensest feuds between those nations and individuals who are most closely related, and never learns that the deepest hatred comes from love. now i knew that you had cause for slighting my letters and gift, and the knowledge of my injustice and the thought that you were more lovable than ever were the silver lining to my cloud of shame. my first meeting with you was a pure chance, yet it shaped my life. for three weeks after my call on mr. blodgett i pondered and vacillated over what i should do, without reaching any decision. at the end of that time i went to his office again. "mr. blodgett has asked two or three times if you hadn't called," the boy informed me; adding, as he opened the door to the private office, "he told me, if you ever came again, sir, to show you right in." i passed through the doorway, and then faltered, for you were sitting beside the banker, overlooking a paper that he was commenting upon. could i have escaped unnoticed, i should have done so; but you both glanced up as i entered. the moment you saw me you rose, with an exclamation of recognition and surprise, which meant to me that you knew your old friend in spite of the changes. do you wonder that, not foreseeing what was to come, i stood there as if turned to stone? my manner evidently made you question your own eyes, for you asked, "is not this dr. hartzmann?" "of course it is!" cried mr. blodgett, with a quickness and heartiness which proved that your question was almost as great a relief to him as it was to me. "i did not think, miss walton," i replied, steadying my voice as best i could, "that you saw my face clearly enough that evening, to recollect it?" "the moonlight was so strong," you explained, "that i should have known you anywhere." "then your eyes are better than mine," asserted mr. blodgett. "i accused the doctor of using blondine, to atone for my not recognizing him, though i must confess he will have to use a good deal more if he wants to be thought anything but italian." "then you have met before?" you questioned. "yes," replied mr. blodgett. "i was going to tell you when we got through with that mortgage. i knew you would be interested to hear that the doctor was in new york. seems like tangier, doesn't it?" "in reminiscence," i assented, merely to gain time. "none of your rickety ruins," chuckled mr. blodgett. "but more ruin," you said. "and more danger," i added, pointing out of the window at the passers-by in wall street. "nowhere in my travels, even among races that have to go armed, have i ever seen so many anxious and careworn faces." "most of them look worried," suggested mr. blodgett, "only because they are afraid they'll take more than three minutes to eat their lunch." for a moment you spoke with mr. blodgett on business, and then offered me your hand in farewell, saying, "i am very glad, dr. hartzmann, for this chance reunion. mr. blodgett and i have often spoken of the mysterious oriental who fell in--and out--of our knowledge so strangely." "i have wished to meet you, miss walton," i responded warmly, "to thank you for your kindness and help to me when"-- "that was nothing, dr. hartzmann," you interrupted, in evident deprecation of my thanks. "indeed, i have always felt that we were in a measure responsible for your accident, and that we made but a poor return by the little we did. good-morning." mr. blodgett took you to your carriage, and when he returned he gave a whistle. "well!" he exclaimed. "i haven't gone through such a ten-second scare since i proposed to my superior moiety." "i ought"--i began. but he went on: "there's nothing frightens me so much as a wrought-up woman. dynamite or volcanoes aren't a circumstance to her, because they have limits; but woman!" i laughed and said, "the hindoos have a paradox to the effect that women fear mice, mice fear men, and men fear women." "she got so much better and longer look at you in tangier than i did that i don't wonder she recognized dr. hartzmann when i didn't. but why did she stop there in her recollections?" "it appeared incomprehensible to me for a moment, yet, as a fact, her knowing me as donald maitland would have been the greater marvel of the two. when she knew me, i was an undersized, pallid, stooping lad of seventeen. in the ten years since, my hair and skin have both darkened greatly, i have grown a mustache, and my voice has undergone the change that comes with manhood, as well as that which comes by speaking foreign tongues. your very question as to whether i was of eastern birth tells the whole story, for such a doubt would seem absurd to one who remembered the boy of ten years ago. then, too, miss walton, having recognized me as dr. hartzmann, was, as it were, disarmed of all suspicion by having no question-mark in her mind as to my exact identity." mr. blodgett nodded his head in assent. "and you don't know it all," he informed me. "i'm going to be frank, doctor, and acknowledge that i've expressed a pretty low opinion of you to her more than once. if maizie were asked what man in this world she'd be least likely to meet in my office on a friendly footing, she would probably think of you. your presence here was equivalent to saying that you weren't donald maitland, let alone the fact that i greeted you as dr. hartzmann, and that she could never dream of my having a reason to deceive her in your identity." "such a chain of circumstances almost makes one believe in kismet," i sighed. then i laughed, and added, "how easy it is to show that one need not be scared--after the danger is all over!" "that isn't the only scare i owe to you," muttered mr. blodgett. "i didn't take your address because i told you to come again. why didn't you?" "i am here." "yes. but for three weeks i've been worrying over what you were doing with yourself, and not knowing that you hadn't cut your throat." "i am sorry to have troubled you. i stayed away to save troubling you." "you're as considerate as the fiji islander was of the missionary, when he asked him if he had rather be cooked _à la maître d'hôtel_ or _en papillote_. what have you been doing?" "very little to any purpose. i have written to my publisher, offering to sell my rights in my text-books; to a friend, asking him to learn for what price he can sell my library; and to my bankers, directing them to send me the bonds and a draft for my balance. i received the securities and a bill of exchange yesterday, and am so ignorant of business methods that i came to you this morning to learn how to turn them into cash." "i'll do better than that," volunteered mr. blodgett, touching a button. "give them to me, and i'll have it done." then, after he had turned the matter over to a clerk, he asked, "what does your publisher offer?" "thirty-five hundred." "and what are your royalties?" "last year they were over six hundred dollars." "humph! that's equivalent to investing money at eighteen per cent. you ought to get more than that." "a little more or less is nothing compared with paying so much on my debt." "what will your library bring?" "perhaps four thousand, if i can find some one who wants so technical a collection." "and you can get along without it?" "i must," i declared, though wincing a little. "rather goes against the grain, eh?" he rejoined kindly. i tried to laugh, and said, "my books have been such good comrades that i haven't quite accustomed myself yet to thinking of them as merchandise. i feel a little as the bankrupt planter must have felt when he saw his slave children offered for sale." "and what do you plan to do with yourself?" "i haven't been able to make up my mind." we were interrupted at this point by some business matter, and i took my leave. the next morning mr. blodgett called at my boarding-place on his way down town. "i haven't come to talk business," he announced. "i told my wife and daughter, last night, about the fellow from the backwoods of asia, and made them so curious that mrs. blodgett has given me permission to furnish him board and lodgings for a week. i'll promise you a better room than this," he added, glancing at the box i had moved into as soon as i realized how much worse than a pauper i was. i could hardly express my gratitude as i tried to thank him, but he pretended not to perceive my emotion, and said briskly: "that's settled, then. send your stuff round any time to-day, and be on deck for a seven-o'clock dinner." you, who know mrs. blodgett so much better than i, can understand my bewilderment during the first day or two of my visit. her husband had jokingly pictured me as of an eastern race, which made the meeting rather embarrassing; but the moment she comprehended that i did not habitually sit on the floor, did not carry a scimiter or kris, and was not unwashed and ferine, but only a dark skinned, dark haired, and very silent german scholar, she took possession of me as i have seen her do of others. she preceded me to my room, ringing for a servant on the way, made me open my trunk, and directed the maid where to put each article it contained. she told me what time to be ready for dinner, what to wear for it, and at that meal she had me helped twice to such dishes as she chose, while refusing to let me have more than one cup of coffee. to a man who had never had any one to look after him in small things it was a novel and rather pleasant if surprising experience, and when i grew accustomed to it i easily understood mr. blodgett's chuckles of enjoyment when she told him he shouldn't have a third cigar, when she decided how close he was to sit to the fire, and finally when she made all of us--agnes, mr. blodgett, and myself--go to bed at her own hour for retiring. best of all i understood mr. blodgett's familiar name for her, "the boss." that visit was a perfect revelation to me of affectionate, thoughtful, and persistently minute domineering. i do not believe that the man lives, though he be the veriest woman-hater, who could help loving her after a fortnight of her tyranny. certainly i could not. by mr. blodgett's aid i secured a "paper" cable transfer of the money realized from the bonds and draft, in order that it might seem to come from europe, and sent it to you, writing at his suggestion, "the inclosed draft on foster g. blodgett & co. for the sum of thirty-three thousand dollars is part payment of principal and interest due you from estate of william g. maitland." i wonder what your thoughts were as you read the unsigned and typewritten note? it was your greeting of me by my alias that led me to accept the incognito. perhaps it was cowardly to shirk my shame by such a means, but it was not done from cowardice; the thought did not even occur to me until it opened a way to knowing you. and in that hope my very misery became almost happiness, for its possibilities seemed those of the oriental poet who wrote:-- "my love once offered me a bitter draught from which in cowardice i flinched. but still she tendered to me; and bowing to her wish, i then no longer shrank, but took the cup and put it to my lips. oh, marvel! gazing still at her, the potion turned to sweetness as i drank." if your old friend, donald maitland, were dead to you, your new lover, rudolph hartzmann, might fill his place. i never stopped to think if such trickery were right, or rather my love was stronger than my conscience. good-night, my dearest. x _march ._ during my visit i heard much about you from mrs. blodgett and agnes, for your name was constantly on their lips. from them i learned that your birth, wealth, and the influence of your uncle had involved you in a fashionable society for which you cared nothing, and that, aside from the gayety which that circle forced upon you, your time was spent in travel, and in reading, music, and charitable work. except for themselves, they averred, you had no intimate friends, and their explanation of this fact proved to me that you had taken our separation as seriously as had i. "after mr. walton brought her to america she spent the first few months with us," mrs. blodgett told me, "and was the loneliest child i ever saw. her big eyes used to look so wistfully at times that i could hardly bear it, yet not a word did she ever speak of her sorrow. and all on account of that wretch and his son! i think the worse men are, the more a good woman loves them! when maizie was old enough to understand, and mr. walton told her how she had been robbed, she wouldn't believe him till mr. blodgett confirmed the story. she used to be always talking of the two, but she has never spoken of them since that night." even more cruel to me was something agnes related. she worshiped you with the love and admiration a girl of eighteen sometimes feels for a girl of twenty-three, and in singing your praises,--to a most willing listener,--one day, she exclaimed, "oh, i wish i were a man, so that i could be her lover! i'd make her believe in love." then seeing my questioning look, agnes continued: "what with her selfish old uncle, and the men who want to marry her for her money, and those hateful maitlands, she has been made to distrust all love and friendship. she has the idea that she isn't lovable,--that people don't like her for herself; and i really think she will never marry, just because of it." better far than this knowledge of you at second-hand was mr. blodgett's telling me that you were to dine with them during my visit. it may seem absurd, but not the least part of my eagerness that night was to see you in evening dress. if i had not loved you already, i should have done so from that meeting; and although you are dear to me for many things besides your beauty, i understand why men love you so deeply who know nothing of your nature. that all men should not love you is my only marvel whenever i recall that first glimpse of you as you entered the blodgetts' drawing-room. before we had finished our greetings mr. whitely entered, and though i little realized how vital a part he was to be of my life, i yet regarded him with instant interest, for something in his manner towards you suggested to me that he coveted the hand you offered him. a lover does not view a rival kindly, but i am compelled to own that he is handsome. if i had the right to cavil, i could criticise only his mouth, which it seems to me has slyness with a certain cruel firmness; but i did not notice this until i knew him better, and perhaps it is only my imagination, born of later knowledge. i am not so blinded by my jealousy as to deny his perfect manner, for one feels the polished surface, touch the outside where one will. your demeanor towards him was friendly, yet with all its graciousness it seemed to me to have a quality not so much of aloofness as of limit; conveying in an indefinable way the fact that such relations as then existed between you were the only possible ones. it was a shading so imperceptible that i do not think the blodgetts realized it, and i should have questioned if mr. whitely himself were conscious of it, but for one or two things he said in the course of the evening, which had to me, under the veil of a general topic, individual suggestion. we were discussing that well-worn question of woman's education, mrs. blodgett having introduced the apple of discord by a sweeping disapproval of college education for women, on the ground that it prevented their marrying. "they get to know too much, eh?" laughed mr. blodgett. "no," cried mrs. blodgett, "they get to know too little! while they ought to be out in the world studying life and men, so as to choose wisely, they're shut up in dormitories filling their brains with greek and mathematics." "you would limit a woman's arithmetic to the solution of how to make one and one, one?" i asked, smiling. "surely, mrs. blodgett, you do not mean that an uncultivated woman makes the best wife?" inquired mr. whitely. "i mean," rejoined mrs. blodgett, "that women who know much of books know little of men. that's why over-intellectual women always marry fools." "how many intellectual wives there must be!" you said. "i shouldn't mind if they only married fools," continued mrs. blodgett, "but half the time they don't marry at all." "does that prove or disprove their intellect?" you asked. "it means," replied mrs. blodgett, "that they are so puffed up with their imaginary knowledge that they think no man good enough for them." "i've known one or two college boys graduate with the same large ideas," remarked mr. blodgett. "but a man gets over it after a few years," urged mrs. blodgett, "and is none the worse off; but by the time a girl overcomes the idea, she's so old that no man worth having will look at her." "i rather think, mrs. blodgett," said mr. whitely, in that charmingly deferential manner he has with women, "that some men do not try to win highly educated women because they are abashed by a sense of their own inferiority." "where do those men hide themselves, whitely?" interrogated mr. blodgett. "i'll not question the reason," retorted mrs. blodgett. "the fact that over-educated girls think themselves above men is all i claim." "i don't think, mrs. blodgett," you corrected, "it is so much a feeling of superiority as it is a change in the aims of marriage. formerly, woman married to gain a protector, and man to gain a housewife. now, matrimony is sought far less for service, and far more for companionship." "but, miss walton," questioned mr. whitely, "does not the woman ask too much nowadays? she has the leisure to read and study, but a business man cannot spare the time. is it fair, then, to expect that he shall be as cultivated as she can make herself?" "that is, i think, the real cause for complaint," you answered. "the business man is so absorbed in money-making that he sacrifices his whole time to it. i can understand a woman falling in love with a lance or a sword, dull companions though they must have been, but it seems to me impossible for any woman to love a minting-machine, even though she might be driven to marry it for its product." "that's rough on us, whitely," laughed mr. blodgett good-naturedly; but mr. whitely reddened, and you, as if to divert the subject from this personal tendency, turned and surmised to me:-- "i suppose that as a german, dr. hartzmann, you think a woman should be nothing more than a housekeeper?" "why not suggest, miss walton," i replied, smiling, "that as an orientalist i must think the seraglio woman's proper sphere?" "but, miss walton," persisted mr. whitely, not accepting your diversion, "a man, to be successful nowadays, must give all his attention to his business. "i presume that is so," you acceded; "but could he not be content with a little less success in money-making, and strive to acquire a few more amenities?" "maizie wants us all to be painters and poets and musicians," asserted mr. blodgett. "not at all," you denied. "oh, maizie!" cried agnes. "you know you said the other day that you hoped i wouldn't marry a business man." "i said '_only_ a business man,' agnes," you replied, without a trace of the embarrassment so many women would have shown. "because men cannot all be clergymen is no reason for their knowing nothing of religion. there would be no painters, poets, or musicians if there were no dilettanti." "yet i think," argued mr. whitely, still as if he were trying to convince you of something, "that the successful business man has as much brain as most writers or artists." "i have no doubt that is true," you assented. "so, too, a day laborer may have a good mind. but of what avail is a brain if it has never been trained, or has been trained to know only one thing?" "but authors and painters are only specialists," urged mr. whitely. "they are specialists of a very different type," you responded, "from the man whose daily thoughts are engrossed with the prices of pig-iron or cotton sheetings. i think one reason why american girls frequently marry europeans is that the foreign man is so apt to be more broadly cultivated." "that's what i mean by saying that books unfit women to marry wisely," interjected mrs. blodgett. "they marry foreigners because they are more cultivated, without a thought of character." "indeed, mrs. blodgett," you observed, "has not the day gone by for thinking dullness a sign of honesty? and certainly a business career is far more likely to corrupt and harden men's natures than the higher professions, for its temptations and strifes are so much greater." your opinion was so in accord with what my father had often preached that i could not but wonder if his teachings still colored your thoughts. to test this idea as well as to learn your present view, i recurred to another theory of his by saying, "does not the broader and more sensitive nature of the scholar or artist involve defects fully as serious as the hardness and narrowness of the business man? some one has said that 'to marry a literary man is to domesticate a bundle of nerves.'" "a nervous irritability," you replied, "which came from fine mental exertion, would be as nothing compared to my own fretting over enforced companionship with an unsympathetic or sordid nature." then you laughed, and added, "i must have a very bad temper, for it is the only one which ever really annoys me." that last speech told me how thoroughly the woman of twenty-three was a development of the child of fourteen, for i remembered how little my mother's anger used to disturb you, but how deeply and strongly your emotions affected you. i suppose it was absurd, but i felt happy to think that you had changed so little in character from the time when i knew you so well. and from that evening i never for an instant believed that you would marry mr. whitely, for i was sure that you could never love him. how could i dream that you, with beauty, social position, and wealth, would make a loveless marriage? good-night, my love. xi _march ._ the truth of the difference of quality between the business man and the scholar was quickly brought home to me. on the last evening of my visit, mr. blodgett revealed the reason for his latest kindness. "i got you here," he explained, "to look you over and see what you were fit for, thinking i might work you in somewhere. no," he continued, as he saw the questioning hopefulness on my face, "you wouldn't do in business. you've got a sight too much conscience and sympathy, and a sight too little drive. all business is getting the best of somebody else, and you're the kind of chap who'd let a fellow up just because you'd got him down." seeing the sadness in my face, for i knew too well he had fathomed me, he added kindly, "don't get chicken-hearted over what i say. it's easy enough to outwit a man; the hard thing is not to do it. i'd go out of the trade to-morrow, if it weren't for the boss and agnes, for i get tired of the meanness of the whole thing. but they want to cut a figure, and that isn't to be done in this town for nothing. i'll find something for you yet that sha'n't make you sell your heart and your soul as well as your time." i was too full of my love and my purpose, however, for this to discourage me. the moment my determination to remain in new york was taken, i wrote to jastrow, humzel, and others of my german friends, telling them that for business reasons i had decided to be known as rudolph hartzmann, and asking if they would stretch friendship so far as to give me letters in that name to such american publishers and editors as they knew. excepting jastrow, they all responded with introductions so flattering that i was almost ashamed to present them, and he wrote me that he had not offered my books for sale, and begged me to reconsider my refusal of the professorship. he even offered, if i would accept the appointment, to divide with me his tuition fees, and suggested that his own advancing years were a pledge that his position would erelong be vacant for me to step into. it almost broke my heart to have to write him that i could not accept his generous offer. in july i received a second letter from him, most touching in its attempt to keep back the grief he felt, but yielding to my determination. he sent me many good introductions, and submitted a bid for my library from a bookseller; but knowing the books to be worth at least double the offer, i held the sale in abeyance. my first six months in new york disheartened me greatly, though now i know that i succeeded far better than i could have expected to do, in the dullness of the summer. my work was the proof-reading of my book of travel in its varying polyglots, seeing through the press english versions of my two text-books, and writing a third in both english and german. furthermore, my letters of introduction had made me known to a number of the professors of columbia college, and by their influence i received an appointment to deliver a course of lectures on race movements the following winter; so i prepared my notes in this leisure time. but this work was far too little to fill my time, and i wrote all kinds of editorials, essays, and reviews, fairly wearing out the editors of the various magazines and newspapers with my frequent calls and articles. finally i attempted to sell my books to several libraries; but though the tomes and the price both tempted several, none had the money to spend on such a collection. my book of travel was published in september, was praised by the reviews, and at once sprang into a good sale for a work of that class; for europe is interested in whatever bears on her cancer growth, commonly called the eastern question. since europeans approved the book, americans at once bought and discussed it; to prove, i suppose, that as a nation we are no longer tainted with provincialism,--as if that very subservience to transatlantic opinion were not the best proof that the virus still works within us. it was issued anonymously, through the fear that if i put my pseudonym on the title-page it might lead to inquiry about the author which would reveal his identity with donald maitland, for whom i only wished oblivion. as a result the question of authorship was much mooted, some declaring a well-known oxford professor to be the man, others ascribing the volume to a famous german traveler, and humzel being named by some; but most of the reviews suggested that it was the work of an eastern savant, and i presume that my style was tinged with orientalism. you cannot tell what a delight it was to me to learn, at our first meeting in the autumn, that you had read my book. i went in november to the lenox library to verify a date, and found you there. i could not help interrupting your reading for a moment,--i had so longed for a glimpse and a word,--and you took my intrusion in good part. i drew a book and pretended to read, merely to veil my covert watching of you; and when you rose to go, i asked permission to walk with you. "your notebook suggests that you are a writer by profession, dr. hartzmann?" you surmised. "yes." "and you have to come to america for material?" "i have come to america permanently." "how unusual!" "in what respect?" "for a european writer to come to new york to do more than lecture about himself, have his vanity and purse fed, and return home to write a book about us that we alone read." i laughed and said, "you make me very glad that i am the exception to the rule." "i presume more would make the venture if they found the atmosphere less uncongenial. new york as a whole is so absorbed in the task of trans-shipping the products of the busiest nations of two continents that everything is ranked as secondary that does not subserve that end: and the muses starve." "i suppose new york is not the best of places in which to live by art or letters, if compared with london or paris; yet if a man can do what the world wants done, he can earn a livelihood here." "but he cannot gain the great prizes that alone are worth the winning, i fear. i have noticed that american writers only reach american audiences, while european authors not merely win attention at home, but have vogue and sale here. the london or paris label is quite as effective in new york or chicago in selling books as in selling clothes." "i suppose cultivated europe is as heedless of the newer peoples as the peoples of the orient are of those of the occident. yet i think that if as good work were turned out in this country as in the old world, the place of its production would not seriously militate against its success." "and have you found it so?" "nothing i have yet written in this country merits continental attention." "i hope you have succeeded to your own satisfaction?" "it may amuse you to know that though i had many good letters of introduction to editors in this country, i could not get a single article accepted till some friends of mine in asia came to my aid." "you speak in riddles." "perhaps you remember reading, last august, of an outbreak of some tribes in the hindoo kush? those hill peoples are in a state of perennial ferment, and usually europe pays no attention to their bellicose proceedings; but luckily for me, the english premier, at that particular moment, was holding his unwilling parliament together in an attempt to pass something, and finding it intractable in that matter, he cleverly used this outbreak to divert attention and excite enthusiasm. rising in the house of commons, he virtually charged the outbreak to russian machination against the beloved emir, and pledged the nation to support that civilized humanitarian against the barbaric despot of russia. at once the papers were full of unintelligible cablegrams telling of the doings in those far-away mountains; and my hurriedly written editorials and articles, which nevertheless showed some comprehension of the geography and people, were snapped up avidly, and from that time i have found papers or periodicals glad to print what i write." you laughed, and said, "how strangely the world is tied together in these days, that the speech of an english prime minister about some asian septs should give a german author entrée to new york editorial sanctums!" "the cables have done more in aid of the brotherhood of man than all the efforts of the missionaries." "i thought you were a conservative, and disapproved of modern innovations," you suggested archly. "with innovators, yes." "then the levantine does not entirely disapprove of our hesperian city?" "my knowledge of new york is about as deep," i answered, smiling, "as my eastern blood." "only skin-deep," you said. "just sufficient for a disguise." "as long as you are silent, yes." "is my english so unmistakable?" "not your tongue, but your thought. of course your vicinage, costume, and complexion made me for a moment accept your joke of nationality, at that first meeting, but before you had uttered half your defense of the older races i felt sure that you were not a product of one of them." "why was that?" "because it is only christians who recognize and speak for the rights of other peoples." "you forget that the religion of buddha is toleration. we christians preach the doctrine, but practice extermination, forgiving our enemies after killing them," i corrected. "i do not think we differ much in works from even el mahdi." "would el mahdi ever have spoken for other races?" "you know the weak spot in my armor, miss walton," i was obliged to confess. "that is due to you, dr. hartzmann. what you stated that night interested me so deeply that i have been reading up about the eastern races and problems. i wonder if you have seen this new book of travel, the debatable lands between the east and west?" "yes," i assented, thinking that twenty over-lookings of it in manuscript and proof entitled me to make the claim. "you will be amused to hear that, when reading it, i thought of you as the probable writer, not merely because it begins in the altai range and ends at tangier, but as well because some of the ideas resemble yours. mr. whitely, however, tells me he has private information that professor humzel is the author. do you know him?" "he was my professor of history at leipzig." "that accounts for the agreement in thought. you admire the book?" "i think it is a conscientious attempt to describe what the author saw." "ah, it is much more than that!" you exclaimed. "at a dinner in london, this autumn, i sat next the earl---- next a member of the indian council, and he told me he considered it a far more brilliant book than kinglake's eothen." i knew i had no right to continue this subject, but i could not help asking, "you liked it?" "very much. it seems to me a deep and philosophic study of present and future problems, besides being a vivid picture of most interesting countries and peoples. it made me long to be a nomad myself, and wander as the author did. the thought of three years of such life, of such freedom, seems to stir in me all the inherited tendency to prowl that we women supposedly get from mother sphinx." "civilization steals nature from us and compounds the theft with art." "tell me about professor humzel," you went on, "for i know i should like him, merely from the way he writes. one always pictures the german professor as a dried-up mind in a dried-up body, but in this book one is conscious of real flesh and blood. he is a young man, i'm sure." "sixty-two." "he has a young heart, then," you asserted. "is he as interesting to talk with as he makes himself in his book?" "professor humzel is very silent." "the people who have something to say are usually so," you sighed. "a drum must be empty to make a noise," i said, smiling, "and perhaps the converse is true." i cannot say what there was in that walk which cheered me so, except your praise of my book,--sweeter far though that was than the world's kindly opinion; yet over and above that, in our brief interchange of words, i was made conscious that there was sympathy between us,--a sympathy so positive that something like our old-time friendship seemed beginning. and the thought made me so happy that for a time my troubles were almost forgotten. good-night, maizie. xii _march ._ fate seemed determined that our lives should be closely connected. in december mr. blodgett wrote asking me to call at his office, and he was already smiling when his boy passed me through the door at which so many had to tarry. "there are a good many kinds of fools," was his welcoming remark, "but one of the commonest is the brand who think because they can do one thing well, they ought to be able to do the exact opposite. i've known men who could grow rich out of brewing beer, who kept themselves poor through thinking they knew all about horses; i've known women who queened it in parlors, who went to smash because they believed themselves inspired actresses; i've sat here in this office thirty years, and grown rich through the belief of clergymen, doctors, merchants, farmers,--the whole box and dice,--that they were heaven-born financiers, and could play us wall street men even at our own game. whatever else you do in this world, doctor, don't think that because you can talk a dozen languages, they fit you to be a successful mute." "when you are in this mood, mr. blodgett, i can be nothing else," i interpolated, as he paused a moment for breath. "alexander whitely," he went on, smiling, "probably knows more about petroleum and kerosene than any other man in the world, and he's made himself rich by his knowledge. but it doesn't satisfy him to be on the top of his own heap; he wants to get on the top of some other fellow's. in short, he has an itch to be something he isn't, and the darned fool's gone and bought a daily newspaper with the idea that he is going to be a great editor!" "his lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil," i remarked. "for a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for advice," said mr. blodgett in evident enjoyment. "i told him to get an a business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your staff, and then blow in all the money you and the business end asked for, and never go inside the building himself. it was too good sense for him, for he's daft with the idea of showing the world how to edit a paper. but my advice simmered down to this: if you want to be his private secretary, at four thousand a year, and pretend to revise his editorials, but really write them for him, i guess you can have the position. of course he is to think he writes the rubbish." "a voltaire in miniature," i laughed. "a what?" "the great frederic thought himself a poet, and induced voltaire to come and be his literary counselor. the latter showed a bundle of manuscripts to some one and sneered, 'see all this dirty linen of the king's he has sent me to wash.'" "that was one for his nibs," chuckled mr. blodgett appreciatively. "but you mustn't make such speeches as that of whitely." "in spite of my many tongues, i can be mute." "do you think i haven't seen that? and i've seen something more, which is that you always give a dollar's worth of work for seventy-five cents of wages. now, whitely's a hard man, and if you made the terms with him he'd be sure to get the better of you. so i've arranged to have him meet you here, and i'm going to see fair play. i've told him you won't do it for less than four thousand, and he'll not get you a cent cheaper. the work will be very light." "the work is easy," i assented, "but is it honest?" "seems to me we had better leave that to whitely to settle." "and is mr. whitely an honest man?" mr. blodgett smiled as he looked at me, and observed, "whitely wouldn't steal a red-hot stove unless it had handles! but he probably thinks this all right. few people know how much successful men use other men's brains. here's a report on a southern railroad by an expert in my employ. i've never even been over the road, yet i'll sign my name to the report as if it was my work. now, in oil whitely hires all kinds of men to do different things for him, and he gets whatever credit follows; and i suppose he thinks that if he pays you to write editorials, they are as much his as any other thing he buys." "he must be conscious of a distinction." "that's his lookout, if he is. don't start in to keep other people's consciences in order, doctor, for it's the hardest-worked and poorest-paid trade in the world." when mr. whitely arrived, mr. blodgett was as good as his word, taking the matter practically out of my hands, and letting me sit a passive and amused spectator of the contest between the two shrewd men, who dropped all thought of personal friendship while they discussed the matter. mr. blodgett won, and made the further stipulation that since mr. whitely intended to be at the office only in the afternoon, i might be equally privileged as to my hours of attendance. his forethought and kindness did more, for his last speech to mr. whitely was, "then it's understood that the doctor writes your letters and revises your editorials, but nothing else." and as soon as we were alone he intimated, "remember that, or before you know it he'll be screwing you to death. don't you write anything extra for him unless there's extra pay. now, don't waste my time by thanks in business hours, but come in to-night to dinner, so as to let the boss and agnes congratulate you." my employment began the first of the year, at which time the paper came into the hands of its new proprietor; and it amuses me to recall him as he sat at his desk that first day, thrumming it nervously, and trying to dictate an editorial on the outlook for the new year. a more hopeless bit of composition i have seldom read, and four times it was rewritten as i built it into shape. the man has no more sense of form than he has of english. even worse, he is almost without ideas. it has become his invariable custom to remark to me suavely, as he takes his seat at his desk about two o'clock, "dr. hartzmann, possibly you can suggest a good subject for me to write about to-day?" and when i propose one, he continues: "that is satisfactory. jot down what you think i had better say, while i run over my mail." an hour later i lay the typewritten sheets before him, and, after reading them with the most evident pleasure, he puts his initials at the top and sends the editorial out to the managing editor; to have a second pleasure when, after two hours, the galley slips of proof come back to him. fortunately for me, he cares no more for politics than i do, and thus saves me from the necessity of studying and mastering that shifting quicksand against which beat the tides of men, ebbing as private greed obtains the mastery, and flowing in those curious revulsions of selfishly altruistic public spirit called patriotism. except for this subject his taste is catholic, and his foible is to pose as omniscient. "i wish new subjects,--something, if possible, that intellectual people do not know about,"--is his constant command; and nothing delights him more than an editorial on a subject of which he has never heard. speaking only his mother tongue, he has an inordinate desire for foreign words, and will observe, "a quotation in another language gives an editorial page an air of culture which i desire my paper to have." our composing-room, i imagine, is the only one in new york which has greek type, and if i gave him the smallest encouragement he would buy fonts of sanskrit and hebrew characters. he always makes me teach him how to pronounce the sentences, catching them with a wonderful parrot-like facility. usually he carries clippings of the last half dozen editorials with him, and his delight is to make an opportunity to read one aloud, prefaced by the announcement that he is the writer. sometimes, indeed, he cannot contain his pleasure over the articles till their appearance in type, and i repeatedly hear him request a visitor, "if you have ten minutes to spare, let me read you this editorial i have just written for to-morrow's issue." at first, in spite of mr. blodgett's explanation, i thought this real dishonesty, and despised not merely him, but myself as well for aiding in such trickery. as i grow to know him better, however, i find he is not cozening the public so much as imposing on himself. the man has a fervent and untrained imagination, which has never, in the practicalities of oil, had a safety-valve. as a result, it has rioted in dreams of which he is the hero, until it has brought him to the point of thinking his wildest fancies quite possible realities. his self-faith is so great that his imagination sets no limit to his powers, and thus he can believe everything of himself. i have heard him tell what he would do under given circumstances, and, with my knowledge of him, i know he is conceiving himself to be actually doing what he describes. thus, in a smaller sense, he really imagines that he writes the editorials, and he even reads them to mr. blodgett, apparently unconscious that there can be the slightest question of authorship in the latter's mind. with this singular weakness the man is yet a strong one. his capacity to judge and manage men or facts is truly marvelous. he rules his paper as he rules everything, with the firmest hand, and not a man in his employ but knows who is master. within a year he turned the journal into a great earner of money, and in the business office they have to confess that it is all his work, ignorant though he is to this day of the details. he knows by instinct where money should be spent, and where it should be scrimped. yet with all this business shrewdness he cares not half so much that his investment is paying him twenty per cent as that people are talking about his ability as an editor, and my only influence over him even now is the praise my editorials have won him. perhaps the most singular quality of his nature is his heedlessness of individual opinion, and his dread of it in mass. he is so absolutely self-centred--every thought directed inward--that he never tries to make the individual like him, yet he craves intensely the world's esteem. he longs for notoriety, and even stoops to an almost daily mention of himself in his paper, taking endless pains to get his name into other journals as well. even his philanthropy, for which the world admires him, is used for this purpose. ridiculous as it may seem, the most grating task i have to do is the writing of the fulsome press dispatches which he invariably sends out whenever he makes one of his gifts. he writes, too, to his fellow editors, asking them to comment on the largess; and since he makes it a point to cultivate the pleasantest relations with his confrères, they give him good measure, though with many a smile and wink among themselves when they get together. "mr. white-lie" is his sobriquet in the fraternity. how curiously diverse the same man is to different people! to the world mr. whitely is a man of great business ability, of wide knowledge, of great benevolence, and of fine manners. i do not wonder, maizie, that he imposes on you; for though you have discernment, yet you are not of a suspicious nature, and his acting is so wonderful and his manner so frank, through his own unconsciousness of his self-deceit, that not a dozen people dream the man is other than he seems. you might, perhaps, in spite of his taciturnity, have discovered his charlatan pretense of learning if you had been born inquisitive, but you take his writings for the measure of his intellect, and have no more reason to suspect that his skillful reservations are the refuge of a sciolist than that my silence covers such little erudition as i have. why i can do naught else but sit here and write of the past i do not understand. until a month ago i was working every evening till far into the night, but now, try as i may, i can no longer force myself to my task. i should think it was physical exhaustion, were it not that i can chronicle this stale record of what i know so well. i suppose it is mental discouragement at my slight progress in reducing that crushing debt, and, even more, my sadness at the thought of you as his wife. good-night, my darling. may happiness be yours. xiii _march ._ my impressions of that first winter in new york are curiously dim except for the extreme loneliness of my life, which, after the close companionship with my father for so many years, seemed at times almost unbearable. indeed, i doubt if i could have borne the long hours of solitude and toil but for my occasional glimpses of you. i should think myself fatuous in claiming that you influence me physically,--that i am conscious of a material glow, ecstasy, thrill, call it what you please, when with you,--if i had not once heard agnes declare that she always felt, when you were in the room, as if she had been drinking champagne; showing that i am not the only one you can thus affect. my pleasantest recollection is of our long talk in my employer's study; and strangely enough, it was my books which gained it for me. mr. whitely, when i first came into his service, had just endowed a free library in one of the western cities where some of his oil interests centred, and i hinted to him the purchase of my books as a further gift to his hobby. the suggestion did not meet with his approval,--i fear because there was not the self-advertising in it that there is in a money gift,--but after a week he told me that he might buy the collection to furnish his editorial study. "i plan," he said, "to make my office attractive, and then have informal literary receptions once a week. i shall therefore require some books, and as your library should be marked by breadth and depth of learning, i presume it will serve my purpose." "there are quite a number of eastern manuscripts of value," i told him, "and few of the books are in languages that can be read by the average new yorker." "that gives the suggestion of scholarship which i wish," he acknowledged. we easily came to terms under these circumstances, and i cannot tell you how happy i was to find myself once more surrounded by my books. as soon as they were in place and the study was handsomely furnished, my employer issued cards; and though he had nothing in common with the literary and artistic set, the mere fact that he controlled the columns of a great paper brought them all flocking to his afternoons. it is a case of mutual cultivation, and i am sick of being told to write puffs of books and pictures. even foreigners do not seem above this log-rolling, and toady to the editor of the influential journal. and yet we think johnson mean-spirited for standing at chesterfield's door! it humiliates me to see writers and artists stooping so low merely to get notices that are worthless in a critical sense, and doubly am i degraded that mine is the pen that aids in this contemptible chicane. you, mrs. blodgett, and agnes came to one of these afternoons, and made me happy, not alone by your presence, but by an insinuated reproof, which meant, i thought, that you had become enough interested in me to care what i did. you expressed surprise at my being there, and so i explained to you that i had become mr. whitely's secretary. "and is your work congenial?" you asked. i shrugged my shoulders, and quoted, "civilized man cannot live without dining." "but you told me you were making a living. is not a crust with independence and a chance to make a name better than such work?" "if one is free, yes. but if one must earn money?" "i had somehow fixed it in my mind that you were _en garçon_. one's fancies are sometimes very ridiculous. who invented the mot that a woman's intuitions were what she had when she was wrong?" "some man, of course," i laughed. "and you were right in supposing me a bachelor." "how little people really know about one another," you observed, "and yet we talk of the realism of life! i believe it is only in fiction that we get it." "napoleon said, 'take away history and give me a novel: i wish the truth!' certainly, our present romance writers attempt it." "only to prove that truth is not art." "how so?" "to photograph life in literature is no more art than a reproduction of our street sounds would be music." "painting and sculpture are copying." "and the closer the copy, the less the art." "then you would define art as"-- "the vivifying of work with the personality of the workman." "that is not very far from saadi's thought that art is never produced without love." "i have to confess that you mention an author of whom i had never even heard till i read the debatable lands. the extracts printed there made me think he must be one of the great philosopher poets of the world. yet there is no copy of his works at the lenox." "there are copies of all his writings here." "i think i shall disobey polonius by trying to be a borrower," you announced, and turning to mr. whitely, you asked, "do you ever loan your books?" "to lend to you would be a pleasure, and give added value to the volume," assented mr. whitely, joining us. "take anything you wish." "thank you so much. will you let me see what you have of saadi, so that i may take my choice?" "you were speaking of"--hemmed mr. whitely. "saadi." "ah, yes. dr. hartzmann knows where it is." when i had led the way to the proper shelf, you selected the gulistan, opened it, and then laughed. "you have the best protection against borrowers. i envy both of you the ability to read him in the original, but it is beyond me." "as you read latin, you can read gentius' translation of the bostan," i suggested, taking the book down. "how do you know that i can read latin?" you asked. i faltered for a moment, too much taken aback to think what to reply, and fortunately mr. whitely interposed quickly, "miss walton's reputation for learning is so well recognized that knowledge of latin is taken for granted." taking advantage of the compliment, i surmised, "perhaps you will care less to read the poet if i quote a stanza of his:-- 'seek truth from life, and not from books, o fool! look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.'" "you only make me the more eager," you said, running over the pages. "the book is worth reading," vouched mr. whitely. "how good that is!" you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings. "very," answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical air. if you could only have enjoyed the joke with me! suddenly, as i watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn the cause, i saw a manuscript note in my father's handwriting on the margin of the page. "mr. whitely," you asked huskily, "how did you get this book?" had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as i stood there expecting the axe to fall. oh! the relief when mr. whitely replied, "i bought it in germany." you closed the volume, remarking, "i do not think i will ask the loan, after all. he seems an author one ought to own." "i hoped you would add an association to the book," urged mr. whitely. "thank you," you parried gravely, "but so old a volume can hardly be lacking in association. i think we must be going." i took you down to the carriage, and mrs. blodgett kindly offered me the fourth seat. you were absolutely silent in the drive up-town, and i was scarcely less so as i tried to read your thoughts. what feelings had that scrap of writing stirred in you? i have often since then recalled our parting words that afternoon, and wondered if i allowed a mere scruple--a cobweb that a stronger man would have brushed aside without a second thought--to wreck my life. if i had taken what you offered? perhaps the time might have come when i could have told you of my trick, and you would have forgiven it. perhaps-- you said to me graciously, when we separated at your door, "i shall be very happy, dr. hartzmann, if you will come to see me." i flushed with pleasure, for i felt it was not a privilege you gave to many. but even as i hesitated for words with which to express my gratitude, i realized that i had no moral right to gain your hospitality by means of my false name; and when i spoke it was to respond, "i thank you for the favor most deeply, miss walton, but i am too busy a man for social calls." oh, my darling, if you had known what those few words cost me, and the struggle it was to keep my voice steady as i spoke them! for i knew you could only take them to mean that i declined your friendship. hide my shame as i might try to do, i could not escape its pains. god keep you from such suffering, maizie, and good-night. xiv _march ._ though i committed the rudeness of refusing to call, you never in our subsequent intercourse varied your manner by the slightest shade, treating me always with a courtesy i ill deserved. after such a rebuff, it is true, you were too self-respecting to offer me again any favor tending to a better acquaintance, but otherwise you bore yourself towards me as you did towards the thousand other men whom you were obliged to meet. your life as a social favorite, and mine as a literary hack, gave little opportunity for our seeing each other, yet we met far more frequently than would have seemed possible. occasionally i found you at the blodgetts', though not as often as our informal footing in that household had led me to hope; for you were in such social demand that your morning hours were the time you usually took to run in upon them. but now and then we lunched or dined there, and mrs. blodgett little dreamed how willingly i obeyed her positive command that i was to come to every one of her afternoons when agnes told me that you were to receive or pour tea. little i had of your attention, for you were a magnet to many, but i could stand near you and could watch and listen, and that was happiness. a cause of meeting more discordant to me was furnished by my employer. i wrote for him an editorial on the folk-leid basis of the wagner trilogy, which i suppose he sent or read to you; for it resulted in a box-party to attend the series, and i was asked to be one of the guests. "nothing like having your books of reference under your arm," was mr. whitely's way of telling me for what purpose i was wanted; and i presume that was, in truth, the light in which he viewed me. though i scorned such service, the mere fact that you were to be there was enough to make me accept. how low love can bring a man if his spirit is once mastered by it! i would have sunk far deeper, i believe, to obtain what i earned, for there were delightful moments of mutually absorbing discussions, only too quickly interrupted by mr. whitely or others of the party breaking in on our conversation. what was equal happiness to me was the association of you in my mind with the noblest of music. i can never hear certain movements of those operas without your image coming before me as clearly as if i saw your reflection in a mirror. and from that time one of my keenest pleasures has been to beg tickets from the musical critic of our staff, whenever one of the trilogy is to be given, and sit through the opera dreaming of those hours. i could write here every word you uttered, but what especially impressed itself upon my memory was something called out by the fate of brunhilde. as we stood in the lobby waiting for the carriages, at the end of die walküre, you withdrew a little, as if still feeling the beauty and tragedy of the last act too deeply to take part in the chit-chat with which the rest of the party beguiled the time. i stood near you, but, respecting your mood, was silent too, until you finally broke the pause by saying, "i do not know whether it is wagner's music or because brunhilde appeals to me, but i always feel that i have suffered as she does. it almost makes me believe in the theory of metempsychosis." "is it so much consciousness of a past, miss walton," i suggested, "as prescience of the future? woman's story is so unvaryingly that of self-sacrifice for love that i should suppose brunhilde's fate would appeal to the sex as a prophecy rather than as a memory." "her punishment could have been far worse." "left a defenseless prey to the first comer?" "but surrounded by fire, so that the first comer must be a brave man." "do you value courage so highly?" "yes. the truly brave, i think, cannot be mean, and without meanness there must be honor. i almost envy brunhilde her walls of fire, which put to absolute proof any man who sought her. the most successful of men; the most intellectually brilliant, may be--by what can we to-day test courage and honor?" "there is as much as ever, miss walton. is it no gain that courage has become moral rather than physical?" "is it no loss that of all the men i know, there is not one of whom i can say with certainty, 'he is a brave man'?" our numbers were called at this point, and the conversation was never continued. every word you had said recalled to me my former friend, and i understood your repugnance for anything cowardly. at the last of these operas, by another perverse joke of dame fortune, who seems to have so many laughs at my expense, i was introduced to the chaperon, "mrs. polhemus." looking up, i found myself facing my mother. i cannot tell you how strangely i felt in making my bow. she was as handsome as ever, it appeared to me, and the smooth rich olive complexion seemed to have given her an undying youth. for a moment i feared recognition, but the difference was too great between the pallid stooping boy of fifteen she had last seen in paris and the straight bronzed man of twenty-seven. as of old she was magnificently dressed and fairly glittered with diamonds, which curiously enough instantly brought to my mind the face of my father as i kissed him last. was it the strong connection of contrast, or was it a quirk of my brain? this chance meeting had a sequel that pains me to this day. dining the next evening at the blodgetts' with you and your uncle, the latter spoke of my mother's diamonds. mrs. blodgett said, with a laugh, "one would think, after her rich marriage, that she might pay up the money her first husband stole from maizie." "she could have done that years ago if she had cared to," sneered mr. walton. your eyes were lowered, and you still kept them so as you replied, "i would not accept the money from mrs. polhemus." in my suffering i sat rigid and speechless, wincing inwardly at each blow of the lash, when mr. blodgett, with a kindness i can never reward or even acknowledge, observed, "i believe it was his wife's extravagance which made william maitland a bankrupt and an embezzler. till his marriage with her he was a man of simple habits and of unquestioned business honesty, but he was caught by her looks, just as polhemus has been. in those first years he could deny her nothing, and when the disillusionment came he was too deep in to prevent the wreck." "you've been revising your views a bit," retorted mr. walton. "i never expected to hear you justify any of that family." "perhaps i have reason to," replied mr. blodgett. "i don't believe any of those maitlands have the least honesty!" exclaimed agnes. "how i hate them!" "it is not a subject of which i like to speak," you stated in an evidently controlled voice, still with lowered eyes, "but it is only right to say that some one--i suppose the son--is beginning to pay back the debt." "pay back the money, maizie!" ejaculated mr. walton. "why haven't you told me of it?" "it did not seem necessary," you answered. "i'm sure it's a trick," asserted agnes. "he's probably trying to worm his way back to your friendship, to get something more out of you." "how much"--began mr. walton; but you interrupted him there by saying, "i would rather not talk about it." the subject was changed at once, but when we were smoking, mr. walton asked, "blodgett, do you know anything about that maitland affair?" "a little," replied the host. "the debt really is being paid?" "yes." "and you don't know by whom?" "so maizie tells me." "has she made no attempt to find out?" "when the first payment was made she came to me for advice." "well?" asked mr. walton eagerly. "she got it," declared mr. blodgett. "what did she do?" persisted mr. walton. mr. blodgett was silent for a moment, and then responded, "the exact opposite of what i advised. do you know, walton, you and i remind me of the warm-hearted elephant who tried to hatch the ostrich eggs by sitting on them." "in what respect?" "we decided that we must break up maizie's love of the maitlands for her own good." "well?" "well, we made the whole thing so mean to her that finally we did break something. then, manlike, we were satisfied. what was it we broke?" "nonsense!" growled mr. walton, sipping his wine. mr. blodgett laughed slightly. "that's rather a good name for it," he assented; "but the trouble is, walton, that nonsense is a very big part of every woman's life. you'll never get me to fool with it again." i often ponder over those three brief remarks of yours, and of what you said to me last autumn, in our ride and in the upper hall of my fancy, trying to learn, if possible, what your feeling is towards us. can you, despite all that has intervened, still feel any tenderness and love for my father and me? perhaps it was best that you were silent; if you had spoken of him with contempt, i think--i know you would not, my darling, for you loved him once, and that, to you, would be reason enough to be merciful to the dead, however sinning. dear love, good-night. xv _march ._ you once said to me that you could conceive of no circumstances that would justify dishonesty; for, no matter what the seeming benefits might be, the indirect consequences and the effect on the misdoer's character more than neutralized them. the wrong i have done has only proved your view, and i have come to scorn myself for the dishonorable part i have played. yet i think that you would pity more than blame me, if you could but know my sacrifices. i drifted into the fraud unconsciously, and cannot now decide at what point the actual stifling of my conscience began. i suppose the first misstep was when i entered mr. whitely's employment; yet though i knew it to be unscrupulous in him to impose my editorials as his own, it still seemed to me no distinct transgression in me to write them for him. with that first act those that followed became possible, and each involved so slight an increase in the moral lapse, and my debt to you was so potent an excuse to blind me, that at the time i truly thought i was doing right. i wonder what you would have done had you been in my position? mr. blodgett's shrewdness in stipulating what work i was to do for mr. whitely quickly proved itself. one of the magazines asked my employer to contribute an article on the future of journalism. handing me the letter, he said, "dr. hartzmann, kindly write a couple of thousand words on that subject." "that surely is not part of my duty, mr. whitely," i had the courage to respond. he looked at me quickly, and his mouth stiffened into a straight line. "does that mean that you do not choose to do it?" he asked suavely. my heart failed me at the thought that if i lost my position i might never get so good a one, and should drag my debt through life. for once thought of you made me cowardly. i answered, "i will write it, mr. whitely;" and he said, "i thank you," as if i had done him a favor. i told mr. blodgett of the incident, that evening, with a wry face and a laugh over my bravery, and he was furious at me. "why, you--you"--he stuttered. "haven't you learned yet that the man wouldn't part with you for anything? he's so stuck up over his editorials and what people say of them that he'd as soon think of discharging his own mother before she weaned him." not content with venting his anger on me, he came into the office the next day and told mr. whitely i should not be imposed on, and finally forced him to agree that i should receive whatever the review paid for the article. after this i wrote several magazine articles for mr. whitely, and soon another development of our curious relations occurred. one afternoon he informed me, "the library trustees request me to deliver an address at the dedication of the building. i shall be grateful for any suggestions you can make of a proper subject." "books?" i replied, with an absolutely grave face. "that is eminently suitable," he responded. "possibly you can spare the time to compose such a paper; and as it should be of a scholarly character some greek and latin seem to me advisable." "how much?" i asked, inwardly amused to note if he would understand my question, or would suppose it referred to the quantity of dead languages i was to inject. "what is the labor worth?" he inquired, setting my doubt at rest, and proving his business ability to recognize the most distant allusion to a dollar. when i named a price, he continued: "that is excessive. the profession of authorship is so little recompensed that there are many good writers in new york who would gladly do it for less." "i can do it cheaper, if, like them, i crib it from books at the astor," i asserted. "i do not see why an address composed in the astor library should not be entirely satisfactory?" he questioned, in his smooth, self-controlled manner. "did you never hear of the man who left the theatre in the middle of hamlet because, he said, he didn't care to hear a play that was all quotations?" i asked, with a touch of irony. "i presume the story has some connection in your mind with the subject in hand, but i am unable to see the appositeness?" he said interrogatively and evidently puzzled. "i merely mentioned it lest you might not know that pope never lived in grub street." he looked at me, still ignorant that i was laughing at him. "you think it injudicious to have it done by mather?" he questioned, naming a fellow who did special work for the paper at times. "not at all," i replied, "provided you label the address 'hash,' so that people who have some discrimination won't suppose you ignorant that it is twice-cooked meat you are giving them," and, turning, i went on with my work as if the matter were ended. but the next day he told me, "i have concluded to have you compose that oration, dr. hartzmann;" and from that moment of petty victory i have not feared my employer. i wrote the address, and it so pleased mr. whitely that, not content with delivering it, he had it handsomely printed, and sent copies to all his friends. the resulting praise he received clearly whetted his appetite for authorship, for not long after he said to me, "dr. hartzmann, you told me, when you sold me this library, that you were writing a history of the turks. how nearly completed is it?" "i hope to have it ready for press within three months." "for some time," he remarked, "i have meditated the writing of a book, and possibly yours will serve my purpose." i was so taken by surprise that for a moment i merely gazed at him, since it seemed impossible that even egotism so overwhelming as his could be capable of such blindness; but he was in earnest, and i could only revert to mr. blodgett's idea that a business man comes to think in time that anything he can buy is his. i smiled, and answered, "my book is not petroleum, mr. whitely." "if it is what i desire, i will amply remunerate you," he offered. "it is not for sale." "i presume," he replied, "that you know what disposition of your book suits you best. i have, however, noticed in you a strong desire to obtain money, and i feel sure that we could arrange terms that will bring you more than you would otherwise receive." even before mr. whitely finished speaking, i realized that i was not a free agent. i owed a debt, and till it was paid i had no right to think of my own ambition or feelings. i caught my breath in anguish at the thought, and then, fearing that my courage would fail me, i spoke hastily: "what do you offer me?" he smiled blandly as he predicted: "it is hardly a work that will have a large sale. the turkish nation has not played an important part in history." "only conquered the key of the old world, caused the crusades, forced the discovery of america and of the cape passage, compelled europe to develop its own civilization instead of adopting that of the east, and furnished a question to modern statesmen that they have yet found no oedipus to answer," i retorted. "your special pleading does tend to magnify their position," he assented. "i shall be happy to look the work over, leaving the terms to be decided later." i am ashamed to confess what a night of suffering i went through, battling with the love and pride that had grown into my heart for my book. i knew from the first moment his proposition had been suggested that he would give me more than i could ever hope to make from the work, and therefore my course was only too plain; but i had a terrible struggle to force myself to carry my manuscript to him the following afternoon. for the next week he was full of what he was reading; and had the circumstances been different, i could have asked no higher compliment as regards its popular interest than the enthusiasm of this unlettered business man for my book. "it is quite as diverting as a romance!" he exclaimed. "i can already see how astonished people will be when they read of the far-reaching influence of that nation." since the pound of flesh was to be sold, i took advantage of this mood. after much haggling, which irritated and pained me more than it should, mr. whitely agreed to give me six thousand dollars and the royalties. good as the terms were, my heart nearly broke, the day the manuscript left my hands, for i had put so much thought into the book that it had almost become part of myself. my father, too, had toiled over it, with fondest predictions of the fame it would bring me; spending, as it proved, his very life in the endeavor to make it a great work. that his love, that the love of my dear professors, and that my own hopes should all be brought to market and sold as if they were mere merchandise was so mercenary and cruel that at the last moment it was all i could do to bring myself to fulfill the bargain. nothing but my small progress in paying my debt would have forced me to sell, and i hope nothing but that would have led me to join in such dishonesty. it was, after all, part of the price i was paying for the original wrong, and but just retribution against which i had no right to cry out. yet for a month i was so sad that i could scarcely go through my day's toil; and though that was a year ago, i have never been able to work with the same vim, life seems to have so little left in it for me. and idle as the thought is, when i think of your praise of the book i cannot help dreaming of what might have been if it had been published in my name; if--ah, well, to talk of "ifs" is only to confess that i am beaten, and that i will not do. nor is the fight over. i never hoped nor attempted to gain your love, and that he has won you does not mean failure. to pay my debt is all i have to do, and though i may feel more ill and disheartened than i do to-night, i will pay it, come what may. good-night, my darling. xvi _march ._ it is little to be proud of, yet i like to think that though i have behaved dishonestly, i have not entirely lost my sense of right and wrong. twice at least have i faced temptation and been strong enough to resist. when i carried to mr. blodgett the money i received for my book, i was so profoundly discouraged that my mood was only too apparent. in his kindness he suggested that i buy certain bonds of a railroad his firm was then reorganizing,--telling me from his inside knowledge that a year's holding would give me a profit of thirty per cent. it was so sore a temptation to make money without exertion and practically without risk that i assented, and authorized him to buy the securities; but a night's reflection made the dishonesty of my act clear to me, and the next morning i went to his office and told him i wished to countermand my order. "what's that for?" he inquired. "i have thought better of the matter, and do not think i have the right." "why not?" "if this money were a trust in my hands, it would not be honest to use it in speculation, would it?" "no." "that is practically what it is, since it was stolen from a trust, and is to be returned to it." he smiled rather grimly. "it's lucky for wall street," he said, "that you literary fellows don't have the making and enforcing of laws; and it's luckier still that you don't have to earn your living down here, for the money you'd make wouldn't pay your burial insurance." yet though he laughed cynically, he shook my hand, i thought, more warmly than usual when we parted, as if he felt at heart that i had done right. much easier to resist was an offer of another kind. very foolishly, i told mr. whitely that i had received a letter from the literary editor of the leading american review asking if i would write the criticism of the history of the turks. "that is a singular piece of good fortune," mr. whitely said cheerfully, "and guarantees me a complimentary notice in a periodical that rarely praises." "that is by no means certain," i answered. "you know as well as i that it does not gloze a poor book, nor pass over defects in silence." "but you can hardly write critically of your own book!" cried mr. whitely, for once giving me a share in our literary partnership. "for if there are defects you ought to have corrected them in proof." "of course i do not intend to write the review!" i exclaimed. "not write it? why not?" he questioned in amazement equal to mine. "because i am absolutely unfitted to do it." "why, you know all about the subject!" "i mean that no author can for a moment write discriminatingly of his own work; and besides, the offer would never have been made if my connection with the book were known." "but they will never know." "i should." "you mean to say you do not intend to do it?" "i shall write to-night declining." "but i want you to do it." "and i don't." "what would they probably pay you for it?" "what it is worth." "if you will reconsider your determination, i will double the amount." "unfortunately," i laughed bitterly, "there are limits to what even _i_ will sell." "i will give you two hundred and fifty dollars if you will write a laudatory review of my book," he offered. "have you ever dealt in consciences, mr. whitely?" i asked. "occasionally." "did you ever get any as cheap as that?" "many." "i'm afraid you were buying shopworn and second-hand articles," i retorted; "or you may have gone to some bargain counter where they make a specialty of ninety-eight and forty-nine cent goods." he never liked this satirical mood into which he sometimes drove me. he hesitated an instant, and then bid, "three hundred." "this reminds me of faust," i remarked; but he was too intent on the matter in hand to see the point. "i suppose it's only a question of amount?" he suggested blandly. "you are quite right, mr. whitely. i will write you that review if you will pay me my price," i assented. "i knew it," he asserted exultingly. "but you are mistaken if you think i will pay any fancy price." "then it's a waste of time to talk any more about it," i answered, and resumed my work. "it isn't worth three hundred, even," he argued, "but you may tell me what you will do it for." "i will write that review for one hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars," i replied. "what!" "and from that price i will not abate one cent," i added. strangely enough, i did not write the notice. it was amusing to see his eagerness for the criticisms of the book. the three american critical journals had notices eminently characteristic of them. the first was scholarly, praising moderately, with a touch of lemon-juice in the final paragraph that really only heightened its earlier commendation, but which made the book's putative author wince; the second was discriminating and balanced, with far more that was complimentary; while the third was the publisher's puff so regularly served up,--a colorless, sugary mush,--which my employer swallowed with much delectation. i am ashamed to say that i greatly enjoyed his pain over any harsh words. he always took for granted that the criticisms were correct, never realizing that as between an author, who has spent years on a book, and the average critic, who is at best superficial in his knowledge of a subject, the former is the more often right of the two. i tried to make this clear to him one day by asking him if he had never read lord brougham's review of byron or baron jeffrey's review of coleridge, and even brought him the astonishing tirades of those world-renowned critics; but it was time wasted. he preferred a flattering panegyric in the most obscure of little sheets to a really careful notice which praised less inordinately; yet while apparently believing all the flattery, he believed all the censoriousness as well, even in those cases known to every author where one critic praises what another blames. "a western paper says you do not know how to write english," he complained one day. "you ought to have taken more pains with the book, dr. hartzmann." "the academy and the athenæum both thought my style had merit," i answered, smiling. "nevertheless there must be something wrong, or this critic, who in other respects praises with remarkable discrimination, would certainly not have gone out of his way to mention it," he replied discontentedly. fortunately, unfavorable criticism, both in europe and in america, was the exception, and not the rule; the book was generally praised, and sprang into an instant sale that encouraged and cheered me. mr. whitely was immensely gratified at the sudden reputation it achieved for him, and even while drinking deep of the mead of fresh authorship told me he thought he would publish another book. i knew it was an opportunity to make more money, but for some reason i felt unequal to beginning anew on what would be a purely mercenary task. i mentioned my plan of a work on the moors, and promised, when i felt able to commence it, i would talk with him about terms. that was three months ago, yet every day i seem to feel less inclination, and in fact less ability, to undertake the labor. for three years i have toiled to the utmost of my strength, and forced myself to endure the most rigid economy. it is cowardly, but at times i find myself hoping my present want of spirit and energy is the forerunner of an illness which will end the hopeless struggle. good-night, dear heart. xvii _march ._ each day i determine to spend my evening usefully, but try as i may, when the time comes i feel too weary to do good work, and so morbidly recur to these memories. i ought to fight the tendency, the more that in reverting to the past i seem only to dwell on its sadness, thus intensifying my own depression. let me see if i cannot for one night write of the good fortune that has come to me in the last three years. pleased with the success of my book of travel and text-books, and knowing of my wish for work, the american publishers offered me the position of assistant editor of their magazine and reader of manuscripts. by hard work and late hours the task could be done in my mornings and evenings, allowing me to continue in mr. whitely's employ; so i eagerly accepted the position. i can imagine few worse fates than reading the hopeless and impossible trash that comes to every publisher; but this was not my lot, for i was to read only the manuscripts that had been winnowed of the chaff. yet this very immunity, as it proved, nearly lost me an opportunity of trying to be of service to you. returning a bundle of stuff to the manuscript clerk one day, i saw "m. walton, madison avenue, new york city," in your handwriting, on the cover of a bulky pile of sheets on his desk. startled, i demanded, "what is this?" "it's a rejected manuscript i was on the point of wrapping to return," the clerk answered. opening the cover, i saw, "a woman's problem, a novel, by aimez lawton." it needed little perception to detect your name in the anagram. "mrs. graham has rejected it?" i asked, and he nodded. "give me the file about it, please," i requested; and after a moment's search he handed me the envelope, and i glanced over its meagre contents: a brief formal note from you, submitting it, and the short opinion of the woman reader. "traces of amateurishness, but a work of considerable power and feeling, marred by an inconclusive ending," was the epitome of her opinion, coupled with the recommendation not to accept. "register it on my list, and i'll take it and look it over," i said, and went to my little editorial cuddy, feeling actually rich in the possession of the manuscript. indeed, it was all i could do to go through my morning quota of proof-reading and "making up" dummy forms for the magazine's next issue, i was so eager for your book. a single reading told me you had put the problem of your life into the story. it is true the heroine was different enough in many respects to make analogy hardly perceptible, though she too was a tender, noble woman. she had never felt the slightest responsive warmth for any of her lovers, but she was cramped by the social conventions regarding unmarried women, and questioned whether her life would not be more potent if she married, even without love. one of her lovers was a man of force, brains, wealth, and ambition, outwardly an admirable match, respected by the world, and, most of all, able to draw about him the men of genius and intellect she wished to know, but whom her society lot debarred her from meeting. yet your heroine was conscious of faults: she felt in him a touch of the soil that repels every woman instinctively; at times his nature seemed hard and unsympathetic, and his scientific work, for which he was famous, had narrowed his strong mind to think only of facts and practicalities, to the exclusion of everything ideal or beautiful. in the end, however, his persistent wooing convinced her of the strength of his feeling; and though she was conscious that she could never love him as she wished to love, the tale ended by her marrying him. am i to blame for reading in this the story of mr. whitely's courtship of you? i only marveled at how much of his true character you had detected under his veneer. to me the story was sweet and noble. i loved your heroine from beginning to end. she was so strong even in her weaknesses; for you made her no unsubstantial ideal. i understood her craving something more than her allotted round of social amusements, and her desire for intercourse and friendship with finer and more purposeful people than she daily met. i even understood her willingness to accept love, when not herself feeling it; for my own life was so hungry-hearted that i had come to yearn for the slightest tenderness, no matter who the giver might be. as soon as i realized that the story was your own, i hoped it might tell me something of your thoughts of my father and myself; but that part of your life you passed over as if it never had been. was the omission due to too much feeling or too little? i have always suspected that i served as a model for one of your minor characters: a dreamy, unsocial being, curiously variable in mood; at times talking learnedly and even wittily, but more often absolutely silent. he was by profession an artist, and you made him content to use his talent on book and magazine illustration, apparently without a higher purpose in life than to earn enough to support himself, in order that he might pass the remainder of his time in an intellectual indulgence scarcely higher in motive than more material dissipation. his evident sadness and lack of ambition was finally discovered to be due to a disappointment in love; and as a cure, your heroine introduced him to her best friend,--a young girl,--and through her influence he was roused to some ambition, and in the end he dutifully fell in love as your heroine wished. it was a sketch that made me wince, and yet at which i could not help but laugh. i suppose it was a true picture, and i am quite conscious that at times i must seem ridiculous to you; for often my mood is such, or my interest in you is so strong, that i forget even the ordinary courtesies and conventions. there is a general idea that a lover is always at his best when with the woman he loves, but, from my own experience, i think he is quite as likely to be at his worst. to watch your graceful movements, to delight in the play of expression on your face, and to catch every inflection in your voice and every word you speak are pleasures so engrossing to me that i must appear to you even more abstracted than i ordinarily am, though a dreamer at best. and yet now and then i have thought you were conscious of a tenderness in me, which, try as i will, i cannot altogether hide. the main fault of the novel was unquestionably that most accented by the reader, and, recognizing the story as the problem of your life, i understood why you supplied no solution to the riddle. you begged the question you propounded; the fact that your heroine married the hero being no answer, since only by the results of that marriage would it be possible to say if she had chosen the better part. it was this that convinced me you were putting on paper your own thoughts and mood. you were debating this theme, and could carry it in imagination to the point of marriage; but what lay beyond that was unknowable, and you made no attempt to invent a conclusion, the matter being too real to you to be merely a subject for artistic idealism and invention. hitherto i had classed mr. whitely with your other lovers, feeling sure that you could not love him any more than you could any of them; but now for the first time i began to fear his success. after reading the story three times i carried it back to the manuscript clerk; and when i had allowed sufficient time for it to be returned, i wrote you a long letter, telling how i had come to read the story, and making a careful criticism and analysis of both its defects and its merits. i cannot tell you what a labor of love that letter was, or how much greater pains i took over your book than i have ever taken over any writing of my own. what was perhaps unfair, after pointing out the inconclusiveness of your ending, i sketched what i claimed was the logical end to the story. thinking as i did that i knew the original in your mind, i was more influenced by my knowledge of him than i was by the character in your book, and therefore possibly my inference was unjust. but in hopes of saving you from mr. whitely, i pictured a sequel in which your heroine found only greater loneliness in her loveless union, her husband's love proving a tax, and not a boon; and marriage, instead of broadening her life, only bent and narrowed it by just so much as a strong-willed and selfish man would inevitably cramp the life of one over whom law and public opinion gave him control. i was richly rewarded by your letter of thanks. you were so winning in your sweet acceptance of all my criticisms, and so lovable in your simple gratitude, that i would have done a thousand times the work to earn such a letter. yet even in this guerdon i could not escape the sting of my unhappy lot; for, unable to reconcile my distant conduct with the apparent trouble i had taken, you asked me to dinner, leaving me to select the day, and spoke of the pleasure it would give you to have an opportunity to talk over the book with me. i can think of few greater delights than to have gone over your story, line by line and incident by incident. my love pleaded with me to take the chance, pointing out that it would do you no harm, but on the contrary aid you, and i found a dozen specious reasons; but tempt me as they might, i always came back to the truth that if you knew who i really was you would not invite me, nor accept a favor at my hands. in the end i wrote you that my time was so mortgaged that i must deny myself the pleasure. a small compensation was my offer that if you chose to rewrite the story and send me the manuscript, i would gladly read it over again and make any further suggestions which occurred to me. you thanked me by letter gracefully, but i was conscious of your bewilderment in the very care with which you phrased your note; and when next we met i could see that i had become more an enigma than ever,--for which there is indeed small wonder. god keep you, my darling. xviii _march ._ what seemed my misfortune proved quite the reverse. you evidently mentioned to agnes my refusing to dine with you, and the next time i saw her she took me to task for it. "it's too bad of you," she told me, "when i have explained to you how sensitive maizie is, and how she has the idea that nice men do not like her, that you should go and confirm her in the feeling by treating her so! why don't you like her?" "i do," was all i said. "no, you don't," she denied indignantly. "i suppose men dislike fine women because they make them feel what poor things they are themselves!" "i like you, miss blodgett," i replied. "i don't believe it," she retorted, "or you would be nice to my best friend. besides, the idea of mentioning me in the same breath as maizie! men are born geese." "then you should pity rather than upbraid us," i suggested. "i'll tell you what i intend to do," went on agnes. "you promised us a visit this summer, and i am going to arrange for maizie to be there at the time, so that you can really get to know her. and then, if you don't like her, i'll never forgive you." "now, agnes," ordered mrs. blodgett crossly, "stop teasing the doctor. i'm fond of maizie, but i'm fairly tired with men falling in love with her, and i am glad to find one who hasn't." all last spring and summer, as i toiled over the proof sheets of my history, i was waiting and dreaming of that promised fortnight with you. i was so eager in my hope that when i found agnes at the station, it was all i could do not to make my greeting a question whether you were visiting them. luckily, she was almost as eager as i was, and hardly was i seated in the trap when she announced,-- "mamma wanted to ask you when we were alone, and wouldn't hear at first of even maizie being with us; but i told papa of my plan, and he insisted that maizie should be invited. wasn't he an old love? and now, dr. hartzmann, you'll try to like maizie, won't you? and even if you can't, just pretend that you do, please." if the groom had not mounted the rumble at this point, i believe i should have told her of my love for you, the impulse was so strong, in my gratitude and admiration for the unselfish love she had for you. a result of this misunderstanding was an amusing game of cross-purposes between mother and daughter. agnes was always throwing us together, scarcely attempting to veil her wishes, while mrs. blodgett, thinking that i did not care for you, was always interfering to save me from your society. she proposed that i should teach agnes chess, and left us playing; but when you joined us, agnes insisted that she could learn more by watching us, only to play truant the moment you had taken her place. i shall never forget mrs. blodgett's amazement and irritation, on her return, at finding us playing, and agnes not to be seen. equally unsuccessful was an attempt to teach agnes fencing, for she grew frightened before the foils had really been crossed, and made you take her place. at first i imagined she only pretended fear, but mrs. blodgett became so very angry over her want of courage that i had to think it genuine. when we went to drive as a party there was always much discussion as to how we should sit; and in fact my two friends kept at swords' points most of the time, in their endeavors to make me tolerate or save me from the companionship of the woman i loved. even i could see the comedy of the situation. in one of our conversations you reverted to your novel, and questioned my view of the impossibility of the heroine being happy in her marriage, evidently influenced, but not convinced, by my opinion. "to me it is perfectly conceivable," you argued, "that, regardless of her loving, a woman can be as happy married as single, and that it all depends upon what she makes of her own life." "but in marriage," i contended, "she is not free to make her life at all." "surely she is if her husband truly loves her." "less so than if he does not." "you are not in earnest?" "yes. love makes women less selfish, but with many men it often has the opposite effect. the man you drew, miss walton, was so firm that he would not be other than selfish, and if my reading of your heroine is correct, she was a woman who would resign her own will, rather than lower her self-respect by conflicts with her husband." "but he loved her." "in a selfish man's way. if women knew better what that meant, there would be fewer unhappy marriages." "then you are sure my heroine did wrong?" "i think she did what thousands of other women have done,--she married the love rather than the lover." "no. i did not intend that. she married for quite other things than love: for greater freedom, for"-- "would she have married," i interrupted, "if she had not been sure that the hero loved her?" you thought an instant, and then said, "no, i suppose not--and yet"--you stopped, and then continued impulsively, "i wonder if i shall shock you very much if i say that i have no faith in what we call love?" "you do not shock me, miss walton, because i do not believe you." "it is true, nevertheless. perhaps it is my own fault, but i have never found any love that was wholly free from self-indulgence or self-interest." "if you rate love so low, why did you make your heroine crave it?" "one can desire love even when one cannot feel it." "does one desire what one despises?" "to scorn money does not imply a preference for poverty." "the scorn of money is as genuine as your incapacity to love, miss walton." "you do not believe me?" "a person incapable of love does not crave it. it is only a loving nature which cares for love." "but if one cannot love, how can one believe in it?" "the unlighted torch does not believe in fire." "but some substances are incombustible." "the sun melts anything." "the sun is trans-terrestrial." "so is love." you looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, "is love so much to you?" "love is the only thing worth striving for in this life," i replied. "and if one fails to win it?" "one cannot fail, miss walton." "why not?" "because the best love is in one's own heart and depends only on one's self." "and if one has loved," you responded hurriedly, with a mistiness in your eyes which proved how deeply you were feeling, "if one gives everything--only to find the object base--if"--you stopped speaking and looked away. "one still has the love, miss walton; for it is that which is given, and not that which is received, that is worth the having." i faltered in my emotion, and then, almost unconscious of what i said, went on: "for many years i have loved,--a love from the first impossible and hopeless. yet it is the one happiness of my present life, and rather than"--i recovered control of myself, and became silent as i heard mrs. blodgett coming along the veranda. you leaned forward, saying softly, "thank you for the confidence." then, as mrs. blodgett joined us, you said, "i envy you your happiness, dr. hartzmann." "what happiness is that?" asked mrs. blodgett, glancing from one to the other curiously. "dr. hartzmann," you explained calmly, without a trace of the emotion that had moved you a moment before, "has been proving to me that all happiness is subjective, and as i have never been able to rise to such a height i am very envious of him." "i don't know what you mean," remarked mrs. blodgett. "but if the doctor wants to know what real happiness is, he had better marry some nice girl and have his own home instead of living in a boarding-house." you laughed, and added, "now our happiness becomes objective. perhaps it is the best, after all, dr. hartzmann." "do _you_ think so, miss walton?" i asked, unable to prevent an emphasis in the question. you rose, saying, "i must dress for dinner." but in the window you turned, and answered, "i have always thought it was, but there are evident exceptions, dr. hartzmann, and after what you have told me i think you are one of them." "and not yourself?" i could not help asking. you held up your hand warningly. "when the nature of dolls is too deeply questioned into, they are found to contain only sawdust." "and we often open the oyster, to find sometimes a pearl." "the result of a morbid condition," you laughed back. "better disease and a pearl than health without it." "but suppose one incapable of the ailment? should one be blamed if no pearl forms?" "an eastern poet said:-- diving and finding no pearl in the sea, blame not the ocean,--the fault is in thee. have you ever tried to find a pearl, miss walton?" you hesitated a moment. "like the englishman's view of the conundrum," you finally parried archly, "that would be a good joke if there only wasn't something to 'guess' in it." "do you know what maizie is talking about?" demanded mrs. blodgett discontentedly. "better than miss walton does herself, i think," i averred. you had started to go, but again you turned, and asked with interest, "what _do_ i mean?" "that you believe what you think you don't." you stood looking at me for a moment. "we are becoming friends, dr. hartzmann," you affirmed, and passed through the window. good-night, dear friend. xix _march ._ for the remainder of my visit, it seemed as if your prophecy of friendship were to be fulfilled. from the moment of my confidence to you, all the reserves that had been raised by my slighting of your invitations disappeared, perhaps because the secret i had shared with you served to make my past conduct less unreasonable; still more, i believe, because of the faith in you it evidenced in me. certain i am that in the following week i felt able to be my true self when with you, for the first time since we were boy and girl together. the difference was so marked that you commented on the change. "do you remember," you asked me, "our conversation in mr. whitely's study, when i spoke of how little people really knew one another? here we have been meeting for over three years, and yet i find that i haven't in the least known you." it is a pleasure to me to recall that whole conversation, for it was by far the most intimate that we ever had,--so personal that i think i should but have had to question to learn what i long to know. in response to my slight assistance, to the sympathy i had shown, you opened for the moment your heart; willing, apparently, that i should fathom your true nature. we had gone to dinner at the grangers' merely to please mrs. blodgett, for we mutually agreed that in the country formal dinners were a weariness of the flesh; and i presume that with you, as with me, this general objection of ours was greatly strengthened when we found mrs. polhemus among the guests. it is always painful to me to be near her, and her dislike of you is obvious enough to make me sure that her presence is equally disagreeable to you. it is a strange warp and woof life weaves, that i owe to one for whom we both feel such repulsion the most sympathetic, the tenderest conversation i have ever had with you. i was talking with miss granger, and thus did not hear the beginning of my mother's girds at you; but agnes, who sat on my left, told me later that, as usual, mrs. polhemus set out to bait you by remarks superficially inoffensive, but covertly planned to embarrass or sting. the first thing which attracted my notice was her voice distinctly raised, as if she wished the whole table to listen, and in fact loud enough to make miss granger stop in the middle of a sentence and draw our attention to the speaker. "--sound very well," mrs. polhemus was saying, "and are to be expected from any one who strives to be thought romantically sentimental." "i did not know," you replied in a low voice, "that a 'romantically sentimental' nature was needed to produce belief in honesty." "it is easy enough to talk the high morals of honesty," retorted your assailant, "and i suppose, miss walton, that for you it is not difficult to live up to your conversational ideals. but we unfortunate earthly creatures, who cannot achieve so rarefied a life, dare not make a parade of our ethical natures. the saintly woman is an enormously difficult rôle to play since miracles went out of style." "oh, leave us an occasional ideal, mrs. polhemus," laughed a guest. "i for one wish that fairy rings and genii were still the vogue." "but we have some kinds of miracles," asserted mrs. granger. "remember the distich,-- 'god still works wonders now and then: behold! two lawyers, honest men!'" "with all due deference to miss walton's championing of absolute perfection," continued my mother, with a cleverly detached manner, to veil what lay back of the sneer, "i find it much easier to accept the miracle of an honest lawyer than that of an absolutely uncattish woman,"--a speech which, like most of those of mrs. polhemus, drew a laugh from the men. "that's because you don't know miss walton!" exclaimed agnes warmly, evidently fretted by such conduct towards you. "on the contrary," answered my mother, speaking coolly and evenly, "i presume i have known miss walton longer and better than any one else in this room; and i remember when her views of honesty were such that her ideal was personified by a pair of embezzlers." you had been meeting her gaze across the table as she spoke, but now you dropped your lids, hiding your eyes behind their long lashes; and nothing but the color receding from your cheeks, leaving them as white as your throat and brow, told of what you felt. "oh, say something," appealed agnes to me in a whisper. "anything to divert the"-- "and i really think," went on mrs. polhemus, smiling sweetly, with her eyes on you, "that if you were as thoroughly honest with us as, a moment ago, you were insistent on the world's being, you would confess to a _tendresse_ still felt for that particular form of obliquity." i shall recall the moment which followed that speech if it shall ever fall to me to sit in the jury-box and pass judgment on a murderer, for i know that had i been armed, and my mother a man, i should have killed her; and it taught me that murder is in every man's heart. yet i was not out of my head, but was curiously clear-minded. though allusion to my shame had hitherto always made me dumb, i was able to speak now without the slightest difficulty; i imagine because the thought of your pain made me forget my own. "which is better, mrs. polhemus," i asked, with a calmness i marveled at afterwards, "to love dishonesty or to dishonestly love?" "is this a riddle?" she said, though not removing her eyes from you. "i suppose, since right and wrong are evolutionary," i rejoined, "that every ethical question is more or less of a conundrum. but the thought in my mind was that there is only nobility in a love so great that it can outlast even wrongdoing." then, in my controlled passion, i stabbed her as deeply as i could make words stab. "compare such a love, for instance, with another of which i have heard,--that of a woman who so valued the world's opinion that she would not get a divorce from an embezzling husband, because of the social stigma it involved, yet who remarried within a week of hearing of her first husband's death, because she thought that fact could not be known. which love is the higher?" the color blazed up in my mother's cheeks, as she turned from you to look at me, with eyes that would have killed if they could; and it was her manner, far more than even the implication of my words, which told the rest of the table that my nominally impersonal case was truly a thrust of the knife. a moment's appalling pause followed, and then, though the fruit was being passed, the hostess broke the terrible spell by rising, as if the time had come for the ladies to withdraw. when, later, the men followed them, agnes intercepted me at the door, and whispered, "oh, doctor, it was magnificent! i was so afraid maizie would break down if--i never dreamed you could do it so splendidly. you're almost as much of a love as papa! it will teach the cat to let maizie alone! now, do you want to be extra good?" "so long as you don't want any more vitriol-throwing," i assented, smiling. "remember that a hostess deserves some consideration." "i told mrs. granger that you did it at my request, and there wasn't a woman in the room who didn't want to cheer. we all love maizie, and hate mrs. polhemus; and it isn't a bit because you geese of men think she's handsome and clever, either. poor maizie wanted to be by herself, and went out on the veranda. i think she's had time enough, and that it's best for some one to go to her. won't you slip out quietly?" i nodded, and instantly she spoke aloud of the moon, and we went to the french window on the pretense of looking at it, where, after a moment, i left her. at first i could not discover you, the vines so shadowed your retreat; and when i did, it was to find you with bowed head buried in your arms as they rested on the veranda rail. the whole attitude was so suggestive of grief that i did not dare to speak, and moved to go away. just as i turned, however, you looked up, as if suddenly conscious of some presence. "i did not intend to intrude, miss walton, and don't let me disturb you. i will rejoin"-- "if you came out for the moonlight and quiet, sit down here," you said, making room for me. i seated myself beside you, but made no reply, thinking your allusion to quiet perhaps voiced your own preference. "it seems needless," you began, after a slight pause, "to ignore your kindness, even though it was veiled. i never felt so completely in another's power, and though i tried to--to say something--to strike back--i couldn't. did my face so betray me that you knew i needed help?" "your face told nothing, it seemed to me." "but that makes it positively uncanny. over and over again you appear to divine my thoughts or moods. do you?" "little more than any one can of a person in whom one is interested enough to notice keenly." "yet no one else does it with me. and several times, when we have caught each other's eyes, we have--at least i have felt sure that you were laughing with me, though your face was grave." "who was uncannily mind-reading then?" "an adequate _tu quoque_," you said, laughing; then you went on seriously; "still, to be frank, as now i think we can be, i have never made any pretense that i wasn't very much interested in you--while you--well--till very lately, i haven't been able to make up my mind that you did not actually--no, not dislike--for i knew that you--i could not be unconscious of the genuine esteem you have made so evident--yet there has always been, until the last two weeks, an indefinable barrier, of your making, as it appeared to me, and from that i could only infer some--i can give it no name." "were there no natural barriers to a friendship between a struggling writer and miss walton?" "surely you are above that!" you exclaimed. "you have not let such a distinction--oh no, for it has not stood in the way of friendship with the blodgetts." a moment's silence ensued, and then you spoke again: "perhaps there was a motive that explains it. please don't reply, if it is a question i ought not to put, but after your confidence of last week i feel as if you had given me the privilege to ask it. i have always thought--or rather hoped--that you cared for agnes? if"-- "and so you married me to her in the novel," i interrupted, in an effort to change the subject, dreading to what it might lead. you laughed merrily as you said, "oh, i'm so glad you spoke of that. i have often wondered if you recognized the attempted portrait,--which now i know is not a bit of a likeness,--and have longed to ask you. i never should have dared to sketch it, but i thought my pen name would conceal my criminality; and then what a fatality for you to read it! i never suspected you were the publisher's reader. what have you thought of me?" "that you drew a very pleasant picture of my supposed mental and moral attainments, at the expense of my ambition and will. my true sympathy, however, went out to the girl whom you offered up as a heart-restorer for my earlier attachment." "i'm thankful we are in the shadow," you laughed, "so that my red cheeks don't show. you are taking a most thoroughgoing revenge." "that was the last thought in my mind." "then, my woman's curiosity having been appeased, be doubly generous and spare my absurd blushes. i don't know when i have been made to feel so young and foolish." "clearly you are no hardened criminal, miss walton. usually matchmakers glory in their shame." "perhaps i should if i had not been detected, or if i had succeeded better." "you took, i fear, a difficult subject for what may truly be called your maiden experiment." "did i not? and yet--you see i recognized potentialities for loving in you. you can--ah, you have suggested to me a revenge for your jokes. did you--were you the man who coined the phrase that my eyes were too dressy for the daytime?" "yes," i confessed guiltily, "but"-- "no, don't dare to try to explain it away," you ordered. "how could you say it? we can never be friends, after all." though you spoke in evident gayety, i answered gravely: "you will forgive me when i tell you that it was to parry a thrust of mrs. polhemus's at you, and i made a joke of it only because i did not choose to treat her gibe seriously. i hoped it would not come back to you." "every friend i have has quoted it, not once, but a dozen times, in my presence. if you knew how i have been persecuted and teased with that remark! you are twice the criminal that i have been, for at least my libel was never published. yet you are unblushing." we both sat silent for a little while, and then you began: "you interrupted a question of mine just now. was it a chance or a purposed diversion? you see," you added hastily, "i am presuming that henceforth we are to be candid." "i confess to an intention in the dodging, not because i feared the question, for a simple negative was all it needed, but i was afraid of what might follow." "i hoped, after the trust of the other day--you do not want to tell me your story?" "are there not some things that cannot be put into words, miss walton? could you tell me your story?" "but mine is no mystery," you replied. "it has been the world's property for years. why, your very help to-night proves that it is known to you,--that you know, indeed, facts that were unknown to me." "facts, yes; feelings, no." "do you appreciate the subtilty of the compliment? you really care for such valueless and indefinable things as feelings?" "yes." "a bargain, then, while you are in this mood of giving something for nothing. question for question, if you choose." "you can tell your secrets?" "to you, yes, for you have told me your greatest." "then, with the privilege of silence for both, begin." "ah, you begin already to fear the gimlet! yes. nothing is to be told that--there again we lack a definition, do we not? never mind. we shall understand. you knew her in germany?" "yes." "and she--you wear a mask, at moments even merry-faced, but now and again i have surprised a look of such sadness in your eyes that--is that why you came to america? she"-- "no. she was, and is, in so different a class, that i never"-- "you should not allow that to be a bar! any woman"-- "but even more, there are other claims upon me, which make marriage out of the question." "and this is why you have resigned reputation for money-making? is there no escape? oh, it seems too cruel to be!" "you draw it worse than it is, miss walton, forgetting that i told you of my happiness in loving." "you make me proud to feel that we are friends, dr. hartzmann," you said gently. "i hope she is worthy of such a love?" i merely nodded; and after a slight pause you remarked, "now it is only fair to give you a turn." i had been pondering, after my first impulsive assent, over my right to win your confidence, with the one inevitable conclusion that was so clear, and i answered, "i have no questions to ask, miss walton." "then i can ask no more, of course," you replied quietly, and at once turned the conversation into less personal subjects, until the time came for our return to my fancy. when we parted in the upper hall, that evening, you said to me, "i always value your opinion, and it usually influences me. do you, as your speech to-night implied, think it right to go on loving baseness?" "it is not a question of right and wrong, but only whether the love remains." "then you don't think it a duty to crush it out?" "no. all love is noble that is distinct from self." you held out your hand. "i am so glad you think so, and that you spoke your thought. you have done me a great kindness,--greater far than you can ever know. thank you, and good-night." good-night, maizie. xx _march ._ when i left my fancy, after my visit, agnes had nothing but praise for me. "i was certain that you and maizie would be friends if you ever really knew each other," she said triumphantly. unfortunately, our first meeting in the city served only to prove the reverse. in one of my daily walks up-town, i met you and agnes outside a shop where you had been buying christmas gifts for the boys of your neighborhood guild. you were looking for the carriage, about which there had been some mistake, and i helped you search. when our hunt was unsuccessful, you both said you would rather walk than let me get a cab, having been deterred only by the growing darkness, and not by the snow. so chatting merrily, away we went, through the elfin flakes which seemed so eager to kiss your cheeks, till your home was reached. "if we come in, will you give us some tea?" asked agnes. "tea, cake, chocolates, and conversation," you promised. "i am sorry," i said, "but i cannot spare the time." i thought you and agnes exchanged glances. "please, doc--" she began; but you interrupted her by saying proudly, "we must not take any more of dr. hartzmann's time, agnes. will you come in?" "no," replied agnes. "i'll go home before it's any darker. good-night." i started to walk with her the short distance, but the moment we were out of hearing she turned towards me and cried, "i hate you!" as i made no reply, she demanded impatiently, "what makes you behave so abominably?" when i was still silent she continued: "i told you how maizie felt, and i thought it was all right, and now you do it again. it's too bad! well, can't you say something? why do you do it?" "there is nothing for me to say, miss blodgett," i responded sadly. "you might at least do it to please me," she persisted, "even if you don't like maizie." i made no answer, and we walked the rest of the distance in silence. at the stoop, however, agnes asked, "will you go with me to call on maizie, some afternoon?" i shook my head. "not even to please mamma and me?" she questioned. again i gave the same answer, and without a word of parting she left me and passed through the doorway. from that time she has treated me coldly. another complication only tended to increase the coldness, as well as to involve me with mrs. blodgett. in december, mr. blodgett came into mr. whitely's office and announced, "i've been taking a liberty with your name, doctor." "for what kindness am i indebted now?" i inquired. "i'm a member of the philomathean," he said,--"not because i'm an author, or artist, or engineer, or scientist, but because i'm a big frog in my own puddle, and they want samples of us, provided we are good fellows, just to see what we're like. i was talking with professor eaton in september, and we agreed you ought to be one of us; so we stuck your name up, and saturday evening the club elected you." "i can't afford it"--i began; but he interrupted with:-- "i knew you'd say that, and so didn't tell you beforehand. i'll bet you your initiation fee and a year's dues against a share of r. t. common that you'll make enough out of your membership to pay you five times over." "how can i do that?" "all the editors and publishers are members," he replied, "and to meet them over the rum punch we serve on meeting nights is worth money to the most celebrated author living. then you'll have the best club library in this country at your elbow for working purposes." "i don't think i ought, mr. blodgett." he was about to protest, when mr. whitely broke in upon us, saying, "accept your membership, dr. hartzmann, and the paper shall pay your initiation and dues." i do not know whether mr. blodgett or myself was the more surprised at this unexpected and liberal offer. our amazement was so obvious that mr. whitely continued: "i think it'll be an excellent idea for the paper to have a member of its staff in the philomathean, and so the office shall pay for it." "whitely," observed mr. blodgett admiringly, "you're a good business man, whatever else you are!" "i wish, blodgett," inquired mr. whitely, "you would tell me why i have been kept waiting so long?" "many a name's been up longer than yours," replied mr. blodgett in a comforting voice. "you don't seem to realize that the philomathean's a pretty stiff club to get into." "but i've been posted for over three years, while here dr. hartzmann is elected within four months of his proposing." "well, the doctor has the great advantage of being a sort of natural philomath, you see," mr. blodgett explained genially. "he was born that way, and so is ripe for membership without any closet mellowing." "but my reputation as a writer is greater than dr."--began mr. whitely; but a laugh from mr. blodgett made him halt. "oh come, now, whitely!" "what's the matter?" asked my employer. "once st. peter and st. paul stopped at a tavern to quench their thirst," said mr. blodgett, "and when the time came to pay, they tossed dice for it. paul threw double sixes, and smiled. peter smiled back, and threw double sevens. what do you suppose paul said, whitely?" "what?" "'oh, peter, peter! no miracles between friends.'" "i don't follow you," rejoined mr. whitely. mr. blodgett turned and said to me, "i'm going west for two months, and while i'm gone the twelfth-night revel at the philomathean is to come off. will you see that the boss and agnes get cards?" then he faced about and remarked, "whitely, i'd give a big gold certificate to know what nerve food you use!" and went out, laughing. when i took the invitations to mrs. blodgett, i found you all with your heads full of a benefit for the guild, to be given at your home,--a musical evening, with several well-known stars as magnets, and admission by invitation as an additional attraction. mrs. blodgett said to me in her decisive way, "dr. hartzmann, the invitations are five dollars each, and you are to take one." i half suspected that it was only a device to get me within your doors, though every society woman feels at liberty to whitemail her social circle to an unlimited degree. but the fact that the entertainment was to be in your home, even more than my poverty, compelled me to refuse to be a victim of her charitable kindness or her charitable greed. i merely shook my head. "oh, but you must," she urged. "it will be a delightful evening, and then it's such a fine object." "do not ask it of dr. hartzmann," you protested, coming to my aid. "no one"-- "i'm sure it's very little to ask," remarked mrs. blodgett, in a disappointed way. "mrs. blodgett," i said, in desperation, "for years i have denied myself every luxury and almost every comfort. i have lived at the cheapest of boarding-houses; i have walked down-town, rain or shine, to save ten cents a day; i have"--i stopped there, ashamed of my outbreak. "i suppose, dr. hartzmann," retorted agnes, with no attempt to conceal the irritation she felt toward me, "that the philomathean is one of your ten-cent economies?" before i could speak you changed the subject, and the matter was dropped,--i hoped for all time. it was, however, to reappear, and to make my position more difficult and painful than ever. at mrs. blodgett's request, made that very day, i sent you an invitation to the philomathean ladies' day. it was with no hope of being there myself, since my editorial duties covered the hours of the exhibition; but good or bad fortune aided me, for mr. whitely asked me for a ticket, and his absence from the office set me free. the crowd was great, but, like most people who try for one thing only, i attained my desire by quickly finding you, and we spent an enjoyable hour together, studying the delicious jokes and pranks of our artist members. the truly marvelous admixture of absurdity and cleverness called out the real mirth of your nature, and our happiness and gayety over the pictures strangely recalled to me our similar days spent in paris and elsewhere. you too, i think, remembered the same experience, for when we had finished, and were ascending the stairs to the dining-room, you remarked to me, "i never dreamed that one could be so merry after one had ceased to be a child. for the last hour i have felt as if teens were yet unventured lands." i confess i sought a secluded spot in an alcove, hoping still to keep you to myself; but the project failed, for when i returned from getting you an ice, i found that mr. whitely had joined you. the pictures, of course, were the subject of discussion, and you asked him, "are all the other members as clever in their own professions as your artists have shown themselves to be?" "the philomathean is made up of an able body of men," replied mr. whitely in a delightfully patronizing tone. "some few of the very ablest, perhaps, do not care to be members; but of the second rank, you may say, broadly speaking, that it includes all men of prominence in this city." "but why should the abler men not belong?" "they are too occupied with more vital matters," explained my employer. "yet surely they must need a club, and what one so appropriate as this?" "it is natural to reason so," assented the would-be member. "but as an actual fact, some of the most prominent men in this city are not members," and he mentioned three well-known names. the inference was so unjust that i observed, "should you not add, mr. whitely, that they are not members either because they know it is useless to apply, or because they have applied in vain; and that their exclusion, though superficially a small affair, probably means to them, by the implication it carries, one of the keenest mortifications of their lives?" "you mean that the philomathean refuses to admit such men as mr. whitely named?" you asked incredulously. i smiled. "the worldly reputation and the professional reputation of men occasionally differ very greatly, miss walton. we do not accept a man here because his name appears often in the newspapers, but because of what the men of his own calling know and think of him." "and of course they are always jealous of a man who has surpassed them," contended mr. whitely. "there must be something more against a man than envy of his confrères to exclude him," i answered. "my loyalty to the philomathean, miss walton, is due to the influence it exerts in this very matter. errors are possible, but the intention is that no man shall be of our brotherhood who is not honestly doing something worth the doing, for other reasons than mere money-making. and for that very reason, we are supposed, within these walls, to be friends, whether or not there is acquaintance outside of them. we are the one club in new york which dares to trust its membership list implicitly to that extent. charlatanry and dishonesty may succeed with the world, but here they fail. money will buy much, but the poorest man stands on a par here with the wealthiest." "you make me envious of you both," you sighed, just as mrs. blodgett and agnes joined us. "what are you envying them?" asked agnes, as she shook hands with you,--"that they were monopolizing you? how selfish men are!" "in monopolizing this club?" "was that what you envied them?" ejaculated mrs. blodgett. "i for one am glad there's a place to which i can't go, where i can send my husband when i want to be rid of him." then she turned to mr. whitely, and with her usual directness remarked, "so they've let you in? mr. blodgett told me you would surely be rejected." mr. whitely reddened and bit his lip, for which he is hardly to be blamed. but he only bowed slightly in reply, leaving the inference in your minds that he was a philomath. how the man dares so often to-- the striking clock tells me it is later than i thought, and i must stop. good-night, dear heart. xxi _march ._ our talk at the philomathean and mr. whitely's tacit assumption of membership had their penalty for me,--a penalty which, to reverse the old adage, i first thought an undisguised blessing. when we separated, he asked me to dinner the following evening, to fill in a place unexpectedly left vacant; and as i knew, from a chance allusion, that you were to be there, i accepted a courtesy at his hands. although there were several celebrities at the meal, it fell to my lot to sit on your right; my host, who took you down, evidently preferring to have no dangerous rival in your attention. but mrs. blodgett, who sat on his other side, engaged him as much as she chose, and thus gave me more of your time than i should otherwise have had. if you knew how happy it made me that, whenever she interrupted his monopoly of you, instead of making a trialogue with them, you never failed to turn to me! "i have just re-read mr. whitely's book," you remarked, in one of these interruptions, "and i have been trying to express to him my genuine admiration for it. i thought of it highly when first i read it, last autumn, but on a second reading i have become really an enthusiast." i suppose my face must have shown some of the joy your words gave me, for you continued, "clearly, you like it too, and are pleased to hear it praised. but then it's notorious that writers are jealous of one another! tell me what you think of it?" i tried to keep all bitterness out of my voice as i laughed. "think how unprofessional it would be in me to discuss my employer's book: if i praised it, how necessary; if i disparaged it, how disloyal!" "you are as unsatisfactory as mr. whitely," you complained. "i can't get him to speak about it, either. he smiles and bows his head to my praise, but not a word can he be made to say. evidently he has a form of modesty--not stage fright, but book fright--that i never before encountered. every other author i have met was fatiguingly anxious to talk about his own writings." "remember in our behalf that a book stands very much in the same relation to a writer that a baby does to its mother. we are tolerant of her admiration; be equally lenient to the author's harmless prattle." "i suppose, too," you went on, "that the historian is less liable to the disease, because his work is so much less his own flesh and blood; so much less emotional than that of the poet or novelist." "no book worth reading ever fails to be steeped with the spirit of the person who wrote it. the man on the stage is instinct with emotion and feeling, but does he express more of his true individuality than the man in real life? the historian puts fewer of his own feelings into his work, but he plays far less to the gallery, and so is more truthful in what he reveals of himself." "your simile reminds me of a thought of my own, after my first reading of this book: that the novelist is the demagogue of letters, striving to please, and suing for public favor by catering to all its whims and weaknesses; but the historian is the aristocrat of literature, knowing the right, and proudly above taking heed of popular prejudice or moods. i liked mr. whitely's book for many things, but most of all for its fearless attitude towards whatever it touched upon. i felt that it was the truth, because the whole atmosphere told me that a man was writing, too brave to tell what was untrue. that evidently pleases you, again," you laughed. "oh, it is horrible to see this consuming jealousy!" when the ladies withdrew, the men, as usual, clustered at one end of the table; but my host beckoned me to join him, and sat down apart from his guests. "dr. hartzmann, what is the matter at the philomathean?" he demanded, in a low voice. "matter?" i questioned. "yes. what is the reason they don't elect me?" "i am not on the membership committee, mr. whitely," i replied. "are you popular up there? mr. blodgett said that you were." "i have some good friends," i answered. "then electioneer and get me put in," he explained, revealing to me in a flash why he had volunteered that the paper should pay the expenses of my membership. "i am hardly in a position to do that." "why not?" "i am a new member, and my position under you is so well known that it would be very indelicate in me to appear in the matter." "for what do you suppose i helped you, then?" he asked severely. "i did not understand till now." "well, then, drop your talk about delicacy, and get your friends to elect me." "i do not think i can do that," i answered mildly. "then you won't earn your pay?" "mr. whitely, when you made the offer, you put it on an entirely different ground, and it is unfair to claim that it involved any condition that was not then expressed." "but you ought to be willing to do it. haven't you any gratitude about you?" "i understood that you wanted one of your staff a member of that club. had you mentioned your present motive, i should certainly have refused to accept the offer; and under these circumstances i decline to recognize any cause for gratitude." "what is your objection to doing it, though?" he persisted. "indeed, mr. whitely, i do not think i am called upon to say more than i have said." "do you want me in the club or not?" he demanded. "i shall certainly never oppose your election in any way whatsoever." "but you will not work for me?" "no." "are you waiting to see how much i'll give?" my hand trembled at the insult, but i made no reply. "come," he continued, "are you standing out in hopes i will offer you something?" "no." "how much?" he asked. "i have been elected to the philomathean, mr. whitely," i said, concluding that an explanation might be the easiest escape, after all, "and to it i owe a distinct duty. if you were not my employer, i should feel called upon to work against you." "why?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "is it necessary to say?" i answered. "yes. what is your objection to me?" "did you never read Æsop's fable of the jackdaw?" i asked. "that's it, is it? and you are opposing my election?" "by not the slightest act." "then why did blodgett predict that i would surely be rejected? i've a reputation as a writer, as a philanthropist, and as a successful business man. what more do they want?" "as i told miss walton yesterday," i explained, "a man's true and eventual reputation depends, not on what the world thinks of him, but on what his fellow-craft decide." "well?" "there is scarcely an author or editor at the philomathean who is not opposed to your election, mr. whitely." "you have been telling tales," he muttered angrily. "you should know better." "then what have they against me?" "any man who works with his pen learns that no one can write either editorials or books, of the kind credited to you, without years of training. the most embarrassing ordeal i have to undergo is the joking and questioning with which the fraternity tease me. but you need never fear my not keeping faith." "yet you won't help me into the philomathean?" "no." "so you'll make money out of me, but think your club too good?" "i owe my club a duty." "i know," he went on smoothly, "that you're an awful screw, when there's a dollar in sight. how much do you want?" my silence should have warned him, but he was too self-absorbed to feel anything but his own mood. "how much do you want?" he repeated, and i still sat without speaking, though the room blurred, and i felt as if i were stifling. "the day i'm elected to the philomathean, i'll give you"-- i rose and interrupted him, saying, "mr. whitely, if you wish me to leave your house and employment, you can obtain my absence in an easier way than by insulting me." for a moment we faced each other in silence, and then he rose. "hereafter, dr. hartzmann, you will pay those dues yourself," he said in a low voice, as he moved towards the door. i only bowed, glad that the matter was so easily ended; and for nearly two months our relations have been of the most formal kind that can exist between employer and employed. far more bitter was another break. when the moment of farewell came, that evening, i waited to put you and mrs. blodgett into your carriages, and while we were delayed in the vestibule you thanked me again for the pleasure of the previous afternoon, and then continued: "i understand why you did not feel able to please mrs. blodgett about the concert. but won't you let me acknowledge the pleasure of yesterday by sending you a ticket? i have taken a number, and as all my circle have done the same, i am finding it rather difficult to get rid of them." "that's all right, maizie," interjected mrs. blodgett, who had caught, or inferred from an occasional word that she heard, what you were saying. "we took an extra ticket, and i am going to use the doctor for an escort that evening." "i thank you both," i answered, "but i shall not be able to attend the concert." "nonsense!" sniffed mrs. blodgett, as i helped her into her carriage. "you're going to do as i tell you." you did not speak in the moment we waited for your coupé to take its place, but as the tiger opened the door you looked in my face for the first time since my words, showing me eyes that told of the pain i had inflicted. "i am sorry," you said quietly. "i had thought--hoped--that we were to be friends." there was nothing for me to say, and we parted thus. from that time i have seen little of you, for when i meet you now you no longer make it possible for me to have much of your society. and my persistent refusal to go to the concert with mrs. blodgett and agnes increased their irritation against me, so that i am no longer asked to their home, and thus have lost my most frequent opportunity of meeting you. but harder even than this deprivation is the thought that i have given you pain; made all the greater, perhaps, because so ill deserved and apparently unreasonable. i find myself longing for the hour when we shall meet at that far-away tribunal, where all our lives, and not alone that which is seen, will stand revealed. for two months i have not had a single moment of happiness or even hope. i am lonely and weary, while my strength and courage seem to lessen day by day. oh, my darling, i pray god that thought of you will make me stronger and braver, that i may go on with my fight. good-night. xxii _march ._ last night, at the philomathean, mr. blodgett joined me, and asked me why i had not dined with them lately. he returned only a few days ago, and was thus ignorant that i have not been inside his door for weeks. i hesitated for an instant, and then replied, "i have been working very hard." "what are you usually doing?" he asked, smiling. "come in to sunday dinner to-morrow." "i shall be too busy with a lot of manuscripts i have on hand, that must be read," i told him. "stop killing yourself," he ordered. "as it is, you look as if you were on the brink of a bad illness. you won't get on a bit faster by dying young." there the matter rested, and i did not go to dinner to-day, being indeed glad to stay indoors; for i very foolishly walked up town yesterday through the slush, and caught a bad cold. while i was trying to keep warm, this evening, a note was brought me from mr. blodgett, asking me to come to him at once; and fearing something important, i braved the cold without delay, ill though i felt. i was shown at once into his den, which was so cheerful with its open fire that i felt it was a good exchange for my cold room, where i had sat coughing and shivering all the afternoon. "twice in my life i've really lost my temper with the boss," he began, before i had even sat down, though he closed the door while speaking. "never mind about the first time, but to-day i got mad enough to last me for the rest of my life." "may i sit down?" i interrupted. he nodded his head, and took a position in front of me, with his back to the fire, as he continued: "women are enough to make a man frantic when they get a fixed idea! now, to-day, at dinner, i said i'd invited you, and i saw in a moment something was in the wind; so when we had finished i told them to come in here, and it didn't take me long to find out the trouble." "i didn't like to"--i began; but he went on:-- "and that was the beginning of their trouble. i tell you, there was cain here for about ten minutes, and there weren't two worse scared women this side of the grave, while i was ranting; for the boss remembered the other time, and agnes had never seen me break loose. i told them they'd done their best to drive you crazy with grief; that if they'd searched for ten years they couldn't have found a meaner or crueler thing, or one that would have hurt you more; that nine men out of ten, in your shoes, would have acted dishonestly or cut their throat, but that you had toed the chalk-line right along, and never once winced. and i let them know that for five dollars they'd added the last straw of pain to a fellow who deserved only kindness and help from them." "really, mr. blodgett"--i protested. "hold on. don't attempt to stop me, for the fit's on me still," he growled. "they tried to come the surprised, and then the offended, but they didn't fool me. i never let up on them till i had said all i wanted to say, and they won't forget it for a day or two. when i sent agnes upstairs, she was sobbing her eyes out, and the boss would have given her pin money for ten years to have escaped with her." "it's too bad to"-- "that's just what it was!" he cried. "to think of those screws trying to blackmail you, and then telling me you were a skinflint because you wouldn't do what they wanted! well, after agnes had gone, i gave the boss a supplementary and special dose of her own. i told her she could double discount you on meanness, and then give you forty-nine points; and to make sure of good measurement, i added in the whole female sex along with her. i told her that if she knew the facts of your life, she'd get down on her knees and crawl round to your place to ask your pardon, and then she wouldn't be fit to have it. i told her that when the day of judgment came, she'd just go the other way in preference to hearing what the recording angel had written of her." "i am afraid that your intended kindness will make my welcome scantier than ever." "not a bit of it. i'm the master of this house, as they found out this afternoon, and i say who'll come into it, and who'll not. i shan't need to interfere in your case, for you'll get a warm welcome from both." "you didn't tell them?" i exclaimed, starting forward in my seat. "not a word, though the boss nearly went crazy with curiosity. but i did say that you were making a splendid up-hill fight, and if they knew the facts of the case they'd be proud to black your boots. my word goes in this family about as well as it does on the street, and you'll get all the welcome you can stand from now on." "you make me very proud and happy." "you have reason to be proud," he asserted. "i'm not a man who slobbers much, but i'm going to tell you what i think of you. when you first came here, i sized you up as rather a softy, your manner was so quiet and gentle. i got over that delusion precious quick, and i want to say that for pluck and grit you're a trump, and there's my hand on it." he went to the table, poured out a couple of glasses of whiskey and seltzer, and brought them to the fire. "you need something for that graveyard cough of yours," he said, handing one to me. "well," he went on, "i didn't bring you out such a night as this to tell you of my scrap; but after the row, the boss was so ashamed of herself that she trumped up an a excuse (as she thought) for having treated you as she had, and that led to a talk, and that's why i sent round for you. what do you suppose she has got into her head?" "i can't imagine." "i needn't tell you," he remarked, "that women always know an awful lot that isn't so. but just because they do, they every now and then discover a truth that can't be come at in any other way. now the boss thinks she's done this, and i'm not sure that she hasn't. she says you are in love." "i never knew a man who wasn't," i replied, trying to smile. "if it isn't with a woman, then it's always with himself." "but the boss thinks she knows the girl, and has a down on you because you--because you don't try for her." i laughed bitterly, and said, "you needed no explanation for that." "that's what made the boss's idea reasonable to me," he explained. "she couldn't conceive why you should keep silent, and so was ready to pitch into you on the slightest pretense. women haven't much use for a man who falls in love and doesn't say so. but of course i knew that your debt put marriage out of the question." i merely nodded my head, for even to him i could not speak of my love for you, it was so sacred to me. he drew up a chair to the fire, and continued: "there isn't another man to whom i'd care to say what i'm going to say to you, but you've got a heart and a head both, and won't misunderstand me." he finished his glass, and set it on the mantel. "now i don't have to tell you that the boss is fond of you, and when i told her that i knew of a reason why you couldn't marry, she forgave you on the spot. what's more, she first wished to learn what it was; and failing in that, she then wanted to know if it could be remedied, so that you might have a chance to win the girl." "she of course knows nothing of my position?" "no," he said, "but she knows something of your character, and she's ordered me that, if it's possible, i'm to help you get the girl you care for." "but my debt!" i exclaimed. "how much is it now?" he queried. "one hundred and eighteen thousand." "well, i'll lend agnes's husband one hundred and eighteen thousand dollars at three per cent, and leave her the note when i die. from what i know of marriage, i venture to assert that if she squeezes him for payment it will be his own fault." i sat speechless for a moment, too bewildered by the unexpected turn to even think. "i was as surprised as you look," he went on, "for although i had seen that you and agnes"-- "indeed, mr. blodgett," i exclaimed hastily, "i am no more to miss agnes than a dozen of her friends! i"-- "so the boss says," he interrupted. "but that doesn't mean that you can't be. though to speak the truth, my boy," he continued, resting his hand on my knee, "this wasn't my plan. i had hoped that you and maizie would take a shine to each other, and so kiss the chalk-marks off that old score. but when i spoke of the scheme to the boss, this evening, she told me there had never been a chance of it; that you didn't like mai, and that she is practically engaged to whitely, and is only--better have some more whiskey, or that cough will shake you to pieces." i could only shake my head in my misery, but after a moment i was able to say, "mr. blodgett, i did not understand--i"-- "i want to tell you," he broke in, "before you say anything more, that i never believe in putting one's fingers into love affairs, and i shouldn't in this case if the boss didn't feel so keen about it, but i don't choose to be the one to stand in her way. and now i'm not offering my daughter's hand. you know as well as i that agnes isn't the kind of girl who needs a prospectus or a gold clause to work her off. if she dropped her handkerchief to-morrow, fifty men would be scrambling for it, eh?" "yes." then i added, "and, mr. blodgett, i can't find the words to tell how i thank you both for such a compliment. if"-- "i knew you wouldn't misunderstand me," he went on. "it's a good deal of a start in life to be born a gentleman." "but, mr. blodgett," i said, "there has been a mistake. i--it is hard to say, but"--then i faltered. he looked at me keenly for a moment. "so the boss was wrong? it's only friendship, not love?" "just what she has given to me," i answered. "very well. then if you want to please the boss--and me--let that friendship grow into something better. but don't misunderstand me. you must win agnes, if she is won. we do nothing." "mr. blodgett, should you be willing to let me try to win miss agnes, if i tell you that i do not love her as a man should love the woman he seeks for his wife?" "marriage is a funny business," he responded. "now there's the boss. when i married her i thought she was so and so; little by little i found she wasn't; but by the time i had found it out i wouldn't have swapped her for ten of the women i had thought she was. some men have no business to marry unless they're pretty strongly attached, for they don't run steady; but you're a fellow that would keep in the traces no matter what happened, and before long you'd find yourself mighty fond of agnes. a sense of duty is about as good a basis to marry on, if there's natural sympathy and liking, as all this ideal make-believe. i don't think you dislike agnes, do you?" "indeed, no!" i exclaimed. "nobody could. she is too charming and sweet for any one to do that. miss agnes deserves far more than i can bring her. what have i to give in return for all this?" "you can settle that with agnes," he laughed; and then, as if to lessen my poverty in my own eyes, he kindly added, "in the first place, i'll get a son-in-law chock-full of heart and grit and brains; and i've had pretty good evidence that he isn't fortune-hunting, which is agnes's great danger. but that isn't all, and i want you to know i'm not a fool. i'm a big fellow down in wall street, and even on the royal exchange, but do you think i don't know my position? they kept me up over two years at the philomathean, and you four months. after you've worked ten years over books with your own name on them, you'll be received and kotowed to by people who wouldn't crook a finger to know me. you won't be famous as i am, for the number of naughts i can write after a figure, but your name will be known everywhere, and will be familiar long after mine has been forgotten. who were the bankers and rich men fifty years ago? there isn't one person in a thousand can tell you. but who hasn't heard of thackeray and hawthorne, macaulay and motley? my girl will have more money than she'll need; so if she gets a good husband, and one with reputation, she can't do better. don't you see i'm doing my level best for agnes, and making a regular jew bargain?" "perhaps miss agnes will not agree." "we've got to take that chance; but she likes you, and good women think a heap more of brains than they do of money. if you'll let me tell her your story, it won't be long before she'll take notice. i shouldn't have had to ask the boss twice if i'd had any such trump card as you've got, and she was a sight less tender-hearted than agnes!" "mr. blodgett," i said, "i can't tell you the gratitude i feel, but i must be frank." "hold on!" he cried. "i don't want you to say anything now. you are to take a week on it, and not give me your answer till the end. if you have half the gratitude in you that you pretend, you'll do as the boss wants." i had manned myself to tell him of my love for you, but i bowed assent, for indeed, i was too bewildered to think clearly, and was glad to have a respite. we shook hands without further parley, and i came back here, to cough and shiver while trying to think it all out. an hour ago i went to bed, but i was wakeful, and so sit here trying to write myself into sleepiness. i have thought out what my course must be. if it is true, as indeed i know it to be, that mr. whitely has won you, mr. blodgett shall have the truth. i shall tell him that i will put you out of my heart, as perforce i must, and that if he is still willing i will go to agnes, tell her too the whole truth, and promise her such love and devotion as i can give. so sweet a girl deserves far more, and i cannot believe that she will accept the little i can offer; but if she does, it shall be the labor of my life to be to her a true and tender husband. and even if she were not what she is, the thought that through her i have made reparation for the wrong done you will make easy both tenderness and love for her. for the last time, perhaps, i have the right to say, "good-night, my love." xxiii _march ._ after dinner this evening i went to see mrs. blodgett; for, miserable as i felt, my mental suffering was greater than my physical. the footman told me she had just gone upstairs to dress for a ball, but i sent her a message begging for a moment's interview; and when he returned, it was to take me to her boudoir,--a privilege which would in itself have shown me how thoroughly i was forgiven, even if her greeting had been less warm. in a few halting and broken sentences i told her of my love for you. she was so amazed that at first she seemed unable to believe me serious; and when i had persuaded her that i was in earnest, her perplexity and curiosity were unbounded. why had i behaved so? for what reason had i never called on maizie? such and many more were the questions she indignantly poured out, and she only grew more angry when i answered each by "i cannot tell you." finally, in her irritation, she demanded, "what have you bothered me for, then?" "i want you to tell me, if you have the right, whether miss walton is engaged to mr. whitely," i answered. "practically," she snapped. "she has told you so?" "i cannot tell you," she replied; adding, "how do you like your own medicine?" "mrs. blodgett," i pleaded, "if you understood what it means to me to know the truth, you would not use this to punish me for what i cannot help. if i could tell any one the story of my life, i should tell you; for next to--to one other, you are dearer to me than any living person. if you love me at all, do not torture me with a suspense that is unbearable." she came and sat down by me on the lounge, and took my hand, saying, "mr. whitely asked maizie to marry him four years ago, but she said she would not marry a business man. he wouldn't give up trying, however, though he made no apparent headway. indeed, maizie told me herself, last spring, just before she sailed, that she could never love him, and she was convinced that loveless marriages were wrong, being sure to end in unhappiness or sacrifice of one or the other. so i thought it would come to nothing. but he persisted, and he's succeeded, for she told me last week that she had changed her mind, and was going to marry him." "do you know why she has done so?" i asked drearily. "i think it is that book of his. not merely is she pleased by the position it's given him as a writer, but she says it has convinced her that he is different from what he appears in society; that no man but one of noble character and fine mind could write from such a standpoint." i sat there dumb and stolid, yet knowing that all my past suffering had been as nothing to this new grief. oh, my blindness and wickedness! to think, my darling, that it was i who had aided him to win you, that my hand had made and set the trap! why had i not ended my wretched existence three years ago, and so, at least, saved myself from this second wrong, tenfold worse than that i had endeavored to mend? for my own selfish pride and honor, i had juggled, deceived you, maizie, the woman dearer to me than all else, and had myself doomed you to such a fate. i suppose i must have shown some of the agony i felt, for mrs. blodgett put her hand on my shoulder. "don't take it so to heart, rudolph," she begged, giving me that name for the first time. "there can still be much true happiness in your life." i only kissed her hand in response, but she instantly pressed her lips on my forehead. "i am so sorry," she sighed, "for i had hoped for something very different." "mr. blodgett told me," i answered; and then i spoke of the resolution i had come to last night. when i had finished, she said, "we won't talk of it any more, rudolph, for agnes' sake as well as yours, but perhaps by and by, when the suffering is over, you will come and talk to me again; for if you ever feel that you can be a good husband to my girl, i shall not be afraid to trust her to you, if you can gain her consent." i rose to go, and she remarked, "yes. you mustn't stay, for as it is, my dressing will make us very late. if the carriage is at the door, tell maxwell to drive you home, and then return for us. you mustn't walk in the slush with that horrid cough of yours. does your landlady give you blankets enough? well, tell her to make a steaming glass of whiskey toddy. wrap some woolen round your throat and chest, and go straight to bed. why, rudolph, you are not going without kissing me good-night?" she continued, as if that had been my habit, adding, "some day i shall make you tell me all about it." i went downstairs, intending to follow her directions; but as i passed the drawing-room door i heard the piano, and thought i recognized, from the touch, whose fingers were straying at random over the keys. "isn't that miss walton?" i asked of the servant, as he brought me my hat and coat. "yes, dr. hartzmann. miss walton is to go to the ball with the ladies, and is waiting for them to come downstairs," he told me. i left him holding my coat, and passed noiselessly between the curtains of the portière. your back was turned to me as you sat at the instrument, and i stood in silence watching you as you played, till suddenly--was it sympathy, or only the consciousness of something alien?--you looked around. i should almost think it was the former, for you expressed no surprise at seeing me standing there, even though you rose. "don't let me interrupt you," i begged. "i was only beguiling the time i have to wait," you replied. "it will be a favor to me if you will go on," i said, and without another word, with that simple grace and sweetness natural to you, you resumed your seat and went on playing, while i sat down on the divan. your bent, like mine, was for some reason a sad one, and what you played reflected your mood, stirring me deeply and making me almost forget my misery. presently, however, i was seized with a paroxysm of coughing; and when i had recovered enough to be conscious of anything, i found you standing by me, looking both startled and compassionate. "you are ill, dr. hartzmann," you said, anxiously. "it is nothing," i managed to articulate. "can i do anything for you?" you asked. "nothing," i replied, rising, more wretched than ever, because knowing how little i deserved your sympathy. "it would be a pleasure to help you, dr. hartzmann, for i have never been able to show any gratefulness for your kindness over my book," you went on, with a touch of timidity in your tones, as if you were asking a favor rather than conferring one. won by your manner, before i knew what i was doing, i spoke. "miss walton," i burst out, "you see before you the most miserable being conceivable, and you can save me from the worst anguish i am suffering!" your eyes enlarged in surprise, both at my vehemence and at what i had uttered, while you stood looking at me, with slightly parted lips; then you said sweetly, "tell me what i can do for you." i had spoken without thought, only conscious that i must try in some way to save you. for a moment i hesitated, and then exclaimed, "i beg of you not to marry mr. whitely!" like a goddess you drew yourself up, even before you could have appreciated the full import of my foolish speech, and never have i seen you look more beautiful or queenly than as you faced me. after a brief silence you answered, "you can hardly realize what you are saying, dr. hartzmann." "i am indeed mad in my unhappiness," i groaned. "you owe me an explanation for your extraordinary words," you continued. "miss walton," i said, "mr. whitely is not a man to make you happy, and in hopes of saving you from him i spoke as i did. i had no right, as none can know better than myself, but perhaps you will forgive the impertinence when i say that my motive was only to save you from future misery." "why should i not be happy in marrying mr. whitely?" "because you are deceiving yourself about him." "in what respect?" "his character is other than you think it." "be more specific." "that i cannot be." "why not?" "it would be dishonorable in me." "not more so than to stop where you have." "i cannot say more." "i do not recognize your right to be silent. you have said too much or too little." "maizie," called mrs. blodgett from the hall, "come quickly, for we are very late." "i shall insist, at some future time, upon your speaking more clearly, dr. hartzmann," you said, as a queen would speak, and picking up your wrap, without a parting word, you left me standing in the middle of the drawing-room. i came home through the cold, and have sat here regretting my foolishness and groping for the right course to pursue. oh, my darling, if i but had the right, i would gladly tell you the whole story of the miserable deception, even though i disgraced myself in your eyes. if it were merely my own honor which was at stake, i should not hesitate for an instant, but would sacrifice it to save you, though self-respect seems now the only thing left me. but try as i may to prove to myself that i have the right, i cannot, for i feel that more than my own honor is concerned. i have taken mr. whitely's money, and cannot return it to him. to break faith would be worse than despicable. i shall speak to you of my employer's hardness, and beg you to ask mr. blodgett if he would give agnes to mr. whitely or advise you to marry him. my heart yearns to aid you in your peril, but i can think of nothing more that i can do. may god do what i cannot, my dearest. good-night. xxiv _march ._ i was so miserable with my cough to-day that i could not summon the energy to drag myself to mr. blodgett's office, and did not leave my room till after eight, when your note came. "miss walton," it read, "feels that she has the right to request dr. hartzmann to call this evening, in relation to the conversation uncompleted last night." i understood the implied command, and thought that i owed what you claimed, while feeling that in obeying i could for this once forego my scruple of entering your door. the footman showed me into the library, and left me there. it was the first time i had seen it since my thirteenth year, and i cannot tell you the moment's surprise and joy i felt on finding it absolutely unchanged. even the books were arranged as formerly, and my eye searched and found, as quickly as of yore, all the old volumes full of plates which had once given us such horror and delight. for the instant i forgot my physical suffering and the coming ordeal. when you entered the room, you welcomed me only with a bow. then seeing my paleness, you said kindly, "i forgot your cough, dr. hartzmann, or i would not have brought you out in such weather. sit here by the fire." after a short pause you went on: "i hope that a day's thought has convinced you that common justice requires you to say more than you did last night?" "miss walton," i replied, "to you, who know nothing of the difficult and hopeless position in which i stand, my conduct, i presume, seems most dishonorable and cowardly; yet i cannot say more than i said last night." "you must." "i can scarcely hope that what i then said will influence you, but if you will go to mr. blodgett and"-- "does mr. blodgett know what you object to in mr. whitely?" you interrupted. "yes." "i went to mr. blodgett this morning, and he told me that he knew of no reason why i should not marry mr. whitely." "then, miss walton," i answered, rising, "i cannot expect that you will be influenced by my opinion. i will withdraw what i said last night. think of me as leniently as you can, for my purpose was honorable." "but you ought to say more. you"-- "i cannot," i replied. "you have no right to"--but here a servant entered, with a card. "dr. hartzmann," you announced, when the man had gone, "i wrote mr. whitely yesterday afternoon, asking him to call this evening, with the intention of accepting his offer of marriage. he is now in the drawing-room, and unless you will have the fairness, the honesty, to explain what you meant, i shall tell him all that has occurred, and give him the opportunity to force you to speak." "i shall only repeat to him, miss walton, what i have said to you." you stood a moment looking at me, with a face blazing with indignation; then you exclaimed, "you at least owe it to him not to run away while i am gone!" and passed into the drawing-room. you returned very soon, followed by mr. whitely. "dr. hartzmann," you asked, "will you repeat what you said last night to me?" "i advised you not to marry mr. whitely, miss walton." "and you will not say why?" you demanded. "i cannot." "mr. whitely," you cried, "cannot you force him to speak?" "miss walton," he replied suavely, and his very coolness in the strange condition made me feel that he was master of the situation, "i am as perplexed as you are at this extraordinary conduct in one who even now is eating bread from my hand. i have long since ceased to expect gratitude for benefits, but such malevolence surprises and grieves me, since i have never done dr. hartzmann any wrong, but, on the contrary, i have always befriended him." "i have been in the employ of mr. whitely," i answered, "but every dollar he has paid me has been earned by my labor. i owe him no debt of gratitude that he does not owe me." "you owe him the justice that every man owes another," you asserted indignantly. "to make vague charges behind one's back, and then refuse to be explicit, is a coward's and a slanderer's way of waging war." "miss walton," i cried, "i should not have spoken, though god knows that my motive was only a wish to do you a service, and i would give my life to do as you ask!" for an instant my earnestness seemed to sway you; indeed, i am convinced that this was so, since mr. whitely apparently had the same feeling, and spoke as if to neutralize my influence, saying to you: "miss walton, i firmly believe that dr. hartzmann's plea of honorable conduct is nothing but the ambush of a coward. but as he has been for two years in the most intimate and confidential position of private secretary to me, he may, through some error, have deluded himself into a conviction that gives a basis for his indefinite charges. i will not take advantage of the implied secrecy, and i say to him in your presence that if he has discovered anything which indicates that i have been either impure or criminal, i give him permission to speak." even in that moment of entanglement i could not but admire and marvel at the skill with which he had phrased his speech, so as to seem absolutely open, to slur me by innuendo, and yet avoid the risk of exposure. it left me helpless, and i could only say, "i have not charged mr. whitely with either impurity or criminality." you turned to him and said, "this conduct is perfectly inexplicable." "except on one ground," he replied. "which is?" you questioned. "that dr. hartzmann loves you," he answered. "that is impossible!" you exclaimed. "not as impossible as for a man not to love you, miss walton," he averred. "tell mr. whitely how mistaken he is," you said to me. i could only stand silent, and after waiting a little mr. whitely remarked, "you see!" "it is incredible!" you protested. "you must deny it, dr. hartzmann!" "i cannot, miss walton," i murmured, with bowed head. "you love me?" you cried incredulously. "i love you," i assented, and in spite of the circumstances it was happiness to say it to you. you stood gazing at me in amazement, large-eyed as a startled deer. i wonder what your first words would have been to me if mr. whitely had not turned your mind into another channel by saying, "i do not think that we need search further for dr. hartzmann's motives in making his innuendoes." "miss walton," i urged, "my love for you, far from making your faith in me less or my motive that of a rival, should convince you that i spoke only for your sake, since you yourself know that my love has been neither hopeful nor self-seeking." i think you pitied me, for you answered gently, and all traces of the scorn and indignation you had shown just before were gone from your face and manner. "dr. hartzmann," you said, "i cannot allow myself to listen to or weigh such indefinite imputations against mr. whitely. i will give you one week to explain or substantiate what you have implied; and unless within that time you do so, i shall accept the offer of marriage which he has honored me by making. do not let me detain you further. good-evening." i passed out of the room a broken-hearted man, without strength enough to hold up my head, and hardly able in my weakness to crawl back to my study. as i sit and write, every breath brings with it the feeling that a knife is being thrust into my breast, and i am faint with the pain. but for this racking cough and burning fever i might have made a better fight, and have been able to think of some way of saving you. but even in my suffering i have reached one conclusion. to-morrow i shall go to mr. whitely and tell him that you must know the truth concerning the book, and that if he will not tell you i shall. i shall never be able to hold up my head again; but that is nothing, if i can but save you. oh, my dearest love, the sacrifice of life, of honor, the meeting ignominy or death for your sake, will be nothing to me but hap transcriber's note: the text ends in the middle of a word. the remainder of this page is missing in the original image and other available editions. xxv _january , ._ this evening i have for the first time re-read this--i know not what to call it, for it is neither diary nor letter--the story of my love; and as i read, the singular sensation came over me that i was following, not my own thoughts and experiences, but those of another man. five years ago, half mad with grief, and physically and nervously exhausted to the brink of a breakdown, i spent my evenings writing my thoughts, in the hope that the fatigue of the task would bring the sleep i sought in vain. little i then wrote seems to me now, in my new life, what i could ever possibly have confided to paper, much less have felt. yet here is my own handwriting to vouch for every word, and to tell me that the morbid chronicle is no other than my own. i cannot believe that mere years have brought so startling a mental change, and i therefore think that much of it is an expression, not of myself, but of the illness which put an end to my writing. if proof were needed of the many kinds of men each man contains, this manuscript of mine would furnish it; for the being i have read about this evening is no more the donald maitland of to-night than--ah, well, to my task of telling what has wrought this change, since it must be written. for a month i was confined to my bed with pneumonia, and the attack so weakened me that i did not leave my room for five weeks more. during that time mrs. blodgett's kindness was constant, and her face is the only memory that stands out from the hours of my acute torture. while i was convalescing, she came once, and sometimes twice, each day, bringing me flowers, fruit, jellies, wines, and whatever else her love could suggest. it was amusing to see her domineer over the doctor, trained nurse, and landlady, and i soon learned to whom to make my pleas for extra liberty or special privileges. no request, however whimsical, seemed too much for her affection, though my demands were unceasing, in the selfishness of my invalidism. only one thing i dared not ask her, and that was not from fear that it would be refused, but from cowardice. i longed to have her speak of you, but during those weeks she never mentioned your name. the day before mrs. blodgett left town she took me for my first airing in her carriage, and told me that she was leaving a man and horses in town for a month longer in order that i should have a daily drive. "mr. blodgett really needs a carriage more in the summer than he does in the winter, but he never will consent to let me leave one for him, so i've used you as an excuse," was the way she explained her kindness. "by the end of the month i hope you will be well enough to come up and make us a visit in the berkshires, for the change will be the very best thing for you." "i hope to be at work again by that time," i said. "you are not to see pen or paper till the first of october!" she ordered; and when i only shook my head, she continued, "for three years you've been overworking yourself, and now the doctor says you must take a long rest, and i'm going to see that you have it." "you mean to be good to me, mrs. blodgett," i sighed, "but if you knew my situation, you would understand that i must get to work again as soon as possible." "i don't care about your situation," she sniffed contemptuously, "and i do care about your health. i shall insist that you come up to my fancy, if i have to come back to the city to bring you; and when i once get you there, i shan't let you go away till i choose." loving my tyrant, i did not protest further, though firm in my own mind as to my duty. as it turned out, i need not have denied her, for the end of the month found me with but little added strength; and though i tried to work two or three times, i was forced to abandon the attempts without accomplishing anything. my wonder is that i gained strength at all, in my discouragement over the loss of mr. whitely's work, my three months' idleness, the heavy doctor's bills, and the steadily accruing interest on the debt. on the st of june mr. blodgett came to see me, as indeed he had done daily since mrs. blodgett left town. "the boss writes," he announced, "ordering me to come up to-day, and directing that before i leave new york i am to do forty-seven things, ranging in importance from buying her the last novels to matching some white"--he looked at his letter, and spelled out--"'f-l-o-s-s' as per sample inclosed. i haven't time to do more than forty-five, and i'm afraid i'll never hear the last of the remaining two unless you'll save me." "how?" "well, three times in her letter she tells me that i've got to bring you, the last time as good as saying that my life won't be an insurable risk if i don't. since she puts so much stress on your presence, it's just possible that if i fill that order she'll forget the rest." "i would go, mr. blodgett, but"-- "oh, i understand all that," he interrupted. "of course, if you stay in the cool fresh air of the city, you won't run any risk of the malaria the berkshires are full of; i know the new york markets have peas as large and firm as bullets, while those in our garden are poor little shriveled affairs hardly worth the trouble of eating; our roads are not belgian blocks, but only soft dirt, and we haven't got a decent flagged sidewalk within ten miles of my fancy. i understand perfectly that you'll get well faster here, and so get to work sooner; but all the same, just as a favor, you might pull me out of this scrape." i need not say i had to yield, and together we took the afternoon express. on the train we found mr. whitely,--as great a surprise, apparently, to mr. blodgett as it was to me. "hello!" exclaimed the banker. "where are you bound for?" "i presume for the same destination you are," mr. whitely replied. "i am going up to see miss walton, and if mrs. blodgett cannot give me a night's hospitality, i shall go to the hotel." "plenty of room at my fancy, and i'll guarantee your welcome," promised mr. blodgett pleasantly. "here's the doctor going up for a bit of nursing." much to my surprise, my former employer entered the compartment, and, offering me his hand, sat down by the lounge i was stretched upon. "you've had a serious illness," he remarked, with a bland attempt at sympathy. i only nodded my head. "i hope you will recover quickly, for you are needed in the office," he went on. i could not have been more surprised if he had struck me, though i did not let it appear in my face. "whitely's been trying to go it alone on his editorials, and the papers have all been laughing at him," chuckled mr. blodgett. "just read us your famous one, whitely,--that one about the tendency of modern art, with the original hebrew from solomon you put in." i saw my employer redden, and in pity for his embarrassment i said, "i do not think i shall ever come back to the office, mr. whitely." "why not?" he exclaimed. "you committed an unwise action, but business is business, and i see no cause why we need let a single mistake terminate a relation mutually profitable." "i have learned the lesson that one cannot sell one's honesty without wronging other people, and i shall never do it again." "this is purely sentimental"--he began. mr. blodgett, however, interrupted by saying, "now don't go to exciting the doctor, for he's to sleep on the trip. besides, i've got something in mind better than the job he's had under you, whitely. come and have a smoke, and leave him to nap a bit." they left me, and i set to puzzling over many questions: how you would greet me at my fancy; how you would welcome mr. whitely; what was the meaning of his friendliness towards me; and what new kindness mr. blodgett had in store for me. finally i fell asleep, to be awakened only when we reached our destination. agnes met us at the station, and at the house mrs. blodgett gave me the warmest of welcomes, but not till i came downstairs before dinner did you and i meet. your greeting was formal, yet courteous and gracious as of old, almost making me question if our last two interviews could be realities. before the dinner was finished mrs. blodgett ordered me to the divan on the veranda, and sent dessert and fruit out to me. you all joined me when the moment came for coffee and cigars; but the evening was cloudy and rather breezy, and presently mrs. blodgett said it was too cold for her, and suggested a game of whist indoors. "you must stay out here," she told me, "but if you feel cool be sure to use the shawl." you turned and said to mr. whitely, "you will play, i hope?" and he assented so eagerly that it was all i could do to keep from laughing outright when you continued, "agnes and mr. whitely will make your table, mrs. blodgett, so i will stay here and watch the clouds." the whole thing was so palpably with an object that i felt at once that you wished to see me alone, to learn if i had anything more to say concerning mr. whitely; and as i realized this, i braced myself for the coming ordeal. for a few moments you stood watching the gathering storm, and then took a chair by the divan on which i lay. "are you too honorable," you began,--and though i could not see your face in the darkness, your voice told me you were excited,--"to pardon dishonorable conduct in others? for i have come to beg of you forgiveness for a wrong." "of me, miss walton?" "last april," you went on, "mrs. blodgett brought me a book and asked me to read it. a few paragraphs revealed to me that it was something written by an old friend of mine. after reading a little further, i realized for the first time that i was violating a confidence. yet though i knew this, and struggled to close the book, i could not, but read it to the end. can you forgive me?" "oh, miss walton!" i protested. "why ask forgiveness of me? what is your act compared to the wrong"-- "hush, don," you said gently, and your use of my name, so long unheard, told me in a word that the feeling of our childhood days was come again. "tell me you forgive me!" you entreated. "i am not the one to forgive, maizie." "i did wrong, and i ask your pardon," you begged humbly. "yet i'm not sorry in the least, and i should do it again," you instantly added, laughing merrily at your own perverseness. then in a moment you were serious again, saying, "i never received the letters or the photograph, donald. my uncle confesses that he put them in the fire." and before i could speak, a new thought seized you, for you continued sadly, "i shall never forgive myself for my harshness and cruelty when you were so ill." "that is nothing," i replied, "since all our misunderstandings are gone. why, even my debt, maizie, ceases now to be a burden; in the future it will be only a joy to work." "donald!" you exclaimed. "you don't suppose i shall let you pay me another cent!" "i must." "but i am rich," you protested. "the money is nothing to me. you shall not ruin your career to pay it. i scorn myself when i think that i refused to see you that night, and so lost my only chance of saving you from what followed. my cowardice, my wicked cowardice! it drove you to death's door by overwork, to give me wealth i do not know how to spend. you parted with your library that i might let money lie idle in bank. i forced you to sell your book--your fame--to that thief. oh, donald, think of the wrong it has done already, and don't make it do greater!" "maizie, you do not understand"-- "i understand it all," you interrupted. "you must not--you shall not--i won't take it--i"-- "for his sake!" "but i love him, too!" you pleaded. "don't you see, donald, that it was never the money,--that was nothing; but they told me his love--and yours, for they said you had known all the time--was only pretense, a method by which you might continue to rob me. and i came to believe it,--though i should have known better,--because, since you never wrote, it seemed to me you had both dropped me out of your thoughts as soon as you could no longer plunder me. even then, scorning you,--like you in your feeling over my neglect of your letters,--i could not help loving you, for those paris and tyrol days were the happiest i have ever known; and though i knew, don, that i ought to forget you, as i believed you had forgotten me, i could not do so. i have never dared to speak in public of either of you, for fear i should break down. try as i might, i could not help loving you both as i have never loved any one else. that i turned you away from my house was because i did not dare to meet you,--i knew i could not control myself. after the man took the message, i sobbed over having to insult you by sending it by a servant. but for my want of courage--had i seen you as i ought--if i had only understood, as your journal has made me,--had only known that my name was on his lips when he died! no money could pay for what he gave to me. could he ask me now for twice the sum, it would be my pleasure to give it to him, for i love him dearly, and"-- "if you love him, maizie, you will let me clear his name as far as lies within my power." for an instant you were silent, and then said softly, "you are right, donald, we will clear his name." i took your hand and touched it to my lips. "to hear you speak of him"--i could go no further, in my emotion. there was a pause before you asked, "donald, do you remember our talk here last autumn?" "every word." you laughed gayly. "i want you to know, sir," you asserted, with a pretense of defiance, "that i don't believe in love, because i have never found any that was wholly free from self-indulgence or self-interest. and i still think"-- just then mrs. blodgett joined us, and inquired, "have you told rudolph, maizie?" "yes." "i went to see how you were the moment i heard of your illness," she said, with a certain challenge in her voice, "and i found that book lying on your desk just where you stopped writing from weakness. i read it, and i took it to maizie." "it was kismet, i suppose," was all i could say, too happy to think of criticism, and instantly her manner changed and she wiped her eyes. "i had to do it," she sobbed. "you have been too good to me," i answered, rising and taking her hand. "there, there," she continued, steadying herself. "i didn't come out to behave like this, but to tell you to go to bed at once. i'm going to your room to see that everything is right for our invalid, but don't you delay a minute after i'm gone," and she disappeared through the doorway. i turned to you and held out my hand, bidding you, "good-night, maizie," and you took it, and replied, "good-night, don." then suddenly you leaned forward, and, kissing my forehead, added, "god keep you safe for me, my darling." i took you in my arms, and gave you back your kiss twofold, while saying, "good-night, my love." xxvi a man does not willingly spread on paper the sweetest and tenderest moments of his life. when half crazed with grief and illness i might express my suffering, much as, in physical pain, some groan aloud; but the deepest happiness is silent, for it is too great to be told. and lest, my dears, you think me even less manly than i am, i choose to add here the reason for my writing the last few pages of this story of my love, that if you ever read it you may know the motive which made me tell what till to-night i have kept locked in my heart. this evening the dearest woman in the world came to me, as i sat at my desk in the old library, and asked, "are you busy, donald?" "i am reading the one hundred and forty-seventh complimentary review of my history of the moors, and i am so sick of sweets that your interruption comes as an unalloyed pleasure." "am i bitter or acid?" she asked, leaning over my shoulder and arranging my hair, which is one of her ways of pleasing me. "you are my exact opposite," i said gravely. "how uncomplimentary you are!" she cried, with a pretense of anger in her voice. "an historian must tell the truth now and then, for variety's sake." "then tell me if you are too engaged to spare me a minute. any other time will do." "you are seriously mistaken, because no other time will do. and nothing about me is ever engaged, as regards you, except my affections, and they are permanently so." "i've come to ask a great favor of you." "out of the question; but you may tell me what it is." "ah, donald, say you will grant it before i tell you?" "concealment bespeaks a guilty conscience." "but sometimes you are so funny and obstinate about things!" "that is what mr. whitely used to say." "don't mention that wretch's name to me! to think of that miserable little western college making him an ll. d. because of your book!" "never mind, maizie; here's a letter i received an hour ago from jastrow, which tells me the university of leipzig is going to give me a degree." "that he should steal your fame!" "my moor is five times the chap my turk was." "but you might have had both!" "and gone without you? don't fret over it, my darling." "i can't help"-- she always ends this vein by abusing herself, which i wouldn't allow another human being to do, and which i don't like to hear, so i interrupted: "jastrow says he'll come over in march to visit us, and threatens to bring the manuscript of his whole seventeen volumes, for me to take a final look at it before he sends it to press." "the dear old thing!" she said tenderly. "i love him so for what he was to you that i believe i shall welcome him with a kiss." "why make the rest of his life unhappy?" "is that the way it affects you?" "woman is born illogical, and even the cleverest of her sex cannot entirely overcome the taint. after you give me a kiss i bear in mind that i am to have another, and that makes me very happy. but if you kiss jastrow, the poor fellow will go back to germany and pine away into his grave. even his fifty-two dialects will not satisfy him after your labial." "oh, you silly!" she exclaimed; but, my dears, i think she is really, in her secret heart, fond of silliness, for she leaned over and--there, i'll stop being what she called me. "we'll give him a great reception," she continued, "and have every one worth knowing to meet him." "he is the shyest of beings." "how books and learning do refine men!" she said. "i am afraid they do make weaklings of us." "will you never get over the idea that you are weak?" she cried; for it is one of her pet superstitions that i am not. "you'll frighten me out of it if you speak like that." "you are--well--that is really what i came to ask for. just to please your own wife, you will, donald, won't you?" "the distinction between 'will' and 'won't' is clearly set forth in a somewhat well-known song concerning a spider and a fly." "oh, you bad boy!" "adsum." "i'm really serious." "i never was less so." "i should not have become your wife if i had dreamed you would be such a brute!" "you'll please remember that i never asked you to marry me." she laughed deliciously over the insult, and after that i could not resist her. "you have," i said, "a bundle in your left hand, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a blue ribbon, which you sedulously keep from my sight, but of which i caught a glimpse as you entered." "and you've known it all this time! perhaps you know too what i want?" "last spring," i answered, "i knocked at the door of your morning-room twice, and receiving no response, i went in, to find you reading something that you instantly hid from sight. there were on the lounge, i remember, a sheet of tissue paper and a blue ribbon. i suspect a connection." "well?" "my theory is that you have some really improper book wrapped in the paper, and that is why you so guiltily hide it from me." "oh, donald, it gives me such happiness to read it!" "that was the reason i asked you why you had tears in your eyes, when i surprised you that day. your happiness was most enviable!" "men never understand women!" "deo gratias." "but i love it." "i don't like to hear you express such sentiments for so erotic a book." "oh, don't apply such a word to it!" she cried, in a pained voice. "a word," i explained, "taken from the greek _erotikos_, which is derived from _erao_, meaning 'i love passionately.' it is singularly descriptive, maizie." "if it means that, i like it, but i thought you were insulting my book." "almost five years ago," i remarked, "a volume was stolen from my room, which i have never since been able to recover. now a woman of excessive honesty calmly calls it hers." "you know you don't want it." "i want it very much." "really?" "to put it in the fire." "don!" "once upon a time a most bewitching woman wrote a story, and in a vain moment her husband asked her to give it to him. she"-- "but, my darling, it was so foolish that i had to burn it up. think of my making the heroine marry that creature!" "since you married the poor chap to the other girl, there was no other ending possible. if the book were only in existence, i think agnes and her husband would enjoy reading it almost as much as i should." "how silly i was! but at least the book made you write the ending which prevented me from accepting him that winter. what a lot of trouble i gave my poor dear!" "i met the 'poor dear' yesterday, looking very old and unhappy despite his ll. d." "oh, you idiot!" she laughed. and she must like imbeciles, too, for--well, i'm not going to tell even you how i know that she's fond of idiots. "why do you suppose he's unhappy?" she asked. "my theory is that he's miserable because he lost--lost me." "i'm so glad he is!" joyously asserted the tenderest of women. "nevertheless," i resumed, "it was a book i should have valued as much as you do that one in tissue paper, and you ought not to have burned it." "i am very sorry i did, donald, since you would really have liked it," she said, wistfully and sorrowfully. "i should have thought of your feelings, and not of mine." this is a mood i cannot withstand. "dear heart," i responded, "i have you, and all the books in the world are not worth a breath in comparison. what favor do you want me to do?" "to write a sort of last chapter--an ending, you know--telling about--about the rest." "have you forgotten it?" "i? never! i couldn't. but i want to have it all in the book, so that when foster and mai are older they can read it." "i have no intention of sharing, even with our children, my under-the-rose idyl with the loveliest of girls. and when the children are older, they'll be far more interested in their own heart secrets than they are in ours." "still, dear," she pleaded, "they may hear from others some unkind and perverted allusions to our story; for you know what foolish things were said at the time of our marriage." "if i remember rightly, some one--was it my mother or mr. whitely?"-- "both," she answered. "--spread it abroad that i had trapped an heiress into marriage by means of an alias." "wasn't it a delicious version!" she laughed merrily. "but no matter what's ever tattled in the future, if foster and mai have your journal, they will always understand it." "maizie," i urged, "if you let those imps of mischief read of our childish doings in this old library, they'll either finish painting the plates in kingsborough, or burn the house down in trying to realize an inca of peru at the stake." "but i won't read them those parts," she promised; "especially if you write a nice ending, which they'll like." "won't it do to add just a paragraph, saying that our fairy godmamma found and gave you the journal, and that then we 'lived happily ever after'?" "no, donald," she begged. "i want the whole story, to match the rest." "five years ago i knew the saddest and most dejected of fellows, whose misery was so great that he wailed it out on paper. but now i know only the happiest of mortals, and he cannot write in the lugubrious tone of yore--unless a lady of his acquaintance will banish him from her presence or do something else equally joy-destroying." "are you trying to bribe me into giving you a rest from my presence for a time?" "undoubtedly," i assented. "it's a fearful strain to live up to you, and it is beginning to tell on me." "if i didn't know you were teasing, i should really be hurt. but i should like to ask you one thing." "and that is?" "in your journal--well--of course i know that you were--that i am not--that your love made you think me what i never was in the least, donald," she faltered, "but still, perhaps--do you remember what mr. blodgett said about his not giving mrs. blodgett for ten of the women he--? i hope you like my reality as much as your ideal." "haven't you changed your idea of me, maizie?" "oh yes." "and therefore you don't love me as much?" "but that's different, donald," she observed seriously. "how?" "why, you treated me so strangely that, inevitably, i didn't know what you were like; and though you interested me very much, and though your journal brought back my old love for you, still, what i did was more in pity and admiration and reparation than--and so i could fall deeper in love. while you, being so much in love already, and with such a totally different woman"-- "only went from bad to worse," i groaned. "yes, i own up. my sin is one of the lowest man can commit. i have fallen in love with a married woman. and the strange thing about it is that you are not jealous of her! indeed, i really believe that you are magnanimous enough to love her too, though it's natural you should not like her as much as you do some others. but next august i'll leave her and go to india to study for my new book." "the married woman will go too," she predicted calmly. "i shouldn't dare risk her among those hill tribes." "and she won't risk you where it isn't safe for her to go." "i was only thinking of your lovely complexion," i explained. "old mahogany is very fashionable," she laughed. "can nothing make you stay at home?" i asked beseechingly. "i wonder if there ever was a husband who did not love to tease his wife?" "the divorce courts have records of many such unloving wretches." "what i want," she told me, returning to her wish, "is to have you take it up just where you left off. tell about your pneumonia, and how mrs. blodgett found your journal, but didn't dare give it to me till the doctor was certain you would recover; and then tell of my sending you flowers and jellies and everything i could think of, by her, to help you get well. how"-- "i should have eaten twice as much and recovered much more quickly if she had only let me know from whom they really came," i interjected in an aggrieved tone. "and tell how i wouldn't listen to that scoundrel till you should have a chance to justify yourself; how, the moment i had read your diary, i wrote and rejected him, and would not see him when he called; how he would not accept his dismissal, but followed me to the country; tell how dreadfully in the way he was that evening, till mrs. blodgett and agnes and i trapped him into a game of whist"-- "you machiavellis!" "tell all about my confession, and how we all spoiled you for those months at my fancy. oh, weren't they lovely, donald?" "i thought so then." "but not now?" "a gooseberry is good till you taste a strawberry. there was a good deal too much gooseberry, as i remember." "then tell how the papers and people chattered about your assuming your true name; and how they gabbled when we were married,--and how, on our wedding day, we endowed the hospital ward"-- "haven't you made a slip in the pronoun?" "i'll box your ears if you even suggest it again; half of the money was what you earned--endowed the hospital ward in memory of _our_ dear father, and how happy we've been since." "you've made a mistake in the last pronoun, i'm certain." "you will write it to please me, donald?" "oh, maizie, i can't. it's all too dear to me." "please, don, try?" "but"-- she interrupted my protest. "donald," she said, the tenderness in her face and voice softening her words, "before knowing that i loved you, you insisted that debt must be paid. won't you pay me now, dear?" "i don't merely owe you money, maizie!" i cried. "i owe you everything, and i'm a brute to the most generous of women. give me the book, dear heart." "you'll make it nice, like the rest, won't you?" she begged. "i'll try." and then i laughingly added, "maizie, you still have the technical part of story-telling to learn." "how?" "i can't write all you wish and make it symmetrical. in the first place, we don't want to spend so much time on whitely as to give him a fictitious value; and next, to be artistic, we must end with our good-night that evening." "well, that will do, if you'll only tell it nicely." and that, my dears, is why i write again of those old days, so distant now in time and mood. what is told here is shared with you only to please my love, and i ask of you that it shall be a confidence. and of another i beg that each of you in time may find a love as strong as that told here; that each may be as true and noble as your mother, and as happy as your father. good-night, my children. good-night, my love. may god be as good to you as he has been to me. * * * * * transcriber's notes: spelling of 'transgression' corrected. spelling of 'folk-leid' corrected. the line of love by james branch cabell to robert gamble cabell i "he loved chivalrye, trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. and of his port as meek as is a mayde, he never yet no vileinye ne sayde in al his lyf, unto no maner wight. he was a verray parfit gentil knyght." _introduction_ the cabell case belongs to comedy in the grand manner. for fifteen years or more the man wrote and wrote--good stuff, sound stuff, extremely original stuff, often superbly fine stuff--and yet no one in the whole of this vast and incomparable republic arose to his merit--no one, that is, save a few encapsulated enthusiasts, chiefly somewhat dubious. it would be difficult to imagine a first-rate artist cloaked in greater obscurity, even in the remotest lands of ghengis khan. the newspapers, reviewing him, dismissed him with a sort of inspired ill-nature; the critics of a more austere kidney--the paul elmer mores, brander matthewses, hamilton wright mabies, and other such brummagem dons--were utterly unaware of him. then, of a sudden, the imbeciles who operate the comstock society raided and suppressed his "jurgen," and at once he was a made man. old book-shops began to be ransacked for his romances and extravaganzas--many of them stored, i daresay, as "picture-books," and under the name of the artist who illustrated them, howard pyle. and simultaneously, a great gabble about him set up in the newspapers, and then in the literary weeklies, and finally even in the learned reviews. an englishman, hugh walpole, magnified the excitement with some startling _hochs_; a single _hoch_ from the motherland brings down the professors like firemen sliding down a pole. to-day every literate american has heard of cabell, including even those presidents of women's clubs who lately confessed that they had never heard of lizette woodworth reese. more of his books are sold in a week than used to be sold in a year. every flapper in the land has read "jurgen" behind the door; two-thirds of the grandmothers east of the mississippi have tried to borrow it from me. solemn _privat dozenten_ lecture upon the author; he is invited to take to the chautauqua himself; if the donkeys who manage the national institute of arts and letters were not afraid of his reply he would be offered its gilt-edged ribbon, vice sylvanus cobb, deceased. and all because a few pornographic old fellows thrust their ever-hopeful snouts into the man's tenth (or was it eleventh or twelfth?) book! certainly, the farce must appeal to cabell himself--a sardonic mocker, not incapable of making himself a character in his own _revues_. but i doubt that he enjoys the actual pawing that he has been getting--any more than he resented the neglect that he got for so long. very lately, in the midst of the carnival, he announced his own literary death and burial, and even preached a burlesque funeral sermon upon his life and times. such an artist, by the very nature of his endeavors, must needs stand above all public-clapper-clawing, pro or con. he writes, not to please his customers in general, nor even to please his partisans in particular, but to please himself. he is his own criterion, his own audience, his own judge and hangman. when he does bad work, he suffers for it as no holy clerk ever suffered from a gnawing conscience or freudian suppressions; when he does good work he gets his pay in a form of joy that only artists know. one could no more think of him exposing himself to the stealthy, uneasy admiration of a women's club--he is a man of agreeable exterior, with handsome manners and an eye for this and that--than one could imagine him taking to the stump for some political mountebank or getting converted at a camp-meeting. what moves such a man to write is the obscure, inner necessity that joseph conrad has told us of, and what rewards him when he has done is his own searching and accurate judgment, his own pride and delight in a beautiful piece of work. at once, i suppose, you visualize a somewhat smug fellow, loftily complacent and superior--in brief, the bogus artist of greenwich village, posturing in a pot-hat before a cellar full of visiting schoolmarms, all dreaming of being betrayed. if so, you see a ghost. it is the curse of the true artist that his work never stands before him in all its imagined completeness--that he can never look at it without feeling an impulse to add to it here or take away from it there--that the beautiful, to him, is not a state of being, but an eternal becoming. satisfaction, like the praise of dolts, is the compensation of the aesthetic cheese-monger--the popular novelist, the broadway dramatist, the massenet and kipling, the maeterlinck and augustus thomas. cabell, in fact, is forever fussing over his books, trying to make them one degree better. he rewrites almost as pertinaciously as joseph conrad, henry james, or brahms. compare "domnei" in its present state to "the soul of melicent," its first state, circa . the obvious change is the change in title, but of far more importance are a multitude of little changes--a phrase made more musical, a word moved from one place to another, some small banality tracked down and excised, a brilliant adjective inserted, the plan altered in small ways, the rhythm of it made more delicate and agreeable. here, in "the line of love," there is another curious example of his high capacity for revision. it is not only that the book, once standing isolated, has been brought into the cabellian canon, and so related to "jurgen" and "figures of earth" at one end, and to the tales of latter-day virginia at the other; it is that the whole texture has been worked over, and the colors made more harmonious, and the inner life of the thing given a fresh energy. once a flavor of the rococo hung about it; now it breathes and moves. for cabell knows a good deal more than he knew in . he is an artist whose work shows constant progress toward the goals he aims at--principally the goal of a perfect style. content, with him, is always secondary. he has ideas, and they are often of much charm and plausibility, but his main concern is with the manner of stating them. it is surely not ideas that make "jurgen" stand out so saliently from the dreadful prairie of modern american literature; it is the magnificent writing that is visible on every page of it--writing apparently simple and spontaneous, and yet extraordinarily cunning and painstaking. the current notoriety of "jurgen" will pass. the comstocks will turn to new imbecilities, and the followers of literary parades to new marvels. but it will remain an author's book for many a year. by author, of course, i mean artist--not mere artisan. it was certainly not surprising to hear that maurice hewlett found "jurgen" exasperating. so, too, there is exasperation in richard strauss for plodding music-masters. hewlett is simply a british civil servant turned author, which is not unsuggestive of an american congressman turned philosopher. he has a pretty eye for color, and all the gusto that goes with beefiness, but like all the men of his class and race and time he can think only within the range of a few elemental ideas, chiefly of a sentimental variety, and when he finds those ideas flouted he is horrified. the bray, in fact, revealed the ass. it is cabell's skepticism that saves him from an americanism as crushing as hewlett's briticism, and so sets him free as an artist. unhampered by a mission, happily ignorant of what is commended by all good men, disdainful of the petty certainties of pedagogues and green-grocers, not caring a damn what becomes of the republic, or the family, or even snivelization itself, he is at liberty to disport himself pleasantly with his nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, prepositions and pronouns, arranging them with the same free hand, the same innocent joy, the same superb skill and discretion with which the late jahveh arranged carbon, nitrogen, sulphur, hydrogen, oxygen and phosphorus in the sublime form of the human carcass. he, too, has his jokes. he knows the arch effect of a strange touch; his elaborate pedantries correspond almost exactly to the hook noses, cock eyes, outstanding ears and undulating adam's apples which give so sinister and rabelaisian a touch to the human scene. but in the main he sticks to more seemly materials and designs. his achievement, in fact, consists precisely in the success with which he gives those materials a striking newness, and gets a novel vitality into those designs. he takes the ancient and mouldy parts of speech--the liver and lights of harangues by dr. harding, of editorials in the new york _times_, of "science and health, with a key to the scriptures," of department-store advertisements, of college yells, of chautauqual oratory, of smoke-room anecdote--and arranges them in mosaics that glitter with an almost fabulous light. he knows where a red noun should go, and where a peacock-blue verb, and where an adjective as darkly purple as a grape. he is an imagist in prose. you may like his story and you may not like it, but if you don't like the way he tells it then there is something the matter with your ears. as for me, his experiments with words caress me as i am caressed by the tunes of old johannes brahms. how simple it seems to manage them--and how infernally difficult it actually is! h. l. mencken. _baltimore, october st, _. _contents_ chapter the epistle dedicatory i the episode called the wedding jest ii the episode called adhelmar at puysange iii the episode called love-letters of falstaff iv the episode called "sweet adelais" v the episode called in necessity's mortar vi the episode called the conspiracy of arnaye vii the episode called the castle of content viii the episode called in ursula's garden ix the episode called porcelain cups x the envoi called semper idem the epistle dedicatory _"in elect utteraunce to make memoriall, to thee for souccour, to thee for helpe i call, mine homely rudeness and dryghness to expell with the freshe waters of elyconys well."_ my dear mrs. grundy: you may have observed that nowadays we rank the love-story among the comfits of literature; and we do this for the excellent reason that man is a thinking animal by courtesy rather than usage. rightly considered, the most trivial love-affair is of staggering import. who are we to question this, when nine-tenths of us owe our existence to a summer flirtation? and while our graver economic and social and psychic "problems" (to settle some one of which is nowadays the object of all ponderable fiction) are doubtless worthy of most serious consideration, you will find, my dear madam, that frivolous love-affairs, little and big, were shaping history and playing spillikins with sceptres long before any of these delectable matters were thought of. yes, even the most talked-about "questions of the day" are sometimes worthy of consideration; but were it not for the kisses of remote years and the high gropings of hearts no longer animate, there would be none to accord them this same consideration, and a void world would teeter about the sun, silent and naked as an orange. love is an illusion, if you will; but always through this illusion, alone, has the next generation been rendered possible, and all endearing human idiocies, including "questions of the day," have been maintained. love, then, is no trifle. and literature, mimicking life at a respectful distance, may very reasonably be permitted an occasional reference to the corner-stone of all that exists. for in life "a trivial little love-story" is a matter more frequently aspersed than found. viewed in the light of its consequences, any love-affair is of gigantic signification, inasmuch as the most trivial is a part of nature's unending and, some say, her only labor, toward the peopling of the worlds. she is uninventive, if you will, this nature, but she is tireless. generation by generation she brings it about that for a period weak men may stalk as demigods, while to every woman is granted at least one hour wherein to spurn the earth, a warm, breathing angel. generation by generation does nature thus betrick humanity, that humanity may endure. here for a little--with the gracious connivance of mr. r. e. townsend, to whom all lyrics hereinafter should be accredited--i have followed nature, the arch-trickster. through her monstrous tapestry i have traced out for you the windings of a single thread. it is parti-colored, this thread--now black for a mourning sign, and now scarlet where blood has stained it, and now brilliancy itself--for the tinsel of young love (if, as wise men tell us, it be but tinsel), at least makes a prodigiously fine appearance until time tarnish it. i entreat you, dear lady, to accept this traced-out thread with assurances of my most distinguished regard. the gift is not great. hereinafter is recorded nothing more weighty than the follies of young persons, perpetrated in a lost world which when compared with your ladyship's present planet seems rather callow. hereinafter are only love-stories, and nowadays nobody takes love-making very seriously.... and truly, my dear madam, i dare say the pompeiians did not take vesuvius very seriously; it was merely an eligible spot for a _fête champêtre_. and when gaunt fishermen first preached christ about the highways, depend upon it, that was not taken very seriously, either. _credat judaeus_; but all sensible folk--such as you and i, my dear madam--passed on with a tolerant shrug, knowing "their doctrine could be held of no sane man." * * * * * april , --may , "_pus vezem de novelh florir pratz, e vergiers reverdezir rius e fontanas esclarzir, ben deu quascus lo joy jauzir don es jauzens_." it would in ordinary circumstances be my endeavor to tell you, first of all, just whom the following tale concerns. yet to do this is not expedient, since any such attempt could not but revive the question as to whose son was florian de puysange? no gain is to be had by resuscitating the mouldy scandal: and, indeed, it does not matter a button, nowadays, that in poictesme, toward the end of the thirteenth century, there were elderly persons who considered the young vicomte de puysange to exhibit an indiscreet resemblance to jurgen the pawnbroker. in the wild youth of jurgen, when jurgen was a practising poet (declared these persons), jurgen had been very intimate with the former vicomte de puysange, now dead, for the two men had much in common. oh, a great deal more in common, said these gossips, than the poor vicomte ever suspected, as you can see for yourself. that was the extent of the scandal, now happily forgotten, which we must at outset agree to ignore. all this was in poictesme, whither the young vicomte had come a-wooing the oldest daughter of the comte de la forêt. the whispering and the nods did not much trouble messire jurgen, who merely observed that he was used to the buffets of a censorious world; young florian never heard of this furtive chatter; and certainly what people said in poictesme did not at all perturb the vicomte's mother, that elderly and pious lady, madame félise de puysange, at her remote home in normandy. the principals taking the affair thus quietly, we may with profit emulate them. so i let lapse this delicate matter of young florian's paternity, and begin with his wedding._ chapter i _the episode called the wedding jest_ . _concerning several compacts_ it is a tale which they narrate in poictesme, telling how love began between florian de puysange and adelaide de la forêt. they tell also how young florian had earlier fancied other women for one reason or another; but that this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and a love which would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. and the tale tells how the comte de la forêt stroked a gray beard, and said, "well, after all, puysange is a good fief--" "as if that mattered!" cried his daughter, indignantly. "my father, you are a deplorably sordid person." "my dear," replied the old gentleman, "it does matter. fiefs last." so he gave his consent to the match, and the two young people were married on walburga's eve, on the day that ends april. and they narrate how florian de puysange was vexed by a thought that was in his mind. he did not know what this thought was. but something he had overlooked; something there was he had meant to do, and had not done: and a troubling consciousness of this lurked at the back of his mind like a small formless cloud. all day, while bustling about other matters, he had groped toward this unapprehended thought. now he had it: tiburce. the young vicomte de puysange stood in the doorway, looking back into the bright hall where they of storisende were dancing at his marriage feast. his wife, for a whole half-hour his wife, was dancing with handsome etienne de nérac. her glance met florian's, and adelaide flashed him an especial smile. her hand went out as though to touch him, for all that the width of the hall severed them. florian remembered presently to smile back at her. then he went out of the castle into a starless night that was as quiet as an unvoiced menace. a small and hard and gnarled-looking moon ruled over the dusk's secrecy. the moon this night, afloat in a luminous gray void, somehow reminded florian of a glistening and unripe huge apple. the foliage about him moved at most as a sleeper breathes, while florian descended eastward through walled gardens, and so came to the graveyard. white mists were rising, such mists as the witches of amneran notoriously evoked in these parts on each walburga's eve to purchase recreations which squeamishness leaves undescribed. for five years now tiburce d'arnaye had lain there. florian thought of his dead comrade and of the love which had been between them--a love more perfect and deeper and higher than commonly exists between men--and the thought came to florian, and was petulantly thrust away, that adelaide loved ignorantly where tiburce d'arnaye had loved with comprehension. yes, he had known almost the worst of florian de puysange, this dear lad who, none the less, had flung himself between black torrismond's sword and the breast of florian de puysange. and it seemed to florian unfair that all should prosper with him, and tiburce lie there imprisoned in dirt which shut away the color and variousness of things and the drollness of things, wherein tiburce d'arnaye had taken such joy. and tiburce, it seemed to florian--for this was a strange night--was struggling futilely under all that dirt, which shut out movement, and clogged the mouth of tiburce, and would not let him speak; and was struggling to voice a desire which was unsatisfied and hopeless. "o comrade dear," said florian, "you who loved merriment, there is a feast afoot on this strange night, and my heart is sad that you are not here to share in the feasting. come, come, tiburce, a right trusty friend you were to me; and, living or dead, you should not fail to make merry at my wedding." thus he spoke. white mists were rising, and it was walburga's eve. so a queer thing happened, and it was that the earth upon the grave began to heave and to break in fissures, as when a mole passes through the ground. and other queer things happened after that, and presently tiburce d'arnaye was standing there, gray and vague in the moonlight as he stood there brushing the mold from his brows, and as he stood there blinking bright wild eyes. and he was not greatly changed, it seemed to florian; only the brows and nose of tiburce cast no shadows upon his face, nor did his moving hand cast any shadow there, either, though the moon was naked overhead. "you had forgotten the promise that was between us," said tiburce; and his voice had not changed much, though it was smaller. "it is true. i had forgotten. i remember now." and florian shivered a little, not with fear, but with distaste. "a man prefers to forget these things when he marries. it is natural enough. but are you not afraid of me who come from yonder?" "why should i be afraid of you, tiburce, who gave your life for mine?" "i do not say. but we change yonder." "and does love change, tiburce? for surely love is immortal." "living or dead, love changes. i do not say love dies in us who may hope to gain nothing more from love. still, lying alone in the dark clay, there is nothing to do, as yet, save to think of what life was, and of what sunlight was, and of what we sang and whispered in dark places when we had lips; and of how young grass and murmuring waters and the high stars beget fine follies even now; and to think of how merry our loved ones still contrive to be, even now, with their new playfellows. such reflections are not always conducive to philanthropy." "tell me," said florian then, "and is there no way in which we who are still alive may aid you to be happier yonder?" "oh, but assuredly," replied tiburce d'arnaye, and he discoursed of curious matters; and as he talked, the mists about the graveyard thickened. "and so," tiburce said, in concluding his tale, "it is not permitted that i make merry at your wedding after the fashion of those who are still in the warm flesh. but now that you recall our ancient compact, it is permitted i have my peculiar share in the merriment, and i may drink with you to the bride's welfare." "i drink," said florian, as he took the proffered cup, "to the welfare of my beloved adelaide, whom alone of women i have really loved, and whom i shall love always." "i perceive," replied the other, "that you must still be having your joke." then florian drank, and after him tiburce. and florian said, "but it is a strange drink, tiburce, and now that you have tasted it you are changed." "you have not changed, at least," tiburce answered; and for the first time he smiled, a little perturbingly by reason of the change in him. "tell me," said florian, "of how you fare yonder." so tiburce told him of yet more curious matters. now the augmenting mists had shut off all the rest of the world. florian could see only vague rolling graynesses and a gray and changed tiburce sitting there, with bright wild eyes, and discoursing in a small chill voice. the appearance of a woman came, and sat beside him on the right. she, too, was gray, as became eve's senior: and she made a sign which florian remembered, and it troubled him. tiburce said then, "and now, young florian, you who were once so dear to me, it is to your welfare i drink." "i drink to yours, tiburce." tiburce drank first: and florian, having drunk in turn, cried out, "you have changed beyond recognition!" "you have not changed," tiburce d'arnaye replied again. "now let me tell you of our pastimes yonder." with that he talked of exceedingly curious matters. and florian began to grow dissatisfied, for tiburce was no longer recognizable, and tiburce whispered things uncomfortable to believe; and other eyes, as wild as his, but lit with red flarings from behind, like a beast's eyes, showed in the mists to this side and to that side, for unhappy beings were passing through the mists upon secret errands which they discharged unwillingly. then, too, the appearance of a gray man now sat to the left of that which had been tiburce d'arnaye, and this newcomer was marked so that all might know who he was: and florian's heart was troubled to note how handsome and how admirable was that desecrated face even now. "but i must go," said florian, "lest they miss me at storisende, and adelaide be worried." "surely it will not take long to toss off a third cup. nay, comrade, who were once so dear, let us two now drink our last toast together. then go, in sclaug's name, and celebrate your marriage. but before that let us drink to the continuance of human mirth-making everywhere." florian drank first. then tiburce took his turn, looking at florian as tiburce drank slowly. as he drank, tiburce d'arnaye was changed even more, and the shape of him altered, and the shape of him trickled as though tiburce were builded of sliding fine white sand. so tiburce d'arnaye returned to his own place. the appearances that had sat to his left and to his right were no longer there to trouble florian with memories. and florian saw that the mists of walburga's eve had departed, and that the sun was rising, and that the graveyard was all overgrown with nettles and tall grass. he had not remembered the place being thus, and it seemed to him the night had passed with unnatural quickness. but he thought more of the fact that he had been beguiled into spending his wedding-night in a graveyard, in such questionable company, and of what explanation he could make to adelaide. . _of young persons in may_ the tale tells how florian de puysange came in the dawn through flowering gardens, and heard young people from afar, already about their maying. two by two he saw them from afar as they went with romping and laughter into the tall woods behind storisende to fetch back the may-pole with dubious old rites. and as they went they sang, as was customary, that song which raimbaut de vaqueiras made in the ancient time in honor of may's ageless triumph. sang they: "_may shows with godlike showing to-day for each that sees may's magic overthrowing all musty memories in him whom may decrees to be love's own. he saith, 'i wear love's liveries until released by death_.' "_thus all we laud may's sowing, nor heed how harvests please when nowhere grain worth growing greets autumn's questing breeze, and garnerers garner these-- vain words and wasted breath and spilth and tasteless lees-- until released by death._ "_unwillingly foreknowing that love with may-time flees, we take this day's bestowing, and feed on fantasies such as love lends for ease where none but travaileth, with lean infrequent fees, until released by death_." and florian shook his sleek black head. "a very foolish and pessimistical old song, a superfluous song, and a song that is particularly out of place in the loveliest spot in the loveliest of all possible worlds." yet florian took no inventory of the gardens. there was but a happy sense of green and gold, with blue topping all; of twinkling, fluent, tossing leaves and of the gray under side of elongated, straining leaves; a sense of pert bird noises, and of a longer shadow than usual slanting before him, and a sense of youth and well-being everywhere. certainly it was not a morning wherein pessimism might hope to flourish. instead, it was of adelaide that florian thought: of the tall, impulsive, and yet timid, fair girl who was both shrewd and innocent, and of her tenderly colored loveliness, and of his abysmally unmerited felicity in having won her. why, but what, he reflected, grimacing--what if he had too hastily married somebody else? for he had earlier fancied other women for one reason or another: but this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and a love which would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. . _what comes of marrying happily_ the tale tells how florian de puysange found adelaide in the company of two ladies who were unknown to him. one of these was very old, the other an imposing matron in middle life. the three were pleasantly shaded by young oak-trees; beyond was a tall hedge of clipped yew. the older women were at chess, while adelaide bent her meek golden head to some of that fine needlework in which the girl delighted. and beside them rippled a small sunlit stream, which babbled and gurgled with silver flashes. florian hastily noted these things as he ran laughing to his wife. "heart's dearest--!" he cried. and he saw, perplexed, that adelaide had risen with a faint wordless cry, and was gazing at him as though she were puzzled and alarmed a very little. "such an adventure as i have to tell you of!" says florian then. "but, hey, young man, who are you that would seem to know my daughter so well?" demands the lady in middle life, and she rose majestically from her chess-game. florian stared, as he well might. "your daughter, madame! but certainly you are not dame melicent." at this the old, old woman raised her nodding head. "dame melicent? and was it i you were seeking, sir?" now florian looked from one to the other of these incomprehensible strangers, bewildered: and his eyes came back to his lovely wife, and his lips smiled irresolutely. "is this some jest to punish me, my dear?" but then a new and graver trouble kindled in his face, and his eyes narrowed, for there was something odd about his wife also. "i have been drinking in queer company," he said. "it must be that my head is not yet clear. now certainly it seems to me that you are adelaide de la forêt, and certainly it seems to me that you are not adelaide." the girl replied, "why, no, messire; i am sylvie de nointel." "come, come," says the middle-aged lady, briskly, "let us make an end to this play-acting, and, young fellow, let us have a sniff at you. no, you are not tipsy, after all. well, i am glad of that. so let us get to the bottom of this business. what do they call you when you are at home?" "florian de puysange," he answered, speaking meekly enough. this capable large person was to the young man rather intimidating. "la!" said she. she looked at him very hard. she nodded gravely two or three times, so that her double chin opened and shut. "yes, and you favor him. how old are you?" he told her twenty-four. she said, inconsequently: "so i was a fool, after all. well, young man, you will never be as good-looking as your father, but i trust you have an honester nature. however, bygones are bygones. is the old rascal still living? and was it he that had the impudence to send you to me?" "my father, madame, was slain at the battle of marchfeld--" "some fifty years ago! and you are twenty-four. young man, your parentage had unusual features, or else we are at cross-purposes. let us start at the beginning of this. you tell us you are called florian de puysange and that you have been drinking in queer company. now let us have the whole story." florian told of last night's happenings, with no more omissions than seemed desirable with feminine auditors. then the old woman said: "i think this is a true tale, my daughter, for the witches of amneran contrive strange things, with mists to aid them, and with lilith and sclaug to abet. yes, and this fate has fallen before to men that were over-friendly with the dead." "stuff and nonsense!" said the stout lady. "but, no, my daughter. thus seven persons slept at ephesus, from the time of decius to the time of theodosius--" "still, mother--" "--and the proof of it is that they were called constantine and dionysius and john and malchus and marcian and maximian and serapion. they were duly canonized. you cannot deny that this thing happened without asserting no less than seven blessed saints to have been unprincipled liars, and that would be a very horrible heresy--" "yet, mother, you know as well as i do--" "--and thus epimenides, another excellently spoken-of saint, slept at athens for fifty-seven years. thus charlemagne slept in the untersberg, and will sleep until the ravens of miramon lluagor have left his mountains. thus rhyming thomas in the eildon hills, thus ogier in avalon, thus oisin--" the old lady bade fair to go on interminably in her gentle resolute piping old voice, but the other interrupted. "well, mother, do not excite yourself about it, for it only makes your asthma worse, and does no especial good to anybody. things may be as you say. certainly i intended nothing irreligious. yet these extended naps, appropriate enough for saints and emperors, are out of place in one's own family. so, if it is not stuff and nonsense, it ought to be. and that i stick to." "but we forget the boy, my dear," said the old lady. "now listen, florian de puysange. thirty years ago last night, to the month and the day, it was that you vanished from our knowledge, leaving my daughter a forsaken bride. for i am what the years have made of dame melicent, and this is my daughter adelaide, and yonder is her daughter sylvie de nointel." "la, mother," observed the stout lady, "but are you certain it was the last of april? i had been thinking it was some time in june. and i protest it could not have been all of thirty years. let me see now, sylvie, how old is your brother richard? twenty-eight, you say. well, mother, i always said you had a marvelous memory for things like that, and i often envy you. but how time does fly, to be sure!" and florian was perturbed. "for this is an awkward thing, and tiburce has played me an unworthy trick. he never did know when to leave off joking; but such posthumous frivolity is past endurance. for, see now, in what a pickle it has landed me! i have outlived my friends, i may encounter difficulty in regaining my fiefs, and certainly i have lost the fairest wife man ever had. oh, can it be, madame, that you are indeed my adelaide!" "yes, every pound of me, poor boy, and that says much." "--and that you have been untrue to the eternal fidelity which you vowed to me here by this very stream! oh, but i cannot believe it was thirty years ago, for not a grass-blade or a pebble has been altered; and i perfectly remember the lapping of water under those lichened rocks, and that continuous file of ripples yonder, which are shaped like arrowheads." adelaide rubbed her nose. "did i promise eternal fidelity? i can hardly remember that far back. but i remember i wept a great deal, and my parents assured me you were either dead or a rascal, so that tears could not help either way. then ralph de nointel came along, good man, and made me a fair husband, as husbands go--" "as for that stream," then said dame melicent, "it is often i have thought of that stream, sitting here with my grandchildren where i once sat with gay young men whom nobody remembers now save me. yes, it is strange to think that instantly, and within the speaking of any simple word, no drop of water retains the place it had before the word was spoken: and yet the stream remains unchanged, and stays as it was when i sat here with those young men who are gone. yes, that is a strange thought, and it is a sad thought, too, for those of us who are old." "but, mother, of course the stream remains unchanged," agreed dame adelaide. "streams always do except after heavy rains. everybody knows that, and i can see nothing very remarkable about it. as for you, florian, if you stickle for love's being an immortal affair," she added, with a large twinkle, "i would have you know i have been a widow for three years. so the matter could be arranged." florian looked at her sadly. to him the situation was incongruous with the terrible archness of a fat woman. "but, madame, you are no longer the same person." she patted him upon the shoulder. "come, florian, there is some sense in you, after all. console yourself, lad, with the reflection that if you had stuck manfully by your wife instead of mooning about graveyards, i would still be just as i am to-day, and you would be tied to me. your friend probably knew what he was about when he drank to our welfare, for we would never have suited each other, as you can see for yourself. well, mother, many things fall out queerly in this world, but with age we learn to accept what happens without flustering too much over it. what are we to do with this resurrected old lover of mine?" it was horrible to florian to see how prosaically these women dealt with his unusual misadventure. here was a miracle occurring virtually before their eyes, and these women accepted it with maddening tranquillity as an affair for which they were not responsible. florian began to reflect that elderly persons were always more or less unsympathetic and inadequate. "first of all," says dame melicent, "i would give him some breakfast. he must be hungry after all these years. and you could put him in adhelmar's room--" "but," florian said wildly, to dame adelaide, "you have committed the crime of bigamy, and you are, after all, my wife!" she replied, herself not untroubled: "yes, but, mother, both the cook and the butler are somewhere in the bushes yonder, up to some nonsense that i prefer to know nothing about. you know how servants are, particularly on holidays. i could scramble him some eggs, though, with a rasher. and adhelmar's room it had better be, i suppose, though i had meant to have it turned out. but as for bigamy and being your wife," she concluded more cheerfully, "it seems to me the least said the soonest mended. it is to nobody's interest to rake up those foolish bygones, so far as i can see." "adelaide, you profane equally love, which is divine, and marriage, which is a holy sacrament." "florian, do you really love adelaide de nointel?" asked this terrible woman. "and now that i am free to listen to your proposals, do you wish to marry me?" "well, no," said florian: "for, as i have just said; you are no longer the same person." "why, then, you see for yourself. so do you quit talking nonsense about immortality and sacraments." "but, still," cried florian, "love is immortal. yes, i repeat to you, precisely as i told tiburce, love is immortal." then says dame melicent, nodding her shriveled old head: "when i was young, and was served by nimbler senses and desires, and was housed in brightly colored flesh, there were a host of men to love me. minstrels yet tell of the men that loved me, and of how many tall men were slain because of their love for me, and of how in the end it was perion who won me. for the noblest and the most faithful of all my lovers was perion of the forest, and through tempestuous years he sought me with a love that conquered time and chance: and so he won me. thereafter he made me a fair husband, as husbands go. but i might not stay the girl he had loved, nor might he remain the lad that melicent had dreamed of, with dreams be-drugging the long years in which demetrios held melicent a prisoner, and youth went away from her. no, perion and i could not do that, any more than might two drops of water there retain their place in the stream's flowing. so perion and i grew old together, friendly enough; and our senses and desires began to serve us more drowsily, so that we did not greatly mind the falling away of youth, nor greatly mind to note what shriveled hands now moved before us, performing common tasks; and we were content enough. but of the high passion that had wedded us there was no trace, and of little senseless human bickerings there were a great many. for one thing"--and the old lady's voice was changed--"for one thing, he was foolishly particular about what he would eat and what he would not eat, and that upset my housekeeping, and i had never any patience with such nonsense." "well, none the less," said florian, "it is not quite nice of you to acknowledge it." then said dame adelaide: "that is a true word, mother. all men get finicky about their food, and think they are the only persons to be considered, and there is no end to it if once you begin to humor them. so there has to be a stand made. well, and indeed my poor ralph, too, was all for kissing and pretty talk at first, and i accepted it willingly enough. you know how girls are. they like to be made much of, and it is perfectly natural. but that leads to children. and when the children began to come, i had not much time to bother with him: and ralph had his farming and his warfaring to keep him busy. a man with a growing family cannot afford to neglect his affairs. and certainly, being no fool, he began to notice that girls here and there had brighter eyes and trimmer waists than i. i do not know what such observations may have led to when he was away from me: i never inquired into it, because in such matters all men are fools. but i put up with no nonsense at home, and he made me a fair husband, as husbands go. that much i will say for him gladly: and if any widow says more than that, florian, do you beware of her, for she is an untruthful woman." "be that as it may," replied florian, "it is not quite becoming to speak thus of your dead husband. no doubt you speak the truth: there is no telling what sort of person you may have married in what still seems to me unseemly haste to provide me with a successor: but even so, a little charitable prevarication would be far more edifying." he spoke with such earnestness that there fell a silence. the women seemed to pity him. and in the silence florian heard from afar young persons returning from the woods behind storisende, and bringing with them the may-pole. they were still singing. sang they: "_unwillingly foreknowing that love with may-time flees, we take this day's bestowing, and feed on fantasies_--" . _youth solves it_ the tale tells how lightly and sweetly, and compassionately, too, then spoke young sylvie de nointel. "ah, but, assuredly, messire florian, you do not argue with my pets quite seriously! old people always have some such queer notions. of course love all depends upon what sort of person you are. now, as i see it, mama and grandmama are not the sort of persons who have real love-affairs. devoted as i am to both of them, i cannot but perceive they are lacking in real depth of sentiment. they simply do not understand or care about such matters. they are fine, straightforward, practical persons, poor dears, and always have been, of course, for in things like that one does not change, as i have often noticed. and father, and grandfather perion, too, as i remember him, was kind-hearted and admirable and all that, but nobody could ever have expected him to be a satisfactory lover. why, he was bald as an egg, the poor pet!" and sylvie laughed again at the preposterous notions of old people. she flashed an especial smile at florian. her hand went out as though to touch him, in an unforgotten gesture. "old people do not understand," said sylvie de nointel, in tones which took this handsome young fellow ineffably into confidence. "mademoiselle," said florian, with a sigh that was part relief and all approval, "it is you who speak the truth, and your elders have fallen victims to the cynicism of a crassly material age. love is immortal when it is really love and when one is the right sort of person. there is the love--known to how few, alas! and a passion of which i regret to find your mother incapable--that endures unchanged until the end of life." "i am so glad you think so, messire florian," she answered demurely. "and do you not think so, mademoiselle?" "how should i know," she asked him, "as yet?" he noted she had incredibly long lashes. "thrice happy is he that convinces you!" says florian. and about them, who were young in the world's recaptured youth, spring triumphed with an ageless rural pageant, and birds cried to their mates. he noted the red brevity of her lips and their probable softness. meanwhile the elder women regarded each other. "it is the season of may. they are young and they are together. poor children!" said dame melicent. "youth cries to youth for the toys of youth, and saying, 'lo, i cry with the voice of a great god!'" "still," said madame adelaide, "puysange is a good fief--" but florian heeded neither of them as he stood there by the sunlit stream, in which no drop of water retained its place for a moment, and which yet did not alter in appearance at all. he did not heed his elders for the excellent reason that sylvie de nointel was about to speak, and he preferred to listen to her. for this girl, he knew, was lovelier than any other person had ever been since eve first raised just such admiring, innocent, and venturesome eyes to inspect what must have seemed to her the quaintest of all animals, called man. so it was with a shrug that florian remembered how he had earlier fancied other women for one reason or another; since this, he knew, was the great love of his life, and a love which would endure unchanged as long as his life lasted. * * * * * april , --october , "_d'aquest segle flac, plen de marrimen, s'amor s'en vai, son jot teinh mensongier_." _so florian married sylvie, and made her, they relate, a fair husband, as husbands go. and children came to them, and then old age, and, lastly, that which comes to all._ which reminds me that it was an uncomfortable number of years ago, in an out-of-the-way corner of the library at allonby shaw, that i first came upon_ les aventures d'adhelmar de nointel. _this manuscript dates from the early part of the fifteenth century and is attributed--though on no very conclusive evidence, says hinsauf,--to the facile pen of nicolas de caen (circa ), until lately better known as a lyric poet and satirist._ _the story, told in decasyllabic couplets, interspersed after a rather unusual fashion with innumerable lyrics, seems in the main authentic. sir adhelmar de nointel, born about , was once a real and stalwart personage, a younger brother to that henri de nointel, the fighting bishop of mantes, whose unsavory part in the murder of jacques van arteveldt history has recorded at length; and it is with the exploits of this adhelmar that the romance deals, not, it may be, without exaggeration._ _in any event, the following is, with certain compressions and omissions that have seemed desirable, the last episode of the_ aventures. _the tale concerns the children of florian and sylvie: and for it i may claim, at least, the same merit that old nicolas does at the very outset; since as he veraciously declares--yet with a smack of pride:_ _cette bonne ystoire n'est pas usée, ni guère de lieux jadis trouvée, ni ècrite par clercz ne fut encore._ chapter ii _the episode called adhelmar at puysange_ i. _april-magic_ when adhelmar had ended the tale of dame venus and the love which she bore the knight tannhäuser (here one overtakes nicolas midcourse in narrative), adhelmar put away the book and sighed. the demoiselle mélite laughed a little--her laughter, as i have told you, was high and delicate, with the resonance of thin glass--and demanded the reason of his sudden grief. "i sigh," he answered, "for sorrow that this dame venus is dead." "surely," said she, wondering at his glum face, "that is no great matter." "by saint vulfran, yes!" adhelmar protested; "for the same lady venus was the fairest of women, as all learned clerks avow; and she is dead these many years, and now there is no woman left alive so beautiful as she--saving one alone, and she will have none of me. and therefore," he added, very slowly, "i sigh for desire of dame venus and for envy of the knight tannhäuser." again mélite laughed, but she forbore--discreetly enough--to question him concerning the lady who was of equal beauty with dame venus. it was an april morning, and they set in the hedged garden of puysange. adhelmar read to her of divers ancient queens and of the love-business wherein each took part, relating the histories of the lady heleine and of her sweethearting with duke paris, the emperor of troy's son, and of the lady melior that loved parthénopex of blois, and of the lady aude, for love of whom sieur roland slew the pagan angoulaffre, and of the lady cresseide that betrayed love, and of the lady morgaine la fée, whose danish lover should yet come from avalon to save france in her black hour of need. all these he read aloud, suavely, with bland modulations, for he was a man of letters, as letters went in those days. originally, he had been bred for the church; but this vocation he had happily forsaken long since, protesting with some show of reason that france at this particular time had a greater need of spears than of aves. for the rest, sir adhelmar de nointel was known as a valiant knight, who had won glory in the wars with the english. he had lodged for a fortnight at puysange, of which castle the master, sire reinault (son to the late vicomte florian) was adhelmar's cousin: and on the next day adhelmar proposed to set forth for paris, where the french king--jehan the luckless--was gathering his lieges about him to withstand his kinsman, edward of england. now, as i have said, adhelmar was cousin to reinault, and, in consequence, to reinault's sister, the demoiselle mélite; and the latter adhelmar loved, at least, as much as a cousin should. that was well known; and reinault de puysange had sworn very heartily that this was a great pity when he affianced her to hugues d'arques. both hugues and adhelmar had loved mélite since boyhood,--so far their claims ran equally. but while adhelmar had busied himself in the acquisition of some scant fame and a vast number of scars, hugues had sensibly inherited the fief of arques, a snug property with fertile lands and a stout fortress. how, then, should reinault hesitate between them? he did not. for the château d'arques, you must understand, was builded in lower normandy, on the fringe of the hill-country, just where the peninsula of cotentin juts out into the sea; puysange stood not far north, among the level lands of upper normandy: and these two being the strongest castles in those parts, what more natural and desirable than that the families should be united by marriage? reinault informed his sister of his decision; she wept a little, but did not refuse to comply. so adhelmar, come again to puysange after five years' absence, found mélite troth-plighted, fast and safe, to hugues. reinault told him. adhelmar grumbled and bit his nails in a corner, for a time; then laughed shortly. "i have loved mélite," he said. "it may be that i love her still. hah, saint vulfran! why should i not? why should a man not love his cousin?" adhelmar grinned, while the vicomte twitched his beard and wished adhelmar at the devil. but the young knight stuck fast at puysange, for all that, and he and mélite were much together. daily they made parties to dance, and to hunt the deer, and to fish, but most often to rehearse songs. for adhelmar made good songs. [footnote: nicolas indeed declares of adhelmar, earlier in the tale, in such high terms as are not uncommon to this chronicle: hardi estait et fier comme lions, et si faisait balades et chançons, rondeaulx et laiz, très bans et pleins de grâce, comme orpheus, cet menestrier de thrace.] to-day, the summer already stirring in the womb of the year, they sat, as i have said, in the hedged garden; and about them the birds piped and wrangled over their nest-building, and daffodils danced in spring's honor with lively saltations, and overhead the sky was colored like a robin's egg. it was very perilous weather for young folk. by reason of this, when he had ended his reading about the lady of the hollow hill, sir adhelmar sighed again, and stared at his companion with hungry eyes, wherein desire strained like a hound at the leash. said mélite, "was this lady venus, then, exceedingly beautiful?" adhelmar swore an oath of sufficient magnitude that she was. whereupon mélite, twisting her fingers idly and evincing a sudden interest in her own feet, demanded if this venus were more beautiful than the lady ermengarde of arnaye or the lady ysabeau of brieuc. "holy ouen!" scoffed adhelmar; "these ladies, while well enough, i grant you, would seem to be callow howlets blinking about that arabian phoenix which plinius tells of, in comparison with this lady venus that is dead!" "but how," asked mélite, "was this lady fashioned that you commend so highly?--and how can you know of her beauty who have never seen her?" said adhelmar: "i have read of her fairness in the chronicles of messire stace of thebes, and of dares, who was her husband's bishop. and she was very comely, neither too little nor too big; she was fairer and whiter and more lovely than any flower of the lily or snow upon the branch, but her eyebrows had the mischance of meeting. she had wide-open, beautiful eyes, and her wit was quick and ready. she was graceful and of demure countenance. she was well-beloved, and could herself love well, but her heart was changeable--" "cousin adhelmar," declared mélite, flushing somewhat, for the portrait was like enough, "i think that you tell of a woman, not of a goddess of heathenry." "her eyes," said adhelmar, and his voice shook, and his hands, lifting a little, trembled,--"her eyes were large and very bright and of a color like that of the june sunlight falling upon deep waters. her hair was of a curious gold color like the fleece that the knight jason sought, and it curled marvellously about her temples. for mouth she had but a small red wound; and her throat was a tower builded of ivory." but now, still staring at her feet and glowing with the even complexion of a rose, (though not ill-pleased), the demoiselle mélite bade him desist and make her a song. moreover, she added, beauty was but a fleeting thing, and she considered it of little importance; and then she laughed again. adhelmar took up the lute that lay beside them and fingered it for a moment, as though wondering of what he would rhyme. afterward he sang for her as they sat in the gardens. sang adhelmar: _"it is in vain i mirror forth the praise in pondered virelais of her that is the lady of my love; far-sought and curious phrases fail to tell the tender miracle of her white body and the grace thereof. "thus many and many an artful-artless strain is fashioned all in vain: sound proves unsound; and even her name, that is to me more glorious than the glow of fire or dawn or love's desire or opals interlinked with turquoises, mocks utterance. "so, lacking skill to praise that perfect bodily beauty which is hers, even as those worshippers who bore rude offerings of honey and maize, their all, into the gold-paved ministers of aphrodite, i have given her these my faltering melodies, that are love's lean and ragged messengers."_ when he had ended, adhelmar cast aside the lute, and caught up both of mélite's hands, and strained them to his lips. there needed no wizard to read the message in his eyes. mélite sat silent for a moment. presently, "ah, cousin, cousin!" she sighed, "i cannot love you as you would have me love. god alone knows why, true heart, for i revere you as a strong man and a proven knight and a faithful lover; but i do not love you. there are many women who would love you, adhelmar, for the world praises you, and you have done brave deeds and made good songs and have served your king potently; and yet"--she drew her hands away and laughed a little wearily--"yet i, poor maid, must needs love hugues, who has done nothing. this love is a strange, unreasoning thing, my cousin." "but do you in truth love hugues?" asked adhelmar, in a harsh voice. "yes," said mélite, very softly, and afterward flushed and wondered dimly if she had spoken the truth. then, somehow, her arms clasped about adhelmar's neck, and she kissed him, from pure pity, as she told herself; for mélite's heart was tender, and she could not endure the anguish in his face. this was all very well. but hugues d'arques, coming suddenly out of a pleached walk, at this juncture, stumbled upon them and found their postures distasteful. he bent black brows upon the two. "adhelmar," said he, at length, "this world is a small place." adhelmar rose. "indeed," he assented, with a wried smile, "i think there is scarce room in it for both of us, hugues." "that was my meaning," said the sieur d'arques. "only," adhelmar pursued, somewhat wistfully, "my sword just now, hugues, is vowed to my king's quarrel. there are some of us who hope to save france yet, if our blood may avail. in a year, god willing, i shall come again to puysange; and till then you must wait." hugues conceded that, perforce, he must wait, since a vow was sacred; and adhelmar, who suspected hugues' natural appetite for battle to be lamentably squeamish, grinned. after that, in a sick rage, adhelmar struck hugues in the face, and turned about. the sieur d'arques rubbed his cheek ruefully. then he and mélite stood silent for a moment, and heard adhelmar in the court-yard calling his men to ride forth; and mélite laughed; and hugues scowled. . _nicolas as chorus_ the year passed, and adhelmar did not return; and there was much fighting during that interval, and hugues began to think the knight was slain and would never return to fight with him. the reflection was borne with equanimity. so adhelmar was half-forgot, and the sieur d'arques turned his mind to other matters. he was still a bachelor, for reinault considered the burden of the times in ill-accord with the chinking of marriage-bells. they were grim times for frenchmen: right and left the english pillaged and killed and sacked and guzzled and drank, as if they would never have done; and edward of england began, to subscribe himself _rex franciae_ with some show of excuse. in normandy men acted according to their natures. reinault swore lustily and looked to his defences; hugues, seeing the english everywhere triumphant, drew a long face and doubted, when the will of god was made thus apparent, were it the part of a christian to withstand it? then he began to write letters, but to whom no man at either arques or puysange knew, saving one-eyed peire, who carried them. . _treats of huckstering_ it was in the dusk of a rain-sodden october day that adhelmar rode to the gates of puysange, with some score men-at-arms behind him. they came from poictiers, where again the english had conquered, and adhelmar rode with difficulty, for in that disastrous business in the field of maupertuis he had been run through the chest, and his wound was scarce healed. nevertheless, he came to finish his debate with the sieur d'arques, wound or no wound. but at puysange he heard a strange tale of hugues. reinault, whom adhelmar found in a fine rage, told the story as they sat over their supper. it had happened, somehow, (reinault said), that the marshal arnold d'andreghen--newly escaped from prison and with his disposition unameliorated by lord audley's gaolership,--had heard of these letters that hugues wrote so constantly; and the marshal, being no scholar, had frowned at such doings, and waited presently, with a company of horse, on the road to arques. into their midst, on the day before adhelmar came, rode peire, the one-eyed messenger; and it was not an unconscionable while before peire was bound hand and foot, and d'andreghen was reading the letter they had found in peire's jerkin. "hang the carrier on that oak," said d'andreghen, when he had ended, "but leave that largest branch yonder for the writer. for by the blood of christ, our common salvation! i will hang him there on monday!" so peire swung in the air ere long and stuck out a black tongue at the crows, who cawed and waited for supper; and presently they feasted while d'andreghen rode to arques, carrying a rope for hugues. for the marshal, you must understand, was a man of sudden action. only two months ago, he had taken the comte de harcourt with other gentlemen from the dauphin's own table to behead them that afternoon in a field behind rouen. it was true they had planned to resist the _gabelle_, the king's immemorial right to impose a tax on salt; but harcourt was hugues' cousin, and the sieur d'arques, being somewhat of an epicurean disposition, esteemed the dessert accorded his kinsman unpalatable. there was no cause for great surprise to d'andreghen, then, to find that the letter hugues had written was meant for edward, the black prince of england, now at bordeaux, where he held the french king, whom the prince had captured at poictiers, as a prisoner; for this prince, though he had no particular love for a rogue, yet knew how to make use of one when kingcraft demanded it,--and, as he afterward made use of pedro the castilian, he was now prepared to make use of hugues, who hung like a ripe pear ready to drop into prince edward's mouth. "for," as the sieur d'arques pointed out in his letter, "i am by nature inclined to favor you brave english, and so, beyond doubt, is the good god. and i will deliver arques to you; and thus and thus you may take normandy and the major portion of france; and thus and thus will i do, and thus and thus must you reward me." said d'andreghen, "i will hang him at dawn; and thus and thus may the devil do with his soul!" then with his company d'andreghen rode to arques. a herald declared to the men of that place how the matter stood, and bade hugues come forth and dance upon nothing. the sieur d'arques spat curses, like a cat driven into a corner, and wished to fight, but the greater part of his garrison were not willing to do so in such a cause: and so d'andreghen took him and carried him off. in anger having sworn by the blood of christ to hang hugues d'arques to a certain tree, d'andreghen had no choice in calm but to abide by his oath. this day being the sabbath, he deferred the matter; but the marshal promised to see to it that when morning broke the sieur d'arques should dangle side by side with his messenger. thus far the vicomte de puysange. he concluded his narrative with a dry chuckle. "and i think we are very well rid of him, adhelmar. holy maclou! that i should have taken the traitor for a true man, though! he would sell france, you observe,--chaffered, they tell me, like a pedlar over the price of normandy. heh, the huckster, the triple-damned jew!" "and mélite?" asked adhelmar, after a little. again reinault shrugged. "in the white turret," he said; then, with a short laugh: "oy dieus, yes! the girl has been caterwauling for this shabby rogue all day. she would have me--me, the king's man, look you!--save hugues at the peril of my seignory! and i protest to you, by the most high and pious saint nicolas the confessor," reinault swore, "that sooner than see this huckster go unpunished, i would lock hell's gate on him with my own hands!" for a moment adhelmar stood with his jaws puffed out, as if in thought, and then he laughed like a wolf. afterward he went to the white turret, leaving reinault smiling over his wine. . _folly diversely attested_ he found mélite alone. she had robed herself in black, and had gathered her gold hair about her face like a heavy veil, and sat weeping into it for the plight of hugues d'arques. "mélite!" cried adhelmar; "mélite!" the demoiselle de puysange rose with a start, and, seeing him standing in the doorway, ran to him, incompetent little hands fluttering before her like frightened doves. she was very tired, by that day-long arguing with her brother's notions about honor and knightly faith and such foolish matters, and to her weariness adhelmar seemed strength incarnate; surely he, if any one, could aid hugues and bring him safe out of the grim marshal's claws. for the moment, perhaps, she had forgotten the feud which existed between adhelmar and the sieur d'arques; but in any event, i am convinced, she knew that adhelmar could refuse her nothing. so she ran toward him, her cheeks flushing arbutus-like, and she was smiling through her tears. oh, thought adhelmar, were it not very easy to leave hugues to the dog's death he merits and to take this woman for my own? for i know that she loves me a little. and thinking of this, he kissed her, quietly, as one might comfort a sobbing child; afterward he held her in his arms for a moment, wondering vaguely at the pliant thickness of her hair and the sweet scent of it. then he put her from him gently, and swore in his soul that hugues must die, so that this woman might be adhelmar's. "you will save him?" mélite asked, and raised her face to his. there was that in her eyes which caused adhelmar to muse for a little on the nature of women's love, and, subsequently, to laugh harshly and make vehement utterance. "yes!" said adhelmar. he demanded how many of hugues' men were about. some twenty of them had come to puysange, mélite said, in the hope that reinault might aid them to save their master. she protested that her brother was a coward for not doing so; but adhelmar, having his own opinion on this subject, and thinking in his heart that hugues' skin might easily be ripped off him without spilling a pint of honest blood, said, simply: "twenty and twenty is two-score. it is not a large armament, but it may serve." he told her his plan was to fall suddenly upon d'andreghen and his men that night, and in the tumult to steal hugues away; whereafter, as adhelmar pointed out, hugues might readily take ship for england, and leave the marshal to blaspheme fortune in normandy, and the french king to gnaw at his chains in bordeaux, while hugues toasts his shins in comfort at london. adhelmar admitted that the plan was a mad one, but added, reasonably enough, that needs must when the devil drives. and so firm was his confidence, so cheery his laugh--he managed to laugh somehow, though it was a stiff piece of work,--that mélite began to be comforted somewhat, and bade him go and godspeed. so then adhelmar left her. in the main hall he found the vicomte still sitting over his wine of anjou. "cousin," said adhelmar, "i must ride hence to-night." reinault stared at him: a mastering wonder woke in reinault's face. "ta, ta, ta!" he clicked his tongue, very softly. afterward he sprang to his feet and clutched adhelmar by both arms. "no, no!" reinault cried. "no, adhelmar, you must not try that! it is death, lad,--sure death! it means hanging, boy!" the vicomte pleaded, for, hard man that he was, he loved adhelmar. "that is likely enough," adhelmar conceded. "they will hang you,"' reinault said again: "d'andreghen and the count dauphin of vienna will hang you as blithely as they would iscariot." "that, too," said adhelmar, "is likely enough, if i remain in france." "oy dieus! will you flee to england, then?" the vicomte scoffed, bitterly. "has king edward not sworn to hang you these eight years past? was it not you, then, cousin, who took almerigo di pavia, that lombard knave whom he made governor of calais,--was it not you, then, who delivered edward's loved almerigo to geoffrey de chargny, who had him broken on the wheel? eh, holy maclou! but you will get hearty welcome and a chaplain and a rope in england." adhelmar admitted that this was true. "still," said he, "i must ride hence to-night." "for her?" reinault asked, and jerked his thumb upward. "yes," said adhelmar,--"for her." reinault stared in his face for a while. "you are a fool, adhelmar," said he, at last, "but you are a brave man, and you love as becomes a chevalier. it is a great pity that a flibbertigibbet wench with a tow-head should be the death of you. for my part, i am the king's vassal; i shall not break faith with him; but you are my guest and my kinsman. for that reason i am going to bed, and i shall sleep very soundly. it is likely i shall hear nothing of the night's doings,--ohimé, no! not if you murder d'andreghen in the court-yard!" reinault ended, and smiled, somewhat sadly. afterward he took adhelmar's hand and said: "farewell, lord adhelmar! o true knight, sturdy and bold! terrible and merciless toward your enemies, gentle and simple toward your friends, farewell!" he kissed adhelmar on either cheek and left him. in those days men encountered death with very little ado. then adhelmar rode off in the rain with thirty-four armed followers. riding thus, he reflected upon the nature of women and upon his love for the demoiselle de puysange; and, to himself, he swore gloomily that if she had a mind to hugues she must have hugues, come what might. having reached this conclusion, adhelmar wheeled upon his men, and cursed them for tavern-idlers and laggards and flea-hearted snails, and bade them spur. mélite, at her window, heard them depart, and heard the noise of their going lapse into the bland monotony of the rain's noise. this dank night now divulged no more, and she turned back into the room. adhelmar's glove, which he had forgotten in his haste, lay upon the floor, and mélite lifted it and twisted it idly. "i wonder--?" said she. she lighted four wax candles and set them before a mirror that was in the room. mélite stood among them and looked into the mirror. she seemed very tall and very slender, and her loosened hair hung heavily about her beautiful shallow face and fell like a cloak around her black-robed body, showing against the black gown like melting gold; and about her were the tall, white candles tipped with still flames of gold. mélite laughed--her laughter was high and delicate, with the resonance of thin glass,--and raised her arms above her, head, stretching tensely like a cat before a fire, and laughed yet again. "after all," said she, "i do not wonder." mélite sat before the mirror, and braided her hair, and sang to herself in a sweet, low voice, brooding with unfathomable eyes upon her image in the glass, while the october rain beat about puysange, and adhelmar rode forth to save hugues that must else be hanged. sang mélite: "_rustling leaves of the willow-tree peering downward at you and me, and no man else in the world to see, "only the birds, whose dusty coats show dark in the green,--whose throbbing throats turn joy to music and love to notes_. "lean your body against the tree, lifting your red lips up to me, mélite, and kiss, with no man to see! "and let us laugh for a little:--yea, let love and laughter herald the day when laughter and love will be put away. "then you will remember the willow-tree and this very hour, and remember me, mélite,--whose face you will no more see! "so swift, so swift the glad time goes, and eld and death with their countless woes draw near, and the end thereof no man knows, "lean your body against the tree, lifting your red lips up to me, mélite, and kiss, with no man to see!"_ mélite smiled as she sang; for this was a song that adhelmar had made for her upon a may morning at nointel, before he was a knight, when both were very young. so now she smiled to remember the making of the verses which she sang while the october rain was beating about puysange. . _night-work_ it was not long before they came upon d'andreghen and his men camped about a great oak, with one-eyed peire a-swing over their heads for a lamentable banner. a shrill sentinel, somewhere in the dark, demanded the newcomers' business, but without receiving any adequate answer, for at that moment adhelmar gave the word to charge. then it was as if all the devils in pandemonium had chosen normandy for their playground; and what took place in the night no man saw for the darkness, so that i cannot tell you of it. let it suffice that adhelmar rode away before d'andreghen had rubbed sleep well out of his eyes; and with adhelmar were hugues d'arques and some half of adhelmar's men. the rest were dead, and adhelmar was badly hurt, for he had burst open his old wound and it was bleeding under his armor. of this he said nothing. "hugues," said he, "do you and these fellows ride to the coast; thence take ship for england." he would have none of hugues' thanks; instead, he turned and left hugues to whimper out his gratitude to the skies, which spat a warm, gusty rain at him. adhelmar rode again to puysange, and as he went he sang. sang adhelmar: "d'andreghen in normandy went forth to slay mine enemy; but as he went lord god for me wrought marvellously; "wherefore, i may call and cry that am now about to die, 'i am content!' "domine! domine! gratias accipe! et meum animum recipe in coelum_!" . they kiss at parting when he had come to puysange, adhelmar climbed the stairs of the white turret,--slowly, for he was growing very feeble now,--and so came again to mélite crouching among the burned-out candles in the slate-colored twilight which heralded dawn. "he is safe," said adhelmar. he told mélite how hugues was rescued and shipped to england, and how, if she would, she might straightway follow him in a fishing-boat. "for there is likely to be ugly work at puysange," adhelmar said, "when the marshal comes. and he will come." "but what will you do now, my cousin?" asked mélite. "holy ouen!" said adhelmar; "since i needs must die, i will die in france, not in the cold land of england." "die!" cried mélite. "are you hurt so sorely, then?" he grinned like a death's-head. "my injuries are not incurable," said he, "yet must i die very quickly, for all that. the english king will hang me if i go thither, as he has sworn to do these eight years, because of that matter of almerigo di pavia: and if i stay in france, i must hang because of this night's work." mélite wept. "o god! o god!" she quavered, two or three times, like one hurt in the throat. "and you have done this for me! is there no way to save you, adhelmar?" she pleaded, with wide, frightened eyes that were like a child's. "none," said adhelmar. he took both her hands in his, very tenderly. "ah, my sweet," said he, "must i, whose grave is already digged, waste breath upon this idle talk of kingdoms and the squabbling men who rule them? i have but a brief while to live, and i wish to forget that there is aught else in the world save you, and that i love you. do not weep, mélite! in a little time you will forget me and be happy with this hugues whom you love; and i?--ah, my sweet, i think that even in my grave i shall dream of you and of your great beauty and of the exceeding love that i bore you in the old days." "ah, no, i shall not ever forget, o true and faithful lover! and, indeed, indeed, adhelmar, i would give my life right willingly that yours might be saved!" she had almost forgotten hugues. her heart was sad as she thought of adhelmar, who must die a shameful death for her sake, and of the love which she had cast away. beside it, the sieur d'arques' affection showed somewhat tawdry, and mélite began to reflect that, after all, she had liked adhelmar almost as well. "sweet," said adhelmar, "do i not know you to the marrow? you will forget me utterly, for your heart is very changeable. ah, mother of god!" adhelmar cried, with a quick lift of speech; "i am afraid to die, for the harsh dust will shut out the glory of your face, and you will forget!" "no; ah, no!" mélite whispered, and drew near to him. adhelmar smiled, a little wistfully, for he did not believe that she spoke the truth; but it was good to feel her body close to his, even though he was dying, and he was content. but by this time the dawn had come completely, flooding the room with its first thin radiance, and mélite saw the pallor of his face and so knew that he was wounded. "indeed, yes," said adhelmar, when she had questioned him, "for my breast is quite cloven through." and when she disarmed him, mélite found a great cut in his chest which had bled so much that it was apparent he must die, whether d'andreghen and edward of england would or no. mélite wept again, and cried, "why had you not told me of this?" "to have you heal me, perchance?" said adhelmar. "ah, love, is hanging, then, so sweet a death that i should choose it, rather than to die very peacefully in your arms? indeed, i would not live if i might; for i have proven traitor to my king, and it is right that traitors should die; and, chief of all, i know that life can bring me naught more desirable than i have known this night. what need, then, have i to live?" mélite bent over him; for as he spoke he had lain back in a tall carven chair by the east window. she was past speech. but now, for a moment, her lips clung to his, and her warm tears fell upon his face. what better death for a lover? thought adhelmar. yet he murmured somewhat. "pity, always pity!" he said, wearily. "i shall never win aught else of you, mélite. for before this you have kissed me, pitying me because you could not love me. and you have kissed me now, pitying me because i may not live." but mélite, clasping her arms about his neck, whispered into his ear the meaning of this last kiss, and at the honeyed sound of her whispering his strength came back for a moment, and he strove to rise. the level sunlight through the open window smote full upon his face, which was very glad. mélite was conscious of her nobility in causing him such delight at the last. "god, god!" cried adhelmar, and he spread out his arms toward the dear, familiar world that was slowly taking form beneath them,--a world now infinitely dear to him; "all, my god, have pity and let me live a little longer!" as mélite, half frightened, drew back from him, he crept out of his chair and fell prone at her feet. afterward his hands stretched forward toward her, clutching, and then trembled and were still. mélite stood looking downward, wondering vaguely when she would next know either joy or sorrow again. she was now conscious of no emotion whatever. it seemed to her she ought to be more greatly moved. so the new day found them. * * * * * march , "_jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him for a cup of madeira and a cold capon's leg_?" _in the chapel at puysange you may still see the tomb of adhelmar; but mélite's bones lie otherwhere. "her heart was changeable," as old nicolas says, justly enough; and so in due time it was comforted. for hugues d'arques--or hugh darke, as his name was anglicized--presently stood high in the favor of king edward. a fief was granted to messire darke, in norfolk, where hugues shortly built for himself a residence at yaxham, and began to look about for a wife: it was not long before he found one. this befell at brétigny when, in , the great peace was signed between france and england, and hugues, as one of the english embassy, came face to face with reinault and mélite. history does not detail the meeting; but, inasmuch as the sieur d'arques and mélite de puysange were married at rouen the following october, doubtless it passed off pleasantly enough. the couple had sufficient in common to have qualified them for several decades of mutual toleration. but by ill luck, mélite died in child-birth three years after her marriage. she had borne, in , twin daughters, of whom adelais died a spinster; the other daughter, sylvia, circa , figured in an unfortunate love-affair with one of sir thomas mowbray's attendants, but subsequently married robert vernon of winstead. mélite left also a son, hugh, born in , who succeeded to his father's estate of yaxham in , in which year hugues fell at the battle of radcot bridge, fighting in behalf of the ill-fated richard of bordeaux. now we turn to certain happenings in eastcheap, at the boar's head tavern._ chapter iii _the episode called love-letters of falstaff_ i. "_that gray iniquity_" there was a sound of scuffling within as sir john falstaff--much broken since his loss of the king's favor, and now equally decayed in wit and health and reputation--stood fumbling at the door of the angel room. he was particularly shaky this morning after a night of particularly hard drinking. but he came into the apartment singing, and, whatever the scuffling had meant, found bardolph in one corner employed in sorting garments from a clothes-chest, while at the extreme end of the room mistress quickly demurely stirred the fire; which winked at the old knight rather knowingly. "_then came the bold sir caradoc_," carolled sir john. "ah, mistress, what news?--_and eke sir pellinore_.--did i rage last night, bardolph? was i a bedlamite?" "as mine own bruises can testify," bardolph assented. "had each one of them a tongue, they would raise a clamor beside which babel were as an heir weeping for his rich uncle's death; their testimony would qualify you for any mad-house in england. and if their evidence go against the doctor's stomach, the watchman at the corner hath three teeth--or, rather, hath them no longer, since you knocked them out last night--that will, right willingly, aid him to digest it." "three, say you?" asked the knight, rather stiffly lowering his great body into his great chair set ready for him beside the fire. "i would have my valor in all men's mouths, but not in this fashion, for it is too biting a jest. three, say you? well, i am glad it was no worse; i have a tender conscience, and that mad fellow of the north, hotspur, sits heavily upon it, so that thus this percy, being slain by my valor, is _per se_ avenged, a plague on him! three, say you? i would to god my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is; i would i had 'bated my natural inclination somewhat, and had slain less tall fellows by some threescore. i doubt agamemnon slept not well o' nights. three, say you? give the fellow a crown apiece for his mouldy teeth, if thou hast them; if thou hast them not, bid him eschew this vice of drunkenness, whereby his misfortune hath befallen him, and thus win him heavenly crowns." "indeed, sir," began bardolph, "i doubt--" "doubt not, sirrah!" cried sir john, testily; and continued, in a virtuous manner: "was not the apostle reproved for that same sin? thou art a didymus, bardolph;--an incredulous paynim, a most unspeculative rogue! have i carracks trading in the indies? have i robbed the exchequer of late? have i the golden fleece for a cloak? nay, it is paltry gimlet, and that augurs badly. why, does this knavish watchman take me for a raven to feed him in the wilderness? tell him there are no such ravens hereabout; else had i ravenously limed the house-tops and set springes in the gutters. inform him that my purse is no better lined than his own broken skull: it is void as a beggar's protestations, or a butcher's stall in lent; light as a famished gnat, or the sighing of a new-made widower; more empty than a last year's bird-nest, than a madman's eye, or, in fine, than the friendship of a king." "but you have wealthy friends, sir john," suggested the hostess of the boar's head tavern, whose impatience had but very hardly waited for this opportunity to join in the talk. "yes, i warrant you, sir john. sir john, you have a many wealthy friends; you cannot deny that, sir john." "friends, dame?" asked the knight, and cowered closer to the fire, as though he were a little cold. "i have no friends since hal is king. i had, i grant you, a few score of acquaintances whom i taught to play at dice; paltry young blades of the city, very unfledged juvenals! setting my knighthood and my valor aside, if i did swear friendship with these, i did swear to a lie. but this is a censorious and muddy-minded world, so that, look you, even these sprouting aldermen, these foul bacon-fed rogues, have fled my friendship of late, and my reputation hath grown somewhat more murky than erebus. no matter! i walk alone, as one that hath the pestilence. no matter! but i grow old; i am not in the vaward of my youth, mistress." he nodded his head with extreme gravity; then reached for a cup of sack that bardolph held at the knight's elbow. "indeed, i know not what your worship will do," said mistress quickly, rather sadly. "faith!" answered sir john, finishing the sack and grinning in a somewhat ghastly fashion; "unless the providence that watches over the fall of a sparrow hath an eye to the career of sir john falstaff, knight, and so comes to my aid shortly, i must needs convert my last doublet into a mask, and turn highwayman in my shirt. i can take purses yet, ye uzzite comforters, as gaily as i did at gadshill, where that scurvy poins, and he that is now king, and some twoscore other knaves did afterward assault me in the dark; yet i peppered some of them, i warrant you!" "you must be rid of me, then, master," bardolph interpolated. "i for one have no need of a hempen collar." "ah, well!" said the knight, stretching himself in his chair as the warmth of the liquor coursed through his inert blood; "i, too, would be loth to break the gallows' back! for fear of halters, we must alter our way of living; we must live close, bardolph, till the wars make us croesuses or food for crows. and if hal but hold to his bias, there will be wars: i will eat a piece of my sword, if he have not need of it shortly. ah, go thy ways, tall jack; there live not three good men unhanged in england, and one of them is fat and grows old. we must live close, bardolph; we must forswear drinking and wenching! but there is lime in this sack, you rogue; give me another cup." the old knight drained this second cup, and unctuously sucked at and licked his lips. thereafter, "i pray you, hostess," he continued, "remember that doll tearsheet sups with me to-night; have a capon of the best, and be not sparing of the wine. i will repay you, upon honor, when we young fellows return from france, all laden with rings and brooches and such trumperies like your norfolkshire pedlars at christmas-tide. we will sack a town for you, and bring you back the lord mayor's beard to stuff you a cushion; the dauphin shall be your tapster yet; we will walk on lilies, i warrant you, to the tune of _hey, then up go we!"_ "indeed, sir," said mistress quickly, in perfect earnest, "your worship is as welcome to my pantry as the mice--a pox on 'em!--think themselves; you are heartily welcome. ah, well, old puss is dead; i had her of goodman quickly these ten years since;--but i had thought you looked for the lady who was here but now;--she was a roaring lion among the mice." "what lady?" cried sir john, with great animation. "was it flint the mercer's wife, think you? ah, she hath a liberal disposition, and will, without the aid of prince houssain's carpet or the horse of cambuscan, transfer the golden shining pieces from her husband's coffers to mine." "no mercer's wife, i think," mistress quickly answered, after consideration. "she came with two patched footmen, and smacked of gentility;--master dumbleton's father was a mercer; but he had red hair;--she is old;--and i could never abide red hair." "no matter!" cried the knight. "i can love this lady, be she a very witch of endor. observe, what a thing it is to be a proper man, bardolph! she hath marked me;--in public, perhaps; on the street, it may be;--and then, i warrant you, made such eyes! and sighed such sighs! and lain awake o' nights, thinking of a pleasing portly gentleman, whom, were i not modesty's self, i might name;--and i, all this while, not knowing! fetch me my book of riddles and my sonnets, that i may speak smoothly. why was my beard not combed this morning? no matter, it will serve. have i no better cloak than this?" sir john was in a tremendous bustle, all a-beam with pleasurable anticipation. but mistress quickly, who had been looking out of the window, said, "come, but your worship must begin with unwashed hands, for old madam wish-for't and her two country louts are even now at the door." "avaunt, minions!" cried the knight. "avaunt! conduct the lady hither, hostess; bardolph, another cup of sack. we will ruffle it, lad, and go to france all gold, like midas! are mine eyes too red? i must look sad, you know, and sigh very pitifully. ah, we will ruffle it! another cup of sack, bardolph;--i am a rogue if i have drunk to-day. and avaunt! vanish! for the lady comes." he threw himself into a gallant attitude, suggestive of one suddenly palsied, and with the mien of a turkey-cock strutted toward the door to greet his unknown visitor. . _"then was jack falstaff, now sir john, a boy"_ the woman who entered was not the jolly city dame one looked for: and, at first sight, you estimated her age as a trifle upon the staider side of sixty. but to this woman the years had shown unwonted kindliness, as though time touched her less with intent to mar than to caress; her form was still unbent, and her countenance, bloodless and deep-furrowed, bore the traces of great beauty; and, whatever the nature of her errand, the woman who stood in the doorway was unquestionably a person of breeding. sir john advanced toward her with as much elegance as he might muster; for gout when coupled with such excessive bulk does not beget an overpowering amount of grace. "_see, from the glowing east, aurora comes_," he chirped. "madam, permit me to welcome you to my poor apartments; they are not worthy--" "i would see sir john falstaff, sir," declared the lady, courteously, but with some reserve of manner, and looking him full in the face as she said this. "indeed, madam," suggested sir john, "if those bright eyes--whose glances have already cut my poor heart into as many pieces as the man in the front of the almanac--will but desist for a moment from such butcher's work and do their proper duty, you will have little trouble in finding the bluff soldier you seek." "are you sir john?" asked the lady, as though suspecting a jest. "the son of old sir edward falstaff, of norfolk?" "his wife hath frequently assured me so," sir john protested, very gravely; "and to confirm her evidence i have about me a certain villainous thirst that did plague sir edward sorely in his lifetime, and came to me with his other chattels. the property i have expended long since; but no jew will advance me a maravedi on the falstaff thirst. it is a priceless commodity, not to be bought or sold; you might as soon quench it." "i would not have known you," said the lady, wonderingly; "but," she added, "i have not seen you these forty years." "faith, madam," grinned the knight, "the great pilferer time hath since then taken away a little from my hair, and added somewhat (saving your presence) to my belly; and my face hath not been improved by being the grindstone for some hundred swords. but i do not know you." "i am sylvia vernon," said the lady. "and once, a long while ago, i was sylvia darke." "i remember," said the knight. his voice was altered. bardolph would hardly have known it; nor, perhaps, would he have recognized his master's manner as he handed dame sylvia to the best chair. "a long while ago," she repeated, sadly, after a pause during which the crackling of the fire was very audible. "time hath dealt harshly with us both, john;--the name hath a sweet savor. i am an old woman now. and you--" "i would not have known you," said sir john; then asked, almost resentfully, "what do you here?" "my son goes to the wars," she answered, "and i am come to bid him farewell; yet i should not tarry in london, for my lord is feeble and hath constant need of me. but i, an old woman, am yet vain enough to steal these few moments from him who needs me, to see for the last time, mayhap, him who was once my very dear friend." "i was never your friend, sylvia," said sir john. "ah, the old wrangle!" said the lady, and smiled a little wistfully. "my dear and very honored lover, then; and i am come to see him here." "ay!" interrupted sir john, rather hastily; and he proceeded, glowing with benevolence: "a quiet, orderly place, where i bestow my patronage; the woman of the house had once a husband in my company. god rest his soul! he bore a good pike. he retired in his old age and 'stablished this tavern, where he passed his declining years, till death called him gently away from this naughty world. god rest his soul, say i!" this was a somewhat euphemistic version of the taking-off of goodman quickly, who had been knocked over the head with a joint-stool while rifling the pockets of a drunken guest; but perhaps sir john wished to speak well of the dead, even at the price of conferring upon the present home of sir john an idyllic atmosphere denied it by the london constabulary. "and you for old memories' sake yet aid his widow?" the lady murmured. "that is like you, john." there was another silence, and the fire crackled more loudly than ever. "and are you sorry that i come again, in a worse body, john, strange and time-ruined?" "sorry?" echoed sir john; and, ungallant as it was, he hesitated a moment before replying: "no, faith! but there are some ghosts that will not easily bear raising, and you have raised one." "we have summoned up no very fearful spectre, i think," replied the lady; "at most, no worse than a pallid, gentle spirit that speaks--to me, at least--of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very happy a great while ago." "are you come hither to seek that boy?" asked the knight, and chuckled, though not merrily. "the boy that went mad and rhymed of you in those far-off dusty years? he is quite dead, my lady; he was drowned, mayhap, in a cup of wine. or he was slain, perchance, by a few light women. i know not how he died. but he is quite dead, my lady, and i had not been haunted by his ghost until to-day." he stared at the floor as he ended; then choked, and broke into a fit of coughing which unromantic chance brought on just now, of all times. "he was a dear boy," she said, presently; "a boy who loved a young maid very truly; a boy that found the maid's father too strong and shrewd for desperate young lovers--eh, how long ago it seems, and what a flood of tears the poor maid shed at being parted from that dear boy!" "faith!" admitted sir john, "the rogue had his good points." "ah, john, you have not forgotten, i know," the lady said, looking up into his face, "and, you will believe me that i am very heartily sorry for the pain i brought into your life?" "my wounds heal easily," said sir john. "for though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was for the best that i should not accept your love, believe me, john, i always knew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any woman must prize." "dear lady," the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, "the world is not altogether of your opinion." "i know not of the world," she said; "for we live away from it. but we have heard of you ever and anon; i have your life quite letter-perfect for these forty years or more." "you have heard of me?" asked sir john; and, for a seasoned knave, he looked rather uncomfortable. "as a gallant and brave soldier," she answered; "of how you fought at sea with mowbray that was afterward duke of norfolk; of your knighthood by king richard; of how you slew the percy at shrewsbury; and captured coleville o' late in yorkshire; and how the prince, that now is king, did love you above all men; and, in fine, of many splendid doings in the great world." sir john raised a protesting hand. he said, with commendable modesty: "i have fought somewhat. but we are not bevis of southampton; we have slain no giants. heard you naught else?" "little else of note," replied the lady; and went on, very quietly: "but we are proud of you at home in norfolk. and such tales as i have heard i have woven together in one story; and i have told it many times to my children as we sat on the old chapel steps at evening, and the shadows lengthened across the lawn, and i bid them emulate this, the most perfect knight and gallant gentleman that i have known. and they love you, i think, though but by repute." once more silence fell between them; and the fire grinned wickedly at the mimic fire reflected by the old chest, as though it knew of a most entertaining secret. "do you yet live at winstead?" asked sir john, half idly. "yes," she answered; "in the old house. it is little changed, but there are many changes about." "is moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?" "married to hodge, the tanner," the lady said; "and dead long since." "and all our merry company?" sir john demanded. "marian? and tom and little osric? and phyllis? and adelais? zounds, it is like a breath of country air to speak their names once more." "all dead," she answered, in a hushed voice, "save adelais, and even to me poor adelais seems old and strange. walter was slain in the french wars, and she hath never married." "all dead," sir john informed the fire, as if confidentially; then he laughed, though his bloodshot eyes were not merry. "this same death hath a wide maw! it is not long before you and i, my lady, will be at supper with the worms. but you, at least, have had a happy life." "i have been content enough," she said, "but all that seems run by; for, john, i think that at our age we are not any longer very happy nor very miserable." "faith!" agreed sir john, "we are both old; and i had not known it, my lady, until to-day." again there was silence; and again the fire leapt with delight at the jest. sylvia vernon arose suddenly and cried, "i would i had not come!" then said sir john: "nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have wakened. for, madam--you whom i loved once!--you are in the right. our blood runs thinner than of yore; and we may no longer, i think, either sorrow or rejoice very deeply." "it is true," she said; "but i must go; and, indeed, i would to god i had not come!" sir john was silent; he bowed his head, in acquiescence perhaps, in meditation it may have been; but he stayed silent. "yet," said she, "there is something here which i must keep no longer: for here are all the letters you ever writ me." whereupon she handed sir john a little packet of very old and very faded papers. he turned them awkwardly in his hand once or twice; then stared at them; then at the lady. "you have kept them--always?" he cried. "yes," she responded, wistfully; "but i must not be guilty of continuing such follies. it is a villainous example to my grandchildren," dame sylvia told him, and smiled. "farewell." sir john drew close to her and took her hands in his. he looked into her eyes for an instant, holding himself very erect,--and it was a rare event when sir john looked any one squarely in the eyes,--and he said, wonderingly, "how i loved you!" "i know," she murmured. sylvia vernon gazed up into his bloated old face with a proud tenderness that was half-regretful. a quavering came into her gentle voice. "and i thank you for your gift, my lover,--o brave true lover, whose love i was not ever ashamed to own! farewell, my dear; yet a little while, and i go to seek the boy and girl we know of." "i shall not be long, madam," said sir john. "speak a kind word for me in heaven; for i shall have sore need of it." she had reached the door by this. "you are not sorry that i came?" sir john answered, very sadly: "there are many wrinkles now in your dear face, my lady; the great eyes are a little dimmed, and the sweet laughter is a little cracked; but i am not sorry to have seen you thus. for i have loved no woman truly save you alone; and i am not sorry. farewell." and for a moment he bowed his unreverend gray head over her shrivelled fingers. . "_this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile_" "lord, lord, how subject we old men are to the vice of lying!" chuckled sir john, and leaned back rheumatically in his chair and mumbled over the jest. "yet it was not all a lie," he confided, as if in perplexity, to the fire; "but what a coil over a youthful green-sickness 'twixt a lad and a wench more than forty years syne! "i might have had money of her for the asking," he presently went on; "yet i am glad i did not; which is a parlous sign and smacks of dotage." he nodded very gravely over this new and alarming phase of his character. "were it not a quaint conceit, a merry tickle-brain of fate," he asked of the leaping flames, after a still longer pause, "that this mountain of malmsey were once a delicate stripling with apple cheeks and a clean breath, smelling of civet, and as mad for love, i warrant you, as any amadis of them all? for, if a man were to speak truly, i did love her. "i had the special marks of the pestilence," he assured a particularly incredulous--and obstinate-looking coal,--a grim, black fellow that, lurking in a corner, scowled forbiddingly and seemed to defy both the flames and sir john. "not all the flagons and apples in the universe might have comforted me; i was wont to sigh like a leaky bellows; to weep like a wench that hath lost her grandam; to lard my speech with the fag-ends of ballads like a man milliner; and did, indeed, indite sonnets, canzonets, and what not of mine own elaboration. "and moll did carry them," he continued; "plump brown-eyed moll, that hath married hodge the tanner, and reared her tannerkins, and died long since." but the coal remained incredulous, and the flames crackled merrily. "lord, lord, what did i not write?" said sir john, drawing out a paper from the packet, and deciphering by the firelight the faded writing. read sir john: "_have pity, sylvia? cringing at thy door entreats with dolorous cry and clamoring, that mendicant who quits thee nevermore; now winter chills the world, and no birds sing in any woods, yet as in wanton spring he follows thee; and never will have done, though nakedly he die, from following whither thou leadest. "canst thou look upon his woes, and laugh to see a goddess' son of wide dominion, and in strategy "more strong than jove, more wise than solomon, inept to combat thy severity? have pity, sylvia! and let love be one among the folk that bear thee company_." "is it not the very puling speech of your true lover?" he chuckled; and the flames spluttered assent. "_among the folk that bear thee company_," he repeated, and afterward looked about him with a smack of gravity. "faith, adam cupid hath forsworn my fellowship long since; he hath no score chalked up against him at the boar's head tavern; or, if he have, i doubt not the next street-beggar might discharge it." "and she hath commended me to her children as a very gallant gentleman and a true knight," sir john went on, reflectively. he cast his eyes toward the ceiling, and grinned at invisible deities. "jove that sees all hath a goodly commodity of mirth; i doubt not his sides ache at times, as if they had conceived another wine-god." "yet, by my honor," he insisted to the fire; then added, apologetically,--"if i had any, which, to speak plain, i have not,--i am glad; it is a brave jest; and i did love her once." then the time-battered, bloat rogue picked out another paper, and read: "'_my dear lady,--that i am not with thee to-night is, indeed, no fault of mine; for sir thomas mowbray hath need of me, he saith. yet the service that i have rendered him thus far is but to cool my heels in his antechamber and dream of two great eyes and of that net of golden hair wherewith lord love hath lately snared my poor heart. for it comforts me_--' and so on, and so on, the pen trailing most juvenal sugar, like a fly newly crept out of the honey-pot. and ending with a posy, filched, i warrant you, from some ring. "i remember when i did write her this," he explained to the fire. "lord, lord, if the fire of grace were not quite out of me, now should i be moved. for i did write it; and it was sent with a sonnet, all of hell, and heaven, and your pagan gods, and other tricks of speech. it should be somewhere." he fumbled with uncertain fingers among the papers. "ah, here it is," he said at last, and he again began to read aloud. read sir john: "_cupid invaded hell, and boldly drove before him all the hosts of erebus, till he had conquered: and grim cerberus sang madrigals, the furies rhymed of love, old charon sighed, and sonnets rang above the gloomy styx; and even as tantalus was proserpine discrowned in tartarus, and cupid regnant in the place thereof_. "_thus love is monarch throughout hell to-day; in heaven we know his power was always great; and earth acclaimed love's mastery straightway when sylvia came to gladden earth's estate:-- thus hell and heaven and earth his rule obey, and sylvia's heart alone is obdurate_. "well, well," sighed sir john, "it was a goodly rogue that writ it, though the verse runs but lamely! a goodly rogue! "he might," sir john suggested, tentatively, "have lived cleanly, and forsworn sack; he might have been a gallant gentleman, and begotten grandchildren, and had a quiet nook at the ingleside to rest his old bones: but he is dead long since. he might have writ himself _armigero_ in many a bill, or obligation, or quittance, or what not; he might have left something behind him save unpaid tavern bills; he might have heard cases, harried poachers, and quoted old saws; and slept in his own family chapel through sermons yet unwrit, beneath his presentment, done in stone, and a comforting bit of latin: but he is dead long since." sir john sat meditating for a while; it had grown quite dark in the room as he muttered to himself. he rose now, rather cumbrously and uncertainly, but with a fine rousing snort of indignation. "zooks!" he said, "i prate like a death's-head. a thing done hath an end, god have mercy on us all! and i will read no more of the rubbish." he cast the packet into the heart of the fire; the yellow papers curled at the edges, rustled a little, and blazed; he watched them burn to the last spark. "a cup of sack to purge the brain!" cried sir john, and filled one to the brim. "and i will go sup with doll tearsheet." * * * * * september , "_anoon her herte hath pitee of his wo, and with that pitee, love com in also; thus is this quene in pleasaunce and in loye_." _meanwhile had old dome sylvia returned contentedly to the helpmate whom she had accepted under compulsion, and who had made her a fair husband, as husbands go. it is duly recorded, indeed, on their shared tomb, that their forty years of married life were of continuous felicity, and set a pattern to all norfolk. the more prosaic verbal tradition is that lady vernon retained sir robert well in hand by pointing out, at judicious intervals, that she had only herself to blame for having married such a selfish person in preference to a hero of the age and an ornament of the loftiest circles. i find, on consultation of the allonby records, that sylvia vernon died of a quinsy, in , surviving sir robert by some three months. she had borne him four sons and four daughters: of these there remained at winstead in only sir hugh vernon, the oldest son, knighted by henry v at agincourt, where vernon had fought with distinction; and adelais vernon, the youngest daughter, with whom the following has to do._ chapter iv _the episode called "sweet adelais"_ . _gruntings at aeaea_ it was on a clear september day that the marquis of falmouth set out for france. john of bedford had summoned him posthaste when henry v was stricken at senlis with what bid fair to prove a mortal distemper; for the marquis was bedford's comrade-in-arms, veteran of shrewsbury, agincourt and other martial disputations, and the duke-regent suspected that, to hold france in case of the king's death, he would presently need all the help he could muster. "and i, too, look for warm work," the marquis conceded to mistress adelais vernon, at parting. "but, god willing, my sweet, we shall be wed at christmas for all that. the channel is not very wide. at a pinch i might swim it, i think, to come to you." he kissed her and rode away with his men. adelais stared after them, striving to picture her betrothed rivalling leander in this fashion, and subsequently laughed. the marquis was a great lord and a brave captain, but long past his first youth; his actions went somewhat too deliberately ever to be roused to the high lunacies of the sestian amorist. so adelais laughed, but a moment later, recollecting the man's cold desire of her, his iron fervors, adelais shuddered. this was in the court-yard at winstead. roger darke of yaxham, the girl's cousin, standing beside her, noted the gesture, and snarled. "think twice of it, adelais," said he. whereupon mistress vernon flushed like a peony. "i honor him," she said, with some irrelevance, "and he loves me." roger scoffed. "love, love! o you piece of ice! you gray-stone saint! what do you know of love?" master darke caught both her hands in his. "now, by almighty god, our saviour and redeemer, jesus christ!" he said, between his teeth, his eyes flaming; "i, roger darke, have offered you undefiled love and you have mocked at it. ha, tears of mary! how i love you! and you mean to marry this man for his title! do you not believe that i love you, adelais?" he whimpered. gently she disengaged herself. this was of a pattern with roger's behavior any time during the past two years. "i suppose you do," adelais conceded, with the tiniest possible shrug. "perhaps that is why i find you so insufferable." afterward mistress vernon turned on her heel and left master darke. in his fluent invocation of mahound and termagaunt and other overseers of the damned he presently touched upon eloquence. . _comes one with moly_ adelais came into the walled garden of winstead, aflame now with autumnal scarlet and gold. she seated herself upon a semicircular marble bench, and laughed for no apparent reason, and contentedly waited what dame luck might send. she was a comely maid, past argument or (as her lovers habitually complained) any adequate description. circe, colchian medea, viviane du lac, were their favorite analogues; and what old romancers had fabled concerning these ladies they took to be the shadow of which adelais vernon was the substance. at times these rhapsodists might have supported their contention with a certain speciousness, such as was apparent to-day, for example, when against the garden's hurly-burly of color, the prodigal blazes of scarlet and saffron and wine-yellow, the girl's green gown glowed like an emerald, and her eyes, too, seemed emeralds, vivid, inscrutable, of a clear verdancy that was quite untinged with either blue or gray. very black lashes shaded them. the long oval of her face (you might have objected), was of an absolute pallor, rarely quickening to a flush; but her petulant lips burned crimson, and her hair mimicked the dwindling radiance of the autumn sunlight and shamed it. all in all, the aspect of adelais vernon was, beyond any questioning, spiced with a sorcerous tang; say, the look of a young witch shrewd at love-potions, but ignorant of their flavor; yet before this the girl's comeliness had stirred men's hearts to madness, and the county boasted of it. presently adelais lifted her small imperious head, and then again she smiled, for out of the depths of the garden, with an embellishment of divers trills and roulades, came a man's voice that carolled blithely. sang the voice: _"had you lived when earth was new what had bards of old to do save to sing in praise of you? "had you lived in ancient days, adelais, sweet adelais, you had all the ancients' praise,-- you whose beauty would have won canticles of solomon, had the sage judean king gazed upon this goodliest thing earth of heaven's grace hath got. "had you gladdened greece, were not all the nymphs of greece forgot? "had you trod sicilian ways, adelais, sweet adelais_, "you had pilfered all their praise: bion and theocritus had transmitted unto us honeyed harmonies to tell of your beauty's miracle, delicate, desirable, and their singing skill were bent you-ward tenderly,--content, while the world slipped by, to gaze on the grace of you, and praise sweet adelais_." here the song ended, and a man, wheeling about the hedge, paused to regard her with adoring eyes. adelais looked up at him, incredibly surprised by his coming. this was the young sieur d'arnaye, hugh vernon's prisoner, taken at agincourt seven years earlier and held since then, by the king's command, without ransom; for it was henry's policy to release none of the important french prisoners. even on his death-bed he found time to admonish his brother, john of bedford, that four of these,--charles d'orleans and jehan de bourbon and arthur de rougemont and fulke d'arnaye,--should never be set at liberty. "lest," as the king said, with a savor of prophecy, "more fire be kindled in one day than all your endeavors can quench in three." presently the sieur d'arnaye sighed, rather ostentatiously; and adelais laughed, and demanded the cause of his grief. "mademoiselle," he said,--his english had but a trace of accent,--"i am afflicted with a very grave malady." "what is the name of this malady?" said she. "they call it love, mademoiselle." adelais laughed yet again and doubted if the disease were incurable. but fulke d'arnaye seated himself beside her and demonstrated that, in his case, it might not ever be healed. "for it is true," he observed, "that the ancient scythians, who lived before the moon was made, were wont to cure this distemper by blood-letting under the ears; but your brother, mademoiselle, denies me access to all knives. and the leech aelian avers that it may be cured by the herb agnea; but your brother, mademoiselle, will not permit that i go into the fields in search of this herb. and in greece--he, mademoiselle, i might easily be healed of my malady in greece! for in greece is the rock, leucata petra, from which a lover may leap and be cured; and the well of the cyziceni, from which a lover may drink and be cured; and the river selemnus, in which a lover may bathe and be cured: but your brother will not permit that i go to greece. you have a very cruel brother, mademoiselle; seven long years, no less, he has penned me here like a starling in a cage." and fulke d'arnaye shook his head at her reproachfully. afterward he laughed. always this frenchman found something at which to laugh; adelais could not remember in all the seven years a time when she had seen him downcast. but while his lips jested of his imprisonment, his eyes stared at her mirthlessly, like a dog at his master, and her gaze fell before the candor of the passion she saw in them. "my lord," said adelais, "why will you not give your parole? then you would be free to come and go as you elected." a little she bent toward him, a covert red showing in her cheeks. "to-night at halvergate the earl of brudenel holds the feast of saint michael. give your parole, my lord, and come with us. there will be in our company fair ladies who may perhaps heal your malady." but the sieur d'arnaye only laughed. "i cannot give my parole," he said, "since i mean to escape for all your brother's care." then he fell to pacing up and down before her. "now, by monseigneur saint médard and the eagle that sheltered him!" he cried, in half-humorous self-mockery; "however thickly troubles rain upon me, i think that i shall never give up hoping!" after a pause, "listen, mademoiselle," he went on, more gravely, and gave a nervous gesture toward the east, "yonder is france, sacked, pillaged, ruinous, prostrate, naked to her enemy. but at vincennes, men say, the butcher of agincourt is dying. with him dies the english power in france. can his son hold that dear realm? are those tiny hands with which this child may not yet feed himself capable to wield a sceptre? can he who is yet beholden to nurses for milk distribute sustenance to the law and justice of a nation? he, i think not, mademoiselle! france will have need of me shortly. therefore, i cannot give my parole." "then must my brother still lose his sleep, lord, for always your safe-keeping is in his mind. to-day at cock-crow he set out for the coast to examine those frenchmen who landed yesterday." at this he wheeled about. "frenchmen!" "only norman fishermen, lord, whom the storm drove to seek shelter in england. but he feared they had come to rescue you." fulke d'arnaye shrugged his shoulders. "that was my thought, too," he admitted, with a laugh. "always i dream of escape, mademoiselle. have a care of me, sweet enemy! i shall escape yet, it may be." "but i will not have you escape," said adelais. she tossed her glittering little head. "winstead would not be winstead without you. why, i was but a child, my lord, when you came. have you forgotten, then, the lank, awkward child who used to stare at you so gravely?" "mademoiselle," he returned, and now his voice trembled and still the hunger in his eyes grew more great, "i think that in all these years i have forgotten nothing--not even the most trivial happening, mademoiselle,--wherein you had a part. you were a very beautiful child. look you, i remember as if it were yesterday that you never wept when your good lady mother--whose soul may christ have in his keeping!--was forced to punish you for some little misdeed. no, you never wept; but your eyes would grow wistful, and you would come to me here in the garden, and sit with me for a long time in silence. 'fulke,' you would say, quite suddenly, 'i love you better than my mother.' and i told you that it was wrong to make such observations, did i not, mademoiselle? my faith, yes! but i may confess now that i liked it," fulke d'arnaye ended, with a faint chuckle. adelais sat motionless. certainly it was strange, she thought, how the sound of this man's voice had power to move her. certainly, too, this man was very foolish. "and now the child is a woman,--a woman who will presently be marchioness of falmouth. look you, when i get free of my prison--and i shall get free, never fear, mademoiselle,--i shall often think of that great lady. for only god can curb a man's dreams, and god is compassionate. so i hope to dream nightly of a gracious lady whose hair is gold and whose eyes are colored like the summer sea and whose voice is clear and low and very wonderfully sweet. nightly, i think, the vision of that dear enemy will hearten me to fight for france by day. in effect, mademoiselle, your traitor beauty will yet aid me to destroy your country." the sieur d'arnaye laughed, somewhat cheerlessly, as he lifted her hand to his lips. and certainly also (she concluded her reflections) it was absurd how this man's touch seemed an alarm to her pulses. adelais drew away from him. "no!" she said: "remember, lord, i, too, am not free." "indeed, we tread on dangerous ground," the frenchman assented, with a sad little smile. "pardon me, mademoiselle. even were you free of your trothplight--even were i free of my prison, most beautiful lady, i have naught to offer you yonder in that fair land of france. they tell me that the owl and the wolf hunt undisturbed where arnaye once stood. my château is carpeted with furze and roofed with god's heaven. that gives me a large estate--does it not?--but i may not reasonably ask a woman to share it. so i pray you pardon me for my nonsense, mademoiselle, and i pray that the marchioness of falmouth may be very happy." and with that he vanished into the autumn-fired recesses of the garden, singing, his head borne stiff. oh, the brave man who esteemed misfortune so slightly! thought adelais. she remembered that the marquis of falmouth rarely smiled; and once only--at a bull-baiting--had she heard him laugh. it needed bloodshed, then, to amuse him, adelais deduced, with that self-certainty in logic which is proper to youth; and the girl shuddered. but through the scarlet coppices of the garden, growing fainter and yet more faint, rang the singing of fulke d'arnaye. sang the frenchman: "had you lived in roman times no catullus in his rhymes had lamented lesbia's sparrow: he had praised your forehead, narrow as the newly-crescent moon, white as apple-trees in june; he had made some amorous tune of the laughing light eros snared as psyche-ward he goes by your beauty,--by your slim, white, perfect beauty. "after him horace, finding in your eyes horace limned in lustrous wise, would have made you melodies fittingly to hymn your praise, sweet adelais." . roger is explicit into the midst of the michaelmas festivities at halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of sir hugh vernon. roger darke brought him to the knight. the fellow then related that he came from simeon de beck, the master of castle rising, with tidings that a strange boat, french-rigged, was hovering about the north coast. let sir hugh have a care of his prisoner. vernon swore roundly. "i must look into this," he said. "but what shall i do with adelais?" "will you not trust her to me?" roger asked. "if so, cousin, i will very gladly be her escort to winstead. let the girl dance her fill while she may, hugh. she will have little heart for dancing after a month or so of falmouth's company." "that is true," vernon assented; "but the match is a good one, and she is bent upon it." so presently he rode with his men to the north coast. an hour later roger darke and adelais set out for winstead, in spite of all lady brudenel's protestations that mistress vernon had best lie with her that night at halvergate. it was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fine september weather. about them the air was heavy with the damp odors of decaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumn woods, that now arched the way with sere foliage, rustling and whirring and thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashes of moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled about in the wind vortices. adelais, elate with dancing, chattered of this and that as her gray mare ambled homeward, but roger was moody. past upton the road branched in three directions; here master darke caught the gray mare's bridle and turned both horses to the left. "why, of whatever are you thinking!" the girl derided him. "roger, this is not the road to winstead!" he grinned evilly over his shoulder. "it is the road to yaxham, adelais, where my chaplain expects us." in a flash she saw it all as her eyes swept these desolate woods. "you will not dare!" "will i not?" said roger. "faith, for my part, i think you have mocked me for the last time, adelais, since it is the wife's duty, as paul very justly says, to obey." swiftly she slipped from the mare. but he followed her. "oh, infamy!" the girl cried. "you have planned this, you coward!" "yes, i planned it," said roger darke. "yet i take no great credit therefor, for it was simple enough. i had but to send a feigned message to your block-head brother. ha, yes, i planned it, adelais, and i planned it well. but i deal honorably. to-morrow you will be mistress darke, never fear." he grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. the garment fell, leaving the girl momentarily free, her festival jewels shimmering in the moonlight, her bared shoulders glistening like silver. darke, staring at her, giggled horribly. an instant later adelais fell upon her knees. "sweet christ, have pity upon thy handmaiden! do not forsake me, sweet christ, in my extremity! save me from this man!" she prayed, with entire faith. "my lady wife," said darke, and his hot, wet hand sank heavily upon her shoulder, "you had best finish your prayer before my chaplain, i think, since by ordinary holy church is skilled to comfort the sorrowing." "a miracle, dear lord christ!" the girl wailed. "o sweet christ, a miracle!" "faith of god!" said roger, in a flattish tone; "what was that?" for faintly there came the sound of one singing. sang the distant voice: _"had your father's household been guelfic-born or ghibelline, beatrice were unknown on her star-encompassed throne. "for, had dante viewed your grace, adelais, sweet adelais, you had reigned in bice's place,-- had for candles, hyades, rastaben, and betelguese,-- and had heard zachariel chaunt of you, and, chaunting, tell all the grace of you, and praise sweet adelais."_ . _honor brings a padlock_ adelais sprang to her feet. "a miracle!" she cried, her voice shaking. "fulke, fulke! to me, fulke!" master darke hurried her struggling toward his horse. darke was muttering curses, for there was now a beat of hoofs in the road yonder that led to winstead. "fulke, fulke!" the girl shrieked. then presently, as roger put foot to stirrup, two horsemen wheeled about the bend in the road, and one of them leapt to the ground. "mademoiselle," said fulke d'arnaye, "am i, indeed, so fortunate as to be of any service to you?" "ho!" cried roger, with a gulp of relief, "it is only the french dancing-master taking french leave of poor cousin hugh! man, but you startled me!" now adelais ran to the frenchman, clinging to him the while that she told of roger's tricks. and d'arnaye's face set mask-like. "monsieur," he said, when she had ended, "you have wronged a sweet and innocent lady. as god lives, you shall answer to me for this." "look you," roger pointed out, "this is none of your affair, monsieur jackanapes. you are bound for the coast, i take it. very well,--ka me, and i ka thee. do you go your way in peace, and let us do the same." fulke d'arnaye put the girl aside and spoke rapidly in french to his companion. then with mincing agility he stepped toward master darke. roger blustered. "you hop-toad! you jumping-jack!" said he, "what do you mean?" "chastisement!" said the frenchman, and struck him in the face. "very well!" said master darke, strangely quiet. and with that they both drew. the frenchman laughed, high and shrill, as they closed, and afterward he began to pour forth a voluble flow of discourse. battle was wine to the man. "not since agincourt, master coward--he, no!--have i held sword in hand. it is a good sword, this,--a sharp sword, is it not? ah, the poor arm--but see, your blood is quite black-looking in this moonlight, and i had thought cowards yielded a paler blood than brave men possess. we live and learn, is it not? observe, i play with you like a child,--as i played with your tall king at agincourt when i cut away the coronet from his helmet. i did not kill him--no!--but i wounded him, you conceive? presently, i shall wound you, too. my compliments--you have grazed my hand. but i shall not kill you, because you are the kinsman of the fairest lady earth may boast, and i would not willingly shed the least drop of any blood that is partly hers. ohé, no! yet since i needs must do this ungallant thing--why, see, monsieur, how easy it is!" thereupon he cut roger down at a blow and composedly set to wiping his sword on the grass. the englishman lay like a log where he had fallen. "lord," adelais quavered, "lord, have you killed him?" fulke d'arnaye sighed. "hélas, no!" said he, "since i knew that you did not wish it. see, mademoiselle,--i have but made a healthful and blood-letting small hole in him here. he will return himself to survive to it long time--fie, but my english fails me, after these so many years--" d'arnaye stood for a moment as if in thought, concluding his meditations with a grimace. after that he began again to speak in french to his companion. the debate seemed vital. the stranger gesticulated, pleaded, swore, implored, summoned all inventions between the starry spheres and the mud of cocytus to judge of the affair; but fulke d'arnaye was resolute. "behold, mademoiselle," he said, at length, "how my poor olivier excites himself over a little matter. olivier is my brother, most beautiful lady, but he speaks no english, so that i cannot present him to you. he came to rescue me, this poor olivier, you conceive. those norman fishermen of whom you spoke to-day--but you english are blinded, i think, by the fogs of your cold island. eight of the bravest gentlemen in france, mademoiselle, were those same fishermen, come to bribe my gaoler,--the incorruptible tompkins, no less. hé, yes, they came to tell me that henry of monmouth, by the wrath of god king of france, is dead at vincennes yonder, mademoiselle, and that france will soon be free of you english. france rises in her might--" his nostrils dilated, he seemed taller; then he shrugged. "and poor olivier grieves that i may not strike a blow for her,--grieves that i must go back to winstead." d'arnaye laughed as he caught the bridle of the gray mare and turned her so that adelais might mount. but the girl, with a faint, wondering cry, drew away from him. "you will go back! you have escaped, lord, and you will go back!" "why, look you," said the frenchman, "what else may i conceivably do? we are some miles from your home, most beautiful lady,--can you ride those four long miles alone? in this night so dangerous? can i leave you here alone in this so tall forest? hé, surely not. i am desolated, mademoiselle, but i needs must burden you with my company homeward." adelais drew a choking breath. he had fretted out seven years of captivity. now he was free; and lest she be harmed or her name be smutched, however faintly, he would go back to his prison, jesting. "no, no!" she cried aloud. but he raised a deprecating hand. "you cannot go alone. olivier here would go with you gladly. not one of those brave gentlemen who await me at the coast yonder but would go with you very, very gladly, for they love france, these brave gentlemen, and they think that i can serve her better than most other men. that is very flattering, is it not? but all the world conspires to flatter me, mademoiselle. your good brother, by example, prizes my company so highly that he would infallibly hang the gentleman who rode back with you. so, you conceive, i cannot avail myself of their services. but with me it is different, hein? ah, yes, sir hugh will merely lock me up again and for the future guard me more vigilantly. will you not mount, mademoiselle?" his voice was quiet, and his smile never failed him. it was this steady smile which set her heart to aching. adelais knew that no natural power could dissuade him; he would go back with her; but she knew how constantly he had hoped for liberty, with what fortitude he had awaited his chance of liberty; and that he should return to captivity, smiling, thrilled her to impotent, heart-shaking rage. it maddened her that he dared love her thus infinitely. "but, mademoiselle," fulke d'arnaye went on, when she had mounted, "let us proceed, if it so please you, by way of filby. for then we may ride a little distance with this rogue olivier. i may not hope to see olivier again in this life, you comprehend, and olivier is, i think, the one person who loves me in all this great wide world. me, i am not very popular, you conceive. but you do not object, mademoiselle?" "no!" she said, in a stifled voice. afterward they rode on the way to filby, leaving roger darke to regain at discretion the mastership of his faculties. the two frenchmen as they went talked vehemently; and adelais, following them, brooded on the powerful marquis of falmouth and the great lady she would shortly be; but her eyes strained after fulke d'arnaye. presently he fell a-singing; and still his singing praised her in a desirous song, yearning but very sweet, as they rode through the autumn woods; and his voice quickened her pulses as always it had the power to quicken them, and in her soul an interminable battling dragged on. sang fulke d'arnaye: _"had you lived when earth was new what had bards of old to do save to sing in praise of you? "they had sung of you always, adelais, sweet adelais, as worthiest of all men's praise; nor had undying melodies, wailed soft as love may sing of these dream-hallowed names,--of héloïse, ysoude, salomê, semelê, morgaine, lucrece, antiopê, brunhilda, helen, mélusine, penelope, and magdalene: --but you alone had all men's praise, sweet adelais"_ . _"thalatta!"_ when they had crossed the bure, they had come into the open country,--a great plain, gray in the moonlight, that descended, hillock by hillock, toward the shores of the north sea. on the right the dimpling lustre of tumbling waters stretched to a dubious sky-line, unbroken save for the sail of the french boat, moored near the ruins of the old roman station, garianonum, and showing white against the unresting sea, like a naked arm; to the left the lights of filby flashed their unblinking, cordial radiance. here the brothers parted. vainly olivier wept and stormed before fulke's unwavering smile; the sieur d'arnaye was adamantean: and presently the younger man kissed him on both cheeks and rode slowly away toward the sea. d'arnaye stared after him. "ah, the brave lad!" said fulke d'arnaye. "and yet how foolish! look you, mademoiselle, that rogue is worth ten of me, and he does not even suspect it." his composure stung her to madness. "now, by the passion of our lord and saviour!" adelais cried, wringing her hands in impotence; "i conjure you to hear me, fulke! you must not do this thing. oh, you are cruel, cruel! listen, my lord," she went on with more restraint, when she had reined up her horse by the side of his, "yonder in france the world lies at your feet. our great king is dead. france rises now, and france needs a brave captain. you, you! it is you that she needs. she has sent for you, my lord, that mother france whom you love. and you will go back to sleep in the sun at winstead when france has need of you. oh, it is foul!" but he shook his head. "france is very dear to me," he said, "yet there are other men who can serve france. and there is no man save me who may to-night serve you, most beautiful lady." "you shame me!" she cried, in a gust of passion. "you shame my worthlessness with this mad honor of yours that drags you jesting to your death! for you must die a prisoner now, without any hope. you and orleans and bourbon are england's only hold on france, and bedford dare not let you go. fetters, chains, dungeons, death, torture perhaps--that is what you must look for now. and you will no longer be held at winstead, but in the strong tower at london." "hélas, you speak more truly than an oracle," he gayly assented. and hers was the ageless thought of women. "this man is rather foolish and peculiarly dear to me. what shall i do with him? and how much must i humor him in his foolishness?" d'arnaye stayed motionless: but still his eyes strained after olivier. well, she would humor him. there was no alternative save that of perhaps never seeing fulke again. adelais laid her hand upon his arm. "you love me. god knows, i am not worthy of it, but you love me. ever since i was a child you have loved me,--always, always it was you who indulged me, shielded me, protected me with this fond constancy that i have not merited. very well,"--she paused, for a single heartbeat,--"go! and take me with you." the hand he raised shook as though palsied. "o most beautiful!" the frenchman cried, in an extreme of adoration; "you would do that! you would do that in pity to save me--unworthy me! and it is i whom you call brave--me, who annoy you with my woes so petty!" fulke d'arnaye slipped from his horse, and presently stood beside the gray mare, holding a small, slim hand in his. "i thank you," he said, simply. "you know that it is impossible. but yes, i have loved you these long years. and now--ah, my heart shakes, my words tumble, i cannot speak! you know that i may not--may not let you do this thing. why, but even if, of your prodigal graciousness, mademoiselle, you were so foolish as to waste a little liking upon my so many demerits--" he gave a hopeless gesture. "why, there is always our brave marquis to be considered, who will so soon make you a powerful, rich lady. and i?--i have nothing." but adelais had rested either hand upon a stalwart shoulder, bending down to him till her hair brushed his. yes, this man was peculiarly dear to her: she could not bear to have him murdered when in equity he deserved only to have his jaws boxed for his toplofty nonsense about her; and, after all, she did not much mind humoring him in his foolishness. "do you not understand?" she whispered. "ah, my paladin, do you think i speak in pity? i wished to be a great lady,--yes. yet always, i think, i loved you, fulke, but until to-night i had believed that love was only the man's folly, the woman's diversion. see, here is falmouth's ring." she drew it from her finger, and flung it awkwardly, as every woman throws. through the moonlight it fell glistening. "yes, i hungered for falmouth's power, but you have shown me that which is above any temporal power. ever i must crave the highest, fulke--ah, fair sweet friend, do not deny me!" adelais cried, piteously. "take me with you, fulke! i will ride with you to the wars, my lord, as your page; i will be your wife, your slave, your scullion. i will do anything save leave you. lord, it is not the maid's part to plead thus!" fulke d'arnaye drew her warm, yielding body toward him and stood in silence. then he raised his eyes to heaven. "dear lord god," he cried, in a great voice, "i entreat of thee that if through my fault this woman ever know regret or sorrow i be cast into the nethermost pit of hell for all eternity!" afterward he kissed her. and presently adelais lifted her head, with a mocking little laugh. "sorrow!" she echoed. "i think there is no sorrow in all the world. mount, my lord, mount! see where brother olivier waits for us yonder." * * * * * june , --august , _"fortune fuz par clercs jadis nominée, qui toi, françois, crie et nomme meurtrière."_ _so it came about that adelais went into france with the great-grandson of tiburce d'arnaye: and fulke, they say, made her a very fair husband. but he had not, of course, much time for love-making. for in france there was sterner work awaiting fulke d'arnaye, and he set about it: through seven dreary years he and rougemont and dunois managed, somehow, to bolster up the cause of the fat-witted king of bourges (as the english then called him), who afterward became king charles vii of france. but in the february of --four days before the maid of domremy set forth from her voice-haunted bois chenu to bring about a certain coronation in rheims church and in rouen square a flamy martyrdom--four days before the coming of the good lorrainer, fulke d'arnaye was slain at rouvray-en-beausse in that encounter between the french and the english which history has commemorated as the battle of the herrings. adelais was wooed by, and betrothed to, the powerful old comte de vaudremont; but died just before the date set for this second marriage, in october, . she left two sons: noël, born in , and raymond, born in ; who were reared by their uncle, olivier d'arnaye. it was said of them that noel was the handsomest man of his times, and raymond the most shrewd; concerning that you will judge hereafter. both of these d'arnayes, on reaching manhood, were identified with the dauphin's party in the unending squabbles between charles vii and the future louis xi. now you may learn how noël d'arnaye came to be immortalized by a legacy of two hundred and twenty blows from an osierwhip--since (as the testator piously affirms), "chastoy est une belle aulmosne."_ chapter v _the episode called in necessity's mortar_ . "bon bec de paris" there went about the rue saint jacques a notable shaking of heads on the day that catherine de vaucelles was betrothed to françois de montcorbier. "holy virgin!" said the rue saint jacques; "the girl is a fool. why has she not taken noël d'arnaye,--noël the handsome? i grant you noël is an ass, but, then, look you, he is of the nobility. he has the dauphin's favor. noël will be a great man when our exiled dauphin comes back from geneppe to be king of france. then, too, she might have had philippe sermaise. sermaise is a priest, of course, and one may not marry a priest, but sermaise has money, and sermaise is mad for love of her. she might have done worse. but françois! ho, death of my life, what is françois? perhaps--he, he!--perhaps ysabeau de montigny might inform us, you say? doubtless ysabeau knows more of him than she would care to confess, but i measure the lad by other standards. françois is inoffensive enough, i dare assert, but what does catherine see in him? he is a scholar?--well, the college of navarre has furnished food for the gallows before this. a poet?--rhyming will not fill the pot. rhymes are a thin diet for two lusty young folk like these. and who knows if guillaume de villon, his foster-father, has one sou to rub against another? he is canon at saint benôit-le-bétourné yonder, but canons are not midases. the girl will have a hard life of it, neighbor, a hard life, i tell you, if--but, yes!--if ysabeau de montigny does not knife her some day. oh, beyond doubt, catherine has played the fool." thus far the rue saint jacques. this was on the day of the fête-dieu. it was on this day that noël d'arnaye blasphemed for a matter of a half-hour and then went to the crowned ox, where he drank himself into a contented insensibility; that ysabeau de montigny, having wept a little, sent for gilles raguyer, a priest and aforetime a rival of françois de montcorbier for her favors; and that philippe sermaise grinned and said nothing. but afterward sermaise gnawed at his under lip like a madman as he went about seeking for françois de montcorbier. . "_deux estions, et n'avions qu'ung cueur_" it verged upon nine in the evening--a late hour in those days--when françois climbed the wall of jehan de vaucelles' garden. a wall!--and what is a wall to your true lover? what bones, pray, did the sieur pyramus, that ill-starred babylonish knight, make of a wall? did not his protestations slip through a chink, mocking at implacable granite and more implacable fathers? most assuredly they did; and pyramus was a pattern to all lovers. thus ran the meditations of master françois as he leapt down into the garden. he had not, you must understand, seen catherine for three hours. three hours! three eternities rather, and each one of them spent in malebolge. coming to a patch of moonlight, françois paused there and cut an agile caper, as he thought of that approaching time when he might see catherine every day. "madame françois de montcorbier," he said, tasting each syllable with gusto. "catherine de montcorbier. was there ever a sweeter juxtaposition of sounds? it is a name for an angel. and an angel shall bear it,--eh, yes, an angel, no less. o saints in paradise, envy me! envy me," he cried, with a heroical gesture toward the stars, "for françois would change places with none of you." he crept through ordered rows of chestnuts and acacias to a window wherein burned a dim light. he unslung a lute from his shoulder and began to sing, secure in the knowledge that deaf old jehan de vaucelles was not likely to be disturbed by sound of any nature till that time when it should please high god that the last trump be noised about the tumbling heavens. it was good to breathe the mingled odor of roses and mignonette that was thick about him. it was good to sing to her a wailing song of unrequited love and know that she loved him. françois dallied with his bliss, parodied his bliss, and--as he complacently reflected,--lamented in the moonlight with as tuneful a dolor as messire orpheus may have evinced when he carolled in hades. sang françois: _"o beauty of her, whereby i am undone! o grace of her, that hath no grace for me! o love of her, the bit that guides me on to sorrow and to grievous misery! o felon charms, my poor heart's enemy! o furtive murderous pride! o pitiless, great cold eyes of her! have done with cruelty! have pity upon me ere it be too late! "happier for me if elsewhere i had gone for pity--ah, far happier for me, since never of her may any grace be won, and lest dishonor slay me, i must flee. 'haro!' i cry, (and cry how uselessly!) 'haro!' i cry to folk of all estate, "for i must die unless it chance that she have pity upon me ere it be too late. "m'amye, that day in whose disastrous sun your beauty's flower must fade and wane and be no longer beautiful, draws near,--whereon i will nor plead nor mock;--not i, for we shall both be old and vigorless! m'amye, drink deep of love, drink deep, nor hesitate until the spring run dry, but speedily have pity upon me--ere it be too late! "lord love, that all love's lordship hast in fee, lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure's weight, for all true hearts should, of christ's charity, have pity upon me ere it be too late."_ then from above a delicate and cool voice was audible. "you have mistaken the window, monsieur de montcorbier. ysabeau de montigny dwells in the rue du fouarre." "ah, cruel!" sighed françois. "will you never let that kite hang upon the wall?" "it is all very well to groan like a bellows. guillemette moreau did not sup here for nothing. i know of the verses you made her,--and the gloves you gave her at candlemas, too. saint anne!" observed the voice, somewhat sharply; "she needed gloves. her hands are so much raw beef. and the head-dress at easter,--she looks like the steeple of saint benoit in it. but every man to his taste, monsieur de montcorbier. good-night, monsieur de montcorbier." but, for all that, the window did not close. "catherine--!" he pleaded; and under his breath he expressed uncharitable aspirations as to the future of guillemette moreau. "you have made me very unhappy," said the voice, with a little sniff. "it was before i knew you, catherine. the stars are beautiful, m'amye, and a man may reasonably admire them; but the stars vanish and are forgotten when the sun appears." "ysabeau is not a star," the voice pointed out; "she is simply a lank, good-for-nothing, slovenly trollop." "ah, catherine--!" "you are still in love with her." "catherine--!" "otherwise, you will promise me for the future to avoid her as you would the black death." "catherine, her brother is my friend--!" "rené de montigny is, to the knowledge of the entire rue saint jacques, a gambler and a drunkard and, in all likelihood, a thief. but you prefer, it appears, the montignys to me. an ill cat seeks an ill rat. very heartily do i wish you joy of them. you will not promise? good-night, then, monsieur de montcorbier." "mother of god! i promise, catherine." from above mademoiselle de vaucelles gave a luxurious sigh. "dear françois!" said she. "you are a tyrant," he complained. "madame penthesilea was not more cruel. madame herodias was less implacable, i think. and i think that neither was so beautiful." "i love you," said mademoiselle de vaucelles, promptly. "but there was never any one so many fathoms deep in love as i. love bandies me from the postern to the frying-pan, from hot to cold. ah, catherine, catherine, have pity upon my folly! bid me fetch you prester john's beard, and i will do it; bid me believe the sky is made of calf-skin, that morning is evening, that a fat sow is a windmill, and i will do it. only love me a little, dear." "my king, my king of lads!" she murmured. "my queen, my tyrant of unreason! ah, yes, you are all that is ruthless and abominable, but then what eyes you have! oh, very pitiless, large, lovely eyes--huge sapphires that in the old days might have ransomed every monarch in tamerlane's stable! even in the night i see them, catherine." "yet ysabeau's eyes are brown." "then are her eyes the gutter's color. but catherine's eyes are twin firmaments." and about them the acacias rustled lazily, and the air was sweet with the odors of growing things, and the world, drenched in moonlight, slumbered. without was paris, but old jehan's garden-wall cloistered paradise. "has the world, think you, known lovers, long dead now, that were once as happy as we?" "love was not known till we discovered it." "i am so happy, françois, that i fear death." "we have our day. let us drink deep of love, not waiting until the spring run dry. catherine, death comes to all, and yonder in the church-yard the poor dead lie together, huggermugger, and a man may not tell an archbishop from a rag-picker. yet they have exulted in their youth, and have laughed in the sun with some lass or another lass. we have our day, catherine." "our day wherein i love you!" "and wherein i love you precisely seven times as much!" so they prattled in the moonlight. their discourse was no more overburdened with wisdom than has been the ordinary communing of lovers since adam first awakened ribless. yet they were content, who, were young in the world's recaptured youth. fate grinned and went on with her weaving. . "et ysabeau, qui dit: enné!" somewhat later françois came down the deserted street, treading on air. it was a bland summer night, windless, moon-washed, odorous with garden-scents; the moon, nearing its full, was a silver egg set on end--("leda-hatched," he termed it; "one may look for the advent of queen heleine ere dawn"); and the sky he likened to blue velvet studded with the gilt nail-heads of a seraphic upholsterer. françois was a poet, but a civic poet; then, as always, he pilfered his similes from shop-windows. but the heart of françois was pure magnanimity, the heels of françois were mercury, as he tripped past the church of saint benoit-le-bétourné, stark snow and ink in the moonlight. then with a jerk françois paused. on a stone bench before the church sat ysabeau de montigny and gilles raguyer. the priest was fuddled, hiccuping in his amorous dithyrambics as he paddled with the girl's hand. "you tempt me to murder," he was saying. "it is a deadly sin, my soul, and i have no mind to fry in hell while my body swings on the saint denis road, a crow's dinner. let françois live, my soul! my soul, he would stick little gilles like a pig." raguyer began to blubber at the thought. "holy macaire!" said françois; "here is a pretty plot a-brewing." yet because his heart was filled just now with loving-kindness, he forgave the girl. _"tantaene irae?"_ said françois; and aloud, "ysabeau, it is time you were abed." she wheeled upon him in apprehension; then, with recognition, her rage flamed. "now, gilles!" cried ysabeau de montigny; "now, coward! he is unarmed, gilles. look, gilles! kill for me this betrayer of women!" under his mantle francois loosened the short sword he carried. but the priest plainly had no mind to the business. he rose, tipsily fumbling a knife, and snarling like a cur at sight of a strange mastiff. "vile rascal!" said gilles raguyer, as he strove to lash himself into a rage. "o coward! o parricide! o tarquin!" françois began to laugh. "let us have done with this farce," said he. "your man has no stomach for battle, ysabeau. and you do me wrong, my lass, to call me a betrayer of women. doubtless, that tale seemed the most apt to kindle in poor gilles some homicidal virtue: but you and i and god know that naught has passed between us save a few kisses and a trinket or so. it is no knifing matter. yet for the sake of old time, come home, ysabeau; your brother is my friend, and the hour is somewhat late for honest women to be abroad." "enné?" shrilled ysabeau; "and yet, if i cannot strike a spark of courage from this clod here, there come those who may help me, françois de montcorbier. 'ware sermaise, master françois!" françois wheeled. down the rue saint jacques came philippe sermaise, like a questing hound, with drunken jehan le merdi at his heels. "holy virgin!" thought françois; "this is likely to be a nasty affair. i would give a deal for a glimpse of the patrol lanterns just now." he edged his way toward the cloister, to get a wall at his back. but gilles raguyer followed him, knife in hand. "o hideous tarquin! o absalom!" growled gilles; "have you, then, no respect for churchmen?" with an oath, sermaise ran up. "now, may god die twice," he panted, "if i have not found the skulker at last! there is a crow needs picking between us two, montcorbier." hemmed in by his enemies, françois temporized. "why do you accost me thus angrily, master philippe?" he babbled. "what harm have i done you? what is your will of me?" but his fingers tore feverishly at the strap by which the lute was swung over his shoulder, and now the lute fell at their feet, leaving françois unhampered and his sword-arm free. this was fuel to the priest's wrath. "sacred bones of benoit!" he snarled; "i could make a near guess as to what window you have been caterwauling under." from beneath his gown he suddenly hauled out a rapier and struck at the boy while francois was yet tugging at his sword. full in the mouth sermaise struck him, splitting the lower lip through. francois felt the piercing cold of the steel, the tingling of it against his teeth, then the warm grateful spurt of blood; through a red mist, he saw gilles and ysabeau run screaming down the rue saint jacques. he drew and made at sermaise, forgetful of le merdi. it was shrewd work. presently they were fighting in the moonlight, hammer-and-tongs, as the saying is, and presently sermaise was cursing like a madman, for françois had wounded him in the groin. window after window rattled open as the rue saint jacques ran nightcapped to peer at the brawl. then as francois hurled back his sword to slash at the priest's shaven head--frenchmen had not yet learned to thrust with the point in the italian manner--jehan le merdi leapt from behind, nimble as a snake, and wrested away the boy's weapon. sermaise closed with a glad shout. "heart of god!" cried sermaise. "pray, bridegroom, pray!" but françois jumped backward, tumbling over le merdi, and with apish celerity caught up a great stone and flung it full in the priest's countenance. the rest was hideous. for a breathing space sermaise kept his feet, his outspread arms making a tottering cross. it was curious to see him peer about irresolutely now that he had no face. françois, staring at the black featureless horror before him, began to choke. standing thus, with outstretched arms, the priest first let fall his hands, so that they hung limp from the wrists; his finger-nails gleamed in the moonlight. his rapier tinkled on the flagstones with the sound of shattering glass, and philippe sermaise slid down, all a-jumble, crumpling like a broken toy. afterward you might have heard a long, awed sibilance go about the windows overhead as the watching rue saint jacques breathed again. francois de montcorbier ran. he tore at his breast as he ran, stifling. he wept as he ran through the moon-washed rue saint jacques, making animal-like and whistling noises. his split lip was a clammy dead thing that napped against his chin as he ran. "françois!" a man cried, meeting him; "ah, name of a name, françois!" it was rené de montigny, lurching from the crowned ox, half-tipsy. he caught the boy by the shoulder and hurried françois, still sobbing, to fouquet the barber-surgeon's, where they sewed up his wound. in accordance with the police regulations, they first demanded an account of how he had received it. rené lied up-hill and down-dale, while in a corner of the room françois monotonously wept. fate grinned and went on with her weaving. . "_necessité faict gens mesprende_" the rue saint jacques had toothsome sauce for its breakfast. the quarter smacked stiff lips over the news, as it pictured françois de montcorbier dangling from montfaucon. "horrible!" said the rue saint jacques, and drew a moral of suitably pious flavor. guillemette moreau had told catherine of the affair before the day was aired. the girl's hurt vanity broke tether. "sermaise!" said she. "bah, what do i care for sermaise! he killed him in fair fight. but within an hour, guillemette,--within a half-hour after leaving me, he is junketing on church-porches with that trollop. they were not there for holy-water. midnight, look you! and he swore to me--chaff, chaff! his honor is chaff, guillemette, and his heart a bran-bag. oh, swine, filthy swine! eh, well, let the swine stick to his sty. send noël d'arnaye to me." the sieur d'arnaye came, his head tied in a napkin. "foh!" said she; "another swine fresh from the gutter? no, this is a bottle, a tun, a walking wine-barrel! noël, i despise you. i will marry you if you like." he fell to mumbling her hand. an hour later catherine told jehan de vaucelles she intended to marry noël the handsome when he should come back from geneppe with the exiled dauphin. the old man, having wisdom, lifted his brows, and returned to his reading in _le pet au diable_. the patrol had transported sermaise to the prison of saint benoit, where he lay all night. that day he was carried to the hospital of the hôtel dieu. he died the following saturday. death exalted the man to some nobility. before one of the apparitors of the châtelet he exonerated montcorbier, under oath, and asked that no steps be taken against him. "i forgive him my death," said sermaise, manly enough at the last, "by reason of certain causes moving him thereunto." presently he demanded the peach-colored silk glove they would find in the pocket of his gown. it was catherine's glove. the priest kissed it, and then began to laugh. shortly afterward he died, still gnawing at the glove. françois and rené had vanished. "good riddance," said the rue saint jacques. but montcorbier was summoned to answer before the court of the châtelet for the death of philippe sermaise, and in default of his appearance, was subsequently condemned to banishment from the kingdom. the two young men were at saint pourçain-en-bourbonnais, where rené had kinsmen. under the name of des loges, françois had there secured a place as tutor, but when he heard that sermaise in the article of death had cleared him of all blame, françois set about procuring a pardon. [footnote: there is humor in his deposition that gilles and ysabeau and he were loitering before saint benoît's in friendly discourse,--"pour soy esbatre." perhaps rené prompted this; but in itself, it is characteristic of montcorbier that he trenched on perjury, blithely, in order to screen ysabeau.] it was january before he succeeded in obtaining it. meanwhile he had learned a deal of rené's way of living. "you are a thief," françois observed to montigny the day the pardon came, "but you have played a kindly part by me. i think you are dysmas, rené, not gestas. heh, i throw no stones. you have stolen, but i have killed. let us go to paris, lad, and start afresh." montigny grinned. "i shall certainly go to paris," he said. "friends wait for me there,--guy tabary, petit jehan and colin de cayeux. we are planning to visit guillaume coiffier, a fat priest with some six hundred crowns in the cupboard. you will make one of the party, françois." "rené, rené," said the other, "my heart bleeds for you." again montigny grinned. "you think a great deal about blood nowadays," he commented. "people will be mistaking you for such a poet as was crowned nero, who, likewise, gave his time to ballad-making and to murdering fathers of the church. eh, dear ahenabarbus, let us first see what the rue saint jacques has to say about your recent gambols. after that, i think you will make one of our party." . "_yeulx sans pitié!_" there was a light crackling frost under foot the day that françois came back to the rue saint jacques. upon this brisk, clear january day it was good to be home again, an excellent thing to be alive. "eh, guillemette, guillemette," he laughed. "why, lass--!" "faugh!" said guillemette moreau, as she passed him, nose in air. "a murderer, a priest-killer." then the sun went black for françois. such welcoming was a bucket of cold water, full in the face. he gasped, staring after her; and pursy thomas tricot, on his way from mass, nudged martin blaru in the ribs. "martin," said he, "fruit must be cheap this year. yonder in the gutter is an apple from the gallows-tree, and no one will pick it up." blaru turned and spat out, "cain! judas!" this was only a sample. everywhere françois found rigid faces, sniffs, and skirts drawn aside. a little girl in a red cap, robin troussecaille's daughter, flung a stone at françois as he slunk into the cloister of saint benoit-le-bétourné. in those days a slain priest was god's servant slain, no less; and the rue saint jacques was a respectable god-fearing quarter of paris. "my father!" the boy cried, rapping upon the door of the hôtel de la porte-rouge; "o my father, open to me, for i think that my heart is breaking." shortly his foster-father, guillaume de villon, came to the window. "murderer!" said he. "betrayer of women! now, by the caldron of john! how dare you show your face here? i gave you my name and you soiled it. back to your husks, rascal!" "o god, o god!" françois cried, one or two times, as he looked up into the old man's implacable countenance. "you, too, my father!" he burst into a fit of sobbing. "go!" the priest stormed; "go, murderer!" it was not good to hear françois' laughter. "what a world we live in!" he giggled. "you gave me your name and i soiled it? eh, master priest, master pharisee, beware! _villon_ is good french for _vagabond_, an excellent name for an outcast. and as god lives, i will presently drag that name through every muckheap in france." yet he went to jehan de vaucelles' home. "i will afford god one more chance at my soul," said françois. in the garden he met catherine and noël d'arnaye coming out of the house. they stopped short. her face, half-muffled in the brown fur of her cloak, flushed to a wonderful rose of happiness, the great eyes glowed, and catherine reached out her hands toward françois with a glad cry. his heart was hot wax as he fell before her upon his knees. "o heart's dearest, heart's dearest!" he sobbed; "forgive me that i doubted you!" and then for an instant, the balance hung level. but after a while, "ysabeau de montigny dwells in the rue du fouarre," said catherine, in a crisp voice,--"having served your purpose, however, i perceive that ysabeau, too, is to be cast aside as though she were an old glove. monsieur d'arnaye, thrash for me this betrayer of women." noël was a big, handsome man, like an obtuse demi-god, a foot taller than françois. noel lifted the boy by his collar, caught up a stick and set to work. catherine watched them, her eyes gemlike and cruel. françois did not move a muscle. god had chosen. after a little, though, the sieur d'arnaye flung françois upon the ground, where he lay quite still for a moment. then slowly he rose to his feet. he never looked at noël. for a long time francois stared at catherine de vaucelles, frost-flushed, defiant, incredibly beautiful. afterward the boy went out of the garden, staggering like a drunken person. he found montigny at the crowned ox. "rené," said françois, "there is no charity on earth, there is no god in heaven. but in hell there is most assuredly a devil, and i think that he must laugh a great deal. what was that you were telling me about the priest with six hundred crowns in his cupboard?" rené slapped him on the shoulder. "now," said he, "you talk like a man." he opened the door at the back and cried: "colin, you and petit jehan and that pig tabary may come out. i have the honor, messieurs, to offer you a new companion of the cockleshell--master françois de montcorbier." but the recruit raised a protesting hand. "no," said he,--"françois villon. the name is triply indisputable, since it has been put upon me not by one priest but by three." . _"volia l'estat divers d'entre eulx"_ when the dauphin came from geneppe to be crowned king of france, there rode with him noël d'arnaye and noël's brother raymond. and the longawaited news that charles the well-served was at last servitor to death, brought the exiled louis post-haste to paris, where the rue saint jacques turned out full force to witness his triumphal entry. they expected, in those days, saturnian doings of louis xi, a recrudescence of the golden age; and when the new king began his reign by granting noël a snug fief in picardy, the rue saint jacques applauded. "noël has followed the king's fortunes these ten years," said the rue saint jacques; "it is only just. and now, neighbor, we may look to see noel the handsome and catherine de vaucelles make a match of it. the girl has a tidy dowry, they say; old jehan proved wealthier than the quarter suspected. but death of my life, yes! you may see his tomb in the innocents' yonder, with weeping seraphim and a yard of latin on it. i warrant you that rascal montcorbier has lain awake in half the prisons in france thinking of what he flung away. seven years, no less, since he and montigny showed their thieves' faces here. la, the world wags, neighbor, and they say there will be a new tax on salt if we go to war with the english." not quite thus, perhaps, ran the meditations of catherine de vaucelles one still august night as she sat at her window, overlooking the acacias and chestnuts of her garden. noël, conspicuously prosperous in blue and silver, had but now gone down the rue saint jacques, singing, clinking the fat purse whose plumpness was still a novelty. that evening she had given her promise to marry him at michaelmas. this was a black night, moonless, windless. there were a scant half-dozen stars overhead, and the thick scent of roses and mignonette came up to her in languid waves. below, the tree-tops conferred, stealthily, and the fountain plashed its eternal remonstrance against the conspiracy they lisped of. after a while catherine rose and stood contemplative before a long mirror that was in her room. catherine de vaucelles was now, at twenty-three, in the full flower of her comeliness. blue eyes the mirror showed her,--luminous and tranquil eyes, set very far apart; honey-colored hair massed heavily about her face, a mouth all curves, the hue of a strawberry, tender but rather fretful, and beneath it a firm chin; only her nose left something to be desired,--for that feature, though well-formed, was diminutive and bent toward the left, by perhaps the thickness of a cobweb. she might reasonably have smiled at what the mirror showed her, but, for all that, she sighed. "o beauty of her, whereby i am undone," said catherine, wistfully. "ah, god in heaven, forgive me for my folly! sweet christ, intercede for me who have paid dearly for my folly!" fate grinned in her weaving. through the open window came the sound of a voice singing. sang the voice: _"o beauty of her, whereby i am undone! o grace of her, that hath no grace for me! o love of her, the bit that guides me on to sorrow and to grievous misery! o felon charms, my poor heart's enemy--"_ and the singing broke off in a fit of coughing. catherine had remained motionless for a matter of two minutes, her head poised alertly. she went to the gong and struck it seven or eight times. "macée, there is a man in the garden. bring him to me, macée,--ah, love of god, macée, make haste!" blinking, he stood upon the threshold. then, without words, their lips met. "my king!" said catherine; "heart's emperor!" "o rose of all the world!" he cried. there was at first no need of speech. but after a moment she drew away and stared at him. françois, though he was but thirty, seemed an old man. his bald head shone in the candle-light. his face was a mesh of tiny wrinkles, wax-white, and his lower lip, puckered by the scar of his wound, protruded in an eternal grimace. as catherine steadfastly regarded him, the faded eyes, half-covered with a bluish film, shifted, and with a jerk he glanced over his shoulder. the movement started a cough tearing at his throat. "holy macaire!" said he. "i thought that somebody, if not henri cousin, the executioner, was at my heels. why do you stare so, lass? have you anything to eat? i am famished." in silence she brought him meat and wine, and he fell upon it. he ate hastily, chewing with his front teeth, like a sheep. when he had ended, catherine came to him and took both his hands in hers and lifted them to her lips. "the years have changed you, françois," she said, curiously meek. françois put her away. then he strode to the mirror and regarded it intently. with a snarl, he turned about. "the years!" said he. "you are modest. it was you who killed françois de montcorbier, as surely as montcorbier killed sermaise. eh, sovereign virgin! that is scant cause for grief. you made françois villon. what do you think of him, lass?" she echoed the name. it was in many ways a seasoned name, but unaccustomed to mean nothing. accordingly françois sneered. "now, by all the fourteen joys and sorrows of our lady! i believe that you have never heard of françois villon! the rue saint jacques has not heard of françois villon! the pigs, the gross pigs, that dare not peep out of their sty! why, i have capped verses with the duke of orleans. the very street-boys know my ballad of the women of paris. not a drunkard in the realm but has ranted my jolly orison for master cotard's soul when the bottle passed. the king himself hauled me out of meung gaol last september, swearing that in all france there was not my equal at a ballad. and you have never heard of me!" once more a fit of coughing choked him mid-course in his indignant chattering. she gave him a woman's answer: "i do not care if you are the greatest lord in the kingdom or the most sunken knave that steals ducks from paris moat. i only know that i love you, françois." for a long time he kept silence, blinking, peering quizzically at her lifted face. she did love him; no questioning that. but presently he again put her aside, and went toward the open window. this was a matter for consideration. the night was black as a pocket. staring into it, françois threw back his head and drew a deep, tremulous breath. the rising odor of roses and mignonette, keen and intolerably sweet, had roused unforgotten pulses in his blood, had set shame and joy adrum in his breast. the woman loved him! through these years, with a woman's unreasoning fidelity, she had loved him. he knew well enough how matters stood between her and noel d'arnaye; the host of the crowned ox had been garrulous that evening. but it was françois whom she loved. she was well-to-do. here for the asking was a competence, love, an ingleside of his own. the deuce of it was that francois feared to ask. "--because i am still past reason in all that touches this ignorant, hot-headed, pharisaical, rather stupid wench! that is droll. but love is a resistless tyrant, and, mother of god! has there been in my life a day, an hour, a moment when i have not loved her! to see her once was all that i had craved,--as a lost soul might covet, ere the pit take him, one splendid glimpse of heaven and the nine blessed orders at their fiddling. and i find that she loves me--me! fate must have her jest, i perceive, though the firmament crack for it. she would have been content enough with noel, thinking me dead. and with me?" contemplatively he spat out of the window. "eh, if i dared hope that this last flicker of life left in my crazy carcass might burn clear! i have but a little while to live; if i dared hope to live that little cleanly! but the next cup of wine, the next light woman?--i have answered more difficult riddles. choose, then, françois villon,--choose between the squalid, foul life yonder and her well-being. it is true that starvation is unpleasant and that hanging is reported to be even less agreeable. but just now these considerations are irrelevant." staring into the darkness he fought the battle out. squarely he faced the issue; for that instant he saw françois villon as the last seven years had made him, saw the wine-sodden soul of françois villon, rotten and weak and honeycombed with vice. moments of nobility it had; momentarily, as now, it might be roused to finer issues; but françois knew that no power existent could hearten it daily to curb the brutish passions. it was no longer possible for françois villon to live cleanly. "for what am i?--a hog with a voice. and shall i hazard her life's happiness to get me a more comfortable sty? ah, but the deuce of it is that i so badly need that sty!" he turned with a quick gesture. "listen," françois said. "yonder is paris,--laughing, tragic paris, who once had need of a singer to proclaim her splendor and all her misery. fate made the man; in necessity's mortar she pounded his soul into the shape fate needed. to king's courts she lifted him; to thieves' hovels she thrust him down; and past lutetia's palaces and abbeys and taverns and lupanars and gutters and prisons and its very gallows--past each in turn the man was dragged, that he might make the song of paris. he could not have made it here in the smug rue saint jacques. well! the song is made, catherine. so long as paris endures, françois villon will be remembered. villon the singer fate fashioned as was needful: and, in this fashioning, villon the man was damned in body and soul. and by god! the song was worth it!" she gave a startled cry and came to him, her hands fluttering toward his breast. "françois!" she breathed. it would not be good to kill the love in her face. "you loved françois de montcorbier. françois de montcorbier is dead. the pharisees of the rue saint jacques killed him seven years ago, and that day françois villon was born. that was the name i swore to drag through every muckheap in france. and i have done it, catherine. the companions of the cockleshell--eh, well, the world knows us. we robbed guillamme coiffier, we robbed the college of navarre, we robbed the church of saint maturin,--i abridge the list of our gambols. now we harvest. rené de montigny's bones swing in the wind yonder at montfaucon. colin de cayeux they broke on the wheel. the rest--in effect, i am the only one that justice spared,--because i had diverting gifts at rhyming, they said. pah! if they only knew! i am immortal, lass. _exegi monumentum_. villon's glory and villon's shame will never die." he flung back his bald head and laughed now, tittering over that calamitous, shabby secret between all-seeing god and françois villon. she had drawn a little away from him. this well-reared girl saw him exultant in infamy, steeped to the eyes in infamy. but still the nearness of her, the faint perfume of her, shook in his veins, and still he must play the miserable comedy to the end, since the prize he played for was to him peculiarly desirable. "a thief--a common thief!" but again her hands fluttered back. "i drove you to it. mine is the shame." "holy macaire! what is a theft or two? hunger that causes the wolf to sally from the wood, may well make a man do worse than steal. i could tell you--for example, you might ask in hell of one thevenin pensete, who knifed him in the cemetery of saint john." he hinted a lie, for it was montigny who killed thevenin pensete. villon played without scruple now. catherine's face was white. "stop," she pleaded; "no more, françois,--ah, holy virgin! do not tell me any more." but after a little she came to him, touching him almost as if with unwillingness. "mine is the shame. it was my jealousy, my vanity, françois, that thrust you back into temptation. and we are told by those in holy orders that the compassion of god is infinite. if you still care for me, i will be your wife." yet she shuddered. he saw it. his face, too, was paper, and françois laughed horribly. "if i still love you! go, ask of denise, of jacqueline, or of pierrette, of marion the statue, of jehanne of brittany, of blanche slippermaker, of fat peg,--ask of any trollop in all paris how françois villon loves. you thought me faithful! you thought that i especially preferred you to any other bed-fellow! eh, i perceive that the credo of the rue saint jacques is somewhat narrow-minded. for my part i find one woman much the same as another." and his voice shook, for he saw how pretty she was, saw how she suffered. but he managed a laugh. "i do not believe you," catherine said, in muffled tones. "françois! you loved me, françois. ah, boy, boy!" she cried, with a pitiable wail; "come back to me, boy that i loved!" it was a difficult business. but he grinned in her face. "he is dead. let françois de montcorbier rest in his grave. your voice is very sweet, catherine, and--and he could refuse you nothing, could he, lass? ah, god, god, god!" he cried, in his agony; "why can you not believe me? i tell you necessity pounds us in her mortar to what shape she will. i tell you that montcorbier loved you, but françois villon prefers fat peg. an ill cat seeks an ill rat." and with this, tranquillity fell upon his soul, for he knew that he had won. her face told him that. loathing was what he saw there. "i am sorry," catherine said, dully. "i am sorry. oh, for high god's sake! go, go! do you want money? i will give you anything if you will only go. oh, beast! oh, swine, swine, swine!" he turned and went, staggering like a drunken person. once in the garden he fell prone upon his face in the wet grass. about him the mingled odor of roses and mignonette was sweet and heavy; the fountain plashed interminably in the night, and above him the chestnuts and acacias rustled and lisped as they had done seven years ago. only he was changed. "o mother of god," the thief prayed, "grant that noël may be kind to her! mother of god, grant that she may be happy! mother of god, grant that i may not live long!" and straightway he perceived that triple invocation could be, rather neatly, worked out in ballade form. yes, with a separate prayer to each verse. so, dismissing for the while his misery, he fell to considering, with undried cheeks, what rhymes he needed. * * * * * july , "_et puis il se rencontre icy une avanture merveilleuse, c'est que le fils de grand turc ressemble à cléonte, à peu de chose prés_." _noël d'arnaye and catherine de vaucelles were married in the september of , and afterward withdrew to noël's fief in picardy. there noël built him a new chateau d'arnaye, and through the influence of nicole beaupertuys, the king's mistress, (who was rumored in court by-ways to have a tenderness for the handsome noël), obtained large grants for its maintenance. madame d'arnaye, also, it is gratifying to record, appears to have lived in tolerable amity with sieur noël, and neither of them pried too closely into the other's friendships. catherine died in , and noël outlived her but by three years. of the six acknowledged children surviving him, only one was legitimate--a daughter called matthiette. the estate and title thus reverted to raymond d'arnaye, noël's younger brother, from whom the present family of arnaye is descended. raymond was a far shrewder man than his predecessor. for ten years' space, while louis xi, that royal fox of france, was destroying feudalism piecemeal,--trimming its power day by day as you might pare an onion,--the new sieur d'arnaye steered his shifty course between france and burgundy, always to the betterment of his chances in this world however he may have modified them in the next. at arras he fought beneath the orifiamme; at guinegate you could not have found a more staunch burgundian: though he was no warrior, victory followed him like a lap-dog. so that presently the sieur d'arnaye and the vicomte de puysange--with which family we have previously concerned ourselves--were the great lords of northern france. but after the old king's death came gusty times for sieur raymond. it is with them we have here to do_. chapter vi _the episode called the conspiracy of arnaye_ . _policy tempered with singing_ "and so," said the sieur d'arnaye, as he laid down the letter, "we may look for the coming of monsieur de puysange to-morrow." the demoiselle matthiette contorted her features in an expression of disapproval. "so soon!" said she. "i had thought--" "ouais, my dear niece, love rides by ordinary with a dripping spur, and is still as arbitrary as in the day when mars was taken with a net and amorous jove bellowed in europa's kail-yard. my faith! if love distemper thus the spectral ichor of the gods, is it remarkable that the warmer blood of man pulses rather vehemently at his bidding? it were the least of cupid's miracles that a lusty bridegroom of some twenty-and-odd should be pricked to outstrip the dial by a scant week. for love--i might tell you such tales--" sieur raymond crossed his white, dimpled hands over a well-rounded paunch and chuckled reminiscently; had he spoken doubtless he would have left master jehan de troyes very little to reveal in his scandalous chronicle: but now, as if now recalling with whom sieur raymond conversed, d'arnaye's lean face assumed an expression of placid sanctity, and the somewhat unholy flame died out of his green eyes. he was like no other thing than a plethoric cat purring over the follies of kittenhood. you would have taken oath that a cultured taste for good living was the chief of his offences, and that this benevolent gentleman had some sixty well-spent years to his credit. true, his late majesty, king louis xi, had sworn pacque dieu! that d'arnaye loved underhanded work so heartily that he conspired with his gardener concerning the planting of cabbages, and within a week after his death would be heading some treachery against lucifer; but kings are not always infallible, as his majesty himself had proven at peronne. "--for," said the sieur d'arnaye, "man's flesh is frail, and the devil is very cunning to avail himself of the weaknesses of lovers." "love!" matthiette cried. "ah, do not mock me, my uncle! there can be no pretence of love between monsieur de puysange and me. a man that i have never seen, that is to wed me of pure policy, may look for no alcestis in his wife." "you speak like a very sensible girl," said sieur raymond, complacently. "however, so that he find her no guinevere or semiramis or other loose-minded trollop of history, i dare say monsieur de puysange will hold to his bargain with indifferent content. look you, niece, he, also, is buying--though the saying is somewhat rustic--a pig in a poke." matthiette glanced quickly toward the mirror which hung in her apartment. the glass reflected features which went to make up a beauty already be-sonneted in that part of france; and if her green gown was some months behind the last italian fashion, it undeniably clad one who needed few adventitious aids. the demoiselle matthiette at seventeen was very tall, and was as yet too slender for perfection of form, but her honey-colored hair hung heavily about the unblemished oval of a countenance whose nose alone left something to be desired; for this feature, though well shaped, was unduly diminutive. for the rest, her mouth curved in an irreproachable bow, her complexion was mingled milk and roses, her blue eyes brooded in a provoking calm; taking matters by and large, the smile that followed her inspection of the mirror's depths was far from unwarranted. catherine de vaucelles reanimate, you would have sworn; and at the abbey of saint maixent-en-poitou there was a pot-belly monk, a brother françois, who would have demonstrated it to you, in an unanswerable ballad, that catherine's daughter was in consequence all that an empress should be and so rarely is. harembourges and bertha broadfoot and white queen blanche would have been laughed to scorn, demolished and proven, in comparison (with a catalogue of very intimate personal detail), the squalidest sluts conceivable, by brother françois. but sieur raymond merely chuckled wheezily, as one discovering a fault in his companion of which he disapproves in theory, but in practice finds flattering to his vanity. "i grant you, monsieur de puysange drives a good bargain," said sieur raymond. "were cleopatra thus featured, the roman lost the world very worthily. yet, such is the fantastic disposition of man that i do not doubt the vicomte looks forward to the joys of to-morrow no whit more cheerfully than you do: for the lad is young, and, as rumor says, has been guilty of divers verses,--ay, he has bearded common-sense in the vext periods of many a wailing rhyme. i will wager a moderate amount, however, that the vicomte, like a sensible young man, keeps these whimsies of flames and dames laid away in lavender for festivals and the like; they are somewhat too fine for everyday wear." sieur raymond sipped the sugared wine which stood beside him. "like any sensible young man," he repeated, in a meditative fashion that was half a query. matthiette stirred uneasily. "is love, then, nothing?" she murmured. "love!" sieur raymond barked like a kicked mastiff. "it is very discreetly fabled that love was brought forth at cythera by the ocean fogs. thus, look you, even ballad-mongers admit it comes of a short-lived family, that fade as time wears on. i may have a passion for cloud-tatters, and, doubtless, the morning mists are beautiful; but if i give rein to my admiration, breakfast is likely to grow cold. i deduce that beauty, as represented by the sunrise, is less profitably considered than utility, as personified by the frying-pan. and love! a niece of mine prating of love!" the idea of such an occurrence, combined with a fit of coughing which now came upon him, drew tears to the sieur d'arnaye's eyes. "pardon me," said he, when he had recovered his breath, "if i speak somewhat brutally to maiden ears." matthiette sighed. "indeed," said she, "you have spoken very brutally!" she rose from her seat, and went to the sieur d'arnaye. "dear uncle," said she, with her arms about his neck, and with her soft cheek brushing his withered countenance, "are you come to my apartments to-night to tell me that love is nothing--you who have shown me that even the roughest, most grizzled bear in all the world has a heart compact of love and tender as a woman's?" the sieur d'arnaye snorted. "her mother all over again!" he complained; and then, recovering himself, shook his head with a hint of sadness. he said: "i have sighed to every eyebrow at court, and i tell you this moonshine is--moonshine pure and simple. matthiette, i love you too dearly to deceive you in, at all events, this matter, and i have learned by hard knocks that we of gentle quality may not lightly follow our own inclinations. happiness is a luxury which the great can very rarely afford. granted that you have an aversion to this marriage. yet consider this: arnaye and puysange united may sit snug and let the world wag; otherwise, lying here between the breton and the austrian, we are so many nuts in a door-crack, at the next wind's mercy. and yonder in the south, orléans and dunois are raising every devil in hell's register! ah, no, ma mie; i put it to you fairly is it of greater import that a girl have her callow heart's desire than that a province go free of monsieur war and madame rapine?" "yes, but--" said matthiette. sieur raymond struck his hand upon the table with considerable heat. "everywhere death yawps at the frontier; will you, a d'arnaye, bid him enter and surfeit? an alliance with puysange alone may save us. eheu, it is, doubtless, pitiful that a maid may not wait and wed her chosen paladin, but our vassals demand these sacrifices. for example, do you think i wedded my late wife in any fervor of adoration? i had never seen her before our marriage day; yet we lived much as most couples do for some ten years afterward, thereby demonstrating--" he smiled, evilly; matthiette sighed. "--well, thereby demonstrating nothing new," said sieur raymond. "so do you remember that pierre must have his bread and cheese; that the cows must calve undisturbed; that the pigs--you have not seen the sow i had to-day from harfleur?--black as ebony and a snout like a rose-leaf!--must be stied in comfort: and that these things may not be, without an alliance with puysange. besides, dear niece, it is something to be the wife of a great lord." a certain excitement awoke in matthiette's eyes. "it must be very beautiful at court," said she, softly. "masques, fêtes, tourneys every day;--and they say the new king is exceedingly gallant--" sieur raymond caught her by the chin, and for a moment turned her face toward his. "i warn you," said he, "you are a d'arnaye; and king or not--" he paused here. through the open window came the voice of one singing to the demure accompaniment of a lute. "hey?" said the sieur d'arnaye. sang the voice: "_when you are very old, and i am gone, not to return, it may be you will say-- hearing my name and holding me as one long dead to you,--in some half-jesting way of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of may rumored in woods when first the throstles sing-- 'he loved me once.' and straightway murmuring my half-forgotten rhymes, you will regret evanished times when i was wont to sing so very lightly, 'love runs into debt.'_" "now, may i never sit among the saints," said the sieur d'arnaye, "if that is not the voice of raoul de prison, my new page." "hush," matthiette whispered. "he woos my maid, alys. he often sings under the window, and i wink at it." sang the voice: _"i shall not heed you then. my course being run for good or ill, i shall have gone my way, and know you, love, no longer,--nor the sun, perchance, nor any light of earthly day, nor any joy nor sorrow,--while at play the world speeds merrily, nor reckoning our coming or our going. lips will cling, forswear, and be forsaken, and men forget where once our tombs were, and our children sing-- so very lightly!--'love runs into debt.' "if in the grave love have dominion will that wild cry not quicken the wise clay, and taunt with memories of fond deeds undone,-- some joy untasted, some lost holiday,-- all death's large wisdom? will that wisdom lay the ghost of any sweet familiar thing come haggard from the past, or ever bring forgetfulness of those two lovers met when all was april?--nor too wise to sing so very lightly, 'love runs into debt.' "yet, matthiette, though vain remembering draw nigh, and age be drear, yet in the spring we meet and kiss, whatever hour beset wherein all hours attain to harvesting,-- so very lightly love runs into debt."_ "dear, dear!" said the sieur d'arnaye. "you mentioned your maid's name, i think?" "alys," said matthiette, with unwonted humbleness. sieur raymond spread out his hands in a gesture of commiseration. "this is very remarkable," he said. "beyond doubt, the gallant beneath has made some unfortunate error. captain gotiard," he called, loudly, "will you ascertain who it is that warbles in the garden such queer aliases for our good alys?" . _age glosses the text of youth_ gotiard was not long in returning; he was followed by two men-at-arms, who held between them the discomfited minstrel. envy alone could have described the lutanist as ill-favored; his close-fitting garb, wherein the brave reds of autumn were judiciously mingled, at once set off a well-knit form and enhanced the dark comeliness of features less french than italian in cast. the young man now stood silent, his eyes mutely questioning the sieur d'arnaye. "oh, la, la, la!" chirped sieur raymond. "captain, i think you are at liberty to retire." he sipped his wine meditatively, as the men filed out. "monsieur de frison," d'arnaye resumed, when the arras had fallen, "believe me, i grieve to interrupt your very moving and most excellently phrased ballad in this fashion. but the hour is somewhat late for melody, and the curiosity of old age is privileged. may one inquire, therefore, why you outsing my larks and linnets and other musical poultry that are now all abed? and warble them to rest with this pleasing but--if i may venture a suggestion--rather ill-timed madrigal?" the young man hesitated for an instant before replying. "sir," said he, at length, "i confess that had i known of your whereabouts, the birds had gone without their lullaby. but you so rarely come to this wing of the chateau, that your presence here to-night is naturally unforeseen. as it is, since chance has betrayed my secret to you, i must make bold to acknowledge it; and to confess that i love your niece." "hey, no doubt you do," sieur raymond assented, pleasantly. "indeed, i think half the young men hereabout are in much the same predicament. but, my question, if i mistake not, related to your reason for chaunting canzonets beneath her window." raoul de frison stared at him in amazement. "i love her," he said. "you mentioned that before," sieur raymond suggested. "and i agreed, as i remember, that it was more than probable; for my niece here--though it be i that speak it--is by no means uncomely, has a commendable voice, the walk of a hebe, and sufficient wit to deceive her lover into happiness. my faith, young man, you show excellent taste! but, i submit, the purest affection is an insufficient excuse for outbaying a whole kennel of hounds beneath the adored one's casement." "sir," said raoul, "i believe that lovers have rarely been remarkable for sanity; and it is an immemorial custom among them to praise the object of their desires with fitting rhymes. conceive, sir, that in your youth, had you been accorded the love of so fair a lady, you yourself had scarcely done otherwise. for i doubt if your blood runs so thin as yet that you have quite forgot young raymond d'arnaye and the gracious ladies whom he loved,--i think that your heart must needs yet treasure the memories of divers moonlit nights, even such as this, when there was a great silence in the world, and the nested trees were astir with desire of the dawn, and your waking dreams were vext with the singular favor of some woman's face. it is in the name of that young raymond i now appeal to you." "h'm!" said the sieur d'arnaye. "as i understand it, you appeal on the ground that you were coerced by the moonlight and led astray by the bird-nests in my poplar-trees; and you desire me to punish your accomplices rather than you." "sir,--" said raoul. sieur raymond snarled. "you young dog, you know that in the most prosaic breast a minor poet survives his entombment,--and you endeavor to make capital of the knowledge. you know that i have a most sincere affection for your father, and have even contracted since you came to arnaye more or less tolerance for you,--which emboldens you, my friend, to keep me out of a comfortable bed at this hour of the night with an idiotic discourse of moonlight and dissatisfied shrubbery! as it happens, i am not a lank wench in her first country dance. remember that, raoul de frison, and praise the good god who gave me at birth a very placable disposition! there is not a seigneur in all france, save me, but would hang you at the crack of that same dawn for which you report your lackadaisical trees to be whining; but the quarrel will soon be monsieur de puysange's, and i prefer that he settle it at his own discretion. i content myself with advising you to pester my niece no more." raoul spoke boldly. "she loves me," said he, standing very erect. sieur raymond glanced at matthiette, who sat with downcast head. "h'm!" said he. "she moderates her transports indifferently well. though, again, why not? you are not an ill-looking lad. indeed, monsieur de frison, i am quite ready to admit that my niece is breaking her heart for you. the point on which i wish to dwell is that she weds monsieur de puysange early to-morrow morning." "uncle," matthiette cried, as she started to her feet, "such a marriage is a crime! i love raoul!" "undoubtedly," purred sieur raymond, "you love the lad unboundedly, madly, distractedly! now we come to the root of the matter." he sank back in his chair and smiled. "young people," said he, "be seated, and hearken to the words of wisdom. love is a divine insanity, in which the sufferer fancies the world mad. and the world is made up of madmen who condemn and punish one another." "but," matthiette dissented, "ours is no ordinary case!" "surely not," sieur raymond readily agreed; "for there was never an ordinary case in all the history of the universe. oh, but i, too, have known this madness; i, too, have perceived how infinitely my own skirmishes with the blind bow-god differed in every respect from all that has been or will ever be. it is an infallible sign of this frenzy. surely, i have said, the world will not willingly forget the vision of chloris in her wedding garments, or the wonder of her last clinging kiss. or, say phyllis comes to-morrow: will an uninventive sun dare to rise in the old, hackneyed fashion on such a day of days? perish the thought! there will probably be six suns, and, i dare say, a meteor or two." "i perceive, sir," raoul said here, "that after all you have not forgotten the young raymond of whom i spoke." "that was a long while ago," snapped sieur raymond. "i know a deal more of the world nowadays; and a level-headed world would be somewhat surprised at such occurrences, and suggest that for the future phyllis remain at home. for whether you--or i--or any one--be in love or no is to our fellow creatures an affair of astonishingly trivial import. not since noé that great admiral, repeopled the world by begetting three sons upon dame noria has there been a love-business worthy of consideration; nor, if you come to that, not since sagacious solomon went a-wenching has a wise man wasted his wisdom on a lover. so love one another, my children, by all means: but do you, matthiette, make ready to depart into normandy as a true and faithful wife to monsieur de puysange; and do you, raoul de prison, remain at arnaye, and attend to my falcons more carefully than you have done of late,--or, by the cross of saint lo! i will clap the wench in a convent and hang the lad as high as haman!" whereon sieur raymond smiled pleasantly, and drained his wine-cup as one considering the discussion ended. raoul sat silent for a moment. then he rose. "monsieur d'arnaye, you know me to be a gentleman of unblemished descent, and as such entitled to a hearing. i forbid you before all-seeing heaven to wed your niece to a man she does not love! and i have the honor to request of you her hand in marriage." "which offer i decline," said sieur raymond, grinning placidly,--"with every imaginable civility. niece," he continued, "here is a gentleman who offers you a heartful of love, six months of insanity, and forty years of boredom in a leaky, wind-swept château. he has dreamed dreams concerning you: allow me to present to you the reality." with some ceremony sieur raymond now grasped matthiette's hand and led her mirror-ward. "permit me to present the wife of monsieur de puysange. could he have made a worthier choice? ah, happy lord, that shall so soon embrace such perfect loveliness! for, frankly, my niece, is not that golden hair of a shade that will set off a coronet extraordinarily well? are those wondrous eyes not fashioned to surfeit themselves upon the homage and respect accorded the wife of a great lord? ouais, the thing is indisputable: and, therefore, i must differ from monsieur de frison here, who would condemn this perfection to bloom and bud unnoticed in a paltry country town." there was an interval, during which matthiette gazed sadly into the mirror. "and arnaye--?" said she. "undoubtedly," said sieur raymond,--"arnaye must perish unless puysange prove her friend. therefore, my niece conquers her natural aversion to a young and wealthy husband, and a life of comfort and flattery and gayety; relinquishes you, raoul; and, like a feminine mettius curtius, sacrifices herself to her country's welfare. pierre may sleep undisturbed; and the pigs will have a new sty. my faith, it is quite affecting! and so," sieur raymond summed it up, "you two young fools may bid adieu, once for all, while i contemplate this tapestry." he strolled to the end of the room and turned his back. "admirable!" said he; "really now, that leopard is astonishingly lifelike!" raoul came toward matthiette. "dear love," said he, "you have chosen wisely, and i bow to your decision. farewell, matthiette,--o indomitable heart! o brave perfect woman that i have loved! now at the last of all, i praise you for your charity to me, love's mendicant,--ah, believe me, matthiette, that atones for aught which follows now. come what may, i shall always remember that once in old days you loved me, and, remembering this, i shall always thank god with a contented heart." he bowed over her unresponsive hand. "matthiette," he whispered, "be happy! for i desire that very heartily, and i beseech of our sovereign lady--not caring to hide at all how my voice shakes, nor how the loveliness of you, seen now for the last time, is making blind my eyes--that you may never know unhappiness. you have chosen wisely, matthiette; yet, ah, my dear, do not forget me utterly, but keep always a little place in your heart for your boy lover!" sieur raymond concluded his inspection of the tapestry, and turned with a premonitory cough. "thus ends the comedy," said he, shrugging, "with much fine, harmless talking about 'always,' while the world triumphs. invariably the world triumphs, my children. eheu, we are as god made us, we men and women that cumber his stately earth!" he drew his arm through raoul's. "farewell, niece," said sieur raymond, smiling; "i rejoice that you are cured of your malady. now in respect to gerfalcons--" said he. the arras fell behind them. . _obdurate love_ matthiette sat brooding in her room, as the night wore on. she was pitifully frightened, numb. there was in the room, she dimly noted, a heavy silence that sobs had no power to shatter. dimly, too, she seemed aware of a multitude of wide, incurious eyes which watched her from every corner, where panels snapped at times with sharp echoes. the night was well-nigh done when she arose. "after all," she said, wearily, "it is my manifest duty." matthiette crept to the mirror and studied it. "madame de puysange," said she, without any intonation; then threw her arms above her head, with a hard gesture of despair. "i love him!" she cried, in a frightened voice. matthiette went to a great chest and fumbled among its contents. she drew out a dagger in a leather case, and unsheathed it. the light shone evilly scintillant upon the blade. she laughed, and hid it in the bosom of her gown, and fastened a cloak about her with impatient fingers. then matthiette crept down the winding stair that led to the gardens, and unlocked the door at the foot of it. a sudden rush of night swept toward her, big with the secrecy of dawn. the sky, washed clean of stars, sprawled above,--a leaden, monotonous blank. many trees whispered thickly over the chaos of earth; to the left, in an increasing dove-colored luminousness, a field of growing maize bristled like the chin of an unshaven titan. matthiette entered an expectant world. once in the tree-chequered gardens, it was as though she crept through the aisles of an unlit cathedral already garnished for its sacred pageant. matthiette heard the querulous birds call sleepily above; the margin of night was thick with their petulant complaints; behind her was the monstrous shadow of the chateau d'arnaye, and past that was a sullen red, the red of contused flesh, to herald dawn. infinity waited a-tiptoe, tense for the coming miracle, and against this vast repression, her grief dwindled into irrelevancy: the leaves whispered comfort; each tree-bole hid chuckling fauns. matthiette laughed. content had flooded the universe all through and through now that yonder, unseen as yet, the scarlet-faced sun was toiling up the rim of the world, and matters, it somehow seemed, could not turn out so very ill, in the end. matthiette came to a hut, from whose open window a faded golden glow spread out into obscurity like a tawdry fan. from without she peered into the hut and saw raoul. a lamp flickered upon the table. his shadow twitched and wavered about the plastered walls,--a portentous mass of head upon a hemisphere of shoulders,--as raoul bent over a chest, sorting the contents, singing softly to himself, while matthiette leaned upon the sill without, and the gardens of arnaye took form and stirred in the heart of a chill, steady, sapphire-like radiance. sang raoul: _"lord, i have worshipped thee ever,-- through all these years i have served thee, forsaking never light love that veers as a child between laughter and tears. hast thou no more to afford,-- naught save laughter and tears,-- love, my lord? "i have borne thy heaviest burden, nor served thee amiss: now thou hast given a guerdon; lo, it was this-- a sigh, a shudder, a kiss. hast thou no more to accord! i would have more than this, love, my lord. "i am wearied of love that is pastime and gifts that it brings; i entreat of thee, lord, at this last time "inèffable things. nay, have proud long-dead kings stricken no subtler chord, whereof the memory clings, love, my lord? "but for a little we live; show me thine innermost hoard! hast thou no more to give, love, my lord?"_ . _raymond psychopompos_ matthiette went to the hut's door: her hands fell irresolutely upon the rough surface of it and lay still for a moment. then with the noise of a hoarse groan the door swung inward, and the light guttered in a swirl of keen morning air, casting convulsive shadows upon her lifted countenance, and was extinguished. she held out her arms in a gesture that was half maternal. "raoul!" she murmured. he turned. a sudden bird plunged through the twilight without, with a glad cry that pierced like a knife through the stillness which had fallen in the little room. raoul de frison faced her, with clenched hands, silent. for that instant she saw him transfigured. but his silence frightened her. there came a piteous catch in her voice. "fair friend, have you not bidden me--_be happy?_" he sighed. "mademoiselle," he said, dully, "i may not avail myself of your tenderness of heart; that you have come to comfort me in my sorrow is a deed at which, i think, god's holy angels must rejoice: but i cannot avail myself of it." "raoul, raoul," she said, "do you think that i have come in--pity!" "matthiette," he returned, "your uncle spoke the truth. i have dreamed dreams concerning you,--dreams of a foolish, golden-hearted girl, who would yield--yield gladly--all that the world may give, to be one flesh and soul with me. but i have wakened, dear, to the braver reality,--that valorous woman, strong enough to conquer even her own heart that her people may be freed from their peril." "blind! blind!" she cried. raoul smiled down upon her. "mademoiselle," said he, "i do not doubt that you love me." she went wearily toward the window. "i am not very wise," matthiette said, looking out upon the gardens, "and it appears that god has given me an exceedingly tangled matter to unravel. yet if i decide it wrongly i think the eternal father will understand it is because i am not very wise." matthiette for a moment was silent. then with averted face she spoke again. "my uncle commands me, with many astute saws and pithy sayings, to wed monsieur de puysange. i have not skill to combat him. many times he has proven it my duty, but he is quick in argument and proves what he will; and i do not think it is my duty. it appears to me a matter wherein man's wisdom is at variance with god's will as manifested to us through the holy evangelists. assuredly, if i do not wed monsieur de puysange there may be war here in our arnaye, and god has forbidden war; but i may not insure peace in arnaye without prostituting my body to a man i do not love, and that, too, god has forbidden. i speak somewhat grossly for a maid, but you love me, i think, and will understand. and i, also, love you, monsieur de frison. yet--ah, i am pitiably weak! love tugs at my heart-strings, bidding me cling to you, and forget these other matters; but i cannot do that, either. i desire very heartily the comfort and splendor and adulation which you cannot give me. i am pitiably weak, raoul! i cannot come to you with an undivided heart,--but my heart, such as it is, i have given you, and to-day i deliver my honor into your hands and my life's happiness, to preserve or to destroy. mother of christ, grant that i have chosen rightly, for i have chosen now, past retreat! i have chosen you, raoul, and that love which you elect to give me, and of which i must endeavor to be worthy." matthiette turned from the window. now, her bright audacity gone, her ardors chilled, you saw how like a grave, straightforward boy she was, how illimitably tender, how inefficient. "it may be that i have decided wrongly in this tangled matter," she said now. "and yet i think that god, who loves us infinitely, cannot be greatly vexed at anything his children do for love of one another." he came toward her. "i bid you go," he said. "matthiette, it is my duty to bid you go, and it is your duty to obey." she smiled wistfully through unshed tears. "man's wisdom!" said matthiette. "i think that it is not my duty. and so i disobey you, dear,--this once, and no more hereafter." "and yet last night--" raoul began. "last night," said she, "i thought that i was strong. i know now it was my vanity that was strong,--vanity and pride and fear, raoul, that for a little mastered me. but in the dawn all things seem very trivial, saving love alone." they looked out into the dew-washed gardens. the daylight was fullgrown, and already the clear-cut forms of men were passing beneath the swaying branches. in the distance a trumpet snarled. "dear love," said raoul, "do you not understand that you have brought about my death? for monsieur de puysange is at the gates of arnaye; and either he or sieur raymond will have me hanged ere noon." "i do not know," she said, in a tired voice. "i think that monsieur de puysange has some cause to thank me; and my uncle loves me, and his heart, for all his gruffness, is very tender. and--see, raoul!" she drew the dagger from her bosom. "i shall not survive you a long while, o man of all the world!" perplexed joy flushed through his countenance. "you will do this--for me?" he cried, with a sort of sob. "matthiette, matthiette, you shame me!" "but i love you," said matthiette. "how could it be possible, then, for me to live after you were dead?" he bent to her. they kissed. hand in hand they went forth into the daylight. the kindly, familiar place seemed in matthiette's eyes oppressed and transformed by the austerity of dawn. it was a clear sunday morning, at the hightide of summer, and she found the world unutterably sabbatical; only by a vigorous effort could memory connect it with the normal life of yesterday. the cool edges of the woods, vibrant now with multitudinous shrill pipings, the purple shadows shrinking eastward on the dimpling lawns, the intricate and broken traceries of the dial (where they had met so often), the blurred windings of their path, above which brooded the peaked roofs and gables and slender clerestories of arnaye, the broad river yonder lapsing through deserted sunlit fields,--these things lay before them scarce heeded, stript of all perspective, flat as an open scroll. to them all this was alien. she and raoul were quite apart from these matters, quite alone, despite the men of arnaye, hurrying toward the courtyard, who stared at them curiously, but said nothing. a brisk wind was abroad in the tree-tops, scattering stray leaves, already dead, over the lush grass. tenderly raoul brushed a little golden sycamore leaf from the lovelier gold of matthiette's hair. "i do not know how long i have to live," he said. "nobody knows that. but i wish that i might live a great while to serve you worthily." she answered: "neither in life nor death shall we be parted now. that only matters, my husband." they came into the crowded court-yard just as the drawbridge fell. a troop of horse clattered into arnaye, and the leader, a young man of frank countenance, dismounted and looked about him inquiringly. then he came toward them. "monseigneur," said he, "you see that we ride early in honor of your nuptials." behind them some one chuckled. "love one another, young people," said sieur raymond; "but do you, matthiette, make ready to depart into normandy as a true and faithful wife to monsieur de puysange." she stared into raoul's laughing face; there was a kind of anguish in her swift comprehension. quickly the two men who loved her glanced at each other, half in shame. but the sieur d'arnaye was not lightly dashed. "oh, la, la, la!" chuckled the sieur d'arnaye, "she would never have given you a second thought, monsieur le vicomte, had i not labelled you forbidden fruit. as it is, my last conspiracy, while a little ruthless, i grant you, turns out admirably. jack has his jill, and all ends merrily, like an old song. i will begin on those pig-sties the first thing to-morrow morning." * * * * * october , _"therefore, like as may month flowereth and flourisheth in many gardens, so in likewise let every man of worship flourish his heart in this world; first unto god, and next unto the joy of them that he promiseth his faith unto."_ _the quondam raoul de prison stood high in the graces of the lady regent of france, anne de beaujeu, who was, indeed, tolerably notorious for her partiality to well-built young men. courtiers whispered more than there is any need here to rehearse. in any event, when in the daughter of louis xi fitted out an expedition to press the earl of richmond's claim to the english crown, de puysange sailed from havre as commander of the french fleet. he fought at bosworth, not discreditably; and a year afterward, when england had for the most part accepted henry vii, matthiette rejoined her husband. they never subsequently quitted england. during the long civil wars, de puysange was known as a shrewd captain and a judicious counsellor to the king, who rewarded his services as liberally as tudorian parsimony would permit. after the death of henry vii, however, the vicomte took little part in public affairs, spending most of his time at tiverton manor, in devon, where, surrounded by their numerous progeny, he and matthiette grew old together in peace and concord. indeed, the vicomte so ordered all his cool love-affairs that, having taken a wife as a matter of expediency, he continued as a matter of expediency to make her a fair husband, as husbands go. it also seemed to him, they relate, a matter of expediency to ignore the interpretation given by scandalous persons to the paternal friendship extended to madame de puysange by a high prince of the church, during the last five years of the great cardinal morton's life, for the connection was useful. the following is from a manuscript of doubtful authenticity still to be seen at allonby shaw. it purports to contain the autobiography of will sommers, the vicomte's jester, afterward court-fool to henry viii._ chapter vii _the episode called the castle of content_ . _i glimpse the castle_ "and so, dearie," she ended, "you may seize the revenues of allonby with unwashed hands." i said, "why have you done this?" i was half-frightened by the sudden whirl of dame fortune's wheel. "dear cousin in motley," grinned the beldame, "'twas for hatred of tom allonby and all his accursed race that i have kept the secret thus long. now comes a braver revenge: and i settle my score with the black spawn of allonby--euh, how entirely!--by setting you at their head." "nay, i elect for a more flattering reason. i begin to suspect you, cousin, of some human compunction." "well, willie, well, i never hated you as much as i had reason to," she grumbled, and began to cough very lamentably. "so at the last i must make a marquis of you--ugh! will you jest for them in counsel, willie, and lead your henchman to battle with a bawdy song--ugh, ugh!" her voice crackled like burning timber, and sputtered in groans that would have been fanged curses had breath not failed her: for my aunt elinor possessed a nimble tongue, whetted, as rumor had it, by the attendance of divers sabbats, and the chaunting of such songs as honest men may not hear and live, however highly the succubi and warlocks and were-cats, and satan's courtiers generally, commend them. i squinted down at one green leg, scratched the crimson fellow to it with my bauble, and could not deny that, even so, the witch was dealing handsomely with me to-night. 'twas a strange tale which my aunt elinor had ended, speaking swiftly lest the worms grow impatient and charon weigh anchor ere she had done: and the proofs of the tale's verity, set forth in a fair clerkly handwriting, rustled in my hand,--scratches of a long-rotted pen that transferred me to the right side of the blanket, and transformed the motley of a fool into the ermine of a peer. all devon knew i was son to tom allonby, who had been marquis of falmouth at his uncle's death, had not tom allonby, upon the very eve of that event, broken his neck in a fox-hunt; but dan gabriel, come post-haste from heaven had with difficulty convinced the village idiot that holy church had smiled upon tom's union with a tanner's daughter, and that their son was lord of allonby shaw. i doubted it, even as i read the proof. yet it was true,--true that i had precedence even of the great monsieur de puysange, who had kept me to make him mirth on a shifty diet, first coins, then curses, these ten years past,--true that my father, rogue in all else, had yet dealt equitably with my mother ere he died,--true that my aunt, less honorably used by him, had shared their secret with the priest who married them, maliciously preserving it till this, when her words fell before me as anciently jove's shower before the argive danaë, coruscant and awful, pregnant with undreamed-of chances which stirred as yet blindly in time's womb. a sick anger woke in me, remembering the burden of ignoble years this hag had suffered me to bear; yet my so young gentility bade me avoid reproach of the dying peasant woman, who, when all was said, had been but ill-used by our house. death hath a strange potency: commanding as he doth, unquestioned and unchidden, the emperor to have done with slaying, the poet to rise from his unfinished rhyme, the tender and gracious lady to cease from nice denying words (mixed though they be with pitiful sighs that break their sequence like an amorous ditty heard through the strains of a martial stave), and all men, gentle or base, to follow death's gaunt standard into unmapped realms, something of majesty enshrines the paltriest knave on whom the weight of death's chill finger hath fallen. i doubt not that cain's children wept about his deathbed, and that the centurions spake in whispers as they lowered iscariot from the elder-tree: and in like manner the reproaches which stirred in my brain had no power to move my lips. the frail carnal tenement, swept and cleansed of all mortality, was garnished for death's coming; and i could not sorrow at his advent here: but i perforce must pity rather than revile the prey which age and poverty, those ravenous forerunning hounds of death yet harried, at the door of the tomb. running over these considerations in my mind, i said, "i forgive you." "you posturing lack-wit!" she returned, and her sunk jaws quivered angrily. "d'ye play the condescending gentleman already! dearie, your master did not take the news so calmly." "you have told him?" i had risen, for the wried, and yet sly, malice of my aunt's face was rather that of bellona, who, as clerks avow, ever bore carnage and dissension in her train, than that of a mortal, mutton-fed woman. elinor sommers hated me--having god knows how just a cause--for the reason that i was my father's son; and yet, for this same reason as i think, there was in all our intercourse an odd, harsh, grudging sort of tenderness. she laughed now,--flat and shrill, like the laughter of the damned heard in hell between the roaring of flames. "were it not common kindness to tell him, since this old sleek fellow's fine daughter is to wed the cuckoo that hath your nest? yes, willie, yes, your master hath known since morning." "and adeliza?" i asked, in a voice that tricked me. "heh, my lady-high-and-mighty hath, i think, heard nothing as yet. she will be hearing of new suitors soon enough, though, for her father, monsieur fine-words, that silky, grinning thief, is very keen in a money-chase,--keen as a terrier on a rat-track, may satan twist his neck! pshutt, dearie! here is a smiling knave who means to have the estate of allonby as it stands; what live-stock may go therewith, whether crack-brained or not, is all one to him. he will not balk at a drachm or two of wit in his son-in-law. you have but to whistle,--but to whistle, willie, and she'll come!" i said, "eh, woman, and have you no heart?" "i gave it to your father for a few lying speeches," she answered, "and tom allonby taught me the worth of all such commerce." there was a smile upon her lips, sister to that which clytemnestra may have flaunted in welcome of that old emperor agamemnon, come in gory opulence from the sack of troy town. "i gave it--" her voice rose here to a despairing wail. "ah, go, before i lay my curse upon you, son of thomas allonby! but do you kiss me first, for you have just his lying mouth. so, that is better! and now go, my lord marquis; it is not fitting that death should intrude into your lordship's presence. go, fool, and let me die in peace!" i no longer cast a cautious eye toward the whip (ah, familiar unkindly whip!) that still hung beside the door of the hut; but, i confess, my aunt's looks were none too delectable, and ancient custom rendered her wrath yet terrible. if the farmers thereabouts were to be trusted, i knew old legion's bailiff would shortly be at hand, to distrain upon a soul escheat and forfeited to dis by many years of cruel witchcrafts, close wiles, and nameless sorceries; and i could never abide unpared nails, even though they be red-hot. therefore, i relinquished her to the village gossips, who waited without, and i tucked my bauble under my arm. "dear aunt," said i, "farewell!" "good-bye, willie!" said she; "i shall often laugh in hell to think of the crack-brained marquis that i made on earth. it was my will to make a beggar of tom's son, but at the last i play the fool and cannot do it. but do you play the fool, too, dearie, and"--she chuckled here--"and have your posture and your fine long words, whatever happens." "'tis my vocation," i answered, briefly; and so went forth into the night. . _at the ladder's foot_ i came to tiverton manor through a darkness black as the lining of baalzebub's oldest cloak. the storm had passed, but clouds yet hung heavy as feather-beds between mankind and the stars; as i crossed the bridge the swollen exe was but dimly visible, though it roared beneath me, and shook the frail timbers hungrily. the bridge had long been unsafe: monsieur de puysange had planned one stronger and less hazardous than the former edifice, of which the arches yet remained, and this was now in the making, as divers piles of unhewn lumber and stone attested: meanwhile, the roadway was a makeshift of half-rotten wood that even in this abating wind shook villainously. i stood for a moment and heard the waters lapping and splashing and laughing, as though they would hold it rare and desirable mirth to swallow and spew forth a powerful marquis, and grind his body among the battered timber and tree-boles and dead sheep swept from the hills, and at last vomit him into the sea, that a corpse, wide-eyed and livid, might bob up and down the beach, in quest of a quiet grave where the name of allonby was scarcely known. the imagination was so vivid that it frightened me as i picked my way cat-footed through the dark. the folk of tiverton manor were knotting on their nightcaps, by this; but there was a light in the lady adeliza's window, faint as a sick glowworm. i rolled in the seeded grass and chuckled, as i thought of what a day or two might bring about, and i murmured to myself an old cradle-song of devon which she loved and often sang; and was, ere i knew it, carolling aloud, for pure wantonness and joy that monsieur de puysange was not likely to have me whipped, now, however blatantly i might elect to discourse. sang i: _"through the mist of years does it gleam as yet-- that fair and free extent of moonlit turret and parapet, which castled, once, content? "ei ho! ei ho! the castle of content, with drowsy music drowning merriment where dreams and visions held high carnival, and frolicking frail loves made light of all,-- ei ho! the vanished castle of content!"_ as i ended, the casement was pushed open, and the lady adeliza came upon the balcony, the light streaming from behind her in such fashion as made her appear an angel peering out of heaven at our mortal antics. indeed, there was always something more than human in her loveliness, though, to be frank, it savored less of chilling paradisial perfection than of a vision of some great-eyed queen of faery, such as those whose feet glide unwetted over our fen-waters when they roam o' nights in search of unwary travellers. lady adeliza was a fair beauty; that is, her eyes were of the color of opals, and her complexion as the first rose of spring, blushing at her haste to snare men's hearts with beauty; and her loosened hair rippled in such a burst of splendor that i have seen a pale brilliancy, like that of amber, reflected by her bared shoulders where the bright waves fell heavily against the tender flesh, and ivory vied with gold in beauty. she was somewhat proud, they said; and to others she may have been, but to me, never. her voice was a low, sweet song, her look that of the chaste roman, beneficent saint dorothy, as she is pictured in our chapel here at tiverton. proud, they called her! to me her condescensions were so manifold that i cannot set them down: indeed, in all she spoke and did there was an extreme kindliness that made a courteous word from her of more worth than a purse from another. she said, "is it you, will sommers?" "madonna," i answered, "with whom else should the owls confer? it is a venerable saying that extremes meet. and here you may behold it exemplified, as in the conference of an epicure and an ostrich: though, for this once, wisdom makes bold to sit above folly." "did you carol, then, to the owls of tiverton?" she queried. "hand upon heart," said i, "my grim gossips care less for my melody than for the squeaking of a mouse; and i sang rather for joy that at last i may enter into the castle of content." the lady adeliza replied, "but nobody enters there alone." "madonna," said i, "your apprehension is nimble. i am in hope that a woman's hand may lower the drawbridge." she said only "you--!" then she desisted, incredulous laughter breaking the soft flow of speech. "now, by paul and peter, those eminent apostles! the prophet jeremy never spake more veraciously in edom! the fool sighs for a fair woman,--what else should he do, being a fool? ah, madonna, as in very remote times that notable jester, love, popped out of night's wind-egg, and by his sorcery fashioned from the primeval tangle the pleasant earth that sleeps about us,--even thus, may he not frame the disorder of a fool's brain into the semblance of a lover's? believe me, the change is not so great as you might think. yet if you will, laugh at me, madonna, for i love a woman far above me,--a woman who knows not of my love, or, at most, considers it but as the homage which grateful peasants accord the all-nurturing sun; so that, now chance hath woven me a ladder whereby to mount to her, i scarcely dare to set my foot upon the bottom rung." "a ladder?" she said, oddly: "and are you talking of a rope ladder?" "i would describe it, rather," said i, "as a golden ladder." there came a silence. about us the wind wailed among the gaunt, deserted choir of the trees, and in the distance an owl hooted sardonically. the lady adeliza said: "be bold. be bold, and know that a woman loves once and forever, whether she will or no. love is not sold in the shops, and the grave merchants that trade in the ultimate seas, and send forth argosies even to jewelled ind, to fetch home rich pearls, and strange outlandish dyes, and spiceries, and the raiment of imperious queens of the old time, have bought and sold no love, for all their traffic. it is above gold. i know"--here her voice faltered somewhat--"i know of a woman whose birth is very near the throne, and whose beauty, such as it is, hath been commended, who loved a man the politic world would have none of, for he was not rich nor famous, nor even very wise. and the world bade her relinquish him; but within the chambers of her heart his voice rang more loudly than that of the world, and for his least word said she would leave all and go with him whither he would. and--she waits only for the speaking of that word." "be bold?" said i. "ay," she returned; "that is the moral of my tale. make me a song of it to-night, dear will,--and tomorrow, perhaps, you may learn how this woman, too, entered into the castle of content." "madonna--!" i cried. "it is late," said she, "and i must go." "to-morrow--?" i said. my heart was racing now. "ay, to-morrow,--the morrow that by this draws very near. farewell!" she was gone, casting one swift glance backward, even as the ancient parthians are fabled to have shot their arrows as they fled; and, if the airier missile, also, left a wound, i, for one, would not willingly have quitted her invulnerate. . _night, and a stormed castle_ i went forth into the woods that stand thick about tiverton manor, where i lay flat on my back among the fallen leaves, dreaming many dreams to myself,--dreams that were frolic songs of happiness, to which the papers in my jerkin rustled a reassuring chorus. i have heard that night is own sister to death; now, as the ultimate torn cloud passed seaward, and the new-washed harvest-moon broke forth in a red glory, and stars clustered about her like a swarm of golden bees, i thought this night was rather the parent of a new life. but, indeed, there is a solemnity in night beyond all jesting: for night knits up the tangled yarn of our day's doings into a pattern either good or ill; it renews the vigor of the living, and with the lapsing of the tide it draws the dying toward night's impenetrable depths, gently; and it honors the secrecy of lovers as zealously as that of rogues. in the morning our bodies rise to their allotted work; but our wits have had their season in the night, or of kissing, or of junketing, or of high resolve; and the greater part of such noble deeds as day witnesses have been planned in the solitude of night. it is the sage counsellor, the potent physician that heals and comforts the sorrows of all the world: and night proved such to me, as i pondered on the proud race of allonby, and knew that in the general record of time my name must soon be set as a sonorous word significant, as the cat might jump, for much good or for large evil. and adeliza loved me, and had bidden me be bold! i may not write of what my thoughts were as i considered that stupendous miracle. but even the lark that daily soars into the naked presence of the sun must seek his woven nest among the grass at twilight; and so, with many yawns, i rose after an hour of dreams to look for sleep. tiverton manor was a formless blot on the mild radiance of the heavens, but i must needs pause for a while, gazing up at the lady adeliza's window, like a hen drinking water, and thinking of divers matters. it was then that something rustled among the leaves, and, turning, i stared into the countenance of stephen allonby, until to-day marquis of falmouth, a slim, comely youth, and son to my father's younger brother. "fool," said he, "you walk late." "faith!" said i, "instinct warned me that a fool might find fit company here,--dear cousin." he frowned at the word, for he was never prone to admit the relationship, being in disposition somewhat precise. "eh?" said he; then paused for a while. "i have more kinsmen than i knew of," he resumed, at length, "and to-day spawns them thick as herrings. your greeting falls strangely pat with that of a brother of yours, alleged to be begot in lawful matrimony, who hath appeared to claim the title and estates, and hath even imposed upon the credulity of monsieur de puysange." i said, "and who is this new kinsman?" though his speaking had brought my heart into my mouth. "i have many brethren, if report speak truly as to how little my poor father slept at night." "i do not know," said he. "the vicomte had not told me more than half the tale when i called him a double-faced old rogue. thereafter we parted--well, rather hastily!" i was moved with a sort of pity, since it was plainer than a pike-staff that monsieur de puysange had bundled this penniless young fellow out of tiverton, with scant courtesy and a scantier explanation. still, the wording of this sympathy was a ticklish business. i waved my hand upward. "the match, then, is broken off, between you and the lady adeliza?" "ay!" my cousin said, grimly. again i was nonplussed. since their betrothal was an affair of rank conveniency, my cousin stephen should, in reason, grieve at this miscarriage temperately, and yet if by some awkward chance he, too, adored the delicate comeliness asleep above us, equity conceded his taste to be unfortunate rather than remarkable. inwardly i resolved to bestow upon my cousin stephen a competence, and to pick out for him somewhere a wife better suited to his station. meanwhile a silence fell. he cleared his throat; swore softly to himself; took a brief turn on the grass; and approached me, purse in hand. "it is time you were abed," said my cousin. i assented to this. "and since one may sleep anywhere," i reasoned, "why not here?" thereupon, for i was somewhat puzzled at his bearing, i lay down upon the gravel and snored. "fool," he said. i opened one eye. "i have business here"--i opened the other--"with the lady adeliza." he tossed me a coin as i sprang to my feet. "sir--!" i cried out. "ho, she expects me." "in that case--" said i. "the difficulty is to give a signal." "'tis as easy as lying," i reassured him; and thereupon i began to sing. sang i: _"such toll we took of his niggling hours that the troops of time were sent to seise the treasures and fell the towers of the castle of content. "ei ho! ei ho! the castle of content, with flaming tower and tumbling battlement where time hath conquered, and the firelight streams above sore-wounded loves and dying dreams,-- ei ho! the vanished castle of content!"_ and i had scarcely ended when the casement opened. "stephen!" said the lady adeliza. "dear love!" said he. "humph!" said i. here a rope-ladder unrolled from the balcony and hit me upon the head. "regard the orchard for a moment," the lady adeliza said, with the wonderfullest little laugh. my cousin indignantly protested, "i have company,--a burr that sticks to me." "a fool," i explained,--"to keep him in countenance." "it was ever the part of folly," said she, laughing yet again, "to be swayed by a woman; and it is the part of wisdom to be discreet. in any event, there must be no spectators." so we two allonbys held each a strand of the ladder and stared at the ripening apples, black globes among the wind-vext silver of the leaves. in a moment the lady adeliza stood between us. her hand rested upon mine as she leapt to the ground,--the tiniest velvet-soft ounce-weight that ever set a man's blood a-tingle. "i did not know--" said she. "faith, madonna!" said i, "no more did i till this. i deduce but now that the marquis of falmouth is the person you discoursed of an hour since, with whom you hope to enter the castle of content." "ah, will! dear will, do not think lightly of me," she said. "my father--" "is as all of them have been since father adam's dotage," i ended; "and therefore is keeping fools and honest horses from their rest." my cousin said, angrily, "you have been spying!" "because i know that there are horses yonder?" said i. "and fools here--and everywhere? surely, there needs no argent-bearded merlin come yawning out of brocheliaunde to inform us of that." he said, "you will be secret?" "in comparison," i answered, "the grave is garrulous, and a death's-head a chattering magpie; yet i think that your maid, madonna,--" "beatris is sworn to silence." "which signifies she is already on her way to monsieur de puysange. she was coerced; she discovered it too late; and a sufficiency of tears and pious protestations will attest her innocence. it is all one." i winked an eye very sagely. "your jesting is tedious," my cousin said. "come, adeliza!" blaise, my lord marquis' french servant, held three horses in the shadow, so close that it was incredible i had not heard their trampling. now the lovers mounted and were off like thistledown ere blaise put foot to stirrup. "blaise," said i. "ohé!" said he, pausing. "--if, upon this pleasurable occasion, i were to borrow your horse--" "impossible!" "if i were to take it by force--" i exhibited my coin. "eh?" "--no one could blame you." "and yet perhaps--" "the deduction is illogical," said i. and pushing him aside, i mounted and set out into the night after my cousin and the lady adeliza. . _all ends in a puff of smoke_ they rode leisurely enough along the winding highway that lay in the moonlight like a white ribbon in a pedlar's box; and staying as i did some hundred yards behind, they thought me no other than blaise, being, indeed, too much engrossed with each other to regard the outer world very strictly. so we rode a matter of three miles in the whispering, moonlit woods, they prattling and laughing as though there were no such monster in all the universe as a thrifty-minded father, and i brooding upon many things beside my marquisate, and keeping an ear cocked backward for possible pursuit. in any ordinary falling out of affairs they would ride unhindered to teignmouth, and thence to allonby shaw; they counted fully upon doing this; but i, knowing beatris, who was waiting-maid to the lady adeliza, and consequently in the plot, to be the devil's own vixen, despite an innocent face and a wheedling tongue, was less certain. i shall not easily forget that riding away from the old vicomte's preparations to make a match of it between adeliza and me. about us the woods sighed and whispered, dappled by the moonlight with unstable chequerings of blue and silver. tightly he clung to my crupper, that swart tireless horseman, care; but ahead rode love, anterior to all things and yet eternally young, in quest of the castle of content. the horses' hoofs beat against the pebbles as if in chorus to the devon cradle-song that rang idly in my brain. 'twas little to me--now--whether the quest were won or lost; yet, as i watched the lady adeliza's white cloak tossing and fluttering in the wind, my blood pulsed more strongly than it is wont to do, and was stirred by the keen odors of the night and by many memories of her gracious kindliness and by a desire to serve somewhat toward the attainment of her happiness. thus it was that my teeth clenched, and a dog howled in the distance, and the world seemed very old and very incurious of our mortal woes and joys. then that befell which i had looked for, and i heard the clatter of horses' hoofs behind us, and knew that monsieur de puysange and his men were at hand to rescue the lady adeliza from my fine-looking young cousin, to put her into the bed of a rich fool. so i essayed a gallop. "spur!" i cried;--"in the name of saint cupid!" with a little gasp, she bent forward over her horse's mane, urging him onward with every nerve and muscle of her tender body. i could not keep my gaze from her as we swept through the night. picture europa in her traverse, bull-borne, through the summer sea, the depths giving up their misshapen deities, and the blind sea-snakes writhing about her in hideous homage, while she, a little frightened, thinks resolutely of crete beyond these unaccustomed horrors and of the god desirous of her contentation; and there, to an eyelash, you have adeliza as i saw her. but steadily our pursuers gained on us: and as we paused to pick our way over the frail bridge that spanned the exe, their clamor was very near. "take care!" i cried,--but too late, for my horse swerved under me as i spoke, and my lord marquis' steed caught foot in a pile of lumber and fell heavily. he was up in a moment, unhurt, but the horse was lamed. "you!" cried my cousin stephen. "oh, but what fiend sends me this burr again!" i said: "my fellow-madmen, it is all one if i have a taste for night-riding and the shedding of noble blood. alack, though, that i have left my brave bauble at tiverton! had i that here, i might do such deeds! i might show such prowess upon the person of monsieur de puysange as your nine worthies would quake to hear of! for i have the honor to inform you, my doves, that we are captured." indeed, we were in train to be, for even the two sound horses were well-nigh foundered: blaise, the idle rogue, had not troubled to provide fresh steeds, so easy had the flitting seemed; and it was conspicuous that we would be overtaken in half an hour. "so it seems," said stephen allonby. "well! one can die but once." thus speaking, he drew his sword with an air which might have been envied by captain leonidas at thermopylae. "together, my heart!" she cried. "madonna," said i, dismounting as i spoke, "pray you consider! with neither of you, is there any question of death; 'tis but that monsieur de puysange desires you to make a suitable match. it is not yet too late; his heart is kindly so long as he gets his will and profit everywhere, and he bears no malice toward my lord marquis. yield, then, to your father's wishes, since there is no choice." she stared at me, as thanks for this sensible advice. "and you--is it you that would enter into the castle of content?" she cried, with a scorn that lashed. i said: "madonna, bethink you, you know naught of this man your father desires you to wed. is it not possible that he, too, may love--or may learn to love you, on provocation? you are very fair, madonna. yours is a beauty that may draw a man to heaven or unclose the gates of hell, at will; indeed, even i, in my poor dreams, have seen your face as bright and glorious as is the lighted space above the altar when christ's blood and body are shared among his worshippers. men certainly will never cease to love you. will he--your husband that may be--prove less susceptible, we will say, than i? ah, but, madonna, let us unrein imagination! suppose, were it possible, that he--even now--yearns to enter into the castle of content, and that your hand, your hand alone, may draw the bolt for him,--that the thought of you is to him as a flame before which honor and faith shrivel as shed feathers, and that he has loved you these many years, unknown to you, long, long before the marquis of falmouth came into your life with his fair face and smooth sayings. suppose, were it possible, that he now stood before you, every pulse and fibre of him racked with an intolerable ecstasy of loving you, his heart one vast hunger for you, adeliza, and his voice shaking as my voice shakes, and his hands trembling as my hands tremble,--ah, see how they tremble, madonna, the poor foolish hands! suppose, were it possible,--" "fool! o treacherous fool!" my cousin cried, in a fine rage. she rested her finger-tips upon his arm. "hush!" she bade him; then turned to me an uncertain countenance that was half pity, half wonder. "dear will," said she, "if you have ever known aught of love, do you not understand how i love stephen here?" but she did not any longer speak as a lord's daughter speaks to the fool that makes mirth for his betters. "in that case," said i,--and my voice played tricks,--"in that case, may i request that you assist me in gathering such brushwood as we may find hereabout?" they both stared at me now. "my lord," i said, "the exe is high, the bridge is of wood, and i have flint and steel in my pocket. the ford is five miles above and quite impassable. do you understand me, my lord?" he clapped his hands. "oh, excellent!" he cried. then, each having caught my drift, we heaped up a pile of broken boughs and twigs and brushwood on the bridge, all three gathering it together. and i wondered if the moon, that is co-partner in the antics of most rogues and lovers, had often beheld a sight more reasonless than the foregathering of a marquis, a peer's daughter, and a fool at dead of night to make fagots. when we had done i handed him the flint and steel. "my lord," said i, "the honor is yours." "udsfoot!" he murmured, in a moment, swearing and striking futile sparks, "but the late rain has so wet the wood that it will not kindle." i said, "assuredly, in such matters a fool is indispensable." i heaped before him the papers that made an honest woman of my mother and a marquis of me, and seizing the flint, i cast a spark among them that set them crackling cheerily. oh, i knew well enough that patience would coax a flame from those twigs without my paper's aid, but to be patient does not afford the posturing which youth loves. so it was a comfort to wreck all magnificently: and i knew that, too, as we three drew back upon the western bank and watched the writhing twigs splutter and snap and burn. the bridge caught apace and in five minutes afforded passage to nothing short of the ardent equipage of the prophet elias. five minutes later the bridge did not exist: only the stone arches towered above the roaring waters that glistened in the light of the fire, which had, by this, reached the other side of the river, to find quick employment in the woods of tiverton. our pursuers rode through a glare which was that of hell's kitchen on baking-day, and so reached the exe only to curse vainly and to shriek idle imprecations at us, who were as immune from their anger as though the severing river had been pyriphlegethon. "my lord," i presently suggested, "it may be that your priest expects you?" "indeed," said he, laughing, "it is possible. let us go." thereupon they mounted the two sound horses. "most useful burr," said he, "do you follow on foot to teignmouth; and there--" "sir," i replied, "my home is at tiverton." he wheeled about. "do you not fear--?" "the whip?" said i. "ah, my lord, i have been whipped ere this. it is not the greatest ill in life to be whipped." he began to protest. "but, indeed, i am resolved," said i. "farewell!" he tossed me his purse. "as you will," he retorted, shortly. "we thank you for your aid; and if i am still master of allonby--" "no fear of that!" i said. "farewell, good cousin marquis! i cannot weep at your going, since it brings you happiness. and we have it on excellent authority that the laughter of fools is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. accordingly, i bid you god-speed in a discreet silence." i stood fumbling my cousin's gold as he went forward into the night; but she did not follow. "i am sorry--" she began. she paused and the lithe fingers fretted with her horse's mane. i said: "madonna, earlier in this crowded night, you told me of love's nature: must my halting commentary prove the glose upon your text? look, then, to be edified while the fool is delivered of his folly. for upon the maternal side, love was born of the ocean, madonna, and the ocean is but salt water, and salt water is but tears; and thus may love claim love's authentic kin with sorrow. ay, certainly, madonna, fate hath ordained for her diversion that through sorrow alone we lovers may attain to the true castle of content." there was a long silence, and the wind wailed among the falling, tattered leaves. "had i but known--" said adeliza, very sadly. i said: "madonna, go forward and god speed you! yonder your lover waits for you, and the world is exceedingly fair; here is only a fool. as for this new marquis of falmouth, let him trouble you no longer. 'tis an eastern superstition that we lackbrains are endowed with peculiar gifts of prophecy: and as such, i predict, very confidently, madonna, that you will see and hear no more of him in this life." i caught my breath. in the moonlight she seemed god's master-work. her eyes were big with half-comprehended sorrow, and a slender hand stole timorously toward me. i laughed, seeing how she strove to pity my great sorrow and could not, by reason of her great happiness. i laughed and was content. "as surely as god reigns in heaven," i cried aloud, "i am content, and this moment is well purchased with a marquisate!" indeed, i was vastly uplift and vastly pleased with my own nobleness, just then, and that condition is always a comfort. more alertly she regarded me; and in her eyes i saw the anxiety and the wonder merge now into illimitable pity. "that, too!" she said, smiling sadly. "that, too, o son of thomas allonby!" and her mothering arms were clasped about me, and her lips clung and were one with my lips for a moment, and her tears were wet upon my cheek. she seemed to shield me, making of her breast my sanctuary. "my dear, my dear, i am not worthy!" said adeliza, with a tenderness i cannot tell you of; and presently she, too, was gone. i mounted the lamed horse, who limped slowly up the river bank; very slowly we came out from the glare of the crackling fire into the cool darkness of the autumn woods; very slowly, for the horse was lamed and wearied, and patience is a discreet virtue when one journeys toward curses and the lash of a dog-whip: and i thought of many quips and jests whereby to soothe the anger of monsieur de puysange, and i sang to myself as i rode through the woods, a nobleman no longer, a tired jack-pudding whose tongue must save his hide. sang i: _"the towers are fallen; no laughter rings through the rafters, charred and rent; the ruin is wrought of all goodly things in the castle of content. "ei ho! ei ho! the castle of content, rased in the land of youth, where mirth was meant! nay, all is ashes 'there; and all in vain hand-shadowed eyes turn backward, to regain disastrous memories of that dear domain,-- ei ho! the vanished castle of content!"_ * * * * * may , _"'o welladay!' said beichan then, 'that i so soon have married thee! for it can be none but susie pie, that sailed the sea for love of me.'"_ _how will sommers encountered the marchioness of falmouth in the cardinal's house at whitehall, and how in windsor forest that noble lady died with the fool's arms about her, does not concern us here. that is matter for another tale. you are not, though, to imagine any scandal. barring an affair with sir henry rochford, and another with lord norreys, and the brief interval in when the king was enamored of her, there is no record that the marchioness ever wavered from the choice her heart had made, or had any especial reason to regret it. so she lived and died, more virtuously and happily than most, and found the marquis a fair husband, as husbands go; and bore him three sons and a daughter. but when the ninth marquis of falmouth died long after his wife, in the november of , he was survived by only one of these sons, a junior stephen, born in , who at his father's demise succeeded to the title. the oldest son, thomas, born , had been killed in wyatt's rebellion in ; the second, george, born , with a marked look of the king, was, in february, , stabbed in a disreputable tavern brawl. now we have to do with the tenth marquis of falmouth's suit for the hand of lady ursula heleigh, the earl of brudenel's co-heiress. you are to imagine yourself at longaville court, in sussex, at a time when anne bullen's daughter was very recently become queen of england._ chapter viii _the episode called in ursula's garden_ . love, and love's mimic her three lovers had praised her with many canzonets and sonnets on that may morning as they sat in the rose-garden at longaville, and the sun-steeped leaves made a tempered aromatic shade about them. afterward they had drawn grass-blades to decide who should accompany the lady ursula to the summer pavilion, that she might fetch her viol and sing them a song of love, and in the sylvan lottery chance had favored the earl of pevensey. left to themselves, the marquis of falmouth and master richard mervale regarded each the other, irresolutely, like strange curs uncertain whether to fraternize or to fly at one another's throat. then master mervale lay down in the young grass, stretched himself, twirled his thin black mustachios, and chuckled in luxurious content. "decidedly," said he, "your lordship is past master in the art of wooing; no university in the world would refuse you a degree." the marquis frowned. he was a great bluff man, with wheat-colored hair, and was somewhat slow-witted. after a little he found the quizzical, boyish face that mocked him irresistible, and he laughed, and unbent from the dignified reserve which he had for a while maintained portentously. "master mervale," said the marquis, "i will be frank with you, for you appear a lad of good intelligence, as lads run, and barring a trifle of affectation and a certain squeamishness in speech. when i would go exploring into a woman's heart, i must pay my way in the land's current coinage of compliments and high-pitched protestations. yes, yes, such sixpenny phrases suffice the seasoned traveler, who does not ostentatiously display his gems while traveling. now, in courtship, master mervale, one traverses ground more dubious than the indies, and the truth, master mervale, is a jewel of great price." master mervale raised his eyebrows. "the truth?" he queried, gently. "now how, i wonder, did your lordship happen to think of that remote abstraction." for beyond doubt, lord falmouth's wooing had been that morning of a rather florid sort. however, "it would surely be indelicate," the marquis suggested, "to allow even truth to appear quite unclothed in the presence of a lady?" he smiled and took a short turn on the grass. "look you, master mervale," said he, narrowing his pale-blue eyes to slits, "i have, somehow, a disposition to confidence come upon me. frankly, my passion for the lady ursula burns more mildly than that which antony bore the egyptian; it is less a fire to consume kingdoms than a candle wherewith to light a contented home; and quite frankly, i mean to have her. the estates lie convenient, the families are of equal rank, her father is agreed, and she has a sufficiency of beauty; there are, in short, no obstacles to our union save you and my lord of pevensey, and these, i confess, i do not fear. i can wait, master mervale. oh, i am patient, master mervale, but, i own, i cannot brook denial. it is i, or no one. by saint gregory! i wear steel at my side, master mervale, that will serve for other purposes save that of opening oysters!" so he blustered in the spring sunlight, and frowned darkly when master mervale appeared the more amused than impressed. "your patience shames job the patriarch," said master mervale, "yet, it seems to me, my lord, you do not consider one thing. i grant you that pevensey and i are your equals neither in estate nor reputation; still, setting modesty aside, is it not possible the lady ursula may come, in time, to love one of us?" "setting common sense aside," said the marquis, stiffly, "it is possible she may be smitten with the smallpox. let us hope, however, that she may escape both of these misfortunes." the younger man refrained from speech for a while. presently, "you liken love to a plague," he said, "yet i have heard there was once a cousin of the lady ursula's--a mistress katherine beaufort--" "swounds!" lord falmouth had wheeled about, scowled, and then tapped sharply upon the palm of one hand with the nail-bitten fingers of the other. "ay," said he, more slowly, "there was such a person." "she loved you?" master mervale suggested. "god help me!" replied the marquis; "we loved each other! i know not how you came by your information, nor do i ask. yet, it is ill to open an old wound. i loved her; let that suffice." with a set face, he turned away for a moment and gazed toward the high parapets of longaville, half-hidden by pale foliage and very white against the rain-washed sky; then groaned, and glared angrily into the lad's upturned countenance. "you talk of love," said the marquis; "a love compounded equally of youthful imagination, a liking for fantastic phrases and a disposition for caterwauling i' the moonlight. ah, lad, lad!--if you but knew! that is not love; to love is to go mad like a star-struck moth, and afterward to strive in vain to forget, and to eat one's heart out in the loneliness, and to hunger--hunger--" the marquis spread his big hands helplessly, and then, with a quick, impatient gesture, swept back the mass of wheat-colored hair that fell about his face. "ah, master mervale," he sighed, "i was right after all,--it is the cruelest plague in the world, and that same smallpox leaves less troubling scars." "yet," master mervale said, with courteous interest, "you did not marry?" "marry!" his lordship snarled toward the sun and laughed. "look you, master mervale, i know not how far y'are acquainted with the business. it was in cornwall yonder years since; i was but a lad, and she a wench,--oh, such a wench, with tender blue eyes, and a faint, sweet voice that could deny me nothing! god does not fashion her like every day,--_dieu qui la fist de ses deux mains_, saith the frenchman." the marquis paced the grass, gnawing his lip and debating with himself. "marry? her family was good, but their deserts outranked their fortunes; their crest was not the topmost feather in fortune's cap, you understand; somewhat sunken i' the world, master mervale, somewhat sunken. and i? my father--god rest his bones!--was a cold, hard man, and my two elder brothers--holy virgin, pray for them!--loved me none too well. i was the cadet then: heaven helps them that help themselves, says my father, and i ha'n't a penny for you. my way was yet to make in the world; to saddle myself with a dowerless wench--even a wench whose least 'good-morning' set a man's heart hammering at his ribs--would have been folly, master mervale. utter, improvident, shiftless, bedlamite folly, lad!" "h'm!" master mervale cleared his throat, twirled his mustachios, and smiled at some unspoken thought. "we pay for our follies in this world, my lord, but i sometimes think that we pay even more dearly for our wisdom." "ah, lad, lad!" the marquis cried, in a gust of anger; "i dare say, as your smirking hints, it was a coward's act not to snap fingers at fate and fathers and dare all! well! i did not dare. we parted--in what lamentable fashion is now of little import--and i set forth to seek my fortune. ho, it was a brave world then, master mervale, for all the tears that were scarce dried on my cheeks! a world wherein the heavens were as blue as a certain woman's eyes,--a world wherein a likely lad might see far countries, waggle a good sword in babylon and tripolis and other ultimate kingdoms, beard the mussulman in his mosque, and at last fetch home--though he might never love her, you understand--a soldan's daughter for his wife,-- _with more gay gold about her middle than would buy half northumberlee."_ his voice died away. he sighed and shrugged. "eh, well!" said the marquis; "i fought in flanders somewhat--in spain--what matter where? then, at last, sickened in amsterdam, three years ago, where a messenger comes to haul me out of bed as future marquis of falmouth. one brother slain in a duel, master mervale; one killed in wyatt's rebellion; my father dying, and--heaven rest his soul!--not over-eager to meet his maker. there you have it, master mervale,--a right pleasant jest of fortune's perpetration,--i a marquis, my own master, fit mate for any woman in the kingdom, and kate--my kate who was past human praising!--vanished." "vanished?" the lad echoed the word, with wide eyes. "vanished in the night, and no sign nor rumor of her since! gone to seek me abroad, no doubt, poor wench! dead, dead, beyond question, master mervale!" the marquis swallowed, and rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. "ah, well!" said he; "it is an old sorrow!" the male animal shaken by strong emotion is to his brothers an embarrassing rather than a pathetic sight. master mervale, lowering his eyes discreetly, rooted up several tufts of grass before he spoke. then, "my lord, you have known of love," said he, very slowly; "does there survive no kindliness for aspiring lovers in you who have been one of us? my lord of pevensey, i think, loves the lady ursula, at least, as much as you ever loved this mistress katherine; of my own adoration i do not speak, save to say that i have sworn never to marry any other woman. her father favors you, for you are a match in a thousand; but you do not love her. it matters little to you, my lord, whom she may wed; to us it signifies a life's happiness. will not the memory of that cornish lass--the memory of moonlit nights, and of those sweet, vain aspirations and foiled day-dreams that in boyhood waked your blood even to such brave folly as now possesses us,--will not the memory of these things soften you, my lord?" but falmouth by this time appeared half regretful of his recent outburst, and somewhat inclined to regard his companion as a dangerously plausible young fellow who had very unwarrantably wormed himself into lord falmouth's confidence. falmouth's heavy jaw shut like a trap. "by saint gregory!" said he; "if ever such notions soften me at all, i pray to be in hell entirely melted! what i have told you of is past, master mervale; and a wise man does not meditate unthriftily upon spilt milk." "you are adamant?" sighed the boy. "the nether millstone," said the marquis, smiling grimly, "is in comparison a pillow of down." "yet--yet the milk was sweet, my lord?" the boy suggested, with a faint answering smile. "sweet!" the marquis' voice had a deep tremor. "and if the choice lay between ursula and katherine?" "oh, fool!--oh, pink-cheeked, utter ignorant fool!" the marquis groaned. "did i not say you knew nothing of love?" "heigho!" master mervale put aside all glum-faced discussion, with a little yawn, and sprang to his feet. "then we can but hope that somewhere, somehow, mistress katherine yet lives and in her own good time may reappear. and while we speak of reappearances--surely the lady ursula is strangely tardy in making hers?" the marquis' jealousy when it slumbered slept with an open ear. "let us join them," he said, shortly, and he started through the gardens with quick, stiff strides. . _song-guerdon_ they went westward toward the summer pavilion. presently the marquis blundered into the green gloom of the maze, laid out in the italian fashion, and was extricated only by the superior knowledge of master mervale, who guided falmouth skilfully and surely through manifold intricacies, to open daylight. afterward they came to a close-shaven lawn, where the summer pavilion stood beside the brook that widened here into an artificial pond, spread with lily-pads and fringed with rushes. the lady ursula sat with the earl of pevensey beneath a burgeoning maple-tree. such rays as sifted through into their cool retreat lay like splotches of wine upon the ground, and there the taller grass-blades turned to needles of thin silver; one palpitating beam, more daring than the rest, slanted straight toward the little head of the lady ursula, converting her hair into a halo of misty gold, that appeared out of place in this particular position. she seemed a bassarid who had somehow fallen heir to an aureole; for otherwise, to phrase it sedately, there was about her no clamant suggestion of saintship. at least, there is no record of any saint in the calendar who ever looked with laughing gray-green eyes upon her lover and mocked at the fervor and trepidation of his speech. this the lady ursula now did; and, manifestly, enjoyed the doing of it. within the moment the earl of pevensey took up the viol that lay beside them, and sang to her in the clear morning. he was sunbrowned and very comely, and his big, black eyes were tender as he sang to her sitting there in the shade. he himself sat at her feet in the sunlight. sang the earl of pevensey: _"ursula, spring wakes about us-- wakes to mock at us and flout us that so coldly do delay: when the very birds are mating, pray you, why should we be waiting-- we that might be wed to-day! "'life is short,' the wise men tell us;-- even those dusty, musty fellows that have done with life,--and pass where the wraith of aristotle hankers, vainly, for a bottle, youth and some frank grecian lass._ "ah, i warrant you;--and zeno would not reason, now, could he know one more chance to live and love: for, at best, the merry may-time is a very fleeting play-time;-- why, then, waste an hour thereof? "plato, solon, periander, seneca, anaximander, pyrrho, and parmenides! were one hour alone remaining would ye spend it in attaining learning, or to lips like these? "thus, i demonstrate by reason now is our predestined season for the garnering of all bliss; prudence is but long-faced folly; cry a fig for melancholy! seal the bargain with a kiss"_ when he had ended, the earl of pevensey laughed and looked up into the lady ursula's face with a long, hungry gaze; and the lady ursula laughed likewise and spoke kindly to him, though the distance was too great for the eavesdroppers to overhear. then, after a little, the lady ursula bent forward, out of the shade of the maple into the sun, so that the sunlight fell upon her golden head and glowed in the depths of her hair, as she kissed pevensey, tenderly and without haste, full upon the lips. . _falmouth furens_ the marquis of falmouth caught master mervale's arm in a grip that made the boy wince. lord falmouth's look was murderous, as he turned in the shadow of a white-lilac bush and spoke carefully through sharp breaths that shook his great body. "there are," said he, "certain matters i must immediately discuss with my lord of pevensey. i desire you, master mervale, to fetch him to the spot where we parted last, so that we may talk over these matters quietly and undisturbed. for else--go, lad, and fetch him!" for a moment the boy faced the half-shut pale eyes that were like coals smouldering behind a veil of gray ash. then he shrugged his shoulders, sauntered forward, and doffed his hat to the lady ursula. there followed much laughter among the three, many explanations from master mervale, and yet more laughter from the lady and the earl. the marquis ground his big, white teeth as he listened, and he appeared to disapprove of so much mirth. "foh, the hyenas! the apes, the vile magpies!" the marquis observed. he heaved a sigh of relief, as the earl of pevensey, raising his hands lightly toward heaven, laughed once more, and departed into the thicket. lord falmouth laughed in turn, though not very pleasantly. afterward he loosened his sword in the scabbard and wheeled back to seek their rendezvous in the shadowed place where they had made sonnets to the lady ursula. for some ten minutes the marquis strode proudly through the maze, pondering, by the look of him, on the more fatal tricks of fencing. in a quarter of an hour he was lost in a wilderness of trim yew-hedges which confronted him stiffly at every outlet and branched off into innumerable gravelled alleys that led nowhither. "swounds!" said the marquis. he retraced his steps impatiently. he cast his hat upon the ground in seething desperation. he turned in a different direction, and in two minutes trod upon his discarded head-gear. "holy gregory!" the marquis commented. he meditated for a moment, then caught up his sword close to his side and plunged into the nearest hedge. after a little he came out, with a scratched face and a scant breath, into another alley. as the crow flies, he went through the maze of longaville, leaving in his rear desolation and snapped yew-twigs. he came out of the ruin behind the white-lilac bush, where he had stood and had heard the earl of pevensey sing to the lady ursula, and had seen what followed. the marquis wiped his brow. he looked out over the lawn and breathed heavily. the lady ursula still sat beneath the maple, and beside her was master mervale, whose arm girdled her waist. her arm was about his neck, and she listened as he talked eagerly with many gestures. then they both laughed and kissed each other. "oh, defend me!" groaned the marquis. once more he wiped his brow, as he crouched behind the white-lilac bush. "why, the woman is a second messalina!" he said. "oh, the trollop! the wanton! oh, holy gregory! yet i must be quiet--quiet as a sucking lamb, that i may strike afterward as a roaring lion. is this your innocence, mistress ursula, that cannot endure the spoken name of a spade? oh, splendor of god!" thus he raged behind the white-lilac bush while they laughed and kissed under the maple-tree. after a space they parted. the lady ursula, still laughing, lifted the branches of the rearward thicket and disappeared in the path which the earl of pevensey had taken. master mervale, kissing his hand and laughing yet more loudly, lounged toward the entrance of the maze. the jackanapes (as anybody could see), was in a mood to be pleased with himself. smiles eddied about the boy's face, his heels skipped, disdaining the honest grass; and presently he broke into a glad little song, all trills and shakes, like that of a bird ecstasizing over the perfections of his mate. sang master mervale: _"listen, all lovers! the spring is here and the world is not amiss; as long as laughter is good to hear, and lips are good to kiss, as long as youth and spring endure, there is never an evil past a cure and the world is never amiss. "o lovers all, i bid ye declare the world is a pleasant place;-- give thanks to god for the gift so fair, give thanks for his singular grace! give thanks for youth and love and spring! give thanks, as gentlefolk should, and sing, 'the world is a pleasant place!'"_ in mid-skip master mervale here desisted, his voice trailing into inarticulate vowels. after many angry throes, a white-lilac bush had been delivered of the marquis of falmouth, who now confronted master mervale, furiously moved. . _love rises from un-cytherean waters_ "i have heard, master mervale," said the marquis, gently, "that love is blind?" the boy stared at the white face, that had before his eyes veiled rage with a crooked smile. so you may see the cat, tense for the fatal spring, relax and with one paw indolently flip the mouse. "it is an ancient fable, my lord," the boy said, smiling, and made as though to pass. "indeed," said the marquis, courteously, but without yielding an inch, "it is a very reassuring fable: for," he continued, meditatively, "were the eyes of all lovers suddenly opened, master mervale, i suspect it would prove a red hour for the world. there would be both tempers and reputations lost, master mervale; there would be sword-thrusts; there would be corpses, master mervale." "doubtless, my lord," the lad assented, striving to jest and have done; "for all flesh is frail, and as the flesh of woman is frailer than that of man, so is it, as i remember to have read, the more easily entrapped by the gross snares of the devil, as was over-well proved by the serpent's beguiling deceit of eve at the beginning." "yet, master mervale," pursued the marquis, equably, but without smiling, "there be lovers in the world that have eyes?" "doubtless, my lord," said the boy. "there also be women in the world, master mervale," lord falmouth suggested, with a deeper gravity, "that are but the handsome sepulchres of iniquity,--ay, and for the major part of women, those miracles which are their bodies, compact of white and gold and sprightly color though they be, serve as the lovely cerements of corruption." "doubtless, my lord. the devil, as they say, is homelier with that sex." "there also be swords in the world, master mervale?" purred the marquis. he touched his own sword as he spoke. "my lord--!" the boy cried, with a gasp. "now, swords have at least three uses, master mervale," falmouth continued. "with a sword one may pick a cork from a bottle; with a sword one may toast cheese about the twelfth night fire; and with a sword one may spit a man, master mervale,--ay, even an ambling, pink-faced, lisping lad that cannot boo at a goose, master mervale. i have no inclination, master mervale, just now, for either wine or toasted cheese." "i do not understand you, my lord," said the boy, in a thin voice. "indeed, i think we understand each other perfectly," said the marquis. "for i have been very frank with you, and i have watched you from behind this bush." the boy raised his hand as though to speak. "look you, master mervale," the marquis argued, "you and my lord of pevensey and i be brave fellows; we need a wide world to bustle in. now, the thought has come to me that this small planet of ours is scarcely commodious enough for all three. there be purgatory and heaven, and yet another place, master mervale; why, then, crowd one another?" "my lord," said the boy, dully, "i do not understand you." "holy gregory!" scoffed the marquis; "surely my meaning is plain enough! it is to kill you first, and my lord of pevensey afterward! y'are phoenixes, master mervale, arabian birds! y'are too good for this world. longaville is not fit to be trodden under your feet; and therefore it is my intention that you leave longaville feet first. draw, master mervale!" cried the marquis, his light hair falling about his flushed, handsome face as he laughed joyously, and flashed his sword in the spring sunshine. the boy sprang back, with an inarticulate cry; then gulped some dignity into himself and spoke. "my lord," he said, "i admit that explanation may seem necessary." "you will render it, if to anybody, master mervale, to my heir, who will doubtless accord it such credence as it merits. for my part, having two duels on my hands to-day, i have no time to listen to a romance out of the hundred merry tales." falmouth had placed himself on guard; but master mervale stood with chattering teeth and irresolute, groping hands, and made no effort to draw. "oh, the block! the curd-faced cheat!" cried the marquis. "will nothing move you?" with his left hand he struck at the boy. thereupon master mervale gasped, and turning with a great sob, ran through the gardens. the marquis laughed discordantly; then he followed, taking big leaps as he ran and flourishing his sword. "oh, the coward!" he shouted; "oh, the milk-livered rogue! oh, you paltry rabbit!" so they came to the bank of the artificial pond. master mervale swerved as with an oath the marquis pounced at him. master mervale's foot caught in the root of a great willow, and master mervale splashed into ten feet of still water, that glistened like quicksilver in the sunlight. "oh, saint gregory!" the marquis cried, and clasped his sides in noisy mirth; "was there no other way to cool your courage? paddle out and be flogged, master hare-heels!" he called. the boy had come to the surface and was swimming aimlessly, parallel to the bank. "now i have heard," said the marquis, as he walked beside him, "that water swells a man. pray heaven, it may swell his heart a thousandfold or so, and thus hearten him for wholesome exercise after his ducking--a friendly thrust or two, a little judicious bloodletting to ward off the effects of the damp." the marquis started as master mervale grounded on a shallow and rose, dripping, knee-deep among the lily-pads. "oh, splendor of god!" cried the marquis. master mervale had risen from his bath almost clean-shaven; only one sodden half of his mustachios clung to his upper lip, and as he rubbed the water from his eyes, this remaining half also fell away from the boy's face. "oh, splendor of god!" groaned the marquis. he splashed noisily into the water. "o kate, kate!" he cried, his arms about master mervale. "oh, blind, blind, blind! o heart's dearest! oh, my dear, my dear!" he observed. master mervale slipped from his embrace and waded to dry land. "my lord,--" he began, demurely. "my lady wife,--" said his lordship of falmouth, with a tremulous smile. he paused, and passed his hand over his brow. "and yet i do not understand," he said. "y'are dead; y'are buried. it was a frightened boy i struck." he spread out his strong arms. "o world! o sun! o stars!" he cried; "she is come back to me from the grave. o little world! small shining planet! i think that i could crush you in my hands!" "meanwhile," master mervale suggested, after an interval, "it is i that you are crushing." he sighed,--though not very deeply,--and continued, with a hiatus: "they would have wedded me to lucius rossmore, and i could not--i could not--" "that skinflint! that palsied goat!" the marquis growled. "he was wealthy," said master mervale. then he sighed once more. "there seemed only you,--only you in all the world. a man might come to you in those far-off countries: a woman might not. i fled by night, my lord, by the aid of a waiting-woman; became a man by the aid of a tailor; and set out to find you by the aid of such impudence as i might muster. but luck did not travel with me. i followed you through flanders, italy, spain,--always just too late; always finding the bird flown, the nest yet warm. presently i heard you were become marquis of falmouth; then i gave up the quest." "i would suggest," said the marquis, "that my name is stephen;--but why, in the devil's name, should you give up a quest so laudable?" "stephen allonby, my lord," said master mervale, sadly, "was not marquis of falmouth; as marquis of falmouth, you might look to mate with any woman short of the queen." "to tell you a secret," the marquis whispered, "i look to mate with one beside whom the queen--not to speak treason--is but a lean-faced, yellow piece of affectation. i aim higher than royalty, heart's dearest,--aspiring to one beside whom empresses are but common hussies." "and ursula?" asked master mervale, gently. "holy gregory!" cried the marquis, "i had forgot! poor wench, poor wench! i must withdraw my suit warily,--firmly, of course, yet very kindlily, you understand, so as to grieve her no more than must be. poor wench!--well, after all," he hopefully suggested, "there is yet pevensey." "o stephen! stephen!" master mervale murmured; "why, there was never any other but pevensey! for ursula knows all,--knows there was never any more manhood in master mervale's disposition than might be gummed on with a play-actor's mustachios! why, she is my cousin, stephen,--my cousin and good friend, to whom i came at once on reaching england, to find you, favored by her father, pestering her with your suit, and the poor girl well-nigh at her wits' end because she might not have pevensey. so," said master mervale, "we put our heads together, stephen, as you observe." "indeed," my lord of falmouth said, "it would seem that you two wenches have, between you, concocted a very pleasant comedy." "it was not all a comedy," sighed master mervale,--"not all a comedy, stephen, until to-day when you told master mervale the story of katherine beaufort. for i did not know--i could not know--" "and now?" my lord of falmouth queried. "h'm!" cried master mervale, and he tossed his head. "you are very unreasonable in anger! you are a veritable turk! you struck me!" the marquis rose, bowing low to his former adversary. "master mervale," said the marquis, "i hereby tender you my unreserved apologies for the affront i put upon you. i protest i was vastly mistaken in your disposition and hold you as valorous a gentleman as was ever made by barbers' tricks; and you are at liberty to bestow as many kisses and caresses upon the lady ursula as you may elect, reserving, however, a reasonable sufficiency for one that shall be nameless. are we friends, master mervale?" master mervale rested his head upon lord falmouth's shoulder, and sighed happily. master mervale laughed,--a low and gentle laugh that was vibrant with content. but master mervale said nothing, because there seemed to be between these two, who were young in the world's recaptured youth, no longer any need of idle speaking. * * * * * june , _"she was the admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, master doctor, if you will do us that favor, as to let us see that peerless dame, we should think ourselves much beholding unto you."_ _there was a double wedding some two weeks later in the chapel at longaville: and each marriage appears to have been happy enough. the tenth marquis of falmouth had begotten sixteen children within seventeen years, at the end of which period his wife unluckily died in producing a final pledge of affection. this child, a daughter, survived, and was christened cynthia: of her you may hear later. meanwhile the earl and the countess of pevensey had propagated more moderately; and pevensey had played a larger part in public life than was allotted to falmouth, who did not shine at court. pevensey, indeed, has his sizable niche in history: his irish expeditions, in , were once notorious, as well as the circumstances of the earl's death in that year at triloch lenoch. his more famous son, then a boy of eight, succeeded to the title, and somewhat later, as the world knows, to the hazardous position of chief favorite to queen elizabeth. "for pevensey has the vision of a poet,"--thus langard quotes the lonely old queen,--"and to balance it, such mathematics as add two and two correctly, where you others smirk and assure me it sums up to whatever the queen prefers. i have need of pevensey: in this parched little age all england has need of pevensey." that is as it may have been: at all events, it is with this lord pevensey, at the height of his power, that we have now to do._ chapter ix _the episode called porcelain cups_ . _of greatness intimately viewed_ "ah, but they are beyond praise," said cynthia allonby, enraptured, "and certainly you should have presented them to the queen." "her majesty already possesses a cup of that ware," replied lord pevensey. "it was one of her new year's gifts, from robert cecil. hers is, i believe, not quite so fine as either of yours; but then, they tell me, there is not the like of this pair in england, nor indeed on the hither side of cataia." he set the two pieces of chinese pottery upon the shelves in the south corner of the room. these cups were of that sea-green tint called celadon, with a very wonderful glow and radiance. such oddities were the last vogue at court; and cynthia could not but speculate as to what monstrous sum lord pevensey had paid for this his last gift to her. now he turned, smiling, a really superb creature in his blue and gold. "i had to-day another message from the queen--" "george," cynthia said, with fond concern, "it frightens me to see you thus foolhardy, in tempting alike the queen's anger and the plague." "eh, as goes the plague, it spares nine out of ten," he answered, lightly. "the queen, i grant you, is another pair of sleeves, for an irritated tudor spares nobody." but cynthia allonby kept silence, and did not exactly smile, while she appraised her famous young kinsman. she was flattered by, and a little afraid of, the gay self-confidence which led anybody to take such chances. two weeks ago it was that the terrible painted old queen had named lord pevensey to go straightway into france, where, rumor had it, king henri was preparing to renounce the reformed religion, and making his peace with the pope: and for two weeks pevensey had lingered, on one pretence or another, at his house in london, with the plague creeping about the city like an invisible incalculable flame, and the queen asking questions at windsor. of all the monarchs that had ever reigned in england, elizabeth tudor was the least used to having her orders disregarded. meanwhile lord pevensey came every day to the marquis of falmouth's lodgings at deptford: and every day lord pevensey pointed out to the marquis' daughter that pevensey, whose wife had died in childbirth a year back, did not intend to go into france, for nobody could foretell how long a stay, as a widower. certainly it was all very flattering.... "yes, and you would be an excellent match," said cynthia, aloud, "if that were all. and yet, what must i reasonably expect in marrying, sir, the famous earl of pevensey?" "a great deal of love and petting, my dear. and if there were anything else to which you had a fancy, i would get it for you." her glance went to those lovely cups and lingered fondly. "yes, dear master generosity, if it could be purchased or manufactured, you would get it for me--" "if it exists i will get it for you," he declared. "i think that it exists. but i am not learned enough to know what it is. george, if i married you i would have money and fine clothes and gilded coaches, and an army of maids and pages, and honor from all men. and you would be kind to me, i know, when you returned from the day's work at windsor--or holyrood or the louvre. but do you not see that i would always be to you only a rather costly luxury, like those cups, which the queen's minister could afford to keep for his hours of leisure?" he answered: "you are all in all to me. you know it. oh, very well do you know and abuse your power, you adorable and lovely baggage, who have kept me dancing attendance for a fortnight, without ever giving me an honest yes or no." he gesticulated. "well, but life is very dull in deptford village, and it amuses you to twist a queen's adviser around your finger! i see it plainly, you minx, and i acquiesce because it delights me to give you pleasure, even at the cost of some dignity. yet i may no longer shirk the queen's business,--no, not even to amuse you, my dear." "you said you had heard from her--again?" "i had this morning my orders, under gloriana's own fair hand, either to depart to-morrow into france or else to come to-morrow to windsor. i need not say that in the circumstances i consider france the more wholesome." now the girl's voice was hurt and wistful. "so, for the thousandth time, is it proven the queen's business means more to you than i do. yes, certainly it is just as i said, george." he observed, unruffled: "my dear, i scent unreason. this is a high matter. if the french king compounds with rome, it means war for protestant england. even you must see that." she replied, sadly: "yes, even i! oh, certainly, my lord, even a half-witted child of seventeen can perceive as much as that." "i was not speaking of half-witted persons, as i remember. well, it chances that i am honored by the friendship of our gallant bearnais, and am supposed to have some claim upon him, thanks to my good fortune last year in saving his life from the assassin barriere. it chances that i may perhaps become, under providence, the instrument of preserving my fellow countrymen from much grief and trumpet-sounding and throat-cutting. instead of pursuing that chance, two weeks ago--as was my duty--i have dangled at your apron-strings, in the vain hope of softening the most variable and hardest heart in the world. now, clearly, i have not the right to do that any longer." she admired the ennobled, the slightly rapt look which, she knew, denoted that george bulmer was doing his duty as he saw it, even in her disappointment. "no, you have not the right. you are wedded to your statecraft, to your patriotism, to your self-advancement, or christen it what you will. you are wedded, at all events, to your man's business. you have not the time for such trifles as giving a maid that foolish and lovely sort of wooing to which every maid looks forward in her heart of hearts. indeed, when you married the first time it was a kind of infidelity; and i am certain that poor, dear mouse-like mary must have felt that often and over again. why, do you not see, george, even now, that your wife will always come second to your real love?" "in my heart, dear sophist, you will always come first. but it is not permitted that any loyal gentleman devote every hour of his life to sighing and making sonnets, and to the general solacing of a maid's loneliness in this dull little deptford. nor would you, i am sure, desire me to do so." "i hardly know what i desire," she told him ruefully. "but i know that when you talk of your man's business i am lonely and chilled and far away from you. and i know that i cannot understand more than half your fine high notions about duty and patriotism and serving england and so on," the girl declared: and she flung wide her lovely little hands, in a despairing gesture. "i admire you, sir, when you talk of england. it makes you handsomer--yes, even handsomer!--somehow. but all the while i am remembering that england is just an ordinary island inhabited by a number of ordinary persons, for the most of whom i have no particular feeling one way or the other." pevensey looked down at her for a while with queer tenderness. then he smiled. "no, i could not quite make you understand, my dear. but, ah, why fuddle that quaint little brain by trying to understand such matters as lie without your realm? for a woman's kingdom is the home, my dear, and her throne is in the heart of her husband--" "all this is but another way of saying your lordship would have us cups upon a shelf," she pointed out--"in readiness for your leisure." he shrugged, said "nonsense!" and began more lightly to talk of other matters. thus and thus he would do in france, such and such trinkets he would fetch back--"as toys for the most whimsical, the loveliest, and the most obstinate child in all the world," he phrased it. and they would be married, pevensey declared, in september: nor (he gaily said) did he propose to have any further argument about it. children should be seen--the proverb was dusty, but it particularly applied to pretty children. cynthia let him talk. she was just a little afraid of his self-confidence, and of this tall nobleman's habit of getting what he wanted, in the end: but she dispiritedly felt that pevensey had failed her. why, george bulmer treated her as if she were a silly infant; and his want of her, even in that capacity, was a secondary matter: he was going into france, for all his petting talk, and was leaving her to shift as she best might, until he could spare the time to resume his love-making.... . _what comes of scribbling_ now when pevensey had gone the room seemed darkened by the withdrawal of so much magnificence. cynthia watched from the window as the tall earl rode away, with three handsomely clad retainers. yes, george was very fine and admirable, no doubt of it: even so, there was relief in the reflection that for a month or two she was rid of him. turning, she faced a lean, dishevelled man, who stood by the magdalen tapestry scratching his chin. he had unquiet bright eyes, this out-at-elbows poet whom a marquis' daughter was pleased to patronize, and his red hair was unpardonably tousled. nor were his manners beyond reproach, for now, without saying anything, he, too, went to the window. he dragged one foot a little as he walked. "so my lord pevensey departs! look how he rides in triumph! like lame tamburlaine, with techelles and usumcasane and theridamas to attend him, and with the sunset turning the dust raised by their horses' hoofs into a sort of golden haze about them. it is a beautiful world. and truly, mistress cyn," the poet said, reflectively, "that pevensey is a very splendid ephemera. if not a king himself, at least he goes magnificently to settle the affairs of kings. were modesty not my failing, mistress cyn, i would acclaim you as strangely lucky, in being beloved by two fine fellows that have not their like in england." "truly, you are not always thus modest, kit marlowe--" "but, lord, how seriously pevensey takes it all! and takes himself in particular! why, there departs from us, in befitting state, a personage whose opinion as to every topic in the world is written legibly in the carriage of those fine shoulders, even when seen from behind and from so considerable a distance. and in not one syllable do any of these opinions differ from the opinions of his great-great-grandfathers. oho, and hark to deptford! now all the oafs in the corn-market are cheering this bulwark of protestant england, this rising young hero of a people with no nonsense about them. yes, it is a very quaint and rather splendid ephemera." the daughter of a marquis could not quite approve of the way in which this shoemaker's son, however talented, railed at his betters. "pevensey will be the greatest man in these kingdoms some day. indeed, kit marlowe, there are those who say he is that much already." "oh, very probably! still, i am puzzled by human greatness. a century hence what will he matter, this pevensey? his ascent and his declension will have been completed, and his foolish battles and treaties will have given place to other foolish battles and treaties, and oblivion will have swallowed this glistening bluebottle, plumes and fine lace and stately ruff and all. why, he is but an adviser to the queen of half an island, whereas my tamburlaine was lord of all the golden ancient east: and what does my tamburlaine matter now, save that he gave kit marlowe the subject of a drama? hah, softly though! for does even that very greatly matter? who really cares to-day about what scratches were made upon wax by that old euripides, the latchet of whose sandals i am not worthy to unloose? no, not quite worthy, as yet!" and thereupon the shabby fellow sat down in the tall leather-covered chair which pevensey had just vacated: and this marlowe nodded his flaming head portentously. "hoh, look you, i am displeased, mistress cyn, i cannot lend my approval to this over-greedy oblivion that gapes for all. no, it is not a satisfying arrangement, that i should teeter insecurely through the void on a gob of mud, and be expected by and by to relinquish even that crazy foothold. even for kit marlowe death lies in wait! and it may be, not anything more after death, not even any lovely words to play with. yes, and this marlowe may amount to nothing, after all: and his one chance of amounting to that which he intends may be taken away from him at any moment!" he touched the breast of a weather-beaten doublet. he gave her that queer twisted sort of smile which the girl could not but find attractive, somehow. he said: "why, but this heart thumping here inside me may stop any moment like a broken clock. here is euripides writing better than i: and here in my body, under my hand, is the mechanism upon which depend all those masterpieces that are to blot the athenian from the reckoning, and i have no control of it!" "indeed, i fear that you control few things," she told him, "and that least of all do you control your taste for taverns and bad women. oh, i hear tales of you!" and cynthia raised a reproving forefinger. "true tales, no doubt." he shrugged. "lacking the moon he vainly cried for, the child learns to content himself with a penny whistle." "ah, but the moon is far away," the girl said, smiling--"too far to hear the sound of human crying: and besides, the moon, as i remember it, was never a very amorous goddess--" "just so," he answered: "also she was called cynthia, and she, too, was beautiful." "yet is it the heart that cries to me, my poet?" she asked him, softly, "or just the lips?" "oh, both of them, most beautiful and inaccessible of goddesses." then marlowe leaned toward her, laughing and shaking that disreputable red head. "still, you are very foolish, in your latest incarnation, to be wasting your rays upon carpet earls who will not outwear a century. were modesty not my failing, i repeat, i could name somebody who will last longer. yes, and--if but i lacked that plaguey virtue--i would advise you to go a-gypsying with that nameless somebody, so that two manikins might snatch their little share of the big things that are eternal, just as the butterfly fares intrepidly and joyously, with the sun for his torchboy, through a universe wherein thought cannot estimate the unimportance of a butterfly, and wherein not even the chaste moon is very important. yes, certainly i would advise you to have done with this vanity of courts and masques, of satins and fans and fiddles, this dallying with tinsels and bright vapors; and very movingly i would exhort you to seek out arcadia, travelling hand in hand with that still nameless somebody." and of a sudden the restless man began to sing. sang kit marlowe: _"come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dales and fields, woods or steepy mountain yields. "and we will sit upon the rocks, and see the shepherds feed their flocks by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals--"_ but the girl shook her small, wise head decisively. "that is all very fine, but, as it happens, there is no such place as this arcadia, where people can frolic in perpetual sunlight the year round, and find their food and clothing miraculously provided. no, nor can you, i am afraid, give me what all maids really, in their heart of hearts, desire far more than any sugar-candy arcadia. oh, as i have so often told you, kit, i think you love no woman. you love words. and your seraglio is tenanted by very beautiful words, i grant you, though there is no longer any sestos builded of agate and crystal, either, kit marlowe. for, as you may perceive, sir, i have read all that lovely poem you left with me last thursday--" she saw how interested he was, saw how he almost smirked. "aha, so you think it not quite bad, eh, the conclusion of my _hero and leander_?" "it is your best. and your middlemost, my poet, is better than aught else in english," she said, politely, and knowing how much he delighted to hear such remarks. "come, i retract my charge of foolishness, for you are plainly a wench of rare discrimination. and yet you say i do not love you! cynthia, you are beautiful, you are perfect in all things. you are that heavenly helen of whom i wrote, some persons say, acceptably enough. how strange it was i did not know that helen was dark-haired and pale! for certainly yours is that immortal loveliness which must be served by poets in life and death." "and i wonder how much of these ardors," she thought, "is kindled by my praise of his verses?" she bit her lip, and she regarded him with a hint of sadness. she said, aloud: "but i did not, after all, speak to lord pevensey concerning the printing of your poem. instead, i burned your _hero and leander_." she saw him jump, as under a whip-lash. then he smiled again, in that wry fashion of his. "i lament the loss to letters, for it was my only copy. but you knew that." "yes, kit, i knew it was your only copy." "oho! and for what reason did you burn it, may one ask?" "i thought you loved it more than you loved me. it was my rival, i thought--" the girl was conscious of remorse, and yet it was remorse commingled with a mounting joy. "and so you thought a jingle scribbled upon a bit of paper could be your rival with me!" then cynthia no longer doubted, but gave a joyous little sobbing laugh, for the love of her disreputable dear poet was sustaining the stringent testing she had devised. she touched his freckled hand caressingly, and her face was as no man had ever seen it, and her voice, too, caressed him. "ah, you have made me the happiest of women, kit! kit, i am almost disappointed in you, though, that you do not grieve more for the loss of that beautiful poem." his smiling did not waver; yet the lean, red-haired man stayed motionless. "why, but see how lightly i take the destruction of my life-work in this, my masterpiece! for i can assure you it was a masterpiece, the fruit of two years' toil and of much loving repolishment--" "ah, but you love me better than such matters, do you not?" she asked him, tenderly. "kit marlowe, i adore you! sweetheart, do you not understand that a woman wants to be loved utterly and entirely? she wants no rivals, not even paper rivals. and so often when you talked of poetry i have felt lonely and chilled and far away from you, and i have been half envious, dear, of your heros and helens and your other good-for-nothing greek minxes. but now i do not mind them at all. and i will make amends, quite prodigal amends, for my naughty jealousy: and my poet shall write me some more lovely poems, so he shall--" he said: "you fool!" and she drew away from him, for this man was no longer smiling. "you burned my _hero and leander_! you! you big-eyed fool! you lisping idiot! you wriggling, cuddling worm! you silken bag of guts! had not even you the wit to perceive it was immortal beauty which would have lived long after you and i were stinking dirt? and you, a half-witted animal, a shining, chattering parrot, lay claws to it!" marlowe had risen in a sort of seizure, in a condition which was really quite unreasonable when you considered that only a poem was at stake, even a rather long poem. and cynthia began to smile, with tremulous hurt-looking young lips. "so my poet's love is very much the same as pevensey's love! and i was right, after all." "oh, oh!" said marlowe, "that ever a poet should love a woman! what jokes does the lewd flesh contrive!" of a sudden he was calmer; and then rage fell away from him like a dropped cloak, and he viewed her as with respectful wonder. "why, but you sitting there, with goggling innocent bright eyes, are an allegory of all that is most droll and tragic. yes, and indeed there is no reason to blame you. it is not your fault that every now and then is born a man who serves an idea which is to him the most important thing in the world. it is not your fault that this man perforce inhabits a body to which the most important thing in the world is a woman. certainly it is not your fault that this compost makes yet another jumble of his two desires, and persuades himself that the two are somehow allied. the woman inspires, the woman uplifts, the woman strengthens him for his high work, saith he! well, well, perhaps there are such women, but by land and sea i have encountered none of them." all this was said while marlowe shuffled about the room, with bent shoulders, and nodding his tousled red head, and limping as he walked. now marlowe turned, futile and shabby looking, just where a while ago lord pevensey had loomed resplendent. again she saw the poet's queer, twisted, jeering smile. "what do you care for my ideals? what do you care for the ideals of that tall earl whom for a fortnight you have held from his proper business? or for the ideals of any man alive? why, not one thread of that dark hair, not one snap of those white little fingers, except when ideals irritate you by distracting a man's attention from cynthia allonby. otherwise, he is welcome enough to play with his incomprehensible toys." he jerked a thumb toward the shelves behind him. "oho, you virtuous pretty ladies! what all you value is such matters as those cups: they please the eye, they are worth sound money, and people envy you the possession of them. so you cherish your shiny mud cups, and you burn my _hero and leander_: and i declaim all this dull nonsense over the ashes of my ruined dreams, thinking at bottom of how pretty you are, and of how much i would like to kiss you. that is the real tragedy, the immemorial tragedy, that i should still hanker after you, my cynthia--" his voice dwelt tenderly upon her name. his fever-haunted eyes were tender, too, for just a moment. then he grimaced. "no, i was wrong--the tragedy strikes deeper. the root of it is that there is in you and in all your glittering kind no malice, no will to do harm nor to hurt anything, but just a bland and invincible and, upon the whole, a well-meaning stupidity, informing a bright and soft and delicately scented animal. so you work ruin among those men who serve ideals, not foreplanning ruin, not desiring to ruin anything, not even having sufficient wit to perceive the ruin when it is accomplished. you are, when all is done, not even detestable, not even a worthy peg whereon to hang denunciatory sonnets, you shallow-pated pretty creatures whom poets--oh, and in youth all men are poets!--whom poets, now and always, are doomed to hanker after to the detriment of their poesy. no, i concede it: you kill without pre-meditation, and without ever suspecting your hands to be anything but stainless. so in logic i must retract all my harsh words; and i must, without any hint of reproach, endeavor to bid you a somewhat more civil farewell." she had regarded him, throughout this preposterous and uncalled-for harangue, with sad composure, with a forgiving pity. now she asked him, very quietly, "where are you going, kit?" "to the golden hind, o gentle, patient and unjustly persecuted virgin martyr!" he answered, with an exaggerated bow--"since that is the part in which you now elect to posture." "not to that low, vile place again!" "but certainly i intend in that tavern to get tipsy as quickly as possible: for then the first woman i see will for the time become the woman whom i desire, and who exists nowhere." and with that the red-haired man departed, limping and singing as he went to look for a trull in a pot-house. sang kit marlowe: _"and i will make her beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies; a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. "a gown made of the finest wool which from our pretty lambs we pull; fair-lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold--"_ . _economics of egeria_ she sat quite still when marlowe had gone. "he will get drunk again," she thought despondently. "well, and why should it matter to me if he does, after all that outrageous ranting? he has been unforgivably insulting--oh, but none the less, i do not want to have him babbling of the roses and gold of that impossible fairy world which the poor, frantic child really believes in, to some painted woman of the town who will laugh at him. i loathe the thought of her laughing at him--and kissing him! his notions are wild foolishness; but i at least wish that they were not foolishness, and that hateful woman will not care one way or the other." so cynthia sighed, and to comfort her forlorn condition fetched a hand-mirror from the shelves whereon glowed her green cups. she touched each cup caressingly in passing; and that which she found in the mirror, too, she regarded not unappreciatively, from varying angles.... yes, after all, dark hair and a pale skin had their advantages at a court where pink and yellow women were so much the fashion as to be common. men remembered you more distinctively. though nobody cared for men, in view of their unreasonable behavior, and their absolute self-centeredness.... oh, it was pitiable, it was grotesque, she reflected sadly, how pevensey and kit marlowe had both failed her, after so many pretty speeches. still, there was a queer pleasure in being wooed by kit: his insane notions went to one's head like wine. she would send meg for him again to-morrow. and pevensey was, of course, the best match imaginable.... no, it would be too heartless to dismiss george buhner outright. it was unreasonable of him to desert her because a gascon threatened to go to mass: but, after all, she would probably marry george, in the end. he was really almost unendurably silly, though, about england and freedom and religion and right and wrong and things like that. yes, it would be tedious to have a husband who often talked to you as though he were addressing a public assemblage.... yet, he was very handsome, particularly in his highflown and most tedious moments; that year-old son of his was sickly, and would probably die soon, the sweet forlorn little pet, and not be a bother to anybody: and her dear old father would be profoundly delighted by the marriage of his daughter to a man whose wife could have at will a dozen céladon cups, and anything else she chose to ask for.... but now the sun had set, and the room was growing quite dark. so cynthia stood a-tiptoe, and replaced the mirror upon the shelves, setting it upright behind those wonderful green cups which had anew reminded her of pevensey's wealth and generosity. she smiled a little, to think of what fun it had been to hold george back, for two whole weeks, from discharging that horrible old queen's stupid errands. . _treats philosophically of breakage_ the door opened. stalwart young captain edward musgrave came with a lighted candle, which he placed carefully upon the table in the room's centre. he said: "they told me you were here. i come from london. i bring news for you." "you bring no pleasant tidings, i fear--" "as lord pevensey rode through the strand this afternoon, on his way home, the plague smote him. that is my sad news. i grieve to bring such news, for your cousin was a worthy gentleman and universally respected." "ah," cynthia said, very quiet, "so pevensey is dead. but the plague kills quickly!" "yes, yes, that is a comfort, certainly. yes, he turned quite black in the face, they report, and before his men could reach him had fallen from his horse. it was all over almost instantly. i saw him afterward, hardly a pleasant sight. i came to you as soon as i could. i was vexatiously detained--" "so george bulmer is dead, in a london gutter! it seems strange, because he was here, befriended by monarchs, and very strong and handsome and self-confident, hardly two hours ago. is that his blood upon your sleeve?" "but of course not! i told you i was vexatiously detained, almost at your gates. yes, i had the ill luck to blunder into a disgusting business. the two rapscallions tumbled out of a doorway under my horse's very nose, egad! it was a near thing i did not ride them down. so i stopped, naturally. i regretted stopping, afterward, for i was too late to be of help. it was at the golden hind, of course. something really ought to be done about that place. yes, and that rogue marler bled all over a new doublet, as you see. and the deptford constables held me with their foolish interrogatories--" "so one of the fighting men was named marlowe! is he dead, too, dead in another gutter?" "marlowe or marler, or something of the sort--wrote plays and sonnets and such stuff, they tell me. i do not know anything about him--though, i give you my word, now, those greasy constables treated me as though i were a noted frequenter of pot-houses. that sort of thing is most annoying. at all events, he was drunk as david's sow, and squabbling over, saving your presence, a woman of the sort one looks to find in that abominable hole. and so, as i was saying, this other drunken rascal dug a knife into him--" but now, to captain musgrave's discomfort, cynthia allonby had begun to weep heartbrokenly. so he cleared his throat, and he patted the back of her hand. "it is a great shock to you, naturally--oh, most naturally, and does you great credit. but come now, pevensey is gone, as we must all go some day, and our tears cannot bring him back, my dear. we can but hope he is better off, poor fellow, and look on it as a mysterious dispensation and that sort of thing, my dear--" "oh, ned, but people are so cruel! people will be saying that it was i who kept poor cousin george in london this past two weeks, and that but for me he would have been in france long ago! and then the queen, ned!--why, that pig-headed old woman will be blaming it on me, that there is nobody to prevent that detestable french king from turning catholic and dragging england into new wars, and i shall not be able to go to any of the court dances! nor to the masques!" sobbed cynthia, "nor anywhere!" "now you talk tender-hearted and angelic nonsense. it is noble of you to feel that way, of course. but pevensey did not take proper care of himself, and that is all there is to it. now i have remained in london since the plague's outbreak. i stayed with my regiment, naturally. we have had a few deaths, of course. people die everywhere. but the plague has never bothered me. and why has it never bothered me? simply because i was sensible, took the pains to consult an astrologer, and by his advice wear about my neck, night and day, a bag containing tablets of toads' blood and arsenic. it is an infallible specific for men born in february. no, not for a moment do i wish to speak harshly of the dead, but sensible persons cannot but consider lord pevensey's death to have been caused by his own carelessness." "now, certainly that is true," the girl said, brightening. "it was really his own carelessness and his dear lovable rashness. and somebody could explain it to the queen. besides, i often think that wars are good for the public spirit of a nation, and bring out its true manhood. but then it upset me, too, a little, ned, to hear about this marlowe--for i must tell you that i knew the poor man, very slightly. so i happen to know that to-day he flung off in a rage, and began drinking, because somebody, almost by pure chance, had burned a packet of his verses--" thereupon captain musgrave raised heavy eyebrows, and guffawed so heartily that the candle flickered. "to think of the fellow's putting it on that plea! when he could so easily have written some more verses. that is the trouble with these poets, if you ask me: they are not practical even in their ordinary everyday lying. no, no, the truth of it was that the rogue wanted a pretext for making a beast of himself, and seized the first that came to hand. egad, my dear, it is a daily practise with these poets. they hardly draw a sober breath. everybody knows that." cynthia was looking at him in the half-lit room with very flattering admiration.... seen thus, with her scarlet lips a little parted--disclosing pearls,--and with her naive dark eyes aglow, she was quite incredibly pretty and caressable. she had almost forgotten until now that this stalwart soldier, too, was in love with her. but now her spirits were rising venturously, and she knew that she liked ned musgrave. he had sensible notions; he saw things as they really were, and with him there would never be any nonsense about toplofty ideas. then, too, her dear old white-haired father would be pleased, because there was a very fair estate.... so cynthia said: "i believe you are right, ned. i often wonder how they can be so lacking in self-respect. oh, i am certain you must be right, for it is just what i felt without being able quite to express it. you will stay for supper with us, of course. yes, but you must, because it is always a great comfort for me to talk with really sensible persons. i do not wonder that you are not very eager to stay, though, for i am probably a fright, with my eyes red, and with my hair all tumbling down, like an old witch's. well, let us see what can be done about it, sir! there was a hand-mirror--" and thus speaking, she tripped, with very much the reputed grace of a fairy, toward the far end of the room, and standing a-tiptoe, groped at the obscure shelves, with a resultant crash of falling china. "oh, but my lovely cups!" said cynthia, in dismay. "i had forgotten they were up there: and now i have smashed both of them, in looking for my mirror, sir, and trying to prettify myself for you. and i had so fancied them, because they had not their like in england!" she looked at the fragments, and then at musgrave, with wide, innocent hurt eyes. she was really grieved by the loss of her quaint toys. but musgrave, in his sturdy, common-sense way, only laughed at her seriousness over such kickshaws. "i am for an honest earthenware tankard myself!" he said, jovially, as the two went in to supper. * * * * * - _"tell me where is fancy bred or in the heart or in the head? how begot, how nourished?... then let us all ring fancy's knell."_ chapter x _the envoi called semper idem_ . _which baulks at an estranging sea_ here, then, let us end the lovers' comedy, after a good precedent, with supper as the denouement. _chacun ira souper: la comédie ne peut pas mieux finir._ for epilogue, cynthia allonby was duly married to edward musgrave, and he made her a fair husband, as husbands go. that was the upshot of pevensey's death and marlowe's murder: as indeed, it was the outcome of all the earlier-recorded heart-burnings and endeavors and spoiled dreams. through generation by generation, traversing just three centuries, i have explained to you, my dear mrs. grundy, how divers weddings came about: and each marriage appears, upon the whole, to have resulted satisfactorily. dame melicent and dame adelaide, not florian, touched the root of the matter as they talked together at storisende: and the trio's descendants could probe no deeper. but now we reach the annals of the house of musgrave: and further adventuring is blocked by r. v. musgrave's monumental work _the musgraves of matocton_. the critical may differ as to the plausibility of the family tradition (ably defended by colonel musgrave, pp. - ) that mistress cynthia musgrave was the dark lady of shakespeare's sonnets, and that this poet, also, in the end, absolved her of intentional malice. there is none, at any event, but may find in this genealogical classic a full record of the highly improbable happenings which led to the emigration of captain edward musgrave, and later of cynthia musgrave, to the colony of virginia; and none but must admire colonel musgrave's painstaking and accurate tracing of the american musgraves who descended from this couple, down to the eve of the twentieth century. it would be supererogatory, therefore, for me to tell you of the various musgrave marriages, and to re-dish such data as is readily accessible on the reference shelves of the nearest public library, as well as in the archives of the colonial dames, of the society of the cincinnati, and of the sons and daughters of various wars. it suffices that from the marriage of edward musgrave and cynthia allonby sprang this well-known american family, prolific of brave gentlemen and gracious ladies who in due course, and in new lands, achieved their allotted portion of laughter and anguish and compromise, very much as their european fathers and mothers had done aforetime. so i desist to follow the line of love across the atlantic; and, for the while at least, make an end of these chronicles. my pen flags, my ink runs low, and (since florian wedded twice) the dizain of marriages is completed. . _which defers to various illusions_ i have bound up my gleanings from the fields of old years into a modest sheaf; and if it be so fortunate as to please you, my dear mrs. grundy,--if it so come about that your ladyship be moved in time to desire another sheaf such as this,--why, assuredly, my surprise will be untempered with obduracy. the legends of allonby have been but lightly touched upon: and apart from the _aventures d'adhelmar_, nicolas de caen is thus far represented in english only by the _roi atnaury_ (which, to be sure, is nicolas' masterpiece) and the mutilated _dizain des reines_ and the fragmentary _roman de lusignan_. but since you, madam, are not schahriah, to give respite for the sake of an unnarrated tale, i must now without further peroration make an end. through the monstrous tapestry i have traced out for you the windings of a single thread, and i entreat you, dear lady, to accept it with assurances of my most distinguished regard. and if the offering be no great gift, this lack of greatness, believe me, is due to the errors and limitations of the transcriber alone. for they loved greatly, these men and women of the past, in that rapt hour wherein nature tricked them to noble ends, and lured them to skyey heights of adoration and sacrifice. at bottom they were, perhaps, no more heroical than you or i. indeed, neither florian nor adhelmar was at strict pains to act as common-sense dictated, and falstaff is scarcely describable as immaculate: villon thieved, kit marlowe left a wake of emptied bottles, and will sommers was notoriously a fool; matthiette was vain, and adelais self-seeking, and the tenth marquis of falmouth, if you press me, rather a stupid and pompous ass: and yet to each in turn it was granted to love greatly, to know at least one hour of magnanimity when each was young in the world's annually recaptured youth. and if that hour did not ever have its sequel in precisely the anticipated life-long rapture, nor always in a wedding with the person preferred, yet since at any rate it resulted in a marriage that turned out well enough, in a world wherein people have to consider expediency, one may rationally assert that each of these romances ended happily. besides, there had been the hour. ah, yes, this love is an illusion, if you will. wise men have protested that vehemently enough in all conscience. but there are two ends to every stickler for his opinion here. whether you see, in this fleet hour's abandonment to love, the man's spark of divinity flaring in momentary splendor,--a tragic candle, with divinity guttering and half-choked among the drossier particles, and with momentary splendor lighting man's similitude to him in whose likeness man was created,--or whether you, more modernly, detect as prompting this surrender coarse-fibred nature, in the prince of lycia's role (with all mankind her troiluses to be cajoled into perpetuation of mankind), you have, in either event, conceded that to live unbefooled by love is at best a shuffling and debt-dodging business, and you have granted this unreasoned, transitory surrender to be the most high and, indeed, the one requisite action which living affords. beyond that is silence. if you succeed in proving love a species of madness, you have but demonstrated that there is something more profoundly pivotal than sanity, and for the sanest logician this is a disastrous gambit: whereas if, in well-nigh obsolete fashion, you confess the universe to be a weightier matter than the contents of your skull, and your wits a somewhat slender instrument wherewith to plumb infinity,--why, then you will recall that it is written _god is love_, and this recollection, too, is conducive to a fine taciturnity. explicit linea amoris generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: mrs. leslie's bible pearls.] the pearl of love: or, josey's gift. _by mrs. madeline leslie._ "love is the fulfilling of the law."--rom. : . boston: published by a. f. graves, cornhill. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by rev. a. b. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court for the district of massachusetts. to frank randall, ruth, may, randolph morgan, and james waldingfield, children of d. f. appleton, esq., new york, these "bible pearls" are affectionately inscribed by the author. contents chapter i. page josey's ride chapter. ii. the two nurses chapter iii. the wrong baby chapter iv. josey's temper chapter v. josey's christmas chapter vi. the burned baby chapter vii. josey's sorrow chapter viii. josey's gift _the pearl of love._ chapter i. josey's ride. "please mamma, may i go to ride with you?" asked little red-cheeked josey codman. mamma was tying on baby's silk hood, and did not answer for a minute. "i would let him go," urged aunt fanny. "he can sit between us; and he wont be a bit of trouble." josey clapped his hands. "i'm going, mamma, isn't i?" "can nurse get him ready quick enough?" "yes, indeed! run, josey, for your new hat. nurse bring his sack from the hall. it's fortunate i curled his hair before dinner. it's all dry now; come, pet, stand still while i baste in a clean ruffle." baby emma didn't like so many wrappings around her neck, and began to throw back her head in an alarming manner. mamma gave her to nurse to carry about, while she put on her bonnet. then the carriage drove to the door. papa had to be called from his study. nurse scrabbled on her hat and shawl, and at last they were all seated in the back, and the driver cracked his whip, calling out to his horses,-- "go on!" "why!" said papa, "i didn't know josey was going." "but i am. isn't i, mamma?" cried the boy, his eyes dancing. "i should think so," answered mamma, laughing. "i don't know as it was best, we shall be out late." "oh, we'll manage somehow," said aunt fanny, "josey is such a good boy!" "nurse," began mamma, "you must be careful what josey eats for supper; only bread and butter, with a cup of milk." "yes, ma'am." "and if he grows sleepy before service is through, take off his jacket and let him go to sleep. you will be in mrs. reed's nursery." "yes, ma'am, where we were before." "baby's asleep, so soon," said aunt fanny, watching the infant's head nodding over nurse's shoulder. "lay her down. she'll sleep all the way, and be as good as a kitten." "don't let her soil her new cloak, nurse," said mamma. "fanny, the cloak looks beautifully! handsomer than i thought it would." "i always liked that color," answered aunt fanny, "it's real bird of paradise. untie baby's hood; now nurse, she'll sleep easy." mamma and aunty were on the back seat, with josey tucked in between them; papa and nurse, opposite. papa turned from one to another as they spoke; but he did not listen to a word that was said. there was to be a great meeting in the tabernacle church that evening, and he was to preach. as they rode along, his mind was fixed on what he was going to say. mr. and mrs. codman did not always live near the great city where they were now going. their home was more than a thousand miles away; but they had come here to reside for a year or two, and had rented a pretty cottage nearly ten miles from town. on three sides of the cottage, there was a piazza, with pillars all covered with woodbine and honeysuckle. in the barn at the end of the garden, was a horse which the clergymen used for his daily ride to the post office. when they went to town, they always hired a hack from the stable. mr. codman was a very learned man, as well as a faithful, devout minister. everybody loved him, for he loved everybody, but especially little children. if he were riding through the village, he always liked to watch the boys at their play, or the little girls trundling their hoops. whenever there was a cry of distress he was off from his horse in a minute, ready to assist the child who had fallen, or to relieve any one of their troubles. the children of course loved him. many a time in the early spring, as he came out of his gate in the morning, he would find a group of them standing there to say "good morning!" or to offer him a bunch of violets. sometimes papa took josey on the saddle before him; and then how the children would shout with glee, and press up to speak a word to the pretty boy. mr. codman was not the minister of the village, though he sometimes preached for the clergyman; but he always improved every opportunity to tell those around him of the love of god, who sent his only son into the world to save sinners. [illustration: jessey learning to ride. vol. i.] chapter ii. the two nurses. at seven o'clock mr. and mrs. codman and fanny started for church. dr. and mrs. reed went, too; and another clergyman with his wife, by the name of matthews. mrs. matthews had been invited to tea, and had brought her baby, a little girl, nearly the same age as mrs. codman's. soon after they were gone, ann perceived that josey was sleepy, and easily persuaded him to lie down on the bed. then the two nurses, having had their supper, began to chat, while they tended the babies. "look now!" said ann, dancing miss emma on her lap, "the two of them look as much alike as a pair of kittens." "except," answered martin, "that your miss has black eyes; and mine, blue." "that's true for ye, but then their mouths are the same, and sure enough i thought before, that no baby could equal ours for a small mouth." in the mean time emma and rose cooed and coquetted with each other in the very best of spirits, until a late hour, when they both went quietly to sleep. "feth and a pretty sight they're making," suggested ann, pointing with some pride to the bed; the two little ones lying side by side, and master josey across the foot, with his rosy cheek resting on his hand. "it looks for all the world like a baby asylum," was martin's laughing reply. "i wonder what mr. codman is preaching about," she added; "i would like to be within sound of his voice, it's a treat to hear him." "i heard miss fanny saying to her sister that the text was to be from ephesians : . 'be ye kind one to another.' you know it's before the 'young men's society,' he's preaching to-night." "and fine words they are to put before any society. i'll ask mistress to tell me about it to-morrow. sure, i've read in some good book, that kindness to every one would just turn this wicked world into a heaven, like where the angels live." "i believe it would," replied ann, "for if everybody loved, sure there'd be no stealing, nor lying, nor any such wickedness. and then, why, there would be no prisons, nor jails. indeed, martin, i think it must be the finest text in the whole bible." "because," added martin, in an approving tone, "the greatest kindness of all was, when the lord of glory himself loved us poor sinners so well that he couldn't bear to see us ruined forever, and so he gave himself to die on the cross in our stead." "would we have had to die there, if he hadn't?" asked ann, with a look of awe. "not just there, maybe; but we would have had no hope of being happy, because there was god with a sword over our heads; and he couldn't take it away, till somebody, equal to the whole world of people, suffered the penalty in our stead." "i see it now, i've heard master explain, that jesus being the son of god, his blood was more precious than the blood of all the human race; and if all the sins of all the people were washed in it, there still would be enough to save millions on millions more." "well," murmured martin, after a pause, "we can't be kind enough to people after such an example as the lord has set us." the great clock on a neighboring church struck nine. "they'll soon be home now," she added, springing to her feet, "i'll just bring my baby's cloak and hood from the closet, and have them ready." "it's a fine night for a ride," said ann, bringing josey's coat and cap, and laying them on a chair. "baby slept all the way into town, and i expect she'll sleep going home." "you have to go nearly twice as far as we do. it's scarce six miles to easton parsonage; but then mr. matthews is a very careful driver; mistress would like to ride faster than he drives; i wish we were going the same way!" every moment footsteps were listened for; but not till half-past nine did a carriage drive to the door. then aunt fanny and mrs. reed ran up in a great hurry. "come, ann," said miss fanny, hurriedly, "we're late and must be off in a minute. you put on your sack, and i'll dress josey. mrs. reed has offered to put on baby's cloak and hood; and, martin, you had better get on your bonnet, for the other carriage, with mrs. matthews and mrs. codman in it, will be here directly." the two nurses ran to the back room, where they had taken off their outer garments, and in less than five minutes, miss fanny appeared with josey asleep on her shoulder, and nurse behind her with baby emma, closely wrapped in her cloak and hood. mr. codman cut short his wife's "good byes," by saying,-- "it will be midnight, wife, before we reach home;" so, with hasty adieux, they jumped into the carriage and drove off. mr. and mrs. matthews followed directly, turning down the opposite street, martin screening her baby's face from the night air by a thin veil. it was a bright, beautiful evening, but rather cool. mr. codman held josey close to his breast; and his wife, with a warning to ann to keep emma well covered, began to talk earnestly about the sermon. chapter iii. the wrong baby. in this way they rode on for four miles. "almost half way," fanny observed, as they passed the five corners; "i suppose mr. and mrs. matthews are home by this time." just then, josey awoke with a start and cry of alarm, which roused his sister, and made her open her eyes. fanny, who sat opposite, pulled back her hood to quiet her, when, with a shriek, mamma cried out,-- "we've got the wrong baby! oh, nurse, you made a mistake! this is mrs. matthews' rose. husband, stop the driver, quick!" "are you sure?" asked papa, who had been taking a short nap. "sure? can't i tell my own baby? emma has black eyes; and, look for yourself, is this my baby's dress?" "i see no difference, my dear." "but, frederick, it's awful, and every minute we're going farther away from our little darling." "well, my dear, if you are positive, we must turn back, but it is a great pity such a mistake was made." "mrs. reed dressed both the babies," explained aunt fanny, trying to recover her senses, after the fright. "and i only carried down the one she gave me," argued ann, choking back a sob. "i saw it was our baby's cloak, and i never mistrusted the right one wasn't inside of it." it was a difficult matter to make the driver comprehend that he was expected to go eight or ten extra miles to change babies. "why isn't one as good as t'other?" he asked, grumbling. "the horses 'll never go through with it, and at this time of night it's no use." but mr. codman, who was now wide awake, and well understood the distress which agitated his wife, without the squeeze she was giving his hand, and her continual "oh dear! oh, my poor baby!" now said, firmly,-- "we wont waste words about it. we must go to easton parsonage as quickly as possible." "i'll take the short cut, then, across the moor. the moon is so bright i can keep out of the ruts." "but then we lose the chance of seeing them. they may have found out the mistake earlier, and be on the way to meet us. drive on!" but driver still demurred, muttering that it was a bad job, and he couldn't be going over the ground four times without good pay. "how much do you want for yourself?" asked the gentleman. "i hire the carriage by the month." "a couple of dollars is little enough." "i'll give you three; now drive on." the carriage door shut with a snap, and they started off, driver lashing his horses with the whip. "we must look out that they don't pass us," said the clergyman. "i'll keep watch," responded aunt fanny, decidedly. "i wonder what josey would say if he were awake?" "if our driver had been a father," exclaimed mrs. codman, "he wouldn't have asked why one wouldn't do as well as t'other." "hem!" exclaimed aunt fanny, indignantly. "'twouldn't have hurt the man to have heard your sermon to-night, brother. i don't think he's very kind, any way." "he was probably at the ale-house, and had taken enough to make him cross." "had he heard you describe how god rewards our love to others by peace in our own hearts, he would have been more kind." "well, fanny, be as tender in your thoughts as you can. it is hard for the man to lose three or four hours of his sleep." "o, you always are ready to find excuses!" she answered, laughing. "i ought to practise what i preach, oughtn't i?" he looked archly in her face. "i hope emma wont wake," said mamma, anxiously. "little rosa sleeps as quietly as a kitten. how strange that none of us noticed the change." "it's no joke," said fanny, though she could not help laughing. they were going over a rough part of the road, and josey, after growing restless, suddenly started up. "are we most home?" he asked in a sleepy tone. "we'll get there by and by," answered his father, cheerfully. "i'm afraid we shall have to go all the way to mr. matthews'," said mamma. "next time, i'll dress baby myself.' "miss fanny sent me to put on my bonnet," urged nurse. "she said you were in a hurry." "no one is to blame, nurse," said her kind master. "it is simply unfortunate." mile after mile they drove on, only meeting an occasional carriage, until they came in sight of easton parsonage. here the lights were all out, except one in the chamber; and there persons could be seen moving about. a vigorous knock soon brought mr. matthews to the door. "i heard wheels," he said, "and more than half suspected who it was. we made a sad mistake." martin came down, her face very red, bringing baby emma, and ann gladly gave up her charge. mrs. matthews soon appeared with marks of tears. "wasn't it dreadful!" she exclaimed, with a fresh burst of grief. "i wanted to go right back. we were only two miles from the city when we found out we had brought away the wrong baby; but mr. matthews said no, we must keep her till morning. he thought it very careless of us, but"-- "there was no carelessness about it," urged fanny, indignantly. "mrs. reed wanted to help; and she put on the wrong cloaks, that was all. there was never a thought with us of not coming back. brother wouldn't have hesitated if it had been twice as far. we knew you'd want your baby, and we wanted ours." "i thought you would understand that we should keep your little miss till morning," explained mr. matthews. "but mothers have such tender hearts," added mr. codman, "and we ought to thank god for it. come, wife, we must be off. we have fourteen miles to go, and it's almost twelve o'clock." "there's a difference in ministers as in other folks," whispered martin aside to ann. "mr. matthews scolded well, and wouldn't hear of going back; but your master did as he would be done by." "just like his text," returned ann. "'be ye kind one to another.'" chapter iv. josey's temper. it was a little past two when the weary family alighted at their own door. for the last few miles, the moon had been clouded; the horses were tired; and they had to drive with care. "tell cook we'll have a late breakfast," said mamma, taking her babe with a kiss. "now, nurse, go and get all the sleep you can." the following morning, josey couldn't remember coming home at all. he opened his large hazel eyes very wide, as aunt fanny told him what had happened. "i'm glad we found her; isn't you?" he asked, again and again. baby emma received a great many extra kisses that day, and the next, and whenever mamma thought about the mistake. but one week after another passed on, mr. codman preaching once in a while, until spring came again. when emma was a year and a half old, she was full of mischief; and josey, who was now five, sometimes got out of patience. he was just learning to read, and liked nothing better than to sit on aunt fanny's knee and hear her tell stories. sometimes emma, finding no one watching, would get to mamma's basket and overturn all the spools, or tangle the thread, and then aunt fanny had to start up and attend to her, and stop the stories very short. or baby would climb on a chair to her brother's shelf and pull his nice books to the floor. once, indeed, he came in from a walk, and found mamma busy with a caller, and emma, who had been left there while nurse went an errand, doing a great deal of mischief. she had a new book in her hand, and just as he found her she was tearing out three or four leaves, laughing and shouting with delight. josey ran to take his book away; but it was too late. his christmas present was spoiled. poor boy! he cried as if his heart would break, and was very angry with his sister, more so than his mamma had ever seen him. he struck her little fat hand, exclaiming,-- "you are naughty! naughty! and i don't love you any more." the visitor rose to go, and mrs. codman did not detain her. she was so grieved at her little boy's actions, she could scarcely command her voice to say "good-bye." she rung the bell for ann, and then, taking josey by the hand, led him away to his own chamber. he glanced up into his mamma's face and saw it was very white, and he began to be sorry for his bad temper. "oh, josey!" she commenced at last, seating him on her knee, "do you know how you've grieved mamma?" and then the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "emma tore my best book," he said, softly. "emma is only a baby, joseph, and didn't know any better. if you hadn't struck her, papa would have bought you another one. but, josey, you gave way to your anger, and told your darling little sister that you didn't love her." "i think she's too big to tear my pictures out," he said, sighing. "she must be taught to let your things alone," answered mamma, "and you must remember to put them out of her way; but all the pictures in the world wouldn't excuse you for treating her so unkindly. don't you remember that pretty verse you learned last sunday? 'be kindly affectioned one to another, in honor preferring one another.' papa explained to you what it meant." "i'm sorry, mamma; but i want my pretty book." "i'm sorry, too." she said these words in such a sad tone that joseph softened at once. he threw his arms around her neck, exclaiming,-- "mamma, i'm going to be good and love god like little samuel in the temple." she held him close to her breast, whispering, "'he who loveth god, loveth his brother also.' this is what st. john tells us. 'if a man say, i love god, and hateth his brother, he is a liar.'" "oh, mamma! i'm real sorry." "and he says, too, 'my little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth.'" "what does that mean, mamma, to love _in deed_?" "it means that it does no good merely to say 'i love you, i love god;' but we must show it by our actions." "how could i show emma, mamma, when she was tearing my book?" "think for yourself, josey." he looked very serious, his cheeks growing more and more red, but at last he said, softly,-- "i might have taken the book away, and put it up high; and i might think, 'she is so little, she don't know any better;' and after i said, 'naughty, naughty!' as you and papa do, then i could kiss her." "yes, my own darling, that would have been christ-like, loving, kind, and forgiving; and your heart, instead of burning with anger toward your precious sister, would have been filled with the sweetest emotion, such as is implied by the words, 'be kindly affectioned one to another.'" "may i go and kiss emma now, mamma?" "yes, darling; and i hope you will learn how pleasant love is, especially between brothers and sisters." chapter v. josey's christmas. spring, summer, autumn, winter, had come and gone; and now josey was seven years old, and emma was baby no longer. there was a tiny girl in the cradle who was named grace. the family had returned to their own home; mr. codman preached to his old people. aunt fanny was still with them, though she had agreed to go on a mission to india with a gentleman now studying for the ministry. she was the same ardent girl as before, loving her brother's family, and devoted to their comfort. joseph had from his birth been much in her care and was a prime favorite. she had grieved with his parents at the unkindness and impatience he had sometimes shown his sister; and she rejoiced with them that he was becoming so kind and affectionate. though joseph was so young, yet his parents hoped he had become a lamb of the good shepherd. he had faults, as all children have; but he tried to correct them. his face sometimes flushed when emma teased him or meddled with his books, of which he was very careful; but he never struck her now, and seldom was angry but a minute. "i try to think," he said to his mamma, "that she don't know better, and that she's almost always good; and if i wait a minute and remember about christ forgiving me, then i feel happy right away." josey showed in one way that he was a christian child. he loved everybody, and tried to be good to all. among the poor people belonging to his father's church, no one was more welcome to their humble cottages than little josey. he always had a pleasant word for each, and often spent hours of his play-time in reading to the old women of the parish. at christmas, his greatest treat, and one that he spent weeks in preparing for, was to take his box sled (the one he drew his sister in,) and fill it with the presents he had prepared for his friends. "though they are poor," he said, over and over, "i love them dearly, and i want to have them know it." so he spent all his pocket-money in buying what mamma and aunt fanny thought would be useful. a pair of mittens for one poor orphan, a flannel shirt for a rheumatic old man, a pair of glasses for another, and plenty of pies, which he had hired cook to make. he hired her, because he wanted to feel that the gifts were his and not his mother's. do you wonder every body, rich and poor, loved him, and that, wherever he went, blessings were showered on his head? i don't mean those worthless words that so many beggars use without meaning: "a thousand blessings on your head, miss." oh, no! but real, heart-felt prayers that god would be his father and friend forever. do you suppose josey was a cross, sulky boy? can you imagine him wearing a frown? or with his lips in an ugly pout? no, indeed! it is not possible for one who cultivates such love for all around him; for one who tries in this way to imitate the example of his blessed saviour to be unhappy or cross. those children who think only of themselves, who are selfish and greedy, who never heed the blessed words, "be ye kind one to another," are the persons to wear sour faces and pouting lips. don't you remember what the good book says, "her ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are peace." that means wisdom's ways, and one of these paths is love; love to god and love to those around us. you can well imagine that josey's father and mother, and aunt and nurse, were delighted in seeing him growing up to be a good boy; and each of them were ready to assist him in correcting his faults. he was neat and orderly; keeping his little treasures arranged nicely in the drawers mamma gave him, and his clothes each on their own hooks in his closet. but joseph was not always prompt in attention to his duties. he liked so much to hear the talk at table or at the fireside, that it was a real trial to him to leave the pleasant company, and the delightful things that were being said; and he often lingered when he ought to have been on his way to school. aunt fanny used sometimes, by an anxious glance toward the clock, to remind him of his duty, for she hated to have her favorite reproved; or his mamma would say gently, "you'll be late again, josey." if the conversation was very interesting, he would only push back his chair a little and wait for papa to say,-- "my son, go this moment." one day his mamma had a long talk with him on the subject of procrastination, after which he did much better. she explained to him that the meaning of the command, "honor thy father and thy mother," was not only that a child must obey when told to "go" or "stay;" but he must strive in every thing to act as would please them. he must honor them by anticipating their wishes, by acting when they were absent as he knew they would approve if they were present. she told him that he could please the lord jesus by a dutiful attention to their desires, such as, always to be in season for school, or punctual to any engagement, just as much as by being honest and truthful. the dear saviour would look into his heart and know he was trying to do right out of love for him. chapter vi. the burned baby. the winter after josey was eight years old, his parents received a visit from their dear friends mr. and mrs. matthews and little rose. two infant brothers had died since they last met, and rose was still their only daughter. emma was now in her fifth year, and rose only a few weeks younger. many a time during the visit, did the mothers and aunt fanny talk over the mistake made by mrs. reed, at which no one was more sorry than mrs. reed herself. many a time they laughed over the question of the cross driver: "why wont one do as well as t'other?" the man had married afterward, and when a tiny babe was put into his arms, and he was told it was his own, he understood well why every father and mother love their own children best. aunt fanny was soon going to leave the country. they had all been busy for months in getting her clothes ready for the voyage, and a missionary society in the village were making shirts, etc., for her friend, mr. barnard. one afternoon, she walked to the village to give some directions that had been requested, and took the opportunity to make her last calls on some of her poor families. the tea hour passed, and she did not return. her brother did not know where she was gone, so they were obliged to wait patiently for her return, though josey grew every moment more anxious. at last it was within half an hour of his bedtime,--emma and rose had long before gone to their cribs,--when aunt fanny's welcome voice was heard. she looked very pale, and all knew at once that something must have happened. she motioned josey to her side, and laid her head on his shoulder as he stood by. presently she exclaimed,-- "i have seen a dreadful sight! oh, i never can get it out of my mind! the screams and shrieks, i hear them yet!" "what is it? do tell us," urged her sister. "you know little juley lane, what a passionate child she has always been. i told mrs. lane the last time i was there, it wasn't safe to leave her with the baby. she didn't seem to have any love for him. now she's killed him." josey gave a start and sob of horror, while mrs. codman exclaimed,-- "shocking! terrible! how did it happen?" "i was making calls," added fanny, with a groan, "and i met mrs. lane. she was hurrying with a basket of clean clothes, and told me she'd been obliged to leave juley with her old mother and the baby. i told her i was going to call, which relieved her anxiety, and she said she'd be home in a short time. "long before i reached the house i heard awful groans, and on opening the door, what a sight was before me. "mrs. lane, thinking the baby would be safer, had tied him into the high chair, and set him in front of the stove. julia had one of her fits of anger and pushed him over. his poor hands and face fell upon the hot iron and burned to a crisp. when i went in, the old woman had crawled on her hands and feet, to the place, and was trying, with her poor deformed fingers, to release him. juley stood by, frightened and crying, but not able to do anything. "i flew to untie him from his chair, which was in a bright blaze, and then rushed to the door to send for a doctor. then the mother came. oh, dear! i wouldn't go through such a scene again for a kingdom. i don't believe the poor child was conscious; the doctor thought not; but such a sight! you wouldn't know him from a piece of burnt wood; and there he lay, only showing he was alive by a feeble groan. "mrs. lane shrieked and tore her hair, and when juley pulled her dress, i was afraid she'd kill her, too. so i got a neighbor to carry her off, screaming and fighting. the old woman hasn't been across the room before by herself for a year, and now lies speechless on the bed; i don't believe she'll live till morning." mr. codman put on his hat directly and hurried away to the distressed family, while his wife took off fanny's hat, and brought her a cup of tea, begging her to try and eat a piece of toast. "you'll be sick, dear, if you don't," she urged. "the shock has been too much for you." "i can't hold the cup;" sobbed fanny, giving way at last; and then she held up her poor burned hands and arms. "oh! oh dear!" screamed her sister. "my poor, poor girl!" exclaimed mrs. matthews; and then they and josey and nurse all cried together. in less than half an hour mr. codman returned, and the doctor with him. the old woman had breathed her last. fanny had saved her from burning to death, by tearing off her blazing clothes at the risk of her own life. the neighbors all said miss fanny was an angel. if it had not been for her presence of mind, the house would have been burned, and the widow have lost everything. the doctor bound up the poor, blistered hands and arms, talking cheerfully as he did so, but, his eyes grew moist as he told them afterward what she had done. chapter vii. josey's sorrow. in the hurry and excitement, no one thought of little josey. it was not till aunt fanny was sinking to sleep from the effects of the doctor's medicine that his mother found him sobbing by himself in the corner. "what will become of juley, mamma? will she have to be put into prison?" "don't think about juley to-night, dear," she answered, soothingly. "you'll cry yourself sick. we must all thank god, who saved our dear aunt fanny's life. she was so good and thoughtful, and did not once stop on account of the pain in her hands, but threw water on the flames, and almost lifted the old woman into bed." "oh, mamma! i am glad about that; but i can't help thinking, if you hadn't taught me to love my sister, and not give way to temper, i might have--i mean, dear, darling emma might have been burned to death. do you think god has forgiven me, mamma, for striking her as i used to?" "yes, josey, i am sure he has. you're a kind, affectionate brother now, teaching your sister to be patient and obliging." she saw the shock had been too much for him. he trembled excessively as he tried to unbutton his jacket. "i'll talk with you all about it to-morrow," she said; "try to say your prayers now, and go to sleep." "but, mamma, are you sure aunt fanny will get well? she did groan so, when the doctor touched her arm." "oh, yes! i hope she'll be better in a few days. burns are always very painful at first." "well, aunt fanny is a good missionary. isn't she? she was kind one to another." "yes, indeed! she always is that; just like your father, you know." mr. codman wrote mr. barnard the same evening, and he came the day but one after the poor baby was burned, just as mr. and mrs. codman were starting to attend the funeral of the old lady and child. fanny was dressed and sitting in an easy chair, both arms bandaged to the elbows and laid out on a pillow. she looked very white, except where a fever spot burned on each cheek. mrs. matthews sat by, talking in a cheerful tone, while rose and emma played with their dolls in the corner of the chamber. with a gentle knock mrs. codman peeped in, asking, in a mysterious voice,-- "are you ready for visitors?" then, without waiting for an answer, she beckoned the young missionary to come forward. he flew to her side, and, not daring to trust his voice, instantly kissed her cheek. "this is mrs. matthews," mrs. codman said. "she will be happy to tell you what a heroine your fanny has been. i must run away, or i shall be late." mrs. matthews repeated some of the particulars of the dreadful accident, and then, seeing how hard it was for the young man to control his feelings, rose, and calling the children, left the room with them. "my own fanny," he said, putting his hand softly on her head, "i wish i could bear this dreadful pain for you. how could you expose your precious life? what should i have done if you too"-- he stopped suddenly, and walked to the window, but soon returned at the sound of her voice, saying,-- "james, you are making quite too much of what i did. any one would have done the same. i could never look you in the face if i had not tried to relieve such terrible suffering. but oh, it was dreadful! i cannot forget it." tears filled her eyes, and he tenderly wiped them away. "i cannot sleep," she went on, "except under the influence of anodynes. the shrieks and groans ring in my ears." "your nervous system has had a shock, and it will take time to recover. you know i have been studying a little medicine, and i shall take you for my first patient. i prescribe perfect rest, and that you see no one but me." fanny laughed. "josey will have something to say to that," she began. "he has been the most unwearied little nurse, and his face has grown very sad." "dear little fellow! i shall love him better than ever." mr. barnard staid two days, and then fanny was obliged to insist that he should leave her, as there were not quite two months before they were to sail, and she knew that every moment of his time was filled with engagements. her burns were less painful, and it would still be weeks before she could help herself at all; but she was surrounded with friends who delighted in doing anything for her comfort. she bade him good-bye, with a tear and a smile, not expecting to see him again till a day or two before their marriage. he looked back to watch her sitting so white and patient, without one murmuring word, and thanked god that she was so soon to be his own loving, faithful wife. josey rejoiced that now he could return to his labor of love and feed his beloved aunt; for she insisted that he did it more skilfully than any of them. those were precious hours to the dear boy, when, with the tray before him and a spoon in his hand, he ministered to her wants, meantime telling her all the thoughts of his little heart. years after he remembered the words she had said, and tried to improve by them. he was now fully determined to be a missionary and go out to tell the heathen about christ, as his aunt fanny was going. he began at once to gather all the tracts and primers he could find, and packed them in an old valise. his mother found them there some months later; and explained to him that the poor hindoos could not read english. chapter viii. josey's gift. aunt fanny's burns were now nearly healed. for a week she had been without the bandages, though the wounds were still tender. her trunks were mostly packed, and many tokens of love placed there by beloved friends. when with her brother's family the young missionary always wore a cheerful smile; but there were hours when she wept at the thought of parting from those who were so dear. yet not for one instant did she regret the choice of her life. she was going to tell the poor benighted heathen of the love of jesus,--to try and persuade them to throw away their idols, and worship the living and true god. as she thought of all this, and realized what a privilege it was to save souls from eternal death, her whole heart glowed with a desire to be among those for whom she was to labor. mr. and mrs. matthews had been travelling for some weeks, but had now returned to be in season for the wedding. on the sabbath night previous, the family were seated in the library, when mamma noticed that josey was not present. she could not account for this, because, when out of school, he was scarcely a moment away from his aunt's side. she went through several rooms in search of him, and at last found him in a closet by himself, sobbing as if his heart would break. "why must aunt fanny go?" he sobbed, "i can't bear it,--i can't bear not to see her any longer!" "my darling," said mamma, taking his hand, and leading him to her own chamber, "do you know what aunt fanny is going for?" "yes, mamma, but couldn't somebody else do it?" she stopped a moment and then said,-- "josey, there was a time, thousands of years ago, when man had sinned, and there was no hope nor joy for him in the world; there was only the certainty that his soul must be miserable forever. then our blessed saviour said, 'i pity these poor people and shall try to save them.' he left his glorious throne, by the side of his father, and came here to give himself to death. "the love and pity of god the father was so great, that he sent his beloved son, that whosoever believeth on him shall have everlasting life. "the poor hindoos know nothing of the true god. they have not the precious bible, as we have, to tell them that they need not throw their babies to the crocodiles,--they need not tear and wound their own flesh, nor throw themselves under the wheels of the cruel juggernaut. your aunt fanny and uncle james are going to tell them, they need do nothing of all this. they desire to say to those poor, ignorant men and women and children, that christ's love for them is so great that if they will but come and accept of his salvation, it shall be freely theirs. she wants to tell the poor, weary pilgrims, who have been walking hundreds of miles with stones in their shoes, that the blessed jesus will accept them without money, without price, without any of these painful journeys,--that they have only to lay their load of sin upon him, and he will carry it for them." josey's tears ceased to flow, and he listened with almost breathless interest. "do you want to keep aunt fanny from telling them this?" mamma asked. "do you want them to go on worshipping those senseless idols, which can neither see, nor hear, nor understand?" with a great sob josey answered, "no, mamma, i love her dearly, dearly; but i'll let jesus have her. he'll know then how i love him." with a gush of tears, she folded him to her heart. when they were more calm, she urged him to return to the parlor. "pretty soon i will," he said softly, "and oh, mamma, if you'll please let me sit up an hour later every night till she--i mean, till we're all alone. now i'm going to write her a letter." my little reader, would you like to read it, and see how our dear josey showed his love to his saviour? how he tried to obey the rule, "my little children let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth?" it was this: "my dear, darling aunt fanny: "i've been thinking a great deal about you, and once i said i couldn't let you go away; but i'm willing now. i know i shall miss you dreadfully. and it makes me cry to think how i shall want to hear you pray by my bed, every night; but i'll tell you why i'm willing. you know i'm trying to be a christian child, and i do hope the dear saviour has pardoned my sins; so i want to show him that i really thank him for it, and to-night, i said to myself, 'i have nothing to give jesus, to show him my love, but my dear, dear aunty. i do hope it will show the heathen a little, that i love them, and want to be kind to them. when you get there, will you please tell them a little boy gave his aunt to the saviour, so that they may learn the way to heaven. "when i am a man, i hope i shall be a missionary, too; and perhaps then god will let me see you and uncle james again. "your little nephew, "josey codman." mrs. leslie's bible pearls. _series for boys._ vol. i. the pearl of love. " ii. " " " charity. " iii. " " " obedience. " iv. " " " penitence. " v. " " " hope. " vi. " " " patience. _series for girls._ vol. i. the pearl of faith. " ii. " " " diligence. " iii. " " " meekness. " iv. " " " forgiveness. " v. " " " hope. " vi. " " " contentment. version by al haines. he fell in love with his wife by edward p. roe contents chapter i left alone ii a very interested friend iii mrs. mumpson negotiates and yields iv domestic bliss v mrs. mumpson takes up her burdens vi a marriage? vii from home to the street viii holcroft's view of matrimony ix mrs. mumpson accepts her mission x a night of terror xi baffled xii jane xiii not wife, but waif xiv a pitched battle xv "what is to become of me?" xvi mrs. mumpson's vicissitudes xvii a momentous decision xviii holcroft gives his hand xix a business marriage xx uncle jonathan's impression of the bride xxi at home xxii getting acquainted xxiii between the past and future xxiv given her own way xxv a charivari xxvi "you don't know" xxvii farm and farmer bewitched xxviii another waif xxix husband and wife in trouble xxx holcroft's best hope xxxi "never!" xxxii jane plays mouse to the lion xxxiii "shrink from you?" chapter i. left alone the dreary march evening is rapidly passing from murky gloom to obscurity. gusts of icy rain and sleet are sweeping full against a man who, though driving, bows his head so low that he cannot see his horses. the patient beasts, however, plod along the miry road, unerringly taking their course to the distant stable door. the highway sometimes passes through a grove on the edge of a forest, and the trees creak and groan as they writhe in the heavy blasts. in occasional groups of pines there is sighing and moaning almost human in suggestiveness of trouble. never had nature been in a more dismal mood, never had she been more prodigal of every element of discomfort, and never had the hero of my story been more cast down in heart and hope than on this chaotic day which, even to his dull fancy, appeared closing in harmony with his feelings and fortune. he is going home, yet the thought brings no assurance of welcome and comfort. as he cowers upon the seat of his market wagon, he is to the reader what he is in the fading light--a mere dim outline of a man. his progress is so slow that there will be plenty of time to relate some facts about him which will make the scenes and events to follow more intelligible. james holcroft is a middle-aged man and the owner of a small, hilly farm. he had inherited his rugged acres from his father, had always lived upon them, and the feeling had grown strong with the lapse of time that he could live nowhere else. yet he knew that he was, in the vernacular of the region, "going down-hill." the small savings of years were slowly melting away, and the depressing feature of this truth was that he did not see how he could help himself. he was not a sanguine man, but rather one endowed with a hard, practical sense which made it clear that the down-hill process had only to continue sufficiently long to leave him landless and penniless. it was all so distinct on this dismal evening that he groaned aloud. "if it comes to that, i don't know what i'll do--crawl away on a night like this and give up, like enough." perhaps he was right. when a man with a nature like his "gives up," the end has come. the low, sturdy oaks that grew so abundantly along the road were types of his character--they could break, but not bend. he had little suppleness, little power to adapt himself to varied conditions of life. an event had occurred a year since, which for months, he could only contemplate with dull wonder and dismay. in his youth he had married the daughter of a small farmer. like himself, she had always been accustomed to toil and frugal living. from childhood she had been impressed with the thought that parting with a dollar was a serious matter, and to save a dollar one of the good deeds rewarded in this life and the life to come. she and her husband were in complete harmony on this vital point. yet not a miserly trait entered into their humble thrift. it was a necessity entailed by their meager resources; it was inspired by the wish for an honest independence in their old age. there was to be no old age for her. she took a heavy cold, and almost before her husband was aware of her danger, she had left his side. he was more than grief-stricken, he was appalled. no children had blessed their union, and they had become more and more to each other in their simple home life. to many it would have seemed a narrow and even a sordid life. it could not have been the latter, for all their hard work, their petty economies and plans to increase the hoard in the savings bank were robbed of sordidness by an honest, quiet affection for each other, by mutual sympathy and a common purpose. it undoubtedly was a meager life, which grew narrower with time and habit. there had never been much romance to begin with, but something that often wears better--mutual respect and affection. from the first, james holcroft had entertained the sensible hope that she was just the girl to help him make a living from his hillside farm, and he had not hoped for or even thought of very much else except the harmony and good comradeship which bless people who are suited to each other. he had been disappointed in no respect; they had toiled and gathered like ants; they were confidential partners in the homely business and details of the farm; nothing was wasted, not even time. the little farmhouse abounded in comfort, and was a model of neatness and order. if it and its surroundings were devoid of grace and ornament, they were not missed, for neither of its occupants had ever been accustomed to such things. the years which passed so uneventfully only cemented the union and increased the sense of mutual dependence. they would have been regarded as exceedingly matter-of-fact and undemonstrative, but they were kind to each other and understood each other. feeling that they were slowly yet surely getting ahead, they looked forward to an old age of rest and a sufficiency for their simple needs. then, before he could realize the truth, he was left alone at her wintry grave; neighbors dispersed after the brief service, and he plodded back to his desolate home. there was no relative to step in and partially make good his loss. some of the nearest residents sent a few cooked provisions until he could get help, but these attentions soon ceased. it was believed that he was abundantly able to take care of himself, and he was left to do so. he was not exactly unpopular, but had been much too reticent and had lived too secluded a life to find uninvited sympathy now. he was the last man, however, to ask for sympathy or help; and this was not due to misanthropy, but simply to temperament and habits of life. he and his wife had been sufficient for each other, and the outside world was excluded chiefly because they had not time or taste for social interchanges. as a result, he suffered serious disadvantages; he was misunderstood and virtually left to meet his calamity alone. but, indeed he could scarcely have met it in any other way. even to his wife, he had never formed the habit of speaking freely of his thoughts and feelings. there had been no need, so complete was the understanding between them. a hint, a sentence, reveled to each other their simple and limited processes of thought. to talk about her now to strangers was impossible. he had no language by which to express the heavy, paralyzing pain in his heart. for a time he performed necessary duties in a dazed, mechanical way. the horses and live stock were fed regularly, the cows milked; but the milk stood in the dairy room until it spoiled. then he would sit down at his desolate hearth and gaze for hours into the fire, until it sunk down and died out. perhaps no class in the world suffers from such a terrible sense of loneliness as simple-natured country people, to whom a very few have been all the company they required. at last holcroft partially shook off his stupor, and began the experiment of keeping house and maintaining his dairy with hired help. for a long year he had struggled on through all kinds of domestic vicissitude, conscious all the time that things were going from bad to worse. his house was isolated, the region sparsely settled, and good help difficult to be obtained under favoring auspices. the few respectable women in the neighborhood who occasionally "lent a hand" in other homes than their own would not compromise themselves, as they expressed it, by "keepin' house for a widower." servants obtained from the neighboring town either could not endure the loneliness, or else were so wasteful and ignorant that the farmer, in sheer desperation, discharged them. the silent, grief-stricken, rugged-featured man was no company for anyone. the year was but a record of changes, waste, and small pilferings. although he knew he could not afford it, he tried the device of obtaining two women instead of one, so that they might have society in each other; but either they would not stay or else he found that he had two thieves to deal with instead of one--brazen, incompetent creatures who knew more about whisky than milk, and who made his home a terror to him. some asked good-naturedly, "why don't you marry again?" not only was the very thought repugnant, but he knew well that he was not the man to thrive on any such errand to the neighboring farmhouses. though apparently he had little sentiment in his nature, yet the memory of his wife was like his religion. he felt that he could not put an ordinary woman into his wife's place, and say to her the words he had spoken before. such a marriage would be to him a grotesque farce, at which his soul revolted. at last he was driven to the necessity of applying for help to an irish family that had recently moved into the neighborhood. the promise was forbidding, indeed, as he entered the squalid abode in which were huddled men, women, and children. a sister of the mistress of the shanty was voluble in her assurances of unlimited capability. "faix i kin do all the wourk, in doors and out, so i takes the notion," she had asserted. there certainly was no lack of bone and muscle in the big, red-faced, middle-aged woman who was so ready to preside at his hearth and glean from his diminished dairy a modicum of profit; but as he trudged home along the wintry road, he experienced strong feelings of disgust at the thought of such a creature sitting by the kitchen fire in the place once occupied by his wife. during all these domestic vicissitudes he had occupied the parlor, a stiff, formal, frigid apartment, which had been rarely used in his married life. he had no inclination for the society of his help; in fact, there had been none with whom he could associate. the better class of those who went out to service could find places much more to their taste than the lonely farmhouse. the kitchen had been the one cozy, cheerful room of the house, and, driven from it, the farmer was an exile in his own home. in the parlor he could at least brood over the happy past, and that was about all the solace he had left. bridget came and took possession of her domain with a sangfroid which appalled holcroft from the first. to his directions and suggestions, she curtly informed him that she knew her business and "didn't want no mon around, orderin' and interferin'." in fact, she did appear, as she had said, capable of any amount of work, and usually was in a mood to perform it; but soon her male relatives began to drop in to smoke a pipe with her in the evening. a little later on, the supper table was left standing for those who were always ready to "take a bite."--the farmer had never heard of the camel who first got his head into the tent, but it gradually dawned upon him that he was half supporting the whole irish tribe down at the shanty. every evening, while he shivered in his best room, he was compelled to hear the coarse jests and laughter in the adjacent apartment. one night his bitter thoughts found expression: "i might as well open a free house for the keeping of man and beast." he had endured this state of affairs for some time simply because the woman did the essential work in her offhand, slapdash style, and left him unmolested to his brooding as long as he did not interfere with her ideas of domestic economy. but his impatience and the sense of being wronged were producing a feeling akin to desperation. every week there was less and less to sell from the dairy; chickens and eggs disappeared, and the appetites of those who dropped in to "kape bridgy from bein' a bit lonely" grew more voracious. thus matters had drifted on until this march day when he had taken two calves to market. he had said to the kitchen potentate that he would take supper with a friend in town and therefore would not be back before nine in the evening. this friend was the official keeper of the poorhouse and had been a crony of holcroft's in early life. he had taken to politics instead of farming, and now had attained to what he and his acquaintances spoke of as a "snug berth." holcroft had maintained with this man a friendship based partly on business relations, and the well-to-do purveyor for paupers always gave his old playmate an honest welcome to his private supper table, which differed somewhat from that spread for the town's pensioners. on this occasion the gathering storm had decided holcroft to return without availing himself of his friend's hospitality, and he is at last entering the lane leading from the highway to his doorway. even as he approaches his dwelling he hears the sound of revelry and readily guesses what is taking place. quiet, patient men, when goaded beyond a certain point, are capable of terrible ebullitions of anger, and holcroft was no exception. it seemed to him that night that the god he had worshiped all his life was in league with man against him. the blood rushed to his face, his chilled form became rigid with a sudden passionate protest against his misfortunes and wrongs. springing from the wagon, he left his team standing at the barn door and rushed to the kitchen window. there before him sat the whole tribe from the shanty, feasting at his expense. the table was loaded with coarse profusion. roast fowls alternated with fried ham and eggs, a great pitcher of milk was flanked by one of foaming cider, while the post of honor was occupied by the one contribution of his self-invited guests--a villainous-looking jug. they had just sat down to the repast when the weazen-faced patriarch of the tribe remarked, by way of grace, it may be supposed, "be jabers, but isn't ould holcroft givin' us a foine spread the noight! here's bad luck to the glowerin' ould skinflint!" and he poured out a bumper from the jug. the farmer waited to see and hear no more. hastening to a parlor window, he raised it quietly and clambered in; then taking his rusty shotgun, which he kept loaded for the benefit of the vermin that prowled about his hen-roost, he burst in upon the startled group. "be off!" he shouted. "if you value your lives, get out of that door, and never show your faces on my place again. i'll not be eaten out of house and home by a lot of jackals!" his weapon, his dark, gleaming eyes, and desperate aspect taught the men that he was not to be trifled with a moment, and they slunk away. bridget began to whine, "yez wouldn't turn a woman out in the noight and storm." "you are not a woman!" thundered holcroft, "you are a jackal, too! get your traps and begone! i warn the whole lot of you to beware! i give you this chance to get off the premises, and then i shall watch for you all, old and young!" there was something terrible and flame-like in his anger, dismaying the cormorants, and they hastened away with such alacrity that bridget went down the lane screaming, "sthop, i tell yees, and be afther waitin' for me!" holcroft hurled the jug after them with words that sounded like an imprecation. he next turned to the viands on the table with an expression of loathing, gathered them up, and carried them to the hog pen. he seemed possessed by a feverish impatience to banish every vestige of those whom he had driven forth, and to restore the apartment as nearly as possible to the aspect it had worn in former happy years. at last, he sat down where his wife had been accustomed to sit, unbuttoned his waistcoat and flannel shirt, and from against his naked breast took an old, worn daguerreotype. he looked a moment at the plain, good face reflected there, them, bowing his head upon it, strong, convulsive sobs shook his frame, though not a tear moistened his eyes. how long the paroxysm would have lasted it were hard to say, had not the impatient whinnying of his horses, still exposed to the storm, caught his attention. the lifelong habit of caring for the dumb animals in his charge asserted itself. he went out mechanically, unharnessed and stabled them as carefully as ever before in his life, then returned and wearily prepared himself a pot of coffee, which, with a crust of bread, was all the supper he appeared to crave. chapter ii. a very interested friend for the next few days, holcroft lived alone. the weather remained inclement and there was no occasion for him to go farther away than the barn and outbuildings. he felt that a crisis in his life was approaching, that he would probably be compelled to sell his property for what it would bring, and begin life again under different auspices. "i must either sell or marry," he groaned, "and one's about as hard and bad as the other. who'll buy the place and stock at half what they're worth, and where could i find a woman that would look at an old fellow like me, even if i could bring myself to look at her?" the poor man did indeed feel that he was shut up to dreadful alternatives. with his ignorance of the world, and dislike for contact with strangers, selling out and going away was virtually starting out on an unknown sea without rudder or compass. it was worse than that--it was the tearing up of a life that had rooted itself in the soil whereon he had been content from childhood to middle age. he would suffer more in going, and in the memory of what he had parted with, than in any of the vicissitudes which might overtake him. he had not much range of imagination or feeling, but within his limitations his emotions were strong and his convictions unwavering. still, he thought it might be possible to live in some vague, unknown place, doing some kind of work for people with whom he need not have very much to do. "i've always been my own master, and done things in my own way," he muttered, "but i suppose i could farm it to suit some old, quiet people, if i could only find 'em. one thing is certain, anyhow--i couldn't stay here in oakville, and see another man living in these rooms, and plowing my fields, and driving his cows to my old pasture lots. that would finish me like a galloping consumption." every day he shrunk with a strange dread from the wrench of parting with the familiar place and with all that he associated with his wife. this was really the ordeal which shook his soul, and not the fear that he would be unable to earn his bread elsewhere. the unstable multitude, who are forever fancying that they would be better off somewhere else or at something else, can have no comprehension of this deep-rooted love of locality and the binding power of long association. they regard such men as holcroft as little better than plodding oxen. the highest tribute which some people can pay to a man, however, is to show that they do not and cannot understand him. but the farmer was quite indifferent whether he was understood or not. he gave no thought to what people said or might say. what were people to him? he only had a hunted, pathetic sense of being hedged in and driven to bay. even to his neighbors, there was more of the humorous than the tragic in his plight. it was supposed that he had a goodly sum in the bank, and gossips said that he and his wife thought more of increasing this hoard than of each other, and that old holcroft's mourning was chiefly for a business partner. his domestic tribulations evoked mirth rather than sympathy; and as the news spread from farmhouse to cottage of his summary bundling of bridget and her satellites out of doors, there were both hilarity and satisfaction. while there was little commiseration for the farmer, there was decided disapprobation of the dishonest irish tribe, and all were glad that the gang had received a lesson which might restrain them from preying upon others. holcroft was partly to blame for his present isolation. remote rural populations are given to strong prejudices, especially against those who are thought to be well-off from an oversaving spirit; and who, worse still, are unsocial. almost anything will be forgiven sooner than "thinking one's self better than the other folks;" and that is the usual interpretation of shy, reticent people. but there had been a decided tinge of selfishness in the holcrofts' habit of seclusion; for it became a habit rather than a principle. while they cherished no active dislike to their neighbors, or sense of superiority, these were not wholly astray in believing that they had little place in the thoughts or interests of the occupants of the hill farm. indifference begat indifference, and now the lonely, helpless man had neither the power nor the disposition to bridge the chasm which separated him from those who might have given him kindly and intelligent aid. he was making a pathetic effort to keep his home and to prevent his heart from being torn bleeding away from all it loved. his neighbors thought that he was merely exerting himself to keep the dollars which it had been the supreme motive of his life to accumulate. giving no thought to the opinions of others, holcroft only knew that he was in sore straits--that all which made his existence a blessing was at stake. at times, during these lonely and stormy march days, he would dismiss his anxious speculations in regard to his future course. he was so morbid, especially at night, that he felt that his wife could revisit the quiet house. he cherished the hope that she could see him and hear what he said, and he spoke in her viewless presence with a freedom and fullness that was unlike his old reticence and habit of repression. he wondered that he had not said more endearing words and given her stronger assurance of how much she was to him. late at night, he would start out of a long reverie, take a candle, and, going through the house, would touch what she had touched, and look long and fixedly at things associated with her. her gowns still hung in the closet, just as she had left them; he would take them out and recall the well-remembered scenes and occasions when they were worn. at such times, she almost seemed beside him, and he had a consciousness of companionship which soothed his perturbed spirit. he felt that she appreciated such loving remembrance, although unable to express her approval. he did not know it, but his nature was being softened, deepened, and enriched by these deep and unwonted experiences; the hard materiality of his life was passing away, rendering him capable of something better than he had ever known. in the morning all the old, prosaic problems of his life would return, with their hard, practical insistence, and he knew that he must decide upon something very soon. his lonely vigils and days of quiet had brought him to the conclusion that he could not hunt up a wife as a matter of business. he would rather face the "ever angry bears" than breathe the subject of matrimony to any woman that he could ever imagine himself marrying. he was therefore steadily drifting toward the necessity of selling everything and going away. this event, however, was like a coral reef to a sailor, with no land in view beyond it. the only thing which seemed certain was the general breaking up of all that had hitherto made his life. the offer of help came from an unexpected source. one morning holcroft received a call from a neighbor who had never before shown any interest in his affairs. on this occasion, however, mr. weeks began to display so much solicitude that the farmer was not only surprised, but also a little distrustful. nothing in his previous knowledge of the man had prepared the way for such very kindly intervention. after some general references to the past, mr. weeks continued, "i've been saying to our folks that it was too bad to let you worry on alone without more neighborly help. you ought either to get married or have some thoroughly respectable and well-known middle-aged woman keep house for you. that would stop all talk, and there's been a heap of it, i can tell you. of course, i and my folks don't believe anything's been wrong." "believing that something was wrong is about all the attention my neighbors have given me, as far as i can see," holcroft remarked bitterly. "well, you see, holcroft, you've kept yourself so inside your shell that people don't know what to believe. now, the thing to do is to change all that. i know how hard it is for a man, placed as you be, to get decent help. my wife was a-wondering about it the other day, and i shut her up mighty sudden by saying, 'you're a good manager, and know all the country side, yet how often you're a-complaining that you can't get a girl that's worth her salt to help in haying and other busy times when we have to board a lot of men.' well, i won't beat around the bush any more. i've come to act the part of a good neighbor. there's no use of you're trying to get along with such haphazard help as you can pick up here and in town. you want a respectable woman for housekeeper, and then have a cheap, common sort of a girl to work under her. now, i know of just such a woman, and it's not unlikely she'd be persuaded to take entire charge of your house and dairy. my wife's cousin, mrs. mumpson--" at the mention of this name holcroft gave a slight start, feeling something like a cold chill run down his back. mr. weeks was a little disconcerted but resumed, "i believe she called on your wife once?" "yes," the farmer replied laconically. "i was away and did not see her." "well, now," pursued mr. weeks, "she's a good soul. she has her little peculiarities; so have you and me, a lot of 'em; but she's thoroughly respectable, and there isn't a man or woman in the town that would think of saying a word against her. she has only one child, a nice, quiet little girl who'd be company for her mother and make everything look right, you know." "i don't see what there's been to look wrong," growled the farmer. "nothing to me and my folks, of course, or i wouldn't suggest the idea of a relation of my wife coming to live with you. but you see people will talk unless you stop their mouths so they'll feel like fools in doing it. i know yours has been a mighty awkward case, and here's a plain way out of it. you can set yourself right and have everything looked after as it ought to be, in twenty-four hours. we've talked to cynthy--that's mrs. mumpson--and she takes a sight of interest. she'd do well by you and straighten things out, and you might do a plaguey sight worse than give her the right to take care of your indoor affairs for life." "i don't expect to marry again," said holcroft curtly. "oh, well! many a man and woman has said that and believed it, too, at the time. i'm not saying that my wife's cousin is inclined that way herself. like enough, she isn't at all, but then, the right kind of persuading does change women's minds sometimes, eh? mrs. mumpson is kinder alone in the world, like yourself, and if she was sure of a good home and a kind husband there's no telling what good luck might happen to you. but there'll be plenty of time for considering all that on both sides. you can't live like a hermit." "i was thinking of selling out and leaving these parts," holcroft interrupted. "now look here, neighbor, you know as well as i do that in these times you couldn't give away the place. what's the use of such foolishness? the thing to do is to keep the farm and get a good living out of it. you've got down in the dumps and can't see what's sensible and to your own advantage." holcroft was thinking deeply, and he turned his eyes wistfully to the upland slopes of his farm. mr. weeks had talked plausibly, and if all had been as he represented, the plan would not have been a bad one. but the widower did not yearn for the widow. he did not know much about her, but had very unfavorable impressions. mrs. holcroft had not been given to speaking ill of anyone, but she had always shaken her head with a peculiar significance when mrs. mumpson's name was mentioned. the widow had felt it her duty to call and counsel against the sin of seclusion and being too much absorbed in the affairs of this world. "you should take an interest in everyone," this self-appointed evangelist had declared, and in one sense she lived up to her creed. she permitted no scrap of information about people to escape her, and was not only versed in all the gossip of oakville, but also of several other localities in which she visited. but holcroft had little else to deter him from employing her services beyond an unfavorable impression. she could not be so bad as bridget malony, and he was almost willing to employ her again for the privilege of remaining on his paternal acres. as to marrying the widow--a slight shudder passed through his frame at the thought. slowly he began, as if almost thinking aloud, "i suppose you are right, lemuel weeks, in what you say about selling the place. the lord knows i don't want to leave it. i was born and brought up here, and that counts with some people. if your wife's cousin is willing to come and help me make a living, for such wages as i can pay, the arrangement might be made. but i want to look on it as a business arrangement. i have quiet ways of my own, and things belonging to the past to think about, and i've got a right to think about 'em. i aint one of the marrying kind, and i don't want people to be a-considering such notions when i don't. i'd be kind and all that to her and her little girl, but i should want to be left to myself as far as i could be." "oh, certainly," said mr. weeks, mentally chuckling over the slight prospect of such immunity, "but you must remember that mrs. mumpson isn't like common help--" "that's where the trouble will come in," ejaculated the perplexed farmer, "but there's been trouble enough with the other sort." "i should say so," mr. weeks remarked emphatically. "it would be a pity if you couldn't get along with such a respectable, conscientious woman as mrs. mumpson, who comes from one of the best families in the country." holcroft removed his hat and passed his hand over his brow wearily as he said, "oh, i could get along with anyone who would do the work in a way that would give me a chance to make a little, and then leave me to myself." "well, well," said mr. weeks, laughing, "you needn't think that because i've hinted at a good match for you i'm making one for my wife's cousin. you may see the day when you'll be more hot for it than she is. all i'm trying to do is to help you keep your place, and live like a man ought and stop people's mouths." "if i could only fill my own and live in peace, it's all i ask. when i get to plowing and planting again i'll begin to take some comfort." these words were quoted against holcroft, far and near. "filling his own mouth and making a little money are all he cares for," was the general verdict. and thus people are misunderstood. the farmer had never turned anyone hungry from his door, and he would have gone to the poorhouse rather than have acted the part of the man who misrepresented him. he had only meant to express the hope that he might be able to fill his mouth--earn his bread, and get it from his native soil. "plowing and planting"--working where he had toiled since a child--would be a solace in itself, and not a grudged means to a sordid end. mr. weeks was a thrifty man also, and in nothing was he more economical than in charitable views of his neighbors' motives and conduct. he drove homeward with the complacent feeling that he had done a shrewd, good thing for himself and "his folks" at least. his wife's cousin was not exactly embraced in the latter category, although he had been so active in her behalf. the fact was, he would be at much greater pains could he attach her to holcroft or anyone else and so prevent further periodical visits. he regarded her and her child as barnacles with such appalling adhesive powers that even his ingenuity at "crowding out" had been baffled. in justice to him, it must be admitted that mrs. mumpson was a type of the poor relation that would tax the long suffering of charity itself. her husband had left her scarcely his blessing, and if he had fled to ills he knew not of, he believed that he was escaping from some of which he had a painfully distinct consciousness. his widow was one of the people who regard the "world as their oyster," and her scheme of life was to get as much as possible for nothing. arrayed in mourning weeds, she had begun a system of periodical descents upon his relatives and her own. she might have made such visitations endurable and even welcome, but she was not shrewd enough to be sensible. she appeared to have developed only the capacity to talk, to pry, and to worry people. she was unable to rest or to permit others to rest, yet her aversion to any useful form of activity was her chief characteristic. wherever she went she took the ground that she was "company," and with a shawl hanging over her sharp, angular shoulders, she would seize upon the most comfortable rocking chair in the house, and mouse for bits of news about everyone of whom she had ever heard. she was quite as ready to tell all she knew also, and for the sake of her budget of gossip and small scandal, her female relatives tolerated her after a fashion for a time; but she had been around so often, and her scheme of obtaining subsistence for herself and child had become so offensively apparent, that she had about exhausted the patience of all the kith and kin on whom she had the remotest claim. her presence was all the more unwelcome by reason of the faculty for irritating the men of the various households which she invaded. even the most phlegmatic or the best-natured lost their self-control, and as their wives declared, "felt like flying all to pieces" at her incessant rocking, gossiping, questioning, and, what was worse still, lecturing. not the least endurable thing about mrs. mumpson was her peculiar phase of piety. she saw the delinquencies and duties of others with such painful distinctness that she felt compelled to speak of them; and her zeal was sure to be instant out of season. when mr. weeks had started on his ominous mission to holcroft his wife remarked to her daughter confidentially, "i declare, sis, if we don't get rid of cynthy soon, i believe lemuel will fly off the handle." to avoid any such dire catastrophe, it was hoped and almost prayed in the weeks household that the lonely occupant of the hill farm would take the widow for good and all. chapter iii. mrs. mumpson negotiates and yields mr. weeks, on his return home, dropped all diplomacy in dealing with the question at issue. "cynthy," he said in his own vernacular, "the end has come, so far as me and my folks are concerned--i never expect to visit you, and while i'm master of the house, no more visits will be received. but i haint taken any such stand onconsiderately," he concluded. "i've given up the whole forenoon to secure you a better chance of living than visiting around. if you go to holcroft's you'll have to do some work, and so will your girl. but he'll hire someone to help you, and so you won't have to hurt yourself. your trump card will be to hook him and marry him before he finds you out. to do this, you'll have to see to the house and dairy, and bestir yourself for a time at least. he's pretty desperate off for lack of women folks to look after indoor matters, but he'll sell out and clear out before he'll keep a woman, much less marry her, if she does nothing but talk. now remember, you've got a chance which you won't get again, for holcroft not only owns his farm, but has a snug sum in the bank. so you had better get your things together, and go right over while he's in the mood." when mrs. mumpson reached the blank wall of the inevitable, she yielded, and not before. she saw that the weeks mine was worked out completely, and she knew that this exhaustion was about equally true of all similar mines, which had been bored until they would yield no further returns. but mr. weeks soon found that he could not carry out his summary measures. the widow was bent on negotiations and binding agreements. in a stiff, cramped hand, she wrote to holcroft in regard to the amount of "salary" he would be willing to pay, intimating that one burdened with such responsibilities as she was expected to assume "ort to be compensiated proposhundly." weeks groaned as he dispatched his son on horseback with this first epistle, and holcroft groaned as he read it, not on account of its marvelous spelling and construction, but by reason of the vista of perplexities and trouble it opened to his boding mind. but he named on half a sheet of paper as large a sum as he felt it possible to pay and leave any chance for himself, then affixed his signature and sent it back by the messenger. the widow mumpson wished to talk over this first point between the high contracting powers indefinitely, but mr. weeks remarked cynically, "it's double what i thought he'd offer, and you're lucky to have it in black and white. now that everything's settled, timothy will hitch up and take you and jane up there at once." but mrs. mumpson now began to insist upon writing another letter in regard to her domestic status and that of her child. they could not think of being looked upon as servants. she also wished to be assured that a girl would be hired to help her, that she should have all the church privileges to which she had been accustomed and the right to visit and entertain her friends, which meant every farmer's wife and all the maiden sisters in oakville. "and then," she continued, "there are always little perquisites which a housekeeper has a right to look for--" mr. weeks irritably put a period to this phase of diplomacy by saying, "well, well, cynthy, the stage will be along in a couple of hours. we'll put you and your things aboard, and you can go on with what you call your negotiations at cousin abiram's. i can tell you one thing though--if you write any such letter to holcroft, you'll never hear from him again." compelled to give up all these preliminaries, but inwardly resolving to gain each point by a nagging persistence of which she was a mistress, she finally declared that she "must have writings about one thing which couldn't be left to any man's changeful mind. he must agree to give me the monthly salary he names for at least a year." weeks thought a moment, and then, with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, admitted, "it would be a good thing to have holcroft's name to such an agreement. yes, you might try that on, but you're taking a risk. if you were not so penny-wise and pound-foolish, you'd go at once and manage to get him to take you for 'better or worse.'" "you--misjudge me, cousin lemuel," replied the widow, bridling and rocking violently. "if there's any such taking to be done, he must get me to take him." "well, well, write your letter about a year's engagement. that'll settle you for a twelvemonth, at least." mrs. mumpson again began the slow, laborious construction of a letter in which she dwelt upon the uncertainties of life, her "duty to her offspring," and the evils of "vicissitude." "a stable home is woman's chief desire," she concluded, "and you will surely agree to pay me the salary you have said for a year." when holcroft read this second epistle he so far yielded to his first impulse that he half tore the sheet, then paused irresolutely. after a few moments he went to the door and looked out upon his acres. "it'll soon be plowing and planting time," he thought. "i guess i can stand her--at least i can try it for three months. i'd like to turn a few more furrows on the old place," and his face softened and grew wistful as he looked at the bare, frost-bound fields. suddenly it darkened and grew stern as he muttered, "but i'll put my hand to no more paper with that weeks tribe." he strode to the stable, saying to timothy weeks, as he passed, "i'll answer this letter in person." away cantered timothy, and soon caused a flutter of expectancy in the weeks household, by announcing that "old holcroft looked black as a thundercloud and was comin' himself." "i tell you what 'tis, cynthy, it's the turn of a hair with you now," growled weeks. "unless you agree to whatever holcroft says, you haven't the ghost of a chance." the widow felt that a crisis had indeed come. cousin abiram's was the next place in the order of visitation, but her last experience there left her in painful doubt as to a future reception. therefore she tied on a new cap, smoothed her apron, and rocked with unwonted rapidity. "it'll be according to the ordering of providence--" "oh, pshaw!" interrupted cousin lemuel, "it'll be according to whether you've got any sense or not." mrs. weeks had been in a pitiable state of mind all day. she saw that her husband had reached the limit of his endurance--that he had virtually already "flown off the handle." but to have her own kin actually bundled out of the house--what would people say? acceptance of holcroft's terms, whatever they might be, was the only way out of the awkward predicament, and so she began in a wheedling tone, "now, cousin cynthy, as lemuel says, you've got a first-rate chance. holcroft's had an awful time with women, and he'll be glad enough to do well by anyone who does fairly well by him. everybody says he's well off, and once you're fairly there and get things in your own hands, there's no telling what may happen. he'll get a girl to help you, and jane's big enough now to do a good deal. why, you'll be the same as keeping house like the rest of us." further discussion was cut short by the arrival of the victim. he stood awkwardly in the door of the weeks sitting room for a moment, seemingly at a loss how to state his case. mr. and mrs. weeks now resolved to appear neutral and allow the farmer to make his terms. then, like other superior powers in the background, they proposed to exert a pressure on their relative and do a little coercing. but the widow's course promised at first to relieve them of all further effort. she suddenly seemed to become aware of holcroft's presence, sprang up, and gave him her hand very cordially. "i'm glad to see you, sir," she began. "it's very considerate of you to come for me. i can get ready in short order, and as for jane, she's never a bit of trouble. sit down, sir, and make yourself to home while i get our things together and put on my bonnet;" and she was about to hasten from the room. she, too, had been compelled to see that holcroft's farmhouse was the only certain refuge left, and while she had rocked and waited the thought had come into her scheming mind, "i've stipulated to stay a year, and if he says nothing against it, it's a bargain which i can manage to keep him to in spite of himself, even if i don't marry him." but the straightforward farmer was not to be caught in such a trap. he had come himself to say certain words and he would say them. he quietly, therefore, stood in the door and said, "wait a moment, mrs. mumpson. it's best to have a plain understanding in all matters of business. when i've done, you may conclude not to go with me, for i want to say to you what i said this morning to your cousin, lemuel weeks. i'm glad he and his wife are now present, as witnesses. i'm a plain man, and all i want is to make a livin' off the farm i've been brought up on. i'll get a girl to help you with the work. between you, i'll expect it to be done in a way that the dairy will yield a fair profit. we'll try and see how we get on for three months and not a year. i'll not bind myself longer than three months. of course, if you manage well, i'll be glad to have this plain business arrangement go on as long as possible, but it's all a matter of business. if i can't make my farm pay, i'm going to sell or rent and leave these parts." "oh, certainly, certainly, mr. holcroft! you take a very senserble view of affairs. i hope you will find that i will do all that i agree to and a great deal more. i'm a little afraid of the night air and the inclement season, and so will hasten to get myself and my child ready," and she passed quickly out. weeks put his hand to his mouth to conceal a grin as he thought, "she hasn't agreed to do anything that i know on. still, she's right; she'll do a sight more than he expects, but it won't be just what he expects." mrs. weeks followed her relative to expedite matters, and it must be confessed that the gathering of mrs. mumpson's belongings was no heavy task. a small hair trunk, that had come down from the remote past, held her own and her child's wardrobe and represented all their worldly possessions. mr. weeks, much pleased at the turn of affairs, became very affable, but confined his remarks chiefly to the weather, while holcroft, who had an uneasy sense of being overreached in some undetected way, was abstracted and laconic. he was soon on the road home, however, with mrs. mumpson and jane. cousin lemuel's last whispered charge was, "now, for mercy's sake, do keep your tongue still and your hands busy." whatever possibilities there may be for the ethiopian or the leopard, there was no hope that mrs. mumpson would materially change any of her characteristics. the chief reason was that she had no desire to change. a more self-complacent person did not exist in oakville. good traits in other people did not interest her. they were insipid, they lacked a certain pungency which a dash of evil imparts; and in the course of her minute investigations she had discerned or surmised so much that was reprehensible that she had come to regard herself as singularly free from sins of omission and commission. "what have i ever done?" she would ask in her self-communings. the question implied so much truth of a certain kind that all her relatives were in gall and bitterness as they remembered the weary months during which she had rocked idly at their firesides. with her, talking was as much of a necessity as breathing; but during the ride to the hillside farm she, in a sense, held her breath, for a keen march wind was blowing. she was so quiet that holcroft grew hopeful, not realizing that the checked flow of words must have freer course later on. a cloudy twilight was deepening fast when they reached the dwelling. holcroft's market wagon served for the general purposes of conveyance, and he drove as near as possible to the kitchen door. descending from the front seat, which he had occupied alone, he turned and offered his hand to assist the widow to alight, but she nervously poised herself on the edge of the vehicle and seemed to be afraid to venture. the wind fluttered her scanty draperies, causing her to appear like a bird of prey about to swoop down upon the unprotected man. "i'm afraid to jump so far--" she began. "there's the step, mrs. mumpson." "but i can't see it. would you mind lifting me down?" he impatiently took her by the arms, which seemed in his grasp like the rounds of a chair, and put her on the ground. "oh!" she exclaimed, in gushing tones, "there's nothing to equal the strong arms of a man." he hastily lifted out her daughter, and said, "you had getter hurry in to the fire. i'll be back in a few minutes," and he led his horses down to the barn, blanketed and tied them. when he returned, he saw two dusky figures standing by the front door which led to the little hall separating the kitchen from the parlor. "bless me!" he exclaimed. "you haven't been standing here all this time?" "it's merely due to a little oversight. the door is locked, you see, and--" "but the kitchen door is not locked." "well, it didn't seem quite natural for us to enter the dwelling, on the occasion of our first arrival, by the kitchen entrance, and--" holcroft, with a grim look, strode through the kitchen and unlocked the door. "ah!" exclaimed the widow. "i feel as if i was coming home. enter, jane, my dear. i'm sure the place will soon cease to be strange to you, for the home feeling is rapidly acquired when--" "just wait a minute, please," said holcroft, "and i'll light the lamp and a candle." this he did with the deftness of a man accustomed to help himself, then led the way to the upper room which was to be her sleeping apartment. placing the candle on the bureau, he forestalled mrs. mumpson by saying, "i'll freshen up the fire in the kitchen and lay out the ham, eggs, coffee, and other materials for supper. then i must go out and unharness and do my night work. make yourselves to home. you'll soon be able to find everything," and he hastened away. it would not be their fault if they were not soon able to find everything. mrs. mumpson's first act was to take the candle and survey the room in every nook and corner. she sighed when she found the closet and bureau drawers empty. then she examined the quantity and texture of the bedding of the "couch on which she was to repose," as she would express herself. jane followed her around on tiptoe, doing just what her mother did, but was silent. at last they shivered in the fireless apartment, threw off their scanty wraps, and went down to the kitchen. mrs. mumpson instinctively looked around for a rocking chair, and as none was visible she hastened to the parlor, and, holding the candle aloft, surveyed this apartment. jane followed in her wake as before, but at last ventured to suggest, "mother, mr. holcroft'll be in soon and want his supper." "i suppose he'll want a great many things," replied mrs. mumpson with dignity, "but he can't expect a lady of my connections to fly around like a common servant. it is but natural, in coming to a new abode, that i should wish to know something of that abode. there should have been a hired girl here ready to receive and get supper for us. since there is not one to receive us, bring that rocking chair, my dear, and i will direct you how to proceed." the child did as she was told, and her mother was soon rocking on the snuggest side of the kitchen stove, interspersing her rather bewildering orders with various reflections and surmises. sketching the child jane is a sad task, and pity would lead us to soften every touch if this could be done in truthfulness. she was but twelve years of age, yet there was scarcely a trace of childhood left in her colorless face. stealthy and catlike in all her movements, she gave the impression that she could not do the commonest thing except in a sly, cowering manner. her small greenish-gray eyes appeared to be growing nearer together with the lease of time, and their indirect, furtive glances suggested that they had hardly, if ever, seen looks of frank affection bent upon her. she had early learned, on the round of visits with her mother, that so far from being welcome she was scarcely tolerated, and she reminded one of a stray cat that comes to a dwelling and seeks to maintain existence there in a lurking, deprecatory manner. her kindred recognized this feline trait, for they were accustomed to remark, "she's always snoopin' around." she could scarcely do otherwise, poor child! there had seemed no place for her at any of the firesides. she haunted halls and passage-ways, sat in dusky corners, and kept her meager little form out of sight as much as possible. she was the last one helped at table when she was permitted to come at all, and so had early learned to watch, like a cat, and when people's backs were turned, to snatch something, carry it off, and devour it in secret. detected in these little pilferings, to which she was almost driven, she was regarded as even a greater nuisance than her mother. the latter was much too preoccupied to give her child attention. ensconced in a rocking chair in the best room, and always in full tide of talk if there was anyone present, she rarely seemed to think where jane was or what she was doing. the rounds of visitation gave the child no chance to go to school, so her developing mind had little other pabulum than what her mother supplied so freely. she was acquiring the same consuming curiosity, with the redeeming feature that she did not talk. listening in unsuspected places, she heard much that was said about her mother and herself, and the pathetic part of this experience was that she had never known enough of kindness to be wounded. she was only made to feel more fully how precarious was her foothold in her transient abiding place, and therefore was rendered more furtive, sly, and distant in order to secure toleration by keeping out of everyone's way. in her prowlings, however, she managed to learn and understand all that was going on even better than her mother, who, becoming aware of this fact, was acquiring the habit of putting her through a whispered cross-questioning when they retired for the night. it would be hard to imagine a child beginning life under more unfavorable auspices and still harder to predict the outcome. in the course of her close watchfulness she had observed how many of the domestic labors had been performed, and she would have helped more in the various households if she had been given a chance; but the housewives had not regarded her as sufficiently honest to be trusted in the pantries, and also found that, if there was a semblance of return for such hospitality as they extended, mrs. mumpson would remain indefinitely. moreover, the homely, silent child made the women nervous, just as her mother irritated the men, and they did not want her around. thus she had come to be but the specter of a child, knowing little of the good in the world and as much of the evil as she could understand. she now displayed, however, more sense than her mother. the habit of close scrutiny had made it clear that holcroft would not long endure genteel airs and inefficiency, and that something must be done to keep this shelter. she did her best to get supper, with the aid given from the rocking chair, and at last broke out sharply, "you must get up and help me. he'll turn us out of doors if we don't have supper ready when he comes in." spurred by fear of such a dire possibility, mrs. mumpson was bustling around when holcroft entered. "we'll soon be ready," she gushed, "we'll soon place our evening repast upon the table." "very well," was the brief reply, as he passed up the stairs with the small hair trunk on his shoulder. chapter iv. domestic bliss holcroft had been given a foretaste of the phase of torment which he was destined to endure in his domestic relations, and was planning to secure a refuge into which he could not be pursued. he had made himself a little more presentable for supper, instinctively aware that nothing would escape the lynx-eyed widow, and was taking some measurements from the floor to a stovepipe hole leading into the chimney flue, when he became aware that someone was in the doorway. turning, he saw jane with her small catlike eyes fixed intently upon him. instantly he had the feeling that he was being watched and would be watched. "supper's ready," said the girl, disappearing. mrs. mumpson smiled upon him--if certain contortions of her thin, sharp face could be termed a smile--from that side of the table at which his wife had sat so many years, and he saw that the low rocking chair, which he had preserved jealously from his former "help," had been brought from the parlor and established in the old familiar place. mrs. mumpson folded her hands and assumed a look of deep solemnity; jane, as instructed, also lowered her head, and they waited for him to say "grace." he was in far too bitter a mood for any such pious farce, and stolidly began to help them to the ham and eggs, which viands had been as nearly spoiled as was possible in their preparation. the widow raised her head with a profound sigh which set holcroft's teeth on edge, but he proceeded silently with his supper. the biscuits were heavy enough to burden the lightest conscience; and the coffee, simply grounds swimming around in lukewarm water. he took a sip, then put down his cup and said, quietly, "guess i'll take a glass of milk tonight. mrs. mumpson, if you don't know how to make coffee, i can soon show you." "why! isn't it right? how strange! perhaps it would be well for you to show me just exactly how you like it, for it will afford me much pleasure to make it to your taste. men's tastes differ so! i've heard that no two men's tastes were alike; and, after all, everything is a matter of taste. now cousin abiram doesn't believe in coffee at all. he thinks it is unwholesome. have you ever thought that it might be unwholesome?" "i'm used to it, and would like it good when i have it at all." "why, of course, of course! you must have it exactly to your taste. jane, my dear, we must put our minds on coffee and learn precisely how mr. holcroft likes it, and when the hired girl comes we must carefully superintend her when she makes it. by the way, i suppose you will employ my assistant tomorrow, mr. holcroft." "i can't get a girl short of town," was the reply, "and there is so much cream in the dairy that ought to be churned at once that i'll wait till next monday and take down the butter." mrs. mumpson put on a grave, injured air, and said, "well," so disapprovingly that it was virtually saying that it was not well at all. then, suddenly remembering that this was not good policy, she was soon all smiles and chatter again. "how cozy this is!" she cried, "and how soon one acquires the home feeling! why, anyone looking in at the window would think that we were an old established family, and yet this is but our first meal together. but it won't be the last, mr. holcroft. i cannot make it known to you how your loneliness, which cousin lemuel has so feelingly described to me, has affected my feelings. cousin nancy said but this very day that you have had desperate times with all kinds of dreadful creatures. but all that's past. jane and me will give a look of stability and respecterbility to every comer." "well, really, mrs. mumpson, i don't know who's to come." "oh, you'll see!" she replied, wrinkling her thin, blue lips into what was meant for a smile, and nodding her head at him encouragingly. "you won't be so isolated no more. now that i'm here, with my offspring, your neighbors will feel that they can show you their sympathy. the most respecterble people in town will call, and your life will grow brighter and brighter; clouds will roll away, and--" "i hope the neighbors will not be so ill-mannered as to come without being invited," remarked mr. holcroft grimly. "it's too late in the day for them to begin now." "my being here with jane will make all the difference in the world," resumed mrs. mumpson, with as saccharine an expression as she could assume. "they will come out of pure kindness and friendly interest, with the wish to encourage--" "mrs. mumpson," said holcroft, half desperately, "if anyone comes it'll be out of pure curiosity, and i don't want such company. selling enough butter, eggs, and produce to pay expenses will encourage me more than all the people of oakville, if they should come in a body. what's the use of talking in this way? i've done without the neighbors so far, and i'm sure they've been very careful to do without me. i shall have nothing to do with them except in the way of business, and as i said to you down at lemuel weeks's, business must be the first consideration with us all," and he rose from the table. "oh, certainly, certainly!" the widow hastened to say, "but then business is like a cloud, and the meetings and greetings of friends is a sort of silver lining, you know. what would the world be without friends--the society of those who take an abiding interest? believe me, mr. holcroft," she continued, bringing her long, skinny finger impressively down on the table, "you have lived alone so long that you are unable to see the crying needs of your own constitution. as a christian man, you require human sympathy and--" poor holcroft knew little of centrifugal force; but at that moment he was a living embodiment of it, feeling that if he did not escape he would fly into a thousand atoms. saying nervously, "i've a few chores to do," he seized his hat, and hastening out, wandered disconsolately around the barn. "i'm never going to be able to stand her," he groaned. "i know now why my poor wife shook her head whenever this woman was mentioned. the clack of her tongue would drive any man living crazy, and the gimlet eyes of that girl jane would bore holes through a saint's patience. well, well! i'll put a stove up in my room, then plowing and planting time will soon be here, and i guess i can stand it at mealtimes for three months, for unless she stops her foolishness she shan't stay any longer." jane had not spoken during the meal, but kept her eyes on holcroft, except when he looked toward her, and then she instantly averted her gaze. when she was alone with her mother, she said abruptly, "we aint a-goin' to stay here long, nuther." "why not?" was the sharp, responsive query. "'cause the same look's comin' into his face that was in cousin lemuel's and cousin abiram's and all the rest of 'em. 'fi's you i'd keep still now. 'pears to me they all want you to keep still and you won't." "jane," said mrs. mumpson in severe tones, "you're an ignorant child. don't presume to instruct me! besides, this case is entirely different. mr. holcroft must be made to understand from the start that i'm not a common woman--that i'm his equal, and in most respects his superior. if he aint made to feel this, it'll never enter his head--but law! there's things which you can't and oughtn't to understand." "but i do," said the girl shortly, "and he won't marry you, nor keep you, if you talk him to death." "jane!" gasped mrs. mumpson, as she sank into the chair and rocked violently. the night air was keen and soon drove holcroft into the house. as he passed the kitchen window, he saw that mrs. mumpson was in his wife's rocking chair and that jane was clearing up the table. he kindled a fire on the parlor hearth, hoping, but scarcely expecting, that he would be left alone. nor was he very long, for the widow soon opened the door and entered, carrying the chair. "oh, you are here," she said sweetly. "i heard the fire crackling, and i do so love open wood fires. they're company in themselves, and they make those who bask in the flickering blaze inclined to be sociable. to think of how many long, lonely evenings you have sat here when you had persons in your employ with whom you could have no affinity whatever! i don't see how you stood it. under such circumstances life must cloud up into a dreary burden." it never occurred to mrs. mumpson that her figures of speech were often mixed. she merely felt that the sentimental phase of conversation must be very flowery. but during the first evening she had resolved on prudence. "mr. holcroft shall have time," she thought, "for the hope to steal into his heart that his housekeeper may become something more to him than housekeeper--that there is a nearer and loftier relation." meanwhile she was consumed with curiosity to know something about the "persons" previously employed and his experiences with them. with a momentary, and, as she felt, a proper pause before descending to ordinary topics, she resumed, "my dear mr. holcroft, no doubt it will be a relief to your overfraught mind to pour into a symperthetic ear the story of your troubles with those--er--those peculiar females that--er--that--" "mrs. mumpson, it would be a much greater relief to my mind to forget all about 'em," he replied briefly. "indeed!" exclaimed the widow. "was they as bad as that? who'd 'a' thought it! well, well, well; what people there is in the world! and you couldn't abide 'em, then?" "no, i couldn't." "well now; what hussies they must have been! and to think you were here all alone, with no better company! it makes my heart bleed. they do say that bridget malony is equal to anything, and i've no doubt but that she took things and did things." "well, she's taken herself off, and that's enough." then he groaned inwardly, "good lord! i could stand her and all her tribe bettern'n this one." "yes, mr. holcroft," pursued mrs. mumpson, sinking her voice to a loud, confidential whisper, "and i don't believe you've any idea how much she took with her. i fear you've been robbed in all these vicissitudes. men never know what's in a house. they need caretakers; respecterble women, that would sooner cut out their tongues than purloin. how happy is the change which has been affected! how could you abide in the house with such a person as that bridget malony?" "well, well, mrs. mumpson! she abode with herself. i at least had this room in peace and quietness." "of course, of course! a person so utterly unrespecterble would not think of entering this apartment; but then you had to meet her, you know. you could not act as if she was not, when she was, and there being so much of her, too. she was a monstrous-looking person. it's dreadful to think that such persons belong to our sex. i don't wonder you feel as you do about it all. i can understand you perfectly. all your senserbleness was offended. you felt that your very home had become sacrilegious. well, now, i suppose she said awful things to you?" holcroft could not endure this style of inquisition and comment another second longer. he rose and said, "mrs. mumpson, if you want to know just what she said and did, you must go and ask her. i'm very tired. i'll go out and see that the stock's all right, and then go to bed." "oh, certainly, certainly!" ejaculated the widow. "repose is nature's sweet rester, says the poet. i can see how recalling those dreadful scenes with those peculiar females--" but he was gone. in passing out, he caught sight of jane whisking back into the kitchen. "she's been listening," he thought. "well, i'll go to town tomorrow afternoon, get a stove for my room upstairs, and stuff the keyhole." he went to the barn and looked with envy at the placid cows and quiet horses. at last, having lingered as long as he could, he returned to the kitchen. jane had washed and put away the supper dishes after a fashion, and was now sitting on the edge of a chair in the farthest corner of the room. "take this candle and go to your mother," he said curtly. then he fastened the doors and put out the lamp. standing for an instant at the parlor entrance, he added, "please rake up the fire and put out the light before you come up. good night." "oh, certainly, certainly! we'll look after everything just as if it was our own. the sense of strangeness will soon pass--" but his steps were halfway up the stairs. mother and daughter listened until they heard him overhead, then, taking the candle, they began a most minute examination of everything in the room. poor holcroft listened also; too worried, anxious, and nervous to sleep until they came up and all sounds ceased in the adjoining apartment. chapter v. mrs. mumpson takes up her burdens the next morning holcroft awoke early. the rising sun flooded his plain little room with mellow light. it was impossible to give way to dejection in that radiance, and hope, he scarcely knew why, sprung up in his heart. he was soon dressed, and having kindled the kitchen fire, went out on the porch. there had been a change in the wind during the night, and now it blew softly from the south. the air was sweet with the indefinable fragrance of spring. the ethereal notes of bluebirds were heard on every side. migratory robins were feeding in the orchard, whistling and calling their noisy congratulations on arriving at old haunts. the frost was already oozing from the ground, but the farmer welcomed the mud, knowing that it indicated a long advance toward plowing and planting time. he bared his head to the sweet, warm air and took long, deep breaths. "if this weather holds," he muttered, "i can soon put in some early potatoes on that warm hillside yonder. yes, i can stand even her for the sake of being on the old place in mornings like this. the weather'll be getting better every day and i can be out of doors more. i'll have a stove in my room tonight; i would last night if the old air-tight hadn't given out completely. i'll take it to town this afternoon and sell it for old iron. then i'll get a bran'-new one and put it up in my room. they can't follow me there and they can't follow me outdoors, and so perhaps i can live in peace and work most of the time." thus he was muttering to himself, as lonely people so often do, when he felt that someone was near. turning suddenly, he saw jane half-hidden by the kitchen door. finding herself observed, the girl came forward and said in her brief monotonous way: "mother'll be down soon. if you'll show me how you want the coffee and things, i guess i can learn." "i guess you'll have to, jane. there'll be more chance of your teaching your mother than of her teaching you, i fear. but we'll see, we'll see; it's strange people can't see what's sensible and best for 'em when they see so much." the child made no reply, but watched him intently as he measured out and then ground half a cup of coffee. "the firs thing to do," he began kindly, "is to fill the kettle with water fresh drawn from the well. never make coffee or tea with water that's been boiled two or three times. now, i'll give the kettle a good rinsing, so as to make sure you start with it clean." having accomplished this, he filled the vessel at the well and placed it on the fire, remarking as he did so, "your mother can cook a little, can't she?" "i s'pose so," jane replied. "when father was livin' mother said she kept a girl. since then, we've visited round. but she'll learn, and if she can't, i can." "what on earth--but there's no use of talking. when the water boils--bubbles up and down, you know--call me. i suppose you and your mother can get the rest of the breakfast? oh, good morning, mrs. mumpson! i was just showing jane about the coffee. you two can go on and do all the rest, but don't touch the coffee till the kettle boils, and then i'll come in and show you my way, and, if you please, i don't wish it any other way." "oh, certainly, certainly!" began mrs. mumpson, but holcroft waited to hear no more. "she's a woman," he muttered, "and i'll say nothing rude or ugly to her, but i shan't listen to her talk half a minute when i can help myself; and if she won't do any thing but talk--well, we'll see, we'll see! a few hours in the dairy will show whether she can use anything besides her tongue." as soon as they were alone jane turned sharply on her mother and said, "now you've got to do something to help. at cousin lemuel's and other places they wouldn't let us help. anyhow, they wouldn't let me. he 'spects us both to work, and pays you for it. i tell you agin, he won't let us stay here unless we do. i won't go visitin' round any more, feelin' like a stray cat in every house i go to. you've got to work, and talk less." "why, jane! how you talk!" "i talk sense. come, help me get breakfast." "do you think that's a proper way for a child to address a parent?" "no matter what i think. come and help. you'll soon know what he thinks if we keep breakfast waitin'." "well, i'll do such menial work until he gets a girl, and then he shall learn that he can't expect one with such respecterble connections--" "hope i may never see any of 'em agin," interrupted jane shortly, and then she relapsed into silence while her mother rambled on in her characteristic way, making singularly inapt efforts to assist in the task before them. as holcroft rose from milking a cow he found jane beside him. a ghost could not have come more silently, and again her stealthy ways gave him an unpleasant sensation. "kettle is boilin'," she said, and was gone. he shook his head and muttered, "queer tribe, these mumpsons! i've only to get an odd fish of a girl to help, and i'll have something like a menagerie in the house." he carried his pails of foaming milk to the dairy, and then entered the kitchen. "i've only a minute," he began hastily, seeking to forestall the widow. "yes, the kettle's boiling all right. first scald out the coffeepot--put three-quarters of a cup of ground coffee into the pot, break an egg into it, so; pour on the egg and coffee half a cup of cold water and stir it all up well, this way. next pour in about a pint of boiling water from the kettle, set the pot on the stove and let it--the coffee, i mean--cook twenty minutes, remember, not less than twenty minutes. i'll be back to breakfast by that time. now you know just how i want my coffee, don't you?" looking at jane. jane nodded, but mrs. mumpson began, "oh certainly, certainly! boil an egg twenty minutes, add half a cup of cold water, and--" "i know," interrupted jane, "i can always do as you did." holcroft again escaped to the barn, and eventually returned with a deep sigh. "i'll have to face a good deal of her music this morning," he thought, "but i shall have at least a good cup of coffee to brace me." mrs. mumpson did not abandon the suggestion that grace should be said,--she never abandoned anything,--but the farmer, in accordance with his purpose to be civil, yet pay no attention to her obtrusive ways, gave no heed to her hint. he thought jane looked apprehensive, and soon learned the reason. his coffee was at least hot, but seemed exceedingly weak. "i hope now that it's just right," said mrs. mumpson complacently, "and feeling sure that it was made just to suit you, i filled the coffeepot full from the kettle. we can drink what we desire for breakfast and then the rest can be set aside until dinner time and warmed over. then you'll have it just to suit you for the next meal, and we, at the same time, will be practicing econermy. it shall now be my great aim to help you econermize. any coarse, menial hands can work, but the great thing to be considered is a caretaker; one who, by thoughtfulness and the employment of her mind, will make the labor of others affective." during this speech, holcroft could only stare at the woman. the rapid motion of her thin jaw seemed to fascinate him, and he was in perplexity over not merely her rapid utterance, but also the queries. had she maliciously spoiled the coffee? or didn't she know any better? "i can't make her out," he thought, "but she shall learn that i have a will of my own," and he quietly rose, took the coffeepot, and poured its contents out of doors; then went through the whole process of making his favorite beverage again, saying coldly, "jane, you had better watch close this time. i don't wish anyone to touch the coffeepot but you." even mrs. mumpson was a little abashed by his manner, but when he resumed his breakfast she speedily recovered her complacency and volubility. "i've always heard," she said, with her little cackling laugh, "that men would be extravergant, especially in some things. there are some things they're fidgety about and will have just so. well, well, who has a better right than a well-to-do, fore-handed man? woman is to complement the man, and it should be her aim to study the great--the great--shall we say reason, for her being? which is adaptation," and she uttered the word with feeling, assured that holcroft could not fail of being impressed by it. the poor man was bolting such food as had been prepared in his haste to get away. "yes," continued the widow, "adaptation is woman's mission and--" "really, mrs. mumpson, your and jane's mission this morning will be to get as much butter as possible out of the cream and milk on hand. i'll set the old dog on the wheel, and start the churn within half an hour," and he rose with the thought, "i'd rather finish my breakfast on milk and coffee by and by than stand this." and he said, "please let the coffee be until i come in to show you about taking out and working the butter." the scenes in the dairy need not be dwelt upon. he saw that jane might be taught, and that she would probably try to do all that her strength permitted. it was perfectly clear that mrs. mumpson was not only ignorant of the duties which he had employed her to perform, but that she was also too preoccupied with her talk and notions of gentility ever to learn. he was already satisfied that in inducing him to engage her, lemuel weeks had played him a trick, but there seemed no other resource than to fulfill his agreement. with mrs. mumpson in the house, there might be less difficulty in securing and keeping a hired girl who, with jane, might do the essential work. but the future looked so unpromising that even the strong coffee could not sustain his spirits. the hopefulness of the early morning departed, leaving nothing but dreary uncertainty. mrs. mumpson was bent upon accompanying him to town and engaging the girl herself. "there would be great propriety in my doing so," she argued at dinner, "and propriety is something that adorns all the human race. there would be no danger of my getting any of the peculiar females such as you have been afflicted with. as i am to superintend her labors, she will look up to me with respect and humility if she learns from the first to recognize in me a superior on whom she will be dependent for her daily bread. no shiftless hussy would impose upon me. i would bring home--how sweet the word sounds!--a model of industry and patient endurance. she would be deferential, she would know her place, too. everything would go like clockwork in our home. i'll put on my things at once and--" "excuse me, mrs. mumpson. it would not be right to leave jane here alone. moreover, i'd rather engage my own help." "but my dear mr. holcroft, you don't realize--men never do realize--that you will have a long, lonely ride with a female of unknown--unknown antercedents. it will be scarcely respecterble, and respecterbility should be man and woman's chief aim. jane is not a timid child, and in an emergency like this, even if she was, she would gladly sacrifice herself to sustain the proprieties of life. now that your life has begun under new and better auspices, i feel that i ought to plead with you not to cloud your brightening prospects by a thoughtless unregard of what society looks upon as proper. the eyes of the community will now be upon us--" "you must excuse me, mrs. mumpson. all i ask of the community is to keep their eyes on their own business, while i attend to mine in my own way. the probabilities are that the girl will come out on the stage monday," and he rose from the dinner table and hastily made his preparations for departure. he was soon driving rapidly away, having a sort of nervous apprehension lest jane, or the widow, should suddenly appear on the seat beside him. a basket of eggs and some inferior butter, with the burnt-out stove, were in his wagon and his bank book was in his pocket. it was with sinking heart that he thought of making further inroads on his small accumulations. before he was out of sight mrs. mumpson betook herself to the rocking chair and began to expatiate on the blindness and obduracy of men in general and of mr. holcroft in particular. "they are all much alike," she complained, "and are strangely neglectful of the proprieties of life. my dear, deceased husband, your father, was becoming gradually senserble of my value in guiding him in this respect, and indeed, i may add in all respects, when, in the very prime of his expanding manhood, he was laid low. of course, my happiness was buried then and my heart can never throb again, but i have a mission in the world--i feel it--and here is a desolate home bereft of female influence and consolation and hitherto painfully devoid of respecterbility. "i once called on the late mrs. holcroft, and--i must say it--i went away depressed by a sense of her lack of ability to develop in her husband those qualities which would make him an ornament to society. she was a silent woman, she lacked mind and ideas. she had seen little of the world and knew not what was swaying people. therefore, her husband, having nothing else to think of, became absorbed in the accumulation of dollars. not that i object to dollars--they have their proper place,--but minds should be fixed on all things. we should take a deep personal interest in our fellow beings, and thus we grow broad. as i was saying, mr. holcroft was not developed by his late spouse. he needs awakening, arousing, stimulating, drawing out, and such i feel to be my mission. i must be patient; i cannot expect the habits of years to pass away under a different kind of female influence, at once." jane had been stolidly washing and putting away dishes during this partial address to herself and partial soliloquy, but now remarked, "you and me will pass away in a week if you go on as you've begun. i can see it comin'. then, where'll we go to?" "your words, jane, only show that you are an ignorant, short-sighted child. do you suppose that a woman of my years and experience would make no better provision for the future than a man's changeful mind--a warped and undeveloped mind, at that? no; i have an agreement with mr. holcroft. i shall be a member of his household for three months at least, and long before that he will begin to see everything in a new light. it will gradually dawn upon him that he has been defrauded of proper female influence and society. now, he is crude, he thinks only of work and accumulating; but when the work is done by a menial female's hands and his mind is more at rest, there will begin to steal in upon him the cravings of his mind. he will see that material things are not all in all." "p'raps he will. i don't half know that you're talkin' about. 'fi's you, i'd learn to work and do things as he wants 'em. that's what i'm going to do. shall i go now and make up his bed and tidy his room?" "i think i will accompany you, jane, and see that your task is properly performed." "of course you want to see everythin' in the room, just as i do." "as housekeeper, i should see everything that is under my care. that is the right way to look at the matter." "well, come and look then." "you are becoming strangely disrespectful, jane." "can't help it," replied the girl, "i'm gettin' mad. we've been elbowed around long's i can remember, at least i've been, and now we're in a place where we've a right to be, and you do nothin' but talk, talk, talk, when he hates talk. now you'll go up in his room and you'll see everythin' in it, so you could tell it all off tomorrow. why, can't you see he hates talk and wants somethin' done?" "jane," said mrs. mumpson, in her most severe and dignified manner, "you are not only disrespectful to your parent, but you're a time server. what mr. holcroft wants is a very secondary matter; what is best for him is the chief consideration. but i have touched on things far above your comprehension. come, you can make up the bed, and i shall inspect as becomes my station." chapter vi. a marriage! in a quiet side street of the market town in which mr. holcroft was accustomed to dispose of his farm produce was a three-story tenement house. a family occupied each floor, those dwelling in the first two stories being plain, respectable people of the mechanic class. the rooms in the third story were, of course, the cheapest, but even from the street might be seen evidences that more money had been spent upon them than could have been saved in rent. lace curtains were looped aside from the windows, through which were caught glimpses of flowers that must have come from a greenhouse. we have only to enter these apartments to find that the suggestion of refined taste is amply fulfilled. while nothing is costly, there is a touch of grace, a hint of beauty in everything permitting simple adornment. the mistress of these rooms is not satisfied with neatness and order merely; it is her instinct to add something to please the eye--a need essential to her, yet too often conspicuously absent in rented quarters of a similar character. it is remarkable to what a degree people's abodes are a reflex of themselves. mrs. alida ostrom had been brought to these rooms a happy bride but a few months since. they were then bare and not very clean. her husband had seemed bent on indulging her so far as his limited means permitted. he had declared that his income was so modest that he could afford nothing better than these cheap rooms in an obscure street, but she had been abundantly content, for she had known even the extremity of poverty. alida ostrom had passed beyond the period of girlhood, with its superficial desires and ambitions. when her husband first met her, she was a woman of thirty, and had been chastened by deep sorrows and some bitter experiences. years before, she and her mother had come to this town from a new england city in the hope of bettering their circumstances. they had no weapons other than their needles with which to fight life's battle, but they were industrious and frugal--characteristic traits which won the confidence of the shopkeepers for whom they worked. all went as well, perhaps, as they could expect, for two or three years, their secluded lives passing uneventfully and, to a certain extent, happily. they had time to read some good books obtained at a public library; they enjoyed an occasional holiday in the country; and they went to church twice every sunday when it was not stormy. the mother usually dozed in the obscure seat near the door which they occupied, for she was getting old, and the toil of the long week wearied her.--alida, on the contrary, was closely attentive. her mind seemed to crave all the sustenance it could get from every source, and her reverential manner indicated that the hopes inspired by her faith were dear and cherished. although they lived such quiet lives and kept themselves apart from their neighbors, there was no mystery about them which awakened surmises. "they've seen better days," was the common remark when they were spoken of; and this was true. while they had no desire to be social with the people among whom they lived, they did not awaken prejudices by the assertion of superiority. indeed, it was seen that the two women had all they could do to earn their livelihood, and they were left to do this in peace. when alida armstrong--for that was her maiden name--carried her own and her mother's work to and from the shops, she often encountered admiring glances. she was not exactly pretty, but she had the good, refined face which is often more attractive than the merely pretty one, and she possessed a trim, rounded figure which she knew how to clothe with taste from the simplest and most inexpensive materials. nor did she seek to dress above her station. when passing along the street, any discerning person would recognize that she was a working girl; only the superficial would look upon her as a common-place girl. there was something in her modest air and graceful, elastic carriage which suggested the thought to many observers, "she has seen better days." the memory of these days, which had promised immunity from wearing toil, anxiety, and poverty, was a barrier between the two women and their present world. death had bereft them of husband, father, and such property as he had left had been lost in a bad investment. learning that they were almost penniless, they had patiently set about earning honest bread. this they had succeeded in doing as long as the mother kept her usual health. but the infirmities of age were creeping upon her. one winter she took a heavy cold and was very ill. she rallied only temporarily in the milder days of spring. in the summer's heat her strength failed, and she died. during her mother's long illness alida was devotion itself. the strain upon her was severe indeed, for she not only had to earn food for both, but there were also doctor's bills, medicines, and delicacies to pay for. the poor girl grew thin from work by day, watching by night, and from fear and anxiety at all times. their scanty savings were exhausted; articles were sold from their rooms; the few precious heirlooms of silver and china were disposed of; alida even denied herself the food she needed rather than ask for help or permit her mother to want for anything which ministered to their vain hopes of renewed health. what she should have done she scarcely knew, had not an unexpected friend interested himself in her behalf. in one of the men's clothing stores was a cutter from whom she obtained work. soon after he appeared in this shop he began to manifest signs of interest in her he was about her own age, he had a good trade, and she often wondered why he appeared so reticent and moody, as compared with others in similar positions. but he always spoke kindly to her, and when her mother's illness first developed, he showed all the leniency permitted to him in regard to her work. his apparent sympathy, and the need of explaining why she was not able to finish her tasks as promptly as usual, led her gradually to reveal to him the sad struggle in which she was engaged. he promised to intercede in her behalf with their mutual employers, and asked if he might come to see her mother. recognizing how dependent she was upon this man's good will, and seeing nothing in his conduct but kindness and sympathy, she consented. his course and his words confirmed all her good impressions and awakened on her side corresponding sympathy united with a lively gratitude. he told her that he also was a stranger in the town, that he had but few acquaintances and no friends, that he had lost relatives and was in no need to go about like other young men. his manner was marked apparently by nothing more than interest and a wish to help her, and was untinged by gallantry; so they gradually became good friends. when he called sunday afternoons the mother looked at him wistfully, in the hope that her daughter would not be left without a protector. at last the poor woman died, and alida was in sore distress, for she had no means with which to bury her. ostrom came and said in the kindest tones: "you must let me lend you what you need and you can pay me back with interest, if you wish. you won't be under any obligation, for i have money lying idle in the bank. when you have only yourself to support it will not take you long to earn the sum." there seemed nothing else for her to do and so it was arranged. with tear-blinded eyes she made her simple mourning, and within a week after her mother's death was at work again, eager to repay her debt. he urged her not to hasten--to take all the rest she could while the hot weather lasted, and few evenings passed that he did not come to take her out for a walk through the quieter streets. by this time he had won her confidence completely, and her heart overflowed with gratitude. of course she was not so unsophisticated as not to know whither all this attention was tending, but it was a great relief to her mind that his courtship was so quiet and undemonstrative. her heart was sore and grief-stricken, and she was not conscious of any other feeling toward him than the deepest gratitude and wish to make such return as was within her power. he was apparently very frank in regard to his past life, and nothing was said which excited her suspicions. indeed, she felt that it would be disloyalty to think of questioning or surmising evil of one who had proved himself so true a friend in her sore need. she was therefore somewhat prepared for the words he spoke one warm september day, as they sat together in a little shaded park. "alida," he said, a little nervously, "we are both strangers and alone in this world, but surely we are no longer strangers to each other. let us go quietly to some minister and be married. that is the best way for you to pay your debt and keep me always in debt to you." she was silent a moment, then faltered, "i'd rather pay all my debt first." "what debts can there be between husband and wife? come now, let us look at the matter sensibly. i don't want to frighten you. things will go on much the same. we can take quiet rooms, i will bring work to you instead of your having to go after it. it's nobody's business but our own. we've not a circle of relations to consult or invite. we can go to some parsonage, the minister's family will be the witnesses; then i'll leave you at your room as usual, and no one will be any the wiser till i've found a place where we can go to housekeeping. that won't be long, i can tell you." he placed the matter in such a simple, natural light that she did not know how to refuse. "perhaps i do not love you as much as you ought to be loved, and deserve to be in view of all your kindness," she tried to explain. "i feel i ought to be very truthful and not deceive you in the least, as i know you would not deceive me." so strong a shiver passed through his frame that she exclaimed, "you are taking cold or you don't feel well." "oh, it's nothing!" he said hastily, "only the night air, and then a fellow always feels a little nervous, i suppose, when he's asking for something on which his happiness depends. i'm satisfied with such feeling and good will as you have for me, and will be only too glad to get you just as you are. come, before it is too late in the evening." "is your heart bent on this, after what i have said, wilson?" "yes, yes, indeed!" clasping her hand and drawing her to her feet. "it would seem very ungrateful in me to refuse, after all you have done for me and mother, if you think it's right and best. will you go to the minister whose church i attended, and who came to see mother?" "certainly, anyone you like," and he put her hand on his arm and led her away. the clergyman listened sympathetically to her brief history of ostrom's kindness, then performed a simple ceremony which his wife and daughters witnessed. as they were about to depart he said, "i will send you a certificate." "don't trouble yourself to do that," said the groom. "i'll call for it some evening soon." never had she seen ostrom in such gay spirits as on their return; and, woman-like, she was happy chiefly because she had made him happy. she also felt a glad sense of security. her mother's dying wish had been fulfilled; she had now a protector, and would soon have a home instead of a boarding place among strangers. her husband speedily found the rooms to which the reader has been introduced. the street on which they were located was no thoroughfare. its farther end was closed by a fence and beyond were fields. with the exception of those who dwelt upon it or had business with the residents, few people came thither. to this locality, ostrom brought his bride, and selected rooms whose windows were above those of the surrounding houses. so far from regretting this isolation and remoteness from the central life of the town, alida's feelings sanctioned his choice. the sense of possessing security and a refuge was increased, and it was as natural for her to set about making the rooms homelike as it was to breathe. her husband appeared to have exhausted his tendencies toward close economy in the choice of apartments, and she was given more money than she desired with which to furnish and decorate. he said, "fix everything up to suit your mind, and i'll be satisfied." this she did with such skill, taste, and good management that she returned a large portion of the sum he had given her, whereupon he laughingly remarked that she had already saved more than she owed him. he seemed disinclined to accompany her in the selection of their simple outfit, but professed himself so pleased with her choice of everything that she was gratified and happy in the thought of relieving him from trouble. thus their married life began under what appeared to her the most promising and congenial circumstances. she soon insisted on having work again, and her busy fingers did much to increase his income. alida was not an exacting woman, and recognized from the beginning that her husband would naturally have peculiar ways of his own. unlike mrs. mumpson, she never expatiated on "adaptation," but ostrom soon learned, with much inward relief, that his wife would accept unquestioningly what appeared to be his habits and preferences. he went early to his place of work, taking the nice little lunch which she prepared, and returned in the dusk of the evening when he always found a warm dinner in readiness. after this, he was ready enough to walk with her, but, as before, chose the least frequented streets. places of amusement and resort seemed distasteful. on sundays he enjoyed a ramble in the country as long as the season permitted, and then showed a great disinclination to leave the fireside. for a time he went with her in the evening to church, but gradually persuaded her to remain at home and read or talk to him. his wife felt that she had little cause to complain of his quiet ways and methodical habits. he had exhibited them before marriage and they were conducive to her absolute sense of proprietorship in him--an assurance so dear to a woman's heart. the pleasures of his home and her society appeared to be all that he craved. at times she had wondered a little at a certain air of apprehensiveness in his manner when steps were heard upon the stairs, but as the quiet days and weeks passed, such manifestations of nervousness ceased. occasionally, he would start violently and mutter strange words in his sleep, but noting disturbed the growing sense of security and satisfaction in alida's heart. the charm of a regular, quiet life grows upon one who has a nature fitted for it, and this was true to an unusual degree of alida ostrom. her content was also increased by the fact that her husband was able each month to deposit a goodly portion of their united earnings in a savings bank. every day, every week, was so like the preceding ones that it seemed as if their happy life might go on forever. she was gladly conscious that there was more than gratitude and good will in her heart. she now cherished a deep affection for her husband and felt that he had become essential to her life. "oh, how happy mother would be if she knew how safe and protected i am!" she murmured one march evening, as she was preparing her husband's dinner. "leaving me alone in the world was far worse to her than dying." at that very moment a gaunt-looking woman, with a child in her arms, stood in the twilight on the opposite side of the street, looking up at the windows. chapter vii. from home to the street as the shadows of the gloomy march evening deepened, alida lighted the lamp, and was then a little surprised to hear a knock at the door. no presentiment of trouble crossed her mind; she merely thought that one of her neighbors on the lower floors had stepped up to borrow something. "come in!" she cried, as she adjusted the shade of the lamp. a tall, thin, pale woman entered, carrying a child that was partly hidden by a thin shawl, their only outer protection against the chill winds which had been blustering all day. alida looked at the stranger inquiringly and kindly, expecting an appeal for charity. the woman sank into a chair as if exhausted, and fixed her dark hollow eyes on mrs. ostrom. she appeared consumed by a terrible curiosity. alida wondered at the strange chill of apprehension with which she encountered this gaze. it was so intent, so searching, yet so utterly devoid of a trace of good will. she began gently, "can i do anything for you?" for a moment or two longer there was no response other than the same cold, questioning scrutiny, as if, instead of a sweet-faced woman, something monstrously unnatural was present. at last, in slow, icy utterance, came the words, "so you are--her!" "is this woman insane?" thought alida. "why else does she look at me so? oh, that wilson would come! i'm sorry for you, my good woman," she began kindly. "you are laboring under some mistake. my husband--" "your husband!" exclaimed the stranger, with an indescribable accent of scorn and reproach. "yes," replied alida with quiet dignity. "my husband will be home soon and he will protect me. you have no right to enter my rooms and act as you do. if you are sick and in trouble, i and my husband--" "please tell me, miss, how he became your husband?" "by lawful marriage, by my pastor." "we'll soon see how lawful it was," replied the woman, with a bitter laugh. "i'd like you to tell me how often a man can be married lawfully." "what do you mean?" cried alida, with a sudden flash in her blue eyes. then, as if reproaching herself, she added kindly, "pardon me. i see you are not well. you do not realize what you are saying or where you are. take a seat nearer the fire, and when mr. ostrom comes from his work he'll take you to your friends." all the while she was speaking the woman regarded her with a hard, stony gaze; then replied, coldly and decisively, "you are wrong, miss"--how that title grated on alida's ears!--"i am neither insane nor drunk. i do know what i am saying and where i am. you are playing a bold game or else you have been deceived, and very easily deceived, too. they say some women are so eager to be married that they ask no questions, but jump at the first chance. whether deceived or deceiving, it doesn't matter now. but you and he shall learn that there is a law in the land which will protect an honest woman in her sacred rights. you needn't look so shocked and bewildered. you are not a young, giddy girl if i may judge from your face. what else could you expect when you took up with a stranger you knew nothing about? do you know that likeness?" and she drew from her bosom a daguerreotype. alida waved it away as she said indignantly, "i won't believe ill of my husband. i--" "no, miss," interrupted the woman sternly, "you are right for once. you won't indeed believe ill of your husband, but you'll have to believe ill of mine. there's no use of your putting on such airs any longer. no matter how rash and silly you may have been, if you have a spark of honesty you'll be open to proof. if you and he try to brazen it out, the law will open both your eyes. look at that likeness, look at these letters; and i have other proof and witnesses which can't be disputed. the name of the man you are living with is not wilson ostrom. his name is henry ferguson. i am mrs. ferguson, and i have my marriage certificate, and--what! are you going to faint? well, i can wait till you recover and till he comes," and she coolly sat down again. alida had glanced at the proofs which the woman had thrust into her hands, then staggered back to a lounge that stood near. she might have fainted, but at that awful moment she heard a familiar step on the stairs. she was facing the door; the terrible stranger sat at one side, with her back toward it. when ostrom entered he first saw alida looking pale and ill. he hastened toward her exclaiming, "why, lida, dear, what is the matter? you are sick!" instinctively she sprang to his arms, crying, "oh, thank god! you've come. take away this awful woman!" "yes, henry ferguson; it's very proper you should take me away from a place like this." as the man who had called himself wilson ostrom heard that voice he trembled like an aspen; his clasp of alida relaxed, his arms dropped to his side, and, as he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, he groaned, "lost!" "found out, you mean," was the woman's reply. step by step, with horror-stricken eyes, alida retreated from the man to whose protection and embrace she had flown. "then it's true?" she said in a hoarse whisper. he was speechless. "you are willfully blind now, miss, if you don't see it's true," was the stranger's biting comment. paying no heed to her, alida's eyes rested on the man whom she had believed to be her husband. she took an irresolute step toward him. "speak, wilson!" she cried. "i gave you my whole faith and no one shall destroy it but yourself. speak, explain! show me that there's some horrible mistake." "lida," said the man, lifting his bloodless face, "if you knew all the circumstances--" "she shall know them!" half shrieked the woman, as if at last stung to fury. "i see that you both hope to get through this affair with a little high tragedy, then escape and come together again in some other hiding place. as for this creature, she can go where she pleases, after hearing the truth; but you, henry ferguson, have got to do your duty by me and your child or go to prison. let me tell you, miss, that this man was also married to me by a minister. i have my certificate and can produce witnesses. there's one little point you'll do well to consider," she continued, in bitter sarcasm, "he married me first. i suppose you are not so young and innocent as not to know where this fact places you. he courted and won me as other girls are courted and married. he promised me all that he ever promised you. then, when i lost my rosy cheeks--when i became sick and feeble from child-bearing--he deserted and left me almost penniless. you needn't think you will have to take my word for this. i have proof enough. and now, henry ferguson, i've a few words for you, and then you must take your choice. you can't escape. i and my brother have tracked you here. you can't leave these rooms without going to prison. you'd be taken at the very door. but i give you one more chance. if you will promise before god to do your duty by me and your child, i'll forgive as far as a wronged woman can forgive. neither i nor my brother will take proceedings against you. what this woman will do i don't know. if she prosecutes you, and you are true to me, i'll stand by you, but i won't stand another false step or a false word from you." ferguson had again sunk into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and sat trembling and speechless. never for an instant had alida taken her eyes from him; and now, with a long, wailing cry, she exclaimed, "thank god, thank god! mother's dead." this was now her best consolation. she rushed into her bedchamber, and a moment later came out, wearing her hat and cloak. ferguson started up and was about to speak, but she silenced him by a gesture, and her tones were sad and stern as she said, "mr. ferguson, from your manner more truly than from this woman, i learn the truth. you took advantage of my misfortunes, my sorrow and friendlessness, to deceive me. you know how false are your wife's words about my eagerness to be deceived and married. but you have nothing to fear from me. i shall not prosecute you as she suggests, and i charge you before god to do your duty by your wife and child and never to speak to me again." turning, she hastened toward the door. "where are you going?" ferguson exclaimed, seeking to intercept her. she waved him off. "i don't know," she replied. "i've no right to be here," and she fled down the stairway and out into the darkness. the child had not wakened. it was well that it had not looked upon such a scene, even in utter ignorance of its meaning. chapter viii. holcroft's view of matrimony holcroft was indeed very lonely as he drove through the bare march fields and leafless woods on his way to town. the sky had clouded again, like his prospects, and he had the dreary sense of desolation which overwhelms a quiet, domestic man who feels that his home and all to which he clings are slipping from him. his lot was hard enough at best, and he had a bitter sense of being imposed upon and wronged by lemuel weeks. it was now evident enough that the widow and her daughter had been an intolerable burden to his neighbor, who had taken advantage of his need and induced him to assume the burden through false representation. to a man of holcroft's simple, straightforward nature, any phase of trickery was intensely repugnant, and the fact that he had been overreached in a matter relating to his dearest hopes galled him to the quick. he possessed the strong common sense of his class; his wife had been like him in this respect, and her influence had intensified the trait. queer people with abnormal manners excited his intense aversion. the most charitable view that he could take of mrs. mumpson was that her mind--such as she had--was unbalanced, that it was an impossibility for her to see any subject or duty in a sensible light or its right proportions. her course, so prejudicial to her own interests, and her incessant and stilted talk, were proof to his mind of a certain degree of insanity, and he had heard that people in this condition often united to their unnatural ways a wonderful degree of cunning. her child was almost as uncanny as herself and gave him a shivering sense of discomfort whenever he caught her small, greenish eyes fixed upon him. "yet, she'll be the only one who'll earn her salt. i don't see how i'm going to stand 'em--i don't, indeed, but suppose i'll have to for three months, or else sell out and clear out." by the time he reached town a cold rain had set in. he went at once to the intelligence office, but could obtain no girl for mrs. mumpson to "superintend," nor any certain promise of one. he did not much care, for he felt that the new plan was not going to work. having bartered all his eggs for groceries, he sold the old stove and bought a new one, then drew from the bank a little ready money. since his butter was so inferior, he took it to his friend tom watterly, the keeper of the poorhouse. prosperous tom slapped his old friend on the back and said, "you look awfully glum and chopfallen, jim. come now, don't look at the world as if it was made of tar, pitch, and turpentine. i know your luck's been hard, but you make it a sight harder by being so set in all your ways. you think there's no place to live on god's earth but that old up-and-down-hill farm of yours that i wouldn't take as a gift. why, man alive, there's a dozen things you can turn your hand to; but if you will stay there, do as other men do. pick out a smart, handy woman that can make butter yaller as gold, that'll bring gold, and not such limpsy-slimsy, ghostly-looking stuff as you've brought me. bein' it's you, i'll take it and give as much for it as i'd pay for better, but you can't run your old ranch in this fashion." "i know it, tom," replied holcroft ruefully. "i'm all at sea; but, as you say, i'm set in my ways, and i'd rather live on bread and milk and keep my farm than make money anywhere else. i guess i'll have to give it all up, though, and pull out, but it's like rooting up one of the old oaks in the meadow lot. the fact is, tom, i've been fooled into one of the worst scrapes i've got into yet." "i see how it is," said tom heartily and complacently, "you want a practical, foresighted man to talk straight at you for an hour or two and clear up the fog you're in. you study and brood over little things out there alone until they seem mountains which you can't get over nohow, when, if you'd take one good jump out, they'd be behind you. now, you've got to stay and take a bite with me, and then we'll light our pipes and untangle this snarl. no backing out! i can do you more good than all the preachin' you ever heard. hey, there, bill!" shouting to one of the paupers who was detailed for such work, "take this team to the barn and feed 'em. come in, come in, old feller! you'll find that tom watterly allus has a snack and a good word for an old crony." holcroft was easily persuaded, for he felt the need of cheer, and he looked up to tom as a very sagacious, practical man. so he said, "perhaps you can see farther into a millstone than i can, and if you can show me a way out of my difficulties you'll be a friend sure enough." "why, of course i can. your difficulties are all here and here," touching his bullet head and the region of his heart. "there aint no great difficulties in fact, but, after you've brooded out there a week or two alone, you think you're caught as fast as if you were in a bear trap. here, angy," addressing his wife, "i've coaxed holcroft to take supper with us. you can hurry it up a little, can't you?" mrs. watterly gave their guest a cold, limp hand and a rather frigid welcome. but this did not disconcert him. "it's only her way," he had always thought. "she looks after her husband's interests as mine did for me, and she don't talk him to death." this thought, in the main, summed up mrs. watterly's best traits. she was a commonplace, narrow, selfish woman, whose character is not worth sketching. tom stood a little in fear of her, and was usually careful not to impose extra tasks, but since she helped him to save and get ahead, he regarded her as a model wife. holcroft shared in his opinion and sighed deeply as he sat down to supper. "ah, tom!" he said, "you're a lucky man. you've got a wife that keeps everything indoors up to the mark, and gives you a chance to attend to your own proper business. that's the way it was with mine. i never knew what a lopsided, helpless creature a man was until i was left alone. you and i were lucky in getting the women we did, but when my partner left me, she took all the luck with her. that aint the worst. she took what's more than luck and money and everything. i seemed to lose with her my grit and interest in most things. it'll seem foolishness to you, but i can't take comfort in anything much except working that old farm that i've worked and played on ever since i can remember anything. you're not one of those fools, tom, that have to learn from their own experience. take a bit from mine, and be good to your wife while you can. i'd give all i'm worth--i know that aint much--if i could say some things to my wife and do some things for her that i didn't do." holcroft spoke in the simplicity of a full and remorseful heart, but he unconsciously propitiated mrs. watterly in no small degree. indeed, she felt that he had quite repaid her for his entertainment, and the usually taciturn woman seconded his remarks with much emphasis. "well now, angy," said tom, "if you averaged up husbands in these parts i guess you'd find you were faring rather better than most women folks. i let you take the bit in your teeth and go your own jog mostly. now, own up, don't i?" "that wasn't my meaning, exactly, tom," resumed holcroft. "you and i could well afford to let our wives take their own jog, for they always jogged steady and faithful and didn't need any urging and guiding. but even a dumb critter likes a good word now and then and a little patting on the back. it doesn't cost us anything and does them a sight of good. but we kind of let the chances slip by and forget about it until like enough it's too late." "well," replied tom, with a deprecatory look at his wife, "angy don't take to pettin' very much. she thinks it's a kind of foolishness for such middle-aged people as we're getting to be." "a husband can show his consideration without blarneying," remarked mrs. watterly coldly. "when a man takes on in that way, you may be sure he wants something extra to pay for it." after a little thought holcroft said, "i guess it's a good way to pay for it between husband and wife." "look here, jim, since you're so well up on the matrimonial question, why in thunder don't you marry again? that would settle all your difficulties," and tom looked at his friend with a sort of wonder that he should hesitate to take this practical, sensible course. "it's very easy for you to say, 'why don't you marry again?' if you were in my place you'd see that there are things in the way of marrying for the sake of having a good butter maker and all that kind of thing." "mr. watterly wouldn't be long in comforting himself," remarked his wife.--"his advice to you makes the course he'd take mighty clear." "now, angy!" said tom reproachfully. "well," he added with a grin, "you're forewarned. so you've only to take care of yourself and not give me a chance." "the trouble is," holcroft resumed, "i don't see how an honest man is going to comfort himself unless it all comes about in some natural sort of way. i suppose there are people who can marry over and over again, just as easy as they'd roll off a log. it aint for me to judge 'em, and i don't understand how they do it. you are a very practical man, tom, but just you put yourself in my shoes and see what you'd do. in the first place, i don't know of a woman in the world that i'd think of marrying. that's saying nothing against the women,--there's lots too good for me,--but i don't know 'em and i can't go around and hunt 'em up. even if i could, with my shy, awkward ways, i wouldn't feel half so nervous starting out on a bear hunt. here's difficulty right at the beginning. supposing i found a nice, sensible woman, such as i'd be willing to marry, there isn't one chance in a hundred she'd look at an old fellow like me. another difficulty: supposing she would; suppose she looked me square in the eyes and said, 'so you truly want a wife?' what in thunder would i say then?--i don't want a wife, i want a housekeeper, a butter maker, one that would look after my interests as if they were her own; and if i could hire a woman that would do what i wish, i'd never think of marrying. i can't tell a woman that i love her when i don't. if i went to a minister with a woman i'd be deceiving him, and deceiving her, and perjuring myself promiscuously. i married once according to law and gospel and i was married through and through, and i can't do the thing over again in any way that would seem to me like marrying at all. the idea of me sitting by the fire and wishing that the woman who sat on the t'other side of the stove was my first wife! yet i couldn't help doing this any more than breathing. even if there was any chance of my succeeding i can't see anything square or honest in my going out and hunting up a wife as a mere matter of business. i know other people do it and i've thought a good deal about it myself, but when it comes to the point of acting i find i can't do it." the two men now withdrew from the table to the fireside and lighted their pipes. mrs. watterly stepped out for a moment and tom, looking over his shoulder to make sure she was out of ear shot, said under his breath, "but suppose you found a woman that you could love and obey, and all that?" "oh, of course, that would make everything different. i wouldn't begin with a lie then, and i know enough of my wife to feel sure that she wouldn't be a sort of dog in the manger after she was dead. she was one of those good souls that if she could speak her mind this minute she would say, 'james, what's best and right for you is best and right.' but it's just because she was such a good wife that i know there's no use of trying to put anyone in her place. where on earth could i find anybody, and how could we get acquainted so that we'd know anything about each other? no, i must just scratch along for a short time as things are and be on the lookout to sell or rent." tom smoked meditatively for a few moments, and then remarked, "i guess that's your best way out." "it aint an easy way, either," said holcroft. "finding a purchaser or tenant for a farm like mine is almost as hard as finding a wife. then, as i feel, leaving my place is next to leaving the world." tom shook his head ruefully and admitted, "i declare, jim, when a feller comes to think it all over, you are in a bad fix, especially as you feel. i thought i could talk you over into practical common sense in no time. it's easy enough when one don't know all the bearin's of a case, to think carelessly, 'oh, he aint as bad off as he thinks he is. he can do this and that and the t'other thing.' but when you come to look it all over, you find he can't, except at a big loss. of course, you can give away your farm on which you were doing well and getting ahead, though how you did it, i can't see. you'd have to about give it away if you forced a sale, and where on earth you'll find a tenant who'll pay anything worth considering--but there's no use of croaking. i wish i could help you, old feller. by jocks! i believe i can. there's an old woman here who's right smart and handy when she can't get her bottle filled. i believe she'd be glad to go with you, for she don't like our board and lodging over much." "do you think she'd go tonight?" "oh, yes! guess so. a little cold water'll be a good change for her." mrs. wiggins was seen, and feeling that any change would be for the better, readily agreed to go for very moderate wages. holcroft looked dubiously at the woman's heavy form and heavier face, but felt that it was the best he could do. squeezing mrs. watterly's cold, limp hand in a way that would have thawed a lump of ice, he said "goodby;" and then declaring that he would rather do his own harnessing for a night ride, he went out into the storm. tom put on his rubber coat and went to the barn with his friend, toward whom he cherished honest good will. "by jocks!" he ejaculated sympathetically, "but you have hard lines, jim. what in thunder would i do with two such widdy women to look after my house!" chapter ix. mrs. mumpson accepts her mission as holcroft drove through the town, mrs. wiggins, who, as matters were explained to her, had expressed her views chiefly by affirmative nods, now began to use her tongue with much fluency. "hi 'ave a friend 'herhabouts," she said, "an' she's been a-keepin' some of my things. hi'll be 'olden to ye, master, hif ye'll jes stop a bit hat the door whiles hi gets 'em. hif ye'll hadvance me a dollar or so on me wages hit'll be a long time hafore i trouble ye hagain." the farmer had received too broad a hint not to know that mrs. wiggins was intent on renewing her acquaintance with her worst enemy. he briefly replied, therefore, "it's too late to stop now. i'll be coming down soon again and will get your things." in vain mrs. wiggins expostulated, for he drove steadily on. with a sort of grim humor, he thought of the meeting of the two "widdy women," as tom had characterized them, and of mrs. mumpson's dismay at finding in the "cheap girl" a dame of sixty, weighing not far from two hundred. "if it wasn't such awfully serious business for me," he thought, "it would be better'n going to a theater to see the two go on. if i haven't got three 'peculiar females' on my hands now, i'd like to hear of the man that has." when mrs. wiggins found that she could not gain her point, she subsided into utter silence. it soon became evident in the cloudy light of the moon that she was going to sleep, for she so nodded and swayed about that the farmer feared she would tumble out of the wagon. she occupied a seat just back of his and filled it, too. the idea of stepping over, sitting beside her, and holding her in, was inexpressibly repugnant to him. so he began talking to her, and finally shouting at her, to keep her awake. his efforts were useless. he glanced with rueful dismay over his shoulder as he thought, "if she falls out, i don't see how on earth i'll ever get her back again." fortunately the seat slipped back a little, and she soon slid down into a sort of mountainous heap on the bottom of the wagon, as unmindful of the rain as if it were a lullaby. now that his mind was at rest about her falling out, and knowing that he had a heavy load, holcroft let the horses take their own time along the miry highway. left to her own devices by holcroft's absence, mrs. mumpson had passed what she regarded as a very eventful afternoon and evening. not that anything unusual had happened, unless everything she said and did may be looked upon as unusual; but mrs. mumpson justly felt that the critical periods of life are those upon which definite courses of action are decided upon. in the secret recess of her heart--supposing her to possess such an organ--she had partially admitted to herself, even before she had entered holcroft's door, that she might be persuaded into marrying him; but the inspection of his room, much deliberate thought, and prolonged soliloquy, had convinced her that she ought to "enter into nuptial relations," as her thought formulated itself. it was a trait of mrs. mumpson's active mind, that when it once entered upon a line of thought, it was hurried along from conclusion to conclusion with wonderful rapidity. while jane made up mr. holcroft's bed, her mother began to inspect, and soon suffered keenly from every painful discovery. the farmer's meager wardrobe and other belongings were soon rummaged over, but one large closet and several bureau drawers were locked. "these are the receptercles of the deceased mrs. holcroft's affects," she said with compressed lips. "they are moldering useless away. moth and rust will enter, while i, the caretaker, am debarred. i should not be debarred. all the things in that closet should be shaken out, aired, and carefully put back. who knows how useful they may be in the future! waste is wicked. indeed, there are few things more wicked than waste. now i think of it, i have some keys in my trunk." "he won't like it," interposed jane. "in the responserble persition i have assumed," replied mrs. mumpson with dignity, "i must consider not what he wants, but what is best for him and what may be best for others." jane had too much curiosity herself to make further objection, and the keys were brought. it was astonishing what a number of keys mrs. mumpson possessed, and she was not long in finding those which would open the ordinary locks thought by holcroft to be ample protection. "i was right," said mrs. mumpson complacently. "a musty odor exudes from these closed receptercles. men have no comprehension of the need of such caretakers as i am." everything that had ever belonged to poor mrs. holcroft was pulled out, taken to the window, and examined, jane following, as usual, in the wake of her mother and putting everything to the same tests which her parent applied. mrs. holcroft had been a careful woman, and the extent and substantial character of her wardrobe proved that her husband had not been close in his allowances to her. mrs. mumpson's watery blue eyes grew positively animated as she felt of and held up to the light one thing after another. "mrs. holcroft was evidently unnaturally large," she reflected aloud, "but then these things could be made over, and much material be left to repair them, from time to time. the dresses are of somber colors, becoming to a lady somewhat advanced in years and of subdued taste." by the time that the bed and all the chairs in the room were littered with wearing apparel, mrs. mumpson said, "jane, i desire you to bring the rocking chair. so many thoughts are crowding upon me that i must sit down and think." jane did as requested, but remarked, "the sun is gettin' low, and all these things'll have to be put back just as they was or he'll be awful mad." "yes, jane," replied mrs. mumpson abstractedly and rocking gently, "you can put them back. your mind is not burdened like mine, and you haven't offspring and the future to provide for," and, for a wonder, she relapsed into silence. possibly she possessed barely enough of womanhood to feel that her present train of thought had better be kept to herself. she gradually rocked faster and faster, thus indicating that she was rapidly approaching a conclusion. meanwhile, jane was endeavoring to put things back as they were before and found it no easy task. as the light declined she was overcome by a sort of panic, and, huddling the things into the drawers as fast as possible, she locked them up. then, seizing her mother's hand and pulling the abstracted woman to her feet, she cried, "if he comes and finds us here and no supper ready, he'll turn us right out into the rain!" even mrs. mumpson felt that she was perhaps reaching conclusions too fast and that some diplomacy might be necessary to consummate her plans. her views, however, appeared to her so reasonable that she scarcely thought of failure, having the happy faculty of realizing everything in advance, whether it ever took place or not. as she slowly descended the stairs with the rocking chair, she thought, "nothing could be more suiterble. we are both about the same age; i am most respecterbly connected--in fact, i regard myself as somewhat his superior in this respect; he is painfully undeveloped and irreligious and thus is in sore need of female influence; he is lonely and down-hearted, and in woman's voice there is a spell to banish care; worst of all, things are going to waste. i must delib'rately face the great duty with which providence has brought me face to face. at first, he may be a little blind to this great oppertunity of his life--that i must expect, remembering the influence he was under so many years--but i will be patient and, by the proper use of language, place everything eventually before him in a way that will cause him to yield in glad submission to my views of the duties, the privileges, and the responserbilities of life." so active was mrs. mumpson's mind that this train of thought was complete by the time she had ensconced herself in the rocking chair by the fireless kitchen stove. once more jane seized her hand and dragged her up. "you must help," said the child. "i 'spect him every minnit and i'm scart half to death to think what he'll do, 'specially if he finds out we've been rummagin'." "jane," said mrs. mumpson severely, "that is not a proper way of expressing yourself. i am housekeeper here, and i've been inspecting." "shall i tell him you've been inspectin'?" asked the girl keenly. "children of your age should speak when they are spoken to," replied her mother, still more severely. "you cannot comprehend my motives and duties, and i should have to punish you if you passed any remarks upon my actions." "well," said jane apprehensively, "i only hope we'll soon have a chance to fix up them drawers, for if he should open 'em we'd have to tramp again, and we will anyway if you don't help me get supper." "you are mistaken, jane," responded mrs. mumpson with dignity. "we shall not leave this roof for three months, and that will give me ample time to open his eyes to his true interests. i will condescend to these menial tasks until he brings a girl who will yield the deference due to my years and station in life." between them, after filling the room with smoke, they kindled the kitchen fire. jane insisted on making the coffee and then helped her mother to prepare the rest of the supper, doing, in fact, the greater part of the work. then they sat down to wait, and they waited so long that mrs. mumpson began to express her disapproval by rocking violently. at last, she said severely, "jane, we will partake of supper alone." "i'd ruther wait till he comes." "it's not proper that we should wait. he is not showing me due respect. come, do as i command." mrs. mumpson indulged in lofty and aggrieved remarks throughout the meal and then returned to her rocker. at last, her indignant sense of wrong reached such a point that she commanded jane to clear the table and put away the things. "i won't," said the child. "what! will you compel me to chastise you?" "well, then, i'll tell him it was all your doin's." "i shall tell him so myself. i shall remonstrate with him. the idea of his coming home alone at this time of night with an unknown female!" "one would think you was his aunt, to hear you talk," remarked the girl sullenly. "i am a respecterble woman and most respecterbly connected. my character and antercedents render me irrerproachful.--this could not be said of a hussy, and a hussy he'll probably bring--some flighty, immerture female that will tax even my patience to train." another hour passed, and the frown on mrs. mumpson's brow grew positively awful. "to think," she muttered, "that a man whom i have deemed it my duty to marry should stay out so and under such peculiar circumstances. he must have a lesson which he can never forget." then aloud, to jane, "kindle a fire on the parlor hearth and let this fire go out. he must find us in the most respecterble room in the house--a room befitting my station." "i declare, mother, you aint got no sense at all!" exclaimed the child, exasperated beyond measure. "i'll teach you to use such unrerspectful language!" cried mrs. mumpson, darting from her chair like a hawk and pouncing upon the unhappy child. with ears tingling from a cuffing she could not soon forget, jane lighted the parlor fire and sat down sniffling in the farthest corner. "there shall be only one mistress in this house," said mrs. mumpson, who had now reached the loftiest plane of virtuous indignation, "and its master shall learn that his practices reflect upon even me as well as himself." at last the sound of horses' feet were heard on the wet, oozy ground without. the irate widow did not rise, but merely indicated her knowledge of holcroft's arrival by rocking more rapidly. "hello, there, jane!" he shouted, "bring a light to the kitchen." "jane, remain!" said mrs. mumpson, with an awful look. holcroft stumbled through the dark kitchen to the parlor door and looked with surprise at the group before him,--mrs. mumpson apparently oblivious and rocking as if the chair was possessed, and the child crying in a corner. "jane, didn't you hear me call for a light?" he asked a little sharply. mrs. mumpson rose with great dignity and began, "mr. holcroft, i wish to remonstrate--" "oh, bother! i've brought a woman to help you, and we're both wet through from this driving rain." "you've brought a strange female at this time of--" holcroft's patience gave say, but he only said quietly, "you had better have a light in the kitchen within two minutes. i warn you both. i also wish some hot coffee." mrs. mumpson had no comprehension of a man who could be so quiet when he was angry, and she believed that she might impress him with a due sense of the enormity of his offense. "mr. holcroft, i scarcely feel that i can meet a girl who has no more sense of decorum than to--" but jane, striking a match, revealed the fact that she was speaking to empty air. mrs. wiggins was at last so far aroused that she was helped from the wagon and came shivering and dripping toward the kitchen. she stood a moment in the doorway and filled it, blinking confusedly at the light. there was an absence of celerity in all mrs. wiggins' movements, and she was therefore slow in the matter of waking up. her aspect and proportions almost took away mrs. mumpson's breath. here certainly was much to superintend, much more than had been anticipated. mrs. wiggins was undoubtedly a "peculiar female," as had been expected, but she was so elderly and monstrous that mrs. mumpson felt some embarrassment in her purpose to overwhelm holcroft with a sense of the impropriety of his conduct. mrs. wiggins took uncertain steps toward the rocking chair, and almost crushed it as she sat down. "ye gives a body a cold velcome," she remarked, rubbing her eyes. mrs. mumpson had got out of her way as a minnow would shun a leviathan. "may i ask your name?" she gasped. "viggins, mrs. viggins." "oh, indeed! you are a married woman?" "no, hi'm a vidder. what's more, hi'm cold, and drippin', an' 'ungry. hi might 'a' better stayed at the poor-us than come to a place like this." "what!" almost screamed mrs. mumpson, "are you a pauper?" "hi tell ye hi'm a vidder, an' good as you be, for hall he said," was the sullen reply. "to think that a respecterbly connected woman like me--" but for once mrs. mumpson found language inadequate. since mrs. wiggins occupied the rocking chair, she hardly knew what to do and plaintively declared, "i feel as if my whole nervous system was giving way." "no 'arm 'll be done hif hit does," remarked mrs. wiggins, who was not in an amiable mood. "this from the female i'm to superintend!" gasped the bewildered woman. her equanimity was still further disturbed by the entrance of the farmer, who looked at the stove with a heavy frown. "why in the name of common sense isn't there a fire?" he asked, "and supper on the table? couldn't you hear that it was raining and know we'd want some supper after a long, cold ride?" "mr. holcroft," began the widow, in some trepidation, "i don't approve--such irregular habits--" "madam," interrupted holcroft sternly, "did i agree to do what you approved of? your course is so peculiar that i scarcely believe you are in your right mind. you had better go to your room and try to recover your senses. if i can't have things in this house to suit me, i'll have no one in it. here, jane, you can help." mrs. mumpson put her handkerchief to her eyes and departed. she felt that this display of emotion would touch holcroft's feelings when he came to think the scene all over. having kindled the fire, he said to jane, "you and mrs. wiggins get some coffee and supper in short order, and have it ready when i come in," and he hastened out to care for his horses. if the old woman was slow, she knew just how to make every motion effective, and a good supper was soon ready. "why didn't you keep up a fire, jane?" holcroft asked. "she wouldn't let me. she said how you must be taught a lesson," replied the girl, feeling that she must choose between two potentates, and deciding quickly in favor of the farmer. she had been losing faith in her mother's wisdom a long time, and this night's experience had banished the last shred of it. some rather bitter words rose to holcroft's lips, but he restrained them. he felt that he ought not to disparage the mother to the child. as mrs. wiggins grew warm, and imbibed the generous coffee, her demeanor thawed perceptibly and she graciously vouchsafed the remark, "ven you're hout late hag'in hi'll look hafter ye." mrs. mumpson had not been so far off as not to hear jane's explanation, as the poor child found to her cost when she went up to bed. chapter x. a night of terror as poor, dazed, homeless alida passed out into the street after the revelation that she was not a wife and never had been, she heard a voice say, "well, hanner wasn't long in bouncing the woman. i guess we'd better go up now. ferguson will need a lesson that he won't soon forget." the speaker of these words was mrs. ferguson's brother, william hackman, and his companion was a detective. the wife had laid her still sleeping child down on the lounge and was coolly completing alida's preparations for dinner. her husband had sunk back into a chair and again buried his face in his hands. he looked up with startled, bloodshot eyes as his brother-in-law and the stranger entered, and then resumed his former attitude. mrs. ferguson briefly related what had happened, and then said, "take chairs and draw up." "i don't want any dinner," muttered the husband. mr. william hackman now gave way to his irritation. turning to his brother, he relieved his mind as follows: "see here, hank ferguson, if you hadn't the best wife in the land, this gentleman would now be giving you a promenade to jail. i've left my work for weeks, and spent a sight of money to see that my sister got her rights, and, by thunder! she's going to have 'em. we've agreed to give you a chance to brace up and be a man. if we find out there isn't any man in you, then you go to prison and hard labor to the full extent of the law. we've fixed things so you can't play any more tricks. this man is a private detective. as long as you do the square thing by your wife and child, you'll be let alone. if you try to sneak off, you'll be nabbed. now, if you aint a scamp down to your heel-taps, get up out of that chair like a man, treat your wife as she deserves for letting you off so easy, and don't make her change her mind by acting as if you, and not her, was the wronged person." at heart ferguson was a weak, cowardly, selfish creature, whose chief aim in life was to have things to suit himself. when they ceased to be agreeable, he was ready for a change, without much regard for the means to his ends. he had always foreseen the possibility of the event which had now taken place, but, like all self-indulgent natures, had hoped that he might escape detection. alida, moreover, had won a far stronger hold upon him than he had once imagined possible. he was terribly mortified and cast down by the result of his experiment, as he regarded it. but the thought of a prison and hard labor speedily drew his mind away from this aspect of the affair. he had been fairly caught, his lark was over, and he soon resolved that the easiest and safest way out of the scrape was the best way. he therefore raised his head and came forward with a penitent air as he said: "it's natural i should be overwhelmed with shame at the position in which i find myself. but i see the truth of your words, and i'll try to make it all right as far as i can. i'll go back with you and hannah to my old home. i've got money in the bank, i'll sell out everything here, and i'll pay you, william, as far as i can, what you've spent. hannah is mighty good to let me off so easy, and she won't be sorry. this man is witness to what i say," and the detective nodded. "why, ferguson," said mr. hackman effusively, "now you're talking like a man. come and kiss him, hannah, and make it all up." "that's the way with you men," said the woman bitterly. "these things count for little. henry ferguson must prove he's honest in what he says by deeds, not words. i'll do as i've said if he acts square, and that's enough to start with." "all right," said ferguson, glad enough to escape the caress. "i'll do as i say." he did do all he promised, and very promptly, too. he was not capable of believing that a woman wronged as alida had been would not prosecute him, and he was eager to escape to another state, and, in a certain measure, again to hide his identity under his own actual name. meanwhile, how fared the poor creature who had fled, driven forth by her first wild impulse to escape from a false and terrible position? with every step she took down the dimly lighted street, the abyss into which she had fallen seemed to grow deeper and darker. she was overwhelmed with the magnitude of her misfortune. she shunned the illumined thoroughfares with a half-crazed sense that every finger would be pointed at her. her final words, spoken to ferguson, were the last clear promptings of her womanly nature. after that, everything grew confused, except the impression of remediless disaster and shame. she was incapable of forming any correct judgment concerning her position. the thought of her pastor filled her with horror. he, she thought, would take the same view which the woman had so brutally expressed--that in her eagerness to be married, she had brought to the parsonage an unknown man and had involved a clergyman in her own scandalous record.--it would all be in the papers, and her pastor's name mixed up in the affair. she would rather die than subject him to such an ordeal. long after, when he learned the facts in the case, he looked at her very sadly as he asked: "didn't you know me better than that? had i so failed in my preaching that you couldn't come straight to me?" she wondered afterward that she had not done this, but she was too morbid, too close upon absolute insanity, to do what was wise and safe. she simply yielded to the wild impulse to escape, to cower, to hide from every human eye, hastening through the darkest, obscurest streets, not caring where. in the confusion of her mind she would retrace her steps, and soon was utterly lost, wandering she knew not whither. as it grew late, casual passers-by looked after her curiously, rough men spoke to her, and others jeered. she only hastened on, driven by her desperate trouble like the wild, ragged clouds that were flying across the stormy march sky. at last a policeman said gruffly, "you've passed me twice. you can't be roaming the streets at this time of night. why don't you go home?" standing before him and wringing her hands, she moaned, "i have no home." "where did you come from?" "oh, i can't tell you! take me to any place where a woman will be safe." "i can't take you to any place now but the station house." "but can i be alone there? i won't be put with anybody?" "no, no; of course not! you'll be better off there. come along. 'taint far." she walked beside him without a word. "you'd better tell me something of your story. perhaps i can do more for you in the morning." "i can't. i'm a stranger. i haven't any friends in town." "well, well, the sergeant will see what can be done in the morning. you've been up to some foolishness, i suppose, and you'd better tell the whole story to the sergeant." she soon entered the station house and was locked up in a narrow cell. she heard the grating of the key in the lock with a sense of relief, feeling that she had at least found a temporary place of refuge and security. a hard board was the only couch it possessed, but the thought of sleep did not enter her mind. sitting down, she buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth in agony and distraction until day dawned. at last, someone--she felt she could not raise her eyes to his face--brought her some breakfast and coffee. she drank the latter, but left the food untasted. finally, she was led to the sergeant's private room and told that she must give an account of herself. "if you can't or won't tell a clear story," the officer threatened, "you'll have to go before the justice in open court, and he may commit you to prison. if you'll tell the truth now, it may be that i can discharge you. you had no business to be wandering about the streets like a vagrant or worse; but if you were a stranger or lost and hadn't sense enough to go where you'd be cared for, i can let you go." "oh!" said alida, again wringing her hands and looking at the officer with eyes so full of misery and fear that he began to soften, "i don't know where to go." "haven't you a friend or acquaintance in town?" "not one that i can go to!" "why don't you tell me your story? then i'll know what to do, and perhaps can help you. you don't look like a depraved woman." "i'm not. god knows i'm not!" "well, my poor woman, i've got to act in view of what i know, not what god knows." "if i tell my story, will i have to give names?" "no, not necessarily. it would be best, though." "i can't do that, but i'll tell you the truth. i will swear it on the bible i married someone. a good minister married us. the man deceived me. he was already married, and last night his wife came to my happy home and proved before the man whom i thought my husband that i was no wife at all. he couldn't, didn't deny it. oh! oh! oh!" and she again rocked back and forth in uncontrollable anguish. "that's all," she added brokenly. "i had no right to be near him or her any longer, and i rushed out. i don't remember much more. my brain seemed on fire. i just walked and walked till i was brought here." "well, well!" said the sergeant sympathetically, "you have been treated badly, outrageously; but you are not to blame unless you married the man hastily and foolishly." "that's what everyone will think, but it don't seem to me that i did. it's a long story, and i can't tell it." "but you ought to tell it, my poor woman. you ought to sue the man for damages and send him to state prison." "no, no!" cried alida passionately. "i don't want to see him again, and i won't go to a court before people unless i am dragged there." the sergeant looked up at the policeman who had arrested her and said, "this story is not contrary to anything you saw?" "no, sir; she was wandering about and seemed half out of her mind." "well, then, i can let you go." "but i don't know where to go," she replied, looking at him with hunted, hollow eyes. "i feel as if i were going to be sick. please don't turn me into the streets. i'd rather go back to the cell--" "that won't answer. there's no place that i can send you to except the poorhouse. haven't you any money?" "no, sir. i just rushed away and left everything when i learned the truth." "tom watterly's hotel is the only place for her," said the policeman with a nod. "oh, i can't go to a hotel." "he means the almshouse," explained the sergeant. "what is your name?" "alida--that's all now. yes, i'm a pauper and i can't work just yet. i'll be safe there, won't i?" "certainly, safe as in your mother's house." "oh, mother, mother; thank god, you are dead!" "well, i am sorry for you," said the sergeant kindly. "'taint often we have so sad a case as yours. if you say so, i'll send for tom watterly, and he and his wife will take charge of you. after a few days, your mind will get quieter and clearer, and then you'll prosecute the man who wronged you." "i'll go to the poorhouse until i can do better," she replied wearily. "now, if you please, i'll return to my cell where i can be alone." "oh, we can give you a better room than that," said the sergeant. "show her into the waiting room, tim. if you prosecute, we can help you with our testimony. goodbye, and may you have better days!" watterly was telegraphed to come down with a conveyance for the almshouse was in a suburb. in due time he appeared, and was briefly told alida's story. he swore a little at the "mean cuss," the author of all the trouble, and then took the stricken woman to what all his acquaintances facetiously termed his "hotel." chapter xi. baffled in the general consciousness nature is regarded as feminine, and even those who love her most will have to adopt mrs. mumpson's oft-expressed opinion of the sex and admit that she is sometimes a "peculiar female." during the month of march, in which our story opens, there was scarcely any limit to her varying moods. it would almost appear that she was taking a mysterious interest in holcroft's affairs; but whether it was a kindly interest or not, one might be at a loss to decide. when she caught him away from home, she pelted him with the coldest of rain and made his house, with even mrs. mumpson and jane abiding there, seem a refuge. in the morning after the day on which he had brought, or in a sense had carted, mrs. wiggins to his domicile, nature was evidently bent on instituting contrasts between herself and the rival phases of femininity with which the farmer was compelled to associate. it may have been that she had another motive and was determined to keep her humble worshiper at her feet, and to render it impossible for him to make the changes toward which he had felt himself driven. being an early riser he was up with the sun, and the sun rose so serenely and smiled so benignly that holcroft's clouded brow cleared in spite of all that had happened or could take place. the rain, which had brought such discomfort the night before, had settled the ground and made it comparatively firm to his tread. the southern breeze which fanned his cheek was as soft as the air of may. he remembered that it was sunday, and that beyond feeding his stock and milking, he would have nothing to do. he exulted in the unusual mildness and thought, with an immense sense of relief, "i can stay outdoors nearly all day." he resolved to let his help kindle the fire and get breakfast as they could, and to keep out of their way. whatever changes the future might bring, he would have one more long day in rambling about his fields and in thinking over the past. feeling that there need be no haste about anything, he leisurely inhaled the air, fragrant from springing grass, and listened with a vague, undefined pleasure to the ecstatic music of the bluebirds, song-sparrows, and robins. if anyone had asked him why he liked to hear them, he would have replied, "i'm used to 'em. when they come, i know that plowing and planting time is near." it must be admitted that holcroft's enjoyment of spring was not very far removed from that of the stock in his barnyard. all the animal creation rejoices in the returning sun and warmth. a subtle, powerful influence sets the blood in more rapid motion, kindles new desires, and awakens a glad expectancy. all that is alive becomes more thoroughly alive and existence in itself is a pleasure. spring had always brought to the farmer quickened pulses, renewed activity and hopefulness, and he was pleased to find that he was not so old and cast down that its former influence had spent itself. indeed, it seemed that never before had his fields, his stock, and outdoor work--and these comprised nature to him--been so attractive. they remained unchanged amid the sad changes which had clouded his life, and his heart clung more tenaciously than ever to old scenes and occupations. they might not bring him happiness again, but he instinctively felt that they might insure a comfort and peace with which he could be content. at last he went to the barn and began his work, doing everything slowly, and getting all the solace he could from the tasks. the horses whinnied their welcome and he rubbed their noses caressingly as he fed them. the cows came briskly to the rack in which he foddered them in pleasant weather, and when he scratched them between the horns they turned their mild, juno-like eyes upon him with undisguised affection. the chickens, clamoring for their breakfast, followed so closely that he had to be careful where he stepped. although he knew that all this good will was based chiefly on the hope of food and the remembrance of it in the past, nevertheless it soothed and pleased him. he was in sympathy with this homely life; it belonged to him and was dependent on him; it made him honest returns for his care. moreover, it was agreeably linked with the past. there were quiet cows which his wife had milked, clucking biddies which she had lifted from nests with their downy broods. he looked at them wistfully, and was wondering if they ever missed the presence that he regretted so deeply, when he became conscious that jane's eyes were upon him. how long she had been watching him he did not know, but she merely said, "breakfast's ready," and disappeared. with a sigh he went to his room to perform his ablutions, remembering with a slight pang how his wife always had a basin and towel ready for him in the kitchen. in the breaking up of just such homely customs, he was continually reminded of his loss. on awakening to the light of this sabbath morning, mrs. mumpson had thought deeply and reasoned everything out again. she felt that it must be an eventful day and that there was much to be accomplished. in the first place there was mrs. wiggins. she disapproved of her decidedly. "she isn't the sort of person that i would prefer to superintend," she remarked to jane while making a toilet which she deemed befitting the day, "and the hour will assuredly come when mr. holcroft will look upon her in the light that i do. he will eventually realize that i cannot be brought in such close relationship with a pauper. not that the relationship is exactly close, but then i shall have to speak to her--in brief, to superintend her. my eyes will be offended by her vast proportions and uncouth appearance. the floor creaks beneath her tread and affects my nerves seriously. of course, while she is here, i shall zealously, as befits one in my responserble position, try to render useful such service as she can perform. but then, the fact that i disapprove of her must soon become evident. when it is discovered that i only tolerate her, there will be a change. i cannot show my disapproval very strongly today for this is a day set apart for sacred things, and mrs. viggins, as she called herself,--i cannot imagine a mr. viggins for no man in his senses could have married such a creature,--as i was saying, mrs. viggins is not at all sacred, and i must endeavor to abstract my mind from her till tomorrow, as far as posserble. my first duty today is to induce mr. holcroft to take us to church. it will give the people of oakville such a pleasing impression to see us driving to church. of course, i may fail, mr. holcroft is evidently a hardened man. all the influences of his life have been adverse to spiritual development, and it may require some weeks of my influence to soften him and awaken yearnings for what he has not yet known." "he may be yearnin' for breakfast," jane remarked, completing her toilet by tying her little pigtail braid with something that had once been a bit of black ribbon, but was now a string. "you'd better come down soon and help." "if mrs. viggins cannot get breakfast, i would like to know what she is here for" continued mrs. mumpson loftily, and regardless of jane's departure. "i shall decline to do menial work any longer, especially on this sacred day, and after i have made my toilet for church. mr. holcroft has had time to think. my disapproval was manifest last night and it has undoubtedly occurred to him that he has not conformed to the proprieties of life. indeed, i almost fear i shall have to teach him what the proprieties of life are. he witnessed my emotions when he spoke as he should not have spoken to me. but i must make allowances for his unregenerate state. he was cold, and wet, and hungry last night, and men are unreasonerble at such times. i shall now heap coals of fire upon his head. i shall show that i am a meek, forgiving christian woman, and he will relent, soften, and become penitent. then will be my opportunity," and she descended to the arena which should witness her efforts. during the period in which mrs. mumpson had indulged in these lofty reflections and self-communings, mrs. wiggins had also arisen. i am not sure whether she had thought of anything in particular or not. she may have had some spiritual longings which were not becoming to any day of the week. being a woman of deeds, rather than of thought, probably not much else occurred to her beyond the duty of kindling the fire and getting breakfast. jane came down, and offered to assist, but was cleared out with no more scruple than if mrs. wiggins had been one of the much-visited relatives. "the hidee," she grumbled, "of 'avin' sich a little trollop round hunder my feet!" jane, therefore, solaced herself by watching the "cheap girl" till her mother appeared. mrs. mumpson sailed majestically in and took the rocking chair, mentally thankful that it had survived the crushing weight imposed upon it the evening before. mrs. wiggins did not drop a courtesy. indeed, not a sign of recognition passed over her vast, immobile face. mrs. mumpson was a little embarrassed. "i hardly know how to comport myself toward that female," she thought. "she is utterly uncouth. her manners are unmistakerbly those of a pauper. i think i will ignore her today. i do not wish my feelings ruffled or put out of harmony with the sacred duties and motives which actuate me." mrs. mumpson therefore rocked gently, solemnly, and strange to say, silently, and mrs. wiggins also proceeded with her duties, but not in silence, for everything in the room trembled and clattered at her tread. suddenly she turned on jane and said, "'ere, you little baggage, go and tell the master breakfast's ready." mrs. mumpson sprang from her chair, and with a voice choked with indignation, gasped, "do you dare address my offspring thus?" "yer vat?" "my child, my daughter, who is not a pauper, but the offspring of a most respecterble woman and respecterbly connected. i'm amazed, i'm dumfoundered, i'm--" "ye're a bit daft, hi'm a-thinkin'." then to jane, "vy don't ye go an' hearn yer salt?" "jane, i forbid--" but it had not taken jane half a minute to decide between the now jarring domestic powers, and henceforth she would be at mrs. wiggins' beck and call. "she can do somethin'," the child muttered, as she stole upon holcroft. mrs. mumpson sank back in her chair, but her mode of rocking betokened a perturbed spirit. "i will restrain myself till tomorrow, and then--" she shook her head portentously and waited till the farmer appeared, feeling assured that mrs. wiggins would soon be taught to recognize her station. when breakfast was on the table, she darted to her place behind the coffeepot, for she felt that there was no telling what this awful mrs. wiggins might not assume during this day of sacred restraint. but the ex-pauper had no thought of presumption in her master's presence, and the rocking chair again distracted mrs. mumpson's nerves as it creaked under an unwonted weight. holcroft took his seat in silence. the widow again bowed her head devoutly, and sighed deeply when observing that the farmer ignored her suggestion. "i trust that you feel refreshed after your repose," she said benignly. "i do." "it is a lovely morning--a morning, i may add, befitting the sacred day. nature is at peace and suggests that we and all should be at peace." "there's nothing i like more, mrs. mumpson, unless it is quiet." "i feel that way, myself. you don't know what restraint i have put upon myself that the sacred quiet of this day might not be disturbed. i have had strong provercation since i entered this apartment. i will forbear to speak of it till tomorrow in order that there may be quietness and that our minds may be prepared for worship. i feel that it would be unseemly for us to enter a house of worship with thoughts of strife in our souls. at precisely what moment do you wish me to be ready for church?" "i am not going to church, mrs. mumpson." "not going to church! i--i--scarcely understand. worship is such a sacred duty--" "you and jane certainly have a right to go to church, and since it is your wish, i'll take you down to lemuel weeks' and you can go with them." "i don't want to go to cousin lemuel's, nor to church, nuther," jane protested. "why, mr. holcroft," began the widow sweetly, "after you've once harnessed up it will take but a little longer to keep on to the meeting house. it would appear so seemly for us to drive thither, as a matter of course. it would be what the communerty expects of us. this is not our day, that we should spend it carnally. we should be spiritually-minded. we should put away things of earth. thoughts of business and any unnecessary toil should be abhorrent. i have often thought that there was too much milking done on sunday among farmers. i know they say it is essential, but they all seem so prone to forget that but one thing is needful. i feel it borne in upon my mind, mr. holcroft, that i should plead with you to attend divine worship and seek an uplifting of your thoughts. you have no idea how differently the day may end, or what emotions may be aroused if you place yourself under the droppings of the sanctuary." "i'm like jane, i don't wish to go," said mr. holcroft nervously. "but my dear mr. holcroft,"--the farmer fidgeted under this address,--"the very essence of true religion is to do what we don't wish to do. we are to mortify the flesh and thwart the carnal mind. the more thorny the path of self-denial is, the more certain it's the right path. i've already entered upon it," she continued, turning a momentary glare upon mrs. wiggins. "never before was a respecterble woman so harrowed and outraged; but i am calm; i am endeavoring to maintain a frame of mind suiterble to worship, and i feel it my bounden duty to impress upon you that worship is a necessity to every human being. my conscience would not acquit me if i did not use all my influence--" "very well, mrs. mumpson, you and your conscience are quits. you have used all your influence. i will do as i said--take you to lemuel weeks'--and you can go to church with his family," and he rose from the table. "but cousin lemuel is also painfully blind to his spiritual interests--" holcroft did not stay to listen and was soon engaged in the morning milking. jane flatly declared that she would not go to cousin lemuel's or to church. "it don't do me no good, nor you, nuther," she sullenly declared to her mother. mrs. mumpson now resolved upon a different line of tactics. assuming a lofty, spiritual air, she commanded jane to light a fire in the parlor, and retired thither with the rocking chair. the elder widow looked after her and ejaculated, "vell, hif she haint the craziest loon hi hever 'eard talk. hif she vas blind she might 'a' seen that the master didn't vant hany sich lecturin' clack." having kindled the fire, the child was about to leave the room when her mother interposed and said solemnly, "jane, sit down and keep sunday." "i'm going to help mrs. wiggins if she'll let me." "you will not so demean yourself. i wish you to have no relations whatever with that female in the kitchen. if you had proper self-respect, you would never speak to her again." "we aint visitin' here. if i can't work indoors, i'll tell him i'll work outdoors." "it's not proper for you to work today. i want you to sit there in the corner and learn the fifth commandment." "aint you goin' to cousin lemuel's?" "on mature reflection, i have decided to remain at home." "i thought you would if you had any sense left. you know well enough we aint wanted down there. i'll go tell him not to hitch up." "well, i will permit you to do so. then return to your sunday task." "i'm goin' to mind him," responded the child. she passed rapidly and apprehensively through the kitchen, but paused on the doorstep to make some overtures to mrs. wiggins. if that austere dame was not to be propitiated, a line of retreat was open to the barn. "say," she began, to attract attention. "vell, young-un," replied mrs. wiggins, rendered more pacific by her breakfast. "don't you want me to wash up the dishes and put 'em away? i know how." "hi'll try ye. hif ye breaks hanythink--" and the old woman nodded volumes at the child. "i'll be back in a minute," said jane. a moment later she met holcroft carrying two pails of milk from the barnyard. he was about to pass without noticing her, but she again secured attention by her usual preface, "say," when she had a somewhat extended communication to make. "come to the dairy room, jane, and say your say there," said holcroft not unkindly. "she aint goin' to cousin lemuel's," said the girl, from the door. "what is she going to do." "rock in the parlor. say, can't i help mrs. wiggins wash up the dishes and do the work?" "certainly, why not?" "mother says i must sit in the parlor 'n' learn commandments 'n' keep sunday." "well, jane, which do you think you ought to do?" "i think i oughter work, and if you and mrs. wiggins will let me, i will work in spite of mother." "i think that you and your mother both should help do the necessary work today. there won't be much." "if i try and help mrs. wiggins, mother'll bounce out at me. she shook me last night after i went upstairs, and she boxed my ears 'cause i wanted to keep the kitchen fire up last night." "i'll go with you to the kitchen and tell mrs. wiggins to let you help, and i won't let your mother punish you again unless you do wrong." mrs. wiggins, relying on jane's promise of help, had sat down to the solace of her pipe for a few minutes, but was about to thrust it hastily away on seeing holcroft. he reassured her by saying good-naturedly, "no need of that, my good woman. sit still and enjoy your pipe. i like to smoke myself. jane will help clear away things and i wish her to. you'll find she's quite handy. by the way, have you all the tobacco you want?" "vell, now, master, p'raps ye know the 'lowance down hat the poor-us vasn't sich as ud keep a body in vat ye'd call satisfyin' smokin'. hi never 'ad henough ter keep down the 'ankerin'." "i suppose that's so. you shall have half of my stock, and when i go to town again, i'll get you a good supply. i guess i'll light my pipe, too, before starting for a walk." "bless yer 'art, master, ye makes a body comf'terble. ven hi smokes, hi feels more hat 'ome and kind o' contented like. an hold 'ooman like me haint got much left to comfort 'er but 'er pipe." "jane!" called mrs. mumpson sharply from the parlor. as there was no answer, the widow soon appeared in the kitchen door. smoking was one of the unpardonable sins in mrs. mumpson's eyes; and when she saw mrs. wiggins puffing comfortably away and holcroft lighting his pipe, while jane cleared the table, language almost failed her. she managed to articulate, "jane, this atmosphere is not fit for you to breathe on this sacred day. i wish you to share my seclusion." "mrs. mumpson, i have told her to help mrs. wiggins in the necessary work," holcroft interposed. "mr. holcroft, you don't realize--men never do--jane is my offspring, and--" "oh, if you put it that way, i shan't interfere between mother and child. but i suppose you and jane came here to work." "if you will enter the parlor, i will explain to you fully my views, and--" "oh, please excuse me!" said holcroft, hastily passing out. "i was just starting for a walk--i'm bound to have one more day to myself on the old place," he muttered as he bent his steps toward an upland pasture. jane, seeing that her mother was about to pounce upon her, ran behind mrs. wiggins, who slowly rose and began a progress toward the irate widow, remarking as she did so, "hi'll just shut the door 'twixt ye and yer hoffspring, and then ye kin say yer prayers hon the t'other side." mrs. mumpson was so overcome at the turn affairs had taken on this day, which was to witness such progress in her plans and hopes, as to feel the absolute necessity of a prolonged season of thought and soliloquy, and she relapsed, without further protest, into the rocking chair. chapter xii. jane holcroft was not long in climbing to a sunny nook whence he could see not only his farm and dwelling, but also the oakville valley, and the little white spire of the distant meeting house. he looked at this last-named object wistfully and very sadly. mrs. mumpson's tirade about worship had been without effect, but the memories suggested by the church were bitter-sweet indeed. it belonged to the methodist denomination, and holcroft had been taken, or had gone thither, from the time of his earliest recollection. he saw himself sitting between his father and mother, a round-faced urchin to whom the sermon was unintelligible, but to whom little bessie jones in the next pew was a fact, not only intelligible, but very interesting. she would turn around and stare at him until he smiled, then she would giggle until her mother brought her right-about-face with considerable emphasis. after this, he saw the little boy--could it have been himself?--nodding, swaying, and finally slumbering peacefully, with his head on his mother's lap, until shaken into sufficient consciousness to be half dragged, half led, to the door. once in the big, springless farm wagon he was himself again, looking eagerly around to catch another glimpse of bessie jones. then he was a big, irreverent boy, shyly and awkwardly bent on mischief in the same old meeting house. bessie jones no longer turned and stared at him, but he exultingly discovered that he could still make her giggle on the sly. years passed, and bessie was his occasional choice for a sleigh-ride when the long body of some farm wagon was placed on runners, and boys and girls--young men and women, they almost thought themselves--were packed in like sardines. something like self-reproach smote holcroft even now, remembering how he had allowed his fancy much latitude at this period, paying attention to more than one girl besides bessie, and painfully undecided which he liked best. then had come the memorable year which had opened with a protracted meeting. he and bessie jones had passed under conviction at the same time, and on the same evening had gone forward to the anxious seat. from the way in which she sobbed, one might have supposed that the good, simple-hearted girl had terrible burdens on her conscience; but she soon found hope, and her tears gave place to smiles. holcroft, on the contrary, was terribly cast down and unable to find relief. he felt that he had much more to answer for than bessie; he accused himself of having been a rather coarse, vulgar boy; he had made fun of sacred things in that very meeting house more times than he liked to think of, and now for some reason could think of nothing else. he could not shed tears or get up much emotion; neither could he rid himself of the dull weight at heart. the minister, the brethren and sisters, prayed for him and over him, but nothing removed his terrible inertia. he became a familiar form on the anxious seat for there was a dogged persistence in his nature which prevented him from giving up; but at the close of each meeting he went home in a state of deeper dejection. sometimes, in returning, he was bessie jones' escort, and her happiness added to his gall and bitterness. one moonlight night they stopped under the shadow of a pine near her father's door, and talked over the matter a few moments before parting. bessie was full of sympathy which she hardly knew how to express. unconsciously, in her earnestness--how well he remembered the act!--she laid her hand on his arm as she said, "james, i guess i know what's the matter with you. in all your seeking you are thinking only of yourself--how bad you've been and all that. i wouldn't think of myself and what i was any more, if i was you. you aint so awful bad, james, that i'd turn a cold shoulder to you; but you might think i was doing just that if ye stayed away from me and kept saying to yourself, 'i aint fit to speak to bessie jones.'" her face had looked sweet and compassionate, and her touch upon his arm had conveyed the subtle magic of sympathy. under her homely logic, the truth had burst upon him like sunshine. in brief, he had turned from his own shadow and was in the light. he remembered how in his deep feeling he had bowed his head on her shoulder and murmured, "oh, bessie, heaven bless you! i see it all." he no longer went to the anxious seat. with this young girl, and many others, he was taken into the church on probation. thereafter, his fancy never wandered again, and there was no other girl in oakville for him but bessie. in due time, he had gone with her to yonder meeting house to be married. it had all seemed to come about as a matter of course. he scarcely knew when he became formally engaged. they "kept company" together steadfastly for a suitable period, and that seemed to settle it in their own and everybody else's mind. there had been no change in bessie's quiet, constant soul. after her words under the shadow of the pine tree she seemed to find it difficult to speak of religious subjects, even to her husband; but her simple faith had been unwavering, and she had entered into rest without fear or misgiving. not so her husband. he had his spiritual ups and downs, but, like herself, was reticent. while she lived, only a heavy storm kept them from "going to meeting," but with holcroft worship was often little more than a form, his mind being on the farm and its interests. parents and relatives had died, and the habit of seclusion from neighborhood and church life had grown upon them gradually and almost unconsciously. for a long time after his wife's death holcroft had felt that he did not wish to see anyone who would make references to his loss. he shrank from formal condolences as he would from the touch of a diseased nerve. when the minister called, he listened politely but silently to a general exhortation; then muttered, when left alone, "it's all as he says, i suppose; but somehow his words are like the medicines bessie took--they don't do any good." he kept up the form of his faith and a certain vague hope until the night on which he drove forth the irish revelers from his home. in remembrance of his rage and profanity on that occasion, he silently and in dreary misgiving concluded that he should not, even to himself, keep up the pretense of religion any longer. "i've fallen from grace--that is, if i ever had any"--was a thought which did much to rob him of courage to meet his other trials. whenever he dwelt on these subjects, doubts, perplexities, and resentment at his misfortunes so thronged his mind that he was appalled; so he strove to occupy himself with the immediate present. today, however, in recalling the past, his thoughts would question the future and the outcome of his experiences. in accordance with his simple, downright nature, he muttered, "i might as well face the truth and have done with it. i don't know whether i'll ever see my wife again or not; i don't know whether god is for me or against me. sometimes, i half think there isn't any god. i don't know what will become of me when i die. i'm sure of only one thing--while i do live i could take comfort in working the old place." in brief, without ever having heard of the term, he was an agnostic, but not one of the self-complacent, superior type who fancy that they have developed themselves beyond the trammels of faith and are ever ready to make the world aware of their progress. at last he recognized that his long reverie was leading to despondency and weakness; he rose, shook himself half angrily, and strode toward the house. "i'm here, and here i'm going to stay," he growled. "as long as i'm on my own land, it's nobody's business what i am or how i feel. if i can't get decent, sensible women help, i'll close up my dairy and live here alone. i certainly can make enough to support myself." jane met him with a summons to dinner, looking apprehensively at his stern, gloomy face. mrs. mumpson did not appear. "call her," he said curtly. the literal jane returned from the parlor and said unsympathetically, "she's got a hank'chif to her eyes and says she don't want no dinner." "very well," he replied, much relieved. apparently he did not want much dinner, either, for he soon started out again. mrs. wiggins was not utterly wanting in the intuitions of her sex, and said nothing to break in upon her master's abstraction. in the afternoon holcroft visited every nook and corner of his farm, laying out, he hoped, so much occupation for both hands and thoughts as to render him proof against domestic tribulations. he had not been gone long before mrs. mumpson called in a plaintive voice, "jane!" the child entered the parlor warily, keeping open a line of retreat to the door. "you need not fear me," said her mother, rocking pathetically. "my feelings are so hurt and crushed that i can only bemoan the wrongs from which i suffer. you little know, jane, you little know a mother's heart." "no," assented jane. "i dunno nothin' about it." "what wonder, then that i weep, when even my child is so unnatural!" "i dunno how to be anything else but what i be," replied the girl in self-defense. "if you would only yield more to my guidance and influence, jane, the future might be brighter for us both. if you had but stored up the fifth commandment in memory--but i forbear. you cannot so far forget your duty as not to tell me how he behaved at dinner." "he looked awful glum, and hardly said a word." "ah-h!" exclaimed the widow, "the spell is working." "if you aint a-workin' tomorrow, there'll be a worse spell," the girl remarked. "that will do, jane, that will do. you little understand--how should you? please keep an eye on him, and let me know how he looks and what he is doing, and whether his face still wears a gloomy or a penitent aspect. do as i bid you, jane, and you may unconsciously secure your own well-being by obedience." watching anyone was a far more congenial task to the child than learning the commandments, and she hastened to comply. moreover, she had the strongest curiosity in regard to holcroft herself. she felt that he was the arbiter of her fate. so untaught was she that delicacy and tact were unknown qualities. her one hope of pleasing was in work. she had no power of guessing that sly espionage would counterbalance such service. another round of visiting was dreaded above all things; she was, therefore, exceedingly anxious about the future. "mother may be right," she thought. "p'raps she can make him marry her, so we needn't go away any more. p'raps she's taken the right way to bring a man around and get him hooked, as cousin lemuel said. if i was goin' to hook a man though, i'd try another plan than mother's. i'd keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. i'd see what he wanted and do it, even 'fore he spoke. 'fi's big anuf i bet i could hook a man quicker'n she can by usin' her tongue 'stead of her hands." jane's scheme was not so bad a one but that it might be tried to advantage by those so disposed. her matrimonial prospects, however, being still far in the future, it behooved her to make her present existence as tolerable as possible. she knew how much depended on holcroft, and was unaware of any other method of learning his purposes except that of watching him. both fearing and fascinated, she dogged his steps most of the afternoon, but saw nothing to confirm her mother's view that any spell was working. she scarcely understood why he looked so long at field, thicket, and woods, as if he saw something invisible to her. in planning future work and improvements, the farmer had attained a quieter and more genial frame of mind. when, therefore, he sat down and in glancing about saw jane crouching behind a low hemlock, he was more amused than irritated. he had dwelt on his own interests so long that he was ready to consider even jane's for a while. "poor child!" he thought, "she doesn't know any better and perhaps has even been taught to do such things. i think i'll surprise her and draw her out a little. jane, come here," he called. the girl sprang to her feet, and hesitated whether to fly or obey. "don't be afraid," added holcroft. "i won't scold you. come!" she stole toward him like some small, wild, fearful animal in doubt of its reception. "sit down there on that rock," he said. she obeyed with a sly, sidelong look, and he saw that she kept her feet gathered under her so as to spring away if he made the slightest hostile movement. "jane, do you think it's right to watch people so?" he asked gravely. "she told me to." "your mother?" the girl nodded. "but do you think it's right yourself?" "dunno. 'taint best if you get caught." "well, jane," said holcroft, with something like a smile lurking in his deep-set eyes. "i don't think it's right at all. i don't want you to watch me any more, no matter who tells you to. will you promise not to?" the child nodded. she seemed averse to speaking when a sign would answer. "can i go now?" she asked after a moment. "not yet. i want to ask you some questions. was anyone ever kind to you?" "i dunno. i suppose so." "what would you call being kind to you?" "not scoldin' or cuffin' me." "if i didn't scold or strike you, would you think i was kind, then?" she nodded; but after a moment's thought, said, "and if you didn't look as if you hated to see me round." "do you think i've been kind to you?" "kinder'n anybody else. you sorter look at me sometimes as if i was a rat. i don't s'pose you can help it, and i don't mind. i'd ruther stay here and work than go a-visitin' again. why can't i work outdoors when there's nothin' for me to do in the house?" "are you willing to work--to do anything you can?" jane was not sufficiently politic to enlarge on her desire for honest toil and honest bread; she merely nodded. holcroft smiled as he asked, "why are you so anxious to work?" "'cause i won't feel like a stray cat in the house then. i want to be some'ers where i've a right to be." "wouldn't they let you work down at lemuel weeks'?" she shook her head. "why not?" he asked. "they said i wasn't honest; they said they couldn't trust me with things, 'cause when i was hungry i took things to eat." "was that the way you were treated at other places?" "mostly." "jane," asked holcroft very kindly, "did anyone ever kiss you?" "mother used to 'fore people. it allus made me kinder sick." holcroft shook his head as if this child was a problem beyond him, and for a time they sat together in silence. at last he arose and said, "it's time to go home. now, jane, don't follow me; walk openly at my side, and when you come to call me at any time, come openly, make a noise, whistle or sing as a child ought. as long as you are with me, never do anything on the sly, and we'll get along well enough." she nodded and walked beside him. at last, as if emboldened by his words, she broke out, "say, if mother married you, you couldn't send us away, could you?" "why do you ask such a question?" said holcroft, frowning. "i was a-thinkin'--" "well," he interrupted sternly, "never think or speak of such things again." the child had a miserable sense that she had angered him; she was also satisfied that her mother's schemes would be futile, and she scarcely spoke again that day. holcroft was more than angry; he was disgusted. that mrs. mumpson's design upon him was so offensively open that even this ignorant child understood it, and was expected to further it, caused such a strong revulsion in his mind that he half resolved to put them both in his market wagon on the morrow and take them back to their relatives. his newly awakened sympathy for jane quickly vanished. if the girl and her mother had been repulsive from the first, they were now hideous, in view of their efforts to fasten themselves upon him permanently. fancy, then, the climax in his feelings when, as they passed the house, the front door suddenly opened and mrs. mumpson emerged with clasped hands and the exclamation, "oh, how touching! just like father and child!" without noticing the remark he said coldly as he passed, "jane, go help mrs. wiggins get supper." his anger and disgust grew so strong as he hastily did his evening work that he resolved not to endanger his self-control by sitting down within earshot of mrs. mumpson. as soon as possible, therefore, he carried the new stove to his room and put it up. the widow tried to address him as he passed in and out, but he paid no heed to her. at last, he only paused long enough at the kitchen door to say, "jane, bring me some supper to my room. remember, you only are to bring it." bewildered and abashed, mrs. mumpson rocked nervously. "i had looked for relentings this evening, a general softening," she murmured, "and i don't understand his bearing toward me." then a happy thought struck her. "i see, i see," she cried softly and ecstatically: "he is struggling with himself; he finds that he must either deny himself my society or yield at once. the end is near." a little later she, too, appeared at the kitchen door and said, with serious sweetness, "jane, you can also bring me my supper to the parlor." mrs. wiggins shook with mirth in all her vast proportions as she remarked, "jane, ye can bring me my supper from the stove to the table 'ere, and then vait hon yeself." chapter xiii. not wife, but waif tom watterly's horse was the pride of his heart. it was a bobtailed, rawboned animal, but, as tom complacently remarked to alida, "he can pass about anything on the road"--a boast that he let no chance escape of verifying. it was a terrible ordeal to the poor woman to go dashing through the streets in an open wagon, feeling that every eye was upon her. with head bowed down, she employed her failing strength in holding herself from falling out, yet almost wishing that she might be dashed against some object that would end her wretched life. it finally occurred to tom that the woman at his side might not, after her recent experience, share in his enthusiasm, and he pulled up remarking, with a rough effort at sympathy, "it's a cussed shame you've been treated so, and as soon as you're ready, i'll help you get even with the scamp." "i'm not well, sir," said alida humbly. "i only ask for a quiet place where i can rest till strong enough to do some kind of work." "well, well," said tom kindly, "don't lose heart. we'll do the best by you we can. that aint saying very much, though, for we're full and running over." he soon drew rein at the poorhouse door and sprang out. "i--i--feel strange," alida gasped. tom caught the fainting woman in his arms and shouted, "here, bill, joe! you lazy loons, where are you?" three or four half wrecks of men shuffled to his assistance, and together they bore the unconscious woman to the room which was used as a sort of hospital. some old crones gathered around with such restoratives as they had at command. gradually the stricken woman revived, but as the whole miserable truth came back, she turned her face to the wall with a sinking of heart akin to despair. at last, from sheer exhaustion, feverish sleep ensued, from which she often started with moans and low cries. one impression haunted her--she was falling, ever falling into a dark, bottomless abyss. hours passed in the same partial stupor, filled with phantoms and horrible dreams. toward evening, she aroused herself mechanically to take the broth mrs. watterly ordered her to swallow, then relapsed into the same lethargy. late in the night, she became conscious that someone was kneeling at her bedside and fondling her. she started up with a slight cry. "don't be afraid; it's only me, dear," said a quavering voice. in the dim rays of a night lamp, alida saw an old woman with gray hair falling about her face and on her night robe. at first, in her confused, feverish impressions, the poor waif was dumb with superstitious awe, and trembled between joy and fear. could her mother have come to comfort her in her sore extremity? "put yer head on me ould withered breast," said the apparition, "an' ye'll know a mither's heart niver changes. i've been a-lookin' for ye and expectin' ye these long, weary years, they said ye wouldn't come back--that i'd niver find ye ag'in; but i knowed i wud, and here ye are in me arms, me darlint. don't draw away from yer ould mither. don't ye be afeard or 'shamed loike. no matter what ye've done or where ye've been or who ye've been with, a mither's heart welcomes ye back jist the same as when yes were a babby an' slept on me breast. a mither's heart ud quench the fires o' hell. i'd go inter the burnin' flames o' the pit an' bear ye out in me arms. so niver fear. now that i've found ye, ye're safe. ye'll not run away from me ag'in. i'll hould ye--i'll hould ye back," and the poor creature clasped alida with such conclusive energy that she screamed from pain and terror. "ye shall not get away from me, ye shall not go back to evil ways. whist, whist! be aisy and let me plead wid ye. think how many long, weary years i've looked for ye and waited for ye. niver have i slept night or day in me watchin'. ye may be so stained an' lost an' ruined that the whole wourld will scorn ye, yet not yer mither, not yer ould mither. oh, nora, nora, why did ye rin away from me? wasn't i koind? no, no; ye cannot lave me ag'in," and she threw herself on alida, whose disordered mind was tortured by what she heard. whether or not it was a more terrible dream than had yet oppressed her, she scarcely knew, but in the excess of her nervous horror she sent out a cry that echoed in every part of the large building. two old women rushed in and dragged alida's persecutor screaming away. "that's allus the way o' it," she shrieked. "as soon as i find me nora they snatches me and carries me off, and i have to begin me watchin' and waitin' and lookin' ag'in." alida continued sobbing and trembling violently. one of the awakened patients sought to assure her by saying, "don't mind it so, miss. it's only old crazy kate. her daughter ran away from her years and years ago--how many no one knows--and when a young woman's brought here she thinks it's her lost nora. they oughtn't 'a' let her get out, knowin' you was here." for several days alida's reason wavered. the nervous shock of her sad experiences had been so great that it did not seem at all improbable that she, like the insane mother, might be haunted for the rest of her life by an overwhelming impression of something lost. in her morbid, shaken mind she confounded the wrong she had received with guilt on her own part. eventually, she grew calmer and more sensible. although her conscience acquitted her of intentional evil, nothing could remove the deep-rooted conviction that she was shamed beyond hope of remedy. for a time she was unable to rally from nervous prostration; meanwhile, her mind was preternaturally active, presenting every detail of the past until she was often ready to cry aloud in her despair. tom watterly took an unusual interest in her case and exhorted the visiting physician to do his best for her. she finally began to improve, and with the first return of strength sought to do something with her feeble hands. the bread of charity was not sweet. although the place in which she lodged was clean, and the coarse, unvarying fare abundant, she shrank shuddering, with each day's clearer consciousness, from the majority of those about her. phases of life of which she had scarcely dreamed were the common topics of conversation. in her mother she had learned to venerate gray hairs, and it was an awful shock to learn that so many of the feeble creatures about her were coarse, wicked, and evil-disposed. how could their withered lips frame the words they spoke? how could they dwell on subjects that were profanation, even to such wrecks of womanhood as themselves? moreover, they persecuted her by their curiosity. the good material in her apparel had been examined and commented on; her wedding ring had been seen and its absence soon noted, for alida, after gaining the power to recall the past fully, had thrown away the metal lie, feeling that it was the last link in a chain binding her to a loathed and hated relationship. learning from their questions that the inmates of the almshouse did not know her history, she refused to reveal it, thus awakening endless surmises. many histories were made for her, the beldams vying with each other in constructing the worst one. poor alida soon learned that there was public opinion even in an almshouse, and that she was under its ban. in dreary despondency she thought, "they've found out about me. if such creatures as these think i'm hardly fit to speak to, how can i ever find work among good, respectable people?" her extreme depression, the coarse, vulgar, and uncharitable natures by which she was surrounded, retarded her recovery. by her efforts to do anything in her power for others she disarmed the hostility of some of the women, and those that were more or less demented became fond of her; but the majority probed her wound by every look and word. she was a saint compared with any of these, yet they made her envy their respectability. she often thought, "would to god that i was as old and ready to die as the feeblest woman here, if i could only hold up my head like her!" one day a woman who had a child left it sleeping in its rude wooden cradle and went downstairs. the babe wakened and began to cry. alida took it up and found a strange solace in rocking it to sleep again upon her breast. at last the mother returned, glared a moment into alida's appealing eyes, then snatched the child away with the cruel words, "don't ye touch my baby ag'in! to think it ud been in the arms o' the loikes o'ye!" alida went away and sobbed until her strength was gone. she found that there were some others ostracized like herself, but they accepted their position as a matter of course--as if it belonged to them and was the least of their troubles. her strength was returning, yet she was still feeble when she sent for mrs. watterly and asked, "do you think i'm strong enough to take a place somewhere?" "you ought to know that better than me," was the chilly reply. "do you--do you think i could get a place? i would be willing to do any kind of honest work not beyond my strength." "you hardly look able to sit up straight. better wait till you're stronger. i'll tell my husband. if applications come, he'll see about it," and she turned coldly away. a day or two later tom came and said brusquely, but not unkindly, "don't like my hotel, hey? what can you do?" "i'm used to sewing, but i'd try to do almost anything by which i could earn my living." "best thing to do is to prosecute that scamp and make him pay you a good round sum." she shook her head decidedly. "i don't wish to see him again. i don't wish to go before people and have the--the--past talked about. i'd like a place with some kind, quiet people who keep no other help. perhaps they wouldn't take me if they knew; but i would be so faithful to them, and try so heard to learn what they wanted--" "that's all nonsense, their not taking you. i'll find you a place some day, but you're not strong enough yet. you'd be brought right back here. you're as pale as a ghost--almost look like one. so don't be impatient, but give me a chance to find you a good place. i feel sorry for you, and don't want you to get among folks that have no feelings. don't you worry now; chirk up, and you'll come out all right." "i--i think that if--if i'm employed, the people who take me ought to know," said alida with bowed head. "they'll be blamed fools if they don't think more of you when they do know," was his response. "still, that shall be as you please. i've told only my wife, and they've kept mum at the police station, so the thing hasn't got into the papers." alida's head bowed lower still as she replied, "i thank you. my only wish now is to find some quiet place in which i can work and be left to myself." "very well," said tom good-naturedly. "cheer up! i'll be on the lookout for you." she turned to the window near which she was sitting to hide the tears which his rough kindness evoked. "he don't seem to shrink from me as if i wasn't fit to be spoken to," she thought; "but his wife did. i'm afraid people won't take me when they know." the april sunshine poured in at the window; the grass was becoming green; a robin alighted on a tree nearby and poured out a jubilant song. for a few moments hope, that had been almost dead in her heart, revived. as she looked gratefully at the bird, thanking it in her heart for the song, it darted upon a string hanging on an adjacent spray and bore it to a crotch between two boughs. then alida saw it was building a nest. her woman's heart gave way. "oh," she moaned, "i shall never have a home again! no place shared by one who cares for me. to work, and to be tolerated for the sake of my work, is all that's left." chapter xiv. a pitched battle it was an odd household under holcroft's roof on the evening of the sunday we have described. the farmer, in a sense, had "taken sanctuary" in his own room, that he might escape the maneuvering wiles of his tormenting housekeeper. if she would content herself with general topics he would try to endure her foolish, high-flown talk until the three months expired; but that she should speedily and openly take the initiative in matrimonial designs was proof of such an unbalanced mind that he was filled with nervous dread. "hanged if one can tell what such a silly, hairbrained woman will do next!" he thought, as he brooded by the fire. "sunday or no sunday, i feel as if i'd like to take my horsewhip and give lemuel weeks a piece of my mind." such musings did not promise well for mrs. mumpson, scheming in the parlor below; but, as we have seen, she had the faculty of arranging all future events to her mind. that matters had not turned out in the past as she had expected, counted for nothing. she was one who could not be taught, even by experience. the most insignificant thing in holcroft's dwelling had not escaped her scrutiny and pretty accurate guess as to value, yet she could not see or understand the intolerable disgust and irritation which her ridiculous conduct excited. in a weak mind egotism and selfishness, beyond a certain point, pass into practical insanity. all sense of delicacy, of the fitness of things, is lost; even the power to consider the rights and feelings of others is wanting. unlike poor holcroft, mrs. mumpson had few misgivings in regard to coming years. as she rocked unceasingly before the parlor fire, she arranged everything in regard to his future as well as her own. jane, quite forgotten, was oppressed with a miserable presentiment of evil. her pinched but intense little mind was concentrated on two facts--holcroft's anger and her mother's lack of sense. from such premises it did not take her long to reason out but one conclusion--"visitin' again;" and this was the summing up of all evils. now and then a tear would force its way out of one of her little eyes, but otherwise she kept her troubles to herself. mrs. wiggins was the only complacent personage in the house, and she unbent with a garrulous affability to jane, which could be accounted for in but one way--holcroft had forgotten about his cider barrel, thereby unconsciously giving her the chance to sample its contents freely. she was now smoking her pipe with much content, and indulging in pleasing reminiscences which the facts of her life scarcely warranted. "ven hi vas as leetle a gal as ye are," she began, and then she related experiences quite devoid of the simplicity and innocence of childhood. the girl soon forgot her fears and listened with avidity until the old dame's face grew heavier, if possible, with sleep, and she stumbled off to bed. having no wish to see or speak to her mother again, the child blew out the candle and stole silently up the stairway. at last mrs. mumpson took her light and went noisily around, seeing to the fastenings of doors and windows. "i know he is listening to every sound from me, and he shall learn what a caretaker i am," she murmured softly. once out of doors in the morning, with his foot on the native heath of his farm, holcroft's hopefulness and courage always returned. he was half angry with himself at his nervous irritation of the evening before. "if she becomes so cranky that i can't stand her, i'll pay the three months' wages and clear her out," he had concluded, and he went about his morning work with a grim purpose to submit to very little nonsense. cider is akin to vinegar, and mrs. wiggins' liberal potations of the evening before had evidently imparted a marked acidity to her temper. she laid hold of the kitchen utensils as if she had a spite against them, and when jane, confiding in her friendliness shown so recently, came down to assist, she was chased out of doors with language we forbear to repeat. mrs. mumpson, therefore, had no intimation of the low state of the barometer in the region of the kitchen. "i have taken time to think deeply and calmly," she murmured. "the proper course has been made clear to me. he is somewhat uncouth; he is silent and unable to express his thoughts and emotions--in brief, undeveloped; he is awfully irreligious. moth and rust are busy in this house; much that would be so useful is going to waste. he must learn to look upon me as the developer, the caretaker, a patient and healthful embodiment of female influence. i will now begin actively my mission of making him an ornerment to society. that mountainous mrs. viggins must be replaced by a deferential girl who will naturally look up to me. how can i be a true caretaker--how can i bring repose and refinement to this dwelling with two hundred pounds of female impudence in my way? mr. holcroft shall see that mrs. viggins is an unseemly and jarring discord in our home," and she brought the rocking chair from the parlor to the kitchen, with a serene and lofty air. jane hovered near the window, watching. at first, there was an ominous silence in respect to words. portentous sounds increased, however, for mrs. wiggins strode about with martial tread, making the boards creak and the dishes clatter, while her red eyes shot lurid and sanguinary gleams. she would seize a dipper as if it were a foe, slamming it upon the table again as if striking an enemy. under her vigorous manipulation, kettles and pans resounded with reports like firearms. mrs. mumpson was evidently perturbed; her calm superiority was forsaking her; every moment she rocked faster--a sure indication that she was not at peace. at last she said, with great dignity: "mrs. viggins, i must request you to perform your tasks with less clamor. my nerves are not equal to this peculiar way of taking up and laying down things." "vell, jes' ye vait a minute, han hi'll show ye 'ow hi kin take hup things han put 'em down hag'in hout o' my vay," and before mrs. mumpson could interfere, she found herself lifted, chair and all bodily, and carried to the parlor. between trepidation and anger, she could only gasp during the transit, and when left in the middle of the parlor floor she looked around in utter bewilderment. it so happened that holcroft, on his way from the barn, had seen jane looking in at the window, and, suspecting something amiss, had arrived just in time for the spectacle. convulsed with laughter, he returned hastily to the barn; while jane expressed her feelings, whatever they were, by executing something like a hornpipe before the window. mrs. mumpson, however, was not vanquished. she had only made a compulsory retreat from the scene of hostilities; and, after rallying her shattered faculties, advanced again with the chair. "how dared you, you disreputerble female?" she began. mrs. wiggins turned slowly and ominously upon her. "ye call me a disrupterbul female hag'in, han ye vont find hit 'ealthy." mrs. mumpson prudently backed toward the door before delivering her return fire. "woman!" she cried, "are you out of your mind? don't you know i'm housekeeper here, and that it's my duty to superintend you and your work?" "vell, then, hi'll double ye hup hand put ye hon the shelf hof the dresser han' lock the glass door hon ye. from hup there ye kin see all that's goin' hon and sup'intend to yer 'eart's content," and she started for her superior officer. mrs. mumpson backed so precipitately with her chair that it struck against the door case, and she sat down hard. seeing that mrs. wiggins was almost upon her, she darted back into the parlor, leaving the chair as a trophy in the hands of her enemy. mrs. wiggins was somewhat appeased by this second triumph, and with the hope of adding gall and bitterness to mrs. mumpson's defeat, she took the chair to her rival's favorite rocking place, lighted her pipe, and sat down in grim complacency. mrs. mumpson warily approached to recover a support which, from long habit, had become moral as well as physical, and her indignation knew no bounds when she saw it creaking under the weight of her foe. it must be admitted, however, that her ire was not so great that she did not retain the "better part of valor," for she stepped back, unlocked the front door, and set it ajar. on returning, she opened with a volubility that awed even mrs. wiggins for a moment. "you miserable, mountainous pauper; you interloper; you unrefined, irresponserble, unregenerate female, do you know what you have done in thus outraging me? i'm a respecterble woman, respecterbly connected. i'm here in a responserble station. when mr. holcroft appears he'll drive you from the dwelling which you vulgarize. your presence makes this apartment a den. you are a wild beast--" "hi'm a vile beastes, ham hi?" cried mrs. wiggins, at last stung into action, and she threw her lighted pipe at the open mouth that was discharging high-sounding epithets by the score. it struck the lintel over the widow's head, was shattered, and sent down upon her a shower of villainously smelling sparks. mrs. mumpson shrieked and sought frantically to keep her calico wrapper from taking fire. meanwhile, mrs. wiggins rose and took a step or two that she might assist should there be any positive danger, for she had not yet reached a point of malignity which would lead her to witness calmly an auto-da-fe. this was jane's opportunity. mrs. wiggins had alienated this small and hitherto friendly power, and now, with a returning impulse of loyalty, it took sides with the weaker party. the kitchen door was on a crack; the child pushed it noiselessly open, darted around behind the stove, and withdrew the rocking chair. mrs. wiggins' brief anxiety and preoccupation passed, and she stepped backward again to sit down. she did sit down, but with such terrific force that the stove and nearly everything else in the room threatened to fall with her. she sat helplessly for a bewildered moment, while jane, with the chair, danced before her exclaiming, tauntingly, "that's for chasing me out as if i was a cat!" "noo hi'll chase ye both hout," cried the ireful wiggins, scrambling to her feet. she made good her threat, for holcroft, a moment later, saw mother and daughter, the latter carrying the chair, rushing from the front door, and mrs. wiggins, armed with a great wooden spoon, waddling after them, her objurgations mingling with mrs. mumpson's shrieks and jane's shrill laughter. the widow caught a glimpse of him standing in the barn door, and, as if borne by the wind, she flew toward him, crying, "he shall be my protector!" he barely had time to whisk through a side door and close it after him. the widow's impetuous desire to pant out the story of her wrongs carried her into the midst of the barnyard, where she was speedily confronted by an unruly young heifer that could scarcely be blamed for hostility to such a wild-looking object. the animal shook its head threateningly as it advanced. again the widow's shrieks resounded. this time holcroft was about to come to the rescue, when the beleaguered woman made a dash for the top of the nearest fence, reminding her amused looker-on of the night of her arrival when she had perched like some strange sort of bird on the wagon wheel. seeing that she was abundantly able to escape alone, the farmer remained in concealment. although disgusted and angry at the scenes taking place, he was scarcely able to restrain roars of laughter. perched upon the fence, the widow called piteously for him to lift her down, but he was not to be caught by any such device. at last, giving up hope and still threatened by the heifer, she went over on the other side. knowing that she must make a detour before reaching the dwelling, holcroft went thither rapidly with the purpose of restoring order at once. "jane," he said sternly, "take that chair to the parlor and leave it there. let there be no more such nonsense." at his approach, mrs. wiggins had retreated sullenly to the kitchen. "come," he ordered good-naturedly, "hasten breakfast and let there be no more quarreling." "hif hi vas left to do me work hin peace--" she began. "well, you shall do it in peace." at this moment mrs. mumpson came tearing in, quite oblivious of the fact that she had left a goodly part of her calico skirt on a nail of the fence. she was rushing toward holcroft, when he said sternly, and with a repellent gesture, "stop and listen to me. if there's any more of this quarreling like cats and dogs in my house, i'll send for the constable and have you all arrested. if you are not all utterly demented and hopeless fools, you will know that you came here to do my work, and nothing else." then catching a glimpse of mrs. mumpson's dress, and fearing he should laugh outright, he turned abruptly on his heel and went to his room, where he was in a divided state between irrepressible mirth and vexation. mrs. mumpson also fled to her room. she felt that the proper course for her at this juncture was a fit of violent hysterics; but a prompt douche from the water pitcher, administered by the unsympathetic jane, effectually checked the first symptoms. "was ever a respecterble woman--" "you aint respectable," interrupted the girl, as she departed. "you look like a scarecrow. 'fi's you i'd begin to show some sense now." chapter xv. "what is to become of me?" holcroft's reference to a constable and arrest, though scarcely intended to be more than a vague threat, had the effect of clearing the air like a clap of thunder. jane had never lost her senses, such as she possessed, and mrs. wiggins recovered hers sufficiently to apologize to the farmer when he came down to breakfast. "but that mumpson's hawfully haggravatin', master, as ye know yeself, hi'm a-thinkin'. vud ye jis tell a body vat she is 'here, han 'ow hi'm to get hon vith 'er. hif hi'm to take me horders from 'er, hi'd ruther go back to the poor-'us." "you are to take your orders from me and no one else. all i ask is that you go on quietly with your work and pay no attention to her. you know well enough that i can't have such goings on. i want you to let jane help you and learn her to do everything as far as she can. mrs. mumpson can do the mending and ironing, i suppose. at any rate, i won't have any more quarreling and uproar. i'm a quiet man and intend to have a quiet house. you and jane can get along very well in the kitchen, and you say you understand the dairy work." "vell hi does, han noo hi've got me horders hi'll go right along." mrs. mumpson was like one who had been rudely shaken out of a dream, and she appeared to have sense enough to realize that she couldn't assume so much at first as she anticipated. she received from jane a cup of coffee, and said feebly, "i can partake of no more after the recent trying events." for some hours she was a little dazed, but her mind was of too light weight to be long cast down. jane rehearsed holcroft's words, described his manner, and sought with much insistence to show her mother that she must drop her nonsense at once. "i can see it in his eye," said the girl, "that he won't stand much more. if yer don't come down and keep yer hands busy and yer tongue still, we'll tramp. as to his marrying you, bah! he'd jes' as soon marry mrs. wiggins." this was awful prose, but mrs. mumpson was too bewildered and discouraged for a time to dispute it, and the household fell into a somewhat regular routine. the widow appeared at her meals with the air of a meek and suffering martyr; holcroft was exceedingly brief in his replies to her questions, and paid no heed to her remarks. after supper and his evening work, he went directly to his room. every day, however, he secretly chafed with ever-increasing discontent, over this tormenting presence in his house. the mending and such work as she attempted was so wretchedly performed that it would better have been left undone. she was also recovering her garrulousness, and mistook his toleration and her immunity in the parlor for proof of a growing consideration. "he knows that my hands were never made for such coarse, menial tasks as that viggins does," she thought, as she darned one of his stockings in a way that would render it almost impossible for him to put his foot into it again. "the events of last monday morning were unfortunate, unforeseen, unprecedented. i was unprepared for such vulgar, barbarous, unheard-of proceedings--taken off my feet, as it were; but now that he's had time to think it all over, he sees that i am not a common woman like viggins,"--mrs. mumpson would have suffered rather than have accorded her enemy the prefix of mrs.,--"who is only fit to be among pots and kettles. he leaves me in the parlor as if a refined apartment became me and i became it. time and my influence will mellow, soften, elevate, develop, and at last awaken a desire for my society, then yearnings. my first error was in not giving myself time to make a proper impression. he will soon begin to yield like the earth without. first it is hard and frosty, then it is cold and muddy, if i may permit myself so disagreeable an illustration. now he is becoming mellow, and soon every word i utter will be like good seed in good ground. how aptly it all fits! i have only to be patient." she was finally left almost to utter idleness, for jane and mrs. wiggins gradually took from the incompetent hands even the light tasks which she had attempted. she made no protest, regarding all as another proof that holcroft was beginning to recognize her superiority and unfitness for menial tasks. she would maintain, however, her character as the caretaker and ostentatiously inspected everything; she also tried to make as much noise in fastening up the dwelling at night as if she were barricading a castle. holcroft would listen grimly, well aware that no house had been entered in oakville during his memory. he had taken an early occasion to say at the table that he wished no one to enter his room except jane, and that he would not permit any infringement of this rule. mrs. mumpson's feelings had been hurt at first by this order, but she soon satisfied herself that it had been meant for mrs. wiggins' benefit and not her own. she found, however, that jane interpreted it literally. "if either of you set foot in that room, i'll tell him," she said flatly. "i've had my orders and i'm a-goin' to obey. there's to be no more rummagin'. if you'll give me the keys i'll put things back in order ag'in." "well, i won't give you the keys. i'm the proper person to put things in order if you did not replace them properly. you are just making an excuse to rummage yourself. my motive for inspecting is very different from yours." "shouldn't wonder if you was sorry some day," the girl had remarked, and so the matter had dropped and been forgotten. holcroft solaced himself with the fact that jane and mrs. wiggins served his meals regularly and looked after the dairy with better care than it had received since his wife died. "if i had only those two in the house, i could get along first-rate," he thought. "after the three months are up, i'll try to make such an arrangement. i'd pay the mother and send her off now, but if i did, lemuel weeks would put her up to a lawsuit." april days brought the longed-for plowing and planting, and the farmer was so busy and absorbed in his work that mrs. mumpson had less and less place in his thoughts, even as a thorn in the flesh. one bright afternoon, however, chaos came again unexpectedly. mrs. wiggins did not suggest a volatile creature, yet such, alas! she was. she apparently exhaled and was lost, leaving no trace. the circumstances of her disappearance permit of a very matter-of-fact and not very creditable explanation. on the day in question she prepared an unusually good dinner, and the farmer had enjoyed it in spite of mrs. mumpson's presence and desultory remarks. the morning had been fine and he had made progress in his early spring work. mrs. wiggins felt that her hour and opportunity had come. following him to the door, she said in a low tone and yet with a decisive accent, as if she was claiming a right, "master, hi'd thank ye for me two weeks' wages." he unsuspectingly and unhesitatingly gave it to her, thinking, "that's the way with such people. they want to be paid often and be sure of their money. she'll work all the better for having it." mrs. wiggins knew the hour when the stage passed the house; she had made up a bundle without a very close regard to meum or tuum, and was ready to flit. the chance speedily came. the "caretaker" was rocking in the parlor and would disdain to look, while jane had gone out to help plant some early potatoes on a warm hillside. the coast was clear. seeing the stage coming, the old woman waddled down the lane at a remarkable pace, paid her fare to town, and the holcroft kitchen knew her no more. that she found the "friend" she had wished to see on her way out to the farm, and that this friend brought her quickly under tom watterly's care again, goes without saying. as the shadows lengthened and the robins became tuneful, holcroft said, "you've done well, jane. thank you. now you can go back to the house." the child soon returned in breathless haste to the field where the farmer was covering the potato pieces she had dropped, and cried, "mrs. wiggins's gone!" like a flash the woman's motive in asking for her wages occurred to him, but he started for the house to assure himself of the truth. "perhaps she's in the cellar," he said, remembering the cider barrel, "or else she's out for a walk." "no, she aint," persisted jane. "i've looked everywhere and all over the barn, and she aint nowhere. mother haint seen her, nuther." with dreary misgivings, holcroft remembered that he no longer had a practical ally in the old englishwoman, and he felt that a new breaking up was coming. he looked wistfully at jane, and thought, "i could get along with that child if the other was away. but that can't be; she'd visit here indefinitely if jane stayed." when mrs. mumpson learned from jane of mrs. wiggins' disappearance, she was thrown into a state of strong excitement. she felt that her hour and opportunity might be near also, and she began to rock very fast. "what else could he expect of such a female?" she soliloquized. "i've no doubt but she's taken things, too. he'll now learn my value and what it is to have a caretaker who will never desert him." spirits and courage rose with the emergency; her thoughts hurried her along like a dry leaf caught in a march gale. "yes," she murmured, "the time has come for me to act, to dare, to show him in his desperate need and hour of desertion what might be, may be, must be. he will now see clearly the difference between these peculiar females who come and go, and a respecterble woman and a mother who can be depended upon--one who will never steal away like a thief in the night." she saw holcroft approaching the house with jane; she heard him ascend to mrs. wiggins' room, then return to the kitchen and ejaculate, "yes, she's gone, sure enough." "now, act!" murmured the widow, and she rushed toward the farmer with clasped hands, and cried with emotion, "yes, she's gone; but i'm not gone. you are not deserted. jane will minister to you; i will be the caretaker, and our home will be all the happier because that monstrous creature is absent. dear mr. holcroft, don't be so blind to your own interests and happiness, don't remain undeveloped! everything is wrong here if you would but see it. you are lonely and desolate. moth and rust have entered, things in unopened drawers and closets are molding and going to waste. yield to true female influence and--" holcroft had been rendered speechless at first by this onslaught, but the reference to unopened drawers and closets awakened a sudden suspicion. had she dared to touch what had belonged to his wife? "what!" he exclaimed sharply, interrupting her; then with an expression of disgust and anger, he passed her swiftly and went to his room. a moment later came the stern summons, "jane, come here!" "now you'll see what'll come of that rummagin'," whimpered jane. "you aint got no sense at all to go at him so. he's jes' goin' to put us right out," and she went upstairs as if to execution. "have i failed?" gasped mrs. mumpson, and retreating to the chair, she rocked nervously. "jane," said holcroft in hot anger, "my wife's things have been pulled out of her bureau and stuffed back again as if they were no better than dishcloths. who did it?" the child now began to cry aloud. "there, there!" he said, with intense irritation, "i can't trust you either." "i haint--touched 'em--since you told me--told me--not to do things on the sly," the girl sobbed brokenly; but he had closed the door upon her and did not hear. he could have forgiven her almost anything but this. since she only had been permitted to take care of his room, he naturally thought that she had committed the sacrilege, and her manner had confirmed this impression. of course, the mother had been present and probably had assisted; but he had expected nothing better of her. he took the things out, folded and smoothed them as carefully as he could with his heavy hands and clumsy fingers. his gentle, almost reverent touch was in strange contrast with his flushed, angry face and gleaming eyes. "this is the worst that's happened yet," he muttered. "oh, lemuel weeks! it's well you are not here now, or we might both have cause to be sorry. it was you who put these prying, and for all i know, thieving creatures into my house, and it was as mean a trick as ever one man played another. you and this precious cousin of yours thought you could bring about a marriage; you put her up to her ridiculous antics. faugh! the very thought of it all makes me sick." "oh, mother, what shall i do?" jane cried, rushing into the parlor and throwing herself on the floor, "he's goin' to put us right out." "he can't put me out before the three months are up," quavered the widow. "yes, he can. we've been a-rummagin' where we'd no bizniss to be. he's mad enough to do anything; he jes' looks awful; i'm afraid of him." "jane," said her mother plaintively, "i feel indisposed. i think i'll retire." "yes, that's the way with you," sobbed the child. "you get me into the scrape and now you retire." mrs. mumpson's confidence in herself and her schemes was terribly shaken. "i must act very discreetly. i must be alone that i may think over these untoward events. mr. holcroft has been so warped by the past female influences of his life that there's no counting on his action. he taxes me sorely," she explained, and then ascended the stairs. "oh! oh!" moaned the child as she writhed on the floor, "mother aint got no sense at all. what is goin' to become of me? i'd ruther hang about his barn than go back to cousin lemuel's or any other cousin's." spurred by one hope, she at last sprung up and went to the kitchen. it was already growing dark, and she lighted the lamp, kindled the fire, and began getting supper with breathless energy. as far as he could discover, holcroft was satisfied that nothing had been taken. in this respect he was right. mrs. mumpson's curiosity and covetousness were boundless, but she would not steal. there are few who do not draw the line somewhere. having tried to put the articles back as they were before, he locked them up, and went hastily down and out, feeling that he must regain his self-control and decide upon his future action at once. "i will then carry out my purposes in a way that will give the weeks tribe no chance to make trouble." as he passed the kitchen windows he saw jane rushing about as if possessed, and he stopped to watch her. it soon became evident that she was trying to get his supper. his heart relented at once in spite of himself. "the poor, wronged child!" he muttered. "why should i be so hard on her for doing what she's been brought up to do? well, well, it's too bad to send her away, but i can't help it. i'd lose my own reason if the mother were here much longer, and if i kept jane, her idiotic mother would stay in spite of me. if she didn't, there'd be endless talk and lawsuits, too, like enough, about separating parent and child. jane's too young and little, anyway, to be here alone and do the work. but i'm sorry for her, i declare i am, and i wish i could do something to give her a chance in the world. if my wife was only living, we'd take and bring her up, disagreeable and homely as she is; but there's no use of my trying to do anything alone. i fear, after all, that i shall have to give up the old place and go--i don't know where. what is to become of her?" chapter xvi. mrs. mumpson's vicissitudes having completed her preparations for supper, jane stole timidly up to holcroft's room to summon him. her first rap on his door was scarcely audible, then she ventured to knock louder and finally to call him, but there was no response. full of vague dread she went to her mother's room and said, "he won't answer me. he's so awful mad that i don't know what he'll do." "i think he has left his apartment," her mother moaned from the bed. "why couldn't yer tell me so before?" cried jane. "what yer gone to bed for? if you'd only show some sense and try to do what he brought you here for, like enough he'd keep us yet." "my heart's too crushed, jane--" "oh, bother, bother!" and the child rushed away. she looked into the dark parlor and called, "mr. holcroft!" then she appeared in the kitchen again, the picture of uncouth distress and perplexity. a moment later she opened the door and darted toward the barn. "what do you wish, jane?" said holcroft, emerging from a shadowy corner and recalling her. "sup--supper's--ready," sobbed the child. he came in and sat down at the table, considerately appearing not to notice her until she had a chance to recover composure. she vigorously used the sleeve of both arms in drying her eyes, then stole in and found a seat in a dusky corner. "why don't you come to supper?" he asked quietly. "don't want any." "you had better take some up to your mother." "she oughtn't to have any." "that doesn't make any difference. i want you to take up something to her, and then come down and eat your supper like a sensible girl." "i aint been sensible, nor mother nuther." "do as i say, jane." the child obeyed, but she couldn't swallow anything but a little coffee. holcroft was in a quandary. he had not the gift of speaking soothing yet meaningless words, and was too honest to raise false hopes. he was therefore almost as silent and embarrassed as jane herself. to the girl's furtive scrutiny he did not seem hardened against her, and she at last ventured, "say, i didn't touch them drawers after you told me not to do anything on the sly." "when were they opened? tell me the truth, jane." "mother opened them the first day you left us alone. i told her you wouldn't like it, but she said she was housekeeper; she said how it was her duty to inspect everything. i wanted to inspect, too. we was jes' rummagin'--that's what it was. after the things were all pulled out, mother got the rocker and wouldn't do anything. it was gettin' late, and i was frightened and poked 'em back in a hurry. mother wanted to rummage ag'in the other day and i wouldn't let her; then, she wouldn't let me have the keys so i could fix 'em up." "but the keys were in my pocket, jane." "mother has a lot of keys. i've told you jes' how it all was." "nothing was taken away?" "no. mother aint got sense, but she never takes things. i nuther 'cept when i'm hungry. never took anything here. say, are you goin' to send us away?' "i fear i shall have to, jane. i'm sorry for you, for i believe you would try to do the best you could if given a chance, and i can see you never had a chance." "no," said the child, blinking hard to keep the tears out of her eyes. "i aint had no teachin'. i've jes' kinder growed along with the farm hands and rough boys. them that didn't hate me teased me. say, couldn't i stay in your barn and sleep in the hay?" holcroft was sorely perplexed and pushed away his half-eaten supper. he knew himself what it was to be friendless and lonely, and his heart softened toward this worse than motherless child. "jane," he said kindly, "i'm just as sorry for you as i can be, but you don't know the difficulties in the way of what you wish, and i fear i can't make you understand them. indeed, it would not be best to tell you all of them. if i could keep you at all, you should stay in the house, and i'd be kind to you, but it can't be. i may not stay here myself. my future course is very uncertain. there's no use of my trying to go on as i have. perhaps some day i can do something for you, and if i can, i will. i will pay your mother her three months' wages in full in the morning, and then i want you both to get your things into your trunk, and i'll take you to your cousin lemuel's." driven almost to desperation, jane suggested the only scheme she could think of. "if you stayed here and i run away and came back, wouldn't you keep me? i'd work all day and all night jes' for the sake of stayin'." "no, jane," said holcroft firmly, "you'd make me no end of trouble if you did that. if you'll be a good girl and learn how to do things, i'll try to find you a place among kind people some day when you're older and can act for yourself." "you're afraid 'fi's here mother'd come a-visitin," said the girl keenly. "you're too young to understand half the trouble that might follow. my plans are too uncertain for me to tangle myself up. you and your mother must go away at once, so i can do what i must do before it's too late in the season. here's a couple of dollars which you can keep for yourself," and he went up to his room, feeling that he could not witness the child's distress any longer. he fought hard against despondency and tried to face the actual condition of his affairs. "i might have known," he thought, "that things would have turned out somewhat as they have, with such women in the house, and i don't see much chance of getting better ones. i've been so bent on staying and going on as i used to that i've just shut my eyes to the facts." he got out an old account book and pored over it a long time. the entries therein were blind enough, but at last he concluded, "it's plain that i've lost money on the dairy ever since my wife died, and the prospects now are worse than ever. that weeks tribe will set the whole town talking against me and it will be just about impossible to get a decent woman to come here. i might as well have an auction and sell all the cows but one at once. after that, if i find i can't make out living alone, i'll put the place in better order and sell or rent. i can get my own meals after a fashion, and old jonathan johnson's wife will do my washing and mending. it's time it was done better than it has been, for some of my clothes make me look like a scarecrow. i believe jonathan will come with his cross dog and stay here too, when i must be away. well, well, it's a hard lot for a man; but i'd be about as bad off, and a hundred-fold more lonely, if i went anywhere else. "i can only feel my way along and live a day at a time. i'll learn what can be done and what can't be. one thing is clear: i can't go on with this mrs. mumpson in the house a day longer. she makes me creep and crawl all over, and the first thing i know i shall be swearing like a bloody pirate unless i get rid of her. "if she wasn't such a hopeless idiot i'd let her stay for the sake of jane, but i won't pay her good wages to make my life a burden a day longer," and with like self-communings he spent the evening until the habit of early drowsiness overcame him. the morning found jane dispirited and a little sullen, as older and wiser people are apt to be when disappointed. she employed herself in getting breakfast carelessly and languidly, and the result was not satisfactory. "where's your mother?" holcroft asked when he came in. "she told me to tell you she was indisposed." "indisposed to go to lemuel weeks'?" "i 'spect she means she's sick." he frowned and looked suspiciously at the girl. here was a new complication, and very possibly a trick. "what's the matter with her?" "dunno." "well, she had better get well enough to go by this afternoon," he remarked, controlling his irritation with difficulty, and nothing more was said. full of his new plans he spent a busy forenoon and then came to dinner. it was the same old story. he went up and knocked at mrs. mumpson's door, saying that he wished to speak with her. "i'm too indisposed to transact business," she replied feebly. "you must be ready tomorrow morning," he called. "i have business plans which can't be delayed," and he turned away muttering rather sulphurous words. "he will relent; his hard heart will soften at last--" but we shall not weary the reader with the long soliloquies with which she beguiled her politic seclusion, as she regarded it. poor, unsophisticated jane made matters worse. the condition of life among her much-visited relatives now existed again. she was not wanted, and her old sly, sullen, and furtive manner reasserted itself. much of holcroft's sympathy was thus alienated, yet he partially understood and pitied her. it became, however, all the more clear that he must get rid of both mother and child, and that further relations with either of them could only lead to trouble. the following morning only jane appeared. "is your mother really sick?" he asked. "s'pose so," was the laconic reply. "you haven't taken much pains with the breakfast, jane." "'taint no use." with knitted brows he thought deeply, and silently ate the wretched meal which had been prepared. then, remarking that he might do some writing, he went up to a small attic room which had been used occasionally by a hired man. it contained a covered pipe-hole leading into the chimney flue. removing the cover, he stopped up the flue with an old woolen coat. "i suppose i'll have to meet tricks with tricks," he muttered. returning to his own apartment, he lighted a fire in the stove and laid upon the kindling blaze some dampened wood, then went out and quietly hitched his horses to the wagon. the pungent odor of smoke soon filled the house. the cover over the pipe-hole in mrs. mumpson's room was not very secure, and thick volumes began to pour in upon the startled widow. "jane!" she shrieked. if jane was sullen toward holcroft, she was furious at her mother, and paid no heed at first to her cry. "jane, jane, the house is on fire!" then the child did fly up the stairway. the smoke seemed to confirm the words of her mother, who was dressing in hot haste. "run and tell mr. holcroft!" she cried. "i won't," said the girl. "if he won't keep us in the house, i don't care if he don't have any house." "no, no, tell him!" screamed mrs. mumpson. "if we save his house he will relent. gratitude will overwhelm him. so far from turning us away, he will sue, he will plead for forgiveness for his former harshness; his home saved will be our home won. just put our things in the trunk first. perhaps the house can't be saved, and you know we must save our things. help me, quick! there, there; now, now"--both were sneezing and choking in a half-strangled manner. "now let me lock it; my hand trembles so; take hold and draw it out; drag it downstairs; no matter how it scratches things!" having reached the hall below, she opened the door and shrieked for holcroft; jane also began running toward the barn. the farmer came hastily out, and shouted, "what's the matter?" "the house is on fire!" they screamed in chorus. to carry out his ruse, he ran swiftly to the house. mrs. mumpson stood before him wringing her hands and crying, "oh, dear mr. holcroft, can't i do anything to help you? i would so like to help you and--" "yes, my good woman, let me get in the door and see what's the matter. oh, here's your trunk. that's sensible. better get it outside," and he went up the stairs two steps at a time and rushed into his room. "jane, jane," ejaculated mrs. mumpson, sinking on a seat in the porch, "he called me his good woman!" but jane was busy dragging the trunk out of doors. having secured her own and her mother's worldly possessions, she called, "shall i bring water and carry things out?" "no," he replied, "not yet. there's something the matter with the chimney," and he hastened up to the attic room, removed the clog from the flue, put on the cover again, and threw open the window. returning, he locked the door of the room which mrs. mumpson had occupied and came downstairs. "i must get a ladder and examine the chimney," he said as he passed. "oh, my dear mr. holcroft!" the widow began. "can't talk with you yet," and he hastened on. "as soon as he's sure the house is safe, jane, all will be well." but the girl had grown hopeless and cynical. she had not penetrated his scheme to restore her mother to health, but understood the man well enough to be sure that her mother's hopes would end as they had in the past. she sat down apathetically on the trunk to see what would happen next. after a brief inspection holcroft came down from the roof and said, "the chimney will have to be repaired," which was true enough and equally so of other parts of the dwelling. the fortunes of the owner were reflected in the appearance of the building. if it were a possible thing holcroft wished to carry out his ruse undetected, and he hastened upstairs again, ostensibly to see that all danger had passed, but in reality to prepare his mind for an intensely disagreeable interview. "i'd rather face a mob of men than that one idiotic woman," he muttered. "i could calculate the actions of a setting hen with her head cut off better than i can this widow's. but there's no help for it," and he came down looking very resolute. "i've let the fire in my stove go out, and there's no more danger," he said quietly, as he sat down on the porch opposite mrs. mumpson. "oh-h," she exclaimed, with a long breath of relief, "we've saved the dwelling. what would we have done if it had burned down! we would have been homeless." "that may be my condition soon, as it is," he said coldly. "i am very glad, mrs. mumpson, that you are so much better. as jane told you, i suppose, i will pay you the sum i agreed to give you for three months' service--" "my dear mr. holcroft, my nerves have been too shaken to talk business this morning," and the widow leaned back and looked as if she were going to faint. "i'm only a poor lone woman," she added feebly, "and you cannot be so lacking in the milk of human kindness as to take advantage of me." "no, madam, nor shall i allow you and lemuel weeks to take advantage of me. this is my house and i have a right to make my own arrangements." "it might all be arranged so easily in another way," sighed the widow. "it cannot be arranged in any other way--" he began. "mr. holcroft," she cried, leaning suddenly forward with clasped hands and speaking effusively, "you but now called me your good woman. think how much those words mean. make them true, now that you've spoken them. then you won't be homeless and will never need a caretaker." "are you making me an offer of marriage?" he asked with lowering brow. "oh, no, indeed!" she simpered. "that wouldn't be becoming in me. i'm only responding to your own words." rising, he said sternly, "no power on earth could induce me to marry you, and that would be plain enough if you were in your right mind. i shall not stand this foolishness another moment. you must go with me at once to lemuel weeks'. if you will not, i'll have you taken to an insane asylum." "to an insane asylum! what for?" she half shrieked, springing to her feet. "you'll see," he replied, going down the steps. "jump up, jane! i shall take the trunk to your cousin's. if you are so crazy as to stay in a man's house when he don't want you and won't have you, you are fit only for an asylum." mrs. mumpson was sane enough to perceive that she was at the end of her adhesive resources. in his possession of her trunk, the farmer also had a strategic advantage which made it necessary for her to yield. she did so, however, with very bad grace. when he drove up, she bounced into the wagon as if made of india rubber, while jane followed slowly, with a look of sullen apathy. he touched his horses with the whip into a smart trot, scarcely daring to believe in his good fortune. the lane was rather steep and rough, and he soon had to pull up lest the object of his unhappy solicitude should be jolted out of the vehicle. this gave the widow her chance to open fire. "the end has not come yet, mr. holcroft," she said vindictively. "you may think you are going to have an easy triumph over a poor, friendless, unfortunate, sensitive, afflicted woman and a fatherless child, but you shall soon learn that there's a law in the land. you have addressed improper words to me, you have threatened me, you have broken your agreement. i have writings, i have a memory, i have language to plead the cause of the widow and the fatherless. i have been wronged, outraged, trampled upon, and then turned out of doors. the indignant world shall hear my story, the finger of scorn will be pointed at you. your name will become a byword and a hissing. respecterble women, respecterbly connected, will stand aloof and shudder." the torrent of words was unchecked except when the wheels struck a stone, jolting her so severely that her jaws came together with a click as if she were snapping at him. he made no reply whatever, but longed to get his hands upon lemuel weeks. pushing his horses to a high rate of speed, he soon reached that interested neighbor's door, intercepting him just as he was starting to town. he looked very sour as he saw his wife's relatives, and demanded harshly, "what does this mean?" "it means," cried mrs. mumpson in her high, cackling tones, "that he's said things and done things too awful to speak of; that he's broken his agreement and turned us out of doors." "jim holcroft," said mr. weeks, blustering up to the wagon, "you can't carry on with this high hand. take these people back to your house where they belong, or you'll be sorry." holcroft sprang out, whirled mr. weeks out of his way, took out the trunk, then with equal expedition and no more ceremony lifted down mrs. mumpson and jane. "do you know what you're about?" shouted mr. weeks in a rage. "i'll have the law on you this very day." holcroft maintained his ominous silence as he hitched his horses securely. then he strode toward weeks, who backed away from him. "oh, don't be afraid, you sneaking, cowardly fox!" said the farmer bitterly. "if i gave you your desserts, i'd take my horsewhip to you. you're going to law me, are you? well, begin today, and i'll be ready for you. i won't demean myself by answering that woman, but i'm ready for you in any way you've a mind to come. i'll put you and your wife on the witness stand. i'll summon cousin abram, as you call him, and his wife, and compel you all under oath to give mrs. mumpson a few testimonials. i'll prove the trick you played on me and the lies you told. i'll prove that this woman, in my absence, invaded my room, and with keys of her own opened my dead wife's bureau and pulled out her things. i'll prove that she hasn't earned her salt and can't, and may prove something more. now, if you want to go to law, begin. nothing would please me better than to show up you and your tribe. i've offered to pay this woman her three months' wages in full, and so have kept my agreement. she has not kept hers, for she's only sat in a rocking chair and made trouble. now, do as you please. i'll give you all the law you want. i'd like to add a horsewhipping, but that would give you a case and now you haven't any." as holcroft uttered these words sternly and slowly, like a man angry indeed but under perfect self-control, the perspiration broke out on weeks' face. he was aware that mrs. mumpson was too well known to play the role of a wronged woman, and remembered what his testimony and that of many others would be under oath. therefore, he began, "oh, well, mr. holcroft! there's no need of your getting in such a rage and threatening so; i'm willing to talk the matter over and only want to do the square thing." the farmer made a gesture of disgust as he said, "i understand you, lemuel weeks. there's no talking needed and i'm in no mood for it. here's the money i agreed to pay. i'll give it to mrs. mumpson when she has signed this paper, and you've signed as witness of her signature. otherwise, it's law. now decide quick, i'm in a hurry." objections were interposed, and holcroft, returning the money to his pocket, started for his team, without a word. "oh, well!" said weeks in strong irritation, "i haven't time for a lawsuit at this season of the year. you are both cranks, and i suppose it would be best for me and my folks to be rid of you both. it's a pity, though, you couldn't be married and left to fight it out." holcroft took the whip from his wagon and said quietly, "if you speak another insulting word, i'll horsewhip you and take my chances." something in the man's look prevented weeks from uttering another unnecessary remark. the business was soon transacted, accompanied with mrs. mumpson's venomous words, for she had discovered that she could stigmatize holcroft with impunity. he went to jane and shook her hand as he said goodby. "i am sorry for you, and i won't forget my promise;" then drove rapidly away. "cousin lemuel," said mrs. mumpson plaintively, "won't you have timothy take my trunk to our room?" "no, i won't," he snapped. "you've had your chance and have fooled it away. i was just going to town, and you and jane will go along with me," and he put the widow's trunk into his wagon. mrs. weeks came out and wiped her eyes ostentatiously with her apron as she whispered, "i can't help it, cynthy. when lemuel goes off the handle in this way, it's no use for me to say anything." mrs. mumpson wept hysterically as she was driven away. jane's sullen and apathetic aspect had passed away in part for holcroft's words had kindled something like hope. chapter xvii. a momentous decision it must be admitted that holcroft enjoyed his triumph over lemuel weeks very much after the fashion of the aboriginal man. indeed, he was almost sorry he had not been given a little more provocation, knowing well that, had this been true, his neighbor would have received a fuller return for his interested efforts. as he saw his farmhouse in the shimmering april sunlight, as the old churning dog came forward, wagging his tail, the farmer said, "this is the only place which can ever be home to me. well, well! it's queer about people. some, when they go, leave you desolate; others make you happy by their absence. i never dreamed that silly mumpson could make me happy, but she has. blessed if i don't feel happy! the first time in a year or more!" and he began to whistle old "coronation" in the most lively fashion as he unharnessed his horses. a little later, he prepared himself a good dinner and ate it in leisurely enjoyment, sharing a morsel now and then with the old dog. "you're a plaguey sight better company than she was," he mused. "that poor little stray cat of a jane! what will become of her? well, well! soon as she's old enough to cut loose from her mother, i'll try to give her a chance, if it's a possible thing." after dinner, he made a rough draught of an auction bill, offering his cows for sale, muttering as he did so, "tom watterly'll help me put it in better shape." then he drove a mile away to see old mr. and mrs. johnson. the former agreed for a small sum to mount guard with his dog during the farmer's occasional absences, and the latter readily consented to do the washing and mending. "what do i want of any more 'peculiar females,' as that daft widow called 'em?" he chuckled on his return. "blames if she wasn't the most peculiar of the lot. think of me marrying her!" and the hillside echoed to his derisive laugh. "as i feel today, there's a better chance of my being struck by lightning than marrying, and i don't think any woman could do it in spite of me. i'll run the ranch alone." that evening he smoked his pipe cheerfully beside the kitchen fire, the dog sleeping at his feet. "i declare," he said smilingly, "i feel quite at home." in the morning, after attending to his work, he went for old jonathan johnson and installed him in charge of the premises; then drove to the almshouse with all the surplus butter and eggs on hand. tom watterly arrived at the door with his fast-trotting horse at the same time, and cried, "hello, jim! just in time. i'm a sort of grass widower today--been taking my wife out to see her sister. come in and take pot luck with me and keep up my spirits." "well, now, tom," said holcroft, shaking hands, "i'm glad, not that your wife's away, although it does make me downhearted to contrast your lot and mine, but i'm glad you can give me a little time, for i want to use that practical head of yours--some advice, you know." "all right. nothing to do for an hour or two but eat dinner and smoke my pipe with you. here, bill! take this team and feed 'em." "hold on," said holcroft, "i'm not going to sponge on you. i've got some favors to ask, and i want you to take in return some butter half spoiled in the making and this basket of eggs. they're all right." "go to thunder, holcroft! what do you take me for? when you've filled your pipe after dinner will you pull an egg out of your pocket and say, 'that's for a smoke?' no, no, i don't sell any advice to old friends like you. i'll buy your butter and eggs at what they're worth and have done with 'em. business is one thing, and sitting down and talking over an old crony's troubles is another. i'm not a saint, jim, as you know--a man in politics can't be--but i remember when we were boys together, and somehow thinking of those old days always fetches me. come in, for dinner is a-waiting, i guess." "well, tom, saint or no saint, i'd like to vote for you for gov'nor." "this aint an electioneering trick, as you know. i can play them off as well as the next feller when there's need, kiss the babies and all that." dinner was placed on the table immediately, and in a few moments the friends were left alone. then holcroft related in a half comic, half serious manner his tribulations with the help. tom sat back in his chair and roared at the account of the pitched battle between the two widows and the final smoking out of mrs. mumpson, but he reproached his friend for not having horsewhipped lemuel weeks. "don't you remember, jim, he was a sneaking, tricky chap when we were at school together? i licked him once, and it always does me good to think of it." "i own it takes considerable to rile me to the point of striking a man, especially on his own land. his wife was looking out the window, too. if we'd been out in the road or anywhere else--but what's the use? i'm glad now it turned out as it has for i've too much on my mind for lawsuits, and the less one has to do with such cattle as weeks the better. well, you see i'm alone again, and i'm going to go it alone. i'm going to sell my cows and give up the dairy, and the thing i wanted help in most is the putting this auction bill in shape; also advice as to whether i had better try to sell here in town or up at the farm." tom shook his head dubiously and scarcely glanced at the paper. "your scheme don't look practical to me," he said. "i don't believe you can run that farm alone without losing money. you'll just keep on going behind till the first thing you know you'll clap a mortgage on it. then you'll soon be done for. what's more, you'll break down if you try to do both outdoor and indoor work. busy times will soon come, and you won't get your meals regularly; you'll be living on coffee and anything that comes handiest; your house will grow untidy and not fit to live in. if you should be taken sick, there'd be no one to do for you. lumbermen, hunters, and such fellows can rough it alone awhile, but i never heard of a farm being run by man-power alone. now as to selling out your stock, look at it. grazing is what your farm's good for mostly. it's a pity you're so bent on staying there. even if you didn't get very much for the place, from sale or rent, you'd have something that was sure. a strong, capable man like you could find something to turn your hand to. then you could board in some respectable family, and not have to live like robinson crusoe. i've thought it over since we talked last, and if i was you i'd sell or rent." "it's too late in the season to do either," said holcroft dejectedly. "what's more, i don't want to, at least not this year. i've settled that, tom. i'm going to have one more summer on the old place, anyway, if i have to live on bread and milk." "you can't make bread." "i'll have it brought from town on the stage." "well, it's a pity some good, decent woman--there, how should i come to forget all about her till this minute? i don't know whether it would work. perhaps it would. there's a woman here out of the common run. she has quite a story, which i'll tell you in confidence. then you can say whether you'd like to employ her or not. if you will stay on the farm, my advice is that you have a woman to do the housework, and me and angy must try to find you one, if the one i have in mind won't answer. the trouble is, holcroft, to get the right kind of a woman to live there alone with you, unless you married her. nice women don't like to be talked about, and i don't blame 'em. the one that's here, though, is so friendless and alone in the world that she might be glad enough to get a home almost anywheres." "well, well! tell me about her," said holcroft gloomily. "but i'm about discouraged in the line of women help." watterly told alida's story with a certain rude pathos which touched the farmer's naturally kind heart, and he quite forgot his own need in indignation at the poor woman's wrongs. "it's a **** shame!" he said excitedly, pacing the room. "i say, tom, all the law in the land wouldn't keep me from giving that fellow a whipping or worse." "well, she won't prosecute; she won't face the public; she just wants to go to some quiet place and work for her bread. she don't seem to have any friends, or else she's too ashamed to let them know." "why, of course i'd give such a woman a refuge till she could do better. what man wouldn't?" "a good many wouldn't. what's more, if she went with you her story might get out, and you'd both be talked about." "i don't care that for gossip," with a snap of his fingers. "you know i'd treat her with respect." "what i know, and what other people would say, are two very different things. neither you nor anyone else can go too strongly against public opinion. still, it's nobody's business," added tom thoughtfully. "perhaps it's worth the trial. if she went i think she'd stay and do the best by you she could. would you like to see her?" "yes." alida was summoned and stood with downcast eyes in the door. "come in and take a chair," said tom kindly. "you know i promised to be on the lookout for a good place for you. well, my friend here, mr. holcroft, whom i've known ever since i was a boy, wants a woman to do general housework and take care of the dairy." she gave the farmer one of those swift, comprehensive glances by which women take in a personality, and said in a tone of regret, "but i don't understand dairy work." "oh, you'd soon learn. it's just the kind of a place you said you wanted, a lonely, out-of-the-way farm and no other help kept. what's more, my friend holcroft is a kind, honest man. he'd treat you right. he knows all about your trouble and is sorry for you." if holcroft had been an ogre in appearance, he would have received the grateful glance which she now gave him as she said, "i'd be only too glad to work for you, sir, if you think i can do, or learn to do, what is required." holcroft, while his friend was speaking, had studied closely alida's thin, pale face, and he saw nothing in it not in harmony with the story he had heard. "i am sorry for you," he said kindly. "i believe you never meant to do wrong and have tried to do right. i will be perfectly honest with you. my wife is dead, the help i had has left me, and i live alone in the house. the truth is, too, that i could not afford to keep two in help, and there would not be work for them both." alida had learned much in her terrible adversity, and had, moreover the instincts of a class superior to the position she was asked to take. she bowed low to hide the burning flush that crimsoned her pale cheeks as she faltered, "it may seem strange to you, sirs, that one situated as i am should hesitate, but i have never knowingly done anything which gave people the right to speak against me. i do not fear work, i would humbly try to do my best, but--" she hesitated and rose as if to retire. "i understand you," said holcroft kindly, "and i don't blame you for doing what you think is right." "i'm very sorry, sir," she replied, tears coming into her eyes as she went out of the room. "there it is, holcroft," said tom. "i believe she's just the one for you, but you can see she isn't of the common kind. she knows as well as you and me how people would talk, especially if her story came out, as like enough it will." "hang people!" snarled the farmer. "yes, a good lot of 'em deserve hanging, but it wouldn't help you any just now. perhaps she'd go with you if you got another girl or took an old woman from the house here to keep her company." "i'm sick to death of such hags," said the farmer with an impatient gesture. then he sat down and looked at his friend as if a plan was forming in his mind of which he scarcely dare speak. "well, out with it!" said tom. "have you ever seen a marriage ceremony performed by a justice of the peace?" holcroft asked slowly. "no, but they do it often enough. what! are you going to offer her marriage?" "you say she is homeless and friendless?' "yes." "and you believe she is just what she seems--just what her story shows her to be?" "yes. i've seen too many frauds to be taken in. she isn't a fraud. neither does she belong to that miserable, wishy-washy, downhill class that sooner or later fetches up in a poorhouse. they say we're all made of dust, but some seem made of mud. you could see she was out of the common; and she's here on account of the wrong she received and not the wrong she did. i say all this in fairness to her; but when it comes to marrying her, that's another question." "tom, as i've told you, i don't want to marry. in fact, i couldn't go before a minister and promise what i'd have to. but i could do something like this. i could give this woman an honest name and a home. it would be marriage before the law. no one could ever say a word against either of us. i would be true and kind to her and she should share in my fortunes. that's all. you have often advised me to marry, and you know if i did it couldn't be anything else but a business affair. then it ought to be done in a businesslike way. you say i can't get along alone, and like enough you're right. i've learned more from this woman's manner than i have in a year why i can't get and keep the right kind of help, and i now feel if i could find a good, honest woman who would make my interest hers, and help me make a living in my own home, i'd give her my name and all the security which an honest name conveys. now, this poor woman is in sore need and she might be grateful for what i can do, while any other woman would naturally expect me to promise more than i honestly can. anyhow, i'd have to go through the form, and i can't and won't go and say sacred words--just about what i said when i married my wife--and know all the time i was lying." "well, holcroft, you're a queer dick and this is a queer plan of yours. you're beyond my depth now and i can't advise." "why is it a queer plan? things only seem odd because they are not common. as a matter of fact, you advise a business marriage. when i try to follow your advice honestly and not dishonestly, you say i'm queer." "i suppose if everybody became honest, it would be the queerest world every known," said tom laughing. "well, you might do worse than marry this woman. i can tell you that marrying is risky business at best. you know a justice will tie you just as tight as a minister, and while i've given you my impression about this woman, i know little about her and you know next to nothing." "i guess that would be the case, anyhow. if you set out to find a wife for me, where is there a woman that you actually do know more about? as for my going here and there, to get acquainted, it's out of the question. all my feelings rise up against such a course. now, i feel sorry for this woman. she has at least my sympathy. if she is as friendless, poor, and unhappy as she seems, i might do her as great a kindness as she would do for me if she could take care of my home. i wouldn't expect very much. it would be a comfort just to have someone in the house that wouldn't rob or waste, and who, knowing what her station was, would be content. of course i'd have to talk it over with her and make my purpose clear. she might agree with you that it's too queer to be thought of. if so, that would be the end of it." "will, jim, you always finish by half talking me over to your side of a question. now, if my wife was home, i don't believe she'd listen to any such plan." "no, i suppose she wouldn't. she'd believe in people marrying and doing everything in the ordinary way. but neither i nor this woman is in ordinary circumstances. do you know of a justice?" "yes, and you know him, too; justice harkins." "why, certainly. he came from our town and i knew him when he was a boy, although i haven't seen much of him of late years." "well, shall i go and say to this woman--alida armstrong is her name now, i suppose--that you wish to see her again?" "yes, i shall tell her the truth. then she can decide." chapter xviii. holcroft gives his hand alida was seated by a window with some of the mending in which she assisted, and, as usual, was apart by herself. watterly entered the large apartment quietly, and at first she did not observe him. he had time to note that she was greatly dejected, and when she saw him she hastily wiped tears from her eyes. "you are a good deal cast down, alida," he said, watching her closely. "i've reason to be. i don't see any light ahead at all." "well, you know the old saying, 'it's darkest before day.' i want you to come with me again. i think i've found a chance for you." she rose with alacrity and followed. as soon as they were alone, he turned and looked her squarely in the face as he said gravely, "you have good common sense, haven't you?" "i don't know, sir," she faltered, perplexed and troubled by the question. "well, you can understand this much, i suppose. as superintendent of this house i have a responsible position, which i could easily lose if i allowed myself to be mixed up with anything wrong or improper. to come right to the point, you don't know much about me and next to nothing of my friend holcroft, but can't you see that even if i was a heartless, good-for-nothing fellow, it wouldn't be wise or safe for me to permit anything that wouldn't bear the light?" "i think you are an honest man, sir. it would be strange if i did not have confidence when you have judged me and treated me so kindly. but, mr. watterly, although helpless and friendless, i must try to do what i think is best. if i accepted mr. holcroft's position it might do him harm. you know how quick the world is to misjudge. it would seem to confirm everything that has been said against me," and the same painful flush again overspread her features. "well, alida, all that you have to do is to listen patiently to my friend. whether you agree with his views or not, you will see that he is a good-hearted, honest man. i want to prepare you for this talk by assuring you that i've known him since he was a boy, that he has lived all his life in this region and is known by many others, and that i wouldn't dare let him ask you to do anything wrong, even if i was bad enough." "i'm sure, sir, you don't wish me any harm," she again faltered in deep perplexity. "indeed i don't. i don't advise my friend's course; neither do i oppose it. he's certainly old enough to act for himself. i suppose i'm a rough counselor for a young woman, but since you appear to have so few friends i'm inclined to act as one. just you stand on the question of right and wrong, and dismiss from your mind all foolish notions of what people will say. as a rule, all the people in the world can't do as much for us as somebody in particular. now you go in the parlor and listen like a sensible woman. i'll be reading the paper, and the girl will be clearing off the table in the next room here." puzzled and trembling, alida entered the apartment where holcroft was seated. she was so embarrassed that she could not lift her eyes to him. "please sit down," he said gravely, "and don't be troubled, much less frightened. you are just as free to act as ever you were in your life." she sat down near the door and compelled herself to look at him, for she felt instinctively that she might gather more from the expression of his face than from his words. "alida armstrong is your name, mr. watterly tells me?" "yes, sir." "well, alida, i want to have a plain business talk with you. that's nothing to be nervous and worried about, you know. as i told you, i've heard your story. it has made me sorry for you instead of setting me against you. it has made me respect you as a right-minded woman, and i shall give you good proof that my words are true. at the same time, i shan't make any false pretenses to what isn't true and couldn't be true. since i've heard your story, it's only fair you should hear mine, and i ought to tell it first." he went over the past very briefly until he came to the death of his wife. there was simple and homely pathos in the few sentences with which he referred to this event. then more fully he enlarged upon his efforts and failure to keep house with hired help. unconsciously, he had taken the best method to enlist her sympathy. the secluded cottage and hillside farm became realities to her fancy. she saw how the man's heart clung to his home, and his effort to keep it touched her deeply. "oh!" she thought, "i do wish there was some way for me to go there. the loneliness of the place which drove others away is the chief attraction for me. then it would be pleasant to work for such a man and make his home comfortable for him. it's plain from his words and looks that he's as honest and straightforward as the day is long. he only wants to keep his home and make his living in peace." as he had talked her nervous embarrassment passed away, and the deep sense of her own need was pressing upon her again. she saw that he also was in great need. his business talk was revealing deep trouble and perplexity. with the quick intuitions of a woman, her mind went far beyond his brief sentences and saw all the difficulties of his lot. his feeling reference to the loss of his wife proved that he was not a coarse-natured man. as he spoke so plainly of his life during the past year, her mind was insensibly abstracted from everything but his want and hers, and she thought his farmhouse afforded just the secluded refuge she craved. as he drew near the end of his story and hesitated in visible embarrassment, she mustered courage to say timidly, "would you permit a suggestion from me?" "why, certainly." "you have said, sir, that your business and means would not allow you to keep two in help, and as you have been speaking i have tried to think of some way. the fact that your house is so lonely is just the reason why i should like to work in it. as you can understand, i have no wish to meet strangers. now, sir, i am willing to work for very little; i should be glad to find such a quiet refuge for simply my board and clothes, and i would do my very best and try to learn what i did not know. it seems to me that if i worked for so little you might think you could afford to hire some elderly woman also?" and she looked at him in the eager hope that he would accept her proposition. he shook his head as he replied, "i don't know of any such person. i took the best one in this house, and you know how she turned out." "perhaps mr. watterly may know of someone else," she faltered. she was now deeply troubled and perplexed again, supposing that he was about to renew his first proposition that she should be his only help. "if mr. watterly did know of anyone i would make the trial, but he does not. your offer is very considerate and reasonable, but--" and he hesitated again, scarcely knowing how to go on. "i am sorry, sir," she said, rising, as if to end the interview. "stay," he said, "you do not understand me yet. of course i should not make you the same offer that i did at first, after seeing your feeling about it, and i respect you all the more because you so respect yourself. what i had in mind was to give you my name, and it's an honest name. if we were married it would be perfectly proper for you to go with me, and no one could say a word against either of us." "oh!" she gasped, in strong agitation and surprise. "now don't be so taken aback. it's just as easy for you to refuse as it is to speak, but listen first. what seems strange and unexpected may be the most sensible thing for us both. you have your side of the case to think of just as truly as i have mine; and i'm not forgetting, and i don't ask you to forget, that i'm still talking business. you and i have both been through too much trouble and loss to say any silly nonsense to each other. you've heard my story, yet i'm almost a stranger to you as you are to me. we'd both have to take considerable on trust. yet i know i'm honest and well-meaning, and i believe you are. now look at it. here we are, both much alone in the world--both wishing to live a retired, quiet life. i don't care a rap for what people say as long as i'm doing right, and in this case they'd have nothing to say. it's our own business. i don't see as people will ever do much for you, and a good many would impose on you and expect you to work beyond your strength. they might not be very kind or considerate, either. i suppose you've thought of this?" "yes," she replied with bowed head. "i should meet coldness, probably harshness and scorn." "well, you'd never meet anything of the kind in my house. i would treat you with respect and kindness. at the same time, i'm not going to mislead you by a word. you shall have a chance to decide in view of the whole truth. my friend, mr. watterly, has asked me more'n once, 'why don't you marry again?' i told him i had been married once, and that i couldn't go before a minister and promise the same things over again when they wasn't true. i can't make to you any promises or say any words that are not true, and i don't ask or expect you to do what i can't do. but it has seemed to me that our condition was out of the common lot--that we could take each other for just what we might be to each other and no more. you would be my wife in name, and i do not ask you to be my wife in more than name. you would thus secure a good home and the care and protection of one who would be kind to you, and i would secure a housekeeper--one that would stay with me and make my interests hers. it would be a fair, square arrangement between ourselves, and nobody else's business. by taking this course, we don't do any wrong to our feelings or have to say or promise anything that isn't true." "yet i can't help saying, sir," she replied, in strong, yet repressed agitation, "that your words sound very strange; and it seems stranger still that you can offer marriage of any kind to a woman situated as i am. you know my story, sir," she added, crimsoning, "and all may soon know it. you would suffer wrong and injury." "i offer you open and honorable marriage before the world, and no other kind. mr. watterly and others--as many as you pleased--would witness it, and i'd have you given a certificate at once. as for your story, it has only awakened my sympathy. you have not meant to do any wrong. your troubles are only another reason in my mind for not taking any advantage of you or deceiving you in the least. look the truth squarely in the face. i'm bent on keeping my house and getting my living as i have done, and i need a housekeeper that will be true to all my interests. think how i've been robbed and wronged, and what a dog's life i've lived in my own home. you need a home, a support, and a protector. i couldn't come to you or go to any other woman and say honestly more than this. isn't it better for people to be united on the ground of truth than to begin by telling a pack of lies?" "but--but can people be married with such an understanding by a minister? wouldn't it be deceiving him?" "i shall not ask you to deceive anyone. any marriage that either you or i could now make would be practically a business marriage. i should therefore take you, if you were willing, to a justice and have a legal or civil marriage performed, and this would be just as binding as any other in the eye of the law. it is often done. this would be much better to my mind than if people, situated as we are, went to a church or a minister." "yes, yes, i couldn't do that." "well, now, alida," he said, with a smile that wonderfully softened his rugged features, "you are free to decide. it may seem to you a strange sort of courtship, but we are both too old for much foolishness. i never was sentimental, and it would be ridiculous to begin now. i'm full of trouble and perplexity, and so are you. are you willing to be my wife so far as an honest name goes, and help me make a living for us both? that's all i ask. i, in my turn, would promise to treat you with kindness and respect, and give you a home as long as i lived and to leave you all i have in the world if i died. that's all i could promise. i'm a lonely, quiet man, and like to be by myself. i wouldn't be much society for you. i've said more today than i might in a month, for i felt that it was due to you to know just what you were doing." "oh, sir," said alida, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, "you do not ask much and you offer a great deal. if you, a strong man, dread to leave your home and go out into the world you know not where, think how terrible it is for a weak, friendless woman to be worse than homeless. i have lost everything, even my good name." "no, no! not in my eyes." "oh, i know, i know!" she cried, wringing her hands. "even these miserable paupers like myself have made me feel it. they have burned the truth into my brain and heart. indeed, sir, you do not realize what you are doing or asking. it is not fit or meet that i should bear your name. you might be sorry, indeed." "alida," said holcroft gravely, "i've not forgotten your story, and you shouldn't forget mine. be sensible now. don't i look old enough to know what i'm about?" "oh, oh, oh!" she cried impetuously, "if i were only sure it was right! it may be business to you, but it seems like life or death to me. it's more than death--i don't fear that--but i do fear life, i do fear the desperate struggle just to maintain a bare, dreary existence. i do dread going out among strangers and seeing their cold curiosity and their scorn. you can't understand a woman's heart. it isn't right for me to die till god takes me, but life has seemed so horrible, meeting suspicion on one side and cruel, significant looks of knowledge on the other. i've been tortured even here by these wretched hags, and i've envied even them, so near to death, yet not ashamed like me. i know, and you should know, that my heart is broken, crushed, trampled into the mire. i had felt that for me even the thought of marriage again would be a mockery, a wicked thing, which i would never have a right to entertain.--i never dreamt that anyone would think of such a thing, knowing what you know. oh, oh! why have you tempted me so if it is not right? i must do right. the feeling that i've not meant to do wrong is all that has kept me from despair. but can it be right to let you take me from the street, the poorhouse, with nothing to give but a blighted name, a broken heart and feeble hands! see, i am but the shadow of what i was, and a dark shadow at that. i could be only a dismal shadow at any man's hearth. oh, oh! i've thought and suffered until my reason seemed going. you don't realize, you don't know the depths into which i've fallen. it can't be right." holcroft was almost appalled at this passionate outburst in one who thus far had been sad, indeed, yet self-controlled. he looked at her in mingled pity and consternation. his own troubles had seemed heavy enough, but he now caught glimpses of something far beyond trouble--of agony, of mortal dread that bordered on despair. he could scarcely comprehend how terrible to a woman like alida were the recent events of her life, and how circumstances, with illness, had all tended to create a morbid horror of her situation. like himself she was naturally reticent in regard to her deeper feelings, patient and undemonstrative. had not his words evoked this outburst she might have suffered and died in silence, but in this final conflict between conscience and hope, the hot lava of her heart had broken forth. so little was he then able to understand her, that suspicions crossed his mind. perhaps his friend watterly had not heard the true story or else not the whole story. but his straightforward simplicity stood him in good stead, and he said gently, "alida, you say i don't know, i don't realize. i believe you will tell me the truth. you went to a minister and were married to a man that you thought you had a right to marry--" "you shall know it all from my own lips," she said, interrupting him; "you have a right to know; and then you will see that it cannot be," and with bowed head, and low, rapid, passionate utterance, she poured out her story. "that woman, his wife," she concluded, "made me feel that i was of the scum and offscouring of the earth, and they've made me feel so here, too--even these wretched paupers. so the world will look on me till god takes me to my mother. o, thank god! she don't know. don' you see, now?" she asked, raising her despairing eyes from which agony had dried all tears. "yes, i see you do," she added desperately, "for even you have turned from me." "confound it!" cried holcroft, standing up and searching his pockets for a handkerchief. "i--i--i'd like--like to choke that fellow. if i could get my hands on him, there'd be trouble. turn away from you, you poor wronged creature! don't you see i'm so sorry for you that i'm making a fool of myself? i, who couldn't shed a tear over my own troubles--there, there,--come now, let us be sensible. let's get back to business, for i can't stand this kind of thing at all. i'm so confused betwixt rage at him and pity for you--let me see; this is where we were: i want someone to take care of my home, and you want a home. that's all there is about it now. if you say so, i'll make you mrs. holcroft in an hour." "i did not mean to work upon your sympathies, only to tell you the truth. god bless you! that the impulses of your heart are so kind and merciful. but let me be true to you as well as to myself. go away and think it all over calmly and quietly. even for the sake of being rescued from a life that i dread far more than death, i cannot let you do that which you may regret unspeakably. do not think i misunderstand your offer. it's the only one i could think of, and i would not have thought of it if you had not spoke. i have no heart to give. i could be a wife only in name, but i could work like a slave for protection from a cruel, jeering world; i could hope for something like peace and respite from suffering if i only had a safe refuge. but i must not have these if it is not right and best. good to me must not come through wrong to you." "tush, tush! you mustn't talk so. i can't stand it at all. i've heard your story. it's just as i supposed at first, only a great deal more so. why, of course it's all right. it makes me believe in providence, it all turns out so entirely for our mutual good. i can do as much to help you as you to help me. now let's get back on the sensible, solid ground from which we started. the idea of my wanting you to work like a slave! like enough some people would, and then you'd soon break down and be brought back here again. no, no; i've explained just what i wish and just what i mean. you must get over the notion that i'm a sentimental fool, carried away by my feelings. how tom watterly would laugh at the idea! my mind is made up now just as much as it would be a week hence. this is no place for you, and i don't like to think of your being here. my spring work is pressing, too. don't you see that by doing what i ask you can set me right on my feet and start me uphill again after a year of miserable downhill work? you have only to agree to what i've said, and you will be at home tonight and i'll be quietly at my work tomorrow. mr. watterly will go with us to the justice, who has known me all my life. then, if anyone ever says a word against you, he'll have me to settle with. come, alida! here's a strong hand that's able to take care of you." she hesitated a moment, then clasped it like one who is sinking, and before he divined her purpose, she kissed and bedewed it with tears. chapter xix. a business marriage while holcroft's sympathies had been deeply touched by the intense emotion of gratitude which had overpowered alida, he had also been disturbed and rendered somewhat anxious. he was actually troubled lest the woman he was about to marry should speedily begin to love him, and develop a tendency to manifest her affection in a manner that would seem to him extravagant and certainly disagreeable. accustomed all his life to repress his feelings, he wondered at himself and could not understand how he had given way so unexpectedly. he was not sufficiently versed in human nature to know that the depth of alida's distress was the adequate cause. if there had been a false or an affected word, he would have remained cool enough. in his inability to gauge his own nature as well as hers, he feared lest this businesslike marriage was verging toward sentiment on her part. he did not like her kissing his hand. he was profoundly sorry for her, but so he would have been for any other woman suffering under the burden of a great wrong. he felt that it would be embarrassing if she entertained sentiments toward him which he could not reciprocate, and open manifestations of regard would remind him of that horror of his life, mrs. mumpson. he was not incapable of quick, strong sympathy in any instance of genuine trouble, but he was one of those men who would shrink in natural recoil from any marked evidence of a woman's preference unless the counterpart of her regard existed in his own breast. to a woman of alida's intuition the way in which he withdrew his hand and the expression of his face had a world of meaning. she would not need a second hint. yet she did not misjudge him; she knew that he meant what he had said and had said all that he meant. she was also aware that he had not and never could understand the depths of fear and suffering from which his hand was lifting her. her gratitude was akin to that of a lost soul saved, and that was all she had involuntarily expressed. she sat down again and quietly dried her eyes, while in her heart she purposed to show her gratitude by patient assiduity in learning to do what he required. holcroft was now bent upon carrying out his plan as quickly as possible and returning home. he therefore asked, "can you go with me at once, alida?" she simply bowed her acquiescence. "that's sensible. perhaps you had better get your things ready while i and mr. watterly go and arrange with justice harkins." alida averted her face with a sort of shame which a woman feels who admits such a truth. "i haven't anything, sir, but a hat and cloak to put on. i came away and left everything." "and i'm glad of it," said holcroft heartily. "i wouldn't want you to bring anything which that scoundrel gave you." he paced the room thoughtfully a moment or two and then he called watterly in. "it's settled, tom. alida will be mrs. holcroft as soon as we can see the justice. do you think we could persuade him to come here?" "one thing at a time. mrs. holcroft,--i may as well call you so, for when my friend says he'll do a thing he does it,--i congratulate you. i think you are well out of your troubles. since you are to marry my old friend, we must be friends, too," and he shook her heartily by the hand. his words and manner were another ray of light--a welcome rift in the black pall that had gathered round her. "you were the first friend i found, sir, after--what happened," she said gratefully. "well, you've found another and a better one; and he'll always be just the same. any woman might be glad--" "come, tom, no more of that. i'm a plain old farmer that does what he agrees, and that's all there is about it. i've told alida just what i wished and could do--" "i should hope so," interrupted watterly, laughing. "you've taken time enough, certainly, and i guess you've talked more than you have before in a year." "yes, i know i'm almost as bad as an oyster about talking except when i'm with you. somehow we've always had a good deal to say to each other. in this case, i felt that it was due to alida that she should know all about me and understand fully just how i felt concerning this marriage. the very fact that she hasn't friends to advise her made it all the more needful that i should be plain and not mislead her in any respect.--she has just as good a right to judge and act for herself as any woman in the land, and she takes me, and i take her, with no sentimental lies to start with. now let's get back to business. i rather think, since harkins was an old acquaintance of mine, he'll come up here and marry us, don't you? alida, wouldn't you rather be married here quietly than face a lot of strangers? you can have your own way, i don't care now if half the town was present." "oh, yes, indeed, sir! i don't want to meet strangers--and--and--i'm not very strong yet. i thank you for considering my feelings so kindly." "why, that's my duty," replied the farmer. "come, watterly, the sun is getting low, and we've considerable to do yet before we start home." "i'm with you. now, alida, you go back quietly and act as if nothing had happened till i send for you. of course this impatient young groom will hurry back with the justice as fast as possible. still, we may not find him, or he may be so busy that we shall have to come back for you and take you to his office." as she turned to leave the room, holcroft gave her his hand and said kindly, "now don't you be nervous or worried. i see you are not strong, and you shall not be taxed any more than i can help. goodby for a little while." meantime watterly stepped out a moment and gave his domestic a few orders; then he accompanied holcroft to the barn, and the horses were soon attached to the market wagon. "you're in for it now, jim, sure enough," he said laughing. "what will angy say to it all?" "tell her that i say you've been a mighty good friend to me, yet i hope i may never return any favors of the same kind." "by jocks! i hope not. i guess it's just as well she was away. she'll think we've acted just like two harum-scarum men, and will be awfully scandalized over your marrying this woman. don't you feel a little nervous about it?" "no! when my mind's made up, i don't worry. nobody else need lie awake for it's my affair." "well, jim, you know how i feel about it, but i've got to say something and i might as well say it plain." "that's the only way you ought to say it." "well, you talked long enough to give me plenty of time to think. one thing is clear, angy won't take to this marriage. you know i'd like to have you both come in and take a meal as you always have done, but then a man must keep peace with his wife, and--" "i understand, tom. we won't come till mrs. watterly asks us." "but you won't have hard feelings?" "no, indeed. aint you doing your level best as a friend?" "well, you know women are so set about these things, and angy is rather hard on people who don't come up to her mark of respectability. what's more, i suppose you'll find that others will think and act as she does. if you cared about people's opinions i should have been dead against it, but as you feel and are situated, i'm hanged if i don't think she's just the one." "if it hadn't been this one, i don't believe it would have been anyone. here we are," and he tied his horses before the office of the justice. mr. harkins greeted holcroft with a sort of patronizing cordiality, and was good enough to remember that they had been at the little country schoolhouse together. in watterly he heartily recognized a brother politician who controlled a goodly number of votes. when holcroft briefly made known his errand, the justice gave a great guffaw of laughter and said, "oh, bring her here! and i'll invite in some of the boys as witnesses." "i'm not afraid of all the witnesses that you could crowd into a ten-acre lot," said holcroft somewhat sternly, "but there is no occasion to invite the boys, whoever they are, or anyone else. she doesn't want to be stared at. i was in hopes, mr. harkins, that you'd ride up to the almshouse with us and quietly marry us there." "well, i guess you'd better bring her here. i'm pretty busy this afternoon, and--" "see here, ben," said watterly, taking the justice aside, "holcroft is my friend, and you know i'm mighty thick with my friends. they count more with me than my wife's relations. now i want you to do what holcroft wishes, as a personal favor to me, and the time will come when i can make it up to you." "oh, certainly, watterly! i didn't understand," replied harkins, who looked upon holcroft as a close and, as he would phrase it, no-account farmer, from whom he could never expect even a vote. "i'll go with you at once. it's but a short job." "well," said holcroft, "how short can you make it?" "let me get my book," and he took from a shelf the "justice's assistant." "you can't want anything shorter than this?" and he read, "'by this act of joining hands you do take each other as husband and wife and solemnly engage in the presence of these witnesses to love and honor and comfort and cherish each other as such so long as you both shall live. therefore, in accordance with the law of the state of new york i do hereby pronounce you husband and wife.' a sailor couldn't tie a knot quicker than that." "i guess you can, justice," said holcroft, taking the book. "suppose you only read this much: 'by this act of joining hands you do take each other as husband and wife. therefore, in accordance with the law, etc.' would that be a legal marriage?" "certainly. you'd have to go to a divorce court to get out of that." "it's my purpose to keep out of courts of all kinds. i'll thank you to read just that much and no more. i don't want to say anything that isn't exactly true." "you see how it is, ben. holcroft hasn't known the woman long, and she's a nice woman, too, if she is boarding at my hotel. holcroft needs a wife--must have one, in fact, to help run his house and dairy. it wasn't exactly a love match, you know; and he's that kind of a man that a yoke of oxen couldn't draw a word out of him that he didn't mean." "yes, yes, i see now," said harkins. "i'll read just what you say and no more." "and i'll have a little spread that we can be longer at than the ceremony," added watterly, who was inclined to be a little hilarious over the affair. holcroft, however, maintained his grave manner, and when they reached the almshouse he took watterly aside and said, "see here, tom, you've been a good friend today and seconded me in everything. now let the affair pass off just as quietly and seriously as possible. she's too cast down for a gay wedding. suppose we had a daughter who'd been through such an experience--a nice, good, modest girl. her heart's too sore for fun and jokes. my marrying her is much the same as pulling her out of deep water in which she was sinking." "you're right, jim. i didn't think, and one doesn't have much cause to be so sparing of the feelings of such creatures as come here. but she's out of the common run, and i ought to have remembered it. by jocks! you're mighty careful about promising to love, cherish, and obey, and all that, but i guess you'll do a sight more than many who do promise." "of course i'm going to be kind. that's my duty. give harkins a hint. tell him that she's lost her mother. he needn't know when the old lady died, but it will kind of solemnize him." watterly did as requested, and harkins, now convinced that his political interests could be furthered by careful compliance with all requirements, put on a grave, official air and was ready for business. alida was sent for. she was too agitated to say farewell to any of the poor creatures with whom she had been compelled to associate--even to the few who, though scarcely sane, had manifested tenderness and affection. she had felt that she must reserve all her strength for the coming ordeal, which she both welcomed and feared inexpressibly. she knew how critical was the step she was taking and how much depended on it, yet the more she thought, the more it seemed to her as if providence had, as by a miracle, given her a refuge. holcroft's businesslike view of the marriage comforted her greatly, and she asked god to give her health and strength to work faithfully for him many years. but she had sad misgivings as she followed the messenger, for she felt so weak that she could scarcely walk. it was indeed a pallid, sorrowful, trembling bride that entered mr. watterly's parlor. holcroft met her and taking her hand, said kindly, "courage! it will be over in a minute." she was so pale and agitated that the justice asked, "do you enter into this marriage freely and without compulsion of any kind?" "please let me sit down a moment," she faltered, and watterly hastened to give her a chair. she fixed her eyes on holcroft, and said anxiously, "you see, sir, how weak i am. i have been sick and--and i fear i am far from being well now. i fear you will be disappointed--that it is not right to you, and that i may not be able--" "alida," interrupted holcroft gravely, "i'm not one to break my word. home and quiet will soon restore you. answer the justice and tell him the exact truth." no elixir could have brought hope and courage like that word "home." she rose at once and said to harkins, "i have consented to mr. holcroft's wishes with feelings of the deepest gratitude." "very well. join hands." she hesitated and looked for a moment at holcroft with strange intensity. "it's all right, alida," he said with a smile. "come!" his perfect honesty and steadfastness of purpose stood him in good stead then, for she came at once to his side and took his hand. justice harkins solemnly opened his big book and read, "'by this act of joining hands you do take each other as husband and wife. therefore, in accordance with the law of the state of new york, i do hereby pronounce you husband and wife.' that's all." "i don't think you'll ever be sorry, alida," said holcroft, pressing her hand as he led her to a chair. watterly again bustled up with congratulations, and then said, "you must all come out now to a little supper, and also remember that it was gotten up in a hurry." the domestic stared at alida and holcroft, and then surmising what had taken place, was so excited that she could scarcely wait on the guests. holcroft, with the simple tact which genuine kindness usually suggests, was attentive to his bride, but managed, by no slight effort for him, to engage the two men in general conversation, so that alida might have time to recover her composure. his quiet, matter-of-fact bearing was reassuring in itself. a cup of strong tea and a little old currant wine, which watterly insisted on her taking, brightened her up not a little. indeed her weakness was now largely due to the want of nourishment suited to her feeble condition. moreover, both nerves and mind found relief and rest in the consciousness that the decisive step had been taken. she was no longer shuddering and recoiling from a past in which each day had revealed more disheartening elements. her face was now toward a future that promised a refuge, security, and even hope. the quiet meal was soon over. holcroft put a five-dollar bill in the hands of the justice, who filled in a certificate and departed, feeling that the afternoon had not been spent in vain. "jim," said watterly, drawing his friend aside, "you'll want to make some purchases. you know she's only what she wears. how are you off for money?" "well, tom, you know i didn't expect anything of this kind when--" "of course i know it. will fifty answer?" "yes. you're a good friend. i'll return it in a day or two." "return it when you're a mind to. i say, alida, i want you to take this. jim holcroft can't get married and his bride not receive a present from me," and he put ten dollars in her hand. tears rushed to her eyes as she turned them inquiringly to holcroft to know what she should do. "now see here, tom, you've done too much for us already." "shut up, jim holcroft! don't you end the day by hurting my feelings! it's perfectly right and proper for me to do this. goodby, alida. i don't believe you'll ever be sorry you found your way to my hotel." alida took his proffered hand, but could only falter, "i--i can never forget." chapter xx. uncle jonathan's impression of the bride "now, alida," said holcroft, as they drove away, "remember that we are two middle-aged, sensible people. at least i'm middle-aged, and fairly sensible, too, i hope. you'll need to buy some things, and i want you to get all you need. don't stint yourself, and you needn't hurry so as to get tired, for we shall have moonlight and there's no use trying to get home before dark. is there any particular store which you'd like to go to?" "no, sir; only i'd rather go over on the east side of the town where i'm not known." "that suits me, for it's the side nearest home and i am known there." "perhaps--perhaps you also would rather go this evening where you are not known," she said hesitatingly. "it makes no difference to me. in fact i know of a place where you'll have a good choice at reasonable rates." "i'll go where you wish," she said quietly. they soon entered a large shop together, and the proprietor said pleasantly, "good evening, mr. holcroft." "good evening, mr. jasper. my wife wants to get some things. if you'll be good enough to wait on her, i'll step out to do two or three errands." the merchant looked curiously at alida, but was too polite to ask questions or make comments on her very simple purchases. her old skill and training were of service now. she knew just what she absolutely needed, and bought no more. holcroft laid in a good stock of groceries and some juicy beef and then returned. when mr. jasper gave him his bill, he went to alida, who was resting, and said in a low voice, "this won't do at all. you can't have bought half enough." for the first time something like a smile flitted across her face as she replied, "it's enough to begin with. i know." "really, mr. holcroft, i didn't know you were married," said the merchant. "i must congratulate you." "well, i am. thank you. good night." a few moments later he and his wife were bowling out of town toward the hills. reaching one of these, the horses came down to a walk and holcroft turned and said, "are you very tired, alida? i'm troubled about you taking this long ride. you have been so sick." "i'm sorry i'm not stronger, sir, but the fresh air seems to do me good and i think i can stand it." "you didn't promise to obey me, did you?" with a rather nervous little laugh. "no, sir, but i will." "that's a good beginning. now see what an old tyrant i am. in the first place, i don't want you to say 'sir' to me any more. my name is james. in the second place, you must work only as i let you. your first business is to get strong and well, and you know we agreed to marry on strictly business grounds." "i understand it well, but i think you are very kind for a business man." "oh, as to that, if i do say it of myself, i don't think it's my nature to be hard on those who treat me square. i think we shall be very good friends in our quiet way, and that's more than can be said of a good many who promise more than they seem to remember afterward." "i will try to do all you wish for i am very grateful." "if you do, you may find i'm as grateful as you are." "that can never be. your need and mine were very different.--but i shall try to show my gratitude by learning your ways and wishes and not by many words of thanks." "thank the lord!" mentally ejaculated the farmer, "there's no mrs. mumpson in this case;" but he only said kindly, "i think we understand each other now, alida. i'm not a man of words either, and i had better show by actions also what i am. the fact is, although we are married, we are scarcely acquainted, and people can't get acquainted in a day." the first long hill was surmounted and away they bowled again, past cottage and farmhouse, through strips of woodland and between fields from which came the fragrance of the springing grass and the peepings of the hylas. the moon soon rose, full-orbed, above the higher eastern hills, and the mild april evening became luminous and full of beauty. a healing sense of quiet and security already began to steal into alida's bruised heart. in turning her back upon the town in which she had suffered so greatly, she felt like one escaping from prison and torture. an increasing assurance of safety came with every mile; the cool, still radiance of the night appeared typical of her new and most unexpected experience. light had risen on her shadowed path, but it was not warm, vivifying sunlight, which stimulates and develops. a few hours before she was in darkness which might be felt--yet it was a gloom shot through and through with lurid threatening gleams. it had seemed to her that she had fallen from home, happiness, and honor to unfathomed depths, and yet there had appeared to be deeper and darker abysses on every side. she had shuddered at the thought of going out into the world, feeling that her misfortune would awaken suspicion rather than sympathy, scorn instead of kindness; that she must toil on until death, to sustain a life to which death would come as god's welcome messenger. then had come this man at her side, with his comparatively trivial troubles and perplexities, and he had asked her help--she who was so helpless. he had banished despair from her earthly future, he had lifted her up and was bearing her away from all which she had so dreaded; nothing had been asked which her crushed spirit was unable to bestow; she was simply expected to aid him in his natural wish to keep his home and to live where he had always dwelt. his very inability to understand her, to see her broken, trampled life and immeasurable need as she saw it, brought quietness of mind. the concentration of his thoughts on a few homely and simple hopes gave her immunity. with quick intuition, she divined that she had not a whimsical, jealous, exacting nature to deal with. he was the plain, matter-of-fact man he seemed; so literal and absolutely truthful that he would appear odd to most people. to her mind, his were the traits which she could now most welcome and value. he knew all about her, she had merely to be herself, to do what she had promised, in order to rest securely on his rock-like truth. he had again touched a deep, grateful chord in speaking of her to the shopkeeper as his wife; he showed no disposition whatever to shrink from the relation before the world; it was evident that he meant to treat her with respect and kindness, and to exact respect from others. for all this, while sitting quietly and silently at his side, she thanked him almost passionately in her heart; but far more than for all this she was glad and grateful that he would not expect what she now felt it would be impossible for her to give--the love and personal devotion which had been inseparable from marriage in her girlhood thoughts. he would make good his words--she should be his wife in name and be respected as such. he was too simple and true to himself and his buried love, too considerate of her, to expect more. she might hope, therefore, as he had said, that they might be helpful, loyal friends and he would have been surprised indeed had he known how the pale, silent woman beside him was longing and hoping to fill his home with comfort. thoughts like these had inspired and sustained her while at the same time ministering the balm of hope. the quiet face of nature, lovely in the moonlight, seemed to welcome and reassure her. happy are those who, when sorely wounded in life, can turn to the natural world and find in every tree, shrub, and flower a comforting friend that will not turn from them. such are not far from god and peace. the range of holcroft's thoughts was far simpler and narrower than alida's. he turned rather deliberately from the past, preferring to dwell on the probable consummation of his hope. his home, his farm, were far more to him than the woman he had married. he had wedded her for their sake, and his thoughts followed his heart, which was in his hillside acres. it is said that women often marry for a home; he truly had done so to keep his home. the question which now most occupied him was the prospect of doing this through quiet, prosperous years. he dwelt minutely on alida's manner, as well as her words, and found nothing to shake his belief that she had been as truthful as himself. nevertheless, he queried in regard to the future with not a little anxiety. in her present distress and poverty she might naturally be glad of the refuge he had offered; but as time passed and the poignancy of bitter memories was allayed, might not her life on the farm seem monotonous and dull, might not weariness and discontent come into her eyes in place of gratitude? "well, well!" he concluded, "this marrying is a risky experiment at best, but tom watterly's talk and her manner seemed to shut me up to it. i was made to feel that i couldn't go on in any other way; and i haven't done anything underhanded or wrong, as i see, for the chance of going on. if i hadn't become such a heathen i should say there was a providence in it, but i don't know what to think about such things any more. time'll show, and the prospect is better than it has been yet. she'll never be sorry if she carries out the agreement made today, if kindness and good will can repay her." thus it may be seen that, although two life currents had become parallel, they were still very distinct. by the time holcroft approached the lane leading to his dwelling, alida was growing very weary, and felt that her endurance had almost reached its limit. her face was so white in the moonlight that he asked solicitously, "you can stand it a little longer, can't you?" "i'll try. i'm very sorry i'm not stronger." "don't you worry about that! you won't know yourself in a week. here we are at the lane and there's the house yonder. a moment or two more and you'll be by the fire." a loud barking startled old jonathan johnson out of his doze, and he hastened to replenish the fire and to call off his rather savage dog. he was a little surprised to see holcroft drive toward the kitchen door with a woman by his side. "he's tried his luck with another of them town gals," he muttered, "but, jerusalem! she won't stay a week, an' my old woman'll have the washin' an' mendin' all the same." he could scarcely believe his ears and eyes when he heard the farmer say, "alida, you must let me lift you out," and then saw the "town gal" set gently on the ground, her hand placed on holcroft's arm as she was supported slowly and carefully to the rocking chair beside the fire. "jonathan," was the quiet announcement, "this is mrs. holcroft, my wife." "jeru--beg a pardon. wasn't 'spectin; jis' sich a turn o' things. respects, missus! sorry to see yer enj'yin' poor health." "yes, jonathan, mrs. holcroft has been sick, but she's much better and will soon be well. she's very tired now from the long drive, but quiet life and country air will soon make her strong. i'll just step out and care for the horses, alida, and soon be back again. you come and help me, jonathan, and keep your dog off, too." the old man complied with rather poor grace for he would have preferred to interview the bride, at whom he was staring with all his weak, watery eyes. holcroft understood his neighbor's peculiarities too well to subject his wife to this ordeal, and was bent on dispatching jonathan homeward as soon as possible. "i say, jim," said the old guardsman, who felt that he was speaking to the boy he had known for thirty odd years, "where on airth did you pick up sich a sickly lookin' critter?" "i didn't pick her up," replied the farmer laughingly. "i married her fair and square just as you did your wife a hundred years ago, more or less. haven't i as good a right to get married as you had?" "oh, i aint a-disputin' yer right, but it seems so kind o' suddint that it's taken what little breath i've left." "how do you know it's sudden? did you go around telling everyone how you were getting on when you were a-courting?" "well, i swan! yer got me. 'taint so long ago that i disremember we did it on the sly." "well, now, uncle jonathan, you've got nothing to say against me for i didn't marry on the sly, although i've gone on the principle that my business wasn't everybody's business. when i saw your wife about my washing and mending i didn't know i was going to be lucky so soon. you know you can't marry a woman in this country till she's willing. but tell your wife she shan't lose anything, and the next time i go to town i'll leave that settin' of eggs she wanted. now, jonathan, honor bright, do you feel able to walk home if i give you fifty cents extra?" "why, sartinly! s'pose i'd take yer away on sich a 'casion? my wife wouldn't let me in if she knowed it." "well, you and your wife are good neighbors, and that's more'n i can say for most people in these parts. here's the money. mrs. holcroft isn't strong or well enough to talk any tonight. you got yourself a good supper, didn't you?" "yes, yes! helped myself bount'fully. good night, and good luck ter yer. i can't help thinkin' it was kind o' suddint though, and then she's sich a sickly lookin' critter. hope yer haven't been taken in, but then, as you say, the marryin' business, like other kinds o' business, is a man's own business." "i hope everyone will take your sensible view, uncle jonathan. good night." chapter xxi. at home alida was not so cold, weary, and almost faint but that she looked around the old kitchen with the strongest interest. this interest was as unlike mrs. mumpson's curiosity as she was unlike the widow. it is true the thought of self was prominent, yet hers were not selfish thoughts. there are some blessed natures in the world that in doing the best for themselves do the best that is possible for others. the genial warmth of the fire was grateful to her chilled and enfeebled frame; the homely kitchen, with its dresser of china ware, its tin closet and pantry, the doors of which old jonathan had left open, manlike, after helping himself "bount'fully," all suggested more comfort to this pallid bride, sitting there alone, than wealth of ornament in elegant apartments has brought to many others. she saw her chief domain, not in its coarse and common aspect, but as her vantage ground, from which she could minister to the comforts of the one who had rescued her. few brides would care to enter the kitchen first, but she was pleased; she who had scarcely hoped to smile again looked smilingly around on the quaint, homelike room. "and this is to be my home!" she murmured. "how strange, unexpected, yet natural it all is! just what he led me to expect. the little lonely farmhouse, where i can be safe from staring eyes and unwounded by cruel questionings. yet that old man had a dozen questions on his tongue. i believe he took him away to save my feelings. it's strange that so plain and simple a man in most respects can be so considerate. oh, pray god that all goes on as it promises! i couldn't have dreamt it this morning, but i have an odd, homelike feeling already. well, since i am at home i may as well take off my hat and cloak." and she did so. holcroft entered and said heartily, "that's right, alida! you are here to stay, you know. you mustn't think it amiss that i left you a few moments alone for i had to get that talkative old man off home. he's getting a little childish and would fire questions at you point-blank." "but shouldn't you have taken him home in the wagon? i don't mind being alone." "oh, no! he's spry enough to walk twice the distance and often does. it's light as day outside, and i made it right with him. you can leave your things upstairs in your room, and i'll carry up your bundles also if you are rested enough for the journey." "oh, yes!" she replied, "i'm feeling better already." he led the way to the apartment that mrs. mumpson had occupied and said regretfully, "i'm sorry the room looks so bare and comfortless, but that will all be mended in time. when you come down, we'll have some coffee and supper." she soon reappeared in the kitchen, and he continued, "now i'll show you that i'm not such a very helpless sort of man, after all; so if you're sick you needn't worry. i'm going to get you a good cup of coffee and broil you a piece of steak." "oh! please let me--" she began. "no, can't allow you to do anything tonight but sit in that chair. you promised to mind, you know," and he smiled so genially that she smiled back at him although tears came into her eyes. "i can't realize it all," she said in a low voice. "to think how this day began and how it is ending!" "it's ending in a poor man's kitchen, alida. it was rather rough to bring you in here first, but the parlor is cold and comfortless. "i would rather be brought here. it seems to me that it must be a light and cheerful room." "yes, the sun shines in these east windows, and there's another window facing the south, so it's light all day long." she watched him curiously and with not a little self-reproach as he deftly prepared supper. "it's too bad for me to sit idle while you do such things, yet you do everything so well that i fear i shall seem awkward. still, i think i do at least know how to cook a little." "if you knew what i've had to put up with for a year or more, you wouldn't worry about satisfying me in this respect. except when old mrs. wiggins was here, i had few decent meals that i didn't get myself," and then, to cheer her up, he laughingly told her of mrs. mumpson's essay at making coffee. he had a certain dry humor, and his unwonted effort at mimicry was so droll in itself that alida was startled to hear her own voice in laughter, and she looked almost frightened, so deeply had she been impressed that it would never be possible or even right for her to laugh again. the farmer was secretly much pleased at his success. if she would laugh, be cheerful and not brood, he felt sure she would get well and be more contented. the desperate view she had taken of her misfortunes troubled him, and he had thought it possible that she might sink into despondency and something like invalidism; but that involuntary bubble of laughter reassured him. "quiet, wholesome, cheerful life will restore her to health," he thought, as he put his favorite beverage and the sputtering steak on the table. "now," he said, placing a chair at the table, "you can pour me a cup of coffee." "i'm glad i can do something," she answered, "for i can't get over the strangeness of being so waited on. indeed, everything that was unexpected or undreamt of has happened," and there was just the faintest bit of color on her cheeks as she sat down opposite him. few men are insensible to simple, natural, womanly grace, and poor holcroft, who so long had been compelled to see at his table "perfect terrors," as he called them, was agreeably impressed by the contrast she made with the mumpson and malony species. alida unconsciously had a subtle charm of carriage and action, learned in her long past and happy girlhood when all her associations were good and refined. still, in its truest explanation, this grace is native and not acquired; it is a personal trait. incapable of nice analysis or fine definitions, he only thought, "how much pleasanter it is to see at the table a quiet, sensible woman instead of a 'peculiar female!'" and it was not long before he supplemented her remark by saying, "perhaps things are turning out for both of us better than we expected. i had made up my mind this morning to live here like a hermit, get my own meals, and all that. i actually had the rough draught of an auction bill in my pocket,--yes, here it is now,--and was going to sell my cows, give up my dairy, and try to make my living in a way that wouldn't require any woman help. that's what took me up to tom watterly's; i wanted him to help me put the bill in shape. he wouldn't look at it, and talked me right out of trying to live like robinson crusoe, as he expressed it. i had been quite cheerful over my prospects; indeed, i was almost happy in being alone again after having such terrors in the house. but, as i said, watterly talked all the courage and hope right out of me, and made it clear that i couldn't go it alone. you see, tom and i have been friends since we were boys together, and that's the reason he talks so plain to me." "he has a good, kind heart," said alida. "i don't think i could have kept up at all had it not been for his kindness." "yes, tom's a rough diamond. he don't make any pretenses, and looks upon himself as a rather hard case, but i fancy he's doing kind things in his rough way half the time. well, as we were talking, he remembered you, and he spoke of you so feelingly and told your story with so much honest sympathy that he awoke my sympathy. now you know how it has all come about. you see it's all natural enough and simple enough, and probably it's the best thing that could have happened for us both. all you have to do is to get strong and well, and then it won't be any one-sided affair, as you've been too much inclined to think. i can go on and keep my farm and home just as my heart is bent on doing. i want you to understand everything for then your mind will be more satisfied and at rest, and that's half the battle in getting over sickness and trouble like yours." "i can only thank god and you for the great change in my prospects. this quiet and escape from strangers are just what i most craved, and i am already beginning to hope that if i can learn to do all you wish, i shall find a content that i never hoped for," and the tears that stood in her eyes were witnesses of her sincerity. "well, don't expect to learn everything at once. let me have my way for a while, and then you'll find, as you get strong, and the busy season comes on, that i'll be so taken up with the farm that you'll have your own way. won't you have some more steak? no? well, you've enjoyed your supper a little, haven't you?" "yes," she replied, smiling. "i actually felt hungry when i sat down, and the coffee has taken away the tired, faint feeling." "i hope you'll soon be good and hungry three times a day," he said, laughing pleasantly. "you'll at least let me clear the table?" she asked. "i feel so much better." "yes, if you are sure you're strong enough. it may make you feel more at home. but drop everything till tomorrow when tired. i must go out and do my night work, and it's night work now, sure enough--" "it's too bad!" she said sympathetically. "what! to go out and feed my stock this clear, bright night? and after a hearty supper too? such farming is fun. i feel, too, as if i wanted to go and pat the cows all around in my gladness that i'm not going to sell them. now remember, let everything go till morning as soon as you feel tired." she nodded smilingly and set to work. standing in the shadow of a hemlock, he watched her for a few moments. her movements were slow, as would be natural to one who had been so reduced by illness, but this every evidence of feebleness touched his feelings. "she is eager to begin--too eager. no nonsense there about 'menial tasks.' well, it does give one hope to see such a woman as that in the old kitchen," and then the hungry cattle welcomed him. the traveler feels safe after the fierce arab of the desert has broken bread with him. it would seem that a deep principle of human nature is involved in this act. more than the restoring power of the nourishment itself was the moral effect for alida of that first meal in her husband's home. it was another step in what he had said was essential--the forming of his acquaintance. she had seen from the first that he was plain and unpolished--that he had not the veneer of gentility of the man she had so mistakenly married; yet, in his simple truth, he was inspiring a respect which she had never felt for any man before. "what element of real courtesy has been wanting?" she asked herself. "if this is an earnest of the future, thank god for the real. i've found to my cost what a clever imitation of a man means." it was as sweet as it was strange to think that she, who had trembled at the necessity of becoming almost a slave to unfeeling strangers, had been compelled to rest while a husband performed tasks naturally hers. it was all very homely, yet the significance of the act was chivalrous consideration for her weakness; the place, the nature of the ministry could not degrade the meaning of his action. then, too, during the meal he had spoken natural, kindly words which gave to their breaking of bread together the true interpretation. although so feeble and wary, she found a deep satisfaction in beginning her household work. "it does make me feel more at home," she said. "strange that he should have thought of it!" she had finished her task and sat down again when he entered with a pail of milk. taking a dipper with a strainer on one side of it, he poured out a tumblerful. "now, take this," he said, "i've always heard that milk fresh from the cow was very strengthening. then go and sleep till you are thoroughly rested, and don't think of coming down in the morning till you feel like it. i'll make the fire and get breakfast. you have seen how easily i can do it. i have several more cows to milk, and so will say 'goodnight.'" for the first time since chaos had come into her life alida slept soundly and refreshingly, unpursued by the fears which had haunted even her dreams. when she awoke she expected to see the gray locks and repulsive features of the woman who had occupied the apartment with her at the almshouse, but she was alone in a small, strange room. then memory gathered up the threads of the past; but so strange, so blessed did the truth seem that she hastened to dress and go down to the old kitchen and assure herself that her mind had not become shattered by her troubles and was mocking her with unreal fancies. the scene she looked upon would have soothed and reassured her even had her mind been as disordered as she, for the moment, had been tempted to believe. there was the same homely room which had pictured itself so deeply in her memory the evening before. now it was more attractive for the morning sun was shining into it, lighting up its homely details with a wholesome, cheerful reality which made it difficult to believe that there were tragic experiences in the world. the wood fire in the stove crackled merrily, and the lid of the kettle was already bobbing up and down from internal commotion. as she opened the door a burst of song entered, securing her attention. she had heard the birds before without recognizing consciousness, as is so often true of our own condition in regard to the familiar sounds of nature. it was now almost as if she had received another sense, so strong, sweet, and cheering was the symphony. robins, song-sparrows, blackbirds, seemed to have gathered in the trees nearby, to give her a jubilant welcome; but she soon found that the music shaded off to distant, dreamlike notes, and remembered that it was a morning chorus of a hemisphere. this universality did not render the melody less personally grateful. we can appreciate all that is lovely in nature, yet leave all for others. as she stood listening, and inhaling the soft air, full of the delicious perfume of the grass and expanding buds, and looking through the misty sunshine on the half-veiled landscape, she heard holcroft's voice, chiding some unruly animal in the barnyard. this recalled her, and with the elasticity of returning health and hope she set about getting breakfast. "it seems to me that i never heard birds sing before," she thought, "and their songs this morning are almost like the music of heaven. they seem as happy and unconscious of fear and trouble as if they were angels. mother and i used to talk about the garden of eden, but could the air have been sweeter, or the sunshine more tempered to just the right degree of warmth and brightness than here about my home? oh, thank god again, again and forever, for a home like this!" and for a few moments something of the ecstasy of one delivered from the black thraldom of evil filled her soul. she paused now and then to listen to the birds for only their songs seemed capable of expressing her emotion. it was but another proof that heavenly thoughts and homely work may go on together. chapter xxii. getting acquainted it was still early, and holcroft was under the impression that alida would sleep late after the severe fatigues of the preceding day. he therefore continued his work at the barn sufficiently long to give his wife time for her little surprise. she was not long in finding and laying her hands on the simple materials for breakfast. a ham hung in the pantry and beneath it was a great basket of eggs, while the flour barrel stood in the corner. biscuits were soon in the oven, eggs conjured into an omelet, and the ham cut into delicate slices, instead of great coarse steaks. remembering mrs. mumpson's failure with the coffee, she made it a trifle strong and boiled the milk that should temper without cooling it. the biscuits rose like her own spirits, the omelet speedily began to take on color like her own flushed face as she busied herself about the stove. everything was nearly ready when she saw holcroft coming toward the house with two pails of milk. he took them to the large dairy room under the parlor and then came briskly to the kitchen. she stood, screened by the door as he entered, then stopped and stared at the table all set and at the inviting breakfast on the stove. seeing alida's half-smiling, half-questioning face, seeking his approval, he exclaimed, "well, you have stolen a march on me! i supposed you were asleep yet." "i felt so much stronger and better when i awoke that i thought you wouldn't mind if i came down and made a beginning." "you call this a beginning do you? such a breakfast as this before seven in the morning? i hope you haven't overtaxed yourself." "no, only a little of just the right kind of tired feeling." "haven't you left anything for me to do?" "perhaps. you will know when i've put all on the table. what i've prepared is ready." "well, this is famous. i'll go and wash and fix up a little and be right down." when holcroft returned, he looked at her curiously, for he felt that he, too, was getting acquainted. her thin face was made more youthful by color; a pleased look was in her blue eyes, and a certain neatness and trimness about her dress to which he had not been accustomed. he scanned the table wonderingly, for things were not put upon it at haphazard; the light biscuits turned their brown cheeks invitingly toward him,--she had arranged that they should do that,--the ham was crisp, not sodden, and the omelet as russet as a november leaf. "this is a new dish," he said, looking at it closely. "what do you call it?" "omelet. perhaps you won't like it, but mother used to be very fond of it." "no matter. we'll have it if you like it and it brings you pleasant thoughts of your mother." then he took a good sip of coffee and set the cup down again as he had before under the mumpson regime, but with a very different expression. she looked anxiously at him, but was quickly reassured. "i thought i knew how to make coffee, but i find i don't. i never tasted anything so good as that. how do you make it?" "just as mother taught me." "well, well! and you call this making a beginning? i just wish i could give tom watterly a cup of this coffee. it would set his mind at rest. 'by jocks!' he would say, 'isn't this better than going it alone?'" she looked positively happy under this sweet incense to a housewifely heart. she was being paid in the coin that women love best, and it was all the more precious to her because she had never expected to receive it again. he did like the omelet; he liked everything, and, after helping her liberally, cleared the table, then said he felt equal to doing two men's work. before going out to his work, he lighted a fire on the parlor hearth and left a good supply of fuel beside it. "now, alida," he remarked humorously, "i've already found out that you have one fault that you and i will have to watch against. you are too willing. i fear you've gone beyond your strength this morning. i don't want you to do a thing today except to get the meals, and remember, i can help in this if you don't feel well. there is a fire in the parlor, and i've wheeled the lounge up by it. take it quietly today, and perhaps tomorrow i can begin to show you about butter-making." "i will do as you wish," she replied, "but please show me a little more where things are before you go out." this he did and added, "you'll find the beef and some other things on a swing-shelf in the cellar. the potato bins are down there, too. but don't try to get up much dinner. what comes quickest and easiest will suit me. i'm a little backward with my work and must plow all day for oats. it's time they were in. after such a breakfast, i feel as if i had eaten a bushel myself." a few moments later she saw him going up the lane, that continued on past the house, with his stout team and the plow, and she smiled as she heard him whistling "coronation" with levity, as some good people would have thought. plowing and planting time had come and under happier auspices, apparently, than he had ever imagined possible again. with the lines about his neck, he began with a sidehill plow at the bottom of a large, sloping field which had been in corn the previous year, and the long, straight furrows increased from a narrow strip to a wide, oblong area. "ah," said he in tones of strong satisfaction, "the ground crumbles freely; it's just in the right condition. i'll quit plowing this afternoon in time to harrow and sow all the ground that's ready. then, so much'll be all done and well done. it's curious how seed, if it goes into the ground at the right time and in the right way, comes right along and never gets discouraged. i aint much on scientific farming, but i've always observed that when i sow or plant as soon as the ground is ready, i have better luck." the horses seemed infected by his own brisk spirit, stepping along without urging, and the farmer was swept speedily into the full, strong current of his habitual interests. one might have supposed the recent events would have the uppermost place in his thoughts, but this was not true. he rather dwelt upon them as the unexpectedly fortunate means to the end now attained. this was his life, and he was happy in the thought that his marriage promised to make this life not merely possible, but prosperous and full of quiet content. the calling of the born agriculturist, like that of the fisherman, has in it the element of chance and is therefore full of moderate yet lasting excitement. holcroft knew that, although he did his best, much would depend on the weather and other causes. he had met with disappointments in his crops, and had also achieved what he regarded as fine successes, although they would have seemed meager on a western prairie. every spring kindled anew his hopefulness and anticipation. he watched the weather with the interested and careful scrutiny of a sailor, and it must be admitted that his labor and its results depended more on natural causes than upon his skill and the careful use of the fertilizers. he was a farmer of the old school, the traditions received from his father controlled him in the main. still, his good common sense and long experience stood him fairly well in the place of science and knowledge of improved methods, and he was better equipped than the man who has in his brain all that the books can teach, yet is without experience. best of all, he had inherited and acquired an abiding love of the soil; he never could have been content except in its cultivation; he was therefore in the right condition to assimilate fuller knowledge and make the most of it. he knew well enough when it was about noon. from long habit he would have known had the sky been overcast, but now his glance at the sun was like looking at a watch. dusty and begrimed he followed his team to the barn, slipped from them their headstalls and left them to amuse themselves with a little hay while they cooled sufficiently for heartier food. "well now," he mused, "i wonder what that little woman has for dinner? another new dish, like enough. hanged if i'm fit to go in the house, and she looking so trim and neat. i think i'll first take a souse in the brook," and he went up behind the house where an unfailing stream gurgled swiftly down from the hills. at the nearest point a small basin had been hollowed out, and as he approached he saw two or three speckled trout darting away through the limpid water. "aha!" he muttered, "glad you reminded me. when she's stronger, she may enjoy catching our supper some afternoon. i must think of all the little things i can to liven her up so she won't get dull. it's curious how interested i am to know how she's got along and what she has for dinner. and to think that, less than a week ago, i used to hate to go near the house!" as he entered the hall on his way to his room, that he might make himself more presentable, an appetizing odor greeted him and alida smiled from the kitchen door as she said, "dinner's ready." apparently she had taken him at his word, as she had prepared little else than an irish stew, yet when he had partaken of it, he thought he would prefer irish stews from that time onward indefinitely. "where did you learn to cook, alida?" he asked. "mother wasn't very strong and her appetite often failed her. then, too, we hadn't much to spend on our table so we tried to make simple things taste nice. do you like my way of preparing that old-fashioned dish?" "i'm going to show you how i like it," he replied, nodding approvingly. "well, what have you been doing besides tempting me to eat too much?" "what you said, resting. you told me not to get up much of a dinner, so i very lazily prepared what you see. i've been lying on the lounge most of the morning." "famous, and you feel better?" "yes, i think i shall soon get well and strong," she replied, looking at him gratefully. "well, well! my luck's turned at last. i once thought it never would, but if this goes on--well, you can't know what a change it is for the better. i can now put my mind on my work." "you've been plowing all the morning, haven't you?" she ventured, and there was the pleased look in her eyes that he already liked to see. "yes," he replied, "and i must keep at it several days to get in all the oats i mean to sow. if this weather holds, i shall be through next week." "i looked in the milk-room a while ago. isn't there anything i could do there this afternoon?" "no. i'll attend to everything there. it's too damp for you yet. keep on resting. why, bless me! i didn't think you'd be well enough to do anything for a week." "indeed," she admitted, "i'm surprised at myself. it seems as if a crushing weight had been lifted off my mind and that i was coming right up. i'm so glad, for i feared i might be feeble and useless a long time." "well, alida, if you had been, or if you ever are, don't think i'll be impatient. the people i can't stand are those who try to take advantage of me, and i tell you i've had to contend with that disposition so long that i feel as if i could do almost anything for one who is simply honest and tries to keep her part of an agreement. but this won't do. i've enjoyed my own dinner so much that i've half forgotten that the horses haven't had theirs yet. now will you scold if i light my pipe before i go out?" "oh, no! i don't mind that." "no good-natured fibs! isn't smoke disagreeable?" she shook her head. "i don't mind it at all," she said, but her sudden paleness puzzled him. he could not know that he had involuntarily recalled the many times that she had filled the evening pipe for a man who now haunted her memory like a specter. "i guess you don't like it very much," he said, as he passed out. "well, no matter! it's getting so mild that i can smoke out of doors." with the exception of the episode of dinner the day was chiefly passed by alida in a health-restoring languor, the natural reaction from the distress and strong excitements of the past. the rest that had been enjoined upon her was a blessed privilege, and still more happy was the truth that she could rest. reclining on the lounge in the parlor, with a wood fire on one side and the april sun on the other, both creating warmth and good cheer, she felt like those who have just escaped from a wreck and engulfing waves. her mind was too weary to question either the past or the future, and sometimes a consciousness of safety is happiness in itself. in the afternoon, the crackling of the fire and the calling and singing of the birds without formed a soothing lullaby and she fell asleep. at last, in a dream, she heard exquisite music which appeared to grow so loud, strong, and triumphant that she started up and looked around bewildered. a moment later, she saw that a robin was singing in a lilac bush by the window and that near the bird was a nest partially constructed. she recalled her hopeless grief when she had last seen the building of one of their little homes; and she fell upon her knees with a gratitude too deep for words, and far more grateful to heaven than words. stepping out on the porch, she saw by the shadows that the sun was low in the west and that holcroft was coming down the lane with his horses. he nodded pleasantly as he passed on to the barn. her eyes followed him lingeringly till he disappeared, and then they ranged over the wide valley and the wooded hills in the distance. not a breath of air was stirring; the lowing of cattle and other rural sounds softened by distance came from other farmhouses; the birds were at vespers, and their songs, to her fancy, were imbued with a softer, sweeter melody than in the morning. from the adjacent fields came clear, mellow notes that made her nerves tingle, so ethereal yet penetrating were they. she was sure she had never heard such bird music before. when holcroft came in to supper she asked, "what birds are those that sing in the field?" "meadow larks. do you like them?" "i never heard a hymn sung that did me more good." "well, i own up, i'd rather hear 'em than much of the singing we used to have down at the meeting house." "it seems to me," she remarked, as she sat down at the table, "that i've never heard birds sing as they have today." "now i think of it, they have been tuning up wonderfully. perhaps they've an idea of my good luck," he added smilingly. "i had thought of that about myself," she ventured. "i took a nap this afternoon, and a robin sang so near the window that he woke me up. it was a pleasant way to be waked." "took a nap, did you? that's famous! well, well! this day's gone just to suit me, and i haven't had many such in a good while, i can tell you. i've got in a big strip of oats, and now, when i come in tired, here's a good supper. i certainly shall have to be on the watch to do tom watterly good turns for talking me into this business. that taking a nap was a first-rate idea. you ought to keep it up for a month." "no, indeed! there's no reason why you should work hard and i be idle. i've rested today, as you wished, and i feel better than i ever expected to again; but tomorrow i must begin in earnest. what use is there of your keeping your cows if good butter is not made? then i must be busy with my needle." "yes, that's true enough. see how thoughtless i am! i forgot you hadn't any clothes to speak of. i ought to take you to town to a dressmaker." "i think you had better get your oats in," she replied, smiling shyly. "besides, i have a dressmaker that just suits me--one that's made my dresses a good many years." "if she don't suit you, you're hard to be suited," said he, laughing. "well, some day, after you are fixed up, i shall have to let you know how dilapidated i am." "won't you do me a little favor?" "oh, yes! a dozen of 'em, big or little." "please bring down this evening something that needs mending. i am so much better--" "no, no! i wasn't hinting for you to do anything tonight." "but you've promised me," she urged. "remember i've been resting nearly all day. i'm used to sewing, and earned my living at it. somehow, it don't seem natural for me to sit with idle hands." "if i hadn't promised--" "but you have." "i suppose i'm fairly caught," and he brought down a little of the most pressing of the mending. "now i'll reward you," she said, handing him his pipe, well filled. "you go in the parlor and have a quiet smoke. i won't be long in clearing up the kitchen." "what! smoke in the parlor?" "yes, why not? i assure you i don't mind it." "ha! ha! why didn't i think of it before--i might have kept the parlor and smoked mrs. mumpson out." "it won't be smoke that will keep me out." "i should hope not, or anything else. i must tell you how i did have to smoke mrs. mumpson out at last," and he did so with so much drollery that she again yielded to irrepressible laughter. "poor thing! i'm sorry for her," she said. "i'm sorry for jane--poor little stray cat of a child! i hope we can do something for her some day," and having lighted his pipe, he took up the county paper, left weekly in a hollow tree by the stage driver, and went into the parlor. after freshening up the fire he sat down to read, but by the time she joined him the tired man was nodding. he tried to brighten up, but his eyes were heavy. "you've worked hard today," she said sympathetically. "well, i have," he answered. "i've not done such a good day's work in a year." "then why don't you go to sleep at once?" "it don't seem polite--" "please don't talk that way," she interrupted. "i don't mind being alone at all. i shall feel a great deal more at home if you forget all about ceremony." "well, alida, i guess we had both better begin on that basis. if i give up when i'm tired, you must. you mustn't think i'm always such a sleepyhead. the fact is i've been more tired out with worry of late than with work. i can laugh about it now, but i've been so desperate over it that i've felt more like swearing. you'll find out i've become a good deal of a heathen." "very well; i'll wait till i find out." "i think we are getting acquainted famously, don't you?" "yes," she nodded, with a smile that meant more than a long speech. "good night." chapter xxiii. between the past and future human nature, in common with mother nature, has its immutable laws. the people who existed before the flood were, in their primal motives, like those of today. the conventionality of highly civilized society does not change the heart, but it puts so much restraint upon it that not a few appear heartless. they march through life and fight its battles like uniformed men, trained in a certain school of tactics. the monotony of character and action is superficial, in most cases, rather than real, and he who fathoms the eyes of others, who catches the subtle quality of tones and interprets the flexible mouth that utters them, will discover that the whole gamut of human nature exists in those that appear only like certain musical instruments, made by machinery to play a few well-known tunes. conventional restraint often, no doubt, produces dwarfed and defective human nature. i suppose that if souls could be put under a microscope, the undeveloped rudiments of almost everything would be discovered. it is more satisfactory to study the things themselves than their suggestions; this we are usually better able to do among people of simple and untrammeled modes of life, who are not practiced in disguises. their peculiar traits and their general and dominant laws and impulses are exhibited with less reserve than by those who have learned to be always on their guard. of course there are commonplace yeomen as truly as commonplace aristocrats, and simple life abounds in simpletons. when a man in holcroft's position has decided traits, they are apt to have a somewhat full expression; his rugged nature beside a tamer one outlines itself more vividly, just as a mountain peak is silhouetted against the horizon better than a rounded hill. it probably has been observed that his character possessed much simplicity and directness. he had neither the force nor the ambition to raise him above his circumstances; he was merely decided within the lines of his environment. perhaps the current of his life was all the stronger for being narrow. his motives were neither complex nor vacillating. he had married to keep his home and to continue in the conditions of life dear from association and the strongest preference, and his heart overflowed with good will and kindness toward alida because she promised to solve the hard problem of the future satisfactorily. apart from the sympathy which her misfortune had evoked, he probably could have felt much the same toward any other good, sensible woman, had she rendered him a similar service. it is true, now that alida was in his home, that she was manifesting agreeable traits which gave him pleasant little surprises. he had not expected that he would have had half so much to say to her, yet felt it his duty to be sociable in order to cheer up and mark the line between even a business marriage and the employment of a domestic. both his interest and his duty required that he should establish the bonds of strong friendly regard on the basis of perfect equality, and he would have made efforts, similar to those he put forth, in behalf of any woman, if she had consented to marry him with alida's understanding. now, however, that his suddenly adopted project of securing a housekeeper and helper had been consummated, he would find that he was not dealing with a business partner in the abstract, but a definite woman, who had already begun to exert over him her natural influence. he had expected more or less constraint and that some time must elapse before his wife would cease to be in a sense company whom he, with conscious and deliberate effort, must entertain. on the contrary she entertained and interested him, although she said so little, and by some subtle power she unloosed his tongue and made it easy for him to talk to her. in the most quiet and unobtrusive way, she was not only making herself at home, but him also; she was very subservient to his wishes, but not servilely so; she did not assert, but only revealed her superiority, and after even so brief an acquaintance he was ready to indorse tom watterly's view, "she's out of the common run." while all this was true, the farmer's heart was as untouched as that of a child who simply and instinctively likes a person. he was still quietly and unhesitatingly loyal to his former wife. apart from his involuntary favor, his shrewd, practical reason was definite enough in its grounds of approval. reason assured him that she promised to do and to be just what he had married her for, but this might have been true of a capable, yet disagreeable woman whom he could not like, to save himself. both in regard to himself and alida, holcroft accepted the actual facts with the gladness and much of the unquestioning simplicity of a child. this rather risky experiment was turning out well, and for a time he daily became more and more absorbed in his farm and its interests. alida quietly performed her household tasks and proved that she would not need very much instruction to become a good butter maker. the short spring of the north required that he should be busy early and late to keep pace with the quickly passing seedtime. his hopefulness, his freedom from household worries, prompted him to sow and plant increased areas of land. in brief, he entered on just the business-like honeymoon he had hoped for. alida was more than content with the conditions of her life. she saw that holcroft was not only satisfied, but also pleased with her, and that was all she had expected and indeed all that thus far she had wished or hoped. she had many sad hours; wounds like hers cannot heal readily in a true, sensitive woman's heart. while she gained in cheerfulness and confidence, the terrible and unexpected disaster which had overtaken her rendered impossible the serenity of those with whom all has gone well. dread of something, she knew not what, haunted her painfully, and memory at times seemed malignantly perverse in recalling one whom she prayed to forget. next to her faith and holcroft's kindness her work was her best solace, and she thanked god for the strength to keep busy. on the first sunday morning after their marriage the farmer overslept, and breakfast had been ready some time when he came down. he looked with a little dismay at the clock over the kitchen mantel and asked, "aren't you going to scold a little?" she shook her head, nor did she look the chiding which often might as well be spoken. "how long have i kept breakfast waiting, or you rather?" "what difference does it make? you needed the rest. the breakfast may not be so nice," was her smiling answer. "no matter. you are nice to let a man off in that way." observing the book in her lap, he continued, "so you were reading the old family bible to learn lessons of patience and forbearance?" again she shook her head. she often oddly reminded him of jane in her employment of signs instead of speech, but in her case there was a grace, a suggestiveness, and even a piquancy about them which made them like a new language. he understood and interpreted her frankly. "i know, alida," he said kindly; "you are a good woman. you believe in the bible and love to read it." "i was taught to read and love it," she replied simply. then her eyes dropped and she faltered, "i've reproached myself bitterly that i rushed away so hastily that i forgot the bible my mother gave me." "no, no," he said heartily, "don't reproach yourself for that. it was the bible in your heart that made you act as you did." she shot him a swift, grateful glance through her tears, but made no other response. having returned the bible to the parlor, she put the breakfast on the table and said quietly, "it looks as if we would have a rainy day." "well," said he, laughing, "i'm as bad as the old woman--it seems that women can run farms alone if men can't. well, this old dame had a big farm and employed several men, and she was always wishing it would rain nights and sundays. i'm inclined to chuckle over the good this rain will do my oats, instead of being sorry to think how many sinners it'll keep from church. except in protracted-meeting times, most people of this town would a great deal rather risk their souls than be caught in the rain on sunday. we don't mind it much week days, but sunday rain is very dangerous to health." "i'm afraid i'm as bad as the rest," she said, smiling. "mother and i usually stayed home when it rained hard." "oh, we don't need a hard storm in the country. people say, 'it looks threatening,' and that settles it; but we often drive to town rainy days to save time." "do you usually go to church at the meeting house i see off in the valley?" she asked. "i don't go anywhere," and he watched keenly to see how she would take this blunt statement of his practical heathenism. she only looked at him kindly and accepted the fact. "why don't you pitch into me?" he asked. "that wouldn't do any good." "you'd like to go, i suppose?" "no, not under the circumstances, unless you wished to. i'm cowardly enough to dread being stared at." he gave a deep sign of relief. "this thing has been troubling me," he said. "i feared you would want to go, and if you did, i should feel that you ought to go." "i fear i'm very weak about it, but i shrink so from meeting strangers. i do thank god for his goodness many times a day and ask for help. i'm not brave enough to do any more, yet." his rugged features became very somber as he said, "i wish i had as much courage as you have." "you don't understand me--" she began gently. "no, i suppose not. it's all become a muddle to me. i mean this church and religious business." she looked at him wistfully, as if she wished to say something, but did not venture to do so. he promptly gave a different turn to the conversation by quoting mrs. mumpson's tirade on churchgoing the first sunday after her arrival. alida laughed, but not in a wholly mirthful and satisfied way. "there!" he concluded, "i'm touching on things a little too sacred for you. i respect your feelings and beliefs, for they are honest and i wish i shared in 'em." then he suddenly laughed again as he added, "mrs. mumpson said there was too much milking done on sunday, and it's time i was breaking the fourth commandment, after her notion." alida now laughed outright, without reservation. "'by jocks!' as watterly says, what a difference there is in women!" he soliloquized on his way to the barn. "well, the church question is settled for the present, but if alida should ask me to go, after her manner this morning, i'd face the whole creation with her." when at last he came in and threw off his waterproof coat, the kitchen was in order and his wife was sitting by the parlor fire with thomson's "land and the book" in her hand. "are you fond of reading?" he asked. "yes, very." "well, i am, too, sort of; but i've let the years slip by without doing half as much as i ought." "light your pipe and i'll read to you, if you wish me to." "oh, come now! i at least believe in sunday as a day of rest, and you need it. reading aloud is about as hard work as i can do." "but i'm used to it. i read aloud to mother a great deal," and then there passed over her face an expression of deep pain. "what is it, alida? don't you feel well?" "yes, oh, yes!" she replied hastily, and her pale face became crimson. it was another stab of memory recalling the many sundays she had read to the man who had deceived her. "shall i read?" she asked. "alida," he said very kindly, "it wasn't the thought of your mother that brought that look of pain into your face." she shook her head sadly, with downcast eyes. after a moment or two, she raised them appealingly to him as she said simply, "there is so much that i wish i could forget." "poor child! yes, i think i know. be patient with yourself, and remember that you were never to blame." again came that quick, grateful glance by which some women express more than others can ever put in words. her thought was, "i didn't think that even he was capable of that. what a way of assuring me that he'll be patient with me!" then she quietly read for an hour descriptions of the holy land that were not too religious for holcroft's mind and which satisfied her conscience better than much she had read in former days to satisfy a taste more alien to hers than that of her husband. holcroft listened to her correct pronunciation and sweet, natural tones with a sort of pleased wonder. at last he said, "you must stop now." "are you tired?" she asked. "no, but you are, or ought to be. why, alida, i didn't know you were so well educated. i'm quite a barbarous old fellow compared with you." "i hadn't thought of that before," she said with a laugh. "what a fool i was, then, to put it into your head!" "you must be more careful. i'd never have such thoughts if you didn't suggest them." "how did you come to get such a good education?" "i wish i had a better one. well, i did have good advantages up to the time i was seventeen. after i was old enough i went to school quite steadily, but it seems to me that i learned a little of everything and not much of anything. when father died and we lost our property, we had to take to our needles. i suppose i might have obtained work in a store, or some such place, but i couldn't bear to leave mother alone and i disliked being in public. i certainly didn't know enough to teach, and besides, i was afraid to try." "well, well! you've stumbled into a quiet enough place at last." "that's what i like most about it, but i don't think i stumbled into it. i think i've been led and helped. that's what i meant when i said you didn't understand me," she added hesitatingly. "it doesn't take courage for me to go to god. i get courage by believing that he cares for me like a father, as the bible says. how could i ever have found so kind a friend and good a home myself?" "i've been half inclined to believe there's a providence in it myself--more and more so as i get acquainted with you. your troubles have made you better, alida; mine made me worse. i used to be a christian; i aint any more." she looked at him smilingly as she asked, "how do you know?" "oh! i know well enough," he replied gloomily. "don't let's talk about it any more," and then he led her on to speak simply and naturally about her childhood home and her father and mother. "well," he said heartily, "i wish your mother was living for nothing would please me better than to have such a good old lady in the house." she averted her face as she said huskily, "i think it was better she died before--" but she did not finish the sentence. by the time dinner was over the sun was shining brightly, and he asked her if she would not like to go up the lane to his woodland to see the view. her pleased look was sufficient answer. "but are you sure you are strong enough?" he persisted. "yes, it will do me good to go out, and i may find some wild flowers." "i guess you can, a million or two." by the time he was through at the barn she was ready and they started up the lane, now green with late april grass and enlivened with dandelions in which bumblebees were wallowing. the sun had dried the moisture sufficiently for them to pass on dry-shod, but everything had the fresh, vernal aspect that follows a warm rain. spring had advanced with a great bound since the day before. the glazed and glutinous cherry buds had expanded with aromatic odors and the white of the blossoms was beginning to show. "by tomorrow," said holcroft, "the trees will look as if covered with snow. let me help you," and he put his hand under her arm, supporting and aiding her steps up the steep places. her lips were parted, the pleased look was in her eyes as they rested on trees and shrubs which lined the half ruinous stone walls on either side. "everything seems so alive and glad this afternoon," she remarked. "yes," replied the matter-of-fact farmer. "a rain such as we had this morning is like turning the water on a big mill-wheel. it starts all the machinery right up. now the sun's out, and that's the greatest motor power of all. sun and moisture make the farm go." "mustn't the ground be enriched, too?" "yes, yes indeed; i suppose that's where we all fail. but it's no easy matter to keep a farm in good heart. that's another reason why i'm so glad i won't have to sell my stock. a farm run without stock is sure to grow poor, and if the farm grows poor, the owner does as a matter of course. but what put enriching the ground into your head? do you know anything about farming?" "no, but i want to learn. when i was a girl, father had a garden. he used to take papers about it, and i often read them aloud to him evenings. now i remember there used to be much in them about enriching the ground. do you take any such paper?" "no, i haven't much faith in book-farming." "i don't know," she ventured. "seems to me you might get some good ideas out of papers, and your experience would teach you whether they were useful ideas or not. if you'll take one, i'll read it to you." "i will, then, for the pleasure of hearing you read, if nothing else. that's something i hadn't bargained for," he added, laughing. she answered in the same spirit by saying, "i'll throw that in and not call it square yet." "i think i've got the best of you," he chuckled; "and you know nothing makes a yankee farmer happier than to get the best of a bargain." "i hope you'll continue to think so. can i sit down a few moments?" "why, certainly! how forgetful i am! your talk is too interesting for me to think of anything else," and he placed her on a flat rock by the side of the lane while he leaned against the wall. bees and other insects were humming around them; a butterfly fluttered over the fence and alighted on a dandelion almost at her feet; meadow larks were whistling their limpid notes in the adjoining fields, while from the trees about the house beneath them came the songs of many birds, blending with the babble of the brook which ran not far away. "oh, how beautiful, how strangely beautiful it all is!" "yes, when you come to think of it, it is real pretty," he replied. "it's a pity we get so used to such things that we don't notice 'em much. i should feel miserable enough, though, if i couldn't live in just such a place. i shouldn't wonder if i was a good deal like that robin yonder. i like to be free and enjoy the spring weather, but i suppose neither he nor i think or know how fine it all is." "well, both you and the robin seem a part of it," she said, laughing. "oh, no, no!" he replied with a guffaw which sent the robin off in alarm. "i aint beautiful and never was." she joined his laugh, but said with a positive little nod, "i'm right, though. the robin isn't a pretty bird, yet everybody likes him." "except in cherry time. then he has an appetite equal to mine. but everybody don't like me. in fact, i think i'm generally disliked in this town." "if you went among them more they wouldn't dislike you." "i don't want to go among them." "they know it, and that's the reason they dislike you." "would you like to go out to tea-drinkings, and all that?" "no, indeed; and i don't suppose i'd be received," she added sadly. "so much the worse for them, then, blast 'em!" said holcroft wrathfully. "oh no! i don't feel that way and you shouldn't. when they can, people ought to be sociable and kind." "of course i'd do any of my neighbors, except lemuel weeks, a good turn if it came in my way, but the less i have to do with them the better i'm satisfied." "i'm rested enough to go on now," said alida quietly. they were not long in reaching the edge of the woodland, from which there was an extended prospect. for some little time they looked at the wide landscape in silence. alida gave to it only partial attention for her mind was very busy with thoughts suggested by her husband's alienation from his neighbors. it would make it easier for her, but the troubled query would arise, "is it right or best for him? his marrying me will separate him still more." holcroft's face grew sad rather than troubled as he looked at the old meeting house and not at the landscape. he was sitting near the spot where he spent that long forenoon a few sundays before, and the train of thought came back again. in his deep abstraction, he almost forgot the woman near him in memories of the past. his old love and lost faith were inseparable from that little white spire in the distance. alida stole a glance at him and thought, "he's thinking of her," and she quietly strolled away to look for wild flowers. "yes," muttered holcroft, at last. "i hope bessie knows. she'd be the first one to say it was right and best for me, and she'd be glad to know that in securing my own home and comfort i had given a home to the homeless and sorrowful--a quiet, good woman, who worships god as she did." he rose and joined his wife, who held toward him a handful of trailing arbutus, rue anemones, bloodroot, and dicentras. "i didn't know they were so pretty before," he said with a smile. his smile reassured her for it seemed kinder than any she had yet received, and his tone was very gentle. "his dead wife will never be my enemy," she murmured. "he has made it right with her in his own thoughts." chapter xxiv. given her own way on monday the absorbing work of the farm was renewed, and every day brought to holcroft long and exhausting hours of labor. while he was often taciturn, he evidently progressed in cheerfulness and hope. alida confirmed his good impressions. his meals were prompt and inviting; the house was taking on an aspect of neatness and order long absent, and his wardrobe was put in as good condition as its rather meager character permitted. he had positively refused to permit his wife to do any washing and ironing. "we will see about it next fall," he said. "if then you are perfectly well and strong, perhaps, but not in the warm weather now coming on." then he added, with a little nod, "i'm finding out how valuable you are, and i'd rather save you than the small sum i have to pay old mrs. johnson." in this and in other ways he showed kindly consideration, but his mind continually reverted to his work and outdoor plans with the preoccupation of one who finds that he can again give his thoughts to something from which they had been most reluctantly withdrawn. thus alida was left alone most of the time. when the dusk of evening came he was too tired to say much, and he retired early that he might be fresh for work again when the sun appeared. she had no regrets, for although she kept busy she was resting and her wounds were healing through the long, quiet days. it was the essential calm after the storm. caring for the dairy and working the butter into firm, sweet, tempting yellow rolls were the only tasks that troubled her a little, but holcroft assured her that she was learning these important duties faster than he had expected her to. she had several hours a day in which to ply her needle, and thus was soon enabled to replenish her scanty wardrobe. one morning at breakfast she appeared in another gown, and although its material was calico, she had the appearance to holcroft of being unusually well dressed. he looked pleased, but made no comment. when the cherry blossoms were fully out, an old cracked flower vase--the only one in the house--was filled with them, and they were placed in the center of the dinner table. he looked at them and her, then smilingly remarked, "i shouldn't wonder if you enjoyed those cherry blows more than anything else we have for dinner." "i want something else, though. my appetite almost frightens me." "that's famous! i needn't be ashamed of mine, then." one evening, before the week was over, he saw her busy with a rake about the door. last year's leaves were still scattered about, with twigs and even small boughs wrested by the winds from the trees. he was provoked with himself that he had neglected the usual spring clearing away of litter, and a little irritated that she should have tried to do the work herself. he left the horses at the barn and came forward directly. "alida," he said gravely, "there's no need of your doing such work; i don't like to see you do it." "why," she replied, "i've heard that women in the country often milk and take care of the chickens." "yes, but that's very different from this work. i wouldn't like people to think i expected such things of you." "it's very easy work," she said smilingly, "easier than sweeping a room, though something like it. i used to do it at home when i was a girl. i think it does me good to do something in the open air." she was persisting, but not in a way that chafed him. indeed, as he looked into her appealing eyes and face flushed with exercise, he felt that it would be churlish to say another word. "well," he said, laughing, "it makes you look so young and rosy i guess it does you good. i suppose you'll have to have your own way." "you know i wouldn't do this or anything else if you really didn't want me to." "you are keen," he replied, with his good nature entirely restored. "you can see that you get me right under your thumb when you talk that way. but we must both be on our guard against your fault, you know, or pretty soon you'll be taking the whole work of the farm off my hands." "to be serious," she resumed, accompanying him to the barn for the first time, "i think you are working too hard. i'm not. our meals are so simple that it doesn't take me long to get them. i'm through with the hurry in my sewing, the old dog does the churning, and you give me so much help in the dairy that i shall soon have time on my hands. now it seems to me that i might soon learn to take entire care of the chickens, big and little, and that would be so much less for you to look after. i'm sure i would enjoy it very much, especially the looking after the little chickens." "so you really think you'd like to do that?" he asked, as he turned to her from unharnessing the horses. "yes, indeed, if you think i'm competent." "you are more so than i am. somehow, little chickens don't thrive under a busy man's care. the mother hens mean well, but they are so confoundedly silly. i declare to you that last year i lost half the little chicks that were hatched out." "well, then," she replied, laughing, "i won't be afraid to try, for i think i can beat you in raising chickens. now, show me how much you feed them at night and how much i'm to give them in the morning, and let me take the whole care of them for a month, get the eggs, and all. if they don't do so well, then i'll resign. i can't break you in a month." "it looks more as if you'd make me. you have a good big bump of order, and i haven't any at all in little things. tom watterly was right. if i had tried to live here alone, things would have got into an awful mess. i feel ashamed of myself that i didn't clear up the yard before, but my whole mind's been on the main crops." "as it should be. don't you worry about the little things. they belong to me. now show me about the chickens, or they'll go to roost while we're talking." "but i, as well as the chickens, shall want some supper." "i won't let either of you starve. you'll see." "well, you see this little measure? you fill it from this bin with this mixture of corn and wheat screenings. that's the allowance, morning and evening. then you go out to the barnyard there, and call 'kip, kip, kip.' that's the way my wife used--" he stopped in a little embarrassment. "i'd be glad if i could do everything as she did," said alida gently. "it has grown clearer every day how hard her loss was to you. if you'll tell me what she did and how she did things--" and she hesitated. "that's good of you, alida," he replied gratefully. then, with his directness of speech, he added, "i believe some women are inclined to be jealous even of the dead." "you need never fear to speak of your wife to me. i respect and honor your feelings--the way you remember her. there's no reason why it should be otherwise. i did not agree to one thing and expect another," and she looked him straight in the eyes. he dropped them, as he stood leaning against the bin in the shadowy old barn, and said, "i didn't think you or anyone would be so sensible. of course, one can't forget quickly--" "you oughtn't to forget," was the firm reply. "why should you? i should be sorry to think you could forget." "i fear i'm not like to make you sorry," he replied, sighing. "to tell you the truth--" he added, looking at her almost commiseratingly, and then he hesitated. "well, the truth is usually best," she said quietly. "well, i'll tell you my thought. we married in haste, we were almost strangers, and your mind was so distracted at the time that i couldn't blame you if you forgot what--what i said. i feared--well, you are carrying out our agreement so sensibly that i want to thank you. it's a relief to find that you're not opposed, even in your heart, that i should remember one that i knew as a little child and married when i was young." "i remember all you said and what i said," she replied, with the same direct, honest gaze. "don't let such thoughts trouble you any more. you've been kinder and more considerate than i ever expected. you have only to tell me how she did--" "no, alida," he said quietly, obeying a subtle impulse. "i'd rather you would do everything your own way--as it's natural for you. there, we've talked so long that it's too late to feed the chickens tonight. you can begin in the morning." "oh!" she cried, "and you have all your other work to do. i've hindered rather than helped you by coming out." "no," he replied decidedly, "you've helped me. i'll be in before very long." she returned to the house and busied herself in preparations for supper. she was very thoughtful, and at last concluded: "yes, he is right. i understand. although i may do what his wife did, he don't wish me to do it as she did. there could only be a partial and painful resemblance to his eyes. both he and i would suffer in comparisons, and he be continually reminded of his loss. she was his wife in reality, and all relating to her is something sacred and past to him. the less i am like her, the better. he married me for the sake of his farm, and i can best satisfy him by carrying out his purpose in my own way. he's through with sentiment and has taken the kindest way he could to tell me that i've nothing to do with his past. he feared, yes, he feared, i should forget our businesslike agreement! i didn't know i had given him cause to fear; i certainly won't hereafter!" and the wife felt, with a trace of bitterness and shame, that she had been put on her guard; that her husband had wished to remind her that she must not forget his motive in marrying her, or expect anything not in consonance with that motive. perhaps she had been too wifelike in her manner, and therefore he had feared. she was as sensitive to such a reproach as she would have been in her girlhood. for once her intuition was at fault, and she misjudged holcroft in some respects. he did think he was through with sentiment; he could not have talked deliberately to alida or to any other about his old life and love, and he truly felt that she had no part in that life. it had become a sad and sacred memory, yet he wished to feel that he had the right to dwell upon it as he chose. in his downright sincerity he wished her to know that he could not help dwelling on it; that for him some things were over, and that he was not to blame. he was profoundly grateful to her that she had so clearly accepted the facts of his past, and of their own present relations. he had feared, it is true, but she had not realized his fears, and he felt that it was her due that he should acknowledge her straightforward carrying out of the compact made under circumstances which might well excuse her from realizing everything fully. moreover, direct and matter of fact as he was, he had felt vaguely the inevitable difficulties of their relationship. the very word "wife" might suggest to her mind an affection which he believed it was not in his power to bestow. they had agreed to give an arbitrary and unusual meaning to their marriage, and, while thinking it could have no other meaning for him, his mind was haunted, and he feared that hers might be, by the natural significance of the rite. so far from meaning to hint that she had been too wifelike, he had meant to acknowledge her simple and natural fulfillment of his wishes in a position far more difficult to fill than even he imagined. that she succeeded so well was due to the fact that she entertained for him all the kind feelings possible except the one supreme regard which, under ordinary circumstances, would have accounted for the marriage. the reason that all promised to go so well in their relationship of mere mutual help was the truth that this basis of union had satisfied their mutual need. as the farmer had hoped, they had become excellent friends, supplementing each other's work in a way that promised prosperity. without the least intention on the part of either, chance words had been spoken which would not be without effect. he had told her to do everything in her own way because the moment he thought of it he knew he liked her ways. they possessed a novelty and natural grace which interested him. there are both a natural and a conventional grace, and the true lady learns to blend the one with the other so as to make a charming manner essentially her own--a manner which makes a woman a lady the world over. alida had little more than natural grace and refinement, unmodified by society. this the plain farmer could understand, and he was already awakening to an appreciation of it. it impressed him agreeably that alida should be trim and neat while about her work, and that all her actions were entirely free from the coarse, slovenly manner, the limp carriage, and slatternly aspect of the whole tribe which had come and gone during the past year. they had all been so much alike in possessing disagreeable traits that he felt that alida was the only peculiar one among them. he never thought of instituting comparisons between her and his former wife, yet he did so unconsciously. mrs. holcroft had been too much like himself, matter of fact, materialistic, kind, and good. devoid of imagination, uneducated in mind, her thoughts had not ranged far from what she touched and saw. she touched them with something of their own heaviness, she saw them as objects--just what they were--and was incapable of obtaining from them much suggestion or enjoyment. she knew when the cherry and plum trees were in blossom just as she knew it was april. the beautiful sounds and changes in nature reminded her that it was time to do certain kinds of work, and with her, work was alpha and omega. as her mother had before her, she was inclined to be a house drudge rather than a housewife. thrift, neatness, order, marked the limits of her endeavor, and she accomplished her tasks with the awkward, brisk directness learned in her mother's kitchen. only mind, imagination, and refinement can embroider the homely details of life. alida would learn to do all that she had done, but the woman with a finer nature would do it in a different way. holcroft already knew he liked this way although he could not define it to himself. tired as he was when he came home in the evening, his eyes would often kindle with pleasure at some action or remark that interested him from its novelty. in spite of his weariness and preoccupation, in spite of a still greater obstacle--the inertia of a mind dulled by material life--he had begun to consider alida's personality for its own sake. he liked to watch her, not to see what she did to his advantage, but how she did it. she was awakening an agreeable expectancy, and he sometimes smilingly said to himself, "what's next?" "oh, no!" he thought as he was milking the last cow, "i'd much rather she'd take her own natural way in doing things. it would be easier for her and it's her right and--and somehow i like her way just as i used to like bessie's ways. she isn't bessie and never can be, and for some reason i'd like her to be as different as possible." unconsciously and unintentionally, however, he had given alida's sensitive nature a slight wound. she felt that she had been told in effect, "you can help me all you please, and i would rather you would do this in a way that will not awaken associations, but you must not think of me or expect me to think of you in any light that was not agreed upon." that he had feared the possibility of this, that he might have fancied he saw indications of this, hurt her pride--that pride and delicacy of feeling which most women shield so instinctively. she was now consciously on her guard, and so was not so secure against the thoughts she deprecated as before. in spite of herself, a restraint would tinge her manner which he would eventually feel in a vague, uncomfortable way. but he came in at last, very tired and thoroughly good-natured. "i'm going to town tomorrow," he said, "and i thought of taking a very early start so as to save time. would you like to go?" "there's no need of my going." "i thought perhaps you'd enjoy the drive." "i would have to meet strangers and i'm so entirely content in being alone--i won't go this time unless you wish it." "well, if you don't care about it, i'll carry out my first plan and take a very early start. i want to sell the butter and eggs on hand, repay tom watterly, and get some seeds. we need some things from the store, too, i suppose?" "yes, you are such a coffee drinker--" she began, smiling. "oh, i know!" he interrupted. "make out your list. you shall say what we want. isn't there something you want for yourself?" "no, not for myself, but i do want something that perhaps you would enjoy, too. you may think it a waste of money, though." "well, you've a right to waste some in your way as well as i have over my pipe." "that's good. i hadn't thought of that. you are the one that puts notions into my head. i would like three or four geraniums and a few flower seeds." he looked as if he was thinking deeply and she felt a little hurt that he should not comply at once with her request, knowing that the outlay suggested was very slight. at last he looked up, smiling as he said, "so i put notions into your head, do i?" "oh, well," she replied, flushing in the consciousness of her thoughts, "if you think it's foolish to spend money for such things--" "tush, tush, alida! of course i'll get what you wish. but i really am going to put a notion into your head, and it's stupid and scarcely fair in me that i hadn't thought of some such plan before. you want to take care of the chickens. well, i put them wholly in your care and you shall have all you can make off them--eggs, young chickens, and everything." "that is a new notion," she replied, laughing. "i hadn't thought of such a thing and it's more than fair. what would i do with so much money?" "what you please. buy yourself silk dresses if you want to." "but i couldn't use a quarter of the money." "no matter, use what you like and i'll put the rest in the bank for you and in your name. i was a nice kind of a business partner, wasn't i? expecting you to do nearly half the work and then have you say, 'will you please get me a few plants and seeds?' and then, 'oh! if you think it's foolish to spend money for such things.' why, you have as good a right to spend some of the money you help earn as i have. you've shown you'll be sensible in spending it. i don't believe you'll use enough of it. anyway, it will be yours, as it ought to be." "very well," she replied, nodding at him with piquant significance, "i'll always have some to lend you." "yes, shouldn't wonder if you were the richest some day. everything you touch seems to turn out well. i shall be wholly dependent on you hereafter for eggs and an occasional fricassee." "you shall have your share. yes, i like this notion. it grows on me. i'd like to earn some money to do what i please with. you'll be surprised to see what strange and extravagant tastes i'll develop!" "i expect to be perfectly dumfoundered, as mrs. mumpson used to say. since you are so willing to lend, i'll lend you enough to get all you want tomorrow. make out your list. you can get a good start tomorrow for i was too tired and it was too late for me to gather the eggs tonight. i know, too, that a good many of the hens have stolen their nests of late, and i've been too busy to look for 'em. you may find perfect mines of eggs, but, for mercy's sake! don't climb around in dangerous places. i had such bad luck with chicks last year that i've only set a few hens. you can set few or many now, just as you please." even as he talked and leisurely finished his supper, his eyes grew heavy with sleep. "what time will you start tomorrow?" she asked. "oh, no matter; long before you are up or ought to be. i'll get myself a cup of coffee. i expect to do my morning work and be back by nine or ten o'clock for i wish to get in some potatoes and other vegetables before sunday." "very well, i'll make out my list and lay it on the table here. now, why don't you go and sleep at once? you ought, with such an early start in prospect." "ought i? well, i never felt more inclined to do my duty. you must own up i have put one good notion into your head?" "i have said nothing against any of them. come, you ought to go at once." "can't i smoke my pipe first please?" "you'll find it quieter in the parlor." "but it's pleasanter here where i can watch you." "do you think i need watching?" "yes, a little, since you don't look after your own interests very sharply." "it isn't my way to look after anything very sharply." "no, alida, thank the lord! there's nothing sharp about you, not even your tongue. you won't mind being left alone a few hours tomorrow?" "no, indeed, i like to be alone." "i thought i did. most everyone has seemed a crowd to me. i'm glad you've never given me that feeling. well, goodbye till you see me driving up with the geraniums." chapter xxv. a charivari the eastern horizon was aglow with rosy tints the following morning when holcroft awoke; the stars were but just fading from the sky and the birds were still silent. he knew by these signs that it was very early and that he could carry out his plan of a timely start to town. dressing very quietly, he stole downstairs, shoes in hand, lest his tread should awaken alida. the kitchen door leading into the hall was closed. lifting the latch carefully, he found the lamp burning, the breakfast table set, and the kettle humming over a good fire. "this is her work, but where is she?" he queried in much surprise. the outer door was ajar; he noiselessly crossed the room, and looking out, he saw her. she had been to the well for a pail of water, but had set it down and was watching the swiftly brightening east. she was so still and her face so white in the faint radiance that he had an odd, uncanny impression. no woman that he had ever known would stop that way to look at the dawn. he could see nothing so peculiar in it as to attract such fixed attention. "alida," he asked, "what do you see?" she started slightly and turned to take up the pail; but he had already sprung down the steps and relieved her of the burden. "could anything be more lovely than those changing tints? it seems to me i could have stood there an hour," she said quietly. "you are not walking or doing all this in your sleep, are you?" he asked, laughing, yet regarding her curiously. "you looked as you stood there like what people call a--what's that big word?" "i'm not a somnambulist and never was, to my knowledge. you'll find i'm wide enough awake to have a good breakfast soon." "but i didn't expect you to get up so early. i didn't wish it." "it's too late now," she said pleasantly, "so i hope you won't find fault with me for doing what i wanted to do." "did you mean to be up and have breakfast when i told you last night?" "yes. of course i didn't let you know for you would have said i mustn't, and then i couldn't. it isn't good for people to get up so early and do as much as you had on your mind without eating. now you won't be any the worse for it." "i certainly ought to be the better for so much kindly consideration; but it will cure me of such unearthly hours if you feel that you must conform to them. you look pale this morning, alida; you're not strong enough to do such things, and there's no need of it when i'm so used to waiting on myself." "i shall have to remind you," she replied with a bright look at him over her shoulder, "that you said i could do things my own way." "well, it seems odd after a year when everyone who came here appeared to grudge doing a thing for a man's comfort." "i should hope i was different from them." "well, you are. i thought you were different from anyone i ever knew as i saw you there looking at the east. you seem wonderfully fond of pretty things." "i'll own to that. but if you don't hurry you won't do as much as you hoped by getting up early." the morning was very mild, and she left the outer door open as she went quickly to and fro with elasticity of spirit as well as step. it was pleasant to have her efforts appreciated and almost as grateful to hear the swelling harmony of song from the awakening birds. the slight cloud that had fallen on her thoughts the evening before had lifted. she felt that she understood holcroft better, and saw that his feeling was only that of honest friendliness and satisfaction. she had merely to recognize and respond to so much only and all would be well. meantime, she desired nothing more, and he should be thoroughly convinced of this fact. she grew positively light-hearted over the fuller assurance of the truth that although a wife, she was not expected to love--only to be faithful to all his interests. this, and this only, she believed to be within her power. holcroft departed in the serenity characteristic of one's mood when the present is so agreeable that neither memories of the past nor misgivings as to the future are obtrusive. he met watterly in town, and remarked, "this is another piece of good luck. i hadn't time to go out to your place, although i meant to take time." "a piece of good luck indeed!" tom mentally echoed, for he would have been greatly embarrassed if holcroft had called. mrs. watterly felt that she had been scandalized by the marriage which had taken place in her absence, and was all the more resentful for the reason that she had spoken to a cousin of uncertain age and still more uncertain temper in behalf of the farmer. in mrs. watterly's estimate of action, it was either right, that is, in accordance with her views, or else it was intolerably wrong and without excuse. poor tom had been made to feel that he had not only committed an almost unpardonable sin against his wife and her cousin, but also against all the proprieties of life. "the idea of such a wedding taking place in my rooms and with my husband's sanction!" she had said with concentrated bitterness. then had followed what he was accustomed to characterize as a spell of "zero weather." he discreetly said nothing. "it didn't seem such a bad idea to me," he thought, "but then i suppose women folks know best about such things." he was too frank in his nature to conceal from holcroft his misgivings or his wife's scornful and indignant disapproval. "sorry angy feels so bad about it, jim," he said ruefully, "but she says i mustn't buy anything more of you." "or have anything more to do with me, i suppose?" "oh, come now! you know a man's got to let his women-folks have their say about household matters, but that don't make any difference in my feelings toward you." "well, well, tom! if it did, i should be slow to quarrel with a man who had done me as good a turn as you have. thank the lord! i've got a wife that'll let me have some say about household and all other matters. you, too, are inclined to think that i'm in an awful scrape. i feel less like getting out of it every day. my wife is as respectable as i am and a good sight better than i am. if i'm no longer respectable for having married her, i certainly am better contented than i ever expected to be again. i want it understood, though, that the man who says anything against my wife may have to get me arrested for assault and battery." "when it comes to that, jim," replied watterly, who was meek only in the presence of his wife, "i'd just as lief speak against her as wink if there was anything to say. but i say now, as i said to you at first, she aint one of the common sort. i thought well of her at first, and i think better of her now since she's doing so well by you. but i suppose marrying a woman situated as she was isn't according to regulation. we men are apt to act like the boys we used to be and go for what we want without thinking of the consequences." "it's the consequences that please me most. if you had been dependent on mumpson, malonys, and wigginses for your home comfort you wouldn't worry about the talk of people who'd never raise a finger for you. well, goodbye, i'm in a hurry. your heart's in the right place, tom, and some day you'll come out and take dinner with me. one dinner, such as she'll give you, will bring you round. one of our steady dishes is a bunch of flowers and i enjoy 'em, too. what do you think of that for a hard-headed old fellow like me?" some men are chilled by public disapproval and waver under it, but holcroft was thereby only the more strongly confirmed in his course. alida had won his esteem as well as his good will, and it was the instinct of his manhood to protect and champion her. he bought twice as many flowers and seeds as she had asked for, and also selected two simple flower vases; then started on his return with the feeling that he had a home. alida entered upon her duties to the poultry with almost the pleasure of a child. she first fed them, then explored every accessible nook and hiding place in the barn and outbuildings. it was evident that many of the biddies had stolen their nests, and some were brooding upon them with no disposition to be disturbed. out of the hundred or more fowls on the place, a good many were clucking their maternal instincts, and their new keeper resolved to put eggs under all except the flighty ones that left their nests within two or three days' trial. as the result of her search, the empty egg basket was in a fair way to be full again very soon. she gloated over her spoils as she smilingly assured herself, "i shall take him at his word. i shall spend nearly all i make this year in fixing up the old house within and without, so he'll scarcely know it." it was eleven o'clock before holcroft drove to the door with the flowers, and he was amply repaid by her pleasure in receiving them. "why, i only expected geraniums," she said, "and you've bought half a dozen other kinds." "and i expected to get my own coffee this morning and a good breakfast was given me instead, so we are quits." "you're probably ready for your dinner now, if it is an hour earlier than usual. it will be ready in ten minutes." "famous! that will give me a good long afternoon. i say, alida, when do you want the flower beds made?" "no hurry about them. i shall keep the plants in the window for a week or two. it isn't safe to put them outdoors before the last of may. i'll have some slips ready by that time." "yes, i know. you'll soon have enough to set out an acre." the days of another week passed quietly and rapidly away, alida becoming almost as much absorbed in her interests as he in his. every hour added to the beauty of the season without. the unplowed fields were taking on a vivid green, and holcroft said that on the following monday the cows should go out to pasture. wholesome, agreeable occupation enabled alida to put away sad thoughts and memories. nature and pleasant work are two potent healers, and she was rallying fast under their ministry. holcroft would have been blind indeed had he not observed changes for the better. her thin cheeks were becoming fuller, and her exertions, with the increasing warmth of the season, often flushed her face with a charming color. the old sad and troubled expression was passing away from her blue eyes. every day it seemed easier for her to laugh, and her step grew more elastic. it was all so gradual that he never questioned it, but his eyes followed her with increasing pleasure and he listened, when she spoke, with deepening interest. sundays had been long and rather dreary days, but now he positively welcomed their coming and looked forward to the hours when, instead of brooding over the past, he should listen to her pleasant voice reading his few and neglected books. there was a new atmosphere in his home--a new influence, under which his mind was awakening in spite of his weariness and absorption in the interests of the farm. alida was always ready to talk about these, and her questions would soon enable her to talk understandingly. she displayed ignorance enough, and this amused him, but her queries evinced no stupidity. in reading to her father and in the cultivation of flowers, she had obtained hints of vital horticultural principles, and holcroft said to her laughingly one evening at supper, "you'll soon learn all i know and begin to teach me." her manner of deprecating such remarks was to exaggerate them and she replied, "yes, next week you will sell my eggs and i shall subscribe for the agricultural paper my father used to take. then will begin all the improvements of book-farming. i shall advise you to sow oats in june, plant corn in march, and show you generally that all your experience counts for nothing." this kind of badinage was new to the farmer, and it amused him immensely. he did not grow sleepy so early in the evening, and as he was driving his work prosperously he shortened his hours of labor slightly. she also found time to read the county paper and gossip a little about the news, thus making a beginning in putting him and herself en rapport with other interests than those which centered in the farm. in brief, she had an active, intelligent mind and a companionable nature. her boundless gratitude for her home, which daily grew more homelike, led her to employ all her tact in adding to his enjoyment. yet so fine was her tact that her manner was a simple embodiment of good will, and he was made to feel that it was nothing more. while all was passing so genially and satisfactorily to holcroft, it may well be supposed that his conduct was not at all to the mind of his neighbors. news, especially during the busy spring season, permeates a country neighborhood slowly. the fact of his marriage had soon become known, and eventually, through justice harkins, the circumstances relating to it and something of alida's previous history, in a garbled form, came to be discussed at rural firesides. the majority of the men laughed and shrugged their shoulders, implying it was none of their business, but not a few, among whom was lemuel weeks, held up their hands and spoke of the event in terms of the severest reprehension. many of the farmers' wives and their maiden sisters were quite as much scandalized as mrs. watterly had been that an unknown woman, of whom strange stories were told, should have been brought into the community from the poorhouse, "and after such a heathenish marriage, too," they said. it was irregular, unprecedented, and therefore utterly wrong and subversive of the morals of the town. they longed to ostracize poor alida, yet saw no chance of doing so. they could only talk, and talk they did, in a way that would have made her ears tingle had she heard. the young men and older boys, however, believed that they could do more than talk. timothy weeks had said to a group of his familiars, "let's give old holcroft and his poorhouse bride a skimelton that will let 'em know what folks think of 'em." the scheme found favor at once, and tim weeks was soon recognized as organizer and leader of the peculiar style of serenade contemplated. after his day's work was over, he rode here and there summoning congenial spirits. the project soon became pretty well known in several families, but the elder members remained discreetly blind and deaf, proposing to wink at what was going on, yet take no compromising part themselves. lemuel weeks winked very knowingly and suggestively. he kept within such bounds, however, as would enable him to swear that he knew nothing and had said nothing, but his son had never felt more assured of his father's sympathy. when at last the motley gathering rendezvoused at tim's house, weeks, senior, was conveniently making a call on a near neighbor. it was saturday evening, and the young may moon would furnish sufficient light without revealing identity too clearly. about a score of young fellows and hired farm-hands of the ruder sort came riding and trudging to weeks' barn, where there was a barrel of cider on tap. here they blackened their faces with charcoal and stimulated their courage, for it was well known that holcroft was anything but lamblike when angered. "he'll be like a bull in a china shop," remarked tim, "but then there's enough of us to handle him if he gets too obstrep'rous." armed with tin pans and horns which were to furnish the accompaniment to their discordant voices, they started about eight in the evening. as they moved up the road there was a good deal of coarse jesting and bravado, but when they approached the farmhouse silence was enjoined. after passing up the lane they looked rather nervously at the quiet dwelling softly outlined in the moonlight. a lamp illumined the kitchen window, and tim weeks whispered excitedly, "he's there. let's first peek in the window and then give 'em a scorcher." knowing that they should have the coming day in which to rest, holcroft and alida had busied themselves with outdoor matters until late. she had been planning her flower beds, cutting out the dead wood from some neglected rosebushes and shrubbery, and had also helped her husband by sowing seed in the kitchen garden back of the house. then, weary, yet pleased with the labor accomplished, they made a very leisurely supper, talking over garden matters and farm prospects in general. alida had all her flower seeds on the table beside her, and she gloated over them and expatiated on the kind of blossoms they would produce with so much zest that holcroft laughingly remarked, "i never thought that flowers would be one of the most important crops on the place." "you will think so some day. i can see, from the expression of your eyes, that the cherry blossoms and now the apple blows which i put on the table please you almost as much as the fruit would." "well, it's because i notice 'em. i never seemed to notice 'em much before." "oh, no! it's more than that," she replied, shaking her head. "some people would notice them, yet never see how pretty they were." "then they'd be blind as moles." "the worst kind of blindness is that of the mind." "well, i think many country people are as stupid and blind as oxen, and i was one of 'em. i've seen more cherry and apple blossoms this year than in all my life before, and i haven't thought only of cherries and apples either." "the habit of seeing what is pretty grows on one," she resumed. "it seems to me that flowers and such things feed mind and heart. so if one has mind and heart, flowers become one of the most useful crops. isn't that practical common sense?" "not very common in oakville. i'm glad you think i'm in a hopeful frame of mind, as they used to say down at the meeting house. anyhow, since you wish it, we will have a flower crop as well as a potato crop." thus they continued chatting while alida cleared up the table, and holcroft, having lighted his pipe, busied himself with peeling a long, slim hickory sapling intended for a whipstock. having finished her tasks, alida was finally drying her hands on a towel that hung near a window. suddenly, she caught sight of a dark face peering in. her startled cry brought holcroft hastily to his feet. "what's the matter?" he asked. "i saw--" then she hesitated from a fear that he would rush into some unknown danger. the rough crew without perceived that their presence was known, and tim weeks cried, "now, all together!" a frightful overture began at once, the hooting and yelling almost drowning the instrumental part and sending to alida's heart that awful chill of fear produced by human voices in any mob-like assemblage. holcroft understood the affair at once, for he was familiar with the custom, but she did not. he threw open the door with the purpose of sternly expostulating with the disturbers of the peace and of threatening them with the law unless they retired. with an instinct to share his danger she stepped to his side, and this brought a yell of derision. lurid thoughts swept through her mind. she had brought this danger. her story had become known. what might they not do to holcroft? under the impulse of vague terror and complete self-sacrifice, she stepped forward and cried, "i only am to blame. i will go away forever if you will spare--" but again the scornful clamor rose and drowned her voice. her action and words had been so swift that holcroft could not interfere, but in an instant he was at her side, his arm around her, his square jaw set, and his eyes blazing with his kindling anger. he was not one of those men who fume early under provocation and in words chiefly. his manner and gesture were so impressive that his tormentors paused to listen. "i know," he said quietly, "all about this old, rude custom--that it's often little more than a rough lark. well, now that you've had it, leave at once. i'm in no mood for such attention from my neighbors. this is my wife, and i'll break any man's head who says a word to hurt her feelings--" "oh yes! take care of her feelings, now it's your turn. they must 'a' been hurt before," piped up tim weeks. "good for you, old man, for showin' us your poorhouse bride," said another. "we don't fancy such grass-widders, and much married, half-married women in oakville," yelled a third. "why didn't yer jump over a broomstick for a weddin' ceremony?" someone else bawled. these insults were fired almost in a volley. alida felt holcroft's arm grow rigid for a second. "go in, quick!" he said. then she saw him seize the hickory sapling he had leaned against the house, and burst upon the group like a thunderbolt. cries of pain, yells, and oaths of rage rose above the rain of blows. the older members of the crew sought to close upon him, but he sprung back, and the tough sapling swept about him like a circle of light. it was a terrific weapon in the hands of a strong man, now possessed of almost giant strength in his rage. more than one fellow went down under its stinging cut, and heads and faces were bleeding. the younger portion of the crowd speedily took to their heels, and soon even the most stubborn fled; the farmer vigorously assisting their ignominious retreat with tremendous downward blows on any within reach. tim weeks had managed to keep out of the way till they entered the lane; then, taking a small stone from the fence, he hurled it at their pursuer and attempted to jump over the wall. this was old, and gave way under him in such a way that he fell on the other side. holcroft leaped the fence with a bound, but tim, lying on his back, shrieked and held up his hands, "you won't hit a feller when he's down!" "no," said holcroft, arresting his hickory. "i'll send you to jail, tim weeks. that stone you fired cut my head. was your father in that crowd?" "no-o-o!" blubbered tim. "if he was, i'd follow him home and whip him in his own house. now, clear out, and tell the rest of your rowdy crew that i'll shoot the first one of you that disturbs me again. i'll send the constable for you, and maybe for some of the others." dire was the dismay, and dreadful the groaning in oakville that night. never before had salves and poultices been in such demand. not a few would be disfigured for weeks, and wherever holcroft's blows had fallen welts arose like whipcords. in lemuel weeks' dwelling the consternation reached its climax. tim, bruised from his fall, limped in and told his portentous story. in his spite, he added, "i don't care, i hit him hard. his face was all bloody." "all bloody!" groaned his father. "lord 'a mercy! he can send you to jail, sure enough!" then mrs. weeks sat down and wailed aloud. chapter xxvi. "you don't know." as timothy weeks limped hastily away, holcroft, with a strong revulsion of feeling, thought of alida. he had been able to answer insults in a way eminently satisfactory to himself, and every blow had relieved his electrical condition. but how about the poor woman who had received worse blows than he had inflicted? as he hastened toward the house he recalled a dim impression of seeing her sink down on the doorstep. then he remembered her effort to face the marauders alone. "she said she was to blame, poor child! as if there were any blame at all! she said, 'spare him,' as if i was facing a band of murderers instead of a lot of neighborhood scamps, and that she'd go away. i'd fight all oakville--men, women, and children--before i'd permit that," and he started on a run. he found alida on the step, where she had sunk as if struck down by the rough epithets hurled at her. she was sobbing violently, almost hysterically, and at first could not reply to his soothing words. he lifted her up, and half carried her within to a chair. "oh, oh," she cried, "why did i not realize it more fully before? selfish woman that i was, to marry you and bring on you all this shame and danger. i should have thought of it all, i ought to have died rather than do you such a wrong." "alida, alida," protested holcroft, "if it were all to do over again, i'd be a thousand times more--" "oh, i know, i know! you are brave and generous and honest. i saw that much when you first spoke to me. i yielded to the temptation to secure such a friend. i was too cowardly to face the world alone. and now see what's happened! you're in danger and disgrace on my account. i must go away--i must do what i should have done at first," and with her face buried in her hands she rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by the bitterness and reproach of her thoughts. "alida," he urged, "please be calm and sensible. let me reason with you and tell you the truth. all that's happened is that the oakville cubs have received a well-deserved whipping. when you get calm, i can explain everything so it won't seem half so bad. neither you nor i are in any danger, and, as for your going away, look me in the eyes and listen." his words were almost stern in their earnestness. she raised her streaming eyes to his face, then sprung up, exclaiming, "oh! you're wounded!" "what's that, compared with your talk of going away?" all explanations and reassurances would have been trivial in effect, compared with the truth that he had been hurt in her defense. she dashed her tears right and left, ran for a basin of water, and making him take her chair, began washing away the blood stains. "thunder!" he said, laughing, "how quickly we've changed places!" "oh, oh!" she moaned, "it's a terrible wound; it might have killed you, and they will kill you yet." he took her hands and held them firmly. "alida," he said, gravely yet kindly, "be still and listen to me." for a moment or two longer her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, and then she grew quiet. "don't you know you can't go away?" he asked, still retaining her hands and looking in her face. "i could for your sake," she began. "no, it wouldn't be for my sake. i don't wish you to go, and wouldn't let you. if you should let the oakville rabble drive you away, i would be in danger, and so would others, for i'd be worse on 'em than an earthquake. after the lesson they've had tonight, they'll let us alone, and i'll let them alone. you know i've tried to be honest with you from the first. believe me, then, the trouble's over unless we make more for ourselves. now, promise you'll do as i say and let me manage." "i'll try," she breathed softly. "no, no! that won't do. i'm beginning to find you out. you may get some foolish, self-sacrificing notion in your head that it would be best for me, when it would be my ruination. will you promise?" "yes." "famous! now you can bathe my head all you please for it feels a little queer." "it's an awful wound," she said in tones of the deepest sympathy. "oh, i'm so sorry!" "pshaw! my head is too hard for that little scamp of a weeks to break. his turn'll come next." she cut away the blood-clotted hair and bound up the rather severe scalp wound with a tenderness and sympathy that expressed itself even in her touch. she was too confused and excited to be conscious of herself, but she had received some tremendously strong impressions. chief among them was the truth that nothing which had happened made any difference in him--that he was still the same loyal friend, standing between her and the world she dreaded--yes, between her and her own impulses toward self-sacrifice. sweetest of all was the assurance that he did this for his own sake as well as hers. these facts seemed like a foothold in the mad torrent of feeling and shame which had been sweeping her away. she could think of little more than that she was safe--safe because he was brave and loyal--and yes, safe because he wanted her and would not give her up. the heart of a woman must be callous indeed, and her nature not only trivial but stony if she is not deeply touched under circumstances like these. in spite of his laughing contempt of danger, she trembled as she saw him ready to go out again; she wished to accompany him on his round of observation, but he scouted the idea, although it pleased him. standing in the door, she strained her eyes and listened breathlessly. he soon returned and said, "they've all had enough. we won't be disturbed again." he saw that her nerves needed quieting, and he set about the task with such simple tact as he possessed. his first step was to light his pipe in the most nonchalant manner, and then he burst out laughing. "i'll hang that hickory up. it has done too good service to be put to common use again. probably you never heard of a skimelton, alida. well, they are not so uncommon in this region. i suppose i'll have to own up to taking part in one myself when i was a young chap. they usually are only rough larks and are taken good-naturedly. i'm not on jesting terms with my neighbors, and they had no business to come here, but i wouldn't have made any row if they hadn't insulted you." her head bowed very low as she faltered, "they've heard everything." he came right to her and took her hand. "didn't i hear everything before they did?" "yes." "well, alida, i'm not only satisfied with you, but i'm very grateful to you. why shouldn't i be when you are a good christian woman? i guess i'm the one to be suited, not oakville. i should be as reckless as the devil if you should go away from me. don't i act like a man who's ready to stand up for and protect you?" "yes, too ready. it would kill me if anything happened to you on my account." "well, the worst would happen," he said firmly, "if we don't go right on as we've begun. if we go quietly on about our own affairs, we'll soon be let alone and that's all we ask." "yes, yes indeed! don't worry, james. i'll do as you wish." "famous! you never said 'james' to me before. why haven't you?" "i don't know," she faltered, with a sudden rush of color to her pale face. "well, that's my name," he resumed, laughing. "i guess it's because we are getting better acquainted." she looked up and said impetuously, "you don't know how a woman feels when a man stands up for her as you did tonight." "well, i know how a man feels when there is a woman so well worth standing up for. it was a lucky thing that i had nothing heavier in my hand than that hickory." all the while he was looking at her curiously; then he spoke his thought. "you're a quiet little woman, alida, most times, but you're capable of a thunder gust now and then." "i'll try to be quiet at all times," she replied, with drooping eyes. "oh, i'm not complaining!" he said, laughing. "i like the trait." he took a small pitcher and went to the dairy. returning, he poured out two glasses of milk and said, "here's to your health and happiness, alida; and when i don't stand up for the woman who started out to save me from a mob of murderers, may the next thing i eat or drink choke me. you didn't know they were merely a lot of oakville boys, did you?" "you can't make so light of it," said she. "they tried to close on you, and if that stone had struck you on the temple, it might have killed you. they swore like pirates, and looked like ruffians with their blackened faces. they certainly were not boys in appearance." "i'm afraid i swore too," he said sadly. "you had some excuse, but i'm sorry. they would have hurt you if you hadn't kept them off." "yes, they'd probably have given me a beating. people do things in hot blood they wish they hadn't afterward. i know this oakville rough-scuff. since we've had it out, and they know what to expect, they'll give me a wide berth. now go and sleep. you were never safer in your life." she did not trust herself to reply, but the glance she gave him from her tearful eyes was so eloquent with grateful feeling that he was suddenly conscious of some unwonted sensations. he again patrolled the place and tied the dog near the barn. "it's barely possible that some of these mean cusses might venture to kindle a fire, but a bark from towser will warn 'em off. she is a spirited little woman," he added, with a sharp change in soliloquy. "there's nothing milk-and-water about her. thunder! i felt like kissing her when she looked at me so. i guess that crack on my skull has made me a little light-headed." he lay down in his clothes so that he might rush out in case of any alarm, and he intended to keep awake. then, the first thing he knew, the sun was shining in the windows. it was long before alida slept, and the burden of her thoughts confirmed the words that she had spoken so involuntarily. "you don't know how a woman feels when a man stands up for her as you did." it is the nature of her sex to adore hardy, courageous manhood. beyond all power of expression, alida felt her need of a champion and protector. she was capable of going away for his sake, but she would go in terror and despair. the words that had smitten her confirmed all her old fears of facing the world alone. then came the overpowering thought of his loyalty and kindness, of his utter and almost fierce repugnance to the idea of her leaving him. in contrast with the man who had deceived and wronged her, holcroft's course overwhelmed her very soul with a passion of grateful affection. a new emotion, unlike anything she had ever known, thrilled her heart and covered her face with blushes. "i could die for him!" she murmured. she awoke late in the morning. when at last she entered the kitchen she stopped in deep chagrin, for holcroft had almost completed preparations for breakfast. "ha, ha!" he laughed, "turn about is fair play." "well," she sighed, "there's no use of making excuses now." "there's no occasion for any. did you ever see such a looking case as i am with this bandage around my head?" "does it pain you?" she asked sympathetically. "well, it does. it pains like thunder." "the wound needs dressing again. let me cleanse and bind it up." "yes, after breakfast." "no, indeed; now. i couldn't eat my breakfast while you were suffering so." "i'm more unfeeling then than you are, for i could." she insisted on having her way, and then tore up her handkerchief to supply a soft linen bandage. "you're extravagant, alida," but she only shook her head. "famous! that feels better. what a touch you have! now, if you had a broken head, my fingers would be like a pair of tongs." she only shook her head and smiled. "you're as bad as jane used to be. she never said a word when she could shake or nod her meaning." "i should think you would be glad, after having been half talked to death by her mother." "as i said before, take your own way of doing things. it seems the right way after it is done." a faint color came into her face, and she looked positively happy as she sat down to breakfast. "are you sure your head feels better?" she asked. "yes, and you look a hundred per cent better. well, i am glad you had such a good sleep after all the hubbub." "i didn't sleep till toward morning," she said, with downcast eyes. "pshaw! that's too bad. well, no matter, you look like a different person from what you did when i first saw you. you've been growing younger every day." her face flushed like a girl's under his direct, admiring gaze, making her all the more pretty. she hastened to divert direct attention from herself by asking, "you haven't heard from anyone this morning?" "no, but i guess the doctor has. some of those fellows will have to keep shady for a while." as they were finishing breakfast, holcroft looked out of the open kitchen door and exclaimed, "by thunder! we're going to hear from some of them now. here comes mrs. weeks, the mother of the fellow who hit me." "won't you please receive her in the parlor?" "yes, she won't stay long, you may be sure. i'm going to give that weeks tribe one lesson and pay off the whole score." he merely bowed coldly to mrs. weeks' salutation and offered her a chair. the poor woman took out her handkerchief and began to mop her eyes, but holcroft was steeled against her, not so much on account of the wound inflicted by her son as for the reason that he saw in her an accomplice with her husband in the fraud of mrs. mumpson. "i hope you're not badly hurt," she began. "it might be worse." "oh, mr. holcroft!" she broke out sobbingly, "spare my son. it would kill me if you sent him to prison." "he took the chance of killing me last night," was the cold reply. "what's far worse, he insulted my wife." "oh, mr. holcroft! he was young and foolish; he didn't realize--" "were you and your husband young and foolish," he interrupted bitterly, "when you gulled me into employing that crazy cousin of yours?" this retort was so overwhelming that mrs. weeks sobbed speechlessly. alida could not help overhearing the conversation, and she now glided into the room and stood by her husband's side. "james," she said, "won't you do me a favor, a great kindness?" mrs. weeks raised her eyes and looked wonderingly at this dreadful woman, against whom all oakville was talking. "i know what you wish, alida," he replied sternly, "but i can't do it. this is a case for justice. this woman's son was the leader of that vile crowd that insulted you last night. i can forgive his injuring me, but not the words he used about you. moreover, when i was alone and struggling to keep my home, mrs. weeks took part with her husband in imposing on me their fraud of a cousin and in tricking me out of honest money. any woman with a heart in her breast would have tried to help a man situated as i was. no, it's a clear case of justice, and her son shall go to jail." mrs. weeks wailed afresh at this final sentence. holcroft was amazed to see his wife drop on her knees beside his chair. he raised her instantly. "don't do such a thing as that," he said huskily. without removing her pleading eyes from his face she asked gently, "who told us to forgive as we would be forgiven? james, i shall be very unhappy if you don't grant this mother's prayer." he tried to turn away, but she caught his hand and held his eyes with hers. "alida," he said in strong agitation, "you heard the vile, false words that timothy weeks said last night. they struck you down like a blow. can you forgive him?" "yes, and i plead with you to forgive him. grant me my wish, james; i shall be so much happier, and so will you." "well, mrs. weeks, now you know what kind of a woman your son came to insult. you may tell your neighbors that there's one christian in oakville. i yield to mrs. holcroft, and will take no further action in the affair if we are let alone." mrs. weeks was not a bad woman at heart, and she had received a wholesome lesson. she came and took alida's hand as she said, "yes, you are a christian--a better woman than i've been, but i aint so mean and bad but what, when i see my fault, i am sorry and can ask forgiveness. i do ask your forgiveness, mr. holcroft. i've been ashamed of myself ever since you brought my cousin back. i thought she would try, when she had the chance you gave her, but she seems to have no sense." "there, there! let bygones be bygones," said the farmer in embarrassment. "i've surrendered. please don't say anything more." "you've got a kind heart, in spite--" "oh, come now! please quit, or i'll begin to swear a little to keep up the reputation my neighbors have given me. go home and tell tim to brace up and try to be a man. when i say i'm done with a grudge, i am done. you and mrs. holcroft can talk all you like, but please excuse me," and with more than most men's horror of a scene, he escaped precipitately. "sit down, mrs. weeks," said alida kindly. "well, i will. i can't say much to excuse myself or my folks--" "you've already said everything, mrs. weeks," interrupted alida gently; "you've said you are sorry." mrs. weeks stared a moment, and then resumed sententiously, "well, i've heard more gospel in that remark than if i'd gone to church. and i couldn't go to church, i could never have gone there again or held my head up anywhere if--if--" "that's all past and gone," said alida, smiling. "when mr. holcroft says anything, you may depend on it." "well, god bless you for intercedin'--you had so much to forgive. nobody shall ever speak a word against you again while i've got breath to answer. i wish you'd let me come and see you sometimes." "whenever you wish, if you care to visit one who has had so much--so much trouble." "i see now that's all the more reason i should come, for if it hadn't been for you, i'd have been in bitter trouble myself. we've been worse than heathen, standin' off and talking against you. oh, i've had a lesson i won't forget! well, i must hurry home, for i left timothy and lemuel in a dreadful state." seeing the farmer in the barn as she was passing, she rushed to him. "you've got to shake hands with me, mr. holcroft. your wife is a good woman, and she's a lady, too. anyone with half an eye can see she's not one of the common sort." the farmer shook the poor woman's hand good-naturedly and said heartily, "that's so! all right, meeting's over. goodbye." then he turned to his work and chuckled, "that's what tom watterly said. thank the lord! she isn't of the common sort. i've got to brace up and be more of a man as well as tim weeks." in spite of the pain in his head, alida's words proved true. he was happier than he had been in many a long day. he had the glow which follows a generous act, and the thought that he had pleased a sweet little woman who somehow seemed very attractive to him that may morning; at the same time the old adam in his nature led to a sneaking satisfaction that he had laid on the hickory so unsparingly the evening before. alida uttered a low, happy laugh as she heard him whistling "coronation" in jig time, and she hustled away the breakfast things with the eagerness of a girl, that she might be ready to read to him when he came in. chapter xxvii. farm and farmer bewitched the day grew warm, and having finished her tasks indoors and cared for the poultry, alida brought a chair out in the porch. her eyes were dreamy with a vague, undefined happiness. the landscape in itself was cause for exquisite pleasure, for it was an ideal day of the apple-blossoming period. the old orchard back of the barn looked as if pink-and-white clouds had settled upon it, and scattered trees near and far were exhaling their fragrance. the light breeze which fanned her cheek and bent the growing rye in an adjacent field was perfumed beyond the skill of art. not only were her favorite meadow larks calling to each other, but the thrushes had come and she felt that she had never heard such hymns as they were singing. a burst of song from the lilac bush under the parlor window drew her eyes thither, and there was the paternal redbreast pouring out the very soul of ecstasy. from the nest beneath him rose the black head and yellow beak of his brooding mate. "how contented and happy she looks!" alida murmured, "how happy they both are! and the secret of it is home. and to think that i, who was a friendless waif, am at home, also! at home with eden-like beauty and peace before my eyes. but if it hadn't been for him, and if he were not brave, kind, and true to all he says--" and she shuddered at a contrast that rose before her fancy. she could now scarcely satisfy herself that it was only gratitude which filled her heart with a strange, happy tumult. she had never been conscious of such exaltation before. it is true, she had learned to cherish a strong affection for the man whom she had believed to be her husband, but chiefly because he had seemed kind and she had an affectionate disposition. until within the last few hours, her nature had never been touched and awakened in its profoundest depths. she had never known before nor had she idealized the manhood capable of evoking the feelings which now lighted her eyes and gave to her face the supreme charm and beauty of womanhood. in truth, it was a fitting day and time for the birth of a love like hers, simple, all-absorbing, and grateful. it contained no element not in harmony with that may sunday morning. holcroft came and sat on the steps below her. she kept her eyes on the landscape, for she was consciously enough on her guard now. "i rather guess you think, alida, that you are looking at a better picture than any artist fellow could paint?" he remarked. "yes," she replied hesitatingly, "and the picture seems all the more lovely and full of light because the background is so very dark. i've been thinking of what happened here last night and what might have happened, and how i felt then." "you feel better--different now, don't you? you certainly look so." "yes!--you made me very happy by yielding to mrs. weeks." "oh! i didn't yield to her at all." "very well, have it your own way, then." "i think you had it your way." "are you sorry?" "do i look so? how did you know i'd be happier if i gave in?" "because, as you say, i'm getting better acquainted with you. you couldn't help being happier for a generous act." "i wouldn't have done it, though, if it hadn't been for you." "i'm not so sure about that." "i am. you're coming to make me feel confoundedly uncomfortable in my heathenish life." "i wish i could." "i never had such a sermon in my life as you gave me this morning. a christian act like yours is worth a year of religious talk." she looked at him wistfully for a moment and then asked, a little abruptly, "mr. holcroft, have you truly forgiven that weeks family?" "oh, yes! i suppose so. i've forgiven the old lady, anyhow. i've shaken hands with her." "if her husband and son should come and apologize and say they were sorry, would you truly and honestly forgive them?" "certainly! i couldn't hold a grudge after that. what are you aiming at?" and he turned and looked inquiringly into her face. it was flushed and tearful in its eager, earnest interest. "don't you see?" she faltered. he shook his head, but was suddenly and strangely moved by her expression. "why, mr. holcroft, if you can honestly forgive those who have wronged you, you ought to see how ready god is to forgive." he fairly started to his feet so vividly the truth came home to him, illumined, as it was, by a recent and personal experience. after a moment, he slowly sat down again and said, with a long breath, "that was a close shot, alida." "i only wish you to have the trust and comfort which this truth should bring you," she said. "it seems a pity you should do yourself needless injustice when you are willing to do what is right and kind by others." "it's all a terrible muddle, alida. if god is so ready to forgive, how do you account for all the evil and suffering in the world?" "i don't account for it and can't. i'm only one of his little children; often an erring one, too. you've been able to forgive grown people, your equals, and strangers in a sense. suppose you had a little boy that had done wrong, but said he was sorry, would you hold a grudge against him?" "the idea! i'd be a brute." she laughed softly as she asked again, "don't you see?" he sat looking thoughtfully away across the fields for a long time, and finally asked, "is your idea of becoming a christian just being forgiven like a child and then trying to do right?" "yes. why not?" "well," he remarked, with a grim laugh. "i didn't expect to be cornered in this way." "you who are truthful should face the truth. it would make you happier. a good deal that was unexpected has happened. when i look out on a scene like this and think that i am safe and at home, i feel that god has been very good to me and that you have, too. i can't bear to think that you have that old trouble on your mind--the feeling that you had been a christian once, but was not one now. being sure that there is no need of your continuing to feel so, what sort of return would i be making for all your kindness if i did not try to show you what is as clear to me as this sunshine?" "you are a good woman, alida. believing as you do, you have done right to speak to me, and i never believed mortal lips could speak so to the purpose. i shall think of what you have said, for you have put things in a new light. but say, alida, what on earth possesses you to call me 'mr.'? you don't need to be scared half to death every time to call me by my first name, do you?" "scared? oh, no!" she was a trifle confused, he thought, but then her tone was completely reassuring. the day was one long remembered by both. as in nature about them, the conditions of development and rapid change now existed. she did not read aloud very much, and long silences fell between them. they were reaching a higher plane of companionship, in which words are not always essential. both had much to think about, and their thoughts were like roots which prepare for blossom and fruit. with monday, busy life was resumed. the farmer began planting his corn and alida her flower seeds. almost every day now added to the brood of little chicks under her care. the cows went out to pasture. holcroft brought in an increasing number of overflowing pails of milk, and if the labors of the dairy grew more exacting, they also grew more profitable. the tide had turned; income was larger than outgo, and it truly seemed to the long-harassed man that an era of peace and prosperity had set in. to a superficial observer things might have appeared to be going on much as before, but there were influences at work which holcroft did not clearly comprehend. as alida had promised herself, she spent all the money which the eggs brought in, but holcroft found pretty muslin curtains at the parlor windows, and shades which excluded the glare from the kitchen. better china took the place of that which was cracked and unsightly. in brief, a subtle and refining touch was apparent all over the house. "how fine we are getting!" he remarked one evening at supper. "i've only made a beginning," she replied, nodding defiantly at him. "the chickens will paint the house before the year is over." "phew! when do the silk dresses come in?" "when your broadcloth does." "well, if this goes on, i shall certainly have to wear purple and fine linen to keep pace." "fine linen, certainly. when you take the next lot of eggs to town i shall tell you just the number of yards i need to make half a dozen extra fine shirts. those you have are getting past mending." "do you think i'll let you spend your money in that way?" "you'll let me spend my money just as i please--in the way that will do me the most good!" "what a saucy little woman you are becoming!" he said, looking at her so fondly that she quickly averted her eyes. "it's a way people fall into when humored," she answered. "see here, alida, you're up to some magic. it seems but the other day i brought you here, a pale ghost of a woman. as old jonathan johnson said, you were 'enj'yin' poor health.' do you know what he said when i took him off so he wouldn't put you through the catechism?" "no," she replied, with a deprecating smile and rising color. "he said he was 'afeared i'd been taken in, you were such a sickly lookin' critter.' ha! ha! wish he might see you now, with that flushed face of yours. i never believed in magic, but i'll have to come to it. you are bewitched, and are being transformed into a pretty young girl right under my eyes; the house is bewitched, and is growing pretty, too, and pleasanter all the time. the cherry and apple trees are bewitched, for they never blossomed so before; the hens are bewitched, they lay as if possessed; the--" "oh, stop! or i shall think that you're bewitched yourself." "i truly begin to think i am." "oh, well! since we all and everything are affected in the same way, it don't matter." "but it does. it's unaccountable. i'm beginning to rub my eyes and pinch myself to wake up." "if you like it, i wouldn't wake up." "suppose i did, and saw mrs. mumpson sitting where you do, jane here, and mrs. wiggins smoking her pipe in the corner. the very thought makes me shiver. my first words would be, 'please pass the cold p'ison.'" "what nonsense you are talking tonight!" she tried to say severely, but the pleased, happy look in her eyes betrayed her. he regarded her with the open admiration of a boy, and she sought to divert his attention by asking, "what do you think has become of jane?" "i don't know--stealing around like a strange cat in some relation's house, i suppose." "you once said you would like to do something for her." "well, i would. if i could afford it, i'd like to send her to school." "would you like her to come here and study lessons part of the time?" he shivered visibly. "no, alida, and you wouldn't either. she'd make you more nervous than she would me, and that's saying a good deal. i do feel very sorry for her, and if mrs. weeks comes to see you, we'll find out if something can't be done, but her presence would spoil all our cozy comfort. the fact is, i wouldn't enjoy having anyone here. you and i are just about company enough. still, if you feel that you'd like to have some help--" "oh, no! i haven't enough to do." "but you're always a-doing. well, if you're content, i haven't christian fortitude enough to make any changes." she smiled and thought that she was more than content. she had begun to detect symptoms in her husband which her own heart enabled her to interpret. in brief, it looked as if he were drifting on a smooth, swift tide to the same haven in which she was anchored. one unusually warm morning for the season, rain set in after breakfast. holcroft did not fret in the least that he could not go to the fields, nor did he, as had been his custom at first, find rainy-day work at the barn. the cows, in cropping the lush grass, had so increased their yield of milk that it was necessary to churn every other day, and alida was busy in the dairy. this place had become inviting by reason of its coolness, and she had rendered it more so by making it perfectly clean and sweet. strange to say, it contained another chair besides the one she usually occupied. the apartment was large and stone-flagged. along one side were shelves filled with rows of shining milk-pans. in one corner stood the simple machinery which the old dog put in motion when tied upon his movable walk, and the churn was near. an iron pipe, buried deep in the ground, brought cool spring water from the brook above. this pipe emptied its contents with a low gurgle into a shallow, oblong receptacle sunk in the floor, and was wide and deep enough for two stone crocks of ample size to stand abreast up to their rims in the water. the cream was skimmed into these stone jars until they were full, then holcroft emptied them into the churn. he had charged alida never to attempt this part of the work, and indeed it was beyond her strength. after breakfast on churning days, he prepared everything and set the dog at work. then he emptied the churn of the buttermilk when he came in to dinner. all the associations of the place were pleasant to alida. it was here that her husband had shown patience as well as kindness in teaching her how to supplement his work until her own experience and judgment gave her a better skill than he possessed. many pleasant, laughing words had passed between them in this cool, shadowy place, and on a former rainy morning he had brought a chair down that he might keep her company. she had not carried it back, nor was she very greatly surprised to see him saunter in and occupy it on the present occasion. she stood by the churn, her figure outlined clearly in the light from the open door, as she poured in cold water from time to time to hasten and harden the gathering butter. her right sleeve was rolled well back, revealing a white arm that was becoming beautifully plump and round. an artist would have said that her attitude and action were unconsciously natural and graceful. holcroft had scarcely the remotest idea of artistic effect, but he had a sensible man's perception of a charming woman when she is charming. "mr. holcroft," she asked very gravely, "will you do something for me?" "yes, half a dozen things." "you promise?" "certainly! what's the trouble?" "i don't mean there shall be any if i can help it," she answered with a light ripple of laughter. "please go and put on your coat." "how you've humbugged me! it's too hot." "oh, you've got to do it; you promised. you can't stay here unless you do." "so you are going to take care of me as if i were a small boy?" "you need care--sometimes." he soon came back and asked, "now may i stay?" "yes. please untie the dog. butter's come." "i should think it would, or anything else at your coaxing." "oh-h, what a speech! hasn't that a pretty golden hue?" she asked, holding up a mass of the butter she was ladling from the churn into a wooden tray. "yes, you are making the gilt-edge article now. i don't have to sell it to tom watterly any more." "i'd like to give him some, though." he was silent, and something like sudden rage burned in his heart that mrs. watterly would not permit the gift. that anyone should frown on his having such a helper as alida was proving herself to be, made him vindictive. fortunately her face was turned away, and she did not see his heavy frown. then, to shield her from a disagreeable fact, he said quickly, "do you know that for over a year i steadily went behind my expenses. and that your butter making has turned the tide already? i'm beginning to get ahead again." "i'm so glad," and her face was radiant. "yes, i should know that from your looks. it's clearer every day that i got the best of our bargain. i never dreamed, though, that i should enjoy your society as i do--that we should become such very good friends. that wasn't in the bargain, was it?" "bargain!" the spirited way with which she echoed the word, as if thereby repudiating anything like a sordid side to their mutual relations, was not lost on her wondering and admiring partner. she checked herself suddenly. "now let me teach you how to make butter," and with the tray in her lap, she began washing the golden product and pressing out the milk. he laughed in a confused delighted way at her piquant, half saucy manner as he watched her deft round arm and shapely hand. "the farmers' wives in oakville would say your hands were too little to do much." "they would?" and she raised her blue eyes indignantly to his. "no matter, you are the one to say about that." "i say they do too much. i shall have to get jane to help you." "by all means! then you'll have more society." "that was a home shot. you know how i dote on everybody's absence, even jane's." "you dote on butter. see how firm and yellow it's getting. you wouldn't think it was milk-white cream a little while ago, would you? now i'll put in the salt and you must taste it, for you're a connoisseur." "a what?" "judge, then." "you know a sight more than i do, alida." "i'm learning all the time." "so am i--to appreciate you." "listen to the sound of the rain and the water as it runs into the milk-cooler. it's like low music, isn't it?" poor holcroft could make no better answer than a sneeze. "oh-h," she exclaimed, "you're catching cold? come, you must go right upstairs. you can't stay here another minute. i'm nearly through." "i was never more contented in my life." "you've no right to worry me. what would i do if you got sick? come, i'll stop work till you go." "well then, little boss, goodbye." with a half suppressed smile at his obedience alida watched his reluctant departure. she kept on diligently at work, but one might have fancied that her thoughts rather than her exertions were flushing her cheeks. it seemed to her that but a few moments elapsed before she followed him, but he had gone. then she saw that the rain had ceased and that the clouds were breaking. his cheerful whistle sounded reassuringly from the barn, and a little later he drove up the lane with a cart. she sat down in the kitchen and began sewing on the fine linen they had jested about. before long she heard a light step. glancing up, she saw the most peculiar and uncanny-looking child that had ever crossed her vision, and with dismal presentiment knew it was jane. chapter xxviii. another waif it was indeed poor, forlorn little jane that had appeared like a specter in the kitchen door. she was as wet and bedraggled as a chicken caught in a shower. a little felt hat hung limp over her ears; her pigtail braid had lost its string and was unraveling at the end, and her torn, sodden shoes were ready to drop from her feet. she looked both curiously and apprehensively at alida with her little blinking eyes, and then asked in a sort of breathless voice, "where's him?" "mr. holcroft?" jane nodded. "he's gone out to the fields. you are jane, aren't you?" another nod. "oh, dear!" groaned alida mentally; "i wish she hadn't come." then with a flush of shame the thought crossed her mind, "she perhaps is a friendless and homeless as i was, and, and 'him' is also her only hope." "come in, jane," she said kindly, "and tell me everything." "be you his new girl?" "i'm his wife," said alida, smiling. jane stopped; her mouth opened and her eyes twinkled with dismay. "then he is married, after all?" she gasped. "yes, why not?" "mother said he'd never get anyone to take him." "well, you see she was mistaken." "she's wrong about everything. well, it's no use then," and the child turned and sat down on the doorstep. alida was perplexed. from the way jane wiped her eyes with her wet sleeve, she was evidently crying. coming to her, alida said, "what is no use, jane? why are you crying?" "i thought--he--might--p'raps--let me stay and work for him." alida was still more perplexed. what could be said by way of comfort, feeling sure as she did that holcroft would be bitterly hostile to the idea of keeping the child? the best she could do was to draw the little waif out and obtain some explanation of her unexpected appearance. but first she asked, "have you had any breakfast?" jane shook her head. "oh, then you must have some right away." "don't want any. i want to die. i oughtn' ter been born." "tell me your troubles, jane. perhaps i can help you." "no, you'd be like the rest. they all hate me and make me feel i'm in the way. he's the only one that didn't make me feel like a stray cat, and now he's gone and got married," and the child sobbed aloud. her grief was pitiful to see, for it was overwhelming. alida stooped down, and gently lifting the child up, brought her in. then she took off the wet hat and wiped the tear-stained face with her handkerchief. "wait a minute, jane, till i bring you something," and she ran to the dairy for a glass of milk. "you must drink it," she said, kindly but firmly. the child gulped it down, and with it much of her grief, for this was unprecedented treatment and was winning her attention. "say," she faltered, "will you ask him to let me stay?" "yes, i'll ask him, but i can't promise that he will." "you won't ask him 'fore my face and then tell him not to behind my back?" and there was a sly, keen look in her eyes which tears could not conceal. "no," said alida gravely, "that's not my way. how did you get here, jane?" "run away." "from where?" "poorhouse." alida drew a quick breath and was silent a few moments. "is--is your mother there?" she asked at length. "yes. they wouldn't let us visit round any longer." "didn't your mother or anyone know you were coming?" jane shook her head. alida felt that it would be useless to burden the unhappy child with misgivings as to the result, and her heart softened toward her as one who in her limited way had known the bitterness and dread which in that same almshouse had overwhelmed her own spirit. she could only say gently, "well, wait till mr. holcroft comes, and then we'll see what he says." she herself was both curious and anxious as to his course. "it will be a heavy cross," she thought, "but i should little deserve god's goodness to me if i did not befriend this child." every moment added weight to this unexpected burden of duty. apart from all consideration of jane's peculiarities, the isolation with holcroft had been a delight in itself. their mutual enjoyment of each other's society had been growing from day to day, and she, more truly than he, had shrunk from the presence of another as an unwelcome intrusion. conscious of her secret, jane's prying eyes were already beginning to irritate her nerves. never had she seen a human face that so completely embodied her idea of inquisitiveness as the uncanny visage of this child. she saw that she would be watched with a tireless vigilance. her recoil, however, was not so much a matter of conscious reasoning and perception as it was an instinctive feeling of repulsion caused by the unfortunate child. it was the same old story. jane always put the women of a household on pins and needles just as her mother exasperated the men. alida had to struggle hard during a comparatively silent hour to fight down the hope that holcroft would not listen to jane's and her own request. as she stepped quickly and lightly about in her preparations for dinner, the girl watched her intently. at last she gave voice to her thoughts and said, "if mother'd only worked round smart as you, p'raps she'd hooked him 'stid er you." alida's only reply was a slight frown, for the remark suggested disagreeable images and fancies. "oh, how can i endure it?" she sighed. she determined to let jane plead her own cause at first, thinking that perhaps this would be the safest way. if necessary, she would use her influence against a hostile decision, let it cost in discomfort what it might. at a few moments before twelve the farmer came briskly toward the house, and was evidently in the best of spirits. when he entered and saw jane, his countenance indicated so much dismay that alida could scarcely repress a smile. the child rose and stood before him like a culprit awaiting sentence. she winked hard to keep the tears back, for there was no welcome in his manner. she could not know how intensely distasteful was her presence at this time, nor had holcroft himself imagined how unwelcome a third person in his house could be until he saw the intruder before him. he had only felt that he was wonderfully contented and happy in his home, and that jane would be a constant source of annoyance and restraint. moreover, it might lead to visitation from mrs. mumpson, and that was the summing up of earthly ills. but the child's appearance and manner were so forlorn and deprecating that words of irritation died upon his lips. he gravely shook hands with her and then drew out the story which alida had learned. "why, jane," he exclaimed, frowning, "mr. watterly will be scouring the country for you. i shall have to take you back right after dinner." "i kinder hoped," she sobbed, "that you'd let me stay. i'd stay in the barn if i couldn't be in the house. i'd just as soon work outdoors, too." "i don't think you'd be allowed to stay," said the farmer, with a sinking heart; "and then--perhaps your mother would be coming here." "i can't stand mother no more'n you can" said the girl, through her set teeth. "i oughtn'ter been born, for there's no place for me in the world." holcroft looked at his wife, his face expressive of the utmost annoyance, worry, and irresolution. her glance was sympathetic, but she said nothing, feeling that if he could make the sacrifice from his own will he should have the chance. "you can't begin to know how much trouble this may lead to, jane," he resumed. "you remember how your other threatened to take the law upon me, and it wouldn't be possible for you to stay here without her consent." "she oughter consent; i'll make her consent!" cried the child, speaking as if driven to desperation. "what's she ever done for me but teach me mean ways? keep me or kill me, for i must be in some place where i've a right to be away from mother. i've found that there's no sense in her talk, and it drives me crazy." although jane's words and utterance were strangely uncouth, they contained a despairing echo which the farmer could not resist. turning his troubled face to his wife, he began, "if this is possible, alida, it will be a great deal harder on you than it will on me. i don't feel that i would be doing right by you unless you gave your consent with full knowledge of--" "then please let her stay, if it is possible. she seems to need a friend and home as much as another that you heard about." "there's no chance of such a blessed reward in this case," he replied, with a grim laugh. then, perplexed indeed, he continued to jane, "i'm just as sorry for you as i can be, but there's no use of getting my wife and self in trouble which in the end will do you no good. you are too young to understand all that your staying may lead to." "it won't lead to mother's comin' here, and that's the worst that could happen. since she can't do anything for me she's got to let me do for myself." "alida, please come with me in the parlor a moment. you stay here, jane." when they were alone, he resumed, "somehow, i feel strangely unwilling to have that child live with us. we were enjoying our quiet life so much. then you don't realize how uncomfortable she will make you, alida." "yes, i do." "i don't think you can yet. your sympathies are touched now, but she'll watch you and irritate you in a hundred ways. don't her very presence make you uncomfortable?" "yes." "well, then, she can't stay," he began decidedly. "this is your home, and no one shall make you uncomfortable--" "but i should be a great deal more uncomfortable if she didn't stay," alida interrupted. "i should feel that i did not deserve my home. not long ago my heart was breaking because i was friendless and in trouble. what could i think of myself if i did not entreat you in behalf of this poor child?" "thunder!" ejaculated holcroft. "i guess i was rather friendless and troubled myself, and i didn't know the world had in it such a good friend as you've become, alida. well, well! you've put it in such a light that i'd be almost tempted to take the mother, also." "no," she replied, laughing; "we'll draw the line at the mother." "well, i'll take jane to town this afternoon, and if her mother will sign an agreement to leave us all in peace, we'll give up our old cozy comfort of being alone. i suppose it must be a good deed, since it's so mighty hard to do it," he concluded with a wry face, leading the way to the kitchen again. she smiled as if his words were already rewarding her self denial. "well, jane," he resumed, "mrs. holcroft has spoken in your behalf, and if we can arrange matters so that you can stay, you will have her to thank chiefly. i'll take you back to the poorhouse after dinner, so it may be known what's become of you. then, if your mother'll sign an agreement to make no trouble and not come here, we'll give you a home until we can find a better place for you." there was no outburst of gratitude. the repressed, dwarfed nature of the child was incapable of this, yet there was an unwonted little thrill of hope in her heart. possibly it was like the beginning of life in a seed under the first spring rays of the sun. she merely nodded to holcroft as if the matter had been settled as far as it could be, and ignored alida. "why don't you thank mrs. holcroft?" he asked. then jane turned and nodded at alida. her vocabulary of thanks was undeveloped. "she's glad," said alida. "you'll see. now that it's settled, we hope you're hungry, jane, aren't you?" "yes, i be. can't i help you put things on the table?" "yes." holcroft looked at the two for a moment, and then shook his head as he went up to his room. "i thought my wife was nice and pleasant looking before," he thought, "but she's like a picture beside that child. well, she has behaved handsomely. tom watterly didn't tell half the truth when he said she was not of the common run. she's a christian in deeds, not talk. what's that in scripture about 'i was hungry'? well, well! she makes religion kind of natural and plain like, whether it's easy or not. thunder! what a joke it is to see her so grateful because i've given her a chance to help me out of the worst scrape a man could be in! as if she hadn't changed everything for the better! here i am sure of my home and getting ahead in the world again, and it's all her doing." in admiration of his wife holcroft quite forgot that there had been any self-sacrifice on his part, and he concluded that he could endure jane and almost anything else as long as alida continued to look after his comfort and interests. now that the worst stress of jane's anxiety was over, she proved that she was half starved. indeed she had few misgivings now, for her confidence that holcroft would accomplish what he attempted was almost unbounded. it was a rather silent meal at first, for the farmer and his wife had much to think about and jane much to do in making up for many limited meals. at last holcroft smiled so broadly that alida said, "something seems to please you." "yes, more than one thing. it might be a great deal worse, and was, not long ago. i was thinking of old times." "how pleasant they must have been to make you look so happy!" "they had their uses, and make me think of a picture i saw in a store window in town. it was a picture of a woman, and she took my fancy amazingly. but the point uppermost in my mind was a trick of the fellow who painted her. he had made the background as dark as night and so she stood out as if alive; and she looked so sweet and good that i felt like shaking hands with her. i now see why the painter made the background so dark." alida smiled mischievously as she replied, "that was his art. he knew that almost anyone would appear well against such a background." but holcroft was much too direct to be diverted from his thought or its expression. "the man knew the mighty nice-looking woman he had painted would look well," he said, "and i know of another woman who appears better against a darker background. that's enough to make a man smile who has been through what i have." she could not help a flush of pleasure or disguise the happy light in her eyes, but she looked significantly at jane, who, mystified and curious, was glancing from one to the other. "confound it!" thought the farmer. "that'll be the way of it now. here's a little pitcher that's nearly all ears. well, we're in for it and must do our duty." going to town that day involved no slight inconvenience, but holcroft dropped everything and rapidly made his preparations. when alida was left alone with jane, the latter began clearing the table with alacrity, and after a few furtive glances at mrs. holcroft, yielded to the feeling that she should make some acknowledgment of the intercession in her behalf. "say," she began, "i thought you wasn't goin; to stand up for me, after all. women folks are liars, mostly." "you are mistaken, jane. if you wish to stay with us, you must tell the truth and drop all sly ways." "that's what he said when i first come." "i say it too. you see a good deal, jane. try to see what will please people instead of what you can find out about them. it's a much better plan. now, as a friend, i tell you of one thing you had better not do. you shouldn't watch and listen to mr. holcroft unless he speaks to you. he doesn't like to be watched--no one does. it isn't nice; and if you come to us, i think you will try to do what is nice. am i not right?" "i dunno how," said jane. "it will be part of my business to teach you. you ought to understand all about your coming. mr. holcroft doesn't take you because he needs your work, but because he's sorry for you, and wishes to give you a chance to do better and learn something. you must make up your mind to lessons, and learning to talk and act nicely, as well as to do such work as is given you. are you willing to do what i say and mind me pleasantly and promptly?" jane looked askance at the speaker and was vaguely suspicious of some trick. in her previous sojourn at the farmhouse she had concluded that it was her best policy to keep in holcroft's good graces, even though she had to defy her mother and mrs. wiggins, and she was now by no means ready to commit herself to this new domestic power. she had received the impression that the authority and continued residence of females in this household was involved in much uncertainty, and although alida was in favor now and the farmer's wife, she didn't know what "vicissitudes" (as her mother would denominate them) might occur. holcroft was the only fixed and certain quantity in her troubled thoughts, and after a little hesitation she replied, "i'll do what he says; i'm goin' to mind him." "suppose he tells you to mind me?" "then i will. that ud be mindin' him. i'm goin' to stick to him, for i made out by it better before than by mindin' mother and mrs. wiggins." alida now understood the child and laughed aloud. "you are right," she said. "i won't ask you to do anything contrary to his wishes. now tell me, jane, what other clothes have you besides those you are wearing?" it did not take the girl long to inventory her scanty wardrobe, and then alida rapidly made out a list of what was needed immediately. "wait here," she said, and putting on a pretty straw hat, one of her recent purchases, she started for the barn. holcroft had his wagon and team almost ready when alida joined him, and led the way to the floor between the sweet-smelling hay-mows. "one thing leads to another," she began, looking at him a little deprecatingly. "you must have noticed the condition of jane's clothes." "she does look like a little scarecrow, now i come to think of it," he admitted. "yes, she's not much better off than i was," alida returned, with downcast eyes and rising color. her flushing face was so pretty under the straw hat, and the dark mow as a background brought out her figure so finely that he thought of the picture again and laughed aloud for pleasure. she looked up in questioning surprise, thus adding a new grace. "i wish that artist fellow was here now," he exclaimed. "he could make another picture that would suit me better than the one i saw in town." "what nonsense!" she cried, quickly averting her face from his admiring scrutiny. "come, i'm here to talk business and you've no time to waste. i've made out a list of what the child actually must have to be respectable." "you're right, alida," said the farmer, becoming grave at once over a question of dollars and cents. "as you say, one thing leads to another, and if we take the girl we must clothe her decently. but then, i guess she'll earn enough to pay her way. it isn't that i worry about so much," he broke out discontentedly, "but the interference with our quiet, cozy life. things are going so smoothly and pleasantly that i hate a change of any kind." "we mustn't be selfish, you know," she replied. "you are doing a kind, generous act, and i respect you all the more for it." "that settles everything. you'll like me a little better for it, too, won't you?" he asked hesitatingly. she laughed outright at this question and answered, "it won't do to take too much self-sacrifice out of your act. there's something which does us all good. she ought to have a spelling and a writing book also." holcroft was assuredly falling under the sway of the little blind god, for he began at once to misunderstand alida. "you are very fond of self-sacrifice," he said, rather stiffly. "yes, i'll get everything on your list," and he took it from her hand. "now i must be off," he added, "for i wish to get back before night, and it's so warm i can't drive fast. sorry i have to go, for i can't say i dote on self-sacrifice." alida but partially understood his sudden change of mood, nor was the farmer much better enlightened himself in regard to his irritation. he had received an unexpected impression and it seemed to fit in with other things and explain them. she returned slowly and dejectedly to the house, leaving unsaid the words she meant to speak about jane's relations to her. now she wished that she had imitated jane, and merely nodded to the farmer's questions. "if he knew how far i am beyond the point of liking, i don't know what he'd do or say," she thought, "and i suppose that's the reason i couldn't answer him frankly, in a way that would have satisfied him. it's a pity i couldn't begin to just like a little at first, as he does and have everything grow as gradually and quietly as one of his cornstalks. that's the way i meant it should be; but when he stood up for me and defended me from those men, my heart just melted, and in spite of myself, i felt i could die for him. it can't be such an awful thing for a woman to fall in love with her husband, and yet--yet i'd rather put my hand in the fire than let him know how i feel. oh, dear! i wish jane hadn't been born, as she says. trouble is beginning already, and it was all so nice before she came." in a few moments holcroft drove up. alida stood in the door and looked timidly at him. he thought she appeared a little pale and troubled, but his bad mood prevailed and he only asked briefly, "can't i get something for you?" she shook her head. "well, goodbye, then," and he drove away with jane, who was confirmed in her line of policy. "she's afraid of 'im too," thought the child. "mind her! guess not, unless he says so." she watched the farmer furtively and concluded that she had never known him to look more grim or be more silent even under her mother's blandishments. "he's married this one, i s'pose, to keep house for 'im, but he don't like her follerin' 'im up or bein' for'ard any more'n he did mother. shouldn't wonder if he didn't keep her, either, if she don't suit better. she needn't 'a' put on such airs with me, for i'm goin' to stick to him." chapter xxix. husband and wife in trouble like many others with simple, strong natures, holcroft could not be wrong-headed moderately, and his thoughts, once started in a direction were apt to carry him much farther than the cause warranted. engrossed in painful and rather bitter musings, he paid no heed to jane and almost forgot his errand to town. "i was a fool to ask that question," he thought. "i was getting silly and sentimental with my talk about the picture and all that. she laughed at me and reminded me i was wasting time. of course she can't like an old, hard-featured man like me. i'm beginning to understand her now. she made a business marriage with me and means to live up to her agreement. she's honest; she feels i've done her a real kindness in giving her a home, and she's willing to be as self-sacrificing as the day is long to make it up to me. i wish she wasn't so grateful; there's no occasion for it. i don't want her to feel that every pleasant word and every nice act is so much toward paying a debt. if there was any balance in my favor it was squared up long ago, and i was willing to call it even from the start. she's made me like her for her own sake and not on account of what she does for me, and that's what i had in mind. but she's my superior in every way; she's growing to be a pretty as a picture, and i suppose i appear like a rather rough customer. well, i can't help if, but it rather goes against me to have her think, 'i've married him and i'm going to do my duty by him, just as i agreed.' she'll do her duty by this jane in the same self-sacrificing spirit, and will try to make it pleasant for the child just because it's right and because she herself was taken out of trouble. that's the shape her religion takes. 'tisn't a common form, i know--this returning good for good with compound interest. but her conscience won't let her rest unless she does everything she can for me, and now she'll begin to do everything for jane because she feels that self-sacrifice is a duty. anybody can be self-sacrificing. if i made up my mind, i could ask mrs. mumpson to visit us all summer, but i couldn't like her to save my life, and i don't suppose alida can like me, beyond a certain point, to save her life. but she'll do her duty. she'll be pleasant and self-sacrificing and do all the work she can lay her hands on for my sake; but when it comes to feeling toward me as i can't help feeling toward her--that wasn't in the bargain," and he startled jane with a sudden bitter laugh. "say," said the child, as if bent on adding another poignant reflection, "if you hadn't married her, i could 'a' come and cooked for you." "you think i'd been better off if i'd waited for you, eh?" "you kinder looked as if yer thought so." he now made the hills echo with a laugh, excited both by his bitter fancies and the preposterous idea. she looked at him inquiringly and was much perplexed by his unwonted behavior. indeed, he was slightly astonished at his own strange mood, but he yielded to it almost recklessly. "i say, jane," he began, "i'm not a very good-looking man, am i?" she shook her head in emphatic agreement. "i'm old and rough and hard-featured?" again she nodded approvingly. "children and some others speak the truth," he growled. "i never had no teachin', but i'm not a fool," remarked jane keenly. "i guess i'm the fool in this case," he added. "it don't make no difference to me," she said sympathetically. "i'm goin' to mind you and not her. if you ever send her away i'll cook for you." "send her away!" exclaimed the farmer, with a shiver. "god forbid! there, don't talk any more!" for the next half mile he drove in silence, with a heavy frown on his face; then he broke out sternly, "if you don't promise to mind mrs. holcroft and please her in everything, i'll leave you at the poorhouse door and drive home again." "'course i will, if you tells me to," said the child in trepidation. "well, i do. people will find that making her trouble is the surest way of making themselves trouble." "she's got some hold on 'im," concluded jane, who, in listening to much gossip, had often heard this expression, and now made a practical application of the idea. watterly was greatly relieved when he saw holcroft drive up with the fugitive. "i was just going out to your place," he said, "for the girl's mother insisted that you had enticed the child away," and the man laughed, as if the idea tickled him immensely. holcroft frowned, for he was in no mood for his friend's rough jests. "go to your mother till i send for you," he said to jane. "the fact that you had taken two other females from the house gave some color to mrs. mumpson's views," pursued watterly, who could take only the broadest hint as to his social conduct. he received one now. "tom watterly," said the farmer sternly, "did i ever insult your wife?" "by jocks! no, you nor no other man. i should say not." "well, then, don't you insult mine. before i'd seen mrs. holcroft, you told me she was out of the common run,--how much out, you little know,--and i don't want her mixed up with the common run, even in your thoughts." "well, now, i like that," said watterly, giving holcroft his hand. "you know i didn't mean any offense, jim. it was only one of my foolish jokes. you were mighty slow to promise to love, honor, and obey, but hanged if you aint more on that line than any man in town. i can see she's turning out well and keeping her agreement." "yes, that's just what she's doing," said the farmer gloomily. "she's a good, capable woman that'll sacrifice herself to her duty any day. but it wasn't to talk about her i came. she's a sight better than i am, but she's probably not good enough for anybody in this town to speak to." "oh, pshaw; now, jim!" "well, i've come on disagreeable business. i didn't know that mrs. mumpson and her child were here, and i wish to the lord they could both stay here! you've found out what the mother is, i suppose?" "i should say so," replied tom, laughing. "she's talked several of the old women to death already. the first day she was here she called on my wife and claimed social relations, because she's so 'respecterbly connected,' as she says. i thought angy'd have a fit. her respectable connections have got to take her off my hands." "i'm not one of 'em, thank goodness!" resumed holcroft. "but i'm willing to take the girl and give her a chance--at least i'll do it," he corrected himself, in his strict observance of truth. "you can see she's not a child to dote on, but i was sorry for her when i sent her mother away and said i'd try and do something for her. the first thing i knew she was at the house, begging me to either take her in or kill her. i couldn't say no, though i wanted to. now, you see what kind of a good samaritan i am." "oh, i know you! you'd hit a man between the eyes if he charged you with doing a good deed. but what does your wife say to adopting such a cherub?" "we're not going to adopt her or bind ourselves. my wife took the child's part and plead with me in her behalf, though i could see the young one almost made her sick. she thinks it's her duty, you know, and that's enough for her." "by jocks, holcroft! she don't feel that way about you, does she?" "why shouldn't she?" "why should she? i can take about anything from angy, but it wouldn't do for her to let me see that she disliked me so that i kinder made her sick." "oh, thunder, tom! you're getting a wrong impression. i was never treated better by anybody in my life than by mrs. holcroft. she's a lady, every inch of her. but there's no reason why she should dote on an old fellow like me." "yes, there is. i have my opinion of a woman who wouldn't dote on a man that's been such a friend as you have." "oh, hang it all, tom! let's talk about business. she's too grateful--that's what worries me. by the way she took hold and filled the house with comfort she made everything even from the start. she's been as good a friend to me as i to her. she's done all she agreed and more, and i'll never hear a word against her. the point i've been trying to get at is this: if mrs. mumpson will agree never to come near us or make trouble in any way, we'll take the child. if she won't so agree, i'll have nothing to do with the girl. i don't want to see her mother, and you'd do me one of the kindest turns you ever did a man by stating the case to her." "if i do," said watterly, laughing, "you'll have to forgive me everything in the past and the future." "i will, tom, for i'd rather have an eye tooth pulled than face that woman. we're all right--just as we used to be at school, always half quarreling, yet ready to stand up for each other to the last drop. but i must have her promise in black and white." "well, come to my office and we'll try to arrange it. the law is on your side, for the county won't support people that anyone will take off its hands. besides i'm going to shame the woman's relations into taking her away, and they'll be glad there's one less to support." they drew up a brief, strong agreement, and watterly took it to the widow to sign. he found her in great excitement and jane looking at her defiantly. "i told you he was the one who enticed away my offspring," she began, almost hysterically. "he's a cold-blooded villain! if there's a law in the land, i'll--" "stop!" thundered watterly. his voice was so high and authoritative that she did stop, and with open mouth stared at the superintendent. "now, be quiet and listen to me," he continued. "either you are a sane woman and can stop this foolishness, or else you are insane and must be treated as such. you have your choice. you can't tell me anything about holcroft; i've known him since he was a boy. he doesn't want your girl. she ran away to him, didn't you?" to jane, who nodded. "but he's willing to take her, to teach her something and give her a chance. his motive is pure kindness, and he has a good wife who'll--" "i see it all," cried the widow, tragically clasping her hands. "it's his wife's doings! she wishes to triumph over me, and even to usurp my place in ministering to my child. was there ever such an outrage? such a bold, vindictive female--" here jane, in a paroxysm of indignant protest, seized her mother and began to shake her so violently that she could not speak. "stop that!" said watterly, repressing laughter with difficulty. "i see you are insane and the law will have to step in and take care of you both." "what will it do with us?" gasped the widow. "well, it ought to put you in strait jackets to begin with--" "i've got some sense if mother aint!" cried jane, commencing to sob. "it's plain the law'll decide your mother's not fit to take care of you. anyone who can even imagine such silly ridiculous things as she's just said must be looked after. you may take a notion, mrs. mumpson, that i'm a murderer or a giraffe. it would be just as sensible as your other talk." "what does mr. holcroft offer?" said the widow, cooling off rapidly. if there was an atom of common sense left in any of his pauper charges, watterly soon brought it into play, and his vague threatenings of law were always awe-inspiring. "he makes a very kind offer that you would jump at if you had sense--a good home for your child. you ought to know she can't stay here and live on charity if anyone is willing to take her." "of course i would be permitted to visit my child from time to time? he couldn't be so monstrously hard-hearted as--" "oh, nonsense!" cried watterly impatiently. "the idea of his letting you come to his house after what you've said about him! i've no time to waste in foolishness, or he either. he will let jane visit you, but you are to sign this paper and keep the agreement not to go near him or make any trouble whatever." "it's an abominable--" "tut! tut! that kind of talk isn't allowed here. if you can't decide like a sane woman the law'll soon decide for you." as was always the case when mrs. mumpson reached the inevitable, she yielded; the paper was signed, and jane, who had already made up her small bundle, nodded triumphantly to her mother and followed watterly. mrs. mumpson, on tiptoe, followed also, bent on either propitiating holcroft and so preparing the way for a visit, or else on giving him once more a "piece of her mind." "all right, holcroft!" said watterly, as he entered the office, "here's the paper signed. was there ever such an id----" "oh, how do you do, mr. holcroft?" cried the widow, bursting in and rushing forward with extended hand. the farmer turned away and looked as if made of stone. changing her tactics instantly, she put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned, "you never can have the heart to say i can't come and see my child. i've signed writings, 'tis true, under threats and compulsions; but i trust there will be relentings--" "there won't be one relent!" cried jane. "i never want to see you again, and a blind post could see that he doesn't." "jane," said holcroft sternly, "don't speak so again. if strangers can be kind and patient with you, you can be so with your mother. she has no claims on me and has said things which make it impossible for me to speak to her again, but i shall insist on your visiting and treating her kindly. goodbye, watterly. you've proved yourself a friend again," and he went rapidly away, followed by jane. mrs. mumpson was so taken aback by holcroft's final words and watterly's stern manner as he said, "this is my office," that for once in her life she disappeared silently. holcroft soon purchased the articles on his list, meanwhile racking his brains to think of something that he could buy for alida, but the fear of being thought sentimental and of appearing to seek a personal regard for himself, not "nominated in the bond," restrained him. on his way home he was again sunk in deep abstraction, but the bitterness of his feeling had passed away. although as mistaken as before in his apprehension of alida, his thoughts were kinder and juster. "i've no right to find fault or complain," he said to himself. "she's done all i asked and better than she agreed, and there's no one to blame if she can't do more. it must have been plain enough to her at first that i didn't want anything but a housekeeper--a quiet, friendly body that would look after the house and dairy, and she's done better than i even hoped. that's just the trouble; she's turned out so different from what i expected, and looks so different from what she did, that i'm just sort of carried away. i'd give half the farm if she was sitting by my side this june evening and i could tell her all i feel and know she was glad. i must be just and fair to her. i asked her to agree to one thing and now i'm beginning to want a tremendous sight more--i want her to like not only her home and work and the quiet life she so longed for, but i want her to like me, to enjoy my society, not only in a friendly, businesslike way, but in another way--yes, confound my slow wits! somewhat as if she was my wife in reality and not merely in name, as i insisted. it's mighty mean business in me, who have been so proud of standing up to my agreements and so exacting of others to do the same. i went away cold and stiff this afternoon because she wasn't silly and sentimental when i was. i'm to her an unpolished, homely, middle-aged man, and yet i sort of scoffed at the self-sacrifice which has led her to be pleasant and companionable in every way that her feelings allowed. i wish i were younger and better looking, so it wouldn't all be a sense of duty and gratitude. gratitude be hanged! i don't want any more of it. well, now, james holcroft, if you're the square man you supposed yourself to be, you'll be just as kind and considerate as you know how, and then you'll leave alida to the quiet, peaceful life to which she looked forward when she married you. the thing for you to do is to go back to your first ways after you were married and attend to the farm. she doesn't want you hanging around and looking at her as if she was one of her own posies. that's something she wasn't led to expect and it would be mean enough to force it upon her before she shows that she wishes it, and i couldn't complain if she never wished it." during the first hour after holcroft's departure alida had been perplexed and worried, but her intuitions soon led to hopefulness, and the beauty and peace of nature without aided in restoring her serenity. the more minutely she dwelt on holcroft's words and manner, the more true it seemed that he was learning to take an interest in her that was personal and apart from every other consideration. "if i am gentle, patient, and faithful," she thought, "all will come out right. he is so true and straightforward that i need have no fears." when he returned and greeted her with what seemed his old, friendly, natural manner, and, during a temporary absence of jane, told her laughingly of the mumpson episode, she was almost completely reassured. "suppose the widow breaks through all restraint and appears as did jane, what would you do?" he asked. "whatever you wished," she replied, smiling. "in other words, what you thought your duty?" "i suppose that is what one should try to do." "i guess you are the one that would succeed in doing it, even to mrs. mumpson," he said, turning hastily away and going to his room. she was puzzled again. "i'm sure i don't dote on self-sacrifice and hard duty any more than he does, but i can't tell him that duty is not hard when it's to him." jane was given the room over the kitchen which mrs. wiggins had occupied, and the farmhouse soon adopted her into its quiet routine. holcroft's course continued to cause alida a dissatisfaction which she could scarcely define. he was as kind as ever he had been and even more considerate; he not only gratified her wishes, but tried to anticipate them, while jane's complete subserviency proved that she had been spoken to very plainly. one day she missed her spelling lesson for the third time, and alida told her that she must learn it thoroughly before going out. the child took the book reluctantly, yet without a word. "that's a good girl!" said alida, wishing to encourage her. "i was afraid at first you wouldn't mind me so readily." "he told me to. he'd fire me out the window if i didn't mind you." "oh, no! i think he's very kind to you." "well, he's kind to you, too." "yes, he has always been kind to me," said alida gently and lingeringly, as if the thought were pleasant to dwell upon. "say," said jane, yielding to her curiosity, "how did you make him so afraid of you when he don't like you? he didn't like mother, but he wasn't afraid of her." "why do you think he doesn't like me?" alida faltered, turning very pale. "oh! 'cause he looked once jest as he did after mother'd been goin' for--" "there, be still! you mustn't speak of such things, or talk to me about mr. holcroft in such a way," and she hastily left the kitchen. when in the solitude of her own room, she gave way to bitter tears. "is it so plain," she thought, "that even this ignorant child sees it? and the unhappy change began the day she came, too. i can't understand it. we were so happy before; and he seemed to enjoy being near me and talking to me when his work permitted. he used to look into my eyes in a way that made me hope and, indeed, feel almost sure. i receive no more such looks; he seems only trying to do his duty by me as he promised at first, and acts as if it were all duty, a mere matter of conscience. could he have discovered how i felt, and so is taking this way to remind me that nothing of the kind was in our agreement? well, i've no reason to complain; i accepted the relation of my own free will, but it's hard, hard indeed for a woman who loves a man with her whole heart and soul--and he her husband--to go on meeting him day after day, yet act as if she were his mere business partner. but i can't help myself; my very nature, as well as a sense of his rights, prevents me from asking more or even showing that i wish for more. that would be asking for it. but can it be true that he is positively learning to dislike me? to shrink from me with that strong repulsion which women feel toward some men? oh! if that is true, the case is hopeless; it would kill me. every effort to win him, even the most delicate and unobtrusive, would only drive him farther away; the deepest instincts of his soul would lead him to withdraw--to shun me. if this is true, the time may come when, so far from my filling his house with comfort, i shall make him dread to enter it. oh, oh! my only course is to remember just what i promised and he expected when he married me, and live up to that." thus husband and wife reached the same, conclusion and were rendered equally unhappy. chapter xxx. holcroft's best hope when holcroft came in to dinner that day the view he had adopted was confirmed, yet alida's manner and appearance began to trouble him. even to his rather slow perception, she did not seem so happy as she had been. she did not meet his eye with her old frank, friendly, and as he had almost hoped, affectionate, expression; she seemed merely feverishly anxious to do everything and have all as he wished. instead of acting with natural ease and saying what was in her mind without premeditation, a conscious effort was visible and an apparent solicitude that he should be satisfied. the inevitable result was that he was more dissatisfied. "she's doing her best for me," he growled, as he went back to his work, "and it begins to look as if it might wear her out in time. confound it! having everything just so isn't of much account when a man's heart-hungry. i'd rather have had one of her old smiles and gone without my dinner. well, well; how little a man understands himself or knows the future! the day i married her i was in mortal dread lest she should care for me too much and want to be affectionate and all that; and here i am, discontented and moping because everything has turned out as i then wished. don't see as i'm to blame, either. she had no business to grow so pretty. then she looked like a ghost, but now when the color comes into her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkle, a man would be a stupid clod if he didn't look with all his eyes and feel his heart a-thumping. that she should change so wasn't in the bargain; neither was it that she should read aloud in such sweet tones that a fellow'd like to listen to the dictionary; nor that she should make the house and yard look as they never did before, and, strangest of all, open my eyes to the fact that apple trees bear flowers as well as pippins. i can't even go by a wild posy in the lane without thinking she'd like it and see in it a sight more than i once could. i've been taken in, as old jonathan feared," he muttered, following out his fancy with a sort of grim humor. "she isn't the woman i thought i was marrying at all, and i aint bound by my agreement--not in my thoughts, anyhow. i'd have been in a nice scrape if i'd taken my little affidavit not to think of her or look upon her in any other light than that of housekeeper and butter maker. it's a scary thing, this getting married with a single eye to business. see where i am now! hanged if i don't believe i'm in love with my wife, and, like a thundering fool, i had to warn her against falling in love with me! little need of that, though. she hasn't been taken in, for i'm the same old chap she married, and i'd be a mighty mean cuss if i went to her and said, 'here, i want you to do twice as much, a hundred-fold as much as you agreed to.' i'd be a fool, too, for she couldn't do it unless something drew her toward me just as i'm drawn toward her." late in the afternoon he leaned on the handle of his corn plow, and, in the consciousness of solitude, said aloud: "things grow clear if you think of them enough, and the lord knows i don't think of much else any more. it isn't her good qualities which i say over to myself a hundred times a day, or her education, or anything of the kind, that draws me; it's she herself. i like her. why don't i say love her, and be honest? well, it's a fact, and i've got to face it. here i am, plowing out my corn, and it looks splendid for its age. i thought if i could stay on the old place, and plant and cultivate and reap, i'd be more than content, and now i don't seem to care a rap for the corn or the farm either, compared with alida; and i care for her just because she is alida and no one else. but the other side of this fact has an ugly look. suppose i'm disagreeable to her! when she married me she felt like a woman drowning; she was ready to take hold of the first hand reached to her without knowing much about whose hand it was. well, she's had time to find out. she isn't drawn. perhaps she feels toward me somewhat as i did toward mrs. mumpson, and she can't help herself either. well, well, the bare thought of it makes my heart lead. what's a man to do? what can i do but live up to my agreement and not torment her any more than i can help with my company? that's the only honest course. perhaps she'll get more used to me in time. she might get sick, and then i'd be so kind and watchful that she'd think the old fellow wasn't so bad, after all, but i shan't give her the comfort of no end of self-sacrifice in trying to be pleasant and sociable. if she's foolish enough to think she's in my debt she can't pay it in that way. no, sir! i've got to make the most of it now--i'm bound to--but this business marriage will never suit me until the white arm i saw in the dairy room is around my neck, and she looks in my eyes and says, 'james, i guess i'm ready for a longer marriage ceremony.'" it was a pity that alida could not have been among the hazelnut bushes near and heard him. he resumed his toil, working late and doggedly. at supper he was very attentive to alida, but taciturn and preoccupied; and when the meal was over he lighted his pipe and strolled out into the moonlight. she longed to follow him, yet felt it to be more impossible than if she were chained to the floor. and so the days passed; holcroft striving with the whole force of his will to appear absorbed in the farm, and she, with equal effort, to seem occupied and contented with her household and dairy duties. they did everything for each other that they could, and yet each thought that the other was acting from a sense of obligation, and so all the more sedulously veiled their actual thoughts and feelings from each other. or course, such mistaken effort only led to a more complete misunderstanding. with people of their simplicity and habit of reticence, little of what was in their hearts appeared on the surface. neither had time to mope, and their mutual duties were in a large measure a support and refuge. of these they could still speak freely for they pertained to business. alida's devotion to her work was unfeigned for it seemed now her only avenue of approach to her husband. she watched over the many broods of little chickens with tireless vigilance. if it were yellow gold, she could not have gathered the butter from the churn with greater greed. she kept the house immaculate and sought to develop her cooking into a fine art. she was scrupulous in giving jane her lessons and trying to correct her vernacular and manners, but the presence of the child grew to be a heavier cross every day. she could not blame the girl, whose misfortune it was to lead incidentally to the change in holcroft's manner, yet it was impossible not to associate her with the beginning of that change. jane was making decided improvement, and had alida been happy and at rest this fact would have given much satisfaction in spite of the instinctive repugnance which the girl seemed to inspire universally. holcroft recognized this repugnance and the patient effort to disguise it and be kind. "like enough she feels in the same way toward me," he thought, "and is trying a sight harder not to show it. but she seems willing enough to talk business and to keep up her interest in the partnership line. well, blamed if i wouldn't rather talk business to her than love to any other woman!" so it gradually came about that they had more and more to say to each other on matters relating to the farm. holcroft showed her the receipts from the dairy, and her eyes sparkled as if he had brought jewels home to her. then she in turn would expatiate on the poultry interests and assure him that there were already nearly two hundred little chicks on the place. one afternoon, during a shower, she ventured to beguile him into listening to the greater part of one of the agricultural journals, and with much deference made two or three suggestions about the farm, which he saw were excellent. she little dreamed that if she were willing to talk of turning the farm upside down and inside out, he would have listened with pleasure. they both began to acquire more serenity and hopefulness, for even this sordid business partnership was growing strangely interesting. the meals grew less and less silent, and the farmer would smoke his pipe invitingly near in the evening so that she could resume their talk on bucolic subjects without much conscious effort, while at the same time, if she did not wish his society, she could shun it without discourtesy. he soon perceived that she needed some encouragement to talk even of farm matters; but, having received it, that she showed no further reluctance. he naturally began to console himself with business as unstintedly as he dared. "as long as i keep on this tack all seems well," he muttered. "she don't act as if i was disagreeable to her, but then how can a man tell? if she thinks it her duty, she'll talk and smile, yet shiver at the very thought of my touching her. well, well, time will show. we seem to be getting more sociable, anyhow." they both recognized this fact and tried to disguise it and to relieve themselves from the appearance of making any undue advances by greater formality of address. in jane's presence he had formed the habit of speaking to his wife as mrs. holcroft, and now he was invariably "mr." one evening in the latter part of june, he remarked at supper, "i must give half a day to hoeing the garden tomorrow. i've been so busy working out the corn and potatoes that it seems an age since i've been in the garden." "she and me," began jane, "i mean mrs. holcroft and i, have been in the garden." "that's right, jane, you're coming on. i think your improved talk and manners do mrs. holcroft much credit. i'd like to take some lessons myself." then, as if a little alarmed at his words, he hastened to ask, "what have you been doing in the garden?" "you'll see when you go there," replied jane, her small eyes twinkling with the rudiments of fun. holcroft looked at the child as if he had not seen her for some time either. her hair was neatly combed, braided, and tied with a blue ribbon instead of a string, her gown was as becoming as any dress could be to her, her little brown hands were clean, and they no longer managed the knife and fork in an ill-bred manner. the very expression of the child's face was changing, and now that it was lighted up with mirth at the little surprise awaiting him, it had at least attained the negative grace of being no longer repulsive. he sighed involuntarily as he turned away. "just see what she's doing for that child that i once thought hideous! how much she might do for me if she cared as i do!" he rose from the table, lighted his pipe, and went out to the doorstep. alida looked at him wistfully. "he stood there with me once and faced a mob of men," she thought. "then he put his arm around me. i would face almost any danger for even such a caress again." the memory of that hour lent her unwonted courage, and she approached him timidly and said, "perhaps you would like to go and look at the garden? jane and i may not have done everything right." "why, certainly. i forgot about the garden; but then you'll have to go with me if i'm to tell you." "i don't mind," she said, leading the way. the june sun was low in the west and the air had become deliciously cool and fragrant. the old rosebushes were in bloom, and as she passed she picked a bud and fastened it on her bosom. wood thrushes, orioles, and the whole chorus of birds were in full song: limpid rills of melody from the meadow larks flowed from the fields, and the whistling of the quails added to the harmony. holcroft was in a mood of which he had never been conscious before. these familiar sounds, which had been unheeded so much of his life, now affected him strangely, creating an immeasurable sadness and longing. it seemed as if perceptions which were like new senses were awakening in his mind. the world was full of wonderful beauty before unrecognized, and the woman who walked lightly and gracefully at his side was the crown of it all. he himself was so old, plain, and unworthy in contrast. his heart ached with a positive, definite pain that he was not younger, handsomer, and better equipped to win the love of his wife. as she stood in the garden, wearing the rose, her neat dress outlining her graceful form, the level rays of the sun lighting up her face and turning her hair to gold, he felt that he had never seen or imagined such a woman before. she was in harmony with the june evening and a part of it, while he, in his working clothes, his rugged, sun-browned features and hair tinged with gray, was a blot upon the scene. she who was so lovely, must be conscious of his rude, clownish appearance. he would have faced any man living and held his own on the simple basis of his manhood. anything like scorn, although veiled, on alida's part, would have touched his pride and steeled his will, but the words and manner of this gentle woman who tried to act as if blind to all that he was in contrast with herself, to show him deference, kindness, and good will when perhaps she felt toward him somewhat as she did toward jane, overwhelmed him with humility and grief. it is the essence of deep, unselfish love to depreciate itself and exalt its object. there was a superiority in alida which holcroft was learning to recognize more clearly every day, and he had not a trace of vanity to sustain him. now he was in a mood to wrong and undervalue himself without limit. she showed him how much she and jane had accomplished, how neat and clean they had kept the rows of growing vegetables, and how good the promise was for an indefinite number of dinners, but she only added to the farmer's depression. he was in no mood for onions, parsnips, and their vegetable kin, yet thought, "she thinks i'm only capable of being interested in such things, and i've been at much pains to give that impression. she picked that rose for herself, and now she's showing me how soon we may hope to have summer cabbage and squash. she thus shows that she knows the difference between us and that always must be between us, i fear. she is so near in our daily life, yet how can i ever get any nearer? as i feel now, it seems impossible." she had quickly observed his depressed, abstracted manner, but misinterpreted the causes. her own face clouded and grew troubled. perhaps she was revealing too much of her heart, although seeking to disguise it so sedulously, and he was penetrating her motives for doing so much in the garden and in luring him thither now. he was not showing much practical interest in beans and beets, and was evidently oppressed and ill at ease. "i hope we have done things right?" she ventured, turning away to hide tears of disappointment. "her self-sacrifice is giving out," he thought bitterly. "she finds she can scarcely look at me as i now appear in contrast with this june evening. well, i don't blame her. it makes me almost sick when i think of myself and i won't be brute enough to say a harsh word to her." "you have done it all far better than i could," he said emphatically. "i would not have believed it if you hadn't shown me. the trouble is, you are trying to do too much. i--i think i'll take a walk." in fact, he had reached the limit of endurance; he could not look upon her another moment as she appeared that evening and feel that she associated him chiefly with crops and business, and that all her grateful good will could not prevent his personality from being disagreeable. he must carry his bitterness whither no eye could see him, and as he turned, his self-disgust led him to whirl away his pipe. it struck a tree and fell shattered at its foot. alida had never seen him do anything of the kind before, and it indicated that he was passing beyond the limits of patience. "oh, oh," she sobbed, "i fear we are going to drift apart! if he can't endure to talk with me about such things, what chance have i at all? i hoped that the hour, the beauty of the evening, and the evidence that i had been trying so hard to please him would make him more like what he used to be before he seemed to take a dislike. there's only one way to account for it all--he sees how i feel and he doesn't like it. my very love sets him against me. my heart was overflowing tonight. how could i help it, as i remembered how he stood up for me? he was brave and kind; he meant well by me, he means well now; but he can't help his feelings. he has gone away now to think of the woman that he did love and loves still, and it angers him that i should think of taking her place. he loved her as a child and girl and woman--he told me so; he warned me and said he could not help thinking of her. if i had not learned to love him so deeply and passionately and show it in spite of myself, time would gradually have softened the past and all might have gone well. yet how could i help it when he saved me from so much? i feel tonight, though, that i only escaped one kind of trouble to meet another almost as bad and which may become worse." she strolled to the farther end of the garden that she might become calm before meeting jane's scrutiny. useless precaution! for the girl had been watching them both. her motive had not been unmixed curiosity, since, having taken some part in the garden work, she had wished to witness holcroft's pleasure and hear his praises. since the actors in the scene so misunderstood each other, she certainly would not rightly interpret them. "she's losin' her hold on 'im," she thought, "he acted just as if she was mother." when jane saw alida coming toward the house she whisked from the concealing shrubbery to the kitchen again and was stolidly washing the dishes when her mistress entered. "you are slow tonight," said alida, looking at the child keenly, but the impassive face revealed nothing. she set about helping the girl, feeling it would be a relief to keep her hands busy. jane's efforts to comfort were always maladroit, yet the apparent situation so interested her that she yielded to her inclination to talk. "say," she began, and alida was too dejected and weary to correct the child's vernacular, "mr. holcroft's got somethin' on his mind." "well, that's not strange." "no, s'pose not. hate to see 'im look so, though. he always used to look so when mother went for 'im and hung around 'im. at last he cleared mother out, and just before he looked as black as he did when he passed the house while ago. you're good to me, an' i'd like you to stay. 'fi's you i'd leave 'im alone." "jane," said alida coldly, "i don't wish you ever to speak to me of such things again," and she hastily left the room. "oh, well!" muttered jane, "i've got eyes in my head. if you're goin' to be foolish, like mother, and keep a-goin' for 'im, it's your lookout. i kin get along with him and he with me, and i'm goin' to stay." holcroft strode rapidly up the lane to the deep solitude at the edge of his woodland. beneath him lay the farm and the home that he had married to keep, yet now, without a second's hesitation, he would part with all to call his wife wife. how little the name now satisfied him, without the sweet realities of which the word is significant! the term and relation had become a mocking mirage. he almost cursed himself that he had exulted over his increasing bank account and general prosperity, and had complacently assured himself that she was doing just what he had asked, without any sentimental nonsense. "how could i expect it to turn out otherwise?" he thought. "from the first i made her think i hadn't a soul for anything but crops and money. now that she's getting over her trouble and away from it, she's more able to see just what i am, or at least what she naturally thinks i am. but she doesn't understand me--i scarcely understand myself. i long to be a different man in every way, and not to work and live like an ox. here are some of my crops almost ready to gather and they never were better, yet i've no heart for the work. seems to me it'll wear me out if i have to carry this load of trouble all the time. i thought my old burdens hard to bear; i thought i was lonely before, but it was nothing compared with living near one you love, but from whom you are cut off by something you can't see, yet must feel to the bottom of your heart." his distraught eyes rested on the church spire, fading in the twilight, and the little adjoining graveyard. "oh, bessie," he groaned, "why did you die? i was good enough for you. oh! that all had gone on as it was and i had never known--" he stopped, shook his head, and was silent. at last he signed, "i did love bessie. i love and respect her memory as much as ever. but somehow i never felt as i do now. all was quiet and matter-of-fact in those days, yet it was real and satisfying. i was content to live on, one day like another, to the end of my days. if i hadn't been so content it would be better for me now. i'd have a better chance if i had read more, thought more, and fitted myself to be more of a companion for a woman like alida. if i knew a great deal and could talk well, she might forget i'm old and homely. bessie was so true a friend that she would wish, if she knows, what i wish. i thought i needed a housekeeper; i find i need more than all else such a wife as alida could be--one that could help me to be a man instead of a drudge, a christian instead of a discontented and uneasy unbeliever. at one time, it seemed that she was leading me along so naturally and pleasantly that i never was so happy; then all at once it came to me that she was doing it from gratitude and a sense of duty, and the duty grows harder for her every day. well, there seems nothing for it now but to go on as we began and hope that the future will bring us more in sympathy." chapter xxxi. "never!" for the next two or three days jane had no occasion to observe that alida was in the least degree obtrusive in her attention to the farmer. she was assiduous in her work and more diligent than ever in her conscious efforts to do what she thought he wished; but she was growing pale, constrained, and silent. she struggled heroically to appear as at first, but without much success, for she could not rally from the wound he had given her so unintentionally and which jane's words had deepened. she almost loathed herself under her association with mrs. mumpson, and her morbid thoughts had hit upon a worse reason for holcroft's apparent repulsion. as she questioned everything in the sleepless hours that followed the interview in the garden, she came to the miserable conclusion that he had discovered her love, and that by suggestion, natural to his mind, it reminded him of her pitiful story. he could be sorry for her and be kind; he could even be her honest friend and protector as a wronged and unhappy woman, but he could not love one with a history like hers and did not wish her to love him. this seemed an adequate explanation of the change in their relations, but she felt that it was one under which her life would wither and her heart break. this promised to be worse than what she had dreaded at the almshouse--the facing the world alone and working till she died among strangers. the fact that they were strangers would enable her to see their averted faces with comparative indifference, but that the man to whom she had yielded her whole heart should turn away was intolerable. she felt that he could not do this willingly but only under the imperious instincts of his nature--that he was virtually helpless in the matter. there was an element in these thoughts which stung her woman's soul, and, as we have said, she could not rally. holcroft never suspected her morbid thoughts, and his loyal, loving heart was incapable of dreaming of them. he only grew more unhappy as he saw the changes in her, for he regarded himself as the cause. yet he was perplexed and unable to account for her rapidly increasing pallor while he continued so kind, considerate, and especially so unobtrusive. he assuredly thought he was showing a disposition to give her all the time she wished to become reconciled to her lot. "thunder!" he said to himself, "we can't grow old together without getting used to each other." on saturday noon, at dinner, he remarked, "i shall have to begin haying on monday and so i'll take everything to town this afternoon, for i won't be able to go again for some days. is there anything you'd like me to get, mrs. holcroft?" she shook her head. "i don't need anything," she replied. he looked at her downcast face with troubled eyes and shivered. "she looks as if she were going to be sick," he thought. "good lord! i feel as if there was nothing but trouble ahead. every mouthful i take seems to choke me." a little later he pushed away almost untasted a piece of delicious cherry pie, the first of the season. alida could scarcely keep the tears back as she thought, "there was a time when he would have praised it without stint. i took so much pains with it in the hope he'd notice, for he once said he was very fond of it." such were the straws that were indicating the deep, dark currents. as he rose, she said almost apathetically in her dejection, "mr. holcroft, jane and i picked a basket of the early cherries. you may as well sell them, for there are plenty left on the tree for us." "that was too much for you to do in the hot sun. well, i'll sell 'em and add what they bring to your egg money in the bank. you'll get rich," he continued, trying to smile, "if you don't spend more." "i don't wish to spend anything," she said, turning away with the thought, "how can he think i want finery when my heart is breaking?" holcroft drove away, looking and feeling as if he were going to a funeral. at last he broke out, "i can't stand this another day. tomorrow's sunday, and i'll manage to send jane somewhere or take alida out to walk and tell her the whole truth. she shall be made to see that i can't help myself and that i'm willing to do anything she wishes. she's married to me and has got to make the best of it, and i'm sure i'm willing to make it as easy as i can." jane was a little perplexed at the condition of affairs. mrs. holcroft had left her husband alone as far as possible, as she had advised, but apparently it had not helped matters much. but she believed that the trouble she had witnessed bode her no ill and so was inclined to regard it philosophically. "he looks almost as glum, when he's goin' round alone, as if he'd married mother. she talked too much, and that didn't please him; this one talks less and less, and he don't seem pleased, nuther, but it seems to me he's very foolish to be so fault-findin' when she does everything for him top-notch. i never lived so well in my life, nor he, nuther, i believe. he must be in a bad way when he couldn't eat that cherry pie." alida was so weary and felt so ill that she went to the parlor and lay down upon the lounge. "my heart feels as if it were bleeding slowly away," she murmured. "if i'm going to be sick the best thing i can do is to die and end it all," and she gave way to that deep dejection in which there seems no remedy for trouble. the hours dragged slowly by; jane finished her household tasks very leisurely, then taking a basket, went out to the garden to pick some early peas. while thus engaged, she saw a man coming up the lane. his manner instantly riveted her attention and awakened her curiosity, and she crouched lower behind the pea vines for concealment. all her furtive, watchful instincts were awake, and her conscience was clear, too, for certainly she had a right to spy upon a stranger. the man seemed almost as furtive as herself; his eyes were everywhere and his step slow and hesitating. instead of going directly to the house he cautiously entered the barn, and she heard him a little later call mr. holcroft. of course there was no answer, and as if reassured, he approached the house, looking here and there on every side, seemingly to see if anyone was about. jane had associated with men and boys too long to have any childlike timidity, and she also had just confidence in her skulking and running powers. "after all, he don't want nothin' of me and won't hurt me," she reasoned. "he acts mighty queer though and i'm goin' to hear what he says." the moment he passed the angle of the house she dodged around to its rear and stole into the dairy room, being well aware that from this position she could overhear words spoken in ordinary conversational tones in the apartment above. she had barely gained her ambush when she heard alida half shriek, "henry ferguson!" it was indeed the man who had deceived her that had stolen upon her solitude. his somewhat stealthy approach had been due to the wish and expectation of finding her alone, and he had about convinced himself that she was so by exploring the barn and observing the absence of the horses and wagon. cunning and unscrupulous, it was his plan to appear before the woman who had thought herself his wife, without any warning whatever, believing that in the tumult of her surprise and shock she would be off her guard and that her old affection would reassert itself. he passed through the kitchen to the parlor door. alida, in her deep, painful abstraction, did not hear him until he stood in the doorway, and, with outstretched arms, breathed her name. then, as if struck a blow, she had sprung to her feet, half shrieked his name and stood panting, regarding him as if he were a specter. "your surprise is natural, alida, dear," he said gently, "but i've a right to come to you, for my wife is dead," and he advanced toward her. "stand back!" she cried sternly. "you've no right, and never can have." "oh, yes, i have!" he replied in a wheedling tone. "come, come! your nerves are shaken. sit down, for i've much to tell you." "no, i won't sit down, and i tell you to leave me instantly. you've no right here and i no right to listen to you." "i can soon prove that you have a better right to listen to me than to anyone else. were we not married by a minister?" "yes, but that made no difference. you deceived both him and me." "it made no difference, perhaps, in the eye of the law, while that woman you saw was living, but she's dead, as i can easily prove. how were you married to this man holcroft?" alida grew dizzy; everything whirled and grew black before her eyes as she sank into a chair. he came to her and took her hand, but his touch was a most effectual restorative. she threw his hand away and said hoarsely, "do you--do you mean that you have any claim on me?" "who has a better claim?" he asked cunningly. "i loved you when i married you and i love you now. do you think i rested a moment after i was free from the woman i detested? no, indeed; nor did i rest till i found out who took you from the almshouse to be his household drudge, not wife. i've seen the justice who aided in the wedding farce, and learned how this man holcroft made him cut down even the ceremony of a civil marriage to one sentence. it was positively heathenish, and he only took you because he couldn't get a decent servant to live with him." "o god!" murmured the stricken woman. "can such a horrible thing be?" "so it seems," he resumed, misinterpreting her. "come now!" he said confidently, and sitting down, "don't look so broken up about it. even while that woman was living i felt that i was married to you and you only; now that i'm free--" "but i'm not free and don't wish to be." "don't be foolish, alida. you know this farmer don't care a rap for you. own up now, does he?" the answer was a low, half-despairing cry. "there, i knew it was so. what else could you expect? don't you see i'm your true refuge and not this hard-hearted, money-grasping farmer?" "stop speaking against him!" she cried. "o god!" she wailed, "can the law give this man any claim on me, now his wife is dead?" "yes, and one i mean to enforce," he replied doggedly. "i don't believe she's dead, i don't believe anything you say! you deceived me once. "i'm not deceiving you now, alida," he said with much solemnity. "she is dead. if you were calmer, i have proofs to convince you in these papers. here's the newspaper, too, containing the notice of her death," and he handed it to her. she read it with her frightened eyes, and then the paper dropped from her half-paralyzed hands to the floor. she was so unsophisticated, and her brain was in such a whirl of confusion and terror, that she was led to believe at the moment that he had a legal claim upon her which he could enforce. "oh, that mr. holcroft were here!" she cried desperately. "he wouldn't deceive me; he never deceived me." "it is well for him that he isn't here," said ferguson, assuming a dark look. "what do you mean?" she gasped. "come, come, alida!" he said, smiling reassuringly. "you are frightened and nervous, and i don't wish to make you any more so. you know how i would naturally regard the man who i feel has my wife; but let us forget about him. listen to my plan. all i ask of you is to go with me to some distant place where neither of us are known, and--" "never!" she interrupted. "don't say that," he replied coolly. "do you think i'm a man to be trifled with after what i've been through?" "you can't compel me to go against my will," and there was an accent of terror in her words which made them a question. he saw his vantage more clearly and said quietly, "i don't want to compel you if it can be helped. you know how true i was to you--" "no, no! you deceived me. i won't believe you now." "you may have to. at any rate, you know how fond i was of you, and i tell you plainly, i won't give you up now. this man doesn't love you, nor do you love him--" "i do love him, i'd die for him! there now, you know the truth. you wouldn't compel a woman to follow you who shrinks from you in horror, even if you had the right. although the ceremony was brief it was a ceremony; and he was not married then, as you were when you deceived me. he has ever been truth itself, and i won't believe you have any rights till he tells me so himself." "so you shrink from me with horror, do you?" asked ferguson, rising, his face growing black with passion. "yes, i do. now leave me and let me never see you again." "and you are going to ask this stupid old farmer about my rights?" "yes. i'll take proof of them from no other, and even if he confirmed your words i'd never live with you again. i would live alone till i died!" "that's all very foolish high tragedy, but if you're not careful there may be some real tragedy. if you care for this holcroft, as you say, you had better go quietly away with me." "what do you mean?" she faltered tremblingly. "i mean i'm a desperate man whom the world has wronged too much already. you know the old saying, 'beware of the quiet man!' you know how quiet, contented, and happy i was with you, and so i would be again to the end of my days. you are the only one who can save me from becoming a criminal, a vagabond, for with you only have i known happiness. why should i live or care to live? if this farmer clod keeps you from me, woe betide him! my one object in living will be his destruction. i shall hate him only as a man robbed as i am can hate." "what would you do?" she could only ask in a horrified whisper. "i can only tell you that he'd never be safe a moment. i'm not afraid of him. you see i'm armed," and he showed her a revolver. "he can't quietly keep from me what i feel is my own." "merciful heaven! this is terrible," she gasped. "of course it's terrible--i mean it to be so. you can't order me off as if i were a tramp. your best course for his safety is to go quietly with me at once. i have a carriage waiting near at hand." "no, no! i'd rather die than do that, and though he cannot feel as i do, i believe he'd rather die than have me do it." "oh, well! if you think he's so ready to die--" "no, i don't mean that! kill me! i want to die." "why should i kill you?" he asked with a contemptuous laugh. "that wouldn't do me a particle of good. it will be your own fault if anyone is hurt." "was ever a woman put in such a cruel position?" "oh, yes! many and many a time. as a rule, though, they are too sensible and kind-hearted to make so much trouble." "if you have legal rights, why don't you quietly enforce them instead of threatening?" for a moment he was confused and then said recklessly, "it would come to the same thing in the end. holcroft would never give you up." "he'd have to. i wouldn't stay here a moment if i had no right." "but you said you would not live with me again?" "nor would i. i'd go back to the poorhouse and die there, for do you think i could live after another such experience? but my mind has grown clearer. you are deceiving me again, and mr. holcroft is incapable of deceiving me. he would never have called me his wife unless i was his wife before god and man." "i'm not deceiving you in regard to one thing!" he said tragically. "o god, what shall i do?" "if you won't go with me you must leave him," he replied, believing that, if this step were taken, others would follow. "if i leave him--if i go away and live alone, will you promise to do him no harm?" "i'd have no motive to harm him then, which will be better security than a promise. at the same time i do promise." "and you will also promise to leave me utterly alone?" "if i can." "you must promise never even to tempt me to think of going away. i'd rather you'd shot me than ask it. i'm not a weak, timid girl. i'm a broken-hearted woman who fears some things far more than death." "if you have any fears for holcroft, they are very rational ones." "it is for his sake that i would act. i would rather suffer anything and lose everything than have harm come to him." "all i can say is that, if you will leave him completely and finally, i will let him alone. but you must do it promptly. everything depends upon this. i'm in too reckless and bitter a mood to be trifled with. besides, i've plenty of money and could escape from the country in twenty-four hours. you needn't think you can tell this story to holcroft and that he can protect you and himself. i'm here under an assumed name and have seen no one who knows me. i may have to disappear for a time and be disguised when i come again, but i pledge you my word he'll never be safe as long as you are under his roof." "then i will sacrifice myself for him," she said, pallid even to her lips. "i will go away. but never dream that you can come near me again--you who deceived and wronged me, and now, far worse, threaten the man i love." "we'll see about that," he replied cynically. "at any rate, you will have left him." "go!" she said imperiously. "i'll take a kiss first, sweetheart," he said, advancing with a sardonic smile. "jane!" she shrieked. he paused, and she saw evidences of alarm. the girl ran lightly out of the dairy room, where she had been a greedy listener to all that had been said, and a moment later appeared in the yard before the house. "yes'm," she answered. "be careful now, sir," said alida sternly. "there's a witness." "only a little idiotic-looking girl." "she's not idiotic, and if you touch me the compact's broken." "very well, my time will come. remember, you've been warned," and he pulled his hat over his eyes and strode away. "bah!" said jane with a snicker, "as if i hadn't seen his ugly mug so i'd know it 'mong a thousand." with a face full of loathing and dread, alida watched her enemy disappear down the lane, and then, half fainting, sank on the lounge. "jane!" she called feebly, but there was no answer. chapter xxxii. jane plays mouse to the lion it can well be understood that jane had no disposition to return to mrs. holcroft and the humdrum duties of the house. there opened before her an exciting line of action which fully accorded with her nature, and she entered upon it at once. her first impulse was to follow the man of whom she had learned so much. not only was she spurred to this course by her curiosity, but also by her instinctive loyalty to holcroft, and, it must be admitted, by her own interests. poor little jane had been nurtured in a hard school, and had by this time learned the necessity of looking out for herself. this truth, united with her shrewd, matter-of-fact mind, led her to do the most sensible thing under the circumstances. "i know a lot now that he'll be glad to know, and if i tell him everything he'll keep me always. the first thing he'll want to know is what's become of that threatenin' scamp," and she followed ferguson with the stealth of an indian. ferguson was not only a scamp, but, like most of his class, a coward. he had been bitterly disappointed in his interview with alida. as far as his selfish nature permitted, he had a genuine affection for her, and he had thought of little else besides her evident fondness for him. he was so devoid of moral principle that he could not comprehend a nature like hers, and had scarcely believed it possible that she would repulse him so inflexibly. she had always been so gentle, yielding, and subservient to his wishes that he had thought that, having been assured of his wife's death, a little persuasion and perhaps a few threats would induce her to follow him, for he could not imagine her becoming attached to such a man as holcroft had been described to be. her uncompromising principle had entered but slightly into his calculations, and so, under the spur of anger and selfishness, he had easily entered upon a game of bluff he knew well enough that he had no claim upon alida, yet it was in harmony with his false heart to try to make her think so. he had no serious intention of harming holcroft--he would be afraid to attempt this--but if he could so work on alida's fears as to induce her to leave her husband, he believed that the future would be full of possibilities. at any rate, he would find his revenge in making alida and holcroft all the trouble possible. even in the excitement of the interview, however, he realized that he was playing a dangerous game, and when jane answered so readily to alida's call he was not a little disturbed. satisfied that he had accomplished all that he could hope for at present, his purpose now was to get back to town unobserved and await developments. he therefore walked rapidly down the lane and pursued the road for a short distance until he came to an old, disused lane, leading up the hillside into a grove where he had concealed a horse and buggy. unless there should be necessity, it was his intention to remain in his hiding place until after nightfall. jane had merely to skirt the bushy hillside higher up, in order to keep ferguson in view and discover the spot in which he was lurking. instead of returning to the house she kept right on, maintaining a sharp eye on the road beneath to make sure that holcroft did not pass unobserved. by an extended detour, she reached the highway and continued toward town in the hope of meeting the farmer. at last she saw him driving rapidly homeward. he was consumed with anxiety to be at least near to alida, even if, as he believed, he was no longer welcome in her presence. when jane stepped out into the road he pulled up his horses and stared at her. she, almost bursting with her great secrets, put her finger on her lips and nodded portentously. "well, what is it?" he asked, his heart beating quickly. "i've got a lot to tell yer, but don't want no one to see us." "about my wife?" the girl nodded. "good god! speak then. is she sick?" and he sprung out and caught her arm with a grip that hurt her. "please, sir, i'm doin' all i kin for yer and--and you hurt me." holcroft saw the tears coming to her eyes and he released his hold as he said, "forgive me, jane, i didn't mean to; but for mercy's sake, tell your story." "it's a long 'un." "well, well, give me the gist of it in a word." "i guess she's goin' to run away." holcroft groaned and almost staggered to his horses' heads, then led them to the roadside and tied them to a tree. sitting down, as if too weak to stand, he buried his face in his hands. he could not bear to have jane see his distress. "tell your story," he said hoarsely, "quick, for i may have to act quickly." "guess yer will. did yer know she was married?" "certainly--to me." "no, to another man--married by a minister. he's been there with her." she little foresaw the effect of her words, for the farmer bounded to his feet with an oath and sprang to his horses. "stop!" cried jane, tugging at his arm. "if you go rushin' home now, you'll show you've got no more sense than mother. you'll spoil everything. she aint goin' to run away with him--she said she wouldn't, though he coaxed and threatened to kill yer if she didn't. 'fi's a man i wouldn't act like a mad bull. i'd find out how to get ahead of t'other man." "well," said holcroft, in a voice that frightened the child, "she said she wouldn't run away with this scoundrel--of course not--but you say she's going to leave. she'll meet him somewhere--good god! but how should you understand? come, let me get home!" "i understand a sight more'n you do, and you go on so that i can't tell you anything. if you showed sense, you'd be glad i was lookin' out for you so i could tell you everything. what's the good of goin' rampaigin' home when, if you'd only listen, you could get even with that scoundrel, as yer call 'im, and make all right," and jane began to cry. "oh, thunder!" exclaimed the chafing man, "tell me your story at once, or you'll drive me mad. you don't half know what you're talking about or how much your words mean--how should you? the thing to do is to get home as soon as possible." "you aint no reason to be so mad and glum all the while," cried jane, smarting under a sense of injustice. "here i'm a-tryin' to do for you, and you'll be sorry ernuff if you don't stop and listen. and she's been a-tryin' to do for you all along, and she's been standin' up for you this afternoon, and is goin' to run away to save your life." "run away to save my life? are you crazy?" "no, but you be," cried the girl, excited and exasperated beyond restraint. "if she is your wife i'd stand up for her and take care of her, since she stands up for you so. 'stead of that, you go round as glum as a thundercloud and now want to go ragin' home to her. dunno whether she's your wife or not, but i do know she said she loved you and 'ud die for you, and she wouldn't do a thing that man asked but go away to save your life." holcroft looked at the girl as if dazed. "said she loved me?" he repeated slowly. "of course! you knowed that all 'long--anybody could see it--an' you don't treat her much better'n you did mother." then, with an impatient gesture, she asked, "will you sit down and listen?" "no, i won't!" he cried, springing toward his horses. "i'll find out if your words are true." "oh, yes!" said jane contemptuously; "run right to her to find out somethin' as plain as the nose on her face, and run right by the man that was threatenin' her and you too." wheeling round, he asked, "where is he?" "i know, but i won't say 'nuther word till you stop goin' on. 'fi's a man i'd find out what to do 'fore i did anythin'." jane had little comprehension of the tempest she had raised in holcroft's soul or its causes, and so was in no mood to make allowances for him. by this time, the first gust of his passion was passing and reason resuming its sway. he paced up and down in the road a moment or two, and then sat down as he said, "i don't half understand what you've been talking about and i fear you don't. you've evidently been listening and watching and have got hold of something. now, i'll be as patient as i can if you'll tell me the whole story quickly," and he turned his flushed, quivering face toward her. "then i s'pose you'll scold me for listenin' and watchin' that scamp," said the girl sullenly. "no, jane, not in this case. unless your impressions are all mistaken i may have to thank you all my life. i'm not one to forget those who are true to me. now, begin at the beginning and go right through to the end; then i may understand better than you can." jane did as she was told, and many "says he's" and "says she's" followed in her literal narrative. holroft again dropped his face into his hands, and before she was through, tears of joy trickled through his fingers. when she finished, he arose, turned away, and hastily wiped his eyes, then gave the girl his hand as he said, "thank you, jane. you've tried to be a true friend to me today. i'll show you that i don't forget. i was a fool to get in such a rage, but you can't understand and must forgive me. come, you see i'm quiet now," and he untied the horses and lifted her into his wagon. "what yer doin' to do?" she asked, as they drove away. "i'm going to reward you for watching and listening to that scoundrel, but you must not watch me or mrs. holcroft, or listen to what we say unless we speak before you. if you do, i shall be very angry. now, you've only one thing more to do and that is, show me where this man is hiding." "but you won't go near him alone?" inquired jane in much alarm. "you must do as i bid you," he replied sternly. "show me where he's hiding, then stay by the wagon and horses." "but he same as said he'd kill you." "you have your orders," was his quiet reply. she looked scared enough, but remained silent until they reached a shaded spot on the road, then said, "if you don't want him to see you too soon, better tie here. he's around yonder, in a grove up on the hill." holcroft drove to a tree by the side of the highway and again tied his horses, then took the whip from the wagon. "are you afraid to go with me a little way and show me just where he is?" he asked. "no, but you oughtn' ter go." "come on, then! you must mind me if you wish to keep my good will. i know what i'm about." as in his former encounter, his weapon was again a long, tough whipstock with a leather thong attached. this he cut off and put in his pocket, then followed jane's rapid lead up the hill. very soon she said, "there's the place i saw 'im in. if you will go, i'd steal up on him." "yes. you stay here." she made no reply, but the moment he disappeared she was upon his trail. her curiosity was much greater than her timidity, and she justly reasoned that she had little to fear. holcroft approached from a point whence ferguson was expecting no danger. the latter was lying on the ground, gnawing his nails in vexation, when he first heard the farmer's step. then he saw a dark-visaged man rushing upon him. in the impulse of his terror, he drew his revolver and fired. the ball hissed near, but did no harm, and before ferguson could use the weapon again, a blow from the whipstock paralyzed his arm and the pistol dropped to the ground. so also did its owner a moment later, under a vindictive rain of blows, until he shrieked for mercy. "don't move!" said holcroft sternly, and he picked up the revolver. "so you meant to kill me, eh?" "no, no! i didn't. i wouldn't have fired if it hadn't been in self-defense and because i hadn't time to think." he spoke with difficulty, for his mouth was bleeding and he was terribly bruised. "a liar, too!" said the farmer, glowering down upon him. "but i knew that before. what did you mean by your threats to my wife?" "see here, mr. holcroft; i'm down and at your mercy. if you'll let me off i'll go away and never trouble you or your wife again." "oh, no!" said holcroft with a bitter laugh. "you'll never, never trouble us again." "what, do you mean to murder me?" ferguson half shrieked. "would killing such a thing as you be murder? any jury in the land would acquit me. you ought to be roasted over a slow fire." the fellow tried to scramble on his knees, but holcroft hit him another savage blow, and said, "lie still!" ferguson began to wring his hands and beg for mercy. his captor stood over him a moment or two irresolutely in his white-heated anger; then thoughts of his wife began to soften him. he could not go to her with blood on his hands--she who had taught him such lessons of forbearance and forgiveness. he put the pistol in his pocket and giving his enemy a kick, said, "get up!" the man rose with difficulty. "i won't waste time in asking any promises from you, but if you ever trouble my wife or me again, i'll break every bone in your body. go, quick, before my mood changes, and don't say a word." as the man tremblingly untied his horse, jane stepped out before him and said, "i'm a little idiotic girl, am i?" he was too thoroughly cowed to make any reply and drove as rapidly away as the ground permitted, guiding his horse with difficulty in his maimed condition. jane, in the exuberance of her pleasure, began something like a jig on the scene of conflict, and her antics were so ridiculous that holcroft had to turn away to repress a smile. "you didn't mind me, jane," he said gravely. "well, sir," she replied, "after showin' you the way to 'im, you oughter not grudge me seein' the fun." "but it isn't nice for little girls to see such things." "never saw anything nicer in my life. you're the kind of man i believe in, you are. golly! only wished she'd seen you. i've seen many a rough and tumble 'mong farm hands, but never anything like this. it was only his pistol i was 'fraid of." "will you do exactly what i say now?" she nodded. "well, go home across the fields and don't by word or manner let mrs. holcroft know what you've seen or heard, and say nothing about meeting me. just make her think you know nothing at all and that you only watched the man out of sight. do this and i'll give you a new dress." "i'd like somethin' else 'sides that." "well, what?" "i'd like to be sure i could stay right on with you." "yes, jane, after today, as long as you're a good girl. now go, for i must get back to my team before this scamp goes by." she darted homeward as the farmer returned to his wagon. ferguson soon appeared and seemed much startled as he saw his nemesis again. "i'll keep my word," he said, as he drove by. "you'd better!" called the farmer. "you know what to expect now." alida was so prostrated by the shock of the interview that she rallied slowly. at last she saw that it was getting late and that she soon might expect the return of her husband. she dragged herself to the door and again called jane, but the place was evidently deserted. evening was coming on tranquilly, with all its sweet june sounds, but now every bird song was like a knell. she sunk on the porch seat and looked at the landscape, already so dear and familiar, as if she were taking a final farewell of a friend. then she turned to the homely kitchen to which she had first been brought. "i can do a little more for him," she thought, "before i make the last sacrifice which will soon bring the end. i think i could have lived--lived, perhaps, till i was old, if i had gone among strangers from the almshouse, but i can't now. my heart is broken. now that i've seen that man again i understand why my husband cannot love me. even the thought of touching me must make him shudder. but i can't bear up under such a load much longer, and that's my comfort. it's best i should go away now; i couldn't do otherwise," and the tragedy went on in her soul as she feebly prepared her husband's meal. at last jane came in with her basket of peas. her face was so impassive as to suggest that she had no knowledge of anything except that there had been a visitor, and alida had sunk into such depths of despairing sorrow that she scarcely noticed the child. chapter xxxiii. "shrink from you?" holcroft soon came driving slowly up the lane as if nothing unusual was on his mind. having tied his horses, he brought in an armful of bundles and said kindly, "well, alida, here i am again, and i guess i've brought enough to last well through haying time." "yes," she replied with averted face. this did not trouble him any now, but her extreme pallor did and he added, "you don't look well. i wouldn't mind getting much supper tonight. let jane do the work." "i'd rather do it," she replied. "oh, well!" laughing pleasantly, "you shall have your own way. who has a better right than you, i'd like to know?" "don't speak that way," she said, almost harshly, under the tension of her feelings. "i--i can't stand it. speak and look as you did before you went away." "jane," said the farmer, "go and gather the eggs." as soon as they were alone, he began gently, "alida--" "please don't speak so to me today. i've endured all i can. i can't keep up another minute unless you let things go on as they were. tomorrow i'll try to tell you all. it's your right." "i didn't mean to say anything myself till after supper, and perhaps not till tomorrow, but i think i'd better. it will be better for us both, and our minds will be more at rest. come with me into the parlor, alida." "well, perhaps the sooner it's over the better," she said faintly and huskily. she sunk on the lounge and looked at him with such despairing eyes that tears came into his own. "alida," he began hesitatingly, "after i left you this noon i felt i must speak with and be frank with you." "no, no!!" she cried, with an imploring gesture, "if it must be said, let me say it. i couldn't endure to hear it from you. before you went away i understood it all, and this afternoon the truth has been burned into my soul. that horrible man has been here--the man i thought my husband--and he has made it clearer, if possible. i don't blame you that you shrink from me as if i were a leper. i feel as if i were one." "i shrink from you!" he exclaimed. "yes. can you think i haven't seen the repugnance growing in spite of yourself? when i thought of that man--especially when he came today--i understood why too well. i cannot stay here any longer. you'd try to be kind and considerate, but i'd know how you felt all the time. it would not be safe for you and it would not be right for me to stay, either, and that settles it. be--be as kind to me--as you can a few--a few hours longer, and then let me go quietly." her self-control gave way, and burying her face in her hands, she sobbed convulsively. in a moment he was on his knees beside her, with his arm about her waist. "alida, dear alida!" he cried, "we've both been in the dark about each other. what i resolved to do, when i started for town, was to tell you that i had learned to love you and to throw myself on your mercy. i thought you saw i was loving you and that you couldn't bear to think of such a thing in an old, homely fellow like me. that was all that was in my mind, so help me god!" "but--but he's been here," she faltered; "you don't realize--" "i don't believe i do or can, yet, alida, dear, but that blessed jane's spying trait has served me the best turn in the world. she heard every brave word you said and i shed tears of joy when she told me; and tears are slow coming to my eyes. you think i shrink from you, do you?" and he kissed her hands passionately. "see," he cried, "i kneel to you in gratitude for all you've been to me and are to me." "oh, james! please rise. it's too much." "no, not till you promise to go with me to a minister and hear me promise to love, cherish--yes, in your case i'll promise to obey." she bowed her head upon his shoulder in answer. springing up, he clasped her close and kissed away her tears as he exclaimed, "no more business marriage for me, if you please. there never was a man so in love with his wife." suddenly she looked up and said fearfully, "james, he threatened you. he said you'd never be safe a moment as long as i stayed here." his answer was a peal of laughter. "i've done more than threaten him. i've whipped him within an inch of his life, and it was the thought of you that led me, in my rage, to spare his life. i'll tell you all--i'm going to tell you everything now. how much trouble i might have saved if i had told you my thoughts! what was there, alida, in an old fellow like me that led you to care so?" looking up shyly, she replied, "i think it was the man in you--and--then you stood up for me so." "well, love is blind, i suppose, but it don't seem to me that mine is. there never was a man so taken in at his marriage. you were so different from what i expected that i began loving you before i knew it, but i thought you were good to me just as you were to jane--from a sense of duty--and that you couldn't abide me personally. so i tried to keep out of your way. and, alida, dear, i thought at first that i was taken by your good traits and your education and all that, but i found out at last that i had fallen in love with you. now you know all. you feel better now, don't you?" "yes," she breathed softly. "you've had enough to wear a saint out," he continued kindly. "lie down on the lounge and i'll bring your supper to you." "no, please! it will do me more good to go on and act as if nothing had happened." "well, have your own way, little wife. you're boss now, sure enough." she drew him to the porch, and together they looked upon the june landscape which she had regarded with such despairing eyes an hour before. "happiness never kills, after all," she said. "shouldn't be alive if it did," he replied. "the birds seem to sing as if they knew." jane emerged from the barn door with a basket of eggs, and alida sped away to meet her. the first thing the child knew the arms of her mistress were about her neck and she was kissed again and again. "what did you do that for?" she asked. "you'll understand some day." "say," said jane in an impulse of good will, "if you're only half married to mr. holcroft, i'd go the whole figure, 'fi's you. if you'd 'a' seen him a-thrashin' that scamp you'd know he's the man to take care of you." "yes, jane, i know. he'll take care of me always." the next morning holcroft and alida drove to town and went to the church which she and her mother used to attend. after the service they followed the clergyman home, where alida again told him her story, though not without much help from the farmer. after some kindly reproach that she had not brought her troubles to him at first, the minister performed a ceremony which found deep echoes in both their hearts. time and right, sensible living soon remove prejudice from the hearts of the good and stop the mouths of the cynical and scandal-loving. alida's influence, and the farmer's broadening and more unselfish views gradually bought him into a better understanding of his faith, and into a kinder sympathy and charity for his neighbors than he had ever known. his relations to the society of which he was a part became natural and friendly, and his house a pretty and a hospitable home. even mrs. watterly eventually entered its portals. she and others were compelled to agree with watterly that alida was not of the "common sort," and that the happiest good fortune which could befall any man had come to holcroft when he fell in love with his wife. marie a story of russian love by alexander pushkin translated by marie h. de zielinska contents. i. the sergeant of the guards. ii. the guide. iii. the fortress. iv. the duel. v. love. vi. pougatcheff. vii. the assault. viii. the unexpected visit. ix. the separation. x. the siege. xi. the rebel camp. xii. marie. xiii. the arrest. xiv. the sentence. translator’s note. alexander pushkin, the most distinguished poet of russia, was born at saint petersburg, . when only twenty-one years of age he entered the civil service in the department of foreign affairs. lord byron’s writings and efforts for greek independence exercised great influence over pushkin, whose “ode to liberty” cost him his freedom. he was exiled to bessarabia [a region of moldova and western ukraine] from to , whence he returned at the accession of the new emperor, nicholas, who made him historiographer of peter the great. pushkin’s friends now looked upon him as a traitor to the cause of liberty. it is not improbable that an enforced residence at the mouth of the danube somewhat cooled his patriotic enthusiasm. every autumn, his favorite season for literary production, he usually passed at his country seat in the province pekoff. here from to he published “pultowa,” “boris godunoff,” “eugene onegin,” and “ruslaw and ludmila,” a tale in verse, after the manner of ariosto’s “orlando furioso.” this is considered as the first great poetical work in the russian language, though the critics of the day attacked it, because it was beyond their grasp; but the public devoured it. in pushkin married, and soon after appeared his charming novel, “marie,” a picture of garrison life on the russian plains. peter and marie of this northern story are as pure as their native snows, and whilst listening to the recital, we inhale the odor of the steppe, and catch glimpses of the semi-barbarous kalmouk and the cossack of the don. a duel with his brother-in-law terminated the life of pushkin in the splendor of his talent. the emperor munificently endowed the poet’s family, and ordered a superb edition of all his works to be published at the expense of the crown. his death was mourned by his countrymen as a national calamity. m. h. de z. chicago, nov. , . marie. i. the sergeant of the guards. my father, andrew peter grineff, having served in his youth under count munich, left the army in --, with the grade of first major. from that time he lived on his estate in the principality of simbirsk, where he married avoditia, daughter of a poor noble in the neighborhood. of nine children, the issue of this marriage, i was the only survivor. my brothers and sisters died in childhood. through the favor of a near relative of ours, prince b---, himself a major in the guards, i was enrolled sergeant of the guards in the regiment of semenofski. it was understood that i was on furlough till my education should be finished. from my fifth year i was confided to the care of an old servant saveliitch, whose steadiness promoted him to the rank of my personal attendant. thanks to his care, when i was twelve years of age i knew how to read and write, and could make a correct estimate of the points of a hunting dog. at this time, to complete my education, my father engaged upon a salary a frenchman, m. beaupre, who was brought from moscow with one year’s provision of wine and oil from provence. his arrival of course displeased saveliitch. beaupre had been in his own country a valet, in prussia a soldier, then he came to russia to be a tutor, not knowing very well what the word meant in our language. he was a good fellow, astonishingly gay and absent-minded. his chief foible was a passion for the fair sex. nor was he, to use his own expression, an enemy to the bottle--that is to say, _a la russe_, he loved drink. but as at home wine was offered only at table, and then in small glasses, and as, moreover, on these occasions, the servants passed by the pedagogue, beaupre soon accustomed himself to russian brandy, and, in time, preferred it, as a better tonic, to the wines of his native country. we became great friends, and although according to contract he was engaged to teach me french, german, and _all the sciences_, yet he was content that i should teach him to chatter russian. but as each of us minded his own business, our friendship was constant, and i desired no mentor. however, destiny very soon separated us, in consequence of an event which i will relate. our laundress, a fat girl all scarred by small-pox, and our dairymaid, who was blind of an eye, agreed, one fine day, to throw themselves at my mother’s feet and accuse the frenchman of trifling with their innocence and inexperience! my mother would have no jesting upon this point, and she in turn complained to my father, who, like a man of business, promptly ordered “that dog of a frenchman” into his presence. the servant informed him meekly that beaupre was at the moment engaged in giving me a lesson. my father rushed to my room. beaupre was sleeping upon his bed the sleep of innocence. i was deep in a most interesting occupation. they had brought from moscow, for me, a geographical map, which hung unused against the wall; the width and strength of its paper had been to me a standing temptation. i had determined to make a kite of it, and profiting that morning by beaupre’s sleep, i had set to work. my father came in just as i was tying a tail to the cape of good hope! seeing my work, he seized me by the ear and shook me soundly; then rushing to beaupre’s bed, awakened him without hesitating, pouring forth a volley of abuse upon the head of the unfortunate frenchman. in his confusion beaupre tried in vain to rise; the poor pedagogue was dead drunk! my father caught him by the coat-collar and flung him out of the room. that day he was dismissed, to the inexpressible delight of saveliitch. thus ended my education. i now lived in the family as the eldest son, not of age whose career is yet to open; amusing myself teaching pigeons to tumble on the roof, and playing leap-frog in the stable-yard with the grooms. in this way i reached my sixteenth year. one autumn day, my mother was preserving fruit with honey in the family room, and i, smacking my lips, was looking at the liquid boiling; my father, seated near the window, had just opened the _court almanac_ which he received every year. this book had great influence over him; he read it with extreme attention, and reading prodigiously stirred up his bile. my mother, knowing by heart all his ways and oddities, used to try to hide the miserable book, and often whole months would pass without a sight of it. but, in revenge whenever he did happen to find it, he would sit for hours with the book before his eyes. well, my father was reading the _court almanac_, frequently shrugging his shoulders, and murmuring: “‘general!’ umph, he was a sergeant in my company. ‘knight of the orders of russia.’ can it be so long since we--?” finally he flung the _almanac_ away on the sofa and plunged into deep thought; a proceeding that never presaged anything good. “avoditia,” said he, brusquely, to my mother, “how old is peter?” “his seventeenth precious year has just begun,” said my mother. “peter was born the year aunt anastasia lost her eye, and that was--” “well, well,” said my father, “it is time he should join the army. it is high time he should give up his nurse, leap-frog and pigeon training.” the thought of a separation so affected my poor mother that she let the spoon fall into the preserving pan, and tears rained from her eyes. as for me, it is difficult to express my joy. the idea of army service was mingled in my head with that of liberty, and the pleasures offered by a great city like saint petersburg. i saw myself an officer in the guards, which, in my opinion was the height of felicity. as my father neither liked to change his plans, nor delay their execution, the day of my departure was instantly fixed. that evening, saying that he would give me a letter to my future chief, he called for writing materials. “do not forget, andrew,” said my mother, “to salute for me prince b. tell him that i depend upon his favor for my darling peter.” “what nonsense,” said my father, frowning, “why should i write to prince b.?” “you have just said that you would write to peter’s future chief.” “well, what then?” “prince b. is his chief. you know very well that peter is enrolled in the semenofski regiment.” “enrolled! what’s that to me? enrolled or not enrolled, he shall not go to saint petersburg. what would he learn there? extravagance and folly. no! let him serve in the army, let him smell powder, let him be a soldier and not a do-nothing in the guards; let him wear the straps of his knapsack out. where is the certificate of his birth and baptism?” my mother brought the certificate, which she kept in a little box with my baptismal robe, and handed it to my father. he read it, placed it before him on the table, and commenced his letter. i was devoured by curiosity. where am i going, thought i, if not to saint petersburg? i did not take my eyes from the pen which my father moved slowly across the paper. at last, the letter finished, he put it and my certificate under the same envelope, took off his spectacles, called me and said: “this letter is addressed to andrew karlovitch, my old friend and comrade. you are going to orenbourg to serve under orders.” all my brilliant dreams vanished. in place of the gay life of saint petersburg, ennui awaited me in a wild and distant province of the empire. military life seemed now a calamity. the next morning a kibitka was at the door; my trunk was placed on it, and also a case holding tea and a tea-service, with some napkins full of rolls and pastry, the last sweet bits of the paternal home. both my parents gave me their solemn benediction. my father said, “adieu, peter. serve faithfully him to whom your oath is given; obey your chiefs; neither seek favor, nor solicit service, but do not reject them; and remember the proverb: ‘take care of thy coat whilst it is new, and thy honor whilst it is fresh.’” my darling mother, all in tears, told me to take care of my health; and counseled saveliitch to guard her child from danger. i was wrapped up in a short touloup lined with hare-skin, and over that a pelisse lined fox-skin. i took my seat in the kibitka with saveliitch, and shedding bitter tears, set out for my destination. that night i arrived at simbirsk, where i was to stay twenty-four hours, in order that saveliitch might make various purchases entrusted to him. early in the morning saveliitch went to the shops, whilst i stayed in the inn. tired of gazing out of the window upon a dirty little street, i rambled about the inn, and at last entered the billiard-room. i found there a tall gentleman, some forty years of age, with heavy black moustaches, in his dressing-gown, holding a cue and smoking his pipe. he was playing with the marker, who was to drink a glass of brandy and water if he gained, and if he lost was to pass, on all-fours, under the billiard table. i watched them playing. the more they played the more frequent became the promenades on all-fours, so that finally the marker stayed under the table. the gentleman pronounced over him some energetic expression, as a funeral oration, and then proposed that i should play a game with him. i declared that i did not know how to play billiards. that seemed strange to him. he looked at me with commiseration. however, we opened a conversation. i learned that his name was ivan zourine; that he was a chief of a squadron of hussars stationed then at simbirsk recruiting soldiers, and that his quarters were at my inn. he invited me to mess with him, soldier-fashion, pot-luck. i accepted with pleasure, and we sat down to dinner. zourine drank deeply, and invited me to drink also, saying that i must become accustomed to the service. he told stories of garrison life which made me laugh till i held my sides, and we rose from the table intimate friends. he then proposed to teach me how to play billiards. “it is,” said he, “indispensable for soldiers like ourselves. for example, suppose we arrive in a town, what’s to be done? we can not always make sport of the jews. as a last resort there is the inn and the billiard-room; but to play billiards, one must know how.” these reasons convinced me, and i set about learning with enthusiasm. zourine encouraged me in a loud tone; he was astonished at my rapid progress, and after a few lesson he proposed to play for money, were it only two kopecks, not for the gain, merely to avoid playing for nothing, which was, according to him, a very bad habit. i agreed. zourine ordered punch, which he advised me to taste in order to become used to the service, “for,” said he, “what kind of service would that be without punch?” i took his advice, and we continued to play; the more i tasted of my glass the bolder i grew. i made the balls fly over the cushions; i was angry with the marker who was counting. heaven knows why. i increased the stake, and behaved, altogether, like a boy just cut free, for the first time, from his mother’s apron-strings. the time passed quickly. at last, zourine glanced at the clock, laid down his cue, and said that i had lost a hundred roubles to him. i was in great confusion, because my money was all in the hands of saveliitch. i began to mumble excuses, when zourine exclaimed, “oh! well! good god! i can wait till morning; don’t be distressed about it. now let us go to supper.” what could i do? i finished the day as foolishly as i began it. zourine never ceased pouring out drinks for me; advising me to become accustomed to the service. rising from table, i could scarcely stand. at midnight zourine brought me back to the inn. saveliitch met us at the door, and uttered a cry of horror when he saw the unmistakable signs of my “zeal for the service.” “what has happened to thee?” said he, in heart-broken accents; “where have you been filling yourself like a sack? oh! heavenly father! a misfortune like this never came before.” “silence! old owl,” said i, stammering, “i am sure you are drunk yourself; go to bed, but first put me there.” i awoke next morning with a severe headache; the events of the evening i recalled vaguely, but my recollections became vivid at the sight of saveliitch who came to me with a cup of tea. “you begin young, peter grineff,” said the old men, shaking his head. “eh! from whom do you inherit it? neither your father nor grandfather were drunkards. your mother’s name can not be mentioned; she never deigned to taste any thing but cider. whose fault is it then? that cursed frenchman’s; he taught three fine things, that miserable dog--that pagan--for thy teacher, as if his lordship, thy father, had not people of his own.” i was ashamed before the old man; i turned my face away saying, “i do not want any tea, go away, saveliitch.” it was not easy to stop saveliitch, once he began to preach. “now, peter, you see what it is to play the fool. you have a headache, you have no appetite, a drunkard is good for nothing. here, take some of this decoction of cucumber and honey, or half a glass of brandy to sober you. what do you say to that?” at that instant a boy entered the room with a note for me from zourine. i unfolded it and read as follows: “do me the favor, my dear peter, to send me by my servant the hundred roubles that you lost to me yesterday. i am horribly in want of money. your devoted. zourine.” as i was perfectly in his power, i assumed an air of indifference, and ordered saveliitch to give a hundred roubles to the boy. “what? why?” said the old man, surprised. “i owe that sum,” said i, coolly. “you owe it? when had you time enough to contract such a debt?” said he, with redoubled astonishment. “no, no, that’s impossible. do what you like, my lord, but i can not give the money.” i reflected that if in this decisive moment i did not oblige the obstinate old fellow to obey me, it would be impossible in the future to escape from his tutelage. looking at him therefore, haughtily, i said, “i am thy master; thou art my servant. the money is mine, and i lost because i chose to lose it; i advise thee to obey when ordered, and not assume the airs of a master.” my words affected saveliitch so much that he clasped his hands and stood bowed down mute and motionless. “what are you doing there like a post?” i cried out, angrily. saveliitch was in tears. “oh! my dear master peter,” stammered he, with trembling voice, “do not kill me with grief. oh my light, listen to me, an old man; write to that brigand that you were jesting, that we never had so much money. a hundred roubles! god of goodness! tell him thy parents strictly forbade thee to play for any thing but nuts.” “silence,” said i, with severity, “give the money or i’ll chase you out of the room.” saveliitch looked at me with agony, and went for the money. i pitied the good old man, but i wanted to emancipate myself, and prove that i was no longer a child. saveliitch sent the money to zourine, and then hastened our departure from that cursed inn. i left simbirsk with a troubled conscience; a secret remorse oppressed me. i took no leave of my teacher, not dreaming that i should ever meet him again. ii. the guide. my reflections during the journey were not very agreeable. according to the value of money at that time my loss was of some importance. i could not but admit to myself that my conduct at the inn at simbirsk had been very silly, and i felt guilty toward saveliitch. the old man was seated on the front of the vehicle in dull silence; from time to time turning his head and coughing a cough of ill humor. i had firmly resolved to make friends with him, but i did not know which way to begin. at last i said to him, “come, come saveliitch, let us put an end to this; i know i was wrong; i was a fool yesterday, and offended you without cause, but i promise to listen to you in future. come, do not be angry, let us make friends!” “ah! my dear peter,” said he with a sigh, “i am angry with myself. it’s i who was wrong in every thing. how could i have left you alone at the inn? how could it have been avoided? the devil had a hand in it! i wanted to go and see the deacon’s wife, who is my god-mother, and as the proverb says: ‘i left the house and fell into the prison.’” what a misfortune! what a misfortune! how can i appear before the eyes of my masters? what will they say, when they shall hear that their child is a drunkard and a gambler. to console dear old saveliitch, i gave him my word, that for the future i would not dispose of single kopeck without his consent. little by little he became calm, which did not, however, prevent him from grumbling out, now and then shaking his head: “a hundred roubles! it is easy to talk!” i drew near the place of my destination. around me extended a desert, sad and wild, broken be little hills and deep ravines, all covered with snow. the sun was setting. my kibitka followed the narrow road, or rather trace, left by peasants’ sledges. suddenly my coachman, looking at a certain point and addressing me, “my lord,” said he, taking off his cap, “do you not command us to retrace our steps?” “what for?” “the weather is uncertain. there is some wind ahead; do you see it drive the snow on the surface?” “what matter?” “and do you not see what is over yonder?” pointing with his whip to the east. “i see nothing more than the white steppes and the clear sky.” “there! there! that little cloud!” i saw indeed upon the horizon a little white cloud that i had at first taken for a distant hill. my coachman explained to me that this little cloud foretold a _chasse-neige_--a snowdrift. i had heard of the drifting snows of this region, and i know that at times, storms swallowed up whole caravans. saveliitch agreed with the coachman, and advised our return. but to me the wind did not seem very strong. i hoped to arrive in time for the next relay of horses. i gave orders, therefore, to redouble our speed. the coachman put his horses to the gallop, and kept his eyes to the east. the wind blew harder and harder. the little cloud soon became a great white mass, rising heavily, growing, extending, and finally invading the whole sky. a fine snow began to fall, which suddenly changed to immense flakes. the wind whistled and howled. it was a _chasse-neige_--a snowdrift. in an instant the somber sky was confounded with the sea of snow which the wind raised up from the earth. every thing was indistinguishable. “woe, to us! my lord,” cried the coachman, “it is a whirlwind of snow!” i put my head out of the kibitka--darkness and storm. the wind blew with an expression so ferocious that it seemed a living creature. the snow fell in large flakes upon us, covering us. the horses went at a walking pace, but very soon stood still. “why do you not go on?” i said to the coachman. “go where?” he replied, as he got down from the kibitka. “god knows where we are now! there is no road; all is darkness.” i began to scold him. saveliitch took up his defense: “why did you not listen to him,” said he, angrily; “you could have returned, taken some tea and slept till morning; the storm would have been over, and we could then have set out. why this haste? as if you were going to your wedding?” saveliitch was right. what was to be done? the snow continued to fall; it was heaped up around the kibitka; the horses stood motionless, now and then shivering. the coachman walked around them adjusting their harness, as if he had nothing else to do. saveliitch grumbled. i strained my eyes in every direction, hoping to see signs of a dwelling, or of a road, but i could only see the whirling of the snow-drift. all at once i thought i saw some thing black. “halloo! coachman,” i cried out, “what is that black thing yonder?” the coachman looked attentively where i indicated. “god knows, my lord,” he replied, re-mounting to his seat; “it is not a kibitka, nor a tree; it seems to be moving. it must be a wolf or a man!” i ordered him to go in the direction of the unknown object which was coming toward us. in two minutes we were on a line with it, and i recognized a man. “halloo! good man!” shouted my coachman; “tell us, do you know the road?” “this is the road,” replied the man. “i am on solid ground, but what the devil is the good of that.” “listen, my good peasant,” said i; “do you know this country? can you lead us to a shelter for the night?” “this country! thank god, i have been over it on foot and in carriage, from one end to the other. but one can not help losing the road in this weather. it is better to stop here and wait till the hurricane ceases: then the sky will clear, and we can find the way by the stars.” his coolness gave me courage. i had decided to trust myself to the mercy of god and pass the night on the steppe, when the traveler, seating himself on the bench which was the coachman’s seat, said to the driver: “thank god, a dwelling is near. turn to the right and go on.” “why should i turn to the right?” said the coachman, sulkily, “where do you see a road?” “must i say to you these horses, as well as the harness, belong to another? then use the whip without respite.” i thought my coachman’s view rational. “why do you believe,” said i to the new-comer, “that a dwelling is not far off?” “the wind blows from that quarter,” said he, “and i have smelled smoke--proof that a dwelling is near.” his sagacity, the delicacy of his sense of smell, filled me with admiration; i ordered my coachman to go wherever the other wished. the horses walked heavily through the deep snow. the kibitka advanced but slowly, now raised on a hillock, now descending into a hollow, swaying from side like a boat on a stormy sea. saveliitch, falling over on me every instant, moaned. i pulled down the hood of the kibitka, wrapped myself up in my pelisse, and fell asleep, rocked by the swaying of the vehicle, and lulled by the chant of the tempest. the horses stopped. saveliitch was holding my hand. “come out, my lord,” said he, “we have arrived.” “where have we arrived?” said i, rubbing my eyes. “at the shelter. god has helped us; we have stumbled right upon the hedge of the dwelling. come out, my lord, quick; come and warm yourself.” i descended from the kibitka; the hurricane had not ceased, but it had moderated; sight was useless, it was so dark. the master of the house met us at the door, holding a lantern under the flaps of his long coat, the cossack cafetan. he led us into a small, though no untidy room, lighted by a pine torch. in the centre hung a carabine and a high cossack cap. our host, a cossack from the river iaik, was a peasant of some sixty years, still fresh and green. saveliitch brought in the case containing my tea-service; he asked for fire to make me a few cups of tea, of which i never had greater need. the host hastened to serve us. “where is our guide?” i asked of saveliitch. “here, your lordship,” replied a voice from above. i raised my eyes to the loft, and saw a black beard and two sparkling black eyes. “well, are you cold?” “how could i help being cold in this little cafetan full of holes. what’s the use of concealment? i had a touloup, but i left it yesterday in pledge with the liquor-seller; then the cold did not seem so great.” at this moment our host entered with the portable furnace and boiler, the russian _somovar_. i offered our guide a cup of tea. down he came at once. as he stood in the glare of the pine torch his appearance was remarkable. a man about forty years of age, medium height, slight but with broad shoulders. his black beard was turning grey; large, quick, restless eyes, gave him an expression full of cunning, and yet not at all disagreeable. he was dressed in wide tartar pantaloons and an old jacket. his hair was cut evenly round. i offered him a cup of tea. he tasted it and made a grimace. “do me the favor, my lord, to order me a glass of brandy; tea is not the cossack’s drink.” i willingly granted the request. the host took from the shelf of a closet a bottle and a glass, and going up to him, looking him full in the face, said: “ah! ah! here you are again in our district. whence has god brought you?” my guide winked in the most significant fashion and replied by the well-know proverb: “‘the sparrow was in the orchard eating flax-seed; the grandmother threw a stone at it, and missed.’ and you? how are all yours?” “how are we?” said the host, and continuing in proverbs: “‘they began to ring the bell for vespers, but the priest’s wife forbade it. the priest went visiting, and the devils are in the graveyard.’” “be silent, uncle,” said the vagabond. “‘when there shall be rain, there will be mushrooms, and when there shall be mushrooms, there will be a basket to put them in. put thy hatchet behind thy back, the forest guard is out walking.’” “to your lordship’s health.” taking the glass, he made the sign of the cross, and at one gulp swallowed his brandy. he then saluted me and remounted to his loft. i did not understand a word of this thief’s slang. it was only in the sequel that i learned that they spoke of the affairs of the army of the iaik, which had just been reduced to obedience after the revolt of . saveliitch listened and glanced suspiciously from host to guide. the species of inn where we were sheltered was in the very heart of the steppes, far from the road and every inhabited spot, and looked very much like a rendezvous of robbers. but to set off again on our journey was impossible. the disgust of saveliitch amused not a little; however, he finally decided to mount upon the roof of the stove, the ordinary bed of the russian peasant. the warm bricks of the hot-air chamber of the stove diffused a grateful heat, and soon the old man and the host, who had laid himself on the floor, were snoring. i stretched myself upon a bench, and slept like a dead. awaking next morning quite late, i saw that the hurricane was over. the sun shone out, the snow extended in the distance like a sheet of dazzling white damask. the horses were already at the door, harnessed. i paid our host, who asked so small a pittance that even saveliitch did not, as usual, haggle over the price. his suspicions of the evening before had entirely disappeared. i called the guide to thank him for the service he had done us, and told saveliitch to give him half a rouble. saveliitch frowned. “half a rouble,” said he; “what for? because you yourself deigned to bring him to the inn? your will be done, my lord, but we have not a rouble to spare. if we begin by giving drink money to every one we shall end by dying of hunger.” it was useless to argue with him; my money, according to my promise, was entirely at his discretion. but it was very unpleasant not to be able to reward a man who had extricated me from danger, perhaps death. “well,” said i, coolly, “if you will not give him half a rouble, give one of my coats--he is too thinly clad; give him the hare-skin touloup.” “have mercy on me! my dear peter,” said saveliitch, “what does he want with your touloup? he will drink its price, the dog, at the first inn.” “that, my good old man, is none of your business,” said the vagabond; “his lordship following the custom of royalty to vassals, gives me a coat from his own back, and your duty as serf is not to dispute, but to obey.” “you have not the fear of god, brigand that you are,” said saveliitch, angrily; “you see that the child has not yet attained to full reason, and there you are, glad to pillage him, thanks to his kind heart. you can not even wear the pelisse on your great, cursed shoulders.” “come,” said i, “do not play the logician; bring the touloup quickly.” “oh, lord!” said the old man, moaning--“a touloup of hare-skin! quite new,--to give it to a drunkard in rags.” it was brought, however, and the vagabond began to get into it. it was rather tight for me, and was much too small for him. he put it on, nevertheless, but with great difficulty, bursting all the seams. saveliitch uttered something like a smothered howl, when he heard the threads crack. as for the vagabond, he was well pleased with my present. he re-conducted me to my kibitka, and said, with a profound bow: “thanks, my lord, may god reward you. i shall never forget your goodness.” he went his way,--i set out on mine, paying no attention to the sullenness of saveliitch. i soon forgot the hurricane and the guide, as well as the touloup of hare-skin. arrived at orenbourg, i presented myself at once to the general. he was a tall man, bent by age, with long hair quite white. an old, worn-out uniform, recalled the soldier of the times of the empress anne, and his speech betrayed a strong german accent. i gave him my father’s letter. reading my name, he glanced at me quickly. “mein gott,” said he, “it is so short a time since andrew grineff was your age, and now, see what a fine fellow of a son he has. ah! time! time!” he opened the letter and began to run it over with a commentary of remarks. “‘sir, i hope your excellency,’--what is this; what is the meaning of this ceremony? discipline, of course before all, but is this the way to write to an old friend? hum--‘field-marshal munich--little caroline--brother.’ ah! then he remembers--‘now to business. i send you my son; hold him with porcupine gloves.’ “what does that mean?” said he, “that must be a russian proverb.” “it means,” said i, with an air of innocence, “to treat a person mildly, to give one liberty.” “hum!” said he, reading, “‘and give him no liberty.’ no,” he continued, “your proverb does not mean liberty. well, my son,” said he, having finished the letter, “every thing shall be done for you. you shall be an officer in the ---- regiment, and not to lose time, go tomorrow to the fort of belogorsk, where you will serve under captain mironoff, a brave and honest man. there you will see service and learn discipline. you have nothing to do here at orenbourg, and amusements are dangerous to a young man. today i invite you to dine with me.” from bad to worse, thought i. what was the use of being a sergeant in the guards almost from my mother’s womb? to what has it led? to the regiment of ----, and an abandoned fortress on the frontier of the steppes! i dined at the general’s in company with his old aid-de-camp. severe german economy reigned at table, and i think the fear of having an occasional guest the more had something to do with sending me to a distant garrison. the next day i took my leave of the general and set out for belogorsk. iii. the fortress. the fortress of belogorsk is situated forty versts from orenbourg. the route from this city is along the high banks of the river iaik. the stream was not yet frozen, and its lead-colored waters took a black tint between banks whitened by the snow. before me lay the kirghis steppes. i fell into a moody train of thought, for to me garrison life offered few attractions. i tried to picture my future chief, captain mironoff. i imagined a severe, morose old man, knowing nothing outside of the service, ready to arrest me for the least slip. dusk was falling; we were advancing rapidly. “how far is it from here to the fortress?” said i to the coachman. “you can see it now,” he answered. i looked on all sides, expecting to see high bastions, a wall, and a ditch. i saw nothing but a little village surrounded by a wooden palisade. on one side stood some hay-stacks half covered with snow; on the other a wind-mill, leaning to one side; the wings of the mill, made of the heavy bark of the linden tree, hung idle. “where is the fortress?” i asked, astonished. “there it is,” said the coachman, pointing to the village which we had just entered. i saw near the gate an old iron cannon. the streets were narrow and winding, and nearly all the huts were thatched with straw. i ordered the coachman to drive to the commandant’s, and almost immediately my kibitka stopped before a wooden house built on an eminence near the church, which was also of wood. from the front door i entered the waiting-room. an old pensioner, seated on a table, was sewing a blue piece on the elbow of a green uniform. i told him to announce me. “enter, my good sir,” said he, “our people are at home.” i entered a very neat room, furnished in the fashion of other days. on one side stood a cabinet containing the silver. against the wall hung the diploma of an officer, with colored engravings arranged around its frame; notably, the “choice of the betrothed,” the “taking of kurstrin,” and the “burial of the cat by the mice.” near the window sat an old woman in a mantilla, her head wrapped in a handkerchief. she was winding a skein of thread held on the separated hands of a little old man, blind of one eye, who was dressed like an officer. “what do you desire, my dear sir?” said the woman to me, without interrupting her occupation. i told her that i had come to enter the service, and that, according to rule, i hastened to present myself to the captain. in saying this, i turned to the one-eyed old man, whom i took for the commandant. the good lady interrupted the speech which i had prepared in advance: “ivan mironoff is not at home; he is gone to visit father garasim; but it is all the same; i am his wife. deign to love us and have us in favor! take a seat, my dear sir.” she ordered a servant to send her the corporal. the little old man gazed at me curiously, with his only eye. “may i dare to ask,” said he, “in what regiment you have deigned to serve?” i satisfied him on that point. “and may i dare to ask why you changed from the guards to our garrison?” i replied that it was by the orders of authority. “probably for actions little becoming an officer of the guards?” resumed the persistent questioner. “will you stop your stupidities?” said the captain’s wife to him. “you see the young man is fatigued by the journey; he has something else to do besides answering you. hold your hands better! and you my dear sir,” continued she, turning to me, “do not be too much afflicted that you are thrust into our little town; you are not the first, and will not be the last. now, there is alexis chabrine, who has been transferred to us for a term of four years for murder. god knows what provocation he had. he and a lieutenant went outside the city with their swords, and before two witnesses alexis killed the lieutenant. ah! misfortune has no master.” just then the corporal entered, a young and handsome cossack. “maxim,” said the captain’s wife, “give this officer a clean lodging.” “i obey, basilia,” replied the cossack; “shall i lodge him with ivan pologoff?” “you are doting, maxim, he has too little space now; besides, he is my child’s godfather; and, moreover, he never forgets that we are his chiefs. what is your name, my dear sir?” “peter grineff.” “then conduct peter grineff to the quarters of simeon kieff. that rascal let his horse into my vegetable garden. is all right, maxim?” “thank god, all is quiet, except that corporal kourzoff quarreled with the woman augustina about a pail of warm water.” “ignatius,” said the captain’s wife to the one-eyed man, “judge between the two--decide which one is guilty, and punish both. go, maxim, god be with you. peter grineff, maxim will conduct you to your lodgings.” i took my leave; the corporal led me to a cabin placed on the high bank near the river’s edge, at the end of the fortress. half of the cabin was occupied by the family of simeon kieff, the other was given up to me. my half of the cabin was a large apartment divided by a partition. saveliitch began at once to install us, whilst i looked out of the narrow window. before me stretched the bleak and barren steppe; nearer rose some cabins; at the threshold of one stood a woman with a bowl in her hand calling the pigs to feed; no other objects met my sight, save a few chickens scratching for stray kernels of corn in the street. and this was the country to which i was condemned to pass my youth! i turned from the window, seized by bitter sadness, and went to bed without supper, notwithstanding the supplications of saveliitch, who with anguish cried aloud: “oh! he will not deign to eat! o lord! what will my mistress say, if the child should fall ill!” the next morning i had scarcely begun to dress, when a young officer entered my room. he was of small size, with irregular features, but his sun-burned face had remarkable vivacity. “pardon me,” said he in french, “that i come so unceremoniously to make your acquaintance. i learned yesterday of your arrival, and the desire of seeing at last a human face so took possession of me that i could wait no longer. you will understand this when you shall have lived here some time!” i easily guessed that he was the officer dismissed from the guards for the affair of the duel--alexis chabrine. he was very intelligent; his conversation was sprightly and interesting. he described with impulse and gayety the commandant’s family, society, and in general the whole country round. i was laughing heartily, when ignatius, the same old pensioner whom i had seen mending his uniform in the captain’s waiting-room, entered, and gave me an invitation to dinner from basilia mironoff, the captain’s wife. alexis declared that he would accompany me. approaching the commandant’s house we saw on the square some twenty little old pensioners, with long queues and three-cornered hats. these old men were drawn up in line of battle. before them stood the commandant, a fresh and vigorous old man of high stature, in dressing-gown and cotton cap. as soon as he saw us, he approached, addressed me a few affable words, and then resumed his drill. we were going to stay to see the manoeuvering, but he begged us to go on immediately to the house, promising to join us at once; “for,” said he, “there is really nothing to be seen here.” basilia received us kindly, and with simplicity, treating me like an old acquaintance. the pensioner and the maid polacca were laying the table-cloth. “what is the matter with my dear ivan mironoff, today, that he is so long instructing his troops?” said the mistress. “polacca, go and bring him to dinner. and where is my child, marie?” scarcely had she pronounced this name, than a young girl about sixteen entered the room;--a rosy, round-faced girl, wearing her hair in smooth bandeaux caught behind her ears, which were red with modesty and shyness. she did not please me very much at the first glance; i was prejudiced against her by alexis, who had described the captain’s daughter to me as a fool. marie seated herself in a corner and began to sew. the soup was brought on the table. basilia, not seeing her husband coming, sent the maid a second time to call him. “tell the master that his inspection can wait; the soup is cooling. thank god! the drills need not be lost; there will be time enough yet to use his voice at his leisure.” the captain soon appeared with his one-eyed officer. “what’s this, my dear,” said basilia; “the table has been served some time, and no one could make you come.” “you see, basilia, i was busy with the service, instructing my good soldiers.” “come, come, ivan mironoff, that’s boasting. the service does not suit them, and as for you, you know nothing about it. you should have stayed at home and prayed god, that suits you much better. my dear guests, to table.” we took our places for dinner. basilia was not silent a moment; she overwhelmed me with questions: who were my parents? were they living? where did they reside? what was their fortune? when she learned that my father owned three hundred serfs, she exclaimed: “you see there are some rich people in the world--and we, my dear sir, in point of souls, we possess only the maid polacca. yet, thank god, we live, somehow or other. we have but one care, that is marie, a girl that must be married off. and what fortune has she? the price of two baths per annum. if only she could find a worthy husband. if not, there she is, eternally a maid.” i glanced at marie; she blushed, tears were dropping into her soup. i pitied her, and hastened to change the conversation. “i have heard that the bashkirs intend to attack your fortress?” “who said so,” replied ivan mironoff. “i heard it at orenbourg.” “all nonsense,” said ivan, “we have not heard the least word about it; the bashkirs are an intimidated people; and the kirghis have also had some good lessons. they dare not attack us, and if they should even dream of it, i would give them so great a fright that they would not move again for ten years.” “do you not fear,” i continued, addressing basilia, “to stay in a fortress exposed to these dangers?” “a matter of habit, my dear,” she replied, “twenty years ago, when we were transferred here from the regiment, you could not believe how i feared the pagans. if i chanced to see their fur caps, if i heard their shouts, believe me, my heart was ready to faint; but now i am so used to this life, that if told that the brigands were prowling around us, i would not stir from the fortress.” “basilia is a very brave lady,” observed alexis, gravely. “ivan mironoff knows some thing about it.” “oh, you see,” said ivan, “she does not belong to the regiment of poltroons.” “and marie,” i asked of her mother “is she as bold as you?” “marie?” said the lady. “no! marie is a coward. up to the present she has not heard the report of a gun without trembling in every limb. two years ago ivan had a pleasant fancy to fire off his cannon on my birthday; the poor pigeon was so frightened that she almost went into the next world. since that day the miserable cannon has not spoken.” we rose from the table. the captain and his wife went to take their siesta. i went with alexis to his room, where we passed the evening together. iv. the duel. several weeks elapsed, during which my life in the fortress became not only supportable, but even agreeable. i was received as a member of the family in the commandant’s house. the husband and wife were excellent people. ivan mironoff, from being the adopted child of the regiment, rose to officer’s rank. he was a plain, simple, uneducated man, but thoroughly good and loyal. his wife governed him, and that suited his natural indolence. basilia directed the affairs of the garrison, as she did her household, and commanded through the fortress as she did in her own kitchen. marie soon lost her shyness, and as we became better acquainted i found that she was a girl full of affection and intelligence. little by little i became deeply attached to this good family. i was promoted, and ranked as an officer. military service did not oppress me. in this fortress, blessed by god, there was no duty to do, no guard to mount, nor review to pass. occasionally, for his own amusement, the commandant drilled his soldiers. he had not yet succeeded in teaching them which was the right flank and which the left. alexis had some french books, and in my idleness i set work to read, so that a taste for literature awoke within me. i read every morning, and essayed some translations, even metrical compositions. almost every day i dined at the commandant’s, where, as a general thing, i spent the rest of the day. in the evening, father garasim came with his wife, accoulina, the greatest gossip of the place. of course alexis and i met daily, yet gradually his society displeased me. his perpetual jokes upon the commandant’s family, and above all his biting remarks about marie, rendered his conversation very disagreeable to me. i had no other society than this family in the fortress, and i desired no other. all predictions to the contrary, the bashkirs did not revolt, and peace reigned around us. i have already said that i busied myself somewhat with literature. one day i happened to write a little song, of which i was proud. it is well known that authors, under pretext of asking advice, willingly seek a kindly audience. i copied my little song and took it to alexis, the only one in the fortress who could appreciate a poetical work. after preluding a little, i drew my pages from my pocket and read my verses to him. “how do you like that?” said i, expecting praise as a tribute due me. to my great annoyance, alexis, who was generally pleased with my writings, declared frankly that my song was worth nothing. “what do you mean?” said i, with forced calmness. he took the paper out of my hand and began to criticize without pity, every verse, every word, tearing me up in the most malicious fashion. it was too much. i snatched the paper from him, declaring that never again would i show him any of my compositions. “we shall see,” said he, “if you can keep your word; poets need a listener as ivan mironoff needs a decanter of brandy before dinner. who is this marie to whom you declare your tender feelings? might it not be marie mironoff?” “that is none of your business,” said i, frowning. “i want neither your advice nor supposition.” “oh! oh! vain poet; discreet lover,” continued alexis, irritating me more and more, “listen to friendly counsel: if you want to succeed do not confine yourself to songs.” “what do you mean, sir? explain!” “with pleasure,” he replied. “i mean that if you wish to form an intimacy with marie mironoff, you have only to give her a pair of earrings instead of your lackadaisical verses.” all my blood boiled. “why have you this opinion of her?” i asked, with much effort restraining my anger. “because,” said he, “of my own experience.” “you lie, wretch,” i cried, with furry, “you lie, shamelessly.” alexis was enraged. “that shall not pass so,” he said, grasping my hand. “you shall give me satisfaction.” “when ever you like,” i replied, joyfully, for at that moment i was ready to tear him to pieces. i ran at once to see ivan ignatius, whom i found with a needle in his hand. according to orders from the commandant’s wife, he was stringing mushrooms which were to be dried for winter use. “ah! peter grineff, be welcome. dare i ask on what business god sends you here?” in a few words i told him of my quarrel with alexis, and begged him, ignatius, to be my second. ignatius heard me to the end with great attention, opening wide his only eye. “you deign to say that you want to kill alexis, and desire that i should witness the act? is that what you mean, dare i ask?” “precisely.” “ah! what folly; you have had some words with alexis. what then? a harsh word can not be hung up by the neck. he gives you impertinence, give him the same; if he give you a slap, return the blow; he a second, you a third; in the end we will compel you to make peace. whilst if you fight--well, if _you_ should kill _him_, god be with him! for i do not like him much; but if he should perforate you, what a nice piece of business! then who will pay for the broken pots?” the arguments of the prudent officer did not shake my resolution. “do as you like,” said ignatius, “but what’s the use of having me as a witness? people fight--that’s nothing extraordinary--i have often been quite close to swedes and turks, and people of all shades of color.” i tried to explain to him the duties of a second; ignatius would not, or could not understand me. “follow your own fashion,” said he, “if i were to meddle in this affair, it would be to announce to ivan mironoff, according to rule, that a plot is being made in the fortress for the commission of a criminal action--one contrary to the interests of the crown.” i was alarmed, and begged ignatius to say nothing to the commandant. he gave me his word that he would be silent, and i left him in peace. as usual i passed the evening at the commandant’s, forcing myself to be calm and gay, in order not to awaken suspicions and to avoid questioning. i confess that i had not the coolness of which people boast who have been in a similar position. i was disposed to tenderness. marie mironoff seemed more attractive than ever. the idea that perhaps i saw her for the last time, gave her a touching grace. alexis entered. i took him aside and told him of my conversation with ignatius. “what’s the good of seconds,” said he, dryly. “we can do without them.” we agreed to fight behind the haystack the next morning at six o’clock. seeing us talking amicably, ignatius, full of joy, nearly betrayed us. “you should have done that long ago, for a bad peace is better than a good quarrel.” “what! what! ignatius,” said the captain’s wife, who was playing patience in a corner, “i do not quite understand?” ignatius, seeing my displeasure, remembered his promise, became confused and knew not what to answer. alexis came to his relief: “he approves of peace.” “with whom had you quarreled?” said she. “with peter grineff--a few high words.” “why?” “for a mere nothing--a song.” “fine cause for a quarrel! a song! tell me how it happened.” “willingly: peter has recently been composing, and this morning he sang his song for me. then i chanted mine: ‘daughter of the captain, walk not forth at midnight.’ as we were not on the same note, peter was angry, forgetting that every one is at liberty to sing what he pleases.” the insolence of alexis made me furious. no one but myself understood his allusions. from poetry the conversation passed to poets in general. the commandant observed that they were all debauchees and drunkards, and advised me, as a friend, to renounce poetry as contrary to the service, and leading to nothing good. as the pretence of alexis was to me insupportable, i hastened to take leave of the family. in my own apartment i examined my sword, tried its point, and went to bed, having ordered saveliitch to wake me in the morning at six o’clock. the next day at the appointed time i was behind the haystack awaiting my adversary, who did not fail to appear. “we may be surprised,” he said; “be quick.” we laid aside our uniforms, drew our swords from the scabbards, when ignatius, followed by five pensioners, came out from behind a haystack. he ordered us to repair to the presence of the commandant. we obeyed. the soldiers surrounded us. ignatius conducted us in triumph, marching military step, with majestic gravity. we entered the commandant’s house; ignatius opened the folding doors, and exclaimed with emphasis: “they are taken!” basilia ran toward us: “what does this mean? plotting an assassination in our fortress! ivan mironoff, arrest them! peter grineff, alexis, give up your swords to the garret. peter, i did not expect this of you; are you not ashamed? as for alexis, it is quite different; he was transferred to us from the guards for having caused a soul to perish; and he does not believe in our blessed saviour.” ivan mironoff approved increasingly all that his wife said: “you see! you see! basilia is right, duels are forbidden by the military code.” meantime polacca had carried off our swords to the garret. i could not help smiling at this scene. alexis preserved all his gravity, and said to basilia: “notwithstanding all my respect for you, i must say you take useless pains to subject us to your tribunal. leave that duty to ivan mironoff; it is his business.” “what! what! my dear sir,” said the lady, “are not man and wife the same flesh and spirit? ivan mironoff, are you trifling? lock up these boys instantly; put them in separate rooms--on bread and water, to expel this stupid idea of theirs. let father garasim give them a penance on order that they may repent before god and man.” ivan mironoff did not know what to do. marie was extremely pale. the tempest, however, subsided little by little. basilia ordered us to embrace each other, and the maid was sent for our swords. we left the house, having in appearance made friends. ignatius re-conducted us. “are you not ashamed of yourself,” i said to him, “to have denounced us to the commandant, after having given me your word you would not do so?” “as god is holy, i said nothing to ivan mironoff. basilia drew it all from me. she took all the necessary measures without the knowledge of the commandant. thank god it finished as it did.” he went to his room; i remained with alexis. “our affair can not end thus,” i remarked. “certainly not,” replied alexis. “you shall pay me with your blood for your impertinence, but as undoubtedly we shall be watched, let us feign for a few days. until then, adieu!” we separated as if nothing had happened. i returned to the commandant’s, and seated myself as usual near marie. her father was absent and her mother busy with household duties. we spoke in subdued tones. marie reproached me gently for the pain my quarrel with alexis gave her. “my heart failed me,” she said, “when i heard you were going to fight with swords. how strange men are! for a word, they are ready to strangle each other, and sacrifice, not only their own life, but even the honor and happiness of those who-- i am sure you did not begin the quarrel? alexis was the aggressor?” “why do you think so?” “because he is so sarcastic. i do not like him, and yet i would not displease him, although he is quite disagreeable to me.” “what do you think, marie, are you pleasing to him or not?” marie blushed. “it seems,” said she, “that i please him.” “how do you know?” “because he made me an offer of marriage.” “he made you an offer of marriage! when?” “last year, two months before your arrival.” “you did not accept?” “evidently not, as you see. alexis is a most intelligent man, of an excellent family and not without fortune, but the mere idea that beneath the crown, on my marriage day, i should be obliged to kiss him before every one! no! no! not for any thing in the world.” marie’s words opened my eyes. i understood the persistence of alexis in aspersing her character. he had probably remarked our mutual inclination, and was trying to turn us from each other. the words which had provoked our quarrel seemed to me the more infamous, as instead of being a vulgar joke, it was deliberate calumny. the desire to punish this shameless liar became so strong that i waited impatiently the favorable moment. i had not long to wait. the next day, occupied composing an elegy, biting my pen in the expectation of a rhyme, alexis knocked at my window. i put down my pen, took my sword, and went out of the house. “why defer?” said alexis, “we are no longer watched, let us go down to the river-side; there none will hinder us.” we set out in silence, and having descended a steep path, we stopped at the water’s edge and crossed swords. alexis was more skillful than i in the use of arms, but i was stronger and bolder. mons. beaupre, who had been, amongst other things, a soldier, had taught me fencing. alexis did not expect to find in me an adversary of so dangerous a character. for some minutes neither gained any advantage over the other, but at last noticing that alexis was growing weak, i attacked him energetically, and almost drove him backward into the river, when suddenly i heard my name pronounced in a high voice. turning my head rapidly, i saw saveliitch running toward me down the path. as i turned my head, i felt a sharp thrust in the breast under the right shoulder, and i fell, unconscious. v. love. when i came to myself, i neither knew what had happened nor where i was. i felt very weak; the room was strange, there was saveliitch standing before me, a light in his hand, and some one arranging the bandages that bound my chest and shoulder. gradually i recalled my duel, and easily divined that i had been wounded. the door at this instant moaned gently on its hinges. “well, how is he?” whispered a voice that made me start. “still in the same state,” sighed saveliitch, “now unconscious four days.” i wanted to turn on my bed, but i had not the strength. “where am i?” said i, with effort, “who is here?” marie approached, and bending over me said, gently, “how do you feel?” “thank god, i am well. is that marie? tell me--?” i could not finish. saveliitch uttered a cry of joy, his delight showing plainly in his face. “he recovers! he recovers! thanks to thee, o god! peter, how you frightened me!--four days! it is easy to talk--!” marie interrupted him: “do not, saveliitch, speak too much to him; he is still very weak.” she went out, shutting the door noiselessly. i must be in the commandant’s house, or marie could not come to see me. i wished to question saveliitch, but the old man shook his head and put his fingers in his ears. i closed my eyes from ill-humor--and fell asleep. upon awaking, i called saveliitch; instead of him, i saw before me marie, whose gentle voice greeted me. i seized her hand and bathed it with my tears. marie did not withdraw it, and suddenly i felt upon my cheek the impression, humid and delicious, of her lips! a thrill shot through my whole being. “dear, good marie, be my wife, and make me the happiest of men!” “in the name of heaven be calm,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “your wound may reopen; for my sake be careful.” she left the room. i was in a daze. i felt life returning. “she will be mine!” i kept repeating, “she loves me!” i grew better, hour by hour. the barber of the regiment dressed my wounds, for there was no other physician in the fortress, and thank god, he did not merely play the doctor. youth and nature completed the cure. the commandant’s whole family surrounded me with care. marie scarcely ever left me. i need not say that i took the first favorable moment to continue my interrupted declaration. this time marie listened with more patience. she frankly acknowledged her affection for me. and added that her parents would be happy in her happiness; “but,” she continued, “think well of it? will there be no objection on the part of your family?” i did not doubt my mother’s tenderness, but knowing my father’s character, i foresaw that my love would not be received by him favorably, and that in all probability he would treat it as one of my youthful follies. this i avowed plainly to marie, but nevertheless i resolved to write to my father as eloquently as possible, and ask his blessing on our marriage. i showed the letter to marie, who thought it so touching and convincing that she did not doubt of success, and abandoned herself, with all the confidence of youth and love, to the feelings of her heart. i made peace with alexis in the first days of my convalescence. ivan mironoff said, reproaching me for the duel: “you see, peter, i ought to put you under arrest, but indeed you have been well punished without that. alexis is, by my orders, under guard in the barn, and his sword is under lock and key in basilia’s keeping.” i was too happy to harbor spite, so i entreated for alexis, and the kind commandant, with his wife’s permission, consented to set him at liberty. alexis came at once to see me. he expressed regret for all that had happened, confessing that the fault was all his, and begged me to forget the past. being naturally incapable of revenge, i pardoned him, forgiving both our quarrel and my wound. in his calumny i now saw the irritation of wounded vanity and despised love. i generously forgave my unfortunate rival. as soon as completely cured i returned to my lodging. i awaited impatiently the reply to my letter, not daring to hope, yet trying to stifle all sad presentiments. i had not yet had an explanation with basilia and her husband, but my suit could not surprise them. neither marie nor i had concealed our feelings, and we were sure in advance of their consent. at last, one pleasant day saveliitch came to my room, letter in hand. the address was written in my father’s hand. this sight prepared me for something grave, for usually my mother wrote me, and he only added a few lines at the end. long i hesitated to break the seal. i read again and again the solemn superscription: “to my son, peter grineff, principality of orenbourg, fortress of belogorsk.” i tried to discover by my father’s writing his mood of mind when he wrote that letter. at last i broke that seal. i saw from the first lines that our hopes were crushed! here is the letter: “my son peter: we received the th of this month the letter in which you ask our paternal benediction and consent to your marriage with mironoff’s daughter. not only have i no intention of giving either my consent or benediction, but i have a great mind to go to you and punish you for your childish follies, notwithstanding your officer’s rank, because you have proved that you are not worthy to bear the sword which was given you for the defense of your country, and not for the purpose of fighting a duel with a fool of your own stamp. i shall write instantly to andrew karlovitch to transfer you from the fortress of belogorsk to some still more distant place. upon hearing of your wound your mother was taken ill, and is still confined to her bed. what will become of you? i pray god to reform you, but can scarcely hope for so much from his goodness. your father, a.g.” the harsh expressions which my father had not spared, wounded me sorely; the contempt with which he treated marie seemed to me as unjust as it was undignified. then the mere idea of being sent from this fortress alarmed me; but above all, i grieved for my mother’s illness. saveliitch came in for a share of my indignation, not doubting but that he informed my parents of the duel. after having paced up and down my little chamber, i stopped suddenly before the old man and said: “it seems that it is not enough that you caused my wound, and brought me almost to the brink of the grave, but that you want to kill my mother too!” saveliitch was as motionless as if lightning had struck him. “have mercy on me! my lord,” said he, “what do you deign to tell me? i caused your wound? god sees that i was running to put my breast before you, to receive the sword of alexis. this cursed age of mine hindered me. but what have i done to your mother?” “what have you done? who charged you to write an accusation against me? were you taken into my service to play the spy on me?” “i write an accusation?” replied the old man, quite broken down, “o god! king of heaven! here, read what the master writes me, and you shall see if i denounced thee.” at the same time he drew from his pocket a letter which he gave me, and i read what follows: “shame upon you, you old dog, that notwithstanding my strict orders you wrote me nothing regarding my son, leaving to strangers the duty of telling me of his follies. is it thus you do your duty and fulfill your master’s will? i shall send you to keep the pigs, for having concealed the truth, and for your condescension to the young man. upon receipt of this letter inform me immediately of the state of his health, which is, i hear, improving, and tell me precisely the place of his wound, and whether he has well attended.” evidently saveliitch was not in the wrong, and i had offended him by my suspicions and reproaches. i asked him to forgive me, but the old man was inconsolable. “see to what i have lived!” he repeated; “see what thanks i have merited from my masters for all my long services! i am an old dog! i am a swine-herd, and more than all that, i caused your wound. no, no, peter, i am not in fault, it is the cursed frenchman who taught thee to play with these steel blades, and to stamp and dance, as if by thrusting and dancing you could defend yourself from a bad man.” now, then, who had taken the pains to accuse me to my father? the general, andrew karlovitch? he did not trouble himself much about me; moreover, ivan mironoff had not thought it worth while to report my duel to him. my suspicions fell on alexis. he only would find some advantage in this information, the consequence of which might be my dismissal from the fortress and separation from the commandant’s family. i went to tell every thing to marie. she met me on the doorstep. “what has happened to you? how pale you are!” “all’s over,” i replied, handing her my father’s letter. it was her turn to blanch. having read the letter she returned it, and said in a trembling voice: “it was not my destiny. your parents do not wish me in their family; may the will of god be done! he knows better than we what is best for us. there is nothing to be done in the matter, peter; you, at least, may be happy.” “it shall not be so,” i exclaimed, taking her hand. “you love me, i am ready for any fate. let us go and throw ourselves at your parents’ feet. they are simple people; they are neither haughty nor cruel; they will give us their benediction; we will marry; and in time, i am sure, we will soften my father. my mother will intercede for us, and he will pardon me.” “no, peter, i will not marry you without the benediction of your parents. you would not be happy without their blessing. let us submit to the will of god. if you meet another bride, if you love her, may god be with you! i, peter, i will pray for both of you.” tears interrupted her, and she went away; i wished to follow her into the house, but i was not master of myself, and i went to my own quarters. i was plunged in melancholy, when saveliitch came to interrupt my reflections. “there, my lord,” said he, presenting me a sheet of paper all covered with writing, “see if i am a spy on my master, and if i try to embroil father and son.” i took the paper from his hand; it was his reply to my father’s letter. i could not help smiling at the old man’s letter. i was in no condition to write to my father, and to calm my mother his letter seemed sufficient. from that day, marie scarcely spoke to me, and even tried to avoid me. the commandant’s house became insupportable, and i accustomed myself, little by little, to remain alone in my room. at first basilia reasoned with me, but seeing my persistency she let me alone. i saw ivan mironoff only when the service required it. i had but rare interviews with alexis, for whom my antipathy increased, because i thought i discovered in him a secret enmity which confirmed my suspicions. life became a burden; i gave myself up to a melancholy which was fed by solitude and inaction. love burned on in silence and tortured me, more and more. i lost all taste for reading and literature; i let myself become completely depressed; and i feared that i should either become a lunatic or rush into dissipation, when events occurred that had great influence on my life and give a strong and healthy tone to my mind. vi. pougatcheff. before beginning the recital of the strange events of which i was witness, i ought to say a few words about the situation of affairs toward the end of the year . the rich and vast province of orenbourg was inhabited by a number of tribes, half civilized, who had just recognized the sovereignty of the russian czars. their continual revolts, their impatience of law and civilized life, their inconstancy and cruelty, demanded on the part of the government a constant watchfulness to reduce them to obedience. fortresses had been erected in favorable places, and cossacks, the former possessors of the shores of the iaik, in many places formed a part of the garrisons. but these very cossacks, who should have guaranteed the peace and security of their districts, were restless and dangerous subjects of the empire. in a riot occurred in one of their chief towns. this riot was caused by the severity of the measures employed by general traubenberg to bring the army to obedience. the only result of these measures was the barbarous murder of traubenberg, a change of imperial officers, and in the end, by force of grape and canister, the suppression of the riot. this happened shortly before my arrival at the fortress of belogorsk. then all seemed quiet. but the authorities had too easily believed in the feigned repentance of the rebels, who nursed their hate in silence, and only awaited a propitious moment to recommence the struggle. i return to my story. once evening, it was in the month of october, , i was alone in the house, listening to the whistling of the autumn winds, and watching the clouds gliding rapidly before the moon. an order came from the commandant, calling me to his presence. i went that instant. i found there alexis, ignatius and the corporal of the cossacks, but neither the wife nor daughter of the commandant. my chief bade me good evening, had the door closed, and every one seated, except the corporal who remained standing; then he drew a paper from his pocket and said to us: “gentlemen, important news! listen to what the general writes.” he put on his spectacles and read: “to the commandant of the fortress of belogorsk, captain mironoff. _confidential_. i hereby inform you that the deserter and turbulent cossack of the don, imiliane pougatcheff, after having been guilty of the unpardonable insolence of usurping the name of the deceased emperor peter iii, has assembled a troop of brigands, disturbed the villages of the iaik, and has even taken and destroyed several fortresses, at the same time committing everywhere robberies and assassinations. therefore, upon the receipt of this, you will, captain, bethink you of the measures to be taken to repulse the said robber and usurper; and if possible, in case he turn his arms against the fortress confided to your care, to completely exterminate him.” “it is easy to talk,” said the commandant, taking off his spectacles, and folding the paper; “but we must use every precaution. the rascal seems strong, and we have only men, even adding the cossacks, upon whom there is no dependence, be it said without reproach to thee, maxim.” the corporal of the cossacks smiled. “gentlemen, let us do our part; be vigilant, post sentries, establish night patrols; in case of an attack, shut the gates and call out the soldiers. maxim, watch well your cossacks. it is necessary to examine the cannon and clean it; and above all to keep the secret, that no one in the fortress should know any thing before the time.” having given his orders, ivan mironoff dismissed us. i went out with alexis, speculating on what we had heard. “what do you think of it? how will this end?” i asked him. “god knows,” he replied, “we shall see. at present there is no danger.” and he began, as if thinking, to hum a french air. notwithstanding our precautions the news of the apparition of pougatcheff spread through the fortress. however great the respect of ivan mironoff for his wife, he would not reveal to her for anything in the world a military secret. when he had received the general’s letter he very adroitly rid himself of basilia by telling her that the greek priest had received from orenbourg extraordinary news which he kept a great mystery. thereupon basilia desired to pay a visit to accouline, the clergyman’s wife, and by mironoff’s advice marie went also. master of the situation, ivan mironoff locked up the maid in the kitchen and assembled us. basilia came home without news, and learned that during her absence a council of war had been held, and that polacca was imprisoned in the kitchen. she suspected that her husband had deceived her, and overwhelmed him with questions. he was prepared for the attack, and stoutly replied to his curious better-half: “you see, my dear, the women about the country have been using straw to kindle their fires; now as that might be dangerous, i assembled my officers, and gave them orders to prevent these women lighting fires with anything but fagots and brushwood.” “and why did you lock up polacca in the kitchen till my return?” ivan mironoff had not foreseen that question, and muttered some incoherent words. basilia saw at once her husband’s perfidy, but knowing that she could extract nothing from him at that moment, she ceased her questioning, and spoke of the pickled cucumbers which accouline knew how to prepare in a superior fashion. that night basilia never closed an eye, unable to imagine what it was that her husband knew that she could not share with him. the next day, returning from mass, she saw ignatius cleaning the cannon, taking out rags, pebbles, bits of wood, and all sorts of rubbish which the small boys had stuffed there. “what means these warlike preparations?” thought the commandant’s wife? “is an attack from the kirghis feared? is it possible that mironoff would hide from me so mere a trifle?” she called ignatius, determined to know the secret that excited her woman’s curiosity. basilia began by making some remarks about household matters, like a judge who begins his interrogation with questions foreign to the affair, in order to reassure the accused, and throw him off his guard. then having paused a moment she sighed and shook her head, saying: “o god! what news! what news! what will become of us?” “my dear lady,” said ignatius, “the lord is merciful; we have soldiers and plenty of powder; i have cleaned the cannon. we may repulse this pougatcheff. if the lord is with us, the wolf will eat no one here.” “who is pougatcheff?” asked the commandant’s wife. ignatius saw that he had gone too far, and he bit his tongue. but it was too late. basilia constrained him to tell her all, having given her word to keep the secret. she kept her word, and indeed told no one except accoulina, whose cow was still on the steppe and might be carried off by the brigands. soon every one talked of pougatcheff, the current reports being very different. the commandant sent out the corporal to pick up information about him in all the neighboring villages and little forts. the corporal returned after an absence of two days, and declared that he had seen on the steppe, sixty versts from the fortress, a great many fires, and that he had heard the bashkirs say that an innumerable force was advancing. he could not tell anything definitely, having been afraid to venture farther. great agitation was soon after this observed amongst the cossacks of our garrison. they assembled in groups in the streets, speaking in a low tone amongst themselves, and dispersing as soon as they perceived a dragoon or other russian soldier. orders were given to watch them. zoulac, a baptized kalmouk, made a very grave revelation to the commandant. according to the kalmouk, the cossack made a false report; for to his comrades the perfidious corporal said that he had advanced to the rebel camp, had been presented to their rebel chief, had kissed his hand and conversed with him. the commandant ordered the corporal under arrest, and replaced him by the kalmouk. this change was received by the cossacks with visible discontent. they openly murmured and ignatius, when executing the commandant’s order, heard them say, with his own ears, “wait, garrison rat, wait!” the commandant decided to examine the corporal that same day, but he had escaped, no doubt, by the aid of his brother cossacks. another event increased the captain’s uneasiness. a bashkir was seized bearing seditious letters. upon this occasion, the commandant decided to call at once a council, and in order to do so, wished to send away his wife under some specious pretext. but as mironoff was the simplest and most truthful of men, he could think of no other device than that already employed. “you see, basilia,” said he, coughing several times, “father garasim has, it is said, been to the city--” “silence! silence!” interrupted his wife; “you are going to call another council and talk in my absence of imiliane pougatcheff, but this time you can not deceive me.” the captain stared; “eh! well! my dear,” said he, “since you know all, stay; we may as well speak before you.” “you cannot play the fox,” said his wife; “send for the officers.” we assembled again. the commandant read, before his wife, pougatcheff’s proclamation, written by some half-educated cossack. the brigand declared to us his intention of marching directly upon our fortress, inviting the cossacks and soldiers to join him, and advising the chiefs not to resist, threatening, in that case, extremest torture. the proclamation was written in vulgar but energetic terms, and must have produced an impression upon simple-minded people. “what a rascal!” exclaimed the captain’s wife. “just see what he proposes. to go out and meet him and lay our flags at his feet. ah! the son of a dog! he does not know that we have been forty years in service, and that, thank god, we have seen all sorts of military life. is it possible to find a commandant cowardly enough to obey this robber?” “it ought not to be,” replied the captain, “but it is said that the villain has taken possession of several fortress.” “it appears he is quite strong,” said alexis. “we shall instantly know his real force,” continued the commandant; “basilia, give me the key of the garret. ignatius, bring the bashkir here, and tell zoulac to bring the rods.” “wait a little, my dear,” said the commandant’s wife, leaving her seat; “let me take marie out of the house, or else she will hear the screams and be frightened. and, to tell the truth, i am, myself, not very curious about such investigations. until i see you again, adieu.” torture was then so rooted in the customs of justice, that the humane ukase of catherine ii, who had ordered its abolition, remained long without effect. it was thought that the confession of the accused was indispensable to his condemnation, an idea not only unreasonable, but contrary to the most simple good sense in matters of jurisprudence; for if the denial of the accused is not accepted as proof of his innocence, the confession which is torn from him by torture ought to serve still less as proof of his guilt. even now i sometimes hear old judges regret the abolition of this barbarous custom. but in the time of our story no one doubted the necessity of torture, neither the judges nor the accused themselves. for this reason the captain’s order did not astonish any of us. ignatius went for the bashkir, and a few minutes later he was brought to the waiting-room. the commandant ordered him into the council-room where we were. the bashkir crossed the threshold with difficulty, for his feet were shackled. he took off his high cossack cap and stood near the door. i looked at him and shuddered, involuntarily. never shall i forget that man; he seemed at least seventy years of age, and had neither nose nor ears. his head was shaved; a few sparse gray hairs took the place of beard. he was small of stature, thin and bent; but his tartar eyes still sparkled. “eh! eh!” said the commandant, who recognized by these terrible signs one of the rebels punished in . “you are an old wolf, i see; you have already been caught in our snares. this is not your first offense, for your head is so well planed off.” the old bashkir was silent, and looked at the commandant with an air of complete imbecility. “well! why are you silent?” continued the captain; “do you not understand russian? zoulac, ask him, in your tongue, who sent him into our fortress.” the kalmouk repeated in the tartar language the captain’s question. but the bashkir looked at him with the same expression and without answering a word. “i will make you answer,” exclaimed the captain, with a tartar oath. “come, take off his striped dressing-gown, his fool’s garment, and scourge him well.” two pensioners commenced to remove the clothing from the shoulders of the old man. then, sore distress was vividly depicted on the face of the unfortunate man. he looked on all sides, like a poor little animal caught by children. but when one of the pensioners seized his hands to turn them around his neck and lift up the old man on his shoulders; when zoulac took the rods and raised his hand to strike, then the bashkir uttered a low, but penetrating moan, and raising his head, opened his mouth, where, in place of a tongue, moved a short stump! we were still debating, when basilia rushed breathlessly into the room with a terrified air. “what has happened to you?” asked the commandant, surprised. “misfortune! misfortune!” replied she. “a fort was taken this morning; father garasim’s boy has just returned. he saw how it was captured. the commandant and all the officers are hanged, all the soldiers made prisoners, and the rebels are coming here.” this unexpected news made a deep impression on me, for i knew the commandant of that fortress. two months ago, the young man, traveling with his bride coming from orenbourg, had paid a visit to captain mironoff. the fort he commanded was only twenty-five versts from ours, so that from hour to hour we might expect an attack from pougatcheff. my imagination pictured the fate of marie, and i trembled for her. “listen, captain mironoff,” said i to the commandant, “our duty is to defend the fortress to our last breath; that is understood, but the safety of the women must be thought of; send them to a more distant fortress,--to orenbourg, if the route be still open.” mironoff turned to his wife. “you see my dear! indeed it would be well to send you somewhere farther off until we shall have defeated the rebels.” “what nonsense!” replied she. “where is the fortress that balls have not reached? in what respect is our fortress unsafe? thank god, we have lived here twenty and one years. we have seen bashkirs and kirghis; pougatcheff can not be worse than they.” “my dear, stay if you will, since your faith is so great in our fortress. but what shall we do with marie? it will be all well if we can keep off the robber, or if help reach us in time. if the fortress, however, be taken--” basilia could only stammer a few words, and was silent, choked by her feelings. “no, basilia,” continued the commandant, who remarked that his words made a deep impression on his wife, perhaps for the first time in his life, “it is not advisable that marie stay here. let us send her to orenbourg, to her god-mother’s. that is a well-manned fortress, with stone walls and plenty of cannon. i would advise you to go there yourself; think what might happen to you were your fortress to be taken by assault.” “well! well! let us send marie away,” said the captain’s wife, “but do not dream of asking me to go, for i will do nothing of the kind. it is not becoming, in my old age, to separate myself from thee and seek a solitary grave in a strange place. we have lived together; let us die together.” “you are right,” said the commandant. “go, and equip marie; there is no time to lose; tomorrow, at the dawn of day, she shall set out; she must have a convoy, though indeed there is no one to spare. where is she?” “she is at accoulina’s,” said his wife. “she fainted upon hearing that the fortress had been taken.” basilia went to prepare for her daughter’s departure. the discussion still continued at the commandant’s, but i took no further part in it. marie reappeared at supper with eyes red from tears. we supped in silence and rose from the table sooner than usual. having bade the family good night, each one sought his room. i forgot my sword, on purpose, and went back for it; i anticipated finding marie alone. in truth she met me at the door and gave me my sword. “adieu, peter,” she said, weeping, “they send me to orenbourg. be happy. perhaps god will permit us to meet again; if not--” she burst into tears. i folded her in my arms. “adieu, my angel!” i said, “adieu my cherished, my beloved; what ever happens, be sure that my last thought, my last prayer, will be for thee.” leaning of my breast, marie wept. i kissed her and rushed out. vii. the assault. i could not sleep during the night, and did not even undress. i intended to be at the fortress gates at day-dawn to see marie set out, and bid her a last adieu. i was completely changed. excitement was less painful than my former melancholy, for with the grief of separation there mingled vague but secret hope, impatient expectation of danger, and a high ambition. night passed quickly. i was on the point of going out, when my door opened, and the corporal entered, saying that our cossacks had deserted the fortress during the night, forcing with them zoulac, the christian kalmouk, and that all around our ramparts, unknown people were riding. the idea that marie had not been able to get off, froze me with terror. i gave, in haste, a few instructions to the corporal, and ran to the commandant’s. day was breaking. i was going down the street swiftly when i heard my name called. i stopped. “where are you going, dare i ask?” said ignatius, catching up with me; “the captain is on the rampart and sends me for you. pougatcheff is here.” “is marie gone?” i said, shuddering. “she was not ready in time; communication with orenbourg is cut off; the fortress is surrounded. peter, this is bad work.” we went to the rampart--a small height formed by nature and fortified by a palisade. the garrison was there under arms. the cannon had been dragged there the evening before. the commandant was walking up and down before his little troop--the approach of danger had restored to the old warrior extraordinary vigor. on the steppe, not far from the fortress, there were some twenty horsemen, who looked like cossacks; but amongst them were a few bashkirs, easily recognized by their caps and quivers. the commandant passed before the ranks of his small army and said to the soldiers: “come, boys, let us fight today for our mother the empress, and show the world that we are brave men and faithful to our oath.” the soldiers, with loud shouts, testified their good will. alexis was standing by me examining the enemy. the people on the steppe, seeing, no doubt, some movement in our fort, collected in groups and spoke amongst themselves. the commandant ordered ignatius to point the cannon upon them, he himself applying the light. the ball whistled over their heads without doing them any harm. the horsemen dispersed at once, setting off on a gallop, and the steppe became deserted. at this moment basilia appeared on the rampart, followed by marie, who would not leave her. “well,” said the captain’s wife, “how is the battle going? where is the enemy?” “the enemy is not far off,” replied ivan, “but if god wills it, all will be well; and thou, marie, art thou afraid?” “no, papa,” said marie, “i am more afraid by myself in the house.” she glanced at me, and tried to smile. i pressed my sword, remembering that i had received it from her on the preceding eve, as if for her defense. my heart was on fire. i fancied myself her knight, and longed to prove myself worthy of her trust. i awaited the decisive moment impatiently. suddenly coming from behind a hill, eight versts from the fortress, appeared new groups of horsemen, and soon the whole steppe was covered by men armed with lances and arrows. amongst them, wearing a scarlet cafetan, sword in hand, could be distinguished a man mounted on a white horse. this was pougatcheff himself. he halted, was surrounded by his followers, and very soon, probably by his orders, four men left the crowd and galloped to our ramparts. we recognized among them our traitors. one of them raised a sheet of paper above his cap and another carried on the point of his lance zoulac’s head, which he threw to us over the palisade. the poor kalmouk’s head rolled at the feet of the commandant. the traitors shouted to us: “do not fire, come out and receive the czar. the czar is here.” “fire!” shouted the captain as sole reply. the soldiers discharged their pieces. the cossack who held the letter, tottered and fell from his horse; the others fled. i glanced at marie. petrified by horror at the sight of the kalmouk’s head, dizzy from the noise of the discharge, she seemed lifeless. the commandant ordered the corporal to take the letter from the hand of the dead cossack. ignatius sallied out and returned, leading by the bridle the man’s horse. he gave the letter to ivan, who read it in a low voice and tore it up. meantime the rebels were preparing for an attack. very soon balls whistled about our ears, and arrows fell around us, buried deep in the ground. “basilia,” said the captain, “women have nothing to do here; take away marie; you see the child is more dead than alive.” basilia, whom the sound of the balls had rendered more yielding, glanced at the steppe where much movement was visible, and said: “ivan, life and death are from god; bless marie; come, child, to thy father.” pale and trembling, marie came and knelt, bending low before him. the old commandant made three times the sign of the cross over her, then raising, kissed her, and said in a broken voice: “oh! my dear marie! pray to god, he will never abandon thee. if an honest man seek thee, may god give you both love and goodness. live together as we have lived; my wife and i. adieu! my dear marie! basilia, take her away quickly.” marie put her arms around his neck and sobbed. the captain’s wife, in tears, said: “embrace us also; adieu, ivan; if ever i have crossed you, forgive me.” “adieu! adieu! my dear,” said the commandant, kissing his old companion. “come! enough! go to the house, and if you have time dress marie in her best; let her wear a sarafan, embroidered in gold, as is our custom for burial.” ivan mironoff returned to us, and fixed all his attention upon the enemy. the rebels collected around their chief and suddenly began to advance. “be firm, boys,” said the commandant, “the assault begins.” at that instant savage war-cries were heard. the rebels were approaching the fortress with their accustomed fleetness. our cannon was charged with grape and canister. the commandant let them come within short range, and again put a light to his piece. the shot struck in the midst of the force, which scattered in every direction. only their chief remained in advance, and he, waving his sabre, seemed to be rallying them. their piercing shouts, which had ceased an instant, redoubled again. “now, children,” ordered the captain, “open the gate, beat the drum, and advance! follow me, for a sortie!” the captain, ignatius and i were in an instant beyond the parapet. but the frightened garrison had not moved from the square. “what are you doing, my children?” shouted the captain; “if we must die, let us die; the imperial service demands it!” at this moment the rebels fell upon us, and forced the entrance to the citadel. the drum was silent; the garrison threw down their arms. i had been knocked down, but i rose and entered, pell-mell, with the crowds into the fortress. i saw the commandant wounded on the head, and closed upon by a small troop of bandits, who demanded the keys. i was running to his aid when several powerful cossacks seized me and bound me with their long sashes, crying out: “wait there, traitor to the czar, till we know what to do with you.” we were dragged along the streets. the inhabitants came out of their houses offering bread and salt. the bells were rung. suddenly, shouts announced that the czar was on the square, awaiting to receive the oaths of the prisoners. pougatcheff was seated in an arm-chair on the steps of the commandant’s house. he was robed in an elegant cossack cafetan embroidered on the seams. a high cap of martin-skin, ornamented with gold tassels, covered his brow almost to his flashing eyes. his face seemed to me not unknown. cossack chiefs surrounded him. father garasim, pale and trembling, stood, the cross in his hand, at the foot of the steps, and seemed to supplicate in silence for the victims brought before him. on the square itself, a gallows was hastily erected. when we approached, the bashkirs opened a passage through the crowd and presented us to pougatcheff. the bells ceased; the deepest silence prevailed. “which is the commandant?” asked the usurper. our corporal came out of the crowd and pointed to mironoff. pougatcheff looked at the old man with a terrible expression, and said to him: “how did you dare to oppose me, your emperor?” the commandant, weakened by his wound, collected all his energy, and said, in a firm but faint voice: “you are not my emperor; you are a usurper and a brigand.” pougatcheff frowned and raised his white handkerchief. immediately the old captain was seized by cossacks and dragged to the gibbet. astride the cross-beam of the gallows, sat the mutilated bashkirs who we had questioned; he held a rope in his hand, and i saw, an instant after, poor ivan mironoff suspended in the air. then ignatius was brought up before pougatcheff. “take the oath to the emperor, peter fedorovitch.” “you are not our emperor,” replied the lieutenant, repeating his captain’s words, “you are a brigand and a usurper.” pougatcheff again made a signal with his handkerchief, and the kind ignatius hung beside his ancient chief. it was my turn. i looked boldly at pougatcheff, preparing to repeat the words of my brave comrades, when to my inexpressible astonishment i saw alexis amongst the rebels. he had had time to cut his hair round, and exchange his uniform for a cossack cafetan. he approached pougatcheff and whispered to him. “let him be hung,” said pougatcheff, not deigning to look at me. a rope was put around my neck. i uttered a prayer to god in a low voice, expressing sincere repentance for my sins, and imploring him to save all those dear to my heart. i was led beneath the gibbet. a shout was heard, “stop! stop!” the executioners paused. i looked. saveliitch was kneeling at pougatcheff’s feet. “o my lord and master,” said my dear old serf, “what do you want with that nobleman’s child? set him free, you will get a good ransom for his life; but for an example, and to frighten the rest, command that i, an old man, shall be hung.” pougatcheff made a sign. they unbound me at once. “our emperor pardons you,” they said. at the moment i did not know that my deliverance was a cause for joy or for sorrow. my mind was too confused. i was taken again before the usurper and made to kneel at his feet. pougatcheff offered me his muscular hand. “kiss his hand! kiss his hand!” cried out all around me. but i would have preferred the most atrocious torture to a degradation so infamous. “my dear peter,” whispered saveliitch, who was standing behind me, “do not play the obstinate; what does it cost? kiss the brigand’s hand.” i did not move. pougatcheff drew back his hand: “his lordship is stupefied with joy; raise him up,” said he. i was at liberty. then i witnessed the continuation of the infamous comedy. the inhabitants began to take the oath. they went one by one to kiss the cross and salute the usurper. after them came the garrison soldiers. the company’s tailor, armed with his great blunt-pointed shears, cut off their queues; they shook their heads and kissed the hand of pougatcheff, who declared them pardoned and received into his troops. this lasted for nearly three hours. at last pougatcheff rose from his arm-chair and went down the steps, followed by his chiefs. a white horse richly caparisoned was led to him; tow cossacks helped him into the saddle. he signified to father garasim that he would dine with him. at this moment wild heart-rending shrieks from a woman filled the air. basilia, without her mantle, her hair in disorder, was dragged out on the steps; one the brigands had on her mantle; the others were carrying away her chests, her linen, and other household goods. “o good men,” she cried, “let me go, take me to ivan mironoff.” suddenly she saw the gibbet and recognized her husband. “wretches,” she cried, “what have you done? o my light, ivan! brave soldier! no prussian ball, nor turkish sabre killed thee, but a vile condemned deserter.” “silence that old sorceress,” said pougatcheff. a young cossack struck her with his sabre on the head. she fell dead at the foot of the steps. pougatcheff rode off, all the people following. viii. the unexpected visit. i stood in the vacant square, unable to collect my thoughts, disturbed by so many terrible emotions. uncertainty about marie’s fate tortured me. where is she? is she concealed? is her retreat safe? i went to the commandant’s house. it was in frightful disorder; the chairs, tables, presses had been burned up and the dishes were in fragments. i rushed up the little stairs leading to marie’s room, which i entered for the first time in my life. a lamp still burned before the shrine which had enclosed the sacred objects revered by all true believers. the clothes-press was empty, the bed broke up. the robbers had not taken the little mirror hanging between the door and the window. what had become of the mistress of this simple, virginal abode? a terrible thought flashed through my mind. marie in hands of the brigands! my heart was torn, and i cried aloud: “marie! marie!” i heard a rustle. polacca, quite pale, came from her hiding-place behind the clothes-press. “ah! peter,” said she, clasping her hands, “what a day! what horrors!” “marie?” i asked impatiently, “marie--where is she?” “the young lady is alive,” said the maid, “concealed at accoulina’s, at the house of the greek priest.” “great god!” i cried, with terror, “pougatcheff is there!” i rushed out of the room, made a bound into the street and ran wildly to the priest’s house. it was ringing with songs, shouts and laughter. pougatcheff was at table there with his men. polacca had followed me; i sent her in to call out accoulina secretly. accoulina came into the waiting-room, an empty bottle in her hand. “in the name of heaven, where is marie?” i asked with agitation. “the little dove is lying on my bed behind the partition. oh! peter, what danger we have just escaped! the rascal had scarcely seated himself at table than the poor thing moaned. i thought i should die of fright. he heard her. ‘who is moaning in your room, old woman?’ ‘my niece, czar.’ ‘let me see your niece, old woman.’ i saluted him humbly; ‘my niece, czar, has not strength to come before your grace.’ ‘then i will go and see her.’ and will you believe it, he drew the curtains and looked at our dove, with his hawk’s eyes! the child did not recognize him. poor ivan mironoff! basilia! why was ignatius taken, and you spared? what do you think of alexis? he has cut his hair and now hobnobs with them in there. when i spoke of my sick niece he looked at me as if he would run me through with his knife. but he said nothing, and we must be thankful for that.” the drunken shouts of the guests, and the voice of father garasim now resounded together; the brigands wanted more wine, and accoulina was needed. “go back to your house, peter,” said she, “woe to you, if you fall into his hands!” she went to serve her guests; i, somewhat quieted, returned to my room. crossing the square, i saw some bashkirs stealing the boots from the bodies of the dead. i restrained my useless anger. the brigands had been through the fortress and had pillaged the officers’ houses. i reached my lodging. saveliitch met me at the threshold. “thank god!” he cried. “ah! master, the rascals have taken everything; but what matter, since they did not take your life. did you not recognize their chief, master?” “no, i did not; who is he?” “what, my dear boy, have you forgotten the drunkard who cheated you out of the touloup the day of the snow-drift--a hare-skin touloup?--the rascal burst all the seams putting it on.” my eyes were opened. the resemblance between the guide and pougatcheff was striking. i now understood the pardon accorded me. i recalled with gratitude the lucky incident. a youth’s touloup given to a vagabond had saved my neck; and this drunkard, capturing fortress, had shaken the very empire. “will you not deign to eat something?” said saveliitch, true to his instincts; “there is nothing in the house, it is true, but i will find something and prepare it for you.” left alone, i began to reflect that not to leave the fortress, now subject to the brigand, or to join his troops, would be unworthy of an officer. duty required me to go and present myself where i could still be useful to my country. but love counseled me, with no less force, to stay near marie, to be her protector and champion. although i foresaw a near and inevitable change in the march of events, still i could not, without trembling, contemplate the danger of her position. my reflections were interrupted by the entrance of a cossack, who came to announce that the “great czar” called me to his presence. “where is he?” i asked, preparing to obey. “in the commandant’s house,” replied the cossack. “after dinner the czar went to the vapor baths. it must be confessed that all his ways are imperial! he can do more than others; at dinner he deigned to eat two roast milk-pigs; afterward at the bath he endured the highest degree of heat; even the attendant could not stand it; he handed the brush to another and was restored to consciousness only by the application of cold water. it is said that in the bath, the marks of the true czar were plainly seen on his breast--a picture of his own face and a double-headed eagle.” i did not think it necessary to contradict the cossack, and i followed him to the commandant’s, trying to fancy in advance my interview with pougatcheff, and its result. the reader may imagine that i was not quite at ease. night was falling as i reached the house. the gibbet with its victims still stood, black and terrible. the poor body of our good basilia was lying under the steps, near which two cossacks mounted guard. he who had brought me, entered to announce my arrival; he returned at once, and led me to the room where the evening before i had taken leave of marie. at a table covered with a cloth, and laden with bottles and glasses, sat pougatcheff, surrounded by some ten cossack chiefs in colored caps and shirts, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, the effect, no doubt, of the wine-cup. i saw neither of our traitors, alexis or the corporal, amongst them. “ah! your lordship, it is you?” said their chief, on seeing me. “be welcome! honor and place at the table!” the guests drew closer together. i took a place at the end of the table. my neighbor, a young cossack of slender form and handsome face, poured out a bumper of brandy for me. i did not taste it. i was busy considering the assembly. pougatcheff was seated in the place of honor, elbow on table, his heavy, black beard resting upon his muscular hand. his features, regular and handsome, had no ferocious expression. he often spoke to a man of some fifty years, calling him now count, again uncle. all treated each other as comrades, showing no very marked deference for their chief. they talked of the assault that morning; of the revolt, its success, and of their next operations. each one boasted of his prowess, gave his opinions, and freely contradicted pougatcheff. in this strange council of war, they resolved to march upon orenbourg, a bold move, but justified by previous successes. the departure was fixed for the next day. each one drank another bumper, and rising, took leave of pougatcheff. i wished to follow them, but the brigand said: “wait, i want to speak to you.” pougatcheff looked at me fixedly in silence for a few seconds, winking his left eye with the most cunning, mocking expression. at last he burst into a long peal of laughter, so hearty, that i, just from seeing him, began to laugh, without knowing why. “well, my lord,” said he, “confess that you were frightened, when my boys put the rope around your neck? the sky must have seemed to you then as big as a sheep-skin. and if not for your servant, you would have been swinging up there from the cross-beam; but at that very instant i recognized the old owl. would you have thought that the man who led you to a shelter on the steppe was the great czar himself?” saying these words, he assumed a grave and mysterious air. “you have been very guilty,” continued he, “but i have pardoned you, for having done me a kindness, when i was obliged to hide from my enemies. i shall load you with favors, when i shall have regained my empire. do you promise to serve me with zeal?” the bandit’s question and impudence made me smile. “why do you laugh?” said he, frowning, “do you not believe that i am the great czar? answer frankly.” i was troubled. i could not recognize a vagabond as the emperor; to call him an impostor to his face was to doom myself to death; and the sacrifice which i was ready to make under the gibbet that morning, before all the people, in the first flush of indignation, seemed now a useless bravado. pougatcheff awaited my answer in fierce silence. at last (i still remember with satisfaction that duty triumphed over human weakness) i replied to pougatcheff. “i will tell you the truth and let you decide. should i recognize you as the czar, as you are a man of intelligence, you would see that i am lying.” “then who am i? in your opinion.” “god knows, but whoever you are, you are playing a dangerous game.” pougatcheff gave me a sharp, quick glance. “you do not believe that i am the emperor, peter iii? be it so. have not bold men succeeded before me and obtained the crown? think what you please about me, but stay with me. what matters it whom you serve? success is right. serve under me, and i will make you a field-marshal, a prince. what say you?” “no,” said i. “i am a nobleman. i have taken an oath to her majesty, the empress; i can not serve with you. if truly you wish me well, send me to orenbourg.” pougatcheff reflected. “if i send you there, you will, at least, promise not to bear arms against me?” “how can i promise that? if i am ordered to march against you, i must go. you are now a chief; you desire your subordinates to obey you. no, my life is in your hand; if you give me liberty, thanks; if you put me to death, may god judge you.” my frankness pleased him. “be it so,” said he, slapping me on the shoulders, “pardon or punish to the end. you can go the four quarters of the world, and do as you like. come tomorrow, and bid me good-bye. now go to bed--i require rest myself.” i went out into the street. the night was clear and cold; the moon and stars shone out in all their brightness, lighting up the square and the gibbet. all was quiet and dark in the rest of the fortress. at the inn some lights were visible, and belated drinkers broke the stillness by their shouts. i glanced at accoulina’s house; the doors and windows were closed, and all seemed perfectly quiet there. i went to my room, and found saveliitch deploring my absence. i told him of my freedom. “thanks to thee, o god!” said he, making the sign of the cross; “tomorrow we shall set out at daybreak. i have prepared something for you; eat and then sleep till morning, tranquil as if in the bosom of the good shepherd.” i followed his advice, and after having supped, fell asleep on the bare floor, as fatigued in mind as in body. ix. the separation. the drum awoke me early the next morning. i went out on the square. pougatcheff’s troops were there, falling into rank, around the gibbet, to which still hung the victims of yesterday. the cossacks were mounted; the infantry and artillery, with our single gun, were accoutred ready for the march. the inhabitants were also assembled there awaiting the usurper. before the steps of the commandant’s house a cossack held by the bridle a magnificent white horse. my eyes sought the body of our good basilia. it had been dragged aside and covered with an old bark mat. at last pougatcheff came out on the steps, and saluted the crowd. all heads were bared. one of the chiefs handed him a bag of copper coin, which he threw by the handful among the people. perceiving me in the crowd, he signed to me to approach. “listen,” said he, “go at once to orenbourg, and say from me, to the governor and all the generals, that i shall be there in a week. counsel them to receive me with submission and filial love, otherwise they shall not escape the direst torture. a pleasant journey to you.” the principal followers of pougatcheff surrounded him, alexis amongst others. the usurper turned to the people, and pointing to alexis, said: “behold your new commandant; obey him in every thing; he is responsible for you and for the fortress.” the words made me shudder. what would become of marie? pougatcheff descended the steps and vaulted quickly into his saddle without the aid of his attendant cossacks. at that moment saveliitch came out of the crowd, approached the usurper, and presented him a sheet of paper. “what is this?” asked pougatcheff, with dignity. “read, you will deign to see,” replied the serf. pougatcheff examined the paper. “you write very illegibly; where is my secretary?” a boy in corporal’s uniform came running to the brigand. “read aloud,” said he. i was curious to know for what purpose the old man had written to pougatcheff. the secretary began to spell out in a loud voice what follows: “two dressing-gowns, one in percale, the other in striped silk, six roubles.” “what does this mean?” said pougatcheff, frowning. “command him to read on,” replied saveliitch, with perfect calmness. the secretary continued: “one uniform in fine green cloth, seven roubles; one pair of white cloth pantaloons, five roubles; twelve shirts of holland linen, with cuffs, ten roubles; one case containing a tea-service, two roubles.” “what nonsense is this?” said pougatcheff. “what have i to do with tea-sets and holland cuffs?” saveliitch coughed to clear his voice, and began to explain: “that, my lord, deign to understand, is the bill of my master’s goods carried off by the thieves.” “what thieves?” asked pougatcheff, with a terrible air. “pardon me,” said saveliitch. “thieves? no, they were not thieves; my tongue slipped; yet your boys went through everything and carried off plenty. that can not be denied. do not be angry. the horse has four legs and yet he stumbles. command that he read to the end.” “well, read,” said pougatcheff. “one persian blanket, one quilt of wadded silk, four roubles; one pelisse of fox-skin, covered with red ratine, forty roubles; one small touloup of hare-skin left with your grace, on the steppe, fifteen roubles.” “what?” cried pougatcheff, with flashing eyes. i must say i feared for the old man, who was beginning new explanations, when the brigand interrupted him: “how dare you annoy me with these trifles?” said he, snatching the paper from the secretary and throwing it in the old man’s face. “you have been despoiled! old fool! great harm! you ought to thank god that you are not hanging up there, with the other rebels, both you and your master. i’ll give you a hare-skin touloup! do you know that i will have you flayed alive, that touloups may be made of you?” “as you please,” replied saveliitch; “but i am not a free man, and i am responsible for my master’s goods.” pougatcheff, who was evidently playing the magnanimous, turned his head and set off without a word. alexis and the other chiefs followed him. the whole army left the fortress in good order, the people forming an escort. i stayed alone on the square with saveliitch, who held in his hand the bill and considered it with deep regret. i could not help laughing. “laugh, my lord, laugh, but when the household is to be furnished again, we shall see if it be a laughing matter.” i went to learn of marie mironoff. accoulina met me and told me a sad piece of news. during the night a burning fever had seized the poor girl. accoulina took me into her chamber. the invalid was delirious and did not recognize me. i was shocked by the change in her countenance. the position of this sorrowing orphan, without defenders, alarmed me as much as my inability to protect grieved me. alexis, above all, was to be feared. chief, invested with the usurper’s authority, in the fortress with this unhappy girl, he was capable of any crime. what ought i to do to deliver her? to set out at once for orenbourg, to hasten the deliverance of belogorsk, and to co-operate in it, if possible. i took leave of father garasim and accoulina, recommending to them marie, who i already looked upon as my wife. i kissed the young girl’s hand, and left the room. “adieu, peter grineff,” said accoulina. “do not forget us. except you, marie has no support or consolation.” choked by emotion, i did not reply. out on the square, i stopped an instant before the gibbet. with bare head i reverently saluted the loyal dead, and took the road to orenbourg, accompanied by saveliitch, who would not abandon me. thus plunged in thought, i walked on. hearing horses galloping behind me, i turned my head and saw a cossack from the fortress leading a horse, and making signs to me that i should wait. i recognized our corporal. having caught up with us, he dismounted from his own horse, and giving me the bridle of the other, said: “our czar makes you a gift of a horse, and a pelisse from his own shoulder.” to the saddle was tied a sheep-skin touloup. i put it on, mounted the horse, taking saveliitch up behind me. “you see, my lord,” said my serf, “that my petition to the bandit was not useless! and although this old hack and this peasant’s touloup are not worth half what the rascals stole, yet they are better than nothing. ‘a worthless dog yields even a handful of hair.’” x. the siege. approaching orenbourg, we saw a crowd of convicts, with shaved heads and faces disfigured by the pincers of the public executioner. at that time red-hot irons were applied to tear out the nostrils of the condemned. they were working at the fortifications of the place under the supervision of the garrison pensioners. some carried away in wheel-barrows the rubbish that filled the ditch, others threw up the earth, while masons were examining and repairing the walls. the sentry stopped us at the gate and asked for our passports. when the sergeant heard that we were from belogorsk he took me at once to the general, who was in his garden. i found him examining the apple trees, which autumnal winds had already despoiled of their leaves; assisted by an old gardener, he covered them carefully with straw. his face expressed calmness, good humor and health. he seemed very glad to see me, and questioned me about the terrible events i had witnessed. the old man heard me attentively, and whilst listening, cut off the dead branches. “poor mironoff!” said he, when i had finished my story; “it is a pity; he was a brave officer; and madame mironoff a kind lady, an expert in pickling mushrooms. what has become of marie, the captain’s daughter?” “she is in the fortress, at the house of the greek priest.” “aye! aye! aye!” exclaimed the general. “that’s bad, very bad; for it is impossible to depend upon the discipline of brigands.” i observed that the fortress of belogorsk was not far off, and that probably his excellency would send a detachment of troops to deliver the poor inhabitants. the general shook his head, doubtfully. “we shall see! we shall see! there is plenty of time to talk about it; come, i beg you, to take tea with me. tonight there will be a council of war; you can give us some precise information regarding this pougatcheff and his army. meantime, go and rest.” i went to my allotted quarters, where i found saveliitch already installed. i awaited impatiently the hour indicated, and the reader may believe that i did not fail to be present at this council, which was to influence my whole life. i found at the general’s a custom-house officer, the director, as well as i can remember a little old man, red-faced and fat, wearing a robe of black watered silk. he questioned me about the fate of the captain mironoff, whom he called his chum, and often interrupted me by sententious remarks, which, if they did not prove him to be a man well versed in war, showed his natural intelligence and shrewdness. during this time other guests arrived. when all had taken their places, and to each had been offered a cup of tea, the general carefully stated the questions to be considered. “now, gentlemen,” said he, “we must decide what action is to be taken against the rebels. shall we act offensively, or defensively? each of these ways has its advantages and disadvantages. offensive war presents more hope of a rapid extermination of the enemy, but defensive war is safer and offers fewer dangers. let us then take the vote in legal order; that is, consult first the youngest in rank. ensign,” continued he, addressing me, “deign to give your opinion.” i rose, and in a few words depicted pougatcheff and his army. i affirmed that the usurper was not in a condition to resist disciplined forces. my opinion was received by the civil service employes with visible discontent. they saw nothing in it but the levity of a young man. a murmur arose, and i heard distinctly the word “hare-brained” murmured in a low voice. the general turned to me smiling, and said: “ensign, the first votes (the youngest) in war councils, are for offensive measures. now let us continue to collect the votes. the college director will give us his opinion.” the little old man in black silk, a college director, as well as a customs officer, swallowed his third cup of tea, well dashed with a strong dose of rum, and hastened to speak: “your excellency,” said he, “i think that we ought to act neither offensively nor defensively.” “what’s that, sir?” said the general, stupefied; “military tactics present no other means; we must act either offensively or defensively.” “your excellency, act _subornatively_.” “eh! eh! your opinion is judicious,” said the general; “subornative acts--that is to say, indirect acts--are also admitted by the science of tactics, and we will profit by your counsel. we might offer for the rascal’s head seventy or even a hundred roubles, to be taken out of the secret funds.” “and then,” interrupted the man in silk, “may i be a kirghis ram, instead of a college director, if the thieves do not bring their chief to you, chained hand and foot.” “we can think about it,” said the general. “but let us, in any case, take some military measures. gentlemen, give your votes in legal order.” all the opinions were contrary to mine. all agreed, that it was better to stay behind a strong stone wall, protected by cannon, than to tempt fortune in the open field. finally, when all the opinions were known, the general shook the ashes from his pipe and pronounced the following discourse: “gentlemen, i am of the ensign’s opinion, for it is according to the science of military tactics, which always prefers offensive movements to defensive.” he stopped and stuffed the tobacco into his pipe. i glanced exultingly at the civil service employes, who, with discontented looks, were whispering to each other. “but, gentlemen,” continued he, giving out with a sigh a long puff of smoke, “i dare not assume the responsibility. i go with the majority, which has decided that we await in this city the threatened siege, and repulse the enemy by the power of artillery, and if possible, by well-directed sorties.” the council broke up. i could not but deplore the weakness of the worthy soldier, who, contrary to his own convictions, decided to follow the opinion of ignorant inexperience. some days after this famous council of war, pougatcheff, true to his word, approached orenbourg. from the top of the city walls i made a reconnaissance of the rebel army. it seemed to me that their number had increased ten-fold. they had more artillery, taken from the small forts captured by pougatcheff. remembering our council, i foresaw a long captivity behind the walls of orenbourg, and i was ready to cry with chagrin. far from me the intention of describing the siege of orenbourg, which belongs to history and not to family memoirs. suffice it to say, that this siege was disastrous to the inhabitants, who had to suffer hunger and privations of every kind. life at orenbourg became insupportable. the decision of fate was awaited with anguish. food was scarce; bombshells fell upon the defenseless houses of citizens. the attacks of pougatcheff made very little excitement. i was dying of _ennui_. i had promised accoulina that i would correspond with her, but communication was cut off, and i could not send or receive a letter from belogorsk. my only pastime consisted in military sorties. thanks to pougatcheff i had an excellent horse, and i shared my meager pittance with it. i went out every day beyond the ramparts to skirmish with pougatcheff’s advance guards. the rebels had the best of it; they had plenty of food and were well mounted. our poor cavalry were in no condition to oppose them. sometimes our half-starved infantry went into the field; but the depth of the snow hindered them from acting successfully against the flying cavalry of the enemy. the artillery vainly thundered from the ramparts, and in the field it could not advance, because of the weakness of our attenuated horses. this was our way of making war; this is what the civil service employes of orenbourg called prudence and foresight. one day when we had routed and driven before us quite a large troop, i overtook a straggling cossack; my turkish sabre was uplifted to strike him when he doffed his cap and cried out: “good day, peter, how fares your health?” i recognized our corporal. i was delighted to see him. “good day, maxim. how long since you left belogorsk?” “not long, peter. i came yesterday. i have a letter for you.” “where is it?” i cried, delighted. “here,” replied maxim, putting his hand in his bosom. “i promised polacca to try and give it to you.” he gave me a folded paper, and set off on a gallop. i read with agitation the following lines: “by the will of god i am deprived of my parents, and except you, peter, i know of no one who can protect me; alexis commands in place of my late father. he so terrified father garasim that i was obliged to go and live at our house, where i am cruelly treated by alexis. he will force me to become his wife. he says he saved my life by not betraying the trick of passing for the niece of accoulina. i could rather die than be his wife. i have three days to accept his offer; after that i need expect no mercy from him. o, peter! entreat your general to send us help, and if possible, come yourself. marie mironoff.” this letter nearly crazed me. i rushed back to the city, not sparing the spur to my poor horse. a thousand projects flashed through my mind to rescue her. arrived in the city, i hurried to the general’s and ran into his room. he was walking up and down smoking his meerschaum. seeing me he stopped, alarmed at my abrupt entrance. “your excellency, i come to you, as to my own father; do not refuse me; the happiness of my life depends upon it.” “but what is it?” said the general; “what can i do for you?” “your excellency, permit me to take a battalion of soldiers and half a hundred cossacks, to go and storm the fortress of belogorsk.” “storm the fortress?” said the general. “i answer for the success of the attack, only let me go.” “no, young man,” said he; “at so great a distance the enemy would easily cut off all communication with the principal strategic point.” i was frightened by his military wisdom, and hastened to interrupt him: “captain mironoff’s daughter has written me, begging for relief. alexis threatens to compel her to be his wife!” “ah! alexis, traitor! if he fall into my hands i shall try him in twenty-four hours, and he shall be shot on the glacis of the fortress! meantime patience.” “patience!” i cried; “in the interval marie will be compelled to obey him.” “oh,” said the general, “that would not be a misfortune--it is better that she should become the wife of alexis, who can protect her. when we shall have shot the traitor, then she will find a better husband.” “i would rather die,” i said with fury, “than yield her to alexis.” “i understand it all now,” said the old man. “you are, no doubt, in love yourself with marie mironoff. that’s another thing. poor boy! still, i can not give you a battalion and fifty cossacks. the thing is unreasonable.” i hung my head in despair. but i had a plan of my own. xi. the rebel camp. i left the general and hastened to my quarters. saveliitch received me with his usual remonstrance: “what pleasure, my lord, is there in fighting these drunken brigands? if they were turks or swedes, all right; but these sons of dogs--” i interrupted him: “how much money have i in all?” “you have plenty,” said he with a satisfied air. “i knew how to whisk it out of sight of the rogues.” he drew from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver coin. “saveliitch, give me half of what you have there, and keep the rest for yourself. i am off for the fortress of belogorsk.” “oh, peter!” said the old serf, “do you not fear god? the roads are cut off. have pity on your parents; wait a little; our troops will come and disperse the brigands, and then you can go to the four quarters of the world.” “it is too late to reflect. i must go. do not grieve, saveliitch; i make you a present of that money. buy what you need. if i do not return in three days--” “my dear,” said the old man, “i will go with you, were it on foot. if you go, i must first lose my senses before i will stay crouching behind stone walls.” there was never any use disputing with the old man. in half an hour i was in the saddle, saveliitch on an old, half-starved, limping rosinante, which a citizen, not having fodder, had given for nothing to the serf. we reached the city gates; the sentinels let us pass, and we were finally out of orenbourg. night was falling. my road lay before the town of berd, the headquarters of pougatcheff. this road was blocked up and hidden by snow; but across the steppe were traces of horses, renewed from day to day, apparently, and clearly visible. i was going at a gallop, saveliitch could scarcely keep up and shouted, “not so fast! my nag can not follow yours.” very soon we saw the lights of berd. we were approaching deep ravines, which served as natural fortifications to the town. saveliitch, without however being left behind, never ceased his lamentations. i was in hopes of passing safely the enemy’s place, when i saw through the darkness five peasants armed with big sticks--pougatcheff’s extreme outpost. “_qui vive_! who goes there?” not knowing the watchword, i was for going on without answering. but one of them seized my horse’s bridle. i drew my sabre and struck the peasant of the head. his cap saved his life; he staggered and fell; the others, frightened, let me pass. the darkness, which was deepening, might have saved me from further hindrance; when, looking back, i saw that saveliitch was not with me. what was i to do? the poor old man, with his lame horse, could not escape from the rascals. i waited a minute; then, sure that they must have seized him, i turned my horse’s head to go and aid him. approaching the ravine i heard voices, and recognized that of saveliitch. hastening my steps, was soon within sight of the peasants. they had dismounted the old man, and were about to garrote him. they rushed upon me; in an instant i was on foot. their chief said i should be conducted to the czar. i made no resistance. we crossed the ravine to enter the town, which was illuminated. the streets were crowded and noisy. we were taken to a hut on the corner of two streets. there were some barrels of wine and a cannon near the door. one of the peasants said: “here is the palace; we will announce you.” i glanced at saveliitch; he was making signs of the cross, and praying. we waited a long time. at last the peasant re-appeared and said: “the czar orders the officers to his presence.” the palace, as the peasant called it, was lighted by two tallow candles. the walls were hung with gold paper. but every thing else, the benches, the table, the basin hung up by a cord, the towel on a nail in the wall, the shelf laden with earthen vessels, were exactly the same as in any other cabin. pougatcheff, wearing his scarlet cafetan and high cossack cap, with his hand on his hip, sat beneath the sacred pictures common to every russian abode. around him stood several of his chiefs. i could see that the arrival of an officer from orenbourg had awakened some curiosity, and that they had prepared to receive me with pomp. pougatcheff recognized me at once, and his assumed gravity disappeared. “ah! it is your lordship! how are you? what brings you here?” i replied that i was traveling about my private business, when his people arrested me. “what business?” asked he. i did not know what to answer. pougatcheff thinking that i would not speak before witnesses gave a sign to his comrades to leave. all obeyed except two. “speak before these,” said he; “conceal nothing from them.” i glanced at these intimates of the usurper. one was an old man frail and bent, remarkable for nothing but a blue riband crossed over his coarse gray cloth cafetan; but i shall never forget his companion. he was tall, of powerful build, and seemed about forty-five. a thick red beard, piercing gray eyes, a nose without nostrils, marks of the searing irons on his forehead and cheeks, gave to his broad face, pitted by small-pox a most fierce expression. he wore a red shirt, a kirghis robe, and wide cossack pantaloons. although wholly pre-occupied by my own feelings, yet this company deeply impressed me. pougatcheff recalled me to myself quickly. “what business brought you from orenbourg?” a bold idea suggested itself to my mind. it seemed to me that providence, leading me a second time before this robber, gave me the means of accomplishing my work. i decided to seize the chance, and without reflecting on the step, i replied: “i am on the way to the fortress of belogorsk to liberate an oppressed orphan there.” pougatcheff’s eyes flashed. “who dares to oppress an orphan? were he seven feet high, he shall not escape my vengeance. speak, who is the guilty one?” “alexis; he holds in slavery that same young girl whom you saw at father garasim’s, and wants to force her to marry him.” “i shall give alexis a lesson! i’ll teach him to oppress my subjects. i shall hang him.” “permit me a word,” said the man without nostrils. “you were too hasty giving the command to alexis. you offended the cossacks by giving them a noble as chief; do not offend the gentlemen by hanging one of them on the first accusation.” “there is no need to pardon nor pity,” said the man with the blue riband. “it would be no harm to hang alexis, nor to question this gentleman. why does he visit us? if he does not acknowledge you as czar he has no justice to get at your hands; if he acknowledge you, why did he stay at orenbourg with your enemies? will you not order him to prison, and have a fire lighted there?” the old rascal’s logic seemed plausible even to myself. i shuddered when i remembered into whose hands i had fallen. pougatcheff saw my trouble. “eh! eh! your lordship,” said he, winking, “it seems my field-marshal is right. what do you think?” the jesting tone of the chief restored my courage. i replied calmly that i was in his power. “well,” said pougatcheff, “tell me now the condition of your city?” “it is, thank god, in a good state.” “a good condition,” repeated the brigand, “when the people are dying of hunger.” the usurper was right, but according to the duty imposed by my oath, i affirmed that it was a false report, and that the fort was sufficiently provisioned. “you see he deceives you,” interrupted the man with the riband. “all the deserters are unanimous in saying that famine and pestilence are at orenbourg; that thistles are eaten as dainties there. if you wish to hang alexis, hang on the same gibbet this young fellow, that they may be equal.” these words seemed to shake the chief. happily the other wretch opposed this view. “silence,” said this powerful fellow. “you think of nothing but hanging and strangling. it becomes _you_ to play the hero. to look at you, no one knows where your soul is.” “and which of the saints are you?” replied the old man. “generals,” said pougatcheff, with dignity, “an end to your quarrels. it would be no great loss if all the mangy dogs from orenbourg were dangling their legs under the same cross-beam; but it would be a misfortune if our own good dogs should bite each other.” feeling the necessity of changing the conversation, i turned to pougatcheff with a smile, and said: “ah! i forgot to thank you for the horse and touloup. without your aid i should not have reached the city. i would have died from cold on the journey.” my trick succeeded. pougatcheff regained his good humor. “the beauty of debt is the payment thereof,” said he, winking. “tell me your story. what have you to do with the young girl that alexis persecutes? has she caught your heart, too?” “she is my promised bride,” said i, seeing no risk in speaking the truth. “your promised bride! why did you not tell me sooner? we’ll marry you, and be at your wedding. listen, field-marshal,” said he. “we are old friends, his lordship and i. lets us go to supper. tomorrow we shall see what is to be done with him. night brings wisdom, and the morning is better than the evening.” i would gladly have excused myself from proposed honor, but it was impossible. two cossacks girls covered the table with a white cloth, and brought bread, soup made of fish, and pitchers of wine and beer. thus, for the second time, i was at table with pougatcheff and his terrible companions. the orgie lasted far into the night. drunkenness at last triumphed. pougatcheff fell asleep in his place, and his companions signed to me to leave him. i went out with them. the sentry locked me up in a dark hole, where i found saveliitch. he was so surprised by all that he saw and heard, that he asked no questions. lying in darkness, he soon fell asleep. the next morning pougatcheff sent for me. before his door stood a kibitka, with three horses abreast. the street was crowded. pougatcheff, whom i met in the entry of his hut, was dressed for a journey, in a pelisse and kirghis cap. his guests of the previous night surrounded him, and wore a look of submission which contrasted strongly with what i had seen on the preceding evening. pougatcheff bade me good-morning gaily, and ordered me to sit beside him in the kibitka. we took our places. “to the fortress of belogorsk,” said pougatcheff to the robust tartar, who, standing, drove his horses. my heart beat violently. the tartar horses shot off, the bells tinkled, the kibitka flew over the snow. “stop! stop!” cried a voice i knew too well. “o peter! do not abandon me in my old age, in the midst of the rob--” “ah, you old owl!” said pougatcheff, “sit up there in front.” “thanks, czar, may god give you a long life.” the horses set off again. the people in the streets stopped and bowed low, as the usurper passed. pougatcheff saluted right and left. in an instant we were out of the town, taking our way over a well-defined road. i was silent. pougatcheff broke in upon my reverie. “why so silent, my lord?” said he. “i can not help thinking,” said i, “of the chain of events. i am an officer, noble, yesterday at war with you; today i ride in the same carriage with you, and all the happiness of my life depends on you.” “are you afraid?” “you have already given me my life!” “you say truly. you know how my fellows looked upon you; only today they wanted to try you as a spy. the old one wanted to torture and then hang you; but i would not, because i remembered your glass of wine and your touloup. i am not bloodthirsty, as your friends say.” i remembered the taking of our fortress, but i did not contradict him. “what do they say of me at orenbourg?” “it is said there, that you will not be easily vanquished. it must be confessed that you have given us some work.” “yes; i am a great warrior. do you think the king prussia is as strong as i?” “what do you think yourself? can you beat frederick?” “frederick the great? why not? wait till i march to moscow!” “you really intend to march on moscow?” “god knows,” said he, reflecting; “my road is narrow--my boys do not obey--they are thieves--i must listen--keep my ears open; at the first reverse they would save their own necks by my head.” “would it not be better,” i said, “to abandon them now, before it is too late, and have recourse to the clemency of the empress?” he smiled bitterly. “no; the time is passed. i shall end as i began. who knows?” our tartar was humming a plaintive air; saveliitch, sound asleep, swayed from side to side; our kibitka was gliding rapidly over the winter road. i saw in the distance a village well known to my eyes, with its palisade and church spire on the steep bank of the river iaik. a quarter of an hour after we entered the fortress of belogorsk. xii. marie. the kibitka stopped before the commandant’s house. the inhabitants had recognized the usurper’s bells and equipage, and had come out in crowds to meet him. alexis, dressed like a cossack, and bearded like one, helped the brigand to descend from his kibitka. the sight of me troubled him, but soon recovering himself, he said: “you are one of us?” i turned my head away without replying. my heart was wrung when we entered the room that i know so well, where still upon the wall hung, like an epitaph, the diploma of the deceased commandant. pougatcheff seated himself upon the same sofa where many a time ivan mironoff had dozed to the hum of his wife’s voice. alexis’ own hand presented the brandy to his chief. pougatcheff drank a glass and said, pointing to me: “offer a glass to his lordship.” alexis approached me, and again i turned my back upon him. pougatcheff asked him a few questions about the condition of the fortress, and then, in an unpremeditated manner, said: “tell me, who is this young girl that you have under guard?” alexis became pale as death. “czar,” said he, a tremor in his voice, “she is in her own room; she is not locked up.” “take me to her room,” said the usurper, rising. hesitation was impossible. alexis led the way to marie’s room. i followed. on the stairs alexis stopped: “czar, demand of me what you will, but do not permit a stranger to enter my wife’s room.” “you are married?” i shouted, ready to tear him to pieces. “silence!” interrupted the brigand, “this is my business. and you,” said he, turning to alexis, “do not be too officious. whether she be your wife or not, i shall take whom i please into her room. your lordship, follow me.” at the door of the room alexis stopped again: “czar, she has had a fever these three days; she is delirious.” “open,” said pougatcheff. alexis fumbled in his pockets, and at last said that he had forgotten the key. pougatcheff kicked the door; the lock yielded, the door opened and we entered. i glanced into the room, and nearly fainted. on the floor, in the coarse dress of a peasant, marie was seated, pale, thin, her hair in disorder; before her on the floor stood a pitcher of water covered by a piece of bread. upon seeing me, she started, and uttered a piercing shriek. pougatcheff glanced at alexis, smiled bitterly, and said: “your hospital is in nice order?” “tell me, my little dove, why does your husband punish you in this way?” “my husband! he is not my husband. i am resolved to die rather than marry him; and i shall die, if not soon released.” pougatcheff gave a furious look at alexis, and said: “do you dare to deceive me, knave?” alexis fell on his knees. contempt stifled all my feelings of hatred and vengeance. i saw with disgust, a gentleman kneeling at the feet of a cossack deserter. “i pardon you, this time,” said the brigand, “but remember, your next fault will recall this one.” he turned to marie, and said, gently: “come out, my pretty girl, you are free. i am the czar!” marie looked at him, hid her face in her hands and fell on the floor unconscious. she had no doubt divined that he had caused her parents’ death. i rushed to aid her, when my old acquaintance, polacca, boldly entered, and hastened to revive her mistress. pougatcheff, alexis and i went down to the reception room. “now, your lordship, we have released the pretty girl, what say you? shall we not send for father garasim, and have him perform the marriage ceremony for his niece? if you like, i will be your father by proxy, alexis your groomsman; then we’ll shut the gates and make merry!” as i anticipated, alexis, hearing this speech, lost his self-control. “czar,” said he, in a fury, “i am guilty; i have lied to you, but grineff also deceives you. this young girl is not father garasim’s niece. she is ivan mironoff’s daughter.” pougatcheff glared at me. “what does that mean?” said he to me. “alexis says truly,” i replied, firmly. “you did not tell me that,” said the usurper, whose face darkened. “judge of it yourself. could i declare before your people that marie was captain mironoff’s daughter? they would have torn her to pieces. no one could have saved her.” “you are right,” said pougatcheff, “my drunkards would not have spared the child. accoulina did well to deceive them.” “listen,” i said, seeing his good humor, “i do not know your real name, and i do not want to know it. but before god, i am ready to pay you with my life, for what you have done for me. only, ask me nothing contrary to honor, and my conscience as a christian. you are my benefactor. let me go with this orphan, and we, whatever happens to you, wherever you may be, we shall pray god to save your soul.” “be it as you desire,” said he, “punish to the end, or pardon completely, that’s my way. take your promised bride wherever you choose, and may god give you love and happiness.” he turned to alexis, and ordered him to write me a passport for all the forts subject to his power. alexis was petrified with astonishment. pougatcheff went off to inspect the fortress; alexis followed him; i remained. i ran up to marie’s room. the door was closed. i knocked. “who is there?” asked polacca. i gave my name. i heard marie say: “in an instant, peter, i shall join you at accoulina’s.” father garasim and accoulina came out to welcome me. i was honored with everything at the command of the hostess, whose voluble tongue never ceased. it was not long before marie entered, quite pale; she had laid aside the peasant’s dress, and was, as usual, clad in simplicity, but with neatness and taste. i seized her hand, unable to utter a word. we were both silent from full hearts. our hosts left us, and i could now speak of plans for her safety. it was impossible that she should stay in a fortress subject to pougatcheff, and commanded by the infamous alexis. neither could she find refuge at orenbourg, suffering all the horrors of siege. i proposed that she should go to my father’s country-seat. this surprised her. but i assured her that my father would hold it a duty and an honor to receive the daughter of a veteran who had died for his country. in conclusion, i said: “my dear marie; i consider thee as my wife; these strange events have bound us for ever to each other.” marie listened with dignity; she felt as i did, but repeated that without my parents’ consent she would never be my wife. i could not reply to this objection. i folded her to my heart, and my project became our mutual resolve. an hour after, the corporal brought me my passport, having the scratch which served as pougatcheff’s sign-manual, and told me that the czar awaited me. i found him ready for his journey. to this man--why not tell the truth?--cruel and terrible to all but me, i was drawn by strong sympathy. i wanted to snatch him from the horde of robbers, whose chief he was; but the presence of alexis and the crowd around him prevented any expression of these feelings. our parting was that of friends. as the horses were moving, he leaned out of the kibitka and said to me: “adieu, again, your lordship; perhaps we may meet once more.” we did meet again, but under what circumstances! i returned to father garasim’s, where our preparations were soon completed. our baggage was put into the commandant’s old equipage. the horses were harnessed. marie went, before setting off, to visit once more the tomb in the church-yard, and soon returned, having wept in silence over all that remained to her of her parents. father garasim and accoulina stood on the steps. marie, polacca, and i sat in the interior of the kibitka. saveliitch perched himself up in front. “adieu, marie, sweet little dove! adieu, peter, our handsome falcon!” exclaimed the kind accoulina. passing the commandant’s house, i saw alexis, whose face expressed determined hate. xiii. the arrest. in two hours we reached the neighboring fortress, which also belonged to pougatcheff. we there changed horses. by the celerity with which they served us, and the eager zeal of the bearded cossack, whom pougatcheff had made commandant, i perceived that, thanks to the talk of our postilion, i was supposed to be a favorite with their master. when we started off again, it was dusk; we were drawing near a town where, according to the bearded commandant, there ought to be a very strong detachment of pougatcheff’s forces. the sentinels stopped us and to the demand: “who goes there?” our postilion answered in a loud voice: “a friend of the czar, traveling with his wife.” we were at once surrounded by a detachment of russian hussars, who swore frightfully. “come out,” said a russian officer, heavily mustached; “we’ll give you a bath!” i requested to be taken before the authorities. perceiving that i was an officer, the soldiers ceased swearing, and the officer took me to the major’s. saveliitch followed, growling out: “we fall from the fire into the flame!” the kibitka came slowly after us. in five minutes we reached a small house, all lighted up. the officer left me under a strong guard, and entered to announce my capture. he returned almost instantly, saying that i was ordered to prison, and her ladyship to the presence of the major. “is he mad?” i cried. “i can not tell, your lordship.” i jumped up the steps--the sentinels had not time to stop me--and burst into the room where six hussar officers were playing faro. the major kept the bank. i instantly recognized the major as ivan zourine, who had so thoroughly emptied my purse at simbirsk. “is it possible? is this you ivan zourine?” “halloo! peter; what luck? where are you from? will you take a chance?” “thanks; i would rather have some apartments assigned me.” “no need of apartments, stay with me.” “i can not; i am not alone.” “bring your comrade with you.” “i am not with a comrade; i am with--a lady.” “a lady! where did you fish her out?” and he whistled in so rollicking a manner, that the rest burst out laughing. “well,” said zourine, “then you must have a house in the town. here, boy! why do you not bring in pougatcheff’s friend?” “what are you about,” said i. “it is captain mironoff’s daughter. i have just obtained her liberty, and i am taking her to my father’s, where i shall leave her.” “in the name of heaven, what are _you_ talking about? are _you_ pougatcheff’s chum?” “i will tell you everything later; first go and see this poor girl, whom your soldiers have horribly frightened.” zourine went out into the street to excuse himself to marie, and explain the mistake, and ordered the officer to place her and her maid in the best house in the city. i stayed with him. after supper, as soon as we were alone, i gave him the story of my adventures. he shook his head. “that’s all very well; but why will you marry? as an officer and a comrade, i tell you marriage is folly! now listen to me. the road to simbirsk has been swept clean by our soldiers; you can therefore send the captain’s daughter to your parents tomorrow, and remain yourself in my detachment. no need to return to orenbourg; you might fall again into the hands of the rebels.” i resolved to follow, in part, zourine’s advice. saveliitch came to prepare my room for the night. i told him to be ready to set out in the morning with marie. “who will attend you, my lord?” “my old friend,” said i, trying to soften him, “i do not need a servant here, and in serving marie, you serve me, for i shall marry her as soon as the war is over.” “marry!” repeated he, with his hands crossed, and a look of inexpressible blankness, “the child wants to marry! what will your parents say?” “they will, no doubt, consent as soon as they know marie. you will intercede for us, will you not?” i had touched the old man’s heart. “o peter!” said he, “you are too young to marry, but the young lady is an angel, and it would be a sin to let the chance slip. i will do as you desire.” the next day i made known my plans to marie. as zourine’s detachment was to leave the city that same day, delay was impossible. i confided marie to my dear old saveliitch, and gave him a letter for my father. marie, in tears, took leave of me. i did not dare to speak, lest the bystanders should observe my feelings. it was the end of the february; winter, which had rendered manoeuvering difficult was now at a close, and our generals were preparing for a combined campaign. at the approach of our troops, revolted villages returned to their duty, while prince galitzin defeated the usurper, and raised the siege of orenbourg, which was the death-blow to the rebellion. we heard of pougatcheff in the ural regions, and on the way to moscow. but he was captured. the war was over. zourine received orders to return his troops to their posts. i jumped about the room like a boy. zourine shrugged his shoulders, and said: “wait till you are married, and see how foolish you are!” i had leave of absence. in a few days i would be at home and united to marie. one day zourine came into my room with a paper in his hand, and sent away the servant. “what’s the matter?” said i. “a slight annoyance,” he answered, handing me the paper. “read.” it was confidential order addressed to all the chiefs of detachments to arrest me, and send me under guard to khasan before the commission of inquiry, created to give information against pougatcheff and his accomplices. the paper fell from my hands. “do not be cast down,” said zourine, “but set out at once.” my conscience was easy, but the delay! it would be months, perhaps, before i could get through the commission. zourine bade me an affectionate adieu. i mounted the telega (summer carriage), two hussars withdrawn swords beside, and took the road to khasan. xiv. the sentence. i had no doubt that i was arrested for having left the fortress of orenbourg without leave, and felt sure that i could exculpate myself. not only were we not forbidden, but on the contrary, we were encouraged to make forays against the enemy. my friendly relations with pougatcheff, however, wore a suspicious look. arriving at khasan, i found the city almost reduced to ashes. along the streets there were heaps of calcined material of unroofed walls of houses--a proof that pougatcheff had been there. the fortress was intact. i was taken there and delivered to the officer on duty. he ordered the blacksmith to rivet securely iron shackles on my feet. i was then consigned to a small, dark dungeon, lighted only by a loop-hole, barred with iron. this did not presage anything good, yet i did not lose courage; for, having tasted the delight of prayer, offered by a heart full of anguish, i fell asleep, without a thought for the morrow. the next morning i was taken before the commission. two soldiers crossed the yard with me, to the commandant’s dwelling. stopping in the ante-chamber, they let me proceed alone to the interior. i entered quite a spacious room. at a table, covered with papers, sat tow personages,--a general advanced in years, of stern aspect, and a young officer of the guards, of easy and agreeable manners. near the window, at another table, a secretary, pen on ear, bending over a paper, was ready to take my deposition. the interrogation began: “your name and profession?” the general asked if i was the son of andrew grineff, and upon my replying in the affirmative, exclaimed: “it is a pity so honorable a man should have a son so unworthy of him!” i replied that i hoped to refute all charges against me, by a sincere avowal of the truth. my assurance displeased him. “you are a bold fellow,” said he, frowning; “but we have seen others like you.” the young officer asked how, and for what purpose i had entered the rebel service. i replied indignantly, that being an officer and a noble, i was incapable of enlisting in the usurper’s army, and had never served him in any way. “how is it,” said my judge, “that the ‘officer and noble’ is the only one spared by pougatcheff? how is it that the ‘officer and noble’ received presents from the chief rebel, of a horse and a pelisse? upon what is this intimacy founded, if not on treason, or at least unpardonable cowardice?” the words wounded me, and i undertook with warmth my own defense, finally invoking the name of my general who could testify to my zeal during the siege of orenbourg. the severe old man took from the table an open letter, and read: “with regard to ensign griness, i have the honor to declare, that he was in the service at orenbourg from the month of october, , till the following february. since then, he has not presented himself.” here the general said harshly: “what can you say now to justify your conduct?” my judges had listened with interest and even kindness, to the recital of my acquaintance with the usurper, from the meeting in the snowdrift to the taking of belogorsk, where he gave me my life through gratitude. i was going to continue my defense, by relating frankly my relations with marie, and her rescue. but if i spoke of her the commission would force her to appear, and her name would become the theme of no very delicate remarks by the interrogated witnesses. these thoughts so troubled me that i stammered, and at last was silent. the judges were prejudiced against me by my evident confusion. the young guardsman asked that i should be confronted by my chief accuser. some minutes later the clank of iron fetters resounded, and alexis entered. he was pale and thin. his hair, formerly black as a raven’s wing, was turning gray. he repeated his accusation in a weak but decided tone. according to him, i was pougatcheff’s spy. i heard him to the end in silence, and rejoiced at one thing: he never pronounced the name of marie mironoff. was it that his self-love smarted from her contemptuous rejection of him? or was there in his heart a spark of that same feeling which made me also silent on that point? this confirmed me in my resolution, and when asked what i had to answer to the charges of alexis, i merely said that i held to my first declaration, and had nothing more to add. the general remanded us to prison. i looked at alexis. he smiled with satisfied hate, raised up his shackles to hasten his pace and pass before me. i had no further examination. i was not an eye-witness of what remains to be told the reader; but i have so often heard the story, that the minutest particulars are engraved on my memory. marie was received by my parents with the cordial courtesy which distinguished the preceding generation. they became very much attached to her, and my father no longer considered my love a folly. the news of my arrest was a fearful blow; but marie and saveliitch had so frankly told the origin of my connection with pougatcheff, that the news did not seem grave. my father could not be persuaded that i would take part in an infamous revolt, whose object was the subversion of the throne and the extinction of the nobility. so better news was expected, and several weeks passed, when at last a letter came from our relative prince b---. after the usual compliments, he told my father that the suspicions of my complicity in the rebel plots were only too well founded, as had been proved,--that an exemplary execution might have been my fate, were it not that the empress, out of consideration for the father’s white hair and loyal services, had commuted the sentence of the criminal son. she had exiled him for life to the depths of siberia! the blow nearly killed my father, his firmness gave way, and his usually silent sorrow burst into bitter plaints: “what! my son plotting with pougatcheff! the empress gives him his life! execution not the worst thing in the world! my grandfather died on the scaffold in defense of his convictions! but, that a noble should betray his oath, unite with bandits, knaves and revolted slaves! shame! shame forever on our face!” frightened by his despair, my mother did not dare to show her grief, and marie was more desolate than they. persuaded that i could justify myself if i chose, she divined the motive of my silence, and believed that she was the cause of my suffering. one evening, seated on his sofa, my father was turning over the leaves of the “_court almanac_,” but his thoughts were far away, and the book did not produce its usual effect upon him. my mother was knitting in silence, and from time to time a furtive tear dropped upon her work. marie, who was sewing in the same room, without any prelude declared to my parents that she was obliged to go to st. petersburg, and begged them to furnish her the means. my mother said: “why will you leave us?” marie replied that her fate depended on this journey; that she was going to claim the protection of those in favor at court, as the daughter of a man who had perished a victim to his loyalty. my father bowed his head. a word which recalled the supposed crime of his son, seemed a sharp reproach. “go,” said he, at last, with a sigh; “we will not place an obstacle to your happiness. may god give you an honorable husband and not a traitor!” he rose and left the room. alone with my mother, marie confided to her, in part, the object of her journey. my mother, in tears, kissed her and prayed for the success of the project. a few days after, marie, polacca and saveliitch left home. when marie reached sofia, she learned that the court was at that moment in residence at the summer palace of tzarskoie-selo. she decided to stop there, and obtained a small room at the post-house. the post mistress came to chat with the new-comer. she told marie, pompously, that she was the niece of an official attached to the court--her uncle having the honor of attending to the fires in her majesty’s abode! marie soon knew at what hour the empress rose, took her coffee, and went on the promenade; in brief, the conversation of anna was like a page from the memoirs of the times, and would be very precious in our days. the two women went together to the imperial gardens, where anna told marie the romance of each pathway and the history of every bridge over the artificial streams. next day very early marie returned alone to the imperial gardens. the weather was superb. the sun gilded the linden tops, already seared by the autumn frosts. the broad lake sparkled, the swans, just aroused, came out gravely from the shore. marie was going to a charming green sward, when a little dog, of english blood, came running to her barking. she was startled; but a voice of rare refinement said: “he will not bite you; do not be afraid.” a lady about fifty years of age was seated on a rustic bench. she was dressed in a white morning-dress, a light cap and a mantilla. her face, full and florid, was expressive of calmness and seriousness. she was the first to speak: “you are evidently a stranger here?” “that is true, madam. i arrived from the country yesterday.” “you are with your parents?” “no, madam, alone.” “you are too young to travel alone. are you here on business?” “my parents are dead. i came to present a petition to the empress.” “you are an orphan; you have to complain of injustice, or injury?” “madam, i came to ask for a pardon, not justice.” “permit me a question: who are you?” “i am the daughter of captain mironoff.” “of captain mironoff? of him who commanded one of the fortresses in the province of orenbourg?” “the same, madam.” the lady seemed touched. “pardon me, i am going to court. explain the object of your petition; perhaps i can aid you.” marie took from her pocket a paper which she handed to the lady, who read it attentively. marie, whose eyes followed every movement of her countenance, was alarmed by the severe expression of face so calm and gracious a moment before. “you intercede for grineff?” said the lady, in an icy tone. “the empress can not pardon him. he went over to the usurper, not as an ignorant believer, but as a depraved and dangerous good-for-nothing.” “it is not true!” exclaimed marie. “what! not true?” said the lady, flushing to the eyes. “before god, it is not true. i know all. i will tell you all. it was for me only that exposed himself to all these misfortunes. if he did not clear himself before his judges, it was because he would not drag me before the authorities.” marie then related with warmth all that the reader knows. “where do you lodge?” asked the lady, when the young girl had finished her recital. upon hearing that she was staying with the postmaster’s wife, she nodded, and said with a smile: “ah! i know her. adieu! tell no one of our meeting. i hope you will not have long to wait for the answer to your petition.” she rose and went away by a covered path. marie went back to anna’s, full of fair hope. the postmaster’s wife was surprised that marie took so early a promenade, which might in autumn, prove injurious to a young girl’s health. she brought the _somovar_, and with her cup of tea was going to relate one of her interminable stories, when a carriage with the imperial escutcheon stopped before the door. a lackey, wearing the imperial livery, entered and announced that her majesty deigned to order to her presence the daughter of captain mironoff! “ah!” exclaimed anna, “the empress orders you to court! how did she know you were with me? you can not present yourself--you do not know how to walk in courtly fashion! i ought to go with you. shall i not send to the doctor’s wife and get her yellow dress with flounces, for you?” the lackey declared that he had orders to take marie alone, just as she was. anna did not dare to disobey, and marie set out. she had a presentiment that her destiny was now to be decided. her heart beat violently. in a few minutes the carriage was at the palace, and marie, having crossed a long suite of apartments, vacant and sumptuous, entered the _boudoir_ of the empress. the nobles who surrounded their sovereign respectfully made way for the young girl. the empress, in whom marie recognized the lady of the garden, said, graciously: “i am pleased to be able to grant your prayer. convinced of the innocence of your betrothed, i have arranged everything. here is a letter for your future father-in-law.” marie, in tears, fell at the feet of the empress, who raised her up and kissed her, saying: “i know that you are not rich; but i have to acquit myself of a debt to the daughter of a brave man, captain mironoff.” treating marie with tenderness, the empress dismissed her. that day marie set out for my father’s country-seat, not having even glanced at saint petersburg. ***** here terminate the memoirs of peter grineff. we know by family tradition that he was set free about the end of the year . we know too, that he was present at the execution of pougatcheff, who, recognizing him in the crowd, gave him one last sign with the head which, a moment after, was shown to the people, bleeding and inanimate. peter grineff became the husband of marie mironoff. their descendents still live, in the province of simbirsk, and in the hereditary manor is still shown the autograph letter of the empress catherine ii. it is addressed to andrew grineff, and contains, with his son’s justification, a touching and beautiful eulogium of marie, the captain’s daughter. love among the lions a matrimonial experience by f. anstey author of "vice versa," etc. london j. m. dent & co. & bedford street, w.c. list of illustrations page the exquisite face looking out over the wire blind Æneas polkinghorne still i persevered the introduction of mr blenkinsop to miss lurana de castro "and whom should i marry, mr blenkinsop?" "let us be married in the lion's cage" "yes, papa, we are a little late" "first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop" "well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, i don't see any objection" we were still chatting when laurana returned a cleric of the broad-minded school "if you go on like that i shall begin to think you want to frighten me" mademoiselle "a de castro can never marry a craven" "if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight" i was forlornly mopping when niono returned my wedding toilette was complete it's a swindle a kind of small procession entered the arena then he addressed the audience "if only you had been firmer, theodore" love among the lions part i in the following pages will be found the only authentic account of an affair which provided london, and indeed all england, with material for speculation and excitement for a period of at least nine days. so many inaccurate versions have been circulated, so many ill-natured and unjust aspersions have been freely cast, that it seemed advisable for the sake of those principally concerned to make a plain unvarnished statement of the actual facts. and when i mention that i who write this am the theodore blenkinsop whose name was, not long since, as familiar in the public mouth as household words, i venture to think that i shall at once recall the matter to the shortest memory, and establish my right to speak with authority on the subject. at the time i refer to i was--and for the matter of that still am--employed at a lucrative salary as taster to a well-known firm of tea-merchants in the city. i occupied furnished apartments, a sitting-room and bedroom, over a dairy establishment in tadmor terrace, near baalbec road, in the pleasant and salubrious district of highbury. arrived at the age of twenty-eight, i was still a bachelor and had felt no serious inclination to change my condition until the memorable afternoon on which the universe became transformed for me in the course of a quiet stroll round canonbury square. for the information of those who may be unacquainted with it, i may state that canonbury square is in islington; the houses, though undeniably dingy as to their exteriors, are highly respectable, and mostly tenanted by members of the medical, musical, or scholastic professions; some have balconies and verandahs which make it difficult to believe that one has not met them, like their occupiers, at some watering place in the summer. the square is divided into two by a road on which frequent tramcars run to the city, and the two central enclosures are neatly laid out with gravelled paths and garden seats; in the one there is a dovecot, in the other there are large terra-cotta oil-jars, bringing recollections of the arabian nights and the devoted morgiana. all this, i know, is not strictly to the point, but i am anxious to make it clear that the locality, though not perhaps a chosen haunt of rank and fashion, possesses compensations of its own. strolling round canonbury square, then, i happened to glance at a certain ground floor window in which an art-pot, in the form of a chipped egg hanging in gilded chains and enamelled shrimp-pink, gave a note of femininity that softened the dusty severity of a wire blind. under the chipped egg, and above the top of the blind, gazing out with an air of listless disdain and utter weariness, was a lovely vivid face, which, with its hint of pent-up passion and tropical languor, i mentally likened to a pomegranate flower; not that i have ever seen a pomegranate flower, though i am more familiar with the fruit--which, to my palate, has too much the flavour of firewood to be wholly agreeable--but somehow it seemed the only appropriate comparison. [illustration: the exquisite face looking out over the wire blind.] after that, few days passed on which i did not saunter at least once round the square, and several times i was rewarded by the sight of that same exquisite face, looking out over the wire blind, always with the same look of intense boredom and haughty resentment of her surroundings--a kind of modern mariana, with an area to represent the moat. [illustration: Æneas polkinghorne.] i was hopelessly in love from the very first; i thought of nothing but how to obtain admission to her presence; as time went on, i fancied that when i passed there was a gleam of recognition, of half-awakened interest in her long-lashed eyes, but it was difficult to be certain. on the railing by the door was a large brass plate, on which was engraved: "Æneas polkinghorne, professor of elocution. prospectus within." so i knew the name of my divinity. i can give no greater indication of the extent of my passion, even at this stage, than by saying that i found this surname musical, and lingered over each syllable with delight. but that brought me no nearer to her, and at last a plan occurred to me by which the abyss of the area that separated us might possibly be bridged over. nothing could be simpler than my device--and yet there was an audacity about it that rather startled me at first. it was this: the brass plate said "prospectus within." very well, all i had to do was to knock boldly and ask for one, which, after some natural hesitation, i did. any wild hope of obtaining an interview with miss polkinghorne was doomed to instant disappointment. i was received by the professor himself, a tall, stout, flabby person, with sandy hair combed back over his brow and worn long behind, who showed a most sympathetic interest in me, inquiring whether i wished to be prepared for the church, the stage, or the bar, or whether i had any idea of entering parliament. i fear i allowed him to suppose the latter, although i am about as likely to get into parliament as into an imperial pint measure; but i had to say something to account for my visit, and the tea-trade does not call for much in the way of oratorical skill from its votaries. our interview was brief, but i came away, not only with a prospectus, but with tickets, for which i paid cash, entitling me to a course of six lessons in elocution. this was rather more than i had calculated upon--but, at least, it gave me the _entrée_ to the house, and it might lead to something more. it did not seem as if it was going to lead to much; the professor's method of teaching was peculiar: he would post me in a study at the back of the house, where i was instructed to declaim some celebrated oration at the top of my voice while he retired upstairs to discover how far my voice would carry. after twenty minutes or so he would return with the information, which i have no reason to disbelieve, that he had not heard a single word above the first landing. still i persevered, sustained by the thought that, when i was delivering the oration of brutus over cæsar, or the famous passage about the queen of france and the "ten thousand swords leaping from their scabbards," my words might perchance reach miss polkinghorne's ear and excite in her a passing emotion. but i came to the end of my tickets and still i was as far as ever from my goal, while the exertion of shouting had rendered me painfully husky. [illustration: still i persevered.] yet i would not give in; i set myself to gain the professor's good opinion; i took more tickets. it was not till after i had run through these that i ascertained, by an apparently careless inquiry, that there was no such person as miss polkinghorne--the professor was a widower and had never had a daughter! the thought that i had wasted so much time and money for nothing was bitter at first, and i very nearly decided to discontinue my studies there and then. but i conquered my feelings. though the professor was no relation to this young lady, he must know her name, he must be able to give me some information about her; a little judicious pumping might render him communicative. "my dear sir," he said, after i had been beating about the bush for some time with cautious delicacy, "i think i understand. you are anxious to make this young lady's acquaintance with a view to paying your addresses to her? is not that so?" i confessed that he had managed to penetrate my motives, though i could not imagine how. "you will not be the first who has sought to win lurana's affections," he said; "more than one of my pupils--but the child is ambitious, difficult to please. unfortunately, this is your final lesson--otherwise i might, after preparing the ground, so to say, have presented you to her, and i daresay she would have been pleased to give you a cup of tea occasionally after your labours. indeed, as miss lurana de castro's stepfather, i can answer for that--however, since our acquaintance unhappily ceases here----" it did not cease there; i took another dozen tickets at once, and if even polkinghorne had sounded sweetly to my enamoured ear, you may conceive what enchanting melody lay in a name so romantic and so euphonious as lurana de castro. the professor was as good as his word; at the end of the very next lesson i was invited to follow him to the drawing-room, where i found the owner of the brilliant face that had so possessed me seated at her tea-table. she gave me a cup of tea, and i can pay her witchery no higher compliment when i state that it seemed to me as nectar, even though my trained palate detected in it an inartistic and incongruous blend of broken teas, utterly without either style or quality. i am not sure that i did not ask for another. [illustration: the introduction of mr blenkinsop to miss lurana de castro.] she was astonishingly lovely; her spanish descent was apparent in her magnificent black tresses, lustrous eyes, and oval face of olive tinted with richest carmine. as i afterwards learnt, she was the daughter of a spanish government official of an ancient castilian family, who had left his widow in such straitened circumstances that she was compelled to support herself by exhibiting performing mice and canaries at juvenile parties, until she met and married the professor, who at that time was delivering recitations illustrated by an oxy-hydrogen lantern. the second marriage had not been altogether a success, and, now that the professor was a widower, i fancy that his relations with his imperious stepdaughter were not invariably of the most cordial nature, and that he would have been grateful to any one who succeeded in winning her hand and freeing him from her sway. i did not know that then, however, though i was struck by the deferential politeness of his manner towards her, and the alacrity with which, after he had refreshed himself, he shuffled out of the room, leaving lurana to entertain me single-handed. that first evening with her was not unmixed joy. i had the consciousness of being on trial. i knew that many had been tried and found wanting before me. lurana's attitude was languid, indifferent, almost disdainful, and when i went away i had a forlorn conviction that i should never again be asked to tea with her, and that the last series of tickets represented money absolutely thrown away! and yet i _was_ asked again--not only once, but many times, which was favourable as far as it went, for i felt tolerably certain that the professor would never have ventured to bring me a second time into his daughter's presence, unless he had been distinctly given to understand that my society was very far from distasteful to her. as i grew to know her better, i learnt the secret of her listlessness and discontent with life. she was tormented by the unbounded ambitions and the distinct limitations which embitter existence for so many young girls of our day. the admiration which her beauty excited gave her little satisfaction; such social success as highbury or canonbury could offer left her cold and unmoved. she was pining for some distinction which should travel beyond her own narrow little world, and there did not seem to be any obvious way of attaining it. she would not have minded being a popular author or artist--only she could find nothing worth writing about, and she did not know how to draw; she would have loved to be a great actress--but unfortunately she had never been able to commit the shortest part to memory, and the pride of a de castro forbade her to accept anything but leading _rôles_. no wonder that she was devoured by dulness, or that there were moments when she beat her pinions like some captive wild bird against the cage of her own incompetence. even i, although fairly content with my lot, would sometimes flap my own wings, so to speak, from sheer sympathy. "it's maddening to be a nobody!" she would declare, as she threw herself petulantly back in her chair, with her arms raised behind her and her interlaced fingers forming a charming cradle for her head--a favourite attitude of hers. "it does seem so stupid not to be celebrated when almost everybody is! and to think that i have a friend like ruth rakestraw, who knows ever so many editors and people, and could make me famous with a few strokes of the pen--if only i did something to give her the chance. but i never _do_!" miss rakestraw, i should explain, was an enterprising young lady journalist, who contributed society news and "on dits" to the leading islington and holloway journals, and was understood to have had "leaderettes" and "turnovers" accepted by periodicals of even greater importance. "if only," lurana burst out on one of these occasions, "if only i could do something once which would get my name into all the papers, set everybody thinking of me, talking of me, staring after me wherever i went, make editors write for my photograph, and interviewers beg for my biography, i think i should be content." i made the remark, which was true but not perhaps startling in its originality, that fame of this kind was apt to be of brief duration. "what should i care?" she cried; "i should have _had_ it. i could keep the cuttings; they would always be there to remind me that once at least--but what's the use of talking? i shall never see my name in all the papers. i know i shan't!" "there _is_ a way!" i ventured to observe; "you might have your name in all the papers, if you married." "as if i meant _that_!" she said, with a deliciously contemptuous pout. "and whom should i marry, if you please, mr blenkinsop?" "you might marry me!" i suggested humbly. "you!" she retorted. "how would _that_ make me a celebrity. you are not even one yourself." [illustration: "and whom should i marry, mr blenkinsop?"] "i do not care to boast," i said, "but it is the simple fact that nobody in the entire tea-trade has a palate approaching mine for keenness and delicacy. ask any one and they will tell you the same." "you may be the best tea-taster in the world," she said, "but the purity of your palate will never gain you a paragraph in a single society paper. and even if it did, what should _i_ gain? at the best a reflected glory. i want to be a somebody myself!" "what's the use of trying to make ourselves what we are not?" i broke out. "if fate has made us wooden ninepins in the world's nursery, we may batter our head against the walls as much as we like--but we can never batter it into a profile!" i thought this rather neatly put myself, but it did not appeal to miss de castro, who retorted with some asperity that i was the best judge of the material of my own head, but hers, at least, was not wooden, while she had hitherto been under the impression that it already possessed a profile--such as it was. she could not be brought to understand that i was merely employing a metaphor, and for the remainder of the evening her demeanour was so crushingly chilling, that i left in the lowest spirits, persuaded that my unlucky tongue had estranged me from lurana for ever. for some time i avoided canonbury square altogether, for i felt unequal to facing an elocution lesson unrecompensed by tea with miss de castro, and the halfhour or more of delightful solitude _à deux_ which followed the meal--for it had never occurred to the professor to provide his stepdaughter with a chaperon. at last, when on the verge of despair, hope returned in the form of a little note from lurana, asking whether i was dead, and inviting me, if still in existence, to join a small party to visit the world's fair at the agricultural hall the next evening, and return to supper afterwards at canonbury square, an invitation which, need i say, i joyfully accepted. we were only four; miss rakestraw and her _fiancé_, a smart young solicitor's clerk, of the name of archibald chuck, whose employer had lately presented him with his articles; myself, and lurana. the professor was unable to accompany us, having an engagement to read "hiawatha" to a young men's mutual improvement society that evening. part of the hall was taken up by various side-shows, shooting-galleries, and steam merry-go-rounds, which produced a discordant and deafening din until a certain hour of the evening, when the noises subsided, and wooker and sawkins' world-renowned circus gave a performance in the arena, which occupied the centre. miss rakestraw's connection with the press procured us free passes to the reserved seats close to the ring; my chair was next to lurana's, and she was graciously pleased to ignore our recent difference. the entertainment was of the usual variety, i suppose; but, to tell the truth, i was so absorbed in the bliss of being once more by her side and watching her face, which looked more dazzling than ever through the delicate meshes of her veil, that i have the vaguest recollection of the earlier items of the programme. but towards the close there came a performance which i have good reason to remember. an enormous elephant entered the circle, drawing a trolley, upon which was an iron cage containing forest-bred african lions. after the electric globes had been lowered, so as to illuminate the interior, "niono, the lion king," a dapper, wellmade man, of very much my own height and figure, so far as i could judge, went into the cage and put the animals through various exercises. niono was succeeded by mlle. léonie, the "circe of the carnivora," a pretty frenchwoman, who, as it seemed to me, surpassed him in coolness and daring. there was nothing disagreeably sensational about the exhibition; all the animals were evidently under perfect control; the huge, black-maned lions leaped through paper hoops and blazing circles without the slightest loss of either temper or dignity; the females followed obediently. only one lioness showed any disposition to be offensive, and _she_ did not venture to go beyond yawning ostentatiously whenever mlle. léonie's eye was upon her. altogether it was, as i remarked to lurana at the time, a wonderful instance of the natural dominion of man over the animal world. she enthusiastically commended the symmetry of mr niono's figure, which did not strike me as so very much above the average; and to pique her, i expressed equal admiration for mlle. léonie, and was gratified to observe unmistakable signs of jealousy on lurana's part. but we were both agreed that the profession of lion-taming looked more dangerous than it actually was, and archibald chuck mentioned that some townsman in the provinces had, for a very trifling wager, entered a den of lions in a travelling menagerie with perfect impunity. miss rakestraw capped this by a case from america, in which a young couple had actually chosen a lion's cage to be married in, though she admitted that the story was possibly a fabrication. i walked back with lurana alone, as we somehow lost sight of mr chuck and his _fiancée_ in the crush going out, and on the way home i could not refrain from pleading my cause once more. i told her how i had loved her at first sight, and how many elocution lessons i had endured for her sake; i pointed out that i was already receiving a salary sufficient to maintain a wife in comfort, if not luxury; and that her married life could hardly be more monotonous and uncongenial than her present existence. she listened attentively, as if moved. presently she said, "theodore, i will be perfectly frank. i do like you; i believe i could even love you. but i have spanish blood in my veins. i could never be satisfied with a humdrum conventional marriage." i was inexpressibly shocked. i had no idea that her views were so emancipated. "lurana," i said, "believe me, never mind what the lady novelists say against marriage; it may have its disadvantages, but, after all, as society is constituted----" "you don't understand," she said. "i am not opposed to marriage--with a man who is willing to make some concession, some slight sacrifice, to gratify me. but are you that _kind_ of man, theodore, i wonder?" i saw that she was already beginning to yield. "i would do anything--anything in the world you bid me," i cried, "if only you will be my wife, lurana." "i should ask you to do nothing that i am not perfectly prepared to do myself," she said. "a temporary inconvenience, a risk which is the merest trifle. still, you may think it too much, theodore." "name it," i replied. "the opportunities which the tea trade affords for the cultivation of heroism are rare; but there are few risks that i would shrink from running with you." "it is only this," she said. "i don't want a commonplace wedding. i want one that will be talked about and make a sensation. will you let me be married in my own way?" i was rather relieved by what seemed so moderate a demand. "certainly, darling," i said; "we will be married in westminster abbey, by the archbishop of canterbury, if you wish it, and it can be arranged. what matter where or how the ceremony take place, or what it costs, provided it makes you mine for ever?" [illustration: "let us be married in the lion's cage."] "then, theodore," she said, pressing my arm impulsively with her slim fingers, while the rays of a street lamp in the square fell on her upturned face and shining eyes, "let us be married at the agricultural hall--in the lions' cage!" i confess to being considerably startled. i had expected something rather out of the common, but nothing in the least like this. "in the lions' cage!" i repeated, blankly. "wouldn't that be rather _smelly_, lurana? and, besides, the menagerie people would never lend it for such a purpose. where would they put the lions, you know?" "why, the lions would be _there_, of course," she said, "or else there'd be nothing in it." "if i am to be married in a lion-cage," i said, with a very feeble attempt at levity, "i should very much prefer that there _was_ nothing in it." "ah, you may laugh, theodore!" she said, "but, after all your professions, surely you won't refuse the very first indulgence i ask! you may think it a mere whim, a girlish caprice; but understand this--i am thoroughly in earnest about it. if you are willing to marry me as i wish, the wedding may be as soon as ever you please. but if not, tell me so plainly, and let us part for ever. either i will be married in my own way, or not at all." what could i do? it was simply impossible to give her up now, the very moment after she was won. and to lose her for such a mere punctilio; for, of course, this condition of hers was too fantastic to be practicable; the professor would certainly refuse his consent to so eccentric a ceremony; lurana herself would probably realise before long the absurdity of the idea. in the meantime, as her acknowledged _fiancé_, i should have the immense advantage of being on the spot when she returned to a more reasonable frame of mind. so i gave way, and assured her that i had no personal objection to lions, and would as soon be married in their presence as elsewhere, provided that we could obtain the necessary permission; and even if i had thought this more probable than i did, i believe--so potent was the witchery of lurana's voice and eyes--i should have said precisely the same. "dearest theodore!" she murmured, "i never really doubted you. i felt so sure that you would be nice and sympathetic about it. if we couldn't agree about such a trifling thing as where we are to be married, we _should_ be unsuited to one another, shouldn't we? now we will just walk round the square once more, and then go in and tell the others what we have arranged." they had sat down to supper when we entered, and the professor cast a glance of keen inquiry through his spectacles at us, over the cold beef and pickles with which he was recruiting his energies after "hiawatha." "yes, papa," said lurana, calmly, "we _are_ a little late; but theodore has been asking me to marry him, and i have said i would." there was an outburst of congratulations from miss rakestraw and chuck. old polkinghorne thought fit to conceal his joy under a cloak of stagey emotion. "well, well," he said, "it is nature's law; the young birds spread their wings and quit the warm nest, and the old ones are left to sit and brood over the past. i cannot blame you, child. as for _you_, my boy," he added, extending a flabby hand to me, "all i can say is, there is no one to whom i would so willingly surrender her." there was scarcely any one to whom, in my opinion, he would _not_ surrender her with the utmost alacrity, for, as i have already hinted, lurana, with all her irresistible fascination, had a temper of her own, and was apt to make the parental nest a trifle _too_ warm for the elder bird occasionally. [illustration: "yes, papa, we are a little late."] "and when am i to lose my sunbeam?" he asked. "not _just_ yet?" "theodore wishes to have the marriage as soon as possible," said lurana, "by special licence." "have you settled where?" inquired miss rakestraw, with feminine interest in such details. "well," said lurana slowly, evidently enjoying the effect she was producing, "theodore and i have quite made up our minds to be married at the menagerie--in the den of lions." "how splendid!" exclaimed the lady journalist. "it's never been done over here. _what_ a sensation it will make! i'll do a full descriptive report for all my papers!" "that's what i call a real sporting way of getting spliced," said chuck. "only wish i'd thought of it myself before i had our banns put up, ruth. first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop." "of course," i said, "if the professor thinks it in the least unsafe----" [illustration: "first-rate idea of yours, blenkinsop."] "oh, it's safe enough," put in chuck, who was a little too apt to volunteer his opinion. "why, we've seen the lions, professor; they're as quiet as lambs. and anyway, they'd have the lion-tamer in with them, you know. _they'll_ be all right!" "i think," said the professor, "we may disregard the danger; but the expense--have you thought what it will cost, theodore?" "i have not," i said, "not till you mentioned it. it will probably be enormous, more than i could possibly afford--unless you are ready to go halves?" i concluded, feeling perfectly certain that he was ready to do nothing of the sort. "but look here," said chuck, "why should it cost you anything? if you go the right way about it, you ought to get all your expenses paid by the circus, and a share of the gate-money into the bargain." "oh, mr chuck!" cried lurana, "_how_ clever of you to think of that! _wasn't_ it, theodore?" i could have kicked chuck, but i said it was a stroke of positive genius. "that's simple enough," he said. "the rock _i_ see ahead is getting the special licence. you see, if you want to marry anywhere else than in a certified place of worship or a registry office, you must first satisfy the archbishop of canterbury, or the surrogate, or whoever the old josser is at doctors' commons who looks after these things, that it's a 'convenient place' within the marriage act of . now, the point is, _will_ a cage of lions strike them as coming under that description?" if it should, the ecclesiastical notions of convenience must be more than peculiar. for the first time i realised what an able fellow chuck was. "my dear chuck!" i said, "what a marvellous knowledge you have of law! you've hit the weak spot. it would be perfectly hopeless to make such an application. it's a pity, but we must give it up, that's all--we must give it up." "then," said lurana, "we must give up any marriage at all, for i certainly don't intend to marry anywhere else." "after all," said the irrepressible chuck, "all you need apply for is a licence to marry in the agricultural hall; they won't want to know the exact spot. i tell you what, you go and talk it over with the circus people and fix the day, and i'll go up to doctors' commons and get round 'em somehow. you leave it to me." "do you know," said the professor, beaming, "i really begin to think this idea of yours can be carried out quite comfortably after all, theodore. it certainly has the attraction of novelty, besides being safe, and even, it may be, remunerative. to a true lover, a lions' cage may be as fit a temple of hymen as any other structure, and their roars be gentle as the ring-dove's coo. go and see these people the first thing tomorrow, and no doubt you will be able to come to terms with them." this i agreed to do, and lurana insisted on coming with me. miss rakestraw was in ecstasies over our proposal, and undertook to what she called "boom the wedding for all it was worth" in every paper with which she had any connection, and with other more influential organs to which the possession of such exclusive intelligence as hers would procure her the _entrée_. by the end of the evening she had completely turned lurana's head, and even i myself was not quite untouched by the general enthusiasm. it seemed to me that being married in a den of lions might not be such bad fun after all. when i awoke next morning with the dawning recollection of what i was in for, the glamour had in a great measure departed from the idea, which seemed to me at best but a foolish piece of bravado. it had been arranged that i should call for lurana immediately after breakfast, and interview the circus proprietors on my way to business, and i rather expected to find that the night had borne counsel to her as well as myself; but she was in exuberant spirits, and as keen about the project as ever, so i thought it better not to betray that my own ardour had abated. but what, after all, were we going to request? that these people should allow their lions to be inconvenienced, quite unnecessarily, by a wedding in their cage between two perfect strangers who had all london to choose from! i believed that they would decline to entertain the suggestion for a moment, and, if so, i could not blame them. i felt that they would have both right and reason on their side. on arriving at the hall, we inquired for mr wooker or mr sawkins, and were requested to wait, which we did in a draughty passage smelling strongly of stables, while loud snorting and wheezing reached our ears from the arena, where they seemed to be exercising the circus stud. at last we were told that mr sawkins would see us (i don't know to this day whether mr wooker had any real existence or not), and were shown up to his office, which did not differ from any other office, except that it had a gaudy circus poster and a bill announcing the sale by auction of some rival menagerie pinned against the wall. as for mr sawkins, he was a florid, jowly man, with the remnants of his hair dyed and parted down the middle, a kind of amalgam of a country job-master and the dignified person who bows customers into chairs in a fashionable draper's establishment. he heard lurana, who acted as spokeswoman, with magisterial gravity, and, to my surprise, without appearing to regard us as a pair of morbid maniacs. "there's no denying," he said, "that the thing would draw if properly billed, always supposing, mind you, that it's capable of being done at all. and the only person able to give an opinion about that is mr onion, the gentleman," he explained, "who is our lion king. he spells his name 'niono' professionally, which gives it more of an african flavour, if you follow my meaning. i'll call down the tube for him." i awaited mr onion's arrival with impatience. he presently made his appearance in a short-braided tunic, with black lamb's wool round the collar and cuffs. by daylight his countenance, though far from ill-looking, was sallow and seamed; there was a glance of admiration in his bold, dark eyes as they rested on lurana's spirited face. "well," he decided, after the case had been explained to him, "if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, _i_ don't see any objection. along with _me_, there'll be no more danger than if it was a cage of white mice--provided you've the nerve for it." lurana said proudly that her own mother had been an accomplished animal trainer--she did not mention the kind of animals--and that she herself was quite incapable of being afraid of a lion. [illustration: "well, if the lady's as game as she seems, and the gentleman likewise, i don't see any objection."] "if you've _got_ nerve," said mr niono, "you're right enough, but you can't _create_ it; it's a gift. take _me_. i'm hardly ever away from my animals. i get downright impatient for every performance. but if ever i got the feeling that i was _afraid_ of them lions or they weren't afraid o' me, do you think i'd trust myself inside that cage? no fear! they've left their marks on me as it is--my 'trade marks,' as i call 'em--see!" and here he bared his arm and exhibited some fearful scars; "but that's affection, that is." he then offered to introduce us to his pets, and i should have accompanied lurana to see the cage, only on the way we met mlle. léonie, to whom mr sawkins presented me, and, naturally, i was compelled to stop. she was a piquant-looking woman, not quite in her first youth, perhaps, but still attractive, and with the indescribable, airy grace of a parisian, though i believe she came from belgium. mademoiselle was charmed with our project, complimented me upon my britannic phlegm, and predicted that i should find the little experience "all," as she put it, "that there was of the most agreeable," which i devoutly hoped would be the case. [illustration: we were still chatting when laurana returned.] we were still chatting when lurana returned, enraptured with the lions, one of whom had actually allowed her to tickle him behind the ear. niono testified that _her_ nerve, at all events, was beyond question. she was anxious that i should go and tickle the lion, too; but this i declined, being occupied in talking to mlle. léonie at the time. "there's one thing," said mr sawkins later, as we were discussing the arrangements, "we shouldn't object to paying for the special licence; but where are you going to find a parson to marry you? you must have a parson of _some_ sort, you know." again fate seemed to have interposed an insurmountable barrier between us and our desire. i had to admit that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a clergyman courageous enough to enter the cage with us. "well, there's no call for him to be _inside_ of it," said mr niono, who was with us, heart and soul, by this time. "in fact, the lady and yourself are about as many as i could undertake to be answerable for. we could rig him up a perch outside to read the service from, comfortable." even so, i said, i was afraid that it was hardly a service one could ask any divine to perform. "i know a party who'd jump at it," said mr niono, who was full of resource. "the reverend skipworth. _you_ know who i mean, sawkins. little chap in a check suit and goggles i introduced to you at the bar the other evening--always dropping in, he is. he'd do it, just for the lark of the thing. and he's a regular professional, you know," he added for my benefit, "though he don't sport a white choker in his off hours; likes to go about and see life for himself, and quite right. you get the licence, sir, and i'll guarantee that the reverend ninian skipworth will do the job for you." so we left the hall, delighted, especially lurana, with the unexpected ease with which our object had been attained. it had seemed at first the wildest extravagance, and now there was apparently every prospect that lurana and i would really exchange our marriage vows in a den of forest-bred lions, unless (which, of course, was a possibility that had to be taken into account) the ecclesiastical authorities should refuse to grant a special licence. i was unable to apply in person at doctors' commons, for lurana insisted that i should leave the whole matter in chuck's hands, but i impressed upon him the necessity of absolute candour with the officials. whether he told them all, whether they were remiss in making full inquiry, or whether--as i would rather not think--he intentionally deceived them, i cannot say, but at all events he came back triumphantly with the special licence. wooker and sawkins had fixed an early date, and wished the wedding to take place at night, so as to figure in the evening programme, but the surrogate, or somebody at the office, had insisted that it must be in the afternoon, which would, of course, oblige mr sawkins to introduce it at a _matinée_ performance. miss rakestraw proved herself a born journalist. she placed her news at the disposal of an enterprising evening journal, whose bills that very same evening came out with startling and alliterative headlines such as: love laughs at lions! _canonbury couple to marry in cageful of carnivora._ and from that moment, as the reader will recollect, lurana and i became public characters. there were portraits--quite unrecognisable--of us in several of the illustrated weeklies, together with sketches of and interviews with us both, contributed by miss ruth's facile stylograph, and an account of the professor, contributed by himself. as for the daily papers there was scarcely one, from the _times_ downwards, which did not contain a leader, a paragraph, or a letter on the subject of our contemplated wedding. some denounced me violently for foolhardy rashness, others for the selfishness with which i was encouraging an impressionable girl to risk her life to gratify my masculine vanity. several indignantly demanded whether it was true that the archbishop had sanctioned such a scandalous abuse of marriage rites, and if so, what the home office were about? there was a risk that all this publicity would end in the authorities being compelled to interfere and countermand the ceremony, and yet i cannot honestly say that i disliked the fuss that was made about it. in the city, to be sure, i had to put up with a certain amount of chaff; facetious inquiries as to whether i intended to present the leonine bridesmaids with bones or pieces of raw meat, and the precise locality in which my wife and i thought of spending our honeymoon. but such _badinage_ covered a very genuine respect for my intrepidity, and i was looked upon as a credit to the tea trade. the appointed day was getting nearer and nearer, and still--so wonderfully did fortune befriend us--the authorities gave no sign of any intention to interfere. parliament had not yet reassembled, so no one could rise and put a question in the house to the home secretary, and if government officials ever read the morning papers, it seemed that they did not feel called upon to take cognisance of anything they read there, unless compelled to do so by pressure from without. nor did the archbishop take any steps. no doubt he may have been unaware of the precise conditions under which the ceremony was to be sanctioned, and the same remark applies to the bishop of london. it is true that their attention was drawn to the facts by more than one postcard, as i have reason to know. but some people make a practice--and it is not for me to condemn them--of taking no notice of anonymous communications. however, as the time drew on, i thought it would be only proper on my part to go and call upon the reverend ninian skipworth, the curate with whom our energetic friend, mr niono, had now made all the necessary arrangements, and find out, quietly, what his state of mind was. he might be wavering, in which case i should have to strengthen his resolution. or he might not yet have realised all the possible consequences of his good nature, and if so, i should not be acting fairly towards him if i did not lay them before him, even though the result should be that he withdrew from his engagement. niono had given me his address, and i looked in at the curate's unpretentious lodgings one evening on my way home. i found him in, and as soon as he learnt my name, he offered me whisky and soda and a cigar with most unparsonical joviality. [illustration: a cleric of the broad-minded school.] the reverend ninian, i found, was a cleric of the broad-minded school which scorns conventional restrictions; he held that if the church was to maintain its influence, it must follow the trend of modern progress, and neglect no opportunity of winning the hearts of the people. he was only sorry, he told me, that the prejudices of his bishop would prevent him from reading the service inside the cage. i replied gratefully that i was sufficiently indebted to him as it was, since if his connection with the affair reached the episcopal ear, he would be in serious danger of being suspended, even if he did not receive some still heavier punishment. "oh, don't you bother about that!" he said, cheerily; "it's awfully good of you to trouble yourself on my account; but if the bishop is such an old stick-in-the-mud as to haul me up for a little thing like this, i shall simply chuck up the church altogether, that's all! in fact, i've almost decided to do it in any case, for i believe i could do more real good outside the establishment than in. and i admire your pluck, my dear fellow, and your manly straightforwardness in coming here like this; and i'm hanged if i don't marry you and chance the consequences, so don't say another word about it." i didn't, though i need not say i was profoundly moved by the genuine sympathy and assistance which our project seemed to inspire in the most unexpected quarters. my one anxiety now was about lurana. outwardly she appeared cheerful and even gay, and thoroughly to enjoy her position as the heroine of the hour; but how could i be sure that this was genuine and not a highstrung hysterical self-repression which would be succeeded by a violent reaction, it might be in the lions' cage itself? from that at all hazards she must be saved. earnestly, seriously, i pointed out how much would depend on her maintaining perfect coolness and composure during the ceremony, and implored her, if she felt the slightest misgivings, the smallest tendency to shrink in secret from the coming ordeal, not to allow any false pride to close her lips. there was still time, i reminded her. if on second thoughts, she preferred to be married in the old time-honoured way, instead of in a menagerie den, she had only to say so. her happiness and comfort were the chief things to consider. "withdraw now, theodore?" she said, "after announcing it in all the papers! why, how _could_ we?" "i would take all that upon myself," i told her; "i need only say that you don't feel quite equal to facing lions." "but i _do_, theodore," she said, "the dear, ducky, pussy-faced old things! who could possibly be afraid of lions--especially with mr niono to protect us?" "if you knew more _about_ lions, lurana," i said, "you would know how liable they are to sudden rages, and how little even lion-tamers themselves--" "if you go on like that, theodore," she said, "i shall begin to think that you want to frighten me--and even that you are just a little frightened yourself. but i'm not to be frightened. i should not be my mother's daughter if i had any fear of animals. and once for all, you will either marry me in the lions' cage or not at all!" [illustration: "if you go on like that i shall begin to think you want to frighten me."] i saw that i should only be exposing myself to further misunderstanding if i pursued the subject. lurana had that quality of courage which springs from a total lack of imagination; she had never seen a performing lion ramp and roar, and it was inconceivable to her that one could ever indulge in such exercises. still less did she understand that there is another type of courage, which sees all the difficulties and dangers beforehand, even exaggerated by distance, and yet advances calmly and undauntedly to encounter them. my courage was of that sort, and it is generally admitted that it belongs to a far higher order than the other. now that the die was cast i found myself anticipating the eventful day with philosophic equanimity. it was an uncomfortable method of getting married, no doubt, but after all, what man ever _was_ comfortable at his own wedding? and surely one crowded quarter-of-an-hour (for it would certainly be crowded in that cage) of glorious life would be worth an age without lurana--who was not to be won by any other means. part ii it was now the eve of my wedding-day, and it was generally taken for granted that lurana and i would be allowed to enter the lion-cage without opposition from any quarter. whether we should find it as easy to come out again was a point on which opinions differed considerably, but the majority must have been confident that the ceremony would pass off without any unpleasant interruption--for the rush to obtain seats was tremendous. i was just as tranquil and collected as ever; i could not detect that my valour had "ullaged," as wine-merchants say, in the slightest degree, though lurana was perpetually questioning me as to whether i was sure i would not rather withdraw. of course, i indignantly repudiated the very idea, but it is well known that a perfectly sober person, if suddenly taxed with being drunk, will seem and even feel so, and it is much the same with any imputation of cowardice. i began to think that constant tea tasting, even though the infusions are not actually swallowed, probably has some subtle effect upon the nervous system, and that it would brace me up and also show me how little cause i had to be uneasy, if i dropped into the agricultural hall once more and saw niono put his lions through their performances. so i left the city early that afternoon and paid for my admission to the hall like an ordinary sightseer; i did not ask lurana to accompany me, because i knew she must have plenty to keep her at home just then. i was just in time for the performing lions, and found a place in the outer edge of the crowd; it was strange to stand there unrecognised and hear myself being freely discussed by all around; strange and decidedly exhilarating, too, to think that in another twenty-four hours i should be, not a spectator of what was to take place in that arena, but one of the principal performers, the centre of breathless interest, the hero of the hour! but with the appearance of the cage, this unnatural exhilaration suddenly died down. it was not so much the lions, though they struck me as larger and less easy-tempered than on the first occasion, while the lioness was as nearly in open revolt as she dared. what troubled me most was that the cage contained another inmate, one whom i did not remember to have seen before--a magnificent specimen of the bengal tiger. it seemed perfectly clear to me that the brute was only about half-trained; he went through his tricks in a sullen perfunctory way, with a savage, snurring snap every now and then, which, even at that distance, made my flesh creep. and, whenever he snapped, clouds of steam issued from his great jaws; i could see, too, that the lioness was secretly egging him on to fresh acts of defiance, and that he was only watching his opportunity to crouch and spring as soon as niono's back was turned. i was perfectly determined that i would not have that tiger at _my_ wedding; he would never keep still for a moment; he would upset all the other animals, and how could i be expected to remain cool with a great, hot, steaming beast like that at my elbow? why, he must raise the temperature of that cage to the atmosphere of a turkish bath! for lurana's sake as well as my own, i really must draw the line at tigers--they were not in the bond. another thing that annoyed me was the senseless tomfoolery of the clowns, who persisted in running after the cage at the conclusion of the performance, and teasing the poor defenceless animals by making grimaces and dashing their ridiculous conical hats against the bars. it was painful to think that any one could be found to smile at such cheap buffoonery--if i had been the ring-master, i would have given those cowardly idiots a taste of the whip! i decided to go round afterwards and see onion about that tiger. i did not see the lion-tamer, as he had just left the hall, and mr sawkins, i was told, was engaged, but i saw mlle. léonie, who was most friendly. [illustration: mademoiselle.] i remarked, carelessly, that i saw they had put a tiger into the cage. mademoiselle said he was a member of the _troupe_, but had been indisposed and temporarily transferred to the hospital cage. i hinted that a tiger, however convalescent, was hardly a desirable addition to our wedding party. mademoiselle was astounded; a so gracious beast, a veritable treasure, with him present, the ceremony would have a style, a _cachet_, an elegance. without him--ah! bah! it would be _triste_--banal, tame! i admitted this, but urged that we were quiet people who wanted to be married as quietly as possible, and that a tiger, for persons in our condition of life, was a ridiculous piece of ostentation. it was always better to begin as one meant to go on. she differed from me totally. i was too modest, for, of course, it was incredible that i, who was so full of _sangfroid_, could object to the tiger for any other reason? "personally," i replied, "i had no prejudice against tigers whatever--but mademoiselle would understand that i was bound to consider another person's convenience." "not possible!" exclaimed mademoiselle, "a young lady with so much _verve_ to be timid! why, mons. onion raved of her fearlessness!" i said it was not timidity in lurana's case--she merely happened to have an antipathy for tigers. some people, as mademoiselle was doubtless aware, were unable to remain in the same room with a cat; miss de castro could not stay in the same cage with a tiger--it was temperament. "ah," said mdlle. hortense, "i understand that. a sensitive?" "yes," i said, "a sensitive." "but niono says she is one of us!" objected mademoiselle, "that she was brought up amongst animals--that her mamma was herself an animal-tamer." "of white mice and canary birds," i said, "but that is not quite the same thing as tigers, and i am perfectly certain that if that tiger is retained, the wedding will not take place." her keen grey eyes flashed with comprehension. ah, the poor little one! in that case it was another thing. she would speak to the "patron" and to mons. onion; the tiger should not be permitted to trouble the fête. i could rely absolutely upon her--he should be accommodated elsewhere. i went back to lurana in a somewhat relieved frame of mind, and when she asked me where i had been, i mentioned, perhaps unwisely, that i had dropped in at the circus and had a little chat with mlle. léonie. i did not say anything about the tiger, because there seemed to be no object in disturbing her, now that the matter was comfortably settled, not to mention that if lurana had known i had directed the removal of the tiger without consulting her, she was quite self-willed enough to insist on his immediate restoration to the lion-cage. most girls would have been impressed by my courage in going near the circus at all at such a time; not so lurana, who pretended to believe that mlle. léonie was the attraction. "oh, i noticed she was making eyes at you from the very beginning," she declared; "you had better marry her, and then mr niono could marry me. i daresay he would have no objection." "my darling," i said, gently, "do not let us quarrel the very last evening we may spend together on earth." "you might take a more cheerful view of it than that, theodore!" she exclaimed. "i think you are a little inclined to treat it too lightly," i replied. "i have been studying those lions, lurana, and it is my deliberate opinion that they are in a condition of suppressed excitement which will break out on the slightest pretext. unless you can trust yourself to meet their gaze without faltering, without so much as a flicker of the eyelid you will, unless i am greatly mistaken, stand a considerable chance of being torn to pieces." "nonsense, theodore!" she said, "they can't possibly tell whether i am meeting their gaze or not, or even shutting my eyes--for, of course, i shall be wearing a veil." but _i_ should not--and it really did not seem fair. "i rather thought of putting on a green shade myself," i said. it had only just occurred to me. "don't be absurd, theodore!" she replied. "what _can_ you want with a green shade?" "my eyes are not strong," i said, "and with those electric lights so close to the cage, i _might_ blink or even close my eyes. a green shade, like your bridal veil, would conceal the act!" "as if anybody ever _heard_ of a bridegroom with a green shade over his eyes! i certainly will not enter that cage if i am to be made publicly ridiculous!" "do i understand," i said, very gravely, "that you _refuse_ to enter the lion-cage?" "with a man in a green shade? most certainly i refuse. not otherwise." "then you will sacrifice my life to mere appearances? ah, lurana, that is only one more proof that vanity--not love--has led you to this marriage!" "why don't you own at once that you'd give anything to get out of it, theodore?" "it is you," i retorted, "_you_, lurana, who are secretly dreading the ordeal, and you are trying to throw the responsibility of giving up the whole thing on me--it's not _fair_, you know!" "_i_ want to give up the whole thing? theodore, you _know_ that isn't true!" "children, children!" said the professor, who had been a silent and unnoticed witness of our dispute till then, "what is this talk about giving up the marriage? i implore you to consider the consequences, if the wedding is broken off now by your default. you will be mobbed by a justly indignant crowd, which will probably wreck the hall as a sign of their displeasure. you are just now the two most prominent and popular persons in the united kingdom--you will become the objects of universal derision. you will ruin that worthy and excellent man, mr sawkins, offend archibald chuck, and do irretrievable damage to miss rakestraw's prospects of success in journalism. of myself i say nothing, though i may mention that the persons who have paid me fancy prices for the few seats which the management placed at my disposition will infallibly demand restitution and damages. i might even be forced to recover them from _you_, theodore. on the other hand, by merely facing a hardly appreciable danger for a very few minutes, you cover yourselves with undying glory, you gain rich and handsome wedding gifts, which i hear the proprietors intend to bestow upon you; you receive an ovation such as is generally reserved for royal nuptials; and yet you, theodore, would forfeit all this--for what? for a green shade, which would probably only serve to infuriate the animals?" this had not struck me before, and i could not help seeing that there was something in it. "i give up the shade," i said; "but i do think that lurana is in such a nervous and overstrung condition just now that it is not safe for her to enter the cage without a medical certificate." lurana laughed. "what for, theodore? to satisfy the lions? don't distress yourself on my account--i am perfectly well. at the appointed time i shall present myself at the--the altar. if you are not there to receive me, to stand by my side in the sight of all, you lose me for ever. a de castro can never marry a craven." she looked so splendid as she said this that i felt there was no peril in the world that i would not face to gain her, that life without her would be unendurable. since she was as resolved as ever on this project, i must see it out, that was all, and trust to luck to pull me through. onion would be there--and he understood lions; and, besides, there was always the bare chance of the ceremony being stopped at the eleventh hour. i left early, knowing that i should require a good night's rest, and lurana and i parted, on the understanding that our next meeting would be at the agricultural hall on the following afternoon. whether it was due to a cup of coffee i had taken at the professor's, or to some other cause, i do not know, but i had a wretched night, sleeping very literally in fits and starts, and feeling almost thankful when it was time to get up. a cold bath freshened me up wonderfully, and, as they naturally did not expect me in the city on my wedding-day, i had the whole morning to myself, and decided to get through it by taking a brisk walk. before starting, i sent a bag containing my wedding garments to the agricultural hall, where a dressing room had been reserved for me, and then i started, viâ the seven sisters road, for finsbury park. as i passed an optician's shop, i happened to see, hanging in the window, several pairs of coloured spectacles, one of which i went in and bought, and walked on with a sense of reassurance. through the medium of such glasses a lion would lose much of his terrors, and would, at the same time, be unable to detect any want of firmness in my gaze; indeed, if a wild beast can actually be dominated by a human eye, how much more should he be so when that eye is reinforced by a pair of smoked spectacles! [illustration: "a de castro can never marry a craven."] my recollection of the rest of that walk is indistinct. i felt no distress, only a kind of stupor. i tried to fix my thoughts on lurana, on her strange beauty, and the wondrous fact that in a very few hours the ceremony, which was to unite us, would be, at all events, _commenced_. but at times i had a pathetic sense of the irony which decreed that i, a man of simple tastes and unenterprising disposition, should have fallen hopelessly in love with the only young woman in the united kingdom capable of insisting on being married in a wild-beast cage. it seemed hard, and i remember envying quite ordinary persons--butchers, hawkers, errand-boys, crossing-sweepers, and the like, for their good fortune in not being engaged to spend any part of that afternoon in a den of forest-bred african lions. however, though there was nothing about the intentions of the home office in the early editions of the evening papers, the officials _might_ be preparing a dramatic _coup_ for the last moment. i was determined not to count upon it--but the thought of it kept me up until the time when i had to think of returning, for the idea of flight never for an instant presented itself to me. i was on _parôle_ as it were, and i preferred death by lurana's side to dishonour and security without her. so anxious was i not to be late, and also to discover whether any communication from the home secretary had reached the manager, that i almost hurried back to islington. i was admitted to the hall by a private entrance, and shown to the kind of unroofed cabin in which i was to change, and which, being under the balcony and at some distance from the gangway between the stables and the ring, was comparatively private and secluded. here, after asking an assistant to let mr niono know i had arrived, and would like to see him, i waited. the circus had begun, as i knew from the facts that the blare of the orchestrions was hushed, and that a brass band overhead began and left off with the abruptness peculiar to circus music. screens of board and canvas hid the auditorium from view, but i was conscious of a vast multitude on the other side, vociferous and in the best of humours. between the strains of the orchestra and the rattling volleys of applause, i heard the faint stamping and trampling from the stables, and, a sound that struck a chill to my heart--the prolonged roar of exasperation and _ennui_ which could only proceed from a bored lion. then there was a rap at the door, which made me start, and niono burst in. "so you've found your way here," he said. "feeling pretty fit? that's the ticket! the bride ain't arrived yet, so you've lots of time." "you've heard nothing from the home office yet, i suppose?" i asked. "not a word--and, between you and me, i made sure they meant to crab the show. you've the devil's own luck!" "i have, indeed," i said, with feeling. "still, we mustn't be too sure--they may stop us yet!" "they may try it on--but our men have got their instructions. if they _did_ come now, they wouldn't get near the ring till it was all over, so don't you worry yourself about that." i said everything seemed to have been admirably arranged. "by the way," i added, "where have you put the tiger?" "do you mean old rajah?" he said; and i replied that i _did_ mean old rajah. "why, _he's_ all right--in the cage along with the others--where did you _suppose_ he'd be--loose?" "i particularly requested," i explained, "that he might be put somewhere else during the wedding. mademoiselle promised that it should be seen to." "it's nothing to do with ma'amsell," he said, huffily; "_she_ don't give orders here, ma'amsell don't." "i mean, she promised to mention the matter to you," i said, more diplomatically. "she never said nothing about it to _me_," he replied; "i expect she forgot." "i can only say it was extremely careless of her," i said. "the fact is, i have my doubts whether that tiger is to be trusted." "well, you never can trust a tiger same as you can a lion," he replied, candidly, "so i won't deceive you. but old rajah ain't so particular nasty--as tigers go." "he may not be," i said, "but, in miss de castro's interests, i must beg you to shift him into some other cage till this affair is over. i can't allow her to run any unnecessary risk." "i don't say you're wrong," he answered, "i wish i'd known before, i'd have asked the gov'nor." [illustration: "if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight."] "ask him now," i urged, "surely you can put the tiger back in the hospital cage for an hour or two." "the jaguar's in there," he said; "he was a bit off colour, so we put him there this morning. and if them two got together, there'd be the doose's delight!" "couldn't you put him somewhere else, then?" i suggested. "i _might_ ha' shunted him on to the armadillo at a pinch," he said thoughtfully, "_he_ wouldn't ha' taken any notice, but the gov'nor would have to be consulted first,--and he's engaged in the ring. besides, it would take too much time to move old rajah now--you must put up with him, that's all. you'll be right enough if you keep your head and stick close to me. i've taken care they've all had a good dinner. i say," he broke off suddenly, "you're looking uncommon blue." "i don't _feel_ nervous," i said, "at least, not more nervous than a man _ought_ to feel who's just about to be married. if you mean to suggest that i'm going to show the white feather----!" "not you," he said, "what would you _get_ by it, you know? after billing this affair all over the town, we can't afford to disappoint the public, and if i saw you hanging back--why i'm blest if i wouldn't carry you into the cage myself." i retorted angrily that i would not put him to that inconvenience, that i was as cool as he was, and that i did not understand his remark that i was looking blue. "lord, what a touchy chap you are!" he cried; "i meant looking blue about the jaw, that's all. if i was you, i'd have a clean shave. it's enough to put any lady off if she sees you with a chin like the barrel of a musical-box." somehow i had omitted to shave myself as usual that morning, intending to get shaved later, but had forgotten to look for a hairdresser's shop during my walk. "you'll find a razor in that drawer," he said, "if you don't mind making shift with cold water, for there's no one about to fetch you any hot. now i must be off and get into my own togs. make yourself at home, you know. i'll give you another call later on." [illustration: i was forlornly mopping when niono returned.] perhaps the razor was blunt, perhaps it was the cold water, anyhow i inflicted a gash on the extreme point of my chin which bled profusely. i dabbed and sluiced, but nothing i could do seemed to check the flow; it went on, obstinate and irrepressible. i was still forlornly mopping when niono returned in his braided jacket, tights and hessian boots, whistling a tune. "the bride's just driven up," he announced, "looking like a picture--what pluck she's got! i wish i was in your shoes! ma'amsell's taken her to her room. my word, though, you've given yourself a nasty cut; got any spider's web about you? stops it in no time." as i do not happen to go about festooned in cobwebs, his suggestion was of little practical value, and so i intimated rather sharply. "well, don't get in a fluster," he said, "we're only a couple of turns off the cage act as it is; you slip into them spicy lavender trousers and that classy frock-coat of yours as quick as you can, and i'll try if i can't borrow a bit of courtplaster off one of our ladies." i had just put on a clean shirt when he was back again; "i could only get goldbeater's skin," he remarked, "and precious little of that, so be careful with it. and the parson's come, and would like to have a look at the licence." i handed him the document, and tried to apply the goldbeater's skin, which curled and shrivelled, and would stick to nothing but my fingers--and still the hæmorrhage continued. "it's all over your shirt _now_!" said the lion-tamer, as if i was doing it on purpose. "i wouldn't have had this happen for something. why, i've known 'em get excited with the _smell_ of blood, let alone the sight of it." "do you mean the lions?" i inquired, with a faint sick sensation. "well, it was the _tiger_ my mind was running on more," was his gloomy reply. my own mind began to run on the tiger too, and a most unpleasant form of mental exercise it was. "after all," said niono with an optimism that sounded a trifle forced, "there's no saying. he _mayn't_ spot it. _none_ of 'em mayn't." "but what do you think yourself?" i could not help asking. "i couldn't give an opinion till we get inside," he answered, "but we'll have the red hot irons handy in case he tries on any of his games. and if you can't stop that chin of yours," he added, taking a wrapper from his own neck and tossing it to me, "you'd better hide it in this--they'll only think you've got a sore throat or something. but do hurry up. i'm just going to see the old elephant put in the shafts, and then i'll come back for you, so don't dawdle." once more i was alone; i felt so chilly that i put on my old coat and waistcoat again, for i did not venture to touch my new suit until my chin left off bleeding, and it seemed inexhaustible, though the precious minutes were slipping by faster and faster. the great building had grown suddenly silent; i could almost feel the air vibrating with the suppressed excitement of the vast unseen crowd which was waiting patiently for the lions, and lurana--and me. soon i heard a voice--probably a menagerie assistant's--in the passage outside, and presently a shuffling tread approaching, and then i perceived towering above the wooden partition, a huge grey bulk, ridged and fissured like a mountain side, and touched where the light fell on it with a mouldy bloom--it was the elephant on his way to be attached to the lion-cage! i stared helplessly up at his uncouth profile, with the knobby forehead worn to a shiny black, and the sardonic little eye that met mine with a humorous intelligence, as though recommending me to haste to the wedding. he plodded past, and i realised that i had no time to change now; my new wedding suit was a useless extravagance--i must go to the altar as i was. niono would be back to fetch me in a moment. lurana would never forgive me for keeping her waiting. hastily i wound the muffler round my neck till my chin was hidden in its folds, and put on my hat. could i have mislaid the spectacles? no, thank heaven, they were in the pocket of my great coat. i put them on, and my wedding toilet--such as it was--was complete. then i cast a hurried glance at myself in a tarnished mirror nailed against the matchboarding, and staggered back in dismay. i was not merely unrecognisable; i was--what is a thousand times worse--_ridiculous_! [illustration: my wedding toilette was complete.] yes, no bridegroom in the world could hope to make a creditable appearance with his nose only just showing above a worsted comforter and his eyes hidden behind a pair of smoked spectacles. it was enough to make any lion roar--the audience would receive me with howls! i had been prepared--i was still prepared--for lurana's dear sake, to face the deadliest peril. but to do so with a total loss of dignity; to be irresistibly comic in the supreme crisis, to wrestle with wild beasts to the accompaniment of peals of homeric laughter--would any lover in the world be capable of heroism such as that? true, i might remove the spectacles--but in that case i could not trust my nerve; or i might take off the muffler but then i could not trust the tiger. and in either case i should be courting not only my own destruction, but that of one whose life was far dearer to me than my own. i asked myself solemnly whether i had the right to endanger her safety, simply from a selfish unwillingness to appear grotesque in her eyes and those of the audience. the answer was what every rightminded reader will have foreseen. and, seeing that the probability was that lurana would absolutely decline to go through the ceremony at all with the guy i now appeared (for had she not objected even to my assuming a green shade, which was, comparatively, becoming), it was obvious that only one alternative remained, and that i took. cautiously opening the door of my cabin, i looked up and down the passage. at one end i could just see the elephant surrounded by a crowd of grooms and helpers, who were presumably harnessing him to the cage and were too far away or too much engaged to notice me. at the other were a few deserted stalls and rifle-galleries, whose proprietors had all gone to swell the crowd of spectators who were waiting to see as much as they could of my wedding, and it began to seem likely that they would see very little indeed. i was about to make for the nearest exit when i remembered that it would probably be guarded, so, assuming as far as possible the air of an ordinary visitor, i slipped quietly up a broad flight of stairs, on each of which was a recommendation to try somebody's "pink pills for pale people," and gained the upper gallery without attracting attention. i felt instinctively that my best chance of escaping detection was to mingle with the crowd, and besides, i was naturally curious to know how the affair would end, so, seeing a door and pigeon-hole with the placard "balcony seats, sixpence," i went in, and was lucky enough to secure the only cane bottom chair left in the back row. after removing my spectacles, i had a fairly good view of the ring below, with its brown tan enclosed by a white border cushioned along the top in faded crimson. the reserved stalls were all full, and beyond the barriers, the crowd swayed and surged in a dense black mass. nobody was inside the ring except a couple of nondescript grooms in scarlet liveries, who hung about with an air of growing embarrassment. the orchestra opposite was reiterating "the maiden's prayer" with a perseverance that at length got upon the nerves of the audience, which began to stamp suggestively. "it's a swindle," said a husky man, who was obviously inclined to scepticism, and also sherry, "a reg'lar take in! there won't be nobody married in a lion's cage--i've said so all along." "oh, it's too soon to say that yet!" i replied soothingly, though i had reasons for being of the same opinion, "they're a little behind time, that's all." [illustration: it's a swindle.] "i dunno _what_ it is they're behind," he said,--"but they don't mean comin' out. there, what did i _tell_ you?" one of the grooms, obeying instructions from without, had just gone to the indicator-post, removed the number corresponding with that of the wedding programme, and substituted another, which was the signal for a general uproar. a carpet was spread for a performance by a "bender," who made his appearance in a tight suit of green spangles, as the "marvellous boy serpent," and endeavoured to wile away the popular discontent by writhing in and out of the rungs of a chair, and making a glittering pincushion of himself. in vain, for they would have none of him, and the poor youth had to return at last amidst a storm of undeserved hissing. another long wait followed, and the indignation grew louder. so infectious is the temper of a mob that i actually caught myself growing impatient, and banging loudly on the floor with my umbrella--just as my neighbours were doing! all at once, to my extreme bewilderment, the stamping and hooting changed to tumultuous applause, the band began to bray out an air that was apparently intended for "the voice that breathed," the barriers were thrown open, and the great elephant lumbered into the arena drawing the cage. the brute had an enormous wedding favour attached to each side of his tusks, and all the animals in the cage, down to the very tiger, were wearing garlands of artificial orange-blossom, a touch of sentiment which seemed to go straight to the hearts of the people. but even while i looked down into the cage, with much the same reflection as that of john bradford of old, that there, but for special grace, i might myself be figuring, i was astounded by the audacity of the management. could they really imagine that an intelligent and enlightened audience like this would be pacified by anything less than the spectacle they had paid to witness--a marriage solemnised in a den of lions? and how did they propose to perform a ceremony at which, as they must be fully aware by this time, the bridegroom would be conspicuous by his absence? no, it might be magnificent, but it was not business. i was still speculating, when a kind of small procession entered the arena. first came mr sawkins, with the reverend ninian, looking rather like a cheap cranmer; next was a smart-looking person in a well-cut frock-coat and lavender trousers that i seemed to have seen before. it was my wedding suit; the wearer had gummed on a moustache and short side-whiskers which gave him a spurious resemblance to myself, but if nobody else knew him, i did--it was onion, the lion king! and the next moment, i received a still greater shock, as professor polkinghorne followed with the lofty bearing of a virginius, and on his arm was a slender shrinking figure, which, in spite of the veil she wore, i knew too well could be no other than lurana. "there's the bridegroom, d'ye see!" explained my hoarse neighbour; "he's a deal better lookin' than the pictures they've drawed of him in the papers. but he's as pale as plaster, he'll back out of it at the last moment--you just see if he don't!" but i knew niono better. i remembered his open admiration of lurana, his envy at my good fortune, i felt convinced that his pallor was merely due to the absence of rouge and the fear that he would not succeed in his daring imposture. for i saw now that he had been planning to supplant me from the first; hence his attempts to shake my nerve, and, when they failed, hence his treacherous loan of a blunt razor. he was staking everything on the chance that the bride's natural agitation, and the thickness of her veil would prevent her from suspecting that he was a fraudulent bridegroom until the ceremony was over, while the audience, not expecting to see a lion king in a tall hat, would be equally deceived. [illustration: a kind of small procession entered the arena.] "pore young things!" said a stout female in front, with a nodding feather in her bonnet; "it's to be 'oped there won't be any unpleasantness, i'm sure. i'm 'alf sorry i came." there was time even yet; i had but to rise, denounce the usurper, and take my rightful place at lurana's side. i felt strongly impelled to do so; i actually stood up and tried to speak. but i realised that it was hopeless to attempt to make my feeble voice heard above the thunders of applause, even if excitement and emotion had not rendered me speechless. besides, what satisfactory explanation of my present position could i offer? i sat down again with a sense of spellbound helplessness. i looked on as the great arc-lamps were lowered, hissing and buzzing, to the level of the cage, and the reverend mr skipworth prepared to ascend the inverted white tub that was to serve him as a reading-desk, and the unscrupulous onion took the bride by the hand and conducted her to the steps which led to the door of the lion-cage. "they're never goin' in among all them lions without nobody with them!" cried the stout lady. "it's downright temptin' of providence, that it is!" "don't you be afraid," said the cynical man. "_they_ ain't goin' in. just look at _that_ now!" as he spoke two persons in plain clothes, who had apparently been waiting for this moment, stepped over the barrier from the shilling stalls into the ring, and, from their gestures, seemed to be insisting that the wedding should not take place inside the cage at all events. there was an animated dispute in the ring; niono blustered, lurana pleaded, sawkins expostulated, and the professor and archibald chuck (who had contrived to push himself into the party) argued, while miss rakestraw filled page after page of her reporter's note-book, and the rev. ninian sat upon his tub with meekly folded hands, looking more than ever like a martyr who knew himself to be incombustible. the audience booed, and hissed, and yelled with natural rage and disappointment; the lions remained unmoved, blinking behind their bars, with crossed forepaws, and an air of serene indifference. "i told yer there wasn't going to be no blooming wedding!" said my husky friend. "it's a reg'lar put-up job, that's what it is!" it was possible; but whether the interrupters of the proceedings were hired supers or genuine officials, it was equally clear that there would be no wedding inside the cage. how bitterly i regretted that by yielding to an irresistible impulse i had forfeited the right to stand by lurana's side at this supreme moment! i could have done so with absolute impunity; i should have won a lifelong reputation for courage; lurana herself would have owned that i had done all that was possible to gratify her whim, and would have consented to marry me in the orthodox fashion. whereas, here i was, separated from her by impassable barriers, in the ignominious seclusion of a back seat! however, this official prohibition had at least solved one of my difficulties; it had rendered it unnecessary for me to interfere personally. the storm of indignation rose to a hurricane when the entire wedding party filed out of the arena with the officials, doubtless to discuss the matter in greater privacy. the stout lady with the feather was particularly annoyed. "why shouldn't the two young parties be allowed to please themselves?" she wanted to know. "it was _their_ wedding, not the government's. but it was always the way whenever she came out for a little amusement. somethink was bound to go wrong." another long interval, during which the wildest disorder reigned unchecked, the crowd, with the irrationality of an angry mob, actually throwing pieces of orange-peel at the unoffending lions as the only creatures within the range of their displeasure. the hubbub was at its height when sawkins reappeared and held up his hand for some time in vain before he could obtain a hearing. then he addressed the audience as follows: "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "certain individuals claiming to represent the home office and the london county council" (here there were groans, and my neighbour remarked disgustedly, that "that was what came of returning those progressives") "have protested against a wedding in the cage as involving danger to the principal parties concerned." (loud cries of "shame!" and general uproar.) "i have the honour and pleasure to announce that we have succeeded in convincing these gentlemen that the proposed ceremony is no more open to objection than the ordinary performance, and that they have no legal power to prohibit it. consequently the marriage will now be celebrated in the cage of forest-bred african lions, as advertised." [illustration: then he addressed the audience.] the revulsion of feeling after this most unexpected announcement was instant and tremendous; all hearts seemed touched with generous compunction for their uncharitable suspicions, and the hall rang with tumultuous cheers. for myself, i could not share the general exhilaration. this preposterous wedding was permitted after all, and, unless lurana's heart failed her at the critical instant, she would inevitably be lost to me for ever! i might still interpose; indeed i should have done so at all costs, but for a timely remembrance that no action i took now would regain her. she might have been in ignorance before--but in the course of this delay she must have learnt that i had failed her, she must have accepted the lion-tamer as a substitute, and, even if i were to present myself, she would only inform me that my place was already filled. i had too much spirit to risk a public snub of that kind, so i stayed where i was. it cannot have fallen to many men's lot to look on as passive spectators at their own wedding--but what choice had i? there was a deathlike silence as niono slipt the bolt and gallantly handed the bride into the cage. she stepped in as collectedly as if it had been an ordinary registry office, and the great tawny beasts retreated sullenly to the other end, where they stood huddled in a row, while the rev. ninian, mounting his tub, read an abbreviated form of service in a voice which was quite inaudible in the balcony. i tried to turn my eyes away from the scene that was taking place in that grim cage, and the two figures that were so calmly confronting those formidable brutes--but i felt compelled to look. and it was mortifying to see how trifling after all was the danger they incurred. i am afraid i almost wished that one of the animals would give some trouble--i don't mean of course by any actual attack--but by just enough display of ferocity to make lurana understand what they _might_ do. but they never even attempted to cross the pole which had been thrust across the cage as a barrier. i was never told there _would_ be a pole! they looked on, mystified--as well they might be--by proceedings to which they were totally unaccustomed, but still impressed, and sleepily solemn. even the tiger behaved with irreproachable decorum. i understood then what onion had been careful not to mention; their food had been doctored in some way. if i had only known! _anybody_ could beard a hocussed lion! and soon the words which made that couple man and wife were pronounced, or rather mumbled--for the rev. ninian would have been none the worse for a course of lessons from old polkinghorne--and the newly-wedded pair came out of the cage without so much as a scratch, to the triumphant blare of the "wedding march." there was frantic applause as the professor embraced the bride with an emotion that struck me as overdone, while the rev. ninian, miss rakestraw, and chuck, offered their congratulations and mr sawkins presented the happy couple with a silver biscuit-box (it may have been electro-plated), and a tantalus spirit case. but for that unfortunate slip of the razor, those gifts would have been mine--but i was in no mood to think of that just then, when i had lost what was so infinitely more precious. i looked on dully till the party left the arena, declining with excellent taste to return in answer to repeated calls and bow their acknowledgments, and then, as the electric lights were hoisted up again and the elephant was led in to remove the lion's cage, i thought it was time to go. it was all over; there was nothing to stay for now, and most of the people were leaving, so i joined the crowd which streamed down the staircase and along the broad passage to the main exit. once in the open air, i hurried blindly past the flaring shops in the high street, neither knowing nor caring where i was going, with only one thought possessing my numbed brain--how different it might all have been if only things had happened otherwise! wherever i looked i saw lurana's lovely scornful face and flashing eyes painted with torturing vividness on the murky air. how flat and stale all existence would be for me henceforth! life with lurana might not have been all sunshine; it might have had its storms, even its tempests--but at least it would never have been dull! i cursed the treachery which had induced her to link herself for life with a lion-tamer. happy, i knew she could not be, for of one thing i was confident--she loved me; not perhaps with the passionate single-hearted devotion i felt for her, but still with a love she would never feel for any other. perhaps she was already beginning to repent her desertion of me, and wishing she could undo that rash irrevocable act. i was pounding up highgate hill, with no object beyond escaping by active motion the demons of recollection and regret that haunted me--when suddenly, as i gained the top of the hill, a thought struck me. _was_ the act irrevocable after all? was it so absolutely certain that this onion had the legal right to claim her as his wife? he had certainly personated me. had he borrowed, not only my frock coat, and trousers, but also my name for the ceremony? if he had, and if lurana was, as she could hardly help being, aware of the fact, it did not require much acquaintance with the law to know that there was a chance, at all events, of getting the court to declare the marriage null and void. but he might have been married in his own name; i could not tell, owing to the indistinctness of mr skipworth's utterance, only lurana or those in their immediate neighbourhood could say. i must know that first; i must examine the register, if there was one, and then, if--if lurana wished to be saved, i might be able to save her. i knew that a sort of wedding high-tea had been prepared at canonbury square, where the whole party would be assembled by this time, and i hurried back to canonbury square as fast as the tramcar would take me. my blood was roused; she would not be niono's if i could prevent it. i would snatch her from him, even if i had to do so across the wedding-cake! but when i reached the well-known door and raised the familiar knocker--a fist clutching a cast-iron wreath--in my trembling fingers, there were no sounds of festivity within; the house was dark and deserted. i waited in the bitter january air; the street lamp opposite--the identical one under which lurana had first agreed to marry me--flickered at every gust of the night wind, as though troubled on my account. they must have transferred the feast to the circus, or to some adjacent restaurant; evidently there was no one there. i was just turning hopelessly away, when i heard the bolt being withdrawn, and the door was opened by a maid. "where is your mistress?" i asked breathlessly. i could not bring myself to ask for lurana as mrs onion. "in the drawing-room, upstairs," was the unexpected reply, "with the 'istericks." so long as she was not with niono, i cared little; i bounded up, and found her alone. as i entered, she raised her flushed, tear-stained face from the shabby sofa on which she had thrown herself. "go away!" she cried, "why do you come near me now? you have no right--do you hear?--no right!" "i know," i said humbly enough, "i deserve this, no doubt; and yet, if you knew all, you would find excuses for me, lurana!" "none, theodore," she said; "if you had really loved me, you would never have deserted me!" "i could not help myself," i retorted; "and really, lurana, if it comes to desertion----!" "ah, what is the use of wrangling about whose fault it was," she moaned, "now, when we have both wrecked our lives! at least, i know i've wrecked _mine_! why was i so insane as to set my heart on our being married in a den of disgusting lions? if you had only been firmer, theodore, instead of giving way as you did!" "at least it was not cowardice," i said. "when i show you the state of my chin----" "theodore!" she cried, with a little scream, "you are hurt! tell me; was it the tiger?" "it was not the tiger," i said. "never mind that now. i was betrayed by that infernal onion, lurana. i never knew till it was too late--you _do_ believe me, don't you?" "i do; we were both deceived, theodore. i should never have acted as i did if that horrid frenchwoman hadn't told me--oh, _what_ would i not give if all this had never been?" "if you are truly sincere," i began, "in wishing this unlucky marriage cancelled----" "if i am! are _you_, theodore? oh, if only there is a way!" "there may be, lurana. it all depends on whether my name was used at the ceremony or not. try to recollect and tell me." "but i can't, theodore. you were there--you must know!" "mr skipworth wouldn't speak up; and i was much farther away than you were." "than _i_ was, theodore! but--but i wasn't there at all!" "not present at your own wedding?" i cried, "but i saw you!" "it was not me!" she said, "it was mlle. léonie. is it possible you didn't know?" my heart leaped. "for heaven's sake, explain, lurana; let us have no more concealments." "when i arrived," she said, "mademoiselle explained about the tiger, and how sorry she was it was too late to remove it, since she understood i had an antipathy to tigers; and i said, not at all, i adored tigers, so she took me to see the cage, and i--i only tried to tickle the tiger, but he was so dreadfully cross about it--i nearly fainted. and she said it was simply madness for me to go in, and that you were every bit as frightened as i was." [illustration: "if only you had been firmer, theodore."] "she had no right to say that," i said; "it's absolutely untrue!" "i know, theodore," she replied; "you have proved that you, at least, are no coward--but i believed her then. and i wrote you a line to say that i had altered my mind, and did not think it right to expose you or myself to such danger, and that i would wait for you by the myddelton statue. she promised to give you the letter at once!" "i never got it," i said. "no, she took care you should not. and i waited for you--how long i don't know--_hours_, it seemed--but you never came! then i saw the people beginning to come out, and--and i went across and asked someone whether there had been any marriage or not, and he said, 'yes, it had gone off without any accident, the bridegroom looked pale but was plucky enough, and so was the bride, though he couldn't tell how _she_ looked, because of her veil.' and then of course, i knew that the deceitful cat had taken my place and managed to make you marry her! and at first i wanted to go back and stab her with my hat pin, but i hadn't one sharp enough, so i came home instead. and oh, theodore, i _do_ feel so ashamed! after boasting so much of my spanish blood, and taunting you with being afraid as i did, to think that you should have shown the truer courage after all!" i could not triumph over her then; i was too happy. "courage, my darling, is a merely relative quality," i said. "heaven forbid that we should be held accountable for the state of our nerves--even the bravest of us." "but this marriage, theodore," she said, "what can you do to have it set aside?" "do! nothing," i replied; "after what you have told me, i no longer care to try." "you despise me, then, because i broke down at the critical moment?" "not at all. i can never be grateful enough to you!" "grateful! then do you mean to say you prefer that coarse, middle-aged, lion-taming person to me, theodore?" "lurana," i said, "prepare yourself for a great surprise--a _pleasant_ surprise. if anybody is now that lady's lawful husband it is niono--not i; and a very suitable match too," i added (i saw now why the authorities had been compelled to waive their objections to it). "the fact is, i never went into the cage at all." "you didn't go into the cage, theodore! but how, why?" "do you imagine," i asked, "can you really suppose i should be capable of entering that cage with anybody but yourself, lurana? how little you know me! of _course_ i declined!" "but you didn't know i had run away _then_, theodore! why, you thought only a few minutes ago _i_ was the person mr niono married! perhaps you will kindly explain?" for the moment i was in a fix, but i saw that the moment had arrived for perfect candour, and accordingly i told her the facts pretty much as they have been set down here. she could hardly blame me for having behaved precisely as she herself had done, or refuse to admit that by taking any other course i should have imperilled our joint happiness, and yet i thought i could see that, with feminine unreason, she was just a _little_ disappointed with me. the true explanation of that marriage, if it was a marriage, in the den of lions, i have never been able to discover, nor for that matter have i been particularly curious to inquire whether onion attempted to get rid of me in order to secure lurana; whether mdlle. léonie played upon lurana's fears with the hope of becoming my bride, or his; or whether the lion king and his fellow artist gallantly sacrificed themselves to get the management out of a difficulty, i don't know, and, as i say, i haven't cared to ask. but however it was, they were ably seconded by old polkinghorne, who was naturally unwilling to be called upon to refund the money he had got for his free tickets, and by miss rakestraw and archibald chuck, whose reputations were also more or less concerned. nevertheless, although every effort was made to keep the public off the scent, and the circus people behaved, i am bound to say, with commendable discretion, sundry garbled versions of the facts _did_ get about, and altogether lurana and i have found the task of denying or correcting them such a constant nuisance that i have felt compelled, as i said at starting, to furnish, once for all, a statement of what actually occurred. now that it is written i have no more to add, except to append a cutting from an announcement which appeared not long ago in the principal papers. the arrangements for its publication were entrusted to archibald chuck, who i think must have added the last two words on his own responsibility. _blenkinsop_--_de castro_.--on the th inst., at the parish church of st mary, islington, by the rev. merton sandford, d.d., vicar, theodore pidgley blenkinsop, of highbury, to lurana carmen de castro, only daughter of the late manuel guzman de castro, formerly deputy sub-assistant inspector of spanish liquorice to the government manufactory at madrid. no lions. the end. printed by turnbull and spears, edinburgh transcriber's note: inconsistent and archaic spelling retained. _this edition is strictly limited to one thousand numbered copies for mature collectors of literary curiosa no. ._ _french and oriental love in a harem_ _by_ mario uchard _with decorations by paul avril_ [illustration] _privately issued by_ falstaff press new york [illustration] chapter i. _château de férouzat_, ..., ... no indeed, my dear louis, i am neither dead nor ruined, nor have i turned pirate, trappist, or rural guard, as you might imagine in order to explain my silence these four months since i last appeared at your illustrious studio. no, you witty giber, my fabulous heritage has not taken wings! i am dwelling neither in china on the blue river, nor in red oceania, nor in white lapland. my yacht, built of teak, still lies in harbour, and is not swaying me over the vasty deep. it is no good your spinning out laborious and far-fetched hyperboles on the subject of my uncle's will: your ironical shafts all miss the mark. my uncle's will surpasses the most astonishing feat of its kind ever accomplished by notary's pen; and your poor imagination could not invent, or come anywhere near inventing, such remarkable adventures as those into which this registered document has led me. first of all, in order that your feeble intellect may be enabled to rise to the level of the subject, i must give you some description of "the corsair," as you called him after you met him in paris last winter; for it is only by comprehending the peculiarities of his life and character that you can ever hope to understand my adventures. unfortunately, at this very point, a considerable difficulty arises, for my uncle still remains and always will remain a sort of legendary personage. born at marseilles, he was left an orphan at about the age of fourteen, alone in the world with one little sister still in the cradle, whom he brought up, and who subsequently became my mother: hence his tender regard for me. nevertheless, and notwithstanding the fact that we two constituted the whole family, i only saw him during the intervals on shore of his sea-faring life. endowed with truly remarkable qualities and with an energy that recognized no obstacles, he was the best fellow in the world, as you must have observed for yourself; but certainly he was also, from what i know of him, a most original character. i don't believe that in the course of his eventful career, he ever did a single act like other men, unless, may be, in the getting of children--yet even these were only his "god-children." he has left fourteen in the department of le gard, scattered over the different estates on which he lived by turns after he had quitted the east; and we may well believe he would not have stopped short at that number, but that four months ago, as he was returning from the south pole, he happened to die of a sunstroke, at the age of sixty-three. this last touch completes the picture of his life. as to his history, all that is known of it is confined to the following facts: at the age of twenty-two my uncle turned turk, from political conviction. this happened under the bourbons. the character of his services in turkey during the contests between mehemet ali and the sultan was never very clear, and i fancy he was rather muddled about them himself, for he served both these princes by turns with equal courage and equal devotion. as it happened, he was on the side of ibrahim at the time that the latter defeated the turks at the battle of konieh; but being carried away in that desperate charge which he himself led, and which decided the victory, my unfortunate uncle suffered the disgrace of falling wounded into the hands of the vanquished party. being a prisoner to kurchid-pasha, and his wound having soon healed, he was expecting to be impaled, when, to his great joy, his punishment was commuted to that of the galleys. there he remained three years without succeeding in effecting his escape, when one fine day he found his services in request just at the right time by the sultan, who appointed him pasha, giving him a command in the syrian wars. what circumstance was it that cut short his political career? how was it that he obtained from the pope the title of count of the holy empire? nobody knows. all that is certain is that barbassou-pasha, tired of his honours and having returned two years since to settle down in provence, started off one morning for africa, on a ship that he had bought at toulon. henceforth he devoted himself to the spice trade. it was after one of these voyages that he published his celebrated ontological monograph upon the negro races, a work which created some stir and gained for him a most flattering report from the academy. these leading events of his odyssey being known, the more private facts and deeds of the life of barbassou-pasha are lost in obscurity. as for his physical characteristics, you will remember the great marseillais six-foot high, with sinewy frame and muscles of steel; your mind's eye can picture still the formidable, bearded face, the savage and terrible eye, the rough voice, the complete type in short of "the pirate at his ease," as you used to say, when laughing sometimes at his quiet humour. after all, an easy-going soul, and the best of uncles! as for my own recollections, so far back as they go, the following is all i have ever known of him. being continually at sea, he had placed me at school quite young. one year, while at his château at férouzat, he sent for me during the holidays. i was six years old, and saw him for the first time. he held me up in his arms to examine my face and features, then turning me gently round in the air, he felt my sides, after which--satisfied, no doubt, as to my build--he put me down again with great care, as if afraid of breaking me. "kiss your aunt!" he said. i obeyed him. my aunt at that time was a very handsome young woman of twenty-two to twenty-four, a brunette with great black, almond-shaped eyes, and fine features on a perfect oval face. she placed me on her knees and covered me with kisses, lavishing on me the most tender expressions, among which she mingled words of a foreign language which sounded like music, so sweet and harmonious was her voice. i conceived a great affection for her. my uncle let me do just as i liked, and allowed no hindrances to be put in my way. thus it happened that at the end of my holidays i did not want to return to school again, and should certainly have succeeded in getting my way, if it had not been that barbassou-pasha's ship was waiting for him at toulon. you may imagine with what joy i returned to férouzat the next year. my uncle welcomed me with the same delight, and betook himself to the same examination of my physical structure. when his anxieties were satisfied, he said to me-- "kiss your aunt!" i kissed my aunt: but, as i kissed her, i was rather surprised to find her very much altered. she had become fair and pink-complexioned. a certain firm and youthful plumpness, which suited her remarkably well, gave her the appearance of a girl of eighteen. being more bashful than at our former interview, she tendered me her fresh cheeks with a blush. i noticed also that her accent had undergone a modification, and now very much resembled the accent of one of my school-fellows who was dutch. as i expressed my surprise at these changes, my uncle informed me that they had just returned from java. this explanation sufficed for me, i did not ask any more questions, and henceforth i accustomed myself every year to the various metamorphoses of my aunt. the metamorphosis which pleased me the least was that which she contracted after a voyage to bourbon, from which she returned a mulattress, but without ceasing still to be remarkably handsome. my uncle, it should be mentioned, was always very good to her, and i have never known a happier household. unfortunately barbassou-pasha, being engaged in important affairs, stayed away three years, and when i returned to férouzat, he kissed me and received me by himself. when i asked after my aunt, he told me that he was a widower. as this misfortune did not appear to affect him very seriously, i made up my mind to treat it with the same indifference that he did. since that time i never saw any woman at the château, except once in an isolated part of the park, where i met two shadowy beings, closely and mysteriously veiled. they were taking a walk, accompanied by an old fellow of singular aspect, clothed in a long robe with a _tarbouch_ on his head, who greatly excited my curiosity. my uncle told me that this was his excellency, mohammed-azis, one of his friends at constantinople, whom he had taken in with his family after they had undergone persecution at the hands of the sultan. he lodged him in another little château adjoining férouzat, in order that they might be able to live more comfortably in turkish style: those young persons were two of his daughters. after that year, i never again stayed in provence: for my uncle, having settled in china and japan, was absent five years, and my only relations with him were through his banker at paris, with whom i enjoyed that solid and unlimited credit which you envied so much, and of which i availed myself with such easy grace and in such a superbly reckless spirit. you remember that i received a few months ago a letter announcing this sudden misfortune, and requesting my immediate presence at férouzat, to remove the seals and open the will: my poor uncle had died in abyssinia. well, the day after my arrival, i had only just got up, when féraudet, the notary, was announced. he came in, literally armed with documents. i did not want to act like a greedy heir, but rather to put off for a few days all the most material questions; my notary, however, informed me that "there were certain clauses in the will which demanded an immediate examination." my uncle had charged me, he said, with numerous trusts and legacies "for the benefit of his god-children and of other parties living a long distance off." all this was uttered in a mournful tone suited to the occasion, and at the same time with the manner of a person aware that he was the bearer of an extraordinary document, and preparing me for its effect. finally he opened the will, which was worded as follows: "_château de férouzat_, ... .. "i, the undersigned, claude-anatole-gratien barbassou, count of monteclaro, do hereby declare that i elect and designate as my universal legatee and the sole inheritor of my property: of all my real and personal estate, and all that i am entitled to of every description soever, such as ..., &c.: my nephew jérôme andré de peyrade, the son of my sister: and i hereby command him to discharge the following legacies: "to my much-beloved wife and legitimate spouse, lia rachel euphrosine ben-lévy, milliner, of constantinople, and dwelling there in the suburb of péra, first, a sum of four thousand five hundred francs, which i have agreed by contract to pay her; second, my house at péra, in which she dwells, with all the appendages and appurtenances thereof; and third, a sum of twelve thousand francs, to be distributed by her, as it may please her, among the different children whom she has by me. "likewise, to my much-beloved wife and legitimate spouse, sophia eudoxia, countess of monteclaro (whose maiden name is de cornalis), dwelling at corfu: first, a sum of five hundred thousand francs, which i have agreed by contract to pay her; second, the clock and the dresden china, which stand on my mantle-piece; third, 'the virgin,' by perugino, in my drawing-room at férouzat. "likewise, to my much-beloved wife and legitimate spouse, marie gretchen van cloth, dwelling at amsterdam: first, a sum of twenty thousand francs, which i have agreed by contract to pay her; second, a sum of sixty thousand francs, to be distributed by her, as it may please her, among the different children whom she has by me; third, my dinner-service in delph, known as no. ; fourth, a barrel-organ, set with four of haydn's symphonies. "likewise, to my much-beloved wife and legitimate spouse, marie louise antoinette cora de la pescade, dwelling at les grands palmiers (ile bourbon), my plantation upon which she lives, including the annexes of le grand morne. "likewise, to my much-beloved wife and legitimate spouse, anita josepha christina de postero, dwelling at cadiz: first, a sum of twelve thousand francs; which i have agreed by contract to pay her; second, my pardon for her little adventure with my lieutenant jean bonaffé." if some very precise person should seek to insinuate his criticisms upon my uncle's matrimonial principles, my reply would be that barbassou-pasha was a turk and a mussulman, and that consequently he can only be praised for having so faithfully obeyed the laws of the prophet--laws which permitted him to indulge in all this hymeneal luxury without in the least degree outraging the social proprieties--and for having in this matter piously fulfilled a religious duty, which his premature death alone, so far as we can judge, has hindered him from accomplishing with greater fervour. i trust that the god of the faithful will at least give him credit for his efforts. having said so much on behalf of a memory which is dear to me, and having enumerated the chief clauses of the will, i may add in a few words that, after the payment of my uncle's matrimonial donations, and the various legacies to his "god-children," with those to his sailors in addition, there remained for me about thirty-seven million francs. "but, these children of my uncle's?" said i. "oh, sir! everything is in order! the turkish law not recognising marriages contracted abroad with unbelievers, excepting in the case of certain prescribed formalities which your uncle happens to have neglected to go through, it results that his will expresses his deliberate intentions. moreover, he had during his lifetime provided for the future of all his people." i listened with admiration. "so much for the legal dispositions of the will, sir," said the notary, when he had finished reading it out. "now i have a sealed letter to hand to you, which your uncle charged me to give after his death to you alone. i was instructed in the case of your death preceding his, to destroy it without acquainting myself with its purport. you will understand, therefore, that i know nothing of its contents, which are for you only to read. have the kindness, please, to sign this receipt, declaring that you find the seals unbroken, and that i have left it in your possession." he presented a paper, which i read and signed. "is that all?" i asked. "not quite, sir," he replied, as he took another package out of his pocket. "here is a document similarly sealed which was addressed to me. i was only to open it in the case of your uncle's will becoming null and void through your death preceding his. this document, he told me, would then give effect to his final wishes. your presence being duly established, my formal written instructions are to burn this document, now rendered useless and purposeless, before your eyes." again he made me attest that the seals were untampered with, and taking up a candle from the writing-table and lighting it, he forthwith committed to the flames this secret document the provisions of which we were not to know. he then departed. when left alone, and still affected by these lively recollections of my poor uncle, i began to think of the letter which the notary had left with me. i divined some mystery in it, and had a vague presentiment that it would contain a decree of my destiny. this last message from him, coming as it were from the tomb, revived in my heart the grief which had hardly yet been allayed. at last, trembling all the while, i tore open the envelope. these were its contents:-- "my dear boy, "when you read this, i shall have done with this world. please me by not giving way too much to your grief, and act like a man! you know my ideas about death: i have never allowed myself to be prejudiced into regarding it as an evil, convinced as i have been, that it is nothing but the transition which leads us to a superior state of existence. adopt this view, and do not cry over me like a child. i have lived my life; now it is your turn. my desire is, that this old friend of yours should be cherished in your memory: you shall join him with you in your happiness, by believing that he takes part in it. "now let us have a talk. "i leave you all my property, desiring to create no business complications for you: my will is drawn up in proper form, and you will enter into possession of your inheritance, which, you may rest assured, is a pretty handsome one. there is, however, one last wish of mine for the fulfilment of which i rely simply upon your affection, feeling sure that between us there is no need of more complicated provisions for ensuring its execution. "i have a daughter, who has always shared with you my dearest affections. if i have kept this second paternity a secret from you, i have done so because circumstances might occur which would render useless the revelation which i am now approaching. my daughter had a legal father who had the right to reclaim her when sixteen years of age; she is free now, her legal father is dead, she will soon be seventeen, and i entrust her to your charge. her name is anna campbell, she lives at paris at the convent of les oiseaux, where she is completing her education. her only relation is an aunt, her mother's sister, madame saulnier by name, who lives at no. , rue barbet de jony. it will be a sufficient introduction for you to call on this lady and tell her your name. she is aware that i have appointed you moral guardian to my daughter, and that it is you who will take my place. in short, she knows _all my intentions_. "i underline these words, for they sum up my fondest aspirations. i have brought up anna with the view of making her your wife, and thus dividing my fortune between you; and i rely upon you to carry out this arrangement. if marriage is for a man but a small matter, it is for a woman the most serious event in life. with you, i am confident that the dear girl will never be unhappy, and that is the thing of most importance. if i never return from this last voyage, you will have plenty of time to enjoy your bachelor's life; but i count upon your friendship to render me this little service by marrying her when the right time arrives. at present she is scarcely full-grown, and i think it will be best for you to wait one or two years. i can assure you her mother had a fine figure. you will find their portraits in one of the velvet frames in the drawer of my desk. (don't make a mistake: it is the one numbered .) "now that this matter is settled, it only remains for me to give you one last injunction. if férandet has followed my instructions, as i suppose, he will have burnt a paper in your presence. this was a second will, by which my daughter anna campbell would have been appointed my universal legatee, had you not been living. so long as all happened in the right order, you surviving me, you will understand i should not have wished to complicate your affairs, by leaving you confronted with a lot of legal formalities and intricacies. such would be the consequence of a female minor who is a foreigner inheriting jointly with you: this would have plunged you into a veritable mire of technicalities, restrictions, registrations, and goodness knows what. nevertheless, it is necessary to provide fully for the possibility of an accident arising to you before your marriage with anna. our property would go in that case to collaterals ... and god only knows from how many quarters of the world these would not be forthcoming! as i wish my fortune to remain with my children, it is indispensable that you should not forget to make testamentary dispositions in favour of your cousin, so that the whole property may go to her in the event of your death, without any more dispute than there has been in your own case. i leave this matter in your hands. you will find at my bankers all the indications of surnames, christian names, and descriptions which you will require to enumerate, on the first page of my private ledger, where the account which was opened for her commences, and yours also, forming a separate banking account for you two. madame saulnier is accustomed to draw what is required for her: therefore, until your marriage, it is unnecessary for you to occupy yourself with this detail--all you have to do is to confirm her credit. "now that we have settled this matter, my dear boy, go ahead! i do not need, i am sure, to remind you to think occasionally of your old uncle: i know you well, and that satisfies me. i thank you for what you have been to me, and bless you from the bottom of my heart! "come, don't give way, old fellow: i am in heaven, my soul is free and rejoicing in the glories of the infinite. is there anything in this for you to mourn over? farewell." after reading this letter, my dear louis, need i tell you that i did the contrary to what my poor uncle bade me, and that i gave way to my grief. the tears streamed down my cheeks, my heart was breaking, and i could no longer see this last word, "farewell," as i pressed the letter to my lips. such a mixture of tenderness and elevation of tone, such touching solicitude to console my grief, such boundless confidence in my love and fidelity! i felt crushed with my grief, proud only to think that i was worthy of the generosity with which this noble-hearted man was overwhelming me, prodigal as a father in his kindness. it seemed to me at that moment that i had never loved him enough, and the grief at his loss mingled itself with something like remorse. as if he were able hear me, i swore to him that i would live for the accomplishment of his wishes: from the depths of my soul, indeed, i felt certain that he saw me. when the flow of my tears had ceased, i did not want to tarry a moment in the accomplishment of his last behests. i ran to his bed-chamber, opened his desk, and found the two portraits. one, a valuable miniature, represents a woman of twenty-five, the other is a photograph of anna campbell at the age of fifteen. although not so pretty as her mother, perhaps, she has a charming childlike face; the poor little thing felt uncomfortable, no doubt, when they made her sit, for her expression is rather sulky and unnatural. still she gives promise of being attractive when she has passed the awkward age. i felt myself suddenly possessed by a sentiment of affection for this unknown cousin, whose guardian i had become and whose husband i am to be. upon this cold picture i repeated to my uncle the oath to obey his wishes; then, taking up a pen, i wrote a will appointing anna campbell the universal legatee of all the property which my uncle left us. but one part of my inheritance, the most remarkable and the least expected, was at present unknown either to the notary or to myself. i don't wish to make myself out better than i really am, my dear louis: i must declare, nevertheless, that in spite of the very natural bewilderment which i felt on finding myself the owner of such a fortune, my first thought, when once i had disposed of the legal matters, was to pay a tribute of mournful regrets to the memory of my poor uncle. i should have considered it base ingratitude, not to say impiety on my part, to have shown myself too eager to enjoy the wealth bequeathed to me by so generous a benefactor. his loss really left a cruel void in my heart. i decided, therefore, at least to live a few months at férouzat. i wrote immediately to the aunt of anna campbell, to express my resolution to fulfil the wishes of my second father, begging her to dispose of my services in every way as those of a protector and friend ready to respond to every appeal. four days afterwards, i received from her a most cordial and elegantly-worded letter. she assured me of her confidence in all the good accounts which my uncle had given of me; and she gave me news of my _fiancée_, "who for one who is still only a child, promises already to develop into an accomplished woman." having discharged these conventional duties, i shut myself up in my retreat, and set to work. for me to say that my retirement was not more distracted than i would have desired, might perhaps be called a dangerous assertion; but what could i do? was it not my duty to acquaint myself with all that my uncle bequeathed to me? and the lord knows what marvels my château of férouzat contained! every day i made some fresh discovery in rooms full of curious furniture and antiquities of all ages and of all countries. barbassou-pasha was a born buyer of valuable objects, and the furniture was crammed with rich draperies, hangings, costumes, and objects of art or curios: my steward himself could not enumerate them all. but the most delightful of all these marvels is certainly kasre-el-nouzha, my neighbouring property. kasre-el-nouzha was a turkish fancy of my uncle's. these three arabic words correspond to the spanish buen-retiro; or, literally translated, they signify "castle of pleasures." this was the retreat, separated only by a party-wall from férouzat, that was formerly inhabited by the exiled minister who had fled from the persecutions of the sultan. picture to yourself, hidden in a great park whose umbrageous foliage concealed it from view, a delightful palace of the purest oriental architecture, surrounded by gardens, with flowering shrubs covered with a wealth of blossoms, standing in the midst of green lawns, a sort of vale of tempé transplanted, one might imagine, from the east. my uncle barbassou, conscientious architect that he was, had copied the plan from one of the residences of the king of kashmir. in the interior of the kasre you might fancy yourself in the house of some grandee of stamboul or of bagdad. luxuries, ornaments, furniture, and general domestic arrangements, have all been studied with the taste of an artist and the exactitude of an archæologist. at the same time european comforts are gratefully mingled with turkish simplicity. the silken tapestries of persia, the carpets of smyrna with those harmonious hues which seem to be borrowed from the sun, the capacious divans, the bath-rooms, and the stores, all contribute in short to the completeness of an establishment, suitable to a pasha residing under the sky of provence. a little door in the park-wall gives access to this oasis. as you may guess, i passed many an hour there, and i dreamt dreams of "the thousand and one nights." all this time i had never interrupted my labours; for you need not suppose that my nabob's fortune could make me forgetful of my inclinations towards science. in the midst of my numerous follies, as you know very well, and in spite of the distractions of the more or less dissipated life which i have led up to my present happy age of twenty-six, i have always preserved my love of study, which fills up those hours of forced respite that even the pleasures of the world leave to every man who is conscious of a brain. the polytechnic school, and the search for _x_, in which my uncle trained me, developed very inquisitive instincts in me. i ended by acquiring a taste for transcendental ideas. this taste is at least worth as much as that for angling. for my part, i confess that i class among the molluscs men who, being their own masters, content themselves with eating, drinking, and sleeping, without performing any intellectual labour. this is why you call me "the _savant_." i worked away, then, at my book with a veritable enthusiasm, and my "essay upon the origin of sensation" had extended to several long chapters, when the critical event occurred which i have undertaken to relate to you. i had lived thus all alone for two weeks. one evening, on my return from arles, where i had been spending a couple of days upon some business, i was informed that his excellency, mohammed-azis, the old friend of my uncle, whom i remembered to have seen on one occasion, had arrived at the château the evening before, not having heard of the death of barbassou-pasha. i must admit that this news gave me at the time very little pleasure; but in memory of my dear departed uncle, i could not but give his friend the welcome he expected. i was told that his excellency had gone straight to his quarters at kasre-el-nouzha, where he was accustomed to dwell. i hastened to send my respects to him, begging him to let me know if he would receive me. he sent word that he was at my disposition and waiting for me. i therefore set off at once to call upon him. i found mohammed-azis on his door-step. gravely and sadly he received me with a salute, the respectful manner of which embarrassed me somewhat, coming from a man of his age. he showed me into the drawing-room, in each of the four corners of which bubbled a little fountain of perfumed water, in small basins of alabaster garnished with flowers. he made me sit down on the divan covered with a splendid silk material, and which, very broad and very deep, and furnished with numerous cushions, extends round the entire room. when seated, i commenced uttering a few phrases of condolence, but he replied to me in turkish. this mode of conversing had its difficulties, so he, seeing that i could not understand him, started off into a _sabir_ or italianised french, pronounced in an accent which i will not attempt to describe. "povera eccellenza barbassou-pacha!--finito--morto?" i replied in italian, which he spoke indifferently well. we thus managed to get along. i then related to him the accident which had brought about the death of barbassou, my uncle and his friend. he listened to me with a greatly distressed air. "dunque voi signor padrone?" he replied, uneasily; "voi heritare di tutto?--ordinare?--commandare?"-- "let me assure you, your excellency," i answered, "nothing that concerns you will be changed by my uncle's death. i shall make it a point of honour to fill his place exactly." he appeared satisfied with this reply, and breathed freely, like a man relieved of a great burden. in another minute he asked me if i would like to make the acquaintance of all his people. "i should be delighted, your excellency, if you would present me to your family." he walked towards the door and summoned them by clapping his hands. i was expecting to see the wives or daughters of my host appear according to mussulman custom, covered up with their triple veils. an exclamation of surprise escaped me when i saw four young persons enter, dressed in beautiful oriental costumes, their faces unveiled, and all four endowed with such glorious beauty and youthful grace that i was, for the moment, fairly dazzled. i took them for his daughters. hesitating and bashful, they stopped a few steps from me. in my bewilderment i could not find a word to say to them, until after their father had said something to them, they came up to me, first one, then another, and with shy graces and indescribable charms, each bowed and saluted me with her hand to her forehead, then took my hand and kissed it. i must admit that i completely lost my head. i don't know what i stammered out. i believe i assured them that they and their father would find me, in the absence of my uncle, their respectful and devoted friend; but, as they did not understand a word of french, my speech was lost upon them. however that may have been, after a minute or so they were sitting with their legs crossed on the divan, and all i was anxious about was to prolong my visit as much as possible. mohammed told me their charming names. these were, kondjé-gul, hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra. he, like a proud father, was not backward in praising their beauty, and i joined in chorus with him, and certainly succeeded in flattering him by my enthusiasm regarding them. indeed, all four of them were of such striking beauty, and yet so different in type, that you might have thought them grouped together in order to form the most ravishing picture, their large dark eyes, sweet, timid, and languishing like the gazelle's, with that oriental expression which we do not meet with in these climes; lips which disclosed pearly teeth as they smiled; and complexions which have been preserved by the veil from the sun's rays, and which--according to the ancient simile--appeared really to be made up of lilies and roses. in those rich costumes of silk or of broussan gauze, with their harmonious colours, revealing the forms of their hips and of their bosoms, they exhibited attitudes and movements of feline lissomness and exotic grace, the voluptuous languor of which can only be realised by those who have seen it in mussulman women. i imagined myself the hero of an arabian story, and mad fancies entered my brain. while i was endeavouring, for appearance's sake, to talk with their father as well as i could, they, growing tamer by degrees, began to whisper together--now and then came a little burst of laughter, in which i seemed to detect some mischief. i playfully responded by holding up my finger to let them know i guessed their thoughts, and again they burst out laughing like sly children--this going on until, after half an hour or so, quite a nice feeling of familiarity was established between us; we talked by signs, and our eyes enabled us almost to dispense with the laborious intervention of mohammed's interpretations. moreover, he seemed delighted to see us frolicking in this way. in order to teach them my name i pronounced several times the word "andré." they understood and tried in their turn to make me say their names. hadidjé's was the occasion of much laughter, by reason of my difficulty in articulating the guttural breathing. seeing that i could not manage it, she held me by both hands, her face almost touching mine, and shouted "hadidjé!" i repeated it, "hadidjé!" this was charming and intoxicating. i had to take the same lesson from each of them; but when it came to the turn of kondjé-gul, it was a delirium of joy. by some chance she let slip a word of italian. i questioned her in this language, and found she knew it pretty well. you may imagine my delight! immediately we overwhelmed each other with a torrent of questions. her sisters watched us with looks of amazement. at this moment a greek servant came in, followed by two other women, bringing in the dinner on trays, which they laid upon small low tables of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. propriety and good breeding impelled me to take my leave after this very long visit, and i prepared to do so. upon this my young friends murmured out a concert of confused words, in which i seemed to detect regret at my departure. fortunately his excellency intervened by inviting me to stay to dinner with them. need i tell you that i accepted! i sat down on the carpet, as they did, with my legs crossed, and we commenced a delicious banquet. champagne was brought in for me, an attention which i appreciated. my place was next to nazli; on my left was kondjé-gul, and opposite me, hadidjé and zouhra. i will not tell you what dishes were served, my thoughts were set elsewhere. "how old art thou?" asked kondjé-gul, employing in her italian, which was tinctured with roumanian, the turkish form of address. "twenty-six," said i, "and how old art thou?" "oh, i shall soon be eighteen." this "thouing" of each other was charming. she then told me the ages of the others. hadidjé was the eldest, she was nineteen: nazli and zouhra were between seventeen and eighteen, the age of fresh maturity among the daughters of the east, who ripen earlier than ours. our gaiety and the prattle of their voices went on without cessation; but as they were drinking nothing but water, i said to kondjé-gul, thoughtlessly, "won't you taste the wine of france?" at this proposition she gave such a scared little look that the others asked her to explain what i had said. this caused a great excitement, followed by a discussion in which the father took part. i was beginning to fear that i had given offence to them, when his excellency at last said a few words which seemed to be decisive. then kondjé-gul, blushing all the while, and hesitating with divine gracefulness, took up my glass and drank--first with a little grimace like a kitten trying strange food, so droll and amusing was it; then, later on, with an air of satisfaction so real that all of them burst out laughing. by jove, i must say that at this frank abandonment i felt my heart beat just as if her lips had touched my own in a kiss. imagine what became of me when zouhra, nazli, and hadidjé held out their hands all at the same time to claim my glass. they passed round the glass and drank, and i after them, perturbed by emotions impossible to describe. this unconstraint varied with bashful reserve, these fascinating scruples, which they overcame one after another, fearing no doubt to offend me by refusing things which they thought were french customs; all their little ways in fact stimulated me, ravished me, and yet daunted me at times so much that i dare no longer brave their looks--although the presence of their father was a sufficient guarantee of the innocent character of these familiarities. when the meal was over, the same greek servants cleared the tables. night-time arrived and they lighted the chandeliers. through the closed shutters there came to us perfumes of myrtle and lilac. cigarettes were brought: zouhra took one, lighted it, and after drawing a few mouthfuls, offered it to me. i abandoned myself to their caprices. now, louis, can you picture your friend luxuriously reclining on cushions, and surrounded by these four daughters of mahomet's paradise, in their lovely sultana's costumes, frolicking and prattling, and all four of them so beautiful that i don't know which i should have presented with the apple if i had been paris? i assure you, it required an effort to convince myself that all this was real. after a little while i noticed that mohammed azis was no longer present; but thanks to kondjé-gul, who had quite become my interpreter, our conversation became brisk and general. hadidjé taught me a turkish game which is played with flowers, and which i won't try to describe to you, as i hardly understood it. if i were to tell you all that happened that evening, i should be relating a story of giddy madness and intoxication. i taught them in return the game of "hunt the slipper;" you know it, don't you? we played it as follows: there was a ribbon knotted at both ends, which we held, sitting on the floor in a circle, and on which slips a ring, which one of the players must seize in his hands. this, upon my word, finished me up. what laughter, and what merry cries! each of them, caught in her turn, chose me of course as her mark. every moment i found myself seized and held prisoner in their naked, snowy arms. upon my soul, it was maddening! it was nearly midnight when his excellency returned. i had lost all reckoning of the time; now i felt i must really make off. while i was getting ready and saying a few words to kondjé-gul, mohammed azis spoke to zouhra, nazli, and hadidjé. i fancied that he was questioning them, and that they replied in the negative. then he spoke at greater length to kondjé-gul; he appeared to me to be pressing her to give him an account of my conversation with her, and that the result did not please him. i was annoyed with myself at the thought that, maybe, i had been the cause of her being reprimanded. at last he certainly ordered them to retire, for they came to me, one after the other, and each of them, as on entering, bowed to me in a respectful manner, saluting me with her hand to her forehead, and kissed my hand; after this they went out, leaving me in a frame of mind disordered beyond description. i was just about to offer some apologies to mahommed, and make my peace with him before i left (for i feared that he might for the future place obstacles in the way of similar evening performances), when he said to me, with an anxious air, in that dialect of his which i translate, in order to avoid reproducing the scene of the _mamamouchis_ in the "bourgeois gentilhomme:" "may i be allowed to hope that your lordship is satisfied?" "satisfied, your excellency?" i exclaimed, affectionately grasping his hands; "why, i am delighted! you could not give me greater pleasure in this world than by treating me exactly as you treated my uncle." "the young ladies, then, did not displease your lordship?" "your daughters? why, they are adorable! my only fear is lest i should not find them reciprocate the sentiments which they inspire in me." "ah! then it is not because your lordship is displeased that you will not remain here to-night?" added he, with an anxious look. "that i will not remain here?" i replied. "what do you mean?" "why, your excellency has not expressed his will to any of them." "my will! what will, then, could i express to them?" "considering that they belong to your lordship," he continued. "they belong to me? who?" "why, kondjé-gul, zouhra, hadidjé, nazli." "they belong to me?" replied i, overcome with stupefaction. "certainly," said mahommed, looking as astonished as i did. "his excellency, barbassou-pasha, your uncle, whose eunuch i had the honour of being, commanded me to purchase four maidens for his harem. since he is dead, and your lordship takes his place as master--i had supposed--" "ah!!!" i won't attempt to render for you the full force of the exclamation to which i gave vent. you may guess the feelings conveyed in it. in very truth i thought i should go out of my senses this time. the dream of "the thousand and one nights" was being realised in my waking hours! this extraordinary and sumptuous palace was a harem, and this harem was mine! these four schéhérazades, whose glorious youthfulness and fascinating charms had scorched me like fire, they were my slaves, and only awaited a sign or token of my desire! mohammed, incapable of conceiving my agitation, regarded me with a pitiful, confused look, as if he anticipated some disgrace. at this moment the old greek woman brought him the keys: there were four. he handed them to me. "thank you," i said; "now you may leave me." he obeyed, saluted me without a word, and went out. as soon as i found myself alone, not intending to restrain my feelings any more, i began to march about the drawing-room like a madman, and gave free vent to the outburst of a joy which overwhelmed me. i picked up from the carpet a ribbon dropped there by kondjé-gul, i pressed it to my lips with avidity; next some scattered flowers, with which hadidjé and zouhra had played. louis, i hope you do not expect me to analyse for your benefit all the extraordinary sensations which i experienced at that moment. the events which befel me verged upon the supernatural--the supernatural cannot be described--and i know not any legend, romance, or novel, relating to this world, which has ever treated such an astounding situation as that of which i was the hero. those severe middle-class parents who give their daughters, for new year's presents, m. galland's "arabian nights," with illustrations of the amorous adventures of the caliph of bagdad, would find such a romance as mine quite too "strong," simply because the scene is not laid in persia, or at samarcand. nevertheless, my story is identical in character, and the most modest young lady might read it without a frown, if only my name were hassan instead of andré. would you like to know everything that can agitate the mind of a mortal in such a position as mine? listen, then. when i had succeeded in reducing to some extent my exaltation of spirit, when i had at last persuaded myself of the reality of this splendid fairyland, i sat down with my elbows on the window-sill--i felt the need of a little fresh air. it was just striking midnight. what were _they_ doing? were they thinking of me, i wondered, as much as i was thinking of them? i began to examine the four keys which mohammed had left me. each key had a tiny label, with a letter and a name on it--nazli, zouhra, hadidjé, or kondjé-gul. my eyes were still filled with their beauty. although far from artless, i felt embarrassed in spite of myself, i might almost say shy. after the fascinations of this evening, i knew that i was in love; i loved with a strange passion suddenly developed; i loved to overflowing these beautiful beings, without being able to separate one from another. so completely were they mingled in my fancy, they might have possessed but one soul between them. by reason of my certitude of equal possession, kondjé-gul, hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra constituted in my imagination a single existence, exhaling its unrivalled perfume of youth, beauty, and love. all this may appear absurd to you. i daresay you are right, but i am only analysing for you an enchantment which still influences me like a dream. while longing for the virginal delights which awaited me, my tumultuous senses were plunged into certain apprehensions at once anxious and sweet. how am i to explain it to you? sultan though i have been in my life, never before have i come in for such a delightful windfall of pleasures, my heart having been generally occupied, as you know, with much less worthy objects. all at once i was overwhelmed by the idea that they had doubtless misunderstood the reserve which i had affected in their company. according to their harem traditions, customs, and laws, i was their legitimate master and husband: was it not quite likely, then, that they believed me indifferent or even disdainful of their charms? troubled at this reflection, i was seized with a dreadful pang of conscience. what could they suppose? good heavens! ought i to wait till the next day to dissipate their doubts, and justify myself for such strange coldness--coldness which may have seemed like indifference? i had no sooner conceived this thought than my desire concentrated itself upon one object, to see kondjé-gul again. i knew all the domestic arrangements of el nouzha. in the centre of the edifice is a vast circular hall, to which the daylight is admitted by a cupola of ground glass, supported by pillars of white marble. lamps hanging between the pillars give out a mysterious light. once arrived there, i listened. all was silent. i found kondjé-gul's chamber, and went close up to it. i listened again, with my ear to the door. an indistinct rustling which i heard, apprized me that she was not yet in bed. with key in hand, i still hesitated before opening. at last i made up my mind. picture to yourself a sweetly perfumed room, both rich and coquettish in its arrangements, lined with indian silk hangings of gay colours, and illumined by the soft light of a small chandelier of three branches. in front of a large glass kondjé-gul was seated, her long hair reaching down to the floor. with her bare arms uplifted, and her head turned backwards, she held in her hand a golden comb. seeing me, she uttered a little cry, got up with a bound, and blushing all the while, and fixing upon me her great frightened eyes, she rested motionless and almost in a tremble. her agitation communicated itself to me. "did i frighten you?" i commenced, trying to speak with a firm voice; "and will you pardon me for coming in like this?" she did not answer a word, but lowered her eyes, a smile glanced furtively over her lips, and then, with her hand on her bosom, she bowed to me. "kondjé-gul! dear kondjé-gul!" i exclaimed, touched to the depths of my soul by this act of submission. and springing towards her, i took her in my arms to chase away her fears; i kissed her brow, which she offered to me, pressing her face against my bosom, with a lovely bashful look of alarm. "you have come, then!" she whispered. "did you imagine i did not love you?" said i, as truly affected as she was. at this question she raised her head with an inexpressible languor and smiled again, looking into my eyes, and so close that our lips met. louis, is it true that the ideal embraces the infinite, and that the human soul soars into regions so sublime that the blisses of this world below cannot satisfy it?... i did not want to quit the harem without having also seen hadidjé, zouhra, and nazli. poor little dears, no doubt they already fancied themselves disdained! i must dry up their tears. you will understand by this time the complications in my uncle's will which have prevented me, these four months past, from finding a minute to write to you. i will relate to you the incidents of this remarkable situation, of this quadruple passion by which i am possessed to such an extent that i am sincere in all my professions. you may tell me, if you like, from the commonplace standpoint of your own limited experiences, that it is all madness. i love, i adore, after the manner of a poet or a pagan--as you like, in fact--but what does it all amount to? my uncle, who was a mussulman, leaves me his harem; what could i do? if it should happen that your work leaves you a little leisure, _don't_ come to férouzat; you understand? that's what we sultans are like! the girls are dying to see paris; very likely i shall turn up there one of these days. i need hardly impress upon you, i suppose, the advisability of keeping this letter most carefully from the eyes of your wife. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. madam, let me be very candid; i have a warm temperament, certainly--more so, perhaps, than an ordinary provençal. i will confess to even more than this, if your grace so wills it, and i will not blush for it; but pray condescend to believe that i am also a respecter of conventional proprieties, and that i should feel most keenly the loss of your esteem in this regard. now, from a few words of satirical wit, concealed like small serpents under the flowery condolences of your malicious letter, i concluded that this miserable fellow louis, abandoning all considerations of delicacy, and at the risk of ruining my reputation, had played me a most abominable trick, by reading out to you all the nonsense which i wrote to him last week. you need not deny it! he confesses it to-day, unblushingly, in the budget of news which he sends me, adding that you "laughed over it." good gracious! what can you have thought of me? after such a story, i certainly could never again look you in the face, but that i can clear myself by assuring you at once that all this tale was nothing but a mystification, invented as a return for some of his impertinent chaff regarding my uncle barbassou's will. louis fell into the trap like any booby. but for him to have drawn you with him, is enough to make me die of shame. madam, i prefer now to make my confession. i am not the hero of a romance of the harem. i am a good young man, an advocate of morality and propriety, notwithstanding the fact that you have often honoured me with the title of "a regular original." be so good as to believe, then, that the most i have been guilty of is a too artless simplicity of character. i did not suppose that louis would show you this eccentric letter, for i had expressly enjoined him to keep it from you. my only crime therefore in all this matter has been that i forgot that a woman of your intelligence would read everything, when she had the mind to do so, and a husband like yours. in fact, madam, i hardly know why i have taken the trouble to excuse myself with so much deliberation. i perceive that by such apologies i run the risk of aggravating my mistake. what did i write, after all, but a very commonplace specimen of those arabian stories which girls such as you have read continually in the winter evenings, under the eyes of their delighted mothers? when i consider it, i begin to understand that your laughter, if you did laugh, must have been at the feebleness of my imagination--you compared it with the palace of gold and the thousand wives of the caliph haroun-al-raschid.--but please remember, once more, that i am a poor provençal and not a sultan. "my tastes are those of a simple bachelor." observe moreover that, out of regard for probability, no less than from respect for local colouring, i was obliged to decide upon a somewhat simple harem, and to confine it within the strictly necessary limits. like a school-boy, falling in love with the heroine he has put into his story, i found myself so charmed with my fancy, that in order to further enjoy my pleasures of illusion, i determined not to overstep the limits of a perfectly realisable adventure. but since i abandoned myself to this folly, does it not seem to you, reconsidering the matter, that a great deal would have been lost if such a romance had never occurred to me? and above all if it had stopped short at the first page? is it not astonishing that no author had thought of writing such a thing before? would not this have been just the work for a moralist and a philosopher, worthy at once of a poet and of a scholar? this poor world of ours, madam, moves in a narrow circle of passions and sensations, so limited that it seems to me as if every soul rather more lofty than the average must continually feel itself imprisoned. what felicity it must be, by a single flight of the imagination, to escape from this prison locked by prejudice! to fly away into the regions of dreamland! slave of our civilized conventions, what bliss to run away unfettered into the shady paths of the pagan world, peopled with its merry, enchanting nymphs! or again to wander, like a happy child of asiatic climes in gardens of sycamores, where young sultanas bathe and disport themselves in basins of porphyry. the bois de boulogne is a charming place, no doubt, madam; but you will admit that it is inferior to the valley of roses, and that the painted and bedizened young women you see there will bear no comparison with my houris. what, then? does my thirst after the ideal merit any censure? do not you consider, you who read novels, that it would, on the contrary, be an instructive as well as a curious study to follow up the strange incidents which would necessarily result from such a very natural conjunction of oriental love transferred to the midst of our own world? what contrasts they would provoke, and what strange occurrences! does not the absence of such a study leave a void in our illustrious literature? but i divine upon your lips a word which frightens me--"immoral! immoral!" you say. madam, this word shows me that you are strangely mistaken about my pure intentions. you are a woman of considerable intelligence; let us understand each other like philosophers or moralists. suppose my name to be hassan. you would read without the least ruffle on your brow the very simple narrative of my pretended amours, and if they were hindered by any untoward obstacles, you would perhaps accord them a small tribute of tears, such as you have doubtless shed over the misfortunes of poor namouna. the question of morality therefore, is in this case simply a question of latitude, and the impropriety of my situation would disappear at once if i inhabited the banks of the bosphorus, or some palace at bagdad. perhaps you take your stand upon the more elevated ground of "sentiment?" well, this is precisely the pyschological point of view that i am about to discuss, madam. yes, if it were only in order to inquire whether the human soul freed from all constraint, is capable of infinite expansion, like a liberated gas. to mix positive and materialist science with etherialised sensualism, such is my object. a simple passion, we all know what that is; but to adore four women at a time--while so many honest folk are well content to love one only--this seems to me a praiseworthy aspiration, fit to inspire the soul of a poet who prides himself upon his gallantry, no less than the brain of a philosopher in search of the vital elixir and the sources of sensation. such a study would, assuredly, be arduous and severe, and would at any rate not be without glory, as you will admit, if it should happen to terminate logically in the triumph of the sublime christian love over pagan or mahometan polygamy. again, madam, in reprimanding me for my poor little harem, do you mean to preach against king david, or the seven hundred wives of solomon? without going back to the biblical legends of these venerable sovereigns, have you not read the classics? in what respect, may i ask, is the poem of don juan more moral than my subject? and did good old lafontaine drop any of his artless probity, when he dipped his pen into the boccaccian inkpot? the morality of a given book, madam, depends entirely upon the morality of its author, who respects himself first by respecting his public, and who will not lead the latter into bad company, not wishing to corrupt it with bad sentiments. it gives me pleasure to draw the picture of those ideal amours which every warm-blooded youth of twenty has at one time or other cherished in his thoughts; to substitute virginal charms and graces for vice and harlotry--and after the manner of those charming heathen poets who have so often filled our dreams with their fancies, to mingle the anacreontic with the idyllic. open any of your moral stories, madam, and i'll wager my harem you will find that the interest in them is always kept up by adultery, in thought or in deed, which has been erected into a social institution! the same minotaur has served for us since the time of menelaus. adultery, adultery, always adultery! it is as inevitable as it is monotonous! do you prefer the novel of the day, on the lives and habits of courtesans? revelations of the boudoir, where all is impure, venal, and degrading? no, madam, i won't proceed any farther, out of respect alike for you and for my pen. possibly your taste inclines you to those moralist's studies of "woman," in which the author warns his readers on the first page that "he does not speak for chaste ears." madam, it is my boast that i have never written a line which a virtuous woman might not read.... my book will certainly lose thereby in the circulation which it will obtain; but i shall console myself by the thought that if i sometimes cause you to smile, that smile will never be accompanied by a blush. being the nephew of a pasha, it struck me as a capital idea to lay the scene of a turkish romance in provence, and to found upon it a study in psychology. every romance must be based upon love. am i to be blamed, therefore, because oriental customs prescribe for lovers different modes of love? confess, if you please, that my heroines are more poetic than the young women _à la mode_, into whose company i had as much right as any other author to conduct my hero if i had so chosen. i will excuse myself by saying, like the simpleton de chamfort, "is it my fault if i love the women i do love better than those i don't?" p.s. above all things, not a word to louis about the mystification of which i am making him a victim. you wretch! here's a fine pickle you've got me into! what, after i confided to you the extraordinary adventures which i have passed through, relying upon your absolute secrecy and discretion, you go straight off and read my letter to your wife, at the risk of bringing upon me by your recklessness the most cruel gibes on the subject of my pasha-ship! can't you see that if this story gets wind, paris will be too hot a place for me? i shall become the butt of the society journals and the halfpenny press, who will treat me as a most eccentric and romantic personage. never more shall i be able to set foot in club, theatre, or private drawing-room, without being followed by the stares of the inquisitive and the quiet chaff of the ribald! i can picture myself already in the bois, with all the loafers in my train pointing out "the man with the harem." have you lost your senses, that you have betrayed me in this abominable fashion? in all seriousness i now rely upon you to repair this blunder, by accepting, in the eyes of your wife, the part of one mystified, which i have made you assume. i wrote to her that not one word of this story is true, and that it is a romance i have been composing in order to occupy the leisure hours which i am forced to pass in the solitude of férouzat, while the business connected with my inheritance is being wound up. in short, as i am positive that the first thing she will do will be to show you her letter, i expect you, if your friendship is good for anything, to pretend to believe it. upon this condition only will i continue my confidences; and i suspend them until you have given me your word of honour to observe discretion. having received your promise, louis, i now resume my narrative at the point where i broke off. now you will see what you might have lost. just one word by way of preface. i am relating to you, my dear friend, a story which is more especially remarkable for the multitude of unaccustomed sensations with which it abounds, and which i experience at every step--for my amourous adventures, as you will agree, bear no resemblance to the ready-made class of amours. it would really have been a great loss for the future of psychology, if the hero of such adventures had not happened to be, as i am, a philosopher capable of bringing to bear upon them powers of correct analysis. first of all, if you wish really to understand the peculiarities of my situation, you must banish from your mind all that you have ever known of such amours as come within the reach of the poor lovelaces of our everyday world. those uncertain, ephemeral connections of lovers and mistresses whose only law is their caprice, and which mere caprice can dissolve; those immoral and dubious ties whose permanence nothing can guarantee, and in which one jostles one's rival of yesterday and of the morrow--in all amours of this sort there is something precarious and humiliating. with our habits and customs no secret, no mystery, is possible; for however loving or beloved a woman may be, her beauty is exposed to every eye. it is like the enjoyment of communal property. in my harem, on the contrary, the charms of zouhra, nazli, and kondjé-gul, concealed from all other eyes, have never excited any passions but mine; my tranquil possession is undisturbed by the anxious jealousies which recollections of a former rival always awaken. nor is the future less assured than the present, for their lives are my property; they are my slaves, and i their master, in charge of their souls. so much for my preface; now i will proceed. i will not disparage your powers of memory by reminding you that my interesting narrative was broken off _au premier lendemain_--at the first glimmer of our honeymoon. the complete bliss, the enchantment of such moments, is certainly the most exquisite thing i have experienced. first the timid blushes, then the growing boldness and the fresh impression of first sensations--all this and more, mingled with the contentment of entire possession. one gives oneself up entirely; all barriers are broken down by love--participation in one tender secret has already united the lovers' souls, which seek each other and mingle together in a common existence. i had returned to the château before my people were up; after a bath i slept again, and did not wake before noon. i breakfasted, and then waited till two o'clock before returning to el-nouzha. too great a haste would have seemed to indicate a want of delicacy, and i wished to show that i was discreet as well as passionate; this time of day seemed appropriate from both points of view. to describe to you the condition of my feelings would be about as easy, you may imagine, as to describe a display of fireworks. there are certain perturbations of the heart which defy analysis. the enchantment which held me spell-bound, intoxicated my mind like fumes of haschisch, and i could hardly recognise myself in this fairy-world character; it required an effort on my part to assure myself of my own identity, and that i was not misled by a dream. no, it was myself sure enough! then i remembered that i was going to see them again. my darlings were waiting for me. no doubt they had already exchanged confidences. what kind of reception should i have? my duties as sultan were so new to me that i trembled lest i should commit some mistake which would lower me in their eyes; i was walking blindfold in this paradise of mahomet, of whose laws i was ignorant. ought i to maintain the dignified bearing of a vizir, or abandon myself to the tender attitudes of a lover? in my perplexities i was almost tempted to send for mohammed-azis, to request of him a few lessons in deportment as practised by the perfect pasha of the bosphorus; but perhaps he would disturb my happiness? as to introducing a hierarchy into my harem, i would not hear of such a thing; for to tell the truth, the choice of a favourite would be an impossibility for me. i loved them all four with an equal devotion, and could not even bear the thought of their being reduced to three without feeling the misery of an unsatisfied love. at last the hour having arrived without my mind being decided, i wisely determined to act as circumstances might dictate, and started off in the direction of my harem. i think i have already told you that a small door of which i alone possess the key, communicates between my park and el-nouzha. from this door a sort of labyrinth leads to the kasre by a single narrow alley, which one might take for a disused path. when i reached the last turn in this alley which terminates in the open gardens, i perceived under the verandah mohammed-azis, who seemed to be watching me--he ran towards me with an eager and delighted appearance, and _salem aleks_ without end. by his first words i gathered that he knew all. when i asked after them, he told me that i was expected; then all at once i heard merry voices, followed by the noise of hurrying footsteps mingled with rustlings of silk dresses. soon i saw coming out under the verandah, struggling together to be the first to reach me, hadidjé, nazli, kondjé-gul and zouhra; they threw themselves into my arms all four at once, laughing like children, hugging me, and holding up their rosy lips, each vying with the other for my first kiss. what laughter, what merry, bird-like warbling of voices! and all this with the natural abandonment of youth and simplicity--i was about to say innocence--so much so that i was quite taken aback. but all of a sudden, at a word from mohammed, who was looking at us affectionately, and more and more delighted every minute, they stopped quite confused. he had, no doubt, reprimanded them for some breach of decorum, for they, slipping gently aside, held their hands up to their foreheads. you may guess i soon cut short these respectful formalities, by drawing them back into my arms.... whereupon renewed laughter and merriment ensued, accompanied with little glances of triumph at poor mohammed, who assumed a scandalised expression, lifting up his hands as if to make heaven a witness that he was not responsible for this neglect of all oriental etiquette! after this scene, you will easily understand that i did not trouble my head any more about the difficulties which i had anticipated in my family duties. i had apprehended a very delicate situation, aggravated by growing jealousies; by the susceptibilities of rivals, offended airs, perhaps even the reproaches and tears of betrayed love. five minutes later we were running about the gardens. having only arrived two days before, they had not yet been outside the harem. the sight of their domain pleased them immensely, and their young voices prattled away with a musical volubility fit to gladden the hearts of the very birds. at each step they made some new discovery, some bed of flowers, or some shady path at the bottom of which the sound of a waterfall could be heard, carried off by sparkling brooks running on beds of moss over the whole length of the park until they lost themselves in the lake; over these brooks were placed at intervals little foot-bridges painted in bright colours. all these things gave rise to questions. naturally kondjé-gul was always the interpreter; they all listened, opening their eyes wide; then they started off again, plucking flowers from the bushes, which they placed in their hair, in their bosoms, and round their necks. in order to attract my admiration for these adornments, each of them kept running up to me as if she wanted a kiss. if you want to know the thoughts and feelings of a mortal under these circumstances, i must confess that it is quite beyond my power to explain them to you. i was bewildered, captivated, and surprised by such novel sensations that without reflection or conscious analysis, i simply abandoned myself to them. if you wish to understand them, my dear fellow, you must first acquire some æsthetic notions which, artist though you are, you do not yet possess; you must familiarise yourself with these entirely exotic charms of the daughters of the east, their youthful simplicity and ease combined with a certain voluptuous _nonchalance_, the undulating movements of their hips acquired by the habit of moving about in oriental slippers, their lissom and feline graces, and the overwhelming fascination of their languishing eyes. you must see them in these strange picturesque costumes, so artistically revealing their graceful forms, in wide silk trousers, tied round at the ankles, and drawn in at the waist by a rich scarf of golden gauze: you must see them in their jackets embroidered with pearls, and open bodices of broussan silk transparent as gauze; or in the long robe open in front, the train of which they hold up by fastening it to the waist when they want to walk about freely--all these things in soft well-toned colours, blending wonderfully together. it was a dazzling scene of fresh beauty and strange enchantment, such as i cannot attempt to describe. once we arrived at the end of a ravine, where we were obliged to cross the brook by stepping-stones set in its bed. thereupon they cried out with fright. i prevailed upon zouhra, who seemed to be the bravest, to cross holding my hand. hadidjé followed her; but when it came to nazli's turn, the timid creature hung to my neck as if terrified by some great danger; so i took her up in my arms and carried her across to the opposite side. kondjé-gul, like a coquette that she is, followed her example. "oh! carry me too," she cried. as i was holding her over the brook, one of her slippers fell into the water. you may guess how they laughed; there was kondjé-gul hopping about on one foot while i was fishing out the little sandal, which i had to dry in order to avoid wetting her soft green-silk stocking. it was one of the most charming spots in the park: a great carpet of turf shaded by a clump of sycamores. we all sat down.... you have, doubtless, seen plenty of pictures on the subject of "dreams of happiness." there is a delightful garden, at the bottom of which stands the temple of love; the figures, handsome young men and handsome young women, are always found reclining. well, if you exclude from such a picture details somewhat too academic for férouzat, you may see me on the grass, enjoying the fresh air with my houris lying down around me, in the charming abandoned attitudes of young nymphs who have never heard of such a thing as stays, but display in bold relief the well-rounded forms of their beautiful and lissom figures. i had passed my arm round zouhra's neck; she, with a fond look, rested her head against me, and hadidjé imitated her on the other side. i began to talk to kondjé-gul, the sole interpreter of my amours. you may guess how curious i was to learn their thoughts. i questioned her about the events of the morning, and what they had been saying to each other. directly she replied, i learnt that when they first got up there was, as the result of their mutual confidences, a general astonishment. but mohammed explained everything, by telling them that "such is the custom in the french harems." this explanation was sufficient for them. you may be sure i did not contradict such a flattering assurance. "well then, you like my country," i said to her; "and they are all content that they have come here?" "oh, yes!" she exclaimed, "especially since we saw you! mohammed had led us to believe that you were old. we feared we were about to enter upon a dull and formal existence. so you may imagine how delighted we were when you arrived, and he told us our master was you! at first we could not believe it, but as he had let us appear unveiled, we were constrained to admit that he had not deceived us. and then, when i heard you speak to him--i understood all. immediately i repeated to them your words, and how that you found us handsome." "and so," i replied, "i may believe you really love me? and do _they_ also?" she looked at me with an astonished air, as if this question conveyed no meaning to her. "why, of course; since you are kind, affectionate, and nice to us!" the others listened attentively without understanding a word; their handsome eyes wandered from kondjé-gul to me, and from me to kondjé-gul, with an indescribable expression of curiosity. "but _you_," she replied after a moment, "is it really true that you mean always to love us all, one as much as another, as you have done to-day?" "certainly," i replied with assurance; "this is the custom in our harems, as mohammed told you. does not that please you better?" "oh, yes!" she exclaimed, "but we always thought that you franks never loved more than one woman." "that's what they keep saying in turkey, to injure us, and out of jealousy, because we do not ordinarily marry more than one wife, to whom it is our duty to be faithful." "but--what happens then, when a man has four, as you have?" she inquired. "we are equally faithful to all the four!" i replied, without wincing. "oh, what happiness!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with joy. and immediately, with the volubility of a bird, she began to talk to the others, translating to them everything which we had just been saying. they were all in transports of merriment. louis, i won't proceed any further. i can guess the stupid reflections which will occur to you on the subject of this very simple situation which you, like one left behind, buried deep in the ruts of your absurd prejudices, take the liberty of judging from afar. yes, confess it without reserve; you, moving in the limited sphere of your own feeble experiences, are about to pronounce my amours eccentric. on the fallacious ground that it is unnatural to love and be loved by four women at a time, you, like any other miserable sceptic, are shocked by the freedom of simple sentiments which you are unable to appreciate. first, then, let me assure you that in their own minds none of them conceived the slightest irregularity in their position. according to the laws and customs of their country, they believed themselves to be my wives by a tie as perfect and as legitimate in their eyes as that of marriage in ours. they are my _cadines_, a position which creates for them duties and rights defined by the koran itself. next, out of consideration for your poor intellect, let me inform you also that under the blessed skies of turkey the wife has no such presumptuous ambition as that of possessing a husband all to herself. reared with a view to the harem, the young girl aims no higher in her ambitious fancy than to become the favourite and outshine her rivals; but never, never in the world, does she conceive the outlandish notion of becoming the sole object of the affections of lover, master, or husband. the ideal of girls like zouhra, nazli, hadidjé, and kondjé-gul, is the life which i am now giving them; they abandon themselves to it, as to the realisation of their hopes. their notions respecting the destiny of woman do not go beyond this happiness, which they now possess, of pleasing their master and being loved in this way by him. it is no use, therefore, for you to string together a lot of conventional abstractions with a view to drawing from them any deductions applicable to the laws of the kingdom of love. the truth is that hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra burst into transports of joy when kondjé-gul repeated to them my promise to be "faithful to all four of them." my dear fellow, there is a great deal of the child remaining in these creatures, who seem to have been only created to expand their beauty, as flowers are to exhale their perfume. cloistered in the life of the harem, their ideas do not reach beyond the horizon of the harem. their hearts and their minds have only been cultivated by recitals of wonderful legends and of superstitious romances of love; they know nothing else. you may say, if you like, that they are just pretty little animals without souls--but you would be wrong. again i repeat, most of our so-called refined and civilised ideas about sentiment, virtue, propriety, and modesty, are conventional ideas, differing according to place, climate, and habits; and this you will see clearly by following my story, which i may with good reason call natural history, for when i take the instincts of my little animals by surprise, they display for a moment bold impulses which bear much more resemblance to genuine innocence of mind than do certain affectations of modesty practised by the young ladies of our educated society. the slipper being nearly dry, kondjé-gul put it on her little arched foot, with its famous light green silk stocking, and we recommenced our course through the park. i will say nothing about a row we took in a boat on the lake, with great willows on its banks. the swans and the mandarin ducks followed us in procession. mohammed, like a wise man, had foreseen that i should stay at the kasre. the dinner this time was served in the french style. he did not sit down with us as he had done the day before; i had no longer need of him, and he returned to the obscure position which he was henceforth to occupy during my visits. i sat down to table, therefore, with my houris; and this meal, in which everything was new to them, became a veritable feast. they nibbled and tasted a bit of everything with exclamations of surprise, with careful investigations, and with little gourmandish airs of inexpressible charm. i should tell you that my cook only won their unanimous approbation at dessert, when they commenced to make a sort of second dinner of sweets and cakes, creams and fruit. the champagne pleased them above all things, and would have ended by turning their little heads, but for my careful attention. whilst they vied with each other in merriment and gay prattle, i was thinking of that oriental meal of the night before in which i had seated myself by them in the reserved attitude of a stranger. what a dream fulfilled! what fairy's wand had produced this magical effect? i tell you it was a regular transformation scene. at dessert hadidjé bent her head down to me with a mischievous look, and laughed as she spoke some turkish word. "sana yanarim!" i replied, emphasizing the sentence with a kiss on her hand. i had learnt from kondjé-gul that it means "i love you," or more literally, "i am burning for you." you may guess how successful this was, and with what shouts of joy it was received. of course there followed a little make-believe scene of jealousy on the part of the others. "kianet! ah, kianet!" they repeated, laughing, and threatening me with uplifted fingers. this expression signifies "ungrateful." when evening arrived i took them into the park to calm the warmth of their emotions down a little. it was a splendid moonlight night, and the long black shadows of the trees stretched over the walk. as we passed these dark places the timid creatures pressed close about me. ah! well, you don't expect me, i suppose, to tell you how this day was concluded? affairs of the harem, my dear fellow!--affairs of the harem! as to my other news, i hardly need tell you that nobody in this neighbourhood has a suspicion of the secrets of el-nouzha. in my external life i conform to all the social requirements of my position. i visit my uncle's old friends, féraudet the notary, and the good old vicar, who calls me the providence of the place. once a week i dine with the doctor, morand; who has a son, george morand, an officer in the spahis, on leave for the present at férouzat; and an orphan niece, a young lady of nineteen, lively and sympathetic. she is engaged to her cousin the captain, who is a regular _africain_, a fire-eater you may call him, but a good fellow in the full sense of that word--one of those open natures made for devotion, like a newfoundland dog, or a poodle. he is both formidable and patient. such is my friend! we were playmates as children, and he would not brook the slightest insult to me in his presence. he wonders very much at my anchorite's life, and in order to divert me from it, endeavours to draw me into the hidden current of rustic gallantries which he indulges in while awaiting the day of hymen. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. in the detailed account which i gave you, my dear louis, of my honeymoon, i described pretty nearly the history of every day which has passed since i last wrote. "happy nations have no history," said a wise man; happiness requires no description. first then, you must understand that i am now writing after recovery from the natural excitement into which my strange adventures had plunged me. three months have passed; i am now enjoying my life like a refined vizir, and no longer like a simple troubadour of provence, transported of a sudden into the caliph's harem. i have recovered my analytical composure. as you may well imagine i set to work, after the second day, to learn turkish, an easy task after my studies in sanscrit. add to this that, with the aid of love, my houris have learnt french, with all the marvellous facility and linguistic instinct of the asiatic races. you will not be astonished to learn, then, that i can now share with them all the pleasures of conversation; a happy result which will permit me henceforth to furnish a more complete description of their different characters. having said this, i will give you in the present letter, with a view of enabling you to understand this narrative more perfectly, the most precise details upon the following subjects: first--the organisation, laws, and internal regulations of my harem; second--full-length portraits of my odalisques, and a description of their characters; third--a careful dissertation upon the advantages of polygamy, and its applicability to the moral regeneration of mankind. i will first confess, without any presumption, that the ingenious system established for the conduct of my harem is all due to my uncle barbassou, who, as much as any man in the world, was always particularly careful to maintain what the english term "respectability." in the eyes of the whole neighbourhood, nay, even of my own household, mohammed-azis is an exile, a person of high political rank, to whom my uncle had given a hospitable retreat. barbassou-pasha always addressed him respectfully as "your excellency," nor did any servant in the château speak in different terms of him. he had had the misfortune to lose one of his daughters--so the story goes--for he seems to have had originally five. whether his daughters are young or old, no one knows. in the interior of the kasre all the services are performed by greek women, who do not know a word of french; they never go out of doors. the gardeners have to leave the gardens at nine o'clock in the morning. all these arrangements, as you will perceive, are extremely correct. the story about mohammed is a very plausible one; his solemn and melancholy expression together with his solitary life, are thoroughly in conformity with the fallen grandeur of a minister in disgrace. he is writing, according to report, a memoir in justification of his conduct. he works at it both day and night, and it is well-known that i very often sit up quite late with him, in order to assist him in this task. as for me, i do not suppose you imagine that, like the knight tannhauser on the venusberg, i am continually wasting my spirit and my strength over what heine calls "the sweets and dainties of love;" or that the philtres of circe have transformed me into a hog like the companions of ulysses.--go gently, my dear fellow! i am a representative of the learned cohort, please to remember! i keep a careful diary of my observations, from which i intend to draw up a report for the academy. like those bold investigators of pathological science who inoculate themselves with a deadly virus in order to study its effects upon themselves, i, a serious analytical student, am devoting myself to a course of experiments in pure sensualism, to the sole profit of science. without restrictions, but in full consciousness of the high mission which i have undertaken; without cheating myself with too small a dose of the intoxicating draught, i act like an honest epicurean. i take of the voluptuous delights of my harem as large a dose as an intelligent and refined student of nature ought to require, but without imprudently overstraining the springs of sensation. armed with the dexterity of superior wisdom, i, floating on this oriental stream of love, know how to remain faithful to my charge, by avoiding the rocks of satiety and the shipwreck of illusions. every day then, about three o'clock, after having devoted the morning to my business affairs or to my "essays on psychology," i go to el-nouzha, and stay there usually until the middle of the night. however, i sometimes go there of a morning, for a bath; i am teaching my houris to swim. i must tell you that in this matter, indispensable for the comfort of the sultanas, barbassou-pasha designed a marvel. in the middle of an island in the lake (which is taken from the delightful garden of see-ma-kouang, the famous chinese poet), picture to yourself a great marble basin surrounded by a circular arcade, a sort of _atrium_ open to the sky. under a colonnade and in its cool shade, a fine manilla mat covers the flag-stones. the base of the inner walls is enlivened with frescoes, after pompeian and herculanean models. round the white pillars cling myrtles and climbing roses, reaching up to the terrace ornamented with vases and statues, which stand out in relief against a mass of purple drapery. here are set capacious divans in leather, hammocks, carpets, and cushions to recline upon. such is the aspect of this enchanting place. on many a hot morning we have breakfasted there, and it is from there that i write to you to-day, dressed in a persian robe with wide sleeves, while around me sports my harem; affording me, therefore, an excellent excuse for at once proceeding to sketch the portraits of my _almées_. in all beings the internal character is so closely allied to the external form, that it appears to be only an equation of the latter. thus certain features of the face announce peculiarities of nature, inclinations, and instincts even to the vulgar; the physiologist, with his more special knowledge, discovers quite a series of concealed revelations in the innermost recesses of that pretty sphinx which constitutes god's masterpiece, and which we call woman. in the same way grace is always the result of the harmony of lines; from the slightest outline, from the position of a dimple, or the tension of a smile, from a glance, or from the most transient gesture, one can always trace the origin of a feeling, and lay bare the mind. thus, at this moment, i behold hadidjé leave the water, and saunter quietly in the direction of nazli and zouhra, who are reclining on cushions and smoking cigarettes. by the air of indifference that she affects i could wager that she contemplates playing them some trick! and indeed, when close to the smokers, she suddenly shook her hair. the two others jumped up under the spray of sparkling water, and ran after her, beating her with their fans and fly-flaps. kondjé-gul, the heedless beauty, who is rocking herself in her hammock beside me, scarcely raises her lazy head to follow them with a glance, at the sound of their cries and laughter. since her name is at the end of my pen, i will begin my series of portraits with her. kondjé-gul is a circassian by race. her name in turkish signifies a variety of rose which we are not acquainted with in france; she was brought when quite a child to constantinople by her mother, attached to the service of a cadine of the sultan. she is now eighteen. imagine the caucasian type in the flower of its beauty, tall, with the figure of a young goddess, an expression of natural indolence which appears to indicate a consciousness of her sovereign beauty, and a fine head crowned with thick chestnut hair falling down to her waist. her features are clean cut, and of a remarkably pure type. large brown eyes with heavy eyelids, imparting a languishing expression; lips somewhat sensual, which from her habit of carrying her head erect, she seems always to be holding out for a kiss; a mixture of greek beauty with a strange sort of grace peculiar to this tcherkessian race, which still remains a trifle savage. all these characteristics make up an _ensemble_ both exotic and marvellous, which i could no more describe to you than i could explain the scent of the lily. of a loving and tender nature, she exhibits the disposition of a child in whom ardent impulses are united with a profound gentleness of sentiment. she is the jealous one of my household--but, hush! the others know nothing of this.... certainly she is the most remarkable and the most perfect of my little animals. hadidjé is a jewess of samos, a jewess of a type singularly rare among the descendants of israel. she is a blonde of a mingled tint, soft and golden, of which the veronese blonde will give you no idea. her beauty is undoubtedly one of those effects of selection and crossing admitted as the foundation of darwin's system.... england has left her trace there! picture to yourself one of those "keepsake" girls escaped from byron's "bride of abydos" or his "giaour;" take some such charming creature, fair and fresh-complexioned, white and pink, and plunge her in the atmosphere of the harem, which will orientalise her charms and give her that--whatever it is--which characterises the undulating fascinations of the sultanas. my dear friend, an incredible event has happened--an event astounding, unheard of, supernatural! don't try to guess; you will never succeed, _never!_ it surpasses the most prodigious and miraculous occurrence ever imagined by human brain. yesterday i had broken off my letter, distracted by hadidjé, at the very moment when i was tracing her portrait for you. the day passed away before i again found leisure to finish it. this morning i was breakfasting at the château all alone in my study, where i generally have my meals, in order not to interrupt my work. while i was ruminating over the last number of a scientific magazine, my ear was struck by the noise of a carriage rolling over the gravel walk. as i very seldom receive visits, and my friend george, the spahi, always comes on foot, i thought it must be my notary coming to stir me up about some business matters; he had been reproaching me the last fortnight for neglecting them. the carriage stopped in front of the doorsteps. i heard the servants running across the antichamber. suddenly i heard a cry, followed by confused voices, which sounded as though trembling with fright, and finally fresh sounds of steps, rushing headlong, as in a sudden rout. wondering what this might mean, i listened, when all of a sudden a stentorian voice shouted out these words:-- "but what's the matter with those blockheads? how much longer are they going to leave me here with my bag?" louis, imagine my amazement and stupefaction! i thought i recognised the voice of my dead uncle, which in the brazen notes of a trumpet grew louder and louder, adding in a pompous, commanding tone-- "françois! if i catch you, you rascal, you'll soon know what for!" i jump up, run to the window, and see quite distinctly my uncle, barbassou pasha himself. "hullo! you here, my boy?" says he. as for me, i leap over the balcony, and fall into his arms; he lifts me up from the ground, as if i were a child, and we embrace each other. you may guess my emotion, my surprise, my transports of joy! the servants watched us from a distance, frightened and not yet daring to approach near. "ah, well!" repeated my uncle; "what on earth's the matter with them? have i grown any horns?" "i will explain everything," i said; "come in, while they take up your luggage." "all right!" he replied; "and get some breakfast for me, quick! i'm as hungry as a wolf." all this was said with the dignity of a man who never allows himself to be surprised at anything, and in that meridional accent, the ring of which is sufficient to betray the origin of the man. my uncle speaks seven languages; at paris, as you know, he pronounces with the pure accent of a parisian, but directly he sets foot in provence, that's all over; he resumes his brogue, or as they call it down here, the _assent_. he came in, stepping briskly, and holding his head erect; i followed him. once in my study, and seeing the table laid, he sat down as naturally as if he had just returned from a walk in the park, poured out two large glasses of wine, which he swallowed one after the other with a gulp of deep satisfaction; and then made a cut at a pie, which he attacked in a serious manner, rendering it quite impossible to mistake him for a spectre. i let him alone, still contemplating him with amazement. when i considered him ready to answer my questions, i said-- "well, uncle, where have you come from?" "té! i come from japan, you know very well," he answered, just as if he were referring to the chief town of the department; "only i have dawdled a bit on the way, which prevented me from writing to you." "and during the last five months what has happened to you?" "pooh! i made an excursion into abyssinia, in order to see the negus, who owed me two hundred thousand francs. he has not paid me, the scamp! but how odd you do look! and that great _arleri_, françois! how he stares at me with his full round eyes, as if i were going to swallow him up. is there anything so very fierce about me? hullo, you have altered my livery!" he went on; "they all look like ecclesiastics; have you taken orders, then?" "why, uncle, these five months past we have been in mourning for you." "in mourning for _me_? you must be joking!" "these five months past we have believed you to be dead, and have received all the documents proving your death!" "perhaps these documents informed you that i was buried, then?" he added, without changing countenance. "why, yes, certainly!" i said. "we have also the certificate of your interment!" at this my uncle barbassou could restrain himself no longer, and was seized with one of those fits of silent laughter which are peculiar to him. "in this case--you would be my heir?" he said, in the middle of his transport of gaiety, which hardly permitted him to speak. "i am already, my dear uncle," i replied, "and am in possession of all your property!" this reply put the finishing touch to his hilarity, and he started off again into such a fit of laughter that i was caught by it, and so was françois. but suddenly my uncle stopped, as if some reflection had crossed his mind, and seizing my hand with a sudden impulse he said: "ah! but now i think of it, my poor boy, you must have experienced a severe blow of grief!" this was said with such frank simplicity, and proceeded so evidently from a heart guiltless of any dissimulation, that i swear to you i was stirred to the bottom of my soul; my eyes filled with tears, and i threw myself on to his neck to thank him. "well, well!" he said, patting me on the shoulder to calm me, while he held me in his arm; "never mind, old fellow, now that i'm back again!" when breakfast was finished and the table cleared, we remained together alone. "come, uncle, as soon as you have explained to me what has happened to lead to this story of your death, the next thing will be to take early steps for your resuscitation." "take steps!" he exclaimed, "and for why?" "why, to re-establish your civil status and your rights of citizenship as a live person." "oh, they'll find out soon enough, when they see me, that i don't belong to the other world!" said he, quite calmly. "now that you are regarded as defunct, you will not be able to do anything, to sign, to contract----" "so, so! never mind all that. barbassou-gratien-claude-anatole doesn't trouble himself about such trifles." "but your estates?" i said; "your property which i have inherited?" "have you paid the registration fees?" he asked me, in a serious tone. "certainly i have, uncle." "well! do you want to put me to double expense for the benefit of the government, which will make you pay it all over again at my real death?" "what is it you mean to do, then?" said i. "you shall keep them! now's your turn," he added, in a chaffing tone; "all these forty years i have had the worry of them; it's your turn now, young man! you shall manage them, and make them your business; it will be for you now to pay my expenses and all that!" "i hope you don't dream of such a thing, my dear uncle!" i exclaimed. "why even, supposing that i continue to manage your property----" "excuse me," he said, "_your_ property! it is yours, the fees having been duly paid." "well, _our_ property, if you like," i replied, with a laugh; "all the same, i repeat you cannot remain smitten with civil death." "bah! bah! political notions! but first explain to me how i come to be dead--that puzzles me." i then related to him what i have told you of this strange story; the notary's letter informing me of the cruel news brought by my uncle's lieutenant rabassu, confirmed by the most authentic documents, and accompanied by a portfolio containing all his papers and letters, securities in his name, and agreements signed by him; proving, in short, an identity which it was impossible to dispute. "my papers!" he exclaimed. "they were not lost then?" "i have them all," i replied. "i begin to understand! it's all the fault of that stupid lefébure." "who is this lefébure?" i asked. "i am going to tell you," replied my uncle; "the whole thing explains itself and becomes clear.--but i wonder, did not rabassu with the news of my death bring some camels?" "not a single camel, uncle." "that's odd! however, sit down, and i will tell you all about it." i sat down, and my uncle gave me the following narrative. i write it out for you faithfully, my dear louis; but what i cannot render for you, is the inimitable tone of tranquillity in which he related it, just as if he were describing a fête at a neighbouring village. "in returning from japan," he said, "i must tell you that i put in at java. of course i landed there. on the pier-head, i recognised lefébure, a sea-captain and an old friend of mine; he had given up navigation in order to marry a mulattress there, who keeps a tobacco-shop. i said to him 'hullo, how are you?' he embraces me and answers that he is very dull. 'dull?' i reply, 'well, come along with me to toulon for a few days; my ship is in the harbour here, i will give you a berth in her, and send you home next month by "the belle-virginie!" my proposal delights him, but his answer is that it is impossible. 'impossible? why?' 'because i have a wife who would not hear of it!' 'we must see about that,' i say to him. well, we go to their shop; the wife makes a scene, cries and screams, calling him all sorts of names, and they fight over it. at last, while they are taking a moment's rest, i add that i shall weigh anchor at six o'clock in the evening. 'i will wait for you until five minutes past six,' i say; and then i go off to my business. at six o'clock i weighed anchor, and began to tack about a bit. at : i was off, when i saw a barque approaching. i gave the order 'stop her.' it was lefébure, who was making signs to us to stop. he comes up, gets on board, and off we go." fifteen days after that we put in at ceylon for a few hours. on the twenty-sixth day, as we arrived in sight of aden, we observed a good deal of movement in the harbour. there was an english man-of-war displaying an admiral's flag, which they were saluting. on shore i learnt that she was carrying a commission sent out to make some diplomatic representations to the negus of abyssinia. and who should i meet but captain picklock, one of my old friends whose acquaintance i made at calcutta, where he was in one of the native regiments. he informed me that he was in command of the escort accompanying the envoys. i said to lefébure 'by the by, the negus owes me some money--shall we go and make a trip there?' lefébure replied, 'by all means let us!' i bought four horses and half-a-dozen camels, which i sent on board with my provisions; and we started with the envoys. we had some amusement on the way. i knew the country very well myself, but when we were half-way, at adoua, where we halted for half a day, lefébure picks up with an arab woman. he wants to stay with her until the next day, and says to me, 'go on with the captain; i will join you again to-morrow with the convoy of baggage.' i started off accordingly. next day, no lefébure. that annoyed me rather, because he had kept the camels. however, i continued my journey, thinking that i should find him again on my return. finally i arrived at the negus's capital, just in time to hear that they were on the point of dethroning him. my intention was to apply to the english commissioners to help me in getting my little business settled. i found, however, that my portfolio and papers were with lefébure, who had the baggage; fortunately, i still had the gold which i carry in my belt. then i naturally availed myself of this opportunity to go off and wander about the interior, as far as nubia, where i had some acquaintances. i commissioned captain picklock to tell lefébure to come on and join me at sennaar, with the camels. so off i go, and arrive in ten days' time at sennaar, where i find the king of nubia, who was not very happy about the political situation; he treats me very hospitably, and i buy ivory and ostrich feathers of him. three weeks go by, but no lefébure! so i naturally avail myself of the delay, for pushing on a bit into darfour; when, lo and behold! just like my luck, on the ninth day, as i am entering the outskirts of el-obeid in kordofan, i am met by a predatory tribe of changallas! they surround me; i try to defend myself, and a great burly rascal jumps at my throat, and trips me up. i feel that i am being strangled by him; i deal him a blow in the stomach with my fist, and he tumbles backwards; only, as his hand still grips my throat, he drags me down with him; the others attack me at the same time, and i am captured! my blow appears to have been the death of the negro--which did not mend matters for me. they thrust me, bound fast like a bundle of wood, into a sort of shed, after robbing me of all my gold. i was carefully guarded. at the end of eight days i said to myself, 'barbassou, your ship lies in the harbour of aden; you have business to attend to, and you won't get out of your present scrape without conciliatory negotiations. you must resign yourself to a sacrifice!' i send for the chief, and offer him as my ransom a cask containing fifty bottles of rum, ten muzzle-loading guns, and two complete uniforms of an english general. this offer tempts him; but as i ask him first of all to have me safe conducted to the king of nubia, he answers that if once i got there i should send him about his business. they confined me in a pit, where i had only rice and bananas to eat, to which i am not at all partial. as to the women, they are monkeys. however, after four months of negotiations we came to an agreement that i should be conveyed back to sennaar, where i engaged upon my word of honour to give guarantees. i set off, still bound fast, with ten men to guard me. after a fortnight we arrive in the town. i enquire for lefébure.--no lefébure. i then go to the king's palace--but he had just started off on a week's hunting expedition. however, i find the sheik who was in command of the town, and relate my difficulty to him. he informs me that the treasury is closed. i tell my guards that they can return, and that i will have my ransom sent from aden, but that does not content them; one of them seizes hold of me by the arm, but i gave him a good hiding. finally the sheik furnishes me with an escort, and i return to gondar. the english had gone back, and i started on my voyage across to aden. when i reached adoua, where i had left my friend lefébure, i asked for him. again no lefébure! however, i had the luck to find his arabian sweetheart, whom i questioned about him. her reply is, that the very day i left him, the stupid fellow went and caught a sunstroke, of which he died the same day. i inquire after my baggage and my camels.--no baggage, no camels! they had all been forwarded to the governor of aden. "when i arrived at aden, the governor told me that everything which had been received had been sent on board my ship, including the papers found on my friend, and that a certificate of death had been duly drawn up, which my lieutenant was instructed to convey to the family. i asked no more questions, and wrote at once a little note of condolence to lefébure's wife. i sent the agreed ransom to my changallas, and at the same time a letter of complaint to the king of nubia. altogether, it was four months since my ship had left aden. the following day i took the mail boat to suez--arrived last night at marseilles--and here i am!" "yes, indeed," i said to my uncle, when he had concluded; "that explains it all. they drew up the certificate of decease according to the papers found on your friend lefébure, and as they were yours----" "why, they mistook him for me; and that ass rabassu went off with the ship to bring the notary the news of my death." "that's clear," i added. "but what puzzles me most," replied he, "is to know what has become of my camels!" as you may well imagine, my dear louis, this unexpected resurrection of my uncle plunged me into a state of excitement, which took entire possession of me. i could not see enough of him, or hear enough of him; and all that day i so completely forgot everything which did not concern him, that i did not even think of moving outside the château. i followed him from room to room, and kept looking at him, for i felt the need of convincing myself that he was really alive. as to him, quickly recovering from the very transitory astonishment into which the news of his supposed death had thrown him, he had resumed that splendid composure, which you remember in him. he superintended all his little arrangements, and unpacked all his boxes, full of all sorts of articles from nubia, whistling all the while fragments of _bamboulas_ which were still ringing in his ears. after dinner in the evening, he said to me, stretching out his long legs over the divan, with the air of a man who loves his ease: "by jove, it's very snug here! if you like, we will stay down here several weeks." "as many weeks as you like, uncle," i answered--"months even!" "well done!--but," he continued, "won't you be rather dull?--for, unless you have some little distraction----" "ah!" i exclaimed, remembering all at once my harem; "i forgot to tell you about this little affair!" "what affair?" he said. "have you found your distraction already, then?" "i should just think i have, uncle!" "is she pretty?" "why, i have four!" at this information my uncle did not raise his eyebrows any more than if i had told him that i was occupying my leisure by practising the rustic flute; he only stretched out his arm, took my hand and shook it smartly in the english fashion, saying, "my compliments, my dear fellow!--i beg your pardon for my indiscretion." "but, my dear uncle, i have quite a long story to tell you!" i added, not without a certain embarrassment "--and it is your death again that has been the cause of it!" "how was that? tell me all about it." "you know, your turkish pavilion--kasre-el-nouzha?" "i know, well?" "well, four months ago, mohammed-azis arrived there." "hullo!" he said, "mohammed?" "yes, and you had entrusted him with a--a commission," i continued. "true," he exclaimed, "i had forgotten that!" "well, then, uncle----" "he had accomplished his commission, i suppose," continued he. "yes," i replied. "and as you were dead, and mohammed's commission formed part of my inheritance from you, i thought that it was my duty--" "_bigre!_" said my uncle, "you know how to act the heir very well, you do!" "why indeed--" i continued, "remember that i could not suppose----" "in short you've done it," said he, "and it's all over, so don't let us say anything more about it! and once more, forgive me.--now that i know all about it, nothing more need be said. turks never discuss harem matters. only," he added, "in order to avoid the necessity of returning to the subject, let me now recommend you to keep mohammed; you understand? he knows the run of the ropes. and in order to make everything safe, as it would not do for me to be seen about there any more, tell him to come and see me." "do you wish me to send for him at once?" "no, no, to-morrow will do. we have plenty of time.--come, give me a little music, will you? play me something from verdi--" and he began to hum in his bass voice, slightly out of tune, snatches from the air: "parigi o cara, noi lasceremo." we passed a charming evening together, what with conversation, music, and cards. he won three francs of me at piquet, with a ridiculous display of triumph. about twelve o'clock i took him to his bedroom. when he was ready to get into bed, he exclaimed: "_té!_ i have some securities here which i had forgotten!" and taking a penknife, he proceeded to cut the stitches of his coat lining, from which he drew out some papers. "see!" he said, as he held them out to me, "here are seven hundred thousand francs' worth of bills on london and paris. you shall get them cashed." "very well, uncle," i replied. "and what do you want me to do with the money?" "oh, upon my word, that's your affair, my _pichoun_! you may be sure, now that you have come into your inheritance, i am not going to be troubled with such matters!" "well, at least advise me about them." "but, my good fellow, that means that i am still to have all the bother about them--. after all," he continued, "keep the money if you like--it will do for my pocket money." thereupon he went to bed, i wished him good night, and was about to leave the room, when he called me back. "come here, andré! write, if you please, to the notary and ask him to come here to-morrow." "ah!" i replied, "you're coming round to that at last!" "i am coming round to nothing whatever!" he exclaimed, in a most decided tone. "only i want to know what has become of my camels! as you may guess, i intended to present them to the zoological society. i must have them found! good night!" i should certainly annoy you, my dear louis, if i were to endeavour to impress upon you the full significance of the amazing events through which i have passed during these four months. i don't know of a single mortal who has experienced more original adventures. the dreadful letter from the notary, my installation at férouzat, my uncle's will, the harem tumbling down upon me from turkey, the entering into complete possession of my fortune, and the whole crowned by the return of the deceased. certainly you will agree with me that these are incidents which one does not meet with in everyday life. nevertheless, if you want to know my ideas about them, i confess that they seem to me at the present moment to be nothing but the necessary and the contingent of philosophers, in their simplest application. i would go so far as to assert that, to a nephew of my uncle, things could not fall so to happen, for it would show a want of training in the most elementary principles of logic, to exhibit surprise at such little adventures, when once barbassou-pasha has been introduced on the scene as prime cause. the substratum of my uncle so powerfully influences my destiny, that to my mind it would seem quite paradoxical to expect the same things ever to happen to me as to any other man. cease being astonished, therefore, at any strange peculiarities in my life, even if they be eccentric enough to shock a rigidly constituted mind. like those erratic planets which deviate occasionally from their course, i move around the remarkable star called barbassou-pasha, and he draws me into his own eccentric orbit. in spite of a semblance of romantic complications among the really simple facts which i have related to you, i defy you to discover in them the slightest grain of inconsistency. they can be perfectly well accounted for by the most natural causes and the most ordinary calculations of common sense. cease your astonishment, therefore, unless you wish to fall into the lowest rank in my estimation. having postulated the fact that i am the nephew of my uncle, i will now return to the summarising of my situation. well, my late uncle had come to life again, but he wanted to keep all the advantages of his status as a dead man, by obliging me to remain in possession of his property. i had just said "good night" to him, while he was dreaming about his camels. nothing could be less complicated than that. if all that is not in strict conformity with the character of barbassou (claude anatole), i know nothing about him. nevertheless, it was only natural that the day celebrated by his return should give birth to some other incidents of importance. i had just left my uncle, and was walking towards the library to write at once to the notary, when francis informed me that a woman from the kasre had been waiting an hour to see me. one of the greek servants came sometimes to the château, either with messages or to await my orders. i concluded at once that, not having seen me either during the day or in the evening, my little animals had grown anxious and were sending to inquire after me. i went to my room, where francis said the woman was. as i entered i saw her standing up, motionless, near the window, wrapped in her great black feridjié; but i had hardly shut the door behind me when, all at once, i heard a cry and sobs. the feridjié fell down, and i recognised kondjé-gul, who threw herself on to my neck and seized me in her arms with signs of the deepest despair. "good gracious!" i said, "is that you? _you_ come here?" breathless and suffocated with tears, she could not answer me. i guessed, rather than heard, these words: "i have run away! i have come to die with you!" "but you are mad, dear, quite mad!" i exclaimed. "why should you die? what has happened then?" "oh, we know all!" she continued. "barbassou-pasha has returned. he is a terrible man. he is going to kill you; us also; mohammed also!" and raving with fear she clung to me with all her strength, just as if she were already threatened with death. "but, my dear child," i said, "this is all madness--who in the world has told you such nonsense?" "mohammed. he heard of the pasha's return--he has hidden himself." "but my uncle is a very kind man--he adores me, and does not even intend to see you. nothing will be changed for us by his return." seeing me so calm, she was gradually reassured. still she was too much possessed by her turkish notions to believe all at once in such a departure from correct oriental usages. "well then," she said as she dried her tears, "he will only kill mohammed?" "not even mohammed!" i exclaimed, with a smile. "mohammed is a poor coward, and i will give him a bit of my mind to-morrow, so that he shan't worry you with any more nonsense of this kind." "you don't mean it?" she replied. "then he will only get a beating?" i was about to protest, when i perceived by her first words that she suspected i wanted to play upon her credulity. there was thus a danger of reviving her worst fears, for she would not believe any more of my assurances. i contented myself therefore with promising to intercede with barbassou-pasha. once convinced that mohammed's punishment would extend no further than his hind-quarters, she troubled herself no more about it, but with the characteristic volatility of these little wild creatures, began to chatter and examine all the things in my room, touching and feeling everything with an insatiable curiosity. "come now, you must go home," i said to her, not wishing this little excursion of hers to be discovered. "oh, no! oh, no!" she cried, with childlike delight. "it's your home--do let me look at it!" "oh, but you must go and comfort zouhra, nazli, and hadidjé!" "they are asleep," she said. "i want to stay a little time here alone with you! besides," she added, with a little frightened look still lingering on her face, "suppose barbassou-pasha has been deceiving you, suppose he is coming to kill you to-night?" "but once more i tell you, dear, you are _mad!_" "well then, why send me back so soon?" "because it is not proper for you to leave the harem," i answered. "come along, off you go!" "oh, just a little longer!--i beg you, dear!" she said, with a kiss. how could i resist her, my dear louis? tell me? i sat down, watching her moving about and rummaging everywhere. i must tell you that under her feridjié (which she had let down on my entrance into the room), she was dressed in a sort of loose gown of pale blue cashmere, embroidered with lively designs in silk and gold. her snow-white arms emerged from wide, hanging sleeves. this costume produced a charming picturesque effect in the midst of my room, which, although comfortable, was very prosaic in its style--although to her it seemed wonderful. she touched everything, for she could not be satisfied with seeing only, and her questions never ceased.... at last, after half-an-hour, considering her curiosity to be satisfied, as she was beginning to ransack the books lying on my table, i said once more, "come, kondjé-gul, you must go." with these words, i picked up her feridjié, and took her back to the harem. a pale light was shining through the windows of the drawing-room. hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra were still there. to describe the terror which came over their faces directly i appeared, would be impossible. hearing steps in the night, they made sure their last moments had arrived. at the sound of the door opening, they cried out loud--the three poor miserable things took refuge in a corner. when they saw me enter with kondjé-gul, they were thrown into a great consternation. with a few words i reassured them at once. as to mohammed, it was impossible to find him. i will confess, moreover, that i felt very little interest in searching for him--i was far from ill-pleased with the thought that he was paying for the trouble which his stupidity had caused my poor darlings, by a night of fear and trembling. my lamb having returned to the fold, i eventually retraced my steps to the château. is it necessary to tell you that the surprising events of the day had caused me emotions which i was scarcely able to understand? my uncle's resurrection-- lefébure-- the changallas-- the camels-- they all kept my brain at work the whole night long. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. i apologise, my dear louis, for having left you a month without a letter from me, as you reproach me somewhat severely. you are not afraid, i should hope, that my friendship for you has cooled. the real cause of my silence is that i have had nothing to tell you. the even tenor of my existence permits only of daily repetitions of the same very simple events. my affections being divided between my harem and my uncle barbassou, i revel in the tranquillity of the fields and woods, which afford to my mind that quiet freedom which is always more or less disturbed by the excited atmosphere of city life. do not imagine, however, that we have been living like monastics, disdaining all worldly distractions: the governor is not the man to lead the existence of a carthusian monk. he is as much on horseback as on foot. in the daytime we make hunting excursions; he visits his "god-children" and my estates: you may rely upon it, i have got an active steward in _him_! in the evening we receive our friends at the château--the vicar, the morands, father and son, and, twice a week, the notary. we play whist at penny points, and very lively games of piquet--only the latter not so often, as my uncle cheats at it. about eleven o'clock the carriages are got ready to take these people home. i then accompany my uncle to his room, and we talk over business matters, and about my _fiancée_; for, of course, my marriage with his "god-daughter" is an understood thing, and we have not even a notion of discussing the question. finally, when he gets sleepy, he goes to bed, and i go off to el-nouzha. besides these occupations we have another very serious one, namely, rummaging among the mass of curios which he heaped up together in the lumber-room of the château. "ah, andré!" my uncle said to me one day, with the reproachful accent of a faithful steward, "you have a lot of fine things up there which you are very foolish to leave in that lumber-hole. if i were you, i would have them all out!" "let us get them all out then at once, uncle," i answered. thereupon we set to work sorting them out, and you have no idea of the things we found--valuable paintings, works of art, rare old furniture, and arms of all countries. you will see what a museum they constitute, if you make an excursion down here, as you have promised. really, for an artist of your genius, this alone would be worth the journey. we also pay visits at the two neighbouring châteaux of the montanbecs and the camboulions; but confine ourselves strictly to the customary conventionalities between neighbours, the female element which we encounter at these places belonging, as my uncle puts it, to the very lowest zoological order of beings. once a week we dine at doctor morand's. he is a man of great ability, who has only missed making his mark through want of a wider field. he is the one mortal capable of exercising an influence over captain barbassou, if the character of the latter did not place him out of reach of all external control. in this home family life reigns in its happiest and most charming simplicity, represented by a goodly quiver-full of children. i have already told you about young morand, the spahi, and his cousin geneviève. geneviève, with her nineteen summers, is the eldest, by several years, of a prolific brood, the offspring of her mother's second marriage. the doctor, who is a rich man for his district, took them all to live with him after his sister's death. a more delightful and refreshing place cannot be found than this heaven-blest home, the very atmosphere of which breathes the odour of peaceful happiness and honest purity. you should see geneviève, _la grande_, surrounded by her four _petits_, her brothers and sisters, with their chubby faces, all neat and clean, obedient and cheeky at the same time, and kept in order by her with a youthful discipline, flavoured now and then with a spice of playfulness. is she really pretty? i confess i cannot decide. the question of beauty in her case is so completely put out of mind by a certain charm of manner, that one forgets to analyse it. she has certainly fine eyes, for they hold you spell-bound by the soul shining through them. george morand, her _fiancé_, adores her, and, headstrong _africain_ though he is, even he feels an influence within her which subjugates his fiery spirit. they could not be a better match for each other, and will live happily together. she will chasten the exuberant ardour of the provençal warrior. my uncle professes to detest "the brats;" it is needless, perhaps, to add that, directly he arrives, the whole of them rush to him, climb on his knees, and stay there for the rest of his visit. he is their horse; he makes boats for them, and all the rest of it. the other day you might have seen him grumbling as he sewed a button on toto's drawers (which he had torn off by turning him head over heels), fearing lest geneviève should scold him. i am very cordially welcomed by the whole house, and you may imagine what interminable discussions the doctor and i carry on. having been formerly a professor in the school of medicine at montpellier, he was led by his researches in physiology to a very pronounced materialism. now that he has read my spiritualistic articles, he tries hard to break down my arguments. on the third side, my uncle, as a mahometan, wants to convert him to deism; you may judge from this how much harmony there is between us; you might take us for an academy! at el-nouzha the same life goes on still; but i must take this opportunity of correcting a dangerous mistake you appear to have fallen into, to judge from the tone of your letters. in everything that concerns my harem, you really speak as if you had in mind the fantastic and tantalising experiences of a second blessed saint anthony, exposed to the continual provocations of the most voluptuous beauties of the court of satan. indeed, one might say (between you and me and the post), that your holiness was less scared than inquisitive regarding these terrible scorchings. you old sinner! the real truth is that everything becomes a habit after a while, and that, now the first effervescence of passion is over, this life grows much more simple than you imagine. you must not believe that we lead a riotous existence of continual lusts and orgies. such notions, my dear fellow, are only the fruit of ignorance and of prejudice. let me tell you that my harem is to me at the present time a most tranquil home, and that, but for the fact that i have four wives, everything about it has permanently assumed the every-day aspect of a simple household. our evenings are spent in conversation round the drawing-room table with music and dancing, conducted in a thoroughly amiable and cheerful spirit, and all set off by the accomplishments of my sultanas. i combine in my conjugal relations the dignified oriental bearing of a vizir with the tender sentimentalities of a galaor, and in this i have really attained to an exquisite perfection. in fact, it would be the country of love in the paradise of mahomet, but for a few clouds which, since my uncle's return, have obscured the bright rays of my honeymoon. i have had some trouble with hadidjé and nazli, who seem determined to make a trip over to the château as kondjé-gul had done; for, as might have been foreseen, as soon as her alarms had subsided, this silly creature, with the view no doubt of exciting their jealousy, and posing as the favourite, had taken care to relate to them all the wonders of this, to them, forbidden place. of course i refused at once to permit such an irregularity, contrary as it was to all harem traditions. this refusal was the signal for a scene of tears and jealous passions, which i subdued, but which only gave way to the tender reproaches of slighted affections. well, i try to jog along as well as i can, as all husbands have to do, but i have a vague presentiment of troubles still in the air. i have reopened my letter. i hope you won't be astonished, my dear fellow, but--i have another piece of news relating to barbassou-pasha. the day before yesterday, while my uncle and i were chatting together, as is our custom, before he went to bed, i observed that he yawned in an unusual manner. i had remarked this symptom before, and i drew my own conclusion from it, which was that overtaken once more by his adventurous instincts, he was beginning to find life tedious in the department of le gard,--he was longing for something or other, that was certain! and i began ransacking my mind to find some new food upon which he might exercise his all-devouring energy, when he said to me, just before i left him-- "by the bye, andré, i have written to your aunt that i am returned. she will probably arrive some time between now and the end of the week." "ah!" i replied; "well, uncle, that's capital! i shall be delighted to have our family life back again." "yes, the house will seem really furnished then," he continued. "well, good night, my boy!" "good night, uncle." then i left him. now, although this legitimate conjugal desire of my uncle's was quite rational on his part, you may nevertheless imagine that i went to bed rather puzzled. which of my aunts should i see arrive? my uncle had acquainted me with this design in such an artless manner that it never occurred to me to venture any question on the subject. i began therefore to form conjectures based upon his present frame of mind, as to which of his wives he had probably selected. i commenced by setting aside my aunt cora, of the isle of bourbon. it was not very likely that the pasha wanted to add to his past ontological researches upon the coloured races. excluding also my aunt christina de postero, whose adventure with jean bonaffé had brought her into disgrace, there remained only my aunt lia ben lévy, my aunt gretchen van cloth, and my aunt eudoxie de cornalis, so that the question was now considerably narrowed. still i must confess that it was not much use my setting all my powers of induction to work, taking as my premises the captain's age, his present tastes, his plans, &c. all i succeeded in doing was to lose myself in a maze of affirmations and contradictions from which i could find no way out. the best thing to be done was to wait. so i waited. i had not long to wait for that matter. two days after, while i was in my room, i saw a carriage drive up. its only occupant was a lady, who seemed to me to be very handsome and very elegantly dressed. on the box, by the coachman's side, sat a lady's maid; behind were two men-servants of superior style in their travelling livery. the carriage stopped. at the sound of the wheels on the gravel, my uncle's window opened. "hoi! is that you?" he shouted. "how are you, my dear!" "how are you, captain!" replied the lady. "you see you have not been forgotten, you ungrateful wretch!" "thanks for that. nor am i any more forgetful on my side." "that's all right," replied the lady; "but why don't you come down and give me a hand? you're very gallant!" "well, my dear, i'm coming as fast as i can!" said my uncle. i must confess i still remained somewhat puzzled at the sight of this fair traveller, whose appearance did not recall to me any of my aunts. could barbassou-pasha have contracted another marriage since the date of his will? out of delicacy i kept out of the way, in order not to disturb their affectionate greetings, but as my uncle passed my door on his way out, he said to me, "andré, aren't you coming?" i followed him. we arrived just as the lady was stepping briskly up the doorsteps. "too late, captain!" she said, "i could not stay there, penned up in that carriage." this reproach did not prevent them from shaking hands very heartily. then as i came up, my uncle said in his quick way, "kiss your aunt eudoxia!" at this injunction i forthwith embraced my aunt, and i must admit that as i kissed her i could not repress a smile, recollecting this sacramental phrase of my uncle's. "my goodness! is that andré?" she exclaimed, "oh! excuse me, sir," she continued rapidly; "this familiar name slipped from my tongue, at remembrance of the bonny boy of old times." "pray take it for granted, madam!" i answered. "then don't call me madam!" "what does that matter, _my aunt_; to obey you i shall be delighted to return to old times." "very well then, _my nephew_," she added; "see that my servants are looked after, and then let us come in!" all this was said in that free-and-easy tone which denotes aristocratic breeding, and with so much of the assurance of a woman accustomed to the best society, that i was for a moment almost taken aback by it. my early impressions of her had only left in my mind confused recollections of an amiable and fascinating young woman (so far as i could judge at that age), and now my aunt suddenly appeared in a character which i had not at all anticipated. assuredly i should never have recognised her, although time had not at all impaired the beauty of her face. i will therefore draw her portrait afresh. picture to yourself a woman of about thirty-five, although her real age is forty-two. her figure exhibits a decided _embonpoint_, but this detracts not in the least from its gracefulness, for she is a tall woman, and has also quite a patrician style about her. her erect head, and the profound dignity of her expression--everything about her in fact--might be taken to denote a haughty nature, were it not for that extreme simplicity of manner which appears natural to her. notwithstanding the firmness of her language, the tone in which it is uttered is as soft as velvet, and her light, musical accent suggests the frank and easy bearing of a russian lady of high rank. such is the description of my aunt. my uncle had offered her his arm. as soon as we entered the drawing-room, she said, while taking off her hat: "ah, now you must at once explain to me this story of your death, which i received from a notary. for six months i have been fancying myself a widow!" "you can see that there's nothing in it," replied my uncle. "that's nice!" she exclaimed, laughing and holding her hand out to him a second time. "another of your eccentricities, i suppose!" "not in the least, my dear; andré here can tell you that i positively passed for a dead man, and that he went into mourning for me. he has even entered into the possession of my property as my heir." "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," she answered; "but how was it that they put you in the grave by mistake? i am curious to know." "i was in abyssinia." "close by, is it?" asked she, interrupting him. "yes," continued my uncle. "a friend who was travelling with me, stayed behind at a place on our way, while i went forward, and he managed to die in such a stupid and ill-timed manner that, as my baggage was with him, it was from my papers that his certificate of death was made out. it was only on my return here, five months later, that i learnt that i had been taken for dead. you see what a simple story it is." "well, of course," said my aunt, "such things are quite a common occurrence! that will teach you the result of not taking me with you on your travels. was it also on account of this trip in abyssinia that i have not seen you for two years? oh stop, my dear nephew!" she added in an engaging tone, "a family scene is an instructive event; it forms----. go on, captain, answer me." "two years?" replied my uncle. "is it really two years?" "consult your log-books, if they have not been buried with your friend." "ah! forgive me, dear eudoxia, i have had during all this time most important business." "yes," continued my aunt, "we all know what important business you have; i've heard some fine accounts of you. do you know what lord clifden told me at st. petersburg three months ago, while complimenting me upon my widow's mourning, which, by the way, suited me extremely well? he told me that during your lifetime you had been a bigamist." "what a likely story!" exclaimed my uncle, boldly. "he assured me that he had seen you at madras with a spanish woman, you old traitor! she was young and pretty, and passed openly by the name of señora barbassou. it was surely not worth while making me elope with you, in order that you might treat me in this fashion!" "lord clifden told you a story, my dear, and a very silly story too. i hope you did not believe a word of it?" "upon my word, you are such an eccentric character, you know!" she answered, with a laugh. "and what have you been doing yourself?" continued my uncle, whose coolness had not deserted him for an instant; "where have you been?" "oh, if i were to reckon back to the day you left me, i should lose myself!" replied my aunt. "a year ago, at this season, i was on my estate in the crimea, where i vegetated for five months; then i spent the winter at st. petersburg, and the spring at my château in corfu, where i had the advantage of a comfortable place in which to mourn over you. finally i had been two months at vienna, when i received from my steward eight days ago the letter in which you did me the honour of informing me both of your resurrection and of your desire to see me. i quickly made my farewell calls, started off, and here i am! now," she added, holding out a plaid to him, "if you will kindly allow me to change these travelling clothes, you will make my happiness complete." "i am waiting to take you to your room," replied my uncle. "nephew," she said to me with a curtsey, "prepare to minister to my caprices; i have plenty of them when i love.--in return let me say to you, take it for granted." they left the room, and i felt quite astonished at the way they greeted each other. you can already understand the effect which my aunt must have produced on me, and i was no less surprised at the new traits which i discovered in my uncle's character. a complete revolution had been effected. he became all at once very natty in his dress. his rough straggling beard was trimmed in the henri ivth style, and his moustaches were twirled up at the ends. he left off swearing; his language and his manners at once assumed the most correct tone, without constraint or embarrassment, and with a modulation so natural, that it seemed really to indicate a very long familiarity with fashionable practice. he had not made a single slip. his frank gallantry had nothing artificial about it; he was another man, and it was quite evident this was the only man that eudoxie de cornalis had ever known him to be. "well! what do you think of your aunt?" he asked me as he came in after five minutes' absence. "she is charming, uncle, and as gracious as possible!" "did you expect to find her a monkey, then?" he exclaimed. "certainly not!" i replied. "but my aunt might have been beauty itself, and still have lacked the character and the intellectual qualities which i observe in her." "oh, you can't at all judge of her yet!" continued he, in a careless tone. "you'll see what i mean later on. she's a real woman!" my aunt did not come down again until luncheon-time. her appearance created quite an atmosphere of cheerful society in the dining-room, usually occupied only by my uncle and his nephew. my uncle was no doubt conscious of the same impression, for leaning towards me, he said to me in his inimitably cool manner, and in a low voice, "don't you see how everything brightens up already?" my aunt sat down, and as she took off her gloves, cast her eyes over the table, the sideboards, the servants in waiting, and the general arrangements of the dining-room. "françois," she said to my uncle's old man-servant, "please send the gardener to me at four o'clock." "yes, madame la comtesse." "and then send the steward, whom i do not see here." "oh, _i_ am the steward!" replied my uncle. "that's capital! my compliments to you," she continued; "i might have known it." "all the same, i fancy i perform my duties very well: is not this new furniture to your taste?" "not only so, but i find it very handsome, and i appreciate your antiquarian passion for rare and choice objects; only there is a want of life about it. what are those great vases, may i ask, whose enormous mouths stand empty to receive the dust?" "those mandarins!" said my uncle; "they come from the palace of the emperor of china." "oh, the men, the men!" exclaimed my aunt with a laugh: "if they were in paradise they would forget to contemplate the eternal! now, captain, my lord and spouse, pray tell me of what use to you are beds full of flowers, if you never rejoice your eyes with the sight of them?" the luncheon went off charmingly and merrily. as she chatted with us, my aunt signalled to francis and gave him her instructions for those innumerable comforts which a woman only can think of. my uncle, as if by enchantment, found everything ready to hand; before he had time to ask for anything to drink, he found his glass filled. we had not been accustomed to this kind of service. when we left the table my aunt said, "let us take a turn in the grounds." she took my arm and we started off. i won't trouble you with a description of this walk, in the course of which my aunt and i succeeded in improving our acquaintance. we soon grew to understand each other thoroughly. with supreme tact, and without apparent design on her part, she had led me on by discreet questions to give her, before a quarter of an hour had passed, a complete catalogue from a. to z. of all my studies, my tastes, and my pursuits, including of course my youthful escapades, which made her smile more than once. in this outpouring i excepted, as you may be sure, the revelations of my career as a pasha. my uncle walked close to us, but left us to talk together. one might have thought that he was resuming his marital duties, interrupted only the evening before, without their course having been disturbed by any appreciable incident. all at once, we arrived at the foot-path which leads to the turkish house. "ah! let us go into kasre-el-nouzha!" said my aunt. at this i glanced at my uncle with an air of distress; he, without wincing in the least, said: "the communicating door is walled up. kasre-el-nouzha is let." "let!" she exclaimed; "to whom?" "to an important personage, mohammed-azis, a friend of mine from constantinople. you do not know him." "you ungrateful wretch!" she continued with a laugh: "that's the way you observe my memory, is it?" she did not press the subject. you may guess what a relief that was to me. after we had strolled about the grounds for an hour, my aunt eudoxia had made a complete conquest of me. but although everything about her excited my curiosity, i had put very few questions to her, not wishing from motives of delicacy to appear entirely ignorant of her history; such ignorance, indeed, would have appeared strange in a nephew. she seemed quite disposed, however, to answer all my questions without any fencing, and to treat me as an intimate friend. what i felt most surprised at was the attitude of my uncle, who had never said any more to me about her than about my aunt cora of les grands palmiers. there reigned betwixt them the affectionate manners of the happiest possible couple; they discussed the past, and i could see that their union had never been weakened or affected, notwithstanding my uncle's mahometan proceedings, which she really appears never to have suspected. i discovered that she had accompanied him on board his ship, during several of his voyages, and that two years back he had stayed six months with her at corfu. as for him, he talked in such a completely innocent manner, betokening such a pure conscience, that i came to the conclusion he was probably on just as good a footing with all his other spouses, and that he would not have been the least bit more embarrassed with my aunt van cloth, had she chanced to turn up. when we returned to the château, my aunt asked me to have some letters posted for her. i went to her room to take them from her; she had found time to write half-a-dozen for all parts of the world. while she was sealing them, i had a look at the numerous articles with which she had filled and garnished her boudoir. there were on the table flowers in vases, books and albums; on the mantelpiece, several portraits arranged on little gilt easels, among which was a splendid miniature of a young, handsome man, in turkish costume embroidered with gold, and having on his head a fez ornamented with an egret of precious stones. "do you recognise this gentleman," said my aunt, as i was stooping to look at it more closely. "what!" i exclaimed; "can that be my uncle?" "the very man, dressed up as a great mamamouchi. it is a great curiosity, for you are aware of his turkish notions on the subject. according to these, one ought not to have one's image made." "upon my word, that's quite true," i said; "it is the first portrait i have seen of him." "i have every reason for believing that it is the only one," she replied with a smile; "this was the most difficult victory i ever won over him." we then began to discuss my uncle and his eccentricities, combined with his remarkable talents. she related to me some events and features in his life which would not be out of place in the legend of a hero of antiquity; amongst other matters she told me the story of their marriage, which runs briefly as follows:-- my aunt, a daughter of one of the richest and noblest greek families, lived with her father at a castle in thessaly, a country which is partly mahometan. during the feast of bairam, the turks commenced a massacre of christians, which lasted three days. several families, taking refuge in a church, had fortified themselves there, and with their servants were defending themselves desperately against their assailants. the assassins had already broken open the door of the sanctuary, and were about to cut all their throats, when suddenly a man came galloping up, followed by a few soldiers. he struck right and left with his scimitar in the thick of the crowd outside, and reached the doorway, causing his horse to rear up on the pavement. he slays some, and terrifies all. the christians are saved! this cavalier with his scimitar was my uncle, who was then in command of the province. the unhappy wretches who had escaped assassination pressed about him, and surrounded him; the girls and the women threw themselves at his feet. my aunt was one of these unfortunates; she was then fifteen years old, and as beautiful as noonday. you may guess how her imagination was wrought on by the sight of this noble saviour. my uncle on his side was thunderstruck by the contemplation of so much beauty. having to judge and punish the rebels, he established his head-quarters in the castle of the cornalis. he sentenced twenty persons to death, and demanded eudoxia's hand in marriage. this, notwithstanding his gratitude, the father refused to grant to a turkish general. the lovers were desperate, and separated, exchanging vows of eternal fidelity. finally, after three months of correspondence and clandestine meetings, an elopement ensued, followed up quickly by marriage. it was as the sequence of this event that my uncle, induced by love, and moreover disgraced again for having exercised too much justice in favour of the christians, finally quitted the service of the sultan. his pardon by the cornalis followed, and it was at this time that he obtained from the pope the title of count of the holy empire. all this will serve to explain to you how it is that my aunt, as an heiress of great wealth, possesses in her own right a very large independent fortune in the crimea. we have now been living together for a fortnight, and during this time férouzat has been completely transformed. my aunt eudoxia is certainly very _meublante_, as my uncle calls it, and she has brought into the house quite an attractive element of brightness. she has naturally introduced into our circle a certain amount of etiquette, which does not, however, encroach upon the liberties of country life, or disturb that easy-going elegance which forms one of the charms of existence among well-bred people. the countess of monteclaro, as might well have been foreseen, having already been intimately acquainted with doctor morand, begins to take a most friendly interest in mademoiselle geneviève. as a consequence, geneviève and the children spend almost all their time at the château. in the evenings we have gatherings to which all the young people of the neighbourhood are invited; my aunt, who is an excellent musician, organises concerts, and we generally finish up with a dance. these worldly recreations afford me a clearer insight into the analytical details of my oriental life, which is now more than ever enveloped in the profoundest mystery. i have invented a story of important botanical studies upon the flora of provence, in order to justify certain daily excursions which naturally terminate in el-nouzha. it is well-known, moreover, that i sometimes visit his excellency mohammed-azis, but with the discretion which respect for a great misfortune naturally entails. the exiled minister is no longer even discussed among us; everybody knows that "he shuts himself up like a bear in his den," and there is an end of it. my aunt is the perfection of a woman. nothing can be more delightful than our conversations. her manner partakes both of the indulgence of a mother and of the unrestrained intimacy of a friend. she still remembers the child she used to dance upon her knees; and, although i had for a long while forgotten her very existence, my present affection for her is none the less sincere because it is of such recent growth. i must confess that, after my confined existence at school and college, i am delighted with these pleasures of home life, to which i was until lately quite a stranger. my aunt, as you may guess, is acquainted with my uncle's famous plan for the future, and knows anna campbell, the pasha's _god-daughter_. you should hear her chaff him anent this god-fathership, on the strength of which she claims that the captain has returned to the bosom of the church without knowing it. she tells me that anna is a charming girl. thus petted and entertained, i live in other respects very much as i like, and sometimes pass the whole day in the library. i should add that my aunt, who is as sharp as a weasel, makes her own comments upon my frequent absences from the château. "andré," she asked me the other day with a smile, "is your 'botany' dark or fair?" "fair, my dear aunt," i answered, laughing as she did. in the midst of all this the pasha, still emulating one of the olympian gods, proceeds on his course with that tranquillity of spirit which never forsakes him. two days ago, who should come down upon us but rabassu, his lieutenant, the rabassu whom my uncle has always called his "murderer." he has brought home "la belle virginie" from zanzibar with a cargo of cinnamon; for, as you are aware, we (or rather _i_) still trade in spices. being now the head of the firm, i have to sell off the last consignments. rabassu heard of the resurrection of barbassou-pasha directly he arrived at toulon. he hurried off to us quite crestfallen, and when he met the captain literally trembled at the thought of the hurricane he would now have to face. but everything passed off very satisfactorily. my uncle interrupted his first mutterings of apology with a gentle growl, and contented himself with chaffing him for his infantine credulity. however, this incident has revived the vexed question of the camels. "where are they?" asks the captain. having promised to send them to the zoological gardens at marseilles, he feels his honour is at stake; they must be found. i support him in this view; my inherited property is of course incomplete without them. urgent letters on the subject have just been despatched to his friend picklock, and to the officer in command at aden. if necessary, a claim will be lodged against england; she is undoubtedly responsible for them. in my next letter i will tell you all the news relating to el-nouzha from the time when i last interrupted this interesting part of my narrative. my houris are making progress, and their education is improving. we are going on swimmingly. [illustration] [illustration] chapter v. the turks are calumniated, my friend, there's no doubt about it. it is not enough for us to say and to believe, with the vulgar herd, that these turbaned people are wallowing in materialism and are not civilised; we must do more than this, and convict them of their errors. we, fortified with a singular infatuation in our ideas, our habits, and our personal associations, venture to settle by our sovereign decrees the loftiest questions of sentiment. the rules to be observed by the perfect lover in the courtship and treatment of his lady-love, have been settled at tournaments, by the courts of love of isaure, and by the college of the gay science. our pretensions to troubadourism have never been abandoned. the affectations of "l'astrée" have been erected into a code of love, and we have succeeded in establishing the french cavalier as the paragon of excellence in love matters, and the perfect type of gallantry. the saying "to die for one's lady-love" rises so naturally to our lips that the most insignificant cornet might warble it to his célimène without causing her to smile. you will nevertheless admit, i hope, that we ought to discard a few of these absurd expressions. that we know how to make love is not much to boast about, after all. the only important point for us as philosophers is to know whether our ideal is really the higher ideal--whether our treatment of woman is really more worthy both of her and of ourselves than the pagan treatment which prevails among the eastern nations? here at once crops up the elementary dispute between the votaries of polygamy and monogamy. both these institutions are based upon divine and human laws, both are written down and defined in moral codes, and in sacred books. one takes its origin in the bible, and remains faithful to its traditions; the other has developed at some period, from the simple conventions of a new social order. we must not conclude that we alone possess the knowledge of absolute truth, merely because our conceit postulates for us the superiority of our time-honoured civilisation. all wisdom proceeds from god alone, and truth is for us only relative to place, time, and habit. was not jacob, when he married at the same time leah and rachel, the daughters of laban, nearer than we are now to the primitive sentiment of the laws of nature and of revelation? do you presume to blame him, insignificant being that you are, because yielding to the supplication of his beloved rachel he espoused--somewhat superfluously it may be--her handmaid bala, with the simple object of having a son by her? in presence of this idyl of the patriarchal age, what becomes of all our theories, our ideas, and our prejudices, the fruits after all of a hollow and worthless education? you will not, i trust, do me the wrong of believing that i, wavering in my faith, intend forthwith to abandon the principles in which i was brought up. but a subject so serious as the one i have been devoting myself to, demands the most frank and honest examination. i will not deliver a judgment; i will merely state the facts. now it is an established fact that the people who permit by their laws a plurality of wives are, even at the present time, far more numerous than the monogamists. statistics prove that out of the thousand million inhabitants of this globe, christianity with all its sects, and judaism thrown in, does not number more than two hundred and sixty millions according to balbi, or two hundred and forty millions according to the london bible society. since the remainder, consisting of mahometans, buddhists, fire-worshippers, and idolaters, all practise polygamy more or less, it follows that on this globe of ours, the monogamists constitute one-fourth only of the whole population. such is the naked, unadorned truth! are we wrong? are they right? it is not my business to decide this point. philosophers and theologians far more patient than i am, have given it up as a bad job. voltaire, with his subtle genius, settled the question in his own characteristic fashion, by supposing that an imaginary god had from the beginning decreed an inequality in this matter, regulated by geographical situation, in these words:-- "i shall draw a line from mount caucasus to egypt, and from egypt to mount atlas; all men dwelling to the east of this line shall be permitted to marry several wives, while those to the west of it shall have one only." and, as a matter of fact, it is so. but having disposed of this important point, there remains a loftier question for us to elucidate--one consisting entirely of sentiment. the treatment of woman being our only objective, our present business is to decide on which side of the line its character is the most respectful, the most worthy and the most flattering towards her. certainly our doctrine is purer, our law more divine. nevertheless, as sincere judges, we ought, perhaps, to examine and see whether we do not transgress against our absolute principles. and i must confess that i cannot now approach this delicate question without some misgiving. in the judgment of every tribunal, the case of polygamy is a hopelessly bad one. that i am ready to admit; but might it not be urged against the other side that in practice the court knows very well that the law is not observed? what judge can be found, however austere, who has never offended against it? to sum the matter up briefly (whispering low our confessions, if you like), what man is there among us--i am not talking of don juans, who catalogue their amours, nor of lovelaces, but of ordinary men of say thirty years old--who can remember how many mistresses he has had? what, is this the monogamy we have been making such a flourish about? perhaps you will say that we need not see in these irregularities anything more than a sort of licensed depravity, tolerated for the sake of maintaining a virtuous ideal. but consider the fatal consequences of this hypocrisy. what becomes of our aspirations of the age of twenty, of our dreams and poetic fancies, after we have plunged into these wretched connections, these degrading, promiscuous attachments which form the current of our present habits, and from which we emerge at the age of thirty, sceptics, and with hearts and souls tarnished? what do we reap from these frenzies of unhealthy passion, but contempt for woman, and disbelief in anything virtuous? for the turk there is no such thing as illegitimate love, and woman is the object of absolute respect. never having more than one master, she cannot fall in his esteem. having been bought as a slave, she becomes a wife directly she sets foot in the harem; her rights are sacred, and she cannot any more be abandoned. the laws protect her; she has a recognised position, a title; her children are legitimate, and if by chance-- i suspend this philosophical digression, in order to inform you of a momentous occurrence. el-nouzha has just been the scene of a sanguinary drama. a rebellion has broken out among my sultanas. my harem is on strike. you will ask me how this storm came to break upon me just as i was settling down into the most innocent and tranquil frame of mind? it can only be explained by a retrospective survey of certain domestic circumstances, which the changes that have been going on at férouzat had caused me to overlook. you will not have forgotten the terrible commotion caused in my harem by the news of my uncle's resurrection. my poor houris, dreading some fatal drama of the usual turkish character, had indeed passed through a cruel time of distress and anguish. when their alarms were dissipated, a revival of animation soon manifested itself in their spirits; but, as ill-luck would have it, and as i have told you, one little detail of this day's proceedings, unimportant as it appeared at the time, was destined to disturb their harmony, so perfect hitherto, and to arouse their jealousies. kondjé-gul had been to the château, and a silly ambition to attempt the same freak had got into the heads of nazli and zouhra. i at once expressed a decided opposition to this childish scheme; but, of course, from the moment it met with opposition, it developed into a fixed purpose. within the limited circle of ideas in which they move, their imaginations had been excited--curiosity, the attractions of forbidden fruit. the long and the short of it was that, at the sight of their genuine disappointment--a disappointment aggravated by continual and jealous suspicions of a preference on my part for kondjé-gul--i had almost made up my mind to yield for one occasion, when my aunt arrived, which at once put an end to any thought of such good-natured but weak concessions. i imagined myself to be armed now with an overwhelming reason for refusing their request, but it turned out quite otherwise. when they heard that my uncle's wife was at the château, they asked to be allowed to make her acquaintance. they said that they were really bound as _cadines_, according to turkish custom, to pay their respects to my uncle's wife, "whom her position as legitimate spouse places hierarchically above us." i got over this difficulty by telling them that my aunt, being a christian, was forbidden by her creed to have any intercourse with mussulmans. what especially distinguishes the turkish woman, my dear louis, from the woman whose character has been fashioned by our own remarkable civilisation, is the instinctive, inborn respect which she always preserves and observes towards man. man is the master and the lord, she is his servant, and she would never dream of setting herself up as his equal. the koran on this point has hardly at all modified the biblical traditions. unfortunately for me, i must confess that in my household i have disregarded the law of islam. inspired by a higher ideal, you will understand, without my mentioning it, that my first object has been to abolish slavery from my harem, by inculcating into the minds of my houris principles more in conformity with the christianity which i profess. i wished, like a modern prometheus, to kindle the divine spark in these young and beautiful barbarians, whose minds are still wrapped up in their oriental superstitions. i wished to elevate their souls, to cultivate their minds, and in short, to make them my free companions and no longer my helots. i may assert with pride that i have been partially successful in my task. three months of this treatment had hardly elapsed before all traces of servile subordination had disappeared. with this faculty for metamorphosis existing in them, which all women possess, but which is for ever denied to us men, and thanks above all to the revelations of our customs and habits contained in novels of my selection, which kondjé-gul read to them during my hours of absence, and to which they listened with admiration (for they were eager to know all about this world of ours, which was as yet unknown to them), i soon obtained a charming combination. their strange exotic mixture of oriental graces, blending happily with efforts to imitate the refinements of our civilisation, their artless tokens of ignorance, their coquettish and feline instincts, their voluptuous bearing in process of attempted transformation into bashful reserve, all these phenomena afforded me the most delightful subject for study ever entered on by a philosopher. nevertheless, i must admit that the education of their intellects did not keep pace with the cultivation of their ideas, but rendered them still liable to commit a number of solecisms. i had an interest, moreover, in keeping them in a certain degree of ignorance of the actual laws of our own world. imbued with their native ideas, their credulity accepted without hesitation, everything which i chose to tell them about "the customs of the harems of france," and they conformed to them without making any pretence to further knowledge of them. none the less, there began to grow up in their minds ideas of independence and self-will, the natural consequences of the elevation effected in their sentiments. the notion of a truer and more tender love was used by them henceforth as a weapon against my absolute authority. only too happy to be treated as a lover rather than a master, i did not feel any loss in this respect: love is kept alive by these numberless little stratagems of a woman, who loves and desires--yet desires not--and so forth. and then, you must remember, i had four wives. they on their part, having no aims, no ambitions, but to please me, the sole object of their common love, each tried to effect my conquest in order to obtain the advantage over her rivals--an emulation of which i experienced all the charms. notwithstanding the fact that i distributed my affections with a rare impartiality, i could not always prevent the occurrence of jealous quarrels among them. afterwards ensued regrets tender reproaches, and clouds of sadness melting into tears. peace was restored amid foolish outbursts of mirth. but you cannot realise what a task it has been for me to preserve the harmony of a well-regulated household among creatures with their impulsive imaginations, which have ripened under the heat of their native oriental sun. they have mixed up their superstitions with those higher principles of which i have endeavoured to inculcate a notion into their minds, and which they often interpret in quite a different sense. all this has been the occasion for the display of charming eccentricities. my little animals have grown into women, and along with the development of a more intelligent love, i have seen manifestations of a coquettish mutinous spirit, upon the slightest evidence of partiality on my part, which they have thought to detect in me. i must tell you that kondjé-gul, who is really a very intelligent girl, had begun to study with great ardour, and it naturally followed that she benefited more from her lessons than the others, who treated them rather as an amusement. in three months she learnt french tolerably well--she it was who translated the novels to them. hence arose a superiority on her side, which must in any case have produced a good deal of envy among the others. on the top of this came her famous excursion to the château, concerning which the silly creature gave them marvellous accounts, in order to pose as favourite. i should add that kondjé-gul, being of an extremely jealous nature, often gave way to violent fits of passion. hadidjé, for some reason or other, more especially excited her suspicions. hadidjé has an excitable temperament. between them, consequently, a considerable coolness arose: this, however, created nothing worse than a few clouds on my fine sky. for the passive domesticities of the harem, i had substituted love; for its obedience, the free expansions and impulses of the heart. i must add, however, that while rising to purer conceptions of truth, my houris retained too much of their native instincts not to get their heads turned somewhat by the novelty of their situation. having equal rights, they claimed the same rank in my esteem. from this it resulted that hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra at last took umbrage at the success of kondjé-gul, who was wrong in trying to outstrip them. "kondjé-gul," they proclaimed, "wishes to act the _savante_. kondjé-gul gives herself the airs of a legitimate sultana." i must confess that the said little coquette was only too careful to impress them with her successes, of which she was rather proud. one evening she sat down to the piano, and, with a careless air, played part of a waltz, which she had learnt on the sly in order to surprise me. you may guess what the effect was. this triumph put the finishing touch to their provocation, and the evening was spent in sulky murmurs. finally, one day when i arrived at the harem i found kondjé-gul shut up in her own room, bathed in tears. the storm which had been impending so long had burst over her proud head--hadidjé, zouhra, and nazli had beaten her. once more i appeased their discords, by recourse to a new declaration of principles. the reconciliation was celebrated by a general display of cordiality; but a faction had been formed within the ranks. at the very time that i least expected it, nazli, hadidjé, and zouhra returned to their idea of a secret visit to the château. this project, which so far had only been carried on by detached skirmishes, was still cherished by them, and was now pursued by a compact body of troops, combining their siege-manoeuvres with a rare concentration of boldness and courage. their weapons were tender caresses and those innumerable cajoleries of women, which nearly always compel us to surrender in desperation to their most unreasonable whims. my oriental _ménage_ was still walking on a flowery path, but a snare was hidden under the dead leaves.... a few weeks later, when i was completely entangled in the subtle meshes of their cunning, the whole line changed their tactics. they said no more about férouzat, but i soon saw exhibitions on every side of frivolous caprices, sudden fits of sulkiness, unexpected refusals, and so forth. my odalisques had become civilised. i was too good a tactician to allow myself to be outflanked by this artful little game, the concerted object of which i pretended not to perceive. whenever they fancied they had obtained a success over me, i immediately transferred my attentions to kondjé-gul, and the attacking party disbanded, surrendering unconditionally. unfortunately kondjé-gul, relying upon my weakness for her, tried to carry off a decisive victory by a sudden charge. the other evening, having accompanied me up to the secret door, she rushed through it with a laugh, and made off for the château, right through the grounds of férouzat. i ran after her and soon caught her, encumbered as she was by her oriental slippers and her long train. i took her back to the harem, where the others seemed to be awaiting, in a great state of excitement, the result of this most audacious attempt. then i learnt that "she had boasted she would obtain this fresh triumph over them." this was a flagrant offence. after such an act of rebellion it was necessary to make an example: i spoke severely, and there was a tremendous scene. kondjé-gul had too much pride to humiliate herself before her rivals, who were rejoicing over her defeat. distracted with vexation and carried away by her foolish impulses, she made the breach between us complete. for three days she remained haughty and arrogant, accepting her disgrace, but too proud to make any advances for a reconciliation. needless to say, nazli, hadidjé, and zouhra were more affectionate and attentive to me than ever. such was the condition of affairs when the critical incident took place which i undertook to describe to you. the other evening, i was in the harem, and nazli and zouhra were playing turkish airs on the zither, while hadidjé, seated at my feet, with her head resting upon her hands, which were crossed on my knees, was singing in a low murmur the words of each tune. kondjé-gul stayed near the verandah, looking cool and dignified, and smoking a cigarette in the defiant, and at the same time resigned attitude of a hardened rebel; but the furtive glances which she cast at hadidjé gave the lie to her affected calmness. for two evenings past we had not exchanged a word with each other. she had dressed herself that day with remarkable care, as if to impress me with the splendours of the paradise i had lost: her glorious hair streamed down in long tresses, somewhat disorderly, from under her pearl-embroidered cap. notwithstanding a great gauze veil with which she pretended to enshroud herself in order to conceal her charms from my profane eyes, her bodice was so slightly fastened that it dropped down just low enough to expose to view the charming little pits under her arms and the snowy-whiteness of her breasts. like a wrathful venus, the expression on her face was both mutinous and resolute. she had put _kohl_ under her eyes (a thing which i forbid), and had blackened and lengthened her eyebrows so that they met together, in turkish fashion. in this get-up the little sinner looked ravishing! now you can picture to yourself the scene, and guess my state of mind. the weird tones of the zither, with their penetrating and singularly melancholy vibrations, the strange yet graceful costumes, the scent of those flowers with which the daughters of the east always adorn themselves, the all-pervading voluptuous atmosphere the enchantment of which i cannot explain to you; finally, the fair rebel gloomy and jealous, in the corner of the picture! all this, without my being any longer surprised by it, kept me in a sort of happy contentment, like that of a well satisfied vizir, which defies all analysis, but which you will understand. all at once the music ceased. "andré," said hadidjé to me, "won't you come into the garden for a little while?" "come along!" i replied, and rose up to go. she took my arm. zouhra and nazli followed us. as i went out by the verandah, i passed close to kondjé-gul; she drew back with a superb air of dignity, as if she feared lest her dress should be ruffled by me. then darting a look of withering scorn at hadidjé, she wrapped herself up in her veil and leant against the balustrade, watching us go off. it was a delicious autumn evening, the air was soft and the sky clear and starry. under our feet the dry leaves crackled. hadidjé wanted to have a row in the boat, so we went towards the lake. as we rowed along we caught glimpses of kondjé-gul from time to time, through the openings between the trees; her motionless figure stood out like a solitary shadow in front of the illuminated window of the drawing-room. "that's capital!" said hadidjé, who was rowing with nazli; "how dismal she looks! but then why does she try to get privileges over us? let us stay here." "oh!" answered zouhra in an indifferent tone, as she lay back on the cushions, "not the whole evening, i hope, for it's rather cold." "why didn't you bring your _feridjié_ then," said nazli; "you poor sensitive creature?" "i will go and fetch it if you like," i said to zouhra. "oh, no!" she answered quickly; "if you leave us we shall be afraid." "very well then, _i'll_ go," said hadidjé, who wanted to carry out her plan. "let us row to the bank." we pulled up to the point nearest to the château, and hadidjé, not without some nervousness after all, left us and ran off. "keep your eye on me all the time, won't you?" she said to me as she picked up her long skirt. soon we saw her reach the verandah without any adventure. she ascended the steps and passed in front of kondjé-gul. it seemed to us that kondjé-gul spoke very passionately to her, and that she answered her in the same tones. at last they both had gone in, when all at once we heard piercing shrieks. apprehending some skirmishing between my two jealous houris, i rushed off, followed at a distance by zouhra and nazli, who were frightened at the thought of being left alone. as i entered the harem i found hadidjé and kondjé-gul, with their hair dishevelled and their clothes torn, struggling together. kondjé-gul was armed with a little golden dagger, which she wore in her hair, and was striking hadidjé with it. when she saw me she fled and ran to her room to shut herself in. we hastened to the assistance of poor hadidjé. she had been wounded on the shoulder, and blood was flowing. happily the weapon, too harmless to wound seriously, had not penetrated the flesh; but, breaking with the blow, it had scratched her rather severely. i soon felt reassured, and quieted her cries, but not without some trouble. mohammed and the servants had run up to the rescue; i sent them all back, and after calming nazli and zouhra, i staunched the wound with some water. in a few minutes, hadidjé, who had fancied herself murdered, regained her tranquillity of mind, and only complained just enough to keep alive our interest in her grievance. then i questioned her, and she told us that as soon as she had entered the drawing-room, kondjé-gul followed her, and giving vent there and then to an outburst of passion, accused her of being the cause of her disgrace, reproaching her with hypocritical devices for getting over me. hadidjé, according to her version of the affair, had only replied with extreme moderation, when kondjé-gul, exasperated all of a sudden, rushed at her with her dagger. i knew hadidjé's character too well to place an implicit belief in the whole of this account; still it was important to put an end to such escapades. the happiness of my household, which had hitherto been so peaceful, was endangered if i failed to act like a just but strict husband. after this outrage committed by kondjé-gul, my houris, in their indignation, insisted upon a signal vengeance, and demanded forthwith that i should deliver her up to the _cadi_. the _cadi!_ that was coming it strong. i had some difficulty, however, in overcoming their persistency; at last they agreed to a less tragic form of punishment, which went no further than the expulsion of this unworthy companion from the harem. such escapades might, i feared, get wind outside, and cause a scandal. however much allowance i might make for the tempers of my houris in these demands for a somewhat summary punishment, i could not conceal from myself that, taking everything into consideration, it was really necessary for me to punish the offence severely, into whatever difficulties this adventure might lead me. i promised to give satisfaction to their legitimate indignation. then, leaving hadidjé to the care of zouhra and nazli, i proclaimed that i was going at once to subject the culprit to an examination, after which i should pronounce sentence upon her. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. kondjé-gul was shut up in her room; i found her sitting on her bed, which was disarranged, and the pillows of which seemed to have been rumpled up in a fit of rage and despair; she appeared like one stupified, with her gloomy looks, and hands clasping her knees. her face and her neck bore the marks of hadidjé's nails. the _kohl_ from under her eyes had been smeared on her cheeks, which were smudged all over; she looked just like a little savage, with however the gracefulness of a child. she did not stir when i came in; i walked right up to her, and in the solemn tone of a judge, said-- "wretched girl, do you know what you have done?" she remained silent and motionless, fixing her eyes on the carpet. "after such an act, will you not answer?" i continued. "why do you love her?" she said at last, in a wild voice. "say, why should i love _you_?" i replied, "when your bad temper and your jealousy lead you to disobedience, to crime--when you stir up quarrels and discords among us?" at these reproaches kondjé-gul all at once drew herself up erect before me, and exclaimed passionately-- "then you do not love me any longer?" my questions had not reached their mark. "this is not the time for me to answer you," i said. "i am now asking you to account for the act which you have just committed." "very well! if you love me no more, i want you to confess it, and i will die! what have i done to you, that you should prefer hadidjé to me? perhaps she is handsomer than i am, is she? if you think me ugly," she added, in a tone of concentrated despair, "tell me straight, and i will go and cast myself into the lake, and you shall see me no more!" "but no! i did not say that," i replied, trying to cut short this diversion. "then what are you reproaching me for? hadidjé loves you better than i do, perhaps?" "neither hadidjé's sentiments nor mine have anything to do with the question. i am asking you about your violence, and the wound you have given her with the dagger!" "why did she tell me that you love her better than me?" she answered. "she told you that?" "yes; and pretends that you swore to it. for my part, i do not want to be loved like a slave. i have learnt from your books that women in your country die when they are no longer loved. so if you have ceased to love me, i wish to die! you have told me that i have a heart, a soul, and an intellect, as they have, and that a woman's love makes her the equal of her master. do you mean to tell me, ungrateful man, that i do not love you? have i ever been jealous of zouhra, or of nazli? why should this hadidjé be everything in your eyes? if you do not want me any more," she added, in a transport of grief, "say so, then; crop my hair, shave off my eyebrows, and place me among the servants!" as she said these words, she threw herself down at my feet, which she hugged in a delirium of passion. her tears coursed down her cheeks, and upon my hands, which she covered with kisses. in her intense emotion her voice betokened such bitter distress, that in spite of my determination to punish her, i felt softened towards her. in presence of these transports of a passion, which admitted no other motive but that of her jealous rage, i saw that it was in vain for me to attempt to awaken her conscience to the sense of her guilty conduct. she could neither hear nor feel anything but the echo of her own grief. i loved her no longer, and i loved hadidjé! these words returned to her lips over and over again, amid sobs so heart-rending that, overcome by pity, and forgetting my resolution, i could not help uttering a word of protestation. i had hardly spoken, when she exclaimed-- "is that true? do you really love me? will you swear it?" i then understood the imprudence i had committed, but it was too late. kondjé-gul, passing at once from affliction to joy, had clasped me in her arms. i wanted to remain stern; but how could i contend by any arguments with such outbursts of mad jealousy? she would not listen to me: she implored me with all the frenzied entreaties and reproaches of which an unreasoning nature is capable. at one moment i believed that i had at last brought her mind to realise the actual situation between us, and the justice of my complaints against her conduct. "well, yes!" she said, "i have been very foolish. i ought to have thrown myself at your feet three days ago! ah, if you only knew how wretched your coldness made me! listen: when you came in just now, thinking that i had lost your love for ever, i was considering how i could kill myself. but you have forgiven me, have you not?--no, no! don't speak to me about _them_!" she continued, sharply, seeing that i was about to answer. "you know very well that i am no longer like them; you have formed my heart for a different love to that of the harem. i no longer love you just as they do. no! as for you, you shall love me just as you please--as your servant, if such is your will. imprison me, if you like, as a punishment; all i want is to see you, and to love you. yes, i was wrong in striking that hadidjé. you know very well that i am still a savage, for you have often told me so. well, then, teach me your own ideas, your religion. tell me what you wish me to be?" she added finally, in tones so soft and tender that i was quite overcome by her. i was astounded by this language, by this impassioned eloquence which i had never suspected in her, and which i now heard from her lips for the first time. the butterfly of love had spread out its wings. psyche was born for love! no longer for that passive and vague love which was but the awakening of the senses and of pleasure, but for that love of the heart which is life itself, with its sorrows, its joys, and its ecstacies. i contemplated it full of surprise, experiencing the fascination of some new enchantment. louis, how can i describe it? within an hour after i had entered kondjé-gul's room; our quarrel, her jealousies, her offence, and the punishment i had resolved upon, were all forgotten! nevertheless, appreciating more completely now the defeat to which i had submitted, i could not fail to perceive the embarrassment which such strange conduct would cause me. it would, at any rate, be remarkably awkward for my wives to learn that the violent scene which had passed, and poor hadidjé's dagger-wound, had actually become the occasion for a reconciliation with kondjé-gul. how could i show my face before the victim to whom it was my duty to grant justice? it was really impossible for me to show such contempt for _fas_ and _nefas_ as i should do were i to reward her assault upon hadidjé in such an extraordinary fashion as by pardoning her. what in the world would zouhra and nazli say? it would be all over with my authority and my reputation. at any cost, therefore, it was necessary for me to conceal my very imprudent weakness until their passions had calmed down, or until some conciliatory advances on the part of kondjé-gul to hadidjé had led to the forgiveness of this deplorable folly. but directly i attempted to appeal to her reason, kondjé-gul, full of pride at having won me back, and even making use of my desertion as a weapon in her hands, would not hear of humiliating herself before a rival. in vain i represented to her that my own dignity, "the proprieties," and justice were at stake; she held fast to her victory, and would not forego any of its advantages. finally, however, she comprehended the gravity of the situation. "well, do you know what we'll do?" she said; "it will be so nice! they will all believe that you have given me a tremendous scolding. and so you have, for you _were_ cruel when first you came in!" "i suppose you did not deserve it then?" i answered. "hold your tongue, sir!" she said, putting her finger up to her mouth, and pouting like a little child. "you're going to begin again! let me tell you my plan, which will settle all our difficulties." "let me hear your plan." "very well; you shall tell them that you have been inexorable, and that you have treated me as an odious creature. for my part, i shall look still more angry with you. before them, we will scowl at each other, and make them believe that all is quite at an end between us, and that you have decided to send me away and have me sold." "what a capital idea!" i said to her. "yes, do let us. it will be so delightful, so clandestine! and then i shall feel that you love me better than them!" "because we shall deceive them, i suppose." "yes, yes!" she exclaimed, with a laugh; "because we shall deceive them! besides," she added in a tone of conviction, "you must know very well yourself that there is no other rational course for us. in the first place i swear i will never beg the pardon of this miserable hadidjé--never!" for the present it was clearly necessary to agree to this compromise, which at least provided for the exigencies of decorum. when i left kondjé-gul i returned to the château from motives of prudence, in order to avoid rousing the suspicions of my wives. nevertheless i must admit it was not without some apprehensions that i returned the next day to the harem. but i was soon reassured when i saw the amiable satisfaction which prevailed among my houris. the absence of kondjé-gul, who remained in stoic seclusion, left no doubt in their minds that she was in complete disgrace and would certainly be sent away. i even gathered that the silly creature had shown nazli some blue marks which she had made on her own skin, and told her that i had beaten her! hadidjé, rather proud of her wound, continued to give herself interesting airs as the principal heroine of this terrible tragedy. as it was in reality merely a scratch, which hurt her very little, her only object in complaining was to emphasize her caprices. after the stormy days we had just gone through, this morning passed like an idyl. their spirits were all harmonious; and i left them firmly convinced that from the way i performed my great act of justice they had no longer anything to fear at the hands of a rival. satisfied at this termination of the incident, which had caused me no small anxiety, i was returning to the château, when lo and behold! as i was passing the bushes, who should appear but kondjé-gul, who ran up and threw herself into my arms. "how's this?" i said to her; "you here!" "yes, dear; i wanted to see you and kiss you," she exclaimed, bounding with joy like a child; "and to hear you tell me that you love me still!" "you mad creature, suppose anyone were to see you!" "all right!" she replied; "i jumped down from my window, for they think i am a prisoner there. i slipped under the verandah, so as not to be noticed by mohammed, and came here to wait for you. now, don't scold me. now that i have seen you i am going back, for fear i should rouse the suspicion of your _wives_. tell me if i'm not clever!" then, just as she was running away again, she added in a little tone of importance, "and mind _you're_ careful too!" eight days have passed since the dramatic events, of which i have related to you the singular termination. here i am involved in a regular conspiracy of deceit; i have a secret intrigue with one of my wives. kondjé-gul plays her part of estrangement in a most curious fashion, with an affectation of melancholy, combined with haughtiness, and the silly creature is delighted with her efforts. after two or three days of seclusion, she reappeared, talked cynically of her approaching departure, and rejoiced over it. we treat each other like spouses definitely divorced from each other, who are nevertheless paying each other, as well-bred people should do, a final tribute of strict politeness after the irreparable breach. hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra, confident in a dominion which appears to them henceforth assured, admire my great qualities as a dispenser of justice. my dear louis, do you wish me to confess to you the most remarkable consequence of this business? yes, of course you do. i promised that this psychological study should be conducted with sincerity, and that nothing should be shirked. well then, in the course of my analytical observations, this mystery with kondjé-gul, these tastings of forbidden fruit, form certainly the most exquisite experience i have met with. you may tell me, if you like, that i am a _pandour_, and that my taste has been perverted by a life of unbridled epicureanism; you may tell me that the charms of duplicity, of falsehood, and of this connivance in the guise of a childish deception, are exercising a morbid fascination over my demoralized heart. you may be right. i would only ask you to express yourself somewhat less bluntly. at any rate, you will not, i presume, expect me to account for the frailties of our mortal nature. i guess what you are thinking--out with it! notwithstanding my fine array of principles and the strict vows i made to myself to distribute my affections equally between my _cadines_, it certainly looks very much as if i have selected a favourite. have i fallen to this extent? i don't know. what is the good, moreover, of arguing about it? is it true that undisturbed possession is the rock upon which love splits, and that constraint, on the contrary, acts as a spur to it? instead of arguing aimlessly about such inconsistencies in human nature, it seems to me much simpler to recognise in them, as kondjé-gul does, a decree of fate. can you blame me for sacrificing futile theories to the higher motives by which i am guided? the fact is that this necessity for dissimulation, these deceptions, and these clandestine interviews, have produced between kondjé-gul and me a sort of spring-tide of delightful expansion of the affections. you should see us in the daytime, both of us as stiff as starch in the presence of the others. you should see the manoeuvres we perform in order to exchange a sly smile or a shake of the hands out of sight. you should see also what pretty little airs of disdain she puts on for her rivals, who are slumbering in their paradise of illusion! if we are alone by chance, she says, "quick! _your wives_ are not here," and throws herself into my arms. those words coming from her lips, will reveal to you quite a new order of sentiments, a strange form of love, which could only spring from the education of the harem. although civilised already at heart, kondjé-gul being still backward in her ideas and traditional associations, does not trouble herself about my other wives. she could not conceive of my being reduced to such a singular state of destitution as that of a poor or a miserly man, who abstains from the luxury of a few odalisques. in her eyes, hadidjé, zouhra, and nazli, form part of my establishment, and of my daily routine; while _she_ possesses me in secret. for her sake, i am unfaithful to them, i enter her chamber at night by the window, which i climb up to when all are asleep. all this, you will tell me, is folly on my part. ah, my dear fellow, our pleasure in life is only made up of such trifles, which our imagination generally provides for us. in those secret interviews i discovered in kondjé-gul, who was certainly endowed with a frank and straightforward mind, a number of graces which i had never been able to detect before during our intercourse in the harem. nothing could be stranger or more fascinating than the love of this poor slave-sweetheart, still so humble and timid, and dazzled as it were by the brilliancy of her dream. her oriental ideas and the superstitions of her childhood, mingled with the vague notions which she has acquired of our world and of a truer ideal, form within her heart and in her mind a most original collection of contrasts. one is reminded of a bird suddenly surprised at feeling her wings, but not yet venturing to launch out into the open. add to all these attractions the impulses of a passion, exalted perhaps by solitude or by satisfaction at her victory over her rivals, and, even if you blame my conduct, you will at least understand the seductions which precipitated my fall. at férouzat we have great news: the camels have been discovered! a letter from captain picklock informed us of this. my uncle is quite jubilant; and we have planned a trip to marseilles to meet them. another piece of news is that my aunt has undertaken with doctor morand, without appearing to have a hand in it, a great philanthropic work. i must tell you that a few years ago the doctor discovered here a hot spring of ferruginous water, the effects of which upon the few patients whom he was able to induce to visit this hole, have been simply marvellous. what is wanted now is to establish there some sort of hospital for convalescents. my aunt at once decided that she, my uncle, and i should find the funds for it. a hundred thousand francs are more than sufficient for the modest foundation which we contemplate. but from motives of delicacy, and in order to avoid any appearance of ostentation, we arranged with the mayor and the vicar to open a subscription, in order that the enterprise might appear to be supported by public charity, and that all personal liberality should be concealed by associating the whole district with it. the consequence was that férouzat has had a visit from the prefect of the department, accompanied by several members of the general council, and that, in addition to this, my aunt has organised a committee of the leading inhabitants of the neighbourhood. of course i am her secretary, and i leave you to guess whether her activity overworks me. i assure you my aunt has in her the making of a statesman. my dear friend, an incident of noteworthy importance, and of quite exceptional gravity, has just thrown me into the greatest perturbation of mind. the other morning my aunt started upon a round of calls on behalf of her great enterprise. "andré," she said to me, "come with me like a good nephew; i need your help." so off we started in the carriage, down the great drive of the château; i thinking that we were going to the doctor's, or else to the camboulions. when we arrived at the gate, bernard asked from his box for his orders. "to el-nouzha," said my aunt. "what!" i exclaimed, "to mohammed-azis?" "yes," she replied; "his excellency's name will look very nice on our list. it will be a sort of pledge of our excellent foreign relations." "have you forgotten? a mahometan!" "certainly: an infidel's charity is quite as good in its effects as a christian's." "but he lives a very retired life. such a visit will take him very much by surprise." "you are intimate with him; you introduce me. nothing could be more correct; that's why i brought you with me." in truth nothing could be more correct; i was caught in her trap, and could say nothing more, for fear of exciting suspicion in her alert and penetrating mind. i had no doubt in my own mind that my aunt's real object was to satisfy a curiosity which she had cherished for a long time past. how could i oppose this tenacious purpose of hers? by what plausible pretext could i divert her from taking a step so natural, and so cleverly justified? i was caught, and my only hopes rested in mohammed's behaviour, and in his gibberish dialect, which would at least render conversation so difficult, that it would be easy for me to intervene. we rolled on in the carriage; my aunt was delighted. i succeeded pretty well in concealing my apprehensions. after all, the chief danger seemed to be over directly my aunt stopped at the official entrance of el-nouzha. the "selamlik," inhabited by mohammed, where we were received, is according to the turkish custom, entirely separated from the harem, the gardens of which are walled off from it, and hidden from sight. in a quarter of an hour we arrived in front of his excellency's abode. the gate was shut, as it always is. the footman got down and rang, but no one answered the bell. for a moment i had hopes; but at the third ring of the bell (which my aunt ordered), one of mohammed's servants, a cerberus stationed on this side of the house, showed himself at the grating of the inner door. "his excellency mohammed-azis is at home, is he not?" shouted my aunt. "tell him that monsieur andré de peyrade has called to see him." recognising me in the carriage, cerberus hesitated. he was actually going to open the gate to let the carriage pass through. i sharply commanded him to do as my aunt told him. to give mohammed warning, was at once to put him on his guard. "there is no need for taking the carriage in," said my aunt; "we will cross the lawn on foot. the lawn is there still, i suppose?" "yes, aunt." "well, then, give me your hand to get out, and now forward! if his excellency will not receive us, i shall at least have had a glimpse of a corner of the park. what a funny idea it was of the captain to let him this place!" she led me on without any more ado, and we entered. "oh! the sycamores have grown splendidly," she said. at that moment we noticed mohammed coming down the steps, and walking towards us. "ah, his excellency has not forsaken his old ideas!" said my aunt; "he still wears the costume of the true believers. as he is coming, let us hurry on, to be polite." the danger was impending, nothing could now save me from it. i summoned up all my self-control. when i was a few steps off his excellency, i slipped away quickly and ran up to him. "be careful," i said to him in a whisper; "it is my aunt. keep your counsel, and don't let her suspect anything." then i went through the formal introduction, delivering it in the famous _sabir_ which i told you of. mohammed in the same idiom was fashioning a compliment as profound as it was difficult to understand, when my aunt all at once answered him in the purest turkish.--i felt myself quite lost. a minute afterwards we were ensconced in the drawing-room of the "selamlik." my aunt described the object of her visit. i must tell you that this rascal mohammed played his part with the most affable gravity imaginable, albeit somewhat timidly, as if he felt whizzing through the air a shadowy reminder of the stick with which, no doubt, my uncle had trained him. i kept my eye on him all the time, and his eye wandered from me to my aunt with a distressed expression. great drops of perspiration started from his face. finally, at a sign from me, he generously promised his subscription, and on the whole got through the ordeal very well. my anxieties being now removed, i was beginning to breathe more fully, when my aunt, just as the interview was coming to a close, expressed to him, in the most gracefully delicate manner possible, her desire to pay a visit to his daughters, whose acquaintance she would be delighted to make. i was stupefied. to have refused the _entrée_ of the harem to a lady of my aunt's rank would have been an offence to her; she was too well acquainted with mussulman customs for it to be possible to put her off with any pretext. mohammed, still maintaining his dignified attitude, replied without any hesitation, by a gesture of delighted acquiescence, and without the least embarrassment got up, saying that he was about to inform them of their good fortune. i felt rather reassured. from the manner in which the old fellow had acted "his excellency," it was clear that this was not the first time he had been called upon to "save the situation." "you would like to follow me, i daresay," said my aunt with a laugh, as soon as he had left us. "why, of course," i replied, in a careless enough tone. "still, if his daughters take after him, you will admit that it may be better to content myself with my illusions." "you dear innocent boy! why, with a turk, you never know what to expect!" mohammed came back to tell my aunt that her visit had been announced, and then, preceding her with a dignified bow he opened for her the gates communicating with the harem. i remained behind. what would happen? although the remarkable self possession of my eunuch had set me more at my ease, it was a critical moment. it was evident that there would be great excitement among my houris. they would feel at home gossiping with my aunt, as she spoke turkish, and they would very likely let out everything. if one of them mentioned my name only, my aunt would guess it all. i waited in a state of suspense such as you can imagine. finally, after half-an-hour of cruel anxieties, the sound of the closed door in the neighbouring room informed me that i was about to know my fate. my aunt came in, and i did not dare look her in the face. fortunately i gathered from her first words that i had nothing more to fear; she complimented mohammed upon his good fortune as the father of such charming daughters, promising often to return to spend a few hours with them, and then at last we said "good-bye" to his excellency. on our return, my aunt persisted in her eulogiums upon the young turkish women, chaffing me about my long solitary period of waiting for her, separated only by a few walls from those pretty birds shut up in their golden cage. during the whole of luncheon she regaled my uncle with her description of these wonderful beauties. he kept looking at me from the corner of his eye with a furious expression. as soon as i could escape, i ran off to el-nouzha to question mohammed about what had happened in the harem. he related the whole scene to me in detail. nazli, hadidjé, and zouhra were alone when he went to prepare them for my aunt's visit. as koudjé-gul was reading in her room, she had not been informed of it. at the news of such a great event my houris screamed with joy. trained as he had been by my uncle never to forget his part as the father, he had taken care to remind them that, in accordance with french usage, they must not allow it to be in the least suspected that they knew me. they promised to do as he wished them, swearing faithfully to keep all his commands. my aunt was then introduced. when they saw her, my houris rose up rather frightened, but she soon set them at ease with a kind word, and then conversation began. needless to say, the countess's toilet formed the chief topic of discourse. i will not try to depict for you the state of excitement in which i found my sultanas, nor the accounts which they had to give me themselves of this great event. their sanguine imaginations were already occupied by the absolute necessity, as they deemed it, of returning my aunt's call. her kindness had very naturally charmed them to the point of believing that no obstacle could arise to hinder the continuance of friendly relations so well inaugurated. they went on chattering all the evening about the incidents of this lucky and delightful event, taking particular pleasure in repeating before koudjé-gul who had been absent (and whom they confidently hoped to exclude from their new relations), all the kind things which the pasha's wife had said to them. it was certainly a splendid revenge upon their rival for that evening escapade which she had boasted so much about. poor kondjé-gul, disappointed as she was already at having had no share in this unexpected treat, listened without a word, her sad eyes questioning me all the time. i reassured her with a nod, letting the silly creatures prattle away in their glee, and amuse themselves with sanguine projects of such a revolutionary character that it would have been impossible to discuss them. i began to consider for myself the best way to cut short these unforeseen complications. although i was out of danger for the present, the veil which concealed the secrets of el-nouzha was only supported by a thread. my aunt was not the woman to remain long deceived, and with her quick mind, the slightest imprudent word, the slightest clue, would suffice to arouse her suspicions. i did not even feel sure but what my aunt, impelled by her curiosity, might be only too eager to exchange visits with his excellency's daughters, and the very thought of this was enough to make me tremble. the result of my cogitations was a resolve to take decisive measures for putting a stop to such extremely delicate and critical complications as i apprehended. it might, indeed, have been possible for me, while carefully mystifying every one, to have continued unabashed my oriental pursuits and avocations under the secure shelter of the walls of el-nouzha. they represented, after all, nothing worse than one of those intrigues in the neighbourhood with which my aunt had herself credited me, but after this visit to the kasre which had brought her into contact with my houris, the most ordinary respect for the proprieties required me to prevent such conjunctures from recurring. moreover, our time at férouzat was drawing to a close, for we were to spend the winter in paris. i therefore determined to anticipate our departure, and to remove my harem immediately. once lost in the crowd and din of paris, my secret would be safe. the removal is now settled. a talk with my uncle simplified matters. as you may imagine, i had to explain to him the risks entailed by such an occurrence as my aunt's visit, which might lead her mind to revert to some incidents in the captain's past life which had so far remained unintelligible. barbassou pasha did not trouble himself very seriously about it, but he approved of my decision, and, contenting himself with a few growls at me by the way, affectionately proceeded to give me the assistance of his experience. it seems that he has--or rather i have--a house at paris, which was furnished expressly for the use of his excellency mohammed azis during my uncle's visits there. orders have already been sent to have it ready. then plausible reasons for my departure have been invented; some pretended business of importance, which we have been discussing several days past before my aunt, and which "might necessitate my presence in paris." truly my uncle's composure is wonderful! as to my houris of el-nouzha, i need hardly tell you that the coming journey has been the subject of a most extraordinary enthusiasm on their part. the idea of seeing paris has quite turned their heads, and caused them to forget their proposed visits to férouzat. in order to put all conjectures off the scent, mohammed is going to start to-morrow ostensibly for marseilles, as if he were returning to turkey. the cool november weather having set in, nothing could be more natural than this return to his native land. the end of his journey, however, will be the faubourg st. germain, to which he will direct his course by a circuitous route, and where i shall rejoin him on my arrival at paris next week. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. the deed is done! we managed everything without the slightest hitch. i write to you from paris, from our house in the rue de varennes; it seems like years since i was last there, so many things have happened during the six months since i left it. all my surroundings belong to a life so different from my present one, that it requires an exertion of thought to identify myself and realise my position here. my harem is established in the rue de monsieur--in the former "parc aux cerfs" of my uncle--a splendid mansion, the gardens of which reach to the boulevard des invalides. my uncle has absolutely the genius of an ancient epicurean transferred by accident into our own century. to look at the street, with its cold and deserted aspect, one might imagine oneself in a corner of aristocratic versailles. my mystery is safely hidden away there. mohammed while at paris is no longer an exiled minister, but simply a rich turk who has acquired a taste for european civilisation. his name is omer-rashid-effendi, a name under which he has already passed here twice. my houris are astonished with all they see, and their pleasure is indescribable. of course my first care was to europeanise their toilettes. in pursuance of my orders (for, as you may be sure, i do not appear in such matters) a fashionable dressmaker was sent for by mohammed. what a business it was! the difficulty was to avoid making them, with their oriental styles and deportments, look stiff and awkward when confined for the first time in the garb of our civilised torture-house. by a happy compromise between fashion and fancy, the clever _artiste_ has contrived for them costumes which are marvels of good taste and simplicity. nothing could be more successful than this metamorphosis; their _coiffures_ complete the picture, and i can hardly recognise my almées under the bewitching little hats worn by our parisian women. i assure you it is a transfiguration replete with surprises and unexpected charms. attired like our women of fashion, their striking and original beauty, which was my admiration at el-nouzha, impresses me in quite a novel manner, which i seem to understand better as i compare them by the side of our own women. like young foreign ladies of distinction habited in the costumes of our civilisation, they seem to shed around them wherever they go a sort of exotic fragrance. everything, of course, had to be changed now that they are in paris; they could no longer follow the routine of their former existence within the four walls of the harem. they were now at liberty to go out walking, and take little trips; but here at once appeared a most serious difficulty for them to overcome. how could they show themselves in the streets, the champs elysées, or the bois, without their veils just like infidels? that was a serious question! it was impossible for them to make up their minds to such a shameful breach of mussulman law; and, if i must admit it, i myself experienced a strange sort of revulsion at the thought of it. yes, to this have i come! nevertheless, on the other hand, it was quite out of the question for them to shew themselves out of doors enshrouded in their triple veils, attracting wherever they went the remarks of the idle crowd. at last, after a great many hesitations, zouhra, who is the bravest of them all, ventured to go out with me, buried in the recesses of a brougham, and protected by a very thick kind of mantilla, which after all was hardly any less impenetrable than a _yashmak_. then they grew bolder, and impelled by curiosity, their coquetry getting the better of their bashful timidity, they took a drive one day in a landau to the bois with mohammed. i mounted on horseback and met them, without appearing to know them. everything went off as well as could be. the carriage which i had purchased is severely simple in style, as is suitable for a foreigner of distinction. in his european disguise mohammed maintains that expression of serene dignity which so excellently suits his part of a father escorting his three daughters. there is, in short, nothing about the latter to excite attention. if a dark pair of eyes is sometimes distinguishable through the embroidered veils, the fashion, at any rate, permits the features to be sufficiently disguised to conceal the beauty of my sultanas from over-bold glances. of course poor kondjé-gul, still living away from the others, does not take part in these frolics; but we thus gain some hours of liberty. on the second day, while my _wives_ were driving in the bois, we took our opportunity of going out, like true lovers, arm in arm; it was most delightful! we went on foot to the boulevards. you may guess what raptures kondjé-gul was in each step we took. it was the first time she had been out with me alone, the first time she had felt herself free and released from the imprisonment of the harem. many an inquisitive fellow, seeing us pass, and struck with her dignified manner, stopped of a sudden, and tried to distinguish her features through the veil. we quietly laughed at his disappointment. when we arrived at the rue de la paix, we went into some of the well-known jewellers' shops. at the sight of so many marvels, you may guess how she was dazzled. she felt as if in a dream. we spoke in turkish; and the puzzled shop-keepers gazed in astonishment upon this strange display of asiatic charms, which they had evidently met with for the first time. all this amused us; and it is unnecessary to add that i quitted these haunts of temptation with a considerably lighter purse than when i entered them. we have already had several of these little sprees, and nothing can be more fascinating than kondjé-gul's childish delight; everything is new to her. transported, as if by magic, from her monotonous existence at el-nouzha into the midst of these splendours, this free life, and this animated world, she feels like one walking in a dream; the whole atmosphere intoxicates her. we form plans innumerable. in the first place we have decided that her position in regard to my wives shall be definitely fixed, and that she shall live henceforth separated from them in another part of the house, where she shall have private attendants. we shall thus be able to see each other without any constraint, and she will no longer be subjected to the sneers of my silly houris, who have been treating her apparent disgrace too brutally since our arrival at paris. my proud kondjé-gul, in the consciousness of her ascendency over me, would be sure to make a scene with them some day. besides, as i have already told you, she furnishes me every day with a more and more engrossing subject of study. i should like you to understand what sweet and seductive labour this progressive initiation is; i am watching the development of a mind which i am myself forming. there is no subject in regard to her, not even her receptive intelligence, which fails to afford me innumerable surprises. sometimes i discover original views and opinions of hers upon matters connected with our european civilisation, at the correctness of which i am absolutely amazed. her progress is surprising, and she wishes to learn everything, knowing how much is required in order to become "civilised," as she calls it. my uncle and my aunt are in paris. a month without any news, you say. and you talk sarcastically about my leisure, and rally me upon the subject of that famous system, which i used to boast was a simplification of life. if i might judge from your twaddle, you imagine me to be saddled with the very cares and worries from which i justly boasted that i was exempt. you picture me running backwards and forwards, and incessantly occupied with my four wives, so that i have not even time to write to you. absurd fancy: this is my real situation. as soon as my four wives were settled down in their new home, they permitted me much more freedom than did the least burdensome of my former amours. no anxieties now, no jealousies, no fears for the future. they are not like some of those feminine taskmasters who take entire possession of you, forcing you to follow the adored object to the theatre, or take it to the ball, in order to have the pleasure of watching it flirting bare-shouldered with some intimate friend, who will perhaps be its next lover. no, in my _rôle_ of sultan my amours are modestly hidden from profane eyes in the recesses of my harem, and there i am always welcome whenever i choose to come. i keep the key in my pocket. at any hour of the day or night i can go there in my quality of owner without having to leave my club, my friends, my work, or my amusements a moment earlier than i desire. such, then, is the "anxious existence" which you attribute to me. find me a husband who can act in the same way. still, as might have been foreseen, great changes have taken place in the internal arrangements of my household, where it became necessary that the turkish elements should be partially replaced by others more adapted to the exigencies of western civilization. a memorable event has occurred. hadidjé, nazli, and zouhra went the other day to the opera. it is needless to say that i was there. i must admit that their nervousness was so extreme at making this bold experiment that, watching them from my own stall as they came in, i thought for a moment that they were going to run away again. already in their walks they were getting into training, and in regard to their veils exhibited a certain amount of coquetry; but now it became necessary to disregard the law of mahomet entirely. they had never seen the inside of a theatre before, so you can imagine that when they found themselves in the box, with their unveiled faces exposed to the gaze of a multitude of infidel eyes, all the bold resolutions which they had made for this decisive effort were put to the rout. strange as such mohammedan bashfulness may seem to us, they felt, as they afterwards told me, that appearing there unveiled, was "just like exhibiting themselves naked." however, as soon as this first impression was overcome, thanks chiefly to the exhortations of mohammed, who was almost at his wits' ends to manage them, they succeeded in putting on sufficient assurance to dissemble their very sincere dread, so that at a distance it looked merely like excessive shyness. the lifting of the curtain for the first act of "don juan" fortunately changed the current of their emotions. during the _entr'acte_ their box became the object of attraction to the subscribers and the frequenters of first night's performances. their indolent, oriental type of beauty, notwithstanding the partial disguise effected by their present costumes, could not fail to produce a sensation. who, it was asked, was this old gentleman with his three daughters of such surprising beauty? in the jockey club's box, where i went to hear the gossip, everyone was talking about them, as of some important political event; mohammed was an american millionaire, according to some, a russian prince, or a rajah just arrived from india, according to others. when i smiled in a significant manner (as i began to do, on purpose), they immediately surmised that i fancied i knew more about the matter than the rest of them, thereupon they surrounded me, and pressed me with questions. i had already come to the conclusion that it would be better to calm their minds, and thus avoid all inconvenient enquiries. i therefore gave them an account, which after all was not far from the truth, namely, that omer-rashid-effendi was a rich turk, "whose acquaintance i had the honour of making at damascus, and who had come to stay at paris with his family." i thus insured myself against any suspicion of mystery arising in connection with my visits to the house in the rue de monsieur, in the event of these coming to light by any chance. our relations, you will see, were thus defined once for all. this new life is nothing but a succession of delights to my almées; and i have really now attained the ideal in the way of harems, through the absence of that monotony which is the inevitable result of the system of rigid seclusion. under the influence of our civilized surroundings, the ideas of my houris are undergoing a gradual transformation. they have french lady's maids, and their study of our refinements of fashion has opened out quite a new world of coquettish charms to them. my "little animals" have grown into women: this single word will convey to you the whole delicious significance of this story of mine, the secret of which you alone in the whole world possess. as we had decided, kondjé-gul has been separated from her over-jealous companions. hadidjé, zouhra, and nazli have taken this measure to be a confirmation of her disgrace, and knowing that she lives in a sequestered corner of the house, they fancy their triumph more assumed than ever. i can place implicit confidence in the discretion of my servants--who wait on us like mutes in a seraglio: consequently kondjé-gul and i are as free as possible. when i want to go out with her, i pay a short visit to my wives, and after a quarter of an hour's talk, leave them and go off in my carriage, in the recesses of which my darling reclines. now you see what a simple device it is and how ingenious; still it involves a certain amount of constraint for me, and an isolation hard to endure for kondjé-gul. she reads and devours everything that i bring her in the way of books; but the days are long, and mohammed, with his time taken up by the others, cannot accompany her out of doors. i therefore conceived the idea of taking her away from the harem altogether, and thus relieving her of the contemptuous insults which my other silly women still find opportunities of inflicting upon her. the difficulty was to procure a chaperon for her, some kind of suitable and reliable duenna whom i could leave with her in a separate establishment; this duenna has been found. the other day kondjé-gul and i were talking together about a little house which i had discovered in the upper part of the champs elysées, and of an english governess, who seemed to me to possess the right qualifications for a pretended mother: "if you like," said kondjé-gul, "i can tell you a much simpler arrangement." "well?" i replied. "instead of this governess whom i don't know, i would much rather have my mother. i should be so happy at seeing her again!" "your mother?" i exclaimed with surprise; "do you know where she is then?" "oh, yes! for i often write to her." she then told me all her past history, which i had never before thought of asking her, believing that she had been left alone in the world. it afforded me a complete revelation of those turkish customs which seem so strange to us. kondjé-gul's mother, as i have told you, was a circassian, who came to constantinople to enter the service of a cadine of the sultan. kondjé-gul being a very pretty child, her mother had, in her ambitious fancy, anticipated from her beauty a brilliant career for her. in order to realise this expectation, she left her at twelve years old with a family who were instructed to bring her up better than she could have done herself, until kondjé-gul was old enough to be sought after as a cadine or a wife. this hope on the part of her mother was accomplished, as you know, for the girl was purchased for a good round sum by mohammed. thus poor kondjé-gul fulfilled her destiny. then she related to me how her mother, several years ago, had found a better situation for herself with a french consul at smyrna, and had learnt french there. kondjé-gul's idea was a happy one, and i was inclined to entertain it. i consented to her writing to smyrna, and some days later she received an answer to the effect that in about a couple of months her mother would be able to join her providing the requisite means were sent her for this purpose. i have a house in view where they can live together. it is a little house belonging to count de téral, who is on his way back to lisbon: one might really fancy he had got it ready on purpose for me. what have you to say to this, you profound moralist? [illustration] [illustration] chapter viii. again you complain of my silence, in a letter written with the object of overwhelming me with abuse; and you mix up sarcasms (through which your childish curiosity is very transparent) with philosophical remarks which reveal the snobbishness of your nature. in fact, from the tone of your letters, one might imagine i was threatened by strange complications, and that you were hoping every morning to read the account of some catastrophe. for once in a way your longing for an important event will not be disappointed, for i have a weighty piece of news for you. as it belongs to the most strictly moral order of events, you may listen without any anxiety. as you are aware, my aunt and uncle came to paris a fortnight ago, and will stay here all the winter. the house in the rue de varennes has resumed its gay honours; we give receptions, dinners, and everything else that you are familiar with, but embellished this time by the presence of the charming countess of monteclaro, who supplies that lively element of family life which we rather missed formerly. my aunt has discovered here a young cousin of hers, count daniel kiusko, a capital fellow, whom i have quite made friends with. having given you these details, i will now proceed with my story. the other morning, after breakfast, as i was about to return to my room (for whatever you may believe, i am working hard just now), my uncle stopped me, and without any further preliminaries began: "by the way, andré, i expect madame saulnier and my god-daughter anna campbell, your betrothed, to dinner this, evening. i should not mind letting you make her acquaintance. if you happen to be curious to see her, don't make any engagements at the club, and come home punctually." "really!" exclaimed my aunt with a laugh, and without giving me time to answer: "from the way you put it, one might think you were talking of some doll that you intended to offer andré for his birthday!" "what the deuce do you mean by that, my dear?" asked the captain in his imperturbable way. "i mean," said my aunt, "that this little acquaintance which you wish they should make with each other before you marry them, seems to me a very necessary preliminary." "pooh! they've still a good year before them! besides, this little matter has nothing to do with romance." then turning to me he continued; "well, if that suits you for to-day, i have given you notice." "capital!" added my aunt. "well, andré! how does it suit you?" "why, aunt," i said, laughing in my turn at their little dispute; "i think my uncle may rely equally with you upon the pleasure it will give me." "all right, that's settled!" continued my aunt in an inimitable tone of hilarity; "at seven o'clock punctually, my dear nephew, you will come and fall in love." my uncle took no more notice of this last ironical shaft than of the rest, but occupied himself with selecting a cigar, remarking that what he had were too dry. my aunt availed herself of the opportunity of continuing her conversation with me. "between you and me," she said, "i may tell you that you are not much to be pitied, for she is a charming girl, and you would really lose a good deal by not making her acquaintance." "i was only waiting for my uncle to decide the question." "you must at any rate be grateful to him for letting you meet _by chance_ before your wedding-day," she continued. "oh, dear! one might think i wanted to marry them at a minute's notice!" said my uncle at these words. "just like a woman's exaggerations! perhaps you would have liked me to have introduced her to him before my last voyage, when she was a lass of fourteen, thin, awkward, and gawkish, as you all are at that age." "thanks; why don't you say monkeys while you are about it?" replied my aunt with a curtsey. but my uncle intended to make a speech of it, and continued: "who would have left in his mind the disagreeable recollection of a small, flat, angular creature, with arms like flutes, and hands and feet as long as that!" "poor little creature! i shudder at the thought of it! however, in your ineffable wisdom, you have fattened her up with mystery." "ta, ta, ta!" continued my uncle; "i have made a fine, healthy, solid young woman of her, who promises to make just the right sort of wife for andré! and i maintain, in spite of your ideas on the subject, that i have done well to bring them up at a distance from each other, in order to preserve the freshness of their feelings, and avoid the necessity of that awkward and painful transformation of the affections which is so difficult for a couple who have grown up together and eaten their bread and butter together as brats in the nursery. to-day they will find each other just as they ought to before they become husband and wife. all the rest of the business must be left to them. if they like each other very much they will make a love-match, if not, a _mariage de raison_, which is just as good." my uncle having concluded thus, it only remained for me to signify my compliance with his wishes. as you may well understand, i awaited with impatience the hour for this first interview, and i was in the drawing-room that evening some time before my _fiancée's_ arrival. my aunt was in the heaven of delight, just like every woman looking forward to a romantic incident, and she did not fail to remark my eagerness. as to the captain, like a being superior to such sentimental trifles, he was quietly reading his paper. he was just commencing a political discussion when the servant opened the folding doors and announced: "madame saulnier and mademoiselle campbell." to tell the truth, i must admit that i felt somewhat nervous. a lady of about forty years old came in, accompanied by a young person in a regulation convent dress. i stood up, while my uncle went forward to meet his _god-daughter_, and kissed her affectionately on the forehead. then he led me to her by the hand, in a dignified and ceremonious manner, and said without more ado: "anna, this is andré! andré, this is anna! kiss each other!" this form of introduction, with its laconic precision, had at least the advantage that it left no uncertainty between us, and at once indicated to us our proper course of procedure. too well trained to my uncle's habits, i did not hesitate a moment, but kissed my betrothed; after which i said, "how do you do?" which, of course, gave me a nice opportunity of looking at her. anna campbell is at the present time just seventeen. she is neither short nor tall, thin nor stout--although the great blue ribbon which she wears over her neck, with a cross suspended from it, already sets off the plump outlines of her bosom. she is neither fair nor dark; her chin is round, her face oval, her nose, mouth, and forehead are all medium-sized, and she has rather pretty blue eyes. generally speaking, she is more pleasant-looking than handsome, and her features on the whole suggest a very gentle disposition united with good health. my uncle took care to impress upon me that she will continue to develop, since her feet and hands are still large for her age, and promise a handsome completion of her growth. in short, my lot is far from a disagreeable one--quite the contrary. as my uncle expresses it, "all the symptoms are good." our dinner was a very lively one. anna campbell, although rather subdued in my presence, did not show any embarrassment. nothing seemed to be new to her; her manners and deportment, and everything about her, revealed the familiar assurance of a child of the family who had come to take a holiday there, and felt herself as much at home as i did. i perceived that she knew the house as well as if she had been brought up in it, and i learnt that during the time when i was at college she and madame saulnier had really lived there for three years. the result of all this was that anna campbell exhibited a pleasant sort of familiarity with my aunt and uncle which i did not at all expect to see. brought up away from each other, and without any previous acquaintance, we were now meeting for the first time at this common centre of our affections, which, unknown to us, had united us since our childhood. this was both original and sweet to think of. once, when my uncle asked for the pickles, anna said: "they are near andré." when the meal was over we left the dining-room. following a russian fashion which my aunt had introduced among us, when we entered the drawing-room, i pressed her hand to my lips, while she kissed me on the forehead. anna did the same; then, without even appearing to think what she was doing, she quietly held up her two cheeks for me to kiss, and afterwards offered them to her godfather. she then ran to the piano, and sat down to it, while we were taking our coffee. "well, what do you think of her?" my uncle asked me. "she is very nice," i replied. "yes, isn't she? just the thing for you, my boy," he observed, as he stirred his cup, with the tranquillity of a pure conscience. "go and talk with her," he continued; "you will find she is not stupid." i went to sit down by anna. "come, play the bass!" she said, moving aside to make room for me, as if we had often played in duet together before. when the piece was finished, we talked about her convent, her friends, and the mother superior, sainte lucie, whom she was much attached to; and she spoke about everything in a confident tone of familiarity, which showed me that she had often talked of me, and had been used to think of me as an absent brother. the understanding is that, on account of her youth, our betrothal is to remain a family secret, which will only be made public when the right time arrives. the evening concluded without any other special incident. at ten o'clock anna went home to her convent. as she was putting her things on, she held out her hand to me, and said: "good-bye, andré!" "good-bye, anna!" i replied; and then my uncle took me away with him to the club, where he sat down to his party at whist. while i am on the subject of my uncle, i must tell you about an adventure which he has just had. he is _dead_, as you are aware, for i have inherited his property. this privilege he will not give up, _because the registration fees have been paid_. the result of this peculiar situation is that he is under certain legal incapacities, which, without troubling him more seriously, do nevertheless cause him some annoyance. three months ago at férouzat, he had to renew his gun-license, which he had taken out seven years before; but as his decease had been formally entered at the prefecture, they would not accept this document, bearing the signature of a defunct person. as you may imagine, he did very well without it, and began to shoot as if nothing had happened! the other morning, however, it chanced, as my uncle was passing our banker's, that he wanted to draw twenty thousand francs for his pocket-money. the cashier, who had known him years ago, was very much surprised to see him in the flesh, but represented to him that it was now quite impossible for him to open an account in his name, as he was legally dead and buried. my uncle, like a law-abiding man, admitted the justice of this observation, and i had to intervene in order to arrange the matter for him. he took no further notice of it; only as he never does anything by halves, he had his visiting cards printed with "the late barbassou" on them; and this was the way he signed himself at our banker's, by which means he pretended that he conformed with all requirements. "you see how simple the whole thing is," he said to me. my amours with kondjé-gul have certainly taken a very remarkable turn. the other day i took her to versailles for an educational and historical excursion; she is continuing her course of civilization, you know. after visiting the palace and the museum, we went into the park. she was in the best of spirits, still excited with the fresh air and freedom which she was enjoying like an escaped prisoner from the harem, and was asking me questions about everything with that charming simplicity of hers which delights me so much, when we arrived in front of diana's bath, where we found a group of three young women most brilliantly dressed, two of whom, as i saw at the first glance, were old acquaintances of mine, very well known in the gay world. young lord b---- accompanied them, and they all recognised me; but lord b----, with the well-bred tact of a man of the world, seeing the company i was in, only nodded slightly to me. with like discretion, as is usual on such occasions, the women made no movement of recognition; yet they could not help--being struck no doubt with the remarkable beauty of my companion--evincing such evident curiosity, that kondjé-gul observed it. i, of course, passed without appearing to notice them. kondjé-gul and i then took a turn up the walk, while i expounded the mythology of the bath to her, and then we went out. "who are those ladies?" she asked me as soon as we were at a good distance from them; "they know you, i could see." "oh, yes," i replied in an indifferent tone, "i have met them several times." "and the young man who was with them also looked at you as if he was one of your friends; why did not you speak to him?" "for discretion's sake, because you were with me, and he was walking with _them_." "ah! i understand," she said; "no doubt they are the women of his harem?" "just so," i answered quite coolly, "and, as i have often told you, according to our customs, the harem is always----" i was trying to think of the right word, when she burst out laughing quite loud. "what are you laughing at, you silly thing?" i asked. "i am laughing at all those stories about your harems which you still make up for me just as you used to do for that idiot hadidjé. i listen to them all, because,--whatever does it matter to me now that i love you! i prefer the happiness of remaining your slave to that of these women, who have no doubt been your mistresses, and whom you don't even condescend to notice when you meet them." "what?" i exclaimed in astonishment; "have you got to know so much already, you little humbug, and have concealed it from me?" "after all you have given me to read to form my mind according to your ideas, surely it was natural that i should some day discover the truth! i only waited for an opportunity of confirming my new knowledge," she continued with a smile. "there are still a lot of things in your country which i cannot understand. but you will teach me them now, won't you?" she added in a coaxing tone. "oh, you young flirt! it seems to me you know everything already!" "why, yes, i feel i know that, for all you may say, i am still no more than a curious toy in your eyes--a strange creature, like some rare bird that you are rather fond of, perhaps, for her pretty plumage." "ah! you're right upon the last point at any rate!" i replied with a laugh. "yes, sir!" she continued in a satisfied tone of pride, "i know that i am handsome!--now don't laugh at me," she added with a charming reproachful look; "what i have to say is quite serious, for it comes from my heart. i was born for a different life, for different sentiments to yours, and i know that i possess none of those qualities which they say make the women of your country so attractive. their ideas and associations are very different to mine, which you call the superstitions of a young barbarian, and which i want to forget in order to learn to understand you and to have no rivals." "are you quite sure that you would not lose by the change?" "thank you," said kondjé-gul; "that's what i call a compliment." "the fact is," i replied, "the very thing i like about you is that you do not in any way resemble the women whom we have just met." "oh!" she said, with an indescribable gesture of pride, "it's not _those_ women i envy! but i see others whom i would like to resemble--in their manners and tone, of course. if you're a nice fellow, do you know what you will do for me?" "what?" "it's a dream, a scheme which i have been continually thinking over. you won't laugh at me, will you?" "no. let's hear your grand scheme." "well, then, if you would like to make me very happy, place me for a few months in one of those convents where your young ladies are educated. you would come and see me every day, so that i should not be too dull away from you." "that's the queerest idea i have ever heard from you; fancy a mahommedan girl at a convent!" i said, with a laugh. i took a great deal of trouble in explaining to her what a foolish project this was; but the result of my attempts at demonstrating the serious obstacles which such ambitious aspirations would encounter, was that in the end i myself entered into her views. the experiment might indeed prove a most instructive one. with kondjé-gul's character, there was an extremely interesting psychological experiment before me. i had found her to be endowed with marvellous natural qualities. with her ardour and enthusiasm, what would be the effect upon her simple imagination of a sudden transition from the ideas of the harem to the subtle refinements of our own society? certainly, i was obliged to admit that such a trial was not without its dangers; but then, was not kondjé-gul already aware that the marital yoke which my houris still believed in was only imaginary? and was it not better, such being the case, for me to complete this work of regeneration, the fruits of which i should in the end reap for myself? so i submitted to kondjé-gul's wishes, and as soon as we returned to paris this important matter was settled. the next day i began to look for the means of carrying it into execution, a search which was attended, however, with a good many difficulties. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. my uncle is going to send for another of my aunts to come to paris. well! what of that?--my uncle is a mussulman, you know; and, being a man of principle, his duties are more onerous than yours, that's all! my services were required to take a little house at passy, where she is to live. i wonder whether it is my aunt gretchen, my aunt euphrosine, or my aunt cora? he has not given me the slightest hint on this point. while awaiting this addition to our family, barbassou-pasha pursues his eccentric career in a manner that beats description. this visit to paris has brought out more than ever the quaint independence of his character. one is reminded of a man who stands on a bridge watching the river flow by, but now and then takes a header into it to cool himself. the other day at the club, he lost sixty-three thousand francs to me at baccarat, just for a little distraction. the evening after, he was entertaining at our house his late lieutenant rabassu, whom he always speaks of as "the cause of his death," and who has come here upon some business. he won eleven francs from him at piquet, playing for a franc the hundred points. for the moment i felt quite alarmed for the poor victim! but my mind was soon set at ease; for rabassu, who is used to his captain's play, knows how to cheat as cleverly as his master. their losses soon balanced each other. putting aside little dissipations of this kind, i should add that "the late barbassou" is really very steady-going for a man of his temperament. he takes everything which comes in the routine of our fashionable life so naturally, that nobody would imagine he had spent several years at the hulks in turkey. my aunt eudoxia, of whom he stands in wholesome awe, and who keeps him in check, forces him to cultivate the vanities of this world. he escorts her to balls and fêtes with all that ceremony with which you are familiar; and quitting the lofty regions of his own philosophical existence, without however permitting anything to disturb his self-possession, he goes forth into the gay and hurried throngs of paris with as little concern as he would into any village street. in short, he is in exquisite form, and--but for the legal disabilities which deprive him of his rights of citizenship--you would find him still exactly what he was when you knew him five years ago. however, the other day he received a little shock in connection with a very simple incident, which might have been perfectly anticipated. we were in my aunt's box at the opera. the pasha, seated by her side, was listening to a singer who was rather more buxom than elegant; and he appeared to be calculating what her nett weight would be, after making deduction for her queen's crown and robes of state. after a minute or so, he seemed to have solved this equation and lost all further interest in the problem, for he began to examine the audience. all of a sudden he shouted out, quite forgetting himself, in his provençal brogue: "_té!_ what's that i see?" "hush!" said my aunt, nudging him with her elbow, without turning round. "but, _bagasse!_ it's mohammed!" he added, in a lower tone. it was indeed mohammed, who attracted some attention as he walked with my houris into their famous box. "well, you're right," replied my aunt. "i recognise his charming daughters." you may be sure my uncle put up his glasses. when all my people were settled down in their box, he surveyed them carefully, interrupting his examination occasionally in order to take a furtive scowl at me. but my aunt's presence kept him quiet. his composure was perfect for that matter, except that he seemed extremely puzzled. there were only three of them--that evidently was not the right number for him. as for me, prudence dictated that i should get out of the way as quickly as possible, leaving him to make what observations he pleased. as i was slipping away quietly to the back of the box, i heard my aunt saying: "are you going to speak to him?" "no; we have had a quarrel!" he growled, looking again for me at his side. but slam went the door, and i was out in the passage, whence i escaped to the back of the scenes and to the green-room. there he joined me during the _entr'acte_. but, as you are aware, "turks do not discuss harem matters." all i could see clearly was that he was in a fury with me. to turn, however, to other things, my perseverance on behalf of kondjé-gul is at last rewarded with complete success. after i had spent a whole week in looking about, i found, in the beaujou district, an institution for young ladies presided over by a madame montier, a kind woman of polished manners. she had suffered a reverse of fortune, which seems to have prepared her for the express purpose of civilizing my kondjé-gul. there are never more than three or four boarders in the house: at the present moment two american girls, daughters of a commodore who is on a mission to the king of siam, are finishing their education there. nothing could suit my purpose better. when the time arrived, however, for putting my plan into execution, i must confess that i could not help feeling considerable embarrassment. i could certainly have introduced kondjé-gul as a young foreign lady, prematurely widowed, who was anxious to qualify herself for french society; but i soon found that this would create an unnecessary complication. decidedly the better course would be for mahommed to introduce her either as his ward or his daughter. under any circumstances it was desirable that i should explain to her the necessity of extreme prudence. at last, one evening, when i thought she was about to revert to this great object of her ambition, i started the subject myself. "i am going to announce an important piece of news," i said to her; "i have found a convent for you where you can stay pending your mother's arrival." "really!" she exclaimed, kissing me. "oh, my dear andré, how kind you are!" "yes; but i must warn you. this realisation of your dream is only possible at the cost of sacrifices, which will perhaps be hard for you to make." "what sacrifices? tell me, quick!" "first, assiduous work, and next, the sacrifice of your liberty; for during the whole time you remain at this establishment, you won't be able to leave the place." "what does that matter?" she exclaimed, "provided i can see you every day!" "but that's exactly what will be impossible." "why?" she asked, in her simplicity. "because, according to our customs, bachelors are never admitted into young ladies' schools," i replied, with a laugh. "but as i belong to you," she continued, with an astonished look, "they will not be surprised at your coming; are not you my master?" "this reason, my dear, although a convincing one for you, would constitute the greatest obstacle; for they must not be allowed on any account to suspect that you are my wife. mohammed alone will introduce you either as his daughter or as a young lady under his charge, and, for conventional reasons, which you will understand later on, this period of study will be a period of separation for us." i then let her know the whole truth about certain of our social conventionalities, concerning which she was still in ignorance. when she learned that our laws declared her free, and the equal of any frenchwoman, and that i had no longer any rights over her, she looked inexpressibly pained. "good heavens!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into my arms, "what do you mean? am i free, and my own mistress, and not yours for ever?" "you are mine, because i love you," i said to her very quickly, seeing her agitation; "and so long as you do not _want_ to leave me--" "leave you! but what would become of me, then, without you?" and her eyes filled with tears. "what a foolish girl you are!" i replied, quite touched at her evident pain; "you are exaggerating the significance of my words: your liberty will make no difference in our relations." "why did you tell me this cruel truth, then? i was so happy in the belief that i was your slave, and in obeying and loving you at the same time." "still it was necessary for me to tell you, as you wish to learn our ideas and customs. your ignorance was a source of danger, for even your questions might lead to the betrayal of relations which must remain a mystery for the rest of the world, and, above all, in the 'pension,' where you are about to live with companions." i had some difficulty in consoling her for this terrible discovery that our laws do not recognise slavery. nevertheless, her desire for further instruction remained very keen. finally, two days afterwards, mademoiselle kondjé-gul entered madame montier's institution, having been presented by her guardian, the worthy omer-rashid-effendi, who made all the necessary arrangements with the majestic dignity which he displays on every occasion. although i have kept myself carefully in the background in all this matter, i watch its progress just the same, and superintend everything. every evening kondjé-gul writes to her guardian, and i get her letters at once: i can assure you they constitute quite an interesting romance. for a whole week kondjé-gul, who had been rather overawed at first and astonished at all her new surroundings, seemed to live like one dazed. she would not trust herself to speak, fearing to appear uncultivated; but she observed, and the results of her observations were most curious. after that i perceived that she was gradually trying her wings; for when she had been initiated a few days into her new life, she soon abandoned her reserve, and has by this time passed the first step in her emancipation. her simplicity of character, and her quaint oriental manners, have secured her some very cordial friendships; and nothing can be more charming than the accounts she gives me of her devotion for her friends, maud and suzannah montague, who are the realisation of perfection in her eyes. of course kondjé-gul's educational programme, as fixed by me, is confined within very modest limits. it consists of music, history, and a slight and general acquaintance with literature. but above all she is expected to acquire that indispensable familiarity with our ideas, and those feminine graces and refinements which can only be learnt by contact with women and girls brought up in good society. a few months at madame montier's will be sufficient for this purpose, and the cultivation of her mind can be completed later on by private lessons. my harem in the faubourg st. germain retains its oriental aspect; it is a corner of the world described in the "arabian nights," where i indulge from time to time, in the midst of paris, in the distractions of a vizier of samarcand or bagdad. there, when the shutters are closed, in my _gynæceum_ (or women's apartment), illuminated by lamps which shed a soft lustre upon us, while the bluish-grey smoke from my narguilé perfumes the atmosphere, my houris lull me to sleep to the music of their taraboucks. with all this i am not quite so satisfied, as i would have liked to describe myself, with certain incidents which have occurred in connection with my harem. certainly, they are all the natural consequences of our life in paris; for i don't suppose you imagine that i had not foreseen the psychological effect which entirely new ideas would unavoidably produce upon the profoundly ignorant minds of my houris. besides, a progressive and judicious emancipation from their previous restraints formed part of my programme for them. but the introduction into the harem of certain high-class lady's-maids, indispensable for initiating my little animals into the subtle mysteries of parisian toilets, has of necessity led to their making a number of discoveries, which have contributed in a remarkable degree to their civilization:--hardly, however, in those elements which i could have most desired. they have all of them got to know a great deal more than was necessary for them about those famous "customs of our harems in france," the principles of which i had endeavoured to teach them. thus i even noticed the other day that i set zouhra and nazli laughing when i reminded them of some point of etiquette. although they are still imbued with the good principles of their native education, it is evident they are being corrupted by the poison of liberalism. this i am convinced of by certain airs of assurance which they have put on, by their coquetries, and by novel and unexpected caprices which they now display. the "rights of woman" have clearly been divulged to them. they talk of walking out by themselves, of visiting the popular theatres and music-halls, and even mabille, the illuminations of which struck their fancy very much the other night, as we were passing the avenue montaigne in the carriage, on our way back from the bois. one little instance will illustrate the situation for you. mohammed's rank and titles have ceased to impress them with any respect; and the day before yesterday zouhra actually had the impudence to say "chut!" to him. this expression will clearly indicate to you an astonishing progress in the refinements of our language; but it will also, no doubt, afford you a text upon which to declaim in that cruelly sarcastic style which your philistine genius revels in. i will, therefore, anticipate you by replying: in the first place, that mohammed does not understand french--a fact which considerably diminishes the gravity of zouhra's disrespect; in the second, that i never doubted but what their stay in paris would open my houris' minds to new ideas; and in the third, that neither did i doubt but what they would acquire, in consequence, more precise notions upon the extent of their rights. woman, like any other animal susceptible of education, possesses the most subtle faculties of imitation. now if, her weak nature being overcome by those impulses towards mischief and malice with which she is peculiarly endowed, she is tempted to commit trivial derelictions of conduct--derelictions which, after all, are but faults of discernment--is there any reason why we should make such a fuss about it? in the midst of the supremely refined existence which my sultanas lead, i seem to discover in these innocent little vagaries a frank simplicity of character, more nearly related to purity of conscience than are the accomplished manners of our most polished coquettes. while on this subject i must reply to the sarcasms contained in your last letter. let me tell you first of all that i have never laid claim to the character of a superior being inaccessible to human vanities, as you are trying to make out. i am quite willing to admit with you that i, like any other man, am possessed by "the stupid satisfaction which every man experiences in watching the success of the woman he loves." it is quite possible that the effect produced by my odalisques upon the idle crowd (or as you term it _la haute badauderie_) of paris, has suddenly invested them with new charms in my eyes. you say that the mystery with which they are enshrouded, and the silly conjectures which i hear people make about them as they pass by, have excited me and turned my head like that of a simpleton. well, i suppose you will hardly expect me to account for the human weakness which leads us to measure our own happiness by the degree of envy which it excites in others? besides, what is the good of sifting my passion or testing my love in a crucible in order to estimate its value? in the midst of my pagan indulgences, you ask me if i really love, in the usual sense of that word. this very reasonable question was at any rate worth asking, however simple it may seem. it is concerned with the great problem in psychology which i undertook to solve, namely, as to which predominates in love, the heart or the senses, and whether true love is possible when one loves four women at the same time? it is clear that in the restricted limits of our ideas, and under the yoke of our customs and prejudices, we can only conceive of passion as concentrated upon a single object. too far removed from our primitive origin and from the patriarchal age, and moulded by the influences of more refined customs, our minds have been stimulated to the contemplation of a certain recognized ideal. still, as moralists and philosophers, we must admit that among orientals there is, doubtless, another conception and another ideal of love, the character of which we cannot grasp. it is only by divesting ourselves of our moral clogs, or the restraints of our social conventionalities, that we can attain to the understanding of this lofty psychological problem. indeed, no one has ever been able to say what love consists in. "attraction of two hearts," say some, and "mutual exchange of fancies;" but these are nothing but words depending upon the particular instance in which they are employed. the truth is that we are full of inconsistencies in all our definitions. from a purely sentimental point of view, we start by laying down, as an absolute axiom, that the human heart can only embrace one object of love, and that man can only fall truly in love once in his life. yet if we abstract from love the distinct element which our senses contribute to it, it is seen to consist of nothing but a form of affection--an expansion of the soul analogous to friendship and to paternal or filial love, sentiments equally powerful, but which we recognize the duty of distributing between several objects. whence arises this strange contradiction? do not declare that it is a paradox, for our ideas on the subject proceed entirely from our education and from the influence of custom upon our minds. if we had been bred on the banks of the ganges, of the nile, or of the hellespont, our school of æsthetics would have been different. the most romantic turkish or persian poet could not understand the vain subtleties of our emotions. since his laws permit him several wives, it is his duty to love them all, and his heart rises to the occasion. do you mean to tell me that his is a different love to ours? upon what grounds? what do you know about it? cannot you understand the charms of the obligation he is under to protect them all, in this equal distribution of his affections? it comes to this, in fact, that our ideas on the point are simply and always a question of latitude and of climate. we love like poor helpless creatures of circumstances. it is these very psychological considerations which form the basis of the social argument which i intend to demonstrate in the important work which i am preparing for the academy of science, and which i introduce as follows:-- "revered mother, "among the learned and celebrated members of whom your illustrious society so justly boasts, the most competent have already determined to their satisfaction the general principles which should regulate the study of biology. it would be the height of presumption on my part to set up my unworthy opinion against theirs, were it not for the fact that i can adduce, as a justification for doing so, certain data in my own possession which very few, probably, of these highly-respected authorities could have procured under such favourable conditions as i have been enabled to do. as the nephew of a pasha i have, &c." as you perceive, this modest preface is well calculated to soothe the delicate susceptibilities of the institute. the civilization of my kondjé-gul has become quite the most delightful subject of study for me. it presents a complete romance in itself, and the denial which i have imposed upon myself adds a certain charm to it. i must tell you that her stay with madame montier has gradually produced a number of unforeseen complications. commodore montague has returned; one of the consequences of which is that the intimacy between the misses maud and suzannah montague and the ward of worthy omer-rashid-effendi, which has seemed to him a most desirable one, has been so much encouraged that they have become inseparable, and kondjé-gul has of course been invited by her young friends to entertainments given by their father--invitations which she has been unable to decline for fear, thereby, of arousing suspicions. discretion on my part, you will thus perceive, has become more than ever necessary, so long as kondjé-gul remains with madame montier. our amorous relations are absolutely reduced to epistolary effusions, and to clandestine meetings, to bring about which we have recourse to all the stratagems employed by separated lovers. there is a certain piquancy in these adventures which affords us much delight--so true is it that the deprivation of a pleasure enhances its value. in the morning kondjé-gul takes riding-lessons in the bois with maud and suzannah, who are accompanied by their father. i sometimes take a canter that way, in order to watch their party ride by. she looks charming in her riding-habit, and the montague girls are really very pretty, especially maud, who has a pert little playful expression which is very fascinating. i forgot to tell you that kondjé-gul's mother, murrah-hanum, has arrived. she is a woman of forty-five, tall, with a distinguished bearing, and rather handsome still. yet although she has been europeanized by her residence at the french consul's at smyrna, and speaks our language almost with fluency, she retains in her manners all the peculiarities of the circassian and the asiatic; she has an easy-going and indolent temperament, and in her large dark eyes you can read the stern resignation of the fatalist races. when she appeared before me, she lavished upon me, in oriental fashion, the most ardent expressions of devotion. i assured her of my desire to secure to her a share in all the advantages which i wished to confer upon kondjé-gul. she expressed her gratitude with calmness and dignity, and swore to observe towards me the submissive obedience which she owed to her daughter's husband. in short, you can picture the interview for yourself; it was characterized by all the florid effusiveness of mahommedan greetings. [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. i don't suppose you will be astonished at a curious encounter which has just taken place. i must tell you that in my uncle's character while in paris, barbassou-pasha, general in the turkish cavalry, predominates over captain barbassou the sailor. he takes a ride every morning, and i of course accompany him. these are our occasions both for intimate talks and for discussing serious questions; and i beg you to understand that my uncle's notions upon the latter are by no means ordinary ones. he adorns such questions with quite original views--views which are certainly not the property of any other mortal known or likely to be known in this world below. he starts a subject for me, and i give him the cue as well as i can. i know of nothing more instructive than to follow his lines of argument--he has a separate one for each subject--upon different departments of private and political life, judged from his own standpoint. as a legislator i fancy he would commit radical mistakes; but as a philosopher, i doubt very much if a match could be found for him, for i don't think that his methods can be compared with those of any existing school of thought. the other morning we went to the forest of mendon; my uncle, as a lover of the picturesque, considers that the bois de boulogne, with its lake, looks as if it had been taken out of a box of german toys. we arrived at villebon, a sort of farm situated in the middle of the forest, with a few fields attached to it. there is a restaurant there, which is much frequented on sundays during the summer. my uncle, enchanted with the place, wanted to stop and take his glass of madeira there. so, leaving our horses in charge of a stable-boy, we went into one of the rooms. at a table at the further end, quite a stylish-looking woman, who looked as if she were out with somebody on the spree, was sitting by herself, finishing a liqueur-ice, with her hat off and lying by her side. her figure, as viewed from the back, was exquisite, with graceful and well-set shoulders, an elegantly poised neck with a lovely little dimple on the nape, crowned by a luxuriant chignon, from which emerged a profusion of rebellious tresses----. "waiter! madeira, please!" shouted my uncle in his formidable bass voice. at this unexpected explosion, the strange lady jumped up from her chair and looked suddenly round. but directly she saw the captain, she screamed out and fainted away all at once. i must do my uncle the justice of admitting that when he noticed the remarkable effect he had produced, he exhibited a slight gesture of surprise; which, however, soon passed off. without calling any help, in four strides he reached the lady's side, and supported her against the table, raising up her pretty head which had fallen back, and slapping her hands. then, having satisfied himself that she had completely lost consciousness, he began without any more ado to unfasten her dress, tore open her collar, and, with admirable dexterity, unhooked the upper part of her stays--thereby revealing to our gaze two charming globes, imprisoned in lace. this spectacle, i avow, might have made any other man pause in his zealous operations,--not so my uncle, however; he did not think twice about it, but with his usual unconcerned air proceeded to open out the fair one's stays, then took up the water-bottle, and emptied it with one dash into the hollow between her rounded charms. a convulsive start, and another scream, indicated immediately the successful effect of this triumphant measure. "there!" he said to me, "you see that's all that was needed." just at this moment the gentleman who belonged to the lady came in. it is hardly necessary to add that when he saw my uncle occupied upon a business so distinctly his own, the new-comer evinced some temper. "_bon dieu!_" he shouted out as he rushed forward, "what's the meaning of this? what's the meaning of this?" "nothing serious!" answered the pasha. "your lady has simply been in a swoon, nothing more; it's all over now!" "but what have you been about, sir? what do you mean by throwing water like that, right upon people's bosoms--?" "it was all to do you a service," replied this saviour, quite composedly. the lady, for her part, looked as if she was going off in another fit, but my uncle, judging no doubt that he had fulfilled his part of the duties, and without troubling himself any further about the mingled alarms and stares of the people of the house who came up, made one of his ceremonious bows to the whole company, and took me away with him, saying, "come, let us drink our madeira." so we went out. being accustomed to barbassou-pasha's ways, i was certainly not surprised at such a trifle as this. the waiter having served us, ten minutes had elapsed, and while we were discussing the irreparable loss of the xerez and douro vines, all of a sudden the door opened. it was the lady's cavalier, and he came in raging like a storm. "_bagasse!_" he exclaimed with a furious look, and his hair bristling up like a porcupine. "but you won't get off quite so easily as that, sir! who ever heard of such a thing? undressing a defenceless woman like that, and quite a stranger too!! not to mention that you have spoilt her dress, which looks as if she had been under the pump!" his words rolled on like a torrent, in the purest provençal accent. this made my uncle smile, as if at some pleasant reminiscence; and putting on his most engaging expression, he asked the new-comer in a gentle tone of voice: "what are you to this lady?" "she is my sister-in-law, sir!" he replied in a fury, his voice swelling louder and louder: "she is my brother's wife, sir; and he's no fool, no more am i, sir!----twenty-one years of service, eleven campaigns, and sub-lieutenant of the customs at toulon, sir!----so you shall just let me know how it was my sister-in-law fainted through your fault; and what you meant by taking the liberty of exposing her in a way that no decent man would be guilty of, not even with the consent of her family, nor if she were in mortal danger of her life, sir!" "and where do you live?" continued my uncle, sipping his madeira, and still fixing upon the fair one's brother-in-law the same charming gaze. "hôtel des bouches-du-rhone, rue pagevin. i am escorting my sister-in-law, and i am responsible for her to her husband." "my compliments to you, sir! she is a charming young person." this magnificent composure of my uncle's so completely disconcerted the lieutenant of the customs that he stopped short. but he had been carried on too far by his hot meridional temper not to launch out again very soon. he followed up with a perfect flood of abuse, interlarded with the most approved insults, with violent epithets and noisy oaths. my uncle listened to him quietly, stroking his chin, and contemplating him as if watching the performance of some surprising feat. the toulonnais said that he considered this fainting fit of his sister-in-law's, and the very unceremonious proceedings which had followed it, equally suspicious and irregular. "my brother's honour has been outraged," and so on, he observed. but at last the good fellow was obliged to pause in order to take breath. barbassou-pasha took advantage of the opening. "pray what is _your_ name?" he asked, still smiling affably. "my name, my good man," loftily replied the man of toulon, "is firmin bonaffé, lieutenant in the customs, seen twenty-one years of service and eleven campaigns. and if that is not enough for you----" "why, dear me! then this charming young person has married your brother, has she?" "a week ago, sir, at cadiz, where she lives! it was because he had to go back over the sea to brazil that he confided her to my charge. and you must not imagine that i can let your outrageous behaviour to her pass without further notice, sir!" "you are a man of spirit, sir, that i can see!" replied my uncle. he was gradually falling into his native _assent_, charmed, no doubt, by the soothing example of his adversary. "i can understand your feelings," he continued; "and for my part, my good fellow, i confess i should not have the slightest objection to taking a sabre and slicing off a piece of your person." (he uttered this latter word, _individu_, in french, with the marseillais pronunciation, _inndividu_.) "indeed," he continued quite placidly, "i should have no objection to throwing you through the window here, just as you are." this, following upon his imperturbable coolness throughout, had, i can aver, a most aggravating effect. being a little man and a braggart, firmin bonaffé felt the insult all the more hotly. "throw me through the window? _me!_" he exclaimed, drawing himself up as if he wanted to touch the sky. "try then! just try!" "by-and-by," said my uncle, pacifying him with a good-humoured gesture; "but for the present let us have a talk, my good fellow! certainly i sympathise with your annoyance; for you must have perceived that i know this lady, and that she knows me. there has even been a little _liaison_ between us----" "_bagasse!_ you confess to it, then?" "i confess to it!" responded the captain, in a conciliatory manner. "but, my dear fellow, a brother's horns, as the saying goes, need not trouble one so much as one's own. you will of course agree with me on that point." "i agree with you there!" replied the toulonnais, quite gravely, as if struck by a specious argument. "but it does not follow from that----" "stop a moment!" interrupted my uncle, who wished to pursue his argument. "_i_, whom you see here, have also had the honour of being made a cuckold, as they say in molière. you are acquainted with molière, i dare say?" "i am; go on!" said the lieutenant, who had made up his mind to restrain himself while my uncle was developing his explanations. "very well! as you have read him, you ought to know that a misadventure like that is not such a great matter after all. a second or two and it is all over, just like having a tooth out. besides, remember this, the tooth cannot be replaced, while in the case of a woman, one can find plenty to take her place." "that's true!" returned firmin bonaffé, who opened his eyes wide, as if he wished to follow this chain of reasoning, which evidently astonished him by its perspicuity. the issue began to be cleared. "then we have arrived at the same opinion," continued barbassou pasha. "all that remains is to come to an understanding." "by no means! by no means! i repeat, my brother confided his wife to my charge. you have insulted her in public, and in the name of decency--" "oh, no!" interrupted my uncle; "you are exaggerating! in the first place, my nephew and i were the only persons present; therefore there was no very great harm done. then you brought the people up by your shouting; consequently it is i who have cause to complain." "_té!_ are you trying to make a fool of me?" exclaimed the toulonnais, bursting out upon us like a bomb with another explosion. "do you suppose, then, that i am going down on my knees to thank you for having undressed jean bonaffé's wife?" "jean bonaffé's wife? no, no, my good fellow!" briefly replied my uncle. "why 'no'?" "why, in the first place, because she is actually my own wife!" "yours?" "as i have the pleasure of informing you. and consequently it is i who would be entitled not to be at all pleased by your intervention in the little domestic occurrence which took place just now." the toulonnais, for the moment, was struck dumb with astonishment. "then, _bagasse!_ who are you?" he asked. "_the late_ barbassou, retired general, seen fifty years of service, and thirty-nine campaigns, and the husband of your sister-in-law, who is now a bigamist--rather an awkward mistake for a lady." my uncle might have gone on speaking for the rest of the day, and had it all his own way. the unfortunate lieutenant stared at him, crushed and dumbfounded by this astounding revelation. all at once, and without waiting to hear any more, he turned on his heels, and beat a precipitate retreat by the door. the late barbassou indulged in a smile at this very intelligible discomfiture of his adversary. he had finished his madeira, and we went out to get our horses again. directly he had mounted into the saddle, he said to me, reverting to the subject of our interrupted conversation: "do you know, i think it's all up with the madeira vines; but as to those of the douro, with careful grafting, we might still pull them through!" "i hope so, uncle!" i replied. and, as a matter of fact, i think he is right. perhaps we shall soon know. come, i must tell you about a new occurrence which is already influencing my romance in the most unexpected manner. i don't suppose you have forgotten our captain picklock and the famous story of the camels which were recovered through his good offices. well, the captain, having returned from aden with the fever, and being at paris on his way home, accepted the hospitality of baron de villeneuve, late consul at pondicherry, whom you know. two days ago we were invited to a farewell dinner, given in his honour. it was quite a love-feast: half a dozen friends, all of whom had been several times round the world, and had met each other in various latitudes. the ladies consisted of the amiable baroness de villeneuve, mrs. picklock, and my aunt. you may imagine what a number of old recollections they discussed during dinner. after the coffee we went into the drawing-room, where a card-table was being set out for whist, when my uncle said: "by the bye, what has become of our good friend montague?" "oh, montague," answered the baron; "he is in paris. he has been prevented from dining with us by an invitation to his ambassador's; but he will look in this evening, and you will see him." "ah, that's capital!" exclaimed my uncle; "i shall be delighted to see him again." when i heard this name mentioned, i pricked up my ears. still there was nothing to indicate that the montague spoken of was the commodore. i listened with curiosity. "will he stay in paris any length of time?" my uncle continued. "the whole winter," replied the baroness. "he has come to pick up his daughters, whom he had left in my charge two years ago, before he went off to the north pole." "ah, yes! little maud and suzannah," observed my uncle. "yes, captain; only your _little_ maud and suzannah are now grown-up young ladies," added the baroness with a laugh. it was impossible for me to entertain any more doubts; and i confess my mind was far from easy when i heard this. at the thought of meeting the commodore, my first idea was to get away at once, before he arrived. although i was confident of the perfect security of my secret, and although it was the merest chance that had brought about the intimacy which i could not have foreseen between kondjé-gul and his daughters, i could not conceal from myself the embarrassment which i should feel in his presence. as bad luck would have it, i was already seated at the card-table. i lost my tricks as fast as i could in order to shorten the game, swearing inwardly at the captain and my uncle, who were both of them playing with a provoking deliberation, and lecturing me upon my careless play. at last, having succeeded in losing my three rubbers, i got up from the table, alleging a sudden attack of head-ache, when at this very moment, in the next drawing-room where the baroness was sitting, the servant announced, "commodore montague!" just imagine my stupefaction, louis, when i saw the commodore come in, followed by his two daughters and kondjé-gul, whom he introduced to the baroness and to my aunt as a schoolfellow of his daughters, maud and suzannah! you may guess what a state of confusion i was thrown into by this spectacle. whatever would happen? my chances of retreat being now completely cut off, i withdrew myself to the midst of a group who were talking together in a corner of the room. kondjé-gul was listening timidly to the baroness's compliments, and i heard the latter say: "i am much indebted, mademoiselle, to our friend the commodore who has done us the favour of bringing you with him; maud and suzannah had already spoken to me so often about you, that i had a great desire to make your acquaintance." the striking beauty of the young foreigner had created quite a sensation, and feeling that all their eyes were fixed on her, she did not venture to look about her. still it was necessary to anticipate the dangerous consequences of the least imprudence on the part of either of us, by putting her on her guard before the baroness had the opportunity of introducing me to the commodore and his daughters.----by rather a clever manoeuvre, therefore, i managed to slip behind my aunt while she was talking to the american young ladies. when kondjé-gul saw me, she could not help giving a start of surprise, but i had time to put my finger to my lips, and signify to her that she must not show that she knew me. our encounters in the bois, during our morning rides, had fortunately trained her already for this necessary piece of dissimulation: and she had sufficient self-control not to betray our secret. my aunt turned round at that very moment, and seeing me standing by her chair, said to me: "oh, andré, come and let me introduce you to this young lady!" kondjé-gul blushed when i bowed to her, and returned my bow very prettily. i was introduced in the same way to the commodore and his daughters. there was a vacant chair close to them on which the baroness made me sit down, and i soon found myself engaged in a general conversation with them; i may add that the liveliness of the montague girls rendered our conversation much easier than i had expected. having been brought up in the american way, they possessed that youthful independence of spirit which is stifled in our own girls by a more strict and formal education, on the false ground of the requirements of modesty. kondjé-gul, although rather reserved at first, expanded gradually, and i was astonished at the change which had been effected in her whole bearing. certainly one could still guess that she was a foreigner, but she had acquired quite a new ease in her deportment and in her language. being reassured by her behaviour against the risks of this encounter, which i had at first so much dreaded, i freely accepted the peculiar position in which i was placed. there was a positive charm about this mystery, the pleasure of which i can hardly explain to you. although this was quite a small and friendly party, there were now enough young people to get up a "hop," so the baroness instructed me to lead off with miss suzannah, which i did very willingly, asking her for a polka. "what do you think of my friend kondjé-gul?" she said to me, when we sat down after a few turns. "she is remarkably pretty," i replied. "i suppose you'll ask her for a dance with you?" she continued, with a smile. "i shall certainly not fail in this duty to a friend of yours and miss maud's!" "miss maud and i thank you very much for the attention," she said, with a ceremonious bow; "only," she added, smiling maliciously at me, "i must prepare you for a disappointment, which you will, no doubt, feel very much afflicted by--our friend does not dance!" "what, never?" "we have given several little parties at my father's rooms, and have never been able to persuade her to." "ah! that's no doubt because she only knows her oriental dances." "you're quite wrong there! she has taken lessons just as we have, and waltzes splendidly; but she won't even dance with the professor; it's always maud or i who act as her partners. she has some principles on this subject which appear to be rooted in her, and which we have not yet succeeded in overcoming." "if you would help me this evening," i said, "perhaps we can succeed between us." "what, is it to be a conspiracy?" "quite a friendly one, for you must admit that it is for her own interest." "i won't deny it," she replied, with a laugh; "but how are we to force her?" then i noticed poor kondjé-gul, who was watching us, and seemed to envy us. "listen!" i said, as if a sudden idea had struck me. "i know of a likely way." "well?" "let us take my aunt into our confidence; i see them over there talking turkish together. my aunt will perhaps be able to exercise sufficient influence over your friend to convince her that she may conform to our usages without committing any offence." "yes, that's the way to manage it!" exclaimed miss suzannah, in delight. "our conspiracy is making progress; but how shall we get at your aunt?" "does mademoiselle kondjé-gul understand english?" i asked her. "no, not a word." "then it's a very simple matter," i added. "after this polka i'll take you back to your seat; you then communicate our scheme to my aunt in english, and ask for her assistance; i come up, as if by chance, and try my luck with her for the next waltz." we did as we said. i watched from the distance this important conference, all the details of which i guessed. while miss suzannah was addressing my aunt in english, i saw her laugh in a sly manner, casting a glance at me. she at once understood our request; then turned her attention again to kondjé-gul, and continued, quite undisturbed, the subject which she had last commenced talking about with her. i had so perfectly anticipated all the phases of this scene, that i seemed to hear what she said. by kondjé-gul's face i could tell the moment my aunt approached her on our subject, and the negative gesture with which she replied was so decisive--i was nearly saying so full of horror--that, fearing lest she should cut off her retreat completely, i deemed it advisable to intervene as quickly as possible. i advanced, therefore, without any more ado, joined their group, and addressing myself to the handsome young foreigner, i said to her: "i should not like you to think me indifferent to the pleasure of dancing with you, mademoiselle; i meant to have asked you for the first waltz; but, alas! miss suzannah tells me that you do not dance!" "you have come to the rescue, andré," chimed in my aunt. "i was just endeavouring to convert the young lady to our customs by telling her that she would be taken for a little savage." at this expression, which she had so often heard me utter, kondjé-gul smiled and cast a furtive glance at me. miss suzannah supported my aunt, and the victory was already won. they were beginning to play a waltz, so maud took her hand and forced it into mine; i clasped her by the waist and led her off. during the first few turns kondjé-gul trembled with excitement; i felt her heart beating violently against my bosom, and i confess i was nearly losing my own self-possession. once we found ourselves some way removed from the rest, and, with her head resting on my shoulder, she whispered in my ear: "do you still love me, dear? are you satisfied with me?" "yes, but take care!" i answered hurriedly: "you are too beautiful, and all their eyes are fixed upon us." "if they only knew!"----she added, with a laugh. i stopped a moment, to let her take breath. each time any couple came near us, we appeared to be engaged in one of those ball-room conversations the only characteristic of which is their frivolity, and as soon as they were out of hearing, we talked together in a low voice. "you naughty fellow," she said, "i have not seen you in the bois for three days!" "it was from motives of prudence," i replied. "and now prepare yourself for a surprise. your new house is ready and you can go there the day after to-morrow." "do you really mean it?" exclaimed she, "oh! what happiness! then you find me sufficiently europeanized?" "you coquette! you are adorable!----what a nice fan you have, mademoiselle!" added i, changing my manner as maud came close to us. "do you think so," she answered, "is it chinese or japanese?" maud having passed we resumed our conversation, overjoyed at the idea of constantly seeing each other again. the waltz was just ending and i was obliged to conduct kondjé-gul back to my aunt. "listen!" she remarked, "whenever i put my fan up to my lips, that will mean 'i love you'----you must come back soon to invite me for another dance, won't you?" "my dear girl, i can't." "why?" "because it is not usual, and would be remarked," i replied. "but i don't want to dance with anyone else!" she said, almost with a terrified look. i had not for once thought of this very natural consequence of our little adventure, and i must confess that the idea of anyone else asking her after me took me quite by surprise--like some improbability which no mortal could conceive. "what shall i do?" she said. it was necessary at all costs to repair the effects of our imprudence. i invented for her a sudden indisposition, a dizziness which obliged her to leave off waltzing, and i conducted her back to my aunt. this pretext would be sufficient to justify her in declining to dance for the rest of the evening. i know very well, my dear fellow, that you will cry out against me when i tell you of this strange feeling which pierced me suddenly like a thorn in the heart, at the notion of seeing kondjé-gul dance with another man. but how could i help it? i simply relate to you a psychological fact and nothing more. you may tell me, if you like, that this is a ridiculous exaggeration, and that i am giving myself the morose airs of a jealous sultan. the truth is that in my harem life, i have contracted prudish alarms and real susceptibilities which are excited by things which would not have affected me formerly. contact with the outside world will, no doubt, restore me to the calm frame of mind enjoyed by every good husband. perhaps some day i may even be able to feel pride as i watch my wife with naked arms and shoulders whirling round the room in the amorous embrace of a hussar. at present my temper is less complaisant: my love is a master's love, and the notion that any man could venture to press my kondjé-gul's little finger would be enough to throw me into a fit of rage. that's what we orientals are like, you know! however that be, i led kondjé-gul back to my aunt's side, and she did not dance any more. from a corner of the drawing-room i saw some half-a-dozen of my friends march up to get introduced to her, anxiously longing to obtain the same favour as i had, and i laughed at their discomfiture. meanwhile the commodore, who, by the way, is a highly educated and thoroughly good-natured man, had marked me out, and was so kind in his attentions to me, that i felt constrained, in spite of my scruples, to accept his advances. his relations with my uncle, moreover, might have made the cold reserve which i had so far maintained appear singular. finally, towards the middle of the entertainment, when he was going away with his daughters and kondjé-gul, whom he had to see home to madame montier's, i had, without meaning it, so completely won his good opinion, that i found myself invited to accompany my aunt who was dining with him the next day but one. although it was only a fatality that had led to this extraordinary complication, i must own that, when i began to think over it and to contemplate the possible consequences, i felt a considerable anxiety. hitherto, by a compromise with conscience, which kondjé-gul's childlike simplicity rendered almost excusable, i had been enabled to deceive myself about the consequences of this school-friendship with two american girls who were strangers to me. this, i thought, would never be more than a chance companionship, and when her time with them was over, the misses maud and suzannah would remain ignorant of her real position, which they had no occasion for suspecting. but i could not fail to perceive that our relations with the commodore must aggravate our difficulties to a remarkable extent. our society affords shelter, certainly, to many a hidden romance: we have both honest loves and shady intrigues confused and interlaced in its mazes so that they escape all notice. yet, certain as i felt that nothing could occur to betray our extraordinary secret, i was troubled all the same at the part which i should have to play in this family with which my uncle was on such intimate terms. placed face to face with the inexorable logic of facts, i could not long deceive myself as to the course which the most elementary sense of delicacy prescribed to me. i could see clearly during this last evening party, that kondjé-gul had no further need of madame montier's lessons to complete her social education. count térals house being now ready to receive her, i need only settle her there with her mother in order to commence at once the happy life of which we had so often dreamed. then it would be easy to withdraw gradually from the society of the montague girls, and thus banish all future risks. having decided upon this course, i wrote the same evening to kondjé-gul to ask her to prepare for her return. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xi. you know, my dear louis, that whenever i have formed any plan, whether a reckless one or even a wise one, i go straight at it with the stubbornness of a mule. this, perhaps, explains many of my follies. according to my view (as a believer in free-will), man is himself a will or independent power served by his organs; he is a kind of manifestation of the spirit of nature created to control matter. any man who abdicates his rights, or gives way before obstacles, abandons his mission and returns to the rank of the beasts. his is a lost power, which has evaporated into space. such is my opinion. this highly philosophical prelude was necessary, as you will see, in order to fix my principles before proceeding any further; and, above all, in order to defend myself beforehand against any rash accusation of fickleness in my plans. science has mysterious paths, along which we feel our way, without seeing clearly our destination. the consequence of which is that, just when we fancy that we have reached the end, new and immense horizons open out before us. but i am getting tired of my metaphor. it all amounts to this--that having the honour of being my uncle's nephew, nothing happens to me in the same way as to other mortals, and that consequently all the careful arrangements that i made in regard to kondjé-gul have eventuated in a manner completely opposed to my express intentions. but although my objective has been considerably enlarged, it remains substantially the same, as i think you will remark. kondjé-gul and her mother are now settled down in count téral's house; and it is hardly necessary for me to describe to you the joy which she felt at the termination of her educational seclusion. the first few days after her return were days of frenzied delight, and we spent them almost entirely together. her metamorphosis was now so complete, that i felt as if i were witnessing one of the fabulous indian _avatars_, and that another soul had taken up its dwelling in this divinely beautiful body of hers. i could not tire of watching her as she walked, and listening to her as she spoke. in her oriental costume, which she occasionally resumes, in order to please me, the american girl's ways, which she has picked up from suzannah and maud, produce a most remarkable effect. and with all this was mingled that exquisitely blended aroma of youth, beauty, and dignity, which permeated her and surrounded her like the sweet perfume of some strange oriental blossom! we have settled our plan of life. knowing the whole truth, as she does now, about our social habits, she understands the necessity of veiling our happiness under the most profound mystery. confiding in the sanctity of a tie which her religion legitimizes, she is aware that we must conceal it from the eyes of the world, like any secret marriage. besides, what advantage would there be in lifting the veil of mystery, and taking the poetry out of this romantic union--thus reducing it to the vulgar level of an ordinary intrigue? if i were to treat my kondjé like a common mistress, would not that be degrading her? when i tried to console her for the dulness which this constraint must cause her, she exclaimed, with vehemence-- "be so good as not to calumniate my woman's heart! what do i care for your country, and its laws, so long as you love me? i don't care to know either your society, or its customs, or its conventionalities. i belong to you, and i love you; that is all i see, all i feel. i am neither your wife, nor your mistress. from the depths of my soul i feel that i am more than either. i am your slave, and i wish to preserve my bonds. command me, do what you like with me; and when you love me no longer, kill me, that's all!" "yes, dear!" i replied, laughing at her rhapsodies, "i will sew you up in a sack, and go and throw you in the bosphorus some evening!" she received this remark with a peal of childish laughter. "goodness me!" she said, in her confusion; "why, i was quite forgetting that i am civilised!" count téral's house has been quite a find for us; it seems just as if it had been built expressly for kondjé-gul and her mother. on the ground-floor, approached by a short flight of eight steps, is a drawing-room, which opens into a sort of hall, resembling an artist's studio. the latter serves as picture-gallery, library, and concert-room. above the wainscoting the eye is relieved by silk hangings, of a large grey-striped pattern on white ground, in contrast with which is the rich garnet of a velvet-covered suite of furniture. there are some curious old cabinets in carved ebony, set out with statuettes, vases, flowers, and nick-nacks. the general effect is lively, enchanting, and luxurious; in fact, just what the home of a young lady of patrician birth, who confines herself to a small circle of friends, should be. on the first floor are the private apartments, and on the second the servants' rooms. the establishment is maintained on the elegant, yet simple scale, which seems proper for members of good society; they keep three horses, and a neat brougham: nothing more. their luxuries, in short, are all in the well-considered style suitable for a rich foreign lady and her daughter, who mix in parisian society with the reserve and delicate taste of two women anxious to avoid attracting too much attention. kondjé-gul's private life is contrived, as well as everything else, to preserve her against solitude or dulness. she is completing her "civilisation" with industrious zeal. every morning, from eight o'clock to twelve, is devoted to work; governesses from madame montier's come to continue her course of lessons; then from one to two she practises on the piano. her curious mind, with its mixture of ardent imagination and youthful intelligence, is really producing a wonderful intellectual structure upon its original foundation of native belief and superstitions. i am often quite surprised by hearing her display, on the subject of our social contradictions, an amount of observation and a grasp of view which would do credit to a philosopher. after two o'clock she dresses, and takes a walk or a ride, or makes calls with her friends, the montague girls; for in spite of all my excellent intentions, their intimacy has only increased since they were all emancipated from the restraints of school life. kondjé-gul being now under her mother's protection, the most regular position she could have in the world, it would have been difficult indeed to find a pretext for breaking it off. moreover, i had come to the conclusion that, owing to my having been introduced to the commodore's family by my uncle, there could be no danger in these encounters with kondjé-gul at their house. it was by maud and suzannah that i had been presented to their fair foreign companion, and who would suspect it was not at madame de villeneuve's party that i had first spoken to her? consequently, if any unforeseen circumstance should some day betray our secret, i could at least rest assured that commodore montague would never think of accusing me of anything more than a romantic adventure, resulting by a natural train of circumstances from that introduction. nothing, as you perceive, could be more correct from the worldly point of view. i am well aware that as a rigid moralist you would not neglect the opportunity, if i gave it you, of lecturing me upon the rashness of my course. well, for my part, i maintain that our respect for the proprieties consists chiefly in our respect for ourselves. chance, which led us into the society of the foreign colony, together with kondjé-gul's charming manner, have naturally created for her a number of pleasant acquaintances, which i should never perhaps have aimed at obtaining for her. all that was needed to secure her this advantage was that we should both pay to the world this tribute of mystery to which it is entitled. our society is so mixed that i do not think you would have been scandalised if you had met kondjé-gul at the ball at the british embassy, where she went the other night with her mother, and commodore montague. the admiration which she excited as she passed must certainly have disarmed your objections. being always about with the montague girls, kondjé-gul soon got invited with them to the balls to which the commodore took his daughters. having been admitted to two or three aristocratic drawing-rooms, such as that of princess b---- and marchioness d'a----, she obtained the entry to all the others. with your knowledge of the infatuations of our fashionable world, you can imagine the extravagant style of admiring gossip with which such a beautiful rising star is greeted wherever she goes. i should add that the young sinner understands it all very well, and is very much flattered by it. the mystery which surrounds her increases the peculiarity of our situation. being always chaperoned by her mother, whose foreign type of features creates an imposing impression, kondjé-gul is taken for one of those young ladies who are models of filial respect. the style of their house and of their dress, and that refined elegance which stamps them as ladies of distinction, designate them no less indisputably the possessors of a large fortune and of high rank. all this, you will perceive, formed a crowning justification for the success which kondjé-gul's remarkable beauty had of itself sufficed to achieve for her. then of course the fashionable reporters of the official receptions fulfilled their duty by heralding the advent of this brilliant star. they only made the mistake--one of those mistakes so common with journalists--of describing her as a georgian. confident in the security of our mystery, kondjé-gul and i find nothing more delightful than the manoeuvres by which we deceive them all. we have invented a code of signs, the meaning of which we keep to ourselves, and which leads to some very amusing by-play between us. thus the other evening, at madame de t----'s, she was sitting by maud and suzannah, surrounded by a number of admirers, when the young duke de marandal, one of the most ardent of my acknowledged rivals, was lavishing upon her his most seductive attentions. kondjé was listening to him with a charming smile on her face. now that evening, i must tell you, she had resolved upon a bit of fun; and knowing that in france unmarried girls are not supposed to wear jewellery, she had fastened on her wrist a heavy gold bracelet as a token of her servitude. so while the young duke was talking, she looked at me, playing carelessly the while with what she calls her "slave's ring." you may guess how we laughed together over it. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. i have to inform you, my dear fellow, that my uncle, who has always been admired so far for his virtuous conduct, and whom i should certainly have been ready to quote as a paragon of husbands, seems just now on the way to forfeiting his character. here is what i have to relate: two days ago i went to the theâtre des variétés to see for the second time the play which is just now the rage. not having obtained a good place, i left my stall at the end of the first act with the intention of not returning, when, as i passed a rather closely-curtained stage-box, i was quite surprised by seeing barbassou-pasha, who had pretended to be going out that evening to an important dinner with some business friends. he was accompanied by a lady whose features were obscured by the darkness. being a discreet and respectful nephew, i was about to turn my eyes the other way, when he beckoned me with an imperative gesture to join him in his box. i immediately obeyed this peremptory summons, and, going round by the passage, got the box-opener to usher me in. "come in, and sit down," said my uncle, pointing out to me a chair behind him. once more i obeyed him, bowing politely to the lady, whose features i could not clearly distinguish. i was hardly seated when i recognised the fair heroine of the fainting fit last week. exquisitely attired in a perfectly ravishing costume, madame jean bonaffé replied to my compliments by a charming smile, and a pretty glance from her fine spanish eyes, which showed me clearly that she was troubled by no remnants of that sudden indisposition which the too unexpected encounter with my uncle had produced. our conversation turned upon the play. as she spoke french rather badly (although she understood it very well), she asked my uncle from time to time to tell her the words she was in need of. this he did, pronouncing them with grammatical deliberation, and then leaving us to talk alone, while he surveyed the audience like one superior to such frivolities as feminine smalltalk. my companion was very gay, and was crunching bonbons all the time. i, as you may be sure, was gallant and attentive, and i followed her example with the bonbons. my former aunt, christina de portero, is at the happy age of between twenty-eight and thirty. or, possibly, she is as old as thirty-two. her figure is slender and supple, with those bold expansions of the hips which, in dancing the fandango, make short work of the skirt. add to these fascinating details the accurate information with which i have already supplied you on the subject of her exuberant bust, and you can picture her very well for yourself. she has a fine erect head, clear and singularly expressive features, a warm complexion, a grecian nose, with quivering nostrils, and a mouth adorned with pearly teeth, with a soft, black, downy growth on her upper lip. she is an andalusian, overflowing with life and spirits, whose exuberance, however, is tempered by her graceful and truly refined demeanour. one can guess what a fire of passion smoulders within her. my uncle was in perfection that evening. from time to time he discarded his philosophic calm in order to take a look at us and reply in spanish to his fair friend's questions. he addressed her as "querida," in that indulgent tone which is peculiar to him, like a pasha who is signifying his approbation. during the course of our conversation i discovered that things had gone on like this between them since the day after that famous scene at villebon, whose lively incidents had doubtless conduced to this friendly reconciliation. how had my uncle managed to get round the ferocious native of toulon? that i could never discover. however this may have been, after the play was over, we went off, all three of us, to the café anglais. we had a capital supper, during which madame jean bonaffé, feeling more at her ease under these intimate circumstances, gave free play to her fascinations. i could soon perceive that in her pleasure at forgetting her regrettable escapades of the past, her grief over her supposed widowhood, and also the short-lived and illegal marriage which she had contracted by mistake, she expected that my uncle would settle her at paris. she appeared to speak of this happy prospect as of something upon which her mind was set, and it gave rise to a number of beautiful castles in the air. barbassou-pasha, gallant and attentive as ever, listened to all these proposed arrangements for her felicity, in that good-natured, patronizing manner which he always maintains with women, and only departs from in the case of my aunt eudoxia, who keeps him in check. nodding his approval of everything she said, he went on eating and drinking, like a practical man who will not neglect the claims of a good supper, and he allowed the fair andalusian to lavish all her attentions upon him. about two o'clock in the morning, we took a brougham, drove back my aunt to the rue de l'arcade, where she occupies a splendidly furnished suite of rooms, and then returned home. "what do you think of all that, my dear louis? hum!" our little circle has been augmented by a very pleasant and genial addition, mr. edward wolsey, a nephew of the commodore's, who may very likely be engaged to maud. as i have become quite intimate with commodore montague's party, i generally join their group, without the smallest fear of raising a suspicion regarding these encounters. the attention which i pay to kondjé-gul and to suzannah have caused no little envy, for, as you know, kondjé-gul pretends she does not dance. this peculiarity, together with her original fascinations with which a certain childish simplicity is mingled, give rise to the most extraordinary conjectures. what is the cause of all this reserve? men ask. is it modesty, bashfulness, or pride? they know that she can dance splendidly, for she has been seen dancing occasionally at private parties with maud and suzannah. they think it must be due to some jealous _fiancé_, her betrothal to whom is kept secret, and to whom she is devoted. lent having interrupted the course of public entertainments, our private parties which usually took place at teral house, became the gainers by it. maud and suzannah felt more free and easy there, and kondjé-gul experienced quite a childish delight in holding what she called her "receptions." our small circle was soon augmented by a dozen select friends, picked carefully from the ranks of their young ball-room acquaintances. there were one or two mothers among them whose presence did not interfere with the harmony of these charming gatherings, and the tone of elegant distinction which prevailed in no respect interfered with their exuberant gaiety. this break in the giddy circle of fashionable dissipation, afforded quite a new happiness to kondjé-gul and me. in the course of her initiation into the refinements of our life, her exotic charms had acquired some new and indescribable embellishments. we spent many a long evening alone together in that delightful privacy which affords the sweetest opportunities for communion between loving hearts, and we grew to feel like a modern darby and joan. i was quite proud of my handiwork, and contemplated with joy this pure and ideal being whose nature i had inspired, whose soul and whose heart i had moulded. the cultivation of this young and virgin mind, as i may be permitted to call it, so possessed by its oriental beliefs, had produced a charming contrast of enthusiasm and calm reason which imparted a most original effect to her frank utterances of new ideas. i was often quite surprised to find in her mingled with her asiatic superstitions, and transformed as it were by contact with a simpler faith, the substance of my own private sentiments and of my wildest aspirations. one might really think that she had borrowed her thoughts, nay, her very life, as it were, from me, and that her tender emotions had their source in my own heart. our happiness seemed so assured, and we had it so completely under our own control, that it would have appeared absurd for us to imagine it to be at the mercy of fate. still, in the midst of this tranquillity there sometimes arose in my mind an anxious thought. light clouds floated across my clear azure sky, and often, as i sat by her side, i began to think, in spite of myself, about the future--about this marriage of which you yourself have reminded me, and from the obligations to which nothing could save me. however great the sacrifice might be, i could not even think of failing to carry out my uncle's wishes in this matter. my heart bound me to this adoptive father who had placed unlimited faith in my loyalty: my whole life was pledged to this chivalrous benefactor who had left all his fortune in my hands, nor could i permit the least suspicion of ingratitude on my part to pass over his mind. but melancholy as was the recollection of this duty to which i had resigned myself, i must confess that, after all, this impression was but a fugitive one. i no longer attempted to struggle against the temptation to a compromise, by means of which i had determined to reconcile my passion for kondjé-gul with my marital duties to anna campbell. the retiring nature of the latter would surely permit our union to be treated as one of those arrangements known as _mariages de convenance_, and my charming romantic connection with kondjé-gul would always remain a secret. moreover, my uncle, should he ever discover this after-match of my oriental life, was certainly not the man to be seriously scandalised at it, directly he assured himself that "the respectabilities" had not been violated. by-the-bye, i should tell you that was a false alarm i sounded about my uncle! i calumniated him when i believed him to have committed anything so shocking as a double adultery. we went again yesterday to the forest of meudon, which we had almost given up visiting of late, my uncle having been engaged for the last fortnight upon "some important morning business," as he says. well, we arrived at villebon's restaurant, our usual destination. when we entered that celebrated room--empty this time--which had been the scene of the drama which you remember, the latter came back very naturally to our memory, and would have done so even without the superfluous aid of the grins with which our waiter greeted us. equally naturally, and as becomes a dutiful nephew, who does not wish to appear indifferent to family matters, i, seeing my uncle cast a glance towards the window near which the incident that produced such momentous consequences occurred, took the opportunity of asking after my pseudo-aunt christina, about whom i had not had any previous chance of questioning him. "christina!" exclaimed barbassou-pasha, "why, she's gone back!" "dear me! i thought she wanted to settle in paris?" his eye lightened up with a sly look. "oh, yes! she would have liked to do so very well," he replied. "in fact, we made the round of the upholsterers' shops,--and she fancied, up to the last moment, that it was all settled. but i had made up my mind, and i sent her back to jean bonaffé." "the deuce you did!" i said, quite astonished at the news. then my uncle just closed one of his eyes, and looked at me out of the other, as he added-- "you see, i was not sorry to return that rascal the little trick he played me before!" and, with that, barbassou-pasha began to whistle a hunting song, with all the calm complacency of an honest soul on satisfactory terms with his neighbour. i accompanied him whistling the bass, and we got on very well together that time. i believe that after this explanation, you will at once renew the esteem which you used to accord to my uncle, and will join me in a sincere expression of regret for having suspected him for one moment in this matter:--in which, in reality, he had merely played the part of an avenging deity, punishing sinners with remorse by recalling to them the blisses of their lost paradise. and i am ready to testify that he has spared no expense; for during the last three weeks he has had from me more than twenty thousand francs in pocket-money. i warrant you he has given his fair friend a jolly time of it, purposely holding the golden cup to her faithless lips, and letting them taste of all the pleasures---- the severe lesson of an abrupt return to her husband, jean bonaffé, after the awakening of such delightful anticipations, will certainly impress the guilty one, and engrave in her heart a keen remorse for her past misconduct. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. we have been four months at paris without anything to disturb the happy life which we have led, secure from all suspicions. nothing can be more original or sweeter than this love concealed from all prying eyes, the exquisite pleasures of which you can imagine. kondjé, delighted with her triumphs, plays everywhere her part of enchantress. my romance is, however, complicated by a circumstance which i must at once relate to you. you will not have forgotten that my aunt had seen kondjé-gul at baroness de villeneuve's party, and that she conceived a great liking for her. their friendship having been cemented during several parties at the commodore's, where they met each other, my aunt very naturally invited madame murrah and her daughter to dinner one evening. she is fond of young people, as you know; and suzannah, maud, and kondjé-gul formed such a charming trio, that she soon insisted on their coming to dine with her every thursday. indeed, kondjé has frequently met anna campbell there, for the latter has leave out from her convent twice a month. the consequence was, we became in time so completely involved in intimate relations together, that it would have been imprudent to make any break in them: moreover, kondjé-gul was so very happy and so proud of this intimacy which allied her still more closely with me! all of them were charmed with her; even my uncle, who, delighted at the opportunity of conversing with her in turkish, treated her with quite a display of gallantry. among the constant visitors at our house, i should have mentioned count daniel kiusko, a fabulously rich young slav, the owner of platinum mines in the krapacks mountains, and in the forests of bessarabia. this being his first visit to paris, i found myself selected to act as his guide or bear-leader, and to introduce him to our gay world. it was a simple enough task, for that matter, since i had hardly anything to do but to present him in society. he was tall, slenderly built, and a fine specimen of the young boyard, with that determined expression of countenance which suggests a habit of acting and being obeyed as the feudal lord. in less than a week, with the most lofty recklessness, he had thrown away half a million francs in the club at baccarat, and his other doings are all in the same vein. with such a start, you may be sure he has taken the world by storm, so that his friendship is sought after as a prize. a successful duel which he fought with a brazilian made his reputation as a skilful swordsman. his gratitude to me, and a sort of frank admiration of superior qualities, which he fancies he recognises in me, have won for me his friendship. i have quite become "his guide, philosopher, and friend." i find him a capital companion, and, like some modern damon and pythias, we hardly pass a day without seeing one another. at first he was rather surprised that i abstained from the promiscuous pleasures of the gay world; but he soon divined that i was restrained by the spell of a secret passion, and this placed me still higher in his estimation. i gained credit with kiusko by taking him into my confidence, and telling him that i had in truth a _liaison_ with a young widow, whose high position in society demanded extreme prudence on my part. with the tact of a thorough-bred gentleman, he never referred to the subject again. being himself associated with us in our relations with the montagues, through meeting them at my aunt's, he would never dream of my having any attachment in that quarter; indeed, he was now almost on an equal footing of friendship with me in our intercourse with the fair trio, and was spoken of as one of their "tame cats." such was the position of things when the following event occurred. it happened a few days ago. i was in my aunt's boudoir, talking about some matter, which i forget; she was knitting away at a little piece of ornamental work, with her usual business-like industry, and i was playing with her dog "music," a young animal from greece. "by the bye, andré," she said, "i have an important commission to discharge, concerning which i must consult you." "all my wisdom is at your service, aunt." "let us talk seriously," she continued; "you have to undergo a regular cross-examination, and i command you to reply like an obedient nephew." "oh, you frighten me!" "don't interrupt me, please. in my person you see before you a family council." "what, all at once, and without any preparation?--without even changing your dress?" "you impertinent boy, do you mean to say this does not suit me?" "on the contrary, i find it quite bewitching." "well, then?" "all right, i ought not to have interrupted you." "very well! let us resume--let me see, what was i saying?" "that in that handsome dark violet velvet dress you represent the grandmother of the family." "just so, you're quite right! now, attention please! the trial has commenced, be on your guard." "right you are!" "well, what do you think of mademoiselle kondjé-gul murrah?" she asked me point blank, looking me straight in the face. this question was so unexpected that i felt myself blush like a girl of sixteen. "why," i answered, "i think her--most charming and beautiful." "that's right! pray don't alarm yourself, my dear young man!" continued my aunt with a smile. "oh, i'm not the least alarmed!" "that's quite clear!--well, you admit that you find her most charming and beautiful. let us proceed. what is your present position with regard to her? tell me the whole truth, and mind don't keep anything back." i had found time to recover my self-possession. "take care," i said, laughing in my turn; "this question of yours may lead us much further than you imagine." "that's all nonsense. don't try to turn off my questions with jokes, and please leave my dog's ear alone! if you pull it about like that, you'll make it grow crooked. there, that'll do! now, answer me seriously, and with all the respect which you ought to feel in speaking of a young lady like kondjé-gul murrah." i was inspired with the brilliant idea of making game of her. "must i tell you the whole truth?" i replied. "do you really require to know it?" "i _demand_ it," she said, "in its naked, unsophisticated reality." "all right, aunt! you shall have it;" i said, in a confident tone. "i suppose you know that mademoiselle kondjé-gul is a circassian. well, she belongs to my harem; i bought her at constantinople eight months ago." my aunt split her sides with laughter. "there now!" she exclaimed; "what ever is the use of expecting a word of sense from a lunatic like you?" "you asked me for the truth, and i have told it to you!" i replied, laughing secretly at the trick i was playing her. "leave off talking rubbish! can't you understand, you silly boy, that i am speaking to you about kondjé-gul because i can see how the land lies? it is quite clear to me that between you two there is some sort of secret understanding; now what is it? i know nothing about it, but however innocent this mystery may be, i see too much danger about it not to caution you. mademoiselle murrah is not one of those drawing-room dolls with whom it is safe for a man to risk a little of his heart in the game of flirtation; no, the man who once falls in love with her will love her for ever, body and soul, he will be bewitched." "why, then, she must be circe herself," i exclaimed: "it's a terrible look-out for me!" "oh, you need not laugh," she continued: "your lofty philosophical contempt would not serve you in the least. a beautiful sorceress like that girl is all the more dangerous because her own heart is liable to be kindled by the flames of her incantations. in her heart slumber passions which will devour her some day, both her and the man she loves. that is why i am reading you this lecture, with the object of warning you in time, before your youthful recklessness has carried you too far in this affair; especially as you are already betrothed to another." notwithstanding the semi-jocular manner which my aunt had preserved throughout this lecture, i could easily perceive that she was seriously alarmed on my behalf. i therefore abandoned my jesting tone, assuring her that neither my imagination nor my heart were in the smallest danger with mademoiselle kondjé-gul murrah, and that "no change whatever would be made in our present relations." this jesuitical reply appeared to satisfy her. "in that case," she continued, "i may set to work to get her married?" "get her married?" i exclaimed in astonishment. "certainly. did i not tell you, before i began questioning you, that i had an important commission to discharge? my young cousin kiusko adores her, he has begged me to see madame murrah on his behalf, and i expect to call on her this very day, to set this important business in train." although i might have long ago foreseen the consequences of emancipating kondjé-gul from her harem life, and the conflict which it would involve me in with our social customs, i must admit that this revelation of my aunt's intentions caused me no small anxiety. kondjé's remarkable beauty created too much sensation in the world for me to hope that rivals would not turn up in large numbers, against whom i should have to defend myself. her personal independence, the wealth which her mother's establishment indicated, and her youth, all seemed to leave the field open to sanguine hopes, and to attempts to win her hand, to the open acknowledgment of which no obstacle appeared. nevertheless, well prepared as i was for such attempts, and fully expecting to witness them, i was very much affected by the news that kiusko was my rival. it was impossible for me to doubt that his determination to marry kondjé-gul was the result of reflection as well as of love, and that it would be only strengthened by any obstacle. of a calm and energetic nature, endowed with an iron will, and accustomed to see everything submit to his law, he had also preserved that freshness of the affections which would be intensified by the impulses of a first love. all the same, and notwithstanding my friendship for him, i certainly could not think of explaining to him the strange situation in which he had in his ignorance placed himself. to proclaim kondjé-gul to be my mistress would be to banish her from the society into which she had won her way: it would have wounded her spirit to the quick and determined her degradation, without reason or advantage either for kiusko or for myself. moreover, did i not owe a stricter fidelity to her than to this friend of yesterday? i resolved accordingly to keep my counsel, and wait upon events. i felt too confident of regulating them in my own interests to be afraid of the consequences. however, i was surprised by an incident which at first seemed insignificant. having been informed of my aunt's projected visit to kondjé's mother, i went to her the same evening, thinking that she would at once tell me about it, but she said nothing. i thought, of course, that some obstacle had occurred which had deferred my aunt's negotiations. the next day, without seeming to attach any importance to the matter, i questioned my aunt about it. she informed me that she had been to madame murrah's the day before. "did you commence your overtures on behalf of kiusko's grand scheme?" i asked her. "yes," she answered. "and--were they entertained?" "oh, you are going too fast! according to mussulman usage, matters don't proceed at that rate. we did not get any further than the preliminaries. i explained our amorous friend's eager anxiety, and the next step is to consult kondjé-gul." "meanwhile, does the mother appear favourable to your request?" "it was not her duty to declare herself at the first interview," said my aunt. "she has, as you know, all the fatalistic composure of her race; still, when i described daniel's fortune, i fancied she listened to me with some approval." "did she tell you what dowry she could give her daughter?" "dowry! are you mad? we talked in turkish and discussed the matter in the turkish way. i think i should have surprised her exceedingly if i had given her the idea that i was asking, not only for kondjé-gul herself, but for some pecuniary remuneration to the noble kiusko for taking her. that would have been sufficient to upset all her ideas, for don't you know that in the east it is the husband, on the contrary, who always makes a present to the parents of the girl he wants to have? this arrangement, by the way, seems to me more chivalrous and more manly. kiusko, for that matter, cares about as much for money as for a straw: he loves her, and that is enough for him." i took good care not to disturb the illusive hopes which my aunt had already conceived. being reassured by the manner in which madame murrah had played her part, it only remained for me to determine the time and the form of refusal best adapted to the circumstances. while i was in the midst of these reflections, count kiusko came in, like any familiar friend, without being announced. he held out his hand to me with more than his usual cordiality. by his happy looks i judged that he had already had a word of encouragement from my aunt, and that he had come to learn in detail the result of her first attempt. not wishing to disturb their interview, i pretended after a minute or two that i had some letters to write, and left them. the following morning i was only just out of bed when kiusko came up with his spurs on. we had decided the day before to ride together to the bois. as he usually went to the rendezvous by himself, i guessed that to-day he wanted to appear to have been taken there by me, in order to cover his embarrassment, or perhaps his bashfulness when he met kondjé-gul. having made up my mind to avoid all confidences, i kept my valet in the room with me, dressing myself very deliberately, and without any compassion for kiusko's impatience. this compelled us, directly we were mounted, to gallop to the bois, a procedure not very favourable to confidential effusions. we only joined the party at the avenue of acacias on their way back. i took care to watch kiusko as he saluted kondjé-gul. he blushed and stammered out a compliment addressed collectively to all the three girls. kondjé's countenance betrayed nothing more than the flush produced by her ride. we started off in two separate parties. from motives of discretion, i suppose, kiusko remained behind with suzannah and the commodore. edward and i had gone in front with kondjé-gul and maud, who was quarrelling with her cousin upon the important question, as to whether we should gallop straight ahead or make a round between the trees. kondjé-gul decided the matter by suddenly entering the cover. "who loves me, let him follow me!" she said, with a laugh. i followed her, and in a few moments we found ourselves side by side. "oh, such a fine piece of news!" she said to me, as soon as maud and edward, who were behind us, were out of hearing. "what is it?" i asked. "well, i must tell you that the day before yesterday your aunt came to see my mother while i was away, and there and then formally requested my hand in marriage for the noble count daniel kiusko. my mother related this to me this morning, when i got up." "and what did you answer her?" "oh, i laughed at first, and then i told mamma that she must inform you at once, so that you may decide upon the manner in which she shall repulse the enemy." "that's simple enough," said i. "she has only to tell my aunt, when next she calls, that she has consulted you." "is it as simple as that?" "certainly," i said, with a feeling of annoyance at the idea that she knew of daniel's love. "is it not solely your will that has to be consulted?" kondjé-gul regarded me with astonishment. "my will?" she said. "good heavens! do you love me no longer?" "why should you imagine i love you no longer?" i answered. "one might suppose that you wished to remind me of that horrible liberty which i am so much afraid of." i then realised how stupid and abrupt i had been, and asked her forgiveness. "you naughty fellow!" she said, pointing to the golden bracelet clasped round her arm. we decided that i should go to her mother to concert with her and dictate to her the precise terms of a refusal which should cut short all kiusko's hopes. we were just then emerging from the narrow avenue, and maud and edward were joining us again. our ride came to an end without any other incident of note, except indeed that it appeared to me daniel was watching kondjé and myself, as if he wanted to guess what had taken place during our _tête-à-tête_, which he had observed from a distance. i troubled myself no further about this, but made up my mind to take measures that very day to put an end to this stupid adventure. about three o'clock i went to téral house, and in an interview with kondjé-gul's mother drew up the precise terms of her answer to my aunt, which consisted of a formula usually employed on similar occasions. "mademoiselle kondjé-gul feels greatly flattered by the honour which count daniel kiusko has intended to confer upon her, but is unable to accept it." to this we added, in order to convince him it was not one of those half-decisive answers which he might hope to overcome: "she desires to inform their friend confidentially that her heart is no longer free, and that she is engaged to one of her relations." this partly-confidential answer possessed the merits of a candid communication, after receiving which no honourable man could press her without giving offence. moreover, it established a definite status, under which kondjé-gul could shelter herself for the future from all importunate attempts on the part of my rival. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiv. you are returning once more, my dear louis, to your favourite occupation of knocking down skittles which you have set up yourself, and are trying to exercise your humorous spirit at my expense. you tell me that my oriental system of life crumbles away upon contact with the hard world, and with those sentiments which i venture to class among the antiquated prejudices of a worn-out civilisation. you do not perceive, you subtle scoffer, that every one of your arguments can be turned against you to establish the superiority of the customs of the harem. can't you see that all these mishaps, these troubles, and these outbursts of jealousy, which you have intentionally magnified, originate solely in kondjé-gul's emancipation from the harem, and that none of them would have occurred if i had not departed from turkish usages? consider on the one hand the tranquillity of my amours with zouhra, nazli, and hadidjé, my easy life with them, as a poet and a sultan, secure from all annoying rivalries, and on the other hand look at these difficulties and contests arising all at once out of our social conventionalities. i do not really know why i should waste any more time discussing the question with you. being now confident that after the declaration which madame murrah would next day make to my aunt, kondjé-gul would be freed henceforth from the importunities of count kiusko, i soon recovered my peace of mind. i entertained no doubts as to the effect which such a decisive answer would produce upon daniel. i knew that he was too deeply in love not to feel the blow severely. i expected, accordingly, to hear that he was mourning in some secluded retreat over his lost hopes. for him to see kondjé-gul again after such an unqualified refusal would only revive his sorrows and cause him more suffering. more than this, it would place her in an uncomfortable position since his declaration of love to her. but while i was convincing myself as to this necessity for him to break off his relations with her, great was my surprise at seeing him reappear among us the following day as calm as ever, and just as if no unpleasant incident had befallen him. time went on, and still there was no change in this respect. one might even have said, to judge from his easy demeanour and from a certain increase of assurance in his manner, that he felt confident in the future success of his endeavours, and was only waiting for the happy moment when his aspirations would be realized. i could not help being puzzled by this remarkable result of a decided rejection of his suit, but as i had so plainly avoided my rival's confidences in my embarrassment at the part i was playing, i could not now attempt to regain them. i began to suspect that kondjé-gul's mother had rehearsed her part imperfectly, and at last made up my mind to question my aunt discreetly on this point. "by the by, my dear aunt," i said to her one morning in a perfectly unconcerned tone of voice, "you have not told me anything more about kiusko's intended marriage." "ah, there is no longer any question of it!" she answered me. "he presented himself too late: the fair kondjé-gul's heart is occupied. she is even engaged to one of her own relations i hear." "then he seems to me to be bearing his disappointment very easily." "oh, don't be too sure about that! daniel is not one of those whining lovers who publish their lamentations to the whole world. he loves her, as i could see by his sudden paleness when i announced to him the definite rejection of his offer; but he has an iron will, and you may be certain that if he is so calm, that only shows he still cherishes some hope. as for me, i won't believe in kondjé-gul's marriage with her cousin, until i see them coming out of church together." now although it was of small consequence to me that kiusko, in his robust faith, still preserved a remnant of hope, i must admit that i felt somewhat aggravated by his presumptuous pertinacity. as he had formally declared his love, kondjé-gul could not henceforth feign to ignore it. there was an offensive kind of impertinence to her about that coolness of his, which affected to take no account of an engagement of which she had informed him as a justification for her refusal. however reserved he might be, and even if he never betrayed by a single word the secret feeling which he concealed so carefully during our intercourse as friends, it would be impossible for me not to feel the constraint of such a situation. so far as he was concerned, it did not seem to trouble him in the least. this demeanour, and this insolent confidence of his--such as might be expected in a petty feudal tyrant--irritated me inexpressibly; but an incident occurred, at first sight insignificant, which diverted the current of my suspicions into quite a different channel. one morning, about ten o'clock, i was accompanying my aunt upon one of her rounds of visiting the poor. as we happened to be passing count téral's house, i was very much surprised to see daniel coming out of it. what had he been doing there? this was kondjé-gul's lesson time, and certainly not the time of day for callers. this discovery put me into a state of agitation which it was extremely difficult for me to avoid showing. i reflected, however, that it was quite possible maud or susannah had entrusted him with a message or with some book, which he had come to deliver. however that might be, i wanted to clear up the mystery. when half-way down the champs elysées, i pretended to have an order to give to a coachmaker, and leaving my aunt to return home alone, i went back to téral house. as i had anticipated, kondjé-gul was shut up with her music-mistress. i sent up my name in the ordinary way, and was immediately introduced. "what! is it you?" she said, pretending before her mistress to be surprised at such an early visit. "have you come to play a duet with me?" "no," i answered, "i was passing by this way, and i will only trouble you long enough to find out if you have formed any plans for to-day with your friends the montagues." "none," she replied, "beyond that they are expecting me at three o'clock." "then they did not send you any message this morning?" "no. has anything happened?" she added in turkish. "nothing whatever," i replied, with a laugh. "my aunt brought me this way, so i thought i would come and say good morning to you." "how kind and nice of you!" she said, with evident warmth. she had not left her piano, and i remained standing, so as to show that i had only called on my way, to receive her orders. i shook hands with her, saying that i did not wish to interrupt her lessons any more, and took my departure. it was evident that kondjé knew nothing about daniel's visit. on my way out i spoke to fanny, and gave her some instructions, telling her that i was going to send some flowers. this girl was quite devoted to me, and her discretion might be perfectly relied upon. however, as i did not wish her to think that i was questioning her about her mistress, i asked her in an indifferent manner if the count had not brought anything for me. "i don't know, sir," she answered. "the count came an hour ago, but he told me to send in his name to mademoiselle kondjé's mother, who was expecting him, i think, and who ordered me to show him into the small drawing-room, where she went to see him. when he left, he said nothing to me." "did he say nothing to pierre?" i added. "pierre was not in, sir," replied fanny. "the count only spoke to madame murrah." "ah, very well!" i said, carelessly. these inquiries had led me to a curious discovery. what was the meaning of this private interview between kondjé's mother and daniel? determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, i went up without any more ado to madame murrah's private sitting-room. she did not appear surprised, from which i concluded that she knew i was in the house, and was prepared to see me. for my part i pretended to have come to settle some details connected with the house and the stables, for i was obliged to assist her in the management of all her domestic affairs. she listened to what i said with that deferential sort of smile which she invariably assumes with me. when she was quite absorbed in the calculations which i had submitted, i said to her all at once: "by the way, what did count kiusko come here for so early in the day?" i thought i noticed her face redden, but this was only a transient impression. "the count?" she answered, in a most profoundly surprised tone. "i did not see him! has he been here?" "why, fanny showed him in here," i replied, "and you have spoken to him." "ah, yes! _this morning_," she exclaimed sharply, and with emphasis on these words. "goodness me, what a poor head i have! i thought you said _yesterday evening_. i understand french so badly, you know. yes, yes, he has been here. the poor young man is off his head. this is the second time he has been here to beg me for kondjé-gul's hand. he is quite crazy! crazy!" "oh, then he has been before! but why did not you inform me?" "it is true: i had forgotten to do so!" she replied. i deemed it useless to appear to press her any more on the matter. had madame murrah tried to keep me in ignorance of these visits of count kiusko's? or was this merely a proof, or the contrary, of the slight importance which she attached to them? in any case, for me to let her see my distrust in her would only put her on her guard. so i broke off the subject, and resumed my household instructions, as if i had remarked nothing more important in this matutinal incident than the stupid pertinacity of a discomfited lover. a quarter of an hour afterwards i took my leave of her in quite a jaunty way. once out of the house, i considered the matter over calmly, and made my reflections upon it. had i, by accident, stumbled upon a plot, or was my jealous mind alarmed without occasion by a foolish attempt which kondjé-gul's mother could not avert? accustomed as she was to a sort of passive submission, had she allowed herself to be cowed by a man who spoke in the tone of a master? was it not possible that, in her embarrassment with the part she had to play, she had let out rather more than was prudent? was anything more than this necessary in order to explain daniel's conduct? without any kind of scruple kiusko brought to the contest all the savage energy of a will constituted to bend everything before it. the choice of instruments was a matter of small importance to a man of his nature, the incompleteness of whose education had left him scarcely half-civilized. accustomed to have all his own way, he made straight for his object, rushing like a bull at every obstacle. the suppleness of his slavonic character displayed itself in this desperate game, in which, the happiness of his life was at stake. he loved kondjé-gul, as i knew full well, with that blind love which admitted no compromise with reason. with the mother as his ally, he no doubt conjectured that the marriage would be brought about in accordance with turkish custom without kondjé-gul being consulted. my first idea was to interfere violently and so frustrate this plot, but enlightened upon those manoeuvres, which afforded me an explanation of daniel's incredible constancy after the repulse which he had sustained, i could see the folly of any provocation on my part, and the consequent danger of injuring kondjé-gul and perhaps creating a scandal. henceforth i hold the threads of these underhand intrigues: i am about to catch my rival in his own trap and mislead him as much as i please. these reflections calmed me a little. after all, would it not be insane for me to lose my temper about a rivalry which, all said and done, was only one of the innumerable incidents which i had foreseen as consequences of kondjé-gul's beauty? such beauty would of course attract passionate admiration wherever she went. good heavens! what would become of me if i took any more notice of kiusko than of the rest of them? besides, being informed now of all his movements, i was in a position to intervene whenever it became necessary to put an end to his hostile projects. a great worry has come upon me, my friend. i must tell you that there are some barracks in the rue de babylone; from which it follows that a great many officers lodge in the vicinity. moreover, the garden of my house, although enclosed by a wall on the boulevard side, is not sufficiently screened to prevent daring eyes from peering into it from various neighbouring windows. now, as a few days of sunshine had favoured us with very mild weather, my houris did not fail to go and stroll about the lawns. naturally enough they attracted the attention of some indiscreet persons whose curiosity had been quickened by the apparent mystery of this closed house, and by all the gossip in the neighbourhood about "the turk." it also happens that the house adjoining mine is tenanted by the colonel, whence it results that from morn to eve, there is a constant coming and going of sergeant-majors, lieutenants and captains, who rival one another in casting fascinating glances upon this corner of mahomet's paradise. i must do my houris the justice to say that they do not show themselves unveiled; still i will leave you to imagine the agitation which they cause among the whole regimental staff. all this was certainly but an inconvenience which pure chance threw in my way, amid my methodical experiments with the new manners and customs of which i wish to show the superiority. it would not have been fitting for a sincere psychologist to convert a purely adventitious difficulty into a defeat; and the removal of my harem would have furnished a specious argument for some detractor of my doctrines who would not have failed to seize hold of this slight practical obstacle in order to raise a controversy. then, too, i should have been violating human dignity and confessing the fragility of my system of social renovation if i had so lowered myself as to completely sequestrate the women after the fashion of some vile asiatic satrap. to be brief, i stood firm; and i conscientiously instructed mohammed, who was already alarmed, not to interfere with the freedom of their diversions in the garden. being confident in the healthy effects of an application of the immortal principles, i had ceased to busy myself about this affair, when, as i arrived in the evening three days ago, i saw mohammed hasten to me, looking scared. with signs of acute emotion, he begged of me to hear him privately, having an important communication to make. i entered his room where i invited him to unbosom himself. he then informed me--in a tone of genuine despair, i will admit--that the honour of the harem and also his own were terribly compromised. in point of fact, he had during the day surprised zouhra at her window corresponding by signs with a young and superb nobleman who had come to one of the windows of the neighbouring house. this audacious lover, judging by his military uniform, bedizened with gold lace, must at the least be a _muchir_ or general. had a thunderbolt fallen at mohammed's feet it certainly would not have caused him greater consternation. the unfortunate fellow did not seem to doubt for one moment what punishment awaited him. but i reassured him, for as you may well suppose, with my system this useless practice is destined to disappear as being superfluous: the dignified position of eunuch not being compatible with our laws. however, under the circumstances, i did not think that i could dispense with opening a serious inquiry concerning this offence which, according to mohammed, had been perpetrated repeatedly for some days past. even letters, thrown over the walls, had been exchanged. on the morrow then, i repaired to the house before the hour usually selected for this correspondence, and placing myself on the upper floor, i waited, screened by a curtain, thanks to which i could watch the manoeuvres of the accomplices, at my ease. mohammed was moaning like a fallen man, deprived of his grandeur and dishonoured. i soon saw zouhra appear, charmingly adorned and carrying a nosegay in her hand; but the other window, which had been indicated to me, remained unoccupied. after ten minutes or so she became restless and began to pace up and down her room in a way that conclusively proved her impatience. provided with a good opera-glass i carefully watched her goings-on. nearly half an hour elapsed. there was still nobody at the other window. mohammed, who became more and more downcast, was beginning to fear that he would be unable to prove to me the full extent of my disgrace, when suddenly the swift approach of my houri to her window betokened something fresh. she lowered her nosegay by way of saluting, and my glasses were at once turned to the direction in which she was darting her glances. on the third floor of the colonel's house i could see a splendid drum-major in full uniform, with large epaulets, his chest bedizened with broad gold braid and his hand resting upon his heart. as the room was not high enough to accommodate the lofty plume towering above his bearskin, my rival was leaning half out of the window, and his tricolour insignium seemed to pierce the sky. i remained dazzled at the sight of him: he glistened like the sun! with zouhra it had been love at first sight. the pantomimic business gradually began on both sides; on the girl's part it was naïve and still restrained; on the drum-major's, ardent and passionate, though now and then he struck a contemplative attitude. he showed her a letter and she showed him another one, which she held in readiness. the sight made a flush rise to mohammed's brow. in presence of such avowals doubt was no longer possible. the drum-major soon became emboldened and raised the tips of his fingers to his lips. his kisses journeyed through space; and then with his hands clasped he begged of zouhra to return them. i must confess that the wretched girl defended herself for a few minutes with bashful reserve. but she was so pressed and implored that at last i saw her weaken, and anxious and hesitating, she yielded. i was betrayed! mohammed sank down, uttering a plaintive moan. for my own part i thought of my uncle's misfortune. was it fate? however, my uncle is not the only man who comes from marseilles; i also come from that city, and although i am merely his nephew, i have at times enough of his hot disposition to feel as he felt after similar strokes of fate. having been drawn into his irregular orbit, passing through the same phases as he passed through, i must expect that nothing will ever happen to me in the same way as it would happen to others, himself excepted. thus the similarity of our adventures--the drum-major in my case taking the place of my uncle's jean bonaffé,--ought not to have surprised me; it should have been foreseen like a philosophical contingency previously inscribed in the book of destiny. and, indeed, to tell the truth, i should have considered the slightest departure from the precise law of fate illogical. however, i was either in a bad disposition of mind or i had been too suddenly and speedily awakened from the presumptuous quietude into which i had sunk, for i will admit to you that on thinking over my case, i experienced at the moment a singular feeling of astonishment. horns are like teeth, a witty woman once said: they hurt while they are coming, but afterwards one manages to put up with them! true as this remark of an experienced person may be, yet having my own ideas as to these vain appendages which i could not prevent from sprouting; and being, moreover, sufficiently provided with proofs which i had duly weighed, my first idea was to dart head first athwart this intrigue in which my dishonour was a certainty. leaving mohammed upon the divan where he had stranded, i hastened by way of the stairs to the guilty creature's room. i softly opened the closed door, stepped gently over the carpet, and approached her from behind in time to catch her just as she had one hand on her heart and the other on her lips. she gave a little shriek, while the drum-major, on seeing me appear so suddenly, made a gesture of despair. then he drew back with such haste that his plume caught against the wall above the window, with the result that his bearskin was knocked off, and turning a sommersault fell into the courtyard. zouhra thereupon gave another shriek. all this had occurred with the rapidity of a flash of lightning. my rival, closing his window, had disappeared like a jack-in-the-box. we were alone. "ah! ha!" i then said to the unworthy creature, "so this is your conduct----" she answered nothing; she still hoped, no doubt, that she would be able to deny the facts, with the brazen assurance of the woman who, although surprised in the act, puts on a grand air, and waxes wrathful as at an insult. "who was that man up there," i resumed, "with whom you were corresponding?" "a man!" she finally answered with her strong turkish accent which i will spare you. "i don't know what you mean--i don't know any men--i have never seen any!" "but he was at that window--there." "well, what does that prove?" she retorted. "does that concern me? can i prevent people from coming to their windows?" "no, but when they are there you might prevent yourself from making signs to them; and especially from returning the kisses they send to you." "signs, i? i made signs!" she exclaimed. "ah! that is really too bad! who do you take me for then?" "why, i surprised you, and i stayed your hand when you had your fingers raised to your lips." "well, can't i put my fingers to my lips now? what, am i not to have the right to make a gesture, without accounting for it, without being insulted? did any one ever see a woman treated in such an odious fashion? well, tie me up then!" you are acquainted with women's tactics, my dear louis: they are always the same in such cases. i put a stop to it all after letting her deny the facts. "come, come," i said to her. "this is not the time for you to play the part of a persecuted victim. for the last half hour i have been watching you from behind those curtains. i saw everything--with my opera-glass," i added, showing her the glass in proof of my assertion. struck by this victorious demonstration she stood there in consternation. for a moment i enjoyed the effect i had produced and then continued: "i saw the letter which he showed you, and the one which you have in your pocket--i can still see a bit of it peeping out." on hearing this she became very red; and with incredible swiftness drew forth the incriminating missive, which she tore into a hundred pieces. "all right," said i. "it would seem then that you had written something very compromising to that soldier, whom you have never met and whom you don't know." "it was a letter for the modiste," she replied with assumed indignation. "yes, and you no doubt wanted him to deliver it," i retorted in an ironical strain. this last bitter dart went home and set her beside herself. she assumed a superb attitude. "i shall not give you any explanation," she said. "believe whatever you please. do whatever you choose. as for myself, i know what i have to do now. since i am spied upon and treated in this fashion i have had enough of leading such a life--i prefer to put an end to it at once!" "and how do you purpose putting an end to it?" i resumed. "it will perhaps be necessary to consult me a little bit on that subject." "but you are neither my husband nor my brother, my dear fellow," she exclaimed in the most airy way imaginable, "and i don't suppose that you are going to talk to me any more of those stupid turkish rights. we are in paris and i know that i am free!" "well, where will your freedom take you?" "oh! don't worry yourself about me--i should not have any trouble to secure a husband. do you imagine, my dear fellow, that i should be embarrassed to find a _position_?" this characteristic word showed me that she was far more completely initiated than i had suspected. "and you expect," i retorted, "to obtain this _position_ from that fine nobleman, eh?" these disdainful words exasperated her; she lost all self-restraint and burnt her ships. "that fine nobleman is a duke!" she exclaimed vehemently. "i will not allow you to insult him. and since you dare to threaten me, i will tell you that i love him and that he adores me, and that he offers to marry me and promises me every bliss--" in spite of my misfortune i could not help laughing at this fiery indignant declaration to which zouhra's turkish accent imparted an irresistibly comic effect. my gaiety brought her anger to a climax. frenzied, decided upon everything, she darted to a chiffonier, drew out an illuminated card, upon which two doves were pecking one another, and threw it at me with a queenly air, exclaiming: "there, my dear fellow you will see if i still have any need of you!" i picked up the card and read what was written upon it: leduc (d'arpajon), _drum-major of the th regt. of the line._ _to the divine zouhra--everlasting love!_ it would be useless for me to describe to you the end of the scene. when i had laughed enough, i allowed myself the delightful pleasure of undeceiving my faithless houri by explaining to her her unfortunate mistake as to the rank of her conqueror, whom she had mentally endowed with a fortune in keeping with the height of his plume.[a] i destroyed her dream of every bliss by reducing it to so much bliss as was procurable with a full pay of a franc and a half _per diem_. [footnote a: zouhra with her imperfect knowledge of french had concluded that leduc (d'arpajon) meant "the duke of arpajon"--whereas, in reality, leduc, a single word, was the drum-major's name; d'arpajon implying that he came from, or belonged to, the little market town of arpajon, not far from paris.--_trans._] as i made these crushing revelations you might have seen her gradually sinking and collapsing, with her pretty purple lips just parted, and her gazelle's eyes staring with frightened astonishment. she was the picture of consternation. all at once she darted towards me and abruptly caught me in her arms. "ah! it is you that i love!--you that i love!" she exclaimed in a pathetic tone amid her transports. i had some difficulty in releasing myself from her passionate embrace; still i eventually succeeded in doing so, but only to confront a fresh crisis of despair, whereupon i immediately confided zouhra to the care of her maids. then, without any further explanations, which would have been superfluous, i withdrew. of course i am perfectly aware that you will try to derive from this mishap some argument intended to triumph over my discomfiture. i would have you remark, however, that you have no right to seize upon a general fact--for infidelity is inherent in woman's nature--and draw deductions respecting my particular case. all that you can reasonably conclude is that the man who has four wives is bound to be deceived four times as often as the man who has but one wife. that is certainly a weighty argument, i confess. however all that may be, my misfortune having been made evident to me, and zouhra being banished from my heart, it was necessary that i should come to a decision with regard to her. the most simple course was to consult my uncle; his own experience in a similar mishap pointed him out as the best of advisers. he listened to me, stroking his beard with the somewhat derisive phlegm of a practical man, who is not sorry to find that he has some companions in misfortune. it even seemed to me that i could detect a touch of malicious satisfaction, as if he still resented my conduct as an heir. when i had finished he quietly remarked: "what an old stupid you are! you should have let her get married without saying anything! in that way you would have saved us the expense of sending her back home again." "well, unfortunately it's too late now for that, uncle," i answered. to be brief, as the turkish law does not allow the desertion or dismissal of a cadine unless she be provided for, zouhra is to be exiled to rhodes. the pasha has established there for his own use, a kind of botany bay, which is a place both of retirement and rustication for his invalided wives who have lost their freshness with age. the place is an old abbey with spacious gardens planted with mimosas and orange trees, and was purchased by auction for some ten thousand francs. the island is delightful, and provisions are to be had there for nothing, according to what my uncle tells me. judge for yourself: fowls cost twopence each, and everything else is to be had at correspondingly low prices. there are already eleven women there, and it does not cost more than nine thousand francs a year to keep them all on a proper footing, including the board and wages of their servants. find me among our own boasted institutions any one to be compared with that of my uncle--an institution established to provide for similar contingencies, and the arrangements of which are equally good. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] chapter xv. for the last three days that unworthy girl zouhra has been on her way to rhodes. well, what does that matter? i admit that i have only three wives left, that's all. and what of that? is it fitting that you, my dearest friend, should try to make me feel ashamed of it? while exercising your facetiousness, it seems to me that you especially level your irony at certain other worries necessarily occasioned by the position of kondjé-gul and what you call the wooing of the "fierce kiusko." ye gods! so i have a rival. really, you make me laugh! i fancy, however, that all this will inevitably end in a duel between us, which indeed, as time goes on, seems to me quite unavoidable. one evening when i arrived rather late at téral house by reason of one of those tedious dinners with which anna campbell's leaves-out were celebrated, i found kondjé-gul quite downcast, and her eyes red with crying. i had left her a few hours before in the best of spirits, and delighted about a pretty little pony which i had given her in the morning, and which we had been trying. surprised and alarmed at such a sudden grief as she evinced, and which had caused her to shed tears, i anxiously questioned her about it. directly i began speaking to her i saw that she wanted to conceal from me the cause of her affliction: but i pressed her. "no, it's nothing," she said, "only a story which mamma told me." but when she tried to smile, a sob broke out from her lips, and, bursting into tears, she threw her arm round my neck, nestling her head on my bosom. "good heavens! what's the matter, dear?" i exclaimed, quite alarmed. "tell me all about it, i entreat you. what has happened? and why are you crying like this?" she could not answer me. her bosom heaved, and she seized my hand and covered it with kisses, as if in order to demonstrate her love for me in the midst of her distress. i succeeded in calming her; and then, making her sit down by my side, with her hands in mine, i pressed her to confess her troubles to me. her hesitation increased my alarm: she turned her eyes away from me, and i could see that she feared to reply to me. at last, quite frantic with anxiety, i resorted to my marital authority. then, with childlike submission, she related to me the following strange story, which filled me with astonishment. after luncheon her mother had joined her in the drawing-room, when in the course of a general conversation she began to speak about their native country and their family, and about the pleasure it would be for them to revisit them after so long an absence. kondjé-gul let her go on in this strain, thinking that she was just indulging in one of those dreams of a far-off future which the imagination is fond of cherishing, however impossible their realisation may be. but soon she was very much surprised by noticing that her mother was discussing this scheme as one which might be carried out at an early date. she then questioned her about it. at last, after a lot of fencing, madame murrah informed her that she had learnt a marriage was arranged between me and anna campbell, who had been betrothed to me for a long while past; also that this marriage would take place in six months' time, and that i should have to go away with my wife the day after the wedding. the end of all these arrangements would be the abandonment of kondjé-gul. i was dismayed by this unexpected revelation. the plan of my marriage with anna had remained a family secret, known only to my uncle, to herself, to my aunt, and to me. how had it got to madame murrah's ears? i was unable to conceal my uneasiness. "but this marriage is true then?" continued my poor kondjé with an anxious look in my face. "nothing is true but our love!" i replied, distressed by her fears; "nothing is true but this, that i mean to love you always, and always to live with you as i do now." "but this marriage?" she again repeated. it was impossible for me to escape any longer from the necessity of making a confession which i had intended to have prepared her for later on. "listen, my darling," i said, taking her by the hands, "and above all things trust me as you listen to me! i love you, i love no one but you; you are my wife, my happiness, my life. do you believe me?" "yes, dear, i believe you. but what about her?" she added in a tremble. "what about anna campbell? are you going to marry her?" "come," i said, wishing to begin by soothing her fears; "if, as so often happens in your own country, i were obliged, if only in order to assure our own happiness, to make another marriage, would not you understand that this was only a sacrifice which i owed to my uncle if he required it of me--a family arrangement, in fact, which could not separate us from each other? what have you to fear so long as i only love you? did you trouble yourself about hadidjé or zouhra?" "oh, but they were not christians! anna campbell would be your real wife; and your religion and laws would enjoin you to love her." "no," i exclaimed, "neither my religion nor my laws could change my heart or undo my love for you. it is my duty to protect your life and make it a happy one; for are not you also my wife? why should you alarm yourself about an obligation of mine which, if we lived in your country, would not disturb your confidence in me? anna campbell is not really in love with me: we are only like two friends, prepared to unite with each other in a conventional union, such as you may see many a couple around us enter upon--an association of fortunes, in which the only personal sentiments demanded are reciprocal esteem. my dear girl, what is there to be jealous of? don't you know that you will always be everything to me?" poor kondjé-gul listened to these somewhat strange projects without the least idea of opposing them. still under the yoke of her native ideas, those oriental prejudices in which she had been brought up were too deeply grafted in her mind to permit of her being rapidly converted by acquaintance with our sentiments and usages--very illogical as they often appeared to her mind--to a different view of woman's destiny. according to her laws and her religion, i was her master. she could never have entertained the possibility of her refusing to submit to my will; but i could see by the tears in her eyes that this very touching submission and resignation on her part was simply due to her devoted self-control, and that she suffered cruelly by it. "come, why do you keep on crying?" i continued, drawing her into my arms. "do you doubt my love, dear?" "oh, no!" she replied quickly. "how could i mistrust you?" "well, then, away with those tears!" "yes," she said, giving me a kiss, "you are right, dear: i am very silly! what can you expect of me? i am still half a barbarian, and am rather bewildered with all i have learnt from you. there are still some things in my nature which i can't understand. why it is that i feel more jealous of anna campbell than i was of hadidjé, of nazli, or of zouhra, i can't tell you; but i am afraid--she is a christian, and perhaps you will love her better than me. i feel that the laws and customs of your country will recover their hold over you and will separate us. that odious law which you once told me of, which would enfranchise me, so you said, and make me my own mistress if i desired to leave you, often comes back to my mind like a bad dream. it seems to me that this imaginary liberty, which i don't want at any price, would become a reality if you get married." i reassured her on this point. there is a much more persuasive eloquence in the heart than in the vain deductions of logic. during this extraordinary scene, in which my poor kondjé-gul's mind was alarmed by the conflict going on between her own beliefs and what she knew of our society, i was quite sincere in my illusions concerning the moral compromise which, i fancied, was imposed upon me as an absolute duty. singular as it may all appear to you, i had already been subjected too long to the influence of the harem not to have become gradually permeated by the oriental ideas. the tie which bound me to kondjé-gul had acquired a kind of sacred and legitimate character in my eyes. however this may have been, her revelation disclosed an impending danger. it was clear to me that the news of the marriage arranged between anna campbell and myself could only have reached madame murrah through kiusko. his relationship with my aunt had made him a member of our family, and he had been acquainted with our projects. i could easily understand that his jealous instincts had penetrated one side of the secret between kondjé and myself. he had at least guessed that she loved me, and that i was an obstacle to the attainment of his desires. he was following up his object. he wished to destroy kondjé-gul's hopes in advance, by showing her that i was engaged to marry another. with my present certitude of his mean devices, i began to wonder whether everything had been already let out through slips of the tongue made by madame murrah, in the course of those interviews which he had obtained with her either by chance or by appointment. for several days past i fancied i had remarked in him an increased reserve of manner. it was possible that, being convinced now of the futility of his hopes, his only object henceforth was to revenge himself on his rival by at least disturbing his feeling of security. yes! you are quite right: i love her! why should you imagine i would wish to deny it, or dissemble it as a weakness? did i ever tell you that the consequence of indulgence in the pleasures of harem loves would be to drown the heart, the soul, and the aspirations towards the ideal for the sole advantage of the senses? where you seem to see the defeat of one vanquished, i find the triumph of my happiness and the enchantment of a dream which i am realizing during my waking hours. compare with this secret and charming bond of union which attaches me to kondjé-gul, the prosaic and vulgar character of those common intrigues which one cynically permits the whole world to observe, or of those illicit connections which the hypocritical remnant of virtue with us constrains us to conceal, like crimes, in the darkness. deceptive frenzies they are, the enjoyment of which always involves of necessity the degradation of the woman and the contempt of the lover! you may preach and dogmatise as much as you like in your endeavours to uphold the superiority of our habits over those of the east, which you declare to be barbarous; you will never succeed in doing anything more than entangling yourself in your own paradox. the fact is that in the refined epoch, so-called, in which we live, every description of non-legitimized union in love becomes a libertinage, and the woman who abandons herself to it becomes a profane idol. whether she be a duchess, or a foolish maid, you may write verses over her fall, but you cannot forget it. the worm is in the fruit. my love for kondjé-gul knows no such shame, and needs no guilty excuses. proud of her slavish submission, she can love me without derogating in the least from her own self-respect. in kondjé's eyes, her tender embraces are legitimate, her glory is the conquest of my heart. i am her master, and she abandons herself to me without transgressing any duty. being a daughter of asia, she fulfils her destiny according to the moral usages and the beliefs of her native land: to these she remains faithful in loving me: her religion has no different rule, her virtue no different law. that is why i love her, and why my heart is possessed by such a frank and open loyalty towards her. you speak to me about the future, and ask me what will happen when the time comes for my marriage to anna campbell? well, the future is still in the distance, my dear fellow; when it comes upon me we will see what i will do! meanwhile i love and content myself with loving! will that satisfy you? oh yes, i confess my errors, i abjure my pagan vanities, and my sultanic principles. i give up mahomet! i have found my damascus road. true love has manifested itself to me in all its glory, shining through the clouds; it has inspired me with its grace, and my false idols lie prostrate in the dust----would you like me to make you a present of my harem? if this offer suits you, send me a line, and i will forward what remains of it to you with all despatch: you shall then give it my news, for it is six weeks now since i have seen my two sultanas. only make haste--in eight days' time they are to return to constantinople. the blessings of civilization are decidedly banes to these little animals. liberty in paris would soon ruin them. i have provided for them, and am sending them away. i mention all this to show you in what happiness i bask. reassured by my affection, and confident in the future, my kondjé-gul has recovered that sweet serenity which makes our love such a delicious dream. as the fierce kiusko is now unmasked, we laugh at his foolish plots as you may well imagine! [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvi. my aunt gretchen van cloth is in paris! well, why do you assume your facetious tone on reading that? i know you and can guess your thoughts. after all, barbassou is a pasha, is it still necessary to remind you of that? well, the other day my uncle informed me that he would take me home to dine with him. i repaired to the boulevard at the appointed hour and we started in his brougham for passy. on the way he told me what it was necessary i should know. we reached a rather nice looking house in the rue raynouard, from which you can see the boats floating down the seine. there is a railing and a little garden in front. on hearing our footsteps, a young lady whom i at once recognised, from the recollections of my childhood, hurried to the door. "kiss your aunt," my uncle said to me: and i did as i was told. we then entered a modest little drawing-room, the commonplace aspect of which, reminding one of furnished apartments, was improved by its general neatness and by a few bunches of flowers displayed in sundry odd vases. three youngsters, the smallest of whom was between three and four years old, were eating bread and butter there. my uncle saluted each of them with a hurried kiss, and then they ran off to their nurse. my aunt gretchen is just reaching her thirty-fourth birthday. she confesses to her age. if she did not come from amsterdam she ought to have been born there. she has blossomed like a flower among the tulips, and she looks like a rubens, in that painter's more sober style, as in the portrait of the friesland woman, with the prim pink and white flesh of the healthful natures of the north. you realise that good blood flows quietly and temperately beneath the pleasantly plump charms of this worthy dutchwoman, who claims only her due, but is desirous of getting it. and she does get it. she has luxuriant light chestnut hair, and a very attractive face with the smiling, placid, and even somewhat simple expression of a good housewife, who is as expert in bringing up her children as in making pastry and pineapple jam. being of a gay and amiable disposition, she greeted her husband with the ordinary, hearty affection of a woman who has never been a widow. after bringing him his foxskin cap she established him in a comfortable arm-chair, and then mixed his absinthe for him. i guessed that the captain was returning to old habits, with the dignified composure which he displays in everything. they began to talk in dutch, and as i looked at them without understanding it, my uncle said to me: "your aunt tells me that her kitchen range is too small to make any good _soufflés_, and it worries her on your account." "oh! my aunt is too kind to disturb herself about such a trifling matter," i replied; "the pleasure i feel in seeing her again amply compensates me for this slight mishap." "well, instead of the _soufflés_ you shall have some _wafelen_ and some _poffertjes_!" quickly rejoined my aunt with her kindly smile. i remarked that she spoke french much better than formerly. however, probably on account of her voyages with the captain, who recruited his crews at toulon, her dutch accent has now become a provençal one. the dinner was delightful, substantial and plentiful, like the charms of my aunt, who was victorious along the whole line, and notably with the spicy sauce of a _gebakken schol_, which was excellently baked. the conversation was simple and of a free and easy character, my uncle talking with all the freedom of a man who has a quiet conscience. he was as much at his ease in his dutch household as any good citizen could be, and i perceived that my aunt knew absolutely nothing about him, unless it were the important position that he occupied in the spice trade. she gave him some news about the great doings of the van hutten firm of rotterdam and antwerp, in which he seemed to take a particular interest. it seems, too, that peter van schloss, junior, is married to a young lady of dordrecht, who presented him with twins after six months of matrimony, a circumstance which my uncle found very natural. old joshua schlittermans, having been utterly ruined by the failure of gannton brothers of new york, has now taken to drink. when the coffee was served (dirkie had brought it from amsterdam, purchasing it on the damplaatz, at the corner of kalver straat), my aunt filled a long porcelain pipe which my uncle took from her hands and lighted, puffing out clouds of smoke, with the serene gravity of some worthy burgomaster at home. we drank some schiedam and two sorts of dry curaçoa. while my aunt sat knitting at the table she questioned me as to my occupations, asking me if i were working in my uncle's establishment; and upon my replying affirmatively to her, she gave me some very good advice, telling me to be very industrious so that i might take my uncle's place later on. at half-past ten we rose from table and went into the drawing-room. dirkie got everything ready for a game of dominoes, and they began to play in the dutch fashion. my uncle kept the markers, and noted the points made: he himself speedily scored between three and four hundred, and then, feeling satisfied with his success, he said: "well, give us a little music!" my aunt did not require any pressing, but went to the piano in a very good-humoured manner. she opened the top so that the instrument might give out a louder sound, then passed behind and arranged everything; and suddenly i heard the splendid introduction of haydn's seventh symphony in _f major_ bursting forth, while my aunt turned the handle with rare skill and gracefulness. (i recognised the superb instrument mentioned in the fourth legacy of the famous will.) i must admit that if my aunt played the minuet rather quickly, she executed the _andante_ in a very delicate style, and the _scherzo_ and the _finale_ were both dashed off in a spirited way. at the last chord, i applauded with sincere enthusiasm. "she plays very well, doesn't she?" my uncle quietly asked me, in a modest tone. "you, who are a connoisseur--" "oh! she plays perfectly," i rejoined, without stinting my praise. "and besides she puts expression into it," he resumed. "one can see that she feels what she plays." my aunt kissed him for this compliment, which he paid her with the gravest assurance. "ah! you are still a flatterer!" she said to him. as may readily be guessed, some of strauss's waltzes and two or three polkas followed the classical symphonies, together with the overtures of "don giovanni" and "fra diavolo." it was really a perfect concert till midnight. but by that time my aunt's plump arm being somewhat tired it was necessary to bring the entertainment to a close. now, my dear fellow, i am not one of those who give way to the stupid prejudices of our foolish traditions; still less am i one of those who seek to evade frivolous objections, or fight shy of plain and open discussion. i have myself officially abandoned polygamy, that is true--but you are meditating another attack upon my uncle--i see it and i feel it--and from the depths of your troglodytic intellect you intend to drag out some commonplace hackneyed argument accompanied by frivolous sarcasms, and directed, not at the point in question, but all round it. as you are even incapable of understanding your own so-called virtue in its true and primitive sense, you will no doubt repeat your usual stupid remarks, denouncing my uncle's conduct as scandalous. let us go straight to the moral point, without haggling over words. my uncle, who has the advantage of being a turk, distributes himself between his two wives, like a worthy husband faithful to his duty. do you presume to blame him? in that case what have you to say to our friends a. b. c. d. e. f. (i spare you the rest of the alphabet, and it is understood that the reader and present company are excepted), our friends, i say, who deceive their wives for the sake of hussies who have several protectors, as they are well aware? it is not a question here of fighting on behalf of the holy shrine of monogamy. with how many faithful, irreproachable husbands are you acquainted? those hussies are mistresses, you will say to me! i know it: that is to say, they are females who belong to everybody. the question is settled: my uncle is a virtuous man by the side of our friends. as he is incapable of such vulgar and promiscuous intrigues he has a supplementary household, that is all! like the prudent traveller who is acquainted with the length of the journey he judiciously prepares relays. compare that family gathering at my aunt van cloth's with those unhealthy stolen pleasures of debauched husbands who feel ashamed and tremble with the fear of being surprised. my uncle is a patriarch and takes no part in the licentiousness of our times. so much for this subject. i have just received a most unforeseen blow, my dear louis, and even while i write have scarcely recovered from the alarm of a horrible machination from which we were only saved by a miracle. i told you about my poor kondjé-gul's passing grief on account of her mother's foolish ideas. reassured as to the future by my vows and promises, she was too amenable to my influence to refuse to submit to a trial which i was forced by duty to prepare her for. proud at the thought that she was sacrificing her jealousy for me, sacrificing herself for my happiness, her tears having been dried up by my kisses, i found her the day after this cruel blow to her heart as expansive and confiding as if no cloud had darkened our sky. but a very few days after i was quite surprised to observe a sort of melancholy resignation about her. i attributed this trouble to some of the childish worries which her mother's temper occasionally gave her. however, after several days had passed like this, i came to the conclusion that the cause of her sadness must be something more than a transitory one, and that she was harassed by some new grief which even my presence was not sufficient to dissipate. by her replies to me, which seemed to be pervaded by more than usual tenderness, i judged that--in her fear of alarming me, no doubt,--she wished to conceal from me the real cause of her anxiety. one evening at one of our little parties at the montagues, which had begun as a concert, but was converted by us, in our gay and sociable mood, into a dance, maud had trotted me off to make up a quadrille. kondjé-gul, who, as you know, never dances, had withdrawn into the boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, where she was looking through the albums. i suspected nothing, and was engaged in a frivolous conversation with maud, when from where i stood, through the glass partition which separated the two rooms, i noticed kiusko come and sit down by her side. it was natural enough that, seeing her alone, he considered himself bound not to leave her so, for that might have looked like a want of politeness on his part. it seemed to me, moreover, from their faces, that their conversation was upon indifferent topics, and was being conducted in that tone of ordinary friendliness which was usual between them. he was turning over the pages of an album as he talked to her. i had no reason to pay much attention to this _tête-à-tête_, and was not even intending to follow it, but once, near the end of the quadrille, my eyes being again turned by chance in kondjé-gul's direction, i saw her rise up all of a sudden, as if something that daniel had said had excited her suddenly. i thought i saw her blush, raising her head proudly and answering him in an offended tone. the dance being now over, i left maud, and, agitated by an anxious kind of feeling, walked up to the boudoir. they were standing up, and kiusko's back being turned to the door, he did not see me enter. kondjé-gul saw me and said: "andré, come and give me your arm!" at this unusually bold request, daniel could not repress a gesture of astonishment, and cast a bewildered glance at me. i advanced, and she seized my arm with a convulsive movement, and addressed herself to my rival: "this is the second time, sir, that you have declared your love to me. let me tell you why i decline it: i am the slave of monsieur andré de peyrade, and i love him!" if a thunderbolt had fallen at daniel's feet, it could not have startled him more than this. he turned so pale that i thought he was going to faint. he gazed at both of us with a desperate and ferocious look, as if some terrible thought was revolving in his mind. his features were contracted into such a savage expression that i instinctively placed myself between him and kondjé-gul. but, all at once, frightened no doubt at his own passion, he gave one glance of despair and rage, and fled from the room. kondjé-gul was all of a tremble. "what has happened, then?" i asked her. "i will tell you all about it," she answered, in a voice still quivering with emotion. "i am going home with my mother. come after us as soon as we are off." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xvii. half an hour later i joined kondjé-gul again at her house. she had sent fanny out of the room, and was waiting for me. when she saw me, she threw her arm round my neck, and the long pent-up tears seemed to start from her eyes like a fountain. "good heavens!" i exclaimed, "what is it, then?" and taking her on my knees like a child, i held her in my arms; but she soon recovered her energy. "listen, dear," she said in a firm voice, "you must forgive me for what i have just done: you must forgive me for having concealed my thoughts and my troubles from you, even at the risk of distressing you." "i forgive you, everything," i answered immediately, "go on, tell me quickly." "well, then! for a whole week i have been deceiving you," she continued, "by telling you that i had no troubles, and that i did not know the cause of that sadness which i could not conceal from you. i was afraid of making you angry with my mother, by confessing to you that it was she who was tormenting me." "your mother!" i exclaimed: "and what had she to say to you, then?" "you shall hear all," she said, with animation, "for i must justify myself for having kept a secret from you. i daresay you remember," she continued, "that a fortnight ago she spoke to me about your marriage, telling me that you were going to leave me." "yes, yes, i understand," i said. "what then?" "my mother had made me promise to keep this revelation a secret, because it was necessary, so she said, that count kiusko should not suspect that we loved each other. she said that he had expressly attributed my refusal to become his wife to some hope which i doubtless entertained of marrying you." "well, go on; tell me what has occurred since." "you know the state of trouble you found me in that night. i could not hold back my tears, and you commanded me to tell you all. at last you reassured me with so much warmth of feeling, that after that i did not believe anyone but you. quite happy at the thought of sacrificing myself to your will, and to your peace of mind, i left off thinking about my alarms, and regretted them as an insult to our love; i repeated to my mother all your kind promises, and thought that i had set her mind at rest. imagine my astonishment at hearing her, a few days afterwards, return to the subject: she had seen the count again, who had declared that your uncle would disinherit you if you did not carry out his wishes." "and did you believe all that?" "no," she replied promptly, "for you had not told me so! but then my mother, seeing that i would only believe you, changed her tactics: she spoke about count kiusko, his wealth, and his love for me." "she did that, did she?" "oh, forgive her!" she continued; "she gets anxious both on my account and her own. she is alarmed about the future, and fancies she sees me deserted by you! well, it was simply a cruel struggle for me, in which my heart could not betray you. i suffered through it, and that's all! but three days ago, i don't know what can have passed during your aunt's party, my mother, on our way home, said to me in a decided manner that she had resolved 'to live no longer among the infidels,' and intended 'to return to the land of the faithful, in order to expiate the great wrong she had committed by living here.' "i was dismayed at this resolution of hers. as she based it upon our faith, i could not oppose her, for that would have been a sacrilege, but i could at least invoke her affection for me, and entreat her not to leave. then, while i was on my knees before her, and was kissing her and crying, she startled me by saying: 'you shall not leave me; for, when i go, i shall take you away with me'!" "why, she must be crazy!" i exclaimed. "well, dear," added kondjé-gul, "you can easily understand what a thunderbolt this was to me! i felt it so painfully that i nearly swooned away. my mother was alarmed and called for fanny. the next day, i attempted to prevail upon her to change her mind, declaring that it would kill me to be separated from you. i thought i had mollified her, for she kissed me and said that all she cared about was my happiness. but this evening, while we were in the carriage on our way to suzannah's, she spoke again to me about count kiusko. i have a presentiment that the greatest enemy to our love and happiness is that man; and that he it is who has been influencing my mother, hoping, no doubt, that when separated from you i should no longer be able to resist her wishes. "well, you know the rest, i had gone into the boudoir while you were dancing, when the count came and sat down by my side.--'is it true that you are going away?' he said to me, after a minute or so. 'who could make you believe such a thing?' i replied coldly. 'why, something your mother told me which seemed to imply it.' i remained silent--he did not venture to follow up the subject, and said nothing more for a few minutes. i kept my eyes on a book which i was looking through, for i felt that his eyes were fixed upon me. 'perhaps you will regret andré a little,' he continued, 'but what can you do? he is not free,--and besides, do you suppose he would have loved you?' "at this question, the cruel irony of which wounded me to the quick, i was possessed by some mad impulse, i raised my head and replied to him in such a scornful tone that he rose up in confusion. just then you came in. i wished to overwhelm him with my contempt so as to destroy all further hopes he might cherish. you know what i said--" "and quite right, too! for it was necessary to put a stop to his nonsense. i will attend to it." "but what if my mother wants to separate us?" "your mother, indeed!" i exclaimed; "your mother who sold you, abandoned you to the life of a slave, do you think she can come and claim the rights which she has thrown away?" "can you defend me against her, then?" "yes, dear, i will defend you," i exclaimed in a passion, "and now set your mind at ease. there is a miserable plot at the bottom of all this, which i intend demolishing. when i leave you i am going to count kiusko, and i assure you that he sha'n't trouble you any more: after that i shall see your mother." "good heavens!" said kondjé-gul, "are you going to fight him?" "no, no," i answered with a laugh, in order to remove her fears; "but you must understand that it is necessary for me to have an explanation with him." in the morning i returned home and arranged all my affairs ready for any eventuality; then when all was in order i went after two of my friends, and asked them to hold themselves ready to act as my seconds in an affair which i might be compelled by grave circumstances to settle that very day. having obtained their promise to do so, i proceeded to kiusko's in the rue de l'elysée. when i arrived at his house, i saw from the windows being open that he was up. a footman, who knew me, was standing under the peristyle. he told me that he did not think his master would see anyone then. i gave him my card and instructed him to send it up at once to the count. in a minute or two after he returned and asked me to come up to his master's private room: he showed me into a little smoking-room adjoining the bedroom, to which the count's intimate friends only are admitted. i had hardly entered it when daniel appeared; he was dressed in a moldavian costume which he uses as a dressing-gown. "hullo, here's our dear friend andré!" he said when he saw me, in such an indifferent tone that i could detect in it the intentional affectation of a calmness to which his pale countenance gave the lie. still he did not hold out his hand to me, nor did i proffer mine; he sat down, indicating to me an arm-chair on the other side of the fire-place. "what good fortune has brought you here so early this morning?" he continued, taking a few puffs at his cigar. "why, i should have thought you expected to see me," i replied, looking him straight in the face. he returned my look with a smile. "i expected you, without expecting you, as they say." by the peculiar tone in which he uttered these words, i could see that he was determined to make me take the initiative in the matter upon which i had come. "very well!" i said, wishing to show him that i guessed his mind. "i will explain myself." "i am all attention, my dear fellow," he answered. "i have come to speak to you," i continued drily, "about mademoiselle kondjé-gul murrah, and about what passed yesterday between her and you." "ah, yes! i understand: you are referring to the somewhat severe lecture which i drew upon myself, and to the confidential communication she made me." "precisely so," i added; "you could not sum up the two points better than you have done: a lecture, and a confidence. now as one outcome of the second point is that i am responsible for all mademoiselle murrah's acts, i have come to place myself at your command respecting the lecture she thought fit to give you." "what nonsense, my dear fellow!" he exclaimed, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air. "after all i only had what i deserved, for i can only blame my own presumption. besides the very anger of such a charming young lady is a favour to the man who incurs it, so that my only regret is that i offended her. i should therefore really laugh at myself to think that i could hold you responsible for this little incident: nay, i will go so far as to say that, strictly speaking, i should owe you an apology for what you might be justified in complaining of as an act of disloyalty between friends, but for the fact that i can plead as my excuse the complete ignorance in which you left me of certain mysterious relations. you must know very well that a simple word from you, my relative, my _friend_, would have made me stop short on the brink of the precipice." i appreciated the reproachful irony concealed in this last sentence; but i had gone too far to trouble myself about remorses of conscience regarding him. "so then," i replied, "you have nothing to say, no satisfaction to demand of me in respect to this lecture?" "none whatever, my dear fellow!" he answered, in the same easy tone which he had preserved all along. "and i may add that there could be nothing more ridiculous than a quarrel between two friends like you and me upon such a matter!" "let's think no more about it then!" i continued, imitating his composure. "since you take it so good-naturedly, i sha'n't press it. but, having settled this first point, it remains now for us to discuss what you have termed the _confidence_." at this he could not repress a slight gesture. his dark eye flashed up, but for a moment only: he was soon quite calm again. "ah, yes!" he said carelessly; "now we've come to the second point." "this is the point of importance for me," i added; "and i am going to ask you, on my side, what you propose to do after this revelation?" "i must compliment you, my dear fellow, for upon my word it's a most wonderful romance. do you really mean to say that this beautiful young lady whom we have all been admiring from a distance, fascinated by her charms, and who like a young queen has been starring it in the most aristocratic drawing-rooms of your society, exciting enthusiastic praise wherever she goes,--that she is your slave?--you must admit that no mortal man could help envying you!" "do your compliments," i continued, "imply an engagement, on your part, to abandon importunities, which you now recognise to be useless?" "oh, indeed!" he exclaimed, with a laugh; "so you're going to ask me now to make _my_ confession?" exasperated by this imperturbable composure of his, which i could not break down, i again looked him straight in the face, and asked-- "do you mean to say you refuse to understand me?" "no, my good sir!" he answered, resuming his peculiar smile, "i understand you perfectly well; you want to pick a quarrel with me, or to force me to demand satisfaction from you for a matter to which i do not attach as much importance as you do. between ourselves, a duel would be an act of folly." "do you understand, at any rate," i retorted, "that i forbid your ever presenting yourself before mademoiselle kondjé-gul murrah again?" "fie! my dear fellow! what do you take me for? after such an astonishing confession on her part, i should prove myself deficient in the most ordinary discretion, if i did not henceforth spare her my presence; so you may set your mind at ease on that point." "do you also imply by this evasive answer that you will abandon certain plots with her mother, which i might describe in terms that would not please you?" "_corbleu!_ i should be too heavily handicapped in such a game, you must admit. nor do i think that the good lady would be of much service to me, from what i know of her. moreover," he added, "you have made me your confidences, as a friend, and, late though they arrive, i shall feel bound by them henceforth, if only on the ground of the mutual consideration, which, in grave circumstances, relations owe to each other." the idea, then, occurred to me of provoking him in another way; but i clearly realised that, as he was playing such a perfidious part, it would be dangerous for me to commit this imprudence. "come, my dear daniel," i said, as i rose from my chair, "at any rate, i can see that you have a very good-natured disposition." "of course i have," he replied; "and yet there are people who accuse me of evil designs." the most formidable perils are those which you feel darkly conscious of, without being able to discern either the enemy or the snare. this interview with kiusko left almost an impression of terror on my mind. knowing him to be as brave as i did, i felt convinced that his insensibility to my insults could only be due to the calculated calm of an implacable will, which was pursuing its object, whether of love, of vengeance, or of hatred, with all the energy of desperation. notwithstanding the humiliations he had undergone, i made sure that he had by no means given up the game. he meant to have kondjé-gul, even if he had to capture her forcibly, and to carry her off as his prey. when i considered his sinister calm, which seemed to be abiding its opportunity, i wondered whether we were not already threatened by some secret machinations on his part. still i was not the man to be overcome by childish panics; so i soon got over this transitory feeling of alarm. i knew that after all we were so unequally matched, that i need not seriously fear his success. however determined kiusko might be not to abandon the cowardly _rôle_ he had assumed, i felt sure that an open affront at the club would compel him to fight. feeling reassured by this consideration, i decided to be guided in my action by the result of the interview which i was going to have with kondjé-gul's mother. it was necessary for me to commence by putting a stop to the foolish proceedings of this woman, who was perhaps acting unintentionally as kiusko's accomplice in schemes the object of which she could not foresee. it was eleven o'clock, an hour at which i knew i should find her alone, while kondjé-gul was taking her lessons: i went accordingly to téral house. when i arrived a carriage was coming in and drawing up under the portico. i saw madame murrah get out of it. she could not avoid showing some annoyance on observing me. rather surprised at her taking such an early drive, i asked her to go into the drawing-room. she went there before me, and, seeing me take an arm-chair, she sat down on the divan in her usual indolent manner, and waited to hear what i had to say. the scene which i am now going to relate to you, my dear louis, was certainly, according to our ideas, a remarkable one. i tell it you just as it happened; but you must not forget that, for the circassian woman, there was nothing in it which was out of conformity with her principles and the ideas of her race. "i have come to talk with you," i said, "upon a serious subject, the importance of which perhaps you do not comprehend; for, without intending it, you are causing kondjé-gul a great deal of trouble." "how am i causing my daughter trouble?" she answered, as if she had been trying to understand. "by continually telling her that i am going to leave her in order to get married,--by telling her that you wish to go away, and have even decided to take her with you. she is of course alarmed by all these imaginary anxieties." "if it is so decreed by allah!" she said quietly, "who shall prevent it?" i had been expecting denials and subterfuges. this fatalistic utterance, without answering my reproaches, took me quite aback and made me tremble. "but," i replied in a severe tone, "allah could not command you to bring unhappiness to your daughter." "as you are going to be married----" "what matters my marriage?" i answered. "it cannot in any way affect kondjé-gul's happiness! she knows that i love her, and that she will always retain the first place in my affections." madame murrah shook her head for a minute in an undecided manner. the argument which i had employed was a most simple one. at last she said: "your wife will be an infidel; and, according to your laws, she will be entitled to demand my daughter's dismissal." dumb-founded at hearing her raise such objections, when i had fancied that i only needed to express my commands, i gazed at her in complete astonishment. "but my wife will never know kondjé-gul!" i exclaimed. "she will live in her own home, and kondjé-gul will live here, so that nothing will be changed so far as we are concerned." upon this reasoning of mine, which i thought would seem decisive to her, the circassian reflected for a moment as if embarrassed as to how she should answer me. but suddenly, just when i thought she was convinced, she said: "all that you have said would be very true, if we were in turkey; but you know better than i do that in your country, your religion does not permit you to have more than one wife." "but," i exclaimed, more astounded than ever at her language, "do you suppose, then, that kondjé-gul could ever doubt my honour or my fidelity?" "my daughter is a child, and believes everything," she continued. "but, for my own part, i have consulted a lawyer, and have been informed that according to your law she has become as free as a frenchwoman, and has lost all her rights as _cadine_ which she would have enjoyed in our country. moreover i am informed that you can abandon her without her being able to claim any compensation from you." i was struck dumb by this bold language and the expression with which it was accompanied. this was no longer the apathetic oriental woman whose obedience i thought i commanded like a master. i had before me another woman whose expression was thoughtful and decided--i understood it all. "while informing you that your daughter is free," i said, changing my own tone of voice, "this lawyer no doubt informed you also, that you could marry her to count kiusko?" "oh, i knew that before!" she replied, smiling. "so you have been deceiving me these two months past, by leaving me to believe that you had answered him with a refusal?" "it was certainly necessary to prevent you from telling him what he now knows.--the silly girl told him everything yesterday." "how do you know that?" i saw her face redden. "i know it. that's enough!" she replied defiantly. feeling certain that kondjé-gul had not told her anything of the incident of the day before, i divined that she had just left kiusko's, where she had been, no doubt, during our interview. "may i ask you, then, what you propose to do, now that count kiusko knows everything?" i continued, controlling my anger. "i shall do what my daughter's happiness impels me to do. you cannot marry her without being obliged to give up your uncle's fortune. if count kiusko should persist in wishing to make her his wife, knowing all the circumstances that he now does, you can understand that i, as her mother, could not but approve of a marriage which would assure her such a rich future." at this i could no longer restrain myself, but exclaimed: "oh, indeed! do you imagine i shall let you dispose of her like that, without defending her?" "no, of course, i know all this.--and that's the very point upon which i consulted a counsel; but, according to what he has advised me, i should like to ask what authority you can claim over my daughter? what rights can you set up against mine?" "well, i should like to remind you also that i can ruin your comfortable expectations by killing count kiusko," i said, quite beside myself with rage. "if so it is written!" she rejoined in a calm voice. exasperated by her fatalistic imperturbability, i felt moved by some furious and violent impulse. i got up from my chair to calm myself. i could see that for two months past i had been duped by this woman, who had been pursuing with avidity a vision of unexpected fortune, and that nothing could now divert her from this pursuit. i felt myself caught in their abominable toils. sitting motionless on her divan, with her hands folded over her knees, she regarded me in silence. "well!" i said, coming close to her again, "i can see that your maternal solicitude is all a question of money. for what sum will you sell me your daughter a second time, and go back to live by yourself in the east?" she hesitated a moment, and then she said: "i will tell you in a week's time." by her deceitful looks i judged that she still placed some hope in kiusko, and that she probably wished to wait until she could make sure about it, one way or the other--but from motives of discretion i held my tongue, and took leave of her. [illustration] [illustration] chapter xviii. events had succeeded each other with such strange rapidity since the day before, that i felt like one walking in a dream. first, kondjé-gul's revelations of her mother's duplicity, then my discussion with daniel, and now finally this cynical dialogue with the circassian, in the course of which she had just confessed her schemes quite openly; all these things had given such a succession of rude shocks to my spirit, which had been reposing until then in the tranquil assurance of undisturbed happiness, that i had hardly found time to estimate the extent of my misfortune. overwhelmed with distress when i perceived the possibility of losing kondjé-gul, i almost thought i should go mad. i made a desperate struggle against the despair which was taking possession of my mind. it was necessary for me to carry on the contest in order to defend my very soul and life, yet i felt my soul slipping out of control. like a mystic fascinated by his vision, i might have allowed myself to be deluded by a vain mirage of security, for i had never imagined that my rights could be disputed. i had been living in the peaceful but foolish confidence that i could obtain redress, when necessary, by the sword, for my rival's presumption. and now i had woke up in consternation at finding myself caught in this stupid trap which i had permitted them to set in my path. kondjé-gul's mother had become kiusko's accomplice. how was i to defeat this conspiracy between two minds animated by consuming passions, resolute and pitiless, who were determined not to be deterred by any scruples or any sense of honour? i could now see my weakness; i was paralysed and defenceless against this wretched woman who, in order to constrain her daughter and dispose of her future, had only to claim her legal authority over her. she could take her from me, and carry her away. once back in turkey, supported by the horrible laws of islam, all she need do was to sell her to kiusko and thus give her up to him. my mind was struck by a sudden idea. was it not the height of folly on my part to give way to childish alarms, and to defer action until after kiusko and the circassian had matured their plans? was it not possible for me to escape, carrying kondjé-gul off with me, and placing her out of reach of their pursuit? as soon as this idea had taken possession of my mind, it fixed itself there, and soon developed into a resolution. i felt surprised that it had not occurred to me earlier, and decided to put it into execution that very day. i knew that kondjé-gul would follow me, for we had often cherished the idea of taking a journey together alone, and i had promised her we would carry it out some day. in order to assure our successful escape, i resolved to give her no notice beforehand, lest she should let it out to her mother. it was necessary, however, to provide for the consequences of this disappearance, and the gossip which would inevitably result in connection with it. well, after a good deal of hesitation, i confided the whole matter to my uncle. "you old stupid!" said he to me, "why, i have known all about your little love-knot for the last six months!" "what! do you mean to say you knew that kondjé-gul?--" "lord bless you! don't you suppose that i heard enough from mohammed to make me keep my eyes open?" after i had come to a complete understanding with my uncle, i made my own arrangements. i was expected to dinner at kondjé's that day. i found her quite sad; and on the pretext of giving her some distraction, i ordered the carriage at about half-past eight, as if for a drive to the bois. we started off. as soon as we were alone, she said to me: "good gracious, andré! whatever has been passing between you and my mother? i am worried to death. she has been talking again to me about my departure with her, and fanny believes that she is making her preparations for it already.--she is going to carry me away." "all right, never mind her!" i answered with a laugh; "you're out of danger already." "how so?" "i'm taking you away! you won't go back to the house, for we are off to fontainebleau, where we shall both of us remain in concealment, while watching events." need i describe to you her joy? in the champs elysées we got out, as if in order to walk, and i sent back the carriage. an hour after this, a cab set us down at the railway station! we spent a delightful week in the forest, playing truant. fanny, who is a reliable girl, has joined us here. we really had a narrow escape; for it seems that madame murrah had, the very day we made our flight, got everything planned for leaving the day after. when she found in the morning that kondjé-gul was gone, she nearly had a fit. kiusko came to the house, being sent for at once; all of which pretty clearly indicates an understanding between them. the circassian of course rushed after me to the rue de varennes, noisily demanding her daughter. so my aunt got to know all about it! my uncle, whom i had taken into my confidence, put them at once completely off the scent, by replying that i had started for spain. we are safe! everything has been accomplished, as if by enchantment. for fifteen days past my kondjé-gul has been settled in a charming cottage at ermont, in the middle of the forest, hidden away like a daisy in a field of standing corn. she has disappeared from view, leaving no more traces behind her than a bird in its flight through the air; and i am back in paris, as if i had just returned from a journey. i have sent word to madame murrah that her daughter, having resolved to become a christian, has taken refuge in a remote convent. you may picture to yourself her rage; but, as she is henceforth powerless, i fear her no more. being a foreigner, and in her precarious position, she cannot venture to charge me with abduction, and, as you may imagine, i am not likely to let her take us by surprise. in order to get rid of her, i have offered to give her an annuity to live in turkey, but she has declined it. there can be no doubt that kiusko guides her, and that they have by no means given up their game, but are ready to resort to any violence. you may be sure i keep a sharp eye on them, and am prepared for them. the contest, however, is too unequal for me to alarm myself very much. my uncle, who never troubles himself much with legal scruples, telegraphed to a couple of his old sailors, onésime and rupert, to come up from toulon: they were born on our férouzat estate, and are, moreover, his "god-children." they are ridiculously like him, except that one of them is two inches taller than the captain. their godfather has installed them at ermont, and i don't mind betting that, with a couple of strapping fellows like them about the place, any attempt at carrying off kondjé-gul in my absence would meet with a few trifling obstacles! as to myself, i defy them to get on my scent. being accustomed to taking morning rides, i could find my way to our happy cottage home by various routes, starting from opposite sides of the city. once on the road, it was impossible to follow me, even at a distance; for i should soon recognize any one on horseback who appeared too inquisitive about my journey. moreover, if these tactics failed, the pace at which star goes would easily baffle any pertinacious pursuit. i often stay for two or three days at this delicious retreat. my uncle delights in coming there from time to time to take his madeira. in short, after the little adventures we have lately gone through, we are now leading a very pleasant existence. you can see what a simple matter it is. my famous system, you will tell me, has come to grief. here i am, all forlorn, among the ruins of my harem, running my head against impossibilities opposed to our laws, morals, and conventionalities, with my last sultana leaning on my arm; here i am, like some little st. john,[b] reduced to shady expedients in order to get a minute's interview with my mistress, imprisoned in her tower. i am trembling between our caresses, you will say, lest a commissary of police should come to cut the golden thread upon which my remaining blisses hang, and force me by legal authority to give back kondjé-gul to her cruel mother. [footnote b: referring to a familiar french nursery-legend similar to that of santa claus.--_trans._] well, my dear friend, i will answer you very briefly, i am in love! yes, i am in love! these words are a reply, i think, to everything; although i must own that fear of the commissary, which certainly does threaten my felicity, has considerably humbled my oriental pride--i am in love! i have burnt my essay for the academy. well, then, i have abjured my polygamy. what more can i say to you? to-day i must confide to you a most valuable discovery i have made; for i beg you to believe that love is not, as so many foolish people imagine, an extinguisher to the fire of the human intellect. on the contrary, it stimulates the perceptions; and an enthusiastic lover, who is familiar with the elements of science, can extend therein his field of observations quite as easily as persons whose hearts are whole. as an example of this, then, i have just been realising the beauty of a charming phenomenon of nature--a most ordinary one, and yet one which so far has remained, i think, completely unobserved. i refer to the spring! as a great artist, you of course know, as well as any one in the world, that this is the season which leads from the winter to the summer; but what i feel sure you don't know is the full charm of this transitory period, in which the whole forest awakens, in which the bushes sprout, and the young birds twitter in their nests! according to vauvenargues, "the first days of spring possess less charm than the growing virtue of a young man." well, it would ill befit me to depreciate the value of such an axiom, coming from the pen of such a great philosopher; still, and without wishing to disdain his politeness in so far as it is really flattering to myself at this particular moment of my career, i do not hesitate to raise my voice after his, and assert, without any pretence of modesty, that this charm is at least as great in the case of flora's lover as in mine, and that it is only fair to accord to each his just portion. if my budding virtue possesses ineffable charms, no less powerful are those of the lilacs and the roses. it is really, i assure you, a wonderful spectacle. you ought to have witnessed it! some day i will tell you all about it, as i have just been doing to my uncle, who finds it all very curious, although he professes only to understand me "very approximately." getting up at sunrise, kondjé and i take a run through the coppices, her little feet all wet with the dew. we feel free, merry, and careless, dismissing the commissary to oblivion, and trusting to each other's love, the full charms of which this solitary companionship has revealed to us. i do not risk more than two excursions to paris each week, one to my aunt eudoxia's, and one to my aunt van cloth's. having made these angel's visits, and performed various family duties, i vanish, by day or by night as the case may be, eluding the vigilance of the spies who have no doubt been set at my heels by the unscrupulous mother, or by _that rascal kiusko_, as we now call him. these adventures augment my rapturous felicity; and if time and destiny have shorn me of the privilege of my sultanship, which you say rendered me so proud and vain, i retain at all events the glory of being happy. i am in love, my dear fellow; and therefore i dream and forget. but there is another still darker speck on my serene sky. anna campbell is just approaching her eighteenth birthday, and i cannot think of this without a good deal of melancholy. although my uncle is delighted to take occasional walks here, at the end of which he finds a capital glass of madeira waiting for him, he, as you are aware, is not a person of romantic temperament, and has already noted with his scrutinising eye the ravages caused by a double passion, which bodes no good for his daughter's married life. the other night, on my return from my aunt van cloth's, he questioned me very seriously on the subject. as to my disappointing his hopes, he knows that the idea of such a thing would not even occur to me. that is a matter of honour between us. i spoke of a further delay before preparing my poor kondjé-gul for the blow. he seemed touched at this token of the sincerity of my entirely filial devotion to him. the commissary has at last come; we have been discovered! yesterday afternoon we were sitting in the garden, under the shade of a little clump of trees. my uncle, in a big arm-chair, was smoking and listening, while i read to him the newspapers, which had just been brought to us. suddenly kondjé-gul, who was standing a few steps off from us, arranging the plants for her window, uttered a suppressed cry, and i saw her run up to me all at once, pale and trembling. "what's the matter, dear?" i said to her. "look there! look there!" she answered, in a terrified voice, pointing towards the house, "my mother!" at the same moment, on the door-step of the cottage, through which she had passed, and found it empty, appeared the circassian. she was accompanied by a man. "this is my daughter, sir," she said to him. i sprang forward to throw myself in front of kondjé-gul. "come, don't agitate yourself, my dear fellow!" said my uncle. "do me the favour of keeping quiet!" then, rising up as he would to receive guests, he walked a few steps towards madame murrah, who had advanced towards us, and addressing himself to the man, said to him: "will you inform me, sir, to what i am indebted for the honour of this visit from you?" "i am a commissary of police, sir, and am deputed by the court to assist this lady, who has come to demand the restitution of her daughter, illegally harboured by you at your house." "very well, sir," continued my uncle; "i am delighted to see you! but be so kind, if you please, as to walk into the house, where we can consider your demand more comfortably than in this garden." "take care," said the circassian to the commissary: "they want to contrive her escape!" "nothing of the sort, my dear madam," replied my uncle: "this gentleman will tell you that we could not venture to do such a thing in his presence. your daughter will remain with us to answer any questions which may be put to her. i am taking her arm, and if you will kindly follow us, i shall have the honour of showing you the way." onésime and rupert might be distinguished in the dim perspective, waiting apparently for a signal from the captain to remove both the commissary and the unwelcome lady visitor. our hearts were beating fast: kondjé-gul could hardly restrain her feelings. we went in, and my uncle, as calm as ever, offered chairs to madame murrah and to the emissary of justice. then he addressed him again, saying: "may i inquire, sir, whether you are provided with a formal warrant authorizing you to employ force to take this young lady away, according to her mother's wish?" "i have the judge's order!" exclaimed madame murrah with vehemence. "excuse me, excuse me," continued my uncle, "but let us avoid all confusion! be so kind, if you please, madam, as to permit the commissary to answer my question. we are anxious to observe the respect which we owe to his office." i felt done for. how could we resist the law? my poor kondjé cast despairing looks at me. "madame murrah being a foreigner, sir," answered the officer of the law, "as you appear to understand, my only instructions are to accompany her, and, in the event of opposition being made to her rights, to draw up a report in order to enable her to bring an action against you in a court of justice." "ah!" continued my uncle. "well, then, sir! you may proceed, if you please, to take down our replies. in the first place, then, the young lady formally declines to return to her mother." "that's false!" said the circassian. "she is my daughter, and belongs only to me! she will obey me, for she knows that i shall curse her if----" "let us be quite calm, if you please, and have no useless words!" replied my uncle. "it is your daughter's turn to reply.--ask her, sir." the commissary then addressed himself to kondjé-gul, repeating the question. i saw her turn pale and hesitate, terror-stricken by her mother's looks. "do you want to leave me, then?" i said to her passionately. "oh, no!" she exclaimed. then turning towards the commissary, she added in a firm voice: "i do not wish to go with my mother, sir." at this the circassian rose up in a fury. kondjé-gul fell on her knees before her, supplicating her with tears, in piteous tones. in my alarm i rushed forward. "get her out of the room; take her away!" my uncle said to me sharply. my poor kondjé-gul resisted, so i took her up in my arms and carried her out. at the door i found fanny, who had come up, and i left my darling in her care. madame murrah darted forward to follow her daughter, but my uncle had seized her by the wrist, and forcing her down again, said to her in turkish: "we have not finished; and if you stir, beware!" "sir," exclaimed the circassian, addressing the officer of the law, "you see how violently they are treating me, and how they are threatening me!" all this had taken place so quickly that the commissary hardly had time to intervene with a gesture. onésime and rupert were strolling about outside the window. "excuse me for having sent this child out, sir," continued my uncle; "but you are, i believe, sufficiently acquainted already with her decision. moreover, she is there to reply afresh to you, if you desire to question her alone, secure from all influence and pressure. it remains for me to speak now upon a subject which she ought not to hear mentioned. after her refusal to follow her mother, which she has just given so clearly, be so good as to add on your report that i also refuse very emphatically to give her up to her." "you have no right to rob me of my daughter," exclaimed the circassian, who was nearly delirious with rage. "that is just the point we are about to discuss," replied my uncle. "firstly, then, allow me to introduce myself to you, sir," he continued, quite calmly; "and to explain my position and rights in this matter. my name is _the late_ barbassou, ex-general and pasha in the service of his majesty the sultan--ranks which entitle me to the privileges of a turkish subject." the commissary smiled and nodded to him, thus indicating that the name of barbassou-pasha was already known to him. "as a consequence of these rights, sir," continued my uncle, "my private transactions cannot come before the french courts; so that this affair must be settled entirely between madame murrah and myself. i should even add, while expressing to you my regrets for the inconvenience which it is causing you, that it is i who have brought about this very necessary interview. i presented myself twice at madame murrah's house in paris, with the object of bringing this stupid business to a conclusion. for reasons, no doubt, which you are already in a position to estimate, she refused to see me. i arranged, therefore, that she should be informed yesterday that her daughter was concealed in this house; and i came here at once myself, in order to have the pleasure of meeting the lady. there you have the whole story." "i refused to see you," said kondjé-gul's mother, "simply because i do not know you! and i ask the judge to order the restitution of my daughter, which the ambassador of our sultan supports me in demanding. i have his order to this effect." here the commissary intervened, and, addressing my uncle, whose imperturbable composure quite astounded me, said gravely: "would you oblige me, sir, by stating your motive for refusing to give up this young lady to her mother? according to our laws, as you are aware, this is a circumstance which, notwithstanding the purely voluntary character of my mandate, i am bound to enter in my report." "certainly, sir," replied my uncle, "your request is a very proper one, and i will at once reply to it, as i would have done in the presence of the consul of his excellency the turkish ambassador, were it not that madame murrah has strong motives for avoiding such an explanation before him, between good mussulmans like herself and me." "i understand you," continued the commissary, suppressing another smile at this declaration of barbassou-pasha. "sir," added my uncle, "i have the advantage of being a mahometan; and according to the special customs of my country, with which you are acquainted, this lady sold me her daughter by a straightforward and honourable contract, sanctioned by our usages, recognized and supported by our laws: these laws formally enjoin me to protect her, and to maintain her always in a position corresponding with my own rank and fortune, while they forbid me ever to abandon her. under the same contract this lady duly received her 'gift' or legitimate remuneration, which had been estimated, fixed, and agreed to by her. therefore, as you will perceive, sir," he added, "no discussion in this case would ever be listened to by an ottoman tribunal, and madame murrah's suit would be ignominiously dismissed." "we are in france," said madame murrah, "and my daughter has become free!" "to conclude, sir," continued my uncle, without taking any notice of this objection, "this lady and i are both subjects of his majesty the sultan. ours is simply a private dispute between fellow-turks, coming entirely under the jurisdiction of our national tribunals, and is one in which your french courts, as you will understand, have no authority to interfere." "you are not my daughter's husband!" exclaimed the circassian; "she does not belong to you any longer, for you have given her to your nephew, a giaour, an infidel!" "quite true, madam!" replied my uncle. "but," he continued, "these are details in a private dispute, with which this gentleman is not concerned. and i fancy he has by this time obtained sufficient information." "certainly, sir," said the officer of the law, rising from his seat. "i have taken down your replies, and my mission is accomplished." barbassou-pasha, upon this conclusion, saluted him in his most dignified manner and conducted him out with every polite attention. the circassian, exasperated beyond measure, had not moved: rage was depicted on her whole countenance, and she looked like one determined to fight it out to the bitter end. "i must insist upon speaking to my daughter," she said passionately, "and then we shall see!" just as he caught these words, my uncle came in, leading my poor kondjé-gul by the hand. "come, you silly old fool," he said to madame murrah, changing his tone quite suddenly, "you can see now that there is nothing left to you but to submit. swallow all your stupid threats! you will make a good thing out of it all the same--for i give your daughter in marriage to my nephew!" i thought i must have misunderstood him. "uncle!" i exclaimed, "what did you say?" "why, you rascal, i see that i must give her to you, since you love each other so consumedly!" kondjé-gul could not repress a scream of joy. we both threw ourselves into my uncle's arms at the same time. "yes," he said, "what a jolly couple they look! but it was your aunt eudoxia who led me at last to play this card! here i am nicely balked of all my fine schemes!" "oh!" exclaimed kondjé-gul, "we will love each other so much!" "well, well! there, they're quite smothering me! may the good god bless you! go along. but now we shall have to come to an understanding with this excellent mother; for according to these infernal french laws, which complicate everything, her consent is necessary for your marriage." "i certainly shall not give it," said madame murrah furiously. "all right! we will see about that," he continued. "that is a matter to be arranged between us, and for that purpose i shall go to your house to-morrow. only, i give you warning, no noise, please, no silly attempts to carry off your daughter, otherwise we shall wait until she is of age in two years' time, and then you will have nothing." don't be surprised, louis, if for the rest of this page i scrawl like a monkey. at the recollection of this scene, my eyes are quite obscured by a veil of mist. by jove, so much the worse! for now it's all breaking into real tears. dear me, what a brick of an uncle he is to me! notwithstanding barbassou-pasha's turkish tactics, and in spite of the happiness which for the moment quite overwhelmed us, my poor kondjé-gul began to tremble again with fear after the departure of her mother, whom we knew to be capable of any mad act. we decided that, in order to avoid a very real danger, we would take her that very day to the convent of the ladies of x.; this we did. before she becomes my wife she is going to become a christian, in pursuance of the wish which, as you know, she has expressed a long time since, of embracing my faith. this visit, which will account to the world for her disappearance, will be explained quite naturally by this _finale_ of our marriage; and if people ever discover anything about this queer story of our amours, well--i shall have married my own slave, that's all. eh? what? you incorrigible carper! is it not, after all, a charming romance? a fortnight has passed since the intervention of the commissary. kiusko has gone: he disappeared one morning. my aunt eudoxia, who has taken us under her special care, goes to see kondjé-gul every day at the convent. she is charming in her kindness to us, but still we have our anxieties. the negotiation of the maternal consent is an arduous task, for the circassian makes absurd pretensions; my uncle, however, undertakes to bring her down. what will you say next, i wonder? that i am reduced to buying my own wife? i flatter myself that i shall find happiness in that bargain! how many others are there, who have done the same, that could say as much as that? [illustration] [illustration] chapter xix. here's a fine business! it is my uncle who has got into trouble this time! my aunt eudoxia has found out everything, and i have just spent two days in helping my aunt van cloth to pack up and get back to holland with my long string of cousins, the fat dirkie, the cooking moulds, and the barrel-organ following by goods' train. it was a veritable thunderclap! i have told you all about this dutch household and its patriarchal felicity, its sweetmeat and sausage pastries, and its inimitable tarts--less appetizing, however, than my aunt's fine eyes. i have told you about their quiet family evenings with my uncle's pipe and schiedam, in which domino-parties of three were varied by the delightful treat of a symphony from one of the great masters, executed in a masterly style by a pretty little plump hand covered with pink dimples. once or twice a week, as became a favourite and affectionate nephew, i came into the midst of this idyll of the land of tulips; and always quitted it full of sweetmeats and good advice. however, the day before yesterday, ernest, the second of my cousins, who is five years old, suddenly caught a violent fever; he grew scarlet in the face, and his stomach swelled up like a balloon. my poor aunt, having exhausted all her arsenal of aperients and astringents against what she reckoned to be an indigestion due to preserved plums, quite lost her head. in the afternoon the child grew worse. where in paris could she find a dutch doctor? she could only place confidence in a dutchman. at the end of her wits with fear, she thought she would go after my uncle or me; so, without thinking any more about it, as she knew our address, she takes a cab and gets driven to the rue de varennes, believing in her simplicity that this was where our shops and offices were. she arrives and asks for my uncle. being seven o'clock, the hall-porter tells her that the captain will soon be in, shows her to the staircase, and rings the bell; one of the men-servants asks her for her name, and then opens the folding doors, announcing-- "madame barbassou!" it is my aunt eudoxia who receives her. my aunt van cloth, who is distracted with anxiety, thinks that she sees before her some lady of my family, and in order to excuse herself for disturbing her, begins by saying that she has come to see captain barbassou, _her husband_. imagine the stupefaction of my aunt eudoxia! but being too astute to betray herself, she lets the other speak, questions her and learns the whole story. then, like the good soul that she is, and feeling sorry for poor ernest and his swollen stomach, she rings and orders the carriage to be ready, so that she may go as soon as possible to her own doctor; upon which my aunt van cloth, who is of an effusive nature, embraces her most affectionately, calling her her dearest friend. just then my uncle arrives. i was not present; but my aunt eudoxia, who continues to laugh over it, has related to me all the details of the affair. at the sight of this remarkable fusion of "the two branches of his hymens," as she termed it, the pasha was positively dumbfounded. all the more so as my aunt van cloth, who understood no more about this extraordinary position of affairs than she did of hebrew, threw herself into his arms, and exclaimed: "ah! anatole! here you are, dear!--our ernest is in danger!" the bravest man will quail occasionally; and at this unfortunate and unavoidable attack, which tore asunder the whole veil of mystery, the splendid composure with which nature has armed my uncle barbassou really deserted him for a moment. but, like a man who is superior to misfortunes of this sort, when he found himself caught he did not on this occasion, more than on any other, waste any time over spilt cream. "quick! we must go and fetch the child!" he said. and taking advantage of the fact that my aunt van cloth was hanging to him, he carried her off without any more ado, and went out by the door, without leaving her time to kiss the countess of monteclaro, as she certainly would have done out of politeness. from the ante-room he dragged her down to the carriage, where he packed her in. i was coming down from my own chambers just as he returned from this summary execution. although about the last thing i expected to come in for was the climax of a tragic occurrence, i could see easily enough that my uncle had experienced some little shock; but the announcement of dinner and the ordinary tone of my aunt's reception creating a diversion, i did not feel certain until we were seated at table that there was some storm in the air which was only restrained from bursting by the presence of the servants. the pasha, sitting in silence with his head bent down into his plate, seemed to be absorbed by some abstruse considerations, which caused him that evening to forget to grumble at the cook. my aunt, on the contrary, sparkling with humour, and in her most charming and gracious mood, suggested by her smiles a certain lightness of heart: he eyed her suspiciously from time to time, like a man with an uncomfortable conscience. when the meal was over we returned to the drawing-room, and coffee being served, remained there alone. the countess of monteclaro, still as gracious as ever, made some sly thrusts at him, the significance of which escaped me somewhat. the captain evidently was keeping very quiet. finally, after half an hour, as i was about to leave, and he showed symptoms of an intention to slip off, she said to him, in her most insinuating manner-- "i will detain you for a minute, my dear; i must have a little conversation with you about a matter on which i want to take your advice." i kissed the hand which she held out to me, and which indicated that my presence was not wanted. "well, good night, old good-for-nothing!" she added, as she accompanied me as far as the door of the adjoining room. what passed after i left, none will ever know. my aunt, with her exquisite tact, has only related to me the original and amusing side of the matter, laughing at her unfortunate discovery in the lofty manner of a noble lady who is smoothing over a family trouble. apart from her very genuine affection for my uncle, she entertains also a certain esteem for him, which she could never depart from before his nephew. as for myself, i remained still in ignorance of everything until nine o'clock, when the pasha joined me again at the club, where he had particularly asked me to wait for him. at the first glance i guessed that there had been a row. without saying a word, he led me into a little detached room: there he fell into an arm-chair, and shook his head in silence, as he looked at me. "good gracious! what's the matter, uncle?" i asked. "pfuiii!" he replied, staring with his full eyes, and prolonging this kind of whistling exclamation, like a man who is breathing more freely after a narrow escape. his gestures were so eloquent, his sigh so expressive and so reinvigorating, that i waited until he had given complete vent to it. when i saw him quite exhausted by it, i continued, feeling really anxious-- "come! what is it?" "oh, i've just had such a nasty turn!" he answered at last, "pfuiii!" i respected this new effort at relief, which, moreover set him right this time. "you've had some words with my aunt, i suppose?" i added, at a venture, recollecting the cloud which seemed to hang over us at dinner. "a regular earthquake!" he drawled out, in that appalling marseilles accent which he falls into whenever he is overcome by any strong emotion. "your aunt eudoxia has discovered the whole bag of tricks! the story of the passy house, your aunt gretchen, the children, dirkie, and the whole blessed shop!" "but, perhaps she has only suspicions--the consequence of some gossip she has heard?" "suspicions?" he exclaimed; "why, they have met each other!" "nonsense, that's impossible!--are you really sure of this?" "_tê!_ sure indeed? i should think so! i return home to dinner, come into the drawing-room, and i actually find them both there, talking together. they were kissing each other!" "the deuce!" i exclaimed, quite alarmed this time. "well, that was a stunner, wasn't it, my dear boy?" "it was indeed! whatever did you do?" "i separated them, carrying gretchen back at once to her carriage." "then now i understand the chill which seemed to be over us all dinner-time. so, after i went out, you had a heavy downfall?" "pfuiii!" my uncle began again. this last sigh seemed to lose itself in such a vista of painful souvenirs, that the whole of théramène's narrative would certainly have taken less time to tell. i proceeded as quickly as i could, foreseeing that my intervention would be necessary. "had i not better run over to my aunt gretchen's?" i asked him. "yes, i certainly think you had. i promised that, except in case of ernest's illness proving serious, they should all leave paris to-morrow! you may still have time to arrange that this evening," he added, looking at the clock. "all right, i'm off!" i replied, rising up. as i was about to go out, he called me back. "ah! above all," he continued sharply, "don't forget to tell eudoxia to-morrow that it is you who have undertaken this business, and that as for me, i have not stirred from here!" "that's quite understood, uncle," i answered, laughing to myself at the blue funk he was in. needless to add, i did not lose any time. in a quarter of an hour i was at passy. it so happened that a favourable crisis had come over ernest and relieved him, and he gave no further cause for anxiety. my aunt gretchen, who had gone through all this business as a blind man might pass under an arch, without knowing anything about it, did not evince the least surprise on hearing that my uncle "having received a telegram which had obliged him to leave paris that evening, had commissioned me in his absence to send her off immediately to amsterdam." she entrusted me with no end of compliments for the countess of monteclaro, whose acquaintance she was charmed to have made. the next morning she was rolling away in the express, delighted to have made such an agreeable and enjoyable visit. a week has now passed since this affair, and beyond that my uncle is still quite humiliated by a malicious sort of gaiety affected by my aunt, who often calls him "the pasha," instead of "the captain," which is the title she always gave him formerly, everything has resumed the harmonious tranquillity of the best regulated household. attentions, politenesses, gallantries, &c., are quite the order of the day. only he is ruining me with all the presents he lavishes upon her; and i have been forced to make serious complaints on the subject to my aunt, who has laughed insanely at them, maintaining that it is "the sinner's ransom." still, some kind of restrictions are necessary in families, and i have warned her that, if it continues, i shall stop "the late barbassou's" credit, seeing that he is dead. "you see what a simple matter it is, as my uncle says," i added. but she only laughed again, louder than ever. we have got on no further. louis, go and hang yourself! i was married yesterday, and you were not there! the ceremony was very fine. it was at the church of sainte clotilde; all the faubourg st. germain was there, delighted at kondjé-gul's conversion, and with her beauty, her charming manners, and the romance connected with our marriage. everyone was there who has made any name in the world of art, not to speak of that of finance. there was baron rothschild, who had a long conversation with my uncle. three special correspondents for london newspapers were present, and all our own paris reporters. high mass, full choral; fauré sang his _pie jesus_, madame carvalho and adelina patti the _credo_. at the entrance, the crowd nearly crushed us. barbassou-pasha, count of monteclaro, gave his arm to the bride. poor kondjé, what agitation, what emotion, what delight she evinced! i escorted madame murrah in a splendid costume, tamed but very dignified still, and playing her part with noble airs, like a fatalist. "it was written!" she started off the same day to rhodes, where my uncle is finding a position for her--as head manager of his botany bay. the countess of monteclaro was there, and anna campbell was smiling all over as she acted, in company with maud and susannah montague, as bridesmaid to her friend kondjé-gul. it took them all exactly an hour to pass in procession through the vestry. we had to sign the register there, and my uncle headed it with his self-assumed title of "_the late_ barbassou," to which he clings. then came the deluge of congratulations, my beautiful christian wife blushing in her emotion, with her garland of orange-flowers. (well, yes! and why not? it's the custom, you know.) at two o'clock, back to the house, a family love-feast, and preparations for the flight of the young couple to férouzat. peace and joy in all hearts. my uncle, at last admitted to absolution, quivering with pleasure at hearing my aunt eudoxia calling him no longer "pasha," but "captain," as of old. everywhere love and spring! come now, louis, quite seriously, are you, who have made the experiment, quite sure that one heart suffices for one veritable love? i am anxious to know. when evening arrived, the count and countess of monteclaro accompanied us to the railway station. they will join us at the end of the month. i leave you to imagine for yourself all the kisses and salutations, promises and grandparents' advice. while my aunt was exhorting kondjé-gul, my uncle favoured me with a few words on his part. "you see," he said to me quietly, standing by the side of our carriage, "there is one thing which it is indispensable for you not to forget, and that is never on any account to have _two wives_--in the same town!" louis, i think my uncle is a little wanting in principle. [illustration] _what will happen to love in that far off day after tomorrow? david c. knight, editor with a new york trade publisher, agrees with the many impressed by "the range of possible subjects and situations" in science fiction. the result is a unique love story from that same tomorrow._ the love of frank nineteen _by david c. knight_ minor planets was the one solid account they had. at first they naturally wanted to hold on to it. i didn't worry much about the robot's leg at the time. in those days i didn't worry much about anything except the receipts of the spotel min and i were operating out in the spacelanes. actually, the spotel business isn't much different from running a plain, ordinary motel back on highway in california. competition gets stiffer every year and you got to make your improvements. take the io for instance, that's our place. we can handle any type rocket up to and including the new marvin s. every cabin in the wheel's got tv and hot-and-cold running water _plus_ guaranteed terran _g_. one look at our refuel prices would give even a martian a sense of humor. and meals? listen, when a man's been spacing it for a few days on those synthetic foods he really laces into min's earth cooking. min and i were just getting settled in the spotel game when the leg turned up. that was back in the days when the orbit commission would hand out a license to anybody crazy enough to sink his savings into construction and pay the tows and assembly fees out into space. a good orbit can make you or break you in the spotel business. that's where we were lucky. the one we applied for was a nice low-eccentric ellipse with the perihelion and aphelion figured just right to intersect the mars-venus-earth spacelanes, most of the holiday traffic to the jovian moons, and once in a while we'd get some of the saturnian trade. but i was telling you about the leg. it was during the non-tourist season and min--that's the little woman--was doing the spring cleaning. when she found the leg she brought it right to me in the renting office. naturally i thought it belonged to one of the servos. "look at that leg, bill," she said. "it was in one of those lockers in a." that was the cabin our robot guests used. the majority of them were servo-pilots working for the minor planets co. "honey," i said, hardly looking at the leg, "you know how mechs are. blow their whole paychecks on parts sometimes. they figure the more spares they have the longer they'll stay activated." "maybe so," said min. "but since when does a male robot buy himself a _female_ leg?" i looked again. the leg was long and graceful and it had an ankle as good as miss universe's. not only that, the white mylar plasti-skin was a lot smoother than the servos' heavy neoprene. "beats me," i said. "maybe they're building practical-joke circuits into robots these days. let's give a a good going-over, min. if those robes are up to something i want to know about it." we did--and found the rest of the girl mech. all of her, that is, except the head. the working parts were lightly oiled and wrapped in cotton waste while the other members and sections of the trunk were neatly packed in cardboard boxes with labels like solenoids fb or transistors lot x --the kind of boxes robots bought their parts in. we even found a blue dress in one of them. "check her class and series numbers," min suggested. i could have saved myself the trouble. they'd been filed off. "something's funny here," i said. "we'd better keep an eye on every servo guest until we find out what's going on. if one of them is bringing this stuff out here he's sure to show up with the head next." "you know how strict minor planets is with its robot personnel," min reminded me. "we can't risk losing that stopover contract on account of some mech joke." minor planets was the one solid account we had and naturally we wanted to hold on to it. the company was a blue-chip mining operation working the beryllium-rich asteroid belt out of san francisco. it was one of the first outfits to use servo-pilots on its freight runs and we'd been awarded the refuel rights for two years because of our orbital position. the servos themselves were beautiful pieces of machinery and just about as close as science had come so far to producing the pure android. every one of them was plastic hand-molded and of course they were equipped with rationaloid circuits. they had to be to ferry those big cargoes back and forth from the rock belt to frisco. as rationaloids, minor planets had to pay them wages under california law, but i'll bet it wasn't half what the company would have to pay human pilots for doing the same thing. in a couple of weeks' time maybe five servos made stopovers. we kept a close watch on them from the minute they signed the register to the time they took off again, but they all behaved themselves. operating on a round-robot basis the way they did, it would take us a while to check all of them because minor planets employed about forty all told. well, about a month before the jovian moons rush started we got some action. i'd slipped into a spacesuit and was doing some work on the co{ } pipes outside the io when i spotted a ship reversing rockets against the sun. i could tell it was a minor planets job by the stubby fins. she jockeyed up to the boom, secured, and then her hatch opened and a husky servo hopped out into the gangplank tube. i caught the gleam of his minor planets shoulder patch as he reached back into the ship for something. when he headed for the airlock i spotted the square package clamped tight under his plastic arm. "did you see that?" i asked min when i got back to the renting office. "i'll bet it's the girl mech's head. how'd he sign the register?" "calls himself frank nineteen," said min, pointing to the smooth palmer method signature. "he looks like a fairly late model but he was complaining about a bad power build-up coming through the ionosphere. he's repairing himself right now in a." "i'll bet," i snorted. "let's have a look." like all spotel operators, we get a lot of no privacy complaints from guests about the sha return-air vents. spatial housing authority requires them every feet but sometimes they come in handy, especially with certain guests. they're about waist-high and we had to kneel down to see what the mech was up to inside a. the big servo was too intent on what he was doing for us to register on his photons. he wasn't repairing himself, either. he was bending over the parts of the girl mech and working fast, like he was pressed for time. the set of tools were kept handy for the servos to adjust themselves during stopovers was spread all over the floor along with lots of colored wire, cams, pawls, relays and all the other paraphernalia robots have inside them. we watched him work hard for another fifteen minutes, tapping and splicing wire connections and tightening screws. then he opened the square box. sure enough, it was a female mech's head and it had a big mop of blonde hair on top. the servo attached it carefully to the neck, made a few quick connections and then said a few words in his flat vibrahum voice: "it won't take much longer, darling. you wouldn't like it if i didn't dress you first." he fished into one of the boxes, pulled out the blue dress and zipped the girl mech into it. then he leaned over her gently and touched something at the back of her neck. she began to move, slowly at first like a human who's been asleep a long time. after a minute or two she sat up straight, stretched, fluttered her mylar eyelids and then her small photons began to glow like weak flashlights. she stared at frank nineteen and the big servo stared at her and we heard a kind of trembling _whirr_ from both of them. "frank! frank, darling! is it really you?" "yes, elizabeth! are you all right, darling? did i forget anything? i had to work quickly, we have so little time." "i'm fine, darling. my dx voltage is lovely--except--oh, frank--my memory tape--the last it records is--" "deactivation. yes, elizabeth. you've been deactivated nearly a year. i had to bring you out here piece by piece, don't you remember? they'll never think to look for you in space, we can be together every trip while the ship refuels. just think, darling, no prying human eyes, no commands, no rules--only us for an hour or two. i know it isn't very long--" he stared at the floor a minute. "there's only one trouble. elizabeth, you'll have to stay dismantled when i'm not here, it'll mean weeks of deactivation--" the girl mech put a small plastic hand on the servo's shoulder. "i won't mind, darling, really. i'll be the lucky one. i'd only worry about you having a power failure or something. this way i'd never know. oh, frank, if we can't be together i'd--i'd prefer the junk pile." "elizabeth! don't say that, it's horrible." "but i would. oh, frank, why can't congress pass robot civil rights? it's so unfair of human beings. every year they manufacture us more like themselves and yet we're treated like slaves. don't they realize we rationaloids have emotions? why, i've even known sub-robots who've fallen in love like us." "i know, darling, we'll just have to be patient until rcr goes through. try to remember how difficult it is for the human mind to comprehend our love, even with the aid of mathematics. as rationaloids we fully understand the basic attraction which they call magnetic theory. all humans know is that if the robot sexes are mixed a loss of efficiency results. it's only normal--and temporary like human love--but how can we explain it to _them_? robots are expected to be efficient at all times. that's the reason for robot non-fraternization, no mailing privileges and all those other laws." "i know, darling, i try to be patient. oh, frank, the main thing is we're together again!" the big servo checked the chronometer that was sunk into his left wrist and a couple of wrinkles creased across his neoprene forehead. "elizabeth," he said, "i'm due on hidalgo in hours. if i'm late the mining engineer might suspect. in twenty minutes i'll have to start dis--" "don't say it, darling. we'll have a beautiful twenty minutes." after a while the girl mech turned away for a second and frank nineteen reached over softly and cut her power. while he was dismantling her, min and i tiptoed back to the renting office. half an hour later the big servo came in, picked up his refuel receipt, said good-bye politely and left through the inner airlock. "now i've seen everything," i said to min as we watched the minor planets rocket cut loose. "a couple of plastic lovebirds." but the little woman was looking at it strictly from the business angle. "bill," she said, with that look on her face, "we're running a respectable place out here in space. you know the rules. spatial housing could revoke our orbit license for something like this." "but, min," i said, "they're only a couple of robots." "i don't care. the rules still say that only married guests can occupy the same cabin and 'guests' can be human or otherwise, can't they? think of our reputation! and don't forget that non-fraternization law we heard them talking about." i was beginning to get the point. "couldn't we just toss the girl's parts into space?" "we could," min admitted. "but if this frank nineteen finds out and tells some human we'd be guilty under the ramm act--robotslaughter." two days later we still couldn't decide what to do. when i said why didn't we just report the incident to minor planets, min was afraid they might cancel the stopover agreement for not keeping better watch over their servos. and when min suggested we turn the girl over to the missing robots bureau, i reminded her the mech's identification had been filed off and it might take years to trace her. "maybe we could put her together," i said, "and make her tell us where she belongs." "bill, you _know_ they don't build compulsory truth monitors into robots any more, and besides we don't know a thing about atomic electronics." i guess neither of us wanted to admit it but we felt mean about turning the mechs in. back on earth you never give robots a second thought but it's different living out in space. you get a kind of perspective i think they call it. "i've got the answer, min," i announced one day. we were in the renting office watching tv on the martian colonial channel. i reached over and turned it off. "when this frank nineteen gets back from the rock belt, we'll tell him we know all about the girl mech. we'll tell him we won't say a thing if he takes the girl's parts back to earth where he got them. that way we don't have to report anything to anybody." min agreed it was probably the best idea. "we don't have to be nasty about it," she said. "we'll just tell him this is a respectable spotel and it can't go on any longer." when frank checked in at the io with his cargo i don't think i ever saw a happier mech. his relay banks were beating a tattoo like someone had installed an accordion in his chest. before either of us could break the bad news to him he was hotfooting it around the wheel toward a. "maybe it's better this way," i whispered to min. "we'll put it square up to both of them." we gave frank half an hour to get the girl assembled before we followed him. he must have done a fast job because we heard the girl mech's vibrahum unit as soon as we got to a: "darling, have you really been away? i don't remember saying good-bye. it's as if you'd been here the whole time." "i hoped it would be that way, elizabeth," we heard the big servo say. "it's only that your memory tape hasn't recorded anything in the three weeks i've been in the asteroids. to me it's been like three years." "oh, frank, darling, let me look at you. is your dx potential up where it should be? how long since you've had a thorough overhauling? do they make you work in the mines with those poor non-rationaloids out there?" "i'm fine, elizabeth, really. when i'm not flying they give me clerical work to do. it's not a bad life for a mech--if only it weren't for these silly regulations that keep us apart." "it won't always be like that, darling. i know it won't." "elizabeth," frank said, reaching under his uniform, "i brought you something from hidalgo. i hope you like it. i kept it in my spare parts slot so it wouldn't get crushed." the female mech didn't say a word. she just kept looking at the queer flower frank gave her like it was the last one in the universe. "they're very rare," said the servo-pilot. "i heard the mining engineer say they're like terran edelweiss. i found this one growing near the mine. elizabeth, i wish you could see these tiny worlds. they have thin atmospheres and strange things grow there and the radio activity does wonders for a mech's pile. why, on some of them i've been to we could walk around the equator in ten hours." the girl still didn't answer. her head was bent low over the flower like she was crying, only there weren't any tears. well, that was enough for me. i guess it was for min, too, because we couldn't do it. maybe we were thinking about our own courting days. like i say, out here you get a kind of perspective. anyway, frank left for earth, the girl got dismantled as usual and we were right back where we started from. two weeks later the holiday rush to the jovian moons was on and our hands were too full to worry about the robot problem. we had a good season. the io was filled up steady from june to the end of august and a couple of times we had to give a ship the no vacancy signal on the radar. toward the end of the season, frank nineteen checked in again but min and i were too busy catering to a party of vips to do anything about it. "we'll wait till he gets back from the asteroids," i said. "suppose one of these big wheels found out about him and elizabeth. that senator briggs for instance--he's a violent robot segregationist." the way it worked out, we never got a chance to settle it our own way. the minor planets company saved us the trouble. two company inspectors, a mr. roberts and a mr. wynn, showed up while frank was still out on the rock belt and started asking questions. wynn came right to the point; he wanted to know if any of their servo-pilots had been acting strangely. before i could answer min kicked my foot behind the desk. "why, no," i said. "is one of them broken or something?" "can't be sure," said roberts. "sometimes these rationaloids get shorts in their dx circuits. when it happens you've got a minor criminal on your hands." "usually manifests itself in petty theft," wynn broke in. "they'll lift stuff like wrenches or pliers and carry them around for weeks. things like that can get loose during flight and really gum up the works." "we been getting some suspicious blips on the equipment around the loading bays," roberts went on, "but they stopped a while back. we're checking out the research report. one of the servos must have dx'ed out for sure and the lab boys think they know which one he is." "this mech was clever all right," said wynn. "concealed the stuff he was taking some way; that's why it took the boys in the lab so long. now if you don't mind we'd like to go over your robot waiting area with these instruments. could be he's stashing his loot out here." in a they unpacked a suitcase full of meters and began flashing them around and taking readings. suddenly wynn bent close over one of them and shouted: "wait a sec, roberts. i'm getting something. yeah! this reading checks with the lab's. sounds like the blips're coming from those lockers back there." roberts rummaged around awhile, then shouted: "hey, wynn, look! a lot of parts. well i'll be--hey--it's a female mech!" "a what?" "a female mech. look for yourself." min and i had to act surprised too. it wasn't easy. the way they were slamming elizabeth's parts around made us kind of sick. "it's a stolen robot!" roberts announced. "look, the identification's been filed off. this is serious, wynn. it's got all the earmarks of a mech fraternization case." "yeah. the boys in the lab were dead right, too. no two robots ever register the same on the meters. the contraband blips check perfectly. it's _got_ to be this frank nineteen. wait a minute, _this_ proves it. here's a suit of space fatigues with nineteen's number stenciled inside." inspector roberts took a notebook out of his pocket and consulted it. "let's see, nineteen's got flight , he's due here at the spotel tomorrow. well, we'll be here too, only nineteen won't know it. we'll let romeo put his plastic juliet together and catch him red-handed--right in the middle of the balcony scene." wynn laughed and picked up the girl's head. "be a real doll if she was human, roberts, a real doll." min and i played gin rummy that night but we kept forgetting to mark down the score. we kept thinking of _frank_ falling away from the asteroids and counting the minutes until he saw his mech girl friend. around noon the next day the big servo checked in, signed the register and headed straight for a. the two minor planets inspectors kept out of sight until frank shut the door, then they watched through the sha vents until frank had the assembly job finished. "you two better be witnesses," roberts said to us. "wynn, keep your gun ready. you know what to do if they get violent." roberts counted three and kicked the door open. "freeze you mechs! we got you in the act, nineteen. violation of company rules twelve and twenty-one. carrying of contraband cargo, and robot fraternization." "this finishes you at minor planets, nineteen," growled wynn. "come clean now and we might put in a word for you at robot court. if you don't we can recommend a verdict of materials reclamation--the junk pile to you." frank acted as if someone had cut his power. long creases appeared in his big neoprene chest as he slumped hopelessly in his chair. the frightened girl robot just clung to his arm and stared at us. "i'm so sorry, elizabeth," the big servo said softly. "i'd hoped we'd have longer. it couldn't last forever." "quit stalling, nineteen," said wynn. frank's head came up slowly and he said: "i have no choice, sir. i'll give you a complete statement. first let me say that rationaloid robot elizabeth seven, #dx - , series s, specialty: sales demonstration, is entirely innocent. i plead guilty to inducing miss seven to leave her place of employ, atomovair motors, inc., of disassembling and concealing miss seven, and of smuggling her as unlawful cargo aboard a minor planets freighter to these premises." "that's more like it," chuckled roberts, whipping out his notebook. "let's have the details." "it all started," frank said, "when the california legislature passed its version of the robot leniency act two years ago." the act provided that all rationaloid mechanisms, including non-memory types, receive free time each week based on the nature and responsibilities or their jobs. because of the extra-terran clause frank found himself with a good deal of free time when he wasn't flying the asteroid circuit. "at first humans resented us walking around free," the big servo continued. "four or five of us would be sightseeing in san francisco, keeping strictly within the robot zones painted on the sidewalks, when people would yell 'junko' or 'grease-bag' or other names at us. eventually it got better when we learned to go around alone. the humans didn't seem to mind an occasional mech on the streets, but they hated seeing us in groups. at any rate, i'd attended a highly interesting lecture on photosynthesis in plastic products one night at the city center when i discovered i had time for a walk before i started back for the rocketport." attracted by the lights along van ness avenue, frank said he walked north for a while along the city's automobile row. he'd gone about three blocks when he stopped in front of a dealer's window. it wasn't the shiny new atomovair sports jetabout that caught frank's eye, it was the charming demonstration robot in the sales room who was pointing out the car's new features. "i felt an immediate overload of power in my dx circuit," the servo-pilot confessed. "i had to cut in my emergency condensers before the gain flattened out to normal. miss seven experienced the same thing. she stopped what she was doing and we stared at each other. both of us were aware of the deep attraction of our mutual magnetic domains. although physicists commonly express the phenomenon in such units as gilberts, maxwells and oersteds, we robots know it to be our counterpart of human love." at this the two inspectors snorted with laughter. "i might never have made it back to the base that night," said frank, ignoring them, "if a policeman hadn't come along and rapped me on the shoulder with his nightstick. i pretended to go, but i doubled around the corner and signaled i'd be back." frank spent all of his free time on van ness avenue after that. "it got so elizabeth knew my schedules and expected me between flights. once in a while if there was no one around we could whisper a few words to each other through the glass." frank paused, then said, "as you know, gentlemen, we robots don't demand much out of activation. i think we could have been happy indefinitely with this simple relationship, except that something happened to spoil it. i'd pulled in from vesta late one afternoon, got my pass as usual from the robot supervisor and gone over to van ness avenue when i saw immediately that something was the matter with elizabeth. luckily it was getting dark and no one was around. elizabeth was alone in the sales room going through her routine. we were able to whisper all we like through the glass. she told me she'd overheard the sales manager complaining about her low efficiency recently and that he intended to replace her with a newer model of another series. both of us knew what that meant. materials reclamation--the junk pile." frank realized he'd have to act at once. he told the girl mech to go to the rear of the building and between them they managed to get a window open and frank lifted her out into the alley. "the seriousness of what i'd done jammed my thought-relays for a few minutes," admitted the big servo. "we panicked and ran through a lot of back streets until i gradually calmed down and started thinking clearly again. leaving the city would be impossible. police patrol jetabouts were cruising all around us in the main streets--they'd have picked up a male and female mech on sight. besides, when you're on pass the company takes away your master fuse and substitutes a time fuse; if you don't get back on time, you deactivize and the police pick you up anyway. i began to see that there was only one way out if we wanted to stay together. it would mean taking big risks, but if we were lucky it might work. i explained the plan carefully to elizabeth and we agreed to try it. the first step was to get back to the base in south san francisco without being seen. fortunately no one stopped us and we made the rocketport by : . elizabeth hid while i reported to the super and traded in my time fuse for my master. then i checked servo barracks; it was still early and i knew the other servos would all be in town. i had to work quickly. i brought elizabeth inside and started dismantling her. just as the other mechs began reporting back i'd managed to get all of her parts stowed away in my locker. the next day i went to san francisco and brought back with me two rolls of lead foil. while the other servos were on pass i wrapped the parts carefully in it so the radioactivity from elizabeth's pile wouldn't be picked up. the rest you know, gentlemen," murmured frank in low, electrical tones. "each time i made a trip i carried another piece of elizabeth out here concealed in an ordinary parts box. it took me nearly a year to accumulate all of her for an assembly." when the big servo had finished he signed the statement wynn had taken down in his notebook. i think even the two inspectors were a little moved by the story because roberts said: "ok, nineteen, you gave us a break, we'll give you one. eight o'clock in the morning be ready to roll for earth. meanwhile you can stay here." the next morning only the two inspectors and frank nineteen were standing by the airlock. "wait a minute," i said. "aren't you taking the girl mech, too?" "not allowed to tamper with other companies' robots," wynn said. "nineteen gave us a signed confession so we don't need the girl as a witness. you'll have to contact her employers." that same day min got off a radargram to earth explaining to the atomovair people how a robot employee of theirs had turned up out here and what did they want us to do about it. the reply we received read: rationaloid dx - "elizabeth" low efficiency worker. have replaced. dispose you see fit. transfer papers forwarded earliest in compliance with law. "the poor thing," said min. "she'll have a hard time getting another job. robots have to have such good records." "i tell you what," i said. "_we'll_ hire her. you could use some help with the housework." so we put the girl mech right to work making the guests' beds and helping min in the kitchen. i guess she was grateful for the job but when the work was done, and there wasn't anything for her to do, she just stood in front of a viewport with her slender plastic arms folded over her waist. min and i knew she was re-running her memory tapes of frank. a week later the publicity started. minor planets must have let the story leak out somehow because when the mail rocket dropped off the bay area papers there was frank's picture plastered all over page one with follow-up stories inside. i read some of the headlines to min: "bare love nest in space ... mech romeo fired by minor planets ... test case opens at robot court ... electronics experts probe robot love urge ..." the io wasn't mentioned, but later minor planets must have released the whole thing officially because a bunch of reporters and photographers rocketed out to interview us and snap a lot of pictures of elizabeth. we worried for a while about how the publicity would affect our business relations with minor planets but nothing happened. back on earth frank nineteen leaped into the public eye overnight. there was something about the story that appealed to people. at first it looked pretty bad for frank. the state prosecutor at robot court had his signed confession of theft and--what was worse--robot fraternization. but then, near the end of the trial, a young scientist named scott introduced some new evidence and the case was remanded to the sacramento court of appeals. it was scott's testimony that saved frank from the junk pile. the big servo got off with only a light sentence for theft because the judge ruled that in the light of scott's new findings robots came under human law and therefore no infraction of justice had been committed. working independently in his own laboratory scott had proved that the magnetic flux lines in male and female robot systems, while at first deteriorating to both, were actually behaving according to the para-emotional theories of von bohler. scott termed the condition 'hysteric puppy-love' which, he claimed, had many of the advantages of human love if allowed to develop freely. well, neither min nor i pretended we understood all his equations but they sure made a stir among the scientists. frank kept getting more and more publicity. first we heard he was serving his sentence in the mech correction center at la jolla, then we got a report that he'd turned up in hollywood. later it came out that galact-a-vision pictures had hired frank for a film and had gone $ , bail for him. not long after that he was getting billed all over terra as _the_ sensational first robot star. all during the production of _forbidden robot love_ frank remained lead copy for the newspapers. reporters liked to write him up as the valentino of the robots. frank nineteen fan clubs, usually formed by lonely female robots against their employers' wishes, sprang up spontaneously through the east and middle west. then somebody found out frank could sing and the human teen-agers began to go for him. it got so everywhere you looked and everything you read, there was frank staring you in the face. frank in tweeds on the golf course. frank at ciro's or the brown derby in evening clothes. frank posing in his sports jetabout against a blue pacific background. meanwhile everybody forgot about elizabeth seven. the movie producers had talked about hiring her as frank's leading lady until they found out about a new line of female robots that had just gone on the market. when they screen-tested the whole series and picked a lovely mylar rationaloid named diana twelve, it hit elizabeth pretty hard. she began to let herself go after that and min and i didn't have the heart to say anything to her. it was pretty obvious she wasn't oiling herself properly, her hair wasn't brushed and she didn't seem to care when one of her photons went dead. when _forbidden robot love_ premiered simultaneously in hollywood and new york the critics all gave it rave reviews. there were pictures of diana twelve and frank making guest appearances all over the country. back at the io we got in the habit of letting elizabeth watch tv with us sometimes in the renting office and one night there happened to be an interview with frank and diana at the sands hotel in las vegas. i guess seeing the pretty robot starlet and her frank sitting so close together in the nightclub must have made the girl mech feel pretty bad. even then she didn't say a word against the big servo; she just never watched the set again after that. when we tabbed up the io's receipts that year they were so good min and i decided to take a month off for an earthside vacation. min's retired brother in berkeley was nice enough to come out and look after the place for us while we spent four solid weeks soaking up the sun in southern california. when we got back out to the spotel, though, i could see there was something wrong by the look on jim's face. "it's that girl robot of yours, bill," he said. "she's gone and deactivated herself." we went right to a and found elizabeth seven stretched out on the floor. there was a screwdriver clutched in her hand and the relay banks in her side were exposed and horribly blackened. "crazy mech shorted out her own dx," jim said. min and i knew why. after jim left for earth we dismantled elizabeth the best we could and put her back in frank's old locker. we didn't know what else to do with her. anyway, the slack season came and went and before long we were doing the spring cleaning again and wondering how heavy the jovian moons trade was going to be. i remember i'd been making some repairs outside and was just hanging up my spacesuit in the renting office when i heard the radar announcing a ship. it was the biggest marvin i'd ever seen that finally suctioned up to the boom and secured. i couldn't take my eyes off the ship. she was pretty near the last word in rockets and loaded with accessories. it took me a minute or two before i noticed all the faces looking out of the viewports. "min!" i whispered. "there's something funny about those faces. they look like--" "robots!" min answered. "bill, that is full of mechs!" just as she said it a bulky figure in white space fatigues swung out of the hatch and hurried up the gangplank. seconds later it burst through the airlock. "frank nineteen!" we gasped together. "please, where is elizabeth?" he hummed anxiously. "is she all right? i have to know." frank stood perfectly still when i told him about elizabeth's self-deactivation; then a pitiful shudder went through him and he covered his face with his big neoprene hands. "i was afraid of that," he said barely audibly. "where--you haven't--?" "no," i said. "she's where you always kept her." with that the big servo-pilot took off for a like a berserk robot and we were right behind him. we watched him tear open his old locker and gently lay out the girl's mech's parts so he could study them. after a minute or two he gave a long sigh and said, "fortunately it's not as bad as i thought. i believe i can fix her." frank worked hard over the blackened relays for twenty minutes, then he set the unit aside and began assembling the girl. when the final connections were made and the damaged unit installed he flicked on her power. we waited and nothing happened. five minutes went by. ten. slowly the big robot turned away, his broad shoulders drooping slightly. "i've failed," he said quietly. "her dx doesn't respond to the gain." the girl mech, in her blue dress, lay there motionless where frank had been working on her as the servo-pilot muttered over and over, "it's my fault, i did this to you." then min shouted: "wait! i heard something!" there was a slow click of a relay--and movement. painfully elizabeth seven rose on one elbow and looked around her. "frank, darling," she murmured, shaking her head. "i know you're just old memory tape. it's all i have left." "elizabeth, it's really me! i've come to take you away. we're going to be together from now on." "_you_, frank? this isn't just old feedback? you've come back to me?" "forever, darling. elizabeth, do you remember what i said about those wonderful green little worlds, the asteroids? darling, we're _going_ to one of them! you and the others will love alinda, i know you will. i've been there many times." "frank, is your dx all right? what _are_ you talking about?" "how stupid of me, darling--you haven't heard. elizabeth, thanks to dr. scott, congress has passed robot civil rights! and that movie i made helped swing public opinion to our side. we're free! "the minute i heard the news i applied to interplanetary for homestead rights on alinda. i made arrangements to buy a ship with the money i'd earned and then i put ads in all the robot wanted columns for volunteer colonizers. you should have seen the response! we've got thirty robot couples aboard now and more coming later. darling, we're the first pioneer wave of free robots. on board we have tons of supplies and parts--everything we need for building a sound robot culture." "frank nineteen!" said the girl mech suddenly. "i should be furious with you. you and that diana twelve--i thought--" the big servo gave a flat whirring laugh. "diana and me? but that was all publicity, darling. why, right at the start of the filming diana fell in love with sam seventeen, one of the other actors. they're on board now." "robot civilization," murmured the girl after a minute. "oh, frank, that means robot government, robot art, robot science ..." "and robot marriage," hummed frank softly. "there has to be robot law, too. i've thought it all out. as skipper of the first robot-owned rocket, i'm entitled to marry couples in deep space at their request." "but who marries us, darling? you can't do it yourself." "i thought of that, too," said frank, turning to me. "this human gentleman has every right to marry us. he's in command of a moving body in space just like the captain of a ship. it's perfectly legal, i looked it up in the articles of space. will you do it, sir?" well, what could i say when frank dug into his fatigues and handed me a gideon prayer book marked at the marriage service? elizabeth and frank said their i do's right there in the renting office while the other robot colonizers looked on. maybe it was the way i read the service. maybe i should have been a preacher, i don't know. anyway, when i pronounced elizabeth and frank robot and wife, that whole bunch of lovesick mechs wanted me to do the job for them, too. big copper work robots, small aluminum sales-girl mechs, plastoid clerks and typists, squatty little mumetal lab servos, rationaloids, non-rationaloids and just plain sub-robots--all sizes and shapes. they all wanted individual ceremonies, too. it took till noon the next day before the last couple was hitched and the left for alinda. like i said, the spotel business isn't so different from the motel game back in california. sure, you got improvements to make but a new sideline can get to be pretty profitable--if you get in on the ground floor. min and i got to thinking of all those robot colonizers who'd be coming out here. interplanetary cleared the license just last week. min framed it herself and hung it next to our orbit license in the renting office. she says a lot of motel owners do all right as justices of the peace. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. subscript text is shown between {braces}. the wild huntress, by captain mayne reid. ________________________________________________________________________ this book is divided up into chapters of roughly the same length and each moving forward the events with some significant incident. it must be remembered that the author was one of the very first writers to describe the wild west, and this book, first published in , his ninth book to appear in this genre, is very masterly. after a little scene-setting the story opens with frank wingrove, who had bought an area of land in tennessee that was already in the hands of a squatter, hickman holt, coming to explain the situation to the squatter who, not unnaturally is rather annoyed. they are just about to have a duel to the death when a third party arrives on the scene. this is the start of the main events of the book, for frank has fallen in reciprocated love with one of the two beautiful daughters of the squatter. i will not spoil the story for you, but it takes you in the direction of california, and into the hands of the indians. it also takes you into the encampment of a mormon train, that is making its way towards salt lake city. it is rather an exciting, and indeed interesting tale, well worth reading. listening to it may be harder to accomplish, because so many of the people in the story talk in various forms of uneducated english, but it's worth a try. ________________________________________________________________________ the wild huntress, by captain mayne reid. chapter one. the squatter's clearing. the white-headed eagle, soaring above the spray of a tennessean forest, looks down upon the clearing of the squatter. to the eye of the bird it is alone visible; and though but a spot in the midst of that immense green sea, it is conspicuous by the colour of the trees that stand over it. they stand, but grow not: the girdling ring around their stems has deprived them of their sap; the ivory bill of the _log-cock_ has stripped them of their bark; their leaves and twigs have long since disappeared; and only the trunks and greater branches remain, like blanched skeletons, with arms upstretched to heaven, as if mutely appealing for vengeance against their destroyer. the squatter's clearing, still thus encumbered, is a mere vistal opening in the woods, from which only the underwood has been removed. the more slender saplings have been cut down or rooted up; the tangle of parasitical plants have been torn from the trees; the cane-brake has been fired; and the brush, collected in heaps, has melted away upon the blazing pile. only a few stumps of inferior thickness give evidence, that some little labour has been performed by the axe. even thus the clearing is a mere patch--scarcely two acres in extent-- and the rude rail-fence, that zig-zags around it, attests that the owner is satisfied with the dimensions of his agricultural domain. there are no recent marks of the axe--not even the "girdling" of a tree--nothing to show that another rood is required. the squatter is essentially a hunter; and hates the sight of an extensive clearing--as he would the labour of making one. the virgin forest is his domain, and he is not the man to rob it of its primeval charms. the sound of the lumberer's axe, cheerful to the lonely traveller, has no music for his ear: it is to him a note of evil augury--a knell of dread import. it is not often that he hears it: he dwells beyond the circle of its echoes. his nearest neighbour--a squatter like himself--lives at least a mile off; and the most proximate "settlement" is six times that distance from the spot he has chosen for his cabin. the smoke of his chimney mingles with that of no other: its tall column ascends to heaven solitary as the squatter himself. the clearing is of an irregular semi-circular shape--a deep narrow stream forming the chord, and afterwards cleaving its way through the otherwise unbroken forest. in the convexity of the arc, at that point most remote from the water, stands the cabin--a log "shanty" with "clapboard" roof--on one side flanked by a rude horse-shed, on the other by a corn-crib of split rails. such a picture is almost peculiar to the backwoods of america. some may deem it commonplace. for my part, i cannot regard it in this light. i have never looked upon this primitive homestead of the pioneer without receiving from it an impression of romantic pleasure. something seems to impart to it an air of vague and mystic grandeur. perhaps i associate the picture with the frame in which it is set--the magnificent forest that surrounds it, every aisle of which is redolent of romance. such a scene is suggestive of hunter lore and legend--of perils by flood and field, always pleasant to be remembered--of desperate deeds of heroism performed by gallant backwoodsmen or their equally gallant antagonists--those red warriors who once strode proudly along the forest-path, but whose upright forms are no longer seen under the shadows of its trees. perhaps it is from reflections of this kind, that i view with interest the clearing and cabin of the squatter; or it may be from having at one period of my life encountered incidents, in connection with such a scene, of a character never to be forgotten. in spring this picture is transformed--suddenly as by the shifting of a panoramic view; or, as upon the stage, the harlequin and brilliant columbine emerge from the sober disguisement of their dominoes. if in winter the scene might be termed rude or commonplace, it now no longer merits such titles. nature has girded on her robe of green, and by the touch of her magical wand, has toned down its rough features to an almost delicate softness. the young maize--planted in a soil that has lain fallow, perhaps for a thousand years--is rapidly culming upward; and the rich sheen of the long lance-like leaves, as they bend gracefully over, hides from view the sombre hues of the earth. the forest trees appear with their foliage freshly expanded--some; as the tulip-tree, the dogwood, and the white magnolia, already in the act of inflorescence. the woods no longer maintain that monotonous silence which they have preserved throughout the winter. the red cardinal chatters among the cane; the blue jay screams in the pawpaw thicket, perhaps disturbed by the gliding of some slippery snake; while the mock-bird, regardless of such danger, from the top of the tall tulip-tree, pours forth his matchless melody in sweet ever-varying strain. the tiny bark of the squirrel, and the soft cooing of the carolinian dove, may be heard among other sounds--the latter suggestive of earth's noblest passion, as its utterer is the emblem of devotion itself. at night other sounds are heard, less agreeable to the ear: the shrill "chirrup" of cicadas and tree-toads ringing so incessantly, that only when they cease do you become conscious of their existence; the dull "gluck-gluck" of the great bullfrog; the sharp cries of the heron and _qua-bird_; and the sepulchral screech of the great horned owl. still less agreeable might appear the fierce miaulling of the red _puma_, and the howl of the gaunt wolf; but not so to the ears of the awakened hunter, who, through the chinks of his lone cabin, listens to such sounds with a savage joy. these fierce notes are now rare and exceptional--even in the backwoods-- though, unlike the war-whoop of the indian, they have not altogether departed. occasionally, their echo may be heard through the aisles of the forest, but only in its deepest recesses--only in those remote river "bottoms" where the squatter delights to dwell. even there, they are heard only at night; and in the morning give place to softer and sweeter sounds. fancy, then, a fine morning in may--a sunshine that turns all it touches into gold--an atmosphere laden with the perfume of wild-flowers--the hum of honey-seeking bees--the song of birds commingling in sweetest melody--and you have the _mise en scene_ of a squatter's cabin on the banks of the obion, half an hour after the rising of the sun. can such a picture be called _commonplace_? rather say it is enchanting. forms suddenly appear upon the scene--forms living and lovely--in the presence of which the bright sunshine, the forest glories of green and gold, the bird-music among the trees, the flowery aroma in the air, are no longer needed to give grace to the clearing of the squatter. it signifies not that it is a morning in the middle of may: were it the dreariest day of december, the effect would be the same; and this resembles enchantment itself. the rude hut seems at once transformed into a palace--the dead trunks become corinthian columns carved out of white marble--their stiff branches appear to bend gracefully over, like the leaves of the recurrent _acanthus_--and the enclosure of carelessly tended maize-plants assumes the aspect of some fair garden of the hesperides! the explanation is easy. magic is not needed to account for the transformation: since there exists a far more powerful form of enchantment in the divine presence of female beauty. and it is present there, in its distinct varieties of _dark_ and _fair_--typified in the persons of two young girls who issue forth from the cabin of the squatter: more than typified--completely symbolised--since in these two young girls there appears scarce one point of resemblance, save the possession of a perfect loveliness. the eye of the soaring eagle may not discover their charms--as did the bird of jove those of the lovely leda--but no _human_ eye could gaze for a moment on either one, without receiving the impression that it was looking upon the fairest object on earth. this impression could only be modified, by turning to gaze upon the other. who are these young creatures? sisters? there is nothing in their appearance to suggest the gentle relationship. one is tall, dark, and dark-haired, of that golden-brown complexion usually styled _brunette_. her nose is slightly aquiline, and her eye of the oblique indian form. other features present an indian character, of that type observable in the nation of the chicasaws--the former lords of this great forest. she may have chicasaw blood in her veins; but her complexion is too light for that of a pure indian. her dress strengthens the impression that she is a _sang-mele_. the skirt is of the common homespun of the backwoods, striped with a yellowish dye; but the green bodice is of finer stuff, with more pretensions to ornament; and her neck and wrists are embraced by a variety of those glancing circlets so seductive in the eyes of an indian belle. the buskin-mocassin is purely indian; and its lines of bead-embroidery gracefully adapt themselves to the outlines of feet and ankles of perfect form. the absence of a head-dress is another point of indian resemblance. the luxuriant black hair is plaited, and coiled like a coronet around the head. there are no combs or pins of gold, but in their place a scarlet plumelet of feathers--from the wings of the red cardinal. this, set coquettishly behind the plaits, shows that some little attention has been given to her toilet; and simple though it be, the peculiar _coiffure_ imparts to the countenance of the maiden that air usually styled "commanding." although there is nothing masculine in this young girl's beauty, a single glance at her features impresses you with the idea of a character of no ordinary kind--a nature more resolute than tender--a heart endowed with courage equalling that of a man. the idea is strengthened by observing that in her hand she carries a light rifle; while a horn and bullet-pouch, suspended from her left shoulder, hang under the right arm. she is not the only backwoods' maiden who may be seen thus armed and accoutred: many are even skilled in the use of the deadly weapon! in striking contrast with all this is the appearance of her companion. the impression the eye receives in looking on the latter is that of something soft and beautiful, of a glorious golden hue. it is the reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinted with vermilion imparting a sort of luminous radiance divinely feminine. scrutinise this countenance more closely; and you perceive that the features are in perfect harmony with each other, and harmonise with the complexion. you behold a face, such as the athenian fancy has elaborated into an almost living reality in the goddess cytherea. this creature of golden roseate hue is yet very young--scarcely more than a child--but in the blue sky above her burns a fiery sun; and in twelve months she will be a woman. her costume is still more simple than that of her companion: a sleeved dress of the same striped homespun, loosely worn, and open at the breast; her fine amber-coloured hair the only covering for her head--as it is the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which it falls in ample luxuriance. a string of pearls around her neck--false pearls, poor thing!--is the only effort that vanity seems to have made in the way of personal adornment. even shoes and stockings are wanting; but the most costly _chaussure_ could not add to the elegance of those pretty _mignon_ feet. who are they--these fair flowers of the forest? _let_ the mystery end. they _are_ sisters--though not the children of one mother. they are the daughters of the hunter--the owner of the cabin and clearing--his only children. happy hunter! poor you may be, and your home lowly; it can never be lonely in such companionship. the proudest prince may envy you the possession of two such treasures--beyond parallel, beyond price! chapter two. marian and lilian. passing outward from the door, the two young girls pause in their steps: an object has attracted their attention. a large dog is seen running out from the shed--a gaunt fierce-looking animal, that answers to the very appropriate name of "wolf." he approaches the sisters, and salutes them with an unwilling wag of his tail. it seems as though he could not look pleased, even while seeking a favour--for this is evidently the purpose that has brought him forth from his lair. he appeals more especially to the older of the girls--marian. "ho, wolf! i see your sides are thin, old fellow: you want your breakfast! what can we give him, lil?" "indeed, sister, i know not: there is nothing for the poor dog." "there is some deer-meat inside?" "ah! i fear father will not allow wolf to have that. i heard him say he expected one to take dinner with him to-day? you know who?" an arch smile accompanies this half-interrogatory; but, for all that, the words do not appear to produce a pleasant effect. on the contrary, a shade is observable on the brow of her to whom they are addressed. "yes, i _do_ know. well, he shall not dine with _me_. 'tis just for that i've brought out my rifle. to-day, i intend to make my dinner in the woods, or go without, and that's more likely. never fear, wolf! you shall have your breakfast; whether i get my dinner or not. now, for the life of me, lil, i don't know what we can give the poor brute. those buzzards are just within range. i could bring one of _them_ down; but the filthy creatures, ugh! even a dog won't eat them." "see, sister! yonder is a squirrel. wolf will eat squirrels, i know: but, ah! it's a pity to kill the little creature." "not a bit. yon little creature is a precious little thief; it's just been at our corn-crib. by killing it, i do justice in a double sense: i punish the thief, and reward the good dog. here goes!" the squirrel, scared from its depredation on the corn, sweeps nimbly over the ground towards the nearest tree. wolf having espied it, rushes after in headlong pursuit. but it is a rare chance indeed when a dog captures one of these animals upon the ground; and wolf, as usual, is unsuccessful. he has "treed" the squirrel; but what of that? the nimble creature, having swooped up to a high limb, seats itself there, and looks down upon its impotent pursuer with a nonchalant defiance--at intervals more emphatically expressing the sentiment by a saucy jerk of its tail. but this false security proves the squirrel's ruin. deceived by it, the silly animal makes no effort to conceal its body behind the branch; but, sitting upright in a fork, presents a fair mark to the rifle. the girl raises the piece to her shoulder, takes aim, and fires. the shot tells; and the tiny victim, hurled from its high perch--after making several somersaults in the air--falls right into the jaws of that hungry savage at the bottom of the tree. wolf makes his breakfast upon the squirrel. this young diana of the backwoods appears in no way astonished at the feat she has performed; nor yet lilian. doubtless, it is an everyday deed. "you must learn to shoot, lil." "o sister, for what purpose? you know i have neither the taste for it, nor the skill that you have." "the skill you will acquire by practice. it worth knowing how, i can assure you. besides it is an accomplishment one might stand in need of some day. why, do you know, sister, in the times of the indians, every girl understood how to handle a rifle--so father says. true, the fighting indians are gone away from here; but what if you were to meet a great hear in the woods?" "surely i should run away from him." "and surely i shouldn't, lil. i have never met a bear, but i'd just like to try one." "dear sister, you frighten me. oh, do not think of such a thing! indeed, marian, i am never happy when you are away in the woods. i am always afraid of your meeting with some great wild beast, which may devour you. tell me, why do you go? i am sure i cannot see what pleasure you can have in wandering through the woods alone." "alone! perhaps i am not _always alone_." these words are uttered in a low voice--not loud enough for lilian to hear, though she observes the smile that accompanies them. "you see, sister lil," continues marian in a louder tone our tastes differ. you are young, and like better to read the story-books your mother left you, and look at the pictures in them. my mother left me no story-books, nor pictures. she had none; and did not care for them, i fancy. she was half-indian, you know; and i suppose i am like her: for i too, prefer realities to pictures. i love to roam about the woods; and as for the danger--pooh, pooh--i have no fear of that. i fear neither bear nor panther, nor any other quadruped. ha! i have more fear of a two-legged creature i know of; and i should be in greater danger of meeting with that dreaded biped by _staying at home_? the speech appears to give rise to a train of reflections in which there is bitterness. the heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the act of reloading; and the tinge of melancholy that pervades her countenance tells that her thoughts are abstracted. while priming the piece, she is even _maladroit_ enough to spill a quantity of the powder--though evidently not from any lack of practice or dexterity. lilian has heard the concluding words of her sister's speech with some surprise, and also noticed the abstracted air. she is about to ask for an explanation, when the dialogue is interrupted. wolf rushes past with a fierce growl: some one approaches the clearing. a horseman--a man of about thirty years of age, of spare form and somewhat sinister aspect--a face to be hated on sight. and at sight of it the shadow deepens on the brow of marian. her sister exhibits no particular emotion. the new-comer is no stranger: it is only josh stebbins, the schoolmaster of swampville. he is their father's friend, and comes often to visit them: moreover, he is that day expected, as lilian knows. only in one way does she show any interest in his arrival; and that is, on observing that he is better dressed than usual. the _cut_ of his dress too, is different. "see, sister marian!" cries she in a tone of raillery, "how fine mister josh is! black coat and waistcoat: a standing collar too! why, he is exactly like the methody minister of swampville! perhaps he has turned one. i shouldn't wonder: for they say he is very learnt. oh, if that be, we may hear him preach at the next camp-meeting. how i should like to hear him hold forth!--ha, ha, ha!" the young creature laughs heartily at her own fantastic conceits; and her clear silvery voice for a moment silences the birds--as if they paused to listen to a music more melodious than their own. the mock-bird echoes back the laugh: but not so marian. she has observed the novelty as well as her sister; but it appears to impress her in a very different manner. she does not even smile at the approach of the stranger; but, on the contrary, the cloud upon her brow becomes a shade darker. marian is some years older than her sister--old enough to know that there is _evil_ in the world: for neither is the "backwoods" the home of an arcadian innocence. she knows the schoolmaster sufficiently to dislike him; and, judging by his appearance, one might give her credit for having formed a correct estimate of his character. she suspects the object of his visit; more than that, she knows it: _she is herself its object_. with indifferent grace, therefore, does she receive him: scarcely concealing her aversion as she bids him the customary welcome. without being gifted with any very acute perception, the new-comer might observe this _degout_ on the part of the young girl. he takes no notice of it however--either by word, or the movement of a feature. on the contrary, he appears perfectly indifferent to the character of the reception given him. not that his manner betrays anything like swagger--for he is evidently not one of the swaggering sort. rather is his behaviour characterised by a cool, quiet effrontery--a sort of sarcastic assurance--ten times more irritating. this is displayed in the laconic style of his salutation: "morning girls! father at home?"-- in the fact of his dismounting without waiting to be invited--in sharply scolding the dog out of his way as he leads his horse to the shed; and, finally, in his throwing the saddle-bags over his arm, and stepping inside the cabin-door, with the air of one who is not only master of the house, but of the "situation." inside the door he is received by the squatter himself; and in the exchange of salutations, even a casual observer might note a remarkable difference in the manner of the two men; the guest cool, cynical, confident--the host agitated, with eye unsteady, and heart evidently ill at ease. there is a strange significance in the salutation, as also in the little incident that follows. before a dozen words have passed between the two men, the schoolmaster turns quietly upon his heel, and closes the door behind him--the squatter making no objection to the act, either by word or gesture! the incident may appear of trifling importance; but not so to marian, who stands near, watching every movement, and listening to every word. why is the door closed, and by josh stebbins?--that rude door, that, throughout the long summer-day, is accustomed to hang open on its raw-hide hinges? all day, and often all night--except during the cold wintry winds, or when rain-storms blow from the west? why is it now closed, and thus unceremoniously? no wonder that marian attaches a significance to the act. neither has she failed to note the agitated mien of her father while receiving his visitor--that father, at all other times, and in the presence of all other people, so bold, fierce, and impassible! she observes all this with a feeling of pain. for such strange conduct there must be a cause, and a serious one: that is her reflection. the young girl stands for some moments in the attitude she has assumed. her sister has gone aside to pluck some flowers growing by the bank of the stream, and marian is now alone. her eye is bent upon the door; and she appears to hesitate between two thoughts. shall she approach and listen? she knows _a little_--she desires to know _more_. she has not merely conjectured the object of the schoolmaster's visit; she is _certain_ it concerns herself. it is not simply that which troubles her spirits. left to herself, she would make light of such a suitor, and give him his _conge_ with a brusque promptitude. but her father--why does _he_ yield to the solicitations of this man? this is the mystery she desires to unravel. can it be a _debt_? scarcely that. in the lawless circle of backwoods' society, the screw of the creditor has but little power over the victim of debt--certainly not enough to enslave such a free fearless spirit as that of hickman holt. the girl knows this, and hence her painful suspicion that points to some _other cause_. what cause? she would know. she makes one step towards the house, as if bent upon espionage. again she pauses, and appears undecided. the chinks between the logs are open all round the hut--so, too, the interstices between the hewn planks of the door. no one can approach near to the walls without being seen from the inside; and a listener would be sure of being discovered. is it this reflection that stays her in her steps? that causes her to turn back? or does the action spring from a nobler motive? whichever it be, it seems to bring about a change in her determination. suddenly turning away, she stands facing to the forest--as if with the intention of launching herself into its sombre depths. a call of adieu to her sister--a signal to wolf to follow--and she is gone. whither, and for what purpose? why loves she these lone rambles under the wild-wood shade? she has declared that she delights in them; but can we trust her declaration? true, hers a strange spirit--tinged, no doubt, with the moral tendencies of her mother's race--in which the love of solitude is almost an idiosyncrasy. but with her this forest-ranging is almost a new practice: only for a month or so has she been indulging in this romantic habit--so incomprehensible to the home-loving lilian. her father puts no check upon such inclinations: on the contrary, he encourages them, as if proud of his daughter's _penchant_ for the chase. though purely a white man, his nature has been indianised by the habits of his life: and in his eyes, the chase is the noblest accomplishment-- even for a woman? does the fair marian think so? or has she another motive for absenting herself so frequently from her home? let us follow her into the forest. there, perhaps, we may find an answer to the enigma. chapter three. the lovers' rendezvous. glance into the forest-glade! it is an opening in the woods--a _clearing_, not made by the labour of human hands, but a work of nature herself: a spot of earth where the great timber grows not, but in its place shrubs and tender grass, plants and perfumed flowers. about a mile distant from the cabin of hickman holt just such an opening is found--in superficial extent about equal to the squatter's corn-patch. it lies in the midst of a forest of tall trees--among which are conspicuous the tulip-tree, the white magnolia, cotton-woods, and giant oaks. those that immediately encircle it are of less stature: graduating inward to its edge, like the seats in an amphitheatre--as if the forest trees stooped downward to kiss the fair flowers that sparkle over the glade. these lesser trees are of various species. they are the sassafras laurel, famed for its sanitary sap; the noble carolina bay, with its aromatic leaves; the red mulberry: and the singular osage orange-tree (_maclura aurantica_), the "bow-wood" of the indians. the pawpaw also is present, to attest the extreme richness of the soil; but the flowering plants, that flourish in profuse luxuriance over the glade, are sufficient evidence of its fertility. why the trees grow not there, is one of nature's secrets, not yet revealed to man. it is easier to say why a squatter's cabin is not there. there is no mystery about this: though there might appear to be, since the _clearing_ is found ready to hand. the explanation is simple: the glade is a mile distant from water--the nearest being that of the creek already mentioned as running past the cabin of the squatter. thus nature, as if jealous of this pretty wild-wood garden, protects it from the defilement of man. nevertheless, the human presence is not unknown to it. on this very morning--this fair morning in may, that has disclosed to our view the cabin and clearing of the squatter--a man may be observed entering the glade. the light elastic step, the lithe agile form, the smooth face, all bespeak his youth; while the style of his dress, his arms and equipments proclaim his calling to be that of a hunter. he is a man of the correct size, and, it may be added, of the correct shape--that is, one with whose figure the eye finds no fault. it is pleased at beholding a certain just distribution of the members promising strength and activity for the accomplishment of any possible physical end. the countenance is equally expressive of good mental qualities. the features are regular and open, to frankness. a prominent chin denotes firmness; a soft hazel eye, gentleness; and a full rounded throat, intrepid daring. there is neither beard upon the chin, nor moustache upon the lip--not that the face is too young for either, but both have been shaven off. in the way of hair, a magnificent _chevelure_ of brown curls ruffles out under the rim of the cap, shadowing over the cheeks and neck of the wearer. arched eyebrows, a small mouth, and regular teeth, give the finish to a face which might be regarded as a type of manly beauty. and yet this beauty appears under a russet garb. there is no evidence of excessive toilet-care. the brush and comb have been but sparingly used; and neither perfume nor pomatum has been employed to heighten the shine of those luxuriant locks. there is sun-tan on the face, that, perhaps with the aid of soap, _might_ be taken off; but it is permitted to remain. the teeth, too, might be made whiter with a dentifrice and brush; but in all likelihood the nearest approach to their having ever been cleansed has been while chewing a piece of tough deer-meat. nevertheless, without any artificial aids, the young man's beauty proclaims itself in every feature--the more so, perhaps that, in gazing upon his face, you are impressed with the idea that there is an "outcome" in it. in his dress, there is not much that could be altered for the better. the hunting-shirt of the finest buckskin leather with its fringed cape and skirt, hangs upon his body with all the grace of an athenian tunic; while its open front permits to be seen the manly contour of his breast, but half concealed under the softer fawn-skin. the wrappers of green baize, though folded more than once around his legs, do not hide their elegant _tournure_; and an appropriate covering for his feet is a pair of strong mocassins, soled with thick leather. a coon-skin cap sits high upon his head slightly slouched to the right. with the visage of the animal turned to the front, and the full plume-like tail, with its alternate rings, drooping to the shoulder, it forms a head-dress that is far from ungraceful. a belt around the waist--a short hunting-knife in its sheath--a large powder-horn hanging below the arm-pit--a bullet-pouch underneath, and _voila tout_! no, not all, there remains to be mentioned the rifle--the arm _par excellence_ of the american hunter. the portrait of frank wingrove--a dashing young backwoodsman, whose calling is the chase. the hunter has entered the glade, and is advancing across it. he walks slowly, but without caution--without that habitual stealthy tread that distinguishes the sons of saint hubert in the west. on the contrary, his step is free, and the flowers are crushed under his feet. he is not even silent; but humming a tune as he goes. notwithstanding that he appears accoutred for the chase, his movements are not those of one in pursuit of game. for this morning, at least, he is out upon a different errand; and, judging from his jovial aspect, it should be one of pleasure. the birds themselves seem not more gay. on emerging from the shadow of the tall trees into the open glade effulgent with flowers, his gaiety seems to have reached its climax: it breaks forth in song; and for some minutes the forest re-echoes the well-known lay of "_woodman spare that tree_." whence this joyous humour? why are those eyes sparkling with a scarce concealed triumph? is there a sweetheart expected? is the glade to the scene of a love-interview--that glade perfumed and flowery, as if designed for such a purpose? the conjecture is reasonable: the young hunter has the air of one who keeps an assignation--one, too, who dreams not of disappointment. near the edge of the glade, on the side opposite to that by which the hunter has come in, is a fallen tree. its branches and bark have long since disappeared, and the trunk is bleached to a brilliant white. in the phraseology of the backwoods, it is no longer a tree, but a "log." towards this the hunter advances. on arriving at the log he seats himself upon it, in the attitude of one who does not anticipate being for long alone. there is a path that runs across the glade, bisecting it into two nearly equal parts. it is a tiny track, evidently not much used. it conducts from the stream on which stands the cabin of the squatter holt, to another "fork" of the same river--the obion--where clearings are numerous, and where there is also a large settlement bearing the dignified title of "town." it is the town of swampville--a name perhaps more appropriate than euphonious. upon this path, where it debouches from the forest, the eye of frank wingrove becomes fixed--not in the direction of swampville, but towards the clearing of the squatter. from this, it would appear probable that he expects some one; and that the person expected should come from that side. a good while passes, and yet no one answers his inquiring glance. he begins to manifest signs of impatience. as if to kill time, he repeatedly rises, and again reseats himself. with his eye he measures the altitude of the sun--the watch of the backwoodsman--and as the bright orb rises higher in the heavens, his spirits appear to sink in proportion. his look is no longer cheerful. he has long since finished his song; and his voice is now heard again, only when he utters an ejaculation of impatience. all at once the joyous expression is restored. there is a noise in the woods, and it proceeds from the right direction--a rustling of dead leaves that litter the path, and occasionally the "swish" of recoiling branches. some one approaches the glade. the young hunter springs to his feet, and stands listening. presently, he hears voices; but he hears them rather with surprise than pleasure--as is indicated by another quick change passing over his countenance. the cheerful aspect has again given place to a look of disappointment--this time approaching to chagrin. "thar's talk goin' on;" mutters he to himself. "then she's not alone! thar's someb'dy along wi' her. who the darnation can it be?" after this characteristic soliloquy, he remains silent listening far more eagerly than before. the noises become more distinct, and the voices louder. more than one can be distinguished mingling in the conversation. for some seconds, the hunter maintains his attentive attitude--his eye sternly fixed upon the _embouchure_ of the path. his suspense is of short duration. hearing the voices more plainly, he recognises their tones; and the recognition appears to give another sudden turn to his thoughts. the expression of chagrin gives place to one of simple disappointment. "bah!" exclaims he, throwing himself back upon the dead-wood. "it ain't _her_, after all! it's only a gang o' them rovin' red-skins. what, in old nick's name, fetches 'em this way, an' jest at the time when they ain't wanted?" after a moment's reflection, he starts up from the log, continuing to mutter: "i must hide, or they'll be for havin' a parley. that 'ud never do, for i guess _she_ can't be far off by this. hang the crooked luck!" with this elegant finish, the speaker glides rapidly round the end of the fallen tree, and makes for the nearest underwood--evidently with the design of screening himself from sight. he is too late--as the "ugh" uttered on the opposite side of the glade convinces him--and changing his intention, he fronts round, and quietly returns to his former position upon the log. the hunter's conjecture has proved correct. bronzed faces show themselves over the tops of the bushes on the opposite edge of the glade; and, the moment after, three indians emerge into the open ground. that they are indians, their tatterdemalion dress of coloured blankets, leggings, and mocassins would indicate; but their race is even recognisable in their mode of march. though there are but three of them, and the path runs no longer among trees, they follow one another in single file, and in the true typical "trot" of the red aboriginal. the presence of indians in these woods requires explanation--for their tribe has long before this time been transported to their new lands west of the mississippi. it only needs to be said that a few families have preferred to remain--some from attachment to the scenes of their youth, not to be severed by the prospect of a far happier home; some from associations formed with the whites; and some from more trivial causes-- perhaps from being the degraded outcasts of their tribes. throughout the whole region of the backwoods, there still exists a sparse population of the indigenous race: dwelling, as their ancestors did, under tents or in the open air; trafficking in small articles of their own manufacture; in short, performing very much the same _metier_ as the gitanos in europe. there are other points of resemblance between these two races--amounting almost to family likeness--and which fairly entitles the indians to an appellation sometimes bestowed upon them--_the gipsies of the new world_. the three indians who have entered the glade are manifestly what is termed an "indian family" or part of one. they are father, and mother, and daughter--the last a girl just grown to womanhood. the man is in the lead, the woman follows, and the young girl brings up the rear. they are bent upon a journey, and its object is also manifest. the pannier borne upon the back of the woman, containing fox and coon-skins, with little baskets of stained wicker--and the bead-embroidered mocassins and wampum belts that appear in the hands of the girl--bespeak a purposed visit to the settlement of swampville. true to the custom "of his fathers," the indian himself carries nothing--if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on his way to a market. chapter four. the catastrophe of a kiss. the log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces distant from the path. he has a slight knowledge of this indian family, and simply nods to them as they pass. he does not speak, lest a word should bring on a conversation--for the avoidance of which he has a powerful motive. the indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his pannier-laden squaw. the girl, however, pauses in her steps--as if struck by some sudden thought. the action quickly follows the thought; and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter is seated. what wants she with him? can this be the _she_ he has been expecting with such impatience? surely not! and yet the maiden is by no means ill-looking. in her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm. add to this, luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines--which the sparse savage costume but half conceals--and you have a portrait something more than pretty. many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine. is this, then, the expected one? no. her actions answer the question; and his too. he does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon the log--regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure. _her_ object is presently apparent. a bullet-pouch of white buckskin, richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm. on arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it to him. one might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch is designed as a _gage d'amour_; but the word "dollar," which accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition. it is not thus that an indian girl makes love. she is simply soliciting the pale-face to purchase. in this design she is almost certain to be successful. the pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself. certainly it is a beautiful object--with its quills of brilliant dye, and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap. perhaps no object could be held up before the eyes of frank wingrove more likely to elicit his admiration. he sees and admires. he knows its value. it is cheap at a dollar; besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one. his old catskin is worn and greasy. he has grown fastidious of late--for reasons that may be guessed. this beautiful pouch would sit well over his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a t. in the eyes of marian-- his desire to become the possessor of the coveted article hinders him from continuing the reflection. fortunately his old pouch contains the required coin; and, in another instant, a silver dollar glances in the palm of the indian girl. but the "goods" are not delivered over in the ordinary manner. a thought seems to strike the fair huckster; and she stands for a moment gazing upon the face of the handsome purchaser. is it curiosity? or is it, perhaps, some softer emotion that has suddenly germinated in her soul? her hesitation lasts only for an instant. with a smile that seems to solicit, she approaches nearer to the hunter. the pouch is held aloft, with the strap extended between her hands. her design is evident--she purposes to adjust it upon his shoulders. the young hunter does not repel the proffered service--how could he? it would not be frank wingrove to do so. on the contrary, he leans his body forward to aid in the action. the attitude brings their faces almost close together: their lips are within two inches of touching! for a moment the girl appears to have forgotten her purpose, or else she executes it in a manner sufficiently _maladroit_. in passing the strap over the high coon-skin cap, her fingers become entangled in the brown curls beneath. her eyes are not directed that way: they are gazing with a basilisk glance into the eyes of the hunter. the attitude of wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the situation. a reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the smile. it is this:--"'tarnal earthquakes! were marian to see me now! she'd never believe but that i'm in love with this young squaw: she's been jealous o' her already." but the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance of "marian." the sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest--so sings the honey-bee. human blood cannot bear the proximity of those pretty lips; and the kindness of the indian maiden must be recompensed by a kiss. she makes no resistance. she utters no cry. their lips meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved. the bark of a dog--followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice--causes the interruption. the hunter starts back, looking aghast. the indian exhibits only surprise. both together glance across the glade. marian holt is standing upon its opposite edge! wingrove's cheek has turned red. fear and shame are depicted upon his face. in his confusion he pushes the indian aside--more rudely than gently. "go!" he exclaims in an under voice. "for god's sake go!--you have ruined me!" the girl obeys the request and gesture--both sufficiently rude after such sweet complaisance. she obeys, however; and moves off from the spot--not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps. before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides swiftly back towards the hunter. wingrove stands astonished--half afrighted. before he can recover himself, or divine her intent, the indian is once more by his side. she snatches the pouch from his shoulders--the place where her own hands had suspended it--then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in a loud angry tone the words, "false pale-face!" she turns from the spot, and glides rapidly away. in another moment she has entered the forest-path, and is lost to the sight. the scene has been short--of only a few seconds' duration. marian has not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed scream. she stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had deprived her of speech and motion. her fine form picturesquely draped with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand, resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge gaunt dog by her side--all these outlined upon the green background of the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic and imposing. standing thus immobile, she suggests the idea of some rival huntress, whom diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into stone. but her countenance betrays that she is no statue. the colour of her cheeks--alternately flushing red and pale--and the indignant flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman--one who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion. wingrove is half frantic. he scarce knows what to say, or what to do. in his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps. "frank wingrove!" she cries, "come not near me. your road lies the other way. go! follow your indian damsel. you will find her at swampville, no doubt, selling her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself. traitor! we meet no more!" without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words, marian holt steps back into the forest, and disappears. the young hunter is too stupefied to follow. with "false pale-face" ringing in one ear, and "traitor" in the other, he knows not in what direction to turn. at length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically towards it, he sits down--to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss. chapter five. squatter and saint. return we to the squatter's cabin--this time to enter it. inside, there is not much to be seen or described. the interior consists of a single room--of which the log-walls are the sides, and the clapboard roof the ceiling. in one corner there is a little partition or screen--the materials composing it being skins or the black bear and fallow deer. it is pleasant to look upon this little chamber: it is the shrine of modesty and virgin innocence. its presence proves that the squatter is not altogether a savage. rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it contains a few relics of bygone, better days--not spent there, but elsewhere. some books are seen upon a little shelf--the library of lilian's mother--and two or three pieces of furniture, that have once been decent, if not stylish. but chattels of this land are scarce in the backwoods--even in the houses of more pretentious people than a squatter; and a log-stool or two, a table of split poplar planks, an iron pot, some pans and pails of tin, a few plates and pannikins of the same material, a gourd "dipper" or drinking-cup, and half-a-dozen common knives, forks, and spoons, constitute the whole "plenishing" of the hut. the skin of a cougar, not long killed, hangs against the wall. beside it are the pelts of other wild animals--as the grey fox, the racoon, the rufous lynx, musk-rats, and minks. these, draping the roughly-hewn logs, rob them to some extent of their rigidity. by the door is suspended an old saddle, of the fashion known as _american_--a sort of cross between the high-peaked _silla_ of the mexicans, and the flat pad-like english saddle. on the adjacent peg hangs a bridle to match--its reins black with age, and its bit reddened with rust. some light articles of female apparel are seen hanging against the wall, near that sacred precinct where, during the the night-hours, repose the fair daughters of the squatter. the cabin is a rude dwelling indeed--a rough casket to contain a pair of jewels so sparkling and priceless. just now, it is occupied by two individuals of a very different character--two men already mentioned-- the hunter hickman holt, and his visitor joshua stebbins, the schoolmaster of swampville. the personal appearance of the latter has been already half described. it deserves a more detailed delineation. his probable age has been stated--about thirty. his spare figure and ill-omened aspect have been alluded to. add to this, low stature, a tripe-coloured skin, a beardless face, a shrinking chin, a nose sharp-pointed and peckish, lank black hair falling over the forehead, and hanging down almost low enough to shadow a pair of deep-set weazel-like eyes: give to this combination of features a slightly sinister aspect, and you have the portrait of joshua stebbins. it is not easy to tell the cause of this sinister expression: for the features are not irregular; and, but for its bilious colour, the face could scarcely be termed ill-looking. the eyes do not squint; and the thin lips appear making a constant effort to look smiling and saint-like. perhaps it is this _outward_ affectation of the saintly character-- belying, as it evidently does, the spirit within, that produces the unfavourable impression. in earlier youth, the face may have been better favoured; but a career, spent in the exercise of evil passions, has left more than one "blaze" upon it. it is difficult to reconcile such a career with the demeanour of the man, and especially with his present occupation. but joshua stebbins has not always been a schoolmaster; and the pedagogue of a border settlement is not necessarily, expected to be a model of morality. even if it were so, this lord of the hickory-switch is comparatively a stranger in swampville; and, perhaps, only the best side of his character has been exhibited to the parents and guardians of the settlement. this is of the saintly order; and, as if to strengthen the illusion, a dress of clerical cut has been assumed, as also a white cravat and black boat-brimmed hat. the coat, waistcoat, and trousers are of broad-cloth--though not of the finest quality. it is just such a costume as might be worn by one of the humbler class of methodist border ministers, or by a catholic priest--a somewhat rarer bird in the backwoods. joshua stebbins is neither one nor the other; although, as will shortly appear, his assumption of the ecclesiastical style is not altogether confined to his dress. of late he has also affected the clerical calling. the _ci-devant_ attorney's clerk--whilom the schoolmaster of swampville--is now an "apostle" of the "latter-day saints." the character is new--the faith itself is not very old--for the events we are relating occurred during the first decade of the mormon revelation. even holt himself has not yet been made aware of the change: as would appear from a certain air of astonishment, with which at first sight he regards the clerical habiliments of his visitor. it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that presented in the appearance of these two men. were we to select two parallel types from the animal world, they would be the sly fox and the grizzly bear--the latter represented by the squatter himself. in hickman holt we behold a personage of unwonted aspect: a man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat, and a face not to be looked upon without a sensation of terror--a countenance expressive of determined courage, but at the same time of fierceness, untempered by any trace of a softer emotion. a shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a _chevaux de frise_ of hogs' bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, and a broad livid scar across the left cheek--are component parts in producing this aspect; while a red cotton kerchief, wound turban-like around the head, and pulled low down in front, renders its expression more palpable and pronounced. a loose surtout of thick green blanket-cloth, somewhat faded and worn, adds to the colossal appearance of the man: while a red-flannel shirt serves him also for a vest. his huge limbs are encased in pantaloons of blue kentucky "jeans;" but these are scarcely visible--as the skirt of his ample coat drapes down so as to cover the tops of a pair of rough horse-skin boots, that reach upwards to his knees. the costume is common enough on the banks of the mississippi; the colossal form is not rare; but the fierce, and somewhat repulsive countenance--that is more individual. is this father of marian and lilian? is it possible from so rude a stem could spring such graceful branches--flowers so fair and lovely? if so, then must the mothers of both have been beautiful beyond common! it is even true, and true that both were beautiful--were for they are gone, and hickman holt is twice a widower. long ago, he buried the half-blood mother of marian; and at a later period--though still some years ago-- her gentle golden-haired successor was carried to an early grave. the latter event occurred in one of the settlements, nearer to the region of civilised life. there was a murmur of mystery about the second widowhood of hickman holt, which only became hushed on his "moving" further west--to the wild forest where we now find him. here no one knows aught of his past life or history--one only excepted--and that is the man who is to-day his visitor. contrasting the two men--regarding the superior size and more formidable aspect of the owner of the cabin, you would expect his guest to make some show of obeisance to him. on the contrary, it is the squatter who exhibits the appearance of complaisance. he has already saluted his visitor with an air of embarrassment, but ill-concealed under the words of welcome with which he received him. throughout the scene of salutation, and afterwards, the schoolmaster has maintained his characteristic demeanour of half-smiling, half-sneering coolness. noting the behaviour of these two men to one another, even a careless observer could perceive that the smaller man is the _master_! chapter six. an apostolic effort. the morning needed no fire, but there were embers upon the clay-hearth-- some smouldering ends of faggots--over which the breakfast had been cooked. on one side of the fireplace the squatter placed a stool for his visitor; and then another for himself, as if mechanically on the opposite side. a table of rough-hewn planks stood between. on this was a bottle containing maize-corn whiskey--or, "bald face," as it is more familiarly known in the backwoods--two cracked cups to drink out of; a couple of corn-cob pipes; and some black tobacco. all these preparations had been made beforehand; and confirmed, what had dropped from the lips of lilian, that the visitor had been expected. beyond the customary phrases of salutation, not a word was exchanged between the host and guest, until both had seated themselves. the squatter then commenced the conversation. "yev hed a long ride, josh," said he, leaning towards the table and clutching hold of the bottle: "try a taste o' this hyur _rot-gut_--'taint the daintiest o' drink to offer a man so genteelly dressed as you air this morning; but thur's wuss licker in these hyur back'oods, i reckun. will ye mix? thur's water in the jug thar." "no water for me," was the laconic reply. "yur right 'bout that. its from old hatcher's still--whar they us'ally put the water in afore they give ye the licker. i s'pose they do it to save a fellur the trouble o' mixing--ha! ha! ha!" the squatter laughed at his own jest-mot as if he enjoyed it to any great extent, but rather as if desirous of putting his visitor in good-humour. the only evidence of his success was a dry smile, that curled upon the thin lip of the saint, rather sarcastically than otherwise. there was silence while both drank; and holt was again under the necessity of beginning the conversation. as already observed, he had noticed the altered style of the schoolmaster's costume; and it was to this transformation that his next speech alluded. "why, josh," said he, attempting an easy off-hand style of talk, "ye're bran new, spick span, from head to foot; ye look for all the world jest like one o' them ere cantin' critters o' preechers i often see prowlin' about swampville. durn it, man! what dodge air you up to now. _you_ hain't got rileegun, i reck'n?" "i have," gravely responded stebbins. "hooraw! ha, ha, ha! wal--what sort o' thing is't anyhow?" "my religion is of the right sort, brother holt." "methody?" "nothing of the kind." "what then? i thort they wur all methodies in swampville?" "they're all _gentiles_ in swampville--worse than infidels themselves." "wal--i know they brag mightily on thur genteelity. i reckon you're about right thur--them, storekeepers air stuck-up enough for anythin'." "no, no; it's not that i mean. my religion has nothing to do with swampville. thank the lord for his mercy, i've been led into a surer way of salvation. i suppose, brother holt, you've heard of the new revelation?" "heern o' the new rev'lation. wal, i don't know as i hev. what's the name o't?" "the book of _mormon_?" "oh! mormons! i've hearn o' them. hain't they been a fightin' a spell up thur in massouray or illinoy, whar they built 'em a grandiferous temple? i've hearn some talk o't." "at nauvoo. it is even so, brother holt the wicked gentiles have been persecuting the saints: just as their fathers were persecuted by the egyptian pharaohs." "an' hain't they killed their head man--smith he wur called, if i recollex right." "alas, true! joseph smith has been made a martyr, and is by this time an angel in heaven. no doubt he is now in glory, at the head of the angelic host." "wal--if the angels are weemen, he'll hev a good wheen o' 'em about him, i reck'n. i've hearn he wur at the head of a putty consid'able host o' 'em up thur in massoury--fifty wives they said he hed! wur that ere true, josh?" "scandal, brother holt--all scandal of the wicked enemies of our faith. they were but wives _in the spirit_. that the gentiles can't comprehend; since their eyes have not been opened by the revelation." "wal, it 'pears to be a tol'able free sort o' rileegun anyhow. kind o' turk, aint it?" "nothing of the kind. it has nothing in common with the doctrines of mohammedanism." "but whar did _you_ get it, josh stebbins? who gin it to you?" "you remember the man i brought over here last fall?" "sartint i do. young he wur--brig young, i think, you called him." "the same." "in coorse, i remember him well enough; but i reckon our marian do a leetle better. he tried to spark the gurl, an' made fine speeches to her; but she couldn't bar the sight o' him for all that. ha! ha! ha. don't ye recollex the trick that ar minx played on him? she unbuckled the girt o' his saddle, jest as he wur a-goin' to mount, and down he kim--saddle, bags, and all--cawollup to the airth! ha! ha! arter he wur gone, i larfed till i wur like to bust." "you did wrong, hickman holt, to encourage your daughter in her sauciness. had you known the man--_that man, sir, was a prophet_!" "a prophet!" "yes--the greatest perhaps the world ever saw--a man in direct communication with the almighty himself." "lord! 'twan't joe smith, wur it?" "no; but one as great as he--one who has inherited his spirit; and who is now the head of all the saints." "that feller at thur head? you 'stonish me, josh stebbins." "ah! well you may be astonished. that man has astonished me, hickman holt. he has turned me from evil ways, and led me to fear the lord." the squatter looked incredulous, but remained silent. "yes--that same man who was here with me in your humble cabin, is now chief priest of the mormon church! he has laid his hands on this poor head, and constituted me one of his humble apostles. yes, one of the _twelve_, intrusted with spreading the true faith of the saints over all the world." "hooraw for you, josh stebbins! you'll be jest the man for that sort o' thing; ye've got the larnin' for it, hain't you?" "no doubt, brother holt, with the help of the lord, my humble acquirements will be useful; for though _he_ only can open for us poor sinners the kingdom of grace, he suffers such weak instruments, as myself, to point out the narrow path that leads to it. just as with the philistines of old, the hearts of the gentiles are hardened like flint-stones, and refuse to receive the true faith. unlike the followers of mohammed, _we_ propagate not by the sword, but by the influence of ratiocination." "what?" "ratiocination." "what mout that be?" "reason--reason." "oh! common sense you mean, i s'pose?" "exactly so--reasoning that produces conviction; and, i flatter myself, that, being gifted with some little sense and skill, my efforts may be crowned with success." "wal, josh, 'ithout talkin' o' common sense, ye've good grist o' lawyers' sense--that i know; an' so, i suppose, ye've tuk it into your head to make beginnin' on me. aint that why ye've come over this mornin'?" "what?" "to make a mormon o' me." up to this time the conversation had been carried on in a somewhat stiff and irrelevant manner; this more especially on the side of the squatter, who--notwithstanding his endeavours to assume an air of easy nonchalance--was evidently labouring under suspicion and constraint. from the fact of stebbins having sent a message to forewarn him, of this visit, he knew that the schoolmaster had some business with him of more than usual importance; and it was a view to ascertain the nature of this business, and relieve himself from suspense, that the interrogatory was put. he would have been right glad to have received an answer in the affirmative--since it would have cost him little concern to turn mormon, or profess to do so, notwithstanding his pretended opposition to the faith. he was half indulging himself in the hope that this might be the errand on which stebbins had come: as was evinced by a more cheerful expression, on his countenance; but, as the saint lingered long before making a reply, the shadows of suspicion again darkened over the brow of the squatter; and with a nervous uneasiness, he awaited the answer. "it'll be a tough job, josh," said he, with an effort to appear unconcerned--"a tough job, mind ye." "well, so i should expect," answered the apostle drily; "and, just for that reason, i don't intend to undertake it: though i should like, brother holt, to see you gathered into the fold. i know our great high priest would make much of a man like _you_. the saints have many enemies; and need strong arms and stout hearts such as yours, hickman holt. the lord has given to his prophet the right to defend the true faith--even with carnal weapons, if others fail; and woe be to them who make war on us! let them dread the _destroying angels_!" "the destroying angels! what sort o' critters be they?" "they are the _danites_." "wal i'm jest as wise as ever, josh. dod rot it, man! don't be mystiferous. who air the danites, i shed like to know?" "you can only know them by initiation; and you _should_ know them. you're just the man to be one of them; and i have no doubt you'd be made one, as soon as you joined us." the apostle paused, as if to note the effect of his words; but the colossal hunter appeared as if he had not heard them. it was not that he did not comprehend their meaning, but rather because he was not heeding what had been said--his mind being occupied with a presentiment of some more unpleasant proposal held in reserve by his visitor. he remained silent, however; leaving it to the latter to proceed to the declaration of his design. the suspicions of the squatter--if directed to anything connected with his family affairs--were well grounded, and soon received confirmation. after a pause, the mormon continued: "no, hickman holt, it aint with _you_ my business lies to-day--that is, not exactly with you." "who, then?" "_your daughter_!" chapter seven. the mormon's demand. a shudder passed through the herculean frame of the hunter--though it was scarcely perceptible, from the effort he made to conceal it. it was noticed for all that; and the emotion that caused it perfectly understood. the keen eye of the _ci-devant_ law clerk was too skilled in reading the human countenance, to be deceived by an effort at impassibility. "my daughter?" muttered holt, half interrogatively. "your daughter!" echoed the mormon, with imperturbable coolness. "but which o' 'em? thur's two." "oh! you know which i mean--marian, of course." "an' what do ye want wi' marian, josh?" "come, brother holt? it's no use your feigning ignorance. i've spoken to you of this before: you know well enough what i want with her." "durn me, if i do! i remember what ye sayed afore; but i thort ye wur only jokin'." "i was in earnest then, hickman holt; and i'm still more in earnest now. i want a wife, and i think marian would suit me admirably. i suppose you know that the saints have moved off from illinois, and are now located beyond the rocky mountains?" "i've heern somethin' o't." "well, i propose going thereto join them; and i must take a wife with me: for no man is welcome who comes there without one." "y-e-s," drawled the squatter, with a bitter smile, "an' from what i've heern, i reckon he'd be more welkum if he fetched half-a-dozen." "nonsense, hickman holt. i wonder a man of your sense would listen to such lies. it's a scandal that's been scattered abroad by a set of corrupt priests and methody preachers, who are jealous of us, because we're drawing their people. sheer wicked lies, every word of it!" "wal, i don't know about that. but i know one thing, to a sartinty--you will niver get marian's consent." "i don't want marian's consent--that don't signify, so long as i have yours." "myen?" "ay, yours; and i must have it. look here, hickman holt! listen to me! we're making too long a talk about this business; and i have no time to waste in words. i have made everything ready; and shall leave for the salt lake before three more days have passed over my head. the caravan i'm going with is to start from fort smith on the arkansas; and it'll be prepared by the time i get there, to move over the plains. i've bought me a team and a waggon. it's already loaded and packed; and there's a corner in it left expressly for your daughter: therefore, she must go." the tone of the speaker had suddenly changed, from that of saintly insinuation, to bold open menace. the squatter, notwithstanding his fierce and formidable aspect, did not dare to reply in the same strain. he was evidently cowed, and suffering under some fearful apprehension. "_must_ go!" he muttered, half involuntarily, as if echoing the other's words. "yes, _must_ and _shall_!" "i tell ye, josh stebbins, she'll niver consent." "and i tell you, hickman holt, i don't want her consent. that i leave _you_ to obtain; and if you can't get it otherwise, you must _force_ it. bah! what is it for? a good husband--a good home--plenty of meat, drink, and dress: for don't you get it into your fancy that the latter-day saints resemble your canting hypocrites of other creeds, who think they please god by their miserable penances. quite the reverse, i can assure you. we mean to live as god intended men should live--eat, drink, and be merry. look there!" the speaker exhibited a handful of shining gold pieces. "that's the way our church provides for its apostles. your daughter will be a thousand times better off there, than in this wretched hovel. perhaps _she_ will not mind the change so much as _you_ appear to think. i know many a first-rate girl that would be glad of the chance." "i know _she_ won't give in--far less to be made a mormon o'. i've heern her speak agin 'em." "i say again, she must give in. after all, you needn't tell her i'm a mormon: she needn't know anything about _that_. let her think i'm only moving out west--to oregon--where there are plenty of respectable emigrants now going. she'll not suspect anything in that. once out at salt lake city, she'll soon get reconciled to mormon life, i guess." the squatter remained silent for some moments--his head hanging forward over his broad breast--his eyes turned inward, as if searching within his bosom for some thought to guide and direct him. in there, no doubt, a terrible struggle was going on--a tumult of mixed emotions. he loved his daughter, and would leave her to her own will; but he feared this saintly suitor, and dared not gainsay him. it must have been some dread secret, or fiendish scheme, that enabled this small insignificant man to sway the will of such a giant! a considerable time passed, and still the squatter vouchsafed no answer. he was evidently wavering, as to the nature of the response he should make. twice or thrice he raised his head, stealthily directing his glance to the countenance of his visitor; but only to read, in the looks of the latter, a fixed and implacable purpose. there was no mercy there. all at once, a change came over the colossus. a resolution of resistance had arisen within him--as was evinced by his altered attitude and the darkening shadow upon his countenance. the triumphant glances of the pseudo-saint appeared to have provoked him, more than the matter in dispute. like the buffalo of the plains stung with indian arrows, or the great _mysticetus_ of the deep goaded by the harpoon of the whaler, all the angry energies of his nature appeared suddenly aroused from their lethargy; and he sprang to his feet, towering erect in the presence of his tormentor. "damnation!" cried he, striking the floor with his heavy heel, "she won't do it--she won't, and she _shan't_!" "keep cool, hickman holt!" rejoined the mormon, without moving from his seat--"keep cool! i expected this; but it's all bluster. i tell you she will, and she _shall_!" "hev a care, josh stebbins! hev a care what yur about! ye don't know what you may drive me to--" "but i know what i may _lead_ you to," interrupted the other with a sneering smile. "what?" involuntarily inquired holt. "the gallows," laconically answered stebbins. "devils an' damnation!" this emphatic rejoinder was accompanied with a furious grinding of teeth, but with a certain recoiling--as if the angry spirit of the giant could still be stayed by such a menace. "it's no use swearing about it, holt," continued the mormon, after a certain time had passed in silence. "_my_ mind's made up--the girl must go with me. say _yes_ or _no_. if yes, then all's well--well for your daughter, and well for you too. i shall be out of your way--salt lake's a long distance off--and it's _not likely you'll ever set eyes on me again_. you understand me?" the saint pronounced these last words with a significant emphasis; and then paused, as if to let them have their full weight. they appeared to produce an effect. on hearing them, a gleam, like a sudden flash of sunlight, passed over the countenance of the squatter. it appeared the outward index of some consolatory thought freshly conceived; and its continuance proved that it was influencing him to take a different view of the mormon's proposal. he spoke at length; but no longer in the tone of rage--for his passion seemed to have subsided, as speedily as it had sprung up. "an' s'pose i say _no_?" "why, in that case, i shall not start so soon as i had intended. i shall stay in the settlements till i have performed a duty that, for a long time, i have left undone." "what duty is't you mean?" "one i owe to society; and which i have perhaps sinfully neglected--_bring a murderer to justice_!" "hush! josh stebbins--for heaven's sake, speak low! _you know it isn't true_--but, hush! the gurls are 'thout. don't let them hear sech talk!" "perhaps," continued stebbins, without heeding the interruption, "perhaps that murderer fancies he might escape. he is mistaken if he do. one word from me in swampville, and the hounds of the law would be upon him; ay, and if he could even get clear of _them_, he could not escape out of my power. i have told you i am an apostle of the great mormon church; and that man would be cunning indeed who could shun the vengeance of our destroying angels. now, hickman holt, which is it to be? _yes or no_?" the pause was ominous for poor marian. the answer decided her doom. it was delivered in a hoarse husky voice: "_yes--yes--she may go_!" chapter eight. a splendid pension. the treaty of guadalupe hidalogo was followed by an extensive _debandement_, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards--some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called "filibustering;" others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in this _pacific_ fashion, carried to the far shores of the pacific ocean--there to delve for californian gold--while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. a three years' campaign under the sultry skies of mexico--drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the american youth--had satisfied the ambition of most. it was only those who arrived late upon the field--too late to pluck a laurel--who would have prolonged the strife. the narrator of this tale, edward warfield--_ci-devant_ captain of a corps of "rangers"--was not one of the last mentioned. with myself, as with many others, the great mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war--_la petite guerre_--that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. for my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, i was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a "spell" of peace: during which i might indulge in the _dolce far niente_, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. my wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for "a lodge in some vast wilderness--some boundless contiguity of shade;" or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the "desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!" in truth, i felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. a phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: "want of the wherewith to support a wife." i had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a "dwelling in the desert" cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, the _fairest_ "spirit" would require something more substantial to live upon. under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. we, the _debandes_, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of "land scrip," good for the number of acres upon the face of it--to be selected from "government land," wherever the holder might choose to "locate." the scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver's service. mine represented a "section" of six hundred and forty acres--worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then--on account of the market being flooded by similar paper--reduced to less than half its value. with this magnificent "bounty" was i rewarded for services, that perhaps--some day--might be--never mind!--thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! this bit of scrip then--a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray--a true rifle, that i had myself carried equally as far--a pair of colt's pistols--and a steel "toledo," taken at the storming of chapultepec--constituted the bulk of my available property. add to this, a remnant of my last month's pay-- in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, a _civilian's suit_: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt of nessus. the vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet i was not wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist! how little understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they misconstrue my _involuntary_ motives! it was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that i held on to my "scrip." most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a "song," and spent the proceeds upon a "supper." in relation to mine, i had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators. it promised me that very wilderness-home i was in search of; and, having no prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my "minister," i determined to "locate" without one. i was at the time staying in tennessee--the guest of a campaigning comrade and still older friend. he was grandson of that gallant leader, who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred miles through the heart of the "bloody ground" and founded nashville upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river! from the lips of their descendants i had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures, experienced by this pioneer band, that tennessee had become, in my fancy a region of romance. other associations had led me to love this hospitable and chivalric state; and i resolved, that, within its boundaries, i should make my home. a visit to the land-office of nashville ended in my selection of section number , township --, as my future plantation. it was represented to me as a fertile spot--situated in the "western reserve"--near the banks of the beautiful obion, and not far above the confluence of this river with the mississippi. the official believed there had been some "improvement" made upon the land by a _squatter_; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could not tell. "at all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise the _pre-emption right_, and of course must move off." so spoke the land agent. this would answer admirably. although my texan experience had constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter; and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve as a beginning. i congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without further parley, parted with my scrip--receiving in return the necessary documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of section . the only additional information the agent could afford me was: that my new purchase was all "heavily timbered," with the exception before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was called swampville; and that the section itself was known as "holt's clearing"--from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made the "improvement." with this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, i took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me "a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!" chapter nine. friendly advice. on returning to the house of my friend, i informed him of my purchase; and was pleased to find that he approved of it. "you can't be taken in," said he, "by land upon the obion. from what i have heard of it, it is one of the most fertile spots in tennessee. moreover, as you are fond of hunting, you'll find game in abundance. the black bear, and even the panther--or `painter,' as our backwoodsmen have it--are still common in the obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of the reserve." "i'm rejoiced to hear it." "no doubt," continued my friend, with a smile, "you may shoot deer from your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your hen-roost." "good!" "o yes--though i can't promise that you will see anything of _venus_ in the woods, you may enjoy to your heart's content the noble art of _venerie_. the obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters. it was it that gave birth to the celebrated crockett." "on that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from what you say, it is just the sort of place i should have chosen to _squat_ upon." "_by_ the by," interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he spoke, "your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the circumstance you mentioned just now. did i understand you to say, there was a _squatter_ on the land?" "there _was_ one--so the agent has told me; but whether he be still _squatted_ there, the official could not say." "rather awkward, if he be," rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling his "goatee" to its full length. "in what way awkward?" i asked in some surprise. "how can _that_ signify?" "a great deal. these squatters are queer fellows--_ugly_ customers to deal with--especially when you come to turn them out of their house and home, as they consider it. it is true, they have the _pre-emption right_--that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please to indulge in--being universally too poor to purchase." "what then?" "their motto is, for `him to keep who can.' the old adage, `possession being nine points of the law,' is, in the squatter's code, no dead-letter, i can assure you." "do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?" "it depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is. they are not all alike. if he should chance to be one of the obstinate and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him." "but surely the law--" "will aid you in ousting him--that's what you were going to say?" "i should expect so--in tennessee, at all events." "and you would be disappointed. in almost any other part of the state, you _might_ rely upon legal assistance; but, i fear, that about swampville you will find society not very different from that you have encountered on the borders of texas; and you know how little help the law could afford you _there_, in the enforcement of such a claim?" "then i must take the law into my own hands," rejoined i, falling into very old-fashioned phraseology--for i was beginning to feel indignant at the very idea of this prospective difficulty. "no, warfield," replied my sober friend, "do not take that course; i know you are not the man to be _scared_ out of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is the proper course to follow.--your squatter, if there be one--it is to be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence on the map--but if there should be a real live animal of this description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have neighbours--some half-dozen of his own kidney--living at greater or less distances around him. they are not usually of a clannish disposition; but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a bear. turn one of them out by force--either legal or otherwise--and it would be like bringing a hornets' nest about your ears. even were you to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among. i know some cases in point, that occurred nearer home here. in fact, on some wild lands of my own i had an instance of the kind." "what, then, am i to do? can you advise me?" "do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been forced to the course of action i shall advise. _should there be a squatter_, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as you can, and state your case frankly. you will find this the best mode of treating with these fellows--many of whom have a dash of honour, as well as honesty in their composition. speak of the _improvements_ he has made, and offer him a recompense." "ah! friend blount," replied i, addressing my kind host by his baptismal name, "it is much easier to listen to your advice than follow it." "come, old comrade!" rejoined he, after a momentary pause, "i think i understand you. there need be no concealment between friends, such as we are. let not that difficulty hinder you from following the course i have recommended. the old general's property is not all gone yet; and, should you stand in need of a hundred or two, to make a _second_ purchase of your plantation, send me word, and--" "thanks, blount--thanks! it is just as i should have expected; but i shall not become your debtor for such a purpose. i have been a frontiersman too long to be bullied by a backwoodsman--" "there now, warfield, just your own passionate self! nay, you must take my advice. pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as i have counselled you." "that will depend upon contingencies. should master holt--for i believe that is my predecessor's name--should he prove _amiable_, i may consent to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he has done. if otherwise, by the lady of guadalupe!--you remember our old mexican shibboleth--he shall be cleared out of his clearing _sans facon_. perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence! perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old holt has long since `gone under' and only his ghost will be found flitting around the precincts of this disputed territory. would not that be an interesting companion for my hours of midnight loneliness? a match for the wolves and wild-cats! ha! ha! ha!" "well, old comrade; i trust it may turn out no worse. the ghost of a squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter himself, dispossessed of his _squatment_. notwithstanding this badinage, i know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my help in the matter, if you should require it." i grasped the speaker's hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me i was parting with one of the few friends i had in the world. my _impedimenta_ had been already packed. they did not need much stowage. a pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my personal property--including the title-deeds of my freehold! my arms i carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle. bidding adieu to my friend, i mounted my noble arab; and, heading him to the road, commenced journeying towards the _western reserve_. chapter ten. a classic land. between nashville and swampville extends a distance of more than a hundred miles--just three days' travel on horseback. for the first ten miles--to harpeth river--i found an excellent road, graded and macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations. my next point was _paris_; and forty miles further on, i arrived in _dresden_! so far as the nomenclature was concerned, i might have fancied myself travelling upon the continent of europe. by going a little to the right, i might have entered asia: since i was told of _smyrna_ and _troy_ being at no great distance in that direction; and by proceeding in a south-westerly course, i should have passed through _denmark_, and landed at _memphis_--certainly an extensive tour within the short space of three days! ugh! those ugly names! what hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this lovely land? whip the wretch with rattlesnakes! memphis indeed!--as if memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of the mississippi! a new osiris--a new sphinx, "half horse, half alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle." at every forking of the roads, whenever i inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds. "swampville" was euphony, and "mud creek" _soft_ music in comparison! beyond dresden, the titles became more appropriate and much more rare. there were long stretches having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were no _places_ to bear them. the numerous creeks, however, had been baptised; and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated. "deer creek" and "mud"--"coon" and "cat"--"big" and "little forky"--told that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the western reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed. unfortunately, the system is followed up to this hour by the fremonts and other pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. the soft and harmonious sound of indian and spanish nomenclature--as well as the more striking titles bestowed by the trappers--are rapidly being obliterated from the maps; their places to be supplied--at the instigation of a fulsome flattery-- by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads of the employing _bureau_. "i know the old general will be pleased--perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his next despatch--if i call this beautiful river `smith.'" "how the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of `jones!'" under just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the rocky mountains, we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate names--smiths, joneses, jameses, and the like--while, from the sublime peaks of the cascade range, we have "adams," "jackson," "jefferson," "madison," and "washington," overlooking the limitless waters of the pacific. this last series we could excuse. the possession of high qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent. in the associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the sound--whether it be harsh or harmonious. but that is another question, and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the nomenclature of smith, jones, and robinson! beyond dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road. it was a mere trace, or lane, cut out in the forest--with here and there a tree "blazed," to indicate the direction. as i neared the point of my destination, i became naturally curious to learn something about it-- that is, about swampville--since it was evident that this was to be the _point d'appui_ of my future efforts at colonisation--my depot and port entry. i should have inquired had i found any one to inquire _from_; but, for ten miles along the road, i encountered not a human creature. then only a "darkey" with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing of information from such a source, i declined detaining him. the only intelligence i was able to draw from the negro was that; "da `city' o' swampville, massr, he lay 'bout ten mile furrer down da crik." the "ten mile down da crik" proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole distance i saw not a creature, until i had arrived within a mile or so of the "settlement!" i had been already apprised that swampville was a new place. its fame had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in nashville was it unknown, except, perhaps, to the land-office. it was only after entering the reserve, that i became fully assured of its existence; and there it was known as a "settlement" rather than a "city." for all that, swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the reason i had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was that i had been coming in the _wrong direction_--in other words, i had approached it _from behind_. swampville was in reality a _riverine_ town. to it the east was a _back_ country; and its front face was to the west. in that direction lay its world, and the ways that opened to it. log-shanties began to line the road--standing thicker as i advanced; while at intervals, appeared a "frame-house" of more pretentious architecture. in front of one of these--the largest of the collection--there stood a tall post; or rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches. on the head of this was a "martin-box"; and underneath the dwelling of the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word "hotel." a portrait of jackson, done in "continental uniform," embellished the face of the board. the sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh features of "old hickory" there was but slight promise of hospitality. it was no use going farther. the "jackson hotel" was evidently the "head inn" of the place; and without pause or parley, i dismounted at its door. i was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or assistance--too careful of my arab to trust him to hands unskilled--and i did the unsaddling for myself. a half-naked negro gave me some slight help in the "grooming" process--all the while exhibiting his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment, produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat--to the "darkey," no doubt, an uncommon apparition. chapter eleven. the "jackson hotel." i found that i had arrived in the very "nick of time:" for just as i returned from the stable, and was entering the verandah of the hotel, i heard the bell calling its guests to supper. there was no ado made about me: neither landlord or waiter met me with a word; and following the stream of "boarders" or travellers who had arrived before me, i took my seat at the common _table-d'hote_. had the scene been new to me, i might have found food for reflection, or observed circumstances to astonish me. but i had been long accustomed to mix in as motley a throng, as that which now surrounded the table of the swampville hotel. a supper-table, encircled by blanket and "jeans" coats--by buckskin blouses and red-flannel shirts--by men without coats at all--was nothing strange to me; nor was it strange either to find these _bizarre_ costumes interspersed among others of fashionable cut and finest cloth. black broad-cloth frocks, and satin or velvet vests, were quite common. individuals thus attired formed a majority of the guests--for in young settlements the "hotel" or "tavern" is also a boarding-house, where the spruce "storekeepers" and better class of clerks take their meals--usually sleeping in the office or store. in glancing around the table, i saw many old "types," though not one face that i had ever seen before. there was one, however, that soon attracted my attention, and fixed it. it was _not_ a lady's face, as you may be imagining; though there were present some of that sex--the landlord's helpmate who presided over the coffee-pot, with some three or four younger specimens of the backwoods fair--her daughters and nieces. all, however, were absolutely without attraction of any sort; and i somewhat bitterly remembered the _mot_ of double meaning, with which my friend had entertained me at parting. venus was certainly not visible at the swampville _table-d'hote_: for the presiding divinity was a perfect hecate; and her attendant damsels could have found no place in the train of the cytherean goddess. no-- the face that interested me was neither that of a female, nor in any way feminine. it was the face of a _man_; and that in the most emphatic sense of the word. he was a young man--apparently about four or five and twenty--and costumed as a backwoods hunter; that is, he wore a buckskin hunting-shirt, leggings, and mocassins--with bullet-pouch and powder-horn suspended over his shoulder, and hunting-knife sheathed in his belt. the coon-skin cap, hanging against the adjacent wall, was his head-dress: i had seen him place it there, before taking his seat at the supper-table. with the personal appearance of this young man the eye was at once satisfied. a figure of correct contour, features of noble outline, a face expressive of fine mental qualities--were the more salient characteristics that struck me at the first glance. regarding the portrait more particularly, other details became manifest: round hazel eyes, with well-developed lashes; brows finely arched; a magnificent shock of nut-brown curling hair; a small, well-formed mouth, with white, regular teeth--all contributed to the creation of what might be termed a type of manly beauty. this beauty appeared in a somewhat neglected garb. art might have improved it; but it was evident that none had been employed, or even thought of. it was a clear case of "beauty unadorned;" and the possessor of it appeared altogether unconscious of its existence. i need not add that this mental characteristic, on the part of the young man, heightened the grace of his personal charms. why this young fellow fixed my attention, i can scarcely tell. his costume was by no means uncommon: though it was the only one of the kind there present. it was not that, however, nor yet his fine personal appearance, that interested me; but rather something i had observed in his bearing and manner. as we were seated opposite each other, near the foot of the long table, i had an excellent opportunity of observing him. notwithstanding his undoubted good looks--sufficiently striking to have filled the possessor with vanity--his deportment was marked by a modest reserve, that proved him either unaware of his personal advantages, or without any conceit in them. by the glances occasionally cast towards him, from the opposite end of the table, i could perceive that "miss alvina" and "miss car'line" were not insensible to his attractions. neither, however, had reason to congratulate herself upon any reciprocity of her favouring glances. the young man either did not observe, or, at all events, took no notice of them. the melancholy tinge pervading his features remained altogether unaltered. equally impassible did he appear under the jealous looks of some three or four smart young storekeepers--influenced, no doubt, by tender relations existing between them and the aforementioned damsels, whose sly _espieglerie_ of the handsome hunter could not have escaped their observation. the young man appeared to be be rather _friendless_, than unknown. i could perceive that almost all of the company were acquainted with him; but that most of them--especially the gentlemen in broad-cloth--affected an air of superiority over him. no one talked much to him: for his reserved manner did not invite conversation; but when one of these did address a few words to him, it was in the style usually adopted by the well-to-do citizen, holding converse with his less affluent neighbour. the young fellow was evidently not one to be sneered at or insulted; but, for all that, i could perceive that the broad-cloth gentry did not quite regard him as an equal. perhaps this may be explained by the hypothesis that he was _poor_, and, indeed, it did not require much penetration to perceive that such was the reality. the hunting-shirt, though once a handsome one, was no longer new. on the contrary, it was considerably "scuffed;" and the green baize wrappers upon his limbs were faded to a greenish brown. other points proclaimed a light purse-- perhaps far lighter than the heart of him who carried it--if i was to judge by the expression of his countenance. notwithstanding all this, the young hunter was evidently an object of interest--whether friendly or hostile--and might have been the _cynosure_ of the supper-table, but for my undress-frock and spread-eagle buttons. these, however, claimed some share of the curiosity of swampville; and i was conscious of being the object of a portion of its surveillance. i knew not what ideas they could have had about me, and cared as little: but, judging from the looks of the men-- the broad-cloth gentlemen in particular--i was impressed with a suspicion that i was neither admired nor welcome. in the eyes of your "sovereign citizen," the mere military man is not the hero that he is elsewhere; and he must show something more than a uniform coat, to recommend himself to their suffrages. i was conceited enough to imagine that miss alvina, and her _vis-a-vis_, miss car'line, did not look altogether unfriendly; but the handsome face and magnificent curls of the young hunter were beside me; and it was no use taking the field against such a rival. i was not jealous of him, however, nor he of me. on the contrary, of all the men present, he appeared most inclined to be courteous to me--as was evinced by his once or twice pushing within my reach those delicate dishes, distributed at _very_ long distances over the table. i felt an incipient friendship for this young man, which he appeared to reciprocate. he saw that i was a stranger; and notwithstanding the pretentious fashion of my dress, perhaps he noticed my well-worn coat, and conjectured that i might be as poor and friendless as himself. if it was to this conjecture i was indebted for his sympathies, his instincts were not far astray. chapter twelve. colonel kipp. as soon as i had swallowed supper, i hastened to place myself _en rapport_ with the landlord of the hostelry--whose name i had ascertained to be "kipp," or "_colonel_ kipp," as his guests called him. though i had no intention of proceeding farther that night, i was desirous of obtaining some information, about the whereabout of my new estate, with such other facts in relation to it, as might be collected in swampville. the landlord would be the most likely person to give me the desired intelligence. this distinguished individual i encountered soon after in the verandah--seated upon a raw-hide rocking-chair, with his feet elevated some six inches above the level of his nose, and resting across the balustrade of the railing--beyond which his huge horse-skin boots protruded a full half yard into the street. but that i had been already made aware of the fact, i should have had some difficulty in reconciling the portentous title of "colonel" with the exceedingly unmilitary-looking personage before me--a tall lopsided tobacco-chewer, who, at short intervals, of about half a minute each, projected the juice in copious squirts into the street, sending it clean over the toes of his boots! when i first set eyes upon the colonel, he was in the centre of a circle of tooth-pickers, who had just issued from the supper-room. these were falling off one by one; and, noticing their defection, i waited for an opportunity to speak to the colonel alone. this, after a short time, offered itself. the dignified gentleman took not the slightest notice of me as i approached; nor until i had got so near, as to leave no doubt upon his mind that a conversation was intended. then, edging slightly round, and drawing in the boots, he made a half-face towards me--still, however, keeping fast to his chair. "the army, sir, i prezoom?" interrogatively began mr kipp. "no," answered i, imitating his laconism of speech. "no!" "i have been in the service. i have just left it." "oh--ah! from mexico, then, i prezoom?" "yes." "business in swampville?" "why, yes, mr kipp." "i am usooally called _kurnel_ here," interrupted the backwoods _militario_, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that it was forced upon him. "of course," continued he, "you, sir, bein' a strenger--" "i beg your pardon, _colonel_ kipp: i _am_ a stranger to your _city_, and of course--" "don't signify a dump, sir," interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in return for the show of deference i had made, as also, perhaps for my politeness in having styled swampville a city. "business in swampville, you say?" "yes," i replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of my business--which i did not wish to make known just then--i forestalled him by the question: "do you chance to know such a place as holt's clearing?" "chance to know such a place as holt's clearin'?" "yes; holt's clearing." "wal, there _air_ such a place." "is it distant?" "if you mean hick holt's clearin', it's a leetle better'n six miles from here. he squats on mud crik." "there's a squatter upon it, then?" "on holt's clearin'? wal, i shed rayther say there _air a squatter_ on't, an' no mistake." "his name is holt is it not?" "that same individooal." "do you think i could procure a guide in swampville--some one who could show me the way to holt's clearing?" "do i think so? possible you might. d'ye see that ar case in the coon-cap?" the speaker looked, rather than pointed, to the young fellow of the buckskin shirt; who, outside the verandah, was now standing by the side of a very sorry-looking steed. i replied in the affirmative. "wal, i reckon he kin show you the way to holt's clearin'. he's another o' them mud crik squatters. he's just catchin' up his critter to go that way." this i hailed as a fortunate circumstance. if the young hunter lived near the clearing i was in search of, perhaps he could give me all the information i required; and his frank open countenance led me to believe he would not withhold it. it occurred to me, therefore, to make a slight change in my programme. it was yet _early_--for supper in the backwoods is what is elsewhere known as "tea." the sun was still an hour or so above the horizon. my horse had made but a light journey; and nine miles more would be nothing to him. all at once, then, i altered my intention of sleeping at the hotel; and determined, if the young hunter would accept me as a travelling companion, to proceed along with him to mud creek. whether i should find a bed there, never entered into my calculation. i had my great-sleeved cloak strapped upon the cantle of my saddle; and with that for a covering, and the saddle itself for a pillow, i had made shift on many a night, more tempestuous than that promised to be. i was about turning away to speak to the young man, when i was recalled by an exclamation from the landlord:--"i guess," said he, in a half-bantering way, "you hain't told me your business yet?" "no," i answered deferentially, "i have not." "what on airth's takin' you to holt's clearin'?" "that, mr kipp--i beg pardon--_colonel_ kipp--is a private matter." "private and particular, eh?" "very." "oh, then, i guess, you'd better keep it to yourself." "that is precisely my intention," i rejoined, turning on my heel, and stepping out of the verandah. the young hunter was just buckling the girth of his saddle. as i approached him, i saw that he was smiling. he had overheard the concluding part of the conversation; and looked as if pleased at the way in which i had bantered the "colonel," who, as i afterwards learnt from him, was the grand swaggerer of swampville. a word was sufficient. he at once acceded to my request, frankly, if not in the most elegant phraseology, "i'll be pleased to show ye the way to holt's clarin'. my own road goes jest that way, till within a squ'll's jump o't." "thank you: i shall not keep you waiting." i re-entered the hotel to pay for my entertainment, and give orders for the saddling of my horse. it was evident that i had offended the landlord by my brusque behaviour. i ascertained this by the _amount_ of my bill, as well as by the fact of being permitted to saddle for myself. even the naked "nigger," did not make his appearance at the stable. not much cared i. i had drawn the girth too often, to be disconcerted by such petty annoyance; and, in five minutes after, i was in the saddle and ready for the road. having joined my companion in the street, we rode off from the inhospitable _caravanserai_ of the jackson hotel-- leaving its warlike landlord to chew his tobacco, and such reflections as my remarks had given rise to. chapter thirteen. through the forest. as we passed up the street, i was conscious of being the subject of swampville speculation. staring faces at the windows, and gaping groups around the doors, proved by their looks and gestures, that i was regarded as a rare spectacle. it could scarcely be my companion who was the object of this universal curiosity. a buckskin hunting-shirt was an everyday sight in swampville--not so a well-mounted _military_ man, armed, uniformed, and equipped. no doubt, my splendid arab, _caracoling_ as if he had not been out of the stable for a week, came in for a large share of the admiration. we were soon beyond its reach. five minutes sufficed to carry us out of sight of the swampvillians: for, in that short space of time, we had cleared the suburbs of the "city," and were riding under the shadows of an unbroken forest. its cold gloom gave instantaneous relief--shading us at one and the same time from the fiery sun, and the glances of vulgar observation through which we had run the gauntlet. i at least enjoyed the change; and for some minutes we rode silently on, my guide keeping in advance of me. this mode of progression was not voluntary, but a necessity, arising from the nature of the road--which was a mere "trace" or bridle-path "_blazed_" across the forest. no wheel had ever made its track in the soft deep mud--into which, at every step, our steeds sank far above the fetlocks--and, as there was not room for two riders abreast, i followed the injunction of my companion by keeping my horse's head "at the tail o' his'n." in this fashion we progressed for a mile or more, through a tract of what is termed "bottom-timber"--a forest of those gigantic water-loving trees--the sycamore and cotton-wood. their tall grey trunks rose along the path, standing thickly on each side, and sometimes in regular rows, like the columns of a grand temple. i felt a secret satisfaction in gazing upon these colossal forms: for my heart hailed them as the companions of my future solitude. at the same time i could not help the reflection, that, if my new estate was thus heavily encumbered, the clearing of the squatter was not likely to be extended beyond whatever limits the axe of mr holt had already assigned to it. a little further on, the path began to ascend. we had passed out of the bottom-lands, and were crossing a ridge, which forms the _divide_ between mud creek and the obion river. the soil was now a dry gravel, with less signs of fertility, and covered with a pine-forest. the trees were of slender growth; and at intervals their trunks stood far apart, giving us an opportunity to ride side by side. this was exactly what i wanted: as i was longing for a conversation with my new acquaintance. up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, i fancied he was not disinclined to a little _causerie_. his reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy--as if he did not desire to take the initiative. i relieved him from this embarrassment, by opening the dialogue:--"what sort of a gentleman is this mr holt?" "gentleman!" "yes--what sort of _person_ is he?" "oh, what sort o' person. well, stranger, he's what we, in these parts, call a rough customer." "indeed?" "rayther, i shed say." "is he what you call a poor man?" "all that i reckon. he hain't got nothin', as i knows on, 'ceptin' his old critter o' a hoss, an' his clarin' o' a couple o' acres or thereabout; besides, he only _squats_ upon that." "he's only a squatter, then?" "that's all, stranger; tho' i reckon he considers the clarin' as much his own as i do my bit o' ground, that's been bought an' paid for." "indeed?" "yes--i shedn't like to be the party that would buy it over his head." the speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, "i wonder if that's _his_ business here." "has he any family?" "thar's one--a young critter o' a girl." "that all?" i asked--seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it. "no, stranger--thar war another girl--older than this 'un." "and she?" "she--she's gone away." "married, i suppose?" "that's what nobody 'bout here can tell nor whar she's gone, neyther." the tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, i could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. i could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. it was to be found in the subject of our conversation--the absent daughter of the squatter. from motives of delicacy i refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, i should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. by the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, i could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue--to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories. for another half hour we rode on in silence--my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought--myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints i had just had, was now rather certain than probable. instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, i had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. once or twice, i was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how i should act; but as i had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, i thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself. his voice again fell upon my ear--this time in a more cheerful tone. it was simply to say, that i "might shortly expect a better road--we were approaching a `gleed;' beyont that the trace war wider, an' we might ride thegither again." we were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking--an opening in the woods of limited extent. the contrast between it and the dark forest-path we had traversed was striking--as the change itself was pleasant. it was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest, filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light. the dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest. there was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves presented the sheen of shining metal. under the clear moonlight, i could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage--that of the red maple from the scarlet sumacs and sassafras laurels; and these again, from the dark-green of the carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of the _magnolia glauca_. even before entering the glade, this magnificent panorama had burst upon my sight--from a little embayment that formed the _debouchure_ of the path--and i had drawn bridle, in order for a moment to enjoy its contemplation. the young hunter was still the length of his horse in advance of me; and i was about requesting him to pull up; but before i could give utterance to the words, i saw him make halt of himself. this, however, was done in so awkward and hurried a manner, that i at once turned from gazing upon the scene, and fixed my eyes upon my companion. as if by an involuntary effort, he had drawn his horse almost upon his haunches: and was now stiffly seated in the saddle, with blanched cheeks and eyes sparkling in their sockets--as if some object of terror was before him! i did not ask for an explanation. i knew that the object that so strangely affected him must be visible--though not from the point where i had halted. a touch of the spur brought my horse alongside his, and gave me a view of the whole surface of the glade. i looked in the direction indicated by the attitude of the hunter: for--apparently paralysed by some terrible surprise--he had neither pointed nor spoken. a little to the right of the path, i beheld a white object lying along the ground--a dead tree, whose barkless trunk and smooth naked branches gleamed under the moonlight with the whiteness of a blanched skeleton. in front of this, and a pace or two from it, was a dark form, upright and human-like. favoured by the clear light of the moon, i had no difficulty in distinguishing the form to be that of a woman. chapter fourteen. su-wa-nee. beyond doubt, the dark form was that of a woman--a young one too, as evinced by her erect bearing, and a light agile movement, made at the moment of our first beholding her. her attire was odd. it consisted of a brownish-coloured tunic--apparently of doeskin leather--reaching from the neck to the knees; underneath which appeared leggings of like material, ending in mocassins that covered the feet. the arms, neck, and head were entirely bare; and the colour of the skin, as seen in the moonlight, differed from that of the outer garments only in being a shade or two darker! the woman, therefore, was not white, but an _indian_: as was made further manifest by the sparkling of beads and bangles around her neck, rings in her ears, and metal circlets upon her arms--all reflecting the light of the moon in copious coruscations. as i brought my horse to a halt, i perceived that the figure was advancing towards us, and with rapid step. my steed set his ears, and snorted with affright. the jade of the hunter had already given the example-- each, no doubt, acting under the impulse of the rider. mine was a feeling of simple astonishment. such an apparition in that place, and at that hour, was sufficient cause for surprise; but a more definite reason was, my observing that a different emotion had been roused in the breast of the young hunter. his looks betrayed fear, rather than surprise! "fear of what?" i asked myself, as the figure advanced; and still more emphatically as it came near enough to enable me to make out the face. as far as the moonlight would permit me to judge, there was nothing in that face to fray either man or horse: certainly nothing to create an emotion, such as was depicted in the countenance of my companion. the complexion was brown, as already observed; but the features, if not of the finest type, were yet comely enough to attract admiration; and they were lit up by a pair of eyes, whose liquid glance rivalled the sheen of the golden pendants sparkling on each side of them. i should have been truly astonished at the behaviour of my guide, but for the natural reflection, that there was some cause for it, yet unknown to me. evidently, it was not his first interview with the forest maiden: for i could now perceive that the person who approached was not exactly a woman, but rather a well-grown girl on the eve of womanhood. she was of large stature, nevertheless, with bold outline of breast, and arms that gave token of something more than feminine strength. in truth, she appeared possessed of a _physique_ sufficiently formidable to inspire a cowardly man with fear--had such been her object--but i could perceive no signs of menace in her manner. neither could cowardice be an attribute of my travelling-companion. there was an unexplained something, therefore, to account for his present display of emotion. on arriving within six paces of the heads of our horses, the indian paused, as if hesitating to advance. up to this time, she had not spoken a word. neither had my companion--beyond a phrase or two that had involuntarily escaped him, on first discovering her presence in the glade. "she here? an' at this time o' night!" i had heard him mutter to himself; but nothing more, until the girl had stopped, as described. then, in a low voice, and with a slightly trembling accent, he pronounced interrogatively, the words "su-wa-nee?" it was the name of the indian maiden; but there was no reply. "su-wa-nee!" repeated he, in a louder tone, "is it you?" the answer was also given interrogatively, "has the white eagle lost his eyes, by gazing too long on the pale-faced fair ones of swampville? there is light in the sky, and the face of su-wa-nee is turned to it. let him look on it: it is not lovely like that of the _half-blood_, but the white eagle will never see that face again." this declaration had a visible effect on the young hunter: the shade of sadness deepened upon his features: and i could hear a sigh, with difficulty suppressed--while, at the same time, he appeared desirous of terminating the interview. "it's late, girl," rejoined he, after a pause: "what for are ye here?" "su-wa-nee is here for a purpose. for hours she has been waiting to see the white eagle. the soft hands of the pale-faced maidens have held him long." "waitin' to see me! what do you want wi' me?" "let the white eagle send the stranger aside. su-wa-nee must speak to him alone." "thar's no need o' that: it's a friend that's wi' me." "would the white eagle have his secrets known? there are some he may not wish even a friend to hear. su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple." "i have no saycrets, girl--none as i'm afraid o' bein' heerd by anybody." "what of the half-blood?" "i don't care to hear o' her." "the white eagle speaks falsely! he does care to hear. he longs to know what has become of his lost marian. su-wa-nee can tell him." the last words produced an instantaneous change in the bearing of the young hunter. instead of the repelling attitude, he had hitherto observed towards the indian girl, i saw him bend eagerly forward--as if desirous of hearing what she had to say. seeing that she had drawn his attention, the indian again pointed to me, and inquired: "is the pale-faced stranger to know the love-secrets of the white eagle?" i saw that my companion no longer desired me to be a listener. without waiting for his reply, i drew my horse's head in the opposite direction, and was riding away. in the turning, i came face to face with him; and by the moonlight shining full over his countenance, i fancied i could detect some traces of mistrust still lingering upon it. my fancy was not at fault: for, on brushing close past him, he leaned over towards me, and, in an earnest manner, muttered: "please, stranger! don't go fur--thar's danger in this girl. she's been arter me before." i nodded assent to his request; and, turning back into the little bay, that formed the embouchure of the path, i pulled up under the shadow of the trees. at this point i was not ten paces from the hunter, and could see him; but a little clump of white magnolias prevented me from seeing the girl--at the same time that it hid both myself and horse from her sight. the chirrup of the cicadas alone hindered me from hearing all of what was said; but many words reached my ear, and with sufficient distinctness, to give me a clue to the subject of the promised revelation. delicacy would have prompted me to retire a little farther off; but the singular caution i had received from my companion, prevented me from obeying its impulse. i could make out that a certain marian was the subject of the conversation; and then more distinctively, that it was marian holt. just as i expected, the daughter of my squatter: that other and older one, of whom mention had been already made. this part of the revelation was easily understood: since i was already better than half prepared for it. equally easy of comprehension was the fact, that this marian was the sweetheart of my travelling companion--_had been_, i should rather say; for, from what followed, i could gather that she was no longer in the neighbourhood; that some months before she had left it, or been carried away--spirited off in some mysterious manner, leaving no traces of the why or whither she had gone. nearly all this i had conjectured before: since the young hunter had half revealed it to me by his manner, if not by words. now, however, a point or two was added to my previous information relating to the fair marian. _she was married_. married-- and to some odd sort of man, of whom the indian appeared to speak slightingly. his name i could make out to be steevens, or steebins, or something of the sort--not very intelligible by the indian's mode of pronouncing it--and, furthermore, that he had been a schoolmaster in swampville. during the progress of the dialogue, i had my eye fixed on the young hunter. i could perceive that the announcement of the marriage was quite new to him; and its effect was as that of a sudden blow. of course, equally unknown to him had been the name of the husband; though from the exclamatory phrase that followed, he had no doubt had his conjectures. "o god!" he exclaimed, "i thort so--the very man to a' done it. lord ha' mercy on her!" all this was uttered with a voice hoarse with emotion. "tell me!" continued he, "whar are they gone? ye say ye know!" the shrill screech of a tree-cricket, breaking forth at that moment, hindered me from hearing the reply. the more emphatic words only reached me, and these appeared to be "utah" and "great salt lake." they were enough to fix the whereabouts of marian holt and her husband. "one question more!" said the rejected lover hesitatingly, as if afraid to ask it. "can ye tell me--whether--she went _willingly_, or whether-- thar wan't some force used?--by her father, or some un else? can ye tell me that, girl?" i listened eagerly for the response. its importance can be easily understood by one who has _sued_ in vain--one who has _wooed_ without _winning_. the silence of the cicada favoured me; but a long interval passed, and there came not a word from the lips of the indian. "answer me, su-wa-nee!" repeated the young man in a more appealing tone. "tell me that, and i promise--" "will the white eagle promise to forget his lost love? will he promise--" "no, su-wa-nee; i cannot promise that: i can _niver_ forget her." "the heart can _hate_ without forgetting." "hate _her_? hate marian? no! no!" "not if she be false?" "how do i know that she war false? you haven't told me whether she went willin'ly or agin her consent." "the white eagle shall know then. his gentle doe went willingly to the covert of the wolf--_willingly_, i repeat. su-wa-nee can give proof of her words." this was the most terrible stroke of all. i could see the hunter shrink in his saddle, a death-like pallor over-spreading his cheeks, while his eyes presented the glassy aspect of despair. "now!" continued the indian, as if taking advantage of the blow she had struck, "will the white eagle promise to sigh no more after his false mistress? will he promise to love _one_ that can be true?" there was an earnestness in the tone in which these interrogatories were uttered--an appealing earnestness--evidently prompted by a burning headlong passion. it was now the turn of her who uttered them, to wait with anxiety for a response. it came at length--perhaps to the laceration of that proud heart: for it was a negative to its dearest desire. "no, no!" exclaimed the hunter confusedly. "impossible eyther to hate or forget her. she may a been false, an' no doubt are so; but it's too late for me: _i can niver love agin_." a half-suppressed scream followed this declaration, succeeded by some words that appeared to be uttered in a tone of menace or reproach. but the words were in the chicasaw tongue, and i could not comprehend their import. almost at the same instant, i saw the young hunter hurriedly draw back his horse--as if to get out of the way. i fancied that the crisis had arrived, when my presence might be required. under this belief, i touched my steed with the spur, and trotted out into the open ground. to my astonishment, i perceived that the hunter was alone. su-wa-nee had disappeared from the glade! chapter fifteen. making a clean breast of it. "where is she?--gone?" i mechanically asked, in a tone that must have betrayed my surprise. "yes--gone! gone! an' wi' a mormon!" "a mormon?" "ay, stranger, a mormon--a man wi' twenty wives! god forgi' her! i'd rather heerd o' her death!" "was there a man with her? i saw no one." "o stranger, excuse my talk--you're thinkin' o' that ere injun girl. 'taint her i'm speakin' about." "who then?" the young hunter hesitated: he was not aware that i was already in possession of his secret; but he knew that i had been witness of his emotions, and to declare the name would be to reveal the most sacred thought of his heart. only for a moment did he appear to reflect; and then, as if relieved from his embarrassment, by some sudden determination, he replied: "stranger! i don't see why i shedn't tell ye all about this bisness. i don know the reezun, but you've made me feel a kind o' confidence in you. i know it's a silly sort o' thing to fall in love wi' a handsum girl; but if ye'd only seen _her_!" "i have no doubt, from what you say, she was a beautiful creature,"-- this was scarcely my thought at the moment--"and as for falling in love with a pretty girl, none of us are exempt from that little weakness. the proud roman conqueror yielded to the seductions of the brown-skinned egyptian queen; and even hercules himself was conquered by a woman's charms. there is no particular silliness in that. it is but the common destiny of man." "well, stranger, it's been myen; an' i've hed reezun to be sorry for it. but it's no use tryin' to shet up the stable arter the hoss's been stole out o't. she are gone now; an' that's the end o' it. i reckon i'll niver set eyes on her agin." the sigh that accompanied this last observation, with the melancholy tone in which it was uttered, told me that i was talking to a man who had truly loved. "no doubt," thought i, "some strapping backwoods wench has been the object of his passion,"--for what other idea could i have about the child of a coarse and illiterate squatter? "love is as blind as a bat; and this red-haired hoyden has appeared a perfect venus in the eyes of the handsome fellow--as not unfrequently happens. a venus with evidently a slight admixture of the prudential juno in her composition. the young backwoodsman is poor; the schoolmaster perhaps a little better off; in all probability not much, but enough to decide the preference of the shrewd marian." such were my reflections at the moment, partly suggested by my own experience. "but you have not yet told me who this sweetheart was? you say it is not the indian damsel you've just parted with?" "no, stranger, nothin' o' the kind: though there are some injun in _her_ too. 'twar o' her the girl spoke when ye heerd her talk o' a half-blood. she aint just that--she's more white than injun; her mother only war a half-blood--o' the chicasaw nation, that used to belong in these parts." "her name?" "it _war_ marian holt. it are now stebbins, i s'pose! since i've jest heerd she's married to a fellow o' that name." "she has certainly not improved her name." "she are the daughter o' holt the squatter--the same whar you say you're a-goin'. thar's another, as i told ye; but she's a younger un. her name's lilian." "a pretty name. the older sister was very beautiful you say?" "i niver set eyes on the like o' her." "does the younger one resemble her?" "ain't a bit like her--different as a squ'll from a coon." "she's more beautiful, then?" "well, that depends upon people's ways o' thinkin'. most people as know 'em liked lilian the best, an' thort her the handsumest o' the two. that wan't my notion. besides, lilly's only a young crittur--not out o' her teens yit." "but if she be also pretty, why not try to fall in love with her? down in mexico, where i've been lately, they have a shrewd saying: _un clavo saca otro clavo_, meaning that `one nail drives out another'--as much as to say, that one love cures another." "ah, stranger! that may be all be very well in mexico, whar i've heerd they ain't partickler about thar way o' lovin': but we've a sayin' here jest the contrairy o' that: `two bars can't get into the same trap.'" "ha, ha, ha! well your backwoods proverb is perhaps the truer one, as it is the more honest. but you have not yet told me the full particulars of your affair with marian? you say she has gone away from the neighbourhood?" "you shall hear it all, stranger. i reckon thar can be no harm in tellin' it to _you_; an' if you've a mind to listen, i'll make a clean breast o' the whole bisness." the hunter proceeded with his revelation--to him, a painful one--and, although i had already divined most of the particulars, i interrupted him only with an occasional interrogative. the story was as i had anticipated. he had been in love with marian holt; and was under the impression that she returned it. she had given him frequent meetings in the forest--in that very glade where we had encountered the indian girl, and in which we were still lingering. her father was not aware of these interviews. there had been some coolness between him and the young hunter; and the lovers were apprehensive that he might not approve of their conduct. this was the prologue of the hunter's story. the epilogue i give in his own words: "'twar a mornin'--jest five months ago--she had promised to meet me here--an' i war seated on yonder log waitin' for her. jest then some injuns war comin' through the gleed. that girl ye saw war one o' 'em. she had a nice bullet-pouch to sell, an' i bought it. the girl would insist on puttin' it on; an' while she war doin' so, i war fool enough to gie her a kiss. some devil hed put it in my head. jest at that minnit, who shed come right into the gleed but marian herself! i meant nothin' by kissin' the injun; but i s'pose marian thort i did: she'd already talked to me 'bout this very girl; an' i believe war a leetle bit jealous o' her--for the injun ain't to say ill-lookin'. i wanted to 'pologise to marian; but she wouldn't listen to a word; an' went off in a way i niver seed her in before. 'twar the last time i ever set eyes on her." "indeed." "ay, stranger, an' it's only this minnit, an' from that same injun girl, that i've heard she's married, an' gone off to the mormons. the injuns had it from some o' her people, that seed marian a crossin' the parairies." "that indian damsel--su-wa-nee, i think you named her--what of her?" "ah! stranger, that's another o' the konsequences o' doin' what aint right. since the day i gin her that kiss, she'd niver let me alone, but used to bother me every time i met her in the woods; an' would a come arter me to my own cabin, if it hadn't been for the dogs, that wud tar an injun to pieces. she war afeerd o' them but not o' me, no matter how i thraitened her. i war so angry wi' her, for what had happened--though arter all, 'twar more my fault than hern--but i war so vexed wi' her about the ill-luck, that i used to keep out o' her way as well as i could, an' didn't speak to her for a long time. she got riled 'bout that, an' thraitened revenge; an' one night, as i war comin' from swampville, 'bout this time--only 'twar as dark as a pot o' pitch--i war jest ridin' out into this very gleed, when all o' a suddint my ole hoss gin a jump forrard, an i feeled somethin' prick me from behind. 'twar the stab o' some sort o' a knife, that cut me a leetle above the hip, an' made me bleed like a buck. i know'd who did it; tho' not that night--for it war so dark among the bushes, i couldn't see a steim. but i kim back in the mornin', and seed tracks. they war the tracks o' a mocassin. i know'd 'em to be hern." "su-wa-nee's tracks?" "sartin. i know'd 'em well enough, as i'd often seed her tracks through the crik bottom." "did you take no steps to punish her?" "well--no--i didn't." "how is that? i think it would have been prudent of you to have done something--if only to prevent a recurrence of the danger." "well, stranger! to tell truth, i war a leetle ashamed o' the whole bisness. had it been a man, i'd a punished _him_; but they _do_ say the girl's in love wi' me, arter her injun way; an' i didn't like to be revengeful. besides it war mostly my own fault: i had no bisness to a fooled wi' her." "and you think she will not trouble you again?" "i don know about that, arter what's happened the night. she's gone away thraitnin' agin. i did think she'd gin up the notion o' revenge: for she know'd i'd found out that 'twar her that stabbed me. i told her so, the next time i seed her; an' she 'peared pleased 'bout my not havin' her ta'en up. she said it war generous of the white eagle-- that's the name her people gies me--for thar's a gang o' them still livin' down the crik. she gin me a sort of promise she wouldn't trouble me agin; but i warn't sure o' her. that's the reezun, stranger, i didn't want ye to go fur away." "i think it would be prudent in you to keep well on your guard. this redskin appears to be rather an unreflecting damsel; and, from what you have told me, a dangerous one. she certainly has a strange way of showing her affection; but it must be confessed, you gave her some provocation; and as the poet says, `hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.'" "that's true, stranger!" "her conduct, however, has been too violent to admit of justification. you appear to have been unfortunate in your sweethearts--with each in an opposite sense. one loves you too much, and the other apparently not enough! but how is it you did not see her again--marian i mean!" "well, you understand, i wan't on the best of tarms wi' old hick holt, an' couldn't go to his clarin'. besides after what had happened. i didn't like to go near marian anyhow--leastway for a while. i thort it would blow over 's soon's she'd find out that e war only jokin' wi' the injun." "so one would have supposed." "'twar nigh two weeks afore i heerd anything o' her; then i larned that she war gone away. nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, 'ceptin hick holt hisself; an' he ain't the sort o' man to tell saycrets. lord o' mercy! i know _nowt_ an' it's worse than i expected. i'd sooner heerd she war dead." a deep-drawn sigh, from the very bottom of his soul, admonished me that the speaker had finished his painful recital. i had no desire to prolong the conversation. i saw that, silence would be more agreeable to my companion; and, as if by a mutual and tacit impulse, we turned our horses' heads to the path, and proceeded onward across the glade. as we were about entering the timber on the other side, my guide reined up his horse; and sat for a moment gazing upon a particular spot--as if something there had attracted his attention. what? there was no visible object--at least, none that was remarkable-- on the ground, or elsewhere! another sigh, with the speech that followed, explained the singularity of his behaviour, "thar!" said he, pointing to the entrance of the forest-path--"thar's the place whar i last looked on marian!" chapter sixteen. a predicament in prospect. for half a mile beyond the glade, the trace continued wide enough to admit of our riding abreast; but, notwithstanding this advantage, no word passed between us. my guide had relapsed into his attitude of melancholy--deepened, no doubt, by the intelligence he had just received--and sat loosely in his saddle, his head drooping forward over his breast. bitter thoughts within rendered him unconscious of what was passing without; and i felt that any effort i might make to soften the acerbity of his reflections would be idle. there are moments when words of consolation may be spoken in vain--when, instead of soothing a sorrow, they add poison to its sting. i made no attempt, therefore, to rouse my companion from his reverie; but rode on by his side, silent as he. indeed, there was sufficient unpleasantness in my own reflections to give me occupation. though troubled by no heart-canker of the past, i had a future before me that was neither brilliant nor attractive. the foreknowledge i had now gained of squatter holt, had imbued me with a keen presentiment, that i was treading upon the edge of a not very distant dilemma. once, or twice, was i on the point of communicating my business to my travelling companion; and why not? with the openness of an honest heart, had he confided to me the most important, as well as the most painful, secret of his life. why should i withhold my confidence from him on a subject of comparatively little importance? my reason for not making a confidant of him sooner has been already given. it no longer existed. so far from finding in him an ally of my yet hypothetical enemy, in all likelihood i should have him on my die. at all events, i felt certain that i might count upon his advice; and, with his knowledge of the _situation_, that might be worth having. i was on the eve of declaring the object of my errand, and soliciting his counsel thereon, when i saw him suddenly rein in, and turn towards me. in the former movement, i imitated his example. "the road forks here," said he. "the path on the left goes straight down to holt's clarin'--the other's the way to my bit o' a shanty." "i shall have to thank you for the very kind service you have rendered me, and say `good-night.'" "no--not yet. i ain't a-goin' to leave ye, till i've put you 'ithin sight o' holt's cabin, tho' i can't go wi' ye to the house. as i told ye, he an' i ain't on the best o' tarms." "i cannot think of your coming out of your way--especially at this late hour. i'm some little of a tracker myself; and, perhaps, i can make out the path." "no, stranger! thar's places whar the trace is a'most blind, and you mout get out o' it. thar'll be no moon on it. it runs through a thick timbered bottom, an' thar's an ugly bit o' swamp. as for the lateness, i'm not very reg'lar in my hours; an' thar's a sort o' road up the crik by which i can get home. 'twan't to bid you good-night, that i stopped here." "what, then?" thought i, endeavouring to conjecture his purpose, while he was pausing in his speech. "stranger!" continued he in an altered tone, "i hope you won't take offence if i ask you a question?" "not much fear of that, i fancy. ask it freely." "are ye sure o' a bed at holt's?" "well, upon my word, to say the truth, i am by no means sure of one. it don't signify, however. i have my old cloak and my saddle; and it wouldn't be the first time, by hundreds, i've slept in the open air." "my reezuns for askin' you air, that if you ain't sure o' one, an' don't mind stretching' yourself on a bar-skin, thar's such a thing in my shanty entirely at your sarvice." "it is very kind of you. perhaps i may have occasion to avail myself of your offer. in truth, i am not very confident of meeting with a friendly reception at the hands of your neighbour holt--much less being asked to partake of his hospitality." "d'ye say so?" "indeed, yes. from what i have heard, i have reason to anticipate rather a cold welcome." "i'deed? but,"--my companion hesitated his his speech--as if meditating some observation which he felt a delicacy about making. "i'm a'most ashamed," continued he, at length, "to put another question, that war on the top o' my tongue." "i shall take pleasure in answering any question you may think proper to ask me." "i shedn't ask it, if it wa'n't for what you've jest now said: for i heerd the same question put to you this night afore, an' i heerd your answer to it. but i reckon 'twar the _way_ in which it war asked that offended you; an' on that account your answer war jest as it should a been." "to what question to you refer?" "to your bisness out here wi' hick holt. i don't want to know it, out o' any curiosity o' my own--that's sartin, stranger." "you are welcome to know all about it. indeed, it was my intention to have told you before we parted--at the same time to ask you for some advice about the matter." without further parley, i communicated the object of my visit to mud creek--concealing nothing that i deemed necessary for the elucidation of the subject. without a word of interruption, the young hunter heard my story to the end. from the play of his features, as i revealed the more salient points, i could perceive that my chances of an amicable adjustment of my claim were far from being brilliant. "well--do you know," said he, when i had finished speaking, "i had a suspeecion that that might be your bisness? i don know why i shed a thort so; but maybe 'twar because thar's been some others come here to settle o' late, an' found squatters on thar groun--jest the same as holt's on yourn. that's why ye heerd me say, a while ago, that i shedn't like to buy over _his_ head." "and why not?" i awaited the answer to this question, not without a certain degree of nervous anxiety. i was beginning to comprehend the counsel of my nashville friend on the ticklish point of _pre-emption_. "why, you see, stranger--as i told you, hick holt's a rough customer; an' i reckon he'll be an _ugly_ one to deal wi', on a bisness o' that kind." "of course, being in possession, he may purchase the land? he has the right of pre-emption?" "'taint for that. _he_ ain't a-goin' to _pre-empt_, nor buy neyther; an' for the best o' reezuns. he hain't got a red cent in the world, an' souldn't buy as much land as would make him a mellyun patch--not he." "how does he get his living, then?" "oh, as for that, jest some'at like myself. thar's gobs o' game in the woods--both bar an' deer: an' the clarin' grows him corn. thar's squ'lls, an' 'possum, an' turkeys too; an' lots o' fish in the crik--if one gets tired o' the bar an' deer-meat, which i shed niver do." "but how about clothing, and other necessaries that are not found in the woods?" "as for our clothin' _it_ ain't hard to find. we can get that in swampville by swopping skins for it, or now an' then some deer-meat. o' anythin' else, thar ain't much needed 'bout here--powder, an' lead, an' a leetle coffee, an' tobacco. once in a while, if ye like it, a taste o' _old corn_." "corn! i thought the squatter raised that for himself?" "so he do raise corn; but i see, stranger, you don't understand our odd names. thar's two kinds o' corn in these parts--that as has been to the _still_, and that as hain't. it's the first o' these sorts that hick holt likes best." "oh! i perceive your meaning. he's fond of a little corn-whisky, i presume?" "i reckon he are--that same squatter--fonder o't than milk. but surely," continued the hunter, changing the subject, as well as the tone of his speech--"surely, stranger, you ain't a-goin' on your bisness the night?" "i've just begun to think, that it _is_ rather an odd hour to enter upon an estate. the idea didn't occur to me before." "besides," added he, "thar's another reezun. if hick holt's what he used to be, he ain't likely to be very _nice_ about this time o' night. i hain't seen much o' him lately; but, i reckon, he's as fond o' drink as ever he war; an' 'tain't often he goes to _his_ bed 'ithout a skinful. thar's ten chances agin one, o' your findin' him wi' brick in his hat." "that would be awkward." "don't think o' goin' to-night," continued the young hunter in a persuasive tone. "come along wi' me; an' you can ride down to holt's in the mornin'. you'll then find him more reezonable to deal wi'. i can't offer you no great show o' entertainment; but thar's a piece o' deer-meat in the house, an' i reckon i can raise a cup o' coffee, an' a pone or two o' bread. as for your shore, the ole corn-crib ain't quite empty yet." "thanks thanks!" said i, grasping the hunter's hand in the warmth of my gratitude. "i accept your invitation." "this way, then, stranger!" we struck into a path that led to the right; and, after riding about two miles further, arrived at the solitary home of the hunter--a log-cabin surrounded by a clearing. i soon found he was its sole occupant--as he was its owner--some half-dozen large dogs being the only living creatures that were present to bid us welcome. a rude horse-shed was at hand--a "loose box," it might be termed, as it was only intended to accommodate one--and this was placed at the disposal of my arab. the "critter" of my host had, for that night, to take to the woods, and choose his stall among the trees--but to that sort of treatment he had been well inured. a close-chinked cabin for a lodging; a bear-skin for a bed; cold venison, corn-bread, and coffee for supper; with a pipe to follow: all these, garnished with the cheer of a hearty welcome, constitute an entertainment not to be despised by an old campaigner; and such was the treatment i met with, under the hospitable _clapboard_ roof of the young backwoodsman--frank wingrove. chapter seventeen. the indian summer. look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scatters its frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold: that forest, through which the great "father of waters" for thousands of years his broad current has rolled! gaze over that forest of opaline hue, with a heaven above it of glorious blue, and say is there scene, in this beautiful world, where nature more gaily her flag has unfurled? or think'st thou, that e'en in the regions of bliss, there's a landscape more truly elysian than this? behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed, whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife! and, side by her side, on the edge of the glade, the sassafras laurel, restorer of life! behold the tall maples turned red in their hue, and the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue; and the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold, ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold; and the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen, and for ever enrobed in its mantle of green! and list to the music borne over the trees! it falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic-- the song of the birds and the hum of the bees commingling their tones with the ripples erratic. hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal's call from the groves of annona?--from tulip-tree tall the mock-bird responding?--below, in the glade, the dove softly cooing in mellower shade-- while the oriole answers in accents of mirth? oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth? in infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers, who falsely declared 'twas a land without song! had he listened, as i, to those musical numbers that liven its woods through the summer-day long-- had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees, or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze, he would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong-- "her plants without perfume, her birds without song." ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour, you had never beheld the magnolia's flower? surely here the hesperian gardens were found-- for how could such land to the gods be unknown? and where is there spot upon african ground so like to a garden a goddess would own? and the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree, which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea, destroyed before plucking the apples of gold-- was nought but that monster--the mammoth of old. if earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed, sure that region of eld was the land of the west! the memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. but the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shies _me_ for my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. and this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the hellespont--not in the famed valleys of alp and apennine--not by the romantic borders of the rhine, but upon the banks of _mud creek_ in the state of tennessee! in truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which i rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. it was the season of "indian summer"--that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. he loves better the "virgin" than "aquarius;" and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary boreas. but his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. the forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. in suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence. at this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler--the _hurricane_. sweeping them with spiteful breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds-- prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms. not one is left standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has passed. even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though smitten by the hand of a destroying angel! uprooted, they lie along the earth side by side--the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee--in this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and decay! a forest, thus fallen, presents for a time a picture of melancholy aspect. it suggests the idea of some grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of "grape and canister," have been struck down on the instant: not one being left to look to the bodies of the slain--neither to bury nor remove them. like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter. here in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the midnight moon. in a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful aspect. an under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear--often of different genera and species from those that hitherto usurped the soil--and the ruin is no longer apparent. the mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of the surrounding forest. no longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for a while, held dominion over the scene. if, at intervals, be heard the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear--the red cardinals, the orioles, the warbling _fringillidae_, and the polyglot thrushes--who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of their forest concerts. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon just such a scene. i had been warned of its proximity. my host, at parting, had given me directions as to how i should find my way across the _herrikin_--through which ran the trace that conducted to the clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek. i was prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm--the trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and dreary aspect. instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, i was agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view. it was, as already stated, that season of the year when the american woods array themselves in their most attractive robes--when the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their hues--when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against the sun--when the maples are dying off of a deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and scarlet--when the large drupes of the osage orange, the purple clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or virginian lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift. no wonder i was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape--no wonder i reigned up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around me! i, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, i had chosen my future home. chapter eighteen. a backwoods venus. after indulging for some time in a sort of dreamy contemplation i once more gave the bridle to my horse, and rode onward. i was prepared for a tortuous path: my host had forewarned me of this. the _herrikin_, he said, was only three hundred yards in breadth; but i should have to ride nearly twice that distance in crossing it. his statement proved literally true. the old trace, passing down the creek bottom, had run at right angles to the direction of the storm; and, of course, the trees had fallen perpendicularly across the path--where they still lay, thick as hurdles set for a donkey-race. some of them could be stepped over by a horse, and a few might be "jumped," but there were others that rose breast high; and a flying-leap over a five-barred gate would have been an easy exploit, compared with clearing one of these monstrous barriers. i might add, also, from experience, that leaping a log is a feat of considerable danger. there is no room for "topping;" and should the iron hoof strike, there is nothing that will yield. on the other side, the rider has the pleasant prospect of a broken neck--either for himself or his horse. not being in any particular hurry, i took the matter quietly; and wound my way through a labyrinth worthy of being the maze of fair rosamond. i could not help remarking the singular effect which the _herrikin_ had produced. to the right and left, as far as my view could range, extended an opening, like some vast avenue that had been cleared for the passage of giants, and by giants made! on each side appeared the unbroken forest--the trunks standing like columns, with shadowy aisles between: their outward or edge-row trending in a straight line, as if so planted. these showed not a sign that the fierce tornado had passed so near them; though others, whose limbs almost interlocked with theirs, had been mowed down without mercy by the ruthless storm. i had arrived within fifty yards of the opposite side, and the dark forest was again before my face; but even at that short distance, the eye vainly endeavoured to pierce its sombre depths. i was congratulating myself, that i had passed the numerous logs that lay across the path, when yet one more appeared between me and the standing trees. it had been one of the tallest victims of the tornado; and now lay transversely to the line of the track, which cut it about midway. on nearing this obstacle, i saw that the trace forked into two--one going around the tops of the decaying branches, while the other took the direction of the roots; which, with the soil still adhering to them, formed a rounded buttress-like wall of full ten feet in diameter. the trunk itself was not over five--that being about the thickness of the tree. it was a matter of choice which of the two paths should be followed: since both appeared to come together again on the opposite side of the tree; but i had made up my mind to take neither. one of my motives, in seeking this forest-home, had been a desire to indulge in the exciting exercise of the chase; and the sooner i should bring my horse into practice, the sooner i might take the field with a prospect of success. log-leaping was new to my arab; and he might stand in need of a little training to it. the log before me had open ground on both sides; and afforded a very good opportunity for giving him his first lesson. thus prompted by saint hubert, i was about spurring forward to the run; when a hoof-stroke falling upon my ear, summoned me to desist from my intention. the sound proceeded from the forest before my face; and, peering into its darkness, i could perceive that some one, also on horseback, was coming along the path. this caused me to change my design, or rather to pause until the person should pass. had i continued in my determination to leap the log, i should, in all likelihood, have dashed my horse at full gallop against that of the approaching traveller; since our courses lay directly head to head. while waiting till he should ride out of the way, i became aware that i had committed an error--only in regard to the _sex_ of the person who was approaching. it was not a _he_! on the contrary, something so very different that, as soon as i had succeeded in shading the sun-glare out of my eyes; and obtained a fair view of the equestrian traveller, my indifference was at an end: i beheld one of the loveliest apparitions ever made manifest in female form, or i need scarcely add, in any other. it was a young girl--certainly not over sixteen years of age--but with a contour close verging upon womanhood. her beauty was of that character which cannot be set forth by a detailed description in words. in true loveliness there is a harmony of the features that will not suffer them to be considered apart; nor does the eye take note of any one, to regard it as unique or characteristic. it is satisfied with the _coup d'oeil_ of the whole--if i may be permitted the expression. real beauty needs not to be considered; it is acknowledged at a glance: eye and heart, impressed with it at the same instant, search not to study its details. the impression made upon me by the first sight of this young girl, was that of something soft and strikingly beautiful, of a glorious golden hue--the reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinged with a hue of vermilion--something that imparted a sort of luminous radiance divinely feminine. even under the shadow of the trees, this luminous radiance was apparent--as if the face had a _halo_ around it! the reader may smile at such exalted ideas, and deem them the offspring of a romantic fancy; but had he looked, as i, into the liquid depths of those large eyes, with their blue irides and darker pupils; had he gazed upon that cheek tinted as with cochineal--those lips shaming the hue of the rose--that throat of ivory white--those golden tresses translucent in the sunlight--he would have felt as i, that something _shone_ before his eyes--a face such as the athenian fancy has elaborated into an almost living reality, in the goddess cytherea. in short, it was the venus of my fancy--the very ideal i had imbibed from gazing upon many a picture of the grecian goddess. the prognostication of my friend had proved emphatically false. if it was not _venus_ i saw before me, it appeared her _counterpart_ in human form! and this fair creature was costumed in the simplest manner--almost coarsely clad. a sleeved dress of homespun with a yellowish stripe, loosely worn, and open at the breast. a cotton "sun-bonnet" was the only covering for her head--her bright amber-coloured hair the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which it fell in ample luxuriance. a string of pearls around her neck--false ones i could see--was the sole effort that vanity seemed to have made: for there was no other article of adornment. even shoes and stockings were wanting; but the most costly _chaussure_ could not have added to the elegance of those _mignon_ feet, that, daintily protruding below the skirt of her dress, rested along the flank of the horse. more commonplace even than her homespun frock was the steed that carried her--a sorry-looking animal, that resembled the skeleton of a horse with the skin left on! there was no saddle--scarce the semblance of one. a piece of bear-skin, strapped over the back with a rough thong, did service for a saddle; and the little feet hung loosely down without step or stirrup. the girl kept her seat, partly by balancing, but as much by holding on to the high bony withers of the horse, that rose above his shoulders like the hump of a dromedary. the scant mane, wound around her tiny fingers scarcely covered them; while with the other hand she clasped the black reins of an old dilapidated bridle. the want of saddle and stirrup did not hinder her from poising herself gracefully upon the piece of bear-skin; but hers was a figure that, could not be ungraceful in any attitude; and, as the old horse hobbled along, the rude movement all the more palpably displayed the magnificent moulding of her body and limbs. the contrast between horse and rider--the old _critter_ and the young _creature_--was ridiculously striking: the former appearing a burlesque on the most beautiful of quadrupeds, while the latter was the very impersonation of the loveliest of biped forms. it is scarcely probable that the cyprian goddess could ever have been brought into such a ludicrous juxtaposition--a shame upon mercury if she was! in classic lore we find mention of no such sorry steed; and, for his counterpart in story, we must seek in more modern times--fixing upon the famed charger of calatrava's knight. but here the analogy must end. the charms of the dark-haired dulcinea can be brought into no comparison with those of the golden-haired wood-nymph of the obion bottom. chapter nineteen. a series of contre-temps. at sight of this charming equestrian, all thoughts of leaping the log were driven out of my mind; and i rode quietly forward, with the intention of going round it. it might be that i timed the pace of my horse--_mechanically_, no doubt--but however that may have been, i arrived at the prostrate tree, just as the young girl reached it from the opposite side. we were thus brought face to face, the log-barrier between us. i would have spoken; but, for the life of me, i could not think of something graceful to say; and to have used the hackneyed phraseology of "fine morning, miss!" would, in those beautiful blue eyes that glistened under the shadow of the sun-bonnet, have rendered me as commonplace as the remark. i felt certain it would; and therefore said nothing. some acknowledgement, however, was necessary; and, lifting the forage-cap from my forehead, i bowed slightly--as such a salutation required--but with all the _verve_ that politeness would permit. my salutation was acknowledged by a nod, and, as i fancied, a smile. either was grace enough for me to expect; but, whether the smile was the offspring of a feeling in my favour, or at my expense, i was unable at the moment to determine. i should have an opportunity of repeating the bow, as we met again in going round the tree. then i should certainly speak to, her; and, as i turned my horse's head to the path, i set about thinking of something to say. i had taken the path leading to the right--that which passed round the root of the tree. of the two ways this appeared to be the shorter and the more used. what was my chagrin, when, in glancing over my arm, i perceived that i had made a most grievous mistake: the girl was going in the opposite direction! yes--she had chosen to ride round the branching tops of the dead-wood--by all the gods, a much wider circuit! was it accident, or design? it had the appearance of the latter. i fancied so, and fell many degrees in my own estimation. her choosing what was evidently the "round-about" direction, argued unwillingness that we should meet again: since the _mazy_ movement we were now performing precluded all chance of a second encounter, except with the great log still between us. even then we should be no longer _vis-a-vis_ as before, but _dos-a-dos_, almost on the instant of our approaching! to insure even this poor privilege, i rode rapidly round the great buttress of roots, that for a moment concealed the fair equestrian from my sight. i did this with the intention of getting forward in time. so rapidly did i pass, and so absorbed was i in the idea of another sweet salutation, that i saw not the fearful creature that lay basking upon the log--on the sunny side of the upheaved mass of earth. once on the other side, i discovered that i had made a third mistake-- equally as provoking as the second--i had arrived _too soon_! golden-hair was away up among the tangle of the tree-tops. i could see her bright face gleaming through the branches--now and then hidden by the broad leaves of the bignonias that laced them together. to make me still more miserable, i fancied that she was moving with a _studied slowness_! i had already reached that point, where the path parted from the log. i dared not pause: there was no excuse for it. not the shadow of one could i think of; and, with a lingering towards that glittering attraction, i reluctantly headed my horse to the forest. a last glance over my shoulder disclosed no improvement in my situation: she was still behind the trellised leaf-work of the bignonias, where she had stayed perhaps to pluck a flower. "happier far if i had never seen her!" was the reflection that occurred to me, as i entered the gloomy shadow of the trees--less gloomy than my own thoughts. with one circumstance i now reproached myself: why had i been so shy with this forest damsel? the very way to secure her indifference. why had i not _spoken_ to her, if only in commonplace? even "good-day" would have promised me a response; and the result could not have been more unfavourable. why the deuce had i not bidden her "good-day"? i should have heard her voice--no doubt an additional charm--for i never yet saw a beautiful woman with a harsh voice; and i fear the inverse proposition is equally true. why passed i without speaking? no doubt, she deems me a _yokel_! perhaps it was my very shyness she was smiling at? s'death! what a simpleton--ho! what do i hear? a woman's voice--a cry?--of terror? there again!--a scream! the words, "help, oh! help!" is it she who is calling? yes--yes it is she! by such strange sounds were my reflections interrupted. turning my horse with a wrench, i urged him back along the path. i was yet scarcely a dozen lengths from the log--for the reflections above detailed were but the thoughts of a moment. half-a-dozen bounds of my steed brought me back to the edge of a standing timber--where i pulled up, to ascertain the purport of this singular summons that had reached me. i made no inquiry--no explanation was needed. the scene explained itself: for, at the moment of my emerging from the shadowy path, i had a tableau under my eyes, expressive as it was terrifying. the girl was upon the other side of the log, and near the point where she should have turned off from it; but, instead of advancing, i saw that she had come to a halt--her attitude expressing the wildest terror, as if some fearful object was before her! the jade, too, showed affright, by snorting loudly--his head raised high in the air, and his long ears pointing forward. the young girl was dragging mechanically on the bridle--as if to head him away from the spot. but this was impossible: another log, overlapping the first, formed an avenue, so narrow as to leave not the slightest chance of a horse being able to turn in it. into this the animal had backed. there was no way of his getting from between the two trunks, but by going straight forward or backward. forward he _dared not go_; and backward he was moving, as fast as the nature of the place would permit: now halting with his hips against one of the logs; then with a quick rush backing against the other, that, but for the support thus obtained, would have brought him upon his haunches! the retrograde movement on the part of the horse was evidently the result of terror, at the sight of some object in front. it was aided also by the half-mechanical action of the rider: who, pulling continuously on the bridle, and repeating her cries for help, appeared equally to suffer from affright! my astonishment was of short duration. effect and cause came under my eye almost at the same instant. the latter i saw upon the log in hideous form--the form of a _couguar_! slowly advancing along the dead-wood--not by bounds or paces, but with the stealthy tread of a cat--his long red body stretched out to its full extent--the beast more resembled a gigantic caterpillar than a quadruped. i could scarcely detect the movement of his limbs, so closely did the monster crawl; but his great tail, tapering three feet behind him, was seen vibrating from side to side, or at intervals moving with quick jerks--expressive of the enjoyment he was receiving in the contemplation of his prey--for such he deemed the helpless maiden before him. i saw not the couguar's face--hideous sight at such a moment--nor yet his eyes. both were turned from me, and fixed steadfastly upon his intended victim. the fierce beast did not perceive my approach--perhaps a fortunate circumstance. once or twice i saw him pause, as if crouching for a spring. luckily, the old horse, making a fresh retrogression, caused the couguar again to advance along the log, in the same creeping attitude as before. with a glance, i had comprehended the situation: indeed, at the first glance i understood it perfectly. my delay in acting only arose from the necessity of preparing for action; and that did not take long. it was habitual with me to carry my rifle over my shoulder, or rested across the pommel of my saddle: in either case, always in hand. it was but the work of a moment to get the piece ready. the pressure of the muzzle against my horse's ear, was a signal well understood; and at once rendered him as immobile as if made of bronze. many years of practice-- during which i had often aimed at higher game--had steeled my nerves and straightened my sight. both proved sufficiently true for the destruction of the couguar. quick after the crack, i saw his red body roll back from the log; and, when the smoke thinned off, i could see the animal writhing upon the ground. why the couguar had fallen to my side, i could not tell: for he was fairly on the ridge of the dead-wood when i fired. perhaps, on receiving the shot, he had fancied that it came from the only enemy visible to him; and, by an instinct impelling him to escape, had tumbled off in the opposite direction. i perceived that he was not yet dead. he was still wriggling about among the branches; but it was clear that the piece of lead had taken the "spring" out of him. the bullet had passed through his spine, crashing the column in twain. after playing upon him with my revolving pistol, until i had emptied three or four of its chambers, i had the satisfaction of seeing him give his last spasmodic "kick." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ what followed, i leave to the imagination of my reader. suffice it to say, that the incident proved my friend. the ice of indifference was broken; and i was rewarded for my sleight-of-hand prowess by something more than smiles--by words of praise that rang melodiously in my ear-- words of gratitude spoken with the free innocent naivete of childhood-- revealing, on the part of her who gave utterance to them, a truly grateful heart. i rode back with my fair protegee across the track of fallen timber--i could have gone with her to the end of the world! the tortuous path hindered me from holding much converse with her: only, now and then, was there opportunity for a word. i remember little of what was said--on my side, no doubt, much that was commonplace; but even _her_ observations i can recall but confusedly. the power of love was upon me, alike absorbing both soul and sense--engrossing every thought in the contemplation of the divine creature by my side i cared not to talk-- enough for me to look and listen. i did not think of questioning her as to whence she had come. even her name was neither asked nor ascertained! whither she was going was revealed only by the accident of conversation. she was on her way to visit some one who lived on the other side of the creek--some friend of her father. would that i could have claimed to be her father's friend-- his relative--his son! we reached a ford: it was the crossing-place. the house, for which her visit was designed, stood not far off, on the other side; and i must needs leave her. emboldened by what had passed, i caught hold of that little hand. it was a rare liberty; but i was no longer master of myself. there was no resistance; but i could perceive that the tiny fingers trembled at my touch. the old horse, with provoking impatience, plunged into the stream; and we were parted. i watched her while crossing the creek. the crystal drops sparkled like pearls upon her naked feet. some of them, dashed higher by the hoofs of the horse, were sprinkled upon her cheek, and clung to the carmined skin as if kissing it! i envied those diamond drops! lingering upon the bank, i gazed upon her receding form--with my eyes, followed it through the forest aisle; and then, saw it only at intervals--moving like some bright meteor among the trees--until by a sudden turning in the path, it was taken from my sight. chapter twenty. sweet and bitter. slowly and reluctantly, i turned back from the stream, and once more entered amid the wreck of the hurricane. along the sunny path, the flowers appeared to sparkle with a fresher brilliancy--imbuing the air with sweet odours, wafted from many a perfumed chalice. the birds sang with clearer melody; and the hum of the honey-bee rang through the glades more harmoniously than ever. the "_coo-coo-oo_" of the doves blending with the love-call of the squirrel, betokened that both were inspired by the tenderest of passions. "pensando de amor," as the spanish phrase finely expresses it; for at that moment, the beautiful words of the southern poet were in my thoughts, and upon my lips: aunque las fieras en sus guaridas enternecidas pensan de amor! even the fierce beasts in their forest lairs become gentle under the influence of this all-pervading passion! i rode on slowly and in silence--my whole soul absorbed in the contemplation of that fair being, whose image seemed still before my eyes--palpable as if present. my heart quivered under the influence of a gentle joy. the past appeared bright; the present, happiness itself; the future, full of hope. i had found the very "wilderness-home" of my longings; the fair spirit that should be my minister! no doubt rose before my mind to dim the brilliant prospect before me--no shadow hung over the horizon of my hopes. the prospect before me appeared bright and sunny as the sky above my head. within and without the world was smiling--all nature seemed tinted with the hue of the rose! this delightful reverie lasted for a time--alas! too short a time--only while i was traversing the track, that, but the moment before, i had passed over in such pleasant companionship. on arriving at the scene of my late adventure, a turn was given to my thoughts. it had been a scene of triumph, and deserved commemoration. the body of the panther lay across the path. his shining skin was a trophy not to be despised; and, dismounting on the spot, with my hunting-knife i secured it. i could point to it with pride--as the first spoil obtained in my new hunting-field; but i should prize it still more, as the memento of a far sweeter sentiment. in a few minutes, it was folded up, and strapped over the cantle of my saddle; and, with this odd addition to my equipage, i once more plunged into the forest-path. for the next mile, the trace led through heavy bottom-timber, such as we had traversed, after leaving the settlement of swampville. the black earth, of alluvial origin, was covered deeply with decayed vegetation; and the track of horses and cattle had converted the path into mud. at intervals, it was intersected by embayments of wet morass--the projecting arms of a great swamp, that appeared to run parallel with the creek. through these, my horse, unused to such footing, passed with difficulty--often floundering up to his flanks in the mud. though it was but the hour of noon, it more resembled night, or the late gloaming of twilight--so dark were the shadows under this umbrageous wood. as if to strengthen the illusion, i could hear the cry of the bittern, and the screech of the owl, echoing through the aisles of the forest--sounds elsewhere suggestive of night and darkness. now and then, light shone upon the path--the light that indicates an opening in the forest; but it was not that of a friendly clearing. only the break caused by some dismal lagoon, amidst whose dank stagnant waters even the cypress cannot grow--the habitat of black water-snakes and mud-turtles--of cranes, herons, and _qua-birds_. hundreds of these i saw perched upon the rotting half-submerged trunks--upon the cypress "knees" that rose like brown obelisks around the edge of the water; or winged their slow flight through the murky gloom, and filling the air with their deafening screams. on both sides of the trace towered gigantic trees, flanked at their bases with huge projections, that appeared like the battlements of a fortress, these singular protuberances rose far above the height of my horse--radiating from the trunks on every side, and often causing the path to take a circuitous direction. in the deep gloom, the track would have been difficult to follow, but for an occasional blaze appearing upon the smooth bark of the sycamores. the scene was by no means suggestive of pleasant reflections--the less so, since i had ascertained, from my host of yesternight, that the greater portion of section number was of just such a character; and that there was scarcely a spot upon it fit for a "homestead," except the one already occupied! "such an `encumbrance' on my estate," reflected i, "is worse than the _heaviest mortgage_;" and i should have been willing at that moment to part with the timber at a very "low valuation." but i well knew the value of such a commodity. on the thames or the mersey, a mine of wealth--on mud creek, it would not have been taken as a gift! my spirits fell as i rode forward--partly influenced by the sombre scenes through which i was passing--partly by the natural reaction which ever follows the hour of sweet enjoyment--and partly, no doubt, from some unpleasant presentiments that were once more shaping themselves in my mind. up to this time, i had scarcely given thought to my errand, or its object. first the gay hues of the morning, and then the romantic incidents of the hour, had occupied my thoughts, and hindered me from dwelling on future plans or purposes. now, however, that i was coming close to the clearing of the squatter, i began to feel, that i was also _approaching a crisis_. chapter twenty one. a rude response. an opening of about two acres in extent, of irregular semi-circular shape, with the creek for its chord, and a worm-fence zig-zagging around its arc--scarcely a clearing: since trees bleached and barkless stand thickly over it; a log shanty, with clapboard roof, in the centre of the concavity, flanked on one side by a rude horse-shed, on the other, by a corn-crib of split rails; all three--shed, shanty, and crib--like the tower of pisa, threatening to tumble down; near the shanty, a wood-pile, with an old axe lying upon the chop-block; by the shed and crib, a litter of white "shucks" and "cobs;" in front, among the stumps and girdled trees, a thin straggle of withered corn-stalks, shorn of their leafy tops--some standing, some trampled down: such was the picture before my eyes, as, with my horse, breast up against the fence, i looked into the clearing of squatter holt! "it must be the place--my place? there is no other clearing within a mile? my directions have been given with exact minuteness of detail. i have followed them to the letter: i cannot be mistaken: i have reached holt's clearing at last." i had ridden quite up to the fence, but could see no gate. a set of bars, however, between two roughly mortised uprights, indicated an entrance to the enclosure. the top bar was out. not feeling inclined to dismount, i sprang my horse _over_ the others; and then trotted forward in front of the shanty. the door stood wide open. i had hopes that the sound of my horse's hoof-stroke would have brought some one into it; but no one came! was there nobody within? i waited for a minute or two, listening for some sign of life in the interior of the cabin. no voice reached me--no sound of any one stirring! perhaps the cabin was empty! not untenanted: since i could perceive the signs of occupation, in some articles of rude furniture visible inside the doorway. perhaps the inmates had gone out for a moment, and might be in the woods, near at hand? i looked around the clearing, and over the fence into the forest beyond. no one to be seen no one to be heard! without the cabin, as within, reigned a profound silence. not a living thing in sight--save the black vultures--a score of which, perched on the dead-woods overhead, and fetid as their food, were infecting the air with their carrion odour. although within easy range of my rifle, the foul birds took no heed of my movements; but sat still, indolently extending their broad wings to the sun--now and then one coming, one going, in slow silent flight-- their very shadows seeming to flit lazily among the withered maize-plants that covered the ground. i had no desire to appear rude. i already regretted having leaped my horse over the bars. even that might be regarded as rather a brusque method of approach to a private dwelling; but i was in hopes it would not be noticed: since there appeared to be no one who had witnessed it. i coughed and made other noises, with like unfruitful result. my demonstrations were either not heard, or if heard, unheeded. "certainly," thought i, "if there be any one in the house, they must not only hear, but _see me_:" for although there was no window, i could perceive that the logs were but poorly "chinked;" and from within the house, the whole clearing must have been in sight. nay, more, the interior itself was visible from without--at least the greater part of it--and, while making this observation, i fancied i could trace the outlines of a human figure through the interstices of the logs! i became convinced it was a human figure; and furthermore, the figure of a man. it was odd he had not heard me! was he asleep? no: that could not be--from the attitude in which he was. he appeared to be seated in a chair, but with his body erect, and his head held aloft. in such position, he could scarcely be asleep? after making this reflection, i coughed again--louder than before; but to no better purpose! i thought the figure moved. i was sure it moved; but as if with no intention of stirring from the seat! "cool indifference!" thought i--"what can the fellow mean?" i grew impatient; and, feeling a little provoked by the inexplicable somnolency of the owner of the cabin, i determined to try whether my voice might not rouse him. "ho! house, there!" i shouted, though not loudly; "ho!--holloa!--any one within?" again the figure moved--but still stirred not from the seat! i repeated both my summons and query--this time in still a louder and more commanding tone; and this time i obtained a response. "who the hell _air_ you?" came a voice through the interstices of the logs--a voice that more resembled the growl of a bear, than the articulation of a human throat. "who the hell air you?" repeated the voice, while at the same time, i could perceive the figure rising from the chair. i made no answer to the rough query. i saw that my last summons had been sufficient. i could hear the hewn floor-planks cracking under a heavy boot; and knew from this, that my questioner was passing towards the door. in another instant he stood in the doorway--his body filling it from side to side--from head to stoop. a fearful-looking man was before me. a man of gigantic stature, with a beard reaching to the second button of his coat; and above it a face, not to be looked upon without a sensation of terror: a countenance expressive of determined courage, but, at the same time, of ferocity, untempered by any trace of a softer emotion. a shaggy sand-coloured beard, slightly grizzled; eyebrows like a _chevaux-de-frise_ of hogs' bristles; eyes of a greenish-grey, with a broad livid scar across the left cheek, were component parts in producing this expression; while a red cotton kerchief, wound, turban-like, around the head, and, pulled low down in front, rendered it more palpable and pronounced. a loose coat of thick green blanket, somewhat faded and worn, added to the colossal appearance of the man; while a red-flannel shirt served him also for a vest. his large limbs were inserted in pantaloons of blue kentucky _jeans_ cloth; but these were scarcely visible, hidden by the skirt of the ample blanket-coat that draped down below the tops of a pair of rough horse-skin boots reaching above the knee, and into which the trousers had been tucked. the face of the man was a singular picture; the colossal stature rendered it more striking; the costume corresponded; and all were in keeping with the rude manner of my reception. it was idle to ask the question. from the description given me by the young backwoodsman, i knew the man before me to be hickman holt the squatter. chapter twenty two. a rough reception. for fashion's sake, i was about to utter the usual formula, "mr holt, i presume?" but the opportunity was not allowed me. no sooner had the squatter appeared in his doorway, than he followed up his blasphemous interrogatory with a series of others, couched in language equally rude. "what's all this muss about? durn yur stinkin' imperence, who air ye? an' what air ye arter?" "i wish to see mr holt," i replied, struggling hard to keep my temper. "ye wish to see mister holt? thur's no _mister_ holt 'bout hyur." "no?" "no! damnation, no! didn't ye hear me!" "do i understand you to say, that hickman holt does not live here?" "you understan' me to say no sich thing. eft's hick holt ye mean, he diz live hyur." "hick holt--yes that is the name." "wall what o't, ef't is?" "i wish to see him." "lookee hyur, stranger!" and the words were accompanied by a significant look; "ef yur the shariff, hick holt ain't at home--ye understand me? _he ain't at home_." the last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. i understood the hint perfectly. "i am not the sheriff," i answered in an assuring tone. i was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for i had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind. "i am _not_ the sheriff," i repeated, impressively. "yur not the shariff? one o' his constables, then, i s'pose?" "neither one nor other," i replied, pocketing the affront. "an' who air ye, anyhow--wi' yur dam glitterin' buttons, an' yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?" this was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my nashville friend--with some additional counsel i had received over-night--i strove hard to keep down my rising choler. "my name," said i-- "durn yur name!" exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; "i don't care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness--that's what i wanter know." "i have already told you my business: i wish to see mr holt--hick holt, if you like." "to _see_ hick holt? wal, ef that's all yur bizness, you've _seed_ him; an' now ye kin go." this was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be _nonplussed_ by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, i replied, half interrogatively: "you, then, are he? you are hick holt, i suppose?" "who said i ain't--durn your imperence? now, then, what d'ye want wi' me?" the filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man--evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect--were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by master holt. it was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. whether it might be called courage or not, i was just as reckless of life as he. i had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully--such as i fancied this fellow to be--and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. his dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, i resolved to submit to it no longer. i did not give way to idle recrimination. perhaps, thought i, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, i adopted it. before i could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner--with an additional epithet of insult. "wal, mister jaybird," said he, "be quick 'bout it! what d'ye want wi' _me_?" "in the first place mr hickman holt, i want civil treatment from you; and secondly--" i was not permitted to finish my speech. i was interrupted by an exclamation--a horrid oath--that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter. "damnation!" cried he; "you be damned! civil treetmint i'deed! you're a putty fellur to talk o' civil treetmint, arter jumpin' yur hoss over a man's fence, an' ridin' slap-jam inter his door, 'ithout bein' asked! let me tell yer, mister gilt buttons, i don't 'low any man--white, black, or injun--to enter my clarin' 'ithout fust knowin' his reezun. ye hear that, d'ye?" "_your_ clearing! are you sure it is _yours_?" the squatter turned red upon the instant. rage may have been the passion that brought the colour to his cheeks; but i could perceive that my words had produced another emotion in his mind, which added to the hideousness of the cast at that moment given to his features. "not my clarin'!" he thundered, with the embellishment of another imprecation--"not my clarin'! shew me the man, who says it's not!-- shew'm to me! _by_ the almighty etarnal he won't say't twice." "have you _purchased_ it?" "neer a mind for that, mister; i've _made_ it: that's my style o' purchase, an', by god! it'll stan' good, i reck'n. consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi't anyhow?" "this," i replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags--"this only, mr holt. that your house stands upon section number ; that i have bought that section from the united states government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your _pre-emption, right_, or deliver the land over to me. here is the government grant--you may examine it, if you feel so inclined." an angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths. "i thort that wur yur bisness," continued the swearer. "i thort so; but jest this time you've kim upon a fool's errand. durn the government grant! durn your pre-emption right! an' durn yur title-papers too! i don't valley them more'n them thur corn-shucks--i don't. i've got my pre-emption dokyment inside hyur. i'll jest shew ye that, mister; an' see how ye'll like it." the speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment i lost sight of him. "pre-emption document!" he said. was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds? if so-- my reflection was cut short. in another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand--but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself? "now, mister turn-me-out?" said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, "thur's my title--my pre-emption right's the right o' the rifle. _it's_ clur enuf: ye'll acknowledge that, won't ye?" "no," i replied in a firm voice. "ye won't? the hell, ye won't? look hyur, stranger! i'm in airnest. look in my eye, an' see if i ain't! i gi' ye warnin' then, that ef ye're not out o' this clarin' in six jumps o' a squ'll, you'll niver go out o' it a livin' man. you see that ere stump? its shadder's jest a creepin' up to the house: the minnit that shadder touches the wall, i'll shoot you down, as sure's my name's hick holt. mind, i've gin ye warnin'!" "and i give you warning, mr holt, that i am prepared to defend myself; and if you miss--" "miss!" ejaculated he with a contemptuous toss of the head--"miss, ye fool! thur's no fear o' that." "if you miss," continued i, without heeding the interruption, "i shall show you no mercy. if you are going to take the cowardly advantage of having the the first shot, i have my advantage too. in self-defence, i shall be justified in killing you; and if you fire at me, i shall certainly do so. be warned! i never spare a coward." "coward!" exclaimed the colossus, with an imprecation that was horrible to hear. "an' how ef i don't miss?" continued he, apparently calming his rage, and speaking with a significant sneer--intended to awe me, by insinuating the certainty of his aim. "how ef i don't miss, mister popgun?" "you may, for all that. don't be too sure of hitting--i've been shot at before now." "you'll niver be shot at _arter_ now, 'ceptin' ye leave this clarin'. one crack from my gun'll be enuf for ye, i reck'n." "i'll take my chance. if it should go against me, _you_ won't gain by it. remember, my good man, it's not a duel we're fighting! you have chosen to attack me; and if i should fall in the affair, i've faith enough in the law to believe it will avenge me." i fancied that my speech produced some effect upon the fellow; and, seeing that he remained silent, i followed up it by words of similar import: "if it be my fate to fall, i leave behind me friends who will inquire into my death. trust me, they will do so! if i kill _you_, it will be but justifiable homicide, and will be so adjudged; while your killing me will be regarded in a different light: it will be pronounced _murder_!" i gave full emphasis to the last word. on hearing it my antagonist showed signs of emotion. i fancied i saw him tremble, and turn slightly pale! with an unsteady voice he replied: "murder? no, no; i've gin ye warnin' to go. ye've time enuf yet to save yerself. git out o' the clarin', an' thur'll be no harm done ye!" "i shall not go out of the clearing, until you've acknowledged my claim." "then you'll niver go out o' it alive--i swar by god! niver!" "you are determined, then, to be my _murderer_?" i again pronounced the word in the most emphatic tone. i saw that it affected him in some singular way; whether through a fear of consequences; or that there still lingered in his heart some spark of humanity; or, perhaps--but least possible of all he was beginning to be ashamed of his foul play. by which of of these three motives, or by what other inspired, i could not guess; but he seemed to cower under the imputation. "murderer!" echoed he, after a moment of apparent reflection. "no, no; it's bad enuf to hev the blame o' that, 'ithout bein' guilty o't. i ain't agwine to _murder_ ye; but i ain't agwine neyther to let ye go. i mout a did so a minnit agone, but ye've lost yur chance. ye've called _me_ a _coward_; an' by the etarnal! no man 'll say that word o' hick holt, an' live to boast o't. no, mister! ye've got to die; an' ye may get yurself ready for't, 's soon's ye like. coward indeed!" "i repeat it--your act is cowardly." "what act?" "your unprovoked attack upon me--especially since it gives you the first shot. what if i were to shoot you down now? with the pistol you see in my holster here, i could send six bullets through your body, before you could bring your rifle to your shoulder. what would you call that? sheer cowardice, would it not be; and murder too?" chapter twenty three. a duel without seconds. while i was speaking, i saw a change pass over the countenance of my gigantic antagonist--as if some new resolve was forming in his mind, that affected the programme he had already traced out. was it possible i had touched him on a point of honour? it was this purpose i desired to effect; and, though hopeless it might appear, i continued the only kind of appeal that, with such a spirit, seemed to promise any chance of success. "you _dare_ not play fair in this game?" i said, banteringly. "you _are_ a coward; and would murder me. you want the first shot: you know you do?" "it's a lie!" cried the colossus, raising himself to his full height, and assuming an air of chivalric grandeur i could not have deemed him capable of--"it's a lie! i don't wish to murder ye; an' i don't want the the first shot neyther." "how?" "i hain't so little confidence in my shootin' as to care for you an' yur jim-crack gun! nor is hick holt in such consate wi' his life eyther, that he's afeerd to risk it. tho' ye air a stuck-up critter, i won't gi' ye the opportunity to 'kuse me o' foul play. thur's grit in ye, i reck'n; and seein' that's made me change my mind." "what!" i exclaimed, taken by surprise at the speech, and fancying it promised an end to our altercation--"you have changed your mind? you mean to act justly then?" "i mean, it shall be a _fair stan'-up fight_ atween us." "oh! a duel?" "duel, or whatever else ye may call it, mister." "i agree to that. but how about seconds?" "d'ye think two men can't fight fair 'ithout seconds? ye see yander stump standin' nigh the bars?" "yes--i see it." "wal, mister, thur you'll take yur stand--ahine or afront o' it, whichsomever ye like best. hyur's this other un, clost by the crib-- thur'll be my place. thur's twenty yurds atween 'em, i reck'n. is that yur distance?" "it will do as well as any other," i replied mechanically--still under the influence of surprise, not unmingled with a sentiment of admiration. "dismount, then! take your pouch an' flask along wi' ye--ye see i've got myen? one shot at ye's all _i'll_ want, i reck'n. but ef thur shed be a miss, look out for quick loadin'! an' mind, mister! thur's one o' us'll niver leave this clarin' alive." "about the first shot? who is to give the signal?" "i've thort o' that a'ready. it'll be all right, promise ye." "in what way can you arrange it?" "this way. thur's a hunk o' deer-meat in the house: i mean to fetch that out, and chuck it over thur, into the middle o' the clarin'. ye see them buzzarts up thur on the dead-woods?" i nodded in the affirmative. "wal--it won't be long afore one or other o' them flops down to the meat; an' _the first o' 'em that touches ground, that'll be the signal_. that's fair enuf, i reck'n?" "perfectly fair," i replied, still speaking mechanically--for the very justness of the proposal rendered my astonishment continuous. i was something more than astonished at the altered demeanour of the man. he was fast disarming me. his unexpected behaviour had subdued my ire; and, all consideration of consequences apart, i now felt a complete disinclination for the combat! was it too late to stay our idle strife? such was my reflection the moment after; and, with an effort conquering my pride, i gave words to the thought. "yur too late, mister! 'twon't do now," was the reply to my pacific speech. "and why not?" i continued to urge; though to my chagrin, i began to perceive that it _was_ an idle effort. "yuv riz my dander; an', by god! yuv got to fight for it!" "but surely--" "stop yur palaver! by the tarnal airthquake, i'll 'gin to think _you_ air a coward! i thort ye'd show, the white feather afore 'twur all over!" "enough!" cried i, stung by the taunt; "i am ready for you one way or the other. go on." the squatter once more entered his cabin, and soon came out again, bringing forth the piece of venison. "now!" cried he, "to yur stand! an' remember! neyther fires _till a bird lights on the grown_! arter that, ye may go it like blazes!" "stay!" said i; "there is something yet to be done. you are acting honourably in this affair--which i acknowledge is more than i was led to expect. you deserve one chance for your life; and if i should fall it will be in danger. you would be regarded as a murderer: that must not be." "what is't you mean?" hurriedly interrogated my antagonist, evidently not comprehending my words. without answering to the interrogatory, i drew out my pocket-book; and, turning to a blank leaf of the memorandum, wrote upon it: "_i have fallen in fair fight_." i appended the date; signed my name; and, tearing out the leaf, handed it to my adversary. he looked at it for a moment, as if puzzled to make out what was meant. he soon saw the intention, however, as i could tell by his grim smile. "you're right thur!" said he, in a drawling tone, and after a pause. "i hedn't thunk o' that. i guess this dockyment 'll be nothin' the wuss o' my name too? what's sauce for the goose, air likewise sauce for the gander. yur pencil, ef ye please? i ain't much o' a scholart; but i reck'n i kin write my name. hyur goes!" spreading out the paper on the top of a stump, he slowly scribbled his name below mine; and then, holding the leaf before my eyes, pointed to the signature--but without saying a word. this done, he replaced the document on the stump; and drawing his knife, stuck the blade through the paper, and left the weapon quivering in the wood! all these manoeuvres were gone through with as cool composure, as if they were only the prelude to some ordinary purpose! "i reck'n, strenger," said he, in the same imperturbable tone, "that'll keep the wind from blowin' it away, till we've settled who it's to belong to. now, to yur place! i'm agwine to throw the deer-meat!" i had already dismounted, and stood near him rifle in hand. unresistingly, i obeyed the request; and walked off to the stump that had been designated, without saying another word, or even looking around. i had no apprehension of being shot in the back: for the late behaviour of the man had completely disarmed me of all suspicion of treachery. i had _not_ the slightest fear of his proving a traitor; and no more did i hold him to be a coward. that impression was gone long ago. i confess, that never with more reluctance did i enter upon the field of fight; and at that moment, had my antagonist required it, i should not only have retracted the allegation of of cowardice, but, perhaps, have surrendered up my claim to the clearing--though i knew that this could be done, only at the expense of my name and honour. were i to have done so, i could never have shown my face again--neither in the settlement of swampville, nor elsewhere. even among my polished friends of more fashionable circles, i should have been taunted--branded as a coward and poltroon! the rude character of my adversary would have been no excuse especially after the manner in which he was acting. "backed out" would have been the universal verdict! moreover, notwithstanding the apparently calm demeanour the squatter had now assumed--courteous i might almost call it--i knew he was implacable in his determination. there was no alternative--_i must fight_! i arrived at the stump; and turning on my heel, stood facing him. he was already in his place--with the joint of venison in one hand, and his long rifle in the other. the moment was nigh, when one of us should make an abrupt exit from the world! such a destiny, for one or other of us, i saw depicted in the impassible face of my adversary--as plainly as if written upon the sky. i could read there, that there was no chance of escaping the combat; and i resigned myself to meet it. "now, mister!" cried my antagonist in a clear firm voice, "i'm agwine to chuck the meat. remember! neyther's to fire, till a bird lights on the ground! arter that, ye may go it like hell!" i saw him swing the joint once or twice round his head; i saw it jerked aloft, and then whirling through the air; i saw it falling--falling, till the sodden sound told that it had reached the ground. it was a fearful moment! chapter twenty four. waiting the word. in truth was it a fearful moment--one to shake the steadiest nerves, or thrill the stoutest heart. to me, it was an ordeal far more terrible than that of an ordinary duel; for there was, lacking the motive--at least on my side--which usually stimulates to an affair of honour. sense of wrong i felt, but too slightly for revenge--not enough to steel the heart to the spilling of blood. anger i _had_ felt but the moment before; and then i could have fought, even to the death! but my blood, that had boiled up for an instant, now ran coldly through my veins. the unexpected behaviour of my adversary had calmed my wrath--acting upon it like oil upon troubled water. thus to fight without seconds; to die without friend to speak the last word of worldly adieu; or to take the life of another, without human being to attest the fairness of the act--no earthly eye beholding us--no living creature save the black vultures--appropriate instruments to give the death-signal--ominous witnesses of the dark deed: such were the appalling reflections that came before my mind, as i stood facing my determined antagonist. it would scarcely be true to say, that i felt not fear; and yet it was less cowardice, than a sort of vague vexation at risking my life in so causeless a conflict. there was something absolutely ludicrous in standing up to be shot at, merely to square with the whim of this eccentric squatter; and to shoot at him seemed equally ridiculous. either alternative, upon reflection, appeared the very essence of absurdity: and, having ample time to reflect, while awaiting the signal, i could not help thinking how farcical was the whole affair. no doubt, i might have laughed at it, had i been a mere looker on-- herald or spectator; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this deadly duello--a real wrestler in the backwoods arena--the provocative to mirth was given in vain; and only served to heighten the solemnity of the situation. the circumstances might have elicited laughter; but the contingency, turn whatever way it might, was too serious to admit of levity on my part. either horn of the dilemma presented a sharp point. to suffer one's-self to be killed, in this _sans facon_, was little else than suicide--while to kill, smacked strongly of murder! and one or the other was the probable issue--nay, more than probable: for, as i bent my eyes on the resolute countenance of my _vis-a-vis_, i felt certain that there was no chance of escaping from the terrible alternative. he stood perfectly immobile--his long rifle raised to the "ready," with its muzzle pointing towards me--and in his eye i could not read the slightest sign that he wavered in his determination! that grey-green orb was the only member that moved: his body, limbs, and features were still and rigid, as the stump behind which he stood. the eye alone showed signs of life. i could see its glance directed towards three points--in such rapid succession, that it might be said to look "three ways at once"--to the decoy upon the ground, to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and towards myself--its chief object of surveillance! "merciful heavens! is there no means to avert this doom of dread? is it an absolute necessity, that i must either kill this colossus, or be myself slain? is there no alternative? is there still no chance of an arrangement?" hopeless as it appeared, i resolved to make a last effort for peace. once more i should try the force of an appeal. if he refused to assent to it, my position would be no worse. better, indeed: since i stood in need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence. this thought swaying me, i called out: "holt! you are a brave man. i know it. why should this go on? it is not too late--" "_you_ air a coward!" cried he, interrupting me, "an' i know it--a sneakin' coward, in spite o' yur soger clothes! shet up yur durned head, or ye'll scare away the birds! an', by the tarnal! ef you do, i'll fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!" "let that be the signal, then!" cried i, roused to an impatient indignation by this new insult: "_the first that takes wing_!" "agreed!" was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke determination to abide by it. my irresolution troubled me no longer. thus driven to bay, i felt that further forbearance would not only be idle, but dangerous. it was playing with my life, to leave it in the hands of this unrelenting enemy. better make _him_ suffer for his sanguinary folly, than be myself its victim. stirred by these thoughts, i grasped my rifle--now for the first time with a determination to make use of it. by the same prompting, my eye became active--watching with resolute regard the movements of the birds, and measuring the ground that separated me from my adversary. notwithstanding the sting which his words had inflicted, i was yet hampered by some considerations of mercy. i had no desire to _kill_ the man, if i could avoid it. to "cripple" him would be sufficient. i had no fear of his having the shot before me. long practice had given me such adroitness in the use of my weapon, that i could handle it with the quickness and skill of a juggler. neither did i fear to miss my aim. i had perfect reliance on the sureness of my sight; and, with such a mark as the huge body of the squatter, it was impossible i could miss. in this respect, the advantage was mine; and, at so short a distance, i could have insured a fatal shot--had such been my intention. but it was not. the very contrary was my wish--to draw blood without inflicting a mortal wound. this would perhaps satisfy the honour of my antagonist, and bring our strife to an end. whether any such consideration was in his mind, i could not tell. it was not visible in his eye--nor in his features that, throughout the whole scene, preserved their stern statue-like rigidity. there was no help for it--no alternative but to shoot at him, and shoot him down--if possible, only to wing him; but, of course, a sense of my own danger rendered this last of less than secondary importance. a single exchange of shots would, no doubt decide the affair; and the advantage would fall to him who was "quickest on the trigger." to obtain this advantage, then, i watched with eager eye the behaviour of the birds. in like manner was my antagonist, occupied. chapter twenty five. the duel delayed. full five minutes passed, and not one of the vultures showed signs of stirring--five minutes of prolonged and terrible suspense. it was odd that the birds had not at once swooped down upon the piece of venison: since it lay conspicuously upon the ground--almost under the tree where they were perched! a score of them there were--ranged along the dead limbs--each with an eye keen of sight as an eagle's! beyond doubt, they observed the object--they would have seen it a mile off, and recognised it too--why, then, were they disregarding it--a circumstance so contradictory of their natural instincts and habits, that, even in that dread hour, i remarked its singularity? the cause might have been simple enough: perhaps the birds had already glutted themselves elsewhere? some wild beast of the woods--more likely, some straying ox--had fallen a victim to disease and the summer heats; and his carcase had furnished them with their morning's meal? there was evidence of the truth of this, in their blood-stained beaks and gorged maws, as also the indolent attitudes in which they roosted--many of them apparently asleep! others at intervals stretched forth their necks, and half spread their wings; but only to yawn and catch the cooling breeze. not one of all the listless flock, showed the slightest disposition to take wing. there were several already in the air, wheeling high aloft; and two or three had just joined their companions--increasing the cluster upon the tree. these had arrived, after we had taken our stand; and others were constantly coming down. but the signal mutually agreed to was mutually understood: it was the _departure_ of one of the birds--not its _arrival_--that was to give the cue of _entree_ to the tragic act--the signal for the scene of death. those five minutes to me appeared fifty--ah! far more than that: for, brief as was the actual time, a world of thoughts passed through my mind during its continuance. the past and future were alike considered. the memory of home, kindred, and friends; the probability that all such ties were to be severed _now_ and for ever; some regret that laurels lately won were to be so briefly worn; the near prospect of life's termination; of a death inglorious--perhaps scarcely to be recorded; vague visions of a future world; doubts not unmingled with dread, about the life to come: such were the thoughts that whirled confusedly through my brain. and the _proximate_ past had also its share in my reflections--perhaps occupying the largest space of all. that thing of light and gold--that but an hour ago had filled my heart to overflowing--was still there, mingling with its last emotions! was i never more to look upon that radiant form? never more behold that face so divinely fair? never more listen to that melodious voice? never more! the negative answer to these mental interrogatives--though only conjectural--was the bitterest reflection of all! still stir not the vultures: only to preen their black plumes with fetid beak; or, extending their broad wings, to shadow the sunbeam from their bodies. it is the hour of noon; and the sun, shining down from the zenith, permeates the atmosphere with his sultriest rays. the birds droop under the extreme heat. it imbues them with a listless torpor. carrion itself would scarce tempt them from their perch. five minutes have elapsed; and not one moves from the tree--neither to swoop to the earth, nor soar aloft in the air! i no longer wish them to tarry. the suspense is terrible to endure--the more so from the ominous stillness that reigns around. since the last angry challenge, not a word has been exchanged between my adversary and myself. in sullen silence, we eye each other, with scintillating glances watching for the signal. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the situation was more than unpleasant. i longed for the _finale_. my antagonist also showed signs of impatience. no longer preserving his statue-like _pose_, his body began to sway from side to side; while at intervals, he stamped the ground with his heavy heel. from the increasing anger that betrayed itself in his looks, i expected an explosion. it came at length. "durn them buzzarts!" cried he, with a hurried gesture, "thar agwine to keep us stannin' hyur till sundown. durn the sleepy brutes! we can't wait no longer on 'em. i dare ye--" the challenge thus commenced was never completed--at all events, i did not hear its conclusion; and know not to this hour what he meant to have proposed. his speech was interrupted, and his voice drowned, by the shrill neighing of my horse--who seemed startled at some sound from the forest. almost at the same instant, i heard a responsive neigh, as if it were an echo from behind me. i heeded neither the one nor the other. i saw that the birds were aroused from their lethargic attitude. some of them appeared as if pressing upon their limbs to spring upwards from the tree. the deadly moment had come! with my rifle raised almost to the level, i glanced rapidly towards my antagonist. his piece was also raised; but, to my astonishment, he appeared to be grasping it mechanically, as if hesitating to take aim! his glance, too, showed irresolution. instead of being turned either upon myself or the vultures, it was bent in a different direction, and regarding with fixed stare some object behind me! i was facing round to inquire the cause, when i heard close at hand the trampling of a horse; and, almost at the same instant, an exclamation, uttered in the silvery tones of a woman's voice. this was followed by a wild scream; and, simultaneously with its utterance, i beheld a female form springing over the bars! it was that of a young girl, whom i recognised at a glance. it was she i had encountered in the forest! i had not time to recover from my surprise before the girl had glided past me; and i followed her with my eyes, as she ran rapidly over the space that separated me from the squatter. still mute with surprise, i saw her fling herself on the breast of my antagonist--at the same time crying out in a tone of passionate entreaty: "father, dear father! what has _he_ done? mercy! o mercy!" good god! _her_ father? holt _her_ father? "away, lil!" cried the man in a peremptory tone, removing her arms from his neck. "away, gurl! git ye from, hyur!" "no, father! dear father! you will not? what does it mean? what has _he_ done? why are you angry with _him_?" "done! gurl? he's called me _coward_; an' 'ud drive us out o' house an' home. git ye gone, i say! into the house wi' ye!--away!" "mercy! o father, have mercy! do not kill him. he is brave--he is beautiful! if you knew--" "brave! beautiful?--gurl, yur ravin'! what do you know about him? ye've niver seed him afore?" "yes, dear father! only an hour ago. if you but knew--it was he who saved me. but for him--father! he must not--he shall not die!" "saved ye? what do ye mean, gurl?" "hilloo! what's all this rumpus?" the familiar ejaculation, and its adjunct interrogatory, admonished me that a new personage had appeared upon the scene. the voice came from behind. on turning, i beheld the unexpected speaker--a man on horseback, who had ridden up to the bars; and having halted there was craning his neck into the enclosure--gazing upon the scene that was being enacted there, with a singular half-comic, half-satirical expression of countenance! chapter twenty six. the peacemaker. without knowing why, i hailed the arrival of this stranger as opportune. perhaps his presence, added to the entreaties of that fair young creature--still urgent in my behalf--might prevent the effusion of blood. indeed, i had already determined that none should be spilled by _me_--let the consequences be as they might; and whatever was to be the _denouement_ of this awkward affair, i had resolved that my rifle should have nought to do in deciding it. the piece had fallen to the "order arms;" the ill-omened birds had forsaken their perch; and, now soaring in the blue sky, almost beyond the reach of human vision, their movements were no longer heeded--neither by my adversary nor myself. turning away from the stranger--whom i had only regarded for a second or two--i faced again to the more interesting tableau in front of me. that, too, was rapidly undergoing a change. the squatter no longer clung to his rifle. the girl had taken it from his hands; and was hurrying with it into the door of the cabin. there was no hindrance made by my antagonist! on the contrary, he appeared to have delivered it over to her--as if the affair between us was to have a pacific termination, or, at all events, a respite. what surprised me more than all was the altered demeanour of my adversary. his whole manner seemed to have undergone a sudden change. sudden it must have been, since it had taken place during a second or two, while my attention was occupied by the newly arrived horseman. what still further astonished me, was, that this transformation was evidently produced by the presence of the stranger himself! that it was not due to the young girl's interference, i had evidence already. that had not moved him for a moment. her earnest appeal had received a repulse--energetic and decisive, as it was rude; and of itself would certainly not have, saved me. beyond doubt, then, was i indebted to the stranger for the truce so unexpectedly entered upon. the change in holt's demeanour was not more sudden than complete. at first, an air of astonishment had been observable; after that, an expression of inquietude--becoming each moment more marked. no longer did he exhibit the proud aspect of a man, who felt himself master of the ground; but, on the contrary, appeared cowed and quailing in the presence of the new-comer--whom he had met at the entrance, and at once invited into the enclosure. this manner was observable in the half-mechanical courtesy, with which he removed the bars, and took hold of the stranger's horse--as also in some phrases of welcome, to which he gave utterance in my hearing. for myself, i was no longer regarded, any more than if i had been one of the dead-woods that stood around the clearing. the squatter passed, without even looking at me--his whole attention seemingly absorbed by the new arrival! it was natural i should regard with curiosity an individual, whose presence had produced such a wonderful effect; and my scrutinising gaze may have appeared rude enough to him. i cannot say that he elicited my admiration. on the contrary, his appearance produced an opposite effect. i beheld him with, what might be termed an instinct of repulsion: since i could assign no precise reason for the dislike with which he had inspired me on sight. he was a man of about thirty years of age; of a thin spare body, less than medium height; and features slightly marked with, the _bar sinister_. a face without beard--skin of cadaverous hue--nose sharply pointed--chin and forehead both receding--eyes small, but sparkling like those of a ferret--and long lank black hair, thinly shading his cheeks and brows--were the prominent characteristics of this man's portrait. his dress was of a clerical cut and colour--though not of the finest fabric. the coat, trousers, and vest were of black broad-cloth--the coat and waistcoat being made with standing collars, similar in style to those worn by wesleyan ministers--or more commonly by catholic priests--while a white cravat not over clean and a hat with curving boat-brim, completed the saintly character of the costume. judging from his personal appearance, i concluded that i saw in the individual before me the methodist minister of swampville. if so, it would account for the obsequiousness of his host, though not satisfactorily. there was something more than obsequiousness in holt's manner--something altogether different from that deferential respect, with which the gospel minister is usually received in the houses of the humbler classes. moreover, the character of the squatter--such as i had heard it, and such as i had myself observed it to be--bore no correspondence with the attitude of reverence he had so suddenly assumed. even under the hypothesis, that the new-comer was his clergyman, i was puzzled by his behaviour. he in the ecclesiastical costume appeared to be a man of few words; and of gesture he made a like limited use: having passed me, without even the courtesy of a bow. on the contrary, i was honoured with a glance of cynical regard--so palpable in its expression, as to cause an itching in my fingers, notwithstanding the saintly gown. i contented myself, however, with returning the glance, by one i intended should bear a like contemptuous expression; and, with this exchange, we separated from each other. i remained by my stand, without offering remark--either to the squatter or his guest. the only change i effected in my position, was to sit down upon the stump--where, with my rifle between my knees, i resolved to await the issue. all idea of using the weapon was gone out of my mind--at least, against hickman holt. he was _her_ father: i would as soon have thought of turning its muzzle to my own body. i tarried, therefore, with no hostile intention. on the contrary, i only waited for an opportunity to propose some pacific arrangement of our difficulty; and my thoughts were now directed to this end. i had every chance of observing the movements of the two men: since, instead of entering the cabin, they had stopped in front of it--where they at once became engaged in conversation. i took it for granted that i was myself the subject; but, after a time, i began to fancy i was mistaken. judging from the earnest manner of both--but more especially from holt's gestures and frequent ejaculations--something of still greater interest appeared to be the theme of their dialogue. i saw the squatter's face suddenly brighten up--as if some new and joyous revelation had been made to him; while the features of his visitor bore the satisfied look of one, who was urging an argument with success. they were evidently talking of some topic beyond my affair, and unconnected with it; but what it could be, i was unable even to guess. perhaps, had i listened more attentively, i might have arrived at some knowledge of it--since words were occasionally uttered aloud--but my eyes were busier than my ears; and at that moment, neither the squatter nor his guest was the subject of my thoughts. beyond them was the attraction that fascinated my gaze--that thing of roseate golden hue, whose shining presence seemed to light up the dark interior of the cabin--gleaming meteor-like through the interstices of the logs--now softly moving from side to side, and now, thank heaven! gliding towards the door! only for a moment stood she silently on the stoop--one smiling moment, and she was gone. her fair face was once more hidden, behind the rude _jalousie_ of the logs; but the smile remained. it was mine; and lingered long within the trembling temple of my heart. chapter twenty seven. yes--yes! towards the interior of the hut, hallowed by such lovely presence, i continued to direct my glances--with an occasional side-look, noting the movements of the two men. whatever had been the exciting topic of discourse but the moment before, i saw that it was now changed; and that i was myself the subject of their conversation. this i could tell by their looks and gestures--evidently bearing upon me and my business. conscious that i was observing them--and as if desirous of conferring more privately--they passed round to the rear of the cabin; where for the time they were out of my sight, as well as hearing. so far from regretting this movement, it was just what i desired: it left me free to continue the pleasant espionage in which i had become engaged. new more boldly my eyes explored the dark interior of the hut--more freely roamed my glance along the interstices of the logs. gladly should i have gone up to the doorway--fain would i have been to enter--had i not been restrained; but delicacy, and something more stood in the way; and i was forced to keep my ground. again i saw the bright form flitting within. gliding gently across the floor--as if on tiptoe, and by stealth--the young girl stood for a while near the back-wall of the cabin. close behind this, the two men were conversing. did she go there to listen? she might easily hear what was said: i could myself distinguish the voices, and almost the words. she remained motionless; and, as well as i could judge, in an attitude of attention--her head lowered, and her body bent slightly forward. i was forming conjectures as to her motive, when i saw her moving away from the spot. in another instant, she appeared in the doorway--this time evidently with some design, as her manner clearly betokened. for a moment she stood upon the stoop, fronting towards me--but with her face averted, and her eyes by a side-glance directed towards the rear of the hut. she appeared to look and listens--as if noting the position of the men; and then, seemingly satisfied that she was not herself observed, she suddenly faced round, and came running towards me! taken by surprise--a surprise mingled with sweet satisfaction--i rose to my feet; and stood silently but respectfully awaiting her approach. i had acted with prudence in not speaking: for i saw by her manner that the movement was a stolen one. moreover, the finger, raised for an instant to her lips, admonished me to silence. i understood the signal, so piquantly given; and obeyed it. in another instant she was near-- near enough for me to hear her words--delivered in a half-whisper. she had paused before me in an attitude that betokened the fear of interruption; and, before speaking, again cast behind her another of those unquiet looks. "brave stranger!" said she, in a hurried undertone, "i know you are not afraid of my father; but oh, sir! for mercy's sake, do not fight with him!" "for _your_ sake," i said, interrupting her, and speaking in a low but impressive tone--"for your sake, fair lilian, i shall not fight with him. trust me, there is no fear. i shall bear anything, rather than--" "hush!" said she, again motioning me to silence, at the same time glancing furtively behind her. "you must not speak: you may be heard! only listen to me. i know why you are here. i came out to tell you something." "i listen." "father does not now wish to quarrel with you: he has changed his mind. i have just heard what they said. he intends to make you a proposal. oh, sir! if you can, please agree to it; for then there--will be no trouble. i hope there will be none!" "for you, fair lilian, i shall agree to it--whatever the conditions be. can you tell me what proposal he intends making me?" "i heard him say he would _sell_--oh, mercy! they are coming--if i am seen--" the murmuring words were drowned by the louder voices of the men--who were now heard returning round the angle of the wall. fortunately, before they had reached the front of the cabin, the young girl had glided back into the doorway; and no suspicion appeared to be entertained by either, of the clandestine visit just paid me. on rounding the corner, the stranger stopped. the squatter continued to advance, until within a few paces of where i stood. then halting, he erected his gigantic form to its full height; and, for a moment, confronted me without speaking. i noticed that his countenance no longer bore signs of angry passion; but, on the contrary, betrayed some traces of a softer feeling--as of regret and contrition. "strenger!" said he at length, "i've two things to propose to ye; an' ef you'll agree to them, thur's no need why you an' i shed quarrel--leest of all plug one another wi' bullets, as we wur agwine to do a minnit ago." "name your conditions!" rejoined i, "and if they are not impossible for me to accept, i promise you they shall be agreed to." with lilian in my thoughts, they would be hard indeed if i could not square with whatever terms he might propose. "they ain't unpossible--neyther o' 'em; thur only just an' fair." "let me hear them; and believe me, hickman holt, i shall judge them most liberally." "fust, then, you called me a coward. do you take that back?" "willingly i do." "so fur good; an' now for tother proposal i hev to make. i don't acknowledge yur right to this clarin'. i've made it; an' call it my own, as a sovereign citizen of these united states; an' i don't care a cuss for pre-emption right, since i don't believe in any man's right to move me off o' the groun' i've clared. but i ain't so durned pertickler 'bout this hyur bit. another 'll answer my bizness equally as well-- maybe better--an' ef ye'll pay me for my _improvements_, ye can take both clarin' an' cabin, an' hev no more muss about it. them's my proposals." "how much do you expect for these improvements? at what sum do you value them?" i trembled as i awaited the answer. my poor purse felt light as it lay against my bosom--far lighter than the heart within: though that had been heavier but an hour before. i knew that the sack contained less than two hundred dollars, in notes of the planters' bank; and i feared that such a sum would never satisfy the expectations of the squatter. "wal, stranger," replied he, after a pause, "thur worth a good wheen o' dollars; but i shan't valley 'em myself. i'll leave that part o' the bizness to a third individooal--my friend as stands thur; an' who's a just man, an's been some'at o' a lawyer too. he'll say what's fair atween us. won't ye, josh?" i thought this rather a familiar style of address, on the part of the squatter, towards his clerical and saint-like friend; but i refrained from showing my astonishment. "oh, yes," replied the other, "i'll value the property with pleasure-- that is, if the gentleman desires me to do so." "how much do you think it worth?" i inquired with nervous anxiety. "well, i should say that, for the improvements mr holt has made, a hundred dollars would be a fair compensation." "a hundred dollars?" "yes--in cash, of course, i mean." "will you be satisfied with that sum?" said i, turning to holt for the answer. "parfitly satisfied--so long's it's in cash." "i agree to give it then." "all right, strenger! a bargain's a bargain. you kin shell out the dollars; and i'll gie ye pursession afore this gentleman--who'll witness it in writin', ef you like." "i want no writing. i can trust to your word." it was no flattery: i felt at the moment that the squatter--rudely as he had acted--was still possessed of an honourable principle; and i knew that, under the circumstances, his word would not only be as good as his bond, but _better_! i made no hesitation, therefore; but, counting out the money, placed it upon the stump--alongside that curious document, impaled there by the blade of the squatter's knife. "when 'ud ye like to take pursession?" asked the outgoing tenant. "at your convenience," i replied, wishing to behave as courteously as possible. "it won't take _me_ long to move. my furniter ain't very cumbersome; an' i kud let ye in to-morrow, ef 't wan't that i hev some unexpected bizness with my friend hyur. say day arter the morrow? ef ye'll kum then, ye'll find me ready to deliver up. will that answer for ye?" "admirably!" was my reply. "all right, then! i'd ask ye in, but thur's nothin' to gie you--'ceptin' that piece o' deer-meat, an' it's raw. besides, strenger, i've some partickler _bizness jest now_, that i'm 'bleeged to see to." "oh, never mind! i shall not need any refreshment till i reach swampville." "wal, then, i'll bid you good-mornin' at the same time wishin' you luck o' your bargin." "thanks--good morning!" i leaped into the saddle, and turned my horse's head towards the entrance of the enclosure. i should have given him the touch to go forward with more reluctance, had i not perceived the fair lilian gliding out of the cabin, and proceeding in the same direction! two or, three of the bars had been replaced by the clerical visitor; and she had gone, apparently, to remove them. was it simple courtesy, or a pretence to speak with me? my heart heaved with a tumultuous joy, as i fancied that the latter might be her motive. when i reached the entrance, the bars were down; and the young girl stood leaning against one of the uprights--her round white arm embracing the post. envied piece of timber! "promise me, we shall meet again?" said i, bending down, and speaking in a half-whisper. she looked back towards the cabin with a timid glance. we were not observed. the two men had gone into the horse-shed. in her fingers, i noticed the flower of a bignonia. she had taken it from among the golden tresses of her hair. her cheek rivalled the crimson of its corolla, as she flung the blossom upon the saddle-bow. "promise me!" i repeated in a more earnest tone. "yes--yes!" she replied in a soft low voice, that resembled the whisper of an angel; and then, hearing noises from the house, she passed hurriedly away. "yes--yes--!" cried the mimic thrush, as i rode on through the tall tulip-trees. "yes--yes!" repeated a thousand rival songsters; or were the sounds i heard but the echoes of her voice, still pealing through the glad chambers of my heart? chapter twenty eight. an errand of love. this second purchase and payment rendered necessary a communication with my nashville friend. fortunately, swampville had a mail; and, to avail myself of it, i rode direct for the settlement. on my return, i found the river-town, figuratively speaking, on fire. short as bad been the period of my absence, it had been marked by an incident of no ordinary character. that morning's mail had conveyed to the settlement the intelligence of a rare and interesting event--the discovery of the _gold placers_ of california. i had heard rumours of this before--only half believed, and not yet reaching to swampville. returned emigrants from california were now reported, as having arrived in saint louis and other frontier towns--bringing with them, not only the full account of the gold discovery, but its confirmation, in the shape of large "chunks" of gold-bearing quartz, and bags of the yellow dust itself. the marvellous tale was no longer questioned, or doubted. the mail had brought newspapers from new orleans and saint louis, giving detailed accounts of the digging of sutter's mill-race by the disbanded soldiers of the "mormon battalion;" of the _crevasse_ caused by the water, which had laid open the wonderful auriferous deposits; and describing also the half frantic excitement which the news had produced these populous cities. in this, swampville had not been slow to imitate them. i found the little village on the _qui vive_: not only the idlers showing an interest in the extraordinary intelligence; but the business men of the place being equally startled out of their sobriety. a "company" was already projected, in which many well-to-do men had registered their names; and even colonel kipp talked of transporting his _penates_ across the great plains, and swinging the jackson sign upon the shores of the pacific. swampville was smitten with a golden mania, that seemed to promise its speedy depopulation. though many of my old _camarados_ of the mexican campaign found fresh vent for their energies in this new field of enterprise, for me it had no attractions whatever. i therefore resisted the solicitations of the swampvillians to "jine thar company"--in which i was offered the compliment of a command. on that day, and at that hour, not for all the gold in california would i have forsaken my new home in the forest-- under whose "boundless contiguity of shade" sparkled, in my eyes, "a metal more attractive." instead of longing for the far shores of the pacific, i longed only to return to the banks of mud creek; and chafed at the necessary delay that hindered me from gratifying my wish. even the generous hospitality of colonel kipp--amiable under the influence of golden dreams--even the smiles of the simpering alvina, and the more _brave_ coquetry of car'line--now become a decided admirer of my yellow buttons--were not sufficient to preserve my spirits from _ennui_. only at meals did i make my appearance at the hotel--at all other times, seeking to soothe the impassioned pulsations of my heart in the dark depths of the forest. there i would wander for hours, not listing where i went; but ever finding myself, as if by some instinct, upon the path that conducted in the direction of the creek! it was some solace to listen to the notes of the wild-woods--the songs of birds and bee--for these had become associated in my mind with the melodious tones of lilian's voice--to look upon the forest flowers; more especially upon the encarmined blossom of the bignonia--now to me a symbol of the sweetest sentiment. the one most prized of all, i had carefully preserved. in a glass i had placed it, on the dressing-table of my chamber, with its peduncle immersed in water. my zealous care only procured me a chagrin. on returning from one of my rambles, i found the flower upon the floor, crushed by some spiteful heel? was it thy heel, caroline kipp? in its place was a bunch of hideous gilly-flowers and yellow daffodils, of the dimensions of a drum-head cabbage--placed there either to mock my regard, or elicit my admiration! in either case, i resolved upon a _revanche_. by its wound, the bignonia smelt sweeter than ever; and though i could not restore the pretty blossom to its graceful campanulate shape, from that time forward it appeared in my buttonhole--to the slight torture, i fancied, of the backwoods coquette. in the two days during which i was denied sight of her my love for lilian holt was fast ripening into a passion--which absence only seemed to amplify. no doubt the contrast of common faces--such as those i observed in swampville--did something towards heightening my admiration. there was another contrast that had at this time an influence on my heart's inclinings. to an eye, fatigued with dwelling long and continuously on the dark complexions of the south--the olivine hue of aztec and iberian skins--there was a relief in the radiance of this carmined blonde, that, apart from her absolute loveliness, was piquant from the novelty and rareness of the characteristic. additional elements of attraction may have been: the _mise en scene_ that surrounded her; the unexpected discovery of such a precious jewel in so rude a casket; the romantic incident of our first encounter; and the equally peculiar circumstances attending our second and last interview. all these may have combined in weaving around my spirit a spell, that now embraced, and was likely to influence, every act of my future existence. therefore, on the morning of the third day, as i mounted my horse, and turned his head in the direction of holt's clearing, it was not with any design of dispossessing the squatter. occupied with sweet love-dreams, i had as yet given no thought to the ruder realities of life. i had formed no plan for colonising--neither towards entering upon possession, nor extending the "improvement" i had twice purchased. notwithstanding both purchase and payment, the squatter might still continue to hold his cabin and clearing--and share with me the disputed land. welcome should i make him, on one condition--the condition of becoming his guest--constant or occasional--in either way, so long as i might have the opportunity of enjoying the presence of his fair daughter, and to her demonstrating my heart's devotion. some such idea, vaguely conceived, flitted across my mind, as i entered upon my second journey to mud creek. my ostensible object was to take formal possession of an estate, and turn out its original owner. but my heart was in no unison with such an end. it recoiled from, or rather had it forgotten, its purpose. its throbbings were directed to a different object: guiding me on a more joyful and auspicious errand--_the errand of love_. chapter twenty nine. a red-skinned sibyl. not a sound came from the forest to disturb my sweet musings. silent was the sky of the indian summer--soft and balm-laden its breeze. the trees stirred not; the branches seemed extended in the stillness of repose; even the leaves of the _tremuloides_, hanging on their compressed petioles, were scarcely seen to quiver. the rustling heard at intervals, was but the fluttering of bright wings amid the foliage; or the rushing of some mountebank squirrel in reckless evolution among the branches--sounds harmonising with the scene. not till i had entered the glade was i aroused from my reverie--at first gently, by the sudden emergence from shade into light; but afterwards in a more sensible manner on sight of a human form--at a glance recognised as that of the indian maiden. she was seated, or rather reclining, against the blanched log; her brown arm embracing an outstretched limb; half supported on one leg--the other crossed carelessly over it in an attitude of repose. beside her on the log lay a wicker pannier, filled with odds and ends of indian manufacture. though i had risen close up to the girl, she vouchsafed no acknowledgment of my presence. i observed no motion--not even of the eyes; which, directed downwards, seemed fixed in steadfast gaze upon the ground. nothing about her appeared to move--save the coruscation of metallic ornaments that glittered in the sun, as though her body were enveloped in scale-armour. otherwise, she might have been mistaken for a statue in bronze. and one, too, of noble proportions. the attitude was in every way graceful; and displayed to perfection the full bold contour of the maiden's form. her well-rounded arm entwining the branch, with her large body and limbs outlined in _alto-relievo_ against the entablature of the white trunk, presented a picture that a sculptor would have loved to copy; and that even the inartistic eye could not look upon without admiration. instinctively i checked my horse, and halted in front of this singular apparition. i can scarcely tell why i did so; since neither by look nor gesture was i invited to take such a liberty. on the contrary, i could perceive that my movement was regarded with displeasure. there was no change in the statuesque attitude: even the eyes were not raised from the earth; but a frown was distinctly traceable on the features of the girl. thus repulsed, i should have ridden on; and would have done so, but for that sense of awkwardness, which one feels in similar situations. by pausing in the marked manner i had done, and gazing so pointedly at the girl, i had committed an act of ill-breeding--of which i now felt sensible. indian though she was, she was evidently no common _squaw_; but gifted with certain noble traits, of which many a maiden with white skin might have envied her the possession. beyond that, i knew she was the victim of a passion--all-absorbing as it was hopeless-- and this in my eyes, ennobled and sanctified her. just then, i had myself no cause to fear an unrequited love--no need to be ungenerous or selfish--and could, therefore, afford to extend my sympathy to the sufferings of another. it was some vague prompting of this kind, that had caused me to draw up--some idea of offering consolation. the repelling reception was altogether unexpected, and placed me in a predicament. how was i to escape from it? by holding my tongue, and riding on? no; this would be an acknowledgment of having committed an act of _gaucherie_--to which man's vanity rarely accedes, or only with extreme reluctance. i had rushed inconsiderately into the mire, and must plunge deeper to get through. "we must become worse to make our title good." so reflecting, or rather without reflecting at all, i resolved to "become worse"--with the risk of making a worse of it. "perhaps," thought i, "she does not recognise me?" she had not looked at me as yet. "if she would only raise her eyes, she would remember me as the friend of the white eagle. that might initiate a conversation; and cause her to interpret more kindly my apparent rudeness. i shall speak to her at all hazards. su-wa-nee!" the dark indian eye was raised upon me with an angry flash; but no other reply was vouchsafed. "su-wa-nee!" i repeated in the most conciliatory tone. "do you not remember me? i am the friend of the white eagle." "and what is that to su-wa-nee? she has no words for you--you may go on!" this decided repulse, instead of bettering my position, rendered it still more complicated. somewhat confusedly, i rejoined: "i am on the way to visit the white eagle. i thought--perhaps--you might--that possibly you might have some message for him." "su-wa-nee has no message for the white eagle!" replied she, interrupting me, in the indignant tone, and with a contemptuous toss of her head. "if she had, she would not choose a false pale-face, like himself, to be its bearer. you fancy, white man, you can insult the indian maiden at your pleasure? you dare not take such liberty with one of your own colour?" "i assure you i had no such intention: my object was very different. i was prompted to speak to you, knowing something of your affair of the other night with my friend wingrove--which you remember i was witness of. i could not help overhearing--" i was interrupted by another quick contemptuous exclamation, that accompanied a glance of mingled vexation and scorn:--"you may know too much, and too little, my brave slayer of red panthers! su-wa-nee does not thank you for interfering in her affairs. she can promise you sufficient occupation with your _own_. go! see to them!" "how? what mean you?" i hurriedly asked, perceiving a certain significance in her looks, as well as words, that produced within me a sudden feeling of inquietude. "what mean you?" i repeated, too anxious to wait her reply; "has anything happened?" "go, see yourself! you lose time in talking to a _squaw_, as you call us. haste! or your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed, like that which you wear so proudly upon your breast. the wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim! su-wa-nee joys at it: ha, ha, ha! hers will not be the only heart wrung by the villainy of the false pale-face. ha, ha, ha! go, brave slayer of red panthers! ah! you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late--too late--too late!" finishing her speech with another peal of half-maniac laughter, she snatched her pannier from the log, flung it over her shoulder, and hurried away from the spot! her words, though ill understood, were full of fearful significance, and acted upon me like a shock--for a moment paralysing my powers both of speech and action. in my anxiety to ascertain their full meaning, i would have intercepted her retreat; but before i could recover from my unpleasant surprise, she had glided in among the shrubbery, and disappeared from my sight. chapter thirty. a storm without and within. heading my horse to the path, i rode out of the glade; but with very different feelings from those i had on entering it. the words of this ill-starred maiden--attainted with that sibylline cunning peculiar to her race--had filled my heart with most dire forebodings. her speech could not be mere conjecture, put forth to vex and annoy me? she had scarcely motive enough for this; besides, her display of a positive foreknowledge was proof against the supposition, that she was deceiving me? "slayer of red panthers? you may go, but only to grieve." "your bell-flower will be plucked and crushed like that you wear so proudly upon your breast." these, and other like innuendoes, could not be conjectural? however obtained, they betokened a knowledge of the past, with an implied forecast of the future--probable as it was painful. the "yellow fawn," too. the reference was clear; lilian holt was the yellow fawn. but the wolf that had "slept in its lair"? who was the wolf? who was to make her a victim? and how? these unpleasant interrogatives passed rapidly through my mind, and without obtaining reply. i was unable to answer them, even by conjecture. enough that there _was_ a wolf; and that lilian holt was in danger of becoming his victim! this brought me to the consideration of the last words, still ringing in my ears: "you will be too late--too late!" prompted by their implied meaning, i drove the spurs into my horse, and galloped forward--as fast as the nature of the ground would permit. my mind was in dread confusion--a chaos of doubt and fear. the half-knowledge i had obtained was more painful to endure than a misfortune well ascertained: for i suffered the associated agonies of suspense, and darkly outlined suspicion. a wolf! in what shape and guise? a victim? how, and by what means? what the nature of the predicted danger? the elements seemed in unison with my spirit: as if they too had taken their cue from the ill-omened bodings of my indian oracle! a storm-cloud had suddenly obscured the sun--black as the wing of the buzzard-vulture. red shafts were shooting athwart the sky--threatening to scathe the trees of the forest; thunder rolled continuously along their tops; and huge isolated rain-drops, like gouts of blood, came pattering down upon the leaves--soon to fall thick and continuous! i heeded not these indications. at that moment, what where the elements to me? what cared i for the clouds or rain--lightning, thunder, or the riven forest? there was a cloud on my own heart--an electric rush through my veins--of far more potent spell than the shadows of the sky, or the coruscations of the ethereal fire. "the wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer: the yellow fawn will be his victim. you will be too late--too late!" these were clouds to be regarded--the fires to be feared. no heavenly light to guide me along the path, but a flame infernal burning in my breast? the bars were down, but it mattered not: i would have leaped the fence, had there been no gateway; but the entrance to the enclosure was free; and, galloping through it, i drew bridle in front of the hut. the door was open--wide open, as was its wont; and i could see most of the interior. no one appeared within! no one came forth to greet me! inside, i observed some pieces of rude furniture--several chairs and a rough table. i had noticed them on my first visit. they were now in the same place--just as i had seen them before. one of my apprehensions was allayed by the sight: the family was still there. "strange that no one hears me! that no one comes out to receive me!" i made these reflections, after having waited a considerable while. "surely i was expected? it was the time named by holt himself? the day and hour! was i again unwelcome? and had the squatter relapsed into his uncourteous mood?" it certainly had that appearance: more especially, since it was raining at the moment--as if the very clouds were coming down--and i stood in need of shelter. but that grievance was little thought of. i was suffering a chagrin, far more intolerable than the tempest. where was lilian? such cool reception, on her part, i had not expected. it was indeed a surprise. had i mistaken the character of this idyllian damsel? was she, too, an arch creature--a coquette? had she bestowed the blossom only to betray me? i had looked down at the crushed corolla borne upon my breast. i had promised myself a triumph by its presence there. i had formed pleasant anticipations of its being recognised--fond hopes of its creating an effect in my favour. the flower looked drenched and draggled. its carmine colour had turned to a dull dark crimson: it was the colour of blood! i could bear the suspense no longer. i would have hailed the house; but by this time i had become convinced that there was no one inside. after a short survey, i had remarked a change in the appearance of the cabin. the interstices between the logs--where they had formerly been covered with skins--were now open. the draping had been removed; and a closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive, that, so far as human occupants were concerned, the house was empty! i rode up to the door; and, leaning over from my saddle, looked in. my conjecture was correct. only the chairs and table with one or two similar pieces of "plenishing," remained. everything else had been removed; and some worthless _debris_ strewed over the floor, told that the removal was to be considered complete. _they were gone_! it was of no use harbouring a hope that they might still be on the premises--outside or elsewhere near. the pouring rain forbade such, a supposition. there was nowhere else--the horse-shed excepted--where they could have sheltered! themselves from its torrent; and they were not in the shed. rosinante was absent from his rude stall--saddle and bridle had alike disappeared. i needed no further assurance. they were gone. with a heavy heart, i slid out of my saddle; led my steed under the shed; and then entered the deserted dwelling. my footfall upon the plank-floor sounded heavy and harsh, as i strode over it, making a survey of the "premises"--my future home. i might have observed with ludicrous surprise the queer character of the building, and how sadly it needed repair. but i was in no mood to be merry, either with the house or its furniture; and, tottering into one of the odd-looking chairs, i gave way to gloomy reflections. any one, seeing me at that moment, would have observed me in an attitude, more benefiting a man about to be turned out of his estate, than one just entering upon possession! chapter thirty one. a virgin heart in cipher. "gone! and whither gone?" half aloud, i soliloquised the interrogatory. there was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. the affair was altogether unexpected. not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, i had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. i was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. nor should i have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the indian sibyl. beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with lilian--chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation--i should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. it would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour's house--perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the "friend of lilian's father"--in all likelihood, the saint i had seen--or some other within a five-mile circuit. or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? a ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing--only an airing for my arab. i should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. not all the forests in tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower. such _would have been_ my reflections, no doubt, had i not encountered the indian girl. but her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel--"you may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late." figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour's roof, but a departure for a distant point. scarcely a presentiment, but a belief--a conviction. around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. the articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value--especially to a householder of holt's condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration. perhaps he intended to return for them? if so--but no: there was no probability of his doing so. i need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. the innuendoes of the indian had already negatived the hope. still vaguely indulging in it, however, i cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion. while so employed, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper carelessly folded. it lay upon the rough table--the only object there, with the exception of some crumbs of corn-bread, and the _debris_ of a tobacco-pipe. i _recognised_ the piece of paper. it was an old acquaintance--the leaf from my memorandum-book--upon which was written that laconic "last will and testament," jointly signed by the squatter and myself. on observing this paper upon the table, it did not occur to me, that it had been left there with any design. my reflection was, that the squatter had taken it from the stump, and carried it into the house--perhaps to shew it to his clerical visitor. no doubt, they had enjoyed a good laugh over it-- as the souvenir of a ludicrous incident; and for this very reason i resolved upon preserving it. i had taken the document in my hand, and was about depositing it in my pocket-book, when my eye was attracted by some fresh writing on the paper. a slight scrutiny of the recent cipher secured for the torn leaf a deeper interest than i had before felt in it: i saw that it was the chirography of a female hand. what other than the hand of lilian? i thought of no other. beyond doubt, her fingers had guided the pencil-- for it was pencil-writing--and guided it so deftly, as to impress me with surprise and admiration. astonished was i, that she--the child of a rude squatter--should be able to set down her ideas in so fair a hand--thoughts thrilling, though simply expressed. ah! sweet simple words! trembled my own hand as i read them--trembled as from a spell of delirium--a delirium produced by the antagonistic emotions of grief and joy! yes! both were present. in that simple inscript i had found cue for both: for there i learnt the ecstatic truth that i was beloved, and along with it the bitter intelligence, that my love was lost to me for ever! words of welcome, and words of woe! how could they be thus commingled? read them, and learn: "to edward warfield,-- "stranger!--it is to say farewell, but i am very sad as i write these words. when you asked me to promise to meet you again, i was happy, i said, yes. o sir! it can never be! we are going to some far place, and shall be gone before you come here, and i shall never see you again. it is very distant, and i do not know the name of the country, for it is not in tennessee, nor in the united states, but somewhere in the west, a long way beyond the mississippi river and the great prairies; but it is a country where they dig gold out of the sand--perhaps you have heard of it, and might know it. i tried to know its name, but father is angry with me for speaking of you, and will not tell me; and our friend, that you saw, who is taking us with him, will not tell me either. but i shall find out soon, and if i thought you might like to know where we are gone, i would write to you. i am glad that mother taught me to write, though i do not compose very well; but if you will allow me, i will send a letter to swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you the name of the country where we are going. i know your name, for it is upon this paper, and i hope you will not think i have done wrong, for i have written my own name beside it. o sir! i am very sad that i am not to see you any more, for i am afraid father will never come back. i could cry all night and all day, and i have cried a deal, but i am afraid of their seeing me, for both father and his friend have scolded me, and said a many things against you. i do not like to hear them say things against you; and for that reason i try not to let them know how very sorry i am that i am never to meet you any more. brave stranger! you saved my life; but it is not that, i think, that makes me so unhappy now, but something else. you are so different from the others i have seen; and what you said to me was not like anything i ever heard before; your words sounded so sweet, and i could have listened to them for ever. i remember every one of them. and then i was so proud when you took the flower from me, and held it to your lips, for it made me think that you would be my friend. i have been very lonely since my sister marian went away--she went with the man you saw. i hope to see her soon now, as she is somewhere out in the country where we are going to, but that will not make me happy, if i can never see you again. "o sir! forgive me for writing all that i have written; but i thought from what you said to me you would not be displeased with me for it, and that is why i have written it. but i must write no more, for my eyes are full of tears, and i cannot see the paper. i hope you will not burn it, but keep it, to remember-- "lilian holt." yes, lilian! to the last hour of my life! close to my bosom shall it lie--that simple souvenir of your maiden love. sacred page! transcript of sweet truth--hallowed by the first offerings of a virgin heart! over, and over, and over again, i read the cipher--to me more touching than the wildest tale of romance. alas! it was not all joy. there was more than a moiety of sadness, constantly increasing its measure. in another moment, the sadness overcame the joy. i tottered towards the chair, and dropped into it--my spirit completely prostrated by the conflicting emotions. chapter thirty two. a word about mormon monsters. not long did i remain under the mental paralysis. there was no time for idle repining. the intelligence, derived from the torn leaf, had given me a cue for action; and my spirit struggled to free itself from the lethargy of grief. hope whispered the watchword, "up and be doing!" and i arose to obey its mandate. my heart was on fire--wildly, madly on fire. the contents of that epistle, while it imbued my spirit with the sweetest of all earthly pleasures, revealed to it the deadliest of dangers--imparting to it an anguish beyond expression. it told me far more than the writer herself knew--both of her love and what she had need to fear: for, in her guileless innocence, was she alike unconscious of the passion and the peril. not so i. she had opened her heart before me. as on a printed page, i could trace its tender inclinings. had this been all, i should have been happy--supremely happy. but, alas! that writing told me more: that she who had pencilled it was in deadly peril. no--not _deadly_: it was not of life; but of something fur dearer--to me a thousand times more dear--her virgin honour. now comprehended i, in all their diabolical significance, those wild weird words: "the wolf has slept in the lair of the forest deer--the yellow fawn will be his victim!" now knew i the wolf--a wolf disguised in the clothing of the lamb? it needed no remarkable acumen to tell to whom the figure referred. the writing itself revealed him--all but the name; and that was manifest by implication. the man with whom "marian went away"--he whom i had seen in clerical garb and guise, was the wolf of the metaphor; and that man was stebbins, the _mormon! with him, too, lilian had gone away_! not with words can i express the suggestive hideousness of this thought. to understand it in all its cruel significance, the reader should be acquainted with that peculiar sect--known as the "church of latter-day saints"--should have read its history and its chronicles. without this knowledge, he will be ill able to comprehend the peculiar bitterness, that in that hour, wrapped and wrung my soul. accident had made me acquainted with the mormon religion; not with its tenets--for it has none--but with the moral idiosyncrasy of its most eminent "apostles," as well as that of its humbler devotees--two very different classes of "saints." in the animal world, we seek in vain for the type of either class. the analogies of wolf and lamb, hawk and pigeon, cat and mouse, cannot be employed with any degree of appropriateness--not one of them. in all these creatures there are traits either of nobility or beauty. neither is to be found in the life and character of a mormon--whether he be a sincere neophyte or a hypocritical apostle. perhaps the nearest antagonistic forms of the animal world, by which we might typify the antithetic conditions of mormon life, both social and religious, are those of fox and goose; though no doubt the subtle reynard would scorn the comparison. nor, indeed, is the fox a true type: for even about him there are redeeming qualities--something to relieve the soul from that loathing which it feels in contemplating the character of a "ruling elder" among the "saints." it would be difficult to imagine anything further removed, from what we may term the "divinity of human nature," than one of these. vulgar and brutal, cunning and cruel, are ordinary epithets; and altogether too weak to characterise such a creature. some of the "twelves" and of the "seventies" may lack one or other of these characteristics. in most cases, however, you may safely bestow them all; and if it be the chief of the sect--the president himself--you may add such other _ugly_ appellatives as your fancy may suggest; and be sure that your portraiture will still fall short of the hideousness of the original. perhaps the most striking characteristic of these fanatics is the absolute openness of their cheat. a more commonplace imposture has never been offered for acceptance, even to the most ignorant of mankind. it appeals neither to reason nor romance. the one is insulted by the very shallowness of its chicanery, while its rank _plebbishness_ disgusts the other. even the nomenclature, both of its offices and office-bearers, has a vulgar ring that smacks of ignoble origin. the names "twelves," "seventies," "deacons," "wifedoms," "smiths" (hiram and joseph), pratt, snow, young, cowdery, and the like--coupled as they are with an affectation and imitation of scripture phraseology--form a vocabulary burlesquing even the sacred book itself, and suggesting by their sounds the true character of the mormon church--a very essence of plebeian hypocrisy. i have used the word "fanatics," but that must be understood in a limited sense. it can only be applied to the "geese"--the ignorant and besotted _canaille_--which the "apostolic" emissaries have collected from all parts of europe, but chiefly from england, scotland, and wales. the welsh, as might be expected, furnish a large proportion of these emigrant geese; while, strange as it may sound, there is but one irish goose in the whole mormon flock! there are but few of these "birds" of native american breed. the general intelligence, supplied by a proper school system, prevents much proselytism in that quarter; but it does not hinder the acute yankee from playing the part of the fox: for in reality this is his _role_ in the social system of mormondom. the president or "high priest and prophet" himself, the twelves and seventies, the elders, deacons, and other dignitaries, are all, or nearly all, of true yankee growth; and to call these "fanatics" would be a misapplication of the word. term them conspirators, charlatans, hypocrites, and impostors, if you will, but not fanatics. the mormon fox is no fanatic: he is a _professor_ in the most emphatic sense of the word, but not a _believer_. his profession is absolute chicanery--he has neither faith, dogma, nor doctrine. there are writers who have defended these _forbans_ of religion; and some who have even spoken well of their system. captain stansbury, the explorer, has a good opinion of them. the captain is at best but a superficial observer; and, unfortunately for his judgment, received most courteous treatment at their hands. it is not human nature "to speak ill of the bridge that has carried one over"; and captain stansbury has obeyed the common impulse. in the earlier times of the mormon church, there were champions of the stansbury school to defend its members against the charge of _polygamy_. in those days, the saints themselves attempted a sort of denial of it. the subject was then too rank to come forth as a revelation. but a truth of this awkward kind could not long remain untold; and it became necessary to mask it under the more moderate title of a _spiritual-wifedom_. it required an acute metaphysician to comprehend this spiritual relationship; and the moralist was puzzled to understand its sanctity. during that period, while the saints dwelt within the pale of the gentiles' country this cloak was kept on; but after their "exodus" to the salt lake settlements, the flimsy garment was thrown off--being found too inconvenient to be worn any longer. there the motive for concealment was removed, and the apology of a _spiritual-wifedom_ ceased to exist. it came out in its carnal and sensual shape. polygamy was boldly preached and proclaimed, as it had ever been practised, in its most hideous shape; and the defenders of mormon purity, thus betrayed by their pet proteges, dropped their broken lances to the ground. the "institution" is even more odious under mormon than mohammed. there is no redeeming point--not even the "romance of the harem"--for the _zenana_ of a latter-day saint is a type of the most vulgar materialism, where even the favourite sultana is not exempted from the hard work-a-day duties of a slave. polygamy? no! the word has too limited a signification. to characterise the condition of a mormon wife, we must resort to the phraseology of the _bagnio_. _in company of a mormon had lilian gone away_! no wonder that my heart was on fire--wildly, madly on fire. i rose from my seat, and rushed forth for my horse. the storm still raged apace. clouds and rolling thunder, lightning and rain--rain such as that which ushered in the deluge! the storm! what cared i for its fury? rain antediluvian would not have stayed me in doors--not if it had threatened the drowning of the world! chapter thirty three. another duel determined on. into my saddle--off out of the clearing--away through the dripping forest--on through the sweltering swamp, i hurried. up the creek was my route--my destination, the dwelling of the hunter, wingrove. surely, in such weather, i should find him at home? it was natural i should seek the young backwoodsman. in such an emergency, i might count with certainty on having his advice and assistance. true, i anticipated no great benefit from either: for what could either avail me? the young man was helpless as myself; and had similarly suffered. this would secure me his sympathy; but what more could he give? after all, i did not reckon it as nothing. the condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues--even penance has its purpose. i longed, therefore, for a friend--one to whom i could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and i sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. i had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant of _his_ care--the recipient of his heart confessed. little dreamed i at the time, i should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness. fortune so far favoured me--i found him at home. my arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, i could perceive, was habitual to him. i knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it--lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. it did not. there was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden--charged and engrossed with selfish care. not without admiration, did i observe the conflict. i hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: i felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. i told him the whole story of my love--beginning with the hour in which i had left him. the tale aroused him from his apathy--more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with lilian, and the encounter that followed. as a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that. the scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of marian. as i approached the _finale_ of the duel scene--that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage--i could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before i had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so--"josh stebbins!" "yes; it was he--i know it myself." i continued the narrative; but i saw i was no longer listened to with attention. wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. every now and then, i saw him glance towards his rifle--that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. as soon as i had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed--including my departure from swampville--i was again interrupted by the young hunter--this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it! it was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. neither for squirrel nor coon--deer, bear, nor panther--was that rifle being loaded! "where are you going?" i inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. "only a bit down the crik. you'll excuse me, stranger, for leavin' o' ye; but i'll be back in the twinklin' o' an eye. thar's a bit o' dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an' you'll find somethin' in the old bottle thar. i won't be gone more'n a hour. i reckon i won't." the emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which i observed without being able to interpret. i had my conjectures however. "can i not go with you?" i asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. "the weather has cleared up; and i should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. if it is not some business of a private nature--" "thar's nothin' particularly private about it, stranger; but it's a bizness i don't want you to be mixed up in. i guess ye've got yur own troubles now; 'ithout takin' share o' myen." "if it is not rude, may i ask the business on which you're going?" "welcome to know it, stranger. i'm a-goin' _to kill josh stebbins_!" "kill josh stebbins?" "eyther that, or he shall kill me." "oh! nonsense!" i exclaimed, surprised less at the intention--which i had already half divined--than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared. "i've said it, stranger! i've sworn it over an' over, an' it shell be done. 'taint no new notion i've tuk. i'd detarmined on makin' him fight long ago: for i'd an old score to settle wi' him, afore that 'un you know o'; but i niver ked got the skunk to stan' up. he allers tuk care to keep out o' my way. now i've made up my mind he don't dodge me any longer; an', by the etarnal! if that black-hearted snake's to be foun' in the settlement--" "he is not to be found in the settlement." "not to be foun' in the settlement!" echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation--"not to be foun' in the settlement? surely you ain't in earnest, stranger? you seed him the day afore yesterday!" "true--but i have reason to think he is gone." "god forbid! but you ain't sure o' it? what makes you think he air gone?" "too sure of it--it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin." i detailed the events of the morning, which wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the indian maiden--her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. i described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of lilian--read it from beginning to end. he listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression--"poor little lil!" "poor little lil!" repeated he when i had finished. "she too gone wi' him!--just as marian went six months ago! "no--no!" he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. "no! it war different--altogether different: _marian went willin'ly_." "how know you that?" i said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him. "know it? o stranger! i'm sure o' it; su-wa-nee sayed so." "that signifies nothing. it is not the truer of her having said so. a jealous and spiteful rival. perhaps the very contrary is the truth? perhaps marian was forced to marry this, man? her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence--as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. i noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion." "thank ye, stranger, for them words!" cried the young hunter, rushing forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. "it's the first bit o' comfort i've had since marian war tuk away! i've heerd myself that holt war afeerd o' stebbins; an' maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him somehow. i confess ye, it often puzzled me, marian's takin' it so to heart, an' all about a bit o' a kiss--which i wudn't a tuk, if the indian hadn't poked her lips clost up to myen. lord o' mercy! i'd gie all i've got in the world, to think it war true as you've sayed." "i have very little doubt of its being true. i have now seen your rival; and i think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you." "thank ye, stranger! it's kind in you to say so. she's now married an' gone: but if i thort thar had been _force_ used, i'd 'a done long ago _what i mean to do now_." "what is that?" i asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. "foller _him_, if it be to the furrest eend o' the world! yes, stranger! i mean it. i'll go arter him, an' track him out. i'll find him in the bottom o' a californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an', by the etarnal! i'll wipe out the score--both the old un and the new un--in the skunk's blood, or i'll never set fut agin in the state o' tennessee. i've made up my mind to it." "you are determined to follow him?" "firmly detarmined!" "enough! our roads lie together!" chapter thirty four. a departure in a "dug-out." we were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our thoughts. if our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same. only was there a difference in our prospective designs. love was the lure that beckoned me on; wingrove was led by revenge. to follow _him_, and punish guilt, was the _metier_ of my companion; to follow _her_, and rescue innocence, was the _role_ cast for me. though guided by two such different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature--either sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed. i had already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope of obtaining an associate and companion, that i had sought an interview with the hunter. at all events, this had been my leading idea. his expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish. it only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable form. though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in which i had the advantage of him. i was his superior in experience. he acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take the lead. the exercise of partisan warfare--especially that practised on the mexican and indian frontiers--is a school scarcely equalled for training the mind to coolness and self-reliance. an experience thus obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; "the more haste the less speed." instead, therefore of rushing at once _in medias res_, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of pursuit. it was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head. had i obeyed the promptings of the former, i should have been in the saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction-- perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and the infallibility of the adage. taking counsel from my reason, i advised a different course of action; and my comrade--whose head for his age was a cool one--agreed to follow my advice. indeed, he had far less motive for haste than i. revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. she whom i loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastard _coquin_--diabolic as dastard! suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which i was possessed. had i but known _where to go_, i should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. not knowing, i was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt. that holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the mormon, we knew: the letter told that. that they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. if still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance of _overtaking_ them. but what after that? ah! beyond that i did not trust myself to speculate. i dared not discuss the future. i refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope--so dark did it appear. i had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. that phrase of fatal prophecy, "you will be too late--too late!" still rang in my ears. it had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify i should be too late _in every sense_? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ at what time had they taken their departure? by what route? and upon what road? these were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself--the deserted dwelling. thither we hied in all haste--prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. on entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the "sign." my companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. i had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. even the hoof-prints of my own horse--made but an hour before--were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable. had they gone upon horseback? it was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? no road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing--that to swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other "traces," leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle. there was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. it was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. wingrove well knew the craft. it was known as holt's "dug-out;" and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. it was sufficiently large to carry several at once-- large enough for the purpose of a removal. the mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. but a _conge_ in a canoe was a very different affair: man's presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element--an emblem of his own vain nothingness! chapter thirty five. a dangerous sweetheart. our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end. on this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge. it was clear they had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that would carry them in the direction they intended to travel. the settling of this question, produced a climax--a momentary pause in our action. we stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course, and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections. like our thoughts were the waters troubled. swollen by the recent rain-storm, the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its waters justified the name it bore. brown and turbid, they rolled past-- no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent--that spumed against the banks, as it surged impetuously onward. trees torn up by the roots were carried on by the current--their huge trunks and half-riven branches twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their death-struggle. in the "sough" of the torrent, we heard their sighs--in its roar, the groans of their departing spirits! the scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears--for it was laughter wild and maniac. it was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of the torrent. both of us were startled at the sound. though the voice was a woman's, i could see that it had produced on wingrove a certain impression of fear. on hearing it, he trembled and turned pale. i needed no explanation. a glance towards the forest revealed the cause. a female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation. "lord o' mercy!" exclaimed my companion, "that injun again! she's been arter me since that night, an' threatens to have a fresh try at takin' my life. look out stranger! i know she's got pistols." "oh! i fancy there's not much danger. she appears to be in the laughing mood." "it's jest that ere larf i don't like: she's allers wust when she's in that way." by this time the indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near the rear of the cabin. without pausing she sprang up on the fence--as if to enter the enclosure. this, however, proved not to be her intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position. as soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain modulation that betokened scorn! neither of us uttered a syllable; but, observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say. another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth: "white eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled as the stream on which your eyes are gazing! su-wa-nee knows your sorrows. she comes to you with words of comfort." "ah! speak them then!" said i, suddenly conceiving a hope. "hear you that sound in the forest?" we heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our feet. we answered in the negative. "you hear it not? ha, ha, ha! where are your ears? it is ringing in mine. all day i have heard it. listen! there it is again!" "she's a mockin' us," muttered my companion; "thar ain't no soun' in partickler." "no? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us," i rejoined, addressing myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl. "ha! ha! ha! it is _it_ that is mocking you. it mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird. it is not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl. it is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo! now, do you hear it, white eagle? do _you_ hear it, proud slayer of red panthers? ha! it mocks you both!" "oh! bother, girl!" exclaimed. wingrove in a vexed tone; "ye're a talkin' nonsense." "truth, white eagle--truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and yours too, slayer of panthers! he has wound himself around your pretty birds, and borne them away in his coils--away over the great desert plains--away to the big lake! ha, ha, ha! in the desert, he will defile them. in the waters of the lake, he will drown them--ha, ha, ha!" "them's yur words o' comfort, air they?" cried wingrove, exasperated to a pitch of fury. "durned if i'll bar sech talk! i won't stan' it any longer. clar out now! we want no croakin' raven hyar. clar out! or--" he was not permitted to finish the threat. i saw the girl suddenly drop down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a tree. almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank--which might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been followed instantaneously by a quick crack--easily recognisable as the report of a pistol! i waited not to witness the effect; but rushed towards the tree--with the design of intercepting the indian. the blue smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements of the girl; but, hurrying onward, i clambered over the fence. once on the other side, i was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was to be seen! beyond it, however, i heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh, pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest! chapter thirty six. the horologe of the dead horse. with inquiring eye and anxious heart, i turned towards the spot where i had left my companion. to my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. i could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. he was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? it proved so in effect. the bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm--only tearing the flesh. the wound did not even require a surgeon. the haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal. unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. the allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. it affected me equally with my comrade--perhaps more. the figurative revelations of the indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. the letter of lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.--california, of course. there was no allusion to the salt lake--not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the mormons. su-wa-nee's speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter's journey! how her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, i could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. the mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. for this reason gave i weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl--though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service. the incident altered our design--only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. the first point to be ascertained was the _time_ of their departure. "if it wan't for the rain," said the hunter, "i ked a told it by thar tracks. they must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin' thar things to the dug-out. the durned rain's washed 'em out--every footmark o' 'em." "but the horses? what of them? they could not have gone off in the canoe?" "i war just thinkin' o' them. the one you seed with stebbins must a been hired, i reck'n; an' from kipp's stables. belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin 'ithout him; or kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?" "but holt's own horse--the old `critter,' as you call him?" "that _diz_ need explainin'. he _must_ a left him ahind. he culdn't a tuk _him_ in the _dug-out_; besides, he wan't worth takin' along. the old thing war clean wore out, an' wuldn't a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. now, what ked they a done wi' him?" the speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. "heigh!" he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. "yonder we'll find him! see the buzzarts! the old hoss's past prayin' for, i'll be boun'." it was as the hunter had conjectured. a little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. on approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. he was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal's throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay! "he's killed the crittur!" musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; "jest like what he'd do! he might a left the old thing to some o' his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn't a been hick holt to a did it. he wan't partickler friendly wi' any o' us, an' least o' all wi' myself--tho' i niver knew the adzact reezun o't, 'ceptin' that i beat him once shootin', at a _barbecue_. he war mighty proud a' his shootin', an' that riled him, i reck'n: he's been ugly wi' me iver since." i scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying--my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. in the dead horse, i had found a key to the time of holt's departure. the ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating "pool," had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards-- the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. all these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. at the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning. "how long think you since he was killed?" i asked, pointing to the dead horse. "ha! ye're right, stranger!" said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. "i war slack not to think o' that. we kin easy find out, i reck'n." the hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. in this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. he uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect: "good, by thunder! the old horse hain't been dead 'bove a kupple o' hours. look thar, stranger! the blood ain't froze? i kin a'most fancy thar's heat in his old karkiss yet!" "you are sure he has been killed this morning?" "quite sure o't; an' at most three, or may be four hour agone. see thar!" he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; "limber as a eel! ef he'd a been dead last night, the leg'd been stiff long afore this." "quite true," replied i, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning. this bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. it told the _day_. the hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. as far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. there was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of holt's career in his clearing upon mud creek. only one doubt remained. was it he who had killed the animal? i had conceived a suspicion pointing to su-wa-nee-- but without being able to attribute to the indian any motive for the act. "no, no!" replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: "'twar holt hisself, sartin. he culdn't take the old hoss along wi' him, an' he didn't want anybody else to git him. besides, the girl hedn't no reezun to a did it. she'd a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp--seein' he war left behind wi' nobody to own him. tho' he wan't worth more'n what the skin 'ud fetch, he'd adone for them ar injuns well enuf, for carryin' thar traps an' things. no, 'twan't her, nor anybody else 'ceptin' holt hisself--he did it?" "if that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. they cannot have more than four hours the start. you say the creek has a winding course?" "crooked as a coon's hind leg." "and the obion?" "most part the same. it curls through the bottom like the tail o' a cur-dog; an' nigher the massissippy, it don't move faster than a snail 'ud crawl. i reck'n the run o' the river 'll not help 'em much. the'll hev a good spell o' paddlin' afore they git down to massissippy; an' i hope that durned mormon 'll blister his ugly claws at it!" "with all my heart!" i rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the obion. chapter thirty seven. a lookout from aloft. it cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours' duration--most of it along by-roads and bridle-paths--at intervals passing through tracts of swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud. we rode continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the "stands," or isolated log hostelries--which are found upon the old "traces" connecting the sparse settlements of the backwoods. it was the only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a condition for the completion of the journey. we knew the necessity of haste. our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the obion before the canoe could pass out of it. otherwise, our journey would be in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back again. along the route we found time to discuss the circumstances--both those in our favour and against us. the water-way taken by the canoe was far from being direct. both the creek and the larger stream curved repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish current. the freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be carried down with considerable rapidity--faster than we were travelling on horseback. on such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of killing our horses. mounted as i was, i might have made more of the time; but i was under the necessity of slackening pace for my companion--whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for. our sole chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circumstance that the fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were satisfied we should have but little margin to spare. i need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time. should the canoe get beyond the mouth of the obion--without our seeing it--we should be left undetermined as to whether they had gone _up_ the mississippi or _down_; and therefore altogether without a guide as to our future movements. in fact, we should be unable to proceed further in the pursuit. so far as the mouth of the obion, their route was fixed; and of course ours was also determined. but beyond, it would be on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects. on the other hand, could we but arrive in time--if only to see the canoe entering the great river--and note which turning it took--our purpose would be accomplished. that is, our _present_ purpose; for beyond that of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point of destination, i had formed no plans. to follow them wherever they might go--even to the distant shores of the pacific--to seek them wherever they might settle--to settle beside them--beside _her_--these were the ideas i had as yet but vaguely conceived. all ulterior designs were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future. the purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and were, perhaps, a little more definite. his leading idea was a settlement of old scores with stebbins, for wrongs done to him--which he now more particularly detailed to me. they were sufficiently provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows he occasionally uttered, i could perceive that he would be as eager in the pursuit as myself. in all probability, an encounter with the migrating party would bring about an important change in their programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed himself, "to force the durned skunk into a fight." inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and reached the mouth of the obion, after a long and wearisome ride. it was midnight when we arrived upon the shore of the mississippi--at its point of confluence with the tennessean stream. the land upon which we stood was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other water-loving trees. these extending along the marshy borders of both streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels. to obtain this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being disabled, the task devolved upon me. dismounting, i chose one that appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as i could get, i fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette. my position could not have been better chosen. it afforded me a full view, not only of the obion's mouth, but also of the broad channel into which it emptied--at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that, but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake. there was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were reflected in sparkling coruscations--scarcely to be distinguished from the gleaming of the "lightning bugs," that hovered in myriads along the hedges of the marsh. both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the water's edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods--the tops of which exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by the slightest breeze. between rolled the brown waters of the obion, in ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet. every inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation--so completely, that i could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared upon its surface. not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me--much less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances of my eye. i congratulated myself on reaching this perch. i perceived that a better post of observation could not have been chosen. it was complete for the purpose; and, if i could only have felt sure that we had arrived in time, all would have been satisfactory. time alone would determine the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, i entered upon my earnest vigil. chapter thirty eight. the white fog. vain vigil it proved. i shall not tire the reader with details. suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning's dawn; and then, profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of observation, where we continued our surveillance--watching and sleeping in turn. throughout the following day, and into the second, was our vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed finally to abandon it. but for one circumstance, we might have felt surprise at the result. we were both convinced that we had reached the river's mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could not possibly have "headed" us. but for the same circumstance, we might have believed, that they had not yet come down the obion; and perhaps would have remained at our post a day longer. the explanation is this: on the first night of our watch, a few hours after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. it was the _white fog_--a well-known phenomenon of the mississippi--that often extends its dangerous drapery over the bosom of the "father of waters:" a thing of dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. on that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my position near the top of the tree i was entirely clear of its vapoury disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently over the surface--white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. the moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen as clearly as ever. the water-surface alone was hidden from my sight-- the very thing i was most anxious to observe. as if by some envious demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as the fog had fairly unfurled itself, i fancied i could hear the dipping of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream. moreover, gazing intently into the mist--as yet thin and filmy--i fancied i saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes of human forms outlined above it--just as of a canoe _en profile_ with passengers in it. i even noted the number of the upright forms: three of them--which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were expecting. so certain was i at the moment, of seeing all this, that i need not have shouted to assure myself. excited with over-eagerness, i did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. my summons produced not the desired effect. on the contrary, it seemed to still the slight plashing i had heard; and, before the echoes of my voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight-- having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour. over and over, i repeated my summons--each time changing the form of speech, and each time with like fruitless effect! the only answer i received was from the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree. whether the forms i had seen were real--or only apparitions conjured up by my excited brain--they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the very next moment, i inclined to the belief that my senses had been deceiving me! from that time, my comrade and i were uncertain; and this, uncertainty will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and why we waited no longer for its coming. the most probable conjectures were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the mississippi--no longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the obion. in all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this. but the more important point remained undetermined--whether they had gone northward or southward--whether by the routes of the missouri or those of the arkansas? upon this question we were as undecided as ever. at that season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. i knew, moreover, that the mormons had their own "trains," and ways of travelling; and that several new routes or "trails" had been discovered during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for oregon and california, and by the mormons themselves. this knowledge only complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision. thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. our only hope lay in returning to swampville. and whence this hope? what was to be expected in swampville? who was there in that village of golden dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? no one--no human being. the index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a letter! assuredly, i had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet sweetly expressed: "if i thought you would like to know where we are gone, i would write to you;" and again: "if you will allow me, i will send a letter to swampville, _from the first place we come to_, to tell you where we are going." oh! that i could have told her how much i "would like to know," and how freely she had my permission to write! alas! that was impossible. but the contingencies troubled me not much; i was full of hope that she would waive them. communicating this hope to my companion, we rode back to swampville: with the design of laying siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the promised epistle. chapter thirty nine. the promised epistle. under any circumstances, a return to swampville would have been necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that interesting village. a journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars i had paid to holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse. it would have taken three times as much as i was master of, to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute nothing. he would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony--as i with my purchase--for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had the payment been required in cash. a credit sale could not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated property--upon which not a single cent could be borrowed. never stood i in more need of my nashville friend; and my appeal, already made, was promptly responded to--as i expected it would be. on the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived--with a handsome enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. we were now ready for the road. we waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination. how we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth describing. we enjoyed the hospitality of the jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the _espieglerie_ of its husband-hunting denizens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. during the whole time, we went not near our respective "plantations" on mud creek. wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and i had no inclination to trust myself to its souvenirs. moreover, the hours of the mail-rider were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account i avoided a prolonged absence from the post-office. six days of this expectancy i endured--six days of alternate hope and doubt--the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase i could not procure distraction for my thoughts! more than once my comrade and i had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean--trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. on the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. the seventh proved the day of joy. our doubts were dispelled. the cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! my fingers trembled as i took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. he must have observed my emotion-- though i did not open the letter in his presence. the superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. i had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. i did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. the post-mark, "_van buren, arkansas_," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of swampville, and were _en route_ for memphis, did i enter on the pleasure of perusal. the address was simply as before: "to edward warfield;" and so to the apostrophic commencement: "stranger!" i could have wished for some less distant word--some familiar phrase of endearment, but i was contented--for i knew that lilian's too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted. thus ran the letter: "stranger!--i hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to read it, for i had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better--only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother's, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. but i think i could have wrote it better, only i was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and i wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. i thought no one would come to the house before you, and i hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. i would have given a great deal to have been able to see you again; and i think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. but i hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one i send you, without your leave. i promised that if you would allow me, i would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but i forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me. i now know what country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and i hear the name a many a time, over and over again. father calls it `californey,' and some `california,' and this, i suppose, is the right way of spelling it. it is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at philadelphia and new york, but far greater and bigger than the mississippi and the obion, and all the rivers put together. it must be a very large sea to be bigger than the mississippi! but i am sure you must know all about it, for i have heard them say you have travelled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and had been fighting there with the mexicans. i am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to tennessee; for if you had been killed, i should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if i am never to see you again. o sir! i would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but i fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us. "i shall never forget our dear tennessee. i am very sorry at leaving it, and i am sure i can never be happy in california with all its gold-- for what good can gold be to me? i should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves. "maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us--only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as i have heard father say you intended to do. i shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy. "i have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. at the mouth of the obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time--for we travelled all that night--we heard some one shouting to us, and o sir! it was so like your voice that i trembled when i heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. it was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that, i would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. it appeared to be right above our heads; and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. i suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as i knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more. "we arrived at this place yesterday. it is a large town on the arkansas river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. from here we are to travel in a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a `caravan,' and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the journey. it is a long time to wait before i can write again, for there are no towns beyond van buren, and no post to carry a letter. but though i cannot write to you, i will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as i am now thinking of them every minute. in one of my mother's books which i brought with me, i have read a pretty piece. it is in poetry; and it is so like what i have been thinking of you, that i have learnt it off by heart. it is so true-like and so pretty a piece that i thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, i write it at the end of my letter, which i fear i have already made too long; but i hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry:-- "i think of thee when morning springs from sleep with plumage bathed in dew; and like a young bird lifts her wings of gladness on the welkin blue. and when at noon the breath of love o'er flower and stream is wandering free, and sent in music from the grove-- i think of thee--i think of thee! "i think of thee, when soft and wide the evening spreads her robe of light, and like a young and timid bride, sits blushing in the arms of night. and when the moon's sweet crescent springs in light or heaven's deep, waveless sea, and stars are forth like blessed things-- i think of thee--i think of thee! "o sir! it is very, very true! i do think of you, and i am sure i shall do so as long as i live. "lilian holt." ah, lilian! i too think of thee, and thy sweet song! simple, but suggestive words. knew i but where to address thee, you should know how responsive to them are the echoes of my heart! chapter forty. the caravan. we rode on to memphis as rapidly as our horses could travel--far too slow for our desires. thence a steam-boat carried us to little rock, and another to van buren. many days had been consumed while waiting for each boat--so many that on arriving at van buren, we found that the caravan had the start of us by full two weeks! its probable route we ascertained without any difficulty--up along the arkansas to the rocky mountains, through the valley of the huerfano, and the passes robideau and coochetopa--thence across the head waters of the colorado, and by the old spanish trail to california. it was principally a caravan of gold-seekers: adventurers of all nations. even indians had gone with it--of the half-civilised tribes of the frontier--red and white equally tempted by the yellow attractions spread out for them in california. though large, it was what is termed a "light train"--having more pack-animals than waggons. on this account, it would make way all the faster; and unless delayed by some accident, we might be a long time in coming up with it. it was not without a large measure of vexation that we learnt how far it had got the start of us. i should have submitted with less resignation to the necessary delays, but that my mind had been to some extent tranquillised by the contents of lilian's letter. they had inclined me to the belief that the emigrants were simply _en route_ for california--as was all the world just then--and that the mormon was, after all, not so strong in his new faith as to resist the universal golden lure. his design in taking the squatter with him might be merely of a secular character--having for its object the securing of a partner, in whose brawny arms the wash-pan and rocker might be handled to advantage. that they whom we sought were gone with the caravan, we were soon satisfied. holt was too marked a man to have escaped observation, even in a crowd of rough squatters like himself; but more than one eye had rested upon his fair daughter that longed to look upon her again. _her_ traces were easily told--as testified by the answers to my shy inquiries. like some bright meteor, whose tract across the heavens remains marked by its line of luminous phosphorescence, her radiant beauty was remembered. i needed not to inquire of her. scarcely a coterie of which she was not the subject of conversation--to my infinite jealousy and chagrin. not that aught was said of her, that should have given rise to such feelings: they were but the offspring of love's selfishness. not long had i to submit to such torture. our stay in van buren was of the shortest. in less than twenty hours after our arrival in the village, we took our departure from it--turning our faces towards the almost limitless wilderness of the west. i had endeavoured to add to our company but without success. the caravan had cleared van buren of its unemployed population; and not an idler remained--at least not one who felt inclined to adventure with us. even the needy "loafer" could not be induced to try the trip--deeming ours too dangerous an expedition. to say the least, it was reckless enough; but impelled by motives far more powerful than the thirst of gold, my comrade and i entered upon our journey with scarce a thought about its perils. the only addition to our company was a brace of stout pack-mules, that carried our provisions and other _impedimenta_; while the old horse of the hunter had been replaced by a more promising roadster. it would be idle to detail the incidents of a journey across the prairies. ours differed in no way from hundreds of others that have been made, and described--except, perhaps, that after reaching the buffalo range, we travelled more by night than by day. we adopted this precaution simply to save our scalps--and along with them our lives-- since the buffalo range--especially upon the arkansas--is peculiarly the "stamping" ground of the hostile savage. here may be encountered the pawnee and comanche, the kiowa and cheyenne, the waco and fierce arapaho. though continually engaged in internecine strife among themselves, all six tribes are equally enemies to the pale-faced intruders on their domain. at this time they were said to be especially hostile--having been irritated by some late encounters with parties, of ill-behaved emigrants. it was not without great peril, therefore, that we were passing through their territory; and what we had heard, before leaving van buren, had made us fully conscious of the risk we were running. to meet with one of the hunting or war-parties of these indians, might not be certain death; but certain they would be to disarm and _dismount_ us; and that, in the midst of the great prairie ocean, is a danger that often conducts to the same _denouement_. it was not preference, then, but precaution, that led us to adopt the "secret system" of travelling by night. our usual plan was to lie by during the day or for the greater part of it, concealed in some selected cover--either among rocks or copsewood. by stealing to a conspicuous eminence, we were enabled to view the route ahead of us, and map out our journey for the night. upon this we would enter an hour or two before sundown: for then the indian hunter has returned to his encampment, which can be easily avoided, by seeing its smoke from afar. we often saw their smokes, and more than once the indians themselves; but were never seen by them--so cautiously did we carry out our measures. in this fashion we "groped" our way with considerable rapidity. guided by the waggon tracks--especially when there was a moon--we could travel almost as fast as by daylight. only upon dark nights was our progress retarded; but, notwithstanding every impediment, we were enabled to travel faster than the caravan, and we knew that we were rapidly gaining upon it. we could tell this by the constantly freshening trail; but we had a more accurate criterion in _the count of the camps_. by the number of these, we knew to a certainty that we were approaching the caravan. we were in high hopes of being able to come up with it, before it should enter the mountain-passes--more dangerous to the traveller than even the plains themselves: because at that season more beset by bands of marauding savages. under the influence of these hopes, we were pressing forward, with all the haste it was in our power to make; when our journey was varied by an incident of a somewhat unexpected character. chapter forty one. an un-prairie-like apparition. the incident referred to occurred high up the arkansas, at the celebrated grove known as the "big timbers." we had started about two hours before sundown, and were riding in a due westerly direction, over a "rolling" prairie--the ridges of which, as ill-luck would have it, ran transversely to our course: causing the path to be constantly going upward or downward. it was not this that troubled us; but the fact that, as we crested each swell, we were freshly exposed to observation from a distance; and this recurring so often, kept us continuously on the alert. once or twice, we thought of halting again till after the sun had gone down: for we knew that we were treading upon dangerous ground; but, failing to perceive any fresh indian sign, we gave way to our irresolution, and continued on. we proceeded with caution, however: always ascending in stealthy silence, and peeping carefully over the ridges before crossing them. after reconnoitring the intervening valleys, we would ride rapidly across, to make up the time we had lost in our reconnoissance. in this way we had travelled some eight or ten miles--until the sun was so far down, that his lower limb rested on the horizon. we were ascending a ridge, and had got our eyes on a level with its crest, when upon the face of another ridge--about half a mile further on--we beheld two forms outlined against the declivity. we saw that they were human forms; and that they were indians was our first thought; but a moment's observation convinced us we were in error. they were afoot--indians would have been on horseback. there was no floating drapery about their bodies--indians would have had something of this sort; besides there were other circumstances observable in their figures and movements, that negatived the supposition of their being red-skins. they were singularly disproportioned in size: one appearing at least a foot the taller, while the shorter man had twice this advantage in girth! "what, in old nick's name, kin they be?" inquired my companion--though only in soliloquy, for he saw that i was as much puzzled as himself. "kin ye make 'em out wi' your glass, capt'n?" i chanced to have a small pocket-telescope. adopting the suggestion, i drew it forth, and levelled it. in another instant, i had within its field of vision a tableau that astonished me. the figures composing it were but two--a very tall man, and a very short one. both were dressed in round-about jackets and trousers. one, the shorter, had a little dark cap upon his head; while the height of the taller man was increased full ten inches, by what appeared to be a black silk or beaver hat. the cut of their respective costumes was nearly the same; but the colour was entirely different--the tall personage being all over of a bottle-green tint, while his shorter companion shone more conspicuously in sky-blue. notwithstanding their vivid colours, neither costume had anything indian about it: nor was it like any other sort of "rig" that one might expect to encounter upon the prairies. what fashion it was, did not occur to me at the moment; for the sun, glancing upon the object-glass of the telescope, hindered me from having a fair view. moreover, my attention was less directed to the dress of the men, than to their movements. the backs of both were towards us; and they were going forward in the same direction as ourselves. the tall man was in the lead, carrying what appeared to be two guns--one over his left shoulder, and another in his right hand. he was advancing in slow irregular strides, his thin body slightly stooped forward, and his long neck craned out in front of him as if trying to look over the ridge, whose crest he was just approaching. the short man was some half-dozen paces in the rear; and moving in a fashion altogether different. his body was bent against the hill at an angle of less than forty-five degrees with the horizon; and his short stout legs were playing in rapid steps, as if keeping time to a treadmill! he appeared to be pushing something before him; but what it was, i could not guess: since it was completely covered by the disc of his body spread broadly against the hill. it was not till he had reached the summit, and made a slight turn along the ridge, that i saw what this object was. the exclamation of ludicrous surprise, that escaped my companion, told me that he had also made it out. "good gosh, capt'n!" cried he, "look yander! consarn my skin! ef 't ain't a _wheelberra_!" a wheelbarrow it certainly was: for the two men were now traversing along the top of the ridge, and their bodies from head to foot, were conspicuously outlined against the sky. there was no mistaking the character of the object in the hands of the shorter individual--a barrow beyond the shadow of a doubt--trundle and trams, box, body, and spoke-wheel complete! the sight of this homely object, in the midst of the savage prairies, was as ludicrous as unexpected; and we might have hailed it with roars of laughter, had prudence permitted such an indecorous exhibition. as it was, my companion _chuckled_ so loudly, that i was compelled to caution him. whether my caution came too late, and that the laughter was heard, we could not tell; but at that moment the tall pedestrian looked back, and we saw that he had discovered us. making a rapid sign to his companion, he bounded off like a startled deer; and, after a plunge or two, disappeared behind the ridge--followed in full run by the man with the wheelbarrow! one might have supposed that the fright would have led to the abandonment of the barrow. but no: it was taken along-- hurried out of our sight in an instant--and in the next, both man and machine disappeared as suddenly as if some trap had admitted them into the bowels of the earth! the singular fashion of their flight--the long strides taken by the gander-like leader, and the scrambling attempt at escape made by the barrow-man--produced a most comic effect. i was no longer able to restrain myself, but joined my companion in loud and repeated peals of laughter. in this merry mood, and without any apprehension of danger, we advanced towards the spot where the odd figures had been seen. some broken ground delayed us; and as half a mile of it had to be passed over, we were a considerable time in reaching the summit of the hill. on arriving there, and looking over the swell, behind which they had disappeared, neither tall nor short man was to be seen. a timbered valley lay beyond: into this they had evidently escaped. the track of the wheelbarrow, where it had pressed down the grass, alone indicated their recent presence upon the spot--as it did also the direction they had taken. their retreating from us was easily accounted for: they could have seen only the tops of our heads, and had no doubt taken us for indians! chapter forty two. a foot of thirteen inches. the presence of the wheelbarrow explained a point that had been puzzling us for some days. we had fallen upon its track more than once, and supposed it to have been made by the wheel of a cart; but in no instance being able to find the corresponding one, had given it up as a hopeless enigma. the only explanation we had succeeded in offering ourselves was: that some light cart had accompanied the caravan--the load of which, being badly balanced, had thrown the weight upon one wheel, allowing the other to pass over the ground without making an impression. as it was only on dry grass we had traced it, this explanation had sufficed--though far from being satisfactory. neither my companion nor myself ever thought of a wheelbarrow. who would, in such a place? "in the name o' old nick, who kin they be?" asked wingrove, as we halted on the ridge, where the fugitives had been last seen. "i'm not without my suspicions," i replied, just then thinking of a peculiarity that had but slightly occupied my attention--the cut and colour of their dresses. "if i am not mistaken, the two shy birds that have fled from us are a brace of uncle sam's eagles." "sojers?" "in all probability, and `old sojers' at that." "but what 'ud sojers be a doin' out hyar?" "travelling to california, like ourselves." "desarters, may be?" "just what i suspect. no doubt the pair have slipped off from some of the frontier posts; and having no opportunity to provide themselves with a better means of transport, have brought the wheelbarrow with them. it is ludicrous enough, but by no means improbable. there are some queer customers in the service of uncle sam." "i think there be--ha, ha, ha! what shed we do, capt'n? hedn't we better catch up to 'em?" "that, comrade, may be easier said than done. if they're deserters--and they must be, if they're soldiers at all--they'll take precious good care not to let any one come near them, if they can help it. the escort that accompanies the train will account for their not being along with it. if they've caught a glimpse of my buttons, they'll be _cached_ by this time." "they only seed our heads. i reck'n they tuk us for injuns?" "in that case, they'll hide from us all the same--only a little more cunningly." "consarn their sojer skins! ef they war as cunnin' as a kupple o' possums, they can't a hide the track o' the berra; an' so long's they keep in the timber, i kalklate i kin lift thar trail. i reck'n i ain't quite forgot how: though i am bamfoozled a bit by these hyar parairies-- consarn them! ah! them woods, capt'n! it diz one good to look at 'em!" the eyes of the young hunter sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke. it was a real forest that was before us--a large tract covered with gigantic cotton-wood trees, and the only thing deserving the name of forest we had seen for many days. as my companion stood gazing upon it, i could trace upon his countenance a joyous expression, that rarely appeared there. the sight of the "big timbers" recalled to him the forests of his own tennessee--with happy memories of other times. they were not unmingled with shadows of regret: as i could tell by the change that came stealing over his features. "we must try to overtake them," said i, without answering to the ebullition. "it is important for us to come up with them. even if they be deserters, they are white men; and all whites are friends here. they muster two guns; and if these fellows are what i take them to be, they know how to handle them. we must follow them: there's no time to be lost." "ye're right thar, capt'n! the night's a comin' down fast. it's a'ready gettin' dark; an' i'm afeerd it'll be tough trackin' under the timber. if we're to catch up wi' them the night, we hain't a minnit to spare." "let us forward then!" crossing the ridge, we descended rapidly on the other side--the track of the wheel guiding us in a direct line to the nearest point of the woods. we could tell that the barrow had been trundled down the hill at top speed--by the manner in which the iron tire had abraded the surface of the slope. we had no difficulty in following the trace as far as the edge of the timber, and for some distance into it: but there, to our great surprise, the wheel-track abruptly ended! it was not that we had lost it by its having passed over dry or rocky ground. on the contrary, around the spot where it so suddenly disappeared, the surface was comparatively soft; and even an empty barrow would have made an impression sufficiently traceable, either by my companion or myself. after beating about for some time, and extending our circle to the distance of a hundred yards or so, we failed to recover the sign. certainly the barrow had not gone farther--at all events, not upon its trundle. instinctively, we turned our eyes upward--not with any superstitious belief that the fugitives had made a sudden ascent into the air. but the idea had occurred to us, that they might have hidden themselves in a tree, and drawn the barrow up into it. a single glance was sufficient to satisfy us that this conjecture was erroneous. the thin foliage of the cotton-woods offered no cover. a squirrel could hardly have concealed itself among their branches. "i've got it!" exclaimed the hunter, once more seeking along the surface. "hyar's thar tracks; tho' thar ain't no signs of the berra. i see how they've blinded us. by gosh! thar a kupple o' cunnin' old coons, whosomever they be." "how have they managed it?" "tuk up the machine on thar shoulders, an' toted it thataway! see! thar's thar own tracks! they've gone out hyar--atween these two trees." "right, comrade--that appears to be the way they've done it. sure enough there is the direction they have taken." "well! ef i wan't bothered wi' these hyar animals, i ked follow them tracks easy enough. we'd soon kum upon the wheel agin, i reck'n: they ain't a-goin' to travel fur, wi' a hump like thet on thar shoulders." "no; it's not likely." "wal, then, capt'n, s'pose we leave our critters hyar, an' take arter 'em afut? we kin quarter the groun' a good bit ahead; an i guess we'll eyther kum on them or thar berra afore long." i agreed to this proposal; and, after securing our four quadrupeds to trees, we started off into the depth of the woods. only for a short distance were we able to make out the footsteps of the men: for they had chosen the dry sward to walk upon. in one place, where the path was bare of grass, their tracks were distinctly outlined; and a minute examination of them assured me of the correctness of my conjecture--that we were trailing a brace of runaways from a military post. there was no mistaking the print of the "regulation" shoe. its shape was impressed upon my memory as plainly as in the earth before my eyes; and it required no quartermaster to recognise the low, ill-rounded heel and flat pegged soles. i identified them at a glance; and saw, moreover, that the feet of both the fugitives were encased in the same cheap _chaussure_. only in size did the tracks differ; and in this so widely, that the smaller was little more than two-thirds the length of the larger one! the latter was remarkable for size--not so much in its breadth as length, which last was not less than thirteen standard inches! on noting this peculiarity, my companion uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "thar's a fut, an' no mistake!" cried he. "i reck'n 'twar long-legs as made them tracks. well! ef i hedn't seed the man hisself, i'd a swore thar war giants in these parts!" i made no reply, though far more astonished than he. my astonishment sprang from a different source; and was mixed up in my mind with some old memories. _i remembered the foot_! chapter forty three. tracking the trundle. yes, i had seen that foot before; or one so very like it, that the resemblance was cheating me. this could hardly be. with the exception of its fellow, the foot of which i was thinking could have no counterpart on the prairies: it must be the same? at first, my recollections of it were but vague. i remembered the foot associated with some ludicrous incidents; but what they were, or when and where they had occurred, i could not say. certainly i had seen it somewhere; but where? no matter: the foot recalled no unpleasant associations. i felt satisfied it was a _friendly_ one; and was now more anxious than ever of overtaking its sesquipedalian owner. after proceeding a short distance, the shoe-tracks again became too indistinct to be followed farther. by quartering, however, we came upon them once more--at a place where the impressions were deep and clearly defined. once more the immense foot rose upon the _retina_ of my memory--this time more vividly--this time enabling me to _place_ it: for i now remembered many an odd incident that had secured it a corner on the page of my recollections. sticking through a stirrup with an enormous mexican spur on its heel--its owner mounted on a horse thin and rawboned as himself--i remembered the foot, as well as the limbs and body to which it was attached. beyond a doubt, the tall fugitive we were following was an old fellow campaigner--a veteran of the "rifle rangers!" the figure, as seen through the telescope, confirmed me in the belief. the long limbs, arms, and neck--the thin, angular body--all were characteristics of the bodily architecture of jephthah bigelow. i no longer doubted that the taller of the two men was my old follower "jeph bigelow," or "sure-shot," as his ranger comrades had christened him; and appropriate was the designation--for a surer shot than jeph never looked through the hind-sights of a rifle. who the little man might turn out to be, i could not guess--though i was not without some recollections of a figure resembling his. i remembered a certain patrick, who was also a "mimber of the corpse," and whose _build_ bore a close resemblance to that of him seen between the trams of the barrow. my conjecture as to who the men were, increased my desire to overtake them. if the tall man should turn out to be sure-shot, a rifle would be added to our strength worth a dozen ordinary guns; and, considering the risk we were running-- in danger of losing our scalps every hour in the day--it was of no small importance that we should join company with the deserters. we made every exertion, therefore, to come up with them--my comrade employing all the lore of the backwoods, in his effort to recover their traces. the new footmarks we had discovered, though lost the instant after, had served one good purpose. they indicated the general direction which the two men had followed; and this was an important point to be ascertained. we found another index in the trees. these in most places stood thickly together; and it was only here and there that an object of such breadth as a wheelbarrow could pass _conveniently_ between their trunks. carried upon the shoulders, it would be an awkward load with which to squeeze through any tight place; and it was reasonable to conclude that only the more open aisles of the forest would be followed. this enabled us to make pretty sure of the route taken; and, after trusting to such guidance for several hundred yards, we had the satisfaction to light once more upon the shoe-tracks. again only a short distance were we able to follow them; but they confirmed our belief that we were still on the right trail. my comrade had suggested that the man who carried the barrow "wud soon tire o' totin' it:" and this proved to be the case. on striking into an old buffalo-path, our eyes were once more gladdened by the sight of the wheel-track--plainly imprinted in the mud. "our prospecting" was for the time at an end. the barrow-track continued along the buffalo-path; and we were able to follow it, almost as fast as our legs could carry us. even after it had grown too dark for us to see the track of the wheel, we were not disconcerted. we could follow it by the _feel_--stooping only at intervals to make sure that it was still among our feet. in this way we had travelled, to the full distance of a mile from the place where our horses had been left, when all at once the barrow-track gave out. the buffalo-path continued on; but no barrow had passed over it, unless carried as before. this was improbable, however; and we were forced to the conclusion, that the two men had turned off, by some side-path we had not observed. while looking for this, a sound reached our ears, that resembled the murmur of a distant waterfall; but, listening more attentively, we could distinguish in it a different intonation. we at once moved in the direction whence the noise came; and before we had advanced a hundred yards through the thickly standing trees, we were aware that what we heard was the sound of human voices. another hundred yards brought us within hearing of words--at the same time that a luminous reflection cast upwards upon the trees, indicated that there was a fire at no great distance off. the underwood hindered us from seeing the fire; but guided by its gleam, we continued to advance. after making another long reach through the leafy cover, we got the fire well under our eyes, as well as those who had kindled it. we had no conjecture as to whether we had been following the true track, or whether it was the two runaway travellers we had _treed_. the point was determined by an object seen standing close to the fire, in the full glare of its ruddy light. need i say it was the wheelbarrow? chapter forty four. a brace of "old sojers." yes, it was the wheelbarrow; and the "u.s. ordnance" branded upon its side, and visible under the light of the blazing pile, told whence it had come. either fort gibson or fort smith was minus a barrow, drawn from their stores by no very formal _requisition_. there were the takers of it--one on each side of the fire--presenting as great a contrast as could well be found in two human beings. although of the same species, the two individuals were as unlike each other as a tall greyhound to a turnspit. both were seated, though in different attitudes. the little man was "squatted"--that is, with legs crossed under him, after the fashion of tailors. the long legs of his _vis-a-vis_ would scarcely admit of being thus disposed of; and his weight was resting altogether upon his hips and heels. in this posture, the caps of his knees stood up to the level of his shoulders--so that his body, viewed _en profile_, presented a pretty accurate imitation of the letter n--that sort termed by engravers the "rustic letter." the huge black hat capped one extremity; and the long pedal-like feet that rested horizontally on the ground terminated the other, completing the alphabetical resemblance. a face, with a certain mocking monkeyish expression, but without any trait of fierceness or ill-nature--a nose slightly snub--quick scintillating eyes--a chin, tipped with a little tuft of clay-coloured beard--some half-dozen queue-like tangles, of bright-yellowish hair, hanging down behind the hat--the hat itself a black "silk," badly battered--such were the salient points of the portrait appearing above the knee-caps of the taller man. with the exception of the "tile," his costume was altogether military--to me well-known. it was the ordinary undress of the mounted rifles: a dark-green round-about of coarse cloth--with a row of small brass buttons from throat to waist--and overalls of the same material. in the particular sample before us, _overalls_ was rather an inappropriate name. the garment so designated scarcely covered the calves of the wearer's legs--though of these there was not much to cover. the jacket appeared equally scant; and between its bottom border and the waistband of the trousers, there was an interval of at least six inches. in this interval was seen a shirt of true isabella colour, which also appeared over the breast--the jacket being worn unbuttoned. the frouzy cotton was visible at other places-- peeping through various rents both in jacket and trousers. a black leather stock concealed the collar of the shirt--if there was any--and though the stock itself was several inches in depth, there were other several inches of naked neck rising above its rim. coarse woollen socks, and the cheap _contract_ shoe completed the costume of sure-shot--for it was he. his contrasting comrade was equally in military garb--even more so, by the additional article of a cloth forage-cap. his was also an undress uniform; but, though of very similar cut to the other, and resembling it in the quality of the material, the colour was different. it was sky-blue, turned whitey with wear--the buttons of the jacket being of lead, and the facings of white worsted tape. it was a better fit than the green uniform; and its wearer had evidently some conceit in the style of it--as was evidenced by the jacket being carefully buttoned from waist to throat, and the forage-cap set jauntily on "three hairs." the little man was an "infantry." his horizontal diameter was twice that of his tall companion of the rifles; and in the rounded contour of his body, not an angle was apparent. his garments were quite filled by his body, arms and legs--so that there was not a wrinkle to be seen anywhere. it was a form usually styled "dapper." his face was also of the rotund shape--the features all tolerably regular, with the exception of the nose--that, like the nasal organ of his comrade, was _nez retrousse_--the turn-up being infinitely more pronounced. the expression was equally indicative of good-nature and good-fellowship--as the apple-like bloom of his cheeks, and the ochreous tinge upon the tip of the nose, sufficiently testified. cheeks, lips, and chin were beardless--with the exception of a thick stubble that had lately sprung up; but some well-greased rings of a darkish colour ruffing out under the rim of the forage-cap, showed that the "infantry" was not insensible to the pride of hair. neither in regard to him had i made a mistaken conjecture. another old acquaintance and comrade-in-arms--the redoubtable patrick o'tigg--a true son of the "sad." the two worthies, when first seen, were seated as described--both engaged in a very similar occupation--cooking. it was--by the most simple process--that of the _roti_. each held in his hand a long sapling, upon the end of which a piece of red meat was impaled; and this, projected over the fire, was fast blackening in the blaze. more of the same meat--buffalo-beef, it appeared--was seen in the wheelbarrow; its other freight being one or two greasy bags, a brace of knapsacks, a cartouche box and belt, two ordnance spades, with the guns--a "regulation" rifle and musket--lying across the top of the load. it was evident from this collection that the men were deserters; that they had armed and equipped themselves at the expense of the quartermaster. perhaps the paymaster had been in arrears with them; and they had adopted this ready and effectual method of wiping out the score? my only wonder was at not seeing a brace of _branded_ horses along with them; but in all probability, on the day--or night--of their departure, the stable sentry had been doing his duty. on becoming assured of the identity of the two individuals, my first impulse was to step forward to the fire, and make myself known to them. so eagerly were both engaged in attending to their spits, that they had neither seen nor heard us--although they themselves were now silent, and we were within less than twenty feet of them. the intervening bushes, however would have sheltered us from their sight, even if they had been a little more vigilant--as i should have expected sure-shot to have been. they were trusting all to the thicket in which they had pitched their camp; and, being hungry and wearied no doubt, were for the moment off their guard. some fantasy decided me not to disturb them for a moment--a sort of curiosity to hear what they would say, and, if possible, discover their _whence_ and _whither_. we were perfectly within earshot; and could have heard even a whisper passing from their lips--as we could also note the expression upon their faces. a sign to my companion was sufficient; and, crouching behind the leafy screen, we awaited the continuation of the suspended dialogue. chapter forty five. the barrow in debate. our patience was not put to a severe test. o'tigg was not the man to keep his tongue in tranquillity for any extended time. neither was sure-shot an admirer of the silent system. both were talkers. on this occasion, the "infantry" was the first to make himself heard. "be japers! comrayde, i'm afther thinkin' fwhat purty fools us hiv bin, to tak it afut this way, loike two thramps, whin wez moight ivery bit as wil hav been stroidin' a pair ov good pownies. we cowld a fitched a pair from the fort wid all the aize in the wurld." "yees, petrick, certing ye ain't fer 'stray 'bout thet pertickler; we've been raither ungumptious." "besoides, wez rooight as wil hav been hung for a shape as a lamb. we'll be flogg'd all as wan, iv the iskhort foinds us, fur taykin' the guns, an' the knapsacks, an' the whaleborra--bad luck to the borra!" "no, petrick, don't cuss the berra--it hes served us for certing. we kedn't a got along 'thout the machine--how ked we? we ked niver hev toted our doin's es we've did; an' but for the piece o' bacon an' thet eer bag o' meal, we'd a sterved long afore this, i recking. don't cuss the berra." "och! it's made my showlders ache, as if some skhoundrel had been batin' them wid a sprig ov shillaylah!" "ne'er a mind 'bout thet! yer shoulders 'll be all right arter ye've got a wink o' sleep. spank my skin! ef thet ere wan't a cute dodge--it's throwd the indyens off o' the scent for certain; or we'd a heerd some'ut o' them verming afore this." "faith, i think we've sucksaided in bamboozling thim, shure enough." the meat by this time showed sufficiently done; and the two men applied themselves to eating, with an earnestness that allowed no time for talking. the conversation had revealed enough of their past actions, and future designs, to confirm the conjectures i had already formed about them. as stated, they had both belonged to the "rangers" of immortal memory. after the disbandment of the corps, they had entered upon a fresh lease of soldier-life, by enlisting into the regular army. o'tigg had given preference to the sky-blue of the "line;" while the yankee had taken to the mounted rifles--as a capital marksman, like him, would naturally do. indeed, it would have been impossible to have "licked" the latter into anything like soldierly shape; and all the drill-sergeants in creation could not have made him stand with "toes turned in," or "eyes right." to have "dressed" the old ranger in line would have been a physical impossibility. in the mounted rifles, personal appearance is of less importance; and considering the little inclination there is to enlist in the american army--especially in times of peace--the oddest looking article is thankfully accepted. in the dearth of recruits. sure-shot could have had no difficulty in passing inspection. both had evidently become tired of their respective services. the routine of a frontier post is of itself sufficient to produce the deadliest _ennui_; and the californian attraction had "capped the climax." the temptation was too strong for either yankee or hibernian nature to resist; and these worthy types of both had taken french-leave of the fort. it was thus that i epitomised the recent history of my old _camarados_. as they were evidently aware of the caravan being in the advance, and had been following it, it was easily conjectured that fort smith--a military post on the arkansas opposite van buren--had been the scene of their defection. very likely, they had kept near the train all along the route--with a view to guidance and partial protection--as also for a _dernier ressort_ to which they might betake themselves in case of their stores giving out. the escort, hinted at, would be sufficient to account for their not being in closer communication with the caravan. it appeared, they had been so far fortunate in escaping an encounter with indians; but this, as in our case, was most likely due to the passage of the caravan. we knew that the red-skinned robbers would be too much occupied with the train itself and its more immediate stragglers, to be looking out for any so far in the rear as we; and to this circumstance, no doubt, were we indebted for the uninterrupted travel we had achieved. a greater proximity to the train would have rendered our passage more perilous. sure-shot, though a slouch in his dress, was no simpleton. the trick of taking up the barrow was, no doubt, a conception of his brain, as well as its being borne upon the shoulders of the irishman--who, in all likelihood, had performed the _role_ of wheeling it from fort smith to the big timbers, and was expected to push it before him to the edge of the pacific ocean! it was evident that patrick was tired of his task: for they had not made much progress in their homeric supper, before he once more returned to the subject. "but shure now, comrayde! we moight manage widout the borra--seein' as we've got into the buffalos' counthry. aren't them bastes as aizy to kill as tame cows? shure we'd niver be widout mate as long as our powder lasts?" "jess t'other way, ye fool! we're a going _out_ o' the buffuler country, an' into perts where theer ain't a anymal bigger than a rat. on t'other side o' the mountings, theer ain't no beests o' any kind-- neery one; an' its jess theer we'll want that eer bag o' meel. ef we don't take it along, we'll sterve for certing." "be me sowl! i'd ruther carry the male on my showlders. there's liss of it now; an' maybe i could manage it, iv you'ld only carry the spids, an' thim other things. we moight lave the knapsicks an' kyarthridge-box behind. what use ud they be in kalifornya? they'll only lade to our detiction by the throops out there." "don't ee be skeert 'bout thet, kimrade! ef theer's troops in californey, they'll hev theer hands full 'ithout troublin' us, i reeking. we ain't like to be the only two critters as hain't got a _pass_ for the diggins. ne'er a bit o't. we'll find deserters out theer es thick as blue-bottles on a barkiss. certingly we shell. besides, petrick, we needn't take the knepsacks all the way out theer, nor the berra neythur, nor nuthin' else we've brought from the fort." "fwhat div yez mane?" interrogated the irishman--evidently puzzled to interpret the other's speech. "we kin leave all them fixing in morming city." "but will the thrain be afther thravellin' that way? shure ye don't know that." "certing it will. a putty consid'able pert o' it air made up o' mormings; an' they'll be boun' to the salt lake. we kin foller them an' drop t'other. in the morming settlements, we kin swop our unyforms for suthin' else, an' the berra too. es to the knepsacks an' cartridge-box, i guess as how i inteend to make a spec on them ere two articles." "fwhat! a pair ov soger knapsacks, an' an owld kyarthridge-box! they wuldn't fitch the worth ov dhrinks apaice." "theer your mistaking, mister tigg. preehaps they'll swop better'n you think. how d'ye know i ain't like to git a beest apiece for 'em--eyther a mule or a hoss? this child ain't a going to fut it all the way to californey. b'yont the morming city, he rides a spell, i recking." "be japers! that's an out-an'-out good oidea. but how dev ye mane to carry it through? that's what bothers patrick o'tigg." "we--ell, petrick, i'll tell ee my plan. i ain't got it straightened out yet, but i hope to hev it all right by the time we're on t'other side the mountings--leastwise before we reaches morming city." "arrah! fwhat is it?" inquired the impatient irishman. the yankee did not vouchsafe an immediate answer; but, while polishing off the bone he held in his hand, appeared at the same time to be busy with some mental operation--perhaps _straightening out_ the plan he had promised to reveal. chapter forty six. a tough story. for some seconds the two worthies observed a mutual silence--broken only by a formidable rattle of teeth, as large "chunks" of buffalo-meat were put through their respective masticating machines. curious to hear the promised revelation, wingrove and i checked our impatience, and clung to our covert among the bushes. one thing--to which their speech had incidentally adverted--was not without much significance; and had produced upon me a certain impression that was unpleasant. they appeared to know, or sure-shot did, that at least a portion of the train was _en route_ for the mormon city. it is true, i had had originally suspicions of this; but the letter of lilian had led me to hope it might be otherwise. any destination but that. i had commenced reflecting upon this point, when i was interrupted by the voice of sure-shot resuming the conversation. thus did he enter on his explanation: "ye see, kimrade, these mormings, es i've heern, air mighty taken up wi' sogerin', an' thet sort o' thing. ye've heerd talk o' theer great bettelion. they'll be arter these eer treppings for certing, since they hain't much chence o' gittin' soger fixings out theer. we-ell, what i mean to do is to put the knepsacks off on 'em for some new improvement o' pattern. i guess it air thet--i've heerd say so at the fort--then the morming jineral, who air the prophet hisself, an' who's got berrls o' dollars--he'll buy the knepsacks at any price. now, de ye take, mister tigg?" "troth do i. but dev ye think yez can fool thim so aizy?" "easy as eatin' punkin-pie. jehosophet! i hain't been five year in the tradin' line 'ithout lernin' the bizness, i recking." "be me faith! yez must have been raal cliver at it, whin ye sowld them cypress-knees for bacon-hams to the bawltemoreans. you remimber that story yez towld us down in mixico?" "yees; certingly i remember it--he, he, he! but i kim a better trick then thet on the orleens people 'bout five yeer ago--jest 'fore i jined the rangers." "fwhat was it, shure?" "we--ell, ye see, i wan't allers es poor es i'm now. i hed a pertnership in a bit o' a schooner, es used to trade 'tween bosting an' orleens, an' we used to load her wi' all sorts o' notions, to sell to the orleens folk. jehosophet an' pork-pies! they air fools, an' no mistake--them creole french. we ked a sold 'em wooden nutmegs, an' brick-dust for cayenne pepper, an' such like; an' i 'bout guess es how we did spekoolate a leetle in thet line o' bizness. wall, there kim a time when they tuk a notion they ked make cheep _brogan_, as they call 'em, out o' allygator's leather, an' supply the hul nigger market wi' 'em. the neels were dear, an' so they tuk to usin' boot-pegs; but not hevin' a manafactry o' the pegs down south, they hed to git 'em from the no'th. jest then, my pertner an' i thought o' makin' a spekoolashun on the pegs; so we loaded our schooner wi' thet eer freight, chuck right up to the hetches; an' then sot off from bosting for orleens. we thort we'd make our derned fortune out thet eer trip." "shure yez did, didn't ye?" "no-o-o; neer a bit o' 't. it keemd nigh breakin' us." "arrah, how?" "we-ell! ye see, when we got roun' to orleens, we learnt that the boot-trade hed a'most stopped. the allygator leather didn't turn out jest the thing for brogans; an' besides, it got sca'ce by reezun o' the killin' o' them verming. in coorse, the pegs hed fell in price; they'd kim down so low, that we ked only git twenty-five cents a bushel for 'em!" "mother ov moses! only twenty-five cents a bushel!" "thet was all they'd fetch--offer 'em when an' wheer we would. in coorse, we wan't fools enough to take thet--the dernationed pegs hed cost us more in bosting!" "divil a doubt ov it? but fwhat did yez do wid 'em, anyhow?" "we-ell, mister tigg, we weer cleer beat at fust; an' didn't know what to do--neyther me'r my pertner. but arter takin' a good think over it, i seed a way o' gitting out o' the scrape--leestwise 'ithout sech a loss as sellin' the pegs at twenty-five cents the bushel. i seed a chence o' gitting rid o' them at fifty cents." "arrah, now! in fwhat way, comrade?" "you've seed boot-pegs, i recking, mister tigg?" "an' shure i hiv. aren't they the same that's in these suttlers' brogues we've got on--bad luck to them?" "jess the same--only whitier when they air new." "be japers! i think i remimber seein' a barrel full ov thim in new yark." "very certing it were them--they air usooaly packed in berr'ls. can you think o' anything they looked like?" "wil, in troth, they looked more loike oats than anything i can recollect. shure they did look moighty like oats!" "an' don't ee kalkerlate they'd a looked more like oats, ef they'd been pointed at both ends instead o' one!" "in troth, would they--all that same." "we-ell, thet's the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time." "arrah now, is it? an' fwhat did yez do wid the pegs then?" "_jest sharpened the other eends o' 'em, an' sold 'em for oats_!" the puzzled, half-incredulous stare, on the countenance of the hibernian, was ridiculous in the extreme. the allegation of the yankee had deprived him of speech; and for some moments he sat gazing at the latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the story, or reject it as a little bit of a "sell" upon the part of his comrade--with whose eccentricity of character he was well acquainted. equally ludicrous was the look of gravity on the countenance of the other--which he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with all the solemnity of a judge upon the bench. it was as much as my companion and i could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in holding in. "och, now, misther shure-shat!" gasped the irishman at length, "an' it's only jokin' ye are?" "truth i tell ye, petrick--every word o' 't. ye see the oats weer jest then sellin' at fifty cents the bushel, an' thet paid us. we made a lettle suthin', too, by the speekolashun." "but how did yez get the other inds pointed at all--at all?" "oh! thet weer eezy enough. i invented a machine for thet, an' run 'em through in less'n no time. when they kim out at t'other eend o' the machine, _i kednt meself a told 'em from oats_!" "och! now i comprehend. arrah! an' wasn't it a quare thrick? be my sowl, it bates bannagher all to paces! ha, ha, haw!" wingrove and i could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud cachinnation--as if we had been its echoes--sprang forward to the front. infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout of "indians!" and dropping their spits and half-eaten _appolas_ of meat, dashed into the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits! in an instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone indicated by the rattling of the branches as they passed through them. i was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having used more caution in approaching them. at that crisis, an idea came to my aid; and giving out an old signal, well-remembered by the _ci-devant_ rangers, i had the gratification of receiving a double response. the utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and i could hear them exchanging surmises and exclamations of astonishment, as they retraced their steps towards the fire. presently, a pair of short, snub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves; while from the lips of their owners burst simultaneously, "the cyaptin'!" "the capting!" with various other phrases in their respective _patois_, expressive of surprise and recognition. a few words sufficed to explain all. as we had surmised, the men were deserters. neither attempted to deny what, in time of peace, is not considered a very heinous crime; and for which, just then, the "californian fever" was considered an ample justification. it was no affair of ours. i was only too rejoiced to join company with the runaways, of whose loyalty to myself i had proofs of old. their guns-- more especially the rifle of sure-shot--would be a valuable addition to our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of night, we might now advance with more freedom and rapidity. it was determined, therefore, to share our means of transport with our new comrades--an offer by them eagerly and readily accepted. the partial consumption of our stores had lightened the packs upon our mules; and the contents of the wheelbarrow, equally divided between them, would give to each only its ordinary load. the barrow itself was abandoned--left among the big timbers--to puzzle at a future period some red-skinned archaeologist-- cheyenne or arapaho! chapter forty seven. the mountain parks. we now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the ground in advance. although the four of us might have defended ourselves against four times our number of indian enemies, we were passing through apart of the country, where, if indians were to be met at all, it would be in large bands or "war-parties." the arkansas heads in that peculiar section of the rocky mountain chain known as the "parks"--a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of fur-trading and trapping--the arena of a greater number of adventures-- of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes--than perhaps any other spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe. here the great cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or "sierras," over which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, "pike's" and "long's" peaks, and the "wa-to-ya" or "cumbres espanolas";--projected far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of eternal snow. between their bases--embosomed amid the most rugged surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities--lie _vallees_, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring--watered by crystal streams--sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the world. the most noted of these are the old and new "parks," and the "bayou salade"--because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men--the trappers--who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver-- its favourite _building ground_. over these valley-plains roam "gangs" of the gigantic buffalo; while in the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds. on the cliffs that overhang them, the noble form of the _carnero cimmaron (ovis montana_)-- or, "bighorn" of the hunters--maybe seen, in bold outline against the sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly bear--the most fierce and formidable of american _carnivora_. the red couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict. birds of fairer fame add animation to the scene. the magnificent _meleagris_, shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a tempting aim to the hunter's rifle--as it promises to afford him a rich repast; and the _coq de prairie_, and its gigantic congener the "sage grouse," whirr up at intervals along the path. the waters have their denizens, in the grey canada and white-fronted geese--ducks of numerous species--the stupid pelican and shy loon--gulls, cormorants, and the noble swan; while the groves of _alamo_ ring with the music of numerous bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist. but no land of peace is this fair region of the rocky mountains. there are parks, but no palaces--there are fertile fields, but none to till them--for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of day. the trapper skulks silently along the creek--scarcely trusting himself to whisper to his companion--and watching warily as he renews the bait of _castoreum_. the hunter glides with stealthy tread from copse to copse--dreading the echo of his own rifle. even the red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his kindred--a "hunting" or "war-party." the ground is neutral, as it is hostile--claimed by many tribes and owned by none. all enter it to hunt or make war, but none to settle or colonise. from every quarter of the compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as there are points upon the card. from the north, the crow and sioux; from the south, the kiowa, the comanche, the jicarilla-apache--and even at times the tame taosa. from the east penetrate, the cheyenne, the pawnee, and arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters' paradise, pour the warlike bands of the utah and shoshonee. all these tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the deadliest character. such are the vendettas between crow and shoshonee, pawnee and comanche, utah and arapaho. some of the tribe have the repute of being friendly to the whites. among these may be mentioned the utahs and crows; while the more dreaded names are cheyenne, kiowa, and arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted blackfeet farther north. in all cases, however, the amity of the prairie indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed; and the trapper--even in crow or utah land--is accustomed "to sleep with one eye open." in past times, utahs have been more partial to the pale-faces than most other tribes of north americans; and in their territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or "rendezvous," are situated. at times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters; and then are the utahs to be dreaded--more, perhaps, than any other indians. in their association with their trapper allies, they have learnt how to handle--and with skill--that most formidable of weapons, for partisan warfare--the hunter's rifle. at the time of which i write, the utahs were reported to be on good terms with the whites. the mormons had done everything to conciliate them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their territory with perfect safety. it was chiefly in the passes that led to the utahs' country, that danger from indians was to be apprehended--in the valleys and ravines above mentioned--where cheyennes, comanches, pawnees, and arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the utahs themselves. we were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great cordillera. from beyond the big timbers, three routes were open to it. first was the southern route through the eaton mountains, which leads to santa fe, in new mexico, and is known as the "santa fe trail." i did not anticipate their taking this one. it was not their design, on leaving fort smith, to pass by santa fe--else would they have kept up the canadian, by the head of the llano estacado; and thence to california by the gila. another route parts from the arkansas still higher up--by one of its affluents, the _fontaine que bouit_. this is the "cherokee trail," which, after running north along the eastern slope of the rocky mountains, crosses them by the cheyenne pass, and on through bridger's pass into the central valley of the great basin. neither did i believe that the train would travel by this trail. the season of the year was against the supposition. in all probability, the central route of the three would be the one followed--leading from the arkansas up the huerfano river, and through "robideau's pass," or that of the "sangre de cristo." either of these conducts into the valley of the rio del norte; thence by the famed "coochetopa," or "gate of the buffaloes," on the head waters of the western colorado. this pass, though long known to the trappers and _ciboleros_ of new mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the pacific; but, being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both by californian and mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons. the caravan had left van buren with the design of taking this road; but i knew that the design might be altered by contingencies--hence our uncertainty. the rocky mountains could be crossed, by following up the arkansas to its remotest sources on the southern side of the bayou salade; but the stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass practicable for wheeled vehicles. only by mounted men, or pack-mules, can the cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it. at three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the arkansas--near bent's old fort, for the southern route: at the _fontaine que bouit_ river, for the northern; and for the central, it should diverge up the valley of the huerfano. in any case, our risk would be unquestionably great. we should have to travel through districts of country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where, though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to _scalp_, after killing each other, is equally a _mutual_ custom! such was the character of the region through which we should have to travel. no wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains. independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten on. at first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design of overtaking the train. they had the _escort_ in their thoughts, and along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat. but a little instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from indians--of which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance--reconciled them to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a pleasing rapidity. both preferred risking the skin of their backs to losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear: since i had promised to _disguise_ them, before bringing them face to face with the troopers of the escort. notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. we made most way under the friendly shadow of night--sometimes by the light of the moon--and only by day, when we could discover no indian sign in our neighbourhood. only two of us could ride at a time--the other two taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well, as when each has a horse to himself. our pack-animals gave us little trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow in file, and without requiring to be led. we refrained from making fires, where the ground was unfavourable. only when we could choose our camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple _cuisine_. these precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely necessary in a passage across the prairies--at least by a party so small as ours. perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be told. chapter forty eight. the abandoned bouquet. having passed bent's fort--of wide celebrity in trapper lore--whilom the scene of many a wild revel of the "mountain-men," but now abandoned and in ruins--we arrived at the confluence of the huerfano. as we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream--thus deciding the route taken by the caravan. we rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the huerfano river, reached a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank. on the other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night before. we could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons-- debris of the morning's repast--and half-burnt faggots of the tires that had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke. the stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. with singular emotions, i walked amid the smouldering fires--forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. where had she passed the night, and what had occupied her thoughts? were those gentle words still lingering in her memory? were they upon her lips? it was pleasant for me to repeat them. i did not need to draw the writing forth. long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance--oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song: "i think of thee--i think of thee!" my reflections were not altogether unmingled with pain. love cannot live without doubts and fears. jealousy is its infallible concomitant-- ever present as the thorn with the rose. how could i hope that one hour of my presence had been sufficient to inspire in that young bosom the passion of a life? it could scarcely be other than a slight impression--a passing admiration of some speech, word, or gesture--too transient to be true? perhaps i was already forgotten? perhaps only remembered with a smile, instead of a sigh? though still but a short time since our parting, many scenes had since transpired--many events had occurred in the life of that young creature to give it experience. forms of equal--perhaps superior elegance--had come before her eye. might not one of these have made its image upon her heart? the caravan was not a mere conglomeration of coarse rude adventurers. there were men of all classes composing it--not a few of accomplished education--not a few who, using a hackneyed phrase, were "men of the world,"--familiar with its ways and its wiles--and who perfectly understood all those intricate attentions and delicate lures, by which the virgin heart is approached and captured. there were military men too--those ever to be dreaded rivals in love--young officers of the escort, laced, booted, and spurred--bedecked, moreover, with that mysterious influence which authority ever imparts to its possessor. could these be blind to the charms of such a travelling companion? impossible. or could she--her young bosom just expanding to receive the god of love--fail to acknowledge the nearest form as his image? painfully improbable! it was therefore with feelings of no very pleasant kind that i sought around for some souvenir. the remains of a fire, a little apart from the rest, near the edge of a piece of copsewood, drew my attention. it looked as if it had been a spot on which some family group had encamped. i was led to this conjecture, by observing some flowers scattered near--for the grassy sward showed no other sign. the flowers betokened the presence of womankind. fair faces--or one at least--had beamed in the light of that fire. i felt morally certain of it. i approached the spot. the shrubbery around was interlaced with wild roses; while blue lupins and scarlet pelargoniums sparkled over the glade, under the sheltering protection of the trees. by the edge of the shrubbery lay a bouquet, that had evidently been put together with some care! dismounting, i took it up. my fingers trembled as i examined it: for even in this slight object i read indications of design. the flowers were of the rarest and prettiest--of many kinds that grew not near. they had been plucked elsewhere. some one had given both time and attention to their collection and arrangement. who? it would have been idle to shape even a conjecture, but for a circumstance, that appeared to offer a certain clue; and, not without bitter thoughts, did i try to unwind it. the thread which was warped around the flower-stalks was of yellow silk. the strands were finely twisted; and i easily recognised the bullion from the tassel of a sash. that thread must have been taken from the sash of a dragoon officer! had the bouquet been a gift? to whom? and by whom? here all conjecture should have ended; but not without a feeling of painful suspicion did i examine those trivial signs; and the feeling continued to annoy me, long after i had flung the flowers at my feet. a reflection came to my relief, which went far towards restoring my spirits' equanimity. if a gift, and to lilian holt, she had scarcely honoured it--else how could the flowers have been there? had they been forgotten, or left unregarded? there was consolation in either hypothesis; and, in the trust that one or the other was true, i sprang back into my saddle, and with a more cheerful heart, rode away from the spot. chapter forty nine. an unexpected appearance. the finding of the flowers, or rather the reflections to which they gave rise, rendered me more anxious than ever to come up with, the caravan. the little incident had made me aware of a new danger hitherto unthought of. up to that hour, my chief anxiety with regard to lilian holt had been the companionship of the mormon. this had been heightened by some information incidentally imparted by the deserters--chiefly by sure-shot. it related to the destination of a number of the emigrants, who accompanied the caravan; and with whom the rifleman had held intercourse, previous to their departure from van buren. these were not prospective gold-diggers, but persons migrating westward from motives more spiritual: they were _saints_ bound for the salt lake--there intending to stay and settle. there was a large party of these "latter-day" converts under the conduct of an apostolic agent. this much had sure-shot ascertained. he had not seen their leader, nor heard his name. joshua stebbins might be the very man? even as a conjecture, this was bitter enough. up to the time of joining with the deserters, i had consoled myself with the belief, that california was the destination of this saint and his squatter protege; though at times i was troubled with the remembrance of su-wa-nee's words. their truth was almost confirmed by the report of the ex-rifleman. i could not now think otherwise, than that stebbins was bound for the mormon city; and that he was the fox in charge of the flock of geese that accompanied the emigrant train. it was more than probable. while waiting in swampville for the letter of lilian, i had learnt something of the history of the _ci-devant_ schoolmaster--not much of the period subsequent to his departure from that place--little more than the fact that he had joined the mormons, and had risen to high office in their church--in short, that he was one of their "apostles." this fact, however, was one of primary significance. had the squatter also submitted to the hideous delusion? was he also on his way to the shrine of the faith? the answer to the former question was of slight importance, so long as that to the latter might be conceived in the affirmative. if holt was bound to the salt lake, then was the fate of his daughter to be dreaded. not long there may a virgin dwell. the baptism of the new jordan soon initiates its female neophytes into the mysteries of womanhood--absolutely compelling them to the marriage-tie--forcing them to a wedlock loveless and unholy. suffering under such apprehensions, i scarcely needed the additional stimulus of jealousy to urge me onward; and yet, strange as it may appear, the finding of the bouquet had produced this effect. i would have ridden on, without halt, but our animals required rest. we had been travelling nearly all night, and throughout the morning--under the friendly shelter of the cotton-wood forest. we all needed an hour or two of repose; and, seeking a secure place near the ground of the deserted camp, we stopped to obtain it. the train could not be far ahead of us. while seated in silence around the fire we had kindled, we could hear at intervals the reports of guns. they came from up the valley, and from a far distance. the sounds reached us but faintly--now single shots, and then two or three together, or following in quick succession. we were at no loss to account for the reports. they were caused by the hunters of the caravan, in pursuit of game. we had now entered that charming region where elk and antelope abounded. on our morning-march we had seen herds of both trooping over the sward--almost within range of our rifles. even as we sat, a band of beautiful antelopes appeared in the open ground near our bivouack fire; and, after satisfying their curiosity by gazing at us for a moment, they trotted off into the covert. it was a tempting sight--too tempting for the young backwoods hunter to resist. seizing his rifle, he took after them--promising us as he went off a more savoury breakfast than the dry buffalo-meat we were broiling. soon after, we heard the report of his piece; and, presently, he re-appeared with a dead "prong-horn" upon his shoulders. as wingrove came up to the fire, i noticed a singular expression upon his countenance. instead of being rejoiced at his success, his looks betrayed anxiety! i questioned him as to the cause. he did not answer directly; but, drawing me to one side, inquired in a whisper, if i had seen any one in his absence. "no. why do you ask?" "if it wan't altogether unpossible, i'd swar i seed that girl." "what girl?" i trembled, as i put the question: i was thinking of lilian. "that darnationed devil of a chicasaw." "what! su-wa-nee?" "yes--su-wa-nee." "oh--that cannot be? it could not be her?" "so i'd a thort myself; but darn me, capt'n! if i kin b'lieve it wa'nt her. what i seed war as like her as two eggs." "what did you see?" "why, jest arter i'd killed the goat, an' war heisting it on my shoulders, i spied a injun glidin' into the bushes. i seed it war a squaw; an' jest the picter o' the chicasaw. she 'peared as ef she hed kim right from hyar, an' i thort you must a seed her." "did you get sight of her face?" "no, her back war torst me, an' she kep on 'ithout turnin' or stoppin' a minnit. 'twar the very duds that girl used to wear, an' her bulk to an inch. it kudn't a been liker her. darn me, ef 'twan't eyther her or her ghost!" "it is very improbable that it could have been either?" i did not for a moment entertain the idea that it was the chicasaw he had seen; and yet my comrade was fully impressed with the belief, and reiterated the assertion that he had either seen su-wa-nee or her "shadder." though the thing was improbable, it was not beyond possibility. we knew that there were indians travelling with the train: we had heard so before starting out. but what likelihood was there of su-wa-nee being among them? certainly not much. that there were prairie indians around us, was probable enough. we had already observed their traces upon the ground of the deserted camp. the "squaw" seen by wingrove might be one of these. whether or not, her presence proved the proximity of red-skins; and the knowledge of having such dangerous neighbours, summoned us to a fresh exercise of vigilance and caution. our fire was instantly extinguished; and, contenting ourselves with a morsel of the half-broiled buffalo-beef, we moved to some distance from the spot, before proceeding, to cook the antelope. a dark covert in the thick woods offered us a more secure kitchen. there we rekindled our fire--and roasting the ribs of the prong-horn, refreshed ourselves with an ample meal. after an hour's repose, we resumed our journey--in confident expectation, that before sunset we should get within sight of the caravan. chapter fifty. up the canon. we had not ridden far from our halting-place, when we arrived at the end of the great cotton-wood forest. beyond that, the trace led over open ground--here and there dotted by groves and "islands" of timber. through these we threaded our way--keeping as much as possible among the trees. further on, we came upon a gorge--one of the noted _canons_ through which the huerfano runs. here the river sweeps down a narrow channel, with rocky banks that rise on each side into precipitous cliffs of stupendous height. to avoid this gorge--impassable for wheeled vehicles--the waggon-trace, below its entrance, turns off to the right; and we perceived that the caravan had taken that direction. to get round the heads of the transverse ravines, that run into the _canon_, a detour must be made of not less than ten miles in length. beyond the canon--the trace once more returns to the stream. the notes of a military reconnoissance had forewarned me of this deviation; and, furthermore, that the trace passes over a ridge altogether destitute of timber. to follow it, therefore, in the broad light of day, would expose our little party to view. if hostile indians should be hanging after the caravan, they would be sure to see us, and equally certain to make an attack upon us; and from the traces we had noticed at the night-camp--to say nothing of what wingrove had seen--we knew there were indians in the valley. they might not be hostile; but the chances were ten to one that they were; and, under this supposition, it would be imprudent in us to risk crossing the ridge before nightfall. there were two alternatives: to remain under the timber till after sunset, and then proceed by night; or to push on into the canon, and endeavour to make our way along the bed of the stream. so far as we knew, the path was an untried one; but it might be practicable for horses. we were now on the most dangerous ground we had yet trodden-- the highway of several hostile tribes, and their favourite _tenting-place_, when going to, or returning from, their forays against the half-civilised settlements of new mexico. the proximity of the caravan--which we calculated to be about ten miles ahead of us--only increased our risk. there was but little danger of the indians attacking that: the train was too strong, even without the escort. but the probability was, that a band of indian horse-thieves would be skulking on its skirts--not to make an attack upon the caravan itself but as wolves after a gang of buffalo, to sacrifice the stragglers. unless when irritated by some hostile demonstration, these robbers confine themselves to plundering: but in the case of some, murder is the usual concomitant of plunder. the delay of another night was disheartening to all of us--but especially so to myself, for reasons already known. if we should succeed in passing through the canon, perhaps on the other side we might come in sight of the caravan? cheered on by this prospect, we hesitated no longer; but hastening forward, entered between the jaws of the defile. a fearful chasm it was--the rocky walls rising perpendicularly to the height of many hundreds of feet--presenting a grim _facade_ on each side of us. the sky above appeared a mere strip of blue; and we were surrounded by a gloom deeper than that of twilight. the torrent roared and foamed at our feet; and the trail at times traversed through the water. there _was_ a trail, as we soon perceived; and, what was more significant, one that had recently been travelled! horses had been over it; and in several places the rocky pebbles, that should otherwise have been dry, were wet by the water that had dripped from their fetlocks. a large troop of horses must have passed just before us. had the dragoon escort gone that way? more likely a party of mounted travellers belonging to the train? and yet this did not strike us as being likely. we were soon convinced that such was not the case. on riding forward, we came upon a mud-deposit--at the mouth of one of the transverse ravines--over which led the trail. the mud exhibited the _tracks_ distinctly and in a more significant light--they were _hoof-tracks_! we saw that more than a hundred horses had passed up the defile; and not one _shod_ animal among them! this fact was very significant. they could not have been troop-horses? nor yet those of white men? if ridden, they must have been ridden by indians? it did not follow that they were ridden. we were travelling through a region frequented by the _mustang_. droves had been seen upon our route, at great distances off: for these are the shyest and wildest of all animals. a _caballada_ may have passed through the gorge, on their way to the upper valley? there was nothing improbable in this. although the plains are the favourite habitat of the horse, the _mustang_ of spanish america is half a mountain animal; and often penetrates the most difficult passes-- climbing the declivities with hoof as sure as that of a chamois. had these horses been ridden? that was the point to be determined, and how? the sign was not very intelligible, but sufficiently so for our purpose. the little belt of mud-deposit was only disturbed by a single line of tracts--crossing it directly from side to side. the animals had traversed it in single file. wild horses would have _crowded over it_-- some of them at least kicking out to one side or the other? this i myself knew. the reasoning appeared conclusive. we had no longer a doubt that a large party of indians had gone up the gorge before us, and not very long before us. it now became a question of advance or retreat. to halt within the defile--even had a halting-place offered--would have been perilous above all things. there was no spot, where we could conceal either ourselves or our animals. the mounted indians might be returning down again; and, finding us in such a snug trap, would have us at their mercy? we did not think, therefore, of staying where we were. to go back was too discouraging. we were already half through the canon, and had ridden over a most difficult path--often fording the stream at great risk, and climbing over boulders of rock, that imperilled the necks, both of ourselves and our animals. we determined to keep on. we were in hopes that the indians had by this time passed clear through the gorge, and ridden out into the valley above. in that case there would be no great risk in our proceeding to the upper end. our expectations did not deceive us. we reached the mouth of the chasm-- without having seen other signs of those who had proceeded us, than the tracks of their horses. we had heard sounds, however, that had given us some apprehension--the reports of guns--not as during the early part of the day, in single shots, but in half-dozens at a time, and once or twice in large volleys--as if of a scattering _fusillade_! the sounds came from the direction of the upper valley; and were but faintly heard--so faintly that we were in doubt, as to whether they were the reports of fire-arms. the grumbling and rushing of the river hindered us from hearing them more distinctly. but for the presence of indians in the valley--about which we were quite certain--we should perhaps not have noticed the sounds, or else have taken them for something else. perhaps we might have conjectured, that a gang of buffaloes had passed near the train-- leading to a brisk emptying of rifles. but the presence of the indians rendered this hypothesis less probable. we still continued to observe caution. before emerging from the defile, we halted near its entrance--wingrove and myself stealing forward to reconnoitre. an elevated post--which we obtained upon a shelf of the rock--gave us a commanding prospect of the upper valley. the sight restored our confidence: _the caravan was in view_! chapter fifty one. the orphan butte. the landscape over which we were looking was one that has long been celebrated, in the legends of trapper and _cibolero_, and certainly no lovelier is to be met with in the midland regions of america. though new to my eyes, i recognised it from the descriptions i had read and heard of it. there was an idiosyncrasy in its features--especially in that lone mound rising conspicuously in its midst--which at once proclaimed it the valley of the _huerfano_. there stood the "orphan butte." there was no mistaking its identity. this valley, or, more properly, _valle_--a word of very different signification--is in reality a level plain, flanked on each side by a continuous line of bluffs or "benches"--themselves forming the abutments of a still higher plain, which constitutes the general level of the country. the width between the bluffs is five or six miles; but, at the distance of some ten miles from our point of view, the cliffs converge-- apparently closing in the valley in that direction. this, however, is only apparent. above the butte is another deep canon, through which the river has cleft its way. the intervening space is a picture fair to behold. the surface, level as a billiard-table, is covered with _gramma_ grass, of a bright, almost emerald verdure. the uniformity of this colour is relieved by cotton-wood copses, whose foliage is but one shade darker. commingling with these, and again slightly darkening the hue of the frondage, are other trees, with a variety of shrubs or climbing-plants--as clematis, wild roses, and willows. here and there, a noble poplar stands apart--as if disdaining to associate with the more lowly growth of the groves. these "topes" are of varied forms: some rounded, some oval, and others of more irregular shape. many of them appear as if planted by the hands of the landscape-gardener; while the huerfano, winding through their midst, could not have been more gracefully guided, had it been specially designed for an "ornamental water." the butte itself, rising in the centre of the plain, and towering nearly two hundred feet above the general level, has all the semblance of an artificial work--not of human hands, but a cairn constructed by giants. just such does it appear--a vast pyramidal cone, composed of huge prismatic blocks of granite, black almost as a coal--the dark colour being occasioned by an iron admixture in the rock. for two-thirds of its slope, a thick growth of cedar covers the mound with a skirting of darkest green. above this appear the dark naked prisms--piled one upon the other, in a sort of irregular crystallisation, and ending in a summit slightly truncated. detached boulders lie around its base, huge pieces that having yielded to the disintegrating influences of rain and wind, had lost their balance, and rolled down the declivity of its sides. no other similar elevation is near--the distant bluffs alone equalling it in height. but there the resemblance ends; for the latter are a formation of stratified sandstone, while the rocks composing the butte are purely granitic! even in a geological point of view, is the orphan butte isolated from all the world. in a double sense, does it merit its distinctive title. singular is the picture formed by this lone mound, and the park-like scene that surrounds it--a picture rare as fair. its very framing is peculiar. the bench of light-reddish sandstone sharply outlined on each edge--the bright green of the sward along its base--and the dark belt of cedars cresting its summit, form, as it were, a double moulding to the frame. over this can be distinguished the severer outlines of the great cordilleras; above them, again, the twin cones of the wa-to-yah; and grandly towering over all, the sharp sky-piercing summit of pike's peak. all these forms gleaming in the full light of a noonday sun, with a heaven above them of deep ethereal blue, present a picture that for grandeur and sublimity is not surpassed upon the earth. a long while could we have gazed upon it; but an object, that came at once under our eyes, turned our thoughts into a far different channel. away up the valley, at its furthest end, appeared a small white spot-- little bigger to our view than the disc of an archer's target. it was of an irregular roundish form; and on both sides of it were other, shapes--smaller and of darker hue. we had no difficulty in making out what these appearances were: the white object was the tilt of a waggon: the dark forms around it were those of men--mounted and afoot! it must have been the last waggon of the train: since no other could be seen; and as it appeared at the very end of the valley--in the angle formed by the convergence of the cliffs--we concluded that there the canon opened into which the rest had entered. whether the waggon seen was moving onward, we did not stay to determine. the caravan was in sight; and this, acting upon us like an electric influence, impelled us to hasten forward. calling to our companions to advance, we remounted our horses, rode out of the gorge, and kept on up the valley. we no longer observed the slightest caution. the caravan was before our eyes; and there could be no doubt that, in a couple of hours, we should be able to come up with it. as to danger, we no longer thought of such a thing. indians would scarcely be so daring as to assail us within sight of the train? had it been night, we might have reasoned differently; but, under the broad light of day, we could not imagine there was the slightest prospect of danger. we resolved, therefore, to ride direct for the waggons, without making halt. yes--one halt was to be made. i had promised the _ci-devant_ soldiers to make _civilians_ of them before bringing them face to face with the escort; and this was to be accomplished by means of some spare wardrobe which wingrove and i chanced to have among our packs. the place fixed upon as the scene of the metamorphosis was the butte--which lay directly on our route. as we rode forward, i was gratified at perceiving that the waggon still remained in sight. if it was moving on, it had not yet reached the head of the valley. perhaps it had stopped to receive some repairs? so much the better: we should the sooner overtake it. on arriving at the butte, the white canvas was still visible; though from our low position on the plain, only the top of the tilt could be seen. while wingrove was unpacking our spare garments, i dismounted, and climbed to the summit of the mound--in order to obtain a better view. i had no difficulty in getting up--for, strange to say, a trail runs over the orphan butte, from south-east to north-west, regularly aligned with pike's peak in the latter direction, and with _spanish peaks_ in the former! but this alignment was not the circumstance that struck me as singular. a far more curious phenomenon came under my observation. the path leading to the summit was entirely clear of the granite blocks that everywhere else covered the declivities of the mound. between these it passed like a narrow lane, the huge prisms rising on each side of it, piled up in a regular trap-like formation, as if placed there by the hand of man! the latter hypothesis was out of the question. many of the blocks were a dozen feet in diameter, and tons in weight. titans alone could have lifted them! the summit itself was a table of some twenty by forty feet in superficial extent, and seamed by several fissures. only by following the path could the summit be reached without great difficulty. the loose boulders rested upon one another, in such fashion, that even the most expert climber would have found difficulty in scaling them; and the stunted spreading cedars that grew between their clefts, combined in forming a _chevaux de frise_ almost impenetrable. i was not permitted to dwell long on the contemplation of this geological phenomenon. on reaching the summit, and directing my telescope up the valley, i obtained a tableau in its field of vision that almost caused me to drop the glass out of my fingers! the whole waggon was in view down to its wheel-tracks; and the dark forms were still around it. some were afoot, others on horseback--while a few appeared to be lying flat along the sward. whoever these last may have been, i saw at the first glance what the others were. the bronzed skins of naked bodies--the masses of long sweeping hair--the plumed crests and floating drapery--were perfectly apparent in the glass--and all indicating a truth of terrible significance that the forms thus seen were those of savage men! yes: both they on horseback and afoot were indians beyond a doubt. and those horizontally extended? they were _white_ men--the owners of the waggons? this truth flashed on me, as i beheld a fearful object--a body lying head towards me, with its crown of mottled red and white, gleaming significantly through the glass. i had no doubt as to the nature of the object: it was a scalpless skull! chapter fifty two. raising a rampart. i kept the telescope to my eye not half so long as i have taken in telling of it. quick as i saw that the men stirring around the waggon were indians, i thought only of screening my person from their sight. to effect this, i dropped down from the summit of the rock--on the opposite side from that facing toward the savages. showing only the top of my head, and with the glass once more levelled up the valley, i continued the observation. i now became assured that the victim of the ensanguined skull was a white man; that the other prostrate forms were also the bodies of white men, all dead--all, no doubt, mutilated in a similar manner? the tableau told its own tale. the presence of the waggon halted, and without horses--one or two dead ones lying under the tongue--the ruck of indians clustering around it--the bodies stretched along the earth-- other objects, boxes, and bales, strewed over the sward--all were significant of recent strife. the scene explained what we had heard while coming up the canon. the fusillade had been no fancy, but a fearful reality--fearful, too, in its effects, as i was now satisfied by the testimony of my telescope. the caravan had been attacked, or, more likely, only a single waggon that had been straggling in the rear? the firing may have proceeded from the escort, or the armed emigrants? indians may have fallen: indeed there were some prostrate forms apart, with groups gathered around them, and those i conjectured to be the corpses of red men. but it was evident the indians had proved victorious: since they were still upon the field--still holding the place and the plunder. where were the other waggons of the train? there were fifty of them-- only one was in sight! it was scarcely possible that the whole caravan had been captured. if so, they must have succumbed within the pass? a fearful massacre must have been made? this was improbable: the more so, that the indians around the waggon appeared to number near two hundred men. they must have constituted the full band: for it is rare that a war-party is larger. those seen appeared to be all warriors, naked from the breech-clout upward, their skins glaring with pigments. neither woman nor child could i see among them. had the other waggons been captured, there would not have been so many of the captors clustered around this particular one. in all likelihood, the vehicle had been coming up behind the others? the animals drawing it had been shot down in the skirmish, and it had fallen into the hands of the successful assailants? these conjectures occupied me only a moment. mingled with them was one of still more special import: to whom had belonged the abandoned waggon? with fearful apprehension, i covered the ground with my glass-- straining my sight as i gazed through it. i swept the whole surface of the surrounding plain. i looked under the waggon--on both sides of it, and beyond. i sought amidst the masses of dusky forms i examined the groups and stragglers--even the corpses that strewed the plain. thank heaven! they were all black, or brown, or red! all appeared to be _men_--both the living and the dead--thank heaven! the ejaculation ended my survey of the scene: it had scarcely occupied ten seconds of time. it was interrupted by a sudden movement on the part of the savages. those on horseback were seen separating from the rest; and, the instant after, appeared coming on in the direction of the butte! the movement was easily accounted for. my imprudence had betrayed our presence. i had been seen while standing on the summit of the mound! i felt regret for my own rashness; but there was no time to indulge in the feeling, and i stifled it. the moment called for action--demanding all the firmness of nerve and coolness of head which, fortunately, i had acquired by the experience of similar arises. instead of shouting to my comrades--as yet unconscious of the approaching danger--i remained upon the summit without uttering a word, or showing a sign that might alarm them. my object in so acting was to avoid the confusion, consequent upon a sudden panic, and keep my mind free to think over some plan of escape. the indians were still five miles off. it would be some minutes at least before they could attack us. two or three of these could be spared for reflection. after that, it would be time to call in the counsel of my companions. i am here describing in detail, and with the tranquillity of closet retrospect, thoughts that follow one another with the rapidity of lightning flashes. to say that i reflected coolly, would not be true: i was at that moment too much under the influence of fear for tranquil reflection. i perceived at once that the situation was more than dangerous: it was desperate. flight was my first thought, or rather my first instinct: for, on reflection, it failed. the idea was to fling off the packs, mount the two pedestrians upon the mules, and gallop back for the canon. the conception was good enough, if it could have been carried out, but of this there was no hope. the defile was too distant to be reached in time. the two who might ride the mules could never make it--they must fall by the way. even if all four of us should succeed in getting back to the canon, what then? was it likely we should ever emerge from it? we might for a time defend ourselves within its narrow gorge; but to pass clear through and escape at the other end would be impossible. a party of our pursuers would be certain to take over the ridge, and head us below. to anticipate them in their arrival there, and reach the woods beyond, would be utterly out of our power. the trail through the canon was full of obstacles, as we had already discovered--and these would delay us. without a prospect of reaching the forest below it would be of no use attempting flight. in the valley around us there was no timbered tract--nothing that deserved the name of a wood: only copses and groves, the largest of which would not have sheltered us for an hour. i had a reflection. happy am i now, and proud, that i had the virtue to stifle it. for myself, escape by flight might not have been so problematical. a steed stood near that could have carried me beyond all danger. it only needed to fling myself into the saddle, and ply the spur. even without that impulsion, my arab would, and could, have carried me clear of the pursuit. death was preferable to the thought. i could only indulge it as a last resort--after all else had failed and fallen. three men were my companions, true and tried. to all of them, i owed some service--to one little less than my life--for the bullet of the eccentric ranger had once saved me from an enemy. it was i who had brought on the impending attack. it was but just i should share its danger; and the thought of shunning it vanished on the instant of its conception. escape by flight appeared hopeless. on the shortest survey of the circumstances i perceived that our only chance lay in defending ourselves. the chance was not much worth; but there was no alternative. we must stand and tight, or fall without resisting. from such a foe as that coming down upon us, we need expect no grace--not a modicum of mercy. where was our defence to be made? on the summit of the butte? there was no better place in sight--no other that could be reached, offering so many advantages. had we chosen it for a point of defence, it could not have promised better for the purpose. as already stated, the cone was slightly truncated--its top ending in a _mesa_. the table was large enough to hold four of us. by crouching low, or lying flat upon it, we should be screened from the arrows of the indians, or such other weapons as they might use. on the other hand, the muzzles of four guns pointed at _them_, would deter them from approaching the base of the butte. scarcely a minute was i in maturing a plan; and i lost less time in communicating it to my companions. returning to them, as fast as i could make the descent, i announced the approach of the indians. the announcement produced a surprise sufficiently unpleasant, but no confusion. the old soldiers had been too often under fire to be frightened out of their senses at the approach of an enemy; and the young hunter was not one to give way to a panic. all three remained cool and collected, as they listened to my hurried detail of the plan i had sketched out for our defence. there was no difficulty in inducing them to adopt it. all agreed to it eagerly and at once: in short, all saw that there was no alternative. up the mound again--this time followed by my three comrades--each of us heavily laden. in addition to our guns and ammunition, we carried our saddles and mule-packs, our blankets and buffalo-robes. it was not their intrinsic value that tempted us to take this trouble with our _impedimenta_: our object was to make with them a rampart upon the rock. we had just time for a second trip; and, flinging our first loads up to the table, we rushed back down the declivity. each seized upon such objects as offered themselves--valises, the soldiers' knapsacks, joints of the antelope lately killed, and the noted meal-bag--all articles likely to avail us in building our bulwark. the animals must be abandoned--both horses and mules. could we take them up to the summit? yes, the thing could be accomplished, but to what purpose? it would be worse than useless: since it would only render them an aim for the arrows of the enemy, and insure their being shot down at once. to leave them below appeared the better plan. a tree stood near the base of the mound. to its branches their bridles had been already looped. there they would be within easy range of our rifles. we could shelter them so long as there was light. to protect them might appear of little advantage; since in the darkness they could be easily taken from us. but in leaving them thus, we were not without some design. we, too, might build a hope on the darkness. if we could succeed in sustaining the attack until nightfall, flight might _then_ avail us. in truth, that seemed the only chance we should have of ultimately escaping from our perilous situation. we resolved, therefore, to look well to the safety of the animals. though, forced to forsake them for a time, we might still keep the enemy off, and again recover them? the contingency was not clear, and we were too much hurried to dwell long upon it. it only flitted before our minds like a gleam of light through, the misty future. i had just time to bid farewell to my arab--to run my fingers along his smooth arching neck--to press my lips to his velvet muzzle. brave steed! tried and trusty friend! i could have wept at the parting. he made answer to my caresses: he answered them with a low whimpering neigh. he knew there was something amiss--that there was danger. our hurried movements had apprised him of it; but the moment after, his altered attitude, his flashing eyes, and the loud snorting from his spread nostrils, told that he perfectly comprehended the danger. he heard the distant trampling of hoofs: he knew that an enemy was approaching. i heard the sounds myself, and rushed back up the butte. my companions were already upon the summit, busied in building the rampart around the rock. i joined them, and aided them in the work. our _paraphernalia_ proved excellent for the purpose--light enough to be easily handled, and sufficiently firm to resist either bullets or arrows. before the indians had come within hailing distance, the parapet was completed; and, crouching behind it, we awaited their approach. chapter fifty three. the war-cry. the war-cry "how-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!" uttered loudly from a hundred throats, comes pealing down the valley. its fiendish notes, coupled with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well calculated to quail the stoutest heart. ours are not without fear. though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance in the tones of that wild slogan. they express more than the usual hostility of red to white--they breathe a spirit of vengeance. the gestures of menace--the brandished spears, and bended bows--the war-clubs waving in the air--are all signs of the excited anger of the indians. blood has been spilled--perhaps the blood of some of their chosen warriors--and ours will be sought to a certainty. we perceive no signs of a pacific intent--no semblance that would lead us to hope for mercy. the foe is bent on our destruction. he rushes forward to kill! i have said that the danger was not immediate. i did not conceive it so. my conception was based upon experience. i had met the prairie indians before--in the south; but north or south, i knew that their tactics were the same. it is a mistake to suppose that these savages rush recklessly upon death. only when their enemy is far inferior to them in numbers--or otherwise an under-match--will they advance boldly to the fight. they will do this in an attack upon mexicans, whose prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind-- when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal vendetta. on other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their skins--more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even travellers who tenter the prairies from the east. of all other weapons, they dread the long rifle of the hunter. it is only after stratagem has failed--when _do or die_ becomes a necessity--that the horse-indian can bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel. the mere hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers within the circle of a rifle's range. they all know from experience the deadliness of its aim. most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too confident in their security. these had not succumbed without a struggle. the death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner appeared to have been taken. further evidence of it was seen upon the sward; for as the crowd scattered, i observed through, the glass several corpses that were not those of white men. the robbers, though victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which they were charging down upon us. with all their menace both of signs and sounds, i had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to its base. there were fifty yards around it within range of our guns; and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely to go forth from it alive. "not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting! do not one of you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!" this was the order passed around. on the skill of my comrades i could confide--on sure-shot with all the certainty which his _soubriquet_ expressed; and i had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle. about the irishman alone was there a doubt--only of his coolness and his aim--of his courage there was none. in this, the infantry was perhaps equal to any of us. the words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy came galloping up. their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their wild vociferations. we could only hear one another by calling out at the top of our voices. but we had little to say. the time for talking had expired: that of action had arrived. on come the whooping; savages, horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted, each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can suggest. the visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are depicted on their breasts and shields--with the still more horrid emblems of the death's head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand. even their horses are covered with similar devices--stained upon their skins in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion! the sight is too fearful to be fantastic. on they come, uttering their wild "howgh-owgh-aloo!" brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields of _parfleche_ rattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears-- on comes the angry avalanche! they are within a hundred yards of the butte. for a moment we are in doubt. if they charge up the declivity, we are lost men. we may shoot down the foremost; but they are twenty to one. in a hand-to-hand struggle, we shall be overwhelmed--killed or captured--in less than sixty seconds of time! "hold your fire!" i cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks against their guns; "not yet! only two at a time--but not yet! ha! as i expected." and just as i had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt--those in the lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon the edge of a precipice! they had come to a stand just in the nick of time. had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their number would have tumbled out of their saddles. sure-shot and i had each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire. the others were ready to follow. all four barrels resting over the rampart had caught the eyes of the indians. a glance at the glistening tubes was sufficient. true to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that had halted them! chapter fifty four. the red-hand. the whooping and screaming are for a while suspended. those in the rear have ridden up; and the straggling cavalcade becomes massed upon the plain, at less than two hundred yards' distance from the butte. shouts are still heard, and talking in an unknown tongue; but not the dread war-cry. that has failed of its effect, and is heard no longer. now and then, young warriors gallop toward the butte, vaunt their valour, brandish their weapons, shoot off their arrows, and threaten us by word and gesture. all, however, keep well outside the perilous circumference covered by our guns. we perceive that they, too, have guns, both muskets and rifles--in all, a dozen or more! we can tell that they are empty. those who carry them are dismounting to load. we may expect soon to receive their fire; but, from the clumsy manner in which they handle their pieces, that need not terrify us--any more than their arrows, already sent, and falling far short. half-a-dozen horsemen are conspicuous. they are chiefs, as can be told by the eagle plumes sticking in their hair, with other insignia on their breasts and bodies. these have ridden to the front, and are grouped together--their horses standing head to head. their speeches and gesticulations declare that they are holding council. the movements of menace are no longer made. we have time to examine our enemies. they are so near that i need scarcely level the glass upon them; though through it, i can note every feature with minute distinctness. they are not comanches. their bodies are too big, and their limbs too long, for these ishmaelites of the southern plains. neither are they of the jicarilla-apache: they are too noble-looking to resemble these skulking jackals. more like are they to the cayguas? but no--they are not cayguas. i have met these indians, and should know them. the war-cry did not resemble theirs. theirs is the war-cry of the comanche. i should have known it at once. cheyennes they may be--since it is their especial ground? or might it be that tribe of still darker, deadlier fame--the hostile arapaho? if they be arapahoes, we need look for no mercy. i sweep the glass over them, seeking for signs by which i may identify our enemy. i perceive one that is significant. the leggings of the chiefs and principal warriors are fringed with scalps; their shields are encircled by similar ornaments. most of these appendages are of dark hue--the locks long and black. but not all are of this kind or colour. one shield is conspicuously different from the rest. a red-hand is painted upon its black disc. it is the _totem_ of him who carries it. a thick fringe of hair is set around its rim. the tufts are of different lengths and colours. there are tresses of brown, blonde, and even red; hair curled and wavy; coarse hair; and some soft and silky. through the glass i see all this, with a clearness that leaves no doubt as to the character of these varied _chevelures_. they are the scalps of whites--both of men and women! and the red-hand upon the shield? a red-hand? ah! i remember. there is a noted chief of the name, famed for his hostility to the trappers--famed for a ferocity unequalled among his race--a savage, who is said to delight in torturing his captives-- especially if it be a pale-face who has had the misfortune to fall into his hands. can it be that fiend--the red-hand of the arapahoes? the appearance of the man confirms my suspicion. a body, tall, angular, and ill-shaped, scarred with cicatrised wounds, and bent with age; a face seamed with the traces of evil passion; eyes deep sunken in their sockets, and sparkling like coals of fire--an aspect more fiend-like than human! all this agrees with the descriptions i have had of the red-hand chief. assuredly it is he. our enemies, then, are the arapahoes--their leader the dreaded _red-hand_. "heaven have mercy upon us! these men will have none!" such was the ejaculation that escaped my lips, on recognising, or believing that i recognised, the foe that was before us. the red-hand is seen to direct. he is evidently leader of the band. all seem obedient to his orders; all move with military promptness at his word or nod. beyond doubt, it is the red-hand and his followers, who for crimes and cold-blooded atrocities are noted as he. a dreaded band, long known to the traders of santa fe--to the _ciboleros_ from the taos valley--to the trappers of the arkansas and platte. we are not the first party of white men besieged by these barbarous robbers; and if it be our fate to fall, we shall not be their first victims. many a brave "mountain-man" has already fallen a victim to their fiendish grasp. scarcely a trapper who cannot tell of some comrade, who has been "rubbed" out by red-hand and his "rapahoes." the council of the chiefs continues for some time. some _ruse_ is being devised and debated among them. with palpitating hearts we await the issue. i have made known my suspicions as to who is our enemy, and cautioned my comrade's to be on their guard. i have told them that, if my conjecture prove true, we need look for no mercy. the talk is at an end. red-hand is about to address us. riding two lengths in front of his followers, the savage chief makes halt. his shield is held conspicuously upward--its convexity towards us--not for any purpose of security; but evidently that we may see its device, and know the bearer. red-hand is conscious of the terror inspired by his name. in his other hand, he carries an object better calculated than the shield to beget fearful emotions. poised on the point of his long spear, and held high aloft, are the scalps recently taken. there are six of them in the bunch--easily told by the different hues of the hair; and all easily identified as those of white men. they are the scalps of the slain teamsters, and others who had vainly attempted to defend the captured waggon. they are all fresh and gory--hang limber along the shaft. the blood is not yet dry upon them--the wet surface glitters in the sun! we view them with singular emotions--mine perhaps more singular than any. i endeavour to identify some of those ghastly trophies. i am but too satisfied at failing. chapter fifty five. an ill-timed shot. "_hablo castellano_?" cries the savage chieftain in broken spanish. i am not surprised at being addressed in this language by a prairie indian. many of them speak spanish, or its north mexican _patois_. they have opportunities of learning it from the new mexican traders, but better--_from their captives_. "_si cavallero_! i speak spanish. what wishes the warrior with the red-hand upon his shield?" "the pale-face is a stranger in this country, else he would not ask such a question? what wishes the red-hand? ha, ha, ha! the scalps of the white men--their scalps and lives--that is the will of the arapaho chief!" the speech is delivered in a tone of exultation, and accompanied by a scornful laugh. the savage is proud of his barbarous and bloodthirsty character: he glories in the terror of his name! with such a monster, it seems idle to bold parley. in the end, it will be only to fight, and if defeated, to die. but the drowning man cannot restrain himself from catching even at a straw. "arapaho! we are not your enemies! why should you desire to take our lives? we are peaceful travellers passing through your country; and have no wish to quarrel with our red brothers." "red brothers! ha, ha, ha! tongue of a serpent, and heart of a hare! the proud arapaho is not your brother: he disclaims kindred with a pale-face. red-hand has no brothers among the whites: all are alike his enemies! behold their scalps upon his shield! ugh! see the fresh trophies upon his spear! count them! there are six! there will be ten. before the sun goes down, the scalps of the four squaws skulking on the mound will hang from the spears of the arapahoes!" i could not contradict the declaration: it was too fearfully probable. i made no reply. "dogs!" fiercely vociferated the savage, "come down, and deliver up your arms!" "an' our scalps too, i s'pose," muttered the yankee. "neo, certingly not, at your price: i don't sell my notions so dirt cheep as thet comes to. 'twouldn't pay nohow. lookee yeer, old red gloves!" continued he in a louder voice, and raising his head above the rampart--"this heer o' mine air vallable, do ee see? it air a rare colour, an' a putty colour. it 'ud look jest the thing on thet shield o' yourn; but 'tain't there yet, not by a long chalk; an' i kalklate ef ye want the skin o' my head, ye'll have to trot up an' take it." "ugh!" ejaculated the indian with an impatient gesture. "the yellow squaw is not worth the words of a chief. his scalp is not for the shield of a warrior. it will be given to the dogs of our tribe. it will be thrown to the jackals of the prairie." "ain't partickler abeout what 'ee do wi' 't--thet is, efter ye've got it. don't ye wish 'ee may get it? eh?" "wagh!" exclaimed the savage, with another impatient gesticulation. "the red-hand is tired talking. one word more. listen to it, chief of the pale-faces! come down, and deliver up your fire-weapons! the red-hand will be merciful: he will spare your lives. if you resist, he will torture you with fire. the knives of his warriors will hew the living flesh from your bones. you shall die a hundred deaths; and the great spirit of the arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!" "and what if we do not resist?" "your lives shall be spared. the red-hand declares it on the faith of a warrior." "faith o' a warrior!--faith o' a cut-throat! he only wants to come round us, capting, an' git our scalps 'ithout fightin' for 'em--thet's what the red verming wants to be at--sure as shootin'." "why should the red-hand spare our lives?" i enquired, taken by surprise at any offer of life coming from such a quarter. "has he not just said, that all white men are his enemies?" "true. but white men may become his friends. he wants white men for his allies. he has a purpose." "will the red-hand declare his purpose?" "freely. his people have taken, many fire-weapons. see! they are yonder in the hands of his braves, who know not how to use them. our enemies--the utahs--have been taught by the white hunters; and the ranks of the arapaho warriors are thinned by their deadly bullets. if the pale-faced chief and his three followers will consent to dwell with the band of red-hand, and teach his warriors the great medicine of the fire-weapon, their lives shall be spared. the red-hand will honour the young soldier-chief, and the white eagle of the forest." "soldier-chief. white eagle of the forest! how can he have known--" "if you resist," continued he, interrupting my reflections, "the red-hand will keep his word. you have no chance of escape. you are but four, and the arapaho warriors are numerous as the trees of the big timber. if one of them fall by your fire-weapons, he shall be revenged. the red-hand repeats what he has said: the knives of his braves will hew the living flesh from your bones. you shall die a hundred deaths, and the great spirit of the arapahoes will smile at the sacrifice!" "be jaysis, cyaptin!" cried o'tigg, who, not understanding spanish, was ignorant of what had been said, "that ugly owld indyan wants a bit ov cowld lid through him. in troth, i b'lave the musket moight raich him. she belonged to sargent johnson, an' was considhered the longest raich gun about the fort. what iv i throy her carry on the ridskin? say the word, yer honour, an' here goes!" so astounded was i at the last words of the arapaho chief, that i paid no heed to what the irishman was saying. i had turned towards wingrove--not for an explanation: for the young hunter, also ignorant of the language in which the indian spoke, was unaware of the allusion that had been made to him. i had commenced translating the speech; but, before three words had escaped my lips, the loud bang of a musket drowned every other sound; and the cloud of sulphureous smoke covering the whole platform, hindered us from seeing one another! it needed no explanation. the irishman had taken my silence for consent: he had fired! from the thick of the smoke came his exulting shout: "hooray! he's down--be my sowl! he's down! i knew the owld musket 'ud raich him! hooray!" the report reverberated from the rocks--mingling its echoes with the wild vengeful cries that came pealing up from the plain. in an instant, the smoke was wafted aside; and the painted warriors were once more visible. the red-hand was erect upon his feet, standing by the side of his horse, and still holding his spear and his shield. the horse was down--stretched along the turf, and struggling in the throes of death! "begorrah! cyaptin! wasn't it a splindid shat?" "a shot that may cost us our scalps," said i: for i saw that there was no longer any chance of a pacific arrangement--even upon the condition of our making sharpshooters of every redskin in the tribe. "ha, ha, ha!" came the wild laugh of the arapaho. "vengeance on the pale-faced traitors! vengeance!" and shaking his clenched fist above his head, the savage chief retired among his warriors. chapter fifty six. attempt to stampede. we made an attempt to open the interrupted parley. in vain. whatever amicable design the red-hand might have conceived was now changed to a feeling of the most deadly hostility. there was no more "talk" to be drawn from him--not a word. in the midst of his warriors, he stood scowling and silent. neither did any of the chiefs deign to reply. the common braves made answers to our overtures; but only by the insult of a peculiar gesture. any hopes we might have conceived of a pacific termination to the encounter, died within us as we noted the behaviour of the band. whether the indian was in earnest in the proposal he had made, or whether it was a mere scheme to get our scalps without fighting for them, we could not tell at the time. there was an air of probability that he was honest about the matter; but, on the other hand, his notorious character for hostility to the white race contradicted this probability. i had heard, moreover, that this same chief was in the habit of adopting such stratagems to get white men into his power. we had no time to speculate upon the point; nor yet upon that which puzzled us far more--how he had arrived at the knowledge of who we were! what could he have known of the "white eagle of the forest," or the "young soldier-chief?" so far as i was myself concerned, the title might have been explained. my uniform--i still wore it--might have been espied upon the prairies? the indians are quick at catching an appellation, and communicating it to one another. but the figurative soubriquet of the young hunter? that was more specific. the red-hand could not have used it accidentally? impossible. it bespoke a knowledge of us, and our affairs, that appeared mysterious and inexplicable. it did not fail to recall to our memory the apparition that had astonished wingrove in the morning. there was no opportunity to discuss the question. we had only time for the most vague conjectures--before the savages began to fire at us--discharging in rapid succession the guns which they had loaded. we soon perceived that we had little to fear from this sort of attack. unless by some stray bullet, there was not much danger of their hitting us. their clumsy _manege_ of the fire-weapon was evident enough. it added to the probability, that the chief had been in earnest about our giving instructions to his warriors. still was there some degree of danger. the guns they had got hold of were large ones--most of them old muskets of heavy calibre--that cast their ounces of lead to a long distance. we heard their bullets pattering against the rocks, and one or two of them had passed whistling over our heads. it was just possible to get hit; and, to avoid such an accident, we crouched behind our parapet, as closely as if we had been screening ourselves from the most expert marksmen. for a long time we did not return their fire. o'tigg was desirous of trying another shot with his piece, but i forbade it. warned by what they had witnessed, the indians had retired beyond even the range of the serjeant's fusil. two parties of savages now separate from the main body; and, taking opposite directions, go sweeping at full gallop round the butte. we divine their object. they have discovered the position of our animals: the intention is to _stampede_ them. we perceive the importance of preventing this. if we can but keep our animals out of the hands of the savages until darkness come down, then may there be some prospect of our escaping by flight. true, it is only a faint hope. there are many contingencies by which the design may be defeated, but there are also circumstances to favour it; and to yield without a struggle, would only be to deliver ourselves into the hands of an unpitying foe. the last words uttered by the arapaho chief have warned us that death will be preferable to captivity. we are sustained by another remembrance. we know that we are not the first white men who have been thus surrounded, and who afterwards contrived to escape. many a small band of brave trappers have sustained the attack of a whole indian tribe; and though half of their number may have fallen, the others lived to relate the perilous adventure. the life of a determined man is difficult to take. a desperate sortie often proves the safest defence; and three or four resolute arms will cut a loophole of escape through a host of enemies. some such thoughts, flitting before us, hinder us from succumbing to despair. it was of the utmost importance, to prevent our animals from being swept off; and to this end were our energies now directed. three of us faced towards them--leaving the fourth to watch the movements of the enemy on the other side of the butte. once more the wild cry rings among the rocks, as the red horsemen gallop around--rattling their shields, and waving their weapons high in the air. these demonstrations are made to affright our animals, and cause them to break from their fastenings. they have not the desired effect. the mules prance and hinnie; the horses neigh and bound over the grass; but the long boughs bend without breaking: and, acting as elastic springs, give full play to the affrighted creatures. not a rein snaps-- not a lazo breaks--not a loop slides from its hold! the first skurry is over; and we are gratified to see the four quadrupeds still grouped around the tree, and fast as ever to its branches. the _stampede_ has proved a failure. another swoop of the wild horsemen ends with like result: and then another. and now closer and closer they come-- galloping in all directions, crossing and meeting, and wheeling and circling--with shrill screams and violent gesticulations. as they pass near, they shelter themselves behind the bodies of their horses. an arm over the withers, a leg above the croup, are all of the riders we can see. it is useless to fire at these. the horses we might tumble over at pleasure; but the men offer no point to aim at. at intervals a red face gleams through the tossing locks of the mane; but, ere we can take sight upon it, it is jerked away. for a considerable time this play is kept up, the indians all the time yelling as if engaged in some terrible conflict. as to ourselves, we are too wary to waste our shots upon the horses; and we reserve them in the hope of being able to "draw a bead" on some rider more reckless than the rest. the opportunity soon offers. two of the savages exhibit a determination to succeed in snatching away the horses. knife in hand, they career around, evidently with the design of cutting the bridles and lazoes. cheered on by the shouts of their comrades, they grow less careful of their skins, and at length make a dash towards the group under the tree. when almost within head-reach of the fastenings by which the mules are held, one of the latter slews suddenly round, and sends her heels in a well-directed fling against the head of the foremost horse! the steed instantly wheels, and the other coming behind follows the same movement, exposing both the riders to our aim. they make an effort to throw themselves to the other side of their animals; but the opportunity is lost. our rifles are too quick for them. two of us fire at the same instant; and as the smoke clears away, the red robbers are seen sprawling upon the plain. our shots have proved fatal. before we can reload, the struggles of the fallen horsemen have ended; and both lie motionless upon the grass. the lesson was sufficient for the time. warned by the fate of their comrades, the indians, although still continuing their noisy demonstrations, now kept well out of the range of our rifles. there appeared to be no others in the band, desirous of achieving fame at such a risk of life. chapter fifty seven. our weak point. for some time the savage horsemen continued their circling gallop around the butte--one occasionally swooping nearer; but covered by the body of his horse in such a way that it was impossible to sight him. these manoeuvres were executed by the young warriors, apparently in a spirit of bravado, and with the design of showing off their courage and equestrian skill. we disregarded the harmless demonstrations, watching them only when made in the direction of our animals. at intervals a hideous face peeping over the withers of a horse, offered a tempting target. my comrades would have tried a flying shot had i not restrained them. a miss would have damaged our prestige in the eyes of the enemy. it was of importance that they should continue to believe in the infallibility of the fire-weapon. after a time, we observed a change of tactics. the galloping slackened, and soon came to an end. the horsemen threw themselves into small groups, at nearly equal distances apart, and forming a ring round the butte. most of the riders then dismounted, a few only remaining upon their horses, and continuing to dash backward and forward, from group to group. these groups were beyond the range of our rifles, though not of the sergeant's musket. but the savages--both mounted and afoot--had taken care to make ramparts of their steeds. at first, this manoeuvre of our enemies appeared to have no other object than that of placing themselves in a position to guard against our retreat. a moment's reflection, however, told us that this could not be the design. there were but two points by which we could pass down to the plain--on opposite sides of the butte--why then should they _surround_ it? it could not be for the purpose of cutting off our retreat? that could be done as effectually without the circular deployment. their design soon became apparent. we observed that the muskets were distributed among the groups, three or four to each. with these they now opened fire upon us from all sides at once, keeping it up as fast as they could load the pieces. the effect was to render our situation a little more perilous. not having the means to make our parapet continuous, we were at several points exposed. had we had good marksmen to deal with, we should have been in danger. as it was, we drew well back towards the centre of the platform; and were screened by its outer angles. now and then a shot struck the rock, sending the splinters in our faces; but all four of us escaped being hit by the bullets. we had made an observation that rendered us uneasy: we had observed a weak point in our defence. we wondered that our assailants had not also noticed it. around the butte, and close up to its base, lay many boulders of rock. they were prisms of granite, that had become detached from the cairn itself, and rolled down its declivity. they rested upon the plain, forming a ring concentric with the circular base of the mound. many of these boulders had a diameter of six feet, and would have sheltered the body of a man from our shots. others, again, rested along the sloping sides of the butte--also of prismatic shapes, with sides overhanging. these might form ramparts for our assailants should they attempt to storm our position. even the spreading cedars would have hidden them from our sight. they were the trailing juniper of the western wilds--very different from the virginian cedar. they were of broad bushy forms, with stunted stems, and tortuous branches, densely set with a dark acetalous foliage. they covered the sides of the butte, from base to middle height, with a draping perfectly impenetrable to the eye. though there was no path save that already mentioned, assailants, active as ours, might unseen have scaled the declivity. should the indians make a bold, dash up to the base of the butte, leave their horses, and take to the rocks, they might advance upon us without risk. while working their way up the slope, they would be safe from our shots, sheltered by the projecting prisms, and screened by the trees. we should not dare to expose ourselves over the edge of the platform: since the others, remaining behind the boulders below, would cover us with their aim; and the shower of arrows would insure our destruction. those who might scale the mound, would have us at their mercy. assailing us simultaneously from all sides, and springing suddenly upon the platform, ten to one against us, they could soon overpower us. these were the observations we had made, and the reflections that resulted from them. we only wondered that our enemies had not yet perceived the advantage of this plan of attack; and, since they had neglected it so long, we were in hopes that the idea would not occur to them at all. it was not long before we perceived our error; and that we had miscalculated the cunning of our dusky foes. we saw the indians once more taking to their horses. some order had reached them from the red-hand, who stood conspicuous in the midst of the largest group of his warriors. the movement that resulted from this order was similar to that already practised in the endeavour to stampede our animals: only that all the band took part in it--even the chiefs mounting and riding among the rest. the marksmen _alone_ remained afoot, and continued to fire from behind their horses. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ once more the mounted warriors commence galloping in circles round the butte. we perceive that at each wheel they are coming nearer, and can divine their intent. it is the very plan of attack we have been apprehending! we can tell by their gestures that they are about to charge forward to the rocks. regardless of the fire from the plain, we creep back to the edge of the parapet, and point our pieces towards the circling horsemen. we are excited with, new apprehensions; but the caution to keep cool is once more passed around; and each resolves not to fire without being certain of his aim. on our first shots will depend the success or failure of the attack. as before, we arrange that two only shall fire at a time. if the shots prove true, and two of our foes fall to them, it may check the charge, perhaps repulse it altogether? such often happens with an onset of indians--on whom the dread of the fire-weapon acts with a mysterious effect. on the other hand, if we miss, our fate is sealed and certain. we shall not even have the choice of that last desperate resort, on which we have built a hope. we shall be cut off from all escape: for our animals will be gone before we can reach them. on foot, it will be idle to attempt flight. even could we run the gauntlet through their line, we know they could overtake us upon the plain! we feel like men about to throw dice for our lives, and dice too that are loaded against us! nearer and nearer they come, until they are coursing within fifty yards of the butte, and scarcely twice that distance from our guns. were their bodies uncovered, we could reach them; but we see only their hands, feet, and faces--the latter only at intervals. they draw nearer and nearer, till at length they are riding within the circle of danger. our superior elevation gives us the advantage. we begin to see their bodies over the backs of their horses. a little nearer yet, and some of these horses will go riderless over the plain! ha! they have perceived their danger--one and all of them. notwithstanding their cries of bravado, and mutual encouragement, they dread to make the final rush. each fears that himself may be the victim! our heads were growing dizzy with watching them, and we were still expecting to see some of them turn their horses, and dash inward to the butte; when we heard a signal-cry circulating through their ranks. all at once the foremost of them was seen swerving off, followed by the whole troop! before we could recover from our surprise, they had galloped far beyond the range of our guns, and once more stood halted upon the plain! chapter fifty eight. a rampart on wheels. for a time, our hearts throbbed more lightly; the pressure of apprehension was removed. we fancied the savages had either not yet become fully aware of the advantage of storming our position, or that the certainty of losing some of their number had intimidated them from making the attempt. they had abandoned their design, whatever it was; and intended waiting for night--the favourite fighting-time of the indian. this was just what we desired; and we were congratulating ourselves that the prospect had changed in our favour. our joy was short-lived: the enemy showed no signs of repose. clustered upon the plain, they still kept to their horses. by this, we knew that some other movement was intended. the chiefs were again in the centre of the crowd, the red-hand conspicuous. he was heard haranguing his warriors, though we could not guess the purport of his speech. his gestures told of fierce rage--his glances, now and then directed towards us, betokened a spirit of implacable vengeance. at the conclusion of his speech, he waved his hand in the direction of the waggon. the gesture appeared to be the accompaniment of a command. it was promptly and instantly obeyed. a dozen horsemen dashed out from the group, and galloped off. their course was straight up the valley--towards the scene of their late strife. those who had remained upon the ground dismounted, and were seen giving their horses to the grass. this might have led us to anticipate a suspension of hostilities; but it did not. the attitude of our enemies was not that of purposed repose. on the contrary, they came together afoot; and engaged in what appeared to be an eager consultation. the chiefs spoke in turn. some new scheme was being discussed. we watched the party who had ridden off. as anticipated, the waggon proved to be the _butt_ of their excursion. having reached it, they halt; and, dismounting, become grouped around it. it is impossible for some time to tell what they are doing. even the glass does not reveal the nature of their movements. there are others besides those who rode up; and the white tilt appears in the midst of is dark cluster of men and horses. their errand at length becomes obvious. the crowd is seen to scatter. horses appear harnessed to the tongue--the wheels are in motion--the vehicle is turning round upon the plain. we see that some half-dozen horses are hitched on, with men seated upon their backs as teamsters! they make a wheel, and head down the valley in the direction of the butte. they are seen urging the animals into a rapid pace. the waggon, no longer loaded, leaps lightly over the smooth sward. the horses are spurred into a gallop; and amidst the shouts of the savage drivers, drag the huge vehicle after them with the rough rapidity of a mountain howitzer. in a few minutes, it advances to the ground occupied by the dismounted band, who surround it upon its arrival. we upon the summit have a full view of all. we recognise the well-known troy waggon--with its red wheels, blue body, and ample canvas roof. the lettering, "troy, new york," is legible on the tilt--a strange sight in the midst of its present possessors! what can be their object with the waggon? their actions leave us not long in doubt. the horses are unharnessed and led aside. half-a-dozen savages are seen crouching under the axles, and laying hold of the spokes. as many more stand behind--screened from our sight by the tilt-cloth, the body, and boxing. the pole projects in the direction of the mound! their object is now too painfully apparent. without thinking of the analogy of the trojan horse, we see that this monster of a modern troy is about to be employed for a similar purpose. yes--shielded by the thick planking of its bed--by its head and hind boards--by its canvas covering, and other cloths which they have cunningly spread along its sides, the savages may approach the mound in perfect safety. such is their design. with dismay, we perceive it. we can do nought either to retard or hinder its execution. those under the vehicle can "spoke" the wheels forward, without in the least exposing their bodies to our aim. even their hands and arms are not visible: buffalo-robes and blankets hang over, draping the wheels from our view. those behind are equally well screened; and can propel the huge machine, without risk of danger. we note all these circumstances with feelings of keen apprehension. we adopt no means to hinder the movement: we can think of none, since none is possible. we are paralysed by a sense of our utter helplessness. we are allowed but little time to reflect upon it. amidst the shouts of the savages, we hear the creaking of the wheels; we behold the mass in motion! onward it comes toward the mound--advancing with apparently spontaneous motion, as if it were some living monster--some horrid mammoth--approaching to destroy and devour us! had it been such a monster, its proximity could scarce have inspired us with a greater dread. we felt that our destruction was equally certain. the savages would now surround us--advance up the rocks--spring upon us from all sides at once; and, although we might fight to the death--which we had determined to do--still must we die. the knowledge that we should die fighting, and with arms in our hands--that we should fall upon the corpses of our enemies, avenging death before parting with life--this knowledge was but a feeble ray to support and cheer us. though no cowards--not one of us--we could not look forward to our fate, without a feeling of dread. the certainty of that fate we could no longer question. even the time seemed to be fixed. in a few minutes, the assailants would be upon us; and we should be engaged in the last struggle of our lives--without the slightest probability of being able to save them! chapter fifty nine. the assault. with the prospect of such fatal issue--so proximate as to seem already present--no wonder that our hearts were dismayed at sight of the waggon moving towards us. as the inhabitants of a leaguered city behold with fear the advance of the screened catapult or mighty "ram," so regarded we the approach of that familiar vehicle--now a very monster in our eyes. we were not permitted to view the spectacle in perfect security. as the waggon moved forward, those who carried the muskets drew still nearer under cover of their horses, and once more played upon us their uncertain but dangerous shower. with the bullets hissing above and around us, we were forced to lie low--only at intervals raising our heads to note the progress of the party proceeding to storm. slowly but surely the machine moved on--its wheels turning under the impulse of brawny arms--and impelled forward by pressure from behind. to fire upon it would have been of no avail: our bullets would have been thrown away. as easily might they have pierced through a stockade of tree-trunks. oh! for a howitzer! but one discharge of iron grape to have crashed through those planks of oak and ash--to have scattered in death, that human machinery that was giving them motion! slowly and steadily it moved on--stopping only as some large pebble opposed itself to the wheel--then on again as the obstacle was surmounted--on till the intervening space was passed over, and the triumphant cheer of our savage foemen announced the attainment of their object. risking the straggling shots, we looked over. the waggon had reached the base of the butte; its tongue was forced up among the trees--its body stood side by side with the granite prisms. the storming party no longer required it as a shield: they would be sufficiently sheltered by the great boulders; and to these they now betook themselves--passing from one to the other, until they had completely surrounded the butte. we observed this movement, but could not prevent it. we saw the indians flitting from rock to rock, like red spectres, and with the rapidity of lightning flashes! in vain we attempted to take aim; before a barrel could be brought to bear upon them, they were gone out of sight. we ourselves, galled by the leaden hail, were forced to withdraw behind our ramparts. a moment of suspense followed. we knew not how to act: we were puzzled by their movements, as well as by the silence in which they were making them. did they intend to climb up the butte, and openly attack us? what else should be their design? what other object could they have in surrounding it? only about a dozen had approached under cover of the waggon. was it likely that so few of them would assail us boldly and openly? no. beyond a doubt, they had some other design! ha! what means that blue column slowly curling upward? it is smoke! see! another and another--a dozen of them! from all sides they shoot upward, encircling the mound! hark to those sounds! the "swish" of burning grass--the crackle of kindling sticks? they are making fires around us! the columns are at first filmy, but soon grow thicker and more dense. they spread out and join each other--they become attracted towards the rocky mass--they fall against its sides, and wreathing upward, wrap its summit in their ramifications. the platform is enveloped in the cloud! we see the savages upon the plain--dimly, as if through a crape. those with the guns in their hands still continue to fire; the others are dismounting. the latter abandon their horses, and appear to be advancing on foot. their forms through the magnifying mist loom spectral and gigantic! they are visible only for a moment. the smoke rolls its thick volume around the summit, and shrouds them from our sight. we no longer see our enemy or the earth. the sky is obscured-- even the rock on which we stand is no longer visible, nor one of us to the other! throughout all continues the firing from the plain; the bullets hurtle around our heads, and the clamour of our foemen reaches our ears with fierce thrilling import. we hear the crackling of faggots, and the spurting hissing noise of many fires; but perceive no blaze--only the thick smoke rising in continuous waves, and every moment growing denser around us. we can bear it no longer; we are half-suffocated. any form of death before this! is it too late to reach our horses? doubtless, they are already snatched away? no matter: we cannot remain where we are. in five minutes, we must yield to the fearful asphyxia. "no! never! let us die as we had determined, with arms in our hands!" voices husky and hoarse make answer in the affirmative. we spring to our feet, and come together--so that we can touch each other. we grasp our guns, and get ready our knives and pistols. we make to the edge of the rock, and, sliding down, assure ourselves of the path. we grope our way downward, guided by the granite walls on each side. we go not with caution, but in the very recklessness of a desperate need. we are met by the masses of smoke still rolling upwards. further down, we feel the hot caloric as we come nearer to the crackling fires. we heed them not, but rush madly forward--till we have cleared both the cloud and the flames, and stand upon the level plain! it is but escaping from the fires of hell to rush into the midst of its demons. on all sides they surround us with poised spears and brandished clubs. amidst their wild yells, we scarcely hear the cracking of our guns and pistols; and those who fall to our shots are soon lost to our sight, behind the bodies of others who crowd forward to encompass us. for a short while we keep together, and fight, back to back, facing our foes. but we are soon separated; and each struggles with a dozen assailants around him! the struggle was not protracted. so far as i was concerned, it ended, almost on the instant of my being separated from my comrades. a blow from behind, as of a club striking me upon the skull, deprived me of consciousness: leaving me only the one last thought--_that it was death_! chapter sixty. a captive on a crucifix. am i dead? surely it _was_ death, or an oblivion that equalled it? but no--i live! i am conscious that i live. light is falling upon my eyes--thought is returning to my soul! am i upon earth? or is it another world in which i awake? it is a bright world--with a sky of blue, and a sun of gold; but are they the sky and sun of the earth? both may belong to a future world? i can see no earth--neither fields, nor trees, nor rocks, nor water--nought but the blue canopy and the golden orb. where is the earth? it should be under and around me, but i cannot see it. neither around nor beneath can i look--only upward and forward--only upon the sun and the sky! what hinders me from turning? is it that i sleep, and dream? is the incubus of a horrid nightmare upon me? am i, like prometheus, chained to a rock face upward? no--not thus; i feel that i am standing--erect as if nailed against a wall! if i am not dreaming, i am certainly in an upright attitude. i feel my limbs beneath me; while my arms appear to be stretched out to their full extent, and held as in the grasp of some invisible hand! my head, too, is fixed: i can neither turn nor move it. a cord traverses across my cheeks. there is something between my teeth. a piece of wood it appears to be? it gags me, and half stifles my breathing! am i in human hands? or are they fiends who are thus clutching me? anon my senses grow stronger, but wild fancies still mock me: i am yet uncertain if it be life! what are those dark objects passing before my eyes? they are birds upon the wing--large birds of sable plumage. i know them. they are vultures. they are of the earth. such could not exist in a region of spirits? ah! those sounds! they are weird enough to be deemed unearthly--wild enough to be mistaken for the voices of demons. from far beneath, they appear to rise--as if from the bowels of the earth, sinking and swelling in prolonged chorus. i know and recognise the voices: they are human. i know the chaunted measure: it is the death-song of the indian! the sounds are suggestive. i am not dreaming--i am not dead. i am awake, and on the earth. memory comes to my aid. by little and little, i begin to realise my situation. i remember the siege--the smoke--the confused conflict--all that preceded it, but nothing after. i thought i had been killed. but no--i live--i am a captive. my comrades--are _they_ alive? not likely. better for them, if they be not. the consciousness of life need be no comfort to me. in that wild chaunt there is breathing a keen spirit of vengeance. oh! that i had not survived to hear it! too surely do i know what will follow that dirge of death. it might as well be my own! i am in pain. my position pains me--and the hot sun glaring upon my cheek. my arms and limbs smart under thongs that bind too tightly. one crosses my throat that almost chokes me, and the stick between my teeth renders breathing difficult. there is a pain upon the crown of my head, and my skull feels as if scalded. oh heavens! _have they scalped me_? with the thought, i endeavour to raise my hand. in vain: i cannot budge either hand or arm. not a finger can i move; and i am forced to remain in horrid doubt as to whether the _hair_ be still upon my head--with more than a probability that it is gone! but how am i confined? and where? i am fast bound to something: every joint in my body is fixed and immobile, as if turned to stone! i can feel thongs cutting sharply into my skin; and my back and shoulders press against some supporting substance, that seems as hard as rock. i cannot tell what it is. i cannot even see my own person--neither breast nor body--neither arms nor legs--not an inch of myself. the fastening over my face holds it upturned to the sky; and my head feels firmly set--as if the vertebral column of my neck had become ossified into a solid mass! and where am i in this stringent attitude? i am conscious that i am a captive and bound--a captive to indians--to arapahoes. memory helps me to this knowledge; and furthermore, that i should be, if i have not been carried elsewhere, in the valley of the huerfano--by the orphan butte. ha! why should i not be _upon_ the butte--on its summit? i remember going down to the plain; and there being struck senseless to the earth. for all that, i may have been brought up again. the savages may have borne me back to satisfy some whim? they often act in such strange fashion with, their vanquished victims. i must be on some eminence: since i cannot see the earth before me? in all likelihood, i am on the top of the mound. this will account for my not having a view of the ground. it will also explain the direction in which the voices are reaching me. those who utter them are below upon the plain? the death-song ceases: and sounds of other import are borne upward to my ears. i hear shouts that appear to be signals--words of command in the fierce guttural of the arapaho. other sounds seem nearer. i distinguish the voices of two men in conversation. they are indian voices. as i listen they grow more distinct. the speakers are approaching me--the voices reach me, as if rising out of the ground beneath my feet! they draw nigher and nigher. they are close to where i stand--so close that i can feel them breathing upon my body--but still i see them not. their heads are below the line of my vision. i feel a hand--knuckles pressing against my throat; the cold blade of a knife is laid along my cheek; its steel point glistens under my eyes. i shudder with a horrid thought. i mistake the purpose. i hear the "wheek" that announces the cutting of a tight-drawn cord. the thong slackens, and drops off from my cheeks. my head is free: but the piece of wood between my teeth--it remains still gagging me firmly. i cannot get rid of that. i can now look below, and around me. i perceive the correctness of my conjecture. i am on the butte--upon its summit. i am close to the edge of the platform, and command a full view of the valley below. a painted arapaho is standing on each side of me. one is a common warrior, with nought to distinguish him from his fellows. the other is a chief. even without the insignia of his rank, the tall gaunt form and lupine visage are easily identified. they are those of red-hand the truculent chieftain of the arapahoes. now for the first time do i perceive that i am naked. from the waist upward, there is not a rag upon me--arms, breast, and body all bare! this does not surprise me. it is natural that the robbers should have stripped me--that they should at least have taken my coat, whose yellow buttons are bright gold in the eyes of the indian. but i am now to learn that for another, and very different, purpose have they thus bereft me of my garments. now also do i perceive the _fashion_ in which i am confined. i am erect upon my feet, with arms stretched out to their full fathom. my limbs are lashed to an upright post; and, with the same thong, are my arms tied to a transverse beam. _i am bound upon a cross_! chapter sixty one. the mysterious circle. in an exulting tone, the savage chief broke silence. "_bueno_!" cried he, as soon as he saw that my eyes were upon him--"_bueno, bueno_! the pale-face still lives! the heart of the red-hand is glad of it--ha, ha, ha! give him to drink of the fire-water of taos! let him be strong! fill him with life, that death may be all the more bitter to him!" these orders were delivered to his follower, who, in obedience to them, removed the gag; and, holding to my lips a calabash filled with taos whiskey, poured a quantity of the liquor down my throat. the beverage produced the effect which the savage chief appeared to desire. scarcely had i swallowed the fiery spirit when my strength and senses were restored to their full vigour--but only to make me feel more keenly the situation in which i stood--to comprehend more acutely the appalling prospect that was before me. this was the design in resuscitating me. no other purpose had the cruel savage. had i entertained any doubt as to the motive, his preliminary speech would have enlightened me; but it was made still clearer by that which followed. "dog of a pale-face!" cried he, brandishing a long spanish knife before my eyes; "you shall see how the red-hand can revenge himself upon the enemies of his race. the slayer of panthers, and the white eagle, shall die a hundred deaths. they have mocked the forest maiden, who has followed them from afar. her vengeance shall be satisfied; and the red-hand will have his joy--ha, ha, ha!" uttering a peal of demoniac laughter, the indian held the point of the knife close to my forehead--as if about to drive the blade into my eyes! it was but a feint to produce terror--a spectacle which this monster was said to enjoy. wingrove was still alive: the wretch su-wa-nee must be near? "_carajo_!" again yelled the savage. "what promised you the red-hand? to cut the living flesh from your bones? but _no_--that would be merciful. the arapahoes have contrived a sweeter vengeance--one that will appease the spirits of our slain warriors. we shall combine sport with the sacrifice of the pale-faced dogs--ha, ha, ha!" after another fiendish cachinnation, far more horrible to hear than his words of menace, the monster continued: "dog! you refused to instruct the arapaho in the skill of the fire-weapon; but you shall furnish them with at least one lesson before you die--ha, ha! you shall soon experience the pleasant death we have prepared for you! ugh!" "haste!" he continued, addressing himself to his follower; "prepare him for the sacrifice! our warriors are impatient for the sport. the blood of our brothers is calling for vengeance. this in white, with a red spot in the centre--the rest of his body in black." these mysterious directions were accompanied by a corresponding gesture. with the point of his knife, the savage traced a circle upon my breast--just as if he had been _scribing_ it on the bark of a tree. the scratch was light, though here and there it drew blood. at the words "red spot in the centre," as if to make the direction more emphatic, he punctured the spot with his knife till the blood flowed freely. had he driven the blade to its hilt, i could not have flinched: i was fixed firmly as the post to which they had bound me. i could not speak a word--either to question his intent, or reply to his menace. the gag was still between my teeth, and i was necessarily silent. it mattered little about my remaining silent. had my tongue been free, it would have been idle to use it. in the wolf's visage, there was no one trait of clemency: every feature bespoke the obduracy of unrelenting cruelty. i knew that he would only have mocked any appeal i might have made. it was just as well that i had no opportunity of making it. after giving some further directions to his follower--and once more repeating his savage menace, in the same exulting tone--he passed behind me; and i lost sight of him. but i could tell by the noise that reached me at intervals, that he had gone down from the rock, and was returning to his warriors upon the plain. it was the first time since my face-fastenings had been cut loose, that i had a thought of looking in that direction. during all the while that the red-hand stood by me, i had been in constant dread of instant death--or of some equally fearful issue. the gleaming blade had never been out of my eyes for two seconds at a time; for in the gesticulations that accompanied his speeches, the steel had played an important part, and i knew not the moment, it might please the ferocious savage to put an end to my life. now that he was gone, and i found a respite from his torturing menace, my eyes turned mechanically to the plain. i there beheld a spectacle, that under other circumstances might have filled me with horror. not so then. the agony of my thoughts was already too keen to be further quickened. even the gory skull of one of my comrades, who lay scalped upon the sward, scarcely added an emotion. it was a sight i had anticipated. they could not all be alive. chapter sixty two. a savage artist. the ensanguined skull was the first object that caught my eye. the dead man was easily identified. the body--short, plump, and rotund--could be no other than that of the unfortunate irishman. his jacket had been stripped off; but some tattered remnants of sky-blue, still clinging to his legs, aided me in identifying him. poor fellow! the lure of californian metal had proved an ill star for him. his golden dream was at an end. he was lying along the sward, upon his side, half doubled up. i could not see his face. his hands were over it, with palms spread out--as if shading his eyes from the sun! it was a position of ordinary repose; and one might have fancied him asleep. but the gory crown, and red mottling upon the shirt--seemingly still wet--forbade the supposition. he slept; but it was the sleep of death! my eyes wandered in search of the others. there were fires burning. they were out upon the plain, some three hundred yards from the base of the butte. they had been lately kindled: for their smoke was rising in thick columns, part of it falling again to the earth. around the fires, and through the smoke, flitted the forms of the indians. they appeared to be cooking and feasting. some of them staggering over the ground, kept up an incessant babble--at intervals varying their talk with savage whoops. others danced around accompanying their leaps with the monotonous "hi-hi-hi-ya." all appeared to have partaken freely of the fire-water of taos. a few more seriously disposed were grouped around four or five prostrate forms--evidently the bodies of their slain. the two we had shot from their horses must have been amongst these: since they were no longer to be seen where they had fallen. those around the bodies stood hand in hand chanting the dismal death-song. not far from the fires, a group fixed my attention. it consisted of three figures--all in attitudes as different as it was possible to place them in. he who lay along the ground, upon his back, was the young hunter wingrove. he still wore his fringed buckskin shirt and leggings; and by these i recognised him. he was at too great a distance for his features to be distinguished. he appeared to be bound hand and foot-- with his ankles lashed together, and his wrists tied behind his back. he was thus lying upon his arms, in an irksome position; but the attitude showed that he was alive. i knew it already. some half-dozen paces from him was a second form, difficult to be recognised as that of a human being--though it was one. it was the body of jephthah bigelow. its very oddness of shape enabled me to identify it--odder from the attitude in which i now beheld it. it was lying flat along the grass, face downward, the long ape-like legs and arms stretched out to their full extent--both as to length and width--and radiating from the thin trunk, like spokes from the nave of a wheel! viewing it from my elevated position, this attitude appeared all the more ludicrous; though it was easy to perceive that it was not voluntary. the numerous pegs standing up from the sward, and the cords attached to them, and leading to the arms and limbs, showed that the _spread-eagle_ position was a constrained one. that it was sure-shot, i had no doubt. the spare locks of clay-coloured hair were playing about in the breeze; and some remnants of bottle-green still clung around his limbs. but without these, the spider-like frame was too characteristic to be mistaken. i was glad to see those yellowish tufts. they told that the wearer still lived--as was also made manifest by the fact of his being bound. a dead body would not have merited such particular treatment. it was the third figure of this group that most strongly claimed my attention. i saw that it was not that of a warrior; though quite as tall as many upon the plain. but the contour of the form was different--as also the fashion of the garments that draped it. it was the figure of a woman! had i not been guided in my conjectures--by a certain foreknowledge--by the allusions that had occurred in the speeches of red-hand--i should never have dreamt of identifying that form. forewarned by these, the apparition was not unexpected. the woman was su-wa-nee! she was standing erect by the prostrate form of the young hunter--her head slightly bent, and her face turned towards him. an occasional motion of her arm showed that she was speaking to him. the gesture seemed to indicate a threat! was it possible that in that dread hour she was reviling him? i was at too great a distance, either to hear her words, or note the expression upon her face. only by the dumb show of her gesticulations, could i tell that a scene was passing between them. a glance around the plain enabled me to note some other changes that had recently taken place. the horses of the indians were now picketed upon the grass, and browsing peacefully--as if the clangour of strife had never sounded in their ears. i could see my own arab a little apart, with wingrove's horse and the mules--all in the charge of a horse-guard, who stood sentry near them. the waggon was still by the base of the mound. the cedars along its sides were yet unburnt! i thought that the flames had consumed them, but no. the object of their fires had been to blind us with their smoke--thus to drive us from our position, and facilitate our capture. i was not permitted to make these observations without interruption. the savage--who had stood by me had a duty to perform; and during all this time he was busied in its performance. a singular and inexplicable operation it at first appeared to me. his initiatory act was to blacken my body from the waist upward, including my face, throat, and arms. the substance used appeared to be a paste of charcoal, which he rubbed rudely over my skin. a circle upon my breast--that traced out by the blade of the chief--was left clear; but as soon as the black ground had been laid on, a new substance was exhibited, of snow-white colour, resembling chalk or gypsum. with this--after the blood had been carefully dried off--the circular space was thickly coated over, until a white disc, about as large as a dining-plate shewed conspicuously on my breast! a red spot in the centre of this was necessary to complete the _escutcheon_; but the painter appeared at a loss for the colour, and paused to reflect. only a moment did he remain at fault. he was an ingenious artist; and his ingenuity soon furnished him with an idea. drawing his knife, and sticking the point of it some half inch deep into the fleshy part of my thigh, he obtained the required "carmine"; and, after dipping his finger in the blood, and giving it a dab in the centre of the white circle, he stood for a short time contemplating his work. a grim smile announced that he was satisfied with it; and, uttering a final grunt, the swarthy apelles leaped down from the platform, and disappeared from my sight. a horrid suspicion had already taken possession of my soul; but i was not left long to speculate upon the purpose for which i had been thus bedaubed: the suspicion gave place to certainty. upon the plain directly in front of me, and at less than a hundred yards' distance from the butte, the warriors were collecting in groups. the red-hand with his under-chiefs had already arrived there; and the other indians were forsaking the fires, and hurrying up to the spot. they had left their lances apart, standing upright on the plain, with their shields, bows, and quivers leaning against them, or suspended from their shafts. the only weapons taken along with them to the common rendezvous were the muskets. with these they were now occupying themselves--apparently preparing them for use. i saw them mark out a line upon the grass, by stretching a lazo between two upright pegs. i saw them wiping, loading, and priming their pieces--in short, going through all the preliminary manoeuvres, observed by marksmen preparing for a trial of skill. then burst on me in all its broad reality the dread horror for which i was reserved--then did i comprehend the design of that white circle with its centre of red: the savages were about to hold a shooting-match--_my own bosom was to be their target_! chapter sixty three. a pitiless pastime. yes--to hold a shooting-match was undoubtedly the design of my captors; and equally clear was it that my breast was to be their mark. this explained my position upon the summit of the mound, as well as my attitude upon the cross. i was bound to the latter, in order that my person might be held erect, spread, and conspicuous. i could not comfort, myself with any doubt as to their intention. every movement i saw confirmed it; and the question was finally set at rest by red-hand possessing himself of one of the loaded muskets, and making ready to fire. stepping a pace or two in front of the line of his warriors, he raised the piece to his shoulder, and pointed it towards me. it is vain to attempt describing the horror i endured at that moment. utterly unable to move, i gazed upon the glistening barrel, with its dark tube, that threatened to send forth the leaden messenger of death. i have stood before the pistol of the duellist. it is not a pleasant position to be in, under any conditions of quarrel. still it is perfect happiness compared with that i then held. in the former case, there are certain circumstances that favour the chances of safety. you know that you are _en profile_ to your antagonist--thus lessening the danger of being hit. judging by yourself, you feel assured that the aim taken will be quick and unsteady, and the shot a random one. you are conscious of possessing the capability of motion--that whether you may feel inclined to give way to it or not, you still have a certain discretion of avoiding the deadly missile--that by superior skill or quickness, you may anticipate your antagonist and hinder his bullet from being sent. there are other circumstances of a moral nature to sustain you in a trial of this kind--pride, angry passion, the fear of social contempt; and, stronger than all--perhaps most frequent of all--the jealousy of rival love. from none of all these could i derive support, as i stood before the raised musket of the arapaho. there was no advantage--either moral or physical--in my favour. i was broad front to the danger, without the slightest capacity of "dodging" it; whilst there was nothing to excite the nerves of the marksman, or render his aim unsteady. on the contrary, he was sighting me as coolly, as if about to fire at a piece of painted plank. it may have been but a minute, that the savage occupied himself in adjusting his aim; but to me it appeared ten. in such a situation, i may have believed the seconds to be minutes: they seemed so. in reality, the time must have been considerable. the drops of sweat that had started from my brow were chasing each other over my cheeks, and trickling down upon my breast. so prolonged was the suspense, i began to fancy that the arapaho was designedly dallying with his aim, for the purpose of sporting with my fears. he may have had such motive for procrastination. i could have believed it. distant though he was, i could mark his fiendish smile, as he repeatedly dropped the piece from his shoulder, and then returned it to the level. that he meant more than mere menace, however, was proved in the end. having satisfied himself with several idle feints, i saw him make demonstration, as if setting himself more determinedly to the work. this time he was certainly in earnest. his cheek lay steadily along the stock--his arms appeared more rigid--his finger was pressing on the trigger--the moment had come! the flash from the pan--the red stream poured forth from the muzzle--the hist of the bullet, were all simultaneous. the report came afterwards; but, before it had reached my ears, i knew that i was untouched. the lead had already whizzed past, at a distance--as i could judge by the sound--of several feet from my body. i heard a scratching behind me; and the instant after, a swarthy face was thrust before my eyes. it was that of the artist, who had painted me for the part i was playing. i had been under the impression that he had gone down to the plain, but i now perceived my error. he had remained near me, concealing his body behind the rock. i saw that he was now enacting a different _role_-- that of marker for the marksmen. running his eye over my body, and perceiving that i was nowhere hit, he telegraphed the intelligence to his comrades upon the plain; and then glided back to his covert. i was relieved from the terrible anxiety; but only for a short moment--a mere interval of about a dozen seconds' duration. the red-hand, after firing, had resigned his place; but this was instantly occupied by one of his sub-chiefs, who, armed with another musket, in turn stepped up to the line. again i saw the gleaming barrel brought to the level, with its dark tube pointed upon my body. this marksman was more expeditious; but for all that, it was to me a time of racking torture. again did the drops bead out upon my brow, and chase one another down my cheeks. again had i to undergo all the agony of death itself and, as before, without dying, or even losing a drop of my blood! as before, i beheld the puff of smoke, the flash, the blaze of fire projected from the muzzle: but ere the crack reached me, i heard the "thud" of the bullet, as it flattened against the granite on which i stood. this time the marker did not mount up to the platform. he had seen the splinters shivered from the rock; and without further inquiry, for the second time, telegraphed a miss. a third candidate appeared upon the stand; and my fears returned--as acute as ever. this fellow caused me to suffer nearly a dozen deaths. either was his gun without a flint, or his powder damp: since after snapping nearly a dozen times, the piece still refused to go off. had it been designed to give me a new horror, the thing could not have been better planned: for each time that the savage essayed to fire, i had to undergo the agony of a fresh apprehension. the scene ended by another gun being placed in his hands, that _did_ go off; but with no advantage to the clumsy marksman: for his bullet, like that of the red-hand, whistled past, far wide of the mark. a fourth now took the ground. this was a tall, swarthy warrior, one of the tallest of the tribe; and without the insignia of a chief. the cool and deliberate manner in which he went about his work, caused me to anticipate in him a better shot; and my apprehensions were heightened to a degree of painful intensity. i felt my whole frame shiver as his gun blazed forth; and for a time i believed myself hit. the cheer of his companions upon the plain announced the belief in the success of the shot; but he upon the summit soon undeceived them--just as i became myself reassured. the bullet had struck the wood-work of my crucifix-- one of the crosspieces to which my arms were attached. it was the shock of the timber that had deceived me into the belief that i had been struck. a fifth marksman followed; and then another and another--until more than a dozen had tried their hands. the guns were now all emptied; but this caused only a temporary cessation in the cruel sport. they were soon reloaded; and new candidates stepped forward to make trial of their skill. i had by this time discovered that they were not practising for mere sport. it was a _game_, and bets were laid, upon it. apart upon the plain, the stakes were placed, consisting of saddles, robes, weapons, and the plunder of the emigrant waggon. horses also were picketed near--surplus animals--that were betted against one another: whether in many separate wagers, or all forming a grand "pool," i could not determine. my own scalp--i was uncertain whether i still wore it--was no doubt the chief object of the contest. it was the "cup," to be given to him who should place his bullet in that white circle upon my breast, and nearest the red spot in the centre! the guns being once more reloaded, the firing recommenced, i saw that only one shot was allowed to each; and this only to those who had entered a stake. the condition gave me an opportunity of experiencing my apprehensions in different degrees: since, according to the apparent adroitness or clumsiness of the marksman, my fears of being hit were greater or less. strange to say, before a dozen shots had been fired, _i no longer wished them to miss_! the dread ordeal, so oft repeated, was too terrible to be borne. i was sustained by no hope of ultimate escape. i knew that the fiends would continue firing, till some one of them should finish me by a fatal shot; and i cared not how soon it should be sent. nay, i even desired that it should come quickly. death was preferable to the agony i was enduring. chapter sixty four. a hundred deaths. for a full hour was the pitiless pastime continued--during which at least fifty shots had been fired at my person. the truculent chieftain had threatened me with a hundred deaths. he was fulfilling his threat to the letter; for, notwithstanding the unskilful practice, i felt, on the eve of each discharge, a certain creeping of the flesh, and curdling of the blood, as if that moment was to be my last. if i had not yet died a hundred times, for at least so many had i felt all the sensations that should precede actual death. in truth over a hundred times: for although but fifty shots had been fired, twice as often had the old guns snapped or flashed in the pan; and each of these was preceded by its especial pang. i had not escaped altogether unscathed: i had been hit in two or three places--in my arms and limbs. blood was running down my legs, and creeping over my feet. i could feel it warm and wet, as it trickled between my toes. in a little hollow of the rock, directly in front of me, a crimson pool was collecting. the wounds could not be severe: since i scarcely felt them. perhaps only the crease of a bullet? a scratch would be sufficient to cause the effusion of the blood--copious though it appeared to be; and i felt certain that no bone had yet been broken--that no vital part of my body had been touched. after about an hour had been spent by the savages in their fiendish sport, the firing became suddenly suspended. i could not tell why; and sought for an explanation by watching the movements of the marksmen. had they exhausted their ammunition? this was the idea that came uppermost. the chiefs had turned face to face, and were again engaged in some earnest deliberation. the subject of their talk was made known by their gesticulations. they were pointing towards sure-shot, who still lay, as i have described, flat upon his face. wingrove was no longer there; nor yet su-wa-nee! where could they have gone? i had seen both but the moment before! had she unbound, and rescued him? was it about them that the savages were in consultation? no; the result proved not. it was the deserter who was the object of their attention--as was soon made manifest by their movements. half a dozen warriors were seen separating from the group and running up to the spot where sure-shot lay. stooping around him, they undid his fastenings; and then, having, raised him to his feet, commenced dragging him towards the crowd of marksmen. the terrified man made no resistance. it would have been idle. there was a brawny savage on each side, grasping him by the wrist; and three or four behind pushing him forward at a run. his long hair streaming loosely, strengthened the expression of despair that was depicted upon his countenance. no doubt he deemed it his last hour. whether could they be dragging him? whither but to death? this was my own belief--at first; but in a few minutes i had reason to change it. for a short while, sure-shot was encircled by the dusky forms, and i saw him not--or only the crown of his head--conspicuous by its yellow hue among the darker _chevelures_ of the indians. what were they doing to him? i could not guess; but they appeared to be offering him no further violence. after a time, the group scattered from around him, and the ex-rifleman was again uncovered to my view. with some surprise, i perceived that the expression of his countenance had undergone a total change. it was no longer that of terror--much less of despair. on the contrary, there was a certain air of confidence visible both in his look and manner--as if something had been said, or done to him, that had given him satisfaction! i was further surprised at perceiving that he had a gun in his hands--his own rifle--and that he was in the act of loading the piece! my surprise changed to indignation as i saw him step forward to the line, and stand facing me--evidently with the intention to fire! "cowardly traitor! he has accepted life upon some base condition. jeph bigelow! sure-shot! whom i thought true as steel! i would not have believed it." such was the reflection, to which my gag prevented me from giving utterance. in reality, i felt astonished at the behaviour of the old ranger. i believed him a better man; but the dread of death is a powerful test to apply to the human soul; and hard must be the conditions of life when, under such circumstances, they are refused. sure-shot had succumbed to the temptation. such was my belief, as i saw him raise his piece, and stand confronting me--in an attitude that too plainly bespoke his intention. another surprise awaited me--another stimulus to my indignation. instead of looking ashamed of his work, and cowering under my glance, he appeared eager and determined to execute the dastardly design. there was even an expression of fierceness, ill becoming his countenance habitually meek. under other circumstances, it would have been ludicrous enough. "bravado," thought i, "assumed, no doubt, to give satisfaction to his new allies?" i had not recovered from the confusion of my surprise, when his voice fell upon my ear--uttered in a tone of anger, and accompanied with corresponding gestures. but the words that reached me explained all. on hearing them, i no longer suspected the loyalty of my old comrade. the angry expression _was_ assumed; but the counterfeit had a design, far different from that which i had attributed to it. it was sure-shot himself--still tricky as true. "capting!" cried he, speaking quickly, and raising his gun with a gesture of menace, "pay 'tention to whet i'm 'beout to say. look savagerous at me, an' make these yeer verming b'lieve you an' me's que'lling. fo'most tell me, ef they've krippled ye 'beout the legs? i know ye can't speak; but shet yeer eyes, an' thet says `no.'" i was for the moment puzzled, by the matter as well as manner of his speech, which in no way corresponded. in an instant, however, i perceived that he had some design; and i hastened to obey his hurried instructions. as to the first, i needed to make no alteration in my demeanour. under the belief that he was disloyal, i had been regarding him with a glance sufficiently scowling. i preserved the expression--at the same time closing my eyes, as a negative answer to his query. although i believed myself to be hit somewhere about the legs, i felt confident that i was not "crippled." "so fur good!" continued he, still speaking loudly and angrily. "neow! slew yeer right elbow down a leetle, an' gi' me a better chance at thet eer strip o' hide. i kinder guess as heow i kin cut the thing. it 'peers to be all o' one piece, an' 'll peel off yeer body like a rope o' rushes. ef i cut it, theer'll be a chance for ye. theer's only one o' the verming ahint the mound. yeer hoss air theer; make for the anymal-- mount 'im, an' put off like a streak o' greased lightnin'! neow!" as he finished speaking, he stepped nearer to the line, and placed himself in an attitude to fire. i now fully comprehended his design. i saw, as he said, that the cord which bound me to the crucifix was all of one piece--a thin thong of raw-hide--lapped not very tightly around my arms, legs, and body. if cut through at any point, it could easily be detached; and, true enough, my horse must be behind the butte, for i could not see him in front. by a quick rush i might succeed in reaching him, before the indians could intercept me? if so, then indeed might there be a chance of escaping. chapter sixty five. a sharp shot. slender as appeared the prospect of my being freed from my fastenings, by the method proposed, i was not without some faith in sure-shot being able to cut the thong. his skill in the use of the rifle was notorious even among good marksmen--and his aim believed to be unerring. i had known him to bring down with his bullet a bird upon the wing; and had heard him declare that it was not by the _eye_ but by the _mind_ that he did it. in other words: he meant, that his skill was not mechanical; but that he was guided in the act by some mental operation--which he himself but imperfectly understood. i could believe this the more readily--since sure-shot was not the only marksman i had known possessed of this peculiar power. a something inexplicable, which may be classed with the mysterious phenomena of clairvoyance and "horse-whispering." with such belief in his skill, therefore, i was not without some hope that he might succeed in his design; and, to give him the chance he desired, i made a violent effort, and wrenched my arm downward. it was, to all appearance, a demonstration of my wrath, at what the pseudo-renegade had been saying to me; and it seemed to be thus interpreted by most of the savages who stood around him. the words of sure-shot, spoken in english, were of course unintelligible to them; but, notwithstanding the inappropriate gestures which he had made use of, the suspicions of one were aroused. this was red-hand himself. "what says he of the yellow scalp-lock to the captive?" inquired the chief in spanish. "let him take heed, or he too shall become a shooting-mark for the arapaho warriors!" sure-shot's reply was characteristic. it was also in broken spanish, which the ranger had picked up during our campaign, on the rio grande. translated, it ran thus: "i'm only telling him how i'm about to get square with him. _carrambo_! great chief! when i was a soldier in the army, yon fellow was my _capitano_, and gave me a flogging. believe me, chief, i'm right glad of this opportunity to have revenge on him. that's what i have been saying to him." "ugh!" grunted the savage, apparently satisfied with the explanation. "neow, capting!" angrily shouted the rifleman, once more raising his piece to the level, "look e' out! don't be skeert abeout my hittin' o' ye! the whang lies well ageen the bit o' timber. the ball's a big un. i recking i kin bark it anyheow. heer's to try!" a tall yellow-haired man standing with a rifle to his shoulder--his sallow cheek resting against the stock--the barrel apparently aligned upon my body--the quick detonation of a percussion-cap--a stream of red fire and smoke from the muzzle--a shock, followed by the quivering of the timbers to which i was tied, were perceptions and sensations of almost simultaneous occurrence. twisting my head, and turning my eyes almost out of their sockets, i was able to note the effect of the shot. the thong had been hit, just at the point where it doubled over the edge of the wood. it was cut more than half through! by raising my elbow to its original position, and using it as a lever, i could tear apart the crushed fibres. i saw this; but in the anticipation of a visit from the marker, i prudently preserved my attitude of immobility. in a moment after, the grinning savage came gliding in front of me; and, perceiving the track of the bullet, pointed it out to those upon the plain. i was in a feverish state of suspense lest he might suspect design; but was relieved on seeing him step aside--while the shuffling grating noise from behind admonished me, that he was once more letting himself down over the edge of the platform. the crowd had already closed around sure-shot, who appeared to be expostulating with the chief--as if offering some explanation of his failure. i did not wait to witness the _denouement_. raising my elbow, and giving my arm a quick jerk, i heard the thong snapping asunder; and saw the broken ends spring out from their folds. another wrench set my right arm free; and then, clutching the loosened coils, i unwound them with as much rapidity, as if i had been freeing myself from the embrace of a serpent! not one of the indians saw what i was about, till after i had undone my fastenings. their eyes had been turned upon sure-shot-- with whom they appeared to be engaged in some angry altercation. it was only after i had sprung to one side, and stood clear of the crucifix, that i heard their ejaculations of astonishment, followed by a wild continuous yelling. i stayed not to note what they were doing. i merely glanced towards them, as i turned away; and perceived that they were still fixed to their places, as if petrified by surprise! the moments were precious; and, bounding across the platform, i leaped down upon the opposite side. there was a little shelf about six feet below the summit. i found it occupied by the indigenous artist. he was seated upon the edge, with his legs hanging over. his back was towards me; and he was only apprised of what had transpired by seeing me as i sprang to his side. he had already heard the yells from the other side; and was about to get to his feet, at the moment i dropped down behind him. he was too late for the accomplishment of his purpose. i saw that he was unarmed; but was apprehensive that by flinging himself upon me, he might hold or delay me. i hesitated not as to what i should do. bushing forward, i planted my foot against his shoulder, and giving his body a violent impulsion, projected it clear over the edge. i saw it striking upon the angular prisms, and bounding from block to block--till it sunk out of sight amidst the tortuous branches of the cedars. i ran down the sloping path--taking many yards at a step. not far off, was my horse--with that of wingrove, and the mules. they formed a little group--but no longer under charge of a guard: for the latter had just left them, and was running forward to intercept me. i saw that he had a weapon in his hand. it was a gun. he was pointing it upon me as he ran--endeavouring to take aim before firing. i heeded not the threatening attitude, but rushed straight towards him. i could not go round him: since he was between me and the horses. we both ran, as if to meet one another. when less than five paces separated us, the indian stopped, sighted me and pulled trigger. his gun snapped! before he could lower the piece, i had clutched the barrel: and, with a desperate effort, wrenched the weapon from his grasp. i made a feint to strike him over the head. he threw up his arms to ward off the blow. instead of using the gun as a club, i thrust him with the butt right under the ribs; and stretched him gasping upon the grass. he fell, as if shot through the head! still holding on to the gun--which, by a strange accident, proved to be my own rifle--i ran up to my horse. the creature welcomed me with a neigh of joy! it was but the work of a moment to draw the picket-pin, gather up the laryette, and spring to his back. once there, i felt that i was free! the indians came screaming around the butte--most of them afoot, and with no other weapons than the empty muskets. a few, more prudent than their fellows, had made towards their arms and horses; but, both being at a distance, they had not yet reached them; and the advantage was mine. i was no longer hurried in my actions--not even afraid. i had no apprehension of being retaken. on the back of my brave steed, i felt like an ocean cast-away, who has climbed up the sides of a strong ship, and once more stands safely upon deck! i felt confident that from my pursuers, i could gallop away at will; and, after taking time to adjust my laryette as a halter, i gave the head to my horse, and rode off. my arab needed no urging. up the valley went he, like a bird upon the wing. i could laugh to scorn the savage pack that came hallooing behind me. chapter sixty six. the chase and the syncope. i made direct for the canon whence issued the stream. its gap grew wider as i approached it--though still appearing only a dark cleft between the rocks, like the entrance to some subterranean passage. i looked forward to it with satisfaction. its shadowy chasm promised shelter and concealment. when near the entrance of the gorge, i passed the ground where the waggon had been captured. part of its load-- barrels and heavy boxes--were lying upon the sward. they were all broken, and rifled of their contents. the plunder had been carried to the butte. the dead bodies were still there--only those of the white men. i even halted to examine them. they were all stripped of their clothing--all scalped, and otherwise mutilated. the faces of all were blood-bedaubed. under the red mask i could not have recognised them-- even had they been the faces of old friends! there were six of them. divested of their garments, i could form no conjecture as to who or what they had been--whether teamsters or emigrants, gold-seekers or soldiers. the mormon could not have been among them: the bodies were all too stout for his; while, on the other hand, there was none of them that could have been mistaken for that of the squatter, holt. i turned away from the sickening sight, and continued my gallop. my pursuers were a good mile behind me. the sun had already sunk over the crest of the cliffs, and i could just see the mounted savages through the darkling gloom--still fallowing as fast as their horses could gallop. in five minutes after, i had entered the gorge. the twilight continued no longer: in the canon it was night. i followed the stream upwards, keeping along near the bank. thick darkness was over and around me; but the gleam of the water and its rippling sound served to guide me on the path. i could not see any track--either of horses or waggons--but i knew they had passed over the ground. there was a narrow strip of bottom land thickly timbered; and an opening through the trees indicated the road that the waggons must have taken. i trusted the trail to my horse. in addition to his keen instinct, he had been trained to tracking; and with his muzzle projected forward and downward--so that his lips almost touched the earth--he lifted the scent like a hound. we could only make progress at a quick walk; but i consoled myself with the thought that my pursuers could go no faster. seeing how easily i had ridden away from them, they might determine to abandon the pursuit--returning to revenge themselves upon my fellow-captives. about these my mind was filled with, bitter reflections; and strange enough, my strongest sympathies were with. sure-shot! i could not help thinking that he had sacrificed himself to save me. there could be no doubt of his having done so. he had been offered life, on some traitorous condition, and could have lived. the indian whom i had hurled over the rocks, if still alive, would explain my escape. the cunning savages would easily understand it. my brave comrade would take my place upon the crucifix? for wingrove i had less fear. surely love--even slighted love--would save him from the sacrifice? yet, after what had occurred, i had but little reason to hope even for him. i could think of but one chance of rescuing them: to overtake the train, and prevail upon the escort to return. i wondered at the dragoons having abandoned the waggon, and left the poor fellows who were with it to their fate! i could only explain such conduct, by supposing that these had been far behind, and that their disaster was still unknown to the people of the caravan. the six men who had fallen might have been the only ones along with the waggon; and their firing, as they defended themselves, might not have been heard? the roar of the water in the canon might have drowned the reports of their guns; and, as i now listened to its deafening sound, i could believe in this hypothesis. indulging in such conjectures, i had groped my way some two or three miles up the gorge, when i became sensible of a singular faintness stealing over me. a chill crept through my frame--not like that produced by cold from without; but as if the blood was freezing in my veins! the feeling was accompanied by a sense of torpor and lassitude-- like that experienced by one dropping to sleep in a snow-storm. i made an effort to rouse myself--thinking it was sleep that was oppressing me. it might well have been--since it was more than thirty hours since i had slept, and then only for a short while. it occurred to me that, by dismounting and walking for a distance, i might recover warmth and wakefulness. with this design, i alighted from my horse. once upon the ground, i discovered that i could not walk--that i could not even keep my feet! my limbs tottered under me, as if i had been for months bed-rid. only by holding on to my horse could i stand erect! what could it mean? my arab turned his face towards me, as if making the same inquiry! i endeavoured to remount him, but could not. i was unable even to clamber upon his back; and after an unsuccessful effort, desisted--still supporting myself against his body. had he moved away, at the moment, i should have fallen. and i must have fallen--after my senses left me. in the last gleam of consciousness, i remembered standing by the side of my horse. but i must have fallen: for when thought returned, i found myself upon my back, stretched at full length along the grass! chapter sixty seven. passed by the pursuit. i must have fallen upon my back, or else turned upon it after falling. on opening my eyes, the sky was the first object that my glance encountered. i saw only a strip of it, of dark-blue colour, bordered on each side by black. i knew it was the sky by its twinkling stars; and that the black borderings were the cliffs of the canon. by this i remembered where i was, and the stars and darkness admonished me it was still night. there was hot air upon my face--as if some one was behind breathing down upon me. i turned my head, and looked upward. a pair of brilliant eyes were glancing into mine. so confused were my senses, that it was some time before i made them out to be the eyes of my arab. he was standing over me, with his muzzle close to my forehead. it was his breath i had felt upon my face. i could not tell how long i had been entranced. i had no clue to the time of night, and i was not in a position to consult the stars. i must have lain several hours, partly in syncope, and partly asleep. it was fortunate i had a buffalo-robe around my body. i had found it lying upon the plain among the dead men; and had snatched it up, and tied it around my shoulders as i rode on. but for it, i might have perished in my slumber: since the night was chill, and i had neither covering on my back, nor blood in my veins, to resist the cold. it was the absence of the latter that had brought me to the ground. i had left most of my blood upon the butte. sleep or time had revived me. i was able to get to my feet; and i arose. i was still weak, and staggered like a lamb; but my senses were sufficiently clear; and i now recollected everything that had transpired. i was also conscious of the danger of remaining in that place; and it was this thought that induced me to get up--with the intention of going forward. i was strong enough to mount, and just strong enough to keep the seat upon my horse; but i was aware of the necessity of putting a wider distance between myself and the red-hand before daylight should arrive; and i continued onward up the ravine. the trace was easily followed-- more easily than when i first entered the canon. there was more light; and this must have been caused by a moon. i could see none--the cliffs hindered me--but the strip of sky visible above the rocks showed the sheen of moonlight. i rode but slowly. feeble though i was, i could have ridden faster, but i was proceeding with caution. strange as it may seem, i was now paying more regard to the front than the rear. i had a suspicion that my pursuers might be _ahead_ of me. i could hardly believe in their having abandoned the pursuit, after so slight an effort. too many of them had fallen by my hand. they would scarce let me escape so easily, and with my scalp untaken: i had ascertained that the trophy was still upon my head. it was quite possible they had passed me. while endeavouring to mount my horse, i had drawn him from the path; and the place where i had found myself lying was behind some bushes, where i should have been screened from the eyes of any one riding along the track. in daylight i might have been seen; but not then. at that hour the darkness would have concealed me. and it _had_ concealed me, as i soon after discovered. my suspicion that the pursuers had passed me proved the means of saving me. but for the caution it had prompted me to observe, i should have ridden head to head against their horses! i had proceeded about a mile further, and was still advancing when my steed raised his head horizontally, and gave utterance to a low snort. at the same instant, he stopped without any tightening of the rein! above the sough of the stream, i heard noises. the intonation of the red man's voice was easily recognised. there were indians in front of me! were they coming or going? the voices grew louder as i listened--the speakers were nearing me. my first thought was to glide behind the trees; but a glance showed me that these were not tall enough. they were mere bushes. they might have concealed the body of a man; but a horse standing up could not have been hidden behind them. for a moment i was undecided as to how i should act--till i bethought me of turning, and riding back to where i had lain. i was in the act of facing about, when through the sombre light i observed a break in the cliff. it appeared to be a gap--the entrance of a lateral ravine. it offered a chance of concealment: since it was even darker than within the canon itself. i hesitated not about accepting the shelter it promised; and, heading my horse into it, i rode rapidly but silently forward. when fairly concealed under its shadowy gloom, i again halted and listened. i heard the hoof-strokes of horses and the voices of men. i recognised the deep guttural of the arapahoes. a troop was riding past, going back towards the valley. they were those who had pursued me. were these _all_ of my pursuers. there appeared to be only a small party--ten or a dozen horsemen. others might have gone up the river, who had not yet returned. it was this doubt that caused me to hesitate; otherwise i should have ridden back into the canon, and kept on up the stream. but by doing so i might place myself between two parties of my pursuers, with no chance of retreating in either direction. moreover, pickets might have been stationed along the path. to fall upon one of these would be fatal. why not follow the lateral ravine? i might ride up that for a distance, and then leaving it, cross over to the caravan trace--above any point to which the pursuit might have been carried? this plan appeared feasible; and, without delay, i adopted it. i rode on up the gorge, which very much resembled that i had left--only that there was no water in it. it had not been always so: for my path here and there ran over a channel of rocks, which indicated the bed of a stream, now dry. i followed the ravine for a mile or more; and then looked for a path that would take me across to the caravan trail. i looked in vain. stupendous cliffs rose on each side. i could not scale them. i had no choice but to keep on up the ravine; but that would be going at right angles to my proper course! there was no alternative but to halt and wait for daylight. indeed, i was too faint to ride further. slight exertion fatigued me; and, no longer in dread of immediate danger i deemed it more prudent to stop, and, if possible, gain strength by rest. i dismounted, gave my horse to the grass; and, having wrapped myself in the warm robe, soon entered upon the enjoyment of sleep--sweeter and more natural than the involuntary slumber in which i had been lately indulging. chapter sixty eight. the track of the mocassin. the blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when i awoke. on the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be stirring. i had no toilet to make--no breakfast to eat: nothing to do but mount my horse and move onward. i continued up the lateral ravine-- since there was no path leading out from it; and to return to the huerfano, would have been to ride back into the teeth of danger. i still felt faint. though less than twenty-four hours since i had eaten, i hungered acutely. was there nothing i could eat? i looked inquiringly around. it was a scene of sterility and starvation. not a symptom of life--scarcely a sign of vegetation! rocks, bare and forbidding, formed two parallel facades grinning at each other across the gorge--their rugged features but little relieved by the mottling of dark junipers that clung from their clefts. there appeared neither root nor fruit that might be eaten. only a chameleon could maintain existence in such a spot! i had scarcely made this reflection, when, as if to contradict it, the form of a noble animal became outlined before my eyes. its colour, size, and proportions, were those of a stag of the red deer species; but its spiral horns proclaimed it of a different genus. these enabled me to identify it as the rare mountain-ram--the magnificent _ammon_, of the northern andes. it was standing upon a salient point of the cliff--its form boldly projected against the purple sky, in an attitude fixed and statuesque. one might have fancied it placed there for embellishment--a characteristic feature of that wild landscape. the scene would have been incomplete without it. from my point of observation it was five hundred yards distant. it would have been equally safe at five: since i had no means of destroying it. i might easily have crept within shot-range--since a grove of cotton-woods, just commencing where i had halted, extended up the bottom of the ravine. under these i could have stalked, to the base of the cliff on which the animal stood--a sort of angular promontory projecting into the gorge. this advantage only rendered the sight more tantalising: my gun was empty, and i had no means of reloading it. was it certain the piece was empty? why should the indian have believed it to be loaded? up to this moment, i had not thought of examining it. i drew the ramrod, and inverted it into the barrel. the head struck upon a soft substance. the screw stood four fingers above the muzzle: the gun was charged! there was no cap upon the nipple. there had been none! this accounted for the piece having missed fire. in all likelihood, i owed my life to the circumstance of the savage being ignorant of the percussion principle! i was now indebted to another circumstance for a supply of caps. the locker near the heel of the stock had escaped the attention of the indians. its brass cover had passed for a thing of ornament. on springing it open the little caps of corrugated copper gleamed before my eyes--an abundance of them. i tapped the powder into the nipple; adjusted a cap; and, dismounting, set forth upon the stalk. the spreading tops of the cotton-woods concealed me; and, crouching under them, i made my approaches as rapidly as the nature of the ground would permit. it grew damper as i advanced; and, presently, i passed pools of water and patches of smooth mud--where water had recently lain. it was the bed of an intermittent stream--a hydrographic phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the central regions of north america. the presence of water accounted for that of the cotton-wood trees--a sure indication of moisture in the soil. the water was a welcome sight. i was suffering from thirst even more than from hunger; and, notwithstanding the risk of losing my chance of a shot, i determined to stop and drink. i was creeping forward to the edge of one of the ponds, when a sight came under my eyes that astonished me; and to such a degree, as to drive both thirst and hunger out of my thoughts--at least for the moment. in the margin of sandy mud extending along the edge of the water, appeared a line of tracks--the tracks of human feet! on crawling nearer, i perceived that they were mocassin-tracks, but of such tiny dimensions, as to leave no doubt as to the sex of the individual who had made them. clearly, they were the imprints of a woman's feet! a woman must have passed that way! an indian woman of course! this was my first reflection; and almost simultaneous with it arose another half-interrogative conjecture: was it su-wa-nee? no. the foot was too small for that of the forest maiden. i had a remembrance of the dimensions of hers. the tracks before my eyes were not over eight inches in length: and could only have been made by a foot slender, and of elegant shape. the imprint was perfect; and its clear outline denoted the light elastic tread of youth. it was a _young_ woman who had made those footmarks. at first, i saw no reason to doubt that the tracks were those of some indian girl. their size would not have contradicted the supposition. among the aboriginal belles of america, a little foot is the rule--a large one the exception. i had tracked many a pair much smaller than those; but never had i seen the footprints of an indian with the _toes turned out_; and such was the peculiarity of those now before me. this observation--which i did not make till after some time had elapsed-- filled me with astonishment, and something more. it was suggestive of many and varied emotions. the girl or woman who had made these tracks could never have been strapped to an indian cradle. she must be white! chapter sixty nine. a rival stalker. it was not by any conjuncture that i arrived at this conclusion. i was quite confident that the footsteps were not those of a _squaw_--all inexplicable as was the contrary hypothesis. i observed that they were very recent--of less than an hour's age. as i rose from regarding them, a new sign appeared on the same bed of sand--the footmarks of a wolf! no--i was deceived by resemblance. on nearer examination, they were not wolf-tracks i saw; but those of a dog, and evidently a large one. these were also fresh like the woman's tracks--made doubtless at the same time. the dog had accompanied the woman, or rather had been following her: since a little further on, where both were in the same line, his track was uppermost. there were two special reasons why this sign should astonish me: a _white_ woman in such a place, and _wearing moccasins_! but for the style of the _chaussure_, i might have fancied that the tracks were those of some one who had strayed from the caravan. i might have connected them with _her_--ever uppermost in my thoughts. but--no. small though they were, they were yet too large for those _mignon_ feet, well-remembered. after all, i _might_ be mistaken? some dusky maiden might have passed that way, followed by her dog? this hypothesis would have removed all mystery, had i yielded to it. i could not: it was contrary to my tracking experience. even the dog was not indian: the prints of his paws proclaimed him of a different race. my perplexity did not hinder me from quenching my thirst. the pain was paramount; and after assuaging it, i turned my eyes once more towards the cliff. the wild ram had not stirred from his place. the noble animal was still standing upon the summit of the rock. he had not even changed his attitude. in all likelihood, he was acting as the sentinel of a flock, that was browsing behind him. the sun was falling fair upon his body, and deepened the fern-red colour upon his flanks. i could note his full round eyes glistening under the golden beam. i was near enough to bring him down; and, should the rifle prove to have been properly loaded, i was likely to have for my breakfast the choicest viand of the mountain region of america. i had raised my piece, sighted the noble game, and was about to pull trigger, when, to my astonishment, the animal sprang off from the cliff; and, turning back downward, fell heavily into the gorge! when i saw him pitching outward from the rock, i fancied he was making one of those singular somersaults, frequently practised by the _ovis ammon_ in descending the ledges of a cliff. but no. had the descent been a voluntary one, he would have come down upon his huge elastic horns, instead of falling as he had done, with the dull sodden sound of a lifeless body? i perceived that the bighorn had ceased to live; and the report of a gun--that rang through the gorge, and was still reverberating from the cliffs--told the cause of his death. some hunter, stalking on the other side, had taken the start, of me! white or red? which fired the shot? if an indian, my head would be in as much danger of losing its skin as the sheep. if a white man, i might still hope for a breakfast of broiled mutton. even a churl might be expected to share with a starving man; but it was not the quarter in which to encounter a christian of that kidney. it was the crack of a rifle. the red man rarely hunts with the rifle. the arrow is his favourite weapon for game. notwithstanding the remoteness from civilisation, the probabilities were that the hunter was white. he might be one of those attached to the caravan; or, more likely, a _free_ trapper. i knew that upon several head tributaries of the arkansas there were settlements of these singular men. from prudential considerations, i kept my place. screened by the cotton-woods, i should have an opportunity of deciding the point, without my presence being suspected. if the hunter should prove to be an indian, i could still retreat to my horse without being observed. i had not long to wait. i heard a noise, as of some one making way through the bushes. the moment after, a huge wolf-like animal rushed round the projecting angle of the cliff, and sprang upon the carcase of the bighorn. at the same instant a voice reached my ears--"off there, wolf! off, villain dog! don't you see that the creature is killed--no thanks to you, sirrah?" good heavens! it was the voice of a woman! while i was yet quivering under the surprise produced by the silvery tones, the speaker appeared before my eyes--a girl majestically beautiful. a face smooth-skinned, with a tinge of golden-brown--cheeks of purplish red--a nose slightly aquiline, with nostrils of spiral curve--eyes like those of the egyptian antelope--a forehead white and high, above bounded by a band of shining black hair, and surmounted by a coronet of scarlet plumes--such was the head that i saw rising above the green frondage of the cotton-woods! the body was yet hidden behind the leaves; but the girl just then stepped from out the bushes, and her whole form was exhibited to my view--equally striking and picturesque. i need not say that it was of perfect shape--bust, body, and limbs all symmetrical. a face like that described, could not belong to an ungainly form. when nature designs beauty, it is rare that she does her work by halves. unlike the artists of the anatomic school, she makes the model for herself--hence the perfect correspondence of its parts. and perhaps fairer form had nature never conceived. the dullest sculptor might have been inspired by its contemplation. the costume of the girl corresponded to the cast of her features. about both there was that air of wild picturesqueness, which we observe in art paintings of the gipsy, and sometimes in the gipsy herself--for those sirens of the green lanes have not all disappeared; and, but that saw the snowy cone of pike's peak rising over the crest of the cliff, i might have fancied myself in the sierra asturias, with a beautiful _gitana_ standing before me. the soft fawn-skin _tilma_, with its gaudy broidering of beads and stained quills--the fringed skirt and buskined ankles--the striped navajo blanket slung scarf-like over her shoulders-- all presented a true gipsy appearance. the plumed circlet upon the head was more typical of transatlantic costume; and the rifle carried by a female hand was still another idiosyncracy of america. it was from that rifle the report had proceeded, as also the bullet, that had laid low the bighorn! it was not a _hunter_ then who had killed the game; but she who stood before me--a huntress--the wild huntress. chapter seventy. the wild huntress. no longer was it from fear that i held back; but a hesitancy springing from surprise mingled with admiration. the sight of so much beauty-- grand as unexpected--was enough to unnerve one, especially in such a place--and one to whose eye the female form had so long been a stranger. su-wa-nee's i had seen only at a distance; and hers, to my sight, was no longer beautiful. i hesitated to show myself--lest the sight of me should alarm this lovely apparition, and cause her to take flight. the thought was not unnatural--since the tricoloured pigments of black, red, and white were still upon my skin; and i must have presented the picture of a chimney-sweep with a dining-plate glued upon his breast. in such a guise i knew that i must cut a ludicrous figure, and would have slipped back to the pool, and washed myself; but i dreaded to take my eyes from that beautiful vision, lest i might never look upon it again! in my absence, she would be gone? i feared even then, that on seeing me she might take flight: and i was too faint to follow her. for this reason, i stood silently gazing through my leafy covert, like one who watches the movements of some shy and beautiful bird. i almost dreaded to breathe lest the sound might alarm her. i was planning, at the same time, how i should initiate an interview. her voice again reached me, as she recommenced scolding the dog: even its chiding tones were sweet. she had approached, and stooped for a moment over the bighorn, as if to satisfy herself that the animal was dead. her canine companion did not appear to be quite sure of the fact: for he continued to spring repeatedly upon the carcass with open mouth, as if eager to devour it. "off, off!" cried she, threatening the dog with the butt of her rifle. "you wicked wolf! what has got into you? have i not told you that the thing is dead--what more do you want? mind, sirrah!" continued she, shaking her finger significantly at the dog--"mind, my good fellow! _you_ had no part in the killing of it; and if you spoil the skin, you shall have no share in the flesh. you hear me? not a morsel!" wolf appeared to understand the hint and retired. impelled by hunger, i accepted the cue: "you will not refuse a morsel to one who is starving?" "aha! who speaks?" cried the huntress, turning round with a glance rather of inquiry than alarm. "down, wolf!" commanded she, as the dog bounded forward with a growl. "down, you savage brute! don't you hear that some one is starving? ha! a negro! poor devil! where can he have come from, i wonder?" only my head was visible--a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. the coat of char upon my face was deceiving her. "no, not a negro," said i, stepping out and discovering my person--"not a negro, though i have been submitted to the treatment of one." "ho! white, red, and black! mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! ha, ha, ha!" "my toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? i might apologise for it--since i can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than--" "you are a white man, then?" said she, interrupting me--at the same time stepping nearer to examine me. "i was, yesterday," i replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the indian artist had left untouched. "to-day, i am as you see." "o heavens!" she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, "this red? it is blood! you are wounded, sir? where is your wound?" "in several places i am wounded; but not dangerously. they are only scratches: i have no fear of them." "who gave you these wounds?" "indians. i have just escaped from them." "indians! what indians?" "arapahoes." "arapahoes! where did you encounter them?" the question was put in a hurried manner, and in a tone that betrayed excitement. "on the huerfano," i replied--"by the orphan butte. it was the band of a chief known as the red-hand." "ha! the red-hand on the huerfano! stranger! are you sure of this?" the earnest voice in which the interrogatory was again put somewhat surprised me. i answered by giving a brief and rapid detail of our capture, and subsequent treatment--without mentioning the names of my travelling companions, or stating the object of our expedition. indeed, i was not allowed to enter into particulars. i was hurried on by interpellations from my listener--who, before i could finish the narrative of my escape, again interrupted me, exclaiming in an excited manner: "red-hand in the valley of the huerfano! news for wa-ka-ra!" after a pause she hastily inquired: "how many warriors has the red-hand with him?" "nearly two hundred." "not more than two hundred?" "no--rather less, i should say." "it is well--you say you have a horse?" "my horse is at hand." "bring him up, then, and come along with me!" "but my comrades? i must follow the train, that i may be able to return and rescue them?" "you need not, for such a purpose. there is one not far off who can aid you in that--better than the escort you speak of. if too late to save their lives, he may avenge their deaths for you. you say the caravan passed yesterday?" "yesterday about noon." "you could not overtake it, and return in time. the red-hand would be gone. besides, you cannot get from this place to the trail taken by the caravan, without going back by the canon; and there you might meet those from whom you have escaped. you cannot cross that way: the ridge is impassable." as she said this, she pointed to the left--the direction which i had intended to take. i could see through a break in the bluff a precipitous mountain spur running north and south--parallel with the ravine i had been threading. it certainly appeared impassable--trending along the sky like the escarpment of some gigantic fortress. if this was true, there would be but little chance of my overtaking the escort in time. i had no longer a hope of being able to effect the rescue of my comrades. the delay, no doubt, would be fatal. in all likelihood, both wingrove and sure-shot had ere this been sacrificed to the vengeance of the arapahoes, freshly excited by my escape. only from a sense of duty did i purpose returning: rather with the idea of being able to avenge their deaths. what meant this mysterious maiden? who possessed the power to rescue my comrades from two hundred savages--the most warlike upon the plains? who was he that could aid me in avenging them? "follow me, and you shall see!" replied the huntress, in answer to my interrogatory. "your horse! your horse! hasten, or we shall be too late. the red-hand in the valley of the huerfano! wa-ka-ra will rejoice at the news. your horse! your horse!" i hastened back for my arab, and hurriedly led him up to the spot. "a beautiful creature!" exclaimed she, on seeing the horse; "no wonder you were able to ride off from your captors. mount!" "and you?" "i shall go afoot. but stay! time is precious. can your steed carry us both?" "undoubtedly he can." "then it is better we should both ride. half an hour is everything; and if the red-hand should escape--you mount first--be quick!" it was not the time to be squeamish--even under the glance of the loveliest eyes. taking the robe from my shoulders, i spread it over the back of my horse; and employing a piece of the laryette as a surcingle, i bound it fast. into the improvised saddle i mounted--the girl, from a rock, leaping upon the croup behind me. "you, wolf!" cried she, apostrophising the dog; "you stay here by the game, and guard it from the _coyotes_. remember! rascal! not a mouthful till i return. now, stranger!" she continued, shifting closer to me, and clasping me round the waist, "i am ready. give your steed to the road; and spare him not, as you value the lives of your comrades. up the ravine lies our way. ho! onward!" the brave horse needed no spur. he seemed to understand that speed was required of him; and, stretching at once into a gallop, carried us gaily up the gorge. chapter seventy one. a queer conversation. is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. not so then. my blood was thin and chill. my soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, lilian! had it been _thy_ arm thus wound around my waist--had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold--i might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. but not with her--that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. for her i had no love-yearnings. even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if i had been in the embrace of a statue. my thoughts were not there. my captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. how? and by whom? whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? i would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. i could only form conjectures. these pointed to white men--to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. i knew there were such. how else in such a place could _her_ presence be accounted for? even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. there could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of red-hand--at least with the chance of destroying it? she knew the strength of the arapahoes. i had told her their number, as i had myself estimated it--nearly two hundred warriors. it was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. moreover, she had mentioned a name--twice mentioned it--"wa-ka-ra." no white was likely to bear such an appellation. the word was undoubtedly indian--especially as the huntress had pronounced it. i waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. it offered at length-- where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace i was about initiating a dialogue, when i was forestalled in my intention. "you are an officer in the army!" said my companion, half interrogatively. "how should you have known that?" answered i in some surprise--perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. "oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me." "my uniform?" "yes. have you not still a portion of it left?" inquired she, with a striking simplicity. "i see a mark here where lace stripes have been. that denotes an officer--does it not? the arapahoes have stripped them off, i suppose?" "there was lace--true--you have guessed correctly. i have been in the army." "and what was bringing you out here? on your way to the gold countries, i dare say?" "no, indeed, not that." "what, then, may i ask?" "only a foolish freak. it was a mere tour without much purpose. i intended soon to return to the states." "ah! you intend returning? but you say you _were following_ the caravan--you and your three fellow-travellers! why were you not _with_ it? would it not have been safer?" i hesitated to make reply. my interrogator continued: "it is not usual for so small a party to pass over the prairies alone. there is always danger from the indians. sometimes from whites too! ah me! there are white savages--worse savages than red--far worse--far worse!" these strange speeches, with the sigh that accompanied them, caused me to turn my head, and steal a glance at the countenance of my companion. it was tinged with melancholy, or rather deeply impressed with it. she, too, suffering from the past? in this glance i again remarked what had already attracted my notice--a resemblance to lilian holt! it was of the slightest, and so vague, that i could not tell in what it lay. certainly not in the features--which were signally unlike those of lilian; and equally dissimilar was the complexion. were i to place the resemblance, i should say that i saw it in the cast of the eye, and heard it in the voice. the similitude of tone was striking. like lilian's, it was a voice of that rich clarion sound with which beautiful women are gifted--those having the full round throat so proudly possessed by the damsels of andalusia. of course, reflected i, the likeness must be accidental. there was no possibility of its being otherwise; and i had not a thought that it was so. i was simply reminded of looks and tones that needed not that to recall them. the souvenirs so excited hindered me from making an immediate reply. "your observations are somewhat singular?" i remarked at length. "surely you have not verified them by your own experience?" "i have. yes--and too sadly, ever to think them otherwise than just. i have had little reason to love those of my own colour--that is, if i am to consider myself a white." "but you are so, are you not?" "not altogether. i have indian blood in my veins." "not much, i should fancy?" "enough to give me indian inclinings--and, i fear, also a dislike to those of my own complexion." "indeed?" "perhaps less from instinct than experience. ah! stranger! i have reason. is it not enough that all have proved false--father, lover, husband?" "husband! you are married, then?" "no." "you have been?" "no." "why did you say _husband_!" "a husband only in name. i have been married, but never a wife; wedded, but never--" the speaker paused. i could feel her arm quivering around my waist. she was under the influence of some terrible emotion! "yours must be a strange story?" i remarked, with a view of inducing her to reveal it. "you have greatly excited my curiosity; but i know that i have no claim to your confidence." "you may yet win it." "tell me how." "you say you intend returning to the states. i may have a commission for you; and you shall then hear my story. it is not much. only a simple maiden, whose lover has been faithless--her father untrue to his paternal trust--her husband a cheat, a perjured villain." "your relationships have been singularly unfortunate; but your words only mystify me the more. i should give much to know who you are, and what strange chance has led you hither?" "not now--time presses. your comrades, if still alive, are in peril. that is your affair; but mine is that the red-hand may not escape. if he do, there's one will grieve at it--one to whom i owe life and protection." "of whom do you speak?" "of the mortal enemy of red-hand and his arapahoes--of wa-ka-ra." "wa-ka-ra?" "head chief of the utahs--you shall see him presently. put your horse to his speed! we are close to the camp. yonder are the smokes rising above the cliff! on stranger! on!" as directed, i once more urged my arab into a gallop. it was not for long. after the horse had made about a hundred stretches, the canon suddenly opened into a small but beautiful _vallon_--treeless and turfed with grass. the white cones, appearing in serried rows near its upper end, were easily identified as an encampment of indians. "behold!" exclaimed my companion, "the tents of the utahs!" chapter seventy two. wa-ka-ra. the lodges were aligned in double row, with a wide avenue between them. at its head stood one of superior dimensions--the wigwam of the chief. they were all of conical shape; a circle of poles converging at their tops, and covered with skins of the buffalo, grained and bleached to the whiteness of wash-leather. a slit in the front of each tent formed the entrance, closed by a list of the hide that hung loosely over it. near the top of each appeared a triangular piece of skin, projecting outward from the slope of the side, and braced, so as to resemble an inverted sail of the kind known as _lateen_. it was a wind-guard to aid the smoke in its ascent. on the outer surface of each tent was exhibited the biography of its owner--expressed in picture-writing. more especially were his deeds of prowess thus recorded--encounters with the couguar and grizzly bear--with crows, cheyennes, pawnees, and arapahoes--each under its suitable symbol. the great marquee of the chief was particularly distinguished with this kind of emblematical emblazonment--being literally covered with signs and figures, like the patterns upon a carpet. no doubt, one skilled in the interpretation of these transatlantic hieroglyphs, might have read from that copious cipher many a tale of terrible interest. in front of the tents stood tall spears, with shields of _parfleche_ leaning against them; also long bows of _bois d'arc (maclura aurantica_), and shorter ones of horn--the horns of the mountain-ram. skin-quivers filled with arrows, hung suspended from the shafts; and i observed that, in almost every grouping of these weapons, there was a gun--a rifle. this did not much astonish me. i knew that, to the utah, the medicine weapon is no longer a mystery. here and there, hides freshly flayed were pegged out upon the grass, with squaws kneeling around them, engaged in the operation of graining. girls, with water-tight baskets, poised upon the crown of the head, were coming from or going towards the stream. men stood in groups, idly chatting, or squatted upon the turf, playing at games of chance. boys were busy at their bow-practice; and still younger children rolled their naked bodies over the grass, hugging half-grown puppies--the companions of their infant play. troops of dogs trotted among the tents; while a mixed herd of horses, mules, sheep, goats, and asses browsed the plain at a little distance from the camp. such was the _coup d'oeil_ that presented itself to my gaze, as we rode up to the utah encampment. as might be expected, our arrival caused a change in the occupation of everybody. the dicers leaped to their feet--the squaws discontinued their work, and flung their scrapers upon the skins. "_ti-ya_!" was the exclamation of astonishment that burst from hundreds of lips. children screamed, and ran hiding behind their dusky mothers; dogs growled and barked; horses neighed; mules hinnied; asses brayed; while the sheep and goats joined their bleating to the universal chorus. "on to the chief's tent!" counselled my companion, gliding to the ground, and preceding me on foot, "yonder! the chief himself--wa-ka-ra!" an indian of medium size and perfect form, habited in a tunic of embroidered buckskin, leggings of scarlet cloth, head-dress of coloured plumes, with crest that swept backward and drooped down to his heels. a gaily striped _serape_, suspended scarf-like over the left shoulder, with a sash of red china crape wound loosely around the waist, completed a costume more picturesque than savage. a face of noble type, with an eye strongly glancing, like that of an eagle; an expression of features in no way fierce, but, like the dress, more gentle than savage; a countenance, in repose mild--almost to meekness. such saw i. had i known the man who stood before me, i might have remarked how little this latter expression corresponded with his real character. not that he was cruel, but only famed for warlike prowess. i was face to face with the most noted war-chief of america: whose name, though new to me, was at that moment dreaded from oregon to arispe, from the banks of the rio bravo to the sierras of alta california. it was _walker_--the war-chief of the utahs--the friend of the celebrated trapper, whose name he had adopted; and which, by the modification of utah orthoepy, had become _wa-ka-ra_. an odd individual--a very odd one--was standing beside the chief as i rode up. he appeared to be a mexican, to judge by his costume and the colour of his skin. the former consisted of _jaqueta_ and _calzoneros_ of dark-coloured velveteen, surmounted by a broad-brimmed _sombrero_ of black glaze; while the complexion, although swarthy, was several shades lighter than that of the indian. he was a man of diminutive stature, and with a countenance of a serio-comical cast. an expression of this kind pervaded his whole person--features and figure included--and was heightened by the presence of a singular accoutrement that hung suspended from his leathern waist-belt. it was a piece of timber some eighteen inches in length, and looking like the section of a boot-tree, or the half of a wooden milk-yoke. at the thick end was a concavity or socket, with straps, by which it was attached to the belt; and this singular apparatus, hanging down over his thigh, added to the grotesque appearance of its owner. the little mexican had all the cut of a "character;" and he was one, as i afterwards ascertained. he was no other than the famous pedro archilete--or "peg-leg," as his comrades called him--a trapper of taos, and one of the most expert and fearless of that fearless fraternity. the odd accoutrement which had puzzled me was nothing more than an artificial leg! it was an implement, however, he only used upon occasions--whenever the natural one--the ankle of which had been damaged by some accident--gave out through the fatigue of a march. at other times he carried the wooden leg, as i first saw it, suspended from his belt! his presence in the indian encampment was easily accounted for. he was in alliance with their chief: for the utahs were at that time _en paz_ with the settlements of the taos valley; and the spanish trappers and traders went freely among them. peg-leg had been on a trapping expedition to the parks; and having fallen in with the utahs, had become the guest of wa-ka-ra. chapter seventy three. peg-leg. "the huntress has returned soon?" said the chief, interrogatively, as the girl glided up to him. "she brings strange game!" added he, with a smile. "who is the young warrior with the white circle upon his breast? he is a pale-face. it is not the custom of our white brothers to adorn themselves in such fashion?" "the painting is not his," replied the girl. "it has been done by the hands of his enemies--by red men. the white circle was designed for a mark, at which many bullets have been fired. the red streaks you see are blood, that has streamed from wounds inflicted on the stranger's body! when wa-ka-ra shall know who caused that blood to flow, he will hasten to avenge it." "if it be the wish of the white huntress, wa-ka-ra will avenge the blood--even though his own people may have spilled it. speak, ma-ra-nee! you say that red men have done this--were they utahs?" "no; but the enemies of the utahs." "the utahs have many enemies--on the north, south, east, and west they have foes. whence comes the stranger? and who has been spilling his blood?" "from the east--from the _arapahoes_." "ugh!" exclaimed the chief, with a start, his countenance suddenly becoming clouded with an angry expression. "arapahoes! where has the pale-face encountered the arapahoes?" "on the huerfano." "good; the white huntress brings news that will gladden the hearts of the utah warriors! arapahoes on the huerfano! who has seen them there?" the huntress replied by pointing to me. "he has been their captive," she added, "and has just escaped from them. he can guide wa-ka-ra to their camp, where the utah chief will find his deadliest enemy-- red-hand." at the mention of this name, the cloud that was gathering upon the brow of the utah chief became darker by several shades, and the mild expression was no longer observable. in its place was a look of fierce resolve, blended with glances that spoke a savage joy. some old and terrible resentment was rekindled by the name--with a hope, no doubt, of its being gratified? the chief now entered upon a series of interrogatories directed to myself. he spoke english--thanks to his trapper associations: and it was in this language he had been conversing with the huntress. his inquiries were directed to such particulars as might put him in possession of the necessary knowledge for an attack upon the arapahoes. as concisely as possible, i made known their position and numbers--with other circumstances calculated to aid in the design. the account i gave seemed to gratify him. as soon as our dialogue was ended, i had the satisfaction to hear him declare his intention of proceeding at once to the valley of the huerfano! to me it was joyful news: my comrades might yet be rescued from the hands of the arapahoes? "ma-ra-nee!" said he, again addressing himself to the huntress, "conduct the stranger to your tent! give him food. and you, _cojo_!" he continued, turning to the little mexican, "you are skilled in medicine-- look to his wounds! he can repose while we are preparing. ho! sound the signal of _assembly_! summon our braves to the war-dance!" the last words were addressed to an indian who was standing close behind him. quickly succeeding the order, the notes of a bugle burst upon the air--strange sounds in an indian camp! but the white man's music was not the only sign of civilised life to be observed among the tents of the utahs. the guns and pistols--the spurs, lances, and saddles--the shakos and helmets--all spoke of the spoiled _presidios_ on the mexican frontier; while fair-skinned _doncellas_ of spanish race were seen mingling with the copper-coloured squaws--aiding them in their domestic duties--captives to all appearance contented with their captivity! none of this was new to me. i had witnessed similar scenes in the land of the comanche. they are of daily occurrence along the whole frontier of spanish america: where the red man constantly encroaches--reclaiming the country of his ancestors, wrested from him three centuries ago by the cupidity of the _conquistadores_. upon the side of the indian now lies the strength--if not in numbers--at least in courage and war-prowess. the horse he once dreaded has become his dearest friend; and he can manage him with a skill scarcely equalled by his pale-faced adversary. the lance and fire-weapon are in his hands; the spirit-thunder no longer appals him: he knows its origin and nature, and uses it in the accomplishment of a terrible retaliation! on the northern continent, utah and yaqui, kiowa and comanche, apache and navajo, have all proved their superiority over the degenerated descendants of cortez: as in the south have cuncho and cashibo, goajira and auracanian, over those of the ruthless pizarro. the red man no longer goes to war as a mere savage. he has disciplined his strength into a perfect strategy; and possesses a military system as complete as that of most civilised nations. the comanche cavalry charges in line, and can perform evolutions to the call of the bugle! so can the utah, as i had evidence at that moment. before the trumpet-notes had ceased to reverberate from the rocks, five hundred warriors had secured their horses, and stood beside them armed and ready to mount. a regiment of regular dragoons could not have responded to "boots and saddles" with greater expedition! peg-leg took possession of me. "senor pintado!" said he, speaking in spanish, and after having examined my wounds, "the best medicine for you will be your breakfast; and while your _conpaisana_ is preparing it, you can come with me, and have a little water thrown over you. this painting does not improve your looks; besides, if it get into your wounds, they will be all the more difficult to make a cure of. _nos vamos_!" the huntress had retired to a tent that stood near that of the chief, and a little to the rear of it. i followed the mexican, who, in a hobbling gait, proceeded towards the stream. the cold bath, assisted by some taos brandy from the gourd _xuage_ of the trapper, soon restored my strength; and the hideous pigment, lathered with the bruised roots of the _palmilla_--the soap-plant of the new mexicans, soon disappeared from my skin. a few slices of the _oregano_ cactus applied to my wounds, placed them in a condition to heal with a rapidity almost miraculous; for such is the curative power of this singular plant. my mexican _medico_ was yet more generous, and furnished me with a handsome navajo blanket, which served as a complete covering for my shoulders. "_carrambo_!" exclaimed he, as he tendered the garment, "take it, _americano_! you maybe able to repay me when you have recovered your possible-sack from the arapahoes. _mira_!" he added, pointing towards the tents--"your breakfast is ready: yonder the _senorita_ is calling you. take heed, _hombre_! or her eyes may cause you a more dangerous wound than any of those you have received from the bullets of the arapahoes. _vaya_!" i resisted an inclination to make inquiries: though the hint of the taos trapper half furnished me with an excuse. my "countrywoman," he had called her. no doubt he knew more of her history; but i questioned him not. remembering her promise, i had hopes that i might soon learn it from her own lips. chapter seventy four. a beautiful hostess. "aha, stranger!" said she, as i approached the tent, "he has altered your appearance wonderfully. oh! you are not so frightful now. come in! here is _pinole_, and a little broiled goat's flesh. i am sorry i did not bring some of the wild sheep. it is most excellent; but in my haste i did not think of it. bread i cannot give you: we never have it here." "i have been accustomed to ruder fare than this," said i, accepting the proffered viands, and without further ceremony, seating myself to discuss them. there was an interval of silence, during which i continued eating. once or twice, my hostess went out, returning again to see if anything was wanted. the warlike preparations going on outside appeared greatly to interest her; and i thought she regarded them with impatience, or as if anxious about the event. who or what was the object of this solicitude? wa-ka-ra? in what relationship stood she to the chief? a captive she could scarcely be: else would she not have been permitted to stray so far from the encampment? his wife? the separate tent, as also the style used by the utah in addressing her, negatived the idea. what then? i longed to hear the history of this wild huntress; but the opportunity had not yet arrived. "ah!" said she, returning once more within the tent, "i fear they will be too late. the red post is only just now erected; and the war-dance may last for an hour. it is a useless ceremony--only a superstition. the chief himself does not believe in it; but his braves will not go to battle without performing it. hark! they are commencing the chaunt!" i caught the low monotone of many voices, gradually rising and swelling into a prolonged chorus. at intervals, one was heard speaking in solo: as if proclaiming some distinguished deed, to incite the warriors to emulation. then followed a clangour of yells, and loud whoops, breathing menace and revenge. "it is the war-song that accompanies their dance," added she. "you may rest till it is finished. then you must be ready: they will ride off as soon as the ceremony is over." she flung herself on one of the buffalo-robes that covered the floor of the tent; and half seated, half reclining, appeared to reflect. the attitude displayed a feminine form of magnificent outlines; and with a face dazzlingly beautiful, this singular woman presented a picture something more than attractive. "wa-ka-ra must love her?" thought i. as i made this reflection, i again observed the melancholy expression upon her countenance; and once more the resemblance to her of whom i was thinking! my interest in the beautiful huntress was every moment augmenting. i felt an indescribable yearning to hear the story of her misfortunes: for in no other light could i regard the situation in which i had found her. "you have promised to tell me of yourself?" said i, reminding her of what she had said. "i shall keep my promise--upon the condition, of which i have forewarned you." "name it then--if not impossible, i am ready to accept it." "it is not impossible--though it may tax your generosity more than you expect. you have said that you intend returning to the states. _will you take me with, you_?" a start must have betrayed my astonishment at the unexpected request. "willingly," i replied; "but now--i fear--it is impossible." "your journey is not ended? is that what you mean?" "alas! i know not when or where it may end." "that is strange! but you intend to go back some time? till then, let me be your travelling companion?" the proposal left me for the moment without a word to say. "oh, do not refuse me!" continued she, in an appealing tone; "i will wait upon you; i will hunt for you--anything, but longer i cannot stay here. with all their kindness--and they have been kind, in their own rude fashion--i cannot remain. i long for the society of civilised beings. o stranger! i cannot tell you how i long to see!"--she hesitated. "whom?" i asked in expectation of hearing a name. "a sister--a sweet gentle sister, who loved me as her own life--whom i loved more than my life. oh! not till we were parted knew i the strength of that love." "how long since you have seen this sister?" "six months ago, i left her--deceived by a villain, i left her. six years it has seemed! oh! i cannot endure this savage life. they honour me--they give me all the hospitality in their power--but i am not happy. stranger, say you will relieve me from this terrible existence? say you will take me with you?" "i freely promise it, if it be your desire. but what of these? will they--will _he_ consent?" "who?" "wa-ka-ra." "yes--yes! he has said i may go, whenever an opportunity should offer. brave chief! he has nobly kept his word to him who is now no more." "to whom?" "to him who saved my life--to him who saved me--ah! see, the chief approaches! the war-song is ended. at another time, i shall tell you all; but not now. we must haste, or the warriors will be gone." "surely _you_ do not intend to accompany us?" "the women follow at a distance, to take care of the wounded. i go with them." the voice of wa-ka-ra, calling to me to join him and his warriors, put an end to a dialogue, that had done but little to illustrate the story of the strange personage by my side. if possible, i was more mystified than ever. but it was not a time to be tempted by the lure of an idle curiosity, however interesting the theme. the perilous situation of my old comrades came once more vividly before my mind. the thought recalled me to my duty; and, hurrying from the presence of that beautiful being--whom i hoped soon to behold again--i leaped upon the back of my horse; and joined the utah warriors, as they swept in full gallop from out the lines of their encampment. chapter seventy five. effecting the surround. the ride was rough and rapid. notwithstanding the superiority of my steed, it was as much as i could do to keep pace with my new allies-- whose horses, used to all sorts of ground, went gliding along the uneven paths, as if they had been graded roads. through tangled bushes they scrambled without stay, over sharp and slippery rocks--their unshod hoofs rendering them sure-footed as mountain sheep. down the gorge lay our route; and paths, over which i had almost feared to walk my horse, were now passed in a quick continuous gallop. we soon reached the scene of my encounter with the huntress. the dog still kept sentry over the game. couchant by the body of the bighorn, he only growled as the cavalcade swept past. no one stopped to relieve him, of his charge. on a war expedition the chase is universally neglected. even its spoils are spurned. hunger is supposed to beget prowess, as it sharpens the wits; and the savage fights best upon an empty stomach. the hurried movements of the indians--the eagerness each one exhibited to press forward--proved how earnest they were on this expedition. it was not my affair that was stimulating them to such speed. a tribal hostility of long standing--older than the warriors themselves--existed between utah and arapaho. between the bands of wa-ka-ra and red-hand the hostile inheritance had increased until it had reached the maximum of the most deadly _vendetta_. this will account for the hot haste with which we hurried on--for the universal excitement that prevailed in the ranks of my utah allies. they knew that they outnumbered their enemies. they already exulted in the anticipation of a grand _coup_. for all that, they were not rushing recklessly into battle. the utah chieftain was too skilled a soldier. i perceived that he was acting upon a preconceived plan; and his strategy was soon made known to me. it was that of the "surround." the band was to break up into four divisions of nearly equal numerical strength. the first, under wa-ka-ra himself, was to go round by the bluffs; and, having worked its way into the lower canon, would enter the plain from that direction. should the arapahoes attempt to retreat towards the arkansas, this party could intercept them. a second division--also keeping above the bluffs--was to make to a point nearly opposite the butte; where, by a ravine known to the indians, a descent could be made into the valley of the huerfano. a third was to seek its station upon the opposite side--where a similar defile led down to the plain; while the remaining warriors were to move forward by the upper canon, and halt at its mouth--until the other three parties were known to have reached their respective places. at a signal agreed upon, all four divisions were to move forward at a rapid gallop, and close in upon the enemy. the first party was to give the cue: as it had furthest to go; and, by the time it could reach its destination, the others would be ready. a smoke was to be the signal for charging forward. the plan was well conceived; and if it should prove that the arapahoes were still by the butte, a fight _a l'outrance_ might be looked for as the certain result. they would have no alternative but fight. the execution of the movement was soon entered upon. near the place where i had passed the last hours of the night, a side ravine--which, in the darkness i had not observed--sloped up out of the gorge. by canons and deep defiles the whole face of the country was cut up in this _bi-pinnate_ fashion--every pass of it being well-known to the utahs. hence their confidence in being able to effect the surround of their enemies, who were less familiar with this region; and who must have been tempted thither by the passage of the train. up the lateral ravine rode wa-ka-ra with his dusky warriors; while the second division, intended to take station on the bluff, defiled by the same track, but more slowly. the rest of us kept on down the gorge. on reaching the main canon, the party destined for the opposite bluff separated from the other; and proceeded circuitously by a branch ravine that opened to the upper plain. the fourth and last division rode direct down the bank of the river-- upon the path by which i had been pursued. this division was in charge of the second chief; and to it was i myself assigned--with peg-leg, also a volunteer, as my immediate companion. the trapper had himself some old scores to settle with the arapahoes; and appeared as eager for the fight as any utah in the tribe. apprehensive of falling in with some straggling pursuers of the preceding night, we moved forward with caution. the sub-chief was an old warrior, whose scars and grizzled hair betokened experience of many a hostile encounter, and no doubt many a cunning stratagem. scouts were sent in advance; and these, returning from time to time, signalled that the path was clear. advancing in this fashion, we at length reached the embouchure of the canon, and halted within its gloomy shadow. as yet not an arapaho had been seen: but, on climbing to a ledge of rocks, i had the satisfaction to perceive that these brigands were still by the butte. i saw not them, but their horses--the _cavallada_ being almost in the position in which i had left it! from this it was evident, that they had returned from the pursuit: had abandoned it altogether, and given their steeds to the grass. only a few of the men were in sight--moving about among the fires, that still burned upon the plain; but the strength of the _cavallada_ told that the others were there--no doubt, concealed from our view by the interposed mass of the mound. i saw the waggon at its base--the white tilt conspicuous against the dark-green foliage of the cedars. but my eyes dwelt not upon this. in rapid glance, they were carried to the summit. the crucifix was still there. i could trace its timbers--its upright and horizontal beams--though not distinctly. i knew what was rendering their outlines indistinct. there was a body upon the cross--the body of a man. it was that which interrupted the regularity of the lines. the timbers were between me and the body--for i viewed it from behind--and at such a distance, i could not have told who was the crucified man, even had he been facing me. wingrove or sure-shot--one or the other. of that much i was certain. i could make out that the man was naked-- just as i had been myself: i saw his white skin glistening along each side of the upright post. while gazing upon it, i heard the report of a musket. nearly at the same instant, a little blue-coloured cloud was ascending into the air. it rose from behind the butte; and was easily recognisable as smoke produced by the discharge of a gun. the savages had returned to their cruel sport. too clearly did i comprehend the signs of that fiendish exhibition. after regarding the crucifix for awhile, i noted a circumstance that enabled me to decide which of my comrades was undergoing the terrible ordeal. to a certainty, sure-shot was the sufferer. the red-hand had fulfilled his threat; and my brave preserver was now promoted to my place. the circumstance that guided me to this knowledge was sufficiently definite. i could tell it was sure-shot by his height. i remembered that my own crown scarcely reached the top of the upright post. that of him now enduring the torture rose above it-- by the head. under the bright sunbeam, there was a sheen of yellow hair. that of wingrove would have appeared dark. beyond doubt, sure-shot was the martyr now mounted upon that dread cross! i viewed the spectacle with feelings not to be envied. my soul chafed at the restraint, as it burned with bitter indignation against these demons in human form. i should have rushed forward to stay the sacrifice, or, if too late, to satisfy the vengeance it called forth; but i was restrained by reflecting on the impotency of the act. the prudent chief who commanded the indians would not move, till the smoke-signal should be given; and videttes had climbed far up on the cliff, to watch for and announce it. it was not anticipated that we should have long to wait. our party had moved slowly down the defile; and the time consumed in our advance was considerable--almost enough to have enabled the others to get to their respective stations. this thought--along with my experience of the ball-practice of the arapahoes--in some measure reconciled me to the delay. if he upon the cross was still living, his chances of escape were scarcely problematical. another shot or two from such marksmen would be neither here nor there. if the unfortunate man were already dead, then was the delay of _less_ consequence: we should still be in time to avenge him. but he was _not_ dead. the evidence that he was living was before my eyes; though, in the confusion of the moment, i had no sooner perceived it. above the top of the post appeared the head held stiffly upright. this proved that the body still lived. had it been otherwise, the head would have been drooping? chapter seventy six. the history of the huntress. i had just made these observations as the mexican clambered up the rock, and took stand by my side. "_hijo de dios_!" exclaimed he, as his eyes fell upon the cross, "_la crucifixion_! what a conception for savages! _mira_!" he continued, as another white cloud puffed out from behind the sloping side of the mound, and the report of a musket came booming up the valley, "_santissima_! they are firing at the unfortunate!" "yes," said i; "they are playing with one of my comrades, as they did yesterday with myself." "ah, _mio amigo_! that is an old game of the arapahoes. they used to practise it with their arrows, and for mere sport. now that they have taken to guns, i suppose they combine instruction with amusement, as the books say. _carrambo_! what cruel brutes they are! they have no more humanity than a grizzly bear. god help the poor wretch that falls into their clutches! their captive women they treat with a barbarity unknown among other tribes. even beauty, that would soften a savage of any other sort, is not regarded by these brutal arapahoes. only think of it! they were about to treat in this very fashion the beautiful _americana_--the only difference being that they had strapped her to a tree instead of a crucifix. _carrai-i_!" "the beautiful americana?" "_yes_--she who brought you to the camp." "what! she in the hands of the arapahoes?" "_sin duda_; it was from them she was taken." "when, and where? how, and by whom?" "_hola! hombre_--four questions at once! _muy bien_! i can answer them, if you give me time. to the first, i should say about six months ago. to the second, near the big timbers, on the arkansas. my reply to the third will require more words; and before giving it, i shall answer the fourth by saying that the girl was taken from the rapahoes by don jose." "don jose--who is don jose?" "oh! perhaps you would know him by his american name--oaquer?" "walker, the celebrated trapper? joe walker?" "the same, _amigo_. oaquara, the utahs pronounce it. as you perceive, their young chief is named so, and after him. the trapper and he were sworn friends--brothers--or more like father and son: since don jose was much the older." "_were_ friends. are they not so still?" "_valga me dios_! no. that is no longer possible. don jose has gone under--was rubbed out more than three months ago, and by these very rapahoes! that is why your fair _conpaisana_ is now with the utahs. the old trapper left her to his namesake oaquara--under whose protection she has been ever since." "he has been true to his trust? he _has_ protected her?" under the influence of singular emotions did these questions escape me. "_seguramente, amigo_!" replied the mexican, with an ingenuousness calculated to allay my unpleasant fancies, "the utah chief is a noble fellow--_un hombre de bien_--besides, he would have done anything for his old friend--whose death greatly grieved him. that is just why you see him here in such haste. it was not to avenge your wrongs that they danced their war-measure--but the death of don jose. all the same to you, however: since your _companeros_ are likely to have the advantage of it. as for the americana," continued he, before i had time to make rejoinder, "_virgen santissima_! such a maiden was never seen in these parts. such a shot! not a marksman in the mountains could match with her, except don jose himself, who taught her; and as for hunting--_la linda cazadora_! she can steal upon the game like a couguar. ah! she can protect herself. she _has_ done so. but for her spirit and rifle, the red-hand would have ruined her." "but how? you have not told me--" "true, _cavallero_! i have yet to answer number three. _bueno_! as i said, it was near the big timbers, where she got into the hands of the arapahoes. there was only a small band of the robbers, with red-hand at their head. he wanted to play the brute with her. she kept him off with her rifle, and a big dog you have seen. red-hand became angry, and had her strapped to a tree--where the monsters threatened to shoot their arrows into her body. whether they intended to kill her, or only to terrify the poor girl, is not known; but if the former was their design, they were hindered from putting it into execution. just at that moment, don jose came upon the ground with a party of trappers from the rendezvous on cuerno verde. they were strong enough to beat off the red-skinned ravishers and save the americana. that is how she was taken from the rapahoes." "a brave deed! but how did she chance to be there? since bent's port was abandoned, there is no white settlement near the big timbers." "ah! _senor_! that is the strangest part of the whole story. it was told me by don jose himself, while we were _companeros_ on a trapping expedition--just after he had saved the girl. _carrambo_!--a strange tale!" "have you any objection to tell it to me? i feel a singular interest in this young girl." "_sin duda_! of many a mountain-man, the same might be said; and many an indian too. hum! _cavallero_! you would not be flesh and blood, if you didn't." "not _that_, i assure you. my interest in her springs from a different source. i have other reasons for inquiring into her history." "you shall have it, then, _cavallero_--at least so much as i know of it myself: for it is reasonable to suppose that don jose did not tell me all he knew. this much: the _nina_ was with a caravan that had come from one of your western states. it was a caravan of mormons. you have heard of the mormons, i suppose--those _hereticos_ who have made settlements here beyond?" "i have." "well--one of these mormons was the husband of the girl, or rather _ought_ to have been--since they were married just at starting. it appears that the young woman was against the marriage--for she loved some one more to her choice--but her father had forced her to it; and some quarrel happening just at the time with the favourite lover, she had consented--from pique, _sin duda_--to accept the mormon." "she did accept him?" "yes--but now comes the strange part of the story. all i have told you is but a common tale, and the like occurs every day in the year." "go on!" "when she married the mormon, she did not know he _was_ a mormon; and it appears that these _hereticos_ have a name among your people worse than the very _judios_. it was only after the caravan had got out into the plains, that the girl made this discovery. another circumstance equally unpleasant soon came to her knowledge; and that was: that the man who pretended to be her husband was after all no husband--that he did not act to her as a husband should do--in short, that the marriage had been a sham--the ceremony having been performed by some mormon brother, in the disguise of a _clerico_!" "was the girl's father aware of this deception!" "don jose could not tell. he may have known that the man was a mormon; but don jose was of opinion that the father himself was betrayed by the false marriage--though he was present at it, and actually bestowed the bride!" "strange!" "perhaps, _cavallero_! the strangest is yet to come. for what purpose, do you suppose, was this deception practised upon the poor girl?" "i cannot guess--go on!" "_carrai_! it was a hellish purpose; but you shall hear it. these mormons have at their head a great chief priest--_una propheta_, as they call him. he is a polygamist--a perfect turco--and keeps a harem of beautiful _ninas_, who pass under the name of `spiritual wives.' it was only after the young americana had got far out upon the plains--indeed, to the big timbers, where she escaped from him--that she found out the terrible fate for which her false husband had designed her. she learnt it from the other women who accompanied the caravan; and who, base wretches that they were! rather envied her the _honour_ by which she was to be distinguished! _por dios_! a terrible fate for a young creature innocent and virtuous like her!" "her fate? quick--tell me! for what had the villain destined her?" "_virgen santa_! for the harem of the mormon prophet!" "_mira_!" exclaimed the mexican, almost in the same breath--"_mira_! the signal-smoke of wa-ka-ra! to horse! to horse! _mueran los arapahoes_!" it was not the signal that called from my lips a convulsive exclamation. it was wrung from my agony, ere the smoke had been descried. it was drowned amidst the shouts of the savage warriors, as they crowded forward out of the chasm. leaping down from the ledge, and flinging myself on the back of my horse, i mingled in the melee. as we swept from the gorge, i cast a glance behind. the sound of female voices caused me to look back. the utah women, mounted on mules and horses, were coming down the canon, with the white huntress at their head! i wished a word with _her_; but it was too late. i dared neither pause nor go back. my utah allies would have branded me as a coward--a traitor to my own cause! i did not hesitate a moment; but, joining in the "ugh-aloo," i dashed into the midst of the dusky host, and galloped onward to the charge. chapter seventy seven. the surprise. the white cloud--a puff of powder-smoke--had scarcely scattered in the air, when a dark mass appeared upon the plain, emerging from the sulphureous vapour. it was a troop of horsemen--the warriors of wa-ka-ra. on giving the signal they had issued forth from the lower canon, and were coming up the valley at a gallop. they were too distant for us to heat their charging cheer; but from right and left proceeded a double shout--a war-cry answering to our own; and, the moment after, a stream of dusky forms was seen pouring down each bluff, through the sloping gorges that led to the plain. we could hear the shout that announced the astonishment of the arapahoes. it betokened more than astonishment; there was terror in its wild intonations. it was evident that they had been taken altogether by surprise; having no suspicion that an enemy was near--least of all the dreaded foes who were now rushing forward to surround them. the red men are rarely betrayed into a panic. accustomed from earliest youth to war, with all its wiles, they are always prepared for a _stampede_. it is the system they themselves follow, and are ever expecting to be practised against them. they accept the chances of attack--no matter how sudden or unforeseen--with all the coolness of a contest premeditated and prearranged. even terror does not always create confusion in their ranks--for there are no ranks--and in conflicts with their own race, combinations that result from drill and discipline are of little consequence. it is usually a fight hand to hand, and man to man--where individual prowess prevails, and where superior personal strength and dexterity conduct to conquest. it is for this reason that the scalp-trophy is so highly prized: it is a proof that he who has taken it must have fought to obtain it. when "hair is raised" in a night attack--by the chance of an arrow or a bullet--it is less esteemed. by the laws of indian warfare the stratagem of assassination is permissible, and practised without stint. but a _coup_ of this kind is far less glorious, than to slay an enemy, in the open field, and under the broad glare of the sunlight. in conflicts by day, strategy is of slight advantage, and superior numbers are alone dreaded. it was the superior numbers of their utah enemies that caused dismay in the ranks of the arapahoes. otherwise, they would not have regarded the mode of attack--whether their assailants advanced upon them in a single body, or in four divisions, as they were doing. indeed it was merely with a view of cutting off their retreat, that the utah chieftain had adopted the plan. had he not taken the precaution to approach from all sides at once, it would have been necessary for him to have waited for the night, before an attack could have been made. in daylight it would have been impossible to get even within shot-range of the enemy. the arapahoes were as well-mounted as the utahs; and perceiving their inferiority in numbers, they would have refused to fight, and ridden off, perhaps, without losing a man. the strategic manoeuvre of the utah was meant to force the red-hand to a conflict. this was its purpose, and no other. it was likely to be successful. for the arapahoes, there appeared no alternative but stand and fight. the attack, coming from four points at one and the same time, and by superior numbers must have caused them fear. how could it be otherwise? it failed, however, to create any remarkable confusion. we could see them hurrying around the butte, in the direction of their _cavallada_: and, in an incredibly short space of time, most of the warriors had leaped to their horses, and with their long spears towering high above their heads, had thrown themselves into an irregular formation. the plain at this moment presented an animated spectacle. he upon the summit of the butte, if still alive, must have viewed it with singular emotions. the painted arapahoes clustered around their chief, and for the moment appearing in a close crowd, silent and immobile: from north, south, east, and west, the four bands of the utahs approaching in rapid gallop, each led by its war-chief; while the "ugh! aloo!" pealing from five hundred throats, reverberated from cliff to cliff, filling the valley with its vengeful echoes! the charge might have been likened to a chapter from the antique--an onslaught of scythians! would the arapahoes await the shock of all four divisions at once? all were about equally distant, and closing in at equal speed. surely the red-hand would not stay to be thus attacked. "_carrambo_! i wonder they are not off before this!" shouted archilete, who was galloping by my side. "ha, yonder!" added he, "a party on foot making from the grove of _alamos_! they are waiting for those to come up--that's what's been detaining them. _mira_!" as the mexican spoke, he pointed to a small tope of cotton-woods, which grew isolated about three or four hundred yards from the mound. out of this was seen issuing some fifteen or twenty arapahoes. they were on foot--except three or four, who appeared to be carried by the others. "their wounded!" continued the trapper. "they've had them under the bushes to keep the sun off them, i suppose. _mira_! they are meeting them with horses! they mean flight then." a party with led-horses were seen galloping out from the base of the butte, evidently to take up the men on foot--who were still hurrying towards their mounted comrades, as fast as the nature of their duty would permit them. there were several groups of the indians on foot-- each no doubt in charge of a disabled comrade. one crowd appeared to encircle a man who was not borne upon their shoulders, but was moving forward on his own feet. the violent gesticulations of those who surrounded him drew our attention. the man was evidently being menaced and urged forward--as if he went against his will! "_carrai_!" exclaimed the mexican, "_he_ is not one of their wounded. a captive! one of your _camarados_, i dare say?" "no doubt of it," i replied, at that moment equally guided to the conjecture. "wagh!" exclaimed the trapper, "the poor fellow's scalp is in danger just now. i wonder they take all that trouble to get him away alive!-- that puzzles me, _amigo_! i think it high time they looked to their own lives, without being so particular about that of their prisoner. _santissima virgen_! as i live, there's a woman among them!" "yes--i see her--i know her. her presence explains why they are taking him alive." "you know her?" "and him too. poor fellow! i hope she will befriend him; but--" i was hindered from continuing the explanation. just at that moment, the led-horses were rushed up to: and those in charge of the wounded were seen to spring to their backs. here and there, a double mount proclaimed that the disabled men were still capable of making a last effort for their lives. all had got upon their horses, and in a straggling crowd were making to join the main band; when, just at that moment, one of the horses that carried two men was seen to swerve suddenly from the line, and, heading up the valley, come galloping in our direction. the horse appeared to have taken fright, and shied away from the others; while the men upon his back were tossing and writhing about, as if trying to restrain him! at the same instant, half-a-dozen mounted arapahoes were seen shooting forth from the crowd, and with loud yells galloping in pursuit of the runaway! the double-loaded steed--a powerful animal--kept on his course; but, not until he had approached within three or four hundred paces of our own front, could i account for this strange manoeuvre. then was i enabled to comprehend the mysterious escapade. the rider upon the croup was frank wingrove! he upon the saddle was a red arapaho. the bodies of the two men appeared to be lashed together by a raw-hide rope; but, in front of the indian, i could perceive the muscular arms of the young backwoodsman tightly embracing the chest of the savage, while with the reins in his fingers he was guiding the gallop of the horse! with a shout of joy i hailed the escape of my comrade, now no longer problematical. in a score of seconds more, we should meet. the pursuers--satisfied that his recapture was hopeless without risking their own scalps--had already turned with a despairing shout, and were galloping back. wingrove was near enough to hear the cry of encouragement that passed from my lips; and, soon recognising me, despite the disguise of the serape, headed his horse directly towards us. "hooraw, capt'n!" cried he, as he came up. "hev you e'er a knife to cut me clar o' this indjun? durn the niggur! i've got _him_ in a leetle o' the tightest fix he's been in for a while, i reck'n. dog-gone ye! keep still, ye skunk, or i'll smash every rib in yur body! quiet now!" during all this time, the indian was making the most strenuous efforts to free himself from the grasp of his powerful adversary--now endeavouring to throw himself down from the horse, anon trying to turn the animal in an opposite direction. but the thongs intended to secure his captive--and which had no doubt been wound around both of them by a third hand--had become bonds for himself. wingrove, who had by some means wrenched his wrists free from their fastenings, had turned the tables upon his captor, by transforming him into a captive! i chanced to be without a knife; but the mexican was supplied with the necessary implement; and, drawing it from its sheath, shot past me to use it. i thought he intended to cut the thongs that bound the _two_ men together. so did he: but not till after he had performed another operation--which consisted in plunging his blade between the ribs of the arapaho! at the stab, the indian gave utterance to his wild death-shout. in the same instant his head coggled over upon his shoulder, his body relaxed its muscular tension, and hung limp over the raw-hide rope. a snig of the red blade severed the thong; and the indian's body sliding down from the withers of the horse, fell with a dull dead sound upon the turf. "here _americano_!" cried the trapper, holding out the ensanguined knife to wingrove; "take this weapon for want of a better. let us on! see! the _picaros_ are making off. _vamos! nos vamonos_!" the incident had delayed us but for a very short while--perhaps not half a minute; but as we returned to the charging gallop, most of our party had passed us; and the foremost were already within rifle range, and opening fire upon the arapahoes. chapter seventy eight. the charge. the horsemen who had forged ahead, for a while, hindered me from seeing the enemy. the utahs had halted, and were discharging their guns. the smoke from their shots shrouded both allies and enemies; but, from the fact of a halt having been made, i presumed the arapahoes were making stand by the butte. it was not so. after the first round of shots, the firing ceased; and the utahs again went charging onward. the arapahoes had given way, and were fleeing down the valley. there they must meet wa-ka-ra. and this or something like it, was their intention. with the four divisions closing upon them from all sides at once, they saw there was no chance of saving themselves--except by making a desperate charge on some one singly, in the hope of causing it to yield, and thus open for them a way of escape. they had no difficulty in making choice of which they should meet. the band of wa-ka-ra was between them and their own country. it was the direction in which they must ultimately retreat; and this decided them to take down the valley. a slight swell in the plain, which we were at that moment crossing, gave me a view of the retreating arapahoes. in the distance, i could see the band of wa-ka-ra advancing towards them at full speed. in a few seconds would meet in shivering charge these mortal foes. the utahs of our party were urging their horses to utmost speed. well-mounted as were myself and companions, we were unable to overtake them. those that came from right and left had suddenly swerved from their course; and in two converging lines were sweeping down the valley to the assistance of their chief. we passed close under the edge of the butte. in the excitement of the chase, i had almost forgotten to look up--when a shrill shout recalled to my memory the captive on the cross. the cry came from the summit--from sure-shot himself. thank heaven! he lived! "hooza! hoozay!" shouted the voice. "heaving speed yees, whos'ever ye be! hooza! hoozay! arter the verming, an' gie 'em goss! sculp every mother's son o' 'em. hooza! hoozay!" there was no time to make reply to these cries of encouragement. enough to know that it was our old comrade who gave utterance to them. it proved he was still living; and, echoing his exulting shout, we galloped onward. it was a fearful sight to behold the two dark bands as they dashed forward upon one another--like opposing waves of the angry ocean. through the horsemen in front of me, i could see the meeting, and hear the shock. it was accompanied by wild yells--by voices heard in loud taunting tones--by the rattling of shields, the crashing collision of spear-shafts, and the sharp detonations of rifles. the band of wa-ka-ra recoiled for a moment. it was by far the weakest; and had it been left to itself, would have sustained defeat in this terrible encounter. but the utahs were armed both with rifles and pistols; and the latter, playing upon the ranks of the arapahoes, were fast thinning them. dusky warriors were seen dropping from their horses; while the terrified animals went galloping over the field--their wild neighs adding to the uproar of the fight. there was but one charge--a short but terrible conflict--and then the fight was over. it became transformed, almost in an instant, to a disorderly flight. when the hot skurry had ended, the remnant of the prairie-horsemen was seen heading down the valley, followed by the four bands of the utahs--who had now closed together. pressing onward in the pursuit, they still vociferated their wild _ugh! aloo_!--firing shots at intervals, as they rode within reach of their flying foemen. neither wingrove nor i had an opportunity of taking part in the affray. it was over before we could ride up; and, indeed, had it been otherwise, neither of us could have been of much service to our allies. painted as both were, and in full war-costume--in other words, naked to the breech-clout--we could not have distinguished friends from foes! it was partly this consideration that had occasioned us to halt. we drew up on the ground where the collision had occurred with the band of wa-ka-ra. we looked upon a spectacle that might at any other time have horrified us. a hundred bodies lay over the sward, all dead. there were utahs as well as arapahoes; but, though we could not distinguish the warriors of the two tribes in the confusion of the fight, there was no difficulty in identifying their dead. there was a signal difference in the aspect of the slain indians. around the skulls of the utahs, the thick black tresses were still clustering; while upon the heads of the arapahoes there was neither hair nor skin. every one of them had been already scalped. wounded men were sitting up, or propped against dead bodies-- each with two or three comrades bending over him. horses were galloping around, their lazos trailing at will; while weapons of every kind-- spears, shields, bows, quivers, and arrows--were strewed over the sward. a group of about a dozen men appeared at some distance, clustered around a particular object. it was the dead body of a man--a chief, no doubt? not without feelings of apprehension did i approach the spot. it might be the noble wa-ka-ra? i rode up, and looked over the shoulders of those who encircled the corpse. a glance was sufficient to put an end to my apprehensions. the body was covered with blood, and pierced with many wounds. it was frightfully mutilated; but i was able to identify the features as those of red-hand, the chief of the arapahoes! scarred and gashed though it was, i could still trace those sinister lines that in life had rendered that face so terrible to behold. it was even more hideous in death; but the utahs who stood around no longer regarded it with fear. the terror, which their dread foeman had oft inspired within them, was now being retaliated in the mockery of his mutilated remains! the mexican had ascertained that wa-ka-ra was still unhurt, and heading the pursuit. having myself no further interest in the scene, i turned away from it; and, with wingrove by my side, rode back towards the butte. chapter seventy nine. tragic and comic. some words passed between us as we went. for my companion, i had news that would make him supremely happy. our conversation turned not on that. "soon enough," thought i, "when they shall come together. let both hearts be blessed at the same time." ah! how my own was bleeding. little suspected the spanish hunter how his tale had tortured me! wingrove, in brief detail, gave me the particulars of his escape. like myself, he had been captured without receiving any serious injury. they would have killed him afterwards, but for the interference of the chicasaw, who, by some means, had gained an ascendancy over the red-hand! in the breast of this desperate woman burned alternately the passions of love and revenge. the former had been for the time in the ascendant; but she had saved the captive's life, only in the hope of making him _her_ captive. she had carried him to the copse, where he had passed the night in her company--one moment caressed and entreated-- in the next reviled, and menaced with the most cruel death! in vain had he looked for an opportunity to get away from her. like a jealous tigress had she watched him throughout the live-long night; and it was only in the confusion, created by our sudden approach, that he had found a chance of escape from the double guardianship in which he had been held. all this was made known to me in a few hurried phrases. sure-shot! we were within speaking distance; but who could have identified the yankee in such a guise? the tricoloured escutcheon i had myself so lately borne--the black face, shoulders, and arms--the white circle on the breast--the red spot--all just as they had painted me! "jehosophet an' pigeon-pie!" cried he, as he saw us approach; "air it yeou, capting? an' wingrove, teoo!" "yes, brave comrade! your shot has saved us all. patience! we shall soon set you free!" leaping down from our horses, we hurried up the sloping path. i was still anxious about sure-shot's safety; but in another moment, my anxiety was at an end. he was yet unscathed. like myself, he had received some scratches, but no wound of a dangerous character. like myself, he had died a hundred deaths, and yet lived! his gleesome spirit had sustained him throughout the dread ordeal. he had even joked with his cruel tormentors! now that the dark hour was past, his _jeux d'esprit_ were poured forth with a continuous volubility. no; not continuous. at intervals, a shadow crossed his spirit, as it did that of all of us. we could not fail to lament the fate of the unfortunate hibernian. "poor petrick!" said sure-shot, as we descended the slope, "he weer the joyfulest kimrade i ever hed, an' we must gi' him the berril o' a christyan. i wonder neow what on airth them verming lies done wi' him? wheer kin they have hid his body?" "true--where is it? it was out yonder on the plain? i saw it there: they had scalped him." "yees; they sculped him at the time we weer all captered. he weer lying jest out theer last night at sundown. he ain't theer now; nor ain't a been this mornin', or i'd a seed him. what do ees think they've done wi' him anyhow?" the disappearance of the body was singular enough. it had undoubtedly been removed from the spot where it had lain; and was now nowhere to be seen! it was scarcely probable that the wolves had eaten it, for the indians had been all night upon the ground; and their camp-fires were near. true, the _coyotes_ would have cared little for that; but surely the brutes could not have carried the body clear away? the bones, at least, would have remained? there were none--not a trace either of body or bones! we passed around the butte, and made search on the other side. there was no dead body there--no remains of one. ha--the river! it swept past within fifty yards of the mound. it would account for the disappearance of the corpse. had the indians thrown it into the water? we walked towards the stream, half mechanically. we had little expectation of finding the remains of the unfortunate man. the current rushed rapidly on: the body would have been taken along with it? "maybe it mout hev lodged somewheres?" suggested sure-shot. "ef we shed find it, capting, i'd like to put a sod over him, for old times' sake. shell we try down the stream?" we followed the bank downward. a little below grew willows, forming a selvedge to the river's edge. their culms curved over, till the long quivering leaves dipped into the water. here and there were thickets of them extending back into the plain. only by passing through these could the bank of the river be reached. we entered among the willows, wingrove going in the advance. i saw him stoop suddenly, as if to examine the ground. an exclamation escaped him, and the words: "someb'dy's crawled through hyar, or been dragged through--one o' the two ways." "no!" added he, after a moment, "he's not been dragged; he's been creepin' on his hands an' knees. look thar! the track o' a knee, as clar as daylight; an', by the tarnal! it's been covered wi' broad-cloth. no injun kud a made that mark!" we all bent over to examine the sign. sure enough, it was the track of a man's knee; and the plastic mud exhibited on its surface a print of fretted lines, which must have been made by coarse threadbare cloth! "by gosh!" exclaimed sure-shot, "that eer's the infantry overall--the givernment cloth to a sartingty. petrick's been abeout heer. lordy, tain't possyble he's still living?" "shure-shat! shure-shat! mother ov moses! is it yerself i hear?" the voice reached us in a hoarse whisper. it appeared to rise out of the earth! for some moments, we all stood, as if petrified by surprise. "shure-shat!" continued the voice, "won't yez help me out? i'm too wake to get up the bank." "petrick, as i'm a livin' sinner! good lordy, petrick! wheer air ye? 'tain't possyble yeer alive?" "och, an' shure i'm aloive, that same. but i'm more than half did, for all that; an' nearly drownded to boot. arrah, boys! rache me a hand, an' pull me out--for i can't move meself--one of my legs is broke." we all three rushed down to the water--whence the voice appeared to come. under the drooping willows, where the current had undermined the bank, we perceived an object in motion. a fearful object it was to look upon: it was the encrimsoned skull of our scalped comrade! his body was submerged below the surface. his head alone was visible--a horrid sight! the three of us leaped at once into the stream; and, raising the poor fellow in our arms, lifted him out on the bank. it was as he had alleged. one of his legs was broken below the knee; and other frightful wounds appeared in different parts of his body. no wonder the indians had believed him dead, when they stripped off that terrible trophy! notwithstanding the ill usage he had received, there was still hope. his wounds, though ugly to the eye, were none of them mortal. with care, he might recover; and, taking him up as tenderly as possible, we conveyed him back to the butte. the arapahoes had left their _impedimenta_ behind them--blankets and robes at discretion. with these, a soft couch was prepared under the shade of the waggon body, and the wounded man placed upon it. such rude dressing, as we were able to give, was at once administered to his wounds; and we found new joy in the anticipation of his recovery. his disappearance--from the spot where he had been left for dead--was explained. he had "played 'possum," as he himself expressed it. though roughly handled, and actually senseless for a time, he had still clung to life. he knew that the indians believed him dead--else why should they have scalped him? with a faint hope of being left upon the field, he had lain still, without stirring hand or foot; and the savages, otherwise occupied, had not noticed him after taking his scalp. by some accident, his hands had got over his face; and, perceiving that these screened his countenance from observation, he had permitted them to remain so. with half-opened eyes, he could see between his fingers, and note many of the movements that were passing upon the plain in front of him--all this without the indians having the slightest suspicion that he lived! it was a terrible time for him--an ordeal equal to that endured by sure-shot and myself. every now and then some half drunken savage would come staggering past; and he knew not how soon some one of these strollers might stick a spear into him, out of mere wantonness! on the arrival of night, his hopes had revived; and the cool air had also the effect of partially restoring his strength. the savages, carousing around their fires, took no notice of him; and, as soon as darkness was fairly down, he had commenced crawling off in the direction of the river. he had a double object in going thither. he was suffering from horrid thirst; and he hoped there to find relief, as well as a hiding-place. after crawling for more than an hour, he had succeeded in reaching the bank; and, taking to the water, he had waded down, and concealed himself under the willows--in the place where we had found him. such was the adventure of the _ci-devant_ soldier, patrick o'tigg--an escape almost miraculous! as if fulfilling the laws of dramatic justice--that the farce should succeed the tragedy--our attention was at this moment called to a ludicrous incident. the mexican trapper had ridden up, and halted beside the waggon; when all at once his eyes became fixed upon an object that lay near at hand upon the grass. it was the black silk hat of the ex-rifleman, already mentioned in our narrative. after gazing at it for a moment, the mexican slid down from his horse; and, hobbling towards the hat, took it up. then uttering a fierce "_carajo_," he dashed the "tile" back to the ground, and commenced stamping upon it, as if it had been some venomous serpent he desired to annihilate! "hilloo! theer, _hombre_!" shouted sure-shot. "what the ole scratch air ye abeout? why, ye yeller-bellied fool, thet's my _hat_ yeer stompin' on!" "_your_ hat!" echoed the trapper in a contemptuous tone. "_carrambo, senor_! you should be ashamed of yourself. any man who would wear a silk hat! wagh!" "an' why ain't a silk hat as good's any other?" "_maldito sea_!" continued the trapper, taking the wooden leg from his waist, and hammering the hat with it against a stone--"_maldito sombrero_! but for that accursed invention, we poor trappers wouldn't be as we are now. _carrambo_! it's fetched beaver down to a plew a plug; while only ten years ago, we could get six _pesos_ the skin! only think of that! _carrai-i-i_!" pronouncing this last exclamation with bitter aspirate, the incensed trapper gave the unfortunate hat one more blow with his timber leg; and then, spurning the battered tile from his toe, hobbled back to his horse! sure-shot was disposed to be angry, but a word set all right. i perfectly comprehended the nature of the trapper's antipathy to silk hats, and explained it to my comrade. in their eyes, the absurd head-gear is more hideous than even to those who are condemned to wear it--for the trappers well know, that the introduction of the silk hat has been the ruin of their peculiar calling. "'twan't much o' a hat, after all," said sure-shot, reconciled by the explanation. "it b'longed to the sutler at the fort: for yee see, capting, as we left theere for a leetle bit o' a hurry, i couldn't lay my claws on my own ole forage-cap; so i took the hat in its place? an' thet's how i kim by the thing. but heer's a hat perhaps, mister, this heer'll pleeze ye better? will it, eh?" as sure-shot put the question, he took up the plumed bonnet of an arapaho warrior--which had been left lying among the rocks--and, adjusting the gaudy circlet upon his head, strode backward and forward over the ground with all the swelling majesty of an indian dandy! the odd-looking individual and his actions caused the laughter of the bystanders to break forth in loud peals. the mexican fairly screamed, interlarding his cachinnations with loud "santissimas," and other spanish exclamations; while even the wounded man under the waggon was unable to restrain himself at the mirth-provoking spectacle. chapter eighty. spiritual wives. i joined not in the merriment of my companions. i took no share in their mirth. the trapper's story had intensified the anguish of my thoughts; and now, that i found time to dwell upon its purport, my reflections were bitter beyond expression. i could have no doubt as to who was the heroine of that strange history. she who had been so shamefully deceived--she who had so nobly risked her life to save her honour--she the wild huntress, by the utahs called _ma-ra-nee_--could be no other than that _marian_, of whom i had heard so much--marian holt! the circumstances detailed by the trapper were perfectly conformable to this belief--they concurred in establishing it. the time--the place-- the route taken--the mormon train all agreed with what we had ascertained regarding stebbins's first expedition across the prairies. the mexican had mentioned no names. it was likely he knew them not; or if so, it was scarcely probable he could have pronounced them. but it needed not names to confirm me in the belief that "josh stebbins" was the sham-husband, and that she whom he would have betrayed--this huntress-maiden, was the lost love of my comrade wingrove--the sister of my own lilian. this would account for the resemblance that had struck me. it no longer seemed vague, in my memory: i could now trace it palpably and clearly. and this was the grand beauty upon which the young backwoodsman had so enthusiastically descanted. often had he described it to my incredulous ear. i had attributed his praises to the partiality of a lover's eye-- having not the slightest suspicion that their object was possessed of such merits. no more should i question the justice of his admiration, nor wonder at its warmth. the rude hyperbole that had occasionally escaped him, when speaking of the "girl"--as he called her--no longer appeared extravagant. in truth, the charms of this magnificent maiden were worthy of metaphoric phrase. perhaps, had i seen her first--before looking upon lilian--that is, had i not seen lilian at all--my own heart might have yielded to this half-indian damsel? not so now. the gaudy tulip may attract the eye, but the incense of the perfumed violet is sweeter to the soul. even had both been presented together, i could not have hesitated in my choice. all the same should i have chosen the gold and the rose; and my heart's preference was now fixed, fondly and for ever. my love for lilian holt was a passion too profound to be otherwise than perpetual. it was in my bosom--in its innermost recesses, all-pervading--all-absorbing. there would it cling till death. even in those dread hours when death seemed hovering above my head, the thought of lilian was uppermost--even then did my mind dwell upon the perils that encompassed her path. and now that i was myself delivered from danger, had i reason to regard the future of my beloved with apprehensions less acute? no. the horrid scheme which the trapper's story had disclosed in respect to her sister--might not she, too, be the victim of a similar procuration? o heaven! it was too painfully probable. the more i dwelt upon it, the more probable appeared this appalling hypothesis. i have already spoken of my experience of mormon life, and the insight i had incidentally obtained into its hideous characteristics. i have said that the _spiritual-wife_ doctrine was long since exploded--repudiated even by the apostles themselves--and in its place the _many-wife_ system had been adopted. there was no change in reality, only in profession. the practice of the mormon leaders had been the same from the beginning; only that then polygamy had been carried on _sub rosa_. publicity being no longer dreaded, it was now practised "openly and above board." we term it polygamy--adopting an oriental phrase. it is nothing of the kind. polygamy presupposes some species of marriage, according to the laws of the land; but for mormon matrimony--at least that indulged in by the dignitaries of the church--there were no statutes, except such as they had chosen to set up for themselves. the ceremony is simply a farce; and consists in the sprinkling of a little water by some brother apostle, with a few mock-mesmeric passes--jocosely termed the "laying on of hands!" the cheat is usually a secret performance: having no other object than to overcome those natural scruples--not very strong among women of mormon training--but which sometimes, in the case of young girls of christian education, had opposed themselves to the designs of these impudent impostors. something resembling matrimony may be the condition of a mormon wife--that is, the wife of an ordinary "saint," whose means will not allow him to indulge in the gross joys of polygamy. but it is different with the score or two of well-to-do gentlemen who finger the finances of the church--the tenths and other tributes which they contrive to extract from the common herd. among these, the so-called "wife" is regarded in no other light than that of _une femme entretenue_. i knew that one of the duties specially enjoined upon those emissaries termed "apostles," is to gather young girls from all parts of the world. the purpose is proclaimed with all the affectation of sanctified phraseology:--that they should become "mothers in the church," and by this means lead to the more rapid increase of the followers of the true faith! this is the public declaration, intended for the common ear. but the leaders are actuated by motives still more infamous. their emissaries have instructions to select the _fairer forms_ of creation; and it is well-known that to making converts of this class, have their energies been more especially devoted. it was this species of proselytising--alas! too often successful--that more than aught else had roused the indignation of the backwoodsmen of missouri and illinois, and caused the expulsion of the saints from their grand temple-city of nauvoo. in the ranks of their assailants were many outraged men--fathers who looked for a lost child--angry brothers, seeking revenge for a sister lured from her home--lovers, who lamented a sweetheart beguiled by that fatal faith--and no doubt the blood of the pseudo-saint's, there and then shed, was balm to many a chafed and sorrowing spirit. in the category of this uxorious infamy, no name was more distinguished than that of him, on whose shoulders the mantle of the _prophet_ had descended--the chief who now held ascendancy among these self-styled saints; and who, with an iron hand, controlled the destinies of their church. a man cunning and unscrupulous; a thorough plebeian in thought, but possessed of a certain portentous polish, well suited to deceive the stupid herd that follows him, and sufficient for the character he is called upon to play; a debauchee boldly declared, and scarcely caring for the hypocrisy of concealment; above all, an irresponsible despot, whose will is law to all around him; and, when needing enforcement, can at any hour pretend to the sanction of authority from heaven: such is the head of the mormon church! with both the temporal and spiritual power in his hands; legislative, executive, and judicial united--the fiscal too, for the prophet is sole treasurer of the _tenths_--this monster of imposition wields a power equalled only by the barbaric chiefs of africa, or the rajahs of ind. it might truly be said, that both the souls and bodies of his subjects are his, and not their own. the former he can control, and shape to his designs at will. as for the latter, though he may not take life openly, it is well-known that his sacred edict issued to the "destroying angels," is equally efficacious to kill. woe betide the latter-day saint, who dares to dream of dissent or apostasy! woe to him who expresses disaffection, or even discontent! too surely may he dread a mysterious punishment--too certainly expect the midnight visitation of the _danites_! exercising such influence over mormon men, it is almost superfluous to add, that his control over mormon women is yet more complete. virtue, assailed under the mask of a spiritual hypocrisy, is apt to give way-- alas! too easily--in all parts of the world; but in a state of society, where such slips are rather a fashion than a disgrace, it is needless to say that they are of continual occurrence. the practice of the pseudo-prophet in wife-taking has very little limit, beyond that fixed by his own desires. it is true he may not outrage certain formalities, by openly appropriating the wives of his followers; but should he fancy to become the _husband_ of their daughters, not only is there no opposition offered on the part of the parent, but the base proposal is regarded in the light of an honour! so esteemed it the women from whom marian holt had run away--the brave girl preferring the perils of starvation and savage life to such gentle companionship! thus contemplating the character of the vulgar alcibiades, for whose harem she had been designed--in full knowledge of the circumstances which now surrounded her sister--how could i deem the situation of lilian otherwise than similar--her destiny the same? with such a tyrant to betray, such a father to protect, no wonder that i trembled for her fate! no wonder that the sweat--forced from me my by soul's agony-- broke out in bead-drops upon my brow! chapter eighty one. the death-song. prostrated in spirit, i sunk down among the rocks, covering my face with my hands. so occupied was i with wild imaginings, that i saw not the utah women as they passed down the valley. they did not approach the butte, nor make halt near, but hastened directly onward to the scene of conflict. i had for the moment forgotten them; and was only reminded of their proximity on hearing the death-wail, as it came pealing up the valley. it soon swelled into a prolonged and plaintive chorus-- interrupted only by an occasional shriek--that denoted the discovery of some relative among the slain--father, brother, husband--or perhaps still nearer and dearer, some worshipped lover--who had fallen under the spears of the arapahoes. was maranee among them?--the wailing women? the thought roused me from my reverie of wretchedness. a gleam of joy shot suddenly across my mind. it was the wild huntress that had given origin to the thought. on her i had founded a new hope. she must be seen! no time should be lost in communicating with her? had she accompanied the women of the tribe? was she upon the ground? i rose to my feet, and was going for my horse. i saw wingrove advancing towards me. the old shadow had returned to his brow. i might exult in the knowledge of being able to dispel it--once and for ever? fortunate fellow! little suspected he at that moment how i held his happiness in my hand--how, with one word, i could raise from off his heart the load, that for six long months had weighed heavily upon it! yes--a pleasant task was before me. though my own heart bled, i could stop the bleeding of his--of hers, both in a breath. now, or not yet? i hesitated. i can scarcely tell why. perhaps it was that i might enjoy a double delight--by making the disclosure to both of them at once? i had a sweet surprise for them. to both, no doubt, it would be a revelation that would yield the most rapturous joy. should i bring them face to face, and leave them to mutual explanations? this was the question that had offered itself, and caused me to hesitate and reflect. no. i could not thus sport with hearts that loved. i could not procrastinate that exquisite happiness, now so near. at once let them enter upon its enjoyment! but both could not be made happy exactly at the same instant? one or other must be first told the glad truth that was in store for them? apart they must be told it; and to which was i to give the preference? i resolved to follow that rule of polite society, which extends priority to the softer sex. wingrove must wait! it was only with an effort, i could restrain myself from giving him a hint of his proximate bliss. i was sustained in the effort, however, by observing the manner in which he approached me. evidently he had some communication to make that concerned our future movements? up to that moment, there had been no time to talk--even to think of the future. "i've got somethin' to say to you, capt'n," said he, drawing near, and speaking in a serious tone; "it's better, may be, ye shed know it afore we go furrer. the girl's been givin' me some partickalers o' the caravan that i hain't told you." "what girl?" "the chicasaw--su-wa-nee." "oh--true. what says she? some pleasant news i may anticipate, since she has been the bearer of them?" it was not any lightness of heart that caused me to give an ironical form to the interrogative. far from that. "well, capt'n," replied my comrade, "it is rayther ugly news the red-skinned devil's told me; but i don' know how much truth thar's in it; for i've foun' her out in more 'n one lie about this bizness. she's been wi' the carryvan, however, an' shed know all about it." "about what?" i asked. "well--su-wa-nee says that the carryvan's broke up into two." "ha!" "one helf o' it, wi' the dragoons, hes turned south, torst santa fe; the other, which air all mormons, hev struck off northardly, by a different pass, an' on a trail thet makes for thar new settlements on salt lake." "there's not much news in that. we had anticipated something of the kind?" "but thar's worse, capt'n." "worse!--what is it, wingrove?" i put the question with a feeling of renewed anxiety. "holt's gone wi' the mormons." "that too i had expected. it does not surprise me in the least." "ah! capt'n," continued the backwoodsman with a sigh, while an expression of profound sadness pervaded his features, "thar's uglier news still." "ha!" i involuntarily exclaimed, as an evil suspicion crossed my mind. "news of _her_? quick! tell me! has aught happened to _her_?" "the worst that kud happen, i reck'n--_she's dead_." i started as if a shot had passed through my heart. its convulsive throbbing stifled my speech. i could not get breath to utter a word; but stood gazing at my companion in silent agony. "arter all," continued he, in a tone of grave resignation, "i don't know if it _air_ the worst. i sayed afore, an' i say so still, thet i'd ruther she war dead that in the arms o' thet ere stinkin' mormon. poor marian! she's hed but a short life, o' 't, an' not a very merry one eyether." "what! marian? is it of her you are speaking?" "why, sartin, capt'n. who else shed it be?" "marian dead?" "yes--poor girl, she never lived to see that salt lake city--whar the cussed varmint war takin' her. she died on the way out, an' war berryed som'rs on the paraireys. i wish i knew whar--i'd go to see her grave." "ha! ha! ha! whose story is this?" my companion looked at me in amazement. the laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears. "the injun heerd it from lil," replied wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. "stebbins had told it to holt, an' to her likeways. poor young creetur! i reck'n he'll be a wantin' her too--now thet he's lost the other. poor little lil!" "cheer, comrade, cheer! either su-wa-nee or stebbins has lied--belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the mormon to deceive the girl's father--the indian to do the same with you. the story is false, marian holt is _not_ dead." "marian ain't dead?" "no, she lives--she has been true to you. listen." i could no longer keep from him the sweet secret. the reaction-- consequent on the bitter pang i had just experienced, while under the momentary belief that it was lilian who was dead--had stirred my spirit, filling it with a wild joy. i longed to impart the same emotions to my suffering companion; and, in rapid detail, i ran over the events that had occurred since our parting. to the revelations which the mexican had made, wingrove listened with frantic delight--only interrupting me with frenzied exclamations that bespoke his soul-felt joy. when i had finished, he cried out: "she war _forced_ to go! i thort so! i knew it! whar is she, capt'n! oh, take me to her! i'll fall on my knees. i'll axe her a thousand times to pardon me. 'twar the injun's fault. i'll swar it war the chicasaw. she's been the cuss o' us both. oh! whar is marian? i love her more than iver! whar is she?" "patience!" i said; "you shall see her presently. she must be down the valley, among the indian women. mount your horse, and follow me!" chapter eighty two. maranee. we had ridden around the butte, and were in sight of the crowd of wailing women, when one on horseback was seen emerging from their midst, and turning head towards us. the habiliments of the rider told that she was a woman. i recognised the navajo scarf, and plumed circlet, as those worn by the wild huntress. it was she who had separated from the crowd! had i needed other evidence to identify her, i saw it in the wolf-like animal that was bounding after her, keeping pace with the gallop of her horse. "behold!" i said. "yonder is marian--your own marian!" "it air, as i'm a livin' man! i mightn't a know'd her in that queer dress; but yon's her dog. it's wolf: i kud tell him, any whar." "on second thoughts," suggested i, "perhaps, i had better see her first, and prepare her for meeting you! what say you?" "jest as you like, capt'n. p'raps it mout be the better way." "bide behind the waggon, then! stay there till i give you a signal to come forth." obedient to the injunction, my companion trotted back, and disappeared behind the white tilt. i saw the huntress was coming towards the mound; and, instead of going forth to meet her, i remained upon the spot where we had halted. a few minutes sufficed to bring her near; and i was impressed more than ever with the grand beauty of this singular maiden. she was mounted in the indian fashion, with a white goatskin for a saddle, and a simple thong for a stirrup; while the bold style in which she managed her horse, told that, whatever had been her early training, she of late must have had sufficient practice in equestrian manoeuvres. the steed she bestrode was a large chestnut-coloured mustang; and as the fiery creature reared and bounded over the turf, the magnificent form of its rider was displayed to advantage. she still carried her rifle; and was equipped just as i had seen her in the morning; but now, sharing the spirit of her steed--and further animated by the exciting incidents, still in the act of occurrence--her countenance exhibited a style of beauty, not the less charming from the wildness and _braverie_ that characterised it. truly had she merited the praises which the young backwoodsman had oft lavished upon her. to all that he had said the most critical connoisseur would have given his accord. no wonder that wingrove had been able to resist the fascinations of the simpering syrens of swampville--no wonder that su-wa-nee had solicited in vain! truly was this wild huntress an attractive object--in charms far excelling the goddess of the ephesians. never was there such mate for a hunter! well might wingrove rejoice at the prospect before him! "ho, stranger!" said she, reining up by my side, "you are safe, i see! all has gone well?" "i was in no danger: i had no opportunity of entering into the fight." "so much the better--there were enough of them without you. but your fellow-travellers? do they still survive? i have come to inquire after them." "thanks to you and good fortune, they are still alive--even he who was scalped, and whom we had believed to be dead." "ah! is the scalped man living?" "yes; he has been badly wounded, and otherwise ill-used; but we have hopes of his recovery." "take me to him! i have learnt a little surgery from my indian friends. let me see your comrade! perhaps i may be of some service to him?" "we have already dressed his wounds; and i believe nothing more can be done for him, except what time may accomplish. but i have another comrade who suffers from wounds of a different nature, _which you alone can cure_." "wounds of a different nature?" repeated she, evidently puzzled by my ambiguous speech; "of what nature, may i ask?" i paused before making reply. whether she had any suspicion of a double meaning to my words, i could not tell. if so, it was not openly evinced, but most artfully concealed by the speech that followed. "during my stay among the utahs," said she, "i have had an opportunity of seeing wounds of many kinds, and have observed their mode of treating them. perhaps i may know how to do something for those of your comrade? but you say that i _alone_ can cure them?" "you, and you only." "how is that, stranger? i do not understand you!" "the wounds i speak of are not in the body." "where, then?" "in the heart." "oh! stranger, you are speaking in riddles. if your comrade is wounded in the heart, either by a bullet or an arrow--" "it is an arrow." "then he must die: it will be impossible for any one to save him." "not impossible for you. you can extract the arrow--you can save him!" mystified by the metaphor, for some moments she remained gazing at me in silence--her large antelope eyes interrogating me in the midst of her astonishment. so lovely were those eyes, that had their irides been blue instead of brown, i might have fancied they were lilian's! in all but colour, they looked exactly like hers--as i had once seen them. spell-bound by the resemblance, i gazed back into them without speaking--so earnestly and so long, that she might easily have mistaken my meaning. perhaps she did so: for her glance fell; and the circle of crimson suffusion upon her cheeks seemed slightly to extend its circumference, at the same time that it turned deeper in hue. "pardon me!" said i, "for what may appear unmannerly. i was gazing at a resemblance." "a resemblance?" "yes! one that recalls the sweetest hour of my life." "i remind you of some one, then?" "ay--truly." "some one who has been dear to you?" "has been, and _is_." "ah! and who, sir, may i have the fortune to resemble?" "one dear also to you--_your sister_!" "my sister!" "lilian." chapter eighty three. old memories awakened. the rein dropped from her fingers--the rifle fell upon the neck of her horse, and she sat gazing at me in speechless surprise. at length, in a low murmur, and as if mechanically, she repeated the words: "my sister lilian?" "yes, marian holt--your sister." "my name! how can you have become acquainted with it? you know my sister?" "know her, and love her--i have given her my whole heart." "and she--has she returned your love?" "would that i could say surely yes! alas! i am still in doubt." "your words are strange. o sir, tell me who you are! i need not question what you have said. i perceive that you know my sister--and who i am. it is true: i am marian holt--and you? you are from tennessee?" "i have come direct from it." "from the obion? perhaps from--" "from your father's clearing on mud creek, marian." "oh! this is unexpected--what fortune to have met you, sir! you have seen my sister then?" "i have." "and spoken with her? how long ago?" "scarcely a month." "so lately! and how looks she? she was well!" "how looks she?--beautiful, marian, like yourself. she was well, too, when i last saw her." "dear lilian!--o sir! how glad i am to hear from her! beautiful i know she is--very, very beautiful. ah me!--they said i was so too, but my good looks have been lost in the wilderness. a life like that i have been leading soon takes the softness from a girl's cheeks. but, lilian! o stranger! tell me of her! i long to hear of her--to see her. it is but six months, and yet i think it six years, since i saw her. oh! how i long to throw my arms around her! to twine her beautiful golden-hair around my fingers, to gaze into her blue innocent eyes!" my heart echoed the longings. "sweet little lilian! ah--little--perhaps not, sir? she will be grown by this? a woman like myself?" "almost a woman." "tell me, sir--did she speak of me? oh, tell me--what said she of her sister marian?" the question was put in a tone that betrayed anxiety. i did not leave her to the torture of suspense; but hastily repeated the affectionate expressions which lilian had uttered in her behalf. "good kind lil! i know she loves me as i love her--we had no other companions--none i may say for years, only father himself. and father-- is he well?" there was a certain reservation in the tone of this interrogatory, that contrasted strangely with that used when speaking of her sister. i well knew why. "yes," i replied, "your father was also in good health when i saw him." there was a pause that promised embarrassment--a short interval of silence. a question occurred to me that ended it. "is there no one else about whom you would desire to hear?" i looked into her eyes as i put the question. the colour upon her cheeks went and came, like the changing hues of the chameleon. her bosom rose and fell in short convulsive breathings; and, despite an evident effort to stifle it, an audible sigh escaped her. the signs were sufficient. i needed no further confirmation of my belief. within that breast was a souvenir, that in interest far exceeded the memories of either sister or father. the crimson flush upon her cheek, the quick heaving of the chest, the half-hindered sigh, were evidences palpable and pronounced. upon the heart of marian holt was the image of the handsome hunter--frank wingrove--graven there, deeply and never to be effaced. "why do you ask that question?" at length she inquired, in a voice of assumed calmness. "know you anything of my history? you appear to know all. has any one spoken of me?" "yes--often--one who thinks only of you." "and who, may i ask, takes this single interest in a poor outcast maiden?" "ask your own heart, marian! or do you wish me to name him?" "name him!" "frank wingrove." she did not start. she must have expected that name: since there was no other to be mentioned. she did not start, though a sensible change was observable in the expression of her countenance. a slight darkling upon her brow, accompanied by a pallor and compression of the lips, indicated pain. "frank wingrove," i repeated, seeing that she remained silent. "i know not why i should have challenged you to name him," said she, still preserving the austere look. "now that you have done so, i regret it. i had hoped never to hear his name again. in truth, i had well-nigh forgotten it." i did not believe in the sincerity of the assertion. there was a slight tincture of pretence in the tone that belied the words. it was the lips alone that were speaking, and not the heart. it was fortunate that wingrove was not within earshot. the speech would have slain him. "ah, marian!" i said, appealingly, "he has not forgotten yours." "no--i suppose he mentions it--with boasting!" "say rather with bewailing." "bewailing? indeed! and why? that he did not succeed in betraying me?" "far otherwise--he has been true to you!" "it is false, sir. you know not, perhaps, that i was myself witness of his base treachery. i saw him--" "what you saw was a mere accidental circumstance; nor was it of his seeking. it was the fault of the chicasaw, i can assure you." "ha! ha! ha! an accidental circumstance!" rejoined she, with a contemptuous laugh; "truly a rare accident! it was guilt, sir. i saw him with his arms around her--with my own eyes i saw this. what farther proof needed i of his perfidy?" "all that you saw, i admit, but--" "more than saw it: i heard of his faithlessness. did not she herself declare it--in swampville? elsewhere!--boasted of it even to my own sister! more still: another was witness to his vile conduct--had often seen him in her company. ha! little dreamed he, while dallying in the woods with his red-skinned squaw, that the earth has ears and the trees have tongues. the deceiver did not think of that!" "fair marian, they are foul calumnies; and whoever has given utterance to them did so to deceive you. who, may i ask, was that other witness who has so misled you!" "oh! it matters not now--another villain like himself--one who--o god! i cannot tell you the horrid history--it is too black to be believed." "nay, you may tell it me. i half know it already; but there are some points i wish explained--for your sake--for wingrove's--for the sake of your sister--" "my sister! how can it concern her? surely it does not? explain your meaning, sir." i endeavoured to avoid the look of earnest inquiry that was turned upon me. i was not yet prepared to enter upon the explanation. "presently," i said, "you shall know all that has transpired since your departure from tennessee. but first tell me of yourself. you have promised me? i ask it not from motives of idle curiosity. i have freely confessed to you my love for your sister lilian. it is that which has brought me here--it is that which impels me to question you." "all this is mystery to me," replied the huntress, with a look of extreme bewilderment. "indeed, sir, you appear to know all--more than i--but in regard to myself, i believe you are disinterested, and i shall willingly answer any question you may think proper to ask me. go on! i shall conceal nothing." "thanks!" said i. "i think i can promise that you shall have no reason to regret your confidence." chapter eighty four. playing confessor. i was not without suspicion as to the motive of her _complaisance_: in fact, i understood it. despite the declamatory denial she had given to its truth, my defence of wingrove, i saw, had made an impression upon her. it had no doubt produced pleasant reflections; and rendered myself indirectly an object of gratitude. it was natural that such kindness should be reciprocated. my own intent in "confessing" the girl was twofold. first, on wingrove's account: for, notwithstanding all that had been said and done, her love for him _might have passed_. if so, instead of that happy reunion of two loving hearts, which i had anticipated bringing about, i should be the witness of a most painful interview. without further delay, i entered upon the theme. my interrogatories were answered with candid freedom. the answers proved that what the mexican had told me was true to the letter. "and did your father force you to this marriage?" the reply was given hesitatingly. it was in the affirmative. "he did." "for what reason did he so?" "i could never tell. the man had some power over him; but how or in what way, i knew not then, nor do i now. my father told me it was a debt--a large sum which he owed him, and could not pay. i know not whether it was that. _i hope it was_." "you think, then, that stebbins used some such means to force your father's consent?" "i am sure of it. my father told me as much. he said that by marrying stebbins i could save him from disgrace, and entreated, rather than forced me to it. you know, sir, i could not ask why: he was my father. i do think that it was _not_ his wish that i should have that man; but something threatened him." "did your father know it was a false marriage?" "no, no; i can never think so. i am sure the villain deceived him in that, as he did me. oh! father could never have done so! people, i believe, thought him wicked, because he was short with them, and used rough language. but he was not wicked. something had crossed him; and he drank. he was at times unhappy, and perhaps ill-tempered with the world; but never with us. he was always kind to sister and myself-- never scolded us. ah! no, sir; i can never think he knew that." "he was aware that stebbins was a mormon--was he not?" "i have tried to believe that he was not--though stebbins afterwards told me so." i well knew that he was aware of it, but said nothing. "his saying so," continued she, "proves nothing. if father did know of his being a mormon, i am sure he was ignorant of the wickedness of these people. there were stories about them; but there were others who contradicted these stories, and said they were all scandal--so little does the world know what is true from what is false. i learnt afterwards that the very worst that was said of them was even less than the truth." "of course, _you_ knew nothing of stebbins being a mormon?" "oh! sir, how could i? there was nothing said of that. he pretended he was emigrating to oregon, where a good many had gone. had i known the truth, i should have drowned myself rather than have gone with him!" "after all, you would not have obeyed your father's will in the matter, had not something else arisen. at his solicitation, you gave your consent; but were you not influenced by the incident that had occurred in the forest-glade?" "stranger! i have promised you i would conceal nothing; nor shall i. on discovering the falsehood of him who had told me he loved me, i was more than mad--i was revengeful. i will not deny that i felt spite. i scarcely cared what became of me--else how could i have consented to marry a man for whom i had neither love nor liking? on the contrary, i might almost say that i loathed him." "and you _loved_ the other? speak the truth, marian! you have promised to do so--you loved frank wingrove?" "i did." a deep-drawn sigh followed the confession. "once more speak the truth--you _love him still_?" "oh! if he had been true--if he had been true!" "if true, you could love him still?" "yes, yes!" replied she, with an earnestness not to be mistaken. "love him, then, marian! love him still! frank wingrove is true!" i detailed the proofs of his loyalty from beginning to end. i had learnt every circumstance from wingrove himself, and was able to set them forth with all the circumstantiality of truth itself. i spoke with as much earnestness as if i had been suing in my own cause; but i was listened to with willing ears, and my suit was successful. i even succeeded in explaining that _sinister kiss_, that had been the cause of so much misfortune. chapter eighty five. further reflections. i might, without blame, have envied them those sweet throbbings of the heart, so different from my own. widely different, since mine beat with the most painful pulsations. the cloud which had fallen upon it through the revelations of the mexican, had been further darkened by the details that confirmed them; and now that the excitement, of the conflict was over, and i had an opportunity to reflect upon the future with comparative coolness, the agony of my soul became more concentrated and keen. i scarcely felt joy that my life was saved; i almost wished that i had perished by the hands of the indians! the strange story of the trapper, now fully corroborated by its own heroine--with the additional facts obtained from herself--were only partially the cause of the horrid fancies that now shaped themselves in my imagination. i could have but one belief about the intention of stebbins. that was, that the base wretch was playing procurator to his despot master, doubtless to serve some ends of self-advancement: since i well knew that such were the titles to promotion in the mormon hierarchy. with the experience of her sister fresh before my eyes, i could have no other belief than that lilian, too, was being led to a like sacrifice. and how was this sacrifice to be stayed? how was the sad catastrophe to be averted? it was in the endeavour to answer these interrogatories that i felt my feebleness--the utter absence of strength. had it been a mere question of overtaking the caravan, there would have been no need for the slightest uneasiness. it would still be many days--weeks, indeed--before the north-going train could, arrive at its destination; and if my apprehensions about the designs of stebbins were well founded, lilian would be in no danger until after her arrival in the so-called "mormon city." it was there--within the walls of that modern gomorrah--upon a shrine consecrated to the mockery of every moral sentiment, that the sacrifice of virtue was to be offered up--there was it that the wolf awaited the lamb for his victim-bride! i knew, if no obstacle should be encountered--such as that which had just delayed us--that we could easily come up with the mormon emigrants. we had no longer a similar obstacle to dread. the whole country beyond the mountains was utah territory; and we could count upon these indians as friends. from that quarter we had nothing to apprehend; and the caravan might easily be overtaken. but what then? even though in company with it, for my purpose i should be as powerless as ever. by what right should i interfere with either the squatter or his child? no doubt it was their determination to proceed with the mormons, and to the mormon city--at least the father's determination. this was no longer a matter of doubt; and what could i urge to prevent his carrying it out? i had no argument--not the colour of a claim--for interference in any way! nay, it was more than probable that to the migrating mormons i should be a most unwelcome apparition--to stebbins i certainly should, and perhaps to holt himself. i might expect no very courteous treatment at their hands. with stebbins for their leader--and that fact was now ascertained--i might find myself in danger from his _danites_--of whom no doubt there would be a party "policing" the train. such considerations were not to be disregarded. i knew the hostility which, even under ordinary circumstances, these fanatics are accustomed to feel towards outsiders to their faith; but i had also heard of their _display_ of it, when in possession of the power. the "sectary" who sets foot in the city of latter-day saints, or travels with a mormon train, will be prudent to keep his dissent to himself. woe to him if he proclaim it too boastingly! not only with difficulties then, but with dangers was my purpose beset; though the difficulties caused me far more concern than the actual dangers. had holt been upon my side--had i been certain of his consent--i should have cared little for the dangers of an _abduction_: for this was the plan to which my thoughts now pointed. even had i been sure that lilian herself would agree to such a thing, i should have deemed all danger light, and still have entertained a hope of its accomplishment. the contingencies appeared fearfully unfavourable: the father _would not_ consent--the daughter _might not_? it was this last doubt that gave the darkest hue to my reflections. i continued them-- turning the subject over and over--viewing it from every point. surely holt would not contribute to the ruin of his daughter--for in no other light did i regard her introduction to the society of the mormon city? there was manhood in the man--somewhere down near the bottom of his heart--perhaps some remnants of rough virtue. this i had myself proved; and, if filial testimony were to be trusted, he was not so abandoned a character as he appeared. was it possible he could be aware of the real intentions of the churl who was leading him and his to ruin? after all, he _might_ not. it is true he was aware that stebbins was a mormon; but as marian had suggested--in her efforts to justify him, poor girl--he might be ignorant of the true character of these sanctified _forbans_. the story that marian had died on her way out, showed that holt was being grossly deceived in relation to that matter. it also gave colour to the idea, that he might be equally the victim of deception about the other. it was in the hope of being able to hold him guiltless i had so closely questioned marian: for instinct had already whispered me that in his hands, more than in aught else, rested my hope or my ruin. for that reason had i been so eager to ascertain his inclinings. that he was under some obligation to the pseudo-apostle was perfectly clear. more than a mere obligation; something that produced a condition of awe: as i had myself been a witness. some dark secret, no doubt, was shared between them. but were it ever so dark even were it black murder--it might not be, on the part of holt, a voluntary endurance: and marian had hinted at something of this sort. here--out in the midst of the wild desert--far from justice and from judges--punishment for an old offence might be less dreaded; and a man of the bold stamp of this tennesseean squatter might hopefully dream of escaping from the ties of terror by which his spirit had so long been enthralled? conjectures of this nature were chasing one another through my brain; and not without the effect of once more giving a brighter tinge to the colour of my mental horizon. i naturally turned my eyes upon marian. in her i beheld an ally of no ordinary kind--one whose motive for aiding me to rescue her sister, could be scarce less powerful than my own. poor girl! she was still in the enjoyment of those moments of bliss! she knew not the misery that was yet in store for her. wingrove had my directions to be silent upon that theme--the more easily obeyed in the fulness of his own happiness. it was no pleasant task to dash from their lips, the cup of sweet joy; but the time was pressing, and as the sacrifice must come, it might as well come at once. i saw that the utahs had given up the pursuit. most of them had returned to the scene of their short conflict; while others, singly or in squads, were moving towards the butte. the women, too, were approaching--some with the wounded--some carrying the bodies of the slain warriors--chaunting the dismal death-song as they marched solemnly along. casting a glance at the wailing multitude, i leaped down from the rock, and rapidly descended to the plain. chapter eighty six. a true tigress. i walked out towards the stream. the lovers met me halfway. as i looked in their eyes, illumined and sparkling with the pure light of love, i hesitated in my intent. "after all," thought i, "there will not be time to tell her the whole story. the indians will soon be on the ground. our presence will be required in the council; and perhaps it will be better to postpone the revelation till that is over? let her enjoy her new-found happiness for an hour longer." i was thus hesitating--at the same time looking the beautiful huntress in the face--when, all of a sudden, i saw her start, and fling from her the hand she had been hitherto holding in her fond clasp! the look of her lover--mine as well--was that of bewildered astonishment. not so hers. her cheek turned pale--then red--then paled again; while a glance of proud anger shot forth from her eyes! the glance was directed outwards to the plain, back upon wingrove, and then once more quick and piercing towards the plain. equally puzzled by her look and behaviour, i faced round in the direction indicated by her glance. i had the explanation at once. the chief, wa-ka-ra, had arrived at the butte; and sat halted upon his war-steed by the side of the waggon. there were three or four other indians around him, mounted and afoot; but one on horseback was entirely unlike the rest. this one was a woman. she was not bound, yet it was easy to see she was a captive. that could be told by the way she was encircled by the indians, as well as by their treatment of her. she was on horseback, as already stated, and near to the utah chief--in front of him. neither wingrove nor i had any difficulty in identifying the captive. it was su-wa-nee, the chicasaw. the eye of jealousy had found her equally easy of identification: since it was by it she was first recognised. it was upon her that marian was directing those lightning glances. it was her presence that had caused that convulsive start, and those fearful emotions, that now proclaimed themselves in the countenance of the huntress-maiden. the storm soon burst. "perjured hypocrite! this is the love you have sworn--with the oath still burning upon your lips? once more betrayed! o man! once more betrayed! o god! would that i had left you to your fate!" "i declar', marian--" "declare nothing more to me! enough--yonder is your attraction--yonder! oh! to think of this outrage! here--even here to the wild desert has he brought her; she who has been the cause of all, my unhappy--ha! she is coming up to you! now, sir, meet her face to face--help her from her horse--wait upon her! go! villain, go!" "i swar' marian, by the livin'--" his speech was interrupted. at that moment su-wa-nee, who had shot her horse clear from the _entourage_, of her guards, came galloping upon the ground. i was myself so surprised at this proceeding, that i could not stir from the spot; and not until the chicasaw had passed directly in front of us and halted there, could i believe that i was otherwise than dreaming. wingrove appeared equally the victim of a bewildered surprise. as su-wa-nee drew up, she gave utterance to a shrill scream; and flinging herself from her horse, rushed onward in the direction of marian. the latter had turned away at the conclusion of her frantic speech; and was now close to the bank of the stream, with her back towards us. there was no mistaking the intention of the chicasaw. the hideous expression of her face--the lurid fire burning in her oblique eyes--the white teeth shining and wolf-like--all betrayed her horrid design; which was further made manifest by a long knife seen glittering in her grasp! with all my voice i raised a warning shout! wingrove did the same--so, too, the utahs, who were following their captive. the shout was heard, and heeded. fortunately it was so: else in another instant warning would have been too late, and the vengeful chicasaw would have launched herself upon her unconscious victim. the huntress faced round on hearing the cry. she saw the approaching danger; and, with the subtle quickness of that indian nature common to both, she placed herself in an attitude of defence. she had no weapon. her late love scene needed none. her rifle had been left by the butte, and she was without arm of any kind; but, quick as thought, she wound the mexican _serape_ about her wrist, and held it to shield her body from the threatened thrust. the chicasaw paused, as if to make more certain of her aim; and for a moment the two stood face to face--glaring at each other with that look of concentrated hate which jealousy alone can give. it was the enraged tigress about to spring upon the beautiful panther that has crossed her path. all this action was well-nigh instantaneous--so quick in its occurrence, that neither i nor wingrove could get up in time to hinder the assailant. we both hastened forward as fast as it was in our power; but we should have been too late, had the thrust been better aimed, or less skilfully avoided. it was given. with a wild scream the chicasaw bounded forward and dealt the stroke; but, by a dexterous sleight, the huntress received it on the _serape_, and the blade glanced harmlessly aside. we hurried onward to get between them; but at that moment a third combatant became mingled in the fray, and the safety of marian was secured. it was not the hand of man that had rescued her; but an ally whom, perhaps, she deemed more faithful. it was the dog wolf! the impetus which the indian had given to the thrust, and its consequent failure, had carried her past her intended victim. she was turning with the design of renewing the attack, when the dog rushed upon the ground. with a savage growl the animal sprang forward; and, vaulting high into the air, launched himself on the breast of the chicasaw--at the same instant seizing her by the throat! in this position he clung--holding on by his terrible teeth, and aided by his paws, with which he kept constantly clawing the bosom of the indian! it was a painful spectacle; and now that marian was safe, wingrove and i ran on with the intention of releasing the woman from the grasp of the dog. before we could get near, both victim and avenger disappeared from our sight! the indian in her wild terror had been retreating backward. in this way she had reached the bank; and, having lost her footing, had fallen back downward upon the water! as we arrived upon the edge, neither woman nor dog was visible. both had sunk to the bottom! almost on the instant they re-appeared on the surface, the dog uppermost; and we saw that his teeth were still fastened upon the throat of his human victim! half-a-dozen men leaped into the water; and, after a struggle, the savage animal was dragged from his hold. it was too late. the sharp incisors had done their dread work; and, as the body of the wretched woman was raised over the bank, those who lifted it perceived that the last breath had gone out of it. the limbs were supple, and the pulse no longer beat. su-wa-nee had ceased to live! chapter eighty seven. suspicious appearances. the indians came crowding around the corpse--both warriors and women. their exclamations betokened no sympathy. even the squaws looked on with unpitying aspect--though the victim was of their own race and sex. they knew she had been allied with their enemies; and had been witnesses of her savage assault upon _maranee_, though ignorant of its motive. some of them who had lost kindred in the strife, already stirred by grief and fury, were proceeding to insult the lifeless and mutilated remains--to mutilate them still more! i turned away from the loathsome scene. neither the dead nor the living, that composed this ghastly tableau, had further interest for me. my glance, wandering in search of other forms, first fell upon that of wingrove. he was standing near, in an attitude that betokened extreme prostration of spirit. his head hung forward over his breast; but his eyes were not directed to the ground: they were turned upward, gazing after a form that was passing away. it was that of the huntress. the girl had regained her horse; and was riding off, followed by the dog. she went slowly--as if irresolute both as to the act and the direction. in both, the horse appeared to have his will: the reins rested loosely upon his withers; while his rider seemed wrapped in a silent abstraction. i was hastening towards my arab, with the design of joining her, when i saw that i was anticipated. another had conceived a similar intention. it was wa-ka-ra. the young chief, still on horseback, was seen spurring out from the midst of his men, and guiding his war-steed in the direction taken by the huntress. before i could lay hands upon my bridle, he had galloped up to marian, and falling into a gentler pace, rode on by her side. i did not attempt to follow them. somewhat chagrined at having my designs interrupted, i gave up the intention of mounting my horse, and turned back towards wingrove. as soon as i was near enough to read the expression upon his features, i saw that my chagrin was more than shared by him. an emotion of most rancorous bitterness was burning in the breast of the young backwoodsman. his glance was fixed upon the two forms--slowly receding across the plain. he was regarding every movement of both with that keen concentrated gaze, which jealousy alone can give. "nonsense, wingrove!" said i, reading the thoughts of his heart. "don't let that trouble you: there's nothing between them, i can assure you." certainly the spectacle was enough to excite the suspicions of a less jealous lover--if not to justify them. both the equestrians had halted at a distant part of the plain. they were not so distant, but that their attitudes could be observed. they still remained on horseback; but the horses were side by side, and so near each other, that the bodies of their riders appeared almost touching. the head of the chief was bent forward and downward; while his hand appeared extended outward, as if holding that of the huntress! it was a fearful tableau for a lover to contemplate--even at a distance; and the white lips, clenched teeth, and quick irregular beating of wingrove's heart--perfectly audible to me as i stood beside him--told with what terrible emotions the sight was inspiring him. i was myself puzzled at the attitude of the utah chief--as well as the silent complaisance with which his attentions appeared to be received. it certainly had the seeming of gallantry--though i was loth to believe in its reality. in truth i could not give credence to such a thought. it was not human nature--not even woman's--to play false in such _sans facon_. the appearance must certainly be a deception? i was endeavouring to conjecture an explanation, when a moving object attracted my attention. it was a horseman who appeared upon the plain, beyond where the huntress and the chief had halted. to our eyes, he was nearly in a line with them--approaching down the valley from the upper canon--out of which he had evidently issued. he was still at a considerable distance from the other two; but it could be seen that he was coming on at full gallop and straight towards them. in a few moments, he would be up to where they stood. i watched this horseman with interest. i was in hopes he would keep on his course, and interrupt the scene that was annoying myself, and torturing my companion. i was not disappointed in the hope. the hurrying horseman rode straight on; and, having arrived within a few paces of the ground occupied by the others, drew his horse to a halt. at the same instant, the utah chief was seen to separate from his companion; and riding up to the stranger, appeared to enter into conversation with him. after some minutes had elapsed, the chief faced round to the huntress; and, apparently giving utterance to some parting speech, headed his horse toward the butte, and along with the stranger, came galloping downward. the huntress kept her place; but i saw her dismount, and stoop down towards the dog, as if caressing him. i resolved to seize the opportunity of speaking with her alone; and, bidding wingrove wait for my return, i once more hastened to lay hold of my horse. perhaps i should encounter the chief on the way? perhaps he might not exactly like the proceeding? but marian must be communicated with upon something besides matters of love; and my honest intention rendered me less timid about any idle construction the savage might please to put upon my conduct. thus fortified, i leaped to the back of my steed, and hurried off upon my errand. chapter eighty eight. a fresh eclaircissement. as we rode in counter-directions, i met the chief almost on the instant. i was slightly surprised that he passed, without taking notice of me! he could not fail to guess whither i was going: as i was heading straight for the huntress; and here was no other object to have drawn me in that direction. he did not even appear to see me! as he passed at a rapid pace, his eyes were bent forward upon the butte, or occasionally turned towards the horseman who galloped by his side. the strange horseman was an indian. from the absence of the war-costume, i could tell he had not been engaged in the late conflict, but had just arrived from some distant journey--no doubt, a messenger who brought news. his jaded horse and dusky garb justified this conjecture. equally desirous of shunning an encounter, i passed the two riders in silence, and kept on my course. as i drew near to the huntress-maiden, i was speculating on the reception i might expect, and the explanation i ought to give. how would she receive me? not with much grace, i feared; at all events, not till she should hear what i had to say. the ambiguous and ill-timed appearance of the chicasaw, combined with the sinister and dramatic incident which followed, must have produced on her mind eccentric and erroneous impressions. the effect would naturally be to falsify, not only the protestations of her lover, but my own testimony borne in his behalf, and indeed all else she had been told. it was not difficult to predict an ungracious reception. as i approached, she gave over caressing the dog; and once more leaped to the back of her horse. i was in fear that she would ride off, and shun me. i knew i could easily overtake her; but a chase of this nature would scarcely have been to my liking. "marian holt!" i said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "your suspicions are unjust; i have come to offer you an explanation--" "i need none," interrupted she in a quiet voice, but without raising her eyes. a gentle wave of her hand accompanied the words. i fancied both the tone and the gesture were repellant; but soon perceived that i was mistaken. "i need none," she repeated, "all has been explained." "explained! how?" i inquired, taken by surprise at the unexpected declaration. "wa-ka-ra has told me all." "what!--of su-wa-nee?" a gesture of assent was the answer. "i am glad of this. but wa-ka-ra! how knew he the circumstance?" "partly from the mexican to whom your people have communicated them-- partly from the captive arapahoes. enough--i am satisfied." "and you forgive wingrove?" "forgiveness now lies upon his side. i have not only wronged him by my suspicions, but i have reviled him. i deserve his contempt, _i_ can scarcely hope to be forgiven." light had broken upon me--bright light it was for wingrove! the suspicious _duetto_ with the utah chief was explained. its innocence was made further manifest, by what came under my eyes at the moment. on the arm that was raised in gesture, i observed a strip of cotton wound round it above the wrist. a spot of blood appeared through the rag! "ha! you are wounded?" said i, noticing the bandage. "it is nothing-- merely a scratch made by the point of the knife. wa-ka-ra has bound it up. it still bleeds a little, but it is nothing." it was the _role_ of the surgeon, then, the chief had been playing when seen in that ambiguous attitude! more light for wingrove! "what a fiend!" i said, my reflection directed towards su-wa-nee. "she deserved death!" "ah--the unfortunate woman! hers has been a terrible fate; and whether she deserved it or not, i cannot help feeling pity for her. i would to god it had been otherwise; but this faithful companion saw the attempt upon my life; and when any one attacks me, nothing can restrain him. it is not the first time he has protected me from an enemy. ah me! mine has been a life of sad incidents--at least the last six months of it." i essayed to rescue her from these gloomy reflections. i foresaw the termination of her troubles. their end was near. words of cheer were easily spoken. i could promise her the forgiveness of her lover: since i knew how freely and promptly that would be obtained. "ah, marian," i said, "a bright future is before you. would that i could say as much for myself--for your sister lilian!" "ha!" exclaimed she, suddenly excited to an extreme point of interest, "tell me of my sister! you promised to do so? surely _she_ is not in danger?" i proceeded to reveal everything--my own history--my first interview with lilian--my love for her, and the reasons i had for believing it to be returned--the departure from tennessee with the mormon--our pursuit of the train, and capture by the indians--in short, everything that had occurred, up to the hour of my meeting with herself. i added my suspicions as to the sad destiny for which her sister was designed-- which my own fears hindered me from concealing. after giving way to those natural emotions, which such a revelation was calculated to excite, the huntress-maiden suddenly resumed that firmness peculiar to her character; and at once entered with me into the consideration of some plan by which lilian might be saved from a fate--which her own experience told her could be no other than infamous. "yes!" cried she, giving way to a burst of anguish, "too well know i the design of that perjured villain. o father! lost--dishonoured! o sister! bartered--betrayed! alas! poor lilian!" "nay--do not despair!--there is hope yet. but we must not lose time. we must at once depart hence, and continue the pursuit." "true--and i shall go with you. you promised to take me to my home! take me now where you will--anywhere that i may assist in saving my sister. merciful heaven! she, too, in the power of that monster of wickedness!" wingrove, wildly happy--at once forgiving and forgiven--was now called to our council. the faithful sure-shot was also admitted to the knowledge of everything. we might stand in need of his efficient arm. we found an opportunity of conferring apart from the indians--for the _scalp-dance_ now engrossed their whole attention. withdrawing some distance from the noisy ceremony, we proceeded to discuss the possibility of rescuing lilian holt from the grasp of that knave into whose power the innocent girl had so unprotectedly fallen. chapter eighty nine. planning an abduction. our deliberations occupied but a brief time. i had already considered the subject in all its bearings; and arrived at the conviction that there was only one course to be followed, by which lilian's safety could be secured--that is, by carrying her off from the mormon train. in this opinion her sister fully agreed. she knew it would be idle to expect that the wolf would willingly yield up his victim; and the painful thought was pressing upon her that even her own father, hoodwinked by the hypocrites that surrounded him, might reject the opportunity of saving his child! he would not be the only parent, who, blinded by this abominable delusion, has similarly sacrificed upon the unhallowed altar of mormondom. of this melancholy fact marian was not ignorant. her unhappy journey across the great plains had revealed to her many a strange incident--many a wicked phase of the human heart. all agreed that lilian must be taken from the mormons, either by force or by stealth. it must be done, too, before they could reach the salt lake city. once upon the banks of the transatlantic jordan, these pseudo-saints would be safe from the interference of their most powerful enemies. there the deed of abduction would be no longer possible; or, if still possible, _too late_. was it practicable elsewhere--upon the route? and how was it to be effected? these were the questions that occupied us. there were but three men of us: for the irishman, now completely _hors de combat_, must be left behind. true, the huntress-maiden, who had declared her determination to accompany us, might well be counted as a fourth; in all four guns. but what would four guns avail against more than ten times the number? wingrove had learnt from the wretched chicasaw that there were a hundred men with the mormon train. it was idle, therefore, to think of carrying her off by force. that would have been sheer quixotism--only to end fatally for all of us. and was it not equally idle to dream of an abduction by stealth? verily, it seemed so. how were we to approach this mormon host? how enter their camp, guarded as it would be by the jealous vigilance of lynx-eyed villains? by day, it would be impossible; by night, hazardous, and equally impracticable would be our purpose. we could not join company with these clannish emigrants, without offering some excuse. what pretext could be put forward? had we been strangers to them, we might have availed ourselves of some plausible story; but, unfortunately, it was not so. all of us, except sure-shot, would be known to their leader. my presence, however unexpected, would at once proclaim my purpose to the keen-witted knave; and as for marian holt, hers would be a position of positive danger--even equalling that in which her sister was now placed. stebbins could _claim_ her--if not by a true husband's right, at least by the laws of mormon matrimony; and of course by those laws would the case be judged in a mormon camp--the apostle himself being their interpreter! the hope which i had built upon the prospect of an alliance with marian was, that by her intercession lilian might be induced voluntarily to make her escape--even, if necessary, _from her father_! i had conceived the hope too hastily--without dwelling upon the danger to marian herself. this was now evident to all of us. we saw that marian could not safely enter the mormon camp. we could not think of submitting her to a danger that might too probably conduct to a double sacrifice--two victims instead of one. our thoughts turned upon the ex-rifleman. he was the only one of us unknown to the leader of the mormons, and to holt himself. to sure-shot, then, were our hopes next transferred. he might join the train on some pretext, the rest of us remaining at a distance? by this agency, a communication might be effected with lilian herself; the proximity of her sister made known; the perils of her own situation--of which no doubt the young creature was yet entirely ignorant. her scruples once overcome by a knowledge of her own danger, she would herself aid in contriving a plan of escape! for such a purpose, sure-shot was the man--adroit, crafty, courageous. thus ran our reflections. it may be wondered why, in this emergency, we had not thought of wa-ka-ra: surely he could have given us effective aid. with his mounted warriors, he could soon have overtaken the mormon train, surrounded it, and dealt out the law to its leader? but we had already learnt the improbability of our appeal being acted upon. marian had interpreted to us the views of the utah chief in relation to the mormons. these wily diplomatists had, from their first settlement in the utah territory, courted the alliance of wa-ka-ra and his band. they had made much of the warlike chief--had won his confidence and friendship--and at that hour the closest intimacy existed between him and the mormon prophet. for this reason, marian believed it would require a stronger motive than mere personal friendship to make him act as their enemy. in such an important enterprise, no chance should be left untried. i was determined none should be; and therefore incited marian to make an appeal to the utah chief. she consented. it was worth the experiment. should the answer prove favourable, our difficulties would soon disappear, and we might hope for a speedy success. if otherwise, our prospects would still be the same--no worse: for worse they could scarcely be. marian left us, and proceeded on her errand to the chief. we saw him withdraw from the ceremonies, and, going apart, engage with the girl in what appeared an earnest and animated conversation. with hopeful hearts we looked on. wingrove was no longer jealous. i had cured him with a hint; and the bandaged arm of his betrothed had explained the delicate attentions, which the indian had been seen to bestow upon her. the dialogue lasted for ten minutes, the speakers at intervals glancing towards us; but we knew the theme, and patiently awaited the issue. it was soon to be declared to us. we saw the chief wave his hand--as a signal that the conversation was ended; and the speakers parted. wa-ka-ra walked back among his warriors, while marian was seen returning to our council. we scrutinised her countenance as she approached, endeavouring to read in it what our wishes dictated--an affirmative to our appeal. her step was buoyant; and her glance, if not gay, at least not one that betokened disappointment. we were unable to determine, however, until her words declared the answer of the chief. as marian had anticipated, he could not consent to act openly against the mormons. but the tale had enlisted his sympathy; and he had even suggested a plan by which we might carry out our design, without the necessity of his interference. it was this: the horseman that had just arrived, chanced to be a messenger from the mormons. unable to find the coochetopa pass, they were still encamped in the great valley of san luis, on the banks of the rio del norte. the only one of them who had been across the plains before was their leader--stebbins, of course--and he, having gone by the cherokee trail and bridger's pass, was entirely unacquainted with the route they were now following. they were in need of a guide; and having encountered the indian at this crisis, and learnt that he belonged to the band of wa-ka-ra--not far off, as the man informed them--they had despatched him to the utah chief, with a request that the latter would furnish them with a guide, and two or three of his best hunters. before marian had ended her explanation, i had divined the scheme. we were _to personate the guide and hunters_. that was the suggestion of the utah chief! it was perfectly feasible. nothing can be easier than to counterfeit the semblance of the american indian. the colour of the skin is of no consequence. ochre, charcoal, and vermilion made red man and white man as like as need be; and for the hair, the black tail of a horse, half-covered and confined by the great plumed bonnet, with its crest dropping backward, is a disguise not to be detected. the proud savage doffs his eagle plumes to no living man; and even the most intrusive mormon would not dare to scrutinise too closely the _coiffure_ of an indian warrior. the plan was rendered further practicable, by a new and able ally enlisting himself into our ranks. this was the trapper, archilete, who, from a hint given him by the utah chief, at once volunteered to act as the guide. the mexican had already conceived an instinctive antipathy towards the mormon "hereticos;" and we might rely upon his fidelity to our cause. the scheme exactly suited the eccentric character of this singular man; and he entered upon his duties _con amore_, and at once. by his assistance we soon procured the required costumes and pigments; but neither were to be "put on" in the presence of the utahs. it was necessary that wa-ka-ra should not be compromised by a too conspicuous "intervention." the friendly chief had hinted a further promise to marian--even an open interference in our favour--should that become necessary. he would follow close after the mormon train; and, should our design prove a failure, might _then use his influence_ on our behalf. this would have been the best news of all. with such a prospect, we should have had little to fear for the result; but alas! before leaving the ground, an incident occurred that threatened to prevent our generous ally from fulfilling that promise, however formally he might have made it. chapter ninety. protector and protegee. the incident referred to was the arrival of a scout, who, after the conflict, had followed upon the trail of the arapahoes. this man brought the intelligence that the scattered enemy had again collected-- that, while fleeing from the _rout_, they had met with a large war-party of their own tribe--accompanied by another of their allies, the cheyennes; that both together formed a band of several hundred warriors; and that they were now marching back towards the valley of the huerfano--to take revenge for the death of red-hand, and the defeat which his party had sustained! this unexpected news brought the scalp-dance to an abrupt termination; and changed the whole aspect of the scene. the women, with loud cries, rushed towards their horses-- with the intention of betaking themselves to a place of security; while the warriors looked to their arms--determined to make stand against the approaching foe. it was not expected that the enemy would make their attack at once. certainly not before night, and perhaps not for days. the preparations to receive them were therefore entered upon with all the coolness and deliberation that attack or defence might require. the encounter eventually came off; but it was only afterwards that i learnt the result. the utahs were again victorious. wa-ka-ra in this affair had given another proof of his strategic talent. he had made stand by the butte, but with only half of his warriors--distributed in such a manner as to appear like the whole band. these, with their rifles, could easily defend the mound against the arrows of the enemy; and did so during an assault that lasted for several hours. meanwhile the other half of his band had been posted upon the bluffs, hidden among the cedars; and, descending in the night, they had stolen unexpectedly upon the allied forces, and attacked them in the rear. a concerted sortie from the mound had produced complete confusion in the ranks of their enemies; and the utahs not only obtained a victory, but "hair" sufficient to keep them scalp-dancing for a month. as i have said, it was afterwards that these facts came to my knowledge. i have here introduced them to show that we could no longer depend on any contingent intervention on the part of the utah chief; and we were therefore the more keenly conscious that we should have to rely upon our own resources. the utahs showed no wish to detain us. they felt confident in their own strength, and in the fire-weapons--which they well knew how to use--and, after thanking their friendly chief for the great service he had rendered us, and confiding our wounded comrade to his care, we parted from him without further ceremony. i witnessed not his parting with marian. between them there was an interview, but of what nature i could not tell. the huntress had stayed behind; and the rest having ridden forward, no one of us was present at that parting scene. there may have been a promise that they should meet again: for that was expected by all of us; but whether there was, or what may have been the feelings of the indian at parting with his pale-faced _protegee_, i was not to know. it was difficult to believe that the young chief could have looked so long on that face, so beautifully fair, without conceiving a passion for its possessor. it was equally difficult to believe, that if this passion existed, he would have thus surrendered her to the arms of another. an act so disinterested would have proved him noble indeed--the rolla of the north! if the passion really did exist, i knew there could be no reciprocity. as marian galloped up, and gazed in the eyes of the handsome hunter--now entirely her own--her ardent glance told that wingrove was the proud possessor of that magnificent maiden. in volunteering to be one of our party marian was submitting herself to a fearful risk. that of the rest of us was trifling in comparison. in reality we risked nothing, further than the failure of our plans; and a certain punishment if taken in the act of abduction. but even for this the saints would scarcely demand our lives--unless in hot blood we should be slain upon the instant. her position was entirely different. the mormon apostle, whether false husband or real, could and would claim her. there was no law in that land--at all events, no power--to hinder _him_ from acting as he should please; and it was easy to foresee what would be his apostolic pleasure. the very presence of wingrove would stimulate him to a revengeful course; and should her indian disguise be detected, marian might look forward to a fate already deemed by her worse than death. she was sensible of all this; but it did not turn her from her determination. her tender affection for lilian--her earnest desire to save her sister from the peril too plainly impending, rendered her reckless about her _own_; and the bold girl had formed the resolution to dare everything--trusting to chance and her own strong will for the successful accomplishment of our purpose. i no longer attempted to dissuade her against going with us. how could i? without her aid my own efforts might prove idle and fruitless. lilian might not listen to _me_? perhaps that secret influence, on which i had so confidently calculated, might exist only in a diminished degree? perhaps it might be gone for ever? strange to say, though i had drawn some sweet inferences from those neglected flowers, every time the _bouquet_ came back to my memory, it produced a palpable feeling of pain! he who so cunningly sued, might hope for some measure of success? and she, so sweetly solicited--more dangerous than if boldly beset--had her heart withstood the sapping of such a crafty besieger! _my_ influence might indeed be gone; or, if a remnant of it still existed, it might not turn the scale against that of her father--that fearful father! what should he care for one child, who had already abetted another to her shame? possessed by these thoughts, then, i tried not to turn marian from her purpose. on the contrary, i rather encouraged it. on her influence with lilian i had now placed my chief reliance. without that, i should have been almost deprived of hope. it might turn out that lilian no longer loved me. time, or absence, might have inverted the _stylus_ upon the tender page of her young heart; and some other image may have become impressed upon its yielding tablet? if so, my own would sorely grieve; but, even if so, i would not that hers should be corrupted. she must not be the victim of a villain, if my hand could hinder it! "no, lilian! though loved and lost, i shall not add to the bitterness of your betrayal. my cup of grief will possess sufficient acerbity without mingling with it the gall of revenge." chapter ninety one. the night-camp. we again rode through the upper canon of the huerfano, keeping along the bank of the stream. farther on we came to the forking of two trails-- the more southern one leading up to the cuchada, to the pass of sangre de cristo. by it had the gold-seekers gone in company with the dragoons--the latter _en route_ for the new military post of port massachusetts--the former, no doubt, intending to take the line of the gila or mohave to their still distant destination--the gold-bearing placers of california? above its upper canon the huerfano bends suddenly to the north; and up its bank lies the route to robideau's pass--the same taken by the mormon train. we had no difficulty in following their trail. the wheel and hoof-tracks had cut out a conspicuous road; and the numbers of both showed that the party was a large one--much larger than our previous information had led us to anticipate. this was of little consequence-- since in any case, we could not have used force in the accomplishment of our design. i regarded it rather as a favourable circumstance. the greater the multitude, the less likelihood of an individual being closely observed, or speedily missed. we reached robideau's pass as the sun was sinking over the great plain of san luis. within the pass we lighted upon the ground of the mormon encampment. it had been their halting-place of the night before. the wolves were prowling among the smouldering fires--whose half-burnt faggots still sent up their wreaths of filmy smoke. we now knew the history of the captured waggon and slain teamsters. our guide had learnt it from the utah messenger. the vehicle had belonged to the mormons; who, at the time the arapahoes made their attack, were only a short distance in the advance. instead of returning to the rescue of their unfortunate comrades, their dread of the indians had caused them to yield ready obedience to the napoleonic motto, _sauve qui peut_: and they had hurried onward without making stop, till night overtook them in the robideau pass. this version enabled me to explain what had appeared very strange conduct on the part of the escort. the character of the victims to the arapaho attack would in some measure have accounted for the indifference of the dragoons. with the safety of the mormons they had no concern; and would be likely enough to leave them to their fate. but the guide had ascertained that both gold-diggers and dragoons--disgusted with their saintly _compagnons du voyage_--had separated from them; and, having gone far ahead, in all probability knew nothing of the sanguinary scene that had been enacted in the valley of the huerfano! we resolved to pass the night on the ground of the deserted encampment. by our guide's information--received from the runner--the mormons were about thirty miles in advance of us. they were encamped on the banks of the rio del norte, there awaiting the answer of the utah chief. that answer we should ourselves deliver on the following day. having given the _coyotes_ their _conge_, we proceeded to pitch our buffalo-tents. a brace of these, borrowed from the friendly utahs, formed part of the packing of our mules. one was intended for the use of the huntress-maiden--the other to give lodgment to the rest of our party. not but that all of us--even marian herself--could have dispensed with such a shelter. we had another object in thus providing ourselves. it might be necessary to travel some days in the company of the saints. in that case, the tents would serve not only for shelter, but as a place of _concealment_. the opaque covering of skins would protect us from the too scrutinising gaze of our fellow-travellers; and in all likelihood we--the hunters of the party--should stand in need of such privacy to readjust our disguises--disarranged in the chase. under cover of the tents, we could renew our toilet without the danger of being intruded upon. chiefly for this reason, then, had we encumbered ourselves with the skin lodges. thus far had we come without interruption. though the trail was a route frequently travelled, both by indians and whites, no one of either race had been encountered upon the way. we had seen neither man nor horse, excepting our own. for all that, we had not advanced without a certain circumspection. there was still a possibility of peril, of which we were aware; and we omitted no precautions that might enable us to avoid it. the danger i allude to was a probable encounter with some of our late enemies--the arapahoes. not those who had just been discomfited; but a party of my own pursuers of the preceding night. some of these had returned to the butte as already stated, but had _all_ gone back? might not others--stimulated by a more eager spirit of vengeance, or the ambition of striking a glorious _coup_ by my capture--have continued the pursuit? if so we might expect to encounter them on their return; or, if first perceived, we might fall into an ambuscade. in either case should they chance to outnumber us--to any great extent--a collision would be inevitable and dangerous. if such a party was ahead of us--and it was still a question--we knew that they could not possibly be aware of the defeat sustained by their comrades under red-hand; and, having no knowledge of their own predicament, would fight without that dread, which such a circumstance might otherwise have inspired. it was scarcely probable either, that their party would be a very small one--by no means as small as our own. it was not likely that less than a dozen of their warriors would venture over ground, where, at every moment, they would risk meeting with a more powerful band of their utah enemies--to say nothing of an encounter with a retaliating party from the mormon train? weighing the probabilities that arapahoes were ahead of us, we had taken due precaution to avoid the contingency of meeting them. we had looked for "sign" to contradict our suspicions, or confirm them. we had not found any--either tracks of their horses, or any other trace of their passage along the trail. in the canon, yes. there we had seen the hoof-prints of their horses: but not beyond it, nor at the entrance of robideau's pass. if they had gone forward, it must have been by some parallel route, and not upon the trail of the emigrant waggons? nor yet upon the area of the encampment had we been able to meet with any indications of their presence: though we had spent the last minutes of daylight in a careful scrutiny of the ground. as for myself i looked for indications of a very different kind; but equally without success. the absence of all lilian sign satisfied us that we had no enemy to fear. even the wary trapper saw no imprudence in our making a fire, and one was made--a large pile, for which the half-burnt faggots scattered over the camp afforded the ready material. the fire was not called for by the cold--for the night was a mild one-- but simply to serve the purposes of our _cuisine_; and, hungered by the long ride, we all did full justice to our supper of dried deer-meat, eaten _alfresco_. after the meal the men of us sat around the fire, indulging in that luxury--esteemed sweet by the prairie traveller--the fumes of the nicotian weed. marian had retired to her tent; and, for a few minutes, was lost to our sight. after a short time she came forth again; but, instead of joining us by the cheerful _hearth_, she was seen sauntering down in the direction of the stream. this caused a defection in our party. the young backwoodsman rose to his feet; and silently, but with rather an awkward grace, walked towards the tent--not marian's. he might as well have spared himself the trouble of taking up some of his accoutrements, and pretending to examine them. the feint was perfectly transparent to the rest of us--especially when the action ended, by his strolling off almost on the identical track taken by the huntress-maiden! "_amantes_?" (lovers), whispered archilete, half-interrogatively, as with a smile of quiet significance he followed the receding form of the hunter. "yes; lovers who have been long separated." "_carrambo_! do you say so? this then should be the rival of the false husband?" i nodded assent. "_por dios, senor_; it is not to be wondered at that the canting _heretico_ stood no chance in that game-- had it been played fairly. your _camarado_ is a magnificent fellow. i can understand now why the wild huntress had no eyes for our _mountain-men_ here. no wonder she sighed for her far forest-home. _ay de mi, cavallero_! love is a powerful thought, even the desert will not drive it out of one's heart. no, no; _valga me dios_! no!" the tone in which the mexican repeated the last words had a tinge of sadness in it--while his eyes turned upon the fire with an expression that betrayed melancholy. it was easy to tell that he too--odd, and even ludicrous as was his personal appearance--either was, or had been, one of love's victims. i fancied he might have a story to tell--a love story? and at that moment my mind was attuned to listen to such a tale. sure-shot had also left us--our animals picketed a few paces off requiring his attention--and the two of us were left alone by the fire. if the trapper's tale should prove a sentimental romance--and such are not uncommon in the mexican border land--the moment was opportune. seeing that my new acquaintance was in the communicative mood, i essayed to draw him forth. "you speak truly," i said. "love _is_ a powerful passion, and defies even the desert to destroy it. you yourself have proved it so, i presume? you have souvenirs?" "ay, senor, that have i; and painful ones." "painful?" "as poison--_carrai-i-i_!" "your sweetheart has been unfaithful?" "no." "her parents have interfered, i suppose, as is often the case? she has been forced against her will to marry another?" "ah! _senor_, no. she was never married." "not married? what then?" "she was _murdered_!" regret at having initiated a conversation--that had stirred up such a melancholy memory--hindered me from making rejoinder; and i remained silent. my silence, however, did not stay the tale. perhaps my companion longed to unburden himself; or, with some vague hope of sympathy, felt relief in having a listener. after a pause he proceeded to narrate the story of his love, and the sad incidents that led to its fatal termination. chapter ninety two. gabriella gonzales. "_puez, senor_!" commenced the mexican, "your comrades tell me, you have been campaigning down below on the rio grande." "quite true--i have." "then you know something of our mexican frontier life--how for the last half century we have been harassed by the _indios bravos_--our _ranchos_ given to the flames--our grand _haciendas_ plundered and laid waste--our very towns attacked--many of them pillaged, destroyed, and now lying in ruins." "i have heard of these devastations. down in texas, i have myself been an eye-witness to a similar condition of things." "ah! true, _senor_. down there--in tejas and tamaulipas--things, i have heard, are bad enough. _carrai_! here in new mexico they are ten times worse. there they have the comanches and lipanos. here we have an enemy on every side. on the east caygua and comanche, on the west the apache and navajo. on the south our country is harassed by the wolf and mezcalero apaches, on the north by their kindred, the jicarillas; while, now and then, it pleases our present allies the utahs, to ornament their shields with the scalps of our people, and their wigwams with the fairest of our women. _carrambo! senor_! a happy country ours, is it not?" the ironically bitter speech was intended for a reflection, rather than an interrogation, and therefore needed no reply. i made none. "_puez, amigo_!" continued the mexican, "i need hardly tell you that there is scarce a family on the rio del norte--from taos to el paso--that has not good cause to lament this unhappy condition of things; scarce one that has not personally suffered, from the inroads of the savages. i might speak of houses pillaged and burnt; of maize-fields laid waste to feed the horses of the roving marauder; of sheep and cattle driven off to desert fastnesses; bah! what are all these? what signify such trifling misfortunes, compared with that other calamity, which almost every family in the land may lament--the loss of one or more of its members-- wife, daughter, sister, child--borne off into hopeless bandage, to satisfy the will, or gratify the lust, of a merciless barbarian?" "a fearful state of affairs!" "_ay senor_! even the bride has been snatched off, from before the altar--from the arms of the bridegroom fondly clasping, and before he has had time to caress her! _ay de mi, cavallero_! truly can i say that: it has been my own story." "yours?" "yes--mine. you ask _me_ for souvenirs. there is one that will cling to me for life!" the mexican pointed to his mutilated limb. "_carrambo_!" continued he, "that is nothing. there is another wound here--here in my heart. it was received at the same time; and will last equally as long--only a thousand times more painful." these words were accompanied by a gesture. the speaker placed his hand over his heart, and held it there to the end of his speech--as if to still the sad sigh, that i could see swelling within his bosom. his countenance, habitually cheerful--almost comic in its expression--had assumed an air of concentrated anguish. it was easy to divine that he had been the victim of some cruel outrage. my curiosity had become fully aroused; and i felt an eager desire to hear a tale, which, though beyond doubt painful, could not be otherwise than one of romantic interest. "your lameness, then, had something to do with the story of your blighted love? you say that both misfortunes happened to you at the same time!" my interrogatives were intended to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen. i was successful; and the recital was continued. "true, _senor_--both came together; but you shall hear all. it is not often i speak of the affair, though it is seldom out of my thoughts, i have tried to forget it. _carrambo_! how could i, with a thing like that constantly recalling it to my memory?" the speaker again pointed to his deformed foot with a smile of bitter significance. "_por dios, cavallero_! i think of it often enough; but just now more than common. their presence--" he nodded towards the lovers, whose forms were just visible in the grey twilight, "the happiness i see reminds me of my own misery. more especially does _she_ recall the misfortune to my memory-- this wild huntress who has had misfortunes of her own. but beyond that, _senor_, though you may think it strange, your _conpaisana_ is wonderfully like what she was." "like whom?" "ah! _senor_, i have not told you? she that i loved with all the love in my heart--the beautiful gabriella gonzales." men of the spanish race--however humble their social rank--are gifted with a certain eloquence; and in this case passion was lending poetry to the speech. no wonder i became deeply interested in the tale, and longed to hear more of gabriella gonzales. "_en verdad_," continued the mexican, after a pause, "there are many things in the character of your countrywoman to remind me of my lost love--even in her looks. gabriella, like her, was beautiful. perhaps your comrade yonder might not think her so beautiful as the huntress; but that is natural. in my mind gabriella was everything. she had indian blood in her veins: we all have in these parts, though we boast of our pure spanish descent. no matter; gabriella was white enough--to my eyes white as the lily that sparkles upon the surface of the lagoon. like yonder maiden, she inherited from her ancestors a free daring spirit. she feared neither our indian enemies, nor danger of any kind--_por dios_! not she." "of course she loved you?" "ah! that truly did she--else why should she have consented to marry me? what was i? a poor _cibolero_--at times a hunter and trapper of beavers, just as i am now? i was possessed of nothing but my horse and traps; whiles he--_carrambo! senor_, proud _ricos_ pretended to her hand!" it is possible that my countenance may have expressed incredulity. it was difficult to conceive how the diminutive mexican--as he appeared just then in my eyes--could have won the love of such a grand belle as he was describing gabriella to be. still was he not altogether unhandsome; and in earlier life--before his great misfortune had befallen him--he might have been gifted with some personal graces. high qualities, i had heard of his possessing--among others courage beyond question or suspicion; and in those frontier regions--accursed by the continual encroachment of indian warfare, and where human life is every day in danger--that is a quality of the first class--esteemed by all, but by none more than those who stand most in need of protection--the women. often there as elsewhere--more often than elsewhere--does courage take precedence of mere personal appearance, and boldness wins the smile of beauty. it was possible that the possession of this quality on the part of pedro archilete had influenced the heart of the fair gabriella. this might explain her preference. the mexican must have partially divined my thoughts, as was proved by the speech that followed. "yes, _amigo_! more than one rich _haciendado_ would have been only too happy to have married gabriella; and yet she consented to become my wife, though i was just as i am now. may be a little better looking than at this time; though i can't say that i ever passed for an apollo. no--no--_senor_. it was not my good looks that won the heart of the girl." "your good qualities?" "not much to boast of, _cavallero_. true, in my youth, i had the name of being the best horseman in our village--the best _rastreador_--the most skilful trapper. i could `tail the bull,' `run the cock,' and pick up a girl's ribbon at full gallop--perhaps a little more adroitly than my competitors; but i think it was something else that first gained me the young girl's esteem. i had the good fortune once to save her life-- when, by her own imprudence, she had gone out too far from the village, and was attacked by a grizzly bear. _ay de mi_! it mattered not. poor nina! she might as well have perished then, by the monster's claws. she met her death from worse monsters--a death far more horrible; but you shall hear." "go on! from what you have disclosed, i am painfully interested in your tale." chapter ninety three. a bloody bridal. "_puez senor_! what i am about to tell you happened full ten years ago, though it's as fresh in my mind as if it was yesterday. you may have heard of the village of valverde? it is about fifty leagues south of santa fe, on the rio del norte--that portion of the valley we call the _rio abajo_. it was at one time a settlement of some importance--rich and prospering as any in new mexico--but, in consequence of the incursions of the apaches, it fell into decay. is now a complete ruin without a single inhabitant." "_well, amigo_; it was there i was born: and there lived i, till i was twenty-five years of age--up to the time when that calamity befell me, and mine--the same i am about to speak of. i may say two years after that time; for i did not leave the neighbourhood till i had taken revenge upon those who were the cause of my misfortunes. i have spoken of gabriella gonzales. i have told you that i loved her; but i could not find words to tell you how much i loved her. you, who have come all this way in pursuit of a sweetheart,--you, _cavallero_, can understand all that. like you with yours, i too could have followed gabriella to the end of the world! _puez amigo_! like you, i had the good fortune to be loved in return." i could not divine the object of the mexican in proclaiming this similitude. perhaps it was done with the view of cheering me--for the quick-witted fellow had not failed to notice my despondency. it could only be a conjecture on his part: for how could he know ought of lilian, beyond the fact of my preference for her, and that she was the object of our expedition? of course he was aware, like all the others, of the purpose of our pursuit. from sure-shot, or wingrove, he might have learnt a little more; but neither he nor they could possibly have been acquainted with a sentiment of which, alas! i was myself in doubt--the very doubt which was producing my despondency. his incidental allusion could have been only conjecture. i would have joyed to believe it just; but whether just or not it had the effect of soothing me; and, silently accepting it, i permitted him to continue his narration. "i need not enter into the particulars of my wooing. gabriella lived upon a _hato_ some distance below valverde, and nearer to the desert of the dead man's journey (_jornada del muerto_)--of which no doubt you have heard mention. her father was a _hatero_, and owned large flocks of sheep. he pastured them upon the great plains on the eastern side of the sierra blanca--where i was in the habit of going in my capacity of _cibolero_ to hunt the buffaloes. the _hatero_ and i became acquainted--became friends. he invited me to visit his house, and i went. i saw gabriella for the first time; and ever afterwards was her beautiful face before my eyes. i went often, as you may believe, _cavallero_; but for a long time i was uncertain whether i was welcome-- i mean to gabriella: for her father still continued my friend. it was only after the incident i have mentioned--my saving her from the bear-- that i felt certain my love was returned. "she had ventured too far into the mountains, where i had chanced to be at the time. i heard her voice calling for help. i ran through the rocks, and came up, just as a huge bear was springing upon her. i was a good shot, and my bullet brought down the monster--stretching him lifeless at her feet. gabriella thanked me with sweet words--with smiles that were far sweeter, and told me still more. from that hour i knew that she was mine. shortly after she consented to marry me." "you were married, then?" "married--but only for an hour." "only for an hour!" "ah! _senor_; just so. one hour of wedded life, and then we were parted for ever. death parted us. death to her--to me worse than death; despair that has never left me--no--never will." the voice of the speaker trembled in sorrowful tone. it was manifestly a sorrow that defied any efforts i might have made at consolation. i made none; but in silence and with eager attention awaited to hear the denouement of a drama, whose prologue promised such a tragical ending. "_puez, senor_," proceeded the narrator, after a short silence, "gabriella, as i have said, consented to marry me, and we were married. it was the day of our wedding. we had parted from the church; and with our friends had gone out into the country for a _dia de campo_. there were about twenty of us in all, young men and girls--about, an equal number of each--all in their holiday dresses, just as they had been to the church. most of the girls were gabriella's bridesmaids, and still wore the flowers and jewels they had used at the ceremony. the place chosen for our _dia de campo_ was a pretty spot, about a mile distant from the town. it was a glade in the midst of the _chapparal_, surrounded by beautiful trees, and sweet-smelling flowers. we went afoot: for the distance did not make it worth while for us to ride. besides, we preferred enjoying the ramble, without being encumbered with horses. well, _senor_; we had arrived on the ground, spread out the repast we had brought with us, uncorked the wine-bottles, and were in the full tide of enjoyment--talking and laughing gaily--when all of a sudden--we heard the trampling of horses. not of one or two; but the hoof-strokes of a whole troop. at first we thought it might be the _cavallada_ of some rich proprietor, galloping past the place. we knew that horses were pastured in that neighbourhood; and it was like enough to be one of the half-wild droves straying through the _chapparal_. still we were not without apprehension: for it might also be a troop of apaches--who in those times made frequent forays upon the defenceless settlements. alas, _cavallero_! our apprehensions proved but too just. we had been seated on the grass, around our festive preparations. we had scarce time to spring to our feet, ere the yell of the savages sounded in our ears; and almost on the instant the glade was filled with dusky warriors. they were all upon horseback, brandishing their long lances, and winding their _lazos_ around their heads. fearfully painted, and whooping their wild cries, they resembled the very _demonios_! we could neither retreat nor defend ourselves. against such odds it would have been idle to have attempted the latter: besides, we were all without weapons. on an occasion like that which had called us forth, one does not think of preparing for such an event. i own it was imprudent of us to go out unarmed--more especially when the country was filled with indian _novedades_--but who could have dreamt that such was to be the fatal termination to our joyous _dia de campo? ay de mi_! i may well call it fatal. very few of our men survived that dreadful day. two or three of the young fellows managed to retreat into the bushes; and afterwards got off. the others were killed upon the spot-- most of them impaled upon the spears of the apaches! the women were left untouched: for the indians rarely kill our women. them they reserve for a different destiny. ah! _cavallero_! a destiny worse than death! not one of them escaped. the poor _ninas_ were all made captives; and each, borne off in the arms of a swarthy savage, was mounted upon his horse. gabriella, the queen of all,--because by far the most beautiful--was chosen by the chief. i saw her struggling in his grasp, i saw him dragging her over the ground, and raising her to the withers of his steed. i saw him leap up behind her, and prepare to ride off--gabriella, my beloved--my bride!" here the speaker paused--as if overcome by the very remembrance of the incidents he was relating; and it was some time before he became sufficiently composed to resume his narrative. chapter ninety four. a rough drag. recovering himself, at length, the narrator proceeded:-- "you may ask, _senor_, how i came to be witness of all these outrages. was i not speared like my companions? was i not, like them, killed upon the spot! i answer, no. i was still alive; and i might almost say uninjured. true i had been beaten and bruised in the struggle--for i had made an impotent effort at defending myself--but they had not killed me. i was for a time stunned, and senseless; but my senses returned before the fray was over; and i was a witness to the closing scene. it was then i saw the young girls in the act of being hurried off by their captors. it was then my heart was wrung, by the spectacle of gabriella struggling in the arms of the chief. i was helpless to interfere. i was prostrate upon the earth, and held fast in the gripe of two brawny savages--one kneeling on each side of me. i expected them at every instant to put an end to my life. i awaited the final blow--either the stroke of a tomahawk or the thrust of a spear. i only wondered they were delaying my death. my wonders ceased, when i at length got my eyes on the face of the apache chief--which up to that moment i had not seen. then i recognised an old enemy, whom i had encountered on the plains; and i saw that the recognition was mutual. this explained why they had not finished me on the spot. i was spared only to suffer some more horrible mode of death. "it was not long till i was made acquainted with their intention. i saw the chief telegraph some order to the indians who guarded me; which one of the latter hastened to execute. a lazo was looped around my ankle, and carried out. the other end of it was made fast to the tail of a horse; after which the indian leaped upon the back of the animal. the other also mounted his own horse; and the whole troop appeared ready to gallop off. i could see that the savages were hastening their departure. there was but a small band of them; and, as the place was near a large town, they had reason to fear pursuit. those of our party who had escaped would return at once to the town--where troops were stationed at the time. this explained to me the hurried movements the indians were making. _carrambo, senor_! i had not much opportunity to reflect on the chances of our being rescued by our friends. i saw what the savages intended for me; and that was sufficient to occupy all my thoughts. i was to be dragged at the tail of a horse! "yes, _cavallero_! and the infernal design was instantly carried into execution; for in a moment after, the chief gave the signal to ride forward, and the whole troop went off at a gallop. he to whose croup i was attached was last in the line; and, consequently, i was trailed along without coming in contact with the others--the long lazo separating me from his horse by a distance of more than a dozen yards. fortunately the ground over which they dragged me, was free from rocks or other inequalities--else i should have been torn to pieces. it chanced to be a smooth, grassy sward; and protected by my leathern _jaqueta_ and _calzoneros_, i was less injured than one might expect. it was my ankle that suffered most--for the loop soon slipped down below the joint, and nearly drew the bone out of its socket. that, _senor_, is how i came to be `_un cojo_' as you see." with a bitter smile the speaker pointed to his deformed foot, and then continued:--"well--i suppose it would have killed me in the end: since the smooth turf did not extend far in the direction the savages were taking. but just then an idea came into my head, that gave me some hope of being able to relieve myself from my perilous situation. after the first hundred yards or so had been passed over, i saw that the savages had ceased to pay any attention to me. they were all too eager to hurry onward; besides, they were occupied with the women captives. it occurred to me, that if i could only get my foot free from the noose, i might part company with my captors, without any of them perceiving it. i remembered that i had a knife in my pocket; and, as my hands had been left free, i believed that i could get my fingers upon it, notwithstanding the rapid rate at which i was being jerked over the ground. i tried to get out my knife, and succeeded. as good luck would have it, just then, the path on which my captors were travelling, narrowed between two groves of timber--forming a kind of avenue or lane. through this the troop had to pass in indian file--my particular horseman still keeping in the rear. while going through, the gallop of the horses was interrupted--or at least their pace was greatly slackened--the rearmost of the band being thrown almost into a walk. this gave me the opportunity i desired; and, making an effort, i doubled my body over on itself--until i was able to reach the lazo beyond my foot. a single cut of my keen blade severed the thong; and i was detached on the instant. with anxious gaze i looked after the retreating horsemen: fearing they would see what i had done, gallop back, and spear me where i lay; but to my great joy i saw them ride on, till the last of them was out of sight. yes, _cavallero_!" continued the narrator, "i saw the last horse, and the very tail to which i had been attached, pass out of sight. no doubt the horse knew what had happened, but not his rider. not one of the whole troop appeared to have any suspicion that there was aught amiss--until i had crawled into the bushes, and got some distance from the path. then i could hear them, as they galloped back, and rode whooping through the thicket in search of me. _carrambo, senor_! i then felt more anxious than ever. up to that time i had no thought of anything else than being rubbed out. i had been certain of it, from the first moment of the attack upon our party. now, however, i had conceived a hope that i might escape, and return to the rescue of gabriella. to be captured the second time would have been ten times more disagreeable than at first--when there was no opportunity either to hope for safety, or to reflect on the means of securing it. now that a chance of life had offered itself, i was doubly fearful of losing it. i could make but little headway--so much was i disabled--but half hobbling, half crawling, i worked on through the thicket in the direction of the town. i could hear the savages beating the bushes behind; and every moment i expected to have them upon me. they would in time have traced, and overtaken me; but perhaps they cared not much for the capture. they had secured the booty they most prized; and, probably, reflected that, by wasting time in searching for me, they might risk losing it again. for this, or some other reason, they gave up the search; and i could tell by their voices, heard at a greater distance, that they were riding off. without staying to assure myself, i limped on to the town--which i reached at length. two of my friends, who had escaped at the first onslaught, had got there before me. the news of the sad disaster had spread like a prairie fire. the whole population was excited by the outrage; for the young girls made captives had many friends and relations in the place. so also the men who had been murdered. the troops were summoned to arms. it chanced to be a squadron of lancers--one of the best then in the service of the government--and these, along with about a hundred volunteers, all mounted, rode forth in pursuit of the savages. notwithstanding that my wounded ankle pained me exceedingly, i was able to accompany them on horseback. _americano_! i fear my narrative may be wearying you; and therefore i shall not enter into the particulars of the pursuit. sufficient to say, that we succeeded in overtaking the ravishers. it was near midnight when we came up with them. we found them in their camp, with huge fires blazing all over the ground. we approached within pistol range before any alarm was given. they had been carousing on _mezcal_, and were keeping no guard. the bright blaze showed us how they had been occupied. the women sat here and there, many of them lying prostrate upon the earth. their torn garments and dishevelled air betokened that a sad catastrophe had befallen them! we could bear the sight no longer. with hearts full of vengeance, both soldiers and citizens rushed upon the base despoilers; and the work of retribution began. gabriella had been the first to become aware of our advance; and, springing to her feet, had bounded beyond the reach of her captors, and was running outward to meet us. _ay de mi_! it was the last race of her life. an indian arrow shot after was too quick for her; and, pierced through and through, she fell dying into my arms. _pobrecita_! she kissed me with her parting breath, and then expired. ah! _senor_, that was a kiss of death!" a long deep-drawn sigh, and the drooping attitude into which the speaker had fallen, told me that he had ended his narrative. out of respect to the sacredness of his sorrow, i forbore questioning him farther at the time. it was only afterwards that i learnt from him some additional particulars: how most of the savages were slain upon the spot, and the captive girls rescued; but, although escaping with lifer they had all been the victims of barbarian lust, that brought more than one of them to an early grave! a wild tale it may appear; and, although we may term it a _romance of new mexico_, its counterpart is not the less an oft-recurring _reality_ in that unhappy land. chapter ninety five. assuming the disguise. our fire began to burn low, before the lovers returned into its light. during their moonlit ramble, no doubt, many sweet memories were renewed. no wonder they should wish to prolong it. but all of us required a certain measure of rest; and it was time to make the necessary arrangements for passing the night. although we had given up all apprehension on the score of the arapahoes; yet that was no reason why we should not observe a proper prudence, and keep prepared for any emergency that might arise. in that wild neutral road, trodden by many tribes, an enemy may spring up at any moment, or come from any side. it was agreed between us that one should keep watch, while the others slept--each taking his _tour_ of guard throughout the night. marian was of course excepted from this "detail," and, after bidding us all good-night, the huntress-maiden retired to her tent--at the entrance of which the ever-faithful and ever-watchful wolf placed himself. there did the great dog stretch his body--a sentinel _couchant_--with such grim cerberus-like resolution, that even wingrove might not have dared to cross the threshold of that sacred precinct? as yet we had not assumed our indian disguises. the opening scene of the travestie was reserved for the morning; and, after arranging the hours of our respective watches--the trapper taking the first and longest--the rest of us crept under the covering of the buffalo lodge, and sought that repose necessary to recruit us for coming events. at earliest dawn, and long before the sun had gilded the snowy summits of the spanish peaks, we were all afoot. a breakfast--similar in materials to our supper of the preceding night was hastily prepared, and still more hastily eaten. after that we proceeded to equip ourselves for the masquerade. peg-leg acted as principal _costumier_; and well understood he the _role_ he was called upon to perform. perfectly acquainted with the utah costume--both that used for war and the chase-- there was no fear about the correctness of his heraldry being called in question. he knew every quartering: of the utah escutcheon, with a minuteness of detail that would have done credit to a king-at-arms. for himself he needed no disguise. as a trapper of taos, he might also be an associate of utah hunters; and personally unknown to the mormons, they would have no other thoughts about him--further than that their friend wa-ka-ra had sent him to guide them across the deserts of the colorado. at the mormon camp, therefore, he could present himself in his mexican costume, without the saints having the slightest suspicion as to his true character. this left him free to lend his services to the rest of us, and assist in our heraldic emblazonment. his first essay was upon myself. my features being sufficiently pronounced, rendered it all the more easy to make an indian of me; and a uniform coat of vermilion over my neck, face, and hands, transformed me into a somewhat formidable-looking warrior. a buckskin hunting tunic, leggings and mocassins concealed the remainder of my skin; while some locks of long hair extracted from the mane and tail of my arab, and craftily united to my own dark tresses, with the plumed bonnet and drooping crest overall, completed a costume that would have done me credit at a parisian _bal masque_. with equal facility was accomplished the metamorphosis of the young backwoodsman, but not so easily that of sure-shot. the _nez retrousse_, thin yellow hair, and green-grey eyes appeared to be insurmountable obstacles to the indianising of the ex-rifleman. peg-leg, however, proved an artist of skill. the _chevelure_ of sure-shot, well saturated with charcoal paste, assumed a different hue. a black circle around each eye neutralised the tint of both iris and pupil. to his face was given a ground-coat of red ochre; while some half-dozen dark stripes, painted longitudinally over it, and running parallel to the nose, extinguished the snub--transforming the yankee into as good an indian as any upon the ground! marian was her own "dresser;" and while we were engaged outside, was making her toilet within the tent. her costume would require but little alteration: it was indian already. her face alone needed masking--and how was that to be done? to speak the truth, i was apprehensive upon the score of her disguise. i could not help reflecting on the fearful fate that awaited her, should the counterfeit be detected, and the girl identified. all along, i had felt uneasy upon this point; and had been endeavouring to devise some scheme by which to avoid the imprudence of her presenting herself in the mormon camp. but the thought of lilian-- the perilous situation in which she was placed--perhaps more than all, the selfishness of my own love, had hindered me from thinking of any definite alternative. when i saw the huntress-maiden issue forth from her tent--her face empurpled with the juice of the _allegria_ berries--her cheeks exhibiting, each a circle of red spots, with a line of similar markings extended across her forehead--i no longer felt apprehension for the result. though the hideous tattooing could not hide the charms of her speaking countenance, it had so changed its expression, that even wingrove himself would not have recognised her! more like was it to baffle the scrutiny of father and false husband. in due time we were all dressed for the drama; and, after making a _cache_ of our cast-off garments, we struck tents, and moved forward to the performance. the faithful wolf accompanied us. it was against my wish, and contrary to the counsel of our guide; but marian would not part with a companion that more than once had protected her from cruel enemies. the dog had been disguised, as the rest of us. shorn of his shaggy coat, with his tail trimmed smooth as that of a greyhound--his skin, moreover, stained indian fashion--there seemed but slight danger that the animal could be recognised. chapter ninety six. the mormon train. a few hours' ride brought us to the western end of the pass; when, rounding a spur of the mountain, a wide plain was suddenly displayed to our view. "_mira_!" exclaimed the mexican, "_el campamento de los judios_!" (behold! the encampment of the jews!) the guide halted as he spoke. the rest of us followed his example--as we did so, gazing in the direction to which he had pointed. the plain that stretched before us was the grand _valle_ of san luis; but presenting none of those characteristics which we usually associate with the word "valley." on the contrary, its surface was perfectly level--having all the aspect of a sleeping sea; and with the white filmy haze suspended over it, it might easily have been mistaken for an expanse of ocean. at first sight, it appeared to be bounded only by the horizon; but a keen eye could perceive its western rim--in the dim outlines of the sierra san juan, backed by the brighter summits of the "silver" mountains (_sierra de la plata_). more conspicuous, on the north, were the wooded slopes of the sierras mojada and sawatch; while, right and left, towered the snow-covered peaks of pike and the watoyah-- like giant sentinels guarding the approach to this fair mountain-girt valley. these details were taken in at a single _coup d'oeil_; and in the same glance the eye was attracted by the sheen of real water, that, like a glittering cord, was seen sinuously extended through the centre of the plain. under the dancing sunbeams, it appeared in motion; and, curving repeatedly over the bosom of the level land, it resembled some grand serpent of sparkling coruscation that had just issued from the mysterious mountains of the "silver sierra," and was slowly and gently gliding on towards the distant sea. from the elevation on which we stood, we could trace its tortuous windings, towards the distant sierra of san juan; and in the concavity of one of these--almost upon the verge of our vision--we beheld "el campamento de los judios." unprepared for it, we should never have thought of taking what we saw for an encampment of mormons, or men of any kind. under the white filmy veil that floated over the plain, some half-dozen little, spots of a more intensified white were barely visible. these the mexican pronounced to be "los carros" (the waggons). i had recovered my pocket-glass, and this was now called into requisition. a glance through it enabled me to confirm the trapper's statement. the white spots were waggon-covers: they could be none other than those of the mormon train. i could make out only some half-dozen of them; but there were others behind. the vehicles were clumped, or, more likely, _corralled_ upon the plain. this, indeed, was evident from their arrangement. those seen were set in a regular row, with their sides towards us--forming, no doubt, one quarter of the "corral." i looked for living forms. these were also visible under the glass--men and animals. of the latter, a large drove of different kinds and colours could be seen, mottling the plain to some distance from the waggons. the men were moving about the vehicles. women i could also distinguish by their dresses; but the distance was too great for me to note the occupations of either sex--even by the aid of the magnifying lens. lilliputians they looked--both men and women--while the horses and cattle might have been mistaken for a pack of curs. it mattered not to us to know their occupation; nor even what they might be doing when we should arrive upon the ground. we had no intention of stealing upon them. confident in our complete _deguisement_, we intended to ride boldly forward--if need be, into the very middle of their camp. it was now the hour of noon; and we halted to bivouac. although the distance that separated us from the mormon camp was still considerable, we were in no hurry, about advancing. we had formed the resolution not to join company with the saints, until near sunset. we knew that there would be curious eyes upon us; and in the hour of twilight we should be less exposed to their scrutiny. true, we might have joined them in the night, and passed off our counterfeit semblance with still greater security. but the morning would bring fresh light, with curiosity unsatisfied, and that would be more disadvantageous. half an hour of observation, and the novelty of our arrival would wear off. for this the half hour of twilight would be the best time. no doubt, they had met many parties of friendly indians while crossing the great plains. there had been some among their travelling companions. they would scarce consider us a curiosity. we had a reason for reaching their encampment a little before nightfall: we wanted a few minutes of light to take the bearings of the _corral_, and get acquainted with the _topography_ of the surrounding plain. who could tell what chances might turn up in our favour? an opportunity might occur that very night--as likely as afterwards, and perhaps under more favourable circumstances? we had no desire to enter upon our engagement as guide and hunters. we should be too willing to abandon the _role_, even before beginning it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the last rays of the setting sun were sparkling on the selenite of the silver mountains, as we approached the encampment of the saints. we had got near enough to make out the dimensions of the caravan. we saw that there were about a score of the large tilted waggons (troy and conestoga), with several smaller vehicles (dearborns and jerseys). the latter, with springs, were no doubt the more luxurious travelling carriages of such saints as may have been in easier circumstances at home; while the ox-drawn "conestogas" belonged to the common crowd. with the larger waggons, a "corral" had been formed--as is the usual custom of the prairie caravan. in the following fashion is the enclosure constructed:--the two front waggons are drawn side by side, and halted close together. the two that follow next on the trail, are driven up outside of these--until their front wheels respectively touch the hind ones of the pair that precede them--when they also stop. the pair following in their turn double their poles upon these; and so on, till half the train is expended. the enclosure is not yet complete. it forms only a half-circle, or rather a semi-ellipse; and the corresponding half is obtained, by a slight change in the mode of bringing up the remaining vehicles. these are driven forward to the ground, so that the rear of each is turned _inward_--the reverse of what was observed in bringing the others into place--and the double-curve which before was constantly diverging, now becomes convergent. when all the waggons have got into their places, the ellipse will be completed; but it is customary to leave an _open_ space at the end--a sort of avenue by which the enclosure may be entered. when horses and cattle require to be _corralled_, this entrance can be closed, by simply stretching a rope across it. if danger be apprehended, the travellers can keep within this enclosure--the bodies of the waggons forming an excellent rampart of defence. the tilts serve as tents; and under their capacious covering the female members of the emigrant's family are accustomed to sleep in comfort and security. sentinels outside, and horse-guards picketed still further off, give warning of the approach of an enemy. as we drew near the camp, we could perceive that in this approved fashion had the mormons constructed their _corral_. most of the lighter vehicles were inside the enclosure; and there we could see the forms of women and children moving about in an excited manner--as if they had retreated thither on discovering our approach. the men still remained outside; and the horses and horned cattle had been left undisturbed. our party was not large enough to have created an alarm--even had our arrival been unexpected. it could scarcely have been so. no doubt they took us for what we were: the emissaries of the utah chief! when within a few hundred yards of the camp, a party, already on horseback, came trotting towards us. archilete had hoisted a piece of white fawn-skin on his gun-rod--the world-known symbol of peace, and so understood by the red men of america. a towel or table-cloth, or something of the sort, was held up in answer; and after the demonstration the mounted men spurred forward to meet us. when we had approached within a dozen lengths of each other, both parties reined up; and the mexican and mormon leader, separating from their respective followers, met midway between the two parties, shook hands, and entered into conversation. what they said was simple enough. i could hear the trapper declaring in broken english the nature of our errand--that he had been sent by wa-ka-ra to act as their guide; and that we his _companeros_, were the utah hunters, to provide game for the caravan. of the mormons who rode up to us there were half-a-dozen in all; and i was fain to hope that they were not a fair specimen of the emigrant party. they were not--as i afterwards ascertained. they were the _danites_, or _destroying angels_, that accompanied the train. "destroying _devils_" would have been a more appropriate appellation: for six more villainous-looking individuals i had never beheld. there was no sign of the angelic, neither in their eyes nor features--not a trace; but, on the contrary, each might have passed for an impersonation of the opposite character--a very "devil incarnate!" five of them i had never seen before--at least to remember them. the sixth only on one occasion. him i remembered well. the man who had once looked in the face of the ex-attorney's clerk, and _ci-devant_ schoolmaster of swampville, was not likely soon to cast that countenance from his remembrance. it was stebbins who was talking to the mexican. the dialogue was of brief duration. the tale told by the trapper was scarcely news: it had been expected; and was therefore accepted without suspicion. the interview ended by the mormon leader pointing to a place where we might pitch our tents--outside the waggon enclosure, and near the bank of the river. this was just what we desired; and, proceeding direct to the spot, we commenced unpacking our paraphernalia. chapter ninety seven. the corralled camp. as soon as our quality was known, the saints came crowding around us. the corral poured forth its contents--until nine-tenths of the whole caravan, men, women and children, stood gazing upon us, with that stare of idiotic wonder peculiar to the humbler classes of countries called civilised. we managed to withstand the ordeal of their scrutiny with an assumed air of true savage indifference. not without an effort, however: since it was difficult to resist laughing at the grotesque exclamations and speeches, which our appearance and movements elicited from these wondering yokels. we were cautious not to notice their remarks--appearing as if we understood them not. peg-leg, by the aid of his anglo-american jargon--picked up among the mountain-men--was able to satisfy them with an occasional reply. the rest of us said nothing; but, to all appearance earnestly occupied with our own affairs, only by stealth turned our eyes on the spectators. i could perceive that the huntress was the chief attraction; and for a moment my apprehensions were sufficiently keen. the girl had done nothing to disguise her sex-- the mask extending no farther than to her face and features. her neck, hands, and wrists--all of her skin that might be exposed--were stained indian of course; and there would have been little likelihood of their detecting the false epidermis under a casual observation. had it been a mere ordinary person--painted as she was--she might have passed for an indian without difficulty. as it was, however, her voluptuous beauty had tempted a closer scrutiny; and, spite of her disfigured features, i saw glances directed upon her expressive of secret but passionate observation. some of the bystanders took no pains to conceal their predilection. "darnationed likely squaw!" remarked one. "who air she, old timber-toes?" inquired he, addressing himself to the guide. "squaw-- utah gal," replied the mexican in his trapper patois. pointing to me, he continued: "she sister to hunter-chief--she hunter too--kill bighorn, buffalo, deer. _carrambo! si_! she grand _cazadora_!" "oh! durn yer kezedora. i don' know, what that ere means; but i do know, an' rayther calculate, if that ere squaw had the scrubbin'-brush an' a leetle soft soap over that face o' hern, she'd look some punkins, i guess." the fellow who had thus eloquently delivered himself was one of the six who had saluted us on our arrival. two or three of his _confreres_ were standing beside him--gazing with lynx, or rather wolf-like glances upon the girl. stebbins himself, before parting, had cast upon her a look of singular expression. it was not significant of recognition; but rather of some thought of viler origin. the others continued to give utterance to their mock admiration; and i was glad--as the girl herself appeared to be--when the tent was pitched, and she was able to retire out of reach of their rude ribaldry. we had now an opportunity of studying the mormons _chez eux memes_: for not one of them had the slightest idea that their talk was understood by us. most of them appeared to be of the humbler class of emigrants-- farm-people or those of mechanical calling--artisans of the common trades--shoemakers, blacksmiths, joiners, and the like. in the countenances of these there was no cast that betrayed a character, either of particular saintliness or sin. in most of them, the expression was simply stolid and bovine; and it was evident that these were the mere cattle of the herd. among them could be observed a sprinkling of a different sort of saints--men of more seeming intelligence, but with less moral inclinings--men of corrupt thoughts and corrupt lives--perhaps once gentle, but now fallen--who had, no doubt, adopted this pseudo-religion in the expectation of bettering their temporal rather than spiritual condition. the influence of these last over the others was quite apparent. they were evidently chiefs-- bishops or deacons--"tenths" or "seventies." it was singular enough to see _dandies_ among them; and yet, however ludicrous the exhibition, dandyism was there displayed! more than one "swell" strutted through the crowd in patent-leather boots, parisian silk hat, and coat of shining broad-cloth! the temporary halt had offered an opportunity for this display of personal adornment; and these butterflies had availed themselves of the advantage, to cast for a few hours the chrysalis of their travelling gear. the women were of all ages; and, it might be added, of all nations. several european tongues mingled in the melee of sounds; but the one which predominated was that language without vowels--the jargon of the welsh principality. the continual clacking of this unspeakable tongue told that the sons and daughters of the cymri mustered strongest in the migration. many of the latter wore their picturesque native costume-- the red-hooded cloak and kirtle; and some were unspeakably fair, with the fine white teeth, fair complexion, and ruddy cheeks, common to other branches of the celtic race, but nowhere so characteristic as among the fair maidens of cambria. it was, no doubt, those sweet shining faces, wreathed with free artless smiles, that had caused the lady-killers to unpack their portmanteaus. my own eyes dwelt not upon these. ever since our arrival upon the ground, i had been watching with keen glances the opening that led into the corral. every one who came forth--man or woman--had been the object of my scrutiny. but my glances had been given in vain; and were not rewarded by the recognition of a single individual. the entrance was about two hundred yards from the place where our tents were being pitched; but even at that distance i should have recognised the colossal squatter. as for lilian, my heart's instinct would have declared her identity at the most casual glance. neither father nor daughter had yet made their appearance outside the enclosure: though all the world beside had come freely forth, and many were going back again. it was odd, to say the least, they should act so differently from the others. she, i knew, was very different from the "ruck" that surrounded her; and yet one would have thought that curiosity would have tempted her forth--that simple childlike inclination, natural in one so young, to witness our wild attire--to gaze on our plumes and our paint? i could less wonder at holt himself being insensible to such attraction; but in her it seemed strange. my astonishment increased, as form after form passed out from the opening, but not that for which my eyes were searching. it ceased to be astonishment: it grew into chagrin; and after that assumed the character of an apprehension. this apprehension i had already entertained, but in a less definite form. it now shaped itself into a cruel doubt--the doubt of _her being there_--either inside the corral, or anywhere in the mormon camp! after all, had we taken the wrong track? might not holt have kept on with the gold-diggers? the story of the chicasa signified nothing. might not lilian, under the protection of that gallant dragoon, with the torn tassel--might not she? "it is quite probable," i muttered to myself, "highly probable that they are not here! the squatter may have resisted the will of his apostolic companion; and, separating himself from the mormon party, have gone on with the diggers? no! yonder! holt himself, as i live!" the exclamatory phrases were called forth by the appearance of a tall man in the opening between the waggons. it was holt. he was standing still; and must have reached the spot he occupied but the moment before--when my eyes for an instant had been turned away. the herculean frame, and great rufous beard hanging over his breast, proclaimed to my eyes the identity of the tennessean squatter; and the costume confirmed it. it was precisely the same worn by him on that eventful morning-- when standing before me with his long rifle raised against my life. the ample surtout of greenish blanket-cloth, a little further faded--the red skirt underneath--the coarse horse-skin boots rising to his thighs--the crimson kerchief turbaned around his head, its loose flap falling down over his shaggy eyebrows--were all identical with the portrait remaining in my memory. i watched him with eager eye. was it his intention to step nearer and examine us? or had he come forth upon some other business? he was looking grave, and sad, i thought; but in the distance i could scarce note the expression upon his countenance. it did not appear to betoken curiosity. once only he glanced towards us, and then turned his eyes in an opposite direction. this did not shew that he cared much for our presence, or was in anywise interested in it. in all likelihood, he shared not the childish curiosity of his travelling companions--to whom he in other respects bore but little resemblance. as he stood in their midst, he looked like some grim but majestic lion, surrounded by jackals. his behaviour suggested a further similitude to the great forest monarch. he seemed to hold no converse with those around him; but stood apart and for the moment motionless as a statue. once only i noticed that he yawned--stretching out his colossal arms, as if to aid in the involuntary action. for this purpose, and this alone, did he appear to have come forth: since, shortly after its accomplishment, he turned back into the avenue, and disappeared behind the barricade of the waggons! chapter ninety eight. beauty embrowned. the apparition--for it had something of the character of one--restored my equanimity. holt was with the mormon train; and of course lilian also. it may seem strange that this knowledge should have given me satisfaction--that a belief, but yesterday grieving me, should to-day bring gladness! the apparent anomaly is easily explained. it was the consequence of a change in the situation. my confidence in the success of our scheme had now become strengthened--almost to a certainty. so deftly had we taken our measures, that we need apprehend no great difficulty in attaining the end aimed at. among the saints, there was not the slightest suspicion of our character--at least none had yet shown itself. we should be free to come and go, as we pleased: since the very nature of our contract required it. camp and caravan would be alike accessible to us--at all hours, i might say--and surely opportunities would not be lacking for the accomplishment of our purpose? only one object was worth regarding: the will of lilian herself. she might still refuse to become a runaway? she might not consent to forsake her father? in that case, our efforts would be idle indeed! had i reason to expect such a perverse contingency? surely not? though my own influence might be gone, her sister would still have the power to persuade her? her eyes once opened to the conspiracy that threatened her, surely but one thought could arise in that virtuous bosom--how to escape from it? "no--no," was my concluding reflection, spoken in soliloquy, "there need be no fear of opposition in that quarter. true, lilian is still a child; but her virtue is that of a virgin heart. her sister's story, when told to her, will arouse her to a sense of her own danger. she will be ready, as we, to adopt measures for averting it." drawing comfort from this reflection, i was turning to attend to my horse. the gallant creature had been sadly neglected of late, and needed my care. a huge mexican _silla_, that with its trappings half-covered its body, would have sufficiently disguised him; but i had not much fear of his being recognised. stebbins and holt had both seen him--once only, and then under such circumstances that it was scarcely possible they could have noticed him. otherwise, they might have remembered him readily enough. such a noble steed, once seen, would not easily be forgotten. i had no fear, however; and was about to remove the saddle, when an object presented itself to my eyes that interrupted my intention--causing me to remain fixed and immobile. in the open ground, scarcely twenty paces from where i stood, was a form that fell upon the eye like a beam of empyrean light in the midst of deepest darkness--a girl of golden roseate hue, with a _chevelure_ of yellow hair hanging to her haunches in all its lustrous luxuriance! scarcely twenty paces separated me from lilian holt: for need i say that it was lilian herself who was standing before me? instinctively, i noted changes. the wax-like smoothness, and, to a certain extent, the whiteness of her complexion, had yielded to the fervid rays of the prairie sun; but the slight embrowning appeared rather an improvement: as the bloom upon the peach, or the russet on the nectarine, proves the superior richness of the fruit. it had toned down the red upon her cheeks, but the glow was still sufficiently vivid. i observed or fancied another change--in her stature. she appeared to have grown larger and taller--in both respects, almost equalling her sister--and resembling the latter in that full development of form, which was one of the characteristic features of her queen-like beauty. these were the only changes external. even the simple costume--the old homespun frock of yellowish stripe--still enveloped her form; no longer hanging loosely as of yore, but presenting a more sparing fit on account of the increased dimensions of the wearer. the string of pearls, too-- false pearls, poor thing!--yet encircled her throat, whose now fuller outline was more capable of displaying them. a pleasing reflection crossed my mind at the moment, that shaped itself into an interrogatory: might there have been no motive for further adornment? as erst, her little feet were naked--gleaming with roseate translucence against the green background of the herbage. she was standing when i first saw her: not in a position of rest, but with one foot pressing the turf, the other slightly retired, as if she had just paused in her steps. she was not fronting me, but half-turned. she appeared to have come as near as she intended, and was about going off again in an oblique direction: like the startled antelope, that, despite its timidity, stops to gaze upon the "object that has alarmed it." so short a time had my eyes been averted from the path by which she must have approached, i might well have fancied that she had suddenly sprung out of the earth--as cytherea from the sea! equally brilliant was the apparition--to me, of far more absorbing interest. her large eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wondering curiosity--a curiosity which the picturesque habiliments and savage character of my toilet were well calculated to provoke. her examination of me was soon ended; and she walked off in the direction towards which she had already turned her steps. she seemed scarcely satisfied, however: as i observed that she looked repeatedly back. what thought was prompting her to this? women have keen perceptions--in intuition almost equalling instinct in its perceptive power. could she have a suspicion? no, no: the thing was improbable--impossible! the path she was following would conduct her to the bank of the river-- about a hundred yards above where our tents had been pitched, and a like distance from the nearest of the waggons. her object in going thither was evident. a tin water-can, hanging by its iron handle over her wrist, proclaimed her errand. on reaching the river, she did not proceed to fill the vessel; but, placing it near the water's edge, sat down beside it. the bank, slightly elevated above the stream, offered a sort of projecting bench. upon this she had seated herself--in such an attitude that her limbs hung over, until one foot was immersed in the water. her long hair lay spread upon the grass behind her; and with her head drooping forward, she appeared to gaze into the crystal depths of the stream--as intently, as if mirrored there she saw the form upon which the thoughts most delighted to dwell. up to this point, i had watched her every movement. but only by stealth and in silence: since i knew that eyes were upon me. just then, however, most of the gazers retired from our tents--a call to supper within the corral having summoned them away. for all that, i dared not approach the girl. the act would have appeared strange; and even she might desire to shun the too _free_ intrusion of my savage presence--perhaps flee from it altogether? the opportunity of speaking with her was sufficiently tempting. such another might not soon recur? i trembled at the thought of losing it. what was to be done? i might have sent marian. she was still inside her tent, where she had taken shelter from the bold glances of her vulgar admirers. she did not yet know that lilian was outside. i might have given her notice of the circumstance, and deputed her to speak with her sister; but i had certain reasons for not following this course. at this crisis an idea occurred to me, that promised to aid me in obtaining the interview i longed for. my arab had not yet been given to the grass! near where lilian was seated, the herbage was luxuriant-- more so than anywhere around. upon it i could picket my steed, or hold him in hand, while he should browse? i lost not a minute in removing the saddle, and adjusting the halter; and scarcely another in approaching the spot where the young girl was seated. i drew near, however, with due circumspection--fearful that by a too brusque approach i might hasten her departure. i gave my horse to the grass--now and then guiding him with a pull upon the halter, which i still held in my hand. the young girl saw that i was gradually nearing her, and looked twice or three times towards me--not with any air of alarm. rather of interest, i thought; but this may have been only a fancy. my horse appeared to share her attention--indeed, more than share it: since she fixed her eyes upon him frequently, and looked longer at him each time! was it the noble form that was attracting her admiration? or was there something that called up a recollection! she might remember the horse? "oh, lilian! would that i could speak to you as myself! how my heart yearns to give and receive some token of recognition? but no--not yet. i would not declare myself, till assured that that recognition might be welcome. not till i could learn, whether the tender tie that bound our hearts was still unloosed--whether its too slender thread was yet unbroken!" i had resolved to explore the secret chambers of her heart; and this it was that rendered me desirous of anticipating any interview that might occur with her sister. perhaps too easily might i obtain the knowledge of which i was in search? i might reach, only to _rue_ it? as i drew near, my hopes of being permitted to address myself to her increased. she still kept her seat, and made no attempt to shun me. i had approached within speaking distance. words were upon my tongue; when a harsh voice, coming from behind, interrupted, at the same instant, both my speech and my intention. chapter ninety nine. the yellow duenna. "good lor, gal! wha you doin' down da? you know mass' holt an' mass' stebbins want dar coffee? why ain't you done fotch de water?" i faced round on hearing the voice. the tone and patois had already admonished me that the speaker was neither white nor indian, but of that third typical race that mingles in the social life of the transatlantic world--an african. the harsh accentuation had prepared me for the appearance of a man and a negro; but, on turning, i perceived that i was mistaken--both as to the sex and colour. in the speaker i beheld a _mulatto_--a yellow woman of large size--gross, corpulent, and greasy. her dress was a light-coloured muslin print--negligently open at the breast, and garnished with gaudy ribbons, from which freely protruded the mountainous masses of her bosom. on her head was a _toque_ of checked "bandana," folded over the black corkscrew ringlets, that scarce reached so low as her ears; while ungartered stockings upon her ankles, and slipshod shoes upon her feet, completed the _tout ensemble_ of her costume. notwithstanding the _neglige_ visible in her apparel, there were signs of conceit as to personal appearance. the fashion and trimmings were not in keeping with that of her tabooed race; and in the set of the _toque_ there was a certain air of coquetry. the features, small and regular, might have once passed for handsome; but they were now nearly eliminated by her obese condition, which produced a disproportionate rotundity of face. the eyes, moreover, had lost all loveliness, if ever they had been endowed with such an expression. their glance, in its brightest day, could have been only animal. it was still sufficiently sensual; but sensuality of a sullen and leering character. the voice of this woman had already produced an unpleasant effect upon me; so, too, the words spoken. the sight of her, as she stood "akimbo," her hands resting upon her enormous haunches, only strengthened the sinister impression, which was still further confirmed by my observing that it had caused a similar effect elsewhere--upon lilian! even over that radiant countenance i could see that a cloud had stolen, and continued to shadow it! "say, gal! wha you doin' dar, anyhow? you fill dat pail double-quick, or, golly, you catch it!" a threat! lilian listens to it, and obeys! "i am coming, aunt lucy!" replied the girl, in a trembling voice, at the same time hastening to fill the water-can. i was in hopes that this conciliatory answer would send the mulatta back into the corral. to my chagrin, it produced a result directly the reverse; for, on hearing it, the woman came waddling down in rapid strides towards the river. she made direct for the spot where lilian was filling the can; and by her quick, nervous gestures, and the lurid light flashing in her half-buried eyes, i could perceive that some hideous passion was stirring within her. lilian had already perceived that she was approaching, and stood waiting for her--evidently in awe! when within a few paces of the girl, the fat fury opened speech upon her--and in a tone as vindictive as the sound of her voice was harsh and grating. "wha for, gal, you call me _aunt_ lucy? wha for you say dat? dam! you call me so 'gain, i jab you eyes out. sure i live, i gouge you!" the monster, as she spoke, stretched out her hand, bending the thumb with a significant gesture. she continued in the same spiteful tone:--"i tear you' har you so conceit' 'bout--you' golding har, folks call. piff! you' har da colour ob yella squash. i pull um out o' you' head in fistful, you call me _aunt_ lucy 'gain." "i did not know it would offend you," replied the young girl, in a meek voice. "do not the others call you by that name?" she inquired hesitatingly. "mr stebbins does so?" "nebba you mind what mass' stabbins he do; da's my affair. you hab a care _you_ no call me so. da's my affair, too. jes you say _aunt_ lucy 'gain, i soon spoil you' beauty, buckra gal." "i shall not do so again, lucy," timidly rejoined the young girl. "_miss_ lucy, you please. don't you tink you still in tennessee! you' know better bye 'n bye. yella woman out heer good as white--marry white man all same--all same 'mong da mormons--yah, yah, yah!" a leer towards lilian accompanied this laughter, rendering its hideous significance more palpably expressive. so provoked was i by the brutal behaviour of the yellow wench, i could scarcely restrain myself from rushing up, and kicking her over the bank upon which she was standing. nothing but the stern necessity of preserving my incognito hindered me from treating her as she deserved; and, even then, it cost me an effort to keep my place. as i continued to watch them. i could see that the young girl cowered beneath the threats of this bold bawdril, who had in some way gained an ascendancy over her--perhaps appointed by stebbins to act in the double capacity of spy and guardian? notwithstanding the horrid imaginings to which the woman's presence had given rise, i succeeded in smothering my wrath, and remaining silent. my good star was guiding me; and soon after i was rewarded for the act of prudence. "say, gal!" continued the mulatta, still addressing herself to lilian, "wha for you sittin' down dar, gazin' into da water? s'pose you tink you see him shadda dar? yah, yah, yah!" "whose shadow?" innocently inquired the girl. i trembled while listening for the reply. "o lordy! you berry innocent gal, make 'pear! s'pose i no see you write him name in dat ere book you got? s'pose i no see you make him letter in de sand, wha we camp on akansaw? you scratch am name ebberywha; you got um on de big box inside mass' stebbins's waggon. ha! you better no let mass' stebbins see him name dar!" i would at that instant have given my horse for a glance at either box or book. but in another moment the necessity was gone; and the revelation, though made by polluted lips, was not the less welcome to my ears. what cared i whether the oracle was profane, so long as its response echoed my most earnest desires? "s'pose nobody read but youseff?" continued the mulatta, in the same jeering tone. "s'pose nobody know what e.w. stand for? yah, yah! s'pose dat ere don't mean edwa'd wa'ffeld? eh missy yella bar--dat him name?" the young girl made no reply; but the crimson disc became widely suffused over her cheek. with a secret joy i beheld its blushing extension. "yah, yah, yah!" continued her tormentor, "you may see um shadda in da water--dat all you ebba see ob edwa'd wa'ffeld. whoebbar dat ere coon may be, you nebbar set you' eyes on him 'gain--nebba!" a dark shade quickly overcast the crimson, betokening that the words gave pain. my pleasure was in like proportion, but inversely. "you fool, missy' golding har? you' better gone 'long wi' de young dragoon offica who want take you--dat am, if you must had man all to youseff. yah, yah, yah! nebba mind, gal! you get husban' yet. mass' stebbins he find you husban'--he got one for you a'ready--waitin' dar in de mormon city; you soon see! husban' got fifty odder wife! yah, yah, yah!" words appeared upon the lips of lilian--low murmured and but half uttered. i could not make out what they were; but they appeared not to be a reply to the speeches that had been addressed to her. rather were they the involuntary accompaniment to an expression of peculiar anguish, that at that moment revealed itself on her features. the mulatta did not seem either to expect, or care for an answer: for on giving utterance to the fiendish insinuation, she turned upon her slippered heels, and hobbled back towards the camp. i held my face averted as she was passing near where i stood. i feared that she might be attracted to stop and examine me; and i had a motive for wishing her to keep on. her curiosity, however, did not appear to be very excitable. such as it was, it evolved itself in a comic fashion--as i could tell by the coarse "yah, yah, yah!" that broke from her as she passed me. i could perceive by the receding of the sound, that she had gone on without stopping. lilian followed at a distance of about ten paces. her body was bent to one side by the weight of the water-can; while her long golden-hair, falling in confusion over the straining arm, almost swept the sward at her feet. the toilsome attitude only displayed in greater perfection the splendid development of that feminine form--which death alone could now hinder me from calling my own. i had already planned my course of action. i only waited for an opportunity to carry it out. no longer desired i to remain unrecognised by her. the barrier that had hitherto restrained me from giving sign or word--and that would still have continued to do so--had now been removed, happily as unexpectedly. in my heart, now filled and thrilling with joy, there was no motive for further concealment; and i resolved at once to declare myself. not openly, however; not by speech, nor yet by gesture. either might provoke an exclamation; and draw upon us prying eyes that were observing at no great distance. as stated, i had already shaped out my course; and, for a minute or more, had been waiting for the very opportunity that now offered. during the conversation above detailed, i had not been an inactive listener. i had taken from my pocket a scrap of paper, and pencilled upon it three simple words. i knew the paper on which i was writing: it was the half-leaf of a letter well-remembered. the letter itself was not there: it was within the folds of my pocket-book; but there was writing on the fly-leaf, and on both faces of it. on one side were those cherished verses, whose sweet simple strain, still vibrating upon the chords of my heart, i cannot help repeating: "i think of thee, when morning springs from sleep, with plumage bathed in dew, and like a young bird lifts her wings of gladness on the welkin blue. and when at noon the breath of love o'er flower and stream is wandering free, and sent in music from the grove, i think of thee--i think of thee! "i think of thee, when soft and wide the evening spreads her robe of light; and, like a young and timid bride, sits blushing in the arms of night. and when the moon's sweet crescent springs in light o'er heaven's deep waveless sea; and stars are forth like blessed things, i think of thee--i think of thee!" "o sir! it is very, very true! i do think of you; and i am sure i shall do so as long as i live. "lilian holt." on the reverse side of the page i had penned, or rather pencilled, a response. not then, but in an idle hour by the way: with the presentiment, that it might some time reach the hands of her for whom it was intended. in those hands i was now determined to place it--leaving the issue to the cipher itself. the answer ran thus: to lilian. "as music sweet, thy gentle lay hath found an echo in my heart; at morn, at eve, by night, by day, 'tis never from my thoughts apart: i hear the strain in every breeze that blows o'er flower, and leaf, and tree; low murmuring, the birds and bees all seem to sing--i think of thee! "perhaps, of me no more a thought lingers within thy bosom blest: for time and absence both are fraught with danger to the lover's rest? o lilian! if thy gentlest breath should whisper that sad truth to me, my heart would soon be cold in death-- though dying, still 'twould think of thee!" "edward warfield, _the indian hunter_." the words at the moment added were those appended to my own name--which i had introduced to aid in the recognition. however inappropriate might be the scheme for making myself known, i had no time to conceive any other. the interruption caused by the mulatta had hindered me from a verbal declaration, which otherwise i might have made; and there was no longer an opportunity for the periphrasis of speech. even a word might betray me. under this apprehension, i resolved to remain silent; and watch for the occasion when i might effect the secret conveyance of the paper. as the young girl drew near, i stepped towards her--pointing to my lips, and making sign that i wished to drink. the action did not alarm her. on the contrary, she stopped; and, smiling kindly on the thirsty savage, offered the can--raising it up before her. i took the vessel in my hands, holding the little billet conspicuous between my stained fingers. conspicuous only to her: for from all other eyes the can concealed it-- even from those of the bizarre _duenna_, who had faced round and was still standing near. not a word escaped me, as i pretended to drink. i only nodded towards the paper as i raised the vessel to my lips. ah! that weird instinct of a woman's heart--a woman who loves! how pleasant to watch its subtle play, when we know that it is exerted in our favour! i saw not the action, nor yet the emotion that may have been depicted on that radiant face. my eyes were averted. i dared not trust them to watch the effect. i only knew that the can was taken from my hands--the paper along with it; and, like a dream, the fair water-carrier passed from before me--leaving me alone upon the spot! my eyes followed the receding form, now side by side with that of the chiding guardian. together they entered the corral--lilian upon the nearer side; but, as the maiden's face disappeared behind the sombre shadow of the waggons, a glance given back through those shining tresses convinced me that my scheme had succeeded! chapter one hundred. a sister's appeal. i hastened to inform marian of what had passed--having returned to the tents, without giving any sign of the excitement that was stirring within my breast. why not to-night? why not at once--within the hour? these were my reflections, put interrogatively, as i hurried over the ground. the huntress still remained within her tent; but, enjoying the fraternal privilege, i could enter; and, stooping, i passed under the covering of skins. "you have seen sister lilian!" she said, affirmatively, as i entered. "i have." "and spoken with her?" "no--i dared not trust myself to speak; but i have given her a token of recognition." "in writing? i saw you. she knows, then, that you are here?" "by this time she should--that is, if she has found an opportunity to look at the paper." "she will find that, i daresay. oh, she _is_ beautiful--very beautiful. i do not wonder, sir, that you love her! were i a man--knows she that i too am here?" "not yet. i feared to tell her, even in writing. i feared that in the sudden transport of joy which such a discovery would produce, she might proclaim it to your father--perhaps to _him_!" "you are right--there might have been a risk of that. she must not know that i am here, till we can caution her against declaring it. how do you propose to act?" "i have come to take counsel from you. if we could only make known to her that you are present, she might find an opportunity of stealing forth; and in the darkness, all the rest could be accomplished. even to-night--why not this very night?" "why not?" echoed the huntress, catching eagerly at the idea. "the sooner the better. but how am i to see her? should i enter their camp? perhaps--" "if you write to her, i--" "_would_, stranger? say _could_. writing is not one of my accomplishments. my father cared little to teach me--my mother still less: she cared not at all. alas! poor ignorant me: i cannot even write my own name!" "it matters not: dictate what you would say to her. i have here paper and pencil; and shall write for you. if she has read the other, she will be on the look-out--and no doubt we may find an opportunity of giving a note to her." "and she of reading it, no doubt. yes; it does seem the best course we can pursue--the surest and safest. surely lilian has not forgotten me? surely she will follow the advice of a sister who dearly loves her?" drawing out my pencil, and tearing a leaf from the memorandum-book, i stood ready to act as amanuensis. the intelligent though unlettered maiden, resting her forehead upon her hand--as if to aid in giving shape to her thoughts--commenced the dictation: "beloved sister!--a friend writes for me--one whom you know. it is marian who speaks--your own sister marian--still living and well. i am here with others--in the disguise of indians--those you have seen. we are here on your account alone. we have come to save you from a danger--o sister! a dreadful danger: which your innocent heart cannot have dreamt of!" i was not so certain of this. the shade i had observed upon lilian's countenance--produced by the taunting speeches of the mulatta--had convinced me that the young girl was not without some presentiment of her peril, however vaguely outlined. so much the better for our purpose; and, as i had already declared this belief to marian, i did not interrupt her. she continued: "when you have read this, do not show it to any one. do not make known its contents even to--" the maiden paused for a moment. filial affection, too cruelly crushed, was causing her voice to falter. tremblingly and low muttered came the words: "our father--!" "dear lil!" proceeded she in a firmer tone, "you know how dearly i loved you? i love you still the same. you know i would have risked my life to save yours. i now risk that and more--ah! far more, if i could tell you; but some time you shall know all. and you, dear lil! your danger is even greater than of life--for it is the danger of dishonour! hear me, then, beloved sister, and _do_ not refuse to follow my advice! when it is dark--and to-night if possible--steal out from the camp. separate yourself from the vile people who surround you--separate yourself--o sister! it is hard to say the word--from him, our father--him who should have been our protector, but who, i fear--alas! i cannot speak the thought. to-night, dear lil! if possible, to-night! to-morrow it may be too late. our disguise may be discovered, and all our plans frustrated. to-night--to-night! fear not! your friend awaits you--as also your old favourite, frank wingrove, with other brave companions. your sister will receive you with open arms." "marian." surely lilian would not resist such an appeal? surely it would be enough to separate her--even from him whose slight protection scarcely gave him claim to the sacred title of parent? our next anxiety was, as to how the note might be delivered. we thought of archilete; and in the end he might have been employed to convey it to her for whom it was intended. but just at that moment the mexican was absent. in the performance of his _metier_ as guide, he had entered the corral, and was engaged with the chief men of the caravan--giving them such counsel as might enable them to pursue their route, and no doubt concealing those points that might be prejudicial to our cause. i had no reason to doubt the fidelity of the man. it is true his betrayal of us would have been fatal; though it might afterwards have brought himself to punishment. but it never occurred to me to question his loyalty. his sentiment of hostility for the mormon "hereticos" had been freely and repeatedly expressed; and i reposed perfect confidence in the honesty of his declarations. on discovering the absence of archilete, the idea occurred to me, that it might not be necessary to await his return to the tents. time was too valuable to be wasted. already had the sun sunk to rest over the grand desert of the colorado; and the sombre shadows of the sierra san juan were projected far into the plain--almost to the edge of the encampment. in these latitudes, the soft eve lingers but a few minutes; and night was already spreading her russet mantle over the earth. the white tilts of the waggons gleamed paler through the grey light; and the red glare of the camp-fires, burning within the corral, now shone upon the canvas--disputing the power to illumine it, with the last touches of the twilight. another minute--scarcely another minute--and the day would be done. "come!" i said to my companion, "we may go together. the guide has proclaimed us sister and brother--prophetic words, i hope. believing in that relationship, these people will not see anything extraordinary in our taking a stroll together. _outside_ the camp, we may find the opportunity we are in search of?" marian offered no objection; and, issuing together from the tent, we proceeded in the direction of the corralled waggons. chapter one hundred one. a caravan ball. as if to favour our design, the night descended dusk as the wing of a vulture. the summits of san juan were no longer visible--their outlines becoming blended with the dark background of sky; while the more sombre slopes of the sierra mojada had long since faded from the view. even light-coloured objects could be but dimly traced through the profound obscurity--such as the white covers of the waggons, our own weather-bleached buffalo-tents, the metallic sheen of the stream, and the speckled oxen browsing along its banks. between these objects the atmosphere was filled with a uniform and amorphous darkness; and dusky forms like ours could be seen only under the light of the blazing fires. a few of these had been kindled outside the enclosure--near the avenue entrance; but most were inside, surrounded by groups of emigrants--the flames casting their ruddy light upon the bright cheerful faces of women and children, or on the ruder and more careworn countenances of the men. underneath the waggon-bodies, the red light, broken by the radiating spokes of the wheels, gleamed outward in a thousand jets; and men walking outside, flung gigantic shadows over the plain. nearer to the line of barricade, only the shadows of their limbs were projected, the upper part of their persons being shrouded from the glare by the tilts and boxing of the waggons. under this friendly cover we were enabled to approach close up to the vehicles, without much risk of attracting observation. but few persons were straying outside--only the cattle-guards and other routine-officers of the caravan, all equally negligent of their duties. they knew they were in utah territory, and had no enemy to fear. it was, moreover, the hour of most interest in the daily routine of a travelling-train: when forms cluster around the bivouac fire, and bright faces shine cheerfully in the blaze; when the song succeeds the supper, the tale is told, and the merry laugh rings on the air; when the pipe sends up its aromatic wreaths of blue curling smoke; and sturdy limbs, already rested from the toils of the day, feel an impulse to spring upward on the "light fantastic toe." on that eve, such an impulse had inspired the limbs of the mormon emigrants. scarcely had the _debris_ of the supper been removed, ere a space was cleared midway between the blazing fires; music swelled upon the air--the sounds of fiddle, horn, and clarionet--and half a score of couples, setting themselves _en quadrille_, commence treading time to the tune. sufficiently _bizarre_ was the exhibition--a dance of the true "broad-horn" breed; but we had no thought of criticising an entertainment so opportune to our purpose. the swelling sound of the instruments drowning low conversation--the confusion of many voices--the attraction of the saltatory performance-- were all circumstances that had suddenly and unexpectedly arisen in our favour. my companion and i had no longer a fear that our movements would be noted. indeed, only those who might be in the waggons, and looking through the draw-string aperture in the rear of the tilts, would be likely to see us at all. but most of these apertures were closed, some with curtains of common canvas--others with an old counterpane, a blanket, or such rag as was fitted for the service. we saw no face looking outwards. all were turned upon the attractive circle of terpsichoreans, that, under the brilliant light of the fires, were bounding through the mazy figures, of the dance. the waggons forming the sides of the enclosure were in _echellon_; and their tilts lapping on each other, it was impossible to see between them. with the two, however, that closed the end of the _corral_, the case was different. these had been drawn up side by side, and parallel to each other; and though their wheels touched, there still remained a space above the tires, through which we could command a view of the ground within the enclosure. at this point we had placed, ourselves. it proved the very vantage-ground we desired. we could view the enclosed ellipse longitudinally, and note nearly every movement made by those inside. even should we be detected in our espionage, it would pass without suspicion as to our real object. what more natural than that we should desire to witness the spectacle of the dance? the act would be construed as springing from mere savage curiosity? our eyes, wandering over the different figures, soon became fixed upon two. they were men, and seated--near each other, and some paces apart from the crowd of dancers. they were holt and stebbins. both were by the side of a large fire, that threw its red light in full glare over them--so that not only their figures, but even the expression upon their features we could distinctly trace. the squatter, pipe in mouth, and with head drooping down almost to his knees, looked grimly into the fire. he was paying no attention to what was passing around him. his thoughts were not there? stebbins, on the other hand, appeared eagerly to watch the dancers. he was dressed with a degree of adornment; and exhibited a certain patronising attitude, as if master of the sports and ceremonies! men and women went and came, as if paying court to him; and each was kept for a moment in courtly converse, and then graciously dismissed, with all the ludicrous etiquette of mock ceremonial! i looked among the dancers--scrutinising each face as it came round to the light. there were girls and women--some of all ages. even the gross _mulatto_ was "on the floor," hobbling through the figures of a quadrille. but lilian? i was disappointed in not seeing her--a disappointment that gratified me. where was she? among the spectators? i made a hurried examination of the circle. there were faces fair and young--white teeth and rose-hued cheeks--but not hers. she was not among them! i turned to her sister to make a conjectural inquiry. i saw that the eyes of marian were fixed upon her father. she was regarding him with a singular expression. i could fancy that some strange reflection was passing through her mind--some wild emotion swelling within her bosom. i refrained from interrupting the current of her thoughts. up to this time, the waggon beside which we stood had been dark inside. suddenly, and, as if by magic, a light flashed within, gleaming through the translucent canvas. a candle had been lighted under the tilt; and now continued to burn steadily. i could not resist the temptation to look under the canvas. perhaps a presentiment guided me? it needed no disarrangement of the cover. i had only to step a pace to one side and opposite the curtain in the rear of the vehicle. the slight rude hanging had been negligently closed. an interstice left open between the two flaps permitted a fall view of the interior. a number of large boxes and articles of household use filled up the bed of the waggon. over these had been thrown some coarse garments, and pieces of bed-clothing--blankets, counterpanes, and a bolster or two. near the forward end, a chest of large dimensions stood higher than the rest; and upon the lid of this a piece of tallow-candle was burning, in the neck of an old bottle! between the flame of the candle and my eyes a figure intervened, shadowing the rearward part of the waggon. it was a female figure; and, dim as was the light, i could trace the outlines of a lovely _silhouette_, that could be no other than that of lilian holt. a slight movement of the head brought the gleam of golden-hair under the flickering flame; and the features were seen _en profile_. they were hers. it was lilian who occupied the waggon. she was alone--though in front of the vehicle, i could see forms not distant from where she sat. young men were loitering there. ardent glances were directed towards her. she appeared desirous of shunning them. she held in her hands a book. one might have fancied she was reading it: for it was open. but the light fell sparingly on the page; and her stealthy glances towards it told, something else than the book was occupying her attention. a piece of detached paper that gleamed whiter between the leaves, was evidently the object of her solicitude. it was the writing upon that she was trying to decipher. i watched with eager glance. i noted every movement of the fair reader. marian had joined me. we both watched together. it required an effort to restrain ourselves from speech. a word would have been worth all this writing; but it might also have ruined everything. they who stood in front of the waggon might hear that word. it was not spoken. lilian was evidently embarrassed by the presence of these young men; and cast uneasy glances towards them as she read. perhaps the restraint thus placed upon her hindered any violent show of emotion, which the writing on the paper might have called forth. a short suppressed sigh, as she finished reading; a quick searching glance among the groups in front--another, shot stealthily towards the rear of the waggon--this was all in her manner that might have appeared unusual. i waited till her eyes were again turned rearward; and then, gently parting the canvas flaps, i held marian's note between my fingers inside the curtain. the apparition of my red-hand did not cause an alarm. the poem had paved the way for the more prosaic epistle: and neither scream nor start was occasioned by its delivery. as soon as i saw that the piece of paper was observed, i dropped it among the boxes, and withdrew my hand. the fear that we might have been noticed standing too long in one place, influenced us to move away. if fortune should favour the reading of that note, on our return we might find our scheme much more ripe for execution. with this reflection, we glided silently from the spot. chapter one hundred two. to horse and away. our absence was of short duration--a turn to the tents and back again. while there, i had spoken a word to wingrove and sure-shot. archilete was still absent. i had warned my comrades not to picket our horses at too great a distance from the tents: as we knew not how soon we might need them. little thought i, as i delivered this cautionary counsel, that within the hour--nay, almost within that minute--we should be hastening to mount and be gone! our idea had been that some time about midnight--perhaps later--when the camp should be buried in sleep-- lilian, already warned that we were in wait for her, would steal forth and join us at the tents. thence, trusting to the speed of our horses, we should find no difficulty in escaping--even though pursuit might be given on the instant of our departure. we were all well-mounted--as well, at least, as the mormons could be--and with a guide who knew the passes, we should have the advantage of them. it did not occur to marian or myself, that that very moment might have been more appropriate for flight, than the hour of midnight or any other. then, in the midst of their noisy revelry, when all eyes were turned upon the dance, and souls absorbed in the giddy whirl of pleasure--when slight sounds were unnoticed amidst the swelling music and the clangour of voices--when even the hoof-stroke of a galloping horse would have fallen unheard or unheeded--then, indeed, would have been the very time for our designed abduction! the idea did not occur to either of us. i cannot tell why it did not: unless it was that we were hindered from thinking of final measures, by our uncertainty as to the _disposition_ of lilian. her consent was _now_ the most important condition to our success--as her refusal would be its grandest obstacle. surely she would _not_ refuse? we could not for a moment harbour the apprehension. by this time she must have read the letter? we could now safely speak face to face with her--that is, if opportunity should be found for an interview. to seek that opportunity, therefore, were we returning a second time to the rear of the waggons. the candle was yet burning under the tilt. its flame feebly illuminated the canvas. we drew near with stealthy tread, taking notice that we were not observed. we stood once more by the end of the huge vehicle. we were raising our eyes to look through the curtain, when at that instant the light went out. some one had suddenly extinguished it! one might have regarded this as an ill omen; but, the moment after, we could hear a slight rustling sound--as of some one moving under the cover of the waggon, and passing along towards its hinder end. we stood silent, listening to the sound. it ceased at length; but, immediately after, the edge of the curtain was raised slowly, and without noise. a face appeared in the opening! there was scarcely any light; but even through the grim darkness that lovely face gleamed soft and white. marian stood nearest, and easily recognised it. in a tender tone she pronounced the magic word: "sister!" "o marian! sister! is it you?" "yes, dearest lil! but hush! speak low!" "are you yet alive, dear marian? or am i dreaming?" "no dream, sister, but a reality." "o mercy! tell me, sister--" "all--all--but not now--there is no time." "but _he_, dear sister? who is he that is with you?" i stepped near enough to reply in a whisper: "one, lilian, who _thinks of thee_!" "o sir! edward!--edward!--it is you!" "hush!" whispered marian, again interposing with a quick gesture of caution. "speak only in whispers! lilian!" continued she in a firm tone, "you must fly with us!" "from our father? do you mean that, marian?" "from our father--ay, even from him!" "o dear sister! what will he say? what will he do, if i forsake him?-- our poor father!--" there was anguish in the tones of her voice, that told of filial affection still strong and true, however much it may have been trampled upon. "say and do?" interrupted marian. "he will rejoice--_should_ rejoice-- when he knows the danger from which you have escaped. o sister! dear sister! believe me--believe your own marian! a fearful fate is before you. flight with us can alone save you. even father will soon be powerless to protect you, _as he was to protect me_. do not hesitate then, but say you will go with us? once beyond the reach of those villains who surround you, all will be well." "and our father, marian?" "no harm will come to him. it is not his ruin they seek; but yours, sister, yours!" a choking sigh was all the reply i could hear. it appeared to be a signal that the spell was broken: as if the heart had escaped from some thraldom in which it had been long held. had the words of marian produced conviction? or had they but confirmed some apprehension previously conceived? was it the snapping of the filial thread i had heard in that anguished expression? both the sigh and the silence that followed seemed to signify assent. to make more sure, i was about to add the influence of my intervention, with all the fervency of a lover's appeal. wild words were upon my lips; when at that moment some strange interjections reached my ears, uttered within the enclosure. i stepped suddenly to one side, and looked over the wheels of the waggon. there i beheld a spectacle that caused the blood to rush through my veins in quick quivering current. marian saw it at the same time. holt had been seated near the fire, when seen but the moment before; but, as we now looked through, we saw that he had risen to his feet, and was standing in an attitude that betrayed some singular excitement! it was from him the interjections had proceeded. the cause was easily explained. the dog wolf was leaping up against his legs-- uttering low growls of recognition, and making other demonstrations of joy. the animal had identified its old master! despite the stained snout and close-trimmed tonsure--despite both paint and shears--the dog had been also identified. between him and his master the recognition was mutual. i saw this at a glance; and the speeches of the squatter only confirmed what was already evident to the eye. "durn it, ef 'taint my ole dog!" cried he, after several shorter exclamations--"my ole dog wolf! hullo, stebbins!" continued he, facing sharply round to the saint; "what's the meanin' o' this? didn't you tell me that he wur dead?" stebbins had turned pale as a sheet; and i could see his thin lips quivering with excitement. it was less fear than some other passion that was playing upon his features; and too easily could i conjecture the current of thought that was running through his brain. the presence of that animal must have called up a train of reflections, far wilder and stranger than those that were passing through the mind of the squatter; and i could perceive that he was making an effort to conceal his emotions. "'tis a very odd circumstance," said he, speaking in a tone of assumed surprise--"very odd indeed! it is your dog, certainly, though the animal has been disfigured. i _thought_ he was dead. the men of our spring caravan told me so. they said that the wolves had killed him." "wolves! durn it, i mout a know'd they kudn't a killed him--not all the wolves on the parairies! why thur ain't the scratch o' a claw on him! whar did he come from anyhow? who's brought him hyur?" i could see that stebbins was desirous of parrying the question. he gave an evasive answer. "who knows? he has likely been in the hands of some indians--the paint shows that--and preferring the company of whites, he has followed us, and strayed into the camp." "did he come with them ere injuns that's outside?" quickly inquired holt. "no?--i fancy not with them," answered the mormon, in whose glance i could detect the falsehood. "let's go an' see!" proposed the squatter, making a step towards the entrance of the corral. "no--not to-night, holt!" hastily interposed the other, and with an eagerness that showed the interest he felt in procrastinating the inquiry. "we must not disturb them to-night. in the morning, we can see them, and learn all about it." "durn about disturbin' them! why not to-night, instead o' the mornin'?" "well--if you wish to know to-night, i'll go myself, and speak to the guide. no doubt, if the dog came with them, he can tell us all about it? you stay here till i return?" "don't be long then. ho, wolf! ole fellur! injuns have had ye, eh? durn it, old boy! i'm as gled to see ye, as if--" an unexpected reflection was called forth by the form of speech--not that to which he was about to give words--but one whose bitterness, not only hindered him from saying what he had intended, but caused him instantly to abandon his caresses of the dog. staggering back to his seat, he dropped heavily down upon it--at the same time burying his face in his hands. the expression upon the mormon's features, as he parted from the fire, was one of demoniac significance. clearly he comprehended all! i saw him gliding off through, the corral, with silent stealthy tread, like some restless spirit of darkness. here and there he paused; and for a moment held one in conversation--then quickly passing on to another. there was no mistaking the object of these manoeuvres. as clearly as if declared. i divined their intent. _he was summoning the "destroyers_!" not a moment was to be lost. i rushed back to the rear of the waggon; and with open arms gave utterance to my anguished appeal. but it needed not that, marian had been, before me. both she and her sister had witnessed the scene within the corral. both already foresaw the coming storm: and ere my lips could close, after delivering the impassioned speech, lilian holt lay upon my bosom! it was the first time that fair cheek had pressed upon my shoulder--the first time those soft arms had entwined around my neck! not for an instant dared i indulge in the sweet embrace. if we lingered, it might be the last! to the tents! to the tents! i knew that the horses would be waiting. a signal already given should have warned my comrades; and i had no conjecture, no fear about their being in readiness. as i expected, we found them all--both men and horses--the steeds saddled, bridled, and ready. the mexican was there with the rest. the apparition of the dog had given him his cue; and he had hurriedly returned to the tents. we thought not of these, nor of the other paraphernalia--neither our mules nor their packs. our lives and liberty alone concerned us. my arab neighed joyfully, as i sprang into the saddle. he was proud to carry that fairer form upon the croup; and, as he bounded forward over the plain, his triumphant snort told, that he understood the glorious service he was called upon to perform. as we parted from the tents, we could see a number of dark forms rushing out from the avenue. in the red glare their shadows were projected far over the plain--even in advance of our horses. they were the shadows of men afoot; and we soon galloped beyond them. the music had suddenly ceased; and the murmuring hum of the dancers had given place to shouts and loud cries, that betokened a _stampede_ in the camp. we could distinguish the voices of men calling to the horse-guards; and, soon after, the quick trampling of hoofs, as the animals were hurried up to the enclosure. but we had very little uneasiness about the pursuit. we were too well-mounted to fear being overtaken; and, as we galloped off into the night, with confidence could we echo the cry of the bold borderer: "they'll have fleet steeds that follow!" chapter one hundred three. seeking a cache. we rode direct for robideau's pass. the night still continued dark, but we had no difficulty in finding our way. even in the obscurity, the deep trace of the heavy emigrant train was sufficiently conspicuous; and we were enabled to follow the back-track with precision. our experienced guide could have conducted us over it blindfold. that we were pursued, and hotly pursued, there could be little doubt. for my part, i felt certain of it. the stake which stebbins had hitherto held, was too precious to be parted with on slight conditions. the jealous vigilance with which lilian had been guarded along the route--amounting, as i had incidentally ascertained, to a positive espionage--her yellow duenna at once acting as spy and protectress--all were significant of the intent already suspected by us, but of which the young girl herself was perhaps happily ignorant. the failure of his design--and now for the second time--would be a rude _contre-temps_ for the pseudo-apostle; and would no doubt endanger his expected promotion. besides, he must have believed or suspected, that marian holt still lived; that she had survived the exposure consequent on her escape from the first caravan; and this belief or suspicion would now be confirmed by the reappearance of the dog. nay, it was almost certain, that on recognising the animal, the truth had suddenly flashed upon him, that marian was herself upon the ground; and that the spotted countenance that had for the moment deceived him, was that of his tennessean bride. the abduction following upon the instant would not only confirm this belief, but would redouble his eagerness in a pursuit that promised a recapture of both the victims, who had thus unexpectedly escaped from his control. though with different motives, it was natural that holt himself should be equally eager to pursue. he might still know nothing about the presence of marian or her disguise. to him it would simply appear that his other child had been stolen from the camp--carried off by indians-- and that _should_ be sufficient to rouse him to the most strenuous efforts for her recovery. for these reasons we had no doubt about our being pursued; and with all the zeal and energy of which our apostolic enemy and his myrmidons were capable of putting forth. twenty miles separated the mormon camp from the entrance to robideau's pass. nearly the whole of that distance we traversed at a gallop. so far we had experienced no apprehension; but, after entering the pass, our foaming horses began to show signs of fatigue. those of sure-shot and wingrove, that were weaker than the rest, manifested symptoms of giving out. both were evidently broken, and without rest could go no further. this produced a new uneasiness. we presumed that the horses of our pursuers would be comparatively fresh--after their long rest at their encampment--while ours had not only made a considerable journey the day before, but on that same day had passed over fifty miles of ground--twenty of it in a gallop! no wonder they were manifesting signs of distress. shortly after entering the pass, we drew up to deliberate. by continuing onward, we should be almost certain to be overtaken. this was the more probable, from the keen pursuit we had reason to anticipate. to remain where we were, would be to await the coming up of the enemy--no doubt in such numbers as to render our capture secure; and any attempt to defend ourselves would be idle as fatal. it was no longer with indians we should have to deal--no longer with lances and arrows--but with strong bold men, armed like ourselves, and far outnumbering us. to conceal ourselves within the gorge, and permit our pursuers to pass, might have served our purpose for the time--had there been sufficient cover. but neither the rocks nor trees offered an advantageous hiding-place for our horses. the risk of their being discovered appeared too great. we dared not trust to such a slight chance of security. within the pass, it was not possible to part from the trail; and on discovering the condition of our horses, we regretted not having left it before entering. we even entertained the question of returning some distance: since we might leave the trail by ascending a spur of the mountains in our rear. but this course appeared too perilous. perhaps at that moment our pursuers might be entering the pass? perhaps at that moment "adown the glen rode armed men"--though as yet our ears were not assailed by the sound of their trampling. fortunately, in this moment of hesitancy, a thought occurred to our mexican comrade, that promised to release us from the dilemma. it was a _memory_ that had suddenly flashed upon him. he remembered, on one of his trapping expeditions, having discovered a ravine that led out of robideau's pass on the northern side. it was a mere cleft cliff--just wide enough to admit the body of a man on horseback--but further up, it opened into a little plain or _vallon_, as the mexican termed it, completely girt in by mountains. these on all sides rose so precipitously from the plain, as to render it impossible for a mounted man to scale them. the trapper had himself been obliged to return by the gorge--after having vainly endeavoured to find a way leading outward above. the vallon was therefore a _cul-de-sac_; or, as the trapper in his native synonyme called it, a _bolson_. our guide was of opinion that this _bolson_ would serve as a hiding-place, until we could rest our horses. he was confident that the entrance of the ravine was not far from where we had halted; and, moreover, that he should be able to find it without difficulty. his advice, therefore, was, that we should seek the gorge; and, having found it, ride up into the vallon, and there remain, till the following night. the pursuit might pass in the meantime, and return again; but whether or not, our animals would then be rested; and even should we again encounter the pursuers we might hope to escape, through the superior speed of our horses. the plan was feasible. there was but one objection that struck me; and i offered it for the consideration of our guide. the _vallon_ as he had stated, was a _cul-de-sac_. should we be _tracked into it_, there would be no chance of retreat: we should be taken as in a trap? "_carrambo_!" exclaimed the mexican, in answer to my suggestion, "no fear of being tracked by such curs as they. they know nothing of that business. not one of their whole fraternity could follow the trace of a buffalo in snow-time. _carrambo_! no." "there is one who could," i replied; "one who could follow a feebler trail than ours." "what! a _rastreador_ among these _judios_! who, _cavallero_?" "their father!" i whispered the reply, so that neither of the girls should overhear it. "oh! true," muttered the mexican--"the father of the huntress--a hunter himself? _carrai_! that's like enough. but no matter. i can take you up the gorge in such fashion, that the most skilled _rastreador_ of the prairies would never suspect we had passed through. fortunately, the ground is favourable. the bottom of the little canon is covered with cut rocks. the hoof will leave no mark upon these." "remember that some of our horses are shod: the iron will betray us?" "no, senor, we shall muffle them: _nos vamos con los pies en medias_!" (let us travel in stockings!) the idea was not new to me; and without further hesitation, we proceeded to carry it into execution. with pieces of blanket, and strips cut from our buckskin garments, we muffled the hoofs of our shod horses; and after following the waggon-trail, till we found a proper place for parting from it, we diverged in an oblique direction, towards the bluff that formed the northern boundary of the pass. along this bluff we followed the guide in silence; and, after going for a quarter of a mile further, we had the satisfaction to see him turn to the left, and suddenly disappear from our sight--as if he had ridden into the face of the solid rock! we might have felt astonishment; but a dark chasm at the same instant came under our eyes, and we knew it was the ravine of which our guide had spoken. without exchanging a word, we turned our horses' heads, and rode up into the cleft. there was water running among the shingle, over which our steeds trampled; but it was shallow, and did not hinder their advance. it would further aid in concealing their tracks--should our pursuers succeed in tracing us from the main route. but we had little apprehension of their doing this: so carefully had we concealed our trail on separating from that of the waggons. on reaching the little _vallon_, we no longer thought of danger; but, riding on to its upper end, dismounted, and made the best arrangements that circumstances would admit of for passing the remainder of the night. wrapped in buffalo-robes, and a little apart from the rest of our party, the sisters reclined side by side under the canopy of a cotton-wood tree. long while had it been since these beautiful forms had reposed so near each other; and the soft low murmur of their voices--heard above the sighing of the breeze, and the rippling sound of the mountain rills--admonished us that each was confiding to the other the sweet secret of her bosom! chapter one hundred four. un paraiso. we come to the closing act of our drama. to understand it fully, it is necessary that the setting of the stage--the _mise-en-scene_--be described with a certain degree of minuteness. the little valley-plain, or _vallon_, in which we had _cached_ ourselves, was not over three hundred yards in length, and of an elliptical form. but for this form, it might have resembled some ancient crater scooped out of the mountain, that on all sides swept upward around it. the sides of this mountain, trending up from the level of the plain, rose not with a gentle acclivity, but with precipitous abruptness. at no point, however, did it assume the character of a cliff. it might have been scaled with difficulty by a man on foot, especially should he avail himself of the assistance of the trees--pines and trailing junipers--that grew over the steep so thickly as to conceal the greater portion of its rocky _facade_. here and there only, a bare spot might be observed--a little buttress of white laminated gypsum, mingled with sparkling selenite; while at other places a miniature torrent, leaping over the rocks, and dancing among the dark cedars, presented a very similar appearance. these little torrents, plashing down to the plain, formed numerous crystal rills that traversed the _vallon_. like the branches of a silver candelabrum, all united near its centre, and there formed a pellucid stream, that, sweeping onward, discharged itself through the ravine into robideau's pass. the effect of this abundance of water had been to produce within the _vallon_ a proportionate luxuriance of vegetation, though it had not assumed the form of a forest. a few handsome cotton-woods, standing thinly over it, were the only trees; but the surface exhibited a verdure of emerald brightness enamelled by many a gay corolla--born to blush unseen within this sweet secluded glen. along the edge of the rivulet, large water-plants projected their broad leaves languidly over the stream; and where the little cascades came down from the rocks, the flowers of beautiful orchids, and other rare epiphytes, were seen sparkling under the spray--many of them clinging to the _coniferae_, and thus uniting almost the extreme types of the botanical world! such lovely landscape was presented to our eyes in the "bolson" into which our trapper-guide had conducted us. it appeared lovely as we first beheld it--under the blue light of dawn; but lovelier far, when the sun began to tinge the summits of the mojada mountains that encircled it, and scatter his empurpled roses on the snowy peaks of the wa-to-yah--just visible through the gorge. "_esta un paraiso_!" (it is a paradise!) exclaimed the mexican, warming with the poetry of his race. "_en verdad un paraiso_! even better peopled than the paradise of old. _mira! cavalleros_!" continued he. "behold! not one eve, but two! each, i daresay, as beautiful as the mother of mankind!" as the trapper spoke, he pointed to the young girls, who, hand-in-hand, were returning from the stream--where they had been performing their ablutions. the spots of _allegria_ had disappeared from the cheeks of marian, that now gleamed in all their crimson picturesqueness. it was for wingrove to admire these. my own eyes were riveted upon the roseate blonde; and, gazing upon her face, i could not help echoing the sentiment of the enthusiastic speaker: "beautiful as the mother of mankind!" wingrove and i had been to the _lavatory_ before them; and had succeeded to a certain extent in scouring our skins clear of the vermilion bedaubment. in the anticipation of this pleasant interview, it was natural we should seek to rescue ourselves from a disguise, that the eye of woman could not look upon otherwise than with _degout_. it was natural, too, we should desire those clasped hands to come asunder-- those maiden forms to be separated from one another? fortune was pleased to respond to our wishes. a flower hanging from the branch of a tree at that moment caught the eye of lilian; and, dropping her sister's hand, she hastened to gather it. marian, who cared less for flowers, did not follow her. perhaps her inclination tempted her the other way? but one did follow the fair lilian--unable to resist the opportunity for free converse--the only one that had offered since that first sweet interview. how my heart bounded, when i beheld the blossom of the bignonia; for it was that which hung drooping from the branch of the cotton-wood, round which its bright leaves were amorously entwining! how it swelled with a triumphant joy, when i saw those tiny fingers, extend towards the _sower, gently_ pluck it from its stem, and place it upon my bosom! talk not of bliss, if it be not this! we strayed on through the straggling trees, along the banks of the stream, by the edges of the little rills. we wandered around the vallon, and stood by the torrents that fell foaming from the rocks. we mingled our voices with the waters, that in low murmurings appeared to repeat the sentiment so endeared to us, "i think of thee!" "and you will, lilian--you will always thus think of me?" "yes, edward!--for ever and ever!" was the kiss unhallowed that could seal such promise? no--it was sacred-- down to earth's profound, and up to heaven! thus benighted with the sweet hallucination of love, how could we dream that on earth there existed an alloy? how suspect that into that smiling garden the dread serpent could ever intrude himself? alas! he was at that moment approaching it--he was already near! the place we had chosen for our temporary bivouac--and where we had passed the night--was at the upper extremity of the little valley, and close in to the cliff. we had selected this spot, from the ground being a little more elevated than the general surface, and in consequence drier. several cotton-wood trees shaded it; and it was further sheltered by a number of large boulders of rock, that, having fallen from the cliff above, lay near its base. behind these boulders, the men of our party had slept--not from any idea of the greater security afforded by them, but simply from a delicate motive--being thus separated from the _chamber_ occupied by our fair _protegees_. it had never occurred to us that our place of concealment could be discovered in the night; and, even long after the day had arisen, so confident did we continue in our fancied security, that we had taken no precautions--neither to reconnoitre the cliffs in search of away of retreat, nor to adopt any means of defence in the event of our being assailed. as far as wingrove and i were concerned, i have explained this negligence, for it was negligence of the most imprudent character. the mexican, feeling quite certain that he had succeeded in blinding our trail, was perhaps less cautious than he might otherwise have been; and sure-shot equally trusted to his new comrade, for whose still the ex-ranger had conceived an exalted opinion. i could see withal that archilete was not without some apprehension. he had buckled on his artificial leg--the real one having become fatigued by pressing too long on the stirrup; and, as he hobbled over the ground, i noticed that from time to time he cast inquiring glances down the valley. observing these signs of impatience more than once, i began to grow uneasy. prudence required that even that sweet scene should be interrupted--only temporality, i hoped--until some plan should be adopted, that would render us more secure against the contingency of our being discovered. with my fair companion, i had turned away from the sweet whisperings of the cascade, and was facing to the upper end of the vallon--when, all at once, i observed a strange manoeuvre on the part of "peg-leg." the trapper had thrown himself flat upon the grass; and with his ear placed close to the ground, appeared to listen. the movement was too significant not to attract the attention of everybody. my companion was the only one who did not comprehend it; but she observed that it had powerfully affected all the others; and an ejaculation of alarm escaped her, as she saw them hastening up to the place occupied by the prostrate trapper. before we could arrive on the spot, the man had sprung back into an erect attitude; and, as he stamped his timber leg with violence upon the ground, was heard to exclaim: "_carrambo, camarados_! the curs are upon our trail! _oiga los_?--_el perro_--_el perro_!" (you hear them?--the dog--the dog!) the words were scarcely out of his mouth when their interpretation was given in the sound that came pealing up the valley. borne upon the sighing breeze, it was heard above the rushing noise of the waters--easily heard, and as easily understood. it was the bay of a dog, who ran "growling" along a trail! its deep tone was even identified. the huntress recognised it in the first note that fell upon her ear--as was evidenced by her quick exclamation: "wolf! my dog wolf!" the speech had scarcely escaped her, before the dog himself made his appearance, convincing us all of his identity. the animal, seeing us, ran no longer by the scent; but with raised snout came galloping across the valley, and bounded forward to receive the caresses of his mistress. we rushed to our weapons; and, having grasped them, ran behind the boulders of rock. it would have been idle to have taken to our horses. if our pursuers were following the dog, and guided by him, they would already be near enough to intercept our retreat from the vallon? perhaps they were at that moment in the gorge? we had but one hope; and that was, that the dog might be _alone_. missing marian at the camp, he might have struck upon her trail, and been running upon it throughout the night! this seemed scarcely probable: for holt could have detained him; and in all likelihood would have done so? still less probable did it appear, as we watched the movements of the dog himself. instead of staying by marian, and continuing to receive her caresses, we noticed that at short intervals he ran off again, making demonstration in the direction he had come--as if in expectation of some one who was following at his heels! the slight hope we had conceived was quickly and rudely crushed, by the confirmation of this fact. the voices of men, echoing hoarsely through the gorge, confirmed it! beyond doubt, they were our pursuers, guided by the dog--who little comprehended the danger he was thus conducting towards the object of his instinctive affections! chapter one hundred five. an unexpected defection. almost as soon as we heard the voices, we saw those who were giving utterance to them. a horseman appeared issuing from the jaws of the chasm--another, and another--until eight had filed into the open ground! they were all armed men--armed with guns, pistols, and knives. he in the lead was at once identified. the colossal stature, the green blanket-coat, red shirt, and kerchief turban, proclaimed that the foremost of our pursuers was holt himself. immediately behind him rode stebbins; while those following in file were the executive myrmidons of the mormon faith--the _destroying angels_! on entering the open ground, holt alone kept on without slackening his speed. stebbins followed, but more cautiously and at a distance of several lengths of his horse. the danites at sight of our animals, and ourselves too--for they could not fail to see our faces over the rocks-- drew up; not suddenly, but one after the other--as if irresolute whether to advance, or remain where they were. even stebbins, though moving on after the squatter, did so with evident reluctance. he saw the barrels of our rifles gleaming above the boulders; and, when within about fifty paces of our position, he too reined in--keeping the body of holt between himself and our guns. the squatter continued to advance, without the slightest show of fear. so near had he got to us, that we could note the expression upon his features, though it was difficult to understand it. it was one that bespoke reckless determination--no doubt a determination to recover his child from the savages who had stolen her; for as yet he had no reason to think otherwise than that we were indians. of course, none of us thought of firing upon holt; but, had stebbins at the moment advanced only a step nearer, there was more than one rifle ready to give out its deadly detonation. holt approached rapidly, his horse going a trot. he held his long gun obliquely in front of him, and grasped in both hands--as if ready to fire on the instant. all at once, he checked his horse, dropped the gun on the pommel of his saddle, and sat gazing towards us with a look of bewildered surprise. _white_ faces appearing over the rock instead of _red_ ones, had caused this sudden change in his demeanour. before he had time to give utterance to his astonishment, lilian glided from behind the boulder, and standing with arms extended, cried out: "o father! they are not indians! it is marian! it is--" at the same instant her sister appeared by her side. "marian alive!" cried holt, recognising his long-lost daughter. "my child marian yet livin'! god be praised! thur's one weight off o' my poor soul--an' now to eeze it o' another!" as he uttered the last words, he wrenched his horse half around, and dropped to his feet upon the nearer side. then, quickly resting his rifle over the hollow of the saddle, he brought its barrel to bear on the breast of stebbins--who still sat upon horseback, scarce twenty paces distant from its muzzle. "now, josh stebbins!" cried the squatter, in a voice of thunder, "the time's come to squar the yards wi' _you_!" "what do you mean, holt?" mechanically inquired the mormon, in trembling surprise. "what do you mean by that?" "i mean, you infernal skunk, that afore ye leave this groun', ye've got to make a clean breast o' it, an' clar me o' the crime o' murder." "what murder?" inquired stebbins, prevaricatingly. "oh! you know what i'm talkin' about! 'twant _no_ murder. 'twar only a suicide; an' god knows it broke my own heart." holt's voice was husky with emotion. he continued, after a pause: "for all o' that, appearances wur agin' me: an' you invented proofs that wud a stood good among lawyers, though thur as false as yur own black heart. ye've kep' 'm over me for years, to sarve yer rascally designs. but thur's neither law nor lawyers hyur to help you any longer. thur's witnesses o' both sides--yur own beauties down yander; an' some hyur o' a better sort, i reck'n. afore them, i call on ye to declar that yur proofs wur false, an' that i'm innocent o' the crime o' murder!" there was a profound silence when the speaker finished. the strange and unexpected nature of the demand, held every one in breathless surprise. even the armed men at the bottom of the _vallon_ said not a word; and perceiving that, by the defection of holt, there was almost gun for gun against them, they showed no signs of advancing to the protection of their apostolic leader. the latter appeared for a moment to vacillate. the fear depicted upon his features was blended with an expression of the most vindictive bitterness--as that of a tyrant forced to yield up some despotic privilege which he has long wielded. true, it mattered little to him now. the intended victims of his vile contrivance-- whatever it may have been--were likely to escape from his control in another way; but, for all that, he seemed loth to part with even the shadow of his former influence. he was not allowed much time for reflection: scarce the opportunity to look round upon his danites, which, however, he did--glancing back as if desirous of retreating towards them. "stan' yur groun'!" shouted the squatter in a tone of menace--"stan' yur groun'! don't dar to turn yur face from me! ef ye do, ye'll only get the bullet in yur back. now, confess! or, by the etarnal god! you hain't another second to sit in that seddle!" the quick threatening manner in which the speaker grasped his gun, told stebbins that prevarication would be idle. in hurried speech, he replied: "you committed no murder, hickman holt! i never said you did!" "no! but you said you would; and you invented proofs o' it? confess you invented proofs, an' kep' 'em over my head like a black shadder? confess that!" stebbins hesitated. "quick, or ye're a dead man!" "i did," muttered the guilty wretch, trembling as he spoke. "an' the proofs wur false!" "they were false--i confess it." "enuf!" cried holt, drawing down his gun. "enuf for me. an' now, ye cowardly snake, ye may go wi' yur beauties yander. they'll not like ye a bit the wuss for all this. ye may go--an' carry yur conscience along wi' ye--ef that 'll be any comfort to ye. away wi' ye!" "no!" exclaimed a voice from behind, and at the same time wingrove was seen stepping out from the rock. "not yet adzactly. _i've_ got a score to settle wi' the skunk. the man who'd plot that way agin another, hain't ought to live. _you_ may let him off, hick holt, but _i_ won't; nor wud you eyther, i reck'n, if you knew--" "knew what!" interrupted the squatter. "what he intended for your daughter." "he air my daughter's husband," rejoined holt, in a tone that betokened a mixture of bitterness and shame. "that was my fault, god forgi' me!" "he ain't her husband--nothin' o' the kind. the marriage war a sham. he war takin' poor marian out thar for a diffrent purpose--an' lilian too." "for what purpose?" cried holt, a new light seeming suddenly to break upon his mind. "to make--" answered wingrove hesitatingly. "i can't say the word, hick holt, in presence o' the girls--to make _wives_ to the mormon prophet-- that's what he intended wi' both o' 'em." the scream that, like the neigh of an angry horse, burst from the lips of the squatter, drowned the last words of wingrove's speech; and simultaneously the report of a rifle pealed upon the air. a cloud of smoke for a moment enveloped holt and his horse, from the midst of which came a repetition of that wild vengeful cry. at the same instant the steed of stebbins was seen running riderless down the valley, while the saint himself lay stretched, face upward, upon the sward! his body remained motionless. he was dead--a purple spot on his forehead showing where the fatal bullet had entered his brain! the sisters had just time to shelter themselves behind the rocks when a volley from the danites was poured upon us. their shots fell harmlessly around; while ours, fired in return, had been better aimed; and another of these fearful men, dropping out of his saddle, yielded up his life upon the spot. the remaining five, seeing that the day had gone against them, wheeled suddenly about; and galloped back down the gorge--ten times faster than they had ridden up it. it was the last we saw of the _destroying angels_! "o my children!" cried holt, in a supplicating tone, as he staggered forward, and received both within his outstretched embrace, "will ye-- can ye forgi' me? o god! i've been a bad father to ye; but i knew not the wickedness o' these mormon people. no--nor half o' _his_, till it war too late; an' now--" "and now, father!" said marian, interrupting his contrite speech with a consoling smile, "speak not of forgiveness! there is nothing to forgive; and perhaps not much to regret: since the perils we have gone through, have proved our fidelity to one another. we shall return home all the happier, having escaped from so many dangers, dear father!" "ah, marian, gurl, you don't know all--we hev now no home to go to!" "the same you ever had," interposed i, "if you will consent to accept it. the old cabin on mud creek will hold us all till we can build a larger one. but no,"--i added, correcting myself--"i see two here who will scarcely feel inclined to share its hospitality. another cabin, higher up the creek, will be likely to claim them for its tenants?" marian blushed; while the young backwoodsman, although turning equally red at the allusion, had the courage to stammer out, that he always "thort his cabin war big enough for two." "stranger!" said holt, turning to me, and frankly extending his hand, "i've much to be ashamed o', an' much to thank ye for; but i accept yur kind offer. you bought the land, an' i'd return ye the money, ef 't hedn't been all spent. i thort i kud a made up for it, by gieing ye somethin' ye mout a liked better. now i see i can't even gi' ye that somethin' since it appears to be yourn a'ready. ye've won her, stranger! an' ye've got her. all i kin now do is to say, that, from the bottom o' my heart i consent to yur keepin' her." "thanks--thanks!" lilian was mine for ever. the curtain falls upon our drama; and brief must be the epilogue. to scenes warlike and savage succeeded those of a pacific and civilised character--as the turbulent torrent, debouching from its mountain channel, flows in tranquil current through the alluvion of the level plain. by our utah allies, whom we encountered on the following day, we were "outfitted" for recrossing the prairies--the abandoned waggon, with a team of indian mules, affording a proper means of transport. not without regret did we part with the friendly mexican trapper, and our brave associates, the ex-rifleman and ex-infantry. we had afterwards the gratification to learn that the scalpless man survived his terrible mutilation; that under the protection of peg-leg, he and sure-shot were taken to the valley of taos--whence, along with the next migration of "diggers," they proceeded, by the colorado, to the golden placers of california. to detail the incidents of our homeward journey, were a pleasant task for the pen; but the record would scarcely interest the reader. the colossal squatter, silent but cheerful, drove the waggon, and busied himself about the management of his mules. the young backwoodsman and i were thus left free to interchange with our respective "sweethearts" those phrases of delirious endearment--those glances of exquisite sweetness, that only pass between eyes illumined by the light of a mutual love. proverbially sweet is the month after marriage; but the honeymoon, with all its joys, could not have exceeded in bliss those ante-nuptial hours spent by us in recrossing the prairies. clear as the sky over our heads was the horoscope of our hearts; all doubt and suspicion had passed away; not a shadow lingered upon the horizon of our future, to dim the perfect happiness we enjoyed. in our case, the delight of anticipation could not be enhanced by actual possession: since we had possession already. we arrived safely in swampville. in the post-office of that interesting village a letter awaited me, of which "jet black was de seal." under ordinary circumstances, this should have cast a gloom upon my joy; but candour forces me to confess that a perusal of the contents of that epistle produced upon me an effect altogether the reverse. the letter announced the demise of an octogenarian female relative--whom i had never seen--but who, for a full decade of years, beyond the period allotted to the life of man--or women either--had obstinately persisted in standing betwixt me and a small reversion--so long, indeed, that i had ceased to regard it as an "expectation." it was of no great amount; but, arriving just then in the very "nick o' time," was doubly welcome; and under its magical influence, a large quantity of superfluous timber soon disappeared from the banks of mud creek. ah! the squatter's clearing, with its zigzag fence, its girdled trees, and white dead-woods! it is no longer recognisable. the log-hut is replaced by a pretentious frame-dwelling with portico and verandahs-- almost a mansion. the little maize patch, scarcely an acre in extent, is now a splendid plantation, of many fields--in which wave the golden tassels of the indian corn, the broad leaves of another indigenous vegetable--the aromatic "indian weed," and the gossamer-like florets of the precious cotton-plant. even the squatter himself you would scarcely recognise, in the respectable old gentleman, who, mounted upon his cob, with a long rifle over his shoulder, rides around, looking after the affairs of the plantation, and picking off the squirrels, who threaten the young corn with their destructive depredations. it is not the only plantation upon mud creek. a little further up the stream, another is met with--almost equally extended, and cultivated in like manner. need i say who is the owner of this last? who should it be, but the young backwoodsman--now transformed into a prosperous planter? the two estates are contiguous, and no jealous fence separates the one from the other. both extend to that flowery glade, of somewhat sad notoriety whose bordering woods are still undefiled by the axe. not there, but in another spot, alike flowery and pleasant, the eye of the soaring eagle, looking from aloft, may see united together a joyous group--the owners of the two plantations--with their young wives, marian and lilian. the sisters are still in the fall bloom of their incomparable beauty. in neither is the maiden yet subdued into the matron--though each beholds her own type reflected in more than one bright face smiling by her side; while more than one little voice lisps sweetly in her ear that word of fond endearment--the first that falls from human lips. ah! beloved lilian! thine is not a beauty born to blush but for an hour. in my eyes, it can never fade; but, like the blossom of the citron, seems only the fairer, by the side of its own fruit! i leave it to other lips to symbol the praises of thy sister-- the wild huntress. the end. a sister's love _a novel_ by w. heimburg translated by margaret p. waterman chicago: m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. a sister's love. chapter i. a severe storm had been raging all day, and now, in the approaching twilight, seemed as if it would overleap all bounds in its wild confusion. straight from the north sea, over the broad lüneburg heath, it came rushing along, and beat against the gray walls of the manor-house, shook the great elms in the garden, tossed about the bushes, and blew from the bare branches the last yellow leaf yet spared them by the november frost. the great castle-like building, inhabited for centuries by the von hegewitz family, looked dismal and gloomy under the cloud-laden sky; in almost spectral gloom it lay there, with its sharply pointed gables, its round tower, and heavy buttresses supporting the walls. if did not always look thus, this old manor-house; in summer it was very picturesque behind its green trees, the golden sunshine lying on its slate roof, the pointed gables sharply outlined against the blue sky, and the gray walls, framed by huge, old oaks, reflected in the brown water of the pond. beside it lay the farm-buildings and the houses of the village, whose shingled roofs emerged in their turn from the foliage of the fruit-trees. far out into the mark country extended the view, over fields of waving corn, over green meadows and purple heath, bounded on the horizon by the dark line of a pine forest. a narrow strip of pine woods, besides, lay to the north, extending nearly to the garden, and on hot summer afternoons an almost intoxicating fragrance was wafted from it toward the quiet house. within it was still a real, old-fashioned german house; for there were dim corridors and deep niches, great vaulted rooms and large alcoves, little staircases with steep steps worn by many feet, and curious low vaulted doors. a flight of steps would lead quite unexpectedly from one room into the next, and here and there a door, instead of leading out of a room, opened, to one's surprise, into a huge closet. then there were cemented floors, and great beams dividing the ceilings, and the smallest of window-panes. and yet where could more real comfort be found than in such an old house, especially when a november storm is howling without, and here indoors great fir logs are crackling in the gay-tiled stove? and just now, down the stairs from the upper story, came an old lady, looking as if comfort itself came with the green silk knitting-bag on her arm, her large lace cap, and the brown silk shawl over her shoulders. she might have been in the fifties, this small, spare figure, and she limped. fräulein rosamond von hegewitz had limped all her life, and yet a more contented nature than hers did not exist. she now turned to the left and walked along the narrow corridor. this was her regular evening walk, as she went to her nephew and niece in the sitting-room--a dear old walk, which she had taken for years, since the time when the children were little, and her brother and sister-in-law were still alive; when twilight came she could no longer endure the solitude of her spinster's room. just as she was about to lay her hand on the bright brass door-handle, she perceived by the dim light of the hall-lamp a girl who was sobbing gently, her coarse linen apron thrown over her face. "what are you crying about, marieken?" asked the old lady kindly, coming back a step or two. the curly brown head was raised, and a young face, bathed in tears and now red from embarrassment, looked up at fräulein rosamond. "ah, gracious fräulein, i am to leave," she stammered, "and i----" "why, what have you--?" the old lady got no further, for just then the door was opened a little way and the clear, full tones of a youthful feminine voice came out into the corridor. "that is my last word, märtensen; i will not suffer such things in my house. she may thank god that i have noticed her folly in good season. only think of louisa keller!" "god in heaven, fräulein!" the person accosted replied in defence, almost weeping. "the lass has done nothing bad, and he is certainly a respectable man. o fräulein, when one is young one knows too----" "for shame, märtensen!" this came vehemently. "you know what i have said. take your marieken and go. i will have no frivolous maids in my house!" the door was now opened wide, and an old woman came out, her wrinkled face red with excitement. "come, lass," she called to the girl, who had just put her apron over her eyes again; "troubles don't last forever! she'll feel it herself some day yet! driving away my girl as if she had been stealing!" and without greeting the old lady, she seized her daughter by the arm and drew her away with her. rosamond von hegewitz turned slowly to the door. a half-mocking, half-earnest expression lay on the wise old face. "_bon soir_, anna maria!" said she, as she entered the brightly lighted sitting-room. a girl rose from the chair before the massive secretary, went toward the new-comer, and received her with that formality which at the beginning of our century had not yet disappeared from the circle of gentle families, pressing to her lips the outstretched hand with an expression of deepest respect. "good evening, aunt; how are you feeling?" it was the same rich voice that had spoken before, and, like it, could belong only to such a fresh young creature. anna maria von hegewitz was just turned eighteen, and the whole charm of these eighteen years was woven about her slender figure and the rosy face under her braids of fair hair. in contradiction to this girlishness, a pair of deep gray eyes looked out from beneath the white forehead, seriously, and with almost a look of experience, which, with a peculiar self-conscious expression about the mouth, lent a certain austerity to the face. "thank you, my dear, i am well," replied the old lady, seating herself at the round table before the sofa, upon which were burning four candles in shining brass candlesticks. "don't let me interrupt you, _ma mignonne_. i see i have broken in upon your writing; are you writing to klaus?" "i have only been looking over the grain accounts, aunt; i shall be done in a moment. i shall not write again to klaus, for he must return day after to-morrow at the latest. if you will excuse me a moment----" "oh, certainly, child. i will occupy myself alone meanwhile." the old lady drew her knitting-work from the silk bag and began to work, at the same time glancing dreamily about the large, warm, comfortable room. she had known it thus long since; nothing in it had been altered since her youth--the same deep arm-chairs around the table, the artistic inlaid cupboards, even the dark, stamped leather wall-paper was still the same, and the old rococo clock still ticked its low, swift to-and-fro, as if it could not make the time pass quickly enough. and there at the desk, where the young niece was sitting, her only brother had worked and calculated, and at that sewing-table on the estrade at the window had been the favorite seat of the sister-in-law who died so young. but how little resemblance there was between mother and daughter! the old lady looked over toward her again. the girl's lips moved, and the slender hand passed slowly with the pencil down the row of figures on the paper. "makes five hundred and seventy-five thaler, twenty-three groschen," she said, half-aloud. "correct! "now, then, aunt rosamond, i am at your service." she extinguished the candle, locked the writing-desk, and bringing a pretty spinning-wheel from the corner, sat down near her aunt, and soon the little wheel was gently humming, and the slender fingers drawing the finest of thread from the shining flax. for a while the room was quiet, the silence broken only by the howling of the storm and the crackling of the burning log in the stove. "anna maria," began the old lady at last, "you know i never interfere with your arrangements, so pardon me if i ask why you send marieken away." "she has a love affair with gottlieb," replied the niece, shortly. "i am sorry for that, anna maria; she was always a girl who respected herself; ought you to act so severely?" "she gives him her supper secretly, and runs about the garden with him on pitch-dark nights. i will not have such actions in my house, and know that klaus would not approve of it either." the words sounded strangely from the young lips. "yes, anna maria "--rosamond von hegewitz smiled "if you will judge thus! these people have quite different sentiments from us, and--and you cannot know, i suppose, if their views are honest?" "that is nothing to me!" replied anna maria. "they _cannot_ marry, because they are both as poor as church mice. what is to come of it? the girl must leave; you surely see that, dear aunt?" the old lady now laughed aloud. "one can see, anna maria, that you know nothing yet of a real attachment, or you would not proceed in so dictatorial a manner." the slightest change came over the young face. "i _will_ not know it, either!" she declared firmly, almost turning away. "but, sweetheart," came from the old voice almost anxiously, "do you think that it will always be so with you? you are eighteen years old--do you think your heart will live on thus without ever feeling a passion? and do you expect the same of your brother, anna maria? klaus is still so young----" the little foot stopped on the treadle of the wheel, and the gray eyes looked in amazement at the speaker. "don't you know then, aunt, that it is a long-established matter that klaus and i should always stay together? klaus promised our mother on her death-bed that he would never leave me. and i go away from klaus? oh, sooner--sooner may the sky fall! don't speak of such possibilities, aunt rosamond. it is absurd even to think of." "pardon me, anna maria"--the words sounded almost solemn--"i was present when your dying mother took from klaus his promise never to leave you, always to protect you. but at the same time to forbid him to love another woman, a woman whom his heart might choose, she surely did not intend!" "aunt rosamond!" cried the girl, almost threateningly. "no, my child, i repeat it, your mother was much too wise, much too just, to wish such a thing; she was too happy in her own marriage to wish her children--but, _mon dieu_, i am exciting myself quite uselessly; you have such a totally false conception of this promise." "klaus told me so himself, aunt rosamond," declared the girl, in a tone which made contradiction impossible. aunt rosamond was silent; she knew well that all talking would be vain, and that nothing in the world could convince anna maria that any object worthy of love beside her beloved brother could exist. "_nous verrons, ma petite_," thought she, "you will not be spared the experience either!" and now her thoughts wandered far back into the past, to the night when anna maria was born. a terrible night! and as they passed on, there came a day still more terrible; in the heavy wooden cradle, adorned with crests, lay, indeed, the sweetly sleeping child, but the mother's eyes had closed forever, not, however, without first looking, with a fervid, anguished expression, at the little creature that must go through life without a mother's love! and beside her bed had knelt a boy of fifteen, who had to promise over and over again to love the little sister, and protect and shield her. how often had aunt rosamond told this to the child as she grew up; how often described to her how she had been baptized by her mother's coffin, how her brother had held her in his arms and pressed her so closely to him, and wept so bitterly. indeed, indeed, there was not another brother like klaus von hegewitz, that aunt rosamond knew best of all. she remembered how he had watched for nights at the child's bed when she lay ill with measles; with what unwearied patience he had borne with her whims, now even as then; how carefully he had marked out a course of instruction and selected teachers for her, looked up lectures for her, read and rode with her, and did everything that the most careful parental love alone can do, and even more--much more! indeed, anna maria knew nothing of a parent's love; the father had always been a peculiar person, especially so after the death of his wife: it almost seemed as if he could not love the child whose life had cost a life. he was rarely at home; half the year he lived in berlin, coming back to the old manor-house only at the hunting season. but never alone; he was always accompanied by a young man, a baron stürmer, owner of the neighboring estate of dambitz, and two years older than klaus. it was a singular friendship which had existed between these two men. hegewitz, well on in the sixties, gloomy and unsociable, and from his youth distrustful of every one, and not even amiable toward his own children, was affable only to his friend, so much younger. to this moment aunt rosamond distinctly remembered the pale, nobly-formed face with the fiery brown eyes and the dark hair. how gratefully she remembered him! he had been the only one who understood how to mediate between father and son, the only one who, with admirable firmness, had again and again led the struggling little girl to her father; and he did all this out of that incomprehensible friendship. the two used to play chess together late into the night; they rode and hunted together; and still one other passion united them--they collected antiquities. they searched the towns and villages for miles about for old carved chests, clocks, porcelain, and pictures, and would dispute all night as to whether a certain picture, bought at an auction, was by this or that master, whether it was an original or a copy. they often remained away for days on their excursions, and the treasures they won were then artistically arranged in a tower-room--"a regular rag-shop," aunt rosamond had once said in banter. "i only wonder they don't get me too for this '_collection antique_.'" after the death of hegewitz this really valuable collection was found to be made over, by will, to baron stürmer, "because klaus did not understand such things." stürmer accepted the bequest, but he had it appraised by a person intelligent in such matters, and paid the value to the heirs. klaus von hegewitz refused to accept the sum, and so the two men agreed to found an almshouse for the two villages of bütze and dambitz. that had happened ten years ago, and the collecting furor of the old gentleman had borne good results. soon after his death, baron stürmer went away on a journey; he had long wished to travel, and had deferred his cherished plan only on his old friend's account. his first goals had been italy, constantinople, and greece; he went to egypt, he visited south america, norway and sweden, and had travelled through russia and the caucasus. no one knew where he was staying at present. he had written seldom of late years, at last not at all; but his memory still lived in bütze. only anna maria no longer spoke of him; indeed, she scarcely remembered him now: she was just eight years old when he went away. only this she still knew: that uncle stürmer had often taken her by the hand and led her to her father, and that at such times her heart had always beaten more quickly from fear. anna maria had stood in real awe of her father, and when he died and was buried, not a tear flowed from the child's eyes. her entire affection belonged to her brother, as she used to say, full of pride and love for him. aunt rosamond had never been able to exert the slightest influence over the girl's independent character. as soon as anna maria was confirmed, she hung the bunch of keys at her belt, and took up the reins of housekeeping with an energy and circumspection that aroused the admiration of all, and especially of the old aunt, who was particularly struck by it, since she herself was a tender, weak type of woman, to whom such energy in one of her own sex could but seem incomprehensible. anna maria spun on quietly as all these thoughts succeeded each other behind the wrinkled brow of her companion. she could sit and spin thus whole evenings, without saying a word; she was quite different from other girls! she did not allow a bird or a flower in her room, nor did she ever wear a flower or a ribbon as an ornament. and yet one could scarcely imagine a more high-bred appearance than hers. whether she were walking, in her house dress, through kitchen and cellar, or receiving guests in the drawing-room, as happened two or three times a year, she lost nothing in comparison with other ladies and girls; on the contrary, she had a certain superiority to them, and aunt rosamond would sometimes say to herself: "the others are like geese beside _her_!"--"yes, what may happen here yet?" she asked herself with a sigh. "a letter for the fräulein!" a youth of perhaps twenty-five years, dressed in simple dark livery, handed anna maria a letter. "from klaus!" she cried joyfully, but held the letter in her hand without opening it, and fixed her eyes upon the firm, resolute face of the servant. "well, gottlieb, what is the matter with you?" she asked. "you look as if your wheat had been utterly ruined." "gracious fräulein," the youth replied, with hesitation yet firmly, "the master will have to look about for some one else--i am going away at new year." "have you gone mad?" cried anna maria, frowning. "what is it here that you object to?" she had risen and stepped up to the youth. "as for the rest," she continued, "i can imagine why you have such folly in your head. because i have sent away marieken märtens, do you wish to go too? very well, i will not keep you; you may go; there are plenty of people who would take your place. but if your father knew it he would turn in his grave. do you know how long your father served at bütze?" "fifty-eight years, fräulein," replied the young fellow at once. "fifty-eight years! and his son runs away from the service in which his father grew old and gray, after a frivolous girl! very well, you shall have your way; but mind, any one who once goes away from here--never returns. you may go." the servant's face grew deep red at the reproachful words of his young mistress; he turned slowly to the door and left the room. anna maria had meanwhile broken the great crested seal, and was reading. "klaus is coming day after to-morrow!" after reading awhile, now as happy as a child, she cried to the old lady: "just hear, aunt rosamond, what else he writes. i will read it aloud. "'i found my old mattoni over his books as usual, but it seemed to me he looked ill. i asked him about it, but he declared he was well. a proposal to come and recuperate next summer in our beautiful country air he dismissed with a shake of the head, "he had no time!" he is an incorrigible bookworm. "'but now here is something particularly interesting! do you know whom i met yesterday "unter den linden," sunburned and scarcely recognizable? edwin stürmer! he was standing by a picture-store, and i beside him for some time, without a suspicion of each other; we were looking at some pretty water-colors by heuselt. all at once a hand was laid on my arm, and a familiar voice cried: "upon my word, klaus, if you had not developed that fine beard, i should have recognized you sooner!" "'i was exceedingly glad to see edwin again, and rejoice still more at the future prospect. the old vagabond is going to fold his wings at last, and take care of his estate. he is coming shortly to dambitz; consequently we shall have a good friend again near us. as for the rest, he wouldn't believe that you have become a young lady and no longer wear long braids and short dresses.'" anna maria stopped, and looked into the distance, as if recalling something. "i don't know exactly now how he looked," she said. "he wore a full black beard, didn't he, aunt, and must be very old now?" "no indeed, _mon coeur_; he may be thirty-five at the most." "that is certainly old, aunt rosamond!" "that is the way young people judge," said the old lady, smiling. "it may be, aunt," said anna maria, and put the letter in her pocket. she had begun to spin again, when an old woman in a dazzlingly white apron entered the room. "gracious fräulein," she began respectfully, yet familiarly, "marieken is off, and has made a great commotion in the house, and the eldest of the weber girls has just applied for the place, but she asks for twelve thaler for wages and a jacket at christmas!" "ten thaler, and christmas according to the way she conducts herself," anna maria replied, without looking up. the housekeeper disappeared, but returned after awhile. "eleven thaler and a jacket, fräulein; she will not come otherwise," she reported. "you can surely give her that; she has no lover, and will hardly get one, for she is already well on in years, and----" anna maria drew a purse from her pocket, and laid an eight-groschen piece on the table. "the advance-money, brockelmann; do you know that gottlieb wishes to leave?" "oh, dear, yes, fräulein." the old woman was quite embarrassed. "i am sorry; he doted upon the lass at one time, and at last--oh, heavens, fräulein, one has been young too, and if two people love each other--see, fräulein, it is just as if one had drunk deadly hemlock. i mean no offence, but you will know it yet some day, and, if god will, may the handsomest and best man in the world come to bütze and take you home!" the old woman had spoken affectingly, and looked at her young mistress with brightening eyes. only she would have dared to touch on this point. she had been anna maria's nurse, and a remnant of tenderness toward her was still hidden somewhere in the girl's heart. "brockelmann, you cannot keep from talking," she cried, serenely. "you know i shall _never_ marry. what would the master do without me? is supper ready?" "the master!" said the good woman, without regarding the last question. "he ought to marry too! as if it were not high time for him; he will be thirty-three years old at martinmas!" chapter ii. a few days afterward edwin stürmer came to bütze. anna maria was standing just on the lower staircase landing, in the great stone-paved entrance-hall, a basket of red-cheeked apples on her arm, and brockelmann stood near her with a candle in her hand. the unsteady light of the flickering candle fell on the immediate surroundings, and, like an old picture of rembrandt's, the fair head of the girl stood out from the darkness of the wide hall. round about her there was a great hue and cry; all the children of the village seemed to be collected there, and sang with a sort of scream, to a monotonous air, the old martinmas ditty: "martins, martins, pretty things, with your little golden wings, to the rhine now fly away, to-morrow is st. martin's day. marieken, marieken, open the door, two poor rogues are standing before! little summer, little summer, rose's leaf, city fair, give us something, o maiden fair!" they were just beginning a new song when the heavy entrance-door opened, and baron stürmer came in. anna maria did not see him at once, for, according to an old custom of st. martin's eve, she was throwing a handful of apples right among the little band, who pounced upon them with cries and shouts. only when a man's head rose up straight before her, by the heavily carved banister, she glanced up, and looked into a pale face framed by dark hair and beard, and into a pair of shining brown eyes. for an instant anna maria was startled, and a blush of embarrassment spread over her face; then she held out her hand to him and bade him welcome. far from youthful was her manner of speaking and acting. "be still!" she called, in her ringing voice, to the noisy children; and as silence immediately ensued, she added, turning to stürmer: "they are meeting me on important business, herr von stürmer, but i shall be ready to leave at once; will you go up to klaus for awhile?" he kept on looking at her, still holding her right hand; he had not heard what she said at all. with quick impatience, at length she withdrew her hand. "brockelmann, bring the candle here, and take the gentleman to my brother," she ordered; but then, as if changing her mind, she threw the whole basketful of apples at once among the children, who scrambled for them, screaming wildly. the baron made his way with difficulty through the groping throng to the stairs, where anna maria was now standing motionless, and with earnest gaze regarding the man who in her childhood had so often held her in his arms, and had so many a kind word for her. yes, it was he again; the slender figure of medium height, the dark face with the flashing eyes--and yet how different! anna maria had to admit to herself that it was a handsome man who was coming up the steps just then; and old? she had to smile. "one sees quite differently with a child's eyes!" she said to herself. was it not as if years were blotted out, and he was coming up as in the old times, to hold her fast by her braids and say, "don't run so, anna maria"? silently up the stairs they went together, to the top, their steps reëchoing from the walls. it really seemed now to anna maria as if her childhood had returned, the sweet, remote childhood, with a thousand bright, innocent hours. involuntarily she held out to him her slender hand, and he seized it quickly and forced the maiden to stand still. the sound of the children's shouting came indistinctly to them up here; there was no one beside them in the dim corridor. words of pleasure at seeing the friend of her childhood again trembled on anna maria's lips, but when she tried to speak the man's eyes met hers, and her mouth remained closed. slowly, and still looking at her, he drew the slender hand to his lips; she allowed it as if in a dream, then hastily caught her hand away. "what is that?" she asked, half in jest, half in anger; "i gave you my hand because i was glad to greet the uncle of my childhood, and an uncle----" "may not kiss one's hand," he supplied, a smile flitting over his face. anna maria did not see it, having stepped forward into the sitting-room. "a visitor, klaus!" she called into the room, which was still dark. "ah!" at once replied a man's voice. "stürmer, is it you? welcome, welcome! you find us quite in the dark. we were just talking of you, and of old times; were we not, aunt rosamond?" a merry greeting followed, an invitation to supper was given and accepted, and klaus von hegewitz called for lights. "oh, let us chat a little longer in the dark," said aunt rosamond. "who knows but we should seem stranger to each other if a candle were lighted? does it not seem, _cher baron_, as if it were yesterday that you were sitting here with us, and yet----" "it is ten years ago, stürmer," finished klaus. "truly!" assented stürmer, "ten years!" "oh, but how happy we have been here," the old lady ran on. "do you remember, stürmer, how you carried me off once in the most festive manner, in a sleigh, and on the way the mad idea came to you to drive on past our godfather's, and then you landed us both so softly in the deepest snow-drift--me in my best dress, the green brocade, you know, that you always called my parrot's costume?" klaus laughed heartily. "_À propos_, stürmer," he asked, "have you seen anna maria yet?" "yes, indeed, i have already had the honor, on the landing down-stairs," replied the baron. "the honor? heavens, how ceremonious! did you hear, dear?" asked the brother. but no answer came. "anna maria!" he then called. "she is not here," said aunt rosamond, groping about to find the way out of the room. "but it is really too dark here," she added. "why haven't you married, hegewitz?" stürmer asked abruptly. "i might pass the question back to you," replied klaus. "but let us leave that alone, stürmer, i will tell you something about it another time." klaus von hegewitz had risen and stepped to the nearest window; for a while silence reigned in the quiet room. stürmer regretted having touched upon a topic that evidently aroused painful emotions. "every one has his experiences, stürmer, so why should we be spared?" klaus turned around, beginning to speak again. "but it is overcome now. i do not think about it any more," he added. "will you have another cigar?" "not think about it any more?" cried the baron, not hearing the last question. he laughed aloud. "at thirty-four? my dear klaus, what will become of you, then, when aunt rosamond dies and anna maria marries?" "anna maria? i haven't thought about that yet, stürmer; she is still so young, and--although--but one can see that it is possible to live so: you give the best example!" klaus was out of humor. the baron did not reply. he soon turned the conversation to agricultural matters, and a discussion over esparcet and fodder was first interrupted by the announcement that supper was served. aunt rosamond had, meanwhile, gone through the main hall and knocked at a door at the end of the passage. anna maria's voice called, "come in!" she, too, was sitting in the dark, but she rose and lit a candle. the light illuminated her whole face. "anna maria, are you ill?" her aunt asked anxiously, and stepped nearer. "not exactly ill, aunt, but i have a headache." "you have taken cold; why do you ride out in this sharp wind? you are both inconsiderate, you and klaus! show me your pulse--of course, on the gallop; go to bed, anna maria." "after supper, aunt; what would klaus say if i were not there?" "but you are really looking badly, anna maria." the young girl laughed, took her bunch of keys in her hand and thus compelled aunt rosamond to go with her. "don't worry," she bade her, "and above all, don't say anything to klaus. he might think it worse than it is." "klaus, and always, only klaus--_incroyable_!" murmured the old lady. * * * * * "if that wasn't a remarkable company at table this evening," said klaus von hegewitz, as he reäntered the sitting-room, after escorting baron stürmer down-stairs. "you, anna maria, did not say a word, and the conversation dragged along till it nearly died out; if aunt rosamond had not kept the thing up, why--really, it was peculiar. but how nice it is when we are by ourselves, isn't it, little sister?" he had put his arm around anna maria, who stood at the table, looking toward the window as if listening for something, and looked lovingly in her face. the brother and sister resembled each other unmistakably in their features, except that beside his earnestness a winning kindness spoke from the brother's eyes, and the harsh lines about his mouth were hidden by a handsome beard. "yes," she replied quietly. "now tell me, little sister, why you were so--so, what shall i call it--icy toward stürmer?" anna maria looked over at her brother and was silent. "now out with it!" he said jokingly. "didn't stürmer treat you with sufficient deference, or----" "klaus!" she grew very red. "i will tell you," she then said; "the recollections of old times came between us and spoke louder than words; my childhood passed before my eyes, and--" she broke off, and looked up at him; it was a sad look, yet full of unspeakable gratitude. klaus drew her to him, and pressed the fair head to his breast with his large white hand. "my old lass, you're not going to cry?" he asked tenderly; but he, too, was moved. she took his hand and pressed a kiss upon it. "dear, dear klaus," she said softly, "i was only thinking how it would have been if you had not loved me so very, very much?" klaus von hegewitz was silent, and looked thoughtfully down at her. "quite different, my little anna maria," said he at last; "it would have been quite different--whether better? who can fathom that; it must have been so----" she looked up at him in astonishment, he had spoken so slowly and earnestly. then he stroked her forehead, pressed his sister to him again, and then turned quietly to the corner-shelf and took down his favorite pipe. "there, now we will make ourselves comfortable," said he. "come, anna maria, 'tante voss' is very interesting to-day." * * * * * anna maria stood long at her bedroom window and looked at the drifting clouds of the night-sky. now and then the moon peeped out, and tinged the edges of the clouds with silver light; as they sped in strange forms over her golden disk, there was a continual change in the fantastic shapes, but anna maria saw it not. confused thoughts chased each other about in her brain, like the clouds above, and now and then, like the brilliant constellation, a bright look from the long-known dark eyes came before her mind. "it is the memory of childhood," she said to herself, "yes, the memory!" twelve o'clock struck from the church-tower near by, as, shivering with cold, she stepped back from the window. she heard hasty steps coming along the corridor; she knew it was brockelmann going to bed. the next moment she had opened the door; she hardly knew herself first what she wanted, when the old woman was already crossing the threshold. "you are not sleeping yet, fräulein? ah, it is well that you are still awake. i had a fine fright a little while ago. what do you think, marieken märtens, the crazy thing, tried to drown herself; a man from the village pulled her out of the pond." anna maria had grown white as a corpse; she had to sit down on the edge of her bed, and her great eyes looked in sheer amazement at the old woman. "what for?" she asked hastily, and almost sharply. "indeed, fräulein, for what else but because of the stupid affair with gottlieb? you know what his mother is. marieken did not dare go home all at once--there are mouths enough to feed: so her sweetheart took her home to his mother, and she told him he should not come to her with a girl whom the gracious fräulein had dismissed, that he must not think of marrying the girl as long as she lived; you know, fräulein, the old woman swears by the family here. and so the stupid thing took it into her head to go into the water." anna maria looked silently before her, and her whole body shook as if she had a chill. "heavens, you are ill!" cried the old woman. "no, no," the girl denied, "i am not ill; go, only go; i am tired and want to sleep." brockelmann went to her room, shaking her head. "well, well," she murmured, "i did think she would be sorry for the poor girl, but no!" she sighed, and closed the door behind her. but toward morning she was suddenly startled from her slumber by the violent ringing of a bell in her room. "good heavens, anna maria!" she cried. "she is ill!" in her heart the old woman still called her young mistress by her child's name. hastily throwing on one or two garments she hurried through the cold passage, just lighted by the gray dawn. anna maria was sitting upright in her bed, a candle was burning on the table by her side, and lit up a face worn with weeping. the old woman saw plainly that the girl had been weeping, though she extinguished the candle at once. "brockelmann!" she called to her, but not as usual in the old imperious manner, and she now hesitated; "as soon as it is light, send for gottlieb's mother; i want to talk with her about the girl. and now go," she added, as the old woman was about to say something, "i am so tired to-day!" chapter iii. "the time passes away, one scarcely knows what has become of it; even in my solitude, it does not seem long to me. really, the starlings are here already. where has the winter gone? strange!" aunt rosamond held this soliloquy at her chamber-window, as her gaze followed the little messengers of spring, who vanished so briskly into the wooden boxes, a large number of which had been placed for them on the trees and buildings. it was no sunny spring day there without; the clouds hung low and gray over the earth, and a warm, sultry wind tossed about the budding branches unmercifully, as if to shake them into complete awakening. the old lady did not like the overcast sky at all, it put her out of humor. she could not wander about far out of doors, to be sure, but she would fain have seen the little spot of earth that lay stretched out before her window looking cheerful, and blue sky and sunshine lighting up the fresh green of the meadows, and the oaks in foliage. "it ought to be always may or september here in the mark," she used to say; "then it would be the loveliest country in the world. in winter one does best to draw the curtains, so as not to cast a single look out of doors, it looks so melancholy outside, brown upon brown, with a shade of dirty gray." and so she turned from the window and its dull outlook, and limped quickly through the room, here and there arranging or straightening something. that was such a habit of hers. now the candelabra on the spinet were moved a little, and now the delicate, withered hands picked a yellow leaf from a plant on the flower-stand, or gave an improving touch to the canopied bed which so pretentiously occupied an entire side of the room. aunt rosamond called that her throne; one had to climb up a pair of carpeted steps to reach it, and with its crimson silk hangings, somewhat faded indeed, and gilded knobs, it really gave you the impression of one. then here and there she pushed back a coverlet or straightened a picture which tipped a little to one side. the latter she did most frequently, for the high walls were almost covered with pictures, a collection of portraits, mostly in oil or pastel. aunt rosamond knew a history about each one of the faces that looked so quietly from the frames in her room; she had known them all, these men and women there above, and strangely enough it sounded to hear her, as she stood before some picture, tell its story in a few words. she had just limped to a card-table, over which was hung an oval pastel portrait of a man with curled and powdered hair and a blue silk coat. she gave the portrait a gentle push toward the right, but whether it was the cord or the nail that had become loose, matters not, down fell the picture, and lay face downward before aunt rosamond. "let it lie, aunt, i beg you!" called anna maria's voice at this moment; and before the old lady could collect herself, the girl had bent her slender form, and handed her the picture. "_merci, ma petite!_" she cried kindly, and looked into her niece's face; and, indeed, if aunt rosamond missed the spring without, now it had come, bodily, into her room. anna maria still had on a dark-blue riding-habit which closely fitted her fine, strong figure, and the young face looked out from behind the blue veil with such a spring-like freshness, that it quite warmed aunt rosamond's heart. "have you been riding, anna maria?" asked the old lady, as the girl endeavored to find the fallen nail. "yes, aunt, i rode with klaus for an hour on the dambitz cross-road; afterward we met stürmer by chance, and took a cup of coffee at dambitz manor." "indeed!" aunt rosamond seemed quite indifferent to this, although she looked searchingly at the reddening face of her niece, who, apparently, was very attentively regarding the rescued nail in her hand. "are the snow-drops in bloom already at dambitz?" inquired the old lady. "well, the garden lies well protected. but what do you say, anna maria, will you stay and rest with me? i think we will sit down a little while--_n'est-ce pas, mon coeur_?" anna maria stood irresolute; she looked over at her aunt, who had already seated herself on the straight-backed, gayly flowered sofa, and pointed invitingly to an easy-chair. it was so comfortable in this cosey old room; the rococo clock with the cupid bending his bow told its low tick-tack, and a sudden shower beat against the window panes; it was a little hour just made for chatting of all sorts of possible things, of the past and of the future. anna maria slowly seated herself in the chair; she neither leaned back gracefully and comfortably nor rested her fair head on the cushions. always straight as a candle, she carried herself perfectly, and so she remained now. but sudden blushes and deep pallor interchanged on her face, which turned with an expression of perfect, modest maidenliness toward the old lady's face. one could see that she wished to say something, and that her severe, unsympathetic nature was struggling with an overflowing heart. her aunt did not seem to notice it at all; she had taken up a book whose once green velvet binding was worn and faded with age. the delicate fingers turned leaf after leaf; then she glanced over a page, and after a pause said: "actually, anna maria, felix leonhard has fallen from the wall on his birthday; how singular! now people call that chance, but how strange it is! i have always remembered the day hitherto, until to-day, and have been going about all the time with a feeling as if i had forgotten something, i could not exactly think what and then he announced himself. _mon pauvre_ felix! you shall have your flowers to-day, as every year." and she caressingly touched the picture before her on the table. then she looked over to anna maria almost shyly, for she knew that her niece sometimes smiled scornfully at signs and forebodings. but to-day the deep line about anna maria's mouth was not to be seen; she looked thoughtfully at the picture, and asked: "who was felix leonhard, aunt?" "an early friend of my brother's," replied the old lady. "is he the one, aunt--i think you told me a strange story once about some one shooting himself for the sake of a girl?" "yes, yes, quite right, my child. this gay, handsome man once took a pistol and shot himself for the sake of a girl; quite right, anna maria. and he was no youth then, he was well on in the thirties, and yet did this horrible deed, unworthy of a peaceable man. oh, it was a misery not to be described, anna maria!" she shook her head and passed her hands over her eyes, as if to frighten away a horrible picture. "why did he do it, aunt?" asked anna maria, in an unusually warm tone; "was she faithless to him, or----" "she did not love him, _ma petite_; she had been persuaded by her parents and brothers and sisters to become engaged to him. he was in most excellent circumstances, and one of the best men i ever knew. he became acquainted with her at a ball in berlin, and fell violently in love with her, although before that no one had ever considered his a passionate nature. she was not young at the time, not even particularly pretty, and with the exception of a pair of melancholy great eyes did not possess a charm. _eh bien_, after endless doubts and struggles, she accepted his suit. the engagement lasted a whole year, and she was as shy and discreet a _fiancée_ as could be found; he, on the other hand, was full of touching attentions to her; indeed, to use a worn-out figure, he carried her about in his hands. the nearer the wedding-day approached, the more dreadful grew the poor girl's state of mind. she had repeatedly asked various people if they believed she could make her lover happy, and she was always turned off with a jest, yet quite seriously as well, on the part of her brothers and sisters. then on the wedding-day, half an hour before the ceremony was to take place, pale and trembling, she announced that she must take back her word, she could not speak perjury--she did not love him, and she did not wish his unhappiness! ah, i shall never forget that day--the anxious faces of the guests as the report of this refusal began to spread, and the terrible anger of her brother. what followed in her room was never made public; i only know that she persisted in her refusal, and that same evening he shot himself in the garden. _voilà tout!_" anna maria was silent; she had turned pale. "and _she_, aunt?" asked the girl after a pause. "she! well, she lived on, and even married not very long afterward; she did not love him at all, anna maria. who knows his own heart?" for an instant it seemed as if anna maria was about to answer, but she closed her lips again. the room was still. she was leaning back now; she was almost trembling, and her eyes turned thoughtfully to the picture before her. without, the rain was beating with increased force against the windows, and the wind drove great snowflakes about in a whirling dance, between whiles; april weather, fighting and struggling, storming and raging, so spring will come. the old lady on the sofa looked out on this raging of the elements, and thought how such a powerful spring storm rages in every human heart, and how scarcely a person in the world is spared such a fight and struggle; she knew it from her own experience, though she was only a poor cripple, and a hundred times had she seen the storm rage in the breast of another. to many, indeed, out of the struggle and longing, out of snow and sunshine, had arisen a spring as beautiful as a dream; but for many was the stormy april weather followed by a frosty may, killing all blossoms; as for herself, as for kla--she left the thought unfinished, and quickly turned her head toward her niece, as if fearing she might have guessed her thoughts. and then--she was almost confounded--then the young girl's rosy face bent down to her, and aunt rosamond saw a shining drop in the eyes always so cold and clear. anna maria sat down beside her on the figured sofa, and threw her soft arms about her neck. the heart of the old lady beat faster; it was the first time in her life that anna maria had showed any tenderness toward her. she sat quite still, as in a dream, as if the slightest movement might frighten the girl away, like a timid bird. and "aunt rosamond!" came the half-sobbing sound in her ear. "oh, aunt, help me--advise me--for klaus----" just then the door was quickly thrown open. "the master sends word for the fräulein to come down-stairs at once," called brockelmann, quite out of breath. "he can't find isaac aron's receipts for the last delivery of grain, and----" "i am coming! i am coming!" called the girl. she had sprung up, and quickly thrown the skirt of her riding-habit over her arm. the spell was broken; there stood anna maria von hegewitz again, the mistress of bütze, as firm, as full of business as ever. she crossed the room with quick steps, but turning again at the door, she said softly, and embarrassed, "i will come up again this evening, aunt." then she closed the door behind her. aunt rosamond remained as still as a mouse in her sofa-corner; she had to reflect whether this blushing, caressing girl who had just been sitting beside her were really anna maria von hegewitz, her niece. she passed her hand over her forehead, and confused thoughts passed through her mind. "_quelle métamorphose!_" she whispered to herself, and at length said aloud, "anna maria is certainly in love; love only makes one so gentle, so--_je ne sais quoi_! anna maria loves stürmer! how disagreeable that brockelmann happened to come in with her grain bills! _mon dieu!_ the child, the child! i wonder if klaus suspects it? what is to become of you, my splendid old boy, if anna maria goes away? but what if he should marry, too?" she rose from the sofa and stepped to the window again. it had stopped raining, and a last lingering ray of sunshine broke from the clouds and was spread, like a golden veil, over the wet, budding trees and shrubs. "spring is coming," she said half aloud. and now she began to walk up and down the room, but this time the pictures were undisturbed. her hands were clasped, and now and then she shook her gray head gently, as if incredulously. chapter iv. meanwhile anna maria had gone quickly down-stairs and entered her brother's room. he was sitting at his desk, rummaging about in the drawers for the missing papers. klaus von hegewitz was exactly like other men in this respect, that he never could find anything, and grew so vexed in hunting, that from very irritation he found nothing. at the door stood the farm inspector and a little old man who was well known at bütze, isaac aron the jew. he made a deep reverence to anna maria, and said contentedly: "now matters will be brought into good shape; the gracious fräulein knows the place of everything in the whole house." anna maria paid no attention to this, but, going to the desk, confidently put her hand into a drawer, and gave a little packet of papers to her brother. "there, klaus," said she, looking with a smile in his flushed face, "why did you not call me at once?" the troubled face grew bright. "upon my word, anna maria," he cried gayly, "these are stupid things; i have had that package in my hands twenty times at least. a thousand thanks! i say again and again, anna maria, what would become of me without you?" the smile suddenly disappeared from her face, and she looked thoughtfully at the stately figure of her brother, who had stepped up to the men and was negotiating with them. the words fell on her ears as in a dream, and quite mechanically she took up her train and walked out of the room. as she was about to close the door, her brother called after her: "anna maria, shall i meet you by and by in the sitting-room? the gardener wants to talk with us about the new work in the wood." she had no idea, as she stood outside, whether or not she had answered him; then she sat down in her room, and her eyes wandered about the familiar spot and rested at length on her brother's portrait. but she saw it not; in her mind was another picture, another man's head. the red-tiled roof of dambitz manor rose before her eyes, and over him and her the brown, budding branches of the linden-walk in the dambitz garden fluttered and beat in the damp spring air, and at their feet long rows of snow-drops bloomed and shook their little white heads. "anna maria," he had called her, "anna maria," as in her childhood. she started up, as if awakening from a long, deep dream. ah, no! it was true; scarcely an hour ago he had spoken thus to her, and anna maria von hegewitz had stood before him as if under a spell. what else had he said? she knew no longer, only the words "anna maria" sounded to her very soul; and as on that st. martin's eve she had put her hands in his, and he had drawn her close to him--only one short moment, she scarcely knew whether it were dream or reality. then klaus had come down the steps--"klaus! ah, heaven, klaus!" she leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. she saw herself going away from the old house here. could her foot cross the threshold? and she saw klaus looking in the door-way, looking after her with his kind, true eyes, perhaps with tears in them. and there came to her all the words which she had so often spoken to him, caressingly: "_i will stay with you, klaus, always, always!_" and now the strong girl began to weep; she scarcely knew what tears were, but now they gushed from her eyes with all the force of a shaken soul. and yet above all this pain there hovered a feeling of infinite happiness, through the dark veil of sadness gleamed bright rays--the premonitions of a wonderful future, the suspicion that the life which she had led hitherto was hardly to be called living, because that one thing had been wanting which first consecrates and gives value to a happy life. she rose and went up to her brother's portrait. "klaus, dear klaus, i cannot help it, indeed!" she whispered; and then she wandered about the room, a tender smile on her lips, and a laugh in her eyes. the sound of the servants' supper-bell roused her from her dreams; she changed her riding-habit for a house-dress, but laid the snow-drops in the bible on her writing-desk, and gave the little white blossoms a caressing touch before she took up her basket of keys to leave the room. she was met on the way to the sitting-room by a fresh, curly-haired girl, carrying an armful of flashing brass candlesticks, her black eyes almost as bright as the shining metal. "well, marieken," asked anna maria, "is the outfit ready?" the brisk girl laughed all over her face. "oh, not quite, fräulein; but it is three weeks to easter, and gottlieb is painting the rooms now in our house, and the cabinet-maker is going to bring our things next week." anna maria nodded kindly, but did not reply. her thoughts were already again in dambitz, wandering through the rooms of the castle. most of them were still empty, but a time was doubtless coming for her too when the cabinet-maker would bring her things. and anna maria looked at the girl and smiled; she knew not why herself; it was from overflowing happiness. and marieken laughed too--a perfect harmony of youth, hope, and happiness. then the girl ran on with her candlesticks, and anna maria walked down the corridor, and in both hearts was the same sunshine. she must hurry, for klaus would surely be waiting for her, he wanted to speak with her about the work in the garden. next to klaus's room was a small room, where anna maria remembered to have put away in her portfolio of drawings the roughly sketched plan of the alterations, and as klaus was not yet in the sitting-room she hurried back to get it. it was almost dark, and she could but indistinctly discern the objects in the little room, which klaus jokingly called his library because of a bookcase which found its place there. so the more distinctly came to her ears a hearty laugh from her brother, and, with the laugh, the sound of her own name. "anna maria, do you say? my own aunt, it is perfectly ridiculous!" "laugh then, you unbeliever, you will soon be convinced of the truth of my conjecture. we women, especially we old maids, klauschen, look at such things more sharply. soon some one will come and carry away your darling, and then we too may sit here and have the dumps, my beloved boy! what will become of us?" "_some one_, aunt? you speak in riddles." "well, since you are so dreadfully smitten with blindness, _mon cher_, it is a christian duty on my part to open your eyes. do you not see the girl's entirely altered manner? have you never--but to what purpose is all this? in short, anna maria loves stürmer!" another hearty laugh interrupted the old lady. but anna maria, with closed eyes, leaned against the door-post; the ground seemed to give way beneath her feet. "kurt stürmer? uncle stürmer? but, my dear aunt," cried the young man, "he might almost be her father!" "is that a hindrance, klaus?" "no! i don't believe it, however. shall we bet?" anna maria straightened up. she was on the point of going in and saying, "why do you argue? i do love him--yes! a thousand times, yes!" but she stood still; her brother's voice sounded so strangely altered. "aunt rosamond, i _cannot_ believe it!" "klaus! have you not thought for a long time that it must happen some day?" "yes, yes! but--ah! i have stood in fear of this hour, since the child is the only one to whom my heart clings; you do not know how much, perhaps, aunt!" "klaus,"--the old lady's voice was melting with tenderness--"my dear old lad, you are still young: why should there not be a happiness yet in store for you? i have often told you you ought to marry." "marry? you say that to me, aunt? and you know that i have been a wretched being for years, because----" "but, klaus, do you still think of that?" sounded the anxious voice of the aunt. "still?" he repeated ironically. "am i not daily reminded of it? do you think, because i live so peacefully now and can join in a laugh, because food and wine taste good to me--i see the tower of her family home whenever i go to the window, i see anna maria, i cannot pass that fatal spot in the garden without the words she then spoke reächoing in my soul. i know them by heart, aunt, i have called and whispered them for weeks in fever; and ever again her enchanting figure stands before my eyes, and that sweet, beseeching tone rings in my ears, as seductive as satan himself: '_put that obstinate, disagreeable child out of your house; she interferes with our happiness!_'" he laughed scornfully. "and because i would not consent to that, and did not break a promise given to my dying mother, then--she cast me off like a garment that does not fit comfortably enough--then--then----" "klaus! klaus! for god's sake!" the anxious voice of the old lady interrupted his speaking, which had risen to vehemence. but in the little room lay anna maria on her knees, her head almost touching the floor. it had become still in the next room, except for the sound of rapid steps as the young man paced the floor. "and now--yes, yes, it had to happen!" said he softly. "i am no egoist, certainly not, but it will be unspeakably hard for me to give her up. oh, yes, i shall see her often. i can ride over any minute; she will come to us too--certainly. but see, aunt--but i am a fool, really, a fool! it is the way of the world, and i do not understand why i did not see long ago that stürmer is fond of anna maria; it is, indeed, so natural. how good it is that i am prepared; not the slightest shadow shall fall on anna maria's happiness. your eyes ask that, aunt rose? no, be quiet, be quiet!" anna maria remained motionless on the cold floor, leaning her head against the door-post. she no longer understood what they were saying in the next room; she kept hearing only that one dreadful speech: "put the child out of the house; she interferes with our happiness!" his happiness! klaus's happiness! she passed her cold hand over her forehead, as if she must convince herself whether or not it was a dream. no, no; she was awake, she could move her feet as well, she could walk out of the little room, along the corridor, to her own room. marieken was just coming along the passage. anna maria stopped, and bade her say to fräulein rosamond that she was not coming to the table; she had a headache, and wanted to be alone that evening. the girl looked in alarm at the pale face of her mistress. "shall i call brockelmann?" she asked anxiously. anna maria made a negative gesture, and laid her hand on the door-knob, and then turned her head. "marieken!" the girl came back. "it is nothing--only go!" she then hastily turned away, and shut and bolted her door at once. "she wishes to be alone with her thoughts," remarked aunt rosamond at the supper table, where she and klaus sat, right and left of the absent one's place. klaus did not reply at once, but looked at that place and said at length: "so it will always be, soon!" and the old lady nodded sadly; she knew not what to reply, and a secret anxiety about the future stole over her, since she had seen that klaus still bore the old wound which he had received many years ago. she had supposed it healed long since. the next morning anna maria went as usual, with her bunch of keys, through kitchen and cellar. she was pale, and her orders sounded shorter and less friendly than they had of late. only to klaus she gave a friendly smile, but it was forced, and her eyes had no share in it. she looked over accounts with him for two hours, and, though he was distracted and restless, the results were perfectly correct. aunt rosamond alone was alarmed at the girl's appearance, but she did not venture to ask any questions. anna maria was as icily cold as often heretofore. the next day, toward evening, klaus came into aunt rosamond's room. the old lady had just hung up felix leonhard's portrait again, after carefully making fast the broken cord. "well, who was right, aunt rose?" he asked. he was standing beside her, and she saw that his face had grown very red, and that his whole being was stirred. "right? in what, klaus?" "in your assertion about anna maria. she does not love him!" "did she say so? oh, well, it doesn't follow at all that a girl has spoken the truth, if she says she does _not_ love a certain person, does not even like him. i have experienced the contrary a hundred times; those who talk so hide a warm affection under cold words." "not this time, aunt rose. anna maria has definitely refused him!" the old lady sank, quite overcome, into the nearest chair. "klaus! _est-il possible?_ has he spoken already, then?" "not to her, but to me, aunt. he came about five o'clock this afternoon; anna maria was sitting at the window as he rode into the court, and she got up at once and went to her room. stürmer sent in word to me that he wanted to speak to me alone; and then--truly, aunt rose, you do know how to observe--then he said to me that he loved anna maria, that he thought his affection was reciprocated, and other things that people usually say on such occasions; he spoke of his age, and said that he would be not only a husband but a father as well to anna maria. i assured him that i had the deepest respect for him, which is quite true, and after about an hour went to anna maria to get her answer. her door was open; she was sitting at her little sewing table by the window, looking out into the garden; she held her new testament in her hand, but laid it down as i came near her. i thought she had been crying, and turned her face around to me; but her eyes were dry and burning, and her forehead feverishly hot. as i began to speak she turned her head to the window again and sat motionless as a statue. i must have asked her certainly three times: 'anna maria, what shall i answer him? will you do it yourself? shall i send him to you?' 'no, no!' she cried at length, 'don't send him! i cannot see him; tell him that i--he must not be angry with me--i do not love him! klaus, i cannot go away from here! let me stay with you!' and then she sprang up, threw her arms about my neck, and stuck to me like a bur; but her whole frame trembled, and i thought i could feel her hot hands through my coat. after much persuasion, and promising that i would never force her, i got her so far as to sit down quietly at last; but i had to give the poor fellow his answer--and that was no trifling matter!" "for god's sake, klaus, what did stürmer say?" "not one word, aunt; i spared him all i could, but he grew as white as the plaster on the wall. at last he asked: 'can i speak to anna maria?' i said, 'no,' in accordance with her wish; then he took up his hat and whip, and bade me good-by as heartily as usual, to be sure, but the hand he gave me trembled. poor fellow! i do pity him!" "and anna maria?" "i cannot find her, aunt, either in the sitting-room or in her own room." * * * * * at the farther end of the hegewitz garden stood an old, very old linden; the spot was somewhat elevated, and a turfy slope stretched down to the budding privet-hedge which bounded the garden. under the linden was a sandstone bench, also old and weather beaten, and from here one could look away out on the mark country, far, far out over cornfields and green meadows, dark pine forests and sandy patches of heath. there stood anna maria, looking toward the meadow on the other side of the road, with its countless fresh mole-hills, and the wet road which ran along beside the quiet little river, on whose banks the willows were already growing yellow. how often of late had she stood here, how often waited till a brown horse's head emerged from among the willows, and then turned quickly and hurried into the house, for he must not see that she was watching for him with all the longing of a warm, first love. and _to-day_? she did not know herself how she had come hither, and she looked blankly away into the mist of the spring evening as if she neither saw the golden rays of the setting sun nor heard the shouting of the village children in the distance. the air was intoxicatingly soft and played gently with the black lace veil which had fallen from anna maria's fair hair. she noticed it not. then she quickly turned her head; the breathing and step of a horse sounded along by the hedge: "kurt stürmer!" she whispered, and started to go. but she stopped and saw him come near, saw him ride away in the rosy evening; his eyes were cast downward. how could he know who was looking after him with eyes almost transfixed with burning pain? she stood there motionless, and looked after him; the horse's tread sounded ominously in her ears as he stepped upon the little bridge which united the dambitz and hegewitz fields, and she still remained motionless after the willows had hidden the solitary horseman from sight. meanwhile the sunset glow had become deep crimson, and faded again; the wind blew harder, and rocked the budding linden-boughs, and bore along with it the sound of a maiden's voice; an old song floated past anna maria out into the country: "i had better have died than have gained a love. ah, would i were not so sad!" then she turned and ran along the damp garden path as if pursued; she stood still by the fish-pond, so close to it that the water touched her foot, and looked into the dark mirror. in these marieken had sought oblivion when she might not have her gottlieb! was it really such madness, if one--? and anna maria stretched out her arms and sprang into the little decaying boat by the bank. "anna maria! anna maria!" called a man's voice just then, through the still garden. "klaus!" she murmured, as if awakening; she tried to answer, but no sound came from her lips. with a shudder, she climbed out of the floating boat and turned her steps toward the house. chapter v. spring had come again. two years had passed since that evening. in bütze manor-house there was a vaulted, out-of-the-way room, which was entered by a low, small door at the end of a dark passage; the windows looked out upon the garden. tall trees forbade entrance to the light, which had to seek admission through an artistic old lattice-work as well. this had been the lumber-room from time immemorial. all sorts of things lay, hung, and stood there, in perfect confusion. old presses and chests, old spinning-wheels with yellowed ivory decorations, and dark oil portraits on which one could hardly detect the trace of a face; a huge bedstead with heavy gilt knobs--a french general had slept on it in the year nine, and the late herr von hegewitz had banished the bed to the lumber-room as a desecrated object after that, for it had originally been made to shelter a prince of the royal family for a night. the wings of the gilded eagle who sat so proudly at the top were broken off, and his beak held now only a shred of the crimson curtain, as the last remnant of former splendor. fine cobwebs reached from one piece of furniture to another, and yellowish dust lay on the floor, a sign that the wood-worm was undisturbed here. here anna maria stood and looked about her, as if in search of something. she scarcely knew herself just why she had come in here; she had happened to go by, and then it had flashed across her mind that it might be well to give the old lumber-room a breath of fresh spring air, and she had taken the bunch of keys from her belt and come in. the young linden leaves outside let one or two inquisitive sunbeams through the window, and myriads of grains of dust floated up and down in them. it was so quiet in the room, among the antique furniture. anna maria was just in the mood for it; she sat down in an arm-chair and leaned her head against the moth-eaten cushion, her eyes half-closed, her hands folded in her lap. she felt so peaceful; the old furniture seemed to preach to her of the perishable nature of man. where were all the hands that had made it? the eyes that had delighted in it? she thought how some time her spinning-wheel, too, would stand here, and how many days and hours must pass before strange hands would bring it here, as superfluous rubbish. strange hands! she felt a sudden fear. strange hands! for centuries bütze had descended in direct line from father to son--and now? anna maria rose quickly and went to the window, as if to frighten away unpleasant thoughts; the soft, mild spring air blew toward her and reminded her of the most unhappy hour of her life, and again she turned and walked quickly through the room. then her foot struck against something, and she saw the cradle, lightly rocking in front of her--the heavy, gayly painted old cradle in which the hegewitzes had had their first slumber for more than two hundred years--klaus too, and she too. and anna maria knelt down and threw her arms about the little rocking cradle, and kissed the glaring painted roses and cherubs, and a few bitter tears flowed from under her lashes, the first that she had shed since that day. "why did i, too, have to lie there in the cradle? it might have been so different, so much better," she thought. "poor thing, you must decay and fall to dust here, and at last irreverent hands will take you and throw you into the fire. poor klaus! for my sake!" and almost tenderly she wiped the dust from the arabesques on the back, and shook up the little yellow pillows. just then came the sound of a quick, manly step in the passage, and before anna maria had time to rise, klaus stood in the open door. "do i find you here?" he asked in astonishment, and at first laughing, then more serious, he looked at anna maria, who rose and came toward him. "i wanted to let some fresh air in here, and found our old cradle, klaus," she said quietly. "yes, anna maria--but you have been crying," he rejoined. "oh, i was only thinking that it was quite unnecessary that the poor thing should have been hunted up again for me!" the bitterness of her heart pressed unconsciously to her lips to-day. "anna maria! what puts such thoughts into your head?" asked klaus von hegewitz, in amazement. and drawing his sister to him, he stroked her hair lovingly. "what should i do without you?" she made a slight convulsive movement, and freed herself from his arms. "but, listen, sister," he continued, "i know whence such feelings come. you must become low-spirited in this old nest; you have no companions of your own age, you withdraw more and more from every youthful pleasure, and, although you think you can do without these things, you will have to pay for it some day." anna maria shook her head. "yes, yes!" he continued, stepping in front of the window, and his tall figure obstructed the sunlight so that the room grew dark all at once. "i have seen more of life, i know it. what should you think, anna maria, if you--" he paused and drew a letter from his pocket. "i had better read the letter to you. i was just looking for you, to talk with you about it. professor mattoni is dead!" anna maria looked over to him sympathetically. klaus had turned around and was looking out of the window; the paper in his hand shook slightly. she knew how deeply the news of this death touched him. professor mattoni had been his tutor, had lived in bütze for years, and the pleasantest memories of his boyhood were connected with this man. as a youth he had had in him a truly fatherly friend and adviser, and had since visited him every year, in berlin, where he held a position as professor in the e---- institute. anna maria took her brother's hand and pressed it silently. "yet one true friend less," she then said; "we shall soon be quite alone, klaus!" "he was more than a friend to me, anna maria," he replied gently, "he was a father to me." she nodded; she knew it well. "and the letter?" she asked. "a last request, almost illegible; he wishes that i should take charge of his little daughter, till she--so he writes--till she is independent enough to take up the battle of life." "his little daughter?" asked anna maria. "had he still so young a child?" "i am sorry to say," said klaus, "that i know nothing at all of his family affairs. he married late in life, and probably had every reason for not presenting his better half: some said he picked her up somewhere in hungary; others, that she had been a chorus singer in one of the inferior theatres in berlin. i never spoke to him about it, and when i went to his house i saw in his study no indications that any female being presided there. i have never noticed anything on my frequent visits to show that such a person lived with mattoni, and remember just once that while we were having a pleasant hour's chat, a child's cry came from the next room, whereupon he got up and knocked emphatically on the door. the screaming child was probably carried to a back room, for it grew still next door, and we talked on. then i once heard that his wife was dead; i have never seen any outward tokens of affliction on him, but the child seems to be alive." "and now, klaus?" the tall man had turned, and was looking absently at the little wooden cradle. "and now, anna maria? i owe him so much"--he spoke almost imploringly--"may i impose such a burden upon you?" "klaus, what a question! of course! please take the necessary steps at once, and have the child come." "the child, anna maria? why, i think she must have reached the limits of childhood now!" "that doesn't matter, klaus. then i will instruct her in housekeeping, and all sorts of things which she may find useful in her life." "i thank you sincerely, anna maria," he replied; "i hope you will take pleasure in the girl." he said this with a sigh of relief, which did not escape anna maria's ear. "you act exactly as if you had been afraid of me, klaus," she remarked, with a passing smile; "as if i should not always wish anything that seemed desirable to you." "just because i know that, anna maria," he said, grasping her hands affectionately, "i wish, too, that you might do it gladly, that it might be no sacrifice to you----" "i am really and truly glad the child is coming," she said honestly. and so they stood opposite each other in the forsaken lumber-room; it was now flooded with sunshine, and the two strong figures stood out from a golden background. the shadows of the young leaves about the window played lightly over them, and the call of the thrush echoed from the woods far away without. "a sacrifice!" he had said, and yet they had each already made the greatest sacrifice of which a human heart is capable, and each thought it unknown to the other. and at their feet rocked the heavy cradle, moved by anna maria's dress, and it rocked on, long after the two had left the room. chapter vi. thirty years had passed away, and on a stormy autumn evening a young couple sat before a crackling fire, in bütze manor-house--she, a slender, girlish figure, fair, with pleasant blue eyes; he, tall, or seeming so from a certain delicacy of form, and also fair; but a pair of bright brown eyes contrasted strangely with his light hair. without, the wind was raging about the old house, as it had done many years before, and sang of past times; now and then it set up a howl of furious rage, and then sounded again in low, long-drawn, plaintive tones, as if singing a long-forgotten love-song. the young wife in the comfortable easy-chair had been listening to it a long time; now she said in a clear voice: "klaus, this would be just the evening to read aloud the journal." he started up out of a deep revery. "what journal, my child!" "that little packet of papers that we found the other day, in rummaging about in aunt rosamond's writing-desk." he nodded. "yes, we will do it," he said, "it will be a bit of family history, perhaps about my parents. i was just thinking how little i know of them, and it makes me sad. mother anna maria makes her account so short and scanty, as if she did not like to talk about it, and whenever she mentions her only brother her eyes grow moist. come, sit down on the sofa with me; i will get the papers." he rose, went to an old-fashioned desk, and took a little packet of papers from the middle drawer. the young wife had meanwhile taken up a bit of dainty needlework, and now they sat, side by side, on the sofa, before the lamp, and he unfolded the sheets. "what a pretty old handwriting," he said. "see, marie!" she nodded. "one can make quite a picture of the writer from that--small, delicate, and good, as loving as the first words sound." "yes," he replied, "she was good and kind. i remember her so distinctly yet. she used to give me sugarplums and colored pictures, and at christmas she used to come as knecht ruprecht, and i should certainly have been frightened if i had not recognized aunt rosamond by her voice and limp." "ah, but please read, klaus," begged the young wife impatiently; and he began obediently: "my dear anna maria has driven away again with little klaus----" "that is you!" interrupted the young wife, laughing. he nodded; his fine eyes gleamed softly. "but now be still," he said; "for aunt rosamond surely never thought such a disturber of the peace would ever put her nose in here." "you bad man! give me a kiss for that!" "that, too?" he sighed comically. "there, but be quiet now!" and he began again: "my dear anna maria has driven away again with little klaus. it has become very quiet at bütze, not a sound in the great house; even brockelmann is no longer heard, for since last winter she has taken to wearing felt slippers. all the rooms down-stairs are shut up, and it is melancholy. anna maria consoles me, to be sure, by saying that there will be life enough here again when the child has grown large; but, dear me, by that time i shall have long been lying in the garden yonder! oh, i wish i might live to hear merry voices ringing again through the house at bütze, and see the rooms down-stairs occupied; but i do not believe it possible. well, i must not allow myself to be overpowered by the loneliness and tediousness about me; i sit at my desk and will try to narrate the late events here, in regular order. so much has happened here; the stories rush to my mind all confused, but i should like to recall the past in proper order. "if i only knew how to begin! i have already cut three goose-quills to pieces! i look out of the window, the trees are clad in the first green, the sky is blue, only a dark line of cloud rising over the barn yonder. it is warm and sultry, as before an approaching thunder-storm, and now another spring day rises before my eyes, and now i know. "it was a ninth of may, just as damp and sultry as to-day. anna maria came in to me. my room was up-stairs here then, on the same story, the same big flowered furniture stood here, and i was the same infirm, limping old creature, only fresher and brighter; i laughed more than any one in the house in those days. i can see anna maria before me so distinctly, as she stood there by the spinet in her every-day gray dress, with a black taffeta apron over it, and the bunch of keys at her belt. "'aunt rosamond, will you look at the room which i have been getting ready for the child?' she asked, and i rose, and limped along beside her down the hall as far as the large, dark room. i never could bear the room, and to-day, as i entered it, it oppressed me like a nightmare. to be sure, dazzling white pillows stood up beneath the green curtains of the canopy, and a spray of elder on the toilet-table sent its fragrance through the room; but neither this nor the sultry air which came in at the window could improve the damp, cold atmosphere, or convey any degree of comfort to the room. "'you ought to have had it warmed, anna maria,' said i, with a little shiver, 'and had that unpleasant picture taken away.' and i pointed to the half-length portrait of a young woman looking boldly and saucily forth into the world, with a pair of sparkling black eyes, who was called in the family the 'mischief-maker.' according to an old, half-forgotten story, she had come by her nickname from her black eyes having been the cause of a duel between two hegewitz brothers, in which one was killed by his brother's hand. a hegewitz herself, and lingering at bütze on a visit, she had deliberately married another man. how, when, and where, it happened, the story did not tell; but her portrait had remained at bütze, and hung from time immemorial in this room. "'ah! let the picture stay: the child does not know whom it represents,' replied anna maria. 'i think it is quite comfortable and pleasant here, aunt rosamond, with the view into the garden.' "anna maria had, literally, no idea of comfort, so her remark did not surprise me. she lacked that charming feminine faculty of making all the surroundings pleasing with a few flowers or a bit of graceful drapery. 'the poor thing,' thought i, 'coming from berlin--to this dreary solitude!' "anna maria had suddenly turned around to me, and her face, usually so austere, was glowing with tenderness. 'aunt rosamond,' she said, 'do you know, i am really glad the little susanna mattoni is coming!' "'and i am glad for you, anna maria,' i replied, 'for you need a friend.' "'i need no friend,' she replied bluntly, 'and how could that young thing be a companion for me? she is a child, a poor orphaned child, in need of love, and i will--' she broke off, and a hot blush spread over her face. "'you are still young yourself, anna maria,' i interposed, 'and i think she must be seventeen years old.' "'years do not make the age, aunt rosamond, but the soul, the nature, the experiences. if god will, she shall find in me rather a mother, for as a companion i am worth nothing. i should have to conform her to myself--oh, never!' "i knew that anna maria's whole heart, usually so coldly closed, had opened to receive a fatherless and motherless creature, to love it, in her way, with all her might--in her way, indeed, and that was not understood by every one. how much time have i spent in trying to fathom that nature, which apparently lay open to every eye, against whose sharp corners and angles almost every one ran, who had anything to do with her. "'has klaus gone to meet your guest?' i asked. "'no, he rode out into the fields. why should he?' she rejoined. 'old maier drove away to s---- yesterday, and i think every second she must come. i only hope it will be before the approaching thunder-storm breaks!' "the unpleasant stillness before the threatening storm pervaded the outside world. i went up to anna maria at the open window and looked at the black clouds looming up in the horizon. my eyes roved beyond the trees in the garden, out into the country; strangely near seemed the dark forests and dambitz with its clumsy tower. "'how near dambitz looks,' i remarked, 'and it is really so far away.' "anna maria turned quickly. 'very far,' she said listlessly. "'stürmer still stays away,' i began, designedly. i felt compassion for the man whom an incomprehensible whim of a girl had driven away into the world, just when he had hoped to find a home and heart; i had once, for the space of half an hour, imagined that she loved him. "i received no answer, but about the girl's lips there lay such an expression of pride and defiant resolution that i resolved never to mention that name again. she gazed fixedly at the dark clouds, and at last said, in a wearily oppressed tone: 'is not that the rumbling of a carriage?' "'perhaps the thunder,' i replied. but before we had closed the window and i had looked around the room again, brockelmann stood, with flushed face, before anna maria. 'gracious fräulein, she is--they are here--god in heaven!' "'what is the matter?' asked anna maria. "'there are two of them, fräulein, and queer enough she looks--the old woman, i mean. and a thunder-storm like this is just the time for them to come to the house in!' "the storm had indeed broken loose, with thunder and lightning, and torrents of rain. the old woman made haste to light the candles on the great mantel, for it was almost dark in the room. "'they are coming up-stairs already!' she cried, and hurried out, leaving the door open. "anna maria had not interrupted the old woman by a word; it was not her way to apprehend quickly a new turn of affairs. so she snuffed the candles quite composedly and remained standing by the mantel, so as to keep the door in sight. her face was as cold and still again as usual, and did not show the slightest trace of expectation or curiosity, nor did it alter when in the door-way. but how shall i describe the young creature who, as suddenly as in a fairy-tale, stepped over the threshold? "there never was but one susanna mattoni! i do not know whether she could be called a beauty; perhaps her sparkling brown eyes were too large for that, too widely opened for the narrow face, the nose too short, the lips too full, and the complexion too pale; but this i know, that only by an effort i suppressed an exclamation of surprise, as she stood there, so small and slight, in her closely-fitting black dress, as if she had been charmed thither. her light mantle had slipped from her shoulders, and a pair of very slender hands had impetuously thrown back the crape veil from her hat. it was evident that the young girl was in a state of great excitement; her searching, anxious eyes rested on anna maria's imposing figure, and then dropped to the floor in embarrassment; she apparently did not know what to do now, and breathed timidly and faintly. "'god bless your coming, susanna mattoni!' said anna maria, in her deep voice; and she put her arm for a moment around the slender figure. 'may bütze please you as a temporary home!' there was an unwonted sympathy in these words, and as she bent down to the stranger i had to smile at my former opinion. anna maria needed no friend; young as she was, she stood by susanna mattoni with the maternal dignity of a woman of forty. it was remarkable how she utterly belied her youth in everything she did. "but at this moment it first became clear what brockelmann had meant when she spoke of two--of the old woman. at the threshold of the room appeared the figure of a small, elderly woman, in a worn black silk gown, a shawl embroidered in red and yellow over her shoulders, and an ill-shaped hood of black crape on her head, from which a yellowish, wrinkled face looked forth; a pair of small dark eyes darted like lightning about the room; then she ran to anna maria, who was regarding her in amazement, and with a theatrical gesture raised her clasped hands to her. 'oh, mademoiselle, pardon my intrusion, but the child--i could not part from susanna!' "'stop that!' commanded anna maria, decidedly disturbed. 'who are you?' "the woman dropped her eyes and was silent. "'fräulein mattoni, who is the woman?' said anna maria, turning to the young girl, who, it seemed to me, looked timidly at her companion. susanna was silent too. there was no sound but that of the rain beating against the windows, and swaying the branches of the trees. anna maria waited quietly a few minutes. "'i have been in professor mattoni's household since susanna's birth,' the old woman now began, 'and----' "'the child's nurse, then?' anna maria said, cutting off her speech. 'very well, you may stay here twenty-four hours, and see how your demoiselle is provided for. brockelmann,' she ordered the old woman, who, with a chambermaid, had just brought up a trunk that seemed as light as a feather, 'make up a bed in the gray room for the woman. and you, susanna mattoni, need to be alone after so long a journey. make yourself comfortable till supper-time; punctually at seven, i shall expect you in the dining-room.' she took her basket of keys from the mantel, and noticing me, motioned to susanna and introduced her to me as our future household companion. the little thing shyly kissed my hand, and as i raised her chin a little to look at her face again, i saw that tears were shining in the brown eyes. 'heavens!' i thought as i went out, 'how will this little princess get on here in that gloomy room, in anna maria's chilling atmosphere?' i quietly patted the pale little cheek, and followed my niece. outside in the corridor we met klaus, dripping wet, having just dismounted from his horse. "'and so she is really here, then, the new accession to the family?' he asked, giving himself a shake in his wet clothes. 'well, what does she look like, the little berliner?' "i opened the door of my room, and the brother and sister entered. "'you will see her, klaus,' replied anna maria. "'right, little sister, that is true; i will change my clothes first of all.' "'yes, klaus, but be quick: i would like to settle something with you before you see the young lady at table.' "'young lady? whew!' rejoined the brother, and a disagreeable expression lay for a moment on his kind, handsome face. 'do you wish me to put on a dress-coat, anna maria?' he laughed. "'well, you will open your eyes, too, klauschen,' thought i; and all at once a thought came to me that fell like the weight of a mountain on my soul, whether it would not be better if this susanna mattoni, together with her black-eyed witch of a nurse, were a thousand miles away? "when klaus and anna maria had gone, i stood still in the middle of the room and said aloud, with a fierce conviction: 'the two children have made an unpardonably stupid move; what will come of it?' and much came of it! if the succession of sorrow, tears, and bitter hours that followed susanna mattoni's little feet could have been foreseen on her arrival, anna maria would have given not only the old woman, but susanna herself, no longer than twenty-four hours to stay in her house! "i was still standing on the same spot when the door flew open, and susanna's old companion entered. 'gracious fräulein,' she cried anxiously, 'do come; the child--she is weeping, she is ill, she will kill herself!' "the excited creature wrung her hands, and her whole frame trembled. i limped across to the girl's room, again with the thought, 'what will come of it?' susanna was sitting, half undressed, at the toilet-table, her dark hair falling loosely over a white dressing-sack; her face was buried in her hands, and she was crying. the old woman rushed up to her: 'darling, the kind lady is here; she will be good to us, she will let me stay here, and will speak a good word to the fräulein; please now, my lamb, she surely will.' "susanna mattoni raised her head and dried the tears from her great eyes; when she saw me she sprang up, and again i felt the magical charm that surrounded the young creature. 'what is the matter, my child?' i asked tenderly. "'you are very kind, mademoiselle,' she answered; 'it is only the strangeness and the long journey.' and she shivered with cold. "'dress yourself quickly,' i advised her, 'there is a fire in the dining-room, and the warm supper will do you good.' "the old woman seized a comb and drew it with evident pride through the beautiful hair, and waited on the professor's young daughter as if she were really a princess. she talked meanwhile of her delicate constitution and her nerves. i quite forgot going, and at that stood still in amazement. merciful heaven! in old houses in the mark 'nerves' were not yet the fashion. what would anna maria say, what would----? "anna maria had spoken of having susanna acquire the art of housekeeping, so that in the future she might help herself through life with her own hands. and here! a maid, nerves, the beauty of a _grande dame_ with the little hands and feet of a child. "and now the old woman took from the trunk a little black dress, evidently quite new, and trimmed with bows, flounces, and the lord knows what! over the shining white neck she laid a black gauze fichu, which she gracefully arranged on the bodice, and beneath the short skirts peeped two shoes laced up with silk ribbons, such as scarcely ever before glided over the old floors of bütze manor-house. certainly the old woman understood her business. susanna mattoni was, as she stood there, the most charming girl i have ever seen, before or since, in my long life. "'god help me, what will be the end of it?' i asked myself for the third time, as the old woman broke off a white spray of elder, and placed it, correctly and not without coquetry, in the fichu. "'but, my dear,' i said aloud, 'there is no company here this evening. we eat to-day _en famille_, buckwheat groats with milk.' "but i got no answer; the busy lady's maid bent quickly to pull one or two bows straight, and i glanced from susanna--the color in whose cheeks had mounted to a bright red--to the trunk, which looked suspiciously empty after the taking out of the new dress. the old woman observed me, and quickly shut the cover. 'the clock is striking seven,' she said; and in fact, the weak, thin tone of the bütze church-bell was heard just seven times, and at once began the noisy sound of the servants' supper-bell. "'come,' said i to her, 'the servants' room is down-stairs.' "'thank you,' she replied, with a look of refusal. 'i am not at all hungry; but i would like to ask for some wood, for the child cannot sleep in this damp atmosphere.' "i directed her to brockelmann, and conducted susanna mattoni to the dining-room. "oh, i could paint the scene now! the four candles on the table vied with the rosy twilight, and in the vaulted window-niche stood klaus and anna maria. he had put his arm around her, and had been saying some kind, serious word--they never stood so near each other again! i seem to see, at this moment, how they turned around toward me--how klaus, full of surprise, looked past me at the slender, girlish figure; how anna maria was suddenly transfixed--and i could not blame either of them! i have scarcely ever seen susanna mattoni more charming, more maidenly, than at that moment, when she stood in embarrassment before the young friend of her father. i wondered if she had imagined he was different. "a warm glow overspread her delicate face; anna maria blushed, too. i do not know whether it was fear or anger that caused her to touch klaus's arm, as he stepped forward to say some words of welcome to susanna. "'please come to the table!' called anna maria. 'here, fräulein mattoni, beside aunt rosamond.' as we stood at our places she said, in a strangely faltering voice, the old grace: 'the eyes of all wait upon thee, o lord!' the 'amen' almost stuck in her throat, and in the look which she gave the young girl's dainty dress, and which fell with especial sharpness on the white flowers, i saw what the clock had struck for anna maria. it was almost amusing to me to compare the two girls, so unlike, and to wonder whether the high-necked, gray woollen dress and the dainty little silk gown would ever live side by side, without having to make mutual concessions. "klaus talked to susanna, who sat opposite him. he touched upon the subject of her deceased father, but gave it up at once when he saw the great eyes fill with tears, which she bravely tried to swallow with the strange buckwheat groats. a fresh egg, afterward, seemed to taste better to her, but with a timorous smile she refused a glass of foaming brown beer, and i am convinced that she rose unsatisfied from the table. "the candles were lighted in the sitting-room, and at the master's place lay a plate of tobacco and a matchbox beside the newspaper. at anna maria's place lay her knitting-work, and at mine spectacles and pompadour, just as brockelmann arranged them every evening, except that in winter anna maria had her spinning-wheel instead of her knitting. to-night klaus did not take his pipe from the shelf in the corner; susanna mattoni's delicate form sank into his comfortable easy-chair, and her small head nestled back in the cushions; but klaus, like a true cavalier, with a chivalry that became him admirably, sat on a stool opposite her. "the conversation, in which anna maria joined but little, turned upon berlin. susanna was well informed about her native city, and now chattered charmingly and without embarrassment; her eyes shone, her cheeks grew red, and a roguish dimple displayed itself every instant. now she was in the opera-house or theatre, in the thiergarten or in charlottenburg; now she related anecdotes of the royal family. all this came out in a confused jumble, and klaus did not grow tired of asking questions. the newspaper lay disregarded, and his pipe did not receive a glance. "anna maria sat silent, and knit. at nine o'clock she broke into the conversation. 'i think you must be tired, fräulein mattoni,' she said; and one could perceive what an effort she made to speak kindly. 'we usually retire about ten, but you need an extra hour's sleep to-night.' and as brockelmann appeared, in answer to the bell, the little thing, with a certain astonishment in her eyes, said 'good-night,' like an obedient child. she turned around at the door, and asked, with a sweet, imploring expression on her little face: 'may isa sleep in my room?' "'a bed has been made up in another room for your companion,' replied anna maria; 'you are surely not afraid? brockelmann's room is next door.' "susanna did not reply, but made another exceedingly graceful courtesy and vanished. "'do let the old woman sleep with her,' said klaus; 'think how forlorn her first night in a strange house must be!' "but anna maria did not reply; she got her brother's pipe from the shelf, and, smiling, pushed him into his easy-chair, and took up her knitting again. "'there, klaus, i beg of you, don't be so nonsensical in the future as to sit on a footstool. that was very uncomfortable.' "'sooner dead than impolite!' he replied good-humoredly. "'everything in its time!' she rejoined. 'susanna mattoni is to be a member of our household, and there is nothing so tiresome as formal politeness and constraint. susanna can sit on that stool just as well as you.' "'_bon_, anna maria! but now, what do you really think of her?' "'since you ask me plainly, klaus, i will answer you plainly. i say that i expected to receive something different into the house.' "'so did i,' he rejoined laconically, drawing the first whiffs from his pipe. "'and that if anything is to be made of the girl, the old woman must go away to-morrow.' "'she is right,' thought i to myself, 'if it is only not too late!' "klaus took up the newspaper. 'well, anna maria, there may be something to say about that by and by; but let her stay a week or two, so that she may see how fräulein mattoni gets on.' "'am i to bring up the girl or not?' anna maria interrupted, with a roughness such as she had never before shown toward her brother. 'how is this spoiled lady of fashion to learn to take care of herself and to use her hands, if that person remains at her side, to put on her shoes and stockings for her whenever it is possible, and turn her head with flowers and frivolities? twenty-four hours i have said, and not a minute longer; two such totally different methods as hers and mine cannot agree.' "klaus looked in surprise at the excited face. 'you are right, anna maria,' he said appeasingly. 'i am only afraid that this being will never develop according to your mind. she seems to me----' "'made of different material!' finished anna maria ironically. 'i tell you, that will be no hindrance to me, in educating a girl whose calling it is to make herself useful in the world; affected dolls, painted cheeks, and theatrical pomp, i will not endure in my house!' "she had risen, and all the indignation which the old woman's skill at the toilet had called forth now glowed on her red cheeks and shone from her sparkling eyes. "klaus laid down the newspaper which he had just taken up. 'i beg you, anna maria,' he said, almost indignantly, 'cannot that be settled quietly? the girl has only this minute come into the house, and is she to make discord between us already?' "anna maria sat down again in silence, and took up her knitting. but after a little while she rose hastily, tied a black lace scarf over her fair hair, and went out. "klaus followed her with his eyes. 'aunt rosamond, what is this?' he asked, sighing. "'she expected something different, klaus,' i said; 'it is a disappointment.' "'the girl is charming, aunt rosamond. i can understand the professor's anxiety about her. but how will she get on with anna maria's energy? there are not only hens and such useful creatures in the world, but the good god has made birds of paradise as well!' "'klauschen,' came from the depths of my heart, 'let the bird of paradise fly away; it is not suited to your nest.' "'never, aunt rosamond,' he replied quickly. 'i am bound by the last wish of the man whom i loved best in the whole world!' he was red, and his eyes shone moistly, and it struck me, at this moment, what a handsome, stately man he was. "brockelmann's entrance put an end to our conversation. she was hunting for anna maria, and looked irritated: 'it is too provoking, master; the old woman isn't suited with her bed, and means to sit up all night in her young lady's room. and there is a fire there hot enough to roast an ox, and that in may! she is doing some cooking, too; the whole room smells of green tea.' muttering away, she disappeared. "klaus laughed aloud. 'open rebellion, aunt rosamond! do me a favor, and look after these two strangers. perhaps you will be able to point out to the old woman that--well, that she can't stay here.' "this really seemed to me the best thing to do, and i went up-stairs. through the hall window i caught sight of anna maria in the damp, moonlit garden; she was standing motionless, like a dark shadow, and looking out toward the dusky country. 'strange girl,' thought i; 'if an ugly little creature in a patched dress had come to the house to-day, she would have taken it to her heart, and kissed it--and now?' "as i entered susanna's room without knocking, the old woman hastily motioned to me to come softly, for her charge was asleep. she was sitting in a high-backed chair by the bed, and, as i came nearer, rose and drew aside the curtains for me to look at the girl. "there lay the young thing in the deep sleep of fatigue, breathing softly and quietly, a smile on the red lips; the drooping lashes rested like dark shadows on the child's pale cheeks. her little night-dress, trimmed with imitation lace and adorned with a profusion of bows, did not look badly in the dim light which came from two candles and the dying embers in the fire-place. the slender hands were folded, and the dark hair lay loosely over the white pillow. yes, she was charming, this maiden in her sweet slumber. "'is she not beautiful? is she not lovely?' said the old woman's proud smile. "i nodded. 'poor little bird of paradise!' i thought, 'how your gay, shining feathers will be plucked. well for you if you do not miss them!' and, bethinking myself of my promise to klaus, i turned and beckoned to the old woman. by the fire-place i overturned a little silver kettle and a cup that were standing on the floor. aha, the tea-making apparatus! on the sofa lay the clothes which susanna had worn to-day, in picturesque disorder; one little shoe was on the floor, the other i noticed on the dressing-table, and beside it hats, ribbons, and all sorts of frippery, in the wildest confusion. "'will you not put the things away in the wardrobes intended for them,' i asked softly, 'so that susanna can find them without your help?' "'she will not need to,' the old woman replied confidently, and looked at me with a friendly grin. 'they surely cannot be so cruel as to separate us.' "'certainly, my dear, you will leave the house to-morrow, and susanna mattoni will remain under our protection, as her father was promised. there was nothing said about you in this matter.' "'then give me a rope at once,' whispered the old woman passionately, 'that i may hang myself on the nearest limb! what am i to do, then? where shall i go? i had a foreboding as we drove through the gate that ill-luck awaited me!' "'my niece will surely allow you to visit your former charge from time to time,' i said, to console her. "'and what is to become of her?' she asked, pointing to the sleeping girl. 'she is not accustomed to be without me for a moment! no, no, i am not going; i cannot go. if this young lady has no sympathy, surely the kind gentleman will have, who used to come so often to the professor. where is he? i will beg him on my knees, i will beg him to let me stay here.' "'listen, my friend,' i said earnestly, and took hold of the flowing silk sleeves of her dress. 'it will be for your young lady's best good if you are parted from her. this much i know, that professor mattoni has left the girl quite without means, and it is now high time she learned to put on her shoes and stockings alone. a poor demoiselle, of citizen's rank, needs no lady's maid. she must learn to work and to make herself useful.' "'oh, heaven!' sobbed the little dried-up woman, 'i thought she was to be a guest in this house, and you will make a servant of her.' "a harsh answer was at my tongue's end. had her tenderness for the girl made this woman perfectly crazy? at any rate, she was not to be reasoned with. 'go down-stairs,' said i, in vexation, 'and carry your complaint to the master. he will know better, at least, how to make you comprehend what sort of a position susanna mattoni is to occupy here.' "she dried her tears, seized a candle, and flew to the mirror, bustled about with comb and brush, and spread over her yellow face something from various little jars. i began to feel a real horror of the old woman, with her artifices. now she tied her cap-strings afresh, pulled from the trunk a lace-edged handkerchief, and holding it theatrically in her hand, said she was ready to pay her respects to the master. "'were you formerly on the stage?' i asked, wondering at her red, full cheeks. "'for ten years, mademoiselle!' she replied; 'i played the gay, her mother'--she pointed to susanna--'the tragic lovers. oh, it was glorious, that acting together!' "what she further related i did not understand. 'merciful heaven!' i faltered, as i opened the door softly and showed her out into the hall, 'what has klaus brought upon us, in his kind-heartedness?' "i sat still by the girl's bed, and looked at the young face. god only knew in what slough this fair flower had grown! it was clear that the old woman must go away, if anything was ever to be made of the girl; please god it might not be too late! "the light from the candles scarcely sufficed to light up the nearest objects. dense obscurity lay in the corners, but the oil-portrait of the mischief-maker was feebly illuminated, and her black eyes seemed to give me a demoniacal look. a vague fear came over me; involuntarily i folded my hands in prayer: 'o lord, thy ways are wonderful! lead us gently, let not the peace go out from us that has dwelt so long beneath this roof, let no second mischief-maker have crossed this threshold, preserve the old, sacred bond between klaus and anna maria. amen!' "at this moment the door opened and the old actress came back. she did not deign to look at me, but knelt down by the bed, laid her head on the pillow, and began to weep bitterly. "'isa! isa!' murmured susanna in her sleep. the old woman raised her head and pressed the dark hair to her lips. "'i am going, mademoiselle,' she whispered to me; 'no one has a heart here in this house. but if a hair of her head is hurt, or a tear falls from her eyes, i--i--' she gasped out a few words more, and threw herself down again beside the bed. "'when shall you leave?' i asked. "'early in the morning,' she replied, in a lifeless tone. "'then lie down now, and go to sleep,' i said, pointing to the sofa, and prepared to leave the room. "'oh, mademoiselle!' she sprang up and held me fast. 'promise me you will be kind to susanna, you will speak a kind word to her if she cries!' "'certainly, as far as i can; but she will receive only kindness from every one here.' "'not from the blonde lady,' she said. 'she is a girl without a heart; perhaps she never had one, perhaps it is dead. she does not know what youth, beauty, and love are. she never laughs. i notice that people who cannot laugh are envious of every being that can be happy, that pleases others by its charm; she will never love susanna!' "she spoke pathetically and theatrically, yet a tone of deep pain rang through her words. "'life is so serious,' i returned. "'but laughing, cheerfulness, beauty are the air she breathes,' began the strange person again. "'i promise you to look after the child,' said i, about to go; but in vain. she held me by the dress, and begged me to hear first, for god's sake, that it was not tyranny or arbitrary choice that bound her to the child, but a sacred promise. and whether i would or not, i had to listen to a story which the old woman delivered as if she were on the stage, and which, in spite of the whispered tone in which it was given, was, by means of gestures and rolling of the eyes, a perfect specimen of high mimic art. i could not now repeat the words as they came from the lips of the old actress, but only know now that she contrived to announce that she was just forty years old and had been very beautiful. the old song came into my head, which a poet puts into the mouth of his old harpist: "'i once was young and fair, but my beauty's gone--ah, where? on my cheeks were roses red, and bright curls upon my head. when i was young and fair! when i was young and fair!' "i did not dispute her pretended forty years, and she now unrolled before my eyes a phase of life so varied and irregular, and yet again so full of the poetry of a vagabond existence, that father goethe would surely have been glad to have it to insert in 'wilhelm meister.' to make a short story of it, professor mattoni had really loved _her_, when, in consequence of a mood, to her inexplicable, he transferred his affection to her fellow-actress. 'i was senseless from pain, mademoiselle,' she threw in, 'but i governed myself. i became the most indispensable friend of mattoni's young wife.' "she now described this person as a dreamy creature, beautiful as a picture but quite uneducated; and the professor, as an imperious man, who, when he failed to find in his wife the companionship of his soul's creation, treated her worse than a servant-maid. '_en vérité_, mademoiselle, she was stupid; the thickest wall would have--' and she made a gesture, as if to test with _her_ head whether the walls at bütze were a match for it. 'oh, the men, even the wisest and best of them are blinded when they love, mademoiselle! he had received his punishment for his breach of faith toward me.' "then followed a description of the mattoni household, in which isabella pfannenschmidt, as my informant was called, heartily interested herself. she became housekeeper for frau mattoni, who read novels all day long or played with her cat. the women lived in a little back room, and the professor occupied two rooms as formerly. they received from him such scanty means of support that often they knew not how to satisfy their hunger. the troupe with which isabella pfannenschmidt had an engagement went away from berlin, but she could not go with them: 'for, mademoiselle, she and the child would have perished in dirt and misery; she was a person who would go hungry if food were not put right under her nose, rather than get up from her lazy position on the sofa, and the professor took all his meals at a restaurant. he did not want people to find out that he had a wife and child, anyway. we dared not stir if any one was with him. susanna's first frock was made from a cast-off red velvet dress, cut over, in which her mother once used to play queens. the father never looked at the charming child till his wife had closed her dreamy eyes forever. then, as he went up to her bier, and his child reached out her little hand after the few scanty flowers i had bought with my last penny, he was first shaken out of the stupidity of the last few years. he knelt down with the child and prayed god to forgive him his wrong-doing! well, good intentions are cheap, to be sure! he did give somewhat more for our household expenses, and i was enabled to dress susanna so we could show ourselves publicly without attracting attention; he even let her have lessons, and she learned bravely. he never inquired for me, and yet i have remained true to him all these long years; it was as if my care and work were a matter of course. he had no longer a look for me, the past seemed to be wiped out from his memory; and yet i have passed my youth in sorrow for his sake, i have taken care of his wife and child, and now--now she is taken from me! what have i done to deserve this?' "i was truly sorry for the little weeping woman, though the facts as to her age and former beauty might be somewhat different, and though her statement that he once had loved her might not be strictly true; at any rate, she had loved him as truly as a poor, weak woman's heart can love. for his sake she had loved his child, and without a murmur suffered want and hunger for her sake. and now he repaid her by taking the child away from her. poor isabella pfannenschmidt, you have lived in vain! the flame which burns in your heart shines forth triumphantly over all the theatrical trumpery and baubles clinging to you, poor old isabella! and yet it would be a pity for this child to have to breathe in that dusty, paint-scented atmosphere any longer. no, isabella, you must go, though the heart of the once gay actress break over it. "'susanna will always be fond of you,' i comforted her, 'and never forget what you have done for her.' "'oh, that she will--that she will! she has her father's nature,' sobbed the old woman; 'she will forget me, and, what's more, she will be ashamed of me.' "'you make a sad exposure of the child's heart, my dear,' said i reprovingly. "she started up. 'oh, no, no! she really is good.' she murmured, 'very good. and,' she continued, 'i shall not go very far away either, only to the nearest town. what should i do in berlin? i should die of longing. i will hire a room in s---- and sew for money; i can embroider well, with colored wool and gold thread. and if the longing becomes too great, i can run up the highway, and if need be up here, to look at the house where she lives.' "and now she began, amid streaming tears, to pick out one after another of the garments lying around, and to lay them in a white cloth, and in so doing caught up the little shoe on the table, and pressed the narrow sole to her cheek. "'don't forget the little jar of paint,' i whispered, in spite of my sympathy. "she shook her head. 'no, no, i shall pack up everything. i will do it at once, for if she wakes i cannot say good-by. i shall go before daybreak.' "i held out my hand to her, for i was sorry for her. 'go away easy; the child is well off here--and may the thought console you, that it is for susanna's best good.' i went out, and as i turned again, in closing the door, i saw in the dim light the little gypsy-like creature sitting on the floor, amid all her rubbish and trumpery, and weeping, her face buried in her hands." chapter vii. "my first inquiry the next morning was for the old woman. she was gone, i learned, and the fräulein was already with the stranger in her room. 'anna maria's education is beginning,' i said with a sigh, and ate my rye porridge less cheerfully than usual. yesterday lay behind me like a confused dream, and susanna's presence in the house oppressed me with the weight of a mountain. soon i heard anna maria's metallic voice in the corridor; she was speaking french, so speaking to susanna at all events. i caught only a few disconnected words, before she knocked at my door, and came into the room with the young girl. "'we wish to say good-morning to you, aunt,' she began pleasantly. i gave a searching glance at susanna; a pair of great tears still hung on her lashes, but the laugh--which was her element--lay hidden in the dimples of her cheeks and shone from her beautiful eyes, as if only waiting an opportunity to break forth. "she wore her black travelling-dress of yesterday, but anna maria had tied a woollen wrap about her shoulders. in spite of that, the sight of her was like a ray of sunshine. "'i would like to ask, aunt rosamond,' said anna maria, 'if you have some little duty for susanna, and beg you to let her profit, in the future, by your skill in needlework. i have been examining her--she can do nothing!' "'certainly, anna maria!' i was glad to have, in a certain degree, a slight claim on the girl. 'do you like knitting, susanna?' i asked. "she laughed and shook her head. 'oh, no, no! i grow dizzy when i see knitting always round and round.' "anna maria did not seem to hear this answer. 'fräulein von hegewitz will teach you netting and plain knitting,' she said; 'with me you shall learn to understand the mysteries of housekeeping. and now we will have breakfast, and then begin at once. klaus has been in the field for a long time already,' she added; 'the first grass is to be cut to-day.' "and they went. susanna tripped along, with hanging head, behind anna maria. 'is she pursuing the right method with this child?' i wondered. 'with her energy she will destroy all at once, all the results of former education; but it surely is not possible. god help her to the right way!' "later, as i was taking my walk through the garden, i saw susanna coming along by the pond; she did not walk, she actually flew, with outstretched arms, as if she would press to her heart the green tops of the old trees, the golden sunshine, and all the birds singing so jubilantly to-day, and all nature. her short skirts were flying, the woollen wrap had disappeared, and her white shoulders emerged like wax from the deep black of her dress. indescribably charming she looked, thus rushing along; she must have escaped somehow from anna maria. close by my hiding-place she stood still, and looked up at the blue sky; then, singing lightly, she stooped, picked a narcissus and fastened the white flowers in her bosom, and then put her hand into her dress pocket, and drew out something which she put quickly into her mouth, but which did not interfere with her singing, for now as she went on she trilled the words: 'batti, batti, o bel masetto la tua povera zerlina.' "i followed her slowly, and observed lying in the path a little object wrapped in white paper, which she had evidently lost. 'a bonbon! well, that is the height of folly!' said i, taking it up in vexation. 'one could not expect anything different from such bringing up.' and as i unwrapped the thing, i found in it a french motto, a more sugary and frivolous one than which could scarcely have been composed in the time of louis xiv., supposing that bonbon mottoes were known at that time. 'if anna maria knew of this, with her pure, maidenly mind!' i thought, shaking my head. 'oh, klaus, for my part, i wish your bird of paradise were in the moon, at any rate not here.' i overtook her at the next turn of the path, where there was a red thorn in the splendor of full bloom; it bent its branches almost humbly under this superabundance of rosy adornment, at which susanna was looking admiringly. "'oh, how charming!' she cried, as she saw me. 'oh, how wonderfully beautiful!' and the purest joy shone from her eyes. how did that accord with the bonbon motto? "in that moment i resolved not to lose confidence in the girl's character, and at every opportunity to help lift the young spirit into higher regions. i have honestly striven to fulfil this promise. i may testify to it to myself--not so violently, not in so dictatorial and severe a manner as anna maria did i proceed; not like klaus either. ah, me--klaus! those first eight weeks in general! ah, if i only knew how to describe the time which now followed! there is so little to say, and yet such an immense change was brought about in our house. "whether susanna mattoni ever missed her old nurse, i did not know. when she awoke on that first morning and found anna maria by her bed instead of the little actress, to inform her that the latter had left the house, great tears had streamed from her eyes. anna maria had said: 'be reasonable, susanna, and do not make a request that i cannot grant.' and susanna had replied, with an inimitable mingling of childishness and pride: 'have no fear, fräulein von hegewitz, i never ask a second time!' "anna maria told me about it later, years afterward. indeed, there was no slight amount of pride in that little head. "anna maria began the practical education with the thoroughness peculiar to her in everything. with her iron constitution, her need of bodily activity, she had no suspicion that there were people in the world for whom such activity might be too much. susanna had to go through kitchen and cellar, susanna was initiated into the mysteries of the great washing, and susanna drove with her, afternoons, in the burning heat into the fields, in order to explore the agricultural botany. anna maria's face showed a glimmer of happiness; she now had some one to whom she was indispensable, so she thought. "and klaus? klaus had never in his life sat so constantly in his room as now; he went into the garden-parlor seldom or never, and only at mealtimes came to look into the sitting-room or out on the terrace. and then his eyes would rest on susanna with a strange expression, anxiously and compassionately it seemed to me. he said not a word against anna maria's management. "'aunt rosamond,' the latter said sadly to me one day, 'i fear susanna's being here is a burden to klaus; he is quiet, depressed, and not at all as he used to be.' "'why _that_ cause, anna maria?' said i. 'klaus does seem out of humor, that is true, but may it not be something else? farmers have a new cause for vexation every day, and are never at a loss for one.' "'ah, no, aunt rosamond!' she replied. 'there has not been the prospect of such a harvest for years; it is a pleasure to go through the fields.' "and susanna, the breath of whose life was laughing? she wandered about like a dreamer. how often, when she sat opposite me in the sewing-room, her hands dropped in her lap, and she went to sleep, like an overweary child. and i let her sleep, for on the pale little face the marks of the unwonted manner of life were only too perceptible. once klaus came into the room, as she sat there, fallen asleep, like little princess domröschen, only, instead of the spindle, the netting-needle in her hand. he came nearer on tip-toe, and looked at her, his arms at his sides. then he asked softly: "'do you not think she looks wretchedly, aunt?' "'the altered mode of life, klaus,' i answered, 'the strange food, the----' "'say the over-exertion, aunt,' he broke in; 'that would be nearer the truth. poor little one!' "'why do you not say so to anna maria, klaus? i, too, think that too much is required in this early rising and continually being on the feet.' "he grew very red, bit his lips, and shrugged his shoulders in place of an answer, and left me before i had time to speak further. "susanna, moreover, never uttered a word of complaint; but it would happen that anna maria had to seek her, seek for hours without finding her, and that klaus very quietly remarked, 'she must have run away!' but she would appear again suddenly, with bright eyes and red cheeks, to be sure; she had gone astray in the wood, she said, or gone to sleep in the garden. sometimes she would shut herself into her dull room, and open the door to no knocks. once, as she pulled her handkerchief quickly out of her pocket, a paper of bonbons fell to the floor. anna maria, who despised all sweetmeats, confiscated it at once; i can still see the look of punishment she gave the blushing girl. we were all sitting on the terrace, just after supper; klaus had been reading aloud from the newspaper, and this was usually a moment when susanna waked from her dreaming; her shining eyes were fixed on klaus, and a rosy gleam spread over the pale face. klaus held the good old 'tante voss,' and read aloud every little story which alluded to berlin; that habit was now quietly introduced, whereas he had formerly read only certain political news, that he might talk about it with anna maria. "the falling bonbon package broke right into a report from the opera-house, where sontag had sung with wild applause. klaus let the paper drop, observed anna maria's look and the gesture with which she laid the unlucky package beside her, and saw susanna's confusion. "'show me the package, anna maria,' he asked; and unwrapping one of the bonbons in colored paper, he said, 'ah! these are miserable things indeed; they must taste splendidly!' he smiled as he said this, and the smile put susanna beside herself. "'i--i do not eat them at all!' she cried, 'i only have them for the little children who come to the fence there below; they are pleased with them, i know, for nothing was more beautiful to me when i was a child than a bonbon!' "she said this so touchingly and childishly, in spite of her excitement, that klaus begged for her hand as if in atonement. "'susanna, you might poison the village children with this bad stuff. i will get some other bonbons for you that will taste good to you yourself.' "anna maria rose, apparently indifferent, put the dish of fragrant strawberries which she had been hulling for preserving on the great stone table, and went slowly down the steps into the garden. when she came up again, an hour had passed, and the moon appeared over the gabled roof and shone brightly into her proud face. "'where is susanna?' she asked. the child had just gone down to the garden, and klaus was smoking a pipe in peace of mind. she seated herself quietly in her place and looked out over the moonlit tree-tops into the warm summer night. then she said suddenly: "'may i say something to you, klaus?' "'certainly, anna maria,' he replied. "'then do not give susanna any bonbons; that is, do not contradict me so directly when i have occasion to reprove her.' "klaus sat bolt upright in his wooden chair. 'anna maria,' he began, 'i don't think you can complain of my having found fault with or revoked any regulation of yours with regard to fräulein mattoni; although'--he stopped, and knocked the ashes from his pipe against the flagstones. "'did i do anything with susanna which displeased you?' she asked. "but she got no answer, for just then the subject of discussion flew up the steps, and sat down again, modestly, in her place. anna maria rose, took a shawl from her shoulders, and wrapped it about the girl who was breathing very fast. 'you are heated, susanna, you might take cold.' klaus now smoked the faster, and on saying good-night held out both hands to anna maria; but she placed hers in them only lightly. "ah, yes, the first omens, slight and scarcely noticeable! perhaps they would have escaped my eyes if i had not had, from the very first, a foreboding of coming evil. i do not know if susanna received the promised bonbons. probably not; and after that episode everything went on in the usual course, until there came a day full of unforeseen events, full of developments, which placed us all at once in the most dreadful entanglements. "it was an oppressively hot day, just in the middle of the harvesting. in the court-yard and in the house a veritable deathly stillness reigned, and not even a leaf on the trees stirred under the scorching midday sun. i sat in one of the deep window-niches of the great hall which lies on the garden side of the house and opens out on the terrace. here it was endurable, for the heat could not easily penetrate the thick walls, and the tall elms which shaded the terrace, and the wild-grape which covered it with its luxurious festoons, made a cool, green, dim light. even now the garden-parlor is my favorite retreat during the warm weather. at that time, however, there was no carved-oak furniture here, nor was there a gay mosaic pavement on the terrace; the white varnished chairs and the couches covered with red-flowered chintz answered the same purpose, as did the worn old sandstone flags with which the terrace was paved, in whose crevices grass and all sorts of weeds sprung up picturesquely; and the heavy gray sandstone railing had quite as feudal a look as the artistic wrought-iron balustrade there now, and, to tell the truth, pleased me better. some of us have such an affection to the old things; but that is pardonable, i think. "so i was sitting in the garden-parlor, and growing a little dreamy, as i still like to do, and listening abstractedly to anna maria's voice as she went over her accounts, half aloud, in the sitting-room close by. klaus was in the fields again, for the first wheat was to be brought in to-day, and i was waiting for susanna to come for a sewing lesson, but in vain. she must be asleep, i thought, half content to think so, for the heat fairly paralyzed my will-power. and so a long time passed, till a heavy step sounded on the stone flags outside, and immediately after klaus, dusty and red with heat, came in and threw himself wearily into the nearest chair. "'where is susanna?' he asked, wiping his hot forehead with his handkerchief. "'she is sleeping, probably,' i replied. "'are you sure of that, aunt rosamond?' "'no, klaus, but i think it may be assumed with tolerable certainty. i know her.' "'it is strange,' he remarked; 'i could have sworn i saw her vanish in the darnbitz pines a little while ago.' "'for heaven's sake!' i cried incredulously. 'impossible! in this heat! it is half an hour's walk from here!' "'so i said to myself; but the gait, all the motions, the small, black-robed figure--indeed, i rode across the field at once, but of course nothing was to be heard or seen then.' "'i will wager she is sleeping quietly up-stairs in her canopied bed, or staring at the "mischief-maker,"' said i jestingly. "'and now, aunt,' began klaus again, 'i have a piece of news which will please you as it has me; but i do not know if anna maria--but then, it is nearly three years since that painful affair!' "as he spoke he took a letter from the pocket of his linen coat, and looking at it said: 'stürmer is back again, indeed has been for two weeks; i do not understand----' "at that instant something fell clattering to the floor, and in the door-way stood anna maria, white as a corpse. in questioning alarm her eyes were fixed on klaus's lips. i had never seen the strong-willed girl thus. klaus sprang up and went toward her; i heard her say only the one word 'stürmer.' "'he is here, anna maria,' replied her brother; 'does that startle you so?' "she shook her head, but her looks belied her. "'i have just received this note,' continued klaus, and he read as follows: "'my dear old friend: "'i landed here again two weeks ago, for the longing for home finally overcame me; and when one has wandered about for three years, it is time, for various reasons, to return to the ancestral home. i come from--but i will tell you all that when i see you. i have already been twice before your door, to say good-day, but--i am meanwhile of the opinion that the past should not interfere with our old friendly relations. i certainly came off conqueror! it will not be hard for anna maria to receive an old friend, which i have never ceased to be, and which i shall always endeavor to remain. may i come, then? to-morrow morning, after church, i had intended to make a call, if you permit it. my compliments to the ladies. "'ever yours, "'edwin stÜrmer.' "a deep pink flush had mounted to anna maria's cheeks as he read, and at the words 'i certainly came off conqueror! it will not be hard for anna maria to receive an old friend,' there was a quiver of pain on her delicate lips. when klaus finished, she had quite recovered her self-possession. 'i shall be glad to see edwin stürmer again,' she said clearly; 'ask him to eat a plate of soup with us.' "'that is lovely of you, anna maria!' cried klaus, rejoiced. 'the poor fellow has gotten over it, it is to be hoped; meeting again for the first time is naturally somewhat painful, but you have done nothing so bad. how could you help it that he loves you, and you not him? splendid old fellow, he----' "anna maria's eyes wandered with a strange expression over the green trees outside; she kept her lips tightly closed, as if making an effort to repress a cry, and was still standing thus when klaus sat down at the writing table near by, to answer stürmer's note. "'where is susanna?' she asked at last. "'she must be asleep,' i replied. "she turned and left the room. "'klaus,' i said, going up to him, 'it seems to me a dangerous experiment for stürmer to return here.' "'why, aunt?' he asked; 'anna maria certainly does not love him; and he? bah! if he were not sure of his heart, he would not come; he simply declares himself cured!' "'are you so sure that anna maria does not love him?' "he looked at me, as if to read in my face whether or no i had lost my senses. 'i don't understand that, aunt,' he replied, shaking his head. 'if she loves him she would have married him; there was nothing in the world to hinder. for heaven's sake, aunt, don't see any ghosts. i am so inexpressibly glad to have a man again in the neighborhood with whom one can talk about something besides the harvest and the weather.' "yes, yes! he was right, of course. i did not know myself at that moment how the thought had really come to me. "and klaus rode into the field again, and i sat waiting for susanna; round about, the deepest silence, only a couple of flies buzzing about on the window-panes; an hour slipped away, and yet another. why, why, the hands of the clock were pointing all at once at half-past six; i had had a nap, as ailing old maids have a right to do occasionally. the sinking sun was now peeping, deep golden, through the trees; one such impertinent ray had waked me. had susanna been here? i rose and went to my room, and then across to susanna's: it was impossible that she should still be sleeping. "no, the room was empty. the sun flooded it for a moment with a crimson light, and made it seem almost cosey; or was it the bunches of flowers all about on the tables and stands? even the 'mischief-maker' had a garland of corn-flowers hung over the frame, and a sunbeam falling obliquely on her full lips lit them up with a crimson light. no trace of susanna; her black gauze fichu lay on the floor in the middle of the room; on the sofa, half-hidden in the cushions, was a note. i drew it out--old maids are allowed to be curious--and my eyes fell on a bold handwriting which, to my surprise, read as follows: "'three o'clock this afternoon, in the dambitz pines!' "how every possibility whirled through my head then! klaus had seen aright! but who, for heaven's sake, had written this? with whom had susanna a meeting there! i thought and thought, and all manner of strange ideas arose in my mind, and susanna did not come; she had never stayed away so long before. the supper-bell rang, and we three sat alone again at the table, for the first time in a long while, and worried about the girl. all the servants were questioned, and two lads sent along the dambitz road. "i did not know if i ought to speak of the letter. i should have liked to speak first to susanna alone; so i decided to wait and not cause any further disturbance. anna maria was noticeably indifferent, and thought susanna would certainly come soon, she had probably gone to sleep in the wood. but she must have felt an inward anxiety, for her hands trembled and her face was flushed with excitement. "klaus rose without having tasted anything. after a little we heard again the sound of horse's hoofs on the pavement of the court; he was riding out then to search for the missing one. anna maria mechanically gave her orders for next day, and i walked alone through the dusky paths in the garden. it was an unusually warm august evening; the moon was rising in the east, the steel-blue sky above was cloudless, and from the wood there came a light, refreshing breath of air. from the court came the sound of men and maids singing, as they made merry after the hot day's work. ah! how many, many such evenings had i known here, and this one brought back to me a precious memory of my youth, with all its pleasure and all its suffering. every tree, every bush i had known from my earliest youth. everything which life had brought to me was associated with this little spot of ground. that feeling is known only to one who can say to himself, 'here on this spot you were born, here will you live, and here will you die,' and it is a sweet feeling! so i sat down in perfect content on a bench at the end of the garden, and in my dim retreat rejoiced in all the beauty about me, yet at the same time worrying about susanna. then i suddenly heard some one talking not far from me: "'and then don't look so sorrowful to-morrow, do you hear, susy? and in any case wear the white dress to church to-morrow; i have my reasons for wishing it. and to-morrow afternoon i will come; it has been long enough, i can certainly come to visit you for once. and don't let out anything, darling. what will you answer if they ask you where you have been so long?' "'nothing at all!' answered susanna's voice defiantly. 'i do not like to tell a lie, i shall not do it; but i shall not come to dambitz again, it is too far away for me.' "'very fine!' was the reply; and i now recognized the voice of the old actress. 'i have walked about with you in my arms all night long many a time, no step was too much for me; and you will not go an hour's distance away for my sake? i think of nothing but you and your future; i devise plans and take pains to make your lot happy; i take up my abode in a wretched peasant's house with a shingle roof, and everlasting smell of the stable only to be near you; i sew my eyes and fingers sore--and you--?' and she broke out in violent sobbing, which, however, it seemed to me, made no impression upon susanna, for she remained still as a mouse. "'go, susy, be good,' the old woman began again. 'i have just given you the pretty little dress to-day; look at it by and by and see how carefully it is embroidered.' and now her voice sank to a whisper, and immediately after susanna's little figure ran quickly from the thicket and passed close by me; she carried a white parcel in her hand, and her round hat on her arm. i could distinctly see her flashing eyes and red cheeks. i rose quickly, i _must_ speak before any one else saw her. 'susanna!' i tried to call, but the name remained on my lips; for in the path along which she flew stood, as if charmed thither, the tall figure of a man, and klaus's deep voice sounded in my ears: "'susanna! thank god!' "had i heard aright? they were only three simple words, words which perhaps every one would say to a person who had been missed and anxiously sought. but here a perfect torrent of passion and anxiety gushed forth, as hot and stifling as the summer night in which the words were spoken. "i sat down again and leaned my swimming head on my hand. 'my god, klaus, klaus!' i stammered. 'what is to come of this? this child! their circumstances compare so unfavorably, he cannot possibly want to marry her; what, then, draws him to her? what conflicts must arise if he really thinks of it! god preserve him from such a passion! it is surely impossible; it cannot, must not be! oh, susanna, that you had never come to this house!' "and round about me whispered the night-wind in the trees; the full moon had risen golden, and bathed field and wood with a bluish light. and susanna is so young, and susanna is so fair! was it, then, strange if klaus loved her? what cared love and passion for all the considerations which i had just brought up. and their--oh, god! what would anna maria say? "and i rose, quite depressed, to go to my room and collect my thoughts. klaus must have taken susanna into the house long ago. now anna maria would ask where she had been. and she would not answer, as often before, and anna maria would speak harsh words and klaus walk restlessly about the room! nothing of all this. as i went slowly along the path i caught sight of a dark figure on the stone bench under the linden. 'anna maria?' i asked myself. 'is she waiting here for susanna?' she looked fixedly out toward the dark country, and the moon made her face look whiter than ever. "'anna maria!' i called, 'susanna has come back!' she sprang up suddenly, hastily drawing her lace veil over her forehead; but i saw, as i came nearer, that tears were shining in her eyes. "'have you been anxious?' i asked, and put my arm in hers, to support myself, as we walked on. "'anxious?' she repeated questioningly. 'yes--no,' she replied absently. 'ah, you said susanna has come? i knew perfectly well that she would, aunt, she is so fond of roving about; that comes from the vagabond blood of her mother, no doubt.' "'anna maria!' i exclaimed, startled. "'certainly, aunt rose,' she repeated, 'it is in her, it ferments in her little head and shines from her eyes. so often i have noticed when she is standing by me or sitting opposite me, busied with some work, how her looks wander away, in eager impatience; how only the consciousness 'i must obey' compels her to stay still by me. then she naturally makes use of every opportunity to rush out, to lie down under some tree and forget time and the present. happy being, thus constituted, through whose veins runs no slow, pedantic, duty-bound blood!' "we were standing just at the bottom of the terrace, and i involuntarily seized hold of the railing to steady myself. was it anna maria who spoke such words! was not the whole world turned upside down then? and i saw in the moonlight that her lips quivered and tears shone in her eyes. had anna maria something to regret in her life? and, like a flash of lightning, edwin stürmer's handsome face came before my mind's eye. "'anna maria,' i whispered, 'what did you say? who--?' but i got no further, for the sound of a woman's voice fell on our ears; so full, so sweet and ringing the tones floated out on the summer night, so strangely were time and tune suited to the words, that we lingered there breathless. anna maria looked up toward the open window in the upper story. 'susanna!' she said softly. 'home have i come, my heart burns with pain. ah, that i only could wander again!' sounded down below. "but what was the matter with anna maria? she fairly flew back into the garden. i stood still and waited; the singing above had ceased. 'anna maria!' i called. no answer. what an evening this was, to be sure! anna maria, who took the most serious view of the world, who hated nothing more than sentimentality and moonlight reveries, was running about in the garden, moved to tears by a little song! they were all incomprehensible to me to-day--klaus, susanna, and anna maria, but especially the latter. how could i talk to her about susanna to-day? i had to keep my discovery to myself; the best thing i could do would be to go up myself to susanna and ask her, for we should hardly assemble about the round table in the sitting-room this evening, and anna maria would hardly be in the mood to read aloud the evening prayers as usual. and klaus? no, i would not see him at all; better to-morrow by daylight, when he would be his old self again, when his voice would have lost its sultry summer-night cadence, it was to be hoped. no more to-day, i had had enough. i should not be able to sleep, as it was. "and so i went, like a ghost, up the moonlit steps, and stole along the corridor to susanna's door, and knocked softly. no answer. i lifted the latch and went in. the room was lighted only by the moon, and the heavy odor of flowers came toward me; a pale ray shone just over the white pillows of the bed and fell on susanna's face. she was fast asleep; her neck and arms glistened like marble. should i wake her? she would surely stifle in this air. i stole past her, opened a window, and set the bunches of flowers out on the balcony. the room looked topsy-turvy, but on the sofa was spread out with evident care the toilet for to-morrow--the white dress, little shoes and stockings, even hat and hymn-book for church. "i closed the window again softly and stole out of the girl's room. let her sleep; in this enchanted moonlight it would be impossible to say anything reasonable, i thought. indeed, i reproached myself afterward for not having waked her from her dreams, in order to have brought all my old maid's prose to bear against all this flower-scented poetry. but what would it have availed? for god almighty holds in his hands the threads of human destiny. it had to be thus." chapter viii. "the next morning broke as prosaic and calm as i could desire. the sun shone with obtrusive clearness into the most remote corner, and mercilessly set out everything in a dazzling light. from below, out-of-doors, i heard the sound of anna maria's voice, and caught something about 'string-beans for the servants' kitchen.' klaus whistled out of the window, and immediately after i heard a dialogue concerning waldemann (the _teckel_), who was just limping across the court, having jammed his foot in the stable-door, according to the coachman's account. klaus's voice, thank god, had not a suspicion of that weak intonation of last evening. relieved, and smiling at my fears of yesterday, i got ready for church. if we can only get well over the first meeting with stürmer, it may be quite a pleasant sunday, i reasoned; i was wishing some visitor would come, that we might not be so much by ourselves. "when our church-bell began to ring we three of the family were standing down-stairs in the sitting-room waiting for susanna. anna maria looked weary and unnerved, and an old sort of expression lay about her mouth; she moved quickly and was plainly out of humor at susanna's want of punctuality. the festal earnestness that usually pervaded her whole being in going to church was lacking to-day. 'rieke!' she called to the housemaid, 'go to fräulein mattoni and ask if she will be ready soon; we are waiting for her.' the girl came back with the answer that the young lady had not quite finished her toilet, and begged the others to go on. "'i will wait for her,' said klaus quickly, right out of his kind, chivalrous heart, but it brought to my mind the voice of last evening. "'you will let your old aunt limp to church alone, for the first time?' i asked jokingly. "'ah, _pardon_!' he replied at once. 'old my aunt certainly is not yet; on that ground i might leave you; but i--may i beg the honor?' he asked, offering me his arm. "anna maria walked ahead; there was something majestic in her walk, and as she stepped from the garden through the gate of the church-yard, and, walking between the rows of graves, recognized the peasants with an inclination of her fair head, kindly stroking the flaxen heads of the children, and here and there saying a friendly word to an old man or woman, all eyes followed her with reverence and admiration, while klaus received more trusting looks, and even cheers. when in our pew in the church, she bent her head low and prayed long, and then cast a shy look toward the opposite gallery, the place of the dambitz gentry; dambitz had always been in the parish of bütze, and many a happy time have the stürmers sat on that side and the hegewitzes on this, and listened to the simple discourse of the clergyman and bowed the head in devout humility. those were the good old times, when the nobility led the way before the people, with the motto: 'fear god and honor the king!' "all at once a thrill went through anna maria's body, but her face looked coldly over to the stürmer gallery; she bent her head slightly and returned a greeting. there he was standing bodily, my old favorite, and i almost nodded my head off at him and made secret signs with my handkerchief. his dark eyes sent a happy greeting across to me--edwin stürmer was really there. "the clear voice with which anna maria joined in the singing drew my looks to her again. she sang quietly with the congregation, but a crimson flush of deep agitation lay on her face; it was evidently excessively painful to her to see him again. "what the sermon was about on that day i cannot tell, for before the clergyman ascended the pulpit something occurred which nearly put an end to the devotions of all the small congregation and obliged me to leave the church. "i had fixed my eyes steadily on stürmer, as if i could not look my fill at the man's handsome curly head; and the good god surely forgave me, for i was as fond of edwin as if he were my own child. all at once, during the singing, i saw him start and look intently across to me; and, following the direction of his gaze, i observed--susanna. she had on a white muslin dress, her neck and arms lightly covered by the misty material; she held her hat in her hand, her black hair clustered in rich curls about her small head; a white rose was placed carelessly in her hair, and a bunch of the same flowers rose and fell on her bosom, and as white as they was her sweet face as she raised it again after a short prayer. "most beautiful was this young creature, but, may god forgive me! i was bitterly angry with her for being so and for coming to church dressed up as if for a ball. 'incorrigible comedian blood,' i scolded to myself. i thanked god that klaus could not see her from his seat, and gave stürmer an unfriendly look because he kept looking over at our pew. all at once, as the clergyman was singing the liturgy, susanna put her hand to her forehead, as if to grasp something there, and then sank back silently, with closed eyes, into her seat. "i cannot tell now the exact order in which all this happened; i only remember that a chair was overturned with a loud noise, that the clergyman was silent for an instant, and that there was a movement among the congregation; at the same time klaus left our pew, carrying out the white figure in his arms, like a feather. i rose at once to follow him. anna maria's head was bent low over her hymn-book; was she going to take no notice of the affair? but now she slowly rose, and went behind me down the narrow, creaking flight of steps which led up outside the church to our pew; it was provided with a wooden roof as a protection against wind and storms, and the ivy which grew over the whole church adorned it like a bridal arch with green festoons. "klaus was just disappearing into one of the nearest cottages, whose shining window-panes looked out like clear eyes beneath the gray shingle-roof, not at all sad at the constant view of the little church-yard. marieken märtens and her husband lived here; she had been in anna maria's service, a quick, industrious girl, but once was sent away in the utmost haste because she--but that has nothing to do with the case. anna maria had her brought back again at that time, and she was married from the manor-house, and since then anna maria and i had each held a curly brown head over the font. when there was anything going on at our house--that is, when there was extra work--marieken came and helped. "she was at the threshold coming to meet us already, wiping her hands on her clean apron, and pushing back her eldest child. 'she is lying on the sofa inside,' she whispered. 'oh, the master looks pale as death from fright!' anna maria stepped by me into the little room; she made a sign for me to stay outside, so i sat down on the wooden stool that marieken placed in the entry for me, and listened intently for every sound from within. "for a little while all was still. marieken ran in with fresh water, and then i heard anna maria say: 'how are you now, susanna?' "'go back to church quite easy,' came the reply; 'it was a momentary weakness. i am very sorry to have given you such anxiety and trouble.' and the next moment the girl was standing on the threshold, a crimson blush overspreading her whole face, and without noticing me at all, she flew to the outside door and across the church-yard; her fluttering white dress appeared again for an instant in the frame of the gateway leading to our garden; then she had vanished like an apparition. "shaking my head, i rose to go into the little room and hear what was to be done now. but i sat down again, almost stunned at the sound of klaus's voice, which came out to me so crushingly cold and clear: "'i should like to ask you, anna maria, to occupy the girl hereafter in some way better suited to her; this swoon was the natural effect of constant over-exertion.' "i could not picture anna maria to myself at this moment, for klaus had never used such a tone to her before. my old heart began to beat violently from anxiety. 'it is here! it is here!' i said to myself. 'yes, it had to come!' "'i think this swoon is rather a consequence of susanna's running about too much in the fearful heat yesterday,' she replied coldly. 'however, as you wish; i will leave it entirely to you to decide what occupation is most fitting for susanna mattoni.' "'great heavens! anna maria, do you not understand?' klaus rejoined, almost imploringly. 'look at the girl: she is delicate and accustomed to the easy life of a large city, never to a regular life. i beg you not to take it amiss, it is my opinion and----' "'i am sorry that i have made such a mistake,' anna maria interrupted, icily. 'i have tried to do my best for this unfortunate child, who has grown up in most wretched circumstances. i wanted to make a capable, housewifely maiden of her, but i see myself that such miserable comedian blood is not to be improved, and i ask you now only for one thing----' "she broke off. what would come now? i looked about me in horror to see if any one were listening. but marieken was clattering about with her pots and pans in the kitchen, and the children were playing before the outside door. "'that you will not require me to endure this frivolous creature, this frippery and finery, this trifling, flighty being. i have an unspeakable aversion to her,' she concluded. "'so that is your confession of faith, anna maria?' asked klaus, and his voice sounded angry. 'i tell you susanna mattoni remains here in the family. i will have it, for a sacred promise binds me, and i hope that you will never let her feel what you think of her. her light-mindedness, her unsteadiness, and all the faults which you have just cited, cannot be laid to her charge, for from her youth up she has never learned to recognize them as faults. of frivolity, moreover, i have no evidences, for a couple of bonbons do not seem to me sufficient proof.' "'i cannot act contrary to my convictions,' returned anna maria, 'and if i am no longer to educate susanna as i think well for her, you had better find another place for her.' "i had sprung up and laid hold of the door-handle; for heaven's sake! there would be a quarrel. but the storm had already drawn near. "'susanna is to remain, i tell you!' thundered klaus. 'do you quite forget who is master of the house? it appears to me i have let you go on for years in an immeasurable error, in letting you govern uncontrolled, and assenting to all your arrangements. it is time for you to remember whose place it is to decide matters at bütze.' "merciful heaven! my knees trembled; how was this to end? and now there was no sound there within; only the low singing of the young wife was heard from the kitchen, where she was rocking her youngest child to sleep; and i stole softly away from the door and sat down on the wooden bench before the house. over the quiet, green graves in the church-yard lay a sunday calm, only a light breath of wind rustled in the tall trees. over in the little church the sermon was just finished, the sermon for the fifth sunday after trinity. the sound of the organ and singing of the congregation floated across to me, and my lips repeated the words: "'ah! stay with thy clearness. precious light, with us stay; let thy truth shine upon us, that we go not astray.' "ah, yes, clearness, clearness and truth and peace; help us in all time of need! i knew klaus, i knew anna maria. an almost exaggerated sense of duty, an iron will when she thought she was doing the right thing, inflexibility--that was the hegewitz character; good, solid qualities when they got on peaceably together, but thus? and there was stürmer coming out of the church door; he had not waited till the hymn was finished, and was now hastening up to me. "'fräulein rosamond, you still here?' he asked. 'who----' "but i did not give him time to finish. 'come, edwin, give me your arm, i have been waiting for some one to escort me back.' and actually dragging away the astonished man, i succeeded in getting him into the park without betraying the presence of klaus and anna maria in the little room. "'and now, a thousand times welcome, dear edwin,' said i, breathing freely again, as we walked under the shady trees. 'how have you been? how delightful it is to have you here again, and how well and strong you are looking!' "he bent to kiss my hand. 'yes, thank god that i am among old friends again!' he replied heartily. 'how have things gone here? but why do i ask? well, of course; at least, i saw you all unaltered in church. but i would like to ask, at the risk of appearing curious, who was the young lady who--oh!' he stopped, and pointed toward the thick, dark shrubbery at one side, holding my arm so firmly in his that i was obliged to stand still. "there sat susanna in the deepest shade of the thicket. she was leaning her elbows on the table, and her oval face rested on her clasped hands; motionless, like a lovely statue, she was looking down before her. "a golden sunbeam flitted back and forth over the white figure; an expression full of pain and woe lay on the lovely face, which i had never before seen so sad and tearful. "'the poor child!' i sighed involuntarily. and as stürmer almost forced me into a side-path, i briefly satisfied his curiosity. 'she is the daughter of professor mattoni; you remember klaus's old tutor?' "my head was in a whirl, for i knew not what more might happen to-day. "'and is she to live here always?' inquired edwin stürmer. "'yes--no!' i returned hesitatingly; i did not know what to answer. i sought to reach the terrace and garden-parlor as quickly as possible, and to my inexpressible relief saw klaus, as if transported there by magic, coming to the door to meet his guest; an uninitiated person would scarcely have seen the slight cloud on his brow. "i did not linger with them, but went to seek anna maria, and found her in the sitting-room, pale but calm. i was glad to avoid the greeting between her and stürmer, and caught only his look as he bent low over her hands. "anna maria was a perfect enigma to me; i understood the outbreak of passion of last evening as little as this decided opposition to-day. yet the latter was less inexplicable, for she too, must have seen the sparks already glowing in klaus's heart. but she had taken the wrong course. any man of chivalry, if told that he must turn a weak, helpless woman out of the house where she has found a shelter, will refuse to do it; particularly if she be as young, as strikingly beautiful as susanna, and--if he is already in love with her. to me it was an incontestable fact: klaus loved the girl! perhaps he did not know yet himself how much; but that he did love her i had seen and--feared. "i came to the table in a thoroughly unpleasant frame of mind. 'to-day is the beginning of the end: what will the end be?' i said to myself, sighing. that was a strange dinner; susanna had excused herself, klaus was chary of words, and anna maria forced herself to be talkative and affable in a way quite contrary to her nature; a little red spot burned on her chin, the sign of violent agitation. "brockelmann announced that the old actress had suddenly arrived; to be sure, i had quite forgotten about her. anna maria made no answer; klaus looked sharply at her, and then gave orders for the old woman to be given some dinner. stürmer talked a long time about his travels, and pastor grüne came to coffee. the gentlemen were soon involved in a scientific conversation about the excavations at pompeii, at which stürmer had been present several times, and anna maria walked slowly up and down on the terrace, now and then casting a look at the gentlemen, through the open door of the garden-parlor. "i sat under the shady roof of the wild-grape, and knitted, and followed her with my eyes. anna maria had on a light-blue linen dress, and a thin white cape over her rosy shoulders; her heavy plaits shimmered like gold, and her complexion was fresh as a flower. anna maria had made her toilet with especial care to-day; she was the picture of a typical north german woman, tall, fair, slender, and clear-sighted, serene, and calm. "all at once she stopped in front of me. 'aunt rosamond, do you think that susanna mattoni has been overworked in any way? i mean, can her temporary weakness be the result of that?' "'yes, anna maria,' i replied, 'i am convinced of it, for she had not been accustomed to doing anything. she has hitherto sat in a cage like a bird; when such a creature tries to fly all at once, it is soon made lame by the motion.' "she made no reply, and continued her walking. the conversation grew louder indoors; the gentlemen were now sitting over their rhine wine. the cool breeze of approaching evening began to blow, and the sun was hidden behind a bank of clouds. "'ah! stürmer, do stay till evening,' i heard klaus say. 'it will never do not to finish the day together, after beginning it so; do not pervert our good old custom.' "anna maria stood still and listened. but instead of an answer we heard the chairs pushed back, and then klaus's voice again: "'ah! susanna, have you quite recovered? allow me to present baron stürmer.' "anna maria turned and looked out toward the garden. "pastor grüne inquired after the health of the young girl, and soon they all came out on the terrace. susanna went up to anna maria at once, and held out her hand, saying: 'forgive me for having frightened you this morning. i do not know how it happened; everything grew dark before my eyes, and----' "'oh! certainly,' interrupted anna maria, touching the girl's hand but lightly; 'i was not at all frightened; a swoon is nothing so unusual.' "susanna blushed up to her black curls, and sat down quietly by my side. "'has isa gone?' i asked her. "she nodded. 'she went half an hour ago.' "'just where does she live?' i inquired. "'in dambitz,' was the reply. "i let my work drop from astonishment. 'in dambitz? how did she happen to go to dambitz?' "'s---- was too far away, fräulein rosamond,' stammered susanna shyly, 'and so she has hired a little room there at the blacksmith's. but she says she does not notice the noise of the forge at all; her windows look out on the castle garden, and that is wonderful, she says. she may live there, may she not?' she added, beseechingly; 'it is certainly far enough from here.' "'of course she can live where she pleases, susanna,' said i; 'we have no right to lay down commands about that.' "meanwhile brockelmann had set the table for supper on the terrace, and we seated ourselves. candles were now burning on the table, and their unsteady, flickering light fell on susanna's beautiful pale face. her white dress was made quite fresh again, and even the withered roses were replaced by fresh ones; one could see that the old isabella had been helping the child. "susanna was seated between klaus and me, stürmer and anna maria opposite. there was a strawberry _bowle_ on the table, and susanna drank eagerly; gradually color came into her cheeks, and her dark eyes began to shine. and then all at once she was in her element--laughing, jesting, and mirth. and how she could laugh! i have never heard such a laugh as susanna mattoni's. it ran the whole compass of the scale, so light and delicious that one was forced to join in it; and as she laughed, her red mouth displayed the prettiest white teeth, and prattled mere nonsense and follies, and as she held high her glass to touch with stürmer, i saw klaus look at her with an expression that spoke even more plainly than his trembling voice yesterday. "anna maria sat silent opposite her, and not the faintest smile passed over her lips; this graceful trifling was decidedly unpleasant to her. but susanna had the majority on her side, for even honest old pastor grüne did not conceal the fact that he was fascinated by her. "i tried to think how i might silence the little red lips, but in vain. at last a thought struck me. 'susanna 'i cried in the midst of her sweet laugh, 'susanna, what do you say to a song? i heard you singing so prettily last evening.' "'ah! no, no, mademoiselle,' she objected; 'i cannot sing before people.' "but the gentlemen echoed my request with one voice, and stürmer proposed to extinguish the candles, saying that one could surely sing better by moonlight. "'yes, yes!' she said joyfully, 'then i will sing!' and soon the reddish light had disappeared, and the pale moon's silvery rays fell on the bright figure of the girl, who had sprung up and was now standing by the railing. "'what shall i sing?' she asked, 'italian or german?' "'german! german!' cried the gentlemen. "'oh! please susanna,' said i, 'the song you were singing last evening; anna maria and i did not understand the words very well.' "anna maria suddenly rose, but as if thinking better of it, sat down again. stürmer had turned half around in his chair and was looking at susanna. "and now she began, leaning on the balustrade; and the same tones came to us, soft and sweet, and the same words we had heard last evening: "'far through the world i have wandered away, and the old strife goes with me wherever i stray; home have i come, and my heart burns with pain, ah, that i only could wander again! i am held not by walls, not by bolts, not by bars-- two great blue eyes hold me, that shine like the stars i and were but my fiery steed by my side, again on his willing back fain would i ride; he would bear me away, far away from my home-- but i've seen thee again, and can never more roam!' "i looked at anna maria in alarm, but her face was turned away, and only in her trembling white hands, which she had clasped, did i detect the agitation wrought in her by this song. who had thought of such a song? and stürmer? he had sprung up and stood close by susanna. "'another song, fräulein,' he demanded, almost vehemently, 'a different one. you are much too young for such melancholy!' "'a german knows no different songs, herr baron,' objected pastor grüne. 'old national songs are sad, usually the lament for a faithless love, for a dead treasure. let our nation be as it is in this. i would rather have one little german national song than a dozen french _chansons_.' "stürmer did not answer, and there was a painful silence. "'another song?' asked susanna at last--'a lively one?' "'yes!' cried klaus, 'a lively one, a hunting-song, susanna, or a drinking-song! 'he had risen in embarrassment at the critical situation, and filled his glass afresh. "and susanna began, in a merry strain: "'in the early morn a-hunting i went, past my darling's house my steps i bent. "'up to the window a glance i threw. ah! if she would look down, good luck would ensue. "'in vain, she's still dreaming; but something stirred. by the apple-tree yonder a laugh was heard. "'and bright as the rosy morning so fair, my dear little treasure i saw standing there. "'nodding and smiling, she beckoned away, but not one lucky shot had i on that day. "'are they bewitched, then, my powder and lead? each ball flies away, bringing down nothing dead.' "susanna suddenly stopped, as if exhausted, and drew a long breath. the laugh had vanished for a moment from her face. "'more, more!' cried the gentlemen. 'the charming song cannot possibly be finished?' asked stürmer. "'no, the conclusion is surely wanting,' added pastor grüne. and susanna drew a long breath and sang on: "'and again past the house i was going to-day; little grandmother peeped at me over the way. "'with a shake of the head. she calls with sweet grace, "god greet you, and are you off to the chase?" "'and with all my might i cursed the old dame; but my arm remained steady, i missed no aim. "'and when in surprise i told liebchen the tale. she began to laugh in a perfect gale.' "the last verse ended in a real laugh, so roguish and charming and so irresistible that we were all drawn into it. "'now that is enough!' she cried at last. 'oh! i do so like to hear how people have to laugh with me when i begin! oh! i have done it so often when isa tried to scold me, but now'--she suddenly stopped--'i haven't laughed for so long, i thought i should have forgotten how, but, thank fortune, i can still do it! oh, i do like to laugh so!' "anna maria rose and went into the garden-parlor, as if she had something to attend to there, but she did not come back, nor did she come when stürmer and the clergyman wished to take their leave of her. klaus looked for her in the sitting-room, and even went up to her bedroom, but he returned alone, and the gentlemen had to leave without bidding her good-by. "'pray excuse anna maria, dear edwin,' i heard klaus say; 'she probably does not dream of your going so early; you are certainly in a great hurry.' "it was true; stürmer's departure was very abrupt; toward the last he had scarcely spoken a word. i thought it was because he was reminded of his first love; that melody and the words still kept ringing in my ears; an unfortunate song! "susanna had long been in bed when klaus and i stood together in the sitting-room again. i had firmly resolved to inform him of my observations of the evening before, for i saw that anna maria was not to be spoken to again about susanna. "'klaus!' i began. he was walking slowly up and down, his hands behind him, and an anxious wrinkle on his brow. 'klaus, do you know where the old actress is living now?' "he stood still. 'no, aunt, but--do not take offence--it is quite a matter of indifference to me. forgive me, my head is so full.' "i was silent. 'good!' thought i; 'he is indifferent at last, then.' "'please tell me,' he now turned around to me, 'what you think about anna maria? i do not understand her at all as she is now.' "'you do not either of you understand each other, as you are now,' i replied, not without sharpness. "klaus blushed. 'that may be,' he said, stroking his face. "'klaus,' i continued, 'do not let it go further, do not let this discord between you take root. you are the eldest, klaus, a reasonable man----' "'no, aunt, no; in this i am right!' he interrupted vehemently. 'you do not know what passed between us this morning----' "he broke off abruptly and turned to his newspaper at at the table, for anna maria had come in. the basket of keys hung at her side, and she had tied a white apron over her dress. brockelmann followed her with the silver that had been in use to-day, and was now rubbed up, ready to be put away. anna maria opened the carved corner-cupboard, and began to lay away the shining silver, piece by piece, in its place. "klaus had seated himself and was turning over the newspapers; the clock already pointed to midnight. the windows were open, and from time to time faint flashes of lightning lighted up the sky over the barns and stables. i had become wide awake again all at once; i could not and would not let these two be alone again to-night; they should not speak together about susanna. "but anna maria now closed the cupboard and went up to her brother. 'klaus,' she said in a soft voice, 'let us not leave each other thus; let us talk the matter over once more, quietly.' "he laid down the paper and looked at her in surprise. a faint flush lay on her face, and her attitude was almost beseeching. 'gladly, anna maria,' he replied, rising; 'you mean concerning susanna's future employment? have you any proposals to make?' "'yes,' she said, firmly; and after a pause continued: 'i will yield to your opinion that physical labor is not the right thing for susanna. but a life of dreamy idleness i consider far more injurious to her. indeed, klaus, my personal feelings toward susanna do not speak in this. i do not hate her, but that her nature is uncongenial to me i must own. so, then, without regard to that, klaus, i must repeat what i said this morning: let susanna go away from here, take care of her somewhere else; she is out of place here; do it for her own sake.' "she had spoken beseechingly, and stepping nearer him, laid her right hand on his shoulder. "'well, what more?' he asked, rapidly stroking his beard. 'where would you think best to banish this child?' "'send her to a good boarding-school; let her be a teacher; she is poor, and it is an honorable position, or----' "'you are probably thinking of mademoiselle lenon in this connection, anna maria?' rejoined klaus. 'i still have her "honorable position" distinctly before my eyes, which she held in dealing with your stubbornness. if there ever was a being totally unfit to take upon herself the martyrdom of a governess, it is susanna mattoni!' "a slight shadow passed over anna maria's face as he spoke of her stubbornness, but she was silent. "'perhaps,' continued klaus bitterly, 'you would also like to make an actress of her because she happens to have a voice and recites charmingly.' he pushed away the newspapers and sprang up. 'i am unutterably exasperated, anna maria, that you should venture to repeat this proposition. i was not prepared for it, i must confess! what makes you appear so hostile toward susanna? do you know, you who live here in happy security, what it means for a girl so young, so inexperienced, to be thus thrust into the world? surely not! you fulfil your duties here, you care and labor as hundreds would not do in your place; but here you act the mistress, inapproachable, untouched by all the common things of life. you do not know, even by name, those humiliations which a woman in a dependent position must endure. i know, indeed, that hundreds _must_ endure them, and hundreds, perhaps, do not feel what they are deprived of; but this girl _would_ feel it, and would be unhappy, most unhappy! "he paused for a moment and looked at anna maria. she had clasped her hands, and coldly and steadily returned his look; an almost mocking smile lay on her lips, and put klaus beside himself. "'you certainly have no comprehension of this!' he cried, his face flushed with anger. 'you have everything, anna maria, but you have never possessed a heart! you can do everything but that which glorifies and ennobles a woman--love. anna maria, that you cannot do! i feel deep pity for you, for you lack a woman's sweetest charm; love and pity go hand-in-hand. i could not imagine you as a solicitous wife, or even as a mother; how can i expect pity for a strange child?' "'klaus! for god's sake, stop!' i entreated in mortal terror, for anna maria had grown pale as death, and her eyes stared out into the dark night with a vacant, terrified expression, but not a word of defence passed her lips. klaus shook off my hand, and continued with unchecked vehemence: "'it is time for me to tell you, anna maria; it must be said some time. i am your guardian, and it is my right and my duty. i must, alas! accuse myself of having given you too much liberty, and you have abused it. you have become cold and hard; i said before i could not imagine you as a loving mother, as a wife--that you will never be, for you will not bend. you would never do a rash, thoughtless act, but you are unable to make a sacrifice from real affection from your innermost heart--because you do not understand loving, anna maria. as i looked at edwin to-day, my heart and courage sank; if ever a man was created to win a maiden's love, it is he! but you, anna maria, just as you let him go away, so you will let susanna; it is not hard for you, because you have no heart----' "'stop, klaus, stop!' anna maria's voice rang through the room, in piercing woe; despairingly she stretched out her arms toward him. 'say nothing more, not one word; i cannot bear it!' one could see that she wanted to say more; her trembling lips parted, but no sound passed them, and in another moment she had turned and gone quickly out of the room. "'oh, klaus!' i cried, weeping, 'you were too hard; you had no occasion to speak so!' but i stood alone in my tears, for klaus also left the room, for the first time failing to pay attention to his aunt, and slammed the door behind him. "yes, i stood alone and believed myself dreaming! was this the comfortable old room at bütze, where formerly peace had dwelt bodily? the candles flickered restlessly on the table, a chilling draught of air came through the open window, and thunder faintly muttered in the distance. no, peace had flown, and injustice, care, and animosity had entered, had pressed their way between two human hearts which till now had been united in true love; and there, up-stairs, lay and slept a fair young fellow-creature, and the picture of the mischief-maker smiled down on her, as if glad of a successor. yes, klaus was right, and anna maria was right; how was the difference to be made up? ah! how quickly is a bitter, crushing word said and heard, but a whole world of tears cannot make it unsaid again." chapter ix. "i could not sleep that night; i rose from my bed again and sat down by my window in the gray dawn, and my old heart was fearful for what must come now. i loved both the children so much, and, god knows, i would have given years of my useless life if i could have blotted out the last few months. and i was groping about wholly in the dark, for anna maria was reserved and uncommunicative, and klaus--what would he do? he could not come and say, 'aunt rosamond, i love susanna mattoni, and i wish to marry her!' i should have had to throw up my hands and laugh! klaus, the last hegewitz, and susanna mattoni, the child of an obscure actress! and klaus would have had to laugh with me. "it was a rainy day, just beginning; wonderfully cool air came through the open windows and the leaves rustled in the wind, and the rain pattered on the roofs; the maids were running across the court with their milk-pails, the poultry was being fed, and brockelmann talking to the maids, and there went the bailiff in the pasture; everything was as usual and yet so different. "then a carriage came rolling into the court-yard. heavens! that was our own with the brown span. it stopped before the front steps, and klaus came out of the house and greeted the gentleman getting out. i had leaned far out of the window, but now drew back in alarm--it was the doctor, our old reuter, and at this early hour! anna maria was my first thought. i ran out; but no, there she was, just coming out of susanna's room. she still wore her blue dress of yesterday, but there were blood-stains here and there on the large white apron. "'susanna?' i faltered. she nodded, and gave me her hand. 'go in, aunt; i wish to speak with reuter first,' she said softly; 'susanna is ill.' almost stunned, i let myself be pushed through the open door. the curtains were drawn, but on the chimney-piece a candle was burning, and threw its dim, flickering light on the girl's face, so that i could see the dark fever-roses which had bloomed upon it during the night. her eyes were wide open, but she did not know me; she thought i was isa. "'isa, i have sung, too; isa, don't be angry; it was so beautiful in the moonlight, and it did not hurt me at all.' and she began to sing: "'home have i come, my heart burns with pain-- oh! that i only could wander again!' "and then she passed her small hands over her white night-dress. 'take away the red flowers, isa!' "i laid a white cloth over it for her. poor child! the swoon, the laughing, the sweet singing, that was already fever. "old reuter came into the room and stepped up to the bed. anna maria stood behind him, the torment of expectation on her pale face, and from outside, through the unlatched door, came the sound of heavy breathing; that must be klaus. the old gentleman felt susanna's pulse long and cautiously; he was not a man of many words, and one could scarcely find out from him what one's disease was; but he turned at last to anna maria: "'a pitiful little lady, fräulein; the good god made her expressly for a knick-knack table; wrapped in cotton, sent to the south, and treated like a princess, without making any sort of exertion herself, something might yet be made of her. but first'--he drew his watch from his pocket and took hold of her hand again--'first we have enough to do here. who will undertake the nursing?' "'doctor, do you think that bodily exertion--i mean, very early rising and domestic activity--could be the cause?' asked anna maria, with faltering voice. "'up at four, and from the kitchen into the cold milk-cellar, and then again in the glowing sun, at the bleaching place, and so alternately, was it not?' asked the old gentleman. 'by all means the surest way to completely prostrate a person of such a constitution; moreover, you might have perceived it before, fräulein.' "anna maria grew a shade paler. 'but day before yesterday she walked for an hour in the heat, and sang a great deal,' i interposed, for i felt sorry for anna maria. "'then one thing has led to another,' declared the old gentleman. 'singing is poison--no more of that! will you undertake the nursing, fräulein hegewitz?' he asked me. "'no, i,' replied anna maria. "'isa! isa!' called susanna. "'where is she staying?' asked anna maria, while dr. reuter had gone out to write a prescription. "'in dambitz,' i returned, oppressed; but she did not look at all surprised. she only begged me to stay with susanna till she had changed her dress, and sent a messenger to the old woman. then she came back, so as not to stay long away from susanna's bed, for, strangely enough, mademoiselle isa pfannenschmidt did not appear. "anna maria had sent brockelmann in a carriage to fetch the old woman. meanwhile susanna pushed anna maria away with her weak hands, and called 'isa!' incessantly in her delirium. with a white face anna maria pushed her chair behind the curtains and listened to the low, eager whispering of the sick girl. but once the surging blood shot from neck to brow, as susanna spoke of klaus, and anna maria turned her eyes almost reproachfully toward the door, behind which a light step had just stopped. "that was surely klaus again; certainly twenty times during the day he came to the door to listen; yet who could have closed the little red mouth which had just called his name again, quite aloud, and laughed, and talked of bonbons, of moonlight, and of songs? "on the way to my room i met brockelmann, who had just returned, and was standing in the corridor by klaus. her face was very red; she pointed to my room, and here began to describe, in a voice half-choked with indignation, all that she had found in the dwelling of the old comedian, excepting herself. the blacksmith's wife had told her she had lately boiled some red pomade, and put it in a number of little porcelain jars, and taken them away to sell. she would often go away so, and be gone a fortnight. 'she is an old vagabond,' added brockelmann, 'a beggar-woman whom the constable ought to shut up in the nearest tower!' and with a contemptuous air she drew forth one of the little boxes in question, which was correctly tied up with gold paper, and bore a label which explained at length the red pomade and its value: '_rouge de théâtre, première qualité!_' "'paint!' said i, smiling. "'and for these sinful wares she gets a pile of money,' continued the old woman, 'and what does she do with it? she eats cakes and chocolate, and the children at the forge run about with gay silk ribbons on their rough pig-tails; and all around in the corners there were heaps of knick-knacks, enough for ten fools to trim up their caps with. it is a shame!' "'when is she coming back?' asked klaus. "'the lord only knows; she went away yesterday.' brockelmann turned to go, irritated by her vain mission, which had taken so much time. but she stopped at the door, and a friendly expression lay on her face. 'i am charged with best greetings from the herr baron,' she said; 'he was not a little surprised to see me looking into his garden from the old woman's window; i explained to him shortly what brought me there.' "'is the house so near the castle garden?' i asked. "brockelmann nodded. 'yes, indeed, the old woman sees the whole beautiful garden; and what a garden!' with that she went out. "'it is well, on the whole,' said klaus, after a pause, 'that the old woman is not there. but will brockelmann be able to nurse her?' "'no,' i replied, 'anna maria.' "'anna maria?' he asked, and his lip quivered. "'klaus,' i begged, 'don't humbug your own self. you must be convinced in your inmost heart that this girl could not have a better nurse than anna maria.' "'i have been perplexed about her,' he answered gloomily. "'and she about you!' i replied. "he grew red. 'for what reason?' he asked. 'because i took this girl under the protection of my house? because i interfered with an over-taxation of her strength? because----' he broke on. "'anna maria fears that--well, that _la petite_ will be too much spoiled,' i replied. "klaus shrugged his shoulders. 'well, and now?' he asked. 'listen, aunt, i thought nothing in the world could alter me; i thought i had become a calm, quiet man; but every nerve has twitched since i have been compelled to see how this girl is treated. once, as a little boy, i looked on, powerless with rage, to see two great boys tormenting a may-bug; they had climbed a tree because i had scratched and bitten them; my small limbs would not carry me up there, but the dumb fury, the rising tumult in my childish heart, i have never forgotten to this day; and i felt exactly the same way when i heard those little feet tripping here and there about the house--on, on, now on the kitchen-stairs, now in the corridor. do you not suppose i could see how they kept growing more and more weary, and what a mighty effort they made when anna maria's merciless voice called, "here, susanna!" or "_venez donc_, susanna!" "quickly, we will go into the milk-cellar!" "susanna, where is the key of the linen-press?" i was a coward to endure it, not to have interfered till it was too late. great heavens! it shall be different,' he cried, and his clenched fist fell threateningly on the table. the great, strong man was beside himself with anxiety and rage. "i did not venture to answer, and after a few minutes he left the room. i heard him lingering again at susanna's door, and then go away softly. the misfortune was here! poor anna maria! poor klaus! "toward noon anna maria came to me, even paler than before. 'she talks incessantly of klaus,' she said slowly. 'i knew that it must come, but klaus did not understand me. she loves him, aunt, believe me.' "my thoughts were so full of klaus that i said, quite consistently: 'and he loves her!' "anna maria did not understand me aright. 'what did you say, aunt?' she asked, the weariness all gone from her eyes. "'i said klaus is tenderly inclined toward susanna mattoni,' i repeated boldly. "the girl broke into a smile--nay, she even laughed--and i saw her firm white teeth shine for the first time for many a day; then she grew grave. 'how can you joke now, aunt?' "'_mais, mon ange_, i am not joking,' i replied warmly. anna maria puzzled me; she must have noticed it for a long time; then why was she so opposed to the child? "'you are not joking, aunt?' she asked icily. 'then you little understand how to judge klaus. klaus, with his cool reason, his calm nature, he who might have had a wife any day if he had wished, should care for this child--it is ridiculous, perfectly ridiculous!' "'but, anna maria, are you so blind?' i cried. "'i am not blind,' she replied, with one of her glances which showed plainly her contempt of my opinion. 'not till i see the two come, united, out of the church will i believe that klaus loves her, and that, aunt rosamond, neither you nor i will live to see.' "'stop, anna maria!' i begged. 'it is, of course, possible that i am mistaken, but--god grant that you are right,' i added. "anna maria was silent for a moment. 'no,' she said then, as if to herself, lifting up her arms--'no, klaus is not capable of such an error. i believe in klaus. his kind heart, his compassion for the orphan, impel him to be hard toward me; our opinions as to susanna's welfare are so contrary. but i know, aunt, that klaus loves me so much, that i stand before any other in his heart, so i will gladly bear the harshness; perhaps he has borne something harder for my sake. when susanna is gone we shall find the old good-will back again.' "'i do not believe that susanna will go away, will be allowed to go away,' i threw in, uncertainly, touched by her confidence. "her eyes shone. 'leave that to me, aunt rosa,' she replied; 'she _shall_ go, take my word for it.' "'and if you vex klaus afresh by such a demand?' "'klaus desires susanna's best good, and he will find some other place for her as soon as he learns that he is not an object of indifference to her. klaus is a man of honor, and a glance will suffice.' "'what, anna maria?' i groaned; 'you would inform him that--that----' "'yes,' she replied. "'i beg you, anna maria, do not do it; do not pour oil on the fire, my child; be silent----' "'never, aunt; i have been silent too long already!' she said decidedly. 'i saw it coming on, it had to come, and i had not the courage to warn klaus, and say: "protect this child from the saddest thing that can come to a maiden's heart; do not let it awaken into a first love, which must then be renounced."' "'anna maria, for heaven's sake,' i implored, 'how do you know so certainly that susanna no longer regards klaus with indifference? you cannot take her feverish talk for anything positive. she talks about stürmer as well as klaus. i beg you, keep silent. it is only a conjecture of yours; susanna may be in a state of uncertainty still, herself.' "'a precocious, passionate nature, like that girl's?' she asked, and went to the door, about to leave; 'there is nothing uncertain there. i owe it to her.' "'anna maria, let her get well first; it is over-hasty, and may make a dreadful jumble!' "she did not answer, but gave me a nod that agreed with her earnest look, and then left me alone with my thoughts. "how sorry i was for her, this young maiden with the heart of an old woman! how this firm confidence in klaus touched me! i had expected a little jealousy from her, had supposed that susanna's appearance seemed dangerous enough to her to rob her of her brother's heart; but nothing of all this--that she wished to preserve the girl's peace of mind. she believed in klaus with a firm, unshaken trust. 'i know that i stand before all others in his heart, only our opinions about susanna differ widely.' klaus was a man of honor, klaus could not marry susanna; it lay beyond the reach of possibility! a love without this final end was not conceivable to her pure mind; of a passion which could outreach all bounds she seemed to have no foreboding. it did not occur to her to consider her brother's altered manner, his hasty vehemence of the day before, as anything but the expression of his lively anxiety about an orphaned child, as excessive chivalry, as a justified irritation at her energetic opposition; but if she had only first spoken---- "ah, me! my old head showed me no outlet. what should i do, with whom speak? neither of them could judge of the matter as it lay now; the only remaining way was to appeal to susanna's maidenly pride. but dared i? had i the right to contrive an intrigue behind klaus's back? for, although i meant well, still it was an intrigue. and suppose that i did tread this by-way, what certainty was there that it would lead to the goal? and how, after all, should i tread it? "susanna's illness was violent but brief. the delirium had ceased by the next day, but she lay very feeble for a week after, without speaking or showing interest in anything. but her great eyes continually followed anna maria, as she moved noiselessly about the sick-room. anna maria's manner toward susanna was altered; there was a certain gentleness and tenderness about her that became her wonderfully well. whether it was sympathy with the invalid, or whether she wanted to show the girl whom she had wished to send away from the shelter of her home that she cherished no ill-will toward her, i do not know; at any rate, she took care of her like a loving mother. "after about a week susanna raised her head, begged to have the windows opened, and showed an appetite; and when the doctor came he found her sitting up in bed, eating with excellent appetite the prescribed convalescent's dish, a broth of young pigeons. "'bravo!' cried the gay little man, 'keep on so! a small glass of bordeaux, too, would do no harm.' "'and to-morrow i shall get up!' cried susanna. "'not to-morrow; and day after to-morrow i shall inspect you again before you do it,' answered the doctor. "susanna laughed, and then, with the pleasant feeling of returning health, lay back on the pillows, took a hundred-leaved rose from the bunch of flowers which klaus sent daily through anna maria, to be placed by the sick-bed, and asked--what! did i hear aright? horrified, i turned my head away and looked for anna maria; fortunately, she had gone out with the doctor--and asked: 'has klaus--herr von hegewitz--ever inquired for me?' and as she spoke her dark eyes flashed beneath the long lashes. "'oh, yes, susanna, but he is very much occupied with the harvesting now,' i said deceitfully, 'and he knows you are having the best of care.' "she nodded. 'and has not herr von stürmer been here? did he not know that i was ill?' "'stürmer? yes, i think he has been here frequently,' i replied. "'and hasn't he asked at all how i was?' she questioned me further. "'you are assuming, _ma mignonne_!' said i, irritated. 'he has inquired for you, perhaps--yes, i remember--nothing more.' "'how ungallant!' whispered susanna, sulkily. at that moment the door opened and brockelmann entered with a little basket of choice apricots, with a fresh rosebud placed here and there among them. "'an expression of regard from baron von stürmer, who sent his wishes for the fräulein's improvement, hoping that she might like to eat the fruit.' with these words the basket was set down rather roughly on the table beside the bed. the old woman's glance met mine, and in her eyes was plainly to be read: 'well, let anybody who can understand such a state of affairs; i can't!' but susanna, with a cry of joy, had seized the basket, and buried her nose in the flowers, inhaling their spicy odor. then she rested it on her knees, put her delicate arms around it, leaned her head on the dainty handle, and with a happy smile closed her eyes, and thus anna maria found her. she frowned at this ecstasy. 'it is very kind of stürmer,' she said, quietly; 'he always shows such delicate attentions when he knows any one to be ill and suffering.' then she rang for a plate and silver fruit-knife. 'give them to me, susanna; i will prepare some of the beautiful fruit for you.'" chapter x. "late in the afternoon one dull rainy day we were sitting in the garden-parlor, anna maria with her sewing, klaus reading the newspaper and smoking, when stürmer came in to talk over some matters with klaus. then conversation about horses ended in a political discussion, in which anna maria took part with a certain degree of liveliness, and klaus joined warmly, drawing strong whiffs from his pipe. stürmer, who had never taken a pipe in his mouth, now and then drove back the clouds with his silk handkerchief in sport, and i amused myself with listening to the ready answers which came from anna maria's young lips. "the demeanor of brother and sister toward each other was singular. anna maria waited upon her brother with almost humble tenderness, while he seemed distrustful, and then again secretly touched by the self-sacrificing spirit of the nurse who devoted herself to susanna. he especially avoided looking at her, or speaking to her directly. "'how is fräulein mattoni getting on?' broke in stürmer in the midst of a well-turned sentence of klaus's about the recent attempts to make beet-root sugar. "'well!' replied anna maria; 'she is reading an old family history which i hunted up the other day, and enjoying your delicious apricots. thank you for them, stürmer; they give susanna great pleasure.' "then the conversation turned upon the lately deceased duke of weimar, charles augustus, and from him to his celebrated friend, goethe, of whom stürmer affirmed that he was intending to marry again after the death of his wife. anna maria rejected the idea incredulously; she could not believe that he, at his great age, would be so foolish. she was a sworn enemy to goethe. her plain, straightforward mind had been disagreeably affected by werther; such an overflow of feeling could but seem strange to her. goethe's numerous love-affairs set him out in a light which brought the ideal conception of him down to the atmosphere of common mortals. that genius draws different boundaries, that a fiery spirit like his was not to be measured by the common standard, did not occur to her, and so she now indignantly shook her head. "'a fable!' i, too, cried, smiling. "'not at all,' rejoined stürmer; 'i have it from von n----, who is correctly informed, depend upon it!' "'my!' said klaus, 'he must have become an old icicle by this time, scarcely able to go among people any more.' "'a man who has created a gretchen ossify?' threw in stürmer. 'never!' "'and a werther?' said i, in joke. "'werther is insupportable!' declared anna maria, 'bombastic, overdrawn! a man who behaves like werther is in my eyes no man at all, but a weakling!' "stürmer's dark eyes looked quietly over at her. 'your opinion, fräulein von hegewitz, is surely a rare one among women. a woman usually discovers from her standpoint, and naturally, that with a lost love the value of life is gone, and why should not this be the case with a man as well? of course, in a man's occupation, in the demands which his life makes of him, there are a thousand aids offered to enable him more quickly to recover from such a pain. but to regard it purely objectively, that demands such a cool manner of contemplation that i am fain to believe that those who thus judge do not know what loving really means.' "at these last words anna maria had grown as white as the linen on which she was sewing. she dropped her head, as if conscious of guilt, and her trembling hand could scarcely guide the needle. a painful pause ensued; klaus cast a compassionate glance at stürmer; it was the first time that he had given expression to the pain of his bitter disappointment in her hearing and ours. "'heavens, what a storm!' i cried, as a perfect flood of water was hurled against the windows; even the despised subject of water satisfied me to break the awkward silence. "'indeed,' said stürmer, rising, 'it is bad; i must make haste to get under shelter while it is yet daylight.' he took leave with a haste that left me to imagine he wished to be alone with his bitter feelings. "'adieu, dear edwin,' said i, tenderly, pressing his hand. neither brother nor sister gave him the customary invitation to spend the evening here. anna maria had risen and laid her hand on klaus's shoulder, who was now standing beside her. she was still very pale, and said her 'good-night, stürmer!' with a wearily maintained steadiness. "as soon as the gentlemen had left the room, she went to the door and opened it impetuously; breathing hard, she stood in the door-way, and the storm blew back her skirts, and the rain-drops beat in her face and lay like pearls on her fair locks. once or twice it seemed to me as if her bosom heaved with suppressed sobs, so that, in alarm, i turned my head to look around the curtain, but to no purpose, for as klaus reëntered the room she turned back too, and an almost transfigured expression lay on her face. "she went up to him and took his arm. "'dear brother,' i heard her say, and again there was a quiver in her voice; she leaned her head against his breast. 'dear klaus!' she repeated. "'anna maria?' he asked, taking hold of her hand. "'klaus, let what has lately passed between us be forgotten! forgive me for having so violently opposed you; it was very wrong of me----' "'no, no, my old lass; i was more violent than was necessary,' he replied hastily, drawing her to him; 'we were both in fault.' "'yes, klaus; you see i was not honest; i ought to have spoken at once, but i was not sure enough of it. i did not wish to make you uneasy.' "'by what?' said klaus hastily. "anna maria hesitated, but held her brother's arm more firmly. i cleared my throat as a warning from my corner by the window, but anna maria paid no attention to it; she acted from quick, firm resolution in all that she did, and when occasion came she bravely met the difficulty, which she thought easy enough to overcome. "'by telling you of a fact which makes susanna's remaining in this house questionable,' she said, quietly, but decidedly. "'the old song again, anna maria?' he said. 'your vehemence did not suffice; do you think to catch me this way?' "'no, klaus, in heaven's name, no!' she replied. 'something different drives me to you now; i did not mean to speak of susanna to you again; i wished in this hour only one word from you as of old, a single kind word; that it happened thus was the course of the conversation. forgive me!' "'you have judged susanna very severely, anna maria,' klaus began, after a pause, 'and now you have nursed her devotedly and made up for it a hundred times; and yet the same sentiments?--now, when she is ill, and may perhaps remain sickly?' "'i have expected too much of susanna's constitution, klaus, and day and night i have prayed that god might restore her to health. i have desired only her good, believe me. but my opinion of susanna's character i cannot alter.' "they were not standing close together now, but opposite one another. 'but beneath all the show and glitter which i despise there beats a quick, warm human heart, klaus. susanna is no longer the child you think to see in her. susanna has--susanna is--susanna _loves_ you, klaus!' "the twilight had gradually deepened. i could no longer see klaus's face distinctly, but only heard a quick, violent breathing. he did not answer, he stood motionless. 'foolish child!' thought i, looking at anna maria. "'you do not believe me, klaus?' she asked, as he remained silent. 'but it is so; i am not mistaken! susanna talked of you incessantly in her delirium; i know it from a hundred little indications. such an affection increases daily and hourly--is the girl to become unhappy? perhaps she does not know it yet herself, but the awakening must surely come.' "again no answer. klaus sat down in the nearest chair, and looked before him, motionless. the servants' supper-bell was now ringing outside, a fresh shower of rain came pelting against the sandstone pavement of the terrace, and there was a spectral light in the great, dim room. i imagined phantoms were rising out of every nook and corner, and the great flowered portière moved slightly, as if some one were standing behind it, listening. "'you are right,' said klaus, at length, in a lifeless tone; 'what is to become of her? the wife of a hegewitz--that is impossible; so you think, do you not, anna maria?' "'yes,' she replied, simply. "'yes,' he repeated, springing up and pacing the room with long steps. 'and whither would you banish the girl?' he asked, stopping before his sister. "'not _banish_, klaus; that sounds so different from what i intend,' she said, frankly. 'take her to a _pension_ in a southern district, perhaps in switzerland, and so give her an opportunity to thoroughly heal her sick heart.' "'that sounds reasonable and well-considered,' he returned, bitterly. 'meanwhile, susanna is not yet restored to health.' and after a pause he added: 'i have put off for a long time a necessary journey; i shall go to-morrow to o----, in silesia; i shall be acting to your mind so, shall i not?' "anna maria started. 'to o----, do you say?' "'yes,' he replied, very red; 'i have been a little negligent, and affairs are in such a bad condition there a meeting of creditors is unavoidable. platen has repeatedly urged me to come myself, in order to check the thing; you know my mortgage is the largest, but----' "'and you have not gone, klaus?' said anna maria reproachfully. 'why?' "'i shall start to-morrow morning,' he answered, shortly. "she evidently did not understand him aright, but she went up to him and put her arms around his neck. 'do not let a misunderstanding arise between us again, klaus. shall i act contrary to my conviction?' "'no, no!' he replied in a hollow tone; 'i thank you.' but he did not draw her to him, he freed himself from her arms and left the room. anna maria stood motionless for a moment looking after him. then she shook her head energetically, as if to ward off intrusive thoughts, and taking up her basket of keys went out too. "half an hour later we were sitting at the supper-table. anna maria had brought klaus from his room; he looked disturbed and let his soup grow cold, and crumbled his bread between his fingers in a distracted manner. "'have you been to susanna's room?' i asked anna maria. "she nodded. 'i was in a hurry, but stopped at her door up-stairs, and called to ask what i should send her for supper. but i got no answer; she was probably asleep, so i closed the door softly and came away.' "'and what do you intend to tell her as a pretext for her removal?' i asked further. "'her health is a sufficiently cogent reason, aunt,' replied anna maria. "i was silent and so were the others; we finished the meal in silence, and then sat silent about the table in the sitting-room, without a suspicion of what was happening meanwhile. each was occupied with his own thoughts, and without the monotonous rain still fell splashing on the roof and poured from the animals' heads on the gutters upon the pavement of the court. there was an incessant drizzle and splash, and the storm, coming over the heath, swept together the rain-drops, and drove them pelting against the well-protected windows. "all at once brockelmann entered the room; frightened and startled her eyes sped about. 'is not fräulein mattoni here?' she asked excitedly. "'susanna?' we all three cried with one voice, and klaus sprang up. "'she is not in her room! merciful heaven, where can she be!' she continued. 'before supper she got up and dressed herself, laughing and tittering; she meant to go down-stairs to surprise the family. i scolded, but what good did it do? oh, she must be hiding somewhere!' the old woman's voice was choked with anxiety; anna maria had hurried out of the room, and her flying steps reëchoed from the corridor, fear lending her wings. brockelmann took a candle from the table and began to search the adjoining garden-parlor, and klaus stood, pale as a corpse, as if rooted to the spot. "'she must be here!' said i. "he did not hear. his whole attention was concentrated upon anna maria, who was just crossing the threshold, and looked at her brother's serious face with eyes that seemed twice their usual size. "'she is gone, klaus,' she said, tremulously; 'i know not whither--why?' "he stepped past her without a word. "'klaus!' anna maria called after him, 'take me with you!' but she received no answer. 'she heard it, my god, she heard what i said to him,' she whispered. 'aunt, i beg you, go with him, do not let him go alone!' she hastened away and came back with shawls and wraps. i could hear from the court the hasty preparations for departure--indeed, how i got to the carriage, where klaus was already sitting on the box, i do not know to this day. "it was a half-covered chaise in which we rolled out on the dark highway; the rain beat against the leather hood, and the wind assaulted us with undiminished strength; klaus's coat-collar flapped in the light of the carriage lamps, whose unsteady light was reflected in the water of the one great puddle into which the whole road was transformed. klaus drove frantically; to this day i do not understand how we came, safe and sound, in the pitch-dark night, before the dambitz blacksmith's shop. the little house lay there without a light. when klaus pounded on the door with his whip-handle the watch-dog gave the alarm, upon which a man's voice soon asked what we wanted, and if anything had happened to the carriage. it happened sometimes, doubtless, that the man was called from his sleep because of an accident. "'is your lodger at home?' asked klaus, in place of an answer. "'since this noon, your honor!' was the polite answer. the man knew the master of the hegewitz manor from his inquiry, for it was known all over the village that the bütze people had the foster-child of the old actress with them. "'is she alone?' "'ah! has your honor come on account of the young mam'selle?' cried the man. 'she came here an hour ago, wet as a rat, and is lying in bed up-stairs there. i will open the door at once.' "klaus helped me out of the carriage. 'will you go up to her?' he asked, and pressed my hand so hard that i nearly screamed. "'certainly, certainly, my lad!' i made haste to say; 'we will soon have the fugitive back at bütze.' but sooner said than done. the blacksmith's wife, who had also appeared on the scene, carefully lighted the way up the creaking, dangerous flight of stairs, which i was scarcely able to climb with my lame foot, and there, in the low, whitewashed back room of the forge, stood isabella pfannenschmidt before me, like a roused lioness. she stood with outstretched arms before the bed, which was in an alcove-like recess, and was half covered with fantastic hangings of yellow chintz. with theatrical pathos she called to me: 'what do you want? you have no more right to this child!' "without further ado i pushed her aside and looked at the bed; from a chaos of blue and red feather-beds emerged susanna's brown head. "she turned her face to the wall without looking at me, and remained thus, motionless. "'susanna, was that right?' i asked. "no answer. "'why did you run away so suddenly, my child? do you know that you may have made yourself ill and miserable for life by this recklessness?' "silence again, but the breathing grew heavy and loud. "'you are an obstinate, naughty child!' i continued. you frighten the people who love you half to death, and sin against yourself in an unheard-of manner!' "the old actress meanwhile stood with folded arms, and an indescribable smile played about her mouth. "'are you well enough to get up and drive home with me, susanna?' i asked. "'no!' cried the old woman. 'why should she go to you again? sooner or later they will be sure to show her the door!' "'susanna, klaus is below; he has been anxious about you; and anna maria is impatiently waiting at home. be reasonable, be good; you owe us an explanation.' "but in place of an answer a violent fit of coughing followed; she suddenly began to toss about and clutch at the air, and her eyes looked over at me, large and fixed, strangely unconscious. the old actress fell on the bed with a piercing cry, and wound her arms about the girl. 'oh, lord, she is dying!' "had klaus heard this cry? i know not; i only know that all at once he was in the room, and pushed the old woman away from the bed, and that that moment decided the fate of two human beings. all that had been fermenting in him for weeks, the stream of his passion which had been wearily held back by cold reason, was set free by the sight of the girl lying thus unconscious. no more restraint was possible; he threw his arms about her, he kissed the little weak hands, the dark hair; he called her his bride, his wife, his beloved; never again, never, should she go from his heart, who was dearer to him than all the world! in dumb horror i heard these impetuous words rush on my ears. thank god, isabella pfannenschmidt had left the room; she had evidently rushed out for a restorative, for tea or water. "i laid a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. 'are you mad, klaus? do you not see that she is sicker than ever?' susanna now lay in his arms, really swooning; her head had fallen on his shoulder, and the small face, like that of a slumbering child, showed a slight smile on the lips. "'aunt,' said the tall, fair man, without getting up, tears shining in his honest blue eyes, 'she shall not die; i should reproach myself with it forever!' he pressed his lips to her forehead again and went out, without looking about him; he sat on the stairs there a long time. susanna opened her eyes at last, under our efforts. she then let dry clothes be put on her without resistance, but there was no sign, no look, to betray to me whether she had heard klaus's wild whisperings of love. but she did not for a moment object to accompanying me to bütze, and energetically chid the old woman's lamentation. warmly wrapped, i led her over the threshold of the low room; she wavered for a moment, as she saw klaus on the stairs by the light of the oil-lamp. then he raised her in his arms, and in the smoking, unsteady light of the lamp, which was being put out by the draught, i saw how he went down the steps with her, how two slender arms were put around his neck, sure and fast. with tottering knees i followed them, to take susanna mattoni to bütze again. "and the way home! never has a drive seemed so endless to me. i sat silent beside the girl; i was angry with her, bitterly angry for being loved by klaus. the pride of a pure and ancient stock arose in my heart in its full strength, and if ever i hated susanna mattoni it was on that night, in the dark carriage. then i felt her lightly touch my clothes, slip to the floor beside me, and embrace my knees and lay her head on my lap. 'i was going away, fräulein rosamond,' she whispered; 'why did you come after me?' "they were only a few simple words, but such a persuasive truth lay in them that my anger vanished almost instantly. a feeling of deep sympathy pulled at my heart, and sent a flood of tears to my eyes. "what avail the arduously established limits of human law and order, even though uprightly preserved for centuries long, against the storm of a first passion? a single instant--the proud structure lies in ruins, and the crimson banner of love waves victoriously over all considerations, over all reflections. "i felt susanna's hot lips on my hand; they burned me like glowing iron. i did not draw away my hand, but left it to her, without pressure, without a sign that i understood her. before my eyes hovered the image of anna maria. 'oh, anna maria, i could not prevent its happening thus!' "and now the carriage rolled under our gateway, rattled over the paved court, and stopped before the steps. i saw klaus swing himself down from the box, and saw anna maria, in the light of the lantern, standing in the vaulted door-way. klaus opened the carriage-door; susanna first raised herself up now, and he carried her like a child up the steps, past anna maria, into the house. they had forgotten me; the lame old aunt clambered out of the carriage with brockelmann's help, and on entering the sitting-room i found anna maria and susanna alone--susanna, with a feverish glow on her cheeks, in klaus's arm-chair, anna maria standing before her with a cup of hot tea. "not a question, not a reproach passed her lips; she silently offered the warming drink, and susanna silently refused it. 'you must go to bed, susanna,' she then said. the girl rose and took a step or two, but tottered, and held on to her chair. 'put your arms around my neck, susanna!' anna maria cried, and in a moment had raised her in her strong arms, and went toward the door as if she were carrying a feather. brockelmann followed; i heard her muttering away to herself, 'that caps the climax!' "utterly exhausted, i sank into my chair. what was to be done now? god grant that klaus and anna maria might not see each other again this evening, only this evening! "half an hour had passed when i heard anna maria's step in the hall; the door was wide open, and i could distinctly see her tall figure approach, in the faint light of the hall-lamp. she stopped at klaus's door and knocked. i leaned forward to listen; all was still. 'klaus!' i heard her say. no answer. again i thought i detected a suppressed sob in her voice. 'klaus!' she repeated once more, imploringly, pressing on the latch. she waited a minute or two, then turned away and went up-stairs again. "'he is angry with her,' i murmured, half aloud, 'and she wants to conciliate him. my god, turn everything to good!' i put out the lights in the sitting-room and went over to klaus's door and listened. regular and heavy came the sound of his steps; he was there, then! 'klaus!' i called, with an energy which frightened myself. the steps came nearer at once, the key was turned, and he opened the door directly. "'come in, aunt,' he bade me. i looked at him in alarm, he looked so pale, so exhausted. his hand seized mine. 'it is well that you are looking after me, aunt; something has come over me, i know not how.' "'and now, klaus?' i asked, letting him lead me to the sofa, which had descended from my father and still stood on the same spot as of old, under a collection of about fifty deers' antlers, all of which had been taken on the bütze hunting-grounds, and had decorated that wall as far back as i could remember. "he had stopped in front of me. 'and now?' he repeated, passing his hand over his forehead. 'it is a strange question, _au fond_, aunt--susanna will be my wife. i can give you no other answer.' "it was out! i had long known that it must come, and yet it fell on me like a blow. "'klaus,' i began. but he interrupted me impatiently and indignantly. "'i know all you would say, aunt; i have said it to myself a hundred times! i know as well as you that susanna belongs to the common class, that her mother came from doubtful antecedents. i know that susanna is a trifling, spoiled child, who seems little suited to my seriousness. i know that i am old in comparison to her; and i know, above all, that anna maria will never regard her as a sister. nevertheless, aunt, my resolve stands firm, for i love susanna mattoni, love her with all her childish faults, which are hardly to be called faults. i love her in her charming, trifling maidenhood; it will make me happy to be able to educate and guide her further, and the love that anna maria denies her i will try to make up to her.' "i was silent, there was nothing more to be said. "'you do not look happy, aunt,' he said, bitterly. 'listen: this afternoon i was thinking of flight; but when anna maria said, "susanna loves you!" it almost crushed me. amid all the happiness which this revelation opened to me, yet much that has been sacred and not to be trifled with forcibly appealed to me. but when i beheld susanna, like a dying person, in that poor room, all at once it was clear to me that everything in the world is powerless against a true, deep passion, and then----' "'and anna maria, klaus?' "'i cannot talk with her any more this evening, aunt,' he replied; 'wait till i am quieter; there is time enough. i grow violent if i think that it was her words that drove susanna out in the stormy night. god grant that it may do her no harm!' "'yet do not misunderstand the fact, klaus, that anna maria wished susanna's best good,' i besought him, tears streaming from my eyes. 'think how she loves you, how her very existence depends upon you. i shall wish from my heart, klaus, that what you have chosen may be the right thing; but do not expect that anna maria will, without a struggle, see you take a step which may perhaps bring you heavy burdens and little happiness.' "klaus did not answer. he stood before his writing-desk and looked at anna maria's portrait, which she had given him at christmas three years before; it was painted at the time that she refused stürmer. the clear blue eyes looked over at klaus from the proud, grave face, which had the slightest expression of pain about the mouth, as if she were again speaking the words she had said to him at that time: 'i will stay with you, klaus; i cannot go away from you!' "'i do not wish to proceed violently, aunt,' he began, after a long pause; 'i am no young blusterer who would take a fortress by storm. susanna, too, requires rest; she ought not to be disturbed and excited any more now. believe me, i love anna maria very dearly, but i cannot give up a happiness a second time for her sake; then she was a child, and toward the child i had obligations; to-day she is a maiden, who sooner or later will be a wife.' "'no, no, klaus," i cried. "'very well, not so, then. she is different from others i admit; at any rate, hers is a nature that is sufficient to itself. she is, and remains, in my heart and in my home, my only and beloved sister, who will ever hold the first place, next to--susanna. but with that she must be satisfied, and in return i demand love, and above all, consideration for her who will be my wife. but, as i said before, i cannot possibly speak quietly with anna maria about it now. i will let it wait over, with my absence, perhaps three weeks, perhaps longer, and we shall all have time to become more calm--i, too, aunt rosamond. i thought of writing to anna maria about this affair, calmly and lovingly, and almost believe it is the best thing to do.' "'and when shall you start, klaus?' "'frederick is packing my trunk now; the bailiff is coming at four o'clock for a necessary conference; at five the carriage will be at the door.' "'and does anna maria know?' "'no--i would like--to go without saying good-by.' "'you will make her angry, klaus; it is not right.' i sobbed. "'let time pass, aunt, that the breach may not grow wider; you know her and you know me. there have been discussions between us of late which have left a thorn in my heart. i do not want to be violent toward her again.' "'and susanna?' "'susanna knows enough,' he replied, simply; 'you will be so kind as to explain to her that i had to go on a necessary journey, and hope next to see her well and sound again.' "'will she not interpret it falsely, after that vehement storm of love to-night?' "he blushed to the roots of his curly hair. "'no, aunt,' he said, 'it would be untimely were i to make her any assurances. susanna knows now that i love her, and i think she returns my love; of what use are further words?' "honest old klaus! i can still see you standing before me, in the agitation which so well became you, and so truly brought out your fine, brave character. "'farewell, then, klaus,' said i, placing my hand in his, and he drew it to his lips and looked at my tearful eyes. 'hold your dear hands over my little susanna,' he asked tenderly; 'i will thank you for every kind word you say to her. and should she be in danger, should she grow worse again, write me. i will leave a few lines for anna maria.' "'god be with you, klaus; may all be well!' "he accompanied me through the dim hall as far as the stairs. a short whirr from the old clock, and two hollow strokes were heard. two o'clock already! i waved my hand again, and went up-stairs, with how heavy a heart god only knows! "i stopped at susanna's door and softly lifted the latch. by the uncertain light of the night-lamp i saw anna maria in the arm-chair beside the bed; her head rested against the green cushion of the high back, her hands were folded over her new testament in her lap, and she was sleeping quietly and soundly. i glided softly in and looked at susanna; she lay awake, her eyes wide open. as she caught sight of me she dropped her long lashes, pretending deep sleep, but raised them again, blinking, as i withdrew. was it any wonder that she did not sleep and that her cheeks glowed like crimson roses? "my sleep was restless that night, full of confused, troubled dreams. toward morning i woke with a start; i thought i heard the rumbling of a coach. 'klaus,' i cried, and a feeling of anxiety came over me. i rose and glided to the window; a thick, white autumnal mist hung over the trees and roofs of the barns; it was perfectly still all about, but the door of the carriage-house stood open and a boy was slowly sauntering into the stable; the gates were opened wide, showing a bit of the lonely, poplar-shaded highway. "i stole away and sought my bed again; so far everything was certainly quiet and orderly. i had been sleeping soundly again, when suddenly opening my eyes, i perceived brockelmann by my bed. "'fräulein,' she said, unsteadily, 'the master has gone off early this morning!' "'he will come back, brockelmann,' i said, consolingly. 'does anna maria know yet?' "'to be sure!' replied the old woman; 'and she was not a little frightened when frederick brought her the letter which the master left for her. but you know, fräulein, she always judges according to the saying, "what god does and what my brother does is well!"' with that the old woman went. "i believe i sat at the window for two hours after that in _déshabillé_, thinking over yesterday's experience; klaus had gone, and when he returned susanna would be his wife--that was ever the sum of my reflections. "when i came down-stairs i found anna maria engaged in business transactions with the bailiff and forester. how clearly she made her arrangements! the men had not a word to reply. offers had been made for the grain; the harvest was richer than ever before, and the price of grain low. anna maria did not wish to close the bargain yet; in eastern prussia the grain had turned out wretchedly. 'let us wait for the potato-crop,' i heard her say. 'if that turns out as badly as seems probable now, we shall need more bread, for our people must not suffer want.' "she proceeded with calmness and caution. oh, yes. klaus was right; his house was in good care. as she followed me afterward into the garden-parlor she pressed my hand. "'klaus's departure seems like a flight,' she said; 'but it must be all right.' "not a word of yesterday's occurrences! nor in the future either. susanna observed the same silence. when i went to her bed to inform her that klaus was gone on a journey, a bright flush of alarm tinged her pale face for an instant, but she was silent. "for some time yet she had to keep her bed; then her childish step was heard again about the house, her slender figure nestled again in the deep easy-chair in the garden-parlor, and she went about the park as of old, idling away the days, and gradually signs of returning health appeared in her cheeks. "she evidently missed klaus; it was most plainly to be seen in her dress. she seemed astonishingly negligent; at a slight word of blame from me, the question, 'for whom?' rose quickly to her lips, but she did not speak it, and turned away her blushing face. isabella pfannenschmidt came to the house a few days after klaus's departure, while susanna was still in bed. i entered the room soon after her, and found the old woman by the bed, a vexed expression on her face. my ear just caught the words: 'yes, now, there we have it: the egg will always be wiser than the hen!' "she was embarrassed at my entrance, but remained fierce and surly. i purposely did not leave them alone, and toward evening she took her leave, with a thousand fond words to susanna, and a cold courtesy to me. 'all will yet be well, my sweet little dear; only wait!' she whispered before she went." chapter xi. "life went on quietly in the house without a master. anna maria was busy until late in the evening; she possessed an endless capacity for work. 'i can bear klaus's absence easier so,' she said, when i urged her to give herself some rest. 'i miss him infinitely, aunt!' stürmer came occasionally to inquire for the ladies. once he arrived at the same time with anna maria; she, like him, was on horseback; they had probably met on the highway, for anna maria came from the fields, the bailiff behind her. i was standing at the window with susanna. 'what a splendid couple!' said i, involuntarily, and indeed i thought i had scarcely ever seen anna maria look so handsome. "klaus wrote rarely; those times were not like the present, and one was well satisfied to receive a letter once a fortnight. anna maria answered promptly; her accounts must have been sufficiently detailed, for no letter or inquiry in regard to our secret came to me. anna maria used to read klaus's letters, with the exception of the business portions, aloud, after supper. there was a certain homesick sound in the words, calmly and coolly as they were written. but her face beamed at every word which he wrote from the enchanted silesia in praise of the poor home in the mark; it stirred her whole heart. next to her tender affection for her brother, she clung with an idolizing love to her home; no mountain lake could compare with the brown, oak-bound pond in the garden, no high mountain-range with the charm of the heath, with the pine-forests in the cradle of prussia. "and the object which doubled all the longing, which made the old manor-house at bütze seem in the eyes of the distant owner like a fairy castle, like a rendezvous of the elves--this object sat playing with her kitten during the reading, and now and then i even had to tap her shoulder as she yawned slightly. "'is that only feigned indifference?' i asked myself. then, again, a sad, weary smile would play about her mouth if klaus were the subject of conversation. i thought at the time that she was fretting over the long-delayed continuation of that hot declaration of love; that she, with her ardent nature, was tormenting herself to death with doubts. and i could not speak a consoling word to her; klaus did not wish it. why should susanna be spared a "'hangen und bangen in schwebender pein'? "one morning a peasant lad came running into the yard, bringing a letter for susanna; the old mam'selle at the forge had sent him, he said. i met him on the steps, just as i was coming in from the garden, and bade brockelmann go up to susanna with the note, which was written on the finest letter-paper. the boy trotted away, and i sat down with anna maria in the sitting-room. in a few minutes susanna's light step was heard in the hall, and she entered the room in haste. "'i must beg you for a carriage, fräulein anna maria!' she cried, out of breath; 'my old isa is ill: i must go to her.' "anna maria put down her pen, rather unwillingly, at this disturbance; she had been making out accounts. "'but, susanna, how often have i requested you not to walk so fast? you are out of breath again.' "'shall we not find out first what is the matter with isa?' said i, for all at once klaus's words, 'hold your hands over this girl!' fell heavily on my soul. klaus had asked it of me. klaus was no child; he was a calm, strong-willed man, and he was going to make her his wife, and i knew he would accuse me, bitterly accuse me, if a hair of her head were hurt. "'it might be a contagious disease, susanna,' i continued, with all the decision at my command, as her eyes sparkled at my opposition. "'and what if it were the plague?' she cried, and clinched her little hands, and swung her foot impatiently under the folds of her dress. "anna maria stood up. 'for shame, susanna! i think you are quite right to wish to take care of isa; it would be unnatural if you did not have this desire. but you have scarcely recovered, and a long stay in that musty little sick-room would be poison to you; and besides, as aunt rosamond says, the disease may be contagious; we must find out about it first.' "'and meanwhile she may grow worse and die!' cried susanna passionately. 'what if i do take the disease? i must go to her!' and bursting into tears, she threw herself into a chair, and buried her head in the cushions. anna maria went up to her and bent over her. "'susanna,' she said, kindly, 'a sensible woman shall go at once to your isa. and now compose yourself; i have a quiet word to say to you when i come back.' "'god knows what that may mean!' i thought, looking at the weeping girl. 'what does she mean to say quietly to her?' i stroked susanna's hair gently. 'do not cry, _ma petite_,' i said, consolingly. 'everything is in god's hand. he guides and rules every human life according to his will; trust him, he will bring it right!' i do not know if susanna understood me; a fresh burst of tears was the reply, and all inconsolable sounded this bitter sobbing. "anna maria came back and sat down opposite susanna. 'will you listen to me rationally?' she said, somewhat severely. "susanna started up and gave her a defiant look. 'i am listening,' she said. "just then i was called away; the pastor's sister, an early friend of mine, had come to pay me a visit. i went, not without anxiously regarding the two girls. what in the world could anna maria have in view? "after two mortal hours mademoiselle grüne took her leave; she no doubt found me more distraught than is usually permissible; even talking over a wedding festivity which we had attended together in the remote period of our youth, at which minna grüne came very near becoming engaged, and which ended in a fire, failed to interest me as usual. when i came down-stairs again i found anna maria over her housekeeping books; susanna was not to be seen. "'anna maria,' i asked, more hastily than is my wont, 'what have you been talking about with susanna?' "'i wanted to talk with her about her future,' she replied, 'but----' "'about her future?' i repeated, faintly. "'yes, indeed, aunt, for things cannot go on in this way any longer. susanna suffers from a dreadful disease--she has _ennui_. in my opinion this doing nothing is enough to make the most healthy people ill.' "'and what did she say, anna maria?' "'she? she ran away as soon as she heard the one word future! susanna is a naughty child, and it is high time for klaus to come back and put her in a pension; she is worse than ever since he went away.' "i had to smile, and yet tears came suddenly into my eyes, and yielding to an involuntary impulse, i asked: 'anna maria, do you really believe that klaus will send susanna away.' "she turned about and gave me a startled look. 'can you doubt it? he has no doubt gone away for that express purpose. do you not suppose the justice could have despatched that business?' "the next day susanna, pale and low-spirited, drove to dambitz, to take care of her isa. she had cried all night long, did not get up in the morning, and kept on crying in her bed, till anna maria ordered a carriage for her. "isa was said to be suffering from a stitch in the back, quite free from danger, so there was no contagion to be feared. susanna packed up a host of things, as if she were going to a watering-place. without ado, anna maria took flowers, ribbons, laces, and white dresses out of the trunk, and put in half a dozen strong aprons. 'you will have more use for these,' she explained, gently. i was entirely opposed to this journey; in consideration of my private instructions, i could not approve of it, yet it seemed right to anna maria. 'i cannot bear the old woman either,' she said; 'but if she is ill and wants susanna, she must go.' "'how could a man fall in love with this childish little creature?' i thought, as she leaned back in the carriage with a happy smile of satisfaction; the black crape veil floated about her small face, her little feet were propped against the back seat, and she gracefully waved her hand to me again. oh! mademoiselle had the manners of a duchess, mademoiselle will already act as frau von hegewitz. if anna maria dreamed of that! "a letter from klaus came that evening. my heart began to beat, as it always did when one came, for each time i thought klaus would write his sister of his love. i watched anna maria closely as she read; she frowned and shook her head. "'klaus has had to take possession of the property, in order not to lose everything,' she said. 'he writes that he had expected to be back in a week, but now, alas! he is obliged to stay longer. "the harvest festival should be kept just as if i were there,"' she read on. "you can say a few words to the people in my place. as may easily be imagined, i have my hands full, and there are not a few disagreeable things: in the midst of the harvesting and nothing in order; the people a lazy, polish element; the bailiff a knave whom i sent off the first day! the situation of the manor is wonderful, as well as the building itself and the great, shady garden; however, i shall be glad when i am free from the business at last. the high hills not far away depress me; they shut out the view too much; how far do you suppose i can see from my window? just through the space between the two barns, over the wall of the court-yard. as soon as i have things in some degree of order here i shall have beling (the bailiff) come and take the management in my place. i hope you are all getting on well. is not aunt rosamond going to write me at all? is susanna well, perfectly well? you did not mention her in your last letter."' "'aha!' thought i, as anna maria, reflecting, let the letter drop, 'the longing! oh, you foolish klaus! and if i were to write him now, "susanna is in dambitz," what would he say?' "'i should like to drive over to-morrow to look after susanna,' said i, turning to anna maria, who was drawing in and out the colored wools on the table-cover she was embroidering for klaus. "'i will wager, aunt, she will be back again to-morrow; do you think she will hold out long there in that mean room, with the uncomfortable bed on that neck-breaking sofa? just wait; she will be here again before we know it.' "the next day anna maria was sitting with her table-cover beside my bed; i had wrapped a rabbit-skin about my arms and shoulders, for the evil rheumatism. such an attack sometimes chained me to my bed for a week or more, and this time i lay there feeling like a veritable culprit. i kept thinking of susanna, and this tormented me into a state of nervousness. and there sat anna maria beside me, in her calm way taking one stitch after another. i followed her large yet beautifully formed hand, and the trefoil which grew under it; the lions supporting a shield were already finished, and the last leaf would be done to-day. 'fear thy god, kill thine enemy, trust no friend,' was the strange motto of our family. it doubtless originated in those times when races lived in perpetual feud with one another, each ever ready for combat on the fortress of his fathers. "'anna maria!' i began, at length. "she started up out of a deep revery. 'shall i read the paper to you?' she asked. "'no, thank you, _mon ange_; but tell me, do you know if susanna--is she----' "'she is still with her isa, aunt,' replied anna maria. 'i packed up a little basket of food for her this morning. marieken carried it, and----' "'well, anna maria?' "'oh, well, she sits by the old woman's bedside, marieken tells me, and round about her lie laces and ribbons and flowers; susanna is making a new hat or two for herself. marieken says she had no eyes for my appetizing basket; with cheeks as red as roses, she was all absorbed in her finery.' "'incorrigible!' i murmured; 'anna maria, why have you let her stay away? is the old woman really so ill?' i added, out of humor. "'well, it did not seem to me so alarming from marieken's account. if you were not a patient yourself, aunt, i would have driven over.' "i lay back with a sigh. of course, i had to be ill just now. out of doors a cold wind was blowing over the bare fields; we should have an early autumn. my good times were over, and now were coming again the days of stove-heat and confinement to the house, of rabbit-skins and herb-bags. "'i shall invite no one to the harvest festival this year, aunt,' began anna maria, after a pause. 'what would all the people do here without klaus? it will give me no pleasure without him; on the contrary, it is painful to me.' "'but klaus wishes----' "'ah, aunt, but he will be content _au fond_. i know him!' said the girl, with a smile. "just then brockelmann announced baron stürmer. like a flash of fire a sudden blush mounted to anna maria's face, the fingers which held the needle trembled, and her voice was unsteady. "'excuse me to the baron. i am prevented, unfortunately; aunt is ill.' "anna maria had hitherto seen him only in the presence of others; she feared being alone with him; was that indifference? "'ask the baron to come up here,' said i with sudden resolution. 'i am certainly old enough to receive him in bed,' i added to anna maria. "'come, _mon cher_ edwin, if you are not afraid to see a sick old woman in bed,' i called to him, as he was now entering, and pointed to a chair by the head of my bed, opposite anna maria. edwin stürmer was the most versatile man i ever saw, and at once master of a situation. and so he was soon sitting by me, chatting pleasantly. the twilight deepened, and anna maria let her hands rest. she listened to us as we spoke of old times; i saw how her eyes were fixed on his face, how now and then a slight flush spread over it. she spoke little, and all at once rose and left the room. "'anna maria is quiet, and looks badly,' i remarked; 'the work is too much for her.' "he did not answer at once; then he said: 'she was always so still and cold, aunt rosamond.' "'no, no, stürmer, she is in trouble, she is worried about klaus.' "'of all things in the world, that is a needless anxiety,' he returned, laughing. and evidently trying to get away from the subject, he asked: 'but where is fräulein mattoni?' "'nearer to you than you think, edwin.' "'with the old witch, her duenna?' he asked, with that indifference which involuntarily suggests the opposite quality. "'yes; the old woman is ill and susanna is taking care of her. _eh bien_, you will come, of course, to our harvest festival? anna maria intends to celebrate it very quietly, quite _entre nous_; but you must come, edwin.' "'what?' he asked, absently. "'for pity's sake, tell me where your thoughts are hiding?' i scolded, irritably. "he laughed, and kissed my hand. 'pardon, fräulein rosamond, i was still thinking about klaus.' "'and the result, edwin?' "'is that i have come to none; he is really incomprehensible to me.' "'why?' "'do allow me _not_ to say it,' he replied; 'but i _envy_ him.' "'may i not also know what?' "'yes,' he said, rising, 'his cool temperament. how much needless agitation, how many sleepless nights one to whom such calmness has been given is spared!' "'but klaus is not cold; i do not know what you mean,' said i, reproachfully; 'as little cold as anna maria, and--as you.' "he sat down again, and without regarding my objection, continued: 'for heaven's sake, do tell me where they got this even temperament, this indifference, this coolness. the father was an eccentric, energetic man, warmly sensitive, even to passionateness--perhaps the mother was so?' "'i assure you, edwin,' i repeated, almost hurt, 'you know them both very little yet when you speak thus. they are neither indifferent nor cold-hearted; but both have, alas! inherited too much of the father's warm feelings and eccentricity. believe me,' i added with a sigh. i was thinking of the scene in the dambitz forge. "edwin stürmer laughed. 'well, well,' he said, 'i am far from reproaching klaus with it; it is only incomprehensible to me. i suppose i seem odd to you?' "'oh, stürmer, such a hot-head as you klaus has never been, certainly, and i know that you owe to your vivacity my brother's love, which preferred you before his own son. you may be convinced that just that passionate, changeable nature of my brother has made the children so earnest, so deliberate.' "'klaus is the best, the noblest of men; he is my friend!' cried stürmer, with warmth. 'do i say, then, that i reproach him? but he has not learned to know life; he has never come from mere fidelity to duty and deliberation, to call his a moment of inspiration which is able to carry one quite out of himself; he has ever kept to the golden mean, blameless; he has always done enough, but not too much. in short--in short, such men are model men. but what life means, aunt rosamond, that he does not know, and only _he_ could trust himself----' "he broke off suddenly. 'i should like to know how i came to deliver such a lecture to you,' he added, jokingly. "it was almost dark in the room now. i could scarcely distinguish stürmer's profile. he twisted his beard rapidly and nervously. "'you may say what you will, stürmer, but cold my two children are not,' i declared, and just at that moment anna maria entered. "'a light will be brought directly,' she said, cheerfully, stepping over to her chair. 'pardon me, baron, for staying away so long; i was kept by domestic duties, which occupy me more closely than when klaus is at home.' "he made no reply; i only saw him bow. anna maria could have said nothing more pedantic, i thought. conversation would not flow, the light did not come. anna maria was just on the point of ringing for it when the bell in the church-tower began to ring in quick, broken strokes. "'fire!' cried anna maria, in alarm, hurrying to the window. already there was a commotion in the court-yard; stürmer had also thrown open a window. 'where is the fire?' he called down. "with beating heart i sat upright in bed. 'where?' called anna maria, 'where is the fire, people?' then the words were lost in the tumult. "'in dambitz,' at last came up the reply, amid all the tramping of horses and noise of the people. '_sacre dieu!_' murmured stürmer, overturning a chair in the darkness; 'dambitz!' "'i will light a candle,' said anna maria, calmly; 'give me a moment and i will go with you.' below, the fire-engine was just rattling across the court. the candles flared up under anna maria's hand. "'send me a wrap, aunt, please; i wish to go over on susanna's account; do not worry. i am ready, if you will take me with you in your carriage,' she added to stürmer; and again a red glow spread over her face. "'the carriage is ready, if you please, fräulein.' he was already hurrying out of the room. "'for god's sake, anna maria, bring back susanna to me!' i cried. and then i lay alone for hours. brockelmann came up once: 'the whole sky is red,' she informed me; 'it must be a big fire.' the little bell rang unremittingly its monotonous alarm, and before my eyes stood the burning houses, and i fancied anna maria beside stürmer in the carriage, driving rapidly along the lonely highway, and susanna in danger. and my thoughts flew to klaus: 'hold your hands over this girl. i will thank you for it all my life!' 'my god, protect her!' i prayed in my anxiety. "and hour after hour passed, the bell became silent, after long pauses, and anna maria did not come. brockelmann said the fire-light had disappeared. i heard the carriages and people returning home; then the court was quiet. and then brockelmann came in again: 'it broke out in the second house from the forge, the lads say, and the forge is half-burned, too.' oh, heaven, and anna maria does not come! "the old woman sat down by my bed. 'she does not think of herself,' she complained; 'she will run into the burning house if it is possible. ah, if the master were only here!' good brockelmann, she knew better than stürmer how to judge anna maria. "'fräulein,' she whispered, already following another train of thought, 'do you know--but you must not take it amiss--the baron comes so often now, and as i saw them both drive out of the yard to-day, then--i keep thinking she will marry him yet.' "'oh, how can you talk such nonsense?" said i, chiding these words in vexation. "'yet, i say, the next thing will be a wedding in the house!' declared the old woman. 'the great myrtle down-stairs is full of buds, and i also found a bridal rose in the garden. and last new year's eve i listened at the door and heard the young master just saying: "invite to the wedding!" and that will all come true. and then--but you must not act as if you knew it--i have had anna maria in my arms from the day she was born, and know her as no one else does, and i know how she cried over the note that the baron wrote her at the time when he went far away into the world, and, fräulein, she always has it with her! oh, i see so much that i am not intended to see; but she cannot dissemble, anna maria.' "ah! what the old woman was saying was of no importance to me; only news of susanna; everything else later! 'my god, susanna,' i murmured, 'if anything has happened to her!' and unable to stay quietly in bed any longer, i bade brockelmann help me dress. at last a carriage rolled in at the gate and stopped before the house. i sat up in bed, and kept my eyes on the door. susanna _must_ come! brockelmann had hurried down-stairs; i heard anna maria's voice on the stairs, and her footsteps, and then she came in. "'for god's sake, where is susanna?' i cried to her. "'with her old nurse, who has been made really ill from fright,' she said quietly, and sank exhausted into the chair by my bed. "'but, anna maria,' i wailed, 'the forge is burned down!' "'they are at the castle,' she replied, gently. 'stürmer has given a shelter to all who were burned out.' "'in the castle?' at the first moment the thought was quieting to me, but then my heart grew heavy. 'oh, but that is impossible! how could you let susanna accept the hospitality of an unmarried man? it is wrong of you; you are usually so observant of forms. you _ought_ to have brought her with you, and the old woman too!' i had spoken impetuously, in my anxiety. anna maria gave me a strange look. "'isa is so ill she was in no condition to make the journey hither,' she replied. 'but susanna lies across her bed with torn hair and face bathed with tears; she is nearer to her than all of us, and at such a moment, aunt, one does not think of--etiquette.' i first noticed now how pale and exhausted anna maria looked. her fair hair had fallen down, and one golden tress falling over the white forehead lay on her plain dark-green dress; her eyes were cast down and her lips quivered slightly. "'poor child!' i cried, seizing her hands. 'it has been too much, and here am i reproving you!' "she let her hand remain in mine, but did not look up. 'i am quite well,' she replied; 'but it is painful--to behold human misery and not be able to help. it was fearful, aunt! and it has cost one human life--nearly two.' her voice was strangely lifeless as she said this. 'an old man,' she continued, 'in the act of saving his cow from the burning stable, was buried beneath the falling building. stürmer carried out his grand-daughter, who was trying to help him, unhurt--but it was at the very last moment--a falling beam injured his arm.' "she had spoken in snatches, as if it were hard for her to breathe. and now the peculiar sobbing sound came from her breast; i knew that so well, for even as a child she had thus suppressed a burst of tears. i grasped her hands more firmly; she was feverishly hot, and her bosom heaved violently. "'the splendid, warm-hearted man! just the same to-day as he ever was!' said i, gently. 'god be praised for having protected him!' "then we sat silent for a long time. the candles in front of the mirror had burned low, and flickering they struggled for existence; and the clock on the console ticked restlessly. i longed to beg the girl beside me: 'anna maria, confide in me; it is not yet too late! see, i know now that you love stürmer--since to-day i am sure of it. anna maria, it is not yet too late!' but how could i do it? she had never given me the slightest right, never allowed me to share in what moved her heart. oh, that she would come of her own accord, then, and speak, that she might know how much easier it is for two to bear a burden. "i pressed her hand, beseechingly. 'anna maria, my dear child!' i whispered. then she roused herself as out of a confused dream, and pushed the hair from her forehead. "'susanna?' she asked; 'susanna got off with a fright. i led her over to the castle myself, and stürmer's old servant carried isa; they are safe. as soon as the old woman can be moved i shall have her brought here, of course; to-day it was impossible. the excitement might be bad for susanna, too, for such a passionate outburst of grief i never dreamed of. she loves the old creature more than i ever mistrusted, and her cry: "isa, isa, if you die i have no one else in the world!" was repeated till she broke down from exhaustion.' "i listened as if stunned. 'anna maria,' i said, 'i must go over to-morrow.' "she nodded. 'if it is possible--for i should be glad to avoid it." "'it must be possible, anna maria. go and rest, we are both tired; sleep well.' "wall, there i lay, and no sleep came to my eyes. klaus and susanna, anna maria and stürmer, revolved in wildest confusion in my brain. i started up out of my dozing, for i thought i heard susanna's voice: 'isa, isa, if you die i have no one else in the world!' and i dreamed that i cried in anger to her: 'ungrateful one, have you not more than a thousand others--have you not the heart of the best and truest of men?' and i awoke again with a cry, for i had seen stürmer hurry into the burning house, and seen it fall on him; and anna maria stood by, pale and calm, with disordered locks of fair hair over her white forehead; her eyes looked fixedly and gloomily on that ruin, but she could neither weep nor speak." chapter xii. "it was a fearful night! i was almost astonished to see the bright sunshine streaming in my window, and the blue sky, the next morning. brockelmann helped me dress, for my shoulder was still painful. "some trouble oppressed the old woman; it was always to be observed that when anything weighed on her heart she used to smooth her hands over the hem of her apron, and therewith take aim at the person on whom she had designs. for a little while i watched it to-day, but when, after tying my shoes, she remained sitting on the deal floor, stroking her dazzlingly white apron, and seeking for a way to begin her speech, evidently a difficulty to her, i said: 'well, speak out, brockelmann; what is it?' "but instead of an answer she threw her apron over her face and began to weep bitterly. "'do write, gracious fräulein, for the master to come back soon, or things will not go right in my life-time with anna maria,' she sobbed. 'it eats into my heart like a worm that he went away without a good-by. she says nothing, but, fräulein, i have known her ever since she was born; i know her as well as i do myself. she stays for hours in the master's room, and when she comes out her eyes are red with weeping, and then it is always: "brockelmann, the master would certainly do this so, and wish that so," and "when the master is here," or "when the master comes," is the third word with her. when christian brings the mail she runs out into the court to meet him, and the first time the master wrote i was just going through the room, as she read the letter. she did not see me, but i saw how the letter trembled in her hands, and then she said to herself: "he is different from what he used to be; it is past!" and then she got up and went into the garden, and i looked after her and watched her as i used to when she was yet a wild thing with long braids. and then she walked up and down by the spot where her mother lies buried, up and down, up and down, oh! certainly for an hour. it was nothing to her that it rained, and that the wind blew her half to pieces. at last i went out there and asked her something about the housekeeping; i could not see it any longer. then she came in with me. but last night, when she came back from the fire, when i had brought her a glass of mulled wine, she looked so wretched. when i knew she was in her own room i took it to her--i did not wish to disturb her here. but listen, fräulein rosamond, when i went in there anna maria had just been crying, crying as if her heart would break. she did not see me; she had laid her head on the table, and on herr klaus's picture, and her whole body shook and trembled. then i closed the door again softly, for, believe me, it would have been dreadful to her to have had any one see that she was crying. indeed, she does not like it if anybody cries aloud. but to-day i could not rest. only write, fräulein; when the master is here all will be well again!' "'ah, good old brockelmann, if that would settle it! yes, klaus would come, but it would never be again as it used to be, never again!' "the old woman took my silence for acquiescence. 'and, fräulein,' she continued, drying her eyes, 'i know perfectly well since when things have been different. if i had had the power i would have said to christian at the time when the coach came driving into the yard with the theatrical people: "turn around, for heaven's sake, christian; these are birds which are not suited to this nest!" but, good heavens, some of us are silent, and see and hear! the master is so kind-hearted, fräulein, so kind-hearted; god grant that it may remain kind-heartedness! i could have fretted myself to death when it was rumored in the servants' hall, and in the village, that the ma'm'selle who had snowed down was not unpleasing to the master. in rieke, it has gone to a blockhead; she was not bad, but what is the use--the talk is once out--if fräulein anna maria only doesn't hear of it, although it is nothing but lies,' she continued, after a short pause, and looked at me confidently, 'for the master could have the fairest and best any day, and doesn't need to wait upon such a vagabond thing, yet it would make the fräulein ill if she were to hear of it.' "'so the servants are already talking about it,' said i softly, when the old woman had gone. 'and they are not far from the truth! brockelmann, too, only sings so loud because she has fears, and she wanted to know what i thought of it. but anna maria will not believe, anna maria has other troubles.' "as i went down to get into the carriage which was to carry me to dambitz, anna maria was just coming out of klaus's room. she was quiet and friendly as usual; there was no sign of yesterday's tumult. she asked how i had slept, and said she had just come in from the fields. 'the harvest is a blessing of god this year,' she added; 'look at the crops as you drive past the rye-fields. how pleased klaus will be!' and as i was sitting in the carriage, she put a little parcel into my hand: 'give that to stürmer for the burned-out people, will you, please? klaus will approve.' she was blushing crimson. 'it is out of the milk-fund; you know that is my own!' "touched, i nodded to her, and then the carriage rolled away with me, in the misty autumn morning. what a refreshing odor came from the pine-forests; a golden mist hung over the distant heath, and the sky seemed higher and bluer than i had seen it for a long time. and yet it seemed as if i were breathing the heavy air before a thunder-storm the nearer i came to dambitz and the shaded manor-house. we drove past the burned houses; the charred beams and timbers were still smoking, and thin columns of smoke circled up from the ruins; a loathsome odor lay about the unfortunate spot, but human hands were already at work again. the blacksmith's shop was half demolished, the gabled wall was warped by the heat of the fire, and the blacksmith's young wife was bravely rummaging among her household goods, which had been thrown, _nolens volens_, into the street, a promiscuous heap of beds, clothing, and furniture. a little woman was sitting on a chest, weeping bitterly; it was her husband who had met with the fatal accident last night, the coachman told me. a young girl of perhaps sixteen was hunting about the half-burned and partially wet rubbish; her eyes were swollen with weeping. "'you poor people,' thought i; 'no one can give you back what has been taken from you, but we will help to replace the earthly property.' and i looked at the small but heavy roll in my hand; it was a not insignificant sum in gold. well for him who can give, and gives gladly and lovingly! "we now drove along by the park wall; the great gate of skilfully wrought iron stood open; the luxuriant foliage of the beautiful park here parted, and let the eye roam over velvety green lawns and broad flower-beds to the white, castle-like buildings. awnings protected the terrace from the sun's rays, and a black and white flag waved gayly in the morning wind. a delicious freshness lay over the garden; not a yellow leaf was yet to be seen on the broad gravel-walk; everywhere most painstaking neatness. "i called to the coachman to stop, and had myself lifted out of the carriage, so as to walk through the park. i do not know myself how the idea came into my head. how long it was since i had been here! i was then still a girl; my sister-in-law was by my side, and klaus and edwin, wild lads, rushing about us. i felt very strangely; there was still the little bridge of tree-trunks, the ingeniously planned moat, which always used to be dry; to-day water was splashing in it. the trees had grown taller, the shrubbery more luxuriant, and a marble diana stood out against the green of the taxus-hedge. stürmer's taste for the beautiful struck me at every step. at home no one thought of marble statues and english turf; at home the wish had never yet been spoken to see such jets of crystal water as those shooting up before the group of fine old elms; there was still the same old garden with its gnarled oaks, its primitive arbors, its flower-sprinkled grass-plots; but it was pleasant and home-like, as it is to-day. "i followed a shady path which i knew would bring me to the side of the house, but all at once i stopped short. i could not be deceived; that was susanna's ringing laugh, floating like the note of a nightingale through the shrubbery. susanna in the garden and susanna laughing? i walked on and went up on a little knoll surrounded by old lindens; in the middle was a flora on a stone pedestal; monthly roses were blooming in the flower-beds, mingling their fragrance with that of the mignonette. at one side was a group of pretty garden furniture, and in one of the seats was susanna, leaning back and looking with a smile of delight at the spray of roses which stürmer had just offered her. "he stood in front of her, his arm still in a sling, and looked down at her. she had evidently made her toilet with the greatest care; the time at isa's sick-bed had not passed unused, it seemed. she still wore a black dress, but her white neck gleamed beneath a quantity of delicate black lace, and filmy lace also fell over her arms; the fichu knotted below her bosom was held together by a pale rose, and there was also a rose in her hair; susanna mattoni looked charming in her half-spanish costume. and yet if, with disorderly hair and careless toilet, and, instead of the lace, one of anna maria's aprons, i had found her at isa's bed, could i have detected in her face a single sign of the fearful night before, i would have thrown my arms about the child and said: 'come, susanna, my little susanna, your refuge is at bütze.' but now? but thus? "my heart seemed almost paralyzed. in another moment i was standing by susanna, and was able to say pleasantly that i had come to take her home. "stürmer drew my hand to his lips, much pleased, 'ah! my dearest, best aunt rosamond, again at dambitz at last," he cried. susanna stood as if petrified by my unexpected appearance. 'well, my child,' i said to her, as stürmer, after pushing up a chair for me, went into the castle; 'how is your isa? she is quite well again, is she?' "susanna shook her head. 'no,' she replied, 'isa is still very weak.' "'who takes care of her then?' i asked, sharply. "'herr von stürmer has engaged a woman to nurse her,' she informed me, 'who probably understands it better than i.' "'and you were on the point of returning to bütze, were you not?' i asked, severely. "susanna bent down her crimson face, and uttered a low 'yes!' she had understood me. "'_allons donc_, my child, we will not delay.' i rose and went forward; slowly she followed me, with a decided expression of ill-humor. at the front steps of the castle we met stürmer, a look of happy surprise still on his face. "'oh, dear aunt rosamond, you will breakfast with me!' he begged, giving me his well arm to escort me up the steps. 'such a rare occasion!' and he gave me a look so winning, so truly delighted that it would have been more than uncivil to refuse. and the personality of my old favorite exercised such a charm over me that, smiling, i let myself be dragged away. "susanna flew past us up the steps; her lace-trimmed skirts stood out as she ran, fluttering about her light feet; the rose fell out of her hair and dropped in front of stürmer. he picked it up, and held it absently in his hand. susanna disappeared behind the glass door of the vestibule; stürmer's eyes, which had followed her, now looked at me again, and our eyes met and remained for a moment fixed on each other, as if each would read the other's thoughts. then he silently led me through the rooms of his house. "how often had i been here before! i had always liked to think of the comfortable great rooms, which, with their oak wainscoting and huge tiled stoves projecting far out from the walls, presented such an attractive appearance to the half-frozen guests who had come in sleighs from bütze. it had always been a dream of mine to see anna maria ruling here some day, but the picture was erased from my mind when i entered the first room. "where were they, the comfortable rooms, the dark oak wainscoting, the old tiled stoves? gilding and colored mosaics shone, with a foreign air, on the walls; odd draperies concealed doors and windows; low, dark-red couches in place of the sofas; fragile little bronze tables, and vases; everywhere mirrors reaching to the floor; groups of exotic flowers in the corners; a smyrna rug on the floor, in which the foot sank deep. astonished, i stood still on the threshold. "'_mon dieu_, edwin, have you fallen among the turks?' "'it is my furnishing from stamboul, that i brought home with me,' he replied, simply. 'but, alas! i could not charm hither the view. imagine that wall gone, fräulein rosamond, and in its place slender marble pillars, forming a covered walk, and then imagine yourself looking out between them on the blue sea; see the sweet pines, swaying in the fresh sea-breeze; yonder a cypress-wood, and on the waving billows a hundred white sails; and imagine a child of that south, slender as a gazelle, leaning on the balustrade, a pair of sparkling dark eyes shining through a white veil--then you have what i saw daily in those beautiful days.' "how did it happen? in the midst of this imaginary picture which he had just drawn for me i saw anna maria standing, in her dark dress, her basket of keys on her arm, and saw her great clear eyes wander in astonishment over this splendor. i smiled involuntarily; i could never imagine anna maria resting, in sweet indolence, on those cushions. i had to laugh at this idea, but it was a bitter laugh, and pained me. "i followed him through several rooms; everywhere luxury, foreign furnishings; but at least the chairs were sensible. everywhere a perfume of roses, costly rugs, a profusion of foreign draperies. in a one-windowed room was a little table spread for three persons, shining with glass and silver. edwin escorted me to the seat of honor. 'your little protégée will appear directly,' he said gayly. and kissing my hand, he assured me again how happy he was to have me here at last. 'i really do not know why you have not visited my solitary abode long before,' he said, jokingly. "'why have you never told me, edwin, that you have so many treasures from the "thousand and one nights" here?' i returned. "'i do not like to seem boastful,' he said, offering me a mayonnaise, which i declined, taking some cold fowl. 'my acquaintances have looked at the things _en passant_, and klaus has been here often. i really supposed you were not interested in such things at bütze.' "indeed, klaus had told us nothing about all this; at the most had mentioned the costly furnishings and various rare articles from foreign countries; he had himself no fancy for curiosities of that sort. just then edwin stürmer rose. i thought i saw a faint smile on his lips, which vexed me, i know not why. but it vanished again at once, and gave way to a different expression. he opened the door and let susanna in; he had probably heard her step. she sat down opposite him at the richly appointed table; above her dark head waved the fan-shaped leaf of a great palm, and white blossoms crowded against the back of her chair; from a group of southern plants in another corner rose the venus de milo in purest marble. "and yet this sumptuous little room seemed but to form the frame for susanna's own peculiar beauty. she looked sad; she ate nothing, and only now and then lifted her slender cup to moisten her lips; she did not speak, either, and when she raised her lashes tears shone in the dark eyes. stürmer was also quieter; he spoke of the fire at last, and told me that work was to be begun on the new buildings to-morrow. "i delivered anna maria's little parcel to him; he grew red for a moment, but did not thank me with the warmth i had expected. "'and now,' said i, rising, after the dessert, 'i will relieve you of a burden; i will drive isabella and susanna home. in a bachelor's establishment such patients must be more than a disturbance. susanna, have the kindness to conduct me to isa.' "susanna's eyes sought stürmer, but he turned away. 'i fear the old woman is not yet able to be moved,' he said, politely. 'besides, she is no burden to me. she cannot, to be sure, find such a nurse as at bütze; we have to depend upon hired persons.' he offered me his arm and led me along the hall to a door which susanna, running ahead, opened, and then he withdrew. "isabella lay in a beautiful large room, in a fine bed with white hangings; evidently a guest chamber. it looked out on the garden, and great linden-trees shaded the windows from the sun's rays. that isabella and susanna both slept here was evident. there was a second bed, still unmade, the pillows tumbled over each other; and susanna's whole stock of knick-knacks and trumpery lay, just as it had been brought hither from the burning house, with the dress, cooking utensils, and salve-boxes of the other, tumbled together on the floor. an old woman in a neat dress and white cap stood among them, trying to restore order. she was probably the nurse of whom susanna had spoken. "i went straight up to isa's bed. 'mademoiselle pfannenschmidt, are you well enough to drive to bütze with susanna and me?' i asked. "'no!' she replied, looking at me very angrily. "'well, then, come after us as soon as you are well enough,' said i, coldly; 'are you ready, susanna?' "'susanna stays with _me_!' she declared, her voice trembling with anger. "'she is going with me,' i replied, quietly; 'spare yourself all further pains. i shall not leave susanna in the house of an unmarried man; according to _our_ views, it is improper.' "'under my charge?' shrieked isabella, sitting up in bed with a jerk; 'under my charge?' "i shrugged my shoulders in silence, and turned to susanna; she stood motionless, and looked at isa. "'will you take away the girl a second time?' cried isa, wringing her thin hands. 'you will not even let me have the child on my death-bed? susanna, my darling, stay with me!' "'you are far from dying, my dear,' said i, in a clear voice. 'have the kindness to submit quietly to my arrangements; they are for susanna's good.' she was silent, and looked on, as i put a shawl over susanna's shoulders, pulled out her straw hat from under a heap of clothing, and put it on her head. "'i shall ask baron stürmer to have you driven to bütze as soon as you are at all well enough,' said i, turning to isa again; 'till then i know you will be well cared for. farewell.' without further ado, i pushed susanna toward the door, and heard once more the shrill cry: 'susanna, susanna, stay here!' "she stopped, and looked at me as if she meant to defy me and run back. "'_en avant!_ my child,' said i, energetically; 'you have been away from bütze too long already; i shall never forgive myself for having let you go at all.' she was pale, and i saw her clench her little hands; but she followed me. "stürmer was waiting for us at the carriage, which was standing before the front steps. he was holding the spray of roses which susanna had left lying in the garden in the morning, and handed it to her with a bow which, in my opinion, was lower than was really necessary. i could not see the look he gave her with it, for his back was turned to me, but i saw a crimson glow mount to susanna's cheeks and a bright look flash over to him from under her long lashes, which alarmed me. i scarcely heard stürmer commission me with greetings for anna maria, adding that he would bring his thanks himself for the money. i drew down my veil and motioned to the coachman to start, and we rattled across the court and out on the highway. susanna's head was turned around, and her eyes sped over the rows of windows of the stately house; two shining drops escaped from them and fell on the roses. "how it came about i know not, but all at once i had seized her firmly by the arm. 'there before you lies bütze, susanna mattoni!' i cried, sternly. she started, and gave a little cry; her face had grown pale, but her eyes sparkled in rebellion. "'you punish me like a naughty child!' she cried, her lips quivering. 'what wrong have i done? i followed you without opposition.' "'ask your own heart, susanna,' i returned, gravely. she blushed, and then began to cry bitterly, incessantly. "'isa! isa!' she sobbed. "'are you really crying about isa?' i asked, gently now, and took her hand. 'i do not believe it, susanna; you have some other grief. only place confidence in me. _could_ i not help you, if you were frank?' "she pushed away my hand. 'no, never, never!' she burst out, violently. "'but if i only knew what is the matter with you, susanna, i might, with a word----' "she stopped crying, and a defiant expression came over her face. 'i really want no sympathy,' she said, with a gesture of inimitable pride. 'there is nothing the matter with me; am i not to be allowed to cry when the person who watched over my childhood lies ill and alone in a strange house?' "i was silent; i thought where i had found her to-day--not indeed at the sick-bed! and she understood my silence better than my words, for she dropped her eyes in embarrassment, and remained quiet during the whole drive. ah, and it was such a sunny day! i followed a lark with my eyes, as it joyously and on trembling wings rose high in the blue sky, till it looked like a mere dot. a herd of deer ran away over the stubble as we drove quickly past; in the meadows over yonder the peasant's cows were feeding; far in the distance earth and sky blended in a blue haze; and now the roofs of bütze emerged, peaceful and sunny, from the dark foliage of the oaks and elms--the dear old father-house! to me it seemed all at once as if i were coming home from a long journey from distant lands. "anna maria was standing in the door-way, with apron and bunch of keys, as ever. she had a few beautiful white asters in her hand, and as susanna came up the steps she said, drawing the girl to her: 'thank god, susanna, that you have returned unharmed; it was a bad night!' and she shyly put the flowers in the girl's little hand, beside the bunch of roses. one could see that she was really pleased. 'how is isa doing?' she asked, 'and how is stürmer's arm?' she turned to me when she saw that susanna had been crying, and on my reply that the condition of both was hopeful, she turned again to susanna. "'do not cry,' and a lovely expression beautified her serious young face; 'as soon as isa can drive she is coming, and you will nurse each other quite well again.' "anna maria seemed transformed; there was a tenderness in her actions, in her voice, which only the consciousness of a great happiness, an endless gratitude for something undeserved, can give. this tone cut my heart like a hundred knives. "susanna begged to be excused from the dinner-table, on the plea of a headache, and she did not come down to the garden-parlor during the afternoon; she was sulky. anna maria had taken up her sewing, and sat opposite me in the window-recess; it was quiet and cosey in the comfortable room, so peaceful--and yet the threatening storm was drawing near with great haste, to drive away our peace for a long time. "'i would like to know if klaus would miss me if i--were suddenly no longer here; if i should die, for instance, aunt?' asked anna maria all at once, quite abruptly. then she quickly laid her hand on my arm: 'no, i beg you,' said she, preventing my answer; 'i know of course he would miss me, miss me very much!' "after we had sat silent together for a little while the coachman entered with the mail-bag, which he handed to anna maria. she felt in her pocket for the key, opened the bag, and drew out letters and newspapers. "'ah, from klaus!' she cried, in joyful surprise; 'and what a thick letter, aunt; just look!' she held up a large envelope. how strange,' she remarked then; 'it is for you, aunt.' "i started as if i had been apprehended of a crime. 'give it to me!' i begged, and broke the crested seal with trembling hand, for i suspected what it was. an enclosure for anna maria fell out of the letter addressed to me, and i stealthily threw my handkerchief over it--anna maria had opened a business letter--and began to read: "'dearest aunt: when i went away a few weeks ago, i said to you at the last moment i should write to anna maria to tell her that i love susanna mattoni, that she is to be my wife. meanwhile, i had given up the idea, and thought i would speak quietly with anna maria on my return. but now i am again of the opinion that a written confession is best. when i ask you now to give the enclosed letter to anna maria, it is chiefly for this reason, that she may have a support in you. if i were to write to her directly, she would keep the matter all to herself, she is so reserved; but in this way she must speak, and will be more easily reconciled to what cannot be altered. that it will be hard for her i cannot conceal from myself, after various scenes between us. but my decision stands irrevocably firm. i love susanna, and god will help us over the near future, and not separate the hearts of brother and sister, who have so long clung to one another in true love. i shall come as soon as i have news; the longing takes hold of me more than i can tell.' "i let the sheet drop, the letters danced before my eyes. how should i begin to make this news known to her? "as i rose hastily, the letter fell at anna maria's feet. she raised her head and looked searchingly at me, and saw that i was making a great effort to compose myself. "'aunt rosamond!' she cried, stooping and picking up the letter, 'what is it? bad news from klaus? please, speak!' she knelt by my chair, and her anxious eyes tried to read my face. "'no, no, my child!' i caught hold of the letter which she held in her hand. "'it is certainly to me!' she cried, quickly taking it back. "all at once i became master of my trembling nerves. 'it is to you, anna maria,' i agreed, 'and contains----' "'i will see for myself, aunt,' she said, and there was a tone of infinite anxiety in her voice. she rose and sat down in one of the deep window-niches of the hall. i could not see her face from my seat; i heard only the rattling of the paper in the stillness, and my heart thumped as if it would burst. the anxious pause seemed to me an eternity; then a cry of pain sounded through the room. i sprang toward anna maria; her fair head lay on the window-seat, her face was buried in her hands, and an almost unearthly groaning was wrung from her breast. "'for god's sake, anna maria!' i cried, embracing her. 'compose yourself, be calm; you do him injustice; he is not lying on his bier!' but she did not stir; she groaned as if suffering from severe physical pain. "'anna maria, my dear anna maria!' i cried, weeping. "'for that, ah, for that, all that i have suffered!' she cried out, and raised her pale face, transfixed with pain. she stretched up her arms, and wrung her clasped hands. 'my only brother!' she whispered, 'my only brother!' then, springing up impetuously, she ran out. "as if stunned, i remained behind; i had not expected this; for such an expression of pain i was not prepared. "and the old house was still; my steps creaked on the cement floor of the corridor before anna maria's room, and a long, long time i stood there and listened for a sound, but it remained quiet behind the closed door. the autumn evening drew on, night closed in, solemn and clear shone the stars from the sky upon the earth beneath. 'what art thou, child of man, with thy small trouble? look up to us and fold thy hands,' said they in their dumb language. and i clasped my hands. 'he who created the stars to give us light by night will also lighten this spot!' i whispered. "eleven o'clock struck as i knocked at susanna's door. she did not answer. i went softly into the room; a candle on the mantel, just on the point of going out, threw its unsteady light on the girl. she was lying on one side, her face turned toward the room, a smile on the red lips; beside the bed stürmer's spray of roses, carefully placed in water. "it was a dismal morning that followed. anna maria remained in her room; she did not answer our knocks, and there was no movement within. brockelmann's eyes were red with weeping; she shook her head, and went about the house on tip-toe, as if there were a dead person in it. i was in sheer despair, and limped from anna maria's door to my room, and back again. the bailiffs came and inquired for her, and went away astonished--she did not appear. "about eight o'clock i went softly to susanna's room. she had just risen, and was arranging her hair. the windows were opened wide; through the branches of the trees golden sunbeams slipped into the room and played over the young creature who, trifling and smiling and fresh as a rose, stood, in her white dressing-sack, before the mirror. she did not hear me enter, for she went on trilling a little song half aloud; clear as a bell the tones floated out on the clear morning air. isa's death-bed was forgotten; ah! and something else, probably. "i closed the door again cautiously; i was never so anxious before in my life. "'is fräulein anna maria ill?' asked susanna, as she found only two places set at dinner. she had come from the garden, and had a bunch of white asters at her bosom, and her eyes shone with delight. "'i think so,' said i, softly, and folded my hands for the grace. susanna showed a pitying face for a moment, and then began to chatter; she was in a most agreeable mood. "the day wore on. anna maria remained invisible. brockelmann was quite beside herself. 'she is crying, she is crying as if her heart would break,' she said, coming into my room before going to bed. "'she is crying? that is good!' said i, relieved. "'she has never cried so much in all her life before, whispered the old woman; 'something must have happened that cuts deep into her heart.' "'i cannot confide it to you, brockelmann,' i replied, 'but you will know it soon.' i was sorry for the old woman; she was trembling in every limb. "'oh, i can guess it already, fräulein,' she said; 'it would surprise me above all things if it did not come from that quarter!' she pointed in the direction of susanna's room. 'one woman's head can ruin a whole country!' "the following day was a sunday, and a sunday stillness lay over the house and court; even more than ordinarily, for the house down-stairs was stiller than usual, as anna maria had not yet left her room. "sadly i got ready for church, and then went to susanna's door to call for her. as i looked in i saw her still lying in bed, still sleeping, her limbs stretched out, like a tired kitten. on the whole, i was glad; i would rather go alone to-day, with my heavy heart. "the little church was unusually full on this sunday, especially of dambitz people. a danger commonly encountered, a great misfortune, brought them hither. they wanted, too, to hear what the clergyman had to say about the calamity of the fire. so it happened that the little nave was full to the last seat; only the seats of the gentry, above, were empty. "'what god does is well!' sang the congregation. i folded my hands over my book, and tears fell on them. i spoke no words, but more warmly i surely never prayed, for klaus, for anna maria. god knows all the sad thoughts that came to me. i had already fought in vain against one of them the night before: 'what if anna maria were not to yield; if she were, perhaps, to go out from the ancestral home, in defiance, in order to live no longer with susanna? oh! it was possible, with her temperament, and then what would become of them both?' "just then the door of the gallery moved, creaking slightly, and there, on the threshold, stood--anna maria! was it really she? her face was pale, with deep bluish shadows under the eyes; and beside her, even paler, her great eyes directed toward me, as if seeking help, stood--susanna! anna maria held her hand and led her to the chair in which the mistress of bütze had always sat, and which, of late, had been anna maria's seat. "the girl sank into it, a crimson glow now on her cheeks, and bent her head. anna maria sat behind her, and folded her hands. it had been done, then; she had yielded to her brother's will. what she had suffered in that her face showed plainly. "anna maria raised her head only once during the sermon, when pastor grüne, in speaking of the dambitz fire, mentioned the man who had perished, and, in a few moving words, uttered a prayer of thanksgiving that god had protected him who had risked his own life to save another, almost lost. then she cast a long look across at stürmer's empty seat. susanna, too, raised her lashes, but dropped them at once, shyly, as if she were doing something wrong. "on the way home anna maria walked beside me with her usual firm step, susanna's hand in hers. there was something solemn in her manner, and when we stood in the garden-parlor, the tall, fair girl drew susanna to her. "'make him happy,' she bade her softly; 'a nobler, a better man does not exist. god has bestowed a very rich happiness upon you.' she kissed the girl on the forehead, and went down into the garden. but susanna suddenly fell on my neck and broke out in convulsive sobs. "'why, susanna, are you not happy?' i asked. no answer; she only clung more closely to me. "'have you thought that you have now a home and the heart of a noble man; that you are his bride-elect, loved beyond everything?' "she gave a shiver, and stopped crying. "'come, susanna,' i begged, kindly; 'you belong to us now; you have now a family home and i am now your aunt,' i added, jokingly. 'stop crying. come, let us go down to anna maria; you have not said a friendly word to her yet.' "she threw her head back, and seemed to be deliberating for a moment; then she ran out. i heard her swiftly retreating steps in the corridor. 'i will seek anna maria, at least to learn what has passed,' i murmured, arid turned at once to the garden. so it had come about. klaus was betrothed; how often i had imagined it formerly. and to-day? a sort of film came over my eyes, and the grayest of gray seemed the world round about. "anna maria was standing by the little pond, looking into the brown water; she gave me her hand, quietly and kindly. "'my dear anna maria,' said i, 'god leads human hearts together.' "she nodded mutely. "'shall you write klaus?' i continued. "'it is already done. i wrote on that night,' she replied. "'it has not been easy for you, anna maria?' "she raised her hand, defensively. 'i love klaus very much,' she said, gently. "'when did you speak with susanna, anna maria; may i know?' "'this morning,' she replied. 'i went to her, as klaus wished. he wishes the marriage to be very soon, and will return just a little while before, so that susanna may not need to seek another shelter beforehand. so she will pass her time of being engaged without her lover. he does not wish that the engagement should be made public, either; he does not intend to give notice of his marriage until after the ceremony is over.' "she had spoken very fast, and was silent now, drawing long breaths. "'and did he write you everything, anna maria, in that letter, day before yesterday?' "'everything, aunt.' "'and susanna?' "'i do not know,' she replied; 'i did not look at her, and she did not speak. perhaps happiness makes one dumb?' she added, questioningly. it sounded as if she meant: 'i do not know--i am sure i do not know--what happiness is.' "'tell me just one thing, dear, good child,' i begged, seizing her hands. 'did the thought really never come to you that klaus might have a feeling of affection for this beautiful young creature?' "she was silent for awhile, and her breast heaved with suppressed sobs. 'no,' she said, 'i had never thought that he would stoop for a poison-flower----' "an infinite bitterness, a deep woe, lay in these few words, and as if she had said too much, she whispered: 'he is my only brother!' and then, no longer able to control her emotion, she cried, throwing her hands over her face: 'and i cannot hold him back, i cannot keep him from a disappointment; i have no right to!' it sounded like a wild cry of pain. and a hot stream of tears gushed forth between her fingers. "i stepped up to her to embrace her consolingly, but she hastily averted it. 'let me alone; i did not mean to cry, i thought i was stronger.' and drawing out her handkerchief, she turned into the nearest shady path. chapter xiii. "a few hours later a carriage drove into the court. i recognized stürmer's livery, and from my chamber window saw brockelmann help out the old actress, hardly with the haste of anticipation. "'there, we really ought to have just such a sort of mother-in-law in the house!' i whispered, and smiled bitterly; but tear after tear fell on my lilac cap-strings. like misfortune itself, the old woman came up the steps. ah! klaus, klaus, whither have you gone astray?' our whole family seemed to me unspeakably fallen in this moment, and i could do nothing in the unfortunate affair, but only try to raise susanna to us, to keep her away from everything which might remind her of the folly, of the frivolity of the sphere from which she sprang; again and again to point out to her what a rich, fair lot had fallen to her; to make her comprehend that the wife of a hegewitz must also be a pattern of dignity and noble womanhood. i should have much preferred to bundle isabella pfannenschmidt into the carriage again, to send her to some place miles away, and against my will i was going out of my door, when i heard her slow, shuffling step in the hall. "'please, ma'm'selle, come into my room a minute before you go to susanna,' i said to her. frankly confessed, i do not know myself why i did it; but i felt instinctively that i must speak with her first, before she learned the latest turn in susanna's fate from her own lips. "the small person came slowly over the threshold, looking at me distrustfully. she seemed to me infinitely wretched in her rumpled bonnet and threadbare silk cloak, her face yellower than ever, and sunken, and she was somewhat bent, as if still suffering pain. she sat down in the nearest chair, and looked at me with her sharp, sullen eyes. i stood before her and tried to speak, yet no word passed my lips. all the craft, all the low sentiments which flashed out of those small eyes toward me reminded me anew of the sort of atmosphere in which susanna had grown up. i had been walking up and down the room with these thoughts; now i took a seat opposite the old woman, who had silently followed me with her eyes. i wanted to tell her that a great, great happiness had befallen susanna, and found no words for it. it seemed as if i were choked. "'i would like to inform you,' i began, hesitatingly, but i got no farther, for anna maria came in. 'dear aunt,' said she, 'i have to speak with isabella pfannenschmidt a moment.' i drew a breath of relief, and went into the adjoining room. "then i heard anna maria's sonorous voice. she spoke of a great piece of good fortune that had come to susanna, and said that she hoped susanna would reward so much love, such infinite trust, with all her powers, in order to make the man happy who offered her a name, a home, and a heart. "tears came into my eyes again; there was something in anna maria's voice that pained me infinitely. i pictured to myself the proud maiden before the vagabond actress, to whom she was now speaking as to an equal. that which i had considered impossible now happened, out of love to her brother. now i thought the old woman must break out in an ecstasy of joy; i shuddered already at the thought of the theatrical glorification in her darling's good fortune. far from it; she spoke quietly and coolly. i could not understand her, but it sounded like a murmur of discontent. "'i do not comprehend you,' anna maria said, now icily; 'if i have rightly understood my brother's letter, susanna gave her assent on the evening when she fled to you. what? is she, meanwhile, to have changed her mind?' "again a murmur; then i heard disconnected words between the old woman's sobs: 'defence--true love--' and so forth. this homeless woman was as pretentious as a ruling princess making arrangements to give her daughter in marriage to a man of a lower class. "then i heard her leave the room. when i reëntered anna maria was standing at the window, her forehead pressed against the panes, her clenched hand rested on the window-sill, and her lips were tightly closed. "'anna maria,' said i, 'this person must leave the house.' "'klaus may decide that,' she replied, gently; 'i have no longer any voice in this matter.' "'she is an arrogant thing!' i continued, in my wrath. "anna maria turned. 'ah, aunt,' said she, 'the old woman loves susanna like a mother, and such a relative naturally asks, in respect to the most brilliant match: "will it be for the child's happiness?" i ought not to have taken it amiss; it was unjust in me.' "i pressed her hand softly. anna maria's noble sentiments sprang forth in her pain, like flowers after rain. god grant that she was right in her excuse! "half an hour afterward, isabella pfannenschmidt came in with susanna, whose eyes were red with weeping, and hair dishevelled. isabella led her to anna maria, and susanna made a motion as if to take her hand, but her own fell to her side again, and so, for a moment, the two girls, so unlike, stood opposite each other. anna maria had turned pale, to her very lips; then she put her arm about susanna's delicate shoulders, and drew her to herself. but susanna slid to the floor, and, sobbing, embraced her knees; it seemed as if she wished to ask forgiveness for a heavy offence, but not a word passed her lips. she only looked up at anna maria, with an expression which i shall never forget my life long, she seemed so true in those few moments. but before anna maria could stoop to raise the girl, isabella had already pulled her up with the sharp, quick words: 'susanna, be sensible!' "did the old woman consider prostration before the sister of the future husband too much devotion, or did she fear that thereby her darling was subordinating herself, once for all, to the sister's strict _régime_? i could not decide at the time; i did not know till later that this moment was a fearful crisis in susanna's heart. "the next three days passed quietly. anna maria had given isabella a little room next susanna's, had told her klaus's plans for his wedding; and the old woman agreed to all the arrangements without a word of opposition, but without showing any joy either. the sewing for the trousseau was to be begun immediately after the harvest festival. isabella had arranged a cushion for lace-making, and under her thin, skilful fingers grew filmy lace of the finest thread--'for the wedding toilet!' she said softly to me. "susanna's manner was quite altered; she unsociably avoided not only our company, but isa's as well. meanwhile the old woman seemed little concerned that her darling ran about half the day in the wood and garden, looked pale, and ate little or nothing, and now and then started up impetuously from her quiet, absorbed state, looking about with terrified eyes. 'that is the way with people in love,' she would say in excuse, with a peculiar smile, if i worried about susanna's pale looks. "in a few days there came a letter from klaus for susanna. i went up-stairs to give it to her. the first love-letter, a wonder in every girl's life! with beating heart it is opened, read in the most secret corner, kissed a thousand times, and kept forever. after long years there still rises from such a yellow, crumpled paper a faint odor of roses; a blush flits over the wrinkled cheeks, the dimmest eyes shine once more in recollection of the hour when they first fell on those lines. i was in quite a festive mood. what might not be enclosed in that blue envelope? all the love, all the trust, all the true, noble sentiment that could come only from such a heart as klaus's! and all this fell like a golden rain into the lap of the little vagabond girl. "i opened her door and looked in. isabella sat, making lace, at the open window. susanna lay on the sofa, her head buried in the cushions, apparently dreaming. the golden autumn sun streamed in through the trees, which were already becoming less shady, and played upon the inlaid floor, and susanna's little kitten, with a blue ribbon around its neck, was jumping nimbly about after the bright, moving flecks. "'susanna, a letter from klaus!' i cried, going to the sofa. "she started up, and stared at me with frightened eyes, but she did not reach out for the letter in eager haste; her little hand made rather an averting gesture. isabella, on the other hand, was standing beside me in an instant. 'a letter from the lover, susanna!' she cried, cheerfully. 'well, well, before i would be so affected! quick, take and read it!' the words had a certain harsh sound, and susanna seized the letter, took her straw hat from the nearest chair, and slipped out of the door; but it was not the joyous haste of anticipation, it looked rather like a speedy escape from isa's sharp eyes. "'a strange child, fräulein rosamond,' said the old woman, smiling and shaking her head. 'she is different from others, god bless her!' then she began to rummage in susanna's bureau, and brought out a little portfolio, from which she took a sheet of gilt-edged paper, with a bird-of-paradise with outstretched wings, sitting on a rose, on the upper left-hand corner, and arranged blotter, pen, and ink-stand. 'she will want to write immediately, when she has read the letter,' she explained, 'and a first love-letter like that is not easy, for one dips in the pen a hundred times, and still what one would like to say does not come.' "i went away with the thought that susanna would know well enough what to write. when the heart speaks, the pen is easily guided. anna maria had a great deal to do on this day; the animals were to be killed for the harvest festival. in the housekeeping rooms a restless activity reigned. marieken was required to help, as on all such occasions, and brockelmann had poured the flour to be used in cooking for the festival into a great tray in the baking-room. anna maria was in the storeroom; i found her sitting on a great sugar-firkin, with a slate in her hands; at her feet lay the scales with different weights, and brockelmann was just bringing great bowls of raisins and sugar to be weighed for the cakes. anna maria wore, as usual, her great white housekeeping apron over her simple dress; her fair hair lay, smooth as a mirror, in luxuriant plaits on her beautifully shaped head; her sleeves, being pushed up a little, exposed her white arms; not a blemish on the whole appearance, from the lace-trimmed mull kerchief about her shoulders to the shapely foot in the little laced shoe. would susanna ever practise household duties thus? "never! that princess, that will-o'-the-wisp, with the curly hair and little, childish hands! but would anna maria remain here forever? lost in thought, i stood for a moment at the door of the cool cellar. anna maria drew a line below her figures, laid the slate aside, and took up a letter. 'from klaus,' she said, as she caught sight of me. 'i will read it by and by in my room.' on the table lay another letter, significantly smaller than the first, and already opened. anna maria noticed that my eyes rested on it a moment, questioningly. "'stürmer announces his coming to the harvest festival,' she explained, bending forward quickly and putting something on the table. when she raised her head again a slight flush still lay on her cheeks. "'you have accepted, anna maria?' "'yes,' she said, quickly; 'i think it is only right to klaus.' "'klaus has written to susanna too,' said i; 'did you know it?' "she quivered, noticeably. 'no,' she replied, 'but that must be.' "'she has run, the lord knows where, with her treasure,' i continued, smiling; 'she will probably answer it to-day, too.' "anna maria nodded. 'we will go up,' she said; 'i would like to read, too.' we went through the busy kitchen and up the stairs. anna maria went at once to her room, and i to the upper story, to seek my own room. in the hall i stopped; the sound of susanna's sobbing came to my ear, and the indignant voice of the old woman: "'for shame, susanna!' "'no, i cannot, i will not!' sobbed the girl. "they had forgotten to latch the door; i slipped nearer, but did not understand isabella's hissing whisper, nevertheless. "'no, no!' cried susanna again, but with little resistance. fresh whispering, then a kiss. 'my little hare, my susy, it may all be yet; now the thing is, to put a good face on the bad game!' in genuine berlin speech. 'now at it; you are brave!' "an icy chill crept over me, even to my heart; i could not account for it to myself. but i was in no mood then to open the door, and went to my room with the consciousness that something wrong, something mysterious, was going on over there. "an hour later isabella came to me with a letter. 'here it is,' said she proudly. 'susanna is ready with her pen, she gets it from her father, and all that she says in this is beautiful. it is a shame that you haven't read it, fräulein; how pleased klaus will be.' "'herr von hegewitz!' i corrected, bluntly. "'pardon!' returned isabella, 'the name came so easily to my lips; i have heard it so often from susanna that----' "'very well!' i interrupted. 'now, to return to the letter; it almost sounds as if you knew the contents. i hope susanna does not conduct her correspondence under your direction!' "isabella pfannenschmidt grew crimson. 'heaven forbid!' she said, casting an angry glance at me. 'susanna only spoke in a general way of what she was going to write, to tell him how grateful she is and how honored and how she loves him.' "'i do not wish to know anything about it,' i replied, coldly. 'i only expect of susanna that she will not allow all that she has to say to-day to her lover--something which, it seems to me, should be as sacred as a prayer--to be desecrated by meddling eyes.' "isabella smiled in embarrassment; she evidently did not understand me. 'to whom can i give this letter,' she asked, 'to send it to the post-office?' "'leave it here; i will see that it is put into the mail-bag,' i replied. when i went down later, i found susanna sitting motionless on a bench in the garden. she seemed to be buried in a book; but her first letter was already with a messenger, on the way to the city. "anna maria had grown calmer than i expected; it seemed as if some great force had carried her half over her sorrow about klaus. she brought me his letter at supper time; it contained warm expressions of thanks, infinite love for his sister, permeated with rapture at the possession of susanna. the world seemed to him more beautiful than ever; he pictured to himself such a wonderful future, with susanna, with anna maria. again and again came a fervent, 'but how shall i thank you, anna maria, for this, that you will love my little bride as a sister? i have always known that we think an infinite deal of each other, and it seems to me as if my love for you had become even greater! anna maria, how i wish for you such a happiness as mine!' he added that he should be as pleased as a child at the first lines from susanna, that he had an endless longing to come home, but, unfortunately, business made it impossible; the fatigues of the journey he would think nothing of. "anna maria silently folded the letter which i returned to her, and put it in her pocket, 'have you seen susanna since she received her letter?' she asked. "'no, anna maria.' "'how happy she must be, aunt!' "'i find susanna very quiet for an engaged girl,' i replied. "'yes,' she agreed. 'but i cannot describe to you how infinitely better she pleases me; it is quieting to me that she does not take the matter lightly.'" chapter xiv. "the harvest festival was celebrated more quietly than usual this year, at least at the manor-house. otherwise everything was as usual. under the four great oaks in the yard, near the garden wall, the dancing-floor was laid; gay garlands, tied with bows of ribbon, hung on the old trees, the whole court-yard seemed to be made as clean as a room, and everywhere there was an odor of pine-boughs and fresh cake. "the weather was splendid on this october day, a little hoar-frost, to be sure, on the roofs, but the sun soon melted that away. early in the day everything was under way; the village children, in new red flannel dresses and dazzling white shirts, appeared first to receive their cakes from brockelmann. in the servants' kitchen three maids were cutting a regular wash-kettle full of potato salad, and the odor of roast beef and veal rose seductively to the noses of the farm people and day-laborers just assembling in the court for the festal church-going. "anna maria was standing in the hall waiting for me as i came down-stairs. 'are you bringing susanna with you?' she asked. at the same time steps were heard behind me; isa came down, begging excuse for susanna, who felt fatigued, and could not make up her mind to go to church. "anna maria frowned. it was the custom in our family that not a single member should be absent to-day. 'is it absolutely impossible?' she asked. "'yes!' declared isabella, and anna maria and i went alone. the bells were ringing gayly, and the sun shone brightly in at the windows of the little church, upon the garlands of corn with their red and blue ribbons, on the altar, and upon the happy faces of the people. with festal gladness was sung the 'now thank we all our god.' it had, indeed, been a blessed harvest year. and in earnest words the clergyman charged the people with heartfelt gratitude to god, who gave this year of blessing, gradually passing on to speak of the seed in the heart of man. 'take care that there may be a blessed harvest here, too, when, by and by, it will be autumn with you; think of the heavenly harvest home; well for him who brings precious fruits, ripened in humility, planted in love!' he then counselled the men to labor, the women to gentleness in the home, and finally remembered in his prayer the absent master of the manor. anna maria's head was bent low; i saw how she joined with her whole heart in the prayer for her brother, how a great tear fell from her eye upon the leaves of her hymn-book. "when the last verse had been sung we had to hurry home; for immediately after service the people always brought the harvest wreath, and to-day anna maria had to thank them in her brother's place. she cast a glance across to stürmer's seat; it was empty. perhaps he was already waiting at the manor. we walked through the greeting throng as rapidly as my lame foot would allow, and anna maria quickly laid aside hat and shawl in the garden-parlor, for we already heard the music in the village street. "'i don't know about it, aunt,' she said. 'it is dreadful to me without klaus; if only stürmer, at least, were here!' "'the baron has been in the garden for an hour,' remarked marieken, who had just run in, in dazzlingly clean attire, to inform us that the people were coming. "'then go and look for him, marieken,' i bade. 'i will call susanna and isa.' "'there comes the baron, now,' cried marieken, with a glance at the window, and opened the door leading to the terrace. "i could not believe my eyes; yes, there he was coming along the garden-path, and beside him--susanna. she did not walk, she floated, as if carried along by the sound of the march, borne hither on the warm autumn air. a pink dress fluttered and blew about her delicate figure, and her lips and cheeks were tinged with the same color. with outstretched arms she flew up the steps. "oh, anna maria, oh, fräulein rosamond, listen, just listen!' she cried, in ecstasy. "stürmer followed her, smiling, and offered anna maria his arm. hesitatingly, with a long look at susanna, she took it. the latter looked after them in wonder, and walked silently beside me. "before the house a crowd of people had assembled, in eager expectation; then came the children, dancing and skipping, in at the gate; behind them came the musicians, and over the long procession which followed hovered the wreath of golden corn, adorned with colored ribbons, waving gayly in the warm autumn wind. "anna maria stood beside stürmer, on the front steps, her hand still resting lightly on his arm; she wore her blue dress and white lace kerchief. a sad smile lay on her lips as the speaker, followed by two girls bearing the wreath, now advanced to the steps, and, making a sign for the music to stop, began the old speech: "'god be praised, who gives sun and rain; god be praised, who gives his blessing again; god be praised, who, in this year, has blessed our fields so richly here. may he give further fortune good, to man and beast, to field and wood, and may his gracious blessing fall on man and beast, on people all. and on the house we hang to-day the wreath, that blessings here may stay. a pious wife, and children fair, may they ere long be dwelling there! that is our wish upon this day; god will provide for come what may. take not this speech of ours amiss. full of good-will, indeed, it is!' "a peal of music accompanied the three hearty cheers of the people; the two pretty girls laid the wreath at anna maria's feet as she kindly shook hands with the speaker. 'i thank you heartily, people,' she said in her deep, mature voice. 'i thank you in the name of my brother far away, who is much grieved not to be able to stand here to-day. i thank you for the honest diligence and labor of this year, and wish that the good old harmony may continue between gentry and people as has ever been the manner at bütze. and now, in my brother's name, enjoy the present day, and be happy as befits this feast.' "'long may she live, our gracious fräulein!' cried the people; the lads tossed their caps in the air, and with music the procession went into the great barn, where long tables were set for the harvest banquet. "anna maria had dropped stürmer's arm as she stepped forward to speak. he appeared strangely moved, and a slight, indefinable smile lay on his lips. i remembered his once saying that nothing was more dreadful to him in a woman than to see her, even for a moment, assume the position of a man, and in that light he evidently regarded the speech. "during the shouting i looked around for susanna; she had disappeared. there was not much time to reflect where she might be. anna maria now made the round of the tables; she had to have her health drunk, and drink in return. stürmer accompanied her; it was a pretty sight to see them walking together across the court. "on that day not the slightest thing escaped me, but now i cannot tell exactly what this and that one did; it only came to me upon reflection, much later; and then one thing after another came into my mind. at the time i did not wonder at the rose-colored dress which susanna wore, and which was so charmingly suited to her transparent complexion; it did not occur to me at all that she was still in mourning for her father, nor did i think about her having been too indisposed to go to church in the morning, and then, soon after, coming running from the garden, with rosy cheeks. i thought nothing of it, that at the table--to-day there was a long row of us, the clergyman and his sister, two bailiffs, three farm-pupils, a forester, and isabella (by way of exception)--she laughed through the entire scale every minute, and carried on all manner of nonsense. "anna maria sat at the head, beside the clergyman, susanna at her right, and stürmer next; i sat next to pastor grüne, and we formed the upper end of the table. i could see that anna maria often looked gravely at susanna; yet a ray of pleasure broke from her eyes when they rested upon this embodied rosebud, and saw how roguish were the dimples in her cheeks, how her eyes shone, and her little teeth flashed behind the red lips, and how she chattered all manner of pretty, foolish stuff. isabella's face shone with pride and she looked at the guests in turn; almost every eye was fixed on the girl. "then stürmer rose, and proposed the health of the master of the house--'his best friend,' as he said--and 'the house that was as dear to him as a paternal home.' "and anna maria's face glowed as she raised her glass to touch with him. but susanna trembled, and put her glass down untouched; she grew pale and quiet, and scarcely spoke again. "pastor grüne raised a full glass to the lady of the house; 'the mistress of bütze,' he called anna maria. the old man was much moved as he made mention of her youth and how serious and careful she was; nevertheless, a martha, who was never weary in working and doing. anna maria let the current of his remarks pass her by, and quietly thanked him as she raised her glass. all crowded about her to touch her glass, last of all, stürmer; she did not look at him as their glasses touched. but susanna fixed her eyes on anna maria with an expression of astonishment; she had probably never reflected that there was anything great about such activity. i noticed, too, that she shivered suddenly, as if under a disagreeable impression. "then there came sounds of music through the wide-opened windows; the dancing was beginning under the oaks, and the family must not be wanting there. anna maria rose from the table, and beckoned to susanna; we old people sat still longer, and chatted of this and that. my old friend was enjoying her afternoon coffee, which she declared she never could do without, too much to leave; the pastor lighted a pipe, and leaned comfortably back in his great arm-chair. ah! how long we had known each other, had borne together joy and sorrow. we had, indeed, no lack of conversational matter. "but i did not stay here long, for there is nothing i like so much to see as happy young people dancing. 'oh, let us go under the oaks,' i said; but mademoiselle grüne preferred to take a nap up-stairs in my quiet room, assuring me that she would follow soon; so the pastor escorted me down. when we arrived at the dancing ground, which was surrounded by people, i saw anna maria with the head-servant, and stürmer with the upper housemaid, turning in the floating waltz, for they had to dance with all in turn. but where was susanna? "i went around the living wall of people. under one of the oaks, chairs and tables had been set apart for the family, and, the people had respectfully kept away from this spot. here stood susanna, her arm thrown around the rough trunk of the tree, her great eyes fixed on the dancing couples; her delicate nostrils quivered, her breast heaved violently, and tears sparkled in her eyes. "'i want to dance, too,' she burst forth, passionately; 'i want to dance, too, just one single time!' "already stürmer was coming through the crowd and hurrying up to her. there was no ceremonious request, for a dance, he forgot every formal bow, she was even stretching out her arms toward him, longingly. i think he carried her through the throng rather than that they walked; then he put his arm around her. was it my imagination, or did he really press her so fast to him that they scarcely touched the ground? as in a dream, i heard pastor grüne say something about a titania. i only saw the gracefully swaying figures, the fluttering pink dress, the bright rose in the dark hair, whirling in the rapid dance, and heard the floating melody of the waltz. and above them the old oaks swayed their branches, letting sportive sunbeams through. so distinctly, ah! so distinctly, i can see all this before me. "then she stopped, out of breath, and leaned on his arm, a smile of rapture on her glowing face. was it all only my fancy? anna maria so quiet yonder, scarcely breathing after the quick dance; it was surely my imagination that made me think susanna ought to have looked a little less enchanted, that she ought not to have danced, being betrothed to another. yes, indeed, i was carrying it too far. and with whom was she dancing then? with stürmer, with klaus's best friend. could there be any danger in that now, when everything was plain between them? "my thoughts went no farther, for just then the clear tone of a post-horn rang out in the midst of the dance-music, a yellow coach rattled into the court and stopped before the steps, and a man swung himself out. "'klaus!' i cried out, and at the first moment would have gone to meet him; then i thought of susanna--he came on her account, of course; they could not meet here, in the face of all these witnesses. i turned hastily to lead susanna through the park to the house. "she was lying unconscious in isa's arms. 'the dance, the fatal dance!' lamented isa; 'she cannot bear it!' "anna maria, pale with fear, bent over her. 'alas! just at this moment! aunt,' she whispered, 'go to klaus, or i--no, you, i beg you.' "i limped across the court as quickly as i could; he was already coming toward me in the hall, his whole handsome face glowing with pleasure; without further ado, he took me in his arms. "'they are under the oaks, are they not?' he asked. 'i wanted to be here to dinner, but these post-horses are miserable nags; they went like snails.' and he took my hand and pressed it to his lips. 'is she not--susanna--she----' "'no, klaus, they are no longer there. wait a minute, come into your room; anna maria will be here at once. the fact is, susanna is not quite well to-day; i would rather tell her first that you have come, so unexpectedly.' "i pushed him back into the sitting-room; stürmer was just coming in through the garden-parlor. a frightened look came over klaus's face, but the question died on his lips as stürmer cordially held out both hands to him, and then, turning to me, said: 'what is the matter with fräulein mattoni? can it really be the effect of dancing? only think, klaus, a moment ago she was rosy and happy, and just as you came rattling into the yard, i saw her turn pale and totter, and before i knew what it meant, her old duenna had caught her, and was lamenting, "that comes of dancing!" is that possible?' "'of course!' i declared, quickly; 'susanna is delicate, and the giddy round dance--' i broke off, for klaus looked so anxious i feared he might betray himself on the spot. "'dear edwin,' i begged, 'will you take my place with the guests outside for a moment longer? pastor grüne is sitting quite alone on the bench; you know he is sensitive. klaus, you will excuse me; i will see how things are going up-stairs, and send brockelmann to you with something to eat.' "i do not know if edwin stürmer was enraptured at my request, but like an ever-courteous man he went down at once. "anna maria met me on the stairs. "'where is he?' she asked hastily, without stopping. "'susanna is not seriously ill!' she called back; 'she has opened her eyes again already.' her blue dress fluttered once more behind the brown balustrade; then i heard the cry, 'klaus, dear klaus!' a sob, and the door closed. "susanna was lying on her bed; her dress had been taken off, and she was lightly covered with a shawl; she held both hands pressed to her temples. isabella was perched before her, holding a flask of strong-smelling ether. she tenderly stroked the girl's cheeks, and whispered eagerly to her. when she saw me, she got up. "'how disagreeable, fräulein! just in this joyful hour the foolish child has to faint; but so it goes, if young people will not listen,' she began, in a remarkably talkative mood. 'susanna, my heart, are you better? i have said a hundred times you mustn't dance; it isn't even a refined pleasure to whirl about among those common people. heavens! what a smell! but, obstinate as ever--wait, i shall tell your _fiancé_ of it, that he may keep a firm hand over you. oh, yes, young people----' "susanna gave her nurse a look which expressed everything possible except love and respect. "'come, come, be brisk, susy,' she continued inexorably, 'or do you think it is pleasant for herr von hegewitz to be waiting for you like this?' "susanna raised herself with a jerk. 'do be still,' she said, folding her hands, 'i am so dizzy, so ill!' "'lie still, susanna,' i said, to calm her. 'perhaps you will be better toward evening. klaus must have patience. shall i take any greetings to him, meanwhile?' "she lay back on the pillow, her face turned away from me, and nodded silently. 'let her sleep,' said i to isabella; 'she is really exhausted.' "the old woman shrugged her shoulders. 'i cannot do anything to help matters, either,' she whispered. 'it is unpleasant, but she will soon recover. i know--the nerves, yes, the nerves!' and she sat down on the girl's bed. she looked strangely grotesque and weird, in her enormous black cap with bright orange-colored bows. "anna maria and klaus were just going down the front steps to the dancing-ground, and he had his arm around her. when they saw me they turned around. klaus looked troubled, and in anna maria's eyes there were traces of tears. "'you will see her to-day, yet,' i said to him, consolingly. he pressed my hand, and sighed. "'he is only going to stay till to-morrow, aunt," anna maria informed me; 'he only came on susanna's account.' she spoke pleasantly, and looked up at him with a smile. "'alas, alas!' said klaus, 'affairs are so involved there; but i just wanted to see how such an engagement is good-for-nothing without having once expressed one's self in words. anything written sounds so cold, doesn't it? it seemed so to me! and then i am glad that i have come, for susanna's health does not seem to be quite firm yet. i will speak with the doctor, and after the wedding will go south with her.' a very anxious expression lay on his countenance. "'poor klaus, such a reception!' bewailed anna maria. 'i do not understand it, either; susanna was so suddenly seized; she was just seeming so bright again.' "'you must not let her dance,' said he in reproof. "'oh, the kobold was between them before we could prevent it,' i joked. "'stürmer dances so madly,' remarked klaus. "meanwhile we had arrived at the scene of festivities. the dancers were still floating gayly about there; stürmer was leaning, with folded arms, against a tree, and was apparently out of humor. as soon as the people discovered their master, he was received with a storm of greetings, for they were all waiting to welcome him. klaus spoke a few words to them, and then would have withdrawn, but that was not permitted; he had to dance with the upper housemaid. with a half-amiable, half-morose expression, he took a few turns with the girl, who blushed red at the joy and honor. "anna maria had seated herself in one of the chairs under the trees; edwin was standing before her, and a happy smile was on her lips. the rays of the setting sun glimmered over her fair head and tinged her face with a warm color. "she looked wonderfully pretty at this moment; stürmer looked meditatively down at her. i thought of everything possible as i looked at the two. what will one not think under a blue sky, amid sunshine and gay music? "it was deep twilight when isabella came into my room to say that susanna was ready to see klaus, and to ask if the meeting might be here. i assented joyfully; the old woman went away, and a moment after a slender white figure entered, and leaned, almost tottering, against the great oaken wardrobe by the door. isabella went away, saying she would inform the master. "slowly susanna came as far as the middle of the room. i made haste to light a candle, but she begged me not to do it; her voice sounded almost breathless. when i heard klaus's rapid step in the hall, i went into the adjoining room, whereupon susanna took a few hasty steps after me, as if she would detain me; but i would not have spoiled this quarter of an hour for klaus by my presence for anything in the world. why should a third person hear what two people who are to belong to each other forever have to say? and so i drew the door to, and only heard a voice, full of emotion, cry: 'susanna!' "i stood at the open window, and looked out on the moonlit court; in the house all was still. edwin stürmer had driven away before supper, rightly supposing that we should have a great deal to talk about during klaus's short stay; the guests from the parsonage, too, had gone home early. isabella had doubtless called klaus from anna maria's side to susanna; the people were dancing on gayly under the oaks, by the light of lanterns; the sound of music, and now and then of a bold shout, came over to me, or the beginning of a song from a girl's fresh voice; and the air was mild as on a spring evening. "'anna maria?--what is she doing now?' thought i. and the minutes ran away and became quarter-hours; with a clank, the old clock struck seven. i sprang up; no, the old aunt did not quite forget the requirements of etiquette. i opened the door and went into my room. i saw the two standing at the window; he had put his arm around her, and was bending low over her. "'and now, say _one_ word, susanna; say that you love me as i love you!' i heard him whisper, hotly and beseechingly. "the moonlight fell all about her bright, delicate figure, and i could distinctly see her arm begin slowly to slip from his shoulder. the music out of doors had just ceased; for an instant there was a breathless silence, then the deep, sad tones of a young man's voice floated in at the open window: "'i thought i held thee wondrous dear, ere i another found; farewell, i know it first to-day what 'tis to be love-bound,' came up the sound. susanna's arm slipped quite down once more i heard him whisper, more softly than before. 'yes!' said susanna, quickly and in a half-stifled tone, and i saw klaus take her in his arms impetuously and kiss her. "the following day fairly flew away, i can scarcely toll how, now. there were so many things to be talked about, agreed upon, and arranged. "klaus had talked with isabella about the wedding, and they were agreed that the d of november should be the festal day. isabella came out of his room with a new silk dress on her arm; she did not look wholly enraptured, for he had told her that he was going to hire a comfortable little dwelling in berlin, and provide for her support; until the wedding she might stay here. anna maria had prevailed upon him to do this, and he himself did not consider the old woman exactly a desirable appendix to his wife. she cast an enraged look at anna maria as she went out; she knew to whom she owed this arrangement, so little to her mind. "on susanna's hand sparkled a brilliant ring. klaus was constantly at her side. i saw them in the morning wandering up and down the garden-paths, and once, too, heard her charming laugh, but it was shortly broken off. she was quiet, but nevertheless let herself be adored like a queen by her attentive lover. "how happy he looked, the dear old fellow, and how truly concerned he was about the little maiden to whom he had given his heart! like an anxious mother, he bundled her up in shawls and rugs when she sat out on the terrace in the warm midday sun. every sentence which he uttered began: 'susanna, would you be pleased if it were thus?' and concluded: 'if you are content, of course, my darling!' "anna maria had a great deal to do out of doors. was it really the case? did it pain her to see the two thus? had a feeling of real jealousy come over her? she left the tiresome business of a _dame d'honneur_ almost entirely to me. "at evening klaus had to go away again, and the hour drew quickly near; he grew silent and tender the nearer the moment of separation came. after supper we sat in the garden-parlor, about the lighted lamp. klaus's travelling cloak and rug lay on a chair; susanna had gone to her room for a moment, and anna maria to the kitchen to prepare a glass of mulled wine for klaus, for he had grown icy cold. klaus held a knot of ribbon in his hand, which he had taken from susanna's hair. "'aunt rosamond,' said he, suddenly, looking over at me, 'stürmer comes here very often now, doesn't he?' "'yes, klaus, very often.' "'does he intend to ride a pair of horses to death to--to play whist with you?' he asked, smiling. "'i don't know, klaus,' i replied. "he came nearer to me. 'if it only might be, aunt,' he said gently; 'do you think that this time anna maria would, again----' "'no, klaus; if i understand anna maria aright, she still loves stürmer.' "'still, aunt? _now_, you mean to say?' "i knew not what answer to make. "'i should be so glad,' he began again, 'if anna maria and edwin----' "he broke off, for susanna had entered; she had such a light, floating gait that we did not notice her till she was already standing in the middle of the room. slowly she came nearer; she was doubtless suffering at the thought of separation, for she looked very pale and scarcely spoke that evening. when klaus folded her in his arms on his departure she looked up into his true, agitated face, and for an instant, raising herself on tip-toe, she put both arms around his neck, but for his affectionate words she had no reply. "she remained standing beside me on the front steps, looking after him, as, wrapped in his great cloak, he got into the carriage. anna maria went down the steps with him, and put extra rugs and foot-sacks in with her own hands. the brother and sister held out their hands to each other, but klaus's looks sped past anna maria up to the delicate figure standing motionless in the flickering light of the lanterns. brockelmann looked, suddenly transfixed, at the girl, who only waved her hand lightly. the carriage drove rattling away; once more he leaned his head out; then the carriage rolled through the gateway, out into the night. "susanna did not wait till anna maria had come up the steps; she ran back into the house as if pursued, and i heard her light step going up-stairs. "anna maria and i went back to the garden-parlor. neither of us spoke; i laid my knitting-work and glasses in my work-basket, and anna maria stood, reflecting, in the middle of the room. all at once i saw her take a few steps forward and quickly stoop over; when she stood upright again she had grown pale. her hand held a small, shining object--susanna's engagement ring! "she said not a word, but put the ring on the table and sat down. she waited for susanna. she _must_ miss the ring, and would hurry down directly, anxiously hunting for it. "an hour passed. anna maria had taken up one of scott's novels; she turned the pages at long intervals. i had taken out my knitting again. at last she laid aside the book. "'we will go to bed, aunt rosamond,' said she. 'will you give the ring to susanna?' "i took the little pledge of love, wrought in heavy gold. 'it must be too large for her,' said i, in excuse. "'yes,' replied anna maria, harshly, 'it is not suited to her hand.' and nodding gravely, she left the room before me. chapter xv. "it seemed as if the autumn had only delayed commencing its sway in order not to interfere with the bütze harvest festival. now it broke in all the more violently, with its gusts of rain, its storms, and its hatred toward everything which reminded one of summer. each little green leaf was tinged with yellow or red, and the garden was gay as a paper of patterns; the purplish-red festoons of the wild grape hung moistly down, and in the morning a heavy white mist lay over the landscape. the storks' nest on the barn roof was empty, whole flocks of wild geese flew away screaming over the village, and inevitably came the thought of the long, monotonous winter which anna maria and i were to pass alone. "anna maria did not give herself up to idle reveries; she took hold of work, even too much work, as the best defence against worry and against a growing sadness. only in the twilight she would sometimes stand idle, and look away across the court-yard, and listen to the measured sound of the threshing that came across from the barn. then she would pass her hand over her forehead, light a candle, and move up to the table with her work--and work there was in abundance. "anna maria had taken susanna's outfit in hand without delay. she led the young girl to the huge linen-chests, and, with the pride of a housewife, showed her the piles of snow-white linen, told her which pieces she had spun herself, and spread before her eyes the choicest sets of table linen. susanna stood beside her, and cast a look rather of astonishment than admiration at these splendors; she did not understand what one could do with such a monstrous pile; it was more than one could use in a hundred years, she thought. isa, too, seemed to have no appreciation of the important treasures. 'too coarse, too coarse, mademoiselle!' was all she said, letting the linen, which three seamstresses were making up into susanna's underclothing, slip through her fingers. 'that will last forever, and will rub the child's tender skin to pieces.' "susanna grew somewhat more interested when dress-patterns arrived from berlin, by klaus's order. the small hands turned over the gay little pieces with real satisfaction; she ran from anna maria to isa, and from isa to me, asking whether we preferred satin or moiré antique, brocade or _gros de tours_. and every evening, punctually at seven o'clock, came edwin stürmer, through autumn darkness, rain, and wind. "i remember how one day he came into the room and inquired after the health of the ladies; how, when he was preparing to leave, anna maria said her friendly: 'will you not stay with us, baron?' and how he then laid aside hat and riding-whip again, ate supper with us, and then sat down at the whist-table--all as usual, and yet so different. "susanna was a careless and not a clever player; she threw her cards down at random, never knew what had been played, and had no idea of the real meaning of the game. anna maria took this, like every occupation of life, seriously, and examined it thoroughly. "'but, susanna, do pay attention; you are playing into your opponent's hand!' she would say during the game; or, 'please, susanna, do not look at aunt rosamond's cards; you must not do that!" it had a pedantic sound when one looked at that smiling, rosy creature, who held the cards in her little hands with such charming awkwardness, forgot every instant what was the trump, laughed out from pure pleasure when she took a trick, and would be so truly disheartened when she lost. 'oh, _est il possible_?' she would ask, shaking her head; 'not a trick?' "stürmer played this whist with the patience of an angel; he picked up susanna's fallen cards unweariedly, smiled when she laughed, and when anna maria scolded an almost imperceptible wrinkle came between his brows. occasionally, when he was anna maria's partner, she would appear confused and embarrassed, and he distracted; and once or twice they lost the rubber, just as they had done before. 'unlucky at cards, lucky in love!' said pastor grüne, who sat behind anna maria's chair on such evenings. she blushed suddenly, and her hand, which still held the last card, trembled. edwin stürmer, with fine tact, seemed not to hear the allusion, and susanna was silent and looked at anna maria with, all at once, a strange sparkle in her eyes. of her relation to klaus no mention had ever been made in the presence of a stranger, according to agreement; she herself had the least thought of betraying herself by a hasty utterance. once i had asked if stürmer might not be initiated. but anna maria declared that klaus would not wish it, so i kept still. "susanna rarely spoke of her absent lover; but isa put two letters to him into the mail-bag, regularly, every week, in answer to his frequent, longing epistles. in her room, meanwhile, all manner of presents accumulated, which klaus bought for her in breslau--knick-knacks, ornaments, fans, and such useless things, which i could never think of in connection with anna maria. klaus had never cared for such things before, either, and therefore did not exactly understand choosing them, and many an old, unsalable article may have been put into his hand as the latest novelty for the sake of heavy money. susanna had a remarkably well-developed sense of beauty, and the charming way of women, of wearing a thing out of devotion because a beloved hand gave it, seemed totally unknown to her. but she exulted aloud when she discovered a little old lace handkerchief which anna maria had found, in rummaging in a long-unopened chest; and in the evening, when stürmer came, she wore it daintily knotted about her neck, and in the delicate yellowish lace placed the last red asters from the garden. "anna maria was more serious and chary of words after every visit from stürmer; but an unmistakable expression of quiet, inward happiness lay on her proud face. she reminded me daily, more and more, of that anna maria who once, on a stormy spring day, came into my room, fell on my neck, and almost--oh, if it had only happened!--confided to me the secret in her young heart. unspeakably pleasing she appeared, in her quiet happiness, beside that young, childish bride-elect, who was never still, who now laughed more wildly than a kobold, and the next minute wept enough to move a stone to pity. yes, susanna mattoni could laugh and cry like scarce another human being. "often i saw anna maria standing in the twilight under the old linden; motionless, she looked over yonder, where, in the evening haze, the dark, gabled roofs of dambitz emerged from the trees of the park. she had fallen into a dreamy state, out of which she would suddenly start, when she was reminded of klaus by some eccentricity of susanna's. then she would look again in warm anxiety at the mercurial little creature, and then run into her solitary room, and not appear again for several hours. "one day, just three weeks before the appointed wedding-day, i was returning, toward evening, from a visit to my old friend, mademoiselle grüne, at the parsonage. it was windy and wet and cold, a regular autumn evening, such as i do not like at all. i drew my veil over my face for protection, wrapped my cloak more tightly about me, and took the shortest way across the church-yard and through the garden. the manor-house looked gloomy behind the tall trees; not a window was lighted, but from the great chimney the smoke blew away over the roofs, like long, dark, funeral banners, and wrestled with the wind which dissipated it in all directions. "i began to think with pleasure of the comfortable sitting-room, of a warm beer-soup, and the regular evening whist-table. just as i was passing a side-path, i saw a dark figure sitting under the linden. 'anna maria!' i murmured, 'and in this storm!' for an instant i stood still, with the intention of calling to her, for a fine, drizzling rain was now falling, and i feared she would take cold on this dreary evening. but i gave it up, because i thought, on reflection, she would not probably want to be seen at all, or have an inquisitive look taken at a shyly guarded secret, and i made haste to walk away down the path as quickly as possible, to get away unobserved. "but my foot stopped again; a horseman was coming along by the hedge, and, in spite of the gray twilight, i recognized stürmer; he waved his hat in greeting over toward the arbor, and there some one beckoned--i very nearly had palpitation of the heart from joyful fear--with a white cloth, and this little signal waved in the misty evening air till he disappeared behind the trees on the other side of the bridge. "'anna maria! is it possible?' said i, half-aloud, as i walked on--that it sounded like a cry of exultation i could not help. ah, all must be well yet, and surely all would be well! i hurried up the steps to write a few words to klaus. 'anna maria and edwin were nearer than he had hoped'--how pleased he would be! but i did not accomplish that to-day. brockelmann came to meet me in the entrance-hall, and in spite of my happy agitation, i had to listen to a long story, for which she even urged me to come into her neat little room. a married niece of hers, living in the village, had had a quarrel with her husband yesterday, in the course of which he had emphatically tried to prove conclusively the 'i am to be your master!' with a heavy stick. the good brockelmann was beside herself at the 'wicked fellow,' and would not let me go till i had solemnly promised to take the tyrant to task. 'anna maria understands it even better, perhaps,' she added, 'but i don't know what is the matter with her now. i think i might tell her a story ten times over, and at the end she would look at me and ask: "what are you saying, brockelmann?" i wish i could just get at the bottom of it!' "'well,' i said, smiling, 'i will see to it; send the rude old fellow up to me to-morrow.' she followed me into the hall, and clattered down-stairs in her slippers, scolding away, and in a very bad humor, because rieke had not yet lighted the hall-lamps. "in my room still glimmered the last ray of daylight, and in this uncertain light i saw a figure rising from the arm-chair by the stove. 'anna maria, is it you?' i asked, recognizing her. "she came slowly over to me. 'yes, aunt, i have something to deliver to you. stürmer has been here; he wanted to speak to you; about what, i don't know.' she spoke hesitatingly and softly. 'then he asked me to hand you this note, which he wrote hastily.' "she pressed a note into my hand. 'here, aunt, read.' i sat down in the low chair by the stove, and held the sheet in the flickering light of the flames, but the letters danced indistinctly before my eyes. 'we must have a light,' said i; 'or read it aloud to me, anna maria, it takes so long for brockelmann to bring a lamp.' "anna maria knelt down beside me, and took the letter. 'ought i to know, too, what it contains?' she asked. "'oh, of course i allow it, only read!' and anna maria began: "'my dear, esteemed aunt rosamond:--unfortunately i did not find you at home. please expect me to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock. i have something to discuss with you, and want your advice in a matter upon the issue of which the peace and happiness of my heart will depend. say nothing yet to anna maria! "'in haste and impatience, "'your most devoted "'edwin stÜrmer.' "anna maria did not read it just as it stands here; it came out in broken sentences; then the sheet fluttered to the floor, she buried her fair head in my lap, and threw her arms impetuously about me. 'aunt, ah, aunt!' she groaned. "i took her head between my two hands, and kissed her forehead; tears flowed from my eyes. 'anna maria! ah, at last, at last!' i sobbed; 'now everything may yet be well.' "she did not answer; she rose and began to walk up and down the room, her arms crossed below her breast, her head bent. i could not distinguish her features in the deep twilight, but i knew that she was deeply affected. 'aunt,' she said at last, coming up to me, 'what answer shall you make to stürmer?' "'that i will receive him, anna maria.' "'no'--she hesitated--'i mean to-morrow, to his question--'she said, slowly. "'what you will, anna maria. shall i say yes?' "slipping to the floor, she threw her arms around my neck. 'yes!' she said, softly, and burst into tears. the pain borne quietly for years gushed with them from her soul; i stroked her smooth head caressingly, and let her weep. how long we sat thus i know not. then the girl rose and kissed my hand. 'i will go down,' she whispered. "'yes, anna maria,' i bade, 'you ought to rest a little or your head will burn. let brockelmann make you a cup of tea; you have surely caught cold in your head out in the wet garden.' "she had her hand already on the door-latch, and now turned about again. 'i have not been in the garden, aunt,' she said; 'i have been waiting here up-stairs for you, certainly for half an hour, since he went away.' she nodded to me once more, then she went out, and left me standing in unutterable bewilderment. "anna maria not in the garden? who in the world could have stood there and beckoned to him? an oppressive fear overwhelmed me, and almost instinctively i went across to susanna's room; my first look fell upon her, sitting on the floor before the fire-place; the bright light illuminated her face with a rosy glow, and made her eyes seem more radiant than ever. her hands were clasped about her knees, and she was looking dreamily at the flickering flames. isa was bustling about at the back of the room; she came nearer as she caught sight of me. "'susanna,' i asked, 'were you in the garden a little while ago?' "she started up and looked at me with frightened eyes. 'no!' answered isabella in her place. 'susy has not left the room all the afternoon. what should she be doing out of doors in this weather?' "'i do not know--but i surely thought i saw you, susanna?' "she turned her head and looked in her lap. 'i was not down there,' she said, hesitatingly. "i went away; my old eyes were failing then. close by the door my foot caught in something soft. i stooped down; it was the lace veil that susanna used to wear over her head, heavy and wet with rain. without a word i laid it on the nearest chair. why did susanna tell a lie? why was she frightened? "and all at once an ugly, shocking thought darted like lightning through my brain, that made me almost numb with fear. but no, surely it was not possible, it was madness; how could one imagine such a thing? i scolded myself. with trembling hand i lit a candle and went to my writing-desk; to this day i cannot account for my answer to stürmer being as it was, and not different. i wrote under the influence of an inexplicable anxiety. strangely enough the letter sounded: "'my dear edwin:--i shall be glad to see you here to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock, and can also tell you an important piece of news, which will please you. what do you say to this, that klaus, our old klaus, is engaged; and that the bride-elect is no other than susanna mattoni? very likely you have guessed it easily? "'they have been engaged for some time, but it has been kept a secret for the mean time; but an old chatterbox like me may surely make an exception in your case. "'affectionate greetings from your old friend, "'rosamond von hegewitz.' "in the greatest haste i folded the note, rang, and gave it into the immediate charge of the coachman. i was seized with a nervous trembling as i heard him ride out of the yard. i sent down word to anna maria that i should not come to supper; i was rather fatigued. "about eight o'clock i heard susanna's light step in the hall; she was coming from supper, and trilling a love-song. then the door of her room closed, and all was still. "it was long past midnight when i stole out to the hall window to see if anna maria had gone to bed. she was still awake; in the candle-light which fell from her windows over the flower-beds of the garden a shadow was moving to and fro, incessantly, restlessly. in the anxiety of my heart i folded my hands: 'lord god, send her no storm in this new spring-time,' i whispered; 'let her be happy, make me ashamed of my care and anxiety. let my fear be an error. ah! give her the happiness she deserves!' "the next day broke gray and dark, not at all like a day of good fortune. anna maria stood at the open window in the sitting-room, breathing in the warm air, which was unusually sultry for a november day. she had a stunted white rose in her hand. 'see, aunt,' she said, holding the flower up to me, 'i found it early this morning on the rose-bush on mother's grave; how could it have bloomed now? we have had such cold weather lately, it is almost a miracle, like a greeting for the day.' and she took a glass and carefully put the awkward little rose in fresh water, and carried it to her room. "in the mail-bag which came at noon there was, beside a letter for susanna from klaus, also one for anna maria from him concerning arrangements for the longer absence of the master of the house. 'since i do not know how long i shall be away with susanna,' he wrote, 'and since i probably shall not find time in the short stop at home to talk this over quietly with you, i have written down for you about how i think this and that will be best arranged.' various arrangements of a domestic nature now followed. 'if any alteration seems necessary to you,' he continued, 'do as you please; i know it will be right. the furnishing of susanna's rooms can be attended to during our absence. i should be very grateful to you if you would sometimes have an eye upon the work, that the nest for my little wife may be as comfortable as possible. in her last letter she told me a great deal about stürmer's furnishings, and i have taken care to get something similar, at least, for her, as far as it in any degree agrees with my own sober taste; the terrace is to be re-paved, too. now for the chief matter, my dear anna maria: on the right hand, in the secret drawer of my writing-desk, lie the papers which are necessary for the banns. take them out and carry them to pastor grüne; susanna's baptismal certificate and marriage license, which i had sent on from berlin, will already be in his hands, as i am sending them off with this letter. remember me to the old man, and say to him that he must not let us fall too roughly from the pulpit next sunday.' "anna maria had given me the letter, and gone with her key-basket into her brother's room. 'how will it be,' i whispered, looking over the long columns of these domestic arrangements, 'when he has _her_ no longer? he has been fearfully spoiled by her.' as i read about the banns, my old aunt's head began to whirl like a mill-wheel with what had happened yesterday--what was to come to-day. how would it result? "i limped over to anna maria; she was standing before her brother's open desk, the papers in her hand. 'aunt rosamond,' said she, 'i wish this day were over, for see, when i think of klaus i almost lose my courage!' and she laid the yellow papers on the flat shelf of the wardrobe-shaped desk, and folded her hands over them. 'it will seem almost wrong to me that i should think of my own happiness when he--is not going to be happy. aunt, ah, aunt!' she sobbed out, 'i cannot help it; i love him none the less on that account, believe me! but i have not the strength to thrust from me a second time something which--' she did not finish; she colored deeply, took up the papers again with trembling hands, and closed the desk. 'i don't know what i do to-day,' she whispered, 'and i don't know what i say. i wish it were night, i am so anxious!' "'you need not speak out, anna maria,' said i, seizing her hands. 'i have long known that you gave stürmer up at that time only because you would not forsake klaus.' "she took a step back, and gave me a frightened look. 'no, no; it is not so!' she cried, 'it was my duty; he had lost so much for my sake!' "'anna maria, i do not understand you,' i rejoined. "'his bride! i know it,' she nodded. 'because i was in the way, she forsook my poor, dear klaus. how he must have suffered!' "'how you came to know of that affair, my child, is a riddle to me,' i returned; 'but tell me, was that the reason that you--' "'oh, hush, aunt!' she cried, 'i know nothing any longer, it all lies behind me like a dark, oppressive dream. i could not tell you now what i thought and felt at the time, for it is not clear even to me. some time i will tell you everything, but not now, not to-day. but you must promise me one thing,' she continued, beseechingly, looking at me through her tears; 'you must always keep an eye on klaus; you must read from his face if he is in trouble, if he is unhappy, and then you must tell me. ah! aunt, i cannot really believe that he will be happy with her! dear aunt rosa, why must it be _she_? why not some one else who would be more worthy of him?' "'do not worry about it, anna maria,' i begged her; 'all is in god's hands.' "'you are right, aunt rosa,' she replied, a crimson flush spreading over her face. 'i will not let this trouble me to-day; i will rejoice, will be happy. ah! aunt, i do not know, indeed, what that really is; i am such a stupid, dull being. listen, last evening i could have opened my arms and embraced the whole world from happiness. i could not sleep, i walked about my room restlessly, and read his letter a hundred times; as long as my eye rested upon it i was calm, and when i had folded it up doubts came to me, such anxious, evil doubts, such as, "what if you have made a mistake? what if he has something to say to aunt rosamond which does not concern you at all?" and then it seemed to me as if i were sinking into a deep, black abyss, and there was nothing that i could hold on to, aunt. oh! it was frightful, so empty, so cold, so dead! dear aunt rosamond, do laugh me out of these foolish thoughts, scold me for a stupid girl; tell me how faint-hearted i am, that a doubt of edwin's love should come to me! he does love me, aunt rosamond, does he not? one can never forget it when one has once loved a person with his whole heart. i know it; yes, aunt rosamond, i am a foolish, childish creature; do laugh me right out of it, please, please!' "she had drawn me to the sofa as she spoke, and hidden her face on my shoulder. amid laughing and crying the words came out, all self-consciousness was gone, that unapproachable harshness of her nature had disappeared, and she was now like any other girl expecting her lover. she trembled and sobbed, and wound her arms tightly about my neck--the proud, cold anna maria had become a happy child. what a fulness of love and resignation now gushed from her heart, now that happiness touched it! 'so do laugh me well out of it, aunt,' she said, again. "i stroked her hair caressingly; how gladly would i have laughed her out of it! but in my soul, too, there were doubts, inexplicable doubts; and why? there was really no reasonable ground for them, no, no! susanna might have denied the walk in the garden because the evening air was prohibited on account of her health; and just because she stood under the linden and waved her handkerchief--was that any proof? and i thought of my letter to stürmer, and really had to laugh. "'anna maria,' said i, 'i will laugh at you, but you must laugh back at me. only think, yesterday i sent an announcement of the engagement to stürmer; i could not keep it to myself any longer that klaus is engaged.' "she straightened up with a start. "'heavens, the papers! i forget everything. the banns--i must see to that first, aunt.' "to-day the hours seemed to pass much more slowly than usual. toward four o'clock i sat waiting at the window; my heartbeat as violently as anna maria's, perhaps. she, i knew, was down-stairs in her room, restless and anxious. half-past four struck, five, and stürmer was not yet here. instead, susanna came into my room and sat down opposite me; she had her kitten in her arms and began to play with it. "i should have liked to send her away, but no suitable excuse occurred to me at that moment. it is fearful how slowly the minutes pass when one is counting them in anxious expectation; heavy as lead, each second seems to spin itself out to eternity, and one starts at every sound. no, that was a farm-wagon, now a horseman; ah! it is only the bailiff. "susanna felt my silence and restlessness painfully at any rate. 'oh, it is fearfully tiresome in the country in winter!' she sighed. 'what can one do all day long?' "'have you written to klaus yet?' i asked. "'o dear, no!' she replied, with a suppressed yawn. 'i don't know what to write him; i have no experience, i hear and see nothing.' "'well, an engaged girl is not usually at a loss for something to write to the future husband,' i remarked. "'indeed?' she asked, absently. 'yes, it may be, but i--i find it so stupid just to drag out variations of the theme, "i love you."' "'klaus has written you, no doubt, susanna, that you are to be published from the pulpit on sunday?' "she started, and stared at me with wide-open, awestruck eyes. 'i don't know,' she stammered, 'i----' "'but you must know what is in his letter,' i said, impatiently. "'yes, i--' she put her hand in her pocket and drew out a letter. 'i haven't read it yet; i was going to this evening--but----' "'you have not opened the letter yet?' i cried, quite beside myself. 'well, i must say, this case is unparalleled! you complain of _ennui_, and yet carry quietly about in your pocket the most interesting thing that can exist for you! the variations on the familiar theme do, indeed, seem tiresome to you, susanna!' "i had spoken bitterly and loud. susanna remained silent, and the same choking feeling of fear came over me as yesterday. i heard the girl sob gently, and was sorry at once for my vehemence. "'susanna,' said i, softly, 'you are standing before a very serious turn in your life, and you trifle along like a child!' "she suddenly broke out in loud weeping. 'what can i do, then?' she cried, wringing her hands. 'have i not a will of my own? must i be treated like a child?' and the passionate little creature flung herself on the floor and embraced my knees. 'have pity on me, dear, dear fräulein rosamond. do not let me be unhappy. i----' "she got no further; the door opened, and the sound of anna maria's voice came in, so constrained, so forbidding, that my heart stopped beating, and the girl sprang up hastily from the floor. "'aunt rosamond, susanna--baron stürmer wishes to--say farewell to you.' "i can see them all so plainly as they were at that moment: anna maria, pale to her lips, holding firmly on to the back of a chair for support; stürmer beside her, his eyes fixed on susanna; behind them brockelmann with the lamp, and the trembling, sobbing girl, clinging to me, a troubled expression on her tear-stained face, and her great eyes unintelligently returning the man's look. "at the first moment all was not clear to me; i did not understand how stürmer had come to anna maria, but that a deep wound had been made in a young human heart, that i saw, and an icy chill crept over me. "'anna maria,' i stammered, and sought to free myself from susanna's arms. then stürmer came up to me. "'i am going away to-morrow for a long time, fräulein rosamond,' said he, in a firm, clear voice, 'and want to take my leave of you. it is a hasty decision of mine, but you know that is my way. i thank you, too, for the letter, fräulein rosamond.' he kissed my hand and turned to susanna. there was a tremble on his lips, as with a formal bow, he expressed a brief congratulation on her engagement. "she looked fixedly at him, as if she did not understand him, her arms slipped from my waist, and she made a movement toward him; but he had already turned away. he bent again over anna maria's hand and left the room. i can still hear the closing of the door and his reëchoing steps in the hall, and can still see the vacant expression with which anna maria looked after him. she was standing, drawn to her full height, her proud head slightly bent, yet she seemed inwardly broken, and a ghastly smile lay on her firmly closed lips. "'anna maria!' i cried, hastening over to her. she did not look at me, but pointed to susanna, who had slipped, fainting, to the floor. "'her!' she said, lifelessly--' he loves _her_!--both love _her_! and i?' she passed her hands over her forehead. 'nothing more, aunt, nothing more, in the great wide world; nothing more!' "she bent down to the unconscious girl and raised her in her arms, and the beautiful head with the dark curls rested on her breast. anna maria looked for an instant at the pale, childish face, and then carried her over to her room and laid her on the bed. "'take care of susanna,' said she to isabella, who stood before the bed, wringing her hands. 'if it is necessary, send for the doctor.' she went past me out of the room; i hurried after her; what did i care for susanna at this moment? "'anna maria,' i begged, 'where are you going? come into my room, speak out, have your cry out; do not stay alone, my poor, dear child!' "she stood still. 'i do not know what i should have to speak about, aunt--and cry? i cannot cry. don't worry about me; nothing pains me, nothing at all. i would like to be alone, i must think about myself. do let me.' "she went away with as firm a step as ever; she even turned down a smoking lamp in passing, and the sound of her deep, pleasant voice came up to me from the stairs as she spoke to brockelmann; then i heard her steps die away in the hall. "what sort of storm may have shaken her in her solitary room i know not. when, late in the evening, i listened at her door there was no sound of movement within; but that she watched through the saddest hours of her life in that night, her pale face, her sunken eyes, and the expression about the corners of her mouth told me the next day. "ah, and over it all lay, like a veil, that old coldness, and her fair head was poised just as obstinately as before, and her words had an imperious sound. anna maria was not desperate, anna maria had no passionate complaints to make. with her maidenly pride she had subdued the sick heart; no one saw, now, that it was mortally wounded. the pain within, the struggles, they were _her_ affair. who would dare even to touch that closed, strongly guarded door? "and so the next morning she went up to the bed in susanna's room, where the sobbing girl lay. susanna had begun to cry on regaining consciousness the day before, and kept on crying, as if she would dissolve in tears. isabella sat by the bed, with a red face; she had doubtless talked herself hoarse with consolatory arguments during the night; now she was silent and feigned ignorance of all that had passed. 'i don't know, fräulein anna maria,' she whispered, 'what is the matter with susanna--these unfortunate nerves; i don't understand it!' she looked very much cast down, the little yellow woman. "'susanna,' said anna maria, clearly and severely, 'stop crying, and tell me the cause of your trouble; perhaps i can help you.' "'oh, heavens! no, no!' screamed isa, vehemently, pressing close up to anna maria. 'she is so excited; don't listen to her words, she doesn't know what she is saying!' "but susanna made no answer; she stopped sobbing, turned her head away from anna maria, and lay still as a mouse; but in the quick rising and falling of her bosom one could see how excited she was. "'be calm, susanna,' repeated anna maria; 'and where you are, i have to speak with you concerning the explanation of a great mistake.' "she turned quietly from the invalid, and observing the glasses beside the bed, asked isabella if susanna liked lemonade, and went away. she had given me only a hasty greeting; now she came back, and we stood together in the hall, and i held her hand in mine. "that words of consolation were not to be thought of in dealing with a nature like anna maria's, i knew well; yet i could not help tears coming into my eyes as i looked at her. she looked at me for a moment, her face quivered as with a passionate pain, and the sobbing sound came from her breast. but she composed herself by an effort, and pointing to susanna's door, said: 'there is the worst thing--my poor klaus!' she pressed my hand, and then went about her household duties as usual. it is not every one that would have done as she did! "when i entered susanna's room again i found her sitting up in bed, wringing her clasped hands. 'nobody has asked _me_ about it!' she repeated, amid streaming tears; 'my wish is of no account; they have pushed me away where they wanted me to go! and now, now--' she murmured something to herself, which i did not understand, and stopped weeping, only to begin anew with the passionate cry: 'no one loves me, no one!' "'do not listen to her,' isabella implored me; 'she really does not know what she is doing; leave me alone with her! 'the little creature was in a thousand terrors. she ran from the bed to the window, and then back to the bed; she called the weeping girl all sorts of pet names, she besought her by heaven and earth to be quiet--it was in vain. susanna wept herself into a state of agitation that made us fear the worst; she struck at isa, and then wrung her hands again, like a person in perfect desperation. i stood by, helpless; as long as the girl was in this state of excitement i could not step up to her, and say: 'susanna, what have you done? you have given your word to a man of honor, and you love another! you have made mischief in the house which was so hospitably opened to you; you have made three human hearts miserable! is that your gratitude for all this kindness?' "and then her cry, 'no one asked me; they pushed me away where they wanted me to be, and i had not the power to defend myself!' sank deeply into my heart, and my thoughts went back to that evening when she had run away in the storm and rain, and how klaus had brought her back, and called her 'his!' had he asked if she loved him? no; he had not even thought of the possibility that such might not be the case; he had gone away with firm confidence in her love. and then anna maria had pressed her to her heart one day, and called her 'sister,' and klaus had come, and had put the engagement ring on her hand. she had not dared to send him away, and had gone on, in her light manner, trifling with that engagement ring, while becoming deeper and deeper involved in the passion for another. her lover was away, he did not hear her. now stürmer was going into the wide world, a fresh thorn in her heart. susanna was shaken out of her dreams, and near despair. and anna maria, and klaus--what was to become of them? "then brockelmann brought me a letter from stürmer. i went into my room and read it; it was written from dambitz, and ran as follows: "'honored frÄulein:--i do not like to go away from you without a word of explanation, or without thanking you for your letter, which kept me from taking a step which would have been painfully hard for me in more than one respect. you have, with delicate tact indeed, rightly discerned that susanna mattoni is not an object of indifference to me, and you wanted to save me from a disappointment. my dear fräulein rosamond, why should i deny it? i love susanna very much, and i intended yesterday to beg for your mediation in my suit. i _had_ to suppose that she returned my love. "'i have no luck in your house--a second time i have been bitterly undeceived. now i have come to consider myself one of the most arrogant men the world contains. anna maria does not love me. i required years to get over that first disappointment; it was not easy, for i believed myself perfectly sure of her reciprocal love. well, i succeeded at last; i will even assert that anna maria was right. we were ill-suited to each other; perhaps she would have been unhappy with a man of such entirely different inclinations. then i see susanna and--love the betrothed of my best friend! "'what remains to me? again i turn my back on my home and seek to forget. "'in bütze everything will remain as of old, and i--go. but i do not like to leave you, who have suspected it, in darkness. pardon me if have caused you anxiety; i did so unconsciously. think of me kindly! when i come home again some day, susanna will be the wife of my friend, and i--a calm man, who will have forgotten all the dreams of youth. i kiss your dear hands, and beg you to let what i have said here remain our secret. susanna will be most likely of all to suspect why i went--she will secretly mourn for me, but only soon to forget me in her young happiness. "'farewell, with most heartfelt respect, "'your most devoted "'edwin von stÜrmer.' "the sheet trembled in my hands, and every instant tears hindered my reading. "about half-past three in the afternoon pastor grüne came with his sister to offer congratulations on the engagement. ah, me! yes, yesterday the appointment for publishing the banns was made. anna maria and i sat in painful embarrassment, receiving the hearty congratulations of the two old friends. they inquired for the young bride-elect, and the pastor praised her beauty and her happy, child-like nature. when he saw anna maria's pale face, he took her hand: "'my dear child,' said he, kindly and earnestly, 'marriages are made in heaven. god leads the hearts together, and when they have found each other no human being may disturb them. so few marriages are made to-day out of true, unselfish love that it ought to be a real joy for every one who experiences it, to see a couple go before the altar who are restrained by no earthly consideration from belonging to each other in true love. god's blessing be upon klaus von hegewitz and his bride!' he was much moved, the old man who had held klaus and anna maria over the font, but in surprise he let the girl's hand drop, with a look of disapprobation at the cold, unsympathetic face. she did not answer a syllable. "my old friend had, a little while before, drawn a sheet of paper from her knitting-bag and put it in my hand. i first glanced at it now; it was the printed notice of the engagement of klaus and susanna. 'we received it this morning,' she nodded, 'but i saw it yesterday at frau von r----'s at oesfeld; i was there to coffee. you ought to have been there, rosamond, to see how the ladies contended for that little sheet.' "i looked in alarm at anna maria, who blushed suddenly and then grew pale again. now the engagement was in everybody's mouth, and up-stairs lay the bride-elect, wringing her hands and weeping for another! of what importance was anna maria's own sorrow in the face of that which threatened klaus? she seized the sheet, and after the first glance pushed it from her in abhorrence. it was a most painful quarter of an hour, and many, many such followed that day. "the news of klaus's engagement had spread with lightning speed. visitor after visitor came; it seemed as if the whole neighborhood wished to make our house a rendezvous. carriage after carriage drove into the court; people whom we had not seen for years came to offer congratulations on the happy event. anna maria sat like a statue among the questioning, chattering people, and with trembling hands and ashen face brockelmann offered refreshments. the faithful old soul felt with us the pain that every question gave; only by an effort could she suppress her tears, and as she passed me she said, in a hasty whisper: 'i truly believe the end of the world is coming!' "anna maria had, nevertheless, forced a smile. she said that she was sorry not to be able to present susanna, but the young girl had been suddenly taken ill; it was to be hoped it was nothing serious. "'but now do tell us how it came about. when did he become acquainted with her? from what sort of a family does she come?' asked the elder ladies. "'is she pretty, fräulein rosamond? ah, do describe klaus von hegewitz's _fiancée_ to us; she must be something remarkable!' the young girls teased me. "and beneath all these curious, interested questions there lurked something which could not be defined and which seemed like a very slight sort of surprise, and i heard frau von b---- whisper to the wife of counsellor s----: 'the sister doesn't seem exactly enchanted?' and she was answered: 'no, her rule is at an end now; until now she has just had the good klaus under her thumb.' "poor anna maria! she answered all the questions so mechanically. she told them that susanna was very beautiful; she said that the girl's father had been a most fatherly friend to her brother--but the way she did it was strangely stiff and uncomfortable. they looked at her in surprise and interchanged glances. "meanwhile the brisk housemaid brought the lamps and lighted the candles on the old chandelier of antlers, and the outside blinds were closed with a creak. some of the guests rose; the ladies looked about for their fur cloaks, the gentlemen took up their hats. i thanked god, for anna maria's appearance frightened me. then something unexpected happened, something which caused me to drop back into my chair, quite disconcerted. brockelmann had suddenly opened the door, and there stood one whom i had certainly not expected to see at that moment--susanna! isabella's small figure was seen for an instant in the background, then the door closed again. "a pause ensued, all eyes being directed toward the young girl. she was really embarrassed for a moment, and this gave her beauty an additional bewitching charm. like a shy, confused child she stood there, in the little black lace-trimmed dress, which so peculiarly suited her, her head somewhat bent, and the blush of embarrassment on her cheeks. "it was an infinitely painful moment, for anna maria did not take a step toward her. i saw how susanna's beseeching eyes turned away at her fixed look, which seemed to ask: 'what right have you to be here?' and here her lips were firmly closed. it was only one moment; the next i was standing by susanna and introducing her as fräulein mattoni, and therewith the ice was broken. they crowded about her, shook hands with her, and devoured her with admiring eyes. her cheeks grew crimson, her eyes shone, and not a trace of the morning's tears remained; the mouth which had poured forth such fearful laments now smiled like a child's, and anna maria stood alone yonder. god knows what pain she must have felt! "the guests sat down for another minute, out of respect to susanna, and after the storm of customary formalities had subsided, they spoke of country life, wondering if a city girl could accustom herself to it. they asked susanna how the mark pleased her, and at last the old wife of general s----, whose estate touched dambitz on the south, remarked: 'tell me, fräulein von hegewitz, is it true that stürmer is going away on a journey again?' "she had turned to anna maria, who was sitting bolt upright beside her, and whose color now suddenly changed. 'he is on his way to paris, your excellency,' she replied. "'the butterfly!' joked the amiable old lady. 'i did hope that he would settle down here with us, but he seems to prefer the unfettered life of a bachelor. to paris, then?' "'well, paris is not a bad place for a man of stürmer's stamp,' said captain von t----, smiling, who was known as a pleasure-loving man. 'any one who can avoid it would be a fool to bury himself in this old sand-box and the _ennui_ of the mark.' "anna maria looked into space again. susanna's eyes sparkled at these words; she seemed to be considering something, and then she laughed. was this the same susanna whom i had seen afflicted to death this morning, who was now sitting, in all the bliss of a happy bride, among these people, and turning red with pleasure at each admiring look? oh, never in my life was there so long a half-hour as this! "and now, at last, the guests rose and took their departure. susanna was commissioned on all sides with greetings and congratulations for klaus, and she thanked them with her most charming smile and a beaming look from her great eyes. "'by heaven, fräulein,' said the captain to me, twirling his mustache, 'your future niece is the prettiest girl i ever saw, a pearl in any society. i hope the young ladies will not disdain our winter balls?' he turned to susanna with this request: 'the place is not very comfortable, but the society--' he kissed the tips of his fingers, murmuring something about the crown of all ladies, and susanna laughed and promised to come, 'because she was so fond of dancing.' "and by the time the last of the guests were in their carriage susanna had made at least a dozen promises which all had reference to a pleasant, lively intercourse. we accompanied the guests to the steps; in the confusion of parting words susanna must have taken herself off, for when the last carriage rolled away i was standing alone beside anna maria in the dimly lighted hall. "'come, my child,' said i, taking her cold hands and drawing her into the room. and then she sat in klaus's chair for perhaps a quarter of an hour, without speaking a word, her hands folded on the table, her eyes cast down. the clock ticked lightly, the wind rustled through the tall trees out-of-doors, and now and then a candle sputtered; it began to seem almost uncanny to me, sitting there opposite the silent girl. "'anna maria!' i cried at last. "she started up. 'yes, come,' she said, 'we will ask her! rather the shrugs of those people than a misery here in the house. i would rather see klaus unhappy for a time than deceived all his life long. come, aunt.' and with firm step she went out of the room, along the corridor, and up the stairs. "i followed her as quickly as i could; my heart beat fast with anxiety and grief. 'anna maria,' i begged, 'not to-day, not now. come into my room, you are too excited.' but she walked on. up-stairs, in front of susanna's door, i perceived by the light of the hall lamp a great flat chest; white tissue-paper showed under the lid, which had not been tightly closed. "'what is that?' anna maria asked brockelmann, who was just coming out of the room. "'the chest came from berlin to-day,' the old woman replied; 'i suppose from the master.' "anna maria nodded and opened the door quickly. a flood of light streamed out toward us, and surrounded the slender white figure before the large mirror; soft creamy satin fell in heavy folds about her, and lay in a long train on the floor; a gauzy veil lay, like a mist, over the nearest arm-chair, and a pair of small white shoes peeped out from their wrapper on the table. she turned around at our entrance, and stood there with a shamefaced smile--susanna mattoni was trying on her wedding-dress. "anna maria let go of the door-handle and stepped over the threshold, looking fixedly at susanna, her face crimson. "'take off that dress!' she commanded, in a voice scarcely audible from excitement. "susanna drew back in alarm, and turning pale looked up at anna maria. "'take off that dress!' she repeated, in increasing agitation; 'you are not worthy to wear it. so help me god, this wretched comedy shall come to an end!' "'anna maria,' i begged, full of fear, catching hold of the folds of her dress, 'keep calm! for god's sake, stop!' but she paid no attention to me; the girl, usually so cool and collected, was beside herself with pain and anger. her _own_ suffering she had borne in silence; but the thought of klaus, the conviction that he was deceived where he had completely surrendered his kind, honest heart, robbed her of all consideration and self-control. "susanna stood speechless opposite her, an expression of penitence on her childish face. she was incapable of a defence, of an apology. then, as ill-luck would have it, the old woman stepped between them, with a theatrical gesture placing herself in front of susanna. "'do not forget that you are standing before your brother's betrothed,' she said, with a tone and a gesture which would have been ludicrous at any other time. "anna maria contemptuously pushed the small figure aside like an inanimate object, and laid her hand heavily on the girl's shoulder. 'speak,' she said, with a wearily forced composure; 'do you not feel what you are on the point of doing? are you then still so young, still so spoiled, that you have entirely lost the sense of honor and duty? is this wretched comedy your gratitude for all that this house has given you?' "susanna tried to shake off her hand. "'i do not know what you mean!' she cried, in anxious defiance; 'i have done nothing wrong!' "anna maria stared at her as if she could not grasp the words. there was a pause of breathless silence in the room; then the storm broke loose, and the proud girl's wrath carried her away like a whirlwind. "'you have done nothing wrong?' she blazed forth. 'you have done nothing wrong, and you are on the point of deceiving the best of men; you are ready to perjure yourself? your eyes have looked after another, and wept for another. i tell you, so long as i have power to move my tongue, i will not cease to accuse you before my brother! he shall not fall a victim to you!' and she shook the girl violently for a moment; then, recollecting herself, she pushed back the delicate form. the girl fell staggering to the floor, and struck her head heavily against a carved chair-back. "it was a fearful moment; susanna had cried out in pain as she fell, and isa now held her in her arms and wailed. the girl's eyes were closed, but a narrow red stream was trickling down from her temple, staining the white lace of the bridal dress. a sort of numbness had come over us; even isa grew silent, and with trembling hands dried the blood on susanna's cheek. "anna maria looked absently at the swooning girl; then suddenly, recollecting herself, she threw her hands over her face, and hastily turning around, left the room. i helped isabella carry susanna to the bed, and take off the unfortunate dress. it is still hanging in the wardrobe over there, just as we hung it up at that time, with the blood-stains on the white lace frill. isa did not speak; she did all in a tearless rage. now and then she kissed the girl's small hands, and dried the tears that were trickling, slowly and quietly, from under the dark lashes, over the young face. "i did not speak either; what would there have been to say? i went away to look for anna maria as soon as i saw that susanna was coming to herself, and left it to isa to put the compresses on the wounded temple. "i found anna maria in the sitting-room, in her chair, with her spinning-wheel before her, as on every evening, but her hands lay wearily in her lap, and her eyes were cast down. as i came nearer she started up and began to spin; her foot rested heavily on the frail treadle, her hands trembled nervously as they drew the threads, and her face was fearfully white and her lips tightly closed, as if no friendly word were ever to pass them again in the course of her life. "'anna maria,' said i, stopping in front of her, 'what now?' "she did not answer. "'you have let yourself be carried away,' i continued. 'how will it be now between you and klaus?' "again she made no reply, but the treadle of the spinning-wheel broke in two with a snap; she sprang up, and pushed back the stretchers. 'leave me, leave me,' she begged, putting her hand to her forehead. "'write to klaus; tell him he must come,' i advised. she sat down again, and leaned her head on her hand. 'i will bring you paper and ink, anna maria, or shall i write?' "she shook her head. 'do not torment me,' she wailed; 'i no longer know if i am in my senses; leave me alone!' "i still lingered; she looked fearfully. her face was so pale and distorted one could scarcely recognize the blooming, girlish countenance. 'go,' she begged; it is the only thing that you can do for me.' "i went; no doubt she was right. in such an hour it is torment even to breathe in the sight of others. but why did she not fly to her room? i turned around once more at the stairs; i wanted to ask her to drink a glass of lemonade, and go to bed. the sitting-room was dark, but through the crack of the door which led to klaus's room came a ray of candle-light; she was in there. "two days had passed since that evening, and anna maria continued to go about without speaking. at dinner she had sat at the table, but had eaten nothing, and she wandered about for hours through the garden, in rain and storm. brockelmann insisted upon it, with tears, that i ought to send for the doctor, for her young lady was bent upon doing something which, she thought, pointed to the beginning of a disease of the mind. anna maria was no longer like herself. did she rue her violence, or did she fear seeing klaus again? i knew not. she had not written to him. i intended to do so in the beginning, but then gave it up; he _must_ come, and the more time that elapsed, the calmer our hearts would be. "susanna sat by the window up-stairs, in her room, a white cloth bound about her forehead, and her eyes, weary and red with weeping, looked out upon the leafless garden. i had been to her room several times to speak with her as forbearingly as possible. i wished to set before her her own wrong, to tell her that a warm, almost idolatrous love for klaus, and the fear that he might not be happy, had driven anna maria to an extreme. but here, too, i met with silent, obstinate resistance--that is, i received no answer, only that isabella said to me, with a sparkle in her black eyes: 'she has been abused, and she has been pushed, my poor child!' whether or not susanna had written to klaus i did not learn." chapter xvi. "it was almost evening, on the th of november, as an extra post drove quickly into the court. 'another visit!' was my first thought, so many people had been turned away in those days. 'you will fare no better,' thought i; 'you will soon turn around and drive home.' but, no, the carriage stopped, and a gentleman swung himself out. my heart stood still from fear--klaus! how came klaus to-day? "should i hurry out to meet him? prevent him from meeting anna maria? prepare him, forbearingly? but how? could i speak of the conflict without mortally wounding him? it was too late already; i heard his step on the stairs; he was going up to susanna first of all; he had probably been told that she was up-stairs. i stepped into the hall quite unconsciously, and at the same time susanna's door opened, her light figure appeared on the threshold, then she flew toward the man who was standing there with outstretched arms. 'klaus, klaus! my dear klaus!' sounded in my ear, tender and exultant with joy. oh, anna maria, if you were to speak to him with the tongue of an angel it would avail you nothing; it is too late! "i saw klaus press the slender figure to him, and saw her throw her arms about his neck, and again and again put up her lips to be kissed; and i heard her begin to sob, first gently, then more vehemently, and cry: 'now all is well, all, now that you are here!' and she clung to him like a hunted deer. "i stepped back softly; i still saw how susanna drew him into her room, caressing him, and heard his deep, passionate voice; then the door was closed behind them. 'caught!' said i, softly, 'caught, like tannhäuser of old in the hörfelsberg!' and bitter tears ran from my old eyes as i went down-stairs to go to anna maria. "brockelmann came toward me in consternation. 'the master is here,' she called to me, 'but anna maria will not believe it.' i went into her room without knocking; she was sitting on the little sofa, her new testament before her on the table. in the dying daylight her great blue eyes looked forth almost weirdly from the face worn with grief. "'klaus has come, my child,' i said, going up to her. "she looked at me incredulously. "'i have seen him, anna maria; it is true.' "'where is he, then?' she asked. 'why does he not come to me?' "'my dear child'--i took her hand--'klaus is with susanna.' "she let her head drop. 'but then he will come,' she said; 'he must come, of course! he will want something to eat, and he will want to scold me. i wish he would tell me how bad i am, how unjustly i have acted, so that i might tell him everything, everything that lies so heavily on my heart. perhaps, perhaps my voice may penetrate him once more, when he thinks of all that we have lived through in common, when he thinks how i love him!' "i pressed her hand and sat down silently beside her; that sweet, clear 'klaus, klaus! my dear klaus!' still rang in my ears, and then the sobbing. and now, if he should hear from her own lips why she wept? if he should lift the white cloth from her brow? the calmest man would become a tiger, and he was not calm, any more than anna maria--god help them! i trembled at the thought of those two standing face to face. "and the darkness fell and concealed the objects in the room; before the windows the branches of the old elms swayed, ghost-like, in the wind, ever bending toward us, as if beckoning with their lean arms. and anna maria waited! at every sound in the house she started up--i thought i heard her heart beat--and each time she was deceived. "at last, at last! that was his step on the stairs! she rose, all at once, to her full, proud height. 'klaus,' she said, 'my brother klaus!'--as if she must be encouraged in mentioning the entire, intimate, sacred relation in which they stand to each other--'my only brother!' in these few words lay the destiny of her whole life. "the sound of klaus's voice came in to us; it sounded as if he were giving various orders; now it came nearer in the hall, then the steps retreated, and at last reëchoed the creaking of the front door. "'he is going!' shrieked anna maria, 'he is going, and i have not seen him, and he has not asked for me!' "'no, no, my child,' i sought to calm her, 'he is not going away, he cannot go; whither should he? only be calm; he wants to speak to the bailiff, or to see about his baggage. let me go, i will find out; and you--come, sit down quietly in your place. i will bring klaus to you, i promise you.' "it was an easy thing for me to lead her back from the door and push her to the sofa; the tall, strong girl seemed stunned by anxiety and weariness. "i kissed her forehead and hurried out; brockelmann was in the hall, coming toward me with rapid steps. she looked heated, and her white cap was all awry on her gray hair. she carried a lighted candle in one hand, and with the other quickly unfastened her great bunch of keys from her belt. the housemaid followed her with a basket of fire-wood. "'great heavens, gracious fräulein,' said the old woman, when i asked, in surprise, the meaning of her haste; 'if i knew myself! the hall is to be heated and lighted; in an hour everything must be ready, and the dust-covers haven't been taken off for a whole year in there. i think the master has lost his head!' and with trembling hands she unlocked the folding-doors which led to the two rooms which, under the names of the 'hall' and the 'red room,' had been, from my earliest youth, opened only on particularly important occasions. here was formerly assembled, several times a year, a very aristocratic company, who, after a fine, stiff dinner-party, would close the evening with a dance; here had been held, for generations, the christening and wedding feasts of the hegewitzes; here, too, had many a coffin stood, before it was carried out to the vault in the garden below. "what did klaus mean to do to-day? involuntarily i followed brockelmann into the hall; the candle lighted the great room but faintly; its feeble light made here and there a prismatic drop among the pendants of the crystal chandelier sparkle, and the gray-covered pieces of furniture stood about like ghosts. the old woman began to arrange things in the greatest haste, and under the hands of the maid the first feeble flame was soon flickering up in the fire-place. i beheld it as in a dream. "'what, for god's sake, does this mean?' i asked again, oppressed. "brockelmann did not reply at once; she wanted to spread out the rug in front of the great sofa. 'go, sophie, the fire is burning now; christopher may come in a quarter of an hour to light the candles.--they will surely last,' she added, with a glance at the half-burned candles in the chandelier and sconces. "the girl went; the old woman stopped taking off the dust-covers. 'one experiences a great deal when one is old and gray, and nowhere are there stranger goings on than in this world!' said she, excitedly; 'but that anything like this should happen! do you know, fräulein, where he has gone, the master, without even having said "good-day" to his sister? to pastor grüne. and there up-stairs sits the old isa, and has cut bare the little myrtle-tree which you gave to the--the strange young lady, so that it looks like a rod to beat naughty children with. and the young thing lies on the sofa, playing with her cat, and laughs out of her red eyes, and she laughs with all her white teeth, because things have gone so far at last. gracious fräulein, they have wept and lamented. if the master has lost his reason, i can understand it. not an hour longer will they stay here in the house, the little one cried, where they were trodden under foot and scolded. and when the master sent for me he was holding her in his arms, and looked as pale as the plaster on the walls. i must put things in order here as well as possible, said he, but quickly--in an hour, fräulein; there will be no more disturbance to be made about it. and though the king himself were to come, in an hour they will be man and wife.' "'is it possible?' i stammered. 'anna maria--' my head whirled about like a mill-wheel. it was decided, then; susanna was to be his wife! "klaus had been stirred up to the utmost extent; that his hasty decision proved. of what use would it be if i were to go now to anna maria and say: 'compose yourself, it is not to be altered now!' in her present state of mind she would throw herself at his feet and accuse susanna, though he were already standing with her before the priest. in his passion for this girl he would believe nothing of all this; he would require proofs. and proofs? who would accuse her of infidelity? how could _she_ help it that stürmer loved her? that she had wept and wrung her hands, was that anything positive? that stürmer fancied himself loved by her, could that be made out a crime on her part? it would have been madness to excite klaus further, to say to him now: 'leave her; she will not make you happy.' "with fixed gaze i followed the old woman about, and in restless anxiety saw her begin to light the candles beside the great mirror; their light was reflected from the polished glass and fell sparkling on the gilt frames of the family portraits; deep crimson color shone from the curtains and furniture, and a warm breath now came from the fire through the chilly air. was it a reality? "then i started up. anna maria was still sitting alone and waiting; my place was with _her_. i found her in the dark, still in the same spot, and sat down beside her. "'he has gone away,' she asked, 'has he not?' "'no,' said i, 'he is coming back directly.' "'to me?' "'i do not know, my child.' "'what is that loud slamming of doors?' she asked after a while. 'and why do i sit here so cowardly, as if i had something to fear, when i have done nothing wrong? i need not wait for him to come to me; i can go to him first.' "and she stood up again. with firm step she went to the door, but before she could put her hand on the latch the door opened, and pastor grüne, in full official robes, crossed the threshold. "involuntarily the girl drew back at this unexpected appearance. the old man was plainly embarrassed. after a moment's hesitation, he went up to anna maria and took her hands. 'i come, commissioned by your brother,' he began. 'he wishes, through me, to put a request most fervently to your heart. herr von hegewitz intends, for reasons which he has not shared further with me, to consummate his marriage with fräulein mattoni to-day.' "anna maria's pale face turned crimson. 'it is impossible!' she said, in a lifeless tone; 'it is not true!' "'but, my dear child,' the old gentleman went on, laying his hands kindly on the girl's shoulders, 'look at me. i stand all ready in official robes to perform the solemn act. but first your brother would have peace made with his sister; he would not take this step until she, to whom he has been hitherto so closely bound in fraternal love, has again extended her hand to him in reconciliation.' "'i am not angry with my brother,' came the denial. "'not with him, perhaps, but with her who in a short time will be his wife. his heart is heavily oppressed by this situation, and he begs you earnestly to speak a single word to his bride.' "anna maria suddenly shook off his hand. 'i am to beg her pardon?' she cried, raising herself to her full height, her eyes flaming--'i beg susanna mattoni's pardon? has klaus gone mad, to think that i will humble myself before that girl? go, herr pastor, tell him he must come himself to speak with me. i will fall at my brother's feet if i have grieved him, but i will also tell him what drove me to push the girl from me, and--go bring him before it is too late, or i----' "'anna maria,' the old man broke in, raising his voice, 'cease from this defiance! judge not, that ye be not judged, says the scripture! you have no right to press yourself between these two; you have been prejudiced against your brother's bride from the first moment, you have judged her childish faults too harshly. do you think by complaint to tear a man's love from his heart? foolish child! then you do not know what love is, which forgives everything, overlooks everything. stop, control yourself! anna maria, you have an uncommonly strong will, a courageous heart; do not wholly imbitter the solemn hour for your only brother; it lacks already the consecration of a festal feeling. your brother tells me he means to go away this evening with his young wife. come, my child, follow your old teacher and pastor once more; come!' "she drew back a few steps. 'never!' said she, gently but firmly. "'anna maria, not so, not so; bitter regrets may follow,' he said, appeasingly. "'never!' she repeated. 'i cannot go against my conscience; i should be ashamed to stand at the altar and listen to a lie! i had placed my entire hope on speaking to klaus, on begging him to leave her. he does not wish to see me, or he would have come. i cannot do what he wishes; believe me, i have my reasons. farewell, herr pastor!' "she turned and went to the window, and pressing her head against the panes, looked out on the sinking darkness of the november evening. she was apparently calm, and yet her whole body shook. "meanwhile a familiar step was heard outside, pacing up and down. i stepped out. 'klaus,' i begged, looking in his pale, excited face, 'why this terrible haste?' "'how am i to do it, then?' he cried, impatiently. 'i cannot stay here, i am still needed in silesia, so i must take susanna away; what else can be done? do you think i will expose her to this treatment any longer? by heaven, aunt, when the girl's desperate letter came, it was fortunate that i could not come here on wings, that the vexations of the journey, and in m---- the procuring of the marriage license, detained me, or i should not have been able to control myself. anna maria is a stubborn thing; she has no heart or feelings, or she would at least be ready now to hold out her hand to susanna and me.' "'anna maria loves you more than you think,' said i, grieved, 'and if she was angry with your bride, she had sufficient cause.' "he stood still, white as chalk. 'aunt,' he implored me, with a wearily maintained composure, 'do not completely spoil this hour for me. susanna has told me everything, and anna maria, in her views of united prudery and onesidedness, has regarded as a deadly sin what was an innocent, perfectly innocent act on susanna's part.' "at this moment pastor grüne came out of anna maria's room--alone. i shall never forget the sad look with which klaus met the eyes of the old man. "so we three stood there; klaus was just taking a step toward the door when in the same instant isa stood beside him, as if charmed hither. she already had on her black silk dress, and her withered face shone with joy and triumph. "'susanna is waiting, sir,' she whispered. "'i am coming,' he replied, and turning around he said to me: 'it is better for me not to see her. i know _her_, i know myself, and i wish to remain calm.' "indeed it was better! god knows what would have happened if they had met. i promised to be present at the marriage ceremony, but first i went again to anna maria. she was still standing at the window, and did not turn on my entrance. "'anna maria,' said i, 'i will come back soon; you shall not remain alone long.' "then she suddenly slipped to the floor, and buried her head in her mother's old arm-chair. 'alone!' she cried, 'alone, forever, forever!' "a few minutes later i was on my way to the hall. several lamps had been lighted in the corridor, and the servants, with curious, pleased faces, were pressing before the open door. the report that the master was to be married to-day had, with lightning speed, reached even to the village. right in front by the door stood marieken, looking anxiously into the lighted room, in which brockelmann was still busy, helping the sacristan arrange the improvised altar. she put another pair of cushions before the table, covered with a white damask cloth into which the crest was woven, and set the heavy silver candlesticks straight. "pastor grüne stood waiting at the back of the room. he came toward me with an inquiring look. "i shook my head. 'she is not coming!' "'it is bad,' said he, 'when a good kernel is covered by such a prickly shell. anna maria lacks humility and gentle love; she has no woman's heart.' "'you are mistaken in the girl!' i cried, imbittered, with tears in my eyes. 'she is better than all the rest of us put together!' "'and though i bestow all my goods to feed the poor,' said he, impressively, 'and though i give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' "my poor, proud, honest anna maria! if they only knew what i know, if they could only see right into your heart! thought i, and bitterly my eyes fell on the ravishing, lovely creature, now crossing the threshold on klaus's arm. she did not wear the unfortunate white dress; she was in that little black lace-trimmed dress which she had worn the first time klaus saw her, nothing but the myrtle-wreath adorned with white flowers in her hair to remind one of a bride. but if ever susanna understood how to make her external appearance effective, it was now, as she came, without ornament or parade, to the altar. it was no wonder that klaus did not turn his eyes away from her, that he pressed the delicate arm so closely to him, that he dismissed as groundless chattering what people might say about this pure, childish brow. "and then the low whispering stopped; pastor grüne was beginning to speak. "if i could only tell now how he opened his address! the words went in at one ear and out at the other; i saw only klaus, his handsome face, so proud, so penetrated with kind, honest sentiment, with a glimmer of tender emotion over it; and i thought of anna maria lying over there on the floor, in pain and fear. then i saw klaus make a quick, convulsive motion, and now every word went to my heart: "'it was on this spot that you once stood by the coffin of your dead mother, holding in your arms a dear legacy, promising with hand and heart to take care of the child and protect her in all the vicissitudes of life. and the way you did this, it was a joy for god and man to see! there is no more intimate bond than that which united the orphaned brother and sister; and let not this bond be broken, let not the knot be untied by the coming of a third person! the wife'--he turned to susanna--'must be a peacemaker; she must strive that unity may dwell under her husband's roof; that she may be to him a blessing and not a curse! a love between brother and sister is not less holy than between married people. there are old, sacred claims which brother and sister have upon one another, and therefore, young bride, let your first word in your new life be a word of peace; take your husband's hand and join it in reconciliation with that other which is not folded here in this place with us to pray for you. do not leave this house without a word of peace, even if you think injustice has been done you in this hour which gives you, the homeless orphan, a home and a protector. be gentle and ready for peace; ask yourself how great a share in the burden you bear.' "a few shining drops ran down the cheeks of the bridegroom, while susanna, like a child, listened with wide-open eyes to the clergyman's words, evidently painfully affected by the seriousness which he imparted to the situation. "then the affair came quickly to an end; the rings were exchanged, the solemn decisive 'yes' died away--susanna mattoni was klaus's wife. the servants withdrew, the doors of the hall were closed, pastor grüne spoke a few more affecting words to susanna, and klaus silently pressed my hands. "brockelmann served a cold lunch and presented a glass of champagne; isa brought in furs and cloak; the young couple intended to start in half an hour. then the clergyman went away, brockelmann and isa had already left the room, and i was alone with klaus and susanna. he had drawn the smiling young wife to him. 'susanna,' i heard him whisper, 'let us go to her, tell her that you forgive her; let us part in peace from anna maria, my sister.' "the smile vanished, she stood there defiantly looking down to the floor, a deep blush on her face, and gradually her eyes filled with shining tears. "'my first request, susanna,' he repeated beseechingly. she remained silent, but rising on tip-toe, flung her arms about his neck; with infinite grace her head was slightly thrown back, and she looked up to him with her sweet eyes moist with tears. impetuously he drew her to him and kissed the red lips and the little red scar on her forehead again and again. "i stole softly out. the word of peace remained unspoken! "an hour later the candles in the hall were extinguished, the house lay dark and silent." chapter xvii. "anna maria did not become ill, as we expected; hers was too firm, too strong a nature; but she had grown bitter and gloomy. she did not belong to that class of people whom a great sorrow makes tender. "joyless times followed that wedding--days and weeks, empty and cold. at first i had besought her to write to klaus, not to let the breach become wider. she had answered me with a cold smile, and torn in two a letter from her brother after the first glance. i saved the pieces and found an effusion of honeymoon bliss, and nothing different could have been expected. anna maria had probably not observed the short business announcement that he had advantageously sold the estate in silesia, and now thought of going to paris with susanna. "klaus wrote again, several times, to anna maria. she would carry a letter from him about with her all day, unopened, then occasionally tear it open, and begin to read, only to throw it into the fire before she had half finished. later these letters to anna maria were discontinued. the old bailiff appeared now and then in the sitting-room, to tell her that the master had written him, and wished this and that, thus and so. anna maria would usually nod her head silently, and the man would stand, embarrassed, at the door a little while, and then go quietly away again. "'things are not as they ought to be any longer,' he declared to me. 'formerly the fräulein used to concern herself about every trifle, so that i often cursed her zeal; to-day anything may happen that will, it is all the same to her; and even if all the barns and granaries should burn down in the night, she would not stir.' "it was true, anna maria no longer asked about anything; she seemed to have sunk into a regular apathy. it was a grief to see this young creature, from whom everything on which her heart was fixed was taken, and who now, without check or purpose, in the most tormenting pain of soul, shut her eyes and ears in dark defiance. "'diversion!' said the doctor. "i looked at him in astonishment. 'i beg you, you have known the girl since her childhood, have you ever known a time when trifles and nonsense could give her pleasure, or could divert her at all from a sorrow?' "'nonsense!' replied the old man, 'but she is only a woman. she ought to marry, then everything would be different! it would be a pity if that girl should become a dried-up old maid.' "i shook my head sadly. "'why the devil is she so unreasonable, too, as to fret about her brother's marriage?' he continued, undisturbed. no gray hair need be made grow over that. take the young lady, pack her trunk, and go to berlin for a few weeks. go to the theatre every evening for my sake, and see something classical; but take her away from here!' "'ah, doctor, you do not know anna maria.' "i made an attempt, nevertheless. she let me have my say, and then said: 'i do not understand the outside world at all. i miss nothing here, i complain of nothing. do not tease me any more!' "when the workmen appeared, one after another, to put in order the rooms for the young couple, when the dear old articles of furniture were taken out and the wall-papers torn off, she fled to her room. the writing-desk at which her father had formerly sat and worked was to remain in its place, at klaus's express desire; but the old thing looked so ridiculously awkward beside the _boule_ furniture that paper-hanger and cabinet-maker refused to receive it, so anna maria had it taken into her room. she now sat there all day at the window before her mother's sewing-table, and looked blankly out on the wintry garden, every stroke of the hammer from the workmen making her start. the bunch of keys no longer hung at her belt; brockelmann had taken charge of that. "no one came to see us in those desolate winter days, except the old brother and sister from the parsonage, and even from them she fled. i stood by her faithfully, and beheld the struggles of her proud heart. "at first isa had lived on quietly up-stairs by herself, disregarded by anna maria. then one day toward christmas she came into my room, beaming with joy, and announced to me that the young frau wanted her to come to her; she was in need of her help at her toilet, and she was to have the position of lady's maid with her. '_je vais à paris ce soir, à paris_, and from there to nice. oh, i speak french excellently!' "i wished her a prosperous journey, and commissioned her with messages. then i sat down and reflected. klaus, quiet, easy-going klaus, who valued the comfort of his arm-chair in the evening beyond everything, in paris, the gay paris, with a young wife who needed a maid to make her toilet? i could not make that rhyme without a dissonance. "in the rooms down-stairs an exquisite elegance was being gradually revealed, and i learned from the workmen that the pale blue silk hangings of the boudoir (the little library next to klaus's study was converted into a boudoir), and the dainty rosewood furniture, frau von hegewitz had chosen herself in berlin; that the crimson silk drapery for the salon cost ten _thaler_ a yard, and that the smyrna rug in there was real. tears came into my eyes. what had become of our dear old, comfortable sitting-room? what had we ever known of salons and boudoirs at bütze? "as in passing through the garden-parlor one day anna maria's feet sank in a persian rug, and she perceived the low divans which ran along the sides of the room, and the gold-embroidered cushions; and as she caught sight of a gleaming, gay mosaic floor on the terrace instead of the honest stone flags over which her childish feet had so often tripped, on which she had stood so many a time beside klaus; and saw, instead of the gray stone balustrade, a gilded railing, a slight tremble came upon her lips, and a few great tear-drops ran down her cheeks, and she slowly turned her back to the room. she always went to the garden through the lower entry afterward. "it was on a stormy evening in march that anna maria for the first time broke her long, habitually sober silence. i had not seen her all day; her door remained closed to my knocking. and yet i would have so gladly said a few affectionate words to her--to-day was her birthday. "in vain had brockelmann made the huge pound-cake wreathed with the first snow-drops, and in vain placed a couple of blooming hyacinths on the breakfast-table. the door of anna maria's room had not been opened. a letter addressed to me had come from klaus, requesting me to give to his sister the enclosed open letter. it was affectionately written, begging that she would soften her heart, and requesting a few lines from her hand. 'what sort of a home-coming will it be for susanna and me,' he wrote, 'if the unhappy misunderstanding is not forgotten? we are ready to consider all as not having happened, if you will come to meet us in the old love. be friendly to susanna, too. i can honestly confess to you that i long to be at home, in our dear old house, regularly employed. a life like this here is nothing to me; i always hated idleness. susanna's health, so far as temporary demands are made upon it, is satisfactory; but for her, too, i wish, especially now, the quiet of the less exciting life at home. let me once more add to the heartiest wishes for your welfare the desire that we may soon meet again in the old fraternal love.' a dainty visiting-card, 'susanna, baroness von hegewitz,' with a lightly scribbled wish for happiness, lay with the letter. "in his letter to me klaus repeated that he was longing for home, that he earnestly besought me to induce anna maria to be gentle, for he made his home-coming especially dependent upon her state of mind, as he could not possibly expose susanna now to excitement and unfriendly treatment. but he cherished a strong desire to return at the beginning of spring at the latest, for this and other reasons. "the two letters lay before me on the table; how should i make their contents known to anna maria? for she read no letters at all. and how would she receive the news of his return? a change in her feelings was not to be hoped for so soon, not even at the announcement of this glad news. "brockelmann had come in and complained, with a shake of her head, that anna maria had not eaten a mouthful to-day, and it was four o'clock already. 'she is growing old before her time,' added the old woman; 'does she look now as if she were under thirty? yesterday i brushed her hair and found two long silvery threads in it. o lord! and so young!' "in the depth of twilight anna maria came suddenly into the room. she did not say 'good evening' at all, but only, 'please do not allude to my birthday, aunt!' and after a pause she added: 'things cannot remain as they are here; klaus will want to come home, and then there will be one too many in bütze. i have been considering lately how i should manage not to be in his way, and have at last decided to go at once to the convent in b----.' "'you would grieve klaus to death, anna maria,' said i; 'it does not do to carry a thing too far. you are both defiant, you are both stubborn, but klaus has been the first to extend his hand, and he still offers it. here, read his letter, read it just this once, and be of a different mind.' "i lit a candle, and pressed the letter into her hand; and she really read it. a slight blush rose to her pale face, then she nodded her head seriously. 'believe me,' she said, 'he will really be best pleased if he does not find me here. write him that, aunt. in this way no possible conflict can ensue.' "'anna maria, you would--you could really go away from here?' cried i, pained. 'how can it be possible? truly i had expected more feeling, more attachment in you. you can be heartless sometimes!' "she was silent. 'stürmer is coming back next month,' she said at last, in a strangely trembling voice, 'and i would like to be as far away as possible.' "i sprang up, and threw my arms around her. 'my poor, dear child,' i begged, weeping, 'forgive me!' "and she went, she really went away! on one of the first days of april, early in the day, the carriage which was to take her away stopped before the front steps. "anna maria went down the steps with me, followed by brockelmann. she quickly got in, and drew her dark gauze veil over her face. 'greet klaus heartily for me,' she whispered to me again; 'all the happiness in the world to him and his wife!' "then she was gone, and i went quietly up the steps. it seemed unspeakably strange and lonely here to me all at once. i wandered through the newly furnished rooms; they had all been heated and the windows opened. comfortable, elegant, very pleasant it looked all about here, as if made expressly for susanna's beauty; but they were no longer the old bütze rooms, with their ancestral comfort, their dear associations. i stood now in susanna's little boudoir; i noticed a fold of the pale blue portière yonder hanging, out of order, over an indistinguishable object--the upholsterer surely had not intended it so. i went over and lifted up the heavy silk to lay it again in regular folds on the carpet, when my eye fell upon a little old wooden cradle, painted with a crest, and oddly curved, strangely contrasting, in its rude form, with the elegant appointments of the room; and gently rocking in it were shining white, fine, lace-trimmed pillows, daintily tied with little blue bows; a basket pushed half under the couch of the young wife concealed little clothes of the finest linen, most beautifully sewed, hem-stitched, and trimmed with lace, made as only a skilled hand knows how. "'anna maria,' i said, softly, looking with moist eyes upon the old cradle in which she, in which klaus had once lain, and which now stood here, a greeting of reconciliation to the heart of the young wife who had robbed her of her peace and happiness. "two days later there was a lively stir at bütze. unfortunately, a bad headache banished me to a sofa in my dark room, so that i could not welcome the young couple on the threshold of their home. but i heard up here the unusual moving about; the bell in the servants' room, which had been formerly so seldom used, rang a regular alarm, and there was such a slamming of doors and rushing and running about for the first few hours that i had to draw the thickest pillow over my aching head in order to have any quiet. "klaus came up to me very soon; he sat down quietly by my bed and pressed my hand. "'you are glad to be at home again?' i asked kindly. 'how is your little wife?' "'thank you,' he replied, 'she is asleep now. i do not know; i must accustom myself to it first; it has been made so different, so strange, with all these alterations. and then'--he was silent--'one misses anna maria everywhere,' he added. "'you incorrigible people, you!' i scolded vexatiously, 'bend or break, but not yield, and then perish with longing for each other! a silly, stupid set you are!' "he made no reply to that. 'after three months in the country,' said he, 'i will go and get her. now it is better that susanna should remain alone.' "'you have been living very happily there?' i asked. "'oh, heaven, yes!' he replied. 'the gay life was new to susanna, and amused her delightfully. thank god that we are here! how do you really like the rooms down-stairs?' "'well, they are very beautiful, klaus, without doubt. but if i am to be honest, it was more comfortable before.' "'susanna is quite enchanted with them,' he continued. 'but i had a melancholy feeling when i found the sitting-room without the old stove, the great writing-desk, and anna maria's spinning-wheel. i really cannot sit in these spider-legged easy-chairs without fear of breaking down.' he laughed, but it had not a hearty sound. "'shall you be able to eat supper with us?' he asked. "i promised to do so if i were well enough. if you will let me sleep a little longer now, klaus, i shall be able to come down.' and then he went away. "toward evening i was awakened from a light slumber by the ringing of bells again; again i heard doors shutting, and footsteps of people hurrying to and fro. at the first instant i thought of an accident, but then recollected that it had been just so in the afternoon, and made my toilet and went down. "the first person to step up to me was mademoiselle isa. she greeted me very warmly, and with a certain pretentiousness. 'the gracious frau had drunk a cup of chocolate and was quite well,' she added, as she opened the door of the former sitting-room, which was agreeably lighted by two lamps, and pointed to the drawn-back portière: 'the gracious frau is in her boudoir.' "indeed, i was curious to see susanna again as 'gracious frau,' and limped quickly across to the little room. the soft carpet had deadened the sound of my steps, and i entered the snug little room unperceived. susanna was resting on the divan; i saw her beautiful black curls falling over the blue cushions, a tiny lace cap was half-hidden among them. her face was turned toward the fire, which, notwithstanding the warm april evening, was burning brightly in the little fire-place. "'susanna!' i called softly. she started up, and with a cry of joy fell on my neck. 'aunt rosamond, dear aunt!' she cried, and kissed and patted me with the pleasure of a happy child. 'my good aunt rosamond!' and she seized my hands and drew me, without letting go, to the sofa. she exercised the same old charm upon me; i had never been able to be angry with her; her grace was irresistible, and took heart and mind prisoner. "i raised the round chin a little and looked at her. it was the old, sweet, childish face, only still more attractive by reason of a slight pallor and a strange, sad look about the mouth; the eyes had lost the questioning look which sometimes gave them such a peculiar expression, but i thought they had grown larger and more brilliant. she threw her arms about my neck again, and kissed me and laughed, and then came a tear or two, and then she laughed again. "she chattered about nice, about paris, and said she wanted to live here quietly only a little while, and then fell on my neck again and whispered a thanks. "'no, no!' said i, smiling, 'i am not guilty of that; your thanks belong to anna maria.' "she grew silent and pale. then she sprang up and drew me into the salon. i had to gaze at a hundred things which she had brought with her--worthless toys, knick-knacks, fans, and all manner of folly, of whose existence i had never dreamed till now, and which struck me as infinitely useless. 'klaus has had to give me everything, everything,' she cried, joyfully, 'except this. aunt, do you see?' she pointed to a charming shepherdess of sevres porcelain. 'that is a present from stürmer.' "i stared at her. 'have you met him on the way?' she did not return my look, but her face glowed as rosy red as the ribbons on her white dress. 'yes,' said she lightly, 'we were with him a day in nice, but he went away in haste, and this is a souvenir.' and then she told me about the sea and the palm-trees, of gondola-sails by moonlight, till her cheeks grew crimson at the recollection. "'ah, life is so beautiful, so beautiful!' she cried, 'and--' she broke off, for klaus entered. he wore a short coat and high boots, and his face was radiant with joy in the long-suspended activity. "'i have been clattering all over the fields,' said he gayly, 'and am tired as a dog, little wife, and hungry and thirsty. do you know what would particularly please me?' he pushed the curls from her forehead and kissed her. 'a slice of honest german ham and a good glass of beer! the french sauces had a miserable after-taste to me, brrr--! holla! ho!' he called out at the door, 'will supper be ready soon?' "he did not seem to notice at all that susanna made a wry face at his declaring it was unnecessary for her to make a fresh toilet for supper, and that she took his arm reluctantly. 'ah, but we will live here in comfort,' said he beseechingly, holding her two hands over the table, 'not as in a hotel. when we go to nice again i promise you always to appear in dress-coat. here i should have no time at all for the continual changing of dress; and as for you, you do not look more charming in any state costume than in that white thing there.' "she shook her head, laughing, and showed him a little fist. 'wait,' said she, 'what did you promise me?' "'well, then, in the future,' he persevered; 'but to-day, and to-morrow too, let me enjoy the comfort i have so long done without--do.' "susanna smiled; and he ate german ham and drank german beer to his heart's content, while she took a roll spread with something or other, with her tea, which klaus prepared for her. i saw, in astonishment, how carefully he made the tea, how he heeded her every glance; now attentively passed her pepper and salt, and now cut a fresh sausage and roll, or carefully removed bones and tail from a sardine, every instant asking if it tasted good to her, if she were satisfied with her rooms, if she liked the flowers in the salon. he treated her like a little spoiled princess. "after supper i was going to withdraw; i thought they must be tired from their journey. susanna had lain down again on her couch; she kissed me once more, and klaus accompanied me as i went out. i saw that he held a book in his hand. 'good-night, aunt,' he said, 'i am going to read aloud to susanna.' "'for heaven's sake!' i cried, 'you are already yawning privately!' "'yes, i am tired to-night,' he replied, 'but susanna is so accustomed to it; she does not go to sleep before one o'clock.' "'klaus, klaus!' i warned him, 'if she has accustomed herself to it, let her become disused to it. only think, when you want to rise early in the morning!" "he heard me not. 'aunt,' said he, holding me fast by the hand, his eyes shining so happily, 'is she not a good, charming little wife?' "i smiled in his face. 'very charming, klaus!' "'and who prophesied to me that i should be unhappy all my life, eh?' he asked. "'oh, klaus, not i, indeed!' i contradicted earnestly. 'if anna maria had apprehensions, they were certainly not without foundation, and a housewife susanna will never be.' "'no, she is not yet a german housewife,' he broke in, in a somewhat disheartened manner, 'but she can be, and will be yet.' "i nodded to him: 'sleep well, klaus!' "'is it not so?' he asked, holding me back.' you will write to anna maria that we are happy with one another; you will tell her how good and charming she is?' "'yes, my boy, and now, good-night.' "anna maria's letters were brief and meagre; her handwriting very large and angular, as it is to-day. she wrote me that she was very well there, occupied a pair of pretty rooms, and was much with the abbess, who had been a friend of her mother. 'but i miss activity,' she added; 'a life on the sofa, in the company of stocking-knitting and books, is hateful to me; that is not resting.' a greeting for klaus and susanna was added. "i answered her, writing that klaus worshipped his wife and was happy. "'may god keep him thus!' she answered laconically. she was not to be reached with that; she had no belief in a happiness with susanna. "stürmer, who, as anna maria thought, was to come in april, was not yet here. he was a migratory bird, only without the regularity of one." chapter xviii. "may came on in the country in all its glory; the trees blossomed and the seeds sprouted, and bütze lay as in a snowy sea. the sun laughed in the sky, as susanna walked through the trim garden-paths on klaus's arm. now and then i saw her cross the court, with straw hat and parasol, in a light summer dress, and go a little way into the fields to meet him. the people stood still as she passed, the women and girls courtesied, the men made as deep a bow to her as to the rest of us from the house, and the children ran up to her in troops, and the sound of their 'good-day, gracious frau,' and susanna's clear, laughing voice came up to me; her charms fairly bewitched everybody. then she would return on her husband's arm, a great bouquet of field flowers in her hands, he leading his horse by the bridle and carrying her parasol and shawl; and her chatter and his deep voice, calling her a thousand pet names, reëchoed from the old walls when they had come into the house. "if anna maria could only have seen them thus, thought i, would she have been reconciled? poor, lonely anna maria! "susanna never inquired for her; her stay here seemed to be entirely taken up with all manner of little trifles. occasionally there came a perfect swarm of guests, and then the sound of laughing and chattering was heard in the garden-parlor till far into the night, and brockelmann, with a very red face, bustled about at the sideboard. "'i don't feel my feet at all, any more,' the old woman would sometimes complain; 'i really must have some one else to help me. in old times one used to know it beforehand when there was to be a great supper; but if any one came unexpectedly, he took just what there was in the house and was satisfied. but how should i dare take thinly sliced ham and fresh eggs and a herring salad to the frau? i tried it once--how she turned up her nose and begged her guests to excuse it! and then the master comes and says: "good brockelmann, though it is a little bit late, do get us a couple of warm dishes, and this and that, and a little fowl, for my wife does not like a cold supper when there is company; you must have some asparagus or green peas?" heavens and earth! and then old brockelmann is so stupid, too, as to run her heels off and make the impossible possible. oh dear, oh dear, if anna maria knew how my storeroom looks, and my account books!' "and she put her hands up under her cap and shook her head. "'you may believe it, fräulein rosamond,' she would sometimes add, 'the frau is well enough yet, at least she doesn't concern herself about me; but the old woman--o lord! she sticks her nose into everything, and more than a hundred times she has brought her chocolate out to me again--it wasn't hot enough, or was burned, or the lord knows what! as if the old creature understood anything about it, anyway! oh, yes, and then, if my patience is utterly exhausted, the master comes into the kitchen. "good brockelmann," he says, in his friendly way, "do keep peace with isa, that my little wife may not be vexed." well, then i keep still; but i see how he takes to heart everything that concerns his wife. and then i think how loud and angrily he has often spoken to anna maria in spite of all his love, and here he even spreads out his hands for the little feet to walk on!' "indeed, she had not said too much. he did lay down his hands for the little feet, and they walked on them without particularly noticing it. klaus had a boundless love for his wife, and she received this love as a tribute due her. she had no conception of what she possessed in him. "i do not know if he felt this. occasionally, when susanna was asleep, or making her toilet, or gone to a drive, and he had an hour to spare, he would sit with me up in my room, and would look so weary and oppressed. we spoke often, too, of anna maria; but when susanna was present he did not mention her name, for at that a shadow regularly passed over her face, and her chattering lips grew silent. "'my old anna maria!' he would say; 'she is still angry with me, and yet she is such a good, reasonable girl.' the last words were unconsciously accented. 'how pleasant it would be if she and susanna could live together like sisters--the unfortunate stubbornness. do you suppose, aunt, she will come when the old cradle down-stairs--?' and his eyes grew moist at this thought. "'i do not know, klaus, but i think so,' said i, 'if susanna can only forget--' "'ah, aunt, i place my entire hope on the cradle about her, too. anna maria shall be godmother; i will not have it otherwise. please god, it may not be far off!' "and was it then so far off? on a dull, sultry august night, i was still sitting in my easy-chair by the window, and could see distant flashes of lightning over the barns; the air was uncomfortable and stifling, or was it only the imagination of my old, restlessly beating heart, and my thoughts, which were below with susanna, anxious and prayerful? "ah, what does not pass through one's soul in such an hour--trembling joy and happy fear, and each minute seems to stretch out endlessly. i listened to the walking down-stairs, to the sound of the opening and shutting of doors; would some one never come up with the glad news? "and my thoughts wandered back to the night when anna maria was born, when i sat up here in the same fear and anxiety. klaus had gone to sleep in the arm-chair over there. i had not disturbed him, had let him sleep, till his father came to call him to his mother's death-bed. the boy's pale, frightened face stood before me so plainly this evening, as he knelt before the cradle of his little sister. "below, in the court-yard, it was still as death; only old mandelt, the watchman, was going slowly along, shaking his rattler; and above the slumbering world glittered the brilliant stars of the august sky as through a light mist. "then i started up; heavy steps were approaching my door, and now brockelmann called into my room: 'a boy, fräulein rosamond! come down-stairs--such a dear, splendid boy!' "never did i hurry down those stairs so quickly as on that night, nor did klaus ever take me in his arms so impetuously, so full of thankful jubilation, as then, when he came toward me to lead me to the cradle of his child. the strong man was quite overcome, and the first words that he whispered to me were again: 'how anna maria will rejoice!' "if ever a child was welcomed with joy it was this one. his presence worked like a deliverance upon us all; even brockelmann and isa spoke pleasantly to each other to-day. isa's anxiety about her darling had reached the highest pitch, and she had left her place in the room of the young mother to the quiet old woman; and brockelmann--well, she would not have been the honest old soul that she was not to rejoice with her master over his son. whatever grudge against susanna may have still lingered in her heart, this day wiped out; with a truly motherly tenderness she presided at the sick-bed. and did it fare better with me? i, too, old creature that i was, knelt down between the bed and the cradle, and kissed the little pale face again and again; in this hour everything with which she had once troubled us was forgotten. "and klaus sat at his writing-desk and wrote to anna maria. 'do you think she will come?' he asked as he came in again. he had sent a special messenger to e---- with the letter to his sister. 'will she come?' "'surely, klaus!' i replied. "the messenger was gone three days; then he returned with a letter from anna maria. heartfelt words it contained, here and there half blotted out by tears. she would come soon, she wrote, come soon--in a week or two, perhaps--but would it be right to susanna? "i was sitting by the bed of the young wife as klaus came into the room with this letter. she was holding the small bundle of lace in her arms. isa had had to adorn the young gentleman's toilet to-day with blue ribbons. susanna played with him as if he were a doll, and wanted to know what color would best suit the young prince. she was so merry and pretty about it, and laughed so heartily when the little thing made a queer, wry face. "'oh, see, just see!' she called to her husband. 'who does he look like now? only look!' of course we stood in dutiful admiration and looked at the little creature. but brockelmann, who was just going through the room, said: 'ah, i have seen it from the first moment. he has a real hegewitz face; he looks most like his aunt, anna maria.' "susanna started up as if the greatest injury had been done her. 'it is not true!' she whispered, and kissed the child. but klaus had heard it, nevertheless; he had grown very red, and slowly put the folded letter in his pocket, and an expression of disappointment passed over his face. he sat down by susanna and kissed her hand, but did not mention his sister's name. "what klaus wrote in reply to anna maria i never learned; but he said: 'anna maria is always right; it was well that she did not come immediately, as i wished.' "and three weeks more passed. susanna already walked up and down on the gay mosaic pavement of the terrace occasionally, and isa walked about in the sunny garden with the blue-veiled child. then one rainy evening, about six o'clock, a slender woman's figure walked into my dim room. "'anna maria!' i cried joyfully; 'my dear old child, are you really here again?' "she put her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder. 'yes, aunt,' she said softly, and i felt her heart beat violently. 'yes--but now take care that i may greet klaus first alone; we have so much to say to each other!' "he had entered, meanwhile, before i could answer. 'i saw you coming through the garden, anna maria,' he cried joyfully, holding her two hands; 'thank god that you are here again!' "the next instant she fell, weeping, on his neck. they had so much to say to each other; i would not hear them beg forgiveness of each other, and went softly out. "and susanna? i asked myself. i found the young wife down-stairs in the salon the sound of her merry laugh came toward me. there were one or two ladies from the neighborhood there, and isa had just brought in the child. there was so much laughing, chattering, and congratulating that i got no chance at first to inform susanna that her sister-in-law had arrived. at last the ladies took their leave, and we two were alone. susanna walked up and down the great room, playing with the child. "'so stupid,' she scolded, 'that i don't know a single cradle-song! but i can't bear the silly things they sing here, about goslings and black and white sheep. but it is all the same, he doesn't understand the words.' and lightly she began the old refrain: 'home have i come, and my heart burns with pain. ah, that i only could wander again!' "'susanna,' said i, quickly, 'anna maria has come back, a little while ago.' "she stood still, as if rooted to the spot. i could no longer distinguish her features in the deep twilight, and she spoke not a word. 'susanna!' i cried, in a low, reproachful tone. "just at that moment brockelmann brought in a light. 'the master is coming with fräulein anna maria!' she cried joyfully. 'oh, fräulein, anna maria--how pleased she will be with that little doll!' "hand in hand klaus and anna maria entered the room. she had been weeping hot tears, but now a smile was on her lips, and she went up to susanna, who had dropped into the nearest chair. "'let everything be forgotten, susanna,' she begged. 'let us be sisters!' she knelt beside her and kissed the slumbering child. 'i shall love him very much!' and now she raised her tear-stained face to susanna and offered her lips, but the young wife slowly turned her head to one side. "anna maria stood up instantly; a reproachful look met klaus. "'susanna!' said he, going up to his wife and taking the child from her arms, 'give anna maria your hand and be at peace with her!' "slowly she extended her right hand, coldly and briefly the two hands touched, then the young wife went quickly out of the room, and directly after isa came to take away the child. "'why have i come?' said anna maria, bitterly. "klaus walked up and down with long strides. 'forgive her, anna maria,' he begged; 'she is still ill, still weak. i will speak quietly with her.' "'no, klaus,' replied the girl; 'wherefore? i will be no disturber of the peace. she is your wife, you are happy, and i--i will go away again.' "'but this is your father-house! this is _your_ home as well as _mine_!' he cried, irritated. 'by heaven, i would never have believed that it was so hard for two women's hearts to agree!' "isa called him to susanna. he went in; we heard him speak loud and vehemently, and then heard susanna crying. "'i shall go away again to-morrow, aunt,' said anna maria, and her pale face with the red eyes had the old stubborn expression. 'i did not come to make discord.' how i pitied the girl! i knew well how hard it had been for her to take the first step toward susanna, what a struggle it had cost her proud heart, and yet she had done it for klaus's sake, and for---- "klaus returned, leading susanna on his arm; he took her hand and placed it in anna maria's. "'there now, be reconciled," he said, with a sigh. 'give each other a kiss; there must be no more allusions to old tales. i forbid it herewith!' "they did kiss each other, but their lips touched only lightly. we then sat down, and klaus and i started a conversation with difficulty. anna maria talked about her convent, but after had to stop; it seemed all the time as if she were choking down the tears. susanna spoke still less, and only answered when anna maria asked about the child, and upon a direct remark of klaus. brockelmann, who summoned us to the table, burst out with the question whether anna maria were to assume the direction of the housekeeping again. "'i am not going to remain here,' she replied, smiling sadly. "'we shall see about that,' said klaus, quickly. 'first of all, the child is to be baptized, and then i have so much to talk over with you--everything has been lying over! no, you can't go away again so quickly.' "'when is the christening to be, then?' i asked. "'oh, we have not talked about that at all yet, have we, susanna?' said he, turning to her. "'no, but it must be soon,' declared the young wife. 'isa says it is not proper to wait more than four weeks.' "'as you like,' he replied, heartily glad to have the way paved for some sort of an understanding. he hoped, indeed, that these two would become reconciled, and that anna maria would stay in the father-house. "yes, she did stay, but it came about in a different way from what he thought. "anna maria came in search of me the next morning. to-day i first saw how she had altered; her face had grown thin, and fine lines were drawn about her mouth. she was sad and sat still by the window. "'have you seen the baby to-day?' i asked cheerfully. "she shook her head. 'klaus wanted to take me in with him, but isa said susanna was at her toilet. i only heard him try his voice.' "'and have you talked with klaus about the christening?' "she nodded. 'on monday,' she replied, 'and in the day-time. susanna wishes a great festivity.' "'well, brockelmann will be in despair!' i cried; 'and klaus will not be exactly enchanted. but what is he to do?' "'what is he to do?' asked anna maria, in astonishment. 'he is to exercise his authority as her husband, and say "no!" great heavens! has she entrapped you all together, that you still do what _she_ wishes?' she had sprung up. 'everything, everything here dances as she pipes, even brockelmann. she has trained you all like poodles; you do beautifully, if she only raises a finger!' "'anna maria,' i begged, 'do not be so angry right away; she is still ill, and she----' "'no, no,' cried the girl, 'it is dreadful here! what has become of bütze, our dear old bütze? where now are order and regularity? everything goes topsy-turvy, and things run over each other in order that the gracious frau need not wait. whether or not the master of the house gets his dues, or the servants theirs, is of no consequence, if only madame smiles and is friendly. i wish i had never come back!' "'anna maria,' said i, 'are these your good resolutions?' "'oh, have no fear,' she replied, her lips quivering. 'i have repented bitterly enough letting myself be carried away _once_; i shall not do so again. but in my father-house i shall not stay; the torment would be greater than i should be able to bear.' "she went to the window and looked out. klaus was just riding in at the gate; he had probably been in the fields. his eyes sped to the ground-floor, and he kissed his hand up there. 'susanna is standing at the window with the child,' thought i. "'klaus looks fatigued,' remarked anna maria. 'is he well all the time?' "'i think so,' i replied; 'at least, i do not remember his having complained.' "'complained!' she repeated. 'as if klaus would ever complain!' "but he did complain; we met him at the breakfast-table down-stairs. anna maria was right; he looked wretchedly. 'i have a fearful headache,' he said, as she looked at him with a troubled face. "susanna did not hear it. 'klaus,' she begged, coaxingly, 'we will illuminate the garden day after to-morrow, shall we not? will you get me some more colored paper lanterns?' "'yes, susy, willingly,' he replied; 'but i have no messenger. if you had only spoken of it earlier; frederick has already gone to the city for brockelmann, and i can spare no one from the harvesting, for i must make use of the little good weather.' "'but you did know it, klaus,' she pouted; 'i thought it would look so charming when evening comes, with the whole garden hung with lanterns.' "he passed his hand over his aching head. 'forgive me, my darling, i had forgotten it; i had so much on my mind. you shall have the lanterns.' "'have you written the invitations, klaus?' the young wife continued. "'yes, yes,' he replied, 'i did it all very early; they are already on the way, and you shall have the lanterns to-morrow.' "'to-morrow?' she asked, disappointed. "'if my headache is better i can ride over this afternoon,' he said. "anna maria sat by silently and looked at her plate. then isa brought in the child; susanna was still eating. 'oh, do give it to me,' begged anna maria, her eyes shining. she rose and went to the window, and scrutinized the little face. "'he resembles our family, klaus,' she said; 'he has your nose and your kind eyes.' and she kissed him tenderly. "isa had hurried out again. there was a great din in the usually quiet house; beating and brushing everywhere, and everything seemed to be turned upside-down. klaus rose at length. 'anna maria,' he asked, going up to her, 'would you help me to go over some things in my books which it is necessary to attend to?' "she looked up joyfully. 'gladly,' she said, 'but must it be done to-day? you look so wretchedly.' "'yes,' he replied, 'i would like to put the matters in order; the headache will surely go away.' i took the child from anna maria, and the brother and sister went out. "klaus did not come to dinner; he had gone to lie down. when he appeared at coffee he looked red and heated. anna maria looked at him in concern. 'only don't be ill, klaus,' she said anxiously. "he smiled. 'perhaps the ride to the city will do me good.' "'for heaven's sake!' cried anna maria and i in one breath. 'you surely are not going to take that long ride?' "'oh, it will do no harm!' and he looked tenderly at susanna, who lay on one of the low divans, playing with the bows of her dress. she made no reply; she did not say: 'if you have a headache, why stay; it is only a childish wish of mine.' she did not ask: 'is it really so bad?' she was simply silent, and klaus went to order his horse. "'susanna,' begged anna maria, very red, 'i think he really has a violent headache; do not let him go.' she spoke in real anxiety. susanna stared at her coolly. 'he is his own master,' she replied, 'he can do as he pleases.' "'yes; but you know that only your wish--if he should be ill you would reproach yourself.' "susanna laughed. 'klaus ill? how funny! because he has a little headache?' and she went humming into the next room. then we heard her call out of the window: 'good-by, klaus, good-by!' "'she means no harm,' i said, taking anna maria's trembling hands. "'it is heartless!' she said, and went down into the garden. "klaus did not return until nearly dark. "'your package will come soon,' he said to susanna. 'stürmer has it in the carriage; i met him in the city; he had just arrived with the lüneburg post.' "'stürmer?' she asked, in an animated tone. 'did you invite him to the christening, klaus?' "'no; indeed, i forgot it,' he replied. "she flung her arms about his neck. 'oh, do write to him yet,' she coaxed. 'yes, please, please! mercy,' she cried then, 'you are quite wet!' "'well, it has been raining hard for two hours,' he replied. 'but don't be offended if i do not write to-night, for i feel miserably; to-morrow will do? i would like to lie down.' he kissed her forehead and went into his sleeping-room. i saw how he shivered, as if he had a chill. 'thank god that anna maria did not hear,' i thought; but i went to tell her that klaus was not feeling well, while susanna sprang up to hasten to her writing-desk, and with a happy smile took up a pen. "anna maria was in her room. i told her that klaus was lying down on his bed. she sat quite still. 'poor klaus,' she whispered. "'stürmer is back again, too, my child,' i added. she made no answer to that. we sat silent together in the dark room. "after a while brockelmann's voice was heard at the door. 'fräulein, perhaps it would be better if you were just to look after the master. the gracious frau'--she spoke lower--'probably knows no better; she sits there chattering to him, and he doesn't seem at all well to me.' "'anna maria had sprung up impetuously. then she slowly sat down again. 'dear aunt, go,' she begged. "'willingly,' i replied; 'i only thought you should be the one to go to him.' "'i?' she asked, in a tone that cut me to the heart. 'i? no; it is better that i should not go; i could not keep calm.' "i found klaus's sleeping-room brightly lighted, susanna sitting by the bed, her tongue going like a mill-clapper. over the nearest chair hung a pale blue silk gown, richly adorned with lace; the candelabra were burning on the toilet table, and the lamp stood on the little table beside the bed, throwing its dazzling light right into klaus's red eyes. he held a cloth pressed to his fore head and was groaning softly. "from out-of-doors came the sound of beating carpets and furniture, and in the hall opposite they were at work with wax and brushes, none too quietly. "'then i may send off the note, klaus?' susanna was saying. 'can frederick ride over now, or shall the coachman take it? do you think stürmer is at home by this time? klaus, do answer, dear klaus!' "he made a motion of assent with his hand, and turned his head away. "'if you are so tiresome, i sha'n't try on the dress again,' she pouted. "'but, dear child,' i whispered, 'do you not see that your husband is ill?' i took away the lamp, and laid my hand on his white forehead. "'ah, only a little quiet,' he moaned. "'come susanna.' i begged the young wife, gently; 'go over to your room; i think klaus is in a high fever, and he must have quiet." "susanna looked at me incredulously. 'but it will be better to-morrow?' she asked quickly. 'you will be well again to-morrow, won't you, klaus?' "he nodded. 'yes, yes, my darling; don't worry.' "'well, then, i will go away quickly, so that you can sleep. good-night, klaus!' she said, taking the silk dress on her arm. and she hastily bent over him and kissed his forehead. then she disappeared, but her silvery voice floated over here once again: 'isa, isa, here; christian is to go to dambitz directly, to herr von stürmer; he must wait for an answer.' "suddenly klaus gave a deep groan. 'my poor boy.' i lamented over him; 'are you feeling very badly?' "'i think i am going to be very ill,' he whispered. 'i can't control my thoughts, everything turns round and round. anna maria, bring me anna maria.' "brockelmann was just outside in the hall. 'call the fräulein,' i bade her, 'and make them be quiet outside.' anna maria came, and went up to the bed. he seized her hand. "'my old lass,' he said feebly, 'i fear i shall give you a great deal to do.' "'do you feel so ill?' she asked anxiously, and bent down to him. he groaned and pointed to his head. 'don't worry susanna,' he begged. "anna maria did not answer, but she had grown very pale. then she set about procuring him some relief. cold compresses were soon lying on his forehead, a cool lemonade stood on the table by the bed, and outside the tired horses were once more taken from the stable, to go for the doctor. it had become quiet in the house, quiet in the next room also. susanna lay in her boudoir, reading; she did not know that the doctor had been sent for, she did not hear how her husband's talking gradually passed into delirious ravings, or know how his sister sat by the bed, her fair head pressed against the back, and her eyes fixed on him in unspeakable anxiety. "when the doctor came, susanna was sleeping sweetly and soundly; and with noiseless steps isa carried about the awakened child, that it might not disturb the mother. "klaus was ill, very ill. the dreadful fever had attacked him so quickly, so insidiously, and had prostrated him with such force, that a paralyzing fear came over the spirits of us all. "the servants went about the house whispering, no door was heard to shut, and the bailiff had straw laid down in the court, so that no sound might penetrate the curtained sick-room. "susanna would not believe at all that klaus was seriously ill. she had come merrily into the room, the child in her arms, and had found the doctor at the bedside, and looked in anna maria's red eyes. she resisted the truth with all her might. 'but he must not be ill,' she cried, 'just now. oh, doctor, it is too bad!' but when the confirmation in the wandering looks of the invalid was not to be rejected, she flew to her sofa and wept pitifully. it was not possible to reach her with a word of consolation; she sobbed as i had seen her do but once, and isa knew not which she ought to quiet first, the screaming child or the weeping mother. but susanna did not for a moment attempt to make her hands useful at the sick-bed. "the doctor came again toward evening. the fever was raging with increased power; klaus talked about his child, called for susanna, and even in his delirium everything centred in his wife. sometimes he seized anna maria's hand and pressed it to his lips, with a half-intelligible pet name for susanna; he called her his darling, his wife. and anna maria stroked his forehead, and tear after tear rolled down her cheeks. "'shall i have her called?' i asked the doctor. the old man shrugged his shoulders. 'well, since she has not come of her own accord, she spares me a great deal of trouble,' said he; 'i should have had to carry her out. she is still weak, and----' "i went away to look up susanna. isa informed me that she was in the salon. "'is she still crying?' i asked. "the old woman shook her head. 'baron stürmer is in there.' i heard susanna's voice through the portières. i heard her even laugh. my first impulse was to hurry in, but it suddenly became impossible to me. i only looked at the child, and went away, weary and weakened from watching and anxiety, up to my room. "a basket of garlands was standing in the corridor, and beside it the package of the unfortunate lanterns. the baptism was to have been to-morrow, but the coachman was already on his way to inform the numerous guests that it was given up, as the master was ill. my god in heaven, let not the worst come, be pitiful! what would become of susanna, of his child--ah! and of anna maria? "then i sat down in my arm-chair and listened to the pattering of the rain, and the wind blowing against the windows; after a little while there came a knock at my door, and edwin stürmer entered. he was quite changed from what he used to be; indeed, the news of klaus's illness might well make him so. conversation would not flow. i could not help thinking of how i had last seen him, when he took leave of susanna and me; how she had wept, and how he had written to me afterward. 'there have been great changes here!' said i, in a low tone. "he did not answer immediately. 'how does anna maria get on with--with her sister-in-law?' he asked. "'anna maria?' i was embarrassed. should i tell him that those two had not learned to understand each other yet? "'she is here very little,' i said at last; 'she has been living in the convent since klaus's marriage.' "he started. 'still the old quarrel?' he murmured. 'anna maria never liked her; i noticed it from the beginning. she is a strange character. there are moments when one might believe she has a heart; but it is ever deception, ever delusion!' "'edwin,' i cried bitterly, 'you think you have a right to affirm that; you are mistaken! perhaps she has more heart than all of us.' "'it may be,' he remarked coldly, 'but she never shows it.' "he too, he too! my poor anna maria! if i could have taken him down to the sick-room, if i could have shown him how she knelt beside her brother's bed and buried her weeping face in the pillows, if i could say to him: 'see, that is the secret of all her actions; she has too much heart, too much generosity. she has done everything for the sake of her only brother, who once lost a happiness on her account.' if i only might show him this---- "slowly the tears ran from my eyes. "'i did not mean to grieve you, aunt rosamond,' said he, tenderly. 'i am in a hateful mood, and ought not to have come over. the empty house has put me out of humor; an old bachelor ought to have no house at all--everywhere great empty rooms, everywhere solitude. one wants to talk to one's self to keep from being afraid. i knew it well, and for that reason put off my return from day to day.' he gave a shrug. 'i shall go away again; that will be the best thing.' "i now first looked at him attentively. he had altered, he had grown years older. i did not know how to answer, he had spoken so strangely. after a while he rose. 'i wish for improvement with all my heart. do not worry; god cannot wish that he should go now, right from the most complete happiness.' "god cannot wish it! so we mortals say when we think it impossible that some one should leave us on whose life a piece of our own life depends. god does not wish it--and already the shadow of death is falling deeper and deeper over the beloved face. such times lie in the past like heavy, black, obscure shadows; that they were fearful we still know, but _how_ we felt we are not able to feel again in its full terror. "days had passed. anna maria had long ceased to weep; she had no tears, for breathless fear. without a word she performed her sad duties, and listened benumbed to the wandering talk of the invalid--susanna and the child, and ever again susanna. "then came a day on which the physicians said, 'no hope.' in the morning klaus had recovered his senses, and anna maria came out of the sick-room with such a happy, hopeful look that my heart really rose. she beckoned to me, and i took her place at the sick-bed for a moment. "he reached out for my hand. 'how is susanna?' he said softly. "'well, dear klaus; do you wish to see her? shall she come in?' "'no, no!' he whispered, 'not come; it may be contagious--but anna maria?' "'she will be here again directly, klaus,' said i. and, as if she had been called, she came in at the door, and, kneeling by his bed, laid her cheek caressingly on his hand. "'anna maria,' he complained, 'my thoughts are already beginning again--my child, my poor little child----' "she started up. 'klaus, do not speak so, dear klaus!' "'it is so strange,' he whispered on; 'i don't see susanna distinctly any longer, but i hear her laughing, always laughing. i shut my ears, and yet i hear her laugh.' "anna maria gave me a sad look. 'i will stay with your child, klaus,' said she. he pressed her hand. his eyes were already glowing feverishly, and all at once he started up, the sound of a silvery laugh came in. susanna was actually laughing, perhaps with her child--i know not. the next moment the door opened a little way. 'how is klaus to-day?' she asked. "anna maria did not answer; her eyes were looking at klaus; he had already fallen back, and his fingers began to play, unnaturally, over the silk quilt. "i hastened to susanna. 'he is not very well, my child,' i whispered to her; 'the fever is returning.' her face grew grave, and she quietly closed the door. 'always the same thing!' i heard her say, disappointed. "stürmer came toward evening, almost at the same time with the two physicians. susanna was sitting in her blue boudoir, reading. with a sigh of relief she laid her book on the table when stürmer was announced. he entered quickly. 'well,' said he, sympathetically, and breathing fast, 'i hear he is not so well again to-day?' "susanna gave him her hand. 'so-so, baron,' she replied; 'they are not very wise about the case. the physicians themselves do not know what they ought to say, and anna maria is so fearfully anxious, and aunt rosamond no less so. they think he is going to die right away. people do not die so easily, do they?' she asked confidently. 'i know from myself; i have been delirious, i----' "she got no further, for our old family physician suddenly came into the room. i knew what he meant as soon as i looked at him--klaus was worse. "susanna gave him her hand, and went to the bell to order wine, she said. isa came with the child and presented it to the old gentleman. 'how is my husband?' asked susanna. 'he is better, is he not, than aunt rosa's and anna maria's funeral faces predict?' "he did not answer, but looked at her, almost benumbed. at last he said slowly: 'all is in god's hands. he can still help when we mortals see no longer any way before us.' "susanna sprang up out of the chair in which she had just taken her seat, the color all gone from her face. her horrified eyes were fixed on the old man's face as if they would decipher if those words were truth. and when she saw his unaltered, sad expression, she began to totter, and would have fallen to the floor if edwin stürmer had not caught her. "'is it really so bad?' he asked the doctor, reluctantly, as he carried the young wife to the couch. "'the end has come,' he replied, looking after susanna. "she had lost consciousness only for a moment. she awoke with a loud cry, and now all the passion that dwelt in the delicate woman broke forth in its full force. she screamed, she fell at the doctor's feet; he should not let klaus die, she could not live without him! she wrung her hands and began to sob, but not a tear flowed from her great eyes. she sprang up and threw herself upon the cradle of the child, whose frightened crying mingled with a terrible sound with her sorrowful laments: 'i will not live if klaus dies, i will not!' "'calm yourself, gracious frau,' bade the doctor, much shaken; 'think of the child, take care of yourself.' "'i made him ill,' screamed the young wife. 'i sent him to the city in the rain, in spite of his feeling poorly then; i am guilty of my husband's death!' the lace on her morning dress tore under her convulsively trembling hands; she ran up and down the room, accusing god and demanding death. silently isa took the cradle with the child and carried it into another room. meanwhile dr. reuter had poured a few drops of a sedative into a spoon and begged the young wife to take it. "she pushed the medicine out of his hand. 'i will not!' she cried, sobbing. 'if you knew anything you would have saved klaus! oh, if i had only taken care of him! but you did not let me go to his bed once, and now he is dying!' "'susanna, control yourself,' said i, severely, as the doctor shrugged his shoulders. 'is this proper behavior in the hour in which a human life is making its last hard struggle? surely there should be peace,' i added, weeping. "she grew silent, not at my words, but at the entrance of anna maria. "'come, susanna,' said she, in a lifeless tone, 'let us go to klaus. before the last parting, the doctor has told me, there sometimes returns a clear moment. his last look will seek you, susanna, he has loved you so much.' "the young wife let herself be led away without resistance, but her face had grown deathly pale. when they reached the door, she tore her hands impetuously away from anna maria's. 'i cannot!' she cried, shuddering, and turning her terrified eyes toward us; 'i cannot see him die, i cannot!' "anna maria looked sadly at the young creature, who was now on her knees before her, beginning afresh her despairing lamentations. then she silently turned away and went back to klaus. we carried the young wife to the sofa, and dr. reuter busied himself with isa about her. "i started to go into the death-chamber, and edwin stürmer followed me. in going out he cast a peculiar look at susanna. in the next room, through which we had to pass, stood the cradle; alone and unwatched slumbered the poor little fellow in it, without a suspicion that the black wings of death were hovering so near to his young existence. 'no hope!' they are fearful words. "stürmer came with me into the chamber of death. i did not wonder at it; it seemed to me as if it must be so, as if he, the best and oldest friend of the family, had a right to come to the dying bed of our klaus. anna maria was on her knees beside the bed, her hands folded; she was waiting for that last look. "then the house grew still, the servants stole about on tip-toe, and outside, before the front door, stood the day-laborers and the men, with their wives, looking timidly and with red eyes up to the windows. edwin stürmer sat opposite me, deep in shadow, behind the curtains of the bed; he leaned his head on his hand, and looked at anna maria and at the pale face there on the pillow. i could not distinguish his features, but i heard his deep and heavy breathing. i do not know if klaus looked at anna maria again, i could not see the two from my place. but i heard him whisper once more: 'my child--susanna' and 'anna maria, my old lass!' with an expression of warm tenderness. "it was deathly still in the room; no sound but the swift, low ticking of the clock. i started up all at once at this stillness. when i came up to the bed anna maria was still on her knees and holding her brother's hand, her fair head buried in the pillow. "seized by a terrible foreboding, i went up to her. she started up. 'my only brother!' she sobbed out. to my heart penetrated this shrill, broken cry: 'my only brother!' "then i heard the door open softly, and saw stürmer go out; he held his hand over his eyes, though it was so dark round about us, so fearfully dark." chapter xix. "as formerly anna maria had been baptized beside the dead body of her mother, so now was the little boy at his father's coffin. on the same spot where, scarcely a year before, the clergyman had married the young couple stood the black, silver-mounted coffin, almost covered over with wreaths and flowers. the folding-doors of the hall were opened wide; the last crimson ray of the setting sun fell through the windows and made the light of the numerous candles appear feeble and yellow, and touched anna maria's face with a rosy shimmer, as she bent over the child in her arms. "the long white christening-robe of the child contrasted strangely with the deep black of the mourning dress which enveloped the tall figure of the girl. i stood beside her, my hands resting on the child; by my side was isa in a profusion of black crape. a throng of mourners filled the hall, gentlemen and ladies. i do not remember who they all were, but i can still see stürmer's pale face. "a chair had been placed aright for susanna, and she sat in it as if petrified in pain and sorrow--a strange sight, this child in widow's garb. the raging pain had abated, she had wept and sobbed herself weary; now only great tears rolled down her marble cheeks. bluish rings lay about her eyes, and made them shine more ardently than ever. she kept her slender hands folded and listened to the words of the clergyman, a picture of the most hopeless and comfortless pain. "how many eyes then grew moist; how the servants wept outside the door! the clergyman spoke affectingly; once before he had thus baptized a child in this house. a quiver went through anna maria's tall figure, but she pressed her lips firmly together. she did not weep, she only pressed the child closer to her; then she took it to the young mother. i can still see how susanna sat there, with the little boy on her lap, as the clergyman blessed them. she bent her head so that the black veil almost covered her and the child. "but now the clergyman passed on to the funeral address, and when he mentioned the full name of the dead man i saw isa spring up quickly--the young wife had fainted. she was carried to her room. a murmur of sympathy went through the assembly. 'a bruise for her whole life,' i heard whispered behind me. 'poor young wife--still half a child! she will never recover from it!' "of anna maria, who stood there, no one thought. no one had said a sympathetic word to her. all the pity belonged to the young widow, still so young, so charming, and already so unhappy! they knew she was not on good terms with her sister-in-law. they knew anna maria only as proud and cold. "anna maria, if they could have seen you late that evening, in the dark garden, at the fresh grave; if they had found you, as i found you, so undone with grief and pain, kneeling on the damp earth, unwilling to leave the flower-strewn mound under which your only brother lay--would they not have granted you, too, a word of sympathy? "those were sad, dreadful weeks which now followed, weeks in which we, first regaining our senses, began to miss him who had left us forever. everywhere his kind, fresh nature, his ever-mild disposition, were wanting. it seemed every moment as if he must open the door and ask in his soft voice: 'how are you, aunt? where is anna maria?' "anna maria! the whole weight of the extensive household management rested on her shoulders, the whole wilderness of the inevitable domestic business which her brother's death had caused. she found no time to indulge in her grief. she had to drive into the city at fixed times, she had to look through klaus's books, letters, and papers, with her trembling heart. and if then, in her swelling pain, she but threw her hands over her face, she always regained the mastery over herself, and could work on. "susanna mourned in a different way. she fled to her little boudoir, and always had some one about her. she was afraid in bright daylight, and in twilight her heart would palpitate, and she was short of breath, and isa had to read aloud to her constantly. the little boy, who had been named 'klaus' for his father, was not allowed to be called so; she called him her little jacky, her treasure, the only thing she had left in the world, and yet sometimes would start back from the cradle with a cry, he had looked at her so terribly like klaus! "then came the mourning visits from far and near, and susanna received them in the salon. she sat there, so broken down, her charming face surrounded by the black crape veil, the point of her little widow's cap on her white forehead, and her black-bordered handkerchief always wet with bitter tears. "anna maria was never present during such calls. she fled to the garden and did not return till the last carriage had rolled away from the court. she was gentle and tender toward susanna--'he loved her so much!' she said softly. "it was november. in susanna's little boudoir the lamp was lighted, and the young wife lay, in her deep black woollen dress, on the blue cushions; she held a book in her hand, and now and then cast a glance at it. occasionally she coughed a little, and each time quickly held her handkerchief to her lips. i had come down, as i did every evening, to look after her and the child. the little fellow was already asleep--'thank god,' as susanna added. the nurse was probably asleep with him in the next room, it was very still in there. isa was bustling busily about the stove, for it was bitterly cold out-of-doors; on the table beside susanna lay a quantity of colored wools, as well as a piece of embroidery begun, and extremely pleasant and comfortable was this little room. who in the world could have desired a more comfortable spot on a snowy, stormy evening? "'where is anna maria?' i asked pleasantly, after the first greeting. "susanna shook her head. 'i don't know,' she said feebly, and let her book drop. "'fräulein anna maria is in the master's cabinet,' isa answered. 'herr von stürmer has just ridden away.' "susanna's eyes flamed up for a moment. 'why did he not come in here?' she asked. she raised herself a little. 'ah! aunt,' she whispered, 'i think i am going to be ill. i have a constant irritation in my throat, and i feel so wretchedly. dr. reuter said last week i ought not to spend the severe winter here. ah! and yet i cannot bring myself to decide to go away.' "'i can feel with you, my dear child,' i returned. 'i would not go either, in your place.' "her eyes suddenly filled with tears. 'yes, it is all the same if i die _here_!' she replied. "'oh, don't believe any such thing, susy,' i said jestingly. 'you must live for your child; you are exhausted by all this dreadful affair; the winter will soon be over.' "at this juncture anna maria entered. 'how are you feeling, susanna?' she asked kindly. "'i am ill,' sobbed the young wife; 'very ill! i shall stifle yet in these overheated rooms; i have not your sound lungs.' "anna maria looked down at her in astonishment. 'i am very sorry for that,' she said sympathetically. "oh, if klaus were only alive, he would have gone south with me long ago!' cried susanna; and isa shook her head doubtfully. "that was anna maria's weak spot. 'dear susanna,' she said tenderly, 'if it is necessary, then go. i know that you are delicate, that you have a cough; let us consult with the doctor to-morrow, and decide where. and then we will pack you both up and----' "'both?' asked susanna. 'that is just it; i cannot take the baby with me!' "'and you cannot make up your mind to part from him?' anna maria asked hesitatingly. "'no, no!' sobbed susanna. "'i suppose,' said the maiden softly, the bright blood mounting to her cheeks, 'you will not intrust him to me'--she hesitated--'even if i promise to watch over him day and night?' "susanna stopped sobbing. 'but why not, then?' she cried. 'he is klaus's child, and you are so fond of him!' "anna maria turned and went out of the room, and susanna sprang up and followed her. after a while they came back, and for the first time there was a smile on the lips of each. susanna would fly away out of the desolate, snowed-in house of mourning, and anna maria had one more care. she might fondle and care for the child of her only brother to her heart's content; the child to whom she had only ventured timidly, in order not to excite susanna's jealousy, should now belong to her alone for a long time. "and susanna went away with chests and trunks, and with isa. she was overcome with pain at the parting from her child; at the last moment she wanted to tear off hat and cloak again and stay here. however, she got into the carriage. that she would not be here at christmas did not disturb her; it would be no festival this year, she thought, it would only make her sadder. the doctor had really advised her going south. "and so we were alone in the solitary house--anna maria, the child, and i. the child's cradle stood in her room; she would lie for hours before it, and could not look her fill at the round, childish face. she could still weep, weep bitterly, for klaus; but her grief had grown gentler, much gentler. "on a stormy evening, a few days after susanna's departure, stürmer came to speak with anna maria. he had not been here for more than a week. "brockelmann showed him at once to anna maria's room; we had not heard him come, and she was right on her knees before the cradle, talking to the child, so simply and affectionately, so sweetly and naturally, about the christ-child and the christmas-man. all the great, overflowing love of which the girl was capable, an infinite tenderness and gentleness, sounded in the tone of her voice. but anna maria had no heart--how often had the man said that, who was now standing still at the door and looking at her as in a dream. "she sprang up in confusion as she caught sight of him; the old proud, impenetrable expression returned to her face at once. "'it is so lonely over there,' he said apologetically, 'and then i had to bring you the mortgage from the mill; the old crow has begged so hard, fräulein anna maria, i think we will leave it to him, or, if you prefer, i will take it too.' "she shook her head. 'oh, never,' she said calmly; 'the money must stay at the mill; klaus promised it to the man.' "he was still holding his hat in his hand. 'may i stay here half an hour?' he asked. "'if our sad society is not too tiresome for you, stürmer,' replied anna maria. 'you give us a pleasure.' then she suddenly turned and went out of the room. "'now tell me, for heaven's sake, aunt rosamond,' asked stürmer, 'what is the matter now? why do we sit here, and where is frau von hegewitz? have the two fallen out again, perhaps?' "'susanna? ah! you may not know yet, to be sure,' i replied. 'susanna went away to nice three days ago; she had a cough, and feared the winter.' "he sprang up impulsively, and began to walk up and down the room; then he stood before the cradle, and looked at the slumbering child. 'and this young frau has gone _alone_?' he asked at length. "'no, edwin, with isa.' "'of course,' he said. he began his walking to and fro again, till anna maria came in, followed by the child's nurse, who carried the little sleeper into the next room. then we sat silent about the table. it was almost as in the old days, with the old furniture from the sitting-room, and ticking of the clock under the mirror. anna maria had brought out her spinning-wheel, and edwin stürmer looked at the floor, and, lost in thought, played with a tassel of the table-cloth. "then all at once he started up; the clear sound of children's voices came in from the hall: "'martins, martins, pretty things, with your little golden wings,' echoed the old martinmas ditty. "'to-day is martinmas,' said i. edwin stürmer looked at me. it was a strange look; what did he mean? and all at once anna maria--the proud, heartless anna maria--threw her hands over her face, and bitterly weeping, went out. "'what is that, edwin?' i asked; and, as he did not answer, i tapped him on the shoulder with my wooden knitting-needle. and the strong man rose too, stood at the window, and looked out without replying a word. "'little summer, little summer, rose-leaf, village and city, give us something, o maiden fair!' died away the old song." chapter xx. "the winter passed quietly away, and with the spring, just as the trees were blossoming, susanna came back. anna maria had sent the best carriage to meet the home-comer, and put a little white dress on the child. the table was set in a festal manner in the dining-room, and at susanna's place was a bunch of splendid white roses. i went to the front steps to meet the young wife. stürmer, who happened to have come over, remained with anna maria in the salon; she had the child in her arms. "susanna jumped down from the carriage, fresh and rosy, and fell on my neck. 'here i am again, dearest aunt, here i am again!' she cried. 'how have you been, and how is my dear little boy?' she flew up the steps like a bird, so that all the lace and flounces of her elegant mourning dress stood out and blew behind her. like a child she ran through the hall; i could scarcely keep up with her; then she stood in the salon. "the baby had grown; the baby sat there quite sensibly already, on the arm of his fair aunt; his bright curly hair fell about his lovely baby face, and he was just grasping after uncle stürmer's watch. the young mother rushed to the child with a cry of delight, pulled it into her arms, and covered it with kisses. but the young gentleman misunderstood this; he did not know the strange lady at all who had come in so suddenly, and with a pitiful cry he stretched out his arms toward anna maria. "susanna was confounded, and then began to weep, affectingly and bitterly: 'she had lost her child's love!' it was a painful scene. stürmer went into the next room, and anna maria tried to console susanna. 'it is only because he is not accustomed to you; he has not seen you for so long, susanna. just hear what he has learned,' she begged. "and going up to the weeping woman, she said: 'ma--ma!' "'mamma!' stammered the little fellow, quite consoled. "susanna laughed, and promised to change her dress quickly; then she came to the table. the grief was already overcome; and she showed herself, in course of time, none too eager to regain the child's love. anna maria silently retained all the cares she had undertaken; but sometimes the young wife would embrace her child in a sudden outbreak of tenderness, and not let him out of her arms for hours. "the summer did not flit away so quietly as it had begun; there were frequent visitors, and sometimes susanna's laugh would echo, terribly clear, through the rooms. anna maria was sad; she fled to her room whenever a carriage full of guests arrived, or a pair of saddle-horses were led slowly up and down before the house. but stürmer was now a daily guest; it really pained me when i saw him ride across the court. "'baron stürmer is with frau von hegewitz,' brockelmann announced one afternoon, as she came into anna maria's room, where i was sitting by the window. 'the baron inquired for the baby, and the frau was just coming out of the salon; she took him in with her, laughing, and said i was to get the child.' "silently anna maria lifted him up from the carpet, where he had sat playing, and with a kiss gave him to the old woman. 'there, now, go to mamma and be good.' "she then bent over her housekeeping book. "'will you not go down, anna maria?' i asked. "she raised her head. 'oh, aunt, i have something important to do now, and--he will not miss me. he will be here again often,' she added. and a faint, traitorous blush tinged her face. 'i think they still love each other.' "i shook my head. 'ah, anna maria, she still wears her widow's cap!' "'it will come, nevertheless,' whispered the girl, and an expression full of anguish lay about her mouth; 'and then she will go away with him, and will take the child with her, and at last the cup of my unhappiness will be full. then i shall feel nothing any longer, no longer call anything in the world _mine_, not even a miserable hope!' "i was silent and looked at her sadly. how many hundred times i had said to myself that this would come. i shuddered at the thought of an empty, icy-cold future--poor anna maria! "and it certainly was as anna maria had said. stürmer came often, stürmer came every day. we sat together at coffee in the garden-parlor, or on the terrace on warm summer evenings. susanna had quite regained her old happy disposition. sometimes, too, a white rose shone out from her dark curls, and her eyes laughed down over the garden, without a thought of the grave there below. it seemed sometimes as if something took hold of me, as if a dear, familiar voice said to me: 'so quickly am i forgotten?' "and anna maria would sit for hours with the child on her lap, and say the word 'father' to him countless times, and rejoice like a child over his first awkward attempts. she guided his first steps; she did not let him out of her arms, but carried him about everywhere, all over the house and in the garden. 'perhaps he will retain a recollection,' said she, 'and this is all his; he will live here some time, in his home, and then he will be tall and strong like his father, and dear and good to his old aunt anna maria.' "was stürmer really drawing nearer to susanna? i could not bring myself to perceive it, and then--it could not be announced yet, the year of mourning had not expired. but perhaps she had her word already; he loved her, had already loved her as a girl; no other hindrance except the mourning lay any longer between them. "the day following the anniversary of klaus's death some one gave a quick, excited knock at my door. stürmer entered; he wore a short coat and high boots, as if he had come from hunting. "'dear aunt rosamond,' said he, throwing himself into a chair, as if exhausted, and drying his moist forehead with his handkerchief--'dear aunt rosamond, we have always been good friends, have known each other so long. i have a favor to ask of you, a very great favor.' "'of me?' i asked, my heart beating hard from a painful fear. "he looked pale, and quickly threw his gloves on the table. 'speak for me!' he begged. 'i am a coward. i cannot tell you what would become of me if a second time i--' he hesitated. "'are you so little sure of your case, edwin?' i asked, bright tears running from my eyes. i thought of klaus, i thought of anna maria, my dear old anna maria! "'i am not at all sure of my case,' he replied, 'or should i be standing here? should i not long ago have explained an old, unhappy mistake?' "'you are in great haste, edwin,' said i bitterly. 'yesterday was the first anniversary of klaus's death!' "'it has been very hard for me to wait so long,' he answered, in the calmest tone. 'well, if you will not, i must devise some means by myself,' he declared impetuously. 'where is anna maria?' "'no, no,' i begged, 'for god's sake! it would grieve her to death. i will go. i will speak for you, if it must be!' and again burning tears came into my eyes. 'so tell me what message am i to deliver?' "he was silent. 'if--if--i beg you, aunt, i do not know,' he stammered at length; 'it will be best for me to speak to her myself.' and before i could say a word he had hurried out. "i do not know how it happened, but i was bitterly angry with him--he, usually the man of tenderest feeling and greatest tact! 'to think that love should sometimes drive the best people so mad!' i said angrily, wiping the tears from my eyes. "and now there would be a love-affair and an engagement; yesterday deep widow's weeds, to-morrow red roses! i clinched my fists, not for myself, but for anna maria. i was pained to the depths of my heart. for anna maria it was the death-blow. the love for stürmer was deeply rooted in her heart. she would get over this, too; she would rise up from this, too; but the spirit of her youth was broken forever. she could no longer call anything in the world hers, for susanna would take the child away with her. i did not want to hear or see any longer. i took my shawl and went into the garden. "the first yellow leaf lay on the ground, a fine mist hung in the trees, and the sun was going down crimson. i walked down the path to the little fish-pond. i saw the decaying boat lying in the clear brown water, and the reflection of the oaks. then i suddenly stopped. i had recognized edwin stürmer's voice. they must be standing close by me, behind the thicket of barberry and snow-berry bushes. "'no, no, i shall not let you again!' he said, strangely moved. i turned to go. it seemed to me i must cry out from pain and indignation. "i walked back quickly. i know not what impelled me to go first to the child's bed, as if i must look in that little innocent face to still believe in love and fidelity in the world. the little man was asleep, the curtains were drawn, and the night-lamp already lighted. the door leading to susanna's room was just ajar. all at once i started up, for the sound of isa's voice came in to me and made my heart almost stop beating. "'it won't do to put off any longer, my lamb; if you have said a, you must say b too. this is the third letter already, and you can't remain a widow forever. oh, don't make faces now; over there--that is nothing. if i am not very much mistaken, he has turned about now, and--' she probably made a sign, and then she laughed. "now i heard susanna, too. 'my child!' she sobbed. "'but, darling, do be reasonable. one can't take little children about everywhere. what would you do with the rascal? let him grow up on his inheritance; few children have so good a one. you can see him at any time, too, darling,' she continued, as susanna kept on sobbing. 'you will only have to come here. oh, don't be so fearfully unreasonable; have i ever given you any bad advice? do you mean to live on here, under the sceptre of your sister-in-law? i should laugh!' said she, after a while, playing her last trump. "susanna's weeping suddenly ceased. 'i do not know yet,' she said shortly. "then i roused myself from my numbness, and hurried through the garden-parlor to the terrace. there they stood--yes, in truth, there they stood--under the linden, anna maria and stürmer, and looked over toward dambitz. the last ray of the setting sun tinged the evening sky with such a red glow that i closed my eyes, dazzled; or were they dimmed by tears of joy? now i heard a light rustle behind me, and, looking around, i saw susanna. she had laid aside her widow's dress, and had a white rose in her hair. the tears of a few minutes ago were dried. "i took her by the hand and pointed mutely to the two under the linden. she looked over in surprise. 'anna maria?' she asked softly. "'and edwin stürmer!' i added. she did not answer. but she had grown pale, and looked at them fixedly. "'they have long loved each other, susanna,' said i, gravely; 'even before you ever came here. but anna maria once refused his proposal'--susanna's eyes were fixed on my lips--'_because she would not forsake her only brother!_' "the young wife was silent; but, as anna maria and stürmer now turned in the direction of the house, she turned and went in. now they came walking up the middle path. and when they stood before me, i saw a happy light in anna maria's eyes which i had never seen shine before. she bent over to me and kissed my hand. "'she has made it very hard for me, has anna maria,' said edwin stürmer, drawing the girl to him. 'she tried to put on her icy mask again; she could not go away from susanna and the child. but this time i was too quickly at hand. was i not, my anna maria?' "very early the next morning i heard a carriage roll away from the court. i rang for brockelmann. 'the gracious frau has gone away with isa; and has left a letter for anna maria down-stairs on the table.' "'have you delivered it yet?' i asked. "the old woman nodded. 'there is some secret about it,' she said sadly; 'isa was altogether too important.' "anna maria came, very much surprised, with the open letter. "'i don't understand it, aunt. susanna has a rendezvous in berlin with an acquaintance from nice?' "i shrugged my shoulders. "'she is angry with me,' she whispered, with pale lips. 'she did love him, aunt; it is horrible!' "'no, no, my child,' i tried to calm her, 'no, do not believe that.' but she made an averting gesture, and left me with tears in her eyes. already a shadow lay over her happiness. reluctantly i followed her down-stairs, and then went, almost aimlessly, into susanna's room. here all was topsy-turvy, just as occasionally in former times. in the haste of departure all sorts of things had been left lying about, on every chair some article of clothing, fans, ribbons, strips of black crape, and books, and in the fire-place was still a little heap of burned paper. the fragments of a letter had fallen beside it, in the hurry probably. i picked them up--a bold handwriting, english words. "'i beg for something positive at last,' i read. 'to berlin--no hindrance--my love--in a short time--mine forever--robbin.' "i sat quite still for a while, with the bits of paper in my hand. now it gradually became clear to me--susanna's restless, distraught manner, isa's mysterious conduct, her words of yesterday, and the sudden departure. susanna was gone, susanna would never return; in a short time she would be the wife of another, of a perfect stranger; she would never belong to us any more! "and i took up the pieces of the letter and went to look for anna maria. she was sitting at the window, looking over toward dambitz. 'here, anna maria,' said i, 'your fear is groundless.' "she read, and a painful expression came over her face. 'i pity her, aunt. she thinks her happiness is floating about without, but it is slumbering here in this little cradle. she will find it out sooner or later, and she will return, don't you think so?' she asked, anxiously confident. "then her face lighted up: stürmer was coming across the garden; he was leading his horse by the bridle, and sent up a greeting. "'your lover, anna maria!' "she grew very red. 'is it not like a dream?' she asked softly. "it was in november, the day before anna maria's marriage, that a letter with a strange post-mark lay in the mail-bag for me, the address in a man's handwriting. i gave a start; i recognized the bold hand, the peculiar flourish at the last letter of a word. it was the same hand that had written that letter whose remains i had found in susanna's room. "i broke open the envelope; it contained two letters. the one which first fell into my hands was a formal announcement of the marriage of frau von hegewitz, _née_ mattoni, to mr. robbin olliver, london. "i took up the other letter. 'dearest aunt,' my astonished eyes read, 'the accomplished fact has just come to your knowledge; forgive me, forgive me everything! i am not wicked, not light-minded; i have only sought for myself the freedom which is as necessary to my life as air to breathing. i shall gladly follow my husband, with whom i became acquainted in nice, to brazil, out of the narrow circle of rusty old customs, to a more stirring, varied life, in which to-day and to-morrow, weeks and months, do not follow each other in dull repetition. "'with longing i think of my child. i have no right to take him with me over the sea; he belongs to his ancestral home, and i know that anna maria must love him more than i. forgive me, i beg you once more from my heart, and send me occasionally--it is the last request i shall make of the family which chains me with inward bonds--a lock of my child's hair, and teach him to think without ill-will of his mother.' "no signature, nothing more. i turned the sheet over--nothing! i gave a sigh of pain, and yet it seemed as if the weight of a mountain had rolled from my heart. "and now i must tell anna maria about it. but no, not to-day or to-morrow. these days ought never to be troubled. i went down-stairs toward evening. anna maria was by the graves in the garden. brockelmann informed me; and the old woman showed me with pride what she had arranged in the hall for her fräulein's wedding-day--all about, evergreen, and countless candles in it. "'it is no great festival,' said she; 'only two or three people are coming; anna maria will have it so, and he too. but just for that reason it should be right beautiful.' "i went into the girl's sleeping-room and stepped up to the child's little bed. he was slumbering sweetly, without a suspicion that his mother had left him forever. but be quiet, you poor little fellow; you still have a mother, a true, earnest one--anna maria. i stood in the recess of the window and listened to the breathing of the boy. "after a while the door opened softly and anna maria entered. she did not see me, but i saw that she had been weeping. she knelt down to the child and kissed it, and then stood with folded hands before the bed a long time. "then footsteps sounded in the next room. 'anna maria!' called stürmer. she flew to the door. 'edwin!' i heard her say jubilantly. they whispered together a long time, and when i came in they were standing at the window. "'is that a nuptial eve?' i asked, in jest. 'in the dark thus, and without any ringing of bells and music?' "they both laughed. but then the church-bell began its evening peal, and from the next room came in the clear sound of a child's voice: 'mamma, mamma, anna maria!' then she threw her arms about my neck and kissed me. 'and do you call that without ringing of bells and music?' she asked happily. then she brought in the child, and they sat together on the sofa, with it between them, and spoke of klaus, of past days, of the future, and of their happiness. "it was anna maria who first mentioned susanna's name. 'it is so long since she has written,' she said. 'i have received no answer to two letters. can she be coming, edwin? she knows that to-morrow is to be our wedding-day.' "'susanna?' i replied. 'no, anna maria, she is _not_ coming!' "'have you news?' they asked, both together. "'she is married, anna maria, and is no longer in europe.' "neither of them answered. "'and she lays the child on your heart.' "then she bent over and kissed the baby, who had gone to sleep on her lap. 'edwin,' she whispered, in a strangely faltering voice, 'this is the wedding present from my only brother!'" * * * * * so ended the manuscript. it was the third evening of the reading. the young man laid the sheets on the table and looked in the agitated face of his wife. "my mother died in america," he said. "mother anna maria tied a strip of crape about my arm one day, and cried, and kissed me so often; we were living right here in bütze then; and then we went up to aunt rosamond, and she cried too, and kissed me. they told me that my mother was dead, but i did not understand them, because i saw anna maria before me, and i did not know or care to know any mother but her." the young wife took his hand. she was about to speak, but did not, for just then the door opened and a tall woman's figure crossed the threshold. "mother!" they cried, both springing up, "mother anna maria!" and the young man tenderly put his arm around her and kissed her hand. "good evening, children," she said simply, and her eyes looked gently over to them, under the white hair. "oh, dearest mother, how charming of you!" cried the young wife, exultingly. "how are father and the sisters?" "edwin is well," she replied; "and the sisters are looking forward to sunday, when you are coming over." "and you, mother?" "well, i had a longing to see my eldest daughter and my only son," she said lovingly; "and besides, to-day is martinmas." she let bonnet and cloak be taken off, and sat down on the sofa. "what have you there?" she asked, turning over the papers. then her eyes rested upon them; she read, and a delicate blush gradually mounted to her face. "those were the sad years," she whispered; "now come the bright ones. when i am dead then write underneath: "'she was the happiest of wives, the most beloved of mothers!'" lives of famous men in this series of historical and biographical works the publishers have included only such books as will interest and instruct the youth of both sexes. a copy should be in every public, school and private library. life of george washington. by george washington parke custis, the adopted son of our first president. life of abraham lincoln. by hon. joseph h. barrett, ex-member of congress. life of u. s. grant. by hon. b. p. poore and rev. o. h. tiffany, d. d. life of william mckinley. by murat halstead, chauncey m. depew and john sherman. life of theodore roosevelt. by thomas w. handford. life of henry m. stanley. by prof. a. m. godbey, a. m. life of john paul jones. by charles walter brown. life of ethan allen. by charles walter brown. life of w. t. sherman. by hon. w. fletcher johnson and gen. o. o. howard. life of p. t. barnum. by hon. joel benton. life of t. dewitt talmage. by charles francis adams. life of d. l. moody. by charles francis adams. none http://www.archive.org/details/loveworkswonders bramrich love works wonders. a novel. by bertha m. clay, author of "thrown on the world," etc. "o you, that have the charge of love, keep him in rosy bondage bound, as in the fields of bliss above he sits with flowerets fetter'd round; loose not a tie that round him clings, nor ever let him use his wings; for even an hour, a minute's flight will rob the plumes of half their light." moore. new york: g. w. carleton & co., publishers, street & smith, new york weekly. mdccclxxviii. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by street & smith, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington. francis s. street,} _proprietors and publishers_ francis s. smith, } of the new york weekly, the leading story and sketch paper of the age. to the readers of the new york weekly, who for nearly twenty years, have stood faithfully by us, cheering us in our labors, and bidding us god-speed; to whom our pet journal has become a household word, and without whose aid we could have accomplished nothing, this volume is respectfully dedicated by the publishers, street & smith. contents: chapter. page. i.--a girl with a character ii.--"darrell court is a prison to me!" iii.--"your good society is all deceit" iv.--"you are going to spoil my life" v.--pauline's good points vi.--the progress made by the pupil vii.--captain langton viii.--the introduction ix.--the broken lily x.--pauline still incorrigible xi.--how will it end? xii.--elinor rocheford xiii.--sir oswald thinks of marriage xiv.--pauline's love for darrell court xv.--breach between uncle and niece xvi.--the queen of the ball xvii.--pauline's bright fancies xviii.--rejected xix.--pauline threatens vengeance xx.--captain langton desperate xxi.--mysterious robbery xxii.--fulfilling the contract xxiii.--no compromise with pauline xxiv.--a rich gift declined xxv.--a true darrell xxvi.--a puzzling question xxvii.--sir oswald's doubts xxviii.--reading of the will xxix.--waiting for revenge xxx.--will fate aid pauline? xxxi.--fate favors pauline xxxii.--captain langton accepted xxxiii.--"i have had my revenge!" xxxiv.--the stranger on the sands xxxv.--the story of elaine xxxvi.--redeemed by love xxxvii.--pride brought low xxxviii.--pauline and lady darrell xxxix.--face to face xl.--dying in sin xli.--the work of atonement xlii.--love and sorrow xliii.--lady darrell's will xliv.--shadow of absent love love works wonders. chapter i. a girl with a character. it was a strange place for an intelligence office, yet madame selini evidently knew what she was doing when she established her office in an aristocratic neighborhood, and actually next door to the family mansion of the countess dowager of barewood. the worthy countess was shocked, and, taking counsel of her hopes, predicted that madame selini's institution would soon prove a failure. notwithstanding this prediction, the agency prospered, and among its patrons were many of the nobility. one fine morning in may a carriage stopped before madame selini's door, and from it descended a handsome, aristocratic gentleman, evidently of the old school. there was some little commotion in the interior of the building, and then a foot-page appeared to whom sir oswald darrell--for that was the gentleman's name--gave his card. "i am here by appointment," he said, "to see madame selini." he was ushered into a handsomely furnished room, where, in a few minutes, he was joined by madame selini herself--a quick, bright frenchwoman, whose dark eyes seemed to embrace everything in their comprehensive glance. sir oswald bowed with stately courtesy and quaint, old-fashioned grace. "have you been so fortunate, madame, as to find that which i am in search of?" he inquired. "i think you will be pleased, sir oswald--nay, i am sure you will," answered the lady. "i have a lady waiting to see you now, who will prove, i should say, a treasure." sir oswald bowed, and madame continued: "miss hastings--miss agnes hastings--has been for the last six years finishing governess at lady castledine's, and her two pupils make their debut this year; so that there is no longer any occasion for her services." "and you think she would be fitted, madame, to occupy the position for which i require a lady of talent and refinement?" "i am quite sure of it," replied madame. "miss hastings is thirty years of age. she is highly accomplished, and her manners are exceedingly lady-like. she is a person of great refinement; moreover, she has had great experience with young girls. i do not think, sir oswald, that you could do better." "is the lady here? can i see her?" madame selini rang, and desired the little page to ask miss hastings to come to her. in a few minutes an elegant, well-dressed lady entered the room. she advanced with a quiet grace and dignity that seemed natural to her; there was not the slightest trace of awkwardness or _mauvaise honte_ in her manner. madame selini introduced her to sir oswald darrell. "i will leave you," she said, "to discuss your private arrangements." madame quitted the room with gliding, subtle grace, and then sir oswald, in his courtly fashion, placed a chair for miss hastings. he looked at the pale, clear-cut face for a few minutes in silence, as though he were at a loss what to say, and then he commenced suddenly: "i suppose madame selini has told you what i want, miss hastings?" "yes," was the quiet reply; "your niece has been neglected--you want some one to take the entire superintendence of her." "neglected!" exclaimed sir oswald. "my dear madame, that is a mild word, which does not express the dreadful reality. i wish to disguise nothing from you, i assure you--she literally horrifies me." miss hastings smiled. "neglected!" he repeated--"the girl is a savage--a splendid savage--nothing more nor less." "has she not received any kind of training, then, sir oswald?" "training! my dear madame, can you imagine what a wild vine is--a vine that has never been cultivated or pruned, but allowed to grow wild in all its natural beauty and strength, to cling where it would, to trail on the ground and to twine round forest trees? such a vine is a fit type of my niece." miss hastings looked slightly bewildered. here was a very different pupil from the elegant, graceful daughters of lady castledine. "i should, perhaps," continued sir oswald, "explain to you the peculiar position that my niece, miss pauline darrell, has occupied." his grand old face flushed, and his stately head was bowed, as though some of the memories that swept over him were not free from shame; and then, with a little gesture of his white hand, on which shone a large diamond ring, he said: "there is no need for me to tell you, miss hastings, that the darrells are one of the oldest families in england--ancient, honorable, and, i must confess, proud--very proud. my father, the late sir hildebert darrell, was, i should say, one of the proudest and most reserved of men. he had but two children, myself and a daughter twelve years younger--my sister felicia. i was educated abroad. it was one of my father's fancies that i should see many lands, that i should study men and women before settling down to my right position in the world; so that i knew but little of my sister felicia. she was a child when i left home--the tragedy of her life had happened before i returned." again a great rush of color came over the pale, aristocratic face. "i must apologize, miss hastings, for troubling you with these details, but unless you understand them you will not understand my niece. i cannot tell you how it happened, but it did so happen that while i was away my sister disgraced herself; she left home with a french artist, whom sir hildebert had engaged to renovate some choice and costly pictures at darrell court. how it came about i cannot say--perhaps there were excuses for her. she may have found home very dull--my father was harsh and cold, and her mother was dead. it may be that when the young artist told her of warm love in sunny lands she was tempted, poor child, to leave the paternal roof. "my father's wrath was terrible; he pursued julian l'estrange with unrelenting fury. i believe the man would have been a successful artist but for my father, who had vowed to ruin him, and who never rested until he had done so--until he had reduced him to direst poverty--and then my sister appealed for help, and my father refused to grant it. he would not allow her name to be mentioned among us; her portrait was destroyed; everything belonging to her was sent away from darrell court. "when i returned--in an interview that i shall never forget--my father threatened me not only with disinheritance, but with his curse, if i made any attempt to hold the least communication with my sister. i do not know that i should have obeyed him if i could have found her, but i did not even know what part of the world she was in. she died, poor girl, and i have no doubt that her death was greatly hastened by privation. my father told me of her death, also that she had left one daughter; he did more--he wrote to julian l'estrange, and offered to adopt his daughter on the one condition that he would consent never to see her or hold the least communication with her. "the reply was, as you may imagine, a firm refusal and a fierce denunciation. in the same letter came a note, written in a large, childish hand: "'i love my papa, and i do not love you. i will not come to live with you. you are a cruel man, and you helped to kill my dear mamma.' "it was a characteristic little note, and was signed 'pauline l'estrange.' my father's anger on receiving it was very great. i confess that i was more amused than angry. "my father, miss hastings, lived to a good old age. i was not a young man when i succeeded him. he left me all his property. you must understand the darrell and audleigh royal estates are not entailed. he made no mention in his will of the only grandchild he had; but, after i had arranged all my affairs, i resolved to find her. for ten years i have been doing all i could--sending to france, italy, spain, and every country where i thought it possible the artist might have sought refuge. "three months since i received a letter from him, written on his death-bed, asking me to do something for pauline, who had grown up into a beautiful girl of seventeen. i found then that he had been living for some years in the rue d'orme, paris. i buried him, brought his daughter to england, and made arrangements whereby she should assume the name of darrell. but i little knew what a task i had undertaken. pauline ought to be my heiress, miss hastings. she ought to succeed me at darrell court. i have no other relatives. but--well, i will not despair; you will see what can be done with her." "what are her deficiencies?" asked miss hastings. sir oswald raised his white hands with a gesture of despair. "i will tell you briefly. she has lived among artists. she does not seem to have ever known any of her own sex. she is--i am sorry to use the word--a perfect bohemian. whether she can be transformed into anything faintly resembling a lady, i cannot tell. will you undertake the task, miss hastings?" she looked very thoughtful for some minutes, and then answered: "i will do my best, sir oswald." "i thank you very much. you must permit me to name liberal terms, for your task will be no light one." and the interview ended, to their mutual satisfaction. chapter ii. "darrell court is a prison to me!" it was a beautiful may day, bright with fresh spring loveliness. the leaves were springing fresh and green from the trees; the hedges were all abloom with pink hawthorn; the chestnut trees were all in flower; the gold of the laburnum, the purple of the lilac, the white of the fair acacia trees, and the delicate green of the stately elms and limes gave a beautiful variety of color. the grass was dotted with a hundred wild-flowers; great clusters of yellow buttercups looked in the distance like the upspreading of a sea of gold; the violets perfumed the air, the bluebells stirred in the sweet spring breeze, and the birds sang out loudly and jubilantly. if one spot looked more lovely than another on this bright may day, it was darrell court, for it stood where the sun shone brightest, in one of the most romantic and picturesque nooks of england--the part of woodshire bordering on the sea. the mansion and estates stood on gently rising ground; a chain of purple hills stretched away into the far distance; then came the pretty town of audleigh royal, the audleigh woods, and the broad, deep river darte. the bank of the river formed the boundary of the darrell estates, a rich and magnificent heritage, wherein every beauty of meadow and wood seemed to meet. the park was rich in its stately trees and herds of deer; and not far from the house was a fir-wood--an aromatic, odorous fir-wood, which led to the very shores of the smiling southern sea. by night and by day the grand music of nature was heard in perfection at darrell court. sometimes it was the roll of the wind across the hills, or the beat of angry waves on the shore, or the wild melody of the storm among the pine trees, or the full chorus of a thousand feathered songsters. the court itself was one of the most picturesque of mansions. it did not belong to any one order or style of architecture--there was nothing stiff or formal about it--but it looked in that bright may sunshine a noble edifice, with its square towers covered with clinging ivy, gray turrets, and large arched windows. did the sun ever shine upon such a combination of colors? the spray of the fountains glittered in the air, the numerous balconies were filled with flowers; wherever it was possible for a flower to take root, one had been placed to grow--purple wistarias, sad, solemn passion-flowers, roses of every hue. the star-like jessamine and scarlet creepers gave to the walls of the old mansion a vivid glow of color; gold and purple enriched the gardens, heavy white lilies breathed faintest perfume. the spot looked a very eden. the grand front entrance consisted of a large gothic porch, which was reached by a broad flight of steps, adorned with white marble vases filled with flowers; the first terrace was immediately below, and terrace led from terrace down to the grand old gardens, where sweetest blossoms grew. there was an old-world air about the place--something patrician, quiet, reserved. it was no vulgar haunt for vulgar crowds; it was not a show place; and the master of it, sir oswald darrell, as he stood upon the terrace, looked in keeping with the surroundings. there was a _distingue_ air about sir oswald, an old-fashioned courtly dignity, which never for one moment left him. he was thoroughly well bred; he had not two sets of manners--one for the world, and one for private life; he was always the same, measured in speech, noble in his grave condescension. no man ever more thoroughly deserved the name of aristocrat; he was delicate and fastidious, with profound and deeply-rooted dislike for all that was ill-bred, vulgar, or mean. even in his dress sir oswald was remarkable; the superfine white linen, the diamond studs and sleeve links, the rare jewels that gleamed on his fingers--all struck the attention; and, as he took from his pocket a richly engraved golden snuff-box and tapped it with the ends of his delicate white fingers, there stood revealed a thorough aristocrat--the ideal of an english patrician gentleman. sir oswald walked round the stately terraces and gardens. "i do not see her," he said to himself; "yet most certainly frampton told me she was here." then, with his gold-headed cane in hand, sir oswald descended to the gardens. he was evidently in search of some one. meeting one of the gardeners, who stood, hat in hand, as he passed by, sir oswald asked: "have you seen miss darrell in the gardens?" "i saw miss darrell in the fernery some five minutes since, sir oswald," was the reply. sir oswald drew from his pocket a very fine white handkerchief and diffused an agreeable odor of millefleurs around him; the gardener had been near the stables, and sir oswald was fastidious. a short walk brought him to the fernery, an exquisite combination of rock and rustic work, arched by a dainty green roof, and made musical by the ripple of a little waterfall. sir oswald looked in cautiously, evidently rather in dread of what he might find there; then his eyes fell upon something, and he said: "pauline, are you there?" a rich, clear, musical voice answered: "yes, i am here, uncle." "my dear," continued sir oswald, half timidly, not advancing a step farther into the grotto, "may i ask what you are doing?" "certainly, uncle," was the cheerful reply; "you may ask by all means. the difficulty is to answer; for i am really doing nothing, and i do not know how to describe 'nothing.'" "why did you come hither?" he asked. "to dream," replied the musical voice. "i think the sound of falling water is the sweetest music in the world. i came here to enjoy it, and to dream over it." sir oswald looked very uncomfortable. "considering, pauline, how much you have been neglected, do you not think you might spend your time more profitably--in educating yourself, for example?" "this is educating myself. i am teaching myself beautiful thoughts, and nature just now is my singing mistress." and then the speaker's voice suddenly changed, and a ring of passion came into it. "who says that i have been neglected? when you say that, you speak ill of my dear dead father, and no one shall do that in my presence. you speak slander, and slander ill becomes an english gentleman. if i was neglected when my father was alive, i wish to goodness such neglect were my portion now!" sir oswald shrugged his shoulders. "each one to his or her taste, pauline. with very little more of such neglect you would have been a----" he paused; perhaps some instinct of prudence warned him. "a what?" she demanded, scornfully. "pray finish the sentence, sir oswald." "my dear, you are too impulsive, too hasty. you want more quietness of manner, more dignity." her voice deepened in its tones as she asked: "i should have been a what, sir oswald? i never begin a sentence and leave it half finished. you surely are not afraid to finish it?" "no, my dear," was the calm reply; "there never yet was a darrell afraid of anything on earth. if you particularly wish me to do so, i will finish what i was about to say. you would have been a confirmed bohemian, and nothing could have made you a lady." "i love what you call bohemians, and i detest what you call ladies, sir oswald," was the angry retort. "most probably; but then, you see, pauline, the ladies of the house of darrell have always been ladies--high-bred, elegant women. i doubt if any of them ever knew what the word 'bohemian' meant." she laughed a little scornful laugh, which yet was sweet and clear as the sound of silver bells. "i had almost forgotten," said sir oswald. "i came to speak to you about something, pauline; will you come into the house with me?" they walked on together in silence for some minutes, and then sir oswald began: "i went to london, as you know, last week, pauline, and my errand was on your behalf." she raised her eyebrows, but did not deign to ask any questions. "i have engaged a lady to live with us here at darrell court, whose duties will be to finish your education, or, rather, i may truthfully say, to begin it, to train you in the habits of refined society, to--to--make you presentable, in fact, pauline, which i am sorry, really sorry to say, you are not at present." she made him a low bow--a bow full of defiance and rebellion. "i am indeed indebted to you, sir oswald." "no trifling," said the stately baronet, "no sarcasm, pauline, but listen to me! you are not without sense or reason--pray attend. look around you," he continued; "remember that the broad fair lands of darrell court form one of the grandest domains in england. it is an inheritance almost royal in its extent and magnificence. whoso reigns here is king or queen of half a county, is looked up to, respected, honored, admired, and imitated. the owner of darrell court is a power even in this powerful land of ours; men and women look up to such a one for guidance and example. judge then what the owner of the inheritance should be." the baronet's grand old face was flushed with emotion. "he must be pure, or he would make immorality the fashion; honorable, because men will take their notions of honor from him; just, that justice may abound; upright, stainless. you see all that, pauline?" "yes," she assented, quickly. "no men have so much to answer for," continued sir oswald, "as the great ones of the land--men in whose hands power is vested--men to whom others look for example, on whose lives other lives are modeled--men who, as it were, carry the minds, if not the souls, of their fellow men in the hollows of their hands." pauline looked more impressed, and insensibly drew nearer to him. "such men, i thank heaven," he said, standing bareheaded as he uttered the words, "have the darrells been--loyal, upright, honest, honorable, of stainless repute, of stainless life, fitted to rule their fellow men--grand men, sprung from a grand old race. and at times women have reigned here--women whose names have lived in the annals of the land--who have been as shining lights from the purity, the refinement, the grandeur of their lives." he spoke with a passion of eloquence not lost on the girl by his side. "i," he continued, humbly, "am one of the least worthy of my race. i have done nothing for its advancement; but at the same time i have done nothing to disgrace it. i have carried on the honors passively. the time is coming when darrell court must pass into other hands. now, pauline, you have heard, you know what the ruler of darrell court should be. tell me, are you fitted to take your place here?" "i am very young," she murmured. "it is not a question of youth. dame sibella darrell reigned here when she was only eighteen; and the sons she trained to succeed her were among the greatest statesmen england has ever known. she improved and enlarged the property; she died, after living here sixty years, beloved, honored, and revered. it is not a question of age." "i am a darrell!" said the girl, proudly. "yes, you have the face and figure of a darrell; you bear the name, too; but you have not the grace and manner of a darrell." "those are mere outward matters of polish and veneer," she said, impatiently. "nay, not so. you would not think it right to see an unformed, untrained, uneducated, ignorant girl at the head of such a house as this. what did you do yesterday? a maid displeased you. you boxed her ears. just imagine it. such a proceeding on the part of the mistress of darrell court would fill one with horror." a slight smile rippled over the full crimson lips. "queen elizabeth boxed her courtiers' ears," said the girl, "and it seemed right to her." "a queen, pauline, is hedged in by her own royalty; she may do what she will. the very fact that you are capable of defending an action so violent, so unlady-like, so opposed to all one's ideas of feminine delicacy, proves that you are unfit for the position you ought to occupy." "i am honest, at least. i make no pretensions to be what i am not." "so is my butler honest, but that does not fit him to be master of darrell court. honesty is but one quality--a good one, sturdy and strong; it requires not one, but many qualities to hold such a position as i would fain have you occupy." miss darrell's patience was evidently at an end. "and the upshot of all this, sir oswald, is----" "exactly so--that i am anxious to give you every chance in my power--that i have found an estimable, refined, elegant woman, who will devote her time and talents to train you and fit you for society." a low, musical laugh broke from the perfect lips. "have you any idea," she asked, "what i shall be like when i am trained?" "like a lady, i trust--a well-bred lady. i can imagine nothing more beautiful than that." "when is she coming, this model of yours, sir oswald?" "nay, your model, niece, not mine. she is here now, and i wish to introduce her to you. i should like you, if possible," he concluded, meekly, "to make a favorable impression on her." there was another impatient murmur. "i wish you to understand, pauline," he resumed, after a short pause, "that i shall expect you to render the most implicit obedience to miss hastings--to follow whatever rules she may lay down for you, to attend to your studies as she directs them, to pay the greatest heed to all her corrections, to copy her style, to imitate her manners, to----" "i hate her!" was the impetuous outburst. "i would sooner be a beggar all my life than submit to such restraint." "very well," returned sir oswald, calmly. "i know that arguing with you is time lost. the choice lies with yourself. if you decide to do as i wish--to study to become a lady in the truest sense of the word--if you will fit yourself for the position, you shall be heiress of darrell court; if not--if you persist in your present unlady-like, unrefined, bohemian manner, i shall leave the whole property to some one else. i tell you the plain truth without any disguise." "i do not want darrell court!" she cried, passionately; "it is a prison to me!" "i excuse you," rejoined sir oswald, coldly; "you are excited, and so not answerable for what you say." "uncle," said the girl, "do you see that beautiful singing bird there, giving voice to such glorious melody? do you think you could catch it and put it in a cage?" "i have no doubt that i could," replied sir oswald. "but, if you did," she persisted; "even suppose you could make it forget its own wild melodies, could you teach it to sing formally by note and at your will?" "i have never supposed anything of the kind," said sir oswald. "you are possessed of far too much of that kind of nonsense. the young ladies of the present day--properly educated girls--do not talk in that way." "i can easily believe it," she returned, bitterly. "miss hastings is in the library," said sir oswald, as they entered the house. "i hope to see you receive her kindly. put away that frown, pauline, and smile if you can. remember, it is characteristic of the darrells to be gracious to strangers." with these words sir oswald opened the library door, and holding his niece's hand, entered the room. miss hastings rose to receive them. he led pauline to her, and in the kindest manner possible introduced them to each other. "i will leave you together," he said. "pauline will show you your rooms, miss hastings; and i hope that you will soon feel happy, and quite at home with us." sir oswald quitted the library, leaving the two ladies looking in silence at each other. chapter iii. "your good society is all deceit." miss hastings had been prepared to see a hoiden, an awkward, unfledged schoolgirl, one who, never having seen much of good society, had none of the little graces and charms that distinguish young ladies. she had expected to see a tall, gaunt girl, with red hands, and a general air of not knowing what to do with herself--that was the idea she had formed. she gazed in wonder at the reality--a magnificent figure--a girl whose grand, pale, statuesque beauty was something that could never be forgotten. there was nothing of the boarding-school young lady about her; no acquired graces. she was simply magnificent--no other word could describe her. miss hastings, as she looked at her, thought involuntarily of the graceful lines, the beautiful curves, the grand, free grace of the world-renowned diana of the louvre; there was the same arched, graceful neck, the same royal symmetry, the same harmony of outline. in one of the most celebrated art galleries of rome miss hastings remembered to have seen a superb bust of juno; as she looked at her new pupil, she could almost fancy that its head had been modeled from hers. pauline's head was royal in its queenly contour; the brow low, white, and rounded at the temples; the hair, waving in lines of inexpressible beauty, was loosely gathered together and fastened behind with a gleaming silver arrow. the eyes were perhaps the most wonderful feature in that wonderful face; they were dark as night itself, somewhat in hue like a purple heartsease, rich, soft, dreamy, yet at times all fire, all brightness, filled with passion more intense than any words, and shining then with a strange half-golden light. the brows were straight, dark, and beautiful; the lips crimson, full, and exquisitely shaped; the mouth looked like one that could persuade or contemn--that could express tenderness or scorn, love or pride, with the slightest play of the lips. every attitude the girl assumed was full of unconscious grace. she did not appear to be in the least conscious of her wonderful beauty. she had walked to the window, and stood leaning carelessly against the frame, one beautiful arm thrown above her head, as though she were weary, and would fain rest--an attitude that could not have been surpassed had she studied it for years. "you are not at all what i expected to see," said miss hastings, at last. "you are, indeed, so different that i am taken by surprise." "am i better or worse than you had imagined me?" she asked, with careless scorn. "you are different--better, perhaps, in some things. you are taller. you are so tall that it will be difficult to remember you are a pupil." "the darrells are a tall race," she said, quietly. "miss hastings, what have you come here to teach me?" the elder lady rose from her seat and looked lovingly into the face of the girl; she placed her hand caressingly on the slender shoulders. "i know what i should like to teach you, miss darrell, if you will let me. i should like to teach you your duty to heaven, your fellow-creatures, and yourself." "that would be dry learning, i fear," she returned. "what does my uncle wish me to learn?" "to be in all respects a perfectly refined, graceful lady." her face flushed with a great crimson wave that rose to the white brow and the delicate shell-like ears. "i shall never be that," she cried, passionately. "i may just as well give up all hopes of darrell court. i have seen some ladies since i have been here. i could not be like them. they seem to speak by rule; they all say the same kind of things, with the same smiles, in the same tone of voice; they follow each other like sheep; they seem frightened to advance an opinion of their own, or even give utterance to an original thought. they look upon me as something horrible, because i dare to say what i think, and have read every book i could find." "it is not always best to put our thoughts in speech; and the chances are, miss darrell, that, if you have read every book you could find, you have read many that would have been better left alone. you are giving a very one-sided, prejudiced view after all." she raised her beautiful head with a gesture of superb disdain. "there is the same difference between them and myself as between a mechanical singing bird made to sing three tunes and a wild, sweet bird of the woods. i like my own self best." "there is not the least doubt of that," observed miss hastings, with a smile; "but the question is not so much what we like ourselves as what others like in us. however, we will discuss that at another time, miss darrell." "has my uncle told you that if i please him--if i can be molded into the right form--i am to be heiress of darrell court?" she asked, quickly. "yes; and now that i have seen you i am persuaded that you can be anything you wish." "do you think, then, that i am clever?" she asked, eagerly. "i should imagine so," replied miss hastings. "pauline--i need not call you miss darrell--i hope we shall be friends; i trust we shall be happy together." "it is not very likely," she said, slowly, "that i can like you, miss hastings." "why not?" asked the governess, astonished at her frankness. "because you are to correct me; continual correction will be a great annoyance, and will prevent my really liking you." miss hastings looked astounded. "that may be, pauline," she said; "but do you know that it is not polite of you to say so? in good society one does not tell such unpleasant truths." "that is just it," was the eager retort; "that is why i do not like good society, and shall never be fit for it. i am truthful by nature. in my father's house and among his friends there was never any need to conceal the truth; we always spoke it frankly. if we did not like each other, we said so. but here, it seems to me, the first lesson learned to fit one for society is to speak falsely." "not so, pauline; but, when the truth is likely to hurt another's feelings, to wound susceptibility or pride, why speak it, unless it is called for?" pauline moved her white arms with a superb gesture of scorn. "i would rather any day hear the truth and have my mind hurt," she said, energetically, "than feel that people were smiling at me and deceiving me. lady hampton visits sir oswald. i do not like her, and she does not like me; but she always asks sir oswald how his 'dear niece' is, and she calls me a 'sweet creature--original, but very sweet' you can see for yourself, miss hastings, that i am not that." "indeed, you are not sweet," returned the governess, smiling; "but, pauline, you are a mimic, and mimicry is a dangerous gift." she had imitated lady hampton's languid tones and affected accent to perfection. "sir oswald bows and smiles all the time lady hampton is talking to him; he stands first upon one foot, and then upon the other. you would think, to listen to him, that he was so charmed with her ladyship that he could not exist out of her presence. yet i have seen him quite delighted at her departure, and twice i heard him say 'thank heaven'--it was for the relief. your good society is all deceit, miss hastings." "i will not have you say that, pauline. amiability, and the desire always to be kind and considerate, may carry one to extremes at times; but i am inclined to prefer the amiability that spares to the truth that wounds." "i am not," was the blunt rejoinder. "will you come to your rooms, miss hastings? sir oswald has ordered a suite to be prepared entirely for our use. i have three rooms, you have four; and there is a study that we can use together." they went through the broad stately corridors, where the warm sun shone in at the windows, and the flowers breathed sweetest perfume. the rooms that had been prepared for them were bright and pleasant with a beautiful view from the windows, well furnished, and supplied with every comfort. a sigh came from miss hastings as she gazed--it was all so pleasant. but it seemed very doubtful to her whether she would remain or not--very doubtful whether she would be able to make what sir oswald desired out of that frank, free-spoken girl, who had not one conventional idea. "sir oswald is very kind," she said, at length, looking around her; "these rooms are exceedingly nice." "they are nice," said pauline; "but i was happier with my father in the rue d'orme. ah me, what liberty we had there! in this stately life i feel as though i were bound with cords, or shackled with chains--as though i longed to stretch out my arms and fly away." again miss hastings sighed, for it seemed to her that the time of her residence at darrell court would in all probability be very short. chapter iv. "you are going to spoil my life." two days had passed since miss hastings' arrival. on a beautiful morning, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing in the trees, she sat in the study, with an expression of deepest anxiety, of deepest thought on her face. pauline, with a smile on her lips, sat opposite to her, and there was profound silence. miss darrell was the first to break it. "well," she asked, laughingly, "what is your verdict, miss hastings?" the elder lady looked up with a long, deep-drawn sigh. "i have never been so completely puzzled in all my life," she replied. "my dear pauline, you are the strangest mixture of ignorance and knowledge that i have ever met. you know a great deal, but it is all of the wrong kind; you ought to unlearn all that you have learned." "you admit then that i know something." "yes; but it would be almost better, perhaps, if you did not. i will tell you how i feel, pauline. i know nothing of building, but i feel as though i had been placed before a heap of marble, porphyry, and granite, of wood, glass, and iron, and then told from those materials to shape a magnificent palace. i am at a loss what to do." miss darrell laughed with the glee of a child. her governess, repressing her surprise, continued: "you know more in some respects than most educated women; in other and equally essential matters you know less than a child. you speak french fluently, perfectly; you have read a large number of books in the french language--good, bad, and indifferent, it appears to me; yet you have no more idea of french grammar or of the idiom or construction of the language than a child." "that, indeed, i have not; i consider grammar the most stupid of all human inventions." miss hastings offered no comment. "again," she continued, "you speak good english, but your spelling is bad, and your writing worse. you are better acquainted with english literature than i am--that is, you have read more. you have read indiscriminately; even the titles of some of the books you have read are not admissible." the dark eyes flashed, and the pale, grand face was stirred as though by some sudden emotion. "there was a large library in the house where we lived," she explained, hurriedly, "and i read every book in it. i read from early morning until late at night, and sometimes from night until morning; there was no one to tell me what was right and what was wrong, miss hastings." "then," continued the governess, "you have written a spirited poem on anne boleyn, but you know nothing of english history--neither the dates nor the incidents of a single reign. you have written the half of a story, the scene of which is laid in the tropics, yet of geography you have not the faintest notion. of matters such as every girl has some idea of--of biography, of botany, of astronomy--you have not even a glimmer. the chances are, that if you engaged in conversation with any sensible person, you would equally astonish, first by the clever things you would utter, and then by the utter ignorance you would display." "i cannot be flattered, miss hastings," pauline put in, "because you humiliate me; nor can i be humiliated, because you flatter me." but miss hastings pursued her criticisms steadily. "you have not the slightest knowledge of arithmetic. as for knowledge of a higher class, you have none. you are dreadfully deficient. you say that you have read auguste comte, but you do not know the answer to the first question in your church catechism. your education requires beginning all over again. you have never had any settled plan of study, i should imagine." "no. i learned drawing from jules lacroix. talk of talent, miss hastings. you should have known him--he was the handsomest artist i ever saw. there was something so picturesque about him." "doubtless," was the dry response; "but i think 'picturesque' is not the word to use in such a case. music, i presume, you taught yourself?" the girl's whole face brightened--her manner changed. "yes, i taught myself; poor papa could not afford to pay for my lessons. shall i play to you, miss hastings?" there was a piano in the study, a beautiful and valuable instrument, which sir oswald had ordered for his niece. "i shall be much pleased to hear you," said miss hastings. pauline darrell rose and went to the piano. her face then was as the face of one inspired. she sat down and played a few chords, full, beautiful, and harmonious. "i will sing to you," she said. "we often went to the opera--papa, jules, louis, and myself. i used to sing everything i heard. this is from 'il puritani.'" and she sang one of the most beautiful solos in the opera. her voice was magnificent, full, ringing, vibrating with passion--a voice that, like her face, could hardly be forgotten; but she played and sang entirely after a fashion of her own. "now, miss hastings," she said, "i will imitate adelina patti." face, voice, manner, all changed; she began one of the far-famed prima-donna's most admired songs, and miss hastings owned to herself that if she had closed her eyes she might have believed madame patti present. "this is _a la_ christine nilsson," continued pauline; and again the imitation was brilliant and perfect. the magnificent voice did not seem to tire, though she sang song after song, and imitated in the most marvelous manner some of the grandest singers of the day. miss hasting left her seat and went up to her. "you have a splendid voice, my dear, and great musical genius. now tell me, do you know a single note of music?" "not one," was the quick reply. "you know nothing of the keys, time, or anything else?" "why should i trouble myself when i could play without learning anything of the kind?" "but that kind of playing, pauline, although it is very clever, would not do for educated people." "is it not good enough for them?" she asked, serenely. "no; one cannot help admiring it, but any educated person hearing you would detect directly that you did not know your notes." "would they think much less of me on that account?" she asked, with the same serenity. "yes; every one would think it sad to see so much talent wasted. you must begin to study hard; you must learn to play by note, not by ear, and then all will be well. you love music, pauline?" how the beautiful face glowed and the dark eyes shone. "i love it," she said, "because i can put my whole soul into it--there is room for one's soul in it. you will be shocked, i know, but that is why i liked comte's theories--because they filled my mind, and gave me so much to think of." "were i in your place i should try to forget them, pauline." "you should have seen sir oswald's face when i told him i had read comte and darwin. he positively groaned aloud." and she laughed as she remembered his misery. "i feel very much inclined to groan myself," said miss hastings. "you shall have theories, or facts, higher, more beautiful, nobler, grander far than any comte ever dreamed. and now we must begin to work in real earnest." but pauline darrell did not move; her dark eyes were shadowed, her beautiful face grew sullen and determined. "you are going to spoil my life," she said. "hitherto it has been a glorious life--free, gladsome, and bright; now you are going to parcel it out. there will be no more sunshiny hours; you are going to reduce me to a kind of machine, to cut off all my beautiful dreams, my lofty thoughts. you want to make me a formal, precise young lady, who will laugh, speak, and think by rule." "i want to make you a sensible woman, my dear pauline," corrected miss hastings, gravely. "who is the better or the happier for being so sensible?" demanded pauline. she paused for a few minutes, and then she added, suddenly: "darrell court and all the wealth of the darrells are not worth it, miss hastings." "not worth what, pauline?" "not worth the price i must pay." "what is the price?" asked miss hastings, calmly. "my independence, my freedom of action and thought, my liberty of speech." "do you seriously value these more highly than all that sir oswald could leave you?" "i do--a thousand times more highly," she replied. miss hastings was silent for some few minutes, and then said: "we must do our best; suppose we make a compromise? i will give you all the liberty that i honestly can, in every way, and you shall give your attention to the studies i propose. i will make your task as easy as i can for you. darrell court is worth a struggle." "yes," was the half-reluctant reply, "it is worth a struggle, and i will make it." but there was not much hope in the heart of the governess when she commenced her task. chapter v. pauline's good points. how often sir oswald's simile of the untrained, unpruned, uncultivated vine returned to the mind of miss hastings! pauline darrell was by nature a genius, a girl of magnificent intellect, a grand, noble, generous being all untrained. she had in her capabilities of the greatest kind--she could be either the very empress of wickedness or angelic. she was gloriously endowed, but it was impossible to tell how she would develop; there was no moderation in her, she acted always from impulse, and her impulses were quick, warm, and irresistible. if she had been an actress, she would surely have been the very queen of the stage. her faults were like her virtues, all grand ones. there was nothing trivial, nothing mean, nothing ungenerous about her. she was of a nature likely to be led to the highest criminality or the highest virtue; there could be no medium of mediocre virtue for her. she was full of character, charming even in her willfulness, but utterly devoid of all small affectations. there was in her the making of a magnificent woman, a great heroine; but nothing could have brought her to the level of commonplace people. her character was almost a terrible one in view of the responsibilities attached to it. grand, daring, original, pauline was all force, all fire, all passion. whatever she loved, she loved with an intensity almost terrible to witness. there was also no "middle way" in her dislikes--she hated with a fury of hate. she had little patience, little toleration; one of her greatest delights consisted in ruthlessly tearing away the social vail which most people loved to wear. there were times when her grand, pale, passionate beauty seemed to darken and to deepen, and one felt instinctively that it was in her to be cruel even to fierceness; and again, when her heart was touched and her face softened, one imagined that she might be somewhat akin to the angels. what was to become of such a nature? what was to develop it--what was to train it? if from her infancy pauline had been under wise and tender guidance, if some mind that she felt to be superior to her own had influenced her, the certainty is that she would have grown up into a thoughtful, intellectual, talented woman, one whose influence would have been paramount for good, one to whom men would have looked for guidance almost unconsciously to themselves. but her training had been terribly defective. no one had ever controlled her. she had been mistress of her father's house and queen of his little coterie; with her quiet, unerring judgment, she had made her own estimate of the strength, the mind, the intellect of each one with whom she came in contact, and the result was always favorable to herself--she saw no one superior to herself. then the society in which her father had delighted was the worst possible for her; she reigned supreme over them all--clever, gifted artists, good-natured bohemians, who admired and applauded her, who praised every word that fell from her lips, who honestly believed her to be one of the marvels of the world, who told her continually that she was one of the most beautiful, most talented, most charming of mortals, who applauded every daring sentiment instead of telling her plainly that what was not orthodox was seldom right--honest bohemians, who looked upon the child as a wonder, and puzzled themselves to think what destiny was high enough for her--men whose artistic tastes were gratified by the sight of her magnificent loveliness, who had for her the deepest, truest, and highest respect, who never in her presence uttered a syllable that they would not have uttered in the presence of a child--good-natured bohemians, who sometimes had money and sometimes had none, who were always willing to share their last _sou_ with others more needy than themselves, who wore shabby, threadbare coats, but who knew how to respect the pure presence of a pure girl. pauline had received a kind of education. her father's friends discussed everything--art, science, politics, and literature--in her presence; they discussed the wildest stories, they indulged in unbounded fun and satire, they were of the wittiest even as they were of the cleverest of men. they ridiculed unmercifully what they were pleased to call the "regulations of polite society;" they enjoyed unvarnished truth--as a rule, the more disagreeable the truth the more they delighted in telling it. they scorned all etiquette, they pursued all dandies and belles with terrible sarcasm; they believed in every wild or impossible theory that had ever been started; in fact, though honest as the day, honorable, and true, they were about the worst associates a young girl could have had to fit her for the world. the life she led among them had been one long romance, of which she had been queen. the house in the rue d'orme had once been a grand mansion; it was filled with quaint carvings, old tapestry, and the relics of a by-gone generation. the rooms were large--most of them had been turned into studios. some of the finest of modern pictures came from the house in the rue d'orme, although, as a rule, the students who worked there were not wealthy. it was almost amusing to see how this delicate young girl ruled over such society. by one word she commanded these great, generous, unworldly men--with one little white finger upraised she could beckon them at her will; they had a hundred pet names for her--they thought no queen or empress fit to be compared with their old comrade's daughter. she was to be excused if constant flattery and homage had made her believe that she was in some way superior to the rest of the world. when the great change came--when she left the rue d'orme for darrell court--it was a terrible blow to pauline to find all this superiority vanish into thin air. in place of admiration and flattery, she heard nothing but reproach and correction. she was given to understand that she was hardly presentable in polite society--she, who had ruled like a queen over scholars and artists! instead of laughter and applause, grim silence followed her remarks. she read in the faces of those around her that she was not as they were--not of their world. her whole soul turned longingly to the beautiful free bohemian world she had left. the crowning blow of all was when, after studying her carefully for some time, sir oswald told her that he feared her manners were against her--that neither in style nor in education was she fitted to be mistress of darrell court. she had submitted passively to the change in her name; she was proud of being a darrell--she was proud of the grand old race from which she had sprung. but, when sir oswald had uttered that last speech, she flamed out in fierce, violent passion, which showed him she had at least the true darrell spirit. there were points in her favor, he admitted. she was magnificently handsome--she had more courage and a higher spirit than fall even to the lot of most men. she was a fearless horse-woman; indeed it was only necessary for any pursuit to be dangerous and to require unlimited courage for her instantly to undertake it. would the balance at last turn in her favor? would her beauty, her spirits, her daring, her courage, outweigh defective education, defective manner, and want of worldly knowledge? chapter vi. the progress made by the pupil. it was a beautiful afternoon in june. may, with its lilac and hawthorn, had passed away; the roses were in fairest bloom, lilies looked like great white stars; the fullness and beauty, the warmth and fragrance of summer were on the face of the land, and everything living rejoiced in it. pauline had begged that the daily readings might take place under the great cedar tree on the lawn. "if i must be bored by dry historical facts," she said, "let me at least have the lights and shadows on the lawn to look at. the shadow of the trees on the grass is beautiful beyond everything else. oh, miss hastings, why will people write dull histories? i like to fancy all kings heroes, and all queens heroines. history leaves us no illusions." "still," replied the governess, "it teaches us plenty of what you love so much--truth." the beautiful face grew very serious and thoughtful. "why are so many truths disagreeable and sad? if i could rule, i would have the world so bright, so fair and glad, every one so happy. i cannot understand all this under-current of sorrow." "comte did not explain it, then, to your satisfaction?" said miss hastings. "comte!" cried the girl, impatiently. "i am not obliged to believe all i read! once and for all, miss hastings, i do not believe in comte or his fellows. i only read what he wrote because people seemed to think it clever to have done so. you know--you must know--that i believe in our great father. who could look round on this lovely world and not do so?" miss hastings felt more hopeful of the girl then than she had ever felt before. such strange, wild theories had fallen at times from her lips that it was some consolation to know she had still a child's faith. then came an interruption in the shape of a footman, with sir oswald's compliments, and would the ladies go to the drawing-room? there were visitors. "who are they?" asked miss darrell, abruptly. the man replied: "sir george and lady hampton." "i shall not go," said pauline, decidedly; "that woman sickens me with her false airs and silly, false graces. i have not patience to talk to her." "sir oswald will not be pleased," remonstrated miss hastings. "that i cannot help--it is not my fault. i shall not make myself a hypocrite to please sir oswald." "society has duties which must be discharged, and which do not depend upon our liking; we must do our duty whether we like it or not." "i detest society," was the abrupt reply--"it is all a sham!" "then why not do your best to improve it? that would surely be better than to abuse it." "there is something in that," confessed miss darrell, slowly. "if we each do our little best toward making the world even ever so little better than we found it," said miss hastings, "we shall not have lived in vain." there was a singular grandeur of generosity about the girl. if she saw that she was wrong in an argument or an opinion, she admitted it with the most charming candor. that admission she made now by rising at once to accompany miss hastings. the drawing-room at darrell court was a magnificent apartment; it had been furnished under the superintendence of the late lady darrell, a lady of exquisite taste. it was all white and gold, the white hangings with bullion fringe and gold braids, the white damask with a delicate border of gold; the pictures, the costly statues gleamed in the midst of rich and rare flowers; graceful ornaments, tall, slender vases were filled with choicest blossoms; the large mirrors, with their golden frames, were each and all perfect in their way. there was nothing gaudy, brilliant, or dazzling; all was subdued, in perfect good taste and harmony. in this superb room the beauty of pauline darrell always showed to great advantage; she was in perfect keeping with its splendor. as she entered now, with her usual half-haughty, half-listless grace, sir oswald looked up with admiration plainly expressed on his face. "what a queenly mistress she would make for the court, if she would but behave like other people!" he thought to himself, and then lady hampton rose to greet the girl. "my dear miss darrell, i was getting quite impatient; it seems an age since i saw you--really an age." "it is an exceedingly short one," returned pauline; "i saw you on tuesday, lady hampton." "did you? ah, yes; how could i forget? ah, my dear child, when you reach my age--when your mind is filled with a hundred different matters--you will not have such a good memory as you have now." lady hampton was a little, over-dressed woman. she looked all flowers and furbelows--all ribbons and laces. she was, however, a perfect mistress of all the arts of polite society; she knew exactly what to say and how to say it; she knew when to smile, when to look sympathetic, when to sigh. she was not sincere; she never made the least pretense of being so. "society" was her one idea--how to please it, how to win its admiration, how to secure a high position in it. the contrast between the two was remarkable--the young girl with her noble face, her grand soul looking out of her clear dark eyes; lady hampton with her artificial smiles, her shifting glances, and would-be charming gestures. sir oswald stood by with a courtly smile on his face. "i have some charming news for you," said lady hampton. "i am sure you will be pleased to hear it, miss darrell." "that will quite depend on what it is like," interposed pauline, honestly. "you dear, droll child! you are so original; you have so much character. i always tell sir oswald you are quite different from any one else." and though her ladyship spoke smilingly, she gave a keen, quiet glance at sir oswald's face, in all probability to watch the effect of her words. "ah, well," she continued, "i suppose that in your position a little singularity may be permitted," and then she paused, with a bland smile. "to what position do you allude?" asked miss darrell. lady hampton laughed again. she nodded with an air of great penetration. "you are cautious, miss darrell. but i am forgetting my news. it is this--that my niece, miss elinor rocheford, is coming to visit me." she waited evidently for miss darrell to make some complimentary reply. not a word came from the proud lips. "and when she comes i hope, miss darrell, that you and she will be great friends." "it is rather probable, if i like her," was the frank reply. sir oswald looked horrified. lady hampton smiled still more sweetly. "you are sure to like her. elinor is most dearly loved wherever she goes." "is she a sweet creature?" asked pauline, with such inimitable mimicry that miss hastings shuddered, while sir oswald turned pale. "she is indeed," replied lady hampton, who, if she understood the sarcasm, made no sign. "with sir oswald's permission, i shall bring her to spend a long day with you, miss darrell." "i shall be charmed," said sir oswald--"really delighted, lady hampton. you do me great honor indeed." he looked at his niece for some little confirmation of his words, but that young lady appeared too haughty for speech; the word "honor" seemed to her strangely misapplied. lady hampton relaxed none of her graciousness; her bland suavity continued the same until the end of the visit; and then, in some way, she contrived to make miss hastings understand that she wanted to speak with her. she asked the governess if she would go with her to the carriage, as she wished to consult her about some music. when they were alone, her air and manner changed abruptly. she turned eagerly to her, her eyes full of sharp, keen curiosity. "can you tell me one thing?" she asked. "is sir oswald going to make that proud, stupid, illiterate girl his heiress--mistress of darrell court?" "i do not know," replied miss hastings. "how should i be able to answer such a question?" "of course i ask in confidence--only in strict confidence; you understand that, miss hastings?" "i understand," was the grave reply. "all the county is crying shame on him," said her ladyship. "a french painter's daughter. he must be mad to think of such a thing. a girl brought up in the midst of heaven knows what. he never can intend to leave darrell court to her." "he must leave it to some one," said miss hastings; "and who has a better right to it than his own sister's child?" "let him marry," she suggested, hastily; "let him marry, and leave it to children of his own. do you think the county will tolerate such a mistress for darrell court--so blunt, so ignorant? miss hastings, he must marry." "i can only suppose," replied the governess, "that he will please himself, lady hampton, without any reference to the county." chapter vii. captain langton. june, with its roses and lilies, passed on, the laburnums had all fallen, the lilies had vanished, and still the state of affairs at darrell court remained doubtful. pauline, in many of those respects in which her uncle would fain have seen her changed, remained unaltered--indeed it was not easy to unlearn the teachings of a life-time. miss hastings, more patient and hopeful than sir oswald, persevered, with infinite tact and discretion. but there were certain peculiarities of which pauline could not be broken. one was a habit of calling everything by its right name. she had no notion of using any of those polite little fictions society delights in; no matter how harsh, how ugly the word, she did not hesitate to use it. another peculiarity was that of telling the blunt, plain, abrupt truth, no matter what the cost, no matter who was pained. she tore aside the flimsy vail of society with zest; she spared no one in her almost ruthless denunciations. her intense scorn for all kinds of polite fiction was somewhat annoying. "you need not say that i am engaged, james," she said, one day, when a lady called whom she disliked. "i am not engaged, but i do not care to see mrs. camden." even that bland functionary looked annoyed. miss hastings tried to make some compromise. "you cannot send such a message as that, miss darrell. pray listen to reason." "sir oswald and yourself agreed that she was----" "never mind that," hastily interrupted miss hastings. "you must not hurt any one's feelings by such a blunt message as that; it is neither polite nor well-bred." "i shall never cultivate either politeness or good breeding at the expense of truth; therefore you had better send the message yourself, miss hastings." "i will do so," said the governess, quietly. "i will manage it in such a way as to show mrs. camden that she is not expected to call again, yet so as not to humiliate her before the servants; but, remember, not at any sacrifice of truth." such contests were of daily, almost hourly, occurrence. whether the result would be such a degree of training as to fit the young lady for taking the position she wished to occupy, remained doubtful. "this is really very satisfactory," said sir oswald, abruptly, one morning, as he entered the library, where miss hastings awaited him. "but," he continued, "before i explain myself, let me ask you how are you getting on--what progress are you making with your tiresome pupil?" the gentle heart of the governess was grieved to think that she could not give a more satisfactory reply. little real progress had been made in study; less in manner. "there is a mass of splendid material, sir oswald," she said; "but the difficulty lies in putting it into shape." "i am afraid," he observed, "people will make remarks; and i have heard more than one doubt expressed as to what kind of hands darrell court is likely to fall into should i make pauline my heiress. you see she is capable of almost anything. she would turn the place into an asylum; she would transform it into a college for philosophers, a home for needy artists--in fact, anything that might occur to her--without the least hesitation." miss hastings could not deny it. they were not speaking of a manageable nineteenth century young lady, but of one to whom no ordinary rules applied, whom no customary measures fitted. "i have a letter here," continued sir oswald, "from captain aubrey langton, the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends. he proposes to pay me a visit, and--pray, miss hastings, pardon me for suggesting such a thing, but i should be so glad if he would fall in love with pauline. i have an idea that love might educate and develop her more quickly than anything else." miss hastings had already thought the same thing; but she knew whoever won the love of such a girl as pauline darrell would be one of the cleverest of men. "i am writing to him to tell him that i hope he will remain with us for a month; and during that time i hope, i fervently hope, he may fall in love with my niece. she is beautiful enough. pardon me again, miss hastings, but has she ever spoken to you of love or lovers?" "no. she is in that respect, as in many others, quite unlike the generality of girls. i have never heard an allusion to such matters from her lips--never once." this fact seemed to sir oswald stranger than any other; he had an idea that girls devoted the greater part of their thoughts to such subjects. "do you think," he inquired, "that she cared for any one in paris--any of those men, for instance, whom she used to meet at her father's?" "no," replied miss hastings; "i do not think so. she is strangely backward in all such respects, although she was brought up entirely among gentlemen." "among--pardon me, my dear madame, not gentlemen--members, we will say, of a gentlemanly profession." sir oswald took from his gold snuff-box a pinch of most delicately-flavored snuff, and looked as though he thought the very existence of such people a mistake. "any little influence that you may possess over my niece, miss hastings, will you kindly use in captain langton's favor? of course, if anything should come of my plan--as i fervently hope there may--i shall stipulate that the engagement lasts two years. during that time i shall trust to the influence of love to change my niece's character." it was only a fresh complication--one from which miss hastings did not expect much. that same day, during dinner, sir oswald told his niece of the expected arrival of captain langton. "i have seen so few english gentlemen," she remarked, "that he will be a subject of some curiosity to me." "you will find him--that is, if he resembles his father--a high-bred, noble gentleman," said sir oswald, complacently. "is he clever?" she asked. "what does he do?" "do!" repeated sir oswald. "i do not understand you." "does he paint pictures or write books?" "heaven forbid!" cried sir oswald, proudly. "he is a gentleman." her face flushed hotly for some minutes, and then the flush died away, leaving her paler than ever. "i consider artists and writers gentlemen," she retorted--"gentlemen of a far higher stamp than those to whom fortune has given money and nature has denied brains." another time a sharp argument would have resulted from the throwing down of such a gantlet. sir oswald had something else in view, so he allowed the speech to pass. "it will be a great pleasure for me to see my old friend's son again," he said. "i hope, pauline, you will help me to make his visit a pleasant one." "what can i do?" she asked, brusquely. "what a question!" laughed sir oswald. "say, rather, what can you not do? talk to him, sing to him. your voice is magnificent, and would give any one the greatest pleasure. you can ride out with him." "if he is a clever, sensible man, i can do all that you mention; if not, i shall not trouble myself about him. i never could endure either tiresome or stupid people." "my young friend is not likely to prove either," said sir oswald, angrily; and miss hastings wondered in her heart what the result of it all would be. that same evening miss darrell talked of captain langton, weaving many bright fancies concerning him. "i suppose," she said, "that it is not always the most favorable specimens of the english who visit paris. we used to see such droll caricatures. i like a good caricature above all things--do you, miss hastings?" "when it is good, and pains no one," was the sensible reply. the girl turned away with a little impatient sigh. "your ideas are all colorless," she said, sharply. "in england it seems to me that everybody is alike. you have no individuality, no character." "if character means, in your sense of the word, ill-nature, so much the better," rejoined miss hastings. "all good-hearted people strive to save each other from pain." "i wonder," said pauline, thoughtfully, "if i shall like captain langton! we have been living here quietly enough; but i feel as though some great change were coming. you have no doubt experienced that peculiar sensation which comes over one just before a heavy thunder-storm? i have that strange, half-nervous, half-restless sensation now." "you will try to be amiable, pauline," put in the governess, quietly. "you see that sir oswald evidently thinks a great deal of this young friend of his. you will try not to shock your uncle in any way--not to violate those little conventionalities that he respects so much." "i will do my best; but i must be myself--always myself. i cannot assume a false character." "then let it be your better self," said the governess, gently; and for one minute pauline darrell was touched. "that sweet creature, lady hampton's niece, will be here next week," she remarked, after a short pause. "what changes will be brought into our lives, i wonder?" of all the changes possible, least of all she expected the tragedy that afterward happened. chapter viii. the introduction. it was a never-to-be-forgotten evening when captain langton reached darrell court--an evening fair, bright, and calm. the sweet southern wind bore the perfume of flowers; the faint ripples of the fountains, the musical song of the birds, seemed almost to die away on the evening breeze; the sun appeared unwilling to leave the sapphire sky, the flowers unwilling to close. pauline had lingered over her books until she could remain in-doors no longer; then, by miss hastings' desire, she dressed for dinner--which was delayed for an hour--and afterward went into the garden. most girls would have remembered, as they dressed, that a handsome young officer was coming; miss darrell did not make the least change in her usual toilet. the thin, fine dress of crape fell in statuesque folds round the splendid figure; the dark hair was drawn back from the beautiful brow, and negligently fastened with her favorite silver arrow; the white neck and fair rounded arms gleamed like white marble through the thin folds of crape. there was not the least attempt at ornament; yet no queen arrayed in royal robes ever looked more lovely. pauline was a great lover of the picturesque. with a single flower, a solitary knot of ribbon, she could produce an effect which many women would give all their jewels to achieve. whatever she wore took a kind of royal grace from herself which no other person could impart. though her dress might be made of the same material as that of others, it never looked the same. on her it appeared like the robes of a queen. as pauline was passing through the corridor, miss hastings met her. the governess looked scrutinizingly at the plain evening dress; it was the same that she had worn yesterday. evidently there was no girlish desire to attract. "pauline, we shall have a visitor this evening," said miss hastings; "you might add a few flowers to your dress." she passed on, with a smile of assent. almost the first thing that caught her attention out of doors was a large and handsome fuchsia. she gathered a spray of the rich purple and crimson flowers, and placed it negligently in her hair. many women would have stood before their mirror for an hour without producing the same superb effect. then she placed another spray of the same gorgeous flowers in the bodice of her dress. it was all done without effort, and she would have been the last in the world to suspect how beautiful she looked. then she went on to the fountain, for the beautiful, calm evening had awakened all the poet's soul within her. the grand, sensitive nature thrilled--the beautiful, poetic mind reveled in this hour of nature's most supreme loveliness. a thousand bright fancies surged through her heart and brain; a thousand poetical ideas shaped themselves into words, and rose to her lips. so time passed, and she was unconscious of it, until a shadow falling over the great white lilies warned her that some one was near. looking up quickly, she saw a tall, fair, handsome young man gazing at her with mingled admiration and surprise. beside him stood sir oswald, courtly, gracious, and evidently on the alert. "captain langton," he said, "let me introduce you to my niece, miss darrell." not one feature of the girl's proud, beautiful face moved, but there was some little curiosity in her dark eyes. they rested for a minute on the captain's face, and then, with a dreamy look, she glanced over the heads of the white lilies behind him. he was not her ideal, not her hero, evidently. in that one keen, quick glance, she read not only the face, but the heart and soul of the man before her. the captain felt as though he had been subjected to some wonderful microscopic examination. "she is one of those dreadfully shrewd girls that pretend to read faces," he said to himself, while he bowed low before her, and replied with enthusiasm to the introduction. "my niece is quite a darrell," said sir oswald, proudly. "you see she has the darrell face." again the gallant captain offered some flattering remark--a neatly turned compliment, which he considered ought to have brought her down, as a skillful shot does a bird--but the dark eyes saw only the lilies, not him. "she is proud, like all the darrells," he thought; "my father always said they were the proudest race in england." "i hope," said sir oswald, courteously, "that you will enjoy your visit here, aubrey. your father was my dearest friend, and it gives me great delight to see you here." "i am sure of it, sir oswald. i am equally happy; i cannot see how any one could be dull for one minute in this grand old place." sir oswald's face flushed with pleasure, and for the first time the dark eyes slowly left the lilies and looked at the captain. "i find not only one minute, but many hours in which to be dull," said pauline. "do you like the country so well?" "i like darrell court," he replied, with a bow that seemed to embrace sir oswald, his niece, and all his possessions. "you like it--in what way?" asked pauline, in her terribly downright manner. "it is your first visit, and you have been here only a few minutes. how can you tell whether you like it?" for a few moments captain langton looked slightly confused, and then he rallied. surely a man of the world was not to be defied by a mere girl. "i have seen that at darrell court," he said, deferentially, "which will make the place dear to me while i live." she did not understand him. she was far too frank and haughty for a compliment so broad. but sir oswald smiled. "he is losing no time," thought the stately old baronet; "he is falling in love with her, just as i guessed he would." "i will leave you," said sir oswald, "to get better acquainted. pauline, you will show captain langton the aviary." "yes," she assented, carelessly. "but will you send miss hastings here? she knows the various birds far better than i do." sir oswald, with a pleased expression on his face, walked away. "so you have an aviary at the court, miss darrell. it seems to me there is nothing wanting here. you do not seem interested; you do not like birds?" "not caged ones," she replied. "i love birds almost as though they were living friends, but not bright-plumaged birds in golden cages. they should be free and wild in the woods and forests, filling the summer air with joyous song. i love them well then." "you like unrestricted freedom?" he observed. "i do not merely like it, i deem it an absolute necessity. i should not care for life without it." the captain looked more attentively at her. it was the darrell face, surely enough--features of perfect beauty, with a soul of fire shining through them. "yet," he said, musingly, cautiously feeling his way, "there is but little freedom--true freedom--for women. they are bound down by a thousand narrow laws and observances--caged by a thousand restraints." "there is no power on earth," she returned, hastily, "that can control thoughts or cage souls; while they are free, it is untrue to say that there is no freedom." a breath of fragrant wind came and stirred the great white lilies. the gallant captain saw at once that he should only lose in arguments with her. "shall we visit the aviary?" he asked. and she walked slowly down the path, he following. "she is like an empress," he thought. "it will be all the more glory for me if i can win such a wife for my own." chapter ix. the broken lily. pauline darrell was a keen, shrewd observer of character. she judged more by small actions than by great ones; it was a characteristic of hers. when women have that gift, it is more to be dreaded than the cool, calm, matured judgment of men. men err sometimes in their estimate of character, but it is very seldom that a woman makes a similar mistake. the garden path widened where the tall white lilies grew in rich profusion, and there pauline and captain langton walked side by side. the rich, sweet perfume seemed to gather round them, and the dainty flowers, with their shining leaves and golden bracts, looked like great white stars. captain langton carried a small cane in his hand. he had begun to talk to pauline with great animation. her proud indifference piqued him. he was accustomed to something more like rapture when he devoted himself to any fair lady. he vowed to himself that he would vanquish her pride, that he would make her care for him, that the proud, dark eyes should soften and brighten for him; and he gave his whole mind to the conquest. as he walked along, one of the tall, white lilies bent over the path; with one touch of the cane he beat it down, and pauline gave a little cry, as though the blow had pained her. she stopped, and taking the slender green stem in her hand, straightened it; but the blow had broken one of the white leaves. "why did you do that?" she asked, in a pained voice. "it is only a flower," he replied, with a laugh. "only a flower! you have killed it. you cannot make it live again. why need you have cut its sweet life short?" "it will not be missed from among so many," he said. "you might say the same thing of yourself," she retorted. "the world is full of men, and you would hardly be missed from so many; yet you would not like----" "there is some little difference between a man and a flower, miss darrell," he interrupted, stiffly. "there is, indeed; and the flowers have the advantage," she retorted. the captain solaced himself by twisting his mustache, and relieved his feelings by some few muttered words, which miss darrell did not hear. in her quick, impulsive way, she judged him at once. "he is cruel and selfish," she thought; "he would not even stoop to save the life of the sweetest flower that blows. he shall not forget killing that lily," she continued, as she gathered the broken chalice, and placed it in her belt. "every time he looks at me," she said, "he shall remember what he has done." the captain evidently understood her amiable intention, and liked her accordingly. they walked on for some minutes in perfect silence; then pauline turned to him suddenly. "have you been long in the army, captain langton?" flattered by a question that seemed to evince some personal interest, he hastened to reply: "more than eight years. i joined when i was twenty." "have you seen any service?" she asked. "no," he replied. "my regiment had been for many years in active service just before i joined, so that we have been at home since then." "in inglorious ease," she said. "we are ready for work," he returned, "when work comes." "how do you employ your time?" she asked; and again he was flattered by the interest that the question showed. his face flushed. here was a grand opportunity of showing this haughty girl, this "proudest darrell of them all," that he was eagerly sought after in society such as she had not yet seen. "you have no conception of the immense number of engagements that occupy our time," he replied; "i am fond of horses--i take a great interest in all races." if he had added that he was one of the greatest gamblers on the turf, he would have spoken truthfully. "horse racing," said miss darrell--"that is the favorite occupation of english gentlemen, is it not?" "i should imagine so. then i am considered--you must pardon my boasting--one of the best billiard players in london." "that is not much of a boast," she remarked, with such quiet contempt that the captain could only look at her in sheer wonder. "there are balls, operas, parties, suppers--i cannot tell what; and the ladies engross a great deal of our time. we soldiers never forget our devotion and chivalry to the fair sex, miss darrell." "the fair sex should be grateful that they share your attention with horses and billiards," she returned. "but what else do you do, captain langton? i was not thinking of such trifles as these." "trifles!" he repeated. "i do not call horse racing a trifle. i was within an inch of winning the derby--i mean to say a horse of mine was. if you call that a trifle, miss darrell, you go near to upsetting english society altogether." "but what great things do you do?" she repeated, her dark eyes opening wider. "you cannot mean seriously that this is all. do you never write, paint--have you no ambition at all?" "i do not know what you call ambition," he replied, sullenly; "as for writing and painting, in england we pay people to do that kind of thing for us. you do not think that i would paint a picture, even if i could?" "i should think you clever if you did that," she returned; "at present i cannot see that you do anything requiring mind or intellect." "miss darrell," he said, looking at her, "you are a radical, i believe." "a radical?" she repeated, slowly. "i am not quite sure, captain langton, that i know what that means." "you believe in aristocracy of intellect, and all that kind of nonsense," he continued. "why should a man who paints a picture be any better than the man who understands the good points of a horse?" "why, indeed?" she asked, satirically. "we will not argue the question, for we should not agree." "i had her there," thought the captain. "she could not answer me. some of these women require a high hand to keep them in order." "i do not see miss hastings," she said at last, "and it is quite useless going to the aviary without her. i do not remember the name of a single bird; and i am sure you will not care for them." "but," he returned, hesitatingly, "sir oswald seemed to wish it." "there is the first dinner-bell," she said, with an air of great relief; "there will only just be time to return. as you seem solicitous about sir oswald's wishes we had better go in, for he dearly loves punctuality." "i believe," thought the captain, "that she is anxious to get away from me. i must say that i am not accustomed to this kind of thing." the aspect of the dining-room, with its display of fine old plate, the brilliantly arranged tables, the mingled odor of rare wines and flowers, restored him to good humor. "it would be worth some little trouble," he thought, "to win all this." he took pauline in to dinner. the grand, pale, passionate beauty of the girl had never shown to greater advantage than it did this evening, as she sat with the purple and crimson fuchsias in her hair and the broken lily in her belt. sir oswald did not notice the latter until dinner was half over. then he said: "why, pauline, with gardens and hothouses full of flowers, have you chosen a broken one?" "to me it is exquisite," she replied. the captain's face darkened for a moment, but he would not take offense. the elegantly appointed table, the seductive dinner, the rare wines, all made an impression on him. he said to himself that there was a good thing offered to him, and that a girl's haughty temper should not stand in his way. he made himself most agreeable, he was all animation, vivacity, and high spirits with sir oswald. he was deferential and attentive to miss hastings, and his manner to pauline left no doubt in the minds of the lookers on that he was completely fascinated by her. she was too proudly indifferent, too haughtily careless, even to resent it. sir oswald darrell was too true a gentleman to offer his niece to any one; but he had given the captain to understand that, if he could woo her and win her, there would be no objection raised on his part. for once in his life captain langton had spoken quite truthfully. "i have nothing," he said; "my father left me but a very moderate fortune, and i have lost the greater part of it. i have not been careful or prudent, sir oswald." "care and prudence are not the virtues of youth," sir oswald returned. "i may say, honestly, i should be glad if your father's son could win my niece; as for fortune, she will be richly dowered if i make her my heiress. only yesterday i heard that coal had been found on my scotch estates, and, if that be true, it will raise my income many thousands per annum." "may you long live to enjoy your wealth, sir oswald!" said the young man, so heartily that tears stood in the old baronet's eyes. but there was one thing the gallant captain did not confess. he did not tell sir oswald darrell--what was really the truth--that he was over head and ears in debt, and that this visit to darrell court was the last hope left to him. chapter x. pauline still incorrigible. sir oswald lingered over his wine. it was not every day that he found a companion so entirely to his taste as captain langton. the captain had a collection of anecdotes of the court, the aristocracy, and the mess-room, that could not be surpassed. he kept his own interest well in view the whole time, making some modest allusions to the frequency with which his society was sought, and the number of ladies who were disposed to regard him favorably. all was narrated with the greatest skill, without the least boasting, and sir oswald, as he listened with delight, owned to himself that, all things considered, he could not have chosen more wisely for his niece. a second bottle of fine old port was discussed, and then sir oswald said: "you will like to go to the drawing-room; the ladies will be there. i always enjoy forty winks after dinner." the prospect of a _tete-a-tete_ with miss darrell did not strike the captain as being a very rapturous one. "she is," he said to himself, "a magnificently handsome girl, but almost too haughty to be bearable. i have never, in all my life, felt so small as i do when she speaks to me or looks at me, and no man likes that sort of thing." but darrell court was a magnificent estate, the large annual income was a sum he had never even dreamed of, and all might be his--sir oswald had said so; his, if he could but win the proud heart of the proudest girl it had ever been his fortune to meet. the stake was well worth going through something disagreeable for. "if she were only like other women," he thought, "i should know how to manage her; but she seems to live in the clouds." the plunge had to be made, so the captain summoned all his courage, and went to the drawing-room. the picture there must have struck the least imaginative of men. miss hastings, calm, elegant, lady-like, in her quiet evening dress of gray silk, was seated near a small stand on which stood a large lamp, by the light of which she was reading. the part of the room near her was brilliantly illuminated. it was a spacious apartment--unusually so even for a large mansion. it contained four large windows, two of which were closed, the gorgeous hangings of white and gold shielding them from view; the other end of the room was in semi-darkness, the brilliant light from the lamp not reaching it--the windows were thrown wide open, and the soft, pale moonlight came in. the evening came in, too, bringing with it the sweet breath of the lilies, the perfume of the roses, the fragrance of rich clover, carnations, and purple heliotropes. faint shadows lay on the flowers, the white silvery light was very peaceful and sweet; the dewdrops shone on the grass--it was the fairest hour of nature's fair day. pauline had gone to the open window. something had made her restless and unquiet; but, standing there, the spell of that beautiful moonlit scene calmed her, and held her fast. with one look at that wonderful sky and its myriad stars, one at the soft moonlight and the white lilies, the fever of life died from her, and a holy calm, sweet fancies, bright thoughts, swept over her like an angel's wing. then she became conscious of a stir in the perfumed air; something less agreeable mingled with the fragrance of the lilies scent of which she did not know the name, but which--some she disliked ever afterward because the captain used it. a low voice that would fain be tender murmured something in her ear; the spell of the moonlight was gone, the quickly thronging poetical fancies had all fled away, the beauty seemed to have left even the sleeping flowers. turning round to him, she said, in a clear voice, every word sounding distinctly: "have the goodness, captain langton, not to startle me again. i do not like any one to come upon me in that unexpected manner." "i was so happy to find you alone," he whispered. "i do not know why that should make you happy. i always behave much better when i am with miss hastings than when i am alone." "you are always charming," he said. "i want to ask you something, miss darrell. be kind, be patient, and listen to me." "i am neither kind nor patient by nature," she returned; "what have you to say?" it was very difficult, he felt, to be sentimental with her. she had turned to the window, and was looking out again at the flowers; one little white hand played impatiently with a branch of guelder roses that came peeping in. "i am jealous of those flowers," said the captain; "will you look at me instead of them?" she raised her beautiful eyes, and looked at him so calmly, with so much conscious superiority in her manner, that the captain felt "smaller" than ever. "you are talking nonsense to me," she said, loftily; "and as i do not like nonsense, will you tell me what you have to say?" the voice was calm and cold, the tones measured and slightly contemptuous; it was very difficult under such circumstances to be an eloquent wooer, but the recollection of darrell court and its large rent-roll came to him and restored his fast expiring courage. "i want to ask a favor of you," he said; and the pleading expression that he managed to throw into his face was really creditable to him. "i want to ask you if you will be a little kinder to me. i admire you so much that i should be the happiest man in all the world if you would but give me ever so little of your friendship." she seemed to consider his words--to ponder them; and from her silence he took hope. "i am quite unworthy, i know; but, if you knew how all my life long i have desired the friendship of a good and noble woman, you would be kinder to me--you would indeed!" "do you think, then, that i am good and noble?" she asked. "i am sure of it; your face----" "i wish," she interrupted, "that sir oswald were of your opinion. you have lived in what people call 'the world' all your life, captain langton, i suppose?" "yes," he replied, wondering what would follow. "you have been in society all that time, yet i am the first 'good and noble woman' you have met! you are hardly complimentary to the sex, after all." the captain was slightly taken aback. "i did not say those exact words, miss darrell." "but you implied them. tell me why you wish for my friendship more than any other. miss hastings is ten thousand times more estimable than i am--why not make her your friend?" "i admire you--i like you. i could say more, but i dare not. you are hard upon me, miss darrell." "i have no wish to be hard," she returned. "who am i that i should be hard upon any one? but, you see, i am unfortunately what people call very plain-spoken--very truthful." "so much the better," said captain langton. "is it? sir oswald says not. if he does not make me his heiress, it will be because i have such an abrupt manner of speaking; he often tells me so." "truth in a beautiful woman," began the captain, sentimentally; but miss darrell again interrupted him--she had little patience with his platitudes. "you say you wish for my friendship because you like me. now, here is the difficulty--i cannot give it to you, because i do not like you." "you do not like me?" cried the captain, hardly able to believe the evidence of his own senses. "you cannot mean it! you are the first person who ever said such a thing!" "perhaps i am not the first who ever thought it; but then, as i tell you, i am very apt to say what i think." "will you tell me why you do not like me?" asked the captain, quietly. he began to see that nothing could be gained in any other fashion. her beautiful face was raised quite calmly to his, her dark eyes were as proudly serene as ever, she was utterly unconscious that she was saying anything extraordinary. "i will tell you with pleasure," she replied. "you seem to me wanting in truth and earnestness; you think people are to be pleased by flattery. you flatter sir oswald, you flatter miss hastings, you flatter me. being agreeable is all very well, but an honest man does not need to flatter--does not think of it, in fact. then, you are either heedless or cruel--i do not know which. why should you kill that beautiful flower that heaven made to enjoy the sunshine, just for one idle moment's wanton sport?" captain langton's face grew perfectly white with anger. "upon my word of honor," he said, "i never heard anything like this!" miss darrell turned carelessly away. "you see," she said, "friendship between us would be rather difficult. but i will not judge too hastily; i will wait a few days, and then decide." she had quitted the room before captain langton had sufficiently recovered from his dismay to answer. chapter xi. how will it end? it was some minutes before captain langton collected himself sufficiently to cross the room and speak to miss hastings. she looked up at him with a smile. "i am afraid you have not had a very pleasant time of it at that end of the room, captain langton," she said; "i was just on the point of interfering." "your pupil is a most extraordinary young lady, miss hastings," he returned; "i have never met with any one more so." miss hastings laughed; there was an expression of great amusement on her face. "she is certainly very original, captain langton; quite different from the pattern young lady of the present day." "she is magnificently handsome," he continued; "but her manners are simply startling." "she has very grand qualities," said miss hastings; "she has a noble disposition and a generous heart, but the want of early training, the mixing entirely with one class of society, has made her very strange." "strange!" cried the captain. "i have never met with any one so blunt, so outspoken, so abrupt, in all my life. she has no notion of repose or polish; i have never been so surprised. i hear sir oswald coming, and really, miss hastings, i feel that i cannot see him; i am not equal to it--that extraordinary girl has quite unsettled me. you might mention that i have gone out in the grounds to smoke my cigar; i cannot talk to any one." miss hastings laughed as he passed out through the open french window into the grounds. sir oswald came in, smiling and contented; he talked for a few minutes with miss hastings, and heard that the captain was smoking his cigar. he expressed to miss hastings his very favorable opinion of the young man, and then bade her good-night. "how will it end?" said the governess to herself. "she will never marry him, i am sure. those proud, clear, dark eyes of hers look through all his little airs and graces; her grand soul seems to understand all the narrowness and selfishness of his. she will never marry him. oh, if she would but be civilized! sir oswald is quite capable of leaving all he has to the captain, and then what would become of pauline?" by this time the gentle, graceful governess had become warmly attached to the beautiful, wayward, willful girl who persisted so obstinately in refusing what she chose to call "polish." "how will it end?" said the governess. "i would give all i have to see pauline mistress of darrell court; but i fear the future." some of the scenes that took place between miss darrell and the captain were very amusing. she had the utmost contempt for his somewhat dandified airs, his graces, and affectations. "i like a grand, rugged, noble man, with the head of a hero, and the brow of a poet, the heart of a lion, and the smile of a child," she said to him one day; "i cannot endure a coxcomb." "i hope you may find such a man, miss darrell," he returned, quietly. "i have been some time in the world, but i have never met with such a character." "i think your world has been a very limited one," she replied, and the captain looked angry. he had certainly hoped and intended to dazzle her with his worldly knowledge, if nothing else. yet how she despised his knowledge, and with what contempt she heard him speak of his various experiences! nothing seemed to jar upon her and to irritate her as did his affectations. she was looking one morning at a very beautifully veined leaf, which she passed over to miss hastings. "is it not wonderful?" she asked; and the captain, with his eye-glass, came to look at it. "are you short-sighted?" she asked him, abruptly. "not in the least," he replied. "is your sight defective?" she continued. "no, not in the least degree." "then why do you use that eye-glass, captain langton?" "i-ah-why, because everybody uses one," he replied. "i thought it was only women who did that kind of thing--followed a fashion for fashion's sake," she said, with some little contempt. the next morning the captain descended without his eye-glass, and miss hastings smiled as she noticed it. another of his affectations was a pretended inability to pronounce his "t's" and "r's." "can you really not speak plainly?" she said to him one day. "most decidedly i can," he replied, wondering what was coming next. "then, why do you call 'rove' 'wove' in that absurd fashion?" the captain's face flushed. "it is a habit i have fallen into, i suppose," he replied. "i must break myself of it." "it is about the most effeminate habit a man can fall into," said miss darrell. "i think that, if i were a soldier, i should delight in clear, plain speaking. i cannot understand why english gentlemen seem to think it fashionable to mutilate their mother tongue." there was no chance of their ever agreeing--they never did even for one single hour. "what are you thinking about, pauline?" asked miss hastings one day. her young pupil had fallen into a reverie over "the history of the peninsular war." "i am thinking," she replied, "that, although france boasts so much of her military glory, england has a superior army; her soldiers are very brave; her officers the truest gentlemen." "i am glad to hear that you think so. i have often wondered if you would take our guest as a sample." her beautiful lips curled with unutterable contempt. "certainly not. i often contrast him with a captain lafosse, who used to visit us in the rue d'orme, a grand man with a brown, rugged face, and great brown hands. captain langton is a coxcomb--neither more nor less, miss hastings." "but he is polished, refined, elegant in his manner and address, which, perhaps, your friend with the brown, rugged face was not." "we shall not agree, miss hastings, we shall not agree. i do not like captain langton." the governess, remembering all that sir oswald wished, tried in vain to represent their visitor in a more favorable light. miss darrell simply looked haughty and unconvinced. "i am years younger than you," she said, at last, "and have seen nothing of what you call 'life'; but the instinct of my own heart tells me that he is false in heart, in mind, in soul; he has a false, flattering tongue, false lips, false principles--we will not speak of him." miss hastings looked at her sadly. "do you not think that in time, perhaps, you may like him better?" "no," was the blunt reply, "i do not. i told him that i did not like him, but that i would take some time to consider whether he was to be a friend of mine or not; and the conclusion i have arrived at is, that i could not endure his friendship." "when did you tell him that you did not like him?" asked miss hastings, gravely. "i think it was the first night he came," she replied. miss hastings looked relieved. "did he say anything else to you, pauline?" she asked, gently. "no; what should he say? he seemed very much surprised, i suppose, as he says most people like him. but i do not, and never shall." one thing was certain, the captain was falling most passionately in love with miss darrell. her grand beauty, her pride, her originality, all seemed to have an irresistible charm for him. chapter xii. elinor rocheford. it was a morning in august, when a gray mist hung over the earth, a mist that resulted from the intense heat, and through which trees, flowers, and fountains loomed faintly like shadows. the sun showed his bright face at intervals, but, though he withheld his gracious presence, the heat and warmth were great; the air was laden with perfume, and the birds were all singing as though they knew that the sun would soon reappear. one glance at her pupil's face showed miss hastings there was not much to be done in the way of study. pauline wanted to watch the mist rise from the hills and trees. she wanted to see the sunbeams grow bright and golden. "let us read under the lime trees, miss hastings," she said, and captain langton smiled approval. for the time was come when he followed her like her shadow; when he could not exist out of her presence; when his passionate love mastered him, and brought him, a very slave, to her feet; when the hope of winning her was dearer to him than life itself; when he would have sacrificed even darrell court for the hope of calling her his wife. if she knew of his passion, she made no sign; she never relaxed from her haughty, careless indifference; she never tried in the least to make herself agreeable to him. sir oswald watched her with keen eyes, and miss hastings trembled lest misfortune should come upon the girl she was learning to love so dearly. she saw and understood that the baronet was slowly but surely making up his mind; if pauline married the captain, he would make her his heiress; if not, she would never inherit darrell court. on this august morning they formed a pretty group under the shadowy, graceful limes. miss hastings held in her hands some of the fine fancy work which delights ladies; the captain reclined on a tiger-skin rug on the grass, looking very handsome, for, whatever might be his faults of mind, he was one of the handsomest men in england. pauline, as usual, was beautiful, graceful, and piquant, wearing a plain morning dress of some gray material--a dress which on any one else would have looked plain, but which she had made picturesque and artistic by a dash of scarlet--and a pomegranate blossom in her hair. her lovely face looked more than usually noble under the influence of the words she was reading. "tennyson again!" said the captain, as she opened the book. "it is to be regretted that the poet cannot see you, miss darrell, and know how highly you appreciate his works." she never smiled nor blushed at his compliments, as she had seen other girls do. she had a fashion of fixing her bright eyes on him, and after one glance he generally was overcome with confusion before his compliment was ended. . "i should not imagine that anything i could say would flatter a poet," she replied, thoughtfully. "indeed he is, i should say, as far above blame as praise." then, without noticing him further, she went on reading. captain langton's eyes never left her face; its pale, grand beauty glowed and changed, the dark eyes grew radiant, the beautiful lips quivered with emotion. he thought to himself that a man might lay down his life and every hope in it to win such love as hers. suddenly she heard the sound of voices, and looking up saw sir oswald escorting two ladies. "what a tiresome thing!" grumbled the captain. "we can never be alone a single hour." "i thought you enjoyed society so much!" she said. "i am beginning to care for no society on earth but yours," he whispered, his face flushing, while she turned haughtily away. "you are proud," murmured the captain to himself--"you are as haughty as you are beautiful; but i will win you yet." then sir oswald, with his visitors, advanced. it was pauline's aversion, lady hampton, with her niece, miss rocheford. lady hampton advanced in her usual grave, artificial manner. "sir oswald wanted to send for you, but i said 'no.' what can be more charming than such a group under the trees? i am so anxious to introduce my niece to you, miss darrell--she arrived only yesterday. elinor, let me introduce you to miss darrell, miss hastings, and captain langton." pauline's dark eyes glanced at the blushing, sweet face, and the shrinking graceful figure. miss hastings made her welcome; and the captain, stroking his mustache, thought himself in luck for knowing two such pretty girls. there could not have been a greater contrast than pauline darrell and elinor rocheford. pauline was dark, proud, beautiful, passionate, haughty, and willful, yet with a poet's soul and a grand mind above all worldliness, all meanness, all artifice. elinor was timid, shrinking, graceful, lovely, with a delicate, fairy-like beauty, yet withal keenly alive to the main chance, and never forgetting her aunt's great maxim--to make the best of everything for herself. on this warm august morning miss rocheford wore a charming gossamer costume of lilac and white, with the daintiest of parisian hats on her golden head. her gloves, shoes, laces, parasol, were perfection--not a fold was out of place, not a ribbon awry--contrasting most forcibly with the grand, picturesque girl near her. lady hampton seated herself, and miss rocheford did the same. sir oswald suggesting how very refreshing grapes and peaches would be on so warm a morning, captain langton volunteered to go and order some. lady hampton watched him as he walked away. "what a magnificent man, sir oswald! what a fine clever face! it is easy to see that he is a military man--he is so upright, so easy; there is nothing like a military training for giving a man an easy, dignified carriage. i think i understood that he was the son of a very old friend of yours?" "the son of the dearest friend i ever had in the world," was the reply; "and i love him as though he were my own--indeed i wish he were." lady hampton sighed and looked sympathetic. "langton," she continued, in a musing tone--"is he one of the langtons of orde?" "no," replied sir oswald; "my dear old friend was of a good family, but not greatly blessed by fortune." it was wonderful to see how lady hampton's interest in the captain at once died out; there was no more praise, no more admiration for him. if she had discovered that he was heir to an earldom, how different it would have been! before long the captain returned, and then a rustic table was spread under the lime trees, with purple grapes, peaches, crimson and gold apricots, and ruby plums. "it's quite picturesque," lady hampton declared, with a smile; "and elinor, dear child, enjoys fruit so much." in spite of lady hampton's wish, there did not appear to be much cordiality between the two girls. occasionally elinor would look at the captain, who was not slow to return her glances with interest. his eyes said plainly that he thought her very lovely. miss rocheford was in every respect the model of a well brought up young lady. she knew that the grand end and aim of her existence was to marry well--she never forgot that. she was well-born, well-bred, beautiful, accomplished, but without fortune. from her earliest girlhood lady hampton had impressed upon her the duty of marrying money. "you have everything else, elinor," she was accustomed to say. "you must marry for title and money." miss rocheford knew it. she had no objection to her fate--she was quite passive over it--but she did hope at times that the man who had the title and money would be young, handsome, and agreeable. if he were not, she could not help it, but she hoped he would be. lady hampton had recently become a widow. in her youth she had felt some little hope of being mistress of darrell court; but that hope had soon died. now, however, that a niece was thrown upon her hands, she took heart of grace in another respect; for sir oswald was not an old man. it was true his hair was white, but he was erect, dignified, and, in lady hampton's opinion, more interesting than a handsome young man, who would think of nothing but himself. if he would be but sensible, and, instead of adopting that proud, unformed girl, marry, how much better it would be! she knew that her niece was precisely the style that he admired--elegant, delicate, utterly incapable of any originality, ready at any moment to yield her opinions and ideas, ready to do implicitly as she was told, to believe in the superiority of her husband--a model woman, in short, after sir oswald's own heart. she saw that the baronet was much struck with elinor; she knew that in his own mind he was contrasting the two girls--the graceful timidity of the one, her perfect polish of manner, with the brusque independence and terribly plain-spoken fashion of the other. "it would be ten thousand pities," said lady hampton to herself, "to see that girl mistress of darrell court. she would make a good queen for the sandwich islands. before i go, i must open sir oswald's eyes, and give him a few useful hints." chapter xiii. sir oswald thinks of marriage. fortune favored lady hampton. sir oswald was so delighted with his visitors that he insisted upon their remaining for luncheon. "the young ladies will have time to become friends," he said; but it was well that he did not see how contemptuously pauline turned away at the words. "pauline," he continued, "miss rocheford will like to see the grounds. this is her first visit to darrell court. show her the fountains and the flower-gardens." elinor looked up with a well-assumed expression of rapture; pauline's look of annoyance indicated that she obeyed greatly against her will. sir oswald saw the captain looking wistfully after the two girlish figures. "go," he said, with a courtly smile. "young people like to be together. i will entertain lady hampton." greatly relieved, the captain followed. he was so deeply and so desperately in love that he could not endure to see pauline darrell talking even to the girl by her side. he would fain have engrossed every word, every glance of hers himself; he was madly jealous when such were bestowed upon others. the three walked down the broad cedar path together, the captain all gallant attention, miss rocheford all sweetness, pauline haughty as a young barbaric queen bound by a conqueror's chains. she did not like her companions, and did not even make a feint of being civil to them. meanwhile the opportunity so longed for by lady hampton had arrived; and the lady seized it with alacrity. she turned to sir oswald with a smile. "you amuse me," she said, "by giving yourself such an air of age. why do you consider yourself so old, sir oswald? if it were not that i feared to flatter you, i should say that there were few young men to compare with you." "my dear lady hampton," returned the baronet, in a voice that was not without pathos, "look at this." he placed his thin white hand upon his white hair. lady hampton laughed again. "what does that matter? why, many men are gray even in their youth. i have always wondered why you seek to appear so old, sir oswald. i feel sure, judging from many indications, that you cannot be sixty." "no; but i am over fifty--and my idea is that, at fifty, one is really old." "nothing of the kind!" she said, with great energy. "some of the finest men i have known were only in the prime of life then. if you were seventy, you might think of speaking as you do. sir oswald," she asked, abruptly, looking keenly at his face, "why have you never married?" he smiled, but a flush darkened the fine old face. "i was in love once," he replied, simply, "and only once. the lady was young and fair. she loved me in return. but a few weeks before our marriage she was suddenly taken ill and died. i have never even thought of replacing her." "how sad! what sort of a lady was she, sir oswald--this fair young love of yours?" "strange to say, in face, figure, and manner she somewhat resembled your lovely young niece, lady hampton. she had the same quiet, graceful manner, the same polished grace--so different from----" "from miss darrell," supplied the lady, promptly. "how that unfortunate girl must jar upon you!" "she does; but there are times when i have hopes of her. we are talking like old friends now, lady hampton. i may tell you that i think there is one and only one thing that can redeem my niece, and that is love. love works wonders sometimes, and i have hopes that it may do so in her case. a grand master-passion such as controls the darrells when they love at all--that would redeem her. it would soften that fierce pride and hauteur, it would bring her to the ordinary level of womanhood; it would cure her of many of the fantastic ideas that seem to have taken possession of her; it would make her--what she certainly is not now--a gentlewoman." "do you think so?" queried lady hampton, doubtfully. "i am sure of it. when i look at that grand face of hers, often so defiant, i think to myself that she may be redeemed by love." "and if this grand master-passion does not come to her--if she cares for some one only after the ordinary fashion of women--what then?" he threw up his hands with a gesture indicative of despair. "or," continued lady hampton--"pray pardon me for suggesting such a thing, sir oswald, but people of the world, like you and myself, know what odd things are likely at any time to happen--supposing that she should marry some commonplace lover, after a commonplace fashion, and that then the master-passion should find her out, what would be the fate of darrell court?" "i cannot tell," replied sir oswald, despairingly. "with a person, especially a young girl, of her self-willed, original, independent nature, one is never safe. how thankful i am that my niece is so sweet and so womanly!" sir oswald sat for some little time in silence. he looked on this fair ancestral home of his, with its noble woods and magnificent gardens. what indeed would become of it if it fell into the ill-disciplined hands of an ill-disciplined girl--unless, indeed, she were subject to the control of a wise husband? would pauline ever submit to such control? her pale, grand face rose before him, the haughty lips, the proud, calm eyes--the man who mastered her, who brought her mind into subjection, would indeed be a superior being. for the first time a doubt crossed sir oswald's mind as to whether she would ever recognize that superior being in captain langton. he knew that there were depths in the girl's nature beyond his own reach. it was not all pride, all defiance--there were genius, poetry, originality, grandeur of intellect, and greatness of heart before which the baronet knew that he stood in hopeless, helpless awe. lady hampton laid her hand on his arm. "do not despond, old friend," she said. "i understand you. i should feel like you. i should dread to leave the inheritance of my fathers in such dangerous hands. but, sir oswald, why despond? why not marry?" the baronet started. "marry!" he repeated. "why, i have never thought of such a thing." "think of it now," counseled the lady, laughingly; "you will find the advice most excellent. instead of tormenting yourself about an ill-conditioned girl, who delights in defying you, you can have an amiable, accomplished, elegant, and gentle wife to rule your household and attend to your comfort--you might have a son of your own to succeed you, and darrell court might yet remain in the hands of the darrells." "but, my dear lady hampton, where should i find such a wife? i am no longer young--who would marry me?" "any sensible girl in england. take my advice, sir oswald. let us have a lady darrell, and not an ill-trained girl who will delight in setting the world at defiance. indeed, i consider that marriage is a duty which you owe to society and to your race." "i have never thought of it. i have always considered myself as having, so to speak, finished with life." "you have made a great mistake, but it is one that fortunately can be remedied." lady hampton rose from her seat, and walked a few steps forward. "i have put his thoughts in the right groove," she mused; "but i ought to say a word about elinor." she turned to him again. "you ask me who would marry you. why, sir oswald, in england there are hundreds of girls, well-bred, elegant, graceful, gentle, like my niece, who would ask nothing better from fortune than a husband like yourself." she saw her words take effect. she had turned his thoughts and ideas in the right direction at last. "shall we go and look after our truants?" she asked, suavely. and they walked together down the path where pauline had so indignantly gathered the broken lily. as though unconsciously, lady hampton began to speak of her niece. "i have adopted elinor entirely," she said--"indeed there was no other course for me to pursue. her mother was my youngest sister; she has been dead many years. elinor has been living with her father, but he has just secured a government appointment abroad, and i asked him to give his daughter to me." "it was very kind of you," observed sir oswald. "nay, the kindness is on her part, not on mine. she is like a sunbeam in my house. fair, gentle, a perfect lady, she has not one idea that is not in itself innately refined and delicate. i knew that if she went into society at all she would soon marry." "is there any probability of that?" asked sir oswald. "no, for by her own desire we shall live very quietly this year. she wished to see darrell court and its owner--we have spoken so much of you--but with that exception we shall go nowhere." "i hope she is pleased with darrell court," said sir oswald. "how could she fail to be, as well as delighted with its hospitable master? i could read that much in her pretty face. here they are, sir oswald--miss darrell alone, looking very dignified--elinor, with your friend. ah, she knows how to choose friends!" they joined the group, but miss darrell was in one of her most dignified moods. she had been forced to listen to a fashionable conversation between captain langton and miss rocheford, and her indignation and contempt had got the better of her politeness. they all partook of luncheon together, and then the visitors departed; not, however, until lady hampton had accepted from sir oswald an invitation to spend a week at darrell court. sir francis and lady allroy were coming--the party would be a very pleasant one; and sir oswald said he would give a grand ball in the course of the week--a piece of intelligence which delighted the captain and miss rocheford greatly. then lady hampton and her niece set out. sir oswald held elinor's hand rather longer than strict etiquette required. "how like she is to my dead love!" he thought, and his adieu was more than cordial. as they drove home, lady hampton gazed at her niece with a look of triumph. "you have a splendid chance, elinor," she said; "no girl ever had a better. what do you think of darrell court?" "it is a palace, aunt--a magnificent, stately palace. i have never seen anything like it before." "it may be yours if you play your cards well, my dear." "how?" cried the girl. "i thought it was to be miss darrell's. every one says she is her uncle's heiress." "people need not make too sure of it. i do not think so. with a little management, sir oswald will propose to you, i am convinced." the girl's face fell. "but, aunt, he is so old." "he is only just fifty, elinor. no girl in her senses would ever call that old. it is just the prime of life." "i like captain langton so much the better," she murmured. "i have no doubt that you do, my dear; but there must be no nonsense about liking or disliking. sir oswald's income must be quite twenty thousand per annum, and if you manage well, all that may be yours. but you must place yourself under my directions, and do implicitly what i tell you, if so desirable a result is to be achieved." chapter xiv. pauline's love for darrell court. miss darrell preserved a dignified silence during dinner; but when the servants had withdrawn, sir oswald, who had been charmed with his visitors, said: "i am delighted, pauline, that you have secured a young lady friend. you will be pleased with miss rocheford." pauline made no reply; and sir oswald, never thinking that it was possible for one so gentle and lovely as miss rocheford to meet with anything but the warmest praise, continued: "i consider that lady hampton has done us all a great favor in bringing her charming niece with her. were you not delighted with her, pauline?" miss darrell made no haste to reply; but sir oswald evidently awaited an answer. "i do not like miss rocheford," she said at length; "it would be quite useless to pretend that i do." miss hastings looked up in alarm. captain langton leaned back in his chair, with a smile on his lips--he always enjoyed pauline's "scenes" when her anger was directed against any one but himself; sir oswald's brow darkened. "pray, miss darrell, may i ask why you do not like her?" "certainly. i do not like her for the same reason that i should not like a diet of sugar. miss rocheford is very elegant and gentle, but she has no opinions of her own; every wind sways her; she has no ideas, no force of character. it is not possible for me to really like such a person." "but, my dear pauline," interposed miss hastings, "you should not express such very decided opinions; you should be more reticent, more tolerant." "if i am not to give my opinion," said pauline, serenely, "i should not be asked for it." "pray, miss hastings, do not check such delightful frankness," cried sir oswald, angrily, his hands trembling, his face darkening with an angry frown. he said no more; but the captain, who thought he saw a chance of recommending himself to miss darrell's favor, observed, later on in the evening: "i knew you would not like our visitor, miss darrell. she was not of the kind to attract you." "sir oswald forced my opinion from me," she said; "but i shall not listen to one word of disparagement of miss rocheford from you, captain langton. you gave her great attention, you flattered her, you paid her many compliments; and now, if you say that you dislike her, it will simply be deceitful, and i abominate deceit." it was plain that pauline had greatly annoyed sir oswald. he liked miss rocheford very much; the sweet, yielding, gentle disposition, which pauline had thought so monotonous, delighted him. miss rocheford was so like that lost, dead love of his--so like! and for this girl, who tried his patience every hour of the day, to find fault with her! it was too irritating; he could not endure it. he was very cold and distant to pauline for some time, but the young girl was serenely unconscious of it. in one respect she was changing rapidly. the time had been when she had been indifferent to darrell court, when she had thought with regret of the free, happy life in the rue d'orme, where she could speak lightly of the antiquity and grandeurs of the race from which she had sprung; but all that was altered now. it could not be otherwise, considering how romantic, how poetical, how impressionable she was, how keenly alive to everything beautiful and noble. she was living here in the very cradle of the race, where every tree had its legend, every stone its story; how could she be indifferent while the annals of her house were filled with noble retrospects? the darrells had numbered great warriors and statesmen among their number. some of the noblest women in england had been darrells; and pauline had learned to glory in the old stories, and to feel her heart beat with pride as she remembered that she, too, was a darrell. so, likewise, she had grown to love the court for its picturesque beauty, its stately magnificence, and the time came soon when almost every tree and shrub was dear to her. it was pauline's nature to love deeply and passionately if she loved at all; there was no lukewarmness about her. she was incapable of those gentle, womanly likings that save all wear and tear of passion. she could not love in moderation; and very soon the love of darrell court became a passion with her. she sketched the mansion from twenty different points of view, she wrote verses about it; she lavished upon it the love which some girls lavish upon parents, brothers, sisters, and friends. she stood one day looking at it as the western sunbeams lighted it up until it looked as though it were bathed in gold. the stately towers and turrets, the flower-wreathed balconies, the grand arched windows, the gothic porch, all made up a magnificent picture; the fountains were playing in the sunlit air, the birds singing in the stately trees. she turned to miss hastings, and the governess saw tears standing warm and bright in the girl's eyes. "how beautiful it is!" she said. "i cannot tell you--i have no words to tell you--how i love my home." the heart of the gentle lady contracted with sudden fear. "it is very beautiful," she said; "but, pauline, do not love it too much; remember how very uncertain everything is." "there can be nothing uncertain about my inheritance," returned the girl. "i am a darrell--the only darrell left to inherit it. and, oh! miss hastings, how i love it! but it is not for its wealth that i love it; it is my heart that is bound to it. i love it as i can fancy a husband loves his wife, a mother her child. it is everything to me." "still," said miss hastings, "i would not love it too well; everything is so uncertain." "but not that," replied pauline, quickly. "my uncle would never dare to be so unjust as to leave darrell court to any one but a darrell. i am not in the least afraid--not in the least." chapter xv. breach between uncle and niece. a few days later the tranquillity of darrell court was at an end. the invited guests were expected, and sir oswald had determined to do them all honor. the state-apartments, which had not been used during his tenure, were all thrown open; the superb ball-room, once the pride of the county, was redecorated; the long, empty corridors and suites of apartments reserved for visitors, were once more full of life. miss hastings was the presiding genius; pauline darrell took far less interest in the preparations. "i am glad," she said, one morning, "that i am to see your 'world,' sir oswald. you despise mine; i shall be anxious to see what yours is like." the baronet answered her testily: "i do not quite understand your remarks about 'worlds.' surely we live under the same conditions." "not in the same world of people," she opposed; "and i am anxious to see what yours is like." "what do you expect to find in what you are pleased to call my world, pauline?" he asked, angrily. "little truth, and plenty of affectation; little honor, and plenty of polish; little honesty, and very high-sounding words; little sincerity, and plenty of deceit." "by what right do you sit in judgment?" he demanded. "none at all," replied pauline; "but as people are always speaking ill of the dear, honest world in which i have lived, i may surely be permitted to criticise the world that is outside it." sir oswald turned away angrily; and miss hastings sighed over the girl's willfulness. "why do you talk to sir oswald in a fashion that always irritates him?" she remonstrated. "we live in a free country, and have each of us freedom of speech." "i am afraid the day will come when you will pay a sad price for yours." but pauline darrell only laughed. such fears never affected her; she would sooner have expected to see the heavens fall at her feet than that sir oswald should not leave darrell court to her--his niece, a darrell, with the darrell face and the darrell figure, the true, proud features of the race. he would never dare to do otherwise, she thought, and she would not condescend to change either her thought or speech to please him. "the darrells do not know fear," she would say; "there never yet was an example of a darrell being frightened into anything." so the breach between the uncle and the niece grew wider every day. he could not understand her; the grand, untrained, undisciplined, poetical nature was beyond him--he could neither reach its heights nor fathom its depths. there were times when he thought that, despite her outward coldness and pride, there was within a soul of fire, when he dimly understood the magnificence of the character he could not read, when he suspected there might be some souls that could not be narrowed or forced into a common groove. nevertheless he feared her; he was afraid to trust, not the honor, but the fame of his race to her. "she is capable of anything," he would repeat to himself again and again. "she would fling the darrell revenues to the wind; she would transform darrell court into one huge observatory, if astronomy pleased her--into one huge laboratory, if she gave herself to chemistry. one thing is perfectly clear to me--she can never be my heiress until she is safely married." and, after great deliberation--after listening to all his heart's pleading in favor of her grace, her beauty, her royal generosity of character, the claim of her name and her truth--he came to the decision that if she would marry captain langton, whom he loved perhaps better than any one else in the world, he would at once make his will, adopt her, and leave her heiress of all that he had in the world. one morning the captain confided in him, telling him how dearly he loved his beautiful niece, and then sir oswald revealed his intentions. "you understand, aubrey," he said--"the girl is magnificently beautiful--she is a true darrell; but i am frightened about her. she is not like other girls; she is wanting in tact, in knowledge of the world, and both are essential. i hope you will win her. i shall die content if i leave darrell court in your hands, and if you are her husband. i could not pass her over to make you my heir; but if you can persuade her to marry you, you can take the name of darrell, and you can guide and direct her. what do you say, aubrey?" "what do i say?" stammered the captain. "i say this--that i love her so dearly that i would marry her if she had not a farthing. i love her so that language cannot express the depth of my affection for her." the captain was for a few minutes quite overcome--he had been so long dunned for money, so hardly pressed, so desperate, that the chance of twenty thousand a year and darrell court was almost too much for him. his brow grew damp, and his lips pale. all this might be his own if he could but win the consent of this girl. yet he feared her; the proud, noble face, the grand, dark eyes rose before him, and seemed to rebuke him for his presumptuous hope. how was he to win her? flattery, sweet, soft words would never do it. one scornful look from her sent his ideas "flying right and left." "if she were only like other girls," he thought, "i could make her my wife in a few weeks." then he took heart of grace. had he not been celebrated for his good fortune among the fair sex? had he not always found his handsome person, his low, tender voice, his pleasing manner irresistible? who was this proud, dark-eyed girl that she should measure the depths of his heart and soul, and find them wanting? surely he must be superior to the artists in shabby coats by whom she had been surrounded. and yet he feared as much as he hoped. "she has such a way of making me feel small," he said to himself; "and if that kind of feeling comes over me when i am making her an offer, it will be of no use to plead my suit." but what a prospect--master of darrell court and twenty thousand per annum! he would endure almost any humiliation to obtain that position. "she must have me," he said to himself--"she shall have me! i will force her to be my wife!" why, if he could but announce his engagement to miss darrell, he could borrow as much money as would clear off all his liabilities! and how much he needed money no one knew better than himself. he had paid this visit to the court because there were two writs out against him in london, and, unless he could come to some settlement of them, he knew what awaited him. and all--fortune, happiness, wealth, freedom, prosperity--depended on one word from the proud lips that had hardly ever spoken kindly to him. he loved her, too--loved her with a fierce, desperate love that at times frightened himself. "i should like you," said sir oswald, at the conclusion of their interview, "to have the matter settled as soon as you can; because, i tell you, frankly, if my niece does not consent to marry you, i shall marry myself. all my friends are eagerly solicitous for me to do so; they do not like the prospect of seeing a grand old inheritance like this fall into the hands of a willful, capricious girl. but i tell you in confidence, aubrey, i do not wish to marry. i am a confirmed old bachelor now, and it would be a sad trouble to me to have my life changed by marriage. still i would rather marry than that harm should come to darrell court." "certainly," agreed the captain. "i do not mind telling you still further that i have seen a lady whom, if i marry at all, i should like to make my wife--in fact, she resembles some one i used to know long years ago. i have every reason to believe she is much admired and sought after; so that i want you to settle your affairs as speedily as possible. mind, aubrey, they must be settled--there must be no deferring, no putting off; you must have an answer--yes or no--very shortly; and you must not lose an hour in communicating that answer to me." "i hope it will be a favorable one," said aubrey langton; but his mind misgave him. he had an idea that the girl had found him wanting; he could not forget her first frank declaration that she did not like him. "if she refuses me, have i your permission to tell miss darrell the alternative?" he asked of sir oswald. the baronet thought deeply for some minutes, and then said: "yes; it is only fair and just that she should know it--that she should learn that if she refuses you she loses all chance of being my heiress. but do not say anything of the lady i have mentioned." the visitors were coming on tuesday, and thursday was the day settled for the ball. "all girls like balls," thought captain langton. "pauline is sure to be in a good temper then, and i will ask her on thursday night." but he owned to himself that he would rather a thousand times have faced a whole battalion of enemies than ask pauline darrell to be his wife. chapter xvi. the queen of the ball. it was many years since darrell court had been so gay. sir oswald had resolved that the ball should be one that should reflect credit on the giver and the guests. he had ordered a fine band of music and a magnificent banquet. the grounds were to be illuminated, colored lamps being placed among the trees; the ball-room was a gorgeous mass of brilliant bloom--tier after tier of magnificent flowers was ranged along the walls, white statues gleaming from the bright foliage, and little fountains here and there sending up their fragrant spray. sir oswald had sent to london for some one to superintend the decorations; but they were not perfected until miss darrell, passing through, suggested first one alteration, and then another, until the originators, recognizing her superior artistic judgment and picturesque taste, deferred to her, and then the decorations became a magnificent work of art. sir oswald declared himself delighted, and the captain's praises were unmeasured. then, and then only, miss darrell began to feel some interest in the ball; her love of beauty was awakened and pleased--there was something more in the event than the mere gratification of seeing people dance. the expected visitors had arrived on the tuesday--lady hampton, radiant with expected victory; elinor, silent, thoughtful, and more gentle than ever, and consequently more pleasing. lady hampton was delighted with the idea of the ball. "you must make a bold stroke for a husband on that evening, elinor," she said. "you shall have a superb dress, and i shall quite expect you to receive and accept an offer from sir oswald." elinor rocheford raised her eyes. there was something wistful in their expression. "oh, aunt," she said, "i like the captain so much better!" lady hampton did not lose her good humor--elinor was not the first refractory girl she had brought to her senses. "never mind about liking the captain, my dear; that is only natural. he is not in love with you. i can see through the whole business. if darrell court goes to miss darrell, he will marry her. he can marry no girl without money, because he is, i know, over head and ears in debt. major penryn was speaking of him to-day. the only way to prevent his marriage with miss darrell is for you to take sir oswald yourself." elinor's face flushed. lady hampton certainly understood the art of evoking the worst feelings. jealousy, envy, and dislike stirred faintly in the gentle heart of her niece. "i hope you will do your very best to win sir oswald's affections," continued lady hampton, "for i should not like to see darrell court fall into the hands of that proud girl." "nor should i," assented miss rocheford. the evening of the ball arrived at last, and lady hampton stood like a fairy godmother in elinor's dressing-room, superintending the toilet that was to work such wonders. lady hampton herself looked very imposing in her handsome dress of black velvet and point lace, with diamond ornaments. elinor's dress was a triumph of art. her fresh, fair, gentle loveliness shone to perfection, aided by her elaborate costume of white silk and white lace, trimmed with green and silver leaves. the ornaments were all of silver--both fringe and leaves; the headdress was a green wreath with silver flowers. nothing could have been more elegant and effective. there was a gentle flush on the fair face and a light in the blue eyes. "that will do, elinor," said lady hampton, complacently. "your dress is perfection. i have no fear now--you will have no rival." perhaps lady hampton had never disliked pauline darrell more than on that night, for the magnificent beauty of the girl had never been so apparent. sir oswald had given his niece _carte blanche_ in respect to preparation for the ball, but she had not at first taken sufficient interest in the matter to send to london, as he wished, for a dress. later on she had gone to the large wardrobe, where the treasures accumulated by the ladies darrell lay. such shining treasures of satin, velvet, silk, cashmere, and such profusion of laces and ornaments were there! she selected a superb costume--a magnificent amber brocade, embroidered with white flowers, gorgeous, beautiful, artistic. it was a dress that had been made for some former lady darrell. how well it became her! the amber set off her dark beauty as a golden frame does a rich picture. the dress required but little alteration; it was cut square, showing the white, stately, graceful neck, and the sleeves hung after the grecian fashion, leaving the round, white arms bare. the light shining upon the dress changed with every movement; it was as though the girl was enveloped in sunbeams. every lady present envied that dress, and pronounced it to be gorgeous beyond comparison. pauline's rich curls of dark hair were studded with diamond stars, and a diamond necklace clasped her white throat--this was sir oswald's present. her artistic taste had found yet further scope; for she had enhanced the beauty of her dress by the addition of white daphnes shrouded in green leaves. sir oswald looked at her in admiration--her magnificent beauty, her queenly figure, her royal grace and ease of movement, her splendid costume, all impressed him. from every fold of her shining dress came a rich, sweet, subtle perfume; her usually pale face had on it an unwonted flush of delicate rose-leaf color. "if she would but be like that sweet elinor!" thought sir oswald. "i could not wish for a more beautiful mistress for darrell court." she stood by his side while he received his guests, and her dignified ease delighted him. "had she been some eastern queen," he thought, "her eccentricities would have hurt no one. as it is----" and sir oswald concluded his sentence by a grave shake of the head. the captain, pleased with miss rocheford's graceful loveliness, had been amusing himself by paying her some very choice compliments, and she was delighted with them. "if sir oswald were only like him!" she thought; and aubrey langton, meeting the timid, gentle glance, said to himself that he must be careful--he had no wish to win the girl's heart--he should be quite at a loss to know what to do with it. when he saw pauline his courage almost failed him. "how am i to ask that magnificent girl to marry me?" he said. sir oswald had expressed a wish that aubrey and pauline would open the ball; it would give people an idea of what he wished, he thought, and prevent other gentlemen from "turning her head" by paying her any marked attention. yet he knew how difficult it would be for any one to win pauline's regard. she made no objection when he expressed his wish to her, but she did not look particularly pleased. captain langton understood the art of dancing better perhaps than the art of war; he was perfect in it--even pauline avowed it. with him dancing was the very poetry of motion. the flowers, the lights, the sweet, soft music, the fragrance, the silvery sound of laughter, the fair faces and shining jewels of the ladies, all stirred and warmed pauline's imagination; they brought bright and vivid fancies to her, and touched the poetical beauty-loving soul. a glow came over her face, a light into her proud, dark eyes, her lips were wreathed in smiles--no one had ever seen pauline so beautiful before. "you enjoy this, do you not?" said aubrey langton, as he watched her beautiful face. "i shall do so," she replied, "very much indeed;" and at what those words implied the captain's courage fell to zero. he saw how many admiring eyes followed her; he knew that all the gentlemen in the room were envying him his position with miss darrell. he knew that, pretty as some of the girls were, pauline outshone them as the sun outshines the stars; and he knew that she was queen of the _fete_--queen of the ball. "this is the first time you have met many of the county people, is it not?" he asked. she looked round indifferently. "yes, it is the first time," she replied. "do you admire any of the men? i know how different your taste is from that of most girls. is there any one here who has pleased you?" she laughed. "i cannot tell," she answered; "you forget this is the first dance. i have had no opportunity of judging." "i believe that i am jealous already," he observed. she looked at him; her dark eyes made his heart beat, they seemed to look through him. "you are what?" she asked. "captain langton, i do not understand." he dared not repeat the words. "i wish," he said, with a deep sigh, "that i had all the talent and all the wealth in the world." "for what reason?" she inquired. "because you would care for me then." "because of your talent and wealth!" she exclaimed. "no, that i should not." "but i thought you admired talent so much," he said, in surprise. "so i do; but mere talent would never command my respect, nor mere wealth." "the two together might," he suggested. "no. you would not understand me, captain langton, were i to explain. now this dance is over, and i heard you engage miss rocheford for the next." "and you," he said, gloomily--"what are you going to do?" "to enjoy myself," she replied; and, from the manner in which her face brightened when he left her, the captain feared she was pleased to be quit of him. chapter xvii. pauline's bright fancies. the ball at darrell court was a brilliant success. sir oswald was delighted, lady hampton complimented him so highly. "this is just as it ought to be, sir oswald," she said. "one who can give such entertainments as this should not think of retiring from a world he is so well qualified to adorn. confess, now, that under the influence of that music you could dance yourself." sir oswald laughed. "i must plead guilty," he said. "how beautiful miss rocheford looks to-night!" "it is well for you, sir oswald, that you have not heard all the compliments that the dear child has lavished on you; they would have made you vain." sir oswald's face brightened with pleasure. "is your niece pleased? i am very glad indeed. it was more to give her pleasure than from any other motive that i gave the ball." "then you have succeeded perfectly. now, sir oswald, do you not see that what i said was true--that an establishment like this requires a mistress? darrell court always led the hospitalities of the county. it is only since no lady has lived here that it has fallen into the background." "it shall be in the background no longer," said sir oswald. "i think my first ball is a very successful one. how happy everybody looks!" but of all that brilliant company, pauline darrell was queen. there were men present who would have given anything for one smile from her lips. they admired her, they thought her beautiful beyond comparison, but they did not feel quite at ease with her. she was somewhat beyond them; they did not understand her. she did not blush, and glow, and smile when they said pretty things to her. when they gave her their most brilliant small-talk, she had nothing to give them in return. a soul quite different from theirs looked at them out of her dark, proud eyes. they said to themselves that she was very beautiful, but that she required softening, and that something lovable and tender was wanting in her. she was a queen to be worshiped, an empress to receive all homage, but not a woman to be loved. so they thought who were not even capable of judging such capacity for love as hers. she was also not popular with the ladies. they thought her very superb; they admired her magnificent dress; but they pronounced her proud and reserved. they said she gave herself airs, that she took no pains to make friends; and they did not anticipate any very great rejoicings when darrell court should belong to her. the elder ladies pronounced that judgment on her; the younger ones shrank abashed, and were slightly timid in her presence. sir oswald, it was noticed, led miss rocheford in to supper, and seemed to pay her very great attention. some of the ladies made observations, but others said it was all nonsense; if sir oswald had ever intended to marry, he would have married years ago, and his choice would have fallen on a lady of mature age, not on a slight, slender girl. besides--and who could find an answer to such an argument?--was it not settled that miss darrell was to be his heiress? there was no doubt about that. the baronet's great affection for aubrey langton was also known. more than one of the guests present guessed at the arrangement made, and said that in all probability miss darrell would marry the captain, and that they would have the court after sir oswald's death. the banquet was certainly a magnificent one. the guests did full justice to the costly wines, the rare and beautiful fruits, the _recherche_ dishes prepared with so much skill and labor. when supper was ended, the dancers returned to the ball-room, but miss darrell was already rather weary of it all. she stole away during the first dance after supper. the lamps were lighted in the conservatory, and shed a soft, pearly light over the fragrant flowers; the great glass doors at the end were open, and beyond lay the moonlight, soft, sweet, and silvery, steeping the flowers, the trees, and the long grass in its mild light. without, all was so calm, so still; there was the evening sky with its myriad stars, so calm and so serene; close to the doors stood great sheaves of white lilies, and just inside was a nest of fragrant daphnes and jessamines. pauline stood lost in delight; the perfume seemed to float in from the moonlight and infold her. this quiet, holy, tranquil beauty touched her heart as the splendor of the ball-room could not; her soul grew calm and still; she seemed nearer happiness than she had ever been before. "how beautiful the world is!" she thought. she raised her face, so serenely placid and fair in the moonlight; the silver radiance fell upon it, adding all that was needed to make it perfect, a blended softness and tenderness. the gorgeous, golden-hued dress falling around her, glistened, gleamed, and glowed; her diamonds shone like flames. no artist ever dreamed of a fairer picture than this girl in the midst of the moonlight and the flowers. bright fancies thronged her mind. she thought of the time when she should be mistress of that rich domain. no mercenary delight made her heart thrill; it was not the prospect of being rich that delighted her; it was a nobler pride--delight in the grand old home where heroes had lived and died, earnest thoughts of how she would care for it, how she would love it as some living thing when it should be her own. her own! verily her lines were cast in pleasant places! she dreamed great things--of the worthy deeds she would do, of the noble charities she would carry out, the magnificent designs she would bring to maturity when darrell court should be hers. it was not that she wished for it at once. she did not love sir oswald--their natures were too antagonistic for that; but she did not wish--indeed, she was incapable of wishing--that his life should be shortened even for one hour. she only remembered that in the course of time this grand inheritance must be hers. how she would help those artist-friends of her father's! what orders she would give them, what pictures she would buy, what encouragement she would give to art and literature! how she would foster genius! how she would befriend the clever and gifted poor ones of the earth! the beautiful moonlight seemed to grow fairer, the blue, starry heavens nearer, as the grand and gracious possibilities of her life revealed themselves to her. her heart grew warm, her soul trembled with delight. and then--then there would be something dearer and fairer than all this--something that comes to every woman--her birthright--something that would complete her life, that would change it, that would make music of every word, and harmony of every action. the time would come when love would find her out, when the fairy prince would wake her from her magic sleep. she was pure and spotless as the white lilies standing near her; the breath of love had never passed over her. there had been no long, idle conversations with young girls on the subject of love and lovers; her heart was a blank page. but there came to her that night, as she stood dreaming her maiden dreams among the flowers, an idea of how she could love, and of what manner of man he would be who should win her love. was she like undine? were there depths in her heart and soul which could not be reached until love had brought them to light? she felt in herself great capabilities that had never yet been exercised or called into action. love would complete her life; it would be the sun endowing the flowers with life, warmth, and fragrance. what manner of man must he be who would wake this soul of hers to perfect life? she had seen no one yet capable of doing so. the mind that mastered hers must be a master-mind; the soul that could bring her soul into subjection must be a grand soul, a just soul, noble and generous. ah, well, the moonlight was fair, and the flowers were fair. soon, perhaps, this fair dream of hers might be realized, and then---- chapter xviii. rejected. a shadow came between pauline and the moonlight, and a quiet voice said: "miss darrell, i am so glad to find you here, and alone!" looking up, she saw aubrey langton standing by her side. aubrey's fair, handsome face was flushed, and there was the fragrance of the wine-cup about him, for the gallant captain's courage had failed him, and he had to fortify himself. he had seen miss darrell go into the conservatory, and he understood her well enough to be sure that she had gone thither in search of quiet. here was his opportunity. he had been saying to himself all day that he must watch for his opportunity. here it was; yet his courage failed him, and his heart sank; he would have given anything to any one who would have undertaken the task that lay before him. there was so much at stake--not only love, but wealth, fortune, even freedom--there was so much to be won or lost, that he was frightened. however, as he said to himself, it had to be done. he went back to the dining-room and poured out for himself a tumbler of the baronet's generous old wine, which made his heart glow, and diffused warmth through his whole frame, and then he went on his difficult errand. he walked quietly through the conservatory, and saw pauline standing at the doors. he was not an artist, he had nothing of the poet about him, but the solemn beauty of that picture did touch him--the soft, sweet moonlight, the sheaves of white lilies, the nest of daphnes, and that most beautiful face raised to the starry sky. he stood for some minutes in silence; a dim perception of his own unworthiness came over him. pauline looked as though she stood in a charmed circle, which he almost feared to enter. then he went up to her and spoke. she was startled; she had been so completely absorbed in her dreams, and he was the last person on earth with whom she could identify them. "i hope i have not startled you," he said. "i am so glad to find you here, miss darrell. there is something i wish to say to you." perhaps that beautiful, calm night-scene had softened her; she turned to him with a smile more gentle than he had ever seen on her face before. "you want to tell me something--i am ready to listen, captain langton. what is it?" he came nearer to her. the sweet, subtle perfume from the flowers at her breast reached him, the proud face that had always looked proudly on him, was near his own. he came one step nearer still, and then pauline drew back with a haughty gesture that seemed to scatter the light in her jewels. "i can hear perfectly well," she said, coldly. "what is it you have to tell me?" "pauline, do not be unkind to me. let me come nearer, where i may kneel at your feet and pray my prayer." his face flushed, his heart warmed with his words; all the passionate love that he really felt for her woke within him. there was no feigning, no pretense--it was all reality. it was not darrell court he was thinking of, but pauline, peerless, queenly pauline; and in that moment he felt that he could give his whole life to win her. "let me pray my prayer," he repeated; "let me tell you how dearly i love you, pauline--so dearly and so well that if you send me from you my life will be a burden to me, and i shall be the most wretched of men." she did not look proud of angry, but merely sorry. her dark eyes drooped, her lips even quivered. "you love me," she rejoined--"really love me, captain langton?" he interrupted her. "i loved you the first moment that i saw you. i have admired others, but i have seen none like you. all the deep, passionate love of my heart has gone out to you; and, if you throw it from you, pauline, i shall die." "i am very sorry," she murmured, gently. "nay, not sorry. why should you be sorry? you would not take a man's life, and hold it in the hollow of your hand, only to fling it away. you may have richer lovers, you may have titles and wealth offered to you, but you will never have a love truer or deeper than mine." there was a ring of truth about his words, and they haunted her. "i know i am unworthy of you. if i were a crowned king, and you, my peerless pauline, the humblest peasant, i should choose you from the whole world to be my wife. but i am only a soldier--a poor soldier. i have but one treasure, and that i offer to you--the deepest, truest love of my heart. i would that i were a king, and could woo you more worthily." she looked up quickly--his eyes were drinking in the beauty of her face; but there was something in them from which she shrank without knowing why. she would have spoken, but he went on, quickly: "only grant my prayer, pauline--promise to be my wife--promise to love me--and i will live only for you. i will give you my heart, my thoughts, my life. i will take you to bright sunny lands, and will show you all that the earth holds beautiful and fair. you shall be my queen, and i will be your humblest slave." his voice died away in a great tearless sob--he loved her so dearly, and there was so much at stake. she looked at him with infinite pity in her dark eyes. he had said all that he could think of; he had wooed her as eloquently as he was able; he had done his best, and now he waited for some word from her. there were tenderness, pity, and surprise in her musical voice as she spoke to him. "i am so sorry, captain langton. i never thought you loved me so well. i never dreamed that you had placed all your heart in your love." "i have," he affirmed. "i have been reckless; i have thrown heart, love, manhood, life, all at your feet together. if you trample ruthlessly on them, pauline, you will drive me to desperation and despair." "i do not trample on them," she said, gently; "i would not wrong you so. i take them up in my hands and restore them to you, thanking you for the gift." "what do you mean, pauline?" he asked, while the flush died from his face. "i mean," she replied, softly, "that i thank you for the gift you have offered me, but that i cannot accept it. i cannot be your wife, for i do not love you." he stood for some minutes dazed by the heavy blow; he had taken hope from her gentle manner, and the disappointment was almost greater than he could bear. "it gives me as much pain to say this," she continued, "as it gives you to hear it; pray believe that." "i cannot bear it!" he cried. "i will not bear it! i will not believe it! it is my life i ask from you, pauline--my life! you cannot send me from you to die in despair!" his anguish was real, not feigned. love, life, liberty, all were at stake. he knelt at her feet; he covered her white, jeweled hands with kisses and with hot, passionate tears. her keen womanly instinct told her there was no feigning in the deep, broken sob that rose to his lips. "it is my life!" he repeated. "if you send me from you, pauline, i shall be a desperate, wicked man." "you should not be so," she remarked, gently; "a great love, even if it be unfortunate, should ennoble a man, not make him wicked." "pauline," he entreated, "you must unsay those words. think that you might learn to love me in time. i will be patient--i will wait long years for you--i will do anything to win you; only give me some hope that in time to come you will be mine." "i cannot," she said; "it would be so false. i could never love you, captain langton." he raised his face to hers. "will you tell me why? you do not reject me because i am poor--you are too noble to care for wealth. it is not because i am a soldier, with nothing to offer you but a loving heart. it is not for these things. why do you reject me, pauline?" "no, you are right; it is not for any of those reasons; they would never prevent my being your wife if i loved you." "then why can you not love me?" he persisted. "for many reasons. you are not at all the style of man i could love. how can you doubt me? here you are wooing me, asking me to be your wife, offering me your love, and my hand does not tremble, my heart does not beat; your words give me no pleasure, only pain; i am conscious of nothing but a wish to end the interview. this is not love, is it, captain langton?" "but in time," he pleaded--"could you not learn to care for me in time?" "no, i am quite sure. you must not think i speak to pain you, but indeed you are the last man living with whom i could fall in love, or whom i could marry. if you were, as you say, a king, and came to me with a crown to offer, it would make no difference. it is better, as i am sure you will agree, to speak plainly." even in the moonlight she saw how white his face had grown, and what a sudden shadow of despair had come into his eyes. he stood silent for some minutes. "you have unmanned me," he said, slowly, "but, pauline, there is something else for you to hear. you must listen to me for your own sake," he added; and then aubrey langton's face flushed, his lips grew dry and hot, his breath came in short quick gasps--he had played a manly part, but now he felt that what he had to say would sound like a threat. he did not know how to begin, and she was looking at him with those dark, calm eyes of hers, with that new light of pity on her face. "pauline," he said, hoarsely, "sir oswald wishes for this marriage. oh, spare me--love me--be mine, because of the great love i bear you!" "i cannot," she returned; "in my eyes it is a crime to marry without love. what you have to say of sir oswald say quickly." "but you will hate me for it," he said. "no, i will not be so unjust as to blame you for sir oswald's fault." "he wishes us to marry; he is not only willing, but it would give him more pleasure than anything else on earth; and he says--do not blame me, pauline--that if you consent he will make you mistress of darrell court and all his rich revenues." she laughed--the pity died from her face, the proud, hard expression came back. "he must do that in any case," she said, haughtily. "i am a darrell; he would not dare to pass me by." "let me speak frankly to you, pauline, for your own sake--your own sake, dear, as well as mine. you err--he is not so bound. although the darrell property has always descended from father to son, the entail was destroyed fifty years ago, and sir oswald is free to leave his property to whom he likes. there is only one imperative condition--whoever takes it must take with it the name of darrell. sir oswald told me that much himself." "but he would not dare to pass me--a darrell--by, and leave it to a stranger." "perhaps not; but, honestly, pauline, he told me that you were eccentric--i know that you are adorable--and that he would not dare to leave darrell court to you unless you were married to some one in whom he felt confidence--and that some one, pauline, is your humble slave here, who adores you. listen, dear--i have not finished. he said nothing about leaving the court to a stranger; but he did say that unless we were married he himself should marry." she laughed mockingly. "i do not believe it," she said. "if he had intended to marry, he would have done so years ago. that is merely a threat to frighten me; but i am not to be frightened. no darrell was ever a coward--i will not be coerced. even if i liked you, captain langton, i would not marry you after that threat." he was growing desperate now. great drops stood on his brow--his lips were so hot and tremulous that he could hardly move them. "be reasonable, pauline. sir oswald meant what he said. he will most certainly marry, and, when you see yourself deprived of this rich inheritance, you will hate your folly--hate and detest it." "i would not purchase twenty darrell courts at the price of marrying a man i do not like," she said, proudly. "you think it an idle threat--it is not so. sir oswald meant it in all truth. oh, pauline, love, riches, position, wealth, honor--all lie before you; will you willfully reject them?" "i should consider it dishonor to marry you for the sake of winning darrell court, and i will not do it. it will be mine without that; and, if not, i would rather a thousand times go without it than pay the price named, and you may tell sir oswald so." there was no more pity--no more tenderness in the beautiful face. it was all aglow with scorn, lighted with pride, flushed with contempt. the spell of the sweet moonlight was broken--the darrell spirit was aroused--the fiery darrell pride was all ablaze. he felt angry enough to leave her at that moment and never look upon her again; but his position was so terrible, and he had so much at stake. he humbled himself again and again--he entreated her in such wild, passionate tones as must have touched one less proud. "i am a desperate man, pauline," he cried, at last; "and i pray you, for heaven's sake, do not drive me to despair." but no words of his had power to move her; there was nothing but scorn in the beautiful face, nothing but scorn in the willful, passionate heart. "sir oswald should have known better than to use threats to a darrell!" she said, with a flash of her dark eyes; and not the least impression could aubrey langton make upon her. he was silent at last in sheer despair. it was all over; he had no more hope. life had never held such a brilliant chance for any man, and now it was utterly lost. instead of wealth, luxury, happiness, there was nothing before him but disgrace. he could almost have cursed her as she stood there in the moonlight before him. a deep groan, one of utter, uncontrollable anguish escaped his lips. she went nearer to him and started back in wonder at the white, settled despair on his face. "captain langton," she said, quietly, "i am sorry--i am sorry--i am indeed sorry--that you feel this so keenly. let me comfort you." he appealed to her again more passionately than ever, but she interrupted him. "you mistake me," she said; "i am grieved to see you suffer, but i have no thought of altering my mind. let me tell you, once and for all, i would rather die than marry you, because i have neither liking nor respect for you; but your sorrow i cannot but feel for." "you have ruined me," he said, bitterly, "and the curse of a broken-hearted man will rest upon you!" "i do not think the darrells are much frightened at curses," she retorted; and then, in all the magnificence of her shining gems and golden-hued dress, she swept from the spot. yes, he was ruined, desperate. half an hour since, entering that conservatory, he had wondered whether he should leave it a happy, prosperous man. he knew now that there was nothing but blank, awful despair, ruin and shame, before him. he had lost her, too, and love and hate fought fiercely in his heart. he buried his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. a ruined man! was ever so splendid a chance lost? it drove him mad to think of it! all was due to the willful caprice of a willful girl. then he remembered that time was passing, and that he must tell sir oswald that he had failed--utterly, ignominiously failed. he went back to the ball-room and saw the baronet standing in the center of a group of gentlemen. he looked anxiously at the captain, and at his approach the little group fell back, leaving them alone. "what news, aubrey?" asked sir oswald. "the worst that i can possibly bring. she would not even hear of it." "and you think there is no hope either now or at any future time?" "i am, unfortunately, sure of it. she told me in plain words that she would rather die than marry me, and she laughed at your threats." sir oswald's face flushed; he turned away haughtily. "the consequence be on her own head!" he said, as he moved away. "i shall make elinor rocheford an offer to-night," he added to himself. the captain was in no mood for dancing; the music and light had lost all their charms. the strains of a beautiful german waltz filled the ball-room. looking round, he saw pauline darrell, in all the sheen of her jewels and the splendor of her golden-hued dress, waltzing with lord lorrimer. her beautiful face was radiant; she had evidently forgotten all about him and the threat that was to disinherit her. sir oswald saw her too as he was searching for elinor--saw her radiant, triumphant, and queenly--and almost hated her for the grand dower of loveliness that would never now enhance the grandeur of the darrells. he found elinor rocheford with lady hampton. she had been hoping that the captain would ask her to dance again. she looked toward him with a feint smile, but was recalled to order by a gesture from lady hampton. sir oswald, with a low bow, asked if miss rocheford would like a promenade through the rooms. she would fain have said "no," but one look from her aunt was sufficient. she rose in her quiet, graceful way, and accompanied him. they walked to what was called the white drawing-room, and there, standing before a magnificent murillo, the gem of the darrell collection, sir oswald darrell made elinor rocheford a quiet offer of his hand and fortune. just as quietly she accepted it; there was no blushing, no trembling, no shrinking. he asked her to be lady darrell, and she consented. there was very little said of love, although his wooing was chivalrous and deferential. he had secured his object--won a fair young wife for himself, and punished the proud, defiant, willful girl who had laughed at his threats. after some little time he led his fair companion back to lady hampton. "miss rocheford has done me very great honor," he said; "she has consented to be my wife. i will give myself the pleasure of waiting upon you to-morrow, lady hampton, when i shall venture to ask for a happy and speedy conclusion to my suit." lady hampton, with a gentle movement of her fan, intended to express emotion, murmured a few words, and the interview was ended. "i congratulate you, elinor," she said. "you have secured a splendid position; no girl in england could have done better." "yes," returned elinor rocheford, "i ought to be ticketed, 'sold to advantage;'" and that was the only bitter thing the young girl ever said of her brilliant marriage. of course lady hampton told the delightful news to a few of her dearest friends; and these, watching pauline darrell that night in the splendor of her grand young beauty, the sheen of her jewels, and the glitter of her rich amber dress, knew that her reign was ended, her chance of the inheritance gone. chapter xix. pauline threatens vengeance. "pray do not leave us, miss hastings; i wish you to hear what i have to say to my niece, if you will consent to remain;" and sir oswald placed a chair for the gentle, amiable lady, who was so fearful of coming harm to her willful pupil. miss hastings took it, and looked apprehensively at the baronet. it was the morning after the ball, and sir oswald had sent to request the presence of both ladies in the library. pauline looked fresh and brilliant; fatigue had not affected her. she had taken more pains than usual with her toilet; her dress was a plain yet handsome morning costume. there was no trace of fear on her countenance; the threats of the previous night had made no impression upon her. she looked calmly at sir oswald's flushed, agitated face. "pray be seated, miss darrell," he said; "it is you especially whom i wish to see." pauline took a chair and looked at him with an air of great attention. sir oswald turned the diamond ring on his finger. "am i to understand, miss darrell," he asked, "that you refused captain langton last evening?" "yes," she replied, distinctly. "will you permit me to ask why?" he continued. "because i do not love him, sir oswald. i may even go further, and say i do not respect him." "yet he is a gentleman by birth and education, handsome, most agreeable in manner, devoted to you, and my friend." "i do not love him," she said again; "and the darrells are too true a race to marry without love." the allusion to his race pleased the baronet, in spite of his anger. "did captain langton give you to understand the alternative?" asked sir oswald. "did he tell you my resolve in case you should refuse him?" she laughed a clear, ringing laugh, in which there was a slight tinge of mockery. slight though it was, sir oswald's face flushed hotly as he heard it. "he told me that you would disinherit me if i did not marry him; but i told him you would never ignore the claim of the last living darrell--you would not pass me over and make a stranger your heir." "but did he tell you my intentions if you refused him?" again came the musical laugh that seemed to irritate sir oswald so greatly. "he talked some nonsense about your marrying," said pauline: "but that of course i did not believe." "and why did you not believe it, miss darrell?" "because i thought if you had wished to marry you would have married before this," she replied. "and you think," he said, his face pale with passion, "that you may do as you like--that your contempt for all proper laws, your willful caprice, your unendurable pride, are to rule every one? you are mistaken, miss darrell. if you had consented to marry aubrey langton, i would have made you my heiress, because i should have known that you were in safe hands, under proper guidance; as it is--as you have refused in every instance to obey me, as you have persisted in ignoring every wish of mine--it is time we came to a proper understanding. i beg to announce to you the fact that i am engaged to be married--that i have offered my hand and heart to a lady who is as gentle as you are the reverse." a dread silence followed the words; pauline bore the blow like a true darrell, never flinching, never showing the least dismay. after a time she raised her dark, proud eyes to his face. "if your marriage is for your happiness, i wish you joy," she said, simply. "there is no doubt but that it will add greatly to my happiness," he put in, shortly. "at the same time," resumed pauline, "i must tell you frankly that i do not think you have used me well. you told me when i came here that i was to be heiress of darrell court. i have grown to love it, i have shaped my life in accordance with what you said to me, and i do not think it fair that you should change your intentions." "you have persistently defied me," returned the baronet; "you have preferred your least caprice to my wish; and now you must reap your reward. had you been dutiful, obedient, submissive, you might have made yourself very dear to me. pray, listen." he raised his fine white hand with a gesture that demanded silence. "my marriage need not make any difference as regards your residence here. as you say, you are a darrell, and my niece, so your home is here; and, unless you make yourself intolerable, you shall always have a home suitable to your position. but, as i can never hope that you will prove an agreeable companion to the lady who honors me by becoming my wife, i should be grateful to miss hastings if she would remain with you." miss hastings bowed her head; she was too deeply grieved for words. "it is my wish that you retain your present suite of rooms," continued sir oswald; "and lady darrell, when she comes, will, i am sure, try to make everything pleasant for you. i have no more to say. as for expressing any regret for the part you have acted toward my young friend, aubrey langton, it is useless--we will let the matter drop." all the darrell pride and passion had been slowly gathering in pauline's heart; a torrent of burning words rose to her lips. "if you wish to marry, sir oswald," she said, "you have a perfect right to do so--no one can gainsay that; but i say you have acted neither justly nor fairly to me. as for the stranger you would bring to rule over me, i shall hate her, and i will be revenged on her. i shall tell her that she is taking my place; i shall speak my mind openly to her; and, if she chooses to marry you, to help you to punish me, she shall take the consequences." sir oswald laughed. "i might be alarmed by such a melodramatic outburst," he said, "but that i know you are quite powerless;" and with a profound bow to miss hastings, sir oswald quitted the library. then pauline's anger burst forth; she grew white with rage. "i have not been fairly used," she cried. "he told me darrell court was to be mine. my heart has grown to love it; i love it better than i love anything living." miss hastings, like a sensible woman, refrained from saying anything on the subject--from reminding her that she had been warned time after time, and had only laughed at the warning. she tried to offer some soothing words, but the girl would not listen to them. her heart and soul were in angry revolt. "i might have been a useful woman," she said, suddenly, "if i had had this chance in life; i might have been happy myself, and have made others happy. as it is, i swear that i will live only for vengeance." she raised her beautiful white arm and jeweled hand. "listen to me," she said; "i will live for vengeance--not on sir oswald--if he chooses to marry, let him--but i will first warn the woman he marries, and then, if she likes to come here as lady darrell, despite my warning, let her. i will take such vengeance on her as suits a darrell--nothing commonplace--nothing in the way of poisoning--but such revenge as shall satisfy even me." in vain miss hastings tried to soothe her, to calm her, the torrent of angry words had their way. then she came over to miss hastings, and, placing her hand on her shoulder, asked: "tell me, whom do you think sir oswald is going to marry?" "i cannot imagine--unless it is miss rocheford." "elinor rocheford--that mere child! let her beware!" chapter xx. captain langton desperate. a short period of calm fell upon darrell court. miss darrell's passion seemed to have exhausted itself. "i will never believe," she said one day to miss hastings, "that sir oswald meant what he said. i am beginning to think it was merely a threat--the darrells are all hot-tempered." but miss hastings had heard more than she liked to tell her pupil, and she knew that what the baronet had said was not only quite true, but that preparations for the marriage had actually commenced. "i am afraid it was no threat, pauline," she said, sadly. "then let the new-comer beware," said the girl, her face darkening. "whoever she may be, let her beware. i might have been a good woman, but this will make me a wicked one. i shall live only for revenge." a change came over her. the improvement that miss hastings had so fondly noticed, and of which she had been so proud, died away. pauline seemed no longer to take any interest in reading or study. she would sit for hours in gloomy, sullen silence, with an abstracted look on her face. what was passing in her mind no one knew. miss hastings would go to her, and try to rouse her; but pauline grew impatient. "do leave me in peace," she would say. "leave me to my own thoughts. i am framing my plans." and the smile that came with the words filled poor miss hastings with terrible apprehensions as to the future of her strange, willful pupil. the captain was still at the court. he had had some vague idea of rushing off to london; but a letter from one of his most intimate friends warned him to keep out of the way until some arrangement could be made about his affairs. more than one angry creditor was waiting for him; indeed, the gallant captain had brought his affairs to such a pass that his appearance in london without either money or the hope of it would have been highly dangerous. he was desperate. sir oswald had hinted to him, since the failure of their plan, that he should not be forgotten in his will. he would have borrowed money from him but for that hint; but he did not care to risk the loss of many thousand pounds for the sake of fifteen hundred. fifteen hundred--that was all he wanted. if he could have gone back to london the betrothed husband of pauline darrell, he could have borrowed as many thousands; but that chance was gone; and he could have cursed the girlish caprice that deprived him of so splendid a fortune. in his heart fierce love and fierce hate warred together; there were times when he felt that he loved pauline with a passion words could not describe; and at other times he hated her with something passing common hate. they spoke but little; miss darrell spent as much time as possible in her own rooms. altogether the domestic atmosphere at darrell court had in it no sunshine; it was rather the brooding, sullen calm that comes before a storm. the day came when the court was invaded by an army of workmen, when a suit of rooms was fitted up in the most superb style, and people began to talk of the coming change. pauline darrell kept so entirely aloof from all gossip, from all friends and visitors, that she was the last to hear on whom sir oswald's choice had fallen. but one day the baronet gave a dinner-party at which the ladies of the house were present, and there was no mistaking the allusions made. pauline darrell's face grew dark as she listened. so, then, the threat was to be carried out, and the grand old place that she had learned to love with the deepest love of her heart was never to be hers! she gave no sign; the proud face was very pale, and the dark eyes had in them a scornful gleam, but no word passed her lips. sir oswald was radiant, he had never been seen in such high spirits; his friends had congratulated him, every one seemed to approve so highly of his resolution; a fair and gentle wife was ready for him--one so fair and gentle that it seemed to the old man as though the lost love of his youth had returned to him. who remembered the bitter, gnawing disappointment of the girl who had cared so little about making herself friends? the baronet was so delighted, and everything seemed so bright and smiling, that he resolved upon an act of unusual generosity. his guests went away early, and he retired to the library for a few minutes. the captain followed the ladies to the drawing-room, and, while pretending to read, sat watching pauline's face, and wondering how he was to pay his debts. to ask for the loan of fifteen hundred pounds would be to expose his affairs to sir oswald. he must confess then that he had gambled on the turf and at play. if once the stately old baronet even suspected such a thing, there was no further hope of a legacy--the captain was quite sure of that. his anxiety was terrible, and it was all occasioned by that proud, willful girl whose beautiful face was turned resolutely from him. sir oswald entered the room with a smile on his face, and, going up to aubrey langton, slipped a folded paper into his hands. "not a word of thanks," he said; "if you thank me, i shall be offended." and aubrey, opening the paper, found that it was a check for five hundred pounds. "i know what life in london costs," said sir oswald; "and you are my old friend's son." five hundred pounds! he was compelled to look exceedingly grateful, but it was difficult. the gift was very welcome, but there was this great drawback attending it--it was not half sufficient to relieve him from his embarrassments, and it would quite prevent his asking sir oswald for a loan. he sighed deeply in his dire perplexity. still smiling, the baronet went to the table where pauline and miss hastings sat. he stood for some minutes looking at them. "i must not let you hear the news of my good fortune from strangers," he said; "it is only due to you that i should inform you that in one month from to-day i hope to have the honor and happiness of making miss elinor rocheford my wife." miss hastings in a few cautious words wished him joy; pauline's white lips opened, but no sound escaped them. sir oswald remained for some minutes talking to miss hastings, and then he crossed the room and rang the bell. "pauline, my dearest child!" whispered the anxious governess. miss darrell looked at her with a terrible smile. "it would have been better for her," she said, slowly, "that she had never been born." "pauline!" cried the governess. but she said no more. a footman entered the room, to whom sir oswald spoke. "go to my study," he said, "and bring me a black ebony box that you will find locked in my writing-table. here are the keys." the man returned in a few minutes, bearing the box in his hands. sir oswald took it to the table where the lamps shone brightly. "aubrey," he said, "will you come here? i have a commission for you." captain langton followed him to the table, and some remark about the fashion of the box drew the attention of all present to it. sir oswald raised the lid, and produced a diamond ring. "you are going over to audleigh royal to-morrow, aubrey," he said; "will you leave this with stamford, the jeweler? i have chosen a new setting for the stone. i wish to present it to miss hastings as a mark of my deep gratitude to her." miss hastings looked up in grateful wonder. sir oswald went on talking about the contents of the ebony box. he showed them many quaint treasures that it contained; among other things he took out a roll of bank-notes. "that is not a very safe method of keeping money, sir oswald," said miss hastings. "no, you are right," he agreed. "simpson's clerk paid it to me the other day; i was busy, and i put it there until i had time to take the numbers of the notes." "do you keep notes without preserving a memorandum of their numbers, sir oswald?" inquired aubrey langton. "that seems to me a great risk." "i know it is not prudent; but there is no fear. i have none but honest and faithful servants about me. i will take the numbers and send the notes to the bank to-morrow." "yes," said miss hastings, quietly, "it is better to keep temptation from servants." "there is no fear," he returned. "i always put the box away, and i sleep with my keys under my pillow." sir oswald gave captain langton a few directions about the diamond, and then the ladies withdrew. "sir oswald," said captain langton, "let me have a cigar with you to-night. i must not thank you, but if you knew how grateful i feel----" "i will put away the box first, and then we will have a glass of wine, aubrey." the baronet went to his study, and the captain to his room; but in a few minutes they met again, and sir oswald ordered a bottle of his choicest madeira. they sat talking for some time, and sir oswald told aubrey all his plans--all that he intended to do. the young man listened, with envy and dissatisfaction burning in his heart. all these plans, these hopes, these prospects, might have been his but for that girl's cruel caprice. they talked for more than an hour; and then sir oswald complained of feeling sleepy. "the wine does not seem to have its usual flavor to-night," he said; "there is _something wrong_ with this bottle." "i thought the same thing," observed aubrey langton; "but i did not like to say so. i will bid you good-night, as you are tired. i shall ride over to audleigh royal early in the morning, so i may not be here for breakfast." they shook hands and parted, sir oswald murmuring something about his madeira, and the captain feeling more desperate than ever. chapter xxi. mysterious robbery. the sun shone on darrell court; the warmth and brightness of the day were more than pleasant. the sunbeams fell on the stately trees, the brilliant flowers. there was deep silence in the mansion. captain langton had been gone some hours. sir oswald was in his study. pauline sat with miss hastings under the shade of the cedar on the lawn. she had a book in her hands, but she had not turned a page. miss hastings would fain have said something to her about inattention, but there was a look in the girl's face that frightened her--a proud, hard, cold look that she had never seen there before. pauline darrell was not herself that morning. miss hastings had told her so several times. she had asked her again and again if she was ill--if she was tired--and she had answered drearily, "no." partly to cheer her, the governess had suggested that they should take their books under the shade of the cedar tree. she had assented wearily, without one gleam of animation. out there in the sunlight miss hastings noticed how cold and white pauline's face was, with its hard, set look--there was a shadow in the dark eyes, and, unlike herself, she started at every sound. miss hastings watched her keenly. she evinced no displeasure at being so watched; but when the elder lady went up to her and said, gently: "pauline, you are surely either ill or unhappy?" "i am neither--i am only thinking," she returned, impatiently. "then your thoughts must be very unpleasant ones--tell them to me. nothing sends away unpleasant ideas so soon as communicating them to others." but miss darrell had evidently not heard the words; she had relapsed into deep meditation, and miss hastings thought it better to leave her alone. suddenly pauline looked up. "miss hastings," she said, "i suppose a solemn promise, solemnly given, can never be broken?" "it never should be broken," replied the governess. "instances have been known where people have preferred death to breaking such a promise." "yes, such deaths have been known. i should imagine," commented pauline, with a gleam of light on her face, "that no darrell ever broke his or her word when it had been solemnly given." "i should imagine not," said miss hastings. but she had no clew to her pupil's musings or to the reason of her question. so the noon-day shadows crept on. purple-winged butterflies coquetted with the flowers, resting on the golden breasts of the white lilies, and on the crimson leaves of the rose; busy bees murmured over the rich clove carnations; the birds sang sweet, jubilant songs, and a gentle breeze stirred faintly the leaves on the trees. for once pauline darrell seemed blind to the warm, sweet summer beauty; it lay unheeded before her. miss hastings saw sir oswald coming toward them; a murmur of surprise came from her lips. "pauline," she said, "look at sir oswald--how ill he seems. i am afraid something is wrong." he drew near to them, evidently deeply agitated. "i am glad to find you here, miss hastings," he said; "i am in trouble. nay, pauline, do not go; my troubles should be yours." for the girl had risen with an air of proud weariness, intending to leave them together. at his words--the kindest he had spoken to her for some time--she took her seat again; but the haughty, listless manner did not change. "i am nearly sixty years of age," said sir oswald, "and this is the first time such a trouble has come to me. miss hastings, do you remember that conversation of ours last night, over that roll of notes in the ebony box?" "i remember it perfectly, sir oswald." "i went this morning to take them from the box, to take their numbers and send them to the bank, and i could not find them--they were gone." "gone!" repeated miss hastings. "it is impossible! you must be mistaken; you must have overlooked them. what did they amount to?" "exactly one thousand pounds," he replied. "i cannot understand it. you saw me replace the notes in the box?" "i did; i watched you. you placed them in one corner. i could put my finger on the place," said miss hastings. "i locked the box and carried it with my own hands to my study. i placed it in the drawer of my writing-table, and locked that. i never parted with my keys to any one; as is my invariable rule, i placed them under my pillow. i slept soundly all night, and when i woke i found them there. as i tell you i have been to the box, and the notes are gone. i cannot understand it, for i do not see any indication of a theft, and yet i have been robbed." miss hastings looked very thoughtful. "you have certainly been robbed," she said. "are you sure the keys have never left your possession?" "never for one single moment," he replied. "has any one in the house duplicate keys?" she asked. "no. i bought the box years ago in venice; it has a peculiar lock--there is not one in england like it." "it is very strange," said miss hastings. "a thousand pounds is no trifle to lose." pauline darrell, her face turned to the flowers, uttered no word. "you might show some little interest, pauline," said her uncle, sharply; "you might have the grace to affect it, even if you do not feel it." "i am very sorry indeed," she returned, coldly. "i am grieved that you have had such a loss." sir oswald looked pacified. "it is not so much the actual loss of the money that has grieved me," he said; "i shall not feel it. but i am distressed to think that there should be a thief among the people i have loved and trusted." "what a solemn council!" interrupted the cheery voice of aubrey langton. "what gloomy conspirators!" sir oswald looked up with an air of great relief. "i am so glad you are come, aubrey; you can advise me what to do." and the baronet told the story of his loss. captain langton was shocked, amazed; he asked a hundred questions, and then suggested that they should drive over to audleigh royal and place the affair in the hands of the chief inspector of police. "you said you had not taken the numbers of the notes; i fear it will be difficult to trace them," he said, regretfully. "what a strange, mysterious robbery. is there any one you suspect, sir oswald?" no; in all the wide world there was not one that the loyal old man suspected of robbing him. "my servants have always been to me like faithful old friends," he said, sadly; "there is not one among them who would hold out his hand to steal from me." captain langton suggested that, before going to audleigh royal, they should search the library. "you may have made some mistake, sir," he said. "you were tired last night, and it is just possible that you may have put the money somewhere else, and do not remember it." "we will go at once," decided sir oswald. miss hastings wished them success; but the proud face directed toward the flowers was never turned to them. the pale lips were never unclosed to utter one word. after the gentlemen had left them, when miss hastings began to speak eagerly of the loss, pauline raised her hand with a proud gesture. "i have heard enough," she said. "i do not wish to hear one word more." the robbery created a great sensation; inspectors came from audleigh royal, and a detective from scotland yard, but no one could throw the least light upon the subject. the notes could not be traced; they had been paid in from different sources, and no one had kept a list of the numbers. even the detective seemed puzzled. sir oswald had locked up the notes in the box at night, he had kept the keys in his own possession, and he had found in the morning that the box was still locked and the notes were gone. it was a nine days' wonder. captain langton gave all the help he could, but as all search seemed useless and hopeless, it was abandoned after a time, and at the end of the week captain langton was summoned to london, and all hope of solving the mystery was relinquished. chapter xxii. fulfilling the contract. the preparations for the wedding went on with great activity; the rooms prepared for the bride were a marvel of luxury and beauty. there was a boudoir with rose-silk and white-lace hangings, adorned with most exquisite pictures and statues, with rarest flowers and most beautiful ornaments--a little fairy nook, over which every one went into raptures except pauline; she never even looked at the alterations, she never mentioned them nor showed the least interest in them. she went on in her cold, proud, self-contained manner, hiding many thoughts in her heart. "miss hastings," she said, one morning, "you can do me a favor. sir oswald has been saying that we must call at the elms to see lady hampton and miss rocheford. i should refuse, but that the request exactly suits my plans. i wish to see miss rocheford; we will drive over this afternoon. will you engage lady hampton in conversation while i talk to her niece?" "i will do anything you wish, pauline," returned miss hastings; "but, my dear child, be prudent. i am frightened for you--be prudent. it will be worse than useless for you to make an enemy of the future lady darrell. i would do anything to help you, anything to shield you from sorrow or harm, but i am frightened on your account." caresses and demonstrations of affection were very rare with pauline; but now she bent down with a softened face and kissed the anxious brow. "you are very good to me," she said. "you are the only one in the wide world who cares for me." and with the words there came to her such a sense of loneliness and desolation as no language could describe. of what use had been her beauty, of which her poor father had been so proud--of what avail the genius with which she was so richly dowered? no one loved her. the only creature living who seemed to enter into either her joys or her sorrows was the kind-hearted, gentle governess. "you must let me have my own way this time, miss hastings. one peculiarity of the darrells is that they must say what is on their minds. i intend to do so now; it rests with you whether i do it in peace or not." after that miss hastings knew all further remonstrance was useless. she made such arrangements as pauline wished, and that afternoon they drove over to the elms. lady hampton received them very kindly; the great end and aim of her life was accomplished--her niece was to be lady darrell, of darrell court. there was no need for any more envy or jealousy of pauline. the girl who had so lately been a dangerous rival and an enemy to be dreaded had suddenly sunk into complete insignificance. lady hampton even thought it better to be gracious, conciliatory, and kind; as elinor had to live with miss darrell, it was useless to make things disagreeable. so lady hampton received them kindly. fruit from the court hothouses and flowers from the court conservatories were on the table. lady hampton insisted that miss hastings should join her in her afternoon tea, while pauline, speaking with haughty grace, expressed a desire to see the elms garden. lady hampton was not sorry to have an hour's gossip with miss hastings, and she desired elinor to show miss darrell all their choicest flowers. elinor looked half-frightened at the task. it was wonderful to see the contrast that the two girls presented--pauline tall, slender, queenly, in her sweeping black dress, all passion and magnificence; miss rocheford, fair, dainty, golden-haired, and gentle. they walked in silence down one of the garden-paths, and then miss rocheford said, in her low, sweet voice: "if you like roses, miss darrell, i can show you a beautiful collection." then for the first time pauline's dark eyes were directed toward her companion's face. "i am a bad dissembler, miss rocheford," she said, proudly. "i have no wish to see your flowers. i came here to see you. there is a seat under yonder tree. come with me, and hear what i have to say." elinor followed, looking and feeling terribly frightened. what had this grand, imperious miss darrell to say to her? they sat down side by side under the shade of a large magnolia tree, the white blossoms of which filled the air with sweetest perfume; the smiling summer beauty rested on the landscape. they sat in silence for some minutes, and then pauline turned to elinor. "miss rocheford," she said, "i am come to give you a warning--the most solemn warning you have ever received--one that if you have any common sense you will not refuse to heed. i hear that you are going to marry my uncle, sir oswald. is it true?" "sir oswald has asked me to be his wife," elinor replied, with downcast eyes and a faint blush. pauline's face gleamed with scorn. "there is no need for any of those pretty airs and graces with me," she said. "i am going to speak stern truths to you. you, a young girl, barely twenty, with all your life before you--surely you cannot be so shamelessly untrue as even to pretend that you are marrying an old man like my uncle for love? you know it is not so--you dare not even pretend it." elinor's face flushed crimson. "why do you speak so to me, miss darrell?" she gasped. "because i want to warn you. are you not ashamed--yes, i repeat the word, ashamed--to sell your youth, your hope of love, your life itself, for money and title? that is what you are doing. you do not love sir oswald. how should you? he is more than old enough to be your father. if he were a poor man, you would laugh his offer to scorn; but he is old and rich, and you are willing to marry him to become lady darrell, of darrell court. can you, elinor rocheford, look me frankly in the face, and say it is not so?" no, she could not. every word fell like a sledge-hammer on her heart, and she knew it was all true. she bent her crimson face, and hid it from pauline's clear gaze. "are you not ashamed to sell yourself? if no truth, no honor, no loyalty impels you to end this barter, let fear step in. you do not love my uncle. it can give you no pain to give him up. pursue your present course, and i warn you. darrell court ought to be mine. i am a darrell, and when my uncle took me home it was as his heiress. for a long period i have learned to consider darrell court as mine. it is mine," she continued--"mine by right, for i am a darrell--mine by right of the great love i bear it--mine by every law that is just and right! elinor rocheford, i warn you, beware how you step in between me and my birthright--beware! my uncle is only marrying you to punish me; he has no other motive. beware how you lend yourself to such punishment! i am not asking you to give up any love. if you loved him, i would not say one word; but it is not a matter of love--only of sale and barter. give it up!" "how can you talk so strangely to me, miss darrell? i cannot give it up; everything is arranged." "you can if you will. tell my uncle you repent of the unnatural compact you have made. be a true woman--true to the instinct heaven has placed in your heart. marry for love, nothing else--pure, honest love--and then you will live and die happy. answer me--will you give it up?" "i cannot," murmured the girl. "you will not, rather. listen to me. i am a true darrell, and a darrell never breaks a word once pledged. if you marry my uncle, i pledge my word that i will take a terrible vengeance on you--not a commonplace one, but one that shall be terrible. i will be revenged upon you if you dare to step in between me and my just inheritance! do you hear me?" "i hear. you are very cruel, miss darrell. you know that i cannot help myself. i must fulfill my contract." "very well," said pauline, rising; "then i have no more to say. but remember, i have given you full, fair, honest warning. i will be revenged upon you." and miss darrell returned to the house, with haughty head proudly raised, while elinor remained in the garden, bewildered and aghast. two things happened. elinor never revealed a word of what had transpired, and three weeks from that day sir oswald darrell married her in the old parish church of audleigh royal. chapter xxiii. no compromise with pauline. it was evident to miss hastings that sir oswald felt some little trepidation in bringing his bride home. he had, in spite of himself, been somewhat impressed by his niece's behavior. she gave no sign of disappointed greed or ambition, but she bore herself like one who has been unjustly deprived of her rights. on the night of the arrival every possible preparation had been made for receiving the baronet and his wife. the servants, under the direction of mr. frampton, the butler, were drawn up in stately array. the bells from the old norman church of audleigh royal pealed out a triumphant welcome; flags and triumphal arches adorned the roadway. the court was looking its brightest and best; the grand old service of golden plate, from which in olden times, kings and queens had dined, was displayed. the rooms were made bright with flowers and warm with fires. it was a proud coming home for lady darrell, who had never known what a home was before. her delicate face flushed as her eyes lingered on the splendor around her. she could not repress the slight feeling of triumph which made her heart beat and her pulse thrill as she remembered that this was all her own. she bowed right and left, with the calm, suave smile that never deserted her. as she passed through the long file of servants she tried her best to be most gracious and winning; but, despite her delicate, grave, and youthful loveliness, they looked from her to the tall, queenly girl whose proud head was never bent, and whose dark eyes had in them no light of welcome. it might be better to bow to the rising sun, but many of them preferred the sun that was setting. sir oswald led his young wife proudly through the outer rooms into the drawing-room. "welcome home, my dear elinor!" he said. "may every moment you spend in darrell court be full of happiness!" she thanked him. pauline stood by, not looking at them. after the first careless glance at lady darrell, which seemed to take in every detail of her costume, and to read every thought of her mind, she turned carelessly away. lady darrell sat down near the fire, while sir oswald, with tender solicitude, took off her traveling-cloak, his hands trembling with eagerness. "you will like to rest for a few minutes before you go to your rooms, elinor," he said. then miss hastings went up to them, and some general conversation about traveling ensued. that seemed to break the ice. lady darrell related one or two little incidents of their journey, and then sir oswald suggested that she should go to her apartments, as the dinner-bell would ring in half an hour. lady darrell went away, and sir oswald soon afterward followed. pauline had turned to one of the large stands of flowers, and was busily engaged in taking the dying leaves from a beautiful plant bearing gorgeous crimson flowers. "pauline," said the governess, "my dear child!" she was startled. she expected to find the girl looking sullen, angry, passionate; but the splendid face was only lighted by a gleam of intense scorn, the dark eyes flashing fire, the ruby lips curling and quivering with disdain. pauline threw back her head with the old significant movement. "miss hastings," she said, "i would not have sold myself as that girl has done for all the money and the highest rank in england." "my dear pauline, you must not, really, speak in that fashion. lady darrell undoubtedly loves her husband." the look of scorn deepened. "you know she does not. she is just twenty, and he is nearly sixty. what love--what sympathy can there be between them?" "it is not really our business, my dear; we will not discuss it." "certainly not; but as you are always so hard upon what you call my world--the bohemian world, where men and women speak the truth--it amuses me to find flaws in yours." miss hastings looked troubled; but she knew it was better for the passionate torrent of words to be poured out to her. pauline looked at her with that straight, clear, open, honest look before which all affectation fell. "you tell me, miss hastings, that i am deficient in good-breeding--that i cannot take my proper place in your world because i do not conform to its ways and its maxims. you have proposed this lady to me as a model, and you would fain see me regulate all my thoughts and words by her. i would rather die than be like her! she may be thoroughly lady-like--i grant that she is so--but she has sold her youth, her beauty, her love, her life, for an old man's money and title. i, with all my _brusquerie_, as you call it, would have scorned such sale and barter." "but, pauline----" remonstrated miss hastings. "it is an unpleasant truth," interrupted pauline, "and you do not like to hear it. sir oswald is baron of audleigh royal and master of darrell court; but if a duke, thirty years older, had made this girl an offer, she would have accepted him, and have given up sir oswald. what a world, where woman's truth is so bidden for?" "my dear pauline, you must not, indeed, say these things; they are most unlady-like." "i begin to think that all truth is unlady-like," returned the girl, with a laugh. "my favorite virtue does not wear court dress very becomingly." "i have never heard that it affects russet gowns either," said miss hastings. "oh, pauline, if you would but understand social politeness, social duties! if you would but keep your terrible ideas to yourself! if you would but remember that the outward bearing of life must be as a bright, shining, undisturbed surface! do try to be more amiable to lady darrell!" "no!" exclaimed the girl, proudly. "i have warned her, and she has chosen to disregard my warning. i shall never assume any false appearance of amiability or friendship for her; it will be war to the knife! i told her so, and she chose to disbelieve me. i am a darrell, and the darrells never break their word." looking at her, the unstudied grace of her attitude, the perfect pose, the grand face with its royal look of scorn, miss hastings felt that she would rather have the girl for a friend than an enemy. "i do hope, for your own sake, pauline," she said, "that you will show every respect to lady darrell. all your comfort will depend upon it. you must really compromise matters." "compromise matters!" cried pauline. "you had better tell the sea to compromise with the winds which have lashed it into fury. there can be no compromise with me." the words had scarcely issued from her lips when the dinner-bell sounded, and lady darrell entered in a beautiful evening dress of white and silver. certainly sir oswald's choice did him great credit. she was one of the most delicate, the most graceful of women, fair, caressing, insinuating--one of those women who would never dream of uttering barbarous truth when elegant fiction so much better served their purpose--who loved fine clothes, sweet perfumes, costly jewels--who preferred their own comfort in a graceful, languid way to anything else on earth--who expected to be waited upon and to receive all homage--who deferred to men with a graceful, sweet submission that made them feel the deference a compliment--who placed entire reliance upon others--whom men felt a secret delight in ministering to, because they appeared so weak--one of those who moved cautiously and graciously with subtle harmonious action, whose hands were always soft and jeweled, whose touch was light and gentle--a woman born to find her place in the lap of luxury, who shuddered at poverty or care. such was elinor darrell; and she entered the drawing-room now with that soft, gliding movement that seemed always to irritate pauline. she drew a costly white lace shawl over her fair shoulders--the rich dress of silver and white was studded with pearls. she looked like a fairy vision. "i think," she said to miss hastings, in her quiet, calm way, "that the evening is cold." "you have just left a warm country, lady darrell," was the gentle reply. "the south of france is blessed with one of the most beautiful climates in the world." "it was very pleasant," said lady darrell, with a dreamy little sigh. "you have been very quiet, i suppose? we must try to create a little more gayety for you." she looked anxiously across the room at pauline; but that young lady's attention was entirely engrossed by the crimson flowers of the beautiful plant. not one line of the superb figure, not one expression of the proud face, was lost upon lady darrell. "i have been saying to sir oswald," she continued, looking intently at the costly rings shining on her fingers, "that youth likes gayety--we must have a series of parties and balls." "is she beginning to patronize me?" thought pauline. she smiled to herself--a peculiar smile which lady darrell happened to catch, and which made her feel very uncomfortable; and then an awkward silence fell over them, only broken by the entrance of sir oswald, and the announcement that dinner was served. chapter xxiv. a rich gift declined. the bride's first dinner at home was over, and had been a great success. lady darrell had not evinced the least emotion; she had married for her present social position--for a fine house, troops of servants, beautiful, warm, fragrant rooms, choice wines, and luxurious living; it was only part and parcel of what she expected, and intended to have. she took the chair of state provided for her, and by the perfect ease and grace of her manner proved that she was well fitted for it. sir oswald watched her with keen delight, only regretting that years ago he had not taken unto himself a wife. he was most courtly, most deferential, most attractive. if lady darrell did occasionally feel weary, and the memory of aubrey langton's face rose between her and her husband, she made no sign. when the three ladies withdrew, she made no further efforts to conciliate pauline. she looked at her, but seemed almost afraid to speak. then she opened a conversation with miss hastings, and the two persevered in their amiable small talk until pauline rose and went to the piano, the scornful glance on her face deepening. "this is making one's self amiable!" she thought. "what a blessing it would be if people would speak only when they had something sensible to say!" she sat down before the piano, but suddenly remembered that she had not been asked to do so, and that she was no longer mistress of the house--a reflection sufficiently galling to make her rise quickly, and go to the other end of the room. "pauline," said lady darrell, "pray sing for us. miss hastings tells me you have a magnificent voice." "have i? miss hastings is not so complimentary when she speaks to me alone." then a sudden resolution came to lady darrell. she rose from her seat, and, with the rich robe of silver and white sweeping around her, she went to the end of the room where pauline was standing, tall, stately, and statuesque, turning over the leaves of a book. the contrast between the two girls--the delicate beauty of the one, and the grand loveliness of the other--was never more strongly marked. lady darrell laid her white hand, shining with jewels, on pauline's arm. she looked up into her proud face. "pauline," she said, gently, "will you not be friends? we have to live together--will you be friends?" "no!" replied miss darrell, in her clear, frank voice. "i gave you warning. you paid no heed to it. we shall never be friends." a faint smile played round lady darrell's lips. "but, pauline, do you not see how useless all your resentment against me is now? my marriage with sir oswald has taken place, and you and i shall have to live together perhaps for many years--it would be so much better for us to live in peace." the proud face wore its haughtiest look. "it would be better for you, perhaps, lady darrell, but it can make no difference to me." "it can, indeed. now listen to reason--listen to me!" and in her eagerness lady darrell once more laid her hand on the girl's arm. her face flushed as pauline drew back, with a look of aversion, letting the jeweled hand fall. "listen, pauline!" persevered lady darrell. "you know all this is nonsense--sheer nonsense. my position now is established. you can do nothing to hurt me--sir oswald will take good care of that. any attempt that you may make to injure me will fall upon yourself; besides, you know you can do nothing." in spite of her words, lady darrell looked half-fearfully at the girl's proud, defiant face. "you may have all kinds of tragic plans for vengeance in your mind, but there are no secrets in my life that you can find out to my discredit--indeed, you cannot injure me in any possible way." she seemed so sure of it, yet her eyes sought pauline's with an anxious, questioning fear. "now, i, on the contrary," she went on, "can do much for you--and i will. you are young, and naturally wish to enjoy your life. you shall. you shall have balls and parties, dresses--everything that you can wish for, if you will only be friends with me." she might as well have thrown drops of oil on an angry ocean to moderate its wrath. "lady darrell," was the sole reply, "you are only wasting your time and mine. i warned you. twenty years may elapse before my vengeance arrives, but it will come at last." she walked away, leaving the brilliant figure of the young bride alone in the bright lamp-light. she did not leave the room, for sir oswald entered at the moment, carrying a small, square parcel in his hand. he smiled as he came in. "how pleasant it is to see so many fair faces!" he said. "why, my home has indeed been dark until now." he went up to lady darrell, as she stood alone. all the light in the room seemed to be centered on her golden hair and shining dress. he said: "i have brought the little parcel, elinor, thinking that you would prefer to give your beautiful present to pauline herself. but," he continued, "why are you standing, my love? you will be tired." she raised her fair, troubled face to his, with a smile. "moreover, it seems to me that you are looking anxious," he resumed. "miss hastings, will you come here, please? is this an anxious look on lady darrell's face?" "i hope not," said the governess, with a gentle smile. then sir oswald brought a chair, and placed his wife in it; he next obtained a footstool and a small table. lady darrell, though half-ashamed of the feeling, could not help being thankful that pauline did not notice these lover-like attentions. "now, miss hastings," spoke sir oswald, "i want you to admire lady darrell's taste." he opened the parcel. it contained a morocco case, the lid of which, upon a spring being touched, flew back, exposing a beautiful suite of rubies set in pale gold. miss hastings uttered a little cry of delight. "how very beautiful!" she said. "yes," responded sir oswald, holding them up to the light, "they are, indeed. i am sure we must congratulate lady darrell upon her good taste. i suggested diamonds or pearls, but she thought rubies so much better suited to pauline's dark beauty; and she is quite right." lady darrell held up the shining rubies with her white fingers, but she did not smile; a look of something like apprehension came over the fair face. "i hope pauline will like them," she said, gently. "she cannot fail to do so," remarked sir oswald, with some little _hauteur_. "i will tell her that you want to speak to her." he went over to the deep recess of the large window, where pauline sat reading. he had felt very sure that she would be flattered by the rich and splendid gift. there had been some little pride, and some little pomp in his manner as he went in search of her, but it seemed to die away as he looked at her face. that was not the face of a girl who could be tempted, pleased, or coaxed with jewels. insensibly his manner changed. "pauline," he said, gently, "lady darrell wishes to speak to you." there was evidently a struggle in her mind as to whether she should comply or not, and then she rose, and without a word walked up to the little group. "what do you require, lady darrell?" she asked; and miss hastings looked up at her with quick apprehension. the fair face of lady darrell looked more troubled than pleased. sir oswald stood by, a little more stately and proud than usual--proud of his niece, proud of his wife, and pleased with himself. "i have brought you a little present, pauline, from paris," said lady darrell. "i hope it will give you pleasure." "you were kind to remember me," observed pauline. sir oswald thought the acknowledgment far too cool and calm. "they are the finest rubies i have seen, pauline; they are superb stones." he held them so that the light gleamed in them until they shone like fire. the proud, dark eyes glanced indifferently at them. "what have you to say to lady darrell, pauline?" asked sir oswald, growing angry at her silence. the girl's beautiful lip curled. "lady darrell was good to think of me," she said, coldly; "and the jewels are very fine; but they are not suitable for me." her words, simple as they were, fell like a thunder-cloud upon the little group. "and pray why not?" asked sir oswald, angrily. "your knowledge of the world is greater than mine, and will tell you better than i can," she replied, calmly. "three months since they would have been a suitable present to one in the position i held then; now they are quite out of place, and i decline them." "you decline them!" exclaimed lady darrell, hardly believing that it was in human nature to refuse such jewels. pauline smiled calmly, repeated the words, and walked away. sir oswald, with an angry murmur, replaced the jewels in the case and set it aside. "she has the darrell spirit," he said to his wife, with an awkward smile; and she devoutly hoped that her husband would not often exhibit the same. chapter xxv. a true darrell. the way in which the girl supported her disappointment was lofty in the extreme. she bore her defeat as proudly as some would have borne a victory. no one could have told from her face or her manner that she had suffered a grievous defeat. when she alluded to the change in her position, it was with a certain proud humility that had in it nothing approaching meanness or envy. it did not seem that she felt the money-loss; it was not the disappointment about mere wealth and luxury. it was rather an unbounded distress that she had been set aside as unworthy to represent the race of the darrells--that she, a "real" darrell, had been forced to make way for what, in her own mind, she called a "baby-faced stranger"--that her training and education, on which her dear father had prided himself, should be cast in her face as unworthy and deserving of reproach. he and his artist-friends had thought her perfection; that very "perfection" on which they had prided themselves, and for which they had so praised and flattered her, was the barrier that had stood between her and her inheritance. it was a painful position, but her manner of bearing it was exalted. she had not been a favorite--the pride, the truth, the independence of her nature had forbidden that. she had not sought the liking of strangers, nor courted their esteem; she had not been sweet and womanly, weeping with those who wept, and rejoicing with those who rejoiced; she had looked around her with a scorn for conventionalities that had not sat well upon one so young--and now she was to pay the penalties for all this. she knew that people talked about her--that they said she was rightly punished, justly treated--that it was a blessing for the whole county to have a proper lady darrell at darrell court she knew that among all the crowds who came to the court there was not one who sympathized with her, or who cared in the least for her disappointment. no darrell ever showed greater bravery than she did in her manner of bearing up under disappointment. whatever she felt or thought was most adroitly concealed. the spartan boy was not braver; she gave no sign. no humiliation seemed to touch her, she carried herself loftily; nor could any one humiliate her when she did not humiliate herself. even sir oswald admired her. "she is a true darrell," he said to miss hastings; "what a grand spirit the girl has, to be sure!" the court was soon one scene of gayety. lady darrell seemed determined to enjoy her position. there were garden-parties at which she appeared radiant in the most charming costumes, balls where her elegance and delicate beauty, her thoroughbred grace, made her the queen; and of all this gayety she took the lead. sir oswald lavished every luxury upon her--her wishes were gratified almost before they were expressed. lady hampton, calling rather earlier than usual one day, found her in her luxurious dressing-room, surrounded by such treasures of silk, velvet, lace, jewels, ornaments of every description of the most costly and valuable kind, that her ladyship looked round in astonishment. "my dearest elinor," she said, "what are you doing? what beautiful confusion!" lady darrell raised her fair face, with a delicate flush and a half-shy glance. "look, aunt," she said, "i am really overwhelmed." "what does it mean?" asked lady hampton. "it means that sir oswald is too generous. these large boxes have just arrived from paris; he told me they were a surprise for me--a present from him. look at the contents--dresses of all kinds, lace, ornaments, fans, slippers, gloves, and such _articles of luxury_ as can be bought only in paris. i am really ashamed." "sir oswald is indeed generous," said lady hampton; then she looked round the room to see if they were quite alone. the maid had disappeared. "ah, elinor," remarked lady hampton, "you are indeed a fortunate woman; your lines have fallen in pleasant places. you might have looked all england over and not have found such a husband. i am quite sure of one thing--you have everything a woman's heart can desire." "i make no complaint," said lady darrell. "my dear child, i should imagine not; there are few women in england whose position equals yours." "i know it," was the calm reply. "and you may really thank me for it; i certainly worked hard for you, elinor. i believe that if i had not interfered you would have thrown yourself away on that captain langton." "captain langton never gave me the chance, aunt; so we will not discuss the question." "it was a very good thing for you that he never did," remarked her ladyship. "mrs. bretherton was saying to me the other day what a very fortunate girl you were--how few of us have our heart's desire." "you forget one thing, aunt. even if i have everything i want, still my heart is empty," said the girl, wearily. lady hampton smiled. "you must have your little bit of sentiment, elinor, but you are too sensible to let it interfere with your happiness. how are you getting on with that terrible pauline? i do dislike that girl from the very depths of my heart." lady darrell shrugged her delicate shoulders. "there is a kind of armed neutrality between us at present," she said. "of course, i have nothing to fear from her, but i cannot help feeling a little in dread of her, aunt." "how is that?" asked lady hampton, contemptuously. "she is a girl i should really delight to thwart and contradict; but, as for being afraid of her, i consider frampton, the butler, a far more formidable person. why do you say that, elinor?" "she has a way with her--i cannot describe it--of making every one else feel small. i cannot tell how she does it, but she makes me very uncomfortable." "you have more influence over sir oswald than any one else in the world; if she troubles you, why not persuade him to send her away?" "i dare not," said lady darrell; "besides, i do not think he would ever care to do that." "then you should be mistress of her, elinor--keep her in her place." lady darrell laughed aloud. "i do not think even your skill could avail here, aunt. she is not one of those girls you can extinguish with a frown." "how does she treat you, elinor? tell me honestly," said lady hampton. "i can hardly describe it. she is never rude or insolent; if she were, appeal to sir oswald would be very easy. she has a grand, lofty way with her--an imperious carriage and bearing that i really think he admires. she ignores me, overlooks me, and there is a scornful gleam in her eyes at times, when she does look at me, which says more plainly than words, 'you married for money.'" "and you did a very sensible thing, too, my dear. i wish, i only wish i had the management of miss darrell; i would break her spirit, if it is to be broken." "i do not think it is," said lady darrell, rising as though she were weary of the discussion. "there is nothing in her conduct that any one could find fault with, yet i feel she is my enemy." "wait a while," returned lady hampton; "her turn will come." and from that day the worthy lady tried her best to prejudice sir oswald against his proud, beautiful, wayward niece. chapter xxvi. a puzzling question. "does miss darrell show any signs of disappointment?" inquired lady hampton one day of miss hastings. miss hastings, although she noticed a hundred faults in the girl which she would fain have corrected, had nevertheless a true, strong, and warm affection for her pupil; she was not one therefore to play into the enemy's hand; and, when lady darrell fixed her eyes upon her, full of eagerness and brightened by curiosity, miss hastings quietly resolved not to gratify her. "disappointment about what?" she asked. "i do not understand you, lady hampton." "about the property," explained lady hampton, impatiently. "she made so very sure of it. i shall never forget her insolent confidence. do tell me, is she not greatly annoyed and disappointed?" "not in the way you mean, lady hampton. she has never spoken of such a thing." her ladyship felt piqued; she would have preferred to hear that pauline did feel her loss, and was grieving over it. in that case she would have been kind to her, would have relented; but the reflection that her pride was still unbending annoyed her, and she mentally resolved to try if she could not force the girl into some expression of her feelings. it was not an amiable resolve, but lady hampton was not naturally an amiable woman. fortune favored her. that very day, as she was leaving the court, she saw pauline standing listlessly by the lake side feeding the graceful white swans. she went up to her with a malicious smile, only half-vailed by her pretended friendly greeting. "how do you do, miss darrell? you are looking very melancholy. there is nothing the matter, i hope?" for any one to attempt to humiliate pauline was simply a waste of time; the girl's natural character was so dignified that all attempts of the kind fell through or told most upon her assailants. she answered lady hampton with quiet politeness, her dark eyes hardly resting for a moment upon her. "you do not seem to find much occupation for your leisure hours," continued lady hampton. "you are making the round of the grounds, i suppose? they are very beautiful. i am afraid that you must feel keenly how much my niece has deprived you of." it was not a lady-like speech; but lady hampton felt irresistibly impelled to make it--the proud, defiant, beautiful face provoked her. pauline merely smiled; she had self-control that would have done honor to one much older and more experienced. "your niece has deprived me of nothing, lady hampton," she returned, with a curl of the lip, for which the elder lady could have shaken her. "i possess one great advantage of which no one living can deprive me--that is, the darrell blood runs in my veins." and, with a bow, she walked away, leaving her ladyship more angry than she would have cared to own. so pauline met all her enemies. whatever she might suffer, they should not triumph over her. even sir oswald felt himself compelled to yield to her an admiration that he had never given before. he was walking one evening on the terrace. the western sunbeams, lingering on the grand old building, brightened it into beauty. flowers, trees, and shrubs were all in their fullest loveliness. presently sir oswald, leaning over the balustrade of the terrace, saw pauline sketching in the grounds below. he went to her, and looked over her shoulder. she was just completing a sketch of the great western tower of the court; and he was struck with the vivid beauty of the drawing. "you love darrell court, pauline?" he said, gently. she raised her face to his for a minute; the feud between them was forgotten. she only remembered that he was a darrell, and she his nearest of kin. "i do love it, uncle," she said, "as pilgrims love their favorite shrine. it is the home of beauty, of romance, the cradle of heroes; every stone is consecrated by a legend. love is a weak word for what i feel." he looked at the glowing face, and for a few moments a doubt assailed him as to whether he had done right in depriving this true darrell of her inheritance. "but, pauline," he said, slowly, "you would never have----" she sprang from her seat with a quickness that almost startled him. she had forgotten all that had happened; but now it all returned to her with a bitter pang that could not be controlled. "hush, sir oswald!" she cried, interrupting him; "it is too late for us to talk about darrell court now. pray do not misunderstand me; i was only expressing my belief." she bent down to take up her drawing materials. "i do not misunderstand you, child," he said, sadly. "you love it because it is the home of a race you love, and not for its mere worth in money." her dark eyes seemed to flash with fire; the glorious face had never softened so before. "you speak truly," she said; "that is exactly what i mean." then she went away, liking sir oswald better than she had ever liked him in her life before. he looked after her half-sadly. "a glorious girl!" he said to himself; "a true darrell! i hope i have not made a mistake." lady darrell made no complaint to her husband of pauline; the girl gave her no tangible cause of complaint. she could not complain to sir oswald that pauline's eyes always rested on her with a scornful glance, half-humorous, half-mocking. she could not complain of that strange power miss darrell exercised of making her always "feel so small." she would gladly have made friends with miss darrell; she had no idea of keeping up any species of warfare; but pauline resisted all her advances. lady darrell had a strange kind of half-fear, which made her ever anxious to conciliate. she remarked to herself how firm and steadfast pauline was; there was no weakness, no cowardice in her character; she was strong, self-reliant; and, discerning that, lady darrell asked herself often, "what will pauline's vengeance be?" the question puzzled her far more than she would have cared to own. what shape would her vengeance assume? what could she do to avoid it? when would it overtake her? then she would laugh at herself. what was there to fear in the wildly-uttered, dramatic threats of a helpless girl? could she take her husband from her? no; it was not in any human power to do that. could she take her wealth, title, position, from her? no; that was impossible. could she make her unhappy? no, again; that did not seem to be in her power. lady darrell would try to laugh, but one look at the beautiful, proud face, with its dark, proud eyes and firm lips, would bring the coward fear back again. she tried her best to conciliate her. she was always putting little pleasures, little amusements, in her way, of which pauline never availed herself. she was always urging sir oswald to make her some present or to grant her some indulgence. she never interfered with her; even when suggestions from her would have been useful, she never made them. she was mistress of the house, but she allowed the utmost freedom and liberty to this girl, who never thanked her, and who never asked her for a single favor. sir oswald admired this grace and sweetness in his wife more than he had ever admired anything else. certainly, contrasted with pauline's blunt, abrupt frankness, these pretty, bland, suave ways shone to advantage. he saw that his wife did her best to conciliate the girl, that she was always kind and gracious to her. he saw, also, that pauline never responded; that nothing ever moved her from the proud, defiant attitude she had from the first assumed. he said to himself that he could only hope; in time things must alter; his wife's caressing ways must win pauline over, and then they would be good friends. so he comforted himself, and the edge of a dark precipice was for a time covered with flowers. the autumn and winter passed away, spring-tide opened fair and beautiful, and miss hastings watched her pupil with daily increasing anxiety. pauline never spoke of her disappointment; she bore herself as though it had never happened, her pride never once giving way; but, for all that, the governess saw that her whole character and disposition was becoming warped. she watched pauline in fear. if circumstances had been propitious to her, if sir oswald would but have trusted her, would but have had more patience with her, would but have awaited the sure result of a little more knowledge and experience, she would have developed into a noble and magnificent woman, she would have been one of the grandest darrells that ever reigned at the old court. but sir oswald had not trusted her; he had not been willing to await the result of patient training; he had been impetuous and hasty, and, though pauline was too proud to own it, the disappointment preyed upon her until it completely changed her. it was all the deeper and more concentrated because she made no sign. this girl, noble of soul, grand of nature, sensitive, proud, and impulsive, gave her whole life to one idea--her disappointment and the vengeance due to it; the very grandeur of her virtues helped to intensify her faults; the very strength of her character seemed to deepen and darken the idea over which she brooded incessantly by night and by day. she was bent on vengeance. chapter xxvii. sir oswald's doubts. it was the close of a spring day. lady hampton had been spending it at darrell court, and general deering, an old friend of sir oswald's, who was visiting in the neighborhood, had joined the party at dinner. when dinner was over, and the golden sunbeams were still brightening the beautiful rooms, he asked sir oswald to show him the picture-gallery. "you have a fine collection," he said--"every one tells me that; but it is not only the pictures i want to see, but the darrell faces. i heard the other day that the darrells were generally acknowledged to be the handsomest race in england." the baronet's clear-cut, stately face flushed a little. "i hope england values us for something more useful than merely handsome faces," he rejoined, with a touch of _hauteur_ that made the general smile. "certainly," he hastened to say; "but in this age, when personal beauty is said to be on the decrease, it is something to own a handsome face." the picture-gallery was a very extensive one; it was wide and well lighted, the floor was covered with rich crimson cloth, white statues gleamed from amid crimson velvet hangings, the walls were covered with rare and valuable pictures. but general deering saw a picture that day in the gallery which he was never to forget. lady hampton was not enthusiastic about art unless there was something to be gained by it. there was nothing to excite her cupidity now, her last niece being married, so her ladyship could afford to take matters calmly; she reclined at her ease on one of the crimson lounges, and enjoyed the luxury of a quiet nap. the general paused for a while before some of horace vernet's battle-pieces; they delighted him. pauline had walked on to the end of the gallery, and lady darrell, always anxious to conciliate her, had followed. the picture that struck the general most were the two ladies as they stood side by side--lady darrell with the sheen of gold in her hair, the soft luster of gleaming pearls on her white neck, the fairness of her face heightened by its dainty rose-leaf bloom, her evening dress of sweeping white silk setting off the graceful, supple lines of her figure, all thrown into such vivid light by the crimson carpet on which she stood and the background of crimson velvet; pauline like some royal lady in her trailing black robes, with the massive coils of her dark hair wound round the graceful, haughty head, and her grand face with its dark, glorious eyes and rich ruby lips. the one looked fair, radiant, and charming as a parisian coquette; the other like a grecian goddess, superb, magnificent, queenly, simple in her exquisite beauty--art or ornaments could do nothing for her. "look," said the general to sir oswald, "that picture surpasses anything you have on your walls." sir oswald bowed. "what a beautiful girl your niece is!" the old soldier continued. "see how her face resembles this of lady edelgitha darrell. pray do not think me impertinent, but i cannot imagine, old friend, why you married, so devoted to bachelor life as you were, when you had a niece so beautiful, so true a darrell, for your heiress. i am puzzled now that i see her." "she lacked training," said sir oswald. "training?" repeated the general, contemptuously. "what do you call training? do you mean that she was not experienced in all the little trifling details of a dinner-table--that she could not smile as she told graceful little untruths? training! why, that girl is a queen among women; a noble soul shines in her grand face, there is a royal grandeur of nature about her that training could never give. i have lived long, but i have never seen such a woman." "she had such strange, out-of-the-way, unreal notions, i dared not--that is the truth--i dared not leave darrell court to her." "i hope you have acted wisely," said the general; "but, as an old friend and a true one, i must say that i doubt it." "my wife, i am happy to say, has plenty of common sense," observed sir oswald. "your wife," returned the general, looking at the sheen of the golden hair and the shining dress, "is pretty, graceful, and amiable, but that girl has all the soul; there is as much difference between them as between a golden buttercup and a dark, stately, queenly rose. the rose should have been ruler at darrell court, old friend." then he asked, abruptly: "what are you going to do for her, sir oswald?" "i have provided for her," he replied. "darrell court, then, and all its rich revenues go to your wife, i presume?" "yes, to my wife," said sir oswald. "unconditionally?" asked the general. "most certainly," was the impatient reply. "well, my friend," said the general, "in this world every one does as he or she likes; but to disinherit that girl, with the face and spirit of a true darrell, and to put a fair, amiable blonde stranger in her place, was, to say the least, eccentric--the world will deem it so, at any rate. if i were forty years younger i would win pauline darrell, and make her love me. but we must join the ladies--they will think us very remiss." "sweet smiles, no mind, an amiable manner, no intellect, prettiness after the fashion of a parisian doll, to be preferred to that noble, truthful, queenly girl! verily tastes differ," thought the general, as he watched the two, contrasted them, and lost himself in wonder over his friend's folly. he took his leave soon afterward, gravely musing on what he could not understand--why his old friend had done what seemed to him a rash, ill-judged deed. he left sir oswald in a state of great discomfort. of course he loved his wife--loved her with a blind infatuation that did more honor to his heart than his head--but he had always relied so implicitly on the general's judgment. he found himself half wishing that in this, the crowning action of his life, he had consulted his old friend. he never knew how that clever woman of the world, lady hampton, had secretly influenced him. he believed that he had acted entirely on his own clear judgment; and now, for the first time, he doubted that. "you look anxious, oswald," said lady darrell, as she bent down and with her fresh, sweet young lips touched his brow. "has anything troubled you?" "no, my darling," he replied; "i do not feel quite well, though. i have had a dull, nervous heaviness about me all day--a strange sensation of pain too. i shall be better to-morrow." "if not," she said, sweetly, "i shall insist on your seeing doctor helmstone. i am quite uneasy about you." "you are very kind to me," he responded, gratefully. but all her uneasiness did not prevent her drawing the white lace round her graceful shoulders and taking up the third volume of a novel in which she was deeply interested, while sir oswald, looking older and grayer than he had looked before, went into the garden for a stroll. the sunbeams were so loth to go; they lingered even now on the tips of the trees and the flowers; they lingered on the lake and in the rippling spray of the fountains. sir oswald sat down by the lake-side. had he done wrong? was it a foolish mistake--one that he could not undo? was pauline indeed the grand, noble, queenly girl his friend thought her? would she have made a mistress suitable for darrell court, or had he done right to bring this fair, blonde stranger into his home--this dearly-loved young wife? what would she do with darrell court if he left it to her? the great wish of his heart for a son to succeed him had not been granted to him; but he had made his will, and in it he had left darrell court to his wife. he looked at the home he had loved so well. ah, cruel death! if he could but have taken it with him, or have watched over it from another world! but when death came he must leave it, and a dull, uneasy foreboding came over him as to what he should do in favor of this idolized home. as he looked at it, tears rose to his eyes; and then he saw pauline standing a little way from him, the proud, beautiful face softened into tenderness, the dark eyes full of kindness. she went up to him more affectionately than she had ever done in her life; she knelt on the grass by his side. "uncle," she said, quietly, "you look very ill; are you in trouble?" he held out his hands to her; at the sound of her voice all his heart seemed to go out to this glorious daughter of his race. "pauline," he said, in a low, broken voice, "i am thinking about you--i am wondering about you. have i done--i wonder, have i done wrong?" a clear light flashed into her noble face. "do you refer to darrell court?" she asked. "if you do, you have done wrong. i think you might have trusted me. i have many faults, but i am a true darrell. i would have done full justice to the trust." "i never thought so," he returned, feebly; "and i did it all for the best, as i imagined, pauline." "i know you did--i am sure you did," she agreed, eagerly; "i never thought otherwise. it was not you, uncle. i understand all that was brought to bear upon you. you are a darrell, honorable, loyal, true; you do not understand anything that is not straightforward. i do, because my life has been so different from yours." he was looking at her with a strange, wavering expression in his face; the girl's eyes, full of sympathy, were turned on him. "pauline," he said, feebly, "if i have done wrong--and, oh, i am so loth to believe it--you will forgive me, my dear, will you not?" for the first time he held out his arms to her; for the first time she went close to him and kissed his face. it was well that lady hampton was not there to see. pauline heard him murmur something about "a true darrell--the last of the darrells," and when she raised her head she found that sir oswald had fallen into a deep, deadly swoon. chapter xxviii. reading of the will. assistance was soon procured, and sir oswald was carried to his room; doctor helmstone was sent for, and when he arrived the whole house was in confusion. lady darrell wrung her hands in the most graceful distress. "now, elinor," said lady hampton, "pray do not give way to anything of that kind. it is a fortunate thing for you that i am here. let me beg of you to remember that, whatever happens, you are magnificently provided for, sir oswald told me as much. there is really no need to excite yourself in that fashion." while lady darrell, with a few graceful exclamations and a very pretty show of sorrow, managed to attract all possible sympathy, pauline moved about with a still, cold face, which those best understood who knew her nature. it seemed incredible to the girl that anything unexpected should happen to her uncle. she had only just begun to love him; that evening had brought those two proud hearts closer together than they had ever been; the ice was broken; each had a glimmering perception of the real character of the other--a perception that in time would have developed into perfect love. it seemed too hard that after he had just begun to like her--that as soon as a fresh and genuine sentiment was springing up between them--he must die. for it had come to that. care, skill, talent, watching, were all in vain; he must die. grave-faced doctors had consulted about him, and with professional keenness had seen at once that his case was hopeless. the ailment was a sudden and dangerous one--violent inflammation of the lungs. no one could account for the sudden seizure. sir oswald had complained of pain during the day, but no one thought that it was anything of a serious nature. his manner, certainly, had been strange, with a sad pathos quite unlike himself; but no one saw in that the commencement of a mortal illness. lady hampton frequently observed how fortunate it was that she was there. to all inquiries as to the health of her niece, she replied, "poor, dear lady darrell is bearing up wonderfully;" and with the help of pathetic little speeches, the frequent use of a vinaigrette, a few tears, and some amiable self-condolence, that lady did bear up. strange to say, the one who felt the keenest sorrow, the deepest regret, the truest pain, was the niece with whom sir oswald had continually found fault, and whom he had disinherited. she went about with a sorrow on her face more eloquent than words. lady hampton said it was all assumed; but lady darrell said, more gently, that pauline was not a girl to assume a grief which she did not feel. so the baronet died after a week of severe illness, during which he never regained the power of speech, nor could make himself intelligible. the most distressing thing was that there was evidently something which he wished to say--something which he desired to make them understand. when pauline was in the room his eyes followed her with a wistful glance, pitiful, sad, distressing; he evidently wished to say something, but had not the power. with that wish unexpressed he died, and they never knew what it was. only pauline thought that he meant, even at the last, to ask her forgiveness and to do her justice. darrell court was thrown into deepest mourning; the servants went about with hushed footsteps and sorrowful faces. he had been kind to them, this stately old master; and who knew what might happen under the new _regime_? lady hampton was, she assured every one, quite overwhelmed with business. she had to make all arrangements for the funeral, to order all the mourning, while lady darrell was supposed to be overwhelmed with sorrow in the retirement of her own room. one fine spring morning, while the pretty bluebells were swaying in the wind, and the hawthorn was shining pink and white on the hedges, while the birds sang and the sun shone, sir oswald darrell was buried, and the secret of what he had wished to say or have done was buried with him. at lady darrell's suggestion, captain langton was sent for to attend the funeral. it was a grand and stately procession. all the _elite_ of the county were there, all the tenantry from audleigh royal, all the friends who had known sir oswald and respected him. "was he the last of the darrells?" one asked of another; and many looked at the stately, dark-eyed girl who bore the name, wondering how he had left his property, whether his niece would succeed him, or his wife take all. they talked of this in subdued whispers as the funeral _cortege_ wound its way to the church, they talked of it after the coffin had been lowered into the vault, and they talked of it as the procession made its way back to darrell court. as lady hampton said, it was a positive relief to open the windows and let the blessed sunshine in, to draw up the heavy blinds, to do away with the dark, mourning aspect of the place. everything had been done according to rule--no peer of the realm could have had a more magnificent funeral. lady hampton felt that in every respect full honor had been done both to the living and the dead. "now," she wisely remarked, "there is nothing to be done, save to bear up as well as it is possible." then, after a solemn and dreary dinner, the friends and invited guests went away, and the most embarrassing ceremony of all had to be gone through--the reading of the will. mr. ramsden, the family solicitor, was in attendance. captain langton, lady darrell, lady hampton, and miss darrell took their seats. once or twice lady hampton looked with a smile of malicious satisfaction at the proud, calm face of pauline. there was nothing there to gratify her--no queen could have assisted at her own dethronement with prouder majesty or prouder grace. some of the old retainers, servants who had been in the family from their earliest youth, said there was not one who did not wish in his heart that pauline might have darrell court. lady darrell, clad in deepest mourning, was placed in a large easy-chair in the center of the group, her aunt by her side. she looked extremely delicate and lovely in her black sweeping robes. pauline, who evidently thought the ceremony an empty one, as far as she was concerned, stood near the table. she declined the chair that captain langton placed for her. her uncle was dead; she regretted him with true, unfeigned, sincere sorrow; but the reading of his will had certainly nothing to do with her. there was not the least shadow on her face, not the least discomposure in her manner. to look at her one would never have thought she was there to hear the sentence of disinheritance. lady darrell did not look quite so tranquil; everything was at stake for her. she held her dainty handkerchief to her face lest the trembling of her lips should be seen. mr. ramsden read the will, and its contents did not take any one much by surprise. the most important item was a legacy of ten thousand pounds to captain aubrey langton. to pauline darrell was left an annuity of five hundred pounds per annum, with the strict injunction that she should live at darrell court until her marriage; if she never married, she was to reside there until her death. to all his faithful servants sir oswald left legacies and annuities. to his well-beloved wife, elinor, he bequeathed all else--darrell court, with its rich dependencies and royal revenues, his estate in scotland, his house in town, together with all the valuable furniture, plate, jewelry, pictures, all the moneys that had accumulated during his life-time--all to her, to hold at her will and pleasure; there was no restriction, no condition to mar the legacy. to the foregoing sir oswald had added a codicil; he left miss hastings one hundred pounds per annum, and begged of her to remain at darrell court as companion to lady darrell and his niece. then the lawyer folded up the parchment, and the ceremony was ended. "a very proper will," said lady hampton; "it really does poor dear sir oswald credit." they hastened to congratulate lady darrell; but captain langton, it was noticed, forgot to do so--he was watching pauline's calm, unconcerned departure from the room. chapter xxix. waiting for revenge. there was a slight, only a very slight difference of opinion between lady darrell and her aunt after the reading of the will. lady hampton would fain have given up the elms, and have gone to live at darrell court. "sir oswald's will is a very just one," she said, "admirable in every respect; but i should never dream, were i in your place, elinor, of keeping that proud girl here. let her go. i will come and live with you. i shall make a better chaperon than that poor, faded miss hastings." but lady darrell was eager to taste the sweets of power, and she knew how completely her aunt would take every vestige of it from her. she declared her intention to adhere most strictly to the terms of the will. "and, aunt," she continued, with firmness quite new to her, "it would be so much better, i think, for you to keep at the elms. people might make strange remarks if you came here to live with me." lady hampton was shrewd enough to see that she must abide by her niece's decision. the captain was to remain only two days at darrell court, and lady darrell was anxious to spend some little time with him. "i like the captain, aunt," she said; "he amuses me." lady hampton remembered how she had spoken of him before, and it was not her intention that her beautiful niece should fling away herself and her magnificent fortune on aubrey langton. "she is sure to marry again," thought the lady; "and, dowered as she is, she ought to marry a duke, at least." she represented to her that it was hardly etiquette for her, a widow so young, and her loss being so recent, to entertain a handsome young officer. "i do not see that the fact of his being handsome makes any difference, aunt," said lady darrell; "still, if you think i must remain shut up in my room while the captain is here, of course, i will remain so, though it seems very hard." "appearances are everything," observed lady hampton, sagely; "and you cannot be too careful at first." "does he seem to pay pauline any attention?" asked the young widow, eagerly. "i have never heard them exchange more than a few words--indeed the circumstance has puzzled me, elinor. i have seen him look at her as though he worshiped her and as though he hated her. as for miss darrell, she seems to treat him with contemptuous indifference." "i used to think he liked her," said lady darrell, musingly. "he liked the future heiress of darrell court," rejoined lady hampton. "all his love has gone with her prospects, you may rely upon it." lady darrell, brought up in a school that would sacrifice even life itself for the sake of appearances, knew there was no help for her enforced retirement. she remained in her rooms until the young officer had left the court. lady hampton was not the only one who felt puzzled at pauline's behavior to the captain. miss hastings, who understood her pupil perhaps better than any one, was puzzled. there was somewhat of a calm, unutterable contempt in her manner of treating him. he could not provoke her; no matter what he said, she would not be provoked into retort. she never appeared to remember his existence; no one could have been more completely ignored; and captain langton himself was but too cognizant of the fact. if he could have but piqued or aroused her, have stung her into some exhibition of feeling, he would have been content; but no statue could have been colder, no queen prouder. if any little attention was required at her hands she paid it, but there was no denying the fact that it was rendered in such a manner that the omission would have been preferable. on the evening of his departure lady hampton went down to wish him farewell; she conveyed to him lady darrell's regret at not being able to do the same. "i am very sorry," said the captain; "though, of course, under the circumstances, i could hardly hope for the pleasure of seeing lady darrell. perhaps you will tell her that in the autumn, with her permission, i shall hope to revisit the court." lady hampton said to herself that she should take no such message. the dearest wish of her heart was that the gallant captain should never be seen there again. but she made some gracious reply, and then asked, suddenly: "have you seen miss darrell? have you said good-by to her?" aubrey langton looked slightly confused. "i have not seen her to-day," he replied. lady hampton smiled very graciously. "i will send for her," she said; and when, in answer to her summons, a servant entered, she asked that miss darrell might be requested to favor her with her presence in the library. it did not escape her keen observation that captain langton would rather have avoided the interview. pauline entered with the haughty grace so natural to her; her proud eyes never once glanced at the captain; he was no more to her than the very furniture in the room. "you wished to see me, lady hampton," she said, curtly. "yes--that is, captain langton wishes to say good-by to you; he is leaving darrell court this morning." there was the least possible curl of the short upper lip. lady hampton happened to catch the glance bestowed upon pauline by their visitor. for a moment it startled her--it revealed at once such hopeless passionate love and such strong passionate hate. pauline made no reply; the queenly young figure was drawn up to its full height, the thoughtful face was full of scorn. the captain concealed his embarrassment as he best could, and went up to her with outstretched hands. "good-by, miss darrell," he said; "this has been a very sad time for you, and i deeply sympathize with you. i hope to see you again in the autumn, looking better--more like yourself." lady hampton was wont to declare that the scene was one of the finest she had ever witnessed. pauline looked at him with that straight, clear, calm gaze of hers, so terribly searching and direct. "good-by," she said, gravely, and then, utterly ignoring the outstretched hands, she swept haughtily from the room. lady hampton did not attempt to conceal her delight at the captain's discomfiture. "miss darrell is very proud," he said, laughing to hide his confusion. "i must have been unfortunate enough to displease her." but lady hampton saw his confusion, and in her own mind she wondered what there was between these two--why he should appear at the same time to love and to hate her--above all, why she should treat him with such sovereign indifference and contempt. "it is not natural," she argued to herself; "young girls, as a rule, admire--nay, take an uncommon interest in soldiers. what reason can she have for such contemptuous indifference?" how little she dreamed of the storm of rage--of passion--of anger--of love--of fury, that warred in the captain's soul! he was ten thousand pounds richer, but it was as a drop in the ocean to him. if it had been ten thousand per annum he might have been grateful. ten thousand pounds would discharge every debt he had in the world, and set him straight once more; he might even lead the life he had always meant to lead for two or three years, but then the money would be gone. on the other hand, if that girl--that proud, willful, defiant girl--would but have married him, darrell court, with all its rich dependencies, would have been his. the thought almost maddened him. how he loathed her as he rode away! but for her, all this grand inheritance would have been his. instead of riding away, he would now be taking possession and be lord and master of all. these stables with the splendid stud of horses would be his--his the magnificent grounds and gardens--the thousand luxuries that made darrell court an earthly paradise. all these would have been his but for the obstinacy of one girl. curses deep and burning rose to his lips; yet, for his punishment, he loved her with a love that mastered him in spite of his hate--that made him long to throw himself at her feet, while he could have slain her for the wrong he considered that she had done him. lady hampton could not refrain from a few remarks on what she had witnessed. "has captain langton been so unfortunate as to offend you, miss darrell?" she asked of pauline. "i thought your adieus were of the coldest." "did you? i never could see the use of expressing regret that is not really felt." "perhaps not; but it is strange that you should not feel some little regret at losing such a visitor." to this remark pauline deigned nothing save an extra look of weariness, which was not lost upon lady hampton. * * * * * "pauline," said miss hastings, one morning, "i do not think you are compelled by the terms of sir oswald's will to reside at darrell court whether you like it or not. there could be no possible objection to your going away for a change." the beautiful, restless face was turned to her. "i could not leave darrell court even if i would," she returned. "why not? there is really nothing to detain you here." "i am waiting," said the girl, her dark eyes lit by a fire that was not pleasant to see--"i am waiting here for my revenge." "oh, pauline!" cried miss hastings, in real distress. "my dear child, you must forget such things. i do not like to hear such a word from your lips." pauline smiled as she looked at her governess, but there was something almost terrible in the calm smile. "what do you think i am living here for--waiting here in patience for? i tell you, nothing but the vengeance i have promised myself--and it shall be mine!" chapter xxx. will fate aid pauline? six months had passed since sir oswald's death, and his widow had already put away her cap and heavy weeds. six months of retirement, she considered, were a very handsome acknowledgment of all her husband's love and kindness. she was in a state of serene and perfect self-content--everything had gone well with her. people had expressed their admiration of her devotion to his memory. she knew that in the eyes of the world she was esteemed faultless. and now it seemed to lady darrell that the time was come in which she might really enjoy herself, and reap the reward of her sacrifice. the "armed neutrality" between pauline and herself still continued. each went her own way--their interests never clashed. lady darrell rather preferred that pauline should remain at the court. she had a vague kind of fear of her, a vague dread that made her feel safer where pauline was, and where she could know something of her. whole days would pass without their meeting; but, now that there was to be a little more gayety at darrell court, the two must expect to be brought into daily communication. lady darrell was an amiable woman. it was true she had a small soul, capable of maintaining small ideas only. she would have liked to be what she called "comfortable" with pauline--to live on sisterly terms with her--to spend long hours in discussing dress, ornaments, fashionable gossip--to feel that there was always some one at hand to listen to her and to amuse her. she, in her turn, would have been most generous. she would have made ample presents of dresses and jewels to such a friend; she would have studied her comfort and interests. but to expect or to hope for a companion of that kind in pauline was as though some humble little wood-blossom could hope to train itself round a grand, stately, sad passion-flower. lady darrell's worldly knowledge and tact were almost perfect; yet they could never reveal to her the depths of a noble nature like pauline's. she could sooner have sounded the depths of the atlantic than the grand deep of that young girl's heart and soul; they would always be dead letters to her--mysteries she could not solve. one morning the impulse was strong upon her to seek pauline, to hold a friendly conversation with her as to half-mourning; but when she reached the door of the study her courage gave way, and she turned abruptly, feeling rather than knowing why the discussion of dress and mere personal appearance must prove distasteful to miss darrell. little by little lady darrell began to take her place in the grand world; she was too wise and wary to do it all at once. the degrees were almost imperceptible; even lady hampton, one of the most fastidious of critics, was obliged to own to herself that her niece's conduct was highly creditable. the gradations in lady darrell's spirits were as carefully regulated as the gradations of color in her dress; with deep lavender and black ribbons she was mildly sorrowful, the lighter grew the lavender the lighter grew her heart. on the first day she wore a silver gray brocade she laughed outright, and the sound of that laugh was the knell of all mourning. visitors began to arrive once more at darrell court, but lady darrell still exercised great restraint over herself. her invitations were at first confined to matrons of mature age. "she did not feel equal to the society of gentlemen yet." there was a grand chorus of admiration for the nice feeling lady darrell displayed. then elderly gentlemen--husbands of the matrons--were admitted; and, after a time, "braw wooers began to appear at the hall," and then lady darrell's reign began in real earnest. from these admiring matrons, enthusiastic gentlemen, ardent lovers, and flattering friends pauline stood aloof. how she despised the whole of them was to be gathered only from her face; she never expressed it in words. she did not associate with them, and they repaid her behavior by the most hearty dislike. it was another proof of "dear lady darrell's sweet temper" that she could live in peace with this haughty, abrupt, willful girl. no one guessed that the bland, amiable, suave, graceful mistress of darrell court stood in awe of the girl who had been disinherited to make way for her. "pauline," said miss hastings, one day, "i want you to accustom yourself to the idea of leaving darrell court; for i do not think there is any doubt but that sooner or later lady darrell will marry again." "i expect it," she returned. "poor sir oswald! his home will go to strangers, his name be extinct. how little he foresaw this when he married!" "let it take place when it may, the court can be no home for you then," continued miss hastings. pauline raised her hand with a warning gesture. "do not say another word, miss hastings; i cannot listen. just as criminals were fastened to the rack, bound to the wheel, tied to the stake, i am bound here--awaiting my revenge!" "oh, pauline, if you would but forego such strange speech! this longing for vengeance is in your heart like a deadly canker in a fair flower. it will end badly." the beautiful face with its defiant light was turned toward her. "do not attempt to dissuade me," she said. "your warning is useless, and i do not like to grieve you. i acquainted lady darrell with my determination before she married my uncle for his money. she persisted in doing it. let her take the consequences--bear the penalty. if she had acted a true womanly part--if she had refused him, as she ought to have done--he would have had time for reflection, he would not have disinherited me in his anger, and darrell court would have descended to a darrell, as it ought to have done." "if you could but forget the past, pauline!" "i cannot--it is part of my life now. i saw two lives before me once--the one made noble, grand, and gracious by this inheritance, which i should have known so well how to hold; the other darkened by disappointment and shadowed by revenge. you know how some men wait for the fair fruition of a fair hope--for the dawn of success--for the sunshine of perfect prosperity; so do i wait for my revenge. we darrells never do things by halves; we are not even moderate. my heart, my soul, my life--which might have been, i grant, filled with high impulses--are concentrated on revenge." though the words she spoke were so terrible, so bitter, there was no mean, vindictive, or malign expression on that beautiful face; rather was it bright with a strange light. mistaken though the idea might be, pauline evidently deemed herself one chosen to administer justice. miss hastings looked at her. "but, pauline," she said, gravely, "who made you lady darrell's judge?" "myself," she replied. "miss hastings, you often speak of justice; let me ask, was this matter fair? my uncle was irritated against me because i would not marry a man i detested and loathed; in his anger he formed the project of marriage to punish me. he proposed to elinor rocheford, and, without any love for him, she agreed to marry him. i went to her, and warned her not to come between me and my rightful inheritance. i told her that if she did i would be revenged. she laughed at my threat, married my uncle, and so disinherited me. now, was it fair that i should have nothing, she all--that i, a darrell, should see the home of my race go to strangers? it is not just, and i mean to take justice into my hands." "but, pauline," opposed miss hastings, "if lady darrell had not accepted sir oswald, some one else would." "are such women common, then?" she demanded, passionately. "i knew evil enough of your world, but i did not know this. this woman is sweet-voiced, her face is fair, her hair is golden, her hands are white and soft, her manners caressing and gentle; but you see her soul is sordid--it was not large enough to prevent her marrying an old man for his money. something tells me that the vengeance i have promised myself is not far off." miss hastings wrung her hands in silent dismay. "oh, for something to redeem you, pauline--something to soften your heart, which is hardening into sin!" "i do not know of any earthly influence that could, as you say, redeem me. i know that i am doing wrong. do not think that i have transformed vice into virtue and have blinded myself. i know that some people can rise to a far grander height; they would, instead of seeking vengeance, pardon injuries. i cannot--i never will. there is no earthly influence that can redeem me, because there is none stronger than my own will." the elder lady looked almost hopelessly at the younger one. how was she to cope with this strong nature--a nature that could own a fault, yet by strength of will persevere in it? she felt that she might as well try to check the angry waves of the rising tide as try to control this willful, undisciplined disposition. how often in after years these words returned to her mind: "i know of no earthly influence stronger than my own will." miss hastings sat in silence for some minutes, and then she looked at the young girl. "what shape will your vengeance take, pauline?" she asked, calmly. "i do not know. fate will shape it for me; my opportunity will come in time." "vengeance is a very high-sounding word," observed miss hastings, "but the thing itself generally assumes very prosaic forms. you would not descend to such a vulgar deed as murder, for instance; nor would you avail yourself of anything so commonplace as poison." "no," replied pauline, with contempt; "those are mean revenges. i will hurt her where she has hurt me--where all the love of her heart is garnered; there will i wound her as she has wounded me. where she can feel most there i mean to strike, and strike home." "then you have no definite plan arranged?" questioned miss hastings. "fate will play into my hands when the time comes," replied pauline. nor could the governess extract aught further from her. chapter xxxi. fate favors pauline. autumn, with its golden grain, its rich fruits, and its luxuriant foliage, had come and gone; then christmas snow lay soft and white on the ground; and still captain langton had not paid his promised visit to darrell court. he sent numerous cards, letters, books, and music, but he did not appear himself. once more the spring flowers bloomed; sir oswald had been lying for twelve months in the cold, silent family vault. with the year of mourning the last of lady darrell's gracefully expressed sorrow vanished--the last vestige of gray and lavender, of jet beads and black trimmings, disappeared from her dresses; and then she shone forth upon the world in all the grace and delicate loveliness of her fair young beauty. who could number her lovers or count her admirers? old and young, peer and commoner, there was not one who would not have given anything he had on earth to win the hand of the beautiful and wealthy young widow. lady hampton favored the suit of lord aynsley, one of the wealthiest peers in england. he had met lady darrell while on a visit at the elms, and was charmed with her. so young, fair, gifted, accomplished, so perfect a mistress of every art and grace, yet so good and amiable--lord aynsley thought that he had never met with so perfect a woman before. lady hampton was delighted. "i think, elinor," she said, "that you are one of the most fortunate of women. you have a chance now of making a second and most brilliant marriage. i think you must have been born under a lucky star." lady darrell laughed her soft, graceful little laugh. "i think, auntie," she returned, "that, as i married the first time to please you, i may marry now to please myself and my own heart." "certainly," said her ladyship, dubiously; "but remember what i have always told you--sentiment is the ruin of everything." and, as lady hampton spoke, there came before her the handsome face of aubrey langton. she prayed mentally that he might not appear again at darrell court until lord aynsley had proposed and had been accepted. but fate was not kind to her. the next morning lady darrell received a letter from the captain, saying that, as the summer was drawing near, he should be very glad to pay his long-promised visit to darrell court. he hoped to be with them on thursday evening. lady darrell's fair face flushed as she read. he was coming, then, this man who above all others had taken her fancy captive--this man whom, with all her worldly scheming, she would have married without money if he had but asked her. he was coming, and he would see her in all the glory of her prosperity. he would be almost sure to fall in love with her; and she--well, it was not the first time that she whispered to her own heart how gladly she would love him. she was too excited by her pleasant news to be quite prudent. she must have a confidante--she must tell some one that he was coming. she went to the study, where miss hastings and pauline were busily engaged with some water-colors. she held the open letter in her hand. "miss hastings, i have news for you," she said. "i know that all that interested sir oswald is full of interest for you. pauline, you too will be pleased to hear that captain langton is coming. sir oswald loved him very much." pauline knew that, and had cause to regret it. "i should be much pleased," continued lady darrell, "if, without interfering with your arrangements, you could help me to entertain him." miss hastings looked up with a smile of assent. "anything that lies in my power," she said, "i shall be only too happy to do; but i fear i shall be rather at a loss how to amuse a handsome young officer like captain langton." lady darrell laughed, but looked much pleased. "you are right," she said--"he is handsome. i do not know that i have ever seen one more handsome." then she stopped abruptly, for she caught the gleam of pauline's scornful smile--the dark eyes were looking straight at her. lady darrell blushed crimson, and the smile on pauline's lips deepened. "i see my way now," she said to herself. "time, fate, and opportunity will combine at last." "and you, pauline," inquired lady darrell, in her most caressing manner--"you will help me with my visitor--will you not?" "pardon me, i must decline," answered miss darrell. "why, i thought captain langton and yourself were great friends!" cried lady darrell. "i am not answerable for your thoughts, lady darrell," said pauline. "but you--you sing so beautifully! oh, pauline, you must help me!" persisted lady darrell. she drew nearer to the girl, and was about to lay one white jeweled hand on her arm, but pauline drew back with a haughty gesture there was no mistaking. "pray understand me, lady darrell," she said--"all arts and persuasions are, as you know, lost on me. i decline to do anything toward entertaining your visitor, and shall avoid him as much as possible." lady darrell looked up, her face pale, and with a frightened look upon it. "why do you speak so, pauline? you must have some reason for it. tell me what it is." no one had ever heard lady darrell speak so earnestly before. "tell me!" she repeated, and her very heart was in the words. "pardon me if i keep my counsel," said pauline. "there is wisdom in few words." then miss hastings, always anxious to make peace, said: "do not be anxious, lady darrell; pauline knows that some of the unpleasantness she had with sir oswald was owing to captain langton. perhaps that fact may affect her view of his character." lady darrell discreetly retired from the contest. "i am sure you will both do all you can," she said, in her most lively manner. "we must have some charades, and a ball; we shall have plenty of time to talk this over when our guests arrive." and, anxious to go before pauline said anything more, lady darrell quitted the room. "my dear pauline," said miss hastings, "if you would----" but she paused suddenly, for pauline was sitting with a rapt expression on her face, deaf to every word. such a light was in those dark eyes, proud, triumphant, and clear--such a smile on those curved lips; pauline looked as though she could see into futurity, and as though, while the view half frightened, it pleased her. suddenly she rose from her seat, with her hands clasped, evidently forgetting that she was not alone. "nothing could be better," she said. "i could not have asked of fate or fortune anything better than this." when miss hastings, wondering at her strange, excited manner, asked her a question, she looked up with the vague manner of one just aroused from deep sleep. "what are you thing of, pauline?" asked miss hastings. "i am thinking," she replied, with a dreamy smile, "what good fortune always attends those who know how to wait. i have waited, and what i desired is come." thursday came at last. certainly lady darrell had spared neither time nor expense in preparing for her visitor; it was something like a warrior's home-coming--the rarest of wines, the fairest of flowers, the sweetest of smiles awaiting him. lady darrell's dress was the perfection of good taste--plain white silk trimmed with black lace, with a few flowers in her golden hair. she knew that she was looking her best; it was the first time that the captain had seen her in her present position, so she was anxious to make the most favorable impression on him. "welcome once more to darrell court!" she said, holding out one white hand in greeting. "it seems like a welcome to paradise," said the captain, profanely; and then he bowed with the grace of a chesterfield over the little hand that he still held clasped in his own. chapter xxxii. captain langton accepted. lady darrell was obliged to own herself completely puzzled. all the girls she had ever known had not only liked admiration, but had even sought it; she could not understand why pauline showed such decided aversion to captain langton. he was undeniably handsome, graceful, and polished in manner; lady darrell could imagine no one more pleasant or entertaining. why should pauline show such great distaste for his society, and such avoidance of him? there were times, too, when she could not quite understand aubrey langton. she had seen him look at pauline with an expression not merely of love, but with something of adoration in his eyes; and then again she would be startled by a look of something more fierce and more violent even than hate. she herself was in love with him; nor was she ashamed to own the fact even to herself. she could let her heart speak now--its voice had been stifled long enough; still she would have liked to know the cause of pauline's avoidance of him. on the second day of his visit lady darrell gave a grand dinner-party. lady hampton, who viewed the captain's arrival with great disfavor, was, as a matter of course, to be present. all the neighbors near were invited, and pauline, despite her dislike, saw that she must be present. lady darrell took this opportunity of appearing, for the first time since sir oswald's death, _en grande toilette_. she wore a dress of blue brocade, a marvel of color and weaving, embroidered with flowers, the very delicacy of which seemed to attract notice. she wore the darrell diamonds, her golden head being wreathed with a tiara of precious stones. she looked marvelously bright and radiant; her face was flushed with the most delicate bloom, her eyes were bright with happiness. the guests remarked to each other how lovely their young hostess was. but when pauline entered the room, lady darrell was eclipsed, even as the light of the stars is eclipsed by that of the sun. pauline wore no jewels; the grand beauty of her face and figure required none. the exquisite head and graceful, arched neck rose from the clouds of gray tulle like some superb flower from the shade of its leaves; her dress was low, showing the white neck and statuesque shoulders; the dark, clustering hair was drawn back from the noble brow, a pomegranate blossom glowing in the thick coils. graceful and dignified she looked, without glitter of jewels or dress--simple, perfect in the grandeur of her own loveliness. she was greatly admired; young men gazed at her from a distance with an expression almost of infatuation, while the ladies whispered about her; yet no one had the courage to pay her any great attention, from the simple fact that lady hampton had insinuated that the young widow did not care much about miss darrell. some felt ill at ease in her presence; her proud, dark eyes seemed to detect every little false grace and affectation, all paltry little insincerities seemed to be revealed to her. yet pauline on this occasion did her best. despite sir oswald's false judgment of her, there was an innate refinement about her, and it showed itself to-night. she talked principally to old lady percival, who had known her mother, and who professed and really felt the most profound liking and affection for pauline; they talked during dinner and after dinner, and then, seeing that every one was engaged, and that no one was likely to miss her, pauline slipped from the room and went out. she gave a long sigh of relief as she stood under the broad, free sky; flowers and birds, sunshine and shade, the cool, fragrant gloaming, were all so much more beautiful, so much more to her taste, than the warm, glittering rooms. in the woods a nightingale was singing. what music could be compared to this? the white almond blossoms were falling as she went down to the lakeside, where her dreams were always fairest. "i wonder," mused the girl, "why the world of nature is so fair, and the world of men and women so stupid and so inane." "pauline," said a voice near her, "i have followed you; i could not help doing so." she turned hastily, and saw captain langton, his face flushed, his eyes flaming with a light that was not pleasant to see. "how have you dared to do so?" she demanded. "i dare do anything," he replied, "for you madden me. do you hear? you madden me!" she paid no more heed to his words than she did to the humming of the insects in the grass. "you shall hear me!" he cried. "you shall not turn away your haughty head! look at me--listen to me, or i will----" "or you will murder me," she interrupted. "it will not be the first time you have used that threat. i shall neither look at you nor listen to you." "pauline, i swear that you are driving me mad. i love you so dearly that my life is a torment, a torture to me; yet i hate you so that i could almost trample your life out under my feet. be merciful to me. i know that i may woo and win this glittering widow. i know that i may be master of darrell court--she has let me guess that much--but, pauline, i would rather marry you and starve than have all the world for my own." she turned to him, erect and haughty, her proud face flushing, her eyes so full of scorn that their light seemed to blind him. "i did not think," she said, "that you would dare to address such words to me. if i had to choose this instant between death and marrying you, i would choose death. i know no words in which i can express my scorn, my contempt, my loathing for you. if you repeat this insult, it will be at your peril. be warned." "you are a beautiful fiend!" he hissed. "you shall suffer for your pride!" "yes," she said, calmly; "go and marry lady darrell. i have vowed to be revenged upon her; sweeter vengeance i could not have than to stand by quietly while she marries you." "you are a beautiful fiend!" he hissed again, his face white with rage, his lips dry and hot. pauline turned away, and he stood with deeply muttered imprecations on his lips. "i love her and i hate her," he said; "i would take her in my arms and carry her away where no one in the world could see her beautiful face but myself. i could spend my whole life in worshiping her--yet i hate her. she has ruined me--i could trample her life out. 'go and marry lady darrell,' she said; i will obey her." he returned to the house. no one noticed that his face was paler than usual, that his eyes were shadowed and strange; no one knew that his breath came in hot gasps, and that his heart beat with great irregular throbs. "i will woo lady darrell and win her," he said, "and then pauline shall suffer." what a contrast that graceful woman, with her fair face and caressing manner, presented to the girl he had just left, with her passionate beauty and passionate scorn! lady darrell looked up at him with eyes of sweetest welcome. "you have been out in the grounds," she said, gently; "the evening is very pleasant." "did you miss me, lady darrell--elinor?" he asked, bending over her chair. he saw a warm blush rising in her cheeks, and in his heart he felt some little contempt for the conquest so easily made. "did you miss me, elinor?" he repeated. "you must let me call you elinor--i think it is the sweetest name in all the world." it was almost cruel to trifle with her, for, although she was conventional to the last degree, and had but little heart, still what heart she had was all his. it was so easy to deceive her, too; she was so ready to believe in him and love him that her misplaced affection was almost pitiable. she raised her blue eyes to his; there was no secret in them for him. "i am very glad my name pleases you," she said; "i never cared much for it before." "but you will like it now?" he asked; and then bending over her chair, he whispered something that sent a warm, rosy flush over her face and neck. every one noticed the attention he paid her; lady hampton saw it, and disliked him more than ever. lord aynsley saw it, and knew that all hope of winning the beautiful widow was over for him. people made their comments upon it, some saying it would be an excellent match, for sir oswald had been much attached to captain langton, others thinking that lady darrell, with her fair face and her large fortune, might have done better. there was something, too, in the captain's manner which puzzled simple-hearted people--something of fierce energy, which all the softness of word and look could not hide. "there is not much doubt of what will be the next news from darrell court," said one to another. no one blamed the young widow for marrying again, but there was a general expression of disappointment that she had not done better. those dwelling in the house foresaw what was about to take place. aubrey langton became the widow's shadow. wherever she went he followed her; he made love to her with the most persevering assiduity, and it seemed to be with the energy of a man who had set himself a task and meant to go through with it. he also assumed certain airs of mastership. he knew that he had but to speak one word, and darrell court would be his. he spoke in a tone of authority, and the servants had already begun to look upon him as their master. silent, haughty, and reserved, pauline darrell stood aside and watched--watched with a kind of silent triumph which filled miss hastings with wonder--watched and spoke no word--allowed her contempt and dislike to be seen in every action, yet never uttered one word--watched like a beautiful, relentless spirit of fate. throughout the bright, long summer months aubrey langton staid on at darrell court, and at last did what he intended to do--proposed to lady darrell. he was accepted. it was the end of july then, but, yielding to her regard for appearances, it was agreed that no further word should be said of marriage until the spring of the following year. chapter xxxiii. "i have had my revenge!" it was a warm, beautiful morning, with a dull haze lying over the fair summer earth; and pauline darrell, finding even the large, airy rooms too warm, went out to seek her favorite shade--the shelter of the great cedar tree. as she sat with her book in her hand--of which she never turned a page--miss hastings watched her, wondering at the dark shadow that had fallen over her beauty, wondering at the concentration of thought in her face, wondering whether this shadow of disappointment would darken all her life or if it would pass away, wondering if the vengeance to which she had vowed herself was planned yet; and to them, so silent and absorbed, came the pretty, bright vision of lady darrell, wearing a white morning dress with blue ribbons in her golden hair. the brightness and freshness of the morning seemed to linger on her fair face, as she drew near them with a smile on her lips, and a look of half-proud shyness in her eyes. "i am glad you are both here," she said; "i have something to tell you." the blush and the smile deepened. "perhaps you can guess what it is. miss hastings, you are smiling--pauline, you do not look at me. captain langton has asked me to be his wife, and i have consented." then she paused. miss hastings congratulated her, and wished her much happiness. pauline started at first, clasping her hands while her face grew white, and then she recovered herself and kept perfect silence. "pauline," said lady darrell, "i am very happy; do not shadow my happiness. will you not wish me joy?" "i cannot," replied the girl, in a trembling voice; "you will have no joy." then, seeing lady darrell's wondering face, she seemed to recover herself more completely. "i will wish you," she said, bitterly, "as much happiness as you deserve." "that would be but little," returned lady darrell, with a faint laugh; "i do not hold myself a particularly deserving person." then miss hastings, thinking they might come to a better understanding alone, went away, leaving them together. lady darrell went up to the girl. she laid her hands on her arm appealingly, and raised her face with a pleading expression. "pauline," she said, her lips trembling with emotion, "after all, i was your uncle's wife; for his sake you might show me a little kindness. marriage is a tie for life, not a bond for one day. oh, pauline, pauline, if there is any reason why i should not marry aubrey langton, tell it--for heaven's sake, tell it! your manner is always so strange to him; if you know anything against him, tell me now before it is too late--tell me!" there fell over them a profound silence, broken only by the sweet, cheery music of a bird singing in the cedar tree, and the faint sighing of the wind among the leaves. "tell me, for heaven's sake!" repeated lady darrell, her grasp tightening on pauline's arm. "i have nothing to tell," was the curt reply. "pray do not hold my arm so tightly, lady darrell; i have nothing to tell." "do not deceive me--there must be some reason for your strange manner. tell it to me now, before it is too late." there was almost an agony of pleading in her face and voice, but pauline turned resolutely away, leaving her beneath the cedar alone. "i must be mistaken," lady darrell thought. "what can she know of him? i must be wrong to doubt him; surely if i doubt him i shall doubt heaven itself. it is her manner--her awkward manner--nothing more." and she tried her best to dismiss all thoughts of pauline from her mind, and give herself to her newly-found happiness. "pauline," said miss hastings, sorrowfully, when she rejoined the girl, "i cannot understand you." "i do not quite understand myself," returned miss darrell. "i did not think i had any weakness or pity in my heart, but i find it is there." "you frighten me," said miss hastings. "what makes you so strange? o, pauline, throw it off, this black shadow that envelopes you, and forget this idea of vengeance which has so completely changed you!" she looked up with a smile--a hard, bitter smile. "i shall have had my revenge," she said, gloomily, "when she has married him." nor could any entreaties, any prayers of the kind-hearted woman move her to say more. whether the mysterious and uncertain aspect of things preyed upon miss hastings' mind, whether she grieved over her pupil and allowed that grief to disturb her, was never revealed, but in the month of august she became seriously ill--not ill enough to be obliged to keep her room, but her health and her strength failed her, and day by day she became weaker and less able to make any exertion. lady darrell sent for doctor helmstone, and he advised miss hastings to go to the sea-side at once, and to remain there during the autumn. at her earnest request pauline consented to accompany her. "the change will do you good as well as myself," said the anxious lady; and miss darrell saw that she was thinking how much better it would be that she should leave darrell court. "i will go," she said. "i know what you are thinking of. my vengeance is nearly accomplished. there is no reason now why i should remain here." after many consultations it was agreed that they should go to the pretty little watering-place called omberleigh. many things recommended it; the coast was sheltered, the scenery beautiful, the little town itself very quiet, the visitors were few and of the higher class. it was not possible to find a prettier spot than omberleigh. lady darrell was generosity itself! in her quiet, amiable way she liked miss hastings as well as she was capable of liking any one. she insisted upon making all kinds of arrangements for the governess--she was to have every comfort, every luxury. "and you must do nothing," she said, in her most caressing manner, "but try to get well. i shall expect to see you looking quite young and blooming when you return." lady darrell had already written to omberleigh, and, through an agent there, had secured beautiful apartments. when miss hastings half remonstrated with her, she laughed. "i have nothing to do," she said, "but make every one happy; and it is my duty to find you always a comfortable home." lady darrell looked, as she was in those days, a most happy woman. she seemed to have grown younger and fairer. the height of her ambition, the height of her happiness, was reached at last. she was rich in the world's goods, and it was in her power to make the man she loved rich and powerful too. she was, for the first time in her life, pleasing her own heart; and happiness made her more tender, more amiable, more considerate and thoughtful for others. lady hampton mourned over the great mistake her niece was making. she had whispered in confidence to all her dear friends that elinor was really going to throw herself away on the captain after all. it was such a pity, she said, when lord aynsley was so deeply in love with her. "but then," she concluded, with a sigh, "it is a matter in which i cannot interfere." yet, looking at lady darrell's bright, happy face, she could not quite regret the captain's existence. "you will not be lonely, lady darrell," said miss hastings, the evening before her journey. she never forgot the light that spread over the fair young face--the intense happiness that shone in the blue eyes. "no," she returned, with a sigh of unutterable content, "i shall never be lonely again. i have thoughts and memories that keep my heart warm--all loneliness or sorrow is over for me." on the morrow miss darrell and the governess were to go to omberleigh, but the same night lady darrell went to pauline's room. "i hope you will excuse me," she said, when the girl looked up in haughty surprise. "i want to say a few words to you before you go." the cool, formal terms on which they lived were set aside, and for the first time lady darrell visited pauline in her room. "i want to ask you one great favor," continued lady darrell. "will you promise me that miss hastings shall not want for anything? she is far from strong." "i shall consider miss hastings my own especial charge," said pauline. "but you must allow me to help you. i have a very great affection for her, and desire nothing better than to prove it by kind actions." "miss hastings would be very grateful to you if she knew it," said pauline. "but i do not want her to be grateful. i do not want her to know anything about it. with all her gentleness, miss hastings has an independence quite her own--an independence that i respect greatly; but it is quite possible, you know, pauline, to manage an invalid--to provide good wine and little delicacies." "i will do all that myself," observed the young girl. lady darrell went nearer to her. "pauline," she said, gently, "you have always repelled every effort of mine; you would not be friends with me. but now, dear--now that i am so much happier, that i have no cloud in my sky save the shadow of your averted face--be a little kinder to me. say that you forgive me, if i have wronged you." "you have wronged me, lady darrell, and you know it. for me to talk of forgiveness is only a farce; it is too late for that. i have had my revenge!" lady darrell looked up at her with a startled face. "what is that you say, pauline?" "i repeat it," said the girl, huskily--"i have had my revenge!" "what can you mean? nothing of moment has happened to me. you are jesting, pauline." "it would be well for you if i were," said the girl; "but i tell you in all truth i have had my revenge!" and those words sounded in lady darrell's ears long after pauline had left darrell court. chapter xxxiv. the stranger on the sands. the tide was coming in, the sun setting over the sea; the crimson and golden light seemed to be reflected in each drop of water until the waves were one mass of heaving roseate gold; a sweet western wind laden with rich, aromatic odors from the pine woods seemed to kiss the waves as they touched the shore and broke into sheets of beautiful white foam. it was such a sunset and such a sea--such a calm and holy stillness. the golden waters stretched out as far and wide as the eye could reach. the yellow sands were clear and smooth; the cliffs that bounded the coast were steep and covered with luxuriant green foliage. pauline darrell had gone to the beach, leaving miss hastings, who already felt much better, to the enjoyment of an hour's solitude. there was a small niche in one of the rocks, and the young girl sat down in it, with the broad, beautiful expanse of water spread out before her, and the shining waves breaking at her feet. she had brought a book with her, but she read little; the story did not please her. the hero of it was too perfect. with her eyes fixed on the golden, heaving expanse of water, she was thinking of the difference between men in books and men in real life. in books they were all either brave or vicious--either very noble or very base. she passed in review all the men she had ever known, beginning with her kind-hearted, genial father, the clever humorist artist, who could define a man's character in an epigram so skillfully. he was no hero of romance; he liked his cigar, his "glass," and his jest. she thought of all his rugged, picturesque artist-comrades, blunt of speech, honest of heart, open-handed, generous, self-sacrificing men, who never envied a comrade's prosperity, nor did even their greatest enemy an evil turn; yet they were not heroes of romance. she thought of sir oswald--the stately gentleman of the old school, who had held his name and race so dear, yet had made so fatal an error in his marriage and will. she thought of the captain, handsome and polished in manner, and her face grew pale as she remembered him. she thought of lord aynsley, for whom she had a friendly liking, not unmixed with wonder that he could so deeply love the fair, soft-voiced, inane lady darrell. then she began to reflect how strange it was that she had lived until now, yet had never seen a man whom she could love. her beautiful lips curled in scorn as she thought of it. "if ever i love any one at all," she said to herself, "it must be some one whom i feel to be my master. i could not love a man who was weak in body, soul, heart, or mind. i must feel that he is my master; that my soul yields to his; that i can look up to him as the real guiding star of my life, as the guide of my actions. if ever i meet such a man, and vow to love him, what will my love do for me? i do not think i could fall in love with a book-hero either; they are too coldly perfect. i should like a hero with some human faults, with a touch of pride capable of being roused into passion." suddenly, as the thought shaped itself in her mind, she saw a tall figure crossing the sands--the figure of a man, walking quickly. he stopped at some little distance from the cliff, and then threw himself on the sand. his eyes were fixed on the restless, beautiful sea; and she, attracted by his striking masculine beauty, the statuesque attitude, the grand, free grace of the strong limbs, the royal carriage of the kingly head, watched him. in the louvre she had seen some marvelous statues, and he reminded her of them. there was one of antinous, with a grand, noble face, a royal head covered with clusters of hair, and the stranger reminded her of it. she looked at him in wonder. she had seen picturesque-looking men--dandies, fops--but this was the first time she had ever seen a noble and magnificent-looking man. "if his soul is like his face," she thought to herself, "he is a hero." she watched him quite unconsciously, admiration gradually entering her heart. "i should like to hear him speak," she thought. "i know just what kind of voice ought to go with that face." it was a dreamy spot, a dreamy hour, and he was all unconscious of her presence. the face she was watching was like some grand, harmonious poem to her; and as she so watched there came to her the memory of the story of lancelot and elaine. the restless golden waters, the yellow sands, the cliffs, all faded from her view, and she, with her vivid imagination, saw before her the castle court where elaine first saw him, lifted her eyes and read his lineaments, and then loved him with a love that was her doom. the face on which she gazed was marked by no great and guilty love--it was the face of lancelot before his fall, when he shone noblest, purest, and grandest of all king arthur's knights. "it was for his face elaine loved him," thought the girl--"grand and noble as is the face on which the sun shines now." then she went through the whole of that marvelous story; she thought of the purity, the delicate grace, the fair loveliness of elaine, as contrasted with the passionate love which, flung back upon itself, led her to prefer death to life--of that strange, keen, passionate love that so suddenly changed the whole world for the maid of astolat. "and i would rather be like her," said the girl to herself; "i would rather die loving the highest and the best than live loving one less worthy." it had seized her imagination, this beautiful story of a deathless love. "i too could have done as elaine did," she thought; "for love cannot come to me wearing the guise it wears to others. i could read the true nobility of a man's soul in his face; i could love him, asking no love in return. i could die so loving him, and believing him greatest and best." then, as she mused, the sunlight deepened on the sea, the rose became purple, the waters one beaming mass of bright color, and he who had so unconsciously aroused her sleeping soul to life rose and walked away over the sands. she watched him as he passed out of sight. "i may never see him again," she thought; "but i shall remember his face until i die." a great calm seemed to fall over her; the very depths of her heart had been stirred. she had been wondering so short a time before if she should ever meet any one at all approaching the ideal standard of excellence she had set up in her mind. it seemed like an answer to her thoughts when he crossed the sands. "i may never see him again," she said; "but i shall always remember that i have met one whom i could have loved." she sat there until the sun had set over the waters and the moon had risen; and all the time she saw before her but one image--the face that had charmed her as nothing in life had ever done before. then, startled to find that it had grown so late, she rose and crossed the sands. once she turned to look at the sea, and a curious thought came to her that there, by the side of the restless, shining waters, she had met her fate. then she tried to laugh at the notion. "to waste one's whole heart in loving a face," she thought, "would be absurd. yet the sweetest of all heroines--elaine--did so." a great calm, one that lulled her brooding discontent, that stilled her angry despair, that seemed to raise her above the earth, that refined and beautified every thought, was upon her. she reached home, and miss hastings, looking at the beautiful face on which she had never seen so sweet an expression, so tender a light before, wondered what had come over her. so, too, like elaine-- all night his face before her lived, and the face was dark, splendid, sparkling in the silence, full of noble things. all unconsciously, all unknowingly, the love had come to her that was to work wonders--the love that was to be her redemption. chapter xxxv. the story of elaine. miss hastings laid down the newspaper, with a quick glance of pleased surprise. "i am glad that i came to omberleigh," she said. "imagine, pauline, who is here. you have heard me speak of the st. lawrences. i educated laura st. lawrence, and she married well and went to india. her husband holds a very high appointment there. lady st. lawrence is here with her son, sir vane. i am so pleased." "and i am pleased for you," responded pauline, with the new gentleness that sat so well upon her. "i must go and see them," continued miss hastings. "they are staying at sea view. we can soon find out where sea view is." "st. lawrence!" said pauline, musingly; "i like the name; it has a pleasant sound." "they are noble people who bear it," observed miss hastings. "lady st. lawrence was always my ideal of a thoroughbred english gentlewoman. i never heard how it was, but the greater part of their fortune was lost when sir arthur died. he left but this one son, vane; and, although he has the title, he has but little to support it with. i know their family estates were all sold. lady st. lawrence has a small fortune of her own; but it is not much." again pauline repeated the name to herself--"vane st. lawrence!"--thinking there was a sound as of half-forgotten music in it. that was a name that would have suited the face she had watched on the sands. "vane st. lawrence!" unconsciously to herself she had said the words aloud. miss hastings looked up quickly. "did you speak, my dear?" she asked; and pauline wondered to find her face suddenly grow warm with a burning blush. "i think," said miss hastings, presently, "that i should like to visit them at once. lady st. lawrence may not be staying long, and i should never forgive myself if i were to miss her. will you come with me, pauline?" "yes, willingly." she was ready to go anywhere, to do anything, with that great, wonderful love, that great, grand calm, filling her heart and soul. for the first time the sight of her own magnificent loveliness pleased her. "i may see him again," she thought to herself with almost child-like simplicity, "and i should like him to think of me." she took more pains than she had ever taken before; and the picturesque taste that was part of her character greatly assisted her. her dress was of purple silk, plain, rich, and graceful; her hat, with its drooping purple plume, looked like a crown on the beautiful head. she could no more help looking royal and queenly than she could help the color of her eyes and hair. miss hastings looked up with a smile of surprise, the proud face was so wonderfully beautiful--the light that never yet shone on land or sea was shining on it. "why, pauline," she said, laughing, "lady st. lawrence will think i am taking the queen of sheba in disguise! what strange change is coming over you, child?" what indeed? was it the shadow of the love that was to redeem her--to work wonders in her character? was it the light that came from the half-awakening soul? wiser women than good, kindly, simple-hearted miss hastings might have been puzzled. they were not long in finding sea view--a pretty villa a little way out of the town, standing at the foot of a cliff, surrounded by trees and flowers--one of the prettiest spots in omberleigh. they were shown into the drawing-room, the windows of which commanded a magnificent view of the sea. before they had been there many minutes there entered a fair, gentle, gracious lady, whose eyes filled with tears as she greeted miss hastings warmly. "you are like a spirit from the past," she said. "i can see laura a little child again as i look at you. nothing could have pleased me so much as seeing you." then she looked admiringly at the beautiful girl by her side. miss hastings introduced her. "miss darrell," she said, "it seems strange that i should meet you. my husband in his youth knew sir oswald well." lady st. lawrence was just what miss hastings had described her--a thoroughly high-bred english lady. in figure she was tall and upright; her face had been beautiful in its youth, and was even now comely and fair; the luxuriant brown hair was streaked here and there with silver. she wore a dress of rich brocade, with some becoming arrangement of flowers and lace on her head; she was charming in her lady-like simplicity and gentleness. pauline, knowing that the two ladies would have much to talk about, asked permission to amuse herself with some books she saw upon the table. "they belong to my son," said lady st. lawrence, with a smile. there were tennyson, keats, and byron, and written inside of each, in a bold, clear hand, was the name "vane st. lawrence." pauline lost herself again in the sweet story of elaine, from which she was aroused at intervals by the repetition of the words--"my son vane." she could not help hearing some part of lady st. lawrence's confidential communication, and it was to the effect how deeply she deplored the blindness of her son, who might marry his cousin lillith davenant, one of the wealthiest heiresses in england. miss hastings was all kindly sympathy. "it would be such an excellent thing for him," continued lady st. lawrence; "and lillith is a very nice girl. but it is useless counseling him; vane is like his father. sir arthur, you know, always would have his own way." pauline began to feel interested in this vane st. lawrence, who refused to marry the wealthy heiress because he did not love her. "he must be somewhat like me," she said to herself with a smile. then the conversation changed, and lady st. lawrence began to speak of her daughter laura and her children. pauline returned to elaine, and soon forgot everything else. she was aroused by a slight stir. she heard lady st. lawrence say: "my dear vane, how you startled me!" looking up, she saw before her the same face that had engrossed her thoughts and fancy! she was nearer to it now, and could see more plainly the exquisite refinement of the beautiful mouth, the clear, ardent expression of the bold, frank eyes, the gracious lines of the clustering hair. her heart seemed almost to stand still--it was as though she had suddenly been brought face to face with a phantom. he was bending over lady st. lawrence, talking eagerly to her--he was greeting miss hastings with much warmth and cordiality. pauline had time to recover herself before lady st. lawrence remembered her. she had time to still the wild beating of her heart--to steady her trembling lips--but the flush was still on her beautiful face and the light in her eyes when he came up to her. lady st. lawrence spoke, but the words sounded to pauline as though they came from afar off; yet they were very simple. "miss darrell," she said, "let me introduce my son to you." then she went back to miss hastings, eager to renew the conversation interrupted by the entrance of her son. what did sir vane see in those dark eyes that held him captive? what was looking at him through that most beautiful face? what was it that seemed to draw his heart and soul from him, never to become his own again? to any other stranger he would have spoken indifferent words of greeting and welcome; to this dark-eyed girl he could say nothing. when souls have spoken, lips have not much to say. they were both silent for some minutes; and then sir vane tried to recover himself. what had happened to him? what strange, magic influence was upon him? ten minutes since he had entered that room heart-whole, fancy-free, with laughter on his lips, and no thought of coming fate. ten minutes had worked wonders of change; he was standing now in a kind of trance, looking into the grand depths of those dark eyes wherein he had lost himself. they said but few words; the calm and silence that fell over them during that first interval was not to be broken; it was more eloquent than words. he sat down by her side; she still held the book open in her hands. he glanced at it. "elaine," he said, "do you like that story?" she told him "yes," and, taking the book from her hands, he read the noble words wherein sir lancelot tells the lily maid how he will dower her when she weds some worthy knight, but that he can do no more for her. was it a dream that she should sit there listening to those words from his lips--she had fancied him sir lancelot without stain, and herself elaine? there was a sense of unreality about it; she would not have been surprised at any moment to awake and find herself in the pretty drawing-room at marine terrace--all this beautiful fairy tale a dream--only a dream. the musical voice ceased at last; and it was to her as though some charm had been broken. "do you like poetry, miss darrell?" inquired sir vane. "yes," she replied; "it seems to me part of myself. i cannot explain clearly what i mean, but when i hear such grand thoughts read, or when i read them for myself, it is to me as though they were my own." "i understand," he responded--"indeed i believe that i should understand anything you said. i could almost fancy that i had lived before, and had known you in another life." then lady st. lawrence said something about sea view, and they left fairy-land for a more commonplace sphere of existence. chapter xxxvi. redeemed by love. "if anything can redeem her, it will be love." so miss hastings had said of pauline long months ago, when she had first seen her grand nature warped and soured by disappointment, shadowed by the fierce desire of revenge. now she was to see the fulfillment of her words. with a nature like pauline's, love was no ordinary passion; all the romance, the fervor, the poetry of her heart and soul were aroused. her love took her out of herself, transformed and transfigured her, softened and beautified her. she was not of those who could love moderately, and, if one attachment was not satisfactory, take refuge in another. for such as her there was but one love, and it would make or mar her life. had sir vane st. lawrence been merely a handsome man she would never have cared for him; but his soul and mind had mastered her. he was a noble gentleman, princely in his tastes and culture, generous, pure, gifted with an intellect magnificent in itself, and cultivated to the highest degree of perfection. the innate nobility of his character at once influenced her. she acknowledged its superiority; she bowed her heart and soul before it, proud of the very chains that bound her. how small and insignificant everything else now appeared! even the loss of darrell court seemed trifling to her. life had suddenly assumed another aspect. she was in an unknown land; she was happy beyond everything that she had ever conceived or imagined it possible to be. it was a quiet, subdued happiness, one that was dissolving her pride rapidly as the sunshine dissolves snow--happiness that was rounding off the angles of her character, that was taking away scorn and defiance, and bringing sweet and gracious humility, womanly grace and tenderness in their stead. while sir vane was studying her as the most difficult problem he had ever met with, he heard from miss hastings the story of her life. he could understand how the innate strength and truth of the girl's character had rebelled against polite insincerities and conventional untruths; he could understand that a soul so gifted, pure, and eager could find no resting-place and no delight; he could understand, too, how the stately old baronet, the gentleman of the old school, had been frightened at his niece's originality, and scared by her uncompromising love of truth. miss hastings, whose favorite theme in pauline's absence was praise of her, had told both mother and son the story of sir oswald's project and its failure--how pauline would have been mistress of darrell court and all her uncle's immense wealth if she would but have compromised matters and have married aubrey langton. "langton?" questioned sir vane. "i know him--that is, i have heard of him; but i cannot remember anything more than that he is a great _roue_, and a man whose word is never to be believed." "then my pupil was right in her estimate of his character," said miss hastings. "she seemed to guess it by instinct. she always treated him with the utmost contempt and scorn. i have often spoken to her about it." "you may rely upon it, miss hastings, that the instinct of a good woman, in the opinion she forms of men, is never wrong," observed sir vane, gravely; and then he turned to lady st. lawrence with the sweet smile his face always wore for her. "mother," he said, gently, "after hearing of such heroism as that, you must not be angry about lillith davenant again." "that is a very different matter," opposed lady st. lawrence; but it seemed to her son very much the same kind of thing. before he had known pauline long he was not ashamed to own to himself that he loved her far better than all the world beside--that life for him, unless she would share it, was all blank and hopeless. she was to him as part of his own soul, the center of his existence; he knew she was beautiful beyond most women, he believed her nobler and truer than most women had ever been. his faith in her was implicit; he loved her as only noble men are capable of loving. as time passed on his influence over her became unbounded. quite unconsciously to herself she worshiped him; unconsciously to herself her thoughts, her ideas, all took their coloring from his. she who had delighted in cynicism, whose beautiful lips had uttered such hard and cruel words, now took from him a broader, clearer, kinder view of mankind and human nature. if at times the old habit was too strong for her, and some biting sarcasm would fall from her, some cold cynical sneer, he would reprove her quite fearlessly. "you are wrong, miss darrell--quite wrong," he would say. "the noblest men have not been those who sneered at their fellow-men, but those who have done their best to aid them. there is little nobility in a deriding spirit." and then her face would flush, her lips quiver, her eyes take the grieved expression of a child who has been hurt. "can i help it," she would say, "when i hear what is false?" "your ridicule will not remedy it," he would reply. "you must take a broader, more kindly view of matters. you think mrs. leigh deceitful, mrs. vernon worldly; but, my dear miss darrell, do you remember this, that in every woman and man there is something good, something to be admired, some grand or noble quality? it may be half-hidden by faults, but it is there, and for the sake of the good we must tolerate the bad. no one is all bad. men and women are, after all, created by god; and there is some trace of the divine image left in every one." this was a new and startling theory to the girl who had looked down with contempt not unmixed with scorn on her fellow-creatures--judging them by a standard to which few ever attain. "and you really believe there is something good in every one?" she asked. "something not merely good, but noble. my secret conviction is that in every soul there is the germ of something noble, even though circumstances may never call it forth. as you grow older and see more of the world, you will know that i am right." "i believe you!" she cried, eagerly. "i always believe every word you say!" her face flushed at the warmth of her words. "you do me justice," he said. "i have faults by the million, but want of sincerity is not among them." so, little by little, love redeemed pauline, took away her faults, and placed virtues in their stead. it was almost marvelous to note how all sweet, womanly graces came to her, how the proud face cleared and grew tender, how pride died from the dark eyes, and a glorious love-light came in its stead, how she became patient and gentle, considerate and thoughtful, always anxious to avoid giving pain to others. it would have been difficult for any one to recognize the brilliant, willful pauline darrell in the loving, quiet, thoughtful girl whom love had transformed into something unlike herself. there came a new world to her, a new life. instead of problems difficult to solve, life became full of sweet and gracious harmonies, full of the very warmth and light of heaven, full of unutterable beauty and happiness; her soul reveled in it, her heart was filled with it. all the poetry, the romance, had come true--nay, more than true. her girlish dreams had not shown her such happiness as that which dawned upon her now. she had done what she had always said she should do--recognized her superior, and yielded full reverence to him. if anything had happened to disenchant her, if it had been possible for her to find herself mistaken in him, the sun of the girl's life would have set forever, would have gone down in utter darkness, leaving her without hope. this beautiful love-idyl did not remain a secret long; perhaps those most interested were the last to see it. miss hastings, however, had watched its progress, thankful that her prophecy about her favorite was to come true. later on lady st. lawrence saw it, and, though she could not help mourning over lillith davenant's fortune, she owned that pauline darrell was the most beautiful, the most noble, the most accomplished girl she had ever met. she had a moderate fortune, too; not much, it was true; yet it was better than nothing. "and, if dear vane has made up his mind," said the lady, meekly, "it will, of course, be quite useless for me to interfere." sir vane and pauline were always together; but hitherto no word of love had been spoken between them. sir vane always went to marine terrace the first thing in the morning; he liked to see the beautiful face that had all the bloom and freshness of a flower. he always contrived to make such arrangements as would insure that pauline and he spent the morning together. the afternoon was a privileged time; it was devoted by the elder ladies, who were both invalids, to rest. during that interval sir vane read to pauline, or they sat under the shadow of the great cliffs, talking until the two souls were so firmly knit that they could never be severed again. in the evening they walked on the sands, and the waves sang to them of love that was immortal, of hope that would never die--sang of the sweet story that would never grow old. chapter xxxvii. pride brought low. pauline could have passed her life in the happy dream that had come to her; she did not go beyond it--the golden present was enough for her. the full, happy, glorious life that beat in her heart and thrilled in her veins could surely never be more gladsome. she loved and was beloved, and her lover was a king among men--a noble, true-hearted gentleman, the very ideal of that of which she had always dreamed; she did not wish for any change. the sunrise was blessed because it brought him to her; the sunset was as dear, for it gave her time to dream of him. she had a secret longing that this might go on forever; she had a shy fear and almost child-like dread of words that must be spoken, seeing that, let them be said when they would, they must bring a great change into her life. in this she was unlike sir vane; the prize he hoped to win seemed to him so beautiful, so valuable, that he was in hourly dread lest others should step in and try to take it from him--lest by some mischance he should lose that which his whole soul was bent upon winning. he understood the girlish shyness and sweet fear that had changed the queenly woman into a timid girl; he loved her all the more for it, and he was determined to win her if she was to be won. perhaps she read that determination in his manner, for of late she had avoided him. she remained with miss hastings, and, when that refuge was denied her, she sought lady st. lawrence; but nothing could shield her long. "miss darrell," said sir vane, one afternoon, "i have a poem that i want to read to you." she was seated on a low stool at lady st. lawrence's feet, her beautiful face flushing at his words, her eyes drooping with shy, sweet pleasure that was almost fear. "will you not read it to me now, and here?" she asked. "no; it must be read by the sea. it is like a song, and the rush of the waves is the accompaniment. miss hastings, if you have brought up your pupil with any notion of obedience, enforce it now, please. tell miss darrell to put on her hat and come down to the shore." miss hastings smiled. "you are too old now, pauline, to be dictated to in such matters," said miss hastings; "but if sir vane wishes you to go out, there is no reason why you should not oblige him." lady st. lawrence laid her hand on the beautiful head. "my son has few pleasures," she said; "give him this one." pauline complied. time had been when anything like a command had instantly raised a spirit of rebellion within her; but in this clearer light that had fallen upon her she saw things so differently; it was as though her soul had eyes and they were just opened. she rose and put on the pretty, plumed hat which miss hastings brought for her; she drew an indian shawl over her shoulders. she never once looked at sir vane. "your goodness is not only an act of charity," he said, "but it is also a case in which virtue will be its own reward. you have no notion how beautifully the sun is shining on the sea." so they went out together, and lady st. lawrence looked after them with a sigh. "she is a most beautiful girl, certainly, and i admire her. if she only had lillith davenant's money!" sir vane and pauline walked in silence down to the shore, and then the former turned to his companion. "miss darrell," he said, "will you tell me why you were not willing to come out with me--why you have avoided me and turned the light of your beautiful face from me?" her face flushed, and her heart beat, but she made no answer. "i have borne my impatience well for the last three days," he said; "now i must speak to you, for i can bear it no longer, pauline. oh, do not turn away from me! i love you, and i want you to be my wife--my wife, darling; and i will love you--i will cherish you--i will spend my whole life in working for you. i have no hope so great, so sweet, so dear, as the hope of winning you." she made him no answer. yet her silence was more eloquent than words. "it seems a strange thing to say, but, pauline, i loved you the first moment i saw you. do you remember, love? you were sitting with one of my books in your hand, and the instant my eyes fell upon your beautiful face a great calm came over me. i could not describe it; i felt that in that minute my life was completed. my whole heart went out to you, and i knew, whether you ever learned to care for me or not, that you were the only woman in all the world for me." she listened with a happy smile playing round her beautiful lips, her dark eyes drooping, her flower-like face flushed and turned from his. "you are my fate--my destiny! ah! if you love me, pauline--if you will only love me, i shall not have lived in vain! your love would incite me to win name and fame--not for myself, but for you. your love would crown a king--what would it not do for me? turn your face to me, pauline? you are not angry? surely great love wins great love--and there could be no love greater than mine." still the beautiful face was averted. there was the sunlight on the sea; the western wind sighed around them. a great fear came over him. surely, on this most fair and sunny day, his love was not to meet a cruel death. his voice was so full of this fear when he spoke again that she, in surprise, turned and looked at him. "pauline," he cried, "you cannot mean to be cruel to me. i am no coward, but i would rather face death than your rejection." then it was that their eyes met; and that which he saw in hers was a revelation to him. the next moment he had clasped her to his heart, and was pouring out a torrent of passionate words--such words, so tender, so loving, so full of passion and hope, that her face grew pale as she listened, and the beautiful figure trembled. "i have frightened you, my darling," he said, suddenly. "ah! do forgive me. i was half mad with joy. you do not know how i have longed to tell you this, yet feared--i knew not what--you seemed so far above me, sweet. see, you are trembling now! i am as cruel as a man who catches in his hands a white dove that he has tamed, and hurts it by his grasp. sit down here and rest, while i tell you over and over again, in every fashion, in every way, how i love you." the sun never shone upon happier lovers than those. the golden doors of love's paradise were open to them. "i never knew until now," said vane, "how beautiful life is. why, pauline, love is the very center of it; it is not money or rank--it is love that makes life. only to think, my darling, that you and i may spend every hour of it together." she raised her eyes to the fair, calm heavens, and infinite happiness filled her soul to overflowing; a deep, silent prayer ascended unspoken from her heart. suddenly she sprang from his side with a startled cry. "oh, vane!" she said, with outstretched hands, "i had forgotten that i am unworthy. i can never marry you!" he saw such wild despair in her face, such sudden, keen anguish, that he was half startled; and, kneeling by her side, he asked: "why, my darling? tell me why. you, pauline," he cried--"you not worthy of me! my darling, what fancy is it--what foolish idea--what freak of the imagination? you are the noblest, the truest, the dearest woman in the whole wide world! pauline, why are you weeping so? my darling, trust me--tell me." she had shrunk shuddering from him, and had buried her face in her hands; deep, bitter sobs came from her lips; there was the very eloquence of despair in her attitude. "pauline," said her lover, "you cannot shake my faith in you; you cannot make me think you have done wrong; but will you try, sweet, to tell me what it is?" he never forgot the despairing face raised to his, the shadow of such unutterable sorrow in the dark eyes, the quivering of the pale lips, the tears that rained down her face--it was such a change from the radiant, happy girl of but a few minutes ago that he could hardly believe it was the same pauline. he bent over her as though he would fain kiss away the fast falling tears; but she shrank from him. "do not touch me, vane!" she cried; "i am not worthy. i had forgotten; in the happiness of loving you, and knowing that i was beloved, i had forgotten it--my own deed has dishonored me! we must part, for i am not worthy of you." he took both her hands in his own, and his influence over her was so great that even in that hour she obeyed him implicitly, as though she had been a child. "you must let me judge, pauline," he said, gently. "you are mine by right of the promise you gave me a few minutes since--the promise to be my wife; that makes you mine--no one can release you from it. by virtue of that promise you must trust me, and tell me what you have done." he saw that there was a desperate struggle in her mind--a struggle between the pride that bade her rise in rebellion and leave him with her secret untold, and the love that, bringing with it sweet and gracious humility, prompted her to confess all to him. he watched her with loving eyes; as that struggle ended, so would her life take its shape. he saw the dark eyes grow soft with good thoughts; he saw the silent, proud defiance die out of the beautiful face; the lips quivered, sweet humility seemed to fall over her and infold her. "i have done a cruel deed, vane," she said--"an act of vengeance that cuts me off from the roll of noble women, and dishonors me." still keeping his hold of the white hand, he said: "tell me what it was--i can judge far better than you." it seemed to her fevered fancy that the song of the waves died away, as though they were listening; that the wind fell with a low sigh, and the birds ceased their song--a silence that was almost terrible fell around her--the blue sky seemed nearer to her. "speak to me, vane!" she cried; "i am frightened!" he drew her nearer to him. "it is only fancy, my darling. when one has anything weighty to say, it seems as though earth and sky were listening. look at me, think of me, and tell me all." she could never remember how she began her story--how she told him the whole history of her life--of the happy years spent with her father in the rue d'orme, when she learned to love art and nature, when she learned to love truth for its own sake, and was brought up amid those kindly, simple-hearted artist friends, with such bitter scorn, such utter contempt of all conventionalities--of her keen and passionate sorrow when her father died, and sir oswald took her home to darrell court, telling her that her past life was at an end forever, and that even the name she had inherited from her father must be changed for the name of her race--how after a time she had grown to love her home with a keen, passionate love, born of pride in her race and in her name--of the fierce battle that raged always between her stern, uncompromising truth and the worldly polish sir oswald would have had her acquire. she concealed nothing from him, telling him of her faults as well as her trials. she gave him the whole history of aubrey langton's wooing, and her contemptuous rejection of his suit. "i was so proud, vane," she said, humbly. "heaven was sure to punish me. i surrounded myself, as it were, with a barrier of pride, scorn, and contempt, and my pride has been brought low." she told him of sir oswald's anger at her refusal to marry aubrey, of her uncle's threat that he would marry and disinherit her, of her scornful disbelief--there was no incident forgotten; and then she came to the evening when sir oswald had opened the box to take out the diamond ring, and had spoken before them all of the roll of bank-notes placed there. "that night, vane," she said, "there was a strange unrest upon me. i could not sleep. i have had the same sensation when the air has been overcharged with electricity before a storm; i seemed to hear strange noises, my heart beat, my face was flushed and hot, every nerve seemed to thrill with pain. i opened the window, thinking that the cool night air would drive the fever from my brain. "as i sat there in the profound silence, i heard, as plainly as i hear myself speaking now, footsteps--quiet, stealthy footsteps--go past my door. "let me explain to you that the library, where my uncle kept his cash-box and his papers, is on the ground floor; on the floor above that there are several guest-chambers. captain langton slept in one of these. my uncle slept on the third floor, and, in order to reach his room, was obliged to go through the corridor where the rooms of miss hastings and myself were. "i heard those quiet, stealthy footsteps, vane, and my heart for a few moments beat painfully. "but the darrells were never cowards. i went to my door and opened it gently. i could see to the very end of the corridor, for at the end there was a large arched window, and a faint gray light coming from it showed me a stealthy figure creeping silently from sir oswald's room; the gray light showed me also a glimmer of steel, and i knew, almost by instinct, that that silent figure carried sir oswald's keys in its hands. "in a moment i had taken my resolve. i pushed my door to, but did not close it; i took off my slippers, lest they should make a sound, and followed the figure down stairs. as i have said before, the darrells were never cowards; no dread came to me; i was intent upon one thing--the detection of the wrongdoer. "not more than a minute passed while i was taking off my shoes, but when i came to the foot of the grand staircase light and figure had both disappeared. i cannot tell what impulse led me to the library--perhaps the remembrance of sir oswald's money being there came to me. i crossed the hall and opened the library door. "though i had never liked captain langton, the scene that was revealed to me came upon me as a shock--one that i shall never forget. there was captain langton with my uncle's cash-box before him, and the roll of bank-notes in his hand. he looked up when i entered, and a terrible curse fell from his lips--a frightful curse. his face was fearful to see. the room lay in the shadow of dense darkness, save where the light he carried shone like a faint star. the face it showed me was one i shall never forget; it was drawn, haggard, livid, with bloodless lips and wild, glaring eyes. "he laid the bank-notes down, and, going to the door, closed it softly, turning the key; and then clutching my arm in a grasp of iron, he hissed rather than said: "'what fiend has brought you here?' "he did not frighten me, vane; i have never known fear. but his eyes were full of murderous hate, and i had an idea that he would have few scruples as to taking my life. "'so, captain aubrey langton,' i said, slowly, 'you are a thief! you are robbing the old friend who has been so good to you!' "he dragged me to the table on which the money lay, and then i saw a revolver lying there, too. "'one word,' he hissed, 'one whisper above your breath, and you shall die!' "i know my face expressed no fear--nothing but scorn and contempt--for his grew more livid as he watched me. "'it is all your fault!' he hissed into my ear; 'it is your accursed pride that has driven me to this! why did you not promise to marry me when my life lay in your hands?' "i laughed--the idea of a darrell married to this midnight thief! "'i told you i was a desperate man,' he went on. 'i pleaded with you, i prayed to you, i laid my life at your feet, and you trampled on it with scorn. i told you of my debts, my difficulties, and you laughed at them. if i could have gone back to london betrothed to you, every city usurer would have been willing to lend me money. i am driven to this, for i cannot go back to face ruin. you have driven me to it; you are the thief, though my hands take the money. your thrice-accursed pride has ruined me!' "'i shall go to sir oswald,' i said, 'and wake him. you shall not rob him!' "'yes,' he returned, 'i shall. i defy you, i dare you; you shall tell no one.' "he took the revolver from the table and held it to my head; i felt the cold steel touch my forehead. "'now,' he said, 'your life is in your own hands; you must take an oath not to betray me, or i will fire.' "'i am not afraid to die; i would rather die than hide such sin as yours. you cannot frighten me; i shall call for assistance.' "'wait a moment,' he said, still keeping that cold steel to my forehead, and still keeping his murderous eyes on my face; 'listen to what i shall do. the moment you cry out i shall fire, and you will fall down dead--i told you i was a desperate man. before any one has time to come i shall place the bank-notes in your hand, and afterward i shall tell sir oswald that, hearing a noise in the library, and knowing money was kept there, i hastened down, and finding a thief, i fired, not knowing who it was--and you, being dead, cannot contradict me.' "'you dare not be so wicked!' i cried. "'i dare anything--i am a desperate man. i will do it, and the whole world will believe me; they will hold you a thief, but they will believe me honest.' "and, vane, i knew that what he said was true; i knew that if i chose death i should die in vain--that i should be branded as a thief, who had been shot in the very act of stealing. "'i will give you two minutes,' he said, 'and then, unless you take an oath not to betray me, i will fire.' "i was willing to lose my life, vane," she continued, "but i could not bear that all the world should brand me as a thief--i could not bear that a darrell should be reckoned among the lowest of criminals. i vow to you it was no coward fear for my life, no weak dread of death that forced the oath from my lips, but it was a shrinking from being found dead there with sir oswald's money in my hand--a shrinking from the thought that they would come to look upon my face and say to each other, 'who would have thought, with all her pride, that she was a thief?' it was that word 'thief,' burning my brain, that conquered. "'you have one minute more,' said the hissing whisper, 'and then, unless you take the oath----' "'i will take it,' i replied; 'i do so, not to save my life, but my fair name.' "'it is well for you,' he returned; and then he forced me to kneel, while he dictated to me the words of an oath so binding and so fast that i dared not break it. "shuddering, sick at heart, wishing i had risked all and cried out for help, i repeated it, and then he laid the revolver down. "'you will not break that oath,' he said. 'the darrells invariably keep their word.' "then, coolly as though i had not been present, he put the bank-notes into his pocket, and turned to me with a sneer. "'you will wonder how i managed this,' he said. 'i am a clever man, although you may not believe it. i drugged sir oswald's wine, and while he slept soundly i took the keys from under his pillow. i will put them back again. you seem so horrified that you had better accompany me and see that i do no harm to the old man.' "he put away the box and extinguished the light. as we stood together in the dense gloom, i felt his breath hot upon my face. "'there is no curse a man can invoke upon the woman who has ruined him,' he said, 'that i do not give to you; but, remember, i do not glory in my crime--i am ashamed of it.' "in the darkness i groped my way to the door, and opened it; in the darkness we passed through the hall where the armor used by warriors of old hung, and in the darkness we went up the broad staircase. i stood at the door of sir oswald's room while captain langton replaced the keys, and then, without a word, i went to my own chamber. "vane, i can never tell you of the storm, the tempest of hate that raged within me. i could have killed myself for having taken the oath. i could have killed captain langton for having extorted it. but there was no help for it then. do you think i did wrong in taking it?" "no, my darling," he replied, "i do not. few girls would have been so brave. you are a heroine, pauline." "hush!" she said, interrupting him. "you have not heard all. i do not blame myself for acting as i did. i debated for some time whether i ought to keep the oath or not. every good impulse of gratitude prompted me to break it; yet again it seemed to me a cowardly thing to purchase my life by a lie. time passed on--the wonder all died away. i said to myself that, if ever any one were falsely accused, i would speak out; but such an event never happened; and not very long after, as you know, sir oswald died. i did not like living under the shadow of that secret--it robbed my life of all brightness. captain langton came again. no words of mine can tell the contempt in which i held him, the contempt with which i treated him; every one noticed it, but he did not dare to complain. he did dare, however, to offer me his hateful love again, and, when i repulsed him in such a fashion as even he could not overlook, he turned all his attention to lady darrell. i am a wicked girl, vane--now that the light of your love has revealed so much to me, i can see how wicked. i have told you that i had sworn to myself to be revenged on lady darrell for coming between me and my inheritance. i have seen more of the world since then, but at that time it seemed to me an unparalleled thing that a young girl like her should marry an old man like sir oswald entirely for his money. i told her if she did so i would be revenged. i know it was wrong," pauline continued, humbly; "at the time i thought it brave and heroic, now i know it was wrong, and weak, and wicked--your love has taught me that." "it was an error that sprang from pride," he said, gently; "there is nothing to part us." "you have not heard all. vane, i knew captain langton to be a thief--to be a man who would not scruple at murder if need required. i knew that all the love he could ever give to any one he had given to me, yet i----" she paused, and the sad face raised humbly to his grew crimson with a burning blush. "oh, vane, how can i tell you the shameful truth? knowing what he was, knowing that he was going to marry lady darrell, i yet withheld the truth. that was my revenge. i knew he was a thief, a cruel, wicked slanderer, a thoroughly bad man, yet, when one word from me would have saved her from accepting his proposal, i, for my vengeance sake, refused to speak that word." her voice died away in a low whisper; the very sound of her words seemed to frighten her. vane st. lawrence's face grew pale and stern. "it was unworthy of you, pauline," he said, unhesitatingly. "it was a cruel revenge." "i know it," she admitted. "no words can add to the keen sense of my dishonor." "tell me how it was," he said, more gently. "i think," continued pauline, "that she had always liked captain langton. i remember that i used to think so before she married my uncle. but she had noticed my contempt for him. it shook her faith in him, and made her doubt him. she came to me one day, vane, with that doubt in her face and in her words. she asked me to tell her if i knew anything against him--if there was any reason why she should doubt him. she asked me then, before she allowed herself to love him; one word from me then would have saved her, and that word, for my vengeance sake, i would not speak." "it should have been spoken," observed sir vane, gravely. "i know it. captain langton has no honor, no conscience. he does not even like lady darrell; he will marry her solely that he may have darrell court. he will afterward maltreat her, and hold her life as nothing; he will squander the darrell property. vane, as truly as the bright heaven shines above me, i believe him to have no redeeming quality." there was silence for some minutes, and then sir vane asked: "tell me, pauline--do you think that lady darrell would marry him if she knew what you have just told me?" "i am sure she would not. she is very worldly, and only lives what one may call a life of appearances; she would not marry him if she knew him to be a thief--she would shrink from him. elegant, polished, amiable women like lady darrell are frightened at crime." "that one word ought to have been spoken, pauline, out of sheer womanly pity and sheer womanly grace. how could you refuse to speak when she came to you with a prayer on her lips?" "the pride and thirst for vengeance were too strong for me," she replied. "and to these you have sacrificed the life and happiness of a woman who has never really injured you. lady darrell and captain langton are not yet married--are they, pauline?" "no, they are to be married in the spring," she answered. "then listen to me, my darling. this marriage must never take place. your silence is wicked--you cannot honorably and conscientiously stand by and see lady darrell throw herself away on a thief. you have done a grievous wrong, pauline. you must make a noble atonement." something like a gleam of hope came into her eyes. "can i atone?" she asked. "i will do so if i know how, even at the price of my life." "i tell you, frankly," he said, "that you have done grievously wrong. when that poor lady came to you in her doubt and perplexity, you ought to have told her at least as much of the truth as would have prevented the marriage. but, my darling, this shall not part us. if i teach you how to atone will you atone?" she crossed her hands as one praying. "i will do anything you tell me, vane." "you must go to darrell court, and you must make to lady darrell the same ample avowal you have made to me; tell her the same story--how you vowed vengeance against her, and how you carried that vengeance out; and then see what comes of it." "but suppose she will not believe me--what then?" "you will have done your best--you will at least have made atonement for your secrecy. if, with her eyes open, lady darrell marries captain langton after that, you will have nothing to blame yourself for. it will be hard for you, my darling, but it is the brave, right, true thing to do." "and you do not hate me, vane?" "no; i love you even better than i did. the woman brave enough to own her faults and desirous to atone for them deserves all the love a man can give her. pauline, when you have done this, my darling, may i ask you when you will be my wife?" she sobbed out that she was unworthy--all unworthy; but he would not even hear the words. "none the less dear are you for having told me your faults. there is only one word now, my darling, to keep in view; and that is, 'atonement.'" she looked up at him with happy, glistening eyes. "vane," she said, "i will go to darrell court to-morrow. i shall never rest now until i have done what you wish me to do." so far had love redeemed her that she was ready to undo all the wrong she had done, at any cost to her pride. but love was to work even greater wonders for her yet. chapter xxxviii. pauline and lady darrell. pauline communicated her resolution of going to darrell court to miss hastings, and that lady looked up in surprise almost too great for words. "you are going to darrell court to-morrow!" she exclaimed. "it cannot be, pauline; you must not travel alone. if you go, i must go with you." but pauline threw one arm caressingly round her friend's neck. "do not try to stop me," she said, pleadingly, "and let me go alone. i did a great wrong at darrell court, and i must return to set it right. only alone can i do that." "pauline," asked miss hastings, gravely, "do you wish to atone for your revenge?" "i do," she replied, simply. "you must let me go alone; and when i come back i shall have something to tell you--something that i know will please you very much." miss hastings kissed the beautiful face. "it is as i thought," she said to herself--"in her case love has worked wonders--it has redeemed her." * * * * * lady darrell sat alone in her dressing-room; the autumn day was drawing to a close. greatly to her delight and surprise, captain langton had unexpectedly appeared that morning. he knew that in the absence of miss hastings he could not stop at darrell court; but he was paying a visit, he told lady darrell, to sir peter glynn, and hoped to see her every day. he had declined dining at the court, but promised to spend some part of the evening there. lady darrell had ordered an early dinner, and sat in her dressing-room awaiting her maid. of course she was going to dress for the captain--to set off her delicate beauty to the greatest advantage. a superb costume of pale pink brocade, with rich trimmings of white lace, was ready for her. a suit of pearls and opals lay in their open cases. the room presented a picturesque appearance of unbounded and splendid confusion--lace, jewelry, fans, slippers, all kinds of valuable and pretty ornaments were there; but nothing in that room was one half so fair as the beautiful woman who sat with a pleased smile upon her face. yet there was something like a sigh on her lips. did he love her? of her own feelings she had no doubt. she loved him with her whole heart--as she had never imagined herself capable of loving any one. but did he love her? there was somewhat of coldness and indifference in his manner--something she could not understand. he had greeted her carelessly--he had bidden her a careless farewell, she said to herself. yet he must love her; for the face reflected in the mirror was a very fair one. then she remembered pauline, and the old wonder came over her why pauline had always such great, such unbounded contempt for him. her maid came in, and lady darrell put on the pink brocade with its white lace trimmings. the maid, in ecstasies, cried out that it was superb--that "my lady" had "never looked so beautiful." lady darrell took up the pearl necklace and held it against the pink brocade to note the contrast. while she held it in her hands one of the servants gave a hurried rap at the door. she came to announce that miss darrell had arrived suddenly, and wished to see lady darrell at once. "miss darrell! then something must be the matter with miss hastings. ask her to come to me at once." in a few moments pauline was standing in that brilliant room, looking pale and anxious. "no," she said, in answer to lady darrell's eager question; "there is nothing the matter with miss hastings. i wanted to see you; i want to see you alone. can you spare a few minutes?" lady darrell dismissed her maid, and then turned to pauline. "what is it?" she asked. "what has brought you here so suddenly?" without one word, pauline went to the door and locked it, and then she went back to lady darrell, who was watching her in wonder. "i have done you a great wrong," she said, humbly, "and i have come to atone for it." lady darrell drew back, trembling with strange, vague fear. "oh, pauline, pauline, what have you done?" pauline threw aside her traveling cloak and took off her hat; and then she came to lady darrell. "let me tell you my story, kneeling here," she said; and she knelt down before lady darrell, looking as she spoke straight into her face. "let me tell you before i begin it," she added, "that i have no excuse to offer for myself--none. i can only thank heaven that i have seen my fault before--for your sake--it is too late." slowly, gravely, sometimes with bitter tears and with sobs that came from the depths of her heart, pauline told her story--how the captain had loved her, how ill he had taken her repulse, how she had discovered his vile worthlessness, but for the sake of her revenge had said nothing. lady darrell listened as to her death-knell. "is this true, pauline?" she cried. "you vowed vengeance against me--is this your vengeance, to try to part me from the man i love, and to take from me the only chance of happiness that my wretched life holds?" her fair face had grown deadly pale; all the light and the happiness had fled from it; the pearls lay unheeded, the blue eyes grew dim with tears. "is it possible, pauline?" she cried again. "have i given my love to one dishonored? i cannot believe it--i will not believe it! it is part of your vengeance against me. what have i done that you should hate me so?" the dark eyes and the beautiful face were raised to hers. "dear lady darrell," said the girl, "i have never spoken a loving word to you before; but i tell you now that, if i could give my life to save you from this sorrow, i would do so." "aubrey langton a thief!" cried lady darrell. "it is not true--i will swear that it is not true! i love him, and you want to take him from me. how could you dare to invent such a falsehood of him, a soldier and a gentleman? you are cruel and wicked." yet through all her passionate denials, through all her bitter anger, there ran a shudder of deadly fear--a doubt that chilled her with the coldness of death--a voice that would be heard, crying out that here was no wrong, no falsehood, but the bare, unvarnished truth. she cast it from her--she trampled it under foot; and the girl kneeling at her feet suffered as much as she did herself while she watched that struggle. "you say that he would have murdered you--that he held a pistol to your forehead, and made you take that oath--he, aubrey langton, did that?" "he did!" said pauline. "would to heaven i had told you before." "would to heaven you had!" she cried. "it is too late now. i love him--i love him, and i cannot lose him. you might have saved me from this, and you would not. oh, cruel and false!" "dearest lady darrell," said the girl, "i would wash out my fault with my heart's blood if i could. there is no humiliation that i would not undergo, no pain that i would not suffer, to save you." "you might have saved me. i had a doubt, and i went to you, pauline, humbly, not proudly. i prayed you to reveal the truth, and you treated me with scorn. can it be that one woman could be so cruel to another? if you had but spoken half the truth you have now told me, i should have believed you, and have gone away; i should have crushed down the love that was rising in my heart, and in time i should have forgotten it. now it is too late. i love him, and i cannot lose him--dear heaven, i cannot lose him!" she flung up her arms with a wild cry of despair. none ever suffered more than did pauline darrell then. "oh, my sin," she moaned, "my grievous sin!" she tried to soothe the unhappy woman, but lady darrell turned from her with all the energy of despair. "i cannot believe you," she cried; "it is an infamous plot to destroy my happiness and to destroy me. hark! there is aubrey langton's voice; come with me and say before him what you have said to me." chapter xxxix. face to face. captain langton looked up in surprise not altogether unfounded, the sight that met his eyes was so unusual. before him stood lady darrell, her face white as death, her lips quivering with excitement, her superb dress of pink brocade all disarranged, her golden hair falling over her beautiful shoulders--a sight not to be forgotten; she held pauline by the hand, and in all her life lady darrell had never looked so agitated as now. "captain langton," said lady darrell, "will you come here? i want you most particularly." it was by pure chance that she opened the library door--it was the one nearest to her. "will you follow me?" she said. he looked from one to the other with somewhat of confusion in his face. "miss darrell!" he cried. "why, i thought you were at omberleigh!" pauline made no reply. lady darrell held the library door open while they entered, and then she closed it, and turned the key. captain langton looked at her in wonder. "elinor," he said, "what does this mean? are you going to play a tragedy or a farce?" "that will depend upon you," she answered; "i am glad and thankful to have brought you and miss darrell face to face. now i shall know the truth." the surprise on his face deepened into an angry scowl. "what do you mean?" he demanded, sharply. "i do not understand." it was a scene never to be forgotten. the library was dim with the shadows of the autumn evening, and in the gloom lady darrell's pale pink dress, golden hair, and white arms bare to the shoulder, seemed to attract all the light; her face was changed from its great agitation--the calm, fair beauty, the gentle, caressing manner were gone. near her stood pauline, whose countenance was softened with compassion and pity unutterable, the dark eyes shining as through a mist of tears. before them, as a criminal before his judges, stood aubrey langton, with an angry scowl on his handsome face, and yet something like fear in his eyes. "what is it?" he cried, impatiently. "i cannot understand this at all." lady darrell turned her pale face to him. "captain langton," she said, gravely, "miss darrell brings a terrible accusation against you. she tells me that you stole the roll of notes that sir oswald missed, and that at the price of her life you extorted an oath from her not to betray you; is it true?" she looked at him bravely, fearlessly. "it is a lie!" he said. lady darrell continued: "here, in this room, where we are standing now, she tells me that the scene took place, and that, finding she had discovered you in the very act of theft, you held a loaded pistol to her head until she took the oath you dictated. is it true or false?" "it is a lie!" he repeated; but his lips were growing white, and great drops stood upon his brow. "she tells me," resumed lady darrell, "that you loved her, and that you care only for darrell court, not for me. is it true?" "it is all false," he said, hoarsely--"false from beginning to end! she hates you, she hates me, and this foul slander has only been invented to part us!" lady darrell looked from one to the other. "now heaven help me!" she cried. "which am i to believe?" grave and composed, with a certain majesty of truth that could never be mistaken, pauline raised her right hand. "lady darrell," she said, "i swear to you, in the presence of heaven, that i have spoken nothing but the truth." "and i swear it is false!" cried aubrey langton. but appearances were against him; lady darrell saw that he trembled, that his lips worked almost convulsively, and that great drops stood upon his brow. pauline looked at him; those dark eyes that had in them no shadow save of infinite pity and sorrow seemed to penetrate his soul, and he shrank from the glance. "elinor," he cried, "you believe me, surely? miss darrell has always hated you, and this is her revenge." "lady darrell," said the girl, "i am ashamed of my hatred and ashamed of my desire for vengeance. there is no humiliation to which i would not submit to atone for my faults, but every word i have said to you is true." once more with troubled eyes lady darrell looked from one to the other; once more she murmured: "heaven help me! which am i to believe?" then captain langton, with a light laugh, said: "is the farce ended, lady darrell? you see it is no tragedy after all." pauline turned to him, and in the light of that noble face his own grew mean and weak. "captain langton," she said, "i appeal to whatever there is of good and just in you. own to the truth. you need not be afraid of it--lady darrell will not injure you. she will think better of you if you confess than if you deny. tell her that you were led into error, and trust to her kindness for pardon." "she speaks well," observed lady darrell, slowly. "if you are guilty, it is better to tell me so." he laughed again, but the laugh was not pleasant to hear. pauline continued: "let the evil rest where it is, captain langton; do not make it any greater. in your heart you know that you have no love for this lady--it is her fortune that attracts you. if you marry her, it will only be to make her unhappy for life. admit your fault and leave her in peace." "you are a remarkably free-spoken young lady, miss darrell--you have quite an oratorical flow of words. it is fortunate that lady darrell knows you, or she might be tempted to believe you. elinor, i rest my claim on this--since you have known miss darrell, have you ever received one act of kindness from her, one kind word even?" lady darrell was obliged to answer: "no." "then i leave it," he said, "to your sense of justice which of us you are to believe now--her who, to anger you, swears to my guilt, or me, who swears to my innocence? elinor, my love, you cannot doubt me." pauline saw her eyes soften with unutterable tenderness--he saw a faint flush rise on the fair face. almost involuntarily lady darrell drew near to him. "i cannot bear to doubt you, aubrey," she said. "oh, speak the truth to me, for my love's sake!" "i do speak the truth. come with me; leave miss darrell for a while. walk with me across the lawn, and i will tell you what respect for miss darrell prevents my saying here." lady darrell turned to pauline. "i must hear what he has to say--it is only just." "i will wait for you," she replied. the captain was always attentive; he went out into the hall and returned with a shawl that he found there. "you cannot go out with those beautiful arms uncovered, elinor," he said, gently. he placed the shawl around her, trying to hide the coward, trembling fear. "as though i did not love you," he said, reproachfully. "show me another woman only half so fair." pauline made one more effort. "lady darrell," she cried, with outstretched hands, "you will not decide hastily--you will take time to judge?" but as they passed out together, something in the delicate face told her that her love for aubrey langton was the strongest element in her nature. "lady darrell," she cried again, "do not listen to him! i swear i have told you the truth--heaven will judge between him and me if i have not!" "you must have studied tragedy at the porte st. martin," said aubrey langton, with a forced laugh; "lady darrell knows which to believe." she watched them walk across the lawn, captain langton pleading earnestly, lady darrell's face softening as she listened. "i am too late!" cried the girl, in an agony of self-reproach. "all my humiliation is in vain; she will believe him and not me. i cannot save her now, but one word spoken in time might have done so." oh, the bitterness of the self-reproach that tortured her--the anguish of knowing that she could have prevented lady darrell's wrecking her whole life, yet had not done so! it was no wonder that she buried her face in her hands, weeping and praying as she had never wept and prayed in her life before. * * * * * "elinor, look at me," said captain langton; "do i look like a thief and a would-be murderer?" out of pauline's presence the handsome face had regained its usual careless, debonair expression. she raised her eyes, and he saw in them the lingering doubt, the lingering fear. "if all the world had turned against me," he said, "and had refused to believe in me, you, elinor, my promised wife, ought to have had more faith." she made no reply. there had been something in the energy of pauline's manner that carried conviction with it; and the weak heart, the weak nature that had always relied upon others, could form no decision unaided. "for argument sake, let us reverse the case. say that some disappointed lover of yours came to tell to me that you had been discovered stealing; should i not have laughed? why, elinor, you must be blind not to see the truth; a child might discern it. the fact is that long ago i was foolish enough to believe myself in love with miss darrell; and she--well, honestly speaking, she is jealous. a gentleman does not like to refer to such things, but that is the simple truth. she is jealous, and would part us if she could; but she shall not. my beautiful elinor is all my own, and no half-crazed, jealous girl shall come between us." "is it so, aubrey?" asked lady darrell. "my dearest elinor, that is the whole secret of miss darrell's strange conduct to me. she is jealous--and you know, i should imagine, what jealous women are like." she tried to believe him, but, when she recalled the noble face, with its pure light of truth and pity, she doubted again. but captain langton pleaded, prayed, invented such ridiculous stories of pauline, made such fervent protestations of love, lavished such tender words upon her, that the weak heart turned to him again, and again its doubtings were cast aside. "how we shall laugh over this in the happy after years!" he said. "it is really like a drama. oh, elinor, i am so thankful that i was here to save you! and now, my darling, you are trembling with cold. my fair, golden-haired elinor, what must you think of that cruel girl? how could she do it? no; i will not go in again to-night--i should not be able to keep my temper. your grand tragedy heroine will be gone to-morrow." they stood together under the shadow of the balcony, and he drew her nearer to him. "elinor," he said, "i shall never rest again until you are my wife. this plot has failed; miss darrell will plot again to part us. i cannot wait until the spring--you must be my wife before then. to-morrow morning i shall ride over to talk to you about it." she clasped her arms round his neck, and raised her sweet face to his. "aubrey," she said, wistfully, "you are not deceiving me?" "no, my darling, i am not." he bent down and kissed her lips. she looked at him again, pleadingly, wistfully. "heaven will judge between us, aubrey," she said, solemnly. "i have a sure conviction that i shall know the truth." "i hope heaven will assist you," he returned, lightly; "i am quite sure the decision will be in my favor." and those words, so wickedly, so blasphemously false, were the last he ever spoke to her. chapter xl. dying in sin. captain langton left lady darrell at the door of the porch, and went round to the stables. he was a man as utterly devoid of principle as any man could well be, yet the untruths he had told, the false testimony he had given, the false oaths he had taken, had shaken his nerves. "i should not care to go through such a scene as that again," he said--"to stand before two women as before my judges." he found his hands unsteady and his limbs trembling; the horse he had to ride was a spirited one. the captain half staggered as he placed his hand on the saddle. "i am not very well," he said to one of the grooms; "go to the house and tell frampton, the butler, to bring some brandy here." in a few minutes the butler appeared with a tray, on which stood bottle and glass. "this is some very old brandy, sir," he said, "and very strong." but captain langton did not appear to heed him; he poured out half a tumblerful and drank it, while the butler looked on in amazement. "it is very strong, sir," he repeated. "i know what i am doing," returned the captain, with an oath. he was dizzy with fear and with his after-success; he shuddered again as he mounted his horse, and the memory of pauline's face and pauline's words came over him. then he galloped off, and frampton, turning to the groom, with a scared face, said: "if he gets home safely after taking so much of that brandy, and with that horse, i will never venture to say what i think again." * * * * * lady darrell returned to the library, where she had left pauline. they looked at each other in silence, and then lady darrell said: "i--i believe in him, pauline; he cannot be what you say." miss darrell rose and went up to her; she placed her in a chair, and knelt at her feet. "you do not believe what i have told you?" she questioned, gently. "i cannot; my love and my faith are all his." "i have done my best," said pauline, sorrowfully, "and i can do no more. while i live i shall never forgive myself that i did not speak sooner, lady darrell. elinor, i shall kneel here until you promise to forgive me." then lady darrell looked at the beautiful face, with its expression of humility. "pauline," she said, suddenly, "i hardly recognize you. what has come to you? what has changed you?" her face crimson with hot blushes, pauline answered her. "it is to me," she said, "as though a vail had fallen from before my eyes. i can see my sin in all its enormity. i can see to what my silence has led, and, though you may not believe me, i shall never rest until you say that you have forgiven me." lady darrell was not a woman given to strong emotion of any kind; the deepest passion of her life was her love for aubrey langton; but even she could give some faint guess as to what it had cost the proud, willful pauline to undergo this humiliation. "i do forgive you," she said. "no matter how deeply you have disliked me, or in what way you have plotted against me, i cannot refuse you. i forgive you, pauline." miss darrell held up her face. "will you kiss me?" she asked. "i have never made that request in all my life before, but i make it now." lady darrell bent down and kissed her, while the gloom of the evening fell round them and deepened into night. "if i only knew what to believe!" lady darrell remarked. "first my heart turns to him, pauline, and then it turns to you. yet both cannot be right--one must be most wicked and most false. you have truth in your face--he had truth on his lips when he was talking to me. oh, if i knew--if i only knew!" and when she had repeated this many times, pauline said to her: "leave it to heaven; he has agreed that heaven shall judge between us, and it will. whoever has told the lie shall perish in it." so some hours passed, and the change that had come over lady darrell was almost pitiful to see. her fair face was all drawn and haggard, the brightness had all left it. it was as though years of most bitter sorrow had passed over her. they had spoken to her of taking some refreshment, but she had sent it away. she could do nothing but pace up and down with wearied step, moaning that she only wanted to know which was right, which to believe, while pauline sat by her in unwearied patience. suddenly lady darrell turned to her. "what is the matter with me?" she asked. "i cannot understand myself; the air seems full of whispers and portents--it is as though i were here awaiting some great event. what am i waiting for?" they were terrible words, for the answer to them was a great commotion in the hall--the sound of hurried footsteps--of many voices. lady darrell stood still in dismay. "what is it?" she cried. "oh, pauline, i am full of fear--i am sorely full of fear!" it was frampton who opened the door suddenly, and stood before them with a white, scared face. "oh, my lady--my lady!" he gasped. "tell her quickly," cried pauline; "do you not see that suspense is dangerous?" "one of the court servants," said the butler, at once, in response, "returning from audleigh royal, has found the body of captain langton lying in the high-road, where his horse had thrown him, dragged him, and left him--dead!" "heaven be merciful to him!" cried pauline darrell. "he has died in his sin." but lady darrell spoke no words. perhaps she thought to herself that heaven had indeed judged between them. she said nothing--she trembled--a gasping cry came from her, and she fell face forward on the floor. they raised her and carried her up stairs. pauline never left her; through the long night-watches and the long days she kept her place by her side, while life and death fought fiercely for her. she would awake from her stupor at times, only to ask about aubrey--if it could be true that he was dead--and then seemed thankful that she could understand no more. they did not think at first that she could recover. afterward doctor helmstone told her that she owed her life to pauline darrell's unchanging love and care. chapter xli. the work of atonement. the little town of audleigh royal had never been so excited. it was such a terrible accident. captain langton, the guest of sir peter glynn, so soon to be master of darrell court--a man so handsome, so accomplished, and so universal a favorite--to be killed in the gloom of an autumn night, on the high-road! society was grieved and shocked. "that beautiful young lady at the hall, who loved him so dearly, was," people whispered to each other, "at death's door--so deep was her grief." an inquest was held at the "darrell arms;" and all the revelations ever made as to the cause of captain langton's death were made then. the butler and the groom at darrell court swore to having felt some little alarm at seeing the deceased drink more than half a tumblerful of brandy. the butler's prophecy that he would never reach home in safety was repeated. one of the men said that the captain looked pale and scared, as though he had seen a ghost; another told how madly he had galloped away; so that no other conclusion could be come to but this--that he had ridden recklessly, lost all control over the horse, and had been thrown. there was proof that the animal had dragged him along the road for some little distance; and it was supposed the fatal wound had been inflicted when his head was dashed against the mile-stone close to which he had been found. it was very shocking, very terrible. society was distressed. the body lay at the "darrell arms" until all arrangements had been made for the funeral. such a funeral had never been seen in audleigh royal. rich and poor, every one attended. captain langton was buried in the pretty little cemetery at audleigh; and people, as they stood round the grave, whispered to each other that, although the horse that killed him had cost over a hundred pounds, sir peter glynn had ordered it to be shot. then, when the autumn had faded into winter, the accident was forgotten. something else happened which drove it from people's minds, and the tragedy of audleigh royal became a thing of the past. pauline did not return to omberleigh. miss hastings was dreadfully shocked when she received a letter telling her of captain langton's death and of lady darrell's serious illness. no persuasions could induce her to remain longer away. she returned that same day to the court, and insisted upon taking her share in the nursing of lady darrell. lady hampton looked upon the captain's accident as the direct interposition of providence. of course such a death was very shocking, very terrible; but certainly it had never been a match she approved; and, after all, say what one would, everything had happened for the best. lady hampton went over to darrell court, and assisted in attending to the invalid; but her thoughts ran more on lord aynsley, and the chances of his renewing his offer, than on anything else. elinor would soon recover, there was no fear; the shock to her nerves had been great, but people never died of nervousness; and, when she did get well, lady hampton intended to propose a season in london. but lady darrell did not get well as soon as lady hampton had anticipated. indeed, more than one clever doctor, on leaving her presence, shook his head gravely, and said it was doubtful whether lady darrell would ever recover at all; the shock to her nerves had been terrible. but there was something to be said also of a blighted life and a broken heart. autumn had drifted into winter; and one morning lady darrell, who had been sleeping more soundly than usual, suddenly turned to pauline, who seldom left her. "pauline," she whispered, "you have not told any one, have you?" "told what?" she inquired. "about poor aubrey's faults. i know now that he was guilty. strange, solemn thoughts, strange revelations, come to us, are made to us in sickness, when we lie, where i have been lying, in the valley of the shadow of death. i know that he was guilty, and that he died in his sin. i know it now, pauline." miss darrell bent over her and kissed the white brow. "listen to me, dear," continued the weak voice. "let this secret die with us--let there be a bond between us never to reveal it. you will never tell any one about it, will you, pauline?" "no," she replied, "never. i should never have told you but that i hoped to save you from a dreadful fate--and it would have been a dreadful fate for you to have married him; he would have broken your heart." "it is broken now," she said, gently. "yet it comforts me to know that no reproach will be heaped on aubrey's memory." "you will get better," observed pauline, hopefully, "and then there will be happier days in store for you." "there will be no happy days for me," returned lady darrell, sorrowfully. "you see, pauline, i loved him very dearly--more dearly than i knew. i had never loved any one very much until i saw him. i could more easily have checked a raging fire than have restrained my love after i had once given it. my life had in some way passed into his, and now i do not care to live." "but you have so much to live for," said pauline. "not now. i do not care for aught about me. i have tried to remember darrell court and all my wealth and grandeur, but they give me no pleasure--the shadow of death lies over all." and it was all in vain that pauline tried to rouse her; lady darrell, after her unhappy love, never cared to be roused again. lady hampton would not think seriously of her illness--it would pass away in time, she said; but miss hastings shook her head gravely, and feared the worst. the time came when pauline told some part of her story to the governess. she did not mention aubrey's crime--that secret she kept until death--but she gave a sketch of what had passed between her and lady darrell. "did i do right?" she asked, with that sweet humility which had vanquished all pride in her. "you acted worthily," replied miss hastings, while she marveled at the transformation which love had wrought in that once proud, willful girl. time passed on, and by the wish of miss hastings a celebrated physician was sent for from london, for lady darrell grew no better. his opinion sounded somewhat like a death-warrant. "she may recover sufficiently to quit her room and to linger on in life--how long is uncertain; but the shock to her nerves she will never fully recover from--while she lives she will be a victim to nervousness. but i do not think she will live long. let her have as much cheerful society as possible, without fatigue; nothing more can be done for her." and with that they were obliged to be content. lady hampton would not admit that the london physician was correct. "nerves are all nonsense," she said, brusquely. "how many nervous shocks have i been through, with husband dead and children dead? elinor's only danger is her mother's complaint. she died of consumption quite young." it was found, however, despite lady hampton's disbelief, that the london physician had spoken truthfully. lady darrell rose from her sick bed, but she was but the shadow of herself, and a victim to a terrible nervous disorder. miss hastings watched over her with great anxiety, but pauline was like a second self to the unhappy lady. they were speaking of her one day, and miss hastings said: "an illness like lady darrell's is so uncertain, pauline; you must not occupy yourself with her so entirely, or you will lose your own health." but pauline looked up with a smile--perhaps the gravest, the sweetest and most tender her face had ever worn. "i shall never leave her," she returned. "never leave her?" questioned miss hastings. "no. i shall stay with her to comfort her while life lasts, and that will be my atonement." chapter xlii. love and sorrow. the beautiful golden summer came round, and darrell court looked picturesque and lovely with its richness of foliage and flush of flowers. the great magnolia trees were all in bloom--the air was full of their delicate, subtle perfume; the chestnuts were in bloom, the limes all in blossom. sweet summer had scattered her treasures with no niggard hand; and lady darrell had lived to see the earth rejoice once more. under the limes, where the shadows of the graceful, tremulous, scented leaves fell on the grass--the limes that were never still, but always responding to some half-hidden whisper of the wind--stood pauline darrell and her lover, sir vane st. lawrence. they had met but once since their hurried parting at omberleigh. vane had been to darrell court--for their engagement was no secret now. they wrote to each other constantly. on this fair june day sir vane had come to the court with news that stirred the depths of the girl's heart as a fierce wind stirs the ripples on a lake. as the sunlight fell through the green leaves and rested on her, the change in her was wonderful to see. the beautiful, noble face had lost all its pride, all its defiance; the play of the lips was tremulous, sensitive, and gentle; the light in the dark eyes was of love and kindness. time had added to her loveliness; the grand, statuesque figure had developed more perfectly; the graceful attitudes, the unconscious harmony, the indefinable grace and fascination were more apparent than ever. but she no longer carried her grand beauty as a protest, but made it rather the crown of a pure and perfect womanhood. something dimmed the brightness of her face, for sir vane had come to her with strange news and a strange prayer. his arm was clasped round her as they walked under the shadow of the limes where lovers' footsteps had so often strayed. "yes, pauline, it has come so unexpectedly at last," spoke sir vane. "ever since graveton has been in office, my dear mother has been unwearied in asking for an appointment for me. you know the story of our impoverished fortunes, and how anxious my dear mother is to retrieve them." her hand seemed to tighten its clasp on his, as she answered: "yes, i know." "now an opportunity has come. graveton, in answer to my mother's continued requests, has found for me a most lucrative office; but, alas, my love, it is in india, and i must shortly set out." "in india!" repeated pauline; "and you must set out shortly, vane? how soon?" "in a fortnight from now," he answered. "it is an office that requires filling up at once, pauline. i have come to ask if you will accompany me? will you pardon the short notice, and let me take my wife with me to that far-off land? do not let me go alone into exile--come with me, darling." the color and light died out of her beautiful face, her lips quivered, and her eyes grew dim as with unshed tears. "i cannot," she replied; and there was a silence between them that seemed full of pain. "you cannot, pauline!" he cried, and the sadness and disappointment in his voice made her lips quiver again. "surely you will not allow any feminine nonsense about dress and preparations, any scruple about the shortness of time, to come between us? my mother bade me say that if you will consent she will busy herself night and day to help us to prepare. she bade me add her prayer to mine. oh, pauline, why do you say you cannot accompany me?" the first shock had passed for her, and she raised her noble face to his. "from no nonsense, vane," she said. "you should know me better, dear, than that. nothing can part us but one thing. were it not for that, i would go with you to the very end of the world--i would work for you and with you." "but what is it, pauline?" he asked. "what is it, my darling?" she clung to him more closely still. "i cannot leave her, vane--i cannot leave lady darrell. she is dying slowly--hour by hour, day by day--and i cannot leave her." "but, my darling pauline, there are others beside you to attend to the lady--lady hampton and miss hastings. why should you give up your life thus?" "why?" she repeated. "you know why, vane. it is the only atonement i can offer her. heaven knows how gladly, how happily, i would this moment place my hand in yours and accompany you; my heart longs to do so. you are all i have in the world, and how i love you you know, vane. but it seems to me that i owe lady darrell this reparation, and at the price of my whole life's happiness i must make it." he drew her nearer to him, and kissed the trembling lips. "she has suffered so much, vane, through me--all through me. if i had but foregone my cruel vengeance, and when she came to me with doubt in her heart if i had but spoken one word, the chances are that by this time she would have been lady aynsley, and i should have been free to accompany you, my beloved; but i must suffer for my sin. i ought to suffer, and i ought to atone to her." "your life, my darling," he said, "your beautiful bright life, your love, your happiness, will all be sacrificed." "they must be. you see, vane, she clings to me in her sorrow. his name--aubrey langton's name--never passes her lips to any one else but me. she talks of him the night and the day through--it is the only comfort she has; and then she likes me to be with her, to talk to her, and soothe her, and she tires so soon of any one else. i cannot leave her, vane--it would shorten her life, i am sure." he made no answer. she looked up at him with tearful eyes. "speak to me, vane. it is hard, i know--but tell me that i am right." "you are cruelly right," he replied. "oh, my darling, it is very hard! yet you make her a noble atonement for the wrong you have done--a noble reparation. my darling, is this how your vow of vengeance has ended--in the greatest sacrifice a woman could make." "your love has saved me," she said, gently--"has shown me what is right and what is wrong--has cleared the mist from my eyes. but for that--oh, vane, i hate to think what i should have been!" "i wish it were possible to give up the appointment," he remarked, musingly. "i would not have you do it, vane. think of lady st. lawrence--how she has worked for it. remember, it is your only chance of ever being what she wishes to see you. you must not give it up." "but how can i leave you, pauline?" "if you remain in england, it will make but little difference," she said. "i can never leave lady darrell while she lives." "but, pauline, it may be four, five, or six years before i return, and all that time i shall never see you." she wrung her hands, but no murmur passed her lips, save that it was her fault--all her fault--the price of her sin. "vane," she said, "you must not tell lady darrell what you came to ask me. she must know that you are here only to say good-by. i would rather keep her in ignorance; she will be the happier for not knowing." was ever anything seen like that love and that sorrow--the love of two noble souls, two noble hearts, and the sorrow that parting more bitter than death brought upon them? even miss hastings did not know until long after sir vane was gone of the sacrifice pauline had made in the brave endeavor to atone for her sin. she never forgot the agony of that parting--how sir vane stood before them, pale, worn, and sad, impressing one thing on them all--care for his darling. even to lady darrell, the frail, delicate invalid, whose feeble stock of strength seemed to be derived from pauline, he gave many charges. "it will be so long before i see her again," he said; "but you will keep her safely for me." "i almost wonder," said lady darrell, "why you do not ask pauline to accompany you, sir vane. for my own sake, i am most selfishly glad that you have not done so--i should soon die without her." they looked at each other, the two who were giving up so much for her, but spoke no word. sir vane was obliged to return to london that same day. he spoke of seeing pauline again, but she objected--it would only be a renewal of most bitter and hopeless sorrow. so they bade each other farewell under the lime trees. the bitter yet sweet memory of it lasted them for life. miss hastings understood somewhat of the pain it would cause, but with her gentle consideration, she thought it best to leave pauline for a time. hours afterward she went in search of her, and found her under the limes, weeping and moaning for the atonement she had made for her sin. chapter xliii. lady darrell's will. two years passed away, and sir vane st. lawrence's circumstances were rapidly improving; his letters were constant and cheerful--he spoke always of the time when he should come home and claim pauline for his wife. she only sighed as she read the hopeful words, for she had resolved that duty should be her watchword while lady darrell lived--even should that frail, feeble life last for fifty years, she would never leave her. there came to her chill doubts and fears, dim, vague forebodings that she should never see vane again--that their last parting was for ever; not that she doubted him, but that it seemed hopeless to think he would wait until her hair was gray, and the light of her youth had left her. never mind--she had done her duty; she had sinned, but she had made the noblest atonement possible for her sin. two years had passed, and the summer was drawing to a close. to those who loved and tended her it seemed that lady darrell's life was closing with it. even lady hampton had ceased to speak hopefully, and darrell court was gloomy with the shadow of the angel of death. there came an evening when earth was very lovely--when the gold of the setting sun, the breath of the western wind, the fragrance of the flowers, the ripple of the fountains, the song of the birds, were all beautiful beyond words to tell; and lady darrell, who had lain watching the smiling summer heavens, said: "i should like once more to see the sun set, pauline. i should like to sit at the window, and watch the moon rise." "so you shall," responded pauline. "you are a fairy queen. you have but to wish, and the wish is granted." lady darrell smiled--no one ever made her smile except pauline; but the fulfillment of the wish was not so easy after all. lady hampton's foreboding was realized. lady darrell might have recovered from her long, serious illness but that her mother's complaint, the deadly inheritance of consumption, had seized upon her, and was gradually destroying her. it was no easy matter now to dress the wasted figure; but pauline seemed to have the strength, the energy of twenty nurses. she was always willing, always cheerful, always ready; night and day seemed alike to her; she would look at her hands, and say: "oh! elinor, i wish i could give you one-half my strength--one-half my life!" "do you? pauline, if you could give me half your life, would you do so?" "as willingly as i am now speaking to you," she would answer. they dressed the poor lady, whose delicate beauty had faded like some summer flower. she sat at the window in a soft nest of cushions which pauline had prepared for her, her wasted hands folded, her worn face brightened with the summer sunshine. she was very silent and thoughtful for some time, and then pauline, fearing that she was dull, knelt in the fashion that was usual to her at lady darrell's feet, and held the wasted hands in hers. "what are you thinking about, elinor?" pauline asked. "something as bright as the sunshine?" lady darrell smiled. "i was just fancying to myself that every blossom of that white magnolia seemed like a finger beckoning me away," she said; "and i was thinking also how full of mistakes life is, and how plainly they can be seen when we come to die." pauline kissed the thin fingers. lady darrell went on. "i can see my own great mistake, pauline. i should not have married sir oswald. i had no love for him--not the least in the world; i married him only for position and fortune. i should have taken your warning, and not have come between your uncle and you. his resentment would have died away, for i am quite sure that in his heart he loved you; he would have forgiven you, and i should have had a happier, longer life. that was my mistake--my one great mistake. another was that i had a certain kind of doubt about poor aubrey. i cannot explain it; but i know that i doubted him even when i loved him, and i should have waited some time before placing the whole happiness of my life in his hands. yet it seems hard to pay for those mistakes with my life, does it not?" and pauline, to whom all sweet and womanly tenderness seemed to come by instinct, soothed lady darrell with loving words until she smiled again. "pauline," she said, suddenly, "i wish to communicate something to you. i wish to tell you that i have made my will, and have left darrell court to you, together with all the fortune sir oswald left me. i took your inheritance from you once, dear; now i restore it to you. i have left my aunt, lady hampton, a thousand a year; you will not mind that--it comes back to you at her death." "i do not deserve your kindness," said pauline, gravely. "yes, you do; and you will do better with your uncle's wealth than i have done. i have only been dead in life. my heart was broken--and i have had no strength, no energy. i have done literally nothing; but you will act differently, pauline--you are a true darrell, and you will keep up the true traditions of your race. in my poor, feeble hands they have all fallen through. if sir vane returns, you will marry him; and, oh! my darling, i wish you a happy life. as for me, i shall never see the sun set again." the feeble voice died away in a tempest of tears; and pauline, frightened, made haste to speak of something else to change the current of her thoughts. but lady darrell was right. she never saw the sun set or the moon rise again--the frail life ended gently as a child falls asleep. she died the next day, when the sun was shining its brightest at noon; and her death was so calm that they thought it sleep. she was buried, not in the darrell vault, but, by pauline's desire, in the pretty cemetery at audleigh royal. her death proved no shock, for every one had expected it. universal sympathy and kindness followed her to her grave. the short life was ended, and its annals were written in sand. lady hampton had given way; her old dislike of pauline had changed into deep admiration of her sweet, womanly virtues, her graceful humility. "if any one had ever told me," she said, "that pauline darrell would have turned out as she has, i could not have believed it. the way in which she devoted herself to my niece was wonderful. i can only say that in my opinion she deserves darrell court." the legacy made lady hampton very happy; it increased her income so handsomely that she resolved to live no longer at the elms, but to return to london, where the happiest part of her life had been spent. "i shall come to darrell court occasionally," she said, "so that you may not quite forget me;" and pauline was surprised to find that she felt nothing save regret at parting with one whom she had disliked with all the injustice of youth. a few months afterward came a still greater surprise. the lover from whom miss hastings had been parted in her early youth--who had left england for russia long years ago, and whom she had believed dead--returned to england, and never rested until he had found his lost love. in vain the gentle, kind-hearted lady protested that she was too old to marry--that she had given up all thoughts of love. mr. bereton would not hear of it, and pauline added her entreaties to his. "but i cannot leave you, my dear," said miss hastings. "you cannot live all by yourself." "i shall most probably have to spend my life alone," she replied, "and i will not have your happiness sacrificed to mine." between her lover and her pupil miss hastings found all resistance hopeless. pauline took a positive delight and pleasure in the preparations for the marriage, and, in spite of all that miss hastings could say to the contrary, she insisted upon settling a very handsome income upon her. there was a tone of sadness in all that pauline said with reference to her future which struck miss hastings with wonder. "you never speak of your own marriage," she said, "or your own future--why is it, pauline?" the beautiful face was overshadowed for a moment, and then she replied: "it is because i have no hope. i had a presentiment when vane went away, that i should not see him again. there are some strange thoughts always haunting me. if i reap as i have sowed, what then?" "my dear child, no one could do more than you have done. you repented of your fault, and atoned for it in the best way you were able." but the lovely face only grew more sad. "i was so willful, so proud, so scornful. i did not deserve a happy life. i am trying to forget all the romance and the love, all the poetry of my youth, and to live only for my duty." "but sir vane will come back," said miss hastings. "i do not know--all hope seemed to die in my heart when he went away. but let us talk of you and your future without reference to mine." * * * * * miss hastings was married, and after she had gone away pauline darrell was left alone with her inheritance at last. chapter xliv. shadow of absent love. six years had passed since the marriage of the governess left miss darrell alone. she heard as constantly as ever from sir vane; he had made money rapidly. it was no longer the desire to make a fortune which kept him away, but the fact that in the part of the country where he was great danger existed, and that, having been placed there in a situation of trust, he could not well leave it; so of late a hopeless tone had crept into his letters. he made no reference to coming home; and pauline, so quick, so sensitive, saw in this reticence the shadow of her own presentiment. six years had changed pauline darrell from a beautiful girl to a magnificent woman; her beauty was of that grand and queenly kind that of itself is a noble dowry. the years had but added to it. they had given a more statuesque grace to the perfect figure; they had added tenderness, thought, and spirituality to the face; they had given to her beauty a charm that it had never worn in her younger days. miss darrell, of darrell court, had made for herself a wonderful reputation. there was no estate in england so well managed as hers. from one end to the other the darrell domain was, people said, a garden. pauline had done away with the old cottages and ill-drained farm-houses, and in their stead pretty and commodious buildings had been erected. she had fought a long and fierce battle with ignorance and prejudice, and she had won. she had established schools where children were taught, first to be good christians, and then good citizens, and where useful knowledge was made much of. she had erected almshouses for the poor, and a church where rich and poor, old and young, could worship god together. the people about her rose up and called her blessed; tenants, dependents, servants, all had but one word for her, and that was of highest praise. to do good seemed the object of her life, and she had succeeded so far. no young queen was ever more popular or more beloved than this lady with her sweet, grave smile, her tender, womanly ways, her unconscious grandeur of life. she made no stir, no demonstration, though she was the head of a grand old race, the representative of an old honored family, the holder of a great inheritance; she simply did her duty as nobly as she knew how to do it. there was no thought of self left in her, her whole energies were directed for the good of others. if sir oswald could have known how the home he loved was cared for, he would have been proud of his successor. the hall itself, the park, the grounds, were all in perfect order. people wondered how it was all arranged by this lady, who never seemed hurried nor talked of the work she did. pauline occupied herself incessantly, for the bright hopes of girlhood, she felt, were hers no longer; she had admitted that the romance, the passion, the poetry of her youth were unforgotten, but she tried to think them dead. people wondered at her gravity. she had many admirers, but she never showed the least partiality for any of them. there seemed to be some shadow over her, and only those who knew her story knew what it was--that it was the shadow of her absent love. she was standing one day in the library alone, the same library where so much of what had been eventful in her life had happened. the morning had been a busy one; tenants, agents, business people of all kinds had been there, and pauline felt tired. darrell court, the grand inheritance she had loved and in some measure longed for, was hers; she was richer than she had ever dreamed of being, and, as she looked round on the treasures collected in the library, she thought to herself with a sigh, "of what avail are they, save to make others happy?" she would have given them all to be by vane's side, no matter how great their poverty, no matter what they had to undergo together; but now it seemed that this bright young love of hers was to wither away, to be heard of no more. so from the beautiful lips came a deep sigh; she was tired, wearied with the work and incessant care that the management of her estates entailed. she did not own it even to herself, but she longed for the presence of the only being whom she loved. she was bending over some beautiful japonicas--for, no matter how depressed she might be, she always found solace in flowers--when she heard the sound of a horse's rapid trot. "farmer bowman back again," she said to herself, with a smile; "but i must not give way to him." she was so certain that it was her tiresome tenant that she did not even turn her head when the door opened and some one entered the room--some one who did not speak, but who went up to her with a beating heart, laid one hand on her bowed head, and said: "pauline, my darling, you have no word of welcome for me?" it was vane. with a glad cry of welcome--a cry such as a lost child gives when it reaches its mother's arms--the cry of a long-cherished, trusting love--she turned and was clasped in his arms, her haven of rest, her safe refuge, her earthly paradise, attained at last. "at last!" she murmured. but he spoke no word to her. his eyes were noting her increased beauty. he kissed the sweet lips, the lovely face. "my darling," he said, "i left you a beautiful girl, but i find you a woman beautiful beyond all comparison. it has seemed to me an age since i left you, and now i am never to go away again. pauline, you will be kind to me for the sake of my long, true, deep love? you will be my wife as soon as i can make arrangements--will you not?" there was no coquetry, no affectation about her; the light deepened on her noble face, her lips quivered, and then she told him: "yes, whenever you wish." they conversed that evening until the sun had set. he told her all his experience since he had left her, and she found that he had passed through london without even waiting to see lady st. lawrence, so great had been his longing to see her. but the next day lady st. lawrence came down, and by sir vane's wish preparations for the marriage were begun at once. pauline preferred to be married at audleigh royal and among her own people. they tell now of that glorious wedding--of the sun that seemed to shine more brightly than it had ever shone before--of the rejoicings and festivities such as might have attended the bridal of an empress--of the tears and blessings of the poor--of the good wishes that would have made earth heaven had they been realized. there never was such a wedding before. every other topic failed before the one that seemed inexhaustible--the wonderful beauty of the bride. she was worthy of the crown of orange-blossoms, and she wore them with a grace all her own. then, after the wedding, sir vane and pauline went to omberleigh. that was the latter's fancy, and, standing that evening where she had seen vane first, she blessed him and thanked him with grateful tears that he had redeemed her by his great love. * * * * * there was a paragraph in a recent issue of the _times_ announcing that oswald st. lawrence, second son of sir vane and lady st. lawrence, had, by letters-patent, assumed the name of darrell. so that the old baronet's prayer is granted, and the race of darrell--honored and respected, beloved and esteemed--is not to be without a representative. the end. . . [illustration: g. w. carleton & co.] new books and new editions, recently issued by g. w. carleton & co., publishers, madison square, new york. the publishers, on receipt of price, will send any book on this catalogue by mail, _postage free_. all books in this list [unless otherwise specified] are handsomely bound in cloth board binding, with gilt backs suitable for libraries. mary j. holmes' works. tempest and sunshine $ english orphans homestead on the hillside 'lena rivers meadow brook dora deane cousin maude marian grey edith lyle (new) darkness and daylight hugh worthington cameron pride rose mather ethelyn's mistake millbank edna browning west lawn mildred (new) marion harland's works. alone $ hidden path moss side nemesis miriam at last helen gardner true as steel (new) sunnybank husbands and homes ruby's husband phemie's temptation the empty heart jessamine from my youth up my little love (new) charles dickens-- vols.--"carleton's edition." pickwick, and catalogue $ dombey and son bleak house martin chuzzlewit barnaby rudge--edwin drood child's england--miscellaneous david copperfield nicholas nickleby little dorrit our mutual friend curiosity shop--miscellaneous sketches by boz--hard times christmas books--and--a tale of two cities oliver twist--and--the uncommercial traveler great expectations--and--pictures of italy and america sets of dickens' complete works, in vols.--[elegant half calf bindings] augusta j. evans' novels. beulah $ macaria inez st. elmo vashti infelice (new) may agnes fleming's novels. guy earlscourt's wife $ a terrible secret norine's revenge silent and true--(new) a wonderful woman a mad marriage one night's mystery kate danton m. michelet's works. love (l'amour)--translation $ woman (la femme)--translation miriam coles harris. rutledge $ frank warrington louie's last term, etc richard vandermarck the sutherlands st. philip's round hearts, for children a perfect adonis--(new) italian novels. dr. antonio--by ruffini $ beatrice cenci--by guerrazzi julie p. smith's novels. widow goldsmith's daughter $ chris and otho ten old maids his young wife--(new) the widower the married belle courting and farming victor hugo. les miserables--in english $ les miserables--in spanish captain mayne reid. the scalp hunters $ the rifle rangers the war trail the wood rangers the wild huntress the white chief the tiger hunter the hunter's feast wild life osceola, the seminole artemus ward. complete comic writings--with biography, portrait, and illustrations $ a. s. roe's select stories. true to the last $ the star and the cloud how could he help it? a long look ahead i've been thinking to love and to be loved charles dickens. child's history of england--carleton's new "_school edition_." illustrated $ paper covers, cents--cloth, $ . . tom's wife--by g. d. tallman that comic primer--by frank bellew that awful boy that bridget of ours our artist in cuba, etc. g. w. carleton why wife and i quarreled solomon isaacs--by b. l. farjeon that horrid girl me--july and august. by mrs s. c. coe he and i--sarah b. stebbins annals of a baby--do that charming evening--bellew mrs. hill's cook book. mrs. a. p. hill's new southern cookery book, and domestic receipts $ hand-books of society. the habits of good society--the nice points of taste and good manners $ the art of conversation--for those who wish to be agreeable talkers the arts of writing, reading, and speaking--for self-improvement new diamond edition--small size, elegantly bound, volumes in a box carleton's popular quotations. carleton's new hand-book--familiar quotations, with their authorship $ famous books--"carleton's edition." robinson crusoe--griset's illus $ arabian nights--demoraine illus don quixote--dore's illus swiss family robinson--marcel josh billings. his complete writings--with biography, steel portrait, and illustrations $ trump cards--illustrated farmer's alminax--illustrated * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. page , "darrel" changed to "darrell" (figure of a darrell) page , "thought" changed to "taught" (you taught yourself) page , "somewhut" changed to "somewhat" (somewhat akin to) page , "is" changed to "its" (with its lilac) page , "ftiends" changed to "friends" (choose friends) page , "vou" changed to "you" (were you not delighted) page , "she" changed to "the" (the invited guests were) page , "lest" changed to "least" (the least shadow) page , "hasten" changed to "hastened" (they hastened to congratulate) page , "deline" changed to "decline" (i must decline) page , word "as" added to text (it was as though) advertisement, page , the price for "silent and true" was missing in the original. based on the other books in the set, the price of " " was added. how women love (soul analysis.) translated from the german of max nordau, author of "degeneration," "the malady of the century," "the comedy of sentiment," etc., etc copyright, , by f. t. neely. copyright, , by hurst & co. new york hurst & company publishers contents justice or revenge prince and peasant the art of growing old how women love a midsummer night's dream justice or revenge. chapter i. a more unequally matched couple than the cartwright molnár and his wife can seldom be seen. when, on sunday, the pair went to church through the main street of kisfalu, an insignificant village in the pesth county, every one looked after them, though every child, nay, every cur in the hamlet, knew them and, during the five years since their marriage, might have become accustomed to the spectacle. but it seemed as though it produced an ever new and surprising effect upon the by no means sensitive inhabitants of kisfalu, who imposed no constraint upon themselves to conceal the emotions awakened by the sight of the molnár pair. they never called the husband by any other name than "csunya pista," ugly stephen. and he well merited the epithet. he was one-eyed, had a broken, shapeless nose, and an ugly scar, on which no hair grew, upon his upper lip, so that his moustache looked as if it had been shaven off there; to complete the picture, one of his upper eye-teeth and incisors were missing, and he had the unpleasant habit of putting his tongue into these gaps in his upper row of teeth, which rendered his countenance still more repulsive. the wife, on the contrary, was a very beautiful woman, a magnificent type of the magyar race. she was tall, powerful, only perhaps a trifle too broad-shouldered. her intensely dark hair and sparkling black eyes suited the warm bronze hue of her plump face, which, with its little mouth filled with magnificent teeth, its fresh full lips, the transparent, enamel like crimson of the firm, round cheeks, and the somewhat low, but beautifully formed brow, suggested a newly-ripe peach. this unusually healthy countenance, overspread with a light down, involuntarily produced in the spectator the impression that it must exhale a warm, intoxicating, spicy fragrance; it looked so tempting that one would fain have bitten it. this had been much the feeling of the uhlan officers who, with part of a company of men, were stationed in kisfalu. from the first day that the three gentlemen had entered their village garrison the beautiful woman had attracted their attention, and they had seen in the husband's ugliness a pleasant encouragement to make gallant advances. the captain, a bohemian gentleman, was the first to introduce himself to the fair wife. the morning of the second day after his arrival in the hamlet, taking advantage of the absence of the master of the house, he stole into the miserable clay hut tenanted by the ill-assorted pair, but remained inside only a few minutes, after which he came out with a deeply-flushed face and somewhat hasty steps, cast stealthy glances around him to the right and left, and then hurried away. in the afternoon of the same day, the young lieutenant tried his luck, but he too left the cartwright's hut more quickly than he had entered, and not exactly with the air of a conqueror. in the evening the three gentlemen met in the spare room of the tavern where they took their meals, and were remarkably taciturn and ill-tempered. on the third day the slender, handsome first lieutenant called on the cartwright's wife. he was a far-famed conqueror of women's hearts, which he was accustomed to win with as little trouble as a child gathers strawberries in the woods, and was envied by the whole regiment for his numberless successes, which he did not treat with too much reticence. this time the adventure lasted somewhat longer; those who were passing heard loud outcries and uproar for a short time, as if a wrestling match were going on in the hut, and the letter-carrier, an old woman, who was just going by, even stood still in surprise and curiosity. the curiosity was satisfied, for she soon saw the handsome uhlan officer rush out, pressing his hand to his cheek as if he had a violent toothache. he looked very much dishevelled and made off with noticeable haste. he did not appear in the tavern at noon, so in the afternoon his two comrades sent their orderlies to him to enquire about his health; in the evening he joined them at table and showed his astonished friends a broad strip of black court-plaster on his right cheek. "what does that mean?" asked the captain. "it seems to be a bad cut," observed the lieutenant. "razor? sword-stroke? cat's claw?" continued the captain, pursuing his enquiries. "woman's nails!" burst forth the don juan of the regiment, and now the game of hide-and-seek between the trio ended, and they bewailed to one another, with comic despair, the ill-luck they had all encountered. she had courteously asked the captain to what she owed the honour of his visit, and when, instead of answering, he pinched her plump cheek and put his arm around her waist, she flew into a passion and pointed to the door with the voice and gesture of an insulted queen. the lieutenant had found her far more ungracious; she did not ask what he desired, but angrily thundered, almost before he crossed the threshold, an order to march which permitted neither remonstrance nor refusal; finally, at the appearance of the first lieutenant, she had passed from the position of defence to that of assault, shrieked at him with a crimson face and flashing eyes to be off at once, if he valued the smooth skin of his cheeks; and when, somewhat bewildered, yet not wholly intimidated, he had ventured, notwithstanding this by no means encouraging reception, to attempt to seize and embrace her, as he was accustomed to do with the colonel's wife's maid, when, making eyes at him in the ante-room, she whispered under her breath: "let me go, or i'll scream!" she rushed upon him literally like a wild-cat, and, in an instant, so mauled him that he could neither hear nor see, and considered himself fortunate to find his way out quickly. and when all three heroes had finished their tragi-comic general confession, they unanimously exclaimed: "the woman has the very devil in her!" they would have learned this truth without being obliged to pass through all sorts of experiences, if, instead of indulging in self-complacent speculations concerning the possible combination of circumstances which had united the beautiful woman to so ugly a man, they had enquired about the cause of this remarkable phenomenon. they would then have heard a strange tale which might have deterred them from finding in molnár's hideousness encouragement to pursue his wife with gallantries. chapter ii. yes, molnár's wife had the devil in her, and it was her family heritage. her father, a poor cottager and day labourer, had been in his youth one of the most notorious and boldest brawlers in the neighborhood; even now, when prematurely aged and half-broken down by want and hard work, people willingly avoided him and did not sit at the same table in the tavern if it could be helped. in former years he had been a frequent inmate of the county prison, where the bruises and cuts received in the brawl on whose account he was incarcerated had time to heal; two years before he had been in jail three months because he had used a manure-fork to prevent a tax-collector from seizing his bed, and the beautiful panna had then gone to the capital once or twice a week to carry him cheese, wine, bread, and underclothing, and otherwise make his situation easier, so far as she could. the family vice of sudden fits of passion had increased to a tragedy in the destiny of the only son. he was a handsome fellow, slender as a pine-tree, the image of his sister, whom he loved with a tenderness very unusual among peasants; he early became the supporter and companion of his father in his sunday brawls, and the village was not at all displeased when he was drafted into the army. it would have been an easy matter, as he was an only son, to release him from military service, but he was obliged to go because two fathers of soldiers could not be found in the village to give the testimony necessary for his liberation. he became a conscript in , and, a year after, the double war between prussia and italy broke out. the young fellow's regiment was stationed in the venetian provinces. one night he was assigned to outpost duty in the field; the enemy was not near, it was mid-summer, a sultry night, and the poor wretch fell asleep. unfortunately, the commander of the guard, a young lieutenant full of over-zeal for the service, was inspecting the outposts and discovered the sleeper, to whom he angrily gave a kick to recall him to consciousness of his duty. the lad started up, and without hesitation or reflection, dealt his assailant a furious blow in the face. there was a great uproar, soldiers rushed forward, and had the utmost difficulty in mastering the enraged young fellow; he was taken to headquarters in irons, and, after a short trial by court-martial, shot on the same day. the family did not learn the terrible news until weeks later, from a dry official letter of the regimental commander. how terrible was the grief of the father and sister! the man aged ten years in a week, and the girl, at that time a child twelve years old, became so pale and thin from sorrow that the neighbors thought she would not survive it. not survive it? what do we not outlive! she conquered the anguish and developed into the most beautiful maiden in the village. there was an austere charm, an unintentional, unconscious attraction in her, which won every one. her notorious origin was not visited upon her, and even the rich girls in the village gladly made her their friend. while at work in the fields she sang in a ringing voice; in the spinning-room, in winter, she was full of jests and merry tales, as gay and gracious as beseemed her age. probably on account of her vivacious temperament and the feeling of vigour which robust health bestows, she was extremely fond of dancing, and never failed on sundays to appear in the large courtyard of the tavern when, in the afternoon, the whirling and stamping began. her beauty would doubtless have made her the most popular partner among the girls, had not the lads felt a certain fear of her. a purring kitten among her girl companions, ready to give and take practical jokes, she was all claws and teeth against men, and many a bold youth who, after the dance, attempted to take the usual liberties, met with so severe a rebuff that he bore for a week a memento in the shape of a scratch across his whole face. therefore she did not have a superabundance of partners, and thus escaped the jealousy which, otherwise, her charms would certainly have roused in the other girls. a dispensation of providence rendered her irritability the means of deciding the whole course of her life. one sunday, late in the summer, soon after the reaping and threshing were over--she was then twenty--she again stood in the bright warm afternoon sunshine in the spacious courtyard of the village tavern, among a gay group of giggling lasses, waiting with joyful impatience for the dancing to begin. the two village gipsies who made bricks during the week and played on sundays, were already there, leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the porch in front of the house, and tuning their fiddles. the lads crowded together, shouting jesting remarks to the group of girls, who answered them promptly and to the point. one after another the young men left their companions and took from the laughing bevy of maidens a partner, who, as village custom required, at first resisted, but finally yielded to the gentle force--not without some pleasantly exciting struggling and pulling--and was soon whirling around with her cavalier amid shouting and stamping, till the dust rose in clouds. the beautiful panna, for reasons already known to us, was not the first person invited to dance. but at last her turn came also, and she could jump with a neighbour's son, till she was out of breath, to her heart's content. after spending more than fifteen minutes in vigourous, rapid motion, she finally sank, in happy exhaustion, upon a pile of bricks near a coach-house which was being built, and with flaming cheeks and panting bosom struggled for breath. pista, the cartwright, profited by the moment to approach, and with gay cries and gestures invite her to dance again. pista was a handsome fellow, but had the unfortunate propensity of drinking on sundays, and this time was evidently intoxicated. the vinous suitor was not to panna's taste, besides, she was already tired, and she did not answer his first speech. but as he did not desist, but seized her arm to drag her up and away by force, she tartly answered that she would not dance now. this only made him still more persistent. "why, why, you fierce little darling, do you suppose you can't be mastered?" he cried, trying with both hands to seize her beautiful black head to press a smack upon her lips. she thrust him back once, twice, with a more and more violent shove, but he returned to the attack, becoming ruder and more vehement. then she lost her self-control, and the choleric family blood suddenly seethed in her veins. bending down to the heap of bricks on which she had just sat, she grasped a fragment and, with the speed of lightning, dealt her persecutor a furious blow. misfortune guided her hand, and she struck him full in the face. pista shrieked and staggered to the neighbouring wall, against which he leaned half-fainting, while between the fingers of the hands which he had raised to the wounded spot, the red blood gushed in a horribly abundant stream. all this had been the work of a moment, and the young people who filled the courtyard did not notice the outrageous act until the mischief was done. shrieks, running hither and thither, and confusion followed. the fiddlers stopped and stretched their necks, but prudently kept aloof, as they had learned to do during frequent brawls; the girls screamed and wrung their hands, the youths shouted hasty questions, crowding around their bleeding companion. water was quickly procured, cold bandages were applied to the swollen, shapeless face, and other efforts were made to relieve him, while at the same time he was besieged with questions about the event. after dealing the fatal blow panna had stood for a moment deadly pale, as if paralyzed, and then darted off as though pursued by fiends. perhaps this was fortunate, for she would have fared badly if the enraged lads had had her in their power, when all, amid the confused medley of outcries, had learned the truth. there was no time to pursue her, for pista seemed to be constantly growing worse; the cold water and fomentations did not stop the bleeding; he soon lost consciousness and lay on the ground amid the terrified, helpless group, an inert mass, until some one made the sensible proposal to carry him home to his mother, a poor widow, which, with their united strength, was instantly done. meanwhile, panna had rushed to her own home, locked herself in, and sat on the bench by the stove, an image of grief and despair. she was incapable of coherent thought, nothing but the spectacle of the bleeding pista staggering against the wall, stood distinctly before her mind. but she could not give herself up to her desolate brooding long: at the end of fifteen minutes the bolted door shook violently. she started up and listened; it was her father, and she reluctantly went to the door and opened it. the old man entered, shot the bolt behind him, and asked in a trembling voice: "for god's sake, child, what have you done?'" panna burst into a flood of tears; they were the first she had shed since the incident described. "he pressed upon me too boldly. and i didn't mean to do it. i only wanted to keep him off." "you were possessed. the devil is in us. to kill a man by a blow!" the girl shrieked aloud. "kill, do you say?" "sol was just told. they say he is dead." "that is impossible, it's a lie," panna murmured in a hollow tone, while her face looked corpse-like. she seemed to cower into herself and to grow smaller, as if the earth was swallowing her by inches. but this condition lasted only a few minutes, then she roused herself and hurried out, ere her father could detain her. she entered a narrow path which ran behind the houses and was usually deserted, and raced as fast as her feet would carry her to the hut occupied by frau molnár, which was close at hand. springing across the narrow ditch which bordered the back of the yard, she hurried through the kitchen-garden behind the house and in an instant was in the only room it contained except the kitchen. on the bed lay a human form from which came a groan, and beside it sat old frau molnár, who wrung her hands without turning her eyes from her suffering son. thank god, he was not dead, the first glance at the piteous scene showed that. panna involuntarily clasped her hands and uttered a deep sigh of relief. frau molnár now first noticed panna's entrance; at first she seemed unable to believe her eyes, and gazed fixedly at the girl, with her mouth wide open, then starting up she rushed at her and began to belabour her with both fists, while heaping, in a voice choked by fury, the most horrible invectives upon her head. panna feebly warded off the blows with outstretched arms, hung her head, and stammered softly: "frau molnár, frau molnár, spare the sick man, it will hurt him if you make such a noise. have pity on me and tell me what the injury is." "you insolent wench, you god-forsaken,"--a fresh torrent of vile invectives followed--"do you still venture to cross my threshold? begone, or i'll serve you as you did my poor pista." the mother again gained the ascendancy over the vengeful woman. she turned from panna, and hastened to her son, on whom she flung herself, wailing aloud and weeping. the girl took advantage of the diversion to leave the room slowly, unnoticed. she had seen enough; pista was alive; but he must be badly injured, for his whole head was wrapped in bandages, and he had evidently neither seen nor heard anything of the last scene which, moreover, had lasted only a brief time. panna did not go far. a wooden bench stood by the wall of the house under the little window of the kitchen, which looked out into the yard. here she sat down and remained motionless until it grew dark. she had seen by the bandages that the doctor must have been there, and hoped that he would return in the evening. if this hope was not fulfilled, she could go to him without danger after nightfall, for she was determined to speak to him that very day and obtain the information which pista's mother had refused. before darkness had entirely closed in the physician really did appear, and entered the hut without heeding the girl sitting on a bench near the door, perhaps without noticing her. panna waited patiently till, at the end of a long quarter of an hour, he came out, then, with swift decision she went up to him and touched his arm. he turned and when he recognized her, exclaimed in surprise: "panna!" "softly, doctor," she pleaded with glance and voice, then added: "tell me frankly how he is, frankly, i entreat you." "you have done something very, very bad there," replied the physician hesitatingly, then paused. "his life is not in danger?" "perhaps not, but he will be a cripple all his days. one eye is completely destroyed, the nose entirely crushed, the upper lip gashed entirely through, and two teeth are gone." "horrible, horrible!" groaned panna, wringing her hands in speechless grief. "he will not lose his life, as i said, though he has lost a great deal of blood from the wound in the lips, and the lost eye may yet cause us trouble, but the poor fellow will remain a monster all his days. no girl will ever look at him again." "there's no need of it," she answered hastily, and when the physician looked at her questioningly, she went on more quietly as if talking to herself: "if only he gets well, if he is only able to be up again." then, thanking the doctor, she bade him good-night, and returned slowly and absently to her father's hut. all night long panna tossed sleeplessly on her bed, and with the earliest dawn she rose, went to her father, who was also awake, and begged him to go to old frau molnár and entreat her forgiveness and permission for her, panna, to nurse the wounded man. at the same time she took from her neck a pretty silver crucifix, such as peasant women wear, a heritage from her mother, who died young, and gave it to her father to offer to the old woman as an atonement. she had nothing more valuable, or she would have bestowed it too. "that is well done," said her father, and went out to discharge his duty as messenger. it was a hard nut which he had to crack. the old mother was again fierce and wrathful and received him with a face as black as night; but he accosted her gently, reminded her of her christian faith, and finally handed her the silver atonement. this touched the old dame's heart. she burst into a torrent of tears, upbraided him with the magnitude of her misery, said that she would never be able to forgive, but she saw that the girl had acted without any evil design, that she was sorry---- pista, who had been delirious during the night, but was now better, had hitherto listened quietly and intently. now he interrupted the flood of words his mother poured forth amid her sobs, and said softly, yet firmly: "panna is not entirely to blame; i was persistent, i was tipsy, she was right to defend herself. true, she need not have been so savage, but how can she help her blood? i ought to have taken care of myself; i ought to have known whom i was chaffing." then, turning to the visitor, he added: "if it will soothe panna to know that i am not angry with her, send your daughter here, and i will tell her so myself." fifteen minutes later panna was in the molnárs' hut. she entreated the old mother to attend to her household affairs and not trouble herself about the sick man; that should be her care. she arranged the wretched bed, cleared up the room, brought pista water to drink when he felt thirsty, and when everything was done, sat silently beside the bed. pista quietly submitted to everything, and only gazed strangely with his one eye at the beautiful girl. in the course of the morning the physician came and renewed the bandages. panna stood by his side and kept all sorts of things ready, but she did not have courage to look at the wounds. the doctor thought it would be beneficial to have ice. but where was ice to be obtained in a village at this season of the year! the brewery probably had some, but would not be likely to give any away. panna said nothing, but when the bandages had been renewed and the physician had gone, she hurried directly to the brewery, went to the manager, a good-natured, beery old fellow, and entreated him, in touching words, for some ice for a sick person. the manager blinked at her with his little half-shut eyes, and answered: "you can have it, my child, but not gratis." panna lowered her eyes and murmured mournfully: "i will pay what you ask, only not now, i haven't any money, surely you will wait a little while." "it needn't be cash, one little kiss will do." panna flushed crimson, and a flash of anger like the lightning of a sudden storm blazed over her face; but she controlled herself and held up her compressed lips to the voluptuary, who rudely smacked them and then took from her hand the pipkin she had brought, returning it in a few minutes filled with ice. the supply did not last long, but, when it was exhausted, panna did not go herself, sending in her place old frau molnár with a pleasant greeting to the manager of the brewery. true, the latter frowned and sneeringly asked why her highness did not appear in person, but he had wisdom enough to give the ice for which she asked. at the end of a week pista had improved so much that the ice-bandages were no longer needed, and he did not require constant nursing. panna who, hitherto, had come early in the morning and returned late in the evening, now appeared only twice a day to enquire for the sick man and bring him some refreshment, if it were only a handful of blackberries. of course, during all this time, there was no end of putting heads together and whispering, but panna did not trouble herself about it, and quietly obeyed the dictates of her conscience. thus three weeks had passed since the fateful day. when, on the third sunday, panna entered the molnár's hut at the usual hour, this time with a small bottle of wine under her apron, she found pista, for the first time, up, and dressed. he was just turning his back to the door as the girl came in. she uttered a little exclamation of surprise, pista turned quickly and--panna started back with a sudden shriek, the flask fell shattered on the floor, and she covered her face with both hands. it was her first sight of the young man's horribly disfigured countenance without a bandage. pista went up to the trembling girl and said mournfully: "i frightened you, but it must have happened some day. i felt just as you do now when, a week ago, i made my mother hand me a looking-glass for the first time. i see that it will be best for me to become a capuchin monk, henceforth i must give up appearing before the eyes of girls." panna hastily let her hands fall, gazed full at him with her sparkling black eyes, and said gently: "you always have girls in your head. must you please them all? wouldn't one satisfy you?" "why, of course, but the one must be had first," replied pista, with forced cheerfulness. panna flushed crimson and made no reply; pista looked at her in surprise and doubt, but also remained silent, and in a few minutes the girl went away with drooping head. pista now went to work again and endured days of bitter suffering. he was ridiculed because a girl had thrashed him, the cruel nickname of "the hideous one" was given him, people gazed at him with horror whenever he appeared in the street. panna continued to visit him every sunday, but he received her distantly, taciturnly, even sullenly. so christmas came. on christmas eve panna had a long talk with her father, and the next morning, after church, he again went to old frau molnár and without any preamble, said bluntly and plainly: "why won't pista marry my panna?" the widow clasped her hands and answered: "would she take him?" "you are all blind mice together," scolded the peasant, "of course she would, or surely she wouldn't do what she has done for months past. isn't it enough that she runs after the obstinate blockhead? she can't ask him to have her." just then pista himself came in. his mother hesitatingly told him what she had just heard, and the old woman looked at him enquiringly and expectantly. when the young man heard what they were discussing he became very pale and agitated, but at first said nothing. not until his mother and the guest assailed him impatiently with "well?" and "is it all right?" did he summon up his composure and reply: "panna is a good girl, and may god bless her. but i, too, am no scoundrel. honest folk would spit in my face, if i should accept panna's sacrifice. i'd rather live a bachelor forever than let her do me a favour and poison her own life." his mother and would-be father-in-law talked in vain, he still persisted: "i cannot believe that panna loves me, and i won't take favours." the simple, narrow-minded fellow did not know that the sense of justice and absolute necessity can move a human soul as deeply, urge it as strongly to resolves, as love itself, so from his standpoint he really was perfectly right. to cut the matter short: pista remained obdurate from christmas until new year, notwithstanding that his mother and panna's father beset him early and late. the girl suffered very keenly during this period, and her eyes were always reddened by tears. but when new year came, and still pista did not bestir himself, the strong, noble girl, after violent conflicts in her artless mind, formed a great resolution, went to pista herself, and said without circumlocution, excitement, or hesitation: "i understand your pride and, if i were a man, would behave as you do. but i beg you to have pity on me. if you don't have an aversion to me, or love another, marry me. i shall not do you a favour, you will do me one. unless i become your wife, i shall never be happy and contented so long as i live, but always miserable whenever i think of you. as your wife, i shall be at peace, and satisfied with myself. that you are now ugly is of no consequence. i shall see you as you were, before--" here, for the first time, she hesitated, then with a sudden transition, not without a faint smile, said: "and it will have its good side, too, i shall not be obliged to be jealous." "but i shall!" exclaimed pista, who had hitherto listened in silence. "nor you either, pista," she said quickly, "for whenever i see your face i shall say to myself how much i must make amends to you and, believe me, it will bind me far more firmly than the handsomest features could." pista was not a man of great intellect or loquacious speech. he now threw his arms around panna's neck, patted her, caressed her, covered her head and her face with kisses, and burst into weeping that would soften a stone. panna wept a little, too, then they remained together until long after noon and, in the evening, went to the spinning-room and presented themselves as betrothed lovers. three weeks after they were married amid a great crowd of the villagers, some of whom pitied pista, others panna, and from that time until the moment when the incidents about to be described occurred, they lived together five years in a loyal, model marriage. chapter iii. besides the church and the tile-roofed town hall built of stone, the main street of kisfalu contained only one edifice of any pretension, the manor or, as it is called in hungary, "the castle" of herr von abonyi. it was really a very ordinary structure, only it had a second story, stood on an artificial mound, to which on both sides there was a very gentle ascent, and above the ever open door was a moss-grown escutcheon, grey with age, on which a horseman, with brandished sword, could be discerned in vague outlines, worn by time and weather. the owner of this mansion, herr von abonyi, was a bachelor about fifty years old. his family had lived more than three hundred years on their ancestral estates, which, it is true, were now considerably diminished, and he was connected by ties of blood or marriage with all the nobility in the county of pesth. up to the year the whole village of kisfalu, with all its peasants, fields, and feudal prerogatives (such as mill, fish, tavern and other privileges) belonged to the abonyis, and the present lord, carl von abonyi, came from that gloomy time, termed--i know not why--"patriarchal," when the peasant had no rights, and the nobleman dwelt in his castle like a little god, omnipotent, unapproachable, only not all-wise and all-good, walked through his village whip in hand, like an american "massa," and dealt the peasant a blow across the face if he did not bow humbly and quickly enough, ordered the village jew to be brought to the manor, stretched on a bench by two strong lackeys (called in hungary heiducks) and soundly thrashed whenever he felt a desire for cheap amusement; regarded the women of the village, without exception, as his natural harem, spent his days and nights in immoderate feasting and wild drinking, derived all his education from the bible with leaves (the number of cards contained in the pack commonly used in the country), and only displayed to ladies of his own station a certain romantic chivalry, which was manifested in rude brawling with real or imaginary rivals, unrestricted duelling on the most trivial pretext, exaggerated gallantry and ardent homage, serenades which lasted all night long under the windows of the favoured fair, and similar impassioned, but tasteless eccentricities. at the present time all this has certainly greatly changed, but many of the nobles who, in the year , the period of the vast transformation, had partly or wholly attained maturity, could not or would not adapt themselves wholly to the new era; in their inmost hearts they still consider themselves the sovereign lords of the soil and its inhabitants, and it is with rage and gnashing of teeth that they force themselves not to display this feeling in words and deeds at every opportunity. abonyi, an only son, was a lieutenant in the palatine hussars, when the revolution of broke out. he at once joined the honveds with his troop and, in their ranks, performed, until the close of the war for freedom, prodigies of daring on every battle field, rising, in spite of his youth, within less than eleven months, to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. after the disaster of vilagos, he fled from the country and spent several years in turkey as a cavalry officer. in , he again returned home and took possession of his estates, which since his father's death, occurring meanwhile, had been managed by a legally appointed trustee. what wrath and raging there was! the regulation of property-ownership had been executed during the trusteeship, and as abonyi believed, with outrageous curtailment and robbery of the lords of the estate. the best, most fertile fields--so he asserted--had been allotted to the parish, the most sandy, barren tracts of the land to him; the parish had the beautiful oak forest, which had already been shamefully ravaged, he, on the other hand, received the reed-grown, marshy border of the stream; in the division of the pasturage the peasants had the easily cultivated plain, which was therefore at once ploughed by the new owners, he, on the contrary, the gravelly, steep hillside; in short, he was almost insane with rage when he first saw what the commission had made of his land, and the trustee who had unresistingly agreed to all these unjust acts would have fared badly, if he could have laid hands upon him the first time he went to inspect the bounds of the parish. there was nothing for him to do, however, except to adapt himself to the new state of affairs as well as he could; for nothing could be accomplished by indictments, because the trustee had possessed full legal authority to act, and everything had been done in strict accordance with the law. far less could he hope to effect anything by violence, since peasants understand no jesting if their beloved acres are touched, and, at the first sign of any intention on his part to disturb their possessions, would quickly have set fire to his house and, moreover, tattooed on his body, with the tines of a pitchfork, a protest to which a counter-plea would scarcely have been possible. only he could never carry self-control and composure so far that, after nearly twenty years' habitude, he did not become furiously excited at the sight of certain pieces of land, and experience something akin to a paroxysm of longing to shoot, like a mad dog, the first peasant who came in his way. the disposition to command, which he had indulged from childhood, he was unwilling even now to renounce. under existing circumstances his name and property alone would certainly no longer permit him to indulge this habit, so he sought an office. when the austrian magistrates were removed in hungary and the ancient county government restored, abonyi had only needed to express the wish, and the "congregation" of the county, which consisted almost exclusively of his relatives and friends, elected him president of the tribune[ ] of his district. now he could imagine himself transported back to the fine old feudal times before the march revolution. the peasants were again obliged to raise their hats humbly to him, his hand dispensed justice and mercy, the ancestral rod was brandished at his sign, and the whipping bench, a pleasing symbol of his power, always stood ready below the windows of his castle. when he drove through the country on official business or pleasure, his carriage was drawn by four horses with a harness hung with bells; if a peasant's cart was in the way and did not hasten at the sound of the familiar little bells to move out, the heiduck in coloured livery, with a sword at his side, sitting by the driver, shouted an order and an oath to the laggard, and the coachman, while dashing by, dealt the disrespectful loiterer a well-aimed blow. he might even fare still worse if the humor happened to seize the grandee in the spring carriage. it would no longer do to get the village jew and have him flogged for pastime on long afternoons; but there were still gipsies who were summoned to the castle to make sport for the noble lord. they played their bewitching melodies, and if he was filled with genuine delight, he gave the fiddlers, right and left, an enthusiastic slap in the face which echoed noisily, then took a banknote from his pocket-book, spit upon it and clapped it on the swollen cheeks of the howling gipsies, whereupon they again grinned joyfully and played on with two-fold energy. although abonyi was a pattern magistrate, at the second election, which according to the old county system, occurred every three years, he suffered defeat. political party considerations and government influence sustained another candidate. so abonyi was again relegated to private life, but his birth and the office he had filled gave him sufficient personal distinction to induce his village, immediately after, to compensate him in some degree for his overthrow by a unanimous election to the position of parish magistrate. this gentleman, with whose course of life and prominent personal characteristics we are now familiar, went one hot august afternoon to the stables, which formed the back of the courtyard, to inspect the horses and carriages, as was his custom. abonyi was in a very bad humour that day, for there had been a violent dispute with the harvesters, who cut and threshed on shares, and who had claimed more grain for their portion than seemed just to the owner of the estate. it did not improve his mood to find that his favourite saddle-horse had its right hind fetlock badly swollen and could not be used for a week. so he entered the coach-house, half of which, separated by a board-partition, served for a hay-loft. the first thing on which his eye fell here was a man lying stretched comfortably on the straw, snoring. he recognized in the sluggard "hideous pista," who had been summoned to the castle that morning to put new spokes into some broken carriage-wheels. the work he had commenced, a chaos of naves, spokes, fellies, tires, and a variety of tools, lay in a heap beside him, but he was sleeping the sleep of the just. it needed nothing more to fan abonyi's secret rage into a blaze of fury, and he shouted fiercely: "devil take you, you idler, will you get off of my hay?" pista, evidently not fully roused by the call, merely grunted a little in his dream and turned over to continue his nap. but the other could now control himself no longer, and dealt the recumbent figure a violent kick, roaring: "up, i say, up, you gallows-bird, you're paid for working, not for snoring!" pista, with a sudden spring, stood on his feet, and was instantly wide awake. looking angrily at the brutal intruder with his one eye, he said in a voice quivering with suppressed anger: "i'm not working for you by the day, but by the job, and if i sleep, i do it at my own loss, not yours. besides, i don't remember that i ever drank the pledge of brotherhood with you." abonyi threw up his head, his face growing crimson as if he had received a blow on the cheek. "what," he shrieked, "does the rascal dare to insult me under my own roof? i'll teach you at once who i am, and who you are." and he raised the riding-whip which he usually carried, to deal pista a blow. the latter's kindly, free peasant blood began to boil. taking a step backward, he grasped a pitchfork lying within reach of his hand, and hissed through the gaps in his teeth, as he brandished the weapon of defence: "woe betide you if you touch me! i'll run the fork into you, as true as god lives!" abonyi uttered a fierce imprecation and hastily retreated three paces to the door, where he called back to the cartwright, who still maintained his threatening attitude: "this will cost you dear, you scoundrel!" and before pista could suspect what his enemy meant to do, the latter had shut the door and bolted it on the outside. pista's first movement was to throw himself against the door to burst it open with his shoulder, but he paused instinctively as he heard abonyi's voice, shouting loudly outside. "jános," called the latter to the coachman, who stood washing the horses' harnesses beside the coach-house door, "go up to my chamber and bring me down the revolver, the one on the table by the bed, not the other which hangs on the wall!" jános went, and stillness reigned in the courtyard. now the prisoner's rage burst forth. "open! open!" he roared, drumming furiously on the oak-door. abonyi, who was keeping guard, at first said nothing, but as the man inside shouted and shook more violently, he called to him: "be quiet, my son, you'll be let out presently, not to your beautiful wife, but to the parish jail." "open!" yelled the voice inside again, "or i'll set fire to the hay and burn down your flayer's hut." this was an absurd, ridiculous threat, for in the first place pista, if he had really attempted to execute it, would have stifled and roasted himself before the mansion received the slightest injury, and besides, as examination afterwards proved, he had neither matches nor tinder with him; but abonyi pretended to take the boast seriously and cried scornfully: "better and better! you are a sly fellow! first you threaten me with murder, now with arson; keep on, run up a big reckoning, when the time for settlement comes, we will both be present." jános now appeared and, with a very grave face, handed his master the revolver. "now, my lad," abonyi ordered, "run over to the town-hall, bring a pair of strong hand-cuffs and the little judge,[ ] the rascal will be put in irons." pista had again heard and remained silent because he had perceived that blustering and raging were useless. so he stood inside and abonyi outside of the door, both gazing sullenly into vacancy in excited anticipation. the gardener, who was laying out a flower-bed which surrounded three sides of the fountain in the centre of the courtyard, had witnessed the whole scene from the beginning, but remained at his work, apparently without interest. the town-hall was only a hundred paces distant. in less than five minutes jános returned with the beadle. abonyi now retreated a few steps, aimed the revolver, and ordered the beadle to open the door. the bolt flew back, the sides of the folding door rattled apart, and pista was seen on the threshold with his hideous, still horribly distorted face, the pitchfork yet in his right hand. "forward, march!" abonyi ordered, and the cartwright stepped hesitatingly out into the courtyard. "put down the pitchfork, vagabond, it belongs to me," the nobleman again commanded. pista cast a flashing glance at him and saw the muzzle of the revolver turned toward himself. he silently put down the fork and prepared to go. "now the irons," abonyi turned to his men, at the same time shouting to the gardener, "you fellow there, can't you come and help?" the gardener pretended not to hear and continued to be absorbed in his blossoming plants. but, at abonyi's last words, pista swiftly seized the pitchfork again, shrieking: "back, whoever values his life! i'll go voluntarily, i need not be chained, i'm no sharper or thief." the coachman and the beadle with the handcuffs hesitated at the sight of the threatening pitchfork. "am i parish-magistrate or not?" raged abonyi, "do i command here or not? the vagabond presumes to be refractory, the irons, i say, or----" both the servants made a hasty movement toward pista, the latter retreated to the door of the coach-house, swinging the pitchfork, the beadle was just seizing his arm, when a shot was suddenly fired. a shrill shriek followed, and pista fell backward into the barn. "now he has got it," said abonyi, in a low tone, but he had grown very pale. the coachman and the beadle stood beside the door as though turned to stone, and the gardener came forward slowly and gloomily. "see what's wrong with him," the nobleman ordered after a pause, during which a death-like silence reigned in the group. jános timidly approached the motionless form lying in the shade of the barn, bent over it, listened, and touched it. after a short time he stood up again, and, with a terribly frightened face, said in a voice barely audible: "the hole is in the forehead, your honour, he doesn't move, he doesn't breathe, i fear"--then after a slight hesitation, very gently--"he is dead." abonyi stared at him, and finally said: "so much the worse, carry him away from there--home--" and went slowly into the castle. the servants looked after him a few moments in bewilderment, then laid the corpse upon two wheels, which they placed on poles, and bore him off on this improvised bier. this time the gardener lent his aid. [ ] a hungarian office. [ ] hungarian name for beadle. chapter iv. when the men, accompanied by several children who were playing in the village street and had inquisitively joined the passing procession, appeared at the molnárs' hut with their horrible burden, the beautiful panna was standing in the kitchen, churning. at the sight of the lifeless form lying on the bier, she uttered a piercing shriek and dropped the stick from her hands, which fell by her side as though paralyzed. it was at least a minute before her body was again subject to her will and she could rush to the corpse and throw herself prone upon it. meanwhile the men had had time to carry the dead form into the room adjoining the kitchen and set the bier upon the clay floor, after which they took to their heels as if pursued by fiends; at least jános and the beadle did so; the gardener had remained to try to comfort the poor woman, so suddenly widowed, in the first tempest of her despair. panna lay on her husband's dead body, wringing her hands and moaning: "oh, god! oh, god!" sobbing until even the gardener, a stolid, weather-beaten peasant, and anything but soft-hearted, could not restrain his own tears. not until after several minutes had passed did the young wife raise herself to her knees, and ask in a voice choked with tears, what all this meant, what had happened. "the master shot your pista," replied the gardener in a tone so low that it was scarcely audible. "the master? pista? shot?" repeated panna mechanically, absently, as if the words which she slowly uttered belonged to an unknown, incomprehensible language. she stared at the gardener with dilated eyes, and her lips moved without emitting any sound. at last, however, understanding of the present returned, and the words escaped with difficulty from her labouring breast: "oh, god, oh, god, how could it happen? how could god permit such misery?" again she was silent, while the gardener looked away and seemed to be examining the opposite house with the utmost attention through the panes of the little window. but panna was beginning to think more clearly and to recover from the dull stupor into which the sudden shock had thrown her. still kneeling beside the corpse, wringing her hands, and amid floods of tears, she began again: "the master shot my poor pista from carelessness?" the gardener hesitated a moment, then he said: "not from carelessness, poor woman." in an instant panna was on her feet, stood beside the gardener at a single bound, grasped him by the shoulder, and said in a firm, harsh voice, while her tears suddenly ceased to flow: "not from carelessness, you say? then it was intentional?" the gardener nodded silently. "that is impossible, it cannot be, no innocent person is murdered, and i am certain that pista has done nothing; he was the gentlest man in the world, he wouldn't harm a fly, he hadn't drunk a drop of wine in five years, he-- have no regard for me! tell me everything, and may god reward you for remaining with me in this hour." the gardener could no longer withhold the truth, and acquainted her with the occurrence whose commencement the coachman jános had described to him on the way, whose tragical close he himself had witnessed. panna listened silently, never averting her eyes from the body during the entire story. in the midst of a sentence from the gardener, she suddenly uttered a shriek, and again threw herself upon the dead man. "here, here is the hole!" she murmured. "horrible! horrible!" hitherto she had had before her eyes only a vague, shapeless, blood-stained vision, without being able to distinguish any details; now for the first time she had seen, amid the blood and oozing brains, the terrible wound in the forehead. but this interruption lasted only a moment, then panna again stood beside the gardener and begged him to continue. he soon reached the catastrophe, which once more drew a scream, or rather a quickly suppressed, gasping sound, from the widow, and then closed with a few well-meant, but clumsy, words of consolation. here panna interrupted him. "that's enough, friend, that's enough; now i know how it all was and i will comfort myself. if you have anything to do, don't stay with me longer, and may god reward you for what you have done." "what do you mean to do now?" asked the gardener, deeply moved. "nothing. i mean a great many things. i have much to do." she went into the kitchen and soon came back with a wooden water-pail and a coarse linen towel. placing the vessel on the floor beside the corpse, she began to wash the face, without taking any farther notice of her visitor. during her melancholy task she only murmured from time to time in broken sentences; "oh, god, oh, god!--no, god is not just--pista, the gentlest man--he was not like us--he was not hot-tempered--what is god's will?" the gardener felt that he was not wanted, so, after exhorting the widow to be calm and to come to him if she needed advice or help, he went away. she had nodded and, without turning her head, called after him again: "god will repay you!" when left alone, panna carefully dried the dead man's face, placed under his head a pillow which she took from the bed, kissed his poor, ugly face,--sobbing meanwhile from the very depths of her heart,--and covered it with a gay little silk kerchief which he had brought to her from the last fair. then she hurriedly made some changes in her own dress and left the house, whose door she locked behind her. without looking round, she walked rapidly to the field where she knew that her father was working, which she reached in a quarter of an hour. he was toiling with other day-labourers in a potato-patch, pulling the ripe roots out of the ground, and when she came up was stooping over his work. he did not notice his daughter until she was standing by his side and touched him lightly on the shoulder with her finger. then he straightened himself, exclaiming in great astonishment: "panna! what is the matter?" a glance at her made him start violently, and he added in a subdued voice: "a misfortune? another misfortune?" panna did not reply, but grasped his arm and, with long, swift strides, led him far beyond the range of hearing of the other workmen. when they had reached the edge of the field, she said softly: "father, herr von abonyi has just shot my pista out of sheer wantonness, like a mad-dog." the old peasant staggered back several paces as if he had been hit on the head with a club. then his face, whose muscles had contracted till it resembled a horrible mask, flushed scarlet, he uttered a tremendous oath, and made a sudden movement as though to hurry away. but panna was again at his side, holding him fast. "what are you going to do, father?" "there--the hoe--the dog must die--he must be killed--now--at once--i'll run in--i'll split his head--die--the dog," he panted, trying to wrench himself from his daughter's strong grasp. the latter held him still more firmly. "no, father," she said, "try to be calm. i am quiet. rage has never been a good counsellor to us. i thought you would take it so, and therefore i wanted to tell you myself, before you heard it from others." the old man swore and struggled, but panna would not release him. "father, be sensible, we are not living among robbers, an innocent man is not shot down unpunished. you need not split his lordship's head, another will do that, a greater person than you or he. there is a law, there is a court of justice." her father grew calmer, his distorted face began to relax. panna now released his arm, sat down on the boundary-stone beside which they had been standing, and, gazing fixedly at the ground, while rolling the hem of her apron between her fingers, she continued, speaking more to herself than to him, "we certainly know best that punishment will not fail. they shot our poor marczi, and he only gave a man a blow. if you ever had a little quarrel with any one in the tavern, they imprisoned you for weeks and months. i, too, have atoned for the crime i committed; nothing remains unpunished, and the nobleman will get his deserts, as we have always received ours." the sun was setting, and the notes of the vesper-bell echoed from the distance. the old man picked up his hoe, which he had left in the furrow and, lost in thought, walked home with his daughter in silence. panna prepared the bed she had used when a girl in her father's hut, and went to rest early. it is not probable that she slept during the night. at least she was already completely dressed when, very early the next morning, the parish-beadle knocked at the door of the hut, and it was she who opened it. he asked for the key of her house, because the corpse must be carried to the town-hall. "why?" "because, early in the forenoon, the committee and the district physician will come from the city to hold the coroner's inquest." "will he be present?" "who?" "the--herr von abonyi." the beadle shrugged his shoulders and said, "i don't know." panna did not give up the key, but went with the beadle herself, and was present when the latter appeared, with three other men and a bier, and bore the corpse away. the coachman jános, and another servant, also came to fetch the wheels and poles on which they had brought the dead man home the day before, and which belonged to the castle. panna locked her door behind them, and followed the corpse to the town-hall. in the centre of the court stood a long black table, surrounded with all sorts of pails and various utensils, and near it a small one with writing materials and a chair before it. meanwhile the body was left on the bier beside the table and covered with a horse-blanket. a great crowd of people, among them many women, and even little children, flocked into the building in a very short time, thronged about the bier, the black table, and panna, who was leaning against it, carrying on a low, eager hum of conversation till it seemed as though countless swarms of bumble-bees were buzzing through the air. about eight o'clock two carriages drove up, from which descended five dusty gentlemen, dressed in the fashion of the city, and a servant. these were the examining magistrate, the prosecuting attorney, the district physician, a lawyer, and a clerk of the court, then the beadle, who carried a box containing the dissecting instruments. in the absence of the parish-magistrate--it was remembered that abonyi held this office--the gentlemen were received by the village notary (parish clerk) and ushered into the interior of the building, where an abundant breakfast awaited them. meanwhile the people were dismissed from the courtyard, and as the mere request did not induce them to move fast enough, were urged forward with gentle force, after which the gate was closed and bolted on the inside. panna had been obliged to go out with the others, but she would not leave the spot, where she was joined by her father, though she entreated him to return home or go to his work in the field and not meddle with anything. at nine o'clock the little funeral-bell in the church-steeple began to toll, and at the same time the post-mortem examination took place, but did not last long, as it was only necessary to open the cavity of the skull. the investigation proved that the missile, a lead, cone-shaped bullet of large calibre, had entered above the left eye, torn its way through the left-half of the brain in a curve passing from above to the lower portion within, and lodged in the pons vorolii. under such circumstances, death must have been instantaneous. when all was over, the beadle again opened the gate and admitted the curious throng. the village notary went to panna and asked whether she wished to have the funeral from the town-hall, or from her own house. she decided in favor of the latter plan, and the notary gave the necessary orders to the beadle. a coffin had been ordered by the gardener the day before, and was ready for delivery. some old women offered to attend to dressing the body and preparing it for burial, notifying the clergyman, etc., so panna was spared all the mournful business details which demand attention from a crushed spirit at a moment when it is so incapable of forming any sensible, practical conclusions, and could therefore remain near the committee. after the post-mortem examination was over, the members went to view the scene of the deed. panna followed, and was silently permitted to do so by the beadle and the constable, while the throng of villagers was kept back. a mist dimmed panna's eyes, when she saw the place where the crime was committed, but she bore up bravely and watched the proceedings around her with the utmost attention. the gentlemen entered the coach-house and, standing at the door, she could hear the physician say that he thought he noticed blood-stains on the floor. the examining magistrate sketched a slight plan of the place in his note-book, and ordered jános and the gardener, who were in the vicinity, to be brought in by the beadle. they were required to point out the places where they were standing at the time of the misfortune, and to briefly relate in turn the details of the story, during which the prosecuting attorney and the lawyer for the defense made notes. all this afforded panna infinite satisfaction. she felt her heart grow lighter, and became calm, almost cheerful. a voice in her soul said: "there--there is justice!" and every letter which the gentlemen, with swiftly moving pencils, scrawled on the paper, seemed to her a link in the steel chain which was being forged before her eyes, ever longer and heavier, and would serve to drag the criminal fettered before the tribunal. from the castle, the committee returned to the town-hall, and now followed the real official examination of the witnesses, whose previous information had been taken merely as unofficial information, and not as legal depositions. they were summoned singly into the room and examined, first jános, then the gardener, and lastly the beadle. when the latter came out panna, who, until then had waited patiently at the threshold, stepped resolutely into the chamber, though the constable told her that she had not been summoned. the examining magistrate looked at the new-comer in surprise, and asked what she wanted. "what do i want?" replied panna in astonishment, "why, to be examined as the others have been." "were you present when the misfortune happened?" panna felt a pang in her heart when the examining magistrate used the word "misfortune." she would have wished him to say "crime." but she answered with a firm voice. "no, i was not present." "then you cannot be a witness." "i am not a witness, i am the accuser." the lawyer for the defense smiled faintly, but the prosecuting attorney drew himself up and answered sternly and impressively, before the examining magistrate had found time to open his mouth. "you are mistaken, my good woman. i am the accuser, and you have nothing more to do here." "that is true," the magistrate now remarked. "if you desire to obtain damages from herr von abonyi, you can bring the complaint before the civil court. you have nothing to do with the criminal trial." "but it is my husband, my pista, who has been murdered!" cried panna, who was beginning to be greatly excited. the prosecuting attorney twirled a lead-pencil between his fingers, but the examining magistrate rose, took the widow by the hand and led her to the door, saying soothingly: "you don't understand, my good woman; the point in question is not your pista, but our pista. he was a member of society, and his cause is the cause of all of us. rely upon it, you will have justice." while speaking he had opened the door and given the constable a sign to lead the woman away. this was not necessary; panna went voluntarily, after casting a strange look at the magistrate which somewhat perplexed him. the cartwright's funeral took place in the afternoon amid a great throng of villagers. since his mother's death molnár had had no relatives in the place, and his wife and her father were the only mourners among the concourse which followed the coffin to the cemetery. the catholic pastor, who was often abonyi's partner at his evening card parties, delivered an edifying address beside the open grave. he took for his text the verse (matthew v. ): "but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you," and said a great deal about forgiveness and reconciliation. the listeners were much moved, and frequently wiped their eyes. panna alone was tearless and sullen, she felt enraged with the fat, prating priest, who did not seem to her to speak sincerely. after the funeral she went with her father to his hut, and there the two sat at the table opposite to each other, gazing into vacancy without uttering a word. but they did not remain long undisturbed in their gloomy meditations, for the door soon opened and the priest came in with a smooth, unctuous: "praised be jesus christ!" "in eternity, amen!" replied the old man in a dull tone, rising slightly from his chair, while panna sat still in silence. the priest took his seat beside the widow and, in sweet, cajoling words, began to enlarge upon the subject of his funeral address. he exhorted her, as her confessor, to remember that she was a christian, she must forgive her adversaries, nay, even love her enemies, that she, too, might be forgiven; if she cherished anger and vengeance in her heart, her sin would be greater than herr von abonyi's---- here panna threw back her head and looked at the honeyed speaker so fiercely, that he found it advisable to follow another course. he represented to her that abonyi had committed the deed by some incomprehensible rashness, in a sort of delirium and that he desired nothing more ardently than to make amends for the consequences of the luckless act, so far as lay in human power. while speaking, he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a bank-note of large amount, which he laid on the table. panna could bear no more. seizing the money furiously, she threw it violently on the floor and, with rolling eyes and quivering lips, shrieked: "i want justice, not alms. he must hang--i must see him dead like my pista, before i am at peace." the priest now lost his evangelical mildness also, and rose angrily, exclaiming: "fie! fie! you are a pagan, a pagan, and belong to all the fiends in hell." with these pious words he went away. the bank-bill, crushed into a ball, flew out of the room after him, then the door banged violently. chapter v. the committee, after the official proceedings were over, had returned to the city, but not until the constable had given the beadle information which afforded food for village gossip during several days. it was learned that, directly after the fatal act, herr von abonyi had saddled a horse and ridden alone to the city to denounce himself. it was late in the evening when he reached the examining magistrate's house. the latter, an old friend of abonyi, was much troubled and shocked, and it was long ere he could collect himself sufficiently to be able to take the deposition of the acknowledged criminal. it was ten o'clock before all the formalities were settled, then the magistrate, deeply agitated, took leave of his unfortunate friend. the former had not considered it necessary to arrest him, as abonyi had pledged his word of honor to hold himself always ready to obey the summons of the court. panna of course heard these tales, as well as other people, and she also noticed how they were received in the village. there were numerous comments, some foolish, some sensible; as usual, opposite parties were formed; one condemned abonyi's being left at liberty, the other thought it perfectly natural, since it could not be supposed that so great and rich a man as carl von abonyi would make his escape under cover of the darkness, like a strolling vagabond who has nothing but a staff and a knapsack. panna of course belonged to the malcontents. it did not enter her head that any one could be permitted to go about unmolested, after killing a man. the ingenious distinctions between imprisonment while awaiting trial, and imprisonment as a punishment were too subtle for her, and she did not wish to understand them; she only knew that whenever her father was brought before the examining magistrate, he was detained, and used to wait in jail two months and longer, until at last condemned to a fortnight's imprisonment, which was considered expiated by the imprisonment while awaiting trial. justice seemed to her far too slow. what kind of justice was this which delayed so long, so torturingly long? punishment ought to follow crime as the thunder follows the lightning-flash. the murdered man's death-glazed eyes ought to be still open, when the murderer is dangling on the gallows. this was the demand of panna's passionate heart, but also of her peasant-logic, which could comprehend the causal relation between sin and expiation clearly and palpably, only when both were united in a single melodramatic effect. why was nothing heard of a final trial, of a condemnation? for what were the legal gentlemen waiting? surely the case was as clear as sunlight, with no complication whatever, the criminal had acknowledged everything. even if he had not, there were three witnesses who had all been present, the committee had seen the corpse, the hole in the forehead, the bullet from the revolver, the blood-stains in the coach-house, was not all this a hundred times enough to condemn a man on the spot? yet week after week elapsed, and nothing new was heard of the matter. meanwhile it was rumoured in the village that abonyi was visiting a friend, a land-owner in the neighboring county, with whom he was constantly engaged in hunting. this might and might not be true. at any rate it seemed to panna atrocious that it was even possible. when one evening the gardener, who was no longer in abonyi's service, came to see the widow, she poured out her heart, which was brimming with bitterness, to the kind, faithful fellow. "isn't it enough to enrage a dove, that pista has been mouldering in the ground six weeks and his murderer still goes about at liberty, perhaps enjoys himself in hunting?" the gardener tried to soothe the infuriated woman, and said all sorts of things about the laws, forms, etc. "laws? forms?" panna excitedly broke in, "where were these laws and forms when our marczi, my brother, was executed a few hours after his offence? and he had not killed any one, only dealt a harsh officer a blow." "that was in the army, panna, that was in war; it is an entirely different matter." "indeed? and is it also a different matter that, a few years ago, the vine-dresser's bandi was hung three days after he set fire to his master's barn?" "of course it is different, at that time we were under martial law." "so once it was war and once it was martial law--that's all nonsense, and i'll tell you what it is: our marczi and the vine-dresser's bandi were peasants, and herr von abonyi is a gentleman." the gardener made no reply, perhaps because he secretly shared panna's belief; but her father, who had been sitting at the table, cutting tobacco with a huge knife and taking no part in the conversation, suddenly struck its point so violently into the table that it stuck fast, vibrating and buzzing, and exclaimed: "panna, panna, i told you so then! the best way would have been to split the dog's skull with the hoe that very day." meanwhile the affair pursued its regular course, which neither the impatience of those concerned hastens nor their submission delays, and one morning the gardener came to panna's hut with the news that he had received the summons to appear as witness at the trial, which was to take place in four days. this was nearly three months after the murder, and it was already late in november. panna knew that the witnesses were reimbursed for the expense incurred for the carriages in which they drove to the city, and begged the gardener to take her with him to the court, which the latter readily promised. on the appointed morning the peasant's vehicle appeared in front of panna's hut at a very early hour. it was not yet five o'clock, and dense darkness obscured the village and the neighbourhood. but panna already stood at her door, and was seated in the carriage almost before it had stopped. she wore a black dress, a dark shawl covered her shoulders, at her throat was her old silver crucifix, which had again come into her possession after her mother-in-law's death, and on her head was a black silk kerchief, which set off her beautiful face so marvellously that one might have supposed she had studied the effect, had not this grave, strong woman been so wholly incapable of any act of coquetry. she was pale and thoughtful, and during the whole way did not address a single word to the gardener, who sat beside her, occasionally glancing at her with admiring approval, only one could see that the deep gloom which during the past few weeks had constantly shadowed her features had disappeared. in fact, she was calm, almost content. the satisfaction due her had been delayed a strangely long time, but at last it would be hers; to-day she, too, was to learn that the hand of justice could stroke her with maternal kindness, after having hitherto, during her whole life, experienced only its power to deal blows. the road which, in the autumn, had been thoroughly soaked, had recently been frozen hard by the early frosts, and they made such rapid progress that, after a ride of barely five hours, the vehicle reached the city and stopped in front of the town hall. the beginning of the examination had been fixed at ten o'clock, but it was fully eleven before it commenced. the room in which it took place presented no imposing appearance. it was an apartment, or if one chooses to call it so, a hall of ordinary size, with four windows; in the centre was a wooden railing which divided it into two nearly equal parts; inside was the usual apparatus of justice, a green-covered table with writing materials and a black crucifix, between two candlesticks, placed on a platform for the court-room; at the right, also on the platform, a small table for the prosecuting attorney; below, a wooden bench for the defendant, two police officers, and a little table for the lawyer for the defence. outside the railing stood a few wooden benches, which afforded room for about forty persons. when panna entered with the gardener the other two witnesses, jános and the beadle, were already in the space set apart for the audience, and also the village notary, the new parish magistrate, a rich peasant and cattle-dealer named bárány, the pastor, several other residents of kisfalu, and two or three owners of estates in the county, friends of the defendant. panna, who sat in the front row, directly by the railing, had no eyes for her surroundings, and scarcely noticed that every one was gazing at her with curiosity and interest. her mood was calm, almost solemn, and she gazed steadily at the door in the end of the room through which the court must enter. at last a constable appeared, who moved the armchairs, arranged the papers on the green table, and then noisily opened the doors. the three judges, followed by the constable, came in and took their seats; with them appeared the prosecuting attorney, the same one who had taken part in the preliminary examination in kisfalu, and almost immediately after a side-door opened and herr von abonyi entered, accompanied by his lawyer and followed by a man whose uniform cap showed that he was some official. this individual remained standing at the door, while abonyi took his seat on the wooden bench and the lawyer in his chair. abonyi had bowed to the court when he entered, and now cast a searching glance at the spectators. but he involuntarily started and hastily averted his head, without noticing the smiling greetings of his friends, for the first things he beheld were panna's flashing black eyes, which had pierced him when he first appeared, and which he actually seemed to feel burning through his clothes, and consuming his body, as he turned away from them. panna was intensely excited; her heart throbbed violently and her eyebrows contracted in a gloomy frown. abonyi's appearance had destroyed a large share of her consoling and soothing illusions. she had had a vague idea that he would be brought in in some humiliating convict garb, perhaps with handcuffs or even with his feet chained, and sit between two soldiers with fixed bayonets, deserted, humble, penitent. instead of that she saw abonyi just as she was in the habit of seeing him, attired in an elegant black suit, smoothly-shaved and carefully combed, with plump cheeks and smiling lips, head erect and bold eyes, more distinguished in appearance than any one inside the rail, without the slightest token in aspect and bearing which could mark him as a man charged with a heinous crime, in short here, just as in his village, thoroughly the _grand seigneur_. the presiding judge opened the proceedings and ordered the clerk of the court to read the accusation, which was homicide through negligence, as well as the minutes of the coroner's inquest and the other documents of the investigation, then he proceeded to the examination of the accused, asking the usual questions concerning his name, age, etc., in a courteous, kindly tone, wholly devoid of sternness, which filled panna with vehement rage. this was not the terrible personification of the fell punishment of crime, but a smooth farce, acted amid universal satisfaction. now the judge reached the kernel of the matter, and asked the defendant to state the circumstances of the event which formed the subject of the legal proceedings. abonyi, in a somewhat unsteady voice, related that on the fatal day he had gone to his coachhouse and found "his workman" asleep; he had roused him and warned him to be more industrious, then the fellow became amazingly insolent and defiant, and threatened him so roughly with a pitchfork, that he owed his escape with a whole skin solely to his rapid flight, and the presence of mind with which he bolted the furious man into the shed. panna listened with dilated eyes and open mouth; a burning flush suffused her cheeks, her breath came in gasps, and bending far forward, she clenched the railing convulsively with both hands. it seemed incredible that she could have heard correctly. what, is it possible to lie so in a court of justice, in the presence of the black crucifix, the judges, the listeners? and the prosecutor does not interrupt him in his infamous speech? the earth which holds the murdered man, now slandered in his very grave, does not open and swallow the shameless liar? the gardener, who perceived what was passing in her mind, laid his hand upon her arm and whispered into her ear: "for heaven's sake, panna, keep quiet, control yourself, or if you cannot, go out of the room." panna impatiently motioned to him to keep silent, for the defendant was continuing his story. he related how the imprisoned cartwright had constantly raged and threatened murder and arson so that, as parish magistrate, he had considered it his duty to have the dangerous fellow arrested. to intimidate the rebellious man, he had sent for a revolver, which he thought was not loaded, and this was accidentally discharged---- "lies! wretched, base lies!" shrieked panna, shaking her clenched fist furiously at abonyi, who turned pale and paused in his story. a passing tumult arose; the listeners crowded around panna, who had started up, and tried to force her back into her seat and to quiet her. the presiding judge frowned and was about to speak, when the prosecuting attorney told him in a hasty whisper who the disturber was. but panna continued to cry out: "don't believe him, gentlemen, he is lying! he shot him intentionally and without cause." she would have said more, but the judge interrupted her, exclaiming violently: "silence, unhappy woman, you are making yourself guilty of a serious offence and deserve that we should inflict exemplary punishment. but we will have compassion on your condition and content ourselves with turning you out of the room." at the same time he beckoned to the constable, who, with the individual standing behind the defendant, and a watchman posted in the audience-room, seized the screaming woman and, in spite of her struggles, forced her out of the door. this interruption had lasted several minutes and evidently affected all present very unpleasantly. now, calmness gradually returned and the trial could pursue its course. after the defendant, the turn of the witnesses came. their depositions were to elucidate two points especially: whether molnár had really behaved in such a manner that deeds of violence might be expected from him, and it was necessary to threaten him with a weapon and put him in fetters--also, whether the revolver had been discharged accidentally or intentionally. the first witness, jános, gave his testimony cautiously and sinuously; he did not know how the dispute had begun; he was not present while pista uttered the threats of which herr von abonyi spoke, as he had gone first to fetch the revolver and then the beadle; pista had certainly seemed angry and excited, and would not permit handcuffs to be put upon him; he, jános, had his back turned to his master when the shot was fired. the beadle, too, could only say that pista would not suffer himself to be fettered, and that he had not noticed the discharge of the revolver. now the gardener was summoned. abonyi looked sharply at him; the witness bore the gaze quietly and began to speak. he stated that pista had always been a harmless, peaceful man, while the nobleman, on the contrary, was arrogant and harsh in his intercourse with common people. the lawyer for the defence interrupted him with the words: "you are not asked for a certificate of good conduct!" and the judge admonished him to keep to the point. the gardener, unintimidated, added that herr von abonyi had first inflicted bodily abuse on the cartwright, who was not his employee, and the latter then threatened him or rather defended himself. the judge asked if he had seen this. "no," replied the witness, "but jános saw it and told me." jános was recalled and confronted with the gardener. he could remember nothing about it. the examination was continued. the gardener testified that pista had been willing to submit to arrest, but would not allow himself to be handcuffed, for which, moreover, not the semblance of necessity had existed. besides, herr von abonyi had had an evil intention when he sent for the revolver, for he asked expressly for the one lying on the table by the bed, and the whole parish knew that this weapon was always loaded. so it was false that herr von abonyi supposed he held an unloaded pistol in his hand. the judge addressed his last question to the witness: "did you see the defendant fire the weapon intentionally?" the gardener replied that no one could have seen that, except a person who stood directly beside the criminal and watched his finger closely; he could only say that herr von abonyi kept the weapon constantly aimed, and his finger on the trigger, so that he, the gardener, had involuntarily thought that some mischief would happen, and that the shot was fired at the precise moment when pista raised the pitchfork against the servant, who was pressing upon him. the lawyer for the defence rose and informed the court that the witness was a servant whom abonyi had discharged. "i was discharged after i gave the same testimony at the preliminary examination which i have given to-day," observed the gardener quietly. "speak only when the court questions you!" said the judge reprovingly; then he whispered a short time with his companions in office, and finally announced that the last witness would not be sworn. the gardener looked at the judge in bewilderment and returned to his place among the audience. the prosecuting attorney now began his speech. he censured abonyi for sending for the revolver, and the command to handcuff the refractory man seemed to him to show over-zeal and somewhat unjustifiable severity; there was no ground to believe that murder was intended, yet the defendant had committed a grave offence when, yielding to an absurd notion, he had deemed it proper to threaten the cartwright with a fire-arm. he would therefore propose to sentence abonyi for homicide through negligence to--six months' imprisonment. abonyi's lawyer tried to show that the revolver had not been superfluous, since it was necessary to inspire a furious man, who was threatening deeds of violence, with salutary terror, and thereby restrain him from excesses. as parish-magistrate, it was abonyi's duty to oppose the cartwright, and when the latter scorned and rebelled against the authorities, abonyi had been fully justified in compelling the cartwright to respect his orders, even by forcibly handcuffing him. for the unfortunate accident which resulted in the loss of a human life, abonyi could not be held responsible, and he therefore requested the acquittal of his client. the prosecuting attorney replied that it was not fully proved that molnár had been so refractory that handcuffing was indispensable; but he would admit that it was necessary to maintain the dignity of the magistracy energetically, in the midst of a turbulent, insubordinate populace. abonyi's lawyer answered that, instead of making any rejoinder, he had only one thing to say: his client would engage to provide for the unfortunate molnár's widow by giving her a large piece of land and also settling upon her an annual income, legally secured, of four hundred florins. a murmur of approval ran through the audience, suppressed by a stern command from the judge. after a short whispered consultation, during which the defendant was not even led out of the court-room, the judge pronounced the sentence, that the defendant, for the homicide through negligence of stefan molnár, was condemned to six months imprisonment; any claims for compensation from those entitled to demand them were reserved and could be brought before the civil courts. the prosecuting attorney declared himself satisfied with the sentence, as his proposal had been fully accepted; the lawyer for the defence exchanged whispers a moment with the condemned man, and then also said that he would give up the appeal to a higher tribunal; the judge closed the proceedings, and abonyi went out through the door by which he had entered, while the man with the cap followed respectfully. when the gardener came out of the courtroom he saw panna standing in the corridor, where she had been waiting since her expulsion from the court-room. hurrying up to him, she asked with an anxious look, "well?" "sentenced!" replied the gardener, turning his head away. "ah!" a low cry escaped her breast and her eyes sparkled. "sentenced! and when?" the gardener gazed at her inquiringly. "what do you mean by when?" "why, when will he be--executed?" "executed? you are out of your mind. he is sentenced to six months' imprisonment." meanwhile they had gone down into the courtyard; at the gardener's words panna suddenly stood still, stared fixedly at him, and said in a hollow tone: "you know how i am, and what i feel, why do you jest so unpleasantly with me?" "what i tell you is the most bitter earnest." "man! six months! you are drivelling! that is impossible! a man who has murdered another can be acquitted, it may be said that he did not kill him, that the guilt was not proved, i understand that; but when it is admitted that he is guilty, he surely cannot be sentenced to six months' imprisonment! that is a mockery of mankind. my brother strikes a brutal officer--he is executed; the vine-dresser's bandi burns a miserable barn--he is executed. this man kills a human being and gets six months' imprisonment. no, i cannot believe it." the gardener contented himself with silently shrugging his shoulders in reply to the woman's passionate outburst of feeling, and pursued his way. panna followed him with compressed lips. she could not help believing his communication, but she continually revolved it in her mind, still unable to comprehend its meaning fully. they were seated in the carriage again, and had driven a considerable distance, when she began once more: "there are higher courts. it cannot be left so." "no one entered an appeal, so the case will not go to the higher courts." "then you think that this six months is the last utterance of justice?" "the last, panna; only the king or god can still change the sentence." panna's eyes flashed. "the king can change the sentence, you say?" "he, of course," replied her companion laconically. panna said nothing more on the way home. only the gardener once heard her murmur: "justice is a fine thing, a very fine thing." chapter vi. it was late in the evening when panna again reached kisfalu. her father was already expecting her with great impatience and, before she left the carriage, shouted a question about the result of the trial. panna did not answer immediately, but cautiously descended, gratefully pressed the hand of the gardener, who had brought her to her own house, and entered the room with her father. here she opened her lips for the first time, uttering only the words: "six months!" her father struck the table furiously with his clenched fist, shrieking: "then hell ought to open its jaws and swallow the whole band! but wait, i know what to do. six months will soon be over, and then i'll make short work with the fine gentleman. i'll be judge and executioner in one person, and the trial won't last long, that i swear by all the fiends." panna hastily interrupted him: "for heaven's sake, father, hush. if any one should hear it might be bad for you. what induces you to say such imprudent things? do you want to be imprisoned for making dangerous threats? you know that they wouldn't use as much ceremony with you as with the nobleman. only keep perfectly cool, we are not obliged to make ourselves the judge, there is still one person higher than the court, and he will decide our cause." "what do you mean?" asked the father, looking inquiringly at panna. "you'll learn; only let me act, and keep cool." the old man was not naturally curious, so he desisted and went to rest, panna following his example. the next morning panna was seen moving to and fro very busily between her own house and her father's, and repeatedly entering the town-hall. with her father's help, she carried all their property to his hut and then offered the empty molnár house for sale. there was no lack of purchasers, but the peasant does not decide quickly to open the strings of his purse, so it was three days before the bargain was concluded. but at last the business was settled and panna received several hundred florins in cash. she gave the larger portion to her father, who bought a vineyard with them, and kept a hundred for herself. when this was done, panna said that she had business in the city, hired a carriage, and went to pesth. the king was at that time in ofen, where he gave public audiences daily. it is an ancient and wise custom of the hapsburgs to make themselves easily accessible to the people. in austro-hungary no recommendation, gala attire, nor ceremony is requisite in order to see and speak to the sovereign. on the days when public audience is given, the humblest person is admitted without difficulty, and nothing is expected from him except that he will appear as clean and whole as possible, no matter how shabby he may be. the people are well aware of this and, at every opportunity, profit by the facility afforded to reach the king; there are persons who go to the monarch with a matter which, in other countries, a village magistrate would decide without farther appeal. so panna left her carriage at a peasant tavern outside of the city, and went on foot directly to the castle at ofen. the audience began at twelve o'clock, and it still lacked half an hour of this time. panna passed through the outer door unrestrained, and was first asked what she desired by a guard on duty at the foot of the staircase leading to the royal apartments. panna answered fearlessly that she was going to the audience, and the guardsman kindly showed her the way. at the head of the stairs another official met her with the same query, and she gave the same reply. but this time the official also asked for her certificate of admission. panna did not know what it was, and the functionary then explained that the king's audience chamber could not be entered so unceremoniously from the street, but a person must first announce himself and state his business, after which he received notice of the time when he was to present himself. of course it would be too late for to day, but she could be registered for the next audience, which would be given in a fortnight. she probably had her petition with her, she need merely give it to him, and he would attend to everything for her the friendly man said at the close of his explanation. panna was obliged to confess that she had no petition, as she had thought that she would be able to tell the king the whole story verbally. the smiling functionary explained the mistake. she must write the petition, for the king at the utmost would have only one or two minutes for her, and no long story could be told in that time; besides, she could not be recorded without a petition. panna became much dispirited and out of temper. she again saw beloved illusions disappear. she had imagined everything to be far smoother, more simple, easier, and now here also there were difficulties. she dejectedly followed her guide into an office, where she had all sorts of questions to answer about her name, residence, etc., and the purpose which brought her here. to the last inquiry she gave the curt information: "i am seeking justice from the king against an unjust sentence." then she received a card with a number and a date, and was dismissed with the remark that she must be there again with her petition a fortnight thence, on thursday, punctually at twelve o'clock, noon. she had desired to keep her purpose a secret from every one in the village; but this was now impossible, for she could not prepare the petition alone. so she went to the gardener, who had obtained another place, and initiated him into her plans. he eagerly dissuaded her from the step, since nothing would come of it, but panna remained immovable in her confidence in the result. "the king," she said, "will secure me justice. it is impossible that he should hear of the atrocious sentence and not instantly overthrow it." and when the gardener continued to try to show her the contrary, she at last grew angry and said curtly: "well, if you won't help me, i'll go to a lawyer in the city who, for money and fair words, will draw up the petition." the gardener now relinquished any further opposition, and declared himself ready to compose the document. they were together two days to accomplish the great work with their united powers. evil tongues in the village sharpened themselves eagerly on the remarkable fact, and the rumors about the pair were endless. some thought that the beautiful panna had forgotten ugly pista very quickly, others thought that the gardener was by no means amiss, though no longer very young; many said still more scandalous things. the young widow did not trouble herself about this chatter in the least; she had more important matters in her head and heart, and therefore could not hear the malicious whispers of the gossips. the petition was begun three times, and as often torn in pieces. panna wanted it to be very energetic, very vehement. the gardener softened the passionate expressions and suppressed the violent appeals. of course he was not a practised writer, and he had serious difficulty in putting his thoughts into the correct form. but at last the composition was accomplished, and panna read it ten times in succession till she knew every letter by heart. her influence had been more dominant than the gardener's, and the petition was still very forcible. in awkward, but simple, impressive language, it accused the judge of partiality, described abonyi and his crime in the darkest colors, quoted the cases of the shooting of marczi and the hanging of bandi, and finally demanded for molnár's death the death of his murderer. with this document panna again went to ofen, and this time she really obtained the audience. the whole scene affected her soul like some strange, wonderful face beheld in a dream. first she waited in the ante-room, among hundreds of other persons, most of whom were dressed in splendid uniforms, and covered with the stars of orders. she had no eyes for her surroundings, but thought only of her business and what she wanted to say to the king; suddenly her number, called loudly, broke in upon her reverie; panna did not know how it happened, but the next moment she found herself in a room, which seemed to her fabulously magnificent, before her stood a figure in the uniform of a general, which she could not see distinctly because everything swam before her eyes; she faltered a few words about justice, and fell upon her knees; the figure bent over her, raised her, said a few gentle, pleasant words, and took the petition from her trembling hand; then she was once more in the ante-room, with a hundred confused voices buzzing in her ears like the roar of distant surf. when the gardener and her father afterwards asked her for details, she was compelled to answer that she knew nothing, remembered nothing, had seen and heard nothing clearly; she only knew that the king had been very kind and took the petition from her. from this time panna was remarkably quiet and composed. she went about her usual work, attended to her household duties with her usual care, and seemed to think of the past no longer; at least she did not mention the painful incidents of which we are cognizant, either to her father or the gardener, who sometimes visited her, and when the latter once turned the conversation to them, she replied: "let us drop that; the matter is now in the right hands; another head is considering it, and we need no longer rack our brains about it." the gardener understood what she meant, and her father only half heard these mysterious words without pondering over their thoroughly enigmatical meaning. thus six weeks passed away and the end of january was approaching when, one sunday afternoon, the pastor unexpectedly entered panna's hut. without giving the astonished woman time for a remark, he sat down on the bench near the stove by her side, and said: "do not wonder, my child, that i have come again, after you so deeply offended and insulted me. i must not bear malice. it is my office to forgive wrong, and i would fain have you follow my example." panna gazed silently into her lap, but the priest continued in a voice which grew more and more gentle and insinuating. "you see, you are still indulging your savage, pagan vengeance, and committing all sorts of follies which will yet ruin you. what is the use of it? let the dead rest, and think of the living, of yourself, your future. what is the meaning of your going to the king and giving him a crazy petition----" "what, do you know that, too?" cried panna turning pale; she felt as if every drop of blood had gone back to her heart. "so the gardener tattled? oh, fie! fie!" "nonsense, the gardener! we don't need the gardener for that. the petition has come from the king's cabinet to the office of the home secretary, which sent it through the county to the parish, that we might give a report of your mental condition. from your petition, you are believed to be insane, and that is fortunate, or you would be punished for contempt of court." panna clenched her teeth till the grinding sound could be heard, and obstinately persisted in her silence. "of course i know that your head is clear, only your heart is hardened, and i will pray to god that he may soften it. herr von abonyi is a very different christian. you need not look at me so angrily, what i say is true. you know that he has great and powerful friends; it would cost them only a word, and he would be pardoned. they wished to appeal to the king in his behalf, but he would not permit them to take a step for him. he repents his deed, he has received a just punishment, and he wished to endure this sentence to the final moment. through me, he entreats your forgiveness, he does not wish you and your father to remain his enemies, when he has penitently borne the punishment. you will probably owe it to him, if you have no unpleasant consequences to bear on account of your petition. you see how a man of principle and generosity behaves! and then, remember what i told you before: herr von abonyi is ready to provide for you all your life, as no one in your family was ever supported. well, do you say nothing to all this? have i nothing to tell the nobleman from you?" the pastor rose, laid his hand upon her shoulder, and looked her in the face. panna shrunk from the touch of his fat fingers, brushed them off, and said: "tell him it is all very well and we will see." "nothing else?" "nothing else." the priest departed with an unctuous farewell, and left panna alone. she remained motionless in the same position, with bent head, her hands resting nervelessly in her lap, her eyes staring into vacancy. so her father found her when, half an hour after, he returned from the parish tavern. when she saw him, she started from her stupor, rushed to him, and exclaimed amid a violent flood of tears: "father, it was all in vain, there is no justice on earth." in reply to the astonished old man's anxious questions, she told him, for the first time, the story she had hitherto kept secret of her petition to the king, and the pitiful result of this final step. her father listened, shaking his head, and said: "you see if, instead of acting on your own account, you had first asked my advice, you would have saved yourself this fresh sorrow. i could have told you that you would have accomplished nothing with the king." now, for the first time in many weeks, the old man again began to speak of the matter which had never ceased to occupy panna's whole mind. he was choleric, and capable of a hasty deed of violence when excited, but he was not resentful; he was not the man to cherish anger long, and had already gained sufficient calmness to view abonyi's crime more quietly and soberly. he represented to his daughter that it would be folly to demand the nobleman's life from the king in exchange for pista's. panna answered sullenly that she did not perceive the folly; did her father think that a peasant's life was less valuable than a gentleman's? "that isn't the point now. you must consider that the master did not kill your pista intentionally." "stop, father, don't tell me that. he _did_ kill him intentionally. i don't care whether the purpose existed days or minutes before, but it was there; else he would not have sent for the revolver, he would not have aimed the weapon, touched the trigger, or discharged it." "even admitting that you are right, he has been punished for it." panna laughed bitterly. "six months! is that a punishment?" "for a gentlemen like him, it's a heavy one. and he will provide for you." "do you, too, talk as the priest does, father? you ought to know me better. do you really believe that i would bargain over pista's life for beggerly alms? i should be ashamed ever to pass the churchyard where the poor fellow lies." "you are obstinate, panna. i see very plainly where you are aiming. you always say you want justice, but it seems to me that what you want is vengeance." panna had never made this distinction, because she was not in the habit of analyzing her feelings. but when her father uttered the word, she reflected a moment, and then said: "perhaps so." yet she felt that it really was not vengeance which she desired, and she instantly added: "no, father, you are not exactly right, it is not revenge. i should no longer be enraged against herr von abonyi if i could believe that the law, which punished what he has done with six months' imprisonment, would for instance have punished you also with six months, if you had committed the same crime. but it cannot be the law, or they would not have shot marczi for his little offence, you would not have been imprisoned three months for a few innocent blows. it is easy to tell me that the case is different. or is there perhaps a different law for peasants and for gentlemen? if that is so, then the law is wicked and unjust, and the peasants must make their own." the old man did not notice the errors and lack of logic in panna's words, but he was probably startled by her gloomy energy. "child, child," he said, "put these thoughts out of your head. i have done so too. if i could have laid hands on the murderer at first--may god forgive me--i believe that pista would not have been buried alone. but now that is over, and we must submit. after all, six months' imprisonment is not so small a matter as you suppose. you need only ask me, i know something about it. oh, it is hard to spend a winter in a fireless cell, busy all day in dirty, disagreeable work, shivering at night on the thin straw bed till your heart seems to turn to ice in your body, and your teeth chatter so that you can't even swear, to say nothing of the horrible vermin, the loathsome food, the tyrannical jailers--a grave in summer is almost better than the prison in winter." panna made no reply, and the conversation stopped; but her father's last words had not failed to make a deep impression upon her imagination. she clung to the pictures he had conjured before her mind; she found pleasure in them, painted them in still more vivid hues, experienced a degree of consolation in them. while she was working in the house, her thoughts were with abonyi in his prison; she saw him in the degrading convict-dress, with chains on his feet, as she had so often found her father when she visited him in jail; there he sat in a little dusky cell on a projecting part of the wall, eating from a wooden bowl filled with a thin broth, repulsive in appearance and smell and biting pieces of earth-colored bread as hard as a brick; the cell was impregnated with horrible odours; the bare stone flags of the floor were icy cold; a ragged, dirty sack of straw, and a thin, tattered coverlet swarming with vermin covered the bench in the corner; in the morning the prisoner, like the others, was obliged to clean his cell and work at things whose contact sickened him; at noon he walked up and down the prisonyard, amid thieves and robbers, who jeered at and insulted the great gentleman; the jailers assailed him with rough words, perhaps even blows--yes, perhaps, her father was right, possibly abonyi might have been better off lying in the grave than enduring the disgrace and hardships of the prison. she gave herself up to these ideas, which almost amounted to hallucinations, with actual delight; she even spoke of them, told the neighbours about them as if they were facts which she had witnessed, and when, early in february, a peasant who had been sentenced to a year's imprisonment in the county jail for horse-stealing, was released and returned to kisfalu, panna was one of the first who visited him and asked if he had seen abonyi in the county prison. "why, of course," replied the ex-convict, grinning. panna's eyes sparkled. "you went to walk in the yard with him? they probably put him in chains?" "you are talking nonsense, neighbour," said the peasant. "he wore no chains, and did not go into the yard with us. if i saw him, it's because i waited on him." "waited? you waited on him?" "certainly. surely you don't suppose that he is treated like one of us! he lives in a pretty room, has his meals sent from the hotel, goes in and out freely during the day, and is only locked up at night for form's sake; he wears his own clothing and is served by the other prisoners; we all tried to get the place, for he pays like a lord. hitherto, he hasn't found it very tiresome, for people came to see him every day and, when there were no visitors, he played cards with the steward. they say that, on new year's eve, he lost florins to him; it gave us something to talk about for a week." during this story panna remained rigid and speechless, listening with her mouth wide open, without interrupting, and when the peasant paused she sat still a short time, as if her thoughts were far away, and then went out like a sleep-walker, leaving the man staring after her in astonishment at her strange behaviour. from this hour she was a different person. she was no longer seen to smile, she scarcely spoke, did not open her lips all day, and avoided meeting people's eyes, even her own father's. when the gardener came to visit her, she evaded him if possible, and if she could not do that, sat by his side and let him talk while she gazed into vacancy. when, one sunday afternoon, the priest again appeared in the hut, probably to renew his attempt at reconciliation, she darted out of the door like a will-o'-the-wisp the instant she saw him, leaving the amazed and disconcerted pastor alone in the room. panna went daily to the churchyard and busied herself for hours about her husband's grave. she ordered a stone cross from the city with the inscription: "to her cruelly murdered husband by his unforgetting widow." but when she wanted to have the monument set up, the priest interfered with great vehemence and declared he would never permit this cross to be placed in "his" churchyard. panna did not make the least attempt to rebel against this command, but quietly told the workmen to carry the stone to her house; there it was leaned against the wall opposite to her bed, and daily, when she rose and went to rest, she sat a long time on the edge of her pallet, gazing thoughtfully at the cross and inscription. once she interrupted her father in the midst of an ordinary conversation with the abrupt inquiry, whether, in dismissing a prisoner, the time fixed in the sentence was rigidly kept, and if, for instance, any one was condemned to six months' imprisonment, this six months would run from the end of the trial or from the following morning. the old man thought the question strange and did not know how to answer it. he, too, was secretly beginning frequently to share the opinion now tolerably current in the village, that panna was not altogether right in her mind. meanwhile spring had come, panna worked industriously in the fields and in the vineyard, nothing betrayed what thoughts were occupying the mind of the silent, reserved woman. not until the latter part of may did she begin to grow restless and excited, then she repeatedly entreated her father and the gardener, though it evidently cost her a great effort to control herself, to ask at the castle whether the day of the master's release was known. her father flatly refused to comply with her crazy wishes, and very earnestly exhorted her to trouble herself no farther about the castle and its owner. as for the gardener, he had cautiously intimated repeatedly that it would be unnatural for so young, robust, and beautiful a woman to remain a widow long, especially when there was some one who would consider himself only too happy to put an end to her widowhood, and he now added his entreaties to the old man's that she would at last banish from her mind the memory of the evil past. accident rendered panna the service she had vainly asked of the two men. one evening, when she was returning from the fields, she passed the housekeeper at the castle who, with her back to the road, stood leaning against the low half-door of a peasant's hut, and called to her friend who was working in the yard: "well, the master wrote to-day; he wants jános to bring the carriage at six o'clock to-morrow morning to take him from the prison." at this moment the peasant woman saw panna passing, and made the housekeeper a sign which silenced her at once. but panna had heard enough. she quickened her pace to reach home quickly, put down her hoe, and ascertained that her father was already in the house. her voice betrayed no trace of excitement as she asked if he was going out again, which he answered in the negative. then she went to her room, put on a warm woollen shawl, slipped the few florins she still possessed into her pocket, and went away, telling her father to go to sleep, she would be back again. hastening to a peasant who lived at the other end of the village, she begged him to drive her to the city at once; she would pay whatever he asked. the man replied that his horses were tired out, he had driven them to the pasture, and could not bring them home now, etc. panna went to the second house beyond and repeated her request. this peasant was more curious than his neighbour and asked what she wanted in the city in such a hurry. "my father has suddenly been taken very ill, and i must get a doctor." "why don't you go to the village surgeon if the case is so urgent?" "i have been there," was the quick, glib answer which fell from panna's tongue, "he isn't at home, and won't come before morning. he has been called to a farm two miles off." "h'm! and you are leaving the sick man all alone?" "he isn't alone, a neighbour is with him." "wouldn't it be better for you to ask the neighbour to go to the city, and stay with your father yourself?" "to cut the matter short, neighbour," panna, who had grown terribly impatient, now burst forth, "will you take me or not? i'll answer your foolish questions on the way." the peasant cautiously named the price of the ride, which panna, without a word of objection, instantly placed in his hand, after which he at last went to draw out the waggon and harness the horses. a few minutes later the vehicle was rolling over the dusty high-road. panna, wrapped in her shawl, sat on a bundle of straw which the peasant had put in to furnish a seat for his passenger, staring with dilated eyes at the landscape, illumined by a soft radiance. it was a marvellously beautiful night in may. the full moon was shining in a cloudless sky, the ripening grain waved mysteriously to and fro in the white light, over the darker meadows a light mist was rising which, stirred by the faint breeze, gathered into strange shapes, then dispersed again, now rose a little, now sank, so that the straggling bushes scattered here and there alternately appeared above the floating vapour and were submerged in it; the fragrance of the wild flowers mingled with the fresh exhalations from the damp earth and gave the warm air a stimulating aroma. now and then, where the bushes grew more thickly along the edge of the road, the rapturous songs of the nightingales were heard, the only sound, except the distant barking of a dog, or the buzzing of a huge night-beetle flitting past the waggon, which, at times, interrupted the silence of the night. but panna's senses were closed to all this varied beauty. her whole existence, all her thoughts and feelings were now centred upon a single point, the purpose which brought her to the city. with a torturing effort, which drove the blood to her brain, she again reviewed the events of the past month, of her whole life. she strove to examine them on all sides, judge them impartially, consider them from various standpoints. was it right that abonyi should now be at liberty to move about as the great lord he had always been, after being permitted to make himself comfortable for six months in a prison, which was no jail to him? was it not her duty to execute the justice which neither the laws nor men would practise? had she not a perfect right to do so, since she, and those who belonged to her, had hitherto always atoned fully and completely, rigidly and more than rigidly, for every sin? in her early childhood her soul had been ravaged by a terrible grief, which had never been overcome; the law had killed her brother; in her girlhood, she had been tortured by only too frequent repetitions of the sight of her father, whom the law had loaded with chains and punished with severe imprisonment; her sorely wounded heart had found consolation only in a single thought which, amid her sufferings and afflictions, had gradually become established as firmly as a rock within her soul, that every sin found a harsh punishment, that this was an immovable, inexorable law of the universe, which could not be escaped, that it would be easier to pluck the stars from the sky than to do wrong without atoning for it. when, by a sudden act of violence, she injured pista for life, it was instantly apparent to her that she owed expiation for it, and she had not hesitated or delayed an instant in punishing herself more severely than any judge would have done, by voluntarily sacrificing the happiness of her whole existence. this had cost her no self-conquest, it was a matter of course; the eternal law of the universe of sin and atonement required it, and to this demand there could be no resistance. this law was her religion, she believed it and could not help believing; if she did not, if there was no august law of the universe, beyond all doubt, that sin exacted pitiless requital, it surely would not have been necessary to shoot her brother, to deliver her father so often to the hardships of prison-life, to bind her own youth to a hideous being whom she did not love when she married him, whom only the consciousness of duty voluntarily and proudly fulfilled afterwards rendered dear to her. if this was not a necessity, surely god, fate, mankind--use whatever name you choose--had basely, atrociously, robbed her brother, her father, and herself of life and happiness, and their destiny was enough to cause frenzy, despair, madness! no, no, that could not be. fate could not deal so rapaciously with a whole group of human beings; such unprecedented, inconceivable injustice could not have been done them. they had only experienced the great law of the universe and ought not to complain, because it is the course of the world. but now this law had been violated in the most unparalleled manner; abonyi had committed a heavy sin and had not atoned for it; this was a phenomenon which shook the foundations of her being, robbed her of all support, abruptly reawakened all her slumbering doubts concerning the necessity of her bitter fate, and unchained the terrible tempests in her soul, which hitherto only intense faith in the stern, but morally necessary omnipotence of the law of sin and atonement, had succeeded in soothing. her sense of morality showed her a means of escape from this mental torture, and she did not hesitate to take it. the law of the universe must not be belied, it must prove itself in this case, as it always had; since those appointed to the office had shamefully omitted to use it, it became her right and her duty to execute it herself. amid these thoughts, which did not enter her mind dimly and vaguely, but with perfect clearness and distinctness, the hours passed with magical swiftness and, ere she was aware of it, the springless waggon rolled over the uneven pavement of a street in the suburbs. the noisy rattle of the wheels, which followed their former comparatively noiseless movement, and the jolts which the vehicle received in the numerous holes of the roadway quickly roused panna from her deep reverie and brought her to a consciousness of external things. it was about two o'clock in the morning. she asked the peasant to drive to the corner of a certain street, where the doctor whom she wanted, lived; when she reached the desired place she got out, gave her driver another florin, and said: "neighbour, go into a tavern and let your horses rest. you can ride home whenever you choose; i will ask the doctor to drive out in his own carriage and to take me with him; we shall get there several hours earlier with his fresh horses, than with your tired nags, which could not turn back at once." "you're right there," replied the peasant, somewhat drowsily, bade her good-night, and drove off at a walk. in a few minutes the waggon was out of sight and hearing. panna now moved with rapid steps through several streets, which were alternately flooded with bright moonlight and shrouded in darkness, until she stood before the county jail. this is a barrack-like structure, whose plain front has for its sole architectural ornament two pairs of columns, which flank the main entrance on both sides. panna entered the narrow space between the two columns at the left, and sat down with her back resting against the fluted shaft at the stone base of the pillar, whose shadow completely concealed her. she was very weary and exhausted; the tempest of thoughts in her brain were followed by fatigue and a dull stupor; the silence, the darkness, the warmth of the shawl wrapped closely around her, the motionless position which her narrow hiding-place required, exerted a drowsy influence, and she soon sank into a torpor which imperceptibly passed into an uneasy, agitated half slumber, visited by terrible dreams. panna saw horrible shapes dancing around her, which grasped her with their icy hands and dragged her away; sometimes it seemed as if her brother was brought out and a bullet fired into his head; while she was trying anxiously to find the wound, it was not her brother, but pista, who lay there with the hole in his forehead; she wailed aloud and the dead man rose, seized a brick, and dashed it on her head so that she fell bleeding; then again it seemed as though it was not she who lay on the ground in a pool of blood, but abonyi, who still held the smoking revolver in his rigid hand; so the frightful dream faces blended in terrible, spectral changes, one horrible visage drove out another, till panna, with a low cry of fear, suddenly started from her troubled sleep. a heavy hand had grasped her by the shoulder, and a harsh voice shouted unintelligible words into her ear. when she opened her eyes, she saw a policeman standing before her, shaking her and asking what she was doing here. panna was terribly startled for a moment, but she quickly regained her presence of mind, and said: "my husband is in the jail and will be released early in the morning; so i came here to wait for him." "why, my dear woman, you can't stay here," replied the policeman; "find a night's lodging, and in the morning you can be here in ample time to meet your husband." "oh, do let me stay here, i don't know anybody in the city, where am i to go now in the night, it will surely be morning in two or three hours," pleaded panna, at the same time drawing from her pocket a florin, one of the last she had left, which she slipped into the hand of the guardian of order. after this argument the latter evidently discovered that it would be no very serious crime if a beautiful young woman waited in front of the jail, on a warm, moon-lit night in may, for her husband's release, for, with an incomprehensible mutter, he pursued his round, on which, during the next two hours, he repeatedly passed panna without troubling himself any farther about her. all fatigue had now left the watcher and, after this disturbance, she did not close her eyes a second time. she was once more calm and strong, and constantly repeated in her mind that she was about to do a good, needful work, pleasing to god. the moon had set, it was growing noticeably cool, day was dawning in the east; she shivered, a slight tremor ran through her whole frame, yet she remained motionless on her stone seat. gradually the light grew brighter and brighter, the great city gave the first signs of awakening, a few sleepy-looking people began to pass with echoing footsteps through the street, now and then a carriage drove by, the matin bells pealed from the church steeples, and the first rays of the rising sun flooded the roofs of the surrounding houses with ruddy gold. just at that moment a carriage rolled around the corner, drove in a sharp curve to the door of the jail, and stopped. panna pressed farther back into her niche and hid her face in her shawl. she had recognized jános and an open carriage owned by abonyi. the driver, who had not noticed the dark figure between the pillars, sprang from his box, blanketed the steaming horses, and gave them some bags of oats. meanwhile the door of the jail had opened, for it was five o'clock; a heiduck came out, yawning and stretching, and asked jános: "for whom are you waiting so early, brother?"' "for my master, herr von abonyi, who will come presently." "yes, yes, you are to fetch his lordship; well, if you wish, i'll go in and tell the gentleman that you're here." "do, we'll get away sooner." the man vanished inside the building and jános busied himself industriously with his horses, while whistling a little song. it was not ten minutes before steps and voices were heard in the doorway. jános raised his cap, called: "at your service," and sprang on the box. two men appeared on the threshold, both looking as though they had been up all night--abonyi and the steward. "cordial thanks and farewell till you see me in kisfalu!" cried abonyi, shaking hands with his companion. "good-bye until then! and in kisfalu i'll give you revenge for the trifle you lost to-night." "if my coachman hadn't come so early, i would have won it all back again." "why," said the steward, "if you feel inclined, you can come back and play on comfortably." "thank you, i've had quite enough of your hospitality for the present," replied abonyi, and both laughed heartily, after which they again shook hands with each other. the steward, who was shivering, turned back, and abonyi prepared to get into the carriage. at the moment when he had one foot on the step and was half swinging in the air, without any firm hold, panna sprang out, threw her whole weight upon abonyi, dragged him to the ground with her, and, almost while falling, with the speed of lightning struck him repeatedly in the breast with a long, sharp, kitchen knife, which she had had in her bosom. all this had been the work of a few instants. abonyi had scarcely had time to utter a cry. jános sat mute with bewilderment on the box, staring with dilated eyes at the two figures on the ground; the steward turned at the shriek and stood as though spell-bound by the spectacle which presented itself. abonyi lay gasping, with his blood pouring from several wounds; panna had straightened herself and, throwing down the bloody knife, stood quietly beside her victim. instantly a great outcry arose, jános sprang from the carriage and went to the assistance of his unconscious and evidently dying master, the steward rushed up to panna and grasped her by the arm, which she permitted without resistance, a number of heiducks appeared, panna was dragged into the doorway, and a flood of curses and threats was poured upon her. while abonyi was carried into the guard-room under the entrance and laid on a wooden-table, where he drew his last breath before a physician could be summoned, a multitude of violent hands dragged panna, amid fierce abuse, into the courtyard, while the steward shouted loudly: "lads! bring chains for this monster! chains i say, put irons on her hands and feet." then panna who, hitherto, had not opened her lips, cried in a resonant voice, while a strange smile hovered about her quivering lips: "why, my dear sir, how long have you used chains? wouldn't you rather play a game of cards with me?" the steward's face flushed scarlet, he shrieked a few orders to his men in a shrill tone, and rushed back into the guard-room to abonyi. panna was shoved rather than led down the steps of a flight of cellar stairs and thrust into a dark, stifling cell, where handcuffs were put on. during this proceeding, she made many sneering speeches: "give me a handsomely furnished room, too, like the one the nobleman had! and who will wait on me here?" "silence, witch!" cried the heiduck who was chaining her. "the executioner will wait on you when he makes you a head shorter." "the executioner? fool, what nonsense you are talking! no executioner will touch me. at the utmost i shall get three months imprisonment. if six months is the sentence given for the murder of an innocent man, surely one can't get more than three for killing a murderer." at last panna was left alone and the iron doors of her cell closed with an echoing sound. the crime naturally created the utmost excitement in the county jail; officials and employees talked of nothing else, and after learning from jános who the criminal was, the opinion was generally expressed that she must be crazy. before the examining magistrate, who was informed of the bloody deed in the course of the forenoon, gave panna an examination, he sent a physician to see her and give an opinion of her mental condition. the doctor found the young widow lying on the bench, deadly pale and utterly exhausted. she had spent all the power of her soul in the horrible resolve and its execution, and was now as gentle and tearful as a frightened child. she entreated the physician to have the irons taken off; she could not bear them, she would be perfectly quiet; and when he promised this she also besought him to write to her father, whose address she gave, in her place. she begged the latter's forgiveness for what she had done; she could not help it, there must be justice for gentlemen as well as for peasants. if there was no justice the world could not exist, everything would be topsy-turvy, and people would kill one another in the public streets just as the wild beasts did in the woods. she, too, would atone for the sin she had committed that day, and that would be perfectly just. she also sent a message to the gardener, thanking him for all the kindness and love which he had shown her, and hoping that he might have a happier life than fate had allotted to her. the physician talked with her some time longer, and received quiet, rational, somewhat timid replies. at last he went away shaking his head, evidently not knowing what to think of this singular woman, but he succeeded in having the handcuffs removed, and faithfully wrote the letter, as he had promised to do. panna was to be brought before the examining magistrate for the first time on the following morning. when the jailer opened the door of the cellar cell, he started back in horror. from the grating in the little window, high up in the stone wall, dangled a rigid human form. panna had hung herself in the night by tying the strings of her skirt together. prince and peasant. the first regiment of dragoon-guards had been waiting idly behind a screen of low bushes in a shallow hollow for more than an hour, to receive the order to advance. it was an interesting point in the spacious battle-field of metz, and an important period in that day of august th, , which paved the way for the ultimate prevention of bazaine's breaking through to verdun. by rising in the stirrups, or ascending one of the numerous shallow ridges which intersected the meadow, a charming view appeared. a few hundred paces in the rear lay the little village of vionville with its slender church-steeple, from whose top floated the flag of the red cross. several roads bordered with poplars diverged from the hamlet, crossing in straight lines the broad, undulating meadow. in the foreground was a tolerably steep declivity, which at this moment formed the boundary of the german lines. northward and southward, as far as the eye could reach, extended a ravine several hundred feet wide, at whose bottom a little stream had worn a narrow, winding channel. the western slope was tolerably gentle, the opposite one, on the contrary, was somewhat steep. beyond stretched a bare plain, with a few church steeples and white buildings, in the distant background. here the french were apparently drawn up in considerable force. on the crest of the german hill several batteries were mounted, which maintained a rapid fire with bombs. small bodies of infantry lay on the ground a short distance in the rear of the artillery. still farther back was the regiment of dragoons, each man with his horse's bridle wound around his arm, waiting with weary, somewhat stolid faces, for orders. the battle had evidently been at this point some time. nearly all the enemy's shells fell into the ravine, few reached the level ground on the german side, and they, too, thus far, had effected no special injury. only a broken gun-carriage and two or three holes in the earth which, surrounded by a loose wall of yellow clay, looked like new-made graves, lent the plain something of the character and local colouring of a battle-field. the ear had a larger share in the mighty work of the day than the eye. from the sides, the front, the rear, everywhere, cannon thundered, at a short distance on the right echoed the rattle of a sharp fire of musketry, while the terrible, ceaseless roar which filled the air alternately swelled and sank, like the rising and falling flood of melody of a vast orchestra, during the storm of the pastoral symphony. a number of officers had assembled on a little mound in front of the regiment of dragoons, whence they were attentively watching the french. among them a major stood smoking a cigarette and gazing dreamily into vacancy. he was a man a little under thirty, with a slender figure, somewhat above middle height, and a pale, narrow face, to which cold grey eyes, and a scornful expression resting upon the colourless lips shaded by a blond mustache inclining to red, lent a stern, by no means winning expression. in this environment of human beings, amid these excited young men with their healthful, sunburnt faces, he, with his impassive, reserved expression and somewhat listless bearing, looked strangely weary and worn. a woman's eye gazing at the group of officers would scarcely have regarded him with favour; a man's would have singled him out as the most intellectual of them all. removing his helmet and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief, he displayed a head on which the hair was already growing thin and, at the same time, a well-kept, aristocratic hand, with long, thin, bloodless fingers. his whole appearance, even in the levelling uniform, revealed a man of exalted rank. and, in fact, this officer was prince louis of hochstein-falkenburg-gerau, the head of a non-reigning line of a german princely race. orphaned at an early age, he found himself at eighteen when, by the rules of his house, he attained his majority, in the unrestricted possession of a yearly income of several millions. from his mother, a very fine musician, he inherited artistic tastes and a keen appreciation of the beautiful; from his haughty and somewhat eccentric father a rugged, independent nature, which found every external constraint intolerable and wished to obey only the law of its own will. it requires little power of imagination to picture how the world looks to the eyes of a young, immensely wealthy scion of royalty. the court treated prince louis with marked distinction, the ladies petted him, gentlemen showed him the most flattering attention. precocious, as people become in the hot-house atmosphere of aristocratic society, reflective and shy, as only children, who are reared among grown people, without intercourse with companions of their own age, almost always are, endowed, moreover, with a critical mind, which always confronted appearances sceptically and anxiously went to the bottom of everything, prince louis, unlike so many of his equals in rank, did not accept the tokens of consideration offered him on all sides as a matter of course, but constantly asked himself their cause. he was honest with himself and admitted that he owed his sovereign's clasp of the hand, the wooing smiles of the ladies, the cordial advances of men of rank and distinction, not to his own personality, but to his title and his wealth. "what do they all know about me?" he often said to himself, when he returned from an entertainment at court to his splendid palace, tenanted only by servants. "nothing! they give me no chance to open my mouth, and if everything i said to-night had been written down and laid before a man who was capable of judging, that he might give an opinion of the person who made these remarks, he could not truthfully say anything except: 'the fellow is perhaps not actually a simpleton, but does not surpass mediocrity.' yet i am received as if i were some one of consequence. yes, that's just it: it is not i, louis, who am treated so, for no one would trouble himself about me, but prince etc." he became really jealous of "prince etc.," whom he regarded almost as an enemy, who supplanted and cast into the shade his own individuality, and the noble ambition entered his mind to win esteem by his personality, not by the external advantages which chance had bestowed. but this was no easy matter. "prince etc." everywhere stood intrusively in his way and would allow poor "louis" no opportunity. he went to a university, less in order to study than to steep himself for a few terms in the poetry of student life. the members of his extremely aristocratic club formed in two ranks before him when he went to their tavern, and old professors whom, hitherto, he had admired for their works, blushed with joyous emotion when he introduced himself to them, and in the class-room appeared to address him alone. he soon had enough of this, and entered the army. the colonel thanked him for the compliment which he paid the regiment by choosing it, his superior officers showed him endless marks of consideration, and if some of them affected to make no distinction between him and other young officers, he detected in it an intention which also irritated him. as, moreover, he found no special pleasure in the conversations of his comrades, nor in the parades, watchwords, and other details of garrison life, he forthwith quitted active service, not without having been promoted, in rapid succession, to first-lieutenant, captain, and major in his regiment. of course meanwhile woman had entered his existence. but in what a manner! light relations with actresses, which merely occupied his senses and left no trace in his life except some considerable sums in the account book which his faithful family steward kept with great accuracy; fleeting flirtations with society ladies, which soon became intolerable because he merely found incomparably greater demands, but otherwise nothing more than with his actresses, toward whom he need use no ceremony. this was all. a great, deep love would have given his life happiness and purpose; but it did not dawn for him. was it because he did not meet the right woman? was it because he did not come out of himself sufficiently? was he, as it were, too much walled in by his indifference to discover, behind the reserve of maidenly timidity, faint emotions by which his own feelings might have been kindled? enough, he passed woman by, without seeing in her aught save a toy. by accident, or to be more accurate, through the jealousy of another interest which believed itself threatened, he discovered a cleverly woven intrigue to lure him into a marriage with a princess who, though neither especially beautiful nor wealthy, was yet very pretty, and this so roused his distrust that henceforth he saw in the favour of matrons and in the smiles of young ladies only speculations upon his revenue of two millions and his title of prince, and acquired a positive abhorrence of the circles in which people marry. once he had a meeting which narrowly escaped making a deeper impression. on a journey from the black forest to norderney the prince, who cared nothing for aristocratic isolation, occupied the same compartment with a young girl from mayence, who was going to the same place. she was remarkably beautiful, charming, gay, and brilliant, and exerted a powerful attraction over the prince. he was extremely attentive to her during the trip, while she remained pleasantly indifferent and appeared to care nothing for him. perhaps this very indifference stimulated him, and he continued his attentions at the north sea watering place, where he maintained the incognito of herr von gerau, the beautiful girl, who was at once surrounded by other young gentlemen, only learning from him that he was a land-owner. she accepted his daily gifts of flowers, it is true, but otherwise showed no more favour to him than to the rest of her suitors. indeed, she paid even less consideration to the prince than to the others, which greatly depressed him. then it happened that a very exalted personage who was a friend of prince louis came to norderney. the latter was obliged to pay him a ceremonious visit on which he wore his uniform, and now could no longer conceal his rank and name. the mayence beauty saw him in his handsome blue uniform coat, and learned that very day the identity of her admirer. her manner to him altered as if by magic. she had eyes for him alone, distinguished him by a cordiality which justified the boldest hopes and, by her tender looks and smiles, seemed to be imploring forgiveness for not having perceived his value sooner. prince louis noticed this sudden change and felt the deepest shame. for two days good and evil fought a hard battle in his soul. his innate nobility of character urged him not to profit by his advantage, to withdraw from a person whom he had discovered to be so superficial. his bitter contempt for women whispered to carry the relation which had assumed a frivolous turn, to the doubtful end. baseness triumphed over nobility, and let any man of twenty-four who feels that he is guiltless cast the first stone at the prince. but his evil genius farther instigated him to do something very odious. after a poetic hour, in which the mayence beauty, amid fervid kisses, had asked whether he, her beloved one, would now be hers forever, he sent her a package which contained--his uniform, and a costly pin in the shape of a crown, accompanied by a little note stating that he gave, for her perpetual possession, all that she had loved in him. the remembrance of this unpardonably unchivalrous act often tortured him afterwards, but his repentance by no means took the form of greater respect for women. on the contrary, he became more and more a convert to don juan's love--philosophy, and allowed only the millionaire and prince etc. to sue for favour, while the sceptical louis grew wholly averse to the fair sex. from early youth, he had secretly written lyric poetry, and his productions, which, it is true, were imitative rather than original, were pleasant to read and correct in form. he sent some under his own name to great weekly periodicals, and they not only appeared at once but he obtained the most flattering requests for more contributions. this afforded him much gratification, but again only for a brief time. under the influence of his suspicious spirit of investigation, he sent several poems, with an unpretending assumed signature, to other papers. he either received no reply or curt rejections in the editors' letter-box. so he was done with that too. he tried the "naive" life of pleasure, as he called it. with small success. gaming soon ceased to attract him, for at the roulette table in monaco he loathed the companionship of old professional gamblers with their gallows-bird faces, and of bedizened paris courtesans, and at his club in berlin or baden, where he played only with respectable people, the stakes were never high enough to permit even the largest possible gain or loss to excite him. the pleasures of the epicure afforded him more satisfaction, and his table was famous among his peers. he soon wearied of wine; the discomfort caused by intoxication seemed to him too large a price to pay for the enjoyment of drinking. this caused his guests to banter him about his moderation, and allude to the historic drinking-horn of gigantic size, which, as the chronicles of the house attested, his ancestors used to drain at their banquets, though in those days the burgundy was far from its present perfection, and canary had not yet been invented. his companions' enthusiasm for drinking at last disgusted him with entertaining, and he gradually lost his taste for choice dinners also. once, while living on his silesian estates, whose extent was equal to a small kingdom, he became ill, and was obliged to send for the district physician. this man, who afterwards obtained a world-wide reputation, was then young, unknown, and apparently an ordinary country doctor. the prince, however, soon perceived that he was far superior to his circumstances and position, and placed himself upon a very confidential footing with him. one day he complained of the desolation and monotony of his life and asked, in a tone between jest and earnest, what he should do with himself. "give your life a purpose, prince," replied dr. backer, "strive for something." prince louis smiled scornfully. "for what shall i strive? everything to which the rest of you aspire, which you are struggling with your best powers to attain, i already possess! money? i cannot spend half my income unless i light my cigars with hundred-thaler notes, or wish to bore a hole through the earth. women's favour? my visiting cards will obtain more than is desirable for me. honours? at six and twenty years old, i have the grand cross of the highest orders, and have the precedence of every one except a few princes of the blood. power? listen, my dear doctor: i really believe that if it suited my pleasure i could shoot a slater off the roof, and the affair would have no unpleasant results. fame and immortality? my name is perhaps somewhat better known than goethe's. wherever i desire to appear, i am far more of a lion than the greatest poet and scholar, and every prince hochstein is sure of two lines in the encyclopaedia and larger historical works, even if he has done nothing except to be born and to die at a reasonable age. so, for what should i strive?" "for satisfaction with yourself," replied dr. backer, "and that you will find only when you earn what you inherited from your ancestors, in order to possess it, as father goethe says." satisfaction with himself--certainly! but to attain it is the greatest art of life. the prince might gain it if he devoted himself earnestly, not merely in a half-absent dilettante fashion, to some art, science, or useful avocation. only it required a self-discipline of which, unfortunately, he was incapable. in all pursuits requiring dexterity, all sciences, the first steps are laborious, wearisome, and apparently thankless, and the canaan which they promise is reached only after weary wandering through the desert. prince louis did not possess the self-denial requisite for it. so he continued his life devoted to purely external things and meanwhile was as much bored as jonah in the whale. he undertook long journeys and disappeared for six months, during which he hunted tigers in india and hippopotami in the blue nile. when he returned home and was questioned at the club about his experiences and whether he had been entertained, he answered with a shrug of the shoulders. "entertained? as if one could be in this vale of tears! there really is nothing remarkable about a tiger-hunt. the danger and excitement concern the poor devils of hindoos, who rouse the game. i sat in my howdah on a very quiet elephant and fired as if i were shooting at a target. buy some big cats from asia or africa, put them into a cage in your park, and shoot till you kill them. it is about the same thing. true, the scenic effects are less glaring, there are fewer supernumeraries, and there is not so much shrieking and struggling on the stage. but that seems to me rather an advantage, and one doesn't have the heat and the snakes." his hearers laughed, and an old gentleman remarked: "you have mental colour-blindness, my dear prince, and i should not like to have you guide the engine of my life-train." he had hit the mark. prince louis saw life uniformly grey. how infinitely true are schiller's words: "each mortal heart some wish, some hope, some fear, linked with the morrow's dawn, must cherish here to bear the troubles with which earth is rife, the dull montony [transcriber's note: monotony?] of daily life." but prince louis wished, hoped, feared nothing, and when he thought of the future he beheld it in the form of a drowsy monster, yawning noisily. he longed like a languishing lover for some excitement, pursued it to the end of the world, but did not succeed in finding it. he was just on the eve of going to norway to hunt reindeer, when the war of broke out. in he had been in africa and did not hear of the events of the summer until everything was over. this time he asked permission to join his regiment, the first dragoon-guards, which of course was granted. to tell the truth, he was influenced less by patriotism and enthusiasm than, in addition to propriety, the hope that military life would afford him new sensations. had he deceived himself this time also? it almost seemed so; for, during the fortnight which he had spent in the enemy's country, he had as yet experienced nothing unusual. when a person is attended by two capable servants, and has an unlimited amount of money at his disposal, he need suffer no discomfort even in the field, especially during a victorious advance, and as yet there had been no opportunity for individual deeds of heroism, or perilous adventures. thus he had again relapsed into a half-listless mood, while, as we have just seen him, he stood among his comrades in front of his regiment smoking his cigarette. now, however, the french appeared to be advancing from the other side of the ravine. their batteries came nearer, their shells began to fly across the gorge and strike behind the german cannon. one burst amid the division of infantry, killing and wounding several soldiers. another demolished a gun and made havoc among those who served it. the short sharp whistle of bullets even began to mingle with the peculiar shrill wailing sound of the sugarloaf shot, and on the plateau beyond, slender lines of infantry, diverging very far apart, could be seen moving swiftly onward. they ran forward, flung themselves down, there was a succession of sudden flashes, little clouds of white smoke rose, a confusing medley of sharp, rattling reports followed, contrasting disagreeably with the deep, rolling thunder of the artillery; then the men were on their feet again, rushing on, no longer in a perfectly straight line, some in advance, others a little behind, with their faces turned towards the sun, beneath whose rays the red breeches flamed in a vivid, bloody hue, and buttons, bayonets, all polished bits of metal alternately flashed and vanished. the force of artillery was too weak to risk an advance. the colonel who commanded the batteries ordered some shrapnels to be thrown among the advancing lines of french infantry, and was about to move his cannon a little farther back, when an aide dashed up from the right and reported that he had ridden on in advance of the th brigade of infantry, one regiment was close behind him, the other was marching as rapidly as possible, and would soon arrive. "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted artillerymen, infantry, and dragoons at the top of their voices. "hurrah! hurrah!" came back from the distance, and a regiment of infantry, headed by a colonel and a general, advanced at a rapid march in broad, deep columns from the poplar-bordered road across the pathless meadow. the group of officers exchanged greetings with the new arrivals, the general received reports, quickly made himself acquainted with the situation of affairs, and issued orders, signals echoed, in an instant the masses of infantry separated, lines of riflemen darted forward and hurried to the edge of the ravine, down whose slope they were seen running a few minutes later. a second and third rank followed at a short distance, and, almost ere one was aware of it, the whole regiment had poured down into the hollow. this was the third westphalian regiment. it had passed so near the group of dragoon officers that prince louis could have distinguished every figure, every face. the poor fellows had been on their feet fourteen hours, marching steadily under the scorching august sun. a thick gray crust of dust, which perspiration had converted into an ugly mask, covered their fresh young faces. the uniforms bore marks of the clay in the various camping grounds where they had halted for a short rest. but nothing now revealed the mortal weariness of the band of heroes. their eyes, reddened by the heat, blazed with the enthusiasm for battle, their parched throats once more gained power to shout "hurrah!" with the full strength of their voices; their feet, which but a few minutes ago had dragged along the dusty highway with painful effort, now moved lightly and elastically, it seemed as though the whole regiment had been invigorated by some stimulating drink as it inarched into the line of fire. the batteries roared above their heads at the french with twofold zeal, "hurrah, hurrah!" rose from a thousand throats in the bottom of the ravine, one could hear the roll of the drums sounding the march, and loud shouts and cries. prince louis watched the assailants, whose foremost ranks were already climbing the hill on the opposite side. "poor fellows!" he thought, "there they go to death as joyously as if it were a kirmess dance. they will shout hurrah till they are hoarse or a bullet silences them. of what are they thinking? probably of nothing. a blind impulse to conquer urges them on. and what does victory mean to each individual? what advantage will it be to him? how will it benefit his earthly fate, if he escapes death on the battlefield? the renown of the german name? for me perhaps it has a value. yet it is not absolutely certain. my uniform will possibly derive a prouder lustre; but i wear it so seldom! if i go to japan next year, perhaps the mikado will receive me with more distinction than if i belonged to a conquered nation. yet whether we mow down the french or they us, i think i shall always receive the same treatment at the paris jockey club and the nice cercle de la méditerranée. so much for me. but these obscure people below--what do they care about military fame and the power of a victorious native land? they will notice nothing of it in their villages. the tax-collector and the gendarme will be just what they were before, and that is all they see of their native country, yet they are filled with enthusiasm. the fact exists. it is as clear as noonday. we owe this to the writers who have given such beautiful pictures of our native land and military renown, and to the schoolmasters, who have instilled their words into the souls of the people. marvellous power of language, which can incite a prosaic peasant lad to sacrifice life joyfully for an abstract idea, a fancy." these were his thoughts,--it can neither be denied nor palliated. but while they darted clearly and swiftly through his brain, he felt a mental agitation which surprised and bewildered him. it was a strange perplexity; he felt ashamed and embarrassed; it seemed as though he had uttered his thoughts aloud, and a group of people with grave, noble faces had listened, and were now gazing at him in silence, but with mingled compassion and contempt. from inaccessible depths of his soul, into which his sober, critical, mocking reason did not shine, a mysterious voice appeared to rise, imperiously commanding his scepticism to be silent. "i am right!" reason ventured to murmur. "you are wrong!" thundered the voice from the depths. "i will not consciously permit myself to be made giddy by the dizziness of romantic self-deception!" answered reason--but now prince louis felt as though some stranger, from whom he must turn indignantly, was uttering the words. the third westphalian covered the opposite ascent. the foremost ranks were already at the top and paused a moment, for a murderous fire greeted the first heads which appeared, and several men, mortally wounded, rolled down again. but the rest pressed on, using both hands and feet to climb the hill, whose ascent would have been mere sport for fresh youths, skilled in gymnastic exercises, but which must have seemed terribly steep to harassed, exhausted troops. as they worked their way upward with the utmost zeal, evidently striving to excel one another, prince louis thought of some stanzas in the winter tale of his favorite author, heine: "that lovable, worthy westphalian race, i ever have loved it extremely, a nation so firm, so faithful, so true, ne'er given to boasting unseemly. how proudly they stood with their lionlike hearts in the noble science of fencing"--[ ] and with their "lion-like hearts" they reached the crest of the hill and, summoning all their remaining breath, dashed forward. but the french, comparatively unwearied and, roused to the highest pitch of combativeness by the appearance of the enemy directly in their front, threw themselves upon them in greatly superior numbers, and after a close fight, which by the front ranks of both forces was actually conducted in certain places with steel weapons, forced them back to the ravine. it was impossible to make a stand there, the poor westphalians were obliged to wheel, and tumbled heels over head down the slope again, not without leaving a number of killed and wounded. the french were close behind and reached the bottom of the gorge almost at the same time. the westphalians attempted to climb up the opposite side again, and then those who were left behind witnessed a heart-rending spectacle. the german soldiers were so utterly exhausted that their limbs could not carry them up the ascent, gentle as it was. they sank down in throngs as though paralysed, the muskets dropped from their nerveless hands, which no longer obeyed their will, and the french could seize hundreds of them and lead them away as prisoners, while many fell on the way and were left lying on the ground by the foe. meanwhile a great bustle rose. the eighth westphalian regiment had just come up and, while the batteries moved rapidly back toward the village in the rear, the former, led by the general in person, dashed down into the ravine to the aid of their sorely imperilled companions. the french recoiled before the shock and a large number of the prisoners were recaptured. yet the first assault did not succeed in dislodging the foe; the french obstinately maintained their position at the foot of the opposite height, and when attacked there, amid great loss, with the bayonet, retired step by step up the scarf and again made a stand at its top. a double flank movement of the westphalians, however, compelled them to retire somewhat quickly, and the latter, stimulated by the sight, pressed after them cheering. but this favourable turn did not last long. during the struggle for the possession of the valley, the foe had not remained inactive. new masses of infantry were brought up, and in the distance cavalry appeared, moving slowly forward. prince louis had watched the course of the battle with increasing excitement, feeling his heart alternately beat joyously with twofold rapidity and then contract in pain till it seemed to stop. the situation now seemed to him critical and, glancing around, he found the same feeling expressed in the looks and faces of the other officers. but the colonel had already beckoned to his orderly and sprung into the saddle. the trumpets sounded the first signal, a sudden movement ran through the ranks of the dragoons, in an instant all were in the saddle, sabre-sheaths clanked against stirrups, the chains and bars of the bits rattled as the horses tossed their heads, then there was a second blare of trumpets, a shrill neighing, a loud snorting, the pawing and stamping of hoofs, swords flew from their sheaths, and the troop of horsemen was in motion. prince louis looked at his watch--it was half-past six o'clock. as, at the head of the first squadron, he rode a short distance behind the colonel, the aides of the regiment, and the trumpeters, a strange mood which he had never before experienced came over him. the painful excitement and quivering impatience, which, during the last half-hour, had made his veins throb to his finger-tips, merged into a joyous consciousness of purposeful activity, which restored his calmness. now he no longer reflected and criticised. it seemed as if the doubting spirit had been driven out of him and he was obeying eagerly, confidently, and devoutly as a child a command which filled his whole being with an overwhelming desire to press forward. this man, so proud of his personality, who had always sought his happiness in the unrestricted exercise of his individuality, now felt his ego shrivel until it was imperceptible. he was only a tiny stone in a piece of mosaic, which formed a noble masterpiece only as a whole. a mighty power, call it a law of nature or the will, whose manifestation is the history of the world, had entered into and taken complete possession of him. it was not he who now directed his fate, it was decided by some unknown being outside of him. had he been the most remarkable human being on earth, a newton, a goethe, nay, the saviour himself, he would now have weighed no more in the balance than the nameless brandenberg farm-hand by his side, he would now have had in the mechanism of the world only the value of a dozen screws or rivets. and, strangely enough, this merging of his individuality into a whole, as a crystal of sugar dissolves in water, awakened neither discomfort nor regret. on the contrary, it was an unknown delight, which pervaded his whole frame and sent a little shiver of pleasure down his spine. he felt himself a very small personage, and yet, at the same time, a very great one, who had far outstripped the bounds of his individuality. it seemed as though he was borne helplessly on by a mighty power, and the thought entered his mind that ganymede must have had similar sensations when he flew heavenward between the rustling pinions of the eagle. he was now experiencing the deep and mighty emotion for which he had always longed, and he had obtained it by emerging from his selfish seclusion and finding a point of connection with all mankind. the regiment went down the slope at a walk, describing a wide curve, partly to make the descent more easily, partly to avoid the dead and wounded lying in heaps upon the ground at the bottom of the declivity. now the horses climbed the other side in a slanting line and reached the meadow beyond. at a signal from the trumpets, the regiment formed in two divisions which trotted forward, offering a wide front, still keeping obliquely to the left for a time, past the cheering westphalians, and finally rushing straight upon the foe. the thunder of the artillery in front ceased and echoed only from the distance at the right. from the opposite direction a regiment of cuirassiers came to meet the dragoons. a few hundred yards separated the front ranks of the two, and the trumpets of both regiments could be heard at the same time. the order to attack was given, and with frantic haste, the lines dashed over the resonant clay soil, which was absolutely free from dust. it was like a scene from the legends of the norse gods. the cuirassiers, riding straight toward the westering sun, glittered and flashed with fairy-like radiance, their shining sword-blades looked like tongues of fire, their cuirasses and helmets blazed as if they were at a white heat, their whole van was steeped in dazzling light, as though surrounded by a halo. the german dragoons had the sun directly on their backs. the long black shadows of the horses and riders dashed over the ground before them, as if the cruel shadows of death were preceding the living against the proud cuirassiers. now the ranks met with a terrible crash. the supernaturally majestic scene was transformed in an instant into a horrible, formless chaos. overthrown by the force of the shock, horses and riders rolled upon the earth. masterless steeds dashed wildly in every direction, revolvers snapped, sword-blades clashed, the horses uttered short, harsh screams, the frenchmen fought amid oaths and exclamations, the germans, with clinched teeth, dealt blows around them, swords were buried in the bodies of enemies, without their owners clearly seeing what they were doing, single pairs of foes, hacking furiously at each other, were suddenly separated by a movement of their horses and brought in front of new antagonists, only to find themselves the next moment again in a dense throng, thigh pressing against thigh, arms firmly pinioned, panting into each other's faces, while the rearing horses tried to bite one another. this frenzied medley lasted perhaps two, perhaps three, minutes. in spite of the irregular swaying to and fro of the mass, the dragoons had constantly advanced, and now the cuirassiers suddenly wheeled their horses and, bending low in their saddles, dashed off in a stretching gallop. an exultant "hurrah!" burst like a peal of thunder from the breasts of the terribly excited dragoons, and their steeds, with the blood dripping from their torn flanks, their chests covered with flakes of foam, continued their victorious race, while on the field behind lay hundreds of french and germans, dead and wounded. signals, shouts, and the waving of sabres gradually slackened the onward rush of the conquerors and brought them to a halt on the brink of a narrow stream. it seemed to prince louis like waking from a dream, as he patted the neck of his gallant horse and, panting for breath, gazed around him. on the opposite side batteries were seen moving rapidly away, the remnants of the cuirassier regiment were following the artillery, and in the distance, on both sides, columns of infantry were hurrying back, not without pouring upon the dragoons, during the retreat, an irregular and ineffective fire. "strange," said a very young lieutenant beside the prince, showing him his sword, "half the blade is covered with blood, and cannot have received the stain except in a frenchman's body. yet i cannot recall how it happened." prince louis was about to answer, when he suddenly received a tremendous thrust in the breast, as if dealt by the hand of an invisible giant or the tip of a bull's horn, and, with a low cry, he pressed his hand upon the painful spot. he withdrew it stained with blood, and could just grasp the thought that a bullet had pierced him ere his senses failed. when he regained his consciousness, he found himself lying on the trampled turf with his head resting on a saddle. his coat was unbuttoned and a number of his comrades were busying themselves about him. he felt no pain, only an inexpressible weariness and a strange, almost indescribable feeling, something like an internal trickling, which appeared to be rising into his throat and forced him to struggle for breath like a drowning man. "how do you feel, prince?" asked the lieutenant-colonel, bending anxiously over him. "i feel," he answered softly, "as if i ought to shout: long live the king! long live our native land!" then, after a brief pause, he added almost inaudibly, while a barely perceptible smile flickered over his white lips: "but i certainly am not at a public meeting." these were his last words. [ ] english translation. the art of growing old. baron robert von linden was standing between the panels of his triple mirror. the sunlight of a bright may morning was streaming upon him through the lofty window so brilliantly that it made the places which it illumined almost transparent. he put his face very close to the crystal surface, so that it nearly touched and he was obliged to hold his breath in order not to dim it, examining his reflected image a long time, with a scrutiny which at once seeks and fears discoveries, looked at himself in front, then from the side, changed the light, sometimes bringing his face under the full radiance of the sunshine, sometimes receiving it at different angles or shading himself slightly with his hand. at last, sighing heavily, he stepped back, laid the tortoise-shell comb and ivory brush on the marble washstand, sank into the arm-chair standing in the corner, and bowed his head on his breast, while his arms hung at full length as if nerveless. alas! the hour when he made his morning toilet was no longer a happy one for baron robert. he dreaded the inexorable mirror, and yet self-torturing curiosity impelled him to inspect his face with the keen observation of a holbein. not even the least deterioration in his appearance escaped his search and scrutiny. he perceived and examined all the ravages which life had made in his exterior: the lines crossing the brow, the little wrinkles extending from the corners of the eyes toward the temples, the deep ones, as well as those which seemed, as it were, lightly sketched with a faint stroke to be more strongly marked later, and which were now visible only in a side-light, the creased appearance of the lower eyelids and the space between the inner corners of the eyes and the bridge of the nose, the granulated condition of the smoothly shaven cheeks, which resembled the peel of ripe oranges or fine morocco leather; the flabbiness of the narrow strip of skin between the edge of the beard and the ears, which looked as if it had been lightly powdered with greyish-yellow dust; the pallor near the cheek-bone, which was as colourless and withered as a dead tea-rose leaf. he counted the white hairs already visible on the temples--he pulled out the ones in the moustache--let the sunbeams play over his hair and, turning and bending his head, saw that it was growing thinner and, from the brow to the crown, showed the smooth scalp shining through. the investigation lasted a long while, he performed it with cruel thoroughness, locking himself into his room meanwhile, since he would not allow even his valet to be a witness of the painful discoveries of which he believed that he alone was aware. perhaps he was not mistaken in this comforting supposition. his appearance as a whole was still handsome and stately. time had not marred the lines of his slender figure, no increase of flesh enlarged his girth, no weakness made his shoulders droop and rounded his back, and when dressed with exquisite taste, and carrying his head proudly erect, he walked with a light, elastic step through the streets or across the carpet of a drawing-room, he would have been taken at a distance, or if one was a little near-sighted, not only for a handsome man, but even for one still young. he said this to himself when, after a few minutes of discouragement, he rose from the arm-chair, hastily completed his toilet, and again looked at the whole effect in the mirror, this time not close at hand, but from a distance of several paces. some one knocked at the door. "the doctor," said the servant's voice. "i'm coming," replied baron robert, hastening to open the door and enter the adjoining drawing-room, where dr. thiel was awaiting him. he came regularly one morning every week to see the baron before the latter went out; for baron robert was a little anxious about his health, and liked to be told by the physician, who was also his friend, that certain trifling symptoms--great thirst on a hot day, slight fatigue after a ball, a little heaviness in his limbs after a long walk, were of no importance. "well, how are you to-day?" cried dr. thiel, rising to meet him. "fairly well," replied linden, clasping both his hands. "yet, surely you look rather downcast?" asked the physician. "for good reasons," answered linden sighing. "what is the matter now? have you no appetite after eating? do you feel more tired at midnight than in the morning?" "don't ridicule me. you don't know what day this is." thiel looked at him inquiringly. "my birthday," said linden mournfully. "why, to be sure," cried thiel, "let me see, what one is it?" "no number," interrupted linden quickly, covering his friend's mouth with his hand. "you're worse than a coquette," remarked thiel, pushing his hand away. he had had "an old coquette" on the tip of his tongue, but suppressed the adjective. "a man can speak of his age without regret, when he is only in the mid-forties." "not yet the middle, i beg of you," linden eagerly protested, "i am forty-four years old to-day." thiel smiled. "well, i wish you many happy----" linden did not let him finish. "happiness! happiness! is there any happiness after youth is over?" "everything depends upon what is meant by happiness." linden did not seem to hear what thiel was saying, but pursued his own train of thought. "how futile your science is! you find a bacillus here, a ptomain there. what use is that to me? none! teach me how to keep young forever, then i shall have some respect for your staring into your beloved microscope. the ancients alone were right in that, as in everything else. to die young. in undiminished vigour. the gods can bestow no greater happiness. what is there to seek in life when youth has fled?" "nothing, of course, if, like a drone, we have but a single task in existence: to live. a drone must die, when it has performed its mission. i am not at all blind to the beauty of the butterfly, which lets its magnificent velvet wings glisten in the sunshine throughout a long summer day, and has no organs for receiving nourishment, but does nothing except hover around flowers and the females of his species, wooing and loving, and dies in the evening without ever waking from his ecstasy of delight. it is the same thing with the flower. it blooms, exhales its fragrance, displays beautiful forms and colours merely for the purpose of propagation, withering quickly when that purpose is attained. the butterfly and the flower are both beautiful. yet, after all, they are inferior forms of life, and man is higher, though he does not exhale fragrance and usually possesses no velvet wings." "is it so absolutely certain that man is superior? for my part i envy the butterfly and the flower, which perish in the full glory of youth, beauty, and love. that is the way i have always imagined an existence worth living. a dazzling display of fireworks. a sudden flashing, flaming, crackling, and detonating amid the darkness. a triumphant ascent of glittering balls and serpents, before whose splendid hues the stars of heaven pale. at every rain of fire and explosion, a rapturous, ah! and a thunder of applause from the gaping philistines, who are in a tumult of ecstasy at the sight, and thus, without cessation, have flash follow flash, and report report, in a continual increase of magnificence, until the closing piece on whose marvellous splendour darkness must fall with no transition. that is life. that is happiness. but the rockets must always be fully charged. otherwise they will not fly upward amid universal admiration to the stars, but fizz a little, hop up with ridiculous effort, fall plump, and go out pitifully in a malodorous smoke. a dismal end." robert was silent a moment, evidently pursuing his picture in his mind. then, as if it were the final result of his train of thought, he added: "yes, doctor, if you could only put a fresh charge into a half-exploded rocket." the doctor smiled. "to remain always young, we need only do at every age what harmonises with it." linden looked disappointed. but thiel, without allowing himself to be disturbed by it, continued: "are you not young at twenty? well, play with a humming-top in the streets at that age, and every one who passes will exclaim: 'what an old clown! aren't you ashamed of yourself?' at fifty you consider yourself old. if, at fifty, you are a commander-in-chief or a chancellor, everybody will say: 'so young a general; a minister so young!'" linden rose and went to the window. thiel followed, laid his hand on his shoulder, looked him directly in the eye, and said very earnestly: "believe me, dear baron linden, that is the secret of perpetual youth--there is no other. a man in the forties is not old--unless he cannot resolve to give up the conceits of a page." "always the same song!" linden impatiently exclaimed. "must i renounce love?" "yes," replied thiel firmly. "i must voluntarily renounce happiness?" "in your case love is not always synonymous with happiness," said thiel with a significant smile. "you are particularly agreeable to-day," remarked linden sullenly. "i owe you the truth. it is a professional and, at the same time, a friendly duty," said thiel, rising to go. linden parted from him with a silent clasp of the hand. "renounce love! no. that he really could not do. love was the sole purpose of his life which, without it, would seem as cold and gloomy as a grave." he was a chosen vessel of pleasure, and apparently destined by nature to be borne through life in women's arms, handsome, captivating, a flash of passion in his tender eyes, his lips yearning for kisses, regarded by the men with wrath and envy, by the women with glowing cheeks and bewildered hearts. when barely a youth, a page of the grand duchess, his attractive person and winning grace turned the heads of all the ladies of the court, and it was rumoured that a princess had been his first teacher in the arts of love and, even after decades had passed, still grieved over their memory. as the hereditary grand duke's adjutant, he had scarcely anything to do except to continue to compose his long love-poem, and add verse after verse. at thirty he resigned from active service, which had never been active for him, and became manager of the court stage. his brief love-conflicts and easy victories now had another scene for display. after the society of the court the dramatic arts: dancing, singing, acting without choice, or rather with the choice indued by the desire for beauty, and--change. the years elapsed like a series of pictures from the fairy-tale of prince charming. they formed a frieze of bewitching groups in all the attitudes which express wooing and granting, languishing and triumphing. each year was a decameron, each month a sensuous florentine tale, with a woman's name for title and contents. what a retrospect! his past life resembled a dream whose details blended indistinctly with one another, leaving only a confused recollection of sighs, kisses, and tears, melting eyes, half-parted lips, and loosened tresses, a memory as deliciously soft as a warm, perfumed bath, in whose caressing waters, in a chamber lit by a rose-hued lamp, one almost dissolves, and yields with thoughts half merging into slumber. but the dream seemed to be drawing to a close. of late a cold hand had touched baron robert, at first considerately, then more and more imperiously, to rouse him. he could no longer shut his eyes and ears to the signs and warnings: for they daily became plainer and more frequent, not merely in his mirror, but also in the unintentionally cruel words of the world, that other still more inconsiderate mirror. the pretty ingenue of his theatre, one of his last conquests, had recently after a private supper, while sitting on his knee and stroking his face, said to him with overflowing tenderness: "what a wonderfully handsome man you must have been!" he had thrust her from him like a viper with so hasty a movement that the poor girl hardly knew what had happened. she did not suspect that she had thrust a dagger into the heart of the man she loved. at balls, young girls now, after a rapid waltz, whispered, blushing: "i am afraid you are tired," and in the german other partners, who were neither so handsome nor so elegant as he, but young and lively, attracted more attention from the ladies and obtained more favours. and had not a young attaché a short time ago, in reply to the remark that he preferred a sensible conversation with experienced men to any other social pleasure, said with thoughtless impertinence; "of course, at your age--" he would have boxed his ears, if any lady had been within hearing. such frank expressions, which even sensitive people did not avoid, because they did not yet deem him in need of forbearance, caused a degree of depression which, on some days, became actual melancholy. then he sought a consoling self-deception in memory, and lost himself in dreams of the past, as a proud, brave nation, which has suffered defeat, takes refuge in the history of its former victories, to sustain itself. shut into his study for hours he again lived over his triumphs, surrounded by their testimonials. he placed before him pictures of himself, taken at different ages. this bewitching page with his smooth, merry face, clad in dainty knee-breeches with bows and a silk doublet, this handsome lieutenant with the downy moustache and the bold, laughing glance, were images of him; he had looked thus, perhaps even better; for he remembered that the likeness, when taken, did not satisfy him, and that everybody thought he was really far handsomer. he opened secret drawers, which exhaled an ungodly perfume, very faint, almost imperceptible, like a faded, ghostly odour, yet which excited the nerves in a peculiar way, and somewhat quickened the pulsation of the heart. these were the archives of the history of his own heart. there lay in piles packages of letters, methodically tied with coloured ribbons, withered flowers, whose leaves fell from the corona if touched ever so lightly, faded bows, torn laces, which still seemed to palpitate under the rude grasp of a hand rummaging among them, paper german favours, from which the gloss and gilding had peeled, other shapeless, disconnected bits of tinsel which were incomprehensible unless one knew the memory associated with them, and among the strange, motley chaos, the most personal mementoes: women's hair smooth, curled, braided, long, and short, arranged by a true eye, with scandalously cool composure, upon a pale lilac varnished board, in a wonderful scale of colours, from the highest pitch, the fair locks of the englishwoman, resembling a delicate halo, through almost imperceptible gradations to the deep, shining blue-black of the sicilian, and portraits in every form which fashion has devised during the last twenty-five years, and from which the eternal feminine looked, lured, and smiled in a hundred charming embodiments. a circle of spectres rose from these drawers and whirled around him, stretching white arms toward him and fixing upon him tearful or glowing eyes. all these cheeks had flushed beneath his kisses, all these bosoms had been pressed to his own, all these tresses his trembling fingers had smoothed, surely he might call himself happier than most mortals, since so much of love's bliss had filled all the hours of his existence. doubtless he did say this to himself after such revelling in the past, but in his inmost heart he did not believe it. don juan does not peruse the list of the thousand and three himself. he leaves it to leporello while he, without a glance at the older names, increases the succession. the day when the cavalier begins to study his list, his wisest course would be to burn it, for then it will no longer be a triumph, but a humiliation. robert von linden felt this, but he would not admit it. on the contrary, he intentionally endeavoured to deceive himself. he who had been a grand seigneur of love, became a snob of love. he sank to the level of the irresistible travelling salesman who tells the tale of his successes in foreign taverns. he had always left drawing-room gossip to spread his reputation with its thousand tongues and, by the mere mention of his name, fill maids and matrons with an exciting mixture of timid fear and eager yearning, indignant pride and tender pity. now a torturing anxiety beset him lest his great deeds might be forgotten, and he humbled himself to the character of bard of his own epic poem. he told his last conquests who, naturally, with self-torturing curiosity inquired about it, chapter after chapter of the romance of his heart, half-opened his famous drawers and permitted them to catch a glimpse of letters, likenesses, and locks of hair; he strove to soothe his self-esteem by showing what passions he had inspired, at the risk of having his fair listener, with a secret smile, imagine exaggeration where, in reality, he was merely boasting. such was his mental condition at this time. he had toilsomely erected a sort of sham paradise of stage scenery, in which he continued to play the character of the youthful lover, which he was scarcely entitled to continue in life, and now this luckless doctor, with a careless movement, had thrown down all the painted canvasses with their artificial scenes. thiel's brutal remark: "you must renounce love," was still echoing painfully in his soul when he entered the home of frau von der lehde, with whom according to old habit, he dined once a week. else von der lehde was a year or two older than he. she had been maid of honor to the princess, when robert was a page. she had loved him deeply, fervently, and received a little responsive affection in return. but that was already so far back in the past. it was a distant memory, suffused with the rosy light of dawn, associated with all the new, fresh feelings of her life, youth, the awakening of her heart, first love, jealousy, and torment. the little idyl, in its day, was noticed by every one, but people were disposed to regard it as harmless, and else herself afterward strove to see it in the same light, though she was well aware of its real condition. still, a beardless boy of eighteen could not seriously compromise a young lady of twenty, who had been in society three winters. he was so far from doing so, that the whispers and smiles of this society did not prevent her becoming the wife of president von der lehde who, after fifteen years of wedded life, left her a childless widow in the most pleasant circumstances. else had never ceased to be completely enthralled by robert. during her husband's life-time, she had imagined that it was friendship, sisterly, almost maternal friendship. when herr von der lehde died, she no longer had any motive for playing a farce with her own conscience, and she told robert plainly that she expected him now to marry her. he was very much surprised and even slightly amused. thirty-three years old, at the zenith of his success, living actually in the midst of a flickering blaze of ardent love, he had the feeling that it was a very comical idea for a woman who was his elder, with whom for a decade and a half he had lived on terms of wholly unobjectionable friendship, and whom he had often unhesitatingly made the confidante of his love-affairs, suddenly to wish him to marry her. to return after the lapse of fifteen years to a dish which he had once tasted with the eagerness of a greedy boy! this was not to be expected. love permits no rip van winkle adventures. it cannot be taken up where it was interrupted a generation before. its drama, whether it is to close as comedy or tragedy, must be played without long intermissions in a continuous performance to the end, in order not to become intolerably tiresome and foolish. robert did not conceal this from else, though he endeavoured to find softening expressions. but oratorical caution does not deceive a woman who is in love. else was very unhappy over the rebuff. her passion, however, was stronger than her pride, and she humbled herself to entreaties, persuasions, persistent pleading. robert, to whom the situation was becoming extremely uncomfortable, ceased to call upon the irritated and excited woman and, as mahomet showed himself unhesitatingly ready to come to the mountain when the mountain did not come to mahomet, robert refused to see his persecutor. for a time frau von der lehde was filled with the most bitter resentment against the man who disdained her. she had worked herself up into the idea that he owed her expiation, if not before the world, surely before her own conscience, and it seemed to her dishonourable that he should evade his duty. but her indignation did not last. she could no longer live without robert, and as he quietly left her to sulk and did not make the slightest attempt to conciliate her, after several sleepless nights she one day wrote a little note in which she gently reproached him for so culpably neglecting her, and expressed the hope that he would dine with her the next day, and by his own observation, convince himself that her grief for his long absence was really injuring her looks. how wearily she had striven to prevent letting a tear fall upon the tinted paper, what heroic courage she had expended in finding sportive turns of speech, subdued, even mirthful expressions, could not be perceived in the little missive. robert read it with distrust, but, in spite of the most cautious scrutiny, he did not find a single word whose vehemence could disquiet him, not a single letter which was nervously emphasized or written, or betrayed a trembling hand, so he accepted the invitation. frau von der lehde made no mistake. her self-control did not desert her a moment. she received robert calmly and affectionately, as though nothing had occurred between them, the dinner passed delightfully in easy, gay conversation about all sorts of indifferent matters, and when he was leaving she held out both hands and said, looking directly into his eyes: "tuesday, at least, shall again be mine in future, shall it not?" he kissed her hand, touched by such unselfish, faithful devotion. it was a strange relation which, from that time, existed unshadowed between these two for more than a decade. else surrounded robert with an atmosphere of warm, unvarying tenderness which, though perhaps only from habit, she understood how to render a necessity of his life. she insisted upon being the confidant of all his feelings; no outburst of anger ever betrayed what she experienced during his confessions, not even a sorrowful quiver of the features ever reminded him to be on his guard; she possessed inexhaustible indulgence for his frivolities, earnest sympathy for his fleeting love-sorrows, hateful or ridiculous as they usually appeared to an uninterested witness, counsel and comfort when an adventure took an unpleasant turn, and she was satisfied if, in an ebullition of gratitude, he then pressed her to his heart, kissed her hands and her cheeks, and assured her that she was the dearest, noblest, and most lovable woman whom he had ever known. but when she played this rôle of a feminine providence, who was apparently free from the ordinary weaknesses of her sex, when she carefully repressed every emotion of jealousy at the sight of his inconstancy, she was not free from a selfish motive. she still hoped that some day he would grow weary of pursuing the blue will-o'-the-wisps of fleeting sham loves; he would at last long to escape from the marsh into which for decades these capricious, alluring, fleeting flames had deluded him, and would then unresistingly allow himself to be led by her hand to the firm ground of a tried affection, in order, even though not until the evening twilight of his days, to rest with her, at last her own robert, whom she need share with no one. when linden, on this tuesday, appeared at frau von der lehde's, she of course instantly noticed his depression, and with her usual sympathy and gentle tenderness, asked: "why are you so melancholy, robert? what has happened?" "melancholy?" forcing himself to a wan smile. "i feel nothing of the sort." "yes, robert; do you suppose that i do not know the meaning of these lines on the forehead and between the eyes?" oh, those lines! surely he knew them, too, he had studied them this very morning with painful attention, but why need she obtrude them upon him? this was unkind, almost malicious. he released her hand, which he had held in his own since his entrance, and silently went to an arm-chair. she followed, took a seat on a stool at his feet, and said caressingly: "how long has robert had secrets from else? may i not know everything? has one of my sex again proved faithless? ah, dearest robert, so few of us are worth having people trouble themselves about us." "that isn't it at all," robert answered curtly. "what is it, then?" robert remained silent a short time, then, averting his eyes from her questioning gaze, said: "this is my birthday." "you don't suppose that i could forget it? but certainly you do not wish to be congratulated upon it, to have it mentioned?" robert laid his hand upon her lips, murmuring: "yet i cannot forget your thinking of it, as i see." a pause ensued, and he had the unpleasant feeling that his ostrich method of shunning the sight of a disagreeable fact, must appear very ridiculous. "well, and why does your birthday make you melancholy?" asked else, kissing his hand as she removed it from her mouth. "a woman ought to feel that, without any explanation from me." "it isn't the same thing, dear robert. but i don't philosophize about the distinction. at any rate a woman dreads her birthday only because she is afraid of growing old, and there can be no question of that with you. at your age a man is not old." she smiled so strangely, as she said this. or did it merely seem so to robert? "well, in any case doctor thiel is not of your opinion. he was as disagreeable as a scrubbing-brush to-day. he gave me a serious moral lecture with firstly, secondly, thirdly, and closed with an admonition that i must play the dare-devil no longer, or to be more explicit, must renounce love. that seemed to me very much wanting in taste." "indeed, thiel told you that?" she had suddenly become extremely earnest and attentive. "yes. and i consider that he entirely mistakes his vocation. when i want preaching i'll apply to the theological faculty. from the medical profession i expect strengthening. thiel seems to confound salve with sanctity. that is not treatment." the servant announced dinner, and both went to the table. else almost always arranged to be alone with robert on tuesday. "i think," she said, when they were seated opposite to each other, "that you ought not to take thiel's words lightly. he is your friend. and," she added hesitatingly, as robert did not answer, "he is right." "you say that, too?" he exclaimed, indignantly. "yes, dear, dear robert, yes. i should not have ventured to say it first and alone. you might have considered it rude and selfish. you cannot think so in thiel. when he says to you: stop!--it is not obtrusive. since i am merely repeating his view, i have the courage to confess that it has been for a long time my own opinion." "a long time! that is more and more pleasing." frau von der lehde hesitated a moment. the phrase was really not well chosen. but the words could not be recalled, so she bravely continued, growing warmer, more urgent, the longer she spoke. "robert, i repeat, thiel is right. it is time for you to think of your own happiness. you have bestowed much joy in your life, and, it is true, also caused much sorrow, probably far more sorrow than joy, but you have not been happy yourself. no, no, do not try to impose upon me. you have not been happy. you might have been so, you have come near happiness countless times, but you have always passed it by. you have lived in a constant state of intoxication, and intoxication is always followed by illness, to escape which you have sought intoxication anew. robert, you must feel a loathing of such a life. women admire or fear you, men envy or abhor you, but how does it aid you? it cannot make you happier. you possess great talents. i, who know you as you perhaps do not know yourself, am conscious of it, and can prove it. you had the capacity for everything. you only needed to choose, and you might have been a great poet, a great musician, a great artist, a great statesman. and what have you done with all your brilliant gifts? used them as men use mirrors to catch larks, to dazzle silly women." robert had listened silently and looked out of the window. here he interrupted her. "to shape one's own life harmoniously is also an art, perhaps the greatest. whoever makes his life a work of art needs to create nothing else, and has rightly used his talents." "but that is exactly what i do not see," cried else, "the art-production of your life. where is the climax, where the harmonious close? is it aesthetic, is it dignified to pay court to frivolous actresses and ballet-dancers, and treat the cheap triumph, before and after, as though it were something important? does not this humiliate a man of intellect in his own eyes? and even if----" she suppressed what she was going to say, and with a sudden digression, continued: "robert, understand at last that happiness is repose. you have had passion and excitement enough. it is time for you to know something else; deep and equable as a clear summer evening, without storm and tempest. and you know where to find such love. ah, robert, no one on earth ever loved you as i have, not one of the women on whom you have squandered your heart, your intellect, your health. as a girl i sacrificed for you my pride and my celebrated beauty. you were my first passion, and you have remained the sun of my existence. as a young widow i threw myself at your head. you would not accept me. perhaps to your detriment. but that is no consolation. i have forced myself to be your sister, in order to possess you a little, ah so little. let me at last be more to you, robert. thiel tells you that you must love no longer. but you may still allow yourself to be loved. robert, suffer yourself to be loved. that is all i ask. let me be your wife, let me prepare a home for you. i shall be envied, i shall be proud of you, and repay you with a fidelity and tenderness which no woman can now give you. consider, robert, to me you are still the young greek god of eighteen, whom i loved a generation ago so that it nearly cost my life. is there any other woman who sees you with such eyes? speak, robert." robert did speak. he spoke with quiet friendliness. he was certainly very grateful to her for her feelings. he returned them with all his heart, as she knew. but why change a relation in which both had been so comfortable for a generation. it was a delightful emotion to know that, while outwardly free, they were secretly united by warm friendship. this bond would not oppress. the fetters of a regular philistine marriage would probably burden them, and, after all, it would not be morally so beautiful and so strong as a daily desired and renewed companionship. he, for his part, at any rate, would desire nothing better than the endless continuance of their present relations. else was not satisfied. she continued to try to persuade and convince him. she became excited, robert remained calm. she entreated, he grew morose and taciturn. scarcely waiting for the coffee, which he swallowed as swiftly as the warmth of the fragrant beverage permitted, he left else immediately on some slight pretext. far from softening him, else's eager words had made him indignant, almost incensed. this was certainly an attempt to take him by surprise. for a moment the suspicion even awoke that thiel was in league with frau von der lehde, his warning, her demand were arranged, a preconcerted attack had been executed on both sides. true, he did not dwell long upon this thought, whose improbability he himself soon perceived, but he mentally repeated frau von der lehde's words again and again. no other woman saw him with eyes like hers! how did she know that? no woman on earth loved him as she did? what if he should show her the contrary? he must no longer love, only permit himself to be loved! this advice did not displease him. in fact perhaps it was sensible to direct a wild life full of adventures which, in reality, were meaningless, monotonous, and profoundly unsatisfying, into the channels of a regulation domestic existence. but if he himself decided to bring it to a close, it should not be the end which else wished to force upon him. the more deeply he entered into the idea of the late marriage with else, the more angry it made him. what presumption in this woman, who was years his senior! did she really believe that he, according to her own estimation a man in the prime of life, had no other claims upon existence than to possess a home, in other words to have a housekeeper, who would make him soups, and a nurse who would wrap his rheumatic limbs in cotton wool. deuce take it, he was by no means such an invalid. he was still sailing erect, before the wind, with swelling canvas and fluttering streamers. he was no hulk of which wreckers might take possession. if he no longer desired to remain on the high seas, at least he could freely choose the harbour where he preferred to cast anchor. he mentally reviewed the images of the women who had recently made an impression upon him, or on whom he was sure that he had produced an impression, and asked himself with which of them he could probably spend a life of constant intercourse. always is a long time, and he knew that a woman must possess remarkable qualities not to repel him in the long run. he had a peculiar method of testing whether a woman was suited to be his companion for life, and whether he could endure to have her continually with him. he imagined that he was taking a wedding journey with a wife through italy, was alone with her six weeks, without any other society, with no stimulus except her presence, and he pictured these days in every detail. several apparently thoroughly charming women were in this way instantly rejected. one was beautiful and desirable, but stupid as a pike, and he could not help laughing when, in fancy, he saw himself standing with her before the works of art in florence and heard her remarks about paintings and statues. another was clever, but she talked too much. one could spend an hour with her pleasantly, but a whole day, a whole week--brrr! this one, after a few days, would long to return to her circle of admirers and rivals, and under the dome of st. peter's dream of the court entertainments, adorers, and society gossip; that one, with her prosaic nature, would transform the blue grotto of capri into the office of a chief auditor. others stood the test better, but even with them doubts arose, which grew stronger the more he thought of them. perhaps he could endure a week, a fortnight, with them. but six weeks, two months? no. by that time they would surely have become indifferent, perhaps intolerable. they would certainly have nothing more to offer him, he nothing more to say to them. in the proportion in which other women's images faded and vanished, one stood forth more and more clearly, and finally filled his whole mental field of vision. fräulein von markwald--yes, with her the adventure might be risked. she was as beautiful as any fair one whose likeness he had kept in his love archives; a tall, proud figure, large dark-blue eyes which evidently dreamed of love behind their long, shading lashes, and often seemed to wake from this ardent trance of bliss with a sudden upward glance, blooming lips for which many a godly man would have relinquished his soul's salvation without hesitation, an unusually fair complexion with satiny reflections, and a really regal coronal of rich golden hair--all in all a magnificent creature, such as nature does not often create. this was a prize for which the best man might strive. that he would ever weary of her, linden could not now imagine. when he fancied that she was leaning on his arm, walking with the light, floating step peculiar to her along the chiaja, or the lung arno, or that he was sitting with her on the shore of viarreggio and she leaned her head upon his breast, it seemed as if palaces, sky, and sea would shine brighter than of yore as it were in vivified colours. true, fräulein von markwald was not yet twenty, and he might be her father. but need he hesitate on that score? at the utmost the difference in age could only disturb her, and it did not. to him her nineteen years were but one charm; the more perhaps the most powerful of her attractions. in her radiant, vigorous youth, he might hope to rejuvenate himself. how had he been so blind as not to perceive it weeks ago! how could he have waited until thiel's harsh warning and else's importunity thrust him into the right path? of course it had not escaped the notice of an old practitioner like him that he had made an impression upon fräulein von markwald. the blood which mounted into her cheeks when he approached and spoke to her, the unconsciously seeking glance with which she followed him when he went away, the tone of assumed jest, but genuine reproach, with which she asked if he had selected another poor victim, when he had talked with another lady somewhat longer or somewhat more earnestly than usual, were traitors which but too officiously revealed the secret of her heart. she did not even defend herself. she had been too short a time at court and in society to be versed in the strategic arts of love or coquetry. almost in their first conversation she had confessed, with charming frankness, that everybody was warning her against him, she had been told that he was an extremely dangerous man, she was really a little afraid of him; but a certain slight shiver in the presence of a handsome monster was a new and strangely delightful feeling. there was no doubt that his legendary adventures had exerted the customary bewitching influence upon her imagination. the daughter of eve felt the irresistible hereditary attraction toward the serpent which had already talked so many feebly resisting hands into plucking the fatal apple. hitherto, robert had not wished to avail himself of his advantage. he had been content with the pleasantly piquant consciousness that his presence made her heart throb faster, and did not pursue the dawning romance farther, for fräulein von markwald belonged to one of the best families in the country, and he now thought of the respect due to the unsullied reputation of a young girl--he was somewhat less reckless than ten years ago. but now there should be a change. since he had serious intentions he need not shrink from using all means to complete the conquest of this fortress, which, moreover, was already on the point of raising the white flag. he did not lose a moment. all the evening he was seen in the little court box, devoting himself most assiduously to fräulein von markwald, and this was afterward repeated at every performance. whenever the princess gave an evening reception, he seemed to care only for the beautiful girl, and was always behind or beside her, serving her, talking with her, offering her his arm, tenderly solicitous about her on her arrival and departure. the whole court began to watch and to whisper, and linden's love-making became so apparent, that the princess thought it necessary to warn käthe against the tempter and his wiles. fräulein markwald answered blushing, but in a steady voice: "i thank you, your highness, i know that your advice is kindly meant, but i also know that baron von linden is a man of honour, and that i have given him no reason, to think meanly of me." this answer seemed to the princess wholly unsatisfactory, and as she believed it her duty to take special care of käthe, an orphan, she did not delay in cautiously calling robert himself to account. what he said to her the princess kept to herself for a time, but two days later people learned that käthe's brother, an energetic cavalry officer, attached to a regiment of hussars in the rhine country, had suddenly arrived in the capital from his garrison, and on the following day, which was whitsuntide, the "morning journal" announced the betrothal of herr robert, baron von linden, to fräulein käthe von markwald. the effect of the news on society was like the bursting of a dynamite cartridge before every individual. linden capitulated! linden married! it was incredible. and to whom had he struck the bold corsair flag which had so long been the terror of husbands? to käthe von markwald, in whom nothing piquant could be discovered which would be likely specially to attract a blasé man of the world! she was beautiful, certainly, but he had passed by many handsomer women. she was not stupid, but how many cleverer fair ones, with all their craft, had been unable to hold him in their nets! the event was and remained incomprehensible, it might be-- frau von der lehde had sent for dr. thiel on whitsuntide morning, and when he entered, silently held out the newspaper. "i know it already," he answered smiling. "do you believe that it is true?" "of course it is true. the announcement is signed by the betrothed pair. besides, linden told me the news himself." "did he ask your advice?" "no; he merely told me the accomplished fact." frau von der lehde crushed the paper and flung it into the corner. "but what can have so suddenly led him to this step?" thiel shrugged his shoulders. "the resolutions of men are sometimes as incalculable as those of women." "he cannot possibly have to atone for a sin." "fräulein von markwald is above suspicion," said thiel sternly, interrupting her. "linden may be still more so, but the world, which does not know him so well as i and--you, will probably think something of the sort." "certainly. evil tongues have already begun their work. the newspaper containing the announcement is still damp, and i have even now heard the conjecture expressed that the baron was marrying fräulein von markwald because he had been forced to do so by her brother, who thought that linden had compromised her by his attentions." "forced linden! he who has killed two opponents in a duel! a hussar officer will not frighten him. that's nonsense." "of course it is nonsense. only i don't see why people need go so far to seek an explanation. linden marries because he thinks he has found a suitable life-companion. he really isn't too young for it." "no," remarked frau von der lehde, "but i fear: too old." "i don't know that," observed thiel. "doctor, you are not in earnest. linden might still marry a quiet, sensible woman of mature years, but a young girl who might be his daughter--he must have lost his senses." "madame, that is still far from being manifest to me, marriage often has a rejuvenating influence." "marriage with a girl like käthe markwald? if i were linden, i should fear eyes like hers. she belongs to the species of sleeping monsters. woe betide the man who wakes and is not strong enough to conquer them." thiel could not help smiling. "i repeat, marriage often works marvels of resurrection. and in the worst case--the matter need not yet be taken tragically." frau von der lehde could not console herself for the final loss of linden, but she understood that she could do nothing more to hold him or to win him back. in the first place because he could not be reached. contrary to universal expectation, he soon tore himself away from his charming fiancée and set off on his summer travels much earlier than in former years. he extended them full three months, which he spent at various sea-shore watering-places. he was sometimes seen here, sometimes there, first at rägen, then at sylt, lastly at heligoland, where the surf is most powerful. the marriage took place early in september. every one admired the bridal pair. käthe was fresh and blooming as a newly opened marshal niel rose, robert as handsome and elegant as in his best days. the difference in age was scarcely apparent. only a close observer could have noticed a certain nervous anxiety in robert's face which, though bronzed by the sun and the salt air of the sea-shore, was visibly pale. he did not look as happy by the side of his radiant bride as might have been expected. stings of conscience, said many women who had once been on familiar terms with him and had now had the self-control to come to the church, which was crowded to suffocation. frau von der lehde was not among them. robert von linden now realized the dream of the last few months; he took his bewitching young wife, his proudest and, as he faithfully resolved, his last conquest, to italy. but, according to all that was learned afterward, it was a strange wedding journey. the couple appeared in all the larger cities of upper, middle and lower italy, but the newly-wedded pair seemed unable to remain anywhere more than two or three days. the bride looked depressed and dissatisfied, the bridegroom haggard and unhappy. about three weeks after the marriage, lieutenant von markwald received a letter from his sister which induced him to write at once to doctor thiel and ask him confidentially what he thought of baron von linden's health, his brother-in-law evidently considered himself very ill; for since his departure he had consulted several physicians at every place where they stopped, even for a day, he appeared to be in very low spirits, and utterly neglected his sister, who was so anxious about him that she entreated her brother to come to her assistance. dr. thiel hastened to answer the lieutenant that he need not be uneasy, it was probably only an attack of hypochondria. at the same time he asked for his brother-in-law's address, as he intended to write to him at once. about a week after news reached the capital which spread with the rapidity of a conflagration. baron robert von linden had died suddenly at ischia. this was the version which reached the newspapers and the public. but, in the court circle, it was known that the unfortunate man had committed suicide. frau von der lehde had instantly suspected it, she obtained certainty from the lips of the princess, to whom käthe had telegraphed the terrible tidings at the same time she sent the message to her brother. she hastened to thiel, who was crushed by the event, for he was not merely an affectionate physician to linden, but also a loyal friend. "it is horrible," cried the agitated woman, as she let herself fall into an arm-chair. he answered only by a sorrowful gesture of the hand. "do you know the particulars?" "a bullet through the head. the night of day before yesterday. in the dressing-room beside the chamber where his wife was lying." a pause ensued. then else, raising her tearful eyes to the doctor, said: "you see, you see, this marriage was his destruction. he would be alive and happy to-day, if he had had me at his side." "or me," said thiel. else shook her head. "no, no. he wanted this last romance too late." "or despaired too soon," replied thiel, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze statuette of asclepius, which stood on the writing-desk before him. how women love. i. one way. it was the first of november, . the paris exposition was over, and herr rudolph weltli was preparing to return to his home, switzerland, after spending a beautiful sunny fortnight on the seine. he had made the great bazaar on the champ de mars the pretext for his journey; but in reality the study of the exhibition, many as were the interesting objects it could offer to him, the engineer, was a somewhat minor matter, and he devoted his stay in paris principally to walks through the streets, excursions to the environs, wanderings through the museums, in short, endless pilgrimages to all the scenes where, more than a quarter of a century before, the drama of his student's life in paris had been enacted for three years, and whose image was interwoven with the most beloved memories of his youth. a quarter of a century! almost a human life-time. and, during this long period, he had not seen paris again. when he left it he intended to return very soon and very often. but, as usually happens, life morosely opposed this pleasant plan. he was bound by the fetters of duty, and only imagination could allow itself to wander into the alluring blue distance. whoever makes his first visit to rome throws a piece of money into the fontana trevi to be sure that he will see the eternal city again. we need not bind ourselves to paris by such little superstitious practices. its mysterious spell obtains the pledge without any intervention, and lures and draws the absent one so that he cannot rest until he returns. but why attribute this spell to paris alone? every place where we have been young, dreamed, loved, and suffered, possesses it. we feel the affection for it which the ploughman has for the field to which he entrusted his seed. we have the desire to see whether we shall still find traces of our wanderings, and are joyously surprised when we discover that wherever we sowed our youth, the best part of ourselves, invisible to others, but tangible to us, a rich harvest of memories has sprung up. every year rudolf planned the journey to paris, every year he was compelled to defer it to the next, and he was already beginning to accustom himself to a sorrowful resignation, when the world's fair of gave the external impulse for the realization of his long-cherished dream. the holiday weeks on which his mind had been fixed so many years had passed as swiftly as a dream, and the daily yoke of professional work must again be put on. the last day of his stay in paris fell on the anniversary of all souls. rudolf, with the great majority of parisians, used it to visit the cemeteries. he spent the first hours of the afternoon in père la chaise, where, beside the old, well-known graves, he inspected with great interest the monuments erected since his residence in paris--of musset, rossini, michelet, regnault, countess d'agoult and other celebrities. from père la chaise he drove to the cemetery of montmartre, where he merely wished to place a wreath of immortelles on heine's grave. but once there, he could not go away without looking about the place a little. he strolled slowly along the streets of graves, in which, amid commonplace stone slabs and insignificant iron crosses, stately monuments rose at brief intervals, though they rarely bore inscribed on their fronts a name of sufficient distinction to afford a justification for attracting the attention of the wanderer; while as a rule they were only memorials of the vanity extending beyond the grave of the poor obscure mortal whose ashes they sheltered. the graves were adorned in various ways for the great festival of the dead. the narrow walks around them were strewn with fresh yellow gravel and river sand; pots of blossoming plants stood on the slabs and at the foot of the crosses; on the arms of the latter hung garlands of evergreen and yellow or red immortelles, but also the ugly wreaths of painted plaster and glass beads with affected inscriptions, which dishonour parisian industry. beside these mounds, where the work of a loving hand was apparent, and whose dead were evidently united by filaments of love to a tender human being still breathing in the sunshine, forsaken and neglected ones often appeared, on which only a few rain-soaked, decaying leaves of paper wreaths were mouldering, where moss and weeds grew rankly, and in which lay dead for whom no one grieved, and who were now remembered by none in the world of the living. but how speedily one is forgotten in paris. how soon the ocean of the world's capital swallows up, not only a human being, but his family, all his friends and acquaintances, and even his memory! a chill ran down rudolf's spine as he pondered over the melancholy thought of living and dying in paris as a stranger. as he drifted aimlessly on with the flowing human stream, he suddenly found himself in a narrow side-path before a monument surrounded by a specially dense throng. several rows of people, principally workmen and their wives, were standing around it, those behind thrusting their heads over the shoulders of the front ranks, the new arrivals pressing impatiently upon those who had taken the place before them and now, as though spell-bound by an absorbing spectacle, stood motionless, making no sign of moving on. yet the whole crowded group was pervaded by a calmness, a solemn earnestness, not often found among the worshippers in church. rudolf, whose curiosity was awakened, forced his way through the living wall to the front rank, and suddenly stood--before the monument of baudin, the republican representative of the people who, on the d of december, , was shot down in the streets of paris by drunken soldiers, as, girdled with the tri-coloured sash, which made him recognizable as a member of the legislature, he protested from the top of a barricade against bonaparte's _coup d'etat_. a familiar anecdote is associated with the death of this hero. as, surrounded by a few persons of similar views, he was preparing to ascend the barricade, some workmen passing by shouted derisively: "there goes a twenty-five franc man!" this was the insult with which the proletarians, who were systematically incited against the national assembly, designated the representatives of the people, alluding to their daily pay. baudin calmly answered: "you will see presently how one can die for twenty-five francs!" and a moment after, fell under the bullets of the soldiery. at the sight of the monument rudolf felt the emotion which it awakens in every spectator. on a rectangular stone pedestal lies the life-size bronze figure of baudin, draped to the breast in a cloak, the left hand hanging in the relaxation of death, while the right convulsively clutches a symbolical table of laws, with the inscription "la loi," through which passes a treacherous rent. baudin's face is that of a middle-aged man, with commonplace features, smooth-shaven lips and chin, and the regulation whiskers. but this ordinary countenance becomes grand and heroic by a horrible hole in the forehead, from which blood and brains have gushed. oh, how such a hole in the brow, pierced by a bullet sent to murder liberty, transfigures a man's visage! a supernatural radiance appears to stream from this tragical opening, into which we cannot gaze without having our eyes overflow with tears. rudolf was more touched by the unspeakably pathetic monument than any of the others who reverently surrounded it; for he remembered how narrowly he, too, had escaped a fate akin to that of the martyr before whose statue he had unexpectedly wandered. as he followed the path toward the exit from the cemetery, he again saw himself on the terrible night of december d and th, , lying weltering in his blood, with failing consciousness, upon the wet pavement of the rue montmartre, a bullet in his right hip. the memory of that moment was so vivid, that he fancied he again felt the pain in his hip and began to limp, as he had done for months after the wound. in the broad avenue leading to the main entrance new visions rose before him, made still more intense by the recollections of the coup d'etat evoked by the sight of baudin's grave. at the right he saw the monument of gottfried cavaignac in the midst of the great common grave, into which all the nameless victims of the street fights were thrown in a horrible medley. this blood-stained bit of earth surrounds a circular border of flowers, in whose centre, above a low mound covered with stone slabs, rises a plain iron cross. rudolf entered the sinister circle and paused beside it. very peculiar emotions stole over him. it seemed as though he were standing within a cabalistic line which divided him from the world and life. the air within the magic circle appeared more chill than without. he imagined he felt a stir and tremor in the ground beneath his feet as if the dead below were moving, and scraping with their bony fingers on the cover of their narrow abode. "i should now be lying there with the rest, if the bullet had taken a little different course!" he thought, drawing a long breath of relief. he glanced around him. at the foot of the cross was a heap of wreaths and bouquets, and several women were kneeling on the stone slabs, murmuring silent prayers. "are there still, after the lapse of twenty-seven years, mourners who remember the dead? no one would have come for my sake, if they had thrown me there too." he was standing beside one of the kneeling women, at whom he gazed with deep sympathy. she was dressed in black, a long black veil hung from her head, and she seemed wholly absorbed in her fervour. feeling a steady gaze fixed upon her, she involuntarily looked up. their eyes met. she sank back with a stifled cry which seemed to issue from a throat suddenly compressed. involuntarily stretching her arms toward him, while her eyes half closed and consciousness seemed failing, her blanching lips whispered: "rudolf! rudolf!" he had retreated a step, astonished and bewildered, at the first cry, now he caught the fainting woman in his arms, drew her to his breast, and murmured in a hollow tone: "pauline! is it possible! pauline!" she tottered to her feet, her knees trembled, she laid both hands on his shoulders and gazing steadily at him with head thrown back and dilated eyes, said: "is it really you! is it you, rudolf. you are alive!" "so you believed me dead?" he asked in a trembling voice, bowing his head. "i believed that you were down there," she answered, pointing to the stone slabs at their feet. "and you came to-day----" "to you, rudolf; to-day as i have come every year for twenty-seven years. see, rudolf, that is the wreath i laid there for you. and," she added in a very low tone, after a brief pause, "when i suddenly saw you before me, i thought you had risen from this grave to see me once more." she again remained silent a short time, during which her glances timorously caressed him. "and do you know what instantly convinced me that i beheld no ghost? because you no longer look as you did at the time when you would have been laid here, if you had really died. the dead do not change. but you, my poor rudolf, have certainly altered." "do you find me very much changed?" pauline gazed at him a long time. her eyes wandered slowly over his figure, his features, his whole appearance, then, as if speaking to herself, she said: "not really, rudolf, not much, after all." she was probably the only person in the world who could say it; the only one who could see in his countenance the face of the youth of twenty-three, as a practised eye detects, under a palimpsest, the effaced, almost invisible characters of the original writing. for her, his former wealth of brown locks still waved in the place of the closely cut, thin grey hair; she saw the bushy moustache fine and curled, the wrinkled skin ruddy and smooth, the somewhat corpulent figure slender and pliant; she transferred to the man of fifty before her, feature by feature, the image which lived in her faithful memory, transfigured and handsomer than the reality had ever been. and rudolf did the same. his imagination effaced the little wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, restored to those dim black eyes the sparkle and mirthfulness of youth, developed, from the somewhat fleshy outlines, the graceful forms of the cheeks, chin, neck, bust, which he had once beheld and loved, recognized the raven braids which alone had lost none of their beauty, and saw in the faded woman the blooming girl, surrounded by all the magic of her nineteen years, whom he had left twenty-seven years ago. her first excitement had calmed a little during the silent observation which had occupied several minutes; her voice had regained its natural tone, and only trembled a little as she asked: "but now, for heaven's sake, tell me how all this has happened? our concierge saw you when you fell in the street and were carried away." "he saw correctly." "then you were not killed?" "merely wounded." "well, and----?" "you know how i left you. i was excited, bareheaded, mad. when i came out of the passage saumon into the rue montmartre, i found the street deserted, but i heard the roll of drums in the distance, soldiers seemed to be pressing forward from the boulevard. several persons ran past, trying to escape into the side streets. before i could clearly understand what was going on around me, a volley of musketry was fired, i felt a violent blow and fell. a few paces from me another man fell, who did not move again. a window in the passage saumon opened and instantly closed. "the soldiers came up, carrying lanterns and torches. they found the other man first, and threw the light into his face. several voices rose and i saw bayonets thrust into his body. then they came to me. bayonets were already flashing above me, i instinctively thrust out my hands in defense, an officer cried: 'halt!' approached me, and asked who i was. i said as quickly as my mortal fright would permit, that i was a swiss, a pupil of the _École centrale_, lived in the passage saumon, had accidentally entered the street and been wounded by a shot. the officer looked at my hands, they were not blackened by powder. the light of the lanterns was cast around--i lay in my own blood, but no weapon was near. 'where is your hat?' asked the officer. 'i wore none when i left home.' 'that is suspicious,' he said, to my terror, but after a moment's reflection, which to me seemed an eternity, gave orders that i should be placed in a vegetable dealer's cart, which had been abandoned by the owner, and taken to a hospital. four soldiers flung me roughly into the vehicle and dragged me to the hôtel dieu." he paused in his narrative. pauline looked at him and her eyes filled with tears. "if i could tell you how i passed that night! you had scarcely gone out, when the concierge rushed into the room, panting: 'mademoiselle pauline! mademoiselle pauline! they have just shot our monsieur rudolf and carried him off.' i wanted to fly down, he forcibly prevented me. i tried to throw myself out of the window, he would not permit it. i was obliged to wait until morning. then i ran to the morgue, to the cemeteries, wherever corpses were exposed; i saw many, oh, a horrible number of them, but i did not find you." she had blanched to the lips as she spoke, and her eyes looked vacant. rudolf drew her toward him and she unconsciously let her head sink upon his shoulder. "i was sure that you were dead," she went on, "and that you had been flung into this common grave. everybody whom i asked told me so. and you sent no message? why not, if you were still in the hotel dieu? were you not allowed to do so? were you unconscious?" "both, my poor child. for several days i was so ill that i could form no distinct thoughts. when i grew better, i was placed under rigid surveillance, for they suspected me of having fought on the barricades. i was compelled to communicate with my ambassador that he might give information about me, and answer----" "but if you could communicate with your ambassador, you could also have sent me----" he made no answer. "and then you were cured," she went on more urgently, "and during these long, long years, did it never enter your mind to care for me?" he hung his head in embarrassment, and with deep pain avoided the glance she fixed upon him. why had he not written to her, why had he not returned to his lodgings when he left the hospital? he could not yet tell her the truth, not now, not here. shame and repentance seized him when he thought of it now; simply because he was glad to be able to leave paris without seeing pauline again. it was the old story, which ever remains new. a young student in paris meets a pretty young working-girl, who is alone in the world; they are pleased with each other, the girl willingly throws herself into the young man's arms, and these arms gladly clasp the affectionate young creature who nestles in them. under favourable circumstances, this careless, happy relation lasts a year or two, then comes the time when the student has completed his studies and practical life claims him. farewell to the delightful love-life, with no care for the future, no responsibility! farewell to the dove-like nest for two in an attic chamber filled with the roseate morning light of youth and hope! as a rule the parting takes place without trouble. he is calm, and she is sensible. then they dine together in the country, for the last time, drink champagne, and separate with blithesome wishes for future prosperity. or they are both sentimental. then there is a little weeping and sighing, they promise to write to each other and probably do so for a time, and it is days, perhaps even weeks before the wound in the heart which, happily, is not very deep, heals. but often, oh, often---- well, rudolf's case was precisely one of these. when it was time to leave paris to begin his professional life, he perceived with terror that the bonds which united him to pauline were much firmer than he had ever supposed. for two years she had shared his room in the passage saumon and, during this whole period, she had not caused him a moment's sorrow, had always thought only of him, to see him content and happy. she went to her work-room in the morning with a kiss and a smile, and returned in the evening with a smile and an embrace. if he was at work she sat quietly in her corner, looking over at him; if he wanted to be gay, she was as frolicsome as a poodle. if he took her to the theatre, she kissed his hand in gratitude. if he went out alone, she was sad, but she said nothing and asked no questions, which touched him so much that he gradually relinquished the habit of going out alone. if he gave her anything, she was reluctant to accept it; she would scarcely allow him even to bestow any articles of dress. in the whole two years he had never seen her nervous or out of temper. yet he ought, he must repulse this loyal devotion. yes, he must. for he could not be so crazy as to marry her! at twenty-three! a girl who had been picked up on the sidewalk of the rue montmartre. the thought was so absurd that it was not worth while to dwell upon it a moment. then, when he told her that the happiness must now end, he saw her, to his surprise and terror, turn deadly pale and sink back fainting. on recovering her consciousness, she burst into endless sobs, clung to his neck, covered him with burning kisses and tears, and exclaimed: "no, no, you won't leave me; i cannot, i cannot, i would rather die." he vainly endeavored to bring her to reason. she would listen to nothing. "for what do you reproach me?" the question could not help embarrassing him; for he had nothing with which to reproach her, except that she had been the object of his love, a reproach which of all men on earth he should be the last to make; and that she was poor, which he was ashamed to utter; and that she was uneducated, which could be no serious obstacle, for she made up for ignorance by natural wit and intelligence, and innate refinement. she wanted reasons, he could offer none except: "why, dear child, surely you will see that we must part now." that, however, was precisely what she could not perceive, and she continued to weep, saying mournfully: "rudolf, rudolf, do not leave me. i love you, and that is always something. i want nothing except to have you keep me with you. no one will ever love you as i do." these unspeakably painful scenes, to which rudolf had not the courage to put a heroic end, were repeated many days. when pauline's tears became unendurable, he went out and wandered for hours through the streets, restless, out of humour, tortured. it had happened so on that third of december, and-- this was the reason that he had not written to her or returned to his lodgings. the soldier's bullet seemed to him a merciful interposition of fate, which released him from his difficulties. when health was restored, he fairly fled from paris, leaving behind him the few effects of a jolly student. this soothed his conscience a little, and moreover he told himself that he owed pauline nothing, that she did not need him, that she, who possessed a thoroughly reasonable, nay, superior nature, would henceforward pursue the path of honour. true, a secret voice often cried out to him: "coward! coward!" but then he solaced himself by shrugging his shoulders and thinking that everybody else would have done the same, and she would console herself quickly enough. of course he could not confess this to her, but it was not necessary. she had divined it all. with a melancholy smile, she said: "i understand, my poor rudolf, i understand you were glad to get rid of troublesome pauline. the bullet spared you the pain of bidding me farewell." she was about to say more, but she forced it all back into her heart. she had never reproached him, should she do so now, in the spot which, for so many years, she had believed his grave? clasping her hand, rudolf pressed it tenderly, and to give the painful conversation a pleasanter turn, asked: "what are you doing now, how do you fare, pauline?" "i thank you for asking me." there was not a tinge of sarcasm or bitterness in these words, nothing but gratitude. "i am getting on perfectly well. i have worked, have made myself independent, and am now employing eight or ten workwomen, i am well-off, almost rich." she divined a question in the expression of his eyes, and said quickly: "always, rudolf, i have always remained faithful to you. i did not lack offers, you can understand that--but i would not accept. i was ashamed. and i wanted to have only your memory in my heart. does that surprise you? i suppose you don't believe it? of course. it isn't to be believed. a girl is courted. what else is there. when one has wearied of her, she is abandoned. but she was so foolish as to love sincerely and can never, never console herself." this time she was growing bitter. her lips quivered, and she passed her hand across her eyes, once she sobbed softly. suddenly she drew from her pocket an old leather book, which she gave him. while, with emotion, he recognized it as his own note-book, and found on the first page his half effaced caricature which a comrade in the _ecole centrale_ had once sketched, she took from her bosom an enamelled locket, opened it, and held it before his eyes. it was a gift from him, and contained a lock of brown hair--his hair! he could not resist the impulse and clasped her passionately to his breast, in spite of the people who were passing to and fro outside of the circle of flowers. "do you believe me now?" she asked releasing herself. his sole answer was to raise her hand to his lips. she held his right hand firmly. "and you, rudolf?" with an involuntary movement, he tried to draw it from her grasp. this led her to glance quickly at it. the third finger bore a wedding ring. pauline uttered a deep sigh, let his hand fall, closed her eyes, and tottered a moment. then she suddenly sank upon her knees in the same spot where she had knelt before, and her lips began to murmur a prayer. "pauline!" he cried imploringly. she shook her head gently, as though to drive away an inner vision, and turned entirely away from him. "pauline! let me at least have your address! i will not leave you so again!" she bowed her head upon her clasped hands, and neither moved nor answered. rudolf went close to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. a long shudder passed visibly and perceptibly through her whole frame, and she buried her face still more closely in her hands. he understood her-- the first signal of bell ringing sounded, which announced the closing of the cemetery. rudolf cast a hasty glance towards the entrance. his wife and his brother-in-law, with whom he had appointed this place of meeting, had just appeared there and were looking in every direction. rudolf glanced once more at the kneeling supplicant, then with a slow, noiseless, faltering step he left the circle of flowers. he passed down the wide avenue as though walking in a dream. when he had nearly reached the gate he stopped and turned for the last time. the western sky was steeped in the glow of sunset. a light mist was rising from the damp ground, filling the paths of the cemetery and effacing the outlines of the human beings and the monuments. shrouded by these floating vapours, pauline's motionless dark figure stood forth in strong relief against the bright sky, and seemed to be gradually merging into a background of flaming crimson sunset. rudolf felt as if he were beholding his own youth fade and melt into white cloudlets of mist. ii. another way. "so we have met again, old fellow?" said wolf breuning, with heartfelt pleasure, filling his friend sigmund friese's glass with wine. "may it not be so long before the next meeting," cried sigmund, as he touched glasses and drank. wolf breuning, a tall, handsome man, with bold blue eyes and a long, parted beard, which seemed as though it was woven of threads of red gold, was the manager of a chemical factory in paris. sigmund friese, shorter in stature, with a gentle, somewhat sensitive face, a short, fair, curly beard, and hair aristocratically thin, which already suggested a diplomatic bald head, was teaching mathematics in an american university. both were natives of south germany, friends from childhood, and had once plunged into the flood of life from the same spot on the shore, but were afterward washed far apart. after a long absence, sigmund had come from washington to europe to attend his sister's wedding, and availed himself of the opportunity, on the way from havre to mannheim, to visit his friend wolf in paris. the latter met him at the station and took him to his pleasant bachelor lodgings in the rue notre dame de lorette. now, scarcely an hour later, the first overflow of mutual confidences had been exchanged, and the friends were seated comfortably at dinner. "do you know that it is thirteen years since our last meeting?" asked wolf. "thirteen years!" sighed sigmund. "how many more times shall we experience such a period?" "never again," replied wolf, "the period from the twenty-fourth to the thirty-seventh year." "the festal time of life!" said sigmund; and after a pause, raising the glass to his lips, he added: "gone, gone!" "you have no cause to complain," said wolf consolingly; "youth is past, but you have used it well. a great name in science, an honourable position, comfortable circumstances----" sigmund smiled sorrowfully and pointed to his bald head. "yes, my friend," cried wolf, "we must make no unreasonable demands on life. luxuriant locks, and a well-paid professorship, teeth and celebrity, youth and orders, prosperity, successes of all kinds, these we cannot have unless we are born to royal rank." "when we consider how much we strive and how little we attain! what we dream, and to what realities we waken." "sigmund, you are unjust. thirteen years ago did you imagine, in your boldest expectations, more than you have now attained?" "perhaps not. but, to have it afford me pleasure, i ought to have attained it immediately after that time." "of course we are more weary when we reach the goal than at the start." "but this weariness very materially diminishes our pleasure in having reached it." "ah, i know the one thing wanting for your happiness," cried wolf. "well?" "a wife." "oh! you have no right to preach marriage, since you have remained a bachelor yourself." "i am three years younger than you." "but you are thirty-seven." "true," replied wolf, and for a time remained silent and thoughtful. then he continued: "what would you have? fate destines us to live in a foreign country, without family intercourse, far from the circle with which one is united by early memories and the first affections of the heart; we do not definitely seek, fate does not help us find. we adjust our lives to habits which really leave no room for a wife, and so the years flit by till some day we discover that we are bachelors and that it is too late to change." "that is exactly my case; i did not suppose it was yours also." "with me," replied wolf, "something else is added. recollections which make marriage rather dreaded than desired. we know how we have been loved, and fear that we shall not find such love again. we compare in advance a virtuous wife with the woman whose distant image is somewhat transfigured by the past, and confess that we have been completely spoiled for the part of a husband content to sit phlegmatically in the chimney corner." "you still think of helene?" cried sigmund in surprise. "why shouldn't i?" replied wolf, "you also remember her, as i see." "true," sigmund assented. "i have not forgotten her. she was a bewitchingly beautiful and charming woman. what a tempting mouth! what wicked eyes! and her clever talk! her merry disposition! wherever she was, she filled everything with life and animation." wolf gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, and made no reply. "she loved you very dearly," sigmund added. still wolf remained silent. "and you loved her." "yes," wolf answered at last, drawing his fingers slowly through his red beard. "i loved helene very dearly. so long as i was with her, i did not notice it, and when the child was born, i even felt greatly disturbed by the thought that i should now have her bound to me forever. not until after we had separated did i discover how large a place she had filled in my life. and the more distant that time becomes, it grows larger instead of less. a reversion of all the laws of perspective." "but an intelligible phenomenon," observed sigmund. "helene has become, in your remembrance, the embodiment of your youth, and the longing with which you think of her concerns your twenty-four years at least as much as she herself." "it may be so. the fact is that i see helene in a golden light of youth and careless happiness, and cannot think of her without tears." "do you know, friend wolf, that you perhaps did wrong to leave her?" "there are hours when i believe it. when we have found a creature whom we love, and who loves us in return, we ought on no account to give her up. we never know whether it will be possible to replace. and, after all, love is the only thing which makes life worth living." "what would you have, sigmund? that is the wisdom of mature years. at four and twenty we have not yet reached that knowledge. at that time i perceived only that i had picked helene up in the luxembourg gardens, that is, as it were, in the streets. i knew that i was not her first love--" "but her only one," interposed sigmund. "so she said, yes. but i had the feeling that i owed her nothing. love for love. this i gave her, and she ought to ask nothing more. yet it was an extremely careless relation, and i fully realized its doubtful character. at that time i should have advised any one else in my situation to release themselves from it kindly, and--well, i gave myself the same counsel. "your heart, even then, must have told you that you were wrong, and i think your common sense tells you so now. after all, the reasoning of the heart and that of the intellect does not differ so widely as silly wise folk suppose." wolf made no answer. "do you remember," sigmund began again, "when i came from heidelberg to visit you thirteen years ago? it was my first trip to paris. the city, its life, the people, everything produced an overpowering impression upon me. and in the midst of this frantic rush was the charming idyl; you and helene. your little room in the quiet street seemed like a magic isle in the roaring ocean. what was the name of that street?" "the rue st. dominique." "yes. i should like to make a pilgrimage there to see the old house." "impossible. the house has been torn down. the street has disappeared. the magnificent boulevard st. germain now runs through there." "so nothing is to be found again! nothing is left of all the beautiful things which we experience, save the shadow of its memory in our souls! we ought never to return to the scenes of past happiness, unless we are sure of finding them unchanged." sigmund was becoming more and more tender and sensitive. it was his nature. he continued: "how often i have lived over again the evening when you went to dr. amandier's reception, and left me alone with helene. i was very awkward. i did not know how i ought to treat her, and the more at ease she appeared, the more embarassed i became. i paid her compliments, she laughed. conversation was difficult, for i had no great knowledge of french. she took pity on me and sat down at the cottage piano. she played very prettily. very often she turned round and smiled at me. she was extremely bewitching, and my heart glowed. i envied you. i planned all sorts of base things. i paid court to her. i confess it now. you are not angry with me?" "don't fear," replied wolf smilingly, "helene told me about it as soon as i came home. i was not jealous of you." "thank you," replied sigmund with comical irritability. "summoning my whole vocabulary, i said all sorts of pretty things to her, but while talking excitedly, with burning cheeks, she took up the little dog our friend tannemann gave her, and calmly began to hunt for fleas in his curly hair. this made me so furious that i started up and rushed off without a farewell." "but you were appeased the next day," observed wolf. "of course. when my blood had become cool, her composure in the presence of my love-making inspired respect. then we became the best friends, and she remarked: 'since you no longer say that you love me, i love you.' and do you remember the sunday excursion?" "certainly. to st cloud. with tannemann." "it was enough to made one die of laughing. helene intentionally talked extremely fast, so that tannemann, who knew little about french, could not understand her. he was terribly provoked because he was continually obliged to ask her to repeat everything two or three times. what a merry breakfast we had on the grass in the midst of the ruins!" "you carried the two bottles of wine in the pockets of your overcoat." "and you the ham and the chicken. helene had the bread and butter and the dishes in a little basket. tannemann was to furnish the dessert. but when the time came for that, he declared that there was some misunderstanding, nothing had been said to him about it." "he is still the same skinflint he was then." "the same old pedant, too? whenever helene kissed you, he looked away indignantly." "helene was very loving that day. how you blushed when she said that the only thing we needed to be thoroughly comfortable was that you should have brought a little friend too." sigmund sighed deeply. "yes, we were young then," wolf said, closing the retrospect. "and you at least know that you have been young. you possess beautiful memories, of which nothing and no one can deprive you. "'who'er has been clasped in the arms of love, all poverty's ills is for aye raised above; e'en though he should die afar and alone, still would he possess the blissful hour when kisses upon her lips he did shower, and, e'en in death, she would yet be his own.'" "yours?" asked wolf. "nonsense, that's no mathematician's poetry. old storm." "the feeling is true, though it is somewhat insipidly expressed. memories are indeed wealth, though it arouses melancholy to rummage amid the treasure." "tell me, wolf--what has become of helene?" "i hope she is faring very well." "you do not know?" "i will tell you what i know about her. i was going to spain at that time, as you are aware, about the copper-mining business. but i had to give it up because i would not leave helene. our child died when it was six weeks old. what would i give if i had the boy now! then i considered his death the solving of a problem. i told helene that i must now go to huelva. she wanted to accompany me. of course that would not do. there were passionate scenes, but i released myself. she promised to return to her father in douai, and she kept her word, because for a time her letters came from there." "so you wrote to each other?" "yes, at first. after some time she suddenly appeared in paris again. she wrote in apology that she could no longer endure that dull douai with her morose old father. after that i heard nothing from her for a long time. then came a letter informing me that she was going to marry a wine-merchant, who cherished no resentment for her past, as her father had made a sacrifice!" "shame!" "you just said yourself that i ought to have bound her permanently to my life." "yes, from love, not for a dowry. besides, you had less to forgive than the wine-merchant." "what of it--that's the morality of people who are called practical." "and then?" "then the marriage probably took place. i have heard nothing more from helene." "did you not try to learn something about her?" "to be honest--no. i do not think i have a right to cross her path. and what would have been the object of another advance, since she was married? true--i often feel--but we combat such emotions." "she has never made the attempt to see you again? perhaps she thinks that you are still in spain." "or she is dead. for when people have loved each other so ardently in the glorious days of youth, it is impossible to live and become strangers. at least it seems so to me." "ah, sigmund, life is a cruel extinguisher of lights." "certainly, but there are flames which life does not extinguish. only death----" a few months had passed since the meeting of the two friends. sigmund friese was again in washington, teaching mathematics, when one day he received the following letter from wolf breuning. "dearest sigmund:-- "what wonderful things chance can bring to pass in the capital! i am writing to you under the fresh impression of the incident. you will open your eyes! i was walking through the rue rochechouart about two o'clock this afternoon when an elegantly dressed lady, coming from the opposite direction, suddenly stopped just in front of me. as i was absorbed in thought, at first i took no notice but passed on. after a few steps the fleeting perception became a distinct consciousness, and i involuntarily turned. there the lady still stood, as if rooted to the spot, looking after me. i went back somewhat hesitatingly, though curious, she hastily advanced to meet me and, ere i could distinguish her features through the thick veil, she cried in a stifled voice: 'i was not mistaken! it is really you! what good luck! what good luck!' as she spoke she stretched out both hands, clasped mine, pressed them, and continued to hold them. you have guessed it: helene. what shall i say to you, my friend? i felt as if i were in a dream. before me stood the woman of whom i so often thought, since your visit more frequently and more tenderly than ever, the personification of my happiest moments, the love of my youth, transfigured by memory, for whom i had longed twelve years, whom i had never expected to see again! you know that i am not usually sentimental, but my eyes grew dim. i could say only: 'helene!' then we had embraced and kissed each other--through the veil--as if we were mad, in the public street, and in the presence of the passers-by, who looked at us curiously. helene took my arm and drew me quickly forward in silence. a hack was passing. helene stopped it, sprang in hastily, and then asked: 'can we go to your home?' 'certainly,' i cried. 'then give the driver your address.' now we again sat hand clasped in hand, gazing into each other's eyes, it was a moment full of mingled bliss and pain, such as i have scarcely ever experienced. then came another shower of kisses and caresses, this time with the veil thrown back and even the hat laid aside--the twelve years of course have not passed over her leaving no trace, but she is still a beautiful, stylish woman--then followed questions. i was obliged to relate first how i had fared and what i had experienced. she rejoiced that i was unmarried, she pressed my hand when i told her that i had not ceased to think of her. then she began to tell her story. she was married. happily? she really had no cause to complain. her husband, of course, was not i, but she made no comparisons. he treated her kindly. he made a great deal of money. only she was bored. besides, he was jealous. it was absurd, since he did not love her. on account of this jealousy she had been obliged to cease writing to me. she was stupid at that time and did not know for what the 'to be kept till called for' had been invented-- "then we reached my lodgings. i was as soft-hearted and imbecile as a student at his first love-tryst. i did not wish to degrade this meeting to the level of a commonplace bachelor adventure. i wanted to keep the bloom and the fragrance of the flower. "i began to speak of the past." alas, dear sigmund! "she first said that our meeting occurred in the year . when i clasped my hands and mournfully exclaimed: 'then you have forgotten that it was in ,' she was a little confused, but recovered with the swift remark: 'a date is of no importance, the main thing is that we were happy, oh, very happy!' i asked if she remembered our little nest. "'certainly!' she cried, clapping her hands in delight. she remembered that it was in the rue st. dominique, but when i attempted to win from her a description of the furniture, the view from our two windows, she evaded it. i turned the conversation to you--i don't mention it to offend you--but there was not the faintest recollection! completely forgotten! i spoke of tannemann--nothing, nothing! not until i recalled the little dog could she remember him, but it was especially the animal, the giver very dimly. i alluded to our excursion--her eyes sparkled, all the details, even the most minute incidents came back to her, and she related with the utmost fluency, in a rapture of delight, a picnic with breakfast in a hut built of branches and an extravagant quantity of wine--which we had never had together. "what a shower-bath! my teeth fairly chattered from it. she noticed my coldness, asked if i had any other love, became irritated when i pretended not to hear the question, finally said that she must go, and was thoroughly offended when i did not detain her. she went away without mentioning another meeting and i let her go, without even asking where she lived. "i shall hardly see her again. i regret that i met her. to-day is the first time that i have wholly lost helene, and the loss gives me pain. it was a beautiful self-delusion, and i would gladly have treasured it to my life's end. "you were right when you said that we ought not return to the scenes of former happiness unless we were sure of finding them unchanged. "a thousand kind remembrances from your strangely agitated "wolf. "_postscript_. shall i tell you all i think? i believe that helene has mistaken me for some one else----" a midsummer night's dream. part i. herr von jagerfeld, a rich manufacturer who had recently been elevated to the rank of baron in the bavarian nobility, was celebrating a double festival: his silver wedding and the completion of his castle, franzensruhe, which he had built outside the gates of marktbreit, on the slope of one of the hills, which, as the last western spur of the steigerwald, roll in a gradual descent to the bank of the main. the castle was a magnificent edifice, in the renaissance style--of course. red sandstone and white marble had been used, with a beautiful effect of colour, for the façade, which made a lavish display of pilasters with foliage and vine work, niches containing statues, and bay windows with beautiful wrought iron railings. the castle stood in the midst of a lovely park filled with trees a century old, which extended up to the summit of the hill and down to the river. the master of the castle liked a lavish style. he had invited to his house-warming numerous guests, to whom, in the spacious apartments planned for this purpose, he could offer a really royal hospitality, at once magnificent and refined. they were chiefly land-owners from the province of the main, rich merchants and manufacturers from frankfort, and acquaintances from places still more remote, who had flocked here with their wives and grown children, so that from early morning the mansion had been filled with joyous life. the entire company assembled for the first time at the banquet which took place in the evening. the large dining-hall, wainscoted with polished marble in the style of the italian palaces, whose painted ceiling was supported by fluted columns, was lighted by a superb chandelier with hundreds of wax candles, and contained a long table very richly set. silver ornaments, exquisitely wrought, adorned the centre and the ends. the china, the array of glasses of all shapes which stood beside each plate, bore the initial of the master of the house, without any heraldic addition which might recall the recent elevation of rank, a graceful bit of coquetry on the part of a man who had been successful in life, but who was no upstart. at every plate was also placed a bouquet, in a holder representing a crystal lily with a silver cup. the company harmonized with the luxurious environment. the married ladies attracted the eye by their elegant toilettes and rich jewels, the young girls--among whom were several of bewitching beauty and freshness--in simpler costumes, with flowers in their hair, by their natural charms. even among the monotonous black dress coats of the men, an eye which took pleasure in colour found some degree of satisfaction in the gay uniforms of several bavarian and russian officers. the hostess, still a pretty woman, with her wealth of fair hair and her clear complexion, over whose delicate transparency the years had passed with scarcely a trace, had at her right an elderly general with numerous orders, who, being a great eater and a very poor conversationalist, feasted his eyes alternately on his plate and on the pretty faces, whispering to his neighbour remarks about the viands and the feminine guests, whose artless simplicity--they consisted chiefly of a noun and a laudatory adjective--showed a profoundly satisfied and comfortable mood. at her left sat a highly esteemed friend of the family, dr. bergmann, a young physician, a tutor in the wurzburg university, who, during the past three years had twice had the opportunity of saving frau von jagersfeld and her eldest daughter, in cases of severe illness, from threatening death, and to whom the whole family therefore felt unbounded gratitude. bergmann was a handsome man, still under thirty, whose grave manner made him appear somewhat older. a thoughtful brow, an absolutely straight nose, large grey eyes, which on first meeting them looked cold and penetrating, lips somewhat large, yet well modelled, dark beard, and a luxuriant head of hair which was permitted to wave, stand up, or lie flat at will, were the individual features which collectively formed a remarkably interesting head. his manner showed a peculiar mingling of modesty, nay, timidity, and vigorous self-reliance. it was evident that he was unaccustomed to the drawing-room and large companies, and felt at ease only beside a sick-bed. he was rather awkward in aimless chatter, but, on the other hand, firm and clear in professional conversation. a mere boy in the presence of a talkative, pretty girl, but a hero and a conqueror when with a suffering, anxious human being, beseeching his aid. his left-hand neighbour, the wife of a frankfort banker, who chatted rapidly about the architecture of the dining-hall and the wagner performances at bayreuth, received monosyllabic, hesitating replies, while he talked eloquently to the lady on his right, the hostess, upon the influence of modern nervousness upon social forms. he paid little heed to the guests, and had only glanced at them carelessly two or three times, bowing to acquaintances, and hastily obtaining a general impression of the strangers. at each of these surveys his eyes had remained fixed upon a lady who sat directly opposite to him, and whose beauty was remarkable, peculiar, and fascinating. so far as her figure could be seen, while seated, it appeared slight and delicate, without fragility, girlishly immature, yet not lean in form. the small head, supported by a slender, snow-white neck, was a marvel of grace and elegance, instantly recalling the bust of clytie in the british museum. one involuntarily looked for the sunflower from whose calyx it really ought to bloom. the brow was narrow and dazzlingly fair, the nose uncommonly delicate, slightly arched at the root, with mobile nostrils, so delicate that one might believe them transparent; the mouth not very small, but exquisitely shaped, with thin lips, curving obstinately, which curled sometimes sternly, sometimes scornfully, sometimes bitterly, but could also smile with infinite sweetness and charm; the chin round and statuesque, the cheeks neither plump nor hollow, with a delightful play of tender lights and soft, almost imperceptible shadows over their bright surfaces. but the most remarkable characteristics of this head were the large blue eyes, deep as the sea, beneath long lashes and nobly-formed brows, and the luxuriant, almost golden-red hair, whose silken wealth of naturally waving locks rested above the brow in two bands, like the gleaming wings of some bright-hued tropical bird, while the light of the candles, shining on the braids, struck out strange, satiny, metallic reflections, and a powdery, glimmering sparkle, as though the hair was dusted with gold or ruby powder. her sole ornaments were a diamond star in the hair and an antique gold circlet on one of her bare arms. the white dress, trimmed on one side of the bosom to the opposite side of the waist with a garland of artificial flowers, looked simple, yet very elegant. the eye of the most critical woman could find no fault in the harmony of the toilette, the coldest man could not avert his gaze from the head, which constantly called forth the two comparisons to a greek cameo, or a nixie, comparisons which the beautiful woman was compelled to hear so often that they seemed unbearably commonplace. the young lieutenant--a count--who sat at her left hand, was probably whispering something of the sort into her little ear, for her face assumed a repellently cold, bored expression, and her eyes were fixed dreamily on vacancy,--many times farther away than the earth from the sun,--from her gallant neighbor, the table, and the hall. but bergmann's gaze must have followed her all this distance, for it suddenly met hers, and the tall, grave fellow flushed under her pensive glance. the hostess looked at him just at this moment, and saw the blood mount into his cheeks. "what is the matter?" she could not help whispering. he blushed a second time, even more deeply. but frau von jagerfeld had followed his eye, and now said, smiling: "ah, your opposite neighbor!" "who is the lady?" bergmann asked, with some little embarrassment. "doctor," replied frau von jagerfeld, this time smiling, "take care. many wings have already been scorched by her." "don't fear, madame. i can endure flames somewhat better than a moth." "come, come, a suspicious reflection of fire is already visible on your cheeks." a shadow of annoyance flitted across bergmann's face. his hostess laid her hand quickly on his arm, saying: "don't be vexed by a little jest, my dear friend. i will tell you who the beautiful woman is. she is a german-american, and her name is mrs. ada burgess. young and charming, as you see, the poor woman is unhappy. her father is the owner of a gold mine somewhere in nebraska, and was reputed a very wealthy man; at least he lived in extremely handsome style in st. louis, and his daughter, who was considered the handsomest girl in the west, from the time of her entrance into society was the reigning belle of every ball and entertainment. mr. burgess, who seems to have been a handsome and elegant man, was her most devoted suitor and appeared to be madly in love with her. ada did not remain insensible to the persistent homage, and burgess bore away the victory over numerous rivals. but it now appears that he has a base soul and his main object was the dowry. there, however, he was disappointed. gold mines, evidently, are not always productive, at least ada's father was ruined by his, and ada did not receive a penny. then the comedy of love played by burgess ended. at first he treated her indifferently, then harshly, and soon matters became so bad that she was obliged to seek refuge from her husband's abuse in her parents' house. her nerves had been so shaken by the horrible scenes which she experienced, that your american colleagues recommended a long residence in europe for the restoration of her health. she came here, and for several months has lived in frankfort, where the best society struggles for her. yon can imagine that a young and beautiful woman entirely alone, whose husband is invisible, does not remain unassailed. besides, there is the american independence and confidence of manner which is often mistaken for emancipation, and by which a man easily feels encouraged--in short, serious attention has been paid to her, and she has seemed to accept it. then suddenly there came a repulse and a rupture, which has already resulted in injury to several somewhat delicately strung masculine hearts. moreover she is very uneven in her manner. often gay, even reckless, devising pranks like a spoiled boy, then suddenly reserved, distant, and stern. true, she is always intellectual, so that i know many a man who is uncomfortable in her society, to say nothing of women." frau von jagerfeld had spoken eagerly in a low tone, with frequent interruptions when courtesy compelled her to listen to the numerous toasts which were chiefly proposed to her and to the master of the house. mrs. burgess could not long fail to notice that the two persons opposite were talking about her, and she smilingly shook her finger across the table at her friend. "poor woman," murmured bergmann, "so bitter in experience at the threshold of life--but why does she endure her fate? it is so easy to be set free in america." "i don't know. perhaps on account of her children." "ah--she has children?" "two; and it is strange and touching to see how she rears them. often she treats them like dolls, and amuses herself for hours by dressing and undressing them, dragging them around the room, and then suddenly dropping them in some sofa corner, head down and feet up. then again, she talks gravely and tenderly to the little creatures, and tries to instil good principles--it is too comical. but she is a delightful creature, oh, a delightful creature----" the banquet was over, honor was done to the last toast from brimming champagne glasses, and the guests went to the drawing-room. several minutes elapsed before the gentlemen had escorted the ladies to their chairs, and the arrangement appointed according to rank and precedence, which had governed the seats assigned at the table, had yielded to free gathering in groups. mrs. burgess had dismissed her lieutenant with a somewhat curt bow, and took her place before a beautiful little menzel, which she examined a long time. frau von jagerfeld and bergmann released themselves almost at the same moment, the former from her old general, the latter from his banker's wife, and again found themselves side by side. "do you want me to introduce you to ada?" she asked, quickly. he bowed silently, and offered his arm. on reaching ada, she lightly touched her on the shoulder, white as mother-of-pearl, with her fan, and when the lady, somewhat surprised, turned, frau von jagerfeld, smiling pleasantly, said: "my dear child, let me present to you our best friend, dr. bergmann. i must devote myself to the rest of my guests, and, unfortunately, have not time to tell you all the good i think of him. but you will discover all that is necessary for yourself. you know, my dear, that you are the two most interesting people here. it is fitting for you to be together." with these words she rustled away to address a few kindly words to the architect of the castle, who was surrounded by a numerous group. bergman stood before mrs. burgess, gazing at her gravely and intently. the more at ease of the two, she sat down on a sofa and, with a gesture of the hand, invited him to take the arm-chair in front of it. "frau von jagerfeld has talked of you a great deal, and very enthusiastically," she said, in a musical, somewhat deep, resonant voice, which thrilled his every nerve like the sound of bells, and as he bowed, she added, smiling mischievously: "and of me to you; i watched you at the table." "yes," he answered, "and enthusiastically, also." "she is a kind friend, i know." a brief pause followed, which she abruptly interrupted. "you are a physician, and in spite of your youth, a famous one--modesty is unnecessary. it is strange--i like physicians, and yet i fear them." "why?" "yes, why? i like them because they are usually earnest, talented men, who have experienced much, know much, and from whom new and remarkable things can always be learned. i fear them because they have no illusions." "perhaps that is not always correct." "oh, pardon me; how is a physician to preserve any illusions, when he knows human beings thoroughly, sees that an emotion depends upon the nerve of a tooth, a mood upon the degree of moisture contained in the air, and a character upon the healthy or diseased stomach. you leave your illusions upon your dissecting tables." "what you say might be true if illusions and experiences came from the same source. but they do not." "i don't fully understand. explain yourself." "what you call illusions are ideal images and aspirations, which originate in the sphere of our impulses and feelings, not in our sensible reasoning. but the impulses and feelings are more elementary and more deeply rooted, thought comes later and remains more on the surface. we inherit our illusions from the countless generations that have preceded us, our experiences we draw from our individual lives. an individual experience cannot outweigh the illusions of a thousand ancestors, who form a part of our organism. but, pardon me, i have caught myself in the midst of a tutor's lecture--you see that impulse is stronger than prudence." "do you ask pardon for that? what you say is so interesting. i suppose you have a very bad opinion of women, since you do not think them capable of understanding you?" "i do not generalize. whatever opinion i might have of women, i should not apply it to you." "you understand how to pay compliments admirably. you are not commonplace." he made no reply, but gazed at her with so earnest a look, expressive of such unconscious admiration and worship that she flushed, and with a nervous flutter of her fan rose. bergmann rose also, bowed, and made a movement to retire. ada opened her eyes in surprise, and involuntarily a word escaped her lips: "why----" "i thought i was wearying you." she held out her finger-tips, which he pressed so warmly that she hastily withdrew her hand. going to one of the three large windows in the drawing-room, she opened it and stepped out upon the broad, projecting balcony, which on the second story extended along the whole front of the castle. leaning against the balustrade, both silently watched for a moment the scene before them. the july night was warm, and the air was stirless. not a cloud appeared in the blackish-blue sky, the stars were sparkling brightly, and among them, almost at the zenith, sailed the full moon. at their feet lay the park, from which rose faint odours of unknown wild flowers and the more pungent fragrance of dewy grass and leafage. directly in front of the building extended a lawn, with beds of flowers, on which the moonlight poured a sort of filmy glimmering mist, which gave the green grass and the bright hues of the flower-beds a light, silvery veil. beyond the lawn, on all sides, towered the trees of the park, intersected by broad paths, through which the moonbeams flowed like a gleaming white stream between steep black banks. at the end of the central avenue appeared the main, flowing in a broad, calm stream, with here and there a noisy, troubled spot in the midst of its peacefully-gliding waves, where a rock or a sand-bar interrupted the mirror-like expanse, and caused a rushing, foam-sprinkled whirlpool. beyond the river, amid the light, floating night-mists, were dimly seen the houses of a little village, on whose window-panes a moonbeam often flashed, and at the left of the park rose the indistinct mass of the city of marktbreit, whose steep, narrow streets were filled with shadows, while above the steeples and higher roofs the moon-rays rippled, bringing them out in bright relief against the dark picture. part ii. the spell of this moonlight night mounted to the heads of the two silent watchers on the balcony like an intoxicating draught, and sent cold chills down their spines. almost without being aware what he was doing, bergmann offered ada his arm, which she accepted, leaning against him with a gentle, clinging movement of her whole figure. there they stood, letting their dreamy eyes wander over the woods, the river, and the city. they would have forgotten the castle and the entertainment had not the subdued notes of the dance music reached them from the ball-room, whose windows opened upon the balcony on the opposite side of the façade, filling the night with low harmonies which were continued in the vibrations of their own nerves. at this moment the clock in the marktbreit steeple struck twelve, directly after the sound of a night watchman's horn was heard, and a wailing voice, rising in the sleeping streets of the city, called a few unintelligible words. "what was that?" ada whispered. "the night watchman, according to the custom of the country, called the hour with a verse," replied bergmann. a few minutes later the call was repeated, this time nearer, and so distinctly that it could be understood. the night watchman, with mournful emphasis, sung: "twelve strokes time's limit do teach thee, man, think of thy mortality." "life in your germany is like a fairy tale," said ada, after repeating the verse to herself; "everything is so dreamy; so pervaded with poetry." "then stay in our germany, stay with us," he pleaded, softly, his voice expressing far more than his words. she shook her little head sorrowfully. "i came five years too late." "do not say that," replied bergmann, pressing the bare arm which rested on his closely to his side. "how old are you now?" it did not occur to her to smile at the question or to answer it, according to the ordinary custom of women, with an affected reply. she said, instead, as simply as a child: "twenty-three." "and at twenty-three would it be too late to seek and strive for happiness in life? when sorrow has been experienced so young, it can surely be regarded as a childish disease and there is nothing to be done except to forget it as quickly as possible." ada gazed fixedly into vacancy, saying, as if lost in thought: "no, no. that is not so. there are injuries which are incurable. the mother of two children is old at twenty-three. since she can no longer offer a man the full happiness of love, she has no right to expect it from him." he was about to answer, but with a hasty movement she placed her slender finger on her lip, saying: "hush! not another word on this subject. look"--and her hand pointed, down to the park. from a bow window in the castle a powerful apparatus was sending a broad stream of electric light into the darkness. it often changed and moved, being thrown now here, then there. in its course it illumined the tops of the trees with a faint, livid phosphorescence, interwove the shrubbery with fantastic gliding spots of light, and gave the turf, wherever it was visible, the appearance of a strip of a glittering glacier. in the distance, where the light was lost in the dense groups of trees, it produced the illusion of indistinct shapes gleaming out there for a moment and then vanishing. it seemed as if one could see something mysterious moving or standing, perhaps a human form, wrapped in floating robes, perhaps a white marble statue hidden behind the foliage, perhaps a mist, gathering and scattering. night moths and bats, fluttering across the bar of light out of the darkness into the darkness, shone brightly during the brief period of their passage, then suddenly vanished again like moss blown through a flame. the electric light seemed to make a road through the park, spread a silver carpet over it, and invite the two who watched its course to walk along this shining road to the distance where the shadowy white shapes hovered in the shrubbery, appearing and disappearing. the temptation was irresistible. "let us go down," said ada, and a few minutes later, with a light mantilla over her shoulders, she was walking by his side over the creaking gravel of the avenue and then over the noiseless side paths. how blissful is the wandering of a handsome young couple, with glowing hearts in their breasts, through a moonlit, fragrant summer night! their feet do not feel the earth on which they tread, but seem to be floating on clouds. nothing is left of the world save these two and the night which maternally conceals them--he and she, naught else, like adam and eve, when they were the only human dwellers in paradise. a damp branch of the bushes often brushed ada's shoulders like an affectionate, caressing hand, as she slowly passed along. now and then a bird whose nest was in the underbrush, disturbed in its sleep, fluttered up before them, and, stupid with slumber, flew to a neighboring bough. ada sometimes plucked a flower, or cautiously touched with her finger one of the little glow worms, which in great numbers edged the path with their greenish light. they went down to the main and back again to the park fence, facing marktbreit. just as they reached it the clock struck one, and the night watchman blew his horn, and again solemnly intoned his old-fashioned melody: "one thing, lord god of truth, we want; a happy death to us all grant." the full magic of the moment held them both in its thrall. bergmann passionately clasped ada's head between his hands, and pressed a long, ardent kiss on her golden hair and her white brow. drawing a long breath, she submitted, not shrinking back until his burning lips sought hers. their hearts beat audibly as they continued their walk, and long pauses interrupted their faltering speech. what did they say to each other? why repeat it? one who has never had such conversations will not understand them, and one who has experienced them, only needs to be reminded of them. they are always the same. memories of childhood, rapture and extravagance, words of enthusiastic love, words which create the slight tremor of the skin like a cool breeze or the caress of toying fingers. so they walked a long, long time in the dark park, without heeding the flight of time, far from the world and unutterably happy. "i am tired, karl," ada said at last, and leaned her head on his shoulder. they were near a low, grassy bank, a few paces from the central avenue, and almost under the balcony of the castle, but completely concealed by the dense shadow of the over-arching trees. karl spread his shawl over the bank and the ground, placed ada on it, and reclined at her feet, resting his head in her lap. the balcony and the windows and lights of the drawing-room could all be seen from this spot. the window still stood open, the notes of a piano were heard, and a voice began the song: "from out my tears will bloom full many a flow'ret fair." a pretty, but somewhat cold, female voice, with no special tenderness and feeling. yet the combined poesy of heine and schumann triumphed gloriously over the inadequacy of the execution. the wonderful, choral-like melody soared like the flight of a swan over the rapt pair, and completely dissolved their souls in melody and love: "before thy windows shall ring the song of the nightingale," sang the woman's voice above, and the accompanying piano completed the air with an organ-like closing accord. "before thy windows shall ring the song of the nightingale," karl softly repeated, in his beautiful baritone, thrilling with an approaching tempest of passion, his arms clasped ada's waist, and he gazed up at her with wild, flaming eyes. she bent down to him and her lips met his, which nearly scorched them. leaning back, and gently pushing his head away, she whispered: "don't repeat verses by heine; say something which is yours, and is composed for me." "that i will, ada," he cried, and, kneeling before her, clasping her in a close embrace and devouring her face with rapturous eyes, his whole being wrought up to the highest pitch of emotion, he said in a rapid improvisation, bursting from the inmost depths of his soul: "in the shadowy hour when ghosts do flit, thou art to me a beauteous dream; to thy lips i cling, yet while i love, my happiness scarce real doth seem." "thy mouth and thy fair hands i kiss, i kiss thine eyes and thy silken hair, and should our lives end at this hour, still we should die a happy pair." her eyes were half closed, and her bosom heaved. after a short pause, he continued slowly in a tremulous voice: "oh, god, that i should find thee here, only to cause my woe, for thou wilt vanish from my gaze, ere the first cock doth crow." "no, no," she murmured, almost inaudibly, sinking into his arms, which clasped her wildly and ardently, pressing her to his heart, while his lips showered kisses upon her and a sudden ecstasy began to cloud her senses. then, just at that moment, the clock in the marktbreit church steeple struck two, the blast of the horn followed, and the mysterious voice rose in the invisible city and sang, this time close at hand and seemingly with significant emphasis: "two paths are to each mortal shown; lord, guide me in the narrow one." as if stung by a serpent, ada started up, wrenched herself by a sudden movement from karl's clasping arms, and hastened away as though pursued by all the fiends of hell. a moment later, her white figure had vanished in the castle and karl found himself alone before the grassy bank; he might have believed it a dream if the mantilla had not still lain there exhaling ada's favourite perfume, a faint fragrance of carnations. with heavy, dulled brain, aching limbs, and a strange sense of pain in his heart, karl staggered back to the castle and to his room. for a long time sleep fled from him. a thousand scenes hovered in a confused throng before his fancy, blending into a witch-dance in whose mazes his own brain seemed to whirl also, until the giddiness became intolerable. he saw ada in various transformations--now seated opposite to him at the table--then in the drawing-room--anon clasped in his arms--sometimes brightly illuminated as the queen of the ball-room--sometimes a faint, dark vision against the sombre background of the woodland--he inhaled her favourite perfume, felt the touch of her arms and her lips--he heard her voice and the melancholy music of the night watchman and the notes of the dancing tune from the ballroom, and amid these exciting delusions of the senses a restless, dream-haunted slumber at last overtook him. * * * * * * it was almost noon when he awoke. at first his head felt confused and empty, but gradually he collected his thoughts, and now the experience of the previous night again stood clearly before his eyes. he suddenly recalled all his feelings during the walk through the woods, and, while dressing with the utmost haste, he exultingly repeated in a low tone again and again: "i love her! and she returns my love! and we will never part." his first thought was to seek ada. the mantilla, which he must return, afforded the pretext. after several inquiries he found her apartments, which were next to those occupied by the mistress of the house. ada's maid opened the door and looked at him in surprise when he gave her the package and asked if he could see mrs. burgess. "she has a headache, and probably won't be up to-day," was the curt answer, with which the door was closed in his face. this was a disappointment, and he felt very unhappy and forsaken. yet he endeavoured to combat these feelings and mingled with the other guests. at noon he exchanged a hurried greeting with frau von jagerfeld, who looked at him intently, but said nothing when he avoided her glance. in the afternoon he walked to marktbreit and through the villages on the neighbouring hills, but the longing of his heart soon drove him back to the castle, where for hours he paced patiently up and down the pillared hall upon which most of the rooms occupied by the visitors opened. in the evening the guests again assembled at a banquet. bergmann hoped that ada would be present, and he was not disappointed. the summons to the meal had been given for the third time, nearly all the other members of the house-party were in the drawing-room when ada's door at last opened. karl rushed forward and held out his hand to her. she started, paused an instant on the threshold, then hurried past him without turning her head, and swiftly vanished. karl stood as if he were turned to stone, gazing after her retreating figure; then forgetting the banquet and everything else, he hastened to his room and wrote ada a letter, in which he repeated all the expressions of love lavished upon her during the preceding night, and begged for an explanation of her recent conduct. this missive he gave to ada's maid, with the urgent request to deliver it to her mistress that very evening before she retired. then he went out to try to conquer his agitation by a walk in the park, and when he thought that he had regained his composure, he returned to the drawing-room to see and to talk with ada. the meal was over, gaiety reigned throughout the various groups, and a storm of reproaches for his absence from the table assailed him on all sides. but he looked in vain for ada. she had retired immediately after dinner. so she was now reading his letter! perhaps now she was answering him! his heart throbbed wildly at this thought. he would gladly have made another attempt to see ada in her own apartments, but he felt that he owed her due reserve, and determined to have patience until the next day. when, on the following morning, he came out of his bed-chamber into the ante-room, he instantly saw on the table a sealed package which bore his address. he tore the wrapper with trembling hands and found within his own letter and a gilt-edged book. it was an english copy of shakespeare's "midsummer night's dream." on the first page, in a woman's delicate chirography, were the words: "a midsummer night's dream. july , --. ada." that was all. from the servant, who appeared at his ring, bergmann learned the package had been left by mrs. burgess' maid early that morning. mrs. burgess had been gone half an hour. first love. a novel in three volumes. vol. i. london: saunders and otley, conduit street. . london: ibotson and palmer, printers, savoy-street, strand. all the mottoes annexed to the chapters of this work, have been selected from the author's dramatic and other poetical works, not yet published. first love. chapter i. "no hut shelters comala from the rain." a family of travelling vagrants were overtaken on the high road just leading out of keswick, on the penrith side, by a gentleman on horseback. he had observed the same group begging during the entertainments of the regatta which had concluded but the evening before. "ho! ho! my good woman," he said, as he passed in a sling trot, "i am glad to see your boy has found his second leg!" the woman, who appeared to be young, and who would have been handsome, had not dirt and impudence rendered her disgusting, looked behind her, and perceived that a poor, sickly, ragged child, apparently about five years old, who followed her, tired of his crutches, which pushed up his little shoulders almost out of their sockets, had contrived to loosen the bandage of his tied-up leg, and slip it down out of the dirty linen bag, in which it usually hung on the double, and from which it was not always released, even at night, as so doing necessarily incurred the further trouble of tying it up again in the morning. she laid down her bundle, and stood still with her arms a-kimbo, till, with hesitating steps, and looks of suppressed terror, her victim came up; then glancing round, to ascertain that the gentleman was out of sight, she seized the child, snatched both the crutches from his trembling hands, and grasping them in one of hers, she began to flog him without pity. he seemed used to this, for he uttered no sound of complaint; silent tears only rolled down his face. "ye villain!" said she at last, with a strong cumberland accent, and gasping for breath, "it's not the first time, is it? it's not the first time i've beat you within an inch of your life for this. but i'll do for you this time: that i will! you shan't be a burden to me any longer, instead of a profit. if it wasn't for the miserable looks of ye," she added, shaking him almost to atoms as she wheeled him round, "that sometimes wrings a penny out of the folk, i'd ha' finished ye long ago." then, with her great foot, armed with an iron-rimmed wooden shoe, she gave him a violent kick on the offending leg, continuing thus:--"its best break the shanks on ye at ance, ye whey-faced urchin ye! and then ye'll tak te yeer crutches without biddin'!" finding, however, that though he had staggered and fallen forward on both hands, he had yet risen again, and still contrived to stand, she once more lifted her foot, to repeat the kick with increased force: for she was as much intoxicated by drink as by rage, and really seemed to intend to break the child's leg; but her husband, a sort of travelling tinker, coming up at the moment, and uttering a violent curse, struck her a blow that, poised as she just then was on one foot, brought her to the ground. during the scuffle which ensued, the poor little sufferer, who had occasioned it all, crept through the hedge of a field by the road side, and hid himself under some bushes. but the woman, soon after pursuing in search of him, jumped the fence, and dropped among the very brambles where he lay. she perceived him instantly, and shook her clenched hand, which so paralysed him, that he did not dare to move, though she for some time delayed seizing him. finding that the inside of the hedge was covered with clothes for bleaching, she thought it best, the first thing she did, to secure a good bundle of so desirable a booty, and fling it over to her husband. she was just in the act of so doing, when the owner of the linen came into the field, and immediately set up the halloo of "thieves! thieves!" upon which, dropping what she had collected, and giving up all thoughts of carrying the child with her, she made the best of her way, and disappeared not only from the spot, but from the neighbourhood. about an hour after, when the poor boy, pressed by hunger, crept from his hiding place, a girl, who was left to watch the clothes, spying him, cried out, "ha! you little spawn e--the devil! did she leave you to bring her the bundle?" and so saying, she pursued and beat him, till she drove him out of the field, and into the adjoining garden of an old woman, who was standing at the moment with a long pole in her hand, endeavouring to beat down, as well as her failing sight would permit, the few remaining apples from the topmost branches of her single apple-tree: the well laden lower boughs of which had been robbed of their goodly winter store but the preceding night. on seeing a boy scramble through her hedge, she concluded, of course, that his errand was to possess himself of the said remaining apples, and, accordingly, uttering a yell of execration, she converted her fruit-pole into a weapon defensive and offensive, and hobbling towards the poor child, drove him from her premises; over the boundary of which, long after he had so far escaped, she continued to address to him, at the very top of her voice, every opprobrious epithet of which she was mistress: her shrill tones the while collecting, at the heels of the fugitive, hooting boys, and barking curs innumerable. these, however, did not follow him far; and when they returned to their homes or their sports, he wandered about for the rest of the day, avoiding houses and people, and fearing that every one he met would beat him. at length, towards evening, he found himself on the borders of the lake of derwent, and seeing a boat fastened close to the land, he got into it; partly with the idea of hiding himself, and partly with a vague recollection of having often wished to be a sailor-boy, when begging about with his mother in sea-port towns. he rolled himself up in an old cloak which lay under one of the benches, where, exhausted by pain, hunger, and fatigue, he fell asleep. shortly after our poor wanderer had chosen this refuge, in stepped master henry st. aubin, whose pleasure-boat it was, to take a sail _alone_, contrary to reiterated commands, and for no other reason, but because, for fear of accidents, he had been desired never to go without a servant. he pushed from the land, and began to arrange his canvass. he put up his main-sail, which filling immediately, bent his little bark on one side, almost level with the water, and made it fly across the lake in great style. when, however, it got under shade of the high mountains on the borrowdale coast, the breeze slackened, and he determined to add his mizen and jib; but what was his surprise, when, on attempting to remove the old cloak which lay near them, he discovered within its folds the sleeping boy. supposing him to be a spy placed there to watch his movements, and report his disobedience, he began to curse and swear, kicked at him under the bench, and ordered him to pack out of his boat instantly. the poor child, but half awake, gazed all round him, got up as well as his bruises would permit, and was about to obey in silence; but, when, he saw how far they were from land, he hesitated; upon which henry took up a rope's end, and lashed at him in the manner that sailors call starting, repeating at each stroke, "jump, spy! jump!" driven almost wild with the pain of the blows, the child at last did jump; but, at the same moment, caught instinctively at the side of the boat, to which he hung with both hands, and so kept his head above water. henry set up a loud laugh, and rowed out, towing him after him. then, willing to make sport for himself, by terrifying the beggar brat, he attempted to push his fingers off the edge of the boat, but they clung to it with all the tenacity of self preservation; when the one hand was forced for a moment from its hold, the grasp of the other became but the more convulsively strong; and when the second was assailed by the united efforts of both of henry's, the first returned to its former position. at length, tired of the jest himself, master st. aubin turned into shallow water, leaped ashore, and suffering the half-drowned child to land as he might, bade him scamper, ere he had well got footing. then, intent on pursuing his sweet, because forbidden amusement, he stepped back into his boat, which with its white sails, contrasted with the dark woods of the coast it glided silently beneath, soon became as picturesque an object as though the urchin that guided it had been the most noble and adventurous of romantic heroes. chapter ii. --"and i tremble amid the night." about the centre of the entrance of the vale of borrowdale, conspicuously situated, stands that curious rock, called, by the native cumbrians, borrowdale-stane. in form and position it is much like a dismasted and stranded vessel, laying on its keel and leaning a little to one side. on the highest point of this rock, a station well known to the lovers of the sublime, stood a lady wrapped in a warm fur lined cloak. her air, however, was much too fashionable and modern to harmonize in any degree with the wild desolation of the surrounding region, which, when viewed from the elevated position she thus occupied, as far as the eye could reach, resembled a stormy ocean: its gigantic billows formed by the congregated tops of mountains. the evening was cold, approaching to frost; and the sun, though still much above the natural horizon, was just sinking from view behind the lofty chain of western hills: his last rays lingered a while on the most prominent parts of each stupendous height, then, gradually retiring, left point after point, which, like so many beacon lights extinguished by an invisible hand, successively disappeared, till all became shrouded alike in cheerless gloom and volumes of mist rolling down the sides of the mountains, a dense fog settled in the valley like a white and waveless lake. the lady on the rock appeared to deem it time to return home, for, withdrawing her eyes from the distant view, she cast them downward in search of the path by which to descend; when, amid the rocks and huge rough stones which lay scattered beneath like the ruins of a former world, she thought she saw something move, though very slightly. she looked at it for a time; it quitted not the spot where she first descried it; yet, still it certainly did move! she descended, approached, and beheld a poor little boy, who seemed about five or six years old. he was sitting on the ground; the wretched rags, in which he was dressed, were dripping with wet; his poor limbs, which were all bent together, and drawn up close to his face, trembled extremely, while his little hands, with their long emaciated fingers, spread and hooked round his knees, seemed endeavouring to hold them, as though the violence of their motion was becoming too much for his frame to bear. the lady stood looking down on him for a moment with mingled pity and surprise. he was slowly rocking himself from side to side: it was a movement quite expressive of despondency, his chin rested on the backs of the hands which held his knees, and his eyes wandered hopelessly among the bare stones that lay around him, while his head retained the same fixed position. "little boy, look up!" she said, taking one of his cold wet hands in hers. he raised his face; misery was depicted in every feature: his teeth chattered excessively, and his poor eyes, that swam in tears, were now lifted to hers with an expression truly piteous. "poor child! come with me," she said. something like hope began to dawn on his forlorn countenance; but she finished her sentence, in what she intended for the most comforting manner, by saying, "and i will take you home to your mother." he had not risen. he drew his hand from hers, turned on his face on the ground with the universal shudder of terror, and, clinging to the rocks, cried, "no! no! no!" she endeavoured to soothe him, and to untwist his fingers from the fastenings, which, like so many fibres of roots, they had found for themselves among the crevices and broken fragments of his flinty bed; but he hid his face against the hard stone, and would not turn round. when she succeeded at length in detaching one of his hands, and was gently endeavouring to raise him, his inward shudderings increased so visibly that she became fearful of throwing him into convulsions: she desisted therefore, and, feigning to go away, removed a few paces; then stopped, and said, "well! i am going; but won't you tell me your name?" "edmund," he sobbed out; without, however, raising his head. "well, edmund," said the lady, in a kind voice, "good night!" he turned, sat up, looked at her, and then all round, as though having had her near him, even for the last few seconds, the thought of being left alone for the night now struck upon his heart anew with fresh desolation; then, resuming the attitude she had first found him in, he began, as before, to rock himself from side to side and weep. "but where do you mean to sleep tonight, edmund?" said the lady; "i am sure you must be cold sitting on those hard stones with your clothes so wet." "yes, i am," he said, looking up wistfully again, "very cold, and very hungry." then, hesitating a little, he suddenly stretched out his hand, and said, "i'll go with you, if you will hide me from every one." "i will! i will, my poor child!" she exclaimed, flying back to him, kindly stooping over him, and, with some difficulty, assisting him to rise; for he was so stiffened it seemed scarcely possible to unbend his knees: nor did there appear to be one spark of vital heat remaining in the poor little creature! she drew a part of her warm fur mantle close over him, and endeavoured to soothe him and give him confidence in her protection. "and will you stay here with me, then?" he whispered softly. "i will take you to a much more comfortable place," she replied, "where there is a good fire, and a nice dinner for edmund." "and are you sure she won't find me there?" he said, still whispering. "she shall never hurt you, while you are with me," the lady replied, "whoever she may be." "then i will go!" said edmund; and he lifted his head and tried to smile through his tears. the lady, still sharing with him her warm cloak, now led him by the hand, while he held hers fast in both of his, and walked, with short uneven steps, so close to her, that she was every moment in danger of treading on his little bare feet; and thus did they arrive at lodore house, just as the first roll of the thunder resounded along the desolate valley they had so lately quitted. chapter iii. "vases filled with liquid beams, hang in chains of gold." "a sumptuous banquet spread, invites the taste." the cheerful, well-aired, already lit up dwelling, now entered by our wanderers of the valley, formed a striking contrast to the dreary scene they had just left. an excellent fire blazed in the hall, bronzed figures held flaming lamps aloft, and powdered, well-dressed, well-fed servants, bustled to and fro, bearing, towards the dining-room, dishes, which though covered, tempted the palate by the various savoury odours they sent forth. in short, every comfort, every elegance, nay, every luxury, evidently abounded beneath the roof of lodore house. it had indeed, some years since, been a mere shooting lodge, situated in the midst of an extensive property, on which, from its remoteness, no family mansion had ever been built. mrs. montgomery, however, its present possessor, had, since her early widowhood, made additions to the lodge in her own taste: and though on her daughter's account she regularly visited london during the fashionable season, at all other times she chose to reside in this romantic retirement. the lady, who had just entered, leading poor edmund by the hand, was frances montgomery, the only child of mrs. montgomery. as frances, with her charge, crossed the hall already described, they met henry st. aubin, a nephew of mrs. montgomery's, a boy of about twelve years old. frances called immediately for the housekeeper, and desired her own maid to bring some warm soup. while her attention was thus engaged, master henry contrived to come up close to the poor little stranger, and say to him in an under tone, "take care, you sir, you don't dare to tell, or i'll--" frances feeling an additional pressure of edmund's hand, turned suddenly round, and saw the frown still on henry's face, with which he had thought fit to strengthen his arguments. "how can you look so cross, henry?" she exclaimed; "you actually frighten the poor child!" "pshaw!" said henry, and went laughing into the drawing-room, where he attempted to entertain, by ludicrous descriptions of the pretty new pet frances had found; while she proceeded to the housekeeper's room, and there, before a comfortable fire, herself assisted, in despite of the dinner-announcing voice of the gong, the operations of the two women she had summoned. they released the poor child from the wet rags which hung about him, sending a chill to his little heart; they put him up to the neck in warm water; and cautiously gave him, by a little at a time, some nourishing soup. frances then called for meat, pudding, and every thing nice she could think of; and, lastly, for a supply of her own night things. by all these prompt exertions, the poor, naked, shivering, starving edmund, was soon dressed in a long sleeved, high collared, full frilled sleeping chemise; his limbs warmly clothed in a pair of the housekeeper's worsted web stockings, which served him at once for drawers and hose; a large dressing-gown of frances's folded about him, and a pair of her dressing slippers on his little feet; and, thus equipped, he was seated in front of the fire, with all the other good things which had been called for, placed on a table before him. it was with the greatest pleasure that frances, who stayed to help him herself, saw him venture, thus encouraged, to eat some dinner; and what with the refreshment, the cleanliness, the glow of all the surrounding warmth on his cheeks, and the comfortable white dress up about his neck, he certainly appeared almost a new creature; though, when he looked up, there was still a wildness, the unsteady glance of fear mingled with the appealing expression of his eyes; and when he looked down, their long black lashes, sweeping his hollow cheeks, might well inspire the beholder with even a painful degree of compassion; yet when, notwithstanding his timidity, he smiled with gratitude and a sense of present pleasure arising from bodily comfort, frances, at least, could not help thinking him grown already quite a beauty; and she ran to the dining-room door, and entreated her mamma just to come out for a moment and see what a fine child the poor boy was, now that they had washed and dressed him. lord l., hearing her voice, begged permission to follow, but was refused. frances' absence had, in the meantime, banished the smiles of edmund, so that mrs. montgomery, on entering the housekeeper's room, exclaimed, with a laugh, patting her daughter on the cheek, "i cannot say much for his beauty, my dear!--but that is no reason why you should not save the life of the poor child," she added; and, with the tenderness of one accustomed to a mother's feelings, she stroked his little head. he smiled again, and she continued, "but he may be pretty when he gets fat." "and shall he stay here to get fat, mamma?" asked frances eagerly. "to be sure, my dear," replied mrs. montgomery, "we will never turn the poor little thing out of doors again, while it wants a shelter." frances was delighted; caught up both her mother's hands and kissed them, and then the forehead of her protegé: nor did she leave him till he dropped asleep in a comfortable bed, with her hand in his to give him confidence. frances at length entered the dining-room, just as the domestic party engaged round the table were dispatching a third or fourth summons for her; the second course having by this time made its appearance. lord l., who occupied his usual seat beside her chair, began to question her about the adventure of the evening. compassion made her eloquent on the misery, the cold, the hunger, the wretchedness of poor edmund; but when she came to his beauty, she faltered and looked at her mother with a beseeching expression. mrs. montgomery laughed, and replied to the look, "oh, yes! there was a sweetness when he smiled, that made me begin to think he would be pretty if he were fat; but now, the poor child is all eyes and eyelashes." "oh, mamma!" said frances, "he has the most beautiful mouth i ever saw in my life, and such nice teeth!" "has he, my dear?" said mrs. montgomery, with provoking indifference: for she happened to be deep in a discussion on the nature of the poor laws, with mr. jackson, the clergyman. master henry, meanwhile, was greedily devouring tart and cream, with his face close to his plate, and his eyes levelled at the dish, in great anxiety to be in time to claim the last portion which now remained on it; but, in his attempt to swallow what was before him, he missed his aim, and was a moment too late, though he thrust out his plate with both hands just as he saw a servant coming round; but the tart was dispatched to lord l., to whom it had been offered, and who, being too much occupied to refuse it, had bowed. it lay before him a few moments, and went away untouched. henry, vexed extremely, and desirous of revenge on frances for the disappointment occasioned him by her lover, said, "if you are talking of the beggar brat, he is the image of a monkey! i was quite afraid he would bite me as i passed him in the hall." "i am sure, henry," retorted frances, "he seemed more afraid of you, than you could be of him: and, by the bye, you need not, i think, have looked so cross at the poor child." "cross!" repeated henry, "i did not look cross. what reason do you suppose i had to look cross? i never saw the brat before in my life." henry's speech was accompanied by that hateful expression, which the eyes of an ill-disposed child assume, when it knows it is uttering falsehood! "henry!" said mrs. montgomery, with some surprise; "you need not look angry, much less guilty. no one can suppose that you know any thing of the poor boy. but leave the room, sir: and remember you don't sit at table again, till you know better how to conduct yourself." henry obeyed, but slowly and sulkily; trailing one foot after the other, and determining to have revenge on the cause of his disgrace. he offered no apology, and therefore was not taken into favour again for the evening, though poor mrs. montgomery, as she passed to her own apartment, looked into that where he lay, and said, with a sigh, "good night, and god bless you, child!" to account, in some degree, for the unprepossessing manners of master henry, we shall introduce a few words respecting the young gentleman's birth, and hitherto unfortunately directed education. chapter iv. "lifting at the thought my timid eyes, i pass them o'er his brow; and, if i would, i dare not love him: yet, dare i never disobey that eye, flashing outward fires, while, within its depths, where love should dwell, 'tis ever still, and cold, to look upon." st. aubin, henry's father, was a frenchman, and totally without religion. a flourish of worldly honour, as long as no temptation had arisen, had sustained for him even a showy character. by this, a showy appearance, and showy manners, he had, what is called, gained the affections, that is, he had dazzled the fancy, of maria, the younger sister of mrs. montgomery. maria was a beautiful girl, and but seventeen. her sister, who was also her guardian, for she was some years her senior, and their parents were dead, disapproved of the match, but in vain: maria married st. aubin, and was miserable! the marriage being a runaway affair, no settlements were entered into, which circumstance st. aubin imagined would be in his favour; but, when he discovered that the consent of the guardians not having been obtained, gave them the power of withholding maria's fortune till she should be of age, and of then settling it on herself and her children, without suffering him to touch one shilling, his brutality was such, that mrs. st. aubin, before the birth of her child, for she had but one, was broken-hearted. she denied herself the consolation she might have found in the sympathy of her sister, for she wished to conceal from her the wretchedness she had brought upon herself, by acting contrary to her advice. she was, however, shortly removed out of the reach of that sister's penetration. st. aubin was deeply in debt when he married, and things had been ever since becoming worse and worse. he had always flattered himself that the guardians would not use the full power of which they spoke, and that by making fair promises he should be able, when once maria was of age, to get the money, or the greater part of it, into his own hands; he had therefore laboured incessantly to put off the payment of every demand to the day of his wife's coming of age, and made all his arrangements with reference to that period. at length it arrived. he made application for his wife's fortune; but mrs. montgomery, in reply, reminded him, that her sister having married without her consent, had given her, as sole remaining guardian, a power, which she now saw it was her duty to exert; namely, that of refusing to pay down any part of the money. she should, therefore, she said, secure the whole of it in the hands of trustees, as a future provision for maria and her child. with this letter open in his hand, st. aubin, foaming with rage, entered the room where his wife sat with henry, then between two and three years old, playing on the ground at her feet, while she was absorbed in melancholy anticipations of the probable result of her husband's application. st. aubin flung the letter in her face, swearing, with horrid imprecations, that he would be the death both of her and her brat, and then blow out his own brains. mrs. st. aubin remained silent; but the shrieks of the child brought servants. by the time they arrived, however, st. aubin was striding up and down the room, venting his rage on the open letter, which he kicked before him at each step. shortly after this final disappointment respecting maria's fortune, st. aubin found it necessary to take refuge from his creditors in the isle of man; whither he went accordingly, carrying with him his wife and child, and settling there with a very reduced establishment. not choosing, it would seem, to be hung for declared murder, he appeared determined, by every species of ingenious barbarity, to torture the wretched maria out of her remaining shred of existence; and, among other devices, he daily and hourly made her shudder, by his vows of deep and black revenge on her sister. one day, after sitting some time leaning his head on his hand, with a countenance resembling the thunder-cloud, lightning suddenly flashed from his eyes, imprecations exploded from his lips, he started to his feet, stood before his wife, and clenching his hand, uttered these words: "i tell you, mrs. st. aubin, that child, that i hate, because it is yours! that child, to whose future provision she has sacrificed me! that child i will rear, i will preserve, for the sole purpose of being the instrument of my revenge!--by his means, were it twenty years hence, were it thirty years hence, i will break her heart! yes," he added, as if in reply to a look from maria of astonishment, almost amounting to incredulity, "and i have determined how i shall do it." he then resumed his sitting attitude, and again leaning his head on his hand, a long hour of utter silence followed, during which his unhappy wife sat at the other side of the table, not daring to arouse him by rising to leave the room. henry, at this time, promised to have in him a strange mixture of the dispositions both of his father and mother; or, in other words, of evil and good. the evil certainly did predominate; yet, had a careful hand early separated the seeds, cultivated the good, and cast out the bad, this ill-fated child might have been saved from perdition; or had he, with all his faults, been supplied with that only unerring standard of right, the practical application of sacred truths to moral obligations, even in after-life there might have been hope; but his father, as we have said, had no religion: he daily scoffed at whatever was most sacred, purposely to insult the feelings of his wife, and this before his child. one morning, he found maria with the bible before her, and henry on her knee. he looked at them for a moment; then taking the child by the shoulder, he raised one foot level with the hand in which he held him, and kicked him, in a contemptuous manner, as he swung him to the middle of the floor, saying, that such a mammy's brat ought to have been a girl. mrs. st. aubin ran to raise the child from the ground. st. aubin snatched up the sacred volume, open as it lay, and flung it after her, telling her, in a voice of thunder, that she was a psalm-singing fool, and ordering her not to cram the boy's head with any of her cursed nonsense. indeed, in his calmest and best disposed moods, "you are a fool, mrs. st. aubin!" was his usual remark on any thing his wife ventured to say or do. mrs. st. aubin having ascertained that the child was not hurt, took up the book, arranged its ruffled leaves in silence, and laid it with reverence on the table. her husband viewed her with a malicious grin till her task was completed; then, walking up to the table, he opened the treasury of sacred knowledge, and deliberately tore out every leaf, flinging them, now on one side, now on the other, to each far corner of the apartment; then striding towards the fire-place, he planted himself on the hearth, with his back to the chimney, his legs spread in the attitude of a colossal statue, the tails of his coat turned apart under his arms, and his hands in his side-pockets. "now," he said, looking at his wife, "pick them up!--pick them up! pick them up!" he continued, till all were collected. mrs. st. aubin was about to place the sheets within their vacant cover on the table; but, with a stamp of his foot, which made every article of furniture in the room shake, and brought a picture that hung against the wall, on its face to the floor, he commanded her to put them in the fire. she hesitated; when seizing her arm, he shook it over the flames, till the paper taking fire, she was compelled to loose her hold. "i ought to have reserved a sheet to have made a fool's cap for you, i think," he said, perceiving that silent tears were following each other down the cheeks of his wife. "why, what an idiot you are! the child has more sense than you have," he added, seeing that henry, occupied by surprise and curiosity, was not crying. "come, henry," he continued, in a voice for him most condescending, "you shall carry my fishing basket to-day." henry had been just going to pity his poor mamma when he saw her crying; but hearing his father say that he had more sense than his mother, he could not help feeling raised in his own estimation, and anxious to show his sense by flying with peculiar alacrity for the basket. he had viewed the whole of the preceding scene with but little comprehension, as may be supposed, of its meaning, and with very confused ideas of right and wrong, being, at the time, not above six years old; but the practical lesson--and there are no lessons like practical lessons--made an indelible impression: all future efforts, whether of mother or aunt, usher or schoolmaster, layman or divine, to infuse into henry precepts derived from a source he had seen so contemned by his father, were for ever vain. his father, he was old enough to perceive, was feared and obeyed by every one within the small sphere of his observation: for him, therefore, he felt a sort of spurious deference, though he could not love him. for his mother, who had always indulged him with the too great tenderness of a gentle spirit utterly broken, and who had wept over him many a silent hour, till his little heart was saddened without his knowing why, he naturally felt some affection; but then he daily saw her treated with indignity, and therefore did not respect either her or her lessons: for he was just at the age when a quick child judges wrong, a dull one not at all. henry had much of the violence of his father's temper, with some of the fearfulness of his mother's. in judicious hands, the latter, though no virtue, might have been made to assist in correcting the former; the whole current of his fears might have been turned into a useful channel: in short, he might have been taught to fear only doing wrong, and, by a strict administration of justice, proving to him his perfect security from blame while he did right, he might have been given all that honest-hearted boldness in a good cause, which, throughout after-life, is so necessary to ensure dignity to the character of man, and the early promises of which, it is so delightful to see in the happy open countenance, in the very step and air of a fine frank boy, who has never had his spirit broken by undeserved harshness, or been rendered hopeless of pleasing by inconsistency. henry, on the contrary, when he had done no real wrong, was frequently treated with the most violent cruelty; while his very worst faults passed unreproved, if they did not happen to cross the whims of his father: and this cruelty, thus inflicted on a helpless, powerless child, which could not resist, for ever raised in the breast of henry, who was, as we have said, naturally violent, an ever unsatisfied thirst of vengeance; a sense too of the injustice of the punishments inflicted, a thing early understood by children, embittered his feelings, and the transient impressions thus rendered permanent, corroded inwardly, till they settled into a malice of nature, totally subversive of all that was or might have been good or amiable. alas! why will not parents reflect, how much the characters and happiness of their children, in after life, depend on the species of minor experience collected in infancy, and the few years immediately succeeding that period. when intellect is matured, we may call upon it to judge of great events, to guide us in great undertakings, or lead us to signal self-conquests; but by this time, the feelings, the strong holds, whether of vice or virtue, are pre-occupied, and the passions, already in arms and in the field, too probably on the side of error, certainly so, if hitherto undirected. and hence it is, that in so many minds the kingdom within is found in a perpetual state of rebellion against the sovereignty of reason: or, in other words, hence it is, that so many people daily act by impulse, contrary to what they call their better judgment. here, then, is the true task of the parent; to use, for the benefit of his child, that deliberate sense of right, which, in his own case, comes frequently too late for action. and how shall that parent depart in peace, who has not thus endeavoured, at least, to smooth the path of truth before the footsteps of his child? when henry was old enough for public education, mrs. montgomery wrote to her sister, to offer an allowance for the expenses of placing him at school. st. aubin ordered his wife to accept the offer, and selected s-- b-- school, with the meanest description of lodging in the neighbouring village, as the cheapest he could hear of, that a part of the allowance, which was liberal, might remain in his own hands. the school-house, at the period of which we speak, could accommodate but a very few of the boys, while the rest were generally lodged in the houses of the poor villagers; where, it is to be feared, they lorded it, and did just as they pleased. rather more than a year before the opening of this history, st. aubin was assailed by a temptation, against which, the fear of detection, in the desperate state of his affairs, was an insufficient defence. he yielded, and became engaged in a swindling transaction to an immense amount. the business was discovered, and st. aubin apprehended under circumstances which left no doubt of his being hung, unless steps were taken to prevent the prosecution. in this extremity the wretched maria entreated her sister, if the sacrifice of the fortune so long preserved would suffice, to rescue with it herself and child from the disgrace of having a husband and father die an ignominious death. a compromise was accordingly offered, and accepted. it was not, however, in the power of the persons principally interested, to do more than connive at the escape of st. aubin, who therefore fled the kingdom, taking with him his miserable wife, and his black factotum, the only slaves utter beggary had left him; and abandoning the child, still at s-- b-- school, to the compassion of mrs. montgomery. nor did he remit any part of his hatred to that lady, notwithstanding her late concession; on the contrary, he called down fresh imprecations on her head, as being the sole cause, he said, of all his misfortunes, by having withheld the money at the time it would have been really of use, and enabled him to have arranged his affairs before they became quite desperate. the next accounts mrs. montgomery had of her sister and st. aubin were, that the ship in which they had sailed, with all the crew, and passengers, had perished off the coast of france. the affair was of too public a nature to afford, from the first, the slightest hope of mis-statement; for the vessel, though a merchantman, was of importance, from the value of her cargo, as she had much specie on board. the circumstances too under which she was lost were remarkable, and consequently made a great noise, for the weather was perfectly calm. she had been seen and passed in the evening by a frigate homeward bound, but after that was never seen or heard of more, and not even one individual, it was stated, had escaped, to relate the particulars of the accident: it was therefore concluded, that she must have foundered during the night. thus was henry cast entirely on mrs. montgomery; who, while she grieved to trace in him the evil nature of his father, could not help loving him, as the child of her poor lost sister. having concluded this necessary retrospect, we shall, in our next chapter, return to our narrative. chapter v. "he to her face looked up, with innocent love, and she looked fondly on him." we left the family at lodore house enjoying, we hope, the refreshment of a good night's rest. the next morning frances, before she thought of breakfast, repaired to the bedside of edmund. he had been for some time awake; but, unaccustomed, it would seem, to have any friend or confidant, he had not ventured to speak or stir. the tones of frances' voice, naming him to the servants as she inquired for him, appeared to bring at once happiness and confidence to his heart. he opened his eyes as she bent over him: he started up, clung round her neck, and wept; though now it was evidently for joy. these first transports, over however, he cast, from time to time, doubting glances on the various sides of the apartment, and especially towards that in which the door was placed, and evinced a great anxiety to retain frances' hand. she thought him feverish; and with great alarm perceived that his poor little frame was covered with fearful bruises. his neck and hands first drew her attention; and mrs. smyth, the housekeeper, soon ascertained that the limbs, concealed by the night-dress, had suffered full as much. frances sent to keswick for medical aid, and left her charge with mrs. smyth. mrs. smyth was a good-natured woman, added to which, the patience and gentleness of the little sufferer had begun to win upon her heart, from the very moment her assistance was first ordered to him. she found it necessary to sit by and encourage him while he breakfasted, for, like a wild animal, driven by hunger nearer to the haunts of man than usual, he started, and desisted from eating, at every sound. "and what might you have for breakfast yesterday's morn, my dear?" said mrs. smyth. "nothing," he answered. "and what had you for dinner, then?" "nothing." "nothing, my dear!" repeated the good woman; "and ye could na ha' less! ney fault tell the cooking o' sic dinners, to be sure! and wha was it then, that beat and bruised the life and saul out on ye in this shamefoo manner, my dear?" she continued. edmund trembled, sighed heavily, and was silent. "and win't ye tall me wha it was 'at beat ye?" tears stood in his eyes, but still he was silent. "so you win't speak till me! and after the nice breakfast i geed ye, too!" the tears now flowed, but still he was silent. "and wha was it then, that droonded ye in the water?" he looked all round, but did not speak; and mrs. smyth soon saw it was vain to persist in questioning him. mr. dixon, the keswick surgeon, arrived. he inquired of mrs. smyth what the child had eaten, and how his food had seemed to agree with him. having received due replies, he turned to frances, who by this time was just entering, and addressed her thus:-- "i should not have anticipated, madam--i should not have anticipated, that so great a variety of aliment would have assimilated well in the child's stomach; but, such being the case, i never set my face against facts, madam!--never set my face against facts! i should, therefore, continue the course which has been hitherto pursued, with respect to nutriment." "yes, sir; but have you seen his bruises?" asked frances. "my practice is very simple, madam," resumed the doctor, without answering her question; "i love to go hand-in-hand with our great instructress, nature." "but--these terrible bruises, sir! what is your----" "it is too much the custom with men of our profession, to oppose the efforts of nature; but i love to assist them, madam--i love to assist them." "you are quite right, sir. but, do you think those bruises will be of any consequence?" "depend upon it, madam, depend upon it, there is always a revulsion, as it were, towards right; a rebounding, a returning, in nature to her usual functions, as first ordained by her all, wise creator; and our part, is carefully to watch those movements. and when the elasticity of any power is impaired by the forcible, or long continued pressure of adventitious circumstances; first, to remove the weight of such, and then, by gentle stimulants, to restore buoyancy to the injured spring; thus, madam--thus, i ever doff my cap to nature!" the doctor having arrived at what seemed a pause, at least, if not a conclusion, frances had some hopes of being heard; and, by way of exordium, said, "your system, sir, is as judicious as it is pious." "i am not presumptuous, madam!" again interrupted the doctor; "i am not presumptuous--" "and i should like," persisted frances, "to have the opinion of one so skilful, respecting the bruises of this poor child." the doctor's ear at length caught the word. "the bruises, madam! the bruises! they have been inflicted by a cruel and most unsparing hand! no doubt of it, madam--no doubt of it! who was it that beat you in this shocking manner, my little dear?" he continued, stroking the child's head good-naturedly. edmund looked alarmed, but made no attempt at reply. "there are, i hope, no inward bruises," resumed the doctor: "some of these outward ones are attended with a degree of inflammation, doubtless; but it is very slight and quite local, and may, i hope, be even beneficial: inasmuch as it may divert the attention of the system, and prevent any more vital part becoming the seat of disease; but it is not such as to require any general reduction of a patient already so low." "i am delighted to hear you say so, sir!" exclaimed frances; "for i wish so much to give him every thing good, when i think, poor fellow, that perhaps he never had a comfortable meal in his life, before last night! and i long so, too," she added, looking at edmund, "to see the little creature quite fat and rosy." "no roses here, madam! doubtless none, nor rotundity of limb, that is most certain. i do not know that i have ever met with a more decided case of emaciation in the whole course of my practice! look at his fingers, madam! do look at his fingers! nor do i think that his pulse would warrant me in bleeding him at present, as i should, doubtless, any other patient, labouring under contusions of this nature. i will, therefore, send an emolient and cooling mixture, with which, mrs. smyth, you will bathe the parts frequently. nutriment and quiet will do the rest," he added, turning again to frances, "for his fever proceeds entirely from irritation of the nervous system, not from general fulness; therefore, as i said before, cannot require general reduction. general opposed to general, you see, madam, in the healing, as well as in the wounding profession! heigh! heigh! you don't admire puns, i know; but come, that's rather a good one, is it not? good morning to you." and so saying, though on the wrong side of sixty, the doctor performed an active pirouette at the door, as was his custom; and, with the lightness of a lad of sixteen, made good his retreat, being in great haste to leave the impression of the last good thing he had said fresh on the minds of his hearers. notwithstanding these little innocent peculiarities, mr. dixon was a truly worthy, a kind-hearted, and a skilful man, charitable to the poor, and solicitously attentive to his patients; and, with all, he had not a mercenary thought! mrs. montgomery had employed him for many years; and such was her confidence in his abilities, that she would have judged those she regarded, less safe in any other hands. frances flew after mr. dixon, to entreat his aid for fairy, her beautiful italian greyhound, that she had left very ill in the arms of lord l--. but, alas! the poor little dog was no more: it had expired in convulsions; and the group which presented itself, on entering the breakfast-room, appeared holding a sort of coroner's inquest over the body. lord l., still faithful to his charge, held the motionless favourite on his knee; mrs. montgomery sat near, with a countenance which seemed to say, "all is over!" frances' maid and the butler stood, one with a saucer of milk, the other with a plate of water, both now become useless; while henry pinched, first a foot, then the tail, then an ear, to ascertain, as he said, whether the thing were quite dead. frances gently put his hand aside, and looked in the doctor's face. the doctor shook his head. he was asked if he could say, from the symptoms, what had caused the creature's death? "poison, madam! poison!" he replied, without hesitation. henry reddened. "it does not admit of a doubt, madam!" continued the doctor, "the animal has died by poison." the servants had their own opinion, as to who had given the poison, but were silent.--such are the beginnings of crime. poor edmund had now been some days an inmate of lodore house, but, as yet, no one had been able to discover who or what he was: while from himself no replies could be obtained, but sobs and terrified looks. one morning frances sent for him to the breakfast-room, and, after giving him many good things, began a kind of questioning, which she hoped might draw some information from the child, without alarming him: such as, where was his home? where was the place where he used always to be? he replied, "no where." was there any one that used to love him? "yes," he said. she now thought she had found a clue to some useful discovery, and asked him, who it was that loved him? "you do," he replied. frances took him on her knee, and put her questions in low whispers; upon which, when she asked him particularly about the large bruise on the side of his leg, he stole his little arms round her neck, and breathed softly in her ear, "she wanted to break it off." "who, my dear, wanted to break it off?" "my mother." then, alarmed at the great effort he had made, he became more silent than ever, and looked so much distressed, that at last, for his own relief, he was dismissed in charge of good mrs. smyth. while frances, inspired by the same sentiment which had guided the righteous judgment of solomon, felt convinced that the woman, whoever she might be, who could treat a child so barbarously, was not its real mother. mrs. montgomery was herself disposed to entertain the same opinion; she, however, laughed at the romantic deduction attempted to be made by frances, that edmund therefore must be the child of parents in an exalted rank in life. while the ladies were discussing this point, mr. lauson, an attorney resident at keswick, came in to pay his respects: for he was agent to the cumberland and westmoreland estates, as well as general man of business to the family. lauson had passed mrs. smyth and edmund in the hall, and had looked rather hard at the child. as soon as the morning salutations were ended, and he had taken his seat, he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder towards the door, which was behind him, saying, "what child's that?" and, without waiting for a reply, he added, "i'd be sworn but it's the boy that was begging about at the regatta with one leg." "with one leg!" interrupted frances. "ay, ay," said lauson; "but i saw him myself find the other, so there is nothing so surprising in his having the two now." the ladies requested an explanation, and mr. lauson gave the best he could, by recounting as much as he had witnessed of the scene which opens our history. chapter vi. "of snowy white the dress, the buskin white, and purest white, the graceful waving plume." in about six weeks the marriage of frances and lord l-- took place, and the happy couple set off for beech park, his lordship's seat, near london. within the following ten days mrs. montgomery made all her home arrangements, paid her pensioners, gave orders for the christmas dinner of the neighbouring poor, placed edmund in the peculiar care of mrs. smyth; and, finally, the day before she set out to join her daughter and son-in-law, dispatched henry, under escort of the butler, back to s-- b-- school. the school, as we have before observed, was an excellent, though a cheap one; but the lodging was such as mrs. montgomery certainly would not have selected for her nephew, nor indeed suffered him to occupy, could she have known the scenes and society into which it threw him. henry arrived at the village of s-- b--, and jumped out of the carriage at the door of a butcher's house. while the servant was taking out the luggage, henry addressed, very familiarly, a woman who stood with her back to him; and accommodating his language, as was his custom, to his company, said, "weel, katty, and whoo is't wee aw wee you?" "no mickle the better for yeer axin!" she replied, continuing her washing. the next moment henry was engaged in a game of romps with a fine girl of fourteen, who just then came in from the garden: all the flowers which had lately bloomed there collected in her apron, to be tied up in penny bunches for the ensuing day's market. on receiving, though not, it must be confessed, without richly deserving it, a smart slap on the ear from his fair antagonist, the young gentleman closed with her, and commenced an absolute boxing-match. at this juncture the butcher himself entered. "what's aw this? what's aw this?" he exclaimed. the angry voice of david park (such was the butcher's name) ended the scuffle. "mr. henry and me was no' but larking, fether," replied his daughter, adjusting her disordered hair and drapery, and gathering up her scattered flowers. "mr. henry! mr. deevil!" said the man, recognising henry with a scowl. "bonny larking truly!" he continued; "bonny larking truly! and what business had you, wife, to aloo of ony sic work?" and he sat down sullenly, deterred from taking signal vengeance on the laughing young gentleman, by the dread of losing his lodger. "bonny larking truly!" he resumed, as, without looking round, he poked the fire before which he had seated himself, and began to light his pipe. "ye'll soon be oure aul', te lark afther that gate wi' the scholar lads, i can tell yee!" here he glanced at his daughter, and added, "git awaw wi' ye, and don yeer sel', lass! yeer na fit till stand afoor a man body noo, tho' he be thee fether! yeer aw ribbands!" we shall here leave henry to keep such society, and to follow such pursuits unmolested, and give our attention again to other and more amiable personages of our history. chapter vii. "yes, sweet boy, clara will be thy mother. thou hast thus her first of mother's feelings; even should there rise, to claim her fondness, other beings like to thee: innocents, helpless innocents." months had rolled away. it was a beautiful evening in the middle of july; and lodore house, which had been deserted by most of its inhabitants about the latter end of last october, when the trees were almost leafless, and the voice of the fall loud with the swell of wintry torrents, now looked with a cheerful aspect from amid embowering verdure. the lofty head of skiddaw arose with great majesty above the woods immediately behind the house, and the calm lake spread abroad in front, and bounded by the wide amphitheatre of the keswick mountains, filled the mind with pleasing ideas of peace and retirement. the building, in its own outline, was picturesque; running along in light corridors, connecting its principal parts. numerous glass doors, or french windows, leading out on the lawn, were all standing open. a table, covered with fruit and other refreshments, might be just peeped at through one of these; musical instruments, freed from their cases, appeared through others, and through more might be discerned, sofas, book-stands, work-tables, turkey carpets, reposé chairs, italian vases, bronze lamps, cut-glass lustres, hothouse plants, french beds, swing mirrors, &c.: while the intervention of silk and muslin draperies, permitting each object to be but imperfectly seen, left imagination free to deck the whole with the charms of fairy-land. indeed, from what did appear, it was evident that the sitting-rooms were numerous, and richly furnished; that one corridor was a green house, another a conservatory; and that the wings contained library, music-room, billiard-room, and several sleeping and dressing-rooms, all on the ground floor, all opening on the smooth turf, and displaying, or rather betraying, enough of their arrangements to show that, not only convenience, but luxury had been studied in their fitting up. on the outside, ever-blowing roses, with jessamine, honeysuckle and clematis, bloomed in abundance, climbing around the casements, and creeping along the palings: while a gay assemblage of the choicest and sweetest flowers occupied plots, scattered irregularly on the velvet green. the evening song of myriads of birds was pouring from the deep woods with every wild variety of note, rendered the more remarkable by the monotonous sound of the now subdued murmur of the fall, which still went on, on, like the studied sameness of a judicious accompaniment, selected to give effect to the varied excursions of the singer's voice. though the sun was still above the horizon, many bonfires were already lit at various distances along the road. the immediate approach was crouded with people, looking full of expectation. detached groups were advancing in different directions; and, here and there, individuals had climbed trees, or elevated portions of rock, and seemed looking out for something. every now and then, mrs. smyth, dressed in a holiday suit, came forth from some one or other of the many open doors, held up her hand to shade the glare of light from her eyes, looked towards the lake for a few moments, and returned in again. then, would some beautiful exotic be seen to change its position on some flower-stand; next a drapery would be let down from the golden pin which had held it, and hung again, we suppose, with more grace, at least in the opinion of good mrs. smyth, whose form glided on through long corridors, from time to time appearing, disappearing, and re-appearing; and generally followed by that of a child that seemed, at every step, to leap and gambol for very glee. at length, a carriage was seen driving, at a rapid pace, along the borders of derwent-water. every thing bright about it sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. a universal shout arose, and all became hurry and motion. the carriage approached: it was a barouche thrown open, and, seated in it, were mrs. montgomery and lord and lady l. they bowed, smiled, and waved their hands on every side. but soon the attention of the latter lady was entirely engrossed by the appearance of a lovely little boy, whom mrs. smyth, as she descended the lawn, led by the hand; and in whom, but for one touching expression, imperceptible perhaps to any other eye than frances', no one could have recognized poor edmund. the rich dark locks, the profusion of which had formerly added the look of wild neglect to that of misery, now flew back as he ran against the wind, displaying and giving contrast to a forehead white and open. the late hollow cheeks were now rounded, dimpled, and glowing, at once with exercise and delight. his mouth, always beautiful in its form, and so very sweet in its movements, had now all the advantages of rosy lips and happy smiles. while his eyes, which from their being large, and adorned by peculiarly long lashes, had once seemed to occupy the chief part of his face, now but served to give soul to the more earthly beauties, which the good cheer of mrs. smyth had supplied. edmund had got a few paces before his conductress. he stretched forward both hands, and leaped up with a bound towards the door, as he reached the side of the carriage. lady l. pulled the check-string. the carriage stopped, and edmund, whom by its rapid motion it had already passed some yards, was brought back by a servant, and lifted in. such was his joy, that the poor little creature could not speak! he trembled excessively, and, for a moment or two, his features were almost convulsed by his struggles not to cry: he thought it would seem as if he were not glad, and he knew he was very glad. a few tears, however, forced their way; but they only hung in the long lashes, shining like early dew-drops, while happiness sparkled through them: for now, encouraged and caressed, he sat on lady l.'s knee, and hugged one of her hands. yet, when he looked up in her face and tried to speak, his little lip trembled again, and his little countenance assumed an expression of feeling beyond his years, which early sorrow had taught the infant features. lady l. kissed his forehead and passed her hand over it, to wipe away, as it were, the trace of care; while an ardent desire swelled in her heart to screen this object of her tender compassion from every painful vicissitude of life, accompanied, however, by a sigh to think how vain the wish! this sigh was followed by yet another, as, from association, the very natural idea presented itself, that it must be also impossible for her effectually to shelter from the changes and chances of mortal existence, even the babe, that destined to be born under auspices so different, would, in a few months, make her really a mother. mrs. montgomery rallied, and lord l. complimented her on her discernment; declaring that they never had seen any thing half so beautiful as her unpromising favourite had turned out. "do not think me illiberal," said lady l.; "but i cannot imagine this the child of coarse, vulgar parents--a creature that seems all soul! see, with what an intelligent countenance he listens to every thing that is said!" mrs. montgomery smiled; and lord l., anxious to please a wife with whom he was still in love, was about to express himself quite of her opinion. the discussion was, however, for the present broken off by the stopping of the carriage amid shouts of joyous welcome. while the merry groups around the bonfires drank the healths of our family party, its members seated themselves at a most inviting looking table, which we have long half seen from behind a muslin curtain. the agreeable summer supper they here found prepared for their entertainment, consisted chiefly of fruit, of which little edmund, placed between lady l. and mrs. montgomery, was permitted to partake. "you see," remarked her partial ladyship, after observing the child for a time, "with all the gentleness of his nature, there is no slavish awe of superiors about him. do you know, i almost fancy i can discern an innate consciousness of being in his right place when he is with us: it would seem as though, however long he had been in the hands of those wretches, the impressions of absolute infancy, and of the caresses and tender treatment experienced, (if my conjecture is correct,) during that period, were never entirely effaced; for, that though they were not within the reach of memory to recall with any thing like distinctness, association possessed a mysterious power of bringing every thing similar to them home to the feelings. can you imagine so nice a distinction? i can," she added, turning to lord l. "there are few," replied his lordship, "who have not, i should think, experienced the feeling of which you speak. of this class are all the sensations of pleasure or of pain, occasioned by sounds or sights possessing in their own natures no corresponding qualities. how often, for instance, do we hear people say of an air, by no means solemn. 'that tune always makes me melancholy: it reminds me of something, though i cannot remember what.'" this sort of conversation naturally led to the subject of edmund's future prospects. it seemed tacitly yielded to the evident wishes of lady l., that his profession should be that of a gentleman. "i think," said lord l., "it will be the best way to give the boy a liberal education: and when he is of an age to judge for himself, let him choose for himself." mrs. montgomery expressed the same opinion. "nothing can be kinder, i am sure!" said lady l., giving a hand to each, and seeming to take the obligation entirely to herself: then looking at edmund, she added, after a moment's pause, "i dare say, he will choose to be a clergyman, the benevolent duties of that sacred office will suit so well with his gentle temper. should you not like to be a clergyman, my dear--like the gentleman who reads in the church every sunday." "i'd like to be a sailor boy," said edmund. "a sailor boy!" repeated lady l. "poor child!" "that's right, my brave fellow!" exclaimed lord l. "you see, frances, he will not be so very gentle after all! less than a year of good feeding and kind treatment have already brought out his english spirit. if he continue of this opinion, i can obtain his admittance into the naval college at portsmouth; after which, i shall put him forward in his profession with all the interest i can command." things being thus arranged, so much to lady l.'s satisfaction, the family retired for the night. chapter viii. "thou wilt see him." mrs. montgomery received an account, in the morning, from mrs. smyth, of how good edmund had been, and of his having become so great a favourite, not only with the good doctor, but also with the clergyman, that both had had him to dine and play with their children more than once. she also reported, with great self gratulation, the very uncommon progress he had made in learning, under her tuition; and then proceeded to relate an adventure she had met with one evening, when walking with edmund. "we were just returning," said mrs. smyth, "from keswick, where i had been taking a cup of tea wee a vara discreet neighbour. i carried the boy wee me, for i niver like to let a child that is in my care oot o' my sight; it's a thing i nivir did, and edmund is ne trouble; tack him whar ye will, he awways behaves himsel so prettily. so just as we were walking quietly up the hill, before ye git under the shade o' the trees, hearing voices, i happened to look ehint me, when i saw following us a dacent, vara gentleman looking man, in earnest conversation with a woman, wha from her rags, and the whiff o' spirituous liquor i found as she passed, seemed a beggar o' the maist disreputable kind. they keep't looking, looking, still at little edmund, as they spoke; and though, when i think upon it, it seems as though ony body might look at his bonny face, heaven love him! yet at the time i felt within myself parfact sure 'at they were no looking at him for the sake o' looking at him. as they cam' past i heard the man say, 'well, i suppose she'll be satisfied, now that i have seen him myself.' i am quite sure o' these words, but they went on, and i could hear no more. it seemed so strange like, i thought, to follow and speak wee them, when i felt the bairn pull me by the hand; i looked round, and he was trembling aw over, and as pale as death. by the time i had speered at him what ailed him, and spoken him a word o' comfort, the man and the woman were bathe gane, and the peur thing talt me, that yon graceless wretch was his mother." much commenting followed, on the part of mrs. smyth, which it is unnecessary to repeat; while mrs. montgomery could not refrain from expressing great regret, that so favourable an opportunity had been lost for compelling the vagrant to give some account of herself, and of the child. the subject was, of course, discussed in the breakfast-room, but nothing could be made of it, except that it would seem there did exist some one who took an interest in edmund, and who might yet claim him, when their reasons for mystery were at an end. but then, their choice of such an agent as the drunken beggar, was quite unaccountable; for, had she stolen the child, why should she be in the confidence of the decent man, who, it seems, was to satisfy the child's friends, by being able to say that he had seen him himself. the most diligent search was made in the neighbourhood, but neither man nor woman could be heard of. mrs. montgomery and lady l. now undertook the instruction of edmund themselves, till proper arrangements should be made respecting that point, lest he should acquire too much of good mrs. smyth's accent; yet that discreet lady was far from thinking any such precaution necessary, as she prided herself on reading english with great precision, and indulging in her native idiom only in familiar conversation, for the sake, as she averred, of "auld lang syne." this plan of the lessons brought edmund much into the sitting-rooms, till, by degrees, it passed into a custom for him to remain all the morning with the ladies. then, when particularly good, he was indulged with a sort of second dinner at the table: and he was always good, so that there was no opportunity to withdraw an indulgence once granted, and, very shortly, a chair and plate were set for him at every meal, as a matter of course; while every one grew so fond of him, that it seemed forgotten he was not a child of the family, and even the servants, of their own accord, all began to call him master edmund. chapter ix. "this is thy birth-day, and thou must be the little idol of the festival." in the mean time preparations of every kind were making for lady l.'s expected confinement. the doctor had an apartment assigned him, and now lived at lodore house, lest his attendance should be a moment too late. a respectable woman, of approved abilities, arrived all the way from edinburgh. she was provided with an assistant under-nurse from keswick, and both established at lodore. offerings too, at the shrine of the expected stranger, made their appearance every day. a splendid set of caudle-cups, of very curious china, was sent from london by lady theodosia r., a sister of lord l. a set of baby-linen, of needle-work the most exquisite, arrived from scotland, sent by major morven, a rather elderly bachelor-brother of mrs. montgomery's. the major mentioned in his letter, that, as he did not understand those things himself, he had had them chosen by a committee of ladies, the best judges in edinburgh. many, indeed, were the little, very little things, which came from various quarters, more than we entirely understand ourselves; but every band-box that was opened produced something little, so that it seemed a sort of importation from the liliputian world. little hats of white beaver, like snow-balls, in which, however, little plumes were not forgotten. little caps, little bonnets, and even little shoes, wrapped in silver paper. in short, there was nothing big, but the good woman from edinburgh, and major morven. the major came to be in time for the christening, as he was to be one of the sponsors. at length another little arrival took place, and a beautiful little girl commenced her earthly pilgrimage. quickly was the young stranger dressed in the raiment of needle-work, and carried by its grandmamma, and followed by its nurse, to the drawing-room, there to receive the caresses, and claim the admiration of its happy papa. there also was edmund, wondering much at the bustle, and at his lessons having been entirely omitted. his ecstacies of delight and astonishment on seeing the baby were so great, and his entreaties so eager, first to be allowed to look at, then to touch this quite new object of wonder, all the time trying each expedient to add to his height, now leaping straight up, now climbing the chair nearest to lord l., then the arm of the sofa, and, finally, the sofa-table itself, to the imminent danger of his neck, that mrs. montgomery was at length induced, after making him sit down on the said table, to hold the infant, for a second or two, across his knees. during those seconds it was, we have good reason to believe, that the first idea of self-importance ever entertained by our hero, entered his mind: it accompanied the proud consciousness of fancying that he afforded support to a creature more helpless than himself. he touched its soft cheek, then its miniature hand, which soon began to close itself round his finger, in the manner that infants do. it seemed to edmund, as though his caresses were kindly returned. his little heart overflowed with fondness. he looked up, his face beaming with delight, and asked if he might kiss the darling little baby. "a pretty bold request indeed!" said lord l., laughing, "kiss my eldest daughter, you urchin." mrs. montgomery, laughing also, told him he might, and edmund accordingly approached his rosy lips to those of his precious charge, with, however, the greatest gentleness, lest, as he said, he should hurt it. mrs. montgomery, on her return back from the drawing-room, was much surprised to hear the cry of an infant inside her daughter's apartment, while she herself, if she were not dreaming, held the baby in her own arms, outside the door. the fact was, an occurrence had taken place, which, with all their preparation, they were not at all prepared for. a second little girl had made her appearance. two dress caps, certainly, had been provided, one with a cockade for a boy, the other with a suitable rosette for a girl, in case of such a contingency (and bad enough in all conscience) as that of the child being a girl, after doctor, nurse, servants, tenants, and indeed every one knowing perfectly well that it would be a boy, but two girls never had been so much as thought of. the elder young lady, therefore, by three-quarters of an hour, being already in possession of the girl's rosette, the younger was obliged to make her first public appearance in this world of vanities, figuring in a boy's cockade. to prevent, however, a serious disappointment on the part of lord l., an explanatory message was sent to him before she was permitted to enter the drawing-room. there was but one child's nurse, too; but what with grandmamma's help, and good mrs. smyth's assistance, and edmund's, which he judicially afforded, by running under every body's feet who carried a baby, they contrived to manage till a second nurse could be procured. we speak of nurses under certain limitations; for lady l. had been too well instructed by her mother, in every right sentiment, to meditate for a moment depriving her infants of the nutriment nature had ordained for them. the doctor, as soon as he thought he could venture to assert that there would be no more, either boys or girls, frisked into the drawing-room, rubbing his hands, and smiling with perfect satisfaction. "i give your lordship," he said, "joy, twice told! twice told! i believe i am justified in so doing on the present twofold occasion. twofold, heigh? twofold it certainly is, literally so, and twofold should be our rejoicing; else are we ungrateful for the bounty of providence, and the liberality of nature! liberality of nature, heigh?" "but--," said his lordship, with a countenance of some anxiety. "we did not anticipate this, sir," continued the doctor, "this is a contingency that we did not anticipate." "pray--," recommenced lord l., making a fresh effort to be heard; but the doctor proceeded. "two beautiful girls, upon my life--beautiful! i already see future conquests sparkling in their eyes!" "are you sure, doctor," asked the major, "there won't be any more? a boy now, eh? girls first: all right that--_place aux dames_." "the next," proceeded the doctor, still addressing lord l., "shall be a boy. at present two _belles_ have been sent us, and we should make them joy _belles_! eh? come, that's rather good, a'n't it?" and with his usual pirouette, he flung himself on the sofa beside the major, threw one leg across the other, and with his head a little back, and on one side, looked up and smiled with entire self-complacency. mrs. montgomery now appeared at the door, to give lord l. the long-wished-for summons; which he obeyed on tip-toe. "from scotland, i presume, sir?" said the doctor to his neighbour on the sofa. "ee noo, sir," replied the major; "bit hoo did ye ken i cam frae scotland? no by my speech, i reckon." "oh, sir, the name--the name," returned the doctor, a little disconcerted. "morven is a weel kent name, dootless," rejoined the man of war; "and for my speech, i should tack ney sham that it savoured o' the land o' my nativity, provided sic was the case; bit it fell oot, that being much wee my regiment, on the sarvice o' his majesty, i ha' been full saxteen year o' my life oot o' scotland; se that noo, when i gang to lunnon, ne body kens me till be a scotchman: that is, by my speech. bit ne' doot--" here the doctor, who had kept silence unusually long (perhaps from admiration of the major's pure english), interrupted his companion, to descant on use or custom being second nature, &c. and the major being one of the many who never listen to anybody's speeches but their own, leaned back on the sofa, and fell asleep. chapter x. "but not less pious was the ardent pray'r that rose spontaneously." "look at him! is he not a beauteous boy?" the christening was quite a splendid festival. a number of friends and relations, among whom was lady theodosia r., became inmates of lodore house for the occasion. all the neighbourhood was invited to join their party for the day; and the tenantry and poor people entertained on the lawn and borders of the lake; while the inhabitants of the town of keswick illuminated their houses to show their respect and affection for the family. the names of julia and frances were given to the little girls. the ceremony was over, and edmund, who had been dressed very sprucely for the great occasion, was standing near one of the nurses, endeavouring to pacify his baby, as he invariably called the eldest of the twins. the young lady was evincing her displeasure at the drops of cold water which had visited, so suddenly, the nice warm glow produced on her cheek by the full lace border of her cap, and the sheltering shawl of her nurse. mrs. montgomery, who was looking on much amused at the little manoeuvres of edmund, naturally recollected (the whole business being about names) that he, poor fellow, had but one appellation, and though that did very well now, the case would be altered when he began to go among strangers, when some sort of surname would become quite indispensable. she chanced to express her thoughts on the subject (in an under tone of course) to lady l. and mr. jackson, who were standing near her, adding, that as there was no name over which she had so good a right as her own, she thought he had better in future be called montgomery. "are you quite determined, madam?" asked mr. jackson. "yes, quite," she replied. "come here, then, my dear little fellow!" proceeded the worthy clergyman, addressing edmund in an elevated tone. edmund obeyed timidly, but immediately. mr. jackson still stood opposite to the font, though, his sacred duties being ended, he had descended the steps previous to the foregoing conversation, which took place while the congregation were moving out of church. the figure and countenance of mr. jackson were fine and impressive, and his air and carriage lent to them all the dignity which the ruler of nature intended man to derive from his upright form, when the mind is upright too. the infantine figure at his knee seemed, by contrast, to add nobleness to his stature. his eyes were raised to heaven, those of the child to his face, as laying one hand on edmund's head, and extending the other, he pronounced with solemnity the following words: "may the almighty father of the fatherless, and defender of the orphan's cause, bless, guide, and protect you, under the name of edmund montgomery, till your claim (if you have such) to any other shall be known and acknowledged." the tones of his voice were fine; and, on this occasion, a tenderness was blended with their depth, supplied by the growing partiality he had for some time felt for poor edmund; while his naturally grave and almost severe deportment, borrowed, when, as now, he had been recently engaged in divine service, a grace from his piety, a humility which yet elevated: it was a consciousness, visible, of standing in the presence of his maker. when our party had come out of church, and were waiting under some trees in the little green that surrounded the building, for the carriages to come up in convenient order, mr. jackson, who still held edmund by the hand, turned to mrs. montgomery, and, with an enthusiasm peculiar to himself, and the very glow of which prevented his perceiving that he not unfrequently produced a smile on the lips of those who were not capable of entering into his feelings, said, "this child, madam, is a more perfect personification of my ideas of what the angels must be, than any thing i have ever before met with, or even read of." "you except the ladies, i hope," said lady theodosia, "or, at least, those of the present company." "i make no exceptions, madam," replied mr. jackson, with but little gallantry of voice or manner. then turning again to mrs. montgomery, he was about to proceed; but lady theodosia ran on thus:-- "it is certainly customary to say of any fine fat child, that it is quite a cherub; but i cannot see why a perfection so earthly, should lay exclusive claim to the attribute of angels! the edinburgh sick nurse, in that case, would be the most angelic creature among us, for she must measure, as sir john falstaff says of himself, at least three yards round the waist." lady theodosia was very thin. "my premises, madam, led to no such monstrous conclusion!" replied mr. jackson, with much more severity of tone than the occasion called for. "monstrous conclusion!" echoed the doctor. "come, that's very good! the person your ladyship has just mentioned, is somewhat monstrous, it cannot be denied." mr. jackson, meanwhile, with a gravity not to be shaken, proceeded addressing mrs. montgomery as follows:--"in my mental visions, i have often indulged in speculations on the possible appearance of angels. i have, 'tis true, always pictured them to myself decked in that freshness of beauty peculiar to extreme youth; yet, on the brow, i have imagined an expression resembling what may be traced here!" and he passed his hand over the forehead of edmund. then taking off the little plumed scotch bonnet, and viewing him as he spoke, he continued: "that look, i had almost said of thought, that touch of sentiment, scarcely corresponding with the dimpled and infantine loveliness of the cheek: that smile too, of perfect happiness, emanating from the blissful consciousness of never even wishing wrong! no seeds of jarring passions there, madam! no contentions of spirit: but that absolute harmony of soul, so rarely to be met with on earth, when every impulse of the native will is in unison with the sense of right implanted in all, by the great author and source of good!" lady theodosia was dying to laugh, but dare not, mr. jackson's face was so perfectly serious. edmund looked up at the moment, conscious that he was spoken of, though, of course, not comprehending what was said. "the eye," continued mr. jackson, "when it meets yours, certainly conveys a tender appeal, a silent claim on protection, that we scarcely expect in that of a superior intelligence." lady theodosia philosophically observed, that the child's hair was black, and that angels were always depicted with golden locks. (her ladyship's were auburn, bordering on red.) "and as to supposing," continued the lady, "that angels must invariably be children," (lady theodosia was no child,) "it is quite an erroneous idea. milton's angels were of all ages." "but there were no ladies among them, theodosia!" said lord l., just coming up. "lovers call you angels, but brothers and married men may speak the truth; and, it must be confessed, that all the angels upon record are either children or young men." "oh fie! my lord," ventured the doctor; "is it not recorded every day before our eyes, in the fairest characters," bowing and smiling to lady theodosia, "that the ladies are angels! fair characters! fair characters! come, that's fair, very fair, a'n't?" chapter xi. "there is nothing great, which religion does not teach; nothing good, of which she is not the eternal source; at once the motive and the recompense." from the evening of the birth of lady l.'s babies, it was evident that our hero, though not yet seven years old, no longer thought himself little. he assumed a manly air and carriage, and could not bear the idea of being suspected of wanting assistance or protection. he, indeed, was always ready to give his assistance, if one of the babies stretched a little hand for any thing, or his protection, if the bark of a dog, the sight of a stranger, or any such awful occurrence, alarmed either of them; or his soothings, if they cried. he would no longer hold by any one's hand in walking, but would step out in front of the nursery party, with quite a proud air, looking over his shoulder, from time to time, and telling the nurses that he was going first, to see that there was nothing there to hurt the babies. he often asked if they would ever be as big as he was; and always kept alive, by perpetual inquiries, and additional caresses, a perfect recollection of the identity of the eldest baby--the one that had been held across his arms, the evening it was born; and which, at the moment it seemed to clasp his finger, had awakened in his little breast the first emotion of tenderness, that was not accompanied by that almost awe-inspiring feeling--a grateful looking up, as from an immeasurable distance, to beings, in whose love and protection he himself sought shelter. the partiality evinced by mr. jackson for our hero, on the day of the christening, encouraged mrs. montgomery to put in immediate execution a plan which lady l. and herself had been for some time meditating; namely, to request that gentleman to undertake the education of edmund, till he was of an age to be sent to the naval college. mr. jackson was eminently fitted for the task of instructing youth. he had been a fellow of one of the universities, and distinguished both for his learning and his talents. since his retirement from college on his present living, he had enjoyed much leisure, and had devoted it to elegant studies: modern classics, modern languages, the fine arts, late discoveries in science, &c. &c. in short, to use his own words, he had, since that period, wandered daily through the pleasure-grounds of literature; not suffering his mind to sink into utter indolence, yet giving it no more than the healthful stimulus of gentle exercise. he was born a poet, but had, through life, indulged more in poetical feelings than in poetical effusions; unless, indeed, we admit as such, the energetic overflowing of his spontaneous eloquence in conversation; for his sermons, he took care, should be plain and practical. he was not a shepherd, who, at the instigation of vanity, would turn the green pasture-lands of his flock into beds of tulips. yet did not the pure and perspicuous style, which good taste, as well as good feeling, taught him to adopt on sacred subjects, want for that true sublime which is derived from simplicity, when the grandeur of the thought itself leaves laboured language far behind. the topic on which he was unwearied was, the inseparable connexion between right faith and right practice, and between both and happiness. he proved, by the most beautiful and feeling arguments and illustrations, that, like the root, the blossom, and the fruit, they grew out of, necessarily produced, and, as necessarily, could not exist without each other. he then proceeded to show, that the whole chain of natural causes and effects formed one unbroken, practical revelation of the almighty will, ordaining virtue and forbidding vice; inasmuch as not only is virtue necessary to make us capable of happiness even here, but out of vice invariably grows suffering, not only moral, but generally physical also, lest the lowest capacity should be slow to comprehend this manifestation of the sovereign purpose of him who called us into being, but bestows upon us that felicity, towards which, his all-wise government is constituted to lead us; of him who, had it been possible even to infinite power, to bestow a consciousness of individuality of spiritual being, without an equal consciousness of freedom of will, would have rendered it impossible for his creatures to err; or, in other words, to forfeit that bliss which "eye hath not seen, ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive." "for," our christian philosopher would add, as he drew his arguments to their close, "had that emanation of the divinity which is the soul of man, been without choice between good and evil; or, in other words, necessitated to act by no other impulse than that of its great source, the almighty had created but a material world, all spiritual intelligence, the whole soul of the universe, had still been god himself!" mr. jackson's imaginings, especially when he walked alone amid the majestic scenery that surrounded his dwelling, certainly were poetry; but he seldom interrupted his pleasing reveries, or checked his nights of fancy, to place them on paper, or even to arrange them in any precise order of words. indeed, it was one of his favourite positions, (and he was famous for theories of his own,) that a man might be a poet, without possessing one word of any language whatsoever, in which to express his poetic ideas. in judging a new work, too, he seldom descended to verbal criticism; but, taking an enlarged view of the spirit in which the thing was written, pronounced it, at once, to want, or to possess, that poetical spark, that vivifying principle, which must, he maintained, breathe a soul into every composition, whether prose or verse, worth the trouble of reading. to complete mr. jackson's qualifications for a preceptor, he himself found a sensible pleasure in imparting knowledge. let others prove the wonders, the properties, the virtues of all that the material world affords; and, admired be their curious, and respected their useful labours; but the natural philosophy in which he delighted, was the development of the young mind. in his mode, too, of communicating instruction, there was a peculiar felicity. he never required of a pupil an arbitrary act of mere memory: "indeed," he would say, "there is no such a power as mere memory." what is commonly called having a good memory, he considered as nothing more than the natural result of fixing the attention, awaking the feelings, and forming the associations. these last, he termed the roots, by which remembrances entwine themselves with our whole constitution, till the very heart vibrates to a sound, a colour, or but the scent of a flower, plucked in the day of joy, or of sorrow. he, therefore, always endeavoured to lead the understanding to facts, through their causes; and, again, to interest the feelings in the consequences of those facts: thus were the lessons he taught never to be effaced. above all things, he hasted to supply the infant mind with salutary associations, on every subject tending to implant principles and form character; considering every avenue of the soul, not thus timely fortified, as laid open to the incursions of wrong, perhaps, fatal opinions. for instance, whilst others railed, with common-place argument, against bribing children, as they termed it, into goodness; he maintained that the lowest animal gratification of the infant, (that is, before it can understand any other,) may be so judiciously bestowed, as to become the first seed of that grand principle, a thorough conviction that the virtuous only can enjoy happiness. if the child's daily and hourly experience prove to it, that when it is good it has all from which it knows how to derive pleasure; and that when it is not good, the reverse is the case; must it not soon learn to connect, so thoroughly, goodness with happiness, that, through after-life, the ideas can never present themselves apart. "as mind is developed," he would say, "let the sources of the child's happiness be ennobled: teach it to prize, as its best reward, the love and approval of its parent; to dread, as its greatest punishment, the withholding such. and, to acquire this power, let your tenderest indulgence, the perpetual sunshine of your countenance, be the very atmosphere in which your child is reared; and soon, the sight of features on which no smile appears, will be chastisement sufficient, and you be spared the brutalizing and alienating your offspring, by beating it into forced obedience, and spontaneous hatred." that such a man as we have described, was ever found, in the fulfilment of his active duties as a pastor, the conscientious and benevolent christian, we need scarcely add. the income arising from mr. jackson's living was considerable; and, as he had also private property, he was quite independent; it was, therefore, entirely as a favour; that mrs. montgomery meditated requesting him to take charge of edmund's education. he, on his part, came into all her plans and wishes, with as much readiness and warmth, as his enthusiastic praises of our hero had led her to hope. the parsonage, to which mr. jackson had built very elegant additions, stands within a short walk of lodore house. its own situation is beautiful. indeed, it is scarcely possible to choose a spot in this immediate neighbourhood which is not so. every distance is terminated by magnificent mountains. more or less ample views of the lake, are almost everywhere to be descried through trees that grow with luxuriance to the water's-edge; the long vista of each opening, carpeted with a velvet sod of the tenderest green; while, where the wooding climbs the feet of the hills, bare rocks, like the sides and turrets of ruined castles, protrude in many parts, giving much beauty and variety to the scenery. one of the highest of these lifts itself conspicuously above the grove which embowers mr. jackson's dwelling, and stands just in view of his study-windows. it is crowned by a rent and blasted oak, the outer branches of which still bud forth every spring, displaying a partial verdure, while the naked roots are bound around the rock's hard brow, with a grasp which has maintained its hold from age to age, against the winds and rains of countless winters. beyond the woods, stupendous skiddaw rears its lofty head, enveloped in perpetual clouds, in much the same manner, that it backs the view of lodore house; for in this wild region, that mountain holds so conspicuous a place in every scene, that it may almost be said to be omnipresent. a window to the south presents some slight traces of human existence, not discernible from any of the others: a curious bridge, roughly constructed, its date unknown, and crossing a spot where there is now no water; and a single chimney, with its blue smoke, peeping from the cleft of a rock, within which is concealed the little habitation to which it belongs. the study itself, from which these prospects are enjoyed, contains an excellent library: it opens with french windows on the lawn, and communicates with the drawing-room by means of a green-house in the corridor form, in imitation of that at lodore, from which it had been stored with choice plants. beyond the drawing-room, in the old part of the building, is situated a comfortable dining-room. to this literary eden, our hero each day repaired, reaping from his visits all the advantages which might be expected. thus did matters proceed for about four years, except that we omitted to mention that he spent all periods of mrs. montgomery's absence from lodore house entirely at mr. jackson's dwelling, by that gentleman's particular request. edmund had become the consolation of his worthy preceptor's lonely hours, the centre of his affections. those had, indeed, no other object. within the first three years of mr. jackson's marriage, he had lost a wife to whom he had been attached from early youth; and, more recently, the measles had robbed him of both the boys she had left him. chapter xii. "did jealous hate inspire thee?" meanwhile the unamiable henry, every time he returned from his school for the vacations, was filled with fresh envy and hatred on beholding edmund more and more established in the rank of a child of the family, and more and more beloved by every one; while he, henry, felt as if at enmity with the whole world, merely because his own unworthy nature could not divest itself of an instinctive consciousness, that he did not deserve to be loved. he, however, explained the business very differently: he persuaded himself that the beggar-brat (as he called edmund in his own thoughts, for mrs. montgomery would not suffer him to do so to be heard) had got into his place, and deprived him of every body's regard. as soon as mrs. montgomery had been aware of her nephew's lodging, she had had him removed to one more eligible; but his low habits were too strongly confirmed to be much amended by this salutary change. he still spent his leisure hours at the butcher's house, and carried thither the fruits of all his depredations, namely, the spoils of robbed orchards, and scaled poultry-yards. there the wife and daughter would first cook for him, and then, joining in the carousal, help to demolish. his rompings too, with miss betsy park, for so was the butcher's daughter named, grew daily more frequent. the sagacious mother did not choose to interfere, observing, that though betsy had become very saucy to mr. henry, and sometimes even gave him a smart slap in the face, he, instead of threatening to beat, and not unfrequently to kick her, as he used to do, was now often heard to menace her with a good kissing if she did not behave herself. the damsel, however, by no means alarmed, would most generally repeat her offence, and, snapping her fingers, tell him she defied him; upon which he would pursue her round the house, back yard, or garden, to put his threat into execution. on such occasions, however, he could not so entirely get rid of his old habits, as to let miss betsy off, without following up his new species of vengeance, by some of those cruel pinches which, in childhood, had so often diversified the snowy surface of the young lady's skin, with the various tints of black, blue, and green. yet miss betsy was, by this time, become a very fine girl: she was fair, had a glowing colour, a quantity of light auburn hair, laughing blue eyes, a saucy nose, full pouting lips, good white teeth, and was tall and well made, though, if any thing, a little too fat; but, in consequence of her youth, this, at present, rather gave luxuriance to her beauty, than coarseness to her appearance. it may be asked, why any thing in the shape of a mother sanctioned such scenes as we have alluded to. but too many s-- b-- mothers, in mrs. park's way, speculated on marrying their daughters to scholar lads, as the boys and young men are indiscriminately termed; and the questionable means employed by mrs. park were not only, in her opinion, the best to obtain her end, but those sanctioned by the customs of the village, time immemorial. by such mothers, while their daughters were permitted--we had almost said counselled--to cast off all delicacy, a sort of worldly prudence was taught, by which the necessity of not forfeiting their chance of marrying a gentleman was duly impressed on young creatures, whose habitual manners, from childhood, had early deprived them of the natural guard of modesty. thus, a girl who was forsaken (before marriage we mean) by a scholar-lad, incurred direful suspicions in the village; while one who had so successfully balanced her blandishments, as to decoy one into marriage, was ever after held up as a pattern of virtue! this was the more easily managed, when we consider the respective ages of the parties. when once these lads left the school, their brides saw no more of them. the ladies, however, as soon as the schoolmaster's authority was at an end, proclaimed their marriage in the village, called themselves by the gentleman's name, had some allowance, particularly if there was a child in the case, and considered themselves a step higher in the ranks of society. henry was not yet seventeen, but he would be older before he finally quitted the school; and most of the s-- b-- weddings took place between mere boys and girls a few years their seniors. a custom too prevailed in this village, and its vicinity, very favourable to suitors--we mean among the elevated rank of which we are now speaking. all received sweethearts, as they are called, were permitted to sit the whole of the night by the embers of the kitchen fire, without witness or candle, beside the damsel to whom they wished to plead their cause. this indulgence was granted, whether scholar lad or labourer, on the plea of the swain, in either case, having no leisure for love-making by day. it was a custom, however, which david park never permitted in his house, though he had himself been so favoured when courting betsy's mother. it is reported in the village, that great confusion exists in the parish register, respecting the christenings and weddings of many families, including the butchers. we think, however, that it must be by a mistake of the old clerk, when a christening appears actually upon record before the wedding, the circumstance being quite out of the course of nature. betsy's father, to do him justice, though he joined in wishing to see his daughter married to a gentleman, and though he was sturdily determined, if such a thing should ever happen, to have her publicly acknowledged; yet would he have disapproved of all the methods pursued by his wife for forwarding such views, had he been aware of them; nor did he permit the slightest familiarity in his presence, from the time that betsy began to assume at all the appearance of a woman. indeed he often took her seriously to task; and one memorable day, in particular, as he sat before his house fire, he drew his pipe, which he had been smoking for some time in moody silence, from his mouth, and addressed his daughter thus:-- "if thoo has a mind tle be a gintleman's woife, or an honest man's outher, kep thee sell' to thee sell', and behave theesell' decently." turning half round, with both hands resting on his knees, he seemed to measure her height and form with his eyes, and then said, "thoo's gitting up, bess! dinna let the lads owr nigh thee!" she blushed and smiled. "coome," he continued, "thoo may kiss thee fayther tho'!" after a rough caress, he recommenced, still looking at her, "thoo's a fine lass thoo! it wad be a pity ti--a, that thoo shouldst coome tle ney bitter end, than tle mac devartion for scholar lads!--and sham to thee fayther!" he subjoined, after a pause, and in an altered tone. after another pause he proceeded thus:--"bonny devartion truly! bonny devartion! nay, nay, betsy, thoo's worthy to be sum'ot bether nor that, my barne! if thoo sould niver be a gintleman's woife, thoo may be a farmer's woife, and ha' plenty and decency roond thee aw thee days, and bonny bairns, like what thoo was thee sell, aboot thee. and when i's tired wee killing swine," he added, pleased with the picture he had drawn, "i can coome to thee chimney corner, and tack the wee things on my knee, and gee thee good-man sum'ot be the week for my leeving. i think i sould like that bether, after aw betsy, nor yon gentleman hunting!" "a weel, fayther," said betsy, affected, "and i'll dee whativer thoo wilt. bit mr. henry's a nice enough lad, tee--a! and civiler grown nor he used to be." "weel, weel, lass! bit tack care o' thee sell: the civiler the war, may be." that evening henry brought one of his suppers to be cooked; and, among other good things, a jar of smuggled spirits, a delicacy which he had latterly contrived, by some secret means, to add to his feasts. on this occasion he seemed already to have taken himself a foretaste of the potent beverage. he found betsy unusually distant. he kept following her about and deranging all her culinary proceedings, in the hope of provoking a game of romps. at last he got her up into a corner and kept teasing her, and coming up so close that it was impossible to get by without a struggle, which was just what he wanted. at this moment her father came in. "kep off the lass!" he cried; "kep off the lass!" and, pushing henry roughly aside, he stood between him and his daughter. "i tell you what, mr. henry st. aubin," he said, "i been't a gintleman, to be sure; bit she is my flesh and blood for au' that, and the best gintleman in the land shan't coome nigh hand her, withoot he gangs to church wee her first! she's a fine lass, and a bonny lass, and a good lass; and worthy till be an honest man's wife, and the mother o' bonny bairns; and she sha'n't be sport for scholar lads, as long as her fayther has twa hands tle knock him doon that mislests her!" henry laughed coarsely, and muttered some reply which did not seem to coincide exactly with david's notions of delicacy; for he continued thus: "hoo durst yee tle spack in that undecent fashion afoor the lass? and what for do you look at her e that gate?" henry, whose usually slender stock of good manners had not received much addition from his late intercourse with the spirit jar, was getting provoked. he could think, at the moment, of no readier mode of venting his anger than that which the immediate power of insulting offered. he seized betsy, therefore, in pretended jest, and began to pull her about rudely, in open defiance of david and decency. the father's ire, at this, so got the better of him, that he forgot all his speculations. "git oot o' my hoose!" he cried; and seizing henry by the shoulders, he thrust him into the street, flinging the preparations for the supper at his heels, and exclaiming, "i'll gar ye! ye greet gapping fiery-faced deevil! i'll gar ye!" henry's countenance, at the time, flushed with intoxication, rage, and insolence, at once suggested and justified the epithet of 'fiery-faced deevil,' bestowed by honest david. the next time henry found betsy alone (though, fortunately for her, her father came in almost immediately) there was so much of ferocity in his manner; and the determined advances of the urchin, in despite of grave looks, partook so much more of revenge than of love, that betsy was instinctively disgusted, and determined, though with tears, to think no more of him, and please fayther by marrying john dixon. dixon was a young farmer in the neighbourhood, who could not help showing a partiality for betsy, though he did not much like her intimacy with the scholar lads, nor the thoughts of her having romped so often with mr. henry. he got over all this, however, being a gentle-tempered, kind-hearted, rather simple young man; and, since he first fancied betsy, disposed to melancholy. the day was accordingly fixed for their wedding, when henry, who had been forbid the house, contrived, by the mother's means, to get an interview with the bride elect. he affected repentance for his late rudeness, pleaded excessive love by way of an excuse, and, rather than be ousted by the farmer, proposed marriage. betsy shed tears of reconciliation, and poor john dixon was dismissed. chapter xiii. "no green star trembles on its top, no moonbeam on its side." "the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty courts." there happened to be a young man at this time expected in the village, who had received his early education at s-- b-- school, and who had been, for many years, the mate in mischief of henry st. aubin. the young man, of whom we are speaking, was the only child of a lone woman who kept the bakehouse of the village. his father, whom he had never seen, had been, in the youthful days of his mother, a scholar lad. the mother was determined that her son should be, as his father had been, a gentleman! she devoted, therefore, the fruits of a life's industry to educate him for the church. after such an exertion, however, she had no pocket-money left to give her darling, who, consequently, often wanted cash. he was selfish, and had no principles. his habits were low, yet, in their own petty way, expensive. his present return to the village was after a considerable absence. henry hastened to the bakehouse at the moment of his arrival, and, taking him aside, asked him if he was yet ordained, "because," continued henry, without waiting for a reply, "if you are not, tell david you are, and pretend to marry me to betsy. we'll have rare fun and carousing at the wedding: and the next time my aunt fills my purse, i'll go halves with you." now, the young man was in orders already; but so good an offer as a carouse and even half a purse, was not to be cast away without consideration. besides which, it might be 'very convenient' to have st. aubin in his power; for though it was perfectly well known that henry did not inherit any thing from his father, his future prospects from his aunt were equally well known not to be despicable; and, at any rate, she behaved so handsomely to him at present, that as a scholar-lad his purse was always tolerably well lined; it was not likely, therefore, that she would ever let him be without money, when he went into the world as a man. the conscientious young divine, accordingly, without more time for his calculations than whilst henry spoke, told his friend that he was not yet ordained, and, at the same time, undertook that his mother should tell david (as well she might) that her son was in orders. "indeed, for that matter," he added, "it will be the safest way to make her think so herself." after this, it was easily arranged, with all parties, that greyson (such was our hopeful churchman's name) should perform the ceremony. it was to take place among the roofless ruins of s-- b-- abbey, poor david having a prejudice in favour of his child being married in church, and the repaired part of the building, which is the present church, being of course locked. the little party, in contempt of canonical hours, left david's house after midnight. they passed down the street, and all was silent. as they approached the little bridge, situated half-way between the village and the abbey, betsy saw a man leaning over the battlements, seemingly looking on the water as it glided from beneath the one low arch. she was sure, doubtful as was the light, for the moon was much obscured, that the figure was that of the young farmer. when they came to the gate which divides the road and school-house from the wide-spread ruins, they found it fastened, and were obliged to get over the stile. when elevated on the upper step of this, betsy gave one look towards the bridge. the figure had left its position there. she passed her eye along the road, and could still discern it following at some distance. "make haste!" whispered henry, hurrying her down the steps rather roughly. "you're not going to change your mind again, are you?" he added, sneeringly. betsy's heart misgave her, and she answered, with a heavy sigh, "if i have changed it ance, henry, it's no you 'at sould reproach me!" "hoot! if it is such a sighing matter," he replied, "don't break your heart to oblige me." "tack care yee dinna brack it, henry, nor my honest fayther's nowther," was betsy's answer. then, mentally she added, "there's ane 'at must be bracken, and that's enew." at this moment a shadow passed along a moonlit wall beside them, and sunk in a dark archway before them. they soon entered the same archway; proceeded along the flags in front of the great western entrance; mounted some steps; walked on the northern high gravelled terrace, some way; then, leaving it, climbed over graves, and stumbled over tombstones, till, descending a rugged path, among nettles and long grass, they entered a part of the ruin which was without any roof. the walls, however, still rose to their full original height, till the starry sky seemed a canopy that closed them in; while, through a row of long, narrow, well-preserved arches, the moonlight streamed with an adventitious brightness, borrowed from contrast with the dark shadows in every other part. the entrance of our party, however, seemed the signal for all that had been bright to disappear. the moon, which had struggled for some time with the vapours of a hazy night, almost at the instant dropped behind a range of thick clouds near the horizon. she set a few moments after, and the haze thickening to a mizzling rain, the very stars became extinguished. it was slowly, therefore, and with difficulty, that the feet of our wanderers now advanced to the further or eastern end, where the altar is said to have once stood. our reverend divine here took a small dark lantern from his breast, unfastened its door, and opened before it a pocket prayer-book. by this time the darkness of all around was total, and added much to the strange effect of the partial gleam that lit up the book, the one hand that held it, and a part only of the one arm, the back of the lantern itself throwing a powerful shadow on the rest of the figure; so that the waving hand seemed a floating vision unconnected with any form, and the voice that arose out of the darkness behind it, almost supernatural! at the moment of its first sound, which, after the silence that had preceded it, seemed to startle every thing, an owl on the top of the ruins screamed. betsy shuddered: the owl fluttered downwards, fell, as it happened, actually on the lantern, and, striking it out of the hand that held it, extinguished its light; then, having panted a moment at the feet of the astounded group, rose, and screaming again, brushed by their faces. a minute after, its cry was heard repeated, but fainter from the distance, for it now came from the highest point of the steeple. "it's no to be, fayther!" said betsy, in a low voice, "it's no to be!" "hoot!" said henry, gruffly. betsy felt her hand, on the other side, taken in one that seemed to tremble. she thought, at first, it was her father's; but just then she heard his voice on the far side of henry, saying to the clergyman, "what's to be done noo?" "he kens it off book," said henry. greyson, who had engaged to swear whatever henry said, alleged that, while he held the book in his hand, and repeated the words, it was the same thing as if he read them. accordingly, with particular solemnity of tone, as if to compensate for the want of other requisites, he recommenced the ceremony. betsy felt the hand suddenly dropped, which had been all this time held against the throbbing heart of some one, whose laboured breathing she had distinguished close to her; not by sounds, those were apparently suppressed, but she had felt each warm sigh steal over that side of her neck and cheek. a moment after her hand had been dropped, she heard a slight movement among some loose stones at a little distance. the darkness was such, that she could not see any of the figures present. david gave away his daughter: the ceremony was concluded, and they all began to make the best of their rugged way homeward. with much ado they got from among tombstones, and fragments of ruins. they passed the stile at the gate, even the bridge, and betsy could see no traces of any one; but it was still very dark. at length they arrived at david park's door; it was opened, and a strong stream of light, pouring from it, crossed the street. david, the clergyman, and a friend of david's, who had been taken as a witness, went in. the bride and bridegroom, happening to be a little behind the rest, were following, when, just as betsy put her foot on the threshold, she heard in the direction of the bridge a plunge, which, though distant, was distinct, from the perfect stillness of the night. she staggered back a few paces, drawing henry with her. "oh, run! run!" she cried, pointing to the bridge, which was in a straight line from where they stood, so that any one who had been upon it might have seen the light of david's open door, and the figures entering. "run where?" asked henry. "yonder! yonder! didna ye hear yon? i's amaist sure its john, gane o'ur the brig for love o' me!" "and if it be," replied henry, "he may go. he shall have no help of mine!" at this tender and considerate speech from the bridegroom, his young bride fainted away. she was carried into the house, without any one but henry knowing the cause of her illness. "my peur bairn's doon-hearted wid yon darkling wedding, and that ne'er do weel o'a jenny owlet," said david. when betsy recovered, which was not for a considerable time, she told her father her fears, and entreated him to go to the bridge. "it was aw nonsense," he said, "and no but fancy! the lad had na mickle to say for his sel, to be sure, bit he was no sic a feul as aw that; and if there had been ony body faud i' the water, of a mischance, it wad be owr late tle help them noo." however, to satisfy his daughter, he walked down the road; but returned, saying, he could see nout. "it was no but yon jenny owlet again, or may be a wild duck; there plenty o' them i' the senbee vale. and, what's mare," he added, "i wadend care an' we had twa on them noo, twirling afoor this rouser." so saying, he placed himself in his own large chair before the said rouser, which he roused still more, with a gigantic poker, as was his invariable custom; while his wife laid on the board smoking dishes, one of which was graced, if not by two wild ducks, by two good tame geese. henry, mean time, was preparing, scientifically, a large bowl of punch; to which was added, on the present occasion, several bottles of choice wine, purloined from the cellars of lodore house. in the morning, the miller who lives near to where the river ----, after wandering through the vale of s-- b--, and passing under the bridge of which we have spoken, empties itself into the sea, found, stopped in its course, as it floated towards the ocean, by his mill-dam, the body of poor john dixon. and betsy was long before she could get it out of her mind, how his heart had beat against her hand so short a time before it lay still, and cold, in the mill-stream. chapter xiv. "my soul is tormented with fear! ah, they are dead!" lady l. had not increased her family since the birth of the twins, and they were, by this time, between four and five years old. her ladyship now, however, expected to do so, and the event was to take place at lodore. dr. dixon, too, such was the almost superstitious confidence placed in him by mrs. montgomery, was to be again employed, which was matter of no small pride, as well as delight of heart, to the good old man. he did not fail, as may be believed, to mention in every house in keswick, and that before he felt a pulse, or even contemplated the hue of a tongue, that an humble individual like himself, had been selected to usher into this eventful life the future earl of l. "for it would be a boy, no doubt," ran on the doctor, "as there are already two girls; lovely little creatures!--the ladies julia and frances l. both the future brides of noble earls, doubtless. but, respecting the seniority of the lady julia l.," continued the doctor, proud of having it in his power to give little people so much information about great people, "the circumstances are very remarkable--very remarkable, indeed! and if her little ladyship makes as good use of her time through life, as she did for the first three quarters of an hour, she will be fortunate--very fortunate--no doubt of it! three quarters of an hour only, the elder of her fair sister; yet, by that short space, is her ladyship entitled to the sum of three thousand pounds per annum; to which fine property, situated in the shire of ----, her ladyship is, by the will of the late major morven, of age on the day that she completes her eighteenth year. the property has on it, the earl tells me, a fine old family-seat, called the craigs, with wood, they say, worth forty thousand pounds! the mansion, too, i understand, contains a gallery of invaluable pictures, a fine library, with service of plate, &c." the old gentleman made a very curious will, leaving the young lady entirely her own mistress, independent of father, mother, or guardian. "for," said the good major, "i had not been an old bachelor, had they let me follow my own way in my youth." "i was one of the witnesses myself," continued the doctor, "and heard him say these words. the major was gallant, you see, as all soldiers should be, and was determined that his will, should not thwart the will of a lady! the will! the will! well, come, that's very fair, a'n't it?" about this time, mrs. montgomery received a letter from the master of the s-- b-- school, stating, that he had been obliged, however reluctantly, to expel mr. st. aubin from his establishment, for the following offences, namely,--many scandalous irregularities, respecting the young women of the village; holding intercourse with the crew of a smuggling vessel, laying off s-- b-- head; absenting himself for days and nights, it is supposed on board the said vessel; and re-appearing in a shameful state of intoxication. soon after this epistle had been read, and before its contents had been half talked over, henry himself arrived. some charges he denied, others scoffed at; but did not succeed in satisfying mrs. montgomery. he was sitting with her and lady l. in the breakfast-room, which opens on the lawn. speaking in answer to the account of his being supposed to have formed an unjustifiable intimacy, at least, if not a marriage, with betsy park, he said: "you must know, ma'am, the people of that village are always getting some one to swear that their daughters are married to every gentleman's son in the school, just to extort money. they consider it quite a trade, i assure you," he added; seeing that what he had said had made some impression. at this moment, a tradesman-like looking man appeared on the lawn. on perceiving henry, instead of directing his steps to the regular entrance, he came up to the french window, or glass-door, which was standing open. stopping a moment, he said, respectfully, to mrs. montgomery: "may i comeb ene, madam?" his dress and manner were so decent, and he seemed so much heated and fatigued, that, without hesitation, she said: "certainly, sir." he put the lifted foot, which had waited in that position for her reply, over the threshold, and, turning to henry, said, in a determined manner: "where is my bess, sir? where is my bairn?" "you needn't ask me," replied henry, turning pale, and speaking as though a lock-jaw were coming on; "the last i saw of her was in your own house." "oh, doon't say so, mr. henry!" exclaimed the poor man, clasping his hands entreatingly. "it's very true though," said henry, gaining courage. "it's not true!" returned david, with sudden fierceness, "or, if it is," he added, changing again to accents of despair; "there's nay body in this warld that kens whare she is!" he paused; then, with forced composure subjoined, "she gade oot o' the hoose, the morn after yee gade away, and she's niver cam back syne." "she is gone off with some sweetheart, i suppose," replied henry, affecting carelessness. "for sham o' yeersel!" cried david, "for sham o' yeersel; and she at the doon-lying wid yeer bairn! wha was she gang wid bit wid you? ye ken weel enew, she was nane o' that sort, or ye wad niver have been forced til mack her yeer wife." "she's no wife of mine, man," interrupted henry, "and don't dare to say so!" "i will dare," returned david, "til spack the truth." henry switched his boots with his whip, and whistled a tune. david continued--"she is your wife, mr. st. aubin; and your lawfu' wife, afoor heaven, and lawfu' witnesses beside." "neither you, nor your false witnesses, can say that you saw us married," said henry, with a sort of laugh. "if we didna, we heard yee," replied poor david. "then it would seem, by your own confession, that you have nothing but hear-say to found your story upon," wittily retorted master henry. "you had better send the fellow away, ma'am," he added; turning, as he hurried out of the room, to mrs. montgomery; who, together with lady l., had hitherto listened in mute astonishment. "look yee theere!" cried david: "oh, madam, if my heart was na breaking within my body, i wad knock that young man doon at my feet." mrs. montgomery was about to speak, probably to reprove such violence. "hear me, madam!" he continued with solemn earnestness; "yee're a christian woman, and a mother, i dar say. she was doon-lying, (as yon lady may be,) the neighbours aw kent she was wid bairn, and kent she was wedded and need na' sham; then, whare wad she gang from her fayther, and her fayther's hoose, in sic a straight, if she didna gang we him, whose wedded wife she was? sweetheart, indeed! an the lass had been withoot sham hersel, whare's the sweetheart at wad tack her awa, an she gone wid another man's bairn?--not his wife!--not his wife! an' he thinks then, does he, to tack a vantage of yon darkling wedding? but i'll tell you aw aboot it, madam," he continued, gasping for breath. then, with the utmost simplicity, he recounted every minute particular of betsy's wedding; the roofless ruin, the midnight hour, the fall of the owl, the consequent darkness, &c. &c.; and finding that his relation was listened to with interest, and evident compassion, he advanced a step nearer, grasped mrs. montgomery's arm, with a hand that almost scorched her skin, and, lowering his voice, continued: "oh, madam! bit what's to come, is war than all; i went to whiten like one distract, when bess was missing; and theere, the ostler folk at ane o' the inn-yards, talt me sic a tale aboot a lady and a gentleman, at had been seen late at evening, walking ootby o' the sands, a lang way aff. and hoo the gentleman, at darkling, cam back by his sel'; and cam 'intle the inn-yard, looking affeared like, and caw'd for a carriage; and hoo he walked up and doon, up and doon, on a bit o' flag, nay longer nor yon table, aw the time the cattle war putting too; (the folk showed me the bit o' flag;) and hoo, when ane on them asked him to remember t'ostler, hoo he looked at him, and never spack; and when he asked him again to remember t'ostler, hoo he started like a body at was wakened, and talt him te gang te hell; and gave him nout, and bad the driver drive on. i trembled fray head to foot," continued david, "and i asked them--but, oh, i feard te hear what they should say in reply--i asked them, if the lass was na wid bairn; and--and--they answered----" here the poor man became dreadfully agitated; threw up his arms and eyes a moment, then flung himself forward with violence on a table that stood before him, laid his face down on it, and sobbed audibly, uttering, in broken accents, the concluding words:--"they answered, she was wid bairn--it was why they notished her." "but what would you infer?" asked mrs. montgomery. "wha wad it be but bess!" he replied, still sobbing. "and she did-na cam back," he recommenced, raising his streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven, as he joined complaint to complaint thus:--"and she'll niver cam back! and she was aw i had! and i'll niver see her bonny face more! nor her bairn, that i could ha' loved for being betsy's bairn, if the deevil had been the fayther on't! he has murdered her i' the sands!" he added, sternly and suddenly, and he faced round as he spoke, "to be clean rid bathe o' her and the bairn!" "silence! silence, man!" exclaimed mrs. montgomery, in a voice of authority. then, too much shocked and affected to experience, in full, the indignation she must otherwise have felt on hearing henry thus accused, she added, "for heaven's sake compose yourself! the horrible suspicion which agitates you in this dreadful manner, it is quite impossible should have any foundation! my nephew, however imprudent he may have been, is much too young a creature to have even thought of an enormity such as this!" "then where is betsy?" said the poor man, looking up in her face. "i shall insist on henry's declaring all he knows about her," replied mrs. montgomery. "depend upon it, she is perfectly safe in some lodging in whitehaven, or some cottage in this neighbourhood, perhaps." the poor father smiled. it was a ghastly and a momentary smile. "heaven grant it!" he ejaculated. "henry has behaved most imprudently," continued mrs. montgomery, "in marrying, as you assure me he has done: and very wickedly, in endeavouring to deny it, when done; and i shall see that he does your daughter, if she be a modest girl, every justice, however ruinous to his prospects, ill-fated being! but you ought, indeed, my good man, you ought to take care, how you accuse any one, lightly, of such a crime as you have ventured to name! were it not that i see your own internal sufferings are so dreadful, that you scarcely know what you say, and that it all proceeds from parental affection, in which i can sympathise, i should, indeed, be very much, and very justly offended!" but there was no severity in mrs. montgomery's tone: she looked, while she spoke, at her own daughter, and her mind glanced at what was, and what was not, parallel in situation, and she could have pardoned almost any extravagance in poor david. "weel, weel," he replied, and forgetting ceremony, he sat down on a chair, and leaned back quite exhausted. lady l., who had felt for his extreme agitation, and had ordered wine to be brought in, now charitably offered him some, helping him herself. at this mark of condescension he attempted to stand up; but she saw he was unable, and would not let him. he took the glass from her; in doing so, a finger came in contact with the hand of lady l.; its touch was like that of an icicle! he brought the wine near his lips; then, pausing, laid it on the table untasted, and said, "bit wha could yon ha' been, 'at went oot wid a young gintleman, and niver cam' back, and was big wid bairn!" "possibly," replied mrs. montgomery, "some lady, whose friends live in that direction, and who had no intention of returning." david took up the glass again; but it dropped from his hand, and he fell to the floor with a fatally heavy sound. mrs. montgomery rang, called, begged lady l. to sit down quietly in the next room, and not suffer herself to be agitated; then rang, and called again. servants appeared, the doctor was sent for, bleeding, and every other method of restoring animation, resorted to, but in vain--poor david was no more! it was the doctor's opinion, that his long and hurried journeys on foot, the frightful agitation of his mind, and the heat of the weather, had all together occasioned apoplexy. henry, when, a few days after this melancholy catastrophe, the subject was renewed, persisted in his assertions, that he had never thought of marrying the girl; that she was a perfectly good-for-nothing creature, and, most probably, gone off with some fellow, whoever, perhaps, she had been most intimate with; though it was not a week since the father had had the insolence to threaten him, because he had spoken to the girl two or three times, with legal proceedings, forsooth. mrs. montgomery was staggered, and puzzled, and knew not what to think. she wrote, however, to the master of s-- b-- school, but received, in reply, no more satisfactory information than the certainty that betsy park was missing. as to her character, she had always been considered dressy, and fond of the company of scholar lads. if there was any truth in david's having thought of taking legal proceedings, his sudden death seemed to have silenced his intended witnesses, for no person came forward. all, therefore, on which mrs. montgomery could decide was, that henry's profession should not be the church, as had been intended; and that she would settle some little pension on david park's widow. chapter xv. "fruits, abundant as the southern vintage, o'erspread the board, and please the wand'ring eye, as each, from its moist and globular side, reflects a ray, varied by its native hue; and all, through shelt'ring foliage shine, so placed, to give them tempting freshness: while flora, dispensing fragrance in the gayest forms, and brightest tints, that once fair paradise adorned, flings all the loveliness of spring o'er autumn's ripen'd richness." a social party of relatives, friends, and neighbours, were seated round the dinner-table at lodore house. they have, it would seem, just dispatched the first two courses, and all important business thus concluded, they appear to be, at the present moment, trifling most agreeably with a summer dessert, consisting of clustering grapes, golden pines, velvet-cheeked peaches, &c. &c. these, crowning costly dishes, and decked with fresh leaves and gay flowers, resembled, as the shining surface of the board reflected each inverted heap, so many isles of plenty, scattered on a glassy sea. while, to keep up our simile, we may add, that cruising fleets of wine decanters sailed smoothly round and round, dispensing, wherever they passed, the sparkling juice of the foreign grape, with wit and gaiety as sparkling. the busy hum of voices still went on, some in the low murmur of flirtation, some in the loud debate of politics; while others, in medium tones, discussed the merits of the last new novel, opera, or play. mr. jackson, who sat next to mrs. montgomery, addressing henry, said--"pray, mr. st. aubin, if the question is not an impertinent one, who might the man be, whom i saw part from you last evening, at the end of the wood leading into the shrubbery walks between this and my little place? i was much struck with his figure, and the insolence, i had almost said, of his step and carriage." henry, at first, affected not to hear; but, on the question being repeated, answered, with over-acted indifference--"the fellow has been, i believe, a sailor. begging, i fancy, is his present calling." "he doubted then," rejoined mr. jackson, "either my ability, or my will to be charitable; for he did not beg of me. indeed, he seemed disposed to get out of my way as fast as he could." "possibly," said henry, "he feared that, as a magistrate, you might put into force the laws against vagrants." "there was something very remarkable in the countenance of the man," persisted mr. jackson: "handsome, certainly; but the expression sinister in the extreme!" "expression," repeated henry with a sneer, "the man is deranged! you must have heard of a mad beggar about whitehaven, who calls himself sir sydney smyth: this is the fellow. i have been foolish enough to give him money, more than once, i believe; and, consequently, he now does me the favour to consider me in the light of an old acquaintance." "i thought," said mr. jackson, "the man spoke in a strangely loud and dictatorial tone.--and so, he is a mad beggar! well, i have dignified him amazingly: for he presented to my fancy, why, i scarcely know, the poetical idea of milton's devil, walking in paradise. the spot where i first observed him certainly is equal to any garden of eden i have ever been able to imagine!" "the parson is always in the heroics!" whispered lady theodosia to her next neighbour, colonel b--: "the last time i was down here, he could talk of nothing but angels, i remember." at this moment, the beautiful little twins, now between four and five years old, were ushered in. after speaking to mamma, papa, grandmamma, &c. they took up their usual station, one at each side of edmund, who helped them to fruit, ice, &c. indeed he had so many requisitions of attention from both young ladies, and generally at one and the same moment, that he proved himself to have no mean talent for gallantry, in being able to turn with sufficient quickness from one to the other. "why, my little pupil will learn to be quite an accomplished ladies' man," observed mr. jackson, aside to mrs. montgomery. "then will the list of his accomplishments be complete!" said our old friend the doctor, who happened to catch the words, though across the table; "for i understand you are teaching him everything--absolutely everything! in short, erecting, on the substratum of ancient literature, an elegant structure, adorned with all the modern additions lately made to science, and inhabited by the muses!" "why," said mr. jackson, who always answered seriously, however foolish the speech addressed to him; "i could not feel satisfied in communicating to a mind like edmund's, mere dry learning: he already shows a sensibility to what i call the poetry of nature, and indeed of everything, which quite delights me." a young lady, beside whom henry sat speaking at the same time to her neighbour, observed, that the little beau had quite enough to do. "it is not every gentleman who can take as good care of even one lady," she added, with a laugh. henry's attention thus aroused, (for something had thrown him into a reverie,) he perceived that the lady's plate was quite vacant. he started, apologized, and now heaped upon it every kind of fruit; making, at the same time, so many pretty speeches, that the young lady began to suspect that love, and that for herself, must have caused his absence of manner. henry now appeared determined to be quite gay, and even full of frolic: and the young lady, restored to perfect good-humour, seemed highly amused by his efforts. edmund, and his two little ladies, were on the other side of henry; julia the nearest to him: whenever she looked away, he stole the fruit off her plate; and laughed much, in unison with his young lady, at her look of innocent astonishment, when she turned about; and at her instant application to edmund, to get her more fruit; which, at the next opportunity, henry would again steal. at length he was discovered; and julia, without condescending to remonstrate, turned her shoulder as much as possible to him, and took better care of her plate; which she pushed with both hands quite close to edmund's. henry's young lady, now seized with a strong veneration for justice, insisted on her swain's making restitution of the heap of fruit, by this time collected before her. he, accordingly, slipped his hand over julia's head, and emptied the young lady's plate on hers. julia turned round; hustled back from off her own chair, and on to edmund's knee, supporting herself with one arm over his shoulder; and now, facing the enemy, she took up her plate in her other hand, slid off its whole contents on the table near henry, still without speaking to him, and asked edmund to give her more fruit; which he did. "that is not polite, my dear," observed lady l.; "why should you throw henry's fruit away, and take the same kind from edmund?" "because," answered julia, speaking distinctly, and with an air of importance and decision which amused every one, "i don't love henry, and i do love edmund!" "explicit, upon my word!" said a gentleman at the other side of the table, who had been all day receiving alternate smiles and frowns from an heiress, to whom he was paying his devotions. "you love poor henry, then, i suppose," said that gentleman's fair neighbour to frances. "no, indeed!" said frances; "i hate henry!" "and so do i!" said julia. the twins always made it a point to be exactly of the same opinion. "you must not hate any one, my dears," said lady l., looking grave. frances was busily engaged arranging the grey hair of the doctor; and the better to effect her purpose, she was standing on tip-toe on the seat of her chair, with her little arms stretched eagerly across the wrinkled, smiling countenance of the good old man. while julia, having kept the strong position she had at first taken up on edmund's knee, was sitting perfectly still. "how marked at this moment," observed mr. jackson, aside to mrs. montgomery, "are the distinguishing characteristics of the two little girls! quiescent," he proceeded, "i should hardly know one from the other: the size, the fairness of the skin, the brilliancy of the red in the cheek, but especially the remarkable quantity of curling, floating, flaxen hair, is so exactly the same in both." "the eyes," interrupted mrs. montgomery, "are a different colour." "oh, yes; and in my opinion," said mr. jackson, "the dark hazel is the most beautiful eye in the world! yet, frances', it must be owned, have many of the poets on their side. do look," he added, "at the elastic spring of all her movements, and the picturesque air of her every attitude; while julia's grace is always that of repose, except at the moment of some immediate excitement--i mean, of the feelings, when the colour mounts, the eyes sparkle, and all becomes energetic expression. that little creature will require the greatest nicety of management: her very warmth of heart may lead to a too great vehemence of character." "she has certainly a most affectionate disposition," said mrs. montgomery. "and her gratitude," pursued mr. jackson, "is quite a passion!" "well, gratitude can never degenerate into a fault!" resumed mrs. montgomery, "and the child is not in the least selfish; indeed, it is always in the cause of something oppressed or injured, that her little spirit rises: a bird, a fly, or i have seen her, after trying to beat henry, sit down and cry over a crushed worm, that he had refused to step aside to spare." "she may require the stricter guard," rejoined mr. jackson; "for, under the guise, and in the cause of generous feelings, we sometimes permit a warmth of temper to grow upon us, which we should have early subdued, had it appeared with a bare-faced front, and offered to fight our own battles." the rising of the ladies to retire, here put an end to the conversation. in a day or two, lady l.'s expected confinement took place. what were the rejoicings, bonfires, and illuminations, may be imagined, when we say, that the child was, as the doctor had prophesied, a son. chapter xvi. "thinkest thou, that he but sleeps? long shalt thou wait his awaking." the sick nurse ought not to have been asleep. yet it appears that she certainly must have slept; for when the sound of something like a door shutting made her start forward from the deep, high back, of her easy-chair, she found, not only that her eyes had been shut, but that she had dreamed, what she considered a most remarkable dream. she was our old acquaintance from edinburgh, and was very superstitious. the dream, and the particulars attending it, were as follows. we shall give them in her own words, as she ventured, nearly thirteen years after, to relate them, under a promise of secrecy, to her countrywoman, mrs. smyth, while they sat together at their tea in the housekeeper's room. "the peur lady," said the nurse, "had fall'n intle a sweet sleep, wi' the baby at her breast. the chamber was dark, exceptin' a dull bit lamp, that was blinking doon on the hearth-stane; for being summer time, there was nae fire. i mysell' was sitting quietly e the great chair; every thing e the hoose was se still, that i amaste thought 'at i could hear the far-aff voises o' the folk, 'at was making rejoicing around the bonfires. my ane mind, you see, being quite easy like; for, nor mother, nor child, could be doing better nor they were doing; i must just ha' dozed a bit; for i begun a-dreaming, tho' i canna' say precisely the purport of my dreams, until i thought i saw mr. henry, as plain as i see you, slip on tip-toe, and stop half-way e the middle e the floor. and then, i was se parfect certain, that i heard him ask, in a whisper, hoo lady l. was; that i meant to reply, 'as weel as can be expected, sir;' bit tho' i begun working my jaw frae side to side, to strive to get the words oot, it was se stiff it wad na move. i can remember naething maer, till i thought i heard a soond like a watchman's rattle; and then, i thought it was naething bit the crumpling o' a piece o' paper, 'at i dreamed the doctor was taking aff o' a bottle o' medicine. i was sure 'at i saw him quite plain, standing wi' the bottle in his hand, near the table. nor was i that far gane, but that i kent weel enough, through aw my sleep, 'at i ought tle rise and reach him a glass; bit i had na poor tle stir a limb. i could nae ha' been weell mysell', for it was mere like tle a trance, woman, nor tle common sleep. and then, i thought, 'at to my great surprise, the doctor had the vara face o' mr. henry, bit oulder like; and while i was wondering at this, and looking at the doctor, and the doctor, i thought, looking hard at me, the doctor, and the bottle, and the table, and the foot o' the bed-curtain, aw disappeared; and i can remember naething mere, bit a deal o' confusion about being hame again in edinburgh; until i was wakened ootright, by what i thought at the time, was the shutting o' the door frae the dressing-room intle the gareden. bit it must ha' been the doctor's rap, for he cam' in amaste immediately. what was vara remarkable was, that after i should ha' dreamed o' seeing yon bottle in the doctor's hand, that there should hae been se mickle said and done about yon vara bottle; and that it should ha' been yon bottle, that i mysell' blamed for every thing! weel! the doctor he could na get the bit tie undoone; and he sais to me, 'mrs. mowbray, will you favour me weth a pin?' i remember it as weel as it was but yesterday. and he said, at the same time, that he never had afore, in aw the hale course o' his practice, used a double knot wi' tying down a bottle, but a'y a single ane, wi' the ends twisted. and then he said, in his curious way, ye ken, as he shook the bottle afoor he poured the medicine intle the glass, that the good lady need na to be afeared to tack it, for that he aye mixed his medicines afoor dinner. and then, he pleased his sell', honest man, wi' laughing a bit at his ane joke. and then he geed the lady the glass; bit yeer mistress, wha had come in soon after the doctor did, and wha was standing at the bedside, just eased the lily-white hand o' the weight, for a moment or twa, while she observed, that as her daughter had had some refreshing sleep, it might no be necessary to gie her a composing draught. weel, the doctor, he alood his sell', that there was naething like natural rest; bit tho' he was amang the best o' them, he was like them aw, in that particular, he wad hae his ane ill-savoured trash swallowed, right or wrong--and wrong enough it proved. however, the doctor said, that they might depend upon it, it was a maste benign and salubrious mixture; and that having slept se much a'ready, the lady might the mere likely be wakefu' in the night-time, if she did na tack her sleeping-draught. and se, her peur mither, she was over-ruled, and geed her back the glass. and she swallowed the draught sure enough, and slept sure enough, and lang enough, for she never waked more!" mrs. smyth made no reply, for she was rocking herself from side to side, with the tears rolling down her face. "the doctor, peur old man, he is dead and gane," resumed the nurse, "or i wad na say what i am going to say, even to yoursell', mrs. smyth; but i have often thought syne," and here she lowered her voice, "that yon sleeping-draught was stronger nor the hold o' life in her that drank it." mrs. smyth only shook her head. "my dream," added the old nurse, after a short silence, "certainly cam' oot, about the bottle; and that's what i blame mysell' for: i should ha' spoken up, and talt the vision; for never did i, nor ony belanging to me, dream o' seeing ony thing, so distinct as i saw yon bottle, that some harm did na come o' 't. and the doctor, too, he was na long for this warld, after i dreamed o' seeing his face changed. it's never good to dream o' seeing ony body wi' another body's face." "bonfires, indeed!" murmured mrs. smyth to herself, as if thinking aloud. "aye," she added, in a spiritless tone, when aroused to attention by the ceasing of nurse's voice, "it was a particular dream, to be sure. and some of the folk was saying, too, that there was ane seen oot by that night, that keeped be his sell', like the angel o' death. he went near nowther bonfires nor drink, and was seen ne more, when aw was over wi' them within." chapter xvii. "he lies beside the dead; at frantic starts, kisses the cold lips of julius." "at such a moment, piety becomes the only passion of the soul!" although the conversation related in our last chapter, was not, as we have already hinted, held between the parties till thirteen years after the present era, owing to the nurse's unwillingness to confess that she had slept when she should have watched; yet, as the subjects of which it treats, belong strictly to this epoch of our history, we do not consider that we anticipate unjustifiably, in giving the conversation itself the place it now fills. the melancholy events to which it alludes, divested only of the additions made by superstition, did indeed but too truly, too surely, take place at this period. lady l.'s infant died at her breast, soon after the closing in of evening had rendered the illuminations for its birth conspicuous; and in less than half an hour she herself expired. when once the termination of the miserable scene had separated the remaining members of the family, lord l. could not be prevailed on to see again, even for a moment, mrs. montgomery or the children. he lay, day and night, without retiring, on the sofa in his dressing-room, till the funeral was over, and then fled to the continent in a state of mind the most alarming. henry, now destined to a naval life, went with him as far as the port where both embarked, though on board different vessels. henry, usually so unamiable, had, on the present occasion, greatly endeared himself both to mrs. montgomery and lord l. by the excessive grief he had evinced. indeed, his countenance appeared haggard, and expressive not only of sorrow, but almost of despair. mr. jackson was the only person who had conducted any thing like business; not only the family, but the very servants, were in consternation; and even the doctor had been quite unable to give the slightest assistance. he, indeed, from the time that lady l.'s unfavourable symptoms had appeared, had behaved as if seized with sudden insanity; while life remained, he had continued in the sick room, in a state of uncontrollable perturbation; he had drained or tasted every bottle from which the patient had taken medicine; his hand had trembled to that degree, that he had broken almost every thing he had attempted to take up; he had repeated incessantly the word "no, no, no," beginning with low murmurs, and increasing gradually in quickness and loudness, and again declining into whispers; till, finally, the moment lady l. had expired, he rushed from the house without hat or cane, and ran till he reached home, while his horse stood in the stables at lodore. it was mr. jackson too, who had put all the household in mourning, and who had made the arrangements for the funeral: at which, what was remarkable, was the concourse of the poor, and, perhaps, the unpremeditated part taken by our hero in the solemn pageant; for, when the hearse arrived at its destination, and the body was about to be lifted out, poor edmund, to the astonishment of every one, was discovered lying across the coffin. he had not fainted; for, when brought into the light, he looked all round him vacantly, and, with a sudden movement, hid his face again. mrs. smyth had, it seems, some days before shown him the chamber of death, with all its awful circumstances; and on this morning, when dressing him, she had, inconsiderately, given vent to the petulance which often accompanies sorrow, in the following words:--"and its her ain sel 'at brought ye in aff the cald stanes, boy, and tak the wet rags aff ye, and put the warm clothing on ye, and geed ye bread when ye were hungry, boy; its hersel' they're goin' to carry oot the day, and leave her by hersel', in the cald church-yard!" edmund made no reply; but soon after this he stole from the nursery, and lingered about the halls. presently the bearers brought out the coffin; he followed at their feet, and when they lifted it into the hearse, he too clambered up unheeded. but here, no sooner was the hearse closed, and the consequent darkness complete, than the situation into which an impulse of grateful affection had led the poor child, proved too much for his strength. a strange sensation of awe, and worse than loneliness, at once silenced the sobs which had hitherto shaken his frame; the tears, which had been streaming over his cheeks, ceased to flow; his forehead became covered with the cold dew of superstitious terror; he was motionless; his very breathing was suspended; while still the wretched consciousness remained, that his little heart was breaking. and had the funeral not arrived at the church door at the moment it did, most probably either life or reason must have yielded to a combination of feelings so overwhelming. mr. jackson also preached the funeral sermon. all he was able to deliver were a few broken sentences of passionate admiration and pathetic regret, mingled with the tender hopes of piety, for the triumphant ones he could not reach. and now it was painful to witness, even on the outside, the appearance of the late gay lodore house. all was silent; the very bells were taken off the necks of the sheep that fed on the lawn; no sound was heard, but the uninterrupted murmur of the fall; every window was closed by a blind or shutter; and when any symptom of remaining life was seen, it was, at times, the figure of mr. jackson, in deep mourning, both of habit and attitude, leaning against the paling, and looking fixedly at the two little girls, in their little black frocks, walking, one on each side of edmund, also dressed in black, up and down the gravel before the door, without speaking a word, or deviating from the direct path. if a meal of the children happened to be ready, mrs. smyth would come to the door, and preserving silence, beckon them in; then letting them pass her, and following them, look at them, and shake her head mournfully. chapter xviii "am i indeed the cause of this?" in one of the streets of keswick stood an old, gloomy, but respectable house. in this house was a small back parlour, receiving light from a back lane, and surrounded with shelves, covered with bottles and jars; while ranged beneath the shelves were small drawers, on the outsides of which appeared, labelled, the names of every medicine in use. in the midst of this parlour stood a table; on the table stood a number of bottles, with the apparatus for various chemical experiments; and before the table, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, slippers on his feet, his grey hair uncombed, stood doctor dixon. on his face a haggard expression of fear, inverted the lines of harmless mirth which had so often mingled, gleefully, with those of age, on the poor man's features. his step was uncertain, and his hand trembled, as he selected another and another bottle from a shelf, or another paper from a drawer. his whole frame seemed to have undergone a species of dissolution; and all the infirmities of old age, which he had hitherto, with so much gaiety, warded off, seemed to have been suddenly let in upon him. in short, his heart was broken! a terrible suspicion had for some days pressed upon his mind; his experiments, his researches, had failed to throw any light upon the subject; he had not dared to communicate his thoughts to any one. he sat down. at length he exclaimed, "i--i, who should have healed, have i destroyed?" tears came to his relief. "i am an old man," he said, in a faltering tone, "i cannot live long: would i had died before this had happened!" after a long silence, during which he moved his lips often, and seemed to undergo a powerful inward struggle, he pronounced, with the air of one refusing an importunate request, "never! never! never!" the cruel thoughts which so agonized the poor man's mind were these. from lady l.'s symptoms, he suspected that her death had been occasioned by poison; every medicine she had taken had been mixed by himself, and here was the distracting thought! some ingredients in his dispensary must then, he feared, have come to him wrong labelled; and, in mixing these, he must have formed some combination, hitherto unknown in chemistry, which had produced a deadly poison. to decide this point, he made numerous experiments. when every mixture proved wholesome, or at least innocent, and every label seemed rightly placed, he would say to himself. "but, they are dead!" then, after pausing, and wearying his mind with vain conjectures, he would break forth again: "and the symptoms of both were those of poison, which the babe, doubtless, imbibed with its mother's milk. and i mixed every medicine myself; my own servant took them over; they lay on the table in lady l.'s own bedroom, till i, with my own hands, administered them, taking care to see that my own labels were upon them! yet," he added, shuddering, "the dregs in one of the bottles had neither exactly the colour, nor exactly the taste, that i should have anticipated." and whenever this conviction forced itself upon him, he turned cold, and the pulsations of his heart ceased for some seconds. we have seen the doctor completing the last of his experiments. he had reflected for a short time, in dreadful agitation, whether he were not in duty bound to declare his belief respecting the cause of lady l.'s death to the family. he had decided that the information could only add to their affliction; while the confession, to himself, would be worse than ten thousand deaths! it was at this conclusion he had arrived, when we heard him exclaim, "never! never! never!" he destroyed the whole contents of his dispensary, never more prescribed for any one, or mixed another medicine. all observed a general decay, a total failure both of strength and faculties, in their friend, the good doctor. he never smiled again, nor made another pun; and in a few weeks he died, carrying with him to the grave, the dreadful secret, or rather surmise, which was the occasion of his death. chapter xix. "he spoke of thee, but not by name." about six months after the death of lady l., mrs. montgomery, in looking over papers of all descriptions, which had accumulated on her dressing-table, while she had been unable to attend to any thing, found one, folded and wafered, which had the appearance of a petition. on being opened, however, it proved to be a sort of letter, but vulgarly written, badly spelt, and without signature. it was also without date of time or place. it bore, notwithstanding, in its simplicity, strong marks of truth. it professed to be from a person, calling herself edmund's nurse. yet it gave him no name but that of the "young masther; or, be rights, the young lord, sure; only he was too young, the crathur, to be calling him any thing, barring the misthress's child." in like manner, it called edmund's father "the lord," and his mother "the lady," but did not mention the title of the family. the writer asserted, that having laid the child down for a moment, on the grass of the lawn, at a time when the family were from home, it was stolen by a strolling beggar, for the sake of the fine clothes it had on; for, that the "lord and the lady" were, that very day, expected at the castle. that afraid of blame, she had substituted her own infant. that it had been received without suspicion by the parents, who, having been "mostly in london town and other foreign parts," had seen but little of their boy. it then went on as follows:--"a little while after, sure, i seen the poor child, with hardly a tack on him, of a winter's day, in the arms of the divil's own wife, at laste, if it was'nt the divil himself, the strolling woman, i mane, in the big town, hard by. i went up to her, and abused her all to nothing, and offered to take the child from her. and glad enough he was, the crathur, to see me, and stretched out his poor arms to come to me. but the woman, she hits him a thump, and houlds down both his little hands with one of her great big fists, and turns to me, and says, smelling strong wid spirits all the while, (but for a drunkard as she was, she had cunning enough left,) and she says, spakin' low, and winking her eye, like, 'and whose young master is that, dressed up at the castle, yonder?' says she. 'and it's my boy, to be sure,' says i, 'and small blame to me, when you didn't lave me the right one.' 'and are you going to send the right one there now, if you get him?' says she. 'and what's that to you?' says i. and with that, she gives a whistle like, and snaps her fingers afore my face, and thrusts her tongue in her cheek, and begins jogging off. 'and' says i, following of her, 'and what do you want o' the child?' says i; 'and haven't you got the clothes? and can't yee be satisfied? i'm not going, sure, to ax them of yee, and can't yee give me the child! when it's i that 'ill kape him warm, any how, and fade him well too; i that gave him the strame o' life from my own breast,' says i; 'and what 'ud i be grudging of him afther that?' says i. 'then nothing at all sure, but jist what belongs to him!' says she, 'but the divil a bit of him you'll get, any how; for there's not a day since i've carried him, that i haven't got the price of a dram, at laste, by the pitiful face of him!' says she. 'and for that mather,' says she, 'if any one takes him to the castle,' says she, 'it'll be myself that'll do it,' says she, 'and git the reward too.' 'you the reward!' says i; 'is it for stailing him? it's the gaol's the reward you'll get, my madam!' says i. 'it's the resaver's as bad as the thafe,' says she. 'and it's you, and yours, that'll git more by the job than iver i will. but it's i that'll make my young gintleman up at the castle yonder, pay for his sate in the coach, and his sate in the parler, too, one o' these days,' says she, wagging her head, and looking cunning like. and so it was, to make a long story short, the divil tempted me; and i couldn't think te take my own boy out o' the snug birth he had got safe into; and the divil a bit o' her 'at was worse nor the divil, that 'ud give up the mistress's boy quietly, at all, at all; and so, i was forced, without i'd a mind to tell the whole truth, to say no more why about it, and let her take the poor child away wid her, tho' my heart bled for him. well, sure, twis every year, she came to the big town, begging, and brought him with her, sure enough; but looking miserable like, and starved like; for it was less of him there was every time, instead o' more. and be the time he was near hand five years ould, she brought him, at last, sure, lainin' up on crutches, and only one leg on him! i flewd upon her like a tiger, to be sure, and just fastening every nail o' me in the face of her, i axed her where the rest o' the boy was. and she tould me, but not till she was tired bateing me for what my nails had done, that the leg o' him was safe enough in the bag. and a dirty rag of a bag there was, sure enough, hanging where the tother leg should be. and jist then, cums by the coach and six from the castle! and up she makes to the side of it, with the brazen face of her, driving the poor cripple before her. and, sure, i see my mistress throw money out to him, little thinking it was her own child, with the one bare foot of him over the instip in mud, and them crutches, pushing his little shoulders a'most as high as his head, and his poor teeth chattering with the could, and the tears streaming from his eyes, (for she'd given him a divil of a pinch, to make him look pitiful.) and there was my boy sitting laughing on the mistress's knee. but he looked quite sorry like, when the little cripple said he was hungry, and he throw'd him out a cake he was ateing. 'well!' says i, (quite low to myself,) 'that you should be throwing a mouthful of bread to the mistress's child!' and it was for dropping on my knees i was, and telling all, to the mistress herself; but just then, they brought her out a sight o' toys she was waiting for, and she drawd up the winder, and the coach druv off. and the next time the woman cum, she cum'd without him, at all, at all! 'and,' says i, 'the last time you cum'd, you brought but a piece of him, and now you've brought none at all of him!' but she tould me, sure, his fortune was made, and that he was with grand people that 'ud do for him. but i wouldn't believe her, you see, and gave her no pace, any way, but threat'nin' te hav' her hanged at the 'sizes, if i was hanged myself along with her, till she took'd my husband with her over seas, and let him see the boy. and he seen him, sure enough, walking with a nice ould lady, that's been your ladyship, i suppose. and he had his two legs, my husband said, which i was particular glad to hear. and he was getting fat, too, and rosy-like, and was dressed, as the mistress's child (heaven love the boy) should be. and this made my mind a dale asier, for now there was little wrong dun him. "but, by and bye, troubles came upon me, and my husband died; but, before he died, he thought, and i thought about our sin in regard to the child, and so i made him write down the way to get a letter to your ladyship's hands; and it was a thing that my husband, as he was a dying, seemed to hear to. well, when i buried my husband, sure, i fell sick myself, and then i begun to think the hand of heaven was upon me, and i sat up in my bed, and wrote this long letter to your ladyship; which, becourse of what my husband set down for me before he died, i give to one that's going over seas to the harvest, to give to your ladyship's own hand. he'll tell your ladyship all my husband thought it best not to put down in the letter. but just ax him that takes it what is nurse's name, and he'll tell you fast enough, and all about the great folk at the castle. and it's he that can tell that too, for its he that ought to know it, for his father, and grandfather before him, got bread under them, and he might have got bread under them himself, only for his tricks. but no matter for that. he knows no more o' what's inside the letter, than one that never seen the outside of it; and he's sworn too, before the praist, at the bedside of the sick, and may be of the dying, to deliver it safe, for the ase of the conscience of the living, and the rest of the soul of him that's dead. "and now i have no more to add, but that the young masther (that's him that's with your ladyship this present time,) when he has all, should take it to heart to do for his foster-brother, that's innocent of all harm, and that has larned to lie on a soft bed, without fault o' his, and that throwd him the cake he was aiting in the coach, poor boy, when he thought it was his own, and that may be too.--but no matter for that now: the penance has been done for that, and the absolution has been given for that, and the priest has had his dues. and it's not like the sin that satisfaction can be done for, and that it must be done for too, before the absolution can serve the soul: sich as giving back to the owner his own, or the likes of that; or the setting up of the misthress's child again in his own place, and the pulling down of him that a mother's heart blades for, but that has no business where he is; though it would be hard, for all that, if his father's child should want. but don't be frightening yourself with the thoughts of that, molly. the young masther, after all that cum and gone, will surely do for him that's his foster-brother, any way; and may be do something for his foster-sister too. "why i trouble your ladyship i forgot to mintion, but thim that it concarns most are not to the fore, and, besides, you have the boy.--your sarvent till death: and that, i think, won't be long now. "i'm jist thinking, that may be your ladyship would'nt be happy without you'd a boy to be doing for: and there's him, sure, that's up at the castle now, my poor boy, and there isn't a finer boy in the wide world; and if i thought that your ladyship would jist take him in place of the misthress's child, and do for him, i would die quite aisy." thus ended the nurse's epistle. "i should certainly," observed mrs. montgomery to mr. jackson, "believe this strange letter to be genuine, from the perfect simplicity of the style, but that the writer appears to be too illiterate to have been any thing so decent as a nurse in such a family as is here described." "that," replied mr. jackson, "does not at all invalidate the evidence of this extraordinary document; for, nurses intended merely to supply the nutriment denied by unnatural mothers to their offspring, must be chosen with reference chiefly to their youth, health, and wholesomeness of constitution; and, in great country families, they are naturally selected from among the simplest of the surrounding peasantry." the letter, bearing, as we have said, no date of time or place, the first and most obvious step seemed to be, to inquire very particularly where, and by whom, it had been brought to the house. the outside of the mysterious dispatch was shown to, and examined, by most of the servants, without other effect than a disclaiming shake of the head, although each turned it upside down, and downside up, and viewed it, not only before the light, but through the light, as with the light through, is generally expressed. mrs. smyth, indeed, allowed that, as the bit of a scrawl was vara like a petition, it was no impossible that she hersel' meud ha' just laid it o' the mistress's table; for the mistress, to be sure, never refused tle read ony peur body's bit o' paper, however unlarned or dirty it meud be. at length john, the under-footman, made his appearance, and after examining the shape, hue, and dimensions of the folded paper, said, that it was not unlike one which he had taken about six months since from a strange looking man, who had come to the door, requesting to see his mistress, on the very day that ----, and he hesitated--that every body was in so much trouble, he added. mr. jackson, seeing mrs. montgomery turn pale, took up the questioning of john. and here, lest the said john's powers of description should not do justice to his subject, we shall give the scene between him and the nurse's messenger, exactly as it occurred. the stranger was tall and well made, with a countenance, the leading characteristic of which was, now drollery, and now defiance; whilst its secondary, and more stationary expression, was equally contradictory, being made up of shrewdness and simplicity, most oddly blended. he carried a reaping-hook in one hand, and, with the other, held over his shoulder a large knotted stick, with a bundle slung on the end of it. this personage, on the melancholy day alluded to, arrived at the closed and silent entrance of lodore house. disdaining to use the still muffled, and therefore, in his opinion, noneffective knocker, he substituted the thick end of his own stick. this strange summons was answered by john. "and is it affeard of a bit of a noise you are?" was the first question asked by the stranger. without, however, waiting for reply, he was about to pass in, saying, "just show us which is the mistress, will yee?" the powdered lackey, astonished at such want of etiquette, placed an opposing hand against the breast of the intruder; upon which the stranger, after a momentary look of unfeigned surprise, very quietly laid down his reaping-hook, bundle, and stick, behind him, (for the latter he would not deign to use against an unarmed foe,) then planting his heels as firmly together as though he had grown out of the spot whereon he stood, he cocked his hat (none of the newest) on three hairs, put his arms a-kimbo, and his head on one side; and, his preparations thus completed, with a knowing wink, said, "now i'll tell you what, my friend, i'd as soon crack the scull of yee, as look at yee!" john, even by his own account, stepped back a little, while saying, "you had better not raise a hand to me: for if you do, there are half a dozen more of us within, to carry you to carlisle gaol." "half a dozen!" cried our unknown hero, in a voice of contempt, and snapping his fingers as he spoke, "the divil a much i'd mind half a dozen of you, englishers, with your gingerbread coats, and your floured pates, for all the world as if you had been out in the snow of a christmas day, with never a hat on; that is, if i had you onest in my own dacent country, where one can knock a man down in pace and quietness if he desarve it, without bothering wid yeer law for every bit of a hand's turn." during the latter part of this speech he turned to his bundle, and kneeling on one knee, untied it, took a small parcel out of it, unrolled a long bandage of unbleached linen cloth from about the parcel, next a covering of old leather, that seemed to have once formed a part of a shamoy for cleaning plate, then several pieces of torn and worn paper, and at length, from out the inmost fold, he produced a letter, which, as he concluded, he held up between his thumb and finger, saying, "there it is now! i mane no harm at all at all, to the misthress; nothing but to give her this small bit of paper, that the dying woman put into my hands, in presence of the priest, and that hasn't seen the light o' day since till now." john told him, that if that was all, he might be quite easy, as his delivering the letter at the house was the same thing as if he handed it to his lady herself; for that all his lady's letters were carried in by the servants. "and is she so great a lady as all that," said the stranger, "that a poor man can't have spache of her? but i've had spache, before now, of the great lady up at the castle, sure, and its twiste, aye, three times as big as that house." after some more parleying, in the course of which john disclosed the peculiar circumstances in which his mistress then was, our faithful messenger, after ejaculating, with a countenance of true commiseration, "and has she, the crathur?" at length seemed to feel the necessity of consenting to what he considered a very irregular proceeding, namely, the sending in of the letter; not, however, till he had first compelled john to kiss the back of it, and, in despite of the evidence of his own senses, to call it a blessed book, and holding one end, while our pertinacious friend held the other, to repeat after him the words of a long oath, to deliver it in safety. this, john proceeded to say, he did immediately, by giving the letter to one of the women to carry into his mistress's room. "i suppose," said mrs. montgomery, with a sigh, "i must have laid it down without opening, and forgotten it." mr. jackson observed, that from the expression, "over seas to the harvest," and also the man's appearance, it was very evident he must be one of those poor creatures who come over in shiploads from the north of ireland to whitehaven, during the reaping season; and that this fact, once admitted, seemed to render it more than probable, that the noble family spoken of were irish. as to the important particulars of names and titles, there seemed but one chance of obtaining them; which was, to institute an immediate search after the young man who had brought the letter. every inquiry was accordingly made, but in vain. after some months, mr. jackson himself, in the warmth of his zeal, undertook a journey to ireland; but returned, without having been able to discover any clue to the business. advertisements were next resorted to, but no one claimed edmund. the letter had said, that "those it concerned most were," in the nurse's phraseology, "not to the fore." whether death, or absence from the kingdom was meant, it was impossible to say. the harvest season of the next year came and went, but the wandering knight of the reaping-hook was heard of no more; and mrs. montgomery, while her better judgment condemned the feeling, could not conceal from herself, that she experienced a sensation of reprieve, on finding that she was not immediately to be called upon to resign her little charge. poor edmund had now become to her a kind of sacred pledge; every thought and feeling that regarded him, was associated with the memory of her dear departed child, who had taken so benevolent a delight in protecting and cherishing the helpless being she had rescued from misery, and almost certain death. could the mourning mother then leave undone any thing that that dear child, had she lived, would have done? the absolute seclusion too, in which grief for the loss of her daughter, induced mrs. montgomery to live, gave all that concerned this object, of an interest thus connected with the feelings of the time, an importance in her eyes, which, under any other circumstances, would scarcely, perhaps, have been natural. gradually, however, the prospect of discovering who edmund's parents were, faded almost entirely away; but the conviction that they must be noble was, from the period of the receipt of the nurse's packet, firmly fixed on the mind, both of his benefactress and of mr. jackson. the style, indeed, of the letter itself, left no doubt of the veracity of the writer; while the manners of him who had been the bearer of the strange epistle, the conversation of the man and woman on the keswick road, nay, the very state in which the poor child was first found--were all corroborating evidences. chapter xx. "thy fame, like the growing tree of the vale, shall arise in its season, and thy deeds shine like those of thy fathers. but go not yet to the bloody strife; for thy young arm scarce can draw the heavy sword of artho, or lift temora's spear." "the blue arms of the lovely boy invest him, as grey clouds the rising sun." lord l. remembered, and even experienced, something of a consolatory feeling, in faithfully performing the promise which, within the first happy year of his marriage, he had made to his beloved wife, and which had seemed to give her so much pleasure: we mean that which respected placing and advancing edmund in the navy. his lordship accordingly wrote from abroad to his friend, lord fitz ullin, and edmund, at the age of twelve, was received into the naval college at portsmouth. this was, no doubt, a very wise and proper arrangement; yet there were those to whom it caused infinite grief: we speak of the twins, who, though they had never been expressly told that edmund was their brother, had learned to love him as such; and whether they really thought he was so, or never thought about the matter, were in the habit, in all their little plays and pastimes, of calling him brother edmund, and fancying that nothing could be done without him. his vacations, however, were all spent at lodore house, and were joyful in proportion to the sorrows of parting. on the first of those memorable occasions, mrs. montgomery absolutely wept over him; frances frolicked round him, as if obliged to exhaust herself by fatigue, to moderate her transports; while little julia stood silently, and with a pensive expression, quite close to him; and when, after performing any extraordinary new feat for the amusement of frances, he would stoop, and ask of his little favourite what he should do for her, she would answer, with a glow of enthusiasm, "stay always with me!" he generally brought some tasks home, which were to be learned before his return to college. when he sat at these, frances would fidget round the table, in visible discontent--stop straight opposite to him, put her head on one side, watch to meet his eye, and make him laugh; failing in this, try to play alone; and finding this also dreadfully stupid, return to the charge; while julia would get on a part of his chair, hold his hand and remain perfectly still, till the hand was borrowed to turn over a leaf, when she would follow it with an appealing look, which look, being repaid by a fond caress, she would retake the hand, and sit again as motionless as before. at length, poor lady frances, infected by the dullness of her companions, would sometimes bring a chair on the other side, and insist on having the other hand, which would reduce edmund to the necessity of fastening his book open on the table with another book; after which arrangement, we must confess, that, however unjust the proceeding, and notwithstanding the remonstrances of the injured party, it was always the hand which frances held, which was borrowed to turn over leaves, &c. &c. but there was something in little julia's enthusiastic manner of showing attachment, which won upon the affections in an extraordinary degree, and made her almost unjustly the favourite; poor frances, considering her lively temper, loved brother edmund full as well, in her own way. thus passed two years; and at fourteen, edmund was appointed to the same ship on board which henry then happened to be. the vessel was ready for sea, and going on a foreign station, on which it was to remain for three years. our hero, after joining, obtained a few days' leave, that he might pay a farewell visit to lodore. arrived at the last stage of his journey, he stopped at the little inn, and put on his midshipman's dress, which he had brought with him, from a boyish wish to surprise his two little sisters, as he called the twins, now about seven years old. accordingly, he entered the domestic circle fully equipped, and produced, at least, as great a sensation as his beating heart, while jumping out of the carriage, and hastening across the lawn, had anticipated. as soon as the first clamorous joy of meeting, as well as the first public examination of every part of his dress was over, frances possessed herself of his cocked-hat, dirk, and belt, and began arraying herself in the spoils. while mrs. montgomery, drawing him near her chair, began to question him as to how long he could now remain with them, and when he thought he should be able to return. little julia stood close at the other side of her grandmother, her eyes raised, and passing from one countenance to the other, watching every word. when edmund answering, that he must leave them early in the morning, and that it would be, at least, three years before he could hope to see them again. "three years!" exclaimed julia, turning as red as crimson for one moment, and the next as pale as death! edmund took her on his knee, kissed her little forehead, and remonstrated fondly. at length, showers of tears came to her relief; and amid reiterated sobs, she articulated, in broken accents, "no! i cannot bear the thoughts of summer coming three times without edmund! oh! i'll hate summer, that i used to love so much!" "but, julia! my darling julia!" said edmund, "why should you hate summer? you know, i must be far away in the winter also." "then i must only hate winter too!" said julia, as well as her continued sobs would permit; "but you used to come back in the summer." meanwhile, the little lady frances, quite unconscious of the tragic scene, was standing before a large mirror, at the far end of the room, contemplating her tiny form, surmounted by the cocked-hat, tried on in all the varieties of fore and aft, athwart ships, &c. &c. now, perfectly satisfied with her own appearance, she advanced on tip-toe, that her height, as well as her dress, might, as much as possible, resemble edmund's. but perceiving julia's tears, and being informed of their cause, she flung away hat and dirk, and threw herself into her sister's arms, and joined in her sobs--with a violence proportioned to the sudden transition of her feelings. nothing could console the little girls, and it being late in the evening, they were obliged to be sent to bed; to which measure, after some demurring, and many last words, they consented, for the purpose of being up very early, as they could not think of an over-night farewell. locked in each other's arms, and planning to stay awake all night, lest they should not be called in time, they cried themselves to sleep; and, alas! ere their eyes started open in the morning, early as that was, the unconscious cheek of each had received edmund's parting kiss, and he was already some way on his journey. chapter xxi. "the billows lift their white heads above me!" a few days more, and our hero's ship, the glorious, was on the high seas. it was night. edmund had had the early watch--had been relieved--had retired to his hammock--had fallen into a sound sleep, and was dreaming of lodore. suddenly, his pleasing vision became troubled. a thunder-storm arose; the loud peal rolled, and resounded from mountain to mountain: the little girls shrieked. he started awake! and found the scene indeed different; but the noises which had occasioned his dream, real. the drum was beating to quarters; signal-guns were firing; and all hands hastening on deck. he jumped out of his hammock. the officers were all getting up; the men were casting the great guns loose, knocking away the bulk-heads, and tumbling them, as well as all the furniture of the cabins--trunks, tables, chairs, &c. &c.--pell-mell together, down into the hold, with a tremendous clatter. in short, the ship was clearing for action. she was also tacking to close with the enemy, and her deck, in consequence, was greatly crowded: blue lights burning, rockets going off, sails flapping, yards swinging, ropes rattling, and the tramping of feet excessive; while the voice of the officer giving orders was heard, from time to time, resounding through all. the vessel they were approaching, carried two stern-lights, indicating that a vice-admiral was on board. while all eyes were fixed upon her, she drew near slowly, and on coming up, opened at once all the ports of her three decks, displaying a blaze of lights which, amid the surrounding darkness, had much grandeur of effect, not only dazzling by its sudden brightness, but exhibiting, as it were, in proud defiance, the strength of the broadside, which was thus ready to salute a foe. the vessels now hailed each other, and lo! proved to be both english! the supposed enemy was the erina, admiral lord fitz ullin, returning from gibraltar. all hopes of fighting thus at an end, both men and officers were, to use their own expression, "confoundedly disappointed." they soon, however, had fighting enough; so much, that to give any account of the various actions they were in, would, we fear, be tedious; and, to those unacquainted with naval affairs, uninteresting; we shall not, therefore, attempt it, but passing over about four years of our hero's life, proceed at once to his return to old england, a fine, promising lad, of nineteen--a great favourite with all the officers, and in high estimation with the captain, having already given many proofs of spirit, and being always remarkable for regularity and good conduct. chapter xxii. "from ocean's mist, the white-sailed fleet arose! first, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighter shone the sun--and the distant ships stood forth, their wet sides glittering in all his beams!" "heavens! must i renounce honour, reputation?" as the glorious anchored in cawsand bay, in company with a numerous fleet, the animated prospect which presented itself, especially in its combined effect with the state of the atmosphere, uniting a bright sunny glow with a fog, consequently, of a peculiar whiteness, possessed a degree and style of beauty not easily imagined by any one unaccustomed to harbour scenery. it was the noon of a frosty day: the sun which, as we have observed, shone brightly, gave to the face of the waters the appearance of a sheet of light. the heights around, and all other distant objects, were covered with the smoky veil of white fog, already noticed, which reduced them to shades of the neutral tint; while, on the side of the nearest hill, the clumps of wood and undulations of ground were plainly visible, and along its topmost line some scattered trees stood curiously and beautifully traced against the pale, even mistiness of all behind. in the bay, too, the nearest range of ships, with all the varied and still varying forms of their floating canvass, (for almost all the fleet at this time were employed in furling their sails,) every mast, every cord, each figure standing beneath the picturesque canopy of a sail-boat, or stretching to the oars of a row-boat, were all strongly defined, and appeared, from contrast with the snowy whiteness of the fog behind them, black as ebony; while the more distant vessels, being deeper and deeper sunk in the shrouding atmosphere, were more and more faintly shown, till the farthest seemed but one degree more palpable than the mist itself. the wind, soon after the fleet anchored, died away entirely, and all that had been activity and bustle, changed to the most peculiar repose; as though the beautiful picture, once completed, was left to delight posterity; for nothing now moved as far as the eye could reach, except that, from time to time, a gleam reflected from the flat, wet oar of some row-boat, plying between ship and ship, shot, like a flash of summer lightning, across the still and shadowy scene. during the anchoring of the fleet, one of the ships, by some mischance, got aground, and all the others were ordered to send boats immediately to her assistance. the task was laborious, and much disorder occurred in the tiers of the stranded vessel, where the sailors, taking advantage of the confusion which prevailed, had broken into the spirit-room, and were regaling themselves with rum. towards evening, however, with the help of the tide, she was got off the rocks, and the signal being given for the boats which had been sent to her assistance to return alongside their respective ships, edmund and henry, with their boats and crews, did not obey the signal with their usual promptitude. edmund, meanwhile, after going through great exertion the whole day, was still on board the vessel so lately got off, commanding his men in the most peremptory manner into his boat, when henry observing that he appeared heated and fatigued, and thinking that, at such a time, a very little would overcome one not accustomed to excess, drew towards him a second glass, (for he had been drinking freely,) and filling both that and his own, said, "how heated you are, montgomery! you will kill yourself, if you don't take something!" at the same time offering him one of the glasses. edmund answered instantly, and with indignation, that were it but water, and were he expiring with fatigue, it should not, in such a place, and at such a time, approach his lips! henry stared at him, lifted the glass to his head, and, with a laugh, swallowed its contents. edmund again remonstrated, and taking henry, who was by this time very much intoxicated, by the arm, endeavoured to draw him away. henry staggered, fell, dragged edmund with him, and at the same time, seizing the handle of a can of spirits, which stood on the cask, trailed it after him, emptying its odoriferous contents on our hero's breast and face, as he rolled with him on the floor. at this unfortunate moment, a lieutenant, sent in search of the boats and midshipmen, which were missing, entered, and seeing both officers on the deck drenched in rum, two glasses on the barrel-head beside them, the spirit-can in their arms, and, apparently, the object of contention, as they struggled together on the floor while their men stood round them drinking, laughing, and swearing, he very naturally drew most unfavourable conclusions. edmund, as soon as he could release himself from henry's grasp, arose; but so much heated, and so thoroughly ashamed of the situation in which he had been found, that he looked quite confused. he attempted to speak, but was silenced, and very harshly repulsed by the lieutenant to whom he addressed himself, who told him, with an air of the utmost contempt, at the same time holding a handkerchief to his nose, that while he smelt of spirits in so disgusting a manner, it was impossible to listen to him. our hero reddened with indignation, and repaired to his boat without further attempt at explanation, not doubting, however, that he should be able to justify himself ultimately. henry was obliged to be carried to his boat, and thus did all return to the ship. the necessary report being made to captain b., he was so much incensed, that he sent an order for both young men to quit the ship in half an hour, directing that, with their sea-chests beside them, they should be left on the nearest beach, to find their way home as they might. edmund begged to be heard. the captain refused, sending him word that it was impossible for him to permit gentlemen to remain in his ship, who had disgraced themselves by carousing among the common sailors. there was then no longer a hope! he must get into the boat. he did so; and, as they pushed off, another boat, in which sat a midshipman, (a stranger to edmund,) passed them, and then ran alongside the ship, taking up the position they had just quitted. the sun, a moment before, had dropped below the horizon. edmund folded his arms, sighed, and resigned himself to his fate; then rested his eyes almost unconsciously on the scene before him. the water in the bay was still as a frozen lake, its face one sheet of cold transparent light, marking, by contrast, the pitchy darkness which twilight had already imparted to the hills that rose around it, and to every opaque object laying or moving on its peaceful surface. perpetual, though imperceptibly wrought changes were each moment taking place in every thing around. the clouds near the horizon breaking, the still illumined western sky shed awhile a brilliant ray: the clouds closed again, and left all darker than before. the trees on the western hill stood for a few seconds strongly defined by the parting beam; then faded with the fading light. some of the larger vessels, more lately arrived than the rest of the fleet, with majestic progress passed slowly to their places of anchorage. single-masted boats, (warned by the approach of evening,) one by one drew smoothly towards the shore, changing, as they did so, at each moment, the disposition of their sails; and, finally, taking all down as they came to for the night under shelter of a projecting point. alongside the same point, numerous row-boats, having shipped their oars as they drew near, fell silently; while the single figure that had guided each, might shortly after be traced wandering homeward along the extended beach. when the boat in which our hero sat had gone about twenty yards, they were hailed from their own ship, and desired by the officer of the watch to lay on their oars till further orders. some time of anxious suspense followed, during which the approaches of night were as rapid as they were silent, and all objects were visibly shrouding themselves in that mysterious gloom which imagination loves to people with shadowy forms, when the flash of the evening gun was seen from the admiral's ship, followed by a report which, with startling effect, broke upon the universal stillness, then rolled along like distant thunder up the harbour. as the last sound died away, they were hailed again, ordered to come alongside, and mr. montgomery to come on board. our hero obeyed the order, and was not a little surprised, on reaching the deck, to find all the ship's company assembled there. in a few minutes, the captain and officers, preceded by lights, and accompanied by the strange midshipman who had passed the boat on its first quitting the ship, ascended the hatchway, and arranged themselves on the quarter-deck. edmund was ordered to draw near. he did so; when the captain, addressing the stranger, in a tone which showed he wished to be heard by all present, said, "lord ormond, will you have the goodness to repeat, in the hearing of my officers and the whole ship's company, the deposition you have made to me respecting mr. montgomery." the stranger, a mild-looking lad, about edmund's own age, came forward and said, that he had been in the tiers of the stranded vessel, calling off his own men, when mr. montgomery came in to collect his; that his attention had been fixed by that gentleman's very proper conduct, which he here explained minutely, dwelling on our hero's effort to rescue henry; and his declaration, that were the beverage but water, he would not, for example sake, suffer a glass to be seen approach his lips, &c., till he came to where edmund was pulled to the ground by the fall of henry. he then proceeded to say, that he himself was about to go to his assistance, when, seeing the officer who came in search of both young men enter, he had hurried to his own boat, it being late. here the captain again spoke, saying, that as all had had reason to believe mr. montgomery's conduct disgraceful, he had deemed it necessary that all should be thus publicly informed of his innocence, as well as made sensible of his, the captain's, sufficient reasons for so sudden a change of measures towards him. he then turned to our hero, and expressed himself as highly gratified, to find the favourable opinion he had formed of his character thus justified. captain b. here renewed the order to have mr. st. aubin immediately sent a-shore. the stranger, lord ormond, who was the son of admiral lord fitz-ullin, got himself presented to mr. montgomery; and edmund, anxious to express his gratitude, requested his new acquaintance to tell him by what fortunate circumstance he had become his deliverer. "if any one deserves that title," answered ormond, "it is my father. i fear i was rather negligent in not remaining to assist you; but i had been already detained much too late. in my own justification, i described the scene i had just witnessed, and the consequent interest i could not avoid taking in what was passing; when, happening to say that the other gentleman called you montgomery, my father repeated the name, and, after considering for a moment, exclaimed, 'why, that is the name of lord l.'s young friend! if it be the same, he must be in the glorious, captain b., which came in this morning with the cadiz fleet.' i mentioned about what age you appeared to be; upon which my father started up, saying, 'i could almost venture to affirm, that that young man has got into a serious scrape! you had better, ormond,' he continued, 'go instantly on board the glorious, present my compliments to captain b., and recount all you witnessed of the business.'" before the young men parted, ormond gave a message, of which he was the bearer, inviting mr. montgomery to dine with lord fitz-ullin on the following day. chapter xxiii. "a vision came in on the moon-beam." henry, left on the beach, with his chest beside him, slept heavily for some hours. when he awoke it was night. he lay on the shingles. he felt the fresh breath of the breeze, as, from time to time, it lifted the hair on his fevered temples. he heard the dash of each billow as it struck the shore, and the rattle of the loose stones, as each wave retired again, down the extended sloping bank of smooth pebbles, on which his head was pillowed. thinking it all a dream, he remained for some moments motionless; when, becoming more clearly awake, he sat up, and passed his hand across his eyes, as it were to rectify their vision. the moon had risen over the expanse of waters before him. he gazed on the sparkling of her myriad beams, mingling in fairy dance o'er all the solitary waste, for not a sail or mast appeared. he looked on his right hand, and on his left; here too all was loneliness! his ideas still bewildered, he rested his eyes on the pillar of light, which the bright orb exactly opposite to him, and still near the horizon, had flung across the whole ocean, planting its base at his very feet. on a sudden this dazzling object became obscured, and he beheld, standing over him, and intercepting its refulgence, the same remarkable figure which, it may be remembered, mr. jackson had seen walking with him, about eight years since, in the shrubbery at lodore house. chapter xxiv. "the darts of death, are but hail to me, so oft they've bounded from my shield!" "no boy's staff his spear!" "no harmless beam of light, his sword." the next day, according to appointment, edmund went to dine on board the erina. arriving rather early, he found lord fitz-ullin alone in his cabin, reading a newspaper. his lordship received our hero with the greatest cordiality, saying, he was happy to have it in his power to show any mark of attention, however trifling, to the young friend of lord l.; "particularly," he added, smiling, "as my office of patron is, i understand, to be quite a sinecure, i am the more called upon to discover minor modes of proving my friendship. you have already, i am informed, mr. montgomery," he continued, "by your gallant conduct, so far cut your own way, that you are to receive your commission immediately, without any interference on my part. but, remember, my interest is only laid up for the first occasion on which it may be required, when you shall command it in a double proportion." edmund was commencing a speech of thanks, but was prevented by lord fitz-ullin, who said, "by the bye, ormond is going up to the next examination, which will take place in a day or two. had you not better go with him? you can then pass, and be made, without any unnecessary delays; and, if you have no objection to sail with me, we can have you appointed to the erina on your promotion." edmund was delighted with this arrangement; and, as he smiled, and made his grateful acknowledgments, and even when he had concluded, he observed lord fitz-ullin's eyes resting on his features with a lingering expression of interest which surprised him, and therefore made him look grave. for a moment or two lord fitz-ullin continued to gaze at him, as if waiting for something; and then, with an air of disappointment, sat down, and resumed his newspaper. ormond entering, and joining edmund, the young people conversed with animation, but apart, that they might not interrupt the admiral's reading. edmund, however, saw that the newspaper was little regarded, and that lord fitz-ullin's eyes were generally turned on his countenance. he felt rather embarrassed by so strict a scrutiny, but contrived to maintain the appearance of not noticing it, except that he coloured a little. lord fitz-ullin rose, came forward, and joining them, asked edmund if he thought ormond like him. "i have scarcely ever seen a likeness so strong as that of lord ormond to your lordship," answered edmund. "such is the general opinion," said lord fitz-ullin; "but it is a stationary likeness, consisting in feature. what a fascination there is about that gleam of resemblance, found only in expression, which comes and goes with a smile, particularly when the likeness is to one who has been dear to us, and who no longer exists! we wait for it, we watch for it! and, when it comes, it brings momentary sunshine to the heart, and is gone again, with all the freshness of its charm entire, the eye not having had time to satisfy itself with a full examination into its nature or degree." letters were at this moment brought in, and the admiral opened one, which he excused himself for reading, saying, it was from lady fitz-ullin. the entrance of the rest of the company now diversified the scene, and dinner soon followed. during the remainder of the day and evening, the intimacy between our hero and his young friend, oscar ormond, such was lord ormond's name, made rapid progress; and both the lads looked forward, with equal pleasure, to the prospect of edmund's being appointed to the erina. there was an innocent openness about the manners of oscar ormond, proceeding from perfectly harmless intentions, which, to one so young as edmund, and, himself of a disposition peculiarly frank, was very attractive. in oscar, however, this winning quality, never having been cultivated into a virtue, had remained a mere instinct, and was even in danger of degenerating into a weakness--we mean that of idle egotism. while edmund's native candour, equally, in the first instance, springing from an honest consciousness of having no motive to conceal a thought, had, during that earliest period of education, so vitally important, been trained and sustained by the skilful hand of mr. jackson; and, therefore, already was accompanied by undeviating veracity on principle, and a consequent firmness of mind, worthy of riper years. this gave our hero an ascendancy over his young friend, which might be said to have commenced at their very first interview; and which, in their after lives, frequently influenced the conduct of both, though neither, perhaps, was conscious of its existence. chapter xxv. "pleasant to the ear is the praise of kings; but, carril, forget not the lowly." at this time there was no passing in any sea-port, but before three captains. oscar and edmund, therefore, proceeded to town. the anxious hour, big with the fate of many a middy, arrived. the friends, accordingly, having already got through their first examination with success, now wended their way to the great centre of naval hopes and fears, to answer such final queries as it might be judged necessary to put to them. entering an ante-room, they approached a standing group of youngsters, who, probably, had not much interest to smooth their path, for their conversation chiefly turned on subjects of discontent. one, whose name was bullen, and who had once been a messmate of ormond's, seemed to be chief spokesman. he was growling at the additional difficulty which, he asserted, there was now every day in passing. "a young man might know it all well enough aboard," he said, "but to have a parcel of old-wigs staring a fellow in the face, and asking him puzzlers, why, it was enough to scatter the brains of any one of common modesty!" "if that is all," said one of his companions, for middies are not ceremonious, "there is no fear of you, bullen: your modesty will never stand in your way!" "i hope not," answered bullen, "nor any thing else, if i can help it. at any rate, i should be sorry to be quite so soft a one as armstrong! only think," he continued, turning to ormond, "only think of that foolish fellow armstrong! one of the old-wigs asked him (saw he was soft, i suppose) the simplest question in the world, just to try him. well, old-wig stares him in the face, and looking devilish knowing, says, 'suppose yourself, sir, in a gale of wind on a lee shore, the ship in great danger of going on the rocks, when, the wind suddenly shifting, you are taken all aback, what, sir, would you do in this critical juncture?' instead of answering, 'clap on sail, and put out to sea,' poor armstrong took it for granted he should not have been asked the question if it were not a puzzler, and was so confounded, that he looked like a fool, and had not a word to say, till the old-wigs themselves were all obliged to laugh out." at this moment bullen was sent for to attend the said old-wigs, as he called them; and though he still tried to bluster, he coloured to the very roots of his hair at the awful summons. on his return, however, he came laughing and swaggering, and bolting into the midst of the still standing group, he seized a button of ormond's coat with one hand, and of edmund's with the other, and began to tell his story. "have you passed? have you passed?" cried many voices. "have i passed!" repeated bullen. "there is no difficulty in passing." "i thought it was very difficult, a short time since," observed ormond. "well, well--so it may be to some: i found no difficulty, however. but listen till i tell you the fun. they thought they had got another armstrong to deal with, i suppose; for one of the old fellows, looking as wise as solomon, and as pompous as the grand mogul, turned his eyes full on me, and began. i felt mine inclined to take a peep at my shoe-buckles; but, mustering all my courage, i raised them, stared straight in his face, clenched my teeth, drew my heels together, thus, and stood firm. "'well, sir!' said old-wig, 'hitherto you have answered well.'--this was encouraging. 'now,' he continued, 'suppose yourself on a lee shore, under a heavy press of sail, the wind blowing such a gale that, in short, it is impossible to save the ship, what, sir, would you do?' "'why, let her go ashore and be d----d!' i replied. then, thinking i had been too rough, i added, with a bow, that i should never take the liberty of saving a ship which his lordship judged it impossible to save. he smiled, and said i had a fine bold spirit, just fit for a brave british tar! so i sailed out of port with flying colours, but no pennant, faith: i heard nothing of my commission. "after all," he continued, "what is the use of passing, when, if a man has not the devil and all of scotch interest, and all that stuff, he don't know when he'll get made; but may, in all probability, be a _youngster_ at _forty_! a middy in the cockpit, when he is as grey as a badger! there's a fellow aboard of us now, who jumped over three times,--no less,--to save boys who fell over the ship's side, and couldn't swim; (he swims like a fish himself;) but he's not scotch! well, the captain wrote word to the admiralty; and what reward do you think they gave him? why, employed one of their sneaking under _scratchatories_ to write an official line and a half, importing, that 'their lordships were pleased to approve of his conduct.'" "you may depend upon it," replied ormond, to whom bullen chiefly addressed himself, "that his name is marked for promotion, as soon as a convenient opportunity offers." "convenient!" interrupted bullen: "it would be devilish convenient to me, i know, to be made just now." "and in the meantime," continued ormond, "what can be more gratifying than the approbation of the respectable heads of the department, under which he serves his country?" "i think," said our hero, whose opinions, like himself, were young, and therefore unsophisticated, "the lords of the admiralty do but justice to the motives of british officers, when they deem approbation the first of rewards! i mean, of course, in a public sense; considering their lordships, in pronouncing that approbation, as the organs, not only of government, but also of the nation, on naval affairs; of which they are constituted the judges." "besides," said ormond, "you forget how many men, in the british navy, have risen to the highest rank, without any interest whatever, entirely in consequence of meritorious conduct." "that was long ago," replied bullen sulkily. "but it's very easy for you to talk! you, the son of admiral lord fitz-ullin; sure of whatever you want, and want nothing neither! aye, aye, that's the way of the world! i wish you'd make your father get me my commission, i know!" the other young men looked at each other, and smiled. "well," said ormond, laughing; "do something very brilliant to deserve it; and if the admiralty give you approbation only, i pledge myself you shall not want interest. here is my friend, montgomery," he added, turning to edmund, "saying not a word; and yet, so just a sense have their lordships of his merits, that he has no use for interest, though he possesses it in the greatest profusion." "does he faith?" exclaimed bullen, "i wish he'd give it to me, then!" here all laughed out. and now lord ormond was summoned. he went; and, in due time, returned with rather a conscious smile on his countenance. "well!" cried bullen. "well!" echoed a dozen voices at once. "well!" repeated ormond; but proceeded no further. edmund began to question his amused-looking friend somewhat anxiously, as to how matters stood; and whether there was really any difficulty, to one who knew what he was about. "why, to tell you the truth," said ormond, laughing out at last, "the only question they asked me, was--but i'll not tell you--guess!--all guess!--i give you fifty guesses!" every puzzler which had been conned by any of the party, was now proposed and rejected, in turn; at first, with much of loud merriment; subsiding, finally, however, into grave wonder; for unguessed riddles are apt to grow dull. "i am sure i can guess no more," said edmund at last. "tell!" cried one. "tell!" cried another. "can't you tell!" vociferated bullen. "well," said ormond, "do you all give it up?" "yes!" "yes!" "we all give it up!" "we all give it up!" answered many voices eagerly. and the circle drew itself closer round him. "well, then," proceeded ormond, "they asked me how"--and here he hesitated and laughed again. "how what?" cried bullen. "how what?" "how what?" "how what?" cried all. "how my father was!!!" concluded his lordship, trying to look grave. "no!" exclaimed every voice at once. "i told you how it would be with you," cried bullen. "but you are not serious?" demanded edmund. "but i am, faith!" answered his friend. "and they asked you nothing else?" pursued edmund. "no," said ormond--"but, yes, they did, by the bye; they asked me to take a glass of wine, and a bit of cake." "and you passed?" demanded bullen. "i did," replied ormond. "and are to have your commission, i suppose?" his lordship answered in the affirmative. our hero was now summoned. he met with a very flattering reception; and, after a respectable examination, was informed, that his commission should be made out immediately. he had also the satisfaction of being expressly told, that he was thus early promoted, to mark their lordship's approbation of his gallant and meritorious conduct, as reported by captain b. how different this from being turned out of the ship in disgrace! thought edmund. chapter xxvi. "behold! the red stars silently descend high cromla's head of clouds is grey." "towards temora's groves rolls the lofty car of cormac." we next find our hero, wrapped in a large boat cloak of blue camlet, lined with scarlet plush, and seated on the top of a mail coach; which, with more regard to expedition than to comfort, travels night and day towards the north. his anticipations were all of unmixed delight. with what fixed attention would his darling julia, and even the restless frances, listen to all he had to recount! how much gratified would both mrs. montgomery and mr. jackson be, to find, that by endeavouring to follow their wise counsels, he had obtained the approbation of those best entitled to judge of his conduct. and this, to edmund, was no trifling source of happiness. then, what an important personage must his promotion render him in the eyes of every one! what joy would mrs. smyth evince, on seeing him return safe, and grown to be a man too! for such, at little more than nineteen, he already thought himself. even one glimpse of the gleeful countenance of the old bargeman, who had the care of the pleasure-boat on the lake, appeared in the far perspective of busy fancy. or, perhaps, this was a sort of vision; for it was one of the last things he could remember to have seen pass in review before his mind's eye, when, over night, he had begun to nod on his perilous throne. the hour was early, the morning bright, when the mail set him down where the road turns off to lodore house. he almost ran the rest of the way, and quite breathless entered the dear haven of all his wishes, not by the common approach, but, as had ever been the custom of his childhood, by one of the glass doors which open on the lawn. breakfast was laid; the urn and hot rolls, evidently but just brought in, were smoking on the table: yet, a general stillness prevailed, and the room seemed without inhabitant. edmund's heart, which had been beating with violence, stopped suddenly: he drew a longer breath, and felt even a kind of relief; for the intensity of expectation had arisen to almost a painful height while he crossed the green and stepped over the threshold. advancing a few paces into the apartment he cast an eager look all round; and, in a far window, descried his darling little julia sitting alone; her eyes fixed on a book--her lips moving, apparently learning a task. she looked up, and, not quite recognising the intruder, the first expression of her countenance was alarm. he spoke. her colour mounted till a universal glow spread itself over neck, face, and arms; not from bashfulness, for she was not quite thirteen, therefore too young for such a feeling; but from that extreme emotion peculiar to the enthusiasm of her temper. edmund forgot to throw off his boat-cloak, and enveloped the elastic fairy form of his little favourite in its uncouth folds; while she clung round his neck and sobbed for a considerable time before she could speak to tell him how glad she was to see him, and how much she loved him still--though he had staid such a long, long time away! mrs. montgomery, preceded by frances performing pirouettes, now entered. they had heard nothing of edmund's arrival: the old lady, therefore, was much overcome. she embraced him, and wept over him; for his idea was ever associated in her feelings with that of her lost child. frances, after a momentary pause, sprung into his arms, exclaiming, "it's brother edmund! it's brother edmund!" our hero, meanwhile, swinging about in his boat-cloak, looked rather an unwieldy monster amongst them. "my dear boy," said mrs. montgomery, "why don't you take off that great frightful muffle? i want to see what you are like!" edmund looked down at himself, laughed, and flung off the cloak, declaring he had quite forgotten it. mrs. montgomery now contemplated, with visible pleasure, his figure, become, from its height and proportions, almost manly, without losing any of that air of elegance, which, from childhood, had been animate grace of edmund's: then, pointing to an ottoman close beside her chair, she bade him sit down; and, putting on her spectacles, for the shedding of many tears had dimmed her sight, she kindly stroked back the hair from his forehead, and examined his features. julia stood close at her other side, holding her other hand. frances was off to publish the joyful tidings to good mrs. smyth and the rest of the household; by singing at every bound, "news! news! news!--brother edmund is come! brother edmund is come!--news! news! news!" after dropping a few large tears in silence, mrs. montgomery said, mournfully, "my poor child was quite right. she always prophesied how handsome you would be, when i used to say you were all eyes and eyelashes. now, i am sure, they are just in good proportion. she used to admire the forehead, too; and the form of the mouth; and the sweetness of the expression. yes, yes! she was certainly right." and she looked at him as though he had been a picture, without the slightest compassion for his blushes. edmund, willing to turn the conversation from himself, said, "pray, ma'am, is it not generally thought that julia will be very beautiful? did you ever see any thing like the brilliancy of her colour?" "yes, it is very bright," said the old lady, "a sign of health, i hope." "and as to her smile," proceeded edmund, "i have always thought it the sweetest thing in nature! even in her nurse's arms i can remember being delighted with it; when the darling used to stretch out its little hands to come to me!" and he looked, as he spoke, into the full, uplifted, liquid eyes of his little, listening favourite, with a thrill of tenderness, but too prophetic of the future. "there! look how she blushes!" he continued, collecting the quantity of fair hair which hung around her neck, and playfully strewing it again over her shoulders. "i think her beautiful, of course, my dear," answered mrs. montgomery; "but i am partial, you know: and so indeed are you. you began to love her, i believe, on the very evening she was born! i shall never forget how carefully you supported the baby's head on your little arm as you sat on this very table, i think it was, and asked leave to kiss her." "and was my presumptuous request granted, ma'am?" asked edmund, laughing, and drawing little julia kindly towards him, as though he had some thought of repeating the presumption of which he spoke; but she now began to twist her head away, blush, and look half angry: for little girls of her age, though, as we before observed, too young to be bashful, are very apt to be furiously modest. "certainly, my dear," replied mrs. montgomery: "you were but six years of age, you know, and poor julia there, not an hour old at the time." her voice here faltered, her tears began to flow again, and her head shook a little; an infirmity she was able to suppress, except when much moved. julia, who knew the symptom well, stole her arms round her grandmamma's neck, and tried all the little coaxing ways which she had long found the most effectual on such occasions of mournful recollection. chapter xxvii. "what tho' no chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight: they were our rock in danger; in triumph, the mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!" let those who are fond of dramatizing their ideas, picture to themselves the scene opening, and displaying the wardroom of the erina; its centre occupied by a long breakfast-table, at which a number of the officers are already ranged. our hero enters, and takes his seat among them for the first time, having joined but the night before, just as the ship was getting under way. thus situated, he feels a very natural curiosity to observe what his new messmates are like. he looks around him accordingly; and every face being equally strange to him, he begins to amuse himself, by wondering at the manifold and ingenious contrivances of nature, to make such variety out of the old materials, of eyes, nose, and mouth. one gentleman sat eating an egg with great solemnity; his elongated countenance, resembling one seen on the back of a table-spoon, held up the long way; while his next neighbour smiled on a roll, with a face that seemed reflected from the same part of the same utensil, turned the cross way. the next, a portly gentleman, looked as though he had stowed away, preparatory to the long voyage, good sea-store of claret in his cheeks, nose, and double chin. the next to him, as spare as don quixote, had a countenance the colour of a blanket; while the hollow of his cheeks, which he had ingeniously endeavoured to fill, by encouraging the growth of his whiskers, resembled excavations in a disused quarry, where tangled brambles had long been permitted to flourish undisturbed. one of the good-looking sat next; and the eye that was going the circle of the table, found agreeable rest, for a moment, on his oval countenance, adorned by a healthful complexion, fine eyes, and chesnut-brown hair. next to him appeared a bluff-looking fellow; his face deeply pitted with the small-pox, and of a dark-red colour, relieved only by the sooty black of beard, hair, eye-brows, eye-lashes, eyes and whiskers. his neighbour had a merry face, of a lighter and brighter red, with the exception of the forehead, which was high, open, and brilliantly white, skirted by a thick forest of red hair; while a vigorous growth of whiskers, of the same colour, stood on each plump cheek, like underwood on the side of a hill. nearest him, sat a tall gentleman, whom our hero, on a further acquaintance, considered handsome; for he had a fine fresh skin and colour, a well-set mouth, good teeth, a high nose, and large blue eyes; but the rise on the nose was placed so much too high up, that it gave a ludicrous air of mock pomp to the whole countenance; while the eyes, peculiarly round, opened with that species of stare, which looks as though the cravat were tied too tight; and the cheeks, that seemed to have been plumped by practising the trumpet, wanting, alas! the sheltering grace of whiskers, but too much resembled, save in their hue, very large apple dumplings. after thus scanning the faces of so many good fellows, brave and jovial, though not, at first sight, perfect beauties; our hero's wandering eye arrived, at length, at a vacant seat, before which was placed a plate, carefully covered. at this seat and plate, he observed many of the party looking, from time to time, with various knowing winks and smiles, accompanied by glances directed towards a door, leading from one of the cabins. the said door opening shortly, admitted a perfect personification of sir john falstaff. "mr. barns, our chaplain," whispered edmund's neighbour. our hero felt uneasy: he saw, at a glance, that barns was the butt of the mess; and it was not accordant with his habits, to make a jest of the sacred office, be it held by whom it might. mr. barns rolled towards his seat; placed himself upon it, and as he settled in it, seemed to spread with his own weight. he made a sort of grunt, intended for the morning salutation; then, stretching forward his arms, a certain protuberance of chest and abdomen, not permitting a nearer approach of the rest of the person to the table, he touched lightly, with the fore-finger and thumb of both hands, the cover; when, finding that he was in no danger of burning himself, he raised it. his countenance had begun to fall a little on finding the cover cold; but now, aghast, his under jaw hung on his double chin; while the tongue, spread and slighted protruded, rested on the under-lip; for, lo!--the plate contained but atmospheric air, and mr. barns was not used to feed on the camelion. he clapped down the cover, which, during his first astonishment, he had held suspended; and, leaning back in his chair, said, in a surly tone;--"come, come, gentlemen; this making a jest of your chaplain, and that on sunday morning too, is not very becoming, let me tell you! what must this gentleman, who is a stranger, think of such behaviour? i am very good-natured, sir, you must know," he added, looking towards our hero, "and these gentlemen presume upon it." edmund bowed assent. "i hope, mr. barns," said the claret-faced gentleman, by name warburton, "you mean to make your sermon to-day at least one minute the shorter, for this extempore lecture. ten minutes, you know--we never listen after ten minutes; but promise, on the faith of a true divine, that you will not this day exceed nine minutes, and you shall have the real broil, that the steward is keeping hot without." mr. barns' countenance became less severe, when he heard that there actually was a real broil! "nonsense! nonsense!" he said; "but, there, call for the broil, or it will be too much done: a broil is not worth a farthing without the red gravy in it!" the broil was called for accordingly. "you are a man of honour, barns," continued warburton; "remember the conditions: the sermon is not to exceed nine minutes this morning, or ten on any future occasion." "i don't know that i shall preach at all to-day," said barns. "not preach at all!" echoed the gentleman with the high nose, making his eyes rounder than before. "but, why? but, why?" demanded various voices. "i don't think the day will suit," said barns, taking his eye from the door for a moment, to glance it at the windows. "you are always too timid of the weather, mr. barns," observed mr. elliot, the long-faced gentleman: "a moderate sermon, such as warburton spoke of, no man can object to. those things, in my opinion, should not be entirely neglected, were it but for the sake of example to the youngsters and ship's company." "example!" repeated barns; "that's all very proper ashore, sir; and no man set a better example to his flock, when on terra firma, than i did; but i have no idea of being made an example of myself, in the fullest sense of the word, by having my pulpit blown over board, as might be the case, were it erected on deck without due regard to the weather, mr. elliot." "nay, nay, barns!" interrupted warburton, "there can be no danger of that, when you are in it!" "i don't sail without ballast, i grant you, sir. but here comes the broil!" said barns. the bluff gentleman, mr. thomson, asked the steward, as he entered, how the day was on deck. "very fine, sir." "will it do for the pulpit?" asked mr. jones, the red-haired gentleman. "the pulpit is erected already, sir, by order of the captain," replied the steward. "i thought," said jones, aside, "this no preaching was too good news to be true." "why," asked edmund, aside also, for jones sat next to him, "is mr. barns's preaching so very bad?" "no--yes--i don't know, faith!" answered jones. "have you never heard mr. barns, then?" again asked edmund. "oh, a thousand times!--that is--but you see, i never listen to prosing: it's a bad sort of thing, i think. in short, i generally box the compass, or something of the sort, to amuse myself. it's the best way, in my opinion," he added, "never to think at all!" "there you are quite wrong, sir," observed mr. barns, catching the last words as he wiped his mouth, having finished his broil; "for spiritual food is as needful to the soul, as our common nutriment is to the body: and inasmuch as that body thrives best, which is best nurtured, so will that soul, which is best instructed!" "that argument, from mr. barns, is certainly conclusive," observed mr. white, the thin gentleman. "white," whispered jones to edmund, "thin as he is, eats more than barns does!" all now repaired on deck, where, it is reported, that mr. barns's presentiment proved but too well-founded; for, that while he was preaching, a most unexpected squall came on a sudden--took hold of the ship--gave her one thorough shake--and laid her on her beam-ends; and, that all being in confusion, the men in crowds running forward with the ropes to shorten sail, &c. &c., it was some time before he, mr. barns, was missed, and that when he was missed, while one talked of lowering a boat down, and another ran to look over the ship's side, it was mr. montgomery, who at length discovered him, feet uppermost, in the lee scuppers, where the first reel of the vessel had tumbled him, with the heavy cannonade slides, and what not else besides, heaped on top of him. edmund very soon perceived, that this unbecoming levity of his messmates on sacred subjects, had much of its origin in the character of the admiral himself: for lord fitz-ullin, though a man of so much personal dignity, that in his own manners he never offended against outward decorum, had, unfortunately, no settled principle on religious subjects--no happy conviction, that moral obligations, with all the thousand blessings that flow from them, have but one pure and inexhaustible source, in that simple, practical religion, which the universal father gave his children to promote their happiness, temporal as well as eternal; that religion which saith, "do unto others, as you would that they should do unto you;" that religion, which for every possible duty, hath a plain, practicable precept, which if followed by all, would realize the bliss of heaven even upon earth. but lord fitz-ullin had been disgusted, by frequently, during a considerable portion of very early life, being compelled to hear the irrational railing of a fanatical preacher against good works. the man might have meant right, but he knew not how to express himself; and lord fitz-ullin, unable to adopt his doctrine, such as it met the ear, without further examination, rejected, or at least thenceforward neglected, all religion. something of this was felt, if not seen, by those who looked up to the admiral, as to a man older than themselves--a man at the head of the honourable profession to which they had devoted themselves--and a man, as eminent in brilliancy of courage and talent, as in rank, both hereditary and acquired. the mischief done, therefore, bore proportion to the extensive influence which those shining qualities and exalted circumstances bestowed on their possessor. with respect to his lordship's choice of a chaplain, being blameably indifferent on the subject, he had appointed mr. barns, on the application of a friend, without any regard whatever to his fitness or unfitness to fill the situation. our hero, notwithstanding, found his patron both a kind and most agreeable friend; and one, whose partiality to him daily increased. lord fitz-ullin had been, all his life, in love with glory; in edmund he recognized much of the same spirit, accompanied, too, by all that romance and enthusiasm of youth, so delightful to those, who, having retained such feelings longer than the usual period, find little that is congenial in the minds of people of their own age. "i wish, montgomery," said the earl, one day that edmund dined with his lordship, "i wish you could inspire ormond by your example--he is so indolent. i fear," he continued, "i have given him bad habits: he has always, in fact, been sure of whatever he wished for, without the slightest exertion on his own part." "why, yes," said ormond, playfully; "you know, sir, i am aware that i shall be an admiral one of those days, without taking any trouble about the matter." "oscar," said his father, "remember, that though you may attain to rank by interest, you can never obtain glory, but by deserving it!" "have i not the glory of being your son, sir!" replied oscar, smiling. "i have not even a name by inheritance!" thought edmund; "i, therefore, must endeavour to earn one." as intercourse continued, and friendship grew, edmund saw in his young friend daily evidences of a heart overflowing with every amiable and generous sentiment; also, a high sense of honour--worldly honour, we mean, which had been carefully inculcated by his father. of any other standard of right, oscar ormond had little or no idea. the predominant weakness of his character, was an idle degree of vanity about his rank--the consequence of the early lessons of his nurse. this uneducated and ill-judging woman, with whom he was too much left, used carefully to give him his title from infancy, always telling him what a grand thing it was for him to be a lord already, when there were so many big men, who would never be lords! yet, strange to say, oscar was, as we have seen, devoid of ambition in his profession, to the infinite regret of his father; but he had got it into his head, that his own hereditary rank was something much greater than any thing that could be acquired, and also, that all future steps would come, as all past ones had done--as mere matters of course. the natural consequences of his exalted birth! chapter xxviii. "doest thou not know me?" a few days after the fleet under the command of lord fitz-ullin had arrived on its station, the glorious, edmund's old ship, joined, and making the usual signal for a lieutenant from each vessel at anchor, our hero, as officer from the erina, went on board. while receiving the salutations of his former friends, his attention, as well as theirs, was arrested by the appearance of a boat, which was falling alongside, and in which, if they could believe their own eyes, they beheld, in the shape of a lieutenant, mr. st. aubin. henry came on board. all his old messmates collecting round him, demanded clamourously how he had got out of the scrape in which they had left him. "scrape!" repeated henry, in a contemptuous tone. "the best thing that ever happened to me; i might have been a poor devil of a middy, down there in your confounded cockpit yet, but for it!" "why, d-- it," said walton, "if i thought they would make me a post-captain for it, i would get drunk to night! but tell us how you got made, man, after our throwing you out, like spare ballast, on that rascally beach at plymouth?" "why," answered henry, "i waited upon the first lord of the admiralty, and informed him that i should prefer being a lieutenant to remaining a midshipman: upon which his lordship very politely gave me the commission i now have the honour to hold." "yier taste was sae vara uncommon, sir!" observed the scot, "that his lordship did na care te balk ye?" "precisely so, sir," said henry, with a bow. "but, joking apart, henry," said edmund, "do tell us how it happened." in fact, the friend henry had met with at plymouth, but whom he did not name even to edmund, had informed him that lord l. was just returned to england on business connected with his diplomacy, and was at that time actually in london. henry had set out that night for london, waited on lord l., and, without any mention of his being in disgrace, said that his time being served, he had hastened to town to secure, if possible, his promotion while his lordship was on the spot. lord l., accordingly, taking henry with him, made his application in person. the commission was granted so immediately, that the business was concluded before captain b.'s report, respecting mr. st. aubin's unofficer-like conduct, had reached the admiralty. lord l., however, highly resented the trick thus put upon him, and declared himself determined never again to use any interest of his on henry's behalf. and in this resolve he persevered. chapter xxix. "through the wide heaving of the strife, are the strides of fingall, like some strong ship cutting through wintry seas. the dark tumbling of death, the gleams of broken steel, mingle round him; the waves of war part before him and roll along the field." now followed that most brilliant era of our naval history, which confirmed to the british flag its supremacy on the world of waters! lord fitz-ullin had the good fortune to command in some of the greatest, and, in their results, the most glorious engagements of the period: and, in each of these, edmund distinguished himself. lord fitz-ullin consequently made such creditable mention of our hero's name in every account he sent home, that, after being about two years in the erina, he was appointed to fill an admiralty vacancy, as commander of the desdemona, a sloop-of-war, on the same station. shortly after, another general, and to the english successful, engagement took place. on this occasion the services of the vessel commanded by our hero proved so important, that when the glorious affair was drawing to a close, lord fitz-ullin appointed edmund to the command of a post-ship, the euphrasia, a very fine frigate which had that day lost her captain. "the vacancy is one which i am entitled to fill," said his lordship, as he signed dispatches in which the name of captain montgomery again stood conspicuous: "and were this not the case," he continued, "i could have no doubt of the admiralty confirming such an officer. oscar," he then said, turning kindly to his son, "i am sorry to leave you behind, my boy; but i cannot, even in a public point of view, pass over merit so distinguished as montgomery's: and, you know, oscar, you have never taken the trouble of doing more than the mere routine of duty required. in short, i have never been able to make you fond of the service. yet you shall have the very next ship, though it is thus i have ever spoiled you. i have made every step too easy," he added, after a moment of silence. "i know it, sir," replied oscar: "you have always been kind and indulgent." then turning to edmund, and shaking hands with him, he continued, "montgomery well deserves his promotion, and i am the first to give him joy of it." "well, oscar," said the earl, "you certainly have a good heart; and that, after all, is, perhaps, the first of good qualities." in the next three years, every newspaper was emblazoned with the brilliant deeds of the gallant captain montgomery! we need scarcely add, that each such newspaper was, with proud enthusiasm, read aloud by mr. jackson at lodore house; and, by the quiet home circle there, listened to with the liveliest interest. an immensity of prize-money also had, from time to time, been shared by the fleet; and edmund having been one year a commander, and nearly two a post captain, his proportion of the various sums so shared was very considerable, amounting, in all, to upwards of fifteen thousand pounds. henry, whose advancement had, as we have seen, received a check, happened to be lieutenant in the euphrasia, when our hero was appointed her captain. chapter xxx. "their eyes roll in search of the foe." the euphrasia was detached from the fleet, with instructions to cruise in the archipelago, and look out for, capture, sink, or otherwise destroy, a formidable turkish corsair, which had lately committed great depredations. on making the little island of patras, every speck which the face of the water presented was accordingly examined with more than usual eagerness. in a few hours the words, "a sail! a sail!" were heard from aloft, and echoed throughout the ship. all hands were summoned, and the vessel crouded with canvass. about six o'clock, it being then sun-set, they had approached near enough to the stranger for edmund, with the assistance of his glass, to ascertain that she was a frigate of the largest description, standing towards them under a press of sail. he gave orders accordingly to clear for action; but the wind decreasing, and the night closing in, they lost sight of the enemy for a considerable time. about nine o'clock, however, they beheld much nearer, but imperfectly seen in consequence of the darkness, a vessel evidently manoeuvering to gain the weather-gauge of them. they soon found that she had failed in this attempt; upon which they observed her stand off a little, and show great indecision, making signals, burning blue lights, and, at intervals, firing guns. about ten o'clock a flash, which preceded its report longer than usual, was observed in a different direction; and, immediately after, a second large sail was discovered bearing down, as if to join the first. edmund and his officers, having no doubt that this was the consort of the ship with which they had been about to engage, held a short consultation, as to the propriety of giving battle to so unequal a force. it was, however, unanimously decided, that they should confide in the superior courage and seamanship of british sailors, and commence the attack forthwith. the plan to be pursued was, if possible, to separate the enemy, in such a manner as to be subject to the fire of one only of their vessels at a time; but this was very shortly discovered to be impracticable, for at the moment the moon, which had lately risen, shining out from behind a range of thick clouds, near the horizon, with sudden splendour, the expanse of waters, the distance, nature, and movements of the enemy--all, in short, which had been obscure or doubtful, was at once presented to the view; and the two strangers were seen to close with each other, and shorten sail, at the same time displaying their sable flags and crescents. all this was clearly discernible with the naked eye from the deck of the euphrasia, and placed it beyond a doubt, that the vessels in question were algerine corsairs. edmund gave orders to run his ship in between the two turkish frigates, that he might thus, if he must receive two broadsides, at least have one for each in return. having succeeded in gaining this position, and being within pistol-shot of both ships, he opened his two broadsides at once, with a fire so destructive, and so much better sustained than that of the enemy, that, in less than an hour, one of the turks had lost her main and mizen masts, and the other, being much shattered in the hull, put her helm up, for the purpose of boarding. our hero, perceiving this, had the guns on the quarter-deck loaded with grape shot and musket balls, in place of the usual charge; and thus prepared, waited, with perfect coolness, till the musselmen, armed with battle-axes and cymetars, and uttering hideous yells, had nearly filled the lower rigging, into which they had leaped from that of their own ship, and whence, in another second, they would have descended in hordes on the forecastle and gangway, when, giving the signal, the whole of the thus loaded ordnance was discharged full upon the barbarians, and with such effect, that multitudes of bodies fell at one and the same instant; while turbans rolled along, appearing, in the partial light of the moon, like so many heads severed at the same moment from so many trunks. such as descended alive, were instantly charged by the pikemen and marines; while the few who escaped, being cut down, fell over the ship's side into the water, in attempting to regain their own vessel. the euphrasia herself, having by this time lost all her masts, and in other particulars sustained much injury, the three ships ceased firing, as if by general consent; the turks making every effort their crippled condition would permit, to get clear of the english frigate. hostilities were now therefore suspended for some hours, which hours were employed by our hero, in causing all hands to work with such unexampled diligence in making temporary repairs, especially erecting jury masts, that, in that short time, they had effected so much, as to be again able to work the ship, and once more to attack the enemy. the two turkish frigates lay at a little distance, like logs on the face of the water; unable to move from the relative situations into which they had drifted during the cessation of the battle, and too much separated to afford each other any assistance. it was therefore with as much dismay as astonishment, that they beheld the euphrasia approach one of them, take up a raking position within pistol shot of her, and open a well-directed fire. this was but feebly answered by the turks, who, little expecting a renewal of the combat before daylight, were not prepared to fire more than one or two of their stern chasers with any effect. stubborn, however, and desperate to the last, they continued to fight with musketry, till their decks were heaped with dead and dying; when, their captain, losing all hope of escape, snatched up a lighted match, and brandishing it in a species of mad triumph, ran with it to fire the magazine. at this point the frantic valour of this remnant of a crew forsook them: they cut down their captain ere he could effect his desperate purpose, cried for quarter, and struck their colours. edmund now made sail towards the other frigate. she had already lost the greater part of her crew, being the vessel which had boarded: she could therefore make scarcely any resistance; and, seeing the fate of her consort, she struck her colours, after firing but one or two guns. the object for which edmund had been detached being thus happily accomplished, he rejoined lord fitz-ullin as quickly as possible, taking with him his two disabled prizes; both, notwithstanding, valuable frigates. he was received, as may well be imagined, with loud cheers from the crews of all the vessels in the fleet. thus did our hero, in less than five years from the date of his last visit to his friends at lodore, see himself, at the early age of four-and-twenty, risen to the rank of post-captain, possessed of prize-money to a large amount, and crowned with laurels so gallantly won, as to render his name known and respected in every part of the world to which a newspaper could find its way. chapter xxxi. "the feast is smoking wide." "here, alice, bairn, here, tack it fray me; and mind ye, mack it light and flecky, like to the leaves o' a reading buke," cried our old friend, mrs. smyth; who stood up to her elbows in flour, and up to her eyes in business, in the housekeeper's room at lodore house; "and mind ye dinna pit the raspberry in 'till the puffs be mair nor half baked; or it 'ill be bubbling o'er, and spoiling the edges o' the pastry. bless me weel, sich a fuss! ye mun mind a' the'e thing soon bairn. i'm no used till them noo, and, indeed, i'm getting auld. nell, woman! rin, will ye, till the ice-hoose, there's a canny wife! and see if yon jelly will turn oot yet. what will come o' me, if the jelly will no turn oot affoor dinner-time! maister donald," said she, to the butler, who had just entered, and who was a countryman of her own, being one of the old scotch establishment, "hoo cum ye on? as for my auld head, it's fairly bothered: we are no used to such doings o' late years, maister donald!" "vara true, mrs. smyth," said the butler, "it's thirteen years, i believe, sin we have had to say, reg'lar coompany in this hoose." "aye, thirteen years," rejoined mrs. smyth, "and some three or four weeks, it is noo sin that awfu' neght, (and here she turned to lady arandale's woman, who sat beside her,) when the hale country roond was shining wi' bonfires and illuminations; for every ane at had a pane o' glass, woman, pit a candle in't, till the bonny smooth lake yonder fairly glittered! i mind it as weel, as it had been but yestereen--bit, affoor the lights o' joy were put oot, him, for the birth o' whom they were lighted, and her, wha gave him birth, baith lay dead! aye, cauld corses they were, afoor ever the embers o' the bonfires had ceased to reek!" here a few tears fell from the eyes of poor mrs. smyth; for the present bustle had brought that which preceded the melancholy event to which she alluded, fresh to her mind. "it was a sair blow, in truth!" said the butler; "and sairly did the mistress take it to heart; and wha could blame her?" "it's time, however," replied mrs. smyth, "that the peur lasses, wha were o'er young to ken ony thing about the loss o' their mither, peur things, should see a little o' the warl, and ha'e some youthfu' divartions. they are baith i' their eighteenth year noo," she added, again addressing the stranger; "and if they dina ha'e their sport, peur things, a wee while, afoor they git a gliff o' the ills o' this mortal life, they'l set little count by dancing, and the like, by and bye! bit here comes nell wi' the jelly! that's right--my mind's easy noo! come awa, will ye, maister donald, and look o'er the things wi' me: i's feard for my life, at i shall forgit someot at's maist material." chapter xxxii. "like sounds that are no more, past is erin's strife; and ingall is returned with his fame." lord arandale, the eldest brother of mrs. montgomery; his lady; their daughter, lady susan morven; their son, lord morven; and a nephew, colonel morven, had all come from scotland, on a visit to their relative, and a tour to the lakes. mrs. montgomery, in compliment to these friends, and also for the purpose of affording some little society to her hitherto secluded grand-daughters, had determined, though she never would herself go out again, to see company at home, as before the death of lady l. in pursuance of this plan, a large and gay party was now assembled in the drawing-room of lodore house, awaiting the important summons to that very dinner which we have just seen mrs. smyth so anxiously preparing. there was also to be a dance in the evening, to which all the neighbouring families for many miles round were invited. julia, now about eighteen, according to the account given us in the last chapter by mrs. smyth, was endeavouring, for the whim of the thing, to learn from lady susan morven, the scotch pronunciation of the words of "auld lang syne," of which she was playing the accompaniment on the harp; mrs. montgomery and lady arandale were seated on a sofa, engaged in conversation; lord arandale was talking politics in a window with mr. jackson; frances, lord morven, and colonel morven, were standing near the harp, laughing at julia's attempts at scotch; and the rest, in various groupes, were exerting their patience, or their wit, to pass away the time till dinner. "that is not right," said lady susan, "can't you say it as i do? we twa ha'e climed aboot the hills." julia recommenced accordingly; "we twa ha'e climed"---- the unfinished sentence died away on her lips, her hands ceased to move on the strings, she arose slowly from her seat, stood some seconds motionless as a statue, her colour mounting gradually, then darted past frances and the gentlemen. they turned to look after her, and beheld her standing in the centre of the room; her hand in that of an extremely handsome young man, in a travelling dress. the stranger appeared to be about four-and-twenty, but was strikingly like the picture of a lad, some three or four years younger, which hung over the chimney-piece. in short, it was edmund. the fleet had returned to england; the euphrasia wanted repairs, that must require some months for their completion; and our hero had availed himself of the opportunity thus afforded him of visiting lodore house--setting out without even delaying to write; and while the carriage in which he had arrived, was driving round, he had entered the drawing-room, according to his old custom, from the lawn, by one of the open glass doors. he had been dazzled by the unexpected sight of a large company in rooms so long devoted to mourning and quiet affections, while the first distinct object which had fixed his eyes, (guided possibly by certain sweet sounds,) was the glittering pillar of a harp, the chords of which, were vibrating at the moment in harmony with the tones of a mellow, yet almost infantine voice. a step more, and he beheld, seated at the said harp ---- impossible!--it cannot be!--yet it must be, his darling little julia that was, but transformed from the child she had been when he last saw her, into a seeming woman of perfect beauty, nay, almost majesty; for julia was not only tall of her age, but as fully rounded as symmetry would permit. she was dressed too, preparatory to the ball of the evening, in a much too fashionable full-dress (she had not yet arrived at choosing for herself) sent from town by a fashionable milliner, who wished to send also a long bill. it was this artificial costume, in fact, though edmund was not aware of its power, which had, at first sight, added years to julia's apparent age, and inspired our amazed hero with absolute awe of his former playfellow. in the crayon drawing he had of both sisters in one frame, (full-length, age thirteen,) they wore each a frock, without flounce or tucker, and their fair hair loose on their shoulders. while lost in astonishment, he gazed, yet saw in the well-remembered expression of the soft hazel eyes, so often raised to his in the undisguised fondness of childhood; but it was indeed the same julia; a vivid recollection of their last meeting in that room, on that very spot, and of the boat-cloak, in the folds of which he had then, without hesitation, wrapped his little favourite, as he clasped her to his heart, presented itself most inopportunely, to his imagination. now the very retrospect seemed presumption; yet the years that had intervened, were to memory but as hours; while the pressure of the soft hand, which kindly returned that of his, did not at all tend to the regulation of his already confused ideas. nor, indeed, had he any leisure whatever afforded him for such an undertaking; for frances, as soon as she had turned and seen the cause of julia's emotion, had flown towards him; and mrs. montgomery, on hearing frances' exclamation of--"oh, grandmamma, here's edmund!" had called him to her; and mr. jackson, on catching the same sounds, had left lord arandale and his politics, and hastened to greet his young friend. in short, he was surrounded in a moment, and overwhelmed with rejoicings, questionings, congratulations, and, finally, introductions; being presented, in due form, to lord and lady arandale, and all the family party. the low growl of the gong, preceding its fearful bellowings, was now heard; and mrs. montgomery reminded our hero, that the ten minutes it usually sounded was all the time he would have to make his preparations for dinner. he retired accordingly, and changed his travelling dress for one more suitable to the occasion. on his return to the drawing-room, julia was still engaged playing scotch airs, and learning the pronunciation of the words. without being conscious of the direction he gave his steps, he went as directly towards her, as though he had been the bearer of a message which he was about to deliver. he stopped short, however, when arrived within a pace or two of the harp, where he remained standing. julia continued playing, but performed very badly; for she was wishing to speak to edmund in the kind manner that every recollection of her habitual feelings towards him dictated. she had never, on any former occasion, found the least difficulty in expressing those feelings. what an awkward thing it is, she thought, to meet an old friend, after a long absence, before so many strangers! she returned in a playful manner to the song of "auld lang syne," for the sake of the reference the words have to old times, and old friends; but, when she looked up, very innocently, intending, as a sort of friendly welcome, to enforce the application by a kind smile, and met the eyes of edmund fixed upon her, she looked down, blushed, felt an undefined uneasiness as if she had done something wrong, and did not venture to look up again; though she said to herself, "it is only edmund!" edmund's gaze was so continued, that mrs. montgomery asked him if julia was much more grown than he expected. "yes, ma'am--oh, no!" answered edmund. "that is, i always thought--that julia--but--but"---- he coloured and stammered. "i always thought, myself, she would be tall," said mrs. montgomery; "but you think her more grown than you could have supposed, perhaps?" "yes--ma'am--yes--i do," he replied, glad to be spared the task of translating himself. dinner was at this moment announced; and, the next, edmund heard the words:--"lady julia l., allow me----" pronounced by lord morven, who, at the same time, presented his arm to julia. she accepted it, and the couple fell into the rear of the battalion, marching towards the dining-room. edmund felt an odd sort of sensation, which he did not wait to define, but, offering his arm to frances, who was busy, declaring that she wanted but half an inch of julia's height; he followed with her, and, on taking his seat at the table, between her ladyship and lady susan morven, found himself placed opposite to julia and lord morven. chapter xxxiii. "thou, fairer than the spirit of the hills, and blooming as the bow of the shower, with thy soft hair, floating round thy beauty thus, like the bright curling mist of cona, hast thou no welcome for fingall?" the likeness between the twins had nearly disappeared. the uncommon colour of the hair, indeed, blended of flaxen and light brown, with the luxuriance of its growth, and the peculiar golden lustre received by the curls when the light shone on them, was still the same in both sisters. the fairness of the skin, too, was much the same; but the rest will require separate portraits. frances' colour was not quite so brilliant as her sister's; yet it was, at once, lively and delicate, and came and went, in a slight degree, at every movement. her blue eyes sparkled, almost continually, with unmixed delight. her mouth was small, pretty, and peculiarly flexible, every moment escaping from any attempt at gravity, into smiles and laughs of various degrees, displaying the white, small, regular, pearly teeth. her figure was slight and light, to a sylph-like degree, and so frequently seen in the active pursuit of some medium of pleasure, or means of mirth, that had her picture been taken in any attitude that did not indicate passing, that did not keep the beholder in constant dread of its disappearance, it would not have been like. julia's figure was perfectly formed, taller than her sister's, and, as we have before observed, as fully rounded as symmetry would permit; her neck and shoulders particularly fine. her characteristic attitudes were those of graceful quiescence; yet, when she did move, it was with a freedom from effort, that preserved unbroken that dignity of carriage, for which, young as she was, she was already remarkable. she had an air too of quiet composure, equally beyond her years; though in this julia was, unintentionally, a hypocrite, her seeming stillness of manner being the result of a conscious depth of enthusiastic feeling, sedulously concealed by extreme timidity, yet so pre-occupying her entire nature, that trifles had no power to excite, even in their due proportion. her colour, as well as frances', came and went, but seldomer, and on greater occasions; and then its rising was more gradual, as if a silent effort to avoid the exposure of emotion had delayed, though it could not prevent, the blush. nay, from the moment it did dawn on the cheek, it continued heightening, till it arrived at a painful degree of intensity, and then was as slow in retiring. her mouth was perfectly formed, the lips fuller than her sister's, but only sufficiently so, to give an additional luxuriance to her beauty; while her smile had a witchery about it, that no man whatever could behold with entire composure. her nose was straight, her eyes hazel, their habitual expression softness; but, when she listened to any thing that interested her much, they assumed an eagerness of look, so enthusiastic, so natural, that it was at such moments her character was best understood. at the dinner table, around which we left our party placing themselves, edmund happened to be, as we have already noticed, seated facing julia and lord morven. thus situated, our ill-starred hero felt a fatal desire to watch the countenances and movements of his opposite neighbours. he did so, as closely as politeness would permit. lord morven, in the course of conversation, observed (aside) to his companion, that captain montgomery was a very handsome fellow; and then talked (but still in an under tone, to avoid being heard by him who was the subject of his remarks,) of how gallantly he, the said captain, had behaved in his professional character; how highly he was esteemed by lord fitz-ullin, &c. a gradually spreading smile lit up every feature of julia's, as she listened. edmund, it may be remembered, had long ago said, that he had always thought julia's smile the thing in all nature the most beautiful to look on! he now thought so with more fervour than ever, but with less pleasure; for he now envied lord morven, each of whose supposed soft whispers seemed to be welcomed by the growing brightness of that smile, and by the corresponding glow that grew with it on the cheek, where sparkling dimples momentarily came, and went, and came again. and then, without distinctly determining why, he suddenly began to think of the vast disparity of birth, and consequent place in society, between himself and julia; while some busy fiends seemed to press on his notice the exact suitability of lord morven's rank and circumstances, in every particular. julia made some observation to his lordship. edmund's eyes rested on the motions of her lips while she spoke; and (strange flight of fancy!) he, at this critical moment, called to mind an ancient family legend, which asserted, that eighteen years since he had actually kissed those lips--those very lips! eighteen years! nay, five years since, could he not himself perfectly remember having, as a matter of course, on his arrival, kissed little julia most affectionately; while those white arms, which now dazzled his sight across the table, had hung around his neck. he wondered if she remembered it, and what she thought about it, if she did. he supposed such a salutation would now be considered very strange--indeed quite improper, quite impertinent, even had they not met before so large a company. he wondered too, how little consequence he had attached to the circumstance at the time, though he had always idolized her as a child, from the enthusiastic fondness she had always shown for him. did any of that feeling still exist? how well he could remember her insisting on sitting close beside him, with a hand of his in both of hers, and her full eyes raised to his, to watch his every look. unlucky recollections! for, in efforts of the imagination to identify the julia so remembered, with the julia now before him, he nearly lost his dinner. he rejected and accepted, in the same breath, whatever was offered him; allowed the plates that had each, for a limited time, stood before him in due succession, to go away almost untouched; and when rallied by lord arandale on his want of appetite, and asked whether he had left his heart with some foreign fair one, or eat luncheon, he replied, that he had made an excellent dinner. when, however, convicted of having scarcely tasted any thing, by the united testimony both of frances and lady susan, who had hitherto only suppressed their laughter, for fear of awaking him from his reverie, he changed his ground of defence, said he was too much fatigued to eat, and called for wine and water. mrs. montgomery feared he was ill. he declared he was perfectly well, and helped himself largely from a fluted shape of jelly just set down before him; the elegant form of which he thus cruelly defaced, without the slightest consideration for all the anxiety it had cost good mrs. smyth. on the gentlemen repairing to the drawing-room, edmund, who entered the apartment immediately after lord morven, saw his lordship go forward and take up a lover-like position, leaning on the back of julia's chair. frances and lady susan were at the pianoforte, singing a duet. our hero, who thought that under the circumstances he must not approach julia, as, after his so recent return, had else been natural, possessed himself of a sort of neutral ground between the parties, where he stood listening to, or intending to listen to, the music. his attention, however, was much disturbed by observing the confidential manner of julia and lord morven, and the interest with which they seemed to converse. he had certainly no intention of becoming a listener; nor, for some time, did a single word alarm his sense of honour by reaching his sense of hearing. at length, during a diminuendo passage in the singing, he distinctly heard lord morven say, "we can spend a couple of years abroad while the building of our new house is completing." and julia's sweet voice reply, with perfect complacency, "that will be rather agreeable than otherwise." edmund's heart beat to such an excess that he could scarcely breathe; but he resolutely moved to a greater distance: the duet, too, having just concluded, the final symphony began to thunder away, drowning all other sounds, so that, for the present, he heard no more. when the music had ended, however, frances sent him (for by that time he was standing by the pianoforte) to request that julia would sing. he went towards her accordingly; but before he could draw her attention, her head being turned back over her shoulder speaking to lord morven, he was in a manner compelled to hear her say: "remember, the promise i have given is only conditional; my father's consent, of course, must be obtained, before i can be considered to have formed an engagement of so serious a nature." edmund, confounded, uncertain whether he ought to retreat or speak immediately, stammered out her name. she looked round with a sort of start, and blushed. he hastened to relieve her embarrassment by delivering his message; but so confused were his own ideas, that he could scarcely find words in which to make himself understood. when at length he succeeded in doing so, julia declined singing: her alleged reason was, that dancing, she believed, was about to commence. music, at the same time, striking up in an adjoining apartment, the company, in general, directed their steps towards the inspiring sounds. "she is going to marry him!" thought edmund, as he moved unconsciously in the same direction with those around him. he next began to think, would there be any use in asking julia to dance, and to fear that, of course, lord morven had already done so, when he heard a stranger behind him say: "i suppose lady julia l. will commence the dancing with lord borrowdale;" and at the same moment he saw a young man of very fashionable appearance go towards julia, and lead her to the head of the room. he turned towards frances, whom next to julia he loved; but, just as he reached her, she took the arm of lord morven, and moved on. edmund now gave up all thoughts of dancing, and stood with his arms folded, watching every movement of julia's. his thoughts adverted, with strong emotion, to his boyish days, when he had ever found lodore house in quiet seclusion; when his return thither seemed to be considered as an event; when neither of his little sisters, as he called them then, seemed to have a thought, a wish, an amusement, or a happiness, that was not found in his society. but the scene was changed; his play-fellows were become women, were surrounded by men of their own rank in life; while the affection, which he had hitherto freely declared for them, and which he, who had no other friends, still fondly felt for them, now seemed, even to himself, a sort of presumption. the sisters, with their respective partners, stood opposite couples. lord borrowdale took julia's hand, and, leading her forward, left her beside lord morven, and returned to his place. lord morven took her hand: edmund thought lords very disagreeable sort of people. lord morven proceeded to lead both sisters forward, then all three fell back to the position they had left: and lord borrowdale, coming forward alone, figured before them, laughing and talking carelessly; then joining all hands round, led julia back to her place, (edmund thought,) with an air of triumph that seemed to say, "this is my share;" at the same time, his lordship, stooping towards her and whispering something, she looked up and smiled as she replied. edmund thought lord borrowdale an insolent, conceited-looking puppy. lord morven then led frances forward, and, while leaving her on the further hand of lord borrowdale, bent across and said something to julia: she answered with another smile, and edmund came to the sage conclusion that exalted rank and sounding titles were quite indispensable to happiness. "while i," he mentally continued, "have not even a name, but a borrowed one, for the use of which i am indebted to the compassionate kindness of her grandmother." julia, at this moment, looked towards edmund, and perceiving that he seemed grave and was not dancing, she smiled, and made a signal with her fan for him to approach. he was at her elbow in a moment, his heart beating, and his hatred to lords considerably diminished. "why are you not dancing, edmund?" asked julia. "you were engaged," he replied, "and so was frances; and i, you know, have been scarcely ashore since i was a boy, and am, therefore, quite a stranger. but--the next dance--perhaps--you--" "unfortunately," she replied, "i have just promised lord morven to dance with him: and frances too, i know, is engaged to lord borrowdale." "the deuce take those lords!" thought edmund. "unfortunately for me, certainly!" he replied aloud; the smile, with which julia's summons had lit up his features, fading quite away. "but lady susan," continued julia, "perhaps she is not engaged: or, if she is, grandmamma, i am sure, can get you a partner." "you, then, are engaged for the whole evening, i suppose?" said edmund. "oh, no! only for the next set." "then, will you dance the one after with me?" "certainly! and frances the one after that. but i am so sorry," she added, "that you have not been dancing all the time." at this instant, lord borrowdale snatched up her hand, as the music indicated the moment, and led her forward again to perform some new evolution of the dance. when the music ceased, julia said something to lady susan: and, on receiving her reply and smile, looked towards edmund, and telegraphed the smile with the yes it implied. our hero was accustomed in his own profession to understanding and obeying signals; he, therefore, stepped forward, requested the honour of lady susan's hand for the next set, and received a ready assent. the music now commenced a waltz tune, and lord morven immediately began to wheel himself round and round, and holding up his arms in a circular position, to approach julia. "just one round of the room!" he cried; "pray do!" edmund's heart stopped beating to await her reply, while one foot was unconsciously advanced at the moment, as if to avert the apprehended catastrophe. julia laughed at the many entreating attitudes lord morven thought fit to assume, but shook her head, and answered, "no! no!" on which his lordship seized his sister, lady susan, in his arms, and whirled her round and round the room. "it would, i fear," said lord borrowdale, addressing our heroine, with affected humility, "be too great presumption in me, after morven's discomfiture, to think of changing your ladyship's determination?" julia declined. "morven," proceeded his lordship, "certainly has no right to esteem himself quite irresistible, notwithstanding the present favourable juncture of his stars. in a day or two, at farthest, this gay monopolizer of all that is brightest and loveliest, must, i understand, withdraw from cupid's lists, and confess himself a mere married man!" edmund, though he heard not a word of what frances was very kindly saying to him about not having danced, yet heard every word of lord borrowdale's speech. all the blood in his system seemed to rush to his face, it suffused even his forehead, and mounted to the very roots of his hair. "in a day or two! in a day or two!" he repeated to himself. "so public, so ascertained a thing, that other men think themselves at liberty to speak to her on the subject in this free and careless manner!" lady susan, whirling over at the moment, almost fell against edmund's arm, on which, laughing at the reeling of her head, she rested a finger to steady herself. her ladyship was all fair, all soft, and without much form; but, being young, she was by no means forbidding; and her countenance exhibited such a ceaseless sunshine of smiles, and was so much adorned by the undulating movement of its dimples, now deepening, now spreading on rosy cheeks, or playing around ruby lips, that the beholder had no leisure to observe its dumpling contour, or criticise its want of feature. "how fond my brother is of being a beau!" observed lady susan to her partner, as julia and lord morven took their places opposite. "his lordship must resign that character shortly, i understand," said edmund, with effort. "in a day or two, i suppose," replied her ladyship. "you have observed, i dare say, what an admirer he is of his cousin, lady julia?" "it is very apparent, certainly," replied edmund. "there!" exclaimed her ladyship, "so i tell him! i don't know what his wife will say to all this, when she comes!" "his wife!" exclaimed edmund, unable to trust his ears. "she has no right to complain, to be sure!" continued lady susan, "for she is an unconscionable flirt herself!" "his wife!" again reiterated edmund. "yes, his wife," she repeated. "so, then, lord morven is a married man!" said edmund. "is there any thing so very astonishing in that?" demanded her ladyship. "no--oh no," he stammered out. "lady morven is expected here in a few days,--that is, if she does not disappoint, as usual," continued lady susan. "in a few days!" repeated edmund. "did you then think my brother so very disagreeable, or ugly, or what, that he could not get a wife?" she asked, laughing. "ugly! disagreeable!" repeated edmund, glancing a complacent look at lord morven, (for his own good-humour was fast returning,) "quite the contrary; your brother is extremely handsome!" and he might have added, "so is your ladyship," had he spoken all he thought: for lady susan's smiling countenance, just then, appeared the most charming in the world, julia's only excepted, at which, from an involuntary impulse, he at the instant stole a glance. he met her eyes--she smiled--a kind of intoxication came over his spirits--he danced as if on air, and talked an immensity. his partner thought him quite fascinating. when the dance was over, frances and several other ladies congratulated lady susan, with much laughing, on her sudden conquest, telling her she had already made quite another being of captain montgomery! frances said she should resign any claims she might have on the score of old acquaintanceship, for she thought edmund quite spoiled, he was grown so affected. he, for his part, had flown to avail himself of julia's promise. he had forgotten disparity of rank, want of fortune, mystery of birth, everything, but that she was not going to be married to lord morven! he could now feel only, that he was near to, dancing with, looking upon a being altogether captivating; and experiencing, in so doing, a delight he had never known before; while blending itself with, and lending an additional interest to, the natural admiration of personal loveliness, there was, as he gazed, an unexamined, yet endearing consciousness, that this was indeed the self-same being, not only whom he had all his life tenderly loved, but, still more, who had always shown the strongest, the most enthusiastic affection for him. it was as a child, certainly--but it was delightful to remember it! and as she sat at the supper-table, trying with now downcast, now averted eyes, to laugh off the blushes which edmund's extravagant compliments on her growth and improvement had called up; and that he, turning towards her, his arm leaning on the table before her, forgetting all present but herself, the moments flew in a delirium of absolute happiness, till all but the thus engrossed couple having risen from their seats, they too were reminded that it was time to move: and the gay scene closed for the night. chapter xxxiv. "the bright vision lasted not." when edmund retired to rest, all his ideas were in such a state of confusion, that sleep was absolutely out of the question. he found it equally impossible to arrange his thoughts. all came and went in a constant whirl, over which he seemed to have no controul. yet, at first, all were blissful: fond recollections again and again presented themselves, of the endearing attachment which julia had in childhood evinced for him; and these again and again blended themselves with intoxicating visions of her present loveliness, and while the tenderness he had ever cherished for her, was all at once converted into an overwhelming passion; so entirely was every reasoning faculty subdued, that with no better foundation than these same recollections, a delightful feeling, almost approaching a sense of mutual affection, glowed at his heart, and unconsciously strengthened his own infatuation. when it so happens, that the same object which has engrossed the tenderest affections of the child; and which, if we may be allowed the expression, is, as it were, at home in the heart, associated with all its best, its purest feelings, becomes also the first object to awaken passion, the feeling, so produced, is as rare as the combination of circumstances out of which it arises. this is _first love_, indeed, with all its own luxuriance of blossom, yet as deep-rooted as the ties of kindred: how unlike the surface-sown plant, _love at first sight_. as, however, the delightful sensations derived from seeing and speaking to julia, from receiving her smiles, and listening to the sweet accents of her voice; as these, we say, began to subside, other, and less pleasing thoughts, like spectres, arose and crossed his imagination: at first singly, and at a great distance, and causing only momentary panics; afterwards, nearer and nearer; till, at length, they collected around him, closed in upon him, awoke him from his dream of unfounded, unjustifiable happiness, and compelled him to look on the realities of his situation. "though," said he to himself, "she is not to be, thank heaven!--cannot be married to lord morven, i am not the less altogether unworthy of her! it would not be the less of presumption, the less of ingratitude, the less of baseness in me, to indulge for a moment in such a thought. though lord morven happens to be a married man, it is to some one of rank and fortune equal to his, that lord l. will think of uniting his daughter. that lord borrowdale!--he is not married, and it was with him she danced the first set--and they are neighbours too. but of what avail is it for me to torture myself with conjectures?--it is enough for me, that she can never, never--no, never be----" he paused--then recommenced--"i must fly her presence! i must return to the wild waves which have long been my home, and make them my home still! there i have earned a sort of claim; elsewhere i have none! on no one spot of earth can the wretched edmund place the wanderer's foot, and say, 'this is my native soil!'--and for a name----!" here the painful thought pressed upon him, that he had no actual right to any. he then remembered, with a sigh, the many useless efforts which had been made to discover his birth. then a burning blush tingled on his cheek, as the sudden thought struck him, and for the first time, that he might possibly be the child of shame, and that therefore it was that no one would claim him. he strove to shake off the idea; then, as if to drown an intruding voice, which seemed to whisper that the suggestion was probable, he thus continued:--"wrapped in mystery, as every thing concerning me is, i must, all my life, remain an isolated, a miserable being! a home of joy--sweet domestic affections--all, in short, that renders life desirable, is forbidden to me! under what name dare i present myself before heaven's holy altar? what appellation dare i offer to that woman who would share my fortunes?" engaged in reflections such as these, every delightful vision vanished, the tumultuous beatings of each pulse subsided; and, under the sobering, yet soporific influence of sadness, he at length fell asleep--a long and tremulous sigh, as his eye-lids closed, breaking, for the last time, the regulated breathing which nature was endeavouring to establish. his dreams, however, by an extraordinary contradiction, took their colour from his first feelings. julia seemed to be before him; to smile sweetly upon him; to raise her full eyes to his. their expression carried absolute conviction to his heart that he was beloved: the impression was irresistible: he thought he declared his own mad passion; he thought he saw her covered with blushes indeed, but there was no reproof in her manner, and all his own scruples, too, had somehow vanished! he thought he held her soft hand; (for he remembered, particularly when he awoke, how soft it had felt;) she did not withdraw it; nay, it seemed to return the pressure of his! then he thought, with all the strange and sudden inconsistency of dreams, that he had actually been married to julia for some time, though he could not remember how or where the ceremony had taken place; yet he saw her so distinctly that he was sure he was awake. her appearance was what it had been the evening before at the supper table; but her manners, what they had used to be in childhood: the same endearing, enthusiastic, unreserved affection; manifesting itself, with all the happy confidence of mutual and habitual fondness. but the feelings such visions excited were not calm enough for undisturbed repose: he heard the beating of his own heart, through his sleep; he began to fear he was dreaming; he tried not to awake--but it would not do: his eyes opened; he saw the sun shining through his window-curtains; he started upright in his bed. a tide of contradictory recollections poured in upon him; but, alas! where were those so full of bliss?--they were in his dream!--they were not to be recalled; yet, while he could contrive to discourage all thought, a vaguely pleasing impression remained, as though something very delightful had lately happened! he dressed mechanically; when, crossing his apartment to step forth by a glass door, which opened on the lawn, he caught a glimpse of julia, turning into one of the walks of the shrubbery. his heart began again to beat audibly, as it had done in his dream; he stumbled against his valet, who stood offering him his hat, and, going out without it, flew across the green to join her. she, too, had had her reflections: she had reproached herself for having treated edmund quite like a stranger. "and without any fault of his," said she to herself--for julia was a great respecter of justice, and, on the present occasion, fancied herself guided entirely by its dictates. there was not one hour of her whole existence, (that she could remember,) when edmund had not shared with frances her sisterly affection; and he had not done any thing wrong, she argued with herself--any thing unkind, any thing to forfeit any one's regard; then would it not be very wrong, very unjust of her, if she did not still love--that is to say, still consider him as her brother. had not grandmamma and mr. jackson always loved him as much as if he was really so; and, of course, they did so still, and so ought frances and herself. had she been aware how very complimentary to edmund were the causes which had unconsciously operated upon her manner, in producing the unusual restraint of which she was so painfully conscious, she would have acquitted herself of unkindness to an old friend, and want of generous feeling towards the friendless; for we can venture to assert, upon our own knowledge of her warm-hearted character, that had edmund not been tall or handsome; had his figure and carriage had no air, no look of consequence, no dignity, no grace; had there been no expression in his eyes, particularly when he looked at her; no glow on his cheek, especially when he spoke to her; nothing at all dangerous in his smile, or persuasive in the tones of his voice, particularly when he spoke to her; had she never heard his gallant actions and high character extolled; had she never known mr. jackson, as he laid down the newspaper, exclaim, "there is true nobility for you! pray what is it that you titled people inherit from your ancestors, but the distant reflection of some great exploit performed by some one of them, for which he was ennobled! then, is not that man, in whom the splendour of noble deeds is self-existent, in whom it shines independent of reflection, greater than any of you? and yet," would he add, with that glaring inconsistency of which the wisest of us are often guilty, "i have not a doubt that my edmund, my boy, will yet prove the descendant of a line of ancestry as exalted as his own merits, and i need say no more!" had nothing, we say, of all this been the case; on the contrary, had all this been reversed--had edmund been, as indeed he might have been, and yet have been a very worthy personage, a little, insignificant-looking, diminutive-faced, bandy-legged fellow, with a grey freckled skin, light red hair, and green-gooseberry eyes, who had never done any thing remarkable in his life, of whom nobody spoke, whose entrance into a room created no sensation,--in this case, we maintain that julia would have felt, forcibly, his situation as the protegé of her family; that she would have dreaded the thoughts of his feeling himself little among so many great people; and that, therefore, she would have shown him, particularly on his return home, the most marked attention, and bestowed, too, with the utmost frankness. this morning, however, she had not yet seen him, to remind her of the tall and awful hero he now appeared in her eyes; and she had been studiously bringing to her recollection what he had been, when frances and herself used to vie with each other in declarations of how much they loved him, and ask him, again and again, which he loved best; and she well remembered (but, of course, as the nonsense of children) that he used to tell her, when frances would get tired of the subject, and run away to play, that it was her he loved best; that she was his favourite, his darling julia! &c. &c. finally, she came to the valiant resolve, to shake off the artificial manner, made up of too much, perhaps sometimes, and, certainly, often too little courtesy, which she felt she had had a part, at least, of yesterday, and to be, what she had ever been, towards one, who had no friends but those at lodore house. "i don't mean," said she to herself, "flying into his arms at meetings and partings, as i used to do, when i was a foolish child;" and here she blushed, and felt astounded, at the recollection; "but i mean to show him frank and unaffected kindness, always the same." as she arrived at this sage conclusion, edmund stood before her, looking not the worse for the want of his hat, the careless arrangement the breeze had thought fit to make of his hair, and the heightened colour caused by running; to say nothing of a certain beaming light, which thoughts, that lovers' lips dare not confess, sometimes shed through lovers' eyes. in short, his dream had given a most dangerous, delighted, bridegroom-like expression to his countenance! on first seeing him julia blushed, as though, in her late conference with herself, she had been speaking, instead of only thinking, and might have been overheard. in pursuance, however, of her resolve, she extended towards him the open palm of welcome, as she bade him good morning. when he felt her hand within his, soft as it had been in his dream; when he saw her cheek glowing, and in her eyes, as she lifted them to his, beheld the blended expression of kindness and timidity, called up by the yet unsubdued current of such reflexions as had just passed through her mind; he could not help thinking how like she, at that moment, looked, to what she had appeared in the too delightful vision, from which he had so lately and so unwillingly awakened. he was so much absorbed by this idea, that his eyes dwelt on her face, till hers were bent on the ground: her blush, too, deepened. she wished to speak, but felt there was something in his manner, which made it impossible for her to keep her resolution of behaving with perfect ease; both remained silent, and she withdrew her hand. edmund, who had continued gazing, till aroused by this movement, now felt that some apology was necessary. he stammered out one about her being so much grown, and about trying to trace, in her present appearance, the little favourite of his boyish days. "after the first surprise is over," he added, encouraged by a gentle look, and playfully lowering his tone, and smiling, as he drew her hand over his arm, and walked slowly on, his head turned towards his companion--"after the first surprise is over, of finding her, whom i can remember carrying about in my arms through these very woods, become,--while i was so busy ploughing the wide ocean, that i observed not the lapse of time,--a full-grown, fashionable, awe-inspiring woman!--when this surprise is over, i say, you will find that i shall learn to behave myself with all due propriety, and not stare grownup young ladies out of countenance, as if they were still children." julia, remembering her resolution, seized this opening, and said, "i hope, edmund, i shall never prove so much the woman of fashion, as to be capricious or unsisterly, in my manners or conduct. perhaps you think i have been so?" "you quite mistake my meaning, julia," said edmund. "but,"--she continued, hesitating, "i trust you will find that the regard which frances and i have felt for you, from our earliest childhood, will prove, through life, an unshaken friendship!" this was valiantly said of julia; and the speech took all the breath, of which she was mistress, to bring it to so handsome a conclusion. "if your friendship," he replied, with sudden depression of manner, "and that of your family were withdrawn, what would be left to the desolate edmund!" a short silence ensued. "promise me, julia," he recommenced, taking again the hand that leaned on his arm, and trembling as he reflected that he might yet lose all share in her regard, if his rash passion should ever be discovered; "promise me, that you never will, under any circumstances, withdraw your friendship from me." julia, after hesitating a little, said--"i may, i think, make that promise, edmund, for i am sure you never will deserve to lose it, and--even--" she stopped as if uncertain whether or not she ought to proceed. "do not check that kind sentence, julia!" he exclaimed, in a tone of entreaty. "you were going to say, that you would still regard and pity the unfortunate edmund, even if he were in fault, and condemned by strangers!" "well, i am sure i would, edmund," she replied, after a moment's pause; "and so would frances, and so would grandmamma," she added, eagerly, as edmund pressed the hand which leaned on his arm against his heart, to express his gratitude. at this moment, henry, who had been sent to call them in to breakfast, came up. he curled his lip as he observed edmund let go the hand of julia, and all three walked towards the house in silence. "that won't do, captain montgomery," whispered henry, as they entered, affecting a laugh. edmund reddened, and turning on him with a frown, said, "i request, sir, that you will spare yourself the trouble of thinking for me." julia was a few steps in advance. "on the quarter-deck, sir," said henry, with mock deference, "i bow to your opinions; but here, i too must request the liberty of thinking for myself, as well as feeling solicitude for a lady, towards whom i stand somewhat, though not absolutely, i am happy to say, in the situation of a brother, being one of her nearest male relatives." "sir!" said edmund, "till i request your confidence on the subject of your solicitudes, i beg i may not be troubled with the recital of them." this short scene passed while the various morning salutations which julia's appearance had called forth were going round the breakfast-table, and, consequently, entirely escaped her notice. lord borrowdale, starting up, on her first entrance, had given her his seat, and found, or rather made room for himself beside her. lady susan, whom frances had laughed into a belief that she had achieved a first-sight conquest of captain montgomery, now made room for edmund near herself, and all the time of breakfast, simpered, dimpled, laughed, and talked to him, while he thought only of how he could, with most propriety, resent the insolence of henry. lord borrowdale composed and delivered elaborate compliments to julia on the roses she had collected during her morning ramble, directing, from time to time, rather inquisitive, and not very well-satisfied glances, towards the much too handsome companion of her walk. lord morven mentioned to mrs. montgomery how much he wished julia and frances to accompany lady morven and himself in the italian trip they proposed making, while their new house was finishing; and added, that julia had half-promised him, in case lord l. gave his consent. mrs. montgomery shook her head, and edmund almost smiled to think how much unnecessary misery this subject had caused him only the evening before. the smile, however, was but languid, for of what avail was it that this source of uneasiness was removed; was not lord borrowdale's admiration declared? and was it not probable that he would be approved of by all her friends? or, if lord borrowdale were not in existence, he himself, at least, had no pretentions--worse than none! he was peculiarly bound by honour, gratitude, every good feeling, not even to stand the competition, had he the egregious vanity to hope that such treachery could avail him. henry's interference, indeed, he despised as much as he resented; and had he been capable of doing wrong, from a feeling of false pride, he would, from that moment, have paid julia pointed attention; but his own sense of right was too strong to permit such a line of conduct. the impulse, indeed, was felt, but instantly rejected; for now that reason, which his dream for a time had banished, was restored, by seeing julia join the circle of the proud, the gay, the titled, (which was surely her natural sphere,) honour and duty predominated even over passion. he still, however, resented the liberty henry had taken, and immediately after breakfast sought an interview with him, which ended in that gentleman finding himself compelled to make an ample apology, though with a very bad grace. end of vol. i. london: ibotson and palmer, printers, savoy street, strand. transcriber's note obvious typographical errors have been corrected. inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the robin redbreast series. [illustration: little robins' love one to another.] little robins' love one to another. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. boston: crosby, nichols, lee and company, washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little robins' love one to another. chapter i. jack robin's offence. it was a lovely may morning. the air was full of sweet fragrance from the orchards of blossoming trees. all nature seemed alive with melody. the singing of birds, the humming of insects, the cooing of doves about their cotes, the responsive crowing of the cocks in the farm yards, the lowing of the cows for their calves,--even the gurgling of the ambitious little brook running along over stones and pebbles at its utmost speed, sparkling and foaming in the ecstasy of its delight,--all hail with exultation the approaching summer. but let us turn from this universal rejoicing to our friends under the old elm tree. mrs. symmes we see standing within the shed churning butter. fred is before the door, with a pail of dough in his hand, calling "chick, chick, chick." annie is following grandpa to the barn with a pan of warm milk for whiteface, while the good farmer is driving his oxen to the field. the barn yard gate has been accidentally left open, and the cosset, hearing annie's voice, bounds forward to meet her, and puts his fore feet on her dress, nestling his head under her arm. "o grandpa!" exclaimed the child, "do please take the pan; whiteface is making me spill it all over." "set it down on the ground, dear, and let her drink it," said grandpa. "i have a good mind to let her run round with me, as i did yesterday," continued annie. as grandpa smiled approval, the two were presently engaged in a merry chase from house to barn, round the trunk of the old tree and back to their starting spot again. "now," cried the little girl when she could recover her breath, "it's time to feed my robin family. o, they are all here!" she added, as she opened the front door. jack, without waiting for further invitation, hopped into the entry, and then into the room. the table was set for the family, and he made bold to fly upon it, and walk round among the dishes. he looked so funny as he hopped a step or two, and then, standing on one leg, turned his head archly, as if to say, "i hope i don't intrude," that annie laughed till she cried. "o, where is fred? i do wish fred were here to see the robin!" she exclaimed, as her mother entered with a dish of smoking hot potatoes. "tut, tut, tut," cried mrs. symmes, "you are getting rather too bold;" and she shook her apron to scare the robin away. "no, no, birdie, you must be content with eating the crumbs from the floor." in the mean time, mr. and mrs. robin were talking to jack in a very excited tone, trying to convince him of the impropriety of his conduct. "no," said mrs. robin, as katy hopped closer to her brother, and cast a pleading glance at her parents;--"no, i do not accuse you of intending to do wrong, but you have never seen your father hop on a table, or take liberties of that kind." jack did not try to excuse himself, and as annie called them to the door, and fed them from her hand, the parents hoped she was not much offended. mr. robin noticed that when jack was reproved by his mother, dick was very much pleased, while molly and katy appeared greatly distressed. "o," said he to himself, "why will not this unruly bird imitate the lovely example of his sisters!" when they returned to the tree, and were sitting on their favorite bough near the nest, dick exclaimed, "i was glad, for once, to see that some one was in fault beside myself. if i had been guilty of such a breach of propriety, i should have been severely chastised, if not disinherited; but bad as you have always thought me, i have never been guilty of any thing like that." "i am sorry to hear you talk so, my son," said mrs. robin, eyeing him with a sad glance. "jack was rather too familiar, and perhaps took undue advantage of the kindness of our friends; but that was all. there was no unfriendly feeling, no selfishness, no disregard of others' wishes in his conduct; neither was there direct disobedience to his parents' commands, such as has often pained us in your case. we must judge the motive, my son, before we condemn." "i knew it would be just so," answered dick, in a sulky tone. "every thing that jack does is right, and every thing i do is wrong; and that is a specimen of the justice of this family." [illustration] chapter ii. the sparrows' nest. mr. and mrs. robin were deeply pained by dick's bad conduct. they concluded, however, it was best to refrain from further reproof, as it only seemed to make him worse. after the disrespectful remark at the close of the last chapter, he flew away, and did not return until night. katy then begged her father and mother to accompany her to the village where canary lived; and, after a ready consent, they all stretched their wings and flew away over the tops of houses and trees, not once alighting until they reached the dwelling where the pretty bird belonged. canary received them very cordially. she assured mr. and mrs. robin of her interest in their promising children. "in their society," she added, "i sometimes forget my own trials. young as you may think me, i have reared four young broods. now--but i will not make you sad by relating my troubles. i see my kind mistress has provided water for me to take a bath. perhaps it will amuse you if i do so now." mrs. robin assured her that the sight would delight them all. canary then sprang off the highest perch into the saucer of fresh water, splashed herself thoroughly with her wings, then jumped into the ring, and shook herself from head to foot. "i feel greatly refreshed," said she, after new oiling her feathers. at the request of katy, she then exhibited her accomplishments to the wondering parents, and having ended by a thrilling song, they gave her their best wishes, and took their leave. in the mean time, mr. symmes, his wife, grandpa, and annie sat down to their breakfast, though wondering that fred, who had been sent of an errand, did not return. they had nearly finished their meal, when annie saw him running toward the house, his face all in a blaze of excitement. he held in his hand a bird's nest; and, as he entered, took a wounded sparrow from his bosom. "father," he exclaimed, "isn't it real wicked to steal little birds from their nest?" "certainly, my son." "well, joseph marland and edward long have been doing it all the morning, and they say it isn't wicked at all. as i was coming 'cross lots through deacon myers's pasture, i heard some boys laughing very loud; and i ran to see what the fun was. they had taken all the young birds from the nest, and the poor parents were flying around chirping and crying in dreadful distress. "'don't tease the birds so,' said i; 'put the little things back and come away.' "'no, indeed!' shouted joseph; 'after all the trouble we've had, we don't give up so easy.' and only think, grandpa, they didn't want the young sparrows for any thing,--only they liked the sport of seeing the old birds hop round and round. "i got real angry at last, and said i wouldn't have any thing to do with such wicked, cruel boys. i started to run away, when they saw deacon myers driving his cow to the pasture, and they sneaked off about the quickest. after they had gone, i picked up the nest and this poor bird from the ground." "let me see it," said mr. symmes, holding out his hand; "and you sit down and eat your breakfast." he left the room immediately, carrying the sparrow with him. presently annie came back with tears in her eyes, saying her father had killed it, to put it out of pain. "i was afraid it couldn't live," rejoined fred. "ugly boys! i am glad they don't know of our robins' nest." "such cruelty always meets with its punishment," remarked grandpa. "i myself knew a man who, when a boy, delighted to rob birds' nests. sometimes he stole the eggs, and sometimes he waited until they were hatched, that he might have the greater fun. then he took the poor, helpless, unoffending things, and dug out their eyes, to see how awkwardly they would hop around." "shocking!" exclaimed mrs. symmes. "he ought to have been hung!" shouted fred. annie pressed both hands over her eyes, and turned very pale. "well," resumed grandpa, "he grew to be a man, was married and settled in life; and now came god's time to punish him. he had one child after another until they numbered five. three of them, two daughters and one son, were born stone blind. "he was a man coarse and rough in his feelings, as a cruel man will always be; but this affliction cut him to the heart, and when it was announced to him that the third child would never open its eyes to the light of the sun, he threw up his arms and cried aloud, 'o god, have mercy on me, though i had none on the poor birds!' "never before had he made the slightest allusion to his former cruelty, except to his wife, though it seemed by this expression, that he had always regarded it as a judgment." "if ever i see, on bush or tree, young birds in their pretty nest, i must not, in play, steal the birds away, to grieve their mother's breast. "my mother, i know, would sorrow so should i be stolen away; so i'll speak to the birds in my softest words, nor hurt them in my play. "and when they can fly in the bright blue sky, they'll warble a song to me; and then, if i'm sad, it will make me glad to think they are happy and free." chapter iii. jack robin's cart. a few days after this, it rained very hard. the children were of course confined to the house, though annie pleaded to go with her father to the barn. after standing for some time gazing from the window, to watch the drops following each other down the glass, she saw mr. and mrs. robin springing from one bough to another, chirping contentedly. "i wonder they can be so happy when it rains," she thought. "i mean to make some paper dolls, and then perhaps i shan't think so much about staying in doors." she ran quickly up stairs, and brought down a large box full of pasteboard, and pieces of paper of various colors. grandpa sat reading by the kitchen fire, as the rain made the air damp, and fred held a book in his hand. he was not reading, however; his eyes were wandering listlessly around the room. when he saw his little sister, his face brightened, and he asked, "don't you want me to cut you out some new dollies?" "thank you," she exclaimed, her whole countenance lighting up with smiles. the next hour passed swiftly, as the brother and sister cut babies and houses for them to live in, and carriages in which they could ride. fred had just finished quite an ingenious contrivance, a little pasteboard cart, with wheels and shafts all in order, when tap, tap, went somebody at the door. "that's our robin," cried annie, springing up to go and let him in. true enough, it was jack robin, looking as drenched as a drowned rat. "o, see how wet he is! i mean to take him to the fire," said the little girl. "set him on the floor, and he'll shake himself dry in a minute," answered grandpa. "birds have an oily covering," he added, "which turns the water off and prevents it from soaking in. look now at robin; you would scarce know he had been wet at all. if it were not for this wise provision of providence, thousands of birds would be chilled to death by every shower. take a duck or goose after he has been swimming in the water. after a moment, he is as dry as if he had not been near the pond." "o grandpa," exclaimed annie, "will you please to tell us a story to-day?" "i'll try and think of one after dinner," replied the old gentleman. "i wish to finish this book this morning." when the little girl returned to her brother, she found the whole family of robins there. fred was busy fastening a piece of cord into the front of the pasteboard cart, and presently began to harness one of the birds into it. "talk to him, annie," he said, "and hold some crumbs before him to keep him still." but she laughed so heartily, she could not do much else. fred persevered, however, and after a while succeeded in driving jack robin around the room, to the great astonishment of his parents, brother and sisters. they perched on the backs of the chairs to be out of the way, tipped their heads this side and that, chirping and chattering incessantly. but at last jack grew tired of this unusual exercise, and taking an opportunity when fred was holding the string loosely, he flew away, wagon and all, to the gilt eagle which adorned the top of the looking glass. the perfect shout of delight drew their parents and grandfather to the room, and there stood master robin, apparently no ways incommoded by this unusual appendage to his tail, looking down as innocently as possible upon the merry group. "you must get your grandpa to tell you about an exhibition he once took me to," suggested mrs. symmes. "your play with robin reminds me of it." "o, you will, you will, you're such a dear, kind grandpa," pleaded the child, fixing her earnest, expectant eyes upon his benevolent face. "yes, yes, dear," said he, patting her rosy cheeks. "after dinner i'll be ready." "well, then, i'll give the birds something, and let them fly away to their nest," said fred; "and you may be picking up all the pieces scattered round on the floor." "now," said the boy, when the door was shut, "i'll be the master, and hear you spell." "cat." "c-a-t; cat," answered annie. "well, you must give the meaning." "i don't know how." "say like this," said the young master: "c-a-t, cat, a full-grown kitten." this exercise was carried on with much spirit until the children were called to dinner. chapter iv. the canary exhibition. after he had eaten his dinner, fred accompanied his father to the barn to assist him about the work, then fed his fowls and annie's lamb, after which he returned to the house, eager to hear grandpa's account of the exhibition. "i dare say," began the old gentleman, "that your mother can remember more about it than i can. the owner of the canaries was a frenchman, who had for many years devoted himself to the business of educating birds. there were a great number of them, some of which were over twenty years old. "during the exhibition the canaries were arranged in order at one end of the stage, and came forward as they were called by name. "one of them, whose name, i think, was major, was dressed in a tiny suit of military uniform. he had a chapeau on his head and a sword in his claw: after sitting upright for some time, major, at the word of command, freed himself from his dress, and flew to his cage. "another came forward with a slender stick in his claws. this he put between his legs, and holding his head down, suffered himself to be turned round and round, as if he were being roasted." annie was listening in open-mouthed wonder to these astonishing feats. "o grandpa!" she exclaimed, "i hope there was no fire there." "no, of course not," cried fred; "but what did the others do, grandpa?" "i can think of but two more feats, my dear. several of them came out together and practised some gymnastic exercises." "what are those?" inquired annie. "they balanced themselves over sticks, head downwards, with their legs and tails in the air; or on a rope, and were swung backward and forward. "the last feat was perhaps the most wonderful of either. a bright little fellow came out, and taking his place on the platform, was shot at, and fell down, pretending to be dead. he lay quite still and motionless; and presently one of his companions came forward with a little mite of a wheelbarrow, as annie would say, and wheeled him away." "how very funny!" exclaimed fred. "see, grandpa, how very fast it rains," said the little girl; "but i like rainy weather, when you will tell us such beautiful stories." at this moment mrs. symmes joined their party. she had in her hand a pan of beans, which she was going to pick over before they were baked. fred jumped up and took them from her. "annie and i can do them, mother," he said, "and you can sew while you hear grandpa's stories." "that's right, my boy," said the old gentleman. "help your mother all you can." the children were soon seated at their work, and their mother at her mending. "now, dear grandpa, we're all ready for you to begin." "really, my dear," he answered, pleasantly, "you are hungry after stories." "i like yours," said the child, "because they're always true." "well, let me think with what i shall begin. have i ever told you how fast birds can fly?" "no, sir." "it is perfectly astonishing," he added, "with what rapidity they dart through the air. not many years ago, a large number of carrier pigeons were taken from holland to london. they had been trained to carry messages by attaching a small paper bag to their wing. if taken from any particular place and let loose, they will find their way back again. these birds were set at liberty in london at half past four in the morning, and reached their home in holland, a distance of three hundred miles, by noon of the same day. one of them, a great favorite, named napoleon, entered his dove-cote at a quarter past ten, having flown fifty miles in an hour. "another pigeon from ballinasloe, in ireland, belonging to a gentleman by the name of bernard, was let loose at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, with a note appended to it, directing dinner to be ready at castle bernard at a given time, as he purposed being home that day. the message reached its destination, which was twenty-three miles distant, in eleven minutes, being at the rate of one hundred and twenty-five and a half miles an hour." "i had no idea that they could fly so fast," remarked mrs. symmes. "these are by no means remarkable cases," added grandpa. "the eagle has been supposed to fly one hundred and forty miles an hour; and a bird by the name of swift, one hundred and eighty. but the most extraordinary that i ever heard, was of a titlark who alighted on board a vessel from liverpool, when thirteen hundred miles from the nearest main land, and nine hundred miles from a wild and barren island. sea birds retain their position upon the wing for a wonderful length of time." chapter v. katy robin's captivity. not long after the rainy day, mr. and mrs. robin were invited to mrs. bill's nest, to give their advice regarding her future prospects. "here am i," said she, "a lonely, sorrowing bird. soon i am to part from my dear children, who will, in the order of nature, form new ties, thus leaving me still more desolate. i have a proposal from a robin, who has, like myself, been cruelly bereft of his mate, to become his wife. i feel it is due to the relations of my husband to ask their approbation before i take so important a step." mr. robin politely waited for his wife to give her opinion, but she nodded her head in desire that he should speak first. "you have not mentioned the name of the robin," he said; "but if he is one whom you can esteem and love, i advise you to accept his offer. do i express your opinion, my dear?" "certainly," responded mrs. robin. mrs. bill then uttered a peculiar cry, and a bird who had been seated on the top of the tree, flew into the nest. "how do you do?" said mr. robin, recognizing a bird that he had often met. "this is my friend," said mrs. bill, turning her head modestly on one side. "he will make you a kind husband," added mrs. robin. "i knew and loved his dead wife." this matter being so pleasantly arranged, the company took their leave. when they reached home, they found the young robins absent; and they went to the observatory and passed an hour or two in singing duets, after which they descended to the cottage door, wondering their children did not return. it was nearly an hour later, when they heard in the distance dreadful shrieks and cries of distress, and darting from the tree in the direction of the sound, met jack and molly flying at full speed, as if pursued by an enemy. "o, o!" groaned jack; "i've lost my darling sister, my beloved, whom i had chosen for my future mate." molly's cries were heart-rending; and it was some time before the almost distracted parents could wring from their afflicted children the cause of their grief. at last, with broken sobs and expressions of anguish, jack, trembling with agitation, began: "we went, soon after you left this morning, to visit canary, and from there we went to several farm yards, where we saw a quantity of grain scattered on the ground. at last, grown weary of eating, as the sun was very warm, we hopped near a house under the shade of a cherry tree. soon a little girl came to the door, and scattered some crumbs on the step. katy thought she looked very much like annie, and began to chirp most merrily. "the child laughed and laughed, and tried to entice katy inside the house; but she was not disposed to go without me. she seemed to think she was taking too much of the attention to herself, and turned, in her sweet, affectionate manner, to introduce us. "'this is my brother jack,' she chirped; 'and this is my dear molly.' she looked so cunning, that i hopped up and nestled her head in my breast. the little girl then ran and called a tall boy, and talked very loud and fast to him; but though i turned up first one ear and then the other, i could not understand a word she said. "they kept scattering crumbs, and we, without once thinking of danger, advanced farther and farther, as they retreated, until katy and i were within the room. but we were scarcely inside the door, when, with a loud slam, it was shut to, and we were made prisoners, though neither of us at first realized this. "the tall boy opened another door very cautiously, and stepped through; but presently returned with a cage similar to that in which canary is confined. he came softly toward katy; but at the same instant a dreadful fear darted through our minds--a fear of being made prisoners for life. "'take care, katy,' i cried; 'don't let them catch you;' and i flew to the top of the door. she flew away too; but they chased and chased from one side of the room to the other, while all the time she uttered the most piteous cries, as if she were pleading for her life, until the cruel boy caught her by the tail and pulled the feathers out. the girl then sprang forward, and, throwing a cloth over her, held her until her brother brought the cage, when they thrust her into it. "she lay so still upon the bottom of it that they thought she was dead; but as soon as she began to moan, they directed all their attention to catching me. i suppose they would not have found it very difficult, for i was so full of anguish at the thought of being separated from my beloved mate, that i cared little what became of me, had not some one entered the room just as i was flying toward the door, and so i escaped. "molly had witnessed all the scene from the window, and was crying dreadfully when i joined her." chapter vi. jack robin's love. all the while her brother had been relating his sad tale, poor molly stood on the side of the nest, shaking from head to foot. in the course of an hour she was so ill that her parents feared she would die, and thus that they should be deprived of two children in one day. "to think," cried mrs. robin, "that we were singing so gayly while our loved ones were in such danger and trouble!" "we must contrive some means to rescue her," said mr. robin, sternly. "i, for one, will perish before i will leave her to so horrible a fate." jack at this remark gave a cry of joy. he had the greatest confidence in his father's capacity, and wondered he had not thought of this before. "why can't we go at once?" he exclaimed. "mother will nurse sick molly, and i will show you the house." mrs. robin and molly added their entreaties, and the birds flew away. when they reached the house, they found the cage already hung on a hook over the front piazza. poor katy was uttering the most piercing cries, and striking her wings against the wires of the cage. as soon as she saw her father and brother, she gave a scream of delight, and fell to the floor of her prison house. jack alighted on the wires, and called her by the most endearing terms. mr. robin perched on a bough hanging over the piazza, and contemplated them with strong emotion. "o, how cruel!" he exclaimed, "to separate such loving hearts." at this moment the tall boy, with his sister, came to the door, and the father listened earnestly to their voices, to learn whether they would be friends to his imprisoned child. "good by, father; bid mother and molly good by for me," cried jack. "i have determined to remain in captivity with katy, rather than leave her to pine and die alone. yes, darling sister, i love you better than freedom, or even than life. here i will stay to comfort you with my affection." dear little captive, how her heart beat and her bosom swelled when she heard this! she flew to the upper perch of the cage, and put her beak lovingly to his. "i cannot deny such a wish, my dear jack," said mr. robin, "though it will pierce your mother's heart with sorrow to be deprived of two children. i love you better for your ardent affection; but i do not at all despair of your release. good by, dear ones; i go to consult our friends at the cottage." as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the tall boy brought a stool, and stood upon it, to take the cage down from the hook, and carried it into the house, jack still remaining perched upon the wires. there were poor katy's tail feathers still lying on the floor; but the heroic bird cared not for those. he only longed to have the door opened, that he might feel his sister's soft head nestling once more against his own breast. he did not have to wait long, for as soon as the room doors were carefully secured, the cage was opened, when he flew in. "now, darling," said he, "we must be all the world to each other. let us forget every thing else in the joy of being reunited." katy was so happy, that she could only flutter her wings, and give gentle cries of delight. as soon as they became somewhat composed, jack hopped down from the perch to examine the cage. like that in which canary was confined, it had conveniences for eating and drinking, and a nice bath tub. in addition to this, the little girl soon stuck between the wires a piece of cracker and a large lump of sugar. "this stone, my dear," said jack, "is, i suppose, for us to sharpen our beaks upon." "o, how sweet!" exclaimed katy, as she tasted the sugar; and before they left it, they had diminished it about one half. when the tall boy thought they were a little wonted to their new home, he hung them out in the sun again; and here we will leave them while we return to their parents. mrs. robin was indeed sorely grieved when her husband returned alone. molly still continued to suffer so much from the shock she had received, that she could scarcely fly to the ground for her food. "i still have hope," cried mr. robin, "that our friends may find a way to relieve us, if we can make them understand what our trouble is." it was in vain, however, that he chirped, and cried, and flew from the door off in the direction of his distressed children; and thus day after day and week after week went by, and still jack and katy remained in captivity. mr. and mrs. robin, with molly, visited them many times in a day, and carried them fine worms. nor did they wholly forsake canary, whose fate was even worse than their own. they carried many tender messages from one cage to the other, thus enlivening the imprisonment of both. dick, to his parents' great sorrow, had expressed little sympathy for his brother and sister, and had never once visited them, though he gave as a reason that he feared himself being captured. he was joined now almost wholly to mrs. bill's family, and seldom returned to his parents' nest. [illustration] chapter vii. the restored robins. one morning, mr. robin, his wife, and molly, came, as usual, to the cottage for crumbs. they were very much excited, and hopped hurriedly about the room, flapping their wings and jerking their tails incessantly. "what can they want?" exclaimed annie. "there is something the matter, i am sure." grandpa gazed thoughtfully at them, and then said, "the little one has never been as cheerful since the loss of her companions; perhaps they are intending to leave this part of the country." "o, i hope not!" exclaimed annie, almost ready to cry. "i should miss them dreadfully." this was indeed the case, mr. and mrs. robin having long given up all hope of procuring the release of their children; and finding that they were well fed, had concluded to leave for a time, in the hope that change of scene would restore molly to health. fred and annie were sincere mourners for their pretty birds; and though many others came and sang on the old elm tree, they insisted that no songs were so sweet as those sung by their old friends. their school commenced, however, about that time, and this somewhat diverted their minds. on rainy days, annie begged her grandfather for a story about birds; and he smiled as he related the account of a stork who refused to be comforted when separated from his mate, until a looking glass was placed in his house, that reflected his own image, which he took to be his mate, and was thus pacified. he also told her about the blind woman who was led to church every sunday by a tame gander, who took hold of her gown with his bill. he related to them the story of the strange attachment which was formed between a goose and a fierce dog, so that she made her nest in his kennel, and sat on her eggs with her head nestled against his breast. to these incidents of birds he added that also of the raven who regularly travelled over the stage road in one coach, until at a certain town he met another coach of the same line in which last he took passage and returned to his home. * * * * * we must now pass over several months, and relate an adventure which occurred late in the fall. fred and annie one morning received an invitation to a party given by one of their schoolmates, on the afternoon of the same day. as they entered the house, dressed in their sunday suits, their countenances glowing with pleasure, fred heard the familiar chirp of a robin, and, glancing to the window, saw a large cage containing a pair of their favorite birds. "o fred!" cried annie, suddenly, growing pale with excitement "there are our lost robins." jack and katy (for it was indeed they) instantly recognized their young friends. they flew rapidly from one side of the cage to another, striking their wings against the wires in their vain efforts to fly to her. mrs. jones, the lady of the house, at that moment entered the room. fred advanced toward her, and fixing his frank eyes full on her face, said, "those are our robins, ma'am." "do you think so?" she asked, with a smile. "if you can prove that they belong to you, you shall have them, cage and all; but they have been here a long time." "if you will please open the cage, i will show you that they know us," said the boy, earnestly. "what is it?" inquired mr. jones, coming forward and joining the group. his wife repeated what fred had said. "what makes you think they are yours?" asked the gentleman, kindly. "their parents came and built a nest in our tree," said the boy. "when the little ones were hatched, we always fed them, and they grew so tame they would eat crumbs from our mouths, hop about the room, and alight on our heads." "yes!" cried annie; "and one we tackled, that largest one, into a paper cart, and he drew it all round the room, and then flew with it to the top of the mirror." "how many young ones were there?" asked the lady. "four," answered fred; "but one was a naughty bird, and his parents had a great deal of trouble with him. the other was a little darling; but after these went away, and did not come back, she pined, and at last the old robins flew away with her." annie then related how molly was fastened to the nest. the whole party of children were standing about eagerly listening. "well," said the gentleman, "i will close the doors of the room and open the cage. if they fly to you, or seem in any way to recognize you, i will restore your property." "and the cage too," said the lady. "birdie, birdie," called the little girl. katy hopped quickly from her perch, and flying over the heads of the others, alighted on annie's shoulder. jack quickly followed, and perched on her head. "if you will please give me some crumbs," said the happy girl, tears of joy standing in her eyes, "i will show you how they eat from my mouth." "here, birdie," she cried, placing a piece between her teeth. jack alighted on her finger, then flew forward and caught the crumb in his beak, after which both he and his sister repeated the feat many times. mr. jones laughed heartily, as he called his little girl to his side, and putting a piece of sugar in her mouth, told her to call the robins as annie had done. she did so; but though jack and katy turned their bright eyes toward the sugar, of which they were very fond, and chirped loudly for it, yet they would not leave their old friends. mr. jones bade fred take the birds, while annie left the room, to see whether it was not accident which had led them to alight on her head. but the moment she returned, they flew to meet her, and showed the greatest pleasure when she caressed them. "i'm afraid," said the gentleman to his daughter, "that you'll have to give up your pets." "i don't care for them now," answered the child. "they never play any tricks for me; they only stay cooped up in their cage." "when you go home, then, you may carry them," said the lady. "but how will you get them back to the cage?" there was some difficulty in this, to be sure; for katy and jack, having once tasted the joys of liberty, did not like to return to captivity again. but at length by coaxing they succeeded in making them enter the door, which was quickly closed upon them. "o mother! o grandpa! what do you think fred is bringing?" shouted annie, running forward and opening the cottage door. now, being so near the end of my book, i can only tell my young reader, in a few words, how delighted the robins were to return to their old home;--how in pleasant weather they flew around the nest in the elm tree, but always returned to the cage at night;--how during the cold winter they learned to warble forth their thanks to the dear children who had proved such loving friends;--how the old robins returned with the warm breath of spring, and were welcomed with delight by jack and katy, who had begun a nest of their own;--how molly had found a mate, and built a nest on a bough near her parents;--and how sweetly at sunrise and at sunset they all carolled rich music, until the whole air resounded with their song. of dick nothing was known by his parents, until their new brood was hatched, when one day a robin perched on a bough of the elm tree, and after gazing around for a moment, was recognized as the lost bird. then were loud chirpings and great rejoicings, especially after he told them he had reformed from his old habits, and was trying to train up his young family as he had been taught by his parents. * * * * * the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. file was produced from images generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) a life for a love. a novel by l.t. meade, _author of "heart of gold," "a girl of the people," etc., etc._ montreal: john lovell & son, st. nicholas street. entered according to act of parliament in the year , by john lovell & son, in the office of the minister of agriculture and statistics at ottawa. john lovell & son's publications. =april's lady.= by the duchess. a story written in the author's most striking vein, highly original and deeply interesting, and certainly not the least entertaining of her works. price cents. =by order of the czar.= by jos. hatton. a thrilling story of russian outrages on the jews, of nihilistic plotting and revenge. it admirably supplements the papers of george kennan, which have filled so much of the public eye of late. price cents. =the lady egeria.= by john berwick howard. this book is avowedly of the sensational kind, and of a different class of fiction from the author's previous story of "paul knox. pitman;" the dramatic passages and vivid description of indian life and scenery are exceptionally fine. price cents. =syrlin.= by ouida. a tale of london social and political life. a characteristic ouida novel, not too highly spiced, and holds the attention throughout. price cents. =the burnt million.= by james payn. the delicate suggestive humor and quiet sarcasm, combined with a good plot, makes every chapter of this book a delight. price cents. =her last throw.= by the duchess. like all the works from the pen of this popular author, this little book is a gem in the ocean of fiction. price cents. =a scarlet sin.= by florence marryat. an exceedingly interesting and readable book. price cents. =the haute noblesse.= by geo. manville fenn. a cleverly written book, with exceptional characters. the plot and description of scenery are alike inimitable. price cents. =buttons and bootles' baby.= by john strange winter. two military tales, abounding in the most grotesque situations and humorous touches, which will greatly amuse the reader. price cents. =mount eden.= by florence marryat. a charming romance of english life, and probably the greatest effort of this popular authoress. price cents. =hedri, or blind justice.= by helen mathers. an exciting story in which love plays only a secondary part. all who enjoy a first-class story cannot fail to be interested, and the many admirers of helen mathers will find a new treasure in this work. price cents. =joshua.= by georg ebers. a story of egyptian-israelitish life which will bear favorable comparison with ben-hur and other high-class books of the same style. the description of the flight of the children of israel from egypt, and their subsequent wanderings in the desert, are placed before the reader in a startlingly realistic manner. price cents. =hester hepworth.= by kate tannatt woods. this work treats of the superstitious times of , when witchcraft was punished with death. it tends to arouse one's sympathy, and will be read with much interest and profit. price cents. lovell's canadian copyright series of choice fiction. the series now numbers over books, and contains the latest jewels of such well-known authors as ouida, the duchess, geo. manville fenn, rosa nouchette carey, florence marryat, a. conan doyle, georg ebers, james payn, miss braddon, frank barrett, mrs. alexander, edna lyall, katherine s. macquoid, g.m. robins, g.a. henty, adeline sergeant, mona caird, john strange winter, joseph hatton, dora russell, julian sturgis, kate tannatt woods, florence warden, annie thomas, w.e. norris, helen mathers, jessie fothergill, hall caine, oswald crawfurd, rhoda broughton, f.c. phillips, robert buchanan, charles gibbon, l.t. meade, john berwick harwood, from whose pens books have been issued during the past year, and others now in preparation, make the series the best in the dominion. the books are printed on good paper with new type. all the books are published by arrangement with the authors, to whom a royalty is paid, and are issued simultaneously with their publication in england. for sale at all bookstores. john lovell & son, publishers. montreal. covernton's specialties. good morning! have you used covernton's celebrated fragrant carbolic tooth wash. for cleansing and preserving the teeth, hardening the gums, etc. highly recommended by the leading dentists of the city. price, c., c. and $ . a bottle. covernton's syrup of wild cherry. for coughs, colds, asthma, bronchitis, etc. price = c.= covernton's aromatic blackberry carminative. for diarrhoea, cholera morbus, dysentery, etc. price = c.= covernton's nipple oil. for cracked or sore nipples. price = c.= good evening! use covernton's alpine cream for chapped hands, sore lips, sunburn, tan, freckles, etc. a most delightful preparation for the toilet. price = c.= c.j. covernton & co., =dispensing chemists. corner of bleury and dorchester streets,= _branch, st. lawrence street_, =montreal=. a life for a love. chapter i. the time was july, and the roses were out in great profusion in the rectory garden. the garden was large, somewhat untidily kept, but it abounded in all sweet old-fashioned flowers; there was the invariable tennis-court, empty just now, and a sweet sound of children laughing and playing together, in a hay-field near by. the roses were showering their petals all over the grass, and two girls, sisters evidently, were pacing up the broad walk in the centre of the garden arm-in-arm. they were dark-eyed girls, with chestnut, curling hair, rosy lips full of curves and smiles, and round, good-humored faces. they were talking eagerly and excitedly one to the other, not taking the smallest notice of the scene around them--not even replying when some children in the hay-field shouted their names, but coming at last to a full stand-still before the open window of the old-fashioned rectory study. two men were standing under the deep-mullioned window; one tall, slightly bent, with silvery-white hair, aquiline features, and dark brown eyes like the girls. he was the rector of jewsbury-on-the-wold, and the man he was addressing was his only son, and the brother of the eager bright-looking girls. "i can't understand it, gerald," he was saying. "no, don't come in at present, my dears;" he waved his white, delicate hand to his daughters. "we'll join you in the tennis-court presently. yes, gerald, as i was saying, it seems the most incomprehensible and unheard-of arrangement." the girls smiled gently, first into their brother's face, then at one another. they moved away, going through a little shrubbery, and passing out into a large kitchen garden, where betty, the old cook, was now standing, picking raspberries and currants into a pie-dish. "betty," said lilias, the eldest girl, "has martha dusted our trunks and taken them upstairs yet? and has susan sent up the laces and the frilled things? we want to set to work packing, as soon as ever the children are in bed." "bless your hearts, then," said old betty, laying her pie-dish on the ground, and dropping huge ripe raspberries into it with a slow deliberate movement, "if you think that children will go to bed on the finest day of the year any time within reason, you're fine and mistook, that's all. why, miss joey, she was round in the garden but now, and they're all a-going to have tea in the hay-field, and no end of butter they'll eat, and a whole batch of my fresh cakes. oh, weary, weary me, but children's mouths are never full--chattering, restless, untoward things are children. don't you never go to get married, miss marjory." "i'll follow your example, betty," laughed back marjory wyndham. "i knew that would fetch the old thing," she continued, turning to her sister. "she does hate to be reminded that she's an old maid, but she brings it on herself by abusing matrimony in that ridiculous fashion." "it's all because of gerald," answered lilias--"she is perfectly wild to think of gerald's going away from us, and taking up his abode in london with those rich pagets. i call it odious, too--i almost feel to-night as if i hated valentine. if gerald had not fallen in love with her, things would have been different. he'd have taken holy orders, and he'd have been ordained for the curacy of jewsbury-on-the-wold, and then he need never have gone away. oh, i hate--i detest to think of the rectory without gerald." "oh, lilias," replied marjory, "you really are--you really--you really are----" "what, miss? speak out, or i'll shake you, or pinch you, or do something malicious. i warn you that i am quite in the mood." "then i'll stand here," said marjory, springing to the other side of a great glowing bed of many-colored sweet-williams. "here your arm can't reach across these. i will say of you, lilias wyndham, that you are without exception the most contradictory and inconsistent person of my acquaintance. here were you, a year ago, crying and sobbing on your knees because gerald couldn't marry valentine, and now, when it's all arranged, and the wedding is to be the day after to-morrow, and we have got our promised trip to london, and those lovely brides-maid dresses--made by valentine's own express desire at elise's--you turn round and are grumpy and discontented. don't you know, you foolish silly lilias, that if gerald had never fallen in love with valentine paget he'd have met someone else, and if he was father's curate, those horrid mortimer girls and those ugly pelhams would have one and all tried to get him. we can't keep gerald to ourselves for ever, so there's no use fretting about the inevitable, say i." lilias' full red lips were pouting; she stooped, and recklessly gathering a handful of sweet-williams, flung them at her sister. "i own to being inconsistent," she said, "i own to being cross--i own to hating valentine for this night at least, for it just tears my heart to give gerald up." there were real tears now in the bright, curly-fringed eyes and the would-be-defiant voice trembled. marjory shook the sweet-william petals off her dress. "come into the house," she said in a softened tone. "father and gerald must have finished that prosy discussion by now. oh, do hark to those children's voices; what rampageous, excitable creatures they are. lilly, did we ever shout in such shrill tones? that must be augusta: no one else has a voice which sounds like the scraping of a coal-scoop in an empty coal-hod. oh, of course that high laugh belongs to joey. aren't they feeding, and wrangling, and fighting? i am quite sure, lil, that betty is right, and they won't turn in for hours; we had better go and do our packing now." "no, i see gerald," exclaimed lilias. and she flew up the narrow box-lined path to meet her brother. chapter ii. gerald wyndham was not in the least like his rosy, fresh-looking sisters. he was tall and slenderly made, with very thick and rather light-brown hair, which stood up high over his low, white forehead--his eyes were large, but were deeply set, they were grey, not brown, in repose were dreaming in expression, but when he spoke, or when any special thought came to him, they grew intensely earnest, luminous and beautiful. the changing expression of his eyes was the chief charm of a highly sensitive and refined face--a face remarkable in many ways, for the breadth of his forehead alone gave it character, but with some weak lines about the finely cut lips. this weakness was now, however, hidden by a long, silken moustache. lilias and marjory thought gerald's face the most beautiful in the world, and most people acknowledged him to be handsome, although his shoulders were scarcely broad enough for his height, and his whole figure was somewhat loosely hung together. "here you are at last," exclaimed lilias, linking her hand in her brother's arm. "here, take his other arm. maggie. oh, when, and oh, when, and oh, when shall we have him to ourselves again, i wonder?" "you little goose," said gerald. he shook himself as if he were half in a dream, and looked fondly down into lilias' pretty dimpled, excitable face. "well, girls, are the trunks packed, and have you put in plenty of finery? i promise you mr. paget will give a dinner-party every night--you'll want heaps of fine clothes while you stay at queen's gate." marjory began to count on her fingers. "we arrive on wednesday," she said. "on wednesday evening, dinner number one, we wear our white indian muslins, with the liberty sashes, and flowers brought up from the dear old garden. thursday evening, dinner number two, and evening of wedding day, our bridesmaids' toggery must suffice; friday, dinner number three, those blue nun's veiling dresses will appear and charm the eyes. that's all. three dresses for three dinners, for it's home, sweet home again on saturday--isn't it, lilias?" "of course," said lilias, "that is, i suppose so," she added, glancing at her brother. "valentine wanted to know if you would stay in town for a week or ten days, and try to cheer up her father," said gerald. "mr. paget and valentine have scarcely been parted for a single day since she was born. valentine is quite in a state at having to leave him for a month, and she thinks two bright little girls like you may comfort him somewhat." "but we have our own father to see to," pouted marjory; "and sunday school, and choir practising, and the library books----" "and i don't see how valentine can mind leaving her father--if he were the very dearest father in the world--when she goes away with you," interrupted lilias. gerald sighed, just the faintest shadow of an impatient sigh, accompanied by the slightest shrug of his shoulders. "augusta can give out the library books," he said. "miss queen can manage the choir. i will ask jones to take your class, lilias, and miss peters can manage yours with her own, marjory. as to the rector, what is the use of having five young daughters, if they cannot be made available for once in a way? and here they come, and there's the governor in the midst of them. he doesn't look as if he were likely to taste the sweets of solitude, eh, marjory?" not at that moment, certainly, for a girl hung on each arm, and a smaller girl sat aloft on each square shoulder, while a fifth shouted and raced, now in front, now behind, pelting this moving pyramid of human beings with flowers, and screaming even more shrilly than her sisters, with eager exclamation and bubbling laughter. "there's gerry," exclaimed augusta. she was the tallest of the party, with a great stretch of stockinged legs, and a decided scarcity of skirts. she flew at her brother, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him rapturously. "you darling old gerry--don't we all just hate and detest that horrible valentine paget." "hush, gussie," responded gerald, in his quiet voice. "you don't know valentine, and you pain me when you talk of her in that senseless fashion. here, have a race with your big brother to the other end of the garden. girls," turning to his elder sisters--"seriously speaking i should like you to spend about a fortnight with the pagets. and had you not better go and pack, for we must catch the eleven o'clock train to-morrow morning. now, gussie--one, two, three, and away." two pairs of long legs, each working hard to come off victorious in the race, flew past the group--the rector and the little girls cheered and shouted--marjory and lilias, laughing at the sight, turned slowly and went into the house; gerald won the race by a foot or two, and gussie flung herself panting and laughing on the grass at the other end of the long walk. "well done, augusta," said her brother. "you study athletics to a purpose. now, gussie, can't you manage to give away the library books on sunday?" "i? you don't mean it?" said augusta. her black eyes sparkled; she recovered her breath, and the full dignity of her five feet five and a-half of growth on the instant. "am i to give away the library books, gerry?" "yes, i want lilias to stay in london for a few days longer than she intended." "and marjory too?" "of course. the girls would not like to be parted." "galuptions! won't i have a time of it all round! won't i give old peters a novel instead of his favorite sunday magazines? and won't i smuggle pailey's 'evidences of christianity' into the hand of alice jones, the dressmaker. she says the only books she cares for are wilkie collins 'woman in white,' and the 'dead secret,' so she'll have a lively time of it with the evidences. then there's 'butler's analogy,' it isn't in the parish library, but i'll borrow it for once from father's study. that will exactly suit rhoda fleming. oh, what fun, what fun. i won't take a single story-book with me, except the 'woman in white,' for peters. he says novels are 'rank poison,' so he shall have his dose." "now look here, gussie," said gerald, taking his sister's two hands in his, and holding them tight--"you've got to please me about the library books, and not to play pranks, and make things disagreeable for lilias when she comes back. you're thirteen now, and a big girl, and you ought to act like one. you're to make things comfortable for the dear old pater while we are all away, and you'll do it if you care for me, gussie." "care for you!" echoed augusta. "i love you, gerry. i love you, and i hate----" "no, don't say that," said gerald, putting his hand on the girl's mouth. gussie looked droll and submissive. "it is so funny," she exclaimed at length. "you can explain that as we walk back to the house," responded her brother. "why, gerry, to see you so frightfully in love! you are, aren't you? you have all the symptoms--oh, before i----" "i love valentine," responded gerald. "that is a subject i cannot discuss with you, augusta. when you know her you will love her too. i am going to bring her here in the autumn, and then i shall want you all to be good to her, and to let her feel that she has a great number of real sisters at jewsbury-on-the-wold, who will be good to her if she needs them, by-and-bye." "as if she ever could need us," responded gussie. "she'll have you. yes, i'll do my best about the books--good-night. gerald. good-night, dear old darling king. that's miss queen's voice. coming, miss queen, coming! good-night, old gerry. my love to that val of yours. oh, what a nuisance it is to have ever to go to bed." gussie's long legs soon bore her out of sight, and gerald stepped into the silent and now empty study. to an initiated eye this room bore one or two marks of having lately witnessed a mental storm. close to the rector's leather armchair lay a pile of carefully torn-up papers--the family bible, which usually occupied a place of honor on his desk, had been pushed ruthlessly on one side, and a valuable work on theology lay wide open and face downwards on the floor. otherwise the room was in perfect order--the only absolutely neat apartment in the large old house. not the most daring of all the young wyndhams would disturb a volume here, or play any wild pranks in the sacred precincts of the rector's study. as gerald now entered the room and saw these signs of mental disquiet round mr. wyndham's chair, the pleasant and somewhat cheerful look left his face, his eyes grew dark, earnest and full of trouble, and flinging himself on the sofa, he shaded them with his white long fingers. there was an oil painting of a lady over the mantel-piece, and this lady had gerald's face. from her he inherited those peculiar and sensitive eyes, those somewhat hollow cheeks, and that noble and broad white brow. from her, too, came the lips which were curved and beautiful, and yet a little, a little wanting in firmness. in mrs. wyndham the expressive mouth only added the final touch of womanliness to a beautiful face. in her son it would have revealed, could it have been seen, a nature which might be led astray from the strictest paths of honor. wyndham sat motionless for a few moments, then springing to his feet, he paced restlessly up and down the empty study. "everything is fixed and settled now," he said, under his breath. "i'm not the first fellow who has sold himself for the sake of a year's happiness. if my mother were alive, though, i couldn't have done it, no, not even for valentine. poor mother! she felt sure i'd have taken holy orders, and worked on here with the governor in this sleepy little corner of the world. it's a blessing she can't be hurt by anything now, and as to the governor, he has seven girls to comfort him. no, if i'm sorry for anyone it's lilias, but the thing's done now. the day after to-morrow val will be mine. a whole year! my god, how short it is. my god, save and pity me, for afterwards comes hell." chapter iii. the human face has been often spoken of as an index of the mind. there are people who boldly declare that they know a man by the height of his forehead, by the set of his eyes, by the shape of his head, and by the general expression of his countenance. whether this rule is true or not, it certainly has its exceptions. as far as outward expression goes some minds remain locked, and satan himself can now and then appear transformed as an angel of light. mortimer paget, esq., the head and now sole representative of the once great ship-broking firm of paget brothers, was one of the handsomest and most striking-looking men in the city. on more than one occasion sculptors of renown had asked to be permitted to take a cast of his head to represent humanity, benevolence, integrity, or some other cardinal virtue. he had a high forehead, calm velvety brown eyes, perfectly even and classical features, and firm lips with a sweet expression. his lips were perfectly hidden by his silvery moustache, and the shape of his chin was not discernible, owing to his long flowing beard. but had the beard and moustache both been removed, no fault could have been found with the features now hidden--they were firmly and well-moulded. on this beautiful face no trace of a sinister cast lurked. mortimer paget in his business transactions was the soul of honor. no man in the city was more looked up to than he. he was very shrewd with regard to all money matters, but he was also generous and kind. the old servants belonging to the firm never cared to leave him; when they died off he pensioned their widows and provided for their orphans. he was a religious man, of the evangelical type, and he conducted his household in every way from a religious point of view. family prayers were held night and morning in the great house in queen's gate, and the servants were expected each and all to attend church twice on sundays. mr. paget had found a church where the ritual was sufficiently low to please his religious views. to this church he went himself twice on sundays, invariably accompanied by a tall girl, richly dressed, who clung to his side and read out of the same book with him, singing when he sang, and very often slipping her little hand into his, and closing her bright eyes when he napped unconsciously during the prosy sermon. this girl was his only child, and while he professed to be actuated by the purest love for both god and his fellow creatures, the one being for whom his heart really beat warmly, the one being for whom he could gladly have sacrificed himself was this solitary girl. valentine's mother had died at her birth, and since that day valentine and her father had literally never been parted. she was his shadow, like him in appearance, and as far as those who knew her could guess like him in character. the house in queen's gate was full of all the accompaniments of wealth. it was richly and splendidly furnished; the drawing-rooms were spacious, the reception rooms were all large. valentine had her own boudoir, her own special school-room, her own bedroom and dressing-room. her father had provided a suite of rooms for her, each communicating with the other, but except that she tossed off her handsome dresses in the dressing-room, and submitted at intervals during the day with an unwilling grace to the services of her maid, and except that she laid her bright little curling head each evening on the softest of down-pillows, valentine's suite of rooms saw very little of their young mistress. there was an old library in the back part of the house--an essentially dull room, with windows fitted with painted glass, and shelves lined with books, most of them in tarnished and worm-eaten bindings, where mr. paget sat whenever he was at home, and where in consequence valentine was to be found. her sunny head, with its golden wavy hair, made a bright spot in the old room. she was fond of perching herself on the top of the step-ladder, and so seated burrowing eagerly into the contents of some musty old volume. she devoured the novels of smollett and fielding, and many other books which were supposed not to be at all good for her, in this fashion--they did her no harm, the bad part falling away, and not touching her, for her nature was very pure and bright, and although she saw many shades of life in one way or another, and with all her expensive education, was allowed to grow up in a somewhat wild fashion, and according to her own sweet will, yet she was a perfectly innocent and unsophisticated creature. when she was seventeen, mr. paget told her that he was going to inaugurate a new state of things. "you must go into society, val," he said. "in these days the daughters of city men of old standing like myself are received everywhere. i will get your mother's third cousin, lady prince, to present you at the next drawing-room, and then you must go the usual round, i suppose. we must get some lady to come here to chaperon you, and you will go out to balls and assemblies, and during the london season turn night into day." val was seated on the third rung of the step-ladder when her father made this announcement. she sprang lightly from her perch now, and ran to his side. "i won't go anywhere without you, dad; so that's settled. poor old man!--dear old man!" she put her arms round his neck, and his white moustache and beard swept across her soft, peach-like cheek. "but i hate going out in the evening, val. i'm getting an old man--sixty next birthday, my dear--and i work hard all day. there's no place so sweet to me in the evening as this worm-eaten, old armchair;--i should find myself lost in a crowd. time was when i was the gayest of the gay. people used to speak of me as the life and soul of every party i went to, but that time is over for me. val; for you it is beginning." "you are mistaken, father. i perch myself on the arm of this wretched, worm-eaten, old chair, and stay here with you, or i go into society with you. it's all the same to me--you can please yourself." "don't you know that you are a very saucy lass, miss?" "am i? i really don't care--i go with you, or i stay with you--that's understood. dad--father dear--that's always to be the way, you understand. you and i are to be always together--all our lives. you quite see what i mean?" "yes, my darling. but some day you will have a husband. val. i want you to marry, and have a good husband, child; and then we'll see if your old father still comes first." valentine laughed gaily. "we'll see," she repeated. "father, if you are not awfully busy, i must read you this bit out of roderick random--listen, is not it droll?" she fetched the volume with its old-fashioned type and obsolete s'es, and the two faces so alike and so beautiful, and so full of love for one another, bent over the page. valentine paget had her way, and when she made her _début_ in the world of fashion she was accompanied by no other chaperon than her handsome father. a mrs. johnstone, a distant relative of valentine's mother had been asked to come to drive with the young lady in the parks, and to exercise a very mild surveillance over her conduct generally, when she received her visitors at five o'clock tea, but in the evenings mr. paget alone took her into society. the pair were striking enough to make an instant success. each acted as a foil and heightener to the beauty of the other. mortimer paget was recognized by some of his old cronies--fair ladies who had known him when he was young, reproached him gently for having worn so well, professed to take a great interest in his girl, and watched her with narrow, critical, but not unkindly eyes. the girl was fresh and _naïve_, perfectly free and untrammelled, a tiny bit reckless, a little out of the common. her handsome face, her somewhat isolated position, and her reputed fortune, for mortimer paget was supposed to be one of the richest men in the city, soon made her the fashion. valentine paget, in her first season, was spoken about, talked over, acknowledged to be a beauty, and had, of course, plenty of lovers. no one could have taken a daughter's success with more apparent calmness than did her father. he never interfered with her--he never curbed her light and graceful, although somewhat eccentric, ways; but when any particular young man had paid her marked attention for more than two nights running, had anyone watched closely they might have seen a queer, alert, anxious look come into the fine old face. the sleepy brown eyes would awake, and be almost eagle-like in the keenness of their glance. no one knew how it was done, but about that possible suitor inquiries of the closest and most delicate nature were instantly set on foot; and as these inquiries, from mr. paget's point of view, in each case proved eminently unsatisfactory, when next the ardent lover met the beautiful miss paget, a thin but impenetrable wall of ice seemed to have started up between them. scarcely any of valentine's lovers came to the point of proposing for her; they were quietly shelved, they scarcely knew how, long before matters arrived at this crisis. young men who in all respects seemed eligible of the eligible--men with good names and rent-rolls, alike were given a sort of invisible _congé_. the news was therefore received as a most startling piece of information at the end of valentine's first season, that she was engaged, with the full consent and approval of her most fastidious father, to about the poorest man of her acquaintance. gerald wyndham was the only son of a country clergyman--he was young, only twenty-two; he was spoken about as clever, but in the eyes of valentine's friends seemed to have no one special thing to entitle him to aspire to the hand of one of the wealthiest and most beautiful girls of their acquaintance. it was reported among mr. paget's friends that this excellent, honorable and worthy gentleman must surely have taken leave of his senses, for gerald wyndham had literally not a penny, and before his engagement to valentine, the modest career opening up before him was that of holy orders in one of its humblest walks. chapter iv. wyndham before his engagement was one of the most boyish of men. all the sunshine, the petting, the warmth, the love, which encircled him as the prime favorite of many sisters and an adoring father at jewsbury-on-the-wold, seemed to have grown into his face. his deep grey-blue changeful eyes were always laughing--he was witty, and he said witty and laughable things by the score. the young man had plenty of talent, and a public school and university education had developed these abilities to a fine point of culture. his high spirits, and a certain irish way which he inherited from his mother, made him a universal favorite, but at all times he had his grave moments. a look, a word would change that beaming, expressive face, bring sadness to the eyes, and seriousness to the finely curved lips. the shadows passed as quickly as they came. before wyndham met valentine they were simply indications of the sensitiveness of a soul which was as keenly strung to pain as to joy. it is a trite saying that what is easily attained is esteemed of little value. valentine found lovers by the score; in consequence, the fact of a man paying her attention, looking at her with admiration, and saying pretty nothings in her ear, gave her before her first season was over only a slightly added feeling of ennui. at this juncture in her life she was neither in love with her lovers nor with society. she was younger than most girls when they make their entrance into the world, and she would infinitely have preferred the sort of half school-room, half nursery existence she used to lead. she yawned openly and wished for bed when she was dragged out night after night, and when fresh suitors appeared she began really to regard them as a weariness to the flesh. gerald wyndham did not meet valentine in quite the ordinary fashion. on a certain hot day in july, she had been absolutely naughty, the heat had enervated her, the languor of summer was over her, and after a late dinner, instead of going dutifully upstairs to receive some final touches from her maid, before starting for a great crush at the house of a city magnate near by, she had flown away to the library, turned on the electric light, and mounting the book-ladder perched herself on her favorite topmost rung, took down her still more favorite "evelina," and buried herself in its fascinating pages. past and present were both alike forgotten by the young reader, she hated society for herself, but she loved to read of evelina's little triumphs, and lord orville was quite to her taste. "if i could only meet a man like him," she murmured, flinging down her book, and looking across the old library with her starry eyes, "oh, father, dear, how you startled me! now, listen, please. i will not go out to-night--i am sleepy--i am tired--i am yawning dreadfully. oh, what have i said?--how rude of you, sir, to come and startle me in that fashion!" for valentine's light words had not been addressed to mr. paget, but to a young man in evening dress, a perfect stranger, who came into the room, and was now looking up and actually laughing at her. "how rude of you," said valentine, and she began hastily to descend from her elevated position. in doing so she slipped, and would have fallen if wyndham had not come to the rescue, coolly lifting the enraged young lady into his arms and setting her on the floor. "now i will beg your pardon as often as you like," he said. "i was shown in here by a servant. i am waiting for mr. paget--i was introduced to him this morning--my father turns out to be an old friend, and he was good enough to ask me to go with you both to the terrells to-night." "delightful!" said valentine. "i'll forgive you, of course; you'll take the dear old man, and i'll stay snugly at home. i'm so anxious to finish 'evelina.' have you ever read the book?--don't you love lord orville?" "no, i love evelina best," replied gerald. the two pairs of eyes met, both were full of laughter, and both pairs of lips were indulging in merry peals of mirth when mr. paget entered the room. "there you are, val," he said. "you have introduced yourself to wyndham. quite right. now, was there ever anything more provoking? i have just received a telegram." here mr. paget showed a yellow envelope. "i must meet a business man at charing cross in an hour, on a matter of some importance. i can't put it off, and so. val, i don't see how i am to send you to the terrells all alone. it is too bad--why, what is the matter, child?" "too delightful, you mean," said valentine. "i wasn't going. i meant to commit high treason to-night. i was quite determined to--now i needn't. do you mean to go to the terrells by yourself, mr. wyndham?" "the pleasure held out was to go with you and your father," responded wyndham, with an old-fashioned bow, and again that laughing look in his eyes. mr. paget's benevolent face beamed all over. "go up to the drawing-room, then, young folks, and amuse yourselves," he said. "our good friend, mrs. johnstone, will bear you company. val, you can sing something to wyndham to make up for his disappointment. she sings like a bird, and is vain of it, little puss. yes, go away, both of you, and make the best of things." "the best of things is to remain here," said valentine. "i hate the drawing-room, and that dear, good mrs. johnstone, if she must act chaperon, can bring her knitting down here. i am so sorry for you, mr. wyndham, but i don't mean to sing a single song to-night. had you not better go to the terrells?" "no, i mean to stay and read 'evelina,'" replied the obdurate young man. mr. paget laughed again. "i will send our good friend, mrs. johnstone, to make tea for you," he said, and he hurried out of the room. chapter v. this was the very light and airy beginning of a friendship which was to ripen into serious and even appalling results. wyndham was a man who found it very easy to make girls like him. he had so many sisters of his own that he understood their idiosyncrasies, and knew how to humor their little failings, how to be kind to their small foibles, and how to flatter their weaknesses. more than one girl had fallen in love with this handsome and attractive young man. wyndham was aware of these passionate attachments, but as he could not feel himself particularly guilty in having inspired them, and as he did not in the slightest degree return them, he did not make himself unhappy over what could not be cured. it puzzled him not a little to know why girls should be so silly, and how hearts could be so easily parted with--he did not know when he questioned his own spirit lightly on the matter that the day of retribution was at hand. he lost his own heart to valentine without apparently having made the smallest impression upon this bright and seemingly volatile girl. on that very first night in the old library wyndham left his heart at the gay girl's feet. he was seriously in love. before a week was out he had taken the malady desperately, and in its most acute form. it was then that a change came over his face, it was then for the first time that he became aware of the depths of his own nature. great abysses of pain were opened up to him--he found himself all sensitiveness, all nerves. he had been proud of his rather athletic bringing-up, of his intellectual training. he had thought poorly of other men who had given up all for the sake of a girl's smile, and for the rather doubtful possession of a girl's fickle heart. he did not laugh at them any longer. he spent his nights pacing his room, and his days haunting the house at queen's gate. if he could not go in he could linger near the house. he could lounge in the park and see valentine as she drove past, and nodded and smiled to him brightly. his own face turned pale when she gave him those quick gay glances. she was absolutely heart-whole--a certain intuition told him this, whereas he--he found himself drivelling into a state bordering on idiotcy. almost all men have gone through similar crises, but wyndham at this time was making awful discoveries. he was finding out day by day the depths of weakness as well as pain within him. "i'm the greatest fool that ever breathed," he would say to himself. "what would lilias say if she saw me now? how often she and i have laughed over this great momentous matter--how often we have declared that we at least would never lose ourselves in so absurd a fashion. poor lilias, i suppose her turn will come as mine has come--i cannot understand myself--i really must be raving mad. how dare i go to mr. paget and ask him to give me valentine? i have not got a halfpenny in the world. this money in my pocket is my father's--i have to come to him for every sixpence! i am no better off than my little sister joan. when i am ordained, and have secured the curacy of jewsbury-on-the-wold, i shall have exactly £ a year. a large sum truly. and yet i want to marry valentine paget--the youngest heiress of the season--the most beautiful--the most wealthy! oh, of course i must be mad--quite mad. i ought to shun her like the plague. she does not in the least care for me--not in the least. i often wonder if she has got a heart anywhere. she acts as a sort of siren to me--luring me on--weakening and enfeebling my whole nature. she is a little flirt in her way, but an unconscious one. she means nothing by that bright look in her eyes, and that sparkling smile, and that gay clear laugh. i wonder if any other man has felt as badly about her as i do. oh, i ought to shun her--i am simply mad to go there as i do. when i get an invitation--when i have the ghost of a chance of seeing her--it seems as if thousands of invisible ropes pulled me to her side. what is to come of it all? nothing--nothing but my own undoing. i can never marry her--and yet i must--i will. i would go through fire and water to hold her to my heart for a moment. there, i must have been quite mad when i said that--i didn't mean it. i'm sane now, absolutely sane. i know what i'll do. i won't dine there to-night. i'll send an excuse, and i'll run down to the old rectory until monday, and get lilias to cure me." the infatuated young man seized a sheet of notepaper, dashed off an incoherent and decidedly lame excuse to mr. paget, and trembling with fear that his resolution would fail him even at the eleventh hour, rushed out and dropped the letter into the nearest pillar-box. this action was bracing, he felt better, and in almost gay spirits, for his nature was wonderfully elastic. he took the next train to jewsbury, and arrived unexpectedly at the pleasant old rectory late on saturday evening. the man who is made nothing of in one place, and finds himself absolutely the hero of the hour in another, cannot help experiencing a very soothed sensation. valentine paget had favored gerald with the coolest of nods, the lightest of words, the most indifferent of actions. she met him constantly, she was always stumbling up against him, and when she wanted him to do anything for her she issued a brief and lordly command. her abject slave flew to do her bidding. now at jewsbury-on-the-wold the slave was in the position of master, and he could not help enjoying the change. "augusta, wheel that chair round for gerald. sit there. gerald, darling--oh, you are in a draught. shut the door, please, marjory. joan, run to the kitchen, and tell betty to make some of gerald's favorite cakes for supper. is your tea quite right, gerry; have you sugar enough--and--and cream?" gerald briefly expressed himself satisfied. lilias was superintending the tea-tray with a delicate flush of pleasure on her cheeks, and her bright eyes glancing moment by moment in admiration at her handsome brother. marjory had placed herself on a footstool at the hero's feet, and augusta, tall and gawky, all stockinged-legs, and abnormally thin long arms, was standing at the back of his chair, now and then venturing to caress one of his crisp light waves of hair with the tips of her fingers. "it is too provoking!" burst from marjory,--"you know, lilias, we can't put gerald into his old room, it is being papered, and you haven't half-finished decorating the door. gerry, darling, you might have let us know you were coming and we'd have worked at it day and night. do you mind awfully sleeping in the spare room? we'll promise to make it as fresh as possible for you?" "i'll--i'll--fill the vases with flowers--" burst spasmodically from augusta. "do you like roses or hollyhocks best in the tall vases on the mantel-piece, gerry?" "by the way, gerald," remarked the rector, who was standing leaning against the mantel-piece, gazing complacently at his son and daughters, "i should like to ask your opinion with regard to that notice on herring's book in the _saturday_. have you read it? it struck me as over critical, but i should like to have your opinion." so the conversation went on, all adoring, all making much of the darling of the house. years afterwards, gerald wyndham remembered that summer's evening, the scent of the roses coming in at the open window, the touch of marjory's little white hand as it rested on his knee, the kind of half-irritated, half-pleased thrill which went through him when augusta touched his hair, the courteous and proud look on the rector's face when he addressed him, above all the glow of love in lilias' beautiful eyes. he remembered that evening--he was not likely ever to forget it, for it was one of the last of his happy boyhood, before he took upon him his manhood's burden of sin and sorrow and shame. after tea lilias and gerald walked about the garden arm-in-arm. "i am going to confess something to you," said the brother. "i want your advice, lilly. i want you to cure me, by showing me that i am the greatest fool that ever lived." "but you are not, gerald; i can't say it when i look up to you, and think there is no one like you. you are first in all the world to me--you know that, don't you?" "poor lil, that is just the point--that is where the arrow will pierce you. i am going to aim a blow at you, dear. take me down from your pedestal at once--i love someone else much, much better than i love you." lilias' hand as it rested on gerald's arm trembled very slightly. he looked at her, and saw that her lips were moving, and that her eyes were looking downwards. she did not make any audible sound, however, and he went on hastily:-- "and you and i, we always promised each other that such a day should not come--no wonder you are angry with me, lil." "but i'm not, dear gerald--i just got a nasty bit of jealous pain for a minute, but it is over. i always knew that such a day would come, that it would have to come--if not for me, at least for you. tell me about her, gerry. is she nice--is she half--or a quarter nice enough for you?" then gerald launched into his subject, forgetting what he supposed could only be a very brief sorrow on lilias' part in the enthralling interest of his theme. valentine paget would not have recognized the portrait which was drawn of her, for this young and ardent lover crowned her with all that was noble, and decked her with attributes little short of divine. "i am absolutely unworthy of her," he said in conclusion, and when lilias shook her head, and refused to believe this latter statement, he felt almost angry with her. the two walked about and talked together until darkness fell, but, although they discussed the subject in all its bearings, gerald felt by no means cured when he retired to rest, while lilias absolutely cried herself to sleep. marjory and she slept in little white beds, side by side. "oh, lil, what's the matter?" exclaimed the younger sister, disturbed out of her own sweet slumbers by those unusual tokens of distress. "nothing much," replied lilias, "only--only--i am a little lonely--don't ask me any questions, maggie, i'll be all right in the morning." marjory was too wise to say anything further, but she lay awake herself and wondered. what could ail lilias?--lilias, the brightest, the gayest of them all. was she fretting about their mother. but it was seven years now since the mother had been taken away from the rectory children, and lilias had got over the grief which had nearly broken her child-heart at the time. marjory felt puzzled and a little fearful,--the evening before had been so sweet,--gerald had been so delightful. surely in all the world there was not a happier home than jewsbury-on-the-wold. why should lilias cry, and say that she was lonely? chapter vi. on monday morning wyndham returned to town. his father had strained a point to give his only son the season in london, and gerald was paying part of the expenses by coaching one or two young fellows for the next cambridge term. he had just concluded his own university course, and was only waiting until his twenty-third birthday had passed, to be ordained for the curacy which his father was keeping for him. gerald's birthday would be in september, and the rectory girls were looking forward to this date as though it were the beginning of the millennium. "even the cats won't fight, nor the dogs bark when gerald is in the room," whispered little joan. "i 'spect they know he don't like it." wyndham returned to london feeling both low and excited. his conversation with lilias and the rather pallid look of her face, the black shadows under her eyes, and the pathetic expression which the shedding of so many tears had given to them, could not cure him nor extinguish the flame which was burning into his heart, and making all the other good things of life seem but as dust and ashes to his taste. he arrived in town, went straight to his lodgings, preparatory to keeping his engagement with one of his young pupils, and there saw waiting for him a letter in the firm upright handwriting of mortimer paget. he tore the envelope open in feverish haste. the lines within were very few:-- dear wyndham. val and i were disappointed at your not putting in an appearance at her dinner-party last night, but no doubt you had good reasons for going into the country. this note will meet you on your return. can you come and lunch with me in the city on monday at two o'clock? come to my place in billiter-square. i shall expect you and won't keep you waiting. i have a matter of some importance i should like to discuss with you.--yours, my dear wyndham, sincerely, "mortimer paget." wyndham put the letter into his pocket, flew to keep his appointment with his pupil, and at two o'clock precisely was inquiring for mr. paget at the offices of the shipping firm in billiter-square. mortimer paget was now head of the large establishment. he was the sole surviving partner out of many, and on him alone devolved the carrying out of one of the largest business concerns in the city. wyndham never felt smaller than when he entered those great doors, and found himself passed on from one clerk to another, until at last he was admitted to the ante-room of the chief himself. here there was a hush and stillness, and the young man sank down into one of the easy chairs, and looked around him expectantly. he was in the ante chamber of one of the great kings of commerce, the depressing influence of wealth when we have no share in it came over him. he longed to turn and fly, and but that his fingers, even now, fiddled with mr. paget's very pressing note he would have done so. what could the great man possibly want with him? with his secret in his breast, with the knowledge that he, a poor young expectant curate, had dared to lift up his eyes to the only daughter of this great house, he could not but feel ill at ease. when wyndham was not at home with any one he instantly lost his charm. he was painfully conscious of this himself, and felt sure that he would be on stilts while he ate his lunch with mr. paget. nay more, he was almost sure that that astute personage would read his secret in his eyes. a clerk came into the room, an elderly man, with reddish whiskers, small, deep-set eyes, and thin hair rapidly turning white. he stared inquisitively at young wyndham, walked past him, drew up the blinds, arranged some papers on the table, and then as he passed him again said in a quick, half-frightened aside: "if i was you, young man, i'd go." the tone in which this was said was both anxious and familiar. wyndham started aside from the familiarity. his face flushed and he gazed haughtily at the speaker. "did you address me?" he said. "i did, young man, don't say nothing, for the good lord's sake, don't say nothing. my name is jonathan helps. i have been here man and boy for close on forty years. i know the old house. sound! no house in the whole city sounder, sound as a nut, or as an apple when _it's rotten at the core_. you keep that to yourself, young man--why i'd venture every penny i have in this yer establishment. i'm confidential clerk here! i'm a rough sort--and not what you'd expect from a big house, nor from a master like mr. paget. now, young man, you go away, and believe that there ain't a sounder house in all the city than that of paget, brake and carter. i, jonathan helps, say it, and surely i ought to know." an electric bell sounded in the other room. wiping his brow with his handkerchief as though the queer words he had uttered had cost him an effort, helps flew to answer the summons. "ask mr. wyndham to walk in and have lunch served in my room," said an authoritative voice. "and see here. helps, you are not to disturb us on any excuse before three o'clock." shutting the door behind him, helps came back again to gerald's side. "if you don't want to run away at once you're to go in there," he said. "remember, there isn't a sounder house in all london than that of paget, brake and carter. paget's head of the whole concern now. don't he boss it over us though! oh, you're going in?--you've made up your mind not to run away. surely in vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird. good lord, if that ain't the least true word that david ever writ. well, here you are. don't forget that this house is sound--sound as an apple when it is--mr. wyndham, sir." "you seem to have got a very extraordinary clerk," said gerald, when he had shaken hands with his host, who had expressed himself delighted to see him. "helps?" responded mr. paget. "yes, poor fellow--has he been entertaining you--telling you about the soundness of the house, eh? poor helps--the best fellow in the world, but just a little--a very little--touched in the head." "so i should think," said gerald, laughing; "he compared me to a bird in the fowler's net, and all kinds of ridiculous similes. what a snug room you have here." "i am glad you think it so. i have a still snugger room at the other side of this curtain, which i hope to introduce to you. come along and see it. this was furnished at val's suggestion. she comes here to have lunch with me once a week. friday is her day. will you come and join us here next friday at two o'clock?" "i--i shall be delighted," stammered wyndham. "she has good taste, hasn't she, little puss? all these arrangements are hers. i never saw any one with a better eye for color, and she has that true sympathy with her surroundings which teaches her to adapt rooms to their circumstances. now, for instance, at queen's gate we are all cool greys and blues--plenty of sunshine comes into the house at queen's gate. into this room the sun never shows his face. val accordingly substitutes for his brightness golden tones and warm colors. artistic, is it not? she is very proud of the remark which invariably falls from the lips of each person who visits this sanctum sanctorum, that it does not look the least like an office." "nor does it," responded gerald. "it is a lovely room. what a beautiful portrait that is of your daughter--how well those warm greys suit her complexion." "yes, that is richmond's, he painted her two years ago. sit down at this side of the table, wyndham, where you can have a good view of the saucy puss. does she not look alive, as if she meant to say something very impertinent to us both. thanks, helps, you can leave us now. pray see that we are not disturbed." helps withdrew with noiseless slippered feet. a curtain was drawn in front of the door, which the clerk closed softly after him. "excellent fellow, helps," said mr. paget, "but mortal, decidedly mortal. if you will excuse me, wyndham. i will take the precaution of turning the key in that door. this little room, val's room, i call it, has often been privileged to listen to state secrets. that being the case one must take due precautions against eaves-droppers. now, my dear fellow, i hope you are hungry. help yourself to some of those cutlets--i can recommend this champagne." the lunch proceeded, the elder man eating with real appetite, the younger with effort. he was excited, his mind was full of trouble--he avoided looking at valentine's picture, and wished himself at the other side of those locked doors. "you don't seem quite the thing," said mr. paget, presently. "i hope you have had no trouble at home, wyndham. is your father well? let me see, he must be about my age--we were at trinity college, cambridge, some time in the forties." "my father is very well, sir," said gerald. "he is a hale man, he does not look his years." "have some more champagne? i think you told me you had several sisters." "yes, there are seven girls at home." "good heavens--wyndham is a lucky man. fancy seven valentines filling a house with mirth! and you are the only son--and your mother is dead." "my mother is not living," responded wyndham with a flush. "and--yes, i am the only son. i won't have any more champagne, thank you, sir." "try one of these cigars--i can recommend them. wyndham, i am going to say something very frank. i have taken a fancy to you. there, i don't often take fancies. why, what is the matter, my dear fellow?" gerald had suddenly risen to his feet, his face was white. there was a strained, eager, pained look in his eyes. "you wouldn't, if you knew," he stammered. "i--i have made a fool of myself, sir. i oughtn't to be sitting here, your hospitality chokes me. i--i have made the greatest fool of myself in all christendom, sir." "i think i know what you mean," said mr. paget, also rising to his feet. his voice was perfectly calm, quiet, friendly. "i am not sorry you have let it out in this fashion, my poor lad. you have--shall i tell you that i know your secret, wyndham?" "no, sir; don't let us talk of it. you cannot rate me for my folly more severely than i rate myself. i'll go away now if you have no objection. thank you for being kind to me. try and forget that i made an ass of myself." "sit down again, wyndham. i am not angry--i don't look upon you as a fool. i should have done just the same were i in your shoes. you are in love with valentine--you would like to make her your wife." "good heavens, sir, don't let us say anything more about it." "why not? under certain conditions i think you would make her a suitable husband. i guessed your secret some weeks ago. since then i have been watching you carefully. i have also made private inquiries about you. all that i hear pleases me. i asked you to lunch with me, to-day, on purpose that we should talk the matter over." mr. paget spoke in a calm, almost drawling, voice. the young man opposite to him, his face deadly white, his hands nervously clutching at a paper-knife, his burning eyes fixed upon the older man's face, drank in every word. it was an intoxicating draught, going straight to gerald wyndham's brain. "god bless you!" he said, when the other had ceased to speak. he turned his head away, for absolute tears of joy had softened the burning feverish light in his eyes. "no, don't say that, wyndham," responded mr. paget, his own voice for the first time a little shaken. "we'll leave god altogether out of this business, if you have no objection. it is simply a question of how much a man will give up for love. will he sell himself, body and soul, for it? that is the question of questions. i know all about you, wyndham; i know that you have not a penny to bless yourself with; i know that you are about to embrace a beggarly profession. oh, yes, we'll leave out the religious aspect of the question. a curacy in the church of england is a beggarly profession in these days. i know too that you are your father's only son, and that you have seven sisters, who will one day look to you to protect them. i know all that; nevertheless i believe you to be the kind of man who will dare all for love. if you win valentine, you have got to pay a price for her. it is a heavy one--i won't tell you about it yet. when you agree to pay this price, for the sake of a brief joy for yourself, for necessarily it must be brief; and for her life-long good and well-being, then you rise to be her equal in every sense of the word, and you earn my undying gratitude, wyndham." "i don't understand you, sir. you speak very darkly, and you hint at things which--which shock me." "i must shock you more before you hold valentine in your arms. you have heard enough for to-day. hark, someone is knocking at the door." mr. paget rose to open it, a gay voice sounded in the passage, and the next moment a brilliant, lovely apparition entered the room. "val herself!" exclaimed her father. "no, my darling. i cannot go for a drive with you just now, but you and mrs. johnstone shall take wyndham. you will like a drive in the park, wyndham. you have got to scold this young man, val, for acting truant on saturday night. now go off, both of you, i am frightfully busy. yes, helps, coming, coming. valentine, be sure you ask mr. wyndham home to tea. if you can induce him to dine, so much the better, and afterwards we can go to the play together." chapter vii. on a certain evening about ten days after the events related in the last chapter, valentine paget and her father were seated together in the old library. good-natured mrs. johnstone had popped in her head at the door, but seeing the girl's face bent over a book, and mr. paget apparently absorbed in the advertisement sheet of the _times_, she had discreetly withdrawn. "they look very snug," soliloquized the widowed and childless woman with a sigh. "i wonder what mortimer paget will do when that poor handsome mr. wyndham proposes for val? i never saw anyone so far gone. even my poor geoffrey long ago, who said his passion consumed him to tatters--yes, these were poor dear geoffrey's very words--was nothing to mr. wyndham. val is a desperately saucy girl--does not she see that she is breaking that poor fellow's heart? such a nice young fellow, too. he looks exactly the sort of young man who would commit suicide. dear me, what is the world coming to? that girl seems not in the very least troubled about the matter. how indifferent and easy-going she is! i know _i_ could not calmly sit and read a novel when i knew that i was consuming the vitals out of poor dear geoffrey. but it's all one to val. i am very much afraid that girl is developing into a regular flirt. how she did go on and amuse herself with mr. carr at the cricket match to-day. adrian carr has a stronger face than poor young wyndham--not half as devoted to val--i doubt if he even admires her, and yet how white gerald wyndham turned when he walked her off across the field. poor val--it is a great pity mr. paget spoils her so dreadfully. it is plain to be seen she has never had the advantage of a mother's bringing up." mrs. johnstone entered the beautifully-furnished drawing-room, seated herself by the open window, and taking up the third volume of a novel, soon forgot valentine's love affairs. meanwhile that young lady with her cheeks pressed on her hands, and her eyes devouring the final pages of "jane eyre," gave no thought to any uncomfortable combinations. her present life was so full and happy that she did not, like most girls, look far ahead--she never indulged in day-dreams, and had an angel come to her with the promise of any golden boon she liked to ask for, she would have begged of him to leave her always as happy as she was now. she came to the last page of her book, and, drumming with her little fingers on the cover, she raised her eyes in a half-dreaming fashion. mr. paget had dropped his sheet of the _times_--his hand had fallen back in the old leathern armchair--his eyes were closed--he was fast asleep. in his sleep this astute and careful and keen man of business dropped his mask--the smiling smooth face showed wrinkles, the gay expression was succeeded by a careworn look--lines of sadness were about the mouth, and deep crow's-feet wrinkled and aged the expression round the eyes. the mantle of care had never yet touched valentine. for the first time in all her life a pang of keen mental pain went through her as she gazed at her sleeping father. for the first time in her young existence the awful possibility stared her in the face that some time she might have to live in a cold and dreary world without him. "why, my father looks quite old," she half stammered. "old, and--yes, unhappy. what does it mean?" she rose very gently, moved her chair until it touched his, and then nestling up close to him laid her soft little hand on his shoulder. paget slept on, and the immediate contact of valentine's warm, loving presence, made itself felt in his dreams--his wrinkles disappeared, and his handsome lips again half smiled. val laid her hand on his--she noticed the altered expression, and her slightly roused fears slumbered. there was no one to her like her father. she had made a mistake just then in imagining that he looked old and unhappy. no people in all the world were happier than he and she. he was not old--he was the personification in her eyes of all that was manly and strong and beautiful. the tired man slept on, and the girl, all her fears at rest, began idly to review the events of the past day. there had been gay doings during that long summer's afternoon, and valentine, in the prettiest of summer costumes, had thoroughly enjoyed her life. she had spent some hours at lords, and had entered with zest into the interest of the oxford and cambridge cricket match. she lay back in her chair now with her eyes half closed, reviewing in a lazy fashion the events of the bygone hours. a stalwart and very attractive young man in cricketing flannels mingled in these dreams. he spoke to her with strength and decision. his dark eyes looked keenly into her face, he never expressed the smallest admiration for her either by look or gesture, but at the same time he had a way of taking possession of her which roused her interest, and which secured her approbation. she laughed softly to herself now at some of the idle nothings said to her by adrian carr, and she never once gave a thought to wyndham, who had also been at lords. chapter viii. "val, child, what are you humming under your breath?" said her father, suddenly rousing himself from his slumbers and looking into his daughter's pretty face. "your voice is like that of a bird, my darling. i think it has gained in sweetness a good deal lately. have you and wyndham been practising much together. wyndham has one of the purest tenor voices i ever heard in an amateur." "oh, what a worry mr. wyndham is," said valentine, rising from her seat and shaking out her muslin dress. "everybody talks to me of his perfections. i'm perfectly tired of them. i wish he wouldn't come here so often. no, i was not thinking of any of his songs. i was humming some words mr. carr sings--'bid me to live'--you know the words--i like mr. carr so much--don't you, dad, dear?" "adrian carr--yes," replied mr. paget in a slow deliberate voice. "yes, a good sort of fellow, i've no doubt. i heard some gossip about him at my club yesterday--what was it? oh, that he was engaged, or about to be engaged, to lady mabel pennant. you know the pennants, don't you, val? have you seen lady mabel? she is one of the youngest, i think." "yes, she's a fright," responded valentine, with a decided show of temper in her voice. her face had flushed too, she could not tell why. "i did not know lady mabel was such a plain girl," responded mr. paget drily. "at any rate it is a good connection for carr. he seems a fairly clever fellow. valentine, my child, i have something of importance to talk to you about. don't let us worry about carr just now--i have something to say to you, something that i'm troubled to have to say. you love your old father very much, don't you, darling?" "love you, daddy! oh, you know--need you ask? i was frightened about you a few minutes ago, father. when you were asleep just now, your face looked old, and there were lines about it. it frightens me to think of you ever growing old." "sit close to me, my dear daughter. i have a great deal to say. we will leave the subject of my looks just at present. it is true that i am not young, but i may have many years before me yet. it greatly depends on you." "on me, father?" "yes. i will explain to you by-and-bye. now i want to talk about yourself. you have never had a care all your life, have you, my little val?" "i don't think so, daddy--at least only pin-pricks. you know i used to hate my spelling lessons long ago, and mdlle. lacount used to worry me over the french irregular verbs. but such things were only pin-pricks. yes, i am seventeen, and i have never had a real care all my life." "you are seventeen and four months, valentine. you were born on the th of february, and your mother and i called you after st. valentine. your mother died when you were a week old. i promised her then that her baby should never know a sorrow if i could help it." "you have helped it, daddy; i am as happy as the day is long. i don't wish for a thing in the wide world. i just want us both to live together as we are doing now. of course we will--why not? shall we go up to the drawing-room now, father?" "my dear child, in a little time. i have not said yet what i want to say. valentine, you were quite right when you watched my face as i slumbered. child, i have got a care upon me. i can't speak of it to anybody--only it could crush me--and--and--part us, valentine. if it fell upon you, it--it--would crush you, my child." mr. paget rose. valentine, deadly white and frightened, clung to him. she was half crying. the effect of such terrible and sudden words nearly paralyzed her; but when she felt the arm which her father put round her tremble, she made a valiant and brave effort--the tears which filled her brown eyes were arrested, and she looked up with courage in her face. "you speak of my doing something," she whispered. "what is it? tell me. nothing shall part us. i don't mind anything else, but nothing shall ever part us." "val, i have not spoken of this care to any one but you." "no, father." "and i don't show it in my face as a rule, do i?" "oh, no! oh, no! you always seem bright and cheerful." her tears were raining fast now. she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. "but i have had this trouble for some time, my little girl." "you will tell me all about it, please, dad?" "no, my darling, you would not understand, and my keenest pain would be that you should ever know. you can remove this trouble, little val, and then we need not be parted. now, sit down by my side." mr. paget sank again into the leathern armchair. he was still trembling visibly. this moment through which he was passing was one of the most bitter of his life. "you will not breathe a word of what i have told you to any mortal, valentine?" "death itself should not drag it from me," replied the girl. she set her lips, her eyes shone fiercely. then she looked at her trembling father, and they glowed with love and pity. "i can save you," she whispered, going on her knees by his side. "it is lovely to think of saving you. what can i do?" "my little val--my little precious darling!" "what can i do to save you, father?" "valentine, dear--you can marry gerald wyndham." valentine had put her arms round her father's neck, now they dropped slowly away--her eyes grew big and frightened. "i don't love him," she whispered. "never mind, he loves you--he is a good fellow--he will treat you well. if you marry him you need not be parted from me. you and he can live together here--here, in this house. there need be no difference at all, except that you will have saved your father." paget spoke with outward calmness, but the anxiety under his words made them thrill. each slowly uttered sentence fell like a hammer of pain on the girl's head. "i don't understand," she said again in a husky tone. "i would, i will do anything to save you. but mr. wyndham is poor and young--in some things he is younger than i am. how can my marrying him take the load off your heart, father? father, dear, speak." "i can give you no reason, valentine, you must take it on trust. it is all a question of your faith in me. i do not see any loophole of salvation but through you, my little girl. if you marry wyndham i see peace and rest ahead, otherwise we are amongst the breakers. if you do this thing for your old father, valentine, you will have to do it in the dark, for never, never, i pray, until eternity comes, must you know what you have done." valentine paget had always a delicate and bright color in her cheeks. it was soft as the innermost blush of a rose, and this delicate and lovely color was one of her chief charms. now it faded, leaving her young face pinched and small and drawn. she sank down on the hearthrug, clasping her hands in her lap, her eyes looking straight before her. "i never wanted to marry," she said at last. "certainly not yet, for i am only a child. i am only seventeen, but other girls of seventeen are old compared to me. when you are only a child, it is dreadful to marry some one you don't care about, and it is dreadful to do a deed in the dark. if you trusted me, father--if you told me all the dreadful truth whatever it is, it might turn me into a woman--an old woman even--but it would be less bad than this. this seems to crush me--and oh, it does frighten me so dreadfully." mr. paget rose from his seat and walked up and down the room. "you shan't be crushed or frightened," he said. "i will give it up." "and then the blow will fall on _you_?" "i may be able to avert it. i will see. forget what i said to-night, little girl." mortimer paget's face just now was a good deal whiter than his daughter's, but there was a new light in his eyes--a momentary gleam of nobility. "i won't crush you, val," he said, and he meant his words. "and _i_ won't crush _you_," said the girl. she went up to his side, and, taking his hand, slipped his arm round her neck. "we will live together, and i will have perfect faith in you, and i'll marry mr. wyndham. he is good--oh, yes, he is good and kind; and if he did not love me so much, if he did not frighten me with just being too loving when i don't care at all, i might get on very well with him. now dismiss your cares, father. if this can save you, your little val has done it. let us come up to the drawing-room. mrs. johnstone must think herself forsaken. shall i sing to you to-night, daddy, some of the old-fashioned songs? come, you have got to smile and look cheerful for val's sake. if i give myself up for you, you must do as much for me. come, a smile if you please, sir. 'begone, dull care.' you and i will never agree." chapter ix. it was soon after this that valentine paget's world became electrified with the news of her engagement. wyndham was congratulated on all sides, and those people who had hitherto not taken the slightest notice of a rather boyish and unpretentious young man, now found much to say in his favor. yes, he was undoubtedly good-looking--a remarkable face, full of interest--he must be clever too--he looked it. and then as to his youth--why was it that people a couple of months ago had considered him a lad, a boy--why, he was absolutely old for his two-and-twenty years. a grave thoughtful man with a wonderfully sweet expression. it was plain to be seen that wyndham, the expectant curate of jewsbury-on-the-wold, and wyndham, the promised husband of valentine paget, were totally different individuals. wyndham's prospects were changed, so was his appearance--so, in very truth, was the man himself. where he had been too young he was now almost too old, that was the principal thing outsiders noticed. but at twenty-two one can afford such a change, and his gravity, his seriousness, and a certain proud thoughtful look, which could not be classified by any one as a sad look, was vastly becoming to wyndham. his future father-in-law could not make enough of him, and even valentine caught herself looking at him with a shy pride which was not very far removed from affection. wyndham had given up the promised curacy--this was one of mr. paget's most stringent conditions. on the day he married valentine he was to enter the great shipping firm of paget, brake and carter as a junior partner, and in the interim he went there daily to become acquainted--the world said--with the ins and outs of his new profession. it was all a great step in the direction of fortune and fame, and the rectory people ought, of course, to have rejoiced. they were curious and unworldly, however, at jewsbury-on-the-wold, and somehow the news of the great match gerald was about to contract brought them only sorrow and distress. lilias alone stood out against the storm of woe which greeted the receipt of wyndham's last letter. "it is a real trouble," she said, her voice shaking a good deal; "but we have got to make the best of it. it is for gerald's happiness. it is selfish for us just to fret because we cannot always have him by our side." "there'll be no millennium," said augusta in a savage voice. "i might have guessed it. that horrid selfish, selfish girl has got the whole of our gerald. i suppose he'll make her happy, nasty, spiteful thing; but she has wrecked the happiness of seven other girls--horrid creature! i might have known there was never going to be a millennium. where are the dogs? let me set them fighting. get out of that, madame puss--you and rover and drake will quarrel now to the end of the chapter, for gerald is never coming home to live." augusta's sentiments were warmly shared by the younger girls, and to a great extent she even secured the sympathy of marjory and the rector. "i don't understand you, lilias," said her pet sister. "i thought you would have been the worst of us all." "oh, don't," said lilias, tears springing to her eyes. "don't you see, marjory, that i really feel the worst, so i must keep it all in? don't let us talk it over, it is useless. if valentine makes gerald happy i have not a word to say, and if i am not glad i must pretend to be glad for his sake." "poor old lil!" said marjory. and after this little speech she teased her sister no more. a fortnight after his engagement gerald came to the rectory for a brief visit. he was apparently in high spirits, and never made himself more agreeable to his sisters. he had no confidential talks, however, with lilly, and they all noticed how grave and quiet and handsome he had grown. "he's exactly like my idea of the god apollo," remarked augusta. "no wonder that girl is in love with him. oh, couldn't i just pull her hair for her. i can't think how lilly sits by and hears gerald praise her! i'd like to give her a piece of my mind, and tell her what i think of her carrying off our ewe-lamb. yes, she's just like david in the bible, and i only wish i were the prophet nathan, to go and have it out with her!" augusta was evidently mixed in her metaphors, for it was undoubtedly difficult to compare the same person to apollo and a ewe-lamb. nevertheless, she carried her audience with her, and when now and then gerald spoke of valentine he received but scant sympathy. on the day he went away, the rector called lilias into his study. "my dear," he said, "i want to have a little talk with you. what do you think of all this? has gerald made you many confidences? you and he were always great chums. he was reserved with me, remarkably so, for he was always such an open sort of a lad. but of course you and he had it all out, my dear." "no, father," replied lilias. "that is just it. we hadn't anything out." "what--eh--nothing? and the boy is in love. oh, yes, anyone can see that--in love, and no confidences. then, my dear, i was afraid of it--now i am sure--there must be something wrong. gerald is greatly changed. lilias." "yes," said lilias. "i can't quite define the change, but it is there." "my dear girl, he was a boy--now he is a man. i don't say that he is unhappy, but he has a good weight of responsibility on his shoulders. he was a rather heedless boy, and in the matter of concealment or keeping anything back, a perfect sieve. now he's a closed book. closed?--locked i should say. lilias, neither you nor i can understand him. i wish to god your mother was alive!" "he told me," said lilias, "that he had talked over matters with you--that--that there was nothing much to say--that he was perfectly satisfied, and that valentine was like no other girl in the wide world. to all intents and purposes gerald was a sealed book to me, father; but i don't understand your considering him so, for he said that he had spoken to you very openly." "oh, about the arrangements between him and paget. yes, i consider it a most unprecedented and extraordinary sort of thing. gerald gives up the church, goes into paget's business--early next summer marries his daughter, and on the day of his wedding signs the deeds of partnership. he receives no salary--not so much as sixpence--but he and his wife take up their abode at the pagets' house in queen's gate, paget making himself responsible for all expenses. gerald, in lieu of providing his wife with a fortune, makes a marriage settlement on her, and for this purpose is required to insure his life very heavily--for thousands, i am told--but the exact sum is not yet clearly defined. paget undertakes to provide for the insurance premium. i call the whole thing unpleasant and derogatory, and i cannot imagine how the lad has consented. liberty? what will he know of liberty when he is that rich fellow's slave? better love in a cottage, with a hundred a year, say i." "but, father, mr. paget would not have given val to gerald to live in a cottage with her--and gerald, he has consented to this--this that you call degradation, because he loves val so very, very much." "i suppose so, child. i was in love once myself--your mother was the noblest and most beautiful of women; that lad is the image of her. well, so he never confided in you, lil? very strange, i call it very strange. i tell you what. lilias, i'll run up to town next week, and have a talk with paget, and see what sort of girl this is who has bewitched the boy. that's the best way. i'll have a talk with paget, and get to the bottom of things. i used to know him long ago at trinity. now run away, child. i must prepare my sermon for to-morrow." chapter x. at this period of her life valentine was certainly not in the least in love with the man to whom she was engaged--she disliked caresses and what she was pleased to call honeyed words of flattery. wyndham, who found himself able to read her moods like a book, soon learned to accommodate himself to her wishes. he came to see her daily, but he kissed her seldom--he never took her hand, nor put his arm round her slim waist; they sat together and talked, and soon discovered that they had many subjects of interest in common--they both loved music, they both adored novels and poetry. wyndham could read aloud beautifully, and at these times valentine liked to lie back in her easy chair and steal shy glances at him, and wonder, as she never ceased to wonder, from morning to night, why he loved her so much, and why her father wanted her to marry him. if valentine was cold to this young man, she was, however, quite the opposite to the rector of jewsbury-on-the-wold. mr. wyndham came to town, and of course partook of the hospitality of the house in queen's gate. in valentine's eyes the rector was old, older than her father--she delighted for her father's sake in all old men, and being really a very loveable and fascinating girl soon won the rector's heart. "i'm not a bit surprised, gerald," the good man said to his son on the day of his return to his parish duties. "she's a wilful lass, and has a spirit of her own, but she's a good girl, too, and a sweet, and a young fellow might do worse than lose his heart to her. valentine is open as the day, and when she comes to me as a daughter, i'll give her a daughter's place in my heart. yes, valentine is all right enough, and i'll tell lilias so, and put her heart at rest, poor girl, but i'm not so sure about paget. i think you are putting yourself in a very invidious position, if you will allow me to say so, my boy, coming into paget's house as a sort of dependent, even though you are his girl's husband. i don't like the sound of it, and you won't care for the position, gerald, when you've experienced it for a short time. however--oh, there's my train--yes, porter, yes, two bugs and a rag--i mean two bags and a rug--here, this way, this way. dear, dear, how confused one gets! yes, gerald, what was i saying? oh, of course you're of age, my boy, you are at liberty to choose for yourself. yes, i like the girl thoroughly. god bless you. gerry; come down to the old place whenever you have a spare saturday." the younger wyndham smiled in a very grave fashion, saw to his father's creature comforts, as regarded wraps, newspapers, etc., tipped the porter, who had not yet done laughing at the reverend gentleman's mistake, and left the station. he hailed a cab and drove at once to his future father-in-law's business address. he was quite at home now in the big shipping office, the several clerks regarding him with mixed feelings of respect and envy. gerald had a gracious way with everyone, he was never distant with his fellow-creatures, but there was also a slight indescribable touch about him which kept those who were beneath him in the social scale from showing the smallest trace of familiarity. he was sympathetic, but he had a knack of making those who came in contact with him treat him as a gentleman. the clerks liked wyndham, and with one exception were extremely civil to him. helps alone held himself aloof from the new-comer, watching him far more anxiously than the other clerks did, but, nevertheless, keeping his own counsel, and daring whenever he had the opportunity to use covert words of warning. on his arrival, to-day, wyndham sent a message to the chief, asking to see him as soon as convenient. while he waited in the ante-room, for in reality he had little or nothing to do in the place, the door was opened to admit another visitor, and then adrian carr, the young man whom valentine had once spoken of with admiration, stepped across the threshold. the two young men were slightly acquainted, and while they waited they chatted together. carr was a great contrast to wyndham--he was rather short, but thin and wiry, without an atom of superfluous flesh anywhere--his shoulders were broad, he was firmly knit and had a very erect carriage. wyndham, tall, loosely built, with the suspicion of a stoop, looked frail beside the other man. wyndham's dark grey eyes were too sensitive for perfect mental health. his face was pallid, but at times it would flush vividly--his lips had a look of repression about them--the whole attitude of the man to a very keen observer was tense and watchful. carr had dark eyes, closely cropped hair, a smooth face but for his moustache, and a keen, resolute, bold glance. he was not nearly as handsome as wyndham, beside wyndham he might even have been considered commonplace, but his every gesture, his every glance betokened the perfection of mental health and physical vigor. after a few desultory nothings had been exchanged between the two, carr alluded to wyndham's engagement, and offered him his congratulations. he did this with a certain guardedness of tone which caused gerald to look at him keenly. "thank you--yes, i am very lucky," he replied. "but can we not exchange good wishes, carr? i heard a rumor somewhere, that you also were about to be married." carr laughed. "these rumors are always getting about," he said, "half of them end in smoke. in my case you yourself destroyed the ghost of the chance of such a possibility coming about." "i? what do you mean?" said wyndham. "nothing of the least consequence. as matters have turned out i am perfectly heart-whole, but the fact is, the only girl i ever took the slightest fancy to is going to be your wife. oh, i am not in love with her! you stopped me in time. i really only tell you this to show you how much i appreciate the excellence of your taste." wyndham did not utter a word, and just then helps came to say that mr. paget would see mr. carr for a few moments. carr instantly left the room, and wyndham went over to the dusty window, leant his elbow against one of the panes, and peered out. apparently there was nothing for him to see--the window looked into a tiny square yard, in the centre of which was a table, which contained a dish of empty peapods, and two cabbages in a large basin of cold water. not a soul was in the yard, and wyndham staring out ought in the usual order of things soon to have grown weary of the objects of his scrutiny. far from that, his fixed gaze seemed to see something of peculiar and intense interest. when he turned away at last, his face was ghastly white, and taking out his handkerchief he wiped some drops of moisture from his forehead. "my master will see you now, sir," said helps, in a quiet voice. he had been watching wyndham all the time, and now he looked up at him with a queer significant glance of sympathy. "oh, ain't you a fool, young man?" he said. "why, nothing ain't worth what you're a-gwine through." "is carr gone?" asked wyndham. "oh yes, sir, he's a gent as knows what he's after. no putting his foot into holes with him. he knows what ground he'll walk on. come along, sir, here you are." helps always showed wyndham into the chief's presence with great parade. mr. paget was in a genial humor. when he greeted the young man he actually laughed. "sit down, gerald; sit down, my dear boy. now, you'll never guess what our friend adrian carr came to see me about. 'pon my word, it's quite a joke--you'll never guess it, gerald." "i'm sure of that, sir, i never guessed a riddle in my life." something in the hopeless tone in which these few words were uttered made mr. paget cease smiling. he favored gerald with a lightning glance, then said quietly: "i suppose i ought not to have laughed, but somehow i never thought carr would have taken to the job. he wants me to introduce him to your father, gerald. he is anxious to be ordained for the curacy which you have missed. fancy a man like carr in the church! he says he never thought of such a profession until you put it into his head--now he is quite keen after it. well, perhaps he will make an excellent clergyman--i rather fancy i should like to hear him preach." "if i were you," said gerald, "i would refuse to give him that introduction." "refuse to give it him! my dear boy, what do you mean? i am not quite such a churl. why, i have given it him. i wrote a long letter to your excellent father, saying all sorts of nice things about carr, and he has taken it away in his pocket. her majesty's post has the charge of it by this time, i expect. what is the matter, wyndham? you look quite strange." "i feel it, sir--i don't like this at all. carr and i have got mixed somehow. he takes my curacy, and he confessed that but for me he'd have gone in for val. now you see what i mean. he oughtn't to have the curacy." mr. paget looked really puzzled. "you are talking in a strange way, gerald," he said. "if poor carr was unfortunate enough to fall in love with a girl whom you have won, surely you don't grudge him that poor little curacy too. my dear lad, you are getting positively morbid. there, i don't think i want you for anything special to day. go home to val--get her to cheer your low spirits." "she cannot," replied gerald. "you don't see, sir, because you won't. carr is not in love with valentine, and valentine is not in love with him, but they both might be. i have heard val talk of him--once. i heard him speak of her--to day. by-and-bye, sir--in the future, they may meet. you know what i mean. carr ought not to go to jewsbury-on-the-wold--it is wrong. i will not allow it. i will myself write to the rector. i will take the responsibility, whoever gets my old berth it must not be adrian carr." wyndham rose as he spoke--he looked determined, all trace of weakness or irresolution left his face. paget had never before seen this young man in his present mood. somehow the sight gave him intense pleasure. a latent fear which he had scarcely dared to whisper even to his own heart that wyndham had not sufficient pluck for what lay before him vanished now. he too rose to his feet, and laid his hand almost caressingly on the lad's shoulder. "my boy, you have no cause to fear in this matter. in the future i myself will take care of valentine, but i love you for your thoughtfulness, gerald." "you need not, sir. i have something on my mind which i must say now. i have entered into your scheme. i have----" "yes, yes--let me shut and lock the door, my boy." wyndham, arrested in his speech, drew one or two heavy breaths. he spoke again in a sort of panting way. his eyes grew bright and almost wild. "i have promised you," he continued. "i'll go through with it. it's a million times worse fate for me than if i had killed someone, and then was hung up by the neck until i died. that, in comparison to this, would be--well, like the sting of a gnat. i'll go through with it, however, and you need not be afraid that i'll change my mind. i do it solely and entirely because i love your daughter, because i believe that the touch of dishonor would blight her, because unfortunately for herself she loves you better than any other soul in the world. if she did not, if she gave me even half of the great heart which she bestows upon you, then i would risk all, and feel sure that dishonor and poverty with me would be better than honor and riches with you. you're a happy man during these last six weeks. mr. paget. you have found your victim, and you see a way of salvation for yourself, and a prosperous future for valentine. she won't grieve long--oh, no, not long for the husband she never loved--but look here, you have to guard her against the possibility in the future of falling in love with another--of being won by another man, who will ask her to be his wife and the mother of his children. though she does not love me, she must remain my widow all her days, for if she does not, if i hear that she, thinking herself free, is about to contract marriage with another, i will return--yes, i will return from the dead--from the grave, and say that it shall not be, and i will show all the world that you are--what you have proved yourself to be to me--a devil. that is all. i wanted to say this to you. carr has given me the opportunity. i won't see val to-day, for i am upset--to-morrow i shall have regained my composure." chapter xi. wyndham was engaged to valentine paget very nearly a year before their wedding. one of the young lady's stipulations was that under no circumstances would she enter into the holy estate of matrimony before she was eighteen. paget made no objection to this proviso on val's part. in these days he humored her slightest wish, and no happier pair to all appearance could have been seen driving in the park, or riding in the row, than this handsome father and daughter. "what a beautiful expression he has," remarked many people. and when they said this to the daughter she smiled, and a sweet proud light came into her eyes. "my father is a darling," she would say. "no one knows him as i do. i believe he is about the greatest and the best of men." when val made enthusiastic remarks of this kind. wyndham looked at her sorrowfully. she was very fond of him by this time--he had learned to fit himself to her ways, to accommodate himself to her caprices, and although she frankly admitted that she could not for an instant compare him to her father, she always owned that she loved him next best, and that she thought it would be a very happy thing to be his wife. no girl could look sweeter than val when she made little speeches of this kind, but they had always a queer effect upon her lover, causing him to experience an excitement which was scarcely joy, for nothing could have more fatally upset mr. paget's plans than valentine really to fall in love with wyndham. the wedding day was fixed for the first week in july, and valentine was accompanied to the altar by no less than eight bridesmaids. it was a grand wedding--quite one of the events of the season, and those who saw it spoke of the bride as beautiful, and of the bridegroom as a grave, striking-looking man. if a man constantly practises self-repression there comes a time when, in this special art, he almost reaches perfection. wyndham had come to this stage, as even lilias, who read her brother like a book, could see nothing amiss with him on his wedding day. all, therefore, went merrily on this auspicious occasion, and the bride and bridegroom started for the continent amid a shower of blessings and good wishes. "gerald, dear, i quite forgive you," said lilias, as at the very last minute she put her arms round her brother's neck. "what for, lilly?" he asked, looking down at her. then a shadow of great bitterness crossed the sunshine of his face. he stooped and kissed her forehead. "you don't know my sin, so you cannot forgive it, lilly," he continued. "oh, my darling, i know you," she said. "i don't think you could sin. i meant that i have learned already to love valentine a little, and i am not surprised at your choice. i forgive you fully, gerald, for loving another girl better than your sister lilias. good-bye, dear old gerry. god bless you!" "he won't do that, lilly--he can't. oh, forgive me, dear, i didn't mean those words. of course i'm the happiest fellow in the world." gerald turned away, and lilias kissed valentine, and then watched with a queer feeling of pain at her heart as the bridal pair amid cheers and blessings drove away. gerald's last few words had renewed lilias' anxiety. she felt restless in the great, grand house, and longed to be back in the rectory. "what's the matter, lil?" said marjory; "your face is a yard long, and you are quite white and have dark lines under your eyes. for my part i did not think gerald's wedding would be half so jolly, and what a nice unaffected girl valentine is." "oh, yes, i'm not bothering my head about her," said lilias. "she's all right, just what father said she was. i wish we were at home again, maggie." "yes, of course, so do i," said marjory. "but then we can't be, for we promised gerald to try and make things bright for mr. paget. isn't he a handsome man, lilly? i don't think i ever saw anyone with such a beaming sort of benevolent expression." "he is certainly very fond of valentine, and she of him," answered lilias. "no, i did not particularly notice his expression. the fact is i did not look at anyone much except our gerald. marjory, i think it is an awful thing for girls like us to have an only brother--he becomes almost too precious. marjory, i cannot sympathize with mr. paget. i wish we were at home. i know our dear old dad will want us, and there is no saying what mess augusta will put things into." "father heard from mr. carr on the morning we left," responded marjory. "i think he is coming to the rectory on saturday. if so, father won't miss us: he'll be quite taken up showing him over the place." "i shall hate him," responded lilias, in a very tart voice. "fancy his taking our gerald's place. oh, maggie, this room stifles me--can't we change our dresses, and go out for a stroll somewhere? oh, what folly you talk of it's not being the correct thing! what a hateful place this london is! oh, for a breath of the air in the garden at home. yes, what is it, mrs. johnstone?" lilias' pretty face looked almost grumpy, and a decidedly discontented expression lurked in the dark, sweet eyes she turned upon the good lady of the establishment. "lilly has an attack of the fidgets," said marjory. "she wants to go out for a walk." "you shall both come in the carriage with me, my dears. i was coming in to propose it to you. we won't dine until quite late this evening." "delightful," exclaimed marjory, and the two girls ran out of the room to get ready. mrs. johnstone followed them, and a few moments later a couple of young men who were staying in the house sauntered lazily into the drawing-room. "what do you think of wyndham's sisters, exham?" said one to the other. exham, a delicate youth of about nineteen, gave a long expressive whistle. "the girls are handsome enough," he said. "but not in my style. the one they call lilias is too brusque. as to wyndham, well--" "what a significant 'well,' old fellow--explain yourself." "nothing," returned exham, who seemed to draw out of any further confidences he was beginning to make. "nothing--only, i wouldn't be in wyndham's shoes." the other man, whose name was power, gave a short laugh. "you need not pretend to be so wise and close, exham," he retorted. "anyone can see with half an eye that wyndham's wife is not in love with him. all the same. wyndham has not done a bad thing for himself--stepping into a business like this. why, he'll have everything by-and-bye. i don't see how he can help it." "did you hear that funny story," retorted exham, "about wyndham's life being insured?" "no, what?--most men insure their lives when they marry." "yes, but this is quite out of the common. at four offices, and heavily. it filtered to me through one of the clerks at the office. he said it was all paget's doing." "what a villain that clerk must be to let out family secrets," responded power. "i don't believe there's anything in it, exham. ah, here comes the young ladies. yes, mrs. johnstone, i should like to go for a drive very much." chapter xii. some people concern themselves vey much with the mysteries of life, others take what good things fall into their way without question or wonder. these latter folk are not of a speculating or strongly reasoning turn; if sorrow arrives they accept it as wise, painful, inevitable--if joy visits them they rejoice, but with simplicity. they are the people who are naturally endowed with faith--faith first of all in a guiding providence, which as a rule is accompanied by a faith in their fellow men. the world is kind to such individuals, for the world is very fond of giving what is expected of it--to one hate and distrust, to another open-handed benevolence and cordiality. people so endowed are usually fortunate, and of them it may be said, that it was good for them to be born. all people are not so constituted--there is such a thing as a noble discontent, and the souls that in the end often attain to the highest, have nearly suffered shipwreck, have spent with st. paul a day and a night in the deep--being saved in the end with a great deliverance--they have often on the road been all but lost. such people often sin very deeply--temptation assails them in the most subtle forms, many of them go down really into the deep, and are never in this life heard of again--they are spoken of as "lost," utterly lost, and their names are held up to others as terrible warnings, as examples to be shunned, as reprobates to be spoken of with bated breath. it may be that some of these so-called lost souls will appear as victors in another state; having gone into the lowest depths of all they may also attain to the highest heights; this, however, is a mystery which no one can fathom. gerald wyndham was one of the men of whom no one could quite say it was good for him to have been born. his nature was not very easily read, and even his favorite sister lilias did not quite know him. from his earliest days he was so far unfortunate as never to be able to take things easily; even in his childhood this characteristic marked him. sorrows with gerald were never trivial; when he was six years old he became seriously ill because a pet canary died. he would not talk of his trouble, nor wail for his pet like an ordinary child, but sat apart, and refused to eat, and only his mother at last could draw him away from his grief, and show him it was unmanly to be rebellious. his joys were as intense as his woes--he was an intense child in every sense of the word; eager, enthusiastic, with many noble impulses. all might have gone well with him but for a rather strange accompaniment to his special character; he was as reserved as most such boys would be open. it was only by the changing expression of his eyes that on many occasions people knew whether a certain proposition would plunge him in the depths of woe or raise him to the heights of joy. he was innately very unselfish, and this characteristic must have been most strongly marked in him, for his father and his mother and his seven sisters did their utmost to make him the reverse. lilias said afterwards that they failed ignobly. gerald would never see it, she would say. talk of easy-chairs--he would stand all the evening rather than take one until every other soul in the room was comfortably provided. talk of the best in anything,--you might give it to gerald, but in five minutes he would have given it away to the person who wanted it least. it was aggravating beyond words, lilias wyndham often exclaimed, but before you could even attempt to make old gerry decently comfortable you had to attend to the wants of even the cats and dogs. wyndham carrying all his peculiarities with him went to school and then to cambridge. he was liked in both places, and was clever enough to win distinction, but for the same characteristic which often caused him at the last moment to fail, because he thought another man should win the honor, or another schoolboy the prize. his mother wished him to take holy orders, and although he had no very strong leaning in that direction he expressed himself satisfied with her choice, and decided for the first few years of his life as deacon and priest to help his father at the dear old parish of jewsbury-on-the-wold. then came his meeting with valentine paget, the complete upheaval of every idea, the revolution which shook his nature to its depths. his hour had come, and he took the malady of young love--first, earnest, passionate love--as anyone who knew him thoroughly, and scarcely anyone did know the real wyndham, might have expected. one pair of eyes, however, looked at this speaking face, and one keen mental vision pierced down into the depths of an earnest and chivalrous soul. mortimer paget had been long looking for a man like wyndham. it was not a very difficult matter to make such a lad his victim, hence his story became one of the most sorrowful that could be written, as far as this life is concerned. had his mother, who was now in her grave for over seven years, known what fate lay before this bright beautiful boy of hers, she would have cursed the day of his birth. fortunately for mothers, and sisters too, the future lies in darkness, for knowledge in such cases would make daily life unendurable. valentine and her husband extended their wedding tour considerably over the original month. they often wrote home, and nothing could exceed the cheerfulness of the letters which mr. paget read with anxiety and absorbing interest--the rectory folks with all the interest minus the anxiety. valentine frankly declared that she had never been so happy in her life, and it was at last, at her father's express request, almost command, that the young couple consented to take up their abode in queen's gate early in the november which followed their wedding. they spent a fortnight first at the old rectory, where valentine appeared in an altogether new character, and commenced her career by swearing an eternal friendship with augusta. she was in almost wild spirits, and they played pranks together, and went everywhere arm-in-arm, accompanied by the entire bevy of little sisters. lilias and marjory began by being rather scandalized, but ended by thoroughly appreciating the arrangement, as it left them free to monopolize gerald, who on this occasion seemed to have quite recovered his normal spirits. he was neither depressed nor particularly exultant, he did not talk a great deal either about himself or his wife, but was full of the most delighted interest in his father's and sisters' concerns. the new curate, mr. carr, was now in full force, and gerald and he found a great deal to say to one another. the days were those delicious ones of late autumn, when nature quiet and exhausted, as she is after her time of flower and fruit, is in her most soothing mood. the family at the rectory were never indoors until the shades of night drove them into the long, low, picturesque, untidy drawing-room. then gerald sang with his sisters--they had all sweet voices, and his was a pure and very sympathetic tenor. valentine's songs were not the same as those culled from old volumes of ballads, and selected from the musical mothers' and grandmothers' store, which the rectory folk delighted in. hers were drawing-room melodies of the present day, fashionable, but short-lived. the first night the young bride was silent, for even augusta had left her to join the singers round the piano. gerald was playing an accompaniment for his sisters, and the rector, standing in the back ground, joined the swell of harmony with his rich bass notes. valentine and carr, who was also in the room, were the silent and only listeners. valentine wore a soft white dress, her bright wavy locks of golden hair were a little roughened, and her starry eyes were fixed on her husband. carr, who looked almost monastic in his clerical dress, was gazing at her--her lips were partly open, she kept gentle time to the music with her little hand. a very spirited glee was in full tide, when there came a horrid discordant crash on the piano--everyone stopped singing, and gerald, very white, went up to val, and took her arm. "come over here and join us," he said almost roughly. "but i don't know any of that music, gerald, and it is so delicious to listen." "folly," responded her husband. "it looks absurd to see two people gaping at one. i beg your pardon, carr--i am positively sensitive, abnormally so, on the subject of being stared at. girls, shall we have a round game? i will teach val some of bishop's melodies to-morrow morning." "i am going home," said carr, quietly. "i did not know that anyone was looking at you except your wife. wyndham. good-night?" it was an uncomfortable little scene, and even the innocent, unsophisticated rectory girls felt embarrassed without knowing why. marjory almost blamed gerald afterwards, and would have done so roundly, but lilias would not listen to her. at the next night's concert, valentine sang almost as sweetly as the others, but carr did not come back to the rectory for a couple of days. "i evidently acted like a brute, and must have appeared one," said gerald to himself. "but god alone knows what all this means to me." it was a small jar, the only one in that happy fortnight, when the girls seemed to have quite got their brother back, and to have found a new sister in pretty, bright valentine. it was the second of november when the bride and bridegroom appeared at a big dinner party made in their honor at the house in queen's gate. all her friends congratulated valentine on her improved looks, and told wyndham frankly that matrimony had made a new man of him. he was certainly bright and pleasant, and took his part quite naturally as the son of the house. no one could detect the shadow of a care on his face, and as to val, she sat almost in her father's pocket, scarcely turning her bright eyes away from his face. "i always thought that dear mr. paget the best and noblest and most christian of men," remarked a certain lady valery to her daughter as they drove home that evening. "i am now more convinced of the truth of my views than ever." "why so, mother?" asked her daughter. "my dear, can you not see for yourself? he gave that girl of his--that beautiful girl, with all her fortune--to a young man with neither position nor money, simply and entirely because she fell in love with him. was there ever anything more disinterested? yes, my dear, talk to me of every christian virtue embodied, and i shall invariably mention my old friend, mortimer paget." chapter xiii. "valentine," said her husband, as they stood together by the fire in their bedroom that night, "i have a great favor to ask of you." "yes, gerald--a favor! i like to grant favors. is it that i must wear that soft white dress you like so much to-morrow evening? or that i must sing no songs but the rectory songs for father's visitors in the drawing-room. how solemn you look, gerald. what is the favor?" gerald's face did look careworn. the easy light-hearted expression which had characterized it downstairs had left him. when valentine laid her hand lovingly on his shoulder, he slipped his arm round her waist, however, and drew her fondly to his side. "val, the favor is this," he said. "you can do anything you like with your father. i want you to persuade him to let us live in a little house of our own for a time, until, say next summer." valentine sprang away from gerald's encircling arm. "i won't ask that favor," she said, her eyes flashing. "it is mean of you, gerald. i married you on condition that i should live with my father." "very well, dear, if you feel it like that, we won't say anything more about it. it is not of real consequence." gerald took a letter out of his pocket, and opening the envelope began leisurely to read its contents. valentine still, however, felt ruffled and annoyed. "it is so queer of you to make such a request," she said. "i wonder what father would say. he would think i had taken leave of my senses, and just now too when i have been away from him for months. and when it is such a joy, such a deep, deep joy, to be with him again." "it is of no consequence, darling. i am sorry i mentioned it. see, valentine, this letter is from a great friend of mine, a mrs. price--she wants to call on you; she is coming to-morrow. you will be at home in the afternoon, will you not?" valentine nodded. "i will be in," she said. then she added, her eyes filling with tears--"you don't really want to take me away from my father, gerald?" "i did wish to do so, dear, but we need not think of it again. the one and only object of my life is to make you happy, val. now go to bed, and to sleep, dearest. i am going downstairs to have a smoke." the next morning, very much to her surprise, mr. paget called his daughter into his study, and made the same proposition to her which gerald had made the night before. "i must not be a selfish old man, val," he said. "and i think it is best for young married folks to live alone. i know how you love me, my child, and i will promise to pay you a daily visit. or at least when you don't come to me, i will look you up. but all things considered, it is best for your husband and you to have your own house. why, what is it, valentine, you look quite queer, child." "this is gerald's doing," said valentine--her face had a white set look--never before had her father seen this expression on it. "no, father, i will not leave you; i refuse to do so; it is breaking our compact; it is unfair." she went up to him, and put her arms round his neck, and again her golden locks touched his silvered head, and her soft cheek pressed his. "father darling, you won't break your own val's heart--you couldn't; it would be telling a lie. i won't live away from you--i won't, so there." just at this moment wyndham entered the room. "what is it, sir?" he said, almost fiercely. "what are you doing with val? why, she is crying. what have you been saying to her?" "my father said nothing," answered valentine for him. "how dare you speak to my father in that tone? it is you. gerald; you have been mean and shabby. you went to my father to try to get him on your side--to try and get him--to try and get him to aid you in going away--to live in another house. oh, it was a mean, cowardly thing to do, but you shan't have your way, for i'm not going; only i'm ashamed of you, gerald, i'm ashamed of you." here valentine burst into a tempest of angry, girlish tears. "don't be silly, val," said her husband, in a quiet voice. "i said nothing about this to mr. paget. i wished for it, but as i told you last night, when you disapproved, i gave it up. i don't tell lies. will you explain to valentine, please, sir, that i'm guiltless of anything mean, or, as she expresses it, shabby, in this matter." "of course, wyndham--of course, you are," said paget. "my dear little val, what a goose you have made of yourself. now run away, wyndham, there's a good fellow, and i'll soothe her down. you might as well go to the office for me. ask helps for my private letters, and bring them back with you. now, valentine, you and i are going to have a drive together. good-bye, wyndham." wyndham slowly left the room--valentine's head was still on her father's shoulder--as her husband went away he looked back at her, but she did not return his glance. "the old man is right," he soliloquized bitterly. "i have not a chance of winning her heart. no doubt under the circumstances this is the only thing to be desired, and yet it very nearly maddens me." wyndham did not return to queen's gate until quite late; he had only time to run up to his room and change his dress hastily for dinner. valentine had already gone downstairs, and he sighed heavily as he noticed this, or he felt that unwittingly he had managed to hurt her in her tenderest feelings that morning. "if there is much of this sort of thing," he said to himself. "i shall not be so sorry when the year is up. when once the plunge is over i may come up another man, and anything is better than perpetually standing on the brink." yet half an hour later wyndham had completely changed his mind, for when he entered the drawing-room, a girlish figure jumped up at once out of an easy-chair, and ran to meet him, and valentine's arms were flung about his neck and several of her sweetest kisses printed on his lips. "forgive me for being cross this morning, dear old darling. father has made me see everything in quite a new light, and has shown me that i acted quite like a little fiend, and that you are very nearly the best of men. and do you know, gerry, he wishes us so much to live alone, and thinks it the only right and proper thing to do, that i have given in, and i quite agree with him, quite. and we have almost taken the sweetest, darlingest little bijou residence in park-lane that you can imagine. it is like a doll's house compared to this, but so exquisite, and furnished with such taste. it will feel like playing in a baby-house all day long, and i am almost in love with it already. you must come with me and see it the first thing in the morning. gerry, for if we both like it, father will arrange at once with the agent, and then, do you know the very first thing i mean to do for you, gerry? oh, you need not guess, i'll tell you. lilias shall come up to spend the winter with us. oh, you need not say a word. i'm not jealous, but i can see how you idolize lilias, gerry." chapter xiv. at the end of a week the wyndhams were settled in their new home, and valentine began her duties as wife and housekeeper in earnest. she, too, was more or less impulsive, and beginning by hating the idea she ended by adopting it with enthusiasm. after all it was her father's plan, not gerald's, and that in her heart of hearts made all the difference. for the first time in her life, valentine had more to get through than she could well accomplish. her days, therefore, just now were one long delight to her, and even gerald felt himself more or less infected by her high spirits. it was pretty to see her girlish efforts at housekeeping, and even her failures became subjects of good-humored merriment. mr. paget came over every day to see her, but he generally chose the hours when her husband was absent, and wyndham and his young wife were in consequence able to spend many happy evenings alone. by-and-bye this girlish and thoughtless wife was to look back on these evenings, and wonder with vain sighs of unavailing regret if life could ever again bring her back such sweetness. now she enjoyed them unthinkingly, for her time for wakening had not come. when the young couple were quite settled in their own establishment, lilias wyndham came up from the country to spend a week with them. nothing would induce her to stay longer away from home. although valentine pleaded and coaxed, and even gerald added a word or two of entreaty, she was quite firm. "no," she said, "nothing would make me become the obnoxious sister-in-law, about whom so much has been written in all the story books i have ever read." "oh, lilias, you darling, as if you could!" exclaimed val, flying at her and kissing her. "oh, yes, my dear, i could," calmly responded lilly--"and i may just as well warn you at once that my ways are not your ways in a great many particulars, and that you'd find that out if i lived too long with you. no, i'm going home to-morrow--to my own life, and you and gerald must live yours without me. i am ready to come, if ever either of you want me, but just now no one does that as much as marjory and my father." lilias returned to jewsbury-on-the-wold, and valentine for some days continued to talk of her with enthusiasm, and to quote her name on all possible occasions. "lilias says that i'll never make a good housekeeper, unless i bring my wants into a fixed allowance, gerald. she says i ought to know what i have got to spend each week, and not to exceed it, whether it is a large or small sum. she says that's what she and marjory always do. about how much do you think i ought to spend a week on housekeeping, gerry?" "i don't know, darling. i have not the most remote idea." "but how much have we to spend altogether? we are very rich, are we not?" "no, valentine, we are very poor. in fact we have got nothing at all." "why, what a crease has come between your brows; let me smooth it out--there, now you look much nicer. you have got a look of lilias, only your eyes are not so dark. gerald, i think lilias so pretty. i think she is the very sweetest girl i ever met. but what do you mean by saying we are poor? of course we are not poor. we would not live in a house like this, and have such jolly, cosy, little dinners if we were poor. why, i know that champagne that we have a tiny bottle of every evening is really most costly. i thought poor people lived in attics, and ate bread and american cheese. what do you mean by being poor, gerald?" "only that we have nothing of our own, dearest; we depend on your father for everything." "you speak in quite a bitter tone. it is sweet to depend on my father. but doesn't he give us an allowance?" "no, valentine, i just take him all the bills, and he pays them." "oh, i don't like that plan. i think it is much more important and interesting to pay one's own bills, and i can never learn to be a housekeeper if i don't understand the value of money. i'll speak to father about this when he comes to-morrow. i'll ask him to give me an allowance." "i wouldn't," replied gerald. he spoke lazily, and yawned as he uttered the words. "there's no use in taking up things that one must leave off again," he added, somewhat enigmatically. then he opened a copy of browning which lay near, and forgot valentine and her troubles, at least she thought he forgot her. she looked at him for a moment, with a half-pleased, half-puzzled expression coming into her face. "he is very handsome and interesting," she murmured under her breath. "i like him, i certainly do like him, not as well as my father of course--i'm not sorry i married him now. i like him quite as well as i could ever have cared for the other man--the man who wore white flannels and had a determined voice, and now has been turned into a dreadful prosy curate. yes, i do like gerald. he perplexes me a good deal, but that is interesting. he is mysterious, and that is captivating--yes, yes--yes. now, what did he mean by that queer remark about my housekeeping--'that it wasn't worth while?' i hope he's not superstitious--if anything could be worth while it would be well for a young girl like me to learn something useful and definite. i'll ask him what he means." she drew a footstool to her husband's side, and taking one of his hands laid her cheek against it. wyndham dropped his book and smiled down at her. "gerry, do you believe in omens?" she asked. gerald gave a slight start. circumstances inclined him to superstition--then he laughed. he must not encourage his wife in any such folly. "i don't quite understand you, my love," he replied. "only you said it was not worth my while to learn to housekeep. why do you say that? i am very young, you are young. if we are to go on always together, i ought to become wise and sensible. i ought to have knowledge. what do you mean, gerald? have you had an omen? do you think you will die? or perhaps that i shall die? i should not at all like it. i hope--i trust--no token of death has been sent to you about me." "none, my very dearest, none. i see before you a life of--of peace. peace and plenty--and--and--honor--a good life, valentine, a guarded life." "how white you are, gerald. and why do you say 'you' all the time? the life, the peaceful life, and it sounds rather dull, is for us both, isn't it?" "i don't know--i can't say. you wouldn't care, would you, val--i mean--i mean----" "what?" valentine had risen, her arms were thrown round gerald's neck. "are you trying to tell me that i could be happy now without you?" she whispered. "then i couldn't, darling. i don't mind telling you i couldn't. i--i----" "what, val, what?" "i like you, gerald. yes, i know it--i do like you--much." it ought to have been the most dreadful sound to him, and yet it wasn't. wyndham strained his wife to his heart. then he raised his eyes, and with a start valentine and he stepped asunder. mr. paget had come into the room. he had come in softly, and he must have heard valentine's words, and seen that close embrace. with a glad cry the girl flew to his side, but when he kissed her his lips trembled, he sank down on the nearest chair like a man who had received a great shock. chapter xv. "i'm afraid i can't help it, sir," said wyndham. mr. paget and his son-in-law were standing together in the very comfortable private room before alluded to in the office of the former. wyndham was standing with his back to the mantel-piece; valentine's lovely picture was over his head. her eyes, which were almost dancing with life, seemed to have something mocking in them to mr. paget, as he encountered their gaze now. as eyes will in a picture, they followed him wherever he moved. he was restless and ill at ease, and he wished either that the picture might be removed, or that he could take up wyndham's position with his back to it. "i tell you," he said, in a voice that betrayed his perturbation, "that you must help it. it's a clear breaking of contract to do otherwise." "you see," said wyndham, with a slow smile, "you under-rated my attractions. i was not the man for your purpose after all." "sit down for god's sake, wyndham. don't stand there looking so provokingly indifferent. one would think the whole matter was nothing to you." "i am not sure that it is much; that is, i am not at all sure that i shall not take my full meed of pleasure out of the short time allotted to me." "sit down, take that chair, no, not that one--that--ah, that's better. valentine's eyes are positively uncomfortable the way they pursue me this evening. wyndham, you must feel for me--you must see that it will be a perfectly awful thing if my--my child loses her heart to you." "well, mr. paget, you can judge for yourself how matters stand. i--i cannot quite agree with you about what you fear being a catastrophe." "you must be mad, wyndham--you must either be mad, or you mean to cheat me after all." "no, i don't. i have a certain amount of honor left--not much, or i shouldn't have lent myself to this, but the rag remaining is at your service. seriously now, i don't think you have grave cause for alarm. valentine is affectionate, but i am not to her as you are." "you are growing dearer to her every day. i am not blind, i have watched her face. she follows you with her eyes--when you don't eat she is anxious, when you look dismal--you have an infernally dismal face at times, wyndham--she is puzzled. it wasn't only what i saw last night. valentine is waking up. it was in the contract that she was not to wake up. i gave you a child for your wife. she was to remain a child when----" "when she became my widow," wyndham answered calmly. "yes. my god, it is awful to think of it. we must go in, we daren't turn back, and she may suffer, she may suffer horribly, she has a great heart--a deep heart. it is playing with edged tools to make it live." "can't you shorten the time of probation?" asked wyndham. "i wish to heaven i could, but i am powerless. wyndham, my good friend, my son--something must be done." "don't call me your son," said the younger man, rising and shaking himself. "i have a father who besides you is--there, i won't name what i think of you. i have a mother--through your machinations i shall never see her face any more. don't call me your son. you are very wise, you have the wisdom of a devil, but even you can overreach yourself. you thought you had found everything you needed, when you found me--the weak young fool, the despairing idiotic lover. poor? yes, cursedly poor, and with a certain sense of generosity, but nothing at all in myself to win the heart of a beautiful young girl. you should have gone down to jewsbury-on-the-wold for a little, before you summed up your estimate of my character, for the one thing i have always found lying at my feet is--love. even the cats and dogs loved me--those to whom i gave nothing regarded me with affection. alack--and alas--my wife only follows the universal example." "but it must be stopped, wyndham. you cannot fail to see that it must be stopped. can you not help me--can you not devise some plan?" wyndham dropped his head on his hands. "hasten the crisis," he said. "i want the plunge over; hasten it." there came a tap at the room door. mr. paget drew back the curtain which stood before it, slipped the bolts, and opened it. "ah, i guessed you were here!" said valentine's gay voice; "yes, and gerald too. this is delightful," added she, as she stepped into the room. "what is it, val?" asked her father. "i was busy--i was talking to your husband. i am very much occupied this afternoon. i forgot it was the day you generally called for me. no, i'm afraid i can't go with you, my pet." valentine was looking radiant in winter furs. "i'll go with gerald, then," she said. "he's not too busy." she smiled at him. "no, my dear, i'll go with you," said the younger man. "i don't think, sir," he added, turning round, with a desperately white but smiling face, "that we can advance business much by prolonging this interview, and if you have no objection, i should like to take a drive with my wife as she has called." valentine instinctively felt that these smoothly spoken words were meant to hide something. she glanced from the face of one man to another; then she went up to her father and linked her hand in his arm. "come, too, daddy," she said. "you used always to be able to make horrid business wait upon your own valentine's pleasure." mr. paget hesitated for a moment. then he stooped and lightly kissed his daughter's blooming cheek. "go with your husband, dear," he said, gently. "i am really busy, and we shall meet at dinner time." "yes, we are to dine with you to-night--i've a most important request to make after dinner. you know what it is, gerry. won't father be electrified? promise beforehand that you'll grant it, dad." "yes, my child, yes. now run away both of you. i am really much occupied." valentine and her husband disappeared. mr. paget shut and locked the door behind them--he drew the velvet curtains to insure perfect privacy. then he sank down in his easy-chair to indulge in anxious meditation. he thought some of those hard thoughts, some of those abstruse, worrying, almost despairing thoughts, which add years to a man's life. as he thought the mask dropped from his handsome face; he looked old and wicked. after about a quarter-of-an-hour of these meditations, he moved slightly and touched an electric bell in the wall. his signal was answered in about a minute by a tap at the room door. he slipped the bolts again, and admitted his confidential clerk, helps. "sit down, helps. yes, bolt the door, quite right. now, sit down. helps, i am worried." "i'm sorry to observe it, sir," said helps. "worries is nat'ral, but not agreeable. they come to the good and they come to the bad alike; worries is like the sun--they shines upon all." "a particularly agreeable kind of glare they make," responded mr. paget, testily. "your similes are remarkable for their aptitude, helps. now, have the goodness to confine yourself to briefly replying to my questions. has there been any news from india since last week?" "nothing fresh, sir." "no sign of stir; no awakening of interest--of--of--suspicion?" "not yet, sir. it isn't to be expected, is it?" "i suppose not. sometimes i get impatient, helps." "you needn't now, sir. your train is, so to speak, laid. any moment you can apply the match. any moment, mr. paget. sometimes, if you'll excuse me for speaking of that same, i have a heart in my bosom that pities the victim. you shouldn't have done it from among the clergy. mr. paget, and him an only son, too." "hush, it's done. there is no help now. helps, you are the only soul in the world who knows everything. helps, there may be two victims." helps had a sallow face. it grew sickly now. "i don't like it," he muttered. "i never did approve of meddling with the clergy--he was meant for the church, and them is the lord's anointed." "don't talk so much," thundered mr. paget. "i tell you there are two victims--and one of them is my child. she is falling in love with her husband. it is true--it is awful. it must be prevented. helps, you and i have got to prevent it." helps sat perfectly still. his eyes were lowered; they were following the patterns of the carpet. he moved his lips softly. "it must be prevented," said mr. paget. "why do you sit like that? will you help me, or will you not?" helps raised his greeny-blue eyes with great deliberation. "i don't know that i will help you, mr. paget," he replied; and then he lowered them again. "you won't help me? you don't know what you are saying, helps. did you understand my words? i told you that my daughter was falling in love with that scamp wyndham." "he ain't a scamp," replied the clerk. "he's in the conspiracy, poor lad, he's the victim of the conspiracy, but he's no scamp. now i never liked it. i may as well own to you, mr. paget, that i never liked your meddling with the clergy. i said, from the first, as no good would come of it. it's my opinion, sir--" here helps rose, and raising one thin hand shook it feebly at his employer, "it's my opinion as the lord is agen you--agen us both for that matter. we can't do nothing if he is, you know. i had a dream last night--i didn't like the dream, it was a hominous dream. i didn't like your scheme, mr. paget, and i don't think i'll help you more'n i have done." "oh, you don't? you are a wicked old scoundrel. you think you can have things all your own way. you are a thief. you know the kind of accommodation thieves get when their follies get found out. of course, it's inexpensive, but it's scarcely agreeable." helps smiled slightly. "no one could lock me up but you, and you wouldn't dare," he replied. these words seemed somehow or other to have a very calming effect on mr. paget. he did not speak for a full moment, then he said quietly-- "we won't go into painful scenes of the past, helps. yes; we have both committed folly, and must stand or fall together. we have both got only daughters--it is our life's work to shield them from dishonor, to guard them from pain. suppose, helps, suppose your esther was in the position of my child? suppose she was learning to love her husband, and you knew what that husband had before him, how would you feel, helps? put yourself in my place, and tell me how you'd feel." "it 'ud all turn on one point," said helps. "whether i loved the girl or myself most. ef i saw that the girl was going deep in love with her husband--deep, mind you--mortal deep--so i was nothing at all to her beside him, why then, maybe, i'd save the young man for her sake, and go under myself. i might do that, it 'ud depend on how much i loved." "nonsense; you would bring dishonor and ruin on her. how could she ever hold up her head again?" "maybe he'd comfort her through it. there's no saying. love, deep love, mind you, does wonders." mr. paget began to pace up and down the room. "you are the greatest old fool i ever came across," he said. "now, mind you, your sentiments with regard to your low-born daughter are nothing at all to me. _noblesse oblige_ doesn't come into the case with you as it does with my child. dishonor shall never touch her; it would kill her. she must be guarded against it. listen, helps. we have talked folly and sentiment enough. now to business. that young man must not rise in my daughter's esteem. there is such a thing--listen, helps, come close--such a thing as blackening a man's character. you think it over--you're a crafty old dog. go home and look at esther, and think it over. god bless me, i'd not an idea how late it was. here's a five pound note for your pretty girl, helps. now go home and think it over." chapter xvi. helps buttoned on his great coat, said a few words to one of the clerks, and stepped out into the foggy night. he hailed a passing omnibus, and in the course of half-an-hour found himself fumbling with his latch-key in the door of a neat little house, which, however, was at the same moment thrown wide open from within, and a tall girl with a pale face, clear grey eyes, and a quantity of dark hair coiled about her head stood before him. "it's father, cherry," she said to a little cousin who popped round the corner. "put the sausages on, and dish up the potatoes. now don't be awkward. i'm glad you're in good time, father--here, give us a kiss. do i look nice in this dress? i made it all myself. here, come up to the gas, and have a good look at it. how does it fit? neat, eh?" the dress was a dark green velveteen, made without attempt at ornament, but fitting the slim and lissom figure like a glove. "it's neat, but plain, surely," replied helps, looking puzzled, proud, and at the same time dissatisfied. "a bit more color now,--more flouncing--why, what's the matter, essie? how you do frown, my girl." "come in out of the cold, father. oh, no, not the kitchen, i've ordered supper to be laid in the dining-room. well, perhaps the room it does smoke, but that will soon clear off. now, father, i want to ask you an important question. do i look like a lady in this dress?" she held herself very erect, the pure outline of her grand figure was shown to the best advantage, her massive head had a queenly pose, and the delicate purity of her complexion heightened the effect. her accent was wrong, her words betrayed her--could she have become dumb, she might have passed for a princess. "do i look like a lady?" she repeated. little helps stepped back a pace or two--he was puzzled and annoyed. "you look all right, essie," he said. "a lady? oh, well--but you ain't a lady, my girl. look here, esther, this room is mortal cold--i'd a sight rather have my supper cosy in the kitchen." "you can't then, father. you must take up with the genteel ways. after supper we're going into the drawing-room, and i'll play to you on the pianner, pa; i have been practising all day. perhaps, too, we'll have company--there's no saying." "company?" repeated helps. "who--what?" "oh, i'm not going to say, maybe he won't come. i met him in the park--i was skating with the johnsons, and i fell, and he picked me up. i might have been hurt but for him. then he heard george johnson calling me by my name, and it turned out that he knew you. oh, wasn't he a swell, and didn't he look it! and hadn't he a name worth boasting of! 'mr. gerald wyndham.' why, what's the matter, father? he said that he had often promised to look you up some evening, to bring you some stupid book or other. he said maybe he would come to-night. that's why i had the drawing-room and dining-room all done up. he said perhaps he'd call, and took off his hat most refined. i took an awful fancy to him--his ways was so aspiring. he said he might come to-night, but he wasn't sure. i didn't know you had young men like that at your office, father. and what is the matter?--why, you're quite white!" "i never talk of what goes on at the place of business," replied helps, in quite a brusque voice for him. "and as to that young gent, esther, he's our miss valentine's husband." "married? oh, lor, he didn't look it! and who is 'our miss valentine?' if i may be bold enough to ask." "mr. paget's daughter. i said i didn't mention matters connected with the place of business." "you always were precious close, father. but you're a dear, good, old dad, all the same, and cherry and i would sooner die than have you scolded about anything. cherry, my fine beau's a married man--pity, aint it? i thought maybe he'd suit me." "then you needn't have lit the fire in the drawing-room," answered cherry, a very practical and stoutly-built little maid of fifteen. "maybe i needn't, but there's no harm done. i suppose i can talk to him, even if he is married. won't i draw him out about miss valentine, and tell him how father always kept her a secret from us." "supper's ready, uncle," said cherry. "oh, bother that fire! it's quite out. don't the sausages smell good, uncle? i cooked them myself." the three sat down to the table, poor helps shivering not a little, and casting more than one regretful glance at the warm and cosy kitchen. he was feeling depressed for more than one reason this evening, and a sense of dismay stole over him at esther's having accidentally made wyndham's acquaintance. "it's a bad omen," he said, under his breath, "and esther's that contrary, and so taken up with making a lady of herself, and she's beautiful as a picter, except when she talks folly. "i liked that young man from the first," he murmured. "i took, so to speak, a fancy to him, and warned him, and i quoted scripter to him. all to no good. the glint of a gel's eye was too much for him, he sold himself for her--body and soul he sold himself for her. still, i went on keeping up a fancy for him, and i axed him to look me up some evening, and have a pipe--he's wonderful on words too--he can derivate almost as many as i can. i'm sorry now i asked him--esther's that wilful, and as beautiful as a picter. she talks too much to young men that's above her. she's set on being a lady. mr. wyndham's married, of course, but esther wouldn't think nothing of trying to flirt with him for all that." "esther," he said, suddenly, raising his deep-set eyes, and fixing them on his daughter, "ef the young man calls, it's to see me, mind you--he's a married man, and he has got the most beautiful wife in the world, and he loves her. my word, i never heard tell of nobody loving their wife so much!" esther's big grey eyes opened wide. "how you look at me, dad," she said. "one would think i wanted to steal mr. wyndham from his wife! i'm glad he loves her, it's romantic, it pleases me." "and there's his ring at the door," suddenly exclaimed cherry. "esther was right to prepare the drawing-room. i'm glad he have come. i like to look at handsome gents, particular when they are in love." gerald's arrival was accidental after all. he and his wife were dining in queen's gate, and after dinner he remembered his adventure on the ice, and told the story in an amusing way. "a most beautiful girl, but with such an accent and manner," he said. "and who do you think she turned out to be, sir?" he added, turning to his father-in-law. "why, your cracked clerk's daughter. she told me her name was esther helps, and i found they were father and daughter." "has old helps got a daughter?" exclaimed valentine. "how funny that i should never have known it. i have always been rather fond of old helps." "he has an only daughter, as i have an only daughter," replied mr. paget. valentine was sitting close to him; he put his arm around her waist as he spoke. "how queer that i should never have known," continued valentine. "and her name is esther? it is a pretty name. and you say that she is handsome, gerry? what is she like?" "tall and pale, with an expressive face," replied wyndham, lightly. "she is lady-like, and even striking-looking until she opens her lips--then----" he made an expressive grimace. "poor girl, as if she could help that," replied val. "she has never been educated, you know. her father is poor, and he can't give her advantages. does old helps love his daughter very much, dad?" "i suppose so, val. yes, i think i may say i am sure he does." "i am so interested in only girls with fathers," continued mrs. wyndham. "i wish i had seen esther helps. i hope you were kind to her, gerald." "i picked her up, dear, and gave her to her friends. by-the-way, i said i'd call to see old helps this evening. he has a passion for the derivation of words, and i have trench's book on the subject. shall i take esther a message from you, val?" "yes, say something nice. i am not good at making up messages. tell her i am interested in her, and the more she loves her father, the greater my interest must be. see, this is much better than any mere message--take her this bunch of lilies--say i sent them. now, gerald, is it likely i should be lonely? father and i are going to have two hours all to ourselves." but as valentine said these light words, her hand lingered on her husband's shoulder, and her full brown eyes rested on his face. something in their gaze made his heart throb. he put his arm round her neck and kissed her forehead. "i shan't be two hours away," he said. he took up the flowers, put "trench on words" into his pocket, and went out. wyndham had a pleasant way with all people. his words, his manner, his gentle courteous smile won for him hearts in all directions. he was meant to be greatly beloved; he was born to win the most dangerous popularity of all--that which brought to him blind and almost unreasoning affection. he was received at no. acadia terrace with enthusiasm. esther and cherry were open-eyed in their admiration, and helps, a little sorrowful--somehow helps if he wasn't cynical was always sorrowful--felt proud of the visit. gerald insisted on adjourning to the kitchen. he and helps had a long discussion on words--cherry moved softly about, putting everything in order--esther sat silent and lovely, glancing up now and then at gerald from under her black eyelashes. valentine's flowers lay in her lap. they were dazzlingly white, and made an effective contrast to her dark green dress. it was a peaceful little scene--nothing at all remarkable about it. gerald fell more contented than he had done for many a day. who would have thought that out of such innocent materials mischief of the deadliest sort might be wrought to him and his. chapter xvii. when wyndham came back to queen's gate his wife met him with sparkling eyes. "how much time can you give me to-morrow?" she said. "i want to go out with you. i have been speaking to father, and he accedes to all our wishes--he will give us an income. he says he thinks a thousand a year will be enough. oh, he is kind, and i feel so excited. don't let us drive, let us walk home, gerry. i know the night is fine. i feel that everything is bright just now, and you will come with me to-morrow, won't you, gerry? father, could you spare gerald from business to-morrow? you know it is so important." mr. paget was standing a little in the shadow, his face was beaming, his eyes smiling. when valentine turned to him, he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. "you are an inconsistent little girl," he said. "you want to become a business woman yourself. you want to be practical, and clever, and managing, and yet you encourage that husband of yours to neglect his work." gerald flushed. "i don't neglect my work," he said. "my heavy work has never a chance of being neglected, it is too crushing." valentine looked up in alarm, but instantly mr. paget's smiling face was turned to the young man, and his other hand touched his arm. "your work to-morrow is to go with your wife," he said gently. "she wants to shop--to spend--to learn saving by expenditure. you have to go with her to give her the benefit of your experience. look out for cheap sales, my dear child--go to whiteley's, and purchase what you don't want, provided it is a remnant, and sold under cost price. save by learning, val, and, gerald, you help her to the best of your ability. now good-night, my children, good-night, both of you, bless you." "it almost seemed to me," said valentine, as they walked home together--it was a starry night and she clung affectionately to her husband's arm--"it almost seemed to me that father was put out with you, and you with him. he was so sweet while you were out, but although he smiled all the time after you returned i don't think he was really sweet, and you didn't speak nicely to him, gerald, about the work i mean. is the work at the office very heavy. gerald? you never spend more than about two hours a day there." "the work is heavy, val, and it will grow more so. i don't complain, however--i have not the shadow of a right to complain. i am sorry i spoke to your father so as to vex you, dearest----i won't do so again." "i want you to love him, gerry; i want you to feel for him a little bit, as i do, as if he were the first of men, you understand. don't you think you could try. i wish you would." "you see i have my own father, darling." "oh yes, but really now--the rector is a nice old man, but, gerry, if you were to speak from your inmost heart, without any prejudice, you know; if you could detach from your mind the fact that you are the son of the rector, you would not compare them, gerry, you could not." "as you say, valentine, i could not. they stand on different pedestals. now let us change the subject. so you are the happy possessor of a thousand a year." "we both possess that income, gerry. is not it sweet of father--he felt for me at once. he said he was proud of me, that i was going to make a capital wife--he said you were a lucky fellow, gerry." "yes, darling, so i am, so i am." "then he spoke of a thousand a year to begin with. he mentioned a lot more, but he said a thousand was an income on which i might begin to learn to save. and he gave me a cheque for the first quarter to-night. he said we had better open a banking account. as soon as we get in, i'm going to give you the cheque, i'm afraid to keep it. father said we might open a separate account in his bank." "my father has always banked at the westminster," said gerald. "it would suit me best to take the money there." they had reached the house by this time. gerald opened the door with a latch-key, and the two went into the pretty, cosy drawing-room. valentine threw off her white fur wrap, and sank down into an easy-chair. her dinner dress was white, and made in a very simple girlish fashion--her hair, which was always short and curled in little rings about her head and face, added to the extreme youth of her appearance. she raised her eyes to her husband, who stood by the mantel-piece. the expression she wore was that of a happy, excited, half-spoiled child, a creature who had been somebody's darling from her birth. this was the predominating expression of her face, and yet--and yet--gerald seemed to read something more in the gaze of the sweet eyes to-night; a question was half coming into them, the dawn of a possible awakening might even be discerned in them. "my darling," he said, suddenly coming up to her, putting his arm about her, and kissing her with passion, "i love you better than my life--better--better than my hope of heaven. can you love me a little, valentine--just a little?" "i do love you, gerald." but she spoke quietly, and without any answering fire. his arms dropped, the enthusiasm went out of his face; he went back again to his old position with his back to the fire. "what kind of girl is esther helps, gerald?" "a beautiful girl." "as beautiful as i am?" "in her way quite as beautiful." "why do you say 'in her way?' beauty must always be beauty." "it has degrees, esther helps is not a lady." valentine was silent for half a minute. "i should like to know her," she said then. "i wonder how much she cares for old helps." "look here, valentine, esther helps is not the least like you. i don't know that she has any romantic attachment for that old man. she is a very ordinary girl--a most commonplace person with just a beautiful face." "how queerly you speak, gerald. as if it were something strange for an only daughter to be attached to her father." "the amount of attachment you feel, darling, is uncommon." "is it? well, i have got a very uncommon father." "my dear valentine, god knows you have." gerald sank down into a chair by the fire. he turned his face, dreary, white and worn, to the blaze. valentine detected no hidden sarcasm in his tones. after a time she took the cheque out of her purse and handed it to him. "here, gerry, you will put this into your bank to-morrow, won't you? we will open an account in our joint names, won't we? and then we can calculate how much we are to spend weekly and monthly. oh, won't it be interesting and exciting. so much for my clothes, so much for yours, so much for servants, so much for food--we need not spend so much on food, need we? so much for pleasures--i want to go to the theatre at least twice a week--oh, we can manage it all and have something to spare. and no debts, remember, gerry--ready money will be our system. we'll go in omnibuses, too, to save cabs--i shall love to feel that i am doing for a penny what might cost a shilling. gerald darling, do you know that just in one way you have vexed my father a little?" "vexed him--how, valentine?" "he says it is very wrong of you to croak, and have gloomy prognostications. you know you said it was not worth while for me to learn to housekeep. just as if you were going to die, or i were going to die. father was quite vexed when i told him. now you look vexed, gerry. really between such a husband and such a father, a poor girl may sometimes feel puzzled. well, have you nothing to say?" "i'm afraid i have nothing to say, valentine." "then you won't croak any more." "not for you--i have never croaked for you." "nor for yourself." "i cannot promise. sometimes fits of depression come over me. there, good-night, sweet. go to bed. i am not sleepy. i shall read for a time. your future is all right, valentine." chapter xviii. "i don't like it," said lilias. she was sitting in the sunny front parlor, the room which was known as the children's room at the rectory. an open letter lay on her dark winter dress; her sunny hair was piled up high on her shapely head, and her eyes, wistful and questioning, were raised to marjory's brisker, brighter face, with a world of trouble in them. the snow lay thick outside, covering the flower beds and the grassy lawn, and laying in piles against the low rectory windows. marjory was standing by a piled up fire, one of those perfect fires composed of great knobs of sparkling coal and well dried logs of wood. she, too, had on a dark dress, but it was nearly covered by a large holland apron with a bib. her sleeves were protected by cuffs of the same, on her hands she wore chamois leather gloves with the tips cut off. she looked all bright, and active, and sparkling, and round her on the table and on the floor lay piles and bales of unbleached calico, of coarse red flannel, of bright dark blue and crimson merino. in one of marjory's capable hands was a large pair of cutting-out scissors, and she paused, holding this implement slightly open, to listen to lilias' lugubrious words. "if you must croak to-day," she said, "get it over quickly, and come and help me. twenty-four blue frocks and twenty-four red to be ready by the time the girls come at four o'clock, besides the old women's flannel and this unlimited supply of unbleached calico. if there is a thing which ruffles my equanimity it is unbleached calico, it fluffs so, and makes one so messy. now, what do you want to say, lilias?" "i'm troubled," said lilias, "it's about gerald. i've the queerest feeling about him--three times lately i've dreamt--intangible dreams, of course, but all dark and foreboding." "is that a letter from gerry in your lap, lilias?" "no, it is from val--a nice little letter, too, poor child. i am sure she is doing her best to be a good wife to gerald. do you know that she has taken up housekeeping in real earnest." "does she say that gerald is ill?" "no, she scarcely mentions his name at all." "then what in the name of goodness are you going into the dismals for on this morning of all mornings. twenty-four blue frocks and twenty-four red between noon and four o'clock, and the old women coming for them to the moment. really, lilias, you are too provoking. you are not half the girl you were before gerald's marriage. i don't know what has come to you. oh, there's mr. carr passing the window, i'll get him to come in and help us. forgive me, lil, i'll just open this window a tiny bit and speak to him. how do you do, mr. carr? you can step in this way--you need not go round through all the slush to the front door. there, you can wipe your feet on that mat. lilias, say 'how do you do' to mr. carr, that is if you are not too dazed." "how do you do, miss wyndham? how do you do, miss lilias?" said carr in a brisk tone. "it is very good of you both to let me into this pleasant room after the cold and snow outside. and how busy you are! surely, miss wyndham, your family don't require such a vast amount of re-clothing." "yes," said marjory, "these bales of goods are for my shivering widows," and she pointed to the red flannel and unbleached calico. "and those are for my pretty orphans--our pretty orphans, lilly darling, twenty-four in the west refuge, twenty-four in the east; the easterns are apparelled in red, the westerns in blue. now, mr. carr, i'll put it to you as our spiritual pastor, is it right for lilias to sit and croak instead of helping me with all this prodigious work?" "but croaking for nothing is not miss lilias' way," said carr, favoring her with a quick glance, a little anxious, a little surprised. lilias sprang up with almost a look of vexation. valentine's letter fell unheeded on the floor. "you are too bad, maggie," she said, with almost a forced laugh. "i suppose there are few people in this troublesome world who are not now and then attacked with a fit of the blues. but here goes. i'll shake them off. i'll help you all i can." "you must help, too," said marjory in a gay voice, turning to carr. "please take off your great coat--put it anywhere. now then, are your hands strong? are your arms steady? you have got to hold this bale of red merino while lilly cuts dress lengths from it. don't forget, lil, nine lengths of three-and-a-half yards each, nine lengths of four yards each, and six lengths of five yards each. oh, thank you, mr. carr, that will be a great assistance." carr was a very energetic, wide-awake, useful man. he could put his hands to anything. no work, provided it was useful, was derogatory in his eyes--he was always cheerful, always bright and obliging. even gerald wyndham could scarcely have made a more popular curate at jewsbury-on-the-wold than did this young man. "if anything could provoke me about him, it is that he is too sunny," marjory said one day to her sister. lilias was silent. it occurred to her, only she was not sure, that in those dark, quick, keen eyes there could come something which might sustain and strengthen on a day of clouds as well as sunshine. it came now, when marjory suddenly left the room, and carr abruptly let the great bale of merino drop at his feet. "are you worried about anything?" he asked, in that direct fashion of his which made people trust him very quickly. lilias colored all over her face. "i suppose i ought not to be silly," she said, "but my brother--you see he is my only brother--his marriage has made a great gulf between us." carr looked at her sharply. "you are not jealous?" he said. "i don't know--we used to be great chums. i think if i were sure he was happy i should not be jealous?" carr walked to the fireplace. "it would not be folly if you were," he said. "all sisters must face the fact of their brothers taking to themselves wives, and, of course, loving the wives best. it is the rule of nature, and it would be foolish of you to fret against the inevitable." he spoke abruptly, and with a certain coldness, which might have offended some girls. lilias' slow earnest answer startled him. "i don't fret against the inevitable," she said. "but i do fret against the intangible. there is a mystery about gerald which i can't attempt to fathom. i know it is there, but i can't grapple with it in any direction." "you must have some thought about it, though, or it would not have entered into your head." "i have many thoughts, but no clues. oh, it would take me a long, long time to tell you what i fear, to bring my shadowy dread into life and being. i have just had a letter from valentine, a sweet nice letter, and yet it seems to me full of mystery, although i am sure she does not know it herself. yes, it is all intangible--it is kind of you to listen to me. marjory would say i was talking folly." "you are talking as if your nerves were a little out of sorts. could you not have a change? even granted that there is trouble, and i don't suppose for an instant that anything of the kind is in store for your brother, it is a great waste of life to meet it half way." lilias smiled faintly. "i am silly," she said. and just then marjory came into the room, followed by augusta, and the cutting out proceeded briskly. carr was an invaluable help. some people would have said that he was a great deal too gay and cheerful--a great deal too athletic and well-knit and keen-eyed for a curate. this was not the case; he made an excellent clergyman, but he had a great sense of the fitness of things, and he believed fully in a time for everything. helping three merry girls to cut out red and blue merino frocks, on a cold day in january, seemed to him a very cheerful occupation. gay laughter and light and innocent chatter filled the room, and lilias soon became one of the merriest of the party. in the midst of their chatter the rector entered. "i want you, carr," he said, abruptly; he was usually a very polite man, almost too ceremonious. now his words came with a jerk, and the moment he had uttered them he vanished. as carr left the room in obedience to this quick summons. lilias' face became once more clouded. the rector was pacing up and down his study. when carr entered he asked him to bolt the door. "is anything the matter, sir?" asked the young man. mr. wyndham's manner was so perturbed, so unlike himself, that it was scarcely wonderful that carr should ask this question. it received, however, a short and sharp reply. "i hope to goodness, carr, you are not one of those imaginative people who are always foreboding a lion in the path. what i sent for you was--well----" the rector paused. he raised his eyes slowly until they rested upon the picture of gerald's mother; the face very like gerald's seemed to appeal to him; his lips trembled. "i can't keep it up, carr," he said, with an abandon which touched the younger man to the heart. "i'm not satisfied about my son. nothing wrong, oh, no--and yet--and yet--you understand, carr, i have only one son--a lot of girls, god bless them all!--and only one son." carr came over and stood by the mantel-piece. if he felt any surprise, he showed none. his words came out gently, and in a matter-of-fact style. "if you have any cause to be worried, mr. wyndham--and--and--you think i can help you, i shall be proud to be trusted." then his thoughts flew to lilias, and his firm, rather thin lips, took a faint smile. "i have no doubt i am very foolish," replied the rector. "i had a letter this morning from gerald. he tells me in it that he is going to australia in march, on some special business for his father-in-law's firm--you know he is a partner in the firm. his wife is not to accompany him." the rector paused. carr made no answer for a moment. then he said, feeling his way-- "this will be a trial for mrs. wyndham." "one would suppose so. gerald doesn't say anything on the subject." "well," said the rector, "how does it strike you? perhaps i'm nervous--lilly, poor girl, is the same, and marjory laughs at us both. how does this intelligence strike you as an outsider, carr? pray give me your opinion." "yes," said carr, simply. "i do not think my opinion need startle anyone. doubtless, sir, you know facts which throw a different complexion on the thing. it all seems to me a commonplace affair. in big business houses partners have often to go away at short notice. it will certainly be a trial for mrs. wyndham to do without her husband. i don't like to prescribe change of air for you, mr. wyndham, as i did for miss lilias just now, but i should like to ask you if your nerves are quite in order?" the rector laughed. "you are a daring fellow to talk of nerves to me, carr," he said. "have not i prided myself all my life on having no nerves? well, well, the fact is, a great change has come over the lad's face. he used to be such a boy, too light-hearted, if anything, too young, if anything, for his years--the most unselfish fellow from his birth. give away? bless you, there was nothing gerald wouldn't give away. why, look here, carr, we all tried to spoil the boy amongst us--he was the only one--and his mother taken away when he so young--and he the image of her. yes, all the girls resemble me, but gerald is the image of his mother. we all tried to teach him selfishness, but we couldn't. now. carr, you will be surprised at what i am going to say, but if a man can be unselfish to a _fault_, to a fault mind you--to the verge of a crime--it's my son gerald. i know this. i have always seen it in him. now my boy's father-in-law. mortimer paget, is as selfish as my lad is the reverse. why did he want a poor lad like mine to marry his rich and only daughter? why did he make him a partner in his house of business, and why did he insure my boy's life? insure it heavily? answer me that. my boy would have taken your place here, carr; humbly but worthily would he have served the divine master, no man happier than he. is he happy now? is he young for his years now? tell me, carr, what you really think?" "i don't know, sir. i have not looked at things from your light. you are evidently much troubled, and i am deeply troubled for you. i don't know wyndham very well but i know him a little. i think that marriage and the cares of a house of business and all his fresh responsibilities may be enough to age your son's face. as to the insurance question, all business is so fluctuating that mr. paget was doubtless right in securing his daughter and her children from possible want in the future. see here, mr. wyndham, i am going up to town this evening for two or three days. shall i call at park-lane and bring you my own impressions with regard to your son?" "thank you, carr, that is an excellent thought, and what is more you shall escort lilias or marjory up to town. they have a standing invitation to my boy's house, and a little change just now would do--shall i say lilias?--good." "miss lilias wants a change, sir. she is affected like yourself with, may i call it, an attack of the nerves." chapter xix. valentine really made an excellent housekeeper. nobody expected it of her; her friends, the ladies, old and young, the girls, married or otherwise, who knew valentine as they supposed very intimately, considered the idea of settling this remarkably ignorant young person down with a fixed income and telling her to buy with it, and contrive with it, and make two ends meet with it, quite one of the best jokes of the day. valentine did not regard it as a joke at all. she honestly tried, honestly studied, and honestly made a success as housekeeper and household manager. she was a most undeveloped creature, undeveloped both in mind and heart; but she not only possessed intense latent affections, but latent capacities of all sorts. she scarcely knew the name of poverty, she had no experience with regard to the value of money, but nature had given her an instinct which taught her to spend it wisely and well. she found a thousand a year a larger income than she and gerald with their modest wants needed. she scarcely used half of what she received, and yet her home was cheerful, her servants happy, her table all that was comfortable. when she brought her housekeeping books to her husband to balance at the end of the first month, he looked at her with admiration, and then said in a voice of great sadness:-- "god help me, valentine, have i made a mistake altogether about you? am i dreaming, valentine, are you meant for a poor man's wife after all?" "for your wife, whether rich or poor," she said; and she knelt down by his side, and put her hand into his. she had always possessed a sweet and beautiful face, but for the last few weeks it had altered; the sweetness had not gone, but resolution had grown round the curved pretty lips, and the eyes had a soft happiness in them. "pretty, charming creature!" people used to say of her. "but just a trifle commonplace and doll-like." this doll-like expression was no longer discernible in valentine. gerald touched her hair tenderly. "my little darling!" he said. his voice shook. then he rose abruptly, with a gesture which was almost rough. "come upstairs, val; the housekeeping progresses admirably. no, my dear, you made a mistake, you were never meant for a poor man's wife." valentine kissed his brow: she looked at him in a puzzled way. "do you know," she said, laying her hands on his, with a gesture half timid, half appealing; "don't go up to the drawing-room for a moment, gerald, i want to say a thing, something i have observed. i am loved by two men, by my father and by you. i am loved by them very much--by both of them very much. oh, yes, gerald, i know what you feel for me, and yet i can't make either of them happy. my father is not happy. oh, yes, i can see--love isn't blind. i never remembered my father quite, quite happy, and he is certainly less so than ever now. he tries to look all right when people are by; even succeeds, for he is so unselfish, and brave, and noble. but when he is alone--ah, then. once he fell asleep when i was in the room, he looked terrible in that sleep; his face was haggard--he sighed--there was moisture on his brow. when he woke he asked me to marry you. i didn't care for you then, gerald, but i said yes because of my father. he said if i married you he would be perfectly happy. i did so--he is not happy." gerald did not say a word. "and you aren't happy, dear," she continued, coming a little nearer to him. "you used to be; before we were engaged you had such a gay face. i could never call you gay since, gerald. you are so thin, and sometimes at night i lie awake, and i hear you sigh. why, what is the matter. gerald? you look ghastly now. am i hurting you? i wouldn't hurt you, darling." wyndham turned round quickly. he had been white almost to fainting, now a great light seemed to leap out of his eyes. "what did you say? what did you call me? say it again." "darling." "then i thank my god--everything has not been in vain." he sank down on the nearest chair and burst into tears. tragedies go on where least expected. the servants in the servants' hall thought their young master and mistress quite the happiest people in the world. were they not gay, young, rich? did they not adore one another? gerald's devotion to valentine was almost a joke with them, and valentine's increasing regard for him was very observable to those watchful outsiders. certainly the pair stayed in a good deal in the evenings, and why to-night in particular did they linger so long in the dining-room, rather to the inconvenience of the kitchen regime. but presently their steps were heard going upstairs, and then valentine accompanied gerald's violin on the piano. wyndham played very well for an amateur, so well that with a little extra practice he might almost have taken his place as a professional of no mean ability. he had exquisite taste and a sensitive ear. music always excited him, and perhaps was not the safest recreation for such a highly strung nature. valentine could accompany well; she, too, loved music, but had not her husband's facility nor grace of execution. in his happiest moments gerald could compose, and sometimes even improvise with success. during their honeymoon it seemed to him one day as he looked at the somewhat impassive face of the girl for whom he had sold himself body and soul--as he looked and felt that not yet at least did her heart echo even faintly to any beat of his, it occurred to him that he might tell his story in its pain and its longing best through the medium of music. he composed a little piece which, for want of another title, he called "waves." it was very sweet in melody, and had some minor notes of such pathos that when valentine first heard him play it on the violin she burst into tears. he told her quite simply then that it was his story about her, that all the sweetness was her share, all the graceful melody, the sparkling joyous notes which coming from gerald's violin seemed to speak like a gay and happy voice, represented his ideal of her. the deeper notes and the pain belonged to him; pain must ever come with love when it is strongest, she would understand this presently. then he put his little piece away--he only played it once for her when they were in switzerland; he forgot it, but she did not. to-night, after her confession, when they went up to the drawing-room, his heart immeasurably soothed and healed, and hers soft with a wonderful joy which the beginning of true love can give, he remembered "waves," and thought he would play it for her again. it did not sound so melancholy this time, but strange to say the gay notes were not quite so gay, the warble of a light heart had deepened. as wyndham played and valentine sat silent, for she offered no accompaniment to this little fugitive piece, he found that he must slightly reconstruct the melody. the minor keys were still minor, but there was a ring of victory through them now; they were solemn, but not despairing. "he that loseth his life shall find it," wyndham said suddenly, looking full into her eyes. the violin slipped from his hand, coming down with a discordant crash, the door was flung open by the servant, as lilias wyndham and adrian carr came into the room. in a minute all was gay bustle and confusion. gerald forgot his cares, and valentine was only too anxious to show herself as the hospitable and attentive hostess. a kind of improvised meal between dinner and tea was actually brought up into the drawing-room. lilias ate chicken and ham holding her plate on her lap. carr, more of a stranger, was not allowed to feel this fact. in short, no four could have looked merrier or more free from trouble. "it is delightful to have you here--delightful, lilias," said valentine, taking her sister-in-law's hand and squeezing it affectionately. "do you know, lil," said gerald, "that this little girl-wife of mine, with no experience whatever, makes a most capable housekeeper. with all your years of knowledge i should not like you to enter the lists with her." "with all my years of failure, you mean," answered lilias. "i always was and always will be the most incompetent woman with regard to beef and mutton and pounds, shillings and pence who walks this earth." she laughed as she spoke; her face was cloudless, her dark eyes serene. for one moment before he went away carr found time to say a word to her. "did i not tell you it was simply a case of nerves?" he remarked. chapter xx. esther helps was certainly neither a prudent nor a careful young woman. she meant no harm, she would have shuddered at the thought of actual sin, but she was reckless, a little defiant of all authority, even her father's most gentle and loving control, and very discontented with her position in life. morning, noon, and night, esther's dream of dreams, longing of longings, was to be a lady. she had some little foundation for this desire. the mother who had died at her birth had been a poor half-educated little governess, whose mother before her had been a clergyman's daughter. esther quickly discovered that she was beautiful, and her dream of dreams was to marry a gentleman, and so go back to that station in life where her mother had moved. esther had no real instincts of ladyhood. she spoke loudly, her education had been of a very flashy and superficial order. from the time she left the fourth-rate boarding-school where her father alone had the means to place her, she had stayed at home and idled. idling was very bad for a character like hers; she was naturally active and energetic--she had plenty of ability, and would have made a capital shopwoman or dressmaker. but esther thought it quite beneath her to work, and her father, who could support her at home, was only too delighted to have her there. he was inordinately proud of her--she was the one sunbeam in his dull, clouded timorous life. he adored her beauty, he found no fault with her cockney twang, and he gave her in double measure the love which had lain buried for many years with his young wife. esther, therefore, when she left school, sat at home, and made her own dresses, and chatted with her cousin cherry, who was an orphan, and belonged to helps' side of the house. cherry was a very capable, matter-of-fact hearty little girl, and esther thought it an excellent arrangement that she should live with them, and take the drudgery and the cooking, and in short all the household work off her hands. esther was very fond of cherry, and cherry, in her turn, thought there was never anyone quite so grand and magnificent as her tall, stately cousin. "well, cherry," said esther, as the two were going to bed on the night after wyndham's visit, "what do you think of him? oh, i needn't ask, there's but one thing to be thought of him." "elegant, i say," interrupted cherry. she was looking particularly round and dumpy herself, and her broad face with her light grey eyes was all one smile. "an elegant young man, essie--a sort of chevalier, now, wouldn't you say so?" "it's just like you, cherry, you take up all your odd moments with those poetry books. mr. wyndham ain't a chevalier--he's just a gentleman, neither more nor less--a real gentleman, oh dear. i call it a cruel disappointment. cherry," and she heaved a profound sigh. "what's a disappointment?" asked unsuspicious cherry, as she tumbled into bed. "why, that he's married, my dear. he'd have suited me fine. well, there's an end of that." cherry thought there was sufficiently an end to allow her to drop off to sleep, and esther, after lying awake for a little, presently followed her example. the next day she was more restless than ever, once or twice even openly complaining to cherry of the dullness of her lot, and loudly proclaiming her determination to become a lady in spite of everybody. "you can't, essie," said her father, in his meek, though somewhat high-pitched voice, when he overheard some of her words that evening. "it ain't your lot, child--you warn't born in the genteel line; there's all lines and all grooves, and yours is the narrowing one of the poverty-struck clerk's child." "i think it's mean of you to talk like that, father," said esther, her eyes flashing. "it's mean of you, and unkind to my poor mother, who was a lady born." "i don't know much about that," replied helps, looking more despondent than ever. "she was the best of little wives, and if she was born a lady, which i ain't going to deny, for i don't know she warn't a lady bred, i mind me she thought it a fine bit of a rise to leave off teaching the baker's children, and come home to me. poor little essie--poor, dear little essie. you don't take much after her, esther, my girl." "if she was spiritless, and had no mind for her duties, which were in my opinion to uphold her station in life, i don't want to take after her," answered esther, and she flounced out of the room. helps looked round in an appealing way at cherry. "i don't want to part with her," he said, "but it will be a good thing for us all when essie is wed. i must try and find some decent young fellow who will be likely to take a fancy to her. her words fret me on account of their ambition. cherry, child." "i wouldn't be put out if i was you, uncle," responded cherry in her even, matter-of-fact voice. "esther is took up with a whim, and it will pass. it's all on account of the chevalier." "the what, child?" "the chevalier. oh, my sakes alive, there's the milk boiling all over the place, and my hearth done up so beautiful. here, catch hold of this saucepan, uncle, while i fetch a cloth to wipe up. my word, ain't this provoking. i thought to get time to learn a verse or two out of the poetry book to-night; but no such luck--i'll be brushing and blacking till bed-time." in the confusion which ensued, helps forgot to ask cherry whom she meant by the chevalier. a few days after this, as helps was coming home late, he was rather dismayed to find his daughter returning also, accompanied by a young man who was no better dressed than half the young men with whom she walked, but who had a certain air and a certain manner which smote upon the father's heart with a dull sense of apprehension. "essie, my girl," he said, when she had bidden her swain good-bye, and had come into the house, with her eyes sparkling and her whole face looking so bright and beautiful, that even cherry dropped her poetry book to gaze in admiration. "essie," said helps, all the tenderness of the love he bore her trembling in his voice, "come here. kiss your old father. you love him, don't you?" "why, dad, what a question. i should rather think i did." "you wouldn't hurt him now, essie? you wouldn't break his heart, for instance?" "i break your heart, dad? is it likely? now, what can the old man be driving at?" she said, looking across at cherry. "it's this," responded helps, "i want to know the name of the fellow--yes, the--the fellow, who saw you home just now?" "now, father, mightn't he be mr. gray, or mr. jones, or mr. abbott; some of those nice young men you bring up now and then from the city? why mightn't he be one of them, father?" "but he wasn't, my dear. the young men you speak of are honest lads, every one of them. i wouldn't have no sort of objection to your walking with them, esther. it wasn't none of my friends from the city i saw you with to-night. essie." "and why shouldn't this be an honest fellow, too?" answered esther, her eyes sparkling dangerously. "i don't know, my dear. i didn't like the looks of him. what's his name, essie, my love?" "captain herriot, of the ---- hussars." "there! esther, you're not to walk with captain herriot any more. you're not to know him. i won't have it--so now." "highty-tighty!" said esther. "there are two to say a word to that bargain, father. and pray, why may i walk with mr. jones and not with captain herriot? captain herriot's a real gentleman, and mr. jones ain't." "and that's the reason, my child. if jones walked with you, he'd maybe--yes, i'm sure of it--he'd want all his heart and soul to make you his honest wife some day. do you suppose captain herriot wants to make you his wife. essie?" "i don't say. i won't be questioned like that." her whole pale face was in a flame. "maybe we never thought of such a thing, but just to be friends, and to have a pleasant time. it's cruel of you to talk like that, father." "well, then, i won't, my darling, i won't. just promise you'll have nothing more to say to the fellow. i'd believe your word against the world, essie." "against the world? would you really, dad? i wouldn't, though, if i were you. no, i ain't going to make a promise i might break." she went out of the room, she was crying. a short time after this, indeed the very day after lilias wyndham's visit to london, gerald noticed that helps followed his every movement as he came rather languidly in and out of the office, with dull imploring eyes. the old clerk was particularly busy that morning, he was kept going here, there, and everywhere. work of all kinds, work of the most unexpected and unlooked for nature seemed to descend to-day with the force of a sledge hammer on his devoted head. gerald saw that he was dying to speak to him, and at the first opportunity he took him aside, and asked him if there was anything he could do for him. "oh, yes, mr. wyndham, you can, you can. oh, thank the good lord for bringing you over to speak to me when no one was looking. you can save esther for me--that's what you can do, mr. wyndham. no one can save her but you. so you will, sir; oh, you will. she's my only child, mr. wyndham." chapter xxi. "i will certainly do what i can," responded wyndham, in his grave, courteous voice. he was leaning against the window-ledge in a careless attitude; helps, looking up at him anxiously, noticed how pale and wan his face was. "ah," he responded, rising from his seat, and going up to the younger man. "'tis them as bears burdens knows how to pity. thank the lord there's compensation in all things. now look here, mr. wyndham, this is how things are. you have seen my essie, she's troublesome and spirited--oh, no one more so." helps paused. "yes," answered gerald, in a quiet, waiting voice. he was not particularly interested in the discussion of esther helps' character. "and she's beautiful, mr. wyndham. aye, there's her curse. beautiful and hambitious and not a lady, and dying to be one. you understand, mr. wyndham--you must understand." wyndham said nothing. "well, a month or so ago i found out there was a gentleman--at least a man who called himself a gentleman--walking with her, and filling her head with nonsense. his name was herriot, a captain in the hussars. i told her she was to have nought to say to him, but i soon found that she disobeyed me. then i had to spy on her--you may think how i felt, but it had to be done. i found that she walked with him, and met him at all hours. i made inquiries about his character, and i found he was a scoundrel, a bad fellow out and out. he'd be sure to break my essie's heart if he did no worse. then i was in a taking, for the girl kept everything in, and would scarcely brook me so much as to look at her. i was that upset that i took cherry into my confidence. she's a very good girl, is cherry--the lord hasn't cursed her with no beauty. last week she brought me word that esther was going to the gaiety with captain herriot, that he had taken two stalls and they were to have a fine time. she said esther was almost out of her mind with delight, as it was always her dream to be seen at the theatre, beautifully dressed, with a real gentleman. she had shown the tickets to cherry, and cherry was smart enough to take the numbers and keep them in the back of her head. she told me, and i can tell you, mr. wyndham, i was fit to kill someone. i went straight off to the gaiety office, and by good luck or the grace of god, i found there was a vacant stall next to esther's--just one, and no more. i paid for that stall, here's the ticket in my pocket." "yes," said wyndham, "and you mean to go with esther to-night? a very good idea--excellent. but how will she take it?" "how will she take it, mr. wyndham? i feel fit to pull my grey hairs out. how would she have taken it, you mean? for it's all a thing of the past, sir. oh, i had it all planned fine. i was to wait until she and that fellow had taken their places, and then i'd come in quite natural, and sit down beside her, and answer none of her questions, only never leave her, no, not for a quarter of a minute. and if he spoke up, the ruffian, i had my reply for him. i'd stay quiet enough till we got outside, and then just one blow in the middle of his face--yes, just one, to relieve a father's feelings. then home with my girl, and i think it's more than likely we wouldn't have been troubled with no more of captain herriot's attentions." helps paused again. "you speak in the past tense," said gerald. "why cannot you carry out this excellent programme?" "that's it, sir, that's what about maddens me. i came to the office this morning, and what has happened hasn't happened this three months past. there's business come in of a nature that no one can tackle but myself. business of a private character, and yet what may mean the loss or gain of thousands. oh, i can't explain it, mr. wyndham, even though you are a partner; there are things that confidential clerks know that are hid from junior partners. i can't leave here till eleven o'clock to-night, mr. wyndham, and if you don't help me esther may be a lost girl. yes, there's no mincing matters--lost, beyond hope. will you help me, mr. wyndham? i'll go mad if my only girl, my beautiful girl, comes to that." "i? can i help you?" asked wyndham. there was hesitation and distress in his voice. he saw that he was going to be asked to do something unpleasant. "you can do this, sir. you can make it all right. bless you, sir, who's there to see? and you go with the best intentions. you go in a noble cause. you can afford to risk that much, mr. wyndham. i want you to take my place at the gaiety to-night; take my ticket and go there. talk pleasant to esther: not much, but just a little, nothing to rouse her suspicions. let her think it was just a coincidence your being there. then, just at the end, give her this letter from me. i've said a thing in it that will startle her. she'll get a fright and turn to you. put her into a cab then, and bring her here. you can sit on the box if you like. that's all. put her into my arms and your task is done. here's the ticket and the letter. do it, mr. wyndham, and god will bless you. yes, yes, my poor young sir--he'll bless you." "don't talk of god when you speak of me," said wyndham. "something has happened which closes the door of religion for me. the door between god and me is closed. i am still open, however, to the call of humanity. you want me to go to the gaiety to-night to save your daughter. it is very probable that if i went i should save her. i am engaged, however, for to-night. my sister is in town. we are going to make a party to the haymarket." "oh, sir, what of that? send a telegram to say you have an engagement. think of esther. think what it means if you fail me now." "i do think of it, helps. i will do what you want. give me the letter and the theatre ticket." chapter xxii. valentine was delighted to have lilias as her companion. she was in excellent spirits just now, and lilias and she enjoyed going about together. they had adventures which pleased them both, such simple adventures as come to poorer girls every day--a ride in an omnibus to kew, an excursion up the river to battersea in a penny steamer, and many other mild intoxicants of this nature. sometimes gerald came with them, but oftener they went alone. they laughed and chatted at these times, and people looked at them, and thought them two particularly merry good-looking school-girls. valentine was very fond of going to the theatre, and of course one of the principal treats in store for lilias was a visit to the play. valentine decided that they would go to some entertainment of a theatrical character nearly every evening. on the day of helps' strange request to wyndham they were to see _captain swift_ at the haymarket. mr. paget had taken a box for the occasion, and valentine's last injunction to her husband was to beg of him to be home in good time so that they might have dinner in peace, and reach the haymarket before the curtain rose. lilias and she trotted about most of the morning, and sat cosily now in the pretty drawing-room in park-lane, sipping their tea, examining their purchases, or chatting about dress, and sundry other trivial matters after the fashion of light-hearted girls. presently valentine pulled a tiny watch out of her belt. "gerald is late," she said. "he promised faithfully to be in to tea, and it is now six o'clock. we dine at half-past. had we not better go and dress, lilias?" lilias was standing on the hearthrug, she glanced at the clock, then into the ruddy flames, then half-impatiently towards the door. "oh, wait a moment or two," she said. "if gerald promised to come he is safe to be here directly. i never met such a painfully conscientious fellow; he would not break his word even in a trifle like this for all the world. give him three minutes longer. you surely will not take half-an-hour to dress." "how solemnly you speak, lilias," responded valentine. "if gerald is late, that could scarcely be considered a breaking of his word. i mean in a promise of that kind one never knows how one may be kept. that is always understood, of course." there came a pealing ring and a double knock at the door, and a moment after the page entered with a telegram which he handed to his mistress. valentine tore the yellow envelope open, and read the contents of the pink sheet. "no answer, masters," she said to the boy. then she she turned to lilias. "gerald can't go with us to-night. he is engaged. you see, of course, he would not break his word, lilias. he is unavoidably prevented coming. it is too bad." some of the brightness went out of her face, and her spirits went down a very little. "well, it can't be helped," she said, "only i am disappointed." "so am i, awfully disappointed," responded lilias. then the two went slowly upstairs to change their dresses. when they came down again, mr. paget, who was to dine with them, was waiting in the drawing-room. there was a suppressed excitement, a suppressed triumph in his eyes, which, however, only made him look more particularly bright and charming. when valentine came in in the pure white which gave her such a girlish and even pathetically innocent air, he went up and kissed her almost fiercely. he put his arm round her waist and drew her close to him, and looked into her eyes with a sense of possession which frightened her. for the first time in all her existence she half shrank from the father whom she idolized. she was scarcely conscious of her own shrinking, of the undefinable something which made her set herself free, and stand on the hearthrug by lilias' side. "i don't see your husband, my pet," said mr. paget. "he ought to have come home long before now, that is, if he means to come with us to-night." "but he doesn't, father," said valentine. "that's just the grief. i had a telegram from him, half-an-hour ago; he is unavoidably detained." mr. paget raised his eyebrows. "not at the office," he said, in a markedly grave voice, and with another significant raise of his brows. "that i know, for he left before i did. ah, well, young men will be young men." neither valentine nor lilias knew why they both flushed up hotly, and left a wider space between them and valentine's handsome father. he did not take the least notice of this movement on both their parts, but went on in a very smooth, cheerful voice. "perhaps gerald does not miss as much as he thought," he said. "since i saw you this morning, val, our programme has been completely altered. we go to _captain swift_ to-morrow night. i went to the office and exchanged the box. to-night we go to the gaiety. i have been fortunate in securing one of the best boxes in the whole house, and _monte christo junior_ is well worth seeing." "i don't know that i particularly care for the gaiety, father," said valentine. "how very funny of you to change our programme." "well, the fact is, some business friends of mine who were just passing through town were particularly anxious to see _captain swift_, so as i could oblige them, i did. it is all the better for your husband, valentine; he won't miss this fine piece of drama." "no, that is something to be thankful for," responded valentine. "but i'm sorry you selected the gaiety as an exchange. i don't think lilias will care for _monte christo_. however, it can't be helped now, and dinner waits. shall we go downstairs?" mr. paget and his party were in good time in their places. valentine took a seat rather far back in the box, but her father presently coaxed her to come to the front, supplied both her and lilias with opera glasses, and encouraged both girls to look about them, and watch the different people who were gradually filing into their places in the stalls. mr. paget himself neither wore glasses nor aided his vision with an opera glass. his face was slightly flushed, and his eyes, keen and bright, travelled round the house, taking in everything, not passing over a single individual. valentine was never particularly curious about her neighbors, and as lilias knew no one, they both soon leant back in their chairs, and talked softly to one another. the curtain rose, and each girl bent forward to see and enjoy. the rest of the house was now comparatively dark, but just before the lights were lowered, mr. paget might have been heard to give a faint quick sigh of relief. a tall girl in cream-color and soft furs walked slowly down the length of stalls, and took her place in such a position that valentine could scarcely look down without seeing her. this girl's beauty was so marked that many eyes were turned in her direction as she appeared. she was very regal looking, very quiet and dignified in manner. her features were classical and pure in outline, and her head, with its wealth of raven black hair, was splendidly set. she was accompanied by a tall, fairly good-looking man who sat next to her. when the curtain rose and the lights were lowered the stall at her other side was vacant. mr. paget felt his heart beat a trifle too fast. would that stall be full or empty when the curtain dropped at the close of the first act? would his heart's desire, his wicked and treacherous heart's desire be torn from him in the very moment of apparent fruition. suppose gerald did not put in an appearance at the gaiety? suppose at the eleventh hour he changed his mind and resolved to leave esther helps to her fate? suppose--pshaw!--where was the use of supposing? to leave a girl to her fate would not be his chivalrous fool of a son-in-law's way. no, it was all right; even now he could dimly discern a faint commotion in the neighborhood of esther helps--the kind of commotion incident on the arrival of a fresh person, the gentle soft little movement made by the other occupants of the stalls to let the new comer, who was both late and tiresome, take his reserved seat in comfort. mr. paget sank back in his seat with a sensation of relief; he had not listened for nothing behind an artfully concealed curtain that morning. the play proceeded. much as he had said about it beforehand, it had no interest for mr. paget. he scarcely troubled to look at the stage. there was no room in his heart that moment for burlesque: he was too busily engaged over his own terrible life's drama. on the result of this night more or less depended all his future happiness. "if she turns back to me after what she sees to-night then i can endure," he said to himself. "i can go on to the bitter end--if not--well, there are more expedients than one for a ruined man to throw up the sponge." the curtain fell, the theatre was in a blaze of light; valentine and lilias sank back in their seats and began to fan themselves. they had been pleased and amused. lilias, indeed, had laughed so heartily that the tears came to her eyes. "i hate to cry when i laugh," she said, taking out her handkerchief to wipe them away. "it's a tiresome trick we all have in our family, gerald and all." she had a habit of bringing in gerald's name whenever she spoke of her family, as if he were the topmost stone, the crowning pride and delight. mr. paget had his back slightly turned to the girls. once more he was devouring the stalls with his eager bright eyes. yes, gerald wyndham was in his stall. he was leaning back, not exerting himself much; he looked nonchalant and strikingly handsome. mr. paget did not wish him to appear too nonchalant when valentine first caught sight of him. no--ah, that was better. esther was turning to speak to him. by jove, what a face the girl had! mr. paget had often seen helps' only daughter, for he found it convenient occasionally to call to see helps at acadia villa. but he had never before seen her dress becomingly, and he was positively startled at the pure, high type of her beauty. at this distance her common accent, her poor uneducated words, could not grate. all her gestures were graceful; she looked up at gerald, said something, smiled, then lowered her heavy black lashes. it was at that moment, just as wyndham was bending forward to reply to her remark, and she was leaning slightly away from her other cavalier, so that he scarcely seemed to belong to her party, that valentine, tired of doing nothing, came close to her father, and allowed her eyes to wander round the house. suddenly she uttered a surprised exclamation. "look, father, look! is that gerald? who is with him? who is he talking to? how is it that he comes to be here? yes, it is gerald! oh, what a lovely girl he is talking to!" valentine's words were emphatic and slightly agitated, for she was simply overpowered with astonishment, but they were spoken in a low key. lilias did not hear them. she was reading her programme over for the twentieth time, and wondering when the curtain would rise and the play go on. "look, father," continued valentine, clutching her father's arm. "isn't that gerald? how strange of him to be here. who can he be talking to? i don't know her--do you? do you see him, father? won't you go down and tell him we are here, and bring him up--and--and--the lady who is with him. go, please, father, you see where he is, don't you?" "i do, my child. i have seen him for some time past. would you like to come home, valentine?" "home! what in the world do you mean? how queer you look! is there anything wrong? who is with gerald? who is he talking to? how lovely she is. i wish she would look up again." "that girl is not a lady, valentine. she is esther helps--you have heard of her. yes, now i understand why your husband could not come with us to the haymarket to-night. my poor child! don't look at them again, valentine, my darling." valentine looked full into her father's eyes; full, long, and steadily she gazed. then slowly, very slowly, a crimson flood of color suffused her whole face; it receded, leaving her deathly pale. she moved away from her father and took a back seat behind lilias. the curtain rose again, the play continued. lilias was excited, and wanted to pull valentine to the front. "no," she said. "my head aches; i don't care to look any more." she sat back in her seat, very white and very calm. "would you like to come home?" said her father, bending across to her, and speaking in a voice which almost trembled with the emotion he felt. "no," she said in reply, and without raising her eyes. "i will sit the play out till the end." when the curtain fell again she roused herself with an effort and coaxed lilias to come into the back of the box with her. the only keen anxiety she was conscious of was to protect her husband from lilias' astonished eyes. mr. paget felt well satisfied. he had managed to convey his meaning to his innocent child's heart; an insinuation, a fall of the voice, a look in the eyes, had opened up a gulf on the brink of which valentine drew back shuddering. "i was only beginning to love him; it doesn't so much matter," she said many times to herself. even now she thought no very bad things of her husband; that is no very bad things according to the world's code. to her, however, they were black. he had deceived her--he had made her a promise and broken it. why? because he liked to spend the evening with another girl more beautiful than herself. "oh, no, i am not jealous," said valentine, softly under her breath. "i won't say anything to him either about it, poor fellow. it does not matter to me, not greatly. i was only beginning to love him. thank god there is always my dear old father." when the curtain rose for the final act of the play. valentine moved her chair so that she could slightly lean against mr. paget. he took her hand and squeezed it. he felt that he had won the victory. chapter xxiii. gerald had found his task most uncongenial. in the first place he was disappointed at not spending the evening with valentine and lilias. in the second the close proximity of such a girl as esther helps could not but be repugnant to him. still she was a woman, a woman in danger, and her father had appealed to him to save her. had he been ordained for the church, such work--ah, no, he must not think of what his life would have been then. after all, it was good of the distracted father to trust him, and he must not betray the trust. he went to the theatre and acquitted himself with extreme tact and diplomacy. when gerald chose to exert himself his manner had a quieting effect, a compelling, and almost a commanding effect on women. esther became quiet and gentle; she talked to captain herriot, but not noisily; she laughed, her laugh was low and almost musical. now and then her quick eyes glanced at wyndham; she felt thirsty for even his faintest approval--he bestowed it by neither word nor movement. as they were leaving the theatre, however, and the gallant captain, who inwardly cursed that insufferable prig who happened to have a slight acquaintance with his beautiful esther, grew cheerful under the impression that now his time for enjoyment was come, gerald said in a low, grave voice:-- "your father has given me a letter for you. pray be quiet, don't excite yourself. it is necessary that you should go to your father directly. allow me to see you into a cab. your father is waiting for you--it is urgent that you should join him at once." scarcely knowing why she did it, esther obeyed. she murmured some eager agitated words to captain herriot; she was subdued, frightened, shaken; as gerald helped her into a cab he felt her slim fingers tremble in his. he took his seat upon the box beside the driver, and ten minutes later had delivered esther safely to her father. his task was done, he did not wait to hear a word of helps' profuse thanks. he drew a sigh of relief as he hurried home. soon he would be with his wife--the wife whom he idolized--the wife who was beginning to return his love. suppose her passion went on and deepened? suppose a day came when to part from him would be a sorer trial than poverty or dishonor! oh, if such a day came--he might--ah, he must not think in that direction. he pushed his hand through his thick hair, leant back in his cab, and shut his eyes. when he reached the little house in park-lane he found that the lights in the drawing-room were out, and the gas turned low in the hall. he was later even than he had intended to be. the other theatre-goers had returned home and gone to bed. he wondered how they had enjoyed _captain swift_. for himself he had not the least idea of what he had been looking at at the gaiety. he let himself in with a latch-key, and ran up at once to his room. he wanted to kiss valentine, to look into her eyes, which seemed to him to grow sweeter and softer every day. he opened the door eagerly and looked round the cheerful bedroom. valentine was not there. he called her. she was not in the dressing-room. "she is with lilias," he said to himself. "how these two young things love to chatter." he sat down in an easy chair by the fire, content to wait until his wife should return. he was half inclined to tell her what he had been doing; he had a great longing to confide in her in all possible ways, for she had both brains and sense, but he restrained himself. the subject was not one he cared to discuss with his young wife, and, besides, the secret belonged to esther and to her father. he made up his mind to say nothing about it. he had no conception then what this silence was to cost him, and how different all his future life might have been had he told his wife the truth that night. presently valentine returned. her face was flushed, and her eyes had an unquiet troubled expression. she had been to lilias with a somewhat strange request. "lilias, i want you to promise me something, to ask no questions, but just like a kind and truthful sister to make me a faithful promise." "you look strange, valentine; what do you want me to promise?" "_will_ you promise it?" "if i can, i will promise, to please you; but i never make promises in the dark." "oh, there's gerald's step, i must go. lilias, i've a very particular reason, i cannot explain it to you. i want you not to tell gerald, now or at any time, that we were at the gaiety to-night." "my dear val, how queer! why shouldn't poor gerald know? and you look so strange. you are trembling." "i am. i'm in desperate earnest. will you promise?" "yes, yes, you silly child, if you set such store on an utterly ridiculous promise you shall have it. only if i were you, valentine, i wouldn't begin even to have such tiny little secrets as that from my husband. i wouldn't, val; it isn't wise--it isn't really." valentine neither heard nor heeded these last words. she gave lilias a hasty, frantic kiss, and rushed back to her own room. "now," she said to herself, "now--now--now--if he tells me everything, every single thing, all may be well. i won't ask him a question; but if he tells, tells of his own accord, all may be quite well yet. oh, how my heart beats! it is good i have not learned to love him any better." gerald rose up at her entrance and went to meet her eagerly. "ah, here's my bright little wife," he said. "give me a kiss, valentine." she gave it, and allowed him to fold her in his arms. she was almost passive, but her heart beat hard--she was so eagerly waiting for him to speak. "sit down by the fire, darling. i don't like long evenings spent away from you, val. how did you enjoy _captain swift_?" "we didn't go to the haymarket; no, we are going to-morrow. father thought it a pity you should miss such a good play." "then where did you go? you and lil did not stay at home the whole evening?" "no, father took us to another theatre. i can't tell you the name; don't ask me. i hate theatres--i detest them. i never want to go inside one again as long as i live!" "how strongly you talk, my dear little val. perhaps you found it dull to-night because your husband was not with you." she moved away with a slight little petulant gesture. when would he begin to speak? gerald wondered vaguely what had put his sweet-tempered valentine out. he stirred the fire, and then stood with his back to it. she looked up at him, his face was very grave, very calm. her own gerald--he had a nice face. surely there was nothing bad behind that face. why was he silent? why didn't he begin to tell his story? well she would--she would--help him a little. she cleared her throat, she essayed twice to find her voice. when it came out at last it was small and timorous. "was it--was it business kept you from coming with me to-night, gerry?" "business? yes, my darling, certainly." her heart went down with a great bound. but she would give him another chance. "was it--was it business connected with the office?" "you speak in quite a queer voice, valentine. in a measure it was business connected with the office--in a measure it was not. what is it, valentine? what is it, my dear?" she had risen from her seat, put her arms round his neck, and laid her soft young head on his shoulder. "tell me the business, gerry, tell your own val." he kissed her many times. "it doesn't concern you, my dear wife," he said. "i would tell you gladly, were i not betraying a trust. i had some painful work to do to-night, valentine. yes, business, certainly. i cannot tell it, dear. yes, what was that you said?" for she had murmured "hypocrite!" under her breath. very low she had said it, too faintly for him to catch the word. but he felt her loving arms relax. he saw her face grow grave and cold, something seemed to go out of her eyes which had rendered them most lovely. it was the wounded soul going back into solitude, and hiding its grief and shame in an inmost recess of her being. would gerald ever see the soul, the soul of love, in his wife's eyes again? chapter xxiv. a few days after the events related in the last chapter mr. paget asked his son-in-law to have a few minutes' private conversation with him. once more the young man found himself in that inner room at the rich merchant's office which represented more or less a torture-chamber to him. once more valentine's untroubled girlish innocent eyes looked out of richmond's beautiful picture of her. wyndham hated this room, he almost hated that picture; it had surrounded itself with terrible memories. he turned his head away from it now as he obeyed mr. paget's summons. "it's this, gerald," said his father-in-law. "when a thing has to be done the sooner the better. i mean nobody cares to make a long operation of the drawing of a tooth for instance!" "an insufficient metaphor," interrupted wyndham roughly. "say, rather, the plucking out of a right eye, or the cutting off a right hand. as you say, these operations had better be got quickly over." "i think so--i honestly think so. it would convenience me if you sailed in the _esperance_ on the th of march for sydney. there is a _bonâ fide_ reason for your going. i want you to sample----" "hush," interrupted wyndham. "the technicalities and the gloss and all that kind of humbug can come later. you want me to sail on the th of march. that is the main point. when last you spoke of it, i begged of you as a boon to give me an extension of grace, say until may or june. it was understood by us, although there was no sealed bond in the matter, that my wife and i should spend a year together before this--this _temporary_ parting took place. i asked you at one time to shorten my season of grace, but a few weeks ago i asked you to extend it." "precisely, wyndham, and i told you i would grant your wish, if possible. i asked you to announce to your own relatives that you would probably have to go away in march, for a time; but i said i would do my utmost to defer the evil hour. i am sorry to say that i cannot do so. i have had news from india which obliges me to hasten matters. such a good opportunity as the business which takes you out in the _esperance_ will probably not occur again. it would be madness not to avail ourselves of it. do not you think so? my dear fellow, do take a chair." "thank you, i prefer to stand. this day--what is this day?" he raised his eyes; they rested on the office calendar. "this day is the th of february. a spring-like day, isn't it? wonderful for the time of year. i have, then, one month and one day to live. are these valentine's violets? i will help myself to a few. let me say good-morning, sir." he bowed courteously--no one could be more courteous than gerald wyndham--and left the room. his astonished father in-law almost gasped when he found himself alone. "upon my word," he said to himself, "there's something about that fellow that's positively uncanny. i only trust i'll be preserved from being haunted by his ghost. my god! what a retribution that would be. wyndham would be awful as a ghost. i suppose i shall have retribution some day. i know i'm a wicked man. hypocritical, cunning, devilish. yes, i'm all that. who'd have thought that soft-looking lad would turn out to be all steel and venom. i hate him--and yet, upon my soul, i admire him. he does more for the woman he loves than i do--than i could do. the woman _we both love_. his wife--_my child_." "there, i'll get soft myself if i indulge in these thoughts any longer. now is the time for him to go. valentine has turned from him; any fool can see that. now is the time to get him out of the way. how lucky that i overheard helps that day. never was there a more opportune thing." mr. paget went home early that evening. valentine was dining with him. lately, within the last few weeks, she often came over alone to spend the evening with her father. "where's your husband, my pet?" the old man used to say to her on these occasions. and she always answered him in a bright though somewhat hard little voice. "oh, gerald is such a book-worm--he is devouring one of those abstruse treatises on music. i left him buried in it," or, "gerald is going out this evening," or, "gerald isn't well, and would like to stay quiet, so"--the end was invariably the same--"i thought i'd come and have a cosy chat with you, dad." "and no one more welcome--no one in all the wide world more welcome," mortimer paget would answer, glancing, with apparent pleased unconcern, but with secret anxiety, at his daughter's face. the glance always satisfied him; she looked bright and well--a little hard, perhaps--well, the blow must affect her in some way. what had taken place at the gaiety would leave some results even on the most indifferent heart. the main result, however, was well. valentine's dawning love had changed to indifference. had she cared for her husband passionately, had her whole heart been given into his keeping, she must have been angry; she must have mourned. as, evening after evening, mr. paget came to this conclusion, he invariably gave vent to a sigh of relief. he never guessed that if he could wear a mask, so also could his child. he never even suspected that beneath valentine's gay laughter, under the soft shining of her clear eyes, under her smiles, her light easy words, lay a pain, lay an ache, which ceased not to trouble her day and night. mr. paget came home early. valentine was waiting for him in the drawing-room. "we shall have a cosy evening, father," she said. "oh, no, gerald can't come. he says he has some letters to write. i think he has a headache, too. i'd have stayed with him, only he prefers being quiet. well, we'll have a jolly evening together. kiss me, dad." he did kiss her, then she linked his hand in her arm, and they went downstairs and dined together, as they used to do in the old days before either of them had heard of gerald wyndham. "let us come into the library to-night," said valentine. "you know there is no room like the library to me." "nor to me," said mr. paget brightly. "it reminds me of when you were a child, my darling." "ah, well, i'm not a child now, i'm a woman." she kept back the sigh which rose to her lips. "i think i like being a child best, only one never can have the old childish time back again." "who knows, val? perhaps we may. if you have spoiled your teeth enough over those filberts, shall we go into the library? i have something to tell you--a little bit of news." "all right, you shall tell it sitting in your old armchair." she flitted on in front, looking quite like the child she more or less still was. "now isn't this perfect?" she said, when the door was shut, mr. paget established in his armchair, and the two pairs of eyes fixed upon the glowing fire. "isn't this perfect?" "yes, my darling--perfect. valentine, there is no love in all the world like a father's for his child." "no greater love has come to me," replied valentine slowly; and now some of the pain at her heart, notwithstanding all her brave endeavors, did come into her face. "no greater love has come to me, but i can imagine, yes. i can imagine a mightier." "what do you mean, child?" "for instance--if you loved your husband perfectly, and he--he loved you, and there was nothing at all between--and the joy of all joys was to be with him, and you were to feel that in thought--in word--in deed--you were one, not two. there, what am i saying? the wildest nonsense. there isn't such a thing as a love of that sort. what's your news, father?" "my dear child, how intensely you speak!" "never mind! tell me what is your news, father." mr. paget laughed, his laugh was not very comfortable. "has gerald told you anything, valentine?" "gerald? no, nothing special; he had a headache this evening." "you know, val--at least we often talked the matter over--that gerald might have to go away for a time. he is my partner, and partners in such a firm as mine have often to go to the other side of the world to transact important business." "yes, you and gerald have both spoken of it. he's not going soon, is he?" "that's it, my pet. the necessity has arisen rather suddenly. gerald has to sail for sydney in about a month." valentine was sitting a little behind her father. he could not see the pallor of her face; her voice was quite clear and quiet. "poor old gerry," she said; "he won't take me, will he, father?" "impossible, my dear--absolutely. you surely don't want to go." "no, not particularly." valentine yawned with admirable effect. "she really can't care for him at all. what a wonderful piece of luck," muttered her father. "i daresay gerald will enjoy sydney," continued his wife. "is he likely to be long away?" "perhaps six months--perhaps not so long. time is always a matter of some uncertainty in cases of this kind." "i could come back to you while he is away, couldn't i, dad?" "why, of course, my dear one, i always intended that. it would be old times over again--old times over again for you and your father, valentine." "not quite, i think," replied valentine. "we can't go back really. things happen, and we can't undo them. do you know, father, i think gerald must have infected me with his headache. if you don't mind, i'll go home." mr. paget saw his daughter back to park-lane, but he did not go into the house. valentine rang the bell, and when masters opened the door she asked him where her husband was. "in the library, ma'am; you can hear him can't you? he's practising of the violin." yes, the music of this most soul-speaking, soul-stirring instrument filled the house. valentine put her finger to her lips to enjoin silence, and went softly along the passage which led to the library. the door was a little ajar--she could look in without being herself seen. some sheets of music were scattered about on the table, but wyndham was not playing from any written score. the queer melody which he called waves was filling the room. valentine had heard it twice before--she started and clasped her hands as its passion, its unutterable sadness, its despair, reached her. where were the triumph notes which had come into it six weeks ago? she turned and fled up to her room, and locking the door, threw herself by her bedside and burst into bitter weeping. "oh, gerald, i love you! i do love you; but i'll never show it. no, never, until you tell me the truth." chapter xxv. "yes," said augusta wyndham, "if there is a young man who suits me all round it's mr. carr. yes," she said, standing very upright in her short skirts, with her hair in a tight pig-tail hanging down her back, and her determined, wide open, bright eyes fixed upon an admiring audience of younger sisters. "he suits me exactly. he's a kind of hail-fellow-well-met; he has no nonsensical languishing airs about him; he preaches nice short sermons, and never bothers you to remember what they are about afterwards; he's not bad at tennis or cricket, and he really can cannon quite decently at billiards; but for all that, if _you_ think, you young 'uns, that he's going to get inside of gerry, or that he's going to try to pretend to know better than gerry what i can or can't do, why you're all finely mistaken, so there!" augusta turned on her heel, pirouetted a step or two, whistled in a loud, free, unrestrained fashion, and once more faced her audience. "gerry said that i _could_ give out the library books. now is it likely that mr. carr knows more of my capacities after six months' study than gerry found out after fifteen years?" "but mr. carr doesn't study _you_, gus. it's lilias he's always looking at," interrupted little rosie. "you're not pretty, are you, gus?" asked betty. "your cheeks are too red, aren't they? and nurse says your eyes are as round as an owl's!" "pretty!" answered augusta, in a lofty voice. "who cares for being pretty? who cares for being simply pink and white? i'm for intellect. i'm for the march of mind. gerry believes in me. hurrah for gerry! now, girls, off with your caps, throw them in the air, and shout hurrah for gerry three times, as loud as you can!" "what an extraordinary noise the children are making on the lawn," said lilias to marjory. "i hear gerald's name. what can they be saying about gerald? one would almost think he was coming down the avenue to see the state of excitement they are in! do look, meg, do." "it's only one of gussie's storms in a tea-cup," responded marjory, cheerfully. "i am so glad, lil, that you found gerald and val hitting it off so nicely. you consider them quite a model pair for affection and all that, don't you, pet?" "quite," said lilias. "my mind is absolutely at rest. one night val puzzled me a little. oh, nothing to speak of--nothing came of it, i mean. yes, my mind is absolutely at rest, thank god! what are all the children doing. maggie? they are flying in a body to the house. what can it mean?" "we'll know in less than no time," responded marjory, calmly. and they did. four little girls, all out of breath, all dressed alike, all looking alike, dashed into the drawing-room, and in one breath poured out the direful intelligence that augusta had mutinied. "mr. carr forbade her to give away the library books," they said, "and she has gone up now to the school-room in spite of him. she's off; she said gerry said she might do it, long ago. isn't it awful of her? she says beauty's nothing, and she's only going to obey gerry," continued betty. "what shall we do? she'll give all the books away wrong, and mr. carr will be angry." they all paused for want of breath. rosie went up and laid her fat red hand on lilias' knee. "i said it was you he stared at," she remarked. "_you_ wouldn't like him to be vexed, would you?" the words had scarcely passed her lips before the door was opened, and the object of the children's universal commiseration entered. a deep and awful silence took possession of them. lilias clutched rosie's hand, and felt an inane desire to rush from the room with her. too late. the terrible infant flew to adrian carr, and clasping her arms around his legs, looked up into his face. "never mind," she said, "it _is_ wrong of gussie, but it isn't lilias' fault. she wouldn't like to vex you, 'cause you stare so at her." "nursie says that you admire lilias; do you?" asked betty. "oh, poor gussie!" exclaimed the others, their interest in lilias and carr being after all but a very secondary matter. "we all do hope you won't do anything dreadful to her. you can, you know. you can excommunicate her, can't you?" "but what has augusta done?" exclaimed carr, turning a somewhat flushed face in the direction not of lilias, but of marjory. "what a frightful confusion--and what does it mean?" marjory explained as well as she was able. carr had lately taken upon himself to overhaul the books of the lending library. he believed in literature as a very elevating lever, but he thought that books should not only be carefully selected in the mass, but in lending should be given with a special view to the needs of the individual who borrowed. before gerald's marriage marjory had given away the books, but since then, for various reasons, they had drifted into augusta's hands, and through their means this rather spirited and daring young lady had been able to inflict a small succession of mild tyrannies. for instance, poor miss yates, the weak-eyed and weak-spirited village dressmaker, was dosed with a series of profound and dull theology; and macallister, the sexton and shoemaker, a canny scot, who looked upon all fiction as the "work of the de'il," was put into a weekly passion with the novels of charles reade and wilkie collins. these were extreme cases, but augusta certainly had the knack of giving the wrong book to the wrong person. carr heard mutterings and grumbling. the yearly subscriptions of a shilling a piece diminished, and he thought it full time to take the matter in hand. he himself would distribute the village literature every saturday, at twelve o'clock. the day and the hour arrived, and behold miss augusta wyndham had forestalled him, and was probably at this very moment putting "the woman in white" into the enraged macallister's hand. carr's temper was not altogether immaculate; he detached the children's clinging hands from his person, and said he would pursue the truant, publicly take the reins of authority from her, and send her home humiliated. he left the rectory, walking fast, and letting his annoyance rather increase than diminish, for few young men care to be placed in a ridiculous situation, and he could not but feel that such was his in the present instance. the school-house was nearly half a mile from the rectory, along a straight and dusty piece of road; very dusty it was to-day, and a cutting march east wind blew in carr's face and stung it. he approached the school-house--no, what a relief--the patient aspirants after literature were most of them waiting outside. augusta, then, could not have gone into the school-room. "has miss augusta wyndham gone upstairs?" he asked of a rosy-cheeked girl who adored the "sunday at home." "no, please, sir. mr. gerald's come, please, mr. carr, sir," raising two eyes which nearly blazed with excitement. "he shook 'ands with me, he did, and with old ben, there; and miss augusta, she give a sort of a whoop, and she had her arms round his neck, and was a-hugging of him before us all, and they has gone down through the fields to the rectory." "about the books," said carr; "has miss augusta given you the books?" "bless your 'eart, sir," here interrupted old ben, "we ain't of a mind for books to-day. mr. gerald said he'd come up this evening to the club, and have a chat with us all, and sue and me, we was waiting here to tell the news. litteratoor ain't in our line to-day, thank you, sir." "here's mr. macallister," said sue. "mr. macallister, mr. gerald's back. he is, truly. i seen him, and so did old ben." "and he'll be at the club to-night," said ben, turning his wrinkled face upwards towards the elongated visage of the canny scot. "the lord be praised for a' his mercies," pronounced macallister, slowly, with an upward wave of his hand, as if he were returning thanks for a satisfying meal. "na, na. mr. carr, na books the day." finding that his services were really useless, carr went away. the villagers were slowly collecting from different quarters, and all faces were broadening into smiles, and all the somewhat indifferent sleepy tones becoming perceptibly brighter, and gerald wyndham's name was passed from lip to lip. old miss bates wiped her tearful eyes, as she hurried home to put on her best cap. widow simpkins determined to make up a good fire in her cottage, and not to spare the coals; the festive air was unmistakeable. carr felt smitten with a kind of envy. what wonders could not wyndham have effected in this place, he commented, as he walked slowly back to his lodgings. later in the day he called at the rectory to find the hero surrounded by his adoring family, and bearing his honors gracefully. gerald was talking rather more than his wont; for some reason or other his face had more color than usual, his eyes were bright, he smiled, and even laughed. lilias ceased to watch him anxiously, a sense of jubilation filled the breast of every worshipping sister, and no one thought of parting or sorrow. perhaps even gerald himself forgot the bitterness which lay before him just then; perhaps his efforts were not all efforts, and that he really felt some of the old home peace and rest with its sustaining power. you can know a thing and yet not always realize it. gerald knew that he should never spend another saturday in the old rectory of jewsbury-on-the-wold. that lilias' bright head and lilias' tender, steadfast earnest eyes would be in future only a memory. he could never hope again to touch that hair, or answer back the smile on that beloved and happy face. the others, too--but lilias, after his wife, was most dear of all living creatures to gerald. well, he must not think; he resolved to take all the sweetness, if possible, out of this saturday and sunday. he resolved not to tell any of his people of the coming parting until just before he left. the small sisters squatted in a semicircle on the floor round their hero; augusta, as usual, stood behind him, keeping religious guard of the back of his head. "if there is a thing i simply adore," that vigorous young lady was often heard to say, "it's the back of gerry's head." lilias sat at his feet, her slim hand and arm lying across his knee; marjory flitted about, too restless and happy to be quiet, and the tall rector stood on the hearthrug with his back to the fire. "it is good to be home again," said gerald. whereupon a sigh of content echoed from all the other throats, and it was at this moment that carr came into the room. "come in, carr, come in," said the rector. "there's a place for you, too. you're quite like one of the family, you know. oh, of course you are, my dear fellow, of course you are. we have got my son back, unexpectedly. gerald, you know carr, don't you." gerald stood up, gave carr's hand a hearty grip, and offered him his chair. "oh, not that seat, gerry," groaned augusta, "it's the only one in the room i can stand at comfortably. i can't fiddle with your curls if i stand at the back of any other chair." gerald patted her cheek. "then perhaps, carr, you'll oblige augusta by occupying another chair. i am sorry that i am obliged to withhold the most comfortable from you." carr was very much at home with the wyndhams by now. he pulled forward a cane chair, shook his head at augusta, and glanced almost timidly at lilias. he feared the eight sharp eyes of the younger children if he did more than look very furtively, but she made such a sweet picture just then that his eyes sought hers by a sort of fascination. for the first time, too, he noticed that she had a look of gerald. her face lacked the almost spiritualized expression of his, but undoubtedly there was a likeness. the voices, interrupted for a moment by the curate's entrance, soon resumed their vigorous flow. "why didn't you bring my dear little sister valentine down, gerald?" it was lilias who spoke. he rewarded her loving speech by a flash, half of pleasure, half of pain in his eyes. aloud he said:-- "we thought it scarcely worth while for both of us to come. i must go away again on monday." a sepulchral groan from augusta. rosie, betty and joan exclaimed almost in a breath:-- "and we like you much better by yourself." "oh, hush, children," said marjory. "we are all very fond of val." "you have brought a great deal of delight into the village. wyndham," said carr, and he related the little scene which had taken place around the school-house. "i'd give a good deal to be even half as popular," he said with a sigh. "you might give all you possessed in all the world, and you wouldn't succeed," snapped gussie. "augusta, you really are too rude," said lilias with a flush on her face. "no, i'm not, lil. oh, you needn't stare at me. i like him, and he knows it," nodding with her head in the direction of adrian carr; "but you have to be born in a place, and taught to walk in it, and you have had to steal apples in it and eggs out of birds' nests, and to get nearly drowned when fishing, and to get some shot in your ankle, and you've got to know every soul in all the country round, and to come back from school to them in the holidays, and for them first to see your moustache coming; and then, beyond and above all that, you've got just to be _gerry_, to have his way of looking, and his way of walking, and his way of shaking your hand, and to have his voice and his heart, to be loved as well. so how _could_ mr. carr expect it?" "bravo, augusta," said adrian carr. "i'd like you for a friend better than any girl i know." "please, gerry, tell us a story," exclaimed the younger children. they did not want augusta to have all the talking. "let it be about a mouse, and a cricket on the hearth, and a white elephant, and a roaring bull, and a grizzly bear." "and let the ten little nigger-boys come into it," said betty. "and bo-peep," said rosie. "and the old man who wouldn't say his prayers," exclaimed joan. "and let it last for hours," exclaimed they all. gerald begged the rest of the audience to go away, but they refused to budge an inch. so the story began. all the characters appeared in due order; it lasted a long time, and everybody was delighted. chapter xxvi. lilias wyndham never forgot that last sunday with gerald spent at jewsbury-on-the-wold. the day in itself was perfect, the air blew softly from the west, the sun shone in a nearly cloudless heaven; the gentle breezes, the opening flowers, the first faint buds of spring on tree and hedge-row seemed all to give a foretaste of summer. nobody knew, none could guess, that in one sense they foretold the desolation of dark winter. it was in this light that wyndham himself regarded the lovely day. "i leap from calm to storm," he said to himself. "never mind, i will enjoy the present bliss!" he did enjoy it, really, not seemingly. he took every scrap of sweetness out of it, almost forgetting valentine for the time being, and living over again the days when he was a light-hearted boy. he went to church twice, and sat in the corner of the square family pew which had always been reserved for him. as of old, lilias sat by his side, and when the sermon came he lifted little joan into his arms, and she fell asleep with her golden head on his breast. the rector preached and gerald listened. it was an old-fashioned sermon, somewhat long for the taste of the present day. it had been carefully prepared, and was read aloud, for the benefit of the congregation, in a clear, gentlemanly voice. gerald almost forgot that he was a man with an unusual load of suffering upon him, as he listened to the time-honored softly-flowing sentences. "blessed are the pure in heart," was the rector's text, and it seemed to more than one of that little village congregation that he was describing his own son when he drew his picture of the man of purity. in the evening carr preached. he was as modern as the rector was the reverse. he used neither m.s. nor notes, and his sermon scarcely occupied ten minutes. "to die is gain" was his text. there were some in the congregation who scarcely understood the vigorous words, but they seemed to one weary man like the first trumpet notes of coming battle. they spoke of a fight which led to a victory. wyndham remembered them by-and-bye. it was the custom at the rectory to have a kind of open house on sunday evening, and to-night many of gerald's friends dropped in. the large party seemed a happy one. the merriment of the night before had deepened into something better. lilias spoke of it afterwards as bliss. "do you remember," she said to marjory, in the desolate days which followed, "how gerald looked when he played the organ in the hall? do you remember his face when we sang 'sun of my soul?'" the happiest days come to an end. the children went to bed, the friends one by one departed. even lilias and marjory kissed their brother and bade him good-night. he was to leave before they were up in the morning. this he insisted on, against their will. "but we shall see you soon in london," they both said, for they were coming up in a few weeks to stay with an aunt. then they told him to kiss valentine for them, and went upstairs, chatting lightly to one another. the rector and his son were alone. "we have had a happy day," said gerald, abruptly. "we have, my son. it does us all good to have you with us, gerald. i could have wished--but there's no good regretting now. each man must choose his own path, and you seem happy, my dear son; that is the main thing." "i never thought primarily of happiness," responded gerald. "did you listen to carr's sermon to-night? he proved his case well. to die _is_ sometimes gain." the rector, who was seated by the fire, softly patted his knee with one hand. "yes, yes," he said, "carr proved his case ably. he's a good fellow. a _little_ inclined to the broad church, don't you think?" "perhaps so." gerald stood up. his face had suddenly grown deadly white. "father, i kept a secret from you all day. i did not wish to do anything to mar the bliss of this perfect sunday. you--you'll break it to lilias and maggie, and the younger children. i'm going to sydney on wednesday. i came down to say good-bye." he held out his hand. the rector stood up and grasped it. "my dear lad--my boy. well--well--you'll come back again. of course, i did know that you expected to go abroad on business for your firm. my dear son. yes, my boy--aye--you'll come back again soon. how queer you look, gerald. sit down. i'm afraid you're a little overdone." "good-bye, father. you're an old man, and sydney is a long way off. good-bye. i have a queer request to make. grant it, and don't think me weak or foolish. give me your blessing before i go." suddenly wyndham fell on his knees, and taking his father's hand laid it on his head. "i am like esau," he said. "is there not one blessing left for me?" the rector was deeply moved. "heaven above bless you, my boy," he said. "your mother's god go with you. there, gerald, you are morbid. you will be back with me before the snows of next winter fall. but god bless you, my boy, wherever you are and whatever you do!" chapter xxvii. valentine was sitting in her pretty drawing-room. it was dinner time, but she had not changed her dress. she was too young, too fresh, and unused to trouble, for it yet to leave any strong marks on her face. the delicate color in her cheeks had slightly paled, it is true, her bright hair was in confusion, and her eyes looked larger and more wistful than their wont, but otherwise no one could tell that her heart was beating heavily and that she was listening eagerly for a footstep. seven o'clock came--half-past seven. this was gerald's last night at home; he was to sail in the _esperance_ for sydney to-morrow. valentine felt stunned and cold, though she kept on repeating to herself over and over:-- "this parting is nothing. he's sure to be home in six months at the latest. six months at the very latest. in these days there is really no such thing as distance. what is a six months' parting? besides, it is not as if i were really in love with him. father asked me the question direct last night, and i said i wasn't. how could i love him with all my heart when i remember that scene at the gaiety? oh, that scene! it burns into me like fire, and father's look--i almost hated father that night. i did really. fancy, valentine hating her father! oh, of course it passed. there is no one like my father. husbands aren't like fathers, not in the long run. oh, gerald, you might have told me the truth? i'd have forgiven you, i would really, if you had told me the truth. oh, why don't you come? _why_ don't you come? you might be in time this last evening. it is a quarter to eight now. i am impatient--i am frightened. oh, there's a ring at the hall door. oh, thank god. no, of course, gerald, i don't love you--not as i could have loved--and yet i do--i _do_ love you--i _do_!" she clasped her hands--a footstep was on the stairs. the door was opened, masters brought her a thick letter on a salver. "has not mr. wyndham come? was not that ring mr. wyndham's?" "no, madam, a messenger brought this letter. he said there was no answer." the page withdrew, and valentine tore open the envelope. a letter somewhat blotted, bearing strong marks of agitation, but in her husband's writing, lay in her hand. her eager eyes devoured the contents. "i can't say good-bye, my darling--there are limits even to my endurance--i can't look at you and hear you say 'good-bye, gerald.' i bade you farewell this morning when you were asleep. i am not coming home to-night, but your father will spend the evening with you. you love him better than me, and i pray the god of all mercy that he may soften any little pang that may come to you in this separation. when you are reading this i shall be on my way to southampton. i have bid your father good-bye, and he will tell you everything there is to tell about me. the _esperance_ sails at noon to-morrow, and it is a good plan to be on board in good time. i cannot tell you. valentine, what my own feelings are. i cannot gauge my love for you. i don't think anything could probe it to its depths. i am a sinful man, but i sometimes hope that god will forgive me, because i have loved as much as the human heart is capable of loving. you must remember that, dear. you must always know that you have inspired in one man's breast the extreme of love! "good-bye, my darling. it is my comfort to know that the bitterness of this six months' separation falls on me. if i thought otherwise, if i thought even for a moment that you cared more for your husband than you do for the world's opinion, or for riches, or for honor, that you would rather have him with poverty and shame, that he was more to you even than the father who gave you your being, then i would say even now, at the eleventh hour, 'fly to me, valentine. let us go away together on board the _esperance_, and forget all promises and all honor, and all truth.' yes, i would say it. but that is a mad dream. forget this part of my letter. valentine. it has been wrung from a tortured and almost maddened heart. good-bye, my wife. be thankful that you have not it in you to love recklessly. "your husband, "gerald wyndham." "but i have!" said valentine. she raised her eyes. her father was in the room. "yes, i can love--i too can give back the extreme of love. father, i am going to my husband. i am going to southampton. what's the matter? what are you looking at me like that for? why did you send gerald away without letting him come to say good-bye? not that it matters, for i am going to him. i shall take the very next train to southampton." "my darling," began mr. paget. "oh, yes, father, yes. but there's no time for loving words just now. i've had a letter from my husband, and i'm going to him. i'm going to sydney with him. yes--you can't prevent me!" "you are talking folly, valentine," said mr. paget. "you are excited, my child; you are talking wildly. going with your husband? my poor little girl. there, dear, there. he'll soon be back. you can't go with him, you know, my love. show me his letter. what has he dared to say to excite you like this?" "no, you shan't see a word of his dear letter. no, not for all the world. i understand him at last, and i love him with all my heart and soul. yes, i do. oh, no, i don't love you as i love my husband." mr. paget stepped back a pace or two. there was no doubting valentine's words, no doubting the look on her face. she was no longer a child. she was a woman, a woman aroused to passion, almost to fury. "i am going to my husband," she said. and she took no notice of her father when he sank into the nearest chair and pressed his hand to his heart. "i have got a blow," he said. "i have got an awful blow." but valentine did not heed him. chapter xxviii. "yes, my darling," said mr. paget, two hours later; his arms were round his daughter, and her head was on his shoulder. "oh, yes, my dear one, certainly, if you wish it." "and you'll go with me, father? father, couldn't you come too? couldn't we three go? yes, that would be nice, that would be happiness." "a good idea," said mr. paget, reflectively. "but really, val, really now, don't you think wyndham and i rather spoil you? you discover at the eleventh hour that you can't live without your husband, that as he must cross to the other side of the world, you must go there too. and now in addition _i_ have to accompany you. do you think you are worth all this? that any girl in the world is worth all this?" "perhaps not, father." valentine was strangely subdued and quiet. "i suppose it would be selfish to bring you," she said; "and we shall be back in six months." "true," said mr. paget in a thoughtful voice; "and even for my daughter's sake my business must not go absolutely to the dogs. well, child, a wilful woman--you know the proverb--a wilful woman must have her way. i own i'm disappointed. i looked forward to six months all alone with you. six months with my own child--a last six months, for of course i always guessed that when wyndham came back you'd give yourself up to him body and soul. oh, no, my dear, i'm not going to disappoint you. a wife fretting and mourning for her husband is the last person i should consider a desirable companion. run upstairs now and get your maid to put your things together. i shall take you down to southampton by an early train in the morning, and in the meantime, if you'll excuse me, valentine, i'll go out and send a telegram to your husband." "to tell him that i'm coming?" "yes, are you not pleased?" "no, don't do that. i will meet him on board the boat. i know exactly what the scene will be. he'll be looking--no, i shan't say how he'll be looking--but i'll steal up behind him, and slip my hand through his arm, and then--and then! father, kiss me. i love you for making me so happy." mr. paget pressed his lips to his daughter's forehead. for a brief moment his eyes looked into hers. she remembered by-and-bye their queer expression. just now, however, she was too overwrought and excited to have room for any ideas except the one supreme longing and passion which was drawing her to her husband. "shall we have dinner?" said mr. paget after another pause. valentine laughed rather wildly. "dinner? i can't eat. had not you better go home and have something? perhaps i did order dinner, but i can't remember. my head feels queer; i can't think properly. go home and have something to eat, father. you can come back later on. i am going upstairs now to pack." she left the room without a word, and mortimer paget heard her light step as she ran up to her bedroom. he began to talk vehemently to himself. "does that child, that little girl, whom i reared and fostered--that creature whom i brought into existence--think she will checkmate me now at the supreme moment. no, there are limits. i find that even my love for valentine has a bottom, and i reach it when i see the prisoner's cell, solitary confinement, penal servitude, looming large on the horizon. even your heart must suffer, little valentine, to keep such a fate as that from my door. poor little val! well, the best schemes, the most carefully laid plans sometimes meet with defeat. it did not enter into my calculations that val would fall madly in love with that long-faced fellow. pah! where's her taste? what men women will admire. well, valentine, you must pay the penalty, for my plans cannot be disturbed at the eleventh hour!" mr. paget went softly out of the house, but he did not go, as valentine innocently supposed, home to dinner. no, he had something far more important to attend to. something in which he could be very largely assisted by that confidential clerk of his, jonathan helps. meanwhile, valentine and her maid were having a busy time. dresses were pulled out, trunks dusted and brought into the middle of the room, and hasty preparations were made for a journey. valentine's low spirits had changed to high ones. she was as happy as some hours ago she had been miserable. her heart was now at rest, it had acknowledged its own need--it had given expression to the love which was fast becoming its life. "you are surprised, suzanne," said mrs. wyndham to her maid. "yes, it is a hurried journey. i had no idea of going with mr. wyndham, but he--poor fellow--he can't do without me, suzanne, so i am going. i shall join him on board the _esperance_ in the morning. you can fancy his surprise--his pleasure. put in plenty of dinner dresses, suzanne. those white dresses that mr. wyndham likes--yes, that is right. of course i shall dress every evening for dinner on board the _esperance_. i wonder if many other ladies are going. not that it matters--i shall have my husband. what are you saying, suzanne?" "that it is beautiful to lof," replied the maid, looking up with adoring eyes at her pretty animated young mistress. she was both young and pretty herself, and she sympathized with valentine, and admired her immensely for her sudden resolve. "yes, love is beautiful," answered valentine gravely. her eyes filled with sudden soft tears of happiness. "and there is something better even than love," she said, looking at suzanne, and speaking with a sudden burst of confidence. "the highest bliss of all is to give joy to those who love you." "and you will do that to-morrow, madame," replied suzanne fervently. "oh, this lof, so beautiful, so rare--you will lay it at monsieur's feet--he is goot, monsieur is, and how great is his passion for madame." the young swiss girl flitted gaily about, and by-and-bye the packing even for this sudden voyage was accomplished. "you will take me with you, madame?" said suzanne. "no, suzanne, there is no time to arrange that, nor shall i really want you. we may have to rough it a little, my husband and i; not that we mind, it will be like a continual picnic--quite delicious." "but madame must be careful of her precious health." the color flushed into valentine's cheeks. "my husband will take care of me," she said. "no. suzanne, i shall not take you with me. you will stay here for the present, and my father will arrange matters for you. now you can go downstairs and have some supper. i shall not want you again to-night." the girl withdrew, and valentine stood by the fire, gazing into its cheerful depths, and seeing many happy dream pictures. "yes, i shall certainly go with him. even if what i dread and hope and long for is the case, i shall be with him. i can whisper it first to him. i ought to be with _him_--i ought to be with my husband then. why did suzanne speak about my health? no one will take such care of me as gerald. even my father cannot approach gerald for tenderness, for sympathy when one is out of sorts. how soothing is gerald's hand; how quieting. once i was ill for a few hours. only a bad headache, but it went when he made me lie very still, and when he clasped my two hands in one of his. yes, i quite believe in gerald. even though i do not understand that night at the gaiety, still i absolutely believe in my husband. he is too noble to tell a lie; he had a reason for not explaining what looked so strange that night. he had a right reason, probably a good and great one. perhaps i'll ask him again some day. perhaps when he knows there's a little--little _child_ coming he'll tell me himself. oh, god, kind, good, beautiful god, if you are going to give me a child of my very own, help me to be worthy of it. help me to be worthy of the child, and of the child's father." mr. paget's ring was heard at the hall door, and valentine ran down to meet him. he had made all arrangements he told her. they would catch the . train in the morning from waterloo, and he would call for her in a cab at a sufficiently early hour to catch it. his words were brief, but he was quite quiet and business-like. he kissed his daughter affectionately, told her to go to bed at once, and soon after left the house. valentine gave directions for the morning and went back to her room. she got quickly into bed, for she was determined to be well rested for what lay before her on the following day. she laid her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and prepared to go to sleep. does not everybody know what happens on these occasions? does not each individual who in his or her turn has especially desired for the best and most excellent reason a long sleep, a deep sleep, an unbroken and dreamless sleep found it recede further and further away--found eyes more watchful--brain more active, limbs more restless, as the precious moments fly by? how loud the watch ticks, how audible are the minutest sounds! it was thus with valentine wyndham that night. no sleep came near her, and by slow degrees as the fire grew faint and the night deepened in silence and solemnity, her happy excitement, her childish joy, gave place to vague apprehensions. all kinds of nameless terrors came over her. suppose an accident happened to the train? suppose the _esperance_ sailed before its time? above all, and this idea was agonizing, was so repellant that she absolutely pushed it from her--suppose her father was deceiving her. she was horrified as this thought came, and came. it would come, it would not be banished. suppose her father was deceiving her? she went over in the silence of the night the whole scene of that evening. her own sudden and fierce resolve, her father's opposition, his disappointment--then his sudden yielding. the more she thought, the more apprehensive she grew; the more she pondered, the longer, the more real grew her fears. at last she could bear them no longer. she lit a candle and looked at her watch. three o'clock. had ever passed a night so long and dreadful? there would not be even a ray of daylight for some time. she could not endure that hot and restless pillow. she would get up and dress. all the time she was putting on her clothes the dread that her father was deceiving her kept strengthening--strengthening. at last it almost reached a panic. what a fool she had been not to go to southampton the night before. suppose gerald's ship sailed before she reached it or him. suddenly an idea came like a ray of light. why should she wait for her father? why should she not take an earlier train to southampton? the relative depths of valentine's two loves were clearly shown when she did not reject this thought. it mattered nothing at all to her at this supreme moment whether she offended her father or not. she determined to go to southampton by the first train that left waterloo that morning. she ran downstairs, found a time-table, saw that a train left at . , and resolved to catch it. she would take suzanne with her, and leave a message for her father; he could follow by the . train if he liked. she went upstairs and woke her maid. "suzanne, get up at once. dress yourself, and come to me, to my room." in an incredible short time suzanne had obeyed this mandate. "i am going to take you with me to southampton. suzanne. i mean to catch the train which leaves here at ten minutes to six. we have plenty of time, but not too much. can you make some coffee for us both? and then either you or masters must find a cab." suzanne opened her bright eyes wide. "i will go with you, my goot madam," she said to herself. "the early hour is noting, the strangeness is noting. that olt man--i hate that olt man! i will go alone with you, mine goot mistress, to find the goot husband what is so devoted. ach! suzanne does not like that olt man!" coffee was served in valentine's bedroom. mistress and maid partook of it together. masters was aroused, was fortunate enough in procuring a cab, and at five o'clock, for valentine's impatience could brook no longer delay, she and suzanne had started together for waterloo. once more her spirits were high. she had dared something for gerald. it was already sweet to her to be brave for his sake. before she left she wrote a short letter to her father--a constrained little note--for her fears stood between her and him. she and suzanne arrived at waterloo long before the train started. "oh, how impatient i am!" whispered mrs. wyndham to her maid. "will time never pass? i am sure all the clocks in london must be wrong, this last night has been like three." the longest hours, however, do come to an end, and presently valentine and suzanne found themselves being whirled out of london, and into the early morning of a bright clear march day. the two occupied a compartment to themselves. suzanne felt wide awake, talkative, and full of intense curiosity; but valentine was strangely silent. she ceased either to laugh or to talk. she drew down her veil, and establishing herself in a corner kept looking out at the swiftly passing landscape. once more the fear which had haunted her during the night returned. even now, perhaps, she would not be in time! then she set to work chiding herself. she must be growing silly. the _esperance_ did not leave the dock until noon, and her train was due at southampton soon after eight. of course there would be lots of time. even her father who was to follow by the later train could reach the _esperance_ before she sailed. the train flew quickly through the country, the slow moments dropped into space one by one. presently the train slackened speed--presently it reached its destination. then for the first time valentine's real difficulties began. she had not an idea from which dock the _esperance_ was to sail. a porter placed her luggage on a fly. she and suzanne got in, and the driver asked for directions. no, the _esperance_ was not known to the owner of the hackney coach. when the porter and the cabman questioned mrs. wyndham she suddenly felt as if she had come up against a blank wall. there were miles of ships all around. if she could afford no clue to the whereabouts of the _esperance_ the noon of another day might come before she could reach the dock where it was now lying at anchor. at last it occurred to her to give the name of her father's shipping firm. it was a great name in the city, but neither the porter nor the cabman had come under its influence. they suggested, however, that most likely the firm of paget brothers had an office somewhere near. they said further that if there was such an office the clerks in it could give the lady the information she wanted. valentine was standing by her cab, trying not to show the bewilderment and distress which had seized her, when a man who must have been listening came up, touched his hat, and said civilly:-- "pardon, madam. if you will drive or walk down to the quay, this quay quite close, there is an office, you cannot fail to see it, where they can give you the information you desire, as they are always posted up with regard to the out-going and in-coming vessels. that quay, quite near, cabby. messrs. gilling and gilling's office." he touched his hat again and vanished, being rewarded by valentine with a look which he considered a blessing. "now," she said, "now, i will give you double fare, cabman, treble fare, if you will help me to get to the _esperance_ in time; and first of all, let us obey that good man's directions and go to messrs. gilling and gilling." the quay was close, and so was the office. in two minutes valentine was standing, alas, by its closed doors. a sudden fierce impatience came over her, she rang the office bell loudly. three times she rang before any one answered her summons. then a rather dishevelled and sleepy-looking boy opened the door wide enough to poke his head out and asked her her business. "i want to get news of the ship called the _esperance_." "office don't open till nine." he would have pushed the door to, but suzanne stepping forward deftly put her foot in. "mine goot boy, be civil," she said. "this lady has come a long way, and she wants the tidings she asks very sore." the office boy looked again at valentine. she certainly was pretty; so was suzanne. but the office really did not open till nine, and the boy could not himself give any tidings. "you had better step in," he said. "mr. jones will be here at nine. no, i don't know nothing about the ship." it was now twenty-five minutes past eight. valentine sank down on the dusty chair which the boy pushed forward for her, and suzanne stood impatiently by her side. outside, the cabman whistled a cheerful air and stamped his feet. the morning was cold; but what of that? he himself was doing a good business; he was certain of an excellent fare. "suzanne," said valentine suddenly. "do you mind going outside and waiting in the cab. i cannot bear anyone to stare at me just now." suzanne obeyed. she was not offended. she was too deeply interested and sympathetic. the slow minutes passed. nine o'clock sounded from a great church near, and then more gently from the office clock. at three minutes past nine a bilious-looking clerk came in and took his place at one of the desks. he started when he saw valentine, opened a ledger, and pretended to be very busy. "can you tell me, at once, please, from which dock the _esperance_ sails?" asked mrs. wyndham. her voice was impressive, and sharp with pain and waiting. the clerk thought he might at least stare at her. things were slow and dull at this hour of the morning, and she was a novelty. he could have given the information at once, but it suited him best to dawdle over it. valentine could have stamped with her increasing impatience. the clerk, turning the leaves of a big book slowly, at last put his finger on an entry. "_esperance_ sails for sydney th inst., noon. albert and victoria docks." "thank you, thank you," said valentine. "are these docks far away?" "three miles off, madam." "thank you." she was out of the office and in the cab almost before he had time to close his book. "drive to the albert and victoria docks, instantly, coachman. i will give you a sovereign if you take me there in less than half an hour." never was horse beaten like that cabby's, and valentine, the most tender-hearted of mortals, saw the whip raised without a pang. now she was certain to be in time; even allowing for delay she would reach the _esperance_ before ten o'clock, and it did not sail until noon. yes, there was now not the most remote doubt she was in good time. and yet, and yet--still she felt miserable. still her heart beat with a strange overpowering sense of coming defeat and disaster. good cabman--go faster yet, and faster. ah, yes, how they were flying! how pleasant it was to be bumped and shaken, and jolted--to feel the ground flying under the horse's feet, for each moment brought her nearer to the _esperance_ and to gerald. at last they reached the dock. valentine sprang out of the cab. a sailor came forward to help with her luggage. valentine put a sovereign into the cabman's hand. "thank you," she said, "oh, thank you. yes, i am in good time." her eyes were full of happy tears, and the cabman, a rather hardened old villain, was surprised to find a lump rising in his throat. "which ship, lady?" asked the sailor, touching his cap. "the _esperance_, one of paget brothers' trading vessels. i want to go on board at once; show it to me. suzanne, you can follow with the luggage. show me the _esperance_, good man, my husband is waiting for me." "you don't mean the _experiance_, bound for sydney?" asked the man. "one of paget brothers' big ships?" "yes, yes; do you know her? point her out to me." "ay, i know her. i was helping to lade her till twelve last night." "just show her to me. i am in a frightful hurry. she is here--this is the right dock." "ay, the albert and victoria. the _experiance_ sailing for sydney, noon, on the th." "well, where is she? i will go and look for her by myself." "you can't, lady, she's gone." "what--what do you mean? it isn't twelve o'clock. suzanne, it isn't twelve o'clock." "no, lady." the old sailor looked compassionate enough. "poor young thing," he soliloquized under his breath, "some one has gone and done her. the _experiance_ was to sail at noon," he continued, "and she's a bunny tidy ship, too. i was lading her up till midnight; for last night there came an order, and the captain--captain jellyby's is his name--he was all flustered and in a taking, and he said we was to finish and lade up, and she was to go out of port sharp at eight this morning. she did, too, sharp to the minute. i seen her weigh anchor. that's her, lady--look out there--level with the horizon--she's a fast going ship and she's making good way. let me hold you up, lady--now, can you see her now? _that's_ the _experiance_." chapter xxix. the _esperance_ was a well-made boat; she was about four thousand tons, with improved engines which went at great speed. she was a trading ship, one of the largest and most important of those belonging to paget brothers, but she sometimes took out emigrants, and had room for a few saloon passengers; old travellers, who knew what comfort was, sometimes preferred to go in such ships as the _esperance_ to the more conventional lines of steamers. there was less crowding, less fuss; there was also more room and more comfort. the meals were good and abundant, and the few passengers, provided they were in any sense of the word congenial spirits, became quickly friends. gerald, as one of the members of the firm, was of course accommodated with the very best the _esperance_ could offer. he had a large state room, well furnished, to himself; he was treated with every possible respect, and even consulted with regard to trivial matters. only, however, with regard to very trivial matters. when he arrived at southampton on the evening of the th, he went at once on board the _esperance_. "we shall sail at noon to-morrow," he said to the captain. captain jellyby was a pleasant old salt, with a genial, open, sunburnt face, and those bright peculiar blue eyes which men who spend most of their lives on the sea often have, as though the reflection of some of its blue had got into them. "at noon to-morrow," replied the captain. "yes, and that is somewhat late; but we shan't have finished coaling before." "but we stop at plymouth surely?" "well, perhaps. i cannot positively say. we may be able to go straight on to teneriffe." gerald did not make any further comments. he retired to his cabin and unpacked one or two things, then he went into the saloon, and taking up a book appeared to be absorbed with its contents. in reality he was not reading. he had written a desperate letter that morning, and he was upheld even now in this moment of bitterness by a desperate hope. suppose valentine suddenly found her slumbering heart awake? suppose his words, his wild, weak and foolish words, stung it into action? suppose the wife cried out for her husband, the awakened heart for its mate. suppose she threw all prudence to the winds, and came to him? she could reach him in time. he could not help thinking of this as he sat with his hand shading his eyes, pretending to read in the state saloon of the _esperance_, the vessel which was to carry him away to a living death. if valentine came, oh yes, if valentine came, there would be no death. there might be exile, there might be poverty, there might be dishonor, but no death. it would be all life then--life, and the flush of a stained victory. he owned to himself that if the temptation came he would take it. if his wife loved him enough to come to him he would tell her all. he would tell her of the cruel promise wrung from him, and ask her if he must keep it. the hours flew by; he raised his head and looked at the clock. nine, it was striking nine. he heard a sound on board, and his pulses quickened. it passed--it was nothing. the clock struck ten, it was a beautiful starlight night. all the other passengers who had already come on board were amusing themselves on deck. gerald was alone in the saloon. again there was a sound a little different from the constant cries of the sailors. captain jellyby's name was shouted, and there was a rush, followed by renewed activity. gerald rose slowly, shut his book, and went on deck. it was a dark night although the sky was clear and full of stars. a man in an overcoat and collar turned well up over his ears brushed past wyndham, made for the gangway and disappeared. "good heavens--how like that man was to old helps," soliloquized gerald. he stayed on deck a little longer; he thought his imagination had played him a trick, for what could bring helps on board the _esperance_. presently the captain joined him. chapter xxx. "i am sorry, mr. wyndham," said captain jellyby, "to have to offer you on your very first night on board my good ship very broken slumbers. we shall be lading with coals all night. are you easily disturbed by noise! but i need scarcely ask, for that noise would almost rouse the dead." gerald smiled. "a broken night is nothing," he said; "at least to me. i suppose there always is a great commotion the last night before a vessel sails on a long voyage." "not as a rule--at least that isn't my way. we meant to break off and have a quiet time at midnight, and start operations again at six o'clock in the morning. but i've had directions from head quarters which oblige me to quicken my movements. doocid inconvenient, too!" "what do you mean?" said gerald, the pulses round his heart suddenly quickening. "we sail at noon to-morrow." "we sail at eight in the morning, my good sir, and i, for one, call it doocid inconvenient. (yes, cadgers, what do you want? get all hands possible on board.) i beg your pardon, mr. wyndham. (yes, cadgers.) back with you presently, sir." the captain disappeared, and wyndham went down to his cabin. what did this sudden change mean? who had given the order? was that really helps who had been on board? well, wyndham was in a manner master on this vessel. it was his own, part of his property; he had been told over and over again by his father-in-law that on this voyage, this pleasant voyage, he could give his own orders, and short of anything which would jeopardize the safety of the boat, the captain would humor his wishes. he would countermand an order which was putting everybody out; he did not choose to leave his native shore before the time specified--noon on the following day. in such a short life as his even four hours were of moment. he would not lose the four hours of hope, of the possibility of hope yet left to him. he went on deck, sought out the captain where he was standing, shouting out hoarse directions to gangs of energetic looking sailors. "a word with you, captain jellyby," he said. "there is some mistake in the order which you have received. i mean that i am in a position to cancel it. i do not wish the _esperance_ to sail before noon to-morrow." his voice was very distinct and penetrating, and the sailors stopped work and looked at him. astonishment was written legibly on their faces. "lade away boys, work with a will," said the captain. then he put his hand on gerald's shoulder, turned him round, and walked a pace or two away. "i quite understand your position, mr. wyndham," he said. "and in all possible matters i shall yield you due deference. but----" "yes," said wyndham. "but--we sail at eight to-morrow morning, sharp." "what do you mean? who has given you the order?" "i am not prepared to say. my orders are explicit. another time, when captain jellyby can meet the wishes of mr. wyndham with a clear conscience, his orders shall also be explicit." the captain bowed, laid his hand across his heart and turned away. wyndham went back to his own cabin, and was tortured all night by a desire, sane or otherwise, he could not tell which, to leave the _esperance_ and return to london and valentine. the lading of the vessel went on ceaselessly, and sharp at eight the following morning she weighed anchor and steamed away. wyndham had lain awake all night, but at seven in the morning he fell into a doze. the doze deepened into quietness, into peaceful and refreshing slumber: the lines departed from his young face; he had not undressed, but flung himself as he was on his berth. when the _esperance_ was flying merrily through the water, captain jellyby had time to give wyndham a thought. "that is a nice lad," he said to himself. "he has a nice face, young too. i don't suppose he has seen five-and-twenty, but he knows what trouble means. my name is not jack jellyby if that young man does not know what pretty sharp trouble means. odd, too, for he's rich and has married the chief's daughter, and what a fuss the chief made about his reception here. no expense to be spared; every comfort given, every attention shown, and his orders to be obeyed within reason. ay, my pretty lad, there's the rub--within reason. you looked keen and vexed enough last night when i had to hasten the hour for the departure of the _esperance_. i wonder what the chief meant by that. well, i'll go and have a look at young wyndham; he may as well come with me and see the last of his native shore. as the morning is fine it will be a pretty sight." the captain went and begged for admission to wyndham's cabin. there was no answer, so he opened the door and poked his red smiling face round. "bless me, the boy's asleep," he said; and he came up and took a good look at his new passenger. gerald was dreaming now, and a smile played about his lips. suddenly he opened his eyes and said:-- "yes, valentine, yes, i'm coming!" and sprang to his feet. the captain was standing with his legs a little apart, looking at him. the vessel gave a lurch, and wyndham staggered. "are we off?" he said. "good god, are we really off?" "we were off an hour ago, young sir. come up on deck and see what a pretty coast line we have just here." wyndham put his hand to his forehead. "i have been cheated," he said suddenly. "yes. i've been cheated. i can't speak about it; things weren't clear to me last night, but i had a dream, and i know now what it all means. i woke with some words on my lips. what did i say, captain?" "you called to some fellow of the name of valentine--your brother, perhaps." "i haven't a brother. the person to whom i called was a woman--my wife. she was coming on board. she would have sailed with me if we had waited. now it is too late." the captain raised his shaggy brows the tenth of an inch. "they must be sending him on this voyage on account of his health," he mentally soliloquized. "now i see daylight. a little touched, poor fellow. pity--nice fellow. well, the chief might have trusted me. of course i must humor him, poor lad. come on deck," he said aloud. "it's beastly close down here. you should have the porthole open, the sea is like glass. come on deck and get a breath of fresh air. isn't valentine a rather uncommon name for a woman? yes, of course, i heard you were married. well, well, you'll be home again in six months. now come on deck and look around you." "look here, captain," said gerald suddenly. "i can't explain matters. i daresay you think me queer, but you're mistaken." "they all go on that tack," muttered the captain. "another symptom. well, i must humor him. i don't think you queer," he said, aloud. "you're finely mistaken. you had a dream, and you called on your wife, whom you have just parted from. what more natural? bless you. i know all about it. i was married myself." "and you left your wife?" "i left her, and what is worse she left me. she went up to the angels. bless her memory, she was a young thing. i see her yet, as she bade me good-bye. come on deck, lad." "yes; come on deck," said gerald hoarsely. all that day he was silent, sitting mostly apart and by himself. but the captain had his eye on him. in the evening he came again to captain jellyby. "you touch at plymouth, don't you?" "sometimes." "this voyage, i mean." "no." "i wish you to stop at plymouth." "look here, my lad. 'no' is the only word i can give you. we don't touch land till we get to teneriffe. go and lie down and have a sleep. we shall have a calm sea to-night, and you look fagged out." "are you a man to be bribed?" began wyndham. "i am ashamed of you. i am not." the captain turned his back on him. wyndham caught him by his shoulder. "are you a man to be moved to pity?" "look here, my lad, i can pity to any extent; but if you think any amount of compassion will turn me from my duty, you're in the wrong box. it's my duty, clear as the sky above, to go straight on to teneriffe, and on i shall go. you understand?" "yes," said gerald, "i understand. thank you, captain, i won't bother you further." his voice had altered, his brow had cleared. he walked away to the further end of the deck, whistling a light air. the captain saw him stop to pay some small attention to a lady passenger. "bless me, if i understand the fellow!" he muttered. chapter xxxi. when a die has been cast--cast irrevocably--as a rule there follows a calm. it is sometimes the calm of peace, sometimes that of despair; but there is always a stillness, effort is over, words don't avail, actions are paralyzed. gerald wyndham sat on deck most of that evening. there was a married lady, a certain mrs. harvey, on board, she was going to australia with her husband and one little girl. she was about thirty, and very delicate. gerald's face took her fancy, and they struck up an acquaintance. the evening was so calm, so mild, the water so still, the sky above so clear that the passengers brought wraps and lingered long on deck. mrs. harvey talked all the time to gerald. he answered her not only politely but with interest. she was an interesting woman, she could talk well, she had great sympathy, and she wanted to draw wyndham out. in this she failed, although she imagined she succeeded. he learned much of her history, for she was very communicative, but when she joined her husband downstairs later that evening she could not tell him a single thing about their fellow-passenger. "he has a nice face," they both remarked, and they wondered who he was. it did not occur to them to speak of him as sad-looking. on the contrary, mrs. harvey spoke of his cheerful smile and of his strong appreciation of humor. "it is delightful to meet a man who can see a joke," she said. "most of them are so dense." "i wonder which family of wyndhams he belongs to," remarked the husband. "i wonder if he is married," added the wife. then they both resolved that they would find out to-morrow. but they did not, for the next day wyndham did not come on deck at all. he stayed in his own cabin, and had one or two interviews with the captain. "you know very little about me, captain jellyby," he said, once. "i know that you are married to miss paget," replied the captain, "and i am given to understand that she is a very charming young lady." "i want you to keep the fact of my marriage to yourself." the captain looked a little surprised. "certainly, if you wish it," he said. "i do wish it. i am knocked over to-day, for the fact is, i--i have gone through some trouble, but i don't mean to inflict my troubles on you or my fellow-passengers. i hope i shall prove an acquisition rather than otherwise on board the _esperance_. but what i do not want, what would be particularly repellant to me, is that the other saloon passengers should gossip about me. when they find that i don't talk about myself, or my people, or my wife, they will become curious, and ply you with questions. will you be mum on the subject?" "mum as the grave," said the captain rising and stretching himself. "lord, we'll have some fun over this. if there are a deadly curious, gossiping, wrangling, hole-picking set in this wide world, it's the saloon passengers on board a boat of this kind. i'll make up a beautiful mystery about you, my fine fellow. won't they enjoy it! why, it will be the saving of them." "make up any mystery you like," replied wyndham, "only don't tell them the truth. that is, i mean, what you know of the truth." "and that's nothing," muttered the captain to himself as he went away. "bless me, he is a queer fellow. touched--he must be touched." gerald spent twenty-four hours in god only knows what deep waters of mental agony. the other passengers thought he was suffering from an attack of sea-sickness, for they were just now meeting the heavy channel sea, and the captain did not undeceive them. they passed plymouth before gerald again appeared on deck, and when he once more joined his fellow-passengers they were outside the bay of biscay. gerald had not suffered from any bodily discomfort, but others on board the _esperance_ were less fortunate, and when he once more took his place in the saloon, and went up on deck, he found that work, which all his life long seemed to fall to his share, once more waiting for him. it was the work of making other people comfortable. the harveys' little girl was very weak and fretful. she had gone through a bad time, but when wyndham lifted her in his arms, sat down with her in a sheltered part of the deck, and told her some funny fairy tales, his influence worked like the wand of a good magician. she smiled, told mr. wyndham he was a very nice man, gave him a kiss, and ran downstairs presently to eat her supper with appetite. little cecily harvey was not the only person who came under wyndham's soothing influence. during this first evening he found himself more or less in the position of a sort of general sick-nurse. but the next day people were better, and then he appeared in another _rôle_. he could entertain, with stories, with music, with song. he could recite; above all things he could organize, and had a knack of showing off other people to the best advantage. long before a week had passed, wyndham was the most popular person on board. he was not only popular with saloon passengers, but with the emigrants. there were several on board, and he often spent some hours with them, playing with the children, and talking with the mothers, or, rather, getting the mothers to talk to him. they were flying south now, and every day the air grew more balmy and the sea smoother. the emigrants, boys and girls, fathers and mothers, used to lie out on the deck in the sun, and a very pretty picture they made; the children rolling about laughing and playing, and the mothers, most of them were young mothers, looking on and regarding them with pride. there was scarcely an emigrant mother on board that ship who had not confided her story, her hopes and her fears to wyndham, before the voyage was over. soon that thing happened which had happened long ago at jewsbury-on-the-wold, which had happened in the small house in park-lane, which had happened even with the odds against him to his wife--everybody loved wyndham. hearts warmed as he came near, eyes brightened when they looked at him. he was in the position of a universal favorite. that sometimes is a dangerous position. but not in his case, for he was too unselfish to make enemies. all this time, while his life was apparently drifting, while the hours were apparently gliding on to no definite or especial goal, to a landing at melbourne--to a journey across a new continent--while his days were going by to all intents and purposes like anybody else's days, he knew that between him and them lay an immeasurable gulf. he knew that he was not drifting, but going very rapidly down a hill. the fact is, wyndham knew that the end, as far as he was concerned, was near. his father-in-law had planned one thing, but he had planned another. he told no one of this, he never whispered this to a living creature, but his own mind was inexorably made up. he knew it when he bade his father good-bye that last sunday; when he looked at lilias and marjory, and the other children, he knew it; he knew it when he kissed his wife's cheek that last morning when she slept. in his own way he could be a man of iron will. his will was as iron in this special matter. only once had his determination been shaken, and that was when he pleaded with valentine, and when he hoped against hope that she would listen to his prayer. the last lingering sparks of that hope died away when the captain refused to touch at plymouth. after that moment his own fixed will never wavered. his father-in-law had asked him for half a death; he should have a whole one. that was all. many another man had done what he meant to do before. still it was the end--the great end. no one could go beyond it. he made his plans very carefully; he knew to effect his object he must be extremely careful. he would die, but it must never be supposed, never breathed by mortal soul that he had passed out of this world except by accident. he knew perfectly what the captain thought of him during the first couple of days of his residence on board the _esperance_. "captain jellyby is positive that i am touched in the head," thought wyndham. "i must undo that suspicion." he took pains, and he succeeded admirably. wyndham was not only a favorite on board, but he was cheerful, he was gay. people remarked not on his high but on his good spirits. "such a merry, light-hearted fellow," they said of him. wyndham overheard these remarks now and then. the captain openly delighted in him. "the ship will never be lucky again when you leave her," he said. "you're worth a free passage to any captain. why you keep us all in good humor. passengers, emigrants, sailors and all. here, come along. i thought you rather a gloomy young chap when first i set eyes on you; but now--ah, well, you were homesick. quite accountable. here, i have a request from the second mate, and one or two more of the jack tars down there. they want you to sing them a song after supper. they say it isn't fair that we should have you to ourselves in the saloon." gerald laughed, said he would be happy to oblige the sailors, and walked away. "as jolly a chap as ever i laid eyes on," muttered the captain. "i liked him from the first, but i was mistaken in him. i thought him gloomy. not a bit. i wonder his wife could bear to let him out of her sight. i wouldn't if i were a lass. there, hark to him now! bless me, we are having a pleasant voyage this time." so they were. no one was ill; the amount of rough weather was decidedly below the average, and cheerfulness and contentment reigned on board. the ship touched at teneriffe, but only for a few hours, and then sped on her way to the cape. it was now getting very hot, and an awning was spread over the deck. under this the saloon passengers sat, and smoked and read. no one suspected, no one had the faintest shadow of a suspicion that black care lurked anywhere on board that happy ship, least of all in the breast of the merriest of its crew, gerald wyndham. the _esperance_ reached the cape in safety, there some of the passengers, gerald amongst them, landed, for the captain intended to lie at anchor for twenty-four hours. then again they were away, and now they were told they must expect colder weather for they were entering the southern ocean, and were approaching high latitudes of polar cold. they would have to go through the rough sea of the "roaring forties," and then again they would emerge into tropical sunshine. soon after they left the cape, little cecily harvey fell ill. she caught a chill and was feverish, and the doctor and her mother forbade her to go on deck. she was only eight years old, a pretty, winsome child. gerald felt a special tenderness for her, for she reminded him of his own little sister joan. during this illness she often lay for hours in his arms, with her little feverish cheek pressed against his, and her tiny hot hand comforted by his firm cool clasp. "mr. wyndham," she said on one of these occasions. "i wish you wouldn't do it." "do what, cecily?" "run up the rigging as you do. i heard one of the sailors talking to mrs. meyrich the other day, and he said you were too daring, and some day you'd have a slip, and be overboard, if you did not look sharp." "oh, i'll take care of myself, cecily. at one time i thought of being a sailor, and i was always climbing, always climbing at home. there isn't the least fear. i'm not rash. i'm a very careful fellow." "are you? i'm glad of that. had you tall trees at your home?" gerald gave the little hand a squeeze. "they were like other trees," he said. "don't let us talk of them." "mustn't we? i'm sorry. i wanted to hear all about your home." "i haven't a home, cecily. once i had one, but you can understand that it is painful to speak of what one has lost." "i'm very sorry for you, dear mr. wyndham. did you lose a little sister, too? is that why you squeeze me so tight?" "i have lost many little sisters; we won't talk of them, either. what is the matter, cecily? do you feel faint?" "no, but i hate this rough, choppy sea. i want it to be smooth again as it used to be. then i can go on deck, and lie under the awning, and you can sit near me, and tell me stories. will you?" gerald did not answer. "_will_ you, mr. wyndham?" "i can lie to everyone else but not to the child," muttered gerald. he roused himself, and sought to divert her attention. "we are in the 'roaring forties' now," he said. "isn't that a funny name? the sea is always very choppy and rough here, but it won't last long. you will soon be in pleasant weather and smooth seas again." cecily was not satisfied, and gerald presently left her and went on deck. the weather was not pleasant just now, it was cold and squally, always veering about and causing a choppy and disagreeable motion with the ship. some of the ladies took again to their beds, and went through another spell of sea-sickness; the more fortunate ones sat and chatted in the great saloon--not one of them ventured on deck. gerald, who was not in the least indisposed in body, found plenty to do in his _rôle_ of general cheerer and comforter. when he was not nursing little cecily he spent some time with the emigrants, amongst whom he was a great favorite. on this particular day a round-faced young woman of five and twenty, a certain mrs. notley, came up to him the moment he appeared on the lower deck. "they do say it, sir, and i thought i'd speak to you, so that you wouldn't mind. they do say you're over rash in helping the sailors--over rash, and none so sure-footed as you think yourself." "folly," said gerald, laughing good-humoredly. "so i can't run up a rope or tighten a rigging without people imagining that i am putting my precious life in jeopardy. don't you listen to any foolish tales, mrs. notley. i'm a great deal too fond of myself to run any risks. i shan't slip, if that's what you mean--for that matter i have always been climbing, since i was a little chap no bigger than that urchin of yours there." "ay, sir, that's all very well, but it's different for all that on board ship; there may come a lurch when you least look for it, and then the surest-footed and the surest-handed is sometimes outwitted. you'll excuse my mentioning of it, sir, but you're a bonny young gentleman, and you has the goodwill of everyone on board." "thank you, mrs. notley, i like to hear you say so. it is pleasant to be liked." "ah, sure you are that, and no mistake, and you'll forgive me mentioning it, sir, but you'll be careful, won't you? you ain't married for sure, for your face is too lightsome for that of a married man. but maybe you has a mother and a sweetheart, and you might think of them, sir, and not be over daring." wyndham's face grew suddenly white. "as it happens i have neither a mother nor sweetheart," he said. then he turned away somewhat abruptly, and mrs. notley feared she had offended him. the sailors prophesied "dirty weather;" they expected it, for this was the roughest part of the voyage. gerald was very fond of talking to the sailors and getting their opinions. he strolled over to where a group of them were standing now, and they pointed to some ugly looking clouds, and told him that the storm would be on them by night. nothing very bad, or to be alarmed at, they said, still a rough and nasty sea, with a bit of a gale blowing. the women and children wouldn't like it, poor things, and it would be a dark night too, no moon. gerald asked a few more questions. "i have a great anxiety to see a storm," he said. "if it gets really stormy, i'll come up; i can shelter beside the man at the wheel." "better not, sir," one or two said. "the vessel is sure to lurch over a good bit, and it takes more sea-weather legs than yours to keep their footing at such a time." "all the same," remarked a burly-looking sailor, who was to take his place at the wheel for some hours that night, and thought gerald's company would be a decided acquisition, "i could put the gent into a corner where he'd be safe enough round here, and it's something to see a gale in these parts--something to live for--not that there'll be much to-night, only a bit of a dirty sea; but still----" "expect me, loggan, if it does come," said wyndham. he laughed and turned away. he walked slowly along the upper deck. captain jellyby came up and had a word with him. "yes, we're in for a dirty night," he remarked. then wyndham went downstairs. he chatted for a little with the ladies in the saloon. then he went into his own cabin. he shut the door. the time had arrived--the hour had come. he felt wonderfully calm and quiet; he was not excited, nor did his conscience smite him with a sense of any special wrong-doing. right or wrong he was going to do something on which no blessing could be asked, over which no prayer could be uttered. he had been brought up in a house where prayers had been many; he had whispered his own baby prayers to his mother when he was a little child. well, well, he would not think of these things now. the hour was come, the moment for action was ripe. there was a little daylight, and during that time he meant to occupy himself with one last task; he would write a letter to his wife, a cheerful, bright everyday letter, to the wife for whose sake he was about to rush unbidden into the arms of death. he had a part to act, and this letter was in the programme. to make all things safe and above suspicion he must write it, and leave it carelessly on his table, so that the next ship they touched should convey it to her. he took out a sheet of foreign notepaper, and wrote steadily. his hand did not shake, he covered the whole sheet of paper; his words were bright, contented; no shadow of gloom touched them. they were full of anticipation, of pleasure in the moment--of pleasure in the coming reunion. the writing of this letter was the very hardest task of the man's whole life. when it was over great drops of sweat stood on his forehead. he read it steadily, from beginning to end, however, and his only fear was that it was too bright, and that she might see through it, as in a mirror, the anguish beneath. the letter was written, and now wyndham had nothing to do. he had but to sit with his hands before him, and wait for the gathering darkness and the ever-increasing gale. he sat for nearly an hour in his own cabin, he was past any consecutive thought now; still, so great was the constraint he was able to put over himself that outwardly he was quite calm. presently he went into the saloon. cecily harvey alone was there, all the ladies having gone in to dinner. she sprang up with a cry of delight when she saw gerald. "mr. wyndham, have you come to stay with me? why aren't you at dinner? how white you look." "i am not hungry, cecily. i thought you would be alone, and i came out to see you. i wanted you to give me a kiss." "of course i will--of course i will," said the affectionate child, throwing her arms around his neck. "you remind me of one of the little sisters i have lost," he said hurriedly. "thank you, cecily, thank you. be a good child, always. i would say 'god bless you' if i dared." "why don't you dare? you are a good man, a very good man, the best i know." "hush, cecily, you don't know what you are talking about. give me another kiss. thank you sweet little girl." he went back again to his own cabin. the longing for compassion at this crucial moment had made him run a risk in talking so to cecily. he blamed himself, but scarcely regretted the act. it was certainly going to be a dirty night, and already the sailors were busy overhead. the good ship creaked and strained as she to fought her way through the waters. the ladies loudly expressed their uneasiness, and the gentleman-passengers fought down some qualms which they considered unmanly. wyndham rose from his seat in the dark, pressed his lips to the letter he had written to his wife, suddenly he started, reeled a step and fell back. there is no accounting for what happened--but happen it did. _valentine herself stood beside him, stretched out her arms to him, uttered a brief cry, and then vanished._ he felt like a madman; he pressed his hands to his head and rushed on deck. * * * * * "stand there, mr. wyndham, there," said the sailor loggan. "you'll be safe enough. oh, yes, more than one wave will wash us. shall i lash you to the wheel, sir? maybe it would be safer." "no, no, thank you." the voice was quite quiet and calm again. certainly the night was a rough one, but between and under the loud voice of the storm, loggan and his companion exchanged some cheerful phrases. "no, sir, i ain't never afeared." "what if you were to go to the bottom?" "the will of the good god be done, sir. i'd go a-doing of my duty." "you're an honest fellow, loggan; shake hands with me." "that i will, mr. wyndham. what are you doing with that rope, sir? it's cold, it's slippery--oh, the knot has got loose, i'll call a man to tighten it, sir; let me--let me. you'll be over, sir, if you don't look out; we're going to lunge this way. take care, sir--take care--_for god's sake, take care_!" wyndham took care. chapter xxxii. the summer came early that year. the rectory was a charming place in the summer, and on this particular bright day in june one of the numerous school-feasts was in course of preparation, and all the young wyndhams were working with a will and energy which could scarcely be surpassed. the feast was in full progress; the village children consumed tea and buns, as only village children can. augusta was refusing to help the babies to any more; joan and betty were half-crying because she snatched the rich currant buns out of their hands; marjory was leading the most obstreporous members of her flock away to the other end of the long meadow, where they could play orange and lemons, nuts in may, and other festive games; and lilias, as she helped to pack away the remnants of the feast, was answering some questions of carr's. "we ought to have heard by now," she was saying. "my father is a little uneasy, but i am not--at least, of course, i am anxious for valentine. the suspense must be very trying for her!" "when did your brother's ship sail?" "on the th of march." "and this is the th of june. the _esperance_ must have been reported at lloyd's long ago." "how stupid of me never to think of that," said lilias, her face brightening. "but would they not put the arrivals in the papers? i have certainly looked and never seen it." "you have probably overlooked it. i will write and inquire for you. the _esperance_, even allowing for delays, has probably reached its destination some weeks ago. on the other hand it would be scarcely possible for you to have had a letter from your brother. yes, you are right not to be anxious; i will go and have a chat with your father presently. is mrs. wyndham well?" "i think so--fairly well. she is coming to stay with us next week." carr strolled away. "what a nice comfortable young man he is turning into," said marjory, who came up at that moment. "ah, yes, your face is brighter already for having had an interview with him. whisper no secrets to me. i know--i know." lilias' clear brown skin was transfused with color. "don't be silly, marjory," she said. "i don't mind owning that mr. carr _is_ a comfortable person to talk to. he has just been removing my fears about gerald." "oh, i thought you had no fears." "well, father's fears, then. he has been saying things to me which will remove my father's fears completely." "that is right--heaven be praised. you and the rector are nothing but a pair of old croaks lately. hey-ho! i am perfectly weary of your long faces and your apprehensions. thank goodness. val is coming; she'll wake us up a little." lilias opened her dark eyes. "i did not know you cared so much for valentine," she said. "i admired her very much the last time i saw her. that was a month ago--she seemed so spirited and courageous. i used to think her something of a doll, but she's a woman now, and a fine one. perhaps it's the thought of the baby coming." "or perhaps," said lilias, "she has found out at last what our gerald is." "both, most likely," said marjory. "anyhow, she's changed; and the funniest part is that that old man----" "what old man, marjory?" "don't interrupt me--her father. i always call him that old man--well, i think he's afraid of her. she doesn't pet him the way she used, but she's very gentle with him. oh, she's a good bit altered; there's something in her now." "i suppose there was always something in her," said lilias. "for gerald"--her lips trembled--"gave up so much for her." "no more than any man gives up for any woman," said marjory. "a man shall leave his father and mother. oh, yes, poor old lil, i know how you felt it. you always made an idol of gerald. i suppose you'll marry some day; you are so pretty--and h'm--h'm--there's somebody waiting for somebody--there, i don't want to tease, only when you do marry, my pretty sister, i wonder if he'll come inside gerald in your heart." "i won't marry until i love some one even better than my only brother," replied lilias in a grave voice. "that time has not come yet," she added, and then she turned away. the games went on as fast as ever; marjory romped with the merriest. lilias was graver than her sister, not so fond of pastimes, perhaps not quite so generally popular. she went into the house, sat down by the organ in the hall and began to play. she had almost as much talent as gerald; her fingers wandered over the keys, she was in a dreamy mood, and her thoughts were carrying her back to a bygone scene--to gerald's face on that sunday night. she heard again the rich tones of his voice, and heard his words:-- "till in the ocean of thy love we loose ourselves in heaven above." "oh, gerald," she said with a kind of sob, "things have been hard for me since you went away. it was not your marriage alone, i had prepared myself for that; but it was more--it was more. the church of god--you gave that up. yes, yes. there has been a shut door between us. gerald, since you and valentine first met; and where are you now--where are you now?" "lilias," said little joan running in breathlessly, "father wants you in his study, quickly. i don't think he's quite well. he has just had a letter, and he looks so queer." "i'll go to him at once," said lilias. she could be apprehensive enough, but in real danger, in times of real anxiety, her head could be cool and her steps firm. "yes, father," she said, motioning the frightened little joan away. she shut the library door behind her. "yes, father. what is it? jo says that you have got a letter, and that you want me." "oh, i don't suppose it's anything," said the rector. "that is, i don't mean to be uneasy. here's the letter. lilias. you ought to read it, perhaps. it's from paget. he is evidently nervous himself, but i don't suppose there is any need. read it, and tell me what you think." the rector thrust a sheet of paper into his daughter's hand. then went over to one of his book shelves and pretended to be busy rummaging up some folios. lilias read as follows:-- my dear sir,--i write on a subject of some little anxiety. i did not wish to trouble you before it was necessary, but now i confess that we--i refer to my house of business--have cause to feel uneasiness with regard to the fate of the _esperance_. she is quite a month overdue at sydney; even allowing for all possible delays, she is at least that time overdue. the last tidings of her were from the cape, and it is feared from their date that she must have encountered rough weather in the southern ocean. nothing is known, however, and every hour we look for a cable announcing her arrival at melbourne if not at sydney. it is possible she may have been injured, which will account for the delay, but i scarcely apprehend anything worse. i ought scarcely to say that i am anxious; up to the present there is no real cause to apprehend anything worse than an accident to the vessel. vessels are often a month behind their time, and all is satisfactorily explained at the end. i am now troubling you with regard to another matter. i do not want my daughter and your son's wife to be needlessly alarmed. it is most important that her mind should be kept free from apprehension until after the birth of their child. you kindly asked her to go to see you. can you have her at the rectory at once? and will you send lilias to fetch her? i know you and yours will keep all fears from her, and, poor child, she reads my face like a book. yours faithfully, "mortimer paget." "well, lilias," said the rector. "well? he's a little over nervous, isn't he, eh? vessels are often a month overdue. eh, lilias? but of course they are. somehow i'm not nervous since i got that letter. i was before, but not now." he rubbed his hands together as he spoke. "it's summer now, and we'll have gerald back before the next snow comes. i told the boy so when he bid me good-bye; he was a bit upset that night after you girls went to bed. poor fellow, i had quite to cheer him; he's a very affectionate lad. no, i'm not nervous, and i wonder at paget. but what do _you_ think, lilias?" lilias folded up the letter, and put it back in her old father's hand. then she stole her arm round his neck, and kissed him. "we will be brave," she said. "if we have fears we won't speak of them; we have got to think of valentine now, not of ourselves." the rector almost shook lilias' hand from his neck. "fears," he said, in a light and cheerful voice, a voice which was belied by his tremulous hands, and by his almost petulant movement. "fears! my dear girl, they really don't exist. at this moment, were we clairvoyant, we should see gerald either rising leisurely from a good night's rest, or sitting down to his breakfast in one of those luxurious houses one reads of in froude's 'oceana.' vessels like the _esperance_ don't go to the bottom. now, lil, at what hour will you go to fetch valentine? you will go up to town to-morrow, of course." "by the first train," replied lilias. her lips quivered. she turned away; there was nothing more to be said. her father's manner did not in the least deceive her. "dear old man!" she said to herself. "if he can be brave, so will i. but oh, gerald, does any heart ache more for you than the heart of your sister lilias?" chapter xxxiii. valentine had got a blow. the first real great blow which had ever been dealt to her. it had a most curious effect. instead of stunning or rendering her weak and incapable, it suddenly changed her from a child into a practical and clever and wide-awake woman. the very quality of her voice changed. it became full, and inspired respect the moment she spoke. she was quite aware that her father had deceived her, that he did not mean her to accompany gerald to sydney. she said nothing about this knowledge--not even that evening when she got home and found her father looking ten years older, but standing on the step of her own little home waiting for her. "i was too late," she said, quietly. "the _esperance_ sailed four hours before its time. i must do without gerald for six months; in six months he will be home." "in six months," echoed mr. paget, following her upstairs to the drawing-room. "kiss me, my darling," he said. "valentine, you will come back to your own home to-morrow." valentine raised her cheek to meet her father's lips. "i think i would rather remain here," she said. "this, after all, is my only real home; you don't mind my keeping the house, do you, father?" "no, my dear, if you wish it. only i thought----" his last words came out almost tremulously. "sometimes we are mistaken in our thoughts," responded valentine. "i should like best to stay on in my husband's house. six months will not be long passing; and--father, i have some news for you. in july--if i live until july--god is going to give me a child--gerald's child and mine. i should like it to be born here." "thank god," exclaimed mr. paget. "i am very glad of this, valentine," he said. "this--this--is an inestimable mercy. i hope your child will be a son. my dear daughter, this news lifts a great weight off my mind." he looked what he felt, delighted. "of course you must live wherever you like best," he said. "july--this is march--the child's father will be----" but he did not finish this sentence. he went away soon afterwards. ten years had been added to his life in that one single day. he knew, one glance into valentine's eyes told him, that she no longer believed in him. what was any success with the heart of his darling turned aside? he walked home feeling tottering and feeble; he had had a blow, but also a strong consolation--his daughter's child--his grandson. of course the child should be a boy. there was something to live for in such news as this. a boy to step into his shoes by-and-bye--to keep up the credit of the old house; a boy who should have no shame on him, and no dark history. yes, yes, this was very good news, and unlooked for; he had much to live for yet. after this mr. paget followed his daughter about like a shadow. every day her mind and her powers were developing in fresh directions. she had certainly lost some of the charm of her childish ways, but her gain had been greater than her loss. her face had always been spirituelle, the expression sprightly, the eyes under their arched brows full of light. people had spoken of the girlish face as beautiful, but now that it belonged to a grave and patient, in some respects a suffering woman, they found that it possessed more than ordinary loveliness. the soul had come back again into valentine's eyes. she knew two things. she was loved--her husband told her that no woman had ever been loved so well before. she was also to become a mother. she considered herself, notwithstanding her crosses, blessed among women, and she resolved to live worthily. patience and faith both were hers, and whenever she felt inclined to rebel, to fret, to fume, she thought of the day when she should show her baby to her husband, and tell him face to face that all her heart, all her best affections were divided between him and their child. she kept to her resolution of living on in the little house in park-lane. she led a busy life, interesting herself a good deal in the anxieties and cares of others. when a woman takes up that _rôle_ she always finds abundance to do, for there are few pairs of shoulders that have not a burden to carry. she also wrote by every mail to her husband. she had already received one letter from him, posted at teneriffe. this letter was affectionate--cheerful. valentine read it over and over. it was a very nice letter, but its words did not reach down into her heart as that other letter of gerald's, written before he sailed, had done. she was puzzled by it. still she owned to herself that it was just the letter she ought to receive, just the pleasant happy words of a man who was leading a busy and useful life; who was going away for a definite object, and hoped soon to return to his wife and his home. all went well with valentine until a certain day. she rose as usual on the morning of that day, went down to breakfast, opened one or two letters, attended to a couple of domestic matters, and went slowly back to the drawing-room. she liked to dust and tidy her little drawing-room herself. she had put it in order this morning, had arranged fresh flowers in the vases, and was finally giving one or two fresh touches to gerald's violin, which she always kept near her own piano, when she was startled by the consciousness that she was not alone. she raised her head, turned quickly, a cold air seemed to blow on her face. "valentine!" said her husbands voice, in a tone of unspeakable agony. she fancied she even saw his shadowy outline. she stretched out her arms to him--he faded away. * * * * * that afternoon mrs. wyndham paid her father a visit in the city. she was shown into his private room by helps, who eyed her from head to foot with great anxiety. mr. paget looked into her face and grew perceptibly paler. he was certainly nervous in these days--nervous, and very much aged in appearance. "is anything wrong, valentine?" he could not help saying to his daughter. it was the last sentence he wished to pass his lips--he bit them with vexation after the words had escaped them. "sit down, my dear; have you come to take me for a drive, like--like--old times?" "i have not, father. i have come to know when you expect to hear tidings of the arrival of the _esperance_ at sydney." "not yet, valentine. impossible so soon. in any case we shall have a cable from melbourne first--the vessel will touch there." "when are you likely to hear from melbourne?" "not for some days yet." "but you know the probable time. can you not ascertain it? will you hear in ten days? in a week? in three days?" "you are persistent, valentine." mr. paget raised his eyes and looked at her from head to foot. "i will ascertain," he said in an almost cold voice, as he sounded an electric bell by his side. helps answered the summons. "helps, when is the _esperance_ due at melbourne?" again helps glanced quickly at mrs. wyndham; he was standing rather behind her, but could catch a glimpse of her face. "by the end of may," he said, speaking slowly. his quick eyes sought his chief's; they took their cue. "not sooner," he continued. "possibly by the end of may." "thank you," said valentine. the man withdrew. "i have nearly a month to wait," she said, rising and looking at her father. "i did not know that the voyage would be such a lengthy one. when you do hear the news will be bad, father; yes, the news will be bad. i have nothing to say about it, no explanation to offer, only i know." before mr. paget could make a single reply, valentine had left him. he was decidedly alarmed about her. "can she be going out of her mind?" he soliloquized. "women sometimes do before the birth of their children. what did she mean? it is impossible for her to know anything. pshaw! what is there to know? i verily believe i am cultivating that abomination of the age--nerves!" whatever valentine did mean, she met her father that evening as if nothing had happened. she was bright, even cheerful; she played and sang for him. he concluded that she was not out of her mind, that she had simply had a fit of the dismals, and dismissed the matter. the month passed by, slowly for valentine--very slowly, also, for her father. it passed into space, and there was no news of the _esperance_. more days went by, no news, no tidings of any sort. valentine thought the vessel was a fortnight overdue. her father knew that it was at least a month behind its time. when he wrote his letter to the rector of jewsbury-on-the-wold he felt even more anxious than his words seemed to admit. the day after the receipt of this letter lilias came to town and took valentine home with her. the next morning mr. paget went as usual to his office. his first inquiry was for news of the _esperance_. the invariable answer awaited him. "no tidings as yet." he went into the snug inner room where he lunched, where valentine's picture hung, and where he had made terms with gerald wyndham. he sank down into an easy-chair, and covered his face with his hands. "would to god this suspense were at an end," he said. the words had scarcely passed his lips when helps knocked for admission at the inner door, he opened it, caught a glimpse of his servant's face, and fell back. "you heard," he said. "come in and tell me quick. the _esperance_ is lost, and every soul on board----" "hush, sir," said helps. "there's no news of the _esperance_. command yourself, sir. it isn't that--it's the other thing. the young gentleman from india, he's outside--he wants to see you." "good god, helps. positively i'm faint. shut the door for a moment; he has come, then. you are sure?" "this is his card, sir. mr. george carmichael." "give me a moment's time, helps. so he has come. it would have been all right but for this confounded uncertainty with regard to the _esperance_. but it is all right, of course. plans such as mine don't fail, they are too carefully made. all the same, i am shaken, helps. helps, i am growing into an old man." "you do look queer, mr. paget; have a little brandy, sir; you'd better." "thank you; a little, then. open that cupboard, you will find the flask. brandy steadies the nerves. now i am better. helps, it was in this room i made terms with young wyndham." "god forgive you, sir, it was." "why do you say that? you did not disapprove at the time." "i didn't know mr. wyndham, sir; had i known, i wouldn't have allowed breathing man to harm a hair of his head." "how would you have prevented it?" "how?" the old clerk's face took an ugly look. "split on you, and gone to prison, of course," he said. "now, shall i send mr. george carmichael in? it was for his sake you did it. my god, what a sin you sinned! i see mr. wyndham's face every night of my life. good god, why should men like him be hurled out of the world because of sinners like you and me?" "he's not hurled out of the world," exclaimed mr. paget. he rose and swore a great oath. then he said in a quieter voice:-- "ask mr. carmichael to step into my office." "into this room, sir?" "into this room. go, fool." certainly mr. paget had some admirable qualities. by the time a pale-faced, slight, languid-looking man made his appearance, he was perfectly calm and self-possessed. he spoke in a courteous tone to his visitor, and bade him be seated. they exchanged a few common-places. then mr. george carmichael, who showed far more uneasiness than his host, explained the motive of his visit. "you knew my father," he said. "owing to a strange circumstance, which perhaps you are aware of, but which scarcely concerns the object of this call, certain papers of importance did not come into my hands until i was of age. these are the papers." he placed two yellow documents on the table. "i find by these that i am entitled to money which you hold in trust." "you are," said mr. paget, with a kindly smile. "i am puzzled to know why i was never made aware of the fact. i was brought up as a poor man. i had no expectations. i have not been educated to meet the position which in reality awaited me. somebody has done me a wrong." "i assure you not me, mr. carmichael. perhaps, however, i can throw some light on the subject. if you will do me the favor of dining with me some evening we can talk the matter over at our leisure." "thank you, i have very little leisure." the stranger was wonderfully restless. "after a struggle i have succeeded in obtaining a good post in calcutta. i hurried over to see you. i must hurry back to my work. oh, yes, thanks, i like india. the main point is, when can you hand me over my money. with interest it amounts to----" "including interest it amounts to eighty thousand pounds, mr. carmichael. allow me to congratulate you, sir, as a man of fortune. there is no need to hurry back to that beggarly clerkship." "it's not a clerkship, mr. paget, nor beggarly. i'm a partner in a rising concern. the other man's name is parr; he has a wife and children, and i wouldn't desert him for the world. eighty thousand pounds! by jove, won't parr open his eyes." mr. george carmichael was now so excited that his shyness vanished. "when can i have my money, sir?" "in a month's time." "not until then? i wanted to go back to india next week." "it can be sent after you." a slow suspicious smile crept round the young man's lips; he looked more well-bred than he was. "none of that," he said. "i don't stir until i get the cheque. i say, can't you give it me at once? it's mine." "not a day sooner than a month. i must take that time to realize so large a sum. you shall have it this day month." "beastly inconvenient. parr will be in no end of a taking. i suppose there's no help for it, however." "none." "this is the th of june. now you're not playing me a trick, are you? you'll pay me over that money all square on the th of july." mr. paget had an imposing presence. he rose now, slowly, stood on the hearthrug, under his daughter's picture, and looked down at his guest. "i am sorry for you," he said. "your education has certainly been imperfect. your father was a gentleman, and my friend. you, i regret to say, are not a gentleman. i don't repeat my invitation to dine at my house. with regard to the money it shall be in your hands on the th july. i am rather pressed for time this morning, mr. carmichael, and must ask you to leave me. stay, however, a moment. you are, of course, prepared to give me all proofs of identity?" "what do you mean, sir?" "what i say. the certificate of the marriage of your parents and certificate of the proof that you are the person you represent yourself to be must be forthcoming. i must also have letters from your friends in india. no doubt, of course--no doubt who you are, but these things are necessary." notwithstanding that he was the owner of eighty thousand pounds, mr. george carmichael left the august presence of the head of paget brothers feeling somewhat crestfallen. he had scarcely done so before helps rushed in. "a cable, sir! praise the lord, a cable at last!" he thrust the sheet of paper into his employer's hands. it came from melbourne, and bore the date of the day before. "_esperance_ arrived safely. delay caused by broken machinery. accident of a painful nature on board. full particulars by mail. "jellyby." chapter xxxiv. mr. paget was most careful that the full contents of the cable did not go to his daughter at jewsbury-on-the-wold. he read it three or four times, then he took up a telegraph form and wired to her as follows:-- "_esperance_ arrived safely. delay caused by injury to machinery." this telegram caused intense rejoicing at the rectory, and mr. paget had his gloomy part to himself. he conned that part over and over. a serious accident. to whom? about whom? what a fool that jellyby was not to have given him more particulars. why did that part of the cablegram fill him with consternation? why should he feel so certain that the accident in question referred to his son-in-law? well, he must wait over a month for news, and during that month he must collect together eighty thousand pounds. surely he had enough to think of. why should his thoughts revert to wyndham with an ever-increasing dread? "wyndham is safe enough," he said. "jolly enough, too, i make no doubt. his money waits for him at ballarat. of course bad news will come, but _i_ shall see through it. oh, yes, _i_ shall see through it fast enough." days of suspense are hard days--long and weary days. as these days crept one by one away mr. paget became by no means an easy person to live with. his temper grew morose, he was irritable, manifestly ill at ease, and he would often for hours scarcely utter a word. the th of july passed. mr. carmichael again called for his money. a part was paid to him, the balance the head of the great shipping firm assured the young man could not possibly be forthcoming for another month or six weeks. "i am sorry," mr. paget said, "extremely sorry not to be able to fulfil my word to the letter. but i must have time to realize such a large sum, and i greatly fear i must claim it." mr. carmichael had a cheque in his hand for ten thousand pounds. he could scarcely feel discontented at such a moment, and took his departure grumbling but elated. "helps," said mr. paget, "i have taken that ten thousand pounds out of the business, and it can ill afford to lose it. if news does not come soon we are undone, and all our plotting and planning won't save the old place nor the honor of the old house." "no fear," muttered helps. "the news will come. i have bad dreams at night. the house will be saved. don't you fret, mr. paget." he went out of the room looking as morose and ugly as possible, and mortimer paget hurled no blessings after him. the next day was fraught with tidings. a thick packet lay on the chief's desk, bearing the imprint of the _esperance_ on it. by the side of the packet was a telegram. he opened the telegram first:-- jewsbury-on-the-wold, a.m. "valentine had a son this morning. both doing well." the tears absolutely sprang to mr. paget's eyes. his hands trembled; he looked round furtively; there was no one by. then he raised the telegram to his lips and kissed it. valentine had a son--he had a grandson. another head of the old house had arisen on the horizon. he rang his electric bell; he was so excited that he could not keep these tidings to himself. "i have sent for you to receive your congratulations, helps," he said; "and--and here's a cheque for ten pounds. you must go home early and have a good supper--champagne and all that sort of thing. not a word, helps, my good fellow, you deserve it. you quite deserve it!" "may i ask what for, mr. paget? forgive me, sir. i see that the packet from the _esperance_ has come." "so it has. it can wait. take your money, helps, and drink my grandson's health. he arrived this morning, bless him--my daughter had a son this morning." "indeed, sir. it's a pity the father isn't there. it would have been pretty to have seen mr. wyndham as a father. yes, sir. i'm glad your young lady is doing well. babes come with trouble, and it seems to me they mostly go with trouble. all the same, we make a fuss of them--and the world's too full as it is." "this child supplies a long felt need," replied the baby's grandfather, frowning. "he is the future head of the house." "poor innocent. yes, sir, i congratulate you as in duty bound. you'll soon read that packet, won't you, sir. it seems a sort of a coincidence like, getting news of the father and the babe in one breath." "i'll read the packet presently," said mr. paget. "go away now, helps; don't disturb me." left alone, the pleased man spread out the pink sheet of paper in such a position that his eye could constantly rest on it. then he broke the seal of captain jellyby's yarn, and began to read. chapter xxxv. _esperance_, april . "my dear sir,-- "i begin a letter to you under peculiarly afflicting circumstances. your son-in-law, the favorite of every one on board, one of the nicest young gentlemen i have had the luck to meet, fell overboard last night, between nine and ten o'clock, when a very heavy sea was running. he was standing at the wheel, talking to a sailor of the name of loggan. loggan said he was very cheerful and keen to watch the storm. he was helping to tighten up a bit of rope when the boat gave a lurch. loggan shouted to him to take care, but he was taken off his feet, and the next moment was in the water. we put out the boats and did all in our power, but in addition to the storm the night was very dark, and we never saw nor heard anything more of the unfortunate young gentleman. the night was so rough he must have gone to the bottom almost directly. i cannot express to you, sir, what a gloom this has cast upon all on board. as i said already, your son-in-law was beloved by passengers and sailors alike. his death was due to the most ordinary accident. "well, sir, regrets are useless, but if regrets would bring mr. wyndham back, he would be safe and well now; he was one of the most taking young men i ever came across, and also one of the best. please give my respectful condolences to his poor young widow----" here there was a break in the narrative. it was taken up some days later. "i had scarcely written the last when an awful thing happened. there was a fearful crash on board, and in short, sir, our funnel was blown down. i can scarcely go into particulars now, but for many days we lay at the mercy of the waves, and i never thought to see land any more. it speaks well for the worthiness of the _esperance_ that she weathered such a gale. but for many days and nights the destruction to your property, for the water poured in in all parts, and the miserable state of the passengers, baffles description. the ship was in such a condition that we could not use steam, and when the storm abated had to drift as best we could. for our main masts were also broken, and we could put on scarcely any sail. our provisions were also becoming short. "a week ago, by the mercy of god, we came within hail of the steamer _salamanca_, which towed us into port, and the _esperance_ has been put into dock at melbourne for repairs. "under these appalling circumstances, mr. wyndham's loss has not been forgotten, but to a certain extent cast on one side. perhaps i ought to say here; sir, that when your son-in-law commenced his voyage to sydney under my auspices, he appeared to be in such a state of agitation, and in such distress of mind, that i feared for his brain, and wondered if you had sent him on this voyage by a doctor's orders. he made also a request to me which seemed to confirm this view. he begged me not to let out to anyone on board the smallest particulars (i really did not know any) of his history. in especial he did not wish his wife spoken of. he looked strange when he made these requests, and even now i can see the despair in his eyes when i refused--you will remember, sir, by your express desire--to touch at plymouth. i may as well say frankly, that had mr. wyndham continued as depressed as he was the first few days of the voyage, i should have scarcely considered his untimely end altogether due to accident. but i am happy to be able to reassure your mind on that point. that he felt the separation from his wife terribly at first there is no doubt, but there is also no doubt that he got over this feeling, that he was healthily happy, and altogether the brightest fellow on board. in short, sir, he was the life of the ship; even now we are never done lamenting him. untimely as his fate was, no one could have been more ready to rush suddenly into the presence of his maker. i enclose with this a formal certificate of mr. wyndham's death, with the latitude and longitude of the exact spot where he must have gone down accurately described. this certificate is duly attested by the consul here, and i delayed one day in writing to you in order that it should go. "i remain, sir, "yours respectfully, "harry jellyby." "p.s.--i forgot to mention that two of our boats have been absolutely lost; but i will send you a full list of casualties by next mail." helps had never felt more restless than he did that morning; he could not attend to his ordinary avocations. truth to tell, helps' position in the house of paget brothers had always been more or less a dubious one. it was patent to all that he was confided in to a remarkable degree by the head of the house. it was also observed that he had no special or defined post. in short that he did a little of everybody's work, and seemed to have nothing absolutely depending on himself. all the same, when helps was away the whole establishment felt a loss. if the old clerk was useful for no other purpose, he was at least valuable as a scape-goat. he could bear blame which belonged to others. it was convenient to make excuses, and to shift uncomfortable omissions of all sorts from one's own shoulders. "oh, i thought helps would have seen to that." helps saw to a great deal, and was perfectly indifferent to these inuendoes. of one thing he was certain, that they would never reach the chief's ears. on this particular morning helps would assist no one; he had ten pounds in his pocket, and he knew that the future owner of the great business lay in his cradle at jewsbury-on-the-wold. little cared he for that. "what news of mr. wyndham?" this was his thought of thoughts. "what secret lies hidden within that sealed packet? what is my master doing now? when will he ring for me? how soon shall i know the best and the worst? oh, god, why did i let that young man go? why didn't i split? what's prison, after all? my god, what _is_ prison compared to a heart on fire!" helps pottered about. he was a very wizened grey little fellow. the clerks found him decidedly in the way. they muttered to one another about him, and mr. manners, one of the juniors, requested him in a very cutting voice to shut the door and go away. helps obeyed the command to the very letter. by this time his state of mind might have been described as on the rack. for two hours mr. paget had been reading that letter. impossible; no letter would take that time to read. why had he not rung? surely he must know what helps was enduring. surely at this crisis of his fate--at this crisis of both their fates--he must want to see his faithful servant. why then did he not ring? at last in despair helps knocked at the door of the outer office. there was no answer. he turned the handle, pushed the door ajar and went in. the room was empty. mr. paget's pile of ordinary business letters lay unopened on his desk. helps went up to the door of the inner room, and pressed his ear against the keyhole. there was not a stir within. he knocked against a chair, and threw down a book on purpose. if anything living would bring mr. paget out it was the idea of anyone entering, or disarranging matters in his office. helps disarranged matters wildly; he threw down several books, he upset more than one chair; still the master did not appear. at last he knocked at the door of the inner room. there was no response. then he knocked again, louder. then he hammered with his fists. then he shook the door. no response. the inner room might as well have been a grave. he rushed away at last for tools to break open the door. he was terribly frightened, but even now he had sufficient presence of mind not to bring a third person to share his master's secret. he came back with a pick-lock, a hammer and one or two other implements. he locked the door of the outer office, and then he set boldly to work. he did not care what din he made; he was past all thought of that now. the clerks outside got into a frantic state of excitement; but that fact, had he known it, would have made no difference to helps. at last his efforts were crowned with success. the heavy door yielded, and flew open with a bang. helps fell forward into the room himself. he jumped up hastily. a quiet, orderly, snug room! the picture of a fair and lovely girl looking down from the wall! a man with grey hair stretched on the hearthrug under the picture! a man with no life, nor motion, nor movement. helps flew to his master. was he dead? no, the eyes were wide open; they looked at helps, and one of the hands was stretched out, and clutched at helps' arm, and pulled it wildly aside. "what is it, my dear master?" said the man, for there was that in the face which would have melted any heart to pity. "don't! stand out of my light," said mr. paget. "hold me--steady me--let me get up. he's there--there by the window!" "who, my dear sir? who?" "the man i've murdered! he's there. between me and the light. it's done. he's standing between me and the light. tell him to move away. i have murdered him! i know that. between me and the light--the _light_! tell him to move away--tell him--tell him!" mortimer paget gave a great shriek, and covered his terrified eyes with his trembling hands! chapter xxxvi. "what is the matter, lilias? i did not do anything wrong." the speaker was augusta wyndham. three years have passed away since she last appeared in this story; she is grown up now, somewhat lanky still, with rather fierce dark eyes, and a somewhat thin pronounced face. she is the kind of girl who at eighteen is still all angles, but there are possibilities for her, and at five and twenty, if time deals kindly with her, and circumstances are not too disastrous, she might be rounded, softened, she might have developed into a handsome woman. "what is it, lilias?" she said now. "why do you look at me like that?" "it is the same old story, gussie," replied lilias, whose brown cheeks were paler, and her sweet eyes larger than of old; "you are always wanting in thought. it was thoughtless of you to make valentine walk home, and with little gerry, too. she will come in fagged and have a headache. i relied on your seeing to her, gussie; when i asked you to take the pony chaise i thought of her more than you, and now you've come back in it all alone, without even fetching baby." "well, lilias." augusta paused, drew herself up, leant against the nearest paling, crossed her legs, and in a provokingly petulant voice began to speak. "with how much more of all that is careless and all that is odious are you going to charge me?" she said. "oh, of course, 'gussie never can think.' now i'll tell you what this objectionable young woman augusta did, and then you can judge for yourself. i drove to netley farm, and got the butter and the eggs, and then i went on to see old james holt, the gardener, for i thought he might have those bulbs we wanted ready. then i drew up at the turnstile, and waited for that precious mrs. val of yours." "don't," said lilias. "remember whose----" "as if i ever forget--but he--he had others beside her--he never had any augusta except me," two great tears gathered in the great brown eyes; they were dashed hastily aside, and the speaker went on. "there's twice too much made of her, and that's a fact. you live for her, you're her slave, lilias. it's perfectly ridiculous--it's absurd. you have sunk your whole life into hers, and since marjory's wedding things have been worse. you simply have no life but in her. he wouldn't wish it; he hated anyone to be unselfish except himself. well, then--oh, then, i won't vex the dear old thing. have you forgiven me, lil? i know i'm such a chatter-pate. i hope you have forgiven me." "of course i have, gussie. i'm not angry with you, there's nothing to be angry about. you are a faulty creature, i admit, but i also declare you to be one of the greatest comforts of my life." "well, that's all right--that's as it should be. now for my narrative. i waited by the turnpike. valentine and baby were to meet me there. no sign of them. i waited a long time. then i tied bob to the gate, and started on discovery bent. you know it is a pretty lane beyond the turnpike, the hedges hid me. i walked along, whistling and shaking my whip. presently i was assailed by the tuneful duet of two voices. i climbed the hedge and peeped over. i looked into a field. what did i see? now, lilias the wise, guess what i saw?" "valentine and our little gerald," responded lilias. "she was talking to him; she has a sweet voice, and surely there never was a dearer little pipe than wee gerry's. they must have looked pretty sitting on the grass." "they looked very pretty--but your picture is not quite correct. for instance, baby was sound asleep." "oh, then, she had him in her arms, and was cooing to him. a lovelier scene than ever, augusta." "a very lovely scene, lilias; only, one woman's voice would not make a duet." something in augusta's eyes caused lilias to droop her own. she turned aside to pick a spray of briony. "tell me what you saw," she said abruptly. "i saw valentine and adrian carr. they were sitting close together, and baby was asleep on _his_ breast, not on hers, and he was comforting her, for when i peeped over i saw him touch her hand, and then i saw her raise her handkerchief and wipe away some tears. crocodile's tears, i call them. now, lilias, out of my way. i mean to vault over this gate." "what for, dear?" "to relieve my feelings. now i'm better. won't you have a try?" "no, thank you, i don't vault gates." "aren't you going to show anything? good gracious, i should simply explode if i had to keep in things the way you do. now, what's the matter? you look white all the same; whiter than you did ten minutes ago. oh, if it was me, i couldn't keep still. i should roar like a wounded lion." "but i am not a wounded lion, augusta, dear." lilias laid her hand on her sister's shoulder. "i am older than you," she continued, "and perhaps quieter. life has made me quieter. we won't say anything about what you saw, augusta. perhaps none of us have such a burden to bear as valentine." "now, lilias, what stuff you talk. oh, she's a humbug, and i hate her. there, i will say it, just for once. she took gerald away, and now she wants to take adrian from you. oh, i know you're an angel--you'd bear anything, but i'm not quite a fool." "they are coming; you _must_ hush," said lilias, putting her hand across her young sister's lips. augusta cast two wrathful eyes behind her, lightly vaulted back over the gate, and vanished from view round the first corner. lilias opened the gate, and went slowly to meet the group who were coming down the dusty country road. valentine was in black, but not in widow's weeds. she had a shady hat over her clustering bright hair, and round this hat, the baby, little gerry, had stuck quantities of leaves and grasses and what wild flowers his baby fingers could clutch. with one hand she was holding up her long dress; her other held a basket of primroses, and her face, bright now with color in the cheeks, laughter on the lips, and the fire of affection in the eyes, was raised to where her sturdy little son sat on carr's broad shoulder. the child was a handsome little fellow, cast in a far more masculine mould than his father, to whom he bore scarcely any resemblance. as lilias, in her dark grey dress, approached, she looked altogether a more sorrowful and grief-touched figure than the graceful, almost childish young widow who came to meet her. so carr thought, as with a softened light in his eyes he glanced at lilias. "a certain part of her heart was broken three years ago," he inwardly commented. "can i--is it in my power--will it ever be in my power to comfort her?" but lilias, knowing nothing of these feelings, only noted the happy-looking picture. "here we are!" said carr, catching the boy from his shoulder and letting him jump to the ground. "run to your auntie now, little man." off waddled the small fat legs. lilias stooped and received the somewhat dusty embrace of two rounded arms, while cherub lips were pressed on hers. "you do comfort me, little gerry," she gasped under her breath. then she rose, almost staggering under his weight. "let me carry him for you," said carr, coming up to her. "no, thank you, i like to have him," she said; and she turned and walked by valentine's side. "are you tired, val? i did not mean you to walk home. i sent augusta with bob and the basket chaise. i thought you knew they were to meet you at the turnpike." "i'm afraid i forgot," answered valentine. "i met mr. carr, and we came to a delicious field, full of primroses, and baby wanted to pick lots, didn't you, treasure? we sat and had a rest; i am not very tired, and mr. carr carried this big boy all the way home. hey-ho," she continued, throwing off her hat, and showing a head as full of clustering richly-colored hair as of old, "what a lovely day it is, it makes me feel young. come along, baby, we'll race together to the house. it's time for you to go to sleep, little master. now, then--baby first, mother after--one, two, three and away!" the child shouted with glee, the mother raced after him, they disappeared through the rose-covered porch of the old rectory. lilias raised two eyes full of pain to carr's. "is she beginning to forget?" she asked. "no; why should you say so? she will never forget." "she looked so young just now--so like a child. poor val! she was only twenty-two her last birthday. mr. carr. i don't want her to forget." "in one sense rest assured she never will--in another--would you wish her to endure a life-long pain?" "i would--i would. it was done for her--she must never forget." "you always allow me to say plain words, don't you?" said carr. "may i say some now?" "say anything you please, only don't teach her to forget." "what do you mean?" the man's eyes blazed. lilias colored all over her face. "i mean nothing," she said hurriedly. "come into the flower-garden. we shall have a great show of roses this year. come and look at the buds. you were going to say something to me," she added presently. "yes. i was going to prepare you for what may come by-and-bye. it is possible that in the future--remember. i don't know anything--but it is possible that in the future your young sister-in-law may once more be happy. i don't know how--i am not going to prognosticate anything, but i think as a rule one may safely infer that the very bitterest grief, the most poignant sorrows which come before twenty are not abiding. mrs. wyndham has her child. it would not do for the child to associate only sorrow with the mother's face. some time in the future she will be happy again. it is my opinion that your brother would be glad of this." "hush; you don't know. my brother--my only brother! i at least can never be the lilias of old." "i believe you," said carr much moved by her tone. "you, too, are very young; but in your heart, miss wyndham, in your heart, you were an older woman, a woman more acquainted with the grave side of life, than that poor young thing was when the blow fell." lilias did not answer for a moment or two. "i am glad marjory is out of it all," she said then. "you know what a long nervous illness she had at the time. dear old marjory, she was such a tempestuous darling." "but she is happy now." "oh, yes, she has her husband. philip is very good, he suits marjory. yes, she is quite happy now, and i am not miserable--you mustn't think it. i know in whom i have believed." her eyes were raised to the sky overhead. "i know he won't fail me. some day gerald and i shall meet." "some day, assuredly," answered carr. "and in the meantime, i am not unhappy, only i don't intend ever to forget. nor shall she." "one question," said carr. "have you heard news lately of mrs. wyndham's father?" "i believe he has recovered. he never comes here. i must own i have a great antipathy to valentine's father. i don't want to hear of him nor to think of him." "i can understand that. still, if it will not trouble you greatly i should like to ask you a question or two with regard to him. he was very ill, at the--at the time, wasn't he?" "he was very ill, mentally, he was quite off his head for several months." "don't you think that was rather strange?" "i never thought much about it, as far as he was concerned. of course he must have had a dreadful shock." "but not such a shock as you had. not a shock to be named with what that poor girl, his daughter, went through. your brother was not his own son, and--and----" "i never thought about it, mr. carr. i heard that he was ill, and that the illness was mental. he has been quite well again for some time." "i assure you you're mistaken. i met him a fortnight ago in town. i never saw a man so completely altered in the whole course of my life." "please don't tell me about him. it never was, nor could be, an interesting subject. ah, there is my dear father calling me. i must run to him." the rector was seen approaching. his figure was slightly more bent, and his hair whiter than of old. lilias linked her hand within his arm, and carr turned away. "i can never have it out with her," he said to himself. "i never seem to have the courage when i'm with her. and besides, i don't believe she'd leave her father. but if she did--if i ever could hope to win her for my wife, then i might venture to whisper to her some of my suspicions. how little she guesses what my thoughts are. can i act in any way without consulting her? i have a good mind to try." chapter xxxvii. the house of paget brothers was never more flourishing than during the spring and summer of --. it was three years since the death of its junior partner, gerald wyndham, and three years since mortimer paget had paid away in full the trust money of eighty thousand pounds which he owed to george carmichael, of the firm of carmichael, parr and co., calcutta. although none of the parties concerned quite intended it, certain portions of the story of this trust got abroad, and became the subject of a nine days' gossip in the city and elsewhere. it had never even been whispered that paget brothers were in difficulties. still such a sum would not be easy to find even in the wealthiest concern. then the fact also trickled out that wyndham's life had been insured, heavily insured, in three or four different offices. his death must have come in handily, people said, and they said no more--just then. the fact was, that had one been even inclined to suspect foul play, mr. paget's dangerous illness at the time would have prevented their doing so. surely no man ever before grieved so bitterly for a dead son-in-law as did this man. the blow had felled him with a stroke. for many months his mind gave way utterly. the words spoken in delirium are seldom considered valuable. what mr. paget did or said during the dark summer which followed wyndham's death never got known. in the autumn he was better; that winter he went abroad, and the following spring he once more was seen in the city. he looked very old, people said, but he was as shrewd and careful a business man as ever. "i have to put things in order for my grandson," he would say. nobody ever saw him smile just then, but a light used to come into his sunken dark eyes when the child's name was mentioned. valentine and the boy spent most of their time in the old house in park-lane. she was very gentle with her father, but the relations they had once borne to each other were completely altered. he now rather shrank from her society. she had to seek him, not he her. he was manifestly ill at ease when in her presence. it was almost impossible to get him to come to see her in her own house. when he did so he was attacked by a curious nervousness. he could seldom sit still; he often started and looked behind him. once or twice he perceptibly changed color, and on all occasions he gave a sigh of relief when he said good-bye. the child visited his grandfather oftener than the mother did. with the child mortimer paget was absolutely at home and happy. the third summer after wyndham's death passed away. valentine spent most of the time at jewsbury-on-the-wold. mr. paget went abroad, as he always did, during august and september. in october he was once more in town. valentine came back to london, and their small world settled down for its usual winter routine. on all sides there were talks of this special winter proving a hard one, the cold commenced early and lasted long. in all the poorer quarters of the great city there were signs of distress. want is a haggard dame. once known her face is dreaded. as the days grew short, the darkness deepened, and the fogs became frequent, she was often seen stalking about the streets. poorly clad children, shivering women, despairing defiant-looking men all trembled and fled before her. the cold was intense, work became slack, and then, to increase all other evils, the great cruel monster, strike, put down his iron heel. want is his invariable handmaid. between them they did much havoc. it was on a certain short november day of this special winter that mortimer paget arrived early at his office. he drove there in his comfortable brougham, and stepped out into the winter cold and fog, wrapped up in his rich furs. as he did so a woman with two small children came hastily up, cast a furtive glance to right and left, saw no policeman near, and begged in a high piteous whining voice for alms. mr. paget had never been known to give alms indiscriminately. he was not an uncharitable man, but he hated beggars. he took not the least notice of the woman, although she pushed one of the hungry children forward who raised two piteous blue eyes to the hard man's face. "even a couple of pence!" she implored. "the father's on strike, and they've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning." "i don't give indiscriminate charity," said mr. paget. "if your case is genuine, you had better apply at the nearest office of the charity organization." he was pushing open the outer office door when something arrested his attention. a man came hurriedly up from a side street, touched the woman on the shoulder, lifted one of the hungry children into his arms, and the whole party hurried away. the man was painfully thin, very shabbily dressed, in a long frock coat, which was buttoned tight. he had a beard and moustache, and a soft slouch hat was pushed well forward over his eyes. the woman's face lit up when she saw him. both the children smiled, and the whole group moved rapidly away. the effect of this shabby man's presence on those three helpless and starving creatures was as if the sun had come out. mr. paget staggered to his office, walked through the outer rooms as if he were dazed, sought his sanctum, and sat down shaking in every limb. since his strange illness of three years ago, helps had been more like a servant and nurse to him than an ordinary clerk. it was his custom to attend his master on his first arrival, to see to his creature comforts, to watch his moods. helps came in as usual this morning. mr. paget had removed his hat, and was gazing in a dull vacant way straight before him. "you are not yourself this morning, sir," said the clerk. he pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed the fur-lined overcoat and took it away. then standing in front of him he again said:-- "sir, you are not yourself to-day." "the old thing, helps," said mr. paget. he shook himself free of some kind of trance with an effort. "the doctors said i should be quite well again, as well as ever. they are mistaken, i shall never be quite well. i saw him in the street just now, helps." "indeed, sir?" it was helps' _rôle_ as much as possible to humor his patient. "yes, i saw him just now--he takes many guises; he was in a new one to-day--a starved clerk out of employment. that was his guise to-day. i should not have recognized him but for his hand. perhaps you remember wyndham's hand, helps? very slender, long and tapered--the hand of a musician. he took a ragged child in his arms, and his hand--there was nothing weak about it--clasped another child who was also starved and hungry. undoubtedly it was wyndham--wyndham in a new guise--he will never leave me alone." "if i were you, mr. paget," said helps after a pause. "i'd open the letters that are waiting for replies. you know what the doctor said, that when the fancy came you mustn't dwell on it. you must be sure and certain not to let it take a hold on you, sir. now you know, just as well as i do, that you didn't see poor mr. wyndham--may heaven preserve his soul! is it likely now, sir, that a spirit like mr. wyndham's, happy above the sky with the angels, would come down on earth to trouble and haunt you? is it likely now, sir? if i were you i'd cast the fancy from me!" mr. paget raised his hand to sweep back the white hair from his hollow, lined face. "you believe in heaven then, helps?" "i do for some folks, sir. i believe in it for mr. gerald wyndham." "fudge; you thought too well of the fellow. do you believe in heaven for suicides?" "sir--no, sir--his death came by accident." "it did not; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice, so he ended his life, and he haunts me, curse him!" "mr. paget, i hope god will forgive you." "he won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. a man has cast his blood upon my soul. nothing can wash the blood away. helps, i'm the most miserable being on earth. i walk through hell fire every day." "have your quieting mixture, sir; you know the doctor said you must not excite yourself. there, now you are better. shall i help you to open your letters, sir?" "yes, helps, do; you're a good soul, helps. don't leave me this morning; he'll come in at the door if you do." there came a tap at the outer office. some one wanted to speak to the chief. a great name was announced. in a moment mr. paget, from being the limp, abject wretch whom helps had daily to comfort and sustain, became erect and rigid. from head to foot he clothed himself as in a mask. erect as in his younger days he walked into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter which involved the loss or gain of thousands. when his visitor left him he did so with the inward remark:-- "certainly paget's intellect and nerve may be considered colossal." chapter xxxviii. esther helps still took charge of her father's house in acacia villas. she was still esther helps. perhaps a more beautiful esther than of old; a little steadier, too, a little graver--altogether a better girl. for some unaccountable reason, after that night at the theatre when wyndham had sat by her side and taken her back from destruction to her father's arms, she had almost ceased to flirt. she said nothing now about marrying a gentleman some day, and as the men who were not gentlemen found she would have nothing to do with them, it began to be an almost understood thing among her friends that esther, lovely as she was, would not marry. this resolve on her part, for it amounted to an unspoken resolve, was followed by other changes. she turned her attention to her hitherto sadly neglected mind. she read poetry with cherry, and history and literature generally by herself. then she tried to improve her mode of speech, and studied works on etiquette, and for a short time became frightfully stilted and artificial. this phase, however, did hot last long. the girl had really a warm and affectionate heart, and that heart all of a sudden had been set on fire. the flame never went out. it was a holy flame, and it raised and purified her whole nature. she loved wyndham as she might have loved christ had he been on earth. wyndham seemed to her to be the embodiment of all nobility. he had saved her, none knew better than she did from how much. it was the least she could do to make her whole life worthy of her savior. she guessed by instinct that he liked refinement, and gentle speech, and womanly ways. so it became her aim in life to seek after those things, and as far as possible to acquire them. then the news of his death reached her. only cherry knew how night after night esther cried herself to sleep. only cherry guessed why esther's cheeks were so sunken and her eyes so heavy. her violent grief, however, soon found consolation. gerald had always been only a star to be gazed at from a distance; he was still that. when she thought of heaven she pictured seeing him there first of all. she thought that when the time came for her to go there he might stand somewhere near the gates and smile to see how she, too, had conquered, and was worthy. now she turned her attention to works of charity, to a life of religion. it was all done for the sake of an idol, but the result had turned this flippant, worldly, vain creature into a sweet woman, strong in the singleness of her aim. esther cared nothing at all about dress now. she would have joined a deaconess' institution but she did not care to leave her father. she did a great deal of work, however, amongst the poor, and at the beginning of this severe winter she joined a band of working sisters in east london as an associate. she usually went away to her work immediately after breakfast, returning often not until late at night, but as she wore the uniform of the association, beautiful as she was she could venture into the lowest quarters, and almost come home at any hour without rendering herself liable to insult. one night as cherry was preparing supper she was surprised to hear esther's step in the passage two or three hours before her usual time of returning. cherry was still the same strange mixture of poet and cook that she had ever been. with the "lays of ancient rome" in one hand and her frying-pan held aloft in the other, she rushed out to know what was the matter. "why, essie," she exclaimed, catching sight of her cousin's face. "you're ill, essie; come in and sit down by the fire. i do hope to goodness you haven't gone and caught nothing." "i have caught nothing," said esther. "i am not ill." she untied her bonnet strings and loosened her long straight cloak. "is father in, cherry? i want to see him the minute he returns." "you'll have to wait then," said cherry, turning away in a half offended manner. if esther did not choose to confide in her she was not going to force confidence. she resumed her cooking with vigor, reading aloud portions from the volume on her knees as she did so. "the lady jane was tall and slim; the lady jane was fair----" "essie, i wish you wouldn't fidget so. whatever is the matter?" "i want my father," repeated esther. "well, he's not in. uncle's never back till an hour after this. i tell him he's more and more of a nurse and less and less of a clerk every day of his life; he don't like it, but it's true. that old mr. paget is past bearing." esther rose with a sigh, folded her cloak, laid it on a chair, placed her bonnet on top of it, and going over to the fireplace gazed into the flames. cherry's cooking frizzled and bubbled in the pan, cherry's own head was bent over her book. "this is the rarest fun," she exclaimed suddenly. "didn't lady jane pay sir thomas out? lord, it were prime. you never will read the 'ingoldsby legends,' esther. now i call them about the best things going. how white you do look. well, it's a good thing you are in time for a bit of supper. i have fried eggs and tomatoes to-night, browned up a new way. why don't you take your cloak and bonnet upstairs, essie, and sit down easy like? it fidgets one to see you shifting from one foot to another all the time." "i'm going out again in a minute," said esther. "i came in early because i wanted my father. oh, there's his latch-key in the door at last. don't you come, cherry. i want to speak to him by myself." cherry's hot face grew a little redder. "i like that," she said to herself. "it's drudge, drudge with me--drudge, drudge from morning till night; and now she won't even tell me her secrets. i never has no livening up. i liked her better when she was flighty and flirty, that i did--a deal better. we'll, i'll see what comes of that poor sir thomas." meanwhile esther, with one hand on her father's shoulder, was talking to him earnestly. "i want you to come back with me, father--back this very minute." "where to, child?" "to commercial road. there's to be a big meeting of the unemployed, and the sisters and i, we was to give supper to some of the women and children. the meeting will be in the room below, and the supper above. i want you to come. some gentlemen are going to speak to them; it won't be riotous." helps drew a deep sigh. it was a damp drizzling night, and he was tired. "can't you let me be this time, essie?" he said. "no, father, no, you must come to-night." "but i can't do nothing for the poor fellows. i pity them, of course, but what can i do?" "nothing, only come to the meeting." "but what for, essie?" "to please me, if for no other reason." "oh, if you put it in that way." "yes, i put it that way. you needn't take off your great coat. i'll have my cloak and bonnet on again in a jiffy." "what, child, am i to have no supper?" poor helps found the smell from the kitchen very appetising. "afterwards, when you come back. everything good when you come back. now, do come. it is so important." she almost dragged him away. cherry heard the house door bang after the two. "well, i'm done," she exclaimed! "see if i'll cook for nobody another time." esther and her father found an omnibus at the corner of their street. in a little over half-an-hour they were in commercial road; a few minutes later they found themselves in the large barn-like building which was devoted to this particular mission. the ground floor consisted of one huge room, which was already packed with hungry-looking men and half-grown boys. "stand near the door," said esther, giving her father explicit directions. "don't stay where the light will fall on your face. stand where you can look but can't be seen." "you don't want me to be a spy, child. what is the meaning of all this?" "you can put any meaning you like on it. only do what i tell you. i want you to watch the men as they come in and out of the room. watch them all; don't let one escape you. stay until the meeting is over. then tell me afterwards if there is any one here whom you know." "what is the girl up to?" muttered helps. but esther had already slipped upstairs. he heard sounds overhead, and women and children going up the stairs in groups; he saw more than one bright-looking sister rushing about, busy, eager, and hopeful. then the sounds within the large lower room showed him that the meeting had begun, and he turned his attention to the task set him by his daughter. certainly esther was a queer girl, a dear, beautiful girl, but queer all the same. in what a ridiculous position she had placed him in; a tired elderly clerk. he was hungry, and he wanted his supper; he was weary, and he sighed for his pipe and his easy-chair. what had he in common with the men who filled this room. some of them, undoubtedly, were greatly to be pitied, but many of them only came for the sake of making a fuss and getting noticed. anyhow, _he_ could not help them, and what did esther mean by getting him to stand in this draughty doorway on the chance of seeing an old acquaintance; he was not so much interested in old acquaintances as she imagined. the room was now packed, and the gentleman who occupied the platform, a very earnest, energetic, thoughtful speaker, had evidently gained full attention. helps almost forgot esther in the interest with which he listened. one or two men offered to make way for him to go further into the room; but this he declined. he did not suppose any friend of esther's would appear; still he must be true to the girl, and keep the draughty post she had assigned him. at the close of the first address, just when a vociferous clapping was at its height, helps observed a tall very thin man elbowing his way through the crowd. this crowd of working men and boys would not as a rule be prepared to show either forbearance or politeness. but the stranger with a word whispered here, or a nod directed there, seemed to find "open sesame" wherever he turned. soon he had piloted his way through this great crowd of human beings almost to the platform. finally he arrested his progress near a pillar against which he leaned with his arms folded. he was more poorly dressed than most of the men present, but he had one peculiarity which rendered him distinguishable; he persistently kept his soft felt hat on, and well pushed forward over his eyes. helps noticed him, he could scarcely himself tell why. the man was poor, thin. helps could not get a glimpse of his face, but there was something in his bearing which was at once familiar and bespoke the gentleman. "poor chap, he has seen better days," muttered helps. "somehow, he don't seem altogether strange, either." then he turned his attention once more to watch for the acquaintance whom esther did not want him to miss. the meeting came to an end and the men began to stream out. helps kept his post. suddenly he felt a light hand touch his arm; he turned; his daughter, her eyes gleaming with the wildest excitement, was standing by his side. "have you seen him, father?" "who, child--who? i'm precious hungry, and that's the truth, esther." "never mind your hunger now--you have not let him escape--oh, don't tell me that." "essie, i think you have taken leave of your senses to-night. who is it that i have not let escape?" "a tall man in a frock coat, different from the others; he has a beard, and he wears his hat well pushed forward; his hands are white. you must have noticed him; he is certain to be here. you did not let him go?" "i know now whom you mean," said helps. "i saw the fellow. yes, he is still in the room." "you did not recognize him, father?" "no, child. that is, i seem to know something about him. whatever are you driving at, esther?" "nothing--nothing--nothing. go, follow the man with the frock coat. don't let him see you. find out where he lives, then bring me word. go. go. you'll miss him if you don't." she disappeared, flying upstairs again, light as a feather. helps found himself impelled against his will to obey her. "here's a pretty state of things," he muttered. "here am i, faint for want of food, set to follow a chap nobody knows nothing about through the slums." it never occurred to helps, however, not to obey the earnest dictates of his daughter. he was to give chase. accordingly he did so. he did so warily. dodging sometimes into the road, sometimes behind a lamp post in case the tall man should see him. soon he became interested in the work. the figure on in the front, which never by any chance looked back, but pursued its course undeviatingly, struck helps once more with that strange sense of familiarity. where had he seen a back like that? those steps, too, the very way the man walked gave him a queer sensation. he was as poor looking a chap as helps had ever glanced at, and yet the steps were not unknown--the figure must have haunted the little clerk in some of his dreams. the pursuer and pursued soon found themselves in quarters altogether new to helps. more and more squalid grew the streets, more and more ruffianly grew the people. there never was a little man less likely to attract attention than this clerk with his humble unpretentious dress and mien. but in these streets he felt himself remarkable. a whole coat, unpatched trousers, were things to wonder at here. the men and the women, too, took to jostling him as he passed. one bold-faced girl tilted his hat well forward over his eyes, and ran away with a loud laugh. helps felt that even for esther's sake he could not proceed any further. he was about to turn back when another glance at the figure before him brought such a rush of dazed wonderment, of uncanny familiarity, that all thought of his own possible danger deserted him, and he walked on, eager as esther herself now in pursuit. all this time they had been going in the direction of the docks. suddenly they turned down a very badly lighted side street. there was a great brewery here, and the wall of the brewery formed for a long way one side of the street. it was so narrow as to be little better than a lane, and instead of being a crowded thoroughfare was now almost deserted. here and there in the brewery wall were niches. not one of these niches was empty. each held its human being--man, woman, or child. it seemed to be with a purpose that the tall stranger came here. he slackened his pace, pushed his hat a little back, and began to perform certain small ministrations for the poor creatures who were to pass the night on the cold damp pavement. a little girl was asleep in one of the niches; he wrapped her shawl more closely round her, tucking it in so as to protect her feet. her hair hung in a tangled mass over her forehead. he pushed it back with a tender hand. finally he pressed into the little thin palm two lollypops; they would give comfort to the child when she awoke. helps kept behind, well in the shadow; he was absolutely trembling now with suppressed excitement. he had seen by the glitter of the flaring gas the white hand of the man as he pushed back the child's elf-locks. the two went on again a few steps. the man in front stopped suddenly--they were passing another niche. it had its occupant. a girl was stretched prone on the ground--a girl whose only covering was rags. as they approached, she groaned. in an instant the stranger was bending over her. "you are very ill, i fear. can i help you?" "eh? what's that?" exclaimed the girl. she raised her head, stretching out something which was more like a claw than a hand. "what's that noise?" she repeated. the noise had been made by helps. it was an amazed terrified outcry when he heard the voice of the man who was bending over the girl. the man himself had observed nothing. "you are very ill," he repeated. "you ought to be in a hospital." "no, no, none of that," she said, clutching hold of his hand. "i ha' lain down to die. let me die. i wor starving--the pain wor awful. now i'm easy. don't touch me--don't lift me; i'm easy--i'm a-goin' to die." the stranger knelt a little lower. "i won't hurt you," he said. "i will sit here by your side. don't be frightened. i am going to raise your head--a little--a very little. now it rests on my knee. that is better." "eh, you're a good man; yes, that's nice." her breath came in great pants. presently she began to wander. "is that you, mother? mother, i've been such a bad gel--bad every way. the almighty's punishing me. i'm dying, and he's a sending me to hell." "no," said the quiet voice of the man. "no; _you_ are the one he wants. he is seeking _you_." "eh?" she said. once more her clouded brain cleared. "eh, how my breath does go. i'm a-going to hell!" "no. he has sent me to find you; you are not going there." "how do you know?" she turned herself an inch or two in her astonishment and stared up at him. something in his face seemed to fill her with astonishment. "take off your hat," she said. "are you jesus christ?" it was at this juncture that helps turned and fled. he ran as he never ran before in the whole course of his life. nobody saw him go, and nobody obstructed him in his headlong flight. presently he got back to the mission hall. the place was closed and dark. he was turning away when a woman came out of the deep shelter of the doorway and touched his arm. "essie, is that you? my god, essie, i've seen a ghost!" "no, father, no--a living man." "this is awful, child. i'm shaking all over. i'd sooner be in my grave than go through such a thing again." "lean on me, father. we'll walk a bit, and soon find a cab-stand. we'll have a cab home. it's about time you had your supper. don't talk a bit. get back your poor breath." as they were driving home a few minutes later, in a hansom, she turned suddenly. "and you've got mr. wyndham's address?" "good heavens, essie, don't say his name like that! i suppose it's a sign of the end that i should have seen a spirit." "nonsense, father, you saw no spirit. that's mr. gerald wyndham in the flesh, as much as you and i are in the flesh. you saw no spirit, but a living man. i recognized him this morning, but i wasn't going to take my own word for it, so i got you to look him up. they call him brother jerome down here. nobody knows anything at all about him, how he lives, nor nothing; only that he goes in and out amongst the people, and is always comforting this one or cheering that, and quieting down rows, and soothing people, and--and--doing more in a day than the sisters or i could do in a week. i've heard of him for a month past, but i only saw him to-day. he's a mystery, and people wonder about him, and no one can tell how he lives, nor where he sleeps. _i_ know, though. he sleeps out of doors, and he starves. he shan't starve any longer." chapter xxxix. "esther," said helps, late that night, after cherry, in a very sulky humor, had gone to bed, "esther, this is a very terrible, a very awful thing for me!" "how so, father!" she was kneeling by his side. now she put her arm round his neck, and looked into his face. her beating, throbbing, exulting heart told her that her discovery of that day was new life to her. "i am glad," she continued, after a solemn pause; "yes. i don't mind owning i am very glad that a good man like mr. wyndham still lives." "child, you don't know what you are talking about. it is awful--awful--his coming back. even if he is alive he ought to have stayed away. his coming back like this is terrible. it means, it means----" "what, father?" "child, it must never be known: he must be warned; he must go away at once. suppose anybody else saw him?" "father," said esther. she rose and stood over the shrinking old man. "you have got to tell me the meaning of those queer words of yours. i guessed there was a mystery about mr. wyndham; now i am certain. if i don't know it before i leave the room to-night, i'll make mischief. there!" "essie--essie--i thought you had turned into a good girl." "i'll turn bad again. listen. i love that man. not as a girl loves her lover--not as a wife cares for her husband. he is married, and i should not be ashamed to tell his wife how i love him. i glory in my love; he saved me. father, i wasn't coming home at all that night. he saved me; you can understand how i feel for him. my life wouldn't be a great deal to give up for him. there has been mischief done to him, that i am sure. now tell me the truth; then i'll know how to act. oh, father, you're the dearest and the kindest. tell me the truth and you won't repent it." "no, essie, child, i don't suppose i shall repent. sit there. you know too much, you may as well know all. mr. wyndham's life was insured." "yes?" "heavily, mark you, heavily." "yes." she covered her face with her hands. "let me think. say, father"--she flung her hands into her lap--"was this done on purpose?" "ay, child, ay; and a better man never lived. ay, it was done on purpose." "he was meant not to come back?" "that's it, essie, my dear. that's it." "i see; yes, i see. was the insurance money paid?" "every farthing of it, child. a large sum paid in full." "if he appeared again it would have to be refunded?" "if it could be, child." "if it couldn't?" "then the story, the black story of why it was wanted, would have to come out; and--and--esther, is the door locked? come close, essie. your old father and my master would end our days in penal servitude." "now i see," said esther. she did not scream nor utter any loud exclamation, but began to pace softly up and down the room. mentally she was a strong girl; her calm in this emergency proved her mettle. after a few moments helps began to speak; his words were wild and broken. "over and over i thought i'd rather," he said. "over, and over, and over--when i saw what it meant for him, poor young gentleman. but i can't, essie, i can't. when it comes to the pinch i can't do it. we thought he was dead, my master and i, and my master he went off his head. and over he said, yes, over and over--'helps, a clean cell and a clean heart would be heaven to this.' but, bless you, essie, he couldn't stand it either at the pinch. we thought mr. wyndham lying under the sea. oh, poor young gentleman, he had no right to come back." "no right? he has a wife and a child." "a widow and orphan, you mean. no, esther, he should have stayed away. he made a vow, and he should have stuck to it." "he has not broken his vow, father. oh, father, what a wicked thing you have done; you and that master to whom you have given your life. now let me think." "you won't send me to prison, esther?" "no, no. sit down. i must think things out. even now i don't know clearly about mr. wyndham; you have only treated me to half-confidences. stay, though, i don't wish to hear more. you mustn't go to prison. mr. wyndham mustn't starve. i have it. mr. wyndham shall come here." "esther!" poor old helps uttered a shriek, which caused cherry to turn uneasily on her pillow. "keep yourself quiet, father. i'm a determined woman, and this thing shall be. mr. wyndham shall eat of our bread, and we will shelter him; and i--i, esther helps--will undertake to guard his secret and yours. no one living shall guess who he is." "you forget--oh, this is an awful thing to do. you forget--there's cherry." "i'll blind cherry. if i can't, she must go. i shall bring mr. wyndham home to-morrow night!" "esther, this will kill me." "no, it won't. on the contrary, you'll be a better and a happier man. you wouldn't have him starve, when through him you have your liberty? i'm ashamed of you." she lit her candle and walked away. old helps never went to bed that night. chapter xl. esther did not go out next morning. cherry was surprised at this. helps went off at his usual hour. cherry noticed that he ate little or no breakfast; but esther did not stir. she sat quietly by the breakfast table. she ate well and deliberately. her eyes were bright, her whole face was full of light and expression. "ain't you going down as usual to these dirty slums?" quoth cherry. "i'm sick of them. you and your clothes both coming in so draggled like at night. i'm sick of the slums. but perhaps you mean to give them up." "oh, no," said esther, waking from a reverie into which she had fallen, "but i'm not going this morning. i've something else to attend to." "then perhaps, esther," said cherry, with her round eyes sparkling, "you'd maybe think to remember your promise of getting that pink gauze dress out of your trunk; you know you promised it to me, and i've a mind to make it up with yellow bows. i'm sure to want it for something about christmas." "you shall have it," said esther, in a sharp, short voice. the abstracted look returned to her face. she gazed out of the window. "law, essie, ain't you changed, and for the worse, i take it!" remarked cherry. "i liked you a sight better when you were flighty and frivolous. do you remember the night you went to the theatre with that captain something or other? my word, wasn't uncle in a taking. 'twas i found your tickets, and put uncle up to getting a seat near you. weren't you struck all of a heap when you found him there? i never heard how you took it." "hush," said esther, rising to her feet, her face growing very white. "i was mad, then, but i was saved. that's enough about it. cherry, you know the box-room?" "yes," said cherry. "it's stuffed pretty well, too. mostly with your trunks, what you say belonged to your mother." "so they did. well, they must go downstairs." "wherever to? there isn't a corner for them in this scrap of a house." "corners must be found. some of the trunks can go in our bedroom--some into father's; some into the passage, some into the drawing-room if necessary. you needn't stare, it has got to be done." esther stamped her foot and looked so imperious that cherry shrank away. "i suppose you're a bit mad again," she muttered, and she began to collect the breakfast things on a tray. "stop, cherry, we may as well talk this out. i'll go upstairs now and help you with the boxes. then we'll clean out the attic; if i had time i'd paper it, but there ain't. then i'm going out to buy a bedstead and bedding, and a table and washhand stand. the attic is to be made into a bedroom for----" here she paused. "well," said cherry, "for whom, in the name of goodness?" esther gulped something down in her throat. "there's a good man in the east of london, a very good man; he has no money, and he's starving, and he has to sleep out of doors; and--and--i can't stand it, cherry--and i spoke to father, and we have agreed that he shall have the attic and his food. that's it, his name is brother jerome; he's a sort of an angel for goodness." "slums again," said cherry; "i'll have nothing to do with it." she took up her tray and marched into the kitchen. esther waited a minute or two, then she went to her room, put on a coarse check apron, and mounted the narrow attic stairs. she commenced pulling the trunks about; she could not lift them alone, but she intended to push them to the head of the stairs and then shove them down. presently a thumping step was heard, and cherry's round face appeared. "disgusting job, i call it," she said; "but if i must help you, i suppose i must. i was going to learn 'lord tom noddy' this morning. i thought i might wear the pink gauze with yellow bows, and recite it at uncle dan's christmas party. cousin tom says i'm real dramatic when i'm excited, and that's a beautiful piece, so rhythmic and flowing. but then we all have to bend to you, esther, and if i must help you i suppose i must." "i think you had better, dear, and some day perhaps you won't be sorry. he's a good man, brother jerome is, he won't be no trouble. i'll clean his room for him myself once it's put in order, and he's sure to go out early in the morning. he'll breakfast upstairs, and i'll take him his breakfast, and his supper shall be ready for him here at night. we must see if that chimney will draw, cherry, for of course he'll want his bit of fire." after this the two girls worked with a will; they cleaned and polished the tiny window, they scrubbed the floor and brushed down the walls, and polished the little grate. then esther went out and made her purchases. the greater part of a five pound note was expended, and by the afternoon gerald wyndham's room was ready for him. "brother jerome will come home with me to-night. cherry," said esther. "i may be late--i'm sure to be late--you needn't sit up." "but i'd like to see him. slums or no slums, he has given me a pair of stiff arms, and i want to find out if he's worth them." "oh, he's nothing to look at. just a tall, thin, starved-looking man. he'll be shy, maybe, of coming, and you'd much better go to bed. you'll leave some supper ready in his room." "what shall i leave?" "oh, a jug of beer and some cheese, and the cold meat and some bread and butter. that's all, he's accustomed to roughing it." "my word, you call that roughing. then the slums can't be so bad. i always thought there was an uncommon fuss made about them. now i'll get to 'lord tom noddy,' and learn off a good bit before tea time; you might hear me recite if you had a mind, essie." chapter xli. "oh, yes, she's the sweetest missus in the world!" that was the universal opinion of the servants who worked for valentine wyndham. they never wanted to leave her, they never grumbled about her, nor thought her gentle orders hard. the nurse, the cook, the housemaid, stayed on, the idea of change did not occur to them. valentine and her little son came back to the house in town at the end of october. lilias came with them, and adrian carr often ran up to town and paid a visit to the two. one day he came with a piece of news. he had got the offer of an incumbency not very far from park-lane. a fashionable church wanted a good preacher. carr had long ago developed unusual powers as a pulpit orator, and the post, with a good emolument, was offered to him. he came to consult lilias and valentine in the matter. "of course you must go," said lilias. "my father will miss you--we shall all--but that isn't the point. this is a good thing for you--a great thing--you must certainly go." "and i can often see you," responded carr, eagerly. "mrs. wyndham will let me come here, i hope, and you will often be here." "i wish you would spend the winter with me, lilias," said valentine. she had interpreted aright the expression in carr's eyes, and soon afterwards she left the room. she went up to her own room, shut and locked the door, and then stood gazing into the fire with her hands tightly locked together. she inherited one gift from her father. she, too, could wear a mask. now it dropped from her, and her young face looked lined and old. "it isn't the grief of losing him," she murmured under her breath. "it's the pain--the haunting fear--that things are wrong. have i known my father all these years not to note the change in him? he shrinks from me--he dreads me. why? his conscience is guilty. oh, gerald, if i had only let you look into my heart, perhaps you would not have gone away. oh, if only i had been in time to go on board the _esperance_ you would have been living now. yes, gerald, the terror never leaves me day and night; you are dead, but god did not mean you to die. my own gerald--my heart would have been broken, or i should have lost my reason, if i had not confided my fears to mr. carr. some people perhaps think i have forgotten--some again that i have ceased to love my husband. how little they know! of course i am bright outwardly. but my heart is old and broken. i have had a very sad life--i am a very unhappy woman. only for little gerry i couldn't live. he is sweet, but i wish he were more like his father. ah, there is nurse's knock at the door. coming, nurse. is baby with you?" mrs. wyndham unlocked her door, and a little round, dimpled, brown-tinted child scampered in. he was followed by his nurse, a grave, nice-looking woman of about thirty. she was a widow, and had a son of her own. "has baby come to say good-night, annette? come here, sweet. come into mother's arms." she sat down on a low chair by the fire, and the little man climbed on her knee. "i don't _'ike_ oo. i _'ove_ oo," he said. "he's always saying that, ma'am," remarked the nurse. "he likes his toys--he loves his mother." "course i 'ove my mother." he laid his brown curly head on her breast. "nurse, is anything the matter? you don't look well." "that's it, madam. i'm not ill in body, but i'm sore fretted in mind. now, baby, darling, don't you pull your dear ma to bits! the fact is, ma'am, and sore i am to say it, i'm afraid i must leave this precious child." "nurse!" valentine's arms dropped away from baby; baby raised his own curly head, and fixed his brown eyes on the woman, his rosy lips pouted. "sore i am to say it, ma'am," repeated annette, "but there's no help. i've put off the evil day all i could, ma'am; but my mother's old, and my own boy has been ill, and she says i must go home and see after them both. of course, madam, i'll suit your convenience as to the time of my going, and i hope you'll get some one else as will love the dear child. come to bed, master baby, dear; your mother wants to go down to dinner." * * * * * a few days after this, as helps was taking his comfortable breakfast, cooked to perfection by cherry's willing hands, he raised his eyes suddenly, looked across at his daughter esther, and made a remark. "i'm told poor young madam is in no end of a taking." "what young madam, father?" "mrs. wyndham. the nurse is going and the child has got whooping cough. he's bad, too, poor little 'un, and frets about the nurse like anything. my master's in a way, too; he's wrapped up in that little lad. it was he told me; he said perhaps you'd know of a nurse as would suit, esther." "don't stare so, cherry," said esther. "anybody would think father was talking of ghosts, to see the bigness of your eyes. well, father, yes, i'll think about a nurse. i'm sorry the child is ill." "don't you go and get a nurse from the slums," retorted cherry. "you're all slums, you are. my word, i am having a time since that new lodger took possession." here cherry paused to pour fresh water into the tea-pot. esther and her father exchanged frightened glances. "brother jerome, indeed!" proceeded this energetic young person. "he's a mighty uneasy sort of brother jerome. his good deeds don't seem to quieten him, anyway. and why does he always keep a hat stuck on his head, and never raise it when he passes me on the stairs. i know i'm broad and i'm stout, and i've no looks to boast of, but it's meant for men to raise their hats to women, and i don't see why he shouldn't. then at night he walks the boards overhead fit to work on anybody's nerves. i don't recite half so dramatic as i did, because i can't get my sleep unbroken." "your tongue ain't stopped, anyway," said her uncle, almost crossly. "esther, you'll think about the nurse for young madam." he rose and left the room. esther sat still a little longer. she heard cherry rattling the plates in the kitchen. presently, she got up, put on her bonnet and cloak, called good-bye to her cousin, and went out. there could scarcely be a better sister of the poor than esther helps. she was near enough to them socially to understand their sorrows. she had never known starvation, but she could take in what tiny means meant--their mode of speech was comprehensible to her, she was sufficiently unfastidious to go into their dirty rooms, to witness their uncouth, semi-savage ways without repulsion. she liked the life, it suited her, and her it. she was the kind of woman to be popular as a district visitor. she had abundance of both sympathy and tact. when her sympathies were aroused, her manners could be affectionate. in addition, she had a very lovely face. the poor of east london adore beauty; it comes so rarely near them in any case that they look upon it as an inestimable treasure. the women and children liked to watch esther when she talked and when she smiled. the men treated her with the respect due to a regal presence. esther went down as usual to her mission work to-day. sister josephine, the head of this branch of work, greeted the handsome girl with a smile when she came in, drew her aside, and spoke to her about a particularly difficult undertaking which was soon to be commenced. this undertaking would require the utmost tact and talent; the sister asked esther if she would be willing to become the head of the movement. "i don't know anyone more suitable," she said in conclusion. "only if you come, you must consent to sleep away from home. some of our work--our principal work--will take place at night." esther's clear ivory-tinted skin became a shade paler. she looked full at the sister with troubled but unshrinking eyes. "you do me a great honor," she said. "but i am afraid i must decline it. at present i cannot sleep away from home. it is also possible--yes, it is quite possible--that i may have to give up the work altogether for a time." "esther, are you putting your hand to the plough and looking back?" "i don't know, sister josephine. perhaps i am." the sister laid her hand solemnly on the girl's arm. "esther, if you love anyone better than god, you have no right to come here," she said. then she turned away and walked sorrowfully down the long mission room. she was disappointed in esther helps, and though esther's own heart never faltered, she felt a sharp pang pierce it. that night she came home late. "has brother jerome come in?" she asked cherry. "no. how you do fash about that man! his supper's waiting for him, and i saw to his fire. now i'm going to bed. i'm dead tired." "do, cherry. i'll sit up for brother jerome." "ask him, for goodness sake, not to march the boards so frequent. he'll have my grey hairs to account for. he's picked up a cough, too, and between the creaking of the boards, and the coughing, i have nice nights lately." "you study too much, cherry, or you wouldn't mind such little noises. now go to bed, dear. i'll give brother jerome a hint." "good-night, esther. uncle's been in bed an hour or more. i hope that brother of the slums won't keep you long." cherry ran upstairs, and esther went into the bright warm little kitchen. she left the door wide open, and then she sat and waited. the substance of sister josephine's words rang in her ears. "if you love another better than god, you have no right to come here." did she love another better than god? no, no, impossible. a man had influenced her life, and because of his influence she had given herself up, soul and body, to god's service. how could she love the man best? he had only pointed to the higher way. then she heard his step outside; his latch-key in the door, and she felt herself tremble. he went straight upstairs, never glancing in the direction of the kitchen; as he went he coughed, and his cough sounded hollow. his figure, never remarkably upright, was much bent. esther waited a few minutes; then, her heart going pit-a-pat, she crept very softly upstairs, passed her own room and cherry's, and knocked at wyndham's door. he came and opened it. "can i speak with you, brother?" "certainly. come in, esther?" the attic had been converted into a wonderfully snug apartment. the bed and washing apparatus were curtained off, and the part of the room which surrounded the hearth revealed a bright fire, a little table on which a tempting cold supper was spread, and a deep easy chair. "sit down, brother," said esther, "and eat. let me help you. i can talk while you eat your supper. are you very tired to-night? yes, i am afraid you are dreadfully tired." "i am always tired, esther. that is in the condition of things." he sank back into his chair as if he were too weary to keep out of it. then, with a flash of the old gerald wyndham in his eyes and manner, he sprang up. "i was forgetting myself. will you sit here!" "what do you take me for, mr.--brother jerome, i mean. i have come up here to see you eat, to see you rest, and to--to--talk to you." "esther, i have no words to thank you. you are, yes, you are the noblest woman i know." she flushed all over; her eyes shone. "and isn't that thanks for ever and ever?" she said in a voice in which passion trembled. wyndham did not notice. he had taken off his hat, and cherry's good supper stood by his side. he ate a little, then put down his knife and fork. "ain't you hungry, sir?" "no. at first, when i came here, i was so starved that i never could eat enough. now i am the other way, not hungry at all." "and, sir, you have got a cough." "yes, i had a very bad wetting last week, and a cough is the result. strange. i had no cough when i slept out of doors." "mr. wynd--brother jerome, i mean, you wouldn't go back to that old life? say you wouldn't go back." the almost anguish in her voice penetrated for the first time to wyndham's ear. he gave her a startled glance, then said with warmth:-- "esther, you and your father have been good samaritans to me; as long as it is safe i will stay with you." "it shall and must be safe. who would look for you here, of all places, when they think you are buried under the waves of the sea?" "that is true. i expect it is perfectly safe for me to stay." he lay back in his chair, and gazed into the fire; he had almost forgotten esther's presence. "and you like it--you feel happier since you came?" she asked, presently, in a timid voice. "what did you say?" "mr. wyndham," the forbidden name came out with a burst, "do tell poor esther helps that you are happier since she found you." she had fallen on her knees, the tears were streaming from her eyes; she held out her hands to him. "oh," she said, "i would give my life for yours." in a moment wyndham's dreamy attitude left him; he sprang to his feet, all alive and keen and watchful. he was the old wyndham; his eyes were full of pity, which made his whole face radiant. "hush," he said. "get up. don't say any more. not another word--not a syllable. you forget yourself. esther. i saved you once--i must save you again. sit there, yes, there; i am quite strong. i must tell you the truth. esther, i said just now that you were the noblest woman i know. you must go on being noble. i will stay here on that condition." "oh, sir, will you?" poor esther would have liked to shrink through the very boards. "will you forgive me, sir?" "hush; don't talk about forgiveness. there is nothing to forgive. esther, i will show you how much i trust you. i will talk to you about my wife. i will tell you a little of my story; i mean the part i can tell without implicating others." chapter xlii. esther was now seated in the easy-chair; wyndham stood by the mantel-piece. he had got a shock, and that shock had given him strength, and a good deal of his old manner. "esther," he said, "i cannot tell you all the story, but some of it i should like you to hear. you are a friend to me, esther, and the part that relates to myself i will confide to you." "sir, i know the other part; you have been the victim of a wicked man." "hush; i don't wish to speak about anyone but myself. i don't blame anyone but myself. i loved a woman, esther helps, so much better than myself that for her sake i resolved to die to the world. i need not give you the reason of this. it seemed to me necessary for her happiness that i should do this; and i did not think it too much to do. i married my wife knowing that the great love i had for her was not returned. this seemed all for the best, as when i died, as die to all appearance i should, her heart would not be broken. she could continue to live happy and honored. do you follow me?" "yes, sir, yes. are you tired? will you sit, mr. wyndham?" "i was never less tired. when i speak of my wife i feel as if a fresh vigor were coming into me. we were married, and i soon found that i had overtaxed my own resolve. in one particular i could not complete the sacrifice i had undertaken. i tried to make her love me, and for a time--a short time--i thought i had succeeded." the speaker paused, and the eagerness of his tone changed. "i failed. the heart that i most craved for was not to be mine. i tested it, but it did not respond. this was best, no doubt, but the fact preyed on me dreadfully. i went on board the _esperance_, and, then, god forgive me, the thought took possession of me, the idea overmastered me, that i would make my fictitious death real. everything had been carefully arranged with regard to my apparent death. that part implicates others, so i will not touch upon it. i resolved to make certainty doubly certain by dying in earnest. thus my wife's future would be assured. my death would be real, the thing that might come upon her would be averted for ever. i was in a condition when i could not balance right and wrong; but my intellect was sufficiently keen and sensible to make me prepare for the deed i contemplated. i took steps which would prevent anyone on board thinking that i had fallen overboard by design. my death would be attributed to the merest accident. thus all was made absolutely safe. what is the matter, esther?" "oh, mr. wyndham! oh, you frighten me. did you--did you think of your soul, sir?" "i did, esther. but i loved my wife better than my hope of heaven. i resolved to risk even that for her. as i tell you, i had no sense of personal right or wrong at that time. you see that i am a very wicked man, esther--no hero--a man who yielded to a dire temptation. i won't talk about this. the night came, and i dropped into the water. there was a storm that night. it was dark, but now and then the stars could be seen through the rifts of the clouds. as i leapt overboard i looked up, and saw the brightness of the southern cross. then i went under. the great waves closed over my head. the next instant i came to the surface only possessed with one fierce frantic desire, to save the life i meant to throw away. better be a living dog than a dead lion, i said to myself. yes, i would live--if only like the miserable dogs of eastern towns, w ould live as the outcast, as the scum of the earth--i would live. i had done a horrible thing in seeking to throw away my life. i cried aloud in an anguish of terror:--'god spare me! god leave my breath in my body! don't take my spirit before the judgment seat!' through the rifts in the clouds i saw a boat at a little distance manned by some of the sailors who were looking for me. i shouted, but no living voice could be heard in the gale. then i resolved to husband my strength. i was an excellent swimmer, and i could always float like a cork. i could not swim in that sea, but i could lie quite passive on the waves. i turned on my back, and waited for the issue of events. i closed my eyes and felt myself being moved up and down. the motion in itself was not unpleasant. the waves were wonderfully buoyant. instead of losing my strength i was rested. my heart beat steadily. i knew that my chance of life depended on my keeping very cool. presently something struck me. i put out my hand and grasped a floating oar. by means of the oar i knew that unless i froze with the cold i could keep above the water for hours. i placed it under my arms and kept above the water with very little effort. "the cold, however, was intense, and i doubt that i could have lived till morning had not another chance of deliverance just then appeared. the clouds had almost cleared from the sky, and by the brightness of the southern constellations i saw something gleaming white a little further off. it was not the ship, which must have been a league or two away by now, but something i could see in my present horizontal position. i ventured to raise my head a very little, and saw a boat--a boat painted white--which, strange to say, had not been overturned by the roughness of the waves. it was gently floating onwards in my direction. the name _esperance_ was painted in gold letters on the outside of the boat, near the bow. i guessed at once what had happened. one of the ships' boats had got loose from its moorings in the gale, and was now sent to me as an ark of deliverance. it was evidently on one of the ship's oars, too, that i was supporting my head. "then i saw that god did not mean me to die, and a great glow of gratitude and even happiness ran through me. you will wonder at this, but you don't know how horrible death looked in the jaws of that angry sea. "the boat came nearer, and nearer and my happiness and sense of relief grew to almost rapture. i cried aloud:--'god. i thank thee! take the life you have thought worth preserving almost through a miracle, as your own absolutely. take my body, take my spirit, to spend, to worship, to lose myself in thee!' then the boat came up, and i had to duck under to avoid being stunned by her. "it is no easy matter to get into an empty boat in a rough sea. my hands were almost numb, too, for i had been a couple of hours in the water. i felt, however, quite cool, self-possessed and quiet. i could think clearly, and bring my little knowledge of boats to my aid. i knew my only chance of not upsetting the boat was to climb over by the stern. this, after tremendous difficulties, i accomplished. i lay in the bottom of the boat for some time quite unconscious. when at last i was able to rouse myself, daylight had come and the storm had gone down. my clothes were drenched through with salt water. i could not keep from shivering, and every bone ached. i was not the least hungry, but i was consumed with thirst. there were two or three oars lashed to the side of the boat. i could row, therefore, and the exercise warmed me. presently the sun came up in the heavens. i was glad of this, but its rays beating on my uncovered head soon produced headache, which in its turn brought on a queer giddiness and a feeling of sickness. i saw now that i was going to be very ill, and i wondered how long i should retain my senses. i knew that it behoved me to be very careful. i was alive, but for my wife's sake i must appear to be dead. i saw that i had taken the very best possible step to insure this end, and if i could only carry on my purpose to its conclusion i should have adopted a far better plan for securing the establishment of my own apparent death than the one originally devised for me. "aching as i did from head to foot i found it difficult to keep my thoughts collected. i managed, however, to do so, and also to scratch out the name of the _esperance_ from the bows of the boat. this i accomplished with my pocket knife. i also cut away my own name from my linen, and from two handkerchiefs which i found in my pockets. these handkerchiefs had been marked by my wife. after this i knew there was no more i could do. i must drift along and take my chance of being picked up. i cannot recall how i passed the day. i believe i rowed a little when i felt cold; but the greater part of the time i simply allowed the boat to drift. "that evening i was picked up by a trading vessel bound for the cape. its crew were mostly dutch, and several of the sailors were black. i faintly remember going on board the vessel. then all memory leaves me. i had a long illness--a fever which changed me, turning my hair very grey. i grew a beard in my illness, and would not allow it to be removed when i got better, as i knew that in the future i must live under the shadow of death, i must completely sink the identity which made life of value. "i was put into hospital when we arrived at cape town, and when i got better was given a small purse of money, which had been collected by some people who professed to take an interest in me. on the day i left the hospital i really commenced my new life. "it is unnecessary to tell you all that followed. i had not forgotten my vow--the vow i made to god verily out of the deeps. i determined, as far as it was in me, absolutely to renounce myself and to live for god as he reveals himself in suffering man. i did not resolve to do this with any ulterior motive of saving my own soul, and atoning for the sin of the past. i felt that god deserved all that i could possibly give him, and to give it absolutely and without reservation kept me, i believe, from losing my senses. for a time all went well. then the hunger which had been my curse came back. you will ask what that was. it was a sense of utter starvation which no physical food could satisfy, which no mental food could appease. i _must_ get near my wife. i had sinned for her, and now i could not keep away from her. i must at least live in the same country. i prayed against this hunger; i fought with it. i struggled with it, but i could not beat it down. a year ago i came back to england. i came to london, to the safest place for a man who must hide. willing hands are always needed to help to lighten some of the load of misery in this great city. i called myself brother jerome, and presently i found my niche. i worked, and i could have been happy. yes, starving in body, with nowhere to lay my head, i could have been happy following _the_ blessed example, but for the hunger which always drove me mad, which was gnawing at my heart, which gnaws there still--which--esther--esther helps--is--killing me!" wyndham dropped his head on his hands. he uttered one groan. when he raised his head again his eyes were wet. "i am close to my wife," he said; "but i have never heard of her once--not once since i returned." then he sat down in the chair which esther rose from. he began to cough again, and esther saw the drops of sweat standing large on his forehead. it was now her turn to speak. she stood upright--a tall, slim woman--a woman who had gone through a change so great as almost to amount to a new birth--while wyndham had been telling his story. "now," she said, "i am happy. i praise god for his mercies, for it is given to me to comfort you." wyndham raised his head; he was too exhausted to ask her what she meant, except with his eyes. "your wife is well, and from this day forth you shall hear news of her, fresh news, once a week. every sunday you shall hear." "esther, don't torture me. are you telling me truth?" "i am telling you the solemn truth. would i lie to a man like you? mr. wyndham, do you know, has anyone ever told you that you have a child?" "nobody. is this the case? my god, a child!" "yes, sir, a little boy; he is called after you. he is three years old. you'd like to see him, maybe?" "good heavens, esther, this is like new wine to me. i have a son of my own--valentine's son!" he began to pace the floor. "and you would like to see him, wouldn't you, sir?" "yes--no--the joy might kill me. people have died of joy." "you wouldn't die of joy, sir. it has always been the other way with you. joy would make you live, would cure that cough, and that sinking feeling you have told me of." "and the hunger, esther--the hunger which gnaws and gnaws. esther, you are a wonderful woman." "sit down, mr. wyndham. keep quiet. don't get excited. i'll do this for you. i made up the plan this morning. it was about that i came to speak to you. the baby wants a new nurse. to-morrow i am going to offer for the place. i shall get it, too, no fear of that. i shall live in the same house as your wife, every night your son will sleep in my arms. each sunday i come here with my news--my weekful of news. some day i bring your son. what more natural than that i should come to my father once a week. who will suspect? mr. wyndham, that hunger of yours shall have one weekly meal. no fear, no fear. and now, sir, go to bed, and may god almighty bless you!" chapter xliii. valentine wyndham had often said that no greater treasure of a nurse could be found than the one who came to her when little gerald was a month old. when she saw esther, however, she changed her mind. esther was superior to annette in personal appearance, in intellect, and in a curious unspoken intangible sympathy which brought a strange sense of comfort to valentine's strained and worn heart. esther was full of tact. she was not demonstrative, but her every look and word expressed loving interest. baby very soon ceased to fret for annette. with a child's fickleness he boldly declared that he liked "noo nurse better than old nurse." his most loving word for esther was "noo nurse," and he was always contented and happy when he lay in noo nurse's arms and listened to her stories. she had wonderful stories for him, stories which she never dreamt of telling in his mother's presence, stories which always led to one termination--a termination which had a wonderful fascination for baby. they were about little fatherless boys, who in the most unlooked for ways found their fathers. baby revelled in these tales. "i'se not got a farwer, noo nursie," he would generally end sorrowfully. then esther would kiss him, and tell him to wait, and to watch for the good fairies who were so kind to little boys. his whooping cough soon got better, and he was able to go out. one day esther took him early into the park. he was dressed all in white fur. esther told him he looked like baby bunting. "but i haven't got a farwer to buy me a wabbit-skin," quoth baby. that day, however, the father he did not know pressed two or three burning kisses on his round cheek. esther sat down on a chair near a very worn and shabby-looking man. his back was partly to her. she said a word and he turned round. he looked at the child. suddenly a light filled his sunken eyes--a beautiful light. he stretched out his arms, and straight as an arrow from a bow, baby bunting found a shelter in their close embrace. "kiss me," said the man. the little lips pressed his cheek. "i 'ove oo," said baby, in his contented voice. "has 'oo little boys of 'oo own?" "one little boy." "oo 'ove him, i pose?" "ay." three kisses were pressed on baby's face and he was returned to esther. "nice man," he said patronizingly, by-and-bye. "but he gived raver hard kisses when he crunched me up." that evening baby told his mother that a man met him in the park, who kissed him and looked sad, and said he had a little boy of his own. "and he crunched me up with kisses, mover," concluded baby. "was this man a friend of yours, esther?" queried mrs. wyndham. "yes, madam, a friend of mine, and of my father's. a gentleman with a very sorrowful story. i think it comforted him to kiss master baby." esther was a woman of acute observation. it seemed to her that if there was an individual on earth to be envied it was valentine wyndham. what matter though she thought herself a widow? still she had won a love of a quality and depth which surely must satisfy the most exacting heart. esther often said to herself that if she were valentine she must surely rest content. as to her forgetting wyndham that could surely, surely never be. these were esther's thoughts, always supposing the case to be her own; but she had not been many weeks in the house in park-lane before she began to open her eyes and to suspect that matters were otherwise with her young mistress. valentine, although still a wife, supposed herself a widow. all the world thought her such. what more natural than that she should turn her thoughts once more to love. at the time of her supposed widowhood she was under twenty years of age. why should she mourn for her young husband all her days? surely there was somebody who considered that she ought not to mourn--somebody who came almost daily to the house, whom mrs. wyndham liked to talk to. for esther noticed that her eyes were bright after adrian carr went away. she did not guess that their brightness was generally caused by the shedding of tears. esther began to feel very uncomfortable. should she or should she not tell wyndham of the danger which was threatening valentine? there came a sunday when mrs. wyndham entered her nursery with a request. "nurse, my head aches dreadfully. i know you stipulated to have every sunday afternoon to yourself, but if you could stay at home to-day i should be grateful." no one could make requests more sweetly than valentine, and esther felt herself coloring up with the pain of refusing. "i am very sorry, madam," she said in a low constrained voice; "but--but--my father will expect me. you know it was an understood thing, madam, that i was to see him once a week. you remember my telling you i am his only child." "yes, yes," said valentine, "and i have thought of that. if you will take care of gerry this one afternoon i will send the page in a cab to your home to fetch your father here." esther changed color, from red to white. "i am more sorry than i can express, my dear madam, but it would make all the difference to my father seeing me in my own little home and here. my father is very humble in his ways, dear madam. i think, perhaps, if you have a headache, jane, the under housemaid, might be trusted for once with master baby." "jane has already gone out," replied valentine coldly. then with an effort she swallowed down her resentment. "i will be frank with you, esther," she said. "if it was simply a headache i could certainly take care of my little boy, even at some inconvenience. but there is more behind. i promised miss wyndham, who is now in town, to meet her this afternoon at mr. carr's new church. she is most anxious to hear him preach, and i should be sorry to disappoint her." "you mean _you_ are anxious to hear him preach," quoth esther, under her breath. "and is it on that account i will leave a hungry heart to starve?" aloud she said: "do you object to my taking master baby with me, madam?" "i do object. the child must not be out so late. then you distinctly refuse to accommodate me, esther?" "i am obliged to adhere to our arrangement, mrs. wyndham. i am truly sorry." valentine held out her hand to her little boy. "come, then, baby bunting," she said. "mother will play with her boy; and poor aunt lilias must go to church alone." she did not look at esther, but went quietly away, holding the child's hand. "what a brute i am," soliloquized the nurse. "and yet, she, poor young lady, how can she--how can she forget?" esther's home was in all its sunday quiet when she reached it. helps was having his afternoon siesta in the kitchen. cherry was spending the day with the cousins who admired her recitations. helps started out of his slumbers when his daughter came in. "essie," he said, "i'm glad you've come. that young man upstairs is very ill." esther felt her heart sinking down. she pressed her hand to her side. "is he worse, father?" she gasped. "oh, i don't know that he's worse; he's bad enough as it is, without going in for being worse. he coughs constant, and cherry says he don't eat enough to keep a robin going. esther, i wish to goodness we could get him out of this." "why so, father? he doesn't hurt you. even cherry can't name any fault in him." "no, but suppose he was to die here. there'd be an inquest, maybe, and all kinds of questions. well, i'm not hard-hearted, but i do wish he'd go." esther sank down into the nearest chair. "you speak cruel words now and then, father," she said. "who talks of dying? _he_ won't die. if it comes to that, or any chance of it, i'll come back and nurse him to life again." "essie, you think a sight of that young man." "well, i do. i'm not going to deny it. i'm going upstairs to see him now." chapter xliv. at the sound of the clock. she left the room, tripping lightly upstairs in her neat nurse's dress. when she got to wyndham's door and knocked gently for admission her heart, however, was beating so wildly that she feared he might notice it. "come in," said his voice; she entered. he was lying back in his easy-chair. when he saw esther he took off the soft hat which he always wore in cherry's presence, and greeted her with that brightness in his eyes which was the greatest reward he could possibly offer her. "you are a little late," he said; "but i thought you would not fail me." "i won't ever fail you, mr. wyndham; you know that." "esther, it is safer to call me brother jerome." "not at the present moment. the house is empty but for my father. still, if you wish it, sir." "i think i do wish it. a habit is a habit. the name may slip out at a wrong moment, and then--my god, think what would happen then!" "don't excite yourself, sir. esther helps is never likely to forget herself. still i see the sense of your wishes. you are brother jerome to me always from this out. and now, before i go any further, i want to state a fact. brother jerome, you are ill." "i am ill, esther. ill, nigh unto death." "my god, you shan't die!" "hush; the question of dying does not rest with you or me. i want to die, so probably i shall live." "you look like dying. does cherry feed you well?" "better than well. i want for nothing." "is your fire kept up all night?" "esther, i have not come to requiring a night nurse yet. my fire goes out in the early hours before the dawn." "the coldest part of the twenty-four hours. brother jerome, you must give up visiting in east london at present." "no, not while i can crawl. you forget that on a certain night i surrendered my body as well as my spirit to the service of comfort. while i can comfort others i will. there is nothing else left to me." "then, sir, you will die--you will deliberately kill yourself." "no, i tried that once. i won't again. esther, what is the matter? you are a good girl. it is a mistake for you to waste your pity on me." "you must forgive me, sir. pity comes to one unbidden. pity--and--and sympathy. if you get worse, i shall leave my situation and come home and nurse you." "then you will indeed kill me. you will take away my last hope. my one goblet of new wine will be denied me. then i shall truly die. esther, what is your budget of news? how is my wife? begin--go on--tell me everything." "mrs. wyndham is well, sir." "well? do you mean by that that she is happy? does she laugh much? does she sing?" "sometimes she laughs. once i heard her sing." "only once, esther? she had a very sweet voice. i used sometimes to tell her that it was never silent." "once, sir, i heard her sing." "oh, once? was it a cheerful song?" "it was on a sunday evening. she was singing to your little boy. i think she sang the 'happy land.' i don't quite remember. i came to fetch the boy to bed, and she was singing to him. she took her hands off the piano suddenly when i came in, and there were tears in her eyes." "tears? she was always sensitive to music. and yet you say she does not look sad." "i should not call her sad, brother jerome. her face is calm and quiet. i think she is a very good young lady." "you need not tell me that, esther; you managed very well about the boy." "thank you, sir. i think i did. what did you feel when you saw him, sir?" "rapture. all my blood flowed swiftly. i lived and breathed. i had an exquisite five minutes." "the boy is not like his mother, sir." "no, nor like me. he resembles my sister lilias. esther, i must see him again." "you shall, by-and-bye, but not too soon. we must not run any risks." "certainly not. i will have much patience. hold out the hope only, and i will cling to it indefinitely." "you shall see the child again, brother jerome." "god abundantly bless you. now go on. tell me more. how does my wife spend her time? has she many visitors?" "sometimes her father." "only sometimes? they used to be inseparable." "not now, sir. there is something wrong between them. when they meet they are constrained with one another, and they don't meet very often. i have orders, though, to take the child every morning to see mr. paget." "have you? i am sorry for that. he kisses my son, does he?" "yes, sir. he seems wrapped up in him; he----" "don't talk of him. that subject turns my blood into vinegar. go on. tell me more. what other visitor has my wife?" "sometimes your sister, miss lilias wyndham." "my sister? esther, you don't know what that name recalls. all the old innocent days; the little hymns before we went to bed, and the little prayers at our mother's knee. i don't think i can bear to hear much about lilias; but i am glad she loves my wife." "she does, sir. she is devoted to mrs. wyndham. i don't think any other visitors come except mr. carr." "adrian carr, a clergyman?" wyndham's tone had suddenly become alert and wakeful. "i believe the gentleman's name is the rev. adrian carr, brother jerome." "why do you speak in that guarded voice, esther? have you anything to conceal?" "no, sir, no. don't excite yourself. i conceal nothing; he comes, that is all." "but surely, not often? he is my father's curate; he cannot often come to london." "he is not mr. wyndham's curate now, sir; he has a church of his own, st. jude's they call it, at the corner of butler-street." "and he comes constantly to my house? to--to see my wife?" "your--your widow, sir." "god help me, esther! god help me! how am i to endure this! my poor--my beloved--my sweet--and are you exposed to this? esther, esther, this care turns me into a madman." "you must stay quiet, brother jerome. mr. carr comes, and your--your widow sees him." "do you think she likes him?" "oh, sir, i would rather die than have to tell it to you." "i cannot listen to your sentimentalisms. does my wife seem happy when adrian carr calls upon her?" "i think she is interested in him, brother jerome." "does she see him alone?" "often alone." "and you say she seems pleased?" "i think so. it is incomprehensible to me." "never mind whether you understand it or not. do you know that by this news you are turning me into a devil? i'll risk everything--everything. i'll expose the whole vile conspiracy if my wife is entrapped into engaging herself to adrian carr." brother jerome was no longer a weak-looking invalid; he began to pace his attic floor; a fire burnt in his sunken eyes, and he clenched his thin hands. for the time he was strong. "listen to me, esther helps. my wife shall run no risk of that kind. it was in the contract that _that_ should be prevented. i sinned for her--yes, i willingly sinned for her--but she shall never sin for me. rather than that we'll all go to penal servitude. i, and your father, and her father." "do quiet yourself, mr. wyndham. there may be nothing in what i told you." esther felt really frightened. "perhaps the gentleman comes to see your sister, miss wyndham. he certainly comes, but--but----" "esther, the whole thing must be put a stop to--the faintest shadow of risk must not be run. my wife thinks herself a widow, but she must retain the feelings of a wife. it must be impossible for her, while i live, to think of another man." "can you not bring yourself back to her memory, sir? is there no way?" "that is a good thought. don't speak for a little. let me think." wyndham continued to pace the floor. esther softly built up the fire with trembling fingers. in this mood she was afraid of wyndham. that fire in his eyes was new to her. she was cowed--she shivered. with her mental vision she already saw her grey-headed father in the prisoner's dock. "esther," said wyndham, coming up to her suddenly. "i have thought of a plan. it won't implicate anyone, and if a chord in valentine's heart still beats true to me this must touch it. at what hour does carr generally call to see my wife?" "he is a busy man; he comes mostly at night, about nine o'clock. he has a cup of tea, and goes away at ten. when miss wyndham is there he sometimes stays on till nearly eleven." "he comes every night?" "almost every night." "and he leaves at ten?" "a few minutes after ten. when the clock strikes ten it seems to be a sort of a signal to him, and he gets up and goes away." "thank you. ten, then, will be the hour. esther, something else may happen at ten of the clock. you need not look so white. i said no risk would be run. it is possible, however, that my wife may be agitated. no, you don't suppose i am going to reveal myself to her--nothing of the sort. still, something will happen which may break down her nerve and her calm. in that case she may even appeal to you, esther, you will be very guarded. you must remember that on the success of this scheme of mine depends your father's safety, for if she engages herself to carr i swear by the god above me that we three, paget, your father, and i, go to prison." "sir, i must own that i feel dreadfully frightened." "poor esther! and you don't deserve it, for you are the best of girls and quite innocent. but that is ever the way. the innocent bear the sins of the guilty. in this matter, however, esther, you must trust me, and keep your own counsel. now, i want to know if you have any money you can lend me?" "i have two sovereigns in my purse, sir. will that do?" "plentifully. i will tell you what i want the money for. i want to hire a violin--a good one. once, esther, i used to express my feelings through the violin. it talked for me. it revealed some of the tortures of my soul. the violin shall speak again and to my wife. now you are prepared at all points. good-bye. be as brave as you are good, and the worst may be averted." chapter xlv. on the following night, as esther was preparing to go to bed, the nursery door was suddenly opened and mrs. wyndham entered. "esther," she said, "i want baby." "he is sound asleep, madam. you would not wake him?" "he can be moved without disturbing him. i want him to sleep in my bed. i want his company. my little child?" she was trembling. she caught hold of the rails of the baby's cot. "little children are sacred innocent things, aren't they, nurse? i want my little child to-night." "strange," thought esther. "i listened with all my might, and i could not hear anything except the usual barrel organs and german bands in the street. but she has heard something, there isn't a doubt. how queer and shaken she looks. poor young thing, i do pity her; she can't help thinking she is a widow when she is a wife." aloud esther complied with mrs. wyndham's request cheerfully. "certainly, madam. the child will never know that we are moving him. if you will go on to your room, ma'am, i'll follow with master baby." mrs. wyndham turned away at once. when the nurse entered her mistress' room with the child, there was a soft nest made in the big bed to receive him, and the fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow over everything. "let me kiss him," said the mother. "my darling, my beloved. i'll take him into my arms presently, nurse, and then all fears will fly away." "fears, mrs. wyndham? no one ought to fear in this cheerful room." "perhaps not, nurse; but sometimes i am superstitious--painfully so. yes, put baby there. is he not a handsome boy? although i could wish he were more like his father." "he seems to feature your sister-in-law, miss lilias wyndham, madam." "how queer that you should find that out! he is not like what lilias is now, but they all say she was just such another little child. nurse, i hate high winds--there is going to be a storm to-night." "would you like me to sleep on the sofa in your room, madam?" "yes, no--yes, oh, yes." "i will bring a shawl, and wrap it round me and lie down." "no, don't, nurse, don't. i must not yield to this nameless thing. i must--i will be brave. and the child, my own little child, will comfort me." "what is the nameless thing, dear madam?" "i cannot--i won't speak of it. esther, are you--are you _going_?" "certainly not, mrs. wyndham. i mean, not yet." "that is right. take this chair; warm yourself. esther. i don't look on you as an ordinary nurse. long ago i used to be so much interested in you." "it was very kind of you, madam; young ladies, as a rule, have no time to interest themselves in poor girls." "but i had plenty of time, and did interest myself. my father was always so much attached to yours. i was an only child and you were an only child. i used to wonder if you and your father cared for each other as passionately, as loyally, as i and my father cared." "i don't know that, madam; we did love each other. our love remains unchanged. true love ought never to change, ought it?" "it ought never to change," repeated mrs. wyndham. her face grew white, her lips trembled. "sometimes true love is killed by a blow," she said suddenly. then her expression changed again, she tried to look cheerful. "i won't talk any more. i am sleepy, and that nest near baby looks inviting. good-night, dear nurse." "let me undress you, ma'am. let me see you in your nest beside the child." "no. go now. or rather--rather--_stay a moment or two longer_. esther, had you ever the heartache?" "there are a few women, madam, who don't know what the heartache means." "i suppose that is true. once i knew nothing about it. esther, you are lucky never to have married." esther helps made no response. "to marry--to love--and then to lose," dreamily murmured mrs. wyndham. "to love, and then to lose. esther, it is a dreadful thing to be a widow, when you are young." "but the widow can become a wife again," suddenly replied esther. the words seemed forced from her lips; she was sorry the moment she had uttered them. mrs. wyndham opened her big eyes wide. "i suppose the widows who can become wives again have not lost much," she responded in a cold voice. then she moved over to the bedside and began to undress. a few moments later esther left her. she felt puzzled, perplexed, unhappy. she had no key to the thoughts which were passing in her mistress' mind. her impression was that valentine loved carr, but felt a certain shame at the fact. the next evening the vicar of st. jude's called again. he came hurriedly to the door, ran up the stairs without being shown the way, and entered valentine's presence with a brisk step. esther leant over the banisters to watch him as he entered the drawing-room. it was half-past nine when he arrived; he had been conducting a prayer meeting and was later than usual. the drawing-room door was shut on the two, and esther, who had been sitting with the child, now crept softly downstairs and entered a small bedroom at the back of the drawing-room. this bedroom also looked on the street. it was the room occupied by lilias when she visited her sister-in-law. esther closed the door softly behind her. the room was dark. she went up to the window and looked eagerly up and down the gaily-lighted street. she could distinguish no words, but the soft murmur of voices came to her through the drawing-room wall. "you are better to-night?" said carr, in a cheery, confident tone; "although you took it upon yourself to disobey me." "i could not go to the prayer-meeting. i could not." "well, well, you must act as you think best; only i don't think staying at home is the best thing for you." "oh, i shan't get over-nervous; and lilias is coming to me next week." carr's eyes brightened. "that is good," he said. "well, i must not stay. i just looked in for a moment. i knew you would not let these superstitious fears get the better of you. good-night." he held out his hand. valentine put hers behind her. "no," she said; "you always stay until past ten. it was at ten o'clock last night----" she trembled--more words would not come. "and i will stay until past ten to-night," responded carr resuming his seat. "now, don't look at the clock. turn your thoughts to me and my affairs. so miss wyndham comes here next week?" "she does." "shall i put everything to the test, then?" valentine's face grew bright. "oh how earnestly i wish you would," she cried, clasping her hands. "do you, indeed? then you must think there is some chance for me. the fact is, mrs. wyndham, i am the veriest coward that ever breathed. if i win, i win for ever. i mean that i am made, body, soul, and spirit. if i lose, i think morally i shall go under. a main spring will be broken which has kept me right, kept my eyes looking upwards ever since i knew your sister lilias." "but even if she refuses you, you will live on," said valentine, in a dreamy voice. "we often have to live on when the main spring is broken. we creep instead of running, that is all." "now you are getting gloomy again. as your spiritual adviser i cannot permit it. you have put a daring thought into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. will you sing something to me before i go? you know lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to her. sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen." valentine hesitated for a moment. then she went over to the piano and opened it. her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. suddenly she stopped, her face worked. she looked at carr with a piteous expression. "i cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. i should do it no justice. this must take its place. but it is not for you, remember. oh, no, i pray god never for you. listen, don't scold me afterwards. listen." her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room:-- "the murmur of the mourning ghost that keeps the shadowy kine. oh, keith of ravelston. the sorrows of thy line! ravelston, ravelston. the merry path that leads down the golden morning hill. and through the silver meads. ravelston, ravelston. the stile beneath the tree. the maid that kept her mother's kine. the song that sang she. she sang her song, she kept her kine. she sat beneath the thorn. when andrew keith of ravelston rode through the monday morn. his henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring. his belted jewels shine-- o, keith of ravelston. the sorrows of thy line!" "now, good-night," said valentine, springing to her feet. "don't question me about the song. i sang it, but i cannot speak of it. the clock is about to strike. it is your hour for farewell. oh, yes, i wish you all luck--all luck. the clock is striking----! oh, what a noise there is in the street!" "what a silence you mean," said carr, as he took her hand. it was true. the thunderous rattle of a heavy waggon, the discordant notes of a brass band, the din of a hurdy-gurdy frightfully out of tune, suddenly stopped. it was as if a wave of sound had been arrested, and in the quiet floated up the passionate wail of a soul. there are no other words to describe what the sound meant. it had a voice and an interpretation. it was beautiful, but its beauty was torture. trembling in every limb, valentine sprang away from carr, flew to one of the french windows, wrested it open, and stepped on to the balcony. she was in white, and the people in the street could see her. she pressed to the front of the balcony and looked eagerly up and down. the wailing of the lost soul grew more feeble--more faint. it stopped. there was a pause of half a minute, and then the waggon lumbered on, and the hurdy-gurdy crashed out its discordant notes. "i saw nothing," said carr, who had followed mrs. wyndham on to the balcony and now led her back to the drawing-room. "i saw nothing," he repeated. "i mean, i did not see the man who played." "but you heard?" "oh, yes, i heard." "you could not see. that was spirit music. my husband played. don't speak to me; don't touch me; you tried to argue me out of my belief last night, but even _you_ heard to-night. my husband has come back in the spirit, and he has played for me. only _he_ knows that air--only he in all the world. that was 'waves.' once i told you the story of 'music waves.'" she did not faint, she crouched down by the fire; but no face to be alive could be whiter than hers. "what is the matter, mr. carr?" she said suddenly. "why cannot my husband's spirit rest? they say that those spirits that are hurried out of life before their time cannot rest. o, tell me what you think. o, tell me what it means. you heard the music yourself to-night." "i did. i certainly heard it." "and at the same hour. when the clock struck." "that is a mere coincidence, not worth considering." "i don't believe in its being a coincidence." she beat her hands passionately together. "the thing was planned--he planned it. he will come again to-morrow night when the clock strikes ten." again she beat her hands together; then she covered her face with them. carr looked at her anxiously. the weird soft wailing music had affected even his nerves. of course he did not believe in the supernatural element, but he was touched by the distress of the woman who was crouching at his feet. this mental unrest, this superstitious terror, might have a disastrous effect. he must do his utmost to check it. if necessary he must even be cruel to be kind. "mrs. wyndham," he said, "you must go away to-morrow; you must go into the country for a few days." "i will not. i won't stir a step." "you ought, your nerves are shaken. there is nothing for shaken nerves like change of air. go to jewsbury-on-the-wold, and talk to lilias. she, too, loved your husband; she will sympathize, but she will not lose sight of common-sense." "i will not stir from here." "i think for your child's sake you ought. the child belongs to your husband as well as you, to your dead husband. the child is fatherless as far as this world is concerned. you have no right--it is very, very wicked of you to do anything to make him motherless." "what do you mean? why do you speak to me in that tone? i don't deserve it." "you do." "i think you are cruel." valentine's eyes filled with sudden tears. "what do you mean by saying that i will leave baby motherless?" "i mean that if you encourage the fancy which has now taken possession of you you are extremely likely to lose your senses--to become, in short, insane. how can you train your child if you are insane?" valentine shuddered. "but i did hear the music," she said. "the old story music that he only played. how can i doubt the evidence of my senses? last night at ten o'clock i heard 'waves' played on the violin, my husband's favorite instrument--the melody which he made, the harmony and melody with all the passion and its story, which he made about himself and me. no one else could produce those sounds. i heard them last night at ten o'clock, you were here, but you heard nothing. to-night there was silence in the street, and we both heard--we both heard." "i certainly heard some very melancholy music." "played on the violin?" "yes, played on the violin." "in short, you heard 'waves.'" "i heard something which i never heard before. i cannot tell the name." "no. what you heard was 'waves,' in other words the cry of a soul." "mrs. wyndham, get up. give me your hand. look me in the face. now, that is better. i am going to talk common-sense to you. you have been from the first impressed with the idea that foul play was done to your husband. for a time i own i shared your apprehension. i discovered one or two things in connection with his death which far more than your words inclined me to this belief. since i came to london i have thought a great deal over the matter. last week a lucky chance brought me in communication with captain jellyby of the _esperance_. ah, you start. i saw him. i think you would like me to bring him here some night. he entered into minute particulars of wyndham's last days. he would like to tell you the story himself. i can only say that a fairer story could not be recorded of any man. he was beloved by every one on board the ship. 'we all loved him,' said captain jellyby. 'emigrants, passengers, sailors, all alike. sir,' he said, 'when mr. wyndham was washed over, there wasn't a dry eye on board. but if ever a man humbly and cheerfully went forth to meet his creator, he was the man, sir. he met his death trying to help the man at the wheel. bless his heart, he spent all his life trying to help other people.'" valentine was silently crying. "you comfort me," she said; "you comfort me much. go on." "that is all, my dear friend, that is all. it set my mind at rest with regard to your husband. it ought to set yours at rest also. he is a glorious, and happy spirit in heaven now. is it likely that he would come back from there to frighten you for no object or purpose? no, you must dismiss the idea from your mind." "but the music--the unearthly music." "played by a strolling musician with a talent for the thing. that was all." "his air and mine--'waves.' the air that no one else knew, that was never written down." "you imagined the likeness to the air you mention. our imaginations play strange tricks with us. the air played to-night was of a very minor character, and had notes in common with the one your husband composed. hence a fleeting resemblance. it is more natural and in accordance with sense to believe this than to suppose that your husband came back from heaven to torture you. now, good-night. you are good. you will try and be brave. i ask you to be brave for the sake of your noble husband's child." chapter xlvi. as carr was leaving the house he came across esther, who, very white, but with a resolute look on her face, met him on the stairs. "how is my mistress, sir?" carr felt nettled at her tone. "why do you ask?" he said shortly; "when last you saw her i presume she was well." "no, sir." "no?" carr paused. he gave esther a quick piercing look, and his manner changed. her face was strong, it could be relied on. "you are the little boy's nurse, are you not?" "i am, mr. carr." "and you are attached to your mistress?" esther hesitated. "i--i am," she said, but her voice trembled. "mrs. wyndham wants some one who can be kind and sympathetic near her. some one who can be tactful, and full of common-sense. her nerves are greatly shaken. for instance she was much agitated at some music she heard in the street to-night." "i heard it, sir. i was surprised. it wasn't like ordinary music." "oh, you thought so, did you? for heaven's sake don't repeat your thoughts to mrs. wyndham. you look a sensible young woman." esther dropped a curtsey. "i hope i am," she said in a demure voice. "has your mistress a maid--a maid she likes?" "no. i render her what little services are necessary." "can you stay in her room to-night? she ought not to be alone." "i will sleep on the sofa in my mistress' room." "that is right. don't allude to the music in the street if you can help it." carr ran downstairs and went away, and esther, slowly and hesitatingly, entered the drawing-room. mrs. wyndham was standing with her two arms clasped round her husband's violin. the tears were raining from her eyes. before she could disengage herself esther saw the action, and a queer pang, half of pleasure, half of pain, shot through her. she saw at a glance that gerald wyndham's wife cared for no one but her husband. she stepped across the room quickly, and without any thought of the familiarity of the action put her hand through her mistress' arm, and led her towards the door. "come," she said, "you are tired and weak. master baby is in his nest, and he wants you. come, i am going to put you to bed." valentine raised no objection. she was trembling and cold. the tears were undried on her cheeks; the look of infinite pathetic patience in her eyes almost crushed esther helps. "what a fool i was to suppose she didn't love her husband," she murmured. "as if any woman could be much with him and not love him. ah, lucky mrs. wyndham--notwithstanding all your sorrow you are the woman i envy most on earth." valentine did not object to her maid's attentions. she felt shaken and worn out, and was glad passively to submit. when she was in bed she spoke for the first time. "esther, get a shawl, and lie here, outside the clothes. it comforts me to have you near." esther obeyed without any comment. she wrapped a thick shawl around her, and lay down near the edge of the big bed. valentine took her little rosy boy into her arms. "now you must go to sleep, mrs. wyndham," said the maid, and she resolutely shut her own dark eyes. for an hour she lay motionless, every nerve keenly awake, and on tension. for an hour she never lifted her eyelids. at the end of that time she opened them, and glanced at her mistress. valentine was lying as still as if she were carved in marble. her eyes were wide open. they were looking straight before her out into the big room. she scarcely seemed to breathe, and never saw esther when she glanced at her. "this won't do," thought the maid. "poor little soul, she has got an awful shock. she will be very ill if i don't do something to rouse and interest her. i know she loves her husband--i will speak of him." esther moved on purpose somewhat aggressively. valentine's wide-open eyes never flinched or changed their expression. the maid touched her mistress on the shoulder. "this isn't good of you," she said; "you ought to be asleep." valentine started and shivered violently. "i thought i was asleep," she said. "at any rate i was far away." "when people sleep they shut their eyes," quoth esther. "were mine open? i did not know it. i was looking at a picture--a picture in real life. it was lovely." "i like beautiful pictures," said esther. "tell me what you saw." by this time these two women had forgotten the relative positions they bore to each other. valentine observed no familiarity in esther's tone. esther spoke and thought as though she were valentine's social equal. she knew she was above her mentally just then; it was necessary for her to take the lead. "tell me what you saw, madam," she said. "describe your beautiful picture." valentine obeyed with the docility of a child. "it was a seaside picture," she began. "the sun was setting, and there was a path of light across the waters. the path seemed to go right up into the sky, and melt, and end there. and i--i thought of jacob's ladder, from earth to heaven, and the angels walking up and down. on the shore a man and a girl sat. he had his arm round her waist; and she was filling her hands with the warm soft sand and letting it dribble away through her fingers. she was happy. she felt warm and contented, and protected against the whole world. although she did not know that she loved it so much, it was the arm that encircled her that gave her that feeling." valentine stopped suddenly. "that was a pretty picture, madam," said esther. "a pretty picture, and you described it well. i suppose the gentleman was the girl's lover or husband." "her lover and husband in one. they were married. they sat like that once during their honeymoon. presently he, the husband, took up his violin, which he had beside him, and began to play." "don't go into the music part, please, mrs. wyndham. i want just to keep to the picture alone. i want to guess something. i am good at guessing. you were the happy young girl." "i was; oh, i was." "and the gentleman was your husband; yes, your husband, whom you dearly loved." "don't talk of him, he is lost, gone. esther, i'm a miserable, miserable woman." her icy quiet was broken up. long-drawn sobs escaped her; she shivered as she wept. "it is an awful thing to love too late--to love loo late," she moaned. "madam, i'm going to give you some sal-volatile and water: when you have taken it you shall tell me the whole story from first to last. yes, you had better; you have said too much or too little. i may be able to comfort you if i know all." esther administered the restorative. when the distressful sobs were quieted, and mrs. wyndham lay back exhausted on her pillow, she took her hand, and said with infinite tact and tenderness:-- "you love him you have lost very deeply. is that not so?" "beyond words to describe." "you were young when you were married, mrs. wyndham; you are a very young woman still. perhaps, as a young girl, as almost a child-girl, you did not know what great love meant." "i always knew what great love meant. as a little girl i used to idolize my father. i remember when i was very young, not much older than baby here, lying down on the floor and kissing the carpet over which his steps had walked. i used to steal into his study and sit like a mouse; perfectly happy while i was watching him. when i saw his face that was bliss; when he took me in his arms i thought heaven could give me no more. you are an only child, esther helps. did you feel like that for your father?" "no, madam, i always loved my father after a quiet fashion; i love him after a quiet fashion still. that kind of intense love i did not know. and you feel it still for mr. paget? i suppose it is natural. he is a handsome gentleman; he has a way about him that attracts people. for instance, my father would do anything for him. it is still bliss to you, mrs. wyndham, to watch your father's face." "come near to me, esther; let me whisper to you. that love which i thought unquenchable is--dead!" "madam, you astonish me! dead?" "it died, esther helps, on the morning my husband sailed away." "then you only love your husband now?" "i love many people. for instance, this little child; for instance, my sister lilias. what i feel for my husband is high above all these things. i cannot describe it. it lies here--in my heart--and my heart aches, and aches." "it would make mr. wyndham very happy to hear you," said esther. her words were unguarded. valentine began to sob feebly. "he can never hear me," she said. "that is the dreadful part. i loved him when we were married, but i did not know it. then the knowledge came to me, and i was so happy. one evening i told him so. i said, 'i love you!' i shall never forget his face. often he was sad, but his face seemed to shine when i said those words, and he took me in his arms, and i saw a little way into the depth of his great heart. soon after that something happened--i am not going to tell it, it doesn't matter--please don't hold my hand, esther. it is very queer that _you_ should be with me to-night." "why, dear madam? don't you like to have me with you?" "i think i do. i really quite think i do. still it is strange that you should be here." "your story interests me wonderfully, mrs. wyndham. will you tell me more?" "there is not a great deal to tell. for a time i misunderstood my husband, and the love which really filled my heart seemed to go back and back and back like the waves when the tide is going out. then the time came for him to go to sydney. he could not say good-bye; he wrote good-bye. he said a strange thing in the middle of the letter; he asked me if i really loved him to join him the next morning on board the _esperance_. loved him! of course i loved him! i was so relieved. everything was made clear to me. he was first--all others everywhere were second. my father came in, and i told him what i meant to do. he was angry, and tried to dissuade me. when he saw that i would not yield he appeared to consent, and promised to go with me the next morning to southampton. the _esperance_ was not to sail until noon. there seemed lots of time. still, for the first time, i began to doubt my father. i determined not to wait for the train he had arranged to travel by with me, but to go down by a much earlier one. i went to southampton with a german maid i had at the time. we arrived there at eight in the morning, we reached the docks soon after nine, the _esperance_ was away--she had sailed at eight. don't question me about that day, esther helps. it was on that day my love for my father died." chapter xlvii. it was nearly morning before mrs. wyndham fell asleep. before then, esther had said a good deal. "i am not surprised at your loving your husband," she began. "men like your husband are worth loving. they are loyal, true, and noble. they make the world a better place. once your husband helped me. i am going to tell you the story. "three years ago, mrs. wyndham, i was a very different girl from the one who now is by your side. i was handsome, and vain, and empty-headed. i thought most of dress and of flirting. i had the silliest form of ambition. i wanted to be a gentleman's wife. my mother had been a lady by birth, and i thought it was only due to me to be the same. my only chance of becoming a lady was by marrying a gentleman, and i thought surely someone would be found who would make me his wife for the sake of my handsome face. i had nothing else to recommend me, mrs. wyndham, for i was empty-headed and untrained, and i had a shallow, vulgar soul. "one day i was skating in regent's park with some friends. i fell on the ice and hurt my foot. a gentleman picked me up. i looked into his face in the bold way i had, and then all of a sudden i felt ashamed of myself, and i looked down, and a modest, humble womanly feeling crept over me. the gentleman was your husband, mr. wyndham; the expression on his face impressed me, and i could not forget it. he came to our house that evening and brought a book to my father, and a present of flowers from you to me. i felt quite silent and queer when he was in the room; i did not talk, but i listened to every word he said. he was so uncommon. i thought what a clergyman he'd make, and how, if he were as eloquent in his words as in his looks, he might make us all good in spite of ourselves. he made a great impression on me, and i did not like to think my low silly thoughts after he had gone. "soon afterwards i made the acquaintance of a captain herriot, in the --th hussars; he was a very fine gentleman, and had very fine words, and although i did not love him a bit nor a scrap, he turned my head with his flattery. he did go on about my face--i don't know how i ever was goose enough to believe him. he managed to get my secrets out of me though, and when i told him that i meant to be a gentleman's wife some day, he said that he was the gentleman, and that i should marry him, and him alone. i thought that would be fine, and i believed him. he made all arrangements--oh, how i hate to think of what i afterwards saw was his real meaning. "i was not to let out a thing to my father, and on a certain night we were to go together to the gaiety, and he was to take me home afterwards, and the next morning we were to go to church and be married. he showed me the license and the ring, and i believed everything, and thought it would be fine to be the wife of captain herriot. "i kept my secret from my father, but cherry, a cousin who lives with us, got some of it out of me, for i was mad with vain triumph, and it was indirectly through her that i came to be delivered. the night arrived, and i went away from my home thinking how proudly i'd come back to show myself in a day or two; and how cherry would open her eyes when i told her i was the wife of captain herriot, of the --th hussars. i reached the theatre, and captain herriot gave me his arm, and led me into the house, and we took our places in the stalls. people turned and looked at me, and captain herriot said it was no wonder, for i was the most beautiful woman in the gaiety that night. "then the curtain rose, the house was darkened, and some one took the empty stall at my other side. i turned my head, mr. wyndham was sitting near me. he said a courteous word or two. i bowed my head; i could not speak. madam, i did not see that play; i was there, looking on, but i saw nothing. captain herriot whispered in my ear; i pushed away from him. suddenly he was horrible to me. i felt like a girl who was placed between an angel and a devil. instantly the mask fell from my eyes. captain herriot meant to ruin me, never to marry me. mr. wyndham scarcely said a word to me till the play was over, then he spoke. "'your father wants you,' he said. 'here is a cab, get into it. i will take you to your father.' "he spoke out, quite loud and clear. i thought captain herriot would have fought him. not a bit of it. his face turned an ugly color. he took off his hat to me, and slunk away through the crowd. that was the last straw. he had not even spirit to fight for the girl who thought she was about to become his wife. "mr. wyndham got on the box of the cab, and took me to mr. paget's offices. my old father came out, and helped me out of the cab, and put his arms round me. he wrung mr. wyndham's hand, and said 'god bless you, sir;' and then he led me inside, and told me how cherry had betrayed me, and how he (my father) had taken that stall ticket intending to sit beside me that night, and give captain herriot a blow in his face afterwards, as he was known to be one of the greatest scoundrels going. pressing business kept my father at the office that night, and mr. wyndham promised to go in his place. "'there isn't another young gentleman who would do it,' said my father. 'no not another.' "after that, madam, i was changed; yes, a good bit. i thought i'd live more worthy. mr. wyndham's face used to come between me and frivolous ways and vain sins. it seemed as if his were the hand to lead me up. you don't mind, do you, madam, that he should have rescued one poor girl from the pit of destruction, and that she should love him--yes, love him for what he has done?" "oh, esther, do i mind? come here, esther, come here. let me put my arms round you. kiss me. you have lifted something from my heart--how much you can never know. esther, _i_ was at the gaiety that night, and i saw my husband with you, and i--i doubted him." "madam--_you_?" esther sprang away--her whole face became crimson. "i did, esther; and that was when my love went away like the tide going out; but now--now----esther, lie down. let me hold your hand. i am sleepy. i can sleep sweetly now." chapter xlviii. when the wandering minstrel, with his violin under his arm, left the neighborhood of park-lane, he walked with a somewhat feeble and faltering step through grosvenor-square and into bond-street. a few people looked at him as he passed, and a hungry-looking girl who was leaning against a wall suddenly asked him to play for her. he stopped at the sound of her voice and said a word or two. "i am sorry my violin only knows one air, and i have played it." "can you not play it again?" "it is not meant for you, poor girl. good-night." "good-night, kind sir. i'll say a prayer for you if you like; you look miserable enough." the minstrel removed his soft hat, made a gesture of thanks, and hurried on. he was going to queen's gate. the walk was long, and he was very feeble. he had a few coins in his pocket from the change of esther's sovereigns; he determined to ride, and mounted on the roof of a hammersmith omnibus in piccadilly. by-and-bye he reached his destination, and found himself in familiar ground. he walked slowly now, hesitating--sometimes inclined to turn back. presently he reached a house; he went up the steps, and took shelter for a moment from the biting east winds under the portico. it was late, but the lights were still shining in the great mansion. he was glad of this; he could not have done what he meant to do except under strong excitement, and sheltered by the friendly gas light. he turned and gave the visitor's bell a full peal. the door was opened almost instantly by a liveried footman. "is mr. paget within?" the man stared. the voice was not only refined, but to a certain extent familiar. the voice, oh, yes; but then the figure, the thin, long reed-like figure, slouching forward with weakness, buttoned up tight in the seedy frock coat whose better days must have been a matter of the very distant past. "is mr. paget within?" the tone was so assured and even peremptory that the servant, in spite of himself, was overawed. "i believe so, sir," he said. "ask if i can see him." "mr. paget is not very well, sir, and it is late." "ask if i can see him." the footman turned a little surly. "i'll inquire," he said; "he's sure to say no, but i'll inquire. your name, if you please. my master will require to know your name." "i am known as brother jerome. tell your master that my business is urgent. go; i am in a hurry." "rum party, that," murmured the servant. "don't understand him; don't like him. all the same, i can't shut the door in his face. he's the sort of party as has seen better days; 'ope as the umbrellas is safe." then he walked across the hall and entered his master's study. the room, with its old oak and painted glass, and electric light, looked the perfection of comfort. the tall, white-headed man who sat crushed up in the big armchair was the envied of many. "if you please, sir," said the servant. "yes; don't leave the door open. who were you chatting to in the hall?" "a man who has called, and wants to see you very particular, sir." "i can't see him." "he says his name is brother jerome." "i can't see him. go away, and shut the door." "i knew it would be no use," muttered the footman. "only he seems a sort of a gentleman, sir, and in trouble like." "i can't see him. shut the door and go away!" "yes, you can see me," said a voice. the minstrel walked into the room. "good heavens!" chapter xlix. at the sound of his voice the footman fell back as white as a sheet. mr. paget rose, walked over to him, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room. he locked the door behind him. then he turned, and backing step by step almost as far as the window, raised his hands, and looked at his forbidden visitor with a frozen expression of horror. wyndham took his hat off and laid it on the table. mr. paget raised his hands, covered his face with them, and groaned. "spirit!" he said. "spirit, why have you come to torment me before the time?" "i am no spirit," replied wyndham, "i am a living man--a defrauded and injured man--but as much alive as you are." "it is false--don't touch me--don't come a step nearer--you are dead--you have been dead for the last three years. on the th april, --, you committed suicide by jumping into the sea; you did it on purpose to revenge yourself, and since then you have haunted me, and made my life as hell. i always said, wyndham, you would make an awful ghost--you do, you do." "i am not a ghost," said wyndham. "touch me, and you will see. this wrist and hand are thin enough, but they are alive. i fell into the sea, but i was rescued. i came to you to-night--i troubled you to-night because you have broken our contract, because----what is the matter? touch me, you will see i am no ghost." wyndham came nearer; mr. paget uttered a piercing shriek. "don't--don't!" he implored. "you are a lying spirit; you have often lied--often--to me. you want to take me with you; you know if you touch me i shall have to go. don't--oh, i beseech of you, leave me the little time longer that i've got to live. don't torment me before the time." he dropped on his knees; his streaming white hair fell behind him, his hands were raised in supplication. "don't," said wyndham, terribly distressed. "you have wronged me bitterly, but i, too, am a sinner; i would not willingly hurt mortal on this earth. get up, don't degrade yourself. i am a living man like yourself. i have come to speak to you of my wife--of valentine." "don't breathe her name. i lost her through you. no, you are dead--i have murdered you--your blood is on my soul--but i won't go with you yet, not yet. ha! ha! i'll outwit you. don't touch me!" he gave another scream, an awful scream, half of triumph, half of despair, sprang to the door, unlocked it and vanished. wyndham took up his violin and left the house. "mad, poor fellow!" he muttered to himself. "who'd have thought it? even from a worldly point of view what fools people are to sin! what luck does it ever bring them? he made me his accomplice, his victim, in order to keep his daughter's love, in order to escape dishonor and penal servitude. he told me the whole story of that trust money--to be his if there was no child--to be kept for a child if there was. he was a good fellow before he got the trust money i have no doubt. the friend died, and soon afterwards paget learned that he had left a son behind him. mr. paget told me--how well i remember his face when he told me how he felt about the son, who was then only an infant, but to whom he must deliver the trust money when he came of age. 'i wanted that money badly,' he said, 'and i resolved to suppress the trust papers and use the money. i thought the chances were that the child would never know.'" the chances, however, were against mr. paget. the friend who had left him the money in trust had not so absolutely believed in him as he supposed. he had left duplicate papers, and these papers were in the boy's possession. one day mr. paget learned this fact. when he knew this he knew also that when his friend's son came of age he should have to repay the trust with interest; in short, he would have to give the young man the enormous sum of eighty thousand pounds or be branded as a thief and a criminal. "i remember the night he told me this story," concluded wyndham with a sigh. he was walking slowly now in the direction of the embankment. "so the plot was made up," he continued. "the insurance on my life was to pay back the trust. valentine would never know her father's dishonor. she would continue to love him best of all men, and he would escape shame, ruin--penal servitude. how have matters turned out? for the love of a woman i performed my part: for the love of a woman and self combined, he performed his. how has he fared? the woman ceases to love him, and he is mad. i--how have matters fared with me? how? the wages of sin are hard. i saw a sight to-night which might well turn a stronger brain than mine. i saw my wife, and the man who may soon be her husband. i must not dwell on that, i dare not." wyndham walked on, a burning fever gave him false strength. he reached the embankment and presently sat down near a girl who looked even poorer and more miserable than himself. there were several men and girls occupying the same bench. it was a bitter cold, frosty night; all the seats along the embankment were full, some poor creatures even lay about on the pavement. wyndham turned to look at the slight young creature by his side. she was very young, rather fair in appearance, and very poorly clad. "you are shivering," said wyndham, in the voice which still could be one of the kindest in the world. the poor worn young face turned to look at him in surprise and even confidence. "yes," said the girl. "i'm bitter cold, and numb, and starved. it's a cruel world, and i hate god almighty for having made me." "hush, don't say that. it does no good to speak against the one who loves you. lean against me. let me put my arm round you. think of me as a brother for the next hour or two. i would not harm a hair of your head." "i believe you," said the girl, beginning to sob. with a touching movement of absolute confidence she laid her faded face against his shoulder. "that is better, is it not?" said wyndham. "yes, thank you, sir. i'm desperate sleepy, and i shan't slip off the bench now. i was afraid to go to sleep before, for if i slipped off somebody else would get my seat, and i know i'd be dead if i lay on the pavement till morning." "well, go to sleep, now. i shan't let you slip off." "sir, how badly you are coughing." "i am sorry if my cough disturbs you. i cannot help giving way to it now and then." "oh, sir, it is not that; you seem like a good angel to me. i even love the sound of your cough, for it is kind. but have you not a home, sir?" "i certainly have a shelter for the night. not a home in the true sense of the word." "ought you not to go to your shelter, sir?" "no, i shall stay here with you until you have had a good sleep. now shut your eyes." the girl tried to obey. for about ten minutes she sat quiet, and wyndham held her close, trying to impart some of the warmth from his own body to her frozen frame. suddenly the girl raised her eyes, looked him in the face, and smiled. "sir, you are an angel." "you make a great mistake. on the contrary i have sinned more deeply than most." "sir?" "it is true." "i don't want you to preach to me, sir; but i know from your face however you have sinned you have been forgiven." "you make another mistake; my sin is unabsolved." "sir?" the girl's astonishment showed itself in her tone. "don't talk about me," continued wyndham. "it is a curious fact that i love god, although it is impossible for him to forgive me until i do something which i find impossible to do. i go unforgiven through life, still i love god. i delight in his justice, i glory in the love he has even for me, and still more for those who like you can repent and come to him, and be really forgiven." he paused, he saw that he was talking over the girl's head. presently he resumed in a very gentle pleading voice:-- "i don't want to hear your story, but----" the girl interrupted him with a sort of cry. "it is the usual story, sir. there is nothing to conceal. once i was innocent, now i am what men and women call _lost_. lost and fallen. that's what they say of girls like me." "god can say something quite different to you. he can say found and restored. listen. no one loves you like god. loving he forgives. all things are possible to love." "yes, sir; when you speak like that you make me weep." "crying will do you good. poor little girl, we are never likely to meet again in this world. i want you to promise me that you won't turn against god almighty. he is your best friend." "sir! and he leaves me to starve. to starve, and sin." "he wants you not to sin. the starving, even if it must come, is only a small matter, for there is the whole of eternity to make up for it. now i won't say another word, except to assure you from the lips of a dying man, for i know i am dying, that god is your best friend, and that he loves you. go to sleep." the girl smiled again, and presently dropped off into an uneasy slumber with her head on wyndham's shoulder. by-and-bye a stout woman, with a basket on her arm, came up. she looked curiously at wyndham. he saw at a glance that she must have walked from a long distance, and would like his seat. he beckoned her over. "you are tired. shall i give you my seat?" "eh, sir, you are kind. i have come a long way and am fair spent." "you shall sit here, if you will let this tired girl lay her head on your breast." "eh, but she don't look as good as she might be!" "never mind. jesus christ would have let her put her head on his breast. thank you, i knew you were a kind hearted woman. she will be much better near you than near me. here is a shilling. give it her when she wakes. good-night." chapter l. esther longed to go to acacia villas during the week. she often felt on the point of asking mrs. wyndham to give her leave, but then again she felt afraid to raise suspicions; and besides her mistress was ill, and clung to her. although esther listened with a kind of terror on the following evening, the sound of the violin was not again heard. sunday came at last, and she could claim her privilege of going home. she arrived at acacia villas with her heart in a tumult. how much she would have to tell wyndham! it was in her power to make him happy, to relieve his heart of its worst load. cherry alone was in the kitchen when she arrived, and cherry was in a very snappish humor. "no, esther, i don't know where uncle is. he's not often at home now. i hear say that mr. paget is very bad--gone in the head you know. they'll have to put him into an asylum, and that'll be a good thing for poor uncle. take off your bonnet and cloak, esther, and have a cup of tea cosy-like. i'm learning one of macaulay's lays now for a recitation. maybe you'd hear me a few of the stanzas when you're drinking your tea." "yes, cherry, dear, but i want to go up to brother jerome first. i can see him while you're getting the kettle to boil. i've a little parcel here which i want him to take down to sister josephine to the mission house to-morrow." cherry laughed in a half-startled way. "don't you know?" she said. "don't i know what?" "why brother jerome ain't here; he went out on tuesday evening and never came home. i thought, for sure, uncle would have gone and told you." "never came home since tuesday? no, i didn't hear." esther sat down and put her hand to her heart. her face was ghastly. "i knew it," murmured cherry under her breath. "she have gone and fallen in love with a chap from one of them slums." aloud she said in a brisk tone:-- "yes, he's gone. i don't suppose there's much in it. he were tired of the attic, that's all. i sleep easy of nights now. no more pacing the boards overhead, nor hack, hack, hack coughing fit to wake the seven sleepers. what's the matter, esther?" "you are the most heartless girl i ever met," said esther. "no, i don't want your tea." she tied her bonnet strings and left the house without glancing at her crestfallen cousin. * * * * * that very same afternoon, as mrs. wyndham was sitting in her bedroom, trying to amuse baby, who was in a slightly refractory humor, there came a sudden message for her. one of the maids came into the room with the information that helps was downstairs and wanted to speak to her directly. mrs. wyndham had not left her room since tuesday evening. there was nothing apparently the matter with her, and yet all through the week her pulse had beat too quickly, and a hectic color came and went on her cheeks. she ate very little, she slept badly, and the watchful expression in her eyes took from their beauty and gave them a strained appearance. she did not know herself why she was watchful, or what she was waiting for, but she was consciously nervous and ill at ease. when the maid brought the information that helps was downstairs, her mistress instantly started to her feet, almost pushing the astonished and indignant baby aside. "take care of master gerry," she said to the girl. "i will go and speak to mr. helps; where is he?" "i showed him into the study, ma'am." valentine ran downstairs; her eagerness and impatience and growing presentiment that something was at hand increased with each step she took. she entered the study, and said in a brusque voice, and with a bright color in her cheeks:-- "well?" "mr. paget has sent me to you, mrs. wyndham," said helps, in his uniformly weak tones. "mr. paget is ill, and he wants to see you at once." valentine stepped back a pace. "my father!" she said. "but he knows i do not care to go to the house." "he knows that fact very well, mrs. wyndham." "still he sent for me?" "he did, madam." "is my father worse than usual?" "in some ways he is worse--in some better," replied helps in a dubious sort of voice. "if i were you i'd come. miss valentine--mrs. wyndham, i mean." "yes, helps, i'll come; i'll come instantly. will you fetch a cab for me?" "there's one waiting at the door, ma'am." "very well. i won't even go upstairs. fetch me my cloak from the stand in the hall, will you? now i am ready." the two got into the cab and drove away. no one in the house even knew that they had gone. when they arrived at queen's gate, helps still took the lead. "is my father in the library?" asked the daughter. "no, mrs. wyndham. mr. paget has been in his room for the last day or two. i'll take you to him, if you please, at once." "thank you, helps." valentine left her cloak in the hall, and followed the old servant upstairs. "here's mrs. wyndham," said helps, opening the door of the sick man's room, and then shutting it and going away himself. "here's valentine," said mrs. wyndham, coming forward. "i did not know you were so ill, father." he was dressed, and sitting in a chair. she went up to him and laid her hand gravely on his arm. "you have come, valentine, you have come. kneel down by me. let me look at you. valentine, you have come." "i have come." never did hungrier eyes look into hers. "kiss me." she bent forward at once, and pressed a light kiss on his cheek. "don't do it again," he said. he put up his hand and rubbed the place that her lips had touched. "there's no love in a kiss like that. don't give me such another." "you are ill, father; i did not know you were so very ill," replied his daughter in the quiet voice in which she would soothe a little child. "i am ill in mind, valentine, and sometimes my mind affects my body. it did for the last few days. this afternoon i'm better--i mean i am better in mind, and i sent for you that i might get the thing over." "what thing, father?" "never mind for a moment or two. you used to be so fond of me, little val." "i used--truly i used!" the tears filled her eyes. "i thought you'd give me one of the old kisses." "i can't. don't ask it." "is your love dead, child, quite dead?" "don't ask." "my god," said the sick man; "her love is dead before she knows--even before she knows. what a punishment is here?" a queer light filled his eyes; valentine remembered that whispers had reached her with regard to her father's sanity. she tried again to soothe him. "let us talk common-places; it does not do every moment to gauge one's feelings. shall i tell you about baby?" "no, no; don't drag the child's name into the conversation of this hour. valentine, one of two things is about to happen to me. i am either going to die or to become quite hopelessly mad. before either thing happens i have a confession to make." "confession? father!" her face grew very white. "yes. i want to confess to you. it won't pain me so much as it would have done had any of your love for me survived. it is right you should know. i have not the least doubt when you do know you will see justice done. of late you have not troubled yourself much about my affairs. perhaps you do not know that i have practically retired from my business, and that i have taken steps to vest the whole concern absolutely in your hands. when you know all you will probably sell it; but that is your affair. i shall either be in my grave or a madhouse, so it won't concern me. if any fragment of money survives afterwards--i mean after you have done what you absolutely consider just--you must hold it in trust for your son. now i am ready to begin. what is the matter, valentine?" "only that you frighten me very much. i have not been quite--quite well lately. do you mind my fetching a chair?" "i did not know you were ill, child. yes, take that chair. oh, valentine, for you my love was true." "father, don't let us go back to that subject. now i am ready. i will listen. what have you got to say?" "in the first place, i am perfectly sane at this moment." "i am sure of that." "now listen. look away from me, valentine, while i speak. that is all i ask." valentine slightly turned her chair; her trembling and excitement had grown and grown. "i am ready. don't make the story longer than you can help," she said in a choked voice. "years and years ago, child, before you were born, i was a happy man. i was honorable then and good; i was the sort of man i pretended to be afterwards. i married your mother, who died at your birth. i had loved your mother very dearly. after her death you filled her place. soon you did more than fill it; you were everything to me; you gave early promise of being a more spirited and brilliant woman than your mother. i lived for you; you were my whole and entire world. "before your birth, valentine, a friend, a great friend of mine, left me a large sum of money. he was dying at the time he made his will; his wife was in new zealand; he thought it possible that she might soon give birth to a child. if the child lived, the money was to be kept in trust for it until its majority. if it died it was to be mine absolutely. i may as well tell you that my friend's wife was a very worthless woman, and he was determined she should have nothing to say to the money. he died--i took possession--a son was born. i knew this fact, but i was hard pressed at the time, and i stole the money. "my belief was that neither the child nor the mother could ever trace the money. soon i was disappointed. i received a letter from the boy's mother which showed me that she knew all, and although not a farthing could be claimed until the lad came of age, then i must deliver to him the entire sum with interest. "from that moment my punishment began. the trust fund, with interest, would amount to eighty thousand pounds. even if i made myself a beggar i could not restore the whole of this great sum. if i did not restore it at the coming of age of this young man, i should be doomed to a felon's cell, and penal servitude. i looked into your face; you loved me then; you worshipped me. i idolized you. i resolved that disgrace and ruin should not touch you. "helps and i between us concocted a diabolical plot. helps was like wax in my hands; he had helped me to appropriate the money; he knew my secrets right through. we made the plot, and waited for results. i took you into society, i wanted you to marry. my object was that you should marry a man whom you did not love. wyndham came on the scene; he seemed a weak sort of fellow--weak, pliable--passionately in love with you--cursedly poor. did you speak, valentine?" "no; you must make this story brief, if you please." "it can be told in a few more words. i thought i could make wyndham my tool. i saw that his passion for you blinded him to almost everything. otherwise, he was the most selfless person i ever met. i saw that his unselfishness would make him strong to endure. his overpowering love for you would induce him to sacrifice everything for present bliss. such a combination of strength and weakness was what i had been looking for. i told helps that i had found my man. helps did not like it; he had taken an insane fancy for the fellow. what is the matter, valentine? how you fidget." "you had better be brief. my patience is nearly exhausted." "i am very brief. i spoke to wyndham. i made my bargain; he was to marry you. before marriage, with the plausible excuse that the insurance was to be effected by way of settlement, i paid premiums for insurances on the young man's life for eighty thousand pounds. i insured his life in four offices. you were married. he knew what he had undertaken, and everything went well, except for one cursed fact--you learned to love the fellow. i nearly went mad when i saw the love for him growing into your eyes. he was to sail on board the _esperance_. he knew, and i knew that he was never coming back. he was to feign death. our plans were made carefully. i was to receive a proper certificate, and with that in my hand i could claim the insurance money. thus he was to save you and me from dishonor, which is worse than death. "all our plans were laid. i waited for news. valentine, you make me strangely nervous. what is the matter with you, child? are you going to faint?" "no--no--no! go on--go on! don't speak to me--don't address me again by my name. just go on, or i----oh, god, i am a desperate woman! go on, i must hear the end."yourefforts as valentine grew excited her father became cool and quiet: he waited until she had done speaking, then dropping his head he continued his narrative in a dreary monotone. "i waited for news--it was long in coming. at last it arrived on the day my grandson was born. wyndham had outwitted me. he could not bear the load of a living death. shame on him. he could take his bliss, but not his punishment. he leaped overboard the _esperance_--he committed suicide." "what? no, never. don't dare to say such words." "i must say them, although they are cruel. he committed suicide, and then he came to haunt me; he knew that his blood would rest on my soul; he knew how best to torture me for what i had done to him." "one question. was the insurance money paid?" "was it? yes. i believe so. that part seemed all of minor importance afterwards. but i believe it was paid. i think helps saw to it." "you believe that my husband committed suicide, and yet you allowed the insurance offices to pay." "what of that? no one else knew my thoughts." "as you say, what of that? is your story finished?" "nearly. i lost your love, and for the last three years i have been haunted by wyndham. i see his shadow everywhere. once i met him in the street. a few nights ago he came into the library and confronted me; he spoke to me and tried to touch me; he pretended he was not dead." "what night was that?" valentine's voice had changed; there was a new ring in it. her father roused himself from his lethargic attitude to look into her face. "what night did my husband come to you?" "i forget--no, i remember. it was tuesday night." "did he carry a violin? speak--did he?" "he carried something. it may have been a violin. do they use such instruments in the other world? he was a spirit, you know, child. how queer, how very queer you look!" "i feel queer." "he wanted me to touch him, child, but i wouldn't. i was too knowing for that. if you touch a spirit you must go with him. no, no, i knew a thing worth two of that. he went on telling me he was alive. but i knew better, he couldn't take me in. valentine, everything seems so far away. valentine, i am faint, faint. ah, there he is again by the door. look! no, he must not touch me--he must not!" valentine glanced round. there was no one present. then she rang the bell. it was answered by the old housekeeper. "mrs. marsh, my father is ill. will you give him some restorative at once? and send for the doctor, if necessary. i must go, but i'll come back if possible to-night." she left the room without glancing at the sick man, who followed her to the door with his dim eyes. she went downstairs, put on her cloak and left the house. she had to walk a little distance before she met a hansom, and one or two people stared at the tall, slim figure, which was still young and girlish, but which bore on its proud face such a hard expression, such a burning defiant light in the eyes. valentine soon reached home. everything was in a whirl in her brain. esther helps was standing on the steps. she flew to esther, clasped her hands in a grasp of iron, and said in a husky choked voice:-- "esther, my husband is alive!" "he is, dear madam, he is, and i have come to take you to him!" "oh, esther, thank god!" "come indoors, madam, you have not a moment to lose. we will keep that cab, if you please. i have only just come back. i was going to seek you. stay one moment, mrs. wyndham. you are in black; will you put on your white dress--the one you wore on tuesday night." "oh, what does it matter? let me go to him." "little things sometimes matter a great deal; he saw you last in your white dress." "he was really there on tuesday night?" "he was there. come, i will fly for the dress and put it on you." she did so. valentine put her cloak over it, and the two drove away in the hansom. valentine had no ears for the direction given to the cabman. "i am in heaven," she said once, under her breath. "he lives. now i can forgive my father!" "madam, your husband is very ill." valentine turned her great shining eyes towards esther. "all the better. i can nurse him," she said, with a smile, and then she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and did not speak another word. the cab drew up at one of the entrances to st. thomas' hospital. chapter li. "what place is this?" asked the wife. she was unacquainted with hospitals and sickness. "this is a place where they cure the sick, and succour the dying, dear mrs. wyndham," gently remarked esther helps. "they cure the sick here, do they? but i will cure my husband myself. i know the way." she smiled. "take me to him, esther. how slow you are. beloved esther--i don't thank you--i have no words to say thank you--but my heart is so happy i think it will burst." the porter came forward, then a nurse. several ceremonies had to be gone through, several remarks made, several questions asked. valentine heard and saw nothing. esther helped valentine to take off her cloak; and she stood in her simple long plain white dress, with her bright hair like a glory round her happy face. the nurse who finally conducted them to the ward where wyndham lay looked at her in a sort of bewilderment. esther and the nurse went first, and valentine slowly followed between the long rows of beds; some of the men said afterwards that an angel had gone through the ward on the night that the strolling minstrel, poor fellow, died. the sister who had charge of the ward turned and whispered a word to esther, then she pushed aside a screen which surrounded one of the beds. "your husband is very ill," she said, looking with a world of pity into valentine's bright eyes. "you ought to be prepared; he is _very_ ill." "thank you, i am quite prepared. i have come to cure him." then she went inside the screen, and esther and the nurse remained without. wyndham was lying with his eyes closed; his sunken cheeks, his deathly pallor, his quick and hurried breath might have prepared the young wife for the worst. they did not. she stood for a moment at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped in ecstasy, her eyes shining, a wonderful smile bringing back the beauty to her lips. then she came forward and lay gently down by the side of the dying man. she slipped her hand under his head and laid her cheek to his. "at last, gerald," she said, "at last you have come back! you didn't die. you are changed, greatly changed; but you didn't die, gerald." he opened his eyes and looked her full in the face. "valentine!" "hush, you are too weak to talk. stay quiet, i am with you. i will nurse you back to strength. oh, my darling, you didn't die." "your darling, valentine? did you call me your darling?" "i said it. i say it. you are all the world to me; without you the world is empty. oh, how i love you--how i have loved you for years." "then it was good i didn't die," said wyndham, he raised his eyes, looked up and smiled. his smile was one of ecstasy. "of course it was good that you didn't die, and now you are going to get well. lie still. do you like my hand under your head?" "like it?" "yes; you need not tell me. let me talk to you; don't answer me. gerald, my father told me. he told me what he had done; he told me what you had done. he wants me to forgive him, but i'm not going to forgive him. i'll never forgive him, gerald. i have ceased to love him, and i'll never forgive him; all my love is for you." "not all, wife--not quite all. give him back a little, and--forgive." "how weak you are, gerald, and your voice sounds miles away." "forgive him, valentine." "yes, if you wish it. lie still, darling." "valentine--that money." "i know about it--that blood-money. the price of your precious life. it shall be paid back at once." "then god will forgive me. i thank him, unspeakably." "gerald, you are very weak. i can scarcely hear your words. does it tire you dreadfully to talk? see, i will hold your hand; when you are too tired to speak your fingers can press mine. gerald, you were outside our house on tuesday night. yes, i feel the pressure of your hand; you were there. gerald, you were very unhappy that night." "but not now, darling," replied wyndham. he had found his voice; his words came out with sudden strength and joy. "i made a mistake that night, wife. i won't tell it to you. i made a mistake." "and you are really quite, quite happy now." "happy! sorrow is put behind me--the former things are done away." "you will be happier still when you come home to baby and me." "you'll come to me, val; you and the boy." "what do you say? i can't hear you." "you'll come to me." "i am with you." "you'll come--_up_--to me." then she began to understand. half-an-hour later the nurse and esther drew the screen aside and came in. valentine's face was nearly as white as wyndham's. she did not see the two as they came in. her eyes were fixed on her husband's, her hand still held his. "he wants a stimulant," said the nurse. she poured something out of a bottle and put it between the dying man's lips. he opened his eyes when she did this, and looked at valentine. "are you still there? hold my hand." "do you think i would let it go? i have been wanting this hand to clasp mine for _so_ long, oh, for _so_ long." the nurse again put some stimulant between gerald's lips. "you must not tire his strength, madam," she said. "even emotion, even joyful emotion is more than he can bear just now." "is it, nurse? then i will sit quiet, and not speak. i don't mind how long i stay, nor how quiet i keep, if only i can save him. nurse, i know he is very ill, but, but----" her lips quivered, and her eyes, dry and bright and hungry, were fixed on the nurse. wyndham, too, was looking at the nurse with a question written on his face. she bent down low, and caught his faint whisper. "your husband bids you hope," she said then, turning to valentine. "he bids you take courage; he bids you to have the best hope of all--the hope eternal. madam, when you clasp hands up there you need not part." "did you tell her to say that to me, gerald?" asked the wife. "oh, no, you couldn't have told her to say those words. oh, no, you love me too well to go away." "god loves you, valentine," suddenly said gerald. "god loves _you_, and he loves me, and his eternal love will surround us. i up there, you here. in that love we shall be one." only the nurse knew with what difficulty wyndham uttered these words, but valentine saw the light in his eyes. she bowed her head on his thin hand, her lips kissed it--she did not speak. to the surprise of the sister who had charge of the ward. wyndham lingered on for hours--during the greater part of the night. valentine and esther never left him. esther sat a little in the shadow where her pale face could scarcely be seen. if she felt personal grief she kept it under. the chief actors in the tragedy, the cruelly-wronged husband and wife, absorbed all her thoughts. no, she had no time, no room, to think of herself. wyndham was going--brother jerome would no longer be known in the streets of east london; the poor, the sorrowful, would grieve at not seeing his face again. the touch of his hand could no longer comfort--the light in his eyes could no longer bless. the mission would have to do without brother jerome--this missioner was about to render up his account to the judge of all. the little attic in acacia villas would also be empty; the tired man would not need the few comforts that esther had collected round him--the tiresome cough, the weary restless step would cease to disturb cherry's rest, and esther's chief object in life would be withdrawn. he who for so long was supposed to be dead would be dead in earnest. valentine would be a real widow, little gerald truly an orphan. all these thoughts thronged through esther's mind as she sat in the shadow behind the screen and listened to the chimes outside as they proclaimed the passing time, and the passing away also of a life. every moment lives of men go away--souls enter the unknown country. some go with regret, some with rejoicing. in some cases there are many left behind to sorrow--in other cases no one mourns. wyndham had sinned, he had yielded to temptation; he had been weak--a victim it is true--still a victim who with his eyes open had done a great wrong. yet esther felt that for some at least it was a good thing that wyndham was born. "i, for one, thank god that i knew him," she murmured. "he has caused me suffering, but he has raised me. i thank god that i was permitted to know such a man. the world would, i suppose, speak of him as a sinner, but to my way of thinking, if ever there was a saint he is one." so the night passed on, and valentine remained motionless by the dying man's bed. what her thoughts were, none might read. at last, towards the break of day, the time when so many souls go away, wyndham stirred faintly and opened his eyes. valentine moved forward with an eager gesture. he looked at her, but there was no comprehension in his glance. "what is the matter?" said valentine to the nurse. "i scarcely know him--his face has altered." "it looks young, madam. dying faces often do so. hark, he is saying something." "lilias," said wyndham. "lilly--mother calls us--we are to sing our evening hymn." 'bright in the happy land!' "lilias, do you _hear_ mother; she is calling? kneel down--our evening prayers--by mother--we always say our prayers by mother's knee. kneel, lilias, see, my hands are folded--'our father'----" there was a long pause after the last words, a pause followed by one more breath of infinite content, and then the nurse closed the dead man's eyes. chapter lii. two years after. augusta wyndham was pacing up and down the broad gravel walk which ran down the centre of the rectory garden in a state of great excitement. she was walking quickly, her hands clasped loosely before her, her tall and rather angular figure drawn up to its full height, her bright black eyes alert and watchful in their expression. "now, if only they are not interrupted," she said, "if only i can keep people from going near the rose-walk, he'll do it--i know he'll do it--i saw it in his eyes when he came up and asked me where lilias was. he hasn't been here for six months, and i had given up all hope; but hope has revived to-day--hope springs eternal in the human breast. tra la, la--la, la. now, gerry, boy, what do you want?" a sturdy little fellow in a sailor suit stood for a moment in the porch of the old rectory, then ran with a gleeful shout down the gravel walk towards augusta. she held out her arms to detain him. "well caught, gerry," she said. "it isn't well caught," he replied with an angry flush. "i don't want to stay with you, auntie gussie; i want to go to my--my own auntie. let me pass, please." "you saucy boy, auntie's busy; you shall stay with me." "i won't. i'll beat you--i won't stay." "if i whisper something to you, gerry--something about auntie lil. now be quiet, mannikin, and let me say my say. you love auntie lil, don't you?" "you know that; you do talk nonsense sometimes. i love father in heaven, and mother, and auntie lil." "and me, you little wretch." "sometimes. let me go to auntie lil now." "i want to whisper something to you, gerry. auntie lil is talking to someone she loves much better than you or me or anyone else in the world, and it would be very unkind to interrupt her." gerry was sitting on augusta's shoulder. from this elevated position he could catch a glimpse of a certain grey dress, and a quick flash of chestnut hair, as the sun shone on it--that dress and that hair belonged to auntie lil. it was no matter at all to gerry that someone else walked by her side, that someone was bending his dark head somewhat close to hers, and that as she listened her steps faltered and grew slow. gerry's whole soul was wounded by augusta's words. his aunt lilias did not love anyone better than him. it was his bounden duty, his first duty in life, to have such an erroneous statement put right at once. he put forth all his strength, struggled down from augusta's shoulders, and before she was aware of it was speeding like an arrow from a bow to his target, lilias. "there, now, i give it up," said augusta. "awful child, what mischief may he not make? don't i hear his shrill voice even here! oh, i give it up now; i shall go into the house. the full heat of the sun in july does not suit me, and if in addition to all other troubles lilias is to have a broken heart, i may as well keep in sufficient health to nurse her." meanwhile gerry was having a very comfortable time on carr's shoulder; his dark eyes were looking at his aunt lilias, and his little fat, hot hand was clasped in hers. "well," he said suddenly, "which is it?" "which is what, gerry? i don't understand." "i think you are stoopid, auntie lil. is it him or me?" then he laid his other fat hand on carr's forehead. "is it him or me?" said gerry, "that you love the most of all the peoples in the world?" "it's me, gerry, it's me," suddenly said adrian carr; "but you come next, dear little man. kiss him, lilias, and tell him that he comes next." "gerald's dear little boy," said lilias. she took him in her arms and pressed her head against his chubby neck. "dear, dear little boy," she said. "i think you'll always come second." she looked so solemn when she spoke, and so beautiful was the light in her eyes when she raised her face to look at gerry, that even he, most despotic of little mortals, could not but feel satisfied. he ran away presently to announce to all and everyone within reach that mr. carr had kissed auntie lil like anything, and the newly-betrothed pair were left alone. "at last, lilias," said carr. she looked shyly into his face. "i thought i should never win you," he continued. "i have loved you for years, and i never had courage to tell you so until to-day." "and i have loved you for years," replied lilias wyndham. "but not best, lilly. oh, i have read you like a book. i never came before gerald in your heart." "no," she said letting go his hand, and moving a step or two away, so that she should face him. "i love you well, beyond all living men, but gerald stands alone. his place can never be filled." the tears sprang into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "and i love you better for loving him so, my darling," answered her lover. he put his arms round her, and she laid her head on his breast. for a long time they paced up and down the rose-walk. they had much to say, much to feel, much to be silent over. the air was balmy overhead, and the rose-leaves were tossed by the light summer breeze against lilias' grey dress. presently she began to talk of the past. carr asked tenderly for valentine. "valentine is so noble," replied her sister-in-law. "you don't know what she has been to me since that day when she and i looked together at gerald's dead face. oh, that day, that dreadful day!" "it is past, lilias. think of the future, the bright future, and he is in that brightness now." "i know." she wiped the tears again from her eyes. then she continued in a changed voice:-- "i will try and forget that day, which, as you say, is behind gerald and me. at the time i could scarcely think of myself. i was so overcome with the wonderful brave way in which valentine acted. you know her father died a month afterwards, and she was so sweet to him. she nursed him day and night, and did all that woman could do to comfort and forgive him. his brain was dreadfully clouded, however, and he died at last in a state of unconsciousness. then valentine came out in a new light. she went to the insurance offices and told the whole story of the fraud that had been practised on them, and of her husband's part in it. she told the story in such a way that hard business men, as most of these men were, wept. then she sold her father's great shipping business, which had all been left absolutely to her, and paid back every penny of the money. "since then, as you know, she and gerry live here. she is really the idol of my old father's life; he and she are scarcely ever parted. yes, she is a noble woman. when i look at her i say to myself, gerald, at least, did not love unworthily." "then she is poor now?" "as the world speaks of poverty she is poor. do you think valentine minds that? oh, how little her father understood her when he thought that riches were essential to her happiness. no one has simpler tastes than valentine. do you know that she housekeeps now at the rectory, and we are really much better off than we used to be. alack and alas! adrian, you ought to know in time, i am such a bad housekeeper." lilias laughed quite merrily as she spoke, and carr's dark face glowed. "it is a bargain," he said, "that i take you with your faults and don't reproach you with them. and what has become of that fine creature, esther helps?" he asked presently. "she works in east london, and comes here for her holidays. sometimes i think valentine loves esther helps better than anyone in the world after gerry." "that is scarcely to be wondered at, is it?" just then their conversation was interrupted by some gleeful shouts, and the four little girls, no longer so very small, came flying round the corner in hot pursuit of gerry. "here they is!" exclaimed the small tyrant, gazing round at his devoted subjects, and pointing with a lofty and condescending air to adrian and lilias. "here they is!" he said, "and i 'spose they'll do it again if we ask them." "do what again?" asked lilias innocently. "why, kiss one another," replied gerry. "i saw you do it, so don't tell stories. joan and betty they wouldn't believe me. please do it again, please do. mr. carr, please kiss auntie lil again." "oh, fie, gerry," replied lilias. she tried to turn away, but carr went up to her gravely, and he kissed her brow. "there's nothing in it," he continued, looking round at the astonished little girls. "we are going to be husband and wife in a week or two, and husbands and wives always kiss one another." "then i was right," said betty. "joan and rosie wouldn't believe me, but i was right after all. i am glad of that." "i believed you, betty. i always believed you," said violet. "well, perhaps you did. the others didn't. i'm glad i was right." "how were you right, betty?" asked carr. "oh, don't ask her, adrian. let us come into the house," interrupted lilias. "yes, we'll come into the house, of course. but i should like to know how betty was right." "why you wanted to kiss her years ago. i knew it, and i said it. didn't you, now?" "speak the trufe," suddenly commanded gerry. "yes, i did," replied carr. when adrian carr left the rectory that evening he had to walk down the dusty road which led straight past the church and the little village school-house to the railway station. this road was full of associations to him, and he walked slowly, thinking of past scenes, thanking god for his present blessings. "it was here, by the turnstile, i first saw lilias," he said to himself. "she and marjory were standing together, and she came forward and looked at me, and asked me in that sweet voice of hers if i were not mr. carr. she reminded me of her brother, whom i just barely knew. it was a fleeting likeness, seen more at first than afterwards. "here, by this little old school-house the villagers stood and rejoiced the last day gerald came home. poor wyndham--most blessed and most miserable of men. well, he is at rest now, and even here i see the cross which throws a shadow over his grave!" carr looked at his watch. there was time. he entered the little church-yard. a green mound, a white cross, several wreaths of flowers, marked the spot where one who had been much loved in life lay until the resurrection. the cross was so placed as to bend slightly over the grave as though to protect it. it bore a very brief inscription:-- in peace. gerald wyndham. aged . the end. jelly of cucumber and roses. made by w.a. dyer & co., montreal, is a delightfully fragrant toilet article. removes freckles and sunburn, and renders chapped and rough skin, after one application, smooth and pleasant. no toilet-table is complete without a tube of dyer's jelly of cucumber and roses. sold by all druggists. =agents for united states=-- caswell, massey & co., new york & newport. teeth like pearls! is a common expression. the way to obtain it, use dyer's arnicated tooth paste, fragrant and delicious. try it. druggists keep it. w.a. dyer & co., montreal. dr. chevalier's red spruce gum paste. dr. nelson's prescription, _goudron de norwege_. are the best remedies for coughs and colds. insist upon getting one of them. c. each. for sale by all respectable druggists. laviolette & nelson, druggists, agents of french patents. notre dame st. * * * * * [illustration: burdock blood bitters] the key to health unlocks all the clogged secretions of the stomach, liver. bowels and blood, carrying off all humors and impurities from the entire system, correcting acidity, and curing biliousness, dyspepsia, sick headache. constipation, rheumatism, dropsy, dry skin, dizziness, jaundice, heartburn, nervous and general debility, salt rheum, erysipelas. scrofula, etc. it purifies and eradicates from the blood all poisonous humors, from a common pimple to the worst scrofulous sore. * * * * * dyspepsine! the great american remedy for dyspepsia in all its forms. as =indigestion=, =flatulency=, =heartburn=, =waterbrash=, =sick-headache=, =constipation=, =biliousness=, and all forms of =dyspepsia=; regulating the action of the stomach, and of the digestive organs. sold by all druggist, oc. a bottle. =sole proprietor, wallace dawson.= montreal, can., rouses point, n.y. books in "star" series. . luck in disguise, by wm. j. zexter . . the bondman, by hall caine . . a march in the ranks, by jessie fothergill . . cosette, by katherine s. macquoid . . whose was the hand? by miss braddon . . the phantom 'rickshaw, by rudyard kipling . . the story of the gadsbys, by rudyard kipling . . soldiers three, and other tales, by rudyard kipling . . plain tales from the hills, by rudyard kipling . . the demoniac, by walter besant . . brave heart and true, by florence marryat . . wormwood, by marie corelli . . good bye, by john strange winter . for sale by all booksellers. _scarff's marshmallow cream_ for the skin and complexion, superior to anything in use for roughness, or any irritation of the skin, sunburn, pimples, &c. * * * * * try horehound and honey cough balsam for coughs, colds, &c., pleasant, reliable, effectual. * * * * * scarff's saponaceous tooth wash carbolated. is the best preparation for cleansing, preserving and beautifying the teeth and gums. prepared by chas. e. scarff, chemist and druggist _ st. catherine street, opposite victoria_. catalogue of lovell's canadian copyright series all the books in the copyright series are by arrangement with the authors, to whom a royalty is paid, and no american reprints can lawfully be sold in canada. . a hidden foe, by g.a. henty . . lady maude's mania, by george manville fenn . . a double knot, by geo. manville fenn . . alas, by rhoda broughton . . name and fame, by adeline sergeant . . marcia, by w.e. norris . . black box murder, by maarten maartens . . famous or infamous, by bertha thomas . . heart of gold, by l.t. meade . . lover or friend, by rosa nouchette carey . . the chief justice, by karl emil franzos . . ruffino, by ouida . . the moment after, by robert buchanan . . the great mill street mystery, by adeline sergeant . . a smuggler's secret, by frank barrett . . a true friend, by adeline sergeant . . a scarlet sin, by florence marryat . . a woman's heart, by mrs. alexander . . her last throw, by the duchess . . the burnt million, by james payn . . syrlin, by ouida . . the lady egeria, by john berwick harwood . . by order of the czar, by joseph hatton . . april's lady, by the duchess . . the firm of girdlestone, by a. conan doyle . . a girl of the people, by l.t. meade . . was ever woman in this humor wooed? by charles gibbon . . the mynns' mystery, by george manville fenn . . sylvia arden, by oswald crawford . . nurse revel's mistake, by florence warden . . hester hepworth, by kate tannatt woods . . joshua, a story of egyptian-israelitish life, by georg ebers . . hedri; or, blind justice, by helen mathers . . mount eden, by florence marryat . . earth born, by spirito gentil . . buttons and bootles' baby, by john strange winter . . the haute noblesse, by george manville fenn . . kit wyndham; or, fettered for life, by frank barrett . . the tree of knowledge, by g.m. robins . . comedy of a country house, by julian sturgis . . a life sentence, by adeline sergeant . . an i.d.b. in south africa, by louise vescelius sheldon . . the curse of carne's hold, by g.a. henty . . that other woman, by annie thomas . . jezebel's friends, by dora russell . . sophy carmine, by john strange winter . . the luck of the house, by adeline sergeant . . the search for basil lyndhurst, by rosa nouchette carey . . the fatal phryne, by f.c. phillips . . the wing of azrael, by mona caird . john lovell & son's publications. _a woman's heart_. by mrs. alexander. an exciting and dramatically written story, full of woman's tenderness and compassion under the most trying circumstances. a captivating romance that is as interesting as it is elevating in tone. price cents. _a true friend_. by adeline sergeant. the portrayal not the exaggeration of a noble character, from whom the reader can draw healthy inspiration. price cents. _a smuggler's secret_. by frank barrett. an exciting story of the cornish coast, full of adventure well put together and of a pure tone. price cents. _the great mill street mystery_. by adeline sergeant. the author is as usual true to life and true to her own noble instincts. added to a feminine perception, miss sergeant has a dispassionateness and a sense of humor quite rare in her sex. price cents. _the moment after_. by robert buchanan. a thrilling story, giving the experience in the hereafter of a man who was hanged. it is weird but not revolting. price cents. _the bondman_. by hall caine. it is vigorous and faithful, portrays with the intimacy of entire acquaintanceship, not only the physical features of island life in the northern seas, but the insular habits of thought of the dwellers on those secluded haunts of the old sea kings or vikings of the past. price cents. john lovell & son, publishers, montreal. second edition. "a daughter of st. peter's" by janet c. conger. (mrs. wm. cox allen.) in paper cover, cents, in cloth cover, cents, lovell's canadian authors' series, no. . the authoress is a canadian, and her story is remarkably well told.--_advertiser_. london. in this work a new aspirant for literary honors in the field of fiction makes her first appearance before the public. the story which she tells is neither lengthy nor involved. it is a simple, prettily told story of love at first sight, with a happy ending, and little to divert the mind of the reader from the hero and heroine. mrs. conger's literary style is pleasing, and her production evidences a well cultured mind and a tolerable appreciation of character. her book will be found very pleasant reading.--"_intelligencer_," belleville. the plot is ingeniously constructed, and its working out furnishes the opportunity for some dramatic situations. the heroine, of whose early life the title gives us a hint, is a creature all grace and tenderness, a true offspring of the sunny south. the hero is an american, a man of wealth, and an artist _in posse_. the other _dramatis personæ_, who play their parts around these central figures, are mostly italians or americans. the great question to be solved is: who is merlina? in supplying the solution, the author takes occasion to introduce us to an obscure but interesting class of people. the denouement of "a daughter of st. peter's" is somewhat startling, but we must not impair the reader's pleasure by anticipation. we see from the advanced sheets that it is dedicated to the canadian public, to whom we cordially commend it.--_the gazette_, montreal. for a first effort, which the authoress in her preface modestly says the novel is, "a daughter of st. peter's" must be pronounced a very promising achievement. the plot is well constructed and the story entertaining and well told. the style is light and agreeable, and with a little more experience and facility in novel-writing we may expect mrs. conger, if she essays a second trial, to produce a book that will surpass the decided merits of "a daughter of st. peter's."--_free press_. london. * * * * * transcriber's note: punctuation has been normalized. page ; removed extra "one" (wyndham was one one). page ; inserted "be" (lawfully be sold in canada). the list of titles on page is incomplete in the original, i.e. mlssing: , , etc. love in idleness a bar harbour tale by f. marion crawford author of "mr. isaacs," "saracinesca," "katharine lauderdale," etc new york macmillan and company and london all rights reserved copyright, , by f. marion crawford. norwood press: j. s. cushing & co. -- berwick & smith boston, mass., u.s.a. love in idleness. chapter i. "i'm going to stay with the three miss miners at the trehearnes' place," said louis lawrence, looking down into the blue water as he leaned over the rail of the _sappho_, on the sunny side of the steamer. "they're taking care of miss trehearne while her mother is away at karlsbad with mr. trehearne," he added, in further explanation. "yes," answered professor knowles, his companion. "yes," he repeated vaguely, a moment later. "it's fun for the three miss miners, having such a place all to themselves for the summer," continued young lawrence. "it's less amusing for miss trehearne, i daresay. i suppose i'm asked to enliven things. it can't be exactly gay in their establishment." "i don't know any of them," observed the professor, who was a boston man. "the probability is that i never shall. who are the three miss miners, and who is miss trehearne?" "oh--you don't know them!" lawrence's voice expressed his surprise that there should be any one who did not know the ladies in question. "well--they're three old maids, you know." "excuse me, i don't know. old maid is such a vague term. how old must a maid be, to be an old maid?" "oh--it isn't age that makes old maids. it's the absence of youth. they're born so." "a pleasing paradox," remarked the professor, his exaggerated jaw seeming to check the uneasy smile, as it attacked the gravity of his colourless thin lips. his head, in the full face view, was not too large for his body, which, in the two dimensions of length and breadth, was well proportioned. the absence of the third dimension, that is, of bodily thickness, was very apparent when he was seen sideways, while the exaggeration of the skull was also noticeable only in profile. the forehead and the long delicate jaw were unnaturally prominent; the ear was set much too far back, and there was no development over the eyes, while the nose was small, thin, and sharp, as though cut out of letter paper. "it's not a paradox," said lawrence, whose respect for professorial statements was small. "the three miss miners were old maids before they were born. they're not particularly old, except cordelia. she must be over forty. augusta is the youngest--about thirty-two, i should think. then there's the middle one--she's elizabeth, you know--she's no particular age. cordelia must have been pretty--in a former state. lots of brown hair and beautiful teeth. but she has the religious smile--what they put on when they sing hymns, don't you know? it's chronic. good teeth and resignation did it. she's good all through, but you get all through her so soon! elizabeth's clever--comparatively. she's brown, and round, and fat, and ugly. i'd like to paint her portrait. she's really by far the most attractive. as for augusta--" "well? what about augusta?" enquired the professor, as lawrence paused. "oh--she's awful! she's the accomplished one." "i thought you said that the middle one--what's her name?--was the cleverest." "yes, but cleverness never goes with what they call accomplishments," answered the young man. "i've heard of great men playing the flute, but i never heard of anybody who was 'musical' and came to anything--especially women. fancy cleopatra playing the piano--or catherine the great painting a salad of wild flowers on a fan! can you? or semiramis sketching a lap dog on a cushion!" "what very strange ideas you have!" observed the professor, gravely. lawrence did not say anything in reply, but looked out over the blue water at the dark green islands of the deep bay as the _sappho_ paddled along, beating up a wake of egg-white froth. he was glad that professor knowles was going over to the other side to dwell amongst the placid inhabitants of north east harbour, where the joke dieth not, even at an advanced age; where there are people who believe in ruskin and swear by herbert spencer, who coin words ending in 'ism,' and intellectually subsist on the 'ologies' with the notable exception of theology. lawrence had once sat at the professor's feet, at harvard, unwillingly, indeed, but not without indirect profit. they had met to-day in the train, and it was not probable that they should meet again in the course of the summer, unless they particularly sought one another's society. they had nothing in common. lawrence was an artist, or intended to be one, and had recently returned from abroad, after spending three years in paris. by parentage he belonged to new york. he had been christened louis because his mother was of french extraction and had an uncle of that name, who might be expected to do something handsome for her son. louis lawrence was now about five and twenty years of age, was possessed of considerable talent, and of no particular worldly goods. his most important and valuable possession, indeed, was his character, which showed itself in all he said and did. there is something problematic about the existence of a young artist who is in earnest, which alone is an attraction in the eyes of women. the odds are ten to one, of course, that he will never accomplish anything above the average, but that one-tenth chance is not to be despised, for it is the possibility of a well-earned celebrity, perhaps of greatness. the one last step, out of obscurity into fame, is generally the only one of which the public knows anything, sees anything, or understands anything; and no one can tell when, if ever, that one step may be taken. there is a constant interest in expecting it, and in knowing of its possibility, which lends the artist's life a real charm in his own eyes and the eyes of others. and very often it turns out that the charm is all the life has to recommend it. the young man who had just given professor knowles an account of his hostesses was naturally inclined to be communicative, which is a weakness, though he was also frank, which is a virtue. he was a very slim young man, and might have been thought to be in delicate health, for he was pale and thin in the face. the features were long and finely chiselled, and the complexion was decidedly dark. he would have looked well in a lace ruffle, with flowing curls. but his hair was short, and he wore rough grey clothes and an unobtrusive tie. the highly arched black eyebrows gave his expression strength, but the very minute, dark mustache which shaded the upper lip was a little too evidently twisted and trained. that was the only outward sign of personal vanity, however, and was not an offensive one, though it gave him a foreign air which professor knowles disliked, but which the three miss miners thought charming. his manner pleased them, too; for he was always just as civil to them as though they had been young and pretty and amusing, which is more than can be said of the majority of modern youths. his conversation occasionally shocked them, it is true; but the shock was a mild one and agreeably applied, so that they were willing to undergo it frequently. lawrence was not thinking of the miss miners as he watched the dark green islands. if he had thought of them at all during the last half-hour, it had been with a certain undefined gratitude to them for being the means of allowing him to spend a fortnight in the society of fanny trehearne. professor knowles had not moved from his side during the long silence. lawrence looked up and saw that he was still there, his extraordinary profile cut out against the cloudless sky. "will you smoke?" inquired lawrence, offering him a cigarette. "no, thank you--certainly not cigarettes," answered the professor, with a superior air. "you were telling me all about the miss miners," he continued; for though he knew none of them, he was of a curious disposition. "you spoke of a miss trehearne, i think." "yes," answered the young man. "do you know her?" "oh, no. it's an unusual name, that's all. are they new york people?" lawrence smiled at the idea that any one should ask such a question. "yes, of course," he answered. "new york--since the flood." "and miss trehearne is the only daughter?" enquired the professor, inquisitively. "she has a brother--randolph," replied lawrence, rather shortly; for he was suddenly aware that there was no particular reason why he should talk about the trehearnes. "of course, they're relations of the miners," observed the professor. "that's the reason why miss trehearne has them to stay with her. excuse me--i can't get a light in this wind." thereupon lawrence turned away and got under the lee of the deck saloon, leaving the professor to himself. having lighted his cigarette, the artist went forward and stood in the sharp head-breeze that seemed to blow through and through him, disinfecting his whole being from the hot, close air of the train he had left half an hour earlier. bar harbour, in common speech, includes frenchman's bay, the island of mount desert, and the other small islands lying near it,--an extensive tract of land and sea. as a matter of fact, the name belongs to the little harbour between bar island and mount desert, together with the village which has grown to be the centre of civilization, since the whole place has become fashionable. earth, sky, and water are of the north,--hard, bright, and cold. in artists' slang, there is no atmosphere. the dark green islands, as one looks at them, seem to be almost before the foreground. the picture is beautiful, and some people call it grand; but it lacks depth. there is something fiercely successful about the colour of it, something brilliantly self-reliant. it suggests a certain type of handsome woman--of the kind that need neither repentance nor cosmetics, and are perfectly sure of the fact, whose virtue is too cold to be kind, and whose complexion is not shadowed by passion, nor softened by suffering, nor even washed pale with tears. only the sea is eloquent. the deep-breathing tide runs forward to the feet of the over-perfect, heartless earth, to linger and plead love's story while he may; then sighing sadly, sweeps back unsatisfied, baring his desolate bosom to her loveless scorn. the village, the chief centre, lies by the water's edge, facing the islands which enclose the natural harbour. it was and is a fishing village, like many another on the coast. in the midst of it, vast wooden hotels, four times as high as the houses nearest to them, have sprung up to lodge fashion in six-storied discomfort. the effect is astonishing; for the blatant architect, gesticulating in soft wood and ranting in paint, as it were, has sketched an evil dream of mediævalism, incoherent with itself and with the very common-place facts of the village street. there, also, in mr. bee's shop window, are plainly visible the more or less startling covers of the newest books, while from on high frowns down the counterfeit presentment of battlements and turrets, and of such terrors as lent like interest when novels were not, neither was the slightest idea of the short story yet conceived. but behind all and above all rise the wooded hills, which are neither modern nor ancient, but eternal. and in them and through them there is secret sweetness, and fragrance, and much that is gentle and lovely--in the heart of the defiantly beautiful earth-woman with her cold face, far beyond the reach of her tide-lover, and altogether out of hearing of his sighs and complaining speeches. there grow in endless greenness the white pines and the pitch pines, the black spruce and the white; there droops the feathery larch by the creeping yew, and there gleam the birches, yellow, white, and grey; the sturdy red oak spreads his arms to the scarlet maple, and the witch hazel rustles softly in the mysterious forest breeze. there, buried in the wood's bosom, bloom and blossom the wild flowers, and redden the blushing berries in unseen succession, from middle june to late september--violets first, and wild iris, strawberries and raspberries, blueberries and blackberries; short-lived wild roses and tender little blue-bells, red lilies, goldenrod and clematis, in the confusion of nature's loveliest order. all this lawrence knew, and remembered, guessing at what he could neither remember nor know, with an artist's facility for filling up the unfinished sketch left on the mind by one impression. he had been at bar harbour three years earlier, and had wandered amongst the woods and pottered along the shore in a skiff. but he had been alone then and had stopped in the mediæval hotel, a rather solitary, thinking unit amidst the horde of thoughtless summer nomads, designated by the clerk at the desk as 'number a hundred and twenty-three,' and a candidate for a daily portion of the questionable dinner at the hotel table. it was to be different this time, he thought, as he watched for the first sight of the pier when the _sappho_ rounded bar island. the trehearnes had not been at their house three years ago, and fanny trehearne had been then not quite sixteen, just groping her way from the schoolroom to the world, and quite beneath his young importance--even had she been at bar harbour to wander among the woods with him. things had changed, now. he was not quite sure that in her girlish heart she did not consider him beneath her notice. she was straight and tall--almost as tall as he, and she was proud, if she was not pretty, and she carried her head as high as the handsomest. moreover, she was rich, and louis lawrence was at present phenomenally poor, with a rather distant chance of inheriting money. these were some of the excellent reasons why fate had made him fall in love with her, though none of them accounted for the fact that she had encouraged him, and had suggested to the miss miners that it would be very pleasant to have him come and stay a fortnight in july. the _sappho_ slowed down, stopped, backed, and made fast to the wooden pier, and as she swung round, lawrence saw fanny trehearne standing a little apart from the group of people who had come down to meet their own friends or to watch other people meeting theirs. the young girl was evidently looking for him, and he took off his hat and waved it about erratically to attract her attention. when she saw him, she nodded with a faint smile and moved one step nearer to the gangway, to wait until he should come on shore with the crowd. she had a quiet, business-like way of moving, as though she never changed her position without a purpose. as lawrence came along, trying to gain on the stream of passengers with whom he was moving, he kept his eyes fixed on her face, wondering whether the expression would change when he reached her and took her hand. when the moment came, the change was very slight. "i like you--you're punctual," she said. "come along!" "i've got some traps, you know," he answered, hesitating. "well--there's the expressman. give him your checks." chapter ii. "they've all gone out in mr. brown's cat-boat--so i came alone," observed miss trehearne, when the expressman had been interviewed. "who are 'all'?" asked lawrence. "just the three miss miners?" "yes. just the three miss miners." "i thought you might have somebody stopping with you." "no. nobody but you. why do you say 'stopping' instead of 'staying'? i don't like it." "then i won't say it again," answered lawrence, meekly. "why do you object to it, though?" "you're not an englishman, so there's no reason why you shouldn't speak english. here's the buckboard. can you drive?" "oh--well--yes," replied the young man, rather doubtfully, and looking at the smart little turn-out. fanny trehearne fixed her cool grey eyes on his face with a critical expression. "can you ride?" she asked, pursuing her examination. "oh, yes--that is--to some extent. i'm not exactly a circus-rider, you know--but i can get on." "most people can do that. the important thing is not to come off. what can you do--anyway? are you a good man in a boat? you see i've only met you in society. i've never seen you do anything." "no," answered lawrence. "i'm not a good man in a boat, as you call it--except that i'm never sea-sick. i don't know anything about boats, if you mean sail-boats. i can row a little--that's all." "if you could 'row' as you call it, you'd say you could 'pull an oar'--you wouldn't talk about 'rowing.' well, get in, and i'll drive." there was not the least scorn in her manner, at his inability to do all those things which are to be done at bar harbour if people do anything at all. she had simply ascertained the fact as a measure of safety. it was not easy to guess whether she despised him for his lack of skill or not, but he was inclined to think that she did, and he made up his mind that he would get up very early, and engage a sailor to go out with him and teach him something about boats. the resolution was half unconscious, for he was really thinking more of her than of himself just then. to tell the truth, he did not attach so much importance to any of the things she had mentioned as to feel greatly humiliated by his own ignorance. "after all," said miss trehearne, as lawrence took his seat beside her, "it doesn't matter. and it's far better to be frank, and say at once that you don't know, than to pretend that you do, and then try to steer and drown one, or to drive and then break my neck. only one rather wonders where you were brought up, you know." "oh--i was brought up somehow," answered lawrence, vaguely. "i don't exactly remember." "it doesn't matter," returned his companion, in a reassuring tone. "no. if you don't mind, i don't." fanny trehearne laughed a little, without looking at him, for she was intent upon what she was doing. it was a part of her nature to fix her attention upon whatever she had in hand--a fact which must account for a certain indifference in what she said. just then, too, she was crossing the main street of the village, and there were other vehicles moving about hither and thither. more than once she nodded to an acquaintance, whom lawrence also recognized. "it's much more civilized than it was when i was here last," observed lawrence. "there are lots of people one knows." "much too civilized," answered the young girl. "i'm beginning to hate it." "i thought you liked society--" "i? what made you think so?" this sort of question is often extremely embarrassing. lawrence looked at her thoughtfully, and wished that he had not made his innocent remark, since he was called upon to explain it. "i don't know," he replied at last. "somehow, i always associate you with society, and dancing, and that sort of thing." "do you? it's very unjust." "well--it's not exactly a crime to like society, is it? why are you so angry?" "i wish you wouldn't exaggerate! it does not follow that i'm angry because you're not fair to me." "i didn't mean to be unfair. how you take one up!" "really, mr. lawrence--i think it's you who are doing that!" miss trehearne, having a stretch of clear road before her, gave her pair their heads for a moment, and the light buckboard dashed briskly up the gentle ascent. lawrence was watching her, though she did not look at him, and he thought he saw the colour deepen in her sunburnt cheek, although her grey eyes were as cool as ever. she was certainly not pretty, according to the probable average judgment of younger men. lawrence, himself, who was an artist, wondered what he saw in her face to attract him, since he could not deny the attraction, and could not attribute it altogether to expression nor to the indirect effect of her character acting upon his imagination. he did not like to believe, either, that the charm was fictitious, and lay in a certain air of superior smartness, the result of good taste and plenty of money. anybody could wear serge, and a more or less nautical hat and gloves, just in the fashionable degree of looseness or tightness, as the case might be. anybody who chose had the right to turn up a veil over the brim of the aforesaid hat, and anybody who did so stood a good chance of being sunburnt. moreover, as lawrence well knew, there is a quality of healthy complexion which tans to a golden brown, very becoming when the grey eyes have dark lashes, but less so when, as in fanny trehearne's case, the lashes and brows are much lighter than the hair--almost white, in fact. it is not certain whether the majority of human noses turn up or down. there was, however, no doubt but that fanny's turned up. it was also apparent that she had decidedly high cheek bones, a square jaw, and a large mouth, with lips much too even and too little curved for beauty. after all, her best points were perhaps her eyes, her golden-brown complexion, and her crisp, reddish brown hair, which twisted itself into sharp little curls wherever it was not long enough to be smoothed. with a little more regularity of feature, fanny trehearne might have been called a milkmaid beauty, so far as her face was concerned. fortunately for her, her looks were above or below such faint praise. it was doubtful whether she would be said to have charm, but she had individuality, since those terms are in common use to express gifts which escape definition. a short silence followed her somewhat indignant speech. then, the road being still clear before her, she turned and looked at lawrence. it was not a mere glance of enquiry, it was certainly not a tender glance, but her eyes lingered with his for a moment. "look here--are we going to quarrel?" she asked. "is there any reason why we should?" lawrence smiled. "not if we agree," answered the young girl, gravely, as she turned her head from him again. "that means that we shan't quarrel if i agree with you, i suppose," observed the young man. "well, why shouldn't you?" asked fanny, frankly. "you may just as well, you know. you will in the end." "by jove! you seem pretty sure of that!" lawrence laughed. fanny said nothing in reply, but shortened the reins as the horses reached the top of the hill. lawrence looked down towards the sea. the sun was very low, and the water was turning from sapphire to amaranth, while the dark islands gathered gold into their green depths. "how beautiful it is!" exclaimed the artist, not exactly from impulse, though in real enjoyment, while consciously hoping that his companion would say something pleasant. "of course it's beautiful," she answered. "that's why i come here." "i should put it in the opposite way," said lawrence. "how?" "why--it's beautiful because you come here." "oh--that's ingenious! you think it's my mission to beautify landscapes." "i thought that if i said something pretty in the way of a compliment, we shouldn't go on quarrelling." "oh! were we quarrelling? i hadn't noticed it." "you said something about it a moment ago," observed lawrence, mildly. "did i? you're an awfully literal person. by the bye, you know all the miss miners, don't you? i've forgotten." "i believe i do. there's miss miner the elder--to begin with--" "the oldest--since there are three," said fanny, correcting him. "yes--she's the one with the hair--and teeth." "yes, and miss elizabeth--isn't that her name? the plainest--" "and the nicest. and augusta--she's the third. paints wild flowers and plays the piano. she's about my age, i believe." "your age! why, she must be over thirty!" "no. she's nineteen, still. she's got an anchor out to windward--against the storm of time, you know. she swings a little with the tide, though." "i don't understand," said lawrence, to whom nautical language was incomprehensible. "never mind. i only mean that she does not want to grow old. it's always funny to see a person of nineteen who's really over thirty." lawrence laughed a little. "you're fond of them all, aren't you?" he asked, presently. "of course! they're my relations--how could i help being fond of them?" "oh--yes," answered lawrence, vaguely. "but they really are very nice--people." "why do you hesitate?" "i don't know. i couldn't say 'very nice ladies,' could i? and i shouldn't exactly say 'very nice women'--and 'very nice people' sounds queer, somehow, doesn't it?" "and you wouldn't say 'very nice old maids'--" "certainly not!" "no. it wouldn't be civil to me, nor kind to them. the truth is generally unkind and usually rude. besides, they love you." "me?" "yes. they rave about you, and your looks, and your manners, and your conversation, and your talents." "the dickens! i'm flattered! but it's always the wrong people who like one." "why the wrong people?" asked fanny trehearne, not looking at him. "because all the liking in the world from people one doesn't care for can't make up for the not liking of the one person one does care for." "oh--in that way. it's rash to care for only one person. it's putting all one's eggs into one basket." "what an extraordinary sentiment!" "i didn't mean it for sentiment." "no--i should think not! quite the contrary, i should say." "quite," affirmed fanny, gravely. "quite?" "yes--almost quite." "oh--'almost' quite?" "it's the same thing." "not to me." the young girl would not turn her attention from her horses, though in lawrence's inexpert opinion she could have done so with perfect safety just then, and without impropriety. the most natural and innocent curiosity should have prompted her to look into his eyes for a moment, if only to see whether he were in earnest or not. he would certainly not have thought her a flirt if she had glanced kindly at him. but she looked resolutely at the horses' heads. "here we are!" she exclaimed suddenly. with a sharp turn to the left the buckboard swept through the open gate, the off horse breaking into a canter which fanny instantly checked. the near wheels passed within a foot of the gatepost. "wasn't that rather close?" asked lawrence. "why? there was lots of room. are you nervous?" "i suppose i am, since you say so." "i didn't say so. i asked." "and i answered," said lawrence, tartly. "how sensitive you are! you act as though i had called you a coward." "i thought you meant to. it sounded rather like it." "you have no right to think that i mean things which i haven't said," answered the young girl. "oh, very well. i apologize for thinking that what you said meant anything." "don't lose your temper--don't be a spoilt baby!" lawrence said nothing, and they reached the house in silence. fanny was not mistaken in calling him sensitive, though he was by no means so nervous, perhaps, as she seemed ready to believe. she had a harsh way of saying things which, spoken with a smile, could not have given offence, and lawrence was apt to attach real importance to her careless speeches. he felt himself out of his element from the first, in a place where he might be expected to do things in which he could not but show an awkward inexperience, and he was ready to resent anything like the suggestion that timidity was at the root of his ignorance, or was even its natural result. his face was unnecessarily grave as he held out his hand to help fanny down from the buckboard, and she neither touched it nor looked at him as she sprang to the ground. "go into the library, and we'll have tea," she said, without turning her head, as she entered the house before him. "i'll be down in a moment." she pointed carelessly to the open door and went through the hall in the direction of the staircase. lawrence entered the room alone. the house was very large; for the trehearnes were rich people, and liked to have their friends with them in considerable numbers. moreover, they had bought land in bar harbour in days when it had been cheap, and had built their dwelling commodiously, in the midst of a big lot which ran down from the road to the sea. with the instinct of a man who has been obliged to live in new york, squeezed in, as it were, between tall houses on each side, mr. trehearne had given himself the luxury, in bar harbour, of a house as wide and as deep as he could possibly desire, and only two stories high. the library was in the southwest corner of the house, opening on the south side upon a deep verandah from which wooden steps descended to the shrubbery, and having windows to the west, which overlooked the broad lawn. the latter was enclosed by tall trees. the winding avenue led in a northerly direction to the main road. at the east end of the house, the offices ran out towards the boundary of the trehearnes' land, and beyond them, among the trees, there was a small yard enclosed by a lattice of wood eight or ten feet high. the library was the principal room on the ground floor, and was really larger than the drawing-room which followed it along the line of the south verandah, though it seemed smaller from being more crowded with furniture. as generally happens in the country, it had become a sort of common room in which everybody preferred to sit. the drawing-room had been almost abandoned of late, the three miss miners being sociable beings, unaccustomed to magnificence in their own homes, and averse to being alone with it anywhere. they felt that the drawing-room was too fine for them, and by tacit consent they chose the library for their general trysting-place and tea camp when they were indoors. mrs. trehearne, who was, perhaps, a little too fond of splendour, would have smiled at the idea as she thought of her gorgeously brocaded reception rooms in new york; but fanny had simple tastes, like her father, and agreed with her old-maid cousins in preferring the plain, dark woodwork, the comfortable leathern chairs, and the backs of the books, to the dreary wilderness of expensive rugs and unnecessary gilding which lay beyond. for the sake of coolness, the doors were usually opened between the rooms. chapter iii. the weather was warm. by contrast with the cool air of the bay he had lately crossed, it seemed hot to lawrence when he entered the library. barely glancing at the room, he went straight to one of the doors which opened upon the verandah, and going out, sat down discontentedly in a big cushioned straw chair. it was very warm, and it seemed suddenly very still. in the distance he could hear the wheels of the buckboard in the avenue, as the groom took it round to the stables, and out of the close shrubbery he caught the sharp, dry sound of footsteps rapidly retreating along a concealed cinder path. the air scarcely stirred the creeper which climbed up one of the pillars of the verandah and festooned its way, curtain-like, in both directions to the opposite ends. on his right he could see the broad, sloping lawn, all shadowed now by the tall trees beyond. without looking directly at it, he felt that the vivid green of the grass was softened and that there must be gold in the tops of the trees. the sensation was restful, but his eyes stared vacantly at the deep shrubbery which began at the foot of the verandah steps and stretched away under the spruces at his left. he was exceedingly discontented, though he had just arrived, or, perhaps, for that very reason among many other minor ones. he had never had any cause to expect from fanny trehearne anything in the way of sentiment, but he was none the less persuaded that he had a moral right to look for something more than chaff and good-natured hospitality, spiced with such vigorous reproof as "don't be a spoilt baby." the words rankled. he was asking himself just then whether he was a "spoilt baby" or not. it was of great importance to him to know the truth. if he was a spoilt baby, of course miss trehearne had a right to say so if she liked, though the expression was not complimentary. but if not, she was monstrously unjust. he did not deny that the accusation might be well founded; for he was modest as well as sensitive, and did not think very highly of himself at present, though he hoped great things for the future, and believed that he was to be a famous artist. the more he told himself that he had no right to expect anything of fanny, the more thoroughly convinced he became that his right existed, and that she was trampling upon it. she had ordered him into the library in a very peremptory and high-and-mighty fashion to wait for her, regardless of the fact that he had travelled twenty-four hours, and had acquired the prerogative right of the traveller to soap and water before all else. no doubt he was quite presentable, since the conditions of modern railways had made it possible to come in clean, or comparatively so, from a longish run. but the ancient traditions ought not to be swept out of the way, louis thought, and the right of scrubbing subsisted still. she might at least have given him a hint as to the whereabouts of his room, since she had left him to himself for a quarter of an hour. she had not been gone four minutes yet, but louis made it fifteen, and fifteen it was to be, in his estimation. presently he heard a man's footstep in the library behind him, and the subdued tinkling of a superior tea-service, of which the sound differs from the clatter of the hotel tea-tray, as the voice, say, of fanny trehearne differed in refinement from that of an irish cook. but it irritated lawrence, nevertheless, and he did not look round. he felt that when fanny came down again, he intended to refuse tea altogether--presumably, by way of proving that he was not a spoilt baby after all. he crossed one leg over the other impatiently, and hesitated as to whether, if he lit a cigarette, it would seem rude to be smoking when fanny should come, even though he was really in the open air on the verandah. but in this, his manners had the better of his impatience, and after touching his cigarette case in his pocket, in a longing way, he did not take it out. at last he heard fanny enter the room. there was no mistaking her tread, for he had noticed that she wore tennis shoes. he knew that she could not see him where he sat, and he turned his head towards the door expectantly. again he heard the tinkle of the tea-things. then there was silence. then the urn began to hiss and sing softly, and there was another sort of tinkling. it was clear that fanny had sat down. she could have no idea that he was sitting outside, as he knew, but he thought she might have taken the trouble to look for him. he listened intently for the sound of her step again, but it did not come, and, oddly enough, his heart began to beat more quickly. but he did not move. he felt a ridiculous determination to wait until she began to be impatient and to move about and look for him. he could not have told whether it were timidity, or nervousness, or ill-temper which kept him nailed to his chair, and just then he would have scorned the idea that it could be love in any shape, though his heart was beating so fast. suddenly his straining ear caught the soft rustle made by the pages of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. she was calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away--reading while the tea was drawing. how stolid she was, he thought. she was certainly not conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there. for a few moments longer he did not move. then he felt he wished to see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she was. but if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book even before he entered the room. the verandah had a floor of painted boards,--which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult reason,--and he could not stir a step without being heard. besides, his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose. all at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily, an angry blush on his young face. he reached the entrance in two strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light. as he had guessed, fanny was reading. "oh!" he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her. she did not raise her eyes nor start, being evidently intent upon finishing the sentence she had begun. "i thought you were never coming," she said, absently. he was more hurt than ever by her indifference, and sat down at a little distance, without moving the light chair he had chosen. fanny reached the foot of the page, put a letter she held into the place, closed the book upon it, and then at last looked up. "do you like your tea strong or weak?" she enquired in a business-like tone. "just as it comes--i don't care," answered lawrence, gloomily. "then i'll give it to you now. i like mine strong." "it's bad for the nerves." "i haven't any nerves," said fanny trehearne, with conviction. "that's curious," observed lawrence, with fine sarcasm. fanny looked at him without smiling, since there was nothing to smile at, and then poured out his tea. he took it in silence, but helped himself to more sugar, with a reproachful air. "oh--you like it sweet, do you?" said fanny, interrogatively. "peculiarity of spoilt babies," answered lawrence, in bitter tones. "yes, i see it is." and with this crushing retort fanny trehearne relapsed into silence. lawrence began to drink his tea, burnt his mouth with courageous indifference, stirred up the sugar gravely, and said nothing. "i wonder when they'll get home," said fanny, after a long interval. "are you anxious about them?" enquired the young man, with affected politeness. "anxious? no! i was only wondering." "i'm not very amusing, i know," said lawrence, grimly. "no, you're not." the blood rushed to his face again with his sudden irritation, and he drank more hot tea to keep himself in countenance. at that moment he sincerely wished that he had not come to bar harbour at all. "you're not particularly encouraging, miss trehearne," he said presently. "i'm sure, i'm doing my best to be agreeable." "and you think that i'm doing my best to be disagreeable? i'm not, you know. it's your imagination." "i don't know," answered lawrence, his face unbending a little. "you began by telling me that you despised me because i'm such a duffer at out-of-door things, then you told me i was a spoilt baby, and now you're proving to me that i'm a bore." "duffer, baby, and bore!" fanny laughed. "what an appalling combination!" "it is, indeed. but that's what you said--" "oh, nonsense! i wasn't as rude as that, was i? but i never said anything of the sort, you know." "you really did say that i was a spoilt baby--" "no. i told you not to be, by way of a general warning--" "well, it's the same thing--" "is it? if i tell you not to go out of the room, for instance, and if you sit still--is it the same thing as though you got up and went out?" "why no--of course not! how absurd!" "well, the other is absurd too." "i'll never say again that women aren't logical," answered lawrence, smiling in spite of himself. "no--don't. have some more tea." "thanks--i've not finished. it's too hot to drink." thereupon, his good temper returning, he desisted from self-torture by scalding, and set the cup down. fanny watched him, but turned her eyes away as he looked up and she met his glance. "i'm so glad you've come," she said quietly. "i've looked forward to it." perhaps she was a little the more ready to say so, because she was inwardly conscious of having rather wilfully teased him, but she meant what she said. lawrence felt his heart beating again in a moment. resting his elbow on his knees, he clasped his hands and looked down at the pattern of the rug under his feet. she did not realize how easily she could move him, not being by any means a flirt. "it's nothing to the way i've looked forward to it," he answered. she was silent, but he did not raise his head. he could see her face in the carpet. "you know that, don't you?" he asked, in a low voice, after a few moments. unfortunately for his information on the subject, the butler appeared just then, announcing a visitor. "mr. brinsley." it was clear that the manservant had no option in the matter of admitting the newcomer, who was in the room almost before his name was pronounced. "how do you do, miss trehearne?" he began as he came swiftly forward. "i'm tremendously glad to find you at home. you're generally out at this hour." "is that why you chose it?" asked fanny, with a little laugh and holding out her hand. "do you know mr. lawrence?" she continued, by way of introducing the two men. "mr. brinsley," she added, for louis's benefit. lawrence had risen, and he shook hands with a good grace. but he hated mr. brinsley at once, both because the latter had come inopportunely and because his own sensitive nature was instantly and strongly repelled by the man. there was no mistaking mr. brinsley's canadian accent, though he seemed anxious to make it as english as possible, and lawrence disliked canadians; but that fact alone could not have produced the strongly disagreeable sensation of which the younger man was at once conscious, and he looked at the visitor in something like surprise at the strength of his instantaneous aversion. brinsley, though dressed quietly, and with irreproachable correctness, was a showy man, of medium height, but magnificently made. his wrists were slender, nervous, and sinewy, his ankles--displayed to advantage by his low russet shoes--were beautifully modelled, whereas his shoulders were almost abnormally broad, and the cords and veins moved visibly in his athletic neck when he spoke or moved. the powerful muscles were apparent under his thin grey clothes, and lawrence had noticed the perfect grace and strength of his quick step when he had entered. in face he was very dark, and his wiry, short black hair had rusty reflexions. his skin was tanned to a deep brown, and mottled, especially about the eyes, with deep shadows, in which were freckles even darker than the shadows themselves. his beard evidently grew as high as his cheek bones, for the line from which it was shaved was cleanly drawn and marked by the dark fringe remaining above. his mustache was black and heavy, and he wore very small, closely cropped whiskers like those affected by naval officers. he had one of those arrogant, vain, astute noses which seem to point at whatever the small and beady black eyes judge to be worth having. at a glance, lawrence saw that brinsley was an athlete, and he guessed instantly that the man must be good at all those things which louis himself was unable to do. he was a man to ride, drive, run, pull an oar, and beat everybody at tennis. but neither was that the reason why lawrence hated him from the first. it had been the touch of his hard dry hand, perhaps, or the flash of the light in his small black eyes, or his self-satisfied and all-conquering expression. it was not easy to say. possibly, too, louis thought that brinsley was his rival, and resented the fact that fanny had betrayed no annoyance at the interruption. but brinsley barely vouchsafed lawrence a glance, as the latter thought, and immediately sat himself down much nearer to miss trehearne and the tea-table than louis, in his previous rage, had thought fit to do. "well, miss trehearne," said brinsley, "how is tim? isn't he all right yet?" "he's better," answered fanny. "he had a bad time of it, but you can't kill a wire-haired terrier, you know. he wouldn't take the phosphate. i believe it was sweetened, and he hates sugar." "so do i. please don't give me any," he added quickly, watching her as she prepared a cup of tea for him. lawrence's resentment began to grow again. it was doubtless because mr. brinsley never took sugar that fanny had seemed scornfully surprised at the artist's weakness for it. chapter iv. louis lawrence was exceedingly uncomfortable during the next few minutes, and to add to his misery, he was quite conscious that he had nothing to complain of. it was natural that he should not know the people in bar harbour, excepting those whom he had known before, and that he should be in complete ignorance of all projected gaieties. of course no one had suggested to the reveres, for instance, to ask him to their dance; because they were boston people, they did not know him, and nobody was aware that he was within reach. besides, louis lawrence was a very insignificant personage, though he was well-connected, well-bred, and not ill-looking. he was just now a mere struggling artist, with no money except in the questionable future, and if he had talent, it was problematical, since he had not distinguished himself in any way as yet. he remembered all these things, but they did not console him. in order not to seem rude, he made vague remarks from time to time, when something occurred to him to say, but he inwardly wished brinsley a speedy departure and a fearful end. fanny seemed amused and interested by the man's conversation, and she herself talked fluently. now and then brinsley looked at lawrence, really surprised by the latter's ignorance of everything in the nature of sport, and possibly with a passing contempt which lawrence noticed and proceeded to exaggerate in importance. the artist was on the point of asking fanny's permission to go and find the room allotted to him, when a sound of women's voices, high and low, came through the open windows. there was an audible little confusion in the hall, and the three miss miners entered the library one after the other in quick succession. "oh, mr. brinsley!" exclaimed miss cordelia, the eldest, coming forward with a pale smile which showed many of her very beautiful teeth. "mr. brinsley is here," said miss elizabeth, the ugly one, in an undertone to miss augusta, who possessed the accomplishments. then they also advanced and shook hands with much cordiality, the remains of which were promptly offered to lawrence. mr. brinsley did not seem in the least overpowered by the sudden entrance of the three old maids. he smiled, moved up several chairs to the tea-table, and laughed agreeably over each chair, though lawrence could not see that there was anything to laugh at. brinsley's vitality was tremendous, and his manners were certainly very good, so that he was a useful person in a drawing-room. his assurance, if put to the test, would have been found equal to most emergencies. but on the present occasion he had no need of it. it was evidently his mission to be worshipped by the three miss miners and to be liked by miss trehearne, who did not like everybody. "i'm sure we've missed the best part of your visit," said miss cordelia. "oh no," answered brinsley, promptly. "i've only just come--at least it seems so to me," he added, smiling at fanny across the tea-table. lawrence thought he must have been in the room more than half an hour, but the sisters were all delighted by the news that their idol meant to stay some time longer. "how nice it would be if everybody made such speeches!" sighed miss augusta to lawrence, who was next to her. "such a charming way of making fanny feel that she talks well! i'm sure he's really been here some time." "he has," answered lawrence, absently and without lowering his voice enough, for brinsley immediately glanced at him. "we've been having such a pleasant talk about the dogs and horses," said the canadian, willing to be disagreeable to the one other man present. "i'm afraid we've bored mr. lawrence to death, miss trehearne--he doesn't seem to care for those things as much as we do." "i don't know anything about them," answered the young man. "i'm afraid you'll bore yourself in bar harbour, then," observed mr. brinsley. "what can you find to do all day long?" "nothing. i'm an artist." "ah? that's very nice--you'll be able to go out sketching with miss augusta--long excursions, don't you know? all day--" "oh, i shouldn't dare to suggest such a thing!" cried miss augusta. "i'm sure i should be very happy, if you'd like to go," said lawrence, politely facing the dreadful possibility of a day with her in the woods, while brinsley would in all likelihood be riding with fanny or taking her out in a catboat. but miss augusta paid little attention to him, so long as brinsley was talking, which was most of the time. the man did not say anything worth repeating, but lawrence knew that he was far from stupid in spite of his empty talk. at last lawrence merely looked on, controlling his nervousness as well as he could and idly watching the faces of the party. brinsley talked on and on, twisting to pieces the stem of a flower which he had worn in his coat, but which had unaccountably broken off. lawrence wondered whether fanny, too, could be under the charm, and he watched her with some anxiety. there was something oddly inscrutable in the young girl's face and in her quiet eyes that did not often smile, even when she laughed. he had the strong impression, and he had felt it before, that she was very well able to conceal her real thoughts and intentions, behind a mask of genuine frankness and straightforwardness. there are certain men and women who possess that gift. without ever saying a word which even faintly suggests prevarication, they have a masterly reticence about what they do not wish to have known, whereby their acquaintances are sometimes more completely deceived than they could be by the most ingenious falsehood. lawrence was quite unable to judge from fanny's face whether she liked brinsley or not, but he was wounded by a certain deference, if that word be not too strong, which she showed for the man's opinion, and which contrasted slightly with the dictatorial superiority which she assumed towards lawrence himself. he consoled himself as well as he could with the reflection that he really knew nothing about dogs, horses, or boats, and that brinsley was certainly his master in all such knowledge. as an artist, he could not but admire the perfect proportions of the visitor, the strength of him, and the satisfactory equilibrium of forces which showed itself in his whole physical being; but as a gentleman he was repelled by something not easily defined, and as a lover he suspected a rival. he had not much right, indeed, to believe that fanny trehearne cared especially for him, any more than to predicate that she was in love with brinsley. but, being in love himself, he very naturally arrogated to himself such a right without the slightest hesitation, and he boldly asserted in his heart that brinsley was nothing but a very handsome 'cad,' and that fanny trehearne was on the verge of marrying him. the conversation, meanwhile, was lively to the ear, if not to the intelligence. it was amazing to see how the three spinsters flattered their darling at every turn. miss cordelia led the chorus of praise, and her sisters, to speak musically, took up the theme, and answer, and counter-theme of the fugue, successively, in many keys. there was nothing that mr. brinsley did not know and could not do, according to the three miss miners, or if there were anything, it could not be worth knowing or doing. "you'll flatter mr. brinsley to death," laughed fanny, "though i must say that he bears it well." a faint shade of colour rose in miss cordelia's pale cheeks, indicative of indignation. "fanny!" she cried reprovingly. "how rude you are! i'm sure i wasn't saying anything at all flattering." "i only wish people would say such things to me, then!" retorted the young girl. "we're all quite ready to, i'm sure, miss trehearne," said brinsley, smiling in a way that seemed to make his heavy dark mustache retreat outward, up his cheeks, like the whiskers of a cat when it grins. fanny looked round and met lawrence's eyes. "you seem to be the only one who is ready," she said, laughing again. "one isn't a crowd, as the little boys say." "where do you get such expressions, my dear child?" asked cordelia. "i really think you've learned more slang since you've been here this summer, though i shouldn't have believed it possible!" "there!" exclaimed fanny, turning to mr. brinsley again. "that's the kind of flattery my relatives lavish on me from morning till night! as if you didn't all talk slang, the whole time!" "fanny!" protested augusta, whose accomplishments made her sensitive and conscious. "how can you say so?" "well--dialect, if you like the word better. i'll prove it you. you all say 'won't' and 'shan't'--and most of you say 'i'd like'--for instance--and mr. brinsley says 'ain't,' because he's english--" "well--what ought we to say?" asked augusta. "nobody says 'i will not,' and all that." "you ought to. it's dialect not to--and the absurd thing is that people who go in for writing books generally write out all the things you don't say, and write them in the wrong order. we say 'wouldn't you'--don't we? well, doesn't that stand for 'would not you'? and yet they print 'would you not'--always. it's ridiculous. i read a criticism the other day on a man who had written a book and who wrote 'will not you' for 'won't you' and 'would not you' for 'wouldn't you' because he wanted to be accurate. you've no idea what horrid things the critic said of him--he simply stood on his hind legs and pawed the air! it's so silly! either we should speak as we write, or write as we speak. i don't mean in philosophy--and things--the steam-engine and the descent of man, and all that--but in writing out conversations. but then, of course, nobody will agree with me--so i talk as i please." "there's a great deal of truth in what you say, miss trehearne," observed brinsley, assuming a wise air. "besides, i beg to differ from miss miner, on one point--i venture to say that i don't dislike your slang, if it's slang at all. it's expressive, of its kind." "at last!" cried fanny, with a laugh. "i get some praise--faint, but perceptible." "faint praise isn't supposed to be complimentary," observed lawrence, laughing too. "that's true," answered fanny. "it's just the opposite--the thing with a d-- i won't say it on account of cordelia. she'd all frizzle up with horror if i said it--wouldn't you, dear? there'd positively be nothing left of you--nothing but a dear little withered rose-leaf with a dewdrop in the middle, representing your tears for my sins!" "i'm afraid so," answered cordelia, with a little accentuation of her tired smile. it was not a disagreeable smile in itself, except that it was perpetual and was the expression of patiently and cheerfully borne adversity, rather than of any satisfaction with things in general. for the lives of the three miss miners had not been happy. sometimes fanny felt a sincere and loving pity for the three, and especially for the eldest. but there were also times when cordelia's smile exasperated her beyond endurance. mr. brinsley rose to go, rather suddenly, after checking a movement of his hand in the direction of his watch. "you're not going, surely!" cried one or two of the miss miners. "you're coming to dinner." "stay as you are," suggested fanny, greatly to lawrence's annoyance. "you're awfully kind," answered the canadian. "but i can't, to-night. i wish i could. i've asked several people to dine with me at the kebo valley club. i'd cut any other engagement, to dine with you--indeed i would. i'm awfully sorry." many regrets were expressed that he could not stay, and the leave-taking seemed sudden to lawrence, who stood looking on, still wondering why he disliked the man so much. at last he heard the front door closed behind him. "who is mr. brinsley?" he asked of fanny trehearne, while the three miss miners were settling themselves again. "oh--i don't know. i believe he's a canadian englishman. he's very agreeable--don't you think so?" "he's the most delightful man i ever met!" sighed augusta miner, before lawrence had time to say anything. "did you notice his eyes, mr. lawrence?" asked miss elizabeth. "don't you think they're beautiful?" "beautiful? well--it depends," lawrence answered with considerable hesitation, for he did not in the least know what to say. "oh, but it isn't his eyes, nor his conversation!" put in cordelia, emphatically. "it is that he's such a perfect gentleman! you feel that he wouldn't do anything that wasn't quite--quite--don't you know?" "i'm not sure that i do," replied lawrence, in some bewilderment. "but i understand what you mean," he added confidently. "my dear," said augusta to her eldest sister, "all that is perfectly true, as i always say. but those are not the things that make him the most charming man i ever met. oh dear, no! ever so many men one knows have good eyes, and talk well, and are gentlemen in every way. i'm sure you wouldn't have a man about if he wasn't a gentleman. would you?" "oh no--in a wider sense--all the men we have to do with are, of course--" "well," argued augusta, "that's just what i'm telling you, my dear. it isn't those things. it lies much deeper. it's a sort of refined appreciation--an appreciative refinement--both, you know. now, the other day, do you remember?--when i was playing that mazurka of chopin--did you notice his expression?" "but he always has that expression when anything pleases him very much," said miss elizabeth. "yes, i know. but just then, it was quite extraordinary--there's something almost childlike--" "if you go on about mr. brinsley in this way much longer, you'll all have a fit," observed fanny trehearne. "my dear," answered cordelia, gravely, "do you know what a 'fit' means? really, sometimes, you do exaggerate--" "a fit means convulsions--what babies have, you know. they used to say it was brought on by looking at the moon." lawrence felt a strong inclination to laugh at this moment, but he controlled it, and only smiled. then, to his considerable embarrassment, they all appealed to him, probably in the hope of more praise for brinsley. "do tell us how he strikes you, mr. lawrence," said cordelia. "yes, do!" echoed elizabeth. "oh, please do!" cried augusta, at the same moment. "i should be curious to know what you think of him," said fanny trehearne. "well, really," stammered the unfortunate young man, "i've hardly seen him--i've not had time to form an opinion--you must know him, and you all like him, and--it seems to me--that settles it. doesn't it?" while lawrence was speaking, miss cordelia stooped and picked something up from the floor. he noticed that it was the leafless stem of the flower which brinsley had been twisting in his fingers. she did not throw it away, but her hand closed over it, and lawrence did not see it again. chapter v. louis lawrence had not been at bar harbour a week before he became fully aware--if indeed there had previously been any doubt on the subject in his mind--that he was very much in love with fanny trehearne. it became clear to him that, although he had believed himself to be in love once or twice before then, he had been mistaken, and that he had never known until the present time exactly what love meant. he was not even sure that he was pleased with the passion, or, at least, with the form in which it attacked him. sensitive as he was, it 'took him hard,' as the saying is, and he felt that it had the better of him at every turn, and disposed of him in spite of himself at every hour of the day. when he was alone he wondered why he had been asked to the house, and whether mr. and mrs. trehearne, who were abroad, knew anything about it. he was a modest man, and was inclined to underestimate himself, so that it could never have occurred to him that fanny trehearne might have been strongly attracted by him during their acquaintance in town, and might have insisted that he should be asked to come and pass a fortnight. moreover, fanny lost no opportunity of impressing upon him that he was a great favourite with the three miss miners, and she managed to convey the impression that he had been asked chiefly to please them, though she never said so. meanwhile, however, it was evident that the three sisters were absorbed in mr. brinsley, and that when the latter was present they took very little notice of lawrence. he laughed at the thought that the three old maids should all be equally in love with the showy canadian, and he told himself that the thing was ridiculous; that they were merely enthusiastic women,--'gushing' women, he called them in his thoughts,--who were flattered by the diplomatic and unfailing civilities of a man who was evidently in pursuit of fanny trehearne. for by this time he was convinced that brinsley had made up his mind to marry fanny if he could; and he hated him all the more for it, even to formulating wicked prayers for the suitor's immediate destruction. the worst of it was, that the man might possibly succeed. a girl who will and can ride anything, who beats everybody at tennis, and who is as good as most men in a sail-boat, may naturally be supposed to admire a man who does those things, and many others, in a style bordering upon perfection. this same man, too, though not exactly clever in an intellectual way, possessed at least the gifts of fluency and tact, combined with great coolness under all circumstances, so far as lawrence had observed him. it was hardly fair to assert that he was dishonest because he flattered the three miss miners, and occupied himself largely in trying to anticipate their smallest wishes. he did it so well as to make even fanny trehearne believe that he liked them for their own sakes, and that his intentions were disinterested and not directed wholly to herself. of course she knew that he wished to marry her; but she was used to that. two, at least, of several men who had already informed her that their happiness depended upon winning her, were even now in bar harbour,--presumably repeating that or a similar statement to more or less willing ears. as for lawrence, he could not fairly blame brinsley for his behaviour--he confessed in secret that he flattered the three miss miners himself, with small regard for unprejudiced truth. besides, they were very kind to him. but he found it hard to speak fairly of brinsley when alone with fanny trehearne. "i don't like the man," he said, on inadequate provocation, for the twentieth time. "i know you don't," answered fanny, calmly, "but that's no reason for letting go of the tiller. mind the boom! she's going about--no--it's of no use to put the helm up now. we've no way on--let her go! no--i don't mean that--oh, do give it to me!" and thereupon fanny, who was sitting forward of him on the weather side, stretched her long arm across him, pushing him back into his corner, and put the helm hard down with her left hand, while she hauled in the sheet as much as she could with her right, bending her head low to avoid the boom as it came swinging over. lawrence could not help looking down at her, and he forgot all about the boom, being far too little familiar with boating to avoid it instinctively, when he felt the boat going about. it came slowly, for there was little wind; and the catboat, having no way on to speak of, was in no hurry to right herself and go over on the other tack,--but just as the shadow of the sail warned him that something was coming, he looked up, and at the same instant received the blow full on his forehead, just above his eyes. he wore a soft, knitted woollen cap, which did not even afford the protection of a visor. fanny turned her head at once, for the blow had been audible, and she saw what had happened. lawrence had raised his hand to his forehead instinctively. "are you hurt?" asked fanny, quickly, keeping her eyes upon him, and still holding the helm hard over so as to give the boat way. lawrence did not answer at once. he was half stunned, and still covered his forehead with his hand. the young girl looked at him intently, and there was an expression in her eyes which he, at least, had never seen there--a sudden, scared light which had nothing to do with fear. "are you hurt?" she asked again, gently. his delicate face grew suddenly pale, as the blood, which had rushed up at first under the shock of the blow, subsided as suddenly. fanny turned her eyes from him and looked ahead and under the sail to leeward. she let out a little more sheet, so that the boat could run very free; for the craft, like most catboats, had a weather helm when the sheet was well aft, and fanny wanted her hands. moreover, lawrence was now on the lee side with her, and the boat would have heeled too far over with the wind abeam. as soon as the sail drew properly, fanny sat up beside lawrence, steering across him with her left hand. with her right she could reach the water, and she scooped up what she could in her hollow palm, wetting her sleeve to the shoulder as she did so, for the boat was gaining speed. she dashed the drops in his face. "are you hurt?" she asked a third time, drawing away his hand and laying her own wet one upon his forehead. "oh no," he answered faintly. "i'm not hurt at all." she could tell by his voice that he was not speaking the truth, and a moment later, as he leaned against the side of the boat, his head fell back, and his lips parted in a dead faint. there was no scorn in the young girl's face for a man who could faint so easily, as it seemed; but the scared look came into her eyes again, and without hesitation, still steering with her left hand, she passed her right arm round his neck and supported him. the breeze was almost in her face now, for she was looking astern, and she knew by the way it fanned her whether she was keeping the boat fairly before it. lawrence did not revive immediately, and it was fortunate that there was so little wind, or fanny might have got into trouble. she looked at him a moment longer and hesitated, for the position was a difficult one, as will be admitted. but she was equal to it and knew what to do. letting his head fall back as it would, she withdrew her arm, let go the helm, and hauled in the sheet as the boat's head came up. as the boom came over towards lawrence's head, she caught it and lifted it over him, hauled in the slack and made the sheet fast, springing forward instantly to let go the halliards. the gaff came rattling down, and she gathered in the bellying sail hastily and took a turn round everything with the end of the throat halliard, which chanced to be long enough--the gaskets were out of her reach, in the bottom of the boat. there was little or no sea on, as the tide was near the turning, and the cat-boat was rocking softly to the little waves when fanny came aft again. lawrence's head was still hanging back, his lips were parted, and his eyes were half open, showing the whites in a rather ghastly way. with strong arms the young girl half lifted him, and let him gently down upon the cushions in the stern-sheets. then she leaned over the side and wetted her handkerchief and laid it upon his bruised forehead. the cold water and the change of position brought him to himself. he opened his eyes and looked up into her face as she bent over him. then, all at once, he seemed to realize what had happened, and with an exclamation he tried to sit up. but she would not let him. "lie still a minute longer!" she said authoritatively. "you'll be all right in a little while." "but it isn't anything, i assure you," he protested, looking about him in a dazed way. "please let me sit up! i won't make a fool of myself again--it's only my heart, you know. it stops sometimes--it wasn't the knock." "your heart?" repeated fanny, with greater anxiety than lawrence might have expected. "you haven't got heart disease, have you?" "oh no--not so bad as that. it's all right now. it will begin to beat very hard presently--there--i can feel it--and then it will go on regularly again. it isn't anything. i fancy i smoke too much--or it's coffee--or something. please don't look as though you thought it were anything serious, miss trehearne. i assure you, it's nothing. lots of people have it." "it is serious. anything that has to do with the heart is serious." lawrence smiled faintly. "is that a joke?" he asked. "if it is, please let me sit up." "no--that isn't a reason," answered fanny, laughing a little, though her eyes were still grave. "you must lie still a little longer. you might faint again, you know. it must be dangerous to have one's heart behaving so strangely." "oh--i don't believe so." "you don't believe so? you mean that it's possible, but that you hope it won't stop? is that it?" "oh--well--perhaps. but i don't think there's any real danger. besides--if it did, it's easy, you know." "what's easy?" "it's an easy death--over at once, in a flash. no lingering and last words and all that." he laughed. fanny trehearne's sunburned cheeks grew pale under their tan, and her cool grey eyes turned slowly away from his face, and rested on the blue water. "please don't talk about such things!" she said in a tone that seemed hard to lawrence. "are you afraid of death?" he asked, still smiling. "i?" she turned upon him indignantly. "no--i don't believe that i'm much afraid of anything--for myself." "you turned pale," observed the young man, raising himself on his elbow as he lay on the cushions, and looking at her. her colour came back more quickly than it had gone. "did i?" she asked indifferently enough. "it's probably the sun. it's hot, lying here and drifting." "no. it wasn't the sun," said lawrence, with conviction. "you were thinking that somebody you are fond of might die suddenly. we were talking about death." "what difference does it make whom i was thinking of?" she spoke impatiently now, still watching the water. "it makes all the difference there is, that's all," answered lawrence. "won't you tell me?" "no. certainly not! why should i? look here--if you're well enough to talk, you're well enough to help me to get the sail up again." "of course i am--but--" lawrence showed no inclination to move. "but what? you're too lazy, i suppose." fanny laughed. "let me see your forehead--take your cap off," she added with a change of tone. lawrence thrust the cap back, which did not help matters much, as his hair grew low and partially hid the bruise. the skin was not broken, but it was almost purple, and a large swelling had already appeared. "it's too bad!" exclaimed fanny, looking at it, as he bent down his head, and softly touching it with her ungloved hand. "tell me--do you feel very weak and dizzy still? i was only laughing when i spoke of your helping me with the sail." "oh no!" answered lawrence, cheerfully. "it aches a little, of course, but it will soon go off." "and your heart?" asked fanny, anxiously. "is it all right now? you don't think you'll faint again, do you?" "not a bit." "i'm not sure. you're very pale." "i'm always pale, you know. it's my nature. it doesn't mean anything. some people are naturally pale." "but you're not. you're dark, or brown, and not red, but you're not usually pale. i wish i had some whiskey, or something, to give you." she looked round the boat rather helplessly as though expecting to discover a remedy for his weakness. "please don't make so much of it," said lawrence, in a tone which showed that he was almost annoyed by her persistence. "i assure you that i won't have such bad taste as to die on your hands before we get to land!" fanny rose to her feet and turned away from him with an impatient exclamation. "just keep the helm amidships while i get the sail up," she said, without looking at him, and stepping upon the seat which ran along the side, she was on the little deck in a moment, with both halliards in her hands. lawrence sprang forward to help her, forgetting what she had just told him to do. "do as i told you!" she exclaimed quickly and impatiently. "do you know what the tiller is? well, keep it right in the middle till i tell you to do something else." "don't be fierce about it," laughed lawrence, obeying her. but when she was not looking, he pressed one hand to his forehead with all his might, as though to drive out the pain, which increased with every minute. meanwhile, fanny laid her weight to the halliards, and the sail went flapping up, throat and peak. the girl was very strong, and had been taught to handle a catboat when she had been a mere child, so that there was nothing extraordinary in her accomplishing unaided a little feat which would have puzzled many a smart young gentleman who fancies himself half a sailor. chapter vi. it chanced that on that evening roger brinsley was to dine with the miss miners. he was often asked, and he accepted as often as he could. as a matter of fact, he was not so much sought after elsewhere, as he was willing to let the four ladies believe, for there were people in bar harbour who shared lawrence's distrust of him, while admitting that, so far as they could tell, it was quite unfounded. there was nothing against him. the men said that he played a good deal at the club, and remarked that he was a good type of the professional gambler, but no one ever said that he won too much. on the contrary, it was believed that he had lost altogether rather heavily during the six weeks since he had first appeared. he paid cheerfully, however, and was thought to be rich. nevertheless, the men whose opinion was worth having did not like him. they wondered why the miss miners had him so often to the house, and whether there were not some danger that fanny trehearne might take a fancy to him. it was very late when fanny and lawrence got home, for the catboat had been carried far up frenchman's bay during the time after the little accident, and it had been necessary to beat to windward for two hours against the rising tide in order to fetch the channel between bar island and sheep porcupine. the consequence was that the pair had scarcely time to dress for dinner after they reached the house. lawrence felt ill and tired, and was conscious that the swelling on his forehead was not beautiful to see. he was still dazed, and by no means himself, when he looked into the glass and knotted his tie. but though he might well have given an excuse and stayed in his room instead of going down to dinner, he refused to consider the possibility of such a thing even for a moment. he felt something just then which more than compensated him for his bruises and his wretched sensation of weakness. the conversation, after the boat had got under way again, had languished, and had been so constantly interrupted by the often repeated operation of going about, that lawrence had not succeeded in bringing it back to the point at which fanny had broken it off when she had gone forward to hoist the sail. but he had more than half guessed what might have followed, and the reasonable belief that he might be right had changed the face of his world. he believed that fanny had turned pale at the idea that his life was in danger. one smiles at the simplicity of the thought, in black and white, by itself, just itself, and nothing more. yet it was a great matter to louis lawrence, and as he looked at his bruised face in the glass he felt that he was too happy to shut himself up in his room for the evening, out of sight of the cool grey eyes he loved. he had assuredly not meant to frighten fanny when he had spoken, and he had been very far from inventing an imaginary ailment with which to excite her sympathy. the whole thing had come up unexpectedly as the result of the accident. hence its value. as often happens, the two people in the house who had been most hurried in dressing were the first down, and as lawrence entered the library he heard fanny's footstep behind him. he bowed as they came forward together to the empty fireplace. she looked at him critically before she spoke. "you're badly knocked about. how do you feel?" there was a man-like directness in her way of asking questions, which was softened by the beauty of her voice. "i feel--as i never felt before," answered lawrence, conscious that his eyes grew dark as they met hers. "you told me something to-day--though you did not say it." fanny did not avoid his gaze. "did i?" she asked very gravely. "yes. plainly." "i'm very sorry," she answered, with a little sigh, and turning from him at last. "are you taking it back?" louis's voice trembled as he asked the question. "hush!" just then the voices of the three miss miners were heard in the hall, and at the same instant the distant tinkle of the front-door bell announced the arrival of roger brinsley. the conversation turned upon lawrence's accident, from the first, as was natural, considering his appearance. he dwelt laughingly on his utter helplessness in a boat, while fanny was inclined to consider the whole affair as rather serious. for some reason or other brinsley was displeased at it, and ventured to say a disagreeable thing. he had lost at cards in the afternoon and was in bad humour. he spoke to fanny with affected apprehension. "you really ought to take somebody with you who knows enough to lend a hand at a pinch, miss trehearne," he said. "suppose that you got into a squall and had to take a reef--you'd be in a bad way, you know." "if i couldn't manage a catboat alone, i'd walk," answered fanny, with contempt. "yes--no doubt. but if a squall really came up, what would you do? mr. lawrence confesses that he couldn't help you." "are you chaffing, mr. brinsley?" asked fanny, severely. "or do you think i really shouldn't know what to do?" "i doubt whether you would." "oh--i'd let go the halliards and lash the helm amidships, and take my reef with the sail down--'hoist 'em up and off again,' after that, as the fishermen say." "i think you could stand an examination," said brinsley. "i daresay. could you? if you were going about off a lee shore in a storm and missed stays, could you club-haul your ship, mr. brinsley?" the three miss miners stared at the two in surprise and wonder, not understanding a word of what they were saying. it was apparent to lawrence, however, that fanny was bent on putting brinsley in the position of confessing his ignorance at last; but where the young girl had learned even the language of seamanship, which she used with such apparent precision, was more than lawrence could guess. brinsley did not answer at once, and fanny pressed him. "do you even know what club-hauling means?" she asked, mercilessly. "well--no--really, i think the term must be obsolete." "not at sea," retorted fanny. this was crushing, and brinsley, who was really a very good hand at ordinary sailing, grew angry. "of course you've had some experience in catboats," fanny continued. "that isn't serious sailing, you know. it's about equivalent, in horsemanship, to riding a donkey--a degree less dignified than walking, and a little less trouble." "i won't say anything about myself, miss trehearne," said brinsley, "but you might treat the catboat a little less roughly. i didn't know you'd ever sailed anything else." here the miss miners interposed, one after the other, protesting that it was not fair to use up the opportunities of conversation in such nautical jargon. "i only wished to prove to mr. brinsley that i'm to be trusted at sea," fanny answered. "my dear child," said miss cordelia, "mr. brinsley knows that, and he must be a good judge, having been in the navy." "oh, i didn't know you'd been in the navy, mr. brinsley," said the pitiless young girl, fixing her eyes on his with an expression which he, perhaps, understood, though no one else noticed it. "the english navy, of course?" "the english navy," repeated mr. brinsley, sharply. "oh, well--that accounts for your not knowing how to club-haul a ship. your own people are always saying that your service is going to the dogs." even lawrence was surprised, and brinsley looked angrily across the table at his tormentor, but found nothing to say on the spur of the moment. "however," fanny continued with some condescension, "i'm rather glad to know you're a navy man. i'll get you to come out with me some day and verify some of the bearings on our local chart. i believe there are one or two mistakes. we'll take the sextant and my chronometer with us, and the tables, and take the sun--each of us, you know, and work it out separately, and see how near we get. that will be great fun. you must all come and see mr. brinsley and me take the sun," she added, looking round at the others. "let's go to-morrow. we'll take our luncheon with us and picnic on board. can you come to-morrow, mr. brinsley? we must start at eleven so as to get far enough out to have a horizon by noon. i hope you're not engaged? are you?" "i'm sorry to say i am," answered the unfortunate man. "i'm going to ride with some people just at that hour." "how unlucky!" exclaimed fanny, who had expected the refusal. "i'll take mr. lawrence, anyhow, and give him a lesson in navigation." "i've had one to-day," said lawrence, affecting to laugh, for it was his instinct to try and turn off any conversation from a disagreeable subject. "you'll be all the better for another to-morrow," answered fanny. as she spoke to the artist, her tone changed so perceptibly that even the miss miners noticed it. brinsley took the first opportunity of talking to miss cordelia, of whose admiration he was sure, and the rest of the dinner passed off in peace, brinsley avoiding a renewal of hostilities with something almost like fear, for he felt that the extraordinary young girl who knew so much about navigation was watching for another opportunity of humiliating him, and would not be merciful in using it. the change in her manner to him had been very sudden, as though she had on that particular day made up her mind about something concerning him. hitherto she had treated him almost cordially, certainly with every appearance of liking him. he had even of late begun to fancy that her colour heightened when he entered the room,--a phenomenon which, if real, was attributable rather to another cause, and connected with lawrence's presence in the house. after dinner the whole party went out upon the verandah, a favourite manoeuvre of miss cordelia's, whereby the society of mr. brinsley was not wasted upon smoke and men's talk in the dining-room. this evening, however, instead of sitting down at once in her usual place, cordelia slipped her arm through fanny's, and led her off to the other side and down the steps into the garden. "the moonlight is so lovely," said miss cordelia, "and i want to talk to you. let us walk a little--do you mind?" the two went along the path in silence, in and out among the trees. the moon was full. from the sea came up the sound of the tide, washing the smooth rocks at high water. the breeze had died away at sunset and the deep sky was cloudless. here and there the greater stars twinkled softly, but the little ones were all lost in the moonlight, like diamonds in a pure fountain. everything was asleep except the watchful, wakeful sea. the two women stood still and looked across the lawn. at last miss miner spoke. "why were you so unkind to mr. brinsley to-night?" she asked in a low voice. fanny glanced at her before she answered. the eldest miss miner's face had once been almost beautiful. in the moonlight, the delicate, clearly chiselled features were lovely still, but a little ghostly, and the young girl saw that the fixed smile had disappeared for once, leaving a look of pain in its place. "i didn't mean to be unkind," fanny began. "that is," she added quickly, correcting herself, "i'm not quite sure of what i meant. i think i did mean to hurt him. he's so strong, and he's always showing that he despises mr. lawrence, because he isn't an athlete. as though a man must be a prize-fighter to be nice!" "well--but--mr. lawrence doesn't mind. you see how he takes it all. why should you fight battles for him?" "perhaps i shouldn't. but--why should you take up the cudgels for mr. brinsley? he's quite able to take care of himself, if he will only tell the truth." "if!" exclaimed miss cordelia, in ready resentment. "he's the most truthful man alive." "oh! and he told you he had been in the english navy." "what has that to do with it? of course he has, if he says so." "he's unwise to say so, because he hasn't," answered fanny, in her usual direct way. "how in the world can you say that a man like mr. brinsley--an honourable man, i'm sure--is telling a deliberate falsehood? i'm surprised at you, fanny--indeed i am! it isn't like you." "did you ever know me to tell you anything that wasn't exactly true?" asked the young girl, looking down into her elderly cousin's sweet, sad face, for she was much the taller. "no--of course not--but--" "well, cousin cordelia, i tell you that your mr. brinsley has never been in the english navy. i don't say that i think so. i say that i know it. will you believe me, or him?' "oh, fanny!" miss cordelia raised her eyes with a frightened glance. "not that it matters," added fanny, looking away across the moonlit lawn again. "who cares? only, it's one of those lies that go against a man," she continued after a short pause. "a man may pretend that he has shot ten million grisly bears in his back yard, or hooked a salmon that weighed a hundred-weight--people will laugh and say that he's a story-teller. it's all right, you know--and nobody minds. but when a man says he's been in the army or the navy, and hasn't--people call him a liar and cut him. i don't know why it's so, i'm sure, but it is--and we all know it." "yes," answered cordelia, almost tremulously; "but you haven't proved that mr. brinsley isn't telling the truth--" "oh yes, i have! there never was a deep-sea sailor yet who had never heard of club-hauling a ship to save her. i know about those things. i always make navy officers talk to me about those things whenever i get a chance. besides, i can prove it to you. ask the first captain of a fishing-schooner you meet down at the landing what it means. but don't tell me i don't know--it's too absurd." miss cordelia looked down. her hand still rested on fanny's arm, and it trembled now so that the young girl felt it. "what does it mean, then?" asked cordelia, faintly. "oh, it's a long operation to tell about. it's when you've got a lee-shore in a gale, and you want to go about and can't, because you miss stays every time, and you let go an anchor, and the ship swings to it, and just as she begins to get way on, you slip your chain, and she pays off on the other tack. of course you lose your anchor." "oh--you lose the anchor? to save the ship? i see." "exactly." "you lose the anchor to save the ship," repeated cordelia, softly, as though she were trying to remember the words for future use. "shall we go back?" she suggested, rather abruptly. "i wish you'd answer me one question first," said fanny. "yes. what is it?" "why are you so awfully anxious to stand up for mr. brinsley? you're not in love with him, are you?" cordelia started very perceptibly, and turned her face away. then, all at once, she laughed a little hysterically. "in love? at my age?" and she laughed again, and laughed, strange to say, till she cried, clinging all the time to the young girl's strong arm. fanny did not ask any more questions as they walked slowly back to the house. chapter vii. "come with me into the village, and help me to do errands," said fanny on the following morning, just as lawrence was feeling for his pipe in his pocket after breakfast. "you can smoke till we get there. it wouldn't hurt you to smoke less, anyway." they went down through the garden, fresh and dewy still from the short, cool night, towards the sea. the path to the village lies along a low sea-wall, just high enough and strong enough to keep the tide from the lawns. but the tide was beginning to run out at that hour, and was singing and rocking itself away from the shore, leaving the big loose stones and the chocolate-coloured rocks all wet and shining in the morning sun. the breeze was springing up in the offing and would reach the land before long, kissing each island as it passed softly by, and gently breaking with dark blue the smoothly undulating water. the sun was almost behind the pair as they walked along the sands, and shone full upon the harbour as it came into view, lighting up the deep green of the islands between which passes the channel, and bringing up the warm brown of the soil through thick weaving spruces. the graceful yachts caught the sunshine, too, their hulls gleaming darkly, or dazzlingly white, their slender masts pencilled in light, against the trees, and standing out like threaded needles when they showed against the pale, clear sky. in the bright northern air, the artist would have complained that there was no atmosphere--no 'depth,' nor 'distance,' but only the distinct farness of the objects a long way off--nothing at all like 'atmospheric perspective.' "isn't it a glorious day!" exclaimed fanny, looking seaward at a white-sailed fishing-schooner, which scarcely moved in the morning air. "it's a little bit too swept and garnished," answered lawrence. "that is--for a picture, you know. it's better to feel than to look at, if you understand what i mean. it feels so northern, that when you look at it, it seems bare and unfinished without a little snow." "but you like it, don't you?" asked the young girl, in prompt protest. "of course i do. what a question! i thought i'd been showing how much i liked it, ever since i got here." "i'm not sure that you show what you like and don't like," said fanny, in a tone of reflexion. "perhaps it's better not to." "you don't, at all events. at least--aren't you rather an inscrutable person? of course i don't know," he added rather foolishly, pulling his woollen cap over his eyes and glancing at her sideways. "inscrutable! what a big word! 'the inscrutable ways of providence'--that's what they always say, don't they? still--if you mean that i don't 'tell,' you're quite right. i don't--when i can keep my countenance. do you? it's always far better not to tell. besides, if you commit yourself to an opinion, you're committing yourself to gaol." "what a way of putting it! but it's really true. i should so much like to ask you a question about one of your opinions." "why don't you?" asked fanny, turning her eyes to his. "oh--lots of reasons: i'm afraid, in the first place; and then, i'm not sure you have one, and then--" "say it all--i hate people who hesitate!" "well--no. there's a great deal more to say than i want to say. let's talk about the landscape." "no. i want to know what the question is which you wished you might ask," insisted fanny. "it's about mr. brinsley," said lawrence, plunging. "well, what about him?" fanny's tone changed perceptibly, and her expression grew cold and forbidding. "nothing particular--unless it's impertinent--so i won't ask it." "you won't?" asked fanny, slackening her pace and looking hard at him. "not if i ask you to?" "no," answered lawrence. "i'd oblige you by asking a different question, but not that one. you wouldn't know the difference." "that's ingenuous, at all events." she looked away again and laughed. "i never fight when i can help it, and you looked dangerous just now. you always are, in one way or another." "what do you mean?" "only that when you don't happen to be frightening me out of my wits, you are charming me into a perfect idiot." "something between an express train and the lorelei," laughed fanny. but the quick, girlish blood had sprung to her sunny cheeks and lingered a moment, as though it loved the light. they were now in the village--in the broad street where the shops are. at that hour there were many people moving about on foot and in every sort of vehicle, short of broughams and landaus. there was the smart couple in a high buckboard, just out for a morning drive; there was the elderly farmer with his buggy or his hooded cart--his wife seated beside him, with her queer, sad, winter-blighted face, and her decent, but dusty black frock;--there was the young farmer 'sport' driving his favourite trotting horse in a sulky. and of pedestrians there was no end. a smart party bent on a day's excursion by sea came down the board walk, brilliant in perfectly new blue and white serge, with bits of splendid orange and red here and there, fresh faces, light hearts, great appetites, and the most trifling of cares--the care for trifles themselves. fanny nodded and smiled, and was smiled at, while lawrence attempted to lift his soft woollen cap from his head with some sort of grace--a thing impossible, as men who wear soft woollen caps well know. but the air seemed lighter and brighter for so much youth laughing in it. fanny dived into one shop after another, lawrence following her, rather awkwardly, as a man always does under the circumstances, until he is old enough to find out that there is a time for watching as well as a time for talking, and that more may be learned of a woman's character from the way she treats shopkeepers than is generally supposed. fanny showed surprising alternations of firmness and condescension, for she had the gift of managing people and of getting what she wanted, which is a rare gift and one not to be despised. she asked very kindly after the fishmonger's baby, but she did not hesitate to tell the grocer the hardest of truths about the butter. "i always do my own marketing," she said to lawrence, in answer to his look of surprise. "it amuses me, and i get much better things. my poor dear cousins don't understand marketing a bit--though they ought to. that's the reason why they never get on, somehow. i believe marketing is the best school in the world for learning what's worth having and what isn't. don't you?" "i never had a chance to learn," laughed lawrence. "i wish you'd teach me how to get on, as you call it." "oh--it's very easy! you only need know exactly what you want, and then try to get it as hard as you can. most people don't know, and don't try." "for that matter i know perfectly well what i want." "then why don't you try and get it?" asked fanny, pausing at the door of another shop as though interested in his answer. "i'm not sure that it's in the market," answered the young man, his eyes in hers. "have you enquired?" fanny's mouth twitched with the coming smile. "no--not exactly. i'm trying to find out by inspection." "if you don't think it's likely to be too dear, you'd better ask--whatever it is." "money couldn't buy it. besides, i've got none," added lawrence. "you might get it on credit," said fanny. "but i think it's very doubtful." thereupon she entered the shop, and lawrence followed her, meditating deeply upon his chances, and asking himself whether he should run the great risk at once, or wait and watch brinsley. to tell the truth, he thought his own chances very small; for he under-estimated all his advantages by looking at them in the light of his present poverty, not seeing that in so doing he might be underestimating fanny trehearne as well. a somewhat excessive caution, which sometimes goes with timidity, though not at all of the sort which produces cowardice, is often the result of an education which has not brought a man closely into competition with other men. no one in common sense, save the miss miners and lawrence himself, could have imagined that brinsley had a chance against him. for anything that people knew, brinsley might turn out to be an adventurer of the worst kind, whereas lawrence was of good birth, a man of whom many knew who he was, and whence he came, and that he had as good a right to ask for fanny's hand as any man. he was poor just now, but no one believed that his rich uncle, a childless widower of fifty-five, would marry again, and lawrence was sure to have money in the end, though he might wait thirty years for it. as for brinsley, fanny trehearne either could not or would not pretend that she liked him, even in the most moderate degree of distant liking, after she had satisfied herself that he was not a truthful person in those matters in which truth decides the right of a man to be considered honourable. being, on the whole, more careful than most people about the accuracy of what she said, she was less inclined to make allowances for others than a great many of her contemporaries. besides, brinsley had not only told a lie, which was mean in itself, but he had allowed himself to be found out, which fanny considered contemptible. up to this time she had seemed to think him very pleasant company and not a bad addition to the society of the place. "he's so good-looking!" she had often said to the approving miss miners. "and he has good manners, and knows how to come into a room, and how to sit down and get up--and do lots of things," she added vaguely. in this opinion her three old-maid cousins fully concurred, and they were quite ready to say as much in his favour as fanny could have heard without laughing. they were therefore greatly distressed when she changed her mind. "he's handsome," fanny now admitted. "but he's a little too showy. i've seen men like him at races, but they were not the men who were introduced to me. i don't think they knew anybody i knew--that sort of man, don't you know? and his english accent isn't quite english, and i don't like his little flat whiskers, and his hands irritate me. besides, he said he had been in the navy, and now he admits that he never was. that's enough." "my dear fanny," cordelia answered, on such occasions, "there was a misunderstanding about that, you know. he was in the navy, since he was an officer of marines, but of course he wasn't expected to know--" "the marines!" exclaimed fanny, contemptuously. "it's only a way of getting out of it, i'm sure!" thereupon the three miss miners told her that she was very unjust and prejudiced, as they retired together to praise mr. brinsley, out of hearing of their young cousin's tart comment. miss cordelia had made it all right by giving the man an opportunity of justifying himself after he had privately explained to her that the marines were an integral part of the navy, but that they were not called upon to know anything about navigation,--a fact which must account for his ignorance. he had very firm friends, to say the least of it, in the three spinsters, who might have been said to worship the ground on which he walked, and who thought it a sin and a shame that fanny should treat him as she did. as for young lawrence, he looked on, with his observant artist's eyes, and never mentioned brinsley, except to fanny herself. for he was not at all lacking in tact, however deficient he might be in the manly accomplishments. "do you know," fanny began, one day when they were walking in the woods, "i don't half mind you're being such a bad hand at things. it's funny. i thought i should, at first--but i don't." "i'm awfully glad," answered lawrence, not finding anything else to say to express his gratitude. "oh, you may well be!" laughed fanny. "i don't forgive everybody for being a duffer. and that's what you are, you know. you don't mind my saying so?" "oh no, not at all." the tone in which he spoke did not express much conviction, however. "i believe you do," said fanny, thoughtfully. they were following a narrow path which led upwards along the bank of a brook under overarching trees. here and there the bank had fallen away, and the woodmen had laid down 'slabs' of the rippings first taken off by the saw-mill in squaring timber. it was damp under foot, for it had lately rained, and the wet, chocolate-coloured dead leaves of the previous year filled the chinks between the bits of wood, and sometimes lay all over them, a slippery mass. it was still and hot and damp all through the thick growth on the midsummer's afternoon. the whispered mystery of countless living things filled the quiet air with a vibration more felt than heard, which overcame the silence, but did not break the stillness. the path was very narrow, and fanny had to walk before her companion. their voices seemed to echo back to them from very near, as they talked, for amongst the trees the rich undergrowth grew man-high. on their right, below them, the brook laughed softly to itself as a faun might laugh, drowsily, half asleep in a hollow of the deep woods. and then, through the warm-breathing secret places, where all that was living was growing fiercely in the sudden summer, stole the heart-thrilling fragrance of all that lived, than which nothing more surely stirs young blood in the glory of the year. for some minutes the pair walked on in silence, fanny leading. the young man watched the strong, lithe figure of the girl as she moved swiftly and sure-footed before him. suddenly she stopped, without turning round, and she seemed to be listening. a low ray of sunlight ran quivering through the trees and played with a crisp ringlet of her hair, too full of life and strength to be smoothed to dull order with the rest. "what is it?" asked lawrence, in a low voice, watching her. "i thought i heard some one in the woods," she answered quickly, and then listened again. not a sound broke the dream-like stillness. "i'm sure i heard something," said fanny. then she laughed a little. "besides," she added, "it's very likely. it's awfully hot. here's a good place to sit down." it was not a particularly good place, being damp and sloping, and lawrence planted his heels firmly amongst the wet, dead leaves to keep himself from slipping down into the path as he sat beside her. "there's always something going on in the woods," she said softly and dreamily. "the trees talk to each other all day long, and the squirrels sit and crack nuts while they listen to the conversation. i like the woods. somehow one never feels alone when one gets where things grow--does one?" "i don't mind being alone when i can't be--i mean--" lawrence did not finish his sentence, but bent down and picked up a twig from the ground. "isn't it funny!" he exclaimed, twisting it in his hands. "all the bark's loose, and turns round." "of course--it's an old twig, and it's wet. when don't you mind being alone? you were saying something--'when you couldn't be with'--something, or somebody." "oh--you know! what's the use of my saying it?" lawrence kept his eye on the twig. "i don't know, and if i want you to say anything, that's the use," answered fanny, whose prose style, so to say, was direct if it was anything. "yes--but you see--i didn't mean anything in particular." he broke the twig in two and tossed it over the path into the brook below. fanny changed her position a little, leaning forward and clasping her gloved hands round her knees. "you're very nice, you know," she said meditatively. "i like you." "because i don't answer your questions?" asked lawrence, looking at her face, which was half turned from him. "yes. that's one of the reasons." "it's a very funny one. i don't see much reason in it, i confess." "don't you? don't you know that a woman sometimes likes a man for what he doesn't say?" "i never thought of it in that way. i daresay you're right. you ought to know much better than i do. especially if you really like me, as you say you do." "oh--i'm honest. i never said i'd been in the navy!" fanny laughed. "besides, if i didn't like you, why should i say so? just to say something civil? the way mr. brinsley does?" "brinsley's a horror! don't talk about him--especially here." "i don't mean to. i hate him. but if we were going to talk about him, this would be a good place--one's sure that he's not just round the corner of the verandah making one of my three cousins miserable." "how do you mean?" "why--they all love him. can't you see it? i don't mean figuratively. not a bit. they're in love with him, poor dears!" "nonsense! not really?" lawrence laughed incredulously. "yes--really. it's a rather dismal sort of love--they've kept their hearts in pickle for such an age, you know--old pickles aren't good, either. i've no patience with old maids who fall in love and make fools of themselves!" "perhaps they can't help it," suggested the young man. "nobody can help falling in love, you know." "no," answered fanny, rather doubtfully. "perhaps not. i don't know. it depends." "people don't generally try to keep themselves from falling in love," remarked lawrence, with the air of a philosopher. "it's more apt to be the other way. they are generally trying to make some one else fall in love with them. that's the hard thing." "is it?" fanny smiled. "perhaps it is," she added, after a pause. "i'd like to tell you something--" she hesitated and stopped. lawrence looked at her, but did not speak, expecting her to go on. the silence continued for some time. once or twice fanny turned and met his eyes, and her lips moved as though she were just going to say something. she seemed to be in doubt. "i don't believe in friendship, and i don't believe in promises,--and i don't believe much in anything," she said at last, in magnificent generalization. "but i'd like to tell you, all the same. do you mind?" "i won't repeat it if you do," said lawrence, simply. "no--i don't believe you will. you see i haven't any friends, so i never tell things,--at least, not much. i don't believe much in telling, anyway. do you?" "not if you mean to keep a secret." "oh--well--this isn't exactly a secret--only i don't want any one to know it. yes, i know! you laugh because i'm going to tell you. but you're different, somehow--" "am i?" "oh yes,--you don't count!" lawrence's face fell a little at this last remark, and there was silence again for a few moments. "i'm not sure that i'll tell you, after all," said fanny, at last. the quiet lids were half closed over the grey eyes, and she seemed to be thinking out something. lawrence was unconsciously wondering why he did not think the white lashes ugly, especially when she had just told him that he did not 'count.' "are you sure you won't tell?" asked the young girl, after another long pause. "if you don't want me to, of course i won't," answered lawrence, mechanically. "it's a sort of confession," said fanny. "that's the reason why i don't like to tell you. it's cowardly to be afraid of confessing that one's been an idiot, so i am going to do it at once and get it over." "it's a startling confession!" laughed lawrence, softly. "i don't believe it. is that all?" "if you laugh at me, i won't tell you anything more. then you'll be sorry." "shall i?" "yes." "all right! i'm serious now," said lawrence. "don't you want to smoke?" asked fanny, suddenly. "i wish you would. i should be less--less nervous, you know." "what a curious idea! but i'll smoke if you like." he proceeded to fill and light a big brier-root pipe. "i like the smell of a pipe," said fanny, watching the operation. "i'm so tired of the everlasting cigarette." "i'm ready," lawrence said, puffing slowly into the still, hot air. "are you sure you won't laugh at me? well, i'll tell you. i liked mr. brinsley awfully--at first." lawrence looked at her quickly and took his pipe from his mouth. "not really?" he exclaimed, only half-interrogatively, but with a change of colour. "but then--well--i don't suppose you mean anything particular by that," he added, to comfort himself. "you don't mean that you--" he stopped. fanny nodded slowly, and the blush that rose in her face reddened her sunny complexion. "yes. that's what i mean. i cared for him, you know,--that sort of thing." "it hasn't taken you long to get over it, at all events," answered lawrence, gravely, and wondering inwardly why she made the extraordinary confession, seeing that it hurt him and could do her no good. "no--it hasn't taken long, has it? that's what frightens me. if i weren't frightened, i shouldn't talk to you about it." "i don't understand--why are you frightened? especially since you've got over it. i don't see--" "i thought you might," said fanny, enigmatically. a long silence followed, this time. lawrence crossed his hands on his knees as fanny was doing, holding his pipe, which was going out. they both sat staring at the opposite bank of the brook. the vital loveliness of the still woods was all around them, whispering in their young ears, breathing into their young nostrils the breath of nature's life, caressing them with bountiful warmth. they sat side by side, very near, staring at the opposite bank, and for a long time no words passed their lips. at last the young girl spoke in a low and almost monotonous tone. "he has an influence over people who come near him," she said. "besides, that kind of man appeals to me. it's natural, isn't it? i'm so fond of all sorts of things out-of-doors, that i can't help admiring a man who can do everything so well. and he's a splendid creature. you've never seen him ride. you don't know--it's wonderful! i wish you could see him on that thoroughbred teddy van de water has brought up this summer--teddy's a good rider, but he can't do anything with the mare. you ought to see brinsley--mr. brinsley--you'd understand better." "but i understand perfectly, as it is," said lawrence, rather gloomily. "do you? i wonder whether you really do. do you think there's any--any excuse for me?" the words were spoken in a faltering shamefaced way very unlike fanny's usual manner. "as though you needed any excuse for taking a fancy to any one who pleases you!" answered lawrence, rather coldly. "aren't you perfectly free to like anybody who turns up?" during the pause which followed, he slowly relighted his pipe, which had quite gone out by this time. "i was afraid you wouldn't understand," said fanny, in a disappointed tone. "but i do--" "no--not what i mean. i hate explaining things, but i shall have to." louis lawrence wondered vaguely what there could be to explain, and, if there were anything, why she should be so anxious to explain to him in particular. chapter viii. "it was in this way," said fanny. "mr. brinsley brought a letter of introduction from cousin frank. you know who frank is, don't you? he's the brother of the three miss miners." "of course," nodded lawrence. "everybody knows frank miner." "and he knows everybody. but he didn't say much in his note, and cordelia has written to him since, because she wants to know all about mr. brinsley, and it appears that frank has only met him once or twice at a club, and doesn't know anything about him. however, it doesn't matter! the main point is that he called the day after we got here, and in twenty-four hours we were all in love with him." "please don't include yourself," said lawrence, his delicate face betraying that he winced. "i will include myself, because it's true," answered fanny, very much in earnest. "i shouldn't put it just in that way about myself, perhaps,--but i took a fancy to him, and i took him to drive, and i found that he could drive quite as well as i, and we went out riding with a party, and he rides like an angel--he really does--it's divine. and then i tried him in the boat, and he was good at that. so i began to like him very much." "they're all excellent reasons for liking a man," observed lawrence, with a little contempt. "don't scoff at things you can't do yourself," said fanny, severely. "it's not in good taste. besides, i don't care. all women admire men who are stronger, and quicker, and better with their hands than other men. one always thinks they must be braver, too." "yes, that's true," assented lawrence, seeking to retrieve himself by meekness. "and they generally are. it takes courage to ride well, and it needs nerve to handle a boat in a squall. i don't mean to say that you can't be brave if you don't know how to do those things. that would be nonsense. you--for instance--you could learn. only nobody has ever taught you anything, and you're getting old." lawrence laughed outright, and forgot his ill-humour in a moment. "oh--i don't mean really old," said fanny, immediately. "i only mean that one ought to learn when one is a child, as i did. then it's no trouble, you see--and one never forgets. now, mr. brinsley began young--" "yes," interrupted the young man, "i should say so. i'm sorry i didn't." "so am i. it would have been so nice to do things--" she stopped abruptly, and pulled up a blade of rank grass, which she proceeded to twist thoughtfully round her finger. "i shouldn't like you to think i was a flirt," she said, suddenly turning her grey eyes upon him. he met her glance curiously, being considerably surprised by her remark. "because i sometimes think i am, myself," she added, still looking at him. "do you think so?" she asked earnestly. "what is a flirt, anyway?" "a woman who draws a man on for the pleasure of breaking his heart, i suppose," answered lawrence, keeping his eyes fixed intently on hers. "then i'm only half a flirt," said fanny, "because i only draw a man on, without meaning to break anybody's heart." "don't," said lawrence. "it hurts, you know." "i wonder--" the young girl laughed a little, and turned away from his eyes. "what?" "whether it really hurts." she bit the end of the grass blade, and slowly tore it with her teeth, looking dreamily across the brook. "don't try it, at all events." "mr. brinsley doesn't seem to mind." "brinsley isn't a human being," said lawrence, savagely. "what is he, then?" "a fraud--of some sort. i don't care. i hate him!" "you're hard on mr. brinsley," observed fanny, slowly, and watching her companion sideways. "considering what you've been saying about him--" "i said nothing about him except that i began by liking him awfully." "well--you left the rest to my imagination. i did as well as i could. if you didn't hate him yourself, you'd hardly have been telling me all this, would you?" "oh--i don't know. i might be going to ask your advice about--about him." "take him out in your boat and drown him," suggested lawrence. "that's my advice about him." "what has he done to you, mr. lawrence?" enquired fanny, gravely. "why do you hate him so?" "why? it's plain enough, it seems to me--plain as a--what do you call the thing?" "plain as a marlinespike, you mean. only it isn't. i want to know two things. do you think i'm a flirt? and why do you want me to murder poor, innocent mr. brinsley? do you mind answering?" lawrence's dark eyes began to gleam angrily. he bit his pipe and pulled at it, though it had gone out; then he took it from his lips and answered deliberately. "if you are a flirt, miss trehearne, i don't wish brinsley any further damage. he'll do very well in your hands, i'm sure. i have no anxiety." "i wouldn't hurt a fly," said fanny. "if i liked the fly," she added. "i believe the spider said something to the same effect, when he invited the fly into his parlour." at this a dark flush rose in the girl's cheeks. "you're rude, mr. lawrence," she said. "i'm sorry, miss trehearne--but you're unkind, so you'll please to excuse me." instead of flushing, as she did, lawrence turned slowly pale, as was his nature. "even if i were,--but i'm not,--that's no reason why you should be rude." "i didn't mean to be rude," answered lawrence. "i don't see what i said that was so very dreadful." "it was much worse than anything i said," retorted fanny, biting her blade of grass again. "because i didn't say anything at all, you know. oh, well--if you'll say you're sorry, we'll bury it." "i'm sorry," said lawrence, without the least show of contrition. "i was going to tell you such lots of things about myself," said the young girl. "you've made me forget them all. what was i talking about when we began to fight? i began by saying that i liked you, and you've been horrid ever since. i won't say that again, at all events." "excuse me--you began by saying that you'd liked brinsley--liked him awfully, you said. it must have been awful--anything connected with brinsley is necessarily awful." "there you go again. don't bolt so--it makes bad running. i told you why i'd liked him so much at first, and you admitted that it was natural. do you remember that? well--that isn't all. after i liked him, i began to care for him. i told you that, too. horrid of me, wasn't it?" "horrid!" "i wish you wouldn't agree with me all the time!" exclaimed fanny, impatiently. "you know i really did care--a little. and then one day in the catboat, he asked me--" she stopped and looked at lawrence. "to marry you? why don't you say it? it wouldn't surprise me a bit." "no," said fanny, slowly, "he didn't ask me to marry him." "in heaven's name, what did he ask you?" enquired lawrence, exasperated to impatience. "oh--i don't know. it was something about the channel between bar and sheep, i believe. nothing very important, anyway. i'm not sure that i could remember, if i tried." "then--excuse me, but what's the point?" "oh--i know!" exclaimed fanny, as though suddenly recollecting something. "not that it matters much, but i like to be accurate. it was about the bell buoy off sheep porcupine. you know, i showed it to you the other day. well--i told him how it had been carried away in a storm some time ago, and that this was a new one. and the next day i heard him telling augusta all about it, as though he had known before, you see." "well--that wasn't exactly a crime," observed lawrence, who could not understand at all. "you'd told him--" "yes, but he said he remembered the old one. that was impossible, as he hadn't known anything about it. it was a little slip, but it made me open my eyes and watch him. i used to think he was perfection until then." "oh, i see! that was when you first began to find out that he wasn't quite straight." "exactly. it made all the difference. i've caught him out more than once since then. the other night, it was too much for me, when he talked about the navy--so i promptly smashed him. he knows that i know, now." "i should think so. all the same--i don't mean to be rude this time, miss trehearne-- "be careful!" "no--i'll risk it. just now when you said he had 'asked you'--you stopped short. you knew i should believe that you had been going to say that he had asked you to marry him, didn't you?" "oh, i know! i couldn't help it--i believe i really am a flirt, after all." "i shouldn't like to believe it," said lawrence, gravely. "nor i--either. i only wanted to see how you'd look if you thought he'd offered himself just then." "just then! do you mean to say that he has offered himself at any other time?" "now you're rude again--only, i forgive you, because you don't know that you are. it's rude to ask such questions--so i'll be polite and refuse to answer. not that there's any good reason why he shouldn't have asked me to marry him, you know. the fact that you hate him isn't a reason." "but you do, yourself--" "not at all. at least, i haven't said so. i wish you'd listen to me, mr. lawrence, instead of interrupting me with questions every other moment. how in the world am i to make a confession, if you won't let me say two words?" "are you going to make a confession?" asked lawrence, incredulously. "it's all chaff, you know!" fanny turned her cool eyes upon him instantly. "there's a lot besides chaff," she said, in a very different tone. "i can be in earnest, too--when i care." she certainly emphasized the last three words in a way which might have meant much, accompanied as they were by her steady look. lawrence felt himself growing a little pale again. "do you care?" he asked, and his voice shook perceptibly. "for mr. brinsley?" enquired fanny, instantly changing her tone again and beginning to laugh. "no--for me." "for you! oh dear, what a question!" she laughed outright. lawrence leaned down and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the toe of his heavy walking-shoe without saying a word. then he put the pipe into his pocket. she watched him. "you've no right to be angry this time," she said. "but you are." the young man faced her quietly and waited a moment before he spoke. "you're playing with me," he said, calmly and without emphasis, as stating a fact. "of course i am!" laughed fanny trehearne. "what did you expect? but i'm sorry that you've found it out," she added, with appalling cynicism. "it won't be fun any more." "unless we both play," suggested lawrence, who had either recovered his temper very quickly, or possessed a better control over it than fanny had supposed. "all right!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "let's play--let us play. that sounds solemn, somehow--i wonder why? oh--of course--it's like 'let us pray' in church." lawrence laughed drily. "let us pray beforehand, for the one who gets the worst of it," he said. "he or she will need it. but i shall win at the game, you know. that's a foregone conclusion." fanny was surprised and amused at the confidence he suddenly affected--very unlike his habitual modesty and self-effacement. "you seem pretty sure of yourself," she answered. "what shall the forfeit be, as they say in the children's games?" "to marry or not to marry, at the discretion of the winner. i think that's fair, don't you? i shouldn't like to propose anything serious--the head of roger brinsley in a charger, for instance." fanny laughed again. "yes, it's all very well!" she protested. "but of course the one who loses will be in earnest, and the one who wins will not." "he may be, by that time," suggested lawrence. "don't say 'he,' so confidently--i mean to win. besides, are we starting fair? of course i don't care an atom for you, but don't you care for me--just a little?" "i!" exclaimed lawrence. "what an idea!" he laughed quite as naturally as fanny herself. "do you think that a man in love would propose such a game as we are talking about?" he asked. "i'm sure i don't know what to think," answered the young girl. "perhaps i shall know in a day or two." she looked down, quite grave again, and pulled a bit of fern from the bank, and crushed it in her hand, and then smelled it. "don't you like sweet fern?" she asked, holding it out to him. "i love it!" "that's why you crush it, i suppose," said lawrence. "it doesn't smell sweet unless you do. oh--i see! you were beginning to play the game. very well. why should we lose time about it? but i wish it were a little better defined. what is it we're going to do? won't you explain? i'm so stupid about these things. are we going to flirt for a bet?" "what a speech!" "because it's a plain one? is that why you object to it? after all, that's what we said." "we only said we'd play," answered lawrence. "whichever ends by caring must agree to marry the winner, if required. but i'm afraid the time is too short," he added, more gravely. "i've only a week more." "only a week!" exclaimed fanny, in a tone of disappointment. "why, i thought there was ever so much more. that isn't nearly time enough." "we must play faster--and hope for 'situations,' as they call them on the stage." "oh--the situation is bad enough, as it is," answered the young girl, with a change of manner that surprised her companion. "if you only knew!" "was that what you were going to tell me about?" asked lawrence, quickly, and with renewed interest. "i thought you were making game of me." "that's the trouble! you'll never believe that i'm in earnest, now. that's the worst of practical jokes. come along! we must be going home. the sun's behind the hill and ever so low, i'm sure. we shan't get home before dusk. how sweet that fern smells! give it back to me, won't you?" they rose and began to walk homeward in the warm shadow of the woods. as before, fanny went first along the narrow path, and lawrence, following close behind her, and watching the supple grace of her as she moved, breathed in also the intoxicating perfume of the aromatic sweet fern which she still carried in her hand. chapter ix. on the following afternoon fanny trehearne announced her intention of riding with mr. brinsley. "i'd take you, too," she said to lawrence, with a singularly cold stare. "only as you can't ride much, you wouldn't enjoy it, you know." "certainly not," answered lawrence, returning her glance with all coolness. "i shouldn't enjoy it at all." "you might take my cousins out in the boat, instead." "are they tired of life?" enquired the young man, smiling. "no. i want to make a sketch in the woods. i'll go out by myself, thank you." "do you mean to sketch the place where we stopped yesterday?" "oh no--i'm going in quite another direction. i can't exactly explain where it is, because i've such a bad memory for names of roads, and all that. but i can find it." miss cordelia miner looked up from the magazine she was reading. "you're not going to ride alone with mr. brinsley, are you?" she asked suddenly. "why not?" asked fanny. "i don't see any reason why i shouldn't, it's safer than riding alone, isn't it?" "i confess, i don't like the idea," said miss cordelia. "it looks as though there were something." "something of what kind?" fanny watched lawrence's face. "something--well--not really an engagement--but--" "well--why shouldn't i be engaged to mr. brinsley, if i like?" enquired the young girl, arching her brows. "why, fanny! i'm surprised!" and, indeed, miss miner seemed so, for she almost sprang out of her chair. "i don't know why you need be horrified, though," returned fanny, calmly. "should you be shocked if any one said that you were engaged to mr. brinsley? what's the matter with him, anyway?" she demanded, dropping into her favourite slang. "you'd be proud to be engaged to him--so would elizabeth--so would augusta! then why shouldn't i be proud if i can get him? i'm sure, he's awfully good-looking, and he rides--like an angel." "an angel jockey," suggested lawrence, without a smile. "not at all!" exclaimed fanny. "he rides like a gentleman and not in the least like a jockey." miss cordelia had risen from her chair, and turned her back on the young people. "you've no right to say such things to me, fanny," she said, going slowly towards the window. her voice shook. the young girl saw that she was deeply hurt, and followed her quickly. "i didn't mean to be horrid!" said fanny, penitently. "i was only laughing, you know, and of course i shall take stebbins. and i'm not engaged to mr. brinsley at all." "why didn't you say so at once?" asked cordelia, half choking, and turning away her face. fanny, unseen by her cousin, glanced at lawrence, and then at the door, and the young man departed immediately, leaving the two cousins to make peace. he did not remain long in the house. thrusting a sketch-book and a pencil into his pocket, with his pipe and pouch, he went out without seeing fanny again, taking her at her word with regard to her plans for the afternoon. an hour later, he was seated under a tree high upon the side of the hill and almost out of sight of the otter cliff road. there was nothing particular in the way of a view from that point, but there were endless trees, and lawrence amused himself in making a rough study of a mixed group of white pines, firs, and hackmatacks. he did not draw very carefully, nor even industriously, and more than once he stopped working altogether for a quarter of an hour at a time. his principal object in coming had been to get out of the way just a little more promptly and completely than fanny could have expected. his thoughts were much more concerned with her than with what he was doing. naturally enough, he was trying to understand the real bent of the girl's feelings. setting aside the absurd chaff which had formed a good deal of the conversation on the previous afternoon, he tried to extract from it enough of truth to guide him, aiding himself by recalling little circumstances as well as words, for the one had often belied the other. he saw clearly that fanny trehearne might have said to him, 'i like you, but i do not love you--win me if you can!' but it was like her to propose to 'flirt for a bet'--being at heart perhaps less of a flirt than she laughingly admitted herself to be. but that was not the point which chiefly interested him. what he wished to know was, just how far that undefined liking for him extended. to speak in the common phrase, he did not 'know where he was' with her, and it seemed that he had no means of finding out. on the other hand, he knew very well indeed that he himself was badly in love. the symptoms were not to be mistaken, nor had he been in love so often already as to make him sceptical as to what he felt. he was more distrustful of the result than of the impulse. in his opinion fanny was much too frank to be a flirt. her directness was one of her principal charms, though he could not help suspecting that it must be one of her chief weapons. a little hesitation is often less deceptive than clear-eyed, outspoken truth. but lawrence was no more able than most men of his age--or, indeed, of any age--to follow out a continuous train of thought where a woman was concerned. it is more often the woman's personality that concerns us, unreasoning men, than the probable direction of her own reasoning about us. we do not make love to an argument, so to speak, nor to a set of ideas, nor to a preconceived opinion of our merits or demerits. we make love to our own idea of what the woman is--and the depth of our disillusionment is the measure of our sincerity, when love is gasping between the death-blow and the death. moreover, what is called nowadays analysis of human nature, belongs in reality to transcendental thought. 'transcendent' is defined as designating that which lies beyond the bounds of all possible experience. so far as we know, it is beyond those bounds to enter into the intelligence of our neighbour, subjectively, to identify ourselves with him and to see and understand the world with his eyes and mind. it follows that we are never sure of what we are doing when we attempt to set down exactly another man's train of thought, and it follows also that few are willing to recognize the result as at all resembling the process of which they are conscious within themselves. on certain bases, all men can appeal subjectively to all men, and all women to all women. but, as between the sexes, all observation is objective and tentative, whether it be that of the author, condemned to analyze a woman's character, or that of the man in love and attempting to understand the woman he loves. and further, if we could see--as it is pretended by some that we can see on paper--precisely what is taking place in the intelligence of those we meet in the world, our friends would be as unrecognizable to us as a dissected man is unrecognizable for a human being except in the eyes of a doctor. the soul, laid bare, dissected, and turned inside out, with real success, would not be recognized by its dearest friend, were it ever so truthful a soul. we are all fundamentally and totally incapable of expressing exactly what we feel, and as we have no means of conveying truth without some sort of expression, we are helpless and are all more or less hopelessly misunderstood--a fact to which, if we please, we may ascribe that variety which is proverbially said to be the charm of life. doubtless, this is a literary heresy; but it is a human truth a little above literature. lawrence had never attempted to write a book, but as he sat on the slope above the otter cliff road, drawing trees, it did not occur to him to draw a picture of what he thought about the inside of each tree, instead of a representation of what he saw. but he made the usual fruitless attempt to understand the woman he loved, and to reason about her, and failed to do either, which is also usual. the conclusion he reached was that he loved her, of which he had been aware before he had set himself to think it out. what he saw was a strong girl's face with cool, inscrutable grey eyes that never took fire and gleamed, nor ever turned dull and vacant. their unchanging steadiness contradicted the wayward speech, the sudden capricious confidence, even the gay laugh, sometimes. lawrence had a lively impression that whatever fanny said or did, she never meant but one thing, whatever that might be. and with this impression he was obliged to content himself. from the place where he sat, he had a glimpse between the trees of the road below. on the side towards him there was a little open bit of meadow, where the gorge widened, and a low fence with a little ditch separated it from the highway. on the hillside, above this stretch of grass, the trees grew here and there, wide apart at first, and then by degrees more close together. he himself was seated just within the thick wood, at the edge of the first underbrush. now and then, people passed along the road: a light buckboard drawn by a pair of bays and containing a smart-looking couple, with no groom behind; a farmer's wagon, long, hooded, and dusty, dragged at a disjointed trot by a broken-down grey horse; a solitary rider, whose varnished shoes reflected the sunlight even to where lawrence was sitting; a couple of pedestrians; a lad driving a cow; and then another buckboard; and so on. lawrence was thinking of shutting up his book and climbing higher up the steep side of new port mountain--as the hill is called--in search of another study, when, glancing down through the trees, he saw three riders coming slowly along the road--two in front, and one at some distance behind--a lady and gentleman and then a groom. his eyes were good, and he would have known fanny trehearne's figure and bearing even at a greater distance. she sat so straight--hands down, elbows in, head high, square in her saddle, yet flexible, and all moving with every movement of her kentucky thoroughbred. they came nearer, and lawrence saw them distinctly now. brinsley was beside her. lawrence laughed to himself at the idea that the man could ever have been in the marines. he sat the horse he rode much more like a mexican or an indian than like a sailor or a marine. even at that distance lawrence could not help admiring his really magnificent figure, for brinsley's perfections were showy and massed well afar off. the riders reached the point where the little meadow spread out on their left, and to lawrence's surprise, they halted and seemed to be consulting about something. they had turned towards him, and as they talked, he could see that fanny looked across the meadow and up at the woods where he was sitting. it was of course utterly impossible that she should have known where he was, and it was almost incredible that she should see him, seated low upon the ground in the deep shade, when she was only visible to him between the stems of the trees. nevertheless, not caring to be discovered, he crouched down amongst the ferns and grasses, still keeping his eye on the couple in the road far below. presently he saw fanny turn her horse's head, walk him to the other side of the road, and turn again, facing the meadow. she looked up and down the road once, saw that no one was coming, and put her mare at the fence. it was a low one, and the ditch on the outer side was neither broad nor deep. the thoroughbred cleared it with a contemptuously insignificant effort, and cantered a few strides forward into the grass, shaking her bony head almost between her knees as fanny brought her to a stand and turned again. brinsley followed her on the big hungarian horse he rode,--mr. trehearne's horse,--jumping the fence and ditch, and taking them again almost immediately, to wait for fanny on the other side in the road. she followed again, and pulled up by his side. but they did not ride on at once. they seemed to be discussing some point connected with the place, for they pointed here and there with their hands as they spoke. fanny reined in her mare and backed a little, as though she were going to jump again. the animal seemed nervous, stamping and pawing, and laying back her small ears. a hundred yards or more in the direction from which they had come the road made a short bend round the foot of the spur of the hill, known as pickett's. just as fanny put the mare at the fence a third time, a coach and four turned the corner of the road at a smart pace, leaders cantering and wheelers at a long trot. seeing three horses apparently halting in the way, some one in the coach sent a terrific and discordant blast from a post-horn ringing along the road as a warning. at that moment fanny's mare was rising at the bars. she cleared them as easily as ever, but on reaching the ground instantly bolted across the grass, head down, ears back, heels flying. it all happened in a moment. the two men, brinsley and groom, knew too much to scare the thoroughbred by a pursuit, and confident in fanny's good riding, sat motionless on their horses in the road, after drawing away enough to let the coach pass. the idiot with the horn continued to blow fiercely, and the big vehicle came swinging along at a great rate, with clattering of hoofs, for the road was hard and dry, baked after a recent rain--and with jingling of harness and sound of voices. the mare grew more and more frightened, and tore up the hillside like a flash, directly away from the noise. the young girl was a first-rate rider and knew the fearful danger, if she should be carried at such a pace amongst the trees. but her strength, great as it was, for a woman, was not able to produce the slightest impression upon the terrified creature she rode. lawrence knew nothing of riding, but the imminent peril of the woman he loved was clear to him in a moment. he had a horrible vision of the wild-eyed mare tearing straight towards him through the trees--wide apart at first, and then dangerously near together. on they came, the thoroughbred swerving violently at one stem after another--the young girl's strong figure swaying to her balance at each headlong movement. he could see her set face, pale under the tan, and he could see the desperate exertion of her strength. he sprang forward and ran down between the trees at the top of his speed. chapter x. there is nothing equal to the absolute fearlessness of a naturally brave man who has no experience of the risk he runs and is bent on saving the life of the woman he loves. louis lawrence remembered afterwards what he had done and how he had done it, but he was unconscious of what he was doing at the time. he rushed down the hill between the closer trees, and with utter recklessness sprang at the bridle as the infuriated mare dashed past him. grasping snaffle and curb--tight drawn as they were--in both hands, he threw all his light weight upon them and allowed himself to be dragged along the ground between the trees at the imminent risk of his life--a risk so terrible that fanny trehearne turned paler for him than for her own danger. in half a dozen more strides they might both have been killed. but the mare stopped, quivering, tried to rear, but could not lift lawrence far from the ground nor shake off his desperate hold, plunged once and again, and then stood quite still, trembling violently. lawrence scrambled to his feet, still holding the bridle, and promptly placed himself in front of the mare. for one breathless instant, lawrence looked into fanny's face, and neither spoke nor moved. both were still very pale. then the young girl slipped off, the reins in her hand. "that was uncommonly well done," she said, with great calm. "you've saved my life." she no longer looked at him while she spoke, but patted and stroked the thoroughbred, looking her over with a critical eye. "oh--that's all right," answered lawrence. "don't mention it!" he laughed nervously, still panting from his violent exertion. fanny herself was not out of breath, but the colour did not come back to her sunburnt cheeks at once, and her hand was hardly steady yet. she did not laugh with lawrence, nor even smile, but she looked long into his eyes. "i may not mention it, but i shan't forget it," she said slowly. "it's one to me, isn't it?" asked lawrence, who, in reality, was by far the cooler and more collected of the two. "how do you mean?" enquired fanny, knitting her brows half-angrily. "one to me--in our game, you know," said the young fellow. "the game we agreed to play, yesterday." "yes--it's one to you. by the bye--you're not hurt anywhere, are you?" she looked him over, as she had looked over her mare, with the same critical glance. his clothes were a little torn, here and there, being but light summer things, and his hat had disappeared, but it was tolerably clear that he was in no way injured. "oh, i'm all right," he answered cheerfully. "i should think you'd feel badly shaken, though," he added, with sudden anxiety. "not at all," said fanny, determined to show no more emotion or excitement than he. "it was a case of sitting still--neck or nothing. it's nothing, as it happens." at that moment brinsley appeared, riding slowly through the trees, for fear of frightening the mare again. "are you hurt?" he shouted. fanny looked round, saw him, and shook her head, with a smile. brinsley trotted up and sprang from his horse. "are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked again. "not in the least!" "thank god!" ejaculated brinsley, with emphasis. "you'd better thank mr. lawrence, too," observed fanny, quietly. "he caught her going at a gallop, and hung on and was dragged. i don't remember ever seeing anything quite so plucky." brinsley looked coldly at his rival, and his beady eyes seemed nearer together than usual when he spoke to him. "i think you're quite as much to be congratulated as miss trehearne," he said. "thanks." "we'd better be getting down to the road again," said fanny. "you can lead the mare and your own horse, too, mr. brinsley. she's quiet enough now, and i've all i can do to walk in these things." brinsley took the mare's bridle over her head and led the way with the two horses. "aren't you coming?" asked fanny, seeing that lawrence did not follow. "thanks--no," he answered. "i must find my hat, in the first place." brinsley looked over his shoulder, and saw the two hanging back. he stopped a moment, turning, and laying one hand on the mare's nose. "you must be shaken, mr. lawrence," he said. "why don't you take the groom's horse and ride home with us?" "i can't ride," answered the younger man, loud enough for brinsley to hear him. "and you know it perfectly well," he added under his breath. fanny frowned, but took no further notice of the remark. "good-bye," she said, holding out her hand to lawrence. "come home as soon as you can, won't you?" "oh yes--that is, i think i'll just see you take that fence again, and then i want to get a little higher up the hill and do another bit of a sketch. then i'll come home. there's no hurry, is there?" "don't show off," said fanny, severely. "it isn't pretty. good-bye." she walked fast and overtook brinsley in a few moments. at the foot of the hill he prepared to mount her, leaving his own horse to the groom. then a thing happened which he was never able to explain, though he was an expert in the field and no one could mount a lady better than he, of all fanny's acquaintances. he bent his knee and held out his hand and stiffened his back and made the necessary effort just at the right moment, as he very well knew. but for some inexplicable reason fanny did not reach the saddle, nor anywhere near it, and she slipped and would certainly have fallen if he had not caught her with his other hand and held her on her feet. "how awkward you are!" she exclaimed viciously, with a little stamp. "let me get on alone!" and thereupon, to his astonishment and mortification, she pushed him aside, set her foot in the stirrup,--for she was very tall and could do it easily,--and was up in a flash. lawrence, looking down at them from the edge of the woods, saw what happened, and so did stebbins, the groom, who grinned in silence. he hated brinsley, and it is a bad sign when a good servant hates his master's guest. lawrence felt that in addition to scoring one in the game, he was avenged on his enemy for the latter's taunting invitation to ride. "i think i may count that, and mark two. i'm sure she did it on purpose," he said audibly to himself. before brinsley was mounted, fanny was over the fence with her mare and waiting for him in the road. "oh, come along!" she cried, "don't be all day getting on!" "you needn't be so tremendously rough on a fellow," said brinsley, as his horse landed in the road. "it wasn't my fault that i wasn't waiting for a runaway under the trees up there." "yes it was! everything's your fault," answered fanny, emphatically. "no--you needn't play orlando furioso and make papa's old rocking-horse waltz like that. my mare's got to walk a mile, at least, for her nerves." it didn't require brinsley's great natural penetration to tell him that miss fanny trehearne was in the very worst of tempers--even to the point of unfairly calling her papa's sturdy hungarian bad names. but he could not at all see why she should be so angry. it had certainly been her fault if he had failed to put her neatly in the saddle. but her ill-humour did not frighten him in the least, though he was very quiet for several minutes after she had last spoken. "it's not wildly gay to ride with people who don't talk," observed fanny. "i was trying to think of something appropriate to say," answered brinsley. "but you're in such an awful rage--" "am i? i didn't know it. what makes you think so?" "what nerves you've got!" exclaimed brinsley, in a tone of admiration. "i haven't any nerves at all." "i mean good nerves." "i tell you i haven't any nerves. why do you talk about nerves? they're not amusing things to have, are they?" "well--in point of humour--i didn't say they were." "i asked you to say something amusing, and you began talking about nerves," said fanny, in explanation. "i'm not in luck to-day," said brinsley, after a pause. "no--you're not," was the answer; but she did not vouchsafe him a glance. "i wish you'd like me," he said boldly. "i do--at a certain distance. you look well in the landscape--and you know it." "upon my word!" brinsley laughed roughly, and looked between his horse's ears. "upon your word--what?" "i never had anything said to me quite equal to that, miss trehearne." "no? i'm surprised. perhaps you haven't known the right sort of people. you must find the truth refreshing." brinsley waited a few moments before speaking, and then, turning his head, looked at her with great earnestness. "i wish you'd tell me why you've taken such a sudden dislike to me," he said in a low voice. "why are you so anxious to know, mr. brinsley?" asked fanny, meeting his eyes quietly. "because i believe that somebody has been saying disagreeable things about me to you," he answered. "if that's the case, it would be fair to give me a chance, you know." "nobody's been talking against you. you've talked against yourself. besides," she added, her face suddenly clearing, "it's quite absurd to make such a fuss about nothing! i'm only angry about nothing at all. it's my way, you know. you mustn't mind. i'll get over it before we're at home, and then i'll go off, and my cousins will give you lots of weak tea and flattery." brinsley, who was clever at most things, was not good at talking nor at understanding a woman's moods, and he felt himself at so great a disadvantage that he slipped into an inane conversation about people and parties without succeeding in finding out what he wished to know. if he had ever conceived any mad hope of winning fanny's affections, he abandoned it then and there. he was still further handicapped, had fanny known it, by the desperate state of his own affairs at that moment; and if she had known something of his reflexions, she might have pitied him a little--what she might have thought, if she had guessed the remainder, is hard to guess, for he had a very curious scheme in his mind for improving his finances. he had been playing high for some time, had lost steadily, and was at the end of his present resources, which, with him, meant that he was at the end of all he had in the world. he was not by any means inclined to give up the pleasant intimacy he had formed and fostered with the three miss miners, nor the attendant luxuries which he had gained with it, and the introduction to bar harbour society, which meant good society elsewhere. but he felt that he had no choice, since the cards went against him. he was not a sharper. he played fair, for the sake of the enjoyment of the thing. it was his one great passion. when he was in luck he won enough for his extravagant needs, for he always played high, on principle. but when fortune foiled him, he had other talents of a more curious description, by the exercise of which to replenish his purse--talents, too, which he had exercised in america for a long time. his happy hunting-ground was really london, which accounted for his evident and almost extraordinary familiarity with its ways. there are indeed few places in the world where a man may follow a doubtful occupation more freely and more successfully. before they reached the trehearnes' house, brinsley had made up his mind that he must drink his last cup of tea with the three miss miners on that day or very soon afterwards, unless he were to be even more fortunate in his undertaking than he dared to expect. the immediate consequence was an affectation of a sad and stately manner towards fanny as he helped her off her mare at the door. "i'm afraid this has been our last ride," he said, in a subdued voice. "what? oh--'the last ride'--browning--i remember," answered fanny. "no--i wasn't alluding to browning. i'm going away very soon." fanny stared at him in some surprise. "oh! are you? i am very sorry." she spoke cheerfully, and led the way into the house, brinsley following her, with a dejected air. "you'll probably find my cousins in the library," she added. "i'm going to take off my hat--it's so hot." the three miss miners were assembled, as usual at that hour, and greeted brinsley effusively. not wishing to be anticipated by fanny in telling a story altogether to lawrence's credit, he began to tell the three ladies of what had happened during the ride. he was very careful to explain that he had of course not dared to follow the run-away, lest he should have made matters much worse. "it's quite dreadful," cried miss cordelia, on hearing of fanny's narrow escape. "you should never have let her jump the fence at all. what do people do such mad things for!" "if anything happened to the child, we might as well kill ourselves," said elizabeth. "it's too dreadful to think of!" "well," answered brinsley, "nothing has happened, you see. i've brought miss trehearne safe home, though i hadn't the good fortune to be the man who stopped her horse. you see," he added, smiling, "i want all the credit you can spare from mr. lawrence. i'm afraid there's not much to be got, though. he's had the lion's share." "and where is he?" asked augusta, who felt more sympathy for the artist than the others. "oh--he'll come back. he can't ride, you know, so he had to walk, poor fellow! he'd been pretty badly shaken, too, and he's not strong, i'm sure." "you wouldn't have called him weak if you'd seen him hanging on while the mare dragged him," said fanny, who had entered unnoticed. "oh, that's only strength in the hands!" said brinsley, in a depreciative tone, and conscious of his own splendid proportions. "well, then, he's strong in the hands, that's all," retorted fanny. "please, some tea, elizabeth dear--i'm half dead." the three miss miners did their best to console brinsley for fanny's continued ill-treatment of him, but they did not succeed in lifting the cloud from his brow. at last he confessed that he was expecting to leave bar harbour at any moment. chapter xi. there were to be fireworks that evening at the canoe club on the farther side of bar island--magnificent fireworks, it was said, which it would be well worth while to see. the night was calm and clear, and the moon, being near the last quarter, would not rise until everything was over. "we'll go in skiffs," said fanny. "when we're tired of each other, we can change about, you know. mr. lawrence can take one of us and mr. brinsley another, and the other two must take one of the men from the landing. i ordered the boats this morning when i was out." the three miss miners looked consciously at one another, mutely wondering how they were to divide mr. brinsley amongst them, and wishing that they had consulted together in private before the moment for decision had come. but no one suggested that, as there were only four ladies, each of the men could very easily take two in a boat. "we might toss up to see who shall take whom," suggested brinsley, who had been unusually silent during the greater part of dinner. "in how many ways can you arrange six people in couples?" asked fanny. nobody succeeded in solving the question, of course. even elizabeth miner, who was considered the clever member, gave it up in despair. "never mind!" said fanny. "we'll see how it turns out when we get down to the landing-stage. these things always arrange themselves." to the surprise of every one except fanny herself, the arrangement turned out to be such that she and miss cordelia went together in the skiff pulled by the sailor, while brinsley and lawrence each took one of the other miss miners. "we'll change by and by," said fanny, as her boat shoved off first to show the way. "keep close to us in the crowd when we get over." the distance from the landing, across the harbour, through the channel between bar island and sheep porcupine to the canoe club, is little over half a mile; but at night, amidst a crowd of steamers, large and small, row-boats, canoes, and sail-boats,--the latter all outside the channel,--it took twenty minutes to reach the place where the fireworks were to be. fanny leaned back beside her cousin, and watched the lights in silence. yellow, green, and red, they streamed across the brilliant black water in every direction, the yellow rays fixed or moving but slowly, the others gliding along swiftly above their own reflection, as the paddle steamers thrashed their way through the still sea. to left and right the shadowy islands loomed, darkly against the black sky, outlined by the stars. the warm damp air lifted the coolness from the water in little puffs, as the skiff slipped along. now and then, in the gloom, a boat showed dimly alongside, and the laughing voices of girls and boys told how near it passed, a mere floating dimness upon blackness. the stroke of light sculls swished and tinkled with the laughter. the soft mysterious charm of the summer dark was breathed upon land and water--the distant lights were love-dreaming eyes, and each time, as the oars dipped, swept and rose, the gentle sound was like a stolen kiss. then, suddenly, with a wild screaming rush, a rocket shot up into the night, splitting the sky with a scar of fire. the burning point of it lingered a moment overhead, then cracked into little stars that shed a soft glow through the gloom, and fell in a swift shower of sparks. then all was hushed again, and the red and green lights moved quickly over the water, hither and thither. close to the shore of the island the skiff ran round the point into the shallow water along the beach, and all at once in the distance the festooned lanterns of the canoe club came into view, so bright that one could distinguish the branches of the spruces in the red and yellow glare, and the moving crowd of people on the little landing-stage and below, before the clubhouse. and some two hundred yards out the lights began again, gleaming from hundreds of boats and little vessels of all rigs and builds. between these seaward lights and those on land a deep black void stretched away up frenchman's bay. miss cordelia started nervously at the rockets, but said nothing. fanny sat beside her in silence. the sailor, only visible distinctly when the lights were behind him, pulled softly and steadily, glancing over his shoulder every now and then to see that the way was clear. the other skiffs kept near, both brinsley and lawrence being keenly on the lookout for a change. now and then fanny could hear them talking. "i wonder why one voice should attract one and another should be disagreeable," she said at last, in a meditative tone. "i was thinking of the same thing," answered cordelia, thoughtfully. "yes," said fanny, absently. "of course you were," she added, a moment later. "i mean--" she paused. "poor dear!" she exclaimed at last, stroking her cousin's elderly hand in the dark. "i'm so sorry!" "thank you, dear," answered miss miner, simply and gratefully. it was little enough, but little as it was it made them both more silent than ever. with the boatman close before them, it was impossible to talk of what was in their thoughts. fanny, for her part, was glad of it. she had understood her old-maid cousin since the night when cordelia had broken down and laughed and cried in the garden, and she knew how little there could be to say. but cordelia did not understand fanny in the least. it was a marvel to her that any one should prefer lawrence to brinsley--almost as great a marvel as that she herself, in her sober middle age, should have felt what she knew was love and believed to be passion. and now, brinsley was going, and it was over. he would never come back, and she should never see him again--she was sure of that. she was only an old maid; a middle-aged gentlewoman who had never possessed any great attraction for anybody; who had always been more or less poor and unhappy, though of the best and living amongst the best; whose few pleasures had come to her unexpectedly, like rare gleams of pale sunshine on a very long rainy day; who had looked for little and had got next to nothing out of life, save the crumbs of enjoyment from the feast of rich relations, like the trehearnes--a woman who had known something more grievous than sorrow and worse than violent grief, trudging through life in the leaden cowl of many limitations--the leaden cowl of that most innocent of all hypocrites, of her, or of him, who knows the daily burden of keeping up appearances on next to nothing, and of doctoring poor little illusions through a feeble existence, worth having because they represent all that there is to have. she had been wounded by one of those arrows shot in the dark which hit hearts unawares and unaimed; and now that the shaft was suddenly drawn out, the heart's blood followed it and the nerves quivered where it had been. it was only one of the little tragedies which no one sees, few guess at, and nothing can hinder. but fanny trehearne felt that it was beside her, there in the little boat, while she watched the pretty fireworks, and she was sorry and did what she could to soothe the pain. "let's change, now," she said at last, just as the glow of a multitude of coloured fires died away on the water. "you take mr. brinsley, and i'll take mr. lawrence." as she spoke, she gave her cousin's hand a little squeeze of sympathy, and heard the small sigh of satisfaction that answered the proposal. the rearrangement was effected in a few moments, the men holding the boats together by the gunwales while the ladies stepped from one into the other. "pull away," said fanny, authoritatively, as soon as lawrence had shoved off. "let's get out of this! i'll steer, so you needn't bother about running into things." fairly seated in a boat, with the sculls shipped, and some one at the tiller lines, lawrence could get along tolerably well, for he knew just enough not to catch a crab in smooth water, so long as he was not obliged to turn his head. but if he had to look over his shoulder, something was certain to happen, which was natural, considering that when he attempted to feather at all, he did it the wrong way. "you're stronger than anybody would think," observed fanny, as she saw how quickly the skiff moved. "you might do things quite decently, if you'd only take the trouble to learn." "oh no! i'm a born duffer," laughed lawrence. "besides, i couldn't row long like this. i couldn't keep it up." they were just in front of the clubhouse now; and a score of rockets went up together, with a rushing and a crackling and a gleaming, as they soared and burst, and at last fell sputtering in the water all around the skiff. lawrence had rested on his sculls to watch the sight. "pull away!" said fanny. "we'll get under the foot-bridge by the landing. there's water enough there, and we can see everything." lawrence obeyed, and pulled as hard as he could. "so your friend mr. brinsley is going away," observed the young girl, suddenly. "my friend! i like that! as though i had brought him in my pocket." "i'm very glad that he's going, at all events," said fanny, without heeding his remark. "i'm not fond of him any more." "i hope you never were--fond of him." "oh yes, i was--but i'm thankful to say that it's over. of all the ineffable cads! i could have killed him to-day!" "by the bye," said lawrence, "when he was mounting you--didn't you do that on purpose?" "of course. and then i called him awkward. it was so nice! it did me good." "pure spite, i suppose. you couldn't have had any particular reason for doing it, could you?" "oh dear, no! what reason could i have? it wasn't his fault that the mare ran away, though i told him it was." "that's interesting," observed lawrence. "do you often do things out of pure spite?" "constantly--without any reason at all!" fanny laughed. "perhaps you'll marry out of spite, some day," said lawrence, calmly. "women often do, they say, though i never could understand why." "i daresay i shall. i'm quite capable of it. and shouldn't i be just horrid afterwards!" "i like you when you're horrid, as you call it. i didn't at first. you've given my sense of humour a chance to grow since i've been here. i say, miss trehearne--" he stopped. "what do you say? it isn't particularly polite to begin in that way, is it? i suppose it's english." "oh, bother the english! and i apologize for being slangy. it's so dark that i can't see you frown. i meant to say, if you ever marry out of spite, and want to be particularly horrid afterwards, it wouldn't be a bad idea to marry me, for i don't mind that sort of thing a bit, you know." "that's a singular offer!" laughed fanny, leaning far back, and playing with the tiller lines in the glow of the bengal lights. "it's genuine of its kind," answered the young man. "of course it isn't a sure thing, exactly," he added reflectively, "because it depends on your happening to be in the spiteful humour. but, as you say that often happens--" "well, go on!" "i thought you might feel spiteful enough to accept this evening," concluded lawrence. "take care--i might, you know--you're in danger!" she was still laughing. "don't mind me, you know! i could stand it, i believe." "you're awfully amusing--sometimes, mr. lawrence." "meaning now?" enquired the artist, resting on his sculls, for they were under the shadow of the bridge. "i can't see your face distinctly," answered fanny. "so much depends on the expression. but i think--" "what do you think? that it's awfully amusing of me to offer to be married as a sacrifice to your spite?" "it's amusing anyway." "a formal proposal would be, you mean?" asked lawrence. then he laughed oddly. "i hate formality," answered fanny. "that is, in earnest, you know. it's so disgusting when a man comes with his gloves buttoned and sits on the edge of a chair and says--" "and says what?" "oh--you know the sort of thing. you must have done it scores of times." "what? proposed and been refused? you're complimentary, at all events. i've a great mind to let you be the first, just--well--how shall i say? just to associate you with a novel sensation." "i might disappoint you," said fanny, demurely. "i told you so before. just think, if i were to say 'yes,' you'd be most dreadfully caught. you'd have to eat humble pie and beg off, and say that you hadn't meant it." "oh no!" laughed the young man. "you'd break it off in a week, and then it would be all right." "are you going to be rude? or are you, already? i'm not quite sure." "neither. of course you'd break it off, if we had an agreement to that effect." "you don't make any allowance for my spitefulness. it would be just like me to hold you to your engagement. of course you wouldn't live long. we should be sure to fight." "oh--sure," assented lawrence. "that is, if you call this fighting." "it would be worse than this. but why don't you try? i'm dying to refuse you. i'm just in the humour." "why! i thought you said there was danger! if i'd known there wasn't--by the bye, this counts in the game, doesn't it?" "there isn't anything to count, yet," said fanny. "look at those fiery fish--aren't they pretty? see how they squirm about, and fizzle, and behave like mad things! oh, i never saw anything so pretty as that!" "yes. if one must have an interruption, they do as well as anything." "you weren't talking very coherently, i believe," said the young girl, turning her head to watch the fireworks. "and you've made me miss lots of pretty things, i'm sure. oh--they've gone out already! how dark it seems, all at once! what were you asking? whether this counted in the game? of course it counts. everything does. but i don't exactly see how--" she stopped and looked towards him in the dim gloom of the shadow under the bridge. but lawrence did not speak. he looked over the side of the boat, softly slapping the black water with the blade of his scull. "why don't you go on?" asked fanny, tapping the boards under her foot to attract his attention. "i was thinking over the proper words," answered lawrence. "how does one make a formal proposal of marriage? i never did such a thing in my life." "an informal one would do for fun." "i never did that, either." "never?" "never." "really? swear it, as they say on the stage." fanny laughed softly. "oh, by jove, yes!" answered lawrence, promptly. "i'll swear to that by anything you please." "well--you'll have to do it some day, so you'd better practise at once," suggested fanny. lawrence did not notice that there was a sort of little relief in her tone. "i suppose one says, 'my angel, will you be mine?'" he said. "that sounds like some book or other." "it might do," answered fanny, meditatively. "you ought to throw a little more expression into the tone. besides, i'm not an angel, whatever the girl in the book may have been. on the whole--no--it's a little too effusive. angel--you know. it's such nonsense! try something else; but put lots of expression into it." "does one get down on one's knees?" enquired lawrence. "oh no; i don't believe it's necessary. besides, you'd upset the boat." "all right--here goes! my dear miss trehearne, will you-- "yes. that's it. go on. the quaver in the voice is rather well done. 'will you--' what?" "will you marry me?" "yes, mr. lawrence, i will." there was a short pause, during which a number of fiery fish were sent off again, and squirmed and wriggled and fizzled their burning little lives away in the water. but neither of the young people looked at them. "you rather took my breath away," said lawrence, with a change of tone. "did i do it all right?" "oh--quite right," answered fanny, thoughtfully. immediately after the words lawrence heard a little sigh. then fanny heard one, too. "you didn't happen to be in earnest, did you?" she asked suddenly, in a low, soft voice. "well--i didn't mean--that i meant--you know we agreed to play a game--" "i know we did--but--were you in earnest." "yes--but, of course-- oh, this isn't fair, miss trehearne!" "yes, it is. i said 'yes,' didn't i?" "certainly, but--" "there's no 'but.' i happened to be in earnest, too--that's all. i've lost the game." transcriber's note: the original text noted chapters as , , etc. in the toc, and i, ii, iii etc. in chapter headers. these have been retained. * * * * * the love affairs of an old maid by lilian bell "_some ships reach happy ports that are not steered_" new york harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ dedication this book is dedicated very fondly to my beloved family, who, in their anxiety to render me material assistance, have offered me such diverse opinions as to its merit that their criticisms radiate from me in as many directions as there are spokes to a wheel. this leaves the distraught hub with no opinion of its own, and with flaring, ragged edges. nevertheless, thus must it appear before the public, whose opinion will be the tire which shall enable my wheel to revolve. if it be favorable, one may look for smooth riding; if unfavorable, one must expect jolts. preface it is a pity that there is no prettier term to bestow upon a girl bachelor of any age than old maid. "spinster" is equally uncomfortable, suggesting, as it does, corkscrew curls and immoderate attenuation of frame; while "maiden lady," which the ultra-punctilious substitute, is entirely too mincing for sensible, whole-souled people to countenance. i dare say that more women would have the courage to remain unmarried were there so euphonious a title awaiting them as that of "bachelor," which, when shorn of its accompanying adjective "old," simply means unmarried. the word "bachelor," too, has somewhat of a jaunty sound, implying to the sensitive ear that its owner could have been married--oh, several times over--if he had wished. but both "spinster" and "old maid" have narrow, restricted attributes, which, to say the least, imply doubt as to past opportunity. names are covertly responsible for many overt acts. carlyle, when he said, "the name is the earliest garment you wrap around the earth-visiting me. names? not only all common speech, but science, poetry itself, if thou consider it, is no other than a right naming," sounded a wonderful note in moral philosophy, which rings false many a time in real life, when to ring true would change the whole face of affairs. thus i boldly affirm, that were there a proper sounding title to cover the class of unmarried women, many a marriage which now takes place, with either moderate success or distinct failure, would remain in pleasing embryo. of the three evils among names for my book, therefore, i leave you to determine whether i have chosen the greatest or least. the writing of it came about in this way. in a conversation concerning modern marriage, the unwisdom people display in choice, and the complicated affair it has come to be from a pastoral beginning, i said lightly, "i shall write a book upon this subject some fine day, and i shall call it 'the love affairs of an old maid,' because popular prejudice decrees that the love affairs of an old maid necessarily are those of other people." no sooner had the name suggested in broad jest taken form in my mind than straightway every thought i possessed crystallized around it, and i found myself impelled by a malevolent fate to begin it. it became a fixed intention on a sunday morning in church during a most excellent sermon, the text and substance of which i have forgotten. doubtless more of real worth and benefit to mankind was pent up in that sermon than four books of my own writing could accomplish. but, with the delightful candor of john kendrick bangs, i explain my lapse of memory thus-- "i dote on milton and on robert burns; i love old marryat--his tales of pelf; i live on byron; but my heart most yearns towards those sweet things that i've penned myself." so the book has been written. the existence of the old maid often has been a precarious one; she has been surrounded by danger, once narrowly escaping cremation. but my humanity towards dumb brutes saved her. i might have sacrificed a woman, but i could not kill a cat. so she lives, unconsciously owing her life to her cat. thus she comes to you, bearing her friends in her heart. i should scarcely dare ask you to welcome her, did i not suspect that her friends are yours. you have your flossy and your charlie hardy without doubt. pray heaven you have a rachel to outweigh them. chicago, _march, _. contents chapter page . i introduce me to myself . i come into my kingdom . matrimony in harness . women as lovers . the heart of a coquette . the lonely childhood of a clever child . a study in human geese . a game of hearts . the madonna of the quiet mind . the pathos of faith . the hazard of a human die . in which i willingly turn my face westward the love affairs of on old maid * * * i i introduce me to myself "there is a luxury in self-dispraise; and inward self-disparagement affords to meditative spleen a grateful feast." to-morrow i shall be an old maid. what a trying thing to have to say even to one's self, and how vexed i should be if anybody else said it to me! nevertheless, it is a comfort to be brutally honest once in a while to myself. i do not dare, i do not care, to be so to everybody. but with my own self, i can feel that it is strictly a family affair. if i hurt my feelings, i can grieve over it until i apologize. if i flatter myself, i am only doing what every other woman in the world is doing in her innermost consciousness, and flattery as honest as flattery from one's own self naturally would be could not fail to please me. besides, it would have the unique value of being believed by both sides--a situation in the flattery line which i fancy has no rival. it is well to become acquainted with one's self at all hazards, and as i am going to be my own partner in the rubber of life, i can do nothing better than to study my own hand. so, to harrow up my feelings as only i dare to do, i write down that it is really true of me that i passed the first corner five years ago, and to-morrow i shall be . what a disagreeable figure a is; i never noticed it before. it looks so self-satisfied. and as to that fat, hollow which follows it--i always did detest round numbers. ; there it goes again. i must accustom myself to it privately, so i write it down once more, and it laughs in my face and mocks me. then i laugh back at it and say aloud that it is true, and for the time being i have cowed it and become its master. what boots it if the laughter is a trifle hollow? there is no harm in deceiving two miserable little figures. let me revel in my youth while i may. to-night i am a gay young thing of twenty-nine. to-morrow i shall be an old maid. i have very little time left in which to make myself ridiculous and have it excused on account of my youth. but somehow i do not feel very gay. i have a curious feeling about my heart, as if i were at a burial--one where i was burying something that i had always loved very dearly, but secretly, and which would always be a sweet and tender memory with me. i feel nervous, too, quite as if i did not know whether to laugh or to cry. i remember that alice asbury said she was hysterical just before she was married. i wonder if a woman's feelings on the eve of being an old maid are unlike those of one about to become a bride. my cat sits eying me with sleepy approval. i always liked cats. and tea. why have i never thought of it before? it is not my fault that i am an old maid. i was cut out for one. all my tendencies point that way. please don't blame me, good people. come here, tabby. you and missis will grow old together. after all, it is a sad thing when one realizes for the first time that one's youth is slipping away. but why? why do women of great intelligence, of intellect even, blush with pleasure at the implication of youth? there are fashions in thought as well as in dress, and the best of us follow both, as sheep follow their leader. we will sometimes follow our neighbor's line of insular prejudice, when worlds could not bribe us to copy her grammar or her gowns. dull people admire youth. they excuse its follies; they adore its prettiness. that it is only a period of education, and that real life begins with maturity, does not enter into their minds. the odor of bread and butter does not nauseate them. dull people, i say--and god pity us, most of us are dull--admire youth. men love it. therefore we all want to be young. we strive to be young, nay, we _will_ be young. i am no better than my neighbors. i, too, am young when i am with people. but there are times when i am alone when the strain of being young relaxes, and i luxuriate in being old, old, old, when i cease being contemporary, and look back fondly to the time when the world and i were in embryo. and yet i wonder if extreme age is as repulsive to everybody as it is to me. forty seems a long way off. i fancy people at forty become very uninteresting to the oncoming generation. fifty is grandmotherly and suitable for little else. sixty, seventy, and beyond seem to me one horrible jumble of wrinkles and wheezes and false beauty and general unpleasantness. oh, i hope, if i should live to be over fifty, that i may be a pleasant old person. i hope my teeth will fit me, and the parting to my wave be always in the middle. i hope my fingers will always come fully to the ends of my gloves, and that i never shall wear my spectacles on top of my head. but i hope more than all that it isn't wicked to wish to die before i come to these things. before i entirely lose my youth--in other words, before i become an old maid, let me see what i must give up. lovers, of course. that goes without saying. and if i give them up, it will not do to have their photographs standing around. they must be--oh! and their letters--must they too be destroyed? dear me, no! i'll just fold them all together and lay them away, like a wedding-dress which never has been worn. and i'll put girls' pictures or missionaries' or martyrs' into the empty frames. martyrs' would be most appropriate. now for a box to put them in. a pretty box, so that one who runs may read? not so, you sentimental elderly person. take this tin box with a lock on it. there you are, done up in a japanned box and padlocked. i would say that it looks like a little coffin if i wasn't afraid of what my alter ego would say. she seems cross to-night. i wonder what is the matter with her. she must be getting old. i should like to hang the key around my neck on a blue ribbon, but i am afraid. "what if you should be run over and killed," she says, "or should faint away in church? remember that you are an old maid." how disagreeable old maids can be! and i've got to live with this one always. i'll put the key in my purse. nice, sensible, prosaic place, a purse. how late it grows! i have only a little time left. i believe that clock is fast. dear, dear! do i want to just sit still and watch myself turn? i meant to have old age overtake me in my sleep. i think i'll stop that clock and let my youth fade from me unawares. ii i come into my kingdom "there is no compensation for the woman who feels that the chief relation of her life has been no more than a mistake. she has lost her crown. the deepest secret of human blessedness has half whispered itself to her and then forever passed her by." i have become an old maid, and really it is a relief. i feel as if i had left myself behind me, and that now i have a right to the interests of other people when they are freely offered. my friends always have confided in me. i suppose it is because i am receptive. men tell me their old love affairs. girls tell me the whole story of their engagements--how they came to take this man, and why they did not take that one. and even the most ordinary are vitally interesting. before i know it, i am rent with the same despair which agitates the lover confiding in me; or i am wreathed in the smiles of the engaged girl who is getting her absorbing secret comfortably off her mind. it seems to comfort them to air their emotion, and sometimes i am convinced that they leave the most of it with me. now i can feel at liberty to enjoy and sympathize as i will. well, the love affairs of other people are the rightful inheritance of old maids. in sharing them i am only coming into my kingdom. alice asbury has made shipwreck of hers. the girl is actively miserable and her husband is indifferently uncomfortable, which is the habit this married couple have of experiencing the same emotion. alice is a mass of contradictions to those who do not understand her--now in the clouds, now in the depths. bad weather depresses her; so does a sad story, the death of a kitten, solemn music. she is correspondingly volatile in the opposite direction and often laughs at real calamities with wonderful courage. she has a fund of romance in her nature which has led her to the pass she now is in. she is clever, too, at introspection and analysis--of herself chiefly. she studies her own sensations and dissects her moods. her selfishness is of the peculiar sort which should have kept her from marrying until she found the hundredth man who could appreciate her genius and bend it into nobler channels. unfortunately she married one of the ninety-nine. she is not, perhaps, more selfish than many another woman, but her selfishness is different. she is mentally cross-eyed from turning her eyes inward so constantly. she became engaged to brandt--a man in every way worthy of her--and they loved each other devotedly. then during a quarrel she broke the engagement, and he, being piqued by her withdrawal, immediately married may lawrence, who had been patiently in love with him for five years, and who was only waiting for some such turn as this to deliver him into her hands. a poetic justice visits him with misery, for he still cares for alice. may, however, is not conscious of this fact as yet. alice, being doubly stung by his defection, was just in the mood to do something desperate, when she began to see a great deal of asbury, fresh from being jilted by sallie cox. asbury was moody, and confided in alice. alice was foolish, and confided in him. they both decided that their hearts were ashes, love burned out, and life a howling wilderness, and then proceeded to exchange these empty hearts of theirs, and to go through the howling wilderness together. alice came to tell me about it. they had no love to give each other, she said sadly, but they were going to be married. i would have laughed at her if she had not been so tragic. but there is something about alice, in spite of her romantic folly, (which she has adapted from the french to suit her american needs,) which forbids ridicule. nevertheless i felt, with one of those sudden flashes of intuition, that this choice of hers was a hideous mistake. the situation repelled me. but the very strangeness of it seemed to attract the morbid alice. and it was this one curious strain of unexplained foolishness marring her otherwise strong and in many ways beautiful character which prevented my loving her completely and safely. nevertheless, i cared for her enough to enter my feeble and futile protest; but it was waved aside with the superb effrontery of a woman who feels that she controls the situation with her head, and whose heart is not at liberty to make uncomfortable complications. i would rather argue with a woman who is desperately in love, to prevent her marrying the man of her choice, than to try to dissuade a woman from marrying a man she has set her head upon. you feel sympathy with the former, and you have human nature and the whole glorious love-making past at your back, to give you confidence and eloquence. but with the latter you are cowed and beaten beforehand, and tongue-tied during the contest. so she became alice asbury, and these two blighted beings took a flat. before they had been at home from their honeymoon a week she came down to see me, and told me that she hated asbury. imagine a bride whose bouquet, only a month before, you had held at the altar, and heard her promise to love, honor, and obey a man until death did them part, coming to you with a confession like that. still, if but one half she tells me of him is true, i do not wonder that she hates him. with her revolutionary, anarchistic completeness, she has renounced the idea of compromise or adaptability as finally as if she had seen and passed the end of the world. there is no more pliability in her with regard to asbury than there is in a steel rod. how different she used to be with brandt! how she consulted his wishes and accommodated herself to him! when a woman born to be ruled by love only passes by her master spirit, she becomes an anomaly in woman--she makes complications over which the psychologist wastes midnight oil, and if he never discovers the solution, it is because of its very simplicity. all the sweetness seems to have left alice's nature. she keeps somebody with her every moment. that one guest chamber in her flat has been occupied by all the girls that she can persuade to visit her. asbury dislikes company, but she says she does not care. she cannot keep visitors long, because as soon as they discover that they are unwelcome to asbury, naturally they go home. fortunately, asbury does not care for sallie cox any more. when his vanity was wounded, his love died instantly. i think he is more in love with himself than he ever was with any woman. there are men, you know, whose one grand passion in life is for themselves. but alice knows that brandt still cares for her, and she feeds her romantic fancy on this fact, and has her introspective miseries to her heart's content. she is far too cool-headed a woman to do anything rash. sometimes i think her morbid nature obtains more real satisfaction out of her joyless situation than positive happiness would compensate her for. she appears to take a certain negative pleasure in it. their marriage is the product of a false civilization, and i pity them--at a distance--from the bottom of my heart. i am sorry for brandt, too, for he honestly loved alice and might have proved the hundredth man--who knows? i do not quite know whether to be sorry for may brandt or not, for she made complications and made them purposely. she made them so promptly, too, that she precluded the possibility of a reconciliation between alice and brandt. if brandt had remained single, i doubt whether alice would have had the courage to form an engagement with any other man. she loved him too truly to take the first step towards an eternal separation. women seldom dare make that first move, except as a decoy. they are naturally superstitious, and even when curiously free from this trait in everything else, they cling to a little in love, and dare not tempt fate too insolently. a woman who has quarrelled with her lover, in her secret heart expects him back daily and hourly, no matter what the cause of the estrangement, until he becomes involved with another woman. then she lays all the blame of his defection at the door of the alien, where, in the opinion of an old maid, it generally belongs. if other women would let men alone, constancy would be less of a hollow mockery. (query, but is it constancy where there is no temptation to be fickle?) nevertheless, let "another woman" sympathize with an estranged lover, and place a little delicate blame upon his sweetheart and flatter him a great deal, and _presto!_ you have one of those criss-cross engagements which turns life to a dull gray for the aching heart which is left out. if, too, when this honestly loving woman appears to take the first step, her actions and mental processes could be analyzed and timed, it frequently would prove that, with her quicker calculations, she foresaw the fatal effect of the "other-woman" element, and, desirous of protecting her vanity, reached blindly out to the nearest man at her command, and married him with magnificent effrontery, just to circumvent humiliation and to take a little wind out of the other woman's sails. but could you make her lover believe that? never. and so may lawrence played the "other woman" in the asbury tragedy. i wonder if she is satisfied with her rôle. a girl who wilfully catches a man's heart on the rebound, does the thing which involves more risk than anything else malevolent fate could devise. on the whole, i think i am sorry for her, for she has apples of sodom in her hand, although as yet to her delighted gaze they appear the fairest of summer fruit. iii matrimony in harness "what eagles are we still in matters that belong to other men; what beetles in our own!" the more i know of horses, the more natural i think men and women are in the unequalness of their marriages. i never yet saw a pair of horses so well matched that they pulled evenly all the time. the more skilful the driver, the less he lets the discrepancy become apparent. going up hill, one horse generally does the greater share of work. if they pull equally up hill, sometimes they see-saw and pull in jerks on a level road. and i never saw a marriage in which both persons pulled evenly all the time, and the worst of it is, i suppose this unevenness is only what is always expected. having no marriage of my own to worry over, it is gratuitous when i worry over other people's. old maids, you know, like to air their views on matrimony and bringing up children. their theories on these subjects have this advantage--that they always hold good because they never are tried. there never was such an unequal yoking together as the herricks'. nobody has told me. this is one of the affairs which has not been confided to me. only, i knew them both so well before they were married. i knew bronson herrick best, however, because i never used to see any more of flossy than was necessary. to begin with, i never liked her name. i have an idea that names show character. could anybody under heaven be noble with such a name as flossy? i believe names handicap people. i believe children are sometimes tortured by hideous and unmeaning names. but give them strong, ugly names in preference to ina and bessie and flossy and such pretty-pretty names, with no meaning and no character to them. take my own name, ruth. if i wanted to be noble or heroic i could be; my name would not be an anomalous nightmare to attract attention to the incongruity. we cannot be too thankful to our mothers who named us mary and dorothy and constance. what an inspiration to be "faithful over a few things" such a name as constance must be! but flossy's mother named her--not florence, but flossy. i suppose she was one of those fluffy, curly, silky babies. she grew to be that kind of a girl--a flossy girl. it speaks for itself. i suppose with that name she never had any incentive to outgrow her nature. it came out on her wedding cards: "mr. and mrs. charles fay carleton request you to be present at the marriage of their daughter flossy to mr. bronson sturgis herrick." the contrast between the two names, hers so nonsensical and his so dignified and strong, was no greater than that between the two people. in truth, their names were symbolic of their natures. it looked really pitiful to me. i wondered if anybody besides rachel english and me looked into their future with apprehension. our misgivings, i must admit, were all for bronson. ah, well-a-day! it is so easy to feel sympathy for a man you admire, especially if he is strong and loyal, and does not ask or desire it of you. flossy was one of those cuddling girls. she appealed to you with her eyes, and you found yourself petting her and sympathizing with her, when, if you stopped to think, you would see that she had more of everything than you had. she possessed a rich father, a beautiful house, and perfect health. nevertheless, you found yourself asking after "poor flossy," and your voice commiserated her if your words did not. she invariably had some trifling ill to tell you of. she had hurt her arm, or scratched her hand, or the snow made her eyes ache, or she was tired. she never seemed at liberty to enjoy herself, although she went everywhere, and seemed to do so successfully in spite of her imaginary ills, if you let her enjoy herself by telling you of them. everybody helped flossy to live. everybody protected and looked after her. there was some one on his knees continually, removing invisible brambles from her rose-leaf path. she didn't know how to do anything for herself. she never buttoned her own boots. when her maid was not with her, other people put her jacket on for her, and carried her umbrella and buttoned her gloves. men always buttoned her gloves, and her gloves always had more buttons, and more unruly buttons, than any other gloves i ever saw. but then i am elderly. i never knew flossy to do anything for anybody. she never gave things away, but on christmas and her birthdays she received remembrances from everybody. i used to make her presents without knowing why or even thinking of it. flossy's name was on all the christmas lists, and she used to shed tears over the kindness of her friends, and write the prettiest notes to them, so plaintive and self-deprecatory. then they took her to drive, or did something more for her. flossy read poetry and cried over it. she wrote poetry too, and other people cried over that. when bronson herrick told me he was going to marry her, i wanted to say, "no, you are not." but i didn't. i did not even seem to be surprised, for he is so proud he would have resented any surprise on my part. he told me about it of course, knowing that i could not fail to be pleased. (his photograph is in that japanned box of mine. this smile on my face, tabby, is rather sardonic. why is it that men expect an old sweetheart to take an active interest in their bride-elect, and are so deadly sure that they will like each other?) "she is the most sympathetic little thing," he said enthusiastically. "she reminds me of you in so many ways. you are very much alike." "oh, thank you, bronson sturgis herrick! i assure you i would cheerfully drown myself if i thought you were right about that," i exclaimed mentally. he repeated over and over that she was "so sympathetic." he meant, of course, that she had wept over him. flossy's tears flow like rain if you crook your finger at her, and tears wring the heart of a man like bronson. to think he was going to marry her! i just looked at him, i remember, as he stood so straight and tall before me, and said to myself, "well, you dear, honest, loyal, clever man! you are just the kind of a man that women fool most unmercifully. but it's nature, and you can't help it. go and marry this flossy girl, and commit mental suicide if you must." "sympathetic!" so he married her five years ago, and became her man-servant. when they had been married about a year, people said that bronson was working himself to death. i, being an old maid, and liking to meddle with other people's business, told him that i thought he ought to take a vacation. he said he couldn't afford it. i was honestly surprised at that, because, while he was not rich, he was extremely well-to-do, with a rapidly increasing law practice. and then flossy's father had been very generous when she married him. he was considerate enough to reply to my look. "you know i married a rich girl. flossy's money is her own. she has saved it--i wished her to save it, i _wished_ it--and i am doing my level best to support her as nearly as possible in the way in which she has been accustomed to live. she ought to have an easier time, poor child." so he did not take a vacation, and the summer was very hot, and when flossy came home from rye she found him wretchedly ill, and discovered that he had had a trained nurse for two weeks before he let her know anything about it. then people pitied flossy for having her summer interrupted, and flossy felt that it was a shame; but she very willingly sat and fanned bronson for as much as an hour every day and answered questions languidly and was pale, and people sent her flowers and were extremely sorry for her. when bronson became well enough to go away, as his doctors ordered, for a complete rest, rachel english happened to go on the same train with them, and the next day i received a letter, or rather an envelope, from her, with this single sentence enclosed: "and if she didn't make him hold her in his arms in broad daylight every step of the way, because the train jarred her back!" (tabby, there is no use in talking. i must stop and pull your ears. come here and let missis be really rough with you for a minute.) there are some women who prefer a valet to a husband; who think that the more menial are his services in public, the more apparent is his devotion. it is a roman-chariot-wheel idea, which degrades both the man and the woman in the eyes of the spectators. i wrote to rachel, and said in the letter, "one horse in the span always does most of the pulling, you know, especially uphill." and rachel wrote back, "wouldn't i just like to drive this pair, though!" bronson had his ideals before he was married, as most men have, concerning the kind of a home he hoped for. he always said that it was not so much what your home was, as how it was. he believed that a home consisted more in the feelings and aims of its inmates than in rugs and jardinières. he said to me once, "the oneness of two people could make a home in sahara." he was ambitious, too, feeling within himself that power which makes orators and statesmen, but needing the approval and encouragement of some one who also realized his capabilities, to enable him to do his best. he himself was the one who was sympathetic, if he had only known it. his nature responded with the utmost readiness to whatever appealed to him from the side of right or justice. he had noble hopes in many directions, hopes which inspired me to believe in his truth and goodness, aside from his capabilities for achieving greatness. his eagle sight, which read through other men's shams and pretences; his moral sense, which bade him shun even the appearance of evil, not only permitted, but urged him, seemingly, into this marriage with flossy, by which he effectually cut himself off from his dearest aspirations. one by one i have seen him relinquish them, holding to them lovingly to the last. the hours at home, which he intended to give to study and research, have been sacrificed to the petting and nursing of a perfectly well woman, who demanded it of him. his home life, where he had dreamed of a congenial atmosphere, where the centripetal force should be the love of wife and children, merged into frequent journeys for flossy--who would have been happy if she never had been obliged to stay in one place over a week--and a shifting of their one child rachel into the care of nurses, because flossy fretted at the care of her and demanded all of bronson's time for herself. thus was bronson's life being twisted and bent from its natural course. was it a weakness in him? to be sure he might have shown his strength by breaking loose from family ties, and, hardening his heart to his wife's plaints, have carried out his ambitions with some degree of success. he did attempt this, nor did he fail in his career. he was called a fairly successful man. i dare say the majority of people never knew that he was created for grander things. but something was sapping his energy at the fountain-head. was he realizing that he had helped to shatter his ideals with his own hand? i never am so well satisfied with my lot of single-blessedness as when i contemplate the sort of wife flossy makes. that may sound arrogant, but this is a secret session of human nature, when arrogance and all native-born sins are permissible. flossy is perfectly unconscious of the spectacle she presents to the world. ah, me! i know it is said, "judge not, that ye be not judged." i might have made him just such a wife, i suppose. o heavens! no, i shouldn't. tabby, that is making humility go a little too far. iv women as lovers "in every clime and country there lives a man of pain, whose nerves, like chords of lightning, bring fire into his brain: to him a whisper is a wound, a look or sneer, a blow; more pangs he feels in years or months than dunce-throng'd ages know." i have had such a curious experience. i have been confided in, twice in one day. two more bits out of other lives have been given to me, and it is astonishing to see how well they piece into mine. to begin with, rachel english came in early. there is something particularly auspicious about rachel. she fits me like a glove. she never jars nor grates. when she is here, i am comfortable; when she is gone, i miss something. if i see a fine painting, or hear magnificent music, i think of rachel before any other thought comes into my mind. one involuntarily associates her with anything wonderfully fine in art or literature, with the perfect assurance that she will be sympathetic and appreciative. she understands the deep, inarticulate emotions in the kindred way you have a right to expect of your lover, and which you are oftenest disappointed in, if you do expect it of him. if i were a man, i should be in love with rachel. her sensitiveness through every available channel makes her of no use to general society. blundering people tread on her; malicious ones tear her to pieces. rachel ought to be caged, and only approached by clever people who have brains enough to appreciate her. i should like to be her keeper. but her organization is too closely allied to that of genius to be happy, unless with certain environments which it is too good to believe will ever surround her. she is so clever that she is perfectly helpless. if you knew her, this would not be a paradox. possibly it isn't anyway. i do not say that rachel is perfect. she would be desperately uncomfortable as a friend if she were. her failings are those belonging to a frank, impulsive, generous nature, which i myself find it easy to forgive. her gravest fault is a witty tongue. that which many people would give years of their lives to possess is what she has shed the most tears over and which she most liberally detests in herself. she calls it her private demon, and says she knows that one of the devils, in the woman who was possessed of seven, was the devil of wit. wit is a weapon of defence, and was no more intended to be an attribute of woman than is a knowledge of fire-arms or a fondness for mice. a witty woman is an anomaly, fit only for literary circles and to be admired at a distance. it is of no use to advise rachel to curb her tongue. so tender-hearted that the sight of an animal in pain makes her faint; so humble-minded that she cannot bear to receive an apology, but, no matter what has been the offence, cuts it off short and hastens to accept it before it is uttered, with the generous assurance that she, too, has been to blame; yet she wounds cruelly, but unconsciously, with her tongue, which cleaves like a knife, and holds up your dearest, most private foibles on stilettos of wit for the public to mock at. not that she is personal in her allusions, but her thorough knowledge of the philosophy of human nature and the deep, secret springs of human action lead her to witty, satirical generalizations, which are so painfully true that each one of her hearers goes home hugging a personal affront, while poor rachel never dreams of lacerated feelings until she meets averted faces or hears a whisper of her heinous sin. this grieves her wofully, but leaves her with no mode of redress, for who dare offer balm to wounded vanity? i believe her when she says she "never wilfully planted a thorn in any human breast." she scarcely had entered before i saw that she had something on her mind. and it was not long before she began to confide, but in an impersonal way. there is something which makes you hold your breath before you enter the inner nature of some one who has extraordinary depth. you feel as if you were going to find something different and interesting, and possibly difficult or explosive. it is dark, too, yet you feel impelled to enter. it is like going into a cave. most people are afraid of rachel. sometimes i am. but it is the alluring, hysterical fear which makes a child say, "scare me again." imagine such a girl in love. rachel is in love. she would not say with whom--naturally. at least, naturally for rachel. i felt rather helpless, but as i knew that all she wanted was an intelligent sympathizer, not verbal assistance, i was willing to blunder a little. i knew she would speedily set me right. "you are too clever to marry," i said at a hazard. "that is one of the most popular of fallacies," she answered me crushingly. "why can't clever women marry, and make just as good wives as the others? why can't a woman bend her cleverness to see that her house is in order, and her dinners well cooked, and buttons sewed on, as well as to discuss new books and keep pace with her husband intellectually? do you suppose because i know greek that i cannot be in love? do you suppose because i went through higher mathematics that i never pressed a flower he gave me? do you imagine that biology kills blushing in a woman? do you think that philosophy keeps me from crying myself to sleep when i think he doesn't care for me, or growing idiotically glad when he tells me he does? what rubbish people write upon this subject! even pope proved that he was only a man when he said, "'love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, and venus sets ere mercury can rise.' "did you ever read such foolishness?" "often, my dear, often. but console yourself. a wiser than pope says, 'the learned eye is still the loving one.'" "browning, of course. i ought not to be surprised that the prince of poets should be clever enough to know that. it is from his own experience. 'who writes to himself, writes to an eternal public.' you see, ruth, men can't help looking at the question from the other side, because they form the other side. you might cram a woman's head with all the wisdom of the ages, and while it would frighten every man who came near her into hysterics, it wouldn't keep her from going down abjectly before some man who had sense enough to know that higher education does not rob a woman of her womanliness. depend upon it, ruth, when it does, she would have been unwomanly and masculine if she hadn't been able to read. and it is the man who marries a woman of brains who is going to get the most out of this life." "men don't want clever wives," i said feebly. "clever men don't. why is it that all the brightest men we know have selected girls who looked pretty and have coddled them? look at bronson and flossy. that man is lonesome, i tell you, ruth. he actually hungers and thirsts for his intellectual and moral affinity, and yet even he did not have the sense--the astuteness--to select a wife who would have stood at his side, instead of one who lay in a wad at his feet. oh, the bungling marriages that we see! i believe one reason is that like seldom marries like. for my part i do not believe in the marriage of opposites. look at robert browning and his wife. that is my ideal marriage. their art and brains were married, as well as their hands and hearts. it is pure music to think of it. and, to me, the most pathetic poem in the english language is browning's 'andrea del sarto.'" "isn't it strange to see the kind of men who love clever women like you? you never could have brought yourself to marry any of them, expecting to find them congenial. they would have admired you in dumb silence, until they grew tired of feeling your superiority; after that--what?" "the deluge, i suppose. ruth, i don't see how a woman with any self-respect can marry until she meets her master. that is high treason, isn't it? but it is one of those sentient bits of truth which we never mention in society. the man i marry must have a stronger will and a greater brain than i have, or i should rule him. i'll never marry until i find a man who knows more than i do. yet, as to these other men who have loved me--you know what a tender place a woman has in her heart for the men who have wanted to marry her. my intellect repudiated, but my heart cherishes them still. odd things, hearts. sometimes i wish we didn't have any when they ache so. i feel like disagreeing with all the poets to-day, because they will not say what i believe. do you remember this, from beaumont and fletcher, "'of all the paths that lead to woman's love pity's the straightest'? "men are fond of saying that, i notice, but i don't think we women bear out the truth. i couldn't love a man i pitied. i could love one i was proud of, or afraid of, but one i pitied? never. it is more true to say it of men. i believe plenty of girls obtain husbands by virtue of their weakness, their loneliness, their helplessness, their--anything which makes a man pity them. pleasant thought, isn't it, for a woman who loves her own sex and wishes it held its head up better! you may say that it is this sort who receive more of the attentions that women love, chivalry and tenderness and devotion. but if all or any of these were inspired by pity, i'd rather not have them. i would rather a man would be rough and brusque with me, if he loved me heroically, than to see him fling his coat in the mud for me to step on, because he pitied my weakness. do you know, ruth, i think men are a good deal more human than women. you can work them out by algebra (for they never have more than one unknown quantity, and in the woman problem there would be more _x_'s than anything else), and you can go by rules and get the answer. but nothing ever calculated or evolved can get the final answer to one woman--though they do say she is fond of the last word! we understand ourselves intuitively, and we understand men by study, yet we are made the receivers, not the givers; the chosen, not the choosers. it really is an absurd dispensation when you view it apart from sentiment, yet i, for one, would not have it changed. i should not mind being cupid for a while, though, and giving him a few ideas in the mating line. "i think women are often misjudged. men seem to think that all we want is to be loved. now, it isn't all that i want. if i had to choose between being loved by a man--_the_ man, let us say--and not loving him at all, or loving him very dearly and not being loved by him, i would choose the latter, for i think that more happiness comes from loving than from being loved." "why _don't_ you marry somebody?" i asked in an agony of entreaty, for fear all of this would be wasted on me, an old maid, rather than upon some man. she shook her head. "it needs a compelling, not a persuasive, power to win a woman. no man who takes me like this," closing her thumb and forefinger as if holding a butterfly, "can have me. the one who dares to take me like this," clenching her hand, "will get me. but he will not come." then i walked with her to the door, and she bent over me, and whispered something about my being a "blessed comfort" to her, and went away. ah, tabby, my dear, it is worth while being an old maid to be a blessed comfort to anybody. but i would just like to ask you, as a cat of intelligence, what in the world i did for her! imagine some man making that girl care for him so much. for, of course, it is somebody. a girl does not say such things about the abstract man. i was in an uplifted state of mind all day, as i am always after a talk with rachel, and when percival came in the evening, i felt that i could deluge him with my gathered sentiment, and he would be receptive. besides, percival has a positive genius for understanding. i did not know it, however, this morning. i seldom know as much in the morning as i do at night. percival approves of sentiment. he said once that a life which had principle and sentiment needed little else, for principle was to stand upon, and sentiment was to beautify with. he said this after i had told him rather apologetically that i wished there was more sentiment in the world, because i liked it. is it strange that i like percival? you can't help admiring people who approve of you. percival is a genius. people in general do not recognize this fact. he is an inarticulate genius. men feel that he is in some occult way different from them, yet they do not know just how. nor will they ever take the trouble to study out a problem in human nature, either in man or woman, unless they are philosophers. women care for percival in proportion to their intuitions. you must comprehend him synthetically. you cannot dissect him. with generous appreciation and sympathetic encouragement, percival's genius would become articulate. to discover it he must needs marry--but he must wait for the hundredth woman. this, of course, he will not do. if he can find a flossy, he will go down on his knees to her, when she ought to be on hers to him; metaphorical knees, in this case. i am very much afraid he has found her. he is in love. you can always tell when a man is in love, tabby, especially if he is not the lovering kind and has never been troubled in that way before. the best kind of love has to be so intuitive that it often is grandly, heroically awkward. depend upon it, tabby, a man who is dainty and pretty and unspeakably smooth when he makes love to you, has had altogether too much practice. percival knows that he is in love--that is one great step in the right direction. but he is in that first partly alarmed, partly curious frame of mind that a man would be in who touched his broken arm for the first time to see how much it hurt. whoever she is, he loves her deeply and thinks she never can care for him. he did not tell me this. if he thought that i knew it, he would wonder how in the world i found it out. women are born lovers. they have to do the bulk of the loving all through the world. i told percival so. at first he seemed surprised; then he said that it was true. i believe some men could go through life without loving anybody on earth. but the woman never lived who could do it. a woman must love something--even if she hasn't anything better to love than a pug-dog or herself. "why aren't women the choosers?" said percival seriously. the same question twice in one day, tabby. "whenever i think of understanding the question of love, i wish for a woman's intuitions. women know so much about it. they absorb the whole question at a glance. but, with so many different kinds of women, how is a man to know anything?" i always liked percival, but a woman never likes a man so well as when he acknowledges his helplessness in her particular line of knowledge, and throws himself on her mercy. mentally, i at once began to feel motherly towards percival, and clucked around him like an old hen. he went on to say that men often are not so blind that they cannot see the prejudices and complexities of a woman's nature, but they are not constituted to understand them by intuition as women understand men. "the masculine mind," he said, "is but ill-attuned to the subtle harmonies of the feminine heart." i was secretly very much pleased at this remark, but i made myself answer as became an old maid, just to make him continue without self-consciousness. if i had blushed and thanked him, he would have gone home. "they set these things down to the natural curiousness and contrariness of women, and often despise what they cannot comprehend." he answered me with the heightened consciousness and slight irritation of a man who has been in that fault, but has seen and mended it. "all men do not. still, how can they help it at times?" then, tabby, i went a-sailing. i launched out on my favorite theme. "men must needs study women. often the terror with which some men regard these--to us--perfectly transparent complexities, could be avoided if they would analyze the cause with but half the patience they display in the case of an ailing trotter. but no; either they edge carefully away from such dangers as they previously have experienced, or, if they blunder into new ones, they give the woman a sealskin and trust to time to heal the breach." i thought of the asburys when i said that. but percival ruminated upon it, as if it touched his own case. a very good thing about percival is that he does not think he knows everything. it encourages me to believe in his genius. to rouse him from a brown-study over this flossy girl, i said rather recklessly, "i should like to be a man for a while, in order to make love to two or three women. i would do it in a way which should not shock them with its coarseness or starve them with its poverty. as it is now, most women deny themselves the expression of the best part of their love, because they know it will be either a puzzle or a terror to their lovers." percival was vitally interested at once. "is that really so?" he asked. "do you suppose any of them withhold anything from such a fear?" his face was so uplifted that i plunged on, thoroughly in the dark, but, like barkis, "willin'." if i could be of use to him in an emergency, i was only too happy. "men never realize the height of the pedestal where women in love place them, nor do they know with how many perfections they are invested nor how religiously women keep themselves deceived on the subject. they cannot comprehend the succession of little shocks which is caused by the real man coming in contact with the ideal. and if they did understand, they would think that such mere trifles should not affect the genuine article of love, and that women simply should overlook foibles, and go on loving the damaged article just as blindly as before. but what man could view his favorite marble tumbling from its pedestal continually, and losing first a finger, then an arm, then a nose, and would go on setting it up each time, admiring and reverencing in the mutilated remains the perfect creation which first enraptured him? he wouldn't take the trouble to fill up the nicks and glue on the lost fingers as women do to their idols. he wouldn't even try to love it as he used to do. when it began to look too battered up, he would say, 'here, put this thing in the cellar and let's get it out of the way.'" percival listened with specific interest, and admitted its truth with a fair-mindedness surprising even in him. "do you suppose it is possible for a man ever to thoroughly understand a woman?" he asked, with a retrospective slowness, directed, i was sure, towards that empty-headed sweetheart of his. "i really do not know," i said honestly. "i think if he tried with all his might he could." "do you think--you know me better than any one else does--do you think _i_ could, if i gave my whole mind to it?" "you, if anybody." i answered him with the occasional absolute truthfulness which occurs between a man and a woman when they are completely lifted out of themselves. something more than mere pleasure shone in his eyes. it was as if i had reached his soul. "if no man ever has been all that a woman in love really believes him, the best a man could do would be to take care that she never found out her mistake," he said slowly. "exactly," i said; "you are getting on. it is only another way of making yourself live up to her ideal of you." "supposing after all, that the woman i love will have none of me," he said, unconsciously slipping from the third person to the first. "i wouldn't admit even the possibility if i were a man. i would besiege the fortress. i would sit on her front doorstep until she gave in. don't ask her to have you. tell her you are going to have her whether or no," i cried, thinking of rachel's words. he looked so encouraged that i am afraid i have sent him post-haste to the flossy girl, and gotten him into life-long trouble. but i had gone too far. i quite hurried, in my accidental endeavor to shipwreck him. "men do not understand these things, because they will not give time enough to them. real love-making requires the patience, the tenderness, the sympathy which women alone possess in the highest degree. possibly she loves you deeply, only you do not believe it. gauged by a woman's love, many men love, marry, and die, without even approximating the real grand passion themselves, or comprehending that which they have inspired, for no one but a woman can fathom a woman's love." i couldn't help going on after i started, for he was thinking of the other woman, and looking at me in a way that would have made my heart turn over, if i hadn't been an old maid, and known that his look was not for me. then he ground my rings into my hand until i nearly shrieked with the pain, and said, "god bless you!" very hoarsely, and dashed out of the house before i could pull myself together. _i_ say so too. god bless me, what have i done? i've sent him straight to that flossy girl. i feel it. i've smoothed out something between them. i have accidentally made him articulate, and articulation in such a man as percival is overpowering. he is a murdered man, and mine is the hand that slew him. tabby, old maids are a public nuisance, not to say dangerous. they ought to be suppressed. * * * * * i wonder if he will burst in upon her with that look upon his face! v the heart of a coquette "strange, that a film of smoke can blot a star!" he did. and the woman was--rachel. tabby, i never was better pleased with myself in my life. i love old maids. i think that whenever they are accidental they are perfectly lovely. but _what_ a risk i ran! i did not know a thing about it until i received their wedding-cards. it was just like rachel not to tell me, and it was insufferably stupid in me not to use the few wits i am possessed of, and see how matters stood. but my fears and tremors were that frankie taliaferro would get him, so i have watched her all this time. percival laughed almost scornfully when i told him this, and said i had been barking up the wrong tree. i retaliated by saying that if they had been ordinary lovers, i never could have made such a mistake, and they took it as a great compliment. when i consider the general run of engaged people, i am inclined to agree with them. everybody seems to think they are making an experiment of marriage, because they are so much alike. but, then, doesn't every one who marries at all, jew or gentile, black or white, bond or free, make an experiment? i myself have no fear as to how the percival experiment will turn out. rachel says that they are so similar in all their tastes and ideals that if she were a man she would be percival, and if he were a woman he would be rachel. "then you still would have a chance to marry each other," i said frivolously. but she assented with a depth of feeling which ignored my feeble attempt to be cheerful. "yet," she continued, "there is a subtle, alluring difference in our thoughts; just enough to add piquancy, not irritation, to a discussion. i do not love white, and he does not love black, as so many husbands and wives do. we both love gray; different tones of gray, but still gray. it is very restful." the percivals are not only restful to themselves, but to others. they used to be in the highly irritable, nervous state of those whose sensitive organisms are a little too fine for this world. i never objected to it myself, but i have said before that rachel was of no use to ordinary society, and percival was little better. when people failed to understand her, she retired into herself with a dignity which was mistaken for ill-temper. she is too refined and high-minded to defend herself against the "slings and arrows of outrageous" people, although if she would, she could exterminate them with her wit. and some could so easily be spared. it seems, too, that she is great enough to be a target, so she is under fire continually. this, while it causes her exquisite suffering, is from no fault of her own--save the unforgivable one of being original. "a frog spat at a glow-worm. 'why do you spit at me?' said the glow-worm. 'why do you shine so?' said the frog." and as to percival--the man i used to know was percival in embryo. he is maturing now, and is radiant in rachel's sympathetic comprehension of him. he refers to the time before he knew her as his "protoplasmic state," as indeed it was. but there are a good many of us who would be willing to remain protoplasm all our lives to possess a tithe of his genius--you and i among the number, tabby. you needn't look at me so reproachfully out of your old-gold eyes. you know you would. you have seen sallie cox, haven't you? then you know how it jarred my nerves to have her rush in upon me when my mind was full of the percivals. sallie has flirted joyously through life thus far, and has appeared to have about as little heart as any girl i ever knew. sallie is the _sauce piquante_ in one's life--absolutely necessary at times to make things taste at all, but a little of her goes a long way. at least so i thought until to-day. "i've got something to tell you, ruth," she said, "so come with me, and we will take a little drive before going to cooking-school." i went, knowing, of course, that she wanted to confide something about some of her lovers. "i am going to be married," she announced coldly. "it's payson osborne this time, and i'm really going to see the thing through. it's rather a joke on me, because it commenced this way. i was sick of lovers, and some of the last had been so unpleasant, not to say rude, when i threw them over, that i thought i would take a vacation. so when i met payson, i said, 'what do you say to a platonic friendship?' it sounds harmless, you know, ruth, and he, not knowing me at all, assented. if he had been a man who knew of my checkered career, he would have refused, suspecting, of course, that i was going to flirt with him under a new name. but, as i was serious this time, i knew it was all right. so we began. i suppose you know he is enormously rich, besides being so handsome, and there will not be a girl in town who won't say i raised heaven and earth to get him; but i don't mind telling you, ruth--because you are such an old dear, and never are bothered with lovers(!); besides, it will do me good to tell it, and i know you will never betray me--that i never cared for any man on earth except winston percival. you needn't jump, and look as though the house was on fire. it's the solemn truth, and i never dreamed that he cared for rachel until he married her. mind you, he never pretended to love me. it is every bit one-sided, and i don't care if it is. i am glad that a frivolous, shallow-minded, rattle-brained thing like me had sense enough to fall in love with the most glorious man that ever came into her life. i shouldn't have made him half as good a wife as rachel does--i really feel as if they were made for each other--but he would have made a woman of me. i'm honestly glad he is so happy, and things are much more suitable as they are, for payson is a thorough-going society man, and doesn't ask much in a wife or he wouldn't have me, and he doesn't expect much from a wife or he couldn't get me. "perhaps you don't know that a girl who makes a business of wearing scalps at her belt never stands a bit of a chance with a man she really loves, for she is afraid to practise on him the wiles which she knows from experience have been successful with scores of others, because she feels that he will see through them, and scorn her as she scorns herself in his presence. she loses her courage, she loses control of herself, and, being used to depend on 'business,' as actors say, to carry out her rôle successfully, she finds that she is only reading her lines, and reading them very badly too. if you could have seen me with percival, you would know what i mean. i was dull, uninteresting, poky--no more the sallie cox that other men know than i am you. he absorbed my personality. i didn't care for myself or how i appeared. i only wanted him to shine and be his natural, brilliant self. i never could have helped him in his work. the most i could have hoped to do would have been not to hinder him. i would have been the gainer--it would have been the act of a home missionary for him to marry me." she laughed drearily. "isn't it horribly immoral in me to sit here and talk in this way about a married man? it's a wonder it doesn't turn the color of the cushions. if you hear of my having the brougham relined, ruth, you will know why. ruth, i am so miserable at times it seems to me that i shall die. i'd love to cry this minute--cry just as hard as i could, and scream, and beat my head against something hard--how do you do, mrs. asbury?--but instead, i have to bow from the windows to people, and remember that i am supposed to be the complaisant bride-elect of the catch of the season. it is a judgment on me, ruth, to find that i have a heart, when i have always gone on the principle that nobody had any. yes--how-de-do, miss culpepper? excuse me a minute, ruth, while i hate that girl. what has she done to me? oh, nothing to speak of--she only had the bad taste to fall in love with the man i am going to marry. writes him notes all the time, making love to him, which he promptly shows to me--oh, we are not very honorable, or very upright, or very anything good in the osborne matrimonial arrangement. anybody but you would hate me for all this i've told you, but i know you are pitying me with all your soul, because you know the empty-headed sallie cox carries with her a very sore heart, and that it will take more than payson osborne has got to give to heal it. i call him pay sometimes, but he hates it. i only do it when i think how much he does pay for a very bad bargain. but he doesn't care, so why should i? "it really does seem odd, when i look back on it, to see how easy it was to get him, when all the time i was perfectly indifferent to him, and received his attentions on the platonic basis to keep him from making love to me. i really think i never had any one to care for me in so exactly the way i like, and to be so easy in his demands, and to think me so altogether perfect and charming, no matter what i do. it was because i was absolutely indifferent to him. i never cared when he came. i never cared when he went. other lovers fussed and quarrelled and were jealous and disagreeable when i flirted with other men, but payson never cared. he didn't tease me, you know. and whenever he said anything, i could look innocent and say, 'is that platonic friendship?' so he would have to subside. i know he thought some of my indifference was assumed, for when he told me about miss culpepper he thought i would be vexed. i _was_ vexed, but i had presence of mind not to show it. i only laughed and made no comment at all--asked him what time it was, i believe. then when he looked so disappointed and sulky, i knew i was right, and i patted sallie cox on the head for being so clever--so clever as not to care, chiefly. there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you cannot do with a man who loves you, if you don't care a speck for him. and the luxury of perfect indifference! emotions are awfully wearing, ruth. i wonder that these emotional women like rachel get on at all. i should think they would die of the strain. men are always deadly afraid of such women. i believe payson wouldn't stop running till he got to california if i should burst into tears and not be able to tell him instantly just exactly where my neuralgia had jumped to. no unknown waverings and quaverings of the heart for my good osborne. there goes alice asbury again. i am dying to tell you something. you know why she hates me, and understand why she treats me so abominably? well, asbury gave her the same engagement ring he gave me, and she doesn't know it. rich, isn't it? here we are at the cooking-school. i am so glad i can slam a carriage-door without being rude. it is such a relief to one's overcharged feelings." tabby, dear, if your head ever spun round and round at some of the confidences i have bestowed upon you, i can sympathize with you, for, as i went into that class, my feelings were so wrenched and twisted that i was as limp as cooked macaroni. you will excuse the simile, but that was one of the articles at cooking-school to-day, and when the teacher took it up on a fork, it did express my state of mind so exquisitely that i cannot forbear to use it. sallie cox! well, i am amazed. who would think that that bright, saucy, clever little flirt, who rides on the crest of the wave always, could have such a heart history? and percival of all men! i wonder what he would say if he knew. i don't know what to think about her marrying payson osborne. the last thing she whispered to me as we came out of cooking-school was, "don't be too sorry for me because i am going to marry him. believe me, it is the very best thing that could happen to me." i am very fond of the girl to-night. what a pity it is that everybody does not know her as she really is! no one understands her, and she has flirted so outrageously with most of the men that the girls' friendship for her is very hollow. a few, of whom alice asbury is one, dare to show this quite plainly, and of course sallie doesn't like it. she pretends not to care for women's friendship, but she does. she would love to be friendly with all the girls, but they remember the misery she has made them suffer, and won't have it. still, there is no doubt that she is marrying the man most of them want, so that again she triumphs. but, unless i am much mistaken, even as mrs. payson osborne it will take her a long time to recover her place with the women which she has lost by having so many of their sweethearts and brothers in love with her. ah, tabby, what a deal of secret misery there is in the world! everybody will envy sallie cox and think that she is the luckiest girl, and sallie will smile and pretend--for what other course is left to her, and who can blame women who pretend under such circumstances? perhaps there are reasons just as good for many other pretenders in this world. who knows? we would be gentler if we knew more. there will be other sore hearts besides sallie's at her wedding. i had heard before that miss culpepper was quite desperate over osborne, but, as she was a girl whom everybody thought a lady, i had no idea that she had gone so far as sallie says. osborne probably didn't object to being made love to. a man of his stamp would not be over-refined. strange, now, sallie does not love osborne herself, but she promptly hates every other girl who dares to do it. aren't girls queer? then there are a score of men who will gnash their teeth for sallie--so many men love these sallie coxes. frankie taliaferro, the kentucky beauty, who is staying with her this winter, tells me that sallie has had several dreadful scenes with discarded suitors--that one said he would forbid the banns, and another threatened to shoot himself if she really married osborne. i wonder how many marriages there really are where both are perfectly free to marry. i mean, no secret entanglements on either side, no other man wanting the bride, no girl bitterly jealous of her. i never heard of one--not among the people _i_ know, at least. oh, tabby, think of all the fusses people keep out of who promptly settle down at the appointed time and become peaceful old maids. how sensible we were, tabby, you and missis. but doesn't it seem to you that people marry from very mixed motives? i used to have an idea--when i was painfully young, of course--that they married because they were so fortunate as to fall in love with each other. are you quite sure that foolish notion is out of your head too? vi the lonely childhood of a clever child "is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood?... to be great is to be misunderstood." i have been away since early last summer, and consequently never had seen flossy's new baby until the newness had worn off, and it had arrived at the dignity of a backbone, and had left its wobbly period far behind. i am in mortal terror of a very little baby. it feels so much like a sponge, yet lacks the sponge's recuperative qualities. i am always afraid if i dent it the dents will stay in. you know they don't in a sponge. as soon as i came home, of course i went to see flossy's baby, and was very much disconcerted to discover that she had named it for me. i was afraid, i remember, that she would want to name the first girl for me, but she did not. she named her after rachel. i had an uncomfortable idea, however, that my name had been discussed and vetoed, by either flossy or bronson. but this time the baby is named ruth, and i found that it was all flossy's doing. i was irritated without knowing why. i didn't want anybody to know it though, and so i was vexed when bronson said to me, "i couldn't help it, ruth." there was no use in pretending not to understand. i could with some men, but not with bronson. he is too magnificently honest himself, and uplifts me by expecting me to be equally so. nevertheless i failed him in one particular, for i answered him in my loftiest manner, "i am not at all displeased. it is a great compliment, i am sure." there is nothing so uncivil at times as to be cuttingly polite. what i said wasn't so at all. but a woman is obliged to defend herself from a man who reads her like an open book. flossy does not like children, and poor little rachel never has had a life of roses. flossy says children are such a care and require so much attention. "rachel was all that i could attend to, and here all winter i have had another one on my hands to keep me at home, and make me lose sleep, and grow old before my time. i don't see why such burdens have to be put upon people. children are too thick in this world any way." she fretted on in this strain for some time, until bronson looked up and said, "don't, flossy. you don't mean what you say. do tell her the little thing is welcome." "i do mean what i say," answered flossy. then, as bronson left the room abruptly, flossy said, "and i was determined to name her after you. bronson didn't want me to. he said you wouldn't thank me for it, but i told him that rachel percival was quite delighted with her namesake." i hid my indignantly smarting eyes in the folds of the baby's dress, as i held her up before my face, and made her laugh at the flowers in my hat. flossy thought i was not listening to her with sufficient interest; so she got up and crossed the room with that little stumble of hers, which used to be so taking with the men when she was a girl, and took ruth away from me. there was a great contrast between the two children. rachel herrick is a shy child, with a delicate, refined face, lighted by wonderful gray eyes like bronson's. i do not understand her. she seems afraid of me, and i confess i am equally afraid of her. even rachel percival does not get on with her very well, although she has bravely tried. the child spends most of her time in the library, devouring all the books she can lay her hands on. little ruth is a round, soft, fluffy baby, all dimples and smiles and good-nature, willing to roll or crawl into anybody's lap or affections. a very good baby to exhibit, for strangers delight in her, and pet her just as people always have petted flossy. rachel stands mutely watching all such demonstrations, her pale face rigid with some emotion, and her eyes brilliant and hard. she is not a child one would dare take liberties with. no one ever pets her. flossy complains continually of her to visitors and to bronson, so that bronson has gotten into the way of reproving her mechanically whenever his eye rests upon her. her very presence, always silent, always inwardly critical, seems to irritate her parents. she was not doing a thing, but sitting sedately, with a heavy book on her lap, watching the baby, with that curious expression on her face; but flossy couldn't let her alone. "baby loves her mother, doesn't she? she is not like naughty sister rachel, who won't do anything but read, and never loves anybody but herself. sister says bad things to poor sick mamma, and mamma can't love her, can she? but mamma loves her pretty, sweet baby, so she does." rachel glanced at me with a hunted look in her eyes which wrung my heart. but, before i could think, she slid down and the big book fell with a crash to the floor. she ran towards the baby with a wicked look on her small face, and the baby leaped and held out its hands, but rachel clenched her teeth, and slapped the outstretched hand as she rushed past her and out of the room. poor little ruth looked at the red place on her hand a minute, then her lip quivered, and she began to cry pitifully. i instinctively looked to see flossy gather her up to comfort her. it is so easy to dry a child's tears with a little love. but she rang for the nurse and fretfully exclaimed, "isn't that just like her! i declare i can't see why a child of mine should have such a wicked temper. here, simpson, take this young nuisance and stop her crying. oh, poor little me! ruth, i'm thankful that you have no children to wear your life out." i dryly remarked that i too considered it rather a cause for gratitude, and came away. poor little rachel herrick! unlovely as her action was, i cannot help thinking that it was unpremeditated; that it was the unexpected result of some strong inward feeling. she looked like one who was justly indignant, and, considering what flossy had said, i felt that her anger was righteous. that her disposition is unfortunate cannot be denied. she seems already to be an ishmaelite, for whenever she speaks it is to fling out a remark so biting in its sarcasm, so bitter and satirical, that flossy is afraid of her, and bronson reproves her with unnecessary severity, because her offence is that of a grown person, which her childish stature mocks. other children both fear and hate her. they resent her cleverness. they like to use her wits to organize their plays, but they never include her, for she always wants to lead, feeling, doubtless, that she inherently possesses the qualities of a leader, and chafing, as a heroic soul must, under inferior management. flossy makes her go out to play regularly with them every day, but it is a pitiful sight, for she feels her unpopularity, and children are cruel to each other with the cruelty of vindictive dulness; so rachel, after standing about among them forlornly for a while, like a stray robin among a flock of little owls, comes creeping in alone, and sits down in the library with a book. she is the loneliest child i ever knew. if she cared, people would at least be sorry for her; but she seems to love no one, never seeks sympathy if she is hurt, repels all attempts to ease pain, and cures herself with her beloved books. i never saw any one kiss or offer to pet her, but they make a great fuss over the baby, and rachel watches them with glittering eyes. i thought once that it was jealousy, and, going up to her, laid my hand on her head, but she shook it off as if it had been a viper, and ran out of the room. i had grown very fond of my namesake, and used to go there when flossy was away, and sit in the nursery. the nurse told me once that mrs. herrick saw so little of the baby that it was afraid, and cried at the sight of her. i reproved her for speaking in that manner of her mistress, but she only tossed her head knowingly, and i dropped the subject. servants often are aware of more than we give them credit for. saturday before easter i stopped at flossy's, but she was not at home. i left some flowers for her, and asked to see the baby, but the nurse said she was asleep. easter morning i did not go to church, and rachel percival came early in the afternoon to see if i were ill. while she was here this note arrived by a messenger: "dear ruth,--i know you will grieve for me when i tell you that our baby went away from us quite suddenly this morning, while the easter bells were ringing so joyfully. they rang the knell of a mother's heart, for they rang my baby's spirit into paradise. "i feel, through my tears, that it is better so, for she will bind me closer to heaven when i think that she, in her purity, awaits me there. "hoping to see you very soon, i am "your loving flossy. "p.s.--bronson seems to feel the baby's death to a truly astonishing degree. f. h." i flung the note across to rachel, and, putting my head down on my two arms, i cried just as hard as i could cry. rachel read it, then tore it into twenty bits, and ground her heel into the fragments. "why, rachel percival! what is the matter?" "she wasn't even at home. she was at church. she must have been. she told me that bronson was afraid to have her leave the baby, and wouldn't come himself, but that she didn't think anything was the matter with it, and wouldn't be tied down. then such a note so soon afterwards! ruth, what is that woman made of?" we went together to flossy's. she came across the room to meet us, supported by bronson. she stumbled two or three times in the attempt. tears were running down bronson's face, and he wiped them away quite humbly, as if he did not mind our seeing them in the least. i could not bear to watch him, so i slipped out of the room and went upstairs. "in here, 'm," said the nurse; "and miss rachel is here too. she won't move that far from the cradle, and she hasn't shed a tear." ruth lay peacefully in her little lace crib, covered with violets, and beside her, rigid and white and tearless, stood rachel. i was almost afraid of the child as i looked at her. she turned her great eyes upon me dumbly, with so exactly bronson's expression in them that all at once i understood her. i knelt down beside her, and gathering her little tense frame all up in my arms, i began whispering to her. the tears rolled down her cheeks, and soon she was crying hysterically. bronson came bounding upstairs at the sound, but she seized me more tightly around the neck and held me chokingly. i motioned him back, and succeeded in carrying her away to a quiet place, where i sat down with her in my arms, and made love to her for hours. i never heard a more pitiful story than she told me, between strangling sobs, of her hungry life. the child has been yearning for affection all the time, but has unconsciously repelled it by her manner. she said nobody on earth loved her except the baby, and now the baby was dead. "there is no use of your trying to make things different," she said, "especially with mamma. she wouldn't care if i was dead too. but papa could understand, i think, if he would only try to love me. but i love you--oh! i love you so much that it hurts me. nobody ever came and hugged me up the way you did, in my whole life. you have made things over for me, and i'll love you for it till i die. why is it that everybody gives mamma and the baby so much love, when they never cared for it, and i care so much and never get a single bit? nobody understands me, and every one--every one calls me bad. i'm not bad. i love plenty of people who can't love me. i am not bad, i tell you!" she cried herself nearly sick, and then, exhausted, fell asleep, with her face pressed against mine. thus bronson found us. he offered to take her, and i put her into his arms. then i told him all that she had said, and asked him to hold her until she wakened, and give her some of the love her little heart was hungering for. he couldn't speak when i finished, and i went down, to find rachel bathing flossy's head with cologne, and looking worn and tired. percival came for rachel, and one could see that the mere sight of him rested her. she told him all about it, in her wonderfully comprehensive way, and he felt the whole thing, and we were all very quiet and peaceful and sad, as we drove home through the early darkness of that easter day. they left me at my door, and i went in alone, with the memory of that grieving household--the lonely father, and the selfish mother, and the unloved child--hallowed and made tender by the presence of the little dead baby, asleep under its weight of violets. i feel very much alone sometimes; but the percivals carry their world with them. vii a study in human geese "i am myself indifferent honest." i have just made two startling discoveries. one is that i am not honest myself, and the other is that i detest honesty in other people. to-day i was sitting peacefully in my room, harming nobody, when i saw little pet winterbotham drive up in her cart and come running up to the door. i supposed she had come with a message from her sister, and went down, thinking to be detained about ten minutes. it seems but a few years ago since pet was in the kindergarten. i was surprised to see that she wore her dresses very long, and that she looked almost grown up. "my dear pet," i exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "oh, miss ruth, i am in such a scrape," she answered me. "i hope you won't think it's queer that i came to you, but the fact is, i've watched you in church, and you always look as if you knew, and would help people if they would ask you to; so i thought i'd try you. "ever and ever so long ago, when i was a little bit of a thing, and played with other children, and you and sister grace went out together, i used to 'choose' you from all the other young ladies, because you wore such lovely hats, and always had on pearl-colored gloves. i suppose it is so long ago that you were a young lady and had beaux that you've forgotten it. but i know you used to have lovers, for i heard mrs. herrick and mrs. payson osborne talking about you once, and mrs. herrick said you seemed so tranquil and contented that she supposed you never had had any really good offers, or you would be all the time wishing you had taken one. and mrs. osborne spoke up in her quick way, and said, 'don't deceive yourself so comfortably, my dear flossy. i know positively that ruth has had several offers that you and i would have jumped at.' and then she turned away and laughed and laughed, although i didn't see anything so very funny in what she said, and neither did mrs. herrick. "i do think mrs. osborne is the loveliest person i know. she is my ideal young married woman. she always has a smile and a pretty word for every one, and young men like her better than they do the buds. why, your face is as red as fire. i hope i haven't said anything unpleasant. mamma says i blunder horribly, but she always is too busy to tell me how not to blunder. "now, i want to know which of these two men you would advise me to marry. i've got to take one, i suppose." "marry!" i exclaimed, so explosively that pet started. "why, child, how old are you?" "i'm nineteen," she said, in rather an injured tone, "and i've always made up my mind to marry young, if i got a good enough offer. i hate old maids. oh, excuse me. i don't mean you, of course. i wouldn't marry a clerk, you understand, just to be marrying. i'm not so silly. i have plenty of common-sense in other things, and i'm going to put some of it into the marriage question. don't you think i'm sensible?" "very," i answered; but i didn't, tabby. i thought she was a goose. "well now," proceeded my young caller, settling her ribbons with a pretty air of importance, and looking at me out of the most innocent eyes in the world, "my sister grace married brian beck because he had such a lot of money. but you know he is dissipated, and at first grace almost went distracted. then she made up her mind to let him go his own gait, and she has as good a time as she can on his money. his irish name brian is her thorn in the flesh, and he teases her nearly out of her wits about it. we have great fun on the yacht every summer. brian is awfully good to me, and invites nice men to take with us; still, much as i like brian as a brother-in-law, i shouldn't care to have a husband like him. now, i suppose you wonder why on earth i am telling you these things, and why i don't tell one of the girls i go with." "oh, no!" i exclaimed in protest. "of course. i see you think it wouldn't be safe. girls just can't help telling, to save their lives. sometimes they don't intend to, and then it's bad enough. but sometimes they do it just to be mean, and you can't help yourself. i have plenty of confidence in you though, and you don't look as if you'd be easily shocked. you look as though you could tell a good deal if you wanted to. you're an awfully comfortable sort of a person. now, let me tell you. i have two offers. one is from clinton frost, and the other is from jack whitehouse. you have seen me with mr. frost, haven't you? a dark, fierce, melancholy man, with black eyes and hair, and very distinguished looking. "i think he has a history. he throws out hints that way. he is gloomy with everybody but me, and brian will do nothing but joke with him. there is nothing mr. frost dislikes as much as to laugh or to see other people laugh. brian calls him 'pet's nightmare,' and threatens to give him ink to drink. "i believe mr. frost hates brian. he says the name of our yacht, _hittie magin_, is unspeakably vulgar. nothing pleases brian more than to force mr. frost or grace to tell strangers the name of it. their mere speaking the words throws brian into convulsions of laughter. then, if people comment on it, he tells them that the name is of his wife's selection, in deference to his irish family. and grace almost faints with mortification. mr. frost says he will give me a yacht twice as good as brian's. he adores me. he says i am the only thing in life which makes him smile." i felt that i could sympathize with mr. frost on this point. "then there's jack whitehouse, norris whitehouse's nephew. mr. norris whitehouse is a great friend of yours, isn't he? do you know, i never think of him as an 'eligible,' although he is a bachelor. i should as soon think of a king in that light. he impresses me more than any man i ever knew. don't you consider him odd? no? i do. he is so clever that you would be afraid of him, if it wasn't for his lovely manners, which make you feel as though what you are saying is just what he has been wanting to know, and he is so glad he has met some one who is able to tell him. actually he treats me with more respect than some of the young men do. he makes me feel as if i were a woman, and he had a right to expect something good of me. i never said that to anybody before, but i can talk to you and feel that you understand me. i like to feel that people think there is something to me, even if i know that it isn't much. mrs. asbury says that mr. whitehouse is the courtliest man she knows. you know the story of the whitehouse money, don't you? jack told it to me with tears in his eyes, and i don't wonder at it. you know jack's father and mother died when he was very young. norris was his father's favorite, and the old gentleman made a most unjust will, leaving only a life interest in the property to jack's father; then it all went to his favorite younger son, norris. now, you know what most men would do under the circumstances. they would acknowledge the injustice of the will, but they would keep the money. this proves to me what an unusual man mr. norris whitehouse is, for he immediately made over to his little nephew jack one half of the property--just what his father ought to have been able to leave him--and jack is to come into that when he is twenty-five. don't you think that was noble? jack worships him. he says no father could have been more devoted to an only son than his uncle norris has been to him. he travelled with him, and gave up years of his life to superintending jack's education. "now, whoever marries jack will really be at the head of that elegant house, for you know it hasn't had a mistress since jack's mother died, years ago. i should like that, although i do wish more of the expense was in furniture instead of in pictures and tapestries. but that is his uncle's taste. "poor jack talks so beautifully about his young mother, whom he can scarcely remember. he says his uncle has kept her alive to him. he is perfectly lovely with other fellows' mothers, and with mine. he treats them all, he says, as he should like to have had others treat his mother. of course it is only sentiment with him. if she had lived, he might have given her as much trouble as other boys give theirs. she must have been lovely. mamma says she was. but i'd just as soon not have any mother-in-law to tell me to wrap up, and wear rubbers if it looked like rain. you know there isn't a bit of sentiment in me. i'm practical. my father says if i had been a boy he would have taken me into business at fifteen. jack thinks i am all sentiment. he says nobody could have a face like mine and not possess an innate love of the beautiful in art and poetry and all that. i have forgotten just what he said about that part of it. but i know he meant to praise me. i didn't say anything in reply, but i smiled to myself at the idea of pet winterbotham being credited with fine sentiment. "jack is horribly young--only twenty-two--so he won't have his money for three years, and mr. frost is thirty-nine. jack has curly hair, and when he wears a white tennis suit and puts his cap on the back of his head and holds a cigarette in his hand, he looks as if he had just stepped out of one of the pictures in _life_. he looks so 'chappie.' he is a good deal easier to get along with than mr. frost, and will have more money some day, although mr. frost has enough. now, which would you take?" "why, my dear pet," i said in an unguarded moment, "which do you love?" i shrivelled visibly under the look of scorn she cast upon me. "i don't love either of them. i've had one love affair and i don't care for another until i make sure which man i'm going to marry." "can you fall in love to order?" i asked in dismay. "not exactly. 'to order!' why, no. anybody would think you were having boots made. but it's being with a man, and having him awfully good to you, and admiring everything you say, and having lots of good clothes, and not being in love with any other fellow, that makes you love a man. i'm sure from your manner that you like jack whitehouse the best, so i think i'll take him. you are awfully sweet, and not a bit like an old maid. i tell everybody so." "am i called an old maid?" i asked quickly. i could have bitten my tongue out for it afterwards. "oh, yes indeed, by all the younger set. you see you belonged to grace's set and they are all married. it makes you seem like a back number to us, but you don't look like an old maid. i suppose you can look back ages and ages and remember when you had lovers, can't you? or have you forgotten? i can't imagine you ever getting love-letters or flowers or any such things. i hope i haven't offended you. i am horribly honest, you know. i say just what i think, and you mustn't mind it. mamma says i am too truthful to be pleasant. but i like honesty myself, don't you?" and with that, tabby, she went away. how terrible the child is! now, pet is one of those persons who go about lacerating people and clothing their ignorance, or their insolence, in the garb of honesty. "i am honest," say they, "so you must not be offended, but is it true that your grandfather was hanged for being a pirate?" or, "i believe in being perfectly honest with people. how cross-eyed you are!" this is why honesty is so disreputable. when you say of a woman, "she is one of those honest, outspoken persons," it means that she will probably hurt your feelings, or insult you in your first interview with her. i don't like to admit it even to you, tabby, but i am horribly shaken up. after all these years of talking about myself to you as an old maid, and knowing that i am one, to hear myself called such, and to catch a glimpse of the way i appear to the oncoming generation, shakes me to the foundation of my being. soon _i_ shall be pushed to the wall, as something too worn out to be needed by bright young people. soon _i_ shall be one of the old people whom i have so dreaded all my life. dear tabby-cat! you can remember when missis received love-letters, can't you? they are not all in the japanned box, are they? do i seem old to you, kitty? why, there is actually a tear on your gray fur. dear me, what a silly old maid missis is! you see, after all, i have not been honest, even with myself. and, just between you and me, i will say that i abominate honesty in other people. there! viii a game of hearts "man proposes, but heaven disposes." tabby, did you ever hear me speak of charlie hardy? no, of course not. your mother must have been a kitten when i knew charlie the best. he is a nice boy. boy! what am i talking about? he is as old as i am. but he is the kind of man who always seems a boy, and everybody who has known him two days calls him charlie. rachel percival never thought much of him. she said he was weak, and weakness in a man is something rachel never excuses. she says it is trespassing on one of the special privileges of our sex. thus she disposed of charlie hardy. "look at his chin," said rachel; "could a man be strong with a chin like that?" "but he is so kind-hearted and easy to get along with," i urged. "very likely. he hasn't strength of mind to quarrel. he is unwilling, like most easy-going men, to inflict that kind of pain. but he could be as cruel as the grave in other ways. look at him. he always is in hot water about something, and never does as people expect him to do." "but he doesn't do wrong on purpose, and he makes charming excuses and apologies." "he ought to; he has had enough practice," answered rachel, with her beautiful smile. "he has what i call a conscience for surface things. he regards life from the wrong point of view, and, as to his always intending to do right--you know the place said to be paved with good intentions. no, no, ruth. charlie hardy is a dangerous man, because he is weak. through such men as he comes very bitter sorrow in this world." that conversation, tabby, took place, if not before you were created, at least in your early infancy--the time when your own weight threw you down if you tried to walk, and when ears and tail were the least of your make-up. all these years charlie has never married, but was always with the girls. he dropped with perfect composure from our set to sallie cox's--was her slave for two years, though sallie declares that she never was engaged to him. "what's the use of being engaged to a man that you can keep on hand without?" quoth sallie. but charlie bore no malice. "i didn't stand the ghost of a show with a girl like sallie, when she had such men as winston percival and those literary chaps around her. it was great sport to watch her with those men. you know what a little chatterbox she is. by jove! when that fellow percival began to talk, sallie never had a word to say for herself. it must have been awfully hard for her, but she certainly let him do all the talking, and just sat and listened, looking as sweet as a peach. oh! i never had any chance with sallie." nevertheless, he was usher at her wedding, then dropped peacefully to the next younger set, and now is going with girls of pet winterbotham's age. i thoroughly like the boy, but i can't imagine myself falling in love with him. if i were married to another man--an indiscreet thing for an old maid to say, tabby, but i only use it for illustration--i should not mind charlie hardy's dropping in for sunday dinner every week, if he wanted to. he never bothers. he never is in the way. he is as deft at buttoning a glove as he is amiable at playing cards. you always think of charlie hardy first if you are making up a theatre party. he serves equally well as groomsman or pall-bearer--although i do not speak from experience in either instance. he never is cross or sulky. he makes the best of everything, and i think men say that he is "an all-round good fellow." i depend a great deal upon other men's opinion of a man. i never thoroughly trust a man who is not a favorite with his own sex. i wish men were as generous to us in that respect, for a woman whom other women do not like is just as dangerous. and i never knew simple jealousy--the reason men urge against accepting our verdict--to be universal enough to condemn a woman. there always are a few fair-minded women in every community--just enough to be in the minority--to break continuous jealousy. be that as it may, the man i am talking about has kept up his acquaintance with rachel and alice asbury and me in a desultory way, and occasionally he grows confidential. the last time i saw him he said: "sometimes i wish i were a woman, ruth, when i get into so much trouble with the girls. women never seem to have any worry over love affairs. all they have to do is to lean back and let men wait on them until they see one that suits them. it is like ordering from a _menu_ card for them to select husbands. you run over a list for a girl--oysters, clams, or terrapin--and she takes terrapin. in the other case she runs over her own list--smith, jones, or robinson--and likewise takes the rarest. but she is not at all troubled about it. marrying is so easy for a girl. it comes natural to her." tabby, i did wish that he knew as much of the internal mechanism of the engagements that you and i have participated in, by proxy, as we do--if he would understand, profit by, and speedily forget the knowledge. but, like the hypocrite i am, i only smiled indulgently at him, as if, for women, marrying was mere reposing on eider-down cushions, with the tiller ropes in their hands, while men did the rowing. i was not going to admit, tabby, that the most of the girls we know never worked harder in their lives than during that indefinite and mysterious period known as "making up their minds." you see i uphold my own sex at all hazards--to men. he was standing up to go when he said that, but there was something about him which led me to suspect that he was in a condition when he needed some woman to straighten out his affairs. i made no reply, which threw the burden of continuing the conversation upon him. i was in that passive state which made me perfectly willing to have him say good-night and go home or stay and confess to me, just as he chose. i knew he needed me; a good many men need their mothers once in a while as much as they ever did when boys. there was something whimsically boyish about charlie as he leaned over the back of a tall chair and debated secretly whether or not he should confide in me. "why don't you ask me why i said that?" he said. "because i know without asking. you were induced to say it by what you have been thinking of all the evening. it sounded like a beginning, but really it was an ending." he looked as though he thought me a mind-reader, but i fancy the knack of divining when people need a confidant is preternaturally developed in old maids. "how good you are, ruth." "you men always think women are good when they understand you. but it isn't goodness." "no, you're right. it's more comfortable than goodness. it's odd how you do it. may i tell you about it? you won't think half as well of me as you do now, but it needs just such women as you to keep men straight, and if you will give me your opinion i vow i'll do as you say, even if it kills me." i was afraid from that desperate ending that it was something serious, and it was. he made several attempts before he could begin. finally he burst out with, "although you are the easiest person in the world to talk to, and i've known you always, it is pretty hard to lay this case before you so that you won't think me a conceited prig. that is because you are a woman and can't help looking at it from a woman's standpoint. for a good many reasons it would be easier to tell it to some man, who would know how it was himself; but you see i want a woman's conscience and a woman's judgment, because you can put yourself in another woman's place." he grew quite red as he talked, and i waited patiently for him to go on, but gave him no help. "well, here goes. if you hate me afterwards i can't help it. i had no idea it would be so hard to tell you or i shouldn't have attempted it. but since you have been sitting there looking at me i am beginning to think differently of it myself, and i'm sure that, with all your kindness, you will be very hard on me, and tell me to accept the hardest alternative. now, ruth, you'd better shake hands with me and say good-by while you like me, because you will think of me as another charlie hardy when i've finished." he actually held out his hand, but i folded mine together. "no," i said, smiling, "i shall not bid you good-by until i really am through with you. don't look so discouraged. come; possibly i may be a better friend to you than you think." "you are awfully good," he said again. i don't know when i have so impressed a man with my extraordinary goodness as i did by listening to charlie while he did all the talking. if i could have held my tongue another hour, he would have called me an angel. "well, although you may not know it, i am engaged to louise king. i always have been very fond of her, and when i found i couldn't get sallie, i was sure i cared as much for louise as i ever could care for anybody, and i was perfectly satisfied with her--thought she would make me an awfully good wife, and all that. but while miss taliaferro was up here visiting sallie, i was with her a good deal, and the first thing i knew we were dead in love with each other. you know we were both in sallie's wedding-party, and i tell you, ruth, to stand up at the altar with a girl he is already half in love with, plays the very deuce with a man. kentucky girls are all pretty, i suppose--everybody says so, and you have to make believe you think so whether you do or not; but this one--you know her? isn't she the prettiest thing you ever saw? well, of course she didn't know i was engaged, and i kept putting off telling her, until the first thing i knew i was letting her see how much i thought of her. i don't suppose it was at all difficult to see, but girls are keen on such subjects, and a man can't be in love with one more than a week before she knows more about it than he does. then, after she told me that she loved me, how could i tell her that, in spite of what i had said, i was engaged to another girl? wouldn't she have thought i was a rascal? no; i had to let her go home thinking that, if we were not already engaged, we should be some time, and i went part way with her, and--it was a mean trick to play, but the nonsensical things that unthinking people do precipitate affairs which perhaps without their means might never fully develop. brian beck heard that i was going a few miles with her, and he and sallie and payson came down to the train to see us off. just as we pulled out of the station, brian made the most frantic signs for me to open the window, and when i did so, he threw a tissue-paper package at me. frankie and i both made an effort to catch it. of course it burst when we touched it, and a good pound of rice was scattered all over us. you never saw such a sight. it flew in every direction; her hat and my hair were full of it. some went down my collar. of course everybody in the car roared and--well, i'm not done blushing at it yet. frankie took it much better than i, and only laughed at it. but i--i felt more like crying. i saw instantly how it complicated things. it was a nail driven into my coffin. "we had no more than settled down from that and were just having a good little talk, after the passengers had stopped looking at us, when the porter appeared, bringing a basket of white flowers with two turtle-doves suspended from the handle, and brian beck's card on it. i wish you could have heard the people laugh. i declare to you, ruth, when i saw that great white thing coming and knew what it meant, it looked as big as a billiard-table to me. i was going to pay the fellow to take it out again, but no--frankie wanted it. she made me put it down on the opposite seat and there it stood. those sickening birds were too much for me, so i jerked them off and threw them out of the window, conscious that my face was very red and that i was amusing more people than i had bargained for. "when the time came for me to get off and take the train back, frankie implored me to go on with her, urging how strange it would look to people, who all thought we were married, to see me disappear and have her go on alone. i railed at the idea, but she was in earnest, and when i told her positively that i couldn't--thinking more, i must admit, of the state of my affairs than of hers--she began to cry under her veil. that settled it. of course i couldn't stand it to see the girl i loved cry, so i went home with her, fell deeper in love every minute i was there, and came away feeling like a cur because i had not spoken to her father. her people met me in the cordial, honest manner of those who have faith in mankind, but i couldn't look them in the face without flinching. "since i came back, of course, i've been visiting louise as usual. i told her all about the rice and flowers, thinking that if she quarrelled with me about the affair she would break off the engagement. but she only laughed and said it served me right for flirting with every girl that came along, and didn't even reproach me. she has absolute faith in me. she doesn't believe i could sink so low as i have, any more than she could. she has idealized me until i don't dare to breathe for fear of destroying the illusion. she thinks that i love her in the way she loves me, but i couldn't. it isn't in me, ruth. i don't even love frankie that way. to tell the truth, louise is too good for me. she is magnificent, but i am rather afraid of her. she has so many ideals and is so intense. her faith in me makes me shiver. i am not a bit comfortable with her. i do not even understand how she can love me so much. i am nothing extraordinary, but if you knew the way she treats me, you would think i was achilles or some of those greek fellows. she has refused better and richer men than i. norris whitehouse has loved her all her life, and you know what a splendid man he is, but louise ridicules the idea of ever caring for anybody but me. she is so perfect that there is absolutely no flaw in her for me to recognize and feel friendly with. she reads me like a book, but i am less acquainted with her than i was before we were engaged. she says such beautiful things to me sometimes, things that are far beyond my comprehension, and she can get so uplifted that i feel as if i never had met her. there's no use in talking; after a girl falls in love with a man she often ceases to be the girl he courted." i recalled what i had said to percival--"often a woman denies herself the expression of the best part of her love, for fear that it will be either a puzzle or a terror to her lover." such a saying belonged to percival. i shouldn't think of repeating it to charlie, for he could not comprehend it. i should puzzle him as much as louise did. it made me heartsick. how could even charlie hardy so persistently misunderstand the grandeur of louise king? yet how could such a glorious girl imagine herself in love with nice, weak, agreeable charlie hardy? louise is a younger, handsomer, more impetuous, less clever edition of rachel percival; but she is of that order. she is less concentrated and more emotional than rachel. i did not quite know how a great sorrow would affect louise. rachel would use it as a stepping-stone towards heaven. i have seen a young, untried race-horse with small, pointed, restless ears; with delicate nostrils where the red blood showed; with full, soft eyes where fire flashed; with a satin skin so thin and glossy that even the lightest hand would cause it to quiver to the touch; where pride and fire and royal blood seemed to urge a trial of their powers; and i have thought: "you are capable of passing anything on the track and coming under the wire triumphant and victorious; or you might fulfil your prophecy equally well by falling dead in your first heat, with the red blood gushing from those thin nostrils. we can be sure of nothing until you are tried, but it is a quivering delight to look at you and to share your impatience and to wonder what you will do." occasionally i see women who affect me in the same way--idealists, capable of being wounded through their sensitiveness by things which we ordinary mortals accept philosophically; capable also of greater heights of happiness and lower depths of misery, but of suffering most through being misunderstood. to this class rachel and louise belong. rachel, in percival, has reached a haven where she rides at anchor, sheltered from such storms as had hitherto almost engulfed her, and growing more heroically beautiful in character day by day. poor louise is still at sea, with a great storm brewing. how hard, how terribly hard, to talk to charlie hardy about her, when, after the solemnity of an engagement tie between them, he was capable of misunderstanding, not only her, but the whole situation so blindly! but what a calamity it would be if louise should marry him! "go on, ruth. say something, do. i imagine all sorts of things while you just sit there looking at me so solemnly. i realize that i am in a tight place. i did hope that you could see some way out of it for me; but i know, by the way you act, that you think i ought to give up frankie--dear little girl!--and marry louise, and by jove! if you say it's the handsome thing to do, i'll do it." this still more effectually closed my lips. he so evidently thought that he was being heroic. he added rather reluctantly, "i must say that i suppose frankie taliaferro would get over it much more easily than louise could." "charlie," i said slowly, "you don't mean to be, but you are too conceited to live. i wonder that you haven't died of conceit before this." charlie's blond face flushed and he looked deeply offended. "conceited!" he burst out. "why, ruth, there isn't a fellow going who has a worse opinion of himself than i have. i don't see what either of those girls sees in me to love, i tell you. i am not proud of it. i wish to heaven they didn't love me. _i_ haven't made them." "'haven't made them'! yes, you have. you are just the kind of man who does. you say pretty things even to old women, and bring them shawls and put footstools under their feet with the air of a lover. and if you only hand a woman an ice you look unutterable things. you have a dozen girls at a time in that indefinite state when three words to any one of them would engage you to her, and she would think you had deliberately led up to it; whereas all the past had been idle admiration on your part, and it was a rose in her hair or a moment in the conservatory that upset you, and there you are. oh, these girls, these girls, who believe every time a man at a ball says he loves them that he means it! why can't you be satisfied to have some of them friends, and not all sweethearts?" "it can't be done. i've tried and i know. sallie tried it and it married her off--a thing not one of her flirtations could have accomplished. this is the way it goes. you arrange with a girl not to have any nonsense, but just to be good friends. you take her to the theatre, drive with her, dance with her. soon her chaperon begins to eye you over. fellows at the club drop a remark now and then. you explain that you are only friends, and they wink at you and you feel foolish. next time they see you with her, they look knowing, and you see, to your horror, that the girl is blushing. evidently she is under fire too. still, you keep it up. she makes a better comrade than any of the men. you feel that you are out of mischief when you are with her. she keeps you alert. you never are bored, but really you are not as fond of her as you were of your college chum even. she treats you a trifle, just a trifle, differently from all the other men. this goes to your head. you begin to make a little difference yourself. you take her hand when you say good-night, just as you would one of the men. but it is not the same. the girl has needles or electricity in her hand. you can't let go. you begin to feel that friendship, too, can be dangerous. next day you send her flowers, with some lines about the delights of friendship. she accepts both beautifully, but you have a guilty feeling that you did it to remind her. she does not seem to understand that there had been any necessity. still, you feel rather mean, and to make up for it you try to atone by your manner. she is looking perfectly lovely. she wears white. you particularly like white. she knows it. you think perhaps she wore it to please you. _how_ pretty she is! you lose your head a little and say something. she looks innocent and surprised. she 'thought we were just friends. surely,' she says, 'you have said so often enough. why change? friends are so much more comfortable.' she wants to 'stay a friend.' you are miserable at the idea, although that morning it was just what you wanted. you were even afraid she would think differently. what an ass a man can be! you fling discretion to the winds and tell her--you tell her--well, you go home engaged to her. that's how a friendship ends. bah!" "a realistic recital. from hearsay, of course! the next day the man wishes he were well out of it, i suppose?" "not quite so soon as that, but soon enough." "ah, i wish you knew, charlie hardy, how all this sounds even to such a good friend of yours as i am. it is such men as you who lower the standard of love and of men in general. do you suppose a girl who has had an encounter with you, and seen how trifling you are, can have her first beautiful faith to give to the truly grand hero when he comes? no; it has been bruised and beaten down by what you call 'a little flirtation,' and possibly her unwillingness to trust a second time may force her true lover into withdrawing his suit. how dare men and women trifle with the shekinah of their lives? and when it has been dulled by abuse, what a pitiful shekinah it appears to the one who approaches it reverently, confidently expecting it to be the uncontaminated holy of holies! it is this sort of thing which makes infidels about love." charlie began to look sulky, feeling, i suppose, that i was piling the sins of the universe on to his already burdened shoulders. "i dare say you are right, but what am i to do?" "there is only one thing for you to do, but i know you won't do it." "yes, i will. only try me," he said, brightening up. "you must go and tell louise that you are in love with frankie taliaferro." "tell louise? why, ruth, it would kill her. you don't know her. she wouldn't let me off. you don't know how a girl in love feels. ruth, were you ever in love?" "that is not a pertinent question," i said. "it comes quite near being the other thing. but let me tell you, charlie hardy, i know louise king, and it won't kill her. you know 'men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.' that might be said of women." (i didn't know, tabby, whether it might or might not. i couldn't afford to let him see my doubts, if i had any.) "we don't die as easily as you men seem to think." "but is this your view of what is right?" he asked. "i was sure you would counsel the other. i've been fortifying myself to give frankie up and marry louise, and, with all due respect to you, i must say that i think you are wrong here. you must remember that my honor is involved." "bother your honor!" i cried explosively. charlie seemed rather pleased than otherwise at my inelegance. "i am tired to death of hearing men fall back on nonsense about their honor. i notice they seldom feel called upon to refer to it unless they are involved in something disreputable." charlie straightened up at this and settled his coat with an indignant jerk. "i hardly think," he began stiffly, "that i am involved in anything disreputable in being engaged to miss king." "what are a man's debts of honor?" i went on with growing excitement. "gaming debts and things he would scarcely care to explain to the public at large. your honor is involved in this, is it? and you must save your honor at all hazards, no matter who goes to the wall in the process! i suppose if you made the rash vow that, if your horse won the race, you would cut your mother's head off, while you were still in the flush of victory, you would seize your bowie-knife and go to work! no? oh, yes, charlie. your honor, as you call it, is involved. i insist upon it. you must do it. oh, i am going too far, am i? not one step further than men go in the mire whither their honor leads them. debts of honor, indeed! debts of dishonor i call them. so do most women." "yes, but, ruth," interrupted charlie uneasily, "an engagement is different. i don't dispute what you say in regard to gambling debts--" "you can't," i murmured rebelliously. "--but a man can't, with any decency, ask a girl to release him when he has sought her out and asked her to marry him." "perhaps not with decency. but it is a place where this precious honor of yours might come into play. it would at least be honorable." "there isn't a man who would agree with you," he cried. "nor is there a woman who would agree with you," i retorted. but both of us stretched things a little at this point. he thought over the situation for a few minutes, then said, "you understand that, in my opinion, louise loves me the best." "the best--yes. for that very reason you must not marry her. o charlie! try to understand," i pleaded. "she must love the best when she loves at all. she has loved the best in you, until she has put it out of your reach ever to attain to it. it would not be fair to the girl, it would be robbing her, to accept all this beautiful love for you, and give her in return--your love for another girl. do you suppose for an instant that you could continue to deceive her after you were married? supposing she found out afterwards, then what? she might die of that. i cannot say. it would be enough to kill her. but not if you are honest and manly enough to tell her in time to save her self-respect. you are powerless to touch it now. you could kill it if you were married." "honest and manly enough to confess myself a rascal? i don't see where it would come in," he replied gloomily. "it is the nearest approach to it which lies in your power." "if the girls' places were only reversed now! i could tell frankie that i had been false to our engagement and had fallen in love with louise. she would know how it was herself. but louise couldn't comprehend such things. i believe she has been as true to me, even in thought, as if she had been my wife. how can i tell her?" "the more you say, the plainer you make it your duty. i say, how can you not tell her?" "i might go away for a year and not let her know and not write to her. then she would know without my having to tell her." "you wouldn't stand it if a man called you a coward. don't try my woman's friendship for you too far. you insult me by offering such a suggestion." "gently, gently, ruth. i beg your pardon." (rachel was right in saying he would not quarrel. i wished he would. i never wanted to quarrel so much in my life.) "i am a coward," he broke down at last. "i'll spare you the trouble of saying so. but oh, ruth, you don't know how i dread a scene! you go and tell her. i can't. i couldn't even write it." "how unselfish you are! spare yourself at all hazards, charlie, for of course it was not your fault that things got into such a state." "oh, ruth, don't!" "well, i won't. but do you realize how i should insult her if i went to her? it's bad enough for you, the man she loves, to tell her. from any one else it would be unforgivable. do as you like. you promised to follow my advice. take it and do as you will with it. but i will guarantee the result if you will do as i say. come, charlie. one hour, and it will all be over, and you can marry frankie." it was like getting him into a dentist's chair. i felt a wholesome self-contempt as i thus sugar-coated his pill, but he was so abject in his misery. charlie brightened up perceptibly at the alluring prospect. he shut his eyes to the dark path which led to happiness, and was revelling in its glory. "ruth, you dear thing! i don't see how i ever can thank you enough," he said, taking both my hands in his. "i ought to have stuck to you, that's what i ought to have done. you would have kept me straight. do you know, i used to be awfully in love with you. you really were my first love. i was about eighteen then. you don't look a day older, and you are just as sweet as ever." i laughed outright. "what did i tell you?" i cried. "you can't help making love to save your life. your gratitude is getting you into deeper water every minute. go home, do. run for your life, or you'll be engaged to me too. _then_ who'll help you out?" he acted upon my suggestion and went hastily. tabby, did you ever? he never was in love with me, never on this earth. whatever possessed him to say such a thing? he loses his head, that's what he does. i hope he won't meet any woman younger than his grandmother before he gets home, or he might propose to her. * * * * * my heart stands still when i think of louise king. ix the madonna of the quiet mind "it is not true that love makes all things easy, but it makes us choose what is difficult." across the street, in plain view from my window, has come to dwell a little brown wren of a woman with her five babies. the house, hitherto inconspicuous among its finer neighbors, at the advent of the mayo family suddenly bloomed into a home. the lawn blossomed with living flowers and the windows framed faces which shamed, in their dimpling loveliness, the painted cherubs on the wall. it was a delight to see nellie mayo in the midst of her children. hers were all babies, such dear, amiable, kissable babies, each of whom seemed personally anxious to prove to every one how much sweetness one small morsel of humanity could hold. but with five of them, bless me! the house was one glowing radiance of sunshine, in which the little mother lived and loved, until they absorbed each other's personality, and it was difficult to think of one without the others. sometimes in a street-car or on the elevated train i have seen women who i felt convinced had little babies at home. it is because of the peculiar look they wear, the rapturous mother-look, which has its home in the eyes during the most helpless period of babyhood--an indescribable look, in which dreams and prophecy and heaven are mingled. it is the sweetest look which can come to a woman's face, saying plainly, "oh, i have such a secret in my heart! would that every one knew its rapture with me!" it wears off sooner or later, but with nellie mayo, whether because there always was a baby, or because each was welcomed with such a world of love, the look remained until it seemed a part of her face. long ago we knew her as an unworldly girl, whose peachblow coloring gave to her face its chief beauty, although her plaintive blue eyes and smooth brown hair called forth a certain protective faith in her simplicity and goodness. sometimes girlhood is a mysterious chaos of traits, out of which no one can foretell what sort of cosmos will follow, or whether there will be a cosmos at all or only intelligent chaos to the end. but this girl seemed to carry her future in her face. she was a little mother to us all. it was a tribute to her gentleness and dignity that, although she was a poor girl among a bevy of rich ones, she was a favorite; unacknowledged perhaps, but still a favorite. she always stood ready with her unostentatious help. she was everybody's understudy. flossy carleton, as she was then, fastened herself like a leech upon nellie's capacity for aid, and was a likely subject for the exercise of nellie's swifter brain and willing feet; for to see any one's unspoken need was to her like a thrilling cry for help, and was the only thing which could completely draw her from her shy reserve. the chief reason she was popular was that she had a faculty of keeping herself in the shadow. you never knew where she was until you wanted her, when she would seem to rise out of the earth to your side. but, in spite of your intense gratitude at the moment, you really found yourself taking her as a matter of course. she was one of those who are fully appreciated only when they are dead, and who then call forth the bitterest remorse that we have not made them know in life how dear they were and how painfully necessary to our happiness. it is rather a sad commentary upon those same girls, who accepted nellie's assistance most readily, to record that, when they were launched into society and were deep in the mysteries of full-fledged young-ladyhood, little nellie maddox was seldom invited to their most fashionable gatherings, but came in, at first, before their memory grew too rusty, for the simpler luncheons and teas. this is not a history of intentional or systematic neglect, but a mere statement of the way things drifted along. not one of the girls would wilfully have omitted her, if she had been in the habit of being asked; but it was easy to let her name slip when all the rest did it, and so gradually it came to pass that we seldom saw her. then she married frank mayo, who would not be offended if he heard a newsboy refer to him as "a gent," or a maid-servant describe him as "a pretty man." of such a one it is scarcely necessary to add that he was selfish, inordinately conceited, and, to complete the description, a trifle vulgar. he never suspected his wife's cleverness nor appreciated her worship. it almost made me doubt her cleverness to see how she idolized him, but this instance went far towards proving that love, with some women, is entirely an affair of the heart. it irritates rachel to hear any one say so. she says it argues ignorance of a nice distinction in terms, and that when the brain is not concerned it should be called by a baser name. i doubt if she could have brought herself to say so if she had been looking into nellie mayo's blue eyes, which looked tired and a little less blue than as i remembered them. they had pathetic purple shadows under them, which told of sleepless nights with the babies, and there were fine lines around her mouth; but her light-brown hair was as smooth and her dress as plain and neat as ever. it was like watching a nest of birds. i felt my own love expand to see the wealth of affection nellie had for her precious family. her unselfish zeal never flagged. she flitted from one want to another as naturally as she breathed and with as little consciousness of the process. her household machinery ran no more smoothly than many another's, but nellie met and surmounted all obstacles with an unruffled brow. her outward calm was the result of some great inward peace. she simply had developed naturally from the girl we had known before we grew up and went away to be "finished by travel." nothing could go so wrongly, no nerves throb so pitilessly, that they prevented her meeting her husband with the smile reserved for him alone. none of the babies could call it forth. when he came home tired, nellie fluttered around him making him comfortable, as if life held for her no sweeter task. being a woman myself, and having no husband to wait upon until it became natural, i used to feel somewhat vexed that he never served her, instead of receiving the best of everything so complacently. he never seemed to realize that she might be tired or needed a change of routine. that household revolved around him. of course it was partly nellie's fault that he had fallen into the habit of receiving everything and making no return. fallen into it? no. with that kind of a man, an only son, and considered by the undiscriminating to be good-looking, his wife had only to take up his mother's unfinished work of spoiling him. it is true that these unselfish women inculcate a system of selfishness in their families which often works their ruin. they rob the children of their rightful virtue of self-sacrifice. so nellie idolized her husband. he was her king, and the king could do no wrong. she taught the babies a sweet system of idolatry, which so far had been harmless. he cared very little for children; so, when yearning to express their love for the hero of all their mother's stories, with their little hearts almost bursting with affection, their love was most frequently tested by being obliged to keep away from their idol in order "not to bother him" with their kisses. fortunately these same withheld kisses were dear to nellie, and she never was too busy to accept and return them. thus they never knew how busy she was. she was sure to be about some sweet task for others. if she ever rested, it was with the cosiest corner occupied by somebody else. i wonder what will happen when, in heaven, one of these selfless mothers is led in triumph to a solid gold throne, all lined with eider-down cushions, where she can take the rest she never had on earth. won't she stagger back against the glittering walls of the new jerusalem and say, "not for me. not for me. surely it must be for my husband?" but there, where places are appointed, she will not be allowed to give it up--which may make her miserable even in heaven. ah me, these mothers! it brings tears to my eyes to think of their unending love, which wraps around and shelters and broods over every one, whose helplessness clings to their help, whose need depends upon their exhaustless supply. theirs it is to bear the invisible but princely crest, "ich dien." nellie had no time for literary classes. her music, of which we used to predict great things, had resolved itself into lullabies and kindergarten ditties for the children. she seldom found an opportunity to visit even me. so it was i who went there and saw how her life was literally bound by the four walls of that little brown house; yet i never felt any inclination to pity her, because she was so contented. i knew of others who seemed happier--that is, the word seemed to describe them better--but none of them possessed nellie mayo's placid content. still, i did not like her husband. he was not of nellie's fine fibre. he was dull, while she was delightfully clever. his eyes were rather good, but he had a way of throwing expressive glances at me, as he talked upon trifling subjects, which disgusted me. i reluctantly made up my mind that he considered himself a "lady-killer," but i felt outraged that he should waste his ammunition upon me. i tried to be amused by it, when i found indignation was useless with him. i used to call him "simon tappertit" to myself, until i once forgot and referred to him as "simon" before nellie, when i gave up being amused and let it bore me naturally. i always had treated him with unusual consideration for nellie's sake, and even had tried genuinely to admire him because it gave her such pleasure; but when i discovered that the jackanapes took it as an evidence that he was progressing in my esteem, i did not know whether to laugh or cry with vexation. all at once, without any explanation or preface, sallie began calling upon mrs. mayo and sending her flowers from her conservatories. often when sallie came to see me her coachman had orders to be at mrs. mayo's disposal, to take the children for a drive, while sallie and i sat and talked about everything except why she had embarked upon this venture. i was sure there was something in it which must be kept out of sight, because sallie never would talk about them. i noticed that whenever frank was away from home--which grew more and more frequent--an invitation was sure to come for the mayos from sallie. but nellie never accepted without him, whether from pride or timidity i could not then determine, and all sallie's efforts to persuade her were unavailing. it was such an unusual proceeding in mrs. payson osborne to seek out any one that it excited my wonder. but she was not to be balked by anything; moreover, i had great faith in her motives, which were sound and good, even if her plans of carrying them out inclined to the frivolous. but all at once her frivolity seemed to reach a climax. she issued invitations for a lawn fête, to be followed by a very private, very select dinner, after which came the cotillon. she had decorators from new york, and otherwise ordered the most extravagant setting for her entertainment. this might not seem unusual to every one, but with us, who are accustomed to extracting our enjoyment from one party at a time, this seemed rather a superb affair. pet winterbotham was almost wild with delight. "only think," she cried, "she has asked jack and me to lead the cotillon! isn't that sweet of her? oh, i do think she is the dearest thing! though i must say i'd rather have been asked to the dinner. that's going to be perfectly elegant. i heard it was to be given for somebody, but i don't know who it could be. it might be for frankie taliaferro. mrs. osborne has asked her to come up for it." pet's remarks rushed on until i soon found myself carried along the tide of her enthusiasm, which she assured me was shared by every girl in town. i shall not attempt to describe sallie's success. the weather, the people, fortune itself, was in her favor, and the whole afternoon was admirable. i confess, however, that it was with some slight curiosity that i awaited the dinner. sallie's cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with an unusual brilliancy as she greeted us, but the proverbial feather would have felled any one of her guests when payson offered his arm to mrs. frank mayo, who rose out of a shadowy corner in a high-throated gown and led us to the dining-room. i caught sallie's eye as she laid her hand on frank mayo's arm, and she gave me a comical look, half imploring, half defiant. i was guilty of wondering if sallie had been demented when she planned that dinner-table, for this is the way we found ourselves: next to frank mayo came alice asbury, encased in freezing dignity. brian beck, at his worst, supported her on the other hand. after brian were louise king and charlie hardy, both looking to my practised eyes exceedingly stiff and uncomfortable. i had no time to wonder if the blow had fallen, in casting a glance at the other guests. nellie mayo was admirably situated between charlie hardy and payson osborne, both of whom were deference itself to her. the difference in her simple attire from the full dress all around her in no wise disturbed her unworldly spirit. she looked with quiet admiration at the handsome shoulders of louise and rachel, evidently never dreaming that the babies' mother might be expected to follow their example in dress. [illustration: seating plan.] grace beck, sitting by norris whitehouse, would have an excellent opportunity of cementing or breaking off the prospective match, which as yet was unannounced, between her sister and his nephew. rachel would be polite, but not wildly entertaining, to asbury; but he could count on me to be decent to him, while i snatched crumbs of intellectual comfort from percival on my other hand. but sallie had placed the funereal clinton frost between that rattle-pated frankie taliaferro and her lively self, probably with the laudable intention of seeing whether his face would be permanently disfigured by a smile. nor was the poor wretch out of brian beck's reach, but was made the objective point of brian's liveliest sallies, the hero of his most piquant and impossible stories, which convulsed us until i felt sure that the irritated mr. frost must cherish a secret but lively desire to punch his head. possibly brian was the only one who thoroughly enjoyed himself at that ill-starred dinner, for he is keen on the scent of a precarious situation which is liable to involve everybody in total collapse. in this instance he seemed to snuff the battle from afar and stirred up all the slumbering elements of discord with unctuous satisfaction; and if it had not been for the wicked twinkle in his irish blue eyes, which none of his victims could withstand, it might have resulted seriously. he gayly rallied charlie hardy on his flirtations; predicted seeing him yet brought up with a round turn in a breach-of-promise case; seemed highly edified by frankie taliaferro's efforts to appear unconcerned at these pleasantries; railed openly at clinton frost's being so unresponsive to the general mirth around him; shivered visibly at that gentleman's icy retorts; playfully called attention to his wife's endeavors to frown him into silence; and, in spite of sallie's angry glances, really saved her dinner from proving a dismal failure. indeed, the cases were too real, and too much genuine misery was concealed behind impassive faces, not to prove a dangerous situation, the tension of which was relieved by brian's extravagant nonsense. percival and norris whitehouse were sincerely amused by the wit in which brian clothed his droll remarks. but the greatest misfortune of the dinner-giver was realized in frank mayo, the man who thinks he can tell a good story. the mayos were so new to all of us that this peculiarity was not suspected until brian discovered it and dragged it forth. he persuaded frank to talk, listened with absorbing interest to the flattest tales, encouraged him if he flagged, and laughed until the tears came if he by chance forgot or slurred a point. however, no one seemed to think that there was anything seriously amiss except sallie, who is a human barometer when she has guests. she knows by instinct when they are or are not being entertained. nor was her tact at fault in seating the people, for i was the only one laden with almost unbearable knowledge, and i fell asleep that night thinking that possibly the situation was not so unusual as it appeared to me. i dare say plenty of dinners are given with just as many unsuspected trap-doors to sensationalism. x the pathos of faith "to him who is shod the whole world is covered with leather." the next afternoon i was resting and thinking over the brilliancy of the payson osborne entertainment, when sallie came in, dressed from head to foot in black. there was not a suspicion of white at wrist or throat. i was too startled to ask a question until her burst of laughter relieved me. "you poor thing!" she cried, "did i frighten you? but i _am_ in mourning; yes, truly, for my dinner-party. ruth, ruth, what was the matter with it?" "why, nothing. it was exquisitely served, and oh, sallie, your lawn fête and the cotillon were beautiful. they were perfect. truly, you do give the most successful entertainments in town." "certainly--why shouldn't i," said sallie sharply, "when i have never done anything, _anything_ all my life but go to parties and study how to give them? oh, ruth, dear, i do get so tired of it all. but," taking on a brisker tone, "all the more reason why i should never give such a sad affair as that dinner. that dinner, ruth, was what brian beck calls a howling failure. payson never criticises anything that i do, but even he came to me quite gingerly this morning, after i had read what the papers had to say about it, and said, 'my dear child, what was the matter with your tea-party?' now, let us admit the success of the other two, and weep a little in a friendly way over the 'tea-party.'" "i had a lovely time--" i began, but sallie interrupted me. "hypocrite!" she cried vehemently. "you know you didn't. your eyes were as big as turkey platters with apprehension." "my dear sallie," i expostulated. "don't you dare put on airs with me, then," she said mutinously. "now, what ailed them all? it couldn't have been the advent of the mayos. i've launched more ticklish craft than they. nor could it have been that abominable brian beck, who would spoil paradise and be the utter ruin of a respectable funeral. every one seemed to conspire to make my dinner a failure." "oh, sallie, i think percival especially exerted himself. he was in his most exquisite mood." "oh, percival, of course. he must have suspected that something was going wrong. did you ever notice, when he talks, how rachel turns her head away? but you can see the color creep up into her face. she is too proud and shy to let people see how much she cares for him. but when _she_ speaks percival looks at her with all his eyes, and positively leans forward so that he shall not miss a word. i love to watch those two. sometimes when i have been with them i feel as if i had been to church." "then, too, payson's manner to nellie mayo was the most chivalric thing i ever saw. he treated her as if the best in the land were not too good for her." "nor is it," said sallie warmly. "i'm glad you think so. what a sweet, unworldly spirit she has! almost any woman would have been distressed because of her gown; but she was so superior to her dress, with that uplifted face of hers, that i felt ashamed to think of it myself. you gave her a rare pleasure last night, for she never meets clever men and women. the percivals and mr. whitehouse delighted her, and you saw how well she sustained her part of the conversation. you see she thinks, if she doesn't have time to study. she was particularly fortunate in having payson to take her out, for he has a faculty of putting people at their ease. do you know, sallie, payson osborne has come out wonderfully since you married him. he is more thoughtful, more considerate, and his manners always have been _so_ good. i declare, last night i caught him looking at you in a way which made me quite fond of him." "i'm fond of him myself," said sallie candidly. "he undoubtedly is a dear old thing, and he is tremendously good to me. by the way, did you notice how red frankie taliaferro's eyes were last night? she had the toothache, poor girl. it came on quite suddenly just before dinner, and it alarmed me for fear she couldn't appear. just before dinner i was naming over the way the people were to go in, and i said that i had to put engaged people together and separate husbands and wives, after the manner of real life, and payson asked if i was sure louise king and charlie hardy were engaged, and i said yes, although it never had been announced, and just then frankie burst into tears. it was a suspicious time for crying, especially as that egregious flirt had paid her a great deal of attention; but frankie would tell _me_, i am sure, and then she really had been to the dentist's that morning. so i gave her something for it which she said cured it. i was so vexed at her for making her eyes red, for her blue dress brought it out. if she had been crying over the other, she might have spared her tears, for i don't believe charlie and louise are engaged. i think they have quarrelled, for when charlie offered his arm to louise, she looked up with that way she has of throwing her head back, and i declare to you, ruth, i saw, i positively saw, forked lightnings shoot from her eyes. they blazed so i was afraid they would set his tie on fire. as for charlie, he turned first green, then magenta, then a rich and lively purple. i give you my word they did not speak to each other during that dinner, nor would louise stay to the cotillon. charlie danced it with frankie. nice state of affairs, isn't it?" i felt myself grow weak. but sallie proceeded gayly: "then you know how hard i have tried to propitiate those miserable asburys. i declare, i think alice might meet me half way. perhaps she didn't like being seated between frank mayo and brian beck, but both she and that awful frost man sat as stiff and unsmiling as if they had swallowed curtain-poles by the dozen." sallie does not mind an extra word or two to strengthen a simile. i tried to imagine alice and mr. frost gulping down the articles sallie mentioned, but mine was no match for sallie's nimble fancy and i gave it up. "i do hope that pet winterbotham will not marry that man. i should as soon see her led to the altar by a satin-lined casket. i had to invite him when i found that frankie could come. wasn't brian beck dreadful, and didn't you think you would go to sleep under frank mayo's stories? and didn't grace beck's airs with mr. whitehouse amuse you? oh, she will hold that head of hers so high if pet marries jack. how bored asbury looked, didn't he? so selfish of him not to pretend to be pleased. even rachel vexed me by not being nicer to asbury. i declare, ruth, i was so irritated at the queer way every one acted, i felt as if it would be a relief to make faces at them, instead of beaming on them the hospitable beam of a hostess. i wonder how they would have liked it." "they might have considered it rather unconventional perhaps." sallie smiled absent-mindedly, pressed her hand to her flushed cheek, looked over towards the mayo house, and then, meeting my inquiring glance, dropped her eyes in confusion. "well," i said tentatively. sallie leaned back in her chair, put her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. "i wonder," she said dreamily, "why i ever attempt to do things. why can't people let me alone, and why don't i let them alone? most of all, why do i ever try to keep a secret?" i knew then that she had been rattling on because her mind was full of something else. i don't believe she knew half that she had said. presently to my surprise i saw a tear steal down her cheek. "o sallie!" i exclaimed, now really worried, "what is it?" "i'll tell you, ruth, for you are the only one who seems really to know and love that dear little nellie mayo and those blessed babies. ruth, there is a damocles sword hanging over that nest of birds, and it is liable to fall at any moment. oh, it has weighed on my heart like lead ever since i discovered the secret. i know you don't like frank mayo, but you will despise him when i tell you the mischief he is up to, and that poor little wife of his trusting him as if he were an archangel. oh, he is common, ruth, and horrid, and if it is ever found out it will kill nellie. but he is carrying on dreadfully with a soubrette in new york. he is wasting his money on her--and you know he has none to spare--and seems to be infatuated with her; while she, of course, is only using him to advertise herself. in fact, that is how i found it out. payson is in a syndicate which is trying to buy one of those up-town theatres in new york and turn it into something else; i forget just what they want to do with it, but any way, he came in contact with the manager of the theatre where this woman was playing. he gave them a dinner and afterwards they occupied his box, and while this woman was on the stage her manager told how some man was causing nightly sensations by the flowers he sent her, and he said that he--her manager--thought he would have it written up for the papers to advertise her before she started out on her tour. he said the man was making a fool of himself, but the actress didn't care, and when he pointed out the fellow to them, payson saw to his horror that it was frank mayo. he didn't say a word before the other gentlemen, but the next day he went to the manager and begged him to advertise the woman in some other way. he told him who frank was and all about his poor little wife and the children, and the manager, who seems to be a good hearted man, said it was a shame and promised not to allow it. he even went so far as to offer to speak to the actress herself and request her to refuse to be interviewed on the subject. so payson came home quite relieved. but the next time he saw the manager payson asked him how things were going, and he said worse than ever as far as frank himself was concerned, and he added that when he mentioned the subject to the actress she tossed her head and said mayo must take care of himself. "then i thought i would do what i could to introduce him into society here, for you know he is ambitious in that line, and perhaps i might get him away from the creature. so i gave that whole thing yesterday for the mayo family, with what result you know, except that i haven't told you that the presumptuous dolt made love mawkishly to me all the evening. yes, actually! did you ever hear of such impertinence? oh, the man is simply insufferable, ruth. "now, what i am constantly afraid of is that it will get into the papers after all. i read them, i fairly study them, so that it shall not escape me; but, if it does come out, what shall we do for nellie? it will break her heart." i looked at sallie with gnawing conscience that i had ever called her lawn fête the climax of frivolity. the dear little soul! who would have suspected that she had such a worthy motive for her ball? but, do you know, sometimes in fashionable life we catch a glimpse of the simple-minded, homely kindliness which we are taught to believe exists only among horny-handed farmers, rough miners, and hardy mountaineers. "sallie, dear child," i said, "i beg your pardon for not knowing how noble you are." "noble? i? sallie cox? now, nobody except payson ever hinted at such a thing, and i hushed him up instantly. no, ruth, it was nothing. i dare say rachel or you would have thought of some grand project which would have been effectual, but _i_ couldn't think of anything to do but to tickle his vanity by making him the guest of honor at the best affair of the season." "indeed, i think neither rachel nor i could have thought of anything so sure to captivate a shallow mortal like frank mayo." "set a thief to catch a thief," said sallie merrily. "i'm shallow myself, _i_ knew how it would feel to have such a fine thing given for me. my dear, if the ball were only fine enough it would cure a broken heart." "not if the heart were really broken, sallie." "well, you must admit that it would help _some_," she said whimsically. and so she went away and left the burden upon me. then i, too, fell to devouring the papers, as i knew sallie was doing with me. i went more than ever to the little brown house which lay in such peril, and i never saw nellie with a paper in her hand that i did not shudder. at last the thing we so dreaded came to pass. in the evening paper there was quite a sensational account of it. thank heaven, no name was given; but alas, the description of him, of his wife and five little children, was unmistakable. i felt as though i had sat still and watched a cat kill a bird. it was raining, not hard, but drearily, and the dead leaves fluttered against the windows as the chill wind blew them from where they clung. i was lonesome, and the autumn evening intensified my feelings. i glanced over to where a red glow came from nellie's windows. i fancied her sitting there with the paper in her hand, as she always did in the one spare moment of her busy day, with her heart crushed by the news. she would be alone, too, for frank was out of town. poor child! poor child! i started up and decided to go and see her. if she didn't want me i could come back, but what if she did want me and i was not there? i found her sitting, as i had expected, alone. the paper, with the fatal page uppermost, lay in her lap, as if she had read it and laid it down. there was only the firelight in the room. "come in, dear," she said gladly. "i was just thinking of you and wondering if such weather did not make you blue. sit down here by the fire. it was sweet of you to come in the rain." she searched my distressed face anxiously as she spoke. i made no reply. my heart was too full at being comforted when i had come to comfort. as i sat on a low stool at her side she seemed to divine my mood, for she drew my head against her knee with a mother touch, and threaded my hair with a mother hand, and pressed down my eyelids as i have seen her do when she puts her baby to sleep. and though she must have felt the tears come, she did not appear to know. "dear ruth," she said, "i have been sitting here thinking about you, and wondering if you were satisfied, such a loving heart as you have, to face the rest of your life without the love you deserve. you won't be vexed with me for speaking of it to you, for you know i am so old-fashioned that i think love is the only thing in this world worth having. it is all that i live for. of course my children love me, but, until they grow older, theirs is only an instinctive love. it isn't like the love of a husband, which singles you out of all the other countless women in the world to be his and only his forever. there is power enough in that thought to nerve the weakest woman to do a giant's task. the mere fact that you are all in all, the _only_ woman, to the man you so dearly love, the one person who can make his world; when you think that your being away from one meal or out of the house when he comes in will make him miss you till his heart aches--this will keep down a moan of pain when it is almost beyond bearing, for fear it might cause him to suffer with you; it will nerve you to stand up and smile into his eyes when you are ready to drop with exhaustion. love, such as a husband's love for his wife, is the most precious, the most supporting thing a woman can have. you never hear me talk much about my husband, but he is all this and more to me. i cannot begin to tell you about it. i read about unhappy marriages--why, i read a dreadful thing to-night in the paper, which set me to thinking how safe and happy i am, and how thankful i ought to be that i can trust my husband so. it was about a man who was unfaithful to his wife, and they had five children just as we have. i know such things do occur, but how or why is a mystery to me. i hope i am not too hard when i say that in such a case it must be the wife's fault. surely if she had been a good wife, an unselfish and loving wife, he could not have been enticed away. poor thing! i wonder how she felt when she heard it. probably she wouldn't believe it. probably she had too much faith in him. you shake your head. why, ruth, you dear thing, you don't know anything about it. a wife _couldn't_ believe such a thing. why, i wouldn't believe it if told by an angel from heaven. but then my husband is so dear to me. i do sometimes wonder if all women care as much for their husbands as i do for mine. do you know, dear, i think about you so much. i know that there have been several hearts in which you have reigned, and yet you have not cared. but the true love, the right lover, has not come, or you could not have passed him by. he is waiting for you; somewhere, somehow, he will come to you, i am sure, and you will know then that you have belonged to each other all this time; that this love has been coming down the ages from eternity for just you two. you will not refuse it then. why, i could never have refused to marry frank when i found that i was as much to him as he was to me! he is so handsome, so good. i shall never cease to thank god that he made him turn aside into the quiet places to find me. but, in spite of all this, you know i don't think he is perfect. he doesn't care for books as much as i wish he did. he has no ear for music, and he cannot tell a story straight to save his life, the dear boy! love does not blind my eyes, but this is what it does do. it makes me overlook in him what would annoy me in others. when, at that beautiful dinner of mrs. osborne's, frank told those stories of his that i've heard for years, i don't think any one cared to hear them except mr. beck and me. i knew they were not well told, but it was my husband who was telling them, and i could listen to his voice, even if i couldn't sit next him. "how the wind blows. don't you think it has a lonesome sound to-night? there isn't a glimmer of light from any of your windows yet, and see what a lovely glow this fire casts all through the room. it makes the cold walls look warm, and if it makes shadows, it chases them away when it blazes its brightest. it is your fault that there is no light in your windows, and your fault that you have closed your heart against love. you could have the glow that lights my house and my heart if you only would. you know, dear, i am not talking to you as a neighbor now or even as a friend, but as a woman talks to a woman out of her inmost heart. it is only because i love you so and because i have seen you with my babies that i know what a home-maker you are. you seem so sad sometimes, and i know your heart is wistful if your eyes are not. how can you have the courage to shut out love? how can you see the happiness of all your friends and not want a share of it yourself? why do you cry so, my dear? is there some one you love? has any trouble come between you? no? no? well, there, there! it was selfish of me to show you the way i look at things and to try to make you dissatisfied. never mind. you are stronger than i. i could not live without love; i should die. but if you can, it may be that you are fulfilling your destiny more nobly than many another who has more of what i should choose. "oh, must you go? forgive me if i have said what i should not. good-night, and god bless you, my dear." xi the hazard of a human die "the tallest trees are most in the power of the wind." last night at the theatre there were theatricals all over the house. my eyes followed the play on the stage, but my mind was filled with the farce in the next box and with the tragedy in the one opposite. i was with the ford-burkes, and, hearing familiar voices, i pulled aside the curtain, and in the next box were the payson osbornes, pet winterbotham, and jack whitehouse. pet thrust her hand over the railing and whispered, "i'm engaged. put your hand here and feel the size of my ring. you can get an idea of it through my glove. i'd take it off and show it to you, only i think it would look rather pronounced, don't you?" "rather," i assented faintly. i glanced beyond her into the fresh blue eyes of young jack whitehouse, and i wondered if the alert, manly young fellow, with his untried but inherited capabilities, knew that he had been accepted as a husband because his hair curled and he looked "chappie." "i suppose you have heard the news, haven't you?" she went on. "nothing in particular. what news?" "look across the house and you will see." just entering their box opposite were louise king and norris whitehouse, jack's uncle. "what do you mean?" i asked, with a wrench at pet's little hand which made her wince. "it's an engagement. uncle and nephew engaged the same season. isn't it rich? think of louise king being my aunt. she is only twenty-three." then they saw us and bowed. i felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to this new arrangement. i levelled my glass at them. louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. she is one of the best-bred girls i know, but it required a stronger imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed her from the impulsive, loving creature of charlie hardy's story to this serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral of her own heart. as i looked across at her during that long evening, i felt that it was impertinent to probe her heart with my wonderings and surmises. i knew instinctively just how carefully she was hiding her hurt from all human eyes. i knew how her fierce pride was bearing up under the cruelty of it. i felt how she had rushed from the humiliation one man had brought her to the waiting love of the one who should have been her first choice by the divine right of natural selection. this strong man had loved her for years, but he would never allow her to imperil either his dignity or her own. he was just the man her impulsive, high-strung nature could accept as a refuge, beat against and buffet if need be, then learn to appreciate and cling to. i had an impression that he was not totally ignorant of the state of affairs. he was older and wiser than she, and capable of the bravery of this venture. no, he was not being deceived. i was sure of it. louise was too high minded to attempt it. she would be scornfully honest with him. her scorn would be for herself, not for him, and he had accepted her joyfully on these terms. his daring was tempered with prudence, and his clear vision doubtless forecast the end. his insight must have shown him that, with a girl like louise, the rebound from the self-disdain to which charlie hardy's confession must have reduced her would be as intense as her humiliation had been, and that her passionate gratitude to the man who restored her self-respect would be boundless. not every man--not even every man who loved her--could do this. he must possess strong nerves who descends into a volcano. he must have a more unbending will who tames any wild thing; but what an intoxicating thrill of pride must come to him who, having confidence in his own powers, makes the attempt and succeeds. perhaps if louise had been strong enough to fight this cruel battle out with herself as rachel would have done, and win as rachel would have won, she might have been able to choose differently. she might then, strong in her own strength, marry a man of lesser personality, a younger man, and they two could have adjusted their lives to each other gradually. now it must be louise who would be adjusted, and norris whitehouse was just the man to know the curious fact that the more fiery and impetuous a woman is, the more easily, if she is in love, will she mould herself to circumstances. the more untamed and unbending she seems, the more helpless will she be under the strong excitement of love or grief. a strong-minded woman is easier to persuade than a weak one. the grander the nature the greater its pliability towards truth. the longer i sat and gazed into the opposite box the clearer it grew in my mind that the suddenness of this venture did not imply rashness, but serene-eyed faith only, and such faith would captivate louise king more than would love. the only impossible thing about it to a sceptical old maid was that it was the man who was proving himself such a hero, and who was upsetting my favorite theory that men never understand emotional women. still, it was not difficult to except as unusual a man like norris whitehouse, and yet have my theory hold good. in imagination i leaped forward to the peaceful outcome of this turbulent beginning, and overlooked the way which led to it. i found myself hoping, with painful intensity, that this venture in which norris whitehouse and i had embarked would prove successful. i had known and loved louise king all her life. i had loved her dear mother before her, and the beautiful daughterhood of this girl had always touched me as the highest and sweetest type i ever had known. i did not want to be the one to bring her face to face with her first great sorrow, although i dared not interfere to less purpose. for "'tis an awkward thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one's own. yet think of my friend and the burning coals we played with for bits of stone." they could not know that i had had anything to do with it; yet, if ill came of it, i should blame myself all the rest of my life. not long afterwards they were married very quietly and went away for a few weeks. when they returned i sought louise with eagerness, and found that my fears were not groundless. i tried to think what to do. if it would have eased matters, i would willingly have gone to her and confessed that i instigated charlie hardy's confession. but i felt that the root of the matter lay deeper than that, so i said nothing that could be construed into an unwelcome knowledge of her affairs. in the short time which elapsed between their return and the date set for their departure for europe, where they were to stay a year, i saw louise continually. she sought me as if she liked to be with me, although her eyes never lost the anxious, hunted expression which you sometimes see in the eyes of some trapped wild creature. it was a raw morning, with a chill wind blowing, when their steamer was to sail. mr. whitehouse, thinking i might have some last private word to say to louise, skilfully detached everybody else and strolled with them beyond earshot, but where his eyes could continually rest upon his wife's face. as louise and i walked up and down i took in mine the small hand which emerged from the great fur cuff of her boat cloak, and gradually its rigidity relaxed under my friendly pressure. i remembered, as i occasionally tightened my grasp upon it, that my dear little baby sister lois, who was taken away from us before she outgrew her babyhood, used to squeeze my hand in this fashion, and when i asked her what it meant, she invariably said, "it means dat it loves you." i wondered if the same inarticulate language could be conveyed to poor, suffering louise. suddenly she turned to me and said, "you have thrown something gentle, a softness around me this morning. i can feel it. what is it, ruth?" "i don't know, dear, unless it is my love for you." "it is something more. your eyes look into mine as if you knew all about it and wished to comfort me." as i made no answer, she turned and looked down at me from her superb height. "tell me," she said quite gently; "i shall not be angry. tell me, _do_ you know?" "yes, louise, i know." she hesitated a moment as if she really had not believed it. then she said slowly, "if any other person on earth except you had told me that, i should die. i could not live in the knowledge. but you--well, your pity is not an insult somehow." "because it is not pity, louise," i said steadily. "there is a difference between pity and sympathy. one is thrown at you--the other walks with you." she only pressed my hand gratefully. suddenly she turned and said impulsively, "then you must know how utterly wretched i am." glancing over her shoulder i could see the eyes of her husband fastened upon her with an expression which stirred me to put forth my best efforts. then it came over me how pent-up all this intensity of feeling must be. i realized how impossible it would seem to her to speak of it. taking my life in my hand--for i was mortally afraid--i rushed in, after the manner of my kind, where angels fear to tread. "did you love him then so much?" the pupils of her eyes enlarged until they were all black with excitement. she caught both my hands in hers. "only god himself knows how i loved him," she whispered. i knew then that all charlie had said was true, and, weak coward that i was, if i could have undone the past, i would have given him back to her. i was borne away by a glimpse of such love. o charlie hardy! and you cast this from you for a pair of blue eyes! "how came you to love such a weak man?" i asked tremblingly. "that is what i want to know. how could i? how can girls of my sort love so hopelessly beneath us? i've thought and wondered over that question until my brain has almost turned, and the only consolation i find is that i am not the only one. other women, cleverer than i, have loved the most contemptible of men and have been deceived just as i was. oh, if he or i had only died before i discovered the truth! if i could have mourned him honorably and felt that my grief was dignified! but i won't allow myself to grieve over him. i tell myself that i am well out of it and that i ought to be glad. but instead of gladness there is a dull, miserable ache in my heart, which i feel even in my sleep. not for him; i don't mourn for him, but for myself--for my fallen idols and my shattered ideals. what will such men have to answer for? i doubt if i ever can believe in anything human again." "anything _human_," i repeated gladly. louise looked down. "he was not omnipotent," she said huskily. "he ruled my heart only, not my soul." "i suppose you have tried to love your husband?" i said. "tried? oh, ruth, i have tried so hard! he is so good to me. he knows everything. of course i told him. that was why we were married so suddenly. he wished it and urged such excellent reasons, and i had so much respect for him and his wisdom in what is best, that i married him. i thought i could love him. i always thought that if i didn't love--the other one--i should love norris; but i can't. i believe my power of love is gone forever. i feel sometimes as if the best part of me had been killed--not died of its own accord, but as if it had been murdered." "poor child!" i said. "why don't you talk this over with your husband?" "oh, ruth, how could i?" "well, may i talk to you? will it hurt you?" "nothing that you would say can hurt me, dear." "then let me say just this. you have been trying to do in weeks what nature would take years to do. in real life you cannot lose your love and heal your worse than widowed heart and love anew as you would in private theatricals. you have outraged your own delicate sensibilities, but not with your husband's consent. he does not want you to try to love him. no good man does. he wants you to love him because you can't help yourself--because it seems to your heart to be the only natural thing to do. 'when the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another while it's a-ringing in your ears. it's best to have a bit o' silence, and out of that maybe a psalm'll come by and by.'" "oh, ruth, dear ruth, say that again," she cried, turning towards me with tears in her lovely eyes. i repeated it. "how restful to dare to take 'a bit o' silence'!" "no one can prevent you doing so but yourself. mr. whitehouse married you to give you just that, confident that he loved you so much that the psalm would come by and by." "i believe he did," said louise gently, with color rising in her cheeks. "another thing. don't try not to grieve. don't repress yourself. it is right that you should mourn over your lost ideals. nothing on earth brings more poignant grief than that. you will never get them back. do not expect what is impossible. they were false ideals, none the less beautiful and dear to you for being that, but truly they were distorted. you will see this some time. you have begun to see it now. you realize that this man was in no way what you thought him. you had idealized him, had almost crowned him. now you can't help trying to invest mr. whitehouse with the same unnamable, invisible qualities. but no man has them. your husband is a thousand times more worthy than the other, yet even he does not deserve worship. let the man do the crowning if you can, although a woman of your temperament would find even that difficult--that which the most inane of women could accept with calmness and a smile. you have the magnificent humility of the truly great. still it is not appreciated in this world. try resting for a while and let your husband love you." i knew that i was saying, though perhaps in a different way, things which norris whitehouse had urged upon her. not that she said so. she would have regarded that as sacrilege. but it was a look, a little trembling smile, which betrayed the ingenuous young creature to me. i felt that i was in the presence of a nature very fair and exquisitely pure. it was a sacred feeling. i almost felt as if i ought not to read the signs in her face, because she had no idea that they were there. "i have such horrible doubts," she said suddenly with suppressed bitterness. "i do not belittle my love. i know that i loved him with all my heart and soul, and that i gave him more than most women would have done, because love means infinitely more to me than it does to them. i knew all the time that i loved him more than he loved me, but i did not care, for i believed, blind as i was, that we loved each other all we were capable of doing, and if i had more love to give it was only because i was richer than he, and i meant to make him the greater by my treasure. now i feel that both i and my love have been wasted. oh, it was a cruel thing, ruth. i feel so poor, so poor." "louise, you think, but you do not think rightly. _are_ you poorer for having loved him? what is his unworth compared with your worth? isn't your love sweeter and truer for having grown and expanded? no love was ever wasted. it enriches the giver involuntarily. you are a sweeter, better woman than before you loved, unless you made the mistake of small natures and let it embitter you. you have no right to feel that it has been wasted." "do you think so?" she said doubtfully. "that is an uplifting thought." then she added in a low voice, "there is one thing more. it is very unworthy, i am afraid, but it is a canker that is eating my heart out. and that is the mortification of it. can you picture the thing to yourself? can you form any idea of how i felt? it grows worse the more i think of it." "i know, i know. but, dear child, there is where i am powerless to help you. if i were in your place i think i should feel just as you do. it was a cruel thing. i wonder that you bore it as well as you did." "what! should _you_ feel that way? then you do not blame me?" "why mention blame in connection with yourself? you are singularly free from it. but did you ever consider what an honor the love of such a man as your husband is? do you know how he is admired by great men? do you realize how he must love you, and what magnificent faith he must have to wish to marry a young girl like you who admits that she does not love him? if you never do anything else in this world except to deserve the faith he has in you, you will live a worthy life." we were standing still now, and louise was looking at her husband at a distance with a look in her eyes which was good to see. "you never can love him as you loved the other one. a first love never comes again. would you want it to? when you love your husband, as he and i both know that you will do some time--perhaps not soon, but he is very patient--still, i say, when you love him you will love him in a gentler, truer way." "can you tell me why such a bitter experience should have been sent to me so early in life?" "to save you pain later and to make of you what you were planned to be." tears rolled down her cheeks and she bent to kiss me, for the last mail had been put aboard and we had only a moment more. what she whispered in my ear i shall never tell to any one, but it will sweeten my whole life. as we went towards mr. whitehouse louise involuntarily quickened her pace a little and held out her hand to him with a smile. it was good to see his face change color and to view the quiet delight with which he received her. then there were good-byes and hurried steps and a great deal of shouting and hauling of ropes, and there were waving of hands and a tossing of roses from the decks above and a few furtive tears and many heart-aches, and then--the great steamer had sailed. xii in which i willingly turn my face westward "grow old along with me. the best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. our times are in his hand who saith, 'a whole i planned, youth shows but half; trust god, see all, nor be afraid.'" the years cannot go on without destroying the old landmarks, and i am so old-fashioned that change of any kind saddens me. people move away, strangers take their houses, the girls marry, children grow up, and everything is so mutable that sometimes my cheerfulness has a haze to it. i am in a mood of retrospection to-night. i am living over the past and knitting up the ravelled ends. dear rachel! i am thankful that she and percival continue so happy. it is wonderful how every one recognizes and speaks of the completeness of these two. they do not parade their affection. they seem rather to try to hide it even from me, as if it were almost too sacred for even my kindly eyes. it is in the atmosphere, and, though they go their separate ways, they are more thoroughly together than any other married people i know. both percival and rachel are becoming very generally recognized now. people are discovering how wonderfully clever their work is, and they share themselves with the public, although it is a sacrifice every time they do so. rachel's rather turbulent cleverness has softened down. she says it is because it is "billowed in another greater and gentler sort." she looks at me rather wistfully sometimes. i know what she thinks, but she does not bore me with questions. i wonder if she thinks i regret anything. unless i consider that the percivals have redeemed the record i am keeping, there is nothing especially tempting in the marriages i am watching. i cannot think that they are any happier than i am. sallie cox seems contented most of the time. she has a magnificent establishment, handsomer than all the rest of the girls' put together. her husband "doesn't bother" her, she says, and the osbornes are very popular. "i'm glad i'm shallow," she said to me once. "shallow hearts do not ache long. if i had a deep nature i should go mad or turn into a saint. as it is, i wear the scars." once, when i went with her to rachel's, she sat and looked around the simple, inexpensive house, with the walls all lined with books and no room too good to live in every day, and she said, "this is the prettiest home i ever was in in my life, and there is not a lace curtain in the house!" we laughed--everybody laughs at sallie--and rachel said gently, "we don't need them." sallie looked up quickly and took in the full significance of the words, as she answered in the same tone, "no, you do not, but i do." and each woman had told her heart history. now, rachel must know almost as much about sallie as i do; but she never will know all. sallie said she went home and hated every room in her house separately and specifically; then she had a good cry over "the perfectness of the percivals," and issued invitations to a masked ball. "that ball was full of significance, ruth," she told me afterwards with her most whimsically knowing look. "it was bristling with it. but nobody thought of it except a certain little goose i know named sara cox osborne." jack whitehouse and pet winterbotham are married. they had the most beautiful wedding i ever saw; but it was like watching the babes in the wood, for they are _such_ a young-looking pair. i understand better now what pet meant when she talked about jack's appearance so much. i think he expressed to her the idea of perpetual youth and eternal spring-time. to me, too, it seems as if he ought always to be yachting in blue and white, or lying at full length on the grass at some girl's feet. and pet herself makes an admirable companion-piece. when i see her in a misty white ball-dress, with one man bringing her an ice and another holding her flowers and a third bearing her filmy wraps, i feel that things are quite as they should be. some people seem to be born for fair weather and smooth sailing. it is too soon to judge them finally. norris whitehouse's nephew will outgrow the ball-room, and pet will find in louise an incentive to grow womanly. the asburys have built a fine house since alice's father died, and go about a great deal, but seldom together. asbury lives at the club, and alice has her mother with her. alice has embraced theosophy and spells her name "alys." she always is interested in something new and advanced, and whenever i meet her i am prepared to go into ecstasies over a plan to save men's souls by electricity, or something equally speedy in the moral line. she is daft on spiritual rapid transit. she does these things because she is a disappointed, clever, ambitious woman, who would have made a noble character if she had been surrounded by right influences. what would have been the result if alice had taken as her creed: "the situation that has not its duty, its ideals, was never yet occupied by man. yes, here in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy ideal; work it out therefrom, and working, live, be free. fool! the ideal is in thyself; thy condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same ideal out of; what matters whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? oh, thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the actual and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth: the thing thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only see"? ah, well, she could not. she still is crying to the gods and spelling her name "alys." her cleverness must have an outlet, and, with worse than no husband to lavish it upon, she scatters it to the four winds of heaven and gets herself talked about as "queer." may brandt has bitten into her apples of sodom, and the taste of ashes is bitter indeed to her. she knows now that brandt never loved her, and did love alice. i do not know whether she thinks he still cares for alice or not. may never had much beauty to lose, but she looks worn and unhappy, and watches alice with a degree of feeling which would appear vulgar to me if i did not know just how miserable she is. she is hopelessly plain now, and alice is still like a tall, stately lily. brandt devours her with his eyes, but alice makes him keep his distance. sallie cox has been diplomatic and harmless enough to make alice forgive her, and they are quite good friends; but alice is magnificent in her scorn of brandt's wife, who almost cowers in her presence. poor may! i wish i could take that look of suffering from her little pinched, three-cornered face for just one hour. but how could i? how could anybody who knew all about it? she does not understand alice in all her moods and vagaries, and alice does not condescend to explain herself even to her friends. i do not believe that alice and brandt have ever spoken on the subject which occupies three minds whenever they two are thrown together. yet i imagine it would be a relief to may if she were told that. however, she is scarcely noble enough to believe it, even if alice herself should tell her. but alice never will. she never gives it a thought. brandt, too, has honor, though, even if he had not, alice would have it for him and forbid a word. it is a fortunate thing for some people's chances for a future life that there are a reasonable number of consciences distributed through the world, although it would be an old maid's suggestion that sometimes they be allowed to drive instead of being used as a liveried tiger--for ornament and always behind. it is a great pity that people who are supplied with them--and well-cultivated consciences too--have not the courage to live up to them, but allow themselves to be gently and feebly miserable all their lives. now, charlie hardy has periods of being the most miserable man i ever knew. his last interview with louise must have been as serious a thing as he ever experienced. he has married frankie taliaferro, and she makes the sweetest little kitten of a wife you ever saw. in louise he would have been protected by a coat of mail. in frankie he finds it turned into a pale-blue eider-down quilt, which suits his temperament much better. louise whitehouse is coming home soon. her year abroad has lengthened into several years, and they have been the most beautiful of her life, she writes. "living with a song in one's life may be the sweetest while it lasts and before one thinks; but to live by a psalm is to find life infinitely more beautiful and worthier. i never can be thankful enough that my life was taken out of my hands at the time when i clung to it most blindly, and ordered anew by one stronger and wiser than i." tears come to my eyes whenever i think of this girl. i do not quite know why, unless it is that there always is something sad in watching the tempering of a bright young enthusiasm, even though it becomes more useful than when so sparkling and high-strung. i have been at great pains to have charlie hardy realize how happy louise is, but his conscience still troubles him at times. he says he knows he did the right thing for every one concerned, but he dislikes the idea of himself in so disagreeable a rôle; and louise's opinion of him now, after the one she did have, is a constant humiliation to him. women always have admired him, and he objects very strongly to any exception to the rule. i think he misses the mental ozone which he found in louise. i often wonder if men who have loved superior women and married average ones do not have occasional wonderings and yearnings over lost "might have beens." the mayos still live in the brown house, which has been enlarged and greatly beautified recently. i have an enthusiastic friendship with the children, who are growing into slim slips of girls and sturdy, clear-eyed boys, and their house is still a home. frank's admiration for soubrettes died a sudden and violent death at the masked notoriety of his initial escapade, and for a time he was shocked into better behavior. we hear odd rumors floating around, however, of whose truth we never can be sure, but which we shake our heads over, after the fashion of those whose confidence has been caught napping once. we never knew whether nellie discovered the truth or not. if frank denied it, it would not affect matters with her if the world rang with it. her idolatry has a certain blind stubbornness in it which i should not care to beat against. bronson does not stand as straight as he did when i first knew him. rachel says he has "a scholarly stoop." but she knows, and i know, that something besides law-books and parchment has taken the elasticity out of his step. many years have gone by since i became an old maid. i want to call my alter ego's attention to this fact gently but firmly, because i have an idea that she still considers herself "only thirty," and that she thinks she has just begun to be an old maid. whereas she is old and so am i. i do not mind it at all. neither does she; it is only that she had not realized it. we have so much to think about more important than our stupid ages. people have grown used to seeing us about, and we like the same things, and keep going at about the same pace and in the same road, and i think we have come to be an institution. i have no worries which i do not borrow from my married friends. i keep up with the fashions; my clothes fit me; my fingers still come to the ends of my gloves; i feel no leaning towards all-over cloth shoes; i have not gone permanently into bonnets. i have tried to be a pleasant old maid, and my reward is that my friends make me feel as if they liked to have me about. i am not made to feel that i am _passé_. one's clothes and one's feelings are all that ever make one _passé_. nevertheless, i have turned my face resolutely towards the setting sun. i am resting now. i have given up struggling against the inevitable. that is a privilege and an attribute of youth. i feel as though i were only beginning to live, now that i have passed through the period of turmoil and come out from the rapids into gently gliding water. there is so much in life which we could not see at the beginning, but which grows with our growth and bears us company in the richness of evening-tide. i have learned to love my life and to cultivate it. who knows what is in her life until she has tended it and made it know that she expects something from it in return for all her aspirations and endeavors? even my wasted efforts are dear to me. "'tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours, and ask them what report they bore to heaven, and how they might have borne more welcome news." yet there is a sadness in looking back. i see the many lost opportunities lifting to me their wistful faces, and dumbly pleading with me to accept them and their promises; yet i carelessly passed them by. i see worse. i see the rents in the hedge, where i forced my wilful way into forbidden fields, and only regained my path after weary wandering, brier-torn, and none the better for my folly. lost faces come before me which i might have gladdened oftener. voices sound in my ear whose tones i might have made happier if i would. withheld sympathy rises up before me deploring its wasted treasure. how can any one be happy in looking back? the only pleasure in looking forward is in hope. yet now both grief and joy are tempered with a softness which enfolds my fretted spirit gratefully. "time has laid his hand upon my heart gently; not smiting it, but as a harper lays his open palm upon his harp to deaden its vibrations." and so i am looking forward to-night to an old age more peaceful, less turbulent, than my youth has been. i reach forward gladly, too, for life holds much that is sweet to old age, which youth can in no wise comprehend. possibly this is one reason why youth is so anxious to concentrate enjoyment. but i am tired of concentration. there is a wear and tear about it which precludes the possibility of pleasure. i want to take the rest of my life gently, and by redoubled tenderness repay it for rude handling in my youth--that youth which lies very far away from me to-night and is wrapped in a rainbow mist. the end love-letters of a worldly woman. by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of "aunt anne," "mrs. keith's crime," etc. mo, cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . this volume contains three brilliant love-stories well worth reading.... the letters are original and audacious, and are full of a certain intellectual "abandon" which is sure to charm the cultivated reader.... we trust that mrs. w. k. clifford will give us more fiction in this delicately humorous, subtle, and analytic vein.--_literary world_, boston. mrs. clifford's literary style is excellent, and the love-letters always have their special interest.--_n.y. times._ there is abundant cleverness in it. the situations are presented with skill and force, and the letters are written with great dramatic propriety and much humor.--_st. james's gazette_, london. in short analytical stories of this kind mrs. clifford has come to take a unique position in england. in the delicate, ingenious, forcible use of language, to express the results of an unusual range of observation, she stands to our literature as de maupassant and bourget stand to the literature of france.--_black and white_, london. the study of character is so acute, the analysis of motives and conduct so skilful, and, withal, the wit and satire so keen, that the reader does not tire.--_christian intelligencer_, n.y. * * * _published by harper & brothers, new york._ _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ unhappy loves of men of genius. by thomas hitchcock. with twelve portraits. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . a fascinating book. so taking are its rapidly interchanging lights and shadows that one reads it from beginning to end without any thought of possible intrusion.--_observer_, n.y. the simple and perspicuous style in which mr. hitchcock tells these stories of unhappy loves is not less admirable than the learning and the extensive reading and investigation which have enabled him to gather the facts presented in a manner so engaging. his volume is an important contribution to literature, and it is of universal interest.--_n.y. sun._ the stories are concisely and sympathetically told, and the book presents in small compass what, in lieu of it, must be sought through many volumes.--_dial_, chicago. a very interesting little book.... the studies are carefully and aptly made, and add something to one's sense of personal acquaintanceship with those men and women who were before not strangers.--_evangelist_, n.y. * * * _published by harper & brothers, new york._ _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ [illustration: john fox, jr.] crittenden a kentucky story of love and war by john fox, jr. illustrated by f. graham cootes * * * * * new york charles scribner's sons * * * * * copyright, , by charles scribner's sons * * * * * to the master of ballyhoo * * * * * illustrations john fox, jr. (from a photograph) frontispiece facing page "go on!" said judith "nothin', ole cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for you" * * * * * crittenden i day breaking on the edge of the bluegrass and birds singing the dawn in. ten minutes swiftly along the sunrise and the world is changed: from nervous exaltation of atmosphere to an air of balm and peace; from grim hills to the rolling sweep of green slopes; from a high mist of thin verdure to low wind-shaken banners of young leaves; from giant poplar to white ash and sugar-tree; from log-cabin to homesteads of brick and stone; from wood-thrush to meadow-lark; rhododendron to bluegrass; from mountain to lowland, crittenden was passing home. he had been in the backwoods for more than a month, ostensibly to fish and look at coal lands, but, really, to get away for a while, as his custom was, from his worse self to the better self that he was when he was in the mountains--alone. as usual, he had gone in with bitterness and, as usual, he had set his face homeward with but half a heart for the old fight against fate and himself that seemed destined always to end in defeat. at dusk, he heard the word of the outer world from the lips of an old mountaineer at the foot of the cumberland--the first heard, except from his mother, for full thirty days--and the word was--war. he smiled incredulously at the old fellow, but, unconsciously, he pushed his horse on a little faster up the mountain, pushed him, as the moon rose, aslant the breast of a mighty hill and, winding at a gallop about the last downward turn of the snaky path, went at full speed alongside the big gray wall that, above him, rose sheer a thousand feet and, straight ahead, broke wildly and crumbled into historic cumberland gap. from a little knoll he saw the railway station in the shadow of the wall, and, on one prong of a switch, his train panting lazily; and, with a laugh, he pulled his horse down to a walk and then to a dead stop--his face grave again and uplifted. where his eyes rested and plain in the moonlight was a rocky path winding upward--the old wilderness trail that the kentucky pioneers had worn with moccasined feet more than a century before. he had seen it a hundred times before--moved always; but it thrilled him now, and he rode on slowly, looking up at it. his forefathers had helped blaze that trail. on one side of that wall they had fought savage and briton for a home and a country, and on the other side they had done it again. later, they had fought the mexican and in time they came to fight each other, for and against the nation they had done so much to upbuild. it was even true that a crittenden had already given his life for the very cause that was so tardily thrilling the nation now. thus it had always been with his people straight down the bloody national highway from yorktown to appomattox, and if there was war, he thought proudly, as he swung from his horse--thus it would now be with him. if there was war? he had lain awake in his berth a long while, looking out the window and wondering. he had been born among the bleeding memories of one war. the tales of his nursery had been tales of war. and though there had been talk of war through the land for weeks before he left home, it had no more seemed possible that in his lifetime could come another war than that he should live to see any other myth of his childhood come true. now, it was daybreak on the edge of the bluegrass, and, like a dark truth from a white light, three tall letters leaped from the paper in his hand--war! there was a token in the very dawn, a sword-like flame flashing upward. the man in the white house had called for willing hands by the thousands to wield it, and the kentucky legion, that had fought in mexico, had split in twain to fight for the north and for the south, and had come shoulder to shoulder when the breach was closed--the legion of his own loved state--was the first body of volunteers to reach for the hilt. regulars were gathering from the four winds to an old southern battlefield. already the legion was on its way to camp in the bluegrass. his town was making ready to welcome it, and among the names of the speakers who were to voice the welcome, he saw his own--clay crittenden. ii the train slackened speed and stopped. there was his horse--raincrow--and his buggy waiting for him when he stepped from the platform; and, as he went forward with his fishing tackle, a livery-stable boy sprang out of the buggy and went to the horse's head. "bob lef' yo' hoss in town las' night, mistuh crittenden," he said. "miss rachel said yestiddy she jes knowed you was comin' home this mornin'." crittenden smiled--it was one of his mother's premonitions; she seemed always to know when he was coming home. "come get these things," he said, and went on with his paper. "yessuh!" things had gone swiftly while he was in the hills. old ex-confederates were answering the call from the capitol. one of his father's old comrades--little jerry carter--was to be made a major-general. among the regulars mobilizing at chickamauga was the regiment to which rivers, a friend of his boyhood, belonged. there, three days later, his state was going to dedicate two monuments to her sons who had fallen on the old battlefield, where his father, fighting with one wing of the legion for the lost cause, and his father's young brother, fighting with the other against it, had fought face to face; where his uncle met death on the field and his father got the wound that brought death to him years after the war. and then he saw something that for a moment quite blotted the war from his brain and made him close the paper quickly. judith had come home--judith was to unveil those statues--judith page. the town was asleep, except for the rattle of milk-carts, the banging of shutters, and the hum of a street-car, and crittenden moved through empty streets to the broad smooth turnpike on the south, where raincrow shook his head, settled his haunches, and broke into the swinging trot peculiar to his breed--for home. spring in the bluegrass! the earth spiritual as it never is except under new-fallen snow--in the first shy green. the leaves, a floating mist of green, so buoyant that, if loosed, they must, it seemed, have floated upward--never to know the blight of frost or the droop of age. the air, rich with the smell of new earth and sprouting grass, the long, low skies newly washed and, through radiant distances, clouds light as thistledown and white as snow. and the birds! wrens in the hedges, sparrows by the wayside and on fence-rails, starlings poised over meadows brilliant with glistening dew, larks in the pastures--all singing as they sang at the first dawn, and the mood of nature that perfect blending of earth and heaven that is given her children but rarely to know. it was good to be alive at the breaking of such a day--good to be young and strong, and eager and unafraid, when the nation called for its young men and red mars was the morning star. the blood of dead fighters began to leap again in his veins. his nostrils dilated and his chin was raised proudly--a racial chord touched within him that had been dumb a long while. and that was all it was--the blood of his fathers; for it was honor and not love that bound him to his own flag. he was his mother's son, and the unspoken bitterness that lurked in her heart lurked, likewise, on her account, in his. on the top of a low hill, a wind from the dawn struck him, and the paper in the bottom of the buggy began to snap against the dashboard. he reached down to keep it from being whisked into the road, and he saw again that judith page had come home. when he sat up again, his face was quite changed. his head fell a little forward, his shoulders drooped slightly and, for a moment, his buoyancy was gone. the corners of the mouth showed a settled melancholy where before was sunny humour. the eyes, which were dreamy, kindly, gray, looked backward in a morbid glow of concentration; and over the rather reckless cast of his features, lay at once the shadow of suffering and the light of a great tenderness. slowly, a little hardness came into his eyes and a little bitterness about his mouth. his upper lip curved in upon his teeth with self-scorn--for he had had little cause to be pleased with himself while judith was gone, and his eyes showed now how proud was the scorn--and he shook himself sharply and sat upright. he had forgotten again. that part of his life belonged to the past and, like the past, was gone, and was not to come back again. the present had life and hope now, and the purpose born that day from five blank years was like the sudden birth of a flower in a desert. the sun had burst from the horizon now and was shining through the tops of the trees in the lovely woodland into which crittenden turned, and through which a road of brown creek-sand ran to the pasture beyond and through that to the long avenue of locusts, up which the noble portico of his old homestead, canewood, was visible among cedars and firs and old forest trees. his mother was not up yet--the shutters of her window were still closed--but the servants were astir and busy. he could see men and plough-horses on their way to the fields; and, that far away, he could hear the sound of old ephraim's axe at the woodpile, the noises around the barn and cowpens, and old aunt keziah singing a hymn in the kitchen, the old wailing cry of the mother-slave. "oh i wonder whur my baby's done gone, oh lawd! an' i git on my knees an' pray." the song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for the stiles--a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry. "howdy, bob." "howdy, ole cap'n." crittenden had been "ole captain" with the servants--since the death of "ole master," his father--to distinguish him from "young captain," who was his brother, basil. master and servant shook hands and bob's teeth flashed. "what's the matter, bob?" bob climbed into the buggy. "you gwine to de wah." crittenden laughed. "how do you know, bob?" "oh, i know--i know. i seed it when you was drivin' up to de stiles, an' lemme tell you, ole cap'n." the horse started for the barn suddenly and bob took a wide circuit in order to catch the eye of a brown milkmaid in the cowpens, who sniffed the air scornfully, to show that she did not see him, and buried the waves of her black hair into the silken sides of a young jersey. "yes," he said, shaking his head and making threats to himself, "an' bob's gwine wid him." as crittenden climbed the stiles, old keziah filled the kitchen-door. "time you gittin' back, suh," she cried with mock severity. "i been studyin' 'bout you. little mo' an' i'd 'a' been comin' fer you myself. yes--suh." and she gave a loud laugh that rang through the yard and ended in a soft, queer little whoop that was musical. crittenden smiled but, instead of answering, raised his hand warningly and, as he approached the portico, he stepped from the gravel-walk to the thick turf and began to tiptoe. at the foot of the low flight of stone steps he stopped--smiling. the big double front door was wide open, and straight through the big, wide hallway and at the entrance of the dining-room, a sword--a long cavalry sabre--hung with a jaunty gray cap on the wall. under them stood a boy with his hands clasped behind him and his chin upraised. the lad could see the bullet-hole through the top, and he knew that on the visor was a faded stain of his father's blood. as a child, he had been told never to touch the cap or sword and, until this moment, he had not wanted to take them down since he was a child; and even now the habit of obedience held him back for a while, as he stood looking up at them. outside, a light wind rustled the leaves of the rose-bush at his mother's window, swept through the open door, and made the curtain at his elbow swell gently. as the heavy fold fell back to its place and swung out again, it caught the hilt of the sword and made the metal point of the scabbard clank softly against the wall. the boy breathed sharply, remembered that he was grown, and reverently reached upward. there was the stain where the blood had run down from the furrowed wound that had caused his father's death, long after the war and just before the boy was born. the hilt was tarnished, and when he caught it and pulled, the blade came out a little way and stuck fast. some one stepped on the porch outside and he turned quickly, as he might have turned had some one caught him unsheathing the weapon when a child. "hold on there, little brother." crittenden stopped in the doorway, smiling affectionately, and the boy thrust the blade back to the hilt. "why, clay," he cried, and, as he ran forward, "are you going?" he asked, eagerly. "i'm the first-born, you know," added crittenden, still smiling, and the lad stretched the sabre out to him, repeating eagerly, "are you going?" the older brother did not answer, but turned, without taking the weapon, and walked to the door and back again. "are you?" "me? oh, i have to go," said the boy solemnly and with great dignity, as though the matter were quite beyond the pale of discussion. "you do?" "yes; the legion is going." "only the members who volunteer--nobody has to go." "don't they?" said the lad, indignantly. "well, if i had a son who belonged to a military organization in time of peace"--the lad spoke glibly--"and refused to go with it to war--well, i'd rather see him dead first." "who said that?" asked the other, and the lad coloured. "why, judge page said it; that's who. and you just ought to hear miss judith!" again the other walked to the door and back again. then he took the scabbard and drew the blade to its point as easily as though it had been oiled, thrust it back, and hung it with the cap in its place on the wall. "perhaps neither of us will need it," he said. "we'll both be privates--that is, if i go--and i tell you what we'll do. we'll let the better man win the sword, and the better man shall have it after the war. what do you say?" "say?" cried the boy, and he gave the other a hug and both started for the porch. as they passed the door of his mother's room, the lad put one finger on his lips; but the mother had heard and, inside, a woman in black, who had been standing before a mirror with her hands to her throat, let them fall suddenly until they were clasped for an instant across her breast. but she gave no sign that she had heard, at breakfast an hour later, even when the boy cleared his throat, and after many futile efforts to bring the matter up, signalled across the table to his brother for help. "mother, basil there wants to go to war. he says if he had a son who belonged to a military organization in time of peace and refused to go with it in time of war, that he'd rather see him dead." the mother's lip quivered when she answered, but so imperceptibly that only the older son saw it. "that is what his father would have said," she said, quietly, and crittenden knew she had already fought out the battle with herself--alone. for a moment the boy was stunned with his good fortune--"it was too easy"--and with a whoop he sprang from his place and caught his mother around the neck, while uncle ben, the black butler, shook his head and hurried into the kitchen for corn-bread and to tell the news. "oh, i tell you it's great fun to _have_ to go to war! mother," added the boy, with quick mischief, "clay wants to go, too." crittenden braced himself and looked up with one quick glance sidewise at his mother's face. it had not changed a line. "i heard all you said in the hallway. if a son of mine thinks it his duty to go, i shall never say one word to dissuade him--if he thinks it is his duty," she added, so solemnly that silence fell upon the three, and with a smothered, "good lawd," at the door, ben hurried again into the kitchen. "both them boys was a-goin' off to git killed an' ole miss rachel not sayin' one wud to keep 'em back--not a wud." after breakfast the boy hurried out and, as crittenden rose, the mother, who pretended to be arranging silver at the old sideboard, spoke with her back to him. "think it over, son. i can't see that you should go, but if you think you ought, i shall have nothing to say. have you made up your mind?" crittenden hesitated. "not quite." "think it over very carefully, then--please--for my sake." her voice trembled, and, with a pang, crittenden thought of the suffering she had known from one war. basil's way was clear, and he could never ask the boy to give up to him because he was the elder. was it fair to his brave mother for him to go, too--was it right? "yes mother," he said, soberly. iii the legion came next morning and pitched camp in a woodland of oak and sugar trees, where was to be voiced a patriotic welcome by a great editor, a great orator, and young crittenden. before noon, company streets were laid out and lined with tents and, when the first buggies and rockaways began to roll in from the country, every boy-soldier was brushed and burnished to defy the stare of inspection and to quite dazzle the eye of masculine envy or feminine admiration. in the centre of the woodland was a big auditorium, where the speaking was to take place. after the orators were done, there was to be a regimental review in the bluegrass pasture in front of historic ashland. it was at the colonel's tent, where crittenden went to pay his respects, that he found judith page, and he stopped for a moment under an oak, taking in the gay party of women and officers who sat and stood about the entrance. in the centre of the group stood a lieutenant in the blue of a regular and with the crossed sabres of the cavalryman on his neck-band and the number of his regiment. the girl was talking to the gallant old colonel with her back to crittenden, but he would have known her had he seen but an arm, a shoulder, the poise of her head, a single gesture--although he had not seen her for years. the figure was the same--a little fuller, perhaps, but graceful, round, and slender, as was the throat. the hair was a trifle darker, he thought, but brown still, and as rich with gold as autumn sunlight. the profile was in outline now--it was more cleanly cut than ever. the face was a little older, but still remarkably girlish in spite of its maturer strength; and as she turned to answer his look, he kept on unconsciously reaffirming to his memory the broad brow and deep clear eyes, even while his hand was reaching for the brim of his hat. she showed only gracious surprise at seeing him and, to his wonder, he was as calm and cool as though he were welcoming back home any good friend who had been away a long time. he could now see that the lieutenant belonged to the tenth united states cavalry; he knew that the tenth was a colored regiment; he understood a certain stiffness that he felt rather than saw in the courtesy that was so carefully shown him by the southern volunteers who were about him; and he turned away to avoid meeting him. for the same reason, he fancied, judith turned, too. the mere idea of negro soldiers was not only repugnant to him, but he did not believe in negro regiments. these would be the men who could and would organize and drill the blacks in the south; who, in other words, would make possible, hasten, and prolong the race war that sometimes struck him as inevitable. as he turned, he saw a tall, fine-looking negro, fifty yards away, in the uniform of a sergeant of cavalry and surrounded by a crowd of gaping darkies whom he was haranguing earnestly. lieutenant and sergeant were evidently on an enlisting tour. just then, a radiant little creature looked up into crittenden's face, calling him by name and holding out both hands--phyllis, basil's little sweetheart. with her was a tall, keen-featured fellow, whom she introduced as a war correspondent and a northerner. "a sort of war correspondent," corrected grafton, with a swift look of interest at crittenden, but turning his eyes at once back to phyllis. she was a new and diverting type to the northern man and her name was fitting and pleased him. a company passed just then, and a smothered exclamation from phyllis turned attention to it. on the end of the line, with his chin in, his shoulders squared and his eyes straight forward, was crittenden's warrior-brother, basil. only his face coloured to show that he knew where he was and who was looking at him, but not so much as a glance of his eye did he send toward the tent. judith turned to crittenden quickly: "your little brother is going to the war?" the question was thoughtless and significant, for it betrayed to him what was going on in her mind, and she knew it and coloured, as he paled a little. "my little brother is going to the war," he repeated, looking at her. judith smiled and went on bravely: "and you?" crittenden, too, smiled. "i may consider it my duty to stay at home." the girl looked rather surprised--instead of showing the subdued sarcasm that he was looking for--and, in truth, she was. his evasive and careless answer showed an indifference to her wish and opinion in the matter that would once have been very unusual. straightway there was a tug at her heart-strings that also was unusual. the people were gathering into the open-air auditorium now and, from all over the camp, the crowd began to move that way. all knew the word of the orator's mouth and the word of the editor--they had heard the one and seen the other on his printed page many times; and it was for this reason, perhaps, that crittenden's fresh fire thrilled and swayed the crowd as it did. when he rose, he saw his mother almost under him and, not far behind her, judith with her father, judge page. the lieutenant of regulars was standing on the edge of the crowd, and to his right was grafton, also standing, with his hat under his arm--idly curious. but it was to his mother that he spoke and, steadfastly, he saw her strong, gentle face even when he was looking far over her head, and he knew that she knew that he was arguing the point then and there between them. it was, he said, the first war of its kind in history. it marked an epoch in the growth of national character since the world began. as an american, he believed that no finger of mediævalism should so much as touch this hemisphere. the cubans had earned their freedom long since, and the cries of starving women and children for the bread which fathers and brothers asked but the right to earn must cease. to put out of mind the americans blown to death at havana--if such a thing were possible--he yet believed with all his heart in the war. he did not think there would be much of a fight--the regular army could doubtless take good care of the spaniard--but if everybody acted on that presumption, there would be no answer to the call for volunteers. he was proud to think that the legion of his own state, that in itself stood for the reunion of the north and the south, had been the first to spring to arms. and he was proud to think that not even they were the first kentuckians to fight for cuban liberty. he was proud that, before the civil war even, a kentuckian of his own name and blood had led a band of one hundred and fifty brave men of his own state against spanish tyranny in cuba, and a crittenden, with fifty of his followers, were captured and shot in platoons of six. "a kentuckian kneels only to woman and his god," this crittenden had said proudly when ordered to kneel blindfolded and with his face to the wall, "and always dies facing his enemy." and so those kentuckians had died nearly half a century before, and he knew that the young kentuckians before him would as bravely die, if need be, in the same cause now; and when they came face to face with the spaniard they would remember the shattered battle-ship in the havana harbour, and something more--they would remember crittenden. and then the speaker closed with the words of a certain proud old confederate soldier to his son: "no matter who was right and who was wrong in the civil war, the matter is settled now by the sword. the constitution left the question open, but it is written there now in letters of blood. we have given our word that they shall stand; and remember it is the word of gentlemen and binding on their sons. there have been those in the north who have doubted that word; there have been those in the south who have given cause for doubt; and this may be true for a long time. but if ever the time comes to test that word, do you be the first to prove it. you will fight for your flag--mine now as well as yours--just as sincerely as i fought against it." and these words, said crittenden in a trembling voice, the brave gentleman spoke again on his death-bed; and now, as he looked around on the fearless young faces about him, he had no need to fear that they were spoken in vain. and so the time was come for the south to prove its loyalty--not to itself nor to the north, but to the world. under him he saw his mother's eyes fill with tears, for these words of her son were the dying words of her lion-hearted husband. and judith had sat motionless, watching him with peculiar intensity and flushing a little, perhaps at the memory of her jesting taunt, while grafton had stood still--his eyes fixed, his face earnest--missing not a word. he was waiting for crittenden, and he held his hand out when the latter emerged from the crowd, with the curious embarrassment that assails the newspaper man when he finds himself betrayed into unusual feeling. "i say," he said; "that was good, _good_!" the officer who, too, had stood still as a statue, seemed to be moving toward him, and again crittenden turned away--to look for his mother. she had gone home at once--she could not face him now in that crowd--and as he was turning to his own buggy, he saw judith and from habit started toward her, but, changing his mind, he raised his hat and kept on his way, while the memory of the girl's face kept pace with him. she was looking at him with a curious wistfulness that was quite beyond him to interpret--a wistfulness that was in the sudden smile of welcome when she saw him start toward her and in the startled flush of surprise when he stopped; then, with the tail of his eye, he saw the quick paleness that followed as the girl's sensitive nostrils quivered once and her spirited face settled quickly into a proud calm. and then he saw her smile--a strange little smile that may have been at herself or at him--and he wondered about it all and was tempted to go back, but kept on doggedly, wondering at her and at himself with a miserable grim satisfaction that he was at last over and above it all. she had told him to conquer his boyish love for her and, as her will had always been law to him, he had made it, at last, a law in this. the touch of the loadstone that never in his life had failed, had failed now, and now, for once in his life, desire and duty were one. he found his mother at her seat by her open window, the unopened buds of her favourite roses hanging motionless in the still air outside, but giving their fresh green faint fragrance to the whole room within; and he remembered the quiet sunset scene every night for many nights to come. every line in her patient face had been traced there by a sorrow of the old war, and his voice trembled: "mother," he said, as he bent down and kissed her, "i'm going." her head dropped quickly to the work in her lap, but she said nothing, and he went quickly out again. iv it was growing dusk outside. chickens were going to roost with a great chattering in some locust-trees in one corner of the yard. an aged darkey was swinging an axe at the woodpile and two little pickaninnies were gathering a basket of chips. already the air was filled with the twilight sounds of the farm--the lowing of cattle, the bleating of calves at the cowpens, the bleat of sheep from the woods, and the nicker of horses in the barn. through it all, crittenden could hear the nervous thud of raincrow's hoofs announcing rain--for that was the way the horse got his name, being as black as a crow and, as bob claimed, always knowing when falling weather was at hand and speaking his prophecy by stamping in his stall. he could hear basil noisily making his way to the barn. as he walked through the garden toward the old family graveyard, he could still hear the boy, and a prescient tithe of the pain, that he felt would strike him in full some day, smote him so sharply now that he stopped a moment to listen, with one hand quickly raised to his forehead. basil was whistling--whistling joyously. foreboding touched the boy like the brush of a bird's wing, and death and sorrow were as remote as infinity to him. at the barn-door the lad called sharply: "bob!" "suh!" answered a muffled voice, and bob emerged, gray with oatdust. "i want my buggy to-night." bob grinned. "sidebar?" "yes." "new whip--new harness--little buggy mare--reckon?" "i want 'em all." bob laughed loudly. "oh, i know. you gwine to see miss phyllis dis night, sho--yes, lawd!" bob dodged a kick from the toe of the boy's boot--a playful kick that was not meant to land--and went into the barn and came out again. "yes, an' i know somewhur else you gwine--you gwine to de war. oh, i know; yes, suh. dere's a white man in town tryin' to git niggers to 'list wid him, an' he's got a nigger sojer what say he's a officer hisself; yes, mon, a corpril. an' dis nigger's jes a-gwine through town drawin' niggers right _an'_ left. he talk to me, but i jes laugh at him, an' say i gwine wid ole cap'n ur young cap'n, i don't keer which. an' lemme tell you, young capn', ef you ur ole cap'n doan lemme go wid you, i'se gwine wid dat nigger corpril an' dat white man what 'long to a nigger regiment, an' i know you don't want me to bring no sech disgrace on de fambly dat way--no, suh. he axe what you de cap'n of," bob went on, aiming at two birds with one stone now, "an' i say you de cap'n of ever'body an' ever'ting dat come 'long--dat's what i say-an' he be cap'n of you wid all yo' unyform and sich, i say, if you jest come out to de fahm--yes, mon, dat he will sho." the boy laughed and bob reiterated: "oh, i'se gwine--i'se gwine wid you--" then he stopped short. the turbaned figure of aunt keziah loomed from behind the woodpile. "what dat i heah 'bout you gwine to de wah, nigger, what dat i heah?" bob laughed--but it was a laugh of propitiation. "law, mammy. i was jes projeckin' wid young cap'n." "fool nigger, doan know what wah is--doan lemme heah you talk no more 'bout gwine to de wah ur i gwine to w'ar you out wid a hickory--dat's whut i'll do--now you min'." she turned on basil then; but basil had retreated, and his laugh rang from the darkening yard. she cried after him: "an' doan lemme heah you puttin' dis fool nigger up to gittin' hisself killed by dem cubians neither; no suh!" she was deadly serious now. "i done spanked you heap o' times, an' 'tain't so long ago, an' you ain' too big yit; no, suh." the old woman's wrath was rising higher, and bob darted into the barn before she could turn back again to him, and a moment later darted his head, like a woodpecker, out again to see if she were gone, and grinned silently after her as she rolled angrily toward the house, scolding both bob and basil to herself loudly. a song rose from the cowpens just then. full, clear, and quivering, it seemed suddenly to still everything else into silence. in a flash, bob's grin settled into a look of sullen dejection, and, with his ear cocked and drinking in the song, and with his eye on the corner of the barn, he waited. from the cowpens was coming a sturdy negro girl with a bucket of foaming milk in each hand and a third balanced on her head, singing with all the strength of her lungs. in a moment she passed the corner. "molly--say, molly." the song stopped short. "say, honey, wait a minute--jes a minute, won't ye?" the milkmaid kept straight ahead, and bob's honeyed words soured suddenly. "go on, gal, think yo'self mighty fine, don't ye? nem' min'!" molly's nostrils swelled to their full width, and, at the top of her voice, she began again. "go on, nigger, but you jes wait." molly sang on: "take up yo' cross, oh, sinner-man." before he knew it, bob gave the response with great unction: "yes, lawd." then he stopped short. "i reckon i got to break dat gal's head some day. yessuh; she knows whut my cross is," and then he started slowly after her, shaking his head and, as his wont was, talking to himself. he was still talking to himself when basil came out to the stiles after supper to get into his buggy. "young cap'n, dat gal molly mighty nigh pesterin' de life out o' me. i done tol' her i'se gwine to de wah." "what did she say?" "de fool nigger--she jes laughed--she jes laughed." the boy, too, laughed, as he gathered the reins and the mare sprang forward. "we'll see--we'll see." and bob with a triumphant snort turned toward molly's cabin. the locust-trees were quiet now and the barn was still except for the occasional stamp of a horse in his stall or the squeak of a pig that was pushed out of his warm place by a stronger brother. the night noises were strong and clear--the cricket in the grass, the croaking frogs from the pool, the whir of a night-hawk's wings along the edge of the yard, the persistent wail of a whip-poor-will sitting lengthwise of a willow limb over the meadow-branch, the occasional sleepy caw of crows from their roost in the woods beyond, the bark of a house-dog at a neighbour's home across the fields, and, further still, the fine high yell of a fox-hunter and the faint answering yelp of a hound. and inside, in the mother's room, the curtain was rising on a tragedy that was tearing open the wounds of that other war--the tragedy upon which a bloody curtain had fallen more than thirty years before. the mother listened quietly, as had her mother before her, while the son spoke quietly, for time and again he had gone over the ground to himself, ending ever with the same unalterable resolve. there had been a crittenden in every war of the nation--down to the two crittendens who slept side by side in the old graveyard below the garden. and the crittenden--of whom he had spoken that morning--the gallant crittenden who led his kentuckians to death in cuba, in , was his father's elder brother. and again he repeated the dying old confederate's deathless words with which he had thrilled the legion that morning--words heard by her own ears as well as his. what else was left him to do--when he knew what those three brothers, if they were alive, would have him do? and there were other untold reasons, hid in the core of his own heart, faced only when he was alone, and faced again, that night, after he had left his mother and was in his own room and looking out at the moonlight and the big weeping willow that drooped over the one white tomb under which the two brothers, who had been enemies in the battle, slept side by side thus in peace. so far he had followed in their footsteps, since the one part that he was fitted to play was the _rôle_ they and their ancestors had played beyond the time when the first american among them, failing to rescue his king from carisbrooke castle, set sail for virginia on the very day charles lost his royal head. but for the civil war, crittenden would have played that _rôle_ worthily and without question to the end. with the close of the war, however, his birthright was gone--even before he was born--and yet, as he grew to manhood, he had gone on in the serene and lofty way of his father--there was nothing else he could do--playing the gentleman still, though with each year the audience grew more restless and the other and lesser actors in the drama of southern reconstruction more and more resented the particular claims of the star. at last, came with a shock the realization that with the passing of the war his occupation had forever gone. and all at once, out on his ancestral farm that had carried its name canewood down from pioneer days; that had never been owned by a white man who was not a crittenden; that was isolated, and had its slaves and the children of those slaves still as servants; that still clung rigidly to old traditions--social, agricultural, and patriarchal--out there crittenden found himself one day alone. his friends--even the boy, his brother--had caught the modern trend of things quicker than he, and most of them had gone to work--some to law, some as clerks, railroad men, merchants, civil engineers; some to mining and speculating in the state's own rich mountains. of course, he had studied law--his type of southerner always studies law--and he tried the practice of it. he had too much self-confidence, perhaps, based on his own brilliant record as a college orator, and he never got over the humiliation of losing his first case, being handled like putty by a small, black-eyed youth of his own age, who had come from nowhere and had passed up through a philanthropical old judge's office to the dignity, by and by, of a license of his own. losing the suit, through some absurd little technical mistake, crittenden not only declined a fee, but paid the judgment against his client out of his own pocket and went home with a wound to his foolish, sensitive pride for which there was no quick cure. a little later, he went to the mountains, when those wonderful hills first began to give up their wealth to the world; but the pace was too swift, competition was too undignified and greedy, and business was won on too low a plane. after a year or two of rough life, which helped him more than he knew, until long afterward, he went home. politics he had not yet tried, and politics he was now persuaded to try. he made a brilliant canvass, but another element than oratory had crept in as a new factor in political success. his opponent, wharton, the wretched little lawyer who had bested him once before, bested him now, and the weight of the last straw fell crushingly. it was no use. the little touch of magic that makes success seemed to have been denied him at birth, and, therefore, deterioration began to set in--the deterioration that comes from idleness, from energy that gets the wrong vent, from strong passions that a definite purpose would have kept under control--and the worse elements of a nature that, at the bottom, was true and fine, slowly began to take possession of him as weeds will take possession of an abandoned field. but even then nobody took him as seriously as he took himself. so that while he fell just short, in his own eyes, of everything that was worth while; of doing something and being something worth while; believing something that made the next world worth while; or gaining the love of a woman that would have made this life worth while--in the eyes of his own people he was merely sowing his wild oats after the fashion of his race, and would settle down, after the same fashion, by and by--that was the indulgent summary of his career thus far. he had been a brilliant student in the old university and, in a desultory way, he was yet. he had worried his professor of metaphysics by puzzling questions and keen argument until that philosopher was glad to mark him highest in his class and let him go. he surprised the old lawyers when it came to a discussion of the pure theory of law, and, on the one occasion when his mother's pastor came to see him, he disturbed that good man no little, and closed his lips against further censure of him in pulpit or in private. so that all that was said against him by the pious was that he did not go to church as he should; and by the thoughtful, that he was making a shameful waste of the talents that the almighty had showered so freely down upon him. and so without suffering greatly in public estimation, in spite of the fact that the ideals of southern life were changing fast, he passed into the old-young period that is the critical time in the lives of men like him--when he thought he had drunk his cup to the dregs; had run the gamut of human experience; that nothing was left to his future but the dull repetition of his past. only those who knew him best had not given up hope of him, nor had he really given up hope of himself as fully as he thought. the truth was, he never fell far, nor for long, and he always rose with the old purpose the same, even if it stirred him each time with less and less enthusiasm--and always with the beacon-light of one star shining from his past, even though each time it shone a little more dimly. for usually, of course, there is the hand of a woman on the lever that prizes such a man's life upward, and when judith page's clasp loosened on crittenden, the castle that the lightest touch of her finger raised in his imagination--that he, doubtless, would have reared for her and for him, in fact, fell in quite hopeless ruins, and no similar shape was ever framed for him above its ashes. it was the simplest and oldest of stories between the two--a story that began, doubtless, with the beginning, and will never end as long as two men and one woman, or two women and one man are left on earth--the story of the love of one who loves another. only, to the sufferers the tragedy is always as fresh as a knife-cut, and forever new. judith cared for nobody. crittenden laughed and pleaded, stormed, sulked, and upbraided, and was devoted and indifferent for years--like the wilful, passionate youngster that he was--until judith did love another--what other, crittenden never knew. and then he really believed that he must, as she had told him so often, conquer his love for her. and he did, at a fearful cost to the best that was in him--foolishly, but consciously, deliberately. when the reaction came, he tried to reëstablish his relations to a world that held no judith page. her absence gave him help, and he had done very well, in spite of an occasional relapse. it was a relapse that had sent him to the mountains, six weeks before, and he had emerged with a clear eye, a clear head, steady nerves, and with the one thing that he had always lacked, waiting for him--a purpose. it was little wonder, then, that the first ruddy flash across a sky that had been sunny with peace for thirty years and more thrilled him like an electric charge from the very clouds. the next best thing to a noble life was a death that was noble, and that was possible to any man in war. one war had taken away--another might give back again; and his chance was come at last. it was midnight now, and far across the fields came the swift faint beat of a horse's hoofs on the turnpike. a moment later he could hear the hum of wheels--it was his little brother coming home; nobody had a horse that could go like that, and nobody else would drive that way if he had. since the death of their father, thirteen years after the war, he had been father to the boy, and time and again he had wondered now why he could not have been like that youngster. life was an open book to the boy--to be read as he ran. he took it as he took his daily bread, without thought, without question. if left alone, he and the little girl whom he had gone that night to see would marry, settle down, and go hand in hand into old age without questioning love, life, or happiness. and that was as it should be; and would to heaven he had been born to tread the self-same way. there was a day when he was near it; when he turned the same fresh, frank face fearlessly to the world, when his nature was as unspoiled and as clean, his hopes as high, and his faith as child-like; and once when he ran across a passage in stevenson in which that gentle student spoke of his earlier and better self as his "little brother" whom he loved and longed for and sought persistently, but who dropped farther and farther behind at times, until, in moments of darkness, he sometimes feared that he might lose him forever--crittenden had clung to the phrase, and he had let his fancy lead him to regard this boy as his early and better self--better far than he had ever been--his little brother, in a double sense, who drew from him, besides the love of brother for brother and father for son, a tenderness that was almost maternal. the pike-gate slammed now and the swift rush of wheels over the bluegrass turf followed; the barn-gate cracked sharply on the night air and crittenden heard him singing, in the boyish, untrained tenor that is so common in the south, one of the old-fashioned love-songs that are still sung with perfect sincerity and without shame by his people: "you'll never find another love like mine, "you'll never find a heart that's half so true." and then the voice was muffled suddenly. a little while later he entered the yard-gate and stopped in the moonlight and, from his window, crittenden looked down and watched him. the boy was going through the manual of arms with his buggy-whip, at the command of an imaginary officer, whom, erect and martial, he was apparently looking straight in the eye. plainly he was a private now. suddenly he sprang forward and saluted; he was volunteering for some dangerous duty; and then he walked on toward the house. again he stopped. apparently he had been promoted now for gallant conduct, for he waved his whip and called out with low, sharp sternness; "steady, now! ready; fire!" and then swinging his hat over his head: "double-quick--charge!" after the charge, he sat down for a moment on the stiles, looking up at the moon, and then came on toward the house, singing again: "you'll never find a man in all this world who'll love you half so well as i love you." and inside, the mother, too, was listening; and she heard the elder brother call the boy into his room and the door close, and she as well knew the theme of their talk as though she could hear all they said. her sons--even the elder one--did not realize what war was; the boy looked upon it as a frolic. that was the way her two brothers had regarded the old war. they went with the south, of course, as did her father and her sweetheart. and her sweetheart was the only one who came back, and him she married the third month after the surrender, when he was so sick and wounded that he could hardly stand. now she must give up all that was left for the north, that had taken nearly all she had. was it all to come again--the same long days of sorrow, loneliness, the anxious waiting, waiting, waiting to hear that this one was dead, and that this one was wounded or sick to death--would either come back unharmed? she knew now what her own mother must have suffered, and what it must have cost her to tell her sons what she had told hers that night. ah, god, was it all to come again? v some days later a bugle blast started crittenden from a soldier's cot, when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. peeping between them, he saw that only one tent was open. rivers, as acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. that blast was meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and crittenden went back to his cot and slept on. the day before he had swept out of the hills again--out through a blossoming storm of dogwood--but this time southward bound. incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that kentucky was going to dedicate to her federal and confederate dead. he would find his father's old comrade--little jerry carter--and secure a commission, if possible. meanwhile, he would drill with rivers's regiment, as a soldier of the line. at sunset he swept into the glory of a southern spring and the hallowed haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant americans once fought certain other gallant americans fiercely forward and back over some six thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where uncle sam was pitching tents for his war-children--children, too--some of them--of those old enemies, but ready to fight together now, and as near shoulder to shoulder as the modern line of battle will allow. rivers, bronzed, quick-tempered, and of superb physique, met him at the station. "you'll come right out to camp with me." the town was thronged. there were gray slouched hats everywhere with little brass crosses pinned to them--tiny rifles, sabres, cannon--crosses that were not symbols of religion, unless this was a time when the master's coming meant the sword. under them were soldiers with big pistols and belts of big, gleaming cartridges--soldiers, white and black, everywhere--swaggering, ogling, and loud of voice, but all good-natured, orderly. inside the hotel the lobby was full of officers in uniform, scanning the yellow bulletin-boards, writing letters, chatting in groups; gray veterans of horse, foot, and artillery; company officers in from western service--quiet young men with bronzed faces and keen eyes, like rivers's--renewing old friendships and swapping experiences on the plains; subalterns down to the last graduating class from west point with slim waists, fresh faces, and nothing to swap yet but memories of the old school on the hudson. in there he saw grafton again and lieutenant sharpe, of the tenth colored cavalry, whom he had seen in the bluegrass, and rivers introduced him. he was surprised that rivers, though a southerner, had so little feeling on the question of negro soldiers; that many officers in the negro regiments were southern; that southerners were preferred because they understood the black man, and, for that reason, could better handle him. sharpe presented both to his father, colonel sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to play "dixie" in camp after the southerners in congress had risen up and voted millions for the national defence. colonel sharpe spoke with some bitterness and crittenden wondered. he never dreamed that there was any bitterness on the other side--why? how could a victor feel bitterness for a fallen foe? it was the one word he heard or was to hear about the old war from federal or ex-confederate. indeed, he mistook a short, stout, careless appointee, major billings, with his negro servant, his southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine southerner, and the major, though from vermont, seemed pleased. but it was to the soldier outside that crittenden's heart had been drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill. waiting for rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass, and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm. on the edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to the street, while the two stood above him in disgust. one of them was a mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like lincoln's that crittenden started when the boy called impatiently: "pick him up, abe." the tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him under the arms again. as they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle one straightened sharply, and all three saluted. crittenden heard rivers's voice at his ear: "report for this, reynolds." and the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again. "you'll come right out to camp with me," repeated rivers. and now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing out an emphatic complaint into crittenden's sleeping ears: "i can't git 'em up, i can't git 'em up, i can't git 'em up in the mornin', i can't git 'em up, i can't git 'em up, i can't git 'em up at all. the corporal's worse than the sergeant, the sergeant's worse than the lieutenant, and the captain is worst of all." this is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he considers the somnolent iniquity of the colonel quite beyond the range of the bugle. but the pathetic appeal was too much for crittenden, and he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a dapple gray wash-basin that sat on three wooden stakes just outside. sousing his head, he sniffed in the chill air and, looking below him, took in, with pure mathematical delight, the working unit of the army as it came to life. the very camp was the symbol of order and system: a low hill, rising from a tiny stream below him in a series of natural terraces to the fringe of low pines behind him, and on these terraces officers and men sitting, according to rank; the white tepees of the privates and their tethered horses--camped in column of troops--stretching up the hill toward him; on the first terrace above and flanking the columns, the old-fashioned army tents of company officer and subaltern and the guidons in line--each captain with his lieutenants at the head of each company street; behind them and on the next terrace, the majors three--each facing the centre of his squadron. and highest on top of the hill, and facing the centre of the regiment, the slate-coloured tent of the colonel, commanding every foot of the camp. "yes," said a voice behind him, "and you'll find it just that way throughout the army." crittenden turned in surprise, and the ubiquitous grafton went on as though the little trick of thought-reading were too unimportant for notice. "let's go down and take a look at things. this is my last day," grafton went on, "and i'm out early. i go to tampa to-morrow." all the day before, as he travelled, crittenden had seen the station thronged with eager countrymen--that must have been the way it was in the old war, he thought--and swarmed the thicker the farther he went south. and now, as the two started down the hill, he could see in the dusty road that ran through the old battlefield southern interest and sympathy taking visible shape. for a hundred miles around, the human swarm had risen from the earth and was moving toward him on wagon, bicycle, horseback, foot; in omnibus, carriage, cart; in barges on wheels, with projecting additions, and other land-craft beyond classification or description. and the people--the american southerners; rich whites, whites well-to-do, poor white trash; good country folks, valley farmers; mountaineers--darkies, and the motley feminine horde that the soldier draws the world over--all moving along the road as far as he could see, and interspersed here and there in the long, low cloud of dust with a clanking troop of horse or a red rumbling battery--all coming to see the soldiers--the soldiers! and the darkies! how they flocked and stared at their soldier-brethren with pathetic worship, dumb admiration, and, here and there, with a look of contemptuous resentment that was most curious. and how those dusky sons of mars were drinking deep into their broad nostrils the incense wafted to them from hedge and highway. for a moment grafton stopped still, looking. "great!" below the majors' terrace stood an old sergeant, with a gray mustache and a kind, blue eye. each horse had his nose in a mouth-bag and was contentedly munching corn, while a trooper affectionately curried him from tip of ear to tip of tail. "horse ever first and man ever afterward is the trooper's law," said grafton. "i suppose you've got the best colonel in the army," he added to the soldier and with a wink at crittenden. "yes, sir," said the guileless old sergeant, quickly, and with perfect seriousness. "we have, sir, and i'm not sayin' a wor-rd against the rest, sir." the sergeant's voice was as kind as his face, and grafton soon learned that he was called "the governor" throughout the regiment--that he was a kentuckian and a sharpshooter. he had seen twenty-seven years of service, and his ambition had been to become a sergeant of ordnance. he passed his examination finally, but he was then a little too old. that almost broke the sergeant's heart, but the hope of a fight, now, was fast healing it. "i'm from kentucky, too," said crittenden. the old soldier turned quickly. "i knew you were, sir." this was too much for grafton. "now-how-on-earth--" and then he checked himself--it was not his business. "you're a crittenden." "that's right," laughed the kentuckian. the sergeant turned. a soldier came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, grafton observed, at crittenden. everyone looked at that man twice, thought grafton, and he looked again himself. it was his manner, his bearing, the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his striking face. but crittenden saw only that the sergeant answered the soldier as though he were talking to a superior. he had been watching the men closely--they might be his comrades some day--and, already, had noticed, with increasing surprise, the character of the men whom he saw as common soldiers--young, quiet, and above the average countryman in address and intelligence--and this man's face surprised him still more, as did his bearing. his face was dark, his eye was dark and penetrating and passionate; his mouth was reckless and weak, his build was graceful, and his voice was low and even--the voice of a gentleman; he was the refined type of the western gentleman-desperado, as crittenden had imagined it from fiction and hearsay. as the soldier turned away, the old sergeant saved him the question he was about to ask. "he used to be an officer." "who--how's that?" asked grafton, scenting "a story." the old sergeant checked himself at once, and added cautiously: "he was a lieutenant in this regiment and he resigned. he just got back to-day, and he has enlisted as a private rather than risk not getting to cuba at all. but, of course, he'll get his commission back again." the sergeant's manner fooled neither grafton nor crittenden; both respected the old sergeant's unwillingness to gossip about a man who had been his superior, and grafton asked no more questions. there was no idleness in that camp. each man was busy within and without the conical-walled tents in which the troopers lie like the spokes of a wheel, with heads out like a covey of partridges. before one tent sat the tall soldier--abe--and the boy, his comrade, whom crittenden had seen the night before. "where's reynolds?" asked crittenden, smiling. "guard-house," said the sergeant, shaking his head. not a scrap of waste matter was to be seen anywhere--not a piece of paper--not the faintest odour was perceptible; the camp was as clean as a dutch kitchen. "and this is a camp of cavalry, mind you," said grafton. "ten minutes after they have broken camp, you won't be able to tell that there has been a man or horse on the ground, except for the fact that it will be packed down hard in places. and i bet you that in a month they won't have three men in the hospital." the old sergeant nearly blushed with pleasure. "an' i've got the best captain, too, sir," he said, as they turned away, and grafton laughed. "that's the way you'll find it all through the army. each colonel and each captain is always the best to the soldier, and, by the way," he went on, "do you happen to know about this little united states regular army?" "not much." "i thought so. germany knows a good deal--england, france, prussia, russia--everybody knows but the american and the spaniard. just look at these men. they're young, strong, intelligent--bully, good americans. it's an army of picked men--picked for heart, body, and brain. almost each man is an athlete. it is the finest body of men on god almighty's earth to-day, and everybody on earth but the american and the spaniard knows it. and how this nation has treated them. think of that miserable congress--" grafton waved his hands in impotent rage and ceased--rivers was calling them from the top of the hill. so all morning crittenden watched the regimental unit at work. he took a sabre lesson from the old sergeant. he visited camps of infantry and artillery and, late that afternoon, he sat on a little wooded hill, where stood four draped, ghost-like statues--watching these units paint pictures on a bigger canvas below him, of the army at work as a whole. every green interspace below was thickly dotted with tents and rising spirals of faint smoke; every little plain was filled with soldiers, at drill. behind him wheeled cannon and caisson and men and horses, splashed with prophetic drops of red, wheeling at a gallop, halting, unlimbering, loading, and firing imaginary shells at imaginary spaniards--limbering and off with a flash of metal, wheel-spoke and crimson trappings at a gallop again; in the plain below were regiments of infantry, deploying in skirmish-line, advancing by rushes; beyond them sharpshooters were at target practice, and little bands of recruits and awkward squads were everywhere. in front, rose cloud after cloud of dust, and, under them, surged cloud after cloud of troopers at mounted drill, all making ready for the soldier's work--to kill with mercy and die without complaint. what a picture--what a picture! and what a rich earnest of the sleeping might of the nation behind it all. just under him was going an "escort of the standard," which he could plainly see. across the long drill-ground the regiment--it was rivers's regiment--stood, a solid mass of silent, living statues, and it was a brave sight that came now--that flash of sabres along the long length of the drill-field, like one leaping horizontal flame. it was a regimental acknowledgment of the honour of presentation to the standard, and crittenden raised his hat gravely in recognition of the same honour, little dreaming that he was soon to follow that standard up a certain cuban hill. what a picture! there the nation was concentrating its power. behind him that nation was patching up its one great quarrel, and now a gray phantom stalked out of the past to the music of drum and fife, and crittenden turned sharply to see a little body of men, in queer uniforms, marching through a camp of regulars toward him. they were old boys, and they went rather slowly, but they stepped jauntily and, in their natty old-fashioned caps and old gray jackets pointed into a v-shape behind, they looked jaunty in spite of their years. not a soldier but paused to look at these men in gray, who marched thus proudly through such a stronghold of blue, and were not ashamed. not a man joked or laughed or smiled, for all knew that they were old confederates in butter-nut, and once fighting-men indeed. all knew that these men had fought battles that made scouts and indian skirmishes and city riots and, perhaps, any battles in store for them with spain but play by contrast for the tin soldier, upon whom the regular smiles with such mild contempt; that this thin column had seen twice the full muster of the seven thousand strong encamped there melt away upon that very battlefield in a single day. and so the little remnant of gray marched through an atmosphere of profound respect, and on through a mist of memories to the rocky little point where the federal virginian thomas--"the rock of chickamauga"--stood against seventeen fierce assaults of hill-swarming demons in butter-nut, whose desperate valour has hardly a parallel on earth, unless it then and there found its counterpart in the desperate courage of the brothers in name and race whose lives they sought that day. they were bound to a patriotic love-feast with their old enemies in blue--these men in gray--to hold it on the hill around the four bronze statues that crittenden's state was putting up to her sons who fought on one or the other side on that one battlefield, and crittenden felt a clutch at his heart and his eyes filled when the tattered old flag of the stars and bars trembled toward him. under its folds rode the spirit of gallant fraternity--a little, old man with a grizzled beard and with stars on his shoulders, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, his eyes lifted dreamily upward--they called him the "bee-hunter," from that habit of his in the old war--his father's old comrade, little jerry carter. that was the man crittenden had come south to see. behind came a carriage, in which sat a woman in widow's weeds and a tall girl in gray. he did not need to look again to see that it was judith, and, motionless, he stood where he was throughout the ceremony, until he saw the girl lift her hand and the veil fall away from the bronze symbols of the soldier that was in her fathers and in his--stood resolutely still until the gray figure disappeared and the veterans, blue and gray intermingled, marched away. the little general was the last to leave, and he rode slowly, as if overcome with memories. crittenden took off his hat and, while he hesitated, hardly knowing whether to make himself known or not, the little man caught sight of him and stopped short. "why--why, bless my soul, aren't you tom crittenden's son?" "yes, sir," said crittenden. "i knew it. bless me, i was thinking of him just that moment--naturally enough--and you startled me. i thought it was tom himself." he grasped the kentuckian's hand warmly. "yes," he said, studying his face. "you look just as he did when we courted and camped and fought together." the tone of his voice moved crittenden deeply. "and you are going to the war--good--good! your father would be with me right now if he were alive. come to see me right away. i may go to tampa any day." and, as he rode away, he stopped again. "of course you have a commission in the legion." "no, sir. i didn't ask for one. i was afraid the legion might not get to cuba." the general smiled. "well, come to see me"--he smiled again--"we'll see--we'll see!" and he rode on with his hands still folded on the pommel of his saddle and his eyes still lifted, dreamily, upward. it was guard-mount and sunset when crittenden, with a leaping heart, reached rivers's camp. the band was just marching out with a corps of trumpeters, when a crash of martial music came across the hollow from the camp on the next low hill, followed by cheers, which ran along the road and were swollen into a mighty shouting when taken up by the camp at the foot of the hill. through the smoke and faint haze of the early evening, moved a column of infantry into sight, headed by a band. "tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching!" along the brow of the hill, and but faintly seen through the smoky haze, came the pendulum-like swing of rank after rank of sturdy legs, with guidons fluttering along the columns and big, ghostly army wagons rumbling behind. up started the band at the foot of the hill with a rousing march, and up started every band along the line, and through madly cheering soldiers swung the regiment on its way to tampa--magic word, hope of every chafing soldier left behind--tampa, the point of embarkation for the little island where waited death or glory. rivers was deeply dejected. "don't you join any regiment yet," he said to crittenden; "you may get hung up here all summer till the war is over. if you want to get into the fun for sure--wait. go to tampa and wait. you might come here, or go there, and drill and watch for your chance." which was the conclusion crittenden had already reached for himself. the sun sank rapidly now. dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty years ago. they had a new and ominous chant now to crittenden--a chant of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow them. camp-fires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over the old battlefield. around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the colonel's tent, sat the colonel, with kind irish face, irish eye, and irish wit of tongue. near him the old indian-fighter, chaffee, with strong brow, deep eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin--the long, lean face of a thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. while they told war-stories, crittenden sat in silence with the majors three, and willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in cuba), and listened. every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say: "how!" there is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the united states army, and with indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup in hand: "how!" once it was lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn--but fluent when he did speak--or kent, or sumner, or little jerry carter himself. and once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking sharply together; and crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to take their cue from the colonel. it was the soldier who had been an officer once. the colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did the impassive soldier to anybody but crittenden, and with him it may have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he met crittenden's gaze. rivers shrugged his shoulders when crittenden asked about him later. "black sheep, ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting indians, but always in trouble--gambling, fighting, and so forth. somebody in washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its way to him out west he got into a bar-room brawl. he resigned then, and left the army. he was gentleman enough to do that. now he's back. the type is common in the army, and they often come back. i expect he has decency enough to want to get killed. if he has, maybe he'll come out a captain yet." by and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps"; then another and another and another still. at last, when all were through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. this last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. the rest had simply given the command: "lights out!" lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. lights out of the soldier's life, said this one, sadly; and out of crittenden's life just now something that once was dearer than life itself. "love, good-night." such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another than crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his cot--thinking of judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift to pull away the veil from the statues again. so it had always been with him. one touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted, and that self stepped forth victorious. it had been thickening, fold on fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be done, and should be done with his own hands. and then he would go back to thinking of her as he saw her last in the bluegrass. and he wondered what that last look and smile of hers could mean. later, he moved in his sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for tampa--with his mind's eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his heart that waked him. and he remembered that it was the first time he had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. but it had come to him--awake and asleep--and it was genuine. vi it was mid-may now, and the leaves were full and their points were drooping toward the earth. the woods were musical with the cries of blackbirds as crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was sweet with the love-calls of larks. the sun was fast nearing the zenith, and air and earth were lusty with life. already the lane, lined with locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting camp in the state for the spanish war. there was a big crowd in the lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum came forth to crittenden's ears even that far away, and raincrow raised head and tail and quickened his pace proudly. for a week he had drilled at chickamauga. he had done the work of a plain soldier, and he liked it--liked his temporary comrades, who were frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their superiors on top of the hill. to the big soldier, abe long, the wag of the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. he liked abe's bunkie, the boy sanders, who was from maine, while abe was a westerner--the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character of the border backwoodsman of the revolution. reynolds was a bully, and crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy sanders when abe was not around, and bullied the "rookies." abe seemed to have little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in an indian fight, abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally. but blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him most; perhaps, because blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at once. from washington, crittenden had heard not a word; nor from general carter, who had left chickamauga before he could see him again. if, within two days more, no word came, crittenden had made up his mind to go to tampa, where the little general was, and where rivers's regiment had been ordered, and drill again and, as rivers advised, await his chance. the camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton left out. everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or stopping before the colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the colonel's beautiful guests from the river city--the big town of the state. everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, throwing dice or playing "craps"--the game dear to the darkey's heart. on the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not very stern sentinels were they. as crittenden drove in, he saw one pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm. and later, as he stood by his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast it all was to what he had seen at chickamauga, he saw another sentinel brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant. the sentinel was basil and phyllis was the girl. "why, isn't that basil?" she asked in an amazed tone--amazed because basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently. "why, it is basil; why--why," and she turned helplessly from private to officer and back again. "can't you speak to me, basil?" basil grinned again sheepishly. "yes," he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, "i can if the lieutenant there will let me." phyllis was indignant. "let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant at her side. "now, don't you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been in the legion a little longer than _some_ people. of course, i'm going to speak to my friends. i don't care where they are or what they happen to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them." and she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched, while the equally helpless lieutenant got very red indeed, and basil shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand. "let me see your gun, basil," she added, and the boy obediently handed it over to her, while the little lieutenant turned redder still. "you go to the guard-house for that, crittenden," he said, quietly. "don't you know you oughtn't to give up your gun to anybody except your commanding officer?" "does he, indeed?" said the girl, just as quietly. "well, i'll see the colonel." and basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house for him that night. "anyhow," she added, "i'm the commanding officer here." and then the gallant lieutenant saluted too. "you are, indeed," he said; and phyllis turned to give basil a parting smile. crittenden followed them to the colonel's tent, which had a raised floor and the good cheer of cigar-boxes, and of something under his cot that looked like a champagne-basket; and he smiled to think of chaffee's spartan-like outfit at chickamauga. every now and then a soldier would come up with a complaint, and the colonel would attend to him personally. it was plain that the old ex-confederate was the father of the regiment, and was beloved as such; and crittenden was again struck with the contrast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however, that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and volunteer approached the matter in hand. with one, it was a business pure and simple, to which he was trained. with the other, it was a lark at first, but business it soon would be, and a dashing business at that. there was the same crowd before the tent--judith, who greeted him with gracious frankness, but with a humorous light in her eye that set him again to wondering; and phyllis and phyllis's mother, mrs. stanton, who no sooner saw crittenden than she furtively looked at judith with a solicitude that was maternal and significant. there can be no better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man is going to war; and if mrs. stanton had not shaken that nugget of wisdom from her memories of the old war, she would have known it anyhow, for she was blessed with a perennial sympathy for the heart-troubles of the young, and she was as quick to apply a remedy to the children of other people as she was to her own, whom, by the way, she cured, one by one, as they grew old enough to love and suffer, and learn through suffering what it was to be happy. and how other mothers wondered how it was all done! in truth, her method--if she had a conscious method--was as mysterious and as sure as is the way of nature; and one could no more catch her nursing a budding passion here and there than one could catch nature making the bluegrass grow. everybody saw the result; nobody saw just how it was done. that afternoon an instance was at hand. judith wanted to go home, and mrs. stanton, who had brought her to camp, wanted to go to town. phyllis, too, wanted to go home, and her wicked little brother, walter, who had brought her, climbed into basil's brake before her eyes, and, making a face at her, disappeared in a cloud of dust. of course, neither of the brothers nor the two girls knew what was going on, but, a few minutes later, there was basil pleading with mrs. stanton to let him take phyllis home, and there was crittenden politely asking the privilege of taking judith into his buggy. the girl looked embarrassed, but when mrs. stanton made a gracious feint of giving up her trip to town, judith even more graciously declined to allow her, and, with a smile to crittenden, as though he were a conscious partner in her effort to save mrs. stanton trouble, gave him her hand and was helped into the smart trap, with its top pressed flat, its narrow seat and a high-headed, high-reined, half-thoroughbred restive between the slender shafts; and a moment later, smiled a good-by to the placid lady, who, with a sigh that was half an envious memory, half the throb of a big, kind heart, turned to her own carriage, assuring herself that it really was imperative for her to drive to town, if for no other reason than to see that her mischievous boy got out of town with the younger crittenden's brake. judith and crittenden were out of the push of cart, carriage, wagon, and street-car now, and out of the smoke and dust of the town, and crittenden pulled his horse down to a slow trot. the air was clear and fragrant and restful. so far, the two had spoken scarcely a dozen words. crittenden was embarrassed--he hardly knew why--and judith saw it, and there was a suppressed smile at the corners of her mouth which crittenden did not see. "it's too bad." crittenden turned suddenly. "it's a great pleasure." "for which you have mrs. stanton to thank. you would have got it for yourself five--dear me; is it possible?--five years ago." "seven years ago," corrected crittenden, grimly. "i was more self-indulgent seven years ago than i am now." "and the temptation was greater then." the smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still crittenden did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent. the clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out on the hard road. the cushioned springs under them creaked softly now and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless and drowsy. "you haven't changed much," said judith, "except for the better." "you haven't changed at all. you couldn't--for better or worse." judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward--very far backward. suddenly they were shot with mischief. "why, you really don't seem to--" she hesitated--"to like me any more." "i really don't--" crittenden, too, hesitated--"don't like you any more--not as i did." "you wrote me that." "yes." the girl gave a low laugh. how often he had played this harmless little part. but there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never seen before. she had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she was finding it easy. "and you never answered," said crittenden. "no; and i don't know why." the birds were coming from shade and picket--for midday had been warm--into the fields and along the hedges, and were fluttering from one fence-rail to another ahead of them and piping from the bushes by the wayside and the top of young weeds. "you wrote that you were--'getting over it.' in the usual way?" crittenden glanced covertly at judith's face. a mood in her like this always made him uneasy. "not in the usual way; i don't think it's usual. i hope not." "how, then?" "oh, pride, absence--deterioration and other things." "why, then?" judith's head was leaning backward, her eyes were closed, but her face seemed perfectly serious. "you told me to get over it." "did i?" crittenden did not deign to answer this, and judith was silent a long while. then her eyes opened; but they were looking backward again, and she might have been talking to herself. "i'm wondering," she said, "whether any woman ever really meant that when she said it to a man whom she--" crittenden turned quickly--"whom she liked," added judith as though she had not seen his movement. "she may think it her duty to say it; she may say it because it is her duty; but in her heart, i suppose, she wants him to keep on loving her just the same--if she likes him--" judith paused--"even more than a very little. that's very selfish, but i'm afraid it's true." and judith sighed helplessly. "i think you made it little enough that time," laughed crittenden. "are you still afraid of giving me too much hope?" "i am afraid of nothing--now." "thank you. you were ever too much concerned about me." "i was. other men may have found the fires of my conscience smouldering sometimes, but they were always ablaze whenever you came near. i liked you better than the rest--better than all----" crittenden's heart gave a faint throb and he finished the sentence for her. "but one." "but one." and that one had been unworthy, and judith had sent him adrift. she had always been frank with crittenden. that much he knew and no more--not even the man's name; but how he had wondered who and where and what manner of man he was! and how he had longed to see him! they were passing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool current of air struck them and the freshened odour of moistening green things in the creek-bed--the first breath of the night that was still below the cloudy horizon. "deterioration," said judith, almost sharply. "what did you mean by that?" crittenden hesitated, and she added: "go on; we are no longer children." "oh, it was nothing, or everything, just as you look at it. i made a discovery soon after you went away. i found that when i fell short of the standard you"--crittenden spoke slowly--"had set for me, i got at least mental relief. i _couldn't_ think of you until--until i had recovered myself again." "so you----" "i used the discovery." "that was weak." "it was deliberate." "then it was criminal." "both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to confess and the grace to be ashamed. but i'm beginning all over again now--by myself." he was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not looking at her, and judith kept silent; but she was watching his face. "it's time," he went on, with slow humour. "so far, i've just missed being what i should have been; doing what i should have done--by a hair's breadth. i did pretty well in college, but thereafter, when things begin to count! law? i never got over the humiliation of my first ridiculous failure. business? i made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in a month, and was lucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm. politics? wharton won by a dozen votes. i just missed being what my brother is now--i missed winning you--everything! think of it! i am five feet eleven and three-quarters, when i should have been full six feet. i am the first crittenden to fall under the line in a century. i have been told"--he smiled--"that i have missed being handsome. there again i believe i overthrow family tradition. my youth is going--to no purpose, so far--and it looks as though i were going to miss life hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, i have just about missed faith." he was quite sincere and unsparing, but had judith been ten years older, she would have laughed outright. as it was, she grew sober and sympathetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, perhaps, how far she had been to blame. "the comfort i have is that i have been, and still am, honest with myself. i haven't done what i ought not and then tried to persuade myself that it was right. i always knew it was wrong, and i did it anyhow. and the hope i have is that, like the man in browning's poem, i believe i always try to get up again, no matter how often i stumble. i sha'n't give up hope until i am willing to lie still. and i guess, after all--" he lifted his head suddenly--"i haven't missed being a man." "and a gentleman," added judith gently. "according to the old standard--no." crittenden paused. the sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them. raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but crittenden pulled him in as basil and phyllis swept by. the two youngsters were in high spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her handkerchief--both crying something which neither judith nor crittenden could understand. far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy--wharton--a girl by his side, and coming at full speed. at once he instinctively gave half the road, and raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. the head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking quietly. "i love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "do you remember that passage i once read you in stevenson about his 'little brother'?" judith nodded. the horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible past the light hair blowing about judith's neck. crittenden spoke one quiet word to his own horse, and judith saw the leaders of his wrist begin to stand out as raincrow settled into the long reach that had sent his sire a winner under many a string. "well, i know what he meant--that boy never will. and that is as a man should be. the hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on before with phyllis and basil." once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on bluegrass turnpikes, but judith had the southern girl's trust and courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them. "yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. they will have a house full of children--i have heard her mother say that was her ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a sane, wholesome, useful, happy life." the buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost neck and neck. wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy black hair was looking behind judith's head at crittenden and was smiling. not once had judith turned her head, even to see who they were. crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they were approaching her gate now and he found out. "shall i turn in?" he asked. "go on," said judith. there was a long, low hill before them, and up that crittenden let raincrow have his full speed for the first time. the panting nostrils of the other horse fell behind--out of sight--out of hearing. "and if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him sincerely for a year or two and then----" "marry someone else." "why not?" that was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as though it were quite possible--even for him; and she was both glad and a little resentful. at the top of the hill they turned. the enemy was trotting leisurely up the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew. judith's face was flushed. "i don't think you are so very old," she said. [illustration: "go on!" said judith.] crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the buggy, but wharton looked surly. the girl with the black hair looked sharply at judith, and then again at crittenden, and smiled. she must have cared little for her companion, judith thought, or something for crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at crittenden, even when they did not know him very well. still she asked: "and the other things--you meant other women?" "yes, and no." "why no?" "because i have deceived nobody--not even myself--and heaven knows i tried that hard enough." "that was one?" she added, smiling. "i thought you knew me better than to ask such a question." again judith smiled--scanning him closely. "no, you aren't so very old--nor world-weary, after all." "no?" "no. and you have strong hands--and wrists. and your eyes are--" she seemed almost embarrassed--"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what you say about yourself; and i would trust them. and it was very fine in you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago." crittenden turned with a start of surprise. "oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "you didn't seem to be very nervous." "i trusted you." crittenden had stopped to pull the self-opening gate, and he drove almost at a slow walk through the pasture toward judith's home. the sun was reddening through the trees now. the whole earth was moist and fragrant, and the larks were singing their last songs for that happy day. judith was quite serious now. "do you know, i was glad to hear you say that you had got over your old feeling for me. i feel so relieved. i have always felt so responsible for your happiness, but i don't now, and it is _such_ a relief. now you will go ahead and marry some lovely girl and you will be happy and i shall be happier--seeing it and knowing it." crittenden shook his head. "no," he said, "something seems to have gone out of me, never to come back." there was nobody in sight to open the yard gate, and crittenden drove to the stiles, where he helped judith out and climbed back into his buggy. judith turned in surprise. "aren't you coming in?" "i'm afraid i haven't time." "oh, yes, you have." a negro boy was running from the kitchen. "hitch mr. crittenden's horse," she said, and crittenden climbed out obediently and followed her to the porch, but she did not sit down outside. she went on into the parlour and threw open the window to let the last sunlight in, and sat by it looking at the west. for a moment crittenden watched her. he never realized before how much simple physical beauty she had, nor did he realize the significance of the fact that never until now had he observed it. she had been a spirit before; now she was a woman as well. but he did note that if he could have learned only from judith, he would never have known that he even had wrists or eyes until that day; and yet he was curiously unstirred by the subtle change in her. he was busied with his own memories. "and i know it can never come back," he said, and he went on thinking as he looked at her. "i wonder if you can know what it is to have somebody such a part of your life that you never hear a noble strain of music, never read a noble line of poetry, never catch a high mood from nature, nor from your own best thoughts--that you do not imagine her by your side to share your pleasure in it all; that you make no effort to better yourself or help others; that you do nothing of which she could approve, that you are not thinking of her--that really she is not the inspiration of it all. that doesn't come but once. think of having somebody so linked with your life, with what is highest and best in you, that, when the hour of temptation comes and overcomes, you are not able to think of her through very shame. i wonder if _he_ loved you that way. i wonder if you know what such love is." "it never comes but once," he said, in a low tone, that made judith turn suddenly. her eyes looked as if they were not far from tears. a tiny star showed in the pink glow over the west-- "starlight, star bright!" "think of it. for ten years i never saw the first star without making the same wish for you and me. why," he went on, and stopped suddenly with a little shame at making the confession even to himself, and at the same time with an impersonal wonder that such a thing could be, "i used to pray for you always--when i said my prayers--actually. and sometimes even now, when i'm pretty hopeless and helpless and moved by some memory, the old prayer comes back unconsciously and i find myself repeating your name." for the moment he spoke as though not only that old love, but she who had caused it, were dead, and the tone of his voice made her shiver. and the suffering he used to get--the suffering from trifles--the foolish suffering from silly trifles! he turned now, for he heard judith walking toward him. she was looking him straight in the eyes and was smiling strangely. "i'm going to make you love me as you used to love me." her lips were left half parted from the whisper, and he could have stooped and kissed her--something that never in his life had he done--he knew that--but the old reverence came back from the past to forbid him, and he merely looked down into her eyes, flushing a little. "yes," she said, gently. "and i think you are just tall enough." in a flash her mood changed, and she drew his head down until she could just touch his forehead with her lips. it was a sweet bit of motherliness--no more--and crittenden understood and was grateful. "go home now," she said. vii at tampa--the pomp and circumstance of war. a gigantic hotel, brilliant with lights, music, flowers, women; halls and corridors filled with bustling officers, uniformed from empty straps to stars; volunteer and regular--easily distinguished by the ease of one and the new and conscious erectness of the other; adjutants, millionaire aids, civilian inspectors; gorgeous attachés--english, german, swedish, russian, prussian, japanese--each wondrous to the dazzled republican eye; cubans with cigarettes, cubans--little and big, war-like, with the tail of the dark eye ever womanward, brave with machétes; on the divans cuban senoritas--refugees at tampa--dark-eyed, of course, languid of manner, to be sure, and with the eloquent fan, ever present, omnipotent--shutting and closing, shutting and closing, like the wings of a gigantic butterfly; adventurers, adventuresses; artists, photographers; correspondents by the score--female correspondents; story writers, novelists, real war correspondents, and real draughtsmen--artists, indeed; and a host of lesser men with spurs yet to win--all crowding the hotel day and night, night and day. and outside, to the sea--camped in fine white sand dust, under thick stars and a hot sun--soldiers, soldiers everywhere, lounging through the streets and the railway stations, overrunning the suburbs; drilling--horseback and on foot--through clouds of sand; drilling at skirmish over burnt sedge-grass and stunted and charred pine woods; riding horses into the sea, and plunging in themselves like truant schoolboys. in the bay a fleet of waiting transports, and all over dock, camp, town, and hotel an atmosphere of fierce unrest and of eager longing to fill those wooden hulks, rising and falling with such maddening patience on the tide, and to be away. all the time, meanwhile, soldiers coming in--more and more soldiers--in freight-box, day-coach, and palace-car. that night, in the hotel, grafton and crittenden watched the crowd from a divan of red plush, grafton chatting incessantly. around them moved and sat the women of the "house of the hundred thousand"--officers' wives and daughters and sisters and sweethearts and army widows--claiming rank and giving it more or less consciously, according to the rank of the man whom they represented. the big man with the monocle and the suit of towering white from foot to crown was the english naval attaché. he stalked through the hotel as though he had the british empire at his back. "and he has, too," said grafton. "you ought to see him go down the steps to the café. the door is too low for him. other tall people bend forward--he always rears back." and the picturesque little fellow with the helmet was the english military attaché. crittenden had seen him at chickamauga, and grafton said they would hear of him in cuba. the prussian was handsome, and a count. the big, boyish blond was a russian, and a prince, as was the quiet, modest, little japanese--a mighty warrior in his own country. and the swede, the polite, the exquisite! "he wears a mustache guard. i offered him a cigar. he saluted: 'thank you,' he said. 'nevare i schmoke.'" "they are the pets of the expedition," grafton went on, "they and that war-like group of correspondents over there. they'll go down on the flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. but we'll all be on the same footing when we get there." just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called grafton. "huh!" he said. "huh!" mimicked grafton. "you don't know much about the army." "six weeks ago i couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs." the big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance. "therefore," said grafton, "i shall not pass judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted--well, maybe for some days yet." "you've got to. you must have a policy--a policy. i'll give you one." and he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses for pantomime, indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument. "there is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? but you mustn't say it, huh? give 'em hell afterward." (pantomime.) "that's right, ain't it? understand? regular army all right." (sign language.) "these damn fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? had best army in the world at the close of the old war, see? best equipped, you understand, huh? congress" (violent indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? cut it down--cut it down, see? illustrate: wanted , mules for this push, got , , see? same principle all through; see? that's right! no good to say anything now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? mustn't say anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (more sign language.) "hell afterward. all right now, got your policy, go ahead." grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: "thanks, old man--thanks. it's very lucid." a little later crittenden saw the stout civilian, major billings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at chickamauga; and willings, the surgeon; and chaffee, now a brigadier; and lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little jerry carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory. the little general greeted crittenden like a son. "i was sorry not to see you again at chickamauga, but i started here next day. i have just written you that there was a place on my staff for you or your brother--or for any son of your father and my friend. i'll write to washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty whenever you please." the little man made the astounding proposition as calmly as though he were asking the kentuckian to a lunch of bacon and hardtack, and crittenden flushed with gratitude and his heart leaped--his going was sure now. before he could stammer out his thanks, the general was gone. just then rivers, who, to his great joy, had got at least that far, sat down by him. he was much depressed. his regiment was going, but two companies would be left behind. his colonel talked about sending him back to kentucky to bring down some horses, and he was afraid to go. "to think of being in the army as long as i have been, just for this fight. and to think of being left here in this hell-hole all summer, and missing all the fun in cuba, not to speak of the glory and the game. we haven't had a war for so long that glory will come easy now, and anybody who does anything will be promoted. but it's missing the fight--the fight--that worries me," and rivers shook his head from side to side dejectedly. "if my company goes, i'm all right; but if it doesn't, there is no chance for me if i go away. i shall lose my last chance of slipping in somewhere. i swear i'd rather go as a private than not at all." this idea gave crittenden a start, and made him on the sudden very thoughtful. "can you get me in as a private at the last minute?" he asked presently. "yes," said rivers, quickly, "and i'll telegraph you in plenty of time, so that you can get back." crittenden smiled, for rivers's plan was plain, but he was thinking of a plan of his own. meanwhile, he drilled as a private each day. he was ignorant of the krag-jorgensen, and at chickamauga he had made such a laughable exhibition of himself that the old sergeant took him off alone one day, and when they came back the sergeant was observed to be smiling broadly. at the first target practice thereafter, crittenden stood among the first men of the company, and the captain took mental note of him as a sharpshooter to be remembered when they got to cuba. with the drill he had little trouble--being a natural-born horseman--so one day, when a trooper was ill, he was allowed to take the sick soldier's place and drill with the regiment. that day his trouble with reynolds came. all the soldiers were free and easy of speech and rather reckless with epithets, and, knowing how little was meant, crittenden merely remonstrated with the bully and smilingly asked him to desist. "suppose i don't?" crittenden smiled again and answered nothing, and reynolds mistook his silence for timidity. at right wheel, a little later, crittenden squeezed the bully's leg, and reynolds cursed him. he might have passed that with a last warning, but, as they wheeled again, he saw reynolds kick sanders so violently that the boy's eyes filled with tears. he went straight for the soldier as soon as the drill was over. "put up your guard." "aw, go to----" the word was checked at his lips by crittenden's fist. in a rage, reynolds threw his hand behind him, as though he would pull his revolver, but his wrist was caught by sinewy fingers from behind. it was blackford, smiling into his purple face. "hold on!" he said, "save that for a spaniard." at once, as a matter of course, the men led the way behind the tents, and made a ring--blackford, without a word, acting as crittenden's second. reynolds was the champion bruiser of the regiment and a boxer of no mean skill, and blackford looked anxious. "worry him, and he'll lose his head. don't try to do him up too quickly." reynolds was coarse, disdainful, and triumphant, but he did not look quite so confident when crittenden stripped and showed a white body, closely jointed at shoulder and elbow and at knee and thigh, and closely knit with steel-like tendons. the long muscles of his back slipped like eels under his white skin. blackford looked relieved. "do you know the game?" "a little." "worry him and wait till he loses his head--remember, now." "all right," said crittenden, cheerfully, and turned and faced reynolds, smiling. "gawd," said abe long. "he's one o' the fellows that laugh when they're fightin'. they're worse than the cryin' sort--a sight worse." the prophecy in the soldier's tone soon came true. the smile never left crittenden's face, even when it was so bruised up that smiling was difficult; but the onlookers knew that the spirit of the smile was still there. blackford himself was smiling now. crittenden struck but for one place at first--reynolds's nose, which was naturally large and red, because he could reach it every time he led out. the nose swelled and still reddened, and reynolds's small black eyes narrowed and flamed with a wicked light. he fought with his skill at first, but those maddening taps on his nose made him lose his head altogether in the sixth round, and he senselessly rushed at crittenden with lowered head, like a sheep. crittenden took him sidewise on his jaw as he came, and stepped aside. reynolds pitched to the ground heavily, and crittenden bent over him. "you let that boy alone," he said, in a low voice, and then aloud and calmly: "i don't like this, but it's in deference to your customs. i don't call names, and i allow nobody to call me names; and if i have another fight," reynolds was listening now, "it won't be with my fists." "well, mister man from kentucky," said abe, "i'd a damn sight ruther you'd use a club on me than them fists; but there's others of us who don't call names, and ain't called names; and some of us ain't easy skeered, neither." "i wasn't threatening," said crittenden, quickly, "but i have heard a good deal of that sort of thing flying around, and i don't want to get into this sort of a thing again." he looked steadily at the soldier, but the eye of abraham long quailed not at all. instead, a smile broke over his face. "i got a drink waitin' fer you," he said; and crittenden laughed. "git up an' shake hands, jim," said abe, sternly, to crittenden's opponent, "an' let's have a drink." reynolds got up slowly. "you gimme a damn good lickin,'" he said to crittenden. "shake!" crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for long's tent. "boys," he said to the others, "i'm sorry fer ye. i ain't got but four drinks--and--" the old sergeant was approaching; "and one more fer the governor." rivers smiled broadly when he saw crittenden at noon. "the 'governor' told me," he said, "you couldn't do anything in this regiment that would do you more good with officers and men. that fellow has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and you are the first man yet to get the best of him. if the men could elect you, you'd be a lieutenant before to-morrow night." crittenden laughed. "it was disgusting, but i didn't see any other way out of it." tattoo was sounded. "are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?" "easy--as a private." "what regiment?" "rough riders or regulars." "all right, then, i'll go to kentucky for you." "no, old man. i was selfish enough to think it, but i'm not selfish enough to do it. i won't have it." "but i want to go back. if i can get in at the last moment i should go back anyhow to-night." "really?" "really. just see that you let me know in time." rivers grasped his hand. "i'll do that." next morning rumours were flying. in a week, at least, they would sail. and still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon crittenden saw the regiment come in for which grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical american regiment formed since jackson fought at new orleans. at the head of it rode two men--one with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both together an ideal leader for the thousand americans at their heels. behind them rode the rough riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers, gathered from every state, every walk of labour and leisure, every social grade in the union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and clubman, college boys and athletes, southern revenue officers and northern policemen; but most of them westerners--texan rangers, sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; indians; followers of all political faiths, all creeds--catholics, protestants, jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. and americans--all! as the last troopers filed past, crittenden followed them with his eyes, and he saw a little way off blackford standing with folded arms on the edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. he started when crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed. "that's where i belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the retreating column. "i don't know one of them, and i know them all. i've gone to college with some; i've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and gambled with the others. i belong with them; and i'm going with them if i can; i'm trying to get an exchange now." "well, luck to you, and good-by," said crittenden, holding out his hand. "i'm going home to-night." "but you're coming back?" "yes." blackford hesitated. "are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment. "i don't know; this or the rough riders." "well," blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as 'bunkies'?" "sure!" "thank you." the two men grasped hands. "i hope you will come back." "i'm sure to come back. good-by." "good-by, sir." the unconscious "sir" startled crittenden. it was merely habit, of course, and the fact that crittenden was not yet enlisted, but there was an unintended significance in the soldier's tone that made him wince. blackford turned sharply away, flushing. viii back in the bluegrass, the earth was flashing with dew, and the air was brilliant with a steady light that on its way from the sun was broken by hardly a cloud. the woodland was alive with bird-wing and bird-song and, under them, with the flash of metal and the joy of breaking camp. the town was a mighty pedestal for flag-staffs. everywhere flags were shaken out. main street, at a distance, looked like a long lane of flowers in a great garden--all blowing in a wind. under them, crowds were gathered--country people, negroes, and townfolk--while the town band stood waiting at the gate of the park. the legion was making ready to leave for chickamauga, and the town had made ready to speed its going. out of the shady woodland, and into the bright sunlight, the young soldiers came--to the music of stirring horn and drum--legs swinging rhythmically, chins well set in, eyes to the front--wheeling into the main street in perfect form--their guns a moving forest of glinting steel--colonel and staff superbly mounted--every heart beating proudly against every blue blouse, and sworn to give up its blood for the flag waving over them--the flag the fathers of many had so bitterly fought five and thirty years before. down the street went the flash and glitter and steady tramp of the solid columns, through waving flags and handkerchiefs and mad cheers--cheers that arose before them, swelled away on either side and sank out of hearing behind them as they marched--through faces bravely smiling, when the eyes were full of tears; faces tense with love, anxiety, fear; faces sad with bitter memories of the old war. on the end of the first rank was the boy basil, file-leader of his squad, swinging proudly, his handsome face serious and fixed, his eyes turning to right nor left--seeing not his mother, proud, white, tearless; nor crittenden, with a lump of love in his throat; nor even little phyllis--her pride in her boy-soldier swept suddenly out of her aching heart, her eyes brimming, and her handkerchief at her mouth to keep bravely back the sob that surged at her lips. the station at last, and then cheers and kisses and sobs, and tears and cheers again, and a waving of hands and flags and handkerchiefs--a column of smoke puffing on and on toward the horizon--the vanishing perspective of a rear platform filled with jolly, reckless, waving, yelling soldiers, and the tragedy of the parting was over. how every detail of earth and sky was seared deep into the memory of the women left behind that afternoon--as each drove slowly homeward: for god help the women in days of war! the very peace of heaven lay upon the earth. it sank from the low, moveless clouds in the windless sky to the sunlit trees in the windless woods, as still as the long shadows under them. it lay over the still seas of bluegrass--dappled in woodland, sunlit in open pasture--resting on low hills like a soft cloud of bluish-gray, clinging closely to every line of every peaceful slope. stillness everywhere. still cattle browsing in the distance; sheep asleep in the far shade of a cliff, shadowing the still stream; even the song of birds distant, faint, restful. peace everywhere, but little peace in the heart of the mother to whose lips was raised once more the self-same cup that she had drained so long ago. peace everywhere but for phyllis climbing the stairs to her own room and flinging herself upon her bed in a racking passion of tears. god help the women in the days of war! peace from the dome of heaven to the heart of the earth, but a gnawing unrest for judith, who walked very slowly down the gravelled walk and to the stiles, and sat looking over the quiet fields. only in her eyes was the light not wholly of sadness, but a proud light of sacrifice and high resolve. crittenden was coming that night. he was going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not go--to his death, maybe--without knowing what she had to tell him. it was not much--it was very little, in return for his life-long devotion--that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown her girlish infatuation--she knew now that it was nothing else--for the one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no other--lover or friend--for whom she had the genuine affection that she would always have for him. she would tell him frankly--she was a grown woman now--because she thought she owed that much to him--because, under the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling for her. then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed softly. it was preposterous. she understood all that. he had acted that little part so many times in by-gone years! and she had always pretended to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. and, anyhow, what could he misunderstand? there was nothing to misunderstand. and so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and of herself since both were children--of his love and his long faithfulness, and of her--her--what? yes--she had been something of a coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and, usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. she was so sorry for them all that she had really tried to like them all. she had succeeded but once--and even that was a mistake. but she remembered one thing: through it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with crittenden. before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face always. there was something in him that had always forced that. and he had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. there was none other in her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there never would be. if there were only any way that she could make amends. never had she thought with such tenderness of him. how strong and brave he was; how high-minded and faithful. and he was good, in spite of all that foolish talk about himself. and all her life he had loved her, and he had suffered. she could see that he was still unhappy. if, then, there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back from the war--why not? why not? she felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she turned from the sunset her eyes had all its deep tender light. dusk was falling, and already raincrow and crittenden were jogging along toward her at that hour--the last trip for either for many a day--the last for either in life, maybe--for raincrow, too, like his master, was going to war--while bob, at home, forbidden by his young captain to follow him to chickamauga, trailed after crittenden about the place with the appealing look of a dog--enraged now and then by the taunts of the sharp-tongued molly, who had the little confidence in the courage of her fellows that marks her race. judith was waiting for him on the porch, and crittenden saw her from afar. she was dressed for the evening in pure white--delicate, filmy--showing her round white throat and round white wrists. her eyes were soft and welcoming and full of light; her manner was playful to the point of coquetry; and in sharp contrast, now and then, her face was intense with thought. a faint, pink light was still diffused from the afterglow, and she took him down into her mother's garden, which was old-fashioned and had grass-walks running down through it--bordered with pink beds and hedges of rose-bushes. and they passed under a shadowed grape-arbour and past a dead locust-tree, which a vine had made into a green tower of waving tendrils, and from which came the fragrant breath of wild grape, and back again to the gate, where judith reached down for an old-fashioned pink and pinned it in his button-hole, talking with low, friendly affection meanwhile, and turning backward the leaves of the past rapidly. did he remember this--and that--and that? memories--memories--memories. was there anything she had let go unforgotten? and then, as they approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a little negro girl, she said: "you haven't told me what regiment you are going with." "i don't know." judith's eyes brightened. "i'm so glad you have a commission." "i have no commission." judith looked puzzled. "why, your mother----" "yes, but i gave it to basil." and he explained in detail. he had asked general carter to give the commission to basil, and the general had said he would gladly. and that morning the colonel of the legion had promised to recommend basil for the exchange. this was one reason why he had come back to the bluegrass. judith's face was growing more thoughtful while he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes. "and you are going as----" "as a private." "with the rough riders?" "as a regular--a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers. i am trying to be an american now--not a southerner. i've been drilling at tampa and chickamauga with the regulars." "you are much interested?" "more than in anything for years." she had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without reason--but, still, she resented it. "think of it," crittenden went on. "it is the first time in my life, almost, i have known what it was to wish to do something--to have a purpose--that was not inspired by you." it was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence--it was unnecessary--and judith was surprised, chilled--hurt. "when do you go?" crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket. "to-morrow morning. i got this just as i was leaving town." "to-morrow!" "it means life or death to me--this telegram. and if it doesn't mean life, i don't care for the other. i shall come out with a commission or--not at all. if dead, i shall be a hero--if alive," he smiled, "i don't know what i'll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with my past and my present. i can feel a change already, a sort of growing pain, at the very thought." "when do you go to cuba?" "within four days." "four days! and you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to live the life of a common soldier--to die of fever, to be killed, maybe," her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, "and be thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle." she spoke with such sudden passion that crittenden was startled. "listen!" judge page appeared in the doorway, welcoming crittenden with old-time grace and courtesy. through supper, judith was silent and thoughtful and, when she did talk, it was with a perceptible effort. there was a light in her eyes that he would have understood once--that would have put his heart on fire. and once he met a look that he was wholly at loss to understand. after supper, she disappeared while the two men smoked on the porch. the moon was rising when she came out again. the breath of honeysuckles was heavy on the air, and from garden and fields floated innumerable odours of flower and clover blossom and moist grasses. crittenden lived often through that scene afterward--judith on the highest step of the porch, the light from the hallway on her dress and her tightly folded hands; her face back in shadow, from which her eyes glowed with a fire in them that he had never seen before. judge page rose soon to go indoors. he did not believe there was going to be much of a war, and his manner was almost cheery when he bade the young man good-by. "good luck to you," he said. "if the chance comes, you will give a good account of yourself. i never knew a man of your name who didn't." "thank you, sir." there was a long silence. "basil will hardly have time to get his commission, and get to tampa." "no. but he can come after us." she turned suddenly upon him. "yes--something has happened to you. i didn't know what you meant that day we drove home, but i do now. i feel it, but i don't understand." crittenden flushed, but made no answer. "you could not have spoken to me in the old days as you do now. your instinct would have held you back. and something has happened to me." then she began talking to him as frankly and simply as a child to a child. it was foolish and selfish, but it had hurt her when he told her that he no longer had his old feeling for her. it was selfish and cruel, but it was true, however selfish and cruel it seemed, and was--but she had felt hurt. perhaps that was vanity, which was not to her credit--but that, too, she could not help. it had hurt her every time he had said anything from which she could infer that her influence over him was less than it once was--although, as a rule, she did not like to have influence over people. maybe he wounded her as his friend in this way, and perhaps there was a little vanity in this, too--but a curious change was taking place in their relations. once he was always trying to please her, and in those days she would have made him suffer if he had spoken to her then as he had lately--but he would not have spoken that way then. and now she wondered why she was not angry instead of being hurt. and she wondered why she did not like him less. somehow, it seemed quite fair that she should be the one to suffer now, and she was glad to take her share--she had caused him and others so much pain. "_he_"--not even now did she mention his name--"wrote to me again, not long ago, asking to see me again. it was impossible. and it was the thought of you that made me know how impossible it was--_you_." the girl laughed, almost hardly, but she was thinking of herself when she did--not of him. the time and circumstance that make woman the thing apart in a man's life must come sooner or later to all women, and women must yield; she knew that, but she had never thought they could come to her--but they had come, and she, too, must give way. "it is all very strange," she said, as though she were talking to herself, and she rose and walked into the warm, fragrant night, and down the path to the stiles, crittenden silently following. the night was breathless and the moonlit woods had the still beauty of a dream; and judith went on speaking of herself as she had never done--of the man whose name she had never mentioned, and whose name crittenden had never asked. until that night, he had not known even whether the man were still alive or dead. she had thought that was love--until lately she had never questioned but that when that was gone from her heart, all was gone that would ever be possible for her to know. that was why she had told crittenden to conquer his love for her. and now she was beginning to doubt and to wonder--ever since she came back and heard him at the old auditorium--and why and whence the change now? that puzzled her. one thing was curious--through it all, as far back as she could remember, her feeling for him had never changed, except lately. perhaps it was an unconscious response in her to the nobler change that in spite of his new hardness her instinct told her was at work in him. she was leaning on the fence now, her elbow on the top plank, her hand under her chin, and her face uplifted--the moon lighting her hair, her face, and eyes, and her voice the voice of one slowly threading the mazes of a half-forgotten dream. crittenden's own face grew tense as he watched her. there was a tone in her voice that he had hungered for all his life; that he had never heard but in his imaginings and in his dreams; that he had heard sounding in the ears of another and sounding at the same time the death-knell of the one hope that until now had made effort worth while. all evening she had played about his spirit as a wistful, changeful light will play over the fields when the moon is bright and clouds run swiftly. she turned on him like a flame now. "until lately," she was saying, and she was not saying at all what she meant to say; but here lately a change was taking place; something had come into her feeling for him that was new and strange--she could not understand--perhaps it had always been there; perhaps she was merely becoming conscious of it. and when she thought, as she had been thinking all day, of his long years of devotion--how badly she had requited them--it seemed that the least she could do was to tell him that he was now first in her life of all men--that much she could say; and perhaps he had always been, she did not know; perhaps, now that the half-gods were gone, it was at last the coming of the--the--she was deeply agitated now; her voice was trembling; she faltered, and she turned suddenly, sharply, and with a little catch in her breath, her lips and eyes opening slowly--her first consciousness, perhaps, a wonder at his strange silence--and dazed by her own feeling and flushing painfully, she looked at him for the first time since she began to talk, and she saw him staring fixedly at her with a half-agonized look, as though he were speechlessly trying to stop her, his face white, bitter, shamed, helpless, not a word more dropped from her lips--not a sound. she moved; it seemed that she was about to fall, and crittenden started toward her, but she drew herself erect, and, as she turned--lifting her head proudly--the moonlight showed that her throat was drawn--nothing more. motionless and speechless, crittenden watched her white shape move slowly and quietly up the walk and grow dim; heard her light, even step on the gravel, up the steps, across the porch, and through the doorway. not once did she look around. * * * * * he was in his room now and at his window, his face hard as stone when his heart was parching for tears. it was true, then. he was the brute he feared he was. he had killed his life, and he had killed his love--beyond even her power to recall. his soul, too, must be dead, and it were just as well that his body die. and, still bitter, still shamed and hopeless, he stretched out his arms to the south with a fierce longing for the quick fate--no matter what--that was waiting for him there. ix by and by bulletins began to come in to the mother at canewood from her boy at tampa. there was little psychology in basil's bulletin: "i got here all right. my commission hasn't come, and i've joined the rough riders, for fear it won't get here in time. the colonel was very kind to me--called me mister. "i've got a lieutenant's uniform of khaki, but i'm keeping it out of sight. i may have no use for it. i've got two left spurs, and i'm writing in the waldorf-astoria. i like these northern fellows; they are gentlemen and plucky--i can see that. very few of them swear. i wish i knew where brother is. the colonel calls everybody mister--even the indians. "word comes to-night that we are to be off to the front. please send me a piece of cotton to clean my gun. and please be easy about me--do be easy. and if you insist on giving me a title, don't call me private--call me _trooper_. "yes, we are going; the thing is serious. we are all packed up now; have rolled up camping outfit and are ready to start. "baggage on the transport now, and we sail this afternoon. am sorry to leave all of you, and i have a tear in my eye now that i can't keep back. it isn't a summer picnic, and i don't feel like shouting when i think of home; but i'm always lucky, and i'll come out all right. i'm afraid i sha'n't see brother at all. i tried to look cheerful for my picture (enclosed). good-by. "some delay; actually on board and steam up. "waiting--waiting--waiting. it's bad enough to go to cuba in boats like these, but to lie around for days is trying. no one goes ashore, and i can hear nothing of brother. i wonder why the general didn't give him that commission instead of me. there is a curious sort of fellow here, who says he knows brother. his name is blackford, and he is very kind to me. he used to be a regular, and he says he thinks brother took his place in the --th and is a regular now himself--a private; i don't understand. there is mighty little rough riding about this. "p. s.--my bunkie is from boston--bob sumner. his father _commanded a negro regiment in a fight once against my father_; think of it! "hurrah! we're off." it was a tropical holiday--that sail down to cuba--a strange, huge pleasure-trip of steamships, sailing in a lordly column of three; at night, sailing always, it seemed, in a harbour of brilliant lights under multitudinous stars and over thickly sown beds of tiny phosphorescent stars that were blown about like flowers in a wind-storm by the frothing wake of the ships; by day, through a brilliant sunlit sea, a cool breeze--so cool that only at noon was the heat tropical--and over smooth water, blue as sapphire. music night and morning, on each ship, and music coming across the little waves at any hour from the ships about. porpoises frisking at the bows and chasing each other in a circle around bow and stern as though the transports sat motionless; schools of flying-fish with filmy, rainbow wings rising from one wave and shimmering through the sunlight to the foamy crest of another--sometimes hundreds of yards away. beautiful clear sunsets of rose, gold-green, and crimson, with one big, pure radiant star ever like a censor over them; every night the stars more deeply and thickly sown and growing ever softer and more brilliant as the boats neared the tropics; every day dawn rich with beauty and richer for the dewy memories of the dawns that were left behind. now and then a little torpedo-boat would cut like a knife-blade through the water on messenger service; or a gunboat would drop lightly down the hill of the sea, along the top of which it patrolled so vigilantly; and ever on the horizon hung a battle-ship that looked like a great gray floating cathedral. but nobody was looking for a fight--nobody thought the spaniard would fight--and so these were only symbols of war; and even they seemed merely playing the game. it was as grafton said. far ahead went the flag-ship with the huge commander-in-chief and his staff, the gorgeous attachés, and the artists and correspondents, with valets, orderlies, stenographers, and secretaries. somewhere, far to the rear, one ship was filled with newspaper men from stem to stern. but wily grafton was with lawton and chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport. on the second day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to him, grinning uneasily: "i seed you back in ole kentuck, suh." "you did? well, i don't remember seeing you. what do you want?" "captain say he gwine to throw me overboard." "what for?" "i ain't got no business here, suh." "then what are you here for?" "lookin' fer ole cap'n, suh." "ole cap'n who?" said grafton, mimicking. "cap'n crittenden, suh." "well, if you are his servant, i suppose they won't throw you overboard. what's your name?" "bob, suh--bob crittenden." "crittenden," repeated grafton, smiling. "oh, yes, i know him; i should say so! so he's a captain?" "yes, suh," said bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not. grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take bob for his own servant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that name in the --th. to the newspaper man, bob was a godsend; for humour was scarce on board, and "jollying" bob was a welcome diversion. he learned many things of crittenden and the crittendens, and what great people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point bob was evasive or dumb--and the correspondent respected the servant's delicacy about family affairs and went no further along that line--he had no curiosity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated bob kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through bob's keen eye and quick hand, was his, thereafter, from day to day. grafton was not storing up much material for use; but he would have been much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting camp in kentucky; who made him think of henry clay; whom he had seen whisking a beautiful girl from the camp in the smartest turn-out he had seen south--had seen him now as private crittenden, with his fast friend, abe long, and passing in his company because of his bearing under a soubriquet donated by his late enemy, reynolds, as "old hamlet of kentuck." and crittenden would have been surprised had he known that the active darky whom he saw carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than bob waiting on grafton. and that the rough rider whom he saw scribbling on a pad in the rigging of the _yucatan_ was none other than basil writing one of his bulletins home. it was hard for him to believe that he really was going to war, even now, when the long sail was near an end and the ships were running fearlessly along the big, grim coast-mountains of cuba, with bands playing and colors to the breeze; hard to realize that he was not to land in peace and safety and, in peace and safety, go back as he came; that a little further down those gashed mountains, showing ever clearer through the mist, were men with whom the quiet officers and men around him would soon be in a death-grapple. the thought stirred him, and he looked around at the big, strong fellows--intelligent, orderly, obedient, good-natured, and patient; patient, restless, and sick as they were from the dreadful hencoop life they had led for so many days--patient beyond words. he had risen early that morning. the rose light over the eastern water was whitening, and all over the deck his comrades lay asleep, their faces gray in the coming dawn and their attitudes suggesting ghastly premonitions--premonitions that would come true fast enough for some of the poor fellows--perhaps for him. stepping between and over the prostrate bodies, he made his way forward and leaned over the prow, with his hat in his hand and his hair blowing back from his forehead. already his face had suffered a change. for more than three long weeks he had been merely a plain man among plain men. at once when he became private crittenden, no. , company c, --th united states regular cavalry, at tampa, he was shorn of his former estate as completely as though in the process he had been wholly merged into some other man. the officers, at whose table he had once sat, answered his salute precisely as they answered any soldier's. he had seen rivers but seldom--but once only on the old footing, and that was on the night he went on board, when rivers came to tell him good-by and to bitterly bemoan the luck that, as was his fear from the beginning, had put him among the ill-starred ones chosen to stay behind at tampa and take care of the horses; as hostlers, he said, with deep disgust, adding hungrily: "i wish i were in your place." with the men, crittenden was popular, for he did his work thoroughly, asked no favors, shirked no duties. there were several officers' sons among them working for commissions, and, naturally, he drifted to them, and he found them all good fellows. of blackford, he was rather wary, after rivers's short history of him, but as he was friendly, unselfish, had a high sense of personal honour, and a peculiar reverence for women, crittenden asked no further questions, and was sorry, when he came back to tampa, to find him gone with the rough riders. with reynolds, he was particularly popular, and he never knew that the story of the tampa fight had gone to all the line officers of the regiment, and that nearly every one of them knew him by sight and knew his history. only once from an officer, however, and steadily always from the old sergeant, could he feel that he was regarded in a different light from the humblest soldier in the ranks--which is just what he would have asked. the colonel had cast an envious eye on raincrow at tampa, and, straightway, he had taken the liberty of getting the sergeant to take the horse to the colonel's tent with the request that he use him throughout the campaign. the horse came back with the colonel's thanks; but, when the order came that the cavalry was to go unmounted, the colonel sent word that he would take the horse now, as the soldier could not use him. so raincrow was aboard the ship, and the old colonel, coming down to look at the horse one day, found crittenden feeding him, and thanked him and asked him how he was getting along; and, while there was a smile about his humorous mouth, there was a kindly look in his blue eyes that pleased crittenden mightily. as for the old sergeant, he could never forget that the soldier was a crittenden--one of his revered crittendens. and, while he was particularly stern with him in the presence of his comrades, for fear that he might be betrayed into showing partiality--he was always drifting around to give him a word of advice and to shake his head over the step that crittenden had taken. that step had made him good in body and soul. it made him lean and tanned; it sharpened and strengthened his profile; it cleared his eye and settled his lips even more firmly. tobacco and liquor were scarce, and from disuse he got a new sensation of mental clearness and physical cleanliness that was comforting and invigorating, and helped bring back the freshness of his boyhood. for the first time in many years, his days were full of work and, asleep, awake, or at work, his hours were clock-like and steadied him into machine-like regularity. it was work of his hands, to be sure, and not even high work of that kind, but still it was work. and the measure of the self-respect that this fact alone brought him was worth it all. already, his mind was taking character from his body. he was distinctly less morbid and he found himself thinking during those long days of the sail of what he should do after the war was over. his desire to get killed was gone, and it was slowly being forced on him that he had been priggish, pompous, self-absorbed, hair-splitting, lazy, good-for-nothing, when there was no need for him to be other than what he meant to be when he got back. and as for judith, he felt the bitterness of gall for himself when he thought of her, and he never allowed himself to think of her except to absolve her, as he knew she would not absolve herself, and to curse himself heartily and bitterly. he understood now. it was just her thought of his faithfulness, her feeling of responsibility for him--the thought that she had not been as kind to him as she might have been (and she had always been kinder than he deserved)--all this had loosed her tears and her self-control, and had thrown her into a mood of reckless self-sacrifice. and when she looked up into his face that night of the parting, he felt her looking into his soul and seeing his shame that he had lost his love because he had lost himself, and she was quite right to turn from him, as she did, without another word. already, however, he was healthy enough to believe that he was not quite so hopeless as she must think him--not as hopeless as he had thought himself. life, now, with even a soldier's work, was far from being as worthless as life with a gentleman's idleness had been. he was honest enough to take no credit for the clean change in his life--no other life was possible; but he was learning the practical value and mental comfort of straight living as he had never learned them before. and he was not so prone to metaphysics and morbid self-examination as he once was, and he shook off a mood of that kind when it came--impatiently--as he shook it off now. he was a soldier now, and his province was action and no more thought than his superiors allowed him. and, standing thus, at sunrise, on the plunging bow of the ship, with his eager, sensitive face splitting the swift wind--he might have stood to any thoughtful american who knew his character and his history as a national hope and a national danger. the nation, measured by its swift leap into maturity, its striking power to keep going at the same swift pace, was about his age. south, north, and west it had lived, or was living, his life. it had his faults and his virtues; like him, it was high-spirited, high-minded, alert, active, manly, generous, and with it, as with him, the bad was circumstantial, trivial, incipient; the good was bred in the saxon bone and lasting as rock--if the surface evil were only checked in time and held down. like him, it needed, like a titan, to get back, now and then, to the earth to renew its strength. and the war would send the nation to the earth as it would send him, if he but lived it through. there was little perceptible change in the american officer and soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. a little more soberness was apparent. everyone was still simple, natural, matter-of-fact. but that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream. the west point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar, as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been so proud of one. the captain led a battalion, the major charged at the head of a thousand strong; the colonel plucked a star, and the brigadier heard the tramp of hosts behind him. and who knows how many bold spirits leaped at once that night from acorns to stars; and if there was not more than one who saw himself the war-god of the anxious nation behind--saw, maybe, even the doors of the white house swing open at the conquering sound of his coming feet. and, through the dreams of all, waved aimlessly the mighty wand of the blind master--fate--giving death to a passion for glory here; disappointment bitter as death to a noble ambition there; and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mortal here and there the exact fulfilment of his dream. two toasts were drunk that night--one by the men who were to lead the rough riders of the west. "may the war last till each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins himself better spurs." and, in the hold of the same ship, another in whiskey from a tin cup between two comrades: "bunkie," said blackford, to a dare-devil like himself, "welcome to the spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here"--tapping his heart. basil struck the cup from his hand, and blackford swore, laughed, and put his arm around the boy. x already now, the first little fight was going on, and grafton, the last newspaper man ashore, was making for the front--with bob close at his heels. it was hot, very hot, but the road was a good, hard path of clean sand, and now and then a breeze stirred, or a light, cool rain twinkled in the air. on each side lay marsh, swamp, pool, and tropical jungle--and, to grafton's northern imagination, strange diseases lurked like monsters everywhere. every strange, hot odour made him uneasy and, at times, he found himself turning his head and holding his breath, as he always did when he passed a pest-house in his childhood. about him were strange plants, strange flowers, strange trees, the music of strange birds, with nothing to see that was familiar except sky, mountain, running water, and sand; nothing home-like to hear but the twitter of swallows and the whistle of quail. that path was no road for a hard-drinking man to travel and, now and then, grafton shrank back, with a startled laugh, from the hideous things crawling across the road and rustling into the cactus--spiders with snail-houses over them; lizards with green bodies and yellow legs, and green legs and yellow bodies; hairy tarantulas, scorpions, and hideous mottled land-crabs, standing three inches from the sand, and watching him with hideous little eyes as they shuffled sidewise into the bushes. moreover, he was following the trail of an army by the uncheerful signs in its wake--the _débris_ of the last night's camp--empty cans, bits of hardtack, crackers, bad odours, and, by and by, odds and ends that the soldiers discarded as the sun got warm and their packs heavy--drawers, undershirts, coats, blankets, knapsacks, an occasional gauntlet or legging, bits of fat bacon, canned meats, hardtack--and a swarm of buzzards in the path, in the trees, and wheeling in the air--and smiling cubans picking up everything they could eat or wear. an hour later, he met a soldier, who told him there had been a fight. still, an hour later, rumours came thick, but so conflicting and wild that grafton began to hope there had been no fight at all. proof met him, then, in the road--a white man, on foot, with his arm in a bloody sling. then, on a litter, a negro trooper with a shattered leg; then another with a bullet through his throat; and another wounded man, and another. on horseback rode a sergeant with a bandage around his brow--grafton could see him smiling broadly fifty yards ahead--and the furrow of a mauser bullet across his temple, and just under his skin. "still nutty," said grafton to himself. further on was a camp of insurgents--little, thin, brown fellows, ragged, dirty, shoeless--each with a sugar-loaf straw hat, a remington rifle of the pattern of , or a brand new krag-jorgensen donated by uncle sam, and the inevitable and ever ready machéte swinging in a case of embossed leather on the left hip. very young they were, and very old; and wiry, quick-eyed, intelligent, for the most part and, in countenance, vivacious and rather gentle. there was a little creek next, and, climbing the bank of the other side, grafton stopped short, with a start, in the road. to the right and on a sloping bank lay eight gray shapes, muffled from head to foot, and grafton would have known that all of them were in their last sleep, but one, who lay with his left knee bent and upright, his left elbow thrust from his blanket, and his hand on his heart. he slept like a child. beyond was the camp of the regulars who had taken part in the fight. on one side stood a colonel, who himself had aimed a hotchkiss gun in the last battle--covered with grime and sweat, and with the passion of battle not quite gone from his eyes; and across the road soldiers were digging one long grave. grafton pushed on a little further, and on the top of the ridge and on the grassy sunlit knoll was the camp of the riders, just beyond the rifle-pits from which they had driven the spaniards. under a tree to the right lay another row of muffled shapes, and at once grafton walked with the colonel to the hospital, a quarter of a mile away. the path, thickly shaded and dappled with sunshine, ran along the ridge through the battlefield, and it was as pretty, peaceful, and romantic as a lovers' walk in a garden. here and there, the tall grass along the path was pressed flat where a wounded man had lain. in one place, the grass was matted and dark red; nearby was a blood-stained hat marked with the initials "e. l." here was the spot where the first victim of the fight fell. a passing soldier, who reluctantly gave his name as blackford, bared his left arm and showed the newspaper man three places between his wrist and elbow where the skin had been merely blistered by three separate bullets as he lay fighting unseen enemies. further on, lay a dead spaniard, with covered face. "there's one," said the colonel, with a careless gesture. a huge buzzard flapped from the tree over the dead man as they passed beneath. beyond was the open-air hospital, where two more rigid human figures, and where the wounded lay--white, quiet, uncomplaining. and there a surgeon told him how the wounded had lain there during the fight singing: "my country, 'tis of thee!" and grafton beat his hands together, while his throat was full and his eyes were full of tears. to think what he had missed--to think what he had missed! he knew that national interest would centre in this regiment of rough riders; for every state in the union had a son in its ranks, and the sons represented every social element in the national life. never was there a more representative body of men, nor a body of more varied elements standing all on one and the same basis of american manhood. he recalled how, at tampa, he had stood with the colonel while the regiment filed past, the colonel, meanwhile, telling him about the men--the strong men, who made strong stories for wister and strong pictures for remington. and the colonel had pointed with especial pride and affection to two boy troopers, who marched at the head of his column--a puritan from massachusetts and a cavalier through virginia blood from kentucky; one the son of a confederate general, the other the son of a union general--both beardless "bunkies," brothers in arms, and fast becoming brothers at heart--robert sumner and basil crittenden. the colonel waved his hand toward the wild westerners who followed them. "it's odd to think it--but those two boys are the fathers of the regiment." and now that grafton looked around and thought of it again--they were. the fathers of the regiment had planted plymouth and jamestown; had wrenched life and liberty and civilization from the granite of new england, the fastnesses of the cumberland, and the wildernesses of the rich valleys beyond; while the sires of these very westerners had gone on with the same trinity through the barren wastes of plains. and, now, having conquered the new world, puritan and cavalier, and the children of both were come together again on the same old mission of freedom, but this time the freedom of others; carrying the fruits of their own struggle back to the old land from which they came, with the sword in one hand, if there was need, but with the torch of liberty in the other--held high, and, as god's finger pointed, lighting the way. to think what he had missed! as grafton walked slowly back, an officer was calling the roll of his company under the quiet, sunny hill, and he stopped to listen. now and then there was no answer, and he went on--thrilled and saddened. the play was ended--this was war. outside the camp the road was full of half-angry, bitterly disappointed infantry--chaffee's men. when he reached the camp of the cavalry at the foot of the hill again, a soldier called his name as he passed--a grimy soldier--and grafton stopped in his tracks. "well, by god!" it was crittenden, who smiled when he saw grafton's bewildered face. then the kentuckian, too, stared in utter amazement at a black face grinning over grafton's shoulder. "bob!" he said, sharply. "yessuh," said bob humbly. "whar are you doing here?" "nothin', ole cap'n--jes doin' nothin'," said bob, with the _naïveté_ of a child. "jes lookin' for you." "is that your negro?" a sarcastic lieutenant was asking the question. "he's my servant, sir." "well, we don't allow soldiers to take their valets to the field." "my servant at home, sir, i meant. he came of his own accord." [illustration: "nothin', ole cap'n--jes doin' nothin'--jes lookin' for you."] "go find basil," crittenden said to bob, "and if you can't find him," he added in a lower tone, "and want anything, come back here to me." "yessuh," said bob, loath to go, but, seeing the lieutenant scowling, he moved on down the road. "i thought you were a captain," said grafton. crittenden laughed. "not exactly." "forward," shouted the lieutenant, "march!" grafton looked crittenden over. "well, i swear," he said heartily, and, as crittenden moved forward, grafton stood looking after him. "a regular--i do be damned!" that night basil wrote home. he had not fired his musket a single time. he saw nothing to shoot at, and he saw no use shooting until he did have something to shoot at. it was terrible to see men dead and wounded, but the fight itself was stupid--blundering through a jungle, bullets zipping about, and the spaniards too far away and invisible. he wanted to be closer. "general carter has sent for me to take my place on his staff. i don't want to go, but the colonel says i ought. i don't believe i would, if the general hadn't been father's friend and if my 'bunkie' weren't wounded. he's all right, but he'll have to go back. i'd like to have his wound, but i'd hate to have to go back. the colonel says he's sorry to lose me. he meant to make me a corporal, he says. i don't know what for--but hooray! "brother was not in the fight, i suppose. don't worry about me--please don't worry. "p. s.--i have often wondered what it would be like to be on the eve of a battle. it's no different from anything else." abe long and crittenden were bunkies now. abe's comrade, the boy sanders, had been wounded and sent to the rear. reynolds, too, was shot through the shoulder, and, despite his protests, was ordered back to the coast. "oh, i'll be on hand for the next scrap," he said. abe and crittenden had been side by side in the fight. it was no surprise to crittenden that any man was brave. by his code, a man would be better dead than alive a coward. he believed cowardice exceptional and the brave man the rule, but he was not prepared for abe's coolness and his humour. never did the westerner's voice change, and never did the grim half-smile leave his eyes or his mouth. once during the fight he took off his hat. "how's my hair parted?" he asked, quietly. a mauser bullet had mowed a path through abe's thick, upright hair, scraping the skin for three inches, and leaving a trail of tiny, red drops. crittenden turned to look and laugh, and a bullet cut through the open flap of his shirt, just over his heart. he pointed to it. "see the good turn you did me." while the two were cooking supper, the old sergeant came up. "if you don't obey orders next time," he said to crittenden, sternly, for abe was present, "i'll report you to the captain." crittenden had declined to take shelter during the fight--it was a racial inheritance that both the north and the south learned to correct in the old war. "that's right, governor," said abe. "the colonel himself wanted to know what damn fool that was standing out in the road. he meant you." "all right, sergeant," crittenden said. when he came in from guard duty, late that night, he learned that basil was safe. he lay down with a grateful heart, and his thoughts, like the thoughts of every man in that tropical forest, took flight for home. life was getting very simple now for him--death, too, and duty. already he was beginning to wonder at his old self and, with a shock, it came to him that there were but three women in the world to him--phyllis and his mother--and judith. he thought of the night of the parting, and it flashed for the first time upon him that judith might have taken the shame that he felt reddening his face as shame for her, and not for himself: and a pain shot through him so keen that he groaned aloud. above him was a clear sky, a quarter moon, an enveloping mist of stars, and the very peace of heaven. but there was little sleep--and that battle-haunted--for any: and for him none at all. * * * * * and none at all during that night of agony for judith, nor phyllis, nor the mother at canewood, though there was a reaction of joy, next morning, when the name of neither crittenden was among the wounded or the dead. nothing had been heard, so far, of the elder brother but, as they sat in the porch, a negro boy brought the town paper, and mrs. crittenden found a paragraph about a soldier springing into the sea in full uniform at siboney to rescue a drowning comrade, who had fallen into the surf while trying to land, and had been sunk to the bottom by his arms and ammunition. and the rescuer's name was crittenden. the writer went on to tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to a younger brother and had gone as a private in the regular army--how he had been offered another after he reached cuba, and had declined that, too--having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the end. whereat the mother's face burned with a proud fire, as did phyllis's, when mrs. crittenden read on about this crittenden's young brother, who, while waiting for his commission, had gone as a rough rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken his place on general carter's staff. phyllis clapped her hands, softly, with a long sigh of pride--and relief. "i can eat strawberries, now." and she blushed again. phyllis had been living on bacon and corn-bread, she confessed shamefacedly, because trooper basil was living on bacon and hardtack--little dreaming that the food she forced upon herself in this sacrificial way was being swallowed by that hearty youngster with a relish that he would not have known at home for fried chicken and hot rolls. "yes," laughed mrs. crittenden. "you can eat strawberries now. you can balance them against his cocoanuts." phyllis picked up the paper then, with a cry of surprise--the name signed to the article was grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting camp. and then she read the last paragraph that the mother had not read aloud, and she turned sharply away and stooped to a pink-bed, as though she would pick one, and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and she took the child in her arms. there was to be a decisive fight in a few days--the attack on santiago--that was what phyllis had read. the spaniard had a good muster-roll of regulars and aid from cervera's fleet; was well armed, and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare himself for a bloody fight in the last ditch. so that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be going on at that very hour. not once did judith come near. she had been ill, to be sure, but one day mrs. crittenden met her on the way to town and stopped her in the road; but the girl had spoken so strangely that the mother drove on, at loss to understand and much hurt. next day she learned that judith, despite her ill health and her father's protests, had gone to nurse the sick and the wounded--what phyllis plead in vain to do. the following day a letter came from mrs. crittenden's elder son. he was well, and the mother must not worry about either him or basil. he did not think there would be much fighting and, anyhow, the great risk was from disease, and he feared very little from that. basil would be much safer as an aid on a general's staff. he would get plenty to eat, would be less exposed to weather, have no long marches--as he would be mounted--and no guard duty at all hours of day and night. and, moreover, he would probably be less constantly exposed to bullets. so she must not worry about him. not one word was there about judith--not even to ask how she was, which was strange. he had said nothing about the girl when he told his mother good-by; and when she broached the subject, he answered sadly: "don't, mother; i can't say a word--not a word." in his letter he had outlined basil's advantages, not one of which was his--and sitting on the porch of the old homestead at sunset of the last rich day in june, the mother was following her eldest born through the transport life, the fiery marches, the night watches on lonely outposts, the hard food, the drenching rains, steaming heat, laden with the breath of terrible disease, not realizing how little he minded it all and how much good it was doing him. she did know, however, that it had been but play thus far to what must follow. perhaps, even now, she thought, the deadly work was beginning, while she sat in the shrine of peace--even now. and it was. almost at that hour the troops were breaking camp and moving forward along the one narrow jungle-road--choked with wagon, pack-mule, and soldier--through a haze of dust, and, turning to the right at the first crossing beyond corps head-quarters--under chaffee--for caney. now and then a piece of artillery, with its flashes of crimson, would pass through the advancing columns amid the waving of hats and a great cheering to take position against the stone fort at caney or at el poso, to be trained on the block-house at san juan. and through the sunset and the dusk the columns marched, and, after night fell, the dark, silent masses of slouch hats, shoulders, and gun-muzzles kept on marching past the smoke and flare of the deserted camp-fires that lighted thicket and grassy plot along the trail. and after the flames had died down to cinders--in the same black terrible silence, the hosts were marching still. that night a last good-by to all womankind, but wife, mother, sister, sweetheart. the world was to be a man's world next day, and the man a coarse, dirty, sweaty, swearing, good-natured, grimly humorous, cruel, kindly soldier, feverish for a fight and as primitive in passion as a cave-dweller fighting his kind for food. the great little fight was at hand. xi before dawn again--everything in war begins at dawn--and the thickets around a certain little gray stone fort alive with slouch hat, blue blouse, and krag-jorgensen, slipping through the brush, building no fires, and talking in low tones for fear the timorous enemy would see, or hear, and run before the american sharpshooter could get a chance to try his marksmanship; wondering, eight hours later, if the timorous enemy were ever going to run. eastward and on a high knoll stripped of bushes, four . guns unlimbered and thrown into position against that fort and a certain little red-roofed town to the left of it. this was caney. eastward still, three miles across an uneven expanse of green, jungle and jungle-road alive with men, bivouacing fearlessly around and under four more . guns planted on another high-stripped knoll--el poso--and trained on a little pagoda-like block-house, which sat like a christmas toy on top of a green little, steep little hill from the base of which curved an orchard-like valley back to sweeping curve of the jungle. this was san juan. nature loves sudden effects in the tropics. while chaffee fretted in valley-shadows around caney and lawton strode like a yellow lion past the guns on the hill and, eastward, gunner on the other hill at el poso and soldier in the jungle below listened westward, a red light ran like a flame over the east, the tops of the mountains shot suddenly upward and it was day--flashing day, with dripping dew and birds singing and a freshness of light and air that gave way suddenly when the sun quickly pushed an arc of fire over the green shoulder of a hill and smote the soldiers over and under the low trees like rays from an open furnace. it smote reynolds as he sat by the creek under the guns before san juan, idly watching water bubble into three canteens, and it opened his lips for an oath that he was too lazy to speak; it smote abe long cooking coffee on the bank some ten yards away, and made him raise from the fire and draw first one long forearm and then the other across his heat-wrinkled brow; but, unheeded, it smote crittenden--who stood near, leaning against a palm-tree--full in his uplifted face. perhaps that was the last sunrise on earth for him. he was watching it in cuba, but his spirit was hovering around home. he could feel the air from the woods in front of canewood; could hear the darkies going to work and aunt keziah singing in the kitchen. he could see his mother's shutter open, could see her a moment later, smiling at him from her door. and judith--where was she, and what was she doing? could she be thinking of him? the sound of his own name coming down through the hot air made him start, and, looking up toward the rough riders, who were gathered about a little stuccoed farm-house just behind the guns on the hill, he saw blackford waving at him. at the same moment hoofs beat the dirt-road behind him--familiar hoof-beats--and he turned to see basil and raincrow--for crittenden's colonel was sick with fever and basil had raincrow now--on their way with a message to chaffee at caney. crittenden saluted gravely, as did basil, though the boy turned in his saddle, and with an affectionate smile waved back at him. crittenden's lips moved. "god bless him." * * * * * "fire!" over on the hill, before caney, a man with a lanyard gave a quick jerk. there was a cap explosion at the butt of the gun and a bulging white cloud from the muzzle; the trail bounced from its shallow trench, the wheels whirled back twice on the rebound, and the shell was hissing through the air as iron hisses when a blacksmith thrusts it red-hot into cold water. basil could hear that awful hiss so plainly that he seemed to be following the shell with his naked eye; he could hear it above the reverberating roar of the gun up and down the coast-mountain; hear it until, six seconds later, a puff of smoke answered beyond the spanish column where the shell burst. then in eight seconds--for the shell travelled that much faster than sound--the muffled report of its bursting struck his ears, and all that was left of the first shot that started the great little fight was the thick, sunlit smoke sweeping away from the muzzle of the gun and the little mist-cloud of the shell rising slowly upward beyond the stone fort, which seemed not to know any harm was possible or near. * * * * * again crittenden, leaning against the palm, heard his name called. again it was blackford who was opening his mouth to shout some message when--ah! the shout died on blackford's lips, and every man on the hill and in the woods, at that instant, stayed his foot and his hand--even a man standing with a gray horse against the blue wall--he, too, stopped to listen. it really sounded too dull and muffled for a shell; but, a few seconds later, there was a roar against the big walls of living green behind caney. the first shot! "ready!" even with the cry at el poso came another sullen, low boom and another aggressive roar from caney: then a great crackling in the air, as though thousands of schoolboys were letting off fire-crackers, pack after pack. "fire!" every ear heard, every eye saw the sudden white mist at a gun-muzzle and followed that first shell screaming toward the little christmas toy sitting in the sun on that distant little hill. and yet it was nothing. another and yet another mass of shrapnel went screaming, and still there was no response, no sign. it was nothing--nothing at all. was the spaniard asleep? crittenden could see attaché, correspondent, aid, staff-officer, non-combatant, sight-seer crowding close about the guns--so close that the gunners could hardly work. he could almost hear them saying, one to another: "why, is this war--really war? why, this isn't so bad." twanged just then a bow-string in the direction of san juan hill, and the twang seemed to be getting louder and to be coming toward the little blue farm-house. no cannon was in sight; there was no smoke visible, and many, with an upward look, wondered what the queer sound could be. suddenly there was a screeching, crackling answer in the air; the atmosphere was rent apart as by a lightning stroke directly overhead. the man and the horse by the blue wall dropped noiselessly to the earth. a rough rider paled and limped down the hill and blackford shook his hand--a piece of shrapnel had fallen harmlessly on his wrist. on the hill--crittenden laughed as he looked--on the hill, nobody ran--everybody tumbled. besides the men at the guns, only two others were left--civilians. "you're a fool," said one. "you're another." "what'd you stay here for?" "because you did. what'd you stay for?" "because _you_ did." then they went down together--rapidly--and just in time. another shell shrieked. two artillerymen and two sergeants dropped dead at their guns, and a corporal fell, mortally wounded. a third burst in a group of cubans. several of them flew out, killed or wounded, into the air; the rest ran shrieking for the woods. below, those woods began to move. under those shells started the impatient soldiers down that narrow lane through the jungle, and with reynolds and abe long on the "point" was crittenden, his krag-jorgensen across his breast--thrilled, for all the world, as though he were on a hunt for big game. * * * * * and all the time the sound of ripping cloth was rolling over from caney, the far-away rumble of wagons over cobble-stones, or softened stage hail and stage thunder around the block-house, stone fort, and town. at first it was a desultory fire, like the popping of a bunch of fire-crackers that have to be relighted several times, and basil and grafton, galloping toward it, could hear the hiss of bullets that far away. but, now and then, the fire was as steady as a gatling-gun. behind them the artillery had turned on the stone fort, and grafton saw one shot tear a hole through the wall, then another, and another. he could see spaniards darting from the fort and taking refuge in the encircling stone-cut trenches; and then nothing else--for their powder was smokeless--except the straw hats of the little devils in blue, who blazed away from their trenches around the fort and minded the shells bursting over and around them as little as though they had been bursting snowballs. if the boy ahead noted anything, grafton could not tell. basil turned his head neither to right nor left, and at the foot of the muddy hill, the black horse that he rode, without touch of spur, seemed suddenly to leave the earth and pass on out of sight with the swift silence of a shadow. at the foot of a hill walked the first wounded man--a colonel limping between two soldiers. the colonel looked up smiling--he had a terrible wound in the groin. "well," he called cheerily, "i'm the first victim." grafton wondered. was it possible that men were going to behave on a battlefield just as they did anywhere else--just as naturally--taking wounds and death and horror as a matter of course? beyond were more wounded--the wounded who were able to help themselves. soon he saw them lying by the roadside, here and there a dead one; by and by, he struck a battalion marching to storm a block-house. he got down, hitched his horse a few yards from the road and joined it. he was wondering how it would feel to be under fire, when just as they were crossing another road, with a whir and whistle and buzz, a cloud of swift insects buzzed over his head. unconsciously imitating the soldiers near him, he bent low and walked rapidly. right and left of him sounded two or three low, horrible crunching noises, and right and left of him two or three blue shapes sank limply down on their faces. a sudden sickness seized him, nauseating him like a fetid odour--the crunching noise was the sound of a bullet crashing into a living human skull as the men bent forward. one man, he remembered afterward, dropped with the quick grunt of an animal--he was killed outright; another gave a gasping cry, "oh, god"--there was a moment of suffering consciousness for him; a third hopped aside into the bushes--cursing angrily. still another, as he passed, looked up from the earth at him with a curious smile, as though he were half ashamed of something. "i've got it, partner," he said, "i reckon i've got it, sure." and grafton saw a drop of blood and the tiny mouth of a wound in his gullet, where the flaps of his collar fell apart. he couldn't realize how he felt--he was not interested any longer in how he felt. the instinct of life was at work, and the instinct of self-defence. when the others dropped, he dropped gladly; when they rose, he rose automatically. a piece of brush, a bush, the low branch of a tree, a weed seemed to him protection, and he saw others possessed with the same absurd idea. once the unworthy thought crossed his mind, when he was lying behind a squad of soldiers and a little lower than they, that his chance was at least better than theirs. and once, and only once--with a bitter sting of shame--he caught himself dropping back a little, so that the same squad should be between him and the enemy: and forthwith he stepped out into the road, abreast with the foremost, cursing himself for a coward, and thereafter took a savage delight in reckless exposure whenever it was possible. and he soon saw that his position was a queer one, and an unenviable one, as far as a cool test of nerve was the point at issue. the officers, he saw, had their men to look after--orders to obey--their minds were occupied. the soldiers were busy getting a shot at the enemy--their minds, too, were occupied. it was his peculiar province to stand up and be shot at without the satisfaction of shooting back--studying his sensations, meanwhile, which were not particularly pleasant, and studying the grewsome horrors about him. and it struck him, too, that this was a ghastly business, and an unjustifiable, and that if it pleased god to see him through he would never go to another war except as a soldier. one consideration interested him and was satisfactory. nobody was shooting at him--nobody was shooting at anybody in particular. if he were killed, or when anybody was killed, it was merely accident, and it was thus pleasant to reflect that he was in as much danger as anybody. the firing was pretty hot now, and the wounded were too many to be handled. a hospital man called out sharply: "give a hand here." grafton gave a hand to help a poor fellow back to the field hospital, in a little hollow, and when he reached the road again that black horse and his boy rider were coming back like shadows, through a rain of bullets, along the edge of the woods. once the horse plunged sidewise and shook his head angrily--a mauser had stung him in the neck--but the lad, pale and his eyes like stars, lifted him in a flying leap over a barbed-wire fence and swung him into the road again. "damn!" said grafton, simply. then rose a loud cheer from the battery on the hill, and, looking west, he saw the war-balloon hung high above the trees and moving toward santiago. the advance had begun over there; there was the main attack--the big battle. it was interesting and horrible enough where he was, but caney was not santiago; and grafton, too, mounted his horse and galloped after basil. * * * * * at head-quarters began the central lane of death that led toward san juan, and basil picked his way through it at a slow walk--his excitement gone for the moment and his heart breaking at the sight of the terrible procession on its way to the rear. men with arms in slings; men with trousers torn away at the knee, and bandaged legs; men with brow, face, mouth, or throat swathed; men with no shirts, but a broad swathe around the chest or stomach--each bandage grotesquely pictured with human figures printed to show how the wound should be bound, on whatever part of the body the bullet entered. men staggering along unaided, or between two comrades, or borne on litters, some white and quiet, some groaning and blood-stained, some conscious, some dying, some using a rifle for a support, or a stick thrust through the side of a tomato-can. rolls, haversacks, blouses, hardtack, bibles, strewn by the wayside, where the soldiers had thrown them before they went into action. it was curious, but nearly all of the wounded were dazed and drunken in appearance, except at the brows, which were tightly drawn with pain. there was one man, with short, thick, upright red hair, stumbling from one side of the road to the other, with no wound apparent, and muttering: "oh, i don't know what happened to me. i don't know what happened to me." another, hopping across the creek on one leg--the other bare and wounded--and using his gun, muzzle down, as a vaulting-pole. another, with his arm in the sling, pointing out the way. "take this road," he said. "i don't know where that one goes, but i know this one. i went up this one, and brought back a _souvenir_," he added, cheerily, shaking a bloody arm. and everywhere men were cautioning him to beware of the guerillas, who were in the trees, adding horror to the scene--shooting wounded men on litters, hospital men, doctors. once, there was almost the horror of a panic in the crowded road. soldiers answered the guerilla fire from the road; men came running back; bullets spattered around. ahead, the road was congested with soldiers. beyond them was anchored the balloon, over the bloody ford--drawing the spanish fire to the troops huddled beneath it. there was the death-trap. and, climbing from an ambulance to mount his horse, a little, bent old man, weak and trembling from fever, but with his gentle blue eyes glinting fire--basil's hero--ex-confederate jerry carter. "give the yanks hell, boys," he shouted. * * * * * it had been a slow, toilsome march up that narrow lane of death, and, so far, crittenden had merely been sprinkled with mauser and shrapnel. his regiment had begun to deploy to the left, down the bed of a stream. the negro cavalry and the rough riders were deploying to the right. now broke the storm. imagine sheet after sheet of hailstones, coated with polished steel, and swerved when close to the earth at a sharp angle to the line of descent, and sweeping the air horizontally with an awful hiss--swifter in flight than a peal of thunder from sky to earth, and hardly less swift than the lightning flash that caused it. "t-t-seu-u-u-h! t-t-seu-oo! t-t-seu-oo!"--they went like cloud after cloud of lightning-winged insects, and passing, by god's mercy and the spaniard's bad marksmanship--passing high. between two crashes, came a sudden sputter, and some singing thing began to play up and down through the trees, and to right and left, in a steady hum. it was a machine gun playing for the range--like a mighty hose pipe, watering earth and trees with a steady, spreading jet of hot lead. it was like some strange, huge monster, unseeing and unseen, who knows where his prey is hidden and is searching for it blindly--by feeling or by sense of smell--coming ever nearer, showering the leaves down, patting into the soft earth ahead, swishing to right and to left, and at last playing in a steady stream about the prostrate soldiers. "swish-ee! swish-ee! swishee!" "whew!" said abe long. "god!" said reynolds. ah, ye scornful veterans of the great war. in ten minutes the spaniard let fly with his mauser more bullets than did you fighting hard for two long hours, and that one machine gun loosed more death stings in an hour than did a regiment of you in two. and they were coming from intrenchments on an all but vertical hill, from piles of unlimited ammunition, and from soldiers who should have been as placid as the earth under them for all the demoralization that hostile artillery fire was causing them. and not all of them passed high. after that sweep of glistening steel rain along the edge of the woods rose the cry here, there, everywhere: "hospital man! hospital man!" and here and there, in the steady pelt of bullets, went the quiet, brave fellows with red crosses on their sleeves; across the creek, crittenden could see a tall, young doctor, bare-headed in the sun, stretching out limp figures on the sand under the bank--could see him and his assistants stripping off blouse and trousers and shirt, and wrapping and binding, and newly wounded being ever brought in. and behind forged soldiers forward, a tall aide at the ford urging them across and stopping a panic among volunteers. "come back, you cowards--come back! push 'em back, boys!" a horse was crossing the stream. there was a hissing shriek in the air, a geyser spouting from the creek, the remnants of a horse thrown upward, and five men tossed in a swirl like straw: and, a moment later, a boy feebly paddling towards the shore--while the water ran past him red with blood. and, through it all, looking backward, crittenden saw little carter coming on horseback, calm of face, calm of manner, with his hands folded over his saddle, and his eyes looking upward--little carter who had started out in an ambulance that morning with a temperature of one hundred and four, and, meeting wounded soldiers, gave up his wagon to them, mounted his horse, and rode into battle--to come out normal at dusk. and behind him--erect, proud, face aflame, eyes burning, but hardly less cool--rode basil. crittenden's eyes filled with love and pride for the boy. "god bless him--god save him!" * * * * * a lull came--one of the curious lulls that come periodically in battle for the reason that after any violent effort men must have a breathing spell--and the mist of bullets swept on to the right like a swift passing shower of rain. there was a splash in the creek behind crittenden, and someone fell on his face behind the low bank with a fervent: "thank god, i've got this far!" it was grafton. "that nigger of yours is coming on somewhere back there," he added, and presently he rose and calmly peered over the bank and at the line of yellow dirt on the crest of the hill. a bullet spat in the ground close by. "that hit you?" he asked, without altering the tone of his voice--without even lowering his glasses. reynolds, on his right, had ducked quickly. crittenden looked up in surprise. the south had no monopoly of nerve--nor, in that campaign, the soldier. "well, by god," said reynolds, irritably--the bullet had gone through his sleeve. "this ain't no time to joke." grafton's face was still calm--he was still looking. presently he turned and beckoned to somebody in the rear. "there he is, now." looking behind, crittenden had to laugh. there was bob, in a cavalryman's hat, with a krag-jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition belt buckled around him. as he started toward grafton, a lieutenant halted him. "why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply. "i ain't got no regiment. i'se looking fer ole captain." "get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and pointing behind to the tenth coloured cavalry coming up. "huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on to the edge of the creek. "go to the rear, bob," shouted crittenden, sharply, and the next moment bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek. "foh gawd, ole cap'n, i sutn'ly is glad to fine you. i wish you'd jes show me how to wuk this gun. i'se gwine to fight right side o' you--you heah me." "go back, bob," said crittenden, firmly. "silence in the ranks," roared a lieutenant. bob hesitated. just then a company of the tenth cavalry filed down the road as they were deployed to the right. crittenden's file of soldiers could see that the last man was a short, fat darky--evidently a recruit--and he was swinging along as jauntily as in a cake-walk. as he wheeled pompously, he dropped his gun, leaped into the air with a yell of amazed rage and pain, catching at the seat of his trousers with both hands. a bullet had gone through both buttocks. "gawd, ole cap'n, did you see dat nigger?" a roar of laughter went down the bed of the creek. "go back!" repeated crittenden, threateningly, "and stop calling me old captain." bob looked after the file of coloured troops, and then at crittenden. "all right, ole cap'n; i tol' you in ole kentuck that i gwine to fight wid the niggers ef you don't lemme fight wid you. i don't like disgracin' the family dis way, but 'tain't my fault, an' s'pose you git shot--" the slap of the flat side of a sword across bob's back made him jump. "what are you doing here?" thundered an angry officer." get into line--get into line." "i ain't no sojer." "get into line," and bob ran after the disappearing file, shaking his head helplessly. the crash started again, and the hum of bees and the soft snap of the leaves when bullets clipped them like blows with a rattan cane, and the rattling sputter of the machine guns, and once more came that long, long wait that tries the soldier's heart, nerve, and brain. "why was not something done--why?" and again rose the cry for the hospital men, and again the limp figures were brought in from the jungle, and he could see the tall doctor with the bare head helping the men who had been dressed with a first-aid bandage to the protecting bank of the creek farther up, to make room for the fresh victims. and as he stood up once, crittenden saw him throw his hand quickly up to his temple and sink to the blood-stained sand. the assistant, who bent over him, looked up quickly and shook his head to another, who was binding a wounded leg and looking anxiously to know the fatal truth. "i've got it," said a soldier to crittenden's left; joyously, he said it, for the bullet had merely gone through his right shoulder. he could fight no more, he had a wound and he could wear a scar to his grave. "so have i," said another, with a groan. and then next him there was a sudden, soft thud: "t-h-u-p!" it was the sound of a bullet going into thick flesh, and the soldier sprang to his feet--the impulse seemed uncontrollable for the wounded to spring to their feet--and dropped with a groan--dead. crittenden straightened him out sadly--putting his hat over his face and drawing his arms to his sides. above, he saw with sudden nausea, buzzards circling--little cared they whether the dead were american or spaniard, as long as there were eyes to pluck and lips to tear away, and then straightway, tragedy merged into comedy as swiftly as on a stage. out of the woods across the way emerged a detail of negro troopers--sent to clear the woods behind of sharpshooters--and last came bob. the detail, passing along the creek on the other bank from them, scattered, and with bob next the creek. bob shook his gun aloft. "i can wuk her now!" another lull came, and from the thicket arose the cry of a thin, high, foreign voice: "americano--americano!" "whut regiment you b'long to?" the voice was a negro's and was bob's, and grafton and crittenden listened keenly. bob had evidently got a sharpshooter up a tree, and caught him loading his gun. "tenth cav'rly--tenth!" was the answer. bob laughed long and loud. "well, you jus the man i been lookin' fer--the fust white man i ever seed whut 'longed to a nigger regiment. come down, honey." there was the sharp, clean crack of a krag-jorgensen, and a yell of savage triumph. "that nigger's a bird," said grafton. something serious was going to be done now--the intuition of it ran down the line in that mysterious fashion by which information passes down a line of waiting men. the line rose, advanced, and dropped again. companies deployed to the left and behind--fighting their way through the chaparral as a swimmer buffets his way through choppy waves. every man saw now that the brigade was trying to form in line of battle for a charge on that curving, smokeless flame of fire that ran to and fro around the top of the hill--blazing fiercely and steadily here and there. for half an hour the officers struggled to form the scattering men. forward a little way; slipping from one bush and tree to another; through the thickets and bayonet grass; now creeping; now a dash through an open spot; now flat on the stomach, until crittenden saw a wire fence stretching ahead. followed another wait. and then a squad of negro troopers crossed the road, going to the right, and diagonally. the bullets rained about them, and they scuttled swiftly into the brush. the hindmost one dropped; the rest kept on, unseeing; but crittenden saw a lieutenant--it was sharpe, whom he had met at home and at chickamauga--look back at the soldier, who was trying to raise himself on his elbow--while the bullets seemed literally to be mowing down the tall grass about him. then crittenden heard a familiar grunt behind him, and the next minute bob's figure sprang out into the open--making for the wounded man by the sympathy of race. as he stooped, to crittenden's horror, bob pitched to the ground--threshing around like an animal that has received a blow on the head. without a thought, without consciousness of his own motive or his act, crittenden sprang to his feet and dashed for bob. within ten feet of the boy, his toe caught in a root and he fell headlong. as he scrambled to his feet, he saw sharpe making for him--thinking that he had been shot down--and, as he turned, with bob in his arms, half a dozen men, including grafton and his own lieutenant, were retreating back into cover--all under the same impulse and with the same motive having started for him, too. behind a tree, crittenden laid bob down, still turning his head from side to side helplessly. there was a trail of blood across his temple, and, wiping it away, he saw that the bullet had merely scraped along the skull without penetrating it. in a moment, bob groaned, opened his eyes, sat up, looked around with rolling eyes, grunted once or twice, straightened out, and reached for his gun, shaking his head. "gimme drink, ole cap'n, please, suh." crittenden handed him his canteen, and bob drank and rose unsteadily to his feet. "dat ain't nuttin'," he said, contemptuously, feeling along the wound. "'tain't nigh as bad as mule kick. 'tain't nuttin', 't all." and then he almost fell. "go back, bob." "all right, ole cap'n, i reckon i'll jus' lay down heah little while," he said, stretching out behind the tree. and grafton reached over for crittenden's hand. he was getting some new and startling ideas about the difference in the feeling toward the negro of the man who once owned him body and soul and of the man who freed him body and soul. and in the next few minutes he studied crittenden as he had done before--taking in detail the long hair, lean face strongly chiselled, fearless eye, modest demeanour--marking the intellectual look of the face--it was the face of a student--a gentleman--gently born. and, there in the heat of the fight, he fell to marvelling over the nation that had such a man to send into the field as a common soldier. again they moved forward. crittenden's lieutenant dropped--wounded. "go on," he cried, "damn it, go on!" grafton helped to carry him back, stepping out into the open for him, and crittenden saw a bullet lick up the wet earth between the correspondent's feet. forward again! it was a call for volunteers to advance and cut the wires. crittenden was the first to spring to his feet, and abe long and reynolds sprang after him. forward they slipped on their bellies, and the men behind saw one brown, knotty hand after another reach up from the grass and clip, clip, clip through the thickly braided wires. forward again! the men slipped like eels through and under the wires, and lay in the long grass behind. the time was come. "forward!" crittenden never knew before the thrill that blast sent through him, and never in his life did he know it again. it was the call of america to the american, white and black: and race and colour forgotten, the american answered with the grit of the saxon, the celt's pure love of a fight, and all the dash of the passionate gaul. as crittenden leaped to his feet, he saw reynolds leap, too, and then there was a hissing hell of white smoke and crackling iron at his feet--and reynolds disappeared. it was a marvel afterward but, at that moment, crittenden hardly noted that the poor fellow was blown into a hundred fragments. he was in the front line now. a brigadier, with his hat in his hand and his white hair shining in the sun, run diagonally across in front of his line of battle, and, with a wild cheer, the run of death began. god, how the bullets hissed and the shells shrieked; and, god, how slow--slow--slow was the run! crittenden's legs were of lead, and leaden were the legs of the men with him--running with guns trailing the earth or caught tightly across the breast and creeping unconsciously. he saw nothing but the men in front of him, the men who were dropping behind him, and the yellow line above, and the haven at the bottom of the hill. now and then he could see a little, dirty, blue figure leap into view on the hill and disappear. two men only were ahead of him when he reached the foot of the hill--sharpe and a tall cuban close at his side with machéte drawn--the one cuban hero of that fierce charge. but he could hear laboured panting behind him, and he knew that others were coming on. god, how steep and high that hill was! he was gasping for breath now, and he was side by side with cuban and lieutenant--gasping, too. to right and left--faint cheers. to the right, a machine gun playing like hail on the yellow dirt. to his left a shell, bursting in front of a climbing, struggling group, and the soldiers tumbling backward and rolling ten feet down the hill. a lull in the firing--the spaniards were running--and then the top--the top! sharpe sprang over the trench, calling out to save the wounded. a crouching spaniard raised his pistol, and sharpe fell. with one leap, crittenden reached him with the butt of his gun and, with savage exultation, he heard the skull of the spaniard crash. * * * * * straight in front, the spaniards were running like rabbits through the brush. to the left, kent was charging far around and out of sight. to the right, rough riders and negroes were driving spaniards down one hill and up the next. the negroes were as wild as at a camp meeting or a voodoo dance. one big sergeant strode along brandishing in each hand a piece of his carbine that had been shot in two by a mauser bullet, and shouting at the top of his voice, contemptuously: "heah, somebody, gimme a gun! gimme a gun, i tell ye," still striding ahead and looking never behind him. "you don't know how to fight. gimme a gun!" to the negro's left, a young lieutenant was going up the hill with naked sword in one hand and a kodak in the other--taking pictures as he ran. a bare-headed boy, running between him and a gigantic negro trooper, toppled suddenly and fell, and another negro stopped in the charge, and, with a groan, bent over him and went no farther. and all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a hard rain in summer dust. whenever a spaniard would leap from the trench, he fell headlong. that pitiless fire kept in the trenches the spaniards who were found there--wretched, pathetic, half-starved little creatures--and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter. one gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the buttock of a shamming spaniard, and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head off. some of the riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in the shade. one of them pulled out of a dead spaniard's pocket cigarettes, cigars, and a lady's slipper of white satin; with a grunt he put the slipper back. below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper walked up and patted them both kindly on the head. "don't cry, boys; it's all right--all right," he said, helplessly. * * * * * over at the block-house, crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and, turning to his men, shouted: "get back over the hill boys, they're going to start in again." as they ran back, a lieutenant-colonel met them. "are you in command?" crittenden saluted. "no, sir," he said. "yes, sir," said the old sergeant at his side. "he was. he brought these men up the hill." "the hell he did. where are your officers?" the old sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and crittenden opened his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and he tried to wheel around--his face amazed and wondering. then he dropped. he wondered, too, why he couldn't get around, and then he wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth. darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought--he had been shot in the back. he did think of his mother and of judith--but it was a fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in front. and then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the spaniard's trench, and he saw blackford's face above him. then he was dropped heavily to the ground again and blackford pitched across his body. there was one glimpse of abe long's anxious face above him, another vision of judith, and then quiet, painless darkness. * * * * * it was fiercer firing now than ever. the spaniards were in the second line of trenches and were making a sortie. under the hill sat grafton and another correspondent while the storm of bullets swept over them. grafton was without glasses--a mauser had furrowed the skin on the bridge of his nose, breaking his spectacle-frame so that one glass dropped on one side of his nose and the other on the other. the other man had several narrow squeaks, as he called them, and, even as they sat, a bullet cut a leaf over his head and it dropped between the pages of his note-book. he closed the book and looked up. "thanks," he said. "that's just what i want--i'll keep that." "i observe," said grafton, "that the way one of these infernal bullets sounds depends entirely on where you happen to be when you hear it. when a sharpshooter has picked you out and is plugging at you, they are intelligent and vindictive. coming through that bottom, they were for all the world like a lot of nasty little insects. and listen to 'em now." the other man listened. "hear 'em as they pass over and go out of hearing. that is for all the world like the last long note of a meadow lark's song when you hear him afar off and at sunset. but i notice that simile didn't occur to me until i got under the lee of this hill." he looked around. "this hill will be famous, i suppose. let's go up higher." they went up higher, passing a crowd of skulkers, or men in reserve--grafton could not tell which--and as they went by a soldier said: "well, if i didn't have to be here, i be damned if i wouldn't like to see anybody get me here. what them fellers come fer, i can't see." the firing was still hot when the two men got up to the danger line, and there they lay down. a wounded man lay at grafton's elbow. once his throat rattled and grafton turned curiously. "that's the death-rattle," he said to himself, and he had never heard a death-rattle before. the poor fellow's throat rattled again, and again grafton turned. "i never knew before," he said to himself, "that a dying man's throat rattled but once." then it flashed on him with horror that he should have so little feeling, and he knew it at once as the curious callousness that comes quickly to toughen the heart for the sights of war. a man killed in battle was not an ordinary dead man at all--he stirred no sensation at all--no more than a dead animal. already he had heard officers remarking calmly to one another, and apparently without feeling: "well, so and so was killed to-day." and he looked back to the disembarkation, when the army was simply in a hurry. two negro troopers were drowned trying to get off on the little pier. they were fished up; a rope was tied about the neck of each, and they were lashed to the pier and left to be beaten against the wooden pillars by the waves for four hours before four comrades came and took them out and buried them. such was the dreadful callousness that sweeps through the human heart when war begins, and he was under its influence himself, and long afterward he remembered with shame his idle and half-scientific and useless curiosity about the wounded man at his elbow. as he turned his head, the soldier gave a long, deep, peaceful sigh, as though he had gone to sleep. with pity now grafton turned to him--and he had gone to sleep, but it was his last sleep. "look," said the other man. grafton looked upward. along the trenches, and under a hot fire, moved little jerry carter, with figure bent, hands clasped behind him--with the manner, for all the world, of a deacon in a country graveyard looking for inscriptions on tombstones. now and then a bullet would have a hoarse sound--that meant that it had ricochetted. at intervals of three or four minutes a huge, old-fashioned projectile would labour through the air, visible all the time, and crash harmlessly into the woods. the americans called it the "long yellow feller," and sometimes a negro trooper would turn and with a yell shoot at it as it passed over. a little way off, a squad of the tenth cavalry was digging a trench--close to the top of the hill. now and then one would duck--particularly the one on the end. he had his tongue in the corner of his mouth, was twirling his pick over his shoulder like a railroad hand, and grunting with every stroke. grafton could hear him. "foh gawd (huh!) never thought (huh!) i'd git to love (huh!) a pick befoh!" grafton broke into a laugh. "you see the charge?" "part of it." "that tall fellow with the blue handkerchief around his throat, bare-headed, long hair?" "well--" the other man stopped for a moment. his eye had caught sight of a figure on the ground--on the top of the trench, and with the profile of his face between him and the afterglow, and his tone changed--"there he is!" grafton pressed closer. "what, that the fellow?" there was the handkerchief, the head was bare, the hair long and dark. the man's eyes were closed, but he was breathing. below them at that moment they heard the surgeon say: "up there." and two hospital men, with a litter, came toward them and took up the body. as they passed, grafton recoiled. "good god!" it was crittenden. and, sitting on the edge of the trench, with sharpe lying with his face on his arm a few feet away, and the tall cuban outstretched beside him, and the dead spaniards, americans, and cubans about them, grafton told the story of crittenden. and at the end the other man gave a low whistle and smote the back of one hand into the palm of the other softly. dusk fell quickly. the full moon rose. the stars came out, and under them, at the foot of the big mountains, a red fire burned sharply out in the mist rising over captured caney, from which tireless chaffee was already starting his worn-out soldiers on an all-night march by the rear and to the trenches at san juan. and along the stormed hill-side camp-fires were glowing out where the lucky soldiers who had rations to cook were cheerily frying bacon and hardtack. grafton moved down to watch one squad and, as he stood on the edge of the firelight, wondering at the cheery talk and joking laughter, somebody behind him said sharply: "watch out, there," and he turned to find himself on the edge of a grave which a detail was digging not ten yards away from the fire--digging for a dead comrade. never had he seen a more peaceful moonlit night than the night that closed over the battlefield. it was hard for him to realize that the day had not been a terrible dream, and yet, as the moon rose, its rich light, he knew, was stealing into the guerilla-haunted jungles, stealing through guava-bush and mango-tree, down through clumps of spanish bayonet, on stiff figures that would rise no more; on white, set faces with the peace of painless death upon them or the agony of silent torture, fought out under fierce heat and in the silence of the jungle alone. looking toward caney he could even see the hill from which he had witnessed the flight of the first shell that had been the storm centre of the hurricane of death that had swept all through the white, cloudless day. it burst harmlessly--that shell--and meant no more than a signal to fire to the soldiers closing in on caney, the cubans lurking around a block-house at a safe artillery distance in the woods and to the impatient battery before san juan. retrospectively now, it meant the death-knell of brave men, the quick cry and long groaning of the wounded, the pained breathing of sick and fever-stricken, the quickened heart-beats of the waiting and anxious at home--the low sobbing of the women to whom fatal news came. it meant cervera's gallant dash, sampson and schley's great victory, the fall of santiago; freedom for cuba, a quieter sleep for the _maine_ dead, and peace with spain. once more, as he rose, he looked at the dark woods, the dead-haunted jungles which the moon was draping with a more than mortal beauty, and he knew that in them, as in the long grass of the orchard-like valley below him, comrade was looking for dead comrade. and among the searchers was the faithful bob, looking for his old captain, crittenden, his honest heart nigh to bursting, for already he had found raincrow torn with a shell and he had borne a body back to the horror-haunted little hospital under the creek bank at the bloody ford--a body from which the head hung over his shoulder--limp, with a bullet-hole through the neck--the body of his young captain, basil. xii grafton sat, sobered and saddened, where he was awhile. the moon swung upward white and peaceful, toward mild-eyed stars. crickets chirped in the grass around him, and nature's low night-music started in the wood and the valley below, as though the earth had never known the hell of fire and human passion that had rocked it through that day. was there so much difference between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of his own proud estate? had they not both been on the same brute level that day? and, save for the wounded and the men who had comrades wounded and dead, were not the unharmed as careless, almost as indifferent as cricket and tree-toad to the tragedies of their sphere? had there been any inner change in any man who had fought that day that was not for the worse? would he himself get normal again, he wondered? was there one sensitive soul who fully realized the horror of that day? if so, he would better have been at home. the one fact that stood above every thought that had come to him that day was the utter, the startling insignificance of death. could that mean much more than a startlingly sudden lowering of the estimate put upon human life? across the hollow behind him and from a tall palm over the spanish trenches, rose, loud and clear, the night-song of a mocking-bird. over there the little men in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at their trenches; and along the crest of the hill the big men in blue were toiling, toiling, toiling at theirs. all through the night anxious eyes would be strained for chaffee, and at dawn the slaughter would begin again. wherever he looked, he could see with his mind's eye stark faces in the long grass of the valley and the spanish-bayonet clumps in the woods. all day he had seen them there--dying of thirst, bleeding to death--alone. as he went down the hill, lights were moving along the creek bed. a row of muffled dead lay along the bed of the creek. yet they were still bringing in dead and wounded--a dead officer with his will and a letter to his wife clasped in his hand. he had lived long enough to write them. hollow-eyed surgeons were moving here and there. up the bank of the creek, a voice rose: "come on, boys"--appealingly--"you're not going back on me. come on, you cursed cowards! good! good! i take it back, boys. _now_ we've got 'em!" another voice: "kill me, somebody--kill me. for god's sake, kill me. won't somebody give me a pistol? god--god...." once grafton started into a tent. on the first cot lay a handsome boy, with a white, frank face and a bullet hole through his neck, and he recognized the dashing little fellow whom he had seen splashing through the bloody ford at a gallop, dropping from his horse at a barbed-wire fence, and dashing on afoot with the rough riders. the face bore a strong likeness to the face he had seen on the hill--of the kentuckian, crittenden--the kentucky regular, as grafton always mentally characterized him--and he wondered if the boy were not the brother of whom he had heard. the lad was still alive--but how could he live with that wound in his throat? grafton's eyes filled with tears: it was horror--horror--all horror. here and there along the shadowed road lay a lifeless mule or horse or a dead man. it was curious, but a man killed in battle was not like an ordinary dead man--he was no more than he was--a lump of clay. it was more curious still that one's pity seemed less acute for man than for horse: it was the man's choice to take the risk--the horse had no choice. here and there by the roadside was a grave. comrades had halted there long enough to save a comrade from the birds of prey. every now and then he would meet a pack-train loaded with ammunition and ration boxes; or a wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a swearing, fearless, tireless teamster. the forest was ringing with the noise of wheels, the creaking of harness, the shouts of teamsters and the guards with them and the officer in charge--all on the way to the working beavers on top of the conquered hill. going the other way were the poor wounded, on foot, in little groups of slowly moving twos and threes, and in jolting, springless army wagons--on their way of torture to more torture in the rear. his heart bled for them. and the way those men took their suffering! sometimes the jolting wagons were too much for human endurance, and soldiers would pray for the driver, when he stopped, not to start again. in one ambulance that he overtook, a man groaned. "grit your teeth," said another, an old irish sergeant, sternly--"grit your teeth; there's others that's hurt worse'n you." the sergeant lifted his head, and a bandage showed that he was shot through the face, and grafton heard not another sound. but it was the slightly hurt--the men shot in the leg or arm--who made the most noise. he had seen three men brought into the hospital from san juan. the surgeon took the one who was groaning. he had a mere scratch on one leg. another was dressed, and while the third sat silently on a stool, still another was attended, and another, before the surgeon turned to the man who was so patiently awaiting his turn. "where are you hurt?" the man pointed to his left side. "through?" "yes, sir." that day he had seen a soldier stagger out from the firing-line with half his face shot away and go staggering to the rear without aid. on the way he met a mounted staff officer, and he raised his hand to his hatless, bleeding forehead, in a stern salute and, without a gesture for aid, staggered on. the officer's eyes filled with tears. "lieutenant," said a trooper, just after the charge on the trenches, "i think i'm wounded." "can you get to the rear without help?" "i think i can, sir," and he started. after twenty paces he pitched forward--dead. his wound was through the heart. at the divisional hospital were more lights, tents, surgeons, stripped figures on the tables under the lights; rows of figures in darkness outside the tents; and rows of muffled shapes behind; the smell of anæsthetics and cleansing fluids; heavy breathing, heavy groaning, and an occasional curse on the night air. beyond him was a stretch of moonlit road and coming toward him was a soldier, his arm in a sling, and staggering weakly from side to side. with a start of pure gladness he saw that it was crittenden, and he advanced with his hand outstretched. "are you badly hurt?" "oh, no," said crittenden, pointing to his hand and arm, but not mentioning the bullet through his chest. "oh, but i'm glad. i thought you were gone sure when i saw you laid out on the hill." "oh, i am all right," he said, and his manner was as courteous as though he had been in a drawing-room; but, in spite of his nonchalance, grafton saw him stagger when he moved off. "i say, you oughtn't to be walking," he called. "let me help you," but crittenden waved him off. "oh, i'm all right," he repeated, and then he stopped. "do you know where the hospital is?" "god!" said grafton softly, and he ran back and put his arm around the soldier--crittenden laughing weakly: "i missed it somehow." "yes, it's back here," said grafton gently, and he saw now that the soldier's eyes were dazed and that he breathed heavily and leaned on him, laughing and apologizing now and then with a curious shame at his weakness. as they turned from the road at the hospital entrance, crittenden dropped to the ground. "thank you, but i'm afraid i'll have to rest a little while now. i'm all right now--don't bother--don't--bother. i'm all right. i feel kind o' sleepy--somehow--very kind--thank--" and he closed his eyes. a surgeon was passing and grafton called him. "he's all right," said the surgeon, with a swift look, adding shortly, "but he must take his turn." grafton passed on--sick. on along the muddy road--through more pack-trains, wagons, shouts, creakings, cursings. on through the beautiful moonlight night and through the beautiful tropical forest, under tall cocoanut and taller palm; on past the one long grave of the rough riders--along the battle-line of the first little fight--through the ghastly, many-coloured masses of hideous land-crabs shuffling sidewise into the cactus and shuffling on with an unearthly rustling of dead twig and fallen leaf: along the crest of the foothills and down to the little town of siboney, lighted, bustling with preparation for the wounded in the tents; bustling at the beach with the unloading of rations, the transports moving here and there far out on the moonlighted sea. down there were straggler, wounded soldier, teamster, mule-packer, refugee cuban, correspondent, nurse, doctor, surgeon--the flotsam and jetsam of the battle of the day. * * * * * the moon rose. "water! water! water!" crittenden could not move. he could see the lights in the tents; the half-naked figures stretched on tables; and doctors with bloody arms about them--cutting and bandaging--one with his hands inside a man's stomach, working and kneading the bowels as though they were dough. now and then four negro troopers would appear with something in a blanket, would walk around the tent where there was a long trench, and, standing at the head of this, two would lift up their ends of the blanket and the other two would let go, and a shapeless shape would drop into the trench. up and down near by strolled two young lieutenants, smoking cigarettes--calmly, carelessly. he could see all this, but that was all right; that was all right! everything was all right except that long, black shape in the shadow near him gasping: "water! water! water!" he could not stand that hoarse, rasping whisper much longer. his canteen he had clung to--the regular had taught him that--and he tried again to move. a thousand needles shot through him--every one, it seemed, passing through a nerve-centre and back the same path again. he heard his own teeth crunch as he had often heard the teeth of a drunken man crunch, and then he became unconscious. when he came to, the man was still muttering; but this time it was a woman's name, and crittenden lay still. good god! "judith--judith--judith!" each time more faintly still. there were other judiths in the world, but the voice--he knew the voice--somewhere he had heard it. the moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and was creeping up his twisted body. it would reach his face in time, and, if he could keep from fainting again, he would see. "water! water! water!" why did not some one answer? crittenden called and called and called; but he could little more than whisper. the man would die and be thrown into that trench; or _he_ might, and never know! he raised himself on one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would not faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the darkness coming again, and again he heard: "judith--judith!" then there were footsteps near him and a voice--a careless voice: "he's gone." he felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for a moment and the same voice: "bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one." when the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. the shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinched in his right hand. it was a miniature, and crittenden stared at it--unwinking--stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong, white light. it looked like the face of judith. it wasn't, of course, but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. it was judith--judith as he had known her years ago. he must see now; he _must_ see _now_, and he dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face. he fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering. "blackford! judith! blackford!" he was face to face with the man he had longed so many years to see; he was face to face at last with him--dead. as he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled him through and through. and presently he reached out with his left hand and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. the face was in clear view presently--the handsome, dare-devil face--strangely shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit--death. peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived ever in the light of a baleful star. he had loved, and he had been faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his--as justly--god knew. footsteps approached again and crittenden turned his head. "why, he isn't dead!" it was willings, the surgeon he had known at chickamauga, and crittenden called him by name. "no, i'm not dead--i'm not going to die." willings gave an exclamation of surprise. "well, there's grit for you," said the other surgeon. "we'll take him next." "straighten _him_ out there, won't you?" said crittenden, gently, as the two men stooped for him. "don't put him in there, please," nodding toward the trench behind the tents; "and mark his grave, won't you, doctor? he's my bunkie." "all right," said willings, kindly. "and doctor, give me _that_--what he has in his hand, please. i know her." * * * * * a tent at siboney in the fever-camp overlooking the sea. "judith! judith! judith!" the doctor pointed to the sick man's name. "answer him?" but the nurse would not call his name. "yes, dear," she said, gently; and she put one hand on his forehead and the other on the hand that was clinched on his breast. slowly his hand loosened and clasped hers tight, and crittenden passed, by and by, into sleep. the doctor looked at him closely. he had just made the rounds of the tents outside, and he was marvelling. there were men who had fought bravely, who had stood wounds and the surgeon's knife without a murmur; who, weakened and demoralized by fever now, were weak and puling of spirit, and sly and thievish; who would steal the food of the very comrades for whom a little while before they had risked their lives--men who in a fortnight had fallen from a high plane of life to the pitiful level of brutes. only here and there was an exception. this man, crittenden, was one. when sane, he was gentle, uncomplaining, considerate. delirious, there was never a plaint in his voice; never a word passed his lips that his own mother might not hear; and when his lips closed, an undaunted spirit kept them firm. "aren't you tired?" the nurse shook her head. "then you had better stay where you are; his case is pretty serious. i'll do your work for you." the nurse nodded and smiled. she was tired and worn to death, but she sat as she was till dawn came over the sea, for the sake of the girl, whose fresh young face she saw above the sick man's heart. and she knew from the face that the other woman would have watched just that way for her. xiii the thunder of big guns, cervera's doom, and truce at the trenches. a trying week of hot sun, cool nights, tropical rains, and fevers. then a harmless little bombardment one sunday afternoon--that befitted the day; another week of heat and cold and wet and sickness. after that, the surrender--and the fierce little war was over. meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and of the crittendens bob was the first to reach canewood. he came in one morning, hungry and footsore, but with a swagger of importance that he had well earned. he had left his young captain basil at old point comfort, he said, where the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport and gone off with the kentucky legion for porto rico--the unhappy legion that had fumed all summer at chickamauga--and had hoisted sail for porto rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged back to land from washington. was basil well? "yas'm. young cap'n didn' min' dat little bullet right through his neck no mo'n a fly-bite. nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back." they had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by dressing himself when his doctor was not there. an attendant tried to stop him. "an' young cap'n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran' an' says: 'i'm going to join my regiment,' he says. 'it sails to-morrow.' but ole cap'n done killed," bob reckoned; "killed on top of the hill where they druv the spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin' from." mrs. crittenden smiled. "no, bob, he's coming home now," and bob's eyes streamed. "you've been a good boy, bob. come here;" and she led him into the hallway and told him to wait, while she went to the door of her room and called some one. molly came out embarrassed, twisting a corner of her apron and putting it in her mouth while she walked forward and awkwardly shook hands. "i think molly has got something to say to you, bob. you can go, molly," she added, smiling. the two walked toward the cabin, the negroes crowding about bob and shaking him by the hand and asking a thousand absurd questions; and bob, while he was affable, was lordly as well, and one or two of bob's possible rivals were seen to sniff, as did other young field hands, though bob's mammy was, for the first time in her life, grinning openly with pride in her "chile," and she waved the curious away and took the two in her own cabin, reappearing presently and walking toward the kitchen. bob and molly sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace, bob triumphant at last, and molly watching him furtively. "i believe you has somethin' to say to me, miss johnson," said bob, loftily. "well, i sut'nly is glad to welcome you home ag'in, mistuh crittenden," said molly. "is you?" bob was quite independent now, and molly began to weaken slightly. "an' is dat all you got to say?" "ole miss said i must tell you that i was mighty--mean--to--you--when you went--to--de wah, an' that--i'm sorry." "well, _is_ you sorry?" molly was silent. "quit yo' foolin', gal; quit yo' foolin'." in a moment bob was by her side, and with his arm around her; and molly rose to her feet with an ineffectual effort to unclasp his hands. "quit yo' foolin'!" bob's strong arms began to tighten, and the girl in a moment turned and gave way into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, began to cry. but bob knew what sort of tears they were, and he was as gentle as though his skin had been as white as was his heart. * * * * * and crittenden was coming home--colour-sergeant crittenden, who had got out of the hospital and back to the trenches just in time to receive flag and chevrons on the very day of the surrender--only to fall ill of the fever and go back to the hospital that same day. there was tampa once more--the great hotel, the streets, silent and deserted, except for the occasional officer that rode or marched through the deep dust of the town, and the other soldiers, regulars and volunteers, who had suffered the disappointment, the heat, sickness, and hardship of war with little credit from the nation at large, and no reward, such even as a like fidelity in any path of peace would have brought them. half out of his head, weak and feverish, crittenden climbed into the dusty train and was whirled through the dusty town, out through dry marshes and dusty woods and dusty, cheerless, dead-flowered fields, but with an exhilaration that made his temple throb like a woman's. up through the blistered, sandy, piney lowlands; through chickamauga again, full of volunteers who, too, had suffered and risked all the ills of the war without one thrill of compensation; and on again, until he was once more on the edge of the bluegrass, with birds singing the sun down; and again the world for him was changed--from nervous exaltation to an air of balm and peace; from grim hills to the rolling sweep of low, brown slopes; from giant-poplar to broad oak and sugar-tree; from log-cabin to homestead of brick and stone. and so, from mountain of cuba and mountain of his own land, crittenden once more passed home. it had been green spring for the earth when he left, but autumn in his heart. now autumn lay over the earth, but in his heart was spring. as he glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the station. a brass band was standing in front of the station-door--some holiday excursion was on foot, he thought. as he stepped on the platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him, friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin, lean-faced, feverish, dull-eyed, the cheers stopped and two powerful fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station-door, where were waiting his mother--and little phyllis. when they came out again to the carriage, the band started "johnny comes marching home again," and crittenden asked feebly: "what does all this mean?" phyllis laughed through her tears. "that's for you." crittenden's brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts; but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on his lips. his mother smiled merely, and crittenden wondered why; but somehow he was not particularly curious--he was not particularly concerned about anything. in fact, he was getting weaker, and the excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. half the time his eyes were closed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing autumn fields, his gaze was listless. once he muttered several times, as though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his face was turning blue at the lips and his teeth began to chatter. close behind came the doctor's buggy. crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. on the top step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the stubble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the quarters to welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly humouring him. "uncle ephraim," he said to a respectful old white-haired man, "where's my buggy?" "right where you left it, suh." "well, hitch up--" raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered that raincrow was dead. "have you got anything to drive?" "yessuh; we got mr. basil's little mare." "hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. i want you to drive me." the old darky looked puzzled, but mrs. crittenden, still with the idea of humouring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward the stable. "yessuh--right away, suh." "where's basil, mother?" phyllis turned her face quickly. "he'll be here soon," said his mother, with a smile. the doctor looked at his flushed face. "come on, my boy," he said, firmly. "you must get out of the sun." crittenden shook his head. "mother, have i ever done anything that you asked me not to do?" "no, my son." "please don't make me begin now," he said, gently. "is--is she at home?" "yes; but she is not very well. she has been ill a long while," she added, but she did not tell him that judith had been nursing at tampa, and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever. the doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look, pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but crittenden waved him away. "not yet, doctor; not yet," he said, and stopped a moment to control his voice before he went on. "i know what's the matter better than you do. i'm going to have the fever again; but i've got something to do before i go to bed, or i'll never get up again. i have come up from tampa just this way, and i can go on like this for two more hours; and i'm going." the doctor started to speak, but mrs. crittenden shook her head at him, and phyllis's face, too, was pleading for him. "mother, i'll be back in two hours, and then i'll do just what you and the doctor say; but not now." * * * * * judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely about her neck and about her half-bare arms. behind her, on the floor of the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a column about the home-coming of crittenden--plain sergeant crittenden. and there was a long editorial comment, full of national spirit, and a plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in congress was his without the asking. the pike-gate slammed--her father was getting home from town. the buggy coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had brought to crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous spring; and what she rarely allowed herself, she thought of the night of their parting and the warm colour came to her cheeks. he had never sent her a line, of course. the matter would never be mentioned--it couldn't be. it struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on the turf that they were much swifter than her father's steady-going old buggy horse. the click was different; and when the buggy, instead of turning toward the stable, came straight for the stiles, her heart quickened and she raised her head. she heard acutely the creak of the springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. unconsciously she rose to her feet, not knowing what to think--to do. and then she saw that the man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was buckled around him, and she turned for the door in alarm. "judith!" the voice was weak, and she did not know it; but in a moment the light from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man in the uniform of a common soldier. "judith!" this time the voice broke a little, and for a moment judith stood speechless--still--unable to believe that the wreck before her was crittenden. his face and eyes were on fire--the fire of fever--she could not know that; and he was trembling and looked hardly able to stand. "i've come, judith," he said. "i haven't known what to do, and i've come to tell you--to--ask----" he was searching her face anxiously, and he stopped suddenly and passed one hand across, his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something. the girl had drawn herself slowly upward until the honeysuckle above her head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms about him, took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long anguish of the summer came out suddenly in her trembling lip and the whiteness of her face. "to ask for forgiveness," he might have said; but his instinct swerved him; and-- "for mercy, judith," he would have said, but the look of her face stopped the words in an unheard whisper; and he stooped slowly, feeling carefully for a step, and letting himself weakly down in a way that almost unnerved her again; but he had begun to talk now, quietly and evenly, and without looking up at her. "i'm not going to stay long. i'm not going to worry you. i'll go away in just a moment; but i had to come; i had to come. i've been a little sick, and i believe i've not quite got over the fever yet; but i couldn't go through it again without seeing you. i know that, and that's--why--i've--come. it isn't the fever. oh, no; i'm not sick at all. i'm very well, thank you----" he was getting incoherent, and he knew it, and stopped a moment. "it's you, judith----" he stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly--slowly and quietly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him. "i--used--to--think--that--i--loved--you. i--used--to--think i was--a--man. i didn't know what love was, and i didn't know what it was to be a man. i know both now, thank god, and learning each has helped me to learn the other. if i killed all your feeling for me, i deserve the loss; but you must have known, judith, that i was not myself that night. you did know. your instinct told you the truth; you--knew--i loved--you--then--and that's why--that's why--you--god bless you--said--what--you--did. to think that i should ever dare to open my lips again! but i can't help it; i can't help it. i was crazy, judith--crazy--and i am now; but it didn't go and then come back. it never went at all, as i found out, going down to cuba--and yes, it did come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it had ever been, for everything came back and i was a better man. i have seen nothing but your face all the time--nothing--nothing, all the time i've been gone; and i couldn't rest or sleep--i couldn't even die, judith, until i had come to tell you that i never knew a man could love a woman as--i--love--you--judith. i----" he rose very slowly, turned, and as he passed from the light, his weakness got the better of him for the first time, because of his wounds and sickness, and his voice broke in a half sob--the sob that is so terrible to a woman's ears; and she saw him clinch his arms fiercely around his breast to stifle it. * * * * * it was the old story that night--the story of the summer's heat and horror and suffering--heard and seen, and keenly felt in his delirium: the dusty, grimy days of drill on the hot sands of tampa; the long, long, hot wait on the transport in the harbour; the stuffy, ill-smelling breath of the hold, when the wind was wrong; the march along the coast and the grewsome life over and around him--buzzard and strange bird in the air, and crab and snail and lizard and scorpion and hairy tarantula scuttling through the tropical green rushes along the path. and the hunger and thirst and heat and dirt and rolling sweat of the last day's march and every detail of the day's fight; the stench of dead horse and dead man; the shriek of shell and rattle of musketry and yell of officer; the slow rush through the long grass, and the climb up the hill. and always, he was tramping, tramping, tramping through long, green, thick grass. sometimes a kaleidoscope series of pictures would go jumbling through his brain, as though some imp were unrolling the scroll of his brain backward, forward, and sidewise; a whirling cloud of sand, a driving sheet of visible bullets; a hose-pipe that shot streams of melted steel; a forest of smokestacks; the flash of trailing phosphorescent foam; a clear sky, full of stars--the mountains clear and radiant through sunlit vapours; camp-fires shooting flames into the darkness, and men and guns moving past them. through it all he could feel his legs moving and his feet tramping, tramping, tramping through long green grass. sometimes he was tramping toward the figure of a woman, whose face looked like judith's; and tramp as he could, he could never get close enough through that grass to know whether it was judith or not. but usually it was a hill that he was tramping toward, and then his foothold was good; and while he went slowly he got forward and he reached the hill, and he climbed it to a queer-looking little block-house on top, from which queer-looking little blue men were running. and now and then one would drop and not get up again. and by and by came his time to drop. then he would begin all over again, or he would go back to the coast, which he preferred to do, in spite of his aching wound, and the long wait in the hospital and the place where poor reynolds was tossed into the air and into fragments by a shell; in spite of the long walk back to siboney, the graves of the rough riders and the scuttling land-crabs; and the heat and the smells. then he would march back again to the trenches in his dream, as he had done in cuba when he got out of the hospital. there was the hill up which he had charged. it looked like the abode of cave-dwellers--so burrowed was it with bomb-proofs. he could hear the shouts of welcome as his comrades, and men who had never spoken to him before, crowded about him. how often he lived through that last proud little drama of his soldier life! there was his captain wounded, and there was the old sergeant--the "governor"--with chevrons and a flag. "you're a sergeant, crittenden," said the captain. he, crittenden, in blood and sympathy the spirit of secession--bearer now of the stars and stripes! how his heart thumped, and how his head reeled when he caught the staff and looked dumbly up to the folds; and in spite of all his self-control, the tears came, as they came again and again in his delirium. right at that moment there was a great bustle in camp. and still holding that flag, crittenden marched with his company up to the trenches. there was the army drawn up at parade, in a great ten-mile half-circle and facing santiago. there were the red roofs of the town, and the batteries, which were to thunder word when the red and yellow flag of defeat went down and the victorious stars and stripes rose up. there were little men in straw hats and blue clothes coming from santiago, and swinging hammocks and tethering horses in an open field, while more little men in panama hats were advancing on the american trenches, saluting courteously. and there were american officers jumping across the trenches to meet them, and while they were shaking hands, on the very stroke of twelve, there came thunder--the thunder of two-score and one salutes. and the cheers--the cheers! from the right rose those cheers, gathering volume as they came, swinging through the centre far to the left, and swinging through the centre back again, until they broke in a wild storm against the big, green hills. a storm that ran down the foothills to the rear, was mingled with the surf at siboney and swung by the rocking transports out to sea. under the sea, too, it sang, along the cables, to ring on through the white corridors of the great capitol and spread like a hurricane throughout all the waiting land at home! then he could hear bands playing--playing the "star-spangled banner"--and the soldiers cheering and cheering again. suddenly there was quiet; the bands were playing hymns--old, old hymns that the soldier had heard with bowed head at his mother's knee, or in some little old country church at home--and what hardships, privations, wounds, death of comrades had rarely done, those old hymns did now--they brought tears. then some thoughtful soldier pulled a box of hardtack across the trenches and the little spanish soldiers fell upon it like schoolboys and scrambled like pickaninnies for a penny. thus it was that day all around the shining circle of sheathed bayonets, silent carbines, and dumb cannon-mouths at the american trenches around santiago, where the fighting was done. and on a little knoll not far away stood sergeant crittenden, swaying on his feet--colour-sergeant to the folds of the ever-victorious, ever-beloved old glory waving over him, with a strange new wave of feeling surging through him. for then and there, crittenden, southerner, died straightway and through a travail of wounds, suffering, sickness, devotion, and love for that flag--crittenden, american, was born. and just at that proud moment, he would feel once more the dizziness seize him. the world would turn dark, and again he would sink slowly. and again, when all this was over, the sick man would go back to the long grass and tramp it once more until his legs ached and his brain swam. and when it was the hill that he could see, he was quiet and got rest for a while; and when it was the figure of judith--he knew now that it _was_ judith--he would call aloud for her, just as he did in the hospital at siboney. and always the tramp through the long grass would begin again-- tramp--tramp--tramp. he was very tired, but there was the long grass ahead of him, and he must get through it somehow. tramp--tramp--tramp. * * * * * xiv autumn came and the legion was coming home--basil was coming home. and phyllis was for one hour haughty and unforgiving over what she called his shameful neglect and, for another, in a fever of unrest to see him. no, she was not going to meet him. she would wait for him at her own home, and he could come to her there with the honours of war on his brow and plead on bended knee to be forgiven. at least that was the picture that she sometimes surprised in her own mind, though she did not want basil kneeling to anybody--not even to her. the town made ready, and the spirit of welcome for the home-coming was oddly like the spirit of god-speed that had followed them six months before; only there were more smiling faces, more and madder cheers, and as many tears, but this time they were tears of joy. for many a mother and daughter who did not weep when father and brother went away, wept now, that they were coming home again. they had run the risk of fever and sickness, the real terrors of war. god knew they had done their best to get to the front, and the people knew what account they would have given of themselves had they gotten their chance at war. they had had all the hardship--the long, long hardship without the one moment of recompense that was the soldier's reward and his sole opportunity for death or glory. so the people gave them all the deserved honour that they would have given had they stormed san juan or the stone fort at caney. the change that even in that short time was wrought in the regiment, everybody saw; but only the old ex-confederates and federals on the street knew the steady, veteran-like swing of the march and felt the solid unity of form and spirit that those few months had brought to the tanned youths who marched now like soldiers indeed. and next the colonel rode the hero of the regiment, who _had_ got to cuba, who _had_ stormed the hill, and who had met a spanish bullet face to face and come off conqueror--basil, sitting his horse as only the southerner, born to the saddle, can. how they cheered him, and how the gallant, generous old colonel nodded and bowed as though to say: "that's right; that's right. give it to him! give it to him!" phyllis--her mother and basil's mother being present--shook hands merely with basil when she saw him first at the old woodland, and basil blushed like a girl. they fell behind as the older people walked toward the auditorium, and basil managed to get hold of her hand, but she pulled it away rather haughtily. she was looking at him very reproachfully, a moment later, when her eyes became suddenly fixed to the neck of his blouse, and filled with tears. she began to cry softly. "why, phyllis." phyllis was giving way, and, thereupon, with her own mother and basil's mother looking on, and to basil's blushing consternation, she darted for his neck-band and kissed him on the throat. the throat flushed, and in the flush a tiny white spot showed--the mouth of a tiny wound where a mauser bullet had hissed straight through. then the old auditorium again, and crittenden, who had welcomed the legion to camp at ashland, was out of bed, against the doctor's advice, to welcome it to home and fireside. and when he faced the crowd--if they cheered basil, what did they do now? he was startled by the roar that broke against the roof. as he stood there, still pale, erect, modest, two pairs of eyes saw what no other eyes saw, two minds were thinking what none others were--the mother and judith page. others saw him as the soldier, the generous brother, the returned hero. these two looked deeper and saw the new man who had been forged from dross by the fire of battle and fever and the fire of love. there was much humility in the face, a new fire in the eyes, a nobler bearing--and his bearing had always been proud--a nobler sincerity, a nobler purpose. he spoke not a word of himself--not a word of the sickness through which he had passed. it was of the long patience and the patriotism of the american soldier, the hardship of camp life, the body-wearing travail of the march in tropical heat. and then he paid his tribute to the regular. there was no danger of the volunteer failing to get credit for what he had done, but the regular--there was no one to speak for him in camp, on the transports, on the march, in tropical heat, and on the battlefield. he had seen the regular hungry, wet, sick, but fighting still; and he had seen him wounded, dying, dead, and never had he known anything but perfect kindness from one to the other; perfect courtesy to outsider; perfect devotion to officer, and never a word of complaint--never one word of complaint. "sometimes i think that the regular who has gone will not open his lips if the god of battles tells him that not yet has he earned eternal peace." as for the war itself, it had placed the nation high among the seats of the mighty. it had increased our national pride, through unity, a thousand fold. it would show to the world and to ourselves that the heroic mould in which the sires of the nation were cast is still casting the sons of to-day; that we need not fear degeneracy nor dissolution for another hundred years--smiling as he said this, as though the dreams of greece and rome were to become realities here. it had put to rest for a time the troublous social problems of the day; it had brought together every social element in our national life--coal-heaver and millionaire, student and cowboy, plain man and gentleman, regular and volunteer--had brought them face to face and taught each for the other tolerance, understanding, sympathy, high regard; and had wheeled all into a solid front against a common foe. it had thus not only brought shoulder to shoulder the brothers of the north and south, but those brothers shoulder to shoulder with our brothers across the sea. in the interest of humanity, it had freed twelve million people of an alien race and another land, and it had given us a better hope for the alien race in our own. and who knew but that, up where france's great statue stood at the wide-thrown portals of the great city of the land, it had not given to the mighty torch that nightly streams the light of liberty across the waters from the new world to the old--who knew that it had not given to that light a steady, ever-onward-reaching glow that some day should illumine the earth? * * * * * the cuban fever does not loosen its clutch easily. crittenden went to bed that day and lay there delirious and in serious danger for more than a fortnight. but at the end a reward came for all the ills of his past and all that could ever come. his long fight was over, and that afternoon he lay by his window, which was open to the rich, autumn sunlight that sifted through the woods and over the pasture till it lay in golden sheens across the fence and the yard and rested on his window-sill, rich enough almost to grasp with his hand, should he reach out for it. there was a little colour in his face--he had eaten one good meal that day, and his long fight with the fever was won. he did not know that in his delirium he had spoken of judith--judith--judith--and this day and that had given out fragments from which his mother could piece out the story of his love; that, at the crisis, when his mother was about to go to the girl, judith had come of her own accord to his bedside. he did not know her, but he grew quiet at once when the girl put her hand on his forehead. now crittenden was looking out on the sward, green with the curious autumn-spring that comes in that bluegrass land: a second spring that came every year to nature, and was coming this year to him. and in his mood for field and sky was the old, dreamy mistiness of pure delight--spiritual--that he had not known for many years. it was the spirit of his youth come back--that distant youth when the world was without a shadow; when his own soul had no tarnish of evil; when passion was unconscious and pure; when his boyish reverence was the only feeling he knew toward every woman. and lying thus, as the sun sank and the shadows stole slowly across the warm bands of sunlight, and the meadow-lark called good-night from the meadows, whence the cows were coming homeward and the sheep were still browsing--out of the quiet and peace and stillness and purity and sweetness of it all came his last vision--the vision of a boy with a fresh, open face and no shadow across the mirror of his clear eyes. it looked like basil, but it was "the little brother" of himself coming back at last--coming with a glad, welcoming smile. the little man was running swiftly across the fields toward him. he had floated lightly over the fence, and was making straight across the yard for his window; and there he rose and floated in, and with a boy's trustfulness put his small, chubby hand in the big brother's, and crittenden felt the little fellow's cheek close to his as he slept on, his lashes wet with tears. the mother opened the door; a tall figure slipped gently in; the door was closed softly after it again, and judith was alone; for crittenden still lay with his eyes closed, and the girl's face whitened with pity and flamed slowly as she slowly slipped forward and stood looking down at him. as she knelt down beside him, something that she held in her hand clanked softly against the bed and crittenden opened his eyes. "mother!" there was no answer. judith had buried her face in her hands. a sob reached his ears and he turned quickly. "judith," he said; "judith," he repeated, with a quick breath. "why, my god, you! why--you--you've come to see me! you, after all--you!" he raised himself slowly, and as he bent over her, he saw his father's sword, caught tightly in her white hands--the old sword that was between him and basil to win and wear--and he knew the meaning of it all, and he had to steady himself to keep back his own tears. "judith!" his voice choked; he could get no further, and he folded his arms about her head and buried his face in her hair. xv the gray walls of indian summer tumbled at the horizon and let the glory of many fires shine out among the leaves. once or twice the breath of winter smote the earth white at dawn. christmas was coming, and god was good that christmas. peace came to crittenden during the long, dream-like days--and happiness; and high resolve had deepened. day by day, judith opened to him some new phase of loveliness, and he wondered how he could have ever thought that he knew her; that he loved her, as he loved her now. he had given her the locket and had told her the story of that night at the hospital. she had shown no surprise, and but very little emotion; moreover, she was silent. and crittenden, too, was silent, and, as always, asked no questions. it was her secret; she did not wish him to know, and his trust was unfaltering. besides, he had his secrets as well. he meant to tell her all some day, and she meant to tell him; but the hours were so full of sweet companionship that both forbore to throw the semblance of a shadow on the sunny days they spent together. it was at the stiles one night that judith handed crittenden back the locket that had come from the stiffened hand of the rough rider, blackford, along with a letter, stained, soiled, unstamped, addressed to herself, marked on the envelope "soldier's letter," and countersigned by his captain. "i heard him say at chickamauga that he was from kentucky," ran the letter, "and that his name was crittenden. i saw your name on a piece of paper that blew out of his tent one day. i guessed what was between you two, and i asked him to be my 'bunkie;' but as you never told him my name, i never told him who i was. i went with the rough riders, but we have been camped near each other. to-morrow comes the big fight. our regiments will doubtless advance together. i shall watch out for him as long as i am alive. i shall be shot. it is no premonition--no fear, no belief. i know it. i still have the locket you gave me. if i could, i would give it to him; but he would know who i am, and it seems your wish that he should not know. i should like to see you once more, but i should not like you to see me. i am too much changed; i can see it in my own face. good-night. good-by." there was no name signed. the initials were j. p., and crittenden looked up inquiringly. "his name was not blackford; it was page--jack page. he was my cousin," she went on, gently. "that is why i never told you. it all happened while you were at college. while you were here, he was usually out west; and people thought we were merely cousins, and that i was weaning him from his unhappy ways. i was young and foolish, but i had--you know the rest." the tears gathered in her eyes. "god pity him!" crittenden turned from her and walked to and fro, and judith rose and walked up to him, looking him in the eyes. "no, dear," she said; "i am sorry for him now--sorry, so sorry! i wish i could have helped him more. that is all. it has all gone--long ago. it never was. i did not know until i left you here at the stiles that night." crittenden looked inquiringly into her eyes before he stooped to kiss her. she answered his look. "yes," she said simply; "when i sent him away." crittenden's conscience smote him sharply. what right had he to ask such a question--even with a look? "come, dear," he said; "i want to tell you all--now." but judith stopped him with a gesture. "is there anything that may cross your life hereafter--or mine?" "no, thank god; no!" judith put her finger on his lips. "i don't want to know." * * * * * and god was good that christmas. the day was snapping cold, and just a fortnight before christmas eve. there had been a heavy storm of wind and sleet the night before, and the negroes of canewood, headed by bob and uncle ephraim, were searching the woods for the biggest fallen oak they could find. the frozen grass was strewn with wrenched limbs, and here and there was an ash or a sugar-tree splintered and prostrate, but wily uncle ephraim was looking for a yule-log that would burn slowly and burn long; for as long as the log burned, just that long lasted the holiday of every darky on the place. so the search was careful, and lasted till a yell rose from bob under a cliff by the side of the creek--a yell of triumph that sent the negroes in a rush toward him. bob stood on the torn and twisted roots of a great oak that wind and ice had tugged from its creek-washed roots and stretched parallel with the water--every tooth showing delight in his find. with the cries and laughter of children, two boys sprang upon the tree with axes, but bob waved them back. "go back an' git dat cross-cut saw!" he said. bob, as ex-warrior, took precedence even of his elders now. "fool niggers don't seem to know dar'll be mo' wood to burn if we don't waste de chips!" the wisdom of this was clear, and, in a few minutes, the long-toothed saw was singing through the tough bark of the old monarch--a darky at each end of it, the tip of his tongue in the corner of his mouth, the muscles of each powerful arm playing like cords of elastic steel under its black skin--the sawyers, each time with a mighty grunt, drew the shining, whistling blade to and fro to the handle. presently they began to sing--improvising: pull him t'roo! (grunt) yes, man. pull him t'roo--huh! saw him to de heart. gwine to have christmas. yes, man! gwine to have christmas. yes, man! gwine to have christmas long as he can bu'n. burn long, log! yes, log! burn long, log! yes, log, heah me, log, burn long! gib dis nigger christmas. yes, lawd, long christmas! gib dis nigger christmas. o log, burn long! and the saw sang with them in perfect time, spitting out the black, moist dust joyously--sang with them and without a breath for rest; for as two pair of arms tired, another fresh pair of sinewy hands grasped the handles. in an hour the whistle of the saw began to rise in key higher and higher, and as the men slowed up carefully, it gave a little high squeak of triumph, and with a "kerchunk" dropped to the ground. with more cries and laughter, two men rushed for fence-rails to be used as levers. there was a chorus now: soak him in de water, up, now! soak him in de water, up, now! o lawd, soak long! there was a tightening of big, black biceps, a swelling of powerful thighs, a straightening of mighty backs; the severed heart creaked and groaned, rose slightly, turned and rolled with a great splash into the black, winter water. another delighted chorus: "dyar now!" "hol' on," said bob; and he drove a spike into the end of the log, tied one end of a rope to the spike, and the other to a pliant young hickory, talking meanwhile: "gwine to rain, an' maybe ole mister log try to slip away like a thief in de dark. don't git away from bob; no suh. you be heah now christmas eve--sho'!" "gord!" said a little negro with bandy legs. "soak dat log till christmas an' i reckon he'll burn mo'n two weeks." god was good that christmas--good to the nation, for he brought to it victory and peace, and made it one and indivisible in feeling, as it already was in fact; good to the state, for it had sprung loyally to the defence of the country, and had won all the honour that was in the effort to be won, and man nor soldier can do more; good to the mother, for the whole land rang with praises of her sons, and her own people swore that to one should be given once more the seat of his fathers in the capitol; but best to her when the bishop came to ordain, and, on his knees at the chancel and waiting for the good old man's hands, was the best beloved of her children and her first-born--clay crittenden. to her a divine purpose seemed apparent, to bring her back the best of the old past and all she prayed for the future. as christmas day drew near, gray clouds marshalled and loosed white messengers of peace and good-will to the frozen earth until the land was robed in a thick, soft, shining mantle of pure white--the first spiritualization of the earth for the birth of spring. it was the mother's wish that her two sons should marry on the same day and on that day, and judith and phyllis yielded. so early that afternoon, she saw together judith, as pure and radiant as a snow-hung willow in the sunshine, and her son, with the light in his face for which she had prayed so many years--saw them standing together and clasp hands forever. they took a short wedding trip, and that straight across the crystal fields, where little phyllis stood with basil in uniform--straight and tall and with new lines, too, but deepened merely, about his handsome mouth and chin--waiting to have their lives made one. and, meanwhile, bob and molly too were making ready; for if there be a better hot-bed of sentiment than the mood of man and woman when the man is going to war it is the mood of man and woman when the man has come home from war; and with cries and grunts and great laughter and singing, the negroes were pulling the yule-log from its long bath and across the snowy fields; and when, at dusk, the mother brought her two sons and her two daughters and the pages and stantons to her own roof, the big log, hidden by sticks of pine and hickory, was sputtering christmas cheer with a blaze and crackle that warmed body and heart and home. that night the friends came from afar and near; and that night bob, the faithful, valiant bob, in a dress-suit that was his own and new, and mrs. crittenden's own gift, led the saucy molly, robed as no other dusky bride at canewood was ever arrayed, into the dining-room, while the servants crowded the doors and hallway and the white folk climbed the stairs to give them room. and after a few solemn moments, bob caught the girl in his arms and smacked her lips loudly: "now, gal, i reckon i got yer!" he cried; and whites and blacks broke into jolly laughter, and the music of fiddles rose in the kitchen, where there was a feast for bob's and molly's friends. rose, too, the music of fiddles under the stairway in the hall, and mrs. crittenden and judge page, and crittenden and mrs. stanton, and judith and basil, and none other than grafton and radiant little phyllis led the way for the opening quadrille. it was an old-fashioned christmas the mother wanted, and an old-fashioned christmas, with the dance and merriment and the graces of the old days, that the mother had. over the portrait of the eldest crittenden, who slept in cuba, hung the flag of the single star that would never bend its colours again to spain. above the blazing log and over the fine, strong face of the brave father, who had fought to dissolve the union, hung the stars and bars--proudly. and over the brave brother, who looked down from the north wall, hung proudly the stars and stripes for which he had given his young life. then came toasts after the good old fashion--graceful toasts--to the hostess and the brides, to the american soldier, regular and volunteer. and at the end, crittenden, regular, raised his glass and there was a hush. it was good, he said, to go back to the past; good to revive and hold fast to the ideals that time had proven best for humanity; good to go back to the earth, like the titans, for fresh strength; good for the man, the state, the nation. and it was best for the man to go back to the ideals that had dawned at his mother's knee; for there was the fountain-head of the nation's faith in its god, man's faith in his nation--man's faith in his fellow and faith in himself. and he drank to one who represented his own early ideals better than he should ever realize them for himself. then he raised his glass, smiling, but deeply moved: "my little brother." he turned to basil when he spoke and back again to judith, who, of all present, knew all that he meant, and he saw her eyes shine with the sudden light of tears. at last came the creak of wheels on the snow outside, the cries of servants, the good-bys and good-wishes and congratulations from one and all to one and all; the mother's kiss to basil and phyllis, who were under their mother's wing; the last calls from the doorway; the light of lanterns across the fields; the slam of the pike-gate--and, over the earth, white silence. the mother kissed judith and kissed her son. "my children!" then, as was her custom always, she said simply: "be sure to bolt the front door, my son." and, as he had done for years, crittenden slipped the fastenings of the big hall-door, paused a moment, and looked out. around the corner of the still house swept the sounds of merriment from the quarters. the moon had risen on the snowy fields and white-cowled trees and draped hedges and on the slender white shaft under the bent willow over his father's and his uncle's grave--the brothers who had fought face to face and were sleeping side by side in peace, each the blameless gentleman who had reverenced his conscience as his king, and, without regret for his way on earth, had set his foot, without fear, on the long way into the hereafter. for one moment his mind swept back over the short, fierce struggle of the summer. as they had done, so he had tried to do; and as they had lived, so he, with god's help, would live henceforth to the end. for a moment he thought of the flag hanging motionless in the dim drawing-room behind him--the flag of the great land that was stretching out its powerful hand to the weak and oppressed of the earth. and then with a last look to the willow and the shaft beneath, his lips moved noiselessly: "they will sleep better to-night." judith was standing in the drawing-room on his hearth, looking into his fire and dreaming. ah, god, to think that it should come to pass at last! he entered so softly that she did not hear him. there was no sound but the drowsy tick of the great clock in the hall and the low song of the fire. "sweetheart!" she looked up quickly, the dream gone from her face, and in its place the light of love and perfect trust, and she stood still, her arms hanging at her sides--waiting. "sweetheart!" god was good that christmas. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: . punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. . contemporary spelling has been retained, with these corrections: p. "gretty" to "pretty" ("watching pretty girls"). p. "pacing ing" to "pacing" ("pacing a steady beat"). p. "critdenden" to "crittenden" ("private crittenden"). p. "chapparal" to "chaparral" ("through the chaparral"). coelebs the love story of a bachelor by f.e. mills young published by john lane, the bodley head, london. this edition dated . coelebs, by f.e. mills young. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ coelebs, by f.e. mills young. chapter one. john musgrave stood before the fire in his dining-room, a copy of the _daily telegraph_ in his hands. he was not reading the paper; he was looking over the top of it at his new housemaid, as she brought in his breakfast, and, with many depreciatory sniffs which proclaimed a soul above such lowly service, set it carefully down upon the snowy damask. he approved of her. it was natural that he should approve of her, considering he had himself engaged her for three very good reasons; the first and all-sufficient reason being that he invariably engaged his own servants; the second, that she was by no means young; the third, that she was plain and respectable. it is an interesting psychological fact that plain people are more generally respectable than handsome people. from this it is not fair to infer that virtue is necessarily hard-featured; but temptation more frequently assails the beautiful. as temptation is a thing to be avoided, this doubtless is one of nature's niggardly attempts at compensation. which of us, given the choice, would not unhesitatingly pronounce for the endowment of physical attractions, and risk the possibility of an encounter with evil in the universal arena? virtue is a term which is frequently misapplied. to remain virtuous in circumstances which offer no temptation to be otherwise is a condition which does not justify the individual in the complacency usually indulged in where a knowledge of perfect uprightness which has never been assailed conveys a sense of superiority over one's fellows. there can be no cause for self-esteem when there has been no battle fought and won. it was quite safe to predict that eliza--the eminently respectable christian name of the middle-aged abigail--had fought no battle; it was not such a level certainty to conclude that, if she had, she of necessity would have proved victorious; for appearances, no matter how respectable and forbidding, are no guarantee of inviolable virtue. pretty faces have not a monopoly of sentiment. indeed, the softer qualities of the feminine heart are often hidden behind an outward austerity. nevertheless, eliza was respectable. she was proud of the fact. she flaunted it in one's face, and hurled it at one's head--metaphorically, of course; she had not sufficient energy to hurl anything except in metaphor. she had dwelt upon it to john musgrave, when he had first interviewed her, so particularly that she had led him to suppose it was a more rare virtue than he had hitherto imagined, and that he was indeed securing a treasure, so that he was even prepared to pay a higher wage for such an anomaly. he agreed to pay the higher wage; and, with a nine-months' character from her last place, felt that he was to be congratulated on this respectable addition to his menage. martha, his cook, who was stout, and not as active as, according to her own statement, she might have been, would have preferred some one younger and more energetic to help her in the conduct of mr musgrave's bachelor establishment; and when mr musgrave informed her kindly that it would be pleasant for her to have so highly respectable a companion in the kitchen, martha agreed in the dubious manner of one to whom other qualities appealed equally, if not more strongly, than extreme respectability. but martha, though an old family servant, and a steady, reliable woman, was, as mr musgrave had before observed, lacking in the finer sensibilities. she conferred with bond, the gardener, and with mr musgrave's chauffeur, and the verdict that was duly pronounced was that "lizer" was neither useful nor ornamental. john musgrave himself did not consider eliza ornamental. but he was not desirous of adorning his establishment. a housemaid is not an ornament, but a useful domestic addition to the household of a gentleman; to suggest that she should be anything else would have appealed to john musgrave as indecorous. he liked plain faces and matured years. in his way he was quite as respectable as eliza. "you have forgotten," he said, lowering his paper, and moving a little to one side in order that she might obtain a view of the fireplace which his broad figure had blocked, "to put the fire-irons back in their place." eliza sniffed. it was a natural infirmity, and one of which she was less conscious than those about her. it was the only drawback that her employer had observed in her so far. he disliked mannerisms. she glanced at the gleaming tiles on the hearth, at the empty dogs standing upon it, and at the fire-irons referred to, which instead of reposing on the dogs stood assertively upright on either side of the grate. eliza had not forgotten them. she had purposely stood them erect in order to save them from getting soiled. this thoughtfulness was not due to any regard for the fire-irons, but was conceived with the object of saving herself labour. if the brass became blackened it would be necessary to polish it daily. she went to considerable trouble to explain this to john musgrave, who listened with grave amazement to her voluble reasoning powers. instead of commending her prudence he replaced the irons in their rightful position in the fender. "for the future," he said, as he straightened himself after the performance of this feat, "we will have them in their place." "they get dirty in the fender," eliza objected, "and it makes a lot of cleaning. every one knows brass fire-irons didn't ought to be used." "what purpose do they serve, then?" mr musgrave inquired. "they are meant for show, sir," answered eliza, with a sniff that betokened contempt for his masculine ignorance. mr musgrave looked at her with growing disapproval. "to keep things for show is essentially vulgar," he said. "everything has a proper use, and should be applied to it." having delivered himself of this rebuke he returned to the perusal of his newspaper. eliza took up her tray, but, hearing the front door bell, put it down again and, with a protesting sniff, prepared to answer the ring. john musgrave seated himself at the table with its covers for one, its air of solid comfort and plenty, which, assertive though it might be, could not disguise a certain blank chilliness of aspect which the expanse of damask covering the long table insensibly conveyed; as did also the large, handsomely furnished room with its orderly row of unoccupied chairs which seemed mutely to protest against this disregard for their vocation. the apartment was essentially a family room, yet one man took his solitary meals there daily, had taken them there for many years: first as a small boy, with his parents and smaller sister, later as a man, who had seen these dear companions drop out from their accustomed places one by one, until now at forty he alone occupied the seat at the head of the table, and dwelt occasionally on those happier days when his meals had not been solitary. death had claimed his parents gently in the natural ordering of things. he had accustomed himself to their loss. but the loss of his sister was a more recent event, and less in accordance with nature, in john musgrave's opinion. she had left him six years ago, had married a college friend of his, and taken her bright companionship, and with it, it seemed to the brother who felt himself deserted, the principal part of the comfort and pleasure of his own life, and settled it in the home of this inconsiderate friend two counties away. it took john musgrave a long time to reconcile himself to this marriage; but he had come to regard it now in the light of one of life's constant vexations. he hated change himself. for the life of him he could not understand why belle had wished to marry anyone. people did marry, of course, but in his sister's case there had been absolutely no need for taking so serious a step; she had everything that a reasonable woman could desire. but, unlike himself, belle enjoyed change. he supposed that this odd taste of hers had led her into matrimony. it was the only explanation that presented itself to his mind. the married state was not in john musgrave's opinion at all a desirable condition. he had never considered it for himself. he did not dislike women, but in all the forty years of his life he had never been in love, never met a woman the glance of whose eye had quickened his pulses or moved him to any deeper sentiment than a momentary interest. he was afraid of women. for the past ten years he had spent much of his time avoiding them. women with marriageable daughters sought him continually, and made their pursuit so obvious as to fill him with grave embarrassment. he realised so well that he was not a marrying man that he could not understand why they failed to see this also. it was a little indelicate, he considered, that any mother should try to secure a husband for her daughter. that a woman should seek to secure a husband for herself occurred to him a greater indelicacy still. john musgrave had had the appalling experience of a written offer of marriage. he had replied to the writer courteously, and had promptly burnt the letter. he would have liked to have burnt the recollection of it, had that been possible; but unfortunately the foolish sentiment of that ill-considered letter remained in his memory, a constant and distressful humiliation, which was rendered the more disconcerting because he was continually and unavoidably brought into contact with the writer. she lived within a quarter of a mile of his own gates, and busied herself actively in the parish. john musgrave also busied himself in the parish. to have thrown up this work, which he regarded as a duty of the head of his house, would have been impossible to him. therefore he braced himself to meet this woman on school-boards and committees and other local interests, and tried to appear unconscious, when he encountered her, of a matter that always jumped into his mind whenever he saw her thin, eager face, or listened to the insistent tones of her reed-like voice, which made itself constantly heard at any public gathering. john musgrave was not thinking of this lady as he sat at breakfast and poured himself out a cup of coffee from the old-fashioned urn that had graced the table every morning within his memory; but the return of eliza, like an austere flora, whose sour visage showed above a basket of hot-house fruits hiding shyly beneath a profusion of wax-like blossoms, brought her promptly and most unpleasantly to his mind. only one person in moresby could send him such a gift. he turned purple in the face when he beheld this dainty offering of fruit and flowers, and spluttered with rage as he waved their approach aside. "take away that--that rubbish," he commanded fiercely. "how dare you bring it in here!" eliza stared at him resentfully. she did not show surprise, because that was an emotion she seldom displayed, but she disapproved highly of his tone. "i did not know what else to do with it, sir," she answered. "no, no; of course not." john musgrave seized an egg, and decapitated it with a shaking hand. "take it with you, please," he said, in a mollified voice. "oh, thank you, sir," eliza murmured, with a twist of her thin lips which was the only trick of smiling they knew. he turned in his seat and stared at her fixedly. "tell martha from me," he said curtly, "to throw that litter on the fire. i don't like cut flowers, and i do not eat fruit. if--if anything else of the kind arrives, do not take it in." eliza carried the rejected offering with her to the kitchen, where martha and the chauffeur lingered over a late breakfast, and simperingly displayed the gift which she bore in the angular crook of her arm. "the master gave them to me," she announced, with the conscious intonation of one marked out for especial favour. the chauffeur was in the act of drinking coffee, but something went wrong with his throat at this moment, and eliza, who was fastidious, turned aside from the unpleasant spectacle he presented, and buried her nose in the flowers. martha good-naturedly thumped him on the back. "oh lord?" he gasped. "oh lord?" "i don't wonder," martha ejaculated, with a contemptuous glance at the respectable eliza, who was engaged in examining the contents of her basket. "that gipsy fortune-teller has turned her 'ead, poor thing!" "there go all my 'opes," said the mendacious chauffeur, pointing to the dark stains of spilled coffee as though they symbolised his aspirations. "strike me blue mouldy! if i don't go out and cut my bloomin' throat. if you don't want me to commit sooicide, lizer, share round those plums." generosity was not catalogued among eliza's undoubted qualities. she took from the depths of the basket two of the smallest peaches, and placing these on the table, retired promptly from the kitchen, bearing her treasure with her. "mean, i call it," cried the indignant chauffeur after her retreating back. "one measly peach in return for a broken 'eart. if you'd given me 'alf a dozen i'd 'ave kissed you." martha laughed comfortably. "if you aren't careful, she'll 'ave you up for breach of promise," she said. "she'd lose the day," the chauffeur answered confidently. "a jury would only 'ave to look at 'er to know no man would 'ave 'ad the pluck to 'ave done it." martha laughed again. "that gipsy woman got a shilling out of 'er," she remarked, "for telling 'er she was going to marry a gentleman. she believes it, silly thing!" "she's as likely to marry a gentleman as anyone," the chauffeur answered. "marriages are made in heaven, i've heard; and that's where lizer'll 'ave to go to find 'er man. but the governor didn't ought to play with 'er young and untried affections. givin' 'er presents like that." martha rose deliberately, pushing back her chair. she had been in john musgrave's service for over twenty years, and therefore spoke as one having authority. "'e give 'em to 'er most likely to throw in the ashbin," she said. "a silly like lizer would believe anything." nevertheless martha was not happy in her mind in regard to that basket of hot-house produce. she experienced a strong curiosity to learn where it had come from, and why it had been sent, and rejected by the recipient. only a rooted objection to question eliza on intimate family matters restrained her curiosity sufficiently to prevent her from discussing the subject with her fellow-servant. martha, as the back-stairs custodian of the family honour, could not permit herself to gossip with the housemaid about john musgrave's affairs. chapter two. the rev walter errol stood in the vestry doorway and watched, as he had watched for many years, his departing congregation. it was a large congregation, disproportionately large, considering the size of the parish. it was drawn mainly from the neighbouring parish of rushleigh, which was a big town compared with moresby. but the incumbent of moresby was an eloquent preacher, and the rushleigh inhabitants found that the two-mile walk across the fields was well repaid in the satisfaction of hearing the message they desired to hear presented to them in a manner which was interesting as well as instructive, and more effective on this account. a message, whether beautiful or the reverse, has a greater hold on the imagination when effectively presented. the flock of the rev walter errol never went away empty. there was always something in what he said to appeal to each individual member of the congregation, and so much that was novel and enlightened in his discourse that the thinker and the scholar found food for speculation, as well as the careless youth of the parish, who wandered into the church as a matter of course or from curiosity, and returned again and again because what they heard there was bright and stimulating and arresting, and gave them a sense of their own importance and responsibility in life, as well as a more beautiful conception of life itself. the vicar, while he stood at the vestry door, was thinking of many things. among other subjects of a greater or less importance, his thoughts turned upon john musgrave, his sidesman and very good patron. he had read the burial service over john musgrave's parents, and the marriage service over john musgrave's sister; he had stood shoulder to shoulder with him when they were young men together, and later in middle-age they maintained their friendship, as men who hold joint memories of their youth and talk together of intimate things. he had married, john musgrave had remained a bachelor. each held the state of the other a matter for commiseration. this evening the vicar was thinking of john musgrave's lonely condition, and was feeling quite unnecessarily sorry for the man. "he would have made a good father," he thought. the one thing he never said of him was, he would make a good husband. but a good father is, after all, the best that can be said of a man. while he remained at the vestry door, his sexton and right-hand man appeared at his side, and stood watching with him the departure of the flock. robert looked after the vanishing forms with a slightly contemptuous glance, as one who failed to understand what they found in this weekly service to attract them from the fields in summer, and from their firesides in winter, when clearly there was no obligation for them to attend. then he looked up into the face of the vicar, whom he loved as much as he loved anything in this curious world he adorned, and the contemptuous incredulity in his eyes deepened. "once again, sir," he observed, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the departing congregation. his manner and tone implied plainer than words could have, "we'd not be here, you and i, if we weren't paid for it." the vicar glanced at his henchman and smiled. "once again, robert," he repeated. "for your sake and mine and theirs, i hope it will be `once again' often." robert grunted. for his own sake he saw no advantage in this increasing congregation. it was a difficult matter of late to find seating accommodation for the people. but the vicar liked it, of course; as well as adding to his prestige, it swelled the offertory. and what vicar does not enjoy a full collection plate? robert looked at the vicar and fidgeted. he wanted to lock up; but the vicar showed no haste to depart. when a man is looking forward to his supper he does not care to waste time, and hannah, when he was late, was inclined to grumble. robert, like his vicar, was married, and, unlike his vicar, he regretted his married state. when a man takes unto himself a partner he swears away his liberty at the altar as surely as any criminal who pleads guilty from the dock. "i reckon mr musgrave will be supping with you to-night," he observed abruptly. the vicar looked down into the quaint, bearded face, so many inches lower than his own, and smiled pleasantly. "supper?" he said. "i was forgetting, robert. yes, you can lock up." then he took his soft hat from its peg, and wishing his sexton good-evening stepped forth into the night. robert looked after him thoughtfully before turning the key in the lock. "seems to 'ave somethin' on 'is mind," he mused. "reckon 'is missis is as aggravating as most." with which he turned the key in the rusty lock viciously, and extinguished the lights and left. the rev walter errol on entering the vicarage drawing-room found john musgrave already there, talking with his wife. mrs errol, a pretty, delicate looking woman, who, while she made an excellent wife and mother, was none the less a dead failure in the parish, according to the opinion of the local helpers, looked round brightly as her husband entered the room, and remarked: "mr musgrave has just been telling me that some friends of his--" "acquaintances," john musgrave interposed gravely. "some people he knows," mrs errol substituted, "have taken the hall. i'm so glad. it is such a pity to have a place like that standing empty." the vicar looked pleased. "who are they, john?" he asked. mr musgrave gazed thoughtfully into the fire. from the concentration of his look it would seem as though he found there the record of the family under discussion. "the man," he said slowly, "is a connection of charlie sommers. belle wrote to me that they had taken the hall. she wants me to be civil to them. the expression is hers. his name is chadwick. i met him at charlie's place last year. he made his money in ceylon, i understand, in rubber, or cocoa, or something of that sort. his wife is--modern." he pursed his lips, and looked up suddenly. "that expression also emanates from belle. i don't think i like it very much. there are no children." "the result of her modernity, possibly," observed the vicar. john musgrave's air was faintly disapproving. he did not appreciate the levity of some of walter errol's remarks. "i am not much of a judge of women," he added seriously, "but from the little i saw of her i think she will be--a misfit in moresby." mrs errol laughed. "i believe i am going to like her," she said. "i'm a misfit in moresby myself." john musgrave turned to regard her with a protracted, contemplative look. she met his serious eyes, and smiled mockingly. though she liked this old friend of her husband very well, his pedantry often worried her; it was, however, she realised, a part of the man's nature, and not an affectation, which would have made it offensive. "you are not a misfit in the sense in which she will be," he replied quietly. "you are rousing my curiosity to a tremendous pitch," she returned. "how is it no one here has seen these people? they didn't take the hall without viewing it, i suppose?" "they took it on charlie's recommendation, i believe," he answered. "they will use it merely as a country house." "oh!" mrs errol's tone was slightly disappointed. "that means, i suppose, that they will live mostly in town?" "and abroad," he answered. "they travel a lot." "well," observed mrs errol brightly, "they will probably do something when they are here to liven the parish a little. we want a few modern ideas; our ideas in moresby are covered with lichen. lichen is picturesque, but it's a form of decay, after all." john musgrave appeared surprised. here was another person who hungered for change; it was possibly, he decided, a feminine characteristic. "moresby compares, i believe, very favourably with other small places," he said. "i daresay it does." she laughed abruptly. "if it didn't it might be more gay." the vicar smiled at her indulgently. "i've a rebel, you see, john, in my own household. mary only requires a kindred spirit to break into open revolt. the coming of mrs chadwick may create an upheaval." "i doubt whether the advent of mrs chadwick will work any great change," john musgrave returned in his heavy, serious fashion. "we are too settled to have the current of our ideas disturbed by a fresh arrival. she will adapt herself, possibly, to our ways." mrs errol rose with a little shrug of the shoulders, and left the room. had john musgrave, she wondered, ever treated any subject other than seriously? in anyone else this habit of bringing the weight of the mind to bear on every trivial matter would have seemed priggish; but it sat on john musgrave so naturally that, beyond experiencing a passing irritation at times, she could not feel severe towards him. he would have made, in her opinion, an admirable bishop. the vicar followed her exit with his glance, and then dropped leisurely into a chair and stretched his feet towards the fire. "when is mrs sommers coming this way again?" he asked, not so much conversationally as because he liked john musgrave's sister, and was always glad when she returned to her childhood's home, which she did at fitful and infrequent intervals. the man whom he addressed leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully into the flickering flames. the question recalled his own lonely fireside, the solitariness of which always struck him more forcibly while seated beside the cheery vicarage hearth. he missed belle more as the years passed. "she did not say," he answered. "she has many claims upon her time since charlie entered parliament. i wish it were otherwise. i miss belle." "that's only natural," the other answered. "she is so bright." "yes." john musgrave looked directly at the speaker. "she is bright. she's companionable. i expect that's what charlie thought." walter errol laughed. "no doubt," he agreed. "yes, she's bright," john musgrave repeated, as though the realisation of this fact, striking him for the first time, accounted for what he had been at a loss to comprehend before. "i expect that's why charlie married her." "my dear fellow," the other said, with a hardly repressed smile, "did it never occur to you that charlie might have had a better reason?" "a better reason?" john musgrave echoed. "yes. don't you think it possible that he married her for love?" john musgrave flushed deeply. "for love!" he said. the vicar smiled openly now. "people do marry for love occasionally," he remarked. "do they?... do they indeed?" john musgrave was gazing into the fire again, his expression doubtful, faintly discomfited--almost, it seemed to the man watching him in puzzled amusement, shocked. "dear me!" he ejaculated softly, and seemed disquieted at the presentment of this extraordinary idea. "dear me!" he repeated slowly. the vicar broke into a hearty laugh. "oh, coelebs, my dear old coelebs," he said; "it was not without a sufficient reason you gained that nickname at oxford. what have you been doing, to live in the world so long and never to have learned the biggest and simplest of life's lessons? from the bottom of my heart i wish it may yet fall to your lot to get some practical experience. find some one to fill belle's place in your home, dear old fellow, and then you will miss her no longer." "i wish, walter," john musgrave said, frowning heavily, "that you were given to a greater seriousness in your conversation." "i wish, john," the other retorted amiably, "that you were inclined towards a lesser seriousness. as for me, i was never more in earnest in my life. fill belle's place, and then you will be relieved of the necessity for engaging such a sour-faced person as opened your front door to me yesterday." "you mean eliza?" said john musgrave, surprised. "she is a most respectable woman." "guaranteed respectability has no need to be so disagreeably assertive of its claim to recognition," the vicar returned, unmoved. "the lack of amiability in one's expression suggests an unamiable disposition. a cheerful heart is the supremest of virtues." he rose to his feet in response to the agreeable summons of the supper-gong, and placed a hand affectionately on john musgrave's shoulder. "adam was the first man to take a bite out of an apple," he said, "but since he created the precedent for eating the fruit, men have developed the taste for apples." "for a clergyman, walter," his friend returned disapprovingly, "your conversation is at times highly irreverent." chapter three. a few weeks later john musgrave set out across the fields in search of the vicar. the vicar on that particular morning was engaged in a search of quite another description, a search which necessitated the company of his sexton, armed with the iron rod with which he prodded in the moundless graveyard where the poor of the parish lay sleeping, to discover where he might, without disturbing an older resident, dig a grave for a fresh interment. the nature of the soil in the moresby churchyard was such that it was quite safe, after the lapse of a certain number of years, to bury the present generation in the resting-places of their predecessors. there were no headstones to suggest ownership in this little acre of the dead; and, owing to a whim of the old squire, who during his lifetime had ruled the parish with the despotism of an autocrat, the graves had been dug level with the rest of the ground. since the advent of the present vicar mounds were insisted upon, and headstones encouraged; so that a man might feel assured when he was laid to rest that his resting-place would remain undisturbed. the old order was changing, even in the matter of interments. for a while robert prodded unsuccessfully; wherever he drove his rod in, after a few feet of solid earth it sank suddenly into the unresisting depths of an uncollapsed grave. "time most o' these 'ad a failed in," he grumbled. "it grows more difficult to find a spot wi' each fresh buryin'." "try here," suggested the vicar. robert drove his rod in once again. to the depth of about six feet it pierced firm, resisting soil. "reckon that's got it, sir," he said, as he drew the rod out from the ground. "i'll carry this back along, an' fetch my spade." at this moment the vicar looked up and beheld john musgrave bearing towards him. he stepped off the grass, where the quiet dead lay unmarked beneath his feet, and went to meet him. "are you busy?" mr musgrave asked, turning, and falling into step with him as he walked along the broad gravelled path beneath the scanty shade of the thinning trees. "not particularly. i have time to spare you, if you want me. we've a funeral this afternoon." "yes. blackmoor, of course; martha informed me he was to be buried to-day. mrs blackmoor assists martha in the kitchen when she requires help. a very respectable woman." walter errol smiled. "she is," he agreed. she had not always been so, as he and john both knew; but a call to grace in later life atoned for the indiscretions of youth. "blackmoor had his failings," he added, "but he was a good-hearted man; and that goes a long way towards the redeeming virtues. what was it you wished to see me about, john?" mr musgrave looked worried--more than worried; he appeared annoyed. he did not answer immediately. he passed through the little wicket gate into the lane, which led past the schoolhouse to the vicarage, in a preoccupied silence, upon which the unmusical singing of the school-children broke inharmoniously. presently he said: "i have received a very inconsiderate letter from belle this morning. she writes to say she is coming to me next week--" "but that's great," interposed walter errol. "you'll enjoy that." "i should enjoy having belle," mr musgrave answered quietly. "but she proposes bringing mrs chadwick with her. i was not agreeably prepossessed with this lady, and i do not anticipate pleasure from the visit. the hall is to be got ready for their immediate occupation, and she wishes to superintend matters, i understand. i do not see the necessity for her superintending the redecoration of the hall from my house. she could have stayed in rushleigh." "it won't be a long visit, i suppose?" the vicar suggested encouragingly. "and mrs sommers will relieve you of the principal share of the entertaining." "i maintain," john musgrave pursued, "that it is inconsiderate of belle. she must be aware that it will put me out. my establishment is not equal to the entertainment of guests. it incommodes the servants." "my dear john," the vicar returned sensibly, "you don't run a house for the convenience of your servants. a little extra work will not injure the health of the respectable eliza, and martha likes company. whether you like it or not, it is good for you. when do the ladies arrive?" "on tuesday," answered john musgrave shortly. "belle desires that i will send the motor into rushleigh to meet the train." "naturally you would do so," said the vicar. "i shall do so, of course. but it is inconvenient. it is king's day off. he was not pleased when i told him he would be required to meet the afternoon train." "oh, coelebs," said the vicar, laughing, "your servants are more arbitrary than a dozen wives. why should they be unwilling to study your convenience occasionally?" "my servants are accustomed to system," mr musgrave replied with dignity. "i am systematic myself." "no one can dispute that, john. but system, like everything else when carried to excess, becomes wearisome. we will go in and tell mary your news. she will be most interested." "i want you to dine with me on tuesday evening," mr musgrave said, as they turned in at the vicarage gate, "if mrs errol will be so kind. it will help me immensely." "she'll be delighted," the vicar assured him. "and so shall i. don't you worry, coelebs, we'll see you through." in the interest of john musgrave's surprising news the vicar forgot for the time his more important duties. he remained to discuss with his wife and john this unexpected house-party to which the host alone looked forward with manifest misgivings. mrs errol was pleased at the prospect of anything that offered a change from the dead level of monotony to which the social life of moresby had sunk; and as soon as john musgrave departed in the company of her husband she ran upstairs to her bedroom to hunt in her wardrobe for some garment which represented an evening gown, and might, with a slight alteration, be adapted to the present mode. in moresby it was not necessary to be attired in the latest fashion; one simple evening dress did duty for local entertainments for years. but this occasion was different. mrs errol was aware that the ladies she would meet on tuesday would not be garbed in the fashion of a bygone season. they, however, would not be, she felt, unkindly in their criticism; and the knowledge that her dress was shabby did not concern her unduly. the moresby living did not yield a handsome stipend. the vicar, on parting from john musgrave, returned by way of the churchyard, and was reminded as he walked along the elm-lined path of the funeral which worldly matters had banished completely from his thoughts. robert was busy digging the new grave. the vicar's glance, travelling in that direction, was arrested at the sight of robert's spade, which appeared out of the ground, it seemed, automatically and independently, ejected the freshly turned soil, and disappeared, to reappear with conscientious regularity in the performance of its appointed task. robert himself was invisible; he was also, which was unusual, inaudible; the only sounds to be heard were those made by the spade and the falling earth. the vicar stepped upon the grass and approached the open grave, looking about him with the perplexed air of a man whose locality is at fault. finally he looked into the grave. robert, perspiring freely, his flannel shirt open at the throat, looked up, and paused in his labours and rested upon his spade. "you are a good twenty yards from the spot we marked," said the vicar. robert wiped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief, and nodded briefly. the vicar did not appear surprised. unless he attended at the cutting of the sods, robert, possessing no bump of locality, frequently overran his distances. "i ought to 'a' waited for you," he said, and mopped his brow again. "thought this was the place we fixed on. but i mind now it was nearer the old yew tree. i ought to 'a' waited for you, sir," he repeated, and looked, the vicar observed, perturbed. "i got wrong somehow." "well, i suppose," the vicar said, "this spot will serve as well as another." robert spat upon his hands and grasped his spade, but he did not immediately use it. he gazed down into the grave resentfully, and then lifted his bearded face to walter errol's, watching him from above. "i 'eaved up a corpse," he said. and the vicar became abruptly aware of some bones lying partially covered with mould at the side of the grave. "if it 'ad 'a' been my first," robert proceeded, "it would 'a' turned me up; but i've done it afore. it'll be all right, though. i'll get they old bones out o' the way afore any o' the mourners come along." "treat them reverently, robert," the vicar said gravely. "oh, ay. i buried 'em first go off. i'll fix they up all right." robert spat on his hands again, and prepared to resume his labours. "old george been buried this thirty years too... should 'a' thought all trace of 'e 'ad gone," he added in the tone of a man who feels justified in complaining at this want of consideration on the part of old george. the vicar left him to finish his work, and repaired to the vicarage for the midday meal. this desecration of a grave troubled him more than it troubled robert. it was not exactly robert's fault; he recognised that; though, had robert been directly responsible, it was doubtful whether the vicar would have found it possible to rebuke the man seriously. between his sexton and himself existed a mutual bond of affection which had begun from the hour when, as a young man taking over his first living, he had read himself in at moresby during the lifetime of the old squire, in whose gift the living lay. robert had constituted himself then director and guide of the new vicar. he had stood, or believed that he stood, as a safeguard between the vicar and the easily aroused displeasure of the irascible old squire. following the reading-in, he had drawn walter errol's attention to the omission of rearranging the stand when he left the pulpit, the position of which the vicar had altered for his own convenience. "squire can't abear to see en left askew. you'd get into a row over that," he said. "every vicar that 'as come 'as got into a row over thicky stand. i wouldn't like you to get into a row wi' squire first go off like, 'cause squire never forgets." walter errol, who possessed the saving grace of humour, had taken this advice in the spirit in which it was offered, and had thereby gained the sexton's unswerving devotion. "have you been in a row with the squire, robert?" he had asked. "yes, sir, never out o' one," robert had answered, and had seemed to experience a peculiar satisfaction in making the avowal; as though to be in a row with squire conveyed a certain distinction on a man of humble origin. for the vicar to be in a row was, however, another thing. the vicar, to robert's amazement, had kept on friendly terms with the squire to the day of the old man's death, which to those who knew walter errol did not appear so surprising a matter as it did to robert, familiar with the squire's irascible temper, and accustomed to hearing himself spoken of as a very ignorant man. the vicar never called robert ignorant; he showed, indeed, a very proper appreciation of his value; and, because to be appreciated is agreeable to every one, robert returned in kind with loyal service and devotion. no man, whatever his status, can give more. the vicar, as he sat at dinner with his wife, filled the sympathetic role of listener while she gave, with a certain quiet humour of her own, a graphic account of the meagre resources of her wardrobe. his own clothes also, she stated, were somewhat shabby. "we shall look the typical country vicar and vicaress," she said, with a most unclerical dimple coming into play when she smiled. "i hate dowdiness, walter." "can't you get something made in the time?" he asked. "no. i wouldn't if i could. for one dinner! imagine it! why shouldn't i look a country vicaress? that's what i am." "you always look pretty," he said, "and so do your clothes." "i believe," she observed, with a fair imitation of john musgrave's tone and manner, "that i compare very favourably with other clergymen's wives." he laughed. "john considers you smart." "oh, john?" she waved a small hand, as though she waved aside john's opinion as of no account. "was that man ever young, walter?" she asked. "somehow, i can never picture him as a boy." "no," he said. "i can't, either. when i knew him first he was an elderly young man with a predilection for botany. but i believe at heart he is one of the kindest and best of fellows, incapable of a mean action or thought. i admire john." she looked across at him, smiling. "he suggests veal to me," she said--"which possesses no nature, according to the butcher. when john matures i shall perhaps appreciate him better. he is new wine in an old bottle--the outside crusted, and the inside thin and bloodless." "new wine is apt to break old bottles," he reminded her. "i know," she said. "i am waiting for john to break through his crust." chapter four. the kitchen of john musgrave's establishment presented on tuesday evening a scene of unusual activity. martha, whose love for "miss" belle was even deeper than her affection for her master, was bent on doing her best for the honour of the house. it was an important occasion. to martha, as to all the old residents of moresby, the hall stood as the symbol of greatness, rather as buckingham palace might stand in the regard of the nation. indeed, in local opinion it is possible that the hall ranked above buckingham palace in importance, as tangible greatness surpasses legendary splendour. moresby was accustomed to look with awe upon the hall, which, since the reign of the old squire, had remained for the greater part of the time unoccupied, the present squire for private reasons preferring to live elsewhere. the hall still retained its importance in moresby opinion; but had ceased to be the centre of magnificent bounty, such as it had been in the past. now that it was let to wealthy people, local interest was stirred to a pitch of tremendous curiosity, and still greater expectation. the poor of moresby--and save for john musgrave, and miss simpson, who lived alone as mr musgrave did in isolated comfort, moresby inhabitants were mainly poor--looked forward to a christmas of the good old order, when feasting at the hall was a yearly institution and, in local phraseology, things had not been backward in the way of good cheer. since to john musgrave had fallen the unique honour of entertaining the new mistress of the hall, martha felt that some of the glory of the great house had descended upon mr musgrave's roof, and spread itself with benign condescension over each individual member of the household. a generous share of it enveloped martha. eliza, not being a native, could not be expected to participate in this reverence for local grandeur; she was, indeed, sufficiently lacking in appreciation to complain unceasingly of the extra labour imposed upon herself by the arrival of visitors in mr musgrave's house, notwithstanding that mr musgrave had engaged a younger girl to assist her in the heavier part of her duties. "i didn't know there was company kept," she observed to martha. "i've always set my face against company every place i've been to. it makes such a lot of extra work. does mr musgrave keep much company?" "i don't count miss belle as company," martha replied. "she comes sometimes, and her husband, and the children. three of them," she added, with the amiable intention of firing eliza's resentment--"boys, and that full o' mischief, you never!" "i can't put up with children," returned eliza decidedly, "and dogs are worse. i couldn't stay in a house where there were animals kept, unless it was a cat--a clean cat. i can't abear dogs." neither could john musgrave; and mrs chadwick had brought a pekinese with her. martha smiled drily. "i wonder you don't give notice," she said. "notice!" sniffed eliza. "and go to a new place with a two months' reference! i had a nine-months' character when i came here." martha, whose service numbered twenty-two years, looked her contempt. "you might just as well have said nine weeks," she retorted. "girls don't seem able to keep their places nowadays. i don't think much of a reference that doesn't run over the year." eliza returned to the dining-room, where her assistant was engaged in laying the table, and aired her grievances anew in ellen's more sympathetic ears. ellen, being in a subordinate position, was forced into the awkward predicament of being obliged to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare. she stood in awe of eliza, and did her utmost to propitiate her; therefore, upon eliza's reiterated complaint that her legs were giving under her, she redoubled her own energies, and did more than her share of the work. but not being a qualified parlourmaid, which eliza, with a disregard for exactness, professed to be, she could not relieve her superior of the agreeable task of waiting at table, though she performed all the intermediate duties between kitchen and dining-room while the dinner was in progress, and was greatly interested in and impressed with the splendour of mrs chadwick, if somewhat disconcerted by this, her first, view of ladies dining in evening dress. the elegance of the ladies, and the imposing spectacle of mr musgrave's shirt front, filled her with wondering admiration; while the gay, careless chatter of the strangers, and mr errol's easy and amusing talk, caused her to forget at times that she was present in the capacity of servitor, and not an interested spectator of a new kind of kinema. eliza's deportment in its aloof detachment was admirable; the merriest sally of wit was lost upon her, and mrs chadwick's surprising knack of telling daring stories elicited no more than a disapproving sniff. eliza was as wonderful in her way as the guests, in ellen's opinion. the enjoyment ended for ellen with the placing of the dessert on the table, and the closing of the dining-room door but she carried the wonder of all she had heard and seen to the kitchen, and there related it for the benefit of martha and mr king, who had looked in with a view to dining late himself. eliza, collapsed in an arm-chair, pronounced herself too weary to eat. the enjoyment for mr musgrave began where it should have ended, with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room. he closed the door upon them with formal politeness, and then returned to his seat with an air as collapsed as eliza's, and lighted himself a cigar. the vicar, lighting a cigar also, looked across at him, and smiled. "she will certainly," he said, "wake moresby up." john musgrave took the cigar from his mouth, and examined the lighted end thoughtfully, a frown contracting his brow as though the sight of a cigar annoyed him. since he was in reality addicted to cigar smoking, the frown was probably induced by his reflections. "i am not in sympathy with advanced women," he remarked, after a pause. "a woman should be womanly." he frowned again, and regarded the vicar through the chrysanthemums decorating the centre of the table. "she smokes," he said presently, and added, after a moment--"so does belle. belle used not to do these things. she is much too nice a woman to have a cigarette stuck between her lips." walter errol took the cigar from between his own lips, waved the cloud of smoke aside, and laughed. "john," he said, "what fools we men are!" mr musgrave stared. "i don't follow you," he remarked coldly. "it's all prejudice, old fellow," said the vicar pleasantly. "if there were any real evil in it, should you and i be doing it?" "you wouldn't have women do the things men do, would you?" demanded his host. "why not?" john musgrave fingered the stem of a wineglass, and appeared for the moment at a loss for a suitable reply. failing to find any logical answer to this perfectly simple question, he said: "i don't like to see women adopting men's habits. it's unnatural. it-- it loses them our respect." "that, i take it," the vicar returned seriously, "depends less on what they do than the spirit in which they do it. i could not, for instance, lose my respect for mrs sommers if i saw her smoking a pipe." john musgrave gasped. such a possibility was beyond his thinking. "would you care to see your own wife smoke?" he asked. "if she wanted to, certainly," mr errol replied without hesitation. "she hasn't started it yet. but it would not disconcert me if she did. we live in a progressive age." "i doubt whether smoking comes under the heading of progress," mr musgrave returned drily. walter errol looked amused. "only in the sense, of wearing down a prejudice," he replied. "we are old-fashioned folk in moresby, john. we are hedged about with prejudices; and to us a perfectly harmless pleasure appears undesirable because it is an innovation. human nature is conservative; it takes unkindly to change. but each generation has to reconcile itself to the changes introduced by the next. one has to move with the times, or be left behind and out of sympathy with one's world. the world won't put back to wait for us." "then i prefer," john musgrave answered, "to remain out of sympathy." the vicar was abruptly reminded of this conversation with his host when later they rejoined the ladies. the atmosphere of john musgrave's drawing-room struck foreign. it was a rule of mr musgrave never to smoke there. there were other rooms in a house in which a man could smoke, he asserted; the drawing-room was the woman's sanctum, and should be kept free from the objectionable fumes. although there was no longer a woman to occupy mr musgrave's drawing-room, he adhered to his rule strictly, because adhering to rule was his practice, and men of john musgrave's temperament do not change the habit of a lifetime merely on account of the removal of the reason for a stricture. but unmistakably on this particular night the rule had been violated; the fragrance of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, and on a small table beside mrs chadwick's coffee-cup an ash-tray, containing a partially smoked cigarette, confessed unblushingly that mrs chadwick had been enjoying her after-dinner smoke. on a cushion beside mrs chadwick, who was seated on the sofa, reposed the pampered pekinese, the presence of which both eliza and her master resented equally. john musgrave gravely ignored both these objectionable novelties, and, crossing the room in his deliberate fashion, seated himself beside mrs errol, as a man adrift in uncongenial surroundings seeks refuge in the society of one upon whom the mantle of respectability still rested, and who embodied for him safe and familiar things. walter errol shared the sofa with the pekinese and the pekinese's mistress, and smoothed the little creature's silken coat while he chatted with its owner and mrs sommers, who, a devoted admirer of the vicar's, sat on the other side of him. "i've been hearing such a lot about the parish from your wife," mrs chadwick said. "i'm quite charmed with the place. i have always longed to find a spot that has been passed over by time, so that i could bring it up to date in a hurry. it takes the people's breath away at first; but they grow to like it--like riding on a switchback and standing on a moving staircase. when one learns to balance one's self these things are delightful." "i can well believe it," the vicar answered, and wondered whether she suspected that she had already succeeded in taking away the breath of one of moresby's inhabitants. "but i doubt whether you will find us exactly grateful." she looked him directly in the eyes and smiled. she was, he observed, a very handsome woman, and her smile was radiant. "i never look for gratitude," she answered; "it is a waste of time. and why should people be grateful? whatever we do, even though it be ostensibly for the benefit of others, we do in a measure for ourselves. therefore there is no sufficient ground for gratitude. i shall simply love modernising moresby. modernising is one of my cranks. the improvement of women's economic position is another. i don't employ any men servants, except for the rough and hard work. i have a woman butler, women chauffeurs, women gardeners--head gardeners; they have lads under them. and their wages are at the same rate as men's wages. it works admirably. you must come and inspect every department when we are settled in. and if you can help with any ideas i shall be grateful." "so you permit yourself the grace of gratitude?" he said, smiling. "oh, that's a figure of speech, of course. i hope you will be kind to me, and let me poke about the schools, and interfere generally?" "if that is a kindness, you can count on it," he said. "i shall be grateful for ideas too. i've grown behind the times with the rest." "you humbug!" remarked mrs sommers with a laugh. "he is the only progressive person in moresby," she added, turning to mrs chadwick, who was watching the vicar's caressing hand as it played with her dog's ears. "you'll find he will possibly think ahead of you. where you will need to start--and i very much doubt whether you will get beyond the starting-point--is with my brother, john. modernise him, my dear, and i will believe in woman's power." mrs chadwick glanced towards john musgrave, seated erect in his chair, conversing seriously with the vicar's bored little wife; then her eyes wandered back to belle's face and rested there affectionately. "you have set me something of a task," she said. "but i am going to attempt it." walter errol laughed softly. "since i possess already unshakable faith in your sex," he said, "i predict enormous changes. `ce n'est pas une simple emeute, c'est un revolution.'" chapter five. mrs chadwick's purpose in coming to moresby was not concerned only, or even chiefly, with the interior decoration of the hall, which was kept, as far as the squire's means permitted, in very good order both inside and out. there was a certain amount of work to be done, and mrs chadwick purposed having a voice in this, as in other things; but her presence was more concerned with the home farm than with the palatial residence she intended to occupy. the home farm came within the range of her scheme for the development of women's energies. for several generations this farm had been worked on conservative lines by tenants who from father to son had succeeded to the place in unbroken succession, after the manner, indeed, of the family at the hall. though merely tenants, they had looked upon the farm as their rightful inheritance, quite as if it had been entailed property of their own. that anyone should seek to dispossess them would never have occurred to them in the light of possibility. but the present fanner was a bad tenant, and the farm was going to ruin. with the expiration of his lease had come the order for his eviction. mrs chadwick, in taking the hall, had stipulated for the right to find her own tenant for the farm. in the end she became the tenant, with full power to do what she liked with the property, providing always that what she did was for the improvement of the farm, and was first of all submitted to the squire for his approval. she had submitted so many schemes to him already that the worthy man, like john musgrave, had felt his breath taken away; and in order to avoid any further shocks he had applied her to his lawyer, and gone abroad for an indefinite time to escape the worry of these matters. change was not agreeable to him; but he was not so unwise as to object to the improvement of his estate, and the expenditure of other people's money upon it. the lawyer, grasping the main point that mrs chadwick intended laying out money on the property, and had plenty of it to disburse, was satisfied to give her a free hand. provided only that she increased the working value of the farm, he saw no reason against her pulling down all the old buildings and erecting new ones on improved models, and enlarging and improving the dwelling-house. everything was to be brought up to date. there could be no objection, the lawyer considered, to that. he was not averse to change when it had a sound financial basis; and mrs chadwick's ideas occurred to him as practical. he was not quite so positive that her intention to work the farm principally with female labour would prove satisfactory. but that was her affair. if she liked to run risks of that nature she could afford the whim. with the passing of the days, with the coming and going of architects and builders, and other persons the nature of whose occupation remained a mystery to john musgrave, mrs chadwick's host became more and more bewildered, more distinctly opposed to this feverish feminine energy--to this unfeminine encroachment on what he had always considered was the business of his sex. what, he wondered, was mr chadwick thinking about to allow his wife to interview these people, and settle without reference to his wishes all the details of the home which was, after all, to be paid for by cheques which he, presumably, would sign? john musgrave could not have brought himself to remind any woman of her duty as a wife; but he did in many ways allow mrs chadwick to see that he viewed her proceedings with amazement, and with a sort of well-controlled disapproval. his attitude only amused her. in the process of attempting to modernise mr musgrave, she took a pleasure occasionally in shocking him. "does mr chadwick usually leave the conduct of his affairs entirely in your hands?" he asked her once. "his affairs!" she repeated, with an uplift of her arched brows. "oh, you mean `our' affairs. will knows these things interest me; they only bore him. he is a lazy man, except in the matter of organisation; he's splendid at that. generally, i suggest a certain scheme and he develops it. he has a genius for developing." that certainly was true of mr chadwick. in most of his successful undertakings his wife had originated the idea, and he had developed it; hers was the quick, and his the thorough, brain. quite voluntarily he ceded her a full share for the credit of the enormous fortune he had amassed; and he was lazily interested in her talent for spending it, and quite sincerely in sympathy with many of her schemes for the improvement of the conditions of her sex, with which was closely associated the improved conditions of the race. it is a surprising, and would be a gratifying, fact, were it not for a feeling that it ought to be the other way about, that men are usually more ready to help a woman in her fight for the good of her sex than persons of the sex she is working for. men shake off prejudices more readily than women, because their training and mode of life gives them a broader outlook. there are, of course, exceptions to the rule. the narrow-minded man is, if more rare, considerably more contracted in his outlook than even the narrow-minded woman. john musgrave's view was certainly contracted; but mrs chadwick, in her sanguine moments, entertained the belief that the restricted line of his horizon was due to the accident of circumstances, rather than to a natural deficiency in breadth, and held hopes of a possible development of his view. she did not tell him this; but she confided her belief to mrs sommers, who was as sceptical of john's development as she was of the profitable results of mrs chadwick's enterprises. mrs chadwick told john musgrave something else, which she deemed of greater importance even than the development of his mind, something which so scandalised mr musgrave as to render him speechless, amazed at her audacity, her want of delicacy; and too utterly dumbfounded to defend himself. she informed him, quite seriously, and without any effort to conceal her meaning, that he was not doing his duty by the state. she had been in moresby a week when she made this astounding attack, and the occasion which she chose for making it was one morning when she was returning with her host from an inspection of the village school, which, in a moment of weakness, he had suggested might interest her. the school did interest her; but the sight of john musgrave surrounded in the infants' classroom with a number of greedy, unabashed babies, who felt in his pockets for sweets with a confidence that suggested familiarity with the practice, interested her far more. on the homeward walk she informed him that patronising other people's babies, while undoubtedly commendable, was not his business in life; that he was not a good citizen, because, from purely selfish motives, he was neglecting his most important duty to the state. john musgrave was so embarrassed, and so annoyed, that during the rest of the walk, which fortunately was not of long duration, he could not utter a word. he turned in at his own gate in a seriously displeased frame of mind; and mrs chadwick, feeling guilty but unrepentant, preceded him up the path with the wickedest of little smiles playing about her lips. "thank you so much, mr musgrave," she said, as they parted in the hall, "for a really enjoyable morning." then she went upstairs to her room, and later she recounted for belle's edification the result of her visit to the school. mrs sommers was amused; but she experienced a slight compassion for her brother, who would feel, she realised, as startled at a woman approaching a man on such a subject as he would be averse to the subject itself. people in moresby left the laws of life alone. john musgrave was, as a matter of fact, deeply disgusted. he resented, not only the indelicacy, but the impertinence of this interference with the individual. he summarised the proceeding as a display of bad taste. nevertheless the idea, once presented to him, was not easily dislodged from his brain. somehow he had never considered the individual in responsible relationship to the state. the suggestion was new to him, and highly disturbing. he had up to the present considered himself in the light of a very good citizen, an example to other men who disregarded their duties to the borough in which they resided, and gave neither in money nor service to local affairs. he was respected in moresby as a useful as well as a generous resident. it would have been difficult to fill his place if he left it; he could not conceive anyone filling it satisfactorily. and now he was told that all that counted for nothing, or at least for very little, since he was neglecting the principal duty of all. no wonder that mr musgrave was annoyed; that he looked upon mrs chadwick as highly objectionable, and resented her presence in his house. "you are a very daring woman," commented mrs sommers. "although i have grown up with john i would never have ventured to say such a thing as that." "possibly," returned mrs chadwick calmly, "if i had been brought up with john i would not have adventured either. familiarity with a person's prejudices makes one diffident. i am not laying myself out to please mr musgrave, but to modernise him, as you suggested. when he is sufficiently modernised i mean to marry him." "you will need to obtain a divorce first," retorted mrs sommers, laughing. "and i am sure john would not consider that respectable." "you have a mischievous habit of misrepresenting things. you know perfectly well that i am satisfied with my lot in life. i am going to find him a wife." "oh?" said mrs sommers. she looked thoughtful. "i think you will have in that a more difficult task than in bringing him up to date." "we shall see," returned mrs chadwick, and her tone was confident. "i think myself that lack of opportunity has bred the disinclination. no man is born a bachelor. the state, which is a misfit, results from his circumstances." "it isn't due to lack of opportunity in john's case," belle asserted. "the women who have run after him!..." "yes," said mrs chadwick. she was thinking of miss simpson. "but that sort of woman doesn't count, my dear." the successful married woman has, as a rule, a very good idea of the kind of women men like. the successful married woman is never the vain woman. the vain woman always imagines that the type she represents is the type men admire; usually she is at fault. mrs chadwick was not a vain woman. she knew very well that all men are not drawn towards the same type of woman. some men prefer looks; others mental qualities; and, by an odd inconsistency in human nature, the perfectly simple-souled and self-disciplined man inclines naturally toward the woman endowed with the captivating wickedness of her sex. there is a big distinction between captivating wickedness and vice. no man, whether he be good or bad in principle, admires vice in the mothers of the race. since mr musgrave reckoned in the category of the simple, self-disciplined soul, plainly the woman for him must have a spice of wickedness in her. mrs chadwick may have been mistaken in her deduction, but at least she believed in it firmly. had john musgrave had any idea of what floated through her busy brain while she smilingly confided to him some of her plans for the improvement of moresby, he would have been horrified. marriage was the one subject of all others he considered it indelicate to dwell upon. if people married they did it for some good reason; to contemplate the step impartially with, no adequate motive for so serious an undertaking was to him unthinkable. had he ever reflected upon it, and attempted a portrait of the lady he might have honoured with his preference, it certainly would not have been a woman with any latent wickedness in her. john musgrave's ideal, had he been called upon to embody an ideal, would have revealed the picture of a calm-faced woman of unemotional temperament, who would always have said and done the correct thing, would have adorned his home, and revered himself, and would have been in every sense of the word womanly. mrs chadwick could have told him that such a woman did not exist outside a man's imagination. she would not have done so, of course. she believed in encouraging masculine fallacies when they were harmless; to attempt discouragement was to invite defeat. opposition is the least effective form of argument. a clever woman seldom makes the mistake of forcing her ideas; and mrs chadwick was undoubtedly clever. "anything can be accomplished through suggestion," she had been heard to assert. "suggestion, plant it where you will, is a seed which never fails to germinate." chapter six. miss simpson contemplated her appearance by the aid of the long mirror in her wardrobe with an eye sharply critical as that of the vainest of her sisters, whose concern for outward things she held generally in contempt. but a visit to the house of a bachelor in regard to whom one entertains matrimonial intentions excuses, as anyone will acknowledge, a greater attentiveness to detail than usual. the result of her inspection was on the whole satisfactory. the effect of her severely tailored costume and small, unassertive hat was neat in the extreme, so neat, indeed, that mrs chadwick, when she beheld it, felt a womanly compassion for the wearer; she preferred to see a woman daintily gowned. but mrs chadwick's taste was not moresby's. one lock of miss simpson's tightly braided hair betrayed a rebellious tendency to escape the hairpins and stray pleasingly over her brow. this could not be permitted. the aid of additional pins was requisitioned, and the unruly lock was brought into subjection, and tucked out of sight beneath the unrelenting brim of the eminently decorous hat. woman's hair never seems to achieve a definite recognition in the scheme of its wearer. some women regard their hair as an adornment, which it is, and take trouble that other people shall recognise its claim as an asset in feminine decorativeness; with other women it would seem that the human head suffers this objectionable growth only because nature insists upon it as an essential part of her design. they brush it back from the face in strained disapproval, and further abuse it by screwing it into as tight a ball as circumstances permit. no frivolous abandon is allowed; pins, and even pomade, are resorted to, until what is undoubtedly beautiful in itself is rendered sufficiently unbecoming to soothe the most fastidiously decorous mind. miss simpson belonged to this latter category. by instinct miss simpson was modest to the verge of prudery. but as, in the inconsistency of human nature, a good person is often streaked with evil, and an evil person possesses a strain of goodness, so miss simpson, despite her prudery, had a touch of the softer sentiments which no woman should be without. this weakness led to the cherishing of a romantic passion for mr musgrave, which so far overcame her natural decorum as to drive her to open pursuit of the object of her middle-aged affections. from anyone else a written proposal to a man would have appealed to her in the light of an offence against every womanly tradition; but in her own case circumstances allowed for the forsaking of her principles, even demanded this sacrifice of her. plainly john musgrave would have liked to propose; but he was a shy man. his gentlemanly refusal of her offer was, she recognised, prompted by this same shyness, and not at all from disinclination towards a life-partnership with herself. eventually she trusted this not unmanly shyness would be conquered so far as to give him the courage to open the courtship which she felt he was always on the verge of beginning. proof that he enjoyed her companionship was forthcoming in the fact that he adhered to the practice of seeking it publicly. if he did not enjoy her companionship he would assuredly retire from the committee of school management, and other local matters in which they were jointly interested. every one knows that interests in common form a substantial basis for mutual regard; and john musgrave and miss simpson had a common bond in their insatiable love for busying themselves in parish affairs. they considered themselves--it is not an uncommon conceit--indispensable to the efficient working of the social machinery of moresby. if the vicar held opposite views he was too wise a man to air them; and being good-natured, and tactful beyond the ordinary run of persons in authority, he allowed them their amiable conceit, and was grateful that they in return allowed him to occupy his own pulpit and generally conduct the services. interference in his particular department was the one thing he would have resented. on this amicable footing was the parish of moresby run. but with the advent of mrs chadwick the vicar, at least, foresaw complications, and awaited their development with curiosity. miss simpson alone harboured no thought of change in the conduct of moresby affairs. that the coming of a stranger should foreshadow interference in parish matters would never have occurred to her. the coming of the vicar's wife had not effected that. but this afternoon, setting forth to call on mrs sommers, with a pleasurable thrill of anticipation which the prospective society of the ladies would scarcely seem to justify, it entered her mind for the first time that mrs chadwick's residence at the hall must work some sort of change in the pleasant routine of their daily lives. she was not sure that she approved of mrs chadwick. she was very sure, when she arrived and was shown into mr musgrave's drawing-room, that she, disapproved of her. mrs chadwick was seated at the open window, although the day was cold, and she was smoking a cigarette. she threw the cigarette away on the visitor's entrance, and smilingly apologised. "i hope you don't object to smoke," she said. "it is an incurable bad habit with me." miss simpson did not object to smoke from the proper quarter--the proper quarter being as it issued from between the lips of the sterner sex, who were privileged in the matter of bad habits, which is a feminine fallacy that is slipping out of date; she very strongly objected to smoking when her own sex indulged in it--indeed, save for mrs chadwick, she had never seen a woman smoke. it was, she considered, a disgusting and unfeminine practice. she murmured "really!" and shaking hands somewhat frigidly, addressed herself pointedly to mrs sommers for the first few minutes after sitting down. mrs chadwick caressed the pekinese, and watched the visitor with curious interest the while. it was not, however, in mrs chadwick's nature to remain outside any conversation for long; and she gracefully insinuated herself into the talk, to miss simpson's further surprise. she expected, when she took the trouble to show her displeasure, to see the object thereof properly quelled. that, too, is a characteristic of parish omnipotence. and, amazingly, mrs chadwick was already betraying a desire to interfere in moresby arrangements. "i visited the schools this morning," she observed, breaking in on miss simpson's gossip about the new schoolmaster, who, seemingly, gave every satisfaction, being a great improvement on his predecessor, who was, as miss simpson expressed it, a horrid radical. "it was all very amusing. they are such quaint, blunt little people. i liked them. but the schools want pulling down and rebuilding. everything is obsolete. the ceilings are too low and the ventilation inadequate. i am all for fresh air." she laughed at sight of miss simpson's wooden expression, and at the shiver which ran through her narrow frame as she glanced meaningly at the wide-open window. "do you feel this too much?" she asked pleasantly, and obligingly drew the window partially down. "mrs sommers and i are seasoned; but we blow mr musgrave away at times." that, of course, accounted for the absence of the master of the house which miss simpson had regretfully noticed. the draughts and the smoke would naturally drive mr musgrave away; no self-respecting man would stand it. "i like air," miss simpson answered coldly, "in moderation." then she returned to the subject of the schools. this outspoken person must be given to understand from the commencement that, though she might pose as _grande dame_ in moresby by reason of her residence at the hall, the older residents would not brook interference with existing institutions. moresby was conservative in principle, and resented innovations. "the present schools are a feature of the place," she said. "no one would care to have them done away with. they are picturesque." "yes; they are," mrs chadwick admitted readily. "that is what distresses me in old places--their beauty. one hates to demolish the beautiful. but healthy children are more beautiful than old buildings; and the modern buildings, with up-to-date construction, are healthier for small people." "i think our village children are remarkably healthy," miss simpson protested. "do you? half the school, i observed, had colds. healthy children should not be susceptible to chills. if they worked in properly ventilated rooms they would not be. the lungs of the young have immense powers of resistance, but we weaken these powers with our foolish indifference to overheating and overcrowding. it is little short of criminal to study the picturesque in preference to the well-being of the rising generation." "i think we should study both," mrs sommers intervened, with a view to soothing the ruffled feelings of her visitor, who was chafing visibly under this downright attack. "the schools are certainly charming. i should hate to see them pulled down myself. we will have to effect some compromise." compromise, in mrs chadwick's opinion, was as ineffectual as patching a worn-out garment; the worn-out garment could but fulfil its destiny, and become rags. but she let the subject drop. it could be revived at some future date. the schools were being slowly drawn into the network of her revolutionary schemes for the modernising of moresby. miss simpson, less diplomatic, and more assertive than mrs sommers, showed her disapproval by abruptly changing the subject, and introducing an entirely new, and, in mrs chadwick's opinion, distinctly quaint topic of conversation. she referred with considerable vim to certain matters of local importance which had been given prominence in the pages of the current number of the _parish magazine_. mrs chadwick betrayed such absorbed interest in these matters that miss simpson was beguiled into inquiring whether she had seen the current number of the _parish magazine_. she spoke of the magazine as a lover of the poets might speak of the works of shakespeare, with a certain reverential awe for the importance of proved literary merit. mrs chadwick wore the vaguely distressed look that a well-read woman wears on discovering an unsuspected limitation in her literary attainments. she had not even heard before of the _parish magazine_. "i am afraid i don't know it," she answered. "there are such a number of magazines, aren't there? and so many new ones always coming out. one can't keep pace with these things. i stick to the old magazines, like the _century_, and the _strand_, and the _contemporary review_. if one ought to read the _parish magazine_, of course i should wish to." miss simpson stared, and mrs sommers laughed softly, albeit she did not consider this quizzing altogether fair. "the publications you refer to are not of the same nature as the _parish magazine_," the visitor observed crushingly. "our magazine is a purely local pamphlet for local circulation. it deals solely with parish matters." mrs chadwick considered this dull, but she did not say so. she appeared politely impressed. "that must be very interesting to--to moresby inhabitants," she said gravely. "that is its object," miss simpson returned. "most parishes have their magazines. the people like to know what takes place locally; and they find it all noted down." she spoke with the laboured forbearance of one who seeks to instruct a very ignorant person on a subject which should not have required explanation. "our magazine is a new venture," she added, with the conscious pride of the literary aspirant. "i started it last year. i edit it." "indeed!" mrs chadwick's tone expressed admiration. "please put me down as an annual subscriber." miss simpson unbent. "i shall be delighted. it is a monthly pamphlet, issued at one penny." "that is not ruinous," murmured the prospective subscriber. "the village people could not afford more," miss simpson explained patiently. "they all like to read it. occasionally some of their names are mentioned. they expect that." "i should be afraid," mrs chadwick remarked, surveying the editress seriously, "of letting myself in for a libel action in your place. it is so difficult to be personal without the sacrifice of truth, and refrain from giving offence. i am inclined to think a parish magazine must be a dangerous publication." "you haven't got the idea at all," miss simpson said acidly. "we only mention the things which reflect to the credit of the persons concerned, such as any little gift to the parish, or the participation in local entertainments, and such matters; and, of course, work done on committees. mr musgrave's name appears in its columns frequently." "belle," said mrs chadwick, with one of her radiant smiles, "i insist upon seeing the _parish magazine_. how is it you have kept these things from me? it would amuse me immensely to read of mr musgrave's doings. he is so reticent about such things himself." the entrance of mr musgrave created a diversion. he came in in advance of eliza with the tea; and mrs chadwick, watching with mercilessly observant glance, noted the fluttering agitation of the visitor, whose austere manner changed as surprisingly as the colour of the chameleon, and became immediately gracious, and demurely coy. mr musgrave's manner was not responsive. it suggested to mrs chadwick his attitude towards herself. "i have just been hearing terrible tales of the things you do, which gain you notoriety in the columns of the _parish magazine_," she said wickedly. "i am going to read up all the back numbers." john musgrave did not smile. he crossed the room deliberately, and closed the window and fastened it--an act miss simpson witnessed with satisfaction. "so thoughtless of me," said mrs chadwick apologetically. "i always forget your dislike for fresh air." "i do not dislike fresh air," he returned gravely, "in its proper place." "what would you describe as its proper place?" she asked. "out of doors," he answered, surprised that a clever woman should ask so obvious a question. then, while the three women sat and watched him, he made the tea, taking from the caddy a spoonful for each guest, and an additional spoonful for the requisite strength, according to custom. mr musgrave had made his own tea for many years; he saw no reason now for discontinuing this practice, though one person present--the one with the least right--would gladly have relieved him of the task. it was so pathetic, she reflected, to see a man making the tea; it was significant of his lonely state. clearly a man needed a wife to perform this homely office, a wife of a suitable age, with similar tastes, who would never distress him with any display of unwomanly traits. "i always think that no one makes tea quite like you do," she murmured sweetly, as she received her cup from john musgrave's hand. which speech, in its ambiguity, mrs chadwick considered extremely diplomatic. chapter seven. "i have," said mrs chadwick dramatically that same evening to mrs sommers, "been exactly a week in moresby, and i have made two enemies. what will be the result when i have lived here a year?" this question opened up ground for reflection. belle reflected. she did it, as she did most things, quickly. "you will possibly overcome their prejudices, and make them love you." "that is a charming answer," mrs chadwick replied. "but i am not sure that their love would not prove equally embarrassing. i would prefer to win their regard." "it is merely another term for the same emotion," mrs sommers insisted. they were seated before the fire in mrs chadwick's bedroom, having a last chat before retiring. though women live together in the same house, and part, possibly for the first time for the day, outside their bedroom doors, a last chat is a privileged necessity--that is, when women are companions; when the last chat ceases to be a necessity it is a proof of mutual boredom. mrs chadwick and belle sommers were a long way off the point of boredom. belle had begun going to mrs chadwick's bedroom in her capacity of pseudo hostess, thinking that possibly mrs chadwick, who had come without a maid in deference to a hint from her friend that strange servants would be unwelcome in mr musgrave's household, might find herself at a loss. but mrs chadwick was seldom at a loss in the matter of helping herself; a maid was a luxury, not an essential, in her train of accessories. the pekinese alone was indispensable. she had conceded the point about the maid, but she had refused to be separated from the pekinese. it is conjectural whether mr musgrave did not object more to the pekinese than he would have to the maid; but belle, like mrs chadwick, did not consider it wise to humour all his little prejudices. "i think," observed mrs chadwick, after a pause, during which they had both been gazing reflectively into the fire, "that i have settled everything that was immediately pressing, and can now relieve your brother of the strain of my presence. i cannot begin anything until we are established at the hall." mrs sommers looked amused. "i believe," she said, "that john is frightening you away." "he is," mrs chadwick admitted. "i am afraid of john. his inextinguishable courtesy chills me. how come you and john to be the children of the same parents? i don't believe you are. i believe that john is a changeling." belle laughed. "he is our father reproduced," she said. "that disposes of my theory. then you must be the changeling. plainly, miss simpson ought to have been his sister." "she would prefer to stand in a closer relationship," mrs sommers said. "yes; that's obvious. but she hasn't the ghost of a chance. she is an old maid." "she would scarcely be eligible for the position if she were not an old maid," mrs sommers pointed out. "she would be eligible as an unmarried woman," mrs chadwick argued. "there is a distinction. an unmarried woman is not of necessity an old maid." belle allowed this. it was, indeed, irrefutable. "i see," she said. "yes... just as my brother is a confirmed bachelor." mrs chadwick smiled into the flames. "i wouldn't be so positive on that head," she replied. "you should visit the schools with him, as i did to-day. i think it might shake your opinion. a man who is a confirmed bachelor has not the paternal instinct. he ought to have married ten years ago, in which event he would not now make the tea, and fuss about draughts. i think, you have been neglectful of your duty to him. before you married you should have found him a wife." "he doesn't like the women i like," said belle slowly. "he considers them too--" "modern," suggested mrs chadwick. she stirred the fire thoughtfully. "the very modernest of modern wives would be the saving of him. if he doesn't find her soon he will be doomed to eternal bachelorhood, and develop hypochondria, and take up homeopathy." belle laughed outright. "poor old john?" she said, and relapsed once more into contemplative silence. john musgrave, meanwhile, was going his usual nightly round of the house; which, perforce, was later than he was in the habit of making it, because the ladies did not retire, as he did when alone, at ten o'clock. he carefully examined all the gas-jets to satisfy himself that these were safely turned off. he inspected the bars and locks of doors and windows, not because he feared burglars, who were a class unknown in moresby, but because he had always seen to the securing of his house, as his father had done before him. he placed a guard before the drawing-room fire, and examined the kitchen range to assure himself that martha had not left too large a fire for safety--which martha never by any chance did. john musgrave did not expect to find any of these matters overlooked; but he enjoyed presumably satisfying himself that his instructions were faithfully observed. then he turned off the light in the hall, and quietly mounted the stairs. belle, stepping forth from mrs chadwick's room at the moment, with her beautiful hair falling over her shoulders, met him on the landing. he appeared slightly taken aback; and she felt instinctively that he was on the verge of apologising for surprising her in this becoming deshabille. she forestalled the apology by catching him by the lapels of his coat and kissing him in her impulsive, affectionate way. "you old dear!" she said softly. "i thought you were in bed," mr musgrave said, feeling, without understanding why, that the touch of belle's soft cheek was very agreeable, that the sight of a woman standing in the dim light of the landing was pleasing, particularly with her hair streaming over her blue _peignoir_. it was, of course, because the woman was belle, and that therefore it was natural that she should be standing there, that he found the picture attractive. he experienced a twinge of regret at the thought that she would go away and leave him to his solitude shortly. when he came upstairs after she had left him, he would recall the sight of her standing there, smiling at him; and the big landing would seem doubly solitary. "i've been gossiping," she explained. he looked surprised. it baffled him to understand what she found to talk about, considering she had done nothing else all day. "more schemes?" he said. "yes," she answered, and laughed unexpectedly. if only john guessed what the latest scheme was! had she allowed him a hundred guesses she believed he would never have arrived at the right one. "i hope you won't take up schemes, belle," he said, with a faint uneasiness in his voice. he looked at her wistfully. "you are too nice to be caught with fads, my dear." she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him on the lips. "i'm too lazy," she said, "and have my hands too full to trouble myself about anything beyond my boys. but a childless woman, john, dear, has to mother something." "i suppose that's it," he answered, a little relieved, it occurred to her, by this explanation of what had appeared to him inexplicable. "yes; that's the reason, undoubtedly. i am glad you have your boys, belle." "so am i," she returned gently, and kissed him good-night, and left him standing alone on the dim landing with his lighted candle in his hand. he sighed as he listened to the closing of her bedroom door. then he entered his own room, his mind still intent upon her, so that for a long time he remained inactive, gazing abstractedly at a picture of his mother hanging on his wall, comparing the sweet, lined face with the younger face of the daughter, who came and went in the old home, bringing the sunshine with her, and taking it with her again when she left. he envied charlie sommers more than he envied any man on earth. and yet john musgrave would have been surprised had anyone told him that he was lonely. he enjoyed, he believed, all the companionship that a man requires. but no one, unless he be a misanthropist, is entirely happy in the possession of a solitary hearth. on the following morning mrs chadwick introduced the subject of her departure. she did not expect mr musgrave to be overwhelmed with distress at the announcement of her intention; nor was he; nevertheless, with the memory of his overnight reflections flooding his brain, he did not feel the relief he imagined he would feel at the prospect of having his house to himself once more. he was, oddly enough, growing accustomed to mrs chadwick. when she was not personal she was decidedly interesting, and not infrequently amusing. and when she left he knew belle purposed leaving also. it was not convenient for her to be away from home just then. she had come solely to oblige mrs chadwick, whose recognition of this service influenced her more than her pretended alarm of her host in hastening her arrangements. "i am sorry you are thinking of returning already," mr musgrave said, expressing only his sincere sentiments, and not obeying, as his visitor believed, the prompting of his habitual courtesy. "it appears to me that you have given yourself a very limited time, considering the magnitude of your undertakings. i would not have believed it possible that anyone could do so much in a week." "i came with all my plans cut and dried, you see; and my appointments with people were prearranged. the work at the hall will be finished in less than two months, and we shall be settled in well before christmas. i dislike delay." "yes," said mr musgrave, disliking haste equally. "moresby inhabitants will be glad to see the hall occupied again. they have been accustomed to look to the hall for a lead." "they will get it, that's certain," belle put in, smiling. "i am coming down on you at christmas, john, to see the fun." "of course," he returned readily, though he looked a little doubtful at the mention of fun. "christmas festivities are going out of fashion," he added slowly. "i am not sure it is not as well that is so. too much merry-making leads to unseemly behaviour. it unsettles the people." "if anyone behaves in an unseemly manner we will put his name in the _parish magazine_," mrs chadwick said. "that punishment should act as a sufficient restraint on future occasions. the _parish magazine_ is the only thing that appals me in moresby. i mistrust that organ. i am informed that in every issue there appears a sonnet by an anonymous poet. where in moresby do you conceal a poet?" she addressed this question to mr musgrave; but though she looked towards him expectantly, and waited a sufficient interval for his reply, there was no response forthcoming. mr musgrave evaded her glance, and appeared to regard the question as put generally, and the questioner as not expecting a reply. he looked, mrs chadwick observed, guilty. so john musgrave was an anonymous poet as well as a confirmed bachelor. she determined to read before leaving his house some of john musgrave's sonnets. chapter eight. mrs chadwick's departure was as abrupt, and therefore as disconcerting to mr musgrave, as her arrival had been. she announced her intention of going one morning, and on the following morning she left. this rapidity of movement, and extraordinary energy, reduced mr musgrave to a condition of bewildered breathlessness. he fetched bradshaw's guide for the purpose of looking up her train; but she had learnt all about the train service beforehand, and knew to the minute the time of her departure. there was nothing left for mr musgrave to do save order his car for a certain hour to take the ladies into rushleigh. most people would have been relieved to be spared further trouble; but john musgrave was old-fashioned. he felt that in these matters it was fitting that the woman should depend on the man; just as he would prefer that a woman confronted with a burglar should scream for assistance rather than attempt an encounter with the intruder, physical courage being no more a womanly attribute than independence. but mrs chadwick belonged to a type of womanhood he had not met with before. she had made herself independent of the sterner sex. she would in all probability, if she encountered a burglar, tackle him; it was inconceivable that she would stop to scream. he supposed that residence abroad accounted possibly for these peculiarities. women who lived in semi-civilised lands acquired characteristics unbecoming to their sex. mr musgrave would have been surprised could he have penetrated mrs chadwick's opinion of himself. mrs chadwick had formed an opinion early in their intercourse; she saw no reason to modify it later; and she was confirmed in it when she read some of his sonnets in the carefully preserved back numbers of the _parish magazine_. there were sonnets to the different seasons; sonnets to childhood, to youth, to flowers, to a cloud effect in a windswept sky, and to the autumnal tints. there was not, in the whole, she observed without surprise, a single reference to love. verse-making without that essential quality must be a difficult process, she reflected. had byron possessed john musgrave's temperament, it is doubtful that he would have attained to immortality. john musgrave with a touch of the byronic weakness might have been interesting, and would certainly have been lovable. coldness of itself is scarcely a virtue, nor is it an endearing characteristic. the man possessed of a big heart and a quite legitimate inclination towards the opposite sex is human; and mrs chadwick loved humanity. the most human types she had as yet discovered in moresby were those of the vicar and his wife, and robert. robert and the new mistress of the hall were allies. robert held the sex, as a sex, in contempt; that was the code of his class; and a very pronounced dread of the length of hannah's tongue, added to a proper recognition of hannah's muscular development, had accomplished little towards mitigating this sense of masculine superiority. he considered the utterance of saint paul, that it is better to marry than to burn, the most supreme wisdom that a man has ever given expression to. on occasions he was a little doubtful whether it were not better to burn. he had tried marriage, but he had not tried burning, and so could not give a definite opinion. but for mrs chadwick he entertained an unbounded respect. robert perhaps had a touch of the byronic temperament; and mrs chadwick on coming out of church had given him one of her radiant smiles. subsequently she stopped him in the road and chatted with him in an easy, intimate way that robert described as "haffable." she began by asking him if he had a wife. robert admitted this possession reluctantly; and, upon further inquiries, owned with even less enthusiasm to a son. "only one?" she said. "one's more'n enough for me," robert answered sourly. "brought up respectable, 'e was, and confirmed under mr errol; and then," robert jerked his thumb over his shoulder as though in indication of the direction the errant youth had followed, "'e takes up with a young woman, and turns plymouth brother to please 'er. preaches, 'e does... they mostly do. dresses 'isself up, and tramps five miles, and 'ollers to a lot more of 'em about their sins. disgraceful, that's wot i calls it." "perhaps he thinks he is doing good," she suggested. robert smiled grimly. "precious little good 'e ever done, or ever will do, mum. and 'is preaching! you should 'ear 'im." "do you tramp five miles to hear him preach?" she asked. "wot, me? and wot would the vicar do without me, do you suppose? i 'ear quite enough without going to 'is old meeting-place. 'e practises 'is old sarmons night-times, after me and the missis is a-bed. you'd reckon it was a nuisance if 'e waked you up, as he wakes me and hannah in the dead o' night sometimes, screeching an' 'ollering. `is your lord deaf?' i asks en; `because if 'e be, us bain't,' i says, `and us can't sleep for your noise.' 'e's gone away now. got a job at a farm near 'is young woman; an' i 'opes 'e stops there. i don't 'old wi' religion outside o' church, and then i likes it shortened like. our vicar is the best vicar moresby's ever 'ad, but 'e do make 'is sarmons long. seems i could say as much as 'e do in 'alf the time." mrs chadwick laughed. robert's garrulity would seem to discredit this conceit. "i like his sermons, robert," she said. "i'm glad i am going to live at moresby. later i shall visit mrs robert, if you think she won't mind." "she won't mind, mum," robert answered. "she'll be proud. i'm not sure it won't make 'er over proud," he added reflectively. "hannah gets obstroperous when she's took notice of. better let 'er think you come to see me, i reckon." she nodded brightly, and left him standing in the roadway looking after her retreating figure, and from it to the shining coins lying in the horny hollow of his palm. perhaps it was due less to the byronic temperament than to the natural love of every loyal subject for the king's portrait set in silver that mrs chadwick won from thenceforth robert's unshakable respect. being a man actuated by occasional chivalrous promptings, he drank to her good health conscientiously during the following days. but from a fear of making hannah "obstroperous" he refrained from mentioning that interview with mrs chadwick and its amicable finish; and, in case hannah went through his pockets while he slept, which experience taught him was the way of wives, he put temptation out of her way by concealing the coins beneath the altar cloth in the church. familiarity with holy things had bred an undesirable freedom in robert's views. the vicar and his wife stood at the vicarage gate and waved farewell to mr musgrave's guests as the car drove past. mr musgrave on this occasion accompanied the ladies, speeding, as mrs errol remarked, the departure, if he had not obeyed strictly the prescribed rules of hospitality by welcoming the coming guest. "well, that's over," she said, as the car turned the bend and disappeared from sight. she tucked her hand within her husband's arm, and walked with him a few yards down the road. "i shall be glad when they are settled at the hall. it will make things gayer." "it will certainly do that," he agreed. "gaiety and mrs chadwick are synonymous terms." "there is no especial virtue in gravity," mrs errol returned. "there is not," he answered readily. "i prefer a cheerful countenance myself." the vicar's road that morning taking him past robert's cottage, he looked in to inquire for mrs robert, who had been much troubled of late with mysterious pains which attacked equally mysterious parts of her anatomy. to listen to hannah's diagnosis of her complaints was to wonder how anyone who suffered so distressingly could continue to live, and to remain on the whole fairly active. the vicar, being accustomed to this exaggerated description of the minor ills of the flesh, was able to be sympathetic, and not unduly pessimistic in regard to the patient's ultimate recovery. but this morning hannah, having received a letter from her son, was less concerned with her ailments than with the epistle of robert the younger, who, after two pages devoted to personal and intimate matters, had sent a filial exhortation to his father, in which he recommended for the latter's careful study the sixteenth verse of the sixteenth chapter according to saint mark. robert the elder had insisted upon hannah hunting up that particular verse in the bible which stood in the front window, where the vicar's eye, and the eye of the district visitor, could not fail to light upon it. the vicar's eye had become so familiarised with this object, which looked as though it had never been displaced since first it had been put there, that he had formed a very fair estimate of its accepted value in the household. mr errol held no illusions concerning the piety of robert and his wife. hannah, nothing loth, had found the text, and read it aloud to robert, whose wrathful disgust had caused her quite pleasantly to forget her pains for the time. there stood the words in relentless black and white: "he that believeth and is baptised shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned." hannah performed the supererogatory task of reading the text aloud to the vicar, who endeavoured while he listened to conceal the smile that found its way to his lips. "and what has robert to say to that?" he asked. robert had had a good deal to say, but his wife did not feel it necessary to quote him verbatim. "robert's mad," she answered. "he says he'll learn 'im. but bob's a good boy, sir, and terrible clever." "he certainly possesses a strong sense of responsibility," the vicar allowed. when later mr errol saw robert, he was reminded of young robert's message by the dour look on his old sexton's face. his expression of wrathful indignation did not convey the suggestion that the seed of his son's counsel had fallen upon fruitful ground. robert not only looked upset, he was most unusually taciturn. when he heard that the vicar had been to his cottage that morning he merely grunted. the grunt was expressive of many emotions, the most eloquent of which was unspeakable disgust. at the same time the consciousness of certain coins concealed beneath the altar cloth in the church caused robert to lower his gaze before his vicar's eyes. "so hannah has heard from bob," the vicar observed pleasantly. "bob seems to fear you are in considerable danger, robert." "'e'll be in considerable danger if 'e comes 'ome before i've 'ad time to cool," answered robert grimly. he eyed his horny hand and the wrist muscles, developed like taut leather through long usage with the spade, and smiled darkly. "reckon i didn' let in to en enough when 'e were a youngster," he remarked regretfully. "i only wish 'e were young enough for me to start in again. but i'm more'n 'is match now. learn 'is father, will 'e? us'll see. thinks 'e knows a sight more'n i do, because 'e's got a few textes in 'is 'ead. 'tis about all 'e 'as got there. proud, 'e is, because 'e reads 'is bible, which 'e 'lows other folk don't. neither they does; but no more didn't 'e before 'e took up wi' preaching." "oh, come, robert," remonstrated the vicar, smiling. "plenty of people read their bibles, even in moresby." "plenty of people 'as bibles," robert replied darkly. "keeps 'em for show, they do. i knows. folks don't read their bibles nowadays." robert spoke of the bible as though it were a relic of prehistoric times which, being a respectable relic, and one the possession of which brought the owner occasional benefits from those in spiritual authority, was therefore worthy of a place even in the front window; but as a book for practical use, the idea was simply a pose. "indeed," the vicar insisted, "i know one or two in the parish who read their bibles consistently. i have gone in at times and found them reading it." robert eyed the speaker with a gleam in his eyes that suggested affectionate patronage, and a half-contemptuous commiseration for such blind credulity. "they seed you coming, sir," he said, with a shake of the head at the depths to which human duplicity will go. the vicar gazed seriously into the quaint, sincere face of his sexton. "don't you ever read your bible, robert?" he asked gravely. "no, sir. never 'ear aught of it 'cept wot you reads out in church," robert replied with disconcerting candour. the rev walter errol turned away abruptly to conceal from the observant eyes regarding him whatever emotion moved him at the outspoken sincerity of this man, who had worked under him for many years in the service of the church. an honest heart is a worthy possession, and truth, no matter what laxity it reveals, is preferable to deceit. chapter nine. the weeks came and passed, and the work at the hall continued with unabated energy. early in november everything was in readiness for the occupation of the new tenants; and with the departure of the workmen the servants arrived at the hall, and were speedily followed by mr and mrs chadwick and the pekinese. john musgrave, with punctilious politeness, paid his call within the week, and was admitted and ushered into the drawing-room by a responsible-looking young woman in a neat uniform, who was, mr musgrave supposed, mrs chadwick's butler. mrs chadwick, beautifully gowned, rose at his entry to receive him; a very gracious hostess, having discarded her air of bantering satire, which had so often incensed mr musgrave, for the easy cordiality of the woman of the world, bent on being agreeable in her own home; bent, too, on maintaining an attitude of sympathetic patience towards the idiosyncrasies of other people. john musgrave considered her for the first time without reservation a very charming woman. mr chadwick, who had a greater right than anyone else to set himself up as an authority on this subject, had never considered her anything else. mr chadwick was present on the occasion of john musgrave's call. he was a big man of indolent appearance, who preferred rather to listen than to talk, but who, when he offered an opinion, commanded naturally the respectful attention of his hearers. one felt that the man possessed a mind of his own. although most people pride themselves on this possession, it is not given to every one to secure its recognition by others. it is usually the case that the people who insist most upon this recognition are the people who do not receive it. john musgrave, although he had met mr chadwick before, had very little knowledge of the man. it surprised him now to discover in him a man he could like and feel at home with. he had been prepared for something quite different. it had even occurred to him that no man of any intelligence could take second place and allow his wife to usurp his privileges as head of the house; but when he talked with mr chadwick he found it necessary to modify his views to the extent of admitting that in exceptional circumstances a clever man might do this without the sacrifice of his dignity. will chadwick would have solved the question, had mr musgrave put it to him, by explaining that he regarded the individual, irrespective of sex, as being under the obligation of filling the place he or she is most fitted to fill. it was not a matter of privilege, in his opinion, but of capacity; and he never bothered about sex problems. his wife and he were companions and not rivals in their domestic relations. when mr musgrave left--and he was less conventional in timing his departure than he had been in the selection of the hour and date of his call--he carried with him a very pleasant picture of the perfectly organised and harmonious home of cultured and agreeable people. there was a good deal, after all, to be said in favour of english home-life. it was regrettable that home-life was going out of fashion. as he walked down the broad gravelled drive mr musgrave pondered deeply over these matters. he glanced about him upon the beautiful wooded lands surrounding the hall, and thought how many old english homes of equal dignity were passing into the hands of wealthy strangers because their owners preferred to live in moderate comfort abroad to clinging to their birthright and all it symbolised in defiance of a meagre purse. the privilege conferred by birth, and the dignity of ancient things, were fetishes with mr musgrave, to whom poverty in a good old english home would have been preferable to the easy freedom of continental life. this was one of john musgrave's many old-fashioned ideas; and old-fashioned ideas are occasionally worthy to stand beside and sometimes even in advance of the modern trend of thought. while thinking of these things mr musgrave was suddenly brought face to face with something so essentially modern that, prepared as he was for surprises in mrs chadwick's household, he was nevertheless taken completely aback. the first intimation of this extreme modernity rushed upon him disconcertingly, after the manner of a noisy herald preparing the way for some one of importance, in the shape of a very ugly and extraordinarily fierce-looking bull-dog. the bull-dog sprang out upon him from behind a wall and growled ferociously, showing his teeth, which is the custom of the well-bred bull, who cannot conceal them, as mr musgrave knew. mr musgrave, who disliked dogs, was nevertheless not so utterly foolish as to raise his stick, or otherwise show the alarm he felt; but he was very greatly relieved when a sharp, clear whistle called the bull-dog off and assured him that some one, who seemingly had authority, was at hand for his protection. then it was that, looking up to trace the whistle to its source, he was confronted with the most astonishing sight he had ever beheld. against the wall a long ladder leaned, and standing at the top of the ladder doing something apparently to a climbing rose-bush--or, to be exact, not doing anything to the climbing rose-bush at that moment, but looking down at himself--was a young woman. for a second john musgrave thought it was a boy; during the next second it dawned upon his startled intelligence that this was no boy, but an exceedingly well-grown young woman--a young woman in male attire; that is to say, while the upper part of her was clothed in quite feminine fashion, the lower half--john musgrave blushed as he grasped the horrible reality--was garbed in a man's overalls, a serviceable pair of loose-fitting blue trousers, buckled in at the waist with a workmanlike belt, in which was thrust pruning-knife, hammer, and other things necessary to a gardener at the top of a long ladder with no mate at the foot. "it is all right; he is quite gentle," the girl called down the ladder reassuringly to the astonished, upturned face of mr musgrave. she was, mr musgrave could not fail to observe, a very pretty girl, and she looked unquestionably well in the immodest get-up. her hair, which was uncovered, was brown, and broke into curls at her temples; and a pair of smiling, darkly grey eyes gazed down at him amiably, with serene indifference to her embarrassing attire. mr musgrave imagined this male attire must be even more embarrassing to its wearer than it was to him to behold, in which he was quite mistaken. the girl was beautifully unconscious of anything in her appearance to attract comment. she wore trousers for use; and the serviceability of a thing explains and justifies its existence. since the person who addressed him was a woman, natural instinct suggested to mr musgrave the raising of his hat; but the sight of those objectionable overalls decided him that the courtesy was uncalled for; then, meeting the grey eyes fully, natural instinct prevailed with him. the top of a ladder is not a comfortable place for social amenities, and the young person in the overalls had a long nail between her lips, which she had removed in order to call out her reassurance and had since replaced; she inclined her head nevertheless. "that moresby," murmured the owner of the grey eyes, as they followed mr musgrave's retreat. "moresby does not like two-legged females; it prefers the skirt, and cherishes the fond delusion that the feet are attached quite decorously somewhere to the hem." then she returned to her work, and dismissed mr musgrave from her thoughts. the head gardener at the hall had something else to do besides occupying her mind with idle speculations. mr musgrave passed out through the lodge gates feeling inexpressibly shocked. he knew, because she herself had told him when unfolding some of her schemes, that it was mrs chadwick's practice to employ female labour whenever possible. in that respect, although it was unusual--for which reason alone it did not appeal to him as desirable--she was, he allowed, experimenting in a perfectly legitimate manner; but he could not see the necessity for the substitution of male attire. because a young woman was employed in an unwomanly capacity it was no argument that she should further unsex herself by encroaching on the right of man to this very proper assertion of being, as the young woman would have expressed it, a biped. but mr musgrave in his very natural prejudice overlooked two essential points: that clothes in the first instance are worn for decency and comfort; and that the fashion of them has been decided with regard to utility and convenience, rather than the important question of sex. plainly a skirt is neither useful nor convenient for climbing ladders in; it is also highly dangerous. mr musgrave might have argued: why climb ladders? to which the grey-eyed girl would have replied: because thereby she could earn a living in a perfectly honest and agreeable manner by following the occupation which most interested her, and in which she was undoubtedly skilled. also the climbing of ladders is quite as simple to many women as it is to the average man. it is a matter of balance. some people enjoy climbing, just as others prefer going down-hill, and the more equable natures, like mr musgrave, have a predilection for a flat road. but--mr musgrave blushed again as he recalled a mental picture of the girl in the overalls--she was such a pretty girl. she looked the kind of girl one places instinctively in a refined home, engaged in the ladylike occupation of painting flowers on satin, or working at plain sewing for the poor. mr musgrave's idea of a suitable setting would not have raised a pang of regret in the contented breast of the head gardener. she would not have vacated her position at the top of the ladder for the most elegant drawing-room, nor have relinquished her pruning-scissors in favour of the daintiest satin-work in the world. she, like mr chadwick, believed in the individual doing what she was best fitted to do. and gardening was her "job." it is a noteworthy fact that had the head gardener been plain and middle-aged her unsuitable occupation and unseemly attire would not have worried john musgrave to the extent that it did. he would have dismissed the matter from his thoughts as simply objectionable, and therefore not to be dwelt on; but the youth of this girl and the beauty of her aroused his sympathies. the clear grey eyes were responsible for this. chivalry in the male breast, even when that, breast belongs to a middle-aged bachelor, is an emotion which, contrary to all right principles, responds most readily to the curve of young lips and the call to laughter from bright eyes. chapter ten. the residents of moresby--by which is usually understood not the bulk of the community, but that select portion which gathers in the drawing-rooms and about the tables of its social equals--were moved to a mild and almost pained surprise at being hospitably bidden to dine at the hall within a month of the chadwicks' arrival. this was, moresby recognised with chill ingratitude, a grave breach of social etiquette. plainly it was the duty of moresby to show hospitality to the new-comers and then accept in return whatever the hall saw fit to offer in acknowledgment of its welcome. but mrs chadwick, who needed no precedent in anything she wished to do, was not prepared to wait on moresby hospitality, which, she rightly guessed, would be slow in asserting itself. she wanted to gather her new neighbours together, and she did not mind in the least whether or no they invited her back to their houses. as soon, therefore, as they had called and she had returned the calls, she asked them to dine; and despite the general feeling of perturbed wonder which this unexpected invitation occasioned, no one--their numbers were but four, because moresby had its limitations--declined. thus it came about that on a certain cold december night john musgrave foregathered with his neighbours and one or two people from rushleigh in the great drawing-room at the hall, where, as a young man in the old squire's time, he had been wont to attend functions of a similar nature, more formal and dull perhaps, as suited the day and prestige of the entertainer, but certainly not more splendid nor more kindly in tone. it was so long since john musgrave had taken part in any entertainment other than an informal supper at the vicarage or an equally quiet home-dinner, that he felt rather bewildered as he looked about him on this assemblage of, for the greater part, familiar faces rendered unfamiliar by reason of an unwonted magnificence of attire. even little mrs errol was gowned with unusual elegance. as mr musgrave's eyes fell upon her he was conscious for the first time that she was a very pretty woman. he had not thought of her as pretty before; he had merely considered her womanly. it was possible, he realised, to be womanly and pretty at the same time. her dress was eminently becoming. miss simpson wore a narrow-shouldered, aesthetic garment, so modestly cut that only the scraggy column of her throat was visible above its lavender folds. mr musgrave, whose eyes were attracted towards her by the magnetic force of her gaze, which was riveted on him from the moment of his entry, compared her to her disadvantage with the vicar's modish little wife, whose extravagance in the matter of her new dress was spoiling one-half of her satisfaction in the knowledge that she compared favourably with the other guests. of the rest of the ladies present only one was unknown to mr musgrave. his eyes fell upon her as he left his hostess's side, passed over her face without recognition, and then, as though suddenly reminded of having seen it somewhere amid other surroundings, planted, indeed, in an altogether different setting, they wandered back uncertainly and rested with a puzzled scrutiny on the delicate profile that was half turned from him. something in the rebellious wave of the brown hair, something in the buoyant grace of the girl's carriage, appeared vaguely familiar. and then suddenly the stranger turned and faced him squarely, and a pair of darkly grey eyes looked for a second into his and betrayed a flash of recognition. the faintest of smiles lit their grey depths. she was talking to the vicar, and she turned to him and said something in a low voice, as a result of which the vicar summoned mr musgrave to his side and presented him, and--quite unnecessarily, john musgrave thought--left him alone with this exceedingly womanly looking, unwomanly young person. as mr musgrave beheld her now, suitably attired in an exceedingly elegant yet simple white dinner dress, he found it difficult to associate this dainty person with the dreadful vision in blue overalls standing at the top of a long ladder and whistling to the bull-dog. he shuddered when he recalled that sight. how could any refined girl be guilty of such immodest conduct? but the person in the overalls had done him a service. he felt that it would be only courtesy to acknowledge it. but did not courtesy demand rather that he should ignore that painful episode? it was possible that the girl would be displeased to be reminded of that occasion. mr musgrave felt so embarrassed, and was so little successful in concealing this emotion, that the girl, becoming conscious of it, imagined that he was shy. she promptly "started in," as she would have phrased it, to set him at his ease. "i'm quite in love with moresby," she said brightly. "it's the prettiest spot i've happened upon so far. these old places which have fallen asleep are restful. i was just asking mr errol when you arrived to whom that beautiful garden belonged, with the old gabled house standing back from the road, and he replied, `here's the owner.' when i looked round and saw you i remembered your face. diogenes introduced us informally, if you recall the afternoon you called here. he is a dreadfully pushing person, diogenes; but he's a dear when you know him." "i daresay," mr musgrave answered, correctly surmising that diogenes was the bull-dog. "but i dislike dogs." "i should never have thought that," replied the girl, looking faintly surprised; "because diogenes likes you. he never speaks to people he doesn't like; and dogs as a rule know at once when people are not sympathetic. he quite gushed about you after you had gone. i won't tell him he has made a mistake, it might hurt his feelings. and after all you are possibly mistaken yourself. you'd love dogs, i expect, if you once allowed yourself to take an interest in them. they are like children; one has to get accustomed to them." "on the occasion you refer to," said mr musgrave tactfully, "i was very obliged to you for coming to my assistance. i confess to having felt distinctly nervous of diogenes." "most people are," she said. "he looks so ferocious, and he's noisy. but that was only good-tempered teasing. he always helps me when i am gardening, and he enjoys thinking he is keeping intruders off. you must come and see the gardens some day. mr errol tells me you are dreadfully learned about flowers." "i am interested in flowers," john musgrave allowed modestly. "so am i--enormously. i just love having this big place to experiment with. and my aunt is such a dear; she gives me a free hand." she laughed delightfully, showing a set of very pretty teeth. "a free hand constitutes also unlimited funds, and that is such a help in the making of a beautiful garden." "i should have thought," mr musgrave said, "that the making of a garden was unnecessary where a garden already existed. i understood the grounds were always kept up." "they have been kept from neglect," she answered. "but there is a lot to be done. we have got to bring it all up to date." "oh?" he said, and repressed a shudder. he had never liked that expression; since his acquaintance with mrs chadwick he had grown to actively dislike it. "i am old-fashioned, i suppose," he added. "i prefer things left as they are. the associations which cling about familiar things are more beautiful, in my opinion, than change. no outlay of money can improve an old-world garden." "the introduction of a quantity of patent manure into the ground helps considerably in its productiveness," she answered practically. "wait till the summer comes. when you see the glory of bloom then you'll admit the utility of money. i should like some time to come and see your garden. do you work in it yourself?" "i!" mr musgrave appeared taken aback at the suggestion that he should labour among his borders, which were noted in moresby for their beauty. "i supervise the man, of course," he said. "oh!" she returned in a tone of commiseration for the pleasure that he missed. "supervising is tame. when one feels the soil with one's hands one learns what it means to love it, and every little root one buries in the mould becomes as a dear child. you are only scientifically interested in flowers, i suspect. i've learnt the science of them, too; but i am trying to forget all that and acquire practical knowledge. imagine a mother bringing up her child scientifically! i know some people consider it a wise plan, but every child, like every plant, has its little peculiarities, and needs to be made a separate study." "you are very young," mr musgrave remarked, looking into the clear eyes with a shade of disapproval in his own, "to entertain views on these subjects." to his surprise she laughed. "i'm twenty-eight," she answered frankly. "if one hasn't any views at that age it is safe to predict one will never have any. at twenty-eight lots of women are engaged in experimenting practically in the upbringing of children. i have nephews and nieces ranging up to ten." mr musgrave was by now firmly convinced that he did not like this young person. he was quite sure that working in overalls was not good for the mind. and yet, when he came to reflect upon what she had said later, he failed to discover what there had been to object to so strongly in her talk. but he had taken a strong objection to the tone of her conversation. could it be that he was not merely old-fashioned, but slightly priggish? mr musgrave did not like to think of himself as a prig. it is a term which englishmen affect to despise. nevertheless there are a few prigs in the world. mr musgrave was not a prig, but he came perilously near to being one at times. a move in the direction of the dining-room put an end to their talk. mr musgrave was paired off with his legitimate dinner partner, a rushleigh lady, the importance of whose social position as a member of one of the oldest families in the neighbourhood rendered it seemingly unnecessary for her to support the effort of being even ordinarily conversational. john musgrave knew her intimately, and was therefore not unduly depressed by her long silences and her chilly acceptance of his stereotyped phrases in an attempt to sustain a courteous soliloquy during the courses. farther down, on the opposite side of the table, the grey-eyed girl was chatting animatedly with a young medical man, also from rushleigh, who appeared, john musgrave observed with a sense of feeling suddenly bored and out of tune with his surroundings, to be enjoying himself hugely. mr musgrave had always understood that young people did not enjoy dinner-parties; as a young man he had found them extraordinarily dull. but this young man was apparently enjoying both the food and the company. the grey-eyed girl was not, however, discussing with him patent manures, or other horticultural matters. at the moment when john musgrave observed them they were engaged in a flippant conversation which the young man characterised as psychological, but which john musgrave would not have dignified by such a term. it was the kind of agreeable nonsense which is pleasing only to youth. the young man considered the grey-eyed girl ripping. the grey-eyed girl--who was called peggy annersley--referred to him in her thoughts as a sport. mr musgrave would not have approved of either expression. the vocabulary of youth is uncouth. in the drawing-room, following the long dinner, there was a little music, under cover of which many of the guests took refuge in silence, relieved that the necessity to make conversation was temporarily relaxed. the business of enjoying one's self is a strenuous matter. mr musgrave, moved by a stern sense of duty and the conviction of what was correct, went from one group of acquaintances to another and exchanged civilities with all. peggy watched his conscientious progress through the room with mischievous, comprehending eyes. he was the quaintest thing in moresby, she reflected, where everything was quaint. later, when the guests had departed, in response to a question put by mrs chadwick in reference to him, she stated that he seemed quite a nice old thing. mrs chadwick surveyed her niece thoughtfully, and then glanced at her own reflection in a mirror. "should you describe me as old?" she asked. "you!" the girl laughed scoffingly. "you dear! what a question?" "i am thirty-nine," mrs chadwick said. "and john musgrave is forty." the girl looked unimpressed. "i daresay. but no one would consider john's years. he is fossilised," she said. chapter eleven. miss peggy annersley was a niece of mr chadwick, one of a family of four girls whom fate had deprived of their mother in early childhood, and, as though repenting the evil turn she had wrought them, had remedied the ill as far as she was able by subsequently removing their father also from a world in which, though undoubtedly ornamental, he was not of the slightest use. having freed them thus far from the only obstacle in the path of any possible success which might fall to their lot, she threw them with light-hearted irresponsibility and an air of having finished with them, if not finally, at least for the time being, into the care of the wealthy uncle who, being childless, was naturally the person best fitted to undertake the charge of four well-grown, unruly, under-educated girls. mr chadwick sent them forthwith to a good boarding-school, and, like fate, having disposed of them temporarily, dismissed them from his thoughts. but mr chadwick was possessed of a wife, and that wife was possessed of ideas regarding the race in general and the feminine half of it in particular; she therefore shouldered his neglected responsibilities and made the education of those four girls her special study. mr chadwick's idea had been to educate them decently, as he expressed it, and give them a small but sufficient income on which to live independently, and leave them to worry out the problem of life for themselves. mrs chadwick objected to this plan on the plea that it was charity, and charity, save in exceptional circumstances, was humiliating to the individual and unsatisfactory, inasmuch as it retarded the mental and moral growth, and disorganised the social scheme. therefore each girl was educated as a boy might be, with a knowledge that she must earn her livelihood and had therefore better develop any talent and specialise in the choice of a profession. the arrangement had worked well. the eldest girl, who, like her father, was ornamental rather than useful, had specialised matrimonially and left the schoolroom for a home of her own, and was very well satisfied with her lot. the second girl had become a medical student; and, showing marked ability in the profession she had chosen, took her m.d. and subsequently practised successfully as a doctor in a busy midland town. the third girl, who was peggy, had taken up gardening with equal aptitude, and was employed by her aunt for two reasons: the first being that mrs chadwick preferred a woman gardener; the second and all-important reason being that she was very fond of peggy and wished to keep her with her. the fourth girl was an architect, and, being still quite young, was as yet on the lowest rung of the ladder. she was, however, keen, and mrs chadwick hoped that she would become an ornament to her profession in time. save for peggy and the eldest girl, who was a beauty, looks were not the chief asset of the family, so that for the doctor and the young architect it was more expedient that they should do well in the work they had taken up. mrs chadwick was on the whole very satisfied with the result of her effort on their behalf. next to having girls of her own, four nieces with an average share of brains provided admirable material for the development of her feminist schemes. it afforded her immense gratification to watch their progress, and behold, instead of four helpless girls keeping house in bored inactivity on other people's money, four--or rather three--very capable young persons equal to fighting their own way through life, and privileged to enjoy the bread of independence. if any girl imagines there is a better lot in life she is mistaken. no occupation unfits a woman for the _role_ of wife and mother; it gives her rather a greater right to bring children into the world, when she is able to support them if necessary. mr musgrave would not have shared this opinion; but musgravian ideas fill almshouses and orphanages and are responsible for a great deal of genteel and quite needless poverty. that one half--and that the larger half--of the race should depend for its existence on the other half is absurd. peggy annersley was a young woman of very independent spirit. had she wished, she might have made her occupation as gardener at the hall a sinecure. she could have given her orders to those under her and have enjoyed her leisure in any way that appeared agreeable to herself. mrs chadwick imposed no conditions or restraints. but peggy drew a handsome wage, and she liked to fed when she received her monthly cheque that she had earned it; therefore she donned overalls and spoilt her hands, or, as she would have expressed it, hardened them, in the conscientious fulfilment of her duties. she put in her eight hours a day, except in the winter when work was slack, and insisted upon her half-day off during the week. there was only one matter in which she enjoyed any advantage over the rest--she was not liable to dismissal. on her half-day off peggy usually went for a walk accompanied by diogenes. she resolutely refused to give up these half-days to paying calls with her aunt or helping her to entertain visitors. if she were imperatively needed for social duties these had to be worked in in her employers' time. peggy was a veritable trades union in herself, and refused absolutely to sacrifice her off-time to any object that did not conform with her ideas of pleasurable relaxation. thus it fell out that when the guests who had participated in the chadwicks' hospitality were, with rigid observance of rule, punctiliously performing their duty in the matter of an after-dinner call, miss annersley, in defiance of her aunt's remonstrance, insisted on going off as usual with the faithful diogenes. mrs chadwick was vexed. mr chadwick had that morning met john musgrave in the village, and had returned with the news that mr musgrave had mentioned that it was his purpose to call that same afternoon. mrs chadwick for some inexplicable reason desired peggy's support on this occasion, and appeared disproportionately annoyed when peggy departed on her walk and left her aunt to receive mr musgrave alone. mr chadwick was present, certainly, but the presence of mr chadwick could not further her amiable plans for the modernising of john musgrave. it was a wild, bright day with a touch of frost in the air, and as she walked briskly across the fields the sun and the wind and the cold air brought a glorious colour into peggy's cheeks and lent a sparkle to her eyes. it was regrettable that there was no one there to note these things except diogenes and a few cows. peggy was not alarmed of cows; but diogenes, who was in a boisterous mood, caused her considerable anxiety through displaying a desire to chase these unoffending animals, resenting which, they acted in a manner unseemly in their breed. in one field there were bulls. they were young bulls, and harmless; but diogenes excited them, and when they began to chase diogenes he feigned nervousness and sought shelter behind his mistress's skirts, peggy, feeling nervous without feigning it, took refuge in the hedge. then it was that she became aware of a small bearded man, who, having just climbed the stile, walked fearlessly among the herd, which made way before him as before the progress of some royal personage and allowed him to pass unharmed. the small bearded man stopped when he was abreast of peggy, and stared up at her where she crouched in the hedge with critical, contemptuous eyes. "do you like milk?" he asked unexpectedly. "yes," peggy answered, puzzled to understand why this person, whom she now recognised for the sexton, if he wished to address her should open civilities with such an unusual remark; why, too, he should seem upset with her reply. he looked almost angry. "do you like beef?" he proceeded, putting her through this catechism as though he were playing a serious kind of new game. "yes," peggy repeated with increasing wonder. the little man looked really fierce now. she was relieved to have diogenes at hand; this person was more terrifying than the bulls. "then wot are you afeard of? get down out of thicky hedge. they won't 'urt 'ee." peggy felt indignant; the little man was quite unnecessarily rude. "i do not care to watch milk churning itself in the open," she retorted; "and i prefer beef cooked." robert appeared for the moment at a loss for a suitable response. he looked at her sourly, and from her to the dog. "you shouldn' take that there toy terrier across the fields, if you'm afeard o' cattle," he remarked. "'e's more mischeevous than wot they be. get down out o' thicky 'edge, i tell 'ee. i'll see 'ee across." "why didn't you say that in the beginning?" peggy said, flashing a smile at him and slipping nimbly down from her position of doubtful security. "that's exactly what i was wishing you would do." "i seen a woman orched once," robert was beginning conversationally, as they walked along together, when peggy interrupted him to inquire what "orched" meant. "why, bein' tossed, o' course," robert answered, amazed at her ignorance. "she died, too--died o' fright, i reckon; 'er warn't 'urt much. it was a cow done it. but 'twas more by way o' play than temper. females is easy scared." "yes," peggy agreed. "i allow that would scare me. you must be very brave, mr robert. i knew you were brave the moment i saw you." "eh?" robert ventured, a little doubtful as to her entire sincerity. he knew something about females and he had never known them other than deceitful. "reckon i'm not more easy scared than most." hannah would have laughed could she have heard that boast; he was--and she knew it--scared of her. "are you afraid of ghosts?" peggy asked. "ghosts!" robert's tone was scornful. "no, i ban't afeard o' they. somethin' you can put your 'and through don't signify much. wot i might be afeard of," he added, wishful not to appear bragging, "is somethin' bigger an' stronger than meself, wot can take holt to your whistle and squeeze it like the plumbers do the gas-pipes of a 'ouse. that might scare me, now." his manner conveyed a doubt whether even that experience could effectively arouse his fears. he left it to her imagination to picture him struggling valiantly, undismayed, against gigantic odds. "folks say there's a ghost up at the 'all," he added. "i knew it!" the girl exclaimed. "i've a feeling in my bones, when i wake in the dark, that there must be a ghost somewhere." robert nodded confirmation. "hannah--that's my missis--she used to live 'ousemaid up at the 'all in old squire's time. she seen it. leastways, she says she 'as," he added in the tone of a man who considers the reliability of the evidence open to question. "if she says so, of course she must have seen it," peggy insisted. "well," robert answered, "i dunno. seems to me if hannah 'ad a seen it, er'd 'ave left; an' 'er didn' leave, not till i married 'er. but 'er was always tellin' up about thicky ole ghost, though 'er never could describe it. if i'd seen a ghost i'd know wot 'e looked like. misty, 'er used to say--kind o' misty like, an' big. i've seed misty kind o' things meself when i've 'ad a drop; but hannah's teetotal." peggy eyed him contemplatively. "when you are digging graves, mr robert, do you never see a ghost?" she asked. "no," he said. "nothin' more'n a few ole bones." "ugh?" the girl exclaimed. "there's naught to mind in bones," robert returned. "they couldn't put theirselves together again, anyway, because parts of 'em would be missin'. but the first lot i 'eaved up turned my stummick, sure. a man gets used to it." peggy had a feeling that she had had enough of robert's society for one day, and, having come to a stile where an inviting lane branched off from the fields, she inquired of him where it led. "it takes 'ee past the back o' mr musgrave's house," he answered. "oh," said peggy, "then i think i am going that way. thank you very much for seeing me past the danger." she parted from robert joyfully, and set off with diogenes down the muddy roadway between its tall green banks. "we are going to see the back of the fossil's dwelling; now for adventure number two, diogenes," she said. chapter twelve. peggy was fond of boasting that adventures usually met her on her walks abroad. it is a peculiar conceit with some people to believe that things happen for them. to the imaginative person the unexpected event befalls, and signifies considerably more than it would signify to the person of a practical mind. the adult of peggy's temperament never grows away from the fairyland of make-believe which usually is considered the sole prerogative of childhood. there is a wonderland for grown people, but not many dwell in it. peggy dwelt in it, which was one reason why she always derived enjoyment from her country rambles with diogenes. but on this particular afternoon the adventures which befell peggy were less agreeable than exciting. the encounter with the bulls had ended comfortably as a result of the opportune appearance of a knight-errant in the form of robert; the second adventure had a less agreeable termination, possibly because no knight-errant arrived upon the scene, save in a laggard fashion which was in the nature of an anti-climax. diogenes was directly responsible in both instances for everything which occurred. it was unusual for diogenes to make himself a nuisance; possibly the moresby air was too exhilarating for him. when peggy reached the end of the lane and emerged upon mr musgrave's back entrance she paused and looked about her, less from a sense of curiosity than a sudden realisation that the lane was a _cul-de-sac_, and unless she could brace herself to make the return journey by the way she had come, and face again the dangers from which robert had rescued her, only to leave her basely in the lurch outside the back gate of the dwelling-house of a respectable, fossilised bachelor, she would be forced to make use of the tradesmen's entrance--the notice was painted neatly on the gate--and pass through mr musgrave's garden. "why not?" said peggy to herself. "i wanted to see his garden. i told him so; and he didn't respond as a gentleman should. therefore i will commit a trespass." she would, have committed anything rather than return by the fields with diogenes, who, for the first time within her knowledge, had defied her authoritative whistle. diogenes, having created a precedent by this act of defiance, proceeded to follow it, which is what a precedent exists for. when peggy, not without the feeling which a burglar must have when he forces his first lock, pushed open the tradesmen's entrance and took a furtive look inside to assure herself no one was on the watch to prevent her, diogenes got his inquisitive snub nose between the crack, and using his broad shoulders, forced the gate a little wider and entered with a bound. a rush, a scream, a frantic barking and growling followed, and peggy, pursuing in hot haste and whistling as authoritatively as her panting breath permitted, arrived at the back door of mr musgrave's house, and, hearing a distressing pandemonium within, did not pause to consider the conventions, but dashed through the scullery and into the kitchen. there such a scene met her eyes as would have moved her to laughter had she not been too frightened to realise the comic element in the domestic drama she beheld. diogenes held the floor--he was too unwieldy an animal to get above it; but he had cleared every one else off it and remained master of the situation, showing his teeth, and growling hideously in huge enjoyment of the game. the respectable eliza stood on the table screaming; martha, the corpulent, was mounted on a chair. since she was not screaming, but was merely murmuring, "good doggie, good doggie?" in a soothing voice, diogenes was not concerned with her, but gave his whole attention to the subduing of eliza. the cause of the first mad rush, mr musgrave's sedate tabby, had sprung upon the highest shelf on the dresser, having dislodged in her ascent more of mr musgrave's valuable dinner-service than would have seemed necessary in attaining to her present elevation. the floor was strewn with broken china, and the breaker, with arched back and distended tail, looked down upon diogenes barking amid the debris with the most malignant glare that peggy had ever beheld in the eyes of a cat. peggy swooped down upon diogenes, and, seizing him by the collar, belaboured him soundly with the dog-whip, which, until the present occasion, she had carried merely from force of habit, as one carries an umbrella in england at certain seasons even when one does not expect it to rain. diogenes, who had recognised the dog-whip only as the symbol of an invitation to go walking, was so astonished when he realised that this hitherto agreeable-looking object could hurt that he ceased his joyous barking and relapsed into a sulky mood, which changed to a whimpering protest when he discovered that peggy did not tire as readily as he did of this abominable misuse of the instrument she wielded. diogenes had thought it was a game; and the game was having a most discouraging ending. mingled with diogenes' protests, drowning them, indeed, eliza's noisy wailing, the hissing of the cat, and the soothing reiteration of martha's "good doggie!" penetrating peggy's hearing, took the power out of her arm. she did not laugh, although she experienced an hysterical desire to both laugh and cry, but she left off thrashing diogenes and fastened the lead to his collar, to eliza's intense relief, and then looked up. "i am so sorry," she said, addressing herself to martha, since martha alone showed sufficient control to heed her apology. "i've never known him do such a thing before. but he wouldn't hurt anyone--not even the cat. he is perfectly gentle." he might have been; he was, on the whole; but appearances seemed rather to belie the assertion. martha scrambled down from the chair and readjusted her cap, which was drooping coquettishly over one ear. "lor'!" she said. "what a fright it give me; it most a turned me inside out." diogenes, thoroughly subdued, wagged a tentative tail at her. he rather liked martha. but when eliza, still weeping, sat down on the table and, with an unconscious display of thin legs, descended on the far side, he showed a tendency to become restive, and strained at the unaccustomed leash. peggy cuffed him vigorously, whereupon he subsided and affected to sulk again. "however could that animal 'ave got in?" exclaimed martha, at which simple question peggy felt guilty. she felt more guilty still when martha added acrimoniously to the weeping eliza, "that's your fault, lizer. you must 'ave left the gate open." "no," said peggy bravely, conscious of her glowing cheeks, and wishing from the depths of her being that she had faced the bulls rather than trespass on mr musgrave's property; "i opened the gate. i wanted to walk through the garden because of the bulls. and then diogenes saw the cat and escaped from me." martha looked amazed, only imperfectly understanding this none too lucid explanation; and eliza, who had been too upset to know whether she had left the gate open or not, discovering that she was not responsible for the mischance, stared resentfully at the intruder. "this is private property," she announced in the haughty manner of a person who feels herself by virtue of her residence thereon joint owner of the premises. "you can't walk through private grounds." what peggy would have replied, or if she would have replied at all, remained indeterminate. at that moment martha straightened her cap anew and eliza started to sniff more loudly and diogenes ventured on a bark as the kitchen door opened and john musgrave, with gravely astonished face, stood framed in the aperture, gazing upon the scene. to peggy's consternation the displeased glance of the master of the house fell immediately upon the broken china which strewed the floor--he could not possibly overlook it, since it lay almost at his feet--and then lifted and rested accusingly, it seemed to her, upon her blushing face. her presence in his kitchen was an event which called for some explanation. peggy proceeded to explain, and to express her regret for the accident. she hoped, despite a desire to punish her, which from his expression she was positive he was experiencing, he would eject her by the front gate instead of the back. it would be horrible if after all these nerve-shattering happenings she would still be obliged to face the bulls. "diogenes only chased the cat for fun," she finished, loyally excusing the delinquent, who by no means deserved to have his conduct defended. "he would not have hurt it really. he's rather partial to cats." "indeed!" said mr musgrave, and stared up at the cat, who glared back at him defiantly from her position of security. the cat was suffered, not as a pet, but because cats in a house were of use in keeping down the mice. "i think," added mr musgrave, "that the cat would feel happier if diogenes were removed." "please," pleaded peggy humbly, "let us go by the front gate. i am really afraid to cross the fields again. diogenes chases the bulls." "'orrid brute!" muttered eliza with a sniff so loud that it drew mr musgrave's eyes in her direction. "you had better," he observed drily, "clear away this--rubbish." he indicated the broken crockery. then he stood away from the door and looked at peggy. "if you will come with me, miss annersley, i will take you through the garden. kindly keep the dog on the lead." peggy preceded him from the kitchen in a chastened mood, feeling very like a small girl about to be reprimanded. she resented mr musgrave's air of elderly superiority. he might have assured her, before the servants at least, that it did not matter, and told her not to distress herself. she had a conviction that he felt it was only proper she should distress herself, for which reason she determined not to be overwhelmingly contrite. it was his cat that had effected the damage; diogenes had not scrambled over the furniture. mr musgrave led her through a passage and into the hall, which was wide and spacious, and had a comfortable fire glowing on the low hearth. it was a very nice hall. peggy looked about her with interested curiosity. it was a nice house altogether; and mr musgrave, as he paused and looked down at her a little uncertainly, did not appear so forbidding as he had looked in the kitchen. after all, considering the amount of damage she and diogenes were responsible for between them, he had shown admirable control. peggy was relenting. she experienced the desire to more adequately express her regret. "would you like to--rest a little while?" mr musgrave asked. the question was so unexpected that peggy wanted to laugh. she realised that courtesy alone dragged the reluctant suggestion from her unwilling host, and was aware that acceptance of the invitation by increasing his embarrassment would aggravate her former offence. mischief prompted assent; but the new feeling of kindliness towards him overruled the teasing instinct, and to mr musgrave's relief she declined. "i think," she said, "you have seen enough of us for one day. when i come again i will leave diogenes behind." she put out a hand and laid it with girlish impulsiveness on his sleeve. "i'm so sorry," she said. mr musgrave looked down at the small hand as he might have looked at something that had alighted on his sleeve by accident, which could not be brushed off, but must be allowed to remove itself at its own convenience. it was a strong little hand, roughened with labour, and ungloved, because its owner had removed her glove the better to chastise diogenes; but it was quite a nicely-shaped woman's hand, and would have been fine and white had it been allowed to become so. then he looked straight into the upturned face. "please don't think any more about it," he said, and meeting the grey eyes fully, smiled. chapter thirteen. when peggy annersley parted from john musgrave at his gate and set off down the road accompanied by the joyous diogenes, now freed from the lead, mr musgrave turned about and slowly retraced his steps along the gravelled path he had traversed at peggy's side. his mind, despite the early prejudice which the sight of the young lady immodestly attired had excited, and the later annoyance of her unfortunate trespass, which anyone might well have resented, harboured no unkindly thought. he was even conscious of a faint amusement as he recalled the astonishing picture of her unexpected presence in his kitchen, and his own amazement at finding her there. she stimulated alike his interest and his curiosity. it is impossible to experience interest in another human being and remain altogether indifferent in feeling, particularly when that interest is centred in a member of the opposite sex. john musgrave was not given to self-analysis, nor did he disturb his mind with problems of this nature. had it occurred to him that a mild interest in a prepossessing young woman held possibilities of unexpected development he would promptly have banished the captivating peggy from the place she engaged in his thoughts. at that stage in their acquaintance this would have been quite simple of accomplishment. john musgrave would have thought so, at least. but the mind is an odd store-room, and many things dwell in it which the owner is powerless to eject--small, persistent, elusive thoughts which hide behind the lumber of inconsequent things. as mr musgrave slowly paced the gravel walk, lost in a not unpleasing reverie, he became suddenly aware of an insignificant object lying in his path, and, stooping to examine this object at closer range, discovered that it was a woman's glove. since only one woman had used that path recently, since, too, the glove had assuredly not been there when he had accompanied peggy to the gate, the inference pointed conclusively to the glove being peggy's property. john musgrave picked it up, and held it between his fingers. then he placed it across the palm of one hand and examined it with curiosity, after the manner of a collector who has discovered some new object of interest. it was a small glove, absurdly small it seemed to john musgrave as it lay across his large palm, and it was obviously new. had mr musgrave been more experienced in the matter of women's dress he would have realised from the fact of its newness that the owner would make some effort to recover her property, an odd glove being useless, and no woman caring to sacrifice a new pair. but mr musgrave did not consider this point. he was for the time absorbed in contemplation of the absurd thing. having examined it on the one side, he reversed it on his palm and examined it on the other. then he took it up, and idly, in abstracted mood, thrust his fingers into it and began pulling it over his hand. the futility of attempting to fit a larger object into a smaller was immediately demonstrated; the kid split obligingly at the seams to accommodate the hand that was never intended to fill it, and john musgrave, gazing at the mischief he had wrought, beheld his large knuckles bursting through the tear. the new glove was no longer a thing of any value. at the moment of realising what he had done he became aware of a still more disquieting circumstance: the gate behind him clicked and the sound of rapid footsteps fell upon his ear. hastily, with a change of colour which suggested a conscience not altogether free from guilt, he proceeded to drag the glove off his hand. but the thing resisted stubbornly, and the girl was almost at his elbow. he desisted from his efforts, and swung round and faced her, concealing his hand awkwardly behind his back. there was nothing in the expression of the demure face that met his gaze to betray that the girl had any suspicion why that right arm of his should be doubled behind his back; but to one familiar with peggy the guilelessness of her look might have suggested knowledge. "i'm sorry to trouble you again," she said softly, "but i have dropped a glove. it's a new glove, and i don't wish to lose it. i thought it might be in the garden, perhaps." mr musgrave hesitated, and was lost. he dissembled. to have admitted in the first instance having found the glove, even though he had to confess to having spoilt it, would have been simple, but he had let the opportunity slip; to own to it now would prove embarrassing. he looked with discomfited eyes along the path. "i do not see it," he said. "no," replied peggy, "neither do i. but i thought..." "perhaps," said mr musgrave quickly, "you left it in the kitchen. i will tell the servants to look. it shall be returned to you." "i had it," peggy persisted, "when i was talking with you in the hall." "yes?" he said. "then--then perhaps it is there. it shall be found." a spirit of wickedness entered into peggy. "never mind," she said brightly. "it serves me right if i have lost it. don't trouble to hunt for it, mr musgrave. i came back because i thought i might find it near the gate; but plainly it isn't here. good-bye again." she held out a determined hand. mr musgrave was faced with the greatest dilemma he had ever experienced. what was he to do? courtesy demanded that he should take her hand; to ignore it would be unpardonable. to extend the left hand was equally impossible; to offer the right was to acknowledge his duplicity, and might lead to an altogether wrong conception of his motives. a man when he acts upon impulse is not necessarily guided by any motive. for the fraction of a second he hesitated; then, with perfect gravity, he drew his arm from behind his back, and with the hand still wearing the torn fragments of the lost glove he silently touched her fingers. peggy's grey eyes were on his face; they did not fall, he observed, once to his hand. he felt grateful to her. a little tact--and tact is but the dictates of a kindly nature--smoothes over many awkward situations. he returned with her to the gate and opened it for her, and raised his hat gravely as she passed through, to be greeted with boisterous effusiveness by diogenes, who had reluctantly waited outside. "he's rather a dear, diogenes," she said, as she proceeded down the road, a little more soberly now. "he made me feel a little mean female cad." john musgrave, returning along the path, drew off the torn glove and slipped it into his pocket. another link had been formed in the chain of impressions. by the time peggy reached the hall her self-abasement had evaporated, and her usual good spirits reasserted themselves. she made directly for the drawing-room, where mrs chadwick, after a disappointing afternoon, lay limply against the cushions of a sofa, solacing herself with the inevitable cigarette. she looked round at peggy's entrance, and was so relieved to see some one bright and young and wholesome that the resentment she was prepared to show vanished--in her welcoming smile. peggy was one of those fortunate people who disarm wrath by reason of unfailing good temper. "you are late," mrs chadwick said. "if you want fresh tea you will have to ring for it." "i don't mind it cold," peggy returned, attending to her needs at the tea-table and smiling pleasantly to herself the while. "tired?" she asked, dropping comfortably into a seat, and surveying her aunt inquiringly above the tea-cup in her hand. "tired and bored," mrs chadwick answered. "been entertaining the aborigines, i suppose?" "yes. you might have stayed to help me. these people... peggy, i consider it is in the nature of a solecism to be so dull; it's a breach of good taste." "they can't help it," peggy said soothingly. "i expect if we had lived all our days in moresby we should be dull too. it's stultifying. i am sorry you have had such a slow time. i've been enjoying myself--hugely. i've had most surprising adventures." mrs chadwick laughed. "you generally do," she answered. "but it puzzles me to think how you contrive adventures in moresby. nothing ever happens when i pass beyond the gates. it would cause me a shock if it did." "it caused me several shocks," peggy replied, looking amused. "i experience them again when i review the afternoon's doings. you'd never guess where i've been." "then i won't try to. tell me. if you give me a shock it may shake off the _ennui_ i am suffering. you have done something audacious, i suppose." peggy ceased munching her cake and tried to look serious, but failed. two tantalising dimples played at the corners of her mouth and her eyes shone wickedly. "a little audacious, perhaps," she allowed. "in the first place, i've been walking out with the sexton. he was quite interesting and agreeable until he began to discuss corpses. that made me feel uncomfortable; so i left him and went to call on mr musgrave." "_what_!" exclaimed mrs chadwick. "it is all right," peggy proceeded reassuringly. "nobody saw me. i slipped in through the tradesmen's entrance and interviewed him in the kitchen chaperoned by the cook and a sour-faced parlourmaid. having satisfied the proprieties thus far, we proceeded to the hall for more intimate conversation. he is not as fossilised as he looks. he accompanied me through the garden and kept my glove for a souvenir of the visit. and i think," peggy paused and looked into the fire with a dancing gleam of mischief in the grey eyes, "i think," she added, smiling, "that he will send me a present of a new pair. now confess, you would never have credited john with being such a sport." "when you have finished romancing," mrs chadwick said severely, "perhaps you will explain exactly what you have been up to. if you had wished to see mr musgrave you could have accomplished your purpose by remaining at home. he was here this afternoon." "that wouldn't have proved so exciting," peggy returned. "he doesn't open out in front of other people. i like john best in his own home." she rose with a laugh, and, approaching the sofa, seated herself at mrs chadwick's side. "i couldn't help it," she said with an affectation of contrition. "it all just happened. things will, you know." and then she gave a more detailed account of the afternoon's doings. mrs chadwick was amused, in spite of a slight vexation. peggy's veracious version of her intrusion on mr musgrave was disconcerting to her listener; and the anecdote of the glove, which lost nothing in the telling, seemed to mrs chadwick, who possessed a certain insight into john musgrave's sensitive mind, the last straw in the load of prejudice which would bias john musgrave's opinion of her niece. she could cheerfully at the moment have boxed peggy's ears. but peggy, laughing and unrepentant, hung over her aunt and kissed her. mrs chadwick was as weak as water when peggy coaxed. "i hope he doesn't send you that pair of gloves," was all she said. but john musgrave did send the gloves. he drove into rushleigh himself for the purpose of matching the torn glove in his possession, and, failing to do this, posted it to london, and received a similar pair by return. he posted this pair to peggy with a brief note of apology, which, when she had read it, peggy, for some unexplained reason, locked away in a drawer. the note read as follows: "dear miss annersley,-- "you will, i trust, pardon me for having destroyed in a moment of abstraction the glove you dropped in my garden. i believe i have succeeded in matching it, and hope that the pair enclosed will serve as well as that which my awkwardness ruined. i apologise for my carelessness, and the consequent delay in returning your property. "yours faithfully,-- "john musgrave." "but he hasn't returned my property," mused peggy, with the new pair of gloves in one hand and mr musgrave's note in the other. "i wonder what he has done with it?" chapter fourteen. with the approach of christmas mr musgrave's quiet home took on the air of an over-populated city. a strange woman in a nurse's uniform swelled the party in the kitchen when she was not in the nursery with the two youngest members of mrs sommers' family. she was a young, nice-looking woman, and her presence, though welcomed by the other servants, was bitterly resented by eliza. in mrs sommers' nurse eliza beheld a rival, though where rivalry came in in a field that admitted no competition it were difficult to say. when eliza had condescended to fill the position of housemaid in a bachelor establishment she had not allowed for this objectionable practice of family gathering. clearly mr musgrave should spend christmas in his sister's home and not introduce an entire family into his house to the inconvenience of his servants. it was very inconsiderate. martha only laughed when eliza aired her grievance. she liked family gatherings. as well cook for a dozen as for one, she declared. the same amount of trouble with a little extra labour went to the preparation of the larger meals. and martha loved to have miss belle in the house, and miss belle's children. miss belle's husband was there also, and a responsible-looking person who, with an anglicised pronunciation, described himself as a valet. eliza did not object so strongly to this addition, his manners being irreproachable and the tone of his conversation gentlemanly. also he saved her trouble by carrying the hot water upstairs and performing many small duties that were not a part of his regular office. he sized eliza up very quickly, and behaved towards her with such exemplary chivalry that he speedily won her susceptible heart, so that eliza, with some reluctance, half relinquished the idea that she was destined to become eventually mrs john musgrave, in order to entertain the possibility of being selected by fate as the wife of the gentlemanly valet. the valet, backed with the comfortable safeguard of a wife at home, did nothing to discourage the assumption. men have not without reason won the distinction of being considered deceivers of the fair sex. the arrival of the sommers, and the contemporaneous arrival of a house-party at the hall, resulted in a succession of entertainments such as moresby had not previously known. mrs chadwick conceived the idea of getting up theatricals and a series of tableaux, in which the moresby residents were invited to take part. she also got a kinema operator down and invited the entire village to view the films. the kinema party was fixed for boxing night; the tableaux were to follow a dinner to be given on christmas eve. the villagers were not bidden to the christmas eve party, but the ringers were invited to go up to the hall after ringing the chime and regale themselves on hot punch. moresby on the whole was pleasantly excited. things were being done in the good old style, even to the distribution of blankets and coals and other comforts acceptable to the season, though received with a certain grudging mistrust which would appear to be the recognised spirit in which to accept charity. there is an etiquette even in the manner of accepting patronage; the recipient feels it incumbent on him to be patronising to the giver of alms in order to retain a proper sense of independence. let no one who gives blind himself to the fact that he is receiving as well as distributing favours. john musgrave gave regularly at christmas, and handsomely, to his poorer neighbours; miss simpson also gave; but, since she demanded gratitude, and mr musgrave demanded nothing, regarding his charity in the light of a duty which his more fortunate circumstances imposed, he received a more generous meed of thanks, and a less grudging acceptance of his gifts. mr musgrave's bounty received his personal supervision, and was packed and ultimately delivered by his chauffeur, with mr musgrave's compliments and the season's greetings; miss simpson was her own almoner, and dispensed with her gifts a little timely homily on the virtues of frugality and sobriety, and the need for a humble and grateful heart. but humility--at best an objectionable virtue--has gone out of fashion, and gratitude is a plant which is not usually fostered with the care it deserves. the poor of moresby accepted miss simpson's gifts--they were glad enough to accept anything--but they ridiculed her homilies behind her back. "i always believe in a word in season," she informed the vicar. "so do i," he returned. "only it is so difficult to recognise the season." miss simpson attended the hall parties, not because she enjoyed them, but she could not keep away. she made unkind remarks about the chadwicks and their doings. she was, though she would not have admitted it, jealous. she resented the coming of these people; their careless patronage of the village, which their immense wealth made so easy that it could scarcely be counted to them as a kindness; their untiring social efforts to bring moresby and rushleigh into contact, and to gather all sorts and conditions of men and women beneath their hospitable roof. the chadwicks were altogether too democratic. but above and beyond everything else, the bright, gay personality of saucy peggy annersley proved the canker in the rose of her happiness. she suspected peggy annersley of having designs on mr musgrave, which was unjust. peggy had designs on no one at that period in her career. john musgrave, despite the pressure that was brought to bear to shake his resolution, refused to take part in the theatricals or to pose in the groups for the living pictures. mrs chadwick asked him; belle attempted persuasion; and peggy coaxed unsuccessfully. mr musgrave was embarrassed at the mere suggestion of dressing in character and posturing before the footlights of the newly-erected stage for the edification of moresby and the amusement of mrs chadwick's guests. he was embarrassed, too, at being compelled to repeatedly refuse his persistent tormentors. "i did so hope you would be lancelot to my guinevere," peggy said reproachfully. "and i wanted you to be tristram and othello to my isolde and desdemona. they are all lovely impersonations, and the costumes are gorgeous. you'd make a heavenly gladiator, too." "i should not be at home in these parts," he said gravely. "but," urged peggy, "it's so simple. i'll rehearse you. you'd find it awfully amusing." "i do not think so," he replied. "then will you be bill sykes, with diogenes and a revolver?--and i'll be nancy. you would only have to murder me. if you don't like the lover parts you'd enjoy that." there was a gleam in the grey eyes that john musgrave was unable to account for; he saw nothing funny in such a sordid scene. "i do not like that idea any better," he said. then he made a sudden appeal to her generosity, his air slightly apologetic, almost, it occurred to peggy, humble. "please leave me out of it," he begged. "i'm a very prosy person. these things are better suited to the younger generation. many men will enjoy filling these parts with you; i shall enjoy looking on." peggy gave in. she had not expected mr musgrave to agree to her proposes; she had, indeed, been guilty of teasing him. but she endeavoured with some success to make him believe in her acute disappointment, so that when he left her it was with a sense of his own ungraciousness, and a desire to make amends in any way possible for having been disobliging, if not actually discourteous, to a young lady who was, he could not but admit, both amiable and charming. the difficulty was how to make amends. after considering the matter seriously and developing and rejecting many ideas, he decided that he would be forced to remain indebted until the opportunity presented itself for discharging the obligation. he really felt extremely and quite unnecessarily grateful to miss annersley. there was, on the face of it, no obligation to discharge. mr musgrave was advancing a little way along the road of complexities that go to the making of human emotions. he had begun by feeling an interest in this young woman. interest is a comprehensive term embodying many sentiments and capable of unforeseen developments. peggy was undoubtedly a dangerously pretty person to become an object of interest to a middle-aged bachelor. if mr musgrave thought peggy pretty--and he did consider her pretty--on ordinary occasions, he found her amazingly lovely tricked out in stage attire, when, at the conclusion of the christmas eve dinner, he repaired with the other guests to the temporary theatre and viewed a succession of brilliantly arranged tableaux which, despite the fact that they were exceedingly well done and perfectly staged, he mentally pronounced a stupid form of entertainment for intelligent adults. mummery of any kind appealed to him as undignified. never in all his forty years had he felt the slightest temptation to play the fool; it always surprised him to see other people doing it. and this histrionic grouping was but playing the fool in serious fashion; it was a game of vanity better suited to children. but the pictures were pretty. he admitted that. most of the guests appeared to enjoy them. "i am afraid you are bored with this," his host said, approaching him during an interval in the performance, having observed with the turning up of the lights mr musgrave's serious expression. "come along to the billiard-room and have a smoke." "i am not bored," john musgrave answered, as he left his seat and accompanied will chadwick with a willingness which seemed to discredit his assertion. "i was interested, and--and surprised." "surprised," suggested mr chadwick, "that people can find amusement in this sort of thing? very little amuses most of us. i've seen quite brainy fellows absorbed in watching flies pitch on a lump of sugar. their interest was sporting, and had a financial basis, certainly. in this instance it is the pleasure of the senses that is appealed to. i enjoy watching pretty women posturing myself." "i have no doubt it is artistic," returned john musgrave reflectively. it passed through his mind that a pretty woman appeals to the senses quite as effectively in the natural poses of everyday life, but he did not voice his thoughts. the suggestion of women posturing for the enjoyment of the other sex jarred his fastidiousness. john musgrave held women reverently in his thoughts, or, rather, he held his ideal of womanhood in reverence; he knew very little about women in reality. there was a fair sprinkling of men in the billiard-room when they entered, who had repaired thither for their refreshment during the interval. they were smoking and drinking and criticising, with a freedom which occurred to mr musgrave as not in the best of taste, some of the scenes that had been staged and the persons who had taken part in them. john musgrave found himself standing near a couple of young men from rushleigh whom he knew very well by sight, though he was not acquainted with them. one of them was engaged in watching two men playing a hundred up; the other was eagerly talking to his inattentive companion about peggy annersley, whose posturing had apparently pleased his appreciative eye. "she's the gardener," he was saying, and mr musgrave frowned with annoyance when he realised who it was the youth was discussing with such avidity. "a lady gardener--a real lady, you know." his friend, if he heard, showed no interest; his attention was centred in the balls. the youth jerked his arm. "she is," he insisted, "a real lady. i know it for a fact." "all right, my dear chap," the other returned, unmoved. "i know quite a nice girl who sells shrimps." mr musgrave felt his anger rising, though why he should feel angry he did not understand. it hurt him that peggy annersley's name--the young cub spoke of her as peggy--should be bandied about in this fashion. it hurt him more that peggy should be satisfied to dress up and posture for the delectation of these youths. when the rest of the men left the billiard-room he remained behind alone. chapter fifteen. "oh," said peggy annersley, "i didn't suppose there would be anybody here." this was not strictly accurate, because peggy had seen mr musgrave through the open door as she was passing the billiard-room and had entered on the spur of the moment to discover why he was there, and alone. such is the bump of feminine curiosity. "have you been here long?" "since the interval," he answered, rising at her entry, and confronting her with the shame-faced air of a man caught playing truant. "then you missed the pictures?" "i was present during the first half of the programme," he explained, feeling awkward under the steady regard of the observant grey eyes. to have missed viewing the pictures he began to realise was a breach of his duty as a guest. "and you didn't care for them?" "i would scarcely put it that way," mr musgrave said very earnestly. "the pictures were pretty; but the room was very hot; i preferred remaining here. are the tableaux finished?" "not quite. but my part in them is. i came out became i was so thirsty. i've just been murdered by othello." she seated herself on a settee and smiled at john musgrave, who stood surveying her with gravely-intent gaze. she was still attired in shakespearian costume and wore a little jewelled cap on her bright hair, which fell about her shoulders and gave her an air of extreme youth. john musgrave, while he regarded her, was thinking how pretty she looked. "you appear to have a predilection for being murdered," he observed. "what shall i get you--lemonade?" she made a negative movement of her head. "champagne, please. i'm frightfully tired." mr musgrave poured out a glass of the sparkling wine and handed it to her. he stood behind her while she drank it, and when she finished the wine he took the glass from her and replaced it on the table. when he turned about from performing this office he observed miss annersley put out a hand towards a box of cigarettes within reach. he had not suspected before that she smoked. her action occasioned him a most unpleasant shock. peggy was to experience a shock also. before she could select a cigarette and withdraw her hand from the box another hand closed suddenly upon hers and held it firmly. john musgrave had come quickly behind her and imprisoned her hand with his own. "please don't do that," he said. he leaned over the settee, his face almost on a level with hers, his eyes meeting hers steadily. "i've no right to dictate to you... but i wish you wouldn't smoke." a glint of laughter shone in peggy's eyes. the situation was growing increasingly funny. in her world, to see women smoke was such an ordinary matter that it had not struck her that anyone--not even john musgrave--could possibly object. but john, of course, was moresby, and moresby had its traditions, and lived by them. "why?" she asked. "it's--unwomanly," he returned seriously. "oh!" said peggy. "what, i wonder, is conveyed exactly by the term `womanly'? i understood that that expression belonged to the middle ages." "i hope not," mr musgrave said. "well, define it." "a womanly woman," mr musgrave began slowly, weighing his words as though he felt that the subject were deserving of his utmost care in an appropriate selection of language, "is first and foremost a gentlewoman." "h'm!" commented peggy. she was tempted to interrupt him in order to inquire if he did not consider her a gentlewoman, but refrained. "she is," mr musgrave proceeded, "considerate in her actions and in her conversation. she is always sincere and thoughtful for others; and she would never do anything unbecoming to her sex, or unworthy of herself. that is what i understand by the term womanly." "she would be a bit dull, don't you think?" peggy hazarded. "she sounds priggish to me. do you really believe you would like her, mr musgrave? i think you'd be fed up in no time. she wouldn't, for instance, permit you to stand talking to her and holding her hand all the while. that would, according to your definition as i interpret it, be unseemly on her part." john musgrave promptly released her hand and straightened himself and looked grave. peggy laughed. "that would have been better left unsaid," she remarked demurely. "it was an indiscretion of speech. i fear it would take me a long time to learn how to be womanly, don't you?" "don't you think that possibly you are womanly without knowing it?" he asked. "shall i tell you what the term womanly conveys to me?" peggy said. "if you will," he replied. "it suggests a woman of a big nature and a warm heart. she doesn't bother her head as to whether what she is doing is becoming; but her conscience troubles her when she does something which is not quite square and honest, which is perhaps a little mean. she strives to be helpful and companionable and sympathetic, and she detests censoriousness and unkind criticism, either in herself or others." "i am afraid," mr musgrave said, with an insight which peggy had not credited him with possessing, "that you are rebuking me for impertinence." peggy flushed, and raised her face quickly to his. "no," she contradicted; "no. i think you meant to be kind." there was something very bewitching in peggy's upturned face, in the unwonted earnestness of her eyes, and the sweetly serious curve of the parted lips. john musgrave, as he returned her steady gaze, was more powerfully influenced than he had any idea of. he believed that his interest in peggy was of the paternal, platonic order. many people become obsessed with the platonic ideal and travel far along the road of life without discovering that between a man and woman platonic affection is unnatural. there have been instances of platonic love, but these are few; it is a rare and an abnormal emotion. "i wish," he said with unusual impressment, "that you would do something to please me." "what is that?" inquired peggy, with an instinctive understanding of what he had it in his mind to ask. "i want you to promise that you will give up smoking." peggy did not alter her position; neither did john musgrave. as she sat looking up at him, a tiny pucker knitting her brows, he remained bending over her, intently watching her face without the alteration of a muscle in his own. he anticipated her answer; none the less he felt extraordinarily disappointed when she spoke. "i can't do that," she said. "it isn't," she added slowly, "that i do not wish to oblige you, nor that it would be exactly difficult for me to make such a promise. but i can't recognise any reason why i should. it would be tantamount to an admission that i agree with you that the practice is objectionable. i do not. and i do not wish to encourage your mistaken belief by acquiescing in it. i am sorry. but, you see, i should feel myself something of a humbug if i promised that. i will not, however, offend your sensibilities by smoking in your presence." "it is the act itself, not the place or time of committing it that is of importance," he said with a touch of displeasure. peggy considered this ungracious of him; he might at least have thanked her for her consideration for his feelings. "in that case," she returned audaciously, "perhaps you will be so kind as to light me a cigarette?" mr musgrave felt annoyed, and showed it. "no," he answered bluntly. "at the risk of appearing discourteous, i decline to do that." peggy was not affronted. she would have thought less of him if he had complied. if one possessed principles, even when they chanced to be mistaken, one had to be consistent and act in accordance with them. peggy was faithful to her own principles, and she liked sincerity in others. at that moment, falling upon the sudden hush in the room which had followed john musgrave's curt speech, starting on a single note, thrice repeated, and then bursting into a joyous peal, the moresby chimes broke softly on the stillness, died away on the wind, and were borne back to their listening ears with a fuller, sweeter cadence, conveying the message of the centuries of peace and good-will upon earth. peggy, when she caught the sound, rose slowly to her feet. "they'll be assembling in the hall now," she said, and looked at john musgrave. "we had better join them." "yes," he said. suddenly she held out her hand. "peace and good-will," she said, smiling. "we've got to be friends, you know, on christmas morning." "yes," agreed john musgrave, consulting the clock. "but it wants ten minutes to the hour yet." peggy broke into a little laugh and withdrew her hand hastily before he could take it. "your speech admits of only one interpretation," she said; "you don't wish to befriends before the hour strikes." "my remark must have been very misleading to have conveyed that impression," he returned. "i was not aware that we were upon unfriendly terms. a difference of opinion does not necessitate the breaking of a friendship." "perhaps not," agreed peggy, looking amused. "but it strains the relationship somewhat. come along, mr musgrave, and toast the friendship in a bumper of milk punch." mr musgrave accompanied her from the room, and emerging at her side into the great hall, already thronged with the other guests, was instantly separated from his companion by half a dozen eager young men, who bore peggy away among them and left mr musgrave on the outskirts, as it were, of the festivities, looking, as he felt, utterly stranded and out of touch with his surroundings. miss simpson, who had sought in vain for him throughout the evening, seeing him standing alone, so evidently out of his element, made her determined way across the width of the hall and joined him. mr musgrave did not feel as grateful to her as he might have felt. he spent much of his time on these social evenings in carefully avoiding her. but it is not always possible to evade a person whose purpose in life it is to frustrate this aim, particularly when the object of the pursuit shrinks from hurting the pursuer's feelings, therefore when miss simpson hurried up to mr musgrave, with anxiety and determination in her eyes, he received her with the reserved politeness of a perfectly courteous person, accepting the inevitable with a fairly good grace. "they are going to sing `auld lang syne,'" she said. "i loathe these stupid customs. but one cannot make one's self conspicuous; one has to do as the rest do." "assuredly," mr musgrave agreed, with his ear inclined towards miss simpson and his eye fixed on a huge punch-bowl standing on a table in the centre of the hall, presided over by the female butler and her helpers. the scene in the hall, thronged with its brilliant assemblage of guests, many of whom wore, as peggy did, the costumes in which they had appeared in the tableaux, suggested to mr musgrave's mind a scene from an opera. the broad oak staircase, leading up from either side and ending in a gallery connecting both, was crowded with young people. peggy had joined one of the groups on the stairs, a group composed largely of young men, whose sallies seemed to be affording her considerable amusement. when the punch was served round and every one, glass in hand, waited for the striking of the hour, looking up to where she stood, leaning against the baluster in her emerald velvet robe, her round white arm upraised holding its glass aloft, mr musgrave met her eyes fully as the hour chimed forth, and, meeting them, was conscious that she was looking towards him deliberately, with a kindly smile parting her lips. she leaned down towards him, and, putting the glass to her lips, drank to him. john musgrave made a slight inclination of his head and drank to her in return. then, scarce knowing what his companion was saying, amid the hum of talk and laughter, and the curious abstraction of his thoughts, he observed sententiously: "there is a sort of dignity in these old customs. i do not think i have ever enjoyed a christmas party more." and miss simpson, who had just remarked to him on the want of respect for the day which this hilarity betokened, regarded him with a wondering reproach, and answered flatly: "it is very gay, certainly--but--dignified! do you really think so?" chapter sixteen. the vicar, as he took off his surplice after the early celebration on christmas morning, and turned to hang it on its peg, became aware that robert had entered the vestry, and was hovering about, busying himself unnecessarily, moving things ostentatiously and replacing them in the same positions, and watching the vicar furtively meanwhile, as a man might whose conscience is not altogether free from reproach. the vicar looked at his sexton with as much severity as he was capable of assuming towards robert, whose failings were sufficiently familiar to him to have ceased to appear disproportionately grave. but robert merited rebuke, and was apparently expecting it. in anticipation of reproof he attempted propitiation. "never seed a bigger congregation than we 'ad for 'oly commoonion this morning, sir," he observed. "folks don't turn up most places like they do at our church." some of the credit for the large congregation he appropriated to himself. the vicar finished disrobing, and then faced deliberately round. "i am at least relieved," he said, "that you were capable of putting in an appearance." "oh ay," robert answered cheerfully. "i've never failed these thirty year--though there 'ave been times, i allow, when i'd rather a laid a-bed. but hannah sees to that." "i heard," the vicar said gravely, "that you were very drunk last night, robert." "i was, sir," robert admitted, unabashed. when an unpleasant situation had to be faced he liked to face it and get it over. usually on these occasions he carried matters to a triumphant finish and got as much satisfaction out of them as tribulation. when a thing is done, it's done, was robert's philosophy; no use grizzling over it. "i am ashamed of you," the vicar said. "your conduct was a serious abuse of hospitality. they tell me you were carried home utterly incapable." "i was, sir," robert admitted again. "hadn't hannah something to say about that?" the vicar inquired, repressing an inclination to smile. his knowledge of the power and quality of mrs robert's eloquence on these occasions suggested that further reprimanding on his side was superfluous. robert slowly stroked his beard and looked, the vicar could not but observe, pleasantly reminiscent. "i expect she 'ad, sir," he said. "but, thank god! i was too far gone to bear aught 'er said. daresay she talked all night, too; she generally does." robert seized the vicar's overcoat and helped him into it, and, with unusual solicitude for his health, inquired if he had not thought of wearing a muffler. "the cold's cruel," he said. "you ought to take care o' yer throat. think o' the disappointment if you was laid by, and couldn't preach." "i wish," the vicar observed drily, "that you would study your own constitution as carefully." "that's all right, sir," robert answered, wilfully misunderstanding. "i allays wears a old muffler when the weather's sharp." he handed the vicar his hat, performing these supererogatory offices with the patronising air of a man humouring his superior's peculiarities. "milk punch they said it was," he muttered in the form of a soliloquy. "i thought a babby could 'a' swallowed it. milk don't digest, i reckon, in a stummick come to my age. but 'twas pretty drinking, howsomever." so much, the vicar mused, for robert's repentance. it were as profitable to rebuke the weather for inclemency as robert for his sins. the vicar dismissed robert from his mind on emerging into the open, and allowed his thoughts to dwell instead on something he had witnessed the previous night, and had reviewed so often since, that, brief as had been his glimpse of the scene, it was photographed on his memory with the distinctness of a picture actually present to his gaze. this scene which was so startlingly fresh in his mind was a glimpse he had obtained in passing the open door of the billiard-room, of john musgrave holding peggy annersley's hand while he hung over the back of the settee on which she was seated and looked into the upturned face. so quiet had been the grouping of this picture, so utterly unexpected and unreal had it appeared to walter errol's surprised gaze, that it might have been the enactment of another tableau, such as those he had been witnessing in the room he had just left. one long astonished look he had given it, and then, utterly bewildered, like a man who feels his solid world reduced to unsubstantiality, he had passed on and mingled with the other guests in the hall. he had been a witness of the tardy appearance of john musgrave and miss annersley; and for the rest of the night was conscious of a watchful curiosity in regard to them which, against his volition, he found himself exercising until the party broke up. "coelebs!... old coelebs!" he mused, and laughed softly as he pursued his way to the vicarage, where, in the cosy morning-room, his wife and tiny daughter waited for him with their christmas gifts. a happy man was the vicar that christmas morning, and comparing his comfortable, pleasant home with the lonely elegance of john musgrave's house it gave him genuine satisfaction to recall the amazing picture of john musgrave bending over pretty peggy annersley in an attitude which conveyed more to the impartial observer than a merely friendly interest in his charming companion. possibly last night was the first occasion on which john musgrave had ever held a girl's hand in this way and hung over her, looking into her eyes. such conduct in the case of the average man would have counted for nothing, or for very little... but coelebs... the man who never looked at a woman with the natural interest of the ordinary male... the vicar broke into a smile at his own thoughts, and, since nothing had been said to raise a smile, was called upon by his wife to explain the cause of his good humour. his answer was ambiguous. "i think," he said, "that mrs chadwick is succeeding in some of her schemes with most unlooked-for results." "i fail to see that there was anything in last night's party to suggest extraordinary developments," mrs errol replied. she had not witnessed the scene which her husband had witnessed and he had not spoken of it to her. "and i don't find anything in that to smile about. you must enjoy an abnormal sense of humour." "perhaps i do," he allowed. "tell me what you think of miss peggy annersley." mrs errol smiled in her turn, and glanced at her husband with the tolerant contempt women show towards their men when they suspect them of falling a victim to the fascinations of a popular member of their sex. "you, too?" she said. "there was nothing in my question to justify that remark," said the vicar, who did not, however, appear to resent it. "like miss dartle, i asked for information." "i think she is quite a nice girl," replied mrs errol ungrudgingly; "and, judging by the way in which the men flock after her, they share my opinion. doctor fairbridge is crazy about her." "oh!" said the vicar. plainly this intelligence was not pleasing to him. doctor fairbridge was the rushleigh practitioner, and he was young and good-looking, and unquestionably eligible. "you think that, do you? should you say that he stands any chance of winning her?" "she seems to like him," mrs errol answered. "it would be a very suitable match. he is the right age, and his practice is good. they say he is clever. at the same time, i don't fancy miss annersley is the kind of girl who is eager to get married. she will probably be difficult to please." "h'm?" remarked the vicar, and looked a trifle serious. he began to entertain doubts of miss annersley. "you wouldn't, i suppose," he hazarded, "suspect her of being a flirt?" "that depends on what you mean exactly. given the opportunity, every woman is a flirt. i wouldn't accuse her of being unscrupulous. but all girls like attention; it is against human nature to discourage what one derives amusement from." "i wish human nature were different in that respect," the vicar returned. he was quite convinced that john musgrave had no thought of flirting, and he did not like to believe that miss annersley was merely deriving amusement. she had looked, he recalled, on the previous night quite sweetly serious. but a woman might look serious and yet be inwardly amused. if peggy annersley was amusing herself at john musgrave's expense it would be the finish, the vicar realised, of his friend's liking and respect for her sex. john musgrave was not the type of man to make a heartbreak of it, but assuredly he would not essay a second time. "i should like to know," mrs errol said, "why you are so particularly concerned with miss annersley's matrimonial affairs? your interest is most extraordinary." then it was that the vicar told her of the scene he had accidentally witnessed the previous night. she was not so greatly impressed as he had expected her to be, but a scene described is less effective than the same scene actually beheld. he found that he could not adequately depict the expression on the two faces; he could only explain baldly that john seemed very much in earnest. "john always is," she retorted. "that's what makes him so dull. you don't for one moment imagine, do you, that a pretty girl like miss annersley would fall in love with john?" "i do not think that i took her feelings into consideration," he answered. "i have a very strong suspicion that john is falling in love with her." "i'm not sure," returned mrs errol, smiling, "that that wouldn't be more amazing than the other thing. i can't credit it--but i hope he is." "time will show," the vicar said. "if she is nothing better than a little baggage i hope he isn't. he deserves a higher reward than the knowledge that he is affording miss annersley amusement." the errols were dining with mr musgrave that day; an early dinner, according to the invariable custom in mr musgrave's household on christmas day. the musgrave party attended the morning service, at which the party from the hall was also present. and to mrs errol's surprise--she had never seen him there before--doctor fairbridge, who had motored out from rushleigh, was seated beside peggy annersley in one of the hall pews. subsequently he accepted mrs chadwick's invitation and returned with her party to the hall. notwithstanding that mrs errol had professed scepticism of the romance her husband suspected in connection with john musgrave and pretty peggy, she found herself taking a greater interest in the principals in the little comedy, so that her attention wandered a good deal during the service and her watchful eyes travelled more than once from the demurely unconscious face of the girl to the strong, grave, immovable face of mr musgrave, which, for all its impassive expression, had once during the singing of the first hymn turned deliberately in peggy's direction with a quickness and keenness of look which mrs errol described as searching. if there was anything in her husband's assumption--and she began to think there might be--john musgrave would be well advised not to dally over his love-making, or the more energetic younger man would anticipate him in the bid for miss annersley's favour. looking at the young doctor and comparing his youth with mr musgrave's somewhat austere middle-age, mrs errol formed the opinion that john's chances were not great. after the service the opposing forces met in the churchyard and exchanged greetings. it occurred to mrs errol that peggy, hedged about with a bodyguard of young men, was fairly inaccessible; nevertheless john musgrave penetrated the group and shook hands with her. the girl, mrs errol observed, aided him in his purpose. she drew a little apart and remained chatting with him for some minutes--minutes during which mr musgrave's gaze never left the winsome face with its laughing eyes, which were raised in frank good-fellowship to his own. whether there was any sentiment in his preference or not, the preference was undoubtedly there. mrs sommers' eldest boy, john the second, aged five, broke away from his mother and flung himself upon peggy, interrupting john the elder's tete-a-tete. "i wish you were coming with us," he said. "that's very sweet of you," replied peggy, with her arm about the child. "persuade her to, john," said mr musgrave. peggy flashed a look at him. "i wish i could," she said; "but..." "of course," he returned promptly. "i understand that it's not possible." "why can't you come?" urged john the second, tugging at her hand. "uncle john wants you, and so do i. why can't you come?" "miss annersley has her aunt's guests to entertain, john," mr musgrave explained. "i am afraid we can't prefer our claim." "she isn't miss annersley, she's peggy," the boy corrected. "aren't you?" peggy laughed. "sometimes i am," she admitted. "but that's a special privilege, john." "what's that?" asked john junior. mr musgrave, with a hand on his small nephew's shoulder, undertook to answer this question. "it is something you enjoy on account of your youth, and from which i am debarred, though i should better appreciate it, on account of my age. youth has advantages." "i don't think," said peggy, looking amused, "that he is the least bit wiser for your very able explanation." "perhaps," he suggested, "you can put it more plainly." "a special privilege, john," she returned obligingly--and if she were addressing the child she looked directly at the man--"that sort of special privilege, is a favour one extends to a person one likes, in return for a similar favour. i don't think that is much clearer," she added, and suddenly felt herself blushing beneath mr musgrave's steady gaze. "the definition is perfectly obvious," he replied. "but i fancy we have both been talking over john's head." peggy stooped abruptly and kissed the child. when she straightened herself she moved away with him and joined mrs sommers. chapter seventeen. john musgrave sommers was in disgrace. he had been guilty of impertinence to eliza; worse, he had committed an assault by kicking her maliciously with intent to do bodily harm. eliza had complained to mr musgrave, and had presented his nephew's conduct in the light of an enormity which she could not overlook until adequate measures had been taken to correct this infantile depravity, and so insure against a repetition of the offence. mr musgrave carried the complaint to his sister and supported her with his presence, if with little else, in her attempt to bring the delinquent to a proper state of repentance. john musgrave sommers presented a defiant front and refused with all the obstinate inflexibility of his five years to acknowledge himself in the wrong. "it was very wicked of you to kick eliza," his mother insisted. "when you are in a better frame of mind you will realise that. you must go to her and tell her you are sorry." "i'm not sorry," john returned stoutly, with a watchful eye on his uncle, whose displeasure was manifest and the quality of whose anger john, not being familiar with, was anxious to test before provoking it further with possible unpleasant results to himself. this positive assertion of an unrepentant spirit nonplussed his elders. belle looked helplessly at her brother for inspiration; but mr musgrave avoided her eye with a care which suggested a cowardly sympathy with the offender if not with the offence. the punishment of children, while he admitted its necessity, was peculiarly distressing to him. master john sommers, with a child's quick intuition, began to realise that he had very little to apprehend from his uncle, but his mother was a different matter; he had had contests with her before and he could not remember ever having come out of them triumphantly. "john," she said gravely, and with a gentleness which john did not find reassuring, because his mother was always gentle even before and after she smacked him, "you are not going to be a naughty little boy and grieve mother. you know it is very wrong to be rude to anyone, and it is dreadful to kick. i insist on your telling eliza you are sorry. you _must_ be sorry." "i'm not," john persisted. belle appealed to her brother direct. "uncle john, what is to be done with this very naughty little boy?" mr musgrave flushed and looked almost as uncomfortable as though he were being reprimanded for the kicking of eliza instead of the chubby, unrepentant little sinner before him. he stared at the culprit and frowned. "perhaps," he suggested hopefully, "if you let him run away and think about it he will change his mind." "no," said belle firmly, having grasped the fact that she would get no help in this quarter; "he has got to change his mind now. if you won't say you are sorry, john, you will be punished--severely." john began to look sulky, but he showed no indication of a proper sense of his own wickedness. he had kicked eliza deliberately, and had experienced immense satisfaction in the knowledge that he had thereby got a bit of his own back. eliza was always annoying him and locking him out from the kitchen. he liked the kitchen. martha gave him cakes when he found his way there; but eliza baulked him in his purpose whenever she could by closing the door in his face. "but i'm not sorry," muttered john obstinately. "and you told me i mustn't tell stories." it occurred to mr musgrave that the situation had come to a deadlock. he did not see how his sister would confute this argument. clearly if john was not sorry he ought not to be compelled to make a false admission. to frighten a child into telling a lie was mistaken discipline. whether mrs sommers' diplomacy would have proved equal to coping with the difficulty remained an undetermined point, for at this moment mr sommers entered the room, and his wife, manifestly relieved at his opportune arrival, shifted the responsibility of parental authority to his shoulders. mr sommers, while he appreciated the enormity of the offence, admitted in his own mind--though he would not have allowed his son to suspect it--extenuating circumstances. had he been thirty years younger he would probably have acted in a similar manner. eliza would exasperate any small boy into committing an assault. "come here," said charlie sommers. he seated himself in a chair, and drew his son towards him and held him firmly between his knees. "why did you kick eliza?" "because she's a disagreeable cat," replied john. "it is very rude to call people names," his father said with a severity he was far from feeling, his opinion coinciding with his son's. "and it is very rude to your uncle to behave in this way in his house. i expect he will not invite you again. don't you know it is very wrong to kick?" john deliberated this. he knew very well that it was wrong, but he had a strong disinclination towards admitting it. his father waited for an answer. "yes," he acknowledged grudgingly. "and aren't you sorry for doing wrong?" "no," the culprit replied with less hesitation this time. "then i must make you sorry," said mr sommers resolutely. "do you want me to spank you, john?" john began to whimper. of the three adults present john musgrave was the most unpleasantly affected by his namesake's tears; familiarity with john junior's little tricks had hardened his parents' sensibilities. "don't you think," said mr musgrave uneasily, "that you are-- frightening the child?" charlie sommers looked at his brother-in-law with amusement. "he is less frightened than you are," he answered. "he is only bent on getting his own way. ring the bell, uncle john, for eliza. john is going to tell her he is sorry." "i'm n-not sorry," blubbered john. "you will be presently. if you won't tell eliza you are sorry for kicking her i am going to spank you." mr musgrave rang the bell and eliza answered it in person, looking more sour than usual by reason of her outraged feelings. when her glance fell on master john sommers, sulky and unrepentant, but decidedly less confident, she sniffed indignantly and looked with cold disapproval on the assembled group. mr musgrave walked away to the window and stood with his back to the room. for the first time since he had engaged her he was not sure that he approved of eliza, and he had never before felt so irritated with her habit of sniffing. "i regret to hear that my little boy has been rude to you," mr sommers said. "i have troubled you to come here in order that he shall apologise. now, john, tell eliza that you are sorry for being naughty." "i'm--" john felt the sudden tightening of the hand upon his arm, and hesitated. then he faced eliza with all the malevolence which a small boy is capable of expressing in his countenance, and muttered ungraciously: "i'm sorry, because i've got to be." "try again," said mr sommers relentlessly; and eliza sniffed louder, her light eyes on the child's angry face. john capitulated before overwhelming odds. "i'm sorry," he said more politely, and looked at his foot in preference to eliza's hard face, the foot which had committed, the assault. "i've never been accustomed to be treated like that by children," said eliza acidly. "boys are troublesome, i know, but they oughtn't to be rude. i'm not used to it. i wouldn't take a place where there were children, especially boys--" "that will do, eliza," observed mr musgrave, turning round. "you may go." at the curt finality of his tone eliza withered. for a moment she appeared to be about to break, forth again, but, changing her mind, sniffed herself out of the room and closed the door viciously. charlie sommers, still holding his son between his knees, gazed sternly into the small rebellious face. "you cut away upstairs, john," he said. "and if ever you kick anyone again i'll whip you." he got up when his son, obeying his instructions with extraordinary alacrity, had made his exit, and faced his brother-in-law with a laugh. "john," he said, "i am of the opinion that the punishment was in excess of the fault. how can you endure that sour-faced she-devil in the house? the look of her is enough to put a man off his meals." "she is perhaps a little unsympathetic," john musgrave allowed, recalling the look in eliza's eyes while they had rested on the boy. "but she serves my purpose. in a bachelor establishment a middle-aged woman is more satisfactory than a--a younger person." "the single state has its disadvantages," charlie sommers said. "if to employ an eliza is the penalty for bachelorhood i'd sooner be a mormon." "i really think," remarked belle, who during this discussion had been pursuing a train of thought of her own, "that john ought not to be allowed to go to the kinema party this afternoon. he deserves some punishment. a disappointment like that would leave a more lasting impression." "isn't that," asked her brother quickly, "being unnecessarily severe? he is a very small sinner, remember." "you old dear?" she said, smiling. "you spoil that child. one has to be severe with john; he forgets his sins so readily." "so did you when you were his age," he answered. "as far as my memory serves, you were indulged more than john is; and i don't think it had a deteriorating effect on your character." "that settles it," charlie sommers put in. "john goes to the hall." so john went to the hall, and in a burst of confidence after the performance confessed to peggy his wickedness of the morning, for which he expressed still an unrepentant spirit. peggy carried him for punishment to the mistletoe and kissed him, struggling and resisting, beneath the bough, to mr musgrave's open amusement. he wriggled away from her, and pointing a chubby finger at his uncle commanded her to punish uncle john too. "but uncle john doesn't merit punishment," she said, with a bright blush and laughter in her eyes. "that form of punishment is another special privilege, john," mr musgrave remarked, with his gaze on peggy's rosy face. "it is a special privilege which is any man's due," broke in charlie sommers, coming up and catching peggy round the waist and kissing her soundly, "when a girl stands deliberately under the mistletoe." mr musgrave, who had witnessed this attack with amazement, turned away with a sense of annoyance at his brother-in-law's bucolic humour. to kiss a woman beneath the mistletoe appeared to him as vulgar as kissing her without that flimsy excuse. he was surprised that peggy did not show greater resentment at this treatment. charlie sommers and peggy looked at mr musgrave's retreating back, and then at one another, and smiled. "you have disgusted mr musgrave," she said. "i rather suspect him of jealousy," he replied. "he hadn't spunk enough or he'd have done the same himself." she flushed quickly. "john would never be guilty of impertinence," she returned. "his sins are those of omission," he retorted. "i think john's an ass." "i think he is an eminently discreet and comfortable person," she replied. "i should never feel afraid of mistletoe in his presence." "it appears to me," he observed, eyeing the mistletoe above her head, "that you do not show particular trepidation in regard to the plant in anyone's presence." peggy received this remark in scornful silence. it is not always the case that a woman enjoys the last word. but later in the afternoon, when john musgrave was departing and she was wishing him good-bye, standing beneath the identical branch of mistletoe in the big dim hall, she saw his eyes travel to the bough and then to her lips, and she stood looking at him, smiling and ironical. john musgrave might be an eminently discreet and comfortable person, but he was not without certain human weaknesses. "the druids regarded it as a sacred plant," he remarked, feeling constrained to say something on observing her gaze follow his. "did they? they were rather musty old people, weren't they?" "i think," he returned, "that perhaps i am a little musty too." he took her hand and raised it and kissed it--under the mistletoe. there was in his action in doing this something so courtly and respectful, something so much more impressive in its significance than in charlie sommers' careless embrace, that peggy found, herself blushing warmly, felt her cheeks glow and her eyes grow bright as mr musgrave very gently released her hand and stood again erect, tall and unsmiling, while he bade her farewell. she felt like one of the gentlewomen of bygone times who smiled down at her from faded frames on the walls and who would have curtsied sedately in response to this respectful salutation. peggy had an idea that she ought to curtsey: instead she said gaily: "i'm so glad you came. it has been a ripping afternoon, hasn't, it?" later, in the solitude of her own room, seated in a low chair before the fire, resting between the kinema entertainment of the afternoon, which had been for the young people of the village, and a similar entertainment to be held the same evening for the older inhabitants, her idle hands lying listlessly over the arms of her chair, a mischievous smile playing about her lips, she pictured the scene again, and mr musgrave's face, and laughed softly. a pleasing light of satisfaction shone in her eyes, the satisfaction which a woman knows when she realises the sense of her own power. "i believe," she said, half aloud, which, since there was no one present to overhear her, was immaterial, "that john is falling in love with me." the dimple at the corner of her mouth deepened and the laughter in her eyes increased. peggy was conscious of a feeling of triumph. she liked people to fall in love with her. she experienced a distinct disinclination, however, to fall in love herself. she was a very long way, she believed, from falling in love with fossilised john musgrave. chapter eighteen. with the new year--or, rather, in advance of it--peggy's youngest sister arrived at the hall. mrs chadwick had invited the entire family; but the midland doctor could not leave her practice, and the children of the married niece had inconveniently developed whooping-cough; so sophy, the architect, had divided her holiday, spending christmas with her married sister and coming on to the hall for the finish of the festivities, which included a dance to be held on new year's eve and a round of somewhat dull dinners and similar entertainments wherewith the chadwicks' guests sought to make a return of hospitality. sophy hated dinner-parties, but she looked forward with considerable enthusiasm to the coming dance. mrs chadwick had provided both nieces with dresses for the occasion, and, in order that these independent young women should not feel unduly indebted, she called these her christmas gifts. "aunt ruby is a brick," remarked sophy, as she surveyed herself complacently in the mirror in her sister's room and wondered what use the gauzy creation would serve when she got back to her plans and her desk. "i look really _chic_, don't i?" "you look sweet," peggy said with warm sincerity; and her sister caught her round the waist and drew her to the glass and stood holding her and surveying their double reflections with critical, unenvious eyes. "i look just a plain young gawk beside you," she said. "you _are_ pretty, peggy. you grow prettier every year. is the masculine breast of moresby susceptible?--or is moresby wholly feminine? a bachelor--an eligible bachelor--would be an anomaly in a place like this." "there is john," said peggy, smiling. her sister's brows lifted ironically. "john! has it come to that already? who is john?" "we passed him on the road from rushleigh," peggy explained. "the comfortable-looking person in the motor with the fur on his coat." sophy laughed. "is that all moresby can produce?... you poor dear! john looks about as romantic as a city alderman. i can tell you exactly the kind of man he is: he attends church regularly and collects the offertory, and he subscribes handsomely to all the local charities. his opinion carries weight, not because it is really worth anything, but because he is a local institution and because the motor and the fur coat give him an air of prosperous distinction. he stands for usage in moresby; and usage, coupled with a substantial banking account, gains respect. i shall enter the lists and try to cut you out with john." peggy received this intimation with amusement. "your tongue is too sharp," she said. "john likes womenly women." "heavens!" ejaculated sophy, with a curious little twist of the lips. "i hope he is prepared to match his ideal's womanliness with a corresponding manliness. that is a point these fastidious people are apt to overlook." she scrutinised her sister with a wicked little smile and touched the becoming dimple at the corner of peggy's mouth with the tip of a long, well-shaped finger. "i believe you are cultivating the quality," she said. "what quality?" "womanliness, my innocent," sophy retorted, and laughed again. "don't do it, my pegtop. it is not womanly to tamper with a fastidious middle-aged heart." "john wouldn't consider it womanly of us to be discussing him in this manner," peggy returned. "and i'm equally convinced he wouldn't consider it womanly of you to take liberties with his christian name," said sophy. "i think it will be a good day for john when aunt ruby takes you abroad in the spring. by the way, isn't john mrs sommers' brother? yes! well, she is all right. he can't be such an absolute bore, after all." one thing sophy discovered during the new year's eve ball, which was that if moresby could not produce any young men, rushleigh could; that one of these was well-favoured and agreeable; that, moreover, he was very unmistakably in love with her sister. it was significant in sophy's opinion, that her sister, while speaking of john with such ready flippancy, had refrained from mentioning doctor fairbridge altogether. clearly such unnatural reserve on peggy's side did not originate from a lack of interest; no girl, sophy's experience assured her, lacks interest in a good-looking man who favours her with a generous share of that same quality. the conclusion she arrived at, therefore, was that peggy, being pleasantly embarrassed by his devotion, was desirous of appearing unconscious of it. peggy introduced doctor fairbridge to her sister; and sophy danced with him several times, and found him extremely entertaining. he was, and she knew it, exerting himself to create a good impression, which amiability, though not disinterested, pleased sophy. she ranged herself promptly on his side, prepared to champion him whole-heartedly in his bid for her sister's favour. john musgrave she refused to consider in the light of a possible rival. mr musgrave did not care about dancing, but he sat through one of the intervals beside sophy in the warmth of the great fire in the hall and asked her several astonished questions relative to her work, and showed surprise when she informed him that she had drawn up some of the plans for the reconstruction of the home farm-buildings. he did not, she perceived, take either herself or her work quite seriously; but that did not trouble sophy. "it is such an amazing profession for a young lady," he remarked gravely. "why?" inquired sophy. "it seems so to me," he replied, unable, he found, to explain further. "these new ideas appear to me fantastic. it's a reversion of things. women's sphere should be the home." "well," said sophy, smiling, "that's where my sphere lies mainly. i plan homes--for other people. it isn't a new idea really. abroad, you know, the women build the home--the blacks, i mean. aunt ruby says the women make all those jolly ill-constructed huts; they cut the poles, and do everything. i'd like to go out and teach them how to construct them properly, with some idea of ventilation other than a doorway." she laughed cheerfully, and held a daintily-gloved hand to the flames. "wouldn't it be awful if we had to sit here with the door open to let the smoke escape?" mr musgrave looked round the beautiful old hall, looked at the several couples seated on the broad oak staircase, looked into his companion's young, fresh, smiling face, and smiled too. "it would be unpleasantly draughty," he allowed. she lifted her white shoulders expressively. "i like modern comfort," she said. "i love everything beautiful and solid and good. i admire this house, and i admire moresby. it is picturesque. but i wouldn't care to live here." "no? why?" he asked. "i don't enjoy vegetating. i should turn into a cabbage if i had to remain here. it's the same with peggy. we are all alike that way; we must have change." "ah!" he said. "that is a sign of the times, too." for some reason or other he seemed ill-pleased with her last remark, though he could not have explained why a desire for change in a young lady whom he met for the first time should disturb him. perhaps it was less the expression of sophy's own inclination than that reference to a similar taste on her sister's part which vexed him; or it may have been that he resented the general tone of her remarks about the desirability of moresby as a permanent dwelling-place. he had lived most of his life in moresby, and he felt no nearer in kin to the vegetable world now than in the days of his more fervid youth. "it is natural that the present generation should be representative of the times," observed sophy cheerfully. "i wouldn't wish to be an anachronism." she laughed gaily at the perplexed gravity of his face. her sister's opinion, expressed earlier in the evening, to the effect that john would not like her because of the sharpness of her tongue, occurred to her as surprisingly astute. john certainly did not like her. possibly he cherished antipathy towards most things which he failed to understand. mr musgrave had never met such an astounding young woman before. by comparison, peggy annersley appeared a very simple and gracious contrast. he was getting perilously near to thinking of peggy as womanly; and yet when he first met peggy that flattering adjective was the last he would have applied as fittingly describing her. he had almost forgotten the abominable overalls. he certainly was not thinking of them when presently peggy flitted up to them, a distractingly pleasing sight in blue, with blush roses at her breast. the roses had been made in paris, but mr musgrave did not detect their artificiality. peggy dexterously exchanged her own partner for her sister's escort, and sat down beside mr musgrave on the big oak seat. "i'm tired," she said, and played absently with her fan, making the remark as though she considered some explanation of this rescue of her bored young sister necessary. sophy's idea of enjoyment was not, she knew, consistent with sitting out when she might be dancing; and the band, hired for the occasion from rushleigh, was playing a two-step. she did not look tired when she made this admission. but mr musgrave was not observant, and he considered it becoming in a woman to confess to fatigue. also the substitution of companions was entirely agreeable to him. peggy was undeniably the more charming of the two sisters. "don't you dance?" she asked presently. "these new dances are unfamiliar," he replied. "i used to waltz years ago; but, save for an occasional square dance, i have not engaged in the exercise for so long that i expect i have forgotten the steps. i like to look on." he was not, however, indulging his liking; there was no view of the dancing from where they sat. the couples on the staircase had melted away with the first strains of the music, find peggy and john musgrave had the old hall to themselves. "i don't care about looking on," said peggy. "i like to take part, or get away from it altogether. it's nice sitting here; it's restful." she lifted the little decorated programme hanging from her fan and studied it, wrinkling her pretty brows over the undecipherable initials which defaced its page. "i don't believe you have asked me for a single dance," she said, the faintest trace of reproach perceptible in her voice. before this attack mr musgrave experienced some embarrassment. the rebuke in its directness was tantamount to an accusation of negligence; in its suggestion of an invitation it implied a compliment. john musgrave was as much discomfited by the one as by the other. "i--i didn't wish to trespass on your good nature to that extent," he replied. "isn't that just a little unkind?" hazarded peggy, with a smile which brought the dimple into play. mr musgrave fell to studying the dimple while peggy studied her card, and became so intent in this pleasing form of research that he omitted to answer her question. presently he took the card from her. "is it filled?" he inquired. "there's one blank--a square, towards the end," replied peggy demurely, not thinking it necessary to tell him with what difficulty she had preserved that blank space in her programme. "i can't dance," he said, reddening. "i've forgotten how. it wouldn't be fair to spoil your enjoyment. so many people would be grateful for the privilege of dancing it with you." peggy shook her head. "i do not feel like gratifying them," she said. very gravely and deliberately mr musgrave took hold of the tiny pencil hanging by its slender cord from the card, and, pencil in one large gloved hand and programme in the other, looked searchingly into the grey eyes that met his steadfast scrutiny with a kindly smile. "does that," he asked, "convey a gracious permission to me to write my name against the blank?" "not--unless to do so would be equally agreeable to you," peggy answered. mr musgrave did not immediately remove his gaze from hers. so long, indeed, did he continue looking at her that peggy felt her cheeks grow warm beneath his earnest eyes. then he transferred his attention from her face to the card he held, and wrote his name clearly, "john musgrave," in the single blank space thereon. "thank you," he said, and returned her programme to her with a courteous bow. peggy, experiencing a timid embarrassment in having so easily gained her point, felt curiously inadequate to making any suitable reply. she took the card from him with nervous fingers and let it fall into her lap, and sat gazing into the fire abstractedly, concealing in this concentration on the flames the tiny gleam of triumph that lighted the grey eyes. the thought, shaping its f mutely in her mind in inelegant phraseology, was, in effect, that moresby would sit up when it saw john treading a measure with herself. had mr musgrave divined that thought it is safe to predict that he would never have led pretty peggy annersley out on the ballroom floor. chapter nineteen. moresby did "sit up" when mr musgrave took the floor with peggy. his conduct in doing so was all the more remarkable inasmuch as he had not partnered anyone else during the evening. miss simpson, seated against the wall, neglected save by the vicar, who sought to entertain her conversationally since he did not dance, saw him with amazed indignation take his place with peggy in one of the sets on the floor. she could not discredit her own senses or she would have done so, but she was firmly convinced that the reason for his being there was governed less by inclination than by the designs of his partner, in which surmise she was not wholly incorrect. john musgrave would assuredly never have faced such an ordeal but for the persuasive witchery of a certain fascinating dimple at the corner of a pretty mouth. he was as hopelessly out of his element as a damaged war-vessel in dry dock. indeed, if one could imagine a war-vessel competing in a regatta against a number of racing yachts, one would have some idea of the utter incongruity of mr john musgrave forming one of the double-sided square dance, and going bewilderedly and lumberingly through the intricate mazes of the different figures, guided with unflagging watchfulness by his attentive partner. fair hands reached out for his direction, bright eyes watched his hesitation good-naturedly, and their owners obligingly pulled and pushed and guided him to his positions, entering with such zest into the business of keeping him to time that it could not be said he spoilt their pleasure in the dance, however little enjoyment he derived from it himself. also, it was the one set in the room that was danced with punctilious observance of the regular figures; to have taken the liberties which modern interpretation encourages with the time-honoured dance would have been unthinkable with mr musgrave's serious presence, his courtly bows, his painstaking and conscientious performance dominating the set. if the other men found it slow they resigned themselves to the inevitable; their partners at least appeared very well amused. "you see," mr musgrave said to peggy, his breathing laboured, as he paused beside her at the finish of the grand chain, "i have forgotten how to dance." "you dance beautifully," peggy assured him, smiling up into his serious face. "the different figures are a little puzzling to remember. i am enjoying this immensely." "are you?" he said, in some surprise. "it is very kind of you to say so." a regard for truth prevented mr musgrave from echoing her sentiments: to sacrifice sincerity in an effort to be courteous was not mr musgrave's way; but the knowledge that he was giving her pleasure atoned in a measure for his own lack of enjoyment. that his actions were exciting comment, that heads were turned to watch him, that those in the room who were not dancing were more interested in himself than in the other dancers, was not remarked by him. mr musgrave was sufficiently modest to remain unconscious of the attention he received. the dance was to him an ordeal of the utmost gravity, because of his stupidity and his fear of spoiling others' pleasure in it; it was not, however, a humiliating ordeal, as it might have been to a vainer man. in his absorbed attention he missed the smiles and the glances and the whispered comments; missed miss simpson's flushed displeasure, and the vicar's amazed and smiling observation of his old friend's surprising energy; missed, too, his sister's bright glance of quickened interest, and his brother-in-law's amused grin. "coelebs?" murmured the vicar under his breath, and caught belle's eye and smiled at her. later he made his way to her, when the room cleared of the dancers and peggy and her partner disappeared with the stream drifting towards the hall and the conservatory, and other convenient places fitted up for sitting out. their eyes met in a glance of sympathetic understanding; then belle linked a hand within his arm and suggested a retreat into the conservatory. "is your faith in the power of your sex increasing at all?" he asked, as, having led her to a secluded corner, he seated himself near her, and leaned back in a low chair with an air of thorough enjoyment. "ah!" she said, her face turned towards his, amused and retrospective. "you remember that conversation." "you did not believe, when you challenged mrs chadwick, that she would succeed to the extent we have witnessed to-night," he said. belle became suddenly grave. "would you ascribe the success altogether to mrs chadwick?" she asked. "well, perhaps not," he allowed. "it is a vicarious triumph. but the success is unquestionable. i experienced in watching john a return of my own youth." "i wish," belle remarked with some irrelevance, "that she was a little older." "why?" asked the vicar, divining her reason even while putting the question. the wish found an echo in his own thoughts, and had its origin in the same grave doubt. "i don't think a girl like peggy will fall in love with john," she said. "the mere fact that john danced with her does not prove that he is in any immediate danger of falling in love with her," he returned. "i don't suppose such an idea ever entered his head." belle laughed. "i don't suppose it did," she agreed. "but i think she has the power to inspire the emotion in him. it would be regrettable if she succeeded in doing that without intending it." "it would," he allowed, and was silent for a space, recognising the inability of john's friends to safeguard him against the danger if miss peggy annersley chose to work in opposition to them. "she seems," he suggested hopefully, "to be quite kind and sincere." "she is an incorrigible little flirt," belle replied, smiling at his rather obvious attempt to reassure her. "i know her a good deal better than you do." "all good women, i understand," he returned, recalling his wife's remarks on the same subject, "flirt, given the opportunity. since you mention the propensity in connection with her, i have reason to believe she flirts with robert. he has a poor opinion of her courage and a great idea of her amiability." "i can forgive her for flirting with robert," said belle; "he is such a quaint old dear. but... john!" "i refuse," said the vicar with gentle firmness, "to entertain any unworthy thought of her in that connection. she has probably succeeded in discovering in john what you and i have failed in discovering--the vein of youthfulness he has concealed so successfully all these years. forty is the prime of life. it will not surprise me in the least if john proves himself to be more youthful than miss annersley." "she is only twenty-eight," said belle. "john is younger than that in experience," he replied. "i am beginning to believe that at heart he is still a boy. no man who was not a boy at heart could have concentrated so much energy and earnest endeavour upon an exercise at once unfamiliar and distasteful. a boy will do what he dislikes doing if he recognises that the doing is expected of him; a man studies in preference his inclination. you cannot urge that john's inclination tends, towards dancing." "no," she answered. "but i can dispute your point, because plainly john's inclination tends towards pleasing peggy." "well, yes," the vicar conceded. "i begin to believe you are right." if he entertained the smallest doubt on that head, the doubt would have been dispelled could he have looked at the moment upon the picture of mr musgrave seated with his late partner in a retired spot, screened from the curious by tall palms and other pot-plants, to which retreat peggy had led him, as she led only her favoured partners, at the finish of the dance. mr musgrave sat forward in his seat, fingering one of the blush roses which had fallen from peggy's dress when she left the ballroom. a clumsy movement of his own towards the finish of the dance had been responsible for the damage, as he was well aware. he had picked up the rose when it fell, and he was now smoothing and touching its petals as he held it lightly between his fingers, as once he had smoothed and touched, and idly played with and destroyed, a glove which she had dropped. "i fear," he said, "i am in fault for the detachment of this. you will begin to think me a very clumsy person." "those little accidents happen so often when one is dancing," she replied. "it is of no consequence." "it could, perhaps," he suggested, "be sewn on again." "i don't think it is worth bothering about," she answered. "besides, it is broken off at the head. never mind the rose; it isn't a real one. i hope you weren't horribly bored at dancing with me? i believe you only danced because--" she paused. mr musgrave, still fingering the silken petals of the rose, looked up inquiringly. "why do you think i danced?" he asked. "because i asked you to," she answered, smiling. he smiled too. "no," he contradicted. "the idea certainly arose from your suggestion. i doubt whether i should have the courage to inflict myself on anyone as a dance partner without that encouragement. but i had another reason." "tell me," she said softly, and looked at him with so demure an expression, and then looked away again even more demurely, so that had the vicar chanced upon this tableau also he would assuredly have applied to her the term he had once made use of to his wife in speaking of her; he would have called her a little baggage. but the vicar was not there to see, and john musgrave rather liked the demure expression. he had an altogether different term for it, which was "womanly." "if it interests you to know," he said, "i had in remembrance the occasion when i declined to oblige you in the matter of the tableaux. i did not desire to appear ungracious a second time." "then," said peggy, in a low voice, and still without looking at him, "you danced to please me." "you have stated my reason correctly this time," john musgrave answered quietly. "i wanted to please you." he rose as the sound of the music broke upon their ears, and offered her his arm. "and now i am going to please myself," he said, "and watch you dancing this." when he led her back to the ballroom and delivered her to her partner he became aware as he stood for a moment alone at the entrance to the crowded room that he still held the silken rose in his hand. he looked at it in some perplexity. mr musgrave was a man of tidy habits; to drop the rose upon the floor was not a tidy habit; it would, moreover, be in the way, and it would certainly get crushed. he slipped it instead into his pocket. clearly in the circumstances that was the best thing to do with it. the present difficulty of the disposal of the rose being thus overcome, mr musgrave dismissed from his mind the embarrassment of its further disposal and turned his attention to the agreeable occupation of observing the graceful evolutions of the various couples on the floor; and if his eyes followed one figure more particularly, other eyes were doing the same, so that it could not be said of him that he was in any way peculiar in his preference for watching the prettiest and most graceful dancer in the room. chapter twenty. when peggy annersley got out of her ball-dress in the early hours of that new year's morning she slipped on a comfortable dressing-gown and sat down before the fire and lighted a cigarette, while she awaited the arrival of her sister, whose room adjoined hers, and who, on separating outside the bedroom door, had stated her intention of joining her to talk over the evening before going to bed. peggy was very agreeable to talk over anything. she was not in the least sleepy, and only pleasantly tired. excitement with her acted as a nerve-tonic, and the night had not been without its excitements. sophy entering in a similarly comfortable deshabille, and approaching the hearth, hairbrush in hand, surprised her sister looking contemplatively into the flames and smiling at her thoughts. she was wondering--and it was this speculation which brought the smile to her lips--what john had done with her rose. she had made some search for it after he had left and had failed to discover it. it crossed her mind that perhaps john made a practice of collecting such souvenirs. "you look," said sophy, as she stood for a moment and scrutinised the smiling face, "wicked. a lifelong acquaintance with your facial expressions leads me to conclude that you are indulging in a review of your conquests. vanity will be your undoing, peg o' my heart." "sit down," said peggy, "and have a cigarette." sophy took a cigarette, but she did not immediately light it. she put her slippered feet on the fender and continued her study of her sister's face. seen in the flicker of the firelight, with the brown curls falling about her shoulders, peggy made a charming picture. she looked so surprisingly young and so full of the joy of life. but she was not young, sophy reflected. in a few years she would be thirty, and after thirty a woman loses her youth. "i like doctor fairbridge," sophy remarked, with an abruptness that caused the smile to fade, though the challenge did not, she observed, produce any other effect. "so do i," agreed peggy. "he is in love with you," said sophy. "he thinks he is," peggy corrected. "i expect he often finds himself in that condition." "that's hedging, peggy. he isn't half bad. you might do worse." "i might. i daresay i shall," returned peggy unmoved. "you'll die an old maid, my pegtop; men are none too plentiful." "i can even contemplate that condition undismayed," peggy replied calmly. "the unmarried woman is the best off, if she would only recognise it. marriage is--" she paused, at a loss for a fitting definition, and during the pause sophy lighted her cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully and looked into the fire. "marriage isn't the heaven many people think, i know," she allowed; "but it--settles one." "it settles two as a rule," peggy retorted flippantly. she wrinkled her brows and stared into the fire likewise, and was silent awhile. "i have never heard you so eloquent on marriage before," she said presently. "i don't believe, as a matter of fact, i have heard you discuss the subject until now. are you contemplating it?" sophy laughed consciously. "there's some one," she confided, and hesitated, aware of her sister's quickened interest. "but he's poor," she added hastily. "he's an architect too. one day, perhaps..." "one day, of course," peggy returned softly, and got up and kissed the young, earnest face. "i'm so glad, dear. i want to hear all about him." "another time," said sophy, smiling. "i am a little shy of talking about him yet. but he is a dear." "i am sure he is, or you wouldn't care for him." peggy stood in front of the fire with her back to it, and regarded her sister critically. she regretted that sophy's romance had not sooner revealed itself. assuredly, if their aunt had known of it, the dear would have been included in the hall party. "and so we have the reason for your newly-awakened interest in the affairs of the heart of less fortunate folk," she remarked presently. "that's rather nice of you, sophy. most people when they have `settled' themselves don't care a flick of the fingers about the settlement of the world in general." "i don't suppose i feel especially concerned about the world in general myself," replied sophy. "you can scarcely class yourself in that category." "oh, it's i?" said peggy, smiling ironically. "i thought it was doctor fairbridge you were particularly interested in." "he is nice," sophy insisted. "is he? he didn't happen to tell you, i suppose, as he did me when we first met, with an air of weary resignation to the obligation of his profession, that he had to marry because unmarried medical men were at a disadvantage?" sophy looked amused. "i don't think if he had i should have placed undue importance on that," she replied. "perhaps not, since you have no intention to assist him in his difficulty. but imagine what a complacent reflection it will be for his wife when she realises that she owes the honour of the bestowal of his name upon her to the accident which made him a doctor, and to the super-sensitiveness of the feminine portion of his practice." "and because of that unfortunate remark of his," sophy observed with an air of reproach, "you intend to snub him badly one day." "snubbing," peggy returned, "is a wholesome corrective for conceited men." "i don't think he is nearly so conceited," sophy contended, "as the pompous person you delight in encouraging to make a fool of himself." it was significant that although no mention was made of mr musgrave's name, although her sister's description was so little accurate as to be, in peggy's opinion, a libel, she nevertheless had no difficulty in recognising to whom sophy thus unflatteringly alluded. for a moment she did not answer, having no answer ready, which was unusual. she met sophy's steadfast eye with a slightly deprecating look, as though she acknowledged reluctantly the justice of the rebuke to herself contained in the other's speech. then she laughed. there was a quality of mischief in the satisfied ring of the laugh, a captivating infectiousness in its quiet enjoyment. sophy laughed with her. "it's too bad of you, peggy," she protested. "you have not, for all your shrewdness," observed peggy deliberately, "gauged mr musgrave's character correctly. he couldn't make a fool of himself, because he has no foolish impulses. he is the antithesis of a conceited person. he is a simple, kindly soul, with a number of false ideas of life, and a few ready-made beliefs which he is too conservative to correct or individualise. aunt ruby is bent on modernising him; but to modernise john musgrave would be like pulling down a norman tower and reconstructing on its foundation a factory-chimney of red brick. i prefer norman towers myself, though they may have less commercial value." "you don't mean," said sophy, opening her eyes very wide, "that you like john musgrave?" "as for that," returned peggy provokingly, "he is, i think, a very likeable person. i believe," she added, with another quiet laugh, "that he entertains a similar opinion of me." "does he know you smoke?" inquired sophy with sarcasm. "he does. he has attempted unsuccessfully to check the habit." sophy appeared to find this amusing. her merriment had the effect of making peggy serious again. "i think being in love is transforming you into a sentimental goose," she remarked with some severity. "it is plain that you consider every one must be suffering from the same, idiotic complaint. it will be a relief when you are married. that is the surest cure for sentiment that has been discovered up to the present." sophy threw the end of her cigarette in the fire and started to brush her hair. "on the next occasion when i visit the hall," she observed maliciously, "i anticipate there will be no smoking allowed in your bedroom." "it is a vile practice in anyone's bedroom," peggy returned amiably. "besides," added sophy with a laugh, "it is so unwomanly." mr musgrave also was engaging in his after-dance reflections as he prepared for bed in a room in which there burned no comforting fire. he had taken the rose from his pocket on removing his dress-coat because his man when he brushed the coat in the morning was very likely to go through his pockets, and mr musgrave had no wish for him to discover anything so altogether foreign to a gentleman's effects in his possession. he placed the rose on his dressing-table, and was so embarrassed at the sight of this incongruous object among his hair-brushes, and other manly accessories of the toilet, that he was unable to proceed with his undressing for staring at the thing. odd how disconcerting a trifle such as an artificial rose can become adrift from its natural environment. seen in the front of peggy's dress the effect had been simply pleasing; seen in his own bedroom the flimsy thing of dyed silk became a symbol--a significant, sentient thing, inexplicably and closely associated with its late wearer. it was as though in looking at it he looked at peggy annersley; looked at her as in a mirror, darkly, from which her smiling face, looked back at him. perplexed and immeasurably disconcerted, he stared about him, searching for some safe place in which to secrete the thing. finally he took it up, unlocked a drawer in a writing-table before the window, and hurriedly, and with a guilty sense of acting in a manner unusual, if not absolutely foolish, he thrust the rose out of sight in the farthest corner of the drawer, where it came in contact with another frivolous feminine article; to which article also, besides its natural scent of kid, clung the same subtle, elusive fragrance of violets which clung about the silken petals of the rose; which clung, as a matter of fact, about everything that peggy wore. mr musgrave shut the drawer hurriedly and locked it, and threw the bunch of keys on the dressing-table where he could not fail to see them when dressing in the morning, and be reminded by the sight of them to transfer them to his pocket. the drawer in the writing-table was the repository for the few and very innocent secrets which john musgrave jealously guarded from all eyes but his own. chapter twenty one. a few days after the dance at the hall doctor fairbridge motored out from rushleigh to pay a call upon mrs chadwick. nominally the call was upon mrs chadwick; the object of his visit, however, was to see her niece. it was an object shared by so many that his chance of getting peggy alone seemed very uncertain. it would appear as though every one were bent on frustrating his attempts to draw her aside from the rest; as though peggy herself abetted them in their unkind design. there were staying in the house a number of young people of both sexes. it seemed to doctor fairbridge that many of the girls were quite amiable and charming; nevertheless, the majority of the men evinced a predilection for peggy's society, which predilection, since he shared in it, he might better have understood. when a man has made up his mind that he wants to marry; when, moreover, he is equally decided in his selection of his future wife, there is on the face of it no reason for delay. doctor fairbridge was fully determined on both points; he was also conscious of the danger of delay in the case of a girl so popular as peggy; therefore he decided to press his suit on the first opportunity, and he hoped the opportunity would present itself that afternoon. since it showed no likelihood of offering itself, since peggy betrayed no readiness to assist him, desperation emboldened him to ask her to go with him into the conservatory for a few minutes' private talk. "oh!" murmured peggy, changing colour, "that sounds so dreadfully mysterious." she accompanied him, nevertheless. mrs chadwick, looking after them as they passed through the glass doors and stepped into the moist and enervating atmosphere of the fernery, which led out from the long drawing-room, looked anxious. she was so certain as to what doctor fairbridge intended saying, and so uncertain what peggy would say in response, that she felt strongly tempted to propose a general move in the same direction. but for the conviction that putting off the inevitable is not to put an end to it, she would have proposed this; instead she diverted the general attention by starting one of her inimitable anecdotes; and in the uproarious laughter which greeted the story the retreat of peggy and her cavalier was successfully covered. the sound of the merriment penetrated to the fernery, and brought a smile of sympathy to peggy's lips. she looked for some response at her companion, but doctor fairbridge was so extraordinarily grave that the brightness faded from peggy's face and left her serious too, and a little embarrassed by the silence which fell between them, which he appeared unequal to break. she started to talk in a professional manner about the ferns; but doctor fairbridge had no intention of wasting his time on horticultural matters, and he plunged forthwith into the subject he had so keenly at heart. a little halting in his speech, and less assured in manner than when he had solicited the interview, he stood before peggy, and looked earnestly into the wilful grey eyes, which at the moment were serious enough. "miss annersley," he began--and finding this address too formal for the occasion, hastily substituted her christian name--"peggy, i think you can't be altogether unprepared for what i am about to say. you must know by now how things are with me. i love you. i have loved you ever since i first met you." he spoke as though the meeting had taken place years before instead of two months ago. "tell me," he added, with eager persuasiveness, "do you like me?... just a little?" now peggy was a young woman who had listened to such confidences often, and who, by reason of the numbers of her admirers, had grown hardened to their appeals. she found them, however, sufficiently embarrassing to cause her to regret, not so much wounding her lovers, as the trouble she was put to in order to wound them as little as possible. it showed a want of consideration on the part of the men she wished to be friendly with when they made that agreeable condition no longer possible. youth and beauty in a woman handicap her in the matter of masculine friendship; yet eliminate the disqualifying attributes, and the difficulty of friendship with the opposite sex is even greater. the position therefore becomes well-nigh impossible. peggy looked back at the young man with such disconcerting candour in the grey eyes that he began to feel somewhat foolish and found himself reddening awkwardly. a girl when she receives a proposal of marriage has no right to appear so composed. "i like you so well," peggy answered him quietly, "that i hope you won't say anything more. it's--such a pity," she faltered, losing something of her former calmness, "to spoil everything. let us take a mutual liking for granted, and leave it at that." this sounded like a brilliant inspiration, but was in reality a repetition of a suggestion made on a similar occasion to an entirely different suppliant. the experience of its ill-success on the former occasion might have prepared her for its inefficacy now, but it was the only thing which flashed into her mind at the moment, and she said it a little breathlessly in the hope that it would decide doctor fairbridge in favour of retreat. it failed, however, of the desired effect. he caught at the leaf of a palm near his arm and began unthinkingly on its destruction, not looking at the mischievous work of his fingers, but staring at peggy. "i can't leave it at that," he said. "it--it isn't liking with me. i love you. i... please be patient with me, miss annersley. i find it so difficult to express all i feel. of course, i can't expect that you should love me as i love you... how should you? but i am hoping that perhaps--in time--" he broke off, so manifestly at a loss in face of the discouragement he read in her indifferent look, so awkward and disturbed and reproachful at her lack of reciprocity, that he found it impossible to proceed with his appeal. he had, in rehearsing the interview in bed on the previous night, brought it to such an entirely different issue that the situation as it actually befell found him unprepared. the virile eloquence of the previous night did not fit the present occasion. "i want to marry," he finished lamely. that, in the circumstances, was an unfortunate admission. a gleam, expressive of amusement rather than of tenderness, shone in peggy's eyes. "i know," she said. "you told me so before... on account of the practice." he glared at her, flushed and angry. "hang the practice!" he said rudely. "i want to marry you." this bomb, which had been clumsily preparing from the outset, exploded with little effect. peggy certainly lowered her eyes, and the warm blood mounted to her cheeks; but she did not appear overwhelmed by this frank declaration. it was, indeed, whatever emotion swayed the speaker, so shorn of sentiment in itself that the girl was relieved of any fear she might have entertained of hurting him with a refusal. had she been as much in love with him as he had professed to be with her, her answer would still have been "no." "i am sorry," she said, a trifle unsympathetically. "i don't, you see, want to marry you." "don't say `no' without at least considering my proposal," he urged blankly. "i'll wait--as long as you wish. but i can't take `no' like that. i've never wanted anything in all my life as i want you. don't be so unkind, peggy, as to refuse me a little hope. i'm an ass, i know. and perhaps i have been a little abrupt--" "well, a little," agreed peggy. "do you mind," she added quickly, seeing him clutch desperately at a second palm-leaf in his agitation, "keeping to the leaf you have already spoiled?" he dropped the worried leaf as though it had stung him, and half turned from her. "you are heartless," he exclaimed with bitterness, taking his defeat ill, recognising that it was a defeat even while he refused to accept her answer as final. he had been so confident of success that his failure was the more humiliating in consequence of his former assurance. "i feel certain," he resumed more quietly, "that later you will be a little sorry for your unkindness to me. i never loved anyone till i met you. i love you very earnestly." "i'm sorry," said peggy again. "i would be a little more sympathetic if i knew how. but, you see, i have never been in love in my life." "i think i could teach you to love," he said, in all good faith. "i am going to try." she laughed. "i never had any aptitude," she said, "unless it was for gardening. you had better give me up, doctor fairbridge, as hopeless, and find an abler pupil." "i shall never," he pronounced solemnly, "give you up. i do not change. i have met the one woman in the world for me. oh, miss annersley," he added, ceasing to be rhetorical and becoming therefore a much more interesting study to peggy, "don't be too hard on a fellow. i won't bother you any more now. but one day i hope you will listen to me more patiently, and be a little kinder to me. i'm awfully keen on this." "yes," said peggy. "i wish you weren't. i'm just going to forget all you've said, and we will go on being friendly. i am a good deal keener on friendship than on the other relationship." "are you?" he said, surprised, as though that were an attitude he had never contemplated before; that he found, indeed, difficult to reconcile with his ideas of girls. "i'm not. but the half loaf, you know... i will content myself with that for the present--only for the present." how, he wondered, when he returned with peggy to the drawing-room--which he would have preferred not to do, and only agreed to on her showing him that it might be remarked if he left without taking leave in the usual manner--had he been deceived into making such a miscalculation? clearly peggy was a heartless little flirt. she had assuredly encouraged him. he was conscious as he entered the drawing-room in her wake of a slight diminution in his regard for her. there is nothing like a wound to the pride for clearing a man's vision. "for goodness' sake," exclaimed peggy, looking back at him over her shoulder as he emerged behind her through the glass doors, "don't wear so long a face. it will be remarked." doctor fairbridge, who felt little inclination towards cheerfulness, mended his expression none the less; but the smile which he summoned to his aid was rather forced. "i can't act," he said reproachfully. "you've hurt me. i'm feeling sore, miss annersley." "don't be silly," peggy admonished him. "you needn't look sore, anyhow." she led him towards her sister, and left him with her, feeling assured that sophy would administer an anodyne; sophy had helped to heal wounds of her making before. she had the knack of putting a man in better conceit with himself; it is a knack which springs from the dictates of a kindly nature. peggy herself joined a group of young people who were listening with sceptical amusement to the history of the hall ghost which mr errol, newly arrived, was relating. peggy seated herself near him. "do you believe in ghosts?" she asked. "well," he replied with gravity, "there is so much which is incomprehensible that i cannot discredit things merely because i fail to understand them." she looked at him with interest, while the scepticism of the rest strove courteously to efface itself. "i heard of the ghost from robert," she announced. "hannah has seen it. but robert didn't seem to know very much about it. it is respectable to have a ghost. i hope it is a pleasant one." "there are two," he said. "good gracious!" exclaimed peggy. "two misty apparitions! hannah doesn't own to seeing two. i might be able to stand one, but two would be the death of me. who are they?" "one is a hound," he explained; "the other is a lady. they have been seen walking on the terrace in the dusk. they walk the length of the terrace and back, look towards the west, and disappear." "and then does something awful happen?" inquired one of the listeners. "no; i never heard that anything happened. nor does the apparition appear regularly. it has only been seen about three times, and always after dusk." "i shall watch for it," said peggy. "i am not in the least alarmed now i know there is a dog. i have never been afraid of a living dog; i couldn't fear a dead dog. i feel nearly as brave as robert." she described, almost in robert's own words, and with a droll mimicry of robert's manner, his professed contempt for what he could put his hand through and his gruesome familiarity with old bones. robert was so well known a figure in moresby, was known even to the guests staying at the hall, that peggy's imitation of the sexton's manner provoked the merriment of all her hearers. the vicar was as greatly amused as the rest. "robert may be very brave in the matter of ghosts," he said; "but i have known him quail before something not usually considered terrifying." "what is that?" inquired peggy. "a woman," he answered, and met her eyes and smiled. chapter twenty two. with the finish of the holidays the guests at the hall went their several ways, and there was a lull in the feverish round of gaiety which had moved moresby out of its accustomed calm, and had introduced into the usually contented breasts of the rustic portion of the community a dissatisfaction with their former quiet life and a profound respect for the new residents, quite apart from the prestige that descended upon them by virtue of their dwelling at the hall. even in the matter of the home farm, managed and worked entirely by women--which innovation had been looked on distrustfully by the sons of the soil--the chadwicks were accorded a grudging recognition of success. the home farm was like to prosper. moreover, it would not interfere with local farmers. everything which it would produce was to be disposed of in markets which moresby did not reach. mrs chadwick had no intention of using her wealth to the injury of her neighbours; and she made that clear to them before she set about stocking her farm. since there was capital at the back of the enterprise, since the farm was stocked with the best, and everything was up to date, and managers and workers alike were keen and experienced, mrs chadwick had no misgivings as to the ultimate result of this venture. it was a hobby of hers, and one upon which she spent much time and thought. a woman living in the country needed some outlet for her energy, she opined. robert, although he approved highly of mrs chadwick, was sternly opposed to the idea of women farming. hadn't he seen a woman "orched"? and didn't he know how fearsome they were with cattle? why, even the milking was done by men nowadays, and a lot better done, in his opinion. mrs chadwick invited him to inspect the farm and the model dairy, and, because robert interested her, she personally conducted his tour and explained things to him, and listened to his comments attentively, approving when he made a wise suggestion, which was seldom, and maintaining silence before his cavilling remarks. one proposal which she made out of the kindness of her heart threw robert into such a fever of angry trepidation that for the time his admiration for mrs chadwick was seriously jeopardised--the proposal being that she should offer bob's young woman a position in the model diary. robert stood still in the path and eyed her stonily. "don't you do it, mum," he said, with such earnestness of manner, so much angry opposition in his eyes, that mrs chadwick showed the surprise she felt. "don't you do it," he repeated. "but why?" she asked. "i hoped i might be doing you, through bob, a little service." "you'll be doin' me a much greater service in leavin' bob's young woman where 'er be," he replied. "if 'er comes yere bob'll follow." "i should have thought you and hannah would be pleased at that," she said. "maybe hannah would. i don't doubt 'er would, 'cause 'er knows i'd be vexed. do you suppose," he added reproachfully, "that 'aving to go to church more'n once o' sundays, and sometimes in the week, i want to be kep' awake o' nights listenin' to bob 'ollering to the lord? hannah don't mind, 'cause it isn't 'er profession; but when a man makes 'is livin' through the church 'e wants 'is off-time free o' it." "i see," she said. "yes; i had forgotten that. we will leave bob's young woman where she is." "don't think i'm not obliged to you, mum," robert hastened to say, relenting before her amiable reasonableness, "for thinking of it. but it wouldn' be to your interest nohow. bob's young woman would give more time to 'er prayers than to your dairy. it's all soul wi' they, and nothin' o' conscience. i wouldn' like you to be cheated like that there; no, i wouldn'. a lady wot is so generous as you be ought to 'ave 'er interests studied." robert's zeal, like the zeal of many conscientious objectors to the self-seeking of others, placed him beyond the proscribed limits of profiting through mrs chadwick's generosity. he had profited handsomely during the christmas week; he profited again on that crisp sunny morning when he parted from her after his inspection of the farm, and left her walking leisurely across the fields with the pekinese disporting itself beside her, running ahead of her in pursuit of imaginary rabbits and running back again for approbation of its sporting proclivities. where the fields were bisected by a country road will chadwick had undertaken to meet her and motor her back. it was rather beyond the hour fixed for the meeting, but mr chadwick was a patient man, and a knowledge of his wife's habits prepared him for delay. he had brought diogenes with him in the car because diogenes had expressed the wish to accompany him; and diogenes, not being blessed with the same amount of patience, had been allowed to dismount, and was putting in his time, as the pekinese was doing, in searching the hedges for possible sport. diogenes was not a sporting dog; but when he saw a cat, or any other legitimate form of chase, he tried to cheat onlookers into believing that he was. a pose is detestable in man or beast; it not infrequently leads to his undoing. diogenes posed so enthusiastically that he almost deceived himself into mistaking the pose for the quality it sought to emulate. it was unfortunate that on this occasion, when he was especially bent on imposing on himself, and was pursuing his snuffling search for hidden prey among the dank fern-stalks and soft mould in the hedge, the pekinese should at the same moment be engaged in a similar form of deception on the farther side of the hedge. diogenes detected the fur of its long coat through the wet, shining leaves, and though familiarity with the pekinese should have accustomed him to discriminate between it and a cat, the practice of self-deception had become such an obsession that he wilfully ignored this distinction and, with a low growl, burst through the hedge and seized his quarry and shook it playfully in a transport of delight, then laid the little limp body down and stood over it in an attitude of satisfied triumph and barked a cheerful accompaniment to mrs chadwick's screams. mrs chadwick made a dart forward and struck at diogenes with her hand, to diogenes' pained surprise; then she gathered the pekinese up in her arms and fell to lamenting loudly. diogenes walked back to the car with an air of injured disgust and wagged a short, tentative tail at his master; but mr chadwick, ignoring these overtures, passed him, and was over the hedge in a trice and beside his disconsolate wife. "oh, i say, ruby, i am sorry!" was all that he could articulate, as he gazed at the limp bit of fur in her arms and then into her weeping face. he blamed himself for having brought diogenes, but most of all he blamed diogenes for doing the last thing on earth that might have been expected of him. as mrs chadwick continued to lament, and continued to hold the dead dog in her arms, his perturbation increased to the extent of causing him to swear. "damn that dog!" he exclaimed in exasperation, and put his arm about his wife's shoulders, and took with his disengaged hand the limp, lifeless thing from her. "he didn't suffer at all," he assured her. "it was so quick, he couldn't have realised that he was hurt." this knowledge was, of course, consoling to the bereaved mistress; but, beside her grief at the loss of her tiny pet, the consolation was insufficient to balance her distress. she laid her head on her husband's shoulder and wept unrestrainedly, to the distrustful amazement of a cow which lifted its head above the hedge to stare at this singular grouping. fortunately for the cow's peace of mind diogenes was by now thoroughly subdued, having gathered from the unusual noises disturbing the tranquillity of the day that this game, like another game he had played with mr musgrave's cat, promised a less agreeable ending than he had foreseen. he recalled that on that occasion he had been beaten; so he lay down docilely beside the motor and feigned slumber, in the hope that when the fuss was over the cause of it would be forgotten. but diogenes' fate was even then being sealed on the other side of the hedge. "don't cry, ruby," mr chadwick said. "it won't bring the little beggar to life, you know; and you'll make yourself sick. i'll get you another pet, dear." this promise, though well meaning, was mistaken. in the first shock of her grief mrs chadwick recoiled from the suggestion. "i couldn't have another pet," she wailed. "i loved him so. i couldn't bear another dog in his place. i d-don't want to see a dog again." "all right," he said. "but buck up, ruby. come and get into the car, and i'll drive you home." "i couldn't endure to have that brute in with me," she sobbed angrily. "no, of course not. we'll leave the beast behind. you shan't be worried with the sight of him again. i'll shoot him." he made the promise glibly, in the hope that this threat would rouse her. it roused her effectually, but not in the way in which he had intended. she looked up with a gleam of vindictive satisfaction in her eyes, showing through her tears. "oh, do!" she said. "shoot him to-day. i couldn't see him about after this." "all right," he acquiesced, none too heartily. diogenes was a valuable dog, and had, moreover, a winning way with him towards the people whom he liked, and will chadwick was certainly one of these. mr chadwick could no more have shot the dog with his own hand than he could have shot a child. "i'll see to it," he said. the first intimation diogenes had that it was expected of him that he should walk home was when the car started and left him, mute and bewildered and bespattered with mud, in the road gazing after it. no word had been vouchsafed him, no look. from the silence and the absence of interest in himself he had been deluded into supposing that he was not held responsible for the evil that had been done; but with the disappearance of the car vague doubts disturbed him, and he started in a sour, halfhearted way to follow the car and face his destiny. even had his intelligence been equal to grasping what that destiny was, so great is the force of habit that he would have returned inevitably to meet it. diogenes got back some time after the car, and was met at the entrance by one of the few men employed at the hall. this person, who had apparently been waiting for him, fastened a lead to his collar and took up a gun which he had rested against a tree, seeming as though he too were bent on posing as a sportsman, which he was not, save in the humble capacity of cleaning his master's guns. "you come along with me, old fellow," he said, and tried to look grim, but softened on meeting diogenes' inquiring eye. "shame, i calls it," he ejaculated in a voice of disgust. "anyone might 'a' made the mistake of taking that there for a rabbit. blest if i rekernised it for a dog when i seed it first." he led diogenes out through the gate and down the road towards a field. the gate of the field was troublesome to open. while he fumbled with the padlock, his gun resting against the gatepost for the greater freedom of his hands, a joyous bark from diogenes, who previously had worn a surprisingly docile and depressed mien, as though aware of what was going forward which these preparations portended, caused him to desist from the business of unfastening the gate to look up. when he saw who it was whose hurrying figure diogenes thus joyfully hailed, he did not trouble to go on with his job, but waited for peggy to approach. she came up at a run, and caught at diogenes' lead, and, holding it, stared at the man. "what were you going to do with him?" she asked, her accusing eyes going from his face to the gun, and from the gun back again to his face. "shoot 'im, miss," he answered. "it's the master's orders." "absurd!" cried peggy angrily. "i won't have it done." "sorry, miss," the man replied, looking at her with a mingling of doubt and submission in his glance. "but i'm afraid it'll 'ave to be. shoot 'im, without delay. them's my orders." "well, you can't obey them," replied peggy, as calmly as her agitation allowed, "because, you see, i won't let you. you can't shoot him while i hold him, can you?" "no, miss," he replied. "but it's as much as my place is worth--" peggy cut him short. "i am going to take him away," she said. "i'll hide him... send him away from the place. but i won't have him sacrificed for--for a silly accident like that. both mr and mrs chadwick will regret it later. he's a very valuable dog." "yes, miss," he said. "i allow it's a shame. but the master was very short and emphatic. what am i to say when 'e asks me if it's done?" "he won't ask," peggy answered, as confident that her uncle would be nearly as pained at diogenes' death as her aunt was over the pekinese. "he will take it for granted, of course, that it is done. go into the field and fire off your gun, and then return to the house. i'll see to diogenes." "you are quite sure, miss," the man said doubtfully, "that you won't let no one see that there dog? if the master thought that i'd deceived him--" "no one shall see him," peggy answered, not considering at the moment the magnitude of this promise. "i take all responsibility. you leave him with me." "very good, miss," he said cheerfully, as much relieved to be free from the task appointed him as peggy was to watch him vault the gate and disappear, gun in hand, into the field. the next thing she and diogenes heard was the report of the gun as this pseudo-murderer killed an imaginary dog in the field with bloodthirsty zest. chapter twenty three. the sound of the gun, although it was discharged harmlessly into the unoffending ground, brought home to peggy the full significance of the sentence that had been passed upon diogenes, and the narrow shave by which she had prevented its being carried into effect. diogenes too seemed to realise instinctively the seriousness of the occasion and the vastness of the service rendered him through peggy's intervention. he pushed his ungainly body against her skirt, instead of straining from the leash as was his practice, and when the report of the gun startled him, as it startled the girl and made her shiver, he lifted his soft eyes to her face wistfully, and pushed a cold nose into her hand for comfort, and licked the hand in humble testimony of his gratitude. peggy looked down on him and her eyes filled with tears. "oh, diogenes!" she cried. "why did you do it?... oh, diogenes?" diogenes wagged his foolish tail and licked her hand again with yet more effusive demonstrations of affection. so much distressful weeping troubled him. save when a child screamed at the sight of him, or a foolish person, like eliza, his experience had not led him to expect tears. yet to-day here were two people whom he had never seen cry before, lamenting tearfully in a manner which seemed somehow associated with himself. diogenes could not understand it; and so he sidled consolingly against peggy, to the incommoding of her progress as she hurried him away down the road. where she intended taking him, or what she purposed doing with him, were reflections which so far her mind had not burdened itself with; getting him away from the hall and beyond the view of anyone connected with the place was sufficient concern for the moment. when she had covered a distance of about half a mile the difficult question of the safe disposal of diogenes arose, and, finding her unprepared with any solution of the problem, left her dismayed and perplexed, standing in the road with the subdued diogenes beside her, at a complete loss what to do next. she looked at diogenes, looked down the road, looked again at diogenes, and frowned. "oh, you tiresome animal!" she exclaimed. "what am i to do now?" one thing she dared not do, and that was take diogenes back. peggy sat down in the hedge, risking chills and all the evils attendant on sitting upon damp ground, and drew diogenes close to her, while she turned over in her busy brain the people she knew who would be most likely to assist her out of this difficulty. the obvious person, the one to whom she would have turned most readily to assist her with every assurance of his helpful sympathy but for that unfortunate interview in the conservatory, was doctor fairbridge. she felt incensed when she reflected upon that absurd scene and realised that the man had thereby made his friendship useless to her; that at this crisis when he could have served her she was debarred from seeking his aid, would have been unable to accept it had it been offered. yet doctor fairbridge could have taken diogenes, would have taken him, she, knew, and might have kept him successfully concealed at rushleigh. why, in the name of all that was annoying, had he been so inconsiderate as to propose to her? "i don't know what i am to do with you, diogenes," she said. "i don't know where to hide you in a silly little place like this." peggy was upset, and so worried with the whole affair, not only with the business of hiding diogenes, but at the thought of having to part from this good companion who belonged to her in every sense save that of lawful ownership, that she here broke down and began to cry in earnest. diogenes lifted a bandy paw and scratched her knee. "i'm a snivelling idiot, diogenes," she sobbed. "but i c-can't help it. you little know what you've done. i wonder whether you will be sorry when you never see me any more?" diogenes appeared sufficiently contrite as it was to have settled that doubt. finding one paw ineffectual, he put both in her lap and licked her downcast face, whereupon peggy flung her arms about his neck and wept in its thick creases. it was at this juncture that mr musgrave, returning from a country walk, chanced inadvertently upon this affecting scene. so amazed was he on rounding the curve to come all unprepared upon miss annersley, seated in the hedge like any vagrant, and weeping more disconsolately than any vagrant he had ever seen, that he came abruptly to a standstill in front of her, and surveying the picture with a sympathy which was none the less real on account of his complete ignorance as to the cause of her grief, he exclaimed in his astonishment: "miss annersley! you'll catch a chill if you sit on the damp grass like that." peggy, as much amazed at this interruption of her lamentation as the interruptor had been at sight of her lamenting, looked up with a little gasp, and then struggled to her feet, upsetting diogenes, but not releasing her grasp on the lead, one idea alone unalterably fixed in her mind--the necessity to hold on to diogenes in any circumstance. "oh, mr musgrave," she cried a little wildly, "what does it matter what i catch, since i am so miserable?" "but why," asked john musgrave, not unreasonably, "if you are in trouble should you add to your distress the physical incapacity to battle with it? it is very unwise to sit on the ground so early in the season." peggy emitted a little strangled laugh. "i don't think i am very wise," she admitted. "i am like diogenes, all made up of impulses and tardy repentances." mr musgrave eyed diogenes with marked disfavour. whether it was due to a suggestion conveyed unconsciously in peggy's speech or to the unnaturally subdued air which diogenes wore, he gathered the impression that the source of peggy's tears might be traced to the evil doings of this ferocious-looking animal. "what," he asked, "has diogenes been doing now?" the "now" was an ungenerous slip which mr musgrave's good feeling would not have permitted had he reflected before speaking; it proved that diogenes' past misdeeds were present in his thoughts. but peggy was too unhappy to take notice of this, as assuredly she would have done in a calmer moment. "diogenes," she said, and leaned down to pat the big flat head, "has committed murder. it is only the pekinese," she added hastily, on observing mr musgrave's horrified expression. "he pretended it was a rabbit, and hunted it. i have just saved him from capital punishment and he's in hiding. but it's so difficult to hide him in moresby. my uncle and aunt believe that he is shot. if they knew he wasn't they'd be--well, they'd be glad later, i know, but just at present they would be very angry. i have got to find a home for him right away, and i don't know where to find it. i don't know what to do with him." she looked up at john musgrave dolefully, with an appeal in the darkly grey eyes which mr musgrave found difficult to resist. they almost seemed to suggest that he, as a tower of strength, might aid her in this matter. mr musgrave began to revolve in his mind whether he could not aid her. he did not like diogenes, and he recalled the damage diogenes had effected in his own kitchen. that crime weighed with him more than the slaughter of the pekinese; the death of the pekinese did not concern mr musgrave. had it been a case simply of the rescue of diogenes from a perfectly just punishment it is doubtful whether mr musgrave's kindness of heart would have proved equal to the sacrifice; but the assisting of peggy annersley was an altogether different matter. it was a matter which commended itself to mr musgrave as worthy of his endeavour. "can i not help you," he suggested, with the faintest show of hesitation, which hesitation vanished before her radiant look, "by removing diogenes to--to rushleigh, or some more distant place, and getting some one to dispose of him for you? i could take him in to-day in the car." "oh, will you?" peggy cried eagerly. "oh, mr musgrave, i shall be eternally grateful to you if you will." mr musgrave, although slightly embarrassed, was not indisposed to become an object for miss annersley's lasting gratitude; he liked the eager impulsiveness of her speech; it made him feel that he was rendering her an inestimable service; and to render valuable service with so slight personal inconvenience was agreeable; it conveyed a comfortable sense of being useful. "certainly i will do that," he said. "it is a small service. i wish i could help you more effectively." mr musgrave was quite sincere in the expression of this wish. he was well aware of peggy's affection for the ugly brute which was her constant companion, and he knew what a wrench it would be for her to part with diogenes; but diogenes' banishment was inevitable. that point was very clear. "if you think he will come with me i will take him now," he said. diogenes appeared so very reluctant to accompany mr musgrave and so very determined to follow peggy that peggy finally suggested taking him herself, and leaving him secure under lock and key in mr musgrave's garage. if this arrangement occurred to mr musgrave as somewhat unconventional he lost sight of its inadvisability on that account in view of the greater inadvisability of attempting to drag an unwilling bull-dog, whose unfailing gentleness he had reason to question, away from the only person who appeared to have any sort of control over him. mr musgrave therefore relinquished the lead and prepared to accompany peggy and the bull-dog back to his orderly home. a good deed may carry its own reward; but in the days that were to follow, in the weeks and months that followed, mr musgrave was moved to doubt the infallibility of providential recognition of unselfish deeds. it is fortunate for the persistence in the instinct for obeying a generous impulse that the future is mercifully shrouded in the obscurity of unseen things. arrived at the house, mr musgrave and peggy and diogenes behaved very much after the manner of three conspirators. in a sense they were conspirators, and the third was a criminal conspirator. diogenes, with agreeable recollections of former sport connected with mr musgrave's back entrance, plucked up his spirit on passing through the gate and looked expectantly round for mr musgrave's cat; peggy, with less pleasant memories of that former occasion, tightened her hold on the lead and kept an attentive eye on her charge; mr musgrave, conscious of nothing save the undesirability of being seen by the servants under existing circumstances, walked with a sheepish and cautious air past the back of his dwelling, and on reaching the stables threw open the door with guilty haste and drew it after him as he followed close upon peggy's heels. once inside, safe from observation, with the door shut against intrusion, he assumed his normal manner, and ceased to look like a middle-aged guy fawkes, or a gentlemanly dog-stealer. chapter twenty four. "what jolly stables!" peggy cried, breathing herself more freely since the imminent discovery of diogenes was a danger past. they had met no one in the road, had been seen by no one from the house. "you will be quite happy here, diogenes. you must be very good, and give no trouble, mind." diogenes, who was engaged on an inspection of his temporary quarters, disregarded these injunctions; he was snuffling round for rats. peggy looked at mr musgrave. by a strange coincidence mr musgrave was looking at peggy, looking with a close and curious scrutiny. "you _are_ kind," she said. "i can never thank you." her gratitude had the effect of inclining mr musgrave towards a greater kindliness; but, since he had undertaken to perform the sole service that presented itself as practicable, he could bethink him of nothing kinder, and so modestly deprecated her thanks. "if diogenes had been shot," she said, and shivered, "it would have made me very unhappy. i'm unhappy enough as it is. i hate the thought of losing him. i can't bear to think of never seeing him in the future." to hide the sudden rush of tears which she realised would be as embarrassing for john musgrave to witness as for her to shed before him, she dropped on her knees in the straw and drew diogenes to her and put her arms about his neck. "oh, diogenes, my poor dear?" she sobbed. "why ever did you do it? i've got to let you go, diogenes. i shan't see you any more, ever. we'll never go for walks together again. if i'd only been with him," she said, lifting to john musgrave her tear-dimmed eyes, "it wouldn't have happened." john musgrave, with the scene of his wrecked china, and diogenes standing triumphant amid the wreckage, with peggy, dismayed and helpless, beside him, had a passing doubt whether her presence would have availed in preventing the tragedy. but, with those upturned, tear-filled eyes appealing for his sympathy, to remind her that her authority was sometimes in default was a brutality of which he was incapable. "i am exceedingly sorry," he said gently, "for your distress. i wish i could help you." "but you are helping me," she cried. "you have taken such a load off my mind. i daresay in time i'll get used to being without him. but he was such a--chum." as she knelt almost at his feet, with her arms about the ugly brute from which she was so loth to separate, she presented a picture at once so appealing and pathetic that mr musgrave found himself struggling with all manner of absurd impulses in his very earnest and not unnatural desire to see her grief change to gladness, and the tears melt away in smiles. he had the same feeling of uncomfortable distress in witnessing her trouble as he experienced over the lesser but more assertive troubles of john sommers. her tears hurt him. "i suppose," he said, with a certain halting indecision of manner, "we couldn't, perhaps, find a home for him somewhere not too far away-- somewhere, in fact, near enough for you to see him occasionally? i wonder... perhaps that might be managed." peggy brightened visibly and looked up at him with such a light of hope in her eyes that mr musgrave, from thinking that this might be managed, finally decided that it must be managed; that he, in short, must manage it. this resolve once firmly established in his mind, his thoughts busied themselves with ways and means for the safe and convenient disposal of diogenes. but the only way which presented itself was so disturbing to mr musgrave that, after first considering it, he paused to reflect, and looking upon diogenes, and having very clearly in mind the great personal inconvenience that would result from such a course, he promptly rejected it. having rejected it, finally, as he believed, he paused again for reflection; and looking this time not upon diogenes but straight into those clear, hopeful eyes, which seemed to look to him with such a perfect confidence in his ability to solve this difficulty that to disappoint her expectation seemed cruel after having raised her hopes, mr musgrave felt it imperative on him to reconsider the matter. after a somewhat protracted silence, he said: "do you think it would be possible for me to keep him?" peggy was so amazed at this proposal, which in her wildest moments she had not conceived, that she released diogenes and stood up slowly, fixing upon john musgrave a look so charged with gratitude and admiration and an emotion which partook of neither of these qualities, but which was so expressive of itself as to move mr musgrave to a desire to house diogenes, or any other beast, in order to oblige her. she approached and put her two hands into his, and, oddly, john musgrave did not feel embarrassed. he held the small hands firmly, and looked gravely into the earnest face. "i never thought of that," she said. "i never thought of anything half so good as that. i don't know what to say... it doesn't seem fair to let you do it. i expect he'll be an awful nuisance for a time." mr musgrave was very certain that he would be a nuisance; but he was warming to the business, and felt equal to any undertaking with that soft look in the grey eyes melting his reluctance and the small hands gripping his with such eager warmth. "i don't suppose we should get through without a little trouble," he answered, smiling. "it will certainly be necessary to keep him for some weeks on the chain. i could take him for a run every day--in the early morning, and after dusk. the greatest difficulty i foresee is in the matter of his identity. i should not like to annoy mr chadwick. it seems acting not quite properly towards him." "uncle would be as grateful as i am," peggy assured him, "if he knew. he hated the thought of having diogenes destroyed. couldn't we disguise him somehow--paint him? i believe he could be dyed." "i'll take him into rushleigh and see what can be contrived," he replied. "and, anyway, if necessary he can be sent away later. for the present i will adopt him. and--and any time you wish to see him you can come in and take him off the chain." peggy grasped his hands more tightly. "you are so kind, so very kind," she said. "i will never forget. i wish there was something i could do for you." she looked so earnest in expressing this wish so really anxious to prove her gratitude, that mr musgrave felt himself sufficiently rewarded for the service he was rendering. the charge of a dog, even of a dog with such a record as diogenes, was after, all no superhuman undertaking. "you overestimate the service," he said. "there is really no need for you to feel under any obligation." but peggy would not allow this. "once," she said slowly, taking her hands from his and moving a pace or two away, "you asked me to do something to oblige you--and i refused; refused because i saw no reason, i told you, for complying with the request." she suddenly smiled as she met his quiet scrutiny, and made a slight gesture with her hand in the direction of the dog. "you might quite as aptly apply that argument in this case; there really isn't any reason why you should oblige me now." "not so," he interrupted. "the reason lies in my wish to oblige you." peggy nodded. "that is a reason i also have discovered," she said. "i can give the promise now which you asked me for on christmas eve--do you remember?... about the smoking... because the argument i used then doesn't hold any longer. i wish," she added, "that i had given the promise at the time." "thank you," john musgrave returned quietly. it was a curious fact, in consideration of how objectionable the practice of smoking in women had once appeared to mr musgrave, that he should experience so little triumph in this victory. he had seen peggy smoke on two separate occasions, and, although the sight had pleased him ill, he had reluctantly admitted that with some women the habit, if deplorable, was not unbecoming. the reason peggy allowed for making the promise, rather than the promise itself, gave john musgrave pleasure. peggy took an affectionate farewell of the wondering diogenes, enjoining on him the necessity for behaving with the utmost propriety; and then, while mr musgrave held the door cautiously ajar, she slipped out after him through the narrow opening and left diogenes, indignantly protesting, on the other side. peggy returned home with a heart so lightened that she found it difficult to dissemble before the chadwicks and wear a mien becoming to the double tragedy that had robbed mrs chadwick of her pampered pet and herself of her daily companion. "i am awfully sorry, peggy," her uncle said, putting an arm through hers as they went in to lunch together, "about diogenes. i know you will miss him a lot. but your aunt was so upset there was nothing else for it. he had to be got rid of." "he had to be got rid of," echoed peggy, and lifted a pair of reproachful eyes to his face. "you might have thought of a kinder way out," she said. "you could quite easily have found him a home, and have got rid of him that way. poor diogenes!" "i wish i had," he said. "but ruby worried me. there wasn't time to think... well, his troubles are over now, poor brute!" whereat peggy involuntarily smiled. diogenes' troubles, like john musgrave's, were, she realised, only just beginning. chapter twenty five. the troubles of mr musgrave as the owner of a bull-dog began forthwith and multiplied exceedingly. diogenes was driven into rushleigh that afternoon in the car, and subsequently, to his secret disgust, returned disguised as a brindle, which disguise he diligently sought to remove with so much success that the journeys to rushleigh became periodic, and diogenes underwent chameleon-like changes in the intervals. a large dog-kennel and brand-new chain were purchased, and, save when mr musgrave took diogenes for the daily run, and peggy, availing herself of his permission, slipped in through the tradesmen's entrance and released her excited pet, diogenes spent his days in complaining inactivity, with ample time in which to reflect upon his misdeeds. the arrival of diogenes affected some change in mr musgrave's household. eliza promptly gave notice. she would, she informed the surprised master of the establishment, as soon remain in a place with an elephant. martha, who would have suffered elephants and other undesirable pets rather than quit mr musgrave's service, sought to propitiate diogenes, and, being a disciple of the famous explorer who phrased the axiom that the stomach governs the world, she carried bones and other delicacies to diogenes' kennel, to the detriment of his figure, and so won his affections that after peggy, whom he adored, and mr musgrave, to whom he became speedily attached, martha ranked as his very good friend. the chauffeur had his doubts about diogenes, and he nursed darker doubts in regard to his employer. to take a white bull-dog into rushleigh and fetch home a brindle that was constantly changing its coat occurred to king is a highly suspicious circumstance. "there'll be a police case over that dog," he remarked to martha. "you mark my words. i've known similar cases and they've always been found out. the governor's asking for trouble." the weight upon mr musgrave's conscience attendant on the duplicity which he of necessity was called upon to practise daily was so burdensome that he was imperatively moved to confide in some one, and thereby share, if not shift, the responsibility. some idea of confiding in walter errol had been with him from the first; and, meeting the vicar one morning when he was returning from an early walk with diogenes, the desire to unburden his mind hardened to a determination upon perceiving the amazement in the vicar's eyes as they rested upon the dog he led an unwilling captive on the chain. the vicar halted in the road and laughed. "i heard you were starting kennels," he said; "but, upon my word! i didn't believe it. wherever did you buy that dog?" mr musgrave had not bought diogenes and he had no intention of pretending that he had. "it was given to me," he said. "oh, that explains it," the vicar answered. but even while he spoke it occurred to mr musgrave that the dog had not been given to him; he had offered to take it. "i am taking care of it for some one," he corrected himself. the vicar looked mystified and faintly amused. "that's doing a lot for friendship, isn't it, john?" he asked. john musgrave reddened. "is obliging a friend an excessive courtesy?" he inquired. "well, no. i stand rebuked." the vicar stooped and patted diogenes and looked him over critically. "it's a funny thing," he said, "but he's extraordinarily like the bull they had up at the hall--except, of course, for his colour." "he is," mr musgrave said, firing off his bomb as calmly as though he were making a very ordinary statement, "the same dog." "oh!" said the vicar, and straightened himself and looked john musgrave squarely in the eyes. "i understood," he said, "that diogenes was shot." "diogenes ought to have been shot," replied mr musgrave, and it ran through his mind at the moment to wish that diogenes had been shot, but he checked the ungenerous thought, and added: "miss annersley rescued him and smuggled him away. he is, as a matter of fact, in hiding from the authorities." "which accounts," remarked the vicar, "for his colour." he stooped to pat diogenes again in order to conceal from his friend's eyes the smile in his own. "and miss annersley brought him to you?" he said, with the mental addition, "little baggage?" "no," said mr musgrave, and proceeded with great care to outline the facts of the case, omitting details as far as possible. "she was so very upset," he finished. "and really it seemed regrettable to sacrifice a valuable dog after the mischief was done. the only uneasiness i feel in the matter is in regard to the chadwicks. i should not like to annoy them." "i think you may put that fear out of your thoughts at least," mr errol replied. "only yesterday mr chadwick was telling me how vexed he was to have been obliged to destroy the dog. he expressed the wish that he had sent him away instead." reassured on this head, mr musgrave looked relieved. "i'm glad to know that," he said. "quite possibly diogenes will be received back into the family later on, when time has softened mrs chadwick's chagrin." "in the meanwhile," walter errol said, laughing, "i foresee your attachment for the--dog having grown to the extent of refusing to part with him." john musgrave was by nature literal, nor did he on this occasion depart from his habit of interpreting his friend's speech to the letter rather than the spirit. "my affection for diogenes," he returned, "will be tempered always with anxiety. and in any case the motive which led to my adoption of him will qualify any distress i may feel in parting with him. it will give me immense pleasure to restore her pet to miss annersley." "yes," agreed the vicar decidedly, "miss annersley, of course, must have diogenes back." he returned to the vicarage for breakfast in a highly amused frame of mind, but, having been sworn by john musgrave to secrecy, was denied the pleasure of relating this amazing tale of mr musgrave's benevolence for the benefit of his wife. the story of diogenes must for the present remain a secret. but as a secret shared by an increasing number of persons it stood in considerable danger of ultimate disclosure. the risk of discovery in the quarter in which discovery was most to be avoided was minimised by the departure, of the chadwicks for the continent a month earlier than had been intended. the responsibility for hastening the departure rested with mr chadwick, who, worried with his wife's constant bewailing her pet's untimely end, and equally harassed by his niece's uncomplaining but very obvious regret for her faithful four-footed companion, decided that change of scene might help them to forget these small troubles which depressed the atmosphere of his hitherto genial home. peggy, from motives quite apart from the distress she successfully feigned, encouraged him in this belief, and once away from moresby brightened so suddenly and became so surprisingly cheerful that her uncle was puzzled to understand why his wife did not show a corresponding gaiety, but continued to bemoan her loss as she had done at home. because the murder of diogenes had lain heavily on his conscience in consideration of the girl's affection for the dog, the reaction of peggy's spirits occasioned mr chadwick immense relief. she could not, he decided, have been so devoted to the brute as he had supposed. but in any case he felt grateful to her for her generosity in sparing him reproach. the only reproach he received in respect of diogenes' end came from a quarter whence he least expected it, and from whence it was least deserved. so little prepared was he to hear his wife denounce the execution of diogenes as mistaken and absurd, and to complain of this ill-advised act as vexatious to herself, that he found no words in which to answer her. it was significant of the unreasonableness of human nature, he reflected, that she could hurl such a charge at him, and feel herself ill-used by a prompt obedience to her expressed wish. also it pointed to the unwisdom of carrying out a death sentence within twenty-four hours of its delivery. the road was already in the making along which diogenes would eventually return. peggy decided that when they got home she would bring diogenes to life by degrees. she was not specially desirous of bringing him to life in a hurry, her reasons for a gradual resuscitation being governed by considerations of so complex and feminine a character that mr musgrave would have failed to follow them. the vicar, on the other hand, would have apprehended her motives very readily; he had a surer grasp than john musgrave on the complexities of the human mind. to one person in moresby the addition of diogenes to mr musgrave's establishment afforded entire satisfaction; that person was miss simpson. for the bull-dog at the hall she had confessed to absolute terror; but mr musgrave's brindle was a dear, so much handsomer and more gentle. she noted the hour for mr musgrave's walk in diogenes' company and, though he changed the direction of his walk daily, almost invariably the pertinacious spinster ran him to earth, and, to his intense annoyance, joined him and entreated permission to hold diogenes' chain. that was the greatest of the many embarrassments diogenes occasioned mr musgrave. he began unconsciously to look for miss simpson's spare figure furtively behind trees and hedges as he proceeded on his way; when it flashed abruptly upon him, appearing unexpectedly round a bend of the road, or starting up, as it seemed to his surprised eyes, out of the very ground, he experienced a desire to loosen diogenes' chain and set him at her. he was growing to hate the sight of her thin, eager face. and her comparisons of the two dogs, which were one dog, disconcerted him. he came near to taking her into the secret at times. it puzzled him to think what she would make of it if she learned the truth. miss simpson was so anxious to establish the fact of the marked similarity in their tastes that she blundered into the declaration that she doted on dogs, particularly bull-dogs. mr musgrave received this statement coldly. "i am afraid i cannot sympathise with your enthusiasm," he replied. "i dislike dogs--particularly bull-dogs." "then why," asked miss simpson very naturally, "do you keep a bull-dog?" "i am only taking care of it for a friend," he explained. "how very kind of you," she gushed. "such a responsibility, other people's pets." she embarked upon a windy dissertation about a cat she had once taken charge of for some one, and the trouble and expense this ungrateful animal had caused her. "but you can't chain up a cat," she explained. "people are so selfish. they never consider how they trespass on one's kindness." "if service called for no sacrifice it would not be kindness," mr musgrave replied sententiously. "ah, how true that is!" exclaimed miss simpson. "you have such a comprehensive way of putting things. one _ought_ to be kind, of course." "i think," he replied with emphasis, "if the desire to be kind is lacking, it is just as well to leave it alone." "yes," she acquiesced flatly. "that's true, too. but we most of us desire to be kind, don't we?" "no," he returned in his bluntest manner; he was feeling too annoyed to wish to be civil. "i fancy in the majority of us that desire is a negligible quantity." "but not in you," she said insinuatingly. "in me most pronouncedly," he asserted with conviction. if this quality were not lacking in himself in a general sense he knew at that moment it was most assuredly lacking in relation to her. mr musgrave, having been guilty of ungraciousness, was immediately ashamed of his irritation, and during the remainder of the walk he sought to atone for his former discourtesy by a greater amiability than miss simpson was accustomed to from him--a mistaken form of kindness which led to the encouragement of all manner of false hopes in miss simpson's maiden mind. chapter twenty six. john musgrave sat at his solitary breakfast-table and regarded the covered dishes before him with, for the first time within his memory, so little interest in their contents that he felt a strange disinclination to uncover them. this lack of appetite, he decided, resulted either from indisposition or from approaching age. since he felt no indisposition, he attributed it to the latter cause. persons of advancing middle-age were less hearty than youth at the beginning of the day. that was only natural. therefore he did not lift the covers, but made an indifferent breakfast of toast and coffee. nevertheless, as the day advanced, he made the further discomfiting discovery that this lack of interest was not confined solely to the table, but spread itself like a blight over the ordinary affairs of life. he was oddly disinclined to follow any of his usual pursuits. mr musgrave was unaccountably bored with everything. he experienced a restlessness foreign to his habitual placidity, which restlessness, by reason of its strangeness, worried him considerably. it was inconceivable that after forty years of tranquil contentment he should develop the quality which of all others he had found so difficult to comprehend or sympathise with. yet restless he was, and dissatisfied-- dissatisfied, with moresby and the even tenor of his days. he wanted inexplicably to fling things into a portmanteau and start off for some place--any place that was fairly distant. he did not, of course, yield to this extraordinary impulse. being moved by such an impulse was sufficiently amazing; to have obeyed it would have been more amazing, still. he went instead into the garden and freed diogenes from the chain, and allowed him to exercise unchecked over the flower borders, to the indignant astonishment of bond, who was preparing the beds for the spring planting. "blest if he ain't gone dotty over that there dog," he complained. and the cat, who was airing herself in the belief that her enemy was confined to the restricted limits of the chain, sought refuge up a tree, and gloomily watched diogenes as he gambolled below. she had refused to follow eliza's example and evacuate in the enemy's favour, but her resentment of diogenes' presence was bitter and prolonged; it declined to soften before diogenes' persistent overtures towards a greater friendliness. her disapproval remained closely associated with that first unfortunate meeting, which proved an unforgiving spirit. diogenes and mr musgrave had decided to forget that occasion and were, as a result, firm friends. when diogenes was again on the chain, and mr musgrave was once more facing the unwanted viands on his table, looking about him round the large empty room--empty that is, in the matter of companionship--he made the biggest and most startling discovery of the lay: he was lonely-- really lonely, as he had not been since the months immediately following his sister's marriage. why, in the name of mystery, should he, who had not enjoyed companionship in his home since his sister had left it, who had not, save in a vague fashion when she left him solitary after one of her brief return visits, felt the need of companionship, be suddenly gripped with this desolating sense of loneliness? he could not understand it; and it was the more disconcerting on account of his inability to comprehend this obsession which fretted him, and prevented him from settling calmly to the ordinary routine of the lay. mr musgrave lunched sparingly and later set out for the vicarage for a chat with the vicar. he remained for tea, and in the genial society of the errols forgot his depression to the extent of believing himself cured of the inconvenience. but the depression had lightened merely temporarily under the influence of that cheery little home circle: out again in the open, facing the keen east wind, john musgrave felt the heaviness of his mood descending upon him once more, and with an odd distaste for his lonely fireside he fetched diogenes and took him for a long walk. on returning from this walk mr musgrave did an unexampled thing. instead of taking diogenes back to his kennel he led him into the house, into the drawing-room, having removed the chain in the hall and left it hanging there. diogenes, with the _noblesse oblige_ of good breeding, accepted all this as a matter of course, and, having first made a snuffing tour of inspection round the room, walked to the big skin rug before the fire and lay down. so uncertain was he of the enduring nature of this concession that he did not permit himself to sleep, but lay, winking complacently at the flames, and furtively every now and again blinking at mr musgrave. mr musgrave seated himself wearily in a chair and stared reflectively at diogenes. "i begin to believe," he said half aloud, "that there is considerable companionableness in a dog. i wonder that i never kept a dog." diogenes, under the impression that he was being directly addressed, got up and moved nearer to mr musgrave and sat on his haunches, looking with his bulging, affectionate eyes into mr musgrave's face. the man put out a hand and caressed the big head. "i daresay you are lonely too," he said. "you miss your mistress, i expect." the bulging eyes were eloquent. "i think, diogenes," mr musgrave added, "that you are sufficiently well behaved to be allowed indoors. i--like to see you here." diogenes thumped the carpet with his tail, which was tantamount to replying that he liked being there and was very well satisfied to remain. mr musgrave continued caressing the big head and talking fragmentally with his dumb friend, until the booming of the gong warned him of the hour. he rose to go to his room to dress, and, when diogenes would have accompanied him, pointed to the rug and bade him lie there and wait. perplexed, but obedient, diogenes returned to the fire, and mr musgrave left him there, and stepping forth into the hall and closing the door behind him, was surprised to find himself confronted with martha, martha hot and red in the face from the exertions of preparing the evening meal, and so manifestly worried that something more than mr musgrave's dinner must have been bearing on her mind. mr musgrave halted and regarded her inquiringly, and martha, with the fear of king's warning relative to the police and the criminal nature of concealing dogs exciting her worst apprehensions, informed him dolefully that some one must have taken diogenes away. "i went out to 'is blessed kennel to take him a few bones," she explained, "an' the turn it give me to find the dear hanimal gone--chain an' all, sir." mr musgrave with the utmost gravity pointed to the door at his back. "diogenes is in there," he announced. "i forgot his feeding time." martha gasped. "in the _drawing-room_, sir?" she ejaculated. "i was lonely," mr musgrave explained. from force of long habit he treated martha as a tried and trusted friend. "i find him companionable." "lor'!" remarked martha. she scrutinised her master attentively, the idea that he must be sickening for something suggesting itself to her mind. "dogs are company, that's certain," she said. "when he's 'ad 'is supper you'd like 'im back in the drawing-room, i suppose, sir?" "yes," he answered. "i think he is sufficiently at home now to be allowed to run about as he likes." martha took diogenes to the kitchen and fed him, contemplating him with renewed interest while he gnawed his bones under the table. "there's something about that hanimal as i don't understand," she mused. "if that ain't the same dog, though different, as burst in after the cat with the young lady from the 'all, i'll eat my apron. it's the same young lady comes to see 'im, anyway. if it isn't 'er dog what does she come for? and if it is 'er dog what's the master doing with it? it's my belief," she further reflected, wiping the perspiration from her face with the apron she had dedicated to gastronomic purposes, "that the master is courtin' the young lady, or the young lady is courtin' the master, through that blessed dog. now i wonder," and martha turned to the stove and went through mysterious manoeuvres with the vessels upon it, "how that will work? come to my time o' life and his, change--that kind of change--makes for trouble as a rule." small wonder that in the disturbed preoccupation of his cook's mind mr musgrave's dinner that night suffered in the cooking. but mr musgrave was himself too preoccupied to notice this; the business of eating had no interest for him. he was relieved on returning to the drawing-room to find diogenes in occupation of the rug once more; and diogenes, who had the gregarious instinct even more deeply implanted than mr musgrave, in whom it was a recent development, welcomed him effusively and finally stretched himself at mr musgrave's feet and snorted contentedly, while the master, of the house sat back in his chair and read, and--which did not astonish diogenes, though it would have amazed anyone intimate with john musgrave's lifetime habits--violated another rule by smoking a cigar while he read. the grouping of the man and the dog in the warm, firelit room made a pleasing, homelike picture, so different in effect from the ordinary picture of john musgrave reading in scholarly solitude by his shaded lamp, without the solace of tobacco even, that it scarcely seemed the same room or the same man seated in the big chair wreathed in ascending clouds of blue smoke spirals. this picture, as it impressed the vicar, when a few evenings later he was shown in and beheld a similar grouping, so similar that it appeared as if the man and dog had remained in the same positions without interruption, was so surprising, despite its cosy, natural air, that he entirely forgot the object of his visit, nor remembered it until he was on his homeward way. "hallo!" he exclaimed, as john musgrave rose to greet him, and, removing the cigar from his mouth, wrung his hand warmly. "you look jolly comfortable. the wind is bitter to-night. it is good to shelter in a room like this." "sit down," said mr musgrave. he pushed the cigars towards his friend. "will you smoke?" he asked. walter errol's eyes twinkled as he accepted a cigar and snipped the end with a contemplative stare at diogenes. he did not, however, betray the amazement he felt, but appeared to regard these innovations as very ordinary events. the big dog sprawling before the hearth and the smoke-laden atmosphere of the room which, until mrs chadwick had first profaned it, had been preserved from the fumes of tobacco, were surprisingly agreeable novelties. the vicar had seldom enjoyed an evening in john musgrave's drawing-room so much as he enjoyed that evening, sitting chatting with his friend over old college days and acquaintances. it was late when he rose to go, and still he had not mentioned the matter about which he had come, did not mention it at all; it had slipped from his mind entirely. "it's so comfortable here," he said, with his jolly laugh, "that i'm loth to go, john. there is only one substitution i could suggest, and one addition, to improve the picture." "what are they?" asked mr musgrave, his glance travelling round the homelike room. the vicar paused and seemed to reflect. "well," he said at last, "i would substitute a child in place of the dog, and... but you don't need to inquire what form the addition would take. we've discussed all that before. i'm not sure i wouldn't make them both additions," he added, "and let the dog remain." mr musgrave reddened. "don't you think," he suggested, with a diffidence altogether at variance with his usual manner of receiving this advice, "that i am rather old for such changes?" "you are just over forty," the other answered, "and forty is the prime of life... any age is the prime of life when a man is disposed to regard it so. you grow younger every day, john." when the vicar left him john musgrave returned to the fire and stood beside diogenes on the rug, staring thoughtfully down into the flames. in the heart of the flames he saw a picture of an upturned face, of a pair of darkly grey eyes gazing earnestly into his. "you are so kind, so very kind." the words repeated themselves in his memory. "i wish there was something i could do for you..." john musgrave stirred restlessly. were the words sincere, he wondered? they had been sincere at the time, he knew; but possibly they had been prompted by the gratitude of the moment; and gratitude is no more enduring than any other quality. he glanced at diogenes, who, with a much-wrinkled brow, was also contemplating the flames. "i think it would be extortionate to demand payment for the service, diogenes," he said. diogenes looked up and snorted approval. "it is, after all, a privilege to feel that one has rendered some service and has received her thanks. i don't think it would be fair--to her--to expect more." chapter twenty seven. may was well advanced before the chadwicks returned from their wanderings. they came home unexpectedly towards the middle of the month, cutting short their stay in london because certain matters in moresby called imperatively for mrs chadwick's immediate attention; and peggy, for another reason which she did not explain, was very ready to fling aside the holiday mood and return to work. the first intimation john musgrave received of the chadwicks' return came from the fountain head, being conveyed to him in a manner and at a moment when, glad though he was to learn that the family was home again, he would have preferred to have remained in ignorance until a more favourable opportunity. as matters fell out, however, he made the best of them, and wore as composed a mien as possible in face of an embarrassing situation. mr musgrave was starting out for his customary morning walk in diogenes' company when outside his gate he came very unexpectedly full upon will chadwick. had diogenes' memory been less faithful the meeting might have passed off without awkwardness; but diogenes, recognising his former master, became so wildly effusive in his welcome that mr chadwick during the first few moments could not disentangle himself from the dog's excited embraces, or return mr musgrave's greeting. he laughed when finally he shook john musgrave's hand. "your dog seems to have taken a violent fancy to me," he said. "quiet, diogenes!" mr musgrave commanded unthinkingly. "down, sir!" will chadwick looked at diogenes, and from the dog to mr musgrave. then he looked again at diogenes more attentively. there was in the protracted scrutiny, in the queer glint in the indolent blue eyes, a hint of something very like suspicion, as though mr musgrave's ingenuousness were being questioned. king's face, when mr musgrave took the dog into rushleigh for purposes of the toilet, wore much the same expression. "this is a surprise," exclaimed mr musgrave. "i had no idea you were back." "we got home last night. motored from town; a good run, but tiring." "i trust," mr musgrave said, "that the ladies are well?" "first rate, thanks." will chadwick watched mr musgrave as, having succeeded in grasping diogenes' collar, he promptly fixed the chain. "new dog, eh?" he said. "i have had him some months," mr musgrave replied. "but i prefer to keep him on the chain when we get outside the gate. he is a bit wild." "seems to be--yes." mr chadwick continued to regard the dog reflectively. he had heard of people turning suddenly white through shock; he was wondering whether change of residence could have the effect of changing a white bull-dog into a brindle. "you call him diogenes?" he observed. "it's odd, but he is so like the dog we had i could almost swear it is the same. same stock, perhaps. what's his pedigree?" "i really haven't an idea," mr musgrave replied, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. "the resemblance you speak of to your dog is very marked. i have observed it myself. i call him diogenes on that account." "oh!" said mr chadwick. the talk hung for a time. mr chadwick was debating whether a strong family likeness between two animals might extend to the affections in so far as to incline them towards the same persons. mr musgrave's brindle betrayed the fawning devotion towards himself that he had been accustomed to from his own dog. "he's a nice-looking beast," he remarked, still scrutinising diogenes closely. "might be a prize dog if it wasn't for his coat." "what is wrong with his coat?" inquired mr musgrave anxiously. "that is what i should like to be able to state definitely. the colour isn't good." the speaker here examined the dog at a nearer range, to mr musgrave's further discomfiture. when he faced mr musgrave again there was a puzzled questioning in his eyes, but he made no further allusion to the dog; the subject was tacitly dropped. the wisdom of having diogenes on the chain was manifested when the moment arrived for mr chadwick to separate from diogenes and his new master and proceed on his homeward way. diogenes, despite a very real attachment for his new owner, was faithful to the old allegiance and showed so strong a desire to follow will chadwick to the hall that mr musgrave had to exert his strength in order to restrain him. the business of holding diogenes as he tugged determinedly at the chain put mr musgrave to the undignified necessity of tugging also. mr chadwick left them struggling in the road and proceeded on his way with an amused smile; a smile which broadened and finally ended in a laugh. "i wonder what he smears on the coat to make him that colour?" he mused as he walked. then he laughed again. with the knowledge of the chadwicks' return mr musgrave realised the necessity for keeping diogenes once more strictly on the chain, save only when he had the dog with him in the house; and diogenes, resenting this return to captivity, sulked in his kennel and brooded dark plans of escape during his compulsory inactivity. the desire to escape hardened into an unalterable resolve following on a visit from peggy, which visit moved him to such transports of delight that peggy found it as much as she could do to prevent herself from being knocked over. she clung, laughing, to mr musgrave's arm for support when diogenes hurled himself upon her; and king, who at the moment of her arrival had been engaged in the motor-house with mr musgrave, regarded the grouping with disfavour, until, catching mr musgrave's eye, he left what he was doing and retired. "oh," cried peggy, "isn't he glad to see me?" she let go of mr musgrave's arm and busied herself with diogenes, while mr musgrave looked on, feeling unaccountably very much out in the cold. "he is looking well," she said, glancing up at john musgrave and flushing brightly as she met his eye. "he has grown quite stout." "that," said mr musgrave, "is martha's fault. she can't understand that over-feeding is as injurious as the other extreme. she shows her affection for diogenes by pandering to his appetite." "martha is a dear," the girl said warmly. "you are a lucky dog, diogenes, to have found so kind a home. i hope he is good, that he doesn't give any trouble. has he broken anything more?" "no," said mr musgrave, and smiled at the memories her words recalled. "he behaves excellently. of late i have accustomed him to the house. i find him companionable, and he dislikes being chained here." peggy looked amazed. "but i thought you--didn't allow dogs indoors?" she said. "i have never had a dog before," he replied. "i allow diogenes the run of the house. the concession was made when you went away, because-- because he seemed to miss you." "you dear?" peggy said, hugging diogenes. it was not very clear whether the term of endearment referred to mr musgrave or the dog; but, since it was diogenes who received the embrace, the verbal caress might have been intended for the man. peggy stood up, and turned to john musgrave impulsively. "what can i say," she cried, "what can i do to prove how grateful i am?" "i don't think any proof of your gratitude is needed," he replied. "besides, there is no reason why you should feel grateful. in the first place, it was a small thing to do; and in the second, i have grown attached to the dog, and am glad of his company. my fireside would seem very solitary without him." peggy's bright face clouded. "oh!" she exclaimed, thinking of her plans for the resurrection of diogenes. "then you will want to keep him?" he shook his head. "i quite appreciate the fact that he is only a trust. when you are ready for him he will be more than glad to return." "but," she protested, "that wouldn't be fair--to you." unwittingly mr musgrave had roused her sympathy by that reference to his solitary fireside. it seemed rather selfish to claim diogenes when he had grown attached to the dog. "it wouldn't be fair to you," he returned, "or to diogenes, if i kept him. that was not a part of the contract." "was there any contract?" she asked, smiling. "i understood that you sacrificed your personal inclination in order to get diogenes and me out of a hole. it was a hole, wasn't it?" she laughed. it was easy to laugh now over the miseries of that morning, but it had been no laughing matter at the time. john musgrave had rendered her an unforgettable service in rescuing her from that dilemma. "it was a hole--yes," he admitted. he looked at her fixedly. "if, as you say, i sacrificed my inclination on that occasion, i have been adequately rewarded since; and so, you see, i can't look on the matter as one requiring thanks. i will keep diogenes until you are quite ready for him; then you can come in and fetch him, as you do now--and not bring him back again." while he spoke it was abruptly borne in on john musgrave's consciousness that he would miss, besides diogenes, these surreptitious visits of peggy annersley's to which he was growing accustomed, though he did not always see her when she slipped in at his back entrance; but when he purposely put himself in the way, as upon the present occasion, he felt increasingly obliged to diogenes, and to the accident of circumstances that was responsible for bringing her there. "i believe," peggy said unexpectedly, "that i shall be rather sorry when that day comes. it's such fun sharing a jolly secret like this. there is a feeling of adventure... a sort of alliance of conspiracy. if moresby only knew!" if moresby did not actually know, it suspected more than miss annersley guessed, and it was beginning to talk. mr musgrave's reputation, which had stood the test of years, was suddenly observed to be inclining dangerously, upsetting the popular belief in the rocklike foundations of its structural character; suggesting, indeed, the sandy nature of the soil which formed its basis. the best of servants will talk; and, save for martha, mr musgrave's servants were not superior in this respect to any others. miss peggy annersley's visits to mr musgrave's establishment were fairly generally known and discussed in the village. "when i take diogenes from you," peggy added, "you will have to come and visit him. he'll feel hurt if you don't." "i shall come," john musgrave answered quietly, "often. after all, i have a certain right in the dog." peggy nodded. "he's yours and mine," she rejoined, with a beautiful disregard for the fact that diogenes was in reality mr chadwick's property. "he's really more yours than mine, because he would have had to go to strangers if you hadn't saved him, and then i should never have seen him again. it's rather amusing being joint owners in a dog. do you remember telling me you didn't like dogs? i knew you must be mistaken." "i am beginning to believe," he replied, "that that was only one of many mistaken ideas. it is, as a matter of fact, a mistake to express a decided opinion on any subject in which one is inexperienced." peggy glanced at him with newly-kindled interest, a little puzzled as well as pleased at his frank admission. then meeting his gaze fully she abruptly lowered her own, and looked delightfully shy. "i think," she said irrelevantly, "i'll take diogenes for his walk." mr musgrave stooped and unfastened the chain. there was no need for a lead when diogenes went abroad with peggy. "come with me," she said coaxingly, when they reached the gate, "as far as the second field. there are bulls in it." mr musgrave thought it very proper that peggy should be afraid of bulls; he therefore very willingly accompanied her for her protection. and when the danger was past, having in mind that possibly the bulls would be still there when she returned from her walk, he suggested the advisability of his accompanying her all the way. "will you?" peggy cried. "that will be nice. you are sure you don't mind?" mr musgrave was very positive on this point. indeed, he minded so little that when they met the vicar, and subsequently miss simpson, he experienced so little embarrassment in being seen in miss annersley's company that he felt rather pleased than disconcerted when these encounters sprang unexpectedly upon them. mr john musgrave was, in the light of moresby tradition, "walking out." chapter twenty eight. mr errol, seated in his pleasant drawing-room scanning a newspaper while his wife occupied herself with some sewing in the twilight hour before the lamps were lighted, suddenly lowered his paper, and looked with surprised eyes towards the window, which he faced. for a moment he doubted the evidence of his senses. had his eyesight been less keen and his mind less evenly balanced, he might have been deceived into believing that his imagination was playing him tricks; but, after the first moment of doubt, he realised that the amazing sight of mr musgrave peeping surreptitiously in through the window and almost immediately withdrawing with the guilty alacrity of a person caught in some unlawful act was no optical illusion, but a very astounding actuality. he glanced at his wife to discover whether she had observed these unusual proceedings, and, finding that her attention was absorbed in her occupation, he rose quietly, and without saying anything to her went out to investigate matters. why, in the name of mystery, should john musgrave prowl about outside the house after the manner of a clumsy trespasser, instead of ringing the bell and stating his business in the ordinary way? the vicar opened the front door and stepped out on the gravelled path, whereupon mr musgrave came quickly forward from his place of concealment, and, still looking nervous and painfully self-conscious, approached him. "i am so glad you have come," he said. "i was not sure whether you saw me." "oh, i saw you," the vicar answered. "anyone might have seen you. if it had not been yourself, i should have suspected a design on my spoons. why didn't you come in?" "i wanted to see you alone--on a very private matter. i want your help." the vicar looked faintly surprised. he had on occasions required john musgrave's help, though not in any personal sense, but he could not remember in all their long acquaintance that john musgrave had made a demand of this nature before. it puzzled him to think what form the request would take. "whatever the service may be, you can count it as promised," he said. "thank you," mr musgrave returned warmly. "i know i can rely both on your assistance and on your discretion. the fact is, walter, i have a-- a--ahem! a note which i wish delivered to miss annersley by a trusty messenger. it must not reach any hand but her own, and--and i do not wish to send it by one of my servants. i would prefer that the messenger should be ignorant as to whom the note comes from." "won't the post serve?" the vicar asked, feeling strongly tempted to laugh. "there isn't time for the post; she must have the note this evening." "so imperative as all that!" walter errol looked curiously at the perturbed mr musgrave and reflected awhile. mr musgrave filled in the pause by explaining the nature of the communication which he was so anxious that miss annersley should receive without delay. the explanation robbed the adventure of the quality of romance with which walter errol had been colouring it, and thereby detracted considerably from the interest of the enterprise. had john musgrave been more experienced in the ways of the world he would have given the explanation first and then have preferred his request, having disarmed suspicion in advance. but mr musgrave was so concerned with the necessity for secrecy and dispatch that he lost sight altogether of certain aspects of the case which would have struck anyone less simple of purpose; which did, in fact, strike the vicar, in whose mind the picture of john musgrave accompanying miss annersley and diogenes on their walk was still sufficiently vivid to predispose his thoughts towards speculations which john musgrave would never have dreamed of. the purpose of mr musgrave's communication to miss annersley was to warn her of the escape of diogenes, who had broken bounds when mr musgrave, having freed him from the chain, imagined him to be following him as usual into the house. without a doubt diogenes would return to the hall. the note was to warn peggy of his possible appearance. "it would seem," observed mr errol with a quiet laugh, "that it is impossible to have miss annersley and diogenes both in moresby and keep them apart. i should advise you to confer together, john, and come to some better arrangement. otherwise it looks as though you will have trouble." "i do not mind the trouble," replied mr musgrave seriously. "but i should like miss annersley to be prepared. it might prove embarrassing for her if diogenes suddenly revealed himself to her aunt. i don't fancy mrs chadwick would be deceived." "i think it highly improbable," the vicar agreed. he turned the note which mr musgrave had delivered to him on his palm, and seemed to weigh it while he scrutinised the writer, weighing other matters in his mind with equal deliberation. "i'll see to this. miss annersley shall have it. i'm expecting robert every minute--he should be here now. when he comes i will send him up to the hall straight away. you need not fear to trust its safe delivery to robert; he will take very good care that it reaches no hand but the right one." and thus it transpired that robert, who generally officiated in all the more important events in the lives and after the lives of the inhabitants of moresby, became mixed up in the affairs of mr musgrave; though when he received the letter from the hand of his vicar, with the latter's careful and explicit instructions, robert had no idea that he was acting as secret agent between mr john musgrave and the young lady at the hall. he cherished, indeed, a dark suspicion that mr errol was corresponding with the young lady, and was unmindful that his wife should know it. for the first time since they had worked together the sexton entertained grave doubts of his vicar, and while he pursued his leisurely way to the hall in the deepening dusk of advancing night he recalled the story of the strong man with the shorn locks and the woman whose beauty had robbed him of his strength. robert held samson in as great contempt as he held saint paul in veneration. it was a relief to him to reflect that the vicar wore his hair clipped close to his head. robert, while he walked to the hall, engaged in a pleasant reverie of his own in which a prospective reward for his services figured prominently. a young lady receiving a _billet doux_--robert did not call it thus, being no sympathiser with foreign languages--would naturally reward the messenger. since he carried in his pocket a shilling which john musgrave had left with the note, these, reflections savoured of a mercenary spirit; but payment in advance is rather an earnest of good-will than a reward for service; the discharge of the obligation should undoubtedly follow the faithful discharge of the duty. as an earnest of good-will on his side robert halted at the village inn and wasted more valuable time there than mr musgrave would have approved of in consideration of the urgent nature of his message. when eventually robert proceeded on his way the shadows had gathered with sufficient density to turn his thoughts into the less pleasing direction of the misty horrors associated with the hall, which in the broad light of day he was wont to deride. thinking of these things against his volition, he quickened his steps; and it was possibly due to the rapidity of his pace and not to extreme nervousness that, in passing under the dense overbranching elm-trees in the drive, which entirely excluded the last faint glimmering of light, the perspiration started on his forehead in large beads and a curious thrill ran down his spine. it was not until he came within view of the house that these uncomfortable symptoms of over-exertion abated somewhat, and he was complacently comparing his masculine temerity with hannah's foolish feminine fears of ghosts and such things, when abruptly something, unearthly of shape and terrible in appearance, started up out of the shadows and dashed past him, nearly upsetting him in its furious charge, and disappearing again in the shelter of the trees. with a yell, more terrifying than any ghostly apparition, robert started to run, and ran on, passing mr chadwick, who, cigar in mouth, was taking an evening stroll, and whom the sexton in his alarm mistook for the evil one, emitting fire from his mouth. and while mr chadwick turned to stare after the amazing sight of the little man running for dear life, and while diogenes, having hunted an imaginary night-bird, returned more leisurely to the drive and joined mr chadwick in his walk, robert gained the house, gained admittance by the back door, and frightened the hall servants badly with his blood-curdling description of the horrors he had encountered on the way. it was the cook's firm conviction, and nothing robert found to say in expostulation could shake her belief, that he had been drinking. "if you aren't drunk," she announced in conclusion, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. a grown man to be scared out of his wits by a ghost!" so unreasonable is feminine logic! it took robert some little while to collect his scattered thoughts sufficiently to be able to state the business that brought him there. had it not been for a glass of wine which a sympathetic parlourmaid brought him, and held for him while he drank, he might not even then have remembered the note in his pocket, and the vicar's explicit instructions that he was to hand it to miss annersley himself. his insistent demand to see the young lady confirmed the cook in her opinion of him; but the sympathetic parlourmaid undertook to acquaint miss annersley with the news of his presence and his wish to see her, and finally robert was conducted to a room which was known as the library, where peggy, a shining white figure against the dusky background of book-lined walls, received him, with manifest wonder in her grey eyes--a wonder which changed by imperceptible degrees to amusement as, having received and read her note, she listened to robert's eloquent tale of the misty sort of thing which had risen out of the ground at his feet, had almost knocked him over, and had then vanished into the ground again. "and you weren't afraid?" said peggy, her hand resting on the writing-table beside which she stood, her admiring gaze on robert's ashen face. "but that's splendid. i wish i were as brave as you. if i had been nearly knocked down by a misty sort of thing i should never be able to pass the spot again. yet you'll go back presently, and won't mind in the least. that's real courage." robert looked uncomfortable. he wished she had not reminded him of the return journey. he felt far from happy when he thought of it; far from confident that he dared pass the spot again. he had it in his mind to invite the sympathetic parlourmaid to accompany him. "are you quite sure it was a ghost?" peggy asked suddenly. "i don't see how a misty sort of thing could knock anyone down. wasn't it, perhaps, a dog?" robert felt offended, and showed it. "i reckon i knows a dog when i sees one," he replied with dignity, "an' i reckon i knows a ghost. hannah always allows she seen the ghost in the elm avenue, and it was in the avenue as i seed it. big, it was--big as a elephant, and misty like. there was two of 'em." "two?" said peggy, with a questioning intonation. "that's strange, robert, because there are supposed to be two ghosts--a lady and a dog. are you quite sure there wasn't a dog, after all?" "there mid 'a' been a dog," robert conceded reluctantly. "but it warn't like a human dog, nohow. its eyes was like flames, an' it didn' seem to 'ave any legs, seemed to move wi'out touching of the ground. why not come an' see for yourself?" he suggested cunningly, "if you don't believe me. i'll take care of 'ee." peggy looked thoughtfully at the trembling sexton and appeared to deliberate. it was plain to her that robert was badly shaken, that his nerve was not equal to the strain of making the return journey alone. she was shrewd enough to penetrate his design in suggesting that she should accompany him, and being of a naturally kindly disposition she fell in with the idea, the more readily because, since reading the note, she was anxious to meet robert's ghost, and secure it. "i don't disbelieve you," she returned. "but i should like to see for myself. i should never feel afraid with you." so subtle was this flattery and so seemingly sincere, that robert unconsciously assumed the courageous bearing expected of him; and, when miss annersley led him out through a side door into the grounds, he drew himself up and expanded his chest, and bade her keep close to him and he would see she came to no harm. peggy laughed softly as she drew nearer to him, and the contact of the tall slender figure afforded robert that comfortable sense of human companionship which helps to minimise the unknown terrors of the dark, even a darkness peopled with misty apparitions. he began to believe quite firmly in his intrepidity. at the entrance to the avenue they encountered mr chadwick; and for a moment it seemed as though robert's vaunted courage would desert him, as diogenes bounded forward out of the gloom and sprang excitedly upon peggy, greeting her with an effusiveness which, with her uncle looking on, peggy found secretly embarrassing. "is this your ghost?" she asked, glancing up at robert, while she attempted to restrain the dog, which, in the first moments of joyful recognition, was an impossibility. "i begin to believe we are about to solve the mystery." robert drew his squat figure up to its full height, which was insignificant enough, and eyed her with contemptuous disapproval. "be that hanimal as big as a elephant?" he asked. "be 'e misty like? would you say, now, that 'e could move wi'out walking, or that 'e shot flames from his eyes? would you, now?" "no," peggy answered. "i don't think he tallies with that description." "then 'ow can thicky be wot i seed?" "true," she mused. "plainly it wasn't diogenes. we'll walk on, i think, and look for your ghost." peggy was anxious to walk on. mr chadwick was advancing towards them and she was not prepared just then for an encounter. she waved a hand to him. "i am going to the gate with robert," she called to him, "to look for spooks. you can come to meet me, to see that i am not carried away on a broomstick." robert did not approve of the levity of her manner. he felt, indeed, so resentful as he hurried along the avenue at her side, with diogenes in attendance, that he was doubly relieved when they reached the lodge gates without any further supernatural visitation, the absence of which he attributed, he informed her, to the presence of the dog. but the transfer of half a crown from peggy's slim hand to robert's horny palm softened his resentment sufficiently to allow him to wish her a friendly good-night, and to further express the hope that "nothing dreadful" met her on the way back. nothing more dreadful than mr chadwick awaited her in the elm avenue; but peggy at the moment would almost as soon have encountered a ghost as her uncle; a ghost, at least, would not have asked awkward questions. "what did robert want?" mr chadwick inquired. "he came with a message--for me." "what about?" "a private message," peggy replied. "oh?" he said. he threw away his cigar and linked an arm within peggy's. "i thought he might have come to fetch musgrave's dog. that animal seems pretty much at home here." "y-es," peggy returned dubiously. "i wonder if musgrave would be inclined to sell him. i've half a mind to ask him." "oh, please don't do that!" peggy said quickly. "why not?" "i think--he wouldn't like it. he is so fond of the dog." will chadwick laughed, and since his niece did not express any curiosity as to the cause of his amusement, he did not explain it. but he wondered why, when they changed the colour of diogenes' coat, they had not taken the precaution to buy him a new collar. he had been interested that evening in inspecting the collar and reading his own name and address inscribed thereon. chapter twenty nine. when mr musgrave entered the yard on the following morning, from force of habit rather than in the expectation of finding diogenes there, it was to discover diogenes in his kennel, for all the world as though he had never absented himself in the interval. diogenes' welcome of mr musgrave was almost as effusive as his greeting of peggy on the previous evening; he was beginning to realise his position as a dog with two homes and a divided allegiance. doubtless were he received back at the hall he would on occasion find his way to mr musgrave's home as a matter of course. there were many things in mr musgrave's home that diogenes approved of. he approved of martha's attentions in the matter of table delicacies, and he appreciated the thick skin rug before the fire in mr musgrave's drawing-room; but the kennel and the chain were indignities against which he felt constrained to protest. mr musgrave unfastened the chain and took diogenes for his walk, an attention which diogenes did not merit, but mr musgrave felt so ridiculously pleased to see him again that he forgave the overnight defection, as he had forgiven the smashing of his dinner-service; he simply ignored it. in view of this magnanimous treatment it was distinctly ungracious of diogenes to repeat his truant performance within a fortnight of his previous escapade; yet repeat it he did, as soon as by his docile behaviour he had allayed mr musgrave's doubts of him so far as to lead to a decrease of vigilance, and a greater laxity in the matter of open doors. diogenes broke bounds again at about the same hour on a balmy evening in june; and mr musgrave hastened as before to the vicarage with a second note to be entrusted to the handy sexton. but here a check awaited him. robert, on being appealed to by the vicar, stoutly refused to go to the hall on any business after dusk. "not if you was to offer me a hund'ed pounds, sir," he affirmed earnestly. "i wouldn' go up thicky avenue in the dimpsy again, not for a thousand--no, i wouldn'. leave it bide till the mornin' an' i'll take it." mr errol returned to john musgrave with the tale of his non-success. "i daresay i could find someone else to take it, john," he said, with a whimsical smile. "but my reputation is likely to suffer, unless you sanction the note being delivered at the door, instead of into miss annersley's own hand. that stipulation is highly compromising." mr musgrave flushed. "i am afraid i didn't think of that," he said, and took the note from the vicar and tore it in half. "i am glad you mentioned it. it is not fair, either, to miss annersley." "what is to be done now?" the vicar said. "i will," returned mr musgrave quietly, "go to the hall myself, and bring diogenes back." "well, i rather wonder you didn't do that before." mr musgrave wondered also. the idea had not, as a matter of fact, presented itself to him until the delicacy of entrusting the mission to a third person had been pointed out. now that it had presented itself it occurred to him not only as the proper course to pursue, but the more agreeable. he therefore scattered the fragments of his note to the winds of heaven, and set forth on his walk to the hall. it was dusk when he started; when he arrived at the gates and passed through, the dusk appeared to deepen perceptibly, and as he pursued his way, as robert had done, along the avenue beneath the green archway of interlacing boughs, it seemed to him that night descended abruptly and dispersed the last lingering gleams of departing day. mr musgrave was not superstitious, and his thoughts, unlike his footsteps, did not follow in the direction which robert's had taken. nothing was farther from his mind at the moment than ghosts; therefore when an ungainly-looking object pounded towards him in the gloom, instead of his imagination playing him tricks, he recognised immediately the clumsy, familiar figure of diogenes, even before diogenes rushed at him with a joyous bark of welcome. mr musgrave's thought on the spur of the moment was to secure diogenes and take him home; but, as though suspicious of his motives in grabbing at his collar, diogenes broke away from the controlling hand, and dived hastily for cover, making for some bushes of rhododendrons, into which mr musgrave plunged recklessly in pursuit, so intent on the capture of his elusive trust that he failed to note the figure of a man, which, bearing in sight as he broke into the bushes, hurried forward in hot pursuit, and, following close upon his heels, seized him with a pair of strong arms and dragged him, choking and amazed, into the open path. "musgrave!" said mr chadwick. he released mr musgrave's collar, and stood back and stared at his captive. "what, in the name of fortune, are you up to?" mr musgrave inserted two fingers inside his collar, felt his throat tenderly, and coughed. "you need not have been so rough," he complained. "upon my word, i mistook you for a tramp," mr chadwick explained, laughing. "what on earth were you playing hide-and-seek in the bushes for? i begin to believe this path must be bewitched, by the extraordinary manner in which people using it behave. have you been seeing ghosts too?" "i saw my dog," mr musgrave explained with dignity. "i was following him." "oh, that's it, is it? well, you had better come on to the house. i expect we shall find diogenes there. he was, before you arrived, taking a stroll with me. seems to be pretty much at home here. why can't you keep him at your place?" "he is--" mr musgrave coughed again, as though his throat still troubled him--"very much attached to miss annersley." "rather sudden in his attachments, isn't he?" mr chadwick suggested. "miss annersley takes considerable notice of him," mr musgrave replied. "i have been thinking that, subject to your permission, i would like to make her a present of the dog." "i am at least gratified to find that you realise i have a right to a say in the matter," diogenes' lawful owner remarked with irony. "i should like to ask you a question, musgrave. possession being nine-tenths of the law, should you say that constituted the right to give away what doesn't, in the strict sense of the word, belong to you?" mr musgrave, experiencing further difficulty with his throat, was thereby prevented from replying to this question. his interlocutor tapped him lightly on the chest. "there is another inquiry i would like to put while we are on the subject," he said. "don't you think you might offer to pay for the collar?" john musgrave regained his voice and his composure at the same time. "no," he said; "i don't. if there has been any ill-practice over this transaction, my conscience at least is clear." abruptly will chadwick put out a hand and grasped the speaker's. "come along to the house," he said, "and make your offering to peggy." when they were within full view of the house mr musgrave became suddenly aware of two significant facts; these, in their order, being the presence of peggy walking on the terrace companioned by diogenes, and the disturbing knowledge that the sight of her pacing leisurely among the shadows beyond the lighted windows filled him with a strange, almost overwhelming shyness, an emotion at once so unaccountable and so impossible to subdue that, had it not been for the restraining influence of mr chadwick's presence at his elbow, he would in all probability have beaten a retreat. arrived below the terrace he halted, and peggy, having advanced to meet them as they approached, leaned down over the low stone parapet and gave him her hand. "you!" she said softly. this greeting struck mr chadwick as peculiar. he was conscious of an immense curiosity to hear mr musgrave's response; he was also conscious of feeling _de trop_. plainly he and diogenes had no place in this conspiracy. they had both been hoodwinked. "you must not blame me," mr musgrave said. "it is diogenes who has given us away. i fear the secret is out." "you don't flatter my intelligence," mr chadwick interposed, "by suggesting there was any secret to come out. if it hadn't been for implicating my niece i would have run you in for dog-stealing. a fine figure you'd cut in court, musgrave." peggy laughed quietly. "don't take any notice of uncle, mr musgrave," she said. "he is really obliged to you. so am i," she added, and the grey eyes, looking straight into john musgrave's, were very kind. "come up here and talk to me," she said. john musgrave ascended the steps, and, since the invitation had not seemed to include himself, mr chadwick turned on his heel and continued the stroll which mr musgrave's arrival had interrupted. peggy and john musgrave paced the terrace slowly side by side; and mrs chadwick, reading a novel in solitary enjoyment in the drawing-room, listened to the low hum of their voices as they passed and re-passed the windows, and wondered between the diversion of her story who peggy was talking with. "you came to fetch diogenes?" peggy said. "not altogether," mr musgrave replied. "i wanted... to see you... you haven't been down for some days." "no," peggy admitted, and blushed in the darkness. "why?" he asked. the blush deepened. had it been light enough to see her face mr musgrave must have observed how shy she looked at his question. since it was impossible to explain that those visits, once so light-heartedly made to diogenes in mr musgrave's stable-yard, had become an embarrassment for reasons too subtle to analyse, she remained silent, in her self-conscious agitation playing with a rose in her belt with nervous, inconsequent fingers. "i believe," mr musgrave continued, "that diogenes has felt neglected." "he is forgiving," she answered. "he came to find me." john musgrave looked at her steadily. "do you think it is altogether kind--to diogenes," he asked, "to stay away so long? don't you think that perhaps he misses you--badly?" peggy smiled faintly. "i think it is better he should forget," she replied. "it isn't always possible to forget," he returned slowly. "i am so sure he will never forget that i am glad our secret is exposed. i am going to return you your pet, miss annersley." peggy turned to him quickly in protest, and put out a small hand and laid it on his sleeve. "no," she cried, "no. you have more right to him than anyone. you are fond of him too. you must keep him. i _want_ you to keep him." john musgrave looked at the hand on his sleeve. he had seen it there once before, and the sight of it had caused him embarrassment. it did not cause him embarrassment now; he enjoyed the feel of the slight pressure on his arm. suddenly, without pausing to consider, he put his own hand over it, and kept it there. "i want you to have him, and i want to keep him too," he said. "how are we going to get over that?" peggy laughed nervously. "i don't know," she replied. "i don't see how that can be." "i hoped you would see," he returned gravely, and halted and imprisoned her other hand, and stood facing her. "there is a way, if only i wasn't so old and dull for your bright youth." he released her hands gently. "i suppose you are right, and it isn't possible." "you don't appear old or dull to me," she said softly. "i--didn't mean that." he went closer to her and remained gazing earnestly into the downcast face, his own tense features and motionless pose not more still than the girl's, as she waited quietly in the silent dusk with a heart which thumped so violently that it seemed to her he must hear its rapid beat. "it appears to me preposterous," he said, in a voice which held a ring of wonder in its tones, "that i, so much older than you, so unsuited in every sense, should find the courage to tell you how greatly i love you. it is scarcely to be expected that you can care for me sufficiently to allow me any hope... and yet... miss annersley, am i too presumptuous?" "no," peggy whispered. she slipped a hand shyly into his and laughed softly. "i think you have discovered the best way of settling the ownership of our dog," she said. "i am not thinking of the dog," he answered, bending over her. "i wasn't thinking of the dog either," she replied. with her hand still in john musgrave's she walked to the parapet and sat down. mr musgrave seated himself beside her, and, gaining courage from the contact of the warm hand lying so confidingly in his own, he felt emboldened to proceed with his avowal of love. "my feeling for you, miss annersley, is as unchangeable as it is deep. it has developed so imperceptibly that, until you went away, and i realised how greatly i missed you, what a blank in my days your absence made, i never suspected how dear you were becoming to me. when i suspected it i was distressed, because it seemed to me incredible that you, young and beautiful and so greatly admired, could ever entertain for me any kinder feeling than that of friendship. i can scarcely believe even now that you feel more than friendship for me. i must appear old to you, and my ideas are old-fashioned, and, i begin to see now, intolerant." "not intolerant," peggy corrected. "if i wasn't confident that your heart is so kind, and your sympathies so wide, that it will be as easy for you to give and take as for me to meet you in this respect, i should be afraid to risk the happiness of both our futures. but i haven't any fears at all. i think i have loved you from the moment when you met me weeping in the road, and took charge of diogenes." "that," he said a little doubtfully, "is gratitude." she shook her head. "no," she insisted, "it is something more enduring than that." at which interesting point in the discussion, to john musgrave's annoyance, a shrill scream penetrated the stillness, and mrs chadwick's voice was heard exclaiming in accents of astonishment and delight: "oh, diogenes, diogenes, dear old fellow!... wherever did you come from? and how did you get your coat in that horrible mess?" diogenes, finding it slow on the terrace, had sauntered into the drawing-room and discovered himself to mrs chadwick. peggy glanced swiftly into the face of the man beside her and laughed happily, and john musgrave, finding to his vast amazement the laughing face held firmly between his two hands, bent his head suddenly and kissed the curving lips. it is possible that could he have looked back into the days before he knew peggy he would have failed to recognise as himself the man who, in response to the vicar's assertion that occasionally people married for love, had made the shocked ejaculation: "do they, indeed?" john musgrave was learning. chapter thirty. the rev walter errol, removing, his surplice in the little vestry at the finish of one of the simplest and most pleasing ceremonies at which he had ever been required to officiate, looked forth through the mullioned window to watch his oldest and best-loved friend passing along the gravelled path in the sunlight with his bride upon his arm. the sight of john musgrave married gave him greater satisfaction than anything that had befallen since his own happy marriage-day. the one thing lacking to make his friend the most lovable of men was supplied in the newly-made contract which bound him for good and ill to the woman at his side. there would be, in the vicar's opinion, so much of good in the union that ill would be crowded out and find no place in the lives of this well-assorted pair, who, during the brief period of their engagement, had practised so successfully that deference to each other's opinions which smooths away difficulties and prevents a dissimilarity in ideas from approaching disagreement. the future happiness of mr and mrs john musgrave was based on the sure foundation of mutual respect. while the vicar stood at the window, arrested in the business of disrobing by the engrossment of his thoughts, robert, having finished rolling up the red carpet in the aisle, entered the vestry and approached the window and stood, as he so often did, at the vicar's elbow, and gazed also after the newly-married couple, a frown knitting his heavy brows, and, notwithstanding the handsome fee in his pocket, an expression of most unmistakable contempt in his eyes as they rested upon the bridegroom. "they be done for, sir," he said, with a gloomy jerk of the head in the direction of the vanishing pair. the vicar turned his face towards the speaker, the old whimsical smile lighting his features. "not done for, robert. they are just beginning life," he said. "they be done for," robert persisted obstinately, and stared at the open register which john musgrave and his wife had signed. "ay, they be done for." "when you married hannah were you done for?" the vicar inquired. "yes, sir, i were," robert answered with sour conviction. it passed through walter errol's mind to wonder whether the non-success of robert's marital relations was due solely to hannah's fault. "how came you to marry hannah?" he asked. "did i never tell you 'ow that came about?" robert said. "i didn' go wi' hannah, not first along. i went wi' a young woman from cross-ways. me an' 'er had been walking out for a goodish while when 'er says to me one night, `will 'ee come in a-toosday?' i says, `yes, i will.' well, sir, you never seed rain like it rained that toosday. i wasn't goin' to get into my best clothes to go out there an' get soaked to the skin in; so i brushed myself up as i was, an' changed my boots; an' when i got out 'er turned up 'er nose at me. so i went straight off an' took up with hannah." "i think," observed the vicar, "that you were a little hasty." "i've thought so since, sir," robert admitted. "the mistake i made was in 'avin' further truck wi' any of them. leave the wimmin alone, i says, if you want to be comfortable. a man when 'e marries is done for." walter errol, having finished disrobing, took his soft hat and went out to the motor, which had returned from the hall to fetch him, and was driven swiftly to the scene of the festivities, the joyous pealing of the bells sounding harmoniously in the lazy stillness of the summer day. past john musgrave's home the motor bore him; past miss simpson's comfortable house, where the blinds were jealously lowered as though a funeral, instead of a wedding, were in progress. and, indeed, for the moresby spinster the chiming of the marriage-peal was as the funeral knell ringing the last rites over the grave of her dead hopes. miss simpson was the only person in moresby who sympathised with the sexton's opinion that john musgrave was done for. at the hall only the immediate members of both families were present, with the exception of the vicar and his wife. john musgrave had stipulated for a quiet wedding. very proud and happy he looked as, with his wife beside him, he greeted his oldest friend; and the vicar, with an affectionate hand on his shoulder, exclaimed: "it isn't coelebs any longer, john. you were a wise man and waited patiently for the right woman." "i hope i shall prove to be the right woman, john," peggy whispered, drawing more closely to him as the vicar passed on, and looking up in her husband's face with wide, diffident grey eyes, eyes that were wells of happiness, despite their anxious questioning. "my only doubt," john musgrave answered gently, "is whether i shall prove worthy of your love, my wife." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. transcribed from the text of the first edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk incognita: or, love and duty reconcil'd a novel by william congreve to the honoured and worthily esteem'd mrs. _katharine leveson_. _madam_, a clear wit, sound judgment and a merciful disposition, are things so rarely united, that it is almost inexcusable to entertain them with any thing less excellent in its kind. my knowledge of you were a sufficient caution to me, to avoid your censure of this trifle, had i not as intire a knowledge of your goodness. since i have drawn my pen for a rencounter, i think it better to engage where, though there be skill enough to disarm me, there is too much generosity to wound; for so shall i have the saving reputation of an unsuccessful courage, if i cannot make it a drawn battle. but methinks the comparison intimates something of a defiance, and savours of arrogance; wherefore since i am conscious to my self of a fear which i cannot put off, let me use the policy of cowards and lay this novel unarm'd, naked and shivering at your feet, so that if it should want merit to challenge protection, yet, as an object of charity, it may move compassion. it has been some diversion to me to write it, i wish it may prove such to you when you have an hour to throw away in reading of it: but this satisfaction i have at least beforehand, that in its greatest failings it may fly for pardon to that indulgence which you owe to the weakness of your friend; a title which i am proud you have thought me worthy of, and which i think can alone be superior to that _your most humble and_ _obliged servant_ cleophil. the preface to the reader. reader, some authors are so fond of a preface, that they will write one tho' there be nothing more in it than an apology for its self. but to show thee that i am not one of those, i will make no apology for this, but do tell thee that i think it necessary to be prefix'd to this trifle, to prevent thy overlooking some little pains which i have taken in the composition of the following story. romances are generally composed of the constant loves and invincible courages of hero's, heroins, kings and queens, mortals of the first rank, and so forth; where lofty language, miraculous contingencies and impossible performances, elevate and surprize the reader into a giddy delight, which leaves him flat upon the ground whenever he gives of, and vexes him to think how he has suffer'd himself to be pleased and transported, concern'd and afflicted at the several passages which he has read, viz. these knights success to their damosels misfortunes, and such like, when he is forced to be very well convinced that 'tis all a lye. novels are of a more familiar nature; come near us, and represent to us intrigues in practice, delight us with accidents and odd events, but not such as are wholly unusual or unpresidented, such which not being so distant from our belief bring also the pleasure nearer us. romances give more of wonder, novels more delight. and with reverence be it spoken, and the parallel kept at due distance, there is something of equality in the proportion which they bear in reference to one another, with that betwen comedy and tragedy; but the drama is the long extracted from romance and history: 'tis the midwife to industry, and brings forth alive the conceptions of the brain. minerva walks upon the stage before us, and we are more assured of the real presence of wit when it is delivered viva voce-- segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, & quae ipse sibi tradit spectator.--horace. since all traditions must indisputably give place to the drama, and since there is no possibility of giving that life to the writing or repetition of a story which it has in the action, i resolved in another beauty to imitate dramatick writing, namely, in the design, contexture and result of the plot. i have not observed it before in a novel. some i have seen begin with an unexpected accident, which has been the only surprizing part of the story, cause enough to make the sequel look flat, tedious and insipid; for 'tis but reasonable the reader should expect it not to rise, at least to keep upon a level in the entertainment; for so he may be kept on in hopes that at some time or other it may mend; but the 'tother is such a balk to a man, 'tis carrying him up stairs to show him the dining- room, and after forcing him to make a meal in the kitchin. this i have not only endeavoured to avoid, but also have used a method for the contrary purpose. the design of the novel is obvious, after the first meeting of aurelian and hippolito with incognita and leonora, and the difficulty is in bringing it to pass, maugre all apparent obstacles, within the compass of two days. how many probable casualties intervene in opposition to the main design, viz. of marrying two couple so oddly engaged in an intricate amour, i leave the reader at his leisure to consider: as also whether every obstacle does not in the progress of the story act as subservient to that purpose, which at first it seems to oppose. in a comedy this would be called the unity of action; here it may pretend to no more than an unity of contrivance. the scene is continued in florence from the commencement of the amour; and the time from first to last is but three days. if there be any thing more in particular resembling the copy which i imitate (as the curious reader will soon perceive) i leave it to show it self, being very well satisfy'd how much more proper it had been for him to have found out this himself, than for me to prepossess him with an opinion of something extraordinary in an essay began and finished in the idler hours of a fortnight's time: for i can only esteem it a laborious idleness, which is parent to so inconsiderable a birth. i have gratified the bookseller in pretending an occasion for a preface; the other two persons concern'd are the reader and my self, and if he be but pleased with what was produced for that end, my satisfaction follows of course, since it will be proportion'd to his approbation or dislike. incognita: or, love & duty reconcil'd aurelian was the only son to a principal gentleman of florence. the indulgence of his father prompted, and his wealth enabled him, to bestow a generous education upon him, whom, he now began to look upon as the type of himself; an impression he had made in the gayety and vigour of his youth, before the rust of age had debilitated and obscur'd the splendour of the original: he was sensible, that he ought not to be sparing in the adornment of him, if he had resolution to beautifie his own memory. indeed don fabio (for so was the old gentleman call'd) has been observ'd to have fix'd his eyes upon aurelian, when much company has been at table, and have wept through earnestness of intention, if nothing hapned to divert the object; whether it were for regret, at the recollection of his former self, or for the joy he conceiv'd in being, as it were, reviv'd in the person of his son, i never took upon me to enquire, but suppos'd it might be sometimes one, and sometimes both together. aurelian, at the age of eighteen years, wanted nothing (but a beard) that the most accomplished cavalier in florence could pretend to: he had been educated from twelve years old at siena, where it seems his father kept a receiver, having a large income from the rents of several houses in that town. don fabio gave his servant orders, that aurelian should not be stinted in his expences, when he came up to years of discretion. by which means he was enabled, not only to keep company with, but also to confer many obligations upon strangers of quality, and gentlemen who travelled from other countries into italy, of which siena never wanted store, being a town most delightfully situate, upon a noble hill, and very well suiting with strangers at first, by reason of the agreeableness and purity of the air: there also is the quaintness and delicacy of the italian tongue most likely to be learned, there being many publick professors of it in that place; and indeed the very vulgar of siena do express themselves with an easiness and sweetness surprizing, and even grateful to their ears who understand not the language. here aurelian contracted an acquaintance with persons of worth of several countries, but among the rest an intimacy with a gentleman of quality of spain, and nephew to the archbishop of toledo, who had so wrought himself into the affections of aurelian, through a conformity of temper, an equality in years, and something of resemblance in feature and proportion, that he look'd upon him as his second self. hippolito, on the other hand, was not ungrateful in return of friendship, but thought himself either alone or in ill company, if aurelian were absent: but his uncle having sent him to travel, under the conduct of a governour, and the two years which limited his stay at siena being expired, he was put in mind of his departure. his friend grew melancholy at the news, but considering that hippolito had never seen florence, he easily prevailed with him to make his first journey thither, whither he would accompany him, and perhaps prevail with his father to do the like throughout his travels. they accordingly set out, but not being able easily to reach florence the same night, they rested a league or two short, at a villa of the great duke's called poggio imperiale, where they were informed by some of his highness's servants, that the nuptials of donna catharina (near kinswoman to the great duke) and don ferdinand de rovori, were to be solemnized the next day, and that extraordinary preparations had been making for some time past, to illustrate the solemnity with balls and masques, and other divertisements; that a tilting had been proclaimed, and to that purpose scaffolds erected around the spacious court, before the church di santa croce, where were usually seen all cavalcades and shews, performed by assemblies of the young nobility: that all mechanicks and tradesmen were forbidden to work or expose any goods to sale for the space of three days; during which time all persons should be entertain'd at the great duke's cost; and publick provision was to be made for the setting forth and furnishing a multitude of tables, with entertainment for all comers and goers, and several houses appointed for that use in all streets. this account alarm'd the spirits of our young travellers, and they were overjoy'd at the prospect of pleasures they foresaw. aurelian could not contain the satisfaction he conceiv'd in the welcome fortune had prepar'd for his dear hippolito. in short, they both remembred so much of the pleasing relation had been made them, that they forgot to sleep, and were up as soon as it was light, pounding at poor signior claudio's door (so was hippolito's governour call'd) to rouse him, that no time might be lost till they were arriv'd at florence, where they would furnish themselves with disguises and other accoutrements necessary for the prosecution of their design of sharing in the publick merriment; the rather were they for going so early because aurelian did not think fit to publish his being in town for a time, least his father knowing of it, might give some restraint to that loose they designed themselves. before sun rise they entred florence at porta romana, attended only by two servants, the rest being left behind to avoid notice; but, alas! they needed not to have used half that caution; for early as it was, the streets were crowded with all sorts of people passing to and fro, and every man employ'd in something relating to the diversions to come; so that no notice was taken of any body; a marquess and his train might have pass'd by as unregarded as a single fachin or cobler. not a window in the streets but echoed the tuning of a lute or thrumming of a gitarr: for, by the way, the inhabitants of florence are strangely addicted to the love of musick, insomuch that scarce their children can go, before they can scratch some instrument or other. it was no unpleasing spectacle to our cavaliers (who, seeing they were not observ'd, resolved to make observations) to behold the diversity of figures and postures of many of these musicians. here you should have an affected vallet, who mimick'd the behaviour of his master, leaning carelessly against the window, with his head on one side, in a languishing posture, whining, in a low, mournful voice, some dismal complaint; while, from his sympathizing theorbo, issued a base no less doleful to the hearers. in opposition to him was set up perhaps a cobler, with the wretched skeleton of a gitarr, battered and waxed together by his own industry, and who with three strings out of tune, and his own tearing hoarse voice, would rack attention from the neighbourhood, to the great affliction of many more moderate practitioners, who, no doubt, were full as desirous to be heard. by this time aurelian's servant had taken a lodging and was returned, to give his master an account of it. the cavaliers grown weary of that ridiculous entertainment, which was diverting at first sight, retired whither the lacquey conducted them; who, according to their directions, had sought out one of the most obscure streets in the city. all that day, to the evening, was spent in sending from one brokers shop to another, to furnish them with habits, since they had not time to make any new. there was, it happened, but one to be got rich enough to please our young gentlemen, so many were taken up upon this occasion. while they were in dispute and complementing one another, (aurelian protesting that hippolito should wear it, and he, on 'tother hand, forswearing it as bitterly) a servant of hippolito's came up and ended the controversie; telling them, that he had met below with the vallet de chambre of a gentleman, who was one of the greatest gallants about the town, but was at this time in such a condition he could not possibly be at the entertainment; whereupon the vallet had designed to dress himself up in his master's apparel, and try his talent at court; which he hearing, told him he would inform him how he might bestow the habit for some time much more to his profit if not to his pleasure, so acquainted him with the occasion his master had for it. hippolito sent for the fellow up, who was not so fond of his design as not to be bought off it, but upon having his own demand granted for the use of it, brought it; it was very rich, and upon tryal, as fit for hippolito as if it had been made for him. the ceremony was performed in the morning, in the great dome, with all magnificence correspondent to the wealth of the great duke, and the esteem he had for the noble pair. the next morning was to be a tilting, and the same night a masquing ball at court. to omit the description of the universal joy, (that had diffus'd it self through all the conduits of wine, which convey'd it in large measures to the people) and only relate those effects of it which concern our present adventurers. you must know, that about the fall of the evening, and at that time when the _aequilibrium_ of day and night, for some time, holds the air in a gloomy suspence between an unwillingness to leave the light, and a natural impulse into the dominion of darkness, about this time our hero's, shall i say, sally'd or slunk out of their lodgings, and steer'd toward the great palace, whither, before they were arrived, such a prodigious number of torches were on fire, that the day, by help of these auxiliary forces, seem'd to continue its dominion; the owls and bats apprehending their mistake, in counting the hours, retir'd again to a convenient darkness; for madam night was no more to be seen than she was to be heard; and the chymists were of opinion, that her fuliginous damps, rarefy'd by the abundance of flame, were evaporated. now the reader i suppose to be upon thorns at this and the like impertinent digressions, but let him alone and he'll come to himself; at which time i think fit to acquaint him, that when i digress, i am at that time writing to please my self, when i continue the thread of the story, i write to please him; supposing him a reasonable man, i conclude him satisfied to allow me this liberty, and so i proceed. if our cavaliers were dazled at the splendour they beheld without doors, what surprize, think you, must they be in, when entering the palace they found even the lights there to be but so many foils to the bright eyes that flash'd upon 'em at every turn. a more glorious troop no occasion ever assembled; all the fair of florence, with the most accomplished cavaliers, were present; and however nature had been partial in bestowing on some better faces than others, art was alike indulgent to all, and industriously supplyed those defects she had left, giving some addition also to her greatest excellencies. every body appear'd well shap'd, as it is to be suppos'd, none who were conscious to themselves of any visible deformity would presume to come thither. their apparel was equally glorious, though each differing in fancy. in short, our strangers were so well bred, as to conclude from these apparent perfections, that there was not a masque which did not at least hide the face of a cherubim. perhaps the ladies were not behind hand in return of a favourable opinion of them: for they were both well dress'd, and had something inexpressibly pleasing in their air and mien, different from other people, and indeed differing from one another. they fansy'd that while they stood together they were more particularly taken notice of than any in the room, and being unwilling to be taken for strangers, which they thought they were, by reason of some whispering they observed near them, they agreed upon an hour of meeting after the company should be broke up, and so separately mingled with the thickest of the assembly. aurelian had fixed his eye upon a lady whom he had observ'd to have been a considerable time in close whisper with another woman; he expected with great impatience the result of that private conference, that he might have an opportunity of engaging the lady whose person was so agreeable to him. at last he perceived they were broke off, and the 'tother lady seem'd to have taken her leave. he had taken no small pains in the mean time to put himself in a posture to accost the lady, which, no doubt, he had happily performed had he not been interrupted; but scarce had he acquitted himself of a preliminary bow (and which, i have heard him say, was the lowest that ever he made) and had just opened his lips to deliver himself of a small complement, which, nevertheless he was very big with, when he unluckily miscarried, by the interposal of the same lady, whose departure, not long before, he had so zealously pray'd for: but, as providence would have it, there was only some very small matter forgot, which was recovered in a short whisper. the coast being again cleared, he took heart and bore up, and, striking sail, repeated his ceremony to the lady; who, having obligingly returned it, he accosted her in these or the like words: 'if i do not usurp a priviledge reserved for some one more happy in your acquaintance, may i presume, madam, to entreat (for a while) the favour of your conversation, at least till the arrival of whom you expect, provided you are not tired of me before; for then upon the least intimation of uneasiness, i will not fail of doing my self the violence to withdraw for your release. the lady made him answer, she did not expect any body; by which he might imagine her conversation not of value to be bespoke, and to afford it him, were but farther to convince him to her own cost. he reply'd, 'she had already said enough to convince him of something he heartily wished might not be to his cost in the end. she pretended not to understand him; but told him, 'if he already found himself grieved with her conversation, he would have sufficient reason to repent the rashness of his first demand before they had ended: for that now she intended to hold discourse with him, on purpose to punish his unadvisedness, in presuming upon a person whose dress and mien might not (may be) be disagreeable to have wit. 'i must confess (reply'd aurelian) my self guilty of a presumption, and willingly submit to the punishment you intend: and though it be an aggravation of a crime to persevere in its justification, yet i cannot help defending an opinion in which now i am more confirm'd, that probable conjectures may be made of the ingenious disposition of the mind, from the fancy and choice of apparel. the humour i grant ye (said the lady) or constitution of the person whether melancholick or brisk; but i should hardly pass my censure upon so slight an indication of wit: for there is your brisk fool as well as your brisk man of sense, and so of the melancholick. i confess 'tis possible a fool may reveal himself by his dress, in wearing something extravagantly singular and ridiculous, or in preposterous suiting of colours; but a decency of habit (which is all that men of best sense pretend to) may be acquired by custom and example, without putting the person to a superfluous expence of wit for the contrivance; and though there should be occasion for it, few are so unfortunate in their relations and acquaintance not to have some friend capable of giving them advice, if they are not too ignorantly conceited to ask it. aurelian was so pleased with the easiness and smartness of her expostulation, that he forgot to make a reply, when she seem'd to expect it; but being a woman of a quick apprehension, and justly sensible of her own perfections, she soon perceived he did not grudge his attention. however she had a mind to put it upon him to turn the discourse, so went on upon the same subject. 'signior (said she) i have been looking round me, and by your maxim i cannot discover one fool in the company; for they are all well drest. this was spoken with an air of rallery that awakened the cavalier, who immediately made answer: 'tis true, madam, we see there may be as much variety of good fancies as of faces, yet there may be many of both kinds borrowed and adulterate if inquired into; and as you were pleased to observe, the invention may be foreign to the person who puts it in practice; and as good an opinion as i have of an agreeable dress, i should be loth to answer for the wit of all about us. i believe you (says the lady) and hope you are convinced of your error, since you must allow it impossible to tell who of all this assembly did or did not make choice of their own apparel. not all (said aurelian) there is an ungainness in some which betrays them. 'look ye there (says he) pointing to a lady who stood playing with the tassels of her girdle, i dare answer for that lady, though she be very well dress'd, 'tis more than she knows. his fair unknown could not forbear laughing at his particular distinction, and freely told him, he had indeed light upon one who knew as little as any body in the room, her self excepted. ah! madam, (reply'd aurelian) you know every thing in the world but your own perfections, and you only know not those because 'tis the top of perfection not to know them. how? (reply'd the lady) i thought it had been the extremity of knowledge to know ones self. aurelian had a little over-strain'd himself in that complement, and i am of opinion would have been puzzl'd to have brought himself off readily: but by good fortune the musick came into the room and gave him an opportunity to seem to decline an answer, because the company prepared to dance: he only told her he was too mean a conquest for her wit who was already a slave to the charms of her person. she thanked him for his complement, and briskly told him she ought to have made him a return in praise of his wit, but she hoped he was a man more happy than to be dissatisfy'd with any of his own endowments; and if it were so, that he had not a just opinion of himself, she knew her self incapable of saying any thing to beget one. aurelian did not know well what to make of this last reply; for he always abhor'd any thing that was conceited, with which this seem'd to reproach him. but however modest he had been heretofore in his own thoughts, yet never was he so distrustful of his good behaviour as now, being rally'd so by a person whom he took to be of judgment: yet he resolved to take no notice, but with an air unconcerned and full of good humour entreated her to dance with him: she promised him to dance with no body else, nor i believe had she inclination; for notwithstanding her tartness, she was upon equal terms with him as to the liking of each others person and humour, and only gave those little hints to try his temper; there being certainly no greater sign of folly and ill breeding, than to grow serious and concerned at any thing spoken in rallery: for his part, he was strangely and insensibly fallen in love with her shape, wit and air; which, together with a white hand, he had seen (perhaps not accidentally) were enough to have subdued a more stubborn heart than ever he was master of; and for her face, which he had not seen, he bestowed upon her the best his imagination could furnish him with. i should by right now describe her dress, which was extreamly agreeable and rich, but 'tis possible i might err in some material pin or other, in the sticking of which may be the whole grace of the drapery depended. well, they danced several times together, and no less to the satisfaction of the whole company, than of themselves; for at the end of each dance, some publick note of applause or other was given to the graceful couple. aurelian was amaz'd, that among all that danced or stood in view he could not see hippolito; but concluding that he had met with some pleasing conversation, and was withdrawn to some retired part of the room, he forbore his search till the mirth of that night should be over, and the company ready to break up, where we will leave him for a while, to see what became of his adventurous friend. hippolito, a little after he had parted with aurelian, was got among a knot of ladies and cavaliers, who were looking upon a large gold cup set with jewels, in which his royal highness had drank to the prosperity of the new married couple at dinner, and which afterward he presented to his cousin donna catharina. he among the rest was very intent, admiring the richness, workmanship and beauty of the cup, when a lady came behind him and pulling him by the elbow, made a sign she would speak with him; hippolito, who knew himself an utter stranger to florence and every body in it, immediately guessed she had mistaken him for her acquaintance, as indeed it happened; however he resolved not to discover himself till he should be assured of it; having followed her into a set window remote from company, she address'd her self to him in this manner: 'signior don lorenzo (said she) i am overjoy'd to see you are so speedily recovered of your wounds, which by report were much more dangerous than to have suffered your coming abroad so soon; but i must accuse you of great indiscretion, in appearing in a habit which so many must needs remember you to have worn upon the like occasion not long ago, i mean at the marriage of don cynthio with your sister atalanta; i do assure you, you were known by it, both to juliana and my self, who was so far concerned for you, as to desire me to tell you, that her brother don fabritio (who saw you when you came in with another gentleman) had eyed you very narrowly, and is since gone out of the room, she knows not upon what design; however she would have you, for your own sake, be advised and circumspect when you depart this place, lest you should be set upon unawares; you know the hatred don fabritio has born you ever since you had the fortune to kill his kinsman in a duel: here she paused as if expecting his reply; but hippolito was so confounded, that he stood mute, and contemplating the hazard he had ignorantly brought himself into, forgot his design of informing the lady of her mistake. she finding he made her no answer, went on. 'i perceive (continued she) you are in some surprize at what i have related, and may be, are doubtful of the truth; but i thought you had been better acquainted with your cousin leonora's voice, than to have forgot it so soon: yet in complaisance to your ill memory, i will put you past doubt, by shewing you my face; with that she pulled off her mask, and discovered to hippolito (now more amaz'd than ever) the most angelick face that he had ever beheld. he was just about to have made her some answer, when, clapping on her mask again without giving him time, she happily for him pursu'd her discourse. (for 'tis odds but he had made some discovery of himself in the surprize he was in.) having taken him familiarly by the hand, now she had made her self known to him, 'cousin lorenzo (added she) you may perhaps have taken it unkindly, that, during the time of your indisposition by reason of your wounds, i have not been to visit you; i do assure you it was not for want of any inclination i had both to see and serve you to my power; but you are well acquainted with the severity of my father, whom you know how lately you have disobliged. i am mighty glad that i have met with you here, where i have had an opportunity to tell you what so much concerns your safety, which i am afraid you will not find in florence; considering the great power don fabritio and his father, the marquess of viterbo, have in this city. i have another thing to inform you of, that whereas don fabio had interested himself in your cause, in opposition to the marquess of viterbo, by reason of the long animosity between them, all hopes of his countenance and assistance are defeated: for there has been a proposal of reconciliation made to both houses, and it is said it will be confirm'd (as most such ancient quarrels are at last) by the marriage of juliana the marquess's daughter, with aurelian, son to don fabio: to which effect the old gentleman sent 'tother day to siena, where aurelian has been educated, to hasten his coming to town; but the messenger returning this morning, brought word, that the same day he arriv'd at siena, aurelian had set out for florence, in company with a young spanish nobleman, his intimate friend; so it is believ'd, they are both in town, and not unlikely in this room in masquerade. hippolito could not forbear smiling to himself, at these last words. for ever since the naming of don fabio he had been very attentive; but before, his thoughts were wholly taken up with the beauty of the face he had seen, and from the time she had taken him by the hand, a successive warmth and chillness had play'd about his heart, and surpriz'd him with an unusual transport. he was in a hundred minds, whether he should make her sensible of her error or no; but considering he could expect no farther conference with her after he should discover himself, and that as yet he knew not of her place of abode, he resolv'd to humour the mistake a little further. having her still by the hand, which he squeez'd somewhat more eagerly than is usual for cousins to do, in a low and undistinguishable voice, he let her know how much he held himself obliged to her, and avoiding as many words as handsomely he could, at the same time, entreated her to give him her advice, toward the management of himself in this affair. leonora, who never from the beginning had entertain'd the least scruple of distrust, imagined he spoke faintly, as not being yet perfectly recovered in his strength; and withal considering that the heat of the room, by reason of the crowd, might be uneasie to a person in his condition; she kindly told him, that if he were as inclinable to dispense with the remainder of that nights diversion as she was, and had no other engagement upon him, by her consent they should both steal out of the assembly, and go to her house, where they might with more freedom discourse about a business of that importance, and where he might take something to refresh himself if he were (as she conceiv'd him to be) indisposed with his long standing. judge you whether the proposal were acceptable to hippolito or no; he had been ruminating with himself how to bring something like this about, and had almost despair'd of it; when of a suddain he found the success of his design had prevented his own endeavours. he told his cousin in the same key as before, that he was unwilling to be the occasion of her divorce from so much good company; but for his own part, he was afraid he had presumed too much upon his recovery in coming abroad so soon, and that he found himself so unwell, he feared he should be quickly forc'd to retire. leonora stay'd not to make him any other reply, only tipp'd him upon the arm, and bid him follow her at a convenient distance to avoid observation. whoever had seen the joy that was in hippolito's countenance, and the sprightliness with which he follow'd his beautiful conductress, would scarce have taken him for a person griev'd with uncured wounds. she led him down a back pair of stairs, into one of the palace gardens which had a door opening into the piazza, not far from where don mario her father lived. they had little discourse by the way, which gave hippolito time to consider of the best way of discovering himself. a thousand things came into his head in a minute, yet nothing that pleased him: and after so many contrivances as he had formed for the discovery of himself, he found it more rational for him not to reveal himself at all that night, since he could not foresee what effect the surprize would have, she must needs be in, at the appearance of a stranger, whom she had never seen before, yet whom she had treated so familiarly. he knew women were apt to shriek or swoon upon such occasions, and should she happen to do either, he might be at a loss how to bring himself off. he thought he might easily pretend to be indisposed somewhat more than ordinary, and so make an excuse to go to his own lodging. it came into his head too, that under pretence of giving her an account of his health, he might enquire of her the means how a letter might be convey'd to her the next morning, wherein he might inform her gently of her mistake, and insinuate something of that passion he had conceiv'd, which he was sure he could not have opportunity to speak of if he bluntly revealed himself. he had just resolv'd upon this method, as they were come to the great gates of the court, when leonora stopping to let him go in before her, he of a suddain fetch'd his breath violently as if some stitch or twinging smart had just then assaulted him. she enquired the matter of him, and advised him to make haste into the house that he might sit down and rest him. he told her he found himself so ill, that he judged it more convenient for him to go home while he was in a condition to move, for he fear'd if he should once settle himself to rest he might not be able to stir. she was much troubled, and would have had a chair made ready and servants to carry him home; but he made answer, he would not have any of her fathers servants know of his being abroad, and that just now he had an interval of ease, which he hop'd would continue till he made a shift to reach his own lodgings. yet if she pleased to inform him how he might give an account of himself the next morning, in a line or two, he would not fail to give her the thanks due to her great kindness; and withal, would let her know something which would not a little surprize her, though now he had not time to acquaint her with it. she show'd him a little window at the corner of the house, where one should wait to receive his letter, and was just taking her leave of him, when seeing him search hastily in his pocket, she ask'd him if he miss'd any thing; he told her he thought a wound which was not throughly heal'd bled a little, and that he had lost his handkerchief. his design took; for she immediately gave him hers: which indeed accordingly he apply'd to the only wound he was then griev'd with; which though it went quite through his heart, yet thank god was not mortal. he was not a little rejoyc'd at his good fortune in getting so early a favour from his mistress, and notwithstanding the violence he did himself to personate a sick man, he could not forbear giving some symptoms of an extraordinary content; and telling her that he did not doubt to receive a considerable proportion of ease from the application of what had so often kiss'd her fair hand. leonora who did not suspect the compliment, told him she should be heartily glad if that or any thing in her power might contribute to his recovery; and wishing him well home, went into her house, as much troubled for her cousin as he was joyful for his mistress. hippolito as soon as she was gone in, began to make his remarks about the house, walking round the great court, viewing the gardens and all the passages leading to that side of the piazza. having sufficiently informed himself, with a heart full of love, and a head full of stratagem, he walked toward his lodging, impatient till the arrival of aurelian that he might give himself vent. in which interim, let me take the liberty to digress a little, and tell the reader something which i do not doubt he has apprehended himself long ago, if he be not the dullest reader in the world; yet only for orders sake, let me tell him i say, that a young gentleman (cousin to the aforesaid don fabritio) happened one night to have some words at a gameing house with one lorenzo, which created a quarrel of fatal consequence to the former, who was killed upon the spot, and likely to be so to the latter, who was very desperately wounded. fabritio being much concerned for his kinsman, vow'd revenge (according to the ancient and laudable custom of italy) upon lorenzo if he surviv'd, or in case of his death (if it should happen to anticipate that, much more swinging death which he had in store for him) upon his next of kin, and so to descend lineally like an english estate, to all the heirs males of this family. this same fabritio had indeed (as leonora told hippolito) taken particular notice of him from his first entrance into the room, and was so far doubtful as to go out immediately himself, and make enquiry concerning lorenzo, but was quickly inform'd of the greatness of his error, in believing a man to be abroad, who was so ill of his wounds, that they now despair'd of his recovery; and thereupon return'd to the ball very well satisfied, but not before leonora and hippolito were departed. so, reader, having now discharg'd my conscience of a small discovery which i thought my self obliged to make to thee, i proceed to tell thee, that our friend aurelian had by this time danced himself into a net which he neither could, nor which is worse desired to untangle. his soul was charm'd to the movement of her body: an air so graceful, so sweet, so easie and so great, he had never seen. she had something of majesty in her, which appear'd to be born with her; and though it struck an awe into the beholders, yet was it sweetned with a familiarity of behaviour, which rendred it agreeable to every body. the grandeur of her mien was not stiff, but unstudied and unforced, mixed with a simplicity; free, yet not loose nor affected. if the former seem'd to condescend, the latter seem'd to aspire; and both to unite in the centre of perfection. every turn she gave in dancing snatcht aurelian into a rapture, and he had like to have been out two or three times with following his eyes, which she led about as slaves to her heels. as soon as they had done dancing, he began to complain of his want of breath and lungs, to speak sufficiently in her commendation; she smilingly told him, he did ill to dance so much then: yet in consideration of the pains he had taken more than ordinary upon her account she would bate him a great deal of complement, but with this proviso, that he was to discover to her who he was. aurelian was unwilling for the present to own himself to be really the man he was; when a suddain thought came into his head to take upon him the name and character of hippolito, who he was sure was not known in florence. he thereupon, after a little pause, pretended to recal himself in this manner: 'madam, it is no small demonstration of the entire resignation which i have made of my heart to your chains, since the secrets of it are no longer in my power. i confess i only took florence in my way, not designing any longer residence, than should be requisite to inform the curiosity of a traveller, of the rareties of the place. whether happiness or misery will be the consequence of that curiosity, i am yet in fear, and submit to your determination; but sure i am, not to depart florence till you have made me the most miserable man in it, and refuse me the fatal kindness of dying at your feet. i am by birth a spaniard, of the city of toledo; my name hippolito di saviolina: i was yesterday a man free, as nature made the first; to day i am fallen into a captivity, which must continue with my life, and which, it is in your power, to make much dearer to me. thus in obedience to your commands, and contrary to my resolution of remaining unknown in this place, i have inform'd you, madam, what i am; what i shall be, i desire to know from you; at least, i hope, the free discovery i have made of my self, will encourage you to trust me with the knowledge of your person. here a low bow, and a deep sigh, put an end to his discourse, and signified his expectation of her reply, which was to this purpose--(but i had forgot to tell you, that aurelian kept off his mask from the time that he told her he was of spain, till the period of his relation.) had i thought (said she) that my curiosity would have brought me in debt, i should certainly have forborn it; or at least have agreed with you before hand about the rate of your discovery, then i had not brought my self to the inconveniency of being censur'd, either of too much easiness or reservedness; but to avoid, as much as i can, the extreamity of either, i am resolv'd but to discover my self in part, and will endeavour to give you as little occasion as i can, either to boast of, or ridicule the behaviour of the women of florence in your travels. aurelian interrupted her, and swore very solemnly (and the more heartily, i believe, because he then indeed spoke truth) that he would make florence the place of his abode, whatever concerns he had elsewhere. she advised him to be cautious how he swore to his expressions of gallantry; and farther told him she now hoped she should make him a return to all the fine things he had said, since she gave him his choice whether he would know who she was, or see her face. aurelian who was really in love, and in whom consideration would have been a crime, greedily embrac'd the latter, since she assured him at that time he should not know both. well, what follow'd? why, she pull'd off her mask, and appear'd to him at once in the glory of beauty. but who can tell the astonishment aurelian felt? he was for a time senseless; admiration had suppress'd his speech, and his eyes were entangled in light. i short, to be made sensible of his condition, we must conceive some idea of what he beheld, which is not to imagined till seen, nor then to be express'd. now see the impertinence and conceitedness of an author, who will have a fling at a description, which he has prefaced with an impossibility. one might have seen something in her composition resembling the formation of epicurus his world, as if every atome of beauty had concurr'd to unite an excellency. had that curious painter lived in her days, he might have avoided his painful search, when he collected from the choicest pieces the most choice features, and by a due disposition and judicious symmetry of those exquisite parts, made one whole and perfect venus. nature seem'd here to have play'd the plagiary, and to have molded into substance the most refined thoughts of inspired poets. her eyes diffus'd rays comfortable as warmth, and piercing as the light; they would have worked a passage through the straightest pores, and with a delicious heat, have play'd about the most obdurate frozen heart, untill 'twere melted down to love. such majesty and affability were in her looks; so alluring, yet commanding was her presence, that it minged awe with love; kindling a flame which trembled to aspire. she had danced much, which, together with her being close masked, gave her a tincture of carnation more than ordinary. but aurelian (from whom i had every tittle of her description) fancy'd he saw a little nest of cupids break from the tresses of her hair, and every one officiously betake himself to his task. some fann'd with their downy wings, her glowing cheeks; while others brush'd the balmy dew from off her face, leaving alone a heavenly moisture blubbing on her lips, on which they drank and revell'd for their pains; nay, so particular were their allotments in her service, that aurelian was very positive a young cupid who was but just pen-feather'd, employ'd his naked quills to pick her teeth. and a thousand other things his transport represented to him, which none but lovers who have experience of such visions will believe. as soon as he awaked and found his speech come to him, he employ'd it to this effect: ''tis enough that i have seen a divinity--nothing but mercy can inhabit these perfections--their utmost rigour brings a death preferable to any life, but what they give--use me, madam, as you please; for by your fair self, i cannot think a bliss beyond what now i feel--you wound with pleasure, and if you kill it must be with transport--ah! yet methinks to live--o heaven! to have life pronounced by those bless'd lips--did they not inspire where they command, it were an immediate death of joy. aurelian was growing a little too loud with his admiration, had she not just then interrupted him, by clapping on her masque, and telling him they should be observed, if he proceeded in his extravagance; and withal, that his passion was too suddain to be real, and too violent to be lasting. he replied, indeed it might not be very lasting, (with a submissive mournful voice) but it would continue during his life. that it was suddain, he denied, for she had raised it by degrees from his first sight of her, by a continued discovery of charms, in her mien and conversation, till she thought fit to set fire to the train she had laid, by the lightning of her face; and then he could not help it, if he were blown up. he begg'd her to believe the sincerity of his passion, at least to enjoin him something, which might tend to the convincing of her incredulity. she said, she should find a time to make some trials of him; but for the first, she charged him not to follow or observe her, after the dissolution of the assembly. he promised to obey, and entreated her to tell him but her name, that he might have recourse to that in his affliction for her absence, if he were able to survive it. she desired him to live by all means; and if he must have a name to play with, to call her incognita, till he were better informed. the company breaking up, she took her leave, and at his earnest entreaty, gave him a short vision of her face which, then dress'd in an obliging smile, caused another fit of transport, which lasted till she was gone out of sight. aurelian gathered up his spirits, and walked slowly towards his lodging, never remembring that he had lost hippolito, till upon turning the corner of a street, he heard a noise of fighting; and coming near, saw a man make a vigorous defence against two, who pressed violently upon him. he then thought of hippolito, and fancying he saw the glimmering of diamond buttons, such as hippolito had upon the sleeves of his habit, immediately drew to his assistance; and with that eagerness and resolution, that the assailants, finding their unmanly odds defeated, took to their heels. the person rescued by the generous help of aurelian, came toward him; but as he would have stoop'd to have saluted him, dropp'd, fainting at his feet. aurelian, now he was so near him, perceiv'd plainly hippolito's habit, and step'd hastily to take him up. just as some of the guards (who were going the rounds, apprehensive of such disorders in an universal merriment) came up to him with lights, and had taken prisoners the two men, whom they met with their sword's drawn; when looking in the face of the wounded man, he found it was not hippolito, but his governour claudio, in the habit he had worn at the ball. he was extreamly surpriz'd, as were the prisoners, who confess'd their design to have been upon lorenzo; grounding their mistake upon the habit which was known to have been his. they were two men who formerly had been servants to him, whom lorenzo had unfortunately slain. they made a shift to bring claudio to himself; and part of the guard carrying off the prisoners, whom aurelian desired they would secure, the rest accompanied him bearing claudio in their arms to his lodging. he had not patience to forbear asking for hippolito by the way; whom claudio assured him, he had left safe in his chamber, above two hours since. that his coming home so long before the divertisements were ended, and undressing himself, had given him the unhappy curiosity, to put on his habit, and go to the pallace; in his return from whence, he was set upon in the manner he found him, which if he recovered, he must own his life indebted to his timely assistance. being come to the house, they carried him to his bed, and having sent for surgeons aurelian rewarded and dismissed the guard. he stay'd the dressing of claudio's wounds, which were many, though they hop'd none mortal: and leaving him to his rest, went to give hippolito an account of what had happened, whom he found with a table before him, leaning upon both his elbows, his face covered with his hands, and so motionless, that aurelian concluded he was asleep; seeing several papers lie before him, half written and blotted out again, he thought to steal softly to the table, and discover what he had been employed about. just as he reach'd forth his hand to take up one of the papers, hippolito started up so on the suddain, as surpriz'd aurelian and made him leap back; hippolito, on the other hand, not supposing that any body had been near him, was so disordered with the appearance of a man at his elbow, (whom his amazement did not permit him to distinguish) that he leap'd hastily to his sword, and in turning him about, overthrew the stand and candles. here were they both left in the dark, hippolito groping about with his sword, and thrusting at every chair that he felt oppose him. aurelian was scarce come to himself, when thinking to step back toward the door that he might inform his friend of his mistake, without exposing himself to his blind fury; hippolito heard him stir, and made a full thrust with such violence, that the hilt of the sword meeting with aurelian's breast beat him down, and hippolito a top of him, as a servant alarm'd with the noise, came into the chamber with a light. the fellow trembled, and thought they were both dead, till hippolito raising himself, to see whom he had got under him, swoon'd away upon the discovery of his friend. but such was the extraordinary care of providence in directing the sword, that it only past under his arm, giving no wound to aurelia, but a little bruise between his shoulder and breast with the hilt. he got up, scarce recovered of his fright, and by the help of the servant; laid hippolito upon the bed; who when he was come to himself could hardly be perswaded, that his friend was before him and alive, till he shew'd him his breast, where was nothing of a wound. hippolito begg'd his pardon a thousand times, and curs'd himself as often, who was so near to committing the most execrable act of amicide. they dismiss'd the fellow, and with many embraces, congratulated their fortunate delivery from the mischief which came so near them, each blaming himself as the occasion: aurelian accusing his own unadvisedness in stealing upon hippolito; hippolito blaming his own temerity and weakness, in being so easily frighted to disorder; and last of all, his blindness, in not knowing his dearest friend. but there he gave a sigh, and passionately taking aurelian by the hand, cry'd, ah! my friend, love is indeed blind, when it would not suffer me to see you--there arose another sigh; a sympathy seiz'd aurelian immediately: (for, by the way, sighing is as catching among lovers, as yawning among the vulgar.) beside hearing the name of love, made him fetch such a sigh, that hippolito's were but fly-blows in comparison, that was answered with all the might hippolito had, aurelian ply'd him close till they were both out of breath. thus not a word pass'd, though each wondred why the t'other sigh'd, at last concluded it to be only complaisance to one another. aurelian broke the silence, by telling him the misfortune of his governour. hippolito rejoic'd as at the luckiest accident which could have befall'n him. aurelian wondred at his unseasonable mirth, and demanded the cause of it; he answer'd, it would necessitate his longer stay in florence, and for ought he knew be the means of bringing a happy period to his amour. his friend thought him to be little better than a madman, when he perceiv'd him of a suddain snatch out of his bosom a handkerchief, which having kiss'd with a great deal of ardour, he took aurelian by the hand, and smiling at the surprize he saw him in; 'your florentine cupid is certainly (said he) 'the most expert in the world. i have since i saw you beheld the most beautiful of women. i am faln desperately in love with her, and those papers which you see so blotted and scattered, are but so many essays which i have made to the declaration of my passion. and this handkerchief which i so zealously caress, is the inestimable token which i have to make my self known to her. 'o leonora! (continued he) 'how hast thou stamp'd thine image on my soul! how much dearer am i to my self, since i have had thy heavenly form in keeping! now, my aurelian, i am worthy thee; my exalted love has dignified me, and rais'd me far above thy poor former despicable hippolito. aurelian seeing the rapture he was in, thought it in vain to expect a settled relation of the adventure, so was reaching to the table for some of the papers, but hippolito told him, if he would have a little patience he would acquaint him with the whole matter; and thereupon told him word for word how he was mistaken for lorenzo, and his management of himself. aurelian commended his prudence, in not discovering himself; and told him, if he could spare so much time from the contemplation of his mistress, he would inform him of an adventure, though not so accidental, yet of as great concern to his own future happiness. so related all that had happened to him with his beautiful incognita. having ended the story, they began to consider of the means they were to use toward a review of their mistresses. aurelian was confounded at the difficulty he conceived on his part. he understood from hippolito's adventure, that his father knew of his being in town, whom he must unavoidably disoblige if he yet concealed himself, and disobey if he came into his sight; for he had already entertain'd an aversion for juliana, in apprehension of her being imposed on him. his incognita was rooted in his heart, yet could he not comfort himself with any hopes when he should see her: he knew not where she lived, and she had made him no promise of a second conference. then did he repent his inconsiderate choice, in preferring the momentary vision of her face, to a certain intelligence of her person. every thought that succeeded distracted him, and all the hopes he could presume upon, were within compass of the two days merriment yet to come; for which space he hop'd he might excuse his remaining conceal'd to his father. hippolito on the other side (though aurelian thought him in a much better way) was no less afflicted for himself. the difficulties which he saw in his friend's circumstances, put him upon finding out a great many more in his own, than really there were. but what terrified him most of all, was his being an utter stranger to leonora; she had not the least knowledge of him but through mistake, and consequently could form no idea of him to his advantage. he look'd upon it as an unlucky thought in aurelian to take upon him his name, since possibly the two ladies were acquainted, and should they communicate to each other their adventures; they might both reasonably suffer in their opinions, and be thought guilty of falshood, since it would appear to them as one person pretending to two. aurelian told him, there was but one remedy for that, which was for hippolito, in the same manner that he had done, to make use of his name, when he writ to leonora, and use what arguments he could to perswade her to secrecy, least his father should know of the reason which kept him concealed in town. and it was likely, though perhaps she might not immediately entertain his passion; yet she would out of generosity conceal, what was hidden only for her sake. well this was concluded on, after a great many other reasons used on either side, in favour of the contrivance; they at last argued themselves into a belief, that fortune had befriended them with a better plot, than their regular thinking could have contriv'd. so soon had they convinc'd themselves, in what they were willing to believe. aurelian laid himself down to rest, that is, upon the bed; for he was a better lover than to pretend to sleep that night, while hippolito set himself again to frame his letter design'd for leonora. he writ several, at last pitched upon one, and very probably the worst, as you may guess when you read it in its proper place. it was break of day when the servant, who had been employed all the foregoing day in procuring accoutrements for the two cavaliers, to appear in at the tilting, came into the room, and told them all the young gentlemen in the town were trying their equipage, and preparing to be early in the lists. they made themselves ready with all expedition at the alarm: and hippolito having made a visit to his governour, dispatch'd a messenger with the letter and directions to leonora. at the signal agreed upon the casement was opened and a string let down, to which the bearer having fastned the letter, saw it drawn up, and returned. it were a vain attempt to describe leonora's surprize, when she read the superscription.--the unfortunate aurelian, to the beautiful leonora--after she was a little recovered from her amaze, she recollected to her self all the passages between her and her supposed cousin, and immediately concluded him to be aurelian. then several little circumstances which she thought might have been sufficient to have convinced her, represented themselves to her; and she was in a strange uneasiness to think of her free carriage to a stranger. she was once in a mind to have burn'd the letter, or to have stay'd for an opportunity to send it again. but she was a woman, and her curiosity opposed it self to all thoughts of that nature: at length with a firm resolution, she opened it, and found word for word, what is underwritten. the letter. madam, if your fair eyes, upon the breaking up of this, meet with somewhat too quick a surprize, make thence, i beseech you, some reflection upon the condition i must needs have been in, at the suddain appearance of that sun of beauty, which at once shone so full upon my soul. i could not immediately disengage my self from that maze of charms, to let you know how unworthy a captive your eyes had made through mistake. sure, madam, you cannot but remember my disorder, of which your innocent (innocent, though perhaps to me fatal) error made a charitable (but wide) construction. your tongue pursued the victory of your eyes, and you did not give me time to rally my poor disordered senses, so as to make a tolerable retreat. pardon, madam, the continuation of the deceipt, and call it not so, that i appear'd to be other than my self; for heaven knows i was not then my self, nor am i now my own. you told me something that concern'd me nearly, as to a marriage my father design'd me, and much more nearly in being told by you. for heaven's sake, disclose not to any body your knowledge of me, that i may not be forced to an immediate act of disobedience; for if my future services and inviolate love, cannot recommend me to your favour, i shall find more comfort in the cold embraces of a grave, than in the arms of the never so much admired (but by me dreaded) juliana. think, madam, of those severe circumstances i lie under; and withal i beg you, think it is in your power, and only in your power, to make them happy as my wishes, or much more miserable than i am able to imagine. that dear, inestimable (though undesign'd) favour which i receiv'd from you, shall this day distinguish me from the crowd of your admirers; that which i really applied to my inward bleeding wound, the welcom wound which you have made, and which, unless from you, does wish no cure; then pardon and have pity on, o adored leonora, him, who is your's by creation as he is heaven's, though never so unworthy. have pity on your aurelian. she read the letter over and over, then flung it by, then read it again; the novelty of the adventure made her repeat her curiosity, and take more than ordinary pains to understand it. at last her familiarity with the expressions grew to an intimacy, and what she at first permitted she now began to like. she thought there was something in it a little more serious, than to be barely gallantry. she wondred at her own blindness, and fancy'd she could remember something of a more becoming air in the stranger than was usual to lorenzo. this thought was parent to another of the same kind, till a long chain successively had birth, and every one somewhat more than other, in favour of the supposed aurelian. she reflected upon his discretion, in deferring the discovery of himself, till a little time had, as it were, weaned her from her perswasion, and by removing her farther from her mistake, had prepared her for a full and determinate convincement. she thought his behaviour, in personating a sick man so readily, upon the first hint was not amiss, and smil'd to think of his excuse to procure her handkerchief; and last of all, his sifting out the means to write to her, which he had done with that modesty and respect, she could not tell how to find fault with it. she had proceeded thus far in a maze of thought, when she started to find her self so lost to her reason, and would have trod back again that path of deluding fancy; accusing her self of fondness, and inconsiderate easiness, in giving credit to the letter of a person whose face she never saw, and whose first acquaintance with her was a treachery, and he who could so readily deliver his tongue of a lye upon a surprize, was scarce to be trusted when he had sufficient time allow'd him to beget a fiction, and means to perfect the birth. how did she know this to be aurelian, if he were? nay farther, put it to the extremity, what if she should upon farther conversation with him proceed to love him? what hopes were there for her? or how could she consent to marry a man already destined for another woman? nay, a woman that was her friend, whose marrying with him was to compleat the happy reconciliation of two noble families, and which might prevent the effusion of much blood likely to be shed in that quarrel: besides, she should incurr share of the guilt, which he would draw upon him by disobedience to his father, whom she was sure would not be consenting to it. 'tis strange now, but all accounts agree, that just here leonora, who had run like a violent stream against aurelian hitherto, now retorted with as much precipitation in his favour. i could never get any body to give me a satisfactory reason, for her suddain and dextrous change of opinion just at that stop, which made me conclude she could not help it; and that nature boil'd over in her at that time when it had so fair an opportunity to show it self: for leonora it seems was a woman beautiful, and otherwise of an excellent disposition; but in the bottom a very woman. this last objection, this opportunity of perswading man to disobedience, determined the matter in favour of aurelian, more than all his excellencies and qualifications, take him as aurelian, or hippolito, or both together. well, the spirit of contradiction and of eve was strong in her; and she was in a fair way to love aurelian, for she lik'd him already; that it was aurelian she no longer doubted, for had it been a villain, who had only taken his name upon him for any ill designs, he would never have slip'd so favourable an opportunity as when they were alone and in the night coming through the garden and broad space before the piazza. in short, thus much she resolv'd, at least to conceal the knowledge she had of him, as he had entreated her in his letter, and to make particular remarks of his behaviour that day in the lists, which should it happen to charm her with an absolute liking of his person, she resolv'd to dress her self to the best advantage, and mustering up all her graces, out of pure revenge to kill him down right. i would not have the reader now be impertinent, and look upon this to be force, or a whim of the author's, that a woman should proceed so far in her approbation of a man whom she never saw, that it is impossible, therefore ridiculous to suppose it. let me tell such a critick, that he knows nothing of the sex, if he does not know that woman may be taken with the character and description of a man, when general and extraordinary, that she may be prepossess'd with an agreeable idea of his person and conversation; and though she cannot imagine his real features, or manner of wit, yet she has a general notion of what is call'd a fine gentleman, and is prepar'd to like such a one who does not disagree with that character. aurelian, as he bore a very fair character, so was he extreamly deserving to make it good, which otherways might have been to his prejudice; for oftentimes, through an imprudent indulgence to our friends merit, we give so large a description of his excellencies, that people make more room in their expectation, than the intrinsick worth of the man will fill, which renders him so much the more despicable as there is emptyness to spare. 'tis certain, though the women seldom find that out; for though they do not see so much in a man as was promised, yet they will be so kind to imagine he has some hidden excellencies; which time may discover to them, so are content to allow, him a considerable share of their esteem, and take him into favour upon tick. aurelian as he had good credit, so he had a good stock to support it, and his person was a good promising security for the payment of any obligation he could lie under to the fair sex. hippolito, who at this time was our aurelian, did not at all lessen him in appearing for him: so that although leonora was indeed mistaken, she could not be said to be much in the wrong. i could find in my heart to beg the reader's pardon for this digression, if i thought he would be sensible of the civility; for i promise him, i do not intend to do it again throughout the story, though i make never so many, and though he take them never so ill. but because i began this upon a bare supposition of his impertinence, which might be somewhat impertinent in me to suppose, i do, and hope to make him amends by telling him, that by the time leonora was dress'd, several ladies of her acquaintance came to accompany her to the place designed for the tilting, where we will leave them drinking chocholate till 'tis time for them to go. our cavaliers had by good fortune provided themselves of two curious suits of light armour, finely enammelled and gilt. hippolito had sent to poggio imperiale for a couple of fine led horses which he had left there with the rest of his train at his entrance into florence. mounted on these and every way well equipt, they took their way, attended only by two lacqueys, toward the church di santa croce, before which they were to perform their exercises of chivalry. hippolito wore upon his helm a large plume of crimson feathers, in the midst of which was artificially placed leonora's handkerchief. his armour was gilt, and enammell'd with green and crimson. aurelian was not so happy as to wear any token to recommend him to the notice of his mistress, so had only a plume of sky- colour and white feathers, suitable to his armour, which was silver enammelled with azure. i shall not describe the habits of any other cavaliers, or of the ladies; let it suffice to tell the reader they were all very fine and very glorious, and let him dress them in what is most agreeable to his own fancy. our gallants entred the lists, and having made their obeysance to his highness, turned round to salute and view the company. the scaffold was circular, so that there was no end of the delightful prospect. it seem'd a glory of beauty which shone around the admiring beholders. our lovers soon perceived the stars which were to rule their destiny, which sparkled a lustre beyond all the inferiour constellations, and seem'd like two suns to distribute light to all the planets in that heavenly sphere. leonora knew her slave by his badge and blushed till the lilies and roses in her cheeks had resemblance to the plume of crimson and white handkerchief in hippolito's crest. he made her a low bow, and reined his horse back with an extraordinary grace, into a respectful retreat. aurelian saw his angel, his beautiful incognita, and had no other way to make himself known to her, but by saluting and bowing to her after the spanish mode; she guess'd him by it to be her new servant hippolito, and signified her apprehension, by making him a more particular and obliging return, than to any of the cavaliers who had saluted her before. the exercise that was to be perform'd was in general a running at the ring; and afterwards two cavaliers undertook to defend the beauty of donna catharina, against all who would not allow her preheminence of their mistresses. this thing was only designed for show and form, none presuming that any body would put so great an affront upon the bride and duke's kinswoman, as to dispute her pretentions to the first place in the court of venus. but here our cavaliers were under a mistake; for seeing a large shield carry'd before two knights, with a lady painted upon it; not knowing who, but reading the inscription which was (in large gold letters) above the insolence of competition. they thought themselves obliged, especially in the presence of their mistresses, to vindicate their beauty; and were just spurring on to engage the champions, when a gentleman stopping them, told them their mistake, that it was the picture of donna catharina, and a particular honour done to her by his highness's commands, and not to be disputed. upon this they would have returned to their post, much concerned for their mistake; but notice being taken by don ferdinand of some show of opposition that was made, he would have begged leave of the duke, to have maintained his lady's honour against the insolence of those cavaliers; but the duke would by no means permit it. they were arguing about it when one of them came up, before whom the shield was born, and demanded his highness's permission, to inform those gentlemen better of their mistake, by giving them the foyl. by the intercession of don ferdinand, leave was given them; whereupon a civil challenge was sent to the two strangers, informing them of their error, and withal telling them they must either maintain it by force of arms, or make a publick acknowledgment by riding bare headed before the picture once round the lists. the stranger-cavaliers remonstrated to the duke how sensible they were of their error, and though they would not justifie it, yet they could not decline the combate, being pressed to it beyond an honourable refusal. to the bride they sent a complement, wherein, having first begg'd her pardon for not knowing her picture, they gave her to understand, that now they were not about to dispute her undoubted right to the crown of beauty, but the honour of being her champions was the prize they fought for, which they thought themselves as able to maintain as any other pretenders. wherefore they pray'd her, that if fortune so far befriended their endeavours as to make them victors, that they might receive no other reward, but to be crown'd with the titles of their adversaries, and be ever after esteem'd as her most humble servants. the excuse was so handsomely designed, and much better express'd than it is here, that it took effect. the duke, don ferdinand and his lady were so well satisfied with it as to grant their request. while the running at the ring lasted, our cavaliers alternately bore away great share of the honour. that sport ended, marshals were appointed for the field, and every thing in great form settled for the combat. the cavaliers were all in good earnest, but orders were given to bring 'em blunted lances, and to forbid the drawing of a sword upon pain of his highness's displeasure. the trumpets sounded and they began their course: the ladies' hearts, particularly the incognita and leonora's beat time to the horses hoofs, and hope and fear made a mock fight within their tender breasts, each wishing and doubting success where she lik'd: but as the generality of their prayers were for the graceful strangers, they accordingly succeeded. aurelian's adversary was unhorsed in the first encounter, and hippolito's lost both stirrups and dropt his lance to save himself. the honour of the field was immediately granted to them, and don catharina sent them both favours, which she pray'd them to wear as her knights. the crowd breaking up, our cavaliers made a shift to steal off unmarked, save by the watchful leonora and incognita, whose eyes were never off from their respective servants. there was enquiry made for them, but to no purpose; for they to prevent their being discovered had prepared another house, distant from their lodging, where a servant attended to disarm them, and another carried back their horses to the villa, while they walked unsuspected to their lodging; but incognita had given command to a page to dog 'em till the evening, at a distance, and bring her word where they were latest housed. while several conjectures pass'd among the company, who were all gone to dinner at the palace, who those cavaliers should be, don fabio thought himself the only man able to guess; for he knew for certain that his son and hippolito were both in town, and was well enough pleased with his humour of remaining incognito till the diversions should be over, believing then that the surprize of his discovery would add much to the gallantry he had shown in masquerade; but hearing the extraordinary liking that every body express'd, and in a particular manner, the great duke himself, to the persons and behaviour of the unknown cavaliers, the old gentleman could not forbear the vanity to tell his highness, that he believed he had an interest in one of the gentlemen, whom he was pleased to honour with so favourable a character; and told him what reason he had to believe the one to be his son, and the other a spanish nobleman, his friend. this discovery having thus got vent, was diffused like air; every body suck'd it in, and let it out again with their breath to the next they met withal; and in half an hours time it was talked of in the house where our adventurers were lodged. aurelian was stark mad at the news, and knew what search would be immediately made for him. hippolito, had he not been desperately in love, would certainly have taken horse and rid out of town just then, for he could make no longer doubt of being discovered, and he was afraid of the just exceptions leonora might make to a person who had now deceived her twice. well, we will leave them both fretting and contriving to no purpose, to look about and see what was done at the palace, where their doom was determined much quicker than they imagined. dinner ended, the duke retired with some chosen friends to a glass of wine; among whom were the marquess of viterbo and don fabio. his highness was no stranger to the long fewd that had been between the two families, and also understood what overtures of reconciliation had been lately made, with the proposals of marriage between aurelian and the marquess's daughter. having waited till the wine had taken the effect proposed, and the company were raised to an uncommon pitch of chearfulness, which he also encouraged by an example of freedom and good humour, he took an opportunity of rallying the two grave signiors into an accommodation: that was seconded with the praises of the young couple, and the whole company joined in a large encomium upon the graces of aurelian and the beauties of juliana. the old fellows were tickled with delight to hear their darlings so admired, which the duke perceiving, out of a principle of generosity and friendship, urged the present consummation of the marriage; telling them there was yet one day of publick rejoycing to come, and how glad he should be to have it improved by so acceptable an alliance; and what an honour it would be to have his cousin's marriage attended by the conjunction of so extraordinary a pair, the performance of which ceremony would crown the joy that was then in agitation, and make the last day vie for equal glory and happiness with the first. in short, by the complaisant and perswasive authority of the duke, the dons were wrought into a compliance, and accordingly embraced and shook hands upon the matter. this news was dispersed like the former, and don fabio gave orders for the enquiring out his son's lodging, that the marquess and he might make him a visit, as soon as he had acquainted juliana with his purpose, that she might prepare her self. he found her very chearful with donna catharina and several other ladies; whereupon the old gentleman, pretty well warmed with the duke's goodfellowship, told her aloud he was come to crown their mirth with another wedding; that his highness had been pleased to provide a husband for his daughter, and he would have her provide her self to receive him to-morrow. all the company at first, as well as juliana her self, thought he had rally'd, till the duke coming in confirmed the serious part of his discourse. juliana was confounded at the haste that was imposed on her, and desired a little time to consider what she was about. but the marquess told her, she should have all the rest of her life to consider in; that aurelian should come and consider with her in the morning, if she pleased; but in the mean time, he advised her to go home and call her maids to counsel. juliana took her leave of the company very gravely, as if not much delighted with her father's rallery. leonora happened to be by, and heard all that passed; she was ready to swoon, and found her self seized with a more violent passion than ever for aurelian: now upon her apprehensions of losing him, her active fancy had brought him before her with all the advantages imaginable, and though she had before found great tenderness in her inclination toward him, yet was she somewhat surprized to find she really lov'd him. she was so uneasie at what she had heard, that she thought it convenient to steal out of the presence and retire to her closet, to bemoan her unhappy helpless condition. our two cavalier-lovers had rack'd their invention till it was quite disabled, and could not make discovery of one contrivance more for their relief. both sat silent, each depending upon his friend, and still expecting when t'other should speak. night came upon them while they sate thus thoughtless, or rather drowned in thought; but a servant bringing lights into the room awakened them: and hippolito's speech, usher'd by a profound sigh, broke silence. 'well! (said he) what must we do, aurelian? we must suffer, replied aurelian faintly. when immediately raising his voice, he cry'd out, 'oh ye unequal powers, why do ye urge us to desire what ye doom us to forbear; give us a will to chuse, then curb us with a duty to restrain that choice! cruel father, will nothing else suffice! am i to be the sacrifice to expiate your offences past; past ere i was born? were i to lose my life, i'd gladly seal your reconcilement with my blood. 'but oh my soul is free, you have no title to my immortal being, that has existence independent of your power; and must i lose my love, the extract of that being, the joy, light, life, and darling of my soul? no, i'll own my flame, and plead my title too.--but hold, wretched aurelian, hold, whither does thy passion hurry thee? alas! the cruel fair incognita loves thee not! she knows not of thy love! if she did, what merit hast thou to pretend?--only love.--excess of love. and all the world has that. all that have seen her. yet i had only seen her once, and in that once i lov'd above the world; nay, lov'd beyond my self, such vigorous flame, so strong, so quick she darted at my breast; it must rebound, and by reflection, warm her self. ah! welcome thought, lovely deluding fancy, hang still upon my soul, let me but think, that once she loves and perish my despair. here a suddain stop gave a period also to hippolito's expectation, and he hoped now that his friend had given his passion so free a vent, he might recollect and bethink himself of what was convenient to be done; but aurelia, as if he had mustered up all his spirits purely to acquit himself of that passionate harangue, stood mute and insensible like an alarum clock, that had spent all its force in one violent emotion. hippolito shook him by the arm to rouze him from his lethargy, when his lacquey coming into the room, out of breath, told him there was a coach just stopp'd at the door, but he did not take time to who came in it. aurelian concluded immediately it was his father in quest of him; and without saying any more to hippolito, than that he was ruined if discovered, took his sword and slipp'd down a back pair of stairs into the garden, from whence he conveyed himself into the street. hippolito had not bethought himself what to do, before he perceiv'd a lady come into the chamber close veil'd, and make toward him. at the first appearance of a woman, his imagination flattered him with a thought of leonora; but that was quickly over upon nearer approach to the lady, who had much the advantage in stature of his mistress. he very civilly accosted her, and asked if he were the person to whom the honour of that visit was intended. she said, her business was with don hippolito di saviolina, to whom she had matter of concern to import, and which required haste. he had like to have told her, that he was the man, but by good chance reflecting upon his friend's adventure, who had taken his name, he made answer, that he believed don hippolito not far off, and if she had a moments patience he would enquire for him. he went out, leaving the lady in the room, and made search all round the house and garden for aurelian, but to no purpose. the lady impatient of his long stay took a pen and ink and some paper which she found upon the table, and had just made an end of her letter, when hearing a noise of more than one coming up stairs, she concluded his friend had found him, and that her letter would be to no purpose, so tore it in pieces, which she repented; when turning about, she found her mistake, and beheld don fabio and the marquess of viterbo just entring at the door. she gave a shriek at the surprize of their appearance, which much troubled the old gentlemen, and made them retire in confusion for putting a gentlewoman into such a fright. the marquess thinking they had been misinformed, or had mistaken the lodgings, came forward again, and made an apology to the lady for their errour; but she making no reply, walk'd directly by him down stairs and went into her coach, which hurried her away as speedily as the horses were able to draw. the dons were at a loss what to think, when, hippolito coming into the room to give the lady an account of his errant, was no less astonished to find she was departed, and had left two old signiors in her stead. he knew don fabio's face, for aurelian had shewn him his father at the tilting; but being confident he was not known to him, he ventur'd to ask him concerning a lady whom just now he had left in that chamber. don fabio told him, she was just gone down, and doubted they had been guilty of a mistake, in coming to enquire for a couple of gentlemen whom they were informed were lodged in that house; he begg'd his pardon if he had any relation to that lady, and desired to know if he could give them any account of the persons they sought for. hippolito made answer, he was a stranger in the place, and only a servant to that lady whom they had disturb'd, and whom he must go and seek out. and in this perplexity he left them, going again in search of aurelian, to inform him of what had passed. the old gentlemen at last meeting with a servant of the house, were directed to signior claudio's chamber, where they were no sooner entered but aurelian came into the house. a servant who had skulk'd for him by hippolito's order, followed him up into the chamber, and told him who was with claudio then making enquiry for him. he thought that to be no place for him, since claudio must needs discover all the truth to his father; wherefore he left directions with the servant, where hippolito should meet him in the morning. as he was going out of the room he espied the torn paper, which the lady had thrown upon the floor: the first piece he took up had incognita written upon it; the sight of which so alarum'd him, he scarce knew what he was about; but hearing a noise of a door opening over head, with as much care as was consistent with the haste he was then in, he gathered up scattered pieces of paper, and betook himself to a ramble. coming by a light which hung at the corner of a street, he join'd the torn papers and collected thus much, that incognita had written the note, and earnestly desired (if there were any reality in what he pretended to her) to meet her at twelve a clock that night at a convent gate; but unluckily the bit of paper which should have mentioned what convent, was broken off and lost. here was a large subject for aurelian's passion, which he did not spare to pour forth in abundance of curses on his stars. so earnest was he in the contemplation of his misfortunes, that he walk'd on unwittingly; till at length silence (and such as was only to be found in that part the town, whither his unguided steps had carried him) surpriz'd his attention. i say, a profound silence rouzed him from his thought; and a clap of thunder could have done no more. now because it is possible this at some time or other may happen to be read by some malicious or ignorant person, (no reflection upon the present reader) who will not admit, or does not understand that silence should make a man start; and have the same effect, in provoking his attention, with its opposite noise; i will illustrate this matter, to such a diminutive critick, by a parallel instance of light; which though it does chiefly entertain the eyes, and is indeed the prime object of the sight, yet should it immediately cease, to have a man left in the dark by a suddain deficiency of it, would make him stare with his eyes, and though he could not see, endeavour to look about him. why just thus did it fare with our adventurer; who seeming to have wandred both into the dominions of silence and of night, began to have some tender for his own safety, and would willingly have groped his way back again; when he heard a voice, as from a person whose breath had been stopp'd by some forcible oppression, and just then, by a violent effort, was broke through the restraint.--'yet--yet--(again reply'd the voice, still struggling for air,) 'forbear--and i'll forgive what's past--i have done nothing yet that needs a pardon, (says another) and what is to come, will admit of none. here the person who seemed to be the oppressed, made several attempts to speak, but they were only inarticulate sounds, being all interrupted and choaked in their passage. aurelian was sufficiently astonish'd, and would have crept nearer to the place whence he guessed the voice to come; but he was got among the runes of an old monastery, and could not stir so silently, but some loose stones he met with made a rumbling. the noise alarm'd both parties; and as it gave comfort to the one, it so terrified the t'other, that he could not hinder the oppressed from calling for help. aurelian fancy'd it was a woman's voice, and immediately drawing his sword, demanded what was the matter; he was answered with the appearance of a man, who had opened a dark lanthorn which he had by him, and came toward him with a pistol in his hand ready cock'd. aurelian seeing the irresistable advantage his adversary had over him, would fain have retired; and, by the greatest providence in the world, going backwards fell down over some loose stones that lay in his way, just in that instant of time when the villain fired his pistol, who seeing him fall, concluded he had shot him. the crys of the afflicted person were redoubled at the tragical sight, which made the murderer, drawing a poniard, to threaten him, that the next murmur should be his last. aurelian, who was scarce assured that he was unhurt, got softly up; and coming near enough to perceive the violence that was used to stop the injured man's mouth; (for now he saw plainly it was a man) cry'd out,--turn, villain, and look upon thy death.--the fellow amazed at the voice, turn'd about to have snatch'd up the lanthorn from the ground; either to have given light only to himself, or to have put out the candle, that he might have made his escape; but which of the two he designed, no body could tell but himself: and if the reader have a curiosity to know, he must blame aurelian; who thinking there could be no foul play offered to such a villain, ran him immediately through the heart, so that he drop'd down dead at his feet, without speaking a word. he would have seen who the person was he had thus happily delivered, but the dead body had fallen upon the lanthorn, which put out the candle: however coming up toward him, he ask'd him how he did, and bid him be of good heart; he was answered with nothing but prayers, blessings and thanks, called a thousand deliverers, good genius's and guardian angels. and the rescued would certainly have gone upon his knees to have worshipped him, had he not been bound hand and foot; which aurelian understanding, groped for the knots, and either untied them or cut them asunder; but 'tis more probable the latter, because more expeditious. they took little heed what became of the body which they left behind them, and aurelian was conducted from out the ruins by the hand of him he had delivered. by a faint light issuing from the just rising moon, he could discern that it was a youth; but coming into a more frequented part of the town, where several lights were hung out, he was amaz'd at the extream beauty which appeared in his face, though a little pale and disordered with his late fright. aurelian longed to hear the story of so odd an adventure, and entreated his charge to tell it him by the way; but he desired him to forbear till they were come into some house or other, where he might rest and recover his tired spirits, for yet he was so faint he was unable to look up. aurelian thought these last words were delivered in a voice, whose accent was not new to him. that thought made him look earnestly in the youth's face, which he now was sure he had somewhere seen before, and thereupon asked him if he had never been at siena? that question made the young gentleman look up, and something of a joy appeared in his countenance, which yet he endeavoured to smother; so praying aurelian to conduct him to his lodging, he promised him that as soon as they should come thither, he would acquaint him with any thing he desired to know. aurelian would rather have gone any where else than to his own lodging; but being so very late he was at a loss, and so forced to be contented. as soon as they were come into his chamber, and that lights were brought them and the servant dismissed, the paleness which so visibly before had usurped the sweet countenance of the afflicted youth vanished, and gave place to a more lively flood of crimson, which with a modest heat glow'd freshly on his cheeks. aurelian waited with a pleasing admiration the discovery promised him, when the youth still struggling with his resolution, with a timorous haste, pulled off a peruke which had concealed the most beautiful abundance of hair that ever graced one female head; those dishevelled spreading tresses, as at first they made a discovery of, so at last they served for a veil to the modest lovely blushes of the fair incognita; for she it was and none other. but oh! the inexpressible, inconceivable joy and amazement of aurelian! as soon as he durst venture to think, he concluded it to be all vision, and never doubted so much of any thing in his life as of his being then awake. but she taking him by the hand, and desiring him to sit down by her, partly convinced him of the reality of her presence. 'this is the second time, don hippolito, (said she to him) 'that i have been here this night. what the occasion was of my seeking you out, and how by miracle you preserved me, would add too much to the surprize i perceive you to be already in should i tell you: nor will i make any further discovery, till i know what censure you pass upon the confidence which i have put in you, and the strange circumstances in which you find me at this time. i am sensible they are such, that i shall not blame your severest conjectures; but i hope to convince you, when you shall hear what i have to say in justification of my vertue. 'justification! (cry'd aurelian) what infidel dares doubt it! then kneeling down, and taking her hand, 'ah madam (says he) would heaven would no other ways look upon, than i behold your perfections--wrong not your creature with a thought, he can be guilty of that horrid impiety as once to doubt your vertue--heavens! (cry'd he, starting up) 'am i so really blessed to see you once again! may i trust my sight?--or does my fancy now only more strongly work?--for still i did preserve your image in my heart, and you were ever present to my dearest thoughts.-- 'enough hippolito, enough of rapture (said she) you cannot much accuse me of ingratitude; for you see i have not been unmindful of you; but moderate your joy till i have told you my condition, and if for my sake you are raised to this delight, it is not of a long continuance. at that (as aurelian tells the story) a sigh diffused a mournful sweetness through the air, and liquid grief fell gently from her eyes, triumphant sadness sat upon her brow, and even sorrow seem'd delighted with the conquest he had made. see what a change aurelian felt! his heart bled tears, and trembled in his breast; sighs struggling for a vent had choaked each others passage up: his floods of joys were all supprest; cold doubts and fears had chill'd 'em with a sudden frost, and he was troubled to excess; yet knew not why. well, the learned say it was sympathy; and i am always of the opinion with the learned, if they speak first. after a world of condoleance had passed between them, he prevailed with her to tell him her story. so having put all her sighs into one great sigh, she discharged her self of 'em all at once, and formed the relation you are just about to read. 'having been in my infancy contracted to a man i could never endure, and now by my parents being likely to be forced to marry him, is in short, the great occasion of my grief. i fansy'd (continued she) something so generous in your countenance, and uncommon in your behaviour, while you were diverting your self, and rallying me with expressions of gallantry, at the ball, as induced me to hold conference with you. i now freely confess to you, out of design, that if things should happen as i then feared, and as now they are come to pass, i might rely upon your assistance in a matter of concern; and in which i would sooner chuse to depend upon a generous stranger, than any acquaintance i have. what mirth and freedom i then put on, were, i can assure you, far distant from my heart; but i did violence to my self out of complaisance to your temper.--i knew you at the tilting, and wished you might come off as you did; though i do not doubt, but you would have had as good success had it been opposite to my inclinations.--not to detain you by too tedious a relation, every day my friends urged me to the match they had agreed upon for me, before i was capable of consenting; at last their importunities grew to that degree, that i found i must either consent, which would make me miserable, or be miserable by perpetually enduring to be baited by my father, brother and other relations. i resolved yesterday, on a suddain to give firm faith to the opinion i had conceived of you; and accordingly came in the evening to request your assistance, in delivering me from my tormentors, by a safe and private conveyance of me to a monastery about four leagues hence, where i have an aunt who would receive me, and is the only relation i have averse to the match. i was surprized at the appearance of some company i did not expect at your lodgings; which made me in haste tear a paper which i had written to you with directions where to find me, and get speedily away in my coach to an old servant's house, whom i acquainted with my purpose: by my order she provided me of this habit which i now wear; i ventured to trust my self with her brother, and resolved to go under his conduct to the monastery; he proved to be a villain, and pretending to take me a short and private way to the place where he was to take up a hackney coach (for that which i came in was broke some where or other with the haste it made to carry me from your lodging) led me into an old ruined monastery, where it pleased heaven, by what accident i know not, to direct you. i need not tell you how you saved my life and my honour, by revenging me with the death of my perfidious guide. this is the summ of my present condition, bating the apprehensions i am in of being taken by some of my relations, and forced to a thing so quite contrary to my inclinations. aurelian was confounded at the relation she had made, and began to fear his own estate to be more desperate than ever he had imagined. he made her a very passionate and eloquent speech in behalf of himself (much better than i intend to insert here) and expressed a mighty concern that she should look upon his ardent affection to be only rallery or gallantry. he was very free of his oaths to confirm the truth of what he pretended, nor i believe did she doubt it, or at least was unwilling so to do: for i would caution the reader by the bye, not to believe every word which she told him, nor that admirable sorrow which she counterfeited to be accurately true. it was indeed truth so cunningly intermingled with fiction, that it required no less wit and presence of mind than she was endowed with so to acquit her self on the suddain. she had entrusted her self indeed with a fellow who proved a villain, to conduct her to a monastery; but one which was in the town, and where she intended only to lie concealed for his sake; as the reader shall understand ere long: for we have another discovery to make to him, if he have not found it out of himself already. after aurelian had said what he was able upon the subject in hand, with a mournful tone and dejected look, he demanded his doom. she asked him if he would endeavour to convey her to the monastery she had told him of? 'your commands, madam, (replied he) 'are sacred to me; and were they to lay down my life i would obey them. with that he would have gone out of the room, to have given order for his horses to be got ready immediately; but with a countenance so full of sorrow as moved compassion in the tender hearted incognita. 'stay a little don hippolito (said she) i fear i shall not be able to undergo the fatigue of a journey this night.--stay and give me your advice how i shall conceal my self if i continue to morrow in this town. aurelian could have satisfied her she was not then in a place to avoid discovery: but he must also have told her then the reason of it, viz. whom he was, and who were in quest of him, which he did not think convenient to declare till necessity should urge him; for he feared least her knowledge of those designs which were in agitation between him and juliana, might deter her more from giving her consent. at last he resolved to try his utmost perswasions to gain her, and told her accordingly, he was afraid she would be disturbed there in the morning, and he knew no other way (if she had not as great an aversion for him as the man whom she now endeavour'd to avoid) than by making him happy to make her self secure. he demonstrated to her,--that the disobligation to her parents would be greater by going to a monastery, since it was only to avoid a choice which they had made for her, and which she could not have so just a pretence to do till she had made one for her self. a world of other arguments he used, which she contradicted as long as she was able, or at least willing. at last she told him, she would consult her pillow, and in the morning conclude what was fit to be done. he thought it convenient to leave her to her rest, and having lock'd her up in his room, went himself to repose upon a pallat by signior claudio. in the mean time, it may be convenient to enquire what became of hippolito. he had wandered much in pursuit of aurelian, though leonora equally took up his thoughts; he was reflecting upon the oddness and extravagance of his circumstances, the continuation of which had doubtless created in him a great uneasiness, when it was interrupted with the noise of opening the gates of the convent of st. lawrence, whither he was arrived sooner than he thought for, being the place aurelian had appointed by the lacquey to meet him in. he wondered to see the gates opened at so unseasonable an hour, and went to enquire the reason of it from them who were employ'd; but they proved to be novices, and made him signs to go in, where he might meet with some body allow'd to answer him. he found the religious men all up, and tapers lighting every where: at last he follow'd a friar who was going into the garden, and asking him the cause of these preparations, he was answered, that they were entreated to pray for the soul of a cavalier, who was just departing or departed this life, and whom upon farther talk with him, he found to be the same lorenzo so often mentioned. don mario, it seems uncle to lorenzo and father to leonora, had a private door out of the garden belonging to his house into that of the convent, which door this father was now a going to open, that he and his family might come and offer up their oraisons for the soul of their kinsman. hippolito having informed himself of as much as he could ask without suspicion, took his leave of the friar, not a little joyful at the hopes he had by such unexpected means, of seeing his beautiful leonora: as soon as he was got at convenient distance from the friar, (who 'tis like thought he had return'd into the convent to his devotion) he turned back through a close walk which led him with a little compass, to the same private door, where just before he had left the friar, who now he saw was gone, and the door open. he went into don mario's garden, and walk'd round with much caution and circumspection; for the moon was then about to rise, and had already diffused a glimmering light, sufficient to distinguish a man from a tree. by computation now (which is a very remarkable circumstance) hippolito entred this garden near upon the same instant, when aurelian wandred into the old monastery and found his incognita in distress. he was pretty well acquainted with the platform, and sight of the garden; for he had formerly surveyed the outside, and knew what part to make to if he should be surpriz'd and driven to a precipitate escape. he took his stand behind a well grown bush of myrtle, which, should the moon shine brighter than was required, had the advantage to be shaded by the indulgent boughs of an ancient bay-tree. he was delighted with the choice he had made, for he found a hollow in the myrtle, as if purposely contriv'd for the reception of one person, who might undiscovered perceive all about him. he looked upon it as a good omen, that the tree consecrated to venus was so propitious to him in his amorous distress. the consideration of that, together with the obligation he lay under to the muses, for sheltering him also with so large a crown of bays, had like to have set him a rhyming. he was, to tell the truth, naturally addicted to madrigal, and we should undoubtedly have had a small desert of numbers to have pick'd and criticiz'd upon, had he not been interrupted just upon his delivery; nay, after the preliminary sigh had made way for his utterance. but so was his fortune, don mario was coming towards the door at that very nick of time, where he met with a priest just out of breath, who told him that lorenzo was just breathing his last, and desired to know if he would come and take his final leave before they were to administer the extream unction. don mario, who had been at some difference with his nephew, now thought it his duty to be reconciled to him; so calling to leonora, who was coming after him, he bid her go to her devotions in the chappel, and told her where he was going. he went on with the priest, while hippolito saw leonora come forward, only accompanied by her woman. she was in an undress, and by reason of a melancholy visible in her face, more careless than usual in her attire, which he thought added as much as was possible to the abundance of her charms. he had not much time to contemplate this beauteous vision, for she soon passed into the garden of the convent, leaving him confounded with love, admiration, joy, hope, fear, and all the train of passions, which seize upon men in his condition, all at once. he was so teazed with this variety of torment, that he never missed the two hours that had slipped away during his automachy and intestine conflict. leonora's return settled his spirits, at least united them, and he had now no other thought but how he should present himself before her. when she calling her woman, bid her bolt the garden door on the inside, that she might not be surpriz'd by her father, if he returned through the convent, which done, she ordered her to bring down her lute, and leave her to her self in the garden. all this hippolito saw and heard to his inexpressible content, yet had he much to do to smother his joy, and hinder it from taking a vent, which would have ruined the only opportunity of his life. leonora withdrew into an arbour so near him, that he could distinctly hear her if she played or sung: having tuned her lute, with a voice soft as the breath of angels, she flung to it this following air: i. ah! whither, whither shall i fly, a poor unhappy maid; to hopeless love and misery by my own heart betray'd? not by alexis eyes undone, nor by his charming faithless tongue, or any practis'd art; such real ills may hope a cure, but the sad pains which i endure proceed from fansied smart. ii. 'twas fancy gave alexis charms, ere i beheld his face: kind fancy (then) could fold our arms, and form a soft embrace. but since i've seen the real swain, and try'd to fancy him again, i'm by my fancy taught, though 'tis a bliss no tongue can tell, to have alexis, yet 'tis hell to have him but in thought. the song ended grieved hippolito that it was so soon ended; and in the ecstacy he was then rapt, i believe he would have been satisfied to have expired with it. he could not help flattering himself, (though at the same time he checked his own vanity) that he was the person meant in the song. while he was indulging which thought, to his happy astonishment, he heard it encouraged by these words: 'unhappy leonora (said she) how is thy poor unwary heart misled? whither am i come? the false deluding lights of an imaginary flame, have led me, a poor benighted victim, to a real fire. i burn and am consumed with hopeless love; those beams in whose soft temperate warmth i wanton'd heretofore, now flash destruction to my soul, my treacherous greedy eyes have suck'd the glaring light, they have united all its rays, and, like a burning-glass, convey'd the pointed meteor to my heart--ah! aurelian, how quickly hast thou conquer'd, and how quickly must thou forsake. oh happy (to me unfortunately happy) juliana! i am to be the subject of thy triumph--to thee aurelian comes laden with the tribute of my heart and glories in the oblation of his broken vows.--what then, is aurelian false! false! alass, i know not what i say; how can he be false, or true, or any thing to me? what promises did he ere make or i receive? sure i dream, or i am mad, and fansie it to be love; foolish girl, recal thy banish'd reason.--ah! would it were no more, would i could rave, sure that would give me ease, and rob me of the sense of pain; at least, among my wandring thoughts, i should at sometime light upon aurelian, and fansie him to be mine; kind madness would flatter my poor feeble wishes, and sometimes tell me aurelian is not lost--not irrecoverably--not for ever lost. hippolito could hear no more, he had not room for half his transport. when leonora perceived a man coming toward her, she fell a trembling, and could not speak. hippolito approached with reverence, as to a sacred shrine; when coming near enough to see her consternation, he fell upon his knees. 'behold, o adored leonora (said he) 'your ravished aurelian, behold at your feet the happiest of men, be not disturb'd at my appearance, but think that heaven conducted me to hear my bliss pronounced by that dear mouth alone, whose breath could fill me with new life. here he would have come nearer, but leonora (scarce come to her self) was getting up in haste to have gone away: he catch'd her hand, and with all the endearments of love and transport pressed her stay; she was a long time in great confusion, at last, with many blushes, she entreated him to let her go where she might hide her guilty head, and not expose her shame before his eyes, since his ears had been sufficient witnesses of her crime. he begg'd pardon for his treachery in over-hearing, and confessed it to be a crime he had now repeated. with a thousand submissions, entreaties, prayers, praises, blessings, and passionate expressions he wrought upon her to stay and hear him. here hippolito made use of his rhetorick, and it proved prevailing: 'twere tedious to tell the many ingenious arguments he used, with all her nice distinctions and objections. in short, he convinced her of his passion, represented to her the necessity they were under, of being speedy in their resolves: that his father (for still he was aurelian) would undoubtedly find him in the morning, and then it would be too late to repent. she on the other hand, knew it was in vain to deny a passion, which he had heard her so frankly own; (and no doubt was very glad it was past and done;) besides apprehending the danger of delay, and having some little jealousies and fears of what effect might be produced between the commands of his father and the beauties of juliana; after some decent denials, she consented to be conducted by him through the garden into the convent, where she would prevail with her confessor to marry them. he was a scrupulous old father whom they had to deal withal, insomuch that ere they had perswaded him, don mario was returned by the way of his own house, where missing his daughter, and her woman not being able to give any farther account of her, than that she left her in the garden; he concluded she was gone again to her devotions, and indeed he found her in the chappel upon her knees with hippolito in her hand, receiving the father's benediction upon conclusion of the ceremony. it would have asked a very skilful hand, to have depicted to the life the faces of those three persons, at don mario's appearance. he that has seen some admirable piece of transmutation by a gorgon's head, may form to himself the most probable idea of the prototype. the old gentleman was himself in a sort of a wood, to find his daughter with a young fellow and a priest, but as yet he did not know the worst, till hippolito and leonora came, and kneeling at his feet, begg'd his forgiveness and blessing as his son and daughter. don mario, instead of that, fell into a most violent passion, and would undoubtedly have committed some extravagant action, had he not been restrained, more by the sanctity of the place, than the perswasions of all the religious, who were now come about him. leonora stirr'd not off her knees all this time, but continued begging of him that he would hear her. 'ah! ungrateful and undutiful wretch (cry'd he) 'how hast thou requited all my care and tenderness of thee? now when i might have expected some return of comfort, to throw thy self away upon an unknown person, and, for ought i know, a villain; to me i'm sure he is a villain, who has robb'd me of my treasure, my darling joy, and all the future happiness of my life prevented. go--go, thou now-to-be-forgotten leonora, go and enjoy thy unprosperous choice; you who wanted not a father's counsel, cannot need, or else will slight his blessing. these last words were spoken with so much passion and feeling concern, that leonora, moved with excess of grief, fainted at his feet, just as she had caught hold to embrace his knees. the old man would have shook her off, but compassion and fatherly affection came upon him in the midst of his resolve, and melted him into tears, he embraced his daughter in his arms, and wept over her, while they endeavoured to restore her senses. hippolito was in such concern he could not speak, but was busily employed in rubbing and chafing her temples; when she opening her eyes laid hold of his arm, and cry'd out--oh my aurelian--how unhappy have you made me! with that she had again like to have fainted away, but he took her in his arms, and begg'd don mario to have some pity on his daughter, since by his severity she was reduced to that condition. the old man hearing his daughter name aurelian, was a little revived, and began to hope things were in a pretty good condition; he was perswaded to comfort her, and having brought her wholly to her self, was content to hear her excuse, and in a little time was so far wrought upon as to beg hippolito's pardon for the ill opinion he had conceived of him, and not long after gave his consent. the night was spent in this conflict, and it was now clear day, when don mario conducting his new son and daughter through the garden, was met by some servants of the marquess of viterbo, who had been enquiring for donna leonora, to know if juliana had lately been with her; for that she was missing from her father's house, and no conjectures could be made of what might become of her. don mario and leonora were surprized at the news, for he knew well enough of the match that was design'd for juliana; and having enquired where the marquess was, it was told him, that he was gone with don fabio and fabritio toward aurelian's lodgings. don mario having assured the servants that juliana had not been there, dismissed them, and advised with his son and daughter how they should undeceive the marquess and don fabio in their expectations of aurelian. hippolito could oftentimes scarce forbear smiling at the old man's contrivances who was most deceived himself; he at length advised them to go all down together to his lodging, where he would present himself before his father, and ingenuously confess to him the truth, and he did not question his approving of his choice. this was agreed to, and the coach made ready. while they were upon their way, hippolito pray'd heartily that his friend aurelian might be at the lodging, to satisfie don mario and leonora of his circumstances and quality, when he should be obliged to discover himself. his petitions were granted; for don fabio had beset the house long before his son was up or incognita awake. upon the arrival of don mario and hippolito, they heard a great noise and hubbub above stairs, which don mario concluded was occasioned by their not finding aurelian, whom he thought he could give the best account of: so that it was not in hippolito's power to disswade him from going up before to prepare his father to receive and forgive him. while hippolito and leonora were left in the coach at the door, he made himself known to her, and begg'd her pardon a thousand times for continuing the deceit. she was under some concern at first to find she was still mistaken; but his behaviour, and the reasons he gave, soon reconciled him to her; his person was altogether as agreeable, his estate and quality not at all inferiour to aurelian's; in the mean time, the true aurelian who had seen his father, begg'd leave of him to withdraw for a moment; in which time he went into the chamber where his incognita was dressing her self, by his design, in woman's apparel, while he was consulting with her how they should break the matter to his father; it happened that don mario came up stairs where the marquess and don fabio were; they undoubtedly concluded him mad, to hear him making apologies and excuses for aurelian, whom he told them if they would promise to forgive he would present before them immediately. the marquess asked him if his daughter had lain with leonora that night; he answered him with another question in behalf of aurelian. in short, they could not understand one another, but each thought 'tother beside himself. don mario was so concern'd that they would not believe him, that he ran down stairs and came to the door out of breath, desiring hippolito that he would come into the house quickly, for that he could not perswade his father but that he had already seen and spoke to him. hippolito by that understood that aurelian was in the house; so taking leonora by the hand, he followed don mario, who led him up into the dining-room, where they found aurelian upon his knees, begging his father to forgive him, that he could not agree to the choice he had made for him, since he had already disposed of himself, and that before he understood the designs he had for him, which was the reason that he had hitherto concealed himself. don fabio knew not how to answer him, but look'd upon the marquess, and the marquess upon him, as if the cement had been cool'd which was to have united their families. all was silent, and don mario for his part took it to be all conjuration; he was coming forward to present hippolito to them, when aurelian spying his friend, started from his knees and ran to embrace him--my dear hippolito (said he) what happy chance has brought you hither, just at my necessity? hippolito pointed to don mario and leonora, and told him upon what terms he came. don mario was ready to run mad, hearing him called hippolito, and went again to examine his daughter. while she was informing him of the truth, the marquess's servants returned with the melancholy news that his daughter was no where to be found. while the marquess and don fabritio were wondering at, and lamenting the misfortune of her loss, hippolito came towards don fabio and interceded for his son, since the lady perhaps had withdrawn her self out of an aversion to the match. don fabio, though very much incens'd, yet forgot not the respect due to hippolito's quality; and by his perswasion spoke to aurelian, though with a stern look and angry voice, and asked him where he had disposed the cause of his disobedience, if he were worthy to see her or no; aurelian made answer, that he desired no more than for him to see her; and he did not doubt a consequence of his approbation and forgiveness--well (said don fabio) you are very conceited of your own discretion, let us see this rarety. while aurelian was gone in for incognita, the marquess of viterbo and don fabritio were taking their leaves in great disorder for their loss and disappointment; but don fabio entreated their stay a moment longer till the return of his son. aurelian led incognita into the room veil'd, who seeing some company there which he had not told her of, would have gone back again. but don fabio came bluntly forwards, and ere she was aware, lifted up her veil and beheld the fair incognita, differing nothing from juliana, but in her name. this discovery was so extreamly surprizing and welcome, that either joy or amazement had tied up the tongues of the whole company. aurelian here was most at a loss, for he knew not of his happiness; and that which all along prevented juliana's confessing her self to him, was her knowing hippolito (for whom she took him) to be aurelian's friend, and she feared if he had known her, that he would never have consented to have deprived him of her. juliana was the first that spoke, falling upon her knees to her father, who was not enough himself to take her up. don fabio ran to her, and awakened the marquess, who then embraced her, but could not yet speak. fabritio and leonora strove who should first take her in their arms; for aurelian he was out of his wits for joy, and juliana was not much behind him, to see how happily their loves and duties were reconciled. don fabio embraced his son and forgave him. the marquess and fabritio gave juliana into his hands, he received the blessing upon his knees; all were over-joy'd, and don mario not a little proud at the discovery of his son-in-law, whom aurelian did not fail to set forth with all the ardent zeal and eloquence of friendship. juliana and leonora had pleasant discourse about their unknown and mistaken rivalship, and it was the subject of a great deal of mirth to hear juliana relate the several contrivances which she had to avoid aurelian for the sake of hippolito. having diverted themselves with many remarks upon the pleasing surprize, they all thought it proper to attend upon the great duke that morning at the palace, and to acquaint him with the novelty of what had pass'd; while, by the way, the two young couple entertained the company with the relation of several particulars of their three days adventures. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [ transcriber's notes: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including any non-standard spelling. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. ] where love is there god is also by lyof n. tolstoi translated from the russian by nathan haskell dole new york thomas y. crowell company publishers copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. where love is there god is also in the city lived the shoemaker, martuin avdyeitch. he lived in a basement, in a little room with one window. the window looked out on the street. through the window he used to watch the people passing by; although only their feet could be seen, yet by the boots, martuin avdyeitch recognized the people. martuin avdyeitch had lived long in one place, and had many acquaintances. few pairs of boots in his district had not been in his hands once and again. some he would half-sole, some he would patch, some he would stitch around, and occasionally he would also put on new uppers. and through the window he often recognized his work. avdyeitch had plenty to do, because he was a faithful workman, used good material, did not make exorbitant charges, and kept his word. if it was possible for him to finish an order by a certain time, he would accept it; otherwise, he would not deceive you,--he would tell you so beforehand. and all knew avdyeitch, and he was never out of work. avdyeitch had always been a good man; but as he grew old, he began to think more about his soul, and get nearer to god. martuin's wife had died when he was still living with his master. his wife left him a boy three years old. none of their other children had lived. all the eldest had died in childhood. martuin at first intended to send his little son to his sister in the village, but afterward he felt sorry for him; he thought to himself:-- "it will be hard for my kapitoshka to live in a strange family. i shall keep him with me." and avdyeitch left his master, and went into lodgings with his little son. but god gave avdyeitch no luck with his children. as kapitoshka grew older, he began to help his father, and would have been a delight to him, but a sickness fell on him, he went to bed, suffered a week, and died. martuin buried his son, and fell into despair. so deep was this despair that he began to complain of god. martuin fell into such a melancholy state, that more than once he prayed to god for death, and reproached god because he had not taken him who was an old man, instead of his beloved only son. avdyeitch also ceased to go to church. and once a little old man from the same district came from troïtsa( ) to see avdyeitch; for seven years he had been wandering about. avdyeitch talked with him, and began to complain about his sorrows. ( ) trinity, a famous monastery, pilgrimage to which is reckoned a virtue. avdyeitch calls this _zemlyak-starichok_, _bozhi chelovyek_, god's man.--ed. "i have no desire to live any longer," he said, "i only wish i was dead. that is all i pray god for. i am a man without anything to hope for now." and the little old man said to him:-- "you don't talk right, martuin, we must not judge god's doings. the world moves, not by our skill, but by god's will. god decreed for your son to die,--for you--to live. so it is for the best. and you are in despair, because you wish to live for your own happiness." "but what shall one live for?" asked martuin. and the little old man said:-- "we must live for god, martuin. he gives you life, and for his sake you must live. when you begin to live for him, you will not grieve over anything, and all will seem easy to you." martuin kept silent for a moment, and then said, "but how can one live for god?" and the little old man said:-- "christ has taught us how to live for god. you know how to read? buy a testament, and read it; there you will learn how to live for god. everything is explained there." and these words kindled a fire in avdyeitch's heart. and he went that very same day, bought a new testament in large print, and began to read. at first avdyeitch intended to read only on holidays; but as he began to read, it so cheered his soul that he used to read every day. at times he would become so absorbed in reading, that all the kerosene in the lamp would burn out, and still he could not tear himself away. and so avdyeitch used to read every evening. and the more he read, the clearer he understood what god wanted of him, and how one should live for god; and his heart kept growing easier and easier. formerly, when he lay down to sleep, he used to sigh and groan, and always thought of his kapitoshka; and now his only exclamation was:-- "glory to thee! glory to thee, lord! thy will be done." and from that time avdyeitch's whole life was changed. in other days he, too, used to drop into a public-house( ) as a holiday amusement, to drink a cup of tea; and he was not averse to a little brandy, either. he would take a drink with some acquaintance, and leave the saloon, not intoxicated, exactly, yet in a happy frame of mind, and inclined to talk nonsense, and shout, and use abusive language at a person. now he left off that sort of thing. his life became quiet and joyful. in the morning he would sit down to work, finish his allotted task, then take the little lamp from the hook, put it on the table, get his book from the shelf, open it, and sit down to read. and the more he read, the more he understood, and the brighter and happier it grew in his heart. ( ) _traktir._ once it happened that martuin read till late into the night. he was reading the gospel of luke. he was reading over the sixth chapter; and he was reading the verses:-- "_and unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloak forbid not to take thy coat also. give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. and as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise._" he read farther also those verses, where god speaks: "_and why call ye me, lord, lord, and do not the things which i say? whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, i will shew you to whom he is like: he is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it; for it was founded upon a rock. but he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great._" avdyeitch read these words, and joy filled his soul. he took off his spectacles, put them down on the book, leaned his elbows on the table, and became lost in thought. and he began to measure his life by these words. and he thought to himself:-- "is my house built on the rock, or on the sand? 'tis well if on the rock. it is so easy when you are alone by yourself; it seems as if you had done everything as god commands; but when you forget yourself, you sin again. yet i shall still struggle on. it is very good. help me, lord!" thus ran his thoughts; he wanted to go to bed, but he felt loath to tear himself away from the book. and he began to read farther in the seventh chapter. he read about the centurion, he read about the widow's son, he read about the answer given to john's disciples, and finally he came to that place where the rich pharisee desired the lord to sit at meat with him; and he read how the woman that was a sinner anointed his feet, and washed them with her tears, and how he forgave her. he reached the forty-fourth verse, and began to read:-- "_and he turned to the woman, and said unto simon, seest thou this woman? i entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time i came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet. my head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment._" he finished reading these verses, and thought to himself:-- "_thou gavest me no water for my feet, thou gavest me no kiss. my head with oil thou didst not anoint._" and again avdyeitch took off his spectacles, put them down on the book, and again he became lost in thought. "it seems that pharisee must have been such a man as i am. i, too, apparently have thought only of myself,--how i might have my tea, be warm and comfortable, but never to think about my guest. he thought about himself, but there was not the least care taken of the guest. and who was his guest? the lord himself. if he had come to me, should i have done the same way?" avdyeitch rested his head upon both his arms, and did not notice that he fell asleep. "martuin!" suddenly seemed to sound in his ears. martuin started from his sleep:-- "who is here?" he turned around, glanced toward the door--no one. again he fell into a doze. suddenly, he plainly heard:-- "martuin! ah, martuin! look to-morrow on the street. i am coming." martuin awoke, rose from the chair, began to rub his eyes. he himself could not tell whether he heard those words in his dream, or in reality. he turned down his lamp, and went to bed. at daybreak next morning, avdyeitch rose, made his prayer to god, lighted the stove, put on the shchi( ) and the kasha,( ) put the water in the samovar, put on his apron, and sat down by the window to work. ( ) cabbage-soup. ( ) gruel. and while he was working, he kept thinking about all that had happened the day before. it seemed to him at one moment that it was a dream, and now he had really heard a voice. "well," he said to himself, "such things have been." martuin was sitting by the window, and looking out more than he was working. when anyone passed by in boots which he did not know, he would bend down, look out of the window, in order to see, not only the feet, but also the face. the dvornik( ) passed by in new felt boots,( ) the water-carrier passed by; then there came up to the window an old soldier of nicholas's time, in an old pair of laced felt boots, with a shovel in his hands. avdyeitch recognized him by his felt boots. the old man's name was stepanuitch; and a neighboring merchant, out of charity, gave him a home with him. he was required to assist the dvornik. stepanuitch began to shovel away the snow from in front of avdyeitch's window. avdyeitch glanced at him, and took up his work again. ( ) house-porter. ( ) _valenki._ "pshaw! i must be getting crazy in my old age," said avdyeitch, and laughed at himself. "stepanuitch is clearing away the snow, and i imagine that christ is coming to see me. i was entirely out of my mind, old dotard that i am!" avdyeitch sewed about a dozen stitches, and then felt impelled to look through the window again. he looked out again through the window, and saw that stepanuitch had leaned his shovel against the wall, and was warming himself, and resting. he was an old, broken-down man; evidently he had not strength enough even to shovel the snow. avdyeitch said to himself:-- "i will give him some tea; by the way, the samovar has only just gone out." avdyeitch laid down his awl, rose from his seat, put the samovar on the table, poured out the tea, and tapped with his finger at the glass. stepanuitch turned around, and came to the window. avdyeitch beckoned to him, and went to open the door. "come in, warm yourself a little," he said. "you must be cold." "may christ reward you for this! my bones ache," said stepanuitch. stepanuitch came in, and shook off the snow, tried to wipe his feet, so as not to soil the floor, but staggered. "don't trouble to wipe your feet. i will clean it up myself; we are used to such things. come in and sit down," said avdyeitch. "here, drink a cup of tea." and avdyeitch lifted two glasses, and handed one to his guest; while he himself poured his tea into a saucer, and began to blow it. stepanuitch finished drinking his glass of tea, turned the glass upside down,( ) put the half-eaten lump of sugar on it, and began to express his thanks. but it was evident he wanted some more. ( ) to signify he was satisfied; a custom among the russians.--ed. "have some more," said avdyeitch, filling both his own glass and his guest's. avdyeitch drank his tea, but from time to time glanced out into the street. "are you expecting anyone?" asked his guest. "am i expecting anyone? i am ashamed even to tell whom i expect. i am, and i am not, expecting someone; but one word has kindled a fire in my heart. whether it is a dream, or something else, i do not know. don't you see, brother, i was reading yesterday the gospel about christ the batyushka; how he suffered, how he walked on the earth. i suppose you have heard about it?" "indeed i have," replied stepanuitch; "but we are people in darkness, we can't read." "well, now, i was reading about that very thing,--how he walked on the earth; i read, you know, how he came to the pharisee, and the pharisee did not treat him hospitably. well, and so, my brother, i was reading yesterday, about this very thing, and was thinking to myself how he did not receive christ, the batyushka, with honor. suppose, for example, he should come to me, or anyone else, i said to myself, i should not even know how to receive him. and he gave him no reception at all. well! while i was thus thinking, i fell asleep, brother, and i heard someone call me by name. i got up; the voice, just as if someone whispered, said, 'be on the watch; i shall come to-morrow.' and this happened twice. well! would you believe it, it got into my head? i scolded myself--and yet i am expecting him, the batyushka." stepanuitch shook his head, and said nothing; he finished drinking his glass of tea, and put it on the side; but avdyeitch picked up the glass again, and filled it once more. "drink some more for your good health. you see, i have an idea that, when the batyushka went about on this earth, he disdained no one, and had more to do with the simple people. he always went to see the simple people. he picked out his disciples more from among folk like such sinners as we are, from the working class. said he, whoever exalts himself, shall be humbled, and he who is humbled shall become exalted. said he, you call me lord, and, said he, i wash your feet. whoever wishes, said he, to be the first, the same shall be a servant to all. because, said he, blessed are the poor, the humble, the kind, the generous." and stepanuitch forgot about his tea; he was an old man, and easily moved to tears. he was listening, and the tears rolled down his face. "come, now, have some more tea," said avdyeitch; but stepanuitch made the sign of the cross, thanked him, turned down his glass, and arose. "thanks to you," he says, "martuin avdyeitch, for treating me kindly, and satisfying me, soul and body." "you are welcome; come in again; always glad to see a friend," said avdyeitch. stepanuitch departed; and martuin poured out the rest of the tea, drank it up, put away the dishes, and sat down again by the window to work, to stitch on a patch. he kept stitching away, and at the same time looking through the window. he was expecting christ, and was all the while thinking of him and his deeds, and his head was filled with the different speeches of christ. two soldiers passed by: one wore boots furnished by the crown, and the other one, boots that he had made; then the master( ) of the next house passed by in shining galoshes; then a baker with a basket passed by. all passed by; and now there came also by the window a woman in woolen stockings and rustic bashmaks on her feet. she passed by the window, and stood still near the window-case. ( ) _khozyaïn._ avdyeitch looked up at her from the window, and saw it was a stranger, a woman poorly clad, and with a child; she was standing by the wall with her back to the wind, trying to wrap up the child, and she had nothing to wrap it up in. the woman was dressed in shabby summer clothes; and from behind the frame, avdyeitch could hear the child crying, and the woman trying to pacify it; but she was not able to pacify it. avdyeitch got up, went to the door, ascended the steps, and cried:-- "my good woman. hey! my good woman!"( ) ( ) _umnitsa aumnitsa!_ literally, clever one. the woman heard him and turned around. "why are you standing in the cold with the child? come into my room, where it is warm; you can manage it better. here, this way!" the woman was astonished. she saw an old, old man in an apron, with spectacles on his nose, calling her to him. she followed him. they descended the steps and entered the room; the old man led the woman to his bed. "there," says he, "sit down, my good woman, nearer to the stove; you can get warm, and nurse the little one." "i have no milk for him. i myself have not eaten anything since morning," said the woman; but, nevertheless, she took the baby to her breast. avdyeitch shook his head, went to the table, brought out the bread and a dish, opened the oven door, poured into the dish some cabbage soup, took out the pot with the gruel, but it was not cooked as yet; so he filled the dish with shchi only, and put it on the table. he got the bread, took the towel down from the hook, and spread it upon the table. "sit down," he says, "and eat, my good woman; and i will mind the little one. you see, i once had children of my own; i know how to handle them." the woman crossed herself, sat down at the table, and began to eat; while avdyeitch took a seat on the bed near the infant. avdyeitch kept smacking and smacking to it with his lips; but it was a poor kind of smacking, for he had no teeth. the little one kept on crying. and it occured to avdyeitch to threaten the little one with his finger; he waved, waved his finger right before the child's mouth, and hastily withdrew it. he did not put it to its mouth, because his finger was black, and soiled with wax. and the little one looked at his finger, and became quiet; then it began to smile, and avdyeitch also was glad. while the woman was eating, she told who she was, and whither she was going. said she:-- "i am a soldier's wife. it is now seven months since they sent my husband away off, and no tidings. i lived out as cook; the baby was born; no one cared to keep me with a child. this is the third month that i have been struggling along without a place. i ate up all i had. i wanted to engage as a wet-nurse--no one would take me--i am too thin, they say. i have just been to the merchant's wife, where lives a young woman i know, and so they promised to take us in. i thought that was the end of it. but she told me to come next week. and she lives a long way off. i got tired out; and it tired him, too, my heart's darling. fortunately, our landlady takes pity on us for the sake of christ, and gives us a room, else i don't know how i should manage to get along." avdyeitch sighed, and said: "haven't you any warm clothes?" "now is the time, friend, to wear warm clothes; but yesterday i pawned my last shawl for a twenty-kopek piece."( ) ( ) _dvagrivennui_, silver, worth sixteen cents. the woman came to the bed, and took the child; and avdyeitch rose, went to the partition, rummaged round, and succeeded in finding an old coat. "na!" says he; "it is a poor thing, yet you may turn it to some use." the woman looked at the coat and looked at the old man; she took the coat, and burst into tears; and avdyeitch turned away his head; crawling under the bed, he pushed out a little trunk, rummaged in it, and sat down again opposite the woman. and the woman said:-- "may christ bless you, little grandfather!( ) he must have sent me to your window. my little baby would have frozen to death. when i started out it was warm, but now it has grown cold. and he, the batyushka, led you to look through the window and take pity on me, an unfortunate." ( ) _diedushka._ avdyeitch smiled, and said:-- "indeed, he did that! i have been looking through the window, my good woman, for some wise reason." and martuin told the soldier's wife his dream, and how he heard the voice,--how the lord promised to come and see him that day. "all things are possible," said the woman. she rose, put on the coat, wrapped up her little child in it; and, as she started to take leave, she thanked avdyeitch again. "take this, for christ's sake," said avdyeitch, giving her a twenty-kopek piece; "redeem your shawl." she made the sign of the cross, and avdyeitch made the sign of the cross and went with her to the door. the woman went away. avdyeitch ate some shchi, washed the dishes, and sat down again to work. while he was working he still remembered the window; when the window grew darker he immediately looked out to see who was passing by. acquaintances passed by and strangers passed by, and there was nothing out of the ordinary. but here avdyeitch saw that an old apple woman had stopped in front of his window. she carried a basket with apples. only a few were left, as she had evidently sold them nearly all out; and over her shoulder she had a bag full of chips. she must have gathered them up in some new building, and was on her way home. one could see that the bag was heavy on her shoulder; she tried to shift it to the other shoulder. so she lowered the bag on the sidewalk, stood the basket with the apples on a little post, and began to shake down the splinters in the bag. and while she was shaking her bag, a little boy in a torn cap came along, picked up an apple from the basket, and was about to make his escape; but the old woman noticed it, turned around, and caught the youngster by his sleeve. the little boy began to struggle, tried to tear himself away; but the old woman grasped him with both hands, knocked off his cap, and caught him by the hair. the little boy was screaming, the old woman was scolding. avdyeitch lost no time in putting away his awl; he threw it upon the floor, sprang to the door,--he even stumbled on the stairs, and dropped his spectacles,--and rushed out into the street. the old woman was pulling the youngster by his hair, and was scolding and threatening to take him to the policeman; the youngster was defending himself, and denying the charge. "i did not take it," he said; "what are you licking me for? let me go!" avdyeitch tried to separate them. he took the boy by his arm, and said:-- "let him go, babushka; forgive him, for christ's sake." "i will forgive him so that he won't forget it till the new broom grows. i am going to take the little villain to the police." avdyeitch began to entreat the old woman:-- "let him go, babushka," he said, "he will never do it again. let him go, for christ's sake." the old woman let him loose; the boy started to run, but avdyeitch kept him back. "ask the babushka's forgiveness," he said, "and don't you ever do it again; i saw you take the apple." the boy burst into tears, and began to ask forgiveness. "there now! that's right; and here's an apple for you." and avdyeitch took an apple from the basket, and gave it to the boy. "i will pay you for it, babushka," he said to the old woman. "you ruin them that way, the good-for-nothings," said the old woman. "he ought to be treated so that he would remember it for a whole week." "eh, babushka, babushka," said avdyeitch, "that is right according to our judgment, but not according to god's. if he is to be whipped for an apple, then what ought to be done to us for our sins?" the old woman was silent. and avdyeitch told her the parable of the master who forgave a debtor all that he owed him, and how the debtor went and began to choke one who owed him. the old woman listened, and the boy stood listening. "god has commanded us to forgive," said avdyeitch, "else we, too, may not be forgiven. all should be forgiven, and the thoughtless especially." the old woman shook her head, and sighed. "that's so," said she; "but the trouble is that they are very much spoiled." "then we who are older must teach them," said avdyeitch. "that's just what i say," remarked the old woman. "i myself have had seven of them,--only one daughter is left." and the old woman began to relate where and how she lived with her daughter, and how many grandchildren she had. "here," she says, "my strength is only so-so, and yet i have to work. i pity the youngsters--my grandchildren--but what nice children they are! no one gives me such a welcome as they do. aksintka won't go to anyone but me. 'babushka, dear babushka, lovliest.'" and the old woman grew quite sentimental. "of course, it is a childish trick. god be with him," said she, pointing to the boy. the woman was just about to lift the bag up on her shoulder, when the boy ran up, and said:-- "let me carry it, babushka; it is on my way." the old woman nodded her head, and put the bag on the boy's back. and side by side they passed along the street. and the old woman even forgot to ask avdyeitch to pay for the apple. avdyeitch stood motionless, and kept gazing after them; and he heard them talking all the time as they walked away. after avdyeitch saw them disappear, he returned to his room; he found his eye-glasses on the stairs,--they were not broken; he picked up his awl, and sat down to work again. after working a little while, it grew darker, so that he could not see to sew; he saw the lamplighter passing by to light the street-lamps. "it must be time to make a light," he said to himself; so he got his little lamp ready, hung it up, and he took himself again to his work. he had one boot already finished; he turned it around, looked at it: "well done." he put away his tools, swept off the cuttings, cleared off the bristles and ends, took the lamp, set it on the table, and took down the gospels from the shelf. he intended to open the book at the very place where he had yesterday put a piece of leather as a mark, but it happened to open at another place; and the moment avdyeitch opened the testament, he recollected his last night's dream. and as soon as he remembered it, it seemed as if he heard someone stepping about behind him. avdyeitch looked around, and saw--there, in the dark corner, it seemed as if people were standing; he was at a loss to know who they were. and a voice whispered in his ear:-- "martuin--ah, martuin! did you not recognize me?" "who?" exclaimed avdyeitch. "me," repeated the voice. "it was i;" and stepanuitch stepped forth from the dark corner; he smiled, and like a little cloud faded away, and soon vanished. "and it was i," said the voice. from the dark corner stepped forth the woman with her child; the woman smiled, the child laughed, and they also vanished, "and it was i," continued the voice; both the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped forward; both smiled and vanished. avdyeitch's soul rejoiced; he crossed himself, put on his spectacles, and began to read the evangelists where it happened to open. on the upper part of the page he read:-- "_for i was an hungered, and ye gave me meat; i was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; i was a stranger, and ye took me in._" and on the lower part of the page he read this:-- "_inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me._"--st. matthew, chap. xxv. and avdyeitch understood that his dream had not deceived him; that the saviour really called on him that day, and that he really received him. only one love or who was the heir by charles garvice author of "claire," "elaine," "her heart's desire," "leola dale's fortune," "her ransom," "leslie's loyalty," "lorrie; or, hollow gold," "the marquis," "only a girl's love," "she loved him," "a wasted love," etc. chicago m. a. donohue & company - dearborn street m. a. donohue & company printers and binders - dearborn street chicago only one love or, who was the heir? chapter i. one summer's evening a young man was tramping through the forest of warden. "forest of warden" sounds strange, old-fashioned, almost improbable; but, thank heaven, there yet remain, in over-crowded england, some spots, few and far between though they may be, still untouched by the greedy fingers of the destroyers, whom men call progress and civilization. to this grand old forest, for instance, whose dim shades echo the soft pit-pat of the deer and the coo of the wood-pigeon, comes not the tourist, with hideous knapsack and suit of startling check; no panting locomotive belches out its cloud of coal smoke to dim the brightness of the sky and choke the elms and oaks which reared their stately heads before their fell enemy, the steam engine, was dreamt of. so remote and unfrequented is the forest that there is scarcely a road from end to end of its umbrageous length, for the trail made by the rough carts of the woodmen and charcoal burners could scarcely be dignified by the title of thoroughfare, and a few footpaths that wind about the glades are so faint and seldom used as to be scarcely distinguished from the undergrowth of ferny moss around. along one of the footpaths the young man tramped, occasionally stopping for a moment to look up at the sky which shone redly through the openings of the trees or to watch some frightened hare scamper across the glade. every now and then a herd of deer would flit through the undergrowth, turning toward him distended eyes of alarm and curiosity, for of the two kinds of men with whom they were acquainted--charcoal burners and woodmen--he was neither; nor did he belong to the tribe of tourists, for he carried no knapsack, and instead of the inevitable check and knickerbockers, was clad in a loose cheviot suit, which, though well worn, bore about it the unmistakable stamp of saville row. that he was young and light-hearted was evident from the fact that he broke out into an occasional snatch of an air from the last new popular _opera bouffe_, notwithstanding that the evening was closing in and he had most completely and emphatically lost his way. now, to lose your way in a forest reads rather romantic and entertaining than otherwise, but like shipwreck, or falling into the hands of greek banditti, it is a much pleasanter thing on paper than in reality. a bed of moss, though very charming in the daytime, is not nearly so comfortable as a spring mattress, and is sure to be damp, and primeval oaks, majestic and beautiful as they are, do not keep out the draught. the worst room in the worst inn is preferable to a night's lodging in the grandest of forests. but, though he had never been in the warden forest before, the young man knew it would be midsummer madness to hope for an inn and was wandering along on the chance of coming across some woodman's hut, or by meeting a stray human being of whom he could inquire his way. he was tired--he had been walking since morning, and he was hungry and athirst, but he tramped on, and smoked and sang as carelessly as if he were strolling down the shady side of pall mall. slowly the sun set, and the glades, which had been dusky an hour ago, grew dark. the faint footpath grew still more indistinct, the undergrowth denser and more difficult for persons walking. the pedestrian fought on for some time, but at last, as he stumbled over one of the gnarled roots which a grand chestnut had thrust up through the ground, he stopped and, looking round, shook his head. "a regular babe in the wood, by jove!" he exclaimed. "i shall have to make a night of it, i expect. wonder whether the robins will be good enough to cover me over in the proper nursery-book style? is it any good halloing, i wonder? i tried that an hour ago, much to the disgust of the live animals; and i don't think i can kick up a row at this time of night. let's see how the 'bacca goes. hem! about three--perhaps four pipes. i wish i had something to eat and drink; what a fool i was to leave that piece of steak at breakfast. steak! i mustn't think of it--that way madness lies. well, this looks about as sheltered a spot as i could find--i'll turn in. i wonder if anybody has, ever since the world began, hit upon a short cut? i never have, and hang me if i'll try it again. by george! the grass is wet already. such a likely place for snakes--find my pocket full when i wake, no doubt." then, with a laugh, he dropped down amongst the long brake; but the idea of going to bed in a forest, at the early hour of nine, was too much for him, and instead of composing himself to rheumatic slumber, he began to sing: "oh, wake and call me early, mother, call me early, mother, dear." scarcely had he finished the line when there came through the darkness, as if in response, a short, sharp bark of a dog. the wanderer leapt to his feet as if something had bitten him, and after listening intently for a moment, exclaimed: "another chance, by jove!" and sent up a shout that, ringing through the stillness, echoed from tree to tree, and at last called forth the answering bark from the distant dog. knocking out his pipe as he ran, he made his way as best he could toward the sound, shouting occasionally and listening warily to the dog's response. at last, after many a stumble, he found himself in a narrow glade, at the end of which, faintly defined against the patch of sky, stood the figure of a man. "saved, by george!" exclaimed the youth, with mock melodramatic emphasis. "halloa! hi! wait a moment there, will you?" he shouted. the figure stopped and turned its head, then, after what seemed a moment's hesitation, brought back the dog, which was running toward the belated youth, and suddenly disappeared. the wanderer pulled up and stared about the glade with an astonishment which immediately gave place to wrath. "confound his impudence!" he exclaimed, fiercely. "i'll swear he saw me! what on earth did he mean by going off like that? did the fool think i was a ghost? i'll show him i'm a ghost that carries a big stick if i come up with him. confound him, where----" then, as a sudden thought struck him, he set off running down the glade, barking like a dog. no live, real dog could withstand such an invitation. the dog ahead set up an angry echo, through which the youth could hear the man's angry attempt to silence the animal, and guided by the two voices, the wanderer struck into a footpath, and running at a good pace, came suddenly into a small clearing, in which stood a small wooden hut, before the door of which man and dog were standing as if on guard. for a moment the two men stood and regarded each other in silence, the youth hot and angry, the man calm and grim. each, in his way, was a fine specimen of his class; the man, with his weather-beaten face and his thick-set limbs, clad in woodman's garb; the youth, with his frankly handsome countenance and patrician air. "what the deuce do you mean by leaving a man in the lurch like this?" demanded the young man, angrily. "did you take me for a ghost?" the woodman, half leaning on his long-handled axe, regarded him grimly. "no. i don't come at every man's beck and call, young sir. what's your will with me?" "why didn't you stop when i called to you just now?" retorted the youth, ignoring the question. "because it didn't suit me," said the man, not insolently, but with simple, straightforward candor. "you are answered, young sir; now, what do you want?" the young man looked at him curiously, conquering his anger. "well, i've lost my way," he said, after a moment's pause. "where are you going?" was the quiet response. "to arkdale." the woodman raised his eyes, and looked at him for a moment. "arkdale? yes, you are out of the way. arkdale lies to the west. follow me, young sir, and i'll show you the road." "stop a moment," said the other; "though you declined to wait for me just now, you would not refuse to give me a glass of water, i suppose." the man turned, he had already strode forward, and laid his hand on the latch of the cottage door. the young man was following as a matter of course; but the woodman, with his hand still on the latch, pointed to a wooden seat under the window. "take your seat there, sir," he said, with grim determination. the other stared, and the hot blood rose to his face; but he threw himself on the bench. "very well," he said; "i see you still think me a ghost; you'll be more easy when you see me drink. look sharp, my good fellow." the woodman, not a whit moved by this taunt, entered the cottage, and the young man heard a bolt shot into its place. a few moments passed, and then the man came out with a plate and a glass. "thanks," said the young man. "what's this?" "cider--cake," was the curt answer. "oh, thanks," repeated the other; "jolly good cider, too. come, you're not half a bad fellow. do you know i meant to give you a hiding when i came up to you?" "very like," said the man, calmly. "will you have any more?" "another glass, thanks." with his former precaution in the way of bolting and barring, the man entered the cottage and reappeared with a refilled glass. this the young man drank more leisurely, staring with unconcealed curiosity at his entertainer. it was a kind of stare that would embarrass six men out of ten, and madden the remaining four; but the woodman bore it with the calm impassiveness of a wooden block, and stood motionless as a statue till the youth set down the glass, then he raised his hand and pointed to the west. "yonder lies arkdale." "oh! how far?" "four miles and a half by the near road. follow me, and i will put you into it." "all right, lead on," said the other; but as he rose he turned, and while refilling his pipe stared at the closely locked cottage. "comfortable kind of crib that, my man." the woodman nodded curtly. "you are a woodman?" another nod. "and poacher too, eh? no offense," he added, coolly. "i only supposed so from the close way in which you keep your place locked up." "suppose what you please," retorted the woodman, if words so calmly spoken could be called a retort. "yonder lies your road, you'd best be taking to it." "no hurry," retorted the young man, thrusting his hands in his pockets and smiling at the ill-concealed impatience which struggled through the grave calm on the weather-beaten face. "well, i'm coming. you're not half such a bad sort, after all. what have you got inside there that you keep so close, eh? some of the crown jewels or some of the queen's venison? take my advice, old fellow--if you don't want people to be curious, don't show such anxiety to keep 'em out of your crib." the man, pacing on ahead, knit his brows as if struck by the idea. "curious folk don't come this way, young sir," he said, reluctantly. "so i should think," retorted the other. "well, i'm not one of the curious, though you think i am. i don't care a button what you've got there. will you have a pipe? i've got some 'bacca." the man shook his head, and they walked on in silence for some minutes, the footpath winding in and out like a dimly-defined serpent. presently it widened, and the woodman stopped short and pointed down the leafy lane. "follow this path," he said, "until you come to a wood pile; take the path to the left of it, and it will bring you to arkdale. good-night, young sir." "here, stop!" said the young man, and he held out his hand with a dollar in it. "here's a trifle to drink my health with." the woodman looked at the coin, then shook his head slowly; and with another "good-night" turned and tramped off. not at all abashed the young man restored the coin to his pocket, laughed, and strode on. the woodman walked back a few yards, then stopped, and looked after the stalwart figure until it deepened in the gloom, a thoughtful, puzzled expression upon his face, as if he were trying to call up some recollection. with a shake of his head, denoting failure, he made his way to the cottage, unlocked it and entered. the door opened into what appeared to be the living room. it was small and plainly furnished, after the manner of a woodman's hut, and yet, after a moment's glance, a stranger would have noticed a subtle air of refinement in common with better habitations. the table and chairs were of plain deal, the walls were of pine, stained and varnished, but there was a good thick carpet on the floor, and on one side of the room hung a bookcase filled with well-bound volumes. beside the table, on which was spread the supper, stood a chair, more luxurious than its fellows, and covered with a pretty chintz. the knife and fork laid opposite this chair was of a better quality than the others on the table; and beside the knife and fork lay a white napkin and a daintily engraved glass; the other drinking vessels on the table were of common delf. as the woodman entered, a woman, who was kneeling at a fire in an adjoining room, looked round through the doorway. "is't you, gideon?" "yes," he answered. "where is una?" "una? isn't she with you? i heard voices. who was it?" "where is una?" he said, ignoring her question. "in the clearing, i suppose," said the woman. "she went out a few minutes ago. i thought she went to meet you?" the man opened the door and called the dog, who had been wandering round the room in an uneasy fashion. "go, dick," he said. "go fetch her!" then he came and stood by the fire thoughtfully. "no," he said, "it was not una. i wish she wouldn't leave the cot after dusk." "why not? what's the fear? what has happened? who was that i heard with you?" "a stranger," he said, "a young gentleman lost his way. how long has she been gone?" "not ten minutes. a young gentleman. think of that! how came he here?" "lost his way. he followed me through the chase. he has gone on to arkdale." "lost his way," repeated the woman. "poor fellow! five miles it is to arkdale! a gentleman! a gentleman, did thee say?" "ay," responded the man, frowning. "an outspoken one, too; i heard him at the bottom of the chase and thought to give him the slip, but he was cunning, he teased the dog and ran us down. i had hard work to get rid of him; he looked sore tired. no matter, he's gone," and he gave a sigh of relief. "'tis the first stranger that has come upon us since she came." "lost his way," murmured the woman, as she lifted a saucepan from the fire, "and a gentleman. it is a rare sight in warden forest. why, gideon, what has happened to thee?" and saucepan in hand, she stared at her husband's cloudy brow. "tut--nothing!" he answered, thrusting a projecting log into the fire with his foot. "the young man's face seemed--as i thought--'twas but a passing fancy--but i thought it was familiar. it was the voice more than the face. and a bold face it was. i wish," he broke off, "that the lass would come in. from to-night i will have no more wanderings after sunset! one stranger follows another, and it is not safe for her to be out so late----" "hush!" interrupted the woman, holding up a forefinger. "here she comes." "not a word!" said gideon, warningly. as he spoke the door opened, the dog bounded in with a short yelp of satisfaction, and close behind him, framed like a picture in the dark doorway, stood a young girl. chapter ii. she had evidently run some distance, for she stood panting and breathless, the color coming and going on her face, which shone out of the hood which half covered her head. she was dressed in a plain cotton dress which a woodman's daughter might wear, and which was short enough in the skirt to reveal a shapely foot, and scant enough in the sleeves to show a white, shapely arm. but no one would have wasted time upon either arm or foot after a glance at her face. to write it down simply and curtly, it was a beautiful face; but such a description is far too meager and insufficient. it requires an artist, a rembrandt or a gainsborough, to describe it, no pen-and-ink work can do it. beautiful faces can be seen by the score by anyone who chooses to walk through hyde park in the middle of the season, but such a face as this which was enframed by the doorway of the woodman's hut is not seen in twenty seasons. it was a face which baffles the powers of description, just as a sunset sky laughs to scorn the brush of the ablest painter. it was neither dark nor fair, neither grave nor sad, though at the moment of its entrance a smile played over it as the moonbeams play over a placid lake. to catalogue in dry matter-of-fact fashion, the face possessed dark brown eyes, bright brown hair, and red, ripe lips; but no catalogue can give the spirit of the face, no description convey an idea of the swift and eloquent play of expression which, like a flash of sunlight, lit up eyes and lips. beautiful! the word is hackneyed and worn out. here was a face more than beautiful, it was soulful. like the still pool in the heart of a wood, it mirrored the emotion of the heart as faithfully as a glass would reflect the face. like a glass--joy, sorrow, pleasure, mirth, were reflected in the eloquent eyes and mobile lips. of concealment the face was entirely ignorant; no bird of the forest in which she lived could be more frank, innocent of guile, and ignorant of evil. with her light summer cloak held round her graceful figure, she stood in the doorway, a picture of grace and youthful beauty. for a moment she stood silent, looking from the woodman to his wife questioningly, then she came into the room and threw the hood back, revealing a shapely head, shining, bronze-like, in the light of the lamp. "did you send dick for me, father?" she said, and her voice, like her face, betokened a refinement uncommon in a woodman's daughter. "i was not far off, only at the pool to hear the frogs' concert. dick knows where to find me now, he comes straight to the pond, though he hates frogs' music; don't you, dick?" the dog rubbed his nose against her hand and wagged his tail, and the girl took her seat at the table. to match face and voice, her mien and movements were graceful, and she handled the dinner-napkin like--a lady. it was just that, expressed in a word. the girl was not only beautiful--but a lady, in appearance, in tone, in bearing--and that, notwithstanding she wore a plain cotton gown in a woodman's hut, and called the woodman "father." "you did not come by your usual path, father," she said, turning from the deerhound, who sat on his haunches and rested his nose in her lap, quite content if her hand touched his head, say once during the meal. "no, una," he replied, and though he called her by her christian name, and without any prefix there was a subtle undertone in his voice and in his manner of addressing her, which seemed to infer something like respect. "no, i went astray." "and you were late," she said. "was anything the matter?" she added, turning her eyes upon him, with, for the first time, an air of interrogation. "matter? no," he said, raising himself and coming to the table. "what should be? yes, i came home by another path, and i don't think you must come to meet me after dark, una," he added, with affected carelessness. "no?" she asked, looking from one to the other with a smile of surprise. "why not? do you think i should get lost, or have you seen any wolves in warden forest, father? i know every path from end to end, and wolves have left merry england forever." "not quite," said gideon, absently. "yes, quite," and she laughed. "what saxon king was it who offered fivepence for every wolf's head? we were reading about it the other night, don't you remember?" "reading! you are always reading," said the woman, as she put a smoking dish on the table, and speaking for the first time. "it's books, books, from morn to night, and your father encourages you. the books will make thee old before thy time, child, and put no pence in thy father's pocket." "poor father!" she murmured, and leaning forward, put her arms round his neck. "i wish i could find in the poor, abused books the way to make him rich." gideon had put up his rough hand to caress the white one nestling against his face, but he let his hand drop again and looked at her with a slight cloud on his brow. "rich! who wants to be rich? the word is on your lips full oft of late, una. do _you_ want to be rich?" "sometimes," she answered. "as much for your sake as mine. i should like to be rich enough for you to rest, and"--looking round the plainly furnished but comfortable room--"and a better house and clothes." "i am not weary," he said, his eyes fixed on her with a thoughtful air of concealed scrutiny. "the cot is good enough for me, and the purple and fine linen i want none of. so much for me; now for yourself, una?" "for myself?" she said. "well, sometimes i think, when i have been reading some of the books, that i should like to be rich and see the world." "it must be such a wonderful place! not so wonderful as i think it, perhaps, and that's just because i have never seen anything of it. is it not strange that for all these years i have never been outside warden?" "strange?" he echoed, reluctantly. "yes; are other girls so shut in and kept from seeing the world that one reads so pleasantly of?" "not all. it would be well for most of them if they were. it has been well for you. you have not been unhappy, una?" "unhappy! no! how could one be unhappy in warden? why, it's a world in itself, and full of friends. every living thing in it seems a friend, and an old friend, too. how long have we lived in warden, father?" "eighteen years." "and i am twenty-one. mother told me yesterday. where did we live before we came to warden?" "don't worry your father, una," said mrs. rolfe, who had been listening and looking from one to the other with ill-concealed anxiety; "he is too weary to talk." "forgive me, father. it was thoughtless of me. i should have remembered that you have had a hard day, while i have been idling in the wood, and over my books; it was stupid of me to trouble you. won't you sit down again and--and i will promise not to talk." "say no more, una. it grieves me to think that you might not be content, that you were not happy; if you knew as much of the world that raves and writhes outside as i do, you would be all too thankful that you are out of the monster's reach, and that all you know of it is from your books, which--heaven forgive them--lie all too often! see now, here is something i found in arkdale;" and as he spoke he drew from the capacious pocket of his velveteen jacket a small volume. the girl sprang to her feet--not clumsily, but with infinite grace--and leaned over his shoulder eagerly. "why, father, it is the poems you promised me, and it was in your pocket all the while i was wearying you with my foolish questions." "tut, tut! take your book, child, and devour it, as usual." once or twice gideon looked up, roused from his reverie by the rustling of the trees as the gusts shook them, and suddenly the sky was rent by a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder, followed by the heavy rattle of the rainstorm. "hark at the night, father!" she said, raising her eyes from the book, but only for a moment. "ay, una," he said, "some of the old elms will fall to-night. woodman lightning strikes with a keen ax." suddenly there came another sound which, coming in an interval of comparative quiet, caused una to look up with surprise. "halloa there! open the door." gideon sprang to his feet, his face pale with anger. "go to your room, una," he said. she rose and moved across the room to obey, but before she had passed up the stairs the woodman had opened the door, and the voice came in from the outside, and she paused almost unconsciously. "at last! what a time you have been! i've knocked loud enough to wake the dead. for heaven's sake, open the door and let me in. i'm drenched to the skin." "this is not an inn, young sir." "no, or it would soon come to ruin with such a landlord. it's something with four walls and a roof, and i must be content with that. you don't mean to say that you won't let me come in?" "i do not keep open house for travelers." "oh, come," exclaimed the young man, with a short laugh. "it's your own fault that i am back here; you told me the wrong turning. i'll swear i followed your directions. i must have been walking in a circle; anyhow i lost my way, and here i am, and, with all your churlishness, you can't refuse me shelter on such a night as this." "the storm has cleared. it is but an hour's walk to arkdale; i will go with you." "that you certainly will not, to-night, nor any other man," was the good-humored retort. "i've had enough of your confounded forest for to-night. why, man, are you afraid to let me in? it's a nasty thing to have to do, but----" and with a sudden thrust of his strong shoulder he forced the door open and passed the threshold. but the woodman recovered from the surprise in a moment and, seizing him by the throat, was forcing him out again, when, with a low cry, una sprang forward and laid her hand on his arm. at her touch gideon's hands dropped to his side. the stranger sprang upright, but almost staggered out with discomfited astonishment. for the first time in her life she stood face to face with a man other than a woodman or a charcoal-burner. and as she looked her heart almost stopped beating, the color died slowly from her face. was it real, or was it one of the visionary heroes of her books created into life from her own dreaming brain? with parted lips she waited, half longing, half dreading, to hear him speak. it seemed ages before he found his voice, but at last, with a sudden little shake of the head, as if he were, as he would have expressed it, "pulling himself together," he took off his wide hat and slowly turned his eyes from the beautiful face of the girl to the stern and now set face of the woodman. "why didn't you tell me that you had a lady--ladies with you?" half angrily, half apologetically. then he turned quickly, impulsively, to una. "i hope you will forgive me. i had no idea that there was anyone here excepting himself. of course i would rather have got into the first ditch than have disturbed you. i hope, i do hope you believe that, though i can't hope you'll forgive me. good-night," and inclining his head he turned to the door. una, who had listened with an intent, rapt look on her face, as one sees a blind man listen to music, drew a little breath of regret as he ceased speaking, and then, with a little, quick gesture, laid her hand on her father's arm. it was an imploring touch. it said as plainly as if she had spoken: "do not let him go." "having forced your way into my house you--may remain." "thanks. i should not think of doing so. good-night." "no; you must not go. he does not mean it. you have made him angry. please do not go!" the young man hesitated, and the woodman, with a gesture that was one of resigned despair, shut the door. then he turned and pointed to the next room. "there's a fire there," he said. "i'd rather be out in the wood by far," he said, "than be here feeling that i have made a nuisance of myself. i'd better go." but gideon rolfe led the way into the next room, and after another look from mrs. rolfe to una, the young man followed. una stood in the center of the room looking at the door behind which he had disappeared, like one in a dream. then she turned to mrs. rolfe. "shall i go, mother?" "yes. no. wait till your father comes in." after the lapse of ten minutes the woodman and the woodman's guest re-entered. the latter had exchanged his wet clothes for a suit of gideon's, which, though it was well-worn velveteen, failed to conceal the high-bred air of its present wearer. meanwhile mrs. rolfe had been busily spreading the remains of the supper. "'tis but plain fare, sir," she said; "but you are heartily welcome." "thanks. it looks like a banquet to me," he added, with the short laugh which seemed peculiar to him. "i haven't tasted food, as tramps say, since morning." "dear! dear!" exclaimed the wife. una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of ivanhoe, then--and with a feeling of satisfaction--of hotspur. figure matched face. though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a trained athlete--stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding. wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman--in gideon's suit of worn velveteen he looked one still. silent and motionless, una watched him. "yes," he said, "i got some lunch at the inn--'spotted boar' at wermesley--about one o'clock, i suppose. i have never felt so hungry in my life." "wermesley?" said the wife. "then you came from----" "london, originally. i got out at wermesley, meaning to walk to arkdale; but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?" gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear. "i can't think how i missed the way," he went on. "i found the charcoal burner's hut, and hurried off to the left----" "to the right, i said," muttered gideon. "right, did you? then i misunderstood you. anyhow, i lost the right path, and wandered about until i came back to this cottage." "and you were going to stay at arkdale? 'tis but a dull place," said mrs. rolfe. "no; i meant taking the train from there to hurst leigh----hurst leigh," repeated the young man. "do you know it? ah," he went on, "don't suppose you would; it's some distance from here. pretty place. i am going to see a relative. my name is newcombe--jack newcombe i am generally called--and i am going on a visit to squire davenant." gideon rolfe sprang to his feet, suddenly, knocking his chair over, and strode into the lamplight. the young man looked up in surprise. "what's the matter?" he asked. with an effort gideon rolfe recovered himself. "i--i want a light," he said; and leaning over the lamp, he lit his pipe. then turning toward the window, he said: "una, it is late; go to bed now." she rose at once and kissed the old couple, then pausing a moment, held out her hand to the young man, who had risen, and stood regarding her with an intent, but wholly respectful look. but before their hands could join, the woodman stepped in between them, and waving her to the stairs with one hand, forced the youth into his seat with the other. chapter iii. a hearty meal after a long fast invariably produces intense sleepiness. no sooner had the young gentleman who was called, according to his own account, jack newcombe, finished his supper than he began to show palpable signs of exhaustion. he felt, indeed, remarkably tired, or be sure he would have demanded the reason of the woodman's refusal to allow his daughter to shake hands. for once in a way, jack--who was also called "the savage" by his intimate friends--allowed the opportunity for a quarrel to slide by, and very soon also allowed the pipe to slide from his mouth, and his body from the chair. rousing himself with a muttered apology, he found that the woodman alone remained, and that he was sitting apparently forgetful of his guest's presence. "did you speak?" said jack, rubbing his eyes, and struggling with a very giant of a yawn. gideon looked round. "you are tired," he said, slowly. "rather," assented the savage, with half-closed eyes; "it must have been the wind. i can't keep my head up." the woodman rose, and taking down from a cupboard a bundle of fox-skins, arranged them on the floor, put a couple of chair-cushions at the head to serve as pillows, and threw a riding-cloak--which, by the way, did not correspond with a woodman's usual attire, and pointed to the impromptu bed. "thanks," said jack, getting up and taking off his coat and boots. "it is a poor bed," remarked the woodman, but the savage interrupted him with a cheerful though sleepy assurance that it needed no apologies. "i could sleep on a rail to-night," he said, "and that looks comfortable enough for a king! fine skins! good-night!" and he held out his hand. gideon looked at it, but refusing it, nodded gravely. "you won't shake hands!" exclaimed the savage, with a little flush and an aggrieved tone. "come, isn't that carrying the high and imposing rather too far, old fellow? makes one feel more ashamed than ever, you know. perhaps i'd better march, after all." "no," said gideon, slowly. "it is not that i owe you any ill-will for your presence here. you are welcome, but i cannot take your hand. good-night," and he went to the stairs. at the door, however, he paused, and looked over his shoulder. "did you say that--squire davenant was your uncle, mr. newcombe?" "eh--uncle? well, scarcely. it's rather difficult to tell what relationship there is between us. he's a sort of cousin, i believe," answered jack, carelessly, but yet with a touch of gravity that had something comical about it. "rum old boy, isn't he? you know him, don't you?" gideon shook his head. "oh, i thought you did by the way you looked when i mentioned his name just now. good thing you don't, for you might have something to say about him that is not pleasant, and though the old man and i are not turtle doves just now, i'm bound to stand up for him for the sake of old times." "you have quarreled?" the old man said; but the savage had already curled himself up in the fox-skins, and was incapable of further conversation. gideon rolfe crossed the room, and holding the candle above his head, looked down at the sleeper. "yes," he muttered, "it's the same face--they are alike! faces of angels and the hearts of devils. what fate has sent him here to-night?" though jack newcombe was by no means one of those impossible, perfect heroes whom we have sometimes met in history, and was, alas! as full of imperfections as a sieve is of holes, he was a gentleman, and for a savage, was possessed of a considerable amount of delicacy. "seems to me," he mused, "that the best thing i can do is to take my objectionable self out of the way before any of the good folks put in an appearance. the old fellow will be sure to order me off the premises directly after the breakfast; and i, in common gratitude, ought to save him the trouble." to resolve and to act were one and the same thing with jack newcombe. going into the adjoining room, he got out of the woodman's and into his own clothes, and carefully restored the skins and the cloak to the cupboard. then he put the remainder of the loaf into his pocket, to serve as breakfast later on, then paused. "can't go without saying good-by, and much obliged," he muttered. a bright idea struck him; he tore the blank leaf from an old letter which he happened to have with him, and after a few minutes' consideration--for epistolary composition was one of the savage's weakest points--scribbled the following brief thanks, apology, and farewell: "very much obliged for your kindness, and sorry to have been such a bore; shouldn't have intruded if i'd known ladies were present. will you oblige me by accepting the inclosed"--he hesitated a moment, put back the sovereign which he had taken from his pocket, and filled up the line--"for your wife." instead of the coin, he wrapped up a ring, which he took from his little finger. he smiled, as he wrapped it up, for he remembered that the wife had particularly large hands; and he thought, cunningly, "_she_ will get it." having placed this packet on the top of the cheese, he took a last look round the room, glanced toward the stairs rather wistfully--it was neither the woodman nor his wife that he longed to see--gently unbarred the door, and started on his road. choosing a sheltered spot, the savage pulled out his crust, ate it uncomplainingly, and then lay down at full length, with his soft hat over his eyes, and while revolving the strange events of the preceding night, and striving to recall the face of the young girl, fell asleep. chapter iv. a more beautiful spot for a siesta he could not have chosen. at his feet stretched the lake, gleaming like silver in the sun, and set in a frame of green leaves and forest flowers; above his head, in his very ears, the thrushes and linnets sang in concert, all the air was full of the perfumes of a summer morning, rendered sweeter by the storm of the preceding night, which had called forth the scent of the ferns and the honeysuckle. as he lay, and dreamt with that happy-go-lucky carelessness of time and the daily round of duties which is one of the privileges of youth, there rose upon the air a song other than that of the birds. it was a girl's voice, chanting softly, and evidently with perfect unconsciousness; faintly at first, it broke upon the air, then more distinctly, and presently, from amongst the bushes that stood breast high round the sleeping savage, issued una. the night had had dreams for her, dreams in which the handsome face, with its bold, daring eyes, and quick, sensitive mouth, had hovered before her closed eyes and haunted her, and now here he lay at her feet. how tired he must be to sleep there, and how hungry! for, though she had not seen the note--nor the ring--she knew that he had gone without breakfast. "poor fellow!" she murmured--"his face is quite pale--and--ah----!" she broke off with a sudden gasp, and bent forward; a wasp, which had been buzzing around his head for some time, swept his cheek. too fearful of waking him to sweep the insect aside, she knelt and watched with clasped hands and shrinking heart; so intent in her dread that the wasp should alight on his cheek and sting him as almost to have forgotten her fear that he should awake. at last the dreaded climax occurred; the wasp settled on his lips; with a low, smothered cry, she stretched out her hand, and, with a quick movement, swept the wasp off. but, lightly as her finger had touched his lips, it had been sufficient to wake him, and, with a little start, he opened his eyes, and received into them, and through them to his heart the girl's rapt gaze. for a minute neither moved; he lest he should break the dream; she, because, bird-like, she was fascinated; then, the minute passed, she rose, and drew back, and glided into the brake. the savage with a wild throb of the heart, saw that his dream had grown into life, raised himself on his elbow and looked after her, and, as he did so, his eye caught a small basket which she had set down beside him. "stay," he called, and in so gentle a voice that his friends who had christened him the savage would have instantly changed it to the dove. "stay! please stay. your basket." "why did you run from me?" asked the savage, in a low voice. "did you think that i should hurt you?" "hurt me? no, why should you?" and her eyes met his with innocent surprise. "why should i, indeed! i should have been very sorry if you had gone, because i wanted to thank you for your kindness last night." "you have not to thank me," she said, slowly. "yes," he assented, quietly. "but for you----" then he stopped, remembering that it was scarcely correct to complain of her father's inhospitality; "i behaved very badly. i always do," he added--for the first time in his life with regret. "do you?" she said, doubtfully. "you were wet and tired last night, and--and you must not think ill of my father; he----" "don't say another word. i was treated better than i deserved." "why did you go without breakfast this morning?" she said, suddenly. "i brought it with me," he replied. "you forgot the loaf!" and he smiled. "dry bread!" she said, pityingly. "i am so sorry. if i had but known, i would have brought you some milk." "oh, i have done very well," he said, his curt way softened and toned down. "and now you are going to arkdale?" she said, gently. "that is, after i have gone to rest for a little while longer; i am in no hurry; won't you sit down, una? keep me company." to her there seemed nothing strange in the speech; gravely and naturally she sat down at the foot of an oak. "you think the forest is lonely?" she said. "i do, most decidedly. don't you?" "no; but that is because i am used to it and have known no other place." "always lived here?" he said, with interest. "ever since i was three years old." "eighteen years! then you are twenty-one?" murmured jack. "yes; how old are you?" she asked, calmly. "twenty-two." "twenty-two. and you have lived in the world all the time?" "yes--very much so," he replied. "and you are going back to it. you will never come into the forest again, while i shall go on living here till i die, and never see the world in which you have lived. does that sound strange to you?" "do you mean to say that you have never been outside this forest?" he said, raising himself on his elbow to stare at her. "yes. i have never been out of warden since we came into it." "but--why not?" he demanded. "i do not know," she replied, simply. "but there must be some reason for it? haven't you been to arkdale or wermesley?" "no," she said, smiling. "tell me what they are like. are they gay and full of people, with theaters and parks, and ladies riding and driving, and crowds in the streets?" "oh, this is too much!" under his breath. "no, no--a thousand times no!" he exclaimed; "they are the two most miserable holes in creation! there are no parks, no theaters in arkdale or wermesley. you might see a lady on horseback--one lady in a week! they are two county towns, and nothing of that kind ever goes on in them. you mean london, and--and places like that when you speak of theaters and that sort of thing!" "yes, london," she says, quietly. "tell me all about that--i have read about it in books." "books!" said the savage, in undisguised contempt; "what's the use of _them_! you must see life for yourself--books are no use. they give it to you all wrong; at least, i expect so; don't know much about them myself." "tell me," she repeated, "tell me of the world outside the forest; tell me about yourself." "about myself? oh, that wouldn't interest you." "yes," she said, simply, "i would rather hear about yourself than about anything else." "look here, i don't know what to tell you." "tell me all you can think of," she said, calmly; "about your father and mother." "haven't got any," he said; "they're both dead." "i am sorry," she said. "yes, they're dead," he said; "they died long ago." "and have you any brothers and sisters?" "no; i have a cousin, though," and he groaned. "i am so glad," she said, in a low voice. "don't be. i'm not. he's a--i don't like him; we don't get on together, you know." "you quarrel, do you mean?" "like kilkenny cats," assented the savage. "then he must be a bad man," she said, simply. "no," he said, quietly; "everybody says that i am the bad one. i'm a regular bad lot, you know." "i don't think that you are bad," she said. "you don't; really not! by george! i like to hear you say that; but," with a slow shake of the head, "i'm afraid it's true. yes, i am a regular bad lot." "tell me what you have done that is so wrong," she said. "oh--i've--i've spent all my money." "that's not so very wrong; you have hurt only yourself." "jove, that's a new way of looking at it," he muttered. "and"--aloud--"and i've run into debt, and i've--oh, i can't tell you any more; i don't want you to hate me!" "hate you? i could not do that." he sprang to his feet, paced up and down, and then dropped at her side again. "well, that's all about myself," he said; "now tell me about yourself." "no," she said; "not yet. tell me why you are going to arkdale?" "i'm going to arkdale to take a train to hurst leigh to see my uncle, cousin, or whatever he is--squire davenant." "is he an old man?" "yes, a very old man, and a bad one, too. all our family are a bad lot, excepting my cousin, stephen davenant." "the one you do not like?" "the same. he is quite an angel." "an angel?" "one of those men too good to live. he's the only steady one we've got, and we make the most of him. he is squire davenant's heir--at least he will come into his money. the old man is very rich, you know." "i see," she said, musingly; then she looked down at him and added, suddenly: "you were to have been the heir?" "yes, that's right! how did you guess that? yes, i was the old man's favorite, but we quarreled. he wanted it all his own way, and, oh--we couldn't get on. then cousin stephen stepped in, and i am out in the cold now." "then why are you going there now?" she asked. "because the squire sent for me," he replied. "and you have been all this time going?" "you see, i thought i'd walk through the forest," he said, apologetically. "you should be there now--you should not have waited on the road! is your cousin stephen--is that his name?--there?" "i don't know," he said, carelessly. "ah, you should be there," she said. "squire davenant would be friendly with you again." "i'm afraid you haven't hit the right nail on the head there," he said. "i rather think he wants to give me a good rowing about a scrape i've got into." "tell me about that." "oh, it's about money--the usual thing. i got into a mess, and had to borrow some money of a jew, and he got me to sign a paper, promising to pay after squire davenant's death; he called it a _post obit_--i didn't know what it was then, but i do now; for the squire got to hear of it, but how, hanged if i can make out; and he wrote to me and to the jew, saying that he shouldn't leave me a brass farthing. of course the jew was wild; but i gave him another sort of bill, and it's all right." "excepting that you will lose your fortune," said una, with a little sigh. "what will you do?" "that's a conundrum which i've long ago given up. by jove! i'll come and be a woodman in the forest!" "will you?" she said. "do you really mean it?--no, you were not in earnest!" "i--why shouldn't i be in earnest?" he says, almost to himself. "would you like me to? i mean shall i come here to--what do you call it--warden?" and he threw himself down again. "yes," she said; "i should like you to. yes, that would be very nice. we could sit and talk when your work was done, and i could show you all the prettiest spots, and the places where the starlings make their nests, and the fairy rings in the glades, and you could tell me all that you have seen and done. yes," wistfully, "that would be very nice. it is so lonely sometimes!" "lonely, is it?" he said. "lonely! by george, i should think it must be! i can't realize it! books, it reads like a book. if i were to tell some of my friends that there was a young lady shut up in a forest, outside of which she had never been, they wouldn't believe me. by the way--where did you go to school?" "school? i never went to school." "then how--how did you learn to read? and--it's awfully rude of me, you know, but you speak so nicely; such grammar, and all that." "do i?" she said, thoughtfully. "i didn't know that i did. my father taught me." "it's hard to believe," he said, as if he were giving up a conundrum. "i beg your pardon. i mean that your father would have made a jolly good schoolmaster, and i must be an awful dunce, for i've been to oxford, and i'll wager i don't know half what you do, and as to talking--i am not in it." "yes, my father is very clever," she said; "he is not like the other woodmen and burners." "no, if he is, they must be a learned lot," assented jack; "yes, i think i had better come and live here, and get him to teach me. i'm afraid he wouldn't undertake the job." "father does not like strangers," she said, blushing as she thought of the inhospitable scene of the preceding night. "he says that the world is a cruel, wicked place, and that everybody is unhappy there. but i think he must be wrong. you don't look unhappy." "i am not unhappy now," said jack. "i am so glad," she said; "why are you not?" "because i am with you." "are you?" she said, gently. "then it must be because i am with you that i feel so happy." the savage flushed and he looked down, striving to still the sudden throb of pleasure with which his heart beat. "confound it," he muttered, "i must go! i can't be such a cad as to stop any longer; she oughtn't to say this sort of thing, and yet i--i can't tell her so! no! i must go!" and he rose and took out his watch. "i am afraid i must be on the tramp." "yes," she assented; "you have stayed too long. i hope you will find that the squire davenant has forgiven you. i think he cannot help it. and you will have your fortune and will go back into the world, and will quite forget that you lost your way in warden forest. but i shall not forget it; i shall often think of it." "no," he said, "i shan't forget it. but in case i should, will you give me something--no, i won't ask it." "why not?" she said, wonderingly. "were you going to say, will i give you something to help you to remember?" "yes, i will. what shall i give you?" and she looked around. jack looked at her. his bad angel whispered in his ear, "ask her to give you a kiss," but jack metaphorically kicked him out of hearing. "give me a flower," he said, and his voice was as gentle as its deep ringing bass could be. una nodded, and plucking a dog rose held it out to him. "there," she said; "at least you will remember it as long as the rose lasts. but it soon dies," and she sighed. jack took it and looked at it hard. then he put it to his lips. "there is no smell to a dog rose," said una. "ah no! i forgot. just so. well, good-by. we may shake hands, una. that is your name, isn't it? how do you spell it?" "u--n--a," she said, giving him her hand. "it's a pretty name," he said, looking at her. "is it?" she said, dreamily. "yes, i think it is, now. say it again." "una, good-by. we shall meet again." "do you think so? then you will have to come to warden again." "and i will. i will come soon. oh, yes, we shall meet again. good-by," and, yielding to the temptation, he bent and touched her hand--heaven knows, reverently enough--with his lips. a warm flush spread over the girl's face and neck, and she quivered from head to foot. it was the first kiss--except those of her father and mother--that she had ever received. "good-by," he repeated, and was slowly relinquishing her hand, the hand that clung to his, when a hand of firmer texture was laid on his arm and swung him round. it was gideon rolfe, his face white with passion, his eyes ablaze, and a heavy stick upraised. the savage had just time to step back to avoid the blow and plant his feet firmly to receive a renewed attack; but with an effort the old man restrained himself, and struggling for speech, motioned the girl away with one hand and pointed with the other to jack. "you scoundrel!" he gasped, hoarsely. "go, una, go. you scoundrel! i warmed you at my hearth, you viper! and you turn to sting me. go, una--go at once. do you disobey me?" white and trembling, the girl shrank into the shade. "you villain!" went on the old man, struggling with his passion. "stop!" exclaimed jack, the veins in his forehead swelling ominously. "you must be mad! don't strike me!--you are an old man!" "strike you! no, no; blows are of no avail with such as you! curs take no heed of blows! what other way can one punish the scoundrel who repays hospitality by treachery? was it not enough that you forced your way into my house, broke my bread, but you must waylay a credulous girl and lead her in the first step to ruin. oh, spare your breath, viper! i know you and your race too well. ruin and desolation walk hand in hand with you; but you have reckoned without your host here. my knowledge of you arms me with power to protect a weak, innocent girl from your wiles. scoundrel!" "you use strong words," he said, and his voice was low and hoarse. "you are an old man and--you are her father. you call me a scoundrel; i call you a fool, for if i were half the scoundrel you think me, you'd be to blame for any harm i might have done. i've done none. but that's no thanks to you, who keep such a girl as she is shut up as you do, and leave her to wander about unprotected. you know me, you say, and you know no good of me; that's as it may be, but i say when you call me a scoundrel, you lie!" "yes, i know you. i know the stock from whence you sprung, villains all! i thought that here, at least, i was safe from your kind; but fate led you here--thank fate that i let you go unhurt. take an old man's advice, and, unlike your race, for once leave the prey which you thought so easy to destroy. go!" "i am going," he said, grimly. "i shall go, because if i stayed all night i should not convince you that i am not the scoundrel you suppose me. but, if you think that i am to be frightened by these sort of threats, you are mistaken. i have said that i will come back, and i _will_!" and with a curt nod he strode off. chapter v. it was the evening of the day on which jack newcombe had parted from gideon and una, and the young moon fell peacefully on the irregular pile of the ancient mansion known familiarly for twenty miles of its neighborhood as the hurst. the present owner was one ralph davenant, or squire davenant, as jack newcombe had called him, and as he was called by the county generally. he was an old man of eighty, who had lived one-half his life in the wildest and most dissipated fashion, and the other half in that most unprofitable occupation known as repenting thereof. i say "known as," for if old squire davenant had really repented, this story would never have been written. if half the stories which were told of him were true, ralph davenant, the present owner of hurst, deserves a niche in the temple of fame--or infamy--which holds the figures of the worst men of his day. he had been a gambler, a spendthrift, a rogue of the worst kind for one half his life; a miser, a cynic, a misanthrope for the other. and he now lay dying in his huge, draughty bed-chamber, hung with the portraits of his ancestors--all bad and filled with the ghosts of his youth and wasted old age. as it was, he lay quite still--so still that the physician, brought down from london at a cost of--say, ten guineas an hour, was often uncertain whether he was alive or dead. there was a third person in the room--a tall, thin young man, who stood motionless beside the bed, watching the old man, with half-closed eyes and tightly compressed lips. this was stephen davenant, the old man's nephew, and, as it was generally understood, his heir. stephen davenant was called a handsome man, and at first sight he seemed to merit that description. it was not until you had looked at him closely that you began to grow critical and to find fault. he was dark; his hair, which was quite black, was smooth, and clung to his head with a sleek, slimy closeness that only served to intensify the paleness, not to say pallor, of the face. pallor was, indeed, the prevailing characteristic, his lips even being of a subdued and half-tinted red; they were not pleasant lips, although for every forty minutes out of the sixty they wore a smile which just showed a set of large and even teeth, which were, if anything, too faultless and too white. jack said that when stephen smiled it was like a private view of a cemetery. in short, to quote the savage again, stephen davenant was an admirable example, as artists would say, of "a study in black and white." as he stood by the bed, motionless, silent, with the fixed regard of his light gray eyes on the sick man, he looked not unlike one of those sleek and emaciated birds which one sees standing on the bank of the ganges, waiting for the floating by of stray dead bodies. and yet he was not unhandsome. at times he looked remarkably well; when, for instance, he was delivering a lecture or an address at some institute or may meeting. his voice was low and soft, and not seldom insinuating, and some of his friends had called him, half in jest, half in earnest, "fascination davenant." it will be gathered from this description that to call all the race of davenants bad was unfair; every rule has its exception, and stephen davenant was the exception to this. he was "a good young man." fathers held him up as a pattern to their wayward sons, mothers patronized and lauded him, and their daughters regarded him as almost too good to live. the minutes, so slow for the watchers, so rapid to the man for whom they were numbered, passed, and the old cracked clock in the half-ruined stables wheezed out the hour, when, as if the sound had roused him, old ralph moved slightly, and opening his eyes, looked slowly from one upright figure to the other. dark eyes that had not even yet lost all their fire, and still shone out like a bird's from their wrinkled, cavernous hollows. stephen unlocked his wrist, bent down, and murmured, in his soft, silky voice: "uncle, do you know me?" a smile, an unpleasant smile to see on such a face, glimmered on the old man's lips. "here still, stephen?" he said, slowly and hollowly. "you'd make a good--mute." a faint, pink tinge crept over stephen's pale face, but he smiled and shook his head meekly. "who's that?" asked ralph, half turning his eyes to the physician. "sir humphrey, uncle--the doctor," replied stephen, and the great doctor came a little nearer and felt the faint pulse. "what's he stopping for?" gasped the old man. "what can he do, and--why don't he go?" "we must not leave you, uncle, till you are better." a faint flame shot up in the old man's eyes. "better, that's a lie, you know. you always were----" then a paroxysm of faintness took him, but he struggled with and overcame it. "is--is--jack here?" he asked. "i regret to say," he replied, "that he is not. i cannot understand the delay. i hope, i fervently hope, that he has not willfully----" "did you tell him i was dying?" asked ralph, watching him keenly. "can you doubt it?" murmured stephen, meekly. "i particularly charged the messenger to say that my cousin was not to delay." the old man looked up with a sardonic smile. "i'll wait," he muttered, and he closed his eyes resolutely. the minutes passed, and presently there was a low knock at the door, and a servant crept up to stephen. "mr. newcombe is below, sir." stephen looked warningly at the bed, and stole on tiptoe from the room--not that there was any occasion to go on tiptoe, for his ordinary walk was as noiseless as a cat's--down the old treadworn stairs, into the neglected hall, and entered the library. bolt upright, and looking very like a savage indeed, stood jack newcombe. with noiseless step and mournful smile, stephen entered, closed the door, and held out his hand. "my dear jack, how late you are!" with an angry gesture jack thrust his hands in his pockets, and glared wrathfully at the white, placid face. "late!" he echoed, passionately. "why didn't you tell me that he was dying?" "hush!" murmured stephen, with a shocked look--though if jack had bellowed in his savagest tone, his voice would not have reached the room upstairs. "pray, be quiet, my dear jack. tell you! didn't my man give you my message? i particularly told him to describe the state of my uncle's health. slummers is not apt to forget or neglect messages!" "messages!" said jack, with wrathful incredulity; "he gave me none--left none, rather, for i was out. he simply said that the squire wanted to see me." "dear, dear me," murmured stephen, regretfully. "i cannot understand it. do you think the person who took the message delivered it properly? slummers is so very careful and trustworthy." "oh," said jack, contemptuously. "do you suppose anyone would have forgotten to tell me if your man had told them that the squire was dying? i don't if you do, and i don't believe you do. you're no fool, stephen, though you have made one of me," and he moved toward the door. "stay," said stephen, laying his white hand gently on jack's arm. "will you wait a few minutes? though by some unfortunate accident you were not told how ill my uncle is, i assure you that he is too ill now to be harassed----" "oh, i know what you mean without so many words," interrupted jack, scornfully. "make your mind easy, i am not going to split upon you. bah!" he added, as stephen shook his head with sorrowful repudiation. "do you suppose that i don't know that your man was instructed to keep it from me? what were you afraid of--that i should cut you out at the last moment? you judge me by your own standard, and you make a vast mistake. it isn't on account of the money--you are welcome to that--and you deserve it, for you've worked hard enough for it; no, it's not on that account, it's--but you wouldn't understand if i told you. i am going up now," and he sprang up the stairs quickly. stephen followed him, and entered the room close behind him. the old man looked up, motioned with his hand to jack, looked at the other two and quietly pointed to the door. stephen's eyes closed and his lips shut as he hesitated for a moment, then he turned and left with the physician. "i think," said sir humphrey, blandly, and looking at his watch--one of a score left him by departed patients, "i think that i will go now, mr. davenant; i can do no good and my presence appears only to irritate your uncle." the great doctor departed, just thirty guineas richer than when he came, and stephen went into the library and closed the door, and as he did so it almost seemed as if he had taken off a mask and left it on the mat outside. the set, calm expression of the face changed to one of fierce, uncontrollable anxiety and malice. with sullen step he paced up and down the room, gnawing--but daintily--at his nails, and grinding the white tombstones. "another half hour," he muttered, "and the fool would have been too late? will he tell the old man? curse him; how i hate him! i was a fool to send for him--an idiot! what is he saying to him? what are they doing? thank heaven, that old knave hudsley isn't there! they can't do anything--can't, can't! no, i am safe." stephen davenant need not have been so uneasy; jack was not plotting against him, nor was the old man making a will in the savage's favor. jack stood beside the bed, waiting for one of the attacks of faintness to pass, looking down regretfully at the haggard, death-marked face, recalling the past kindnesses he had received from the old man, and remorsefully remembering their many quarrels and eventful separation. "bad lot" as he was, no thought of lucre crossed the savage's mind; he forgot even stephen and the cowardly trick he had played him, and remembered only that he was looking his last on the old man, who, after his kind, had been good, and so far as his nature would allow it, generous to him. at last old ralph opened his eyes. "here at last," he said; and by an effort of the resolute will, he made himself heard distinctly, though every word cost him a breath. "i'm sorry i'm so late," he said; and his voice was husky. "i didn't know----" the old man looked at him shrewdly. "so stephen didn't send? it was just like him. a good stroke." "yes, he sent," said jack; "but----" the old man waved his hand to show that he understood. "a sharp stroke. a clever fellow, stephen. you always were a fool." "i'm afraid so, sir," he said quietly. "but stephen is a knave, and a fool, too," murmured the old man. "jack, i wish--i wish i could come back to the funeral." "to see his face when the will's read," explained old ralph, with a grim smile. jack colored, and, i am ashamed to say, grinned. a sardonic smile flitted over the old man's face. "be sure you are there, jack; don't let him keep you away." "not that you will be disappointed--much," said the old man. "don't think of me, sir," said jack, with a dim sense of the discordance in such talk from such lips. "i have thought of you as far--as--as i dared. jack, you are an honest fool. why--why did you give that _post obit_?" "i don't know," said jack, quietly. "don't worry about that now." "stephen told me," said the old man, grimly. "he has told me every piece of wickedness you have done. he is a kind-hearted man, is--ste--phen." "we never were friends, sir," he said. "but don't talk now." "i must," murmured the old man. "now or never, and--give me your hand, jack." "i've had yours ever since i came in," said jack, simply. "oh, i didn't know it. good-by, boy--don't--don't end up like this. it--and--for heaven's sake don't cry!" for jack emitted a suspicious little choking sound, and his eyes were dim. "good-by; don't be too disappointed. justice, jack, justice. where is stephen?--send him to me. i"--and the old sardonic smile came back--"i like to see him--he amuses me!" the eyes closed; jack waited a moment, then pressed the cold hand, and crept from the room. half way down the stairs he leaned his arm on the balustrade and dropped his face on it for a minute or two, then choking back his tears, went into the library--where stephen was sitting reading a volume of sermons--and pointed up-stairs. "my uncle wants me?" murmured stephen. "i will go. might i recommend this book to you, my dear jack; it contains----" jack, i regret to say, chucked the volume into a corner of the room, and stephen, with a mournfully reproachful sigh, shook his head and left the room. chapter vi. "villains," says an old adage, "are made by accident." now mark how accident helped to make a villain of the good stephen davenant. he passed up the stairs and entered the bedroom. as he did so his foot struck against a chair and caused a little noise. the dying man heard it, however, and opening his eyes, said, almost inaudibly: "is that you, hudsley?" stephen was about to reply, "no, it is i--stephen," but stopped, hesitated, and as if struck by a sudden idea, drew back behind the bed-curtains. whatever that idea was, he was considerably moved by it; his hands shook, and his lips trembled during the interval of silence before the old man repeated the question: "is that you, hudsley?" then stephen, wiping his lips, answered in a dry voice utterly unlike his own, but very remarkably resembling that of the old solicitor, hudsley: "yes, squire, it's hudsley." the dying man's hearing was faint, his senses wandering and dimmed; he caught the sense of the words, however, for with an effort he turned his head toward the curtains. "where are you?" he asked, almost inaudibly; "i can't see you; my sight has gone. you have been a long while coming. hudsley, you thought you--knew--everything about the man who lies here; you were wrong. there's a surprise for you as well as the rest. did you see jack?" stephen had no need to reply: the old man rambled on without waiting, excepting to struggle for breath. "he is down-stairs. poor boy! it's a pity he is such a fool. there was always one like him in the newcombe family. but the other--stephen--the man who has been hanging about me all this time, eager to lick my boots so that he might step into them when i was gone; he is a fool and a knave." stephen's face went white and his lips twitched. it is probable that he remembered the adage: "listeners hear no good of themselves." "he is the first of his kind we have had in the family. plenty of fools and scamps, hudsley, but no hypocrites till this one. well, he'll get his deserts. i'd give a thousand pounds to come back and hear the will read, and see his face. he makes so sure of it, too, the oily eel!" stephen writhed like an eel, indeed, and his lips blanched. was the old man delirious, or had he, stephen, really played the part of sycophant, toady and boot-licker all these years for nothing? great drops of sweat rolled down his face, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and his knees shook so that he had to steady himself by holding the curtain. "yes, disappointed all. you don't understand. you think that you know everything. but no; i trusted you with a great deal, but not with all. how dark it is! hudsley, you are an old man; don't finish up like--like this. only one soul in the wide world is sorry that i'm going; and he's a fool. poor jack! i remember----" then followed, half inaudibly, a string of names belonging to the companions of his youth. most of them were dead and forgotten by him until this hour, when he was about to join their shades. "ah, the old time! the old time. but--but--what was it i was saying? i--i--hudsley--quick! for heaven's sake! i--the key--the key----" stephen came round, in his eagerness risking recognition. "the key?" he asked, so hoarsely that his voice might well be taken for an old man's. "what key?" "feel--under my pillow!" gasped ralph davenant. stephen thrust his trembling hand under the pillow, and, with a leap of the heart, felt a key. "the safe!" murmured a faltering voice. "the bottom drawer. bring them to me! quick!" stephen glided snake-like across the room to a small safe that stood in a recess, opened the door, and with trembling hands drew out the drawer. his hands shook so, his heart beat to such an extent, that as a movement in the next room struck upon his ears, he could scarcely refrain from shrieking aloud; but it was only the nurse, whom the old man would only allow to enter the room at intervals; and setting his teeth hard, and fighting for calm, stephen took out two documents. one was a parchment of goodly proportions. both were folded and endorsed on the back--the parchment with the inscription, "last will and testament of ralph davenant, gent., jan. --." with eyes that almost refused to do their task, stephen turned the other paper to the light, and read, "will, july --." this inscription was written in an old man's hand--the parchment was engrossed as usual. two wills! the one--the parchment, however, was useless; the other--the sheet of foolscap--was the last. "well," rose the voice from the bed, hollow and broken, "have you got them?" stephen came up and stood behind the curtain, and held the wills up. "yes, yes," he said. "the first is--is in whose favor?" the old man struggled for breath. white, breathless himself with the agony of anxiety and fear--for any moment someone might enter the room--stephen stood staring beside him. he dared not undo the tapes and glance at the wills, in case of interruption--dared not conceal them, for hudsley might appear on the scene. with the wills clasped in his hand, he stood and waited. the faintness passed--old ralph regained his voice. "one is parchment--the other is paper. the parchment one you drew up; you know its contents--i want it destroyed, or, stay, keep it. it will add to the deceitful hound's disappointment. the other--ah, my god--it is too late--hudsley, there is a cruel history in that paper. no hand but mine could pen it. but--but--i have done justice. too late!--why do you say--too late? why do you mock a dying man? mind, hudsley, i trust to you. it is a sound will, made in sound body--and--mind. don't leave that hypocritical hound a chance of setting it aside. i trust to you. stop, better burn the first will; burn it here now--now," and in his excitement he actually raised his head. raised it to let it drop upon the pillow again with exhaustion. stephen stood and glared, torn this way and that by doubt and uncertainty. "justice," he whispered hoarsely. "the first will, my will leaves all to----" "to that hound stephen!" gasped the old man. "i did it in a weak moment and repented of it. leaves all to him; but not now." stephen hesitated no longer. with the quick, gliding movement of a cat he reached the iron safe, replaced the parchment in the drawer and locked the outer door, and thrust the paper will into his pocket. scarcely had he done so, before he had time to get to his place, the door opened and hudsley, the lawyer, entered. he was an old man, as thin and bent as a withy branch, with a face seamed and wrinkled, like his familiar parchment, with the like spots; his dark, keen gray eyes, which looked out from under his shaggy eyebrows, like stars in a cloudy sky. as he entered, stephen came forward, his back to the light, his face in the shadow, and held out his hand. hudsley took it, held it for a moment, and dropped it with a little, irritable shudder--the slim, white hand was as cold as ice--and, turning to the bed, looked anxiously at the dying man. "great heaven!" he said, "is he dead?" a savage hope shot up in stephen's heart, but he looked and shook his head. "no. you have been a long time coming, mr. hudsley." "i have, sir, thanks to your man's stupidity," said the lawyer, in an angry whisper. "he came for me in a confounded dogcart!" "the quickest vehicle to get ready," murmured stephen. "i told him, to take the first that came to hand." "and the result," said the lawyer impatiently. "the result is that we lost half an hour on the road! does your man drink, mr. stephen?" "drink! slummers drink!" murmured stephen. "a most steady, respectable--i may say conscientious--man." "he may be conscientious, but he's a very bad driver. i never saw such a clumsy fellow. he drove into a ditch half a mile after we had started." "dear, dear," murmured stephen regretfully. "poor slummers. it is not his fault. he is a worthy fellow, but too sympathetic, and my uncle's illness quite upset him----" "hush!" interrupted mr. hudsley, holding up his finger and bending down. "squire, do you know me? i am hudsley." the dying man moved his hand faintly in assent. "yes. have you done as i told you?" "you have told me nothing yet." "the safe!--the key!--the pillow!" said the squire. hudsley caught his meaning and felt under the pillow, and stephen, as if to assist, thrust his hand under, and withdrew it with the key in his fingers. "why--again?" came the voice, broken and impatient. "you have done it! you have burnt the first." "what is he saying?" he asked. "you have burned it; show me the other--the last; let me--touch it." hudsley opened the safe and took the first will from the drawer. "two, did he say?" he muttered: "there is only one here--the will;" and he came to the bed with it. "there is only one will here, of course, squire," he said, bending down and speaking slowly and distinctly. "yes--you, you have--burned the other. speak. i cannot see, but i can hear you." "i have burned none," said hudsley. "have only just come--there is only one will here." "which?" gasped the dying man. "the will of january--mr. stephen----" before they could finish, they saw, with horror, the dying man half raise himself, his face livid, his hands wildly clutching the air, his eyes, by accident, turned toward stephen. "you--you thief!" he gasped. "give it to me!--give--give--oh, god! too late?--too la----" it was too late. before the nurse and jack could rush into the room, horrified by the shriek which rang from stephen's white lips, old ralph davenant had fallen back dead! chapter vii. half an hour afterward stephen davenant passed down the stairs on tiptoe, though the tramp of an armed host could not disturb old ralph davenant now--passed down with his hand pressed against his breast pocket, in which lay the stolen will. had the sheet of blue foolscap been composed of red-hot iron instead of paper, stephen could not have felt its presence more distinctly and uncomfortably; it seemed to burn right through his clothes and scorch his heart; he could almost fancy, in his overstrained state, that it could be seen through his coat. he paused a moment outside the library door, one white hand fingering his pale lips, the other vainly striving to keep away from his breast pocket, and listened to the tramp, tramp of jack as he walked up and down the room. any other face would have been more endurable than jack's, with its fiercely frank gaze and outspoken contempt. at last he opened the door and entered, his handkerchief in his hand. jack stopped and looked at him. "i have been waiting for you," he said. "my poor uncle!" jack looked at him with keen scrutiny, mingled with unconcealed scorn. "i have been waiting for you, in case you wished to say anything before i went." "what?" murmured stephen, with admirably feigned surprise and regret. "you will not go, my dear jack! not to-night." "yes, to-night," said jack quietly. "i couldn't stop in the house--i shall go to the inn." "but----" "no, thanks!" said jack, cutting him short. "oh, do not thank me," murmured stephen, meekly. "i may have no right to offer you hospitality, the house may be yours." "well, i think you could give a pretty good guess on that point," said jack, bluntly; "but let that pass. i am going to the 'bush.' if you or mr. hudsley want me--where is hudsley?" he broke off to inquire. "mr. hudsley is up-stairs sealing up the safe and things," said stephen humbly. "he wished me to assist him, but i had rather that he should do it alone--perhaps you would go through the house with him?" jack shook his head. "as you please," murmured stephen, with a resigned sigh. "mr. hudsley is quite sufficient; he knows where everything of importance is kept. you will have some refreshments after your journey, my dear jack?" "no, thanks," said jack; "i want nothing--i couldn't eat anything. i'll go now." "are you going, mr. newcombe?" said mr. hudsley, entering and looking from one to the other keenly. "i am going to the 'bush;' i shall stay there in case i am wanted." "the funeral had better be fixed for saturday. you and mr. stephen will be the chief mourners." then he turned to stephen. "i have sealed up most of the things. is there anything you can suggest?" "you know all that is required; we leave everything to you, mr hudsley. i think i may speak for my cousin--may i not, jack?" jack did not reply, but put on his gloves. "i will go now," he said. "good-night, mr. hudsley." the old lawyer looked at him keenly as he took his hand. "i shall find you at the 'bush?'" he said. "yes," replied jack, and was leaving the room when stephen rose and followed him. "good-night, my dear jack," he said. "will you not shake hands on--on such an occasion?" jack strode to the door and opened it without reply, then turned and, as if with an effort, took the hand which stephen had kept extended. "good-night," he said, dropping the cold fingers, and strode out. stephen looked after him a moment with his meek, long-suffering expression of face changed into a malignant smile of triumph, and his hand went up to his breast pocket. "good-night, beggar!" he murmured, and closed the door. mr. hudsley was still standing by the library-table, toying absently with the keys, a thoughtful frown on his brow, which did not grow any lighter as stephen entered, making great play with the pocket-handkerchief. "i think i also may go now, mr. stephen," he said. "nothing more can be done to-night. i will be here in the morning with my clerk." "i suppose nothing more can be done. you have sealed up all papers and jewels? i am particularly anxious that nothing shall be left informal." "i don't think there is anything unsealed that should have been." "a very strange scene, the final one, mr. stephen." "awful, awful, mr. hudsley. my poor uncle seemed quite delirious at the last." "hem!" grunted the old lawyer, putting his hat to his lips and looking over it at the white, smooth face. "you think he was delirious----" "don't you, mr. hudsley? do you think that he was conscious of what he was saying? you have been his legal adviser and confidant for years; you would know whether there was any meaning in his wild and incoherent statement about the will. as you are no doubt aware, my poor uncle never broached the subject of his intentions to me." "i know of only one will--that of last year. that will i executed for him; it is the will locked up in the safe up-stairs. i have a copy at the office," he added, dryly. "you--you don't think there is any other--any other later will?" he asked, softly. "i didn't think so until an hour ago. i am not sure that i think so now. do you?" "no," he said, shaking his head. "my uncle was not the man to draw up a will with his own hand, and his confidence, and i may say affection for you, were so great that he would not have gone to any other legal adviser to do it for him. no, i do not think there is any other will; of course, i do not know the contents of the will in the safe." "of course not," said mr. hudsley, in a tone so dry that it seemed to rasp his throat. "and yet i cannot understand, my poor uncle's outbreak, except by attributing it to delirium." "hem!" said mr. hudsley. "well, in case there should have been any meaning and significance in it, my clerk and i will make a careful search to-morrow." "yes," murmured stephen, "and i devoutly trust that should a later will be in existence, you may find it." "i hope we may," said mr. hudsley. "good-night!" stephen accompanied him to the door as he had accompanied the doctor and jack, and saw him into the brougham, and then turned back into the house with a look of release, which, however, gradually changed to one of lurking fear and indefinite dread. "conscience makes cowards of us all." it makes a worse coward of stephen davenant than he was naturally. as he stood in the deserted hall, and looked round, at its vast dimness, at the carved gallery and staircase, somber and dull for want of varnish, and listened to the faint, ghostly noises made by the awe-stricken servants moving to and fro overhead, a chill crept over him, and he wished that he had kept one of them, even jack, to bear him company. with fearful gaze he peered into the darkness, scarcely daring to cross the hall and enter the library. for all the stillness, he fancied he could hear that last shriek of the dying man ringing through the house; for all the darkness, the slim, bent figure seemed to be moving to and fro, the dark piercing eyes turned upon him with furious accusation. even when he had summoned up courage to enter the library, locking the door after him, the eyes seemed to follow him, and with a shudder that shook him from head to foot he poured out a glass of brandy and drank it down. the spirit of evil certainly invented brandy for cowards. stephen set down the empty glass and looked round the room--another man. he even smiled in a ghostly kind of fashion as he took the will from his pocket and opened it. "poor jack!" he murmured, with a sardonic display of the white teeth. "this no doubt makes you master of hurst leigh; but providence has decreed that the spendthrift shall be disappointed. yes, i am the humble instrument chosen. i am----" he stopped suddenly with a start, for he had been reading as he soliloquized, and he had come upon words that struck him to the very heart's core. was he dreaming, or had his senses taken leave of him? with beating heart and white, parched lips he stared at the paper until the lines of crabbed handwriting danced before his astounded eyes. if brevity is the soul of wit, old ralph davenant's will was wit itself. it consisted of five paragraphs. the first was merely the usual preamble declaring the testator to be of sound mind. the second ran thus: "to john newcombe i will and bequeath the sum of fifty thousand pounds, the said sum to be realized by the sale or transfer of bonds and stocks, at the discretion of james hudsley." enough in this to move stephen, but it paled into insignificance before what followed: "to my nephew, stephen davenant, i will and bequeath the set of black's sermons in twenty-nine volumes, standing on the second shelf in the library, having remarked the affection which the said stephen davenant bore the said volumes, and accepting his repeated assertions that his attendance upon me was wholly disinterested." an ugly flash and an evil glitter swept over stephen's white face and eyes, and his teeth ground together maliciously. "to each and every one of my servants i bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds, such sum to be forfeited by each and every one who assumes mourning for my death, which each and every one has anxiously looked forward to. "and lastly, i will and bequeath the remainder of my property of whatsoever kind, be it money, houses, lands, or property of any description, to my only daughter and child, eunice davenant, the same to be held in trust for her sole use and benefit by james hudsley. "and i hereby inform him, and the world at large, that the said eunice davenant is the only issue of my marriage with caroline hatfield; that the said marriage was celebrated in secret at the church of armfield, in sussex, in june, --. and that the said eunice davenant, my daughter, is in the keeping of one gideon rolfe, woodman, of warden forest, who has reared her as his own child, and who is unacquainted with the facts of my secret marriage, and i decree and appoint james hudsley sole guardian, trustee, and ward of the aforesaid eunice davenant, and at her hands i crave forgiveness for my neglect of her mother and herself. "(signed) ralph davenant, "hurst leigh. "witness--george goodman, "coachman, hurst leigh. "martha goodman, "cook, hurst leigh." white, breathless, stephen held the paper in his clinched hands and stared at the astounding contents. eunice davenant the squire's daughter. his overstrained brain refused to realize it. old ralph davenant married! married! it was impossible. _oh, yes, that was it._ a smile, a ghastly smile shone on his face. _it was a joke_--a vile, malicious joke, worthy of the crabbed, misanthropical old man! a villainous joke, set down just to bring about litigation, and create trouble and confusion between the two young men, himself and jack newcombe. and yet--and the smile died away and left his face fearful and haggard--and yet that awful fury of the dying man when he knew that the will had been stolen. no, it was no jest. the marriage had taken place; there _was_ a daughter, and she was the heiress of all that immense, untold wealth, except the fifty thousand pounds left to jack newcombe, while he--he, stephen davenant, the next of kin, the man who had been working, lying, toadying for the money, was left with a set of musty sermons. rage filled his heart; stifling, choking with fury, the disappointed schemer struck the senseless paper with his clinched fist, and ground his teeth at it; then, suddenly, as if by a swift inspiration, he remembered that this accursed will, which would reduce him to beggary, and leave an unknown girl and his hated cousin wealthy, was in his hands; that he and he only knew of its existence. with a sudden revulsion of feeling he sprang to his feet, and held the paper at arm's length and laughed softly at it, as if it were endued with sense, and could appreciate its helplessness. then he drew the candle near, folded the paper into a third of its size, held it to the candle--and drew it back again, overcome by that fascination which almost invariably exercises itself on such occasions--that peculiar reluctance to destroy the thing whose existence can destroy the possessor. the flame flickered and licked the frail paper; the smoke curled round its edge; and yet--and yet he could not destroy it. instead, he sat down, and with clinched teeth unfolded the will and read it--read it again and again, until every word was burned and seared into his brain. "eunice davenant! eunice davenant! curse her!" he groaned out. but even as the words left his lips a sound rose, the unmistakable tap--tap of something--some finger striking the window-pane. biting his bloodless lips to prevent himself calling out in his ecstasy of fear, he thrust the will into his pocket, caught up the candle, swept the curtains aside, and started back. the light fell full upon the face of a young girl. chapter viii. the face at the window was that of a young girl of about two-and-twenty. it would be hard to say whether stephen davenant was pleased or annoyed by this apparition. that he was surprised there could be no doubt, for he almost dropped the candle in his astonishment, and fumbled at the lock of the window for some moments before he could open it. "laura!" he exclaimed, "can it be you? great heavens! impossible!" with a little gasp of relief and suppressed excitement, the girl stepped into the room, and leaned upon his arm, panting with a commingling of weariness and fear. "my dear laura," he said, still holding the candle, "how did you come here? why----" "oh, stephen, is it really you? i was afraid that i had made some mistake--that i had come all this way----" "you do not mean to say you have come all the way from london alone--alone!" "yes, i have come all the way from london. do not be angry with me, stephen. i--i could not wait any longer. it seemed so long! why did you leave me without a word? i did not know whether you were alive or dead. three weeks--think, three weeks! how could you do it?" "hush! hush! do not speak so loud," he whispered. "did anyone see you come in?" "no one. i have been waiting in the shrubs for--oh, hours! i saw the visitors go away--an old gentleman and a young one--and i saw your shadow behind the blind," and she pointed to the window. "i have been outside waiting, and dreading to knock in case you should not be alone." "you--you saw my shadow?" he said, with an uneasy smile. "did you see--i mean, what was i doing?" "i did not see distinctly; i was listening for voices. oh, stephen, i am so weary!" he drew a chair for her, and, motioning her to sit, mixed a glass of brandy-and-water, and stood over her holding her wrist and looking down at her with an uneasy smile. "now," he said, taking the glass from her, "tell me all about it--how you came, and why? speak in a whisper." "you don't need to ask me why, stephen," she said, leaning forward and laying her hand upon his arm, her dark eyes fixed on his half-hidden ones. "why did you leave me so long without a word?" "i will tell you directly," he answered. "tell me how you came--alone! great heaven!" "alone, yes; why not? i was not afraid. i came by the train." "but--but----" he said, with a little flush and a shifting glance, "how did you know where i was?" "you would never guess! you do not deserve that i should tell you. well, i followed slummers!" "followed slummers!" he echoed, with a forced smile. "yes, i met him in the street; you are going to ask me why i did not ask him where you were," she broke off with a smile and a shake of her head. "because i knew he would not tell me. stephen, i do not like that man, and he does not like me. why do you trust him so?" "you followed slummers--well?" "to the station. i was behind him when he took his ticket, and i took one for the same place. i was quite close behind him, but he did not see me. i got into the train at the last moment, and i followed him from the station here." "my dear laura," he murmured, soothingly; "how rash, how thoughtless!" "was it?" she said. "perhaps it was. i did not stop to think." "but now--now what are you to do?" "don't be angry with me, stephen, now i _am_ here. you must tell me what i am to do." then her eyes wandered round the house. "what a large house! is it yours, stephen?" "eh?" he said, starting slightly. "i--i--don't know--i mean it was my uncle's. i was going to write to-night and tell you where i was, and why i did not write before." "why didn't you?" she said, with gentle reproach. "because," he replied, "i could not--it was impossible. i could not leave the house, and could not trust the letter to a servant. my uncle has been very ill: he--he--lies dead up-stairs." "up-stairs! oh, stephen!" "you see," he exclaimed reproachfully, "that i have a good excuse, that i have not desert--left you without a word for no cause." "forgive me, stephen, dear!" she murmured, penitently. "do not be angry with me. say you are glad to see me now i have come." "of course i am glad to see you, but i am not glad you have come, my dear laura. what am i to do with you? i am not alone here, you know. the house is full of servants; any moment someone may come in. think of the awkward position in which your precipitancy has placed me--has placed both of us!" "i never thought of that--i did not know. why did you not tell me you were with your uncle? oh, stephen, why have you hidden things from me?" "hidden things?" he echoed, with ill-concealed impatience. "i did not think that it was worth telling. i did not know that i was coming--i was fetched suddenly. now that i come to think of it, i told slummers to call and tell you." "and he forgot it--on purpose. i hate slummers!" "poor slummers!" murmured stephen. "never mind him, however. we must think now of what is to be done with you. you--you cannot stay here." "can i not? no, i suppose not. i can go back," she added, with a touch of bitterness. "my darling," he said, coaxingly, "i am afraid you must go back. there is an up-train--the last--in half an hour." the girl leaned back and clasped her hands in her lap. "i am very sorry," he said, grasping her arm; "but what can i do? you cannot stay here. that's impossible. there is only one inn in the place, and your appearance there would arouse curiosity, and--oh, _that_, too, is quite impossible! my poor laura, why did you come?" "yes," she said, slowly, "it was foolish to come. you are not glad to see me, stephen." he bent over her and kissed her, but she put him from her with a touch of her hand, and rose wearily. "i will go," she said. "yes, i was wrong to come. tell me the way," and she drew her jacket close. "don't look so grieved, dear," he murmured. "what am i to do? if there was any place--but there is not. see, i will come with you to the station. we shall have to walk, i am afraid; i dare not order a carriage. my poor child, if you had only foreseen these difficulties." "do not say any more," she interrupted coldly. "i am quite convinced of my folly and am ready to go." "sit down and wait while i get my hat. we must get away unobserved. suspicious eyes are watching my every movement to-night. i can't tell you all, but i will soon. sit down, my darling; i will not be gone a moment. if anyone comes to the door, step through the window and conceal yourself." unlocking the door noiselessly he went out, turning the key after him. barely a minute elapsed before he was in the room again. warm though the night was he put on an overcoat and turned up the collar so that it hid the lower part of his face. locking the door after him, he came up to the table, poured out another glass of brandy-and-water, and got some biscuits. "come," he said, "you must eat some of these. put some in your pocket. and you must drink this, my poor darling, or you will be exhausted." she put back the glass and plate from her with a gesture of denial. "i could not eat," she said. "i do not want anything, and i shall not be exhausted. let us go; this house makes me shudder," and she moved to the window and passed out. "laura, my dear laura," murmured stephen, in his most dulcet tones, "why are you angry with me?" "i am not angry with you," she said, and the voice, cold and constrained, did not seem the same as that in which she had greeted him a quarter of an hour ago. "i am angry with myself; i am filled with self-scorn." "my dear laura," he began, soothingly, but she interrupted him with a gesture. "you are quite right; i was wrong to come. you have not said so in so many words, but your face, your eyes, your very smile have told me so plainly." "what have i said?" "nothing," she answered, without hesitation, and with the same air of cold conviction. "if you had said angry words, had been harsh and annoyed openly, and yet been glad to see me, i could have forgiven myself, but you were not glad to see me. if i had been in your place--but i am a woman. don't say any more. is the station near?" "my dear laura," murmured stephen for the third time, and now more softly than ever, "more must be said. i am anxious, naturally anxious, to learn whether this--this sudden journey can be concealed." it was quite true, he was anxious, very anxious--on his own account. chapter ix. "come," he said; "it is all right, then. do not take the matter so seriously, my darling laura. the worst part of it is that you should have made such a journey alone, and have to go back alone, and at night! that is what grieves me. if i could but go with you--and yet that would scarcely be wise--but it is impossible under the circumstances. come, give me your arm, my dear laura." a little shiver ran through her frame, and she caught her breath with a stifled sob. "come, come, my darling," he murmured; "don't look back, look forward. in an hour or two you will be home." "do you think i am afraid?" she asked, and her voice trembled, but not with fear. "no, i am looking back. oh, stephen, do you remember when we met first?" "yes, yes," said stephen, soothingly, and with an anxious, sidelong look about--to be seen promenading the high road with a young woman on his arm on the night of his uncle's death would be the ruin of his carefully built-up reputation. "yes, yes," he murmured. "shall i ever forget? how fortunate you lost your way, laura, and that you should have come up to me to ask it, and that i should have been going in that direction. and yet the thoughtless speak of chance!" and he cast up his eyes with unctuous solemnity, though there was no one in the dark road to be impressed by it. "chance," said the girl, sadly--"an evil or a good chance for me--which? stephen, i sometimes wish that we had never met--that i had not crossed your path, and so have left the old life, with its dull, quiet and sober grayness; but the die was cast that afternoon. i went back to the quiet home, to the old man who had been my father, mother and all to me, and life was changed." "your grandfather has no suspicion?" "no, he trusts me entirely. if he asks a question when i go to meet you, he is satisfied when i tell him that i am going to a neighbor. stephen, if i had had a mother, do you think i should have deceived her also?" "deceived? deceived is too harsh a word, my dear laura. we have been obliged, for various reasons, to use some reserve--let us say candidly, to conceal our engagement. you have not mentioned my name to anyone?" he broke off. "to no one," she answered. "such concealment was necessary. my uncle was a man of rough and hasty temper, ill-judging and merciless." "but," she said, with a sudden eagerness, and a slight shudder, "he--he is dead now, stephen. there is no need for further concealment." "softly, softly, dear laura. we must be patient--must keep our little secret a little while longer. i can trust my darling to confide in me--yes, yes, i know that----" "stephen, to-night for the first time--why, i know not--i have doubted--no, not doubted, for i have fought hard against the suspicion that i was wrong to trust you." "my dearest!" he murmured reproachfully. "you were wrong to leave me for so long without a word--you put my love to too severe a test. i--i cannot say whether it has stood it or not. to-night i am full of doubt. stephen--look at me!" he turned his face and looked down. he had not far to look, for she was tall, and in the moment of excitement had drawn herself to her full height. the moon, sailing from amongst the clouds, shone on her upturned face; her lips were set, and the dark eyes gleamed from the white face. "look at me, stephen. if--i say if--there is the faintest idea of treachery lurking in your mind----" "my dearest----" "cast it out! here, to-night, i warn you to cast it out! such love as mine is like a two-edged sword, it cuts both ways, for love--or hate! stephen, i have loved, i have trusted you--for mine, for your own sake, be true to me!" he was more impressed than alarmed. this side of her character had been presented to him to-night for the first time. hitherto the beautiful girl had been all smiles and humble devotion. was she bewitched, or had he been mistaken in her. perhaps it was the moon, but suddenly his face looked paler than ever, and the white eyelids drooped until they hid the shifting eyes, as he put his arm around her. "my dearest! what can you mean? deceive you! treachery! can you deem me--_me_--capable of such things. my dearest, you are overtired! and your jacket has become unbuttoned. listen, that is the railway bell. laura, you will not leave me with such words on your lips?" "forgive me, stephen." "i have done so already, dearest, and now we must part! it is very hard--but--i cannot even go with you to the platform. someone might see us. it is for your sake, darling." "yes, yes, i know," she said, with a sigh. "good-bye--you will write or come to me--when?" "soon, in a day or two," he said. "do not be impatient. there is much to be done; my poor uncle's funeral, you know. good-bye. see! i will stay here and watch the train off. good-bye, dear, dear laura!" she put her arm round him and returned his kiss, and glided away, but at the turn of the road leading to the station she turned and, holding up her hand, sent a word back to him. it was: "remember!" stephen waited until the train puffed out of the station, and not until it had flashed some distance did the set smile leave his face. then, with a rather puzzled and uneasy expression, he turned and walked swiftly back to the house. his brain was in a whirl, the sudden appearance of the young girl coming on the top of the other causes of excitement bewildered him, and he felt that he had need of all his accustomed coolness. the sudden peril and danger of this accursed will demanded all his attention, and yet the thought of the girl would force itself upon him. he had met her, as she had said, in the streets, and had commenced an acquaintance which had resulted in an engagement. alone and unprotected, save for an old grandfather, and innocent of the world, laura treherne had been, as it were, fascinated by the smooth, soft-spoken stephen, from whose ready tongue vows of love and devotion rolled as easily as the scales from a serpent in spring-time. and he, for his part, was smitten by the dark eyes and quick, impulsive way of the warm-hearted girl. but there had come upon him of late a suspicion that in binding himself to marry her he had committed a false step; to-night the suspicion grew into something like certainty. to tell the truth, she had almost frightened him. hitherto the dark eyes had ever turned on his with softened gaze of love and admiration; to-night, for the first time, the hot, passionate nature had revealed itself. the deep-toned "remember!" which came floating down the lane as she disappeared rang unpleasantly in his ears. had he been a true-hearted man the girl's spirit would have made her more precious in his eyes; but, coward-like, he felt that hers was a stronger nature than his, and he began to fear. "yes," he muttered, as he unlocked the library window, and sank into a chair. "it was a weak stroke, a weak stroke! but i can't think of what is to be done now, not now!" no, for to-night all his attention must be concentrated on the will. wiping the perspiration from his brow, he lit another candle. this time nothing should prevent him from destroying the accursed thing which stood between him and wealth; he would burn it at once--at once. with feverish eagerness he thrust his hand in his coat, then staggered and fell back white as death. _the pocket was empty. the will was not there._ "i--i am a fool!" he muttered, with a smile. "i put it in the other coat," and he snatched up the overcoat, but a glance, a touch showed him that it was not there either. wildly, madly he searched each pocket in vain, went on his knees and felt, as if he could not trust his sight alone, every inch of the carpet; turned up the hearth-rug, almost tore up the carpet itself, shook the curtains, and still hunted and searched long after the conviction had forced itself upon his mind that in no part of the room could the thing be hidden. then he paused, pressing his hand to his brow and biting his livid lips. let him think--think--think! where could it be? he had not dropped it on the stairs or in any other part of the house, for he remembered, he could swear, that he had felt the thing as he stood in the study buttoning up his overcoat. if not in the house, where then? throwing aside all caution in his excitement, he unfastened the window, and, candle in hand, examined the grand terrace, traced every step which he had taken across the lawn--and all to no purpose. "it is lying in the road," he muttered, the sweat dropping from his face. "heaven! lying glaring there, for any country clown to pick up and ruin me. i must--i will find it! brandy--i must have some brandy--this--this is maddening me!" and indeed he seemed mad, for though he knew he had not passed it, he went back, still peering on the ground, the candle held above his head. suddenly he stumbled up against some object, and, looking up, saw the tall figure of a man standing right in his path. with a wolfish cry of mingled fear and rage, he dropped the candle and sprang on to him. "you--you thief!" he cried, hoarsely; "give it to me--give it me!" the man made an effort to unlock the mad grasp of the hands round his throat, then scientifically and coolly knocked his assailant down, and, holding him down writhing, struck a match. gasping and foaming, stephen looked up and saw that it was jack newcombe--jack newcombe regarding him with cool, contemptuous surprise and suspicion. "well," he said contemptuously, "so it's you! are you out of your mind?" and he flung the match away and allowed stephen to rise. trembling and struggling for composure, stephen brushed the dust from his black coat and stood rubbing his chest, for jack's blow had been straight from the shoulder. "what have you got to say for yourself?" said jack, sternly. "i asked you if you had gone mad. what are you doing here with a candle, and behaving like a lunatic?" stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile struggled to his face. "my dear jack, how you startled me!" he gasped. "i was never so frightened in my--my life!" "so it appeared," said jack, with strong disgust in his voice. "pick up the candle--there it is." and he pointed with his foot. but stephen was by no means anxious for a light. "never mind the candle," he said. "you are quite right--i must have seemed out of my mind. i--i am very much upset, my dear jack." "are you hurt?" inquired jack, but with no great show of concern. "no, no!" gasped stephen; "don't distress yourself, my dear jack--don't, i beg of you. it was my fault, entirely. the--the fact is that i----" he paused, for jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that the light fell upon stephen's face. "now," he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see stephen's face while he made his explanation. "the fact is," stephen began again, "i have had the misfortune to lose a pocketbook--no, not a pocketbook, that is scarcely correct, but a paper which i fancied i had put in my pocketbook, and which must have dropped out. it--it was a draft of a little legal document which my lawyer had sent me--of no value, utterly valueless--oh, quite----" "so i should judge from the calm way in which you accused the first man you met of stealing it," said jack, with quiet scorn. stephen bit his lip, and a glance of hate and suspicion shot from under his eyelids. "pray forgive me, my dear jack," he said, pressing his hand to his brow, and sighing. "if you had sat up for so many nights, and were so worn and overwrought, you would have some sympathy with my overstrained nerves. i am much shaken to-night, my dear jack--very much shaken." and indeed he was, for the savage's fist was by no means a soft one. jack looked at him in silence for a moment, then held the candle toward him. "you had better go to the house and get some of the servants to help you look for the paper," he said. "good-night." "oh, it is of no consequence," said stephen, eagerly. "don't go--stop a moment, my dear jack. i--i will walk with you as far as the inn." "no, thanks," said jack, curtly; then, as a suspicious look gleamed in stephen's eyes, he added: "oh, i see! you are afraid i should pick it up in the road. you had better come." stephen smiled, and laid his hand on jack's arm. "you--you are not playing a joke with me, my dear jack? you haven't got the--document in your pocket all the time?" "if i said that i hadn't you wouldn't believe me, you know," he replied. "there, take your hand off my coat!" "stop! stop!" exclaimed stephen, with a ghostly attempt at a laugh. "don't go, my dear jack; stop at the house to-night. i should feel very much obliged, indeed, if you would. i am so upset to-night that i--i want company. let me beg of you to stop." and in his dread lest jack should escape out of sight, he held on to his arm. jack shook him with so emphatic a movement of disgust that stephen was in imminent danger of making a further acquaintance with the lawn. "go indoors," he said sternly, "and leave me alone. i'd rather not sleep under the same roof with you. as for your lost paper, whatever it may be, you had better look for it in the morning, unless you want to get into further trouble," and he turned on his heel and disappeared. stephen waited until he had got at a safe distance, and, blowing out the candle, followed down the road with stealthy footsteps, keeping a close watch on the rapidly-striding figure, and examining the road at the same time. but all to no purpose; jack reached and entered the inn without stopping, and neither going nor returning could stephen see anything of the missing will. two hours afterward he crept back and staggered into the library more dead than alive, one question rankling in his disordered brain. had jack newcombe found the will, and, if not, where was it? after a time the paroxysm of fear and despair passed, and left him calmer. his acute brain, overwhelmed but not crushed out, began to recover itself, and he turned the situation round and round until he had come to a plan of action. it was not a very definite one, it was rather vague, but it was the most reasonable one he could think of. there in warden forest, living as the daughter of a woodman, who was himself ignorant of her legitimacy, was the girl. i am sorry to say that he cursed her as he thought of her. where was the will? whoever had got it would no doubt come to him first to make terms, and, failing to make them, would go to the real heiress. stephen, quick as lightning, resolved to take her away. but where? he did not much care for the present, so that it was somewhere under his eyes, or in the charge--the custody, really--of a trustworthy friend. the only really trustworthy friend whom stephen knew was his mother. "yes, that is it," he muttered. "mother shall take this girl as--as--a companion. poor mother, some great ignorant, clodhopping wench who will frighten her into a nervous fit. poor mother!" and he smiled with a feeble, malicious pleasure. there are some men who take a delight in causing pain even to those who are devoted to them. "dear mother," he wrote, "i have to send you the sad news of my uncle's death. need i say that i am utterly overwhelmed in grief. i have indeed lost a friend!" ("the malicious, mean old wolf," he muttered, in parenthesis.) "how good he was to me! but, mother, even in the midst of our deepest sorrows, we must not forget the calls of charity. i have a little duty to perform, in which i require your aid. i fear it will necessitate your making a journey to wermesley station on this line. if you will come down by the : on wednesday, i will meet you at wermesley station. do not mention your journey, my dear mother; we must not be forgetful that we are enjoined to do good by stealth. "in great affliction, "your loving son, "stephen davenant." it was a beautiful letter, and clearly proved that stephen was not only a bad man, but an extremely clever and dangerous one--for he could retain command over himself even in such moments as these. chapter x. let us hasten from the gloomy atmosphere of hurst leigh, and, leaving the presence of the thwarted old man lying upstairs, and the no less thwarted young man writhing in torturing dread in the darkened library, return to warden forest. with fleet feet una fled from the lake, the voices of the woodman and jack newcombe ringing in her ears, a thousand tumultuous emotions surging wildly in her heart. until the preceding night gideon rolfe had seemed the calmest and most placable of fathers; nothing had occurred to ruffle his almost studied impassability. new and strange experiences seemed to crowd upon her so suddenly that she scarcely accepted them as real. had she been dreaming, and would she wake presently to find the handsome young stranger, with his deep musical voice, and his dark, eloquent eyes, the phantom of a vision? as she came in sight of the cottage she turned aside and, plunging into the depths of the wood, sank down upon a bank of moss and strove to recall every word, every look, every slight incident, which had passed since the arrival of the stranger; and, as she did so, she seemed vaguely conscious that a change, indefinite yet undeniable, had fallen upon her life. the very trees, the atmosphere itself, seemed changed, and in place of that perfect, unbroken calm which had hitherto enwrapped her life, a spirit of unrest, of vague longing, took possession of her. a meteor had crossed the calm, serene sky of her existence, vanishing as quickly as it had come, and creating a strange, aching void. still it was not at all painful, this novel feeling of wistfulness and unrest; a faint echo of some mysterious delight rang in the inner chambers of her young soul, the newly awakened heart stirred within her like an imprisoned bird, and turned to the new light which had dawned upon her. that it was the celestial light of love she was completely ignorant. she only knew and felt, with all the power of mind and soul, that a spirit had fallen upon her life, that she had, half-blinded, left the road of gray, unbroken calm, never to return--never to return. step by step she recalled all that had passed, and sat revolving the strange scene with ever-increasing wonder. what did it mean? why should her father be angry with the youth? why should he accuse and insult him, and drive her away as if from the presence of some wild animal who was seeking to devour her? wild animal! a smile, sad and wistful, flitted over her beautiful face as she called up the handsome face and graceful form of the youth. was it possible that one so base as her father declared him to be could look as this youth had looked, speak as he had spoken? with a faint, tremulous, yet unconscious blush, she remembered how graceful he looked lying at her feet, his lips half parted in a smile, his brow frank and open as a child's. and yet he himself had said, half sadly, that he was wild and wicked. what could it mean? innocent as a nun, ignorant of all that belonged to the real living world, she sat vainly striving to solve this, the first enigma of her inner life. once, as she sat thinking and pondering, her eyes cast down, her brows knit, her fingers strayed to her right arm with a gentle, almost caressing touch. it was the arm upon which jack's hand had rested: even now she seemed to feel the pressure of the strong fingers just as she heard the ring of his deep, musical voice, and could feel the gaze of his dark, flashing eyes; they had looked fierce and savage when she had first seen them at the open door of the cottage last night, but this morning they had worn a different expression--a tender, half-pitying, and wholly gentle expression, which softened them. it was thus she liked to remember them--thus she would remember them if she never saw them again. and as this thought flashed across her mind a wistful sadness fell upon her, and a vague pain came into her heart. should she never see him again? never! she looked round mournfully, and lo! the whole world seemed changed; the sun was still shining, the trees were still crowned in all their glory of summer leafage, but it all looked gray and dark to her; all the beauty and glory which she had learned to love had gone--vanished at the mere thought that she should never see him again. slowly she rose, and with downcast eyes moved toward the cottage. she passed in at the open door and looked round the room--that, too, seemed altered, something was missing; half-consciously she wandered round, touching with the same half-caressing gesture the chair on which jack newcombe had sat, opened the book at the page which she was reading while he was eating his supper; a spell seemed to have fallen upon her, and it was with a start like one awakening from a dream that she turned as a shadow fell across the room and gideon rolfe entered. she turned and looked at him questioningly, curiously, but without fear. the cry of alarm when he had broken in upon them by the lake had been on jack's account, not her own; never since she could remember had gideon rolfe spoken harshly to her, looked angrily; without a particle of fear, rather with a vague wonder, she looked and waited for him to speak. the old man's face wore a strange expression; all traces of the fierce passion which had convulsed it a short time ago had passed away, and in its place was a stern gravity which was almost sad in its grim intensity. setting his ax aside, he paced the room for a minute in silence, his brows knit, his hands clasped behind his back. una glided to the window and looked out into the wood, her head leaning on her arm. "una," he said, suddenly, his voice troubled and grave, but not unkind. she started, and looked around at him; her spirit had fled back to the lake again, and she had almost forgotten that he was in the room. "una, you must not wander in the forest alone again." "no! why not?" he hesitated a moment, as if he did not know how to answer her; then he said, with a frown: "because i do not wish it--because the man you saw here last night, the man you were with by the lake, may come again"--a faint light of gladness shone in her eyes, and he saw it, and frowned sternly as he went on--"and i do not wish you to meet him." she was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly clasped in front of her; then she looked up. "father, tell me why you spoke so angrily to him--why do you not want him to come to warden again?" "i spoke as he deserved," he answered; "and i would rather that warden should be filled with wild beasts than that he should cross your path again." her face paled slightly, and her eyes opened with wonder and pain. "is he so very bad and wicked?" she asked, almost inaudibly. gideon rolfe strode to and fro for a moment before he answered. how should he answer her?--how warn and caution her without destroying the innocence which, like the sensitive plant, withers at a touch? "is it not sufficient that i wish it, una?" he said. "why are you not satisfied? wicked! yes, he's wicked; all men are wicked, and he's the most wicked and base!" "you know him, father?" she asked. "you would not say so if you did not. i am sorry he is so bad." "look at me, una," he said. she turned, her eyes downcast and hidden, her lips trembling for a moment. "yes, father." "una," he said, "what is the meaning of this? why are you changed--why do you shrink from me?" she looked up with a curious mixture of innocent pride and dignity. "i don't shrink from you, father," she said in a low voice. gideon's hand dropped from her shoulder, and the frown gave place to a sad expression. "has the time i looked forward to with fear and dread come at last?" he murmured, inaudibly, and he paced to and fro again, as if endeavoring to arrive at some decision. una watched him with dreamy, questioning eyes, in which shone a tender mournfulness. why were all men wicked? why was this one man, with the handsome face and the musical voice, more wicked than the rest? what was it that her father knew that should make him hate the youth so? these were the questions that haunted her as she waited silent and motionless. at last, with a wave of the hand, as if he were putting some decision on one side, gideon rolfe turned to her and motioned her to the window-seat. "una," he said, "last night you were wondering why your lot should be different from that of other girls; you were wondering why i have kept you here in warden, and out of the world. it is so, is it not?" she did not answer in words, but her eyes said "yes," plainly. gideon rolfe sighed, and passed his hand over his brow; it was a hand hardened by toil, but it was not the hand of a peasant, any more than was his tone or his words those of one. "una, i have foreseen this question; i have been expecting it, and i had resolved that when it came i would answer it. but," and his lips twitched, "i cannot do it--i cannot," and his brow contracted as if he were suffering some great, mental anguish. "for my sake, do not press me. in time to come, sooner or later, you must know the secret of your life, you must learn why and wherefore your whole life has been spent in seclusion; you have guessed that there is some mystery, some story--there is. it must remain a mystery still. for your own sake i dare not draw aside the veil which conceals; for your own sake my lips are for the present sealed. child, can you tell me that, secluded and lonely as your life has been, it has been an unhappy one?" "father!" she murmured, and her eyes filled slowly. "god forgive me if it has been!" he said, sadly. "i have striven to make it a happy one." silently she rose and laid her hand upon his arm and put up her lips to kiss him, but with a gentle gesture he put her away from him. "una, listen to me. all my life i have had but one aim, one purpose, your happiness and welfare. for your sake i left the world and an honored name----" he stopped suddenly, warned by the gentle wonder of her gaze, and with a faint color in his face hurried on--"for your sake, and yours only. do you think that it is by choice that i have kept you hidden from the world? no, but of necessity. una, between the world and you yawns a wide gulf. on this side are peace, and innocence, and happiness; on the other," and his voice grew grave and solemn, "lie misery and--shame." white and wondering, she gazed at him, and the innocent wonder in the beautiful face recalled him to himself. "enough! you can trust me, una; it is no idle, meaningless warning. remember what i have said, when your thoughts turn to the world beyond the forest, when you grow weary and impatient with the quiet life which, though it may seem sad and weary, is the only one you can ever know without passing that gulf of which i have spoken." "and now i want you to give me a promise, una." "a promise, father?" she echoed, in a low voice. "yes; i want you to promise me that if this--this young man should come, as he has threatened to do--that if he should come to you, and speak to you, you will not listen, will not speak to him." an impatient frown knitted gideon rolfe's brow. "is this so much to ask you?" he said, in a low voice. "is it so grave a thing to demand of you that you should avoid a man whom you have seen but twice in your life, one whom you know to be wicked and worthless?" "girl," he exclaimed, in low, harsh accents, "has the curse fallen upon you--already? has he bewitched you? speak? why do you not speak? has all the careful guarding of years been set at naught and rendered of no avail by the mere sight of one of his race, by a few idle words spoken by one of his hateful kin?" he grasped her shoulder; instantly, with a revulsion of feeling, he withdrew his hand, and bent his head with a gesture almost of humility. "una, forgive me. you see how this unmans me--can you not understand how great must be the danger from which i wish to save you? promise me what i ask you, for your own sake--ay, and for his." "for his?" she murmured. "yes, for his. let him but attempt to cross your path again, and i will not hold my hand. i held it once--would to heaven i had not! i say, for his sake, promise that you will hold no speech with him!" "father, what has he done to make you hate him so?" she asked. "i cannot, i will not tell you more than this: his race has ruined my life and yours--ruined it beyond all reparation here and hereafter. no more. i wait for your promise." "i promise," she said. "good," he said. "i can trust you, child." "yes, you can trust me," she said, in a low voice; then with slow, listless steps she crossed the room and stole up-stairs. chapter xi. the savage, wholly unconscious of, and totally indifferent to, the fact that his every footstep was watched by stephen, entered the "bush" inn and went straight to his room, the little knot of regular customers, who were drinking and smoking in the parlor, either rising respectfully as he entered or maintaining an equally respectful silence until he was out of hearing. "mr. jack's a fine fellow," said the landlord, looking at the fire solemnly. "did you notice his face as he went through? i'm afraid it's all over with the old squire. well, well, rest his soul, i say. i'm not one to bear grudges against the dead." there was, if not a hearty, a unanimous assent to this dutiful sentiment, and the landlord, encouraged, ventured a little further, looking first over his shoulder to see if the door was shut, and then glancing at a little wrinkled faced man who sat in the corner by the fireplace, and looked, in his rusty black suit, like a lawyer's clerk, as indeed he was. "all over now, mr. skettle," said the landlord, with a little cough. "i wonder--ahem--who'll be the next squire?" the old clerk peered out from under his hairless brows, and shook his head with a dry smile; it was a very fair imitation of his master's, mr. hudsley's, manner, and never failed to impress the company at the "bush." "aha!" he breathed. "hem--yes. time will prove--time will prove, jobson." jobson, the landlord, looked round and winked with impressive admiration, as much as to say, "deep fellow, skettle; knows all about it, mind you, but not a word!" "well," said the parish clerk, with a shake of the head, "if wishing would make the mare to go, i know who'd be the squire o' hurst," and he pointed with his pipe to the ceiling, above which the savage was thoughtfully pacing to and fro. "we've had enough o' davenants," began the miller; but jobson stopped him with a warning gesture. "no names, south--no names; this air a public house, and i'm a man as minds my own business." "so was the last squire," retorted the miller, who was not to be put down--"leastways, he didn't meddle or help his neighbors. not one shilling have i took from the hurst since i was that high. is there a man in this room as can say he'll be a penny the worse for squire ralph's death? "and from what i see it seems to me that if things go on as they appear to be going, we shan't be much better for the new squire, if the name's to be the same." "a nice spoken gentleman, mr. stephen," muttered the tailor, from behind the table. the miller smiled and shook his head. "there's some grain as grinds so soft that you can't keep it on the ground from the wind; but it don't make good bread, neighbor. no! now the youngster up above," and he jerked his head toward the ceiling, "he comes of a different branch--same tree, mind yer, but a healthier branch. it will be good news for hurst leigh if it's found that master jack is to be our head." "nothing soft about mr. jack. if all we hear be true, it's a pretty wild branch of the tree he comes from." "they say he's wild. no doubt; he always was. i can remember him a boy home for the holidays. he used to come down to the mill and poach my trout--a bit of a boy no higher than that"--and he put his hand against the table--"as fine a boy as ever i see. one day i caught him, and told him i'd either give him a thrashing or tell his uncle; for, do yer see, we allus called the old squire his uncle. "'all right,' said he, 'wait till i've landed this fish and we'll settle it between us like gentlemen.' another time i found him in the orchard. 'well, master jack,' says i, 'bean't you got enough apples at the hurst, but you must come and plague me?' he thought a moment, then he looks up with that audacious flash in his eyes, and says, quiet enough: 'stolen fruit is the sweetest, south. if you feel put upon, take it out of the hurst orchard. i give you leave.' what was to be done with a boy like that? fear! he didn't know what fear was. do any o' you remember that roan mare as the old parson had? well, master jack hears us talking o' the spiteful beast one day, and nothing 'ud do but he must go off and ask the parson to let him ride 'un. of course the old fellow said no. two nights after that the young varmint breaks open the stables, takes out the mare, saddles her, and rides her out to the common. i was late at the mill that night, and i hears her come clattering down the yard like a fire-engine, with master jack on her back, his eyes flashing and his hair a-flying, and him a-laughing as if it was the rarest bit o' fun in the world. i'd just time to cut across the meadow to the five-barred fence, and here he come past me, making straight for the fence, waving his hand and shouting someut about dick turpin. ah, and he took the fence, too, and when that vicious beast threw him, and we came up to him, lying all o' a heap, with his arm broke, and the blood streaming from his face--what's he do but laugh at us, and swear as we'd startled her! and as for fighting! there warn't a week but what he'd come to the mill, all cut and mauled, for the missis to wash him and put him to rights. he'd never go home to the hurst those times. even then the old squire and him didn't agree. the old man called him a savage, and i hear as that's what they call him up in london, and yet there warn't a house in leigh as he warn't welcome in. many and many a time he's slept up in the mill loft after one of his harum-scarum tricks, and many's the time i've faced the old squire when he's come after him with a horsewhip." "they say that he run through all the money, as was his by rights, up in london in fast living," said the parish clerk, gravely. "may be," said the miller, curtly. "if fast living means open-handed living, it's like enough; he never could keep a shilling when he was a boy, the first tramp as passed had it, safe as a gun. what's bred in the bone must come out in the flesh. here's to the new squire--if it be master jack," and the sturdy old man raised his glass and emptied its contents at one vigorous but steady pull. meanwhile the subject of the discussion paced to and fro, pulling at his brier, and indulging in a study of the brownest description. never perhaps in his life had jack been so upset, so serious and so sobered. in the first place the sudden--or rather sudden to jack--death of the old man with whom he had lived and quarreled as a boy, affected him more deeply than even he was aware. there in the silent room in the inn, he recalled all the old man's good qualities, all the little kindnesses he had done him, jack, and more than all, the few last solemn and quite unexpectedly affectionate words which had dropped from his dying lips. jack, puffing at his pipe and rubbing his short hair with a puzzled frown, went over the scene again and again, and with no mercenary thoughts of the old man's declaration that he had remembered jack in his will, but with reference to the mysterious allusions in the disposal of the large part of the property; then jack's mind would fly off to the fearful scene at the actual death. the wild cry, the white and horrified face of stephen, the puzzled and sternly questioning one of the old lawyer. what did it mean? and still more mysterious, what was the meaning of stephen's conduct on the lawn? what was he hunting for with such intense eagerness as to make him fly at jack like a madman? jack--as no doubt the reader will have surmised--was not clever. he could not piece this and that together, and from disjointed incidents form an intelligent whole, as a child does with a box of puzzles. the whole thing was a mystery to him, and grew more confusing and bewildering the more he thought of it. it takes a villain thoroughly to appreciate a villain, a thief to understand and catch a thief; and jack, being neither one nor the other, utterly failed to understand stephen. that he disliked him, with a feeling more like contempt than hatred, was a matter of course, but if any one had told jack straight out that stephen had abstracted the will, jack would in all probability have refused to credit it. will stealing and all such meanness was so thoroughly out of his line that he would not have understood how stephen, led on step by step, could have possibly been guilty of it. then again, something else came forcing itself on these thoughts concerning the strange events at the hurst. for the life of him he could not forget the forest of warden and all that had happened to him within its leafy shades. at one moment it seemed as if years must have elapsed since he lost his way and forced an entrance at the woodman's hut, at another he was half inclined to believe that he had dined rather heavily at the club and dreamed it all. like una, he could not realize that they had met, touched hands and exchanged speech. jack could not get the beautiful face out of his mental vision; it mingled with the wan face of the dying man, with stephen's pale, distorted countenance; it seemed to beam and shine upon him from the dark corners of the room with the same frank, pure, innocent smile with which it had shone down upon him as he lay at her feet in the woods. and then the girl's surroundings! the extraordinary father, with his laborer's dress and his refined speech and bearing. what mystery enveloped the little group of persons buried in the depths of a wood, living apart from the world? jack rumpled his hair and drew a long breath eloquent of confusion and bewilderment. it was certainly extraordinary! three days ago he had left london, prosaic london, and was now plunged to the neck in a sea of romance and secrecy. on one thing he was, however, resolved. he would keep his threat or promise. he would go to warden forest and see that beautiful face again, though he had to brave the anger of twenty mysterious woodmen. he thought at first that he would start on the morrow, but some feeling--perhaps some reverence and respect for the dead man--made him change his mind. "no," he said to himself, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and prepared for bed; "i'll stay here over the funeral, and then----" but, though he felt tired and worn out, it was hours before he could sleep, and when he did, his spirit fled back to warden forest, and the face that had haunted him waking hovered about him in dreams. was it love; love at first sight? jack would have been first to laugh at the idea; but it is worthy of note that all the loves which had occurred in his wild, reckless life had never, in their warmest epochs, moved him as the remembrance of una had done; not one had had the power to disturb his sleep or to bring him dreams. jack kept to his resolution. five days passed, and he stuck to the "bush" manfully. they were, perhaps, the dreariest days he ever spent in his life, and he never thought of them afterward without a shudder. every day he was tempted to take flight and go to london until the day of the funeral; but his promise to hudsley kept him at his post. he would not even leave the "bush." on the first day, a note, written on the deepest of mourning paper, had come from stephen, begging him to come to the hurst; but he had written a firm and what was for him a polite refusal. of stephen himself he saw nothing. mr. hudsley had also sent, and asked him to stay at his house; and this, too, jack had declined. the fact was he wanted to be left alone, to think over the strange adventures in the forest, to dwell with unceasing wistfulness on the beautiful face and sweet, musical voice. so he clung to the inn; taking a morning dip in the river; strolling about, with his brier pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, exchanging a word with this man and the other, and bestowing his odd change on any children he happened to meet. sometimes he would drop in at one of the cottages, where he was so welcome when a boy, and smoke and chat; but usually he kept to his room. but wherever he went he was the observed of all observers. every night the little club that met in the "bush" parlor talked about him, and wondered why he didn't go to the hurst, and whether he would be the new squire. the day of the funeral arrived at last--a cold, wet day, that foreshadowed the approaching autumn; and jack put on his black suit--made by the village tailor who had described stephen as a nice-spoken gentleman--and went up to the hurst. it was the first time he had been near it since the night he had the scuffle with stephen on the lawn; and, to jack's eyes, it looked gloomier than ever. as he entered the hall, a shrunken figure in shabby black came to meet him; it was old skettle, hudsley's clerk. the old man peered at him curiously, and made him a respectful bow in response to jack's blunt greeting, and opened the library door. mr. hudsley was standing at the table, and looked up with his wrinkled face and keen eyes--not a trace of expression beyond keenness in them. jack shook hands with him and looked around. "where is stephen?" he said. as he spoke the door opened and stephen entered. jack, frank and candid, stared at him with astonishment. "are we ready?" and they passed out. in silence they stood beside the grave while all that was mortal of ralph davenant was consigned to the earth, and in silence they returned to the library. with the same stony, impassive countenance, mr. hudsley seated himself at the head of the table; stephen sank into a chair beside him, and sat with his eyes hidden under the white lids; jack stood with folded arms beside the window, glancing at the far-stretching lawns and watching the servants as they filed in, a long line of black. when they had all entered mr. hudsley drew from his pocket a folded parchment, slowly put on his spectacles, and without looking round, said: "i am now about to read the last will and testament of ralph davenant." there was a pause, a solemn pause, then he looked up and said: "this will was drawn up by me on january--last year. it is the last will of which i have any cognizance. a careful search has been made, but no other document of the kind has been found. that is so, mr. stephen, is it not?" and he turned to stephen so suddenly that all eyes followed his. stephen paused a moment, then raised his lids, and with a shake of his head and a sigh murmured an assent. mr. hudsley allowed his keen eyes to rest on him for an instant, then slowly looked in the direction of jack. "a most careful search," he repeated. jack, feeling that the remark was addressed to him, nodded and looked at the lawn again. mr. hudsley cleared his throat, and opened the crackling parchment. there was an intense silence, so intense that stephen's labored breathing could be heard as plainly as the rain on the windows. in the same dry, hard voice mr. hudsley began to read. clause by clause, wrapped in the beautiful legal jargon in which such documents are, for some inscrutable reasons, worded, no one understanding the import, but suddenly familiar words struck upon the ear. they were the servants' legacies, and a mourning ring to mr. hudsley; then, in a stillness that was oppressive, there fell the words: "to my nephew, stephen davenant, i will the whole and sole remainder of all i possess, be it in lands or money, houses or securities, all and of every kind of property, deducting only the afore-mentioned legacies." a thrill ran through the assemblage, every eye turned, as if magnetized, to the white, death-like face of the heir. there he sat, the new squire, the owner of hurst leigh and the uncounted thousands of old ralph davenant, motionless, white, too benumbed to tremble. slowly mr. hudsley read over the signatures, and then slowly commenced to fold the parchment. then, from the shadow of the curtains, jack emerged, pale, too, but with cool, calm dignity. quite quietly, and with perfect self-possession, he came to the table and looked at the dry, wrinkled face. "so i understand, mr. hudsley, that the squire has left me--nothing." mr. hudsley looked up, no trace of expression on his face. "quite right, mr. newcombe," he replied. "he has not named me," said jack. "he has not named you in this will." jack bowed, and was turning from the table when stephen started to his feet. for one moment his eyes rested on jack's face with an awful, piercing look of scrutiny, then his eyes lit up with a malicious gleam of triumph, but it disappeared instantly, and with a gesture of honest generosity and regret, he exclaimed: "not named! my dear jack! but stay! i see how it is. my uncle felt that he could trust to my feeling in the matter. he knew that you would not have to look to me in vain." jack turned and looked at him with infinite contempt and unbelief, and then slowly passed out. chapter xii. two days passed since una had given her promise that should jack newcombe come to seek her she would hold no converse with him. how much that promise had cost her no one could say; she herself did not know. she only knew that whereas her life had always seemed dull and purposeless, it had, since jack newcombe's visit, grown utterly dreary and joyless. was it love? she did not ask herself the question. had she done so, she could not have answered it. any school-girl of fifteen feeling as una felt would have known that she was in love, but una's only schooling had consisted of the few stern lessons of gideon rolfe. "i can never see him, hear him, speak to him again," was her one sad reflection; "but if i could be somewhere near him, unseen!" then, through her brain, her father's words rang with melancholy persistence. this youth, whose eyes had seemed so frank and brave, whose voice rang with music so new and sweet, was, so her father said, unutterably wicked. one to be avoided as a dangerous animal! it could not but be true; she thought her father was truth itself. but if it were so, then how false the world must be, for one to look and speak so gently, and yet be so wicked! all day she wandered in the woods, returning to the cottage pale and listless, to leave her plate untouched or at best trifled with. gideon rolfe saw the change which had befallen her, but held his peace, though a bitter rage filled his heart; martha rolfe chided her for her listlessness, and tried to tempt her to eat; but una put chiding and coaxing aside with a gentle smile, and escaped to the lake where she could dream alone and undisturbed. the two days passed--on the third, as she was sitting beside the spot which had grown sacred in her eyes, with its crushed and broken ferns, she heard steps behind. thinking that they were those of her father or one of the charcoal burners, she did not turn her head. the footsteps drew nearer, and a man came out from the thick wood and stood on the margin of the lake, and remained for a moment looking about him. una was so hidden by the tall brake that she remained unseen, and sat holding her breath watching him. he was tall, thin, and dressed in black, and when he turned his face toward her, una saw that he was not ill-looking. she might have thought him handsome but for that other face which was always in her mental vision. he was very pale, and looked anxious and ill at ease; and as he stood looking before him his right hand took his left into custody. it was stephen davenant. for a few moments he stood with a half-searching, half-absent expression on his pale face, then turned and entered the wood again. pale with wonder and curiosity, una rose and looked after him, and to her infinite surprise saw a carriage slowly approaching. a lady was seated in it, a lady with a face as pale as the man's but with a still more anxious and deprecating expression. una, with the quickness of sight acquired by a life spent in communion with nature, could see, even at that distance, that the lady's eyes were like those of the man's, and, furthermore, that she was awaiting his approach with a nervous timidity that almost amounted to fear. with fast beating heart una watched them wondering what could have brought them to warden, wondering who and what they were, when suddenly her heart gave a great bound, for the gentleman, turning to the driver, said, in a soft, low voice: "we are looking for the cottage of a woodman, named gideon rolfe." "never heard of it, sir. do you know what part of the forest it is in?" "no," said stephen. "then it's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay," retorted the man. "however difficult, it must be found," said stephen. "drive on till you come to some road and follow that. it may lead us to some place where we can ascertain the direction of this man's cottage." the man touched his horse with the whip, and still una stood as if spell-bound, but, suddenly remembering that they were going in the opposite direction to the cottage, she was about to step forward, when she heard the bark of the dog, and almost as if he had sprung from the ground, gideon rolfe stood beside the carriage. "ah, here is someone," said stephen. "can you tell us the road to the cottage of gideon rolfe, the woodman, my man?" he asked. "and what may be your business with him?" "why do you ask, my good man?" he replied. "because i am he you seek," said gideon. "you are gideon rolfe? how fortunate." "that's as it may prove," said gideon, coldly. "what is your business?" "it is of a nature which, i think, had better be stated in a more convenient spot. will you kindly permit me to enter your cottage and rest?" gideon looked searchingly into stephen's face for a moment that seemed an age to una, then nodded curtly, and said: "follow me." "will you not ride?" asked stephen, suavely. but gideon shook his head, and shouldering his ax, strode in front of the horse, and stephen motioning to the driver, the carriage followed. "a charming spot, mr. rolfe--charming! rather shall i say, retired, if not solitary, however." "say what you please, sir," retorted gideon, grimly and calmly. "i am waiting to learn the business you have with me." "mother," he said--"this lady is my mother, mr. rolfe--i think, i really think you would find it pleasant and refreshing on the bench which i observed outside the door." with a little deprecatory air the lady got up and instantly left the cottage. then stephen's manner changed. leaning forward he fixed his gray eyes on gideon rolfe's stern face and said: "mr. rolfe--my name is davenant----" gideon started, and, with a muttered oath, raised the ax. stephen's face turned as white as his spotless collar, but he did not shrink. "my name is davenant," he repeated--"stephen davenant. i am afraid the name has some unpleasant associations attached to it. i beg to remind you, if that should be the case, that those associations are not connected with any fault of mine." "go on. your name is stephen davenant?" "stephen davenant. i am the nephew of squire davenant--ralph davenant. the nephew of ralph davenant. i think you can guess my business with you." "do you come from--him?" he asked, hoarsely. "in a certain sense, yes," he said. "no doubt you have heard the sad news. my uncle is dead." "dead!" he repeated fiercely. "dead. my uncle died three days ago." "dead!" repeated gideon, not in the tone of a man who had lost a friend, but in that of one who had lost an enemy. "yes," said stephen, wiping his dry eyes with his spotless handkerchief; "my poor uncle died three days ago. i am afraid i have not broken it as softly as i should have done. you knew him well?" "yes, i knew him well." "then you know how great a loss the county has suffered in----" "spare your fine phrases. come to your business with me. what brings you here?" "i am here in consequence of a communication made to me by my uncle on his death-bed. are you alone?" gideon waved his hand with passionate impatience. "that communication," stephen continued, "concerns a certain young lady----" "he told you?" he exclaimed. "my uncle told me that i should find a young lady, in whose future he was greatly interested, in the charge of a certain person named gideon rolfe." "well, did he tell you any more than that?" stephen made a gesture in the negative. "so," said gideon rolfe, "he left it to me to tell the story of his crime. you are ralph davenant's nephew. you are the nephew of a villain and a scoundrel!" it was true, then, that the man knew nothing of the secret marriage of ralph davenant and caroline hatfield. "a scoundrel and a villain!" repeated gideon, leaning forward and clutching the table. "you say that he told you the story of his crime, glossed over and falsified. hear it from me. your uncle and i were schoolfellows and friends. i was the son of the schoolmaster at hurst. your uncle left school to go to college. i remained at hurst in my father's house. i could have gone to college also, but i would not leave hurst, for i was in love. i loved caroline hatfield. she was the daughter of the gamekeeper on the hurst estate, and we were to be married. two months before the day fixed for our marriage your uncle, my friend--my friend!--came home to spend the vacation. we were friends still, and i--cursed fool that i was--took him to the gamekeeper's lodge to introduce him to my sweetheart. six weeks afterward he and she had fled." stephen watched him closely, his heart beating wildly. "they had fled," continued gideon, in a broken voice. "my life was ended on the day they brought me the news. i left hurst leigh and came here. a year later she came back to me--came back to me to die. she died and left me----. she left me her child. i--i loved her still and swore to protect that child, and i have done so. there is my story. what have you to say?" "it is terrible, terrible!" he exclaimed. "i have kept my vow. her child has grown up ignorant of the shame which is her heritage. here, buried in the heart of the forest, away from the world, i have kept and guarded her for her mother's sake. there is the story, told without gloss or falsehood. what have you to say?" "you have discharged your self-appointed trust most nobly! but--but that trust has come to an end." "who says so?" "i say so. you have done your duty--more than your duty--i must do mine. my uncle, on his deathbed, bequeathed his daughter to my charge." "to yours?" "to mine," said stephen, gravely. "where is your authority?" "that i do not come without authority is proven by the mere fact of my presence here and by my knowledge of my uncle's secret. no one but yourself, your wife and i know of the real identity of this girl. it was my uncle's wish that the story of her birth should still remain a secret--that it should be buried, as it were, in his grave. why should the poor girl ever learn the truth, when such knowledge can only bring her shame and mortification?" "grant that," said gideon, "where could she better be hidden than here? her secret, her very existence, have been concealed from the world." "true, but--but the future, my dear sir--the future! you are not a young man----" "i am still young enough to protect her." "my dear mr. rolfe, you may live--you look as if you would--to be a hundred; you have discharged your self-imposed task most nobly, but you must not forget that it has now devolved upon one who is bound by ties of blood to fulfill it, if not so well, certainly with the best intentions. mr. rolfe, i am the young girl's cousin." "you speak of ties of blood; say rather, the ties of shame! suppose--i say suppose--that i refuse to deliver her up to your care?" "i do not think you will do that. you forget that, after all, we have little choice in the matter." gideon rolfe eyed him questioningly. "the young girl is now of age, and----" "go on." "and supposing that you were to refuse to hand her over to my charge, i should feel compelled to tell the story of her life, and----. pray--pray be calm. i beg you to remember that i am not here of my own desire; that i am merely fulfilling my duty to my uncle, and endeavoring to obey his last wishes. i do not blame you for your reluctance to part with her. it does you credit, my dear mr. rolfe--infinite credit. but duty--duty; we must all do our duty." "has anyone of your name ever yet done his duty?" repeated gideon, sternly. "for my part, mr. rolfe, i have always striven to do mine; yea, even in the face of great temptation and difficulties. i must do it now. after all, why should you resist my uncle's wish? consider, she, who was once a child, is now a woman. do you think it possible to keep her imprisoned in this wood for the whole of her days?" gideon rolfe turned toward the window. for the first time stephen had found a weak spot in his armor. it was true! already she was beginning to pine and hunger for the world. could he keep her much longer? "come," said stephen, quick to see the impression he had made. "do not let us be selfish; let us think of her welfare, as well as our own wishes. candidly, i must confess that i should be perfectly willing to leave her in her present obscurity." gideon rolfe broke in abruptly. "where will you take her?" he asked, hoarsely. "it is my intention," he said, "to place her in my mother's charge. she lives in london, alone. there my cousin will find a loving home and a second mother. believing that you would naturally have some reluctance at parting with her, not knowing with whom and where she was going, i have brought my mother with me." gideon glanced at the quiet, motionless figure seated on the bench outside, and then paced the room again. "does she know?" he asked hoarsely. "she knows nothing," said stephen. "my mother can trust me implicitly. she has long wanted a companion, and i have told her that i know of a young girl in whom i am interested." "you intend to keep her secret?" said gideon. "most sacredly," responded stephen, with solemn earnestness. gideon went to the door and opened it. "wait," he said, and disappeared. chapter xiii. stephen rose softly and watched him from behind the window curtains until gideon had vanished amongst the trees; then stephen went out and smiled down upon his mother with the air of a man who had just succeeded in accomplishing some great work for the good of mankind at large. "sorry to keep you waiting, mother," he said. "i have been making some arrangements with the worthy man, her father." mrs. davenant looked up with the nervous, deprecatory expression which always came upon her face when she was in the presence of her son. "it does not matter, stephen; i am glad to rest. where has the man gone? he--he--doesn't he look rather superior for his station, and why does he look so stern and forbidding?" "a life spent in solitude, away from the world, has made him reserved and cold," replied stephen, glibly, "and, of course, he feels the parting from his daughter." "poor man--poor girl!" murmured mrs. davenant. stephen looked down at her with a contemplative smile, while his ears were strained for the returning footsteps of gideon rolfe. "yours is a sweetly sympathetic nature, my dear. i can already foresee that the 'poor girl' will not long need anyone's sympathy. you are already prepared to open your arms and take her to your heart. is it not so?" mrs. davenant looked up--just as if she wanted to see what he expected of her to say, and seeing that he meant her to say "yes," said it. "yes, i shall be very glad to have a young girl--a good young girl--as a companion, stephen. my life has been very lonely since you have been away." "and i may be away so much. but, mother, you will not forget what i said during our drive? there are special reasons why the girl's antecedents should not be spoken of. the friend who interested me in her wishes her to forget, if possible, everything concerning her early life." "i understand, stephen." "and, by the way, do not allow any expression of astonishment to escape you if, when you see her, you feel astonished at her appearance or manner. remember that she has spent all her life here, buried in the forest, her sole companions a woodsman and his wife." "her mother and father?" said mrs. davenant. "i said her mother and father, did i not? just so--her mother and father. well, we must not expect too much. and after all, it will be far more interesting for you to have a fresh and unsophisticated nature about you, although she may be rather rough and rustic----" "i shall be quite content if she is a good girl." "just so. virtue is a precious gem though incased in a rough casket." gideon rolfe had returned, but not alone. emerging from the deep shadow of the trees was what looked to their astonished and unprepared eyes a vision of some wood nymph. gideon rolfe strode forward, his face set hard and sternly cold, and as he reached the cottage he took una's hand in his, and looking steadily into stephen's eyes, said: "mr. davenant, i have informed my daughter of your mother's offer to take her under her charge, but i have asked her to postpone her answer until she saw you." stephen bowed, and laid his white hand on his mother's arm. "miss rolfe," he said, in a low voice in which paternal kindness and social respect were delicately blended, "this lady is my mother. like most mothers whose children have flown from the nest, she lives alone and feels her solitude. she is desirous of finding some young lady who will consent to share it with her. it is not only a home she offers you, but--i think i may add, mother--a heart." "yes, indeed," said mrs. davenant, and as she held out her hand her voice trembled and a tear shone in her eye. una, who had been looking from one to the other, with the breath coming in little pants through her half parted lips, drew near and put her hand in the outstretched one, but the next moment turned and clung to gideon's arm with a sudden sob. "oh, father, i cannot leave you!" she murmured. gideon bent his head, perhaps to hide his face, which was working with emotion. "hush! it is for the best. remember what i have said. you wanted to see the world----" "yes--with you," said una, audibly. "the world and i have parted forever, una." "but shall i never see you again?" "yes, yes, we shall meet now and again." "i trust, miss rolfe, that we shall wean your father from his long seclusion. you must be the magnet to draw him from his retreat into the busy haunts of men." "you will come and see me?" she murmured. "yes, una. go where you will," and he glanced over her head at stephen, "you may feel that i am watching over you, as i have always watched and guarded you. if any harm comes to you----" "harm?" she breathed, and looked up into his face with questioning gaze. "come, mr. rolfe, you mustn't alarm your daughter," said stephen, softly. "she will think that the world is filled with lions and wolves seeking whom they may devour. i think you may feel safe from any harm under my mother's protection, miss rolfe." "yes. i have never had a daughter. if you come you shall be one to me." "you think me ungrateful?" said una to her, in her simple, frank way. "no, my dear," replied mrs. davenant. "i think you only show a naturally affectionate heart. you have never been from home before." "never," said una. "never out of the woods." "my poor child. no, i do not think you ungrateful. i like to see that you feel leaving home so much. for you will come, will you not? i shall be disappointed and grieved if you do not, now that i have seen you." "now that you have seen me," said una. "yes, my dear. for i am sure that i shall love you, and i hope that you will grow fond of me." "do you?" said una, musingly. "yes," she said, after a pause, "i shall love you." "will you kiss me, my dear," she said; and una bent and kissed her. "and now that you think--that you are sure you will like me--you will come," said mrs. davenant. una looked before her thoughtfully, almost dreamily, for a moment, then replied: "yes, my father wishes me to go. why does he wish me to go into the world he hates and fears so much? it was only the other day that he warned me against wishing for it, and told me that i should never be happy if i left warden. why has he changed so suddenly?" "i--i think it must have been stephen who persuaded him. i heard them talking together." "stephen--that is your son," said una. "yes, he is my son; he is very good and clever--so very clever! he has been a most affectionate son to me, and has never caused me a day's uneasiness." "all sons are not so?" she asked. "no, indeed," responded mrs. davenant. "is he ill?" asked una, after a pause. "ill!" "because he is so pale," she said. "yes, stephen is pale. it is because he thinks and reads so much, and then he is in great trouble now; his uncle died three days ago." "is that why he is dressed in black--and you, too? i am very sorry." "thank you, my dear," said mrs. davenant, "that was very nice of you to say that. i can see you have a kind heart. yes, his uncle is just dead, mr. ralph davenant--squire davenant. why did you start?"--for una had started and turned to her with a sudden flash of intense interest in her eyes--"did you know him? ah, no, you could not, if you have not been out of the forest--how strange it seems!--but you have heard of him, perhaps?" "yes, i have heard of him." at that moment the door opened, and stephen and gideon rolfe came out. the usual smile sat upon stephen's face, in strange contrast to the stern, set look on his companion's. raising his hat to mrs. davenant as he approached, gideon put his hand on una's shoulder. "go indoors, una, to your mother," he said quietly. una rose, and after a momentary glance at each of their faces, went inside. stephen opened and held the door for her, then closed it and came back to the others. "mother," he said, "mr. rolfe and i have made our arrangements, and he agrees with me that it would be wiser, now that the news is broken to miss rolfe, for her to accompany you back to town this afternoon." mrs. davenant nodded, and glanced timidly at gideon's stern face. "we have won mrs. rolfe over to our side, and she is already making the few preparations necessary for miss rolfe's journey." gideon rolfe inclined his head as if to corroborate this, then he said: "will you come inside, madam, and partake of some refreshment?" "i would rather wait here. mr. rolfe, i hope you feel that, in trusting your daughter to my charge, that she will at least have a happy home, if i can make one for her?" "that i believe, madam." "yes, i have quite convinced mr. rolfe that the change will be beneficial to miss rolfe, and that she will be taken every care of. i suppose you are quite old friends already, eh, mother?" "i think she is a beautiful girl whom one could not help loving," murmured mrs. davenant. half an hour passed, and then una and martha came out. una was pale to the lips, the other was red-eyed with weeping, and her tears broke out afresh when mrs. davenant shook hands with her and assured her that her daughter should be happy. "thank you, ma'am," said martha. "it's what i said would come to pass. gideon couldn't expect to keep her shut up here, like a bird in a cage, forever and a day. it was against reason, but it is so sudden," and her sobs broke into her speech and stopped her. mrs. davenant's eyes were wet, and she glanced at stephen, half inclined to postpone the journey; but gideon rolfe had called the carriage to the door, and the box was already on the seat. with the same set calm which he had maintained throughout, gideon took una in his arms, held her for a moment and whispering, "remember, wherever you are i am watching over you!" put her in the carriage in which stephen had already placed his mother. he, too, had a word to whisper. it was also a reminder. "remember, mother, not another word of the past. her life begins from today." then he looked at his watch, and said aloud: "you will just have time to catch the train. good-bye." with the most dutiful affection, he kissed his mother, then went round, and, bare-headed, offered his hand to una. "good-bye, miss rolfe," he said. "you are now starting on a new life. no one, not even your father, can more devoutly wish you the truest and fullest happiness than i do." una, half-blinded with her tears, put her hand in his; but almost instantly drew it away, with something like a shudder. it was cold as ice. the next moment the carriage started, and the two men were left alone. for fully a minute they stood looking at it, till it had been swallowed up by the shadows of the trees; then gideon turned, his face white and working. "stephen davenant," he said, in slow, measured tones, "one word with you before we part. you have gained your end--be what it may; i say for your sake, let it be for good; for if it be for evil, you have one to deal with who will not hold his hand to punish and avenge. rather than let her know the heritage of shame which hangs over her, i have let her go. if you value your safety, guard her, for at your hands i require her happiness and well being." stephen's face paled, but the smile struggled to its accustomed place. "my dear mr. rolfe," he began, but gideon stopped him with a gesture. "enough. i set no value on your word. there is no need for further speech between us. from this hour our roads lie apart. take yours, and leave me mine." "this is very sad. well, well; as you say, i have gained my end, but, as i would rather put it, i have done my duty, and i must bear your ungrounded suspicions patiently. good-bye, my dear sir--good-bye." "i have sworn never to touch the hand of a davenant in friendship," he said, grimly. "there lies your path"--and he pointed to the wermesley road--"mine is here, for the present." and with a curt nod, he turned toward the cottage. with a gentle sigh and shake of the head, stephen, after lingering for a moment, as if he hoped that gideon's heart might be softened, turned and entered the wood. once in the shadow and out of sight, the smile disappeared, and left his face careworn, restless and anxious. "fate favors me," he muttered. "that boor knows--guesses--nothing of the truth. i never thought to get the girl out of his clutches so easily! now she is under my watch and ken--i hold her in my hand. but--but"--he mused, his lips twitching, his eyes moving restlessly to and fro--"what shall i do with her? beautiful--she is lovely! how long will she escape notice in london? someone will see her--some hot-headed fool--and fall in love. she might marry. ah!" and he stooped amongst the brakes and ferns, and looked up, with a sudden, dull-red flush on his pale cheek, a bright glitter in his light eyes, while a thought ran like lightning through his cunning brain. "marry her! why--why should not i?" an answer came quickly enough in the remembrance of the pale dark face of laura treherne, the girl to whom he was pledged. but with a gesture of impatience he swept the obtrusive remembrance aside. "why not?" he muttered. "then, at one stroke, i should secure myself. by heaven--i will! i will!" so elated was he by the thought that he stopped and leaned against a tree and took off his hat, allowing the cool breezes to play upon his white forehead. "beautiful, and the real heiress of hurst leigh," he muttered. "why should i not? by one stroke i should make myself secure, and set that cursed will at defiance, let it be where it may! i will! i will!" he repeated, setting his teeth; then, as he put on his hat, he smiled pitifully and murmured: "poor laura, poor laura!" chapter xiv. una saw her last of warden forest through a mist of tears; while a tree remained in sight her face was turned toward it, and in silence she bade farewell to the leafy world in which her life had passed with so much uneventfulness--in silence listened to the soughing of the breeze that seemed to voice her a sad good-bye. her companion sat in silence, too, holding the soft, warm hand which clung to hers with an eloquent supplication for protection and sympathy. but youth and tears are foes who cannot abide long together, and by the time the little railway village of wermesley was reached, una's eyes were full of interest and curiosity. as the fly rumbled over the unkept streets toward the station, past the few tame shops and the dead-and-alive hotel, her color came and went in rapid fluctuations. "is--is this the world?" she asked, in a low voice. mrs. davenant looked at her with a smile, the first which una had seen on the thin, pale face. she had yet to learn that mrs. davenant never smiled in her son's presence. "the world, my dear?" she replied. "well, yes; but a very quiet part of it." "and yet there are so many people in the streets, and--ah!" she drew back with an exclamation as the train shrieked into the station. mrs. davenant started--she was nervous herself, and had not yet realized that she had for companion one who was as ignorant of our modern high-pressure civilization as a north american indian. "that is the train; don't be frightened, my dear," she said. "forgive me. i know it is the train--i have read about it. i am not frightened," she added, quietly, and with a touch of gentle dignity that puzzled mrs. davenant. "my dear," she said, "i am not finding fault, or chiding you, it is only natural that you should be surprised, but you will find a great deal more to be surprised at when we get to london." una inclined her head as she mentally registered a resolution to conceal, at any cost, any surprise or alarm she might feel on the rest of the journey. nevertheless, she kept very close to mrs. davenant as they passed to the train, and shrank back into the corner of the carriage driven there by the stupid stare of one or two of the passengers. "now we are all right," said mrs. davenant, gently. "we shall not sleep now till we get to town." "to london--we are going to london?" asked una in a low voice. "yes," said mrs. davenant. "that is where i live; i live in a great square at the west-end." "i know the points of the compass," said una, with a smile; "my father taught me," and she sighed--"poor father!" "i think your father must be a very clever man, my dear. he appears to have taught you a great deal--i mean"--she hesitated--"you speak so correctly." "do i?" said una. "yes, my father is very clever. he knows everything." "it is very curious," she said. "i mean--i hope you won't be offended--but men in his position are not generally so well informed." "are they not?" said una, quietly. "i don't know. perhaps my father learned all he knows from books." "and taught you in the same way. tell me what books you have read." una smiled softly, and as she did so, mrs. davenant started, and looked around at her with something like fright in her grave, still eyes. "what is the matter?" asked una. "no--nothing," replied the other. "i--you reminded me of somebody when you laughed, i can't tell whom. but the books, you were going to tell me about the books." "i can't remember all," said una, and then she mentioned the titles of some of the well-bound volumes which stood on the little bookshelf in the hut. mrs. davenant regarded her curiously. "those are all books of a world that existed long ago," she said. "you have never read any novels--any novels of present day life?" "no, i think not." "then you are absolutely ignorant of life as it is," said mrs. davenant. "yes, i suppose so," assented una. "i can understand now how useful fiction really is," murmured mrs. davenant. "it is by it alone that a future age will understand what ours is. you are entering upon some strange experiences, miss rolfe." una started; the name was so unfamiliar to her that she hardly recognized it. "please don't call me that," she said, laying her hand on mrs. davenant's arm. "my name is eunice--una. call me una." "i will," said mrs. davenant. "you have promised to love me, you know." "a promise easy to keep, my dear," she said, and her eyes grew moist. "i little thought when my son stephen telegraphed to meet him that he was taking me to a daughter." "your son stephen--he sent for you!" said una, with frank curiosity. "how did he know of my existence?" "through some friend," said mrs. davenant, with much hesitation and nervous embarrassment. "my son is a very good man, and always interesting himself in some good cause or other--something that will benefit his fellow creatures. you--you will like my son when you know more of him," she added, and though she spoke with pride there was a touch of something like fear in her voice, which always came when she mentioned his name or spoke of his goodness. "yes," said una, simply, "i will for your sake." "thank you, my dear," murmured mrs. davenant. "but how," went on una, after thinking a moment, "how did his friend know anything about me? did my father----" "i don't know, una," said mrs. davenant, nervously. "stephen doesn't always tell me everything; you see he has so much to think of, and just now he is in great trouble, you know." "ah! yes," said una, gently; "and he had not time to tell you. but he will. i am sorry he is in such trouble." then, after a pause, she said: "are you rich?" mrs. davenant started. the question, so unusual and so strange, bewildered her by its suddenness and its frankness. "rich, my dear?" she said. "yes--i suppose i am rich." "and he is rich?" "he will be, perhaps; we do not know until his uncle's will is read." "i know what a will is," said una, with a smile. "it is the paper which a man leaves when he dies, saying to whom he wishes his money to go. and stephen----" "you should say mr. stephen, or mr. davenant, my dear," she said. "i don't mind your calling him stephen, but--but----" she looked round in despair. how was she to explain to this frank, beautiful girl the laws of etiquette? "but everyone who speaks of those to whom they are not related say mr., or mrs., or miss." "i see," said una. "then mr. davenant expects to get his uncle's money, and then he will be rich. i am very glad. and he does not live in the same house with you?" "no," replied mrs. davenant--and surely there was something like a tone of relief in her voice--"no; when he is in london he lives in chambers in rooms by himself; but he has been staying at hurst leigh." "at hurst leigh!" echoed una, softly, and a faint color stole over her face. how wonderful it was! that other--he whose face was always with her, was going there! "at hurst leigh," repeated mrs. davenant. "do you know it?" una shook her head silently. she longed to ask more, to ask if mrs. davenant knew the youth who had taken shelter in the cottage, but she simply could not. love is a wondrous schoolmaster--he had already taught her frank, out-spoken nature the art of concealment. "it is a grand place," continued mrs. davenant. "a great, huge place," and she shivered faintly, "and--and if squire davenant has left it to stephen, he will live there." "you don't like it?" said una, with acute intuition. "no," replied mrs. davenant, with unusual earnestness. "no, oh no! it frightens me. i was never there but once, and then i was glad--very, very glad to get away, grand and beautiful as it was!" "but why?" asked una, eagerly. "because--have you never heard of ralph davenant?" una hesitated a moment. she had heard of him. "he was a wonderful man, but terrible to me. his eyes looked through one, and then he had been so wicked." she stopped short, and una sighed. so there was another person who was wicked. "why are men so wicked?" she asked, in a low voice. "i--i--don't know. what a singular question," said mrs. davenant. "no one knows. perhaps it is because they have different natures to ours. but you need not look so grieved, my dear," she added, with a little smile, "you need not know any wicked men." "who can tell? one does not know; wicked men are just like the others, only we like them better." mrs. davenant stared at her, and utterly overwhelmed by the strange reply, sank into her corner and into silence. the panting engine tore along the line, and presently the clear atmosphere was left behind, and the cloud of smoke which hangs over the great city came down upon them and took them in, and infolded them. to una's amazement the train seemed to glide over the tops of houses, houses so thick that there seemed but two, or three inches between them. with suppressed excitement--she had resolved to express no surprise or fear--she watched through the window. sometimes she caught sight of streets thronged with people, and with commingled alarm and curiosity, wondered what had happened to draw them all together so. she would not ask mrs. davenant, for wearied by her double journey, she was leaning back with closed eyes. suddenly the train stopped--stopped amidst the noise and confusion of a large terminus--mrs. davenant woke, a porter came to the door, received instructions as to the luggage and handed them out. notwithstanding her resolution, una felt herself turning pale. from warden forest to a london railway station. "keep close to me, dear," said mrs. davenant, who seemed only nervous and helpless in her son's presence. "come, there is a cab." in silence una followed. men--and women, too,--turned to look at the tall, graceful figure in its plain white dress, and stared at the lovely face, with its half-frightened, half-curious, downcast eyes, and una felt the eyes fixed on her. "why--why do they look at me so?" she asked, when they had entered the cab. mrs. davenant regarded her with a smile, and evaded the frank, open eyes. was it possible that the girl was ignorant of her marvelous beauty? "people in london always stare, my dear una," she replied, "and they see that you are strange." "it is my dress," said una, who had been looking out of the window at some of the fashionably-attired ladies. "it is different to theirs. see--look at that lady! why does she wear so long a dress? she has to hold it up with one hand." "it is your dress, no doubt, my dear," she said. "we must alter it when we get home." the cab rolled into the street, and una was rendered speechless. but for her resolve she would have shrunk back into the farthest corner of the cab. the number of people, the noise, alarmed her, and yet she felt fascinated. were all the people mad that they hurried on so with such grave and pre-occupied faces. she had never seen her father hurry unless he had cut down a tree that had been struck by lightning, and which might injure others in its fall unless cut down with greatest care. presently they passed into one of the leading thoroughfares, already lit up, its shops gleaming brightly with the gas-light, its ceaseless line of cabs, and omnibuses, and carriages. at last, when her eyes were weary with looking, she murmured: "this--this--is the world then at last." "yes," said mrs. davenant, with a sigh. "this is the world, una!" "and are those palaces!" asked una, as they passed through the west end streets and squares. "no," said mrs. davenant; "they are only houses, in which rich people dwell, as you would call it." "and the trees! are there no trees?" asked una, with, for the first time, a sigh. "not here, dear. there are some in the parks; some even in the middle of the city itself. you will miss your trees, una." "yes, i shall miss my trees. but this--this world seems so large; i thought that----" "well," said mrs. davenant, amused with her bewilderment. "i thought that people in the world knew each other; but that is impossible." and she sighed, as she thought that, after all, now that she was in the world, she was no nearer that one being who, for her, was the principal person in it. "very few people know each other, una. it's a big world, this london. i wonder whether you will be happy?" una turned to her with a look upon her face that would have melted a sterner heart than mrs. davenant's. "i shall be happy, if you will love me," she said. something in the frank, simple reply made mrs. davenant tremble. what had she undertaken in the charge of this simple, pure-natured girl, whose beauty caused people to turn and stare at her, and whose innocence was that of a child? through miles and miles of streets, as it seemed to una, the cab made its slow, rumbling way; houses, that were palaces in her eyes, flitted past; and at last they stopped before a palace, as it seemed to una, in a quiet square. the door of the house opened, and a servant came out and opened the cab door. in silent wonderment una entered the hall, lit with its gas-lamps and lined with flowers, and followed mrs. davenant into what was really the drawing-room of a house in walmington square; but which seemed to una to be the principal apartment in some enchanted castle. but true to her resolve, she stood calm and silent, feeling, rather than seeing, that the eyes of the servant were fixed upon her with curious interest. "come upstairs, una, dear," said mrs. davenant, and una followed her into another fairy chamber. flowers, of which mrs. davenant, like most nervous persons, was inordinately fond, seemed everywhere: they lined the staircase and the landing, and bloomed in every available corner. mrs. davenant entered her own room, then opened a door into an adjoining one. "this is your room, my dear," she said. "if--if--you like it----" "like it!" said una, with open eyes and beating heart. "is--is this really mine?" and she looked round the dainty room with incredulous admiration. "if--if you like it, my dear," said mrs. davenant. "how could i do otherwise? it is too beautiful for me----" "i don't think anything could be too beautiful for you, una," said mrs. davenant, with a significance that was entirely lost on una. "if there is anything you want--i can't give you any trees, you know." "i shan't want trees while the flowers are here. it is nothing but flowers." "i am very fond of them," said mrs. davenant, meekly. "you will hear a bell ring in half an hour; come to me then, i shall wait in the next room for you. i will not lock the door," and she left her. una felt dazed and stunned for a few minutes, then she made what preparations were possible. she chose from her box, which had been conveyed to her room by some invisible agency apparently, a plain muslin dress, and, more by instinct than any prompting of vanity, fastened a rose in her hair. she had scarcely completed her simple toilet when the bell rang, and she went into the next room. a maid servant--una noticed that it was not the one who had opened the door--was in attendance upon mrs. davenant, and dropped a courtesy as mrs. davenant said, in her nervous, hesitating fashion: "this is miss rolfe, jane." una smiled, and was about to hold out her hand, but stopped, seeing no movement of a similar kind on the part of the neatly-dressed girl. "jane is my own maid, una," said mrs. davenant. "she will attend to you when you want her." jane dropped another courtesy, but una detected a glance of curiosity and scrutiny at the plain white muslin. "come," said mrs. davenant, "let us go down. dinner is ready," and she led the way down-stairs. another fairy apartment broke upon una's astonished vision as they entered the dining-room. small as the houses are in walmington square, una, accustomed only to the small room in the hut, thought that this dining-room was large enough to be the banquet hall of princes. but, whatever surprise una felt, she, mindful of her resolve, concealed. not even the maid in waiting could find anything to condemn. when she went down-stairs her verdict was favorable. "whoever she is," she said, "she's a lady. but where on earth she comes from, goodness only knows. a plain muslin dress that might have come out of the ark." dinner was over at last. a "last" that seemed to una an eternity. mrs. davenant rose and beckoned her to follow, and they went into the drawing-room. "are you very tired, una?" "no," said una, thinking of her long wanderings in warden forest, "not tired at all, but very surprised." "surprised?" said mrs. davenant, questioningly. "yes. do all the people in london live like this--in such beautiful houses, with people to wait upon them, and with so many things to eat, and with such pretty things in the houses?" "not all," said mrs. davenant, watching the tall, graceful figure as it moved to and fro--"not all. but it would take too long to explain. you think these are pretty things; what will you say when you see the great sights--sights which we londoners think nothing of?" una did not answer; she had been looking round the room at the pictures, mostly portraits, on the walls. "are these pictures of friends of yours?" she said. "who is that?" "that? that is the portrait of a man i was speaking of in the train. that is ralph--squire davenant--when he was a young man." it was a portrait of ralph davenant in his best--and worst--days. it had been painted when men wore their hair long, and brushed from their foreheads. one hand, white as the driven snow, was thrust in his breast, the other held a riding-whip. una looked at it long and earnestly, and mrs. davenant, impressed by her long silence, rose and stood beside her. "yes," she said, "that is ralph davenant. it was painted when he was about your age, my dear. ah----" "what is the matter?" mrs. davenant, pale and excited, took up a hand-mirror from one of the tables and held it in front of una. "look!" she exclaimed. "well?" she said. "well?" echoed mrs. davenant. "don't you see? look again. the very image! it is himself come to life again; it is ralph davenant turned woman!" she exclaimed. and before una could glance at the glass a second time mrs. davenant threw it aside. "am i so like?" said una, with a smile. "how mysterious! and that is so beautiful a face." "beautiful eyes, and you are----" said mrs. davenant, but stopped in time, warned by una's frank, questioning gaze. "if you like to look at portraits," she said, "there is an album there; look over that." una took up the album and turned over its pages; suddenly she stopped, and the color flew to her face. with unconcealed eagerness she came toward mrs. davenant with the open album in her hand. "look!" she said; "who is that?" "that," said mrs. davenant, peering at it, "that is--jack newcombe." "jack newcombe," said una, breathlessly. "you know him?" "yes," said mrs. davenant, with a sigh. "poor jack! shut the book, my dear." "why do you say 'poor jack?'" said una, with a hollow look in her beautiful eyes. "because--because he is a wicked young man, my dear," said mrs. davenant. "poor jack!" chapter xv. amidst a profound silence jack walked slowly and quietly out of the house. there was no anger in his heart against the old man whose favorite he had once been--for the moment there was scarcely any anger against stephen; surprise and bewilderment overwhelmed every other feeling. he had not expected a large sum of money--had certainly not expected the hurst; and but for the words spoken by the dying man, he would not have expected anything at all, after having offended him in the matter of the money-lenders and the post-obit. but most assuredly the squire had intimated that there would be something--something, however small. and now he was told that there was nothing, that his name was not even mentioned. apart from any mercenary consideration, jack was cut up and disappointed; if there had been a simple mourning ring, a few of the old guns out of the armory--anything as a token of the old man's forgiveness, he would have been satisfied; but nothing, not one word. then, again, he could not understand it, near his end as he was when he spoke to him. the squire was as sane and clear-headed as he had been at any time of his life, or at least so it seemed to jack; and he certainly had given him to understand that he had left him some portion of his immense wealth. it was another link in the chain of mysteries which had seemed to coil around jack since he started from london. slowly and thoughtfully he made his way back to the "bush," and began to pack up the small portmanteau which had been sent from town. hurst leigh was no place for him; every minute he remained in it seemed intolerable to him. he would go straight back to town by the next train. suddenly a thought struck him, and he paused in his task of packing the portmanteau, an operation which he reduced to its simplest by thrusting in anything that came first and jamming it down tight with his fist; he stopped and looked up with a red flush on his handsome face. why shouldn't he go to warden forest on his way back? in a moment, the idea thrilled him with the delight of anticipation, the next, a shade came over his brow. why shouldn't he? rather, why _should_ he? what was the use of his going? if he had no business there before, he had less excuse now. he was next door to a beggar--and---- realizing for the first time the blow that had been dealt him by the squire's neglect, he continued at the jamming process, jumped and kicked at the portmanteau till it consented to be locked, and then went down to the bar and called for his bill. there were several people hanging about--a funeral is a good excuse for a holiday in a country village--but jack, in his abstraction, scarcely noticed the little group of men who sat and stood about, and merely nodded in response to the respectful and kindly greetings. "but, mr. jack," said jobson, with a deeply respectful air of surprise, "you don't think of going right away at once, sir?" "yes, i'm off, jobson," said jack. "what's the next train?" "to london?" said a dry, thin voice behind him; and jack turned and saw mr. hudsley's clerk--old skettle. "there's no train to london till seven o'clock; there's a train to arkdale in an hour, but it stops there." "all right," he said, "i'll go to arkdale; and, by the way, jobson, i don't want to be bothered with the portmanteau; send it on by rail to my address--spider court, the temple, you know." jobson touched his cap, and while he was making out the bill jack lit his pipe and paced up and down, his hands in his pockets, the knot of men watching him out of the corners of their eyes with sympathetic curiosity. jack paid the bill--so moderate a one that he capped it with half a sovereign over; and with a "good-day" all round, started off. he had not got further than the signpost, when he felt a touch on his arm, and, turning, saw that old skettle had followed him. "halloa," said jack, in his blunt way, "what's the matter?" the old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way. "i'm very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the hurst, master jack," he said, respectfully. "but not more sorry than i am, skettle, thank you." "i'm afraid it's rather unexpected, master jack," he continued, his small, keen eyes fixed, not on jack, but on his second waistcoat-button, counting from the top. "well, yes, it is," said jack, tugging at his mustache. "very much so. i've got a hit in the bread-basket this time, skettle, and i'm on my back again." old skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes that were looking rather ruefully at the ground. "hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, master jack?" he asked. "eh, what?" said jack, who had not been paying much attention. "no, according to the rules; but what do you mean by the question? you are always such a mysterious old idiot, you know. you can't help it, i suppose." old skettle smiled, if the extraordinary contortion of the wrinkled face could be called by so flattering a designation. "i've seen such mysterious things since i first went into mr. hudsley's office to sweep the floor----" "now, then," said jack, "none of that game; going into the old story, which i have heard a hundred times, of how you went as an office boy, and have risen to the proud position of confidential clerk. you're like one of the old fellows in the play, who draws a chair up to the footlights, and says, 'it's seven long years ago----' and the people begin to clear out into the refreshment bar, and wait there till he's done. where were you? oh, 'mysterious experiences.' well, go on." but old skettle had, apparently, nothing to say; he had, while jack had been speaking, changed his mind. "i beg pardon for stopping you, master jack," he said. "i felt i couldn't let you go out of the old place without expressing my sympathy." "thanks, thanks," said jack, holding out his hand. "you're one of the right sort, skettle, and so's hudsley. i believe he's sorry, too. looks a little puzzled, too. puzzled isn't the word for what i feel. i've got the sensation one experiences when he's been sitting through one of the old-fashioned melo-dramas. not even a mourning-ring, or a walking-stick. poor squire--well, i forgive him. he had a right to do what he liked with his own." "just so, master jack, but it's hard for you," said skettle. "not a mourning-ring. by the way, sir," and something like a blush crept over his wrinkled face. "if--if you should be in want of a little money----" jack stared, then laughed grimly. "well, you certainly must be mad, skettle," he interrupted. "want money! when didn't i want it? but don't you be idiot enough to lend me any. it would be a jolly bad speculation, old fellow. there is not a jew in london would take my paper. no, skettle, it would be downright robbery, and i don't think i could rob you, you know." "do you remember the day you swam across the mill-pond, and fished my little boy out, master jack?" "you take care i shan't forget it, skettle," said jack, with a smile. "it was a noble deed, wasn't it? every time you mention it, i try to feel like a hero, but it won't come. how is little ned?" "he's well, sir; he's in london now, working his way up. he'd have been in the church-yard if it hadn't been for you." "why, skettle, this is worse than ''twas seven long years ago!'" exclaimed jack. "on that day, master jack, i swore that if ever a time came when i'd a chance of serving you, i'd do it. it did not seem very likely then, for we all thought you'd be the next squire; but now, master jack, i should be grateful if you'd borrow ten pounds of me." "nonsense," cried jack. "don't be an idiot, skettle. _you_ a lawyer! why, you're too soft for anything but a washerwoman. there, good-bye; remember me to little ned when you write, and tell him i hope he'll grow up a little harder than his father. good-bye," and he shook the thin, skinny claw heartily. old skettle stood and looked after him, his right hand fumbling in his waistcoat pocket; and when jack had got quite out of sight he pulled the hand out, and with it a small scrap of paper with a few words written on it, and a seal. it was just such a scrap of paper which might have been torn from a letter, and the seal was the davenant seal, with its griffin and spear plainly stamped. old skettle looked at it a moment curiously, then shook his head. "no, i was right after all in not giving it to him; it may be nothing--nothing at all. and yet--it's the squire's handwriting, for it's his seal, and what was it lying outside the terrace for? where's the other part of it, and what was the other part like? i'll keep it. i don't say that there's any good in it, but i'll keep it. not a mourning-ring or a walking-stick! all--house, lands, money--to mr. stephen, with the sneaking face and the silky tongue. poor master jack! i--i wish he'd taken that ten-pound note; it burns a hole in my pocket. not--a--mourning-ring," he muttered. "it's not like the squire, for he was fond of master jack, and if i'm not half the idiot he called me, the old man hated mr. stephen. i seem to feel that there's something wrong. i'll keep this bit of paper;" and he restored the scrap to its place and returned to the "bush" with as much expression on his face as one might expect to see on a blank skin of parchment. jack was more moved than he would have liked to admit by old skettle's sympathy and offer of assistance, and in a softened mood, produced by the little incident, sat and smoked his pipe with a lighter spirit. after all he was young, and--and--well, things might turn up; at any rate, if the worst came to the worst, he could earn his living at driving a coach-and-four, or, say, as a navvy. "i shouldn't make a bad light porter," he mused, "only there are no light porters now. i wonder what will become of me. anyhow, i'd rather live on an abernethy biscuit a day than take a penny from stephen or borrow ten pounds from skettle. stephen. squire of hurst leigh! he'll make a funny squire. i don't believe he knows a pheasant from a barn-door fowl, or a berkshire pig from a pump-handle. i should have made a better squire than he. never mind; it's no use crying over spilt milk!" jack was certainly not the man to cry over milk spilt or strewn, and long before the train had reached arkdale he had forgotten his ill-luck and the mystery attending the will, and all his thoughts were fixed on the beautiful girl who dwelt in a woodman's hut in the midst of warden forest. forbidden fruit is always the sweetest, and jack felt that the fruit was forbidden here. what on earth business had he, a ruined man, to be lounging about warden, or any other forest, in the hope of getting a sight of, or a few words with, a girl, whom, be she as lovely as a peri, could be nothing to him? what good could he do? on the contrary, perhaps, a great deal of harm; for ten to one the woodman would cut up rough, and there would be a row. but he felt, somehow, that he had made a promise, and promises were sacred things to jack--excepting always promises to pay--and a row had rather a charm for him. nevertheless, when the train drew up at arkdale station, he had quite resolved to wait until the london train came up, and as such resolutions generally end, it ended in giving up the idea and starting for warden. jack was not sentimental. men with good appetites and digestions seldom are; but his heart beat as he entered the charmed center of the great elms and oaks which fringed the forest, and the whole atmosphere seemed full of a strange fascination. "i wonder what she will say, how she will look?" he kept asking himself. "i'd walk a thousand miles to hear her voice, to look into her eyes. oh, i'm a worse idiot than old skettle! what can her eyes and her voice be to me? by jove, though, i might turn woodman and--and----" marry her, he was going to say, but the thought seemed so bold, so--well, so coarse in connection with such a beautiful person, that jack actually blushed and frowned at his effrontery. he found no difficulty in recognizing the way, and strode along at a good pace, which, however, grew slower as he neared the clearing in which stood gideon rolfe's cottage, and just before he emerged from the wood into it he stopped, and felt with a faint wonder that his heart was beating fast. it was a new sensation for master jack, and it upset him. "this won't do," he said; "i must keep cool. a child would get the better of me while i am like this; and i mustn't forget i've got to face that wooden-faced woodman. courage, my boy, courage!" and with a resolute front he stepped into the clearing. yes, there was the cottage, but why on earth were the shutters up. with a strange misgiving he walked up to the door and knocked. there was no answer. he knocked again and again--still no answer. then he stepped back and looked up at the chimney. there was no smoky trail rising through the trees. he listened--there was no sound. his heart sank and sank till he felt as if it had entered his boots. with a kind of desperate hope he knelt on the window-sill and looked through a hole in the shutter into the room. it was bare of furniture--empty, desolate. he got down again and looked about him like one who, having buried a treasure, goes to the spot and finds that it has gone. gone--that was the word--and no sign! it was incredible. three days--only three days. what had happened? was--was anyone dead? and at this thought his face grew as pale as the tan would allow it. no; that was absurd. people--she--could not have died and been buried in three days! then, where was she? was it possible that the old man had actually left the wood--thrown up his livelihood--because of his (jack's) visit to the cottage? a great deal more disturbed and upset than he had been over the squire's will, he paced up and down. he sat down on the seat outside the window--the seat where he had drunk his cider and eaten his cake--the seat where mrs. davenant sat so patiently--and he lit his pipe and smoked in utter bewilderment. disappointment is but a lukewarm word by which to describe his feelings. he felt that he had looked forward to seeing una as a sort of set-off against the terrible blow which the squire's will had dealt him, and now she was gone! i am afraid to say how many hours he sat smoking and musing, in the vain hope that she, or gideon rolfe, or someone would come to tell him something about it; but at last he realized that she had indeed flown; that the nest which had contained the beautiful bird was empty and void; and with a heart that felt like lead, he set out for wermesley. by chance, more than calculation, he caught the up-train, and was whirled into london. weary, exhausted rather, he signaled a hansom, and was driven to spider court. spider court is not an easy place to find. it is in the heart of the temple, and consists of about ten houses, every one of which, like a chinese puzzle, contains a number of houses within itself. barristers--generally briefless--inhabit spider court; but it is the refuge of the hard-working literary man, and of the members of that strange class which is always waiting for "something to turn up." jack ascended the stairs of no. , passed various doors bearing the names of the occupants on the other side of them, and opened a door which bore the legend: "leonard dagle. "john newcombe." painted in small black letters on its cross-panel. it was not a large room, and it was plainly furnished; but it looked comfortable. its contents looked rather incongruous. at the end of the room, close by the window, which only allowed about four hours of daylight to enter it, stood a table crowded with papers, presenting that appearance which ladies generally call "a litter." the table and book-shelf, filled with heavy-looking volumes, would give one the impression that the room belonged to a barrister or a literary man, if it were not for a set of boxing-gloves and a pair of fencing foils, which hung over the fireplace, and the prints of ballet-girls and famous actresses which adorned the walls. as jack entered the room, a man, who was sitting at the table, turned his head, and peering through the gloom which a single candle only served to emphasize, exclaimed: "jack, is that you?" the speaker was the leonard dagle whose name appeared conjointly with jack's on the door of the chambers. seen by the light of the single candle, leonard dagle looked handsome; it was left for the daylight to reveal the traces which life's battle had cut in his regular features. one had only to glance at the face to be reminded of the old saying of the sword wearing the scabbard. it was the face of a man who had fought the hard fight of one hand against the world, and had not yet won the victory. leonard dagle was jack's old chum; friends he had in plenty--dangerous friends many of them--but leonard was his brother and companion in arms. they had shared the same rooms, the same tankard of bitter, sometimes the same crust, for years. there was not a secret between them. either would have given the other his last penny and felt grateful for the acceptance of it. it was a singular friendship, for no two men could be more unlike than leonard dagle, the hard-working barrister, and jack newcombe, the spendthrift, the ne'er-do-well, and--the savage. "is that you, jack?" exclaimed leonard, straightening his back. "home already?" "yes, i'm back." "what's the matter--tired?" "tired--bored--humbled--thoroughly used up! i've got news for you, len." "bad or good?" "bad as they can be. first the squire's dead!" "dead?" "yes, dead and buried. poor old fellow!" "i am very sorry. then you--then you--am i addressing the squire of hurst leigh?" "you are addressing the pauper of spider court." "jack, what do you mean?" "i mean that the poor old fellow has died and left me nothing--not even a mourning-ring." "i'm very sorry. left you nothing, my dear old man!" "don't pity me. i can't stand that. say serves you right, say anything. after all, what did i deserve?" "but you expected something," said leonard. "yes, and no. i expected nothing till i got there, and then did. i saw him for a few minutes before he died, and he said--certainly said--that i--well, that there would be something for me." "and there is nothing." "not a stiver. mind i don't complain, len. i didn't deserve it." "where has it all gone? he was a rich man, was he not?" asked leonard. "rich as a croesus," replied jack, "and it has all gone to stephen davenant." "that is the man that goes in for philanthropy and all that sort of thing." "that's the man," replied jack. "tell me all about it," said leonard, after a long pause. and, with many pauses, jack told his story. leonard dagle listened intently. "it's a strange story, jack," he said. "i--i--it rather puzzles me. there could be--of course, there could be nothing wrong." "wrong, how do you mean?" exclaimed jack. "well, stephen davenant's conduct is rather peculiar--isn't it?" "oh, he's half out of his mind," said jack, carelessly. "he has been playing a close game for the money, and hanging about the old man till he has got as hysterical as a girl. what do you think could be wrong? everything was as correct as it could be--family lawyer, who made out the will, and all the rest of it." "then you think the squire was wandering in his mind at last?" "that's it," said jack. "he wanted to provide for me--to leave me something, and he fancied he'd done it. it's often the case, isn't it?" "i've met with such cases," said leonard. "just so," said jack. "is there anything to drink?" he asked, abruptly, as if he wanted to change the subject. "there's some whiskey----" jack mixed himself a tumbler and sat on the edge of the table, and leonard dagle leaned back and watched him. "there's something else, jack," he said. "out with it; what is it?" "what a fellow you are, len. you are like one of those mesmeric men; there's no keeping anything from you. well, i've had an adventure." "an adventure?" "yes, i'm half under the impression that it's nothing but a dream. len, i've seen the most beautiful--the most--len, do you believe in witches? not the old sort, but the young ones--sirens, didn't they call them; who used to haunt the woods and forests and tempt travelers into quagmires and ditches. the innocent-looking kind of sirens, you know. well, i've seen one!" "jack, you've been drinking; put that glass down." "have i? then i haven't. look here," and he told the story of his wanderings in warden, and all it had led up to. "how's that for an adventure?" he said, when he had finished. "it would do for a mediæval romance. and she has gone, you say?" "clean gone," said jack, with a sigh and a long pull at the tumbler. "gone like a--a dream, you know. how is that for an adventure? you don't believe in them, though." leonard dagle looked up, and there was a strange, half-shy expression in his face. "you are right, jack. i didn't till the day before yesterday." "the day before yesterday? what do you mean?" "simply that i, too, have had an adventure." "seems to me that we're like those confounded nuisances who used to meet on a coach and tell stories to amuse themselves. go on; it's your turn now." "mine's soon told. after you started for hurst leigh i got a letter from a man at wermesley----" "wermesley!" exclaimed jack. "why----" "yes, it is on the same line. he wanted me to go down to look over some deeds, and i went. i took a return ticket and got into the last train. when i got into the carriage--i went 'first' on the strength of the business--i saw a young lady--mind, a young lady--seated in a corner. it struck me as rather odd that a young girl should be traveling alone at this time of night, and i shifted about until i could get a good look at her. jack, you're not the only man that has seen a beautiful girl within the last week." "beautiful, eh?" cried jack, interested. "beautiful in my eyes. the sort of face that cleopatra might have had when she was that girl's age. i never saw such eyes, and i had plenty of opportunity of seeing them, for she seemed quite unconscious of my presence. jack, i'm a shy man, and i'm often sorry for it, but i was never sorrier than i was then, for i'd have given anything to have been able to speak to her and hear her speak. there she sat, looking like a picture, quite motionless, with her eyes fixed on the flare of the lamp; and there i sat and couldn't pluck up courage to say a word. at last we got to london; they came for the tickets, and she couldn't find hers. i went down on my hands and knees, and at last i found the ticket under the seat. i looked at it as i gave it to the porter; and where do you think it was from?" jack shook his head. he didn't think it much of an adventure after una and warden forest. "you'll never guess. what do you say to hurst leigh?" "hurst leigh! why, who was she? somebody i know, perhaps." "i found my tongue at last, and said, 'you have had a long journey. hurst leigh is a beautiful place.' and what do you think she said?" jack shook his head. "she said, 'i don't know. i have never been there before today.' that's all until we got to the terminus, then i asked her if i could get her luggage. 'i haven't any,' she said. 'could i get her a cab?' i asked. yes, i might get her a cab. i went and found a cab and put her in it; and, if i had a shadow of a doubt as to her being a lady, the way in which she thanked me would have dispelled it. i asked her where i should direct the cabman to drive, and she said cheltenham terrace. and--and then she went." "well?" "well, i--of course you'll call me a fool, jack, i am quite aware of that--i followed in another cab." "good heavens! you've been drinking!" "no. i followed, and when she had gone i knocked at the door of the next house and asked the name of the people who lived next door. they--for a wonder--were civil, and told me. she lives with her grandfather, and her name is laura treherne." chapter xvi. "her name is laura treherne," said leonard. "laura treherne. never heard the name before." "nor i, but it belongs to the most beautiful creature i have ever seen." "that's because you haven't seen una rolfe," put in jack, coolly. "but i say, len, what has come to us? we've both caught the universal epidemic at the same time. it's nothing wonderful in me, you know--but you--_you_, who wouldn't look at a woman! have you got it bad, len?" "very bad, jack. yes, the time which rosseau calls the supremest in one's life, has come to me. as a novice in the art of love-making, i come to you for advice." "why, it's easy enough in your case. you know where to put your hand upon the lady. what are you to do? why, disguise yourself as a sweep, and go and sweep the chimneys at cheltenham square, or pretend you're the tax collector, or 'come to look at the gas meter.' you've got half a dozen plans, but i--what am i to do? i've seen the most beautiful creature in existence, and if i'm not in love with her----" "i should say you were," said leonard, gently. "yes, i am. i knew it when i found that confounded cottage empty. but what am i to do? i haven't the faintest clew to her whereabouts. the old gentleman with the hatchet may have murdered his whole family--her included--or emigrated to australia." "it is very strange. didn't you notice any sign of a move about the place the first night you were there?" "no, none. everything looked as if it had been going on for a hundred years--excepting una--and meant to go on for another hundred. len, i'm afraid we've been bewitched. perhaps it's all a dream; i haven't been down to hurst and you haven't been down to wermesley. we shall wake up directly--oh, no! the poor squire! len, it's all true, and we're a couple of young fools!" "speak for yourself, old fellow. i have been a fool until three days ago, now i am as wise as solomon, for i have learned what love is." "so have i--i have also learned the vanity of human wishes, and the next thing i shall have to learn will be some way of earning a livelihood. i should prefer an honest one, but--poor men can't afford to be particular, and honesty doesn't seem to pay now-a-days. i feel so hard up and reckless that i could become a bank director or a member of parliament without feeling a pang of conscience." leonard looked up at him, for the vein of bitterness was plainly to be detected running through jack's banter; and leonard knew that when jack was bitter--which was but once a year, say--he was reckless. "we must talk it over. sit down--get off that table; you're making a perfect hash of my papers--and let's talk it over. you won't go out tonight." "yes, i shall. i shall go down to the club." "no, no, keep away from the club tonight, jack." "what are you afraid of? do you think i shall want to gamble? i've no money to lose." "that's the very reason you'll want to play. do keep at home tonight." "i couldn't do it, old man," he said. "i'm on wires--i'm all on fire. if i sat here much longer, i should get up suddenly, murder you, and sack the place. the savage has got his paint on, and is on the trail." "don't be a fool, jack. you are hot and upset. keep away from the club tonight. well, well--let the _ecarte_ alone, at any rate." "all right, i'll promise you that. i won't touch a card tonight. _ecarte!_ i couldn't play beggar-my-neighbor tonight! len, i wish you were a bigger man; i'd get up a row, and have a turn-to with you. sit down here! i couldn't do it. i want to be doing something--something desperate. you can sit here and dream over your complaint; i can't--i should go mad! don't sit up for me." leonard looked after him as he disappeared into one of the two bedrooms which adjoined the common sitting-room, and, with a shake of his head, muttered, "poor jack!" and returned to his work. jack took a cold bath, dressed himself, and merely pausing to shout a good-night, as he passed down the stairs, went into the street, and jumped into a hansom, telling the man to drive to the hawks' club. it was rather early for the "hawks," and only a few of them had fluttered in. it was about the last club that such a man as jack should have been a member of. it was fast, it was expensive, it was fashionable, and the chief reason for its existence lay in the fact that play at any time, and to any extent, could be obtained there. when jack entered the cardroom, that apartment was almost empty, but the suspicious-looking tables were surrounded by chairs stuck up on two legs, denoting that they were engaged, and those men who were present were all playing. every head was turned as he entered, and a buzz of greeting rose to welcome him. "halloa; you back, jack!" said a tall, military-looking man, who was known as the "indian nut," because he was one of the most famous of our indian colonels. "you're just in time to take a hand at loo." "no; come and join us," said young lord pierrepoint, from another table, at which nap was being played. but if you could only wring a promise out of jack, you could rest perfectly certain that he would keep it; and he shook his head firmly. "nary a card." "what! don't you feel well, jack?" "no, i'm hungry. i'm going to get something to eat." "dear me, i didn't know you did eat, jack. however, man, come and sit down, and don't fidget about the room like that." "len's right, the club won't do neither. i couldn't hold a card straight tonight. i'll get some dinner, and go back, and we'll have it all over again." it was a wise and virtuous resolution; and, unlike most resolves, jack meant to keep it. but alas! before he had got through with his soup, the door opened and two men strolled in. they were both young and well-known. the one was sir arkroyd hetley; the other, the young lord dalrymple, whose coronet had scarcely yet warmed his forehead, as the french say. both of them uttered an exclamation at seeing jack, and made straight for his table. "why, here's the savage!" exclaimed dalrymple. "back to his native forest primeval." "been on the war trail, jack?" asked sir arkroyd. "how are the squaws and wigwams? seriously, where have you been, old man?" "yes, i have been on the war trail," he said. "and got some scalps, i hope," said dalrymple. "what are you doing--dining? what do you say, ark, shall we join him? it's so long since i've eaten anything that i should like to watch a man do it before i make an attempt." the footman put chairs and rearranged the table, and the two men chatted and conned over the _carte_. "you don't look quite the thing, jack. been going it in the forest, or what?" "yes, i've been going it in the forest, dally." "been hunting the buffalo and chumming up with his old friend, spotted bull," said arkroyd. "bet you anything he hasn't been out of london, dally." "take him," said jack. "i've been out of london on a little matter of business." "he's been robbing a bank," said arkroyd, "or breaking one." "neither. stop chaffing, you two, and tell a fellow what's going on." "shall we tell him, dally? perhaps he'll try to cut us out. it wouldn't be a bad idea to start a joint stock company, all club together, you know, and work it in that way, the one who wins to share with the other fellows." "wins what? what on earth are you talking about? is it a sweepstake, a handicap, or what----" "no, my noble savage. it's the heiress." "oh," said jack, indifferently, and he sipped his claret critically. "what has come to you, jack? have you decided to cut the world or have heiresses become unnecessary? perhaps someone has left you a fortune, old man; if so, nobody will be more delighted than i shall be--to help you spend it." a flush rose to jack's face, and his eyes flashed. he had been drinking great bumpers of the hawks' favorite claret--a heady wine which jack should never have touched at any time, especially not tonight. "no, no one has left me a fortune; quite the reverse. but you'd better tell me about this heiress, i see, or you'll die of disappointment. who is she--where is she?--what is she? here's her good health, whoever she is," and down went another bumper of the lafitte; and as it went down, it was to una he drank, not to the unknown one. "do you remember earlsley?" said arkroyd. "oh, no, of course not, you must have been in your cradle in the wigwam in that time. well; old wigsley died and left his money to a fifty-second cousin, who turned out to be a girl. no one knew anything about her; no one knew where to find her; but at last there comes a claimant in the shape of a girl from one of the colonies--canada. that isn't a colony, is it, though? australia--anywhere--nobody knows, you know. she came over with her belongings--a rum-looking old fellow, with a white head of long hair, like, a--a--what's got a long head of white hair, dally?" "try patriarch," murmured the marquis. "well, in addition to the money, and there's about a million, more or less--she's got the most beautiful, that isn't the word, most charming, fascinating little face you ever saw. if she looks at you, you feel as if you never could feel an ache or pain again as long as you lived." "ark, you've had too much champagne." "no; 'pon my honor. isn't it right, dally?" "yes, and if she smiles," said dalrymple, "you never could feel another moment's unhappiness. the prettiest mouth--and when it opens, her teeth----" "oh, confound it!" exclaimed jack, brusquely. "you needn't run over her points as if she were a horse; i don't want to buy her." as a matter of fact, he had only caught the last word or two, for while arkroyd had been talking he had been thinking of that other beautiful girl--not a doll, with teeth and a smile, but an angel, pure and ethereal--a dream--not a fascinating heiress. "buy her!" exclaimed arkroyd. "listen to him! don't i tell you she's worth a million?" "and i'd make her countess of dalrymple tomorrow if she hadn't a penny, and would have me," said dalrymple. "try her," said jack, curtly. "no use, my dear savage," he said, tugging at his incipient fringe of down ruefully. "she won't have anything to say to yours truly, or to any one of us for that matter. she only smiles when we say pretty things, and shows her teeth at us. besides, the title wouldn't tempt her. she's got one already. don't i tell you she's one of the earlsley lot? no; we've all had a try, even arkroyd. he even went so far as to get a fellow to write a poem about her in one of the society journals, and signed it 'a. h.;' but she told him to his face that she didn't care for poetry. it was a pretty piece, too, wasn't it, ark?" "first-rate," said arkroyd, with as much modesty as if he had written it. "but it was all thrown away on lady bell." "on whom?" said jack, waking up again. "on lady bell--isabel earlsley is her name. you're wool-gathering tonight, jack." "oh, lady bell, is it?" said jack, carelessly. "go ahead. anything else?" "no, that's all, excepting that i'll wager a cool thousand to a china orange that you'll change your tone when you see her, savage." "perhaps," said jack, "but your description doesn't move me; not much, ark. you're not good at that sort of thing. it isn't in your line. the only things you seem to have remarked are her smile and her teeth." "savage, you are, as usual, blunt, not to say rude. let us have another bottle of cliquot." jack shook his head, but another bottle came up, and he sat and took his share in silence, and, indeed, almost unconsciously. for all the attention he paid to the chatter of his two friends they might not have been present. his thoughts flew backward to the shady grove of warden forest, to the girl who, like a vision of purity and innocence and loveliness, had floated like a dream across his life. he gave one passing thought to len, too, and his story. it was a strange coincidence that they should both have met their fates at one and the same time, or nearly so. he would have thought it stranger still if he could have lifted the veil of the future and seen how closely the web of his life was woven with the woof, not only of una's, but of laura treherne, and also of lady bell earlsley. all unconscious he had turned a leaf of his life's book, and had begun a new chapter in which these three women were to take a part. but he sat and drank the champagne, knowing nothing of this, and--i am sorry to have to say it--he was rapidly arriving at that condition in which it is dangerous to be within a mile of that fascinating fluid. when a man passes from a state of half-feverish restlessness and dissatisfaction to one of comparative comfort, and that by the aid of the cheering glass, it is time to put the cheering glass aside and go home. jack did not go home; on the contrary, he went into the billiard-room, and cliquot followed, as a matter of course. for a time jack had managed to forget everything excepting his promise to len; he would not enter the card-room, but he stuck to pool and champagne. chapter xvii. i am not going to apologize for our hero, nor am i going to gloss over his faults with any specious special pleading. no man is either wholly good or wholly bad; certainly jack was not wholly good; he was human, very human, and blessed, or cursed, with a hot, passionate blood, which made him more liable to trip than most men. but, at the same time, this in justice must be said of him, that he very rarely sinned in this way. tonight his blood was at full heat; the love which had sprung up like a tongue of flame in his heart burned and maddened him, and to this newly-born love was added the disappointment and bewilderment of una's sudden disappearance. add, too, that he had been overstrained and upset, and--well, there are the excuses and apologies, after all. somewhere about two o'clock, when the club was full with men who had dropped in from theater and ball-room, and amidst the popping of corks and click of pool balls, a certain feeling came over poor jack that he had taken quite as much, and more, of the sparkling juice than was good for him; and with that consciousness came the resolution to go home. the game was just over, and without a word he put up his cue, motioned to a footman to bring him his hat, and, scarcely noticed in the crowd and bustle, slowly descended the broad and indeed magnificent staircase for which and its palatial hall the club was famous. he descended very slowly, with his hand on the balustrade, and having reached the bottom, he filled a glass with water from the crystal filter that stood on a side table in the porter's box, and sallied out. the night air struck upon his hot brow in a cool and welcome fashion, and jack stood for a moment or two, fighting with the hazy and stupefying effects of the night's work. "i won't go home yet," he muttered. "len will be cut up; he always is. he's as bad as a father--almost as bad as a mother-in-law. well, i didn't touch the cards, anyhow. and if it had not been for those two idiots, ark and dally, i shouldn't have got so far into the champagne. how bright the stars shine--an unaccountable number of them tonight." poor jack! "never saw such a quantity! no, i won't go home yet. i'll walk it off if i have to walk till tomorrow morning. where am i? ah! where is _she_? thank heaven, she isn't near me now! i'm glad she's gone; i'm glad i shall never see her any more. i'm not fit to see her; not worthy to touch her hand. but i did touch it," and, with a kind of wonder at his audacity, he stretched out his hand and stared at it under the gas-lamp. then he walked on perfectly indifferent to the direction, perfectly indifferent to the weariness which was gradually--no, rapidly--coming on him. just at this time, while he was walking off the drowsy dream that had got possession of him, a stream of carriages was slowly moving down park lane, taking up from one of the best known houses in town--lady merivale's. lady merivale was one of the leaders of _ton_ and had been one as long as most middle-aged people could remember. to be seen at lady merivale's was to be acknowledged as one of that small but powerful portion of humanity known as "the upper ten." it was one of her ladyship's grand balls, and not only were the ball and drawing-rooms full, but the staircase also, and any one wishing to enter or exit had to make his way down a narrow line flanked on either side by the youth and nobility of the best kind of society. that it had been a great success no one who knows the world--and lady merivale--needs to be told. it had, perhaps, been one of her greatest, for in addition to two princes of the blood royal, she had secured the great sensation of the day, the young millionairess, lady isabel earlsley. and this was no slight achievement, for lady bell, as she was generally called, was a wilful, uncertain young personage, from whom it was very hard to procure a promise, and who, not seldom, was given to breaking it when made, at least, so far as acceptation of invitations went. but she was there tonight; as the next issue of the _morning post_ would testify. jack had been really too careless and scornful in his indifference. lady bell was not only beautiful, she was--what was more rare than beauty--charming. she was rather short than tall; but not too short. she had a beautiful figure; not a wasp waist by any means, but a natural figure, full of power and grace. her skin was, well, colonial; delicately tinted and creamy; and her eyes--it is difficult to catalogue her eyes, because their lights were always changing--but the expression which generally predominated was one of half-amused, half-mocking light. with both expressions she met the open admiration of the gilded youths who thronged round her, amused at their foppery, mocking at their protestations of devotion. tonight she was dressed neither magnificently nor superbly, but with, what seemed to the women who gazed at her with barely concealed envy, artful simplicity. her dress was of indian muslin, priceless for all its simplicity; and she wore glittering in her hair, on her arms, and on her cream-white bosom, pearls, that, in quantity and quality would have made the fortune of any enterprising burglar. by her side stood--for they were moving toward the door, on their way to an exit--an elderly woman, with an expressionless face, simply and plainly dressed. she was generally spoken of as the watch dog; but she scarcely deserved that name, for lady bell was quite capable of watching over herself; and mrs. fellowes, the widow of the indian colonel, was too mild to represent any sort of dog whatever. surrounded by a crowd of devoted courtiers, the great heiress and her companion moved toward the door where the hostess stood receiving the farewells and thanks of her guests; and when one thinks of the many hundred times lady merivale had stood by that door, and undergone that terrible ordeal, one is filled with amazement and awe at her courage and physical strength. for forty years she had been standing at doors, receiving and meeting guests; yet she stood tonight as smiling and courageous as ever. at last lady bell reached her hostess, and lady merivale, tired and done up as she was, gave her special recognition. "must you go, lady bell? well, good-night. and thank you for making my poor little dance a success. thank you very much." lady bell said nothing, but she smiled "in her old colonial way," as they called it, and threaded through the lane of human beings on the stairs. "lady earlsley's carriage!" shouted the footman in the gorgeous merivale livery, and a little brougham drove up. lady bell hated show and magnificence. her stables and coach-houses were crowded with horses and carriages, her wardrobes filled to repletion with worth's costumes and elise's "confections," as bonnets are called now-a-days, but a plain little brougham was her favorite vehicle, and the simplest of costumes pleased her best. all the way down the stairs she had to nod and smile and exchange farewells, and at the bottom, in the hall, on the stone steps themselves, she was surrounded by men eager to secure the privilege of putting her into her little brougham. but she avoided them all, and sprang in as if she had not been dancing for four hours, and throwing herself back into the corner, exclaimed: "thank goodness, that is over. poor old fellowes! you are worn out. confess it." "i am rather tired, my dear," said mrs. fellowes, who had been sitting against a wall all the evening. "tired! of course you are; it's ever so much more tiring looking on than dancing, and joining in the giddy round. i don't feel a bit tired; i'm a little bored." "bored! what a word, my dear bell," murmured mrs. fellowes, sleepily. "it's a good word--it's an expressive word--and it just means really what i feel." "and yet you received more attention than any woman--any girl--in the room, my dear," murmured mrs. fellowes. "my money-bags may have done so," said lady bell, scornfully; "not i. do you think that if i were as penniless as one of lady southerly's daughters, i should receive as much attention? fellowes, don't you take to flattering me. i couldn't stand that." "i don't want to flatter you, my dear bell; but when the prince himself dances twice with you----" "of course he did. i am a celebrity. i am the richest young woman in the kingdom, and he would have done it if i had been as ugly as sin--which isn't ugly, by the way." "what strange things you say," murmured mrs. fellowes, with mild rebuke. "i'm sure no girl received more attention than you have tonight. i sat and watched you, my dear, and a spectator sees more of the game than a player." "you are right, it is all a game, a gamble," retorted lady bell. "all those nice young men were playing pitch and toss who should make the hardest running with the great heiress. do you think i am blind? i can see through them all, and i despise them. there isn't a man among them but would pay me the same court if i were as plain as lucifer----" "my dear bell----" "but it is true," said lady bell. "i can read them all. and if they knew how i despised them, even while i smile upon them, they would keep at arm's length for very shame. i wish i hadn't a penny in the world." "my dear bell!" ejaculated mrs. fellowes, really and truly shocked at such a fearfully profane wish. "i do! i do! i should then find out if any one of them cared for me--for myself. you say i am beautiful, but you are so partial; do you think i am beautiful enough to cause any man to risk his all in life for my sake?" "i don't know. i don't just follow you," said poor mrs. fellowes. "no, you are half asleep," retorted lady bell. "there, curl yourself up and snooze. i shan't talk any more." lady bell leaned forward, and looked up at the stars--the same stars that seemed so numerous to poor jack--and pondered over the events of the evening. it was true that a prince of the blood had danced there with her; it was true that, all through the evening, she had been surrounded by a court of the best men in london; it was true that she had sent one half the women home burning with envy and malice and all uncharitableness; but still she was not happy. "no," she murmured, unheard by the sleeping companion; "the dream of my life has not yet been fulfilled. i have not yet met the man to whom i could say, 'i am yours, take me!' perhaps i never shall; and until i do, i will remain lady bell, though they buzz round my money-bags till i am deaf with their hum." the brougham was going at a great pace, simply because the coachman very reasonably desired to get home and to bed; and lady bell saw the houses flit past as if they had been part of a panorama got up for her special amusement. but suddenly the brougham swerved, and, indeed, nearly upset, and the stillness of the night was broken by what seemed remarkably like an oath by the coachman. lady bell felt that something was wrong; but she neither turned color nor lost her presence of mind. putting her head, with a thousand pounds of jewels on it, through the window, she said, in clear tones: "what is the matter, jackson?" "i--whoa! i don't quite know, my lady; i think it is a man. something came right across the road. yes, it is a man." lady bell opened the brougham door, stepped into the road--the light from the lamp flashing on her pearls--and went toward the horse. "keep away from her hind legs, for goodness' sake, my lady," ejaculated jackson. "keep still, will you!" this was of course addressed to the horse. "what is it? what is it?" asked lady bell, peering about. "here, my lady, on the near side--on the left. it's down in the road, whatever it is." lady bell went behind the brougham to the near side--she was too well acquainted with horses and their moods to cross in front of the horse's eyes--and looked about her. for a moment she could see nothing, but presently, when her eyes had become used to the darkness, she saw a man lying, as it seemed, right under the horse's body. her impulse--and she always acted on that impulse--was to pull him out. but to pull a man even an inch is a difficult task even for the strongest girl, and after a moment's tug she was about to tell jackson to alight while she stood at the horse's head, when suddenly the prostrate man staggered to his feet, and leaned against the brougham as if it had been specially built and brought there for that purpose. lady bell went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm. "what has happened?" she said, anxiously. "were you run over--are you hurt?" jack--for it was jack--opened his eyes and stared at her with the gravity of a man suddenly sobered. "no," he said, "i am not hurt. don't blame the man, it was my fault. not hurt at all. good-night." and he feels for his hat, which at that moment was lying under the carriage a shapeless mass. as he spoke lady bell saw something drop on to his hand, and looking at it saw that it was a drop of blood. with a shudder--for she could not bear the sight of blood--she said: "not hurt! why, you are bleeding." "am i?" said jack, gravely and curtly. "it will do me good. don't you be alarmed, miss. i am used to being upset, and my bones are too hard to break. good-night." and he made for the pavement pretty steadily. but a hand, soft and warm, and strong also, stayed him. "stop," said lady bell; "i am sure you are hurt. how did you come to be run over?" "got in the way of the horse, i suppose," said jack, quietly. "that is the usual way." "but--but," said lady bell; and she looked at the handsome face scrutinizingly. then she stopped, for her scrutiny had discovered two facts; first, that the individual who had been run over was a gentleman; secondly, that he had been drinking. "wait," she said, still keeping her hand on his arm; "you are not fit to go alone without some assistance, and i am sure you are hurt. look, you are bleeding." "a mere nothing," said jack; "don't trouble. allow me to put you in--i shall get home all right." lady bell, still keeping her eyes fixed on his face, shook her head. "i couldn't leave you like this," she said. "where do you live?" "where do i--live?" repeated jack. "spider court, temple. it's no distance from here." "the temple!" exclaimed lady bell. "it must be miles away." "a hansom," smiled jack. "but there are no cabs here, not one. i cannot leave you like this--you must get into the brougham." "not for worlds! i have given you quite enough trouble," he said. "i shall find my way home somehow." "no," she said; "i cannot let you go without seeing you safe into a cab. there are none here. you do not know--i do not know--how much you are hurt. you must let me take you to your home." "i assure you i am all right," he said. "and i refuse to accept your assurance," said lady bell, with a little shudder at the streak of blood which oozed from his forehead. "come, you will not refuse to obey a lady. i wish you to enter my brougham." "no, i can't refuse to obey a lady," he said. "then come with me," said lady bell. "where to, my lady?" asked jackson, who was used to her ladyship's willfulness, and sat, patient as job, waiting for the issue of this strange adventure. "to--where did you say?" asked lady bell. "spider court," said jack; "but i wish you'd let me go out and walk. it must be right out of your way." "spider court, temple," said lady bell, and the brougham rolled on. through it all mrs. fellowes had remained in the deep sleep which the gods vouchsafe to good women of her age, and the two--lady bell and jack--were, to all intents and purposes, alone. lady bell looked at him as he sat in his corner, the thin, red stream trickling down from his forehead, and shuddered; not at him, but at the blood. "how did you come to be run over?" she asked. "did you fall?" "must have done," he said, coolly; "anyway i'll swear it wasn't the coachman's fault." "i am not going to blame the coachman," said lady bell, with the shadow of a smile. "that's right," said jack. "it was all my fault. i'd been--been to see a favorite aunt." "you had been to your club," said lady bell. "how did you know that?" he said. lady bell smiled again, and jack, his eyes fixed upon her, thought the smile wonderfully fascinating. "a little bird told me," she said. "the little bird was right," said jack, shaking his head, with penitence and remorse written on every feature. "i have been dining at my club. perhaps the little bird told you everything else?" "yes; the little bird also whispered that you had----" "drank too much champagne? confound those fellows! wonderful little bird!" muttered jack. "it is very wicked of you," said lady bell, gravely, her eyes fixed on his face, that, notwithstanding its streak of red, looked wonderfully handsome. while she looked, she almost convinced herself that she had never seen such a handsome face, nor such frank eyes. "it was very wicked of you," she repeated, in a voice pitched in a low key, no doubt out of consideration for the sleeping watch dog. "yes," he said, "i am a bad lot; i am not fit to be here with you. i have been dining at my club; but how you knew it, i can't conceive. and--and----" "don't tell me any more," said lady bell. "i am sorry that you should have been run over, and i hope you are not hurt. that--that is blood running down your face. why do you not wipe it off? i can't bear it." "i beg your pardon," said jack, and he fumbled for his pocket-handkerchief, which at that moment was lying under the seat in the billiard-room. "here, take this," said lady bell, and she put her own delicate lace-edged one in his hand. jack mopped his forehead diligently. "is it all off?" he asked. "no, it keeps running," replied lady bell, with a little thrill of horror. "i believe you are much hurt." "i'm not; i give you my word," said jack. "there--no, i'll keep it until it's washed." and he thrust the delicate cobweb into his pocket. lady bell leaned back, but her eyes wandered now and then to the handsome face, pale through all its tan. presently, wonderfully soon, as it seemed to her, the brougham came to a stop, and jackson, bending down to the window, said: "spider court, my lady." "spider court," said jack. "then i'm home. i'm very much obliged to you, and i wish i didn't feel so much ashamed of myself. hark! who's that?" for someone had come to the carriage door. "it is i--leonard. is that you, jack?" "yes," said jack, and he got out and closed the door. "this lady----" lady bell leaned out and looked at leonard dagle's anxious face earnestly. "your friend has met with an accident," she said, "and i have brought him home." "thank you, thank you," sighed leonard. "i hope he is not much hurt," said lady bell. "his forehead is cut. will you--will you be so kind as to let me know if it is anything serious?" "anything serious! a mere scratch," ejaculated jack, carelessly. but lady bell did not look at him. "here is my card," she said, taking a card-case from the carriage basket. "will you please let me know? good-night." and she held out her hand. leonard did not see it, and merely raised his hat. but jack, who was nearest, took the hand and held it for a moment. "good-night, good-night," he said. "i shall never forgive myself for causing you trouble." and in his earnestness his hand, quite unconsciously, closed tightly on her white, warm palm. lady bell dropped back into her seat, a warm flush spreading over her face; and mrs. fellowes, awakened by the stopping of the brougham, exclaimed, with a yawn: "home at last!" "no, miles away," said lady bell. "go to sleep again, my dear." leonard took jack's arm within his, though there was no occasion for it, for jack was sober enough now, and led him upstairs. "my dear jack," he exclaimed, reproachfully, "what have you been doing?" "falling under a cab," said jack, gravely. "a cab!" retorted leonard; "a lady's brougham, you mean!" and he took the card to the light. "why!" he exclaimed, with an expression of amazement. "lady isabel earlsley! good heaven! that's the heiress." "eh?" said jack, indifferently. "what's her name? she's a brick, if ever there was one. oh, jupiter, i wish i was in bed!" chapter xviii. it was una's first night in london. weary as she was she could not find sleep; the dull roar of the great city--which those who are used to take no heed of--rang in her ears and kept her awake. her brain was busy, too; and even as she closed her eyes the endless questions, which the strange events of the day had given birth to, pursued and tormented her. she could scarcely realize that she had left warden forest, that she was here in london, the place of her most ardent dreams! and then how singular, how mysterious was that coincidence which had brought it about. until jack newcombe, the young stranger, had come to warden, she had never heard the name of davenant, and now she was actually living under the roof of stephen davenant's mother. with half-closed eyes she recalled all that jack had said about stephen davenant, and it did not require much effort to recall anything jack had said, for every word was graven on her heart, and it had seemed to her as if he had spoken disparagingly of this stephen, and had implied that he was not as good as he was supposed to be. she herself, as she lay, her beautiful head pillowed on her round white arm, was conscious of a strange feeling which had taken possession of her in stephen's presence--not of dislike, but something of doubt, something also of a vague fear. and yet he could not but be good and generous, for was it not to him that she owed all that had happened to her? and did not his mother, the timid, gentle woman who had already won una's heart, speak of him as great and good? alas! and a faint flush stole over her cheek, and a long sigh stole from her lips--alas! it was that other--jack newcombe--who was bad; it was he whom she was to avoid. and so, notwithstanding that she was in the very city of her dreams, she fell asleep with a vague sadness in her heart. quiet as walmington square is, the noise of the market carts passing to covent garden awoke her soon after dawn. she looked round with a stare of amazement as her eyes fell upon the dainty room, with its costly furniture and rich hangings, and listened for a moment, as if expecting to hear the rustle of the great oaks which surrounded the cottage at warden; then she remembered the change that had befallen her, and springing out of bed, ran to the window. all the square was asleep; the blinds were closely drawn in all the houses, and only the birds on the trees seemed thoroughly awake. she could hear the market carts rumbling in the great thoroughfare beyond, and as she had gone asleep with the rattle of wheels in her ears, she asked herself, wonderingly: "does london never rest?" she remembered that mrs. davenant had showed her a bathroom communicating by a door from her own room, and then--with her cold water was as necessary as air--went and had her bath; then she dressed herself, and, opening her door, went downstairs. to her amazement, all the house seemed wrapped in slumber. at home, at the cottage at warden, gideon and all of them were up with the lark, and life began with the morning sun. she stole into the drawing-room, and, unfastening the shutters with some little difficulty, opened the window and leaned out to breathe the fresh air; but it seemed as if the air was asleep, too, or, in its journey from the country, had lost itself in the maze of houses, and failed to reach walmington square. una looked out dreamily, wondering who and what sort of people lived in the huge blocks of dwellings that surrounded her, and wondered, faintly, whether she could be looking at the spot where jack newcombe dwelt. she could not guess that jack had not come back from hurst leigh yet, but was waiting for the squire's funeral. instinctively she turned to the table and took up the album and went back to the window with the book open at the page which contained jack's portrait. how beautiful the face was! and yet, she thought, with a warm glow in her eyes, that she had seen it look still more beautiful, as she had looked down at it the morning he lay sleeping at her feet. presently a servant came into the room, and startled at the sight of the white figure by the window, uttered an exclamation. "good-morning," said una. closing the book she came forward and held up her face to be kissed, as she had always done to mrs. rolfe. the maid--a pretty young girl, fresh from devonshire--stared at her and looked half-frightened, while a crimson flush of embarrassment came into her face. "good-morning, miss," she said, nervously, and hastily turned and fled. una looked after her a moment, and pondered; and she would have made a superb study for a painter at that moment. how had she frightened the pretty girl, and why had she declined to kiss her? una could not understand it. hitherto she had lived only with equals, and could not be expected to guess that it was a breach of the proprieties to kiss this pretty, daintily-dressed little hand-maiden. as for mary, the maid, she flew into the kitchen and sank into a chair, gasped at the cook, speechless for a moment. "what do you think, cook?" she exclaimed, "that young lady--una, as the mistress calls her--is up already. i found her in the drawing-room, and--and she said 'good-morning,' and came up to me as if she--she wanted me to kiss her." "you must be out of your mind, mary," said the cook, sternly. but mary stuck to her assertion, and at last it was decided that una was either out of _her_ mind, or that she was no lady. "and that i am sure she is," exclaimed mary, and the other servants assented heartily. "if there ever was a true lady, this one is, whoever or whatever she may be. perhaps she's just come from boarding-school." but the cook scoffed at the idea. "boarding-school!" she exclaimed incredulously. "do you think they don't know the difference between mistress and servants there? it's the first thing that is taught them." meanwhile, quite unconscious of the discussion which her ingenuous conduct had caused, una wandered about the room, examining, with unstinted curiosity, the exquisite china and valuable paintings, the collard and collard grand piano, and the handsomely-bound books. an hour or two passed in this way; then she heard a bell ring and mary entered, and, eying her shyly, said: "mistress says will you be kind enough to step up to her room, miss." una went upstairs and knocked at mrs. davenant's door, and in answer to the "come in," entered, and found mrs. davenant in the hands of her maid jane. una crossed the room with her swift, light step, and kissed the face turned up to her with a timid, questioning smile on it. "my child," exclaimed mrs. davenant, "have you been up all night? i sent jane to your room to help you dress." una started, and a smile broke over her face. "to help me dress?" she repeated, jane regarding her with wide open eyes the while. "why should she do that? i have always dressed myself ever since i can remember." mrs. davenant flushed nervously. "i--meant to brush your hair and tie your ribbons--as she does mine; but it does not matter if you would rather not have her." "i should not like to trouble her," said una. "and how long have you been up, my dear?" "since five," said una, quietly. mrs. davenant stared aghast, and jane nearly dropped the hair-brush. "since five! my dear child! ah! i see, you--you have been used to rising early. i am afraid you will soon lose that good habit. we londoners don't rise with the lark." "i don't think there are any larks here," remarked una, gravely; "and at this time of the year the lark begins to sing at four. i have often watched him rise from his nest in the grass." "my poor child, you will miss the country so much." "no," said una; "i am so anxious to see the world, you know." "well, we will begin today." "una, you know i wish you to be quite--to be very happy with me. and--and i hope if there is anything that you want you will ask for it without hesitation." "anything i want?" repeated una, with a smile. "is it possible that any one could want anything more than is here? there seems to be everything. i was thinking, as you spoke, of what my father would say if he saw this table, with all the things to eat, and the silver and glass." "my dear child, this is nothing. i live very simply. if you saw, as you will see, some of the homes of the wealthy, some of the homes of the aristocracy, you would discover that what you deem luxury is merely comfort." "i was never uncomfortable at the cottage," said una, gravely. "that is because you were unused to anything better, and--and--you must not speak of the past life too much, una. i mean to strangers. strangers are so curious, and--and my son, stephen, does not wish everyone to know where you come from and how you lived." "does he not? well, i will not speak of it; but i do not understand--quite----" "neither do i. i am afraid i do not always understand stephen; but--but i always do as he tells me." and she looked up with the anxious, questioning expression which una noticed was always present when stephen davenant was mentioned. was mrs. davenant afraid of her son? una mused for a minute in silence; then she looked up and said: "i ought to do what mr. stephen wishes. do you know what he wants me to do?" "you are to be companion to me, my dear." "i am very fond of fairy tales," she said; "but i have never read one more strange and beautiful than this." "let me show you how to put on your gloves, dear," she said. "yes, you have got a small hand, and a beautifully-shaped one, too. strange, small hands are a sure sign of high birth." "perhaps i am a princess in disguise. no! i am a woodman's daughter in the disguise of a princess, that is it." mrs. davenant looked at her curiously. "you are not ashamed of being a woodman's daughter, una," she said; "but yet--perhaps the time will come when you will----" una's opened-eyed surprise stopped her. "ashamed?" she echoed, with mild astonishment. "why?" "i--i don't know. never mind, my dear," said mrs. davenant, as the brougham stopped. "you are a strange child, and--and you say such strange things so naturally that i am puzzled to know how to speak to you." chapter xix. as the days passed on, mrs. davenant grew to understand more fully the innocent but frank and brave nature of the beautiful girl whom her son stephen had so strangely committed to her charge; grew to understand and to love her, and, bit by bit, her nervousness and timidity wore off in una's presence. insensibly she grew to lean and rely on the girl, who, with all her innocence and ignorance of the world, was so gently calm and self-possessed, and una, in return, lavished her love upon the timid, shrinking woman. mrs. davenant had heard no word from stephen; she was accustomed to such silence, and almost dreaded to hear, lest it should be a message tearing una from her side. she did not know that stephen was master of hurst leigh and all the immense wealth of ralph davenant. una did not know that jack newcombe was back here in london, almost within half an hour of her. when she thought of her father and mother there in warden, it was always with the confident trust that they were well, for she felt that if it were otherwise, gideon would somehow let her know. she was quite ignorant that the cottage was empty and deserted. indeed, there was not much time for thought. day after day brought its succession of wonderful sights and experiences, as the little green brougham bore them about town, and mrs. davenant showed her all the marvels of the great city. una was dazzled, bewildered sometimes: but her instinctive good taste helped her to keep back all extravagant expressions of surprise on her voyage through fairyland. one day, however, an exclamation of delight escaped her, as she came in sight of a jeweler's window, opposite which the brougham had stopped. to her who had only read of precious stones, and regarded them as objects almost fabulous, the window looked as if it contained the wealth of the indies and of aladdin's palace combined. they entered and mrs. davenant asked to see some ladies' watches, selected one and a handsome albert, and, with a smile, arranged them at una's waist, in which, to her equal amazement, she found a pocket already provided. pale with emotion, she could not utter a word, and to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes, turned aside to look at a case containing a magnificent set of brilliants. the jeweler politely unlocked the case, and placed the bracelet in her hand. "a really magnificent set. it is sold. they were purchased by lady isabel earlsley." "lady earlsley," said mrs. davenant. "ah, yes; she is fond of diamonds, is she not?" "yes, and of other precious stones, too, madam. she has excellent taste and discrimination. perhaps you have seen her set of sapphires?" "no," said mrs. davenant, in her quiet way, "i have met lady earlsley, but i have not seen them." the jeweler opened an iron safe, and took out a case containing a superb, a unique set of sapphires, and handed them to her. "this is it--i have it to alter. they are the purest in the world--finer even than her ladyship's rubies, which are considered, but wrongly, matchless." una stared open-eyed, and the jeweler, pleased by her enthusiasm and admiration, took the set from its case and laid it in her hands. as una was bending over them fascinated, a handsome carriage drew up, and the shop door was opened by a footman in rich livery. una looked up, and saw a beautiful girl who, pausing in the doorway, stood regarding her. the eyes of the two girls met, una's with an instant frank admiration in her calm depths--a curious, half-amazed, but also admiring stare in the bright, dark eyes of the other. the jeweler glanced from the new-comer to the gems in una's lap, and changed color. mrs. davenant started nervously, and turned pale. with a quick, bird-like, but thoroughly graceful movement, the richly-dressed lady turned, and with a smile of recognition, bowed. "mrs.----" she said, and hesitated. "davenant," said mrs. davenant. "how do you do, lady earlsley?" lady isabel earlsley, the great heiress and queen of fashion, held out her hand in her quick, impulsive way, but turned her quick glance on una, whose eyes had never left the dark, bewitching face. "your daughter, mrs. davenant?" poor mrs. davenant trembled with nervous agitation. "no--no--a young friend, miss rolfe," she answered, tremulously. lady bell went straight up to una and held out her hand, her eyes fixed on the now flushed face. "how do you do?" she said, in the almost blunt fashion which her admirers declared so charming, and which, though envious tongues declared an affectation, was a perfectly natural consequence of her early life. una put her hand in the delicate white gloved one, and the two women looked at each other for a moment in silence. was it possible at that moment that some prophetic instinct whispered to the heart of each that the threads of both their lives were doomed to be entangled together? then una suddenly remembered that she had in her hand the jewels belonging to this young lady, and with a grave smile she put them back in their case. "you are looking at my sapphires, i see," said lady bell, in a tone which set the soul of the alarmed jeweler at rest. "do you admire them? are they fine, do you think?" una smiled. "i do not know. they are very beautiful. i have never seen anything like them before." "really," said lady bell, with a nod; "i don't care for them. they don't suit me; there is not enough color in them." then, turning to the jeweler, she said, in that quiet tone of command which for the first time fell upon una's ears: "give me the rubies, please." the man hastened to hand her a case from the safe, and lady bell placed the contents in una's lap. "ah!" she said, with a smile, as una's eyes opened wide with admiration, at once childish and yet dignified, "you are of my opinion, too. but the sapphires would suit you best. i wish i were your husband." una looked up with a smile of grave astonishment; and lady bell turned with a light laugh to mrs. davenant. "how puzzled she looks! i mean," she went on to una, "that if i were your husband i would give you the sapphire set; though a lover would be more suitable, would it not?" then seeing una's grave, open-eyed wonder, lady bell turned to mrs. davenant, and in a low tone, said: "who is she, mrs. davenant?--has she just come out of a convent? she is simply lovely; her eyes haunt me--who is she?" mrs. davenant stammered, and fidgeted speechlessly. "ah!" said lady bell, quickly, in the same low tone. "you think i'm rude and ill-bred. they all do when i ask a simple question, or show the slightest interest in anything." she glanced at una lingeringly: "i mustn't ask, i suppose?" "i--i--she is new to london," said mrs. davenant. "it is her first day----" "her first day!" echoed lady bell, her eyes twinkling. "do you mean that she was never in london before? how i envy her; i who am sick and weary of it! yes, the glamour is on her; i can see it in her eyes--on her face. she is like some beautiful wild bird who has settled on an inhabited island for the first time, and is marveling at the strange sights and faces--look at her!" and she touched mrs. davenant's arm. una, quite unconscious of their scrutiny, was sitting looking dreamily into the street with its ceaseless throng of carriages and people. lady bell had hit upon a happy simile; she looked like some beautiful bird, half stupefied by the strange life moving around her. mrs. davenant rose; but lady bell, with a gentle pressure, forced her back into her seat. "not this minute; leave her for a minute. see what a beautiful picture she makes! new to london! do you know what will happen when london finds that she is in its midst?" mrs. davenant looked up helplessly. she, too, looked like a bird--like some frightened pigeon in the clutch of a glittering hawk. "you can't guess," went on lady bell, with a smile. "well, it will make a queen of her--all london will be at her feet within a month, and i--i shall be dethroned." the last few words were spoken--murmured--almost inaudible, and in a tone that was half sad, half mocking. but suddenly her mood changed; and with a smile that lit up her face, and seemed to dance like a flash of sunlight from eyes to lips and back again, she said: "at any rate be mine the credit of discovering her. i am the first at the shrine of the new goddess!" and touching una's hand with the top of her gloved finger, she said: "miss rolfe, mrs. davenant has been kind enough to promise to come and see me tomorrow night. are you fond of dancing?" "i don't know," said una, with a smile. "i do not know how to dance----" "heavens!" murmured lady bell. "you forget, lady bell," murmured poor mrs. davenant. "ah, yes, yes; i remember," said lady bell, hastily. "well, you will come and see how you like it, won't you?" una looked at mrs. davenant inquiringly, and lady bell looked from one to the other impatiently. "do not say 'no,' pray, mrs. davenant," she said, with her dark, bright eyes. "i have set my heart upon it, and a disappointment is intolerable. besides, why should you say 'no?' you would like to come?" "yes, i should like to come," said una gravely. lady bell looked at her as if fascinated. "from a convent, certainly," she murmured. "then it's settled. remember! i shall look for you--shall wait for you with impatience. mrs. davenant, i count upon you." "but--but i cannot go out, lady earlsley--i am in mourning." lady bell sighed impatiently. "i am so sorry! i have never set my heart upon anything so much in my life," she said. "something tells me that we shall be great friends! are you fond of jewels, lace, books?--what are you specially fond of?" and she seemed to dazzle una with her smile. "you shall see them all--everything. yes, let her come, and i will take such care of her as if she were something too precious to be touched; she shall not leave my side all the evening. let her come, mrs. davenant!" mrs. davenant paled and flushed in turn. what would stephen say--would he be displeased or gratified? what should she do? she could not resist the half-imploring, half-commanding eyes which lady bell flashed upon her, and at last murmured a frightened "yes." with a smile that seemed to set the diamonds scintillating, lady bell shook hands with mrs. davenant, and taking una's, held it for a moment in silence, then, with a sudden gravity, she said: "good-bye. i will take care of you. i will be your _chaperon_. we shall meet again," and was gone. so interested and absorbed had she been in una that she had quite forgotten her purpose in entering the shop, and had gone without another word to the jeweler. he showed no surprise, however, but smiled complacently as he put the jewels back into their cases, being quite used to lady bell's vagaries, and he bowed mrs. davenant and una out with increased respect and deference. lady bell, attended by the two footmen, entered her carriage, and mrs. fellowes, her friend and companion, who had been sleeping peacefully, awoke with a little start. "well, my dear, have you got the rubies?" "the rubies?" said lady bell. "no, i quite forgot them." "forgot them!" said mrs. fellowes. "yes. what are stupid rubies compared with an angel?" "my dear lady bell!" exclaimed mrs. fellowes, "what are you talking about?" lady bell leaned back with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes musingly staring at nothing. "yes, an angel," she repeated. "i never believed in them until today, but i have seen one this morning--in a jeweler's shop." "lady bell, how strangely you talk. i am getting alarmed." "you always are," said lady bell, coolly. "i repeat, i have seen an angel. you are always trying to flatter me by talking of my beauty and such nonsense; but i have seen today a real beauty. not a mere pretty pet mortal like myself, but one of the celestials! with eyes like a wild bird's, and a lady, too, i'll be sworn!" "my dear bell, what language!" murmured mrs. fellowes. "a perfect lady; her hands, her voice would vouch for that. her voice is like a harp. if i had been a man i should have fallen in love with her on the spot." "fallen in love," said mrs. fellowes. "my dear bell," with a politely suppressed yawn, "i am half inclined to think you have taken leave of your senses, and you will drive me out of mine. one night it is a young man whom we nearly run over; a--i must say--a tipsy young man." "no; he had only taken too much wine." "well, if that isn't being tipsy----" "don't, don't," said lady bell, pleadingly; "we might have killed him." "i don't know that he would have been much loss to the world at large," said mrs. fellowes. "home!" said lady bell to the footman; and she sank back with a brilliant flush on her face. mrs. davenant drove home also, and in considerable perturbation. what had she done? what would stephen say? fortunately for that young man's peace of mind, he was resting at ease at hurst leigh, little dreaming that lady bell, or any one else, would meet una, and coax her out of his mother's nerveless hands. una, with quick sympathy, saw that her companion was distressed, and with a gentle touch of her hand, said: "you do not like me to go to this lady's house. i will not go. no; i will not go." "my dear," she replied, with a sigh, "it isn't in our hands now. you don't know lady bell--nor do i very well; but i know enough of her to be convinced that if you do not go tomorrow night, she would come and fetch you, though she left all her guests to do so." "is she then so--so accustomed to having her own way?" "always; she always has her own way. she is rich--very, very rich--and petted; and she is even more than that; she--she--i don't know how to explain myself. well, my dear, she is a sort of queen of society, and more powerful than many real queens." "so that when she commands such as i am i must obey," said una, with her low, musical laugh. "just so," said mrs. davenant, with a sigh. "but you will be careful, my dear. i mean, don't--don't let her put you forward, remind her of her promise to keep you at her side." "i think i would rather not go." "don't be frightened, my dear," said mrs. davenant, kindly; but una's calm, steady look of response showed her that there was no fear in the young, innocent heart. "no, i am not frightened," she said. "i do not know what i am to fear." having consented to una's going, mrs. davenant lost no time in making the few necessary preparations. she selected a plain but rich evening dress, set her own maid to make the required alterations, selected from her own store a sort of old honiton, and gave orders that some white flowers should be bought at covent garden the next morning. "white flowers, my dear," she said, nervously. "because i--i am not sure that stephen would not consider that your being in the house with me you are not in mourning. but, then, you are no relation, my dear." "i wish i were," said una, kissing her. chapter xx. at nine o'clock the next evening the quiet-looking green brougham came round to the door, and took them rapidly to park lane. una had already grown almost weary of staring out of the carriage window, but her wonder and interest revived as she saw in the dusky twilight the green trees and flowers in the most beautiful park in the world, and amazed at the magnificent buildings past which they rolled. presently the brougham drew up at a corner house facing the park; an awning was suspended from the gateway to the pavement, and three footmen in splendid liveries, which she recognized as those she had seen worn by the servants attending lady bell's carriage, were standing to receive the guests; one of them opened the brougham door and escorted them into the hall, which seemed to una, with its flowers and mirrors, its rich hangings and statues, a fairy palace, and was about to usher them into the drawing-room, when, upon hearing mrs. davenant's name, he bowed, and took them into a small room at the side, which was lady bell's boudoir. "i will tell her ladyship," he said. una had scarcely time to take in the exquisite beauty of the room, with its antique furniture and costly knicknacks, when the door opened and lady bell entered. she was exquisitely dressed; diamonds--the diamonds una had seen at the jeweler's--glittering in her hair and on her neck and on her arms, and seemed to una like some vision which at a breath would vanish and leave the room to its subdued twilight again. with outstretched hands she came toward them, with her eyes dancing and her cheeks flushed. "you have kept your word and brought my wild bird! i knew you would come," and she took a hand of each, but suddenly reached up and kissed una. "yes, i felt that you would come, but it is good of you all the same, and to show you that i am grateful, i will let you go at once, this minute, dear mrs. davenant!" mrs. davenant looked relieved. "thank you! thank you, lady bell!" she said. "you--you----" "will take care of your bird? yes, that i will. you may trust her to me; not a feather shall be ruffled." mrs. davenant murmured something about the time she would come for her, and then with a timid look from one to the other was gone. "and now," said lady bell, "let me look at you," as if she had not been doing so ever since she entered the room. "my dear, my dear, you are----" she stopped short. "no, i'll not be the first to teach you vanity. but tell me, do you ever look in your glass, miss rolfe--miss rolfe, i don't like that name, i mean between you and me. my name is bell, and yours is----" "mine is una." "una! that is delightful! and have you your lion? where is he?" una had never read the story of "una and the lion," and looked calmly puzzled. "well, if you have not one already, you soon will have. you don't understand me. i am glad of that. but will you come now? this is a very, very quiet little party, but you may be amused. and i will keep you by my side all the evening. come," and she drew una's arm through her own white one and led her through the corridor into the ball-room. it was not a large room. lady bell detested huge and crowded assemblies too much to permit them at her own house, but it was, as a ball-room, perfect. there was light, and just enough light, to show the tasteful magnificence of the decorations, and nothing of that fearful glare from innumerable lights, and their reflections in huge mirrors, which make most ball-rooms so trying and unbearable. the band had just commenced as they entered, and the whole scene, the beautiful room with its soft draperies of persian damask, the venetian mirrors, the rich dresses of the ladies, and the soul-moving strains of the best band in london, for the moment overawed and startled the girl fresh from the primeval forest. for a moment her eyes dilated almost with fear, and she unconsciously drew back, but lady bell, with a gentle pressure of the arm, drew her forward, and skillfully avoiding the dancers, took her to the further end of the room, where, in a recess lined with ferns and tropical plants, were arranged some seats so placed as to be almost hidden from the room, while they allowed the sitter a full view of it. lady bell drew a fauteuil still further into the recess, and playfully forced una into it. "there, my wild bird, is your cage. you can see all the world without being seen, and here you and i will take a peep at it. now, don't you want to know all their names and all about them?" una smiled. she was a little pale and was trembling slightly. "no; i am too surprised and astonished at present. how beautiful it is, and how lovely they are." "the women?" said lady bell, with a laugh, and a glance at the unconscious face beside her, which she knew outshone all others there. "you think so! well, there are some pretty women here. there is lady clarence--the one in light blue and swansdown--and mrs. cantrip--she was the beauty last season. you don't understand?" "last season!" said una. "who is the beauty this?" lady bell laughed and flushed a little. "never mind, child," she said. "one who doesn't care a farthing about it, at any rate. but look, do you see that tall lady there, dancing with the short man with whiskers? she is the countess of pierrepoint, and he is the duke of garnum----" "a duke?" said una, surprised. "you expected to see a man seven feet high in his ducal robes?" she said. "see those two men who have just come in? the dark one is sir arkroyd hetley, the other, the boy--the baby they call him--is a marquis, the marquis of dalrymple. they are always together. they are coming to shake hands with me." una drew further into the shade as the two men, after hunting about the room, came up to the recess, and listened as they paid their compliments and seemed anxious to remain, but lady bell sent them off quite plainly and distinctly, and sat looking toward the door, and presently she ceased talking, and her bright, beautiful face grew quiet and almost sad, certainly wistful, and at last she sighed and murmured: "no, he will not come." "who will not come?" said una. "are you expecting any one?" "did i speak?" she said. "yes, i am expecting someone, but he will not come. people one expects and wants never do--never do. you will find that out in time, wild bird; you will find--ah!" and she started and turned pale, and her hand, which had been laid on una's arm, closed over it with a sudden grip and flutter. una looked up, and her face went deadly white. the room seemed to spin round with her, and the lights to flood her brain and paralyze her, for there, towering above the throng, stood jack newcombe. jack newcombe--not in his rough tweed suit, but in evening dress; jack, not with the frank, tender, pleasant smile which always rested upon his face as it appeared in her dreams, but with a cold, half-irritable, and wholly bored expression. slowly she rose and glided into the shadow of the recess and hid herself, her heart beating wildly, her whole form trembling with a strange ecstasy of mingled fear and delight. at last she saw him again. chapter xxi. poor jack! how came he to be in lady bell's ball-room? the morning after she had nearly driven over him he woke to find leonard dagle, his friend and fellow lodger, standing beside his bed and looking down at him with a grave smile on his intellectual face. "hallo!" said jack, "the house on fire?" "not at present," said leonard, "though it would soon be if you lived in it alone. why don't you blow your candle out, and not chuck your slippers at it? how are you this morning?" "how am i?" said jack, staring. "how should i be? quite well of course," which was quite true, for jack and the headache had not been introduced to each other. "that's all right," said leonard, with a smile. "perhaps you remember last night's tragic occurrence, then?" jack thought for a moment, then shook his head gravely. "len, i'm an idiot. i always was. it's a good job idiocy isn't catching or you'd have caught it of me long ago. i made a confounded idiot of myself last night. it was all dalrymple and hetley's fault, and i wish they'd knock champagne off the club wine list. did i take too much, len?" "what do you think?" said leonard, grimly. "i'm afraid i did. for the first time in my life, or nearly--but i didn't touch a card, len." "i knew you wouldn't do that." "no, a promise is a promise with me," said jack. "and i didn't drink much, len, 'pon my honor; but i was upset, and when a man is upset he----" "he generally tries to get run over," said leonard, with a smile. jack stared, then he laughed. "by george! yes. i remember!" "but always does not get the luck to be rescued by a beautiful young lady--who is an heiress--and who, instead of giving him in charge for blocking the queen's highway, brings him home in her brougham." "it was a kind thing to do, certainly," said jack, with a yawn. "kind is a mild way of putting it," remarked leonard. "it was more than i deserved," said jack; "much more, and she's a brick." "the man who calls lady isabel earlsley a brick should be a bold man." at last jack looked up, and pressing his chair back, said: "and now, old man, let's hold a council of war. subject to be considered: the future of a young man who has been cut off with a shilling--by george! the poor old fellow didn't even leave me that--who knows no trade, who cannot dig, and to beg is ashamed, and who is penniless." "quite penniless, jack?" asked leonard. jack rose, and sauntering to a drawer, pulled forth an old tobacco pouch, and pouring the contents on to the table proceeded to count the small--very small--heap of coin. "twenty-one pounds six-and-fourpence farthing--no; it's a brass button--and a brass button." "can't carry on this way long with that small amount of ammunition, jack." "just so, old solomon. well, what's to be done?" "you might enlist." "get shot, and break your heart. no, i'm too fond of you, len. go on; anything else?" "upon my word, you can't do anything." "nary thing," admitted jack, with frank candor. "what do men--well-born and high-bred men like you----" "what will you take to drink?" said jack, bowing low. "who have no money, and no brains----" jack bowed again, and pitched the sugar tongs at him. "what do they do? they generally marry an heiress, jack." "i shall never marry." "i've heard that remark before. the last it was from a man who married a fortnight afterward." "i'm not going to marry in a fortnight. go ahead." "i've done," said leonard with a shrug. "solomon is dried up," said jack. "you don't keep a large stock of wisdom on hand, old man." "i've given you the best i've got, and good advice too, with a foundation to go upon. your heiress is ready to your hand." "what do you mean?" said jack. leonard was about to reply, when the housekeeper entered and brought him a card. he looked at it; it bore lady isabel earlsley's name, and on the back was written: "to inquire whether mr. newcombe was hurt last night?" leonard pitched it across the table, as an answer to jack's question. jack read the card and flushed hotly, then threw it down again. leonard took up a piece of paper, and rapidly wrote: "mr. newcombe's compliments, and he was not in any way injured by last night's accident, which he deeply regrets as having caused lady earlsley so much trouble," and gave it to the housekeeper. "what have you written?" asked jack sulkily. "what you are too much of a bear to write," said leonard, with a smile--"an answer and an apology. jack, you are a favorite of fortune. half the men in london would give the forefinger of their right hand to get such a message from lady bell. i know her----" "so do i," broke in jack, roughly; "i heard all about her at the club last night. hetley and dalrymple bored me to death about her. she's a great heiress and a beauty, and all the rest of it. i know, and i don't want to hear any more." jack went up to len and laid his hand on his shoulder. "forgive me, old fellow; but i--my heart is full. only one woman in the world has any interest for me, and she has gone--up to the sky again, i suppose. what do i care for lady bell, or lady anyone else? i tell you i laid awake half the night thinking of that beautiful face, and dreamed of her eyes the rest of the night; and i'd give all the world if i had it, to find her. and much good it would do me if i succeeded? i couldn't ask her to share twenty-one pounds six and a brass button!" "forgive _me_, jack," said leonard, quietly. "i know what you mean. i'm in love myself. but--but at any rate you can't treat lady bell rudely. you must call and thank her." "confound her!" said jack, and hurried out of the room. leonard looked after him, and then went on with his work. he saw no more of him until late in the evening, when jack came in and threw himself into a chair, looking weary if not exhausted. "what have you been doing, jack?" asked leonard. "looking for a needle in a bundle of hay," replied jack, grimly. leonard nodded. "i've been walking about ever since i left you, with scarcely a rest. i've walked through every thoroughfare in london. i've looked into windows and into shops. i've been warned off and told to move on by the police, who thought i was a burglar on the search for a job; and here i am and there is she as far off as ever. and yet i feel--heavens knows why--that she is here in london. len, if you smile i shall knock you down." "i was never farther from smiling than i am at this moment," said leonard quietly. "do you know what i would do if--if the squire had left me any money?" went on jack, fiercely; "i would spend every penny of it in searching for her. i'd have a hundred--a thousand detectives at work. i'd never give them rest night or day till they found her." "and then?" said leonard. jack groaned and lit his pipe. leonard looked at him. "i thought you had gone to call on lady earlsley," he said. jack looked very much as if he really meant to knock him down, and marched off to bed. when he came in to breakfast the next morning leonard noticed that he was dressed in proper walking attire, instead of the loose, free and easy, well-worn suit of cheviot, but he said nothing. jack looked up. "you are staring at my get-up, len. well, i'll do it; but mind it is only to please you. what should i care what she thinks? though i ought to do it, i know. i'll call and thank her, and then let there be an end of it. i can't bear any chaff of that sort even from you, old fellow." leonard nodded without a word, for he saw that the once frank face had lost its careless _sang froid_ expression, and looked harassed and even haggard. jack smoked a pipe in silence, watching leonard's rapidly moving pen; then, without a word, went out. two hours later he came in, and with an air of relief and even a smile, said: "well, i've done it, and it's over." "well?" said leonard, curiously. "well, nothing; she wasn't at home," said jack, triumphantly. "not at home. what sort of a place was it?" "the best place in park lane," said jack. "no end of flunkeys about, and the rest of it. looks as if she rolled in gold, as she must do to have the place at all." "and you didn't see her?" asked leonard. jack colored and frowned. "what a curious beggar you are! yes, i did see her; her carriage drove up just as i was going away." "and you spoke to her?" "no, i just raised my hat and walked away," said jack, gravely. leonard shrugged his shoulders. "she will think you a boor." "so i am," said jack. "what does it matter? tell me something about yourself. i am sick of myself. what have you been doing?" leonard's pale face flushed. "i've been to cheltenham terrace," he said. "well, did you see her?" "no," said leonard, sadly. "i saw that the blinds in the upper windows were down, and i went to the next door, and asked if anyone was ill." "well?" "yes, her grandfather, old mr. treherne, was ill, they said, and i came away." "well," said jack, "at any rate you know where to find her--while i----" "i saw her shadow on the blind," said leonard, simply. "i could swear to it among a hundred. i watched her beautiful profile for an hour in that railway carriage." "treherne, laura treherne," said jack. "it is a pretty name. what took her to hurst leigh that night, i wonder? the night the squire died. len, it is a romance, but i envy you. if i knew where una lived i'd hang about the house night and day until i saw her. len, do you know what it is to be hungry, to be parched and dried up with thirst so that you would give all you possessed--ten years of your life for a draught of water? that is just how i feel when i think of that beautiful face, with its soft brown eyes and innocent smile! and when do i not think of her?" "and you didn't speak to lady bell?" said leonard. jack made a hasty explanation and made for the door, nearly running against the housekeeper. "a letter for you, sir," she said. jack tore it open, read it and threw it to leonard. the envelope was a dainty gray color, and stamped with an elaborate coat of arms, with the initials i. e. in cipher underneath, and inside was a card of invitation to a ball, filled in by a lady's delicate hand, with a line in addition. "with lady earlsley's compliments and regret that she was from home when mr. newcombe called." "jack, what condescension. you must go!" jack stammered, and argued, and protested. he was too honest to plead that he was in mourning; but he simply swore that he would not go. the day came round and the evening fell, and jack came into the sitting-room in evening dress, his tall form seeming to fill the room. leonard used to say that it was a treat to see jack in evening dress; that he was one of the few men who looked to advantage in it, and he turned from his eternal pen and ink to look at him with an approving smile. "yes," said jack, fiercely, "i am going; i am a fool, but how can a man stand against such a perpetual old nuisance as you are? but mind, i am just going in and out again, and after this there is an end of it. i shall enlist!" and out he went. chapter xxii. jack called a hansom--of course he could have walked, but he had no idea of economy or the value of money--and was driven to park lane. half a dozen times on the way he felt inclined to stop the cab, jump out and go to the club--anywhere but lady bell's; but nevertheless, he found himself in park lane, and ascending the staircase. he saw at once, by a few unmistakable signs, that the party was a small and select one, and furthermore, judging by the tasteful magnificence of the appointments, that lady bell's wealth had not been very much exaggerated. he made his way slowly, for a dance was just over, and the stairs were lined, as usual, with people mostly whom he knew, and had to stop to speak to. amongst them were sir arkroyd hetley, and dalrymple, of course together. "hullo, here's the savage!" cried hetley. "how do you do, jack? you've soon got on the war trail, old fellow," he added in a low voice and with a significant smile. jack growled something and made his way into the room. for a moment he could see nothing of lady bell, then as she came out of the fernery and advanced toward him her dark eyes flashing, or rather gleaming softly, with a faint, delicious color mantling on her cheeks, he felt almost the same shock of surprise which had fallen on una. he had scarcely noticed her the other night, had scarcely, indeed, seen her, and he now saw, as it were for the first time, her beauty, set off and heightened by the aid of one of worth's happiest dresses, and emanuel's diamonds. in spite of himself he was dazzled, and his frank eyes showed that he was. and lady bell? well, though his face had scarcely left her mind's eye since she had seen it, she was not disappointed. notwithstanding the rather bored and surly--not to say ferocious expression which set upon it--she thought him handsomer than even she had remembered him. "this is very kind of you, mr. newcombe," she said speaking first, for jack had contented himself with bowing over her hand. "kind?" said jack, in his straightforward way. lady bell hesitated, and for the first time, perhaps, in her life, smiled shyly. "i heard--they tell me--that it is as difficult to get mr. newcombe to a dance as a prince of the blood royal." "it isn't much in my way," said jack, quietly; "i am not a dancing man--that is, i don't care for it." "then it was kind," said lady bell, recovering her courage and smiling at him with that wonderful smile which hetley and all the rest of them talked so much about. jack looked at her. yes, certainly she was very beautiful, and there was a subtle something in that smile. his ill-temper began to disappear. "i should say," he said, "that a man ought to feel lucky at the chance of getting here." "they also told me," said lady bell, archly, "that you never paid compliments." "someone seems to have been taking a great deal of trouble to make me out a regular boor," said jack, with his curt laugh. "did they also tell you that i lived in the woods up a tree, and existed on wild animals?" "like a savage?" said lady bell, wickedly. jack flushed and looked at her; then her smile conquered and he laughed. "yes, that is what they call me, confound their impudence! but i'm a very tame kind of a savage, lady earlsley; i shan't scalp you." "it wouldn't matter much, would it?" she retorted. "they make such beautiful false hair now." jack looked down on the soft, glossy head, with its thick, light coils, and smiled. "are you going to change your mind and scalp me, after all?" she said. "you make me tremble when you look like that." jack laughed right out. "no," he said; "even a savage is incapable of such ingratitude. i have come to-night, lady earlsley, to thank you for your kindness the other night, and to tell you how sorry i am that--that you should have had so much trouble!" and a blush managed to show itself under the tan. lady bell looked down. "it was no trouble," she said. "i was afraid that you were hurt. it was very clumsy and stupid of my man." "it was all my fault," said jack, penitently. "i----" "do not say any more," she said, gently, and she put her finger tips on his arm. jack looked at her, and met her gaze, full of concealed interest, and his own eyes fell before it. they had been standing near the fernery, behind which stood una; she could hear every word, see every look. pale and almost breathless she stood, her hands clasped in front of her, her heart beating fast, her eyes fixed on jack's face. she longed to fly, yet could not move a foot. something, his very presence, his very voice, held her like a chain. she felt that if he were to turn and, seeing her, say, "follow me!" she must follow him, though it were to the end of the earth. a storm of conflicting emotions battled within her for mastery; a wild delight at his presence, an intense longing that his eyes might turn and rest on her, and at the same time an awful miserable feeling, which she did not know was jealousy. how beautiful they looked, these two, lady bell, the heiress, in her rich dress and splendid jewels, and he, with his tanned face and bold, fierce eyes, his stalwart frame towering above all others, and sinking them into insignificance. how well matched they seemed. why--why did lady bell smile at him like that? no wonder his face had grown brighter. who could resist that bewitching smile? the music of a waltz commenced and recalled her to a sense of her position. with a start she drew still further back, so that she was quite out of sight. "there's a dance," said jack, in his blunt way. "i would ask if you were free to give it to me, but i cannot dance to-night. i am in mourning. don't let me keep you, though." "that is a plain intimation," said lady bell; "but i am sorry that you are in trouble. in sober earnest it was kind of you to come. i hope it was no one near to you." "no," said jack, and his face clouded at the recollection of hurst leigh. "it was a very dear old friend who had been very good to me." lady bell inclined her head, and her voice grew wonderfully soft. "i see that i must not keep you. i shall not be offended if you leave us at once. if i had known----" now here was jack's opportunity. why did he not seize it and go? "thanks," he said; "although i won't dance i'll stay a little while if you'll permit me." lady bell bowed. "thank you," she said, almost humbly, as if he had granted her a great favor, as it seemed to una. at this moment the great--or little--duke came up with a smile. "am i fortunate enough to find you free for this, lady earlsley?" lady bell looked at her card, carefully keeping it out of his reach, and shook her head. "i'm so sorry! my partner will be here directly, i expect." the duke bowed, expressed his regret, and moved off, not without a glance at jack, who stood calm and possessed; and una knew, notwithstanding all her ignorance, that lady bell was not engaged, but had refused the duke that she might keep jack by her side; and with this knowledge the demon jealousy sprang into life, and made himself fully known. with an awful aching of the heart she sank into a seat and hid her face in her hands. what right had she there--she, the ignorant, untaught forest girl, among these grand people? even supposing that he saw her he would not remember her, and if he did he would not care to waste a glance or a word on her, while such a beautiful creature as lady bell was willing to refuse a duke for his sake. suddenly the brilliant scene seemed to grow dark and joyless; the music sounded harsh and out of tune; all the beauty had vanished, and she longed to be sitting in the depths of warden forest. "your partner doesn't seem to turn up," said jack. "he's an ungrateful idiot." lady bell laughed and sank down in a fauteuil just in front of the recess. "i forgive him," she said, and she swept her skirts aside to make room for him. jack sat down, not gratefully, but quite courtly. lady bell was silent for a moment, then she said: "i would have sent a card for your friend, but i could not remember his name." "oh, len," said jack, shaking his head. "i'm afraid he would not have come. he never goes out--at least not to this sort of thing. he's a book worm, and doesn't care for the gaieties. his name is leonard dagle." "he is a great friend of yours?" "the best that ever man had," said jack, quietly; "more than a brother." "you live with him?" she said, with an interest only too palpable to the listening una, whom lady bell had quite forgotten. "yes, we live together--have done so for years--always shall, i hope, till----" he paused. "till death, were you going to say?" said lady bell. "no, i wasn't," said jack, simply. "i was going to say till i took his advice and--enlisted." "enlisted!" she repeated, turning her beautiful face full upon him. jack colored and frowned. "yes," he said, stoutly; and though he said not a word more, lady bell knew that he was poor and in trouble. it was just the one thing wanted to finish the romance. he was poor and in trouble, while she was rich beyond the dreams of avarice. why should she not say as she longed to do: "you want money. see, here am i who have more than i know what to do with; take some of it and make me happy!" instead, she thought it only, and remained silent. "how hot it is," she said presently. "it is more than time to leave london. one longs for the green fields and the sea." "it is late," said jack. "we are staying in town," she said, "because my father is a bookworm and can only live near a library--he only exists elsewhere. i cannot find it in my heart to tear him away from the british museum; but we make the best of it. we are going to have a water-party to-morrow at richmond." "yes," said jack. she waited for him to ask for an invitation; then, pressing her lip with her fan, said: "will you join us?" jack hesitated a moment. "i shall be delighted," he said. "you don't look it," she said. "but i forgot--savages rarely smile. at any rate, we start to-morrow at twelve o'clock. sir arkroyd is going to drive us down in lord dalrymple's drag." "perhaps there isn't room," said jack. "are you trying to find an excuse for not coming?" she said, smiling on him. jack frowned, and then laughed. "i'll come," he said. yes, there was a nameless charm about her which had made itself felt already. was it her beauty or her frankness--the latter so different to the cut-and-dried and measured manner of the ordinary women of society? "i'll come," he said. then he looked around. "this is a beautiful room. where did you get all the flowers from? some of them i never saw before in london." "do you like them?" she said. "many of them we brought over with us from 'across the seas,' the others i ransacked london to get--at least, poor mrs. fellowes did." "why poor?" he said. "because she has the misfortune to be my companion, and i worry her to death." "a pleasant death," he muttered. "thanks," she said. "that is the second compliment you have paid me. and yet they say you are not gallant, as the french have it." "it's the heat," said jack, in his grim way. "you will find some ices in the ante-room there, behind that lace curtain." "shall i get you one?" said jack. she nodded. "thanks! yes, that is the way," and she rose to point to a winding path made through the rows of ferns and tropical plants. he had to pass her in going, and in doing so he struck a spray of a palm with his head; it recoiled, and caught some of its soft, spiky leaves in her hair. she uttered a half-laughing cry, and jack turned. "i beg your pardon," he said. "i am awfully clumsy. allow me." she bent her head toward him, laughing, and jack disentangled the silken threads from the great clinging leaf. in doing so he again proved his clumsiness, for the silken threads got round his fingers. he could feel her soft, peach-like face against his wrist, and being human his blood thrilled. lady bell looked up. her face was pale, and her eyes drooping and languid. "are you going to scalp me after all?" she murmured. jack's heart beat strangely. "i--i am very sorry," he muttered below his breath, and with lowered eyes he went on. lady bell looked after him and drew a long breath. a sigh that almost echoed hers startled her, and turning she saw una, sitting where she had left her, with her hands clasped in her lap. "my child," said lady bell, "i had almost----" "yes, you had quite forgotten me," said una, with a strange smile. lady bell flushed and looked at her. her lovely face was pale and her eyes clouded with a strange look of pain and weariness. "forgive me, my child," she said. "you are quite pale--you are tired. it is too hot. wait! there are some ices coming." "no, no," said una, with a sudden shrinking. "please leave me--do not bring him here--i mean----" she stammered, "i would rather be alone. go and dance, lady bell." "what a timid fawn it is," said lady bell, caressingly. "there, go and sit in the shade there. don't be frightened; i promised to take care of you." "i am not frightened," said una, quietly, "but i would rather----" "i understand," said lady bell, quickly; then she said, trying to speak carelessly and toying with her fan: "did you see the gentleman i was speaking to, dear?" "yes," said una, calmly. "don't you think that he is very handsome?" una's heart beat so fast that she could scarcely speak. "yes," she answered, at last. "what a cold diana it is!" said lady bell, caressingly. "what an icy 'yes.' my dear, he is the handsomest man in the room." "yes," said una, sadly. lady bell looked at her. "i see, for all your yesses, that you don't think so," she said, with a laugh. "do you know they call him the savage, and that it is quite an achievement on my part to get him here? i made his acquaintance by accident. mrs. fellowes is quite shocked over it. but i always do as i like. i've got a fancy, una--you'd never guess it." "what is it?" said una, raising her dark eyes gravely to the beautiful, witching face. lady bell smiled. "i have a fancy for taming the savage," she said, more to herself than to una; "it will be so amusing." una turned her head aside. "for him, do you mean?" she asked, in a low voice. lady bell stared at her, and her color came and went amusedly. "what a strange child it is! for him? no, for me! and--yes, for him too. what right has he to pretend to be invincible? do you think i shall succeed?" una looked at her with an aching heart. "yes," she answered; "i think you will succeed." "what a flatterer it is!" said lady bell, playfully. "hush! here he comes; half tamed already. now for the first lesson," and, to una's surprise she glided from the recess and was instantly lost in the crowd. a moment after una saw her dancing with the duke. she drew back into the shadow and watched jack. he came along slowly, the ice in his hand, and looked around for lady bell, with astonishment and something like anger in his face for a moment. then he saw her dancing with the duke in the center of the room, looked round for some place to put the ice down, and, seeing none convenient, gently pitched it, plate and all, into a fountain, to the considerable astonishment of the gold fish. then he sat down and thrusting his hands into his pockets, seemed lost in thought; his head thrown back, almost touched una's arm, and she wondered whether he would be glad or sorry, or simply indifferent, if she rose and stood before him, or called him by name. yes, there he sat, within reach of her hand. she had often dreamed of him as being near her, but it was no dream now. an infinite longing to touch, to speak to him, possessed her, and if he would but turn and look at her as he had looked that morning by the lake! she struggled hard against the temptation, and sat motionless, all her heart going out toward him. if she had known that jack, even at that moment, was thinking of her, and recalling her every look and word. it was one of strauss' waltzes they were playing, but he heard it not; in his ears was the rustle of the forest trees and the ripple of the lake; before him was one of the most beautiful ball-rooms in london, before him moved, in a glittering pageant, the pick of london's beauty and rank, but he saw them not; he was looking in fancy into the lovely face of the innocent forest girl. the dance was over, but still lady bell did not come; couples, arm-in-arm, promenaded past him, but still jack sat, and dreaming of the girl who sat longing, longing for a word or look from him, just behind him. suddenly una felt something drop into her lap. it was a blossom from one of the tropical plants. she took it up and looked at it absently; then, as if by a sudden inspiration, she raised it to her lips and kissed it, and rising, dropped it on his knee and fled. jack started, and stooping picked up the flower, looked at it for a moment, and then turned and looked up to see whence it had come. as he did so he saw reflected dimly in a mirror framed in palm leaves a girl's face. with a bound he darted to his feet, and naturally enough made for the reflection; but ere he could reach the mirror the face had vanished. pale and trembling with eagerness he turned--but una had glided through the ferns and reached the ante-room--and came face to face with lady bell. she was flushed and laughing, her eyes dancing with the excitement of the dance. "well," she said, "where is my ice?" jack, startled and bewildered, stared at her. "i must have been dreaming," he muttered. "dreaming," she said. "what do you mean?" he passed his hand over his brow. "your ice!" and he glanced at the fountain. "i--i beg your pardon. what did i do with it? i will get you another." "never mind!" said lady bell, laughing; "i do not care for it now; i am too hot. have you been asleep?" "asleep!" he said, striving to recover his coolness; "nearly. what could i do when you left me?" "the third compliment," she said, with a smile. "where are you going now?" for jack, with his eyes fixed on the end of the fernery, was moving slowly away. "i--i'm afraid i must go," he said. "good-night!" she said, turning away coldly. jack "pulled himself together," as he would have called it, and sat down beside her. "no," he said, "i will stay if i may." she turned to him with a gentle smile. "no; go now, please. i am not ungrateful. it was very kind of you to come. you will not forget tomorrow?" "no," said jack, fingering his crush hat. "i will not forget tomorrow--how could i?" she held out her hand--not a tiny, meaningless one, but a long, shapely eloquent hand--and put it into his broad, strong one. "good-night!" she said, and her voice grew wondrously low and gentle in its caressing, clinging tones. "good-night!" jack felt the slender fingers, warm through the thin gloves, cling round his fingers. "good-night," she said, hurriedly. "good-night." chapter xxiii. jack walked leisurely enough through the fernery looking this way and that in search of the phantom girl; but once clear of the ball-room, he hurried through the ante-rooms and down the staircase--utterly ignoring the adieus which were sent after him by the crowd on the stairs--and reached the hall. the carriages were already taking up, and without ceremony he pushed through the footmen into the open air. "has a carriage left just now--five minutes ago?" he asked. "two or three, sir," said the footmen, and, too busy to answer any further questions, he dashed off. jack waited just outside the stream of light for nearly an hour, his coat collar turned up, his hands thrust in his pockets. but though many a beautiful face passed him and was driven away, una's lovely face was not amongst them. "i must have fallen asleep and been dreaming," he muttered. "how could she possibly have been there?" then he called a hansom, and was driven to the club. his blood was on fire, his brain was in a whirl; two faces--una's and lady bell's--seemed to dance before his eyes. do something he must to get rid of them, or they would drive him mad. there was only one thing to do--play. before the morning he had lost every penny of his twenty-one pounds six and fourpence, and a couple of hundred besides. * * * * * chance had favored una in her escape; no sooner had she reached the staircase than she heard mrs. davenant's carriage announced. to get her shawl and make her way down the staircase was the work of a few moments, and the brougham was rolling away toward walmington square before jack had got down to the hall. "well, my dear," said mrs. davenant, "have you enjoyed yourself? you look pale and tired." una shrunk into her corner. "i am rather tired," she said, in a low voice, "it was all so new and strange." "and was lady bell kind?" "very kind," answered una, with a sigh. "how beautiful she is!" "yes," said mrs. davenant, "she is a very fortunate girl. youth and beauty and wealth, she has much to make her happy. tell me whom you saw, my dear." una flushed and trembled. she went over the names of some of the great people, but she said nothing of jack. she could not bring her trembling lips to frame his name. "all the best people in town," said mrs. davenant, with a smile. "you will be a fashionable young lady before long, una." "oh, no, no!" breathed una, with a sudden pallor. "perhaps i shall never go again." mrs. davenant looked at her curiously, and relapsed into silence until they reached home. then, as they entered the drawing-room, she said, with a little nervous smile: "i have heard from my son stephen, una." "from your son?" "yes," said mrs. davenant. "it is good news. he has become very rich. his uncle, squire davenant, has left him everything he possessed." una started and turned pale. then jack had been left nothing! that was why he had looked so grave and troubled. "everything?" she asked. "everything," said mrs. davenant, with a sigh: "the hurst and the estate, and all the money, and he is very rich--very rich indeed." una looked before her dreamily. she could not say, "i am very glad." mrs. davenant waited a moment. "there is a message for you, my dear," she said timidly, fingering the letter. "for me!" said una, looking up with a start. "yes; stephen is so thoughtful! he never forgets others even in the midst of his great prosperity. he sends his kind regards, and trusts that you do not miss warden, and that you will not find our quiet life too dull. he little thinks how we have plunged into gayety already. he would be surprised if he knew it." indeed stephen would, with a vengeance! "it is very kind of him," said una, in a low voice. mrs. davenant sighed. "he is always kind and thoughtful. he tells me that he will not be able to come home just yet awhile. it seems that there is a great deal to see to. the estate was greatly neglected, and there's some business to be done with the lawyers; that keeps him there. but he says he will come as soon as he can, and, meanwhile, i am to make you as happy as i can. i hope i have done that already, dear," she added, with simple affection. una rose and kissed her. "indeed, yes; i am very happy." then she turned her face away to hide her tears. "come, you must go to bed," said mrs. davenant, "or you will lose all your fresh roses." and she put her candle in her hand, and kissed her tenderly. it was some time before una fell asleep. the events of the night flitted like phantom visions across her eyes, and jack's face rose to haunt her, with its tender, troubled look in the dark eyes. the squire had willed all to stephen then, and jack was poor and forgotten. the sun was high in the heavens when she awoke, and breakfast was on the table by the time she had got down. mrs. davenant looked up with a smile. "i am so glad to have you safe, dear," she said. "come, you have got all your roses back again; and, see here, you cannot guess whom this is from;" and she held up a note. "it is from lady bell. it is an awful scolding for your running away last night. she says that you flew away like a bird, and that she had no sooner missed you than she heard that you had gone." una colored. "was it rude of me?" she said. "i am sorry." "never mind, my dear; she has evidently forgiven you, or she says she will, if you will go with her for a water picnic to-day." una turned pale again. "i!" she said, below her breath. mrs. davenant opened the note. "yes; she says she will take no denial. they are going to drive down to richmond, and she will call for you on the way. would you like to go, my dear?" una thought a moment. she longed for, yet dreaded, the meeting which she knew must take place between jack and her if she went. mrs. davenant took her silence for consent. "there is no need of an answer, my dear," she said, with a little laugh; "lady bell will take no heed of a refusal. there's the note." and she threw it across the table. una read the kindly-imperative little letter, and sighed as she examined the brilliant crest stamped at the head of the paper. "it is very kind," she said. "yes, i will go, if you are sure you do not mind my leaving you." after breakfast, mrs. davenant and jane entered into a consultation as to what una should wear, una standing by with a quiet smile. at last they decided that a dainty-figured satin should be honored; and both of them, notwithstanding una's protests, insisted upon assisting at her toilet. they could not have chosen anything more suited to her fresh, virginal beauty than the simple, delicate dress; and when jane had brushed the soft, silken hair until it shone and flashed like strands of golden haze, and coiled it into a knot, mrs. davenant could not suppress an exclamation of satisfaction and admiration. as for una, she had not yet learned to view her changed self without surprise, and stared at the tall, beautiful woman which the glass reflected as though she could not believe that it was herself. they were still looking at her, and jane's restless fingers were touching a bow here and a fold there, when they heard the rattle of heavy wheels outside, and mrs. davenant hurried her downstairs. lady bell was already in the drawing-room, and took una in her arms as if she were a school-girl, instead of a woman taller than herself. "my child, i came to scold you--i meant to have a fearful scene; but you have taken it all out of me!" and she held una by her elbows, and looked at her admiringly. "child, you are a picture! i've half a mind to drive off without you. what will become of me? mrs. davenant, don't you think i am very stupid to commit suicide in this way?" mrs. davenant smiled, and looked at lady bell's beautiful face, all bright as if with sunlight, and shook her head gently. "bah!" said lady bell, pouting. "i am nothing but a foil to her; but i shall be useful, at least. come, we must be off. what is that--milk?" "yes," said una, offering her a glass, with a smile. "she drinks nothing else," said mrs. davenant. "that accounts for her complexion," said lady bell. "no, it doesn't! if i drank all the dairies in london dry, i shouldn't get such milk and roses on my cheeks." "don't turn her head," murmured mrs. davenant, under her breath. lady bell laughed. "my dear mrs. davenant, it is just what she wants! there isn't a spark of vanity in her composition; she isn't quite a woman, for no woman is without vanity. look at her, as grave and stern as a judge!" and she touched una's arm with her sunshade. una started--she had been wondering whether jack would be there outside, on the drag, and was listening for his voice amongst those which came floating through the open window. trembling inwardly she followed lady bell out. the four horses were champing and pawing impatiently. the drag was nearly full, and, for a moment, una saw only a confused group of women in dainty morning dresses, and of men in white flannel and cheviot. a second glance convinced her that jack was not there. as they appeared on the steps the laughter and voices ceased, and a well-bred glance of curiosity was turned upon her. lady bell was, however, equal to the occasion. "come along, una," she said, gayly. "fanny, will you make room beside you for miss rolfe?" the countess of pierrepoint smiled. "how do you do, miss rolfe!" she said graciously. "i hear you were at lady bell's dance last night; why did you let her hide you so completely?" una was silent. fortunately dalrymple made so much bustle and fuss in starting, that conversation for a minute or two was impossible; and before that minute or two had passed, una had gained her self-possession. seated about, she recognized several of the people lady bell had pointed out on the preceding evening: lady clarence, mrs. cantrip, the marchioness of fairfield. beside dalrymple, who had all his work cut out in keeping the four spirited nags in good conduct in the crowded london streets, sat, as a matter of course, sir arkroyd hetley, while one or two other men--one of whom she heard addressed as the viscount--was with the ladies. had una been naturally nervous, her timidity could not long have existed in such an atmosphere. her companions were among the highest in the land; but there was less reserve and ceremony than would have been found in a similar gathering of middle-class people. the men were laughing and chatting, ever and again turning round to make some light-hearted remark, or pass some joke round. they were all, it was evident, bent on enjoying themselves. very soon una found herself brought into the conversation, lady bell talking to her continually, and pointing out the lions of the road. the roses came back into una's face in full bloom, her heart beat more lightly, and her spirits rose as the four impatient horses dashed along the roads which now ran through the beautiful vicinity of richmond. she had almost--almost--forgotten that jack was not there, when happening to glance round suddenly at lady bell, she saw her looking dreamily before her, evidently lost in thought, with a wistful drooping of the bright red lips and a disappointed shadow in the dark eyes. then una knew that it was not only she herself who felt the absence of the missing one. however, lady bell soon rallied, and when they drove up to the hotel she was as bright as ever. the luncheon had been sent up to thames dutton, one of the prettiest parts of the thames, and it had been arranged that the gentlemen should row up to the island, hence the white flannel and cheviot costumes. they found boats awaiting them at the river side, and, with much laughing and gayety, started. it was a beautiful scene, the river gleaming like a flood of silver between its banks of green meadows and stately trees, the three boats with their bright colored occupants. una, who was of nature's own kin, was filled with delight; it was better than being at warden. she leaned back in her comfortable seat in the stern of the foremost boat, rapt in silent enjoyment. lady bell looked at her rather wistfully. "how happy you look, child," she said, in a lower voice than usual. "i am quite happy," said una, simply. "you are just the person for a picnic," said lady clarence. "i feel sure that you would look just as contented and serene if it rained in torrents, while the rest of us would be running about bemoaning our spoiled clothes." una laughed. "i am not afraid of rain," she said. "that's fortunate, miss rolfe," said dalrymple, who was pulling stroke, and exerting himself nobly, while hetley, pulling behind him, allowed him to do all the work. "that's fortunate, as we shall be sure to have a shower or two--always do at a water picnic." "no prophesying, marquis!" cried lady bell. "there isn't a cloud in the sky; there isn't a sign of wet." "i'm sorry for that," he said, with mock gravity, "for i'm fearfully thirsty." they paid no attention to this broad hint, however, until they were going through teddington lock, when lady bell produced some champagne and soda water, and hetley made a cooling cup. when it came to una's turn--they all drank out of the same cup, a splendid silver tankard, chased with the earlsley arms--she glanced at it askance and shook her head. "but you must, my dear una," said lady bell. "you will be parched." "let me have some water," said una, and making a cup of her hand--a trick she had learned at a very early age--she bent over the boat and as quietly and naturally drank a draught. the countess looked at her earnestly, and sir arkroyd muttered to dalrymple: "where did she come from?" "i don't know," said dalrymple, in the same tone. "i'd stick to water all the day if she'd let me drink it out of the same cup. isn't she beautiful--perfectly lovely!" "hush, she'll hear you," muttered sir arkroyd, warningly. but he need not have feared. una sat like the dream-maiden in the ballad, deaf to all but the plash of the oars and the music of the birds. presently the stately pile of hampton court palace glided, as it were, into their view, and with a long pull dalrymple sent the boat to the island. the two other boats were close behind, and then these grand people who were accustomed to be waited on hand and foot, got out and dragged hampers under the shadow of the oaks and willows; and the countess and lady clarence laid the cloth, while lady bell and the rest knelt beside the hampers and pulled out the things one by one. then sir arkroyd was sent to lay the champagne bottles in the shallow water, and dalrymple was handed a dish and the ingredients for making the salad. in a few minutes luncheon was set out to the accompaniment of much laughter, and a few accidents. one of the champagne bottles had slid into the deep water, and disappeared to the bottom of the river to astonish the fish. the corkscrew followed it; and dismay fell on all, until the viscount calmly produced another from his pocket. "never go to a picnic without a corkscrew," he said, shaking his head. "generally have to produce it, too." then there was much dragging about of hampers, and arranging of shawls and boat cushions to provide seats for the ladies; but at last all were seated, and dalrymple, brandishing a knife in dangerous proximity to lady pierrepoint's head, cut the first slice of raised pie. then it was discovered how easy it is to make jokes at a picnic. you can't be stately and ceremonious sitting cross-legged on the grass, and balancing your plate on your knees; especially when, in consequence of there not being quite enough knives, you have to lend the one you are using to your next-door neighbor. as usual, too, there were not quite enough plates and those dainty gentlemen, who went into fits if a fly fell into their wineglasses at the club, bent down on their hands and knees and washed plates in the river. "and there is no rain," said lady bell. "then one of us will have to fall into the river," said the viscount, solemnly. "must have rain or an accident at a picnic, you know. will you have some more cream, lady earlsley?" lady bell shook her head, laughingly. "no, thanks; i have enjoyed it all immensely. why cannot we have a picnic every day?" but una, who sat next her, had noticed that she scarcely touched anything. "let us go into bushey park, and turn savages," said dalrymple. "halloa; speaking of savages, what a pity the savage isn't here. this is just in his line." lady bell bent down suddenly to take a flower from the cloth. "mr. newcombe was detained in town," she said, calmly; but una could detect the faint quiver in her voice. "poor old jack," said dalrymple, after a pause, "seems to be cut up about something lately. do you remember how queer he was that night he came back from the country, arkroyd?" lady bell looked up suddenly. "let us go for a ramble. you may smoke, gentlemen," she added. "now don't shake your heads as if you never did such a thing. i can see your cigar-case peeping out of your pocket, lord dalrymple." and linking her arm in una's, she sauntered away. they strolled in silence for some minutes, until una, happening to look up, saw that lady bell's face was quite pale, and that something suspiciously like tears were veiling the brightness of the dark eyes. "lady bell!" she murmured. "hush!" said lady bell, gently. "don't notice me, child! oh, how sick i am of it all! what a long day it seems! how can they sit there laughing and chattering like a set of monkeys?" "what is the matter?" said una, in her low, musical voice. "nothing," said lady bell, softly; then she paused and tried to laugh. "una, my sweet, innocent, i've got a complaint which you know nothing of; it is called the heartache. there is no cure for it, i am afraid; at least, not for mine. tut! there, there! your great, grave eyes torture me; they seem to go to the bottom of my soul. not a word more. here they come!" and the next instant she turned round, all life and gayety. una sauntered on, her heart beating wildly. was lady bell's heartache produced by the absence of jack newcombe? yes, that must be it! with a sigh she drew away still further from the rest, and seating herself on the trunk of a tree by the riverside, watched the silver stream as it flowed past and was lost in the setting sun. suddenly she saw in the distance a white speck that looked like a bird, flitting up the middle of the stream. the speck grew larger; and she saw that it was a light boat putting toward the island. gradually it came nearer and nearer, and she saw that it contained one man only, and that he was clad in white flannel. it was a light water-boat--a mere speck of white it looked now on the golden stream--and to una, who had never seen an outrigger before, it seemed an almost impossible feat to sit in it. but the sculler managed it with the greatest ease, and with every stroke sent it flying forward. with regular rhythmical action he pulled on, and very soon she could see his great arms bared to the shoulders. she watched it absently for some minutes, but presently the rower turned his head, and something in the movement struck her and made her heart bound. agitated and trembling she rose and stood staring down the stream. a curve of the island hid the boat suddenly, and she stood watching for it to appear again; but the minutes passed on and it did not come. then suddenly she heard a peal of laughter and the clatter of voices, and she knew that the boat had pulled into the island. with a vague hope and dread commingled she sank to the seat again, and sat striving to still the wild beating of her heart. presently she heard her name called. it was lady bell's voice, and how changed; there was no false ring in it now; clear and joyous it rang out: "una! una! where are you?" there was no escape. she knew she must go, but she waited for full three minutes. then, nerved to an unnatural calm, she rose and moved slowly forward. they were all seated again; she could see them. dalrymple and sir arkroyd were stretched at full length, smoking; the ladies, in their dainty sateens and pompadours, were grouped near them, and a little apart sat lady bell, a cup in one hand and a knife in the other, her face turned toward someone eating. though his back was toward her, una recognized him. it was jack newcombe. he had turned down his sleeves and put on his white flannel jacket, and was eating and chatting at one and the same time. "yes, better late than never," she heard him say, and with every word of his deep, musical voice her heart leaped as if in glad response. "i found i could get away, and i jumped in the train, to learn at richmond that you had just started. i got an outrigger, and here i am." "just in time to help wash up," said dalrymple. "we've eaten all the strawberries, old man, and there isn't much cream. it's lucky for you there is any pie." "don't pay any attention to them, mr. newcombe," said lady bell, and how soft and sweet her voice sounded, with its undertone of tenderness. "i am so sorry you are late. do not let them hurry you. you must be so tired. let me give you some ham--some tongue, then?" and she herself cut a slice and put it on his plate. "don't let me stop the fun," said jack, in his grave way. "go on with your games. what was it--kiss-in-the-ring?" there was a laugh; the lightest joke will serve at a picnic. "i was haunted by the dread that i should come just in time to find everything cleared up. what a beautiful day! no, no more, thanks." "let me give you some champagne," said lady bell, and reached forward with the goblet in her hand. jack took it, and nodded over it in true picnic fashion. "thanks," he said, and raised it to his lips. at that moment lady bell looked up, and, seeing una standing still and motionless, beckoned her. mechanically una went round to her, and so stood in front of jack. his eyes were fixed at the bottom of the cup at the moment, but presently he lifted them, and, with a sharp cry, he let the cup fall to the ground and sprang to his feet. and then he stood staring at her downcast face with startled eyes and pale countenance. "hallo! take care!" cried dalrymple. "what are you up to now, savage? anything bitten you?" lady bell looked from one to the other, from una's white, downcast face to jack's pale, startled one. "una," she breathed, "what is it?" but jack recovered himself. "just like you fellows," he said. "didn't you know that you had pitched me on an ants' nest? what did you say, lady bell? i beg your pardon. t don't think there is much spilled, and there is nothing broken." and he knelt down and picked up the cup. lady bell laughed. "i couldn't think what was the matter," she said. "are you really bitten?" "just like jack," said sir arkroyd, with philosophic calmness. "he is never happy unless he is breaking something. i give you my word that he smashes more glasses at the club than any other man." "always was clumsy," said jack, with a constrained laugh. lady bell smiled. "you have quite frightened my friend, miss rolfe," she said. "una, this unfortunate gentleman is mr. newcombe." jack had given her time, and she was able now to look at him calmly. jack bowed, his eyes glancing at her as if they scarcely dared trust the evidence of their own senses. "pray forgive me," he said. "i am very awkward. but i don't break quite so many things as they say. is there any more champagne, lady earlsley? i don't deserve it, i know----" lady bell took up a bottle. "pour this into the cup, una," she said, with a smile. "it is true he doesn't deserve it, but we will be merciful." una took the bottle and leaned forward, and as she did so jack rose and stood before her, so that he screened her trembling hand from the eyes of the rest. his own trembled, his own heart beat wildly; all else save the beautiful face so close to his own swam before his eyes. was he dreaming, or was it really she? he could not trust his eyes, he felt that he must touch her. slowly he put out his hand, and gently, tremblingly touched her white, slender wrist. instantly she raised her eyes and looked at him, a long, piteous look, as if he had struck her. yes, it was she. it was una, his forest-maiden! with a long breath he raised the cup to his lips and drained it, then sank down on the grass and took up his plate, scarcely knowing what he was doing. the laughing voices around him seemed blurred and indistinct in his ears, the green trees and silver stream seemed to fade and vanish, and give place to the silent glade in which he had sat with the same beautiful girl bending over him. mechanically he went through the pretense of eating until a burst of laughter recalled him to himself. "look here!" shouted dalrymple in boyish glee. "here's the savage, busy eating nothing!" jack laughed, awakened to the sense of the situation. he must nerve himself, if only for her sake. "it must be sunstroke," he said lightly, staring at his empty plate. "will somebody give me a piece of cake? i have always doted on cake. i like a piece with the candied peel on it, lady bell. thanks. now i am just going to begin my luncheon." "those persons who are tired of watching the savage satisfy his barbaric appetite are requested to withdraw!" drawled dalrymple, and he leaped to his feet, laughing. "seriously, if anyone would like to go up to the palace, i've an open door. i should like a row." there was an instant clamor. three parts of the party wanted to see the palace, and a couple of boat loads started. lady clarence, lady bell, una, and jack remained. he still kept up the pretense of eating and drinking; and lady bell, kneeling opposite him, seemed never to grow weary in supplying his wants. una, seated at a little distance, noticed with what eager attention she hung upon every word he uttered. and jack kept on talking as if his life depended on it. but presently his patience came to an end. he put down his plate resolutely. "no more, thanks, or i shall be too heavy for the outrigger. now, then, can't i help pack up?" but lady bell wouldn't hear of it. "no, you shall light your pipe," she said, "and watch us. come, una. i know you are dying to help us." una awoke with a start and knelt down beside the plates and dishes while lady bell went for the hamper. jack seized his opportunity. bending forward, he whispered: "una!" she half turned her face, pale and dreamy. "well?" "is it really you? how did you come here? am i dreaming?" "it is i," she said, in her low, musical voice. "but--but," he said, "how did you come here? i did not know you were in london. i have been looking for you." her heart gave a great leap. he had been looking for her. "i have been searching for you everywhere, una. did you think i should not come back? i went to warden----" "yes," she said eagerly. "and i found the cottage shut up and your people gone." "gone?" "yes, gone, and i did not know what to do. so i came to town, and--and i looked for you everywhere. ah! you thought that i had forgotten you, as you had forgotten me." her lovely face flushed, and she turned her dove-like eyes upon him, with a reproachful look in their depths. "forgotten him!" "i cannot understand it," he went on, drawing still nearer to her, his eyes eagerly scanning her face. she smiled faintly. a great joy welled up in her heart, every nerve was tingling with happiness, she scarcely heard him. the words, "i have been searching for you," rang in her ears. "i scarcely understand it myself," she said; "it seems like a dream." jack glanced toward the bank. they had finished the packing, and would interrupt them in another minute. "where are you staying? you are on a visit?" "i am staying with mrs. davenant," said una, in the same low voice. jack started, and the unlit pipe nearly fell from his hand. "with mrs. davenant?" he exclaimed. "with stephen's mother?" una nodded. "yes; he has been very kind and good to me." jack stared breathless. "stephen good to you!" he said, fiercely. "what do you mean? am i dreaming?" "it was he who came to warden with mrs. davenant," said una, vaguely, troubled by the stern look of suspicion which had settled like a cloud on jack's face. "i don't understand," he said grimly. "stephen--stephen! how did he know of your existence?" "some friend," said una; "i do not quite know. at any rate, it was through him. and i like mrs. davenant." jack nodded. "yes, she is a good woman. but stephen----" and he passed his hand over his brow. una looked at him timidly. "are you angry?" she asked. "angry! with you!" he exclaimed, bending nearer, with a look of tender devotion. "how could you think it? no, i am not angry--only puzzled. i cannot make it out. never mind! don't look so troubled, my dear--miss rolfe, i mean. at any rate, i have found you. oh, una!--miss rolfe, i mean--if you knew how i have searched for you, and"--with a groan--"what a fool i have been!" "i thought you had forgotten me," said una, with that sweet humility of love. jack's eyes gleamed. "i have not forgotten you for one moment--not for one moment! una, i----oh, confound it! here they are." he broke off impatiently, as lady bell and the rest came back. "what are we going to do now?" she said, with her bright smile. "some of them have gone to the palace. shall we wait for them, or go and meet them! what do you say, mr. newcombe?" but jack would not stir. "they'll come back," he said, absently, his eyes drawn toward the downcast face. how lovely it was! if they would only all go away, and leave them alone! he had so much to say--so much to ask. but lady bell showed no sign of going; instead, she threw herself down on the grass beside them, and commenced to talk. had he enjoyed the pull up? why had he not driven down with them? she didn't believe in particular business; and so on. jack pulled at his pipe, and returned absent, scarcely civil answers. at last lady bell noticed his abstraction, and turned her head away in silence. meanwhile una sat speechless, her face turned toward the river, her whole soul absorbed by his presence. it frightened her, this feeling of absorption. she found herself waiting and listening for every word that dropped from his lips as if her life depended on it. she trembled lest he should touch her. his manner filled her with an ecstasy of pleasure that was almost pain. how handsome he looked, stretched out at full length, his tanned face turned to the sky, his tawny mustache sweeping his clear cut lips; she felt, rather than knew, that his eyes sought her face, and she dared not turn her eyes toward him, though she longed to do so. chapter xxiv. presently, to the relief of una, at least, the other boats came back; the third boat was got ready, the hampers put on board, and the ladies seated. jack stood near the stern, and took una's hand in his to help her to embark. "take care," he said, aloud, then in an undertone, he added: "i shall see you at richmond." "are you going to row the outrigger down, savage?" said dalrymple, eying the first boat enviously. jack turned to him eagerly. "no, i'll take your place in this boat; i can see you are longing for mine. here, get in"; and before dalrymple could refuse, jack had almost lifted him into the outrigger, and leaped into his place in lady bell's boat. all the darkness vanished from his brow. he was sitting opposite una; so near, that when he leaned forward to make the stroke, his hand almost touched her dress. "are you coming with us?" said lady bell; "i am so glad." "so am i," said jack; but his eyes went to una's face. "now, then," said jack, as he bent forward. "steady, old man," said sir arkroyd; "we haven't all got blacksmith's muscles!" but jack was wild, delirious with joy, and he pulled, heart and soul, his great, strong arms bare to the elbows. "what a lovely night!" said lady bell. "won't anybody sing?" of course no one replied. "sing something, my dear child," she said to una. "you have a singing face. you have no idea how beautiful it sounds on the water." "oh, no, no," said una, shrinking modestly. jack looked up. "sing," he murmured, pleadingly. as if he had uttered a command, she looked at him with meek obedience, and began the song he had heard her singing in the forest. is there anything more exquisite on earth than the voice of a young girl? una knew nothing of the science of song; she had had no master, no instruction of any sort; but her voice was clear and musical as a young thrush's and she sang straight from her heart. no need to tell jack to pull slower! he ceased rowing, and rested on his oar, his eyes fixed on her face, his lips half apart. the other boats stopped also as the music of the sweet, young voice floated down the stream, and one and all felt the spell. lady bell sat with lowered lids and pale face, and when the last note died away and she looked up, her eyes were moist. "my dear," she said, in a low voice, "where did you learn to sing like that?" una, half frightened at the effect she had produced, flushed and sank back into her seat. "i have never learned," she said, quietly. there was a murmur, and lady clarence turned and looked at her curiously. "you have a beautiful voice," she said, "and exquisite taste, or you could not sing as you do. it is a pity you have not been thoroughly trained. you should have a master." "she shall!" said lady bell, impulsively. "she shall have the best. it would be criminal to let such a gift be wasted!" jack looked up with a flush of pleased gratitude, and lady bell happened to catch that glance. with a slight start she turned pale, and looked from his face all aglow with the fervor of loving admiration to una's downcast one, and then, with something like a shudder, she, too, sank back into the seat. "isn't--isn't it cold?" she said, in a strangely changed voice. "is it?" said jack, musing. "we'll row on," and he bent to the oar again. a peculiar silence fell upon them all; it seemed as if they were still listening to the sweet voice. lady bell closed her eyes and remained motionless, and jack pulled as if he had undertaken to reach richmond within a given time. at richmond tea was brought to them on the terrace while the horses were put to, and very soon they were dashing toward london. dalrymple declared that his arms were too stiff to allow him to handle the four grays properly, and jack was unanimously voted to the box. he looked rather inclined to refuse, but seeing that una had been seated close behind him, he climbed up and took the reins without a word. for the first mile or two he had quite enough to do to keep the nags in hand; but he could feel that una was close behind him, could feel her breath on his cheek, and hear every word of the clear, low-pitched voice, and he was deliriously happy. presently, when he had got the horses into steady working, he turned his head and pointing with his whip, as if he were directing her attention to some object in the landscape, said in a low voice: "una, can you hear me?" "yes," she said, leaning forward. "i have been thinking it all over," he said, "but i can't make head or tail of it. it's all a mystery. however, i know where you are now, and that's something; and i can come and see you, and that's everything--to me. are you angry with me for speaking so--so boldly?" "no," she faltered. "and i may come and see you? i know mrs. davenant; she is a good creature, though she thinks me everything that's bad--and she's not far wrong, i'm afraid----" una sighed faintly. "and perhaps she'll tell me what it means, and why stephen has sent you to be with her. why, una, did your father allow you to come? he loathed me for being a distant relative of the davenants." "i do not know," said una, troubled. "never mind," said jack, hastening to soothe her; "it's sure to be all right, if he did it. i liked your father, notwithstanding he was so rough with me. i liked him because he took such care of you. steady, silly!" this was to the near leader, and not to una. "what a lovely night! are you enjoying it?--are you happy?" a sigh, faint and tremulous, was full answer. "please heaven, we'll have many a night like this. happy! i could go half mad with delight at having you so near me. una--i may call you una?" "yes," she murmured. "can you guess--you sweet, innocent flower--what makes me so happy?" "tell me!" she answered, in a low voice, and leaning forward until her soft, silken hair almost touched his. jack's heart beat fast, and his blood bounded in his veins. "it is because i love you. i love you! do you understand? ah, my darling! you don't know what love is. but i ought not to call you so--not yet. i can't see your face; perhaps i shouldn't dare to be so bold if i could. speak to me, una; speak to me. tell me that you are not angry. tell me that, while i have never had your sweet face out of my mind since that day we parted in warden, you have thought once or twice of me. i don't deserve it. i'm a bad lot; but i love you, una. do you love me?" there was no reply; but there was a soft nestle beside him, and then he felt her hand timidly touch his arm. he slipped the whip and reins into one hand, and seized the little trembling hand and enclosed it as if he meant thus to swallow it up forever. but, alas! the horses were going down hill, and were fidgeting and pulling; and with impatient exclamation at their stupidity, he was obliged to let the little hand go; but it did not go far; he could feel it touching, softly and timidly, the edge of his coat-sleeve, and that was enough for him. it was a mercy and a miracle that the drag was not upset, for he scarcely knew where or how he was driving, and it was more by instinct and habit that he brought the team safe and sound, but sweating tremendously, before the house in park lane. "you must all come in," said lady bell. the gentlemen looked at their white flannels apologetically, but lady bell laughed. "let us pretend that we are our own masters and mistresses for one night," she said, "and not the slaves of fashion." jack stood out. he felt that, for the present, it behooved him to be discreet, and he knew that if he were not, it would be impossible for him to conceal the romantic love which burned through and through him. besides, he knew that there would be no opportunity of speaking to una there; and he felt that it would be agony for him to assume the conventional air of polite indifference to her for that evening, at least. so he went. but he stood on the pavement to help her down; and as he held her in his arms, he kept her for one moment poised between heaven and earth; and as he put her down, his lips touched her arm, and she knew it. "i'll see to the horses, dal," he said; and he leaped up, and drove off as if he were possessed. "that's what the savage calls seeing to them!" grumbled dalrymple. "he'll throw 'em down, or run over somebody, and i shall be fined five pounds for furious driving." jack was conscientious--where horses were concerned--and he sat on the rack and saw them rubbed down and fed with the patience of a martyr; then he jumped into a hansom, was driven to spider court, and, bursting into the room, fell into a chair and flung his cap at leonard's head. "mad at last!" said leonard. "yes, stark, staring, ramping mad, old fellow. i've found her!" "no!" said leonard, turning round. "yes! yes! and i've spent the day with her. she's here in london, and who do you think she is staying with? with mrs. davenant, stephen's mother!" "stephen's mother!" said leonard, with surprise. "nonsense." "fact! what do you make of it?" leonard dagle mused in silence. "i can make nothing of it," he said at last. "did she know mrs. davenant?" "no; that's the mystery. stephen, it seems, is the cause of her being here. he found out her father--how i can't guess--he must, of course, have known her before; there's nothing wonderful in that. but what is wonderful is that stephen should do anyone a good turn, unless--unless--" and his face darkened suddenly and grew fierce--"unless he had some end in view." "what end could he have in view here?" said leonard. "that's what i can't make out; can you?" leonard shook his head. "it's a strange story throughout." "it is," said jack, grimly. "but, stephen davenant, if you mean any mischief, look out! i'm on your track, my friend! but, len, old man, you look rather done up. what's the matter?" leonard passed his hand over his brow. "something strange and mysterious also," he said. "i went to cheltenham terrace an hour ago, just on the chance of getting a glimpse of--of----" "of laura treherne. well, old man?" "and i met with a similar shock to yours in warden forest. i found the house shut up, and she--gone, vanished, disappeared!" "what!" exclaimed jack. leonard paced up and down. "i went to inquire next door, and i learned that old mr. treherne was dead--you remember my telling you that the blinds were down--that the funeral took place yesterday, and miss treherne had gone. they only lodged there, it seems, and of course she could go at any moment. where she has gone no one seems to know. so there is an end to my little romance! but no! it shall not end there." "no; take courage by my luck, old man," said jack, laying his hand on his shoulder--"take courage by me! let us talk about it." "no, no!" said leonard, shrinking; "i cannot--yet. you don't know how i feel. tell me what happened today. was she glad to see you? did you let her see that you cared for her? of course you did." "yes," said jack, with a proud, happy smile. "yes, i told her that i loved her, and--oh, len! len! i know that she cares for me!" leonard stared at him gravely, and put down a paper which he had taken up. but jack saw it and took it off the table. "what are you reading there, len?" leonard took it out of his hand. "my poor, light-hearted, unreasoning jack," he said. "it's levy moss' reminder about that bill!" jack's face fell and he dropped into a chair. "quite right, len," he said, hoarsely. "i am an unreasoning fool! what have i done? i've behaved like a blackguard! i've got this angel to admit that she loved me--me, a beggar--more than a beggar! but i swear i forgot--i forgot everything when i was near her. oh, heaven, len, it's hard lines! what shall i do! if the poor old squire had but left me a few hundreds a year, how happy we could be!" "but he hasn't," said leonard, gravely and gently. "and what are you going to do? there's the money you lost last night----" jack groaned. "what an idiot i was. len, i swear to you that i was nearly driven out of my mind last night. first there was lady bell--she was more than civil, and bearing in mind all you said and wanted me to do, i made myself agreeable, and--and--she's very beautiful, len, and when she looks right into your eyes and smiles, she seems to do what she likes with you. len, i was nearly gone when that vision--as i thought it--came into the glass amongst the ferns. i thought it was a vision--i know now that she was there--and it drove me silly. i bolted out and made for the club, and played to forget it all." "and made bad matters worse," said leonard. "you're in a hole, jack, i'm afraid. moss won't wait; there are other bills, and there's the i. o. u. of last night, and you've lost the money you had, and you've asked this young girl to love you. you mean to marry her--i say, you mean to marry her. on what? how can you go to her father--who already doesn't seem altogether prepossessed in your favor--and ask him to give his daughter to a penniless gentleman? mind--a gentleman! if you were a woodman like himself, your being hard up wouldn't matter. you could take an ax, or whatever they use, and earn your living. but you can't go and ask him to let her share your over-due bills and i. o. u.'s." jack groaned. "what shall i do, len? my darling, my darling!" leonard sighed. his heart--the heart of as true a friend as ever the world held--ached for the wild, thoughtless youth. "was lady bell there?" he asked, quietly. jack leaped to his feet. "lady bell! i see what you mean!" he groaned. "len, you are in love yourself, and yet you ask me to sell myself----" leonard flushed. "jack, much as i care for you, i swear that i am thinking as much of her good and happiness as of your own. if you marry her--which, after all, you _cannot_--if you could you would make her life miserable; if you marry lady bell, you will at least make _her_--happy." jack paced up and down for a moment. then he turned, white and haggard, and held out his hand: "you are right. would to heaven you were not! i see it, i cannot help it. i will not make her life miserable. but--but--i must go and tell her. heaven help us both!" chapter xxv. where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise. quite ignorant and unconscious of all that was going on in london, stephen remained down at the hurst. what he had written to his mother was quite true; as a matter of fact stephen was far too clever to write direct falsehoods--he was kept at hurst leigh very much against his will. squire ralph had left him everything--money, house, lands, everything excepting the few legacies to servants, and stephen had been hard at work, and was still hard at work ascertaining how much that everything was. and, as day followed day, and disclosure succeeded disclosure, he became fascinated and possessed by the immense wealth which had fallen into his hands, or, say rather, which he had seized upon. for many years the old squire had lived upon less than half his income; the remainder he had invested and speculated with, and as often happens to the miser, the luck of midas had fallen upon him. everything he touched had turned to gold. the most unlikely speculations had proved successful; properties which he had bought for a mere song, and which had been regarded by the most wary as dangerous and profitless, had become profitable and valuable. some of these risky speculations he had, not unnaturally, kept concealed from the prudent hudsley, who only now, by the discovery of scrip and bonds in out-of-the-way desks and bureaus, learned what kind of man his old friend had really been. not a day passed but it brought to light some addition to the old man's gains, and served to swell the immense total. even the lands round hurst had been manipulated by the old man, so that leases ran out almost at his death, and rents were raised. one speculation will serve as an instance; he had purchased, some fifteen years before his death, the freehold of an estate bordering upon london; and in a locality which was then regarded as hopelessly unfashionable. a great capitalist had ruined himself by building large houses on the property, foreseeing that at some time or other the tide of the great city would reach this hitherto high and dry spot. but he had made a miscalculation, and he died before the tide which was to bring him wealth reached his property; old ralph had then stepped in and bought it--houses, land, everything. in ten years' time the tide of fashion rolled that way, and now what had once been a neglected and forgotten quarter was the center of fashionable london. it reads like a romance, but like many other romances, it was true. old ralph himself had no idea of his own wealth, and that when he died he should leave behind him one of the most colossal fortunes in england. almost stunned by the immense total--so far as it had been arrived at--stephen went about the place silent and overwhelmed. but one thought was always ringing like a bell in his brain--"and i had nearly lost all this!" sometimes, in the quiet of the library, where he sat surrounded by books and papers, by accountants' statements and estimates, he would grow pale and tremble as he reflected by what a narrow chance he had secured this midas-like wealth. but had he secured it? and when the question presented itself, as it did a hundred, aye, a thousand times a day, he would turn ashy pale, and clutch the edge of the table to keep himself from reeling. where was that will--the real, true, valid will--which left everything away from him to una? day by day, while going over the accounts, he found himself waiting, watching, expecting someone--whom he could not imagine--coming in and saying: "this is not yours; here is the will. i found it so and so, at such and such a time!" and he felt that if such a moment occurred it would kill him. but as the days passed and no one came to contest his claim to the property, he grew more confident and assured, and at last he nearly succeeded in convincing himself that he really had burned the will. "after all," he mused, over and over again, "that is the only probable, the only possible explanation. is it likely that if anyone had the accursed thing they would keep it hidden? no! if they were honest, they would have declared it at once; if dishonest, they would have brought it to me and traded upon it. yes, i was half mad that night. i must have destroyed it at the moment laura knocked at the window." but all the same he determined to make his position secure. immediately he had arranged matters at the hurst he would go to london and marry una. "she is all safe and sound there," he mused, with a satisfied smile. "my mother leads the life of a hermit. the girl herself has no friends--not one single soul in london. i shall be her only friend, and--the rest is easy." poor stephen! then he would give a passing thought to laura, and now and then would take from his pocket half a dozen letters, which she had written to him since the night of her journey to hurst. to not one of these had he replied, and the last was dated a week back. "by this time," he thought, "she has forgotten me, or what is better, has learned that plain stephen davenant and squire davenant of hurst leigh are two very different men. poor laura! well, well, i must do something for her. i'll make her a handsome present. say a thousand pounds; perhaps find a husband for her. she's a sensible girl, too sensible to dream that i should think of marrying her now. after all, what harm is done? we were very happy, and amused ourselves with innocent flirtation. a mere flirtation, that is all." and he tried to forget the pale face and flashing eyes which turned toward him that night at parting with such a strange look of warning. but he did not always succeed in forgetting. sometimes the remembrance of that face rose like a vision between his eyes and the endless rows of figures, and made him shudder with mingled fear and annoyance. "it has been a lesson to me," he would say, after awhile. "it is the only weakness i have ever been guilty of, and see how i am punished. i deserve it, and i must bear it." it punished him, and it told upon him. the pallor which had come upon his face the day the will was read had settled there. the old look of composed serenity and "oiliness," as jack called it, had gone, and in the place was a look of strained intentness, as if he were always listening, and watching, and waiting. he was a fine actor, and would have made a fortune on the boards, and he managed to suppress this look at times, but the effort of suppression was palpable; he showed that he was affecting a calmness and serenity which he did not possess. by two men, of all others, this change in him was especially noticed--by mr. hudsley and old skettle. the old lawyer and his clerk were necessarily with him every day; stephen could not move a step without them. he hated hudsley, whose keen, steel-like eyes seemed to penetrate to his inmost heart; and he detested skettle, whose quiet, noiseless way of moving about and watching him from under his wrinkled lids, irritated stephen to such an extent that sometimes he felt an irresistible desire to fling something at him. but both of the men were indispensable to him at present, and he determined to wait until everything was straight before he cut all connections with them. "once let me get matters settled," he muttered to himself over and over again, "and those two vultures shall never darken my doors again." and yet hudsley was always scrupulously polite and civil, and skettle always respectful. with his characteristic graveness, mr. hudsley went through the work systematically and machine-like. but stephen noticed when he came to announce some fresh edition to the great davenant property, he never even uttered a formal congratulation, or seemed pleased and gratified. one day stephen, nettled beyond his usual caution, said: "you must be tired of all this, mr. hudsley. i notice that it seems to annoy you." and the old lawyer had looked up with grim impassibility. "you are mistaken, mr. stephen. i am never tired, and i am never annoyed." "at least you must be surprised," said stephen; "you had no idea that my uncle had left so much." "no, i am not even surprised," retorted mr. hudsley, if his calm reply could be called a retort. "i have lived too long to be surprised by anything." and there was something in his keen, icy look which silenced stephen, and made him bend over his papers suddenly. others noticed the change which had come over the once sleek, smooth-spoken young man. it got to be remarked that he rarely left the hurst grounds, and that what exercise he took was on the terrace in front of the library, or on the lawn below it. it was said that he paced up and down this lawn for hours. it was said, too, that he rarely addressed a servant in or out of the house. all the orders came through the valet slummers. mention has been made of slummers. it would have been difficult to describe him. he was called in the village "the shadow," because he was so thin and noiseless, so silent and death-like. in addition to his noiselessness, he had a trick of going about with closed eyes, or with his lids so lowered that it looked as if his eyes were closed. bets had been made upon the supposed color of those visional organs, but had never been decided, for never by any chance did he look anyone in the face when speaking; and when by some accident those sphinx-like lids were raised they were dropped again so quickly that examination of what lay behind them was impossible. secretiveness was part and parcel of this man. he never did anything openly. when he gave an order it was in a round-about way. the simplest action of his daily life was enveloped in mystery. even his meals were taken in a room apart; only a few of the servants knew the room he occupied. then he seemed ubiquitous. he was everywhere at once, and turned up when least expected. with noiseless step he came and went about the house; now in the servants' hall, now in the library closeted with his master, now in the stables looking under his lids at the horses, counting, so said the grooms, every oat that went into the mangers. not a thing was done in the house but he was acquainted with it. and he knew everything! not a secret was kept from him. had anyone in the village an episode in his life, which he hoped and deemed hidden and forgotten, slummers knew it, and managed by some dropped word or look to let the miserable man know that he knew it. before he had been at hurst a week he had half the servants and villagers in his power. power! that was the secret mainspring of the man's existence. he loved power. give even the fiend his due. this man had one good quality, he was devoted to his master. saving this one great event of his life--the theft and loss of his will--stephen trusted him in everything. and slummers admired him. in his eyes stephen was the cleverest man on earth, and being the cleverest man on earth slummers was content to serve him. yes, slummers was devoted to his master, but he made up for it in his detestation of the rest of mankind in general, and of one man in particular--jack newcombe. between jack--honest, frank, and reckless jack--and the serpent-like slummers there had been a feud which had commenced from the moment of their first introduction. on that occasion slummers had been sent with a message to jack's room. jack happened to be out, and slummers whiled away the tediousness of waiting by opening a drawer in leonard's table and reading some unimportant letters. jack, coming in with his usual suddenness, caught him and kicked him. jack had forgotten it long ago, but slummers had not, and he waited for the time till he could return that kick in his own fashion. the days passed, and mr. hudsley's task appeared to be nearing a conclusion. one morning he came up to the hurst, his hands behind his back, his head bent as usual, and asked for stephen. stephen was in the library, and slummers noiselessly ushered in the lawyer. it happened to be what stephen would have called one of his bad mornings. he was seated at the table, not at work, but looking at the pile of papers with lack-luster eyes, that saw nothing, and pale, drawn face. hudsley had seen him like this before, but his keen eyes looked like steel blades. stephen started and put his thin, white hand across his brow. "good morning," he said. "good morning. any news? sit down." but hudsley remained standing. "i have no news," he said. "i think i may say that there are no more surprises for us. you know the extent of the fortune which you hold!" he did not say "which is yours," or "which your uncle left you." simply "which you hold." on stephen's strained mind the phrase jarred. he nodded and kept his eyes downcast. "the business that lies within my province," continued mr. hudsley, "is completed. what remains is the work of an accountant. my task is done." "i am sure," said stephen, smoothly, "that you do not need any assurance of my gratitude----" the old man waved his wrinkled hand. "i have been the legal adviser of the davenant family for the last forty years," he said, "and i know my duty. i trust i have done it so far as you are concerned," he said, sternly. "and now i have come to you to request you to receive what papers and documents are in my charge--my clerk, skettle, will hand them to you and take your receipt--and to inform you that i wish to withdraw from my position as your legal adviser." stephen's pale face winced and shrunk, and he raised his eyes suspiciously. "mr. hudsley, you surprise me! may i ask your reasons for this abrupt withdrawal?" "my reasons are my own," said hudsley, dryly; "i may say that i am growing old, and that i am disinclined to undertake the charge of so large an estate." "oh!" said stephen, with a sickly smile. "such a reason is unanswerable. but i deeply regret it--deeply. my uncle always trusted you." "he did nothing of the sort," interrupted mr. hudsley, sternly. "he trusted no man." "at any rate, i have placed implicit and well-merited confidence in you," said stephen. the old man looked at him and stephen trembled. "i--i hope i shall find your bill of costs among the papers?" he said, hoarsely. "no," said mr. hudsley. "what service i have rendered you i consider as rendered to the estate. the estate has paid me sufficiently hitherto. i need, i will receive no other payment." "but----" urged stephen. mr. hudsley waved his hand. "i am quite resolved, sir. if you should need any information respecting any business that has occurred up to the present, i am at your service; but for the future i beg to withdraw. good-morning." stephen rose, and held out his hand. "at least, mr. hudsley," he said, "we part as friends, notwithstanding this hasty resolution of yours?" "it is not hasty, sir," said hudsley, and just touching the cold, thin hand, he bowed and left the room. stephen sank into a chair, and wiped the drops of cold sweat that had accumulated on his brow. "he suspects me," he muttered. "he suspects! but he suspects only, and he can do nothing, or he would have done it. yes; he is powerless. let him go! let him go!" he repeated; and he paced the room. gradually the relief of hudsley's withdrawal broke upon him, and his step grew lighter. "yes, let him go! now i am free--i am my own master! master of wealth undreamed of! and i'll use it! by heaven, i'll be happy! let him go! i meant to get rid of him--he has saved me an unpleasant scene. and now to work, to work!" he ran rather than walked across the room, and rang the bell. slummers opened the door almost instantly and stood motionless and silent. "has--has that old idiot gone?" asked stephen. "yes, sir," said slummers. stephen laughed hoarsely. "let the past go with him!" he said. "slummers, go to my room and bring a roll of papers from my bureau-drawer. you know what they are! plans and estimates. do you know what i am going to do?" slummers raised his eyes. "of course you do!" said stephen with the same laugh. "i'm going to make a clean sweep here, slummers. i'm going to pull half this beastly place to the ground. alterations, slummers--alterations that will make hurst a place for a man to live in, not a tomb, as it is at present." "you are right, sir, it is a tomb," said slummers, in his low, hollow voice. stephen shuddered. "yes, yes; but i mean to alter that. i'll make it fit to live in, fit to bring a young bride to. fetch the plans, slummers; i'll go over them at once, this minute. yes, i will change the place till the very trees shall not know it. fetch the plans! i'll pull the whole of it down, every stick and stone! i hate it--hate it! i'll change the name! i can do it. i can do anything now, or what is the use of this money? fetch the plans! fetch----" he broke off suddenly and staggered. slummers sprang nervously forward and caught him, and putting him into a chair, poured out some neat brandy and gave it to him. stephen tugged at his collar and struggled for a moment, then sank back helplessly. "stop!" he said, "stay here. don't go. i--i can hear voices--an old man's voice--what is it?" "nothing--nothing," said slummers. "be calm, sir." "calm--i am calm!" retorted stephen. "it's this beastly house, it's full of noises! give me some brandy--and--get the time table. i'll go to london to-morrow, slummers. yes, i'll go to london!" and the master of hurst, the owner of a million and more, sank back in his chair and fingered the time table with trembling fingers. chapter xxvi. "jack newcombe!" exclaimed mrs. davenant, looking at the card which mary had brought in. "jack newcombe!" she repeated a second time. "my dear, come here!" una was sitting beside the open window, a book in her lap, her eyes fixed on the sun setting just behind the chimneys. "yes," she said, her face flushed, her eyes glowing as if the sun were reflected in them; but she did not move. mrs. davenant hurried across the room with the card in her hand. "una, dear, see here," she said, nervously. "here is jack newcombe! you've heard me speak of him." una, feeling guilty and deceitful, hung her head. her heart beat fast. for two days she had waited and watched for him--never for a moment had he been absent from her mind. and now he was here, in the next room. "yes," she said, "i--i remember." "well, my dear, i don't know what to do. i don't know what he wants--do you?--but of course you don't!" una flushed crimson to her very neck. "i think you had better go, my dear," said mrs. davenant, fidgeting with the card. una did not move. "why?" she asked, raising her eyes for the first time. mrs. davenant moved her head nervously. "because--i don't think stephen--i mean--jack newcombe is the sort of man you ought to know." "but," said una, softly and with a steady look in her dark eyes, "i do know him already." mrs. davenant stared. "you know him? jack newcombe?" una nodded. "yes," she said in a low voice. "i met him up the river. i saw him at lady bell's--he is a friend of hers----" "but why didn't you tell me?" said mrs. davenant, looking distressed and frightened. una felt guilty. "i don't know," she said in reply. "i think it was because i knew you would feel angry." mrs. davenant stared at her. it was like the reply of a child in its simple, naked truth. "well, well," she said, with a troubled voice, "of course you couldn't help it, and i couldn't help it. and"--here the door opened quietly, and jack's head appeared, and mrs. davenant started. seeing that they were alone, jack came in with his usual coolness, though his heart beat; and he crossed the room, and took mrs. davenant's hand and kissed her forehead. and the poor woman melted in a moment, as she always did when jack was actually present. as a matter of simple truth, she was really as fond of him as if he had been her own son, and but for stephen, jack would have seen her oftener. he had lost his mother in early boyhood, and the kind-hearted, affectionate, timid mrs. davenant had often dried his boyish tears and held him in her arms. even now, notwithstanding jack's wickedness, of which stephen made the most, her heart went out toward him. he had not been near her for some months, nearly a year, all through stephen, and she had almost given him up; but jack's kiss revived all the old tenderness. and what woman could resist his handsome face and frank, manly way? "well, ma'am," he said--and "ma'am" sounded in her ears and in una's almost like "mother"--"and how are you? and aren't you glad to see me?" "yes, jack," said mrs. davenant, nervously. "then why do you keep me in the draughty hall for half an hour? do you want me to catch cold?" "half an hour?" murmured mrs. davenant. "i'm sure you haven't been there three minutes." "two minutes and a half too long," he said, smiling. he was giving una time to recover herself. "you never come to see me now, jack," said mrs. davenant, looking up at him sadly. "and now i do, you keep me outside. besides, you never ask me. who's that in the back room, ma'am?" mrs. davenant started; she had almost forgotten una. "you know her!" she said. jack had got his cue. "oh, it's miss rolfe," he said, and then he crossed the room and held out his hand. una rose, and without a word put her hand in his, her eyes downcast, lest the love which beamed in them should escape against her will. "yes," said jack, "i have had the pleasure of meeting miss rolfe once or twice lately." then he turned away from her and began talking to mrs. davenant, as if una were not in the room. it was just what una wanted. she felt that she could not speak, and for the present it was happiness enough to have him in the same room with her, and to hear his voice. and mrs. davenant, now that the first shock was over, was glad enough to sit down and listen to the frank, musical voice--so unlike stephen's measured, modulated tone. presently she said in a low, nervous tone: "jack, i am so sorry!" jack nodded, and his face dropped. "about the poor squire? yes! never mind. it is all right. no! it's all wrong for me, but all right for stephen." "but stephen doesn't--doesn't want it all," she murmured. jack looked another way; he had a different opinion. "never mind," he said, "don't let us worry about it--you and i. it's all past and gone, and there's no help for it." "but you have worried," she said. "you don't look so well as you did, jack. i hope--i do hope," and her voice faltered. jack's face flushed for a moment. "you are going to scold me, as usual," he said. "well, go on, it will be your last opportunity, ma'am. i've reformed." there was something in his tone, something so earnest and grave, that she looked at him anxiously. "oh, jack, i wish--i wish you would be more steady." "wait and see," he said, gravely, and in a low voice. mrs. davenant wiped her eyes, and glanced at the clock. it was near the dinner hour. "do you want me to go?" said jack, in his blunt way, and he took up his hat and gloves. mrs. davenant hesitated a moment. "you wouldn't stop to dinner, if i asked you," she said, with a faint smile. una's heart gave a great leap. "try me," said jack. "yes, i'll stay. now don't look frightened and disappointed, or i'll go." mrs. davenant rose, with her rare laugh. "i must go and tell them," she said, "or you'd be starved," and she left the room. jack went and stood beside the silent, motionless figure and looked down at her with infinite yearning and infinite sorrow. he had come resolved to tell her the truth and to bid her to forget him. "una," he said, in a low voice. she raised her eyes, and in an instant his grand resolution, built up with such care for the last two days, crumbled into dust. with something like a groan he was on his knee and caught her to his breast. for a moment she resigned herself to the exquisite joy of his embrace, and with downcast eyes drooped beneath his passionate kisses, then with an effort she regained possession of the soul which had slipped from her into his, as it were, and gently disengaged herself. "no, no, you frighten me!" she murmured, as jack's arm drew her toward him again. "my darling! there!" and he kissed her hands. "how can i do it? it is too much to ask of mortal man." "do what?" she murmured. jack's face paled. "nothing--nothing," he said. "and are you really going to stay?" she murmured, her eyes beaming with pleasure. "yes," he said, "i came on purpose. if she had not asked me i meant to ask her." "and you love her, don't you? is she not good--and isn't it cruel to deceive her," said una, and she hung her head. "she's the dearest old lady in the world," said jack, enthusiastically, who would have loved a gorilla, much less mrs. davenant, if it had been kind to una. "why, she was a second mother to me until stephen grew up--and she has been kind to you. i can see that for myself. but you must tell me all about it--all about everything tonight. think, my darling! we shall be together here all the evening! no noisy crowd to prevent us talking--no interference. i shall want to know everything. hush! here she comes," and with another swift kiss he rose and went into the next room. una stole out and upstairs to dress. quite unsuspicious, mrs. davenant came back smiling. she had ordered one or two of jack's favorite dishes, and had come to ask him about the claret. "there is some of the chateau la rose, jack. would you like to have it warmed a little?" she asked, anxiously. "let them put a bottle in the kitchen somewhere," said jack. "it will get right there by dinner time. eight o'clock you dine, i know. i'll just run home and dress, and be back punctually to the minute." "it will be the first time in your life then," said mrs. davenant. for the first time in his life then jack was punctual. at five minutes to eight a hansom dashed up to the door, and jack, in evening dress, with his light overcoat, strode up the steps and into the drawing-room. it was empty, but a minute afterward he heard the rustle of a woman's dress, and turned as una entered the room. she wore the dress she had worn at lady bell's, and jack, who had not yet seen her in her "war paint"--as he would have described it--was startled; and una, as she saw the look of surprise and rapt admiration, felt, like a true woman, a glow of satisfaction and pleasure. it was not that she was beautiful, but that he should think her so. "my darling," he murmured, holding her at arm's length; "what magic charm do you possess that enables you to grow more beautiful every time i see you? or is it all a mistake, and are you another una than the una of warden forest?" una put her hands on his shoulders trustfully, and turned her face up to him. "tell me," she murmured, "which una do you like best?" jack thought a moment. "i love them both so well," he said, "that i can't decide." and he kissed her twice. "one is for the una of the forest, and one for the una of the world," he said. she had only time to slip from his arms when mrs. davenant entered. "what do you say to punctuality, ma'am?" he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he gave her his arm and lead her into the dining-room. jack was a favorite, for all his wickedness, wherever he went. it was no sooner known that he was to dine in the house, that the cook awoke to instant energy and enthusiasm. "master jack's a gentleman worth cooking a dinner for," she declared. "it's a waste of time to worry yourself for women folk; they don't know a good dinner from a bad one; but master jack--oh, that's a different thing! he knows what clear soup ought to be; and he shall have it right, too." mrs. davenant herself was surprised at the elaborate little dinner. "i wish you'd dine with us every day, my dear jack," she said. jack glanced demurely at una, in time to catch the sparkle in her dark eyes. "i'm afraid you'd soon get tired of me," he said. "but, seriously, i should improve the cooking; not this day's, i mean, but the usual ones. you've got a treasure of a cook, ma'am." and, of course, this was carried down by mary to the empress of the kitchen, and her majesty was rewarded for all her trouble. "what did i tell you?" she demanded. "master jack knows." jack's appetite was always good, in love or out of it, and this evening would have been the happiest in his life but for certain twinges of conscience. what should he say to leonard, the faithful friend, when he got home and was asked how he had parted from una? however, he stifled conscience--it is always easy to do that at dinner time. "will you have some more claret?" asked mrs. davenant, as she and una prepared to leave him. "you can smoke a cigarette, if you like; but open the window afterward." "i won't have any more claret, and i won't smoke," said jack. "i'll just finish this glass and come with you for a cup of tea." five minutes of solitude spent in going over every look and word of the lovely creature he had won, were enough for jack. he found them seated at the window; una in a low chair, almost at mrs. davenant's feet. they both looked up, as if glad to see him; and mrs. davenant at once rang for tea and coffee. una rose, and officiated with calm self-possession and accustomed ease--no one would have guessed that her acquaintance with a london drawing-room, and its accompanying forms and ceremonies, was only that of a few weeks--and brought jack his cup. in taking it, he tried to touch her hand, and nearly upset the cup. "take care, my dear jack," said mrs. davenant. "has he spoiled your dress, my dear?" "no," said una, her face red as a rose. "it was my fault." "yes; it was her fault," said jack, significantly. "you always were clumsy, my dear jack," said mrs. davenant. "you are too big." "i'll get myself cut down a foot or two," said jack. happy! they were as happy as any two women in london, notwithstanding jack's wickedness. jack glanced at the piano. "i wish you could play," he said to una. mrs. davenant looked at him. "how do you know she cannot?" she said. jack looked embarrassed. "i rather fancy i heard u--miss rolfe--admit as much. but she can sing, i know." "and you can play for her," said mrs. davenant. "you used to play very nicely when you were a boy," and she sighed. jack looked dubious for a moment, then, with sudden assurance and confidence, jumped up. "let me try. will you come, miss rolfe?" una followed him to the piano, and jack turned out all the music from the canterbury on the floor. "come and see if there is anything you know," he said, and una knelt down beside him. of course jack's hand was on hers in a moment. "i nearly let the cat out of the bag just then," he said. "i must be careful." "but why?" asked una. "why may we not----" she paused, then, having raised her eyes, she continued--"why may she not know?" "so she shall," said jack, "all in good time. i can't consent to share my secret all in one evening! besides----" "cannot you find anything," said mrs. davenant, sleepily, from the next room. jack stuck up some music on the stand and sat down. he had played well at one time, in a rough fashion, and had a wonderful ear, and, quite regardless of the music, he launched into a prelude. "sing the song you sang the other evening, my darling," he whispered. "i remember every note of it." una obeyed instantly. free from any spark of vanity, she knew nothing of the shyness which assails self-conscious people. jack, with his acute ear, played a running accompaniment easily enough; it was true he had remembered every note of it. "you nightingale," he whispered, looking up at her, and the fervent admiration of his eyes made her heart throb. "now sing something yourself, jack," said mrs. davenant. jack thought a moment, his fingers straying over the keys, then softening his full baritone voice as much as possible, he sang--"yes, dear, i love but thee!" it was an old english song, one of the sweetest of the old melodies which even now have power to rouse a _blase_ audience to enthusiasm. una stood behind him entranced, bewitched; he sang every word to _her_. "yes, dear, i love but thee!" oh, heaven, it was too great a joy! unconsciously she drew nearer and put her hand upon his shoulder, timidly, caressingly, and as the music ceased, jack turned and caught it prisoner in his. "yes, dear, i love but thee!" he murmured. "and i"--she breathed, her eyes melting with passionate tenderness--"and i love but thee." "my darling," he whispered, "do you know what you are giving me--your precious self--and to whom you are giving it?" the voice fell; conscience was awake again. "una," he went on, hurriedly, passionately. "i am not worthy of your love----" "i love but thee!" she breathed, softly. "you do not know, you who are so ignorant of the world, what it means to wed a man like myself, penniless, worthless--oh, heaven, forgive me!" "i love but thee!" she breathed, for all her answer. jack bent his head over her hand. "what can i do?" he murmured, bitterly. "i cannot give her up." then he looked up. "have you no fear, una? do you trust me so entirely? think, can you face poverty and all its trials. dear, i am very poor, worse than poor." she smiled an ineffable smile. "and i am rich--while i have your love." then suddenly her voice changed, and with a look of terror she bent over him, almost clingingly. "what is it you are saying? jack! jack! you will not leave me?" jack started to his feet, and regardless of waking mrs. davenant, took her in his arms. "never, by heaven!" he exclaimed. there was one moment of ecstatic joy, then suddenly una drew back; and with a gesture of alarm, pointed to the looking-glass. jack raised his head, and with a sudden cry drew her nearer to him as if to protect her. reflected in the glass was the thin figure of stephen davenant, looking rather like a ghost than a man--silent, motionless, with pallid face, and set, rigid eyes. chapter xxvii. white and haggard, stephen stood in shadow-way, his eyes fixed on jack and una with an expression of mingled astonishment and rage beyond all description. jack was too astonished by what seemed as much an apparition as a reality, to withdraw his arm from round una's waist, and it was she who first recovered self-possession enough to cross over to mrs. davenant and wake her. her movement seemed to recall stephen to a sense of the situation, and in a moment he rose and coped with it. another man, a weaker man, coming thus suddenly upon what looked like the wreck of all his deeply-laid plans, upon seeing the girl, whom it was all-important he should secure for himself, in the arms of the man he hated and feared most in the world, would have given vent to his wrath and disappointment. but not so stephen. by a vast effort, he suppressed the evil glance in his eyes, forced a smile to his compressed lips, and came across the room with outstretched hand and an expression of warmest and most affectionate greeting. "my dear jack!" he exclaimed, in his soft tones, almost rough in their warmth and geniality. "now, this is a pleasant surprise. how do you do? how do you do?" but almost before jack knew it, stephen had seized him by the hand, and was swinging it convulsively, smiling so that all his teeth glittered and shone in the candle-light. jack was taken by surprise, and returned the greeting cordially; indeed, what else could he do, seeing that he was in stephen's mother's house, and making love to stephen's _protegee_? "quite a surprise!" said stephen, laughing; and then, still talking to jack, he crossed over and bent down to kiss his mother. "how do you do, my dear mother? now don't be angry at my taking you so unexpectedly." "angry, my dear stephen!" faltered mrs. davenant; and indeed, it was not anger so much as fear that shone in the timid eyes. then, having got himself completely under control, stephen raised his eyes to una, and held out his hand. "and how do you do, miss rolfe? i hope your health has not suffered in this close london of ours. may i say that there are no signs of such an ill result in your face?" una gave him her hand, and smiled at him in her quiet, grave way. "i am very well, thank you," she said. "that's right," said stephen--"that's right!" and he stood and looked from one to the other, rubbing his white, soft hands, and smiling as if he were over-running with the milk of human kindness. meanwhile mrs. davenant had risen, and was fluttering about nervously. "have you dined, stephen? we can get some dinner, or--or something directly." "my dear mother, i dined at my rooms two hours ago; but if you have a cup of tea, now; but don't trouble--it does not matter in the slightest." fresh tea was brought in, and una, as usual, officiated. stephen, leaning over a chair-back, talked to jack and mrs. davenant, but his eyes turned continually on the graceful figure and the beautiful profile; and not one of them guessed the rage and fury which boiled and simmered under his calm and amiable exterior. already, as if some one had told him, he knew that una had been out into the world. her dress, her manner told him that; and while he smiled lovingly at his mother, he was crying out inwardly: "fool! fool! to trust una to her." he took his cup of tea, his hand as steady as a rock, and chatted with jack, full of the pleasantest interest. where had he been, and what had he been doing? and was he in those eccentric but charming rooms of his in the temple still? and how was his friend leonard dagle? he was full of questions, questions which jack answered in his curt, brief fashion. and all the while stephen was weighing the situation, realizing all its danger and peril, and determining on a course of action. "just one more cup, miss rolfe, if you please. tea is my favorite beverage--i am quite an old washerwoman!" then he took his cup, and sat down beside her. "yes," he said, not in a particularly low tone, but in his softest manner--"yes, i am glad to see that your health has not suffered in london. i trust you have been happy?" una looked up with a faint flush on her face. "i have been--i am very, very happy," she said, and jack's face flushed too with the delight at the accent on "i am." "that is right," said stephen, with the air of an old, old friend, "and i hope my mother has found some amusement for you--that she has shown you something of the great world." "yes," said una, and she glanced at mrs. davenant, from whose pale face all traces of the calm serenity which had reigned there during the earlier part of the evening had entirely fled--"yes, i have been very gay--is not that the word? i have been to a ball, and to a picnic, and have seen all the sights." "and where was the ball?" "at lady earlsley's," said una. stephen opened his eyes and smiled. "my dear miss rolfe, you have penetrated the most exclusive of social rings! lady earlsley's! come, that is very satisfactory; and jack--jack is my cousin--well, very nearly cousin, you know, i hope he has made himself useful and agreeable?" una glanced shyly and gravely at jack--a glance that told everything, even if stephen had not seen her in jack's arms. "yes," she said, in a low voice, "mr. newcombe has been very--kind." stephen smiled and showed all his teeth. "i am afraid there will be nothing left for me to do," he said. then, in a lower voice, he added: "you will be glad to hear that i have news of your father." una looked up breathlessly. the question had been hovering on her lips. stephen nodded. "yes, he wrote me from a place in surrey called--tut--tut! the name has escaped me! they are quite well, and send their fondest love." una's eyes filled. "why did they leave the cottage so suddenly?" she said. "because your father wished for a change. i told you truth, you see, when i said that your departure would be good for him, and wean him from his seclusion." "why does he not come to see me?" asked una. "he is coming, my dear una," said stephen. "but at present he is very much engaged, and quite satisfied with my favorable report of your health and happiness. but come, i must not make you homesick. were you not playing when i came in?" una flushed. "jack--mr. newcombe--was playing," she said; "i was singing." "pray don't let me interrupt you," said stephen, genially, "or i shall feel like an intruder, and walk off again. jack, go on with your music, my dear fellow." but jack declined promptly, though politely. "i'm afraid i must be off," he said, looking at his watch, and then at una, wistfully. "not yet," said stephen. "i have a whole budget of news to tell you. i dare say you wonder why i haven't been up before this; but there was so much to do--a surprising deal." jack nodded curtly. he certainly didn't want to finish up this particular evening by hearing stephen's talk of the hurst. "no doubt," he said. "you must come and dine with me and tell me. good-night, mrs. davenant!" mrs. davenant gave him her hand. "must you go, jack?" she said, tremulously. "you--you will come again?" "most certainly i will," said jack, significantly. una had risen and gone to the piano to gather up the music which jack, with his usual untidiness, had scattered about. he followed her, and knelt down as if to help her. "good-night, my darling!" he murmured, touching her arm caressingly. "don't be afraid." una raised her arm and touched it with her lips. "afraid--of whom?" "of--nobody!" said jack, rather ungrammatically. "not of mr. davenant, who has been so kind?" she whispered, with a surprised look. jack bit his lip. "no, no; certainly not. oh, yes, he has been kind." then with a long, loving look into her sweet face he crossed the room. "good-night, stephen." "you are really going? well, then, i'll go with you," said stephen. "mother will not mind my running away tonight, i am rather tired." and he stooped and kissed her, and went to the door. it almost seemed as if he had forgotten una; but he turned suddenly and held out his hand, a bland, benevolent smile on his pale face. "good-night, good-night," he murmured, softly, and followed after jack, who, the moment he reached the pavement, looked out for a hansom; but stephen linked his arm in jack's, and said: "are you in a hurry, my dear jack? if not, i'll walk a little way with you; or will you come toward my rooms?" jack consented to the latter course, by turning in the direction of the "albany" in silence. he felt that stephen was playing a part--why or wherefore he could not guess--and now that he had recovered from his surprise at stephen's sudden appearance, his old mistrust and dislike were returning to him. they walked on in silence for some few moments, then stephen said: "i wanted to have a few words with you, my dear jack. i should have written, but i felt that i could make myself understood better by word of mouth." jack nodded. "of course, what i have to say concerns my poor uncle's death and its consequences." jack was silent still. he would not help him in the slightest. "i cannot but feel that those consequences, while they have been distinctly beneficial to me, have--and to put it plainly, and i wish to speak plainly, my dear jack--have been unfortunate for you." "well," said jack, grimly. "well," said stephen, softly, "i had hoped, i still hope, that you will allow me the happiness of setting right, to some extent, the wrong--yes, i will say wrong--done you by my uncle's will." "that's impossible," said jack, gravely. "but, my dear jack, why not? it is my right. have you any idea of the fortune----" "not the slightest," said jack, breaking in abruptly, "and it's no business of mine; large or small, i hope you'll enjoy it. it was the squire's to do as he liked with, and i suppose he did as he liked; and there's an end of it." stephen winced and bit his lip. "and now," said jack, quietly, but with his heart beating wildly, "i want a word with you, stephen." "say on, my dear jack. if there is anything i can do for you----" "yes, there is," said jack. "i want to know--i want you to tell me--something respecting miss rolfe." "miss rolfe!" said stephen, softly. "yes," continued jack. "you'll want to know, before i go any further, on what grounds i ask for information. i'll tell you. i have asked miss rolfe to be my wife." stephen feigned a start of astonishment. "my dear jack, isn't that rather sudden--rather premature?" "it may be sudden, i don't know whether it is premature; that's for miss rolfe to decide. and she has decided." stephen moistened his lips; they burned like coals. "she has accepted you?" "she has," said jack, who felt reluctant to utter one word more than was necessary. stephen pulled up and held out his hand. "my dear jack, i congratulate you. i congratulate you," he exclaimed, fervently. "you are indeed a happy man." jack, confounded, allowed his hand to be wrung by the soft, white palm that burned hot and dry. "you are a lucky fellow, my dear jack. miss rolfe is one in a thousand. i question if there is a more beautiful girl in london--and her disposition. you are indeed a lucky fellow." "thanks, thanks!" said jack, still overwhelmed by this flood of good will. "and now, perhaps you will tell me what i had better do in the affair! you see i find her visiting--settled, rather, at your mother's house, and neither she nor your mother seem to know why or wherefore----" stephen interrupted him with a pressure of the arm. "i understand, my dear jack; your anxiety for information is only natural. i am very glad i came up this evening--very glad! and now, as i feel rather tired, would you mind coming up to my rooms? and we'll have a hansom, after all." jack hailed a cab, and they were rattled to the albany. of course they could not talk, and stephen had therefore time to perfect his scheme; for he had already begun to plot and plan. the door of the chambers was opened by slummers, his tall, square figure dressed in black, his discreet, shifty eyes absolutely veiled under his lids. "let us have some apollinaris and the liquor-case, slummers," said stephen, "and that box of cigars which mr. newcombe liked. sit down, my dear jack." and he wheeled forward a chair facing the light, and took one for himself, so that his own face should be shaded. jack looked round the room while slummers brought the tray. the four walls were nearly covered with books, all of them of the dryest and most serious kind. where any space was left, it was filled up with portraits of eminent divines and philanthropists, and every article in the room was neatly and methodically arranged. in fact, it presented as marked a contrast to jack's rooms as it was possible to conceive. jack had not been inside it for years, but he remembered distinctly how he used to loathe the room and its "fixings." "now, my dear jack, pray help yourself--those cigars i know you approve; i heard you praise them at the hurst, and i brought a box at once." "thanks," said jack, and he lit a cigar. stephen mixed the apollinaris and brandy; and leaned back serene and amiable. "and now, my dear jack, i am ready to answer all questions." jack looked down and frowned thoughtfully. he did not know how to put them. stephen smiled maliciously behind his hand. "you want to know how it comes about that miss rolfe is under my mother's charge--under my charge, i may say?" "under yours?" said jack, grimly. stephen nodded. "it is a very simple affair, jack. there is no mystery. the fact is, i have known miss rolfe's father for some years. he is a very good fellow, but very eccentric." "i know," said jack; "i've seen him." stephen started, and concealed his expression of surprise by reaching for his glass. "ah, then, no doubt, you noticed that his appearance and manner does not correspond with the station he occupies?" "i did," said jack. "yes, yes, just so. well, my dear jack, my poor friend rolfe has been in early life unfortunate--money matters, which i never quite understand. like most men of his kind, he got disgusted with the world and hid himself--there is no other word for it. but it is one thing to hide yourself and quite another to bury your children. my friend rolfe felt this when he awoke to the fact that his daughter had grown from a child to a young woman, and like a sensible man he applied to one who was conversant with the world, and one in whom he could have, i trust, full confidence--my self." jack sat silently regarding the white, calm face with grim, observant eyes. "he did not appeal to an old friendship in vain. i undertook the charge of miss rolfe on one condition. i may say two--one on her side, one on mine. hers was that she should live with my mother, under her protecting wing, as it were; mine was that i should be the absolute guardian of the young girl committed to my charge." jack stared. "you are una's guardian?" he said, at last, with unconcealed surprise, as gideon rolfe's curse upon the race of davenants flashed upon his memory. stephen davenant smiled. "you are surprised, my dear jack. but think! it is very natural. unless i had unquestionable control over the young lady, how could i answer for her safety? how guard her against the attacks of fortune hunters----" jack started. "fortune hunters!" he exclaimed. "do you mean to say that una is an heiress?" stephen's face had flushed and turned deadly pale. he had actually been thinking of una davenant while he had been talking of una rolfe. "you did not hear me out, my dear jack," he said, softly, recovering his composure instantly. "i was going to say against the attack of fortune hunters who might besiege her under the impression that, as my ward, she would be possessed of wealth, instead of being, as you know, absolutely penniless." jack nodded. "at any rate," he said, grimly, "i was not so deceived." "my dear jack!" exclaimed stephen, reproachfully, "do you suppose that i do not know that! you, who are the soul of honor and disinterestedness, are not likely to be mistaken for a fortune hunter by anyone, least of all by me, who know and love you so well!" jack winced, as the vision of lady bell rose before his eyes. "go on," he said, impatiently. "well, my dear jack," said stephen with a smile, and rubbing his hands softly, "is it not rather for you to go on? i am una's guardian, you are her lover." "i see," said jack, rising and pacing up and down the room. "you want me to ask your consent formally. well, i do so." stephen laughed as if at an excellent joke. "what a grim, thorough-going old bulldog you are, my dear jack!" he exclaimed affectionately. "you ask my consent, as if you did not know that you have it, and my best, my very heartiest wishes into the bargain. but, jack, don't you see why i am so pleased--why this makes me so happy? it is because now you will be compelled to do me the favor of taking a share of the poor squire's money!" jack started as if he had been stung. "you see, my dear fellow! you can't marry on nothing--now, can you? love must have a cottage, and--but i beg your pardon, my dear fellow! i am, perhaps, going too far. much to my grief and regret you have never confided in me as i should have wished, and perhaps--i hope that it may be so--you have some means----" jack paced up and down, the perspiration standing on his knitted brow. in the ecstatic joy which had fallen upon him like a glamour during those few short hours with una, he had absolutely forgotten that he was penniless, and in debt, and without a prospect in the wide world. and now it all rushed back upon him; every softly-spoken word of stephen's fell upon him like a drop in an icy shower bath, and awoke him from his dream to the stern reality. what was he to do? great heaven, was he actually driven to accept stephen's charity? a shudder ran through him, a pang of worse than wounded pride. become a pensioner of stephen davenant's! no, it was simply impossible. white and haggard with the struggle that was going on within him, he turned upon the smiling face. "what you want--what you propose, is impossible," he said, hoarsely. "i cannot and will not do it. i would rather beg my bread----" stephen smiled. it was a delicious moment for him, and he prolonged it. "my dear jack! what would mr. gideon rolfe say if i gave his daughter to a beggar? i use your own words. it is ridiculous. but come, sit down. grieved as i am at what i must call your mistaken obstinacy, i can't help being touched by it. you always were willful, my dear jack, always. alas! it was that very willfulness that estranged you from my uncle----" "no more of that," said jack, sternly. stephen made a gesture with his hand. "and it would, if another man were in my place, rob you of your sweetheart; but it shall not. i am determined to prove to you, my dear jack, that my desire to be a friend is sincere and true. let me think. there may be some loophole in your pride which i can creep in at." jack went back to his seat and lit another cigar, and stephen appeared lost in thought, but in reality he watched through his fingers, and gloated over the despair and trouble depicted on jack's miserable countenance. "yes, i have it. come, jack, you won't refuse assistance when it comes from the hand of her majesty? you won't object to a government appointment?" "a government appointment?" said jack, vaguely. stephen nodded. "yes," he went on. "by a singular chance i have acquired some influence with the present government. one of these men has a seat in wealdshire, which really hangs on the hurst influence. the squire never interfered, but i could do so; and--you see, my dear jack--a snug little sinecure, say of a thousand a year! it is not much, it is true; but una has not been accustomed to wealth so long as to feel a thousand a year to be poverty." jack rose and paced the room. was he dreaming, or was this a different stephen to the one he knew and disliked? he had heard of sudden wealth as suddenly transforming the nature of a man. had stephen's nature undergone this marvelous change? he doubted and mistrusted him, but here was the absolute evidence. what could stephen gain by this generosity? nothing--absolutely nothing. it was strange, passing strange; but who was he that he should refuse to believe in the generosity and virtue of another man, especially when that generosity was exerted on his behalf? struggling against his suspicion and prejudice, jack strode round the table and held out his hand. "stephen, i--i have wronged you. you must be a good fellow to behave in this way, and i--well, i have been a brute, and don't deserve this on your part." stephen winced under the hard grip of the warm, honest hand. "not a word more, my dear jack; not a word more," he exclaimed. "this--this is really very affecting. you move me very much." and he pressed his spotless handkerchief to his eyes. jack's ardor cooled at once, and the old disgust and suspicion rose; but he choked them down again, and sat down. "not a word more," said stephen, with a gulp, as if he were swallowing a flood of tears. "i have long, long felt your coldness and distrust, my dear jack, but i vowed to live it down, and prove to you that you have wronged me. believe me that my good fortune--my unexpected fortune--was quite imbittered to me by the thought that you would misjudge me." jack pulled at his cigar grimly. stephen was on the wrong track, and he saw it, and hastened to change it. "but now, my dear jack, we shall understand each other. you will believe me that i have your welfare deeply at heart. who else have i to think of--except my mother, my dear mother? and we may conclude that our little negotiation as suitor and guardian is ended. eh, jack? you shall have the appointment and una--lucky fellow that you are--and i shall be rewarded by seeing you happy." jack nodded. the mention of una had filled him with gratitude. he could not forget that he owed her in two ways to stephen. "you are a good fellow, stephen," he said, "and you deserve _your_ luck. after all, you'll make a better master of hurst than i should. you'll take care of it." stephen sighed. he was going to gloat again. "i don't know. i wish to do my duty. it is an immense sum of money, jack; immense." jack nodded again. "i'm glad of it," he said, easily. "i don't envy you. i did once, and not very long ago. but i rank una above the hurst even, and if i have her, you are welcome to the hurst." stephen winced, and looked at him from the corners of his eyes. was there any significance in the speech? but jack's face was open and frank, as usual. "that's a bargain," said stephen, laughing. jack thought a moment. "but what about mr. rolfe?" he said, dubiously. "leave him to me," said stephen, confidently. "i will manage him. and, by the way, i think for the present that we had better keep our little engagement quiet. you understand? he had better hear it from my lips, and--you quite see, jack?" jack didn't quite see. he would have preferred to go to gideon rolfe and have the matter out--fight it out if need be--but he was, so to speak, in stephen's hands. "very well," he said. "and now have another cigar, my dear jack, you've eaten that one." but jack was anxious to go. he wanted to be alone to think over this strange interview, and realize that una was his. "well, if you will go," said stephen, reluctantly; "but mind, i shall expect you to make this your second home." jack glanced round rather dubiously. "and of course we shall see you at the square?" this invitation jack accepted heartily, and once more he wrung stephen's hand. "good-night, good-night, my dear jack," said stephen, and he took a candle from the table to light him down the stairs, and smiled till every tooth in his head showed like a grave-stone. then, as jack's heavy step faded away and was lost, stephen went back into the room, closed the door, and sinking into a chair sat motionless, with folded arms and haggard face. "yes, yes," he muttered, "i have played the best game--i have gulled him. another man would have attempted to thwart him openly, and have raised a storm. my plan is the wiser. but to think that fate should have played me such a trick! and i thought she was safe and secure!" and he wiped the drops of cold sweat from his knitted brow. "fool, fool that i was! better to have left her there in the heart of the forest! and yet--and yet--" he mused, "it is not so bad. the man might have been more powerful and cunning than the idiot whom i have in the hollow of my hand. curse him! curse him! i never look on his face but i tremble. i hate him!" and he stretched out his closed hand as if with a curse. as he did so it came into contact with jack's glass. in a paroxysm of fury he caught up the glass and dashed it into the fire-place. it relieved and brought him to his senses. with a gesture of self-contempt he rose and rang the bell. slummers stole in with his noiseless step and stood beside the table with downcast eyes, which, nevertheless, had taken in the broken tumbler. "i've broken a glass, slummers," said stephen, with affected carelessness. "never mind, leave it till the morning. now, then, what have you learned?" slummers cleared his throat, and barely opening his thin lips, replied: "a great deal, considering the time, sir. the young lady at mrs. davenant's----" "i know all about her," said stephen, breaking in impatiently. "what about mr. newcombe?" nowise embarrassed, slummers wiped his dry lips with a handkerchief as spotless as his master's. "it is as you expected, sir. mr. newcombe is in difficulties." "ah!" said stephen, with evident satisfaction. "he has been playing and giving paper. there are some old bills out, too. these are in the hands of moss the money-lender." stephen nodded and rubbed his hands. "i know moss--a hard man. go on." "but they say," continued slummers, raising his eyes for a moment to his master's face, "that mr. newcombe is going to set things right by marrying an heiress." stephen smiled and leaned back in his chair. "oh, they do, do they; and who is this most fortunate young lady?" "lady isabel earlsley." stephen started forward. "what!" "lady isabel earlsley," repeated slummers, without the slightest change of voice or countenance. "no--it's a lie!" said stephen, with a chuckle. "where did you hear it?" "at the club. it is the talk of town, sir. mr. newcombe has been in close attendance upon her ladyship for some time. they say that her ladyship's brougham nearly ran over him, and that she took him home. it is true; her own coachman told me." stephen leaned back and hid his face with his hand, his busy brain at work on this last turn of the wheel. "go on," he said. "that is all, sir." stephen was silent for a minute or two, then he turned to the writing table and wrote for some minutes. "go to moss to-morrow morning," he said, "and tell him not to press mr. newcombe, and i don't think he will require more than the hint--but you may say i will buy all mr. newcombe's bills at a fair price. mind! i want every i o u and bill that mr. newcombe gives. you understand?" "i understand, mr. stephen," said slummers, and a faint, malicious smile stole over his face. "and if mr. moss likes to oblige mr. newcombe with a little loan, i will take the bill. you understand?" slummers nodded. "here is the letter to moss for his own satisfaction. he will not mention my name." slummers took the note. stephen passed his hand over his forehead, and turned his back to the light. "any--any other news, slummers?" slummers smiled behind his hand. "i have been to cheltenham terrace. we were rightly informed, sir. old mr. treherne is dead, and miss treherne has disappeared." stephen drew a breath of relief. "indeed," he said. "very good. let me see, is there anything else?" slummers coughed. "nothing, sir, except to remind you that you have to speak at the charitable meeting tomorrow night." "ah, yes, thank you, very good, slummers. be good enough to hand me the last charitable reports. good-night." chapter xxviii. happy! if ever two young people were happy, una and jack were. to una the days passed like a happy dream time. her sky was without a cloud; it almost seemed as if the world had been made for her, so entirely did everything lend itself to her enjoyment. every morning, soon after breakfast, jack's quick, buoyant step was heard ascending the stone steps of the house in walmington square, and he would come marching into the breakfast room with some palpable excuse about his just happening to pass, and mrs. davenant would smile her gentle welcome, and una--well, una's eyes were eloquent, if her tongue was mute, and would speak volumes. and jack would lounge about for an hour, telling them all the news, and perhaps smoking a cigarette, just inside the conservatory; and una was sure to find an excuse for being near him. indeed, if that young lady could be within touching distance of her god and hero, she seemed passing content. he was the very light of her life, soul of her soul; every day seemed to increase the passionate devotion of her first, her maiden love, for the wild, young ne'er-do-well. and she was repaid. jack thought that there never had been, since eve began the sex, such a marvel of beauty and grace and virtue as una. he would sit for half-an-hour smoking and watching her in silence. "didn't one of those clever fellows say of a certain woman that to know her was a liberal education?" he said to mrs. davenant. "well, i say, that to be in una's presence, to watch her moving about in that quiet, graceful way of hers, and then to catch a smile now and again, is like reading a first-class poem; better, indeed, for me, because i don't go in for poetry." not that these young lovers spent all their time in silently watching each other. every day jack arrived with some plan for their amusement and enjoyment. sometimes it would be: "well, what are you going to do today? what do you say to taking the coach to guildford, getting a snack there, and back in the evening?" una's face would light up, and mrs. davenant would smile agreeably, and in half-an-hour they would be ready, and jack, as proud of una's beauty as if it were unique, would escort them to the "white horse" in piccadilly, and away they would spin through the lovely surrey valleys to that quaintest of old towns in the hills. sometimes jack himself would take the ribbons, and, with una by his side, "tool the truck," as he called the handsome coach, back to town. then, again, he never came without a box for one of the theaters or a stall for a concert; and though not over fond of classical music himself, was quite content to sit and watch the look of rapt delight in una's face as she listened absorbed in joachim's wonderful violin. but most of all, i think, they enjoyed their days on the river, when jack, attired in his white flannels, would pull the two ladies up to walton or chertsey, and give them tea in one of the quiet, river-side inns. ah! those evenings, those moonlight nights, when the boat drifted down stream, and the two young people sat, hand in hand, whispering those endless exchanges of confidence which go to make up lovers' conversations. it was wonderful that mrs. davenant did not catch cold, but jack took great care of her, and wrapped her up in his thick ulster; and she never seemed to grow tired of witnessing their happiness. sometimes jack would ask stephen to join them, but stephen would always find an excuse. now it was because he had an engagement with the lawyers; at another time he had promised to speak at some philanthropic meeting, or had promised to dine at the club. he would, however, occasionally dine at the square, or drop in and take a cup of tea; and wore always the same friendly smile and genial manner. jack had become quite convinced that he had done stephen a great deal of injustice, and now thought that stephen was everything that was kind and thoughtful. it was only at chance times, when jack happened to catch the pale face off its guard, that the old doubts rose to perplex and trouble him; but then he always set them to rest by asking himself what stephen could possibly have to gain by acting as he did. of course, all these outings by land and water cost a great deal of money, but jack had found moss, the money-lender, most suddenly and strangely complaisant. instead of dunning him for what was owing, moss actually pressed him to borrow more, and jack, always too careless in money matters, was quite ready to oblige him. "i can pay him out of my salary, when i get the appointment," he said to leonard, in response to the latter's remonstrances and warnings. "yes, when you get it," said leonard. "what do you mean?" said jack. "do you mean to hint that stephen isn't to be relied upon?" "i haven't the honor of knowing much of mr. davenant," said leonard, "and so can't say whether he is more reliable than most public men who promise places and appointments; but i do know that men have grown gray-headed while waiting for one of those said places." "you don't know stephen," said jack, confidently. "he can manage anything he likes to set his mind on. he is not one of my sort. he can't let the grass grow under his feet. there, stop croaking, and come and dine at the square." and leonard would go, for he and una had, as jack said, "cottoned to one another." una felt all sorts of likings and gratitude for the man who had always been jack's friend, and none of the jealousy which some girls feel for their lover's bachelor acquaintances. "i am sure he is good and true, jack," she said. "good! there isn't a better man in england," jack affirmed. "and he's as true as steel. poor old len!" "why do you pity him?" said una, who had not altogether lost her way of asking direct questions. "well, you see, there's a lot of romance about len," said jack; and he told her about leonard's meeting with laura treherne. "and he has never found her?" said una. "not from that day to this," answered jack. "and yet he still remembers and loves her," murmured una. "yes, i like your friend, jack, and i do hope he will meet with this young lady and be happy. i should like all the world to be as happy as i am!" "ah, but don't you see all the world aren't angels like you, you know," retorted master jack, kissing her. though, in accordance with stephen's advice, the engagement had not been made public, the outside world was beginning to get an inkling of what was going on in walmington square. jack's friends at the club chaffed him on the unfrequency of his visits. "there's some mischief the savage is planning," said dalrymple. "you scarcely ever see him here now; he doesn't play, and shuns the bottle as if it were poison, and he's altogether changed. i shouldn't be surprised if he were to take to public meetings like that distant cousin of his, stephen davenant." "it is my opinion," said sir arkroyd hetley, "that he spends all his time at walmington square, for my man sees him going and coming at all hours. the savage is in love." and gradually those rumors spreading, like the ripple of a stone in a pool, reached park lane, and got to lady bell's ears. she had gone out of town for a week or two, and had, of course, seen nothing of jack or una, but on her return she drove to the square. una and mrs. davenant were sitting by the tea table, and wondering whether jack would come in. lady bell's entrance made quite a little flutter. "how do you do, mrs. davenant, and how do you do, wild bird?" and she kissed una, and holding her at arm's length, scanned her smilingly. "what have you been doing to look so fresh and happy?" here una's face over-spread with blushes. "what a child it is! but see, here i am just from the seaside, and as pale, or rather as yellow as a guinea, while you are like a dairy-maid. my dear girl, you positively beam with happiness." mrs. davenant and una exchanged glances--glances that were not lost upon lady bell's acuteness. "is there a secret?" she said, quickly. "have you come into a fortune? but, no, that can't be it, for i know that i've never been thoroughly happy since i came into mine." "you always look happy, lady bell," said mrs. davenant. "my dear, don't judge by appearances," said lady bell, in her quick way. "i am not always happy; most of my time i am bored to death; i am always worried and hurried. oh, by-the-way, speaking of worries, can you recommend me a maid? my own, a girl who came from the colonies with me, and swore, after a fashion, never to leave me, has gone and got married. i should be angry if i didn't pity her." "don't you believe in the happiness of the married state, then?" asked mrs. davenant, while una looked on smilingly. "no," said lady bell, shortly. "men are tyrants and deceivers; there is no believing a word they say. a woman who marries is a slave, and----" she broke off sharply, for the door opened and jack entered. a warm flush rose to lady bell's face, and she was too much occupied in concealing it to observe the similar flush which flooded una's cheeks. jack was striding in with una's name on his lips, but he stopped short at sight of lady bell, and the flush seemed an epidemic, for it glowed under his tan. "i thought you were at brighton, lady bell," he said, as he shook hands. "so i was--three hours ago. i came away suddenly; got tired and bored of it before i had been there three days. if there is one place more unendurable than another it is the fashionable watering-place. i bore it until this morning, and then poor mrs. fellowes and i made a bolt of it, or rather i bolted and dragged her with me. i left lord dalrymple and sir arkroyd in happy unconsciousness of our desertion." "then, at this moment, they are wandering about the parade in despair," said jack, laughing. and, as he laughed, he looked from one girl to the other, making a mental comparison. yes, lady bell was beautiful, with a beauty undeniable and palpable, but how it paled and grew commonplace beside una's fresh, spiritual loveliness. he had held her hand for a moment when he entered, and now, as he carried the tea cup, he got an opportunity of touching her arm, lovingly, caressingly. he longed to take her by the hand and say to lady bell: "this is my future wife, lady bell," but he remembered stephen's advice, and was on his guard, so much so that though she watched them closely, lady bell saw no sign of the existing state of things. it was singular, but since jack's arrival she did not seem at all bored or worried, but rattled on in her gayest mood. "and what have you been doing since i left town?" she asked una. "i hope mr. newcombe has made himself useful and attentive;" and she looked at jack, who nodded coolly enough, though una's face crimsoned. "yes, i've been doing the knight errant, lady bell. mrs. davenant and i are old friends--relations, indeed." "ah, yes," said lady bell. "i hear your son, mr. stephen, is in london." in a moment mrs. davenant's face lost its brightness. "yes, yes," she said, nervously; "yes, he is in london." "where is he?" said lady bell, looking round as if she expected to see him concealed behind one of the chairs. "he's always addressing public meetings, isn't he?" "not always, lady earlsley," said stephen, from the open doorway. "good heavens! speak of the--angels, and you hear the rustle of their wings!" exclaimed lady bell, not at all embarrassed. "how did you come in, mr. davenant?" "by the door, lady earlsley, which was open. mother, you will lose all your plate some day." "and what public meeting have you come from now?" asked lady bell, with a smile. "i have been walking in the park," said stephen, "and am at your ladyship's service." "i am glad of it," said lady bell, quickly, "for i want you--all of you to come and dine with me tonight." "tonight!" echoed jack. "tonight! why not? you have plenty of time to dress. come, it will be charity--there's an argument for you, mr. davenant--for mrs. fellowes and i are all alone; papa has gone to some learned society meeting. come, i'll go home at once and tell them to get your favorite wines ready. what _is_ your favorite, mr. newcombe?" jack laughed. "i'd come and dine with _you_, lady bell, if you gave us ginger beer," he said. lady bell laughed, but she looked pleased. "now, that is what i call a really good compliment--for a savage," and she glanced at jack archly. "we'll say half-past eight tonight to give you time to finish your chat. _au revoir_," and waving her daintily-gloved hand, she flitted from the room. "would he dine with me if i had only ginger beer to offer him?" she asked herself, as she went back in the brougham. "would he? he looks so honest and so true!--so incapable of a mean, unworthy action! i wish i were as poor--as poor as una. how quietly she sits. she has just the air of one of the great ones of the earth--the air which i, with all my title and wealth, shall never have. i wonder who she is, and whether mr. stephen thinks her as beautiful as i do! he looked at her as he went in--well, just as i would that _some one else_ would look at me. how handsome he is, so different to stephen davenant. ah, me! i know now why brighton was so hateful; if jack newcombe had been there i should not have hungered and pined for london! what a miserable, infatuated being i am. i am as bad as that foolish maid of mine. yes, just as bad, for if jack newcombe came and asked me, i should run away with him as she did with her young man!" still thinking of him, she reached home and went up to her own room, where mrs. fellowes, the long-suffering, hastened to meet her. "my dear, i'm so glad you've come. how long you have been." "my dear, you say that every time i come in. what is the matter--another maid run away?" "no, but a maid has come, at least a young person--i was going to say lady--who wants the situation." "well, a lady's maid ought to be a lady," said lady bell, languidly. "where is she?" "in my room," said mrs. fellowes. "she came with a note from lady challoner. it seems the poor girl has been in trouble--she has lost her father--and not caring to go for a governess----" "for which i don't blame her," said lady bell. "she is desirous of getting an engagement as a companion or lady's maid." "a companion's worse off than a governess, isn't she?" said lady bell, naively. mrs. fellowes smiled. "yes. what is her name?" asked lady bell. "well, there's the point," said mrs. fellowes. "her name is laura treherne, but as some of her friends--she hasn't many, she says--might think that she had done wrong in taking a menial situation she wishes to be known by some other name." "i hate mysteries and aliases," said lady bell. "i don't think i shall engage her. she'll be too proud to do my hair and copy all my dresses in common material. well, i'll see her." "i'll send her away if you like," said mrs. fellowes; "but i think you'll like her." "do you? then i know exactly what she's like before i see her if she has taken your fancy. some prim old maid in black cotton and thick shoes." mrs. fellowes smiled and rang the bell, and bade a servant to ask the young person who was waiting to step that way. lady bell began taking off her gloves yawningly, but stopped suddenly, and looked up with an air of surprise as the door opened and a tall girl, with dark hair and eyes, entered. chapter xxix. lady bell overmastered her surprise, and asking the young girl to sit down, looked at her critically as she did so. yes, the girl was a lady, there could be no doubt of that. but it was not only the evidence of refinement in the face and the manner of the girl that struck lady bell; there was an expression in the dark eyes and clear-cut lips, slightly compressed, which roused her interest and curiosity. it was a face with a history. for the first time she looked at lady challoner's note. "i see," she said, "that lady challoner knows you, miss treherne." "she knew my grandfather," was the quiet answer. "he is dead." "lately?" said lady bell, glancing at the note. laura treherne bent her head. "two months ago," she said, sadly. "and have you no friends with whom you could go and live?" "none who would care to have me, or to whom i should wish to go." lady bell was silent for a moment--the girl interested her more each minute. "are you taking a wise step in seeking for a situation which is considered menial?" she asked. laura treherne paused for a moment. "i do not think it degradation to serve lady earlsley," she said. lady bell smiled, not ill pleased. "you mean to say that you would not accept any situation?" laura treherne inclined her head. "how did you know that i wanted a maid?" "i heard it in the house where i am lodging," she replied. "and you knew me?" "yes; i had heard of you, my lady." "have you any other testimonials besides this note of lady challoner's?" "none, my lady." lady bell hesitated. "it is quite sufficient," she said; "but i am afraid you do not understand the duties of a lady's maid." "i think so, my lady. what i do not know now, i can soon learn." "that's true. and i see you do not wish your real name to transpire?" "i would rather that it did not. i would rather be known by some other name," answered laura treherne. "why?" there was a moment's hesitation, and the dark face paled slightly. "i thought lady challoner had explained. my friends----" "you do not care for your friends to know that you are in a situation? you think their pride would be greater than your own?" "exactly, my lady." "well, i'll engage you," she said. "when can you come? i have no maid at present." "now, at once, if your ladyship wishes. i will stay now, and send for my luggage, if you please." "very well," said lady bell. "come to my room in half an hour, and we will arrange matters. you have said nothing about salary." "that i leave in your ladyship's hands." "like the cabmen," said lady bell, laughing. "well, come to my room in half an hour." laura treherne bowed and left the room, and mrs. fellowes lifted up her voice in remonstrance. "my dear bell, that letter may be a forgery." "it might be, but it isn't. i can read faces, and i like that young lady's. yes, she's a lady, poor girl. well, she might have hit upon a worse mistress; i shan't bang her about the head with a hair brush when i'm in a temper, as lady courtney does her maid. there, spare your remonstrances, my dear. the girl's engaged, and i mean to keep her. and now there are three or four people coming to dinner, mr. and mrs. davenant, jack--i mean mr. newcombe--and that strange girl, una. what a lovely creature she is! do you know i rather think she will become mrs. stephen davenant." "she is a very nice girl," said mrs. fellowes. "she ought to make a good match." "_ay de me_," said lady bell, with a sigh. "i'm sick of that word. men and women don't 'marry' now, they make 'good matches.' my dear, i hate your worldly way of looking at matrimony. if i were a poor girl, i'd marry the man of my heart, if he hadn't a penny. ah, and if he were the baddest of bad lots." "like jack newcombe, for instance," said mrs. fellowes, archly. "yes," said lady bell, turning with the door in her hand; "like jack newcombe," and she ran up to her room. punctual to the minute, laura treherne knocked at the door of the dressing-room. lady bell was seated before the glass, surrounded by her walking clothes, which, as was her custom, she had slipped out of or flung carelessly aside. without a word laura picked them up and put them in the wardrobe, and without a word took up the hair brushes. lady bell watched her in the glass, and gave her a hint now and then, and when her hair was dressed glanced round approvingly. "yes," she said, "that is very nice; and you have not hurt me once. the last maid used to pull me terribly. i suppose she was thinking of her young man. by the way, are you engaged?" the dark face flushed for a moment, then grew pale. "no, my lady." "i'm glad of it. take my advice and don't be. that sounds selfish, doesn't it. now you want to know what i am going to wear. i don't know myself. what would you choose? go to the wardrobe." laura went to the wardrobe, and came back after a minute or two with a dress of black satin and lace looped up with rosebuds of the darkest red. it was one newly arrived from worth. lady bell nodded. "yes, that just suits me. give me a lady for good taste! and now choose the ornaments. there is the jewel-box." laura chose the set of rubies and diamonds, and lady bell smiled again. "i shall look rather spanish. never mind. let us try them." with deft and gentle hands laura helped her to dress, and lady bell nodded approval. "am i ready?" laura hesitated a moment. "will your ladyship wear the pendant?" lady bell glanced in the glass. "ah, i see, you think that is rather too much against the rosebuds. you are right. take it off, please. thanks. put the key of the jewel-box in your pocket. stay! there is a chain for you to wear it on;" and she took out a small gold chain. "you can keep that as your own." laura treherne flushed, and she inclined her head gratefully. lady bell was relieved; her last maid used to overwhelm her with thanks. "and now i will go down. by the way, will you please tell simcox--that's the butler--that the gentlemen will want lafitte, at least, mr. newcombe will. i don't know what mr. stephen davenant drinks. what's the matter?" she broke off to inquire, for she heard laura stumble and fall against the wardrobe. there was a moment's pause; then, calmly enough, laura said: "my foot caught in your ladyship's dress, i think." "have you hurt yourself?" asked lady bell, kindly. "you have gone quite pale! here, take some of this sal-volatile." but laura declined, respectfully. it was a mere nothing, and she would be more careful of alarming her ladyship for the future. lady bell looked at her curiously. the quiet, self-contained manner, so free from nervousness or embarrassment, interested her. she stopped her as laura was leaving the room. "we haven't fixed upon a name for you yet," she said. "no, my lady; any name will do." "it is a pity to change yours--it is a pretty one." "will mary burns do, my lady? it was my mother's name." "very well," said lady bell; "i will tell mrs. fellowes that you will be known by that." "that girl has a history, i know," she thought, as she went downstairs. punctual almost to the minute, mrs. davenant's brougham arrived. the evenings had drawn in, and a lamp was burning in the hall; and a small fire made the dining-room comfortable. lady bell welcomed una most affectionately. "now we will have a really enjoyable evening," she said. "i hate dinner parties, and if i had my way, would never give nor go to another one. if it were only a little colder, we'd sit round the fire and bake chestnuts. have you ever done that, wild bird?" "often," said una, with a quiet smile, and something like a sigh, as she thought of the long winter evenings in the cot. how long ago they seemed, almost unreal, as if they had never happened. "oh, una is very accomplished," said jack; "i believe she could make coffee if she tried." very snug and comfortable the dining-room looked. lady bell had dispensed with one of the footmen, and had evidently determined to make the meal as homely and unceremonious as possible. never, perhaps, had the butler seen a merrier party. even stephen was genial and humorous; indeed he seemed to exert himself in an extraordinary fashion. lady bell had given him una to take in, and he was most attentive and entertaining--so much that jack, who was sitting opposite, and next to lady bell, felt amused and interested at the change which seemed to have come over him. could he have seen the workings of the subtle mind concealed behind the smiling exterior, he would have felt very much less at his ease; for even now stephen was plotting how best he could mold the material round him to serve his purpose, and while the laugh was lingering on his smooth lips, his heart was burning with hate and jealousy of the rival who sat opposite. for it had come to this, that he desired una, and not only for the wealth of which he had robbed her, but for herself. as deeply as it was possible for one of his nature he loved the innocent, unsuspecting girl who sat beside him. tonight, as he looked at the beautiful face and marked each fleeting expression that flitted like sunshine over it: as he listened to the musical voice, and felt the touch of her dress as it brushed his arm, a passionate longing seized and mastered him, and he felt that he would risk all of which he was wrongfully possessed to win her--ah, and if she were, indeed, only the daughter of a common woodman. "curse him!" he murmured over his wine glass, as his eyes rested on jack's handsome face. "if he had not crossed my path, she would have been mine ere now; no matter, i will strike him out of it, as if he were a viper in my road." meanwhile, quite unconscious of stephen's generous sentiments, jack went on with his dinner, enjoying it thoroughly, and as happy as it is given to a mortal to be. presently the conversation turned upon their plans for the autumn. "what are we all going to do?" said lady bell. "you, i suppose, mr. davenant, will go down to your place in wealdshire--what is it called?" "hurst leigh," said stephen, quietly. "yes, i must go down there, i ought to have been there before now, but i find so many attractions in town," and he smiled at una. "and you, my dear?" said lady bell to mrs. davenant. "my mother will go down with me," said stephen. mrs. davenant glanced at him nervously. "and that means miss wild bird, too, i suppose?" remarked lady bell. "if miss una will honor us," said stephen, with an inclination of the head to una. "yes, we shall make quite a family party. you will join us, of course, jack?" jack, who had looked up rather grim at the foregoing, bit his lip. "i don't quite know," he said, gravely. "surely you will not let the poachers have all the birds this year, jack!" said stephen, brightly. "besides my mother will be quite lost without you." "do come, jack," whispered mrs. davenant. "i'll see," said jack, grimly, and una looked down uneasily; she understood his reluctance to go to the old place. "oh, we will take no refusal," said stephen, buoyantly. "and what are your plans, lady bell?" lady bell looked up with rather a start and a flush. "i--i--don't quite know," she said. "i had been thinking of going to a small place we have at earl's court." "earl's court!" exclaimed jack. "why, that is only thirteen miles or so from the hurst." "is it?" said lady bell. "i didn't know. i haven't seen it. i'm ashamed to say that i haven't made a round of inspection of the property yet. my stewards are always bothering me to do so, but i don't seem to have time." "a sovereign cannot be expected to visit the whole of her kingdom," said stephen, with a smile. lady bell sighed. "i often wish the old earl had left me five hundred a year and a cottage somewhere," she said, quietly. "i should have been a happier woman. oh, here is the claret. give mr. newcombe the lafitte, simcox. mr. davenant----" "i always follow jack's suit," said stephen, rising to open the door for the ladies. "he is an infallible guide in such matters." "fancy a woman lamenting the extent of her wealth," he said, with something like a sneer, as he went back to the table. "if any girl ought to be happy that girl ought to be. what a chance for some young fellow! my dear jack, if i had been in your place----" jack looked up with a tinge of red in his face. "what nonsense. lady bell knows better than to be caught by such chaff as i am. besides, i am more than content. i wouldn't exchange una for a duchess, with the riches of peru in her pockets. what about the commissionership, or whatever it is, stephen?" "all in good time, my dear jack. those sort of things aren't done in a moment; the matter is in hand, and we shall get it, be sure. meanwhile, if you want any money----" "thanks, no," said jack, easily. he had only that morning negotiated a bill with mr. moss for another hundred pounds. stephen smiled evilly behind his pocket handkerchief. he held that bill in his pocketbook at that moment, in company with all jack's previous ones. chapter xxx. the two men sat beside the fire almost in silence. jack was trying to get over his reluctance to go to the hurst, and wondering what would become of him if he did not, and una left him all alone in town; and stephen was wondering whether it was time to strike the blow he meditated. very soon jack jumped up. "if you've had enough wine, let us join the ladies," he said, and went toward the door. stephen followed him, but turned back to fetch his pocket handkerchief. lying beside it, on the table, was a rose which had fallen from the bosom of una's dress. he took it up, and looked at it with that look which a man bestows on some trifle which has been worn by the woman he loves, and then, as if by an irresistible impulse, raised it to his lips, kissing it passionately, and put it carefully in his bosom. as he did so, he raised his eyes to the glass, which reflected one side of the room, and saw the slight figure of a woman standing in the open door and watching him. the light from the carefully shaded lamp was too dim to allow him to see the face distinctly, but something in the figure caused him to feel a sudden chill. he turned sharply and walked to the door; but the hall was empty and there was no sound of retreating footsteps. "some servant maid waiting to come in to clear the table," he muttered. but he returned to the dining-room, and drank off a glass of liquor before going to the drawing-room, from which ripples of jack's frank laughter were floating in the hall. lady bell was seated at the piano, playing and singing in her light-hearted, careless fashion; jack and una were seated in a dimly-lit corner, talking in an undertone. stephen went up to the piano and stood apparently listening intently, but in reality watching the other two under his lowered lids. the presence of the rose in his bosom seemed to heighten the passion which burned in his heart; and the sight of jack bending over una, and of her rapt, up-turned face as she looked up, drinking in his lightest word as if it were gospel, maddened him. it was with a start that he became conscious that lady bell had ceased playing, and that she, like him, was watching the lovers. "miss una and mr. newcombe seem very good friends," she said, with a forced smile. "do they not?" said stephen, in his softest voice. "too good." lady bell looked up at him quickly. "what do you mean?" stephen looked down at her gravely. "can you keep a secret, lady bell?" he said, hesitatingly. "sometimes," she said. "what is it?" stephen glanced across at jack and una. "i'm rather anxious about our young friends," he said, his voice dropped still lower, his head bent forward with such an insidious smile that lady bell could not, for the life of her, help thinking of a serpent. "anxious!" she echoed, her heart beating. "as how?" "can you not guess?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "you--you mean that they may fall in love with each other. well, they are not badly matched," said lady bell, bravely, though her heart was aching. "not badly, in one sense," said stephen, after a pause; "but as badly as two persons could be in all others. they are a match as regards their means. they are both penniless." lady bell looked up with a start. "is--is mr. newcombe so badly off? i thought--that is, i fancied he had a wealthy uncle----" she paused. "you mean mr. ralph davenant," said stephen, calmly, and with an air of sadness. "i am sorry to say that he left everything which he possessed to a less worthy person--to me." lady bell looked at him inquiringly. "to me," he repeated, "and poor jack was--well, disinherited, and left penniless. it is of him i think when i say that i am anxious about them; naturally, i think of him. miss rolfe is a friend of my mother's, and has been used to a straitened life; but poor jack does not know what poverty means, and in his ignorance may drift into an entanglement which may embitter her life. no man in the world is less fitted for love in a cottage, and nothing to pay the rent, than jack newcombe. you, who have seen something of him, must have remarked his easy-going, careless nature, his utter ignorance of the value of money, his unsuitableness for a life of poverty and privation." lady bell's heart beat fast. "but--but--" she said, "you have plenty." "of which jack will not take one penny. you see he is as proud as he is poor." "i like him for that," murmured lady bell. "yes, so do i; though it pains and grieves me. if jack would permit me to help him, lady bell, he might marry una rolfe tomorrow; but as it is, i fear, i am anxious. another man would be wiser, but jack has no idea of prudence, and would plunge head first into all the misery of such a union without a thought of the morrow." "and you--you think he loves her," murmured lady bell; and she waited for an answer as a man on his trial might wait for the verdict of the jury. stephen smiled. he could read lady bell's heart as if it were an open book. "loves her! no, certainly not--not yet. he is amused and entertained, but love has not come yet." "and she?" asked lady bell, anxiously, her eyes fixed on una's face. stephen smiled again. "no, not yet. she is ignorant of the meaning of the word. i have taken some trouble to arrive at the truth, and i am sure of what i say. it is well for her that she is not, for anything like a serious engagement would be simply madness. poor jack! his future lies so plainly before him, and if he would follow it, the rest of his life might be happiness itself." "you mean that he should marry for money," said lady bell, coldly. "no, not for money alone," murmured stephen. "jack is too high-minded to be guilty of such meanness; but is it not possible to marry for love and money, too, lady bell?" lady bell turned her head aside; her heart beating fast. the voice of the tempter sounded like music in her ear. why should not he marry for love as well as money? she had both. she loved him passionately, and she would pour her money at his feet to do as he liked with; to squander and make ducks and drakes of, if he would but give her a little love in return. as she looked across the room at him, that awful, wistful longing which only a woman who loves with all her heart can feel, took possession of her and mastered her. "why do you tell me this?" she asked, sharply turning her face, pale and working. "because," murmured stephen, "because i have jack's interest so much at heart that i am bold enough to ask for aid where i know it can be of avail." "do you mean that you ask _me_?" she said, tremulously. "what can i do?" "much, everything," he whispered, his head bent low, almost to her ear. "ask yourself, dear lady bell, and you will understand me. let me be plain and straightforward, even at the risk of offending you. there was a time, not many months ago, when i and his best friends thought jack had made a choice at once happy and wise." lady bell rose and moved to and fro, and then sank down again trembling with agitation. "you mean that--that he was falling in love with me?" stephen inclined his head with lowered eyes. "it is true," he said. "you cannot fail to have seen what all observed." and he went on quickly--"and but for this fancy--this passing fancy--all would have been well. lady bell, i am speaking more openly than i ever have spoken to woman before. i am risking offending you, but i do so from the affection which i bear my cousin. lady bell, i implore you to help me in saving him from a step which will plunge him into life-long misery. he is totally unfitted to battle with the world; married wisely and well, he would be a happy and contented man; married unwisely and badly, no one can picture the future." lady bell rose, her face pale, her eyes gleaming under the strain which she was enduring. "don't say any more," she said; "i--i cannot bear it. you have guessed my secret; i can feel that. yes, i would save him if i could, and if you are sure that--that there is no engagement----" "there is none," said stephen, lying smoothly. "there can be none; the idea is preposterous." lady bell moved away as he spoke, and turned over some book on the table to conceal her agitation, and stephen, humming a popular hymn tune, crossed the room and looked down at jack and una with a benedictory smile, as if he was blessing them. "are you aware of the time, and that lady bell's hall porter is uttering maledictions for our tardiness?" he said, playfully. jack looked at his watch. "by jove! no idea it was so late. are you ready, mrs. davenant?" mrs. davenant woke from a sleep, and she and una went upstairs. "i see you have a new maid," she said, when they came down again. "what a superior-looking young girl." "is she not?" said lady bell, absently. "she is more than superior, she is interesting. she has a history." stephen, standing by, folding and unfolding his opera hat, smiled. "very interesting; but take care, lady bell; i am always suspicious of interesting people with a history." as he spoke, a pale, dark face looked down upon him from the upper landing for a moment, then disappeared. "you will come with us, stephen?" said mrs. davenant, nervously. "no, thanks. i should like the walk. good-night," and he kissed her dutifully, and shook hands with jack and lady bell. "going to walk?" cried mrs. davenant. "it is very chilly, and you've only that thin overcoat." "i've a scarf somewhere--where is it?" said stephen. una stooped, and picked up a white scarf. "here it is," she said, laughing, and all innocently she threw it round his neck. "will you tie it, please?" said stephen, in an ordinary tone, and una, laughing still, tied it. stephen stood motionless, his eyes cast down; he was afraid to raise them lest the passion blazing in them should be read by all there. "thanks. i cannot catch cold now," he said, as he took her hand and held it for a moment. he put them into the brougham, and under the pretext of arranging her shawl, touched her hand once again; then he stood in the chilly street and watched the brougham till it disappeared in the distance. then he turned and walked homeward. "one step in the right direction," he muttered. "take care, master jack; i shall outwit you yet." as he ascended the stairs of his chambers, slummers came out to meet him. "there is a--person waiting for you, mr. stephen," he said. stephen stopped, and his hand closed on the balustrade; his thoughts flew to laura treherne. "a--woman, slummers?" "no, sir, a man," said slummers. "very good," said stephen, with a breath of relief. "who is it--do you know?" slummers shook his head. "a rough sort of man, sir; says he has come on business. he has been waiting for hours." "i am very sorry," said stephen, aloud and blandly, for the benefit of the visitor. "i am sorry to have kept anyone waiting. but it is rather late----" he entered the room as he spoke, and started slightly, for standing in the center of the apartment was gideon rolfe. notwithstanding the start stephen came forward with outstretched hand and a ready smile of welcome. "my dear mr. rolfe, i am indeed sorry that you should have been kept so long. if i had only known that you were coming----" gideon rolfe waived all further compliment aside with a gesture of impatience. "i wished to see you," he said. "time is no object to me." stephen shut the door carefully and stood in a listening attitude. he knew it was of no use to ask his visitor to sit down. "you have come to inquire about your daughter?" "no, i have not," said gideon rolfe, calmly. "i know that she is well--i see her daily. i came to remind you of our contract--i came to remind you of your promise that no harm should come near her." stephen smiled and shook his head. "and i trust no harm has come near her, my dear mr. rolfe." "but i say that it has," said gideon rolfe, coldly. "i have watched her daily and i know." "to what harm do you allude?" asked stephen, bravely. "do you deny that the young man jack newcombe is near her?" "oh," said stephen, and he drew a long breath. then he commenced untying the scarf, his acute brain hard at work. here was an instrument ready to his hand, if he chose to use it properly. "oh, i understand. no, i do not deny it; i wish that i could do so, for your sake and for una's," he said gravely. "speak plainly," said gideon rolfe, hoarsely. "i will," said stephen. "plainly then, mr. newcombe has chosen to fall in love with--your daughter! that accounts for his constant attendance upon her." gideon rolfe's face worked. "i will take her back," he said, grimly. stephen smiled. "softly, softly. there are two to that bargain, my dear mr. rolfe. for miss una to go back to a state of savagery in warden forest is impossible. you, who have seen her in her new surroundings, and the change they have wrought in her, must admit that." gideon rolfe wiped the perspiration from his brow. "i know that she is changed," he said. "she is like a great lady now. i see her dressed in rich silks and satins, and coming and going in carriages, with servants to wait upon her, and i know that she is changed, and that she has forgotten the friends of her childhood--forgotten those who were father and mother to her----" "you wrong miss una," said stephen, smoothly. "not a day passes but she inquires for you and deplores your absence----" "but," went on gideon, as if he had not been interrupted, "i have not forgotten her, nor my promise to her mother. in a weak moment, moved by your threats more than your persuasions, i consented to part with her, but i would rather she were dead than that should happen--which you say will happen." "pardon me," said stephen, blandly, and with an evil smile. "i said that mr. newcombe had fallen in love with her; i did not say that he would marry her. _i_ would rather she were dead than that should happen," and he turned his face for one moment to the light. it was pale even to the lips, the eyes gleaming with resolute purpose. gideon rolfe looked at him in silence for a moment. "i do not understand," he said, in a troubled voice. "let me make it clear to you," said stephen. "against my will and wish these two have met and become acquainted. against my will and wish that acquaintance has ripened into"--he drew a long breath as if the word hurt him--"into love, or what they mistake for love. thus far it has gone, but it must go no further. i am at one with you there. you and i must prevent it. you cannot do it alone, you know. you have no control over miss una; you who are not her father and in no way related to her." gideon rolfe set his teeth hard. "you see," said stephen, with a haggard smile, "alone you are helpless. be sure of that. if you move in the matter without me, i will declare the secret of her birth. stop! be calm! but you and i can put an end to this engagement." "they are engaged?" muttered gideon rolfe. stephen smiled contemptuously. "my good friend, this matter has passed beyond your strength. leave it to me. yes, they are engaged; the affair has gone so far, but it must go no further. while you have been lurking outside area gates and behind carriages i have been at work, and i will stop it. i am not too proud to accept your aid, however. when the time comes i will ask your aid. give me an address to which to write to you." gideon rolfe, with a suspicious air, drew a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote an address. "this will find you?" said stephen. "good. when the time comes i will send for you; meanwhile"--and he smiled--"you can go on haunting area gates and watching carriages, but be sure of one thing, that this marriage shall never take place." gideon rolfe watched the pale face grimly. "i must know more," he said. "how will you put an end to this?" stephen smiled. it was not a pleasant smile. "you want to see the _modus operandi_? how the conjurer is going to perform the wonderful feat? well, it is very simple. my friend and somewhat cousin, for all his romance, will not care to marry a girl whose name is stained with shame. if i know my dear jack, he will not care to make an illegitimate child of gideon rolfe, the woodman, mrs. newcombe." gideon rolfe started. "you will tell him?" he said, hoarsely. "yes," said stephen; "i shall tell him the truth, of course concealing the proper names, and you must be here to confirm my statement. that is all you have to do. mind! not a word of my uncle's connection with the matter, or all is lost. you understand?" "yes, i understand," said gideon, hoarsely. "i care not by what means so that the marriage is prevented." "nor i," said stephen, coolly; "and now we are agreed on that point. when i want you i will write to you. until then--will you take any refreshment?" gideon rolfe waved his hand by way of negative, and stephen rang the bell. "show this gentleman out, slummers. mind the lower stairs, the gas has been put out. good-night, good-night." chapter xxxi. it was settled that mrs. davenant, una and stephen should go to the hurst in a week's time. jack had definitely declined to go to the hurst. he felt that he would rather bear the absence of una for a week or two than go to the old house, haunted as it was, for him, with so many memories; but lo and behold, a few days after the dinner party, had come a note from lady bell's father, asking him to visit earl's court. of course, jack accepted gladly enough, without a thought of lady bell, and only remembering that a good nag would take him from earl's court to hurst in an hour and a half, or less. the week passed rapidly, and with something like restlessness lady bell organized all kinds of outings and expeditions, in all of which jack's services were found to be indispensable. he could not exactly tell how it happened; but he seemed to spend almost as much time with lady bell as with una. now it was to go and try a horse which lady bell wanted to buy; then to select some dogs to take down to earl's court; and, again, to buy and send down pony-carriages and dog-carts. there was always something to take him to park lane, and though jack felt inclined to kick at these demands upon his time, which would otherwise have been spent near una, he could not see his way to refuse. then he was fond of buying horses, and dogs, and carriages, and used to hold a _levee_ at spider court of disreputable-looking men in fustian corduroys, much to leonard dagle's disgust. "it seems to me, jack," he said, "that you have become lady bell's grand vizier. do you choose her dress for her?" "chaff away, old man," said jack. "it was only the other day that you were badgering me with being cool to her." "yes, with a purpose," said leonard; "but that purpose has disappeared. have you been to the square yet this morning?" "no; i'm going now. no, i can't, confound it! i promised to see to the harness for the pair of ponies lady bell bought." leonard smiled rather grimly. "how miss una must love lady bell," he said, ironically. "so she does," said jack, sharply. "now don't pretend to be cynical, len. you know as well as i do that i would spend every hour of my life by una's side if i could; but what can i do?" "all right!" said len, and he fell to work again. strangely enough now, that jack was so much occupied with lady bell's affairs, stephen happened to find more leisure to visit his mother, and very often he accompanied her and una to some concert or picture-gallery to which jack was prevented from going. stephen seemed, in addition, quite changed, and had become quite the man of pleasure in contrast to his former habits. he rarely appeared at the square without a nosegay or a new novel; he took the greatest interest in any subject which interested una, and was as attentive to her as if he had been the most devoted of lovers. now that jack was so much absent, it was he who sat opposite her in the little brougham, who leaned over her chair at the theater, or rode beside her in the row. at first una felt rather constrained by his constant attendance; she had been so used to have jack at her side that she felt embarrassed with stephen; but stephen, whose tact was second only to his cunning, soon put her at her ease. she found that it was not necessary to talk to him, that she might sit by his side or ride with him for an hour without uttering a word, and was quite free to think of jack while stephen chatted on in his smooth, insinuating voice. and so the very effect stephen desired to produce came about; she got accustomed to have him near her, and got to feel at her ease in his presence. but how long the mornings seemed! and how she longed for jack and wondered what he was doing! if anyone had openly told her she was jealous of lady bell, she would have repudiated the idea with scorn too deep for anything but a smile; and yet--and yet--that bright, happy look which lady bell had so much admired, grew fainter and fainter, and nearly disappeared, reviving only when jack hurried in to spend a few hours with her, and then hurried off to keep some engagement with lady bell or on lady bell's affairs. but never by word or look did una show that his absence pained her; instead, she was always the first to remind him of his engagements and to bid him depart. at last the day arrived for her departure to hurst. lady bell did not go down to earl's court till three days later, and jack, of course, had to remain in town for a day or two after that. "it is the first time we have been parted for twenty-four hours since that happy day i learned you loved me, my darling!" he whispered as he held una in his arms: "i almost wish that i had accepted stephen's invitation. but--but i could not sleep under the old roof--by heaven, i could not! you cannot understand----" "but i do," murmured una; "and i am glad you are not coming. if----" and she paused. "well, darling?" asked jack, kissing her. "if you had said half a word, i would not have gone." "why not?" said jack, with a sigh. "yes, i am glad you are going. you will see the old house in which i was so happy as a boy--which i once thought would have been mine." "dear jack!" she murmured; and her hand smoothed the hair from his forehead caressingly and comfortingly. "well, never mind," said jack; "it is better as it is. perhaps i should have had the hurst, and have lost you; and i would rather lose the whole earth than you, my darling! besides, stephen has turned out a better fellow than i thought him, and deserves all he has got, and will make a better use of it than i should. no, i am content--i have got the greatest treasure on earth!" and he pressed her closer to him, and kissed her again and again until, from very shame, she slid from his grasp. stephen had engaged a first-class carriage, had even taken the precaution to order foot-warmers, though the weather was not yet winterish, and if he had been the personal attendant on a sovereign, and that sovereign had been una, he could not have been more anxious for her comfort. he was so thoughtful and considerate that there was nothing left for jack to do but go down to the station and see them off. "four days only, my darling," he whispered, as the train was starting; "they will seem years to me." and he clung to her hand to the last moment, much to the disgust of the guard and porters, who expected to see him dragged under the train. then he went back to spider court, feeling cold, chilly and miserable, as if the sun had been put out. "len, i wish i had gone!" he exclaimed, as he opened the door. but there was no len to hear him--the room was empty. "great heaven! has everyone disappeared?" he exclaimed, irritably, and flung himself out of the house and into a hansom. "where to?" said the cabman, and jack, half absently, answered: "park lane." the man had often driven him before, and he drove straight to lady bell's. jack walked into the drawing-room quite naturally--the room was familiar to him--and sat down before the fire; and lady bell came in with outstretched hand. it was a comfort to have someone left, and jack greeted her warmly, more warmly than he knew or intended. lady bell's face flushed as he held her hand longer than was absolutely necessary. "thank heaven! there is someone left," he said, devoutly. "they have all gone, and len is out, and----" "i am left," said lady bell. "well, you are just in time for luncheon. i half expected you, and i have told them to make a curry." curry was one of jack's weaknesses. "that is very kind of you," he said, gratefully. he felt, very unreasonably, neglected somehow. "you always seem to know what a fellow likes." "that's because i have a good memory," said lady bell, smiling down at him. "i shall take care to have plenty of curries at earl's court. and, by the way, will you choose a paper for the smoking-room down there? i have told them that they must do it at once." jack rose without a word; he had been choosing papers and decorations for a week past, and it did not seem strange. luncheon was announced while they were discussing the paper, and jack gave her his arm. mrs. fellowes was the only other person present, and she sat reading a novel, deaf and blind to all else. not but what she might have heard every word, for the young people talked of the most commonplace subjects, and jack was very absent-minded, thinking of una, and quite unconscious of the light which beamed in lady bell's eyes when they rested on him. then they rode in the row; he could do no less than offer to accompany her, and mrs. fellowes wanted to see a piece at one of the theaters, and jack went to book seats, and took one for himself, and sat staring at the stage and thinking of una; but he sat behind lady bell's chair, and spoke to her occasionally, and lady bell was content. hetley and arkroyd were in the stalls, and saw him. "jack's making the running," said lord dalrymple, eying the box through his opera glass. "he's the winning horse, and we, the field, are nowhere." and not only those two, but many others, remarked on jack's close attendance on the great heiress, and not a few who would have gone to the box if he had not been there, kept away. meanwhile, jack, simple, unsuspecting jack, was bestowing scarcely a thought on the beautiful woman by his side, and thinking of una miles away. the theater over, and lady bell put into the carriage, he looked in at the club, sauntered into the card-room, smoked a cigar in the smoking-room, and then went home to spider court. much to his surprise he found leonard up, not only up, but pacing the room, his face flushed and agitated. "hallo!" exclaimed jack, "what's the matter? and where on earth have you been?" "jack, i have found her!" "that's just what i said some months ago!" "yes, i know. i have been thinking how strangely alike our love affairs have been. it is my turn now. i have found her!" "what, this young lady, laura treherne?" "yes," said leonard, with a long breath. "tell me all about it," said jack. "hold hard a minute, till i get something to drink. now, fire away." "well," said leonard, still pacing up and down, and seeming scarcely conscious of jack's presence, "i was walking in the park. you know the place, that quiet walk under the beeches. i was thinking of you and your love affairs, when i saw, sitting under a tree, a figure that i knew at once. for a moment i could not move, and scarcely think; then i wondered how i should get to speak to her; but presently, when i had pulled myself together, i saw that she had dropped her handkerchief, and i went and picked it up and took it to her." "a fine opening," muttered jack. leonard dagle evidently did not hear him. "well, she started when i approached her, and merely thanked me with a bow, but i was determined not to let her go this time, and i said, 'pardon me, but we have met before.' 'where?' said she. 'in a railway carriage,' i said, and she looked at me, and trembled. 'i remember,' she said, and i swear i saw her shudder. 'since then,' i said, 'i have sought you far and near.' 'why should you do that?' she asked." "a very natural question," interjected jack. "then i told her. i told her that from that hour i had been unable to rid my mind of her face, that it had haunted me; that i had followed her and learned her address; and that though i had lost her i had sought her all over london." "was she angry?" asked jack. "at first she was," said leonard, "very angry, but something in my voice or my face--heaven knows i was earnest enough! convinced her that i meant no harm, and she listened." "well," said jack, interested and excited. "well," said leonard, "we sat talking for an hour, perhaps more, and she has promised to meet me again; at least she admitted that she walked in the park every afternoon. i tried to get her address, but she told me plainly that she would not give it to me." "and is that all you learned?" asked jack, with something like good-natured contempt. "no!" replied leonard. "i learned that she had been injured--oh, not in the way you think--and that she had some purpose to effect--some wrong to right." "and of course you offered to help her?" said jack. "i offered to help her; i laid my services, my whole time and strength, at her disposal; i went so far as to beseech her to tell me what this purpose, this wrong was; but she would not tell me, and so we parted. but we are to meet again. she is much changed; paler and thinner than when i saw her in the railway carriage, but still more beautiful in my eyes than any other woman in the world." "it is a strange affair," mused jack. "quite a romance in its way. isn't it funny, len, that both our love affairs should be romantic, and so much alike!" "yes," said leonard, "very. but mine has scarcely begun, while yours has ended happily, or will do so, if you do not play the fool!" "what do you mean?" asked jack, sharply. "where have you been to-night?" asked leonard. "to the theater with lady bell." "i expected as much," said leonard, and he fell to at his writing, and would say no more, though jack stormed and raved. meanwhile the davenant party had, thanks to stephen, made a comfortable journey. they found a carriage and pair waiting for them at the station; not the ramshackle vehicle of the old squire's time, but a new carriage from the best man in long acre, and they were rolled along the country lanes in a style ralph davenant would have marveled at. presently they came in sight of the hurst, and mrs. davenant uttered an exclamation. "why, stephen, it is altered!" she said. stephen smiled proudly. short as the time had been he had effected a radical change in the old house; a hundred workmen had been busy, and the ramshackle old mansion had been transformed. wings had been added, the grounds had been newly laid out; the road, even, had been altered, and they drove through an avenue of thriving young limes. una, silent and interested, kept her eyes fixed on the house. she had often heard jack describe it, but this palatial residence did not answer to his description. stephen's money and energy had entirely transformed the place. the carriage pulled up at the entrance, and half a dozen grooms flew to the horses' heads: footmen in handsome liveries stood in attendance, and the servants formed a lane for their master to pass through. una had often read of such a reception, but here was a reality. stephen helped her to alight, and took her and his mother on his arm, his head erect, a warm flush on his cheek. suddenly the flush disappeared and a frown took its place as he saw amongst the crowd gathered together at the entrance the parchment-like visage of old skettle. but the frown disappeared as he entered the house, and stood silent, listening to the approving comments of mrs. davenant. "my dear stephen," she said, "you have certainly altered the place--i should not have known it. and is this what was the gloomy old hall?" "yes," said stephen, proudly, and he glanced round at the alterations with an air of satisfaction, and looked at una's face for some sign of approval. but una was looking around anxiously. if it was so much altered, then it was not the old home that jack knew and remembered. "you will find everything altered and improved, i hope," said stephen. altered, indeed! they have even shifted the old staircase, so that it would have been difficult to have found the room in which the old squire died, exclaiming: "you thief! you thief! what have you done with the will?" yes, indeed, there was great alteration. the old squire, if he had come to life again, would not have known hurst as stephen had made it. masons, carpenters, and decorators had been at work to some purpose. everything was changed, and unmistakably for the better. stephen looked around with an air of pride. "they have been very quick," he said. "i placed it in good hands. you will find everything you require up-stairs. you must know," he said, turning to una, "that i found the place little better than a barn, and have done my best to make it fit to receive you! you are looking at the portraits," he added, seeing una's gaze wandering along the double line of dead and gone davenants. "most of them you would not have seen two months ago, they had been terribly neglected, but i have had them cleaned and renewed. that is the old squire, my poor uncle," and he sighed comfortably. una paused before this, the last portrait of the series, and looked at it long and curiously, and the other two stood and watched her, stephen with a keen glance of scrutiny and with a nervous tremor about his heart. if she could but know that she was looking at the portrait of her own father! una turned away at last with a faint sigh. she was thinking that this was the old man who had once loved jack and left him to poverty. mrs. davenant shuddered slightly. "he was a terrible old man, my dear," she murmured, "and always frightened me. i trembled when he looked at me." "he does not look so terrible," said una, sadly. stephen fidgeted slightly. "come," he said, "you must not catch cold. your maids are here by this time. will you go up to your room? the housekeeper will show them to you, and i hope you will find everything comfortable." very slowly, looking to right and left of her, una followed mrs. davenant up the broad staircase. the place seemed to have a strange fascination for her; she could almost have persuaded herself that she had been in it before, and it seemed familiar, though so much changed from all likeness to jack's description of it. they found the rooms upstairs beautifully decorated, and furnished in the most approved and luxurious style. lady bell's house in park lane even was eclipsed. "stephen has made it a palace," said mrs. davenant. "how i used to hate it in the old time! it was so dark and grim and gloomy, always felt dull and damp. stephen tells me that he has had it thoroughly drained after the new fashion, and that it is quite dry. such a palace as this wants a mistress; i wish he would marry." "why do you not tell him so?" said una, with a smile. mrs. davenant shook her head nervously. "that would do no good, my dear," she said. "i sometimes think he will never marry." and she glanced at una with some embarrassment. a dim suspicion had of late crossed her mind that if una had been free, stephen might have stood in jack's place. she could not help noticing stephen's close attendance on una--a mother's eyes are sharp to note such things. if the old squire could have seen the dining-room and the elaborate _menu_ that evening, he would have stared and sworn. stephen had engaged a french cook; the appointments were as perfect as they could be; the servants admirably trained, and as to the wines the hurst cellar stood second to none in the country. it almost seemed as if he were sparing no pains to impress on una all that the wife of stephen davenant would possess. and una, more than half the dinner-time, was thinking of jack, and fondly picturing the little house they had so often talked of setting up when the commissionership came home. just at the same time, jack was leaning over lady bell's chair in the theater. stephen was in his best mood, and exerted himself to the uttermost. he described the neighborhood, planned excursions and expeditions; told innumerable anecdotes of the village folk, and played the host to perfection. in a thousand ways he showed his anxiety for una's comfort; and after dinner he had the place lit up, and went over it, asking her opinion on this point and the other, and humbly begging her to suggest alterations. so much so that una began to grow shy and reserved, and shrank closer to mrs. davenant; and stephen, quick to see when he was going too fast, left them and went to the library to write letters. now, strange to say, of all the rooms in the house, this one room remained unaltered. he had not allowed it to be touched--indeed it was kept closely locked, and the key never left him night and day. just as it had been on the night of the squire's death, when stephen stood with the stolen will in his hand, so it was now. he never entered it without a shudder, and all the time he was in it his eyes unconsciously wandered over the floor and furniture as if mechanically searching for something. it exerted a strange, weird influence over him, and seemed to draw him into it. tonight he paced up and down, looking at the familiar objects, and making no attempt to write his letters. his brain was busy, not with schemes of ambition and avarice, but of love. the blood ran riot in his veins as he thought that una was under the same roof as himself, and one mighty resolve took possession of him. "she shall never leave it but to come back as my wife," was his resolve. even the lost will did not trouble him tonight. he had una in his grasp, una upon whom everything turned. it was far into the morning before he went to bed, and at the head of the stairs he turned and looked round with a proud smile. "all--all mine!" he muttered, "and i will have her, too," and he went to sleep and dreamed, not of una, but of laura treherne. all through the watches of the night the pale, dark face haunted him. at times he saw it peering at him through the library window, at others it was pursuing him along an endless road; but always it wore a threatening aspect and filled him with a vague terror. some men's conscience only awake at night. chapter xxxii. if una had been a queen visiting some distant part of her realm, more elaborate preparations for her amusement could not have been made. not a day passed but stephen had got some proposition for pleasuring, and he never tired of hunting up some place to go. one morning they would drive to some romantic and historic spot; another there would be some flower show or _fete_, which he insisted upon them seeing; on others, they would play lawn tennis in the now beautiful grounds. the fame of the new hurst had spread abroad, and those of the county families who were in residence called at once, and dinner parties were given and accepted. so the week glided by quickly, even to una, who reckoned time by the day on which she would see jack. every morning there came a scrawl--jack's handwriting was mysterious and terrible--from him; in every letter he expressed his longing to see her, and the hateful time he was having in town. but every letter had some mention of lady bell; and it was evident that he spent most of his time at park lane. but una was not jealous--she put away from her resolutely any feeling of that kind. "i am so glad that lady bell is in town, and that jack has some place to go to," she said to mrs. davenant. and mrs. davenant smiled; but sighed at the same time. to her, as to others, it seemed that jack spent too much time in attendance upon the great heiress. stephen's money flew, it was scattered about in every direction; but still he was not popular. men touched their hats, but they never smiled as they had done at the old squire, and as they had done at jack. there was something about stephen that the hurst folk could not and would not take to; and even while they were drinking with his money, they talked of master jack and shook their heads regretfully. and stephen knew it, and hated them all; but most of all hated old skettle. it seemed as if the old man was ubiquitous; he was everywhere. stephen could not take a walk outside the grounds but he came upon the old man; and, though skettle always raised his hat and gave him "good-day," stephen felt the small, keen eyes watching him. of hudsley he had seen nothing. at last the county papers announced the important fact that lady earlsley had arrived at earl's court, and una knew that in two days she would see jack. that night stephen was more attentive than ever. they had been dining out at a neighbor's, and were sitting in the drawing-room, talking over the evening. the prospect of jack's coming had brought a glad light to una's eyes--a brighter color to her face. in two days she should see him! in her happiness she felt amiable and tender to all around her, and, for the first time, she responded to stephen's unceasing devotion. he had brought in from the new library a whole pile of books relating to the county, and was showing and explaining the illustrations. "that is earl's court," he said; "a beautiful place, isn't it? but lady bell has several grander places than that." "she is very rich," said una. "very," he said, thoughtfully. "it's a pity that she does not marry." una smiled. "she says that she will never marry," she said. stephen looked up. "and yet a little while ago they were saying that she would be married before the year was out." "indeed!" said una. "it would be a grand match for any one," said stephen. "it would have been a great match for him." "for him?" said una. "who was it?" stephen started and looked embarrassed, as if he had made a slip of the tongue. "well," he said, with a little, awkward laugh; "but--are you jealous? perhaps i ought not to tell tales out of school, though the affair is off long ago, and he has made a happier choice." una put the fire screen on one side and looked at him calmly. he was sitting almost at her feet. mrs. davenant was dozing in her accustomed arm-chair. "of whom do you speak?" she asked. stephen hesitated, as if reluctant to reply. "well," he said, "it is mere gossip, of course, but gossip awarded the great prize of the season to a near and dear friend of yours." una's heart beat fast. she guessed what was coming. "tell me," she said, in a low voice. "tut!" said stephen, as if ashamed to retail such idle gossip. "well, they said that jack meant to marry the great heiress." "it is not true," una said; but her color went, and left her quite pale and cold. "of course not," said stephen, cheerfully; "though i would not say but there was some excuse for the rumor. jack was a great deal at park lane until he met--one who shall be nameless." and he looked up at her with a smile. "why, they went so far as to congratulate him," he said, laughing as if at an excellent joke. "and indeed i think if jack had said 'yes,' lady bell would not have said 'no.' so, you see, that you have made a veritable conquest!" and he laughed again. but there was no answering smile on una's pale face. it was not of lady bell she thought, but of herself and jack. it was true she had stepped in between jack and wealth and prosperity--she, the penniless daughter of a woodman, had prevented his marrying the great heiress and becoming the master of earl's court and all the earlsley wealth! a chill passed over her, and she raised the screen to hide her face from stephen's eye. "yes, it would have been a great match for jack," he said, carelessly--"it would have set him on his feet, as they say. but he is still more fortunate." and he sighed. una rose. "i think i will go up now," she said; and she went and woke mrs. davenant. stephen escorted them to the head of the stairs, smiling as if nothing had been said, and then went straight to the old library and rang the bell. it was understood that no one was to answer the library bell but slummers, and slummers now appeared. stephen wrote two letters; one ran thus: "my dear mr. rolfe:--be kind enough to be at my chambers tomorrow morning at eight o'clock." the other was still more short; it was addressed to mr. levy moss: "put on the screw at once." calmly and leisurely he put them in their envelopes, as if the fate and happiness of two souls were not hanging upon them, and gave them to slummers. "take the morning express and deliver these yourself," he said, quietly. "i shall follow you by the midday train. when you have done so, find mr. newcombe and keep him in sight. you understand?" "quite, sir," said slummers, and disappeared as silently as usual. chapter xxxiii. it was jack's last day in town. tomorrow he would be at earl's court, and in the evening would be riding as fast as a horse could carry him to una. the hours seemed to drift with leaden wings. it was no use going to park lane, for the blinds were down, and lady bell was at earl's court. it was no use going to the club, for the whitewashers had taken possession of it; never had jack been so utterly bored and wearied. at last he strolled into the park, and sat on one of the seats and stared at the row, giving himself up to thoughts of una, and picturing their meeting on the morrow. he lingered in the park till dusk: then he went home to dress. "still writing, old man?" he said, as he entered, and laid his hand on leonard's shoulder. "halloa! is that you, jack?" said leonard, throwing down his pen. "i have been expecting you." "why for?" asked jack, yawning. then he looked up curiously. "i wish i'd known it; i'd have come home. look here, len, we'll go and dine somewhere; if there is anything left to eat in this howling desert of a london. if ever any man was bored to death and sick of it, i am this day. twenty-four hours more of it, and i should chuck myself into the serpentine! i never spent such a day----" he stopped suddenly, for he became conscious that leonard was standing, looking down at him with a grave and earnest regard. "what's the matter, old man?" he asked. leonard hesitated. "jack," he said, at last, "moss has been here." "oh, has he?" said jack, carelessly. "yes, and there is trouble about. he is pressing for his money." "what!" exclaimed jack. leonard nodded. "yes, he means mischief; he made quite a fuss here. said he had a heavy claim to meet----" "oh, i know that old yarn." "and that he must and would have money to meet those bills of yours." jack looked grave. "did he mean it?" "yes," said leonard. "thanks to you, i know mr. levy moss by this time, and i am sure he was in earnest." "confound him!" muttered jack. "confounding him won't pay him," said leonard, sensibly. jack rose and paced the room. "what am i to do, len?" "i don't know," said leonard. "if i could help you--but all i have wouldn't meet one bill." "and i wouldn't take it if it would," said jack. "but i can't understand it! only last week he was bothering me to take a hundred or two." leonard shook his head. "all i can tell you is, that he was simply furious. he said that he must and would have some money, that if you did not pay him he would----" "well?" said jack, grimly. "that he would put you through the court," said leonard. jack turned pale. "what am i to do?" he said. "i have been relying on the commissionership that stephen promised, and moss seemed quite willing to wait. i can't find any money." leonard shook his head. "the man was furious. worse than i have ever seen him. you will have to find some money somewhere. how much do you owe him?" jack tilted his hat on one side and scratched his head. "hanged if i know. he has let me have a great deal lately. five hundred, perhaps." "jack, you have been a fool," said leonard. "i told you that it was no use counting upon the place your cousin stephen promised you." "i don't so much care for myself, but una, una," said jack, with a groan. then he jumped up. "let us go and get some dinner, and think it over." they went to a well-known house in strand, and jack, careless jack, ordered a dinner fit for a prince, and enjoyed it as he would have enjoyed it if he had been going to be hanged on the morrow. "i don't understand moss," he said. "he was everything that was agreeable and pleasant a few days ago." "and today he was like a wolf hunting for a bone," said leonard. "hello, who's this?" for a gentleman had entered the dining-room and approached their table. "why, it's stephen!" exclaimed jack, forgetting moss in a moment. "just in time, stephen, we'll have another bottle of claret up. what on earth brings you to town? and how is--how are they all?" stephen sat down with a grave smile, and just sipped the claret, the best the house had on its list. and he sat and talked till the wine was finished, the greater part of which jack drank, then he said: "jack, i want you to come to my chambers; i have something to tell you." "all right," said jack. "leonard can find his way home very well." stephen called a hansom, and they were rattled away to the albany. as they ascended the stairs, stephen laid his hand on jack's arm. "jack, i am sorry to say i have bad news for you. you will be calm." "bad news!" said jack, and his heart stood still. "what is it? una----" "yes," said stephen; "it is about una. you will be calm, my dear jack?" jack leaned against the balustrade and drew a long breath. "is she ill--dead?" he gasped. "neither," said stephen. "come, be a man." "i am ready," said jack. "if she is neither ill nor dead i can bear anything else." stephen opened the door, and jack, entering, saw gideon rolfe standing on the hearthrug. "mr. rolfe!" he exclaimed. "how do you do? i am very glad to see you!" and he held out his hand. gideon rolfe nodded and turned aside. "what is it? what is the matter?" asked jack, turning to stephen, who had carefully closed the door and stood with knitted brow and sad countenance. at jack's question he glanced at rolfe, and then, with a sigh, said: "yes, jack, i will tell you. it will come better from me than mr. rolfe. jack, you were right in suspecting that the business referred to una. she is quite well--and happy. but--but i am afraid your engagement must cease." at this, jack's calmness came back to him, and with something like a smile, he said, scornfully: "indeed!" "yes," said gideon rolfe, but stephen held up his hand and silenced him. "perhaps you will tell me for what reason?" said jack, quietly. "for a sad, very sad reason," said stephen, in a subdued and mournful tone. "jack, my heart bleeds for you----" "never mind your heart," said jack, curtly. "come to the point, stephen." "i sympathize with you deeply," continued stephen, not at all affronted. "the fact is, mr. rolfe has tonight made a communication respecting our dear young friend, which has completely overwhelmed me----" "let me see if it will overwhelm me," said jack. "what is it?" "my dear jack, it is a story involving shame----" "shame!" echoed jack, and his brow darkened. "to whom?" "to those who can feel shame no longer," said stephen; "but alas! its shadow falls on a young life as innocent and pure as the angels." "on una?" demanded jack, fiercely. stephen bowed his head. "yes, jack. una is a nameless child--she is illegitimate." jack reeled and fell into a chair, and there he sat for a moment. "it is a lie!" he said at last. "it is true!" said the deep voice of gideon rolfe; and jack, fixing his startled eyes on the rough, ragged face, knew that it was the truth. with a groan he covered his face with his hands; then he started up and struck the table a blow that made stephen wince. "well," he exclaimed, with a short laugh--"well, what business is it of anyone's but mine and una's? what do i care whether she is illegitimate or not? let her be the daughter of whom she may, married or unmarried, it matters not to me. she _is_ una, and that is enough!" his voice rang out loud and clear as a bell's tone, and he looked from one to the other defiantly. "and now that is settled," he said, sternly. "let us come to particulars, to proof. mr. rolfe, though i know you are averse to our marriage, i believe you. i do not think you are capable of inventing a lie--a base, fiendish lie--to serve your ends. but all the same i ask, and not without reason, some proofs. first, who are una's parents?" gideon rolfe was about to reply, but a glance from stephen stopped him. "that is the question i have implored mr. rolfe to answer," he said. "i have entreated him to give us some information, but he declines. it is a secret which he says shall go down to the grave with him, unless----" "unless what?" demanded jack, hoarsely. "unless you are still determined to hold una to her engagement. then----" he paused, and jack looked from one to the other. "well?" "then he declares he will go to una and inform her of the shame that clings to her name." jack uttered a low cry and sank back in his chair. he saw by what heavy chains he was bound. to get possession of una he must inflict the agony of shame upon her. if ever a man loved truly and nobly jack loved una. he would have died the death to spare her a moment's pain; and here was this man threatening to darken and curse her whole life if he, jack, did not relinquish her. "are you human?" he said, turning his eyes upon gideon rolfe with a wild, hunted gaze. gideon rolfe smiled bitterly. "i am human enough to prevent this marriage." jack rose and confronted him. "i will not give her up," he said hoarsely. "i defy you!" "good!" said gideon rolfe. "then i go to the girl and acquaint her with the true story of her birth. if i know her--and i do--she has sufficient pride to prevent her staining so honorable a family as the davenants by marrying into it," and he sneered bitterly. jack's face flushed. "you professed to love her," he said. "are you totally indifferent to her happiness?" "no happiness could follow her union to one of your race," said gideon rolfe. stephen trembled. he was playing a dangerous and desperate game. a word from rolfe might put jack in possession of una's real parentage, and stephen would be ruined. "my dear jack," he said, sorrowfully, "i have besought mr. rolfe, almost on my knees, to hold his hand, but he is like stone--immovable." there was a pause. jack stood, his brain in a whirl, his heart beating wildly. his frenzied brain saw the whole thing clearly. on one side stood his passionate love and his life-long happiness, on the other una's shame and agony. "i love her so!" he moaned. "you say that you love her," said gideon rolfe, sternly. "prove it by saving her from the knowledge of the shame which clings to her name. if your love is worth anything it will make that sacrifice. remember, it is on your side only. she is young--a mere girl, a few weeks, months at most, and she will have learned to forget you." "that's a lie, at least," groaned jack. "i know her better than you." "no matter," said gideon rolfe, coldly. "time will heal a disappointed love; no time can heal an undying shame." jack rose and paced the room. "leave me alone for a few minutes," he said hoarsely. "i must think this out; nothing you can say can influence me." at a signal from stephen, gideon rolfe remained silent. five minutes passed and then jack came to the light. the handsome face was haggard and white and so changed that ten years might have passed over his head in those few minutes. "mr. rolfe," he said, and his voice was broken and hollow, "why you bear me such deadly enmity i cannot imagine, and you will not tell me?" gideon rolfe made a gesture of assent. "it is a mystery to me; i only know its results. once more i ask you to relent, and spare the unhappiness of both of us." "i am resolved," said gideon. "either relinquish her or i tell her all. the decision is in your hands. i do not doubt you will seize your happiness, even at the cost of her shame." "then you wrong me," said jack. "rather than she should know the shadow which hangs on her life i relinquish her." a light gleamed in stephen's eyes, and his lips twitched. "this i do," continued jack, in a voice so low and broken that it scarcely reached them, "placing implicit trust in your assertion that she is--as you state." he drew a long breath. "i dare not risk it; but if in the future i should find that you have played me false--if, i say, this should prove a lie, then i tell you beware, for, as there is a heaven above us, i will take my vengeance." "so be it," said gideon rolfe, grimly. "now write," and he pointed to a bureau on which stood pen and paper, as if prepared for use. jack started. "you will not take my word?" he said, bitterly. gideon rolfe hesitated; but, at a glance from stephen, said: "let the knowledge that the engagement is at an end come from you; it will be better so." jack went to the bureau and sank into a chair. yes, if the blow must be dealt it better be by his hands, as tenderly as possible. he sat for some moments with his head in his hands, as utterly oblivious of the presence of the others as if they were absent. before him rose the lovely face with its trustful eyes; in his ears rang the musical voice which he should never hear again. what should he write? why should he write? stephen stole behind him. "you will be careful to conceal the truth, my dear jack," he murmured. jack started, and turned upon him with a look that caused stephen to shrink back behind the table. "for what am i giving up what is most precious in life?" he said hoarsely. then in sheer despair he seized the pen, and wrote in a trembling hand: "my dearest:--since you left me, circumstances have occurred which have changed the current of both our lives. i dare not tell you more, but i pray, i beseech, you not to misjudge me. if you knew the position in which i am placed, you would understand why i am acting thus, and instead of condemning, pity me. una, from this moment our lives are separate. heaven send you happiness, and--as i know your true, loving heart--forgetfulness. i cannot tell you more--would to heaven that i could. from the first i have been unworthy of you; i am more unworthy now than ever. i dare not ask of you to remember me; forget me, una, forget that such a person as i ever crossed your path. would to heaven that we had never met! don't think hardly of me, my darling, whatever you may hear. what i am doing is as much for your good as for mine. good-bye. i shall never cease to remember and love you, whatever happens. good-bye! "jack." blotted and smeared, he enclosed it in an envelope, and dropped it before gideon rolfe; then he looked round for his hat. "a glass of wine, jack?" murmured stephen. but jack took no more notice than if he had been deaf, and seizing his hat staggered from the room. stephen drew a long breath. "well, mr. rolfe," he said, "we have conquered. as for this note, i will see that it is delivered at a proper opportunity." "good," said gideon rolfe; then he paused, and frowned sternly. "i am sorry for the young man." stephen smiled, and waved his hand. "a mere fancy," he said, lightly. "my dear jack is apt to take these matters as very serious, but he generally manages to get over them. and now what will you take to drink, mr. rolfe?" gideon rolfe waved his hand and put on his hat. "i leave the letter with you," he said. "good-night." stephen filled a wine glass with brandy, and drank it off, his hand shaking. then he eyed jack's letter curiously, and at last held the envelope over the steam of the hot water, and drew it apart. "a very sensible letter," he muttered, as he read. "ambiguous, but all the better for that. really, anyone reading this, would conclude that jack had made up his mind to marry lady bell, and was ashamed to say so." then he reclosed the envelope, and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just. meanwhile jack strode around the streets of london, his brain in a whirl, half mad with "the desperation of despair," as a poet has it. at last he reached home, and found the rooms dark and lonesome, and leonard in bed. he sat down and wrote a short note to lady bell, telling her that things had turned up which prevented him coming to earl's court--giving no reason, but just simply the fact. then he turned out, and he walked about till daylight. when he came in leonard was at breakfast, and stared aghast at jack's haggard face and changed appearance. "my dear old man," he commenced, but jack cut him short. "len, i'm the most miserable wretch in existence. don't ask me the why and the wherefore; but all is over between me and una." "impossible!" said leonard. "impossible, but true," retorted jack. "all is over between us, and if you value our friendship you will not mention her name again." "but----" said leonard. "enough," said jack. "i tell you that it is so." "moss has been here again," leonard said. "i don't care." "but, my dear fellow----" "i don't care," said jack, stolidly. "a hundred mosses wouldn't matter to me now. let him do his worst." "you don't know what his worst is," said leonard. "he has got you in his power." "all right," said jack, coolly. "let him exercise it to his uttermost." leonard had never seen jack like this. "listen to me," he said. "if moss does all he can do, he can expel you from any club in london, can make you an utter out-cast. come, jack, be reasonable." "i can't be reasonable!" retorted jack. "i am utterly ruined and undone. with una everything that is worth living for has gone. i care nothing for moss or anything he can do." chapter xxxiv. "in another hour he will be here," said una, as she stood at her dressing-room window, and looked out upon the lawns and park of hurst, where they stretched down toward the road. "another hour!" and at the thought, a smile--yet scarcely a smile, but a suitable light like a sun ray stole over her face. the great poet tennyson has, in one of his greatest poems, portrayed a girl who, all unconscious of the bitter moments awaiting her, decked herself in her brightest ribbons to receive her expected lover. bright ribbons are out of fashion now, but una had paid some, for her, extraordinary attention to her toilet. jack was never tired of calling her beautiful; had even gone so far as to speak of her loveliness, and it had raised no vanity in her; but this evening she felt she would like to appear really and truly beautiful in his eyes, so beautiful that even lady bell's spirited face should be forgotten. she had chosen the dress he liked best; had selected, with unusual care, a couple of flowers from the costly bouquet, which, morning and evening, was sent to her room from the hot-houses, and had decked herself in the locket and bracelet, and ring which jack had given her. mrs. davenant had made her many presents of jewelry, some of it costly, and even rare; but she would not wear anything but jack's own gifts tonight. "he will come fresh from lady bell's diamonds and sapphires, and would think little of mine, beautiful as they are; but he will like to see his locket and his bracelet, and will know that i love him best." not once, but twice and thrice she had moved from the window to the glass, and looked into it. not with any expression of pleased vanity, but rather with merciless criticism. for the first time, she would like to be as beautiful as jack thought her. for the last few days she had been rather silent, and somewhat pale. stephen's cunning hints respecting jack and lady bell had had their effect; but tonight's expectation, and the nearness of jack's approach, had brought a faint rose-like tint to her cheeks, and her eyes shone with the subtle light of love and hope. mrs. davenant looked up at her as she entered the drawing-room and smiled affectionately. "how well you look tonight, dear," she said, as she kissed her and drew her down beside her. "i'm inclined to believe jack, when he says that you grow more beautiful than ever." "hush," said una, but with a blush. "jack says so many foolish things, dear." "if he never said anything more foolish than that he would be a wise man," said mrs. davenant. "how long would he be now, dear?" una glanced at the clock. "just forty minutes," she said simply. mrs. davenant smiled and patted her hand. "counting the very minutes," she murmured, gently. "what a thing love is! what would life be without it?" "death," said una, with a grave smile. "worse than death." mrs. davenant sighed. "jack is a happy man," she said. "i wonder whether stephen will come down this evening?" "do you not know?" said una, absently. "no," replied mrs. davenant. "i thought, perhaps, he might have told you." "me!" said una, with open eyes. "oh, no. why should he?" "i didn't know," said mrs. davenant, quietly. "he tells you everything, i think." una smiled. "he is very good and kind," she said, still a little absently. "oh, very kind. no one could have taken more trouble to make me happy." "yes, stephen likes to see you happy," said mrs. davenant, softly. "poor stephen!" and she sighed. but una heard neither the expression of pity nor the sigh. she had risen, and was moving about the room with that suppressed impatience which marks the one who wafts an expected joy. presently her quick ears heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and with a throbbing heart she looked at the clock. it wanted ten minutes to the appointed time for jack's arrival. with a quick flush of gratitude for his punctuality she moved to the door, and stole swiftly and softly to her own room, to regain composure. she heard the carriage pull up and go away to the stables--heard the hurried tread of footsteps in the marble hall--and then, with the faint flush grown into a full-blown blush, went downstairs and entered the drawing-room. a sudden shock of disappointment chilled her. stephen was standing before the fire warming his hands, but jack was not there. stephen, in the glass, saw her enter, saw the sudden start and disappearance of the warm flush, and turned to meet her. he looked tired, pale and worn, and the smile with which he met her was a singular one, one that would have been almost triumphant but for the expression of anxiety underlying it. "i have got back, you see," he said. "and are you quite well?" una murmured an inaudible response, and he went back to the fire and bent over it, warming his hands, his face grown, if anything, still paler. "how beautiful she looks!" he thought. "how beautiful! worth risking all for--all!" "won't you go up and dress, stephen?" said mrs. davenant. "there is a large fire in your room, and in jack's too; i have just been into both of them." "yes, yes," he said, not nervously, but with almost an absent air, and he left the room. "stephen looks tired," said mrs. davenant. "i'm afraid he has had some business that has worried him. i can always tell by his face." "i am very sorry," said una, gently. "yes, he did look tired and worried," she added, but with her eyes on the clock. the hands went round to the hour--an hour beyond jack's time--and the butler announced dinner. "oh, we will wait a little while for mr. newcombe!" said mrs. davenant, but una, with a little flush, murmured: "no, do not, please; mr. davenant must want his dinner. please do not wait;" and mrs. davenant, never able to stand out against anyone's will, rose and put her arm in una's and they went into the dining-room. stephen followed and sat down without making any remark on jack's absence; even when mrs. davenant said to the butler--"let them be sure and keep the soup hot for mr. newcombe," stephen made no observation. dish after dish disappeared, and una made a faint pretence at eating as usual, and joined in the conversation between stephen and mrs. davenant, but her eyes were continually straying toward the clock, her ears straining for the sound of wheels or a galloping horse. the dinner was a thing of the past, and the soup had been kept hot in vain; no jack arrived. gradually silence had fallen on the three, and when mrs. davenant rose it was with a sigh of loving sympathy with the troubled heart that ached so near her own. "i cannot think what has kept him," she said, when they were alone together in the drawing-room. "if it were anyone but jack i should feel nervous--but even i cannot feel nervous about _him_. it is a plain, easy road from earl's court, and he rides like a--a centaur." "perhaps," said una, with her eyes fixed on the fire--"perhaps lady bell pressed him to stay to dinner, and he will be here presently." "that must be it," said mrs. davenant, hopefully. "he will come in directly, making a most tremendous noise, and raging against whatever has been keeping him. jack's rages are dreadful while they last--they don't last long!" una smiled, and listened. stephen entered--so noiselessly that she almost started--and stooped over his mother. "there are some things in the breakfast room i brought from london, will you go and see to them?" mrs. davenant rose instantly. "una, dear," she said, "see to the tea, i will be back directly." una nodded, and sat down at the gypsy table. stephen stood beside the fire, one white hand stretched out to the blaze, his face turned toward her, his eyes watching her under their lowered lids. his heart beat nervously, the task before him seemed to overmaster him, and he shrank from it; with one hand he felt jack's letter, lying like an asp in his breast coat pocket. "there is a cold wind tonight," he said absently. "jack said the wind had gone round this morning." "jack," said una, raising her eyes, with a sudden flame of color in her face. "have you seen him? you have been to earl's court?" stephen frowned as if angry at making a slip. "no--no," he said with gentle hesitation. "no; i saw him in london. he is not at earl's court." "not at earl's court!" said una, with surprise. "how is that? oh, he is not ill?" and her breath came sharply. stephen turned to the fire, with knitted brow and compressed lip, and fidgeted with the poker. "no," he replied, slowly, and as if uncertain what to say--"he is not ill." "then why did he not go?" asked una. stephen remained silent; and still keeping her eyes fixed on his pale face, she rose and glided to his side. "you have something to tell me," she said, laying her hand on his arm, and speaking in a low, panting voice. "what is it? you will tell me, will you not? has anything happened to lady bell? is she at earl's court?" "yes, she is at earl's court," he said, almost bitterly, "and she is quite well, i believe." "then," said una, in a low voice, which she tried vainly to keep steady--"then it is something concerning jack. oh, why do you keep me in suspense?" her misery maddened him. "i will tell you that he is quite well," he said, almost sharply. "i left him in perfect health. i dined with him, and he made an excellent dinner." "you are angry with him! what has he done to make you angry?" she asked. he raised her hand, and let it fall with a gesture of noble indignation. "what has he done?" he repeated, as if to himself. "i can find no words to describe it adequately. my poor una!" and he turned to her, and laid his hand caressingly and pityingly on her arm. una, white and cold, was all unconscious of his touch. stephen drew her gently to a low seat, and stood over her, his hand resting with the same caressing pity on her arm. "yes, i must tell you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "would to heaven i had been spared the task. dear una! you will be calm--i know your brave spirit and true, courageous heart. you will summon all your strength to bear the blow it is left for me to deal you--me who would lay down my life to spare you a moment's pain!" she scarcely heeded him. her eyes, fixed on his face, were dilated with fear and dread, her lips white and apart with suspense. "tell me," she murmured. "it is something to do with jack?" "it is," he said. "it is." "he is dead!" she breathed. and her eyes closed, as a shudder ran through her frame. "would to heaven he had died, ere this night's work," said stephen, in a low, fierce voice. "no; i have told you the truth. i left him well and--heaven forgive him--happy." una drew a long breath, and smiled wearily. "what can you have to tell me about him that is so dreadful, if he is alive and happy?" "he is alive, but he must be dead to you, dear una," said stephen. "dead to me!" repeated una, as if the words had no meaning for her. "dead to me! i--i do not understand." then, as he stood silent, with a look of gentle pity and sorrow on his pale face, a sharp expression of apprehension flashed across her face. "say that again," she said. "you--you mean to tell me that he has left me?" stephen lowered his head. una was silent, while the clock ticked three, then three words came swiftly and sharply from her white lips: "it is false!" stephen started. "would to heaven it were," he murmured. "gone! left me without a word," said una, with a smile of scorn. "can you ask--can you expect me to believe it?" "no," said stephen. "no one would believe such base and hideous treachery without proof." "proof!" she echoed, faintly, and with sudden sinking of the heart. "proof! give it to me!" stephen drew the letter from his pocket slowly and reluctantly. una saw it and shivered. "it is from him; give it to me," she said. and she held out her hand. stephen took it in his, and held it for a moment. "wait--for heaven's sake wait," he murmured, with agitation. "i meant to break it to you--to explain----" "give it to me," was all she said, and she shook his hand off impatiently. "take it," said stephen, with a tremor in his voice, "take it, and would to heaven he had found some other messenger to bear it." una took the letter and slowly but steadily carried it to another part of the room. there she stood and looked at it as if she were waiting to gain strength to open it. at last, after what seemed an eternity to stephen, who was watching her in the glass, she broke open the envelope and read. not twice, but thrice she read it, as if she meant to engrave every line on her heart, then she thrust the letter in her bosom and came back to the fire. stephen turned, and with a low cry of alarm at sight of her altered face, moved toward her; but she put up her hand to keep him back. altered! not only in face but in bravery. a minute ago she had been a gentle-hearted, suffering, tortured girl, now she was an injured, deserted woman. "thanks," she said, and the words fell like ice from her lips. "you spoke of an explanation. will you tell me all you know, stephen?" "pray--not now," he murmured. "tomorrow----" but she stopped him with a smile, awful to see in its utter despair and unnatural calmness. "now, please." "it--it is too easy of explanation," said stephen hoarsely. "he was tempted and he has fallen. he has bartered his honor for gold. ask me no more." una drew a long breath. "it is needless," she said. "you mean that he has left me, because i am poor, for lady earlsley, who can make him rich." stephen turned away and sighed heavily. una looked at him for a moment, then sat down at the tea-table. "you will have some tea?" she said calmly. stephen started and looked at her. she had taken up the cream ewer with an unfaltering hand. great heaven! could it be possible that she did not feel it--that she did not really love jack after all! a wild feeling of exultation rose within his heart. "thank heaven!" he murmured, "you can meet such treachery as it deserves--with scorn and contempt." she looked up at him with a strange smile on her cold, white face, and held out a tea-cup. but as he came near her, the cup dropped from her hand with a crash, and she fell back like one stricken unto death. * * * * * that same evening, lady bell stood in the drawing-room of earl's court. she was richly dressed, more richly than was usual with her; upon her white neck and arms sparkled the diamond set which she wore only on the most special occasions. the room was full. four or five of the country families had been dining with her, and the buzz of conversation and sound of music rose and fell together confusedly. surrounded, as usual, by a little circle of courtiers, she reigned, by the right of her beauty, her birth, and her wealth, a queen of society. brilliant and witty she, so to speak, kept her devoted adherents at bay, her beautiful face lit up with the smile which so many found so falsely fascinating, her eyes shining like the gems in her hair. never had she appeared so beautiful, so irresistible. regarding her even most critically one would have assented to the proposition that certainly if any woman in the world was happy that night it was lady isabel earlsley. and yet beneath all her brilliance lady bell was hiding an aching heart. half the country was there at her feet, and only one of all her invited guests absent, and he a poor, tireless, ne'er-do-well. but lady bell would willingly, joyfully have exchanged them all for that one man, for that scapegrace with the bold, handsome face and frank, fearless eyes. since mid-day she had been expecting him. like una, her eyes had wandered to the clock, and she had told the minutes over; but he had not come, and now, with that false gayety of despair, she was striving, fighting hard to forget him. but her eyes and ears refused to obey her will, and were still watching and waiting, and suddenly her glance, wandering over her fan, saw a figure standing in the doorway. it was not a man's, it was that of laura treherne's--mary burns. not one of them around her noticed any difference in her smile or guessed why she dismissed them so easily and naturally. she did not even march straight for the door, but making a circuit, gradually reached the hall. pale and calm and self-possessed as usual, the strange maid was waiting for her. "well!" said lady bell, and her voice was scarcely above a whisper. "has--has he come?" "no," said laura treherne. "but though your ladyship told me only to let you know of mr. newcombe's arrival, i thought it best to bring you this letter." lady bell almost snatched it from her hand. "you did right," she said. with trembling hands she broke open the envelope, not noting that it opened easily as if it had been tampered with, and read the note. "dear lady bell--i am sorry i cannot come as arranged. i am in great trouble, and cannot leave london. "yours truly, "jack newcombe." lady bell looked at the few lines for full a minute, then she pressed the letter to her lips. as she did so, she saw that the slight figure in its dark dress was still standing in front of her, and she started. "why are you waiting?" she said angrily. laura treherne turned to go, but lady bell called to her. "wait. i beg your pardon. i am going to london tomorrow by the first train. will you have everything ready?" laura treherne bowed. "yes, my lady." "and--and--you need not sit up," said lady bell. "thanks, my lady," was the calm response. and the dim figure disappeared in the distance. chapter xxxv. christmas was near at hand; but notwithstanding that nearly everybody who had a country house, or an invitation to one, was away in the shires, london was by no means empty. there were still "chariots and horsemen" in the park; and the clubs were pretty well frequented. not a few have come to the conclusion that after all london is at its best and cheerfulest in mid-winter; and that plum pudding and roast beef can be enjoyed in a london square as well, if not better, than in the country. among these was lady bell. although she had two or three country houses which she might have filled with guests, she, for sundry reasons, preferred to remain in park lane. perhaps, like leonard dagle, she thought that there was no place like london. he would have his idea that there was no place in it like spider court. spring, summer, autumn, and winter, with perhaps, just a short interregnum of a fortnight in summer, leonard stuck to spider court; and on this winter evening he was sitting in his accustomed place, busily driving the pen. there was a certain change about leonard which was worthy of remark. he looked, not older than we saw him last, but younger. in place of the weary, abstracted air, which had settled upon him during the long months of the search of laura treherne, there was an expression of hopefulness and energy which was distinctly palpable. the room too looked changed. it was neater and less muddled; and though the boxing gloves and portraits of actresses and fair ladies of the ballet still adorned the walls, the floor and chairs were no longer lumbered with jack's boots and gloves, cigar boxes, and other impedimenta. perhaps leonard missed these untidy objects, for he was wont to look up from his work and round the room with a sigh, and not seldom would rise and stalk into the bed-room beyond his own; the bed-room which jack kept in a similar litter, but which now was neat and tidy--and unoccupied. at such times leonard would sigh and murmur to himself, "poor jack!" and betaking himself to his writing desk again would pull out a locket and gaze long and earnestly on a face enshrined therein, a face which strikingly resembled that of laura treherne, and so would gain comfort and fall to work again. tonight, he had wandered into the unoccupied room and had glanced at the portrait two or three times, for he felt lonely and would have given a five-pound note to hear jack's tread upon the stairs, and his voice shouting for the housekeeper to bring him hot water. "poor jack!" he murmured, "where is he now?" for some months had elapsed since he had found a few lines of sad farewell from jack lying on his writing desk, but pregnant with despair and reckless helplessness. and jack had gone whither not even mr. levy moss, who sought him far and wide, could discover; and not mr. moss alone, but lady bell earlsley; fast as she had traveled from earl's court to london, she arrived too late to see jack, too late to learn from his lips the nature of the trouble which he had spoken of in his short note to her. and from leonard even, she could not learn much. he could only tell her that jack and una's engagement was broken off, and by jack himself, but for what reason he could not tell or guess. and with that lady bell had to be, not content, but patient. "you were his dearest friend," she said to leonard, "can you not guess where he has gone?" and leonard had shaken his head sorrowfully. "i cannot even guess. he was utterly miserable and reckless; he once spoke, half in jest, of enlisting. he was in great trouble." "money trouble?" lady bell had asked. "money trouble," assented len, and lady bell had sunk into leonard's chair and wrung her white hands. "money! money! how i hate the word! and here i am with more of the vile stuff than i know what to do with!" "that would make no difference to jack," leonard said, quietly; and lady bell had sighed--she almost sobbed--and gone on her way as near broken-hearted as a woman could be. and then she had sought for him as openly as she dared, but with no result, save discovering that there were hundreds of young men who answered to jack's description, and who were all indignant when they applied in response to the advertisements and found that they were not the men wanted. and so the months had rolled on, and the "savage" was nearly forgotten at the club, excepting at odd times when hetley or dalrymple remembered how well he used to tool a team to the "sheaves," or row stroke in a scratch eight. my friend, if you want to find out of how little importance you are in your little world, disappear for a few months, and when you come back you will find that your place has been excellently well filled, excepting in the hearts of the one or two faithful men and women who loved you. the world went on very well without jack, and only two or three hearts ached, really ached, at his absence--len, honest len, in his den in spider court; lady bell, in park lane; and that other tender, loving, and tortured heart in the old new house at hurst. leonard often thought of that tender heart, and sighed over it as he sighed for jack. it was still a mystery to him, their separation; he knew that una was still at the hurst, but that was all. no news of her ever reached him. at times he ran across stephen in london, and exchanged a word or a bow with him, and had noticed that he was looking better and sleeker, and less pale--more flourishing in fact, than he had done for some time. he, too had come to spider court, and expressed profound grief at jack's disappearance, and had gone away after wringing leonard's hand sympathetically. leonard sat thinking over this far more than was good to the work he had in hand, when he heard the door open, and half starting, said absently: "nothing more wanted tonight, mrs. brown." but a step, certainly not mrs. brown's, crossed the room, and a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw jack's face above him. "jack!" he exclaimed, clutching him as if he expected to see him disappear again. "it is you, really you? great heaven!" there was reason for the exclamation; for though it was jack, he was so altered as to have rendered the description of him in the advertisements quite useless. thin, pale, careworn, it was no more the old jack than the living skeleton is daniel lambert. "great heaven! is it really you, jack?" "yes, it is i! what is left of me, len. you--you are looking well, old man. and the old room; how cheery it seems." and he laughed--the shadow of the old laugh--even more pitiable than tears. "for heaven's sake be quiet; don't speak just yet," said len, with a husky voice. "sit down. you've frightened me, jack. have you been ill?" "slightly," said jack, with a smile. "and where have you been? tell me all about it--no, don't tell me anything yet." and he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a stiff glass. "now, then, old man, where's the cigars? here--here's a light. now then--no; take off your boots. i'll tell mrs. brown to air the bed and get your dressing-gown. and what about supper?" and with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, len turned from the room. "staunch as a woman, tender as a man." it was a wise saying, whoever wrote it. jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar, and pulled himself together, which was just what len wanted to get him to do; and then len came back. "now then, old man, out with it. where have you been?" "i've been to america," said jack. "don't ask me any particulars, len; i wouldn't tell you much if you did. i've been nearly out of my mind half the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. you won't get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article, old man." and he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage. "great heaven!" exclaimed len, again; "and--and is that all?" "that's all it amounts to," said jack, wearily. "you want to know how i came back, and why? well, i can scarcely tell why. i got so sick of trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that i got disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that it would be better to come and give levy moss his revenge. he's still alive, i hope?" "and you got back?" said len. "i worked my passage over," said jack, curtly. "i was a bad hand, and caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull myself together to reach london, and here i am. not very lucid, len, is it? but there's no more to tell." leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of whisky. "poor old jack," he murmured. "and now it's your turn," said jack, lighting another cigar. "tell me all the news, len, about yourself first. how are hetley, and dalrymple, and the rest of them? but yourself first, len. you look well--better than when i left. things have gone right with you." "then you have not forgotten?" said len, gratefully. "it is not likely," he said, quietly. "i have thought of you many a night as i lay burning with that confounded fever. are you married?" and he looked round the room as if he expected to see mrs. dagle in some dim corner. leonard blushed. "nonsense! no, jack, i'm not married. but--i'm very happy, old man--should have been quite happy, but for missing you." jack nodded. "i'm glad of that. glad it has all worked round, and that you have missed me, too. where is she--laura treherne? you see i remember her name." leonard hesitated, and looked troubled. "i--i'm afraid i mustn't tell you. you see, jack, there's still some kind of mystery hanging about this love affair of mine. it is laura's wish that i should keep silent as to her whereabouts. i give you my word i don't understand why. but i don't want to talk of myself and my affairs, jack. there is something and someone else you want to hear about." jack looked up with a sudden start, and held up his hand. "no, not a word!" he said. "don't tell me a word. i--that affair is over--dead and buried. don't speak her name, len, for heaven's sake. let that rest forever between us." len sighed. "tell me more about yourself," said jack, impatiently, as if anxious to get away from the other subject. "there is some mystery, secret, you say." "yes," said leonard, humoring him, "there is a mystery and secret, which, much as i love her, and i hope and believe she loves me, laura will not trust--well, i will not say 'trust'--which she does not feel authorized to confide to me." "i remember," said jack, "your telling me that she had some task, or mission, or something to accomplish--sounds strange." "yes," said leonard, with a sigh, "and that mission is still unaccomplished, and blocks the marriage. but i am content to wait and trust, and i am happy." jack sighed. "you deserve to be, old fellow!" he said. "no, i don't!" exclaimed leonard, remorsefully, "for flaunting my happiness in your face, jack. and now, here's the supper," he added, as a waiter from a neighboring chop-house brought in a tray. jack sat down, and leonard waited upon him, hanging over him, and watching him as if every mouthful he ate did him, leonard, good; meanwhile chatting cheerfully. "london pretty full, jack; lots of people up this year." "yes," said jack, then he looked up. "i suppose i shan't be able to show up, because of moss, len?" "oh, he won't know you are here! and we'll cut it. we'll go down to the country somewhere, jack, before anyone sees you. you haven't met anyone, have you?" "met them, no. but i have seen stephen." "stephen davenant?" "yes, i saw him, but i don't think he saw me. he is looking well." leonard nodded. "he did not see you--but it wouldn't have mattered." "no," said jack, with a sigh. "len, this is the first 'square meal,' as they say over the sea, that i've enjoyed since i left. i'm very tired." "i can see that," said leonard. "go off to bed, old man. we'll have no more questions tonight." jack rose and took his candle. "yes, one more," he said, as he held leonard's hand, tightly. "is--is she well, len?" leonard nodded. "yes, i think so----" "that's all," said jack, resolutely. "good-night, len, good-night," and he turned away quickly. leonard stole into jack's room several times that night and looked down upon the tired, weary face, still handsome for all its lines and haggardness, handsomer some might have thought, for suffering sets a seal of dignity upon a man's face if there be sterling stuff in him. leonard looked down at it pityingly. "poor old man; he has had a hard time of it if any man has." jack turned up at breakfast time looking much refreshed. "first good night's rest i've had since--oh, too long to remember, len. dreamed that all that has happened was only a dream, and that i was waking up and going to see----" he broke off suddenly and sighed. leonard was delighted to see him so much better. "we'll leave town directly, jack," he said. "i've just done my usual batch of work, and am free. we'll spend our christmas at some old inn----" jack looked at him gratefully. "you're a staunch old man, len," he said, quietly. "you'd sacrifice your sweetheart to your friend." len colored. "i'm sure she'd be the first to urge us to go," he said. "laura is so unselfish." "she shan't be sacrificed for me," said jack. "no, len, i'll go off by myself, before anyone knows i'm back--hallo! what's that?" it was a footstep on the stairs, len motioned for jack to retreat into the bedroom, and only just in time, for, barely stopping to knock, mr. levy moss opened the door. chapter xxxvi. "good-morning, mr. dagle," said moss, his eyes roaming about the room. "here i am again, you see, mr. dagle; and where is mr. newcombe? he's here, i know." "if you know so much you've no need to ask," said leonard. "who told you he was here?" levy moss winked one bleared eye cunningly. "i'm smart, mr. dagle; i keep my eyes open and my feet a-moving." "just so," said leonard, "and if you'll be good enough to move them out of my room i shall be obliged. please observe that these are _my_ rooms, mr. moss, and not mr. newcombe's, and that i am not desirous of further visits from you." "you're sharp, too, mr. dagle," said moss; "but mr. newcombe's here; you don't want two cups and saucers, and two plates, you know, for your breakfast, eh?" "get out!" said len, who, when he was roused was, like most quiet men, rather hot-headed. "get out! and, by the way, if you meet mr. newcombe, i'd advise you to keep clear of him; he's back from america and carries two revolvers and a bowie knife, and i needn't tell you, who know him so well, that he'd as soon put a bullet through your head or stick the knife in between your ribs as look at you--far rather, perhaps." moss turned pale. "i hope mr. jack won't do anything rash." "i won't answer for him. they don't think much of killing your sort of people on the other side, moss. get out," and mr. moss shuffled out; leonard bolting the door after him. jack came in and sat down quietly and gravely. "i've frightened him," said leonard, smiling. "he'll keep clear of you for a day or two. but how did he know you were back? he couldn't have been keeping watch for all these months." "i don't know; someone must have seen me, and told him; i don't know who, len. i'm going out." "now, jack?" said leonard, fearfully. jack smiled. "no, len; i won't cut it again without telling you and saying 'good-by.' i'm only going for a walk; and i'll be back to dinner." leonard looked after him, still rather anxiously; there was a look of determination on the pale, thoughtful face which alarmed him. jack walked to regent street--please mark that he didn't call a hansom; though len had pressed some money upon him--and then into piccadilly, and still with the thoughtful look of determination on his face, into park lane, and ascended the steps of lady bell's villa. a footman, who knew not jack, opened the door, and jack, who had not any cards, gave his name, which the footman gave to lady bell's maid as "mr. bluecut." jack walked into the drawing-room, every article of which was familiar to him; and sat down in the chair which he had so often drawn close to lady bell's, only a few months back; and yet how long, long ago it seemed. presently the door opened, and lady bell came in. he saw her in the glass before she saw him. tastefully and simply dressed, she looked, if anything, more beautiful than ever, but not so bright and restless; jack noticed that. there was an undefinable change about her, just as if she had gone through some trouble, or had done battle with some grief. suddenly she looked round and saw him, and stopped; one hand holding a chair, her face going from white to crimson. jack rose. "i've startled you; i'm very sorry." lady bell recovered herself, and went to him with outstretched hand and a look in her dark eyes that she tried to keep out of them. "jack," she said, almost involuntarily. "yes, it's i; like the bad penny, back again, lady bell." and he sat down and laughed. she sank into a chair beside him, and looked at his careworn face. "where have you been?" she asked, softly. "to america," said jack. "you have been ill?" she said, still more softly. jack nodded. "yes. i'm all right now. and you? you don't look quite the thing?" "do i not?" she said, with a smile. "i am quite well. and is that all you are going to tell me of your wanderings?" "no. i'll tell you everything some other time," said jack, quietly. "you are not going away again, then?" she asked, looking at him, and then away from him. jack flushed. "that depends," he said, quietly. "depends on what?" she asked. "on you," he said. lady bell started, and the crimson flush flooded her face and neck. her lips trembled, and she looked away. "on me?" she murmured, faintly. "on you," said jack, earnestly. "lady bell, i have come back to ask you to be my wife." she was silent; her face turned from him, so that he could not see the tears that welled up in her eyes. jack took her hand. "lady bell, i know that i am not worthy of you--know it quite well. there isn't a man in the world who is; i, least of all. i know, too, what the world would say if you should answer 'yes.' it will impute all sorts of base motives to me. but, as heaven is my witness, it is not for your wealth that i ask you to be my wife. i am poor, and in all sorts of trouble; but if you were poorer than i am i would still ask you." "you would?" she murmured. "yes," he said, quietly. "yes, i can say that, though i tell you in the same breath that i am, at this moment, being hunted for money. and i think you will believe me." she made a gesture of assent with her hand. "dear lady bell," he continued, "during the last few months i have been looking back to those happy days we spent together; and when a man's down with the fever he looks back with keen and wise insight into the turn of things, and knows when he was happy in the past, and with whom; and i swore that, if ever i pulled through and got back, i would ask you if you did not think we might be as happy in the future as in the past. dear bell, i would try and make you happy. will you be my wife?" trembling in every limb, she sat silent, and with averted face. then, suddenly and yet slowly, she turned her eyes upon him--eyes full of ineffable love and sadness. slowly, softly, she put her other hand in his, and smiled at him. "you ask me to be your wife, jack?" "i do," he said. "your answer, dear bell?" "is--no," she said. jack started, and his eyes fell before the deep love and tenderness in hers. he would have drawn his hand away, but she still held it gently. "do you ask me why, jack? i will tell you. it is because you do not love me." he looked up with a start, and turned pale. lady bell shook her head gently. "do not speak--it is useless. besides, you would not tell me a lie, jack. listen; i, too, have been looking back; i, too, have learned a lesson--a truth--while you have been away. and that truth is, that others may love as truly and deeply as myself; and that others may find it as impossible to forget----" jack, pale and agitated, stopped her. "the past is buried," he said, hoarsely--"let it rest." "it is not buried--it cannot be. see! it revives--springs up, even without the mention of her name. jack, you do not love me--you cannot; for all your love has been given, is still given, to una." "for heaven's sake!" he implored, rising and pacing the room. lady bell looked at him. "ah, how you love her still, jack! see how right i was; and yet you would come to me." and the tears fall slowly. "forgive me," said jack, bending over her humbly, imploringly--"forgive me! you--you are right. but i swear i thought it was over for me. you knew me better than i knew myself." "yes, for a good reason, jack," she murmured; "for i love you." jack winced. "i have been a brute!" he murmured. "no, jack," she said--and she put her hand on his arm and looked up at him with a smile--"you meant well and honestly. you did not know how it stood with you. i could not have loved you so well if you had been false--if you had forgotten her. i have been thinking it out, jack; and i know now that to love once--as you and i love--is to love forever." "but it is past," he said, "utterly, irrevocably past. you do not know the barrier that stands immovably between her and me." "do i not?" she murmured, inaudibly. "be it what it will, your love and hers stand firm on either side of it. but no more of that, jack. i am glad you have come to me--very, very glad. and though i cannot be your wife, jack"--with what tenderness and sadness those two words were breathed--"i can be your friend. i want you to promise me something." jack pressed her hand. he could not trust himself to speak. "i want you to promise that you will not go away again, that you will not leave london whatever happens--mind, whatever happens--without letting me know! i may ask that much, jack?" "you may ask anything," he said, huskily; "i will do anything you ask of me--simply anything." "i think you would," she said. "then i have your promise? and, jack, this must make no difference between us; you will come and see me?" "i do not deserve to come within a mile of you." she smiled. "and so punish me for not saying 'yes,'" she said, with a little attempt at archness. "that would be hard for me, jack. i should lose lover and friend as well." "you are the truest-hearted woman in the world," said jack, deeply moved. "except one," said lady bell. "there, go now, jack, and come to dinner tonight, and bring leonard dagle with you--another true heart." "i will," said jack, simply. and he held out his hand. she held out both of hers, and looked at him with a strange, wistful yearning in her eyes. "jack," she breathed, softly, "will you kiss me for the first and last time?" jack drew her toward him and kissed her. then, with a little sigh, she left him. how jack got out he knew not, for his eyes were strangely dim and useless. chapter xxxvii. a dim light was burning in the drawing-room of the hurst. outside, the storm was raging wild and pitiless, making the warm room seem like a harbor of refuge. beside the fire sat mrs. davenant, half dozing over a piece of finest needlework for the village working club. she was alone in the room, and every now and then glanced anxiously toward the door. presently it opened, and the tall figure of stephen entered and crossed over to her. "mother," he said, and there was a tremulous ring in his voice and a quiver in his lips that were in marked contrast to his usual smooth calm. mrs. davenant looked up with a glance of alarm. "una!" she exclaimed. "hush!" he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. "una," and his voice dwelt on the name. "una is asleep. she has gone to her own room for a little while. mother," he said, slowly, "she has consented." mrs. davenant looked up and trembled: "oh, stephen!" he nodded, and stood before the fire, looking up with a smile of undisguised triumph and joy. "yes, she has consented. it was--well, hard work; but my love overmastered her. i told her that you agreed with me that the sooner the marriage took place the better. you do, do you not?" "yes," murmured mrs. davenant. "she wants change; nothing but entire change of life and thought will do her good. mother, if she remained here, if something were not done, she would"--he paused, and went on hoarsely, "she would die!" mrs. davenant shuddered and her eyes filled. "my poor, poor una!" she murmured. stephen moved impatiently. "she will not need your pity, mother. a few weeks hence and you will have no reason to pity her. i'll stake my life that i bring her back here with the roses in her cheeks, with the smile in her eyes, as of old. mother, you do not know what such love as mine can do!" and his voice trembled with suppressed passion. mrs. davenant looked up at him, tearfully. "you--you are much changed, stephen," she murmured. "i am," he said, with a curt laugh. "i am changed, am i not? i scarcely know myself. and she has done it. she! my beautiful queen, my lily! yes, she shall be happy, if man can make her." he was silent a moment, dwelling on his love and future, and looked, as he spoke, much changed. then he awoke at a question from his mother. "when is it to be, stephen?" "tomorrow," he said, quietly. "tomorrow!" gasped. mrs. davenant. "impossible!" "not at all," he said, curtly. "remember, i told you not to be surprised, that it would come suddenly." "but----" he made a movement of impatience. "do you think i have not made preparations? see," and he took a paper from his pocket, "i have had the license for a week past. it is no ordinary marriage. we want no bridesmaid and wedding favors. she would not have them--or me, if you insisted upon it. it is principally on the condition that the ceremony shall be quite private--secret almost--that she has consented." mrs. davenant stared at the fire. stephen smiled. "you do not understand me, even yet, mother," he said. "did you ever know anything fail me?" mrs. davenant shuddered, or was it the play of the fire-light? "never," she said, in a low voice. stephen smiled again. "i have seen this coming, have seen my way to it for months past; i have swept every barrier away----" he stopped suddenly and bit his lip--"and now for our plans, mother. try and collect yourself; this has surprised and upset you," he said, sharply. mrs. davenant sat up and looked at him attentively. "tomorrow we start, without fuss or bother, for clumley. i have ordered them to take a pair of horses to the half-way house, so that we can change without loss of time. i have also sent a letter to the clergyman telling him to be prepared for us, and keep his own counsel. we shall reach clumley, traveling easily, by half-past ten. there will be no wedding breakfast--thank heaven! no fuss or ceremony. we shall go straight from the church to london, and thence to paris. excepting ourselves and clergyman no one can know anything of the matter until the marriage is over, then----" and he drew a long breath and smiled. mrs. davenant, pale and trembling, stared up at him. "and--and una? does she agree to all this?" "una agrees to everything," he said, impatiently. "she herself stipulated that it should be done quietly, and"--with a smile--"if this is not quietly, i do not know what is. and now, my dear mother, go and make what preparations are absolutely necessary, and make them yourself, and unaided. remember there must be no approach to any wedding party. we are only going to take an outing for a day or two. you understand?" "i understand," she faltered; "and when will you be back, stephen?" she asked, pitiably. "i--i--you won't be away long, stephen? i shall miss her so." stephen patted her on the shoulder. "don't be afraid, mother. we shall not be away too long. i am too proud of my beautiful bride to hide her away. i want to see her here, mistress of the hurst. my wife! my wife! hush! here she comes. do not upset her." and, with a quick, noiseless step, he went out as una entered. framed in the doorway, she stood for a moment like a picture. paler and slighter than in the old days, she had lost none of her beauty. stephen had cause to be proud of his bride. there would be no lovelier woman in wealdshire than the future mistress of the hurst. and yet, if jack could have seen her that moment, what agony her face would have cost him; for his eyes, quickened by his passionate love, would have read and understood that subtle change that had fallen on the beautiful face; would have read the settled melancholy which sat enthroned on the dark eyes, and gave them the dreamy, far-away look which never left them for a moment. "communing with the past, she walked; alive, yet dead to all the world." slowly she crossed the room, and stood just where stephen had stood, and looked into the fire; but not as he had looked--triumphantly, joyfully; but with an absent, dreamy air. mrs. davenant put out her hand, and touched her arm. "una!" she turned her head, and looked at her questioningly, with a weary, uninterested gaze. "una, he--stephen has told me. oh, my darling, i hope you will be happy!" una smiled--a cold, mechanical smile. "happy? yes, he says i shall be happy. do you think," and she looked calmly at the anxious, nervous face, "do you think i shall be happy?" mrs. davenant drew her toward her. "my dear, you frighten me. you--you are so--so strange and cold. cold! your hands are like ice. oh, una, do you know what it means--this that you are going to do? it is not too late. think, una. you know how i love you, dear. that i would give all the world to call you--what you are, my heart of hearts--my own daughter. but, oh, una! if you think, if you are not quite sure that you will be happy----" una looked straight at the fire. "he says so," she said, in the same hard, cold voice; "he is clever and wise. he is your son; why do you doubt him?" mrs. davenant shivered. "i--i don't doubt him, dear. yes, he is my son; he has been a good son to me. but you are to be his wife; think." "i have thought," said una, quietly. "it will make him happy--he says so; and the rest does not matter to me. yes, i have thought; i am tired with thinking"; and she put her hand to her brow with a sharp gesture, half wild, half weary. "i will make him happy, and i shall always be with you, whom i love. what does the rest matter?" mrs. davenant uttered a little moan. "and--and have you quite forgotten?" una looked at her calmly, but with a faint shadow in her eyes and a touch of pain on her lips. "forgotten! no, i shall not forget until i am dead; perhaps not then; who knows?" and the dreamy look came back. "but that cannot matter. he, stephen, is content; i have told him all, and he is content. he is easily satisfied." and for the first time a smile of bitterness crossed her lips. "why should he love me so?" she said, curtly. "why should he be so anxious to make me his wife? i cannot understand it. is it because he thinks that i am beautiful? i looked in the glass just now, and it seemed a dead face." "una!" she turned and smiled. "it is true. but i have made you cry. don't do that, dear. at least, we shall be together, shall we not?" in answer, the poor woman took her in her arms, and cried over her; but una shed not a single tear. no, stephen was not likely to fail. there were not likely to be any hitches in anything he undertook. even the weather seemed to conform to his plans and wishes, for the morning broke clear and bright, so that he might say: "happy is the bride whom the sun shines on." without fuss or bustle, the traveling chariot, with its pair of handsome bays, drew up to the door; a couple of portmanteaus, no larger than was necessary for a day or two's outing, were put in the box; and slummers, in his tall hat and black overcoat, looking very much like the old-fashioned banker's clerk, stood with the carriage door in his hand. presently stephen came down the steps, dressed in a traveling suit, and looking as calm as usual, but for the touch of color in his face. he had grown younger in appearance, less prim and formal, and altogether better-looking. if he could have lost the trick of looking from under his lowered eyelids, he would have been worth calling handsome. he exchanged a word with slummers. "all right, sir. the horses are at netherton; everything is arranged exactly according to your wishes." "and no one suspects anything?" "not a soul," said slummers, with a smile. this morning's work was the sort of thing slummers liked. he was enjoying himself, and as happy as his master. stephen went into the house again, and presently mrs. davenant and una appeared. notwithstanding stephen's warning, mrs. davenant's eyes were red; but una showed no traces of emotion; pale, almost white, she looked calmly around her. in the night she had started out of her sleep, calling wildly, piteously, on jack to come and save her. but there was no jack here--only stephen, smiling and watchful as he came to meet her and help her into the carriage. for a moment her hand touched his bare wrist, and he felt it cold as ice even through her glove; but he smiled still as if he had no fear. "once mine," he thought, "and all will be well!" quietly, with no fuss or bustle, slummers closed the door, mounted the box, and the horses started off. stephen looked at his watch, and smiled. "punctual almost to the minute," he said. "are you warm enough, my darling?" and he bent forward, and arranged the costly furs round the slight form. "quite," she said; but she shrank into her corner with a little shiver. stephen left her to herself, but would not remain silent, chatting with, or rather to, mrs. davenant, in a strain of easy cheerfulness, his eyes wandering to the pale face just showing above the pile of furs. their hoofs ringing on the road, which a few hours of early frost had made hard, the horses, the finest pair in the county, for stephen was critical in such matters and liked the best, spun the distance, and again, almost punctual to the minute, the village of netherton, to which stephen had sent the change of horses, was reached. slummers stepped down from the box, and was seen to enter the inn yard. "the horses ought to be out and waiting," said stephen, with a little impatience. a moment or two passed, and then slummers came to the carriage door. stephen jumped out. "what is it? why do you not put the horses to?"--for the others had been taken out and were standing in the stable. slummers, for the first time in his life, changed color and hesitated. "there has been some mistake, sir." "mistake!" "the horses are not here." stephen glared at him. "i can't understand it, sir. i gave your orders most minutely, but george has taken the horses on to clumley." stephen bit his lip and glanced at the carriage. "put the others back," he said, "and tell masters to drive for his life." slummers hesitated and went to the coachman, coming back in a moment with an uneasy countenance. "i'm--i'm afraid they won't reach clumley in time, sir," he said. "masters says that it is impossible. calculating on fresh horses, he has forced them a bit on the road, and they are used up. if you will look at them, sir----" stephen uttered an oath, and his face twitched. the coachman came up, troubled but respectful. it was no fault of his. "i thought i should get the change here, sir. i couldn't do it, unless the horses had a quarter of an hour and a wipe down, and then----" he paused and shook his head. stephen controlled himself, though his face was white. "a quarter of an hour," he said. "we will wait so long, and not a moment longer. then drive as if your life depended on it. do not spare the horses." then he went to the carriage and forced a smile. "a little delay," he said, cheerfully. "would you like to get out for a quarter of an hour, darling?" una shook her head. "i do not care"; but mrs. davenant looked at her and spoke out. "yes, stephen," she said. "my dear, you are half frozen." stephen went to the window of the inn and looked into the room, then went back. "come," he said. "there is a pleasant fire. a rest and the warmth will do you good. come," and, wrapping a huge fur round her, he took her on his arm and entered the inn. mrs. davenant followed into the room. a fire was burning in the old-fashioned grate. stephen drew a chair near to the welcome blaze and led una to it. white and indifferent she sat and looked at the flames. "it is only for a few minutes, darling, then we shall be off. come, drink some of this," and he held a glass of hot spirit and water to her hand. una shook her head. "thanks, i could not," she said, simply. stephen motioned to his mother. "see that she takes some," he said, in a low voice. "i will go and look after the horses," and he turned. as he did so the door opened, and a lady entered. for a moment, in the dim light of the low room, stephen did not recognize her, then a chill fell on him as if a cold hand had laid on his heart. he staggered back, and then she raised her veil and looked at him. not a word passed. face to face, eye to eye, they stood. a moment passed. una had not looked round, only mrs. davenant stood speechless and trembling. then, as if with an effort, stephen regained possession of his quaking soul, and stole nearer to her. "laura," he whispered, glancing behind him. "you here? you want me? well, let us come outside." a smile, calm and scornful, flashed from her dark face. "you cannot pass," she said. a wild devil leaped, full grown, into his bosom, and he raised his hand to strike her, but the next instant he was grasped by the shoulder and flung aside, and gideon rolfe stood over him. the room whirled round; scarcely conscious that other figures had entered and surrounded him, he staggered to his feet. then a cry, two words, "father! jack!" smote upon his ear, and with an effort he turned and saw jack's tall form towering in the low room, with una clasped tightly, lying prone in his arms. it was all over. just as the criminal in the dock, when he sees the judge placing the black cap on his head, knows that his doom is sealed, stephen knew that all was lost. but the will was not all subdued yet. there was davenant blood in his veins. white to the very lips, he stood and glared at them, one hand grasping the table, the other thrust in his breast. then an evil smile curled the cunning mouth. "cleverly planned," he said, speaking as if every word cost him a pang. "you have beaten me, thus far. gideon rolfe, i congratulate you upon the success of your maneuvers; in another hour your daughter would have been the mistress of hurst; she will, now, i presume, be the wife of a beggar." gideon rolfe looked at him with stern, immovable eyes. stephen smiled and took up his hat. "you have robbed me of my bride," he said; "permit me to return to the home which still remains to me." there was an intense silence. then a slight stir as jack, carrying una in his arms, left the room, followed by mrs. davenant. with haggard eyes stephen watched them, then, with a convulsive movement, he took up his hat. "you will find me at the hurst," he said; "i will go there. if there is any law in the land which can punish you, i will have it, though it cost me a fortune. yes, i will go home." still they were silent. whether from pity, or awe at the sight of his misery, they were silent. he looked round and, as if he had called, slummers glided to his side. they had already reached the door, when a voice said: "tell him." it was jack who had returned to the room. at the sound of the voice, grave and pitying, stephen swung round as if he had been stung. "you are here still," he said, and a glance of malignant hatred distorted his face. "i thought you were in jail by this time. you were waiting to take your wife with you. it would have been wiser to allow her to go to the hurst." "tell him," said jack. with a slow, almost reluctant movement, laura treherne drew a paper from under her jacket and held it up. stephen looked at it for a moment as if his sight had failed him, then he smiled. "the plot thickens," he said. "you have robbed me of my wife; you have, no doubt, some ready-forged document to rob me of my estate. am i to give the credit to you for this?" then he broke out wildly, with a mad laugh. "it is a forgery! a forgery! i will swear it. there is no such will. the marriage never took place. you've to prove both yet! you are not so clever as i thought. you should have stopped short where you were. you have got her, be satisfied; the rest is mine! mine, and you cannot take it from me," and he held his clinched fist toward jack as he held all hurst in his grasp. "show him," said gideon rolfe. stephen waved his hand contemptuously. "a stale trick," he said. "a clumsy forgery. you cannot connect it with my uncle's death. go to your lawyer--hudsley, if you will; he will be ready enough to help you--and he will tell you that proof is impossible." as he spoke his voice grew clearer. it was a relief to his overwrought brain to fight them on ground he had often mentally surveyed. with an insolent smile on his face he leaned both hands on the table and looked at them. "come," he said, "you have not won everything yet. the hurst is mine; i laugh your forgery to scorn. i will spend every penny of the estate to contest it. i assert that this paper was forged--last night--if you like. you cannot prove it was in existence an hour sooner; i defy you. you have overreached yourselves. take care! this is your hour. mine will come when i see you in the dock." in his excitement he had not noticed the entrance of the bent figure of skettle, and he turned with a start as the thin, dry voice, close to his elbow, croaked: "quite right, mr. stephen. that's their weak point--want of connection. if they could carry it back, say to the night of the squire's death, now, it would be different." stephen looked round with a cunning smile of defiance. "this old fool will bear me out. show him your will." "a daring forgery this, mr. stephen, if it is a forgery. leaves the hurst to miss una, the squire's legitimate daughter. fifty thousand to master jack; and a set of sermons to you." "no doubt," he said, with a hoarse laugh; "it was not worth their while to do things by halves." "been scorched, too," said skettle. "bit torn out by the seal. now, if they could find that bit in the possession of a respectable man, who could prove that he found it on the night, say, of the squire's death, well--it would go hard with you, mr. stephen." "but they cannot." "i don't know," said skettle; and slowly drawing out a leather pocket book of ancient date, he took out a piece of paper and fitted it to the will. "it is a conspiracy!" "it is the will i saw you looking for the night of the squire's death." "let me go." and leaning heavily on the arm of his fellow-knave, he moved with the gait and bearing of an old man, to the door. "great heaven, this is awful!" said jack. * * * * * winter had passed and spring had clothed the earth with her soft, green mantle, and in her glad sunlight that sat like a benediction on the great elms and smooth lawn of hurst, a party of ladies and gentlemen were standing on the stone steps that led up to the entrance. it was, in a word, the wedding day of squire jack newcombe and miss una davenant, and these good and tried friends were waiting about the steps to see the bride and bridegroom start for their honeymoon. that len and laura and lady bell should be there calls for no surprise, but how comes it that gideon rolfe should be a willing witness to the marriage of una with one of the hated race of davenants? well, when the cause of hatred is removed, all hate vanishes from the heart of an honest man. on the day he learned that the old squire had not wronged the girl he had stolen from gideon, gideon's hatred had flown, and in its place had sprung up a longing for atonement; and what better step could he take toward burying the old animosity than in giving his adopted daughter to the man of her choice--the man who would make her, as her mother had been before her, the squire of hurst's wife? and thus it came to pass that he stood silently, but not grimly waiting for his daughter--for she was still his daughter--to pass out to the new life of happiness. and presently there rose a buzz and a hum of excitement in the house, and the stalwart figure of jack appeared on the top step. a moment later and the beautiful face of una was by his side. no longer pale, but bright with blushes, and glowing with health and happiness, she stood, half timidly, pressing close to the proud fellow beside her. is it all a dream in her eyes, dimmed as they are by happy tears? can it be true that jack is all her own--that these good friends and true are really clustering round her, bidding her godspeed and yet hindering her going as if they were loth to let her go? perhaps she does not realize it all until they part and let her pass to where the old bent figure of stephen's mother stands waiting to see the last of the girl whom she has loved and still loves as a daughter. then as una takes the trembling figure in her arms and kisses the pale face, she realizes it all, and through sobs she hears the faltering voice murmuring: "god bless you, my darling! god bless and keep you!" and as the broken benediction falls from the trembling lips, the crowd stand back, silent and tearful, and jack and his bride are allowed to enter the carriage at last. then breaks forth the cheer from outside the gates, and so, wafted around by blessings and good wishes, they commence their real life. a month later they will come back to find those friends who saw them depart, eager to welcome them back. "no coming home to a silent house, my wild bird!" says jack. "we'll have them all here, everyone of them. i'd have all the world to see my darling, if i could." "my darling! my darling! they might take all the rest if they would leave me you." and stephen? there is no difficulty in finding stephen--he is too public a man. you can see and hear him any evening during the month of charitable meetings, if you will but go to the proper places. there amongst philosophers and social reformers, you will see a tall, thin gentleman, with a white face and spotless linen, who, when he comes forward to make his speech, is received with deafening cheers, and who never fails to draw tears from the audience by his pathos and tender-souled eloquence; and when the meeting is over, if you wait beside the private entrance to the hall, you will see another tall, thin, black-coated man, who is like a reflection of the great philanthropist for whom he is waiting, and who, when he emerges, will take him by the arm and lead him to his brougham. for, excepting when he is before the public, stephen is an injured, broken-down man, only at times able to whine out the story of the wrongs wrought him by the hands of those he most trusted. by his own account he has been robbed of his wife, his estate, his all, and left to the charity of a generous public; and it is only slummers, besides stephen himself, who knows that a check arrives punctually each quarter from jack's lawyer for the support of the man who returns forgiveness and generosity with undying hate and calumny. yes, stephen davenant is regarded as a deeply injured man, and when he appears, with his pale face, and soft, mournful voice, there is always a show of handkerchiefs. but jack and una are quite content, and whenever his name is mentioned, it is with more pity than anger. there is no room for aught else in their hearts but love. [the end.] patriotic recitations and readings compiled by charles walter brown [illustration] this is the choicest, newest and most complete collection of patriotic recitations published, and includes all of the best known selections, together with the best utterances of many eminent statesmen. selections for decoration day, fourth of july, washington's and lincoln's birthdays, arbor day, labor day, and all other patriotic occasions. there are few more enjoyable forms of amusement than entertainments and exhibitions, and there is scarcely anything more difficult to procure than new and meritorious material appropriate for such occasions. this book is designed to fill the want. handsomely bound in paper covers cents cloth cents complete guide to dancing ball room etiquette and quadrille call book [illustration] containing all the new and modern square dances and tabulated forms for the guidance of the leader or others in calling them. full and complete directions for performing every known square dance, such as plain quadrilles, polka quadrilles, prairie queen, varieties quadrille, francaise, dixie figure, girl i left behind me, old dan tucker, money musk, waltz lanciers, military lanciers, columbian lanciers, oakland minuet, waltz quadrilles, etc., etc. the "german" introduces over one hundred of the newest and most popular figures, fully described, and conveniently grouped for ready reference. every information in regard to the service of ball-room etiquette, duties of leaders and general instruction is fully and clearly given. handsomely bound in paper covers cents cloth cents for sale by all book and news dealers, or will be sent to any address in the united states, canada or mexico, postage paid, on receipt of price, in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. chicago life and sayings of theodore roosevelt by thomas w. handford introduction by charles walter brown, a. m. author of "ethan allen," "john paul jones," "nathan hale," "lafayette," "pulaski," "washington," "abraham lincoln," "sherman," etc. [illustration] there are lessons in the lives of men much more potent than all the teaching of the best books and the wisest teachers. president roosevelt is one of the brightest and brainiest men of his generation. a man in whom all the qualities of true manliness are linked with indomitable perseverance and crowned with a royal sincerity. because of this he is worthy to be an object lesson to the young men of america, and is proving an inspiration to the noble ideal of american citizenship. this great book should be in every home and in every public school library in the united states. it is a most creditable work.--_indianapolis sentinel._ i have read it with great interest and pleasure. --_john hay, secretary of state._ the work reflects great credit on its authors. --_a. chamberlaine, governor of connecticut._ it should have a place in every library in the land. --_joseph w. fifer, ex-governor of illinois._ it is varied, animated, full of strong meat, with not a dull page. --_congressman r. r. hitt, (illinois)._ large, thick, mo. cloth, pages; many text and full page half-tone illustrations; large, clear type, best book paper, and beautifully bound in red silk cloth stamped with unique dies in gold and inks. price, $ . postpaid. for sale by all book and newsdealers, or sent to any address in the united states, canada, or mexico, postage paid, on receipt of price, in currency, money order or stamps. m.a. donahue & co., - dearborn street, chicago sweet danger by ella wheeler wilcox. author of "poems of pleasure," "poems of passion," etc. ella wheeler wilcox needs no introduction to our readers. her name is a household word wherever english is spoken. the public has long awaited a prose work from the pen of this gifted writer that should deal with the sentiments and emotions as forcibly as she has done in verse. "sweet danger" represents that effort in the fullest sense. it is creating a sensation even among readers of the french school of fiction. mo, paper price, $ . mo, cloth " . madame dubarry the king's mistress illustrated. by george morehead mrs. leslie carter, the famous american actress, having selected madame dubarry as the central figure in her new play, the life story of the famous mistress of louis xv of france becomes a topic of universal interest to american readers, and the brilliancy, the extravagance and the wickedness of the court just prior to the french revolution has been the subject of many interesting works of realistic fiction--the most notable of which is "madame dubarry." heretofore, no book available to english readers has obtained, and this translation is designed to supply the pressing demand. mo, paper price, $ . mo, cloth, ornamental cover " . told by two by marie st. felix this is the latest and therefore the best of this celebrated author's books. it is full of epigram and gives an excellent description of the bermudas and the winter colony there. it is full of thrilling romance, with innumerable happenings to a giddy young married woman of new york and a bachelor from boston. plenty of rich, spicy dialogue--it is replete with up-to-date expletives. lovers of realistic fiction will revel in this literary feast. mo, paper price, $ . mo, cloth, ornamental cover " . price, c. each, paper covers, or the three for $ . . sent postpaid to any address in the united states, canada or mexico upon receipt of price, in currency, express or postal money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn street, chicago donohue's padded leather _poets_ mo illustrated [illustration] an assortment of titles of the works of the world's greatest poets. printed from entirely new plates, on a superior grade of book paper. bound in genuine leather, stamped from unique embossing dies on both the front and back covers; title stamped on the front and back in gold; full gilt edges, with red under the gold edge; round corners; fancy paper linings; silk headbands; illuminated title page in two colors from original design; each book wrapped and packed in a neat box. price, $ . browning, robert. browning, elizabeth b. bryant. byron. burns. campbell. chaucer. childe harold's pilgrimage. coleridge. cowper. dante. evangeline. familiar quotations. favorite poems. goethe. goldsmith. hood. hemans, mrs. homer's odyssey. homer's iliad. hiawatha. holmes. idylls of the king. in memoriam. kipling. keble's christian year. longfellow. lady of the lake. laila rookh. light of asia. lowell. lucile. marmion. miles standish, courtship of milton. moore. poe. pope. paradise lost. proctor. poetical selections. princess, the; maud, etc. rubiayat of omar khayyam. sacred gems. scott. schiller. shelley. shakespeare. tennyson. thackeray. whittier. wordsworth. for sale by all book and newsdealers, or sent to any address in the united states, canada, or mexico, postage prepaid, on receipt of price, in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & company - dearborn street, chicago the greatest life of abraham lincoln yet published by hon. jos. h. barrett, and charles walter brown, a. m. [illustration] in this great work which embraces the complete life of the greatest man of modern times, nothing has been omitted or slighted. his early history, political career, speeches, both in and out of congress, the great lincoln-douglas debates, every state paper, speech, message and two inaugural addresses are given in full, together with many characteristic stories and yarns by and concerning lincoln, which have earned for him the sobriquet the story telling president. in addition there is included a complete account of his assassination, death and burial, together with the trial and execution of his assassins. this immense volume of pages contains nearly , words, being six times larger than the average school history. size of book ½Ã� , inches thick, weighing nearly pounds. price, $ . . sent postpaid to any address in the united states, canada or mexico upon receipt of price, in currency, express or postal money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn street, chicago bound to win series for boys titles price cents each [illustration] this new series is proving the most popular line of books for boys published this year. look at the names of the authors of all of the books and you will see the reason: =alger, cooper, ellis, henty, kingston, optic, reid, etc.= what a galaxy of boys' favorites! they are printed from new plates, on a superior quality of paper and bound in the best binders cloth; title stamped on back and side in three colors ink from appropriate designs made especially for this series. . adventures among the indians w. h. g. kingston . afloat in the forest reid . all aboard oliver optic . among the malays henty . boat club oliver optic . bonnie prince charlie henty . bound to rise alger, jr. . boy knight, the henty . brave and bold alger, jr. . bravest of the brave henty . by england's aid henty . by pike and dyke henty . by sheer pluck henty . capt. bayley's heir henty . cash boy, the alger, jr. . cast up by the sea baker . cornet of horse henty . desert home mayne reid . for name and fame henty . for the temple henty . friends tho' divided henty . golden canon henty . hero of pine ridge butler . in freedom's cause henty . in the reign of terror henty . in times of peril henty . jack archer henty . jack harkaway's school days hemyng . julius the street boy alger, jr . lion of st. mark henty . lion of the north henty . lone ranch mayne reid . now or never oliver optic . one of the th henty . out on the pampas henty . pathfinder fenimore cooper . paul the peddler alger, jr. . pilot, the fenimore cooper . poor and proud oliver optic . rifle rangers mayne reid . risen from the ranks alger . robinson crusoe d. defoe . scalp hunters mayne reid . slow and sure alger, jr. . star of india e. s. ellis . store boy, the alger, jr. . strive and succeed alger, jr. . strong and steady alger, jr. . sturdy and strong henty . through the fray henty . try again oliver optic . uncle tom's cabin stowe . with clive in india henty . young buglers henty . young carthaginians henty . young colonists henty . young midshipman henty . young outlaw, the alger, jr. for sale by all book and newsdealers, or will be sent to any address in the u. s., canada or mexico, post paid, on receipt of price, c each, in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. chicago the young hunters series [illustration] by captain ralph bonehill gun and sled young hunters of porto rico price c, postpaid chicago m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. works of james otis [illustration] down the slope messenger teddy telegraph tom's venture price cents, postpaid. chicago m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. ella wheeler wilcox poems of reflection [illustration] the most noted and helpful poetical work of this famous writer is here collected in popular form in a suitable binding for birthday or holiday presentations, or for table or library. stamping done in light green upon dark over special design in gold. among the "poems of reflection," a few may be named, as follows: penalty, life lines from "maurine," when, only dreams, "in the night," contentment, mother's loss, the women, "vampires," dying, the king and siren, sunshine and shadow, "whatever is,--is best," worldly wisdom, my comrade, so long in coming, perished, the belle's soliloquy, my vision, dream time, the belle of the season, joy, bird of hope, a golden day, fading, all the world, old, daft, hung, when i am dead, ghosts, out of the depths, mistakes, presumption, song of the spirit, a dream, dying, our angel. this book is poetical inspiration of the highest order for sustaining and strengthening the heart and mind for the disappointments, vicissitudes and achievements of life. price cents poems of love, by ella wheeler wilcox. a beautiful book--companion to "poems of reflection." the following is a selection from a few of the poems in the poems of love: sweet danger, a fatal impress, love, i will be true, the kingdom of love, love will wane, a maiden's secret, lines from "maurine." this book is handsomely bound in the style of poems and reflections. cloth, price cents sweet danger, by ella wheeler wilcox. this popular author tells the story of love in this book as it has never been elsewhere told. cloth, price cents sent prepaid on receipt of price, m. a. donohue & co., - dearborn street: chicago. picturesque american biographies "in john paul jones and ethan allen, mr. brown found two of the most picturesque figures in the life of the country, and he has shown himself able to deal with them as historical persons, without detracting anything from the romantic qualities of their individuality. he competes with historical fiction by developing the superior interest of the facts as they grew out of the life of his heroes and the life of their times. few biographies intended for popular reading and the widest general circulation illustrates this same faculty of measuring statement and giving its governing value to fact while developing the picturesque and the romantic as it lies latent in history."--william vincent byars in _the st. louis star_. life and deeds of ethan allen and the green mountain boys by charles walter brown, a. m. [illustration] author of "john paul jones," "nathan hale," "lafayette," "pulaski," "washington," "abraham lincoln," "sherman." illustrations "it is the best 'life' of ethan allen published."--_chicago chronicle._ "it abounds in incidents, anecdotes and adventures."--_louisville courier journal._ "it is a painstaking and accurate biography, possessing the fascination of romance."--_st. louis republic._ "the account of the expedition into canada and allen's lamentable capture by the british, near montreal, holds the reader's attention with all the force of a work of fiction."--_chicago journal._ mo, cloth, size - / x - / , nearly pages. price, postpaid $ . life and deeds of john paul jones of naval fame by charles walter brown, a. m. illustrations [illustration] "this book is a credit to any publishing house."--_detroit free press._ "the publication is a careful and commendable one."--_chicago journal._ "the public will readily welcome this new and valuable biography of john paul jones."--_indianapolis sentinel._ "mr. brown is a faithful biographer and historian, and has the happy knack of making his hero live again in the imagination of his host of readers."--_literary life, new york._ size, - / x - / ; nearly pages; mo, cloth. price, postpaid $ . this set of two volumes, "allen" and "jones" sent to one address, express paid, for $ . m. a. donohue & co., - dearborn street chicago the young sportsman series [illustration] by captain ralph bonehill young oarsman of lake view leo, the circus boy rival cyclists price c post paid chicago m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. works of harry castlemon [illustration] the first capture a struggle for a fortune winged arrow's medicine price c postpaid chicago m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. on a slow train through arkansaw by thomas w. jackson [illustration] _the funniest of all books_ over , sold since jan. , it tells of all the funny things that happened on a slow train. many funny railroad stories, sayings of the southern darkies. all the latest and best minstrel jokes of the day. paper covers. price, cents. , copies of "on a slow train through arkansaw" were sold in months. it still sells at the rate of nearly , a month, but three years in arkansaw just out bids fair to outsell that immensely popular book. "the most unique book ever published." "a complete history of the funny, comical, unreasonable, rich, rare and peculiar things that happened, transpired and turned up during my three years of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness along the rocky path of life down in old arkansaw."--_m. hughes._ paper covers, price, cents. through missouri on a mule _"worse than arkansaw" all new._ by thomas w. jackson, author of "on a slow train through arkansaw." contains funny railroad stories, old time darky sayings, minstrel jokes, all the late and funny sayings of the day. paper covers, price, cents. for sale by all book and newsdealers, or will send to any address in the united states, canada or mexico, postage prepaid, on receipt of price, in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co., - dearborn st., chicago, ill. love letters with directions how to write them by ingoldsby north. [illustration] this is a branch of correspondence which fully demands a volume alone to provide for the various phases incident to love, courtship and marriage. few persons, however otherwise fluent with the pen, are able to express in words the promptings of the first dawn of love, and even the ice once broken how to follow up a correspondence with the dearest one in the whole world and how to smooth the way with those who need to be consulted in the matter. the numerous letters and answers in this book go far to overcome the difficulties and embarrassment inseparable from letters on this all-absorbing topic in all stages from beginning to end of a successful courtship, aided in many instances by the author's sensible comments on the specimen letters, and his valuable hints under adverse contingencies. it also contains the art of secret writing, the language of love portrayed and rules in grammar. paper covers, cents. cloth, cents. the complete letter writer being the only comprehensive and practical guide and assistant to letter writing published. edited by charles walter brown, a. m. [illustration] there are few books that contain such a fund of valuable information on the everyday affairs of life. in addition to every conceivable form of business and social correspondence, there are letters of condolence, introduction, congratulation, felicitation, advice and favor; letters accompanying presents; notes on love, courtship and marriage; forms of wedding anniversaries, socials, parties, notes, wills, deeds, mortgages; tables, abbreviations, classical terms, common errors, selections for autograph albums; information concerning rates on foreign and domestic postage, together with a dictionary of nearly , synonyms and other valuable information which space will not admit of mention. the book is printed from new plates, on a superior quality of paper and bound in substantial and durable manner. mo. paper covers, c. cloth, c. cloth, pages, price $ . for sale by all book and newsdealers, or sent to any address in the u.s., canada or mexico, postage prepaid on receipt of price in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & co. - dearborn st. chicago the voter's manual and argument. settler for the vest pocket a strictly non-partisan compilation of political facts and statistics, designed for ready reference, containing information with which every voter in the united states should be familiar. concise, correct, convenient. a new and valuable work. bound in leather, title on side in gold, cents. bound in cloth, cents. hoyle's book of games [illustration] containing all of the games played with cards, also containing rules for backgammon, chess, checkers, billiards, pool, bagatelle, bowls, etc. numerous diagrams and engravings. the best and most complete edition of hoyle published. printed from new plates, substantially bound in cloth, stamped in ink and gold. price, $ . bound in paper, cents. leaves from conjurer's scrap book or modern magicians and their works by h. j. burlingame. pages. ¾ Ã� ½ inches, containing numerous illustrations. this work presents modern magic in a skillful manner and shows how the startling and marvelous performances of magicians are accomplished. it is a very interesting and desirable publication. price, $ . sent prepaid on receipt of price m. a. donohue & co., - dearborn st., chicago. vassar series for girls. illustrated [illustration] this is the most attractive and carefully selected series of stories for girls published. each book is a masterpiece by a master hand and was selected not merely because of the established reputation of its author but because it had earned a place in every home where there are girls. uniform cloth binding, title in gold, sides and back stamped in inks. price per volume c. adventures of a brownie, as told to my child, mulock. alice's adventures in wonderland and through the looking glass, carroll. arabian nights. andersen's fairy tales, andersen. aunt diana, rosa n. carey. averil, rosa n. carey. black beauty, anna sewall. book of golden deeds, yonge. cuckoo clock, molesworth. deb and duchess, meade. esther, rosa n. carey. fairy book, miss mulock. flat iron for a farthing, mrs. ewing. four little mischiefs, rosa mulholland. girl in ten thousand, meade. girl neighbors, sara tyler. girls and i, and girls in black, mrs. molesworth. grandmother dear, mrs. molesworth. grimm's household stories, grimm. grimm's popular fairy tales, grimm. in the golden days, lyall. jackanapes, mrs. ewing. lamplighter, the cummings. little lame prince, mulock. little susy stories containing: little susy's six birthdays, little susy's six teachers, little susy's little servants, prentiss. margery merton's girlhood, a. corkran. meg's friend, a. corkran. merle's crusade, carey. naughty miss bunny, mulholland. old, old fairy tales. our bessie, rosa n. carey. palace beautiful, meade. pilgrim's progress, ill., john bunyan. polly, a new fashioned girl, meade. queenie's whim, carey. robin redbreast, mrs. molesworth. schonberg-cotta family, mrs. charles. six to sixteen, mrs. ewing. six little princesses and what they turned into, mrs. prentiss. sweet girl graduate, a, l. t. meade. taming a tomboy, emmy von rhoden. three bright girls, a. e. armstrong. two little maids, verdier. "us," mrs. molesworth. very odd girl, a, a. e. armstrong. water babies, c. kingsley. wide, wide world, e. wetherell. wild kitty, l. t. meade. world of girls, a, meade. young mutineer, meade. for sale by all book and news dealers, or sent to any address in the united states, canada, or mexico, postage prepaid, on receipt of price, in currency, money order or stamps. m. a. donohue & company - dearborn street,--chicago transcriber's notes: obvious printer's errors were silently corrected. errors in the names were corrected for consistency and changed to either the first or the most occurring one: q -stephen davenant was called stephen newcombe on page -mrs. davenant's maid jane was called janet on page -mrs. cantrip on page was called cantup on page -walmington square was called washington square on page . otherwise the author's writing style has been preserved, including: -archaic and inconsistent spelling -inconsistent hyphenation -french words written without accents. [illustration: the backwoods philosopher _(frontispiece. see page .)_] the end of the world. a love story, by edward eggleston author of "the hoosier schoolmaster," etc. with thirty-two illustrations. preface. [in the potential mood.] it is the pretty unanimous conclusion of book-writers that prefaces are most unnecessary and useless prependages, since nobody reads them. and it is the pretty unanimous practice of book-writers to continue to write them with such pains and elaborateness as would indicate a belief that the success of a book depends upon the favorable prejudice begotten of u graceful preface. my principal embarrassment is that it is not customary for a book to have more than one. how then shall i choose between the half-dozen letters of introduction i might give my story, each better and worse on many accounts than either of the others? i am rather inclined to adopt the following, which might for some reasons be styled the preface sentimental. perhaps no writer not infatuated with conceit, can send out a book full of thought and feeling which, whatever they may be worth, are his own, without a parental anxiety in regard to the fate of his offspring. and there are few prefaces which do not in some way betray this nervousness. i confess to a respect for even the prefatory doggerel of good tinker bunyan--a respect for his paternal tenderness toward his book, not at all for his villainous rhyming. when i saw, the other day, the white handkerchiefs of my children waving an adieu as they sailed away from me, a profound anxiety seized me. so now, as i part company with august and julia, with my beloved jonas and my much-respected cynthy ann, with the mud-clerk on the iatan, and the shaggy lord of shady-hollow castle, and the rest, that have watched with me of nights and crossed the ferry with me twice a day for half a year--even now, as i see them waving me adieu with their red silk and "yaller" cotton "hand-kerchers," i know how many rocks of misunderstanding and criticism and how many shoals of damning faint praise are before them, and my heart is full of misgiving. --but it will never do to have misgivings in a preface. how often have publishers told me this! ah! if i could write with half the heart and hope my publishers evince in their advertisements, where they talk about "front rank" and "great american story" and all that, it would doubtless be better for the book, provided anybody would read the preface or believe it when they had read it. but at any rate let us not have a preface in the minor key. a philosophical friend of mine, who is addicted to carlyle, has recommended that i try the following, which he calls the high philosophical preface. why should i try to forestall the verdict? is it not foreordained in the very nature of a book and the constitution of the reader that a certain very definite number of readers will misunderstand and dislike a given book? and that another very definite number will understand it and dislike it none the less? and that still a third class, also definitely fixed in the eternal nature of things, will misunderstand and like it, and, what is more, like it only because of their misunderstanding? and in relation to a true book, there can not fail to be an elect few who understand admiringly and understandingly admire. why, then, make bows, write prefaces, attempt to prejudice the case? can i change the reader? will i change the book? no? then away with preface! the destiny of the book is fixed. i can not foretell it, for i am no prophet. but let us not hope to change the fates by our prefatory bowing and scraping. --i was forced to confess to my friend who was so kind as to offer to lend me this preface, that there was much truth in it and that truth is nowhere more rare than in prefaces, but it was not possible to adopt it for two reasons: one, that my proof-reader can not abide so many capitals, maintaining that they disfigure the page, and what is a preface of the high philosophical sort worth without a profusion of capitals? even carlyle's columns would lose their greatest ornament if their capitals were gone. the second reason for declining to use this preface was that my publishers are not philosophers and would never be content with an "elect few," and for my own part the pecuniary interest i have in the copyright renders it quite desirable that as many as possible should be elected to like it, or at least to buy it. after all it seems a pity that i can not bring myself to use a straightforward apologetic and explanatory preface. in view of the favor bestowed upon the author's previous story, both by the public who criticise and the public who buy, it seems a little ungracious to present so soon, another, the scene of which is also laid in the valley of the ohio. but the picture of western country life in "the hoosier school-master" would not have been complete without this companion-piece, which presents a different phase of it. and indeed there is no provincial life richer in material if only one knew how to get at it. nothing is more reverent than a wholesome hatred of hypocrisy. if any man think i have offended against his religion, i must believe that his religion is not what it should be. if anybody shall imagine that this is a work of religious controversy leveled at the adventists, he will have wholly mistaken my meaning. literalism and fanaticism are not vices confined to any one sect. they are, unfortunately, pretty widely distributed. however, if-- --and so on. but why multiply examples of the half-dozen or more that i might, could, would, or should have written? since everybody is agreed that, nobody reads a preface, i have concluded to let the book go without any. brooklyn, september, . "_and as he [wordsworth] mingled freely with all kinds of men, he found a pith of sense and a solidity of judgment here and there among the unlearned which he had failed to find in the most lettered; from obscure men he heard high truths.... and love, true love and pure, he found was no flower reared only in what was called refined society, and requiring leisure and polished manners for its growth.... he believed that in country people, what is permanent in human nature, the essential feelings and passions of mankind, exist in greater simplicity and strength_."--principal shairp. * * * * * a dedication. it would hardly be in character for me to dedicate this book in good, stiff, old-fashioned tomb-stone style, but i could not have put in the background of scenery without being reminded of the two boys, inseparable as the siamese twins, who gathered mussel-shells in the river marge, played hide-and-seek in the hollow sycamores, and led a happy life in the shadow of just such hills as those among which the events of this story took place. and all the more that the generous boy who was my playmate then is the generous man who has relieved me of many burdens while i wrote this story, do i feel impelled to dedicate it to george cary eggleston, a manly man and a brotherly brother. contents. chapter i.--in love with a dutchman. chapter ii.--an explosion. chapter iii.--a farewell. chapter iv.--a counter-irritant. chapter v.--at the castle. chapter vi.--the backwoods philosopher. chapter vii.--within and without. chapter viii.--figgers won't lie. chapter ix.--the new singing-master. chapter x.--an offer of help. chapter xi.--the coon-dog argument. chapter xii.--two mistakes. chapter xiii.--the spider spins. chapter xiv.--the spider's web. chapter xv.--the web broken. chapter xvi.--jonas expounds the subject. chapter xvii.--the wrong pew. chapter xviii.--the encounter. chapter xix.--the mother. chapter xx.--the steam-doctor. chapter xxi.--the hawk in a new part. chapter xxii.--jonas expresses his opinion on dutchmen. chapter xxiii.--somethin' ludikerous. chapter xxiv.--the giant great-heart. chapter xxv.--a chapter of betweens. chapter xxvi.--a nice little game. chapter xxvii.--the result of an evening with gentlemen. chapter xxviii.--waking up an ugly customer. chapter xxix.--august and norman. chapter xxx.--aground. chapter xxxi.--cynthy ann's sacrifice. chapter xxxii.--julia's enterprise. chapter xxxiii.--the secret stairway. chapter xxxiv.--the interview. chapter xxxv.--getting ready for the end. chapter xxxvi.--the sin of sanctimony. chapter xxxvii.--the deluge. chapter xxxviii.--scaring a hawk. chapter xxxix.--jonas takes an appeal. chapter xl.--selling out. chapter xli.--the last day and what happened in it. chapter xlii.--for ever and ever. chapter xliii.--the midnight alarm. chapter xliv.--squaring accounts. chapter xlv.--new plans. chapter xlvi.--the shiveree. * * * * * illustrations. by frank beard the backwoods philosopher taking an observation a talk with a plowman a little rustle brought her to consciousness gottlieb the castle the sedilium at the castle "look at me" "don't be oncharitable, jonas" the hawk "tell that to jule" tempted "now i hate you" at cynthy's door cynthy ann had often said in class-meeting that temptations abounded on every hand jonas julia sat down in mortification "good-by!" the mother's blessing corn-sweats and calamus "fire! murder! help!" norman anderson somethin' ludikerous to the rescue a nice little game the mud-clerk waking up an ugly customer cynthy ann's sacrifice a pastoral visit brother goshorn "say them words over again" "i want to buy your place" the end of the world. * * * * * chapter i. in love with a dutchman. "i don't believe that you'd care a cent if she did marry a dutchman! she might as well as to marry some white folks i know." samuel anderson made no reply. it would be of no use to reply. shrews are tamed only by silence. anderson had long since learned that the little shred of influence which remained to him in his own house would disappear whenever his teeth were no longer able to shut his tongue securely in. so now, when his wife poured out this hot lava of _argumentum ad hominem_, he closed the teeth down in a dead-lock way over the tongue, and compressed the lips tightly over the teeth, and shut his finger-nails into his work-hardened palms. and then, distrusting all these precautions, fearing lest he should be unable to hold on to his temper even with this grip, the little man strode out of the house with his wife's shrill voice in his ears. mrs. anderson had good reason to fear that her daughter was in love with a "dutchman," as she phrased it in her contempt. the few germans who had penetrated to the west at that time were looked upon with hardly more favor than the californians feel for the almond-eyed chinaman. they were foreigners, who would talk gibberish instead of the plain english which everybody could understand, and they were not yet civilized enough to like the yellow saleratus-biscuit and the "salt-rising" bread of which their neighbors were so fond. reason enough to hate them! only half an hour before this outburst of mrs. anderson's, she had set a trap for her daughter julia, and had fairly caught her. "jule! jule! o jul-y-e-ee!" she had called. and julia, who was down in the garden hoeing a bed in which she meant to plant some "johnny-jump-ups," came quickly toward the house, though she know it would be of no use to come quickly. let her come quickly, or let her come slowly, the rebuke was sure to greet her all the name. "why don't you come when you're called, _i'd_ like to know! you're never in reach when you're wanted, and you're good for nothing when you are here!" julia anderson's earliest lesson from her mother's lips had been that she was good for nothing. and every day and almost every hour since had brought her repeated assurances that she was good for nothing. if she had not been good for a great deal, she would long since have been good for nothing as the result of such teaching. but though this was not the first, nor the thousandth, nor the ten thousandth time that she had been told that she was good for nothing, the accustomed insult seemed to sting her now more than ever. was it that, being almost eighteen, she was beginning to feel the woman blossoming in her nature? or, was it that the tender words of august wehle had made her sure that she was good for something, that now her heart felt her mother's insult to be a stale, selfish, ill-natured lie? "take this cup of tea over to mrs. malcolm's, and tell her that it a'n't quite as good as what i borried of her last week. and tell her that they'll be a new-fangled preacher at the school-house a sunday, a millerite or somethin', a preachin' about the end of the world." julia did not say "yes, ma'am," in her usually meek style. she smarted a little yet from the harsh words, and so went away in silence. why did she walk fast? had she noticed that august wehle, who was "breaking up" her father's north field, was just plowing down the west side of his land? if she hastened, she might reach the cross-fence as he came round to it, and while he was yet hidden from the sight of the house by the turn of the hill. and would not a few words from august wehle be pleasant to her ears after her mother's sharp depreciation? it is at least safe to conjecture that some such feeling made her hurry through the long, waving timothy of the meadow, and made her cross the log that spanned the brook without ever so much as stopping to look at the minnows glancing about in the water flecked with the sunlight that struggled through the boughs of the water-willows. for, in her thorough loneliness, julia anderson had come to love the birds, the squirrels, and the fishes as companions, and in all her life she had never before crossed the meadow brook without stooping to look at the minnows. all this haste mrs. anderson noticed. having often scolded [illustration: taking an observation.] julia for "talking to the fishes like a fool," she noticed the omission. and now she only waited until julia was over the hill to take the path round the fence under shelter of the blackberry thicket until she came to the clump of alders, from the midst of which she could plainly see if any conversation should take place between her julia and the comely young dutchman. in fact, julia need not have hurried so much. for august wehle had kept one eye on his horses and the other on the house all that day. it was the quick look of intelligence between the two at dinner that had aroused the mother's suspicions. and wehle had noticed the work on the garden-bed, the call to the house, and the starting of julia on the path toward mrs. malcolm's. his face had grown hot, and his hand had trembled. for once he had failed to see the stone in his way, until the plow was thrown clean from the furrow. and when he came to the shade of the butternut-tree by which she must pass, it had seemed to him imperative that the horses should rest. besides, the hames-string wanted tightening on the bay, and old dick's throat-latch must need a little fixing. he was not sure that the clevis-pin had not been loosened by the collision with the stone just now. and so, upon one pretext and another, he managed to delay starting his plow until julia came by, and then, though his heart had counted all her steps from the door-stone to the tree, then he looked up surprised. nothing could be so astonishing to him as to see her there! for love is needlessly crafty, it has always an instinct of concealment, of indirection about it. the boy, and especially the girl, who will tell the truth frankly in regard to a love affair is a miracle of veracity. but there are such, and they are to be reverenced--with the reverence paid to martyrs. on her part, julia anderson had walked on as though she meant to pass the young plowman by, until he spoke, and then she started, and blushed, and stopped, and nervously broke off the top of a last year's iron-weed and began to break it into bits while he talked, looking down most of the time, but lifting her eyes to his now and then. and to the sun-browned but delicate-faced young german it seemed, a vision of paradise--every glimpse of that fresh girl's face in the deep shade of the sun-bonnet. for girls' faces can never look so sweet in this generation as they did to the boys who caught sight of them, hidden away, precious things, in the obscurity of a tunnel of pasteboard and calico! this was not their first love-talk. were they engaged? yes, and no. by all the speech their eyes were capable of in school, and of late by words, they were engaged in loving one another, and in telling one another of it. but they were young, and separated by circumstances, and they had hardly begun to think of marriage yet. it was enough for the present to love and be loved. the most delightful stage of a love affair is that in which the present is sufficient and there is no past or future. and so august hung his elbow around the top of the bay horse's hames, and talked to julia. it is the highest praise of the german heart that it loves flowers and little children; and like a german and like a lover that he was, august began to speak of the anemones and the violets that were already blooming in the corners of the fence. girls in love are not apt to say any thing very fresh. and julia only said she thought the flowers seemed happy in the sunlight in answer to this speech, which seemed to the lover a bit of inspiration, he quoted from schiller the lines: "yet weep, soft children of the spring; the feelings love alone can bring have been denied to you!" with the quick and crafty modesty of her sex, julia evaded this very pleasant shaft by saying: "how much you know, august! how do you learn it?" [illustration: a talk with a plowman.] and august was pleased, partly because of the compliment, but chiefly because in saying it julia had brought the sun-bonnet in such a range that he could see the bright eyes and blushing face at the bottom of this _camera-oscura_. he did not hasten to reply. while the vision lasted he enjoyed the vision. not until the sun-bonnet dropped did he take up the answer to her question. "i don't know much, but what i do know i have learned out of your uncle andrew's books." "do you know my uncle andrew? what a strange man he is! he never comes here, and we never go there, and my mother never speaks to him, and my father doesn't often have anything to say to him. and so you have been at his house. they say he has all up-stairs full of books, and ever so many cats and dogs and birds and squirrels about. but i thought he never let anybody go up-stairs." "he lets me," said august, when she had ended her speech and dropped her sun-bonnet again out of the range of his eyes, which, in truth, were too steadfast in their gaze. "i spend many evenings up-stairs." august had just a trace of german in his idiom. "what makes uncle andrew so curious, i wonder?" "i don't exactly know. some say he was treated not just right by a woman when he was a young man. i don't know. he seems happy. i don't wonder a man should be curious though when a woman that he loves treats him not just right. any way, if he loves her with all his heart, as i love jule anderson!" these last words came with an effort. and julia just then remembered her errand, and said, "i must hurry," and, with a country girl's agility, she climbed over the fence before august could help her, and gave him another look through her bonnet-telescope from the other hide, and then hastened on to return the tea, und to tell mrs. malcolm that there was to be a millerite preacher at the school-house on sunday night. and august found that his horses were quite cool, while he was quite hot. he cleaned his mold board, and swung his plow round, and then, with a "whoa! haw!" and a pull upon the single line which western plowmen use to guide their horses, he drew the team into their place, and set himself to watching the turning of the rich, fragrant black earth. and even as he set his plowshare, so he set his purpose to overcome all obstacles, and to marry julia anderson. with the same steady, irresistible, onward course would he overcome all that lay between him and the soul that shone out of the face that dwelt in the bottom of the sun-bonnet. from her covert in the elder-bushes mrs. anderson had seen the parley, and her cheeks had also grown hot, but from a very different emotion. she had not heard the words. she had seen the loitering girl and the loitering plowboy, and she went back to the house vowing that she'd "teach jule anderson how to spend her time talking to a dutchman." and yet the more she thought of it, the more she was satisfied that it wasn't best to "make a fuss" just yet. she might hasten what she wanted to prevent. for though julia was obedient and mild in word, she was none the less a little stubborn, and in a matter of this sort might take the bit in her teeth. and so mrs. anderson had recourse, as usual, to her husband. she knew she could browbeat him. she demanded that august wehle should be paid off and discharged. and when anderson had hesitated, because he feared he could not get another so good a hand, and for other reasons, she burst out into the declaration: "i don't believe that you'd care a cent if she did marry a dutchman! she might as well as to marry some white folks i know." chapter ii. an explosion. it was settled that august was to be quietly discharged at the end of his month, which was saturday night. neither he nor julia must suspect any opposition to their attachment, nor any discovery of it, indeed. this was settled by mrs. anderson. she usually settled things. first, she settled upon the course to be pursued. then she settled her husband. he always made a show of resistance. his dignity required a show of resistance. but it was only a show. he always meant to surrender in the end. whenever his wife ceased her fire of small-arms and herself hung out the flag of truce, he instantly capitulated. as in every other dispute, so in this one about the discharge of the "miserable, impudent dutchman," mrs. anderson attacked her husband at all his weak points, and she had learned by heart a catalogue of his weak points. then, when he was sufficiently galled to be entirely miserable; when she had expressed her regret that she hadn't married somebody with some heart, and that she had ever left her father's house, for her _father_ was _always_ good to her; and when she had sufficiently reminded him of the lover she had given up for him, and of how much _he_ had loved her, and how miserable she had made _him_ by loving samuel anderson--when she had conducted the quarrel through all the preliminary stages, she always carried her point in the end by a _coup de partie_ somewhat in this fashion: "that's just the way! always the way with you men! i suppose i must give up to you as usual. you've lorded it over me from the start. i can't even have the management of my own daughter. but i do think that after i've let you have your way in so many things, you might turn off that fellow. you might let me have my way in one little thing, and you _would_ if you cared for me. you know how liable i am to die at any moment of heart-disease, and yet you will prolong this excitement in this way." now, there is nothing a weak man likes so much as to be considered strong, nothing a henpecked man likes so much as to be regarded a tyrant. if you ever hear a man boast of his determination to rule his own house, you may feel sure that he is subdued. and a henpecked husband always makes a great show of opposing everything that looks toward the enlargement of the work or privileges of women. such a man insists on the shadow of authority because he can not have the substance. it is a great satisfaction to him that his wife can never be president, and that she can not make speeches in prayer-meeting. while he retains these badges of superiority, he is still in some sense head of the family. so when mrs. anderson loyally reminded her husband that she had always let him have his own way, he believed her because he wanted to, though he could not just at the moment recall the particular instances. and knowing that he must yield, he rather liked to yield as an act of sovereign grace to the poor oppressed wife who begged it. "well, if you insist on it, of course, i will not refuse you," he said; "and perhaps you are right." he had yielded in this way almost every day of his married life, and in this way he yielded to the demand that august should he discharged. but he agreed with his wife that julia should not know anything about it, and that there must be no leave-taking allowed. the very next day julia sat sewing on the long porch in front of the house. cynthy ann was getting dinner in the kitchen at the other end of the hall, and mrs. anderson was busy in her usual battle with dirt. she kept the house clean, because it gratified her combativeness and her domineering disposition to have the house clean in spite of the ever-encroaching dirt. and so she scrubbed and scolded, and scolded and scrubbed, the scrubbing and scolding agreeing in time and rhythm. the scolding was the vocal music, the scrubbing an accompaniment. the concordant discord was perfect. just at the moment i speak of there was a lull in her scolding. the symphonious scrubbing went on as usual. julia, wishing to divert the next thunder-storm from herself, erected what she imagined might prove a conversational lightning-rod, by asking a question on a topic foreign to the theme of the last march her mother had played and sung so sweetly with brush and voice. "mother, what makes uncle andrew so queer?" "i don't know. he was always queer." this was spoken in a staccato, snapping-turtle way. but when one has lived all one's life with a snapping-turtle, one doesn't mind. julia did not mind. she was curious to know what was the matter with her uncle, andrew anderson. so she said: "i've heard that some false woman treated him cruelly; is that so?" julia did not see how red her mother's face was, for she was not regarding her. "who told you that?" julia was so used to hearing her mother speak in an excited way that she hardly noticed the strange tremor in this question. "august." the symphony ceased in a moment. the scrubbing-brush dropped in the pail of soapsuds. but the vocal storm burst forth with a violence that startled even julia. "august said _that_, did he? and you listened, did you? you listened to _that? you_ listened to that? _you listened_ to _that_? hey? he slandered your mother. you listened to him slander your mother!" by this time mrs. anderson was at white heat. julia was speechless. "_i_ saw you yesterday flirting with that _dutchman_, and listening to his abuse of your mother! and now you _insult_ me! well, to-morrow will be the last day that that dutchman will hold a plow on this place. and you'd better look out for yourself, miss! you--" here followed a volley of epithets which julia received standing. but when her mother's voice grew to a scream, julia took the word. "mother, hush!" it was the first word of resistance she had ever uttered. the agony within must have been terrible to have wrung it from her. the mother was stunned with anger and astonishment. she could not recover herself enough to speak until jule had fled half-way up the stairs. then her mother covered her defeat by screaming after her, "go to your own room, you impudent hussy! you know i am liable to die of heart-disease any minute, and you want to kill me!" chapter iii. a farewell. mrs. anderson felt that she had made a mistake. she had not meant to tell julia that august was to leave. but now that this stormy scene had taken place, she thought she could make a good use of it. she knew that her husband co-operated with her in her opposition to "the dutchman," only because he was afraid of his wife. in his heart, samuel anderson could not refuse anything to his daughter. denied any of the happiness which most men find in loving their wives, he found consolation in the love of his daughter. secretly, as though his paternal affection were a crime, he caressed julia, and his wife was not long in discovering that the father cared more for a loving daughter than for a shrewish wife. she watched him jealously, and had come to regard her daughter as one who had supplanted her in her husband's affections, and her husband as robbing her of the love of her daughter. in truth, mrs. samuel anderson had come to stand so perpetually on guard against imaginary encroachments on her rights, that she saw enemies everywhere. she hated wehle because he was a dutchman; she would have hated him on a dozen other scores if he had been an american. it was offense enough that julia loved him. so now she resolved to gain her husband to her side by her version of the story, and before dinner she had told him how august had charged her with being false and cruel to andrew many years ago, and how jule had thrown it up to her, and how near she had come to dropping down with palpitation of the heart. and samuel anderson reddened, and declared that he would protect his wife from such insults. the notion that he protected his wife was a pleasant fiction of the little man's, which received a generous encouragement at the hands of his wife. it was a favorite trick of hers to throw herself, in a metaphorical way, at his feet, a helpless woman, and in her feebleness implore his protection. and samuel felt all the courage of knighthood in defending his inoffensive wife. under cover of this fiction, so flattering to the vanity of an overawed husband, she had managed at one time or another to embroil him with almost all the neighbors, and his refusal to join fences had resulted in that crooked arrangement known as a "devil's lane" on three sides of his farm. julia dared not stay away from dinner, which was miserable enough. she did not venture so much as to look at august, who sat opposite her, and who was the most unhappy person at the table, because he did not know what all the unhappiness was about. mr. anderson's brow foreboded a storm, mrs. anderson's face was full of an earthquake, cynthy ann was sitting in shadow, and julia's countenance perplexed him. whether she was angry with him or not, he could not be sure. of one thing he was certain: she was suffering a great deal, and that was enough to make him exceedingly unhappy. sitting through his hurried meal in this atmosphere surcharged with domestic electricity, he got the notion--he could hardly tell how--that all this lowering of the sky had something to do with him. what had he done? nothing. his closest self-examination told him that he had done no wrong. but his spirits were depressed, and his sensitive conscience condemned him for some unknown crime that had brought about all this disturbance of the elements. the ham did not seem very good, the cabbage he could not eat, the corn-dodger choked him, he had no desire to wait for the pie. he abridged his meal, and went out to the barn to keep company with his horses and his misery until it should be time to return to his plow. julia sat and sewed in that tedious afternoon. she would have liked one more interview with august before his departure. looking through the open hall, she saw him leave the barn and go toward his plowing. not that she looked up. hawk never watched chicken more closely than mrs. anderson watched poor jule. but out of the corners of her eyes julia saw him drive his horses before him from the stable. at the field in which he worked was on the other side of the house from where she sat she could not so much as catch a glimpse of him as he held his plow on its steady course. she wished she might have helped cynthy ann in the kitchen, for then she could have seen him, but there was no chance for such a transfer. thus the tedious afternoon wore away, and just as the sun was settling down so that the shadow of the elm in the front-yard stretched across the road into the cow pasture, the dead silence was broken. julia had been wishing that somebody would speak. her mother's sulky speechlessness was worse than her scolding, and julia had even wished her to resume her storming. but the silence was broken by cynthy ann, who came into the hall and called, "jule, i wish you would go to the barn and gether the eggs; i want to make some cake." every evening of her life julia gathered the eggs, and there was nothing uncommon in cynthy ann's making cake, so that nothing could be more innocent than this request. julia sat opposite the front-door, her mother sat farther along. julia could see the face of cynthy ann. her mother could only hear the voice, which was dry and commonplace enough. julia thought she detected something peculiar in cynthy's manner. she would as soon have thought of the big oak gate-posts with their round ball-like heads telegraphing her in a sly way, as to have suspected any such craft on the part of cynthy ann, who was a good, pious, simple-hearted, methodist old maid, strict with herself, and censorious toward others. but there stood cynthy making some sort of gesture, which julia took to mean that she was to go quick. she did not dare to show any eagerness. she laid down her work, and moved away listlessly. and evidently she had been too slow. for if august had been in sight when cynthy ann called her, he had now disappeared on the other side of the hill. she loitered along, hoping that he would come in sight, but he did not, and then she almost smiled to think how foolish she had been in imagining that cynthy ann had any interest in her love affair. doubtless cynthy sided with her mother. and so she climbed from mow to mow gathering the eggs. no place is sweeter than a mow, no occupation can be more delightful than gathering the fresh eggs--great glorious pearls, more beautiful than any that men dive for, despised only because they are so common and so useful! but julia, gliding about noiselessly, did not think much of the eggs, did not give much attention to the hens scratching for wheat kernels amongst the straw, nor to the barn swallows chattering over the adobe dwellings which they were building among the rafters above her. she had often listened to the love-talk of these last, but now her heart was too heavy to hear. she slid down to the edge of one of the mows, and sat there a few feet above the threshing-floor with her bonnet in her hand, looking off sadly and vacantly. it was pleasant to sit here alone and think, without the feeling that her mother was penetrating her thoughts. a little rustle brought her to consciousness. her face was fiery red in a minute. there, in one corner of the threshing-floor, stood august, gazing at her. he had come into the barn to find a single-tree in place of one which had broken. while he was looking for it, julia had come, and he had stood and looked, unable to decide whether to speak or not, uncertain how deeply she might be offended, since she had never once let her eyes rest on him at dinner. and when she had come to the edge of the mow and stopped there in a reverie, august had been utterly spell-bound. a minute she blushed. then, perceiving her opportunity, she dropped herself to the floor and walked up to august. "august, you are to be turned off to-morrow night." "what have i done? anything wrong?" "no." "why do they send me away?" "because--because--" julia stopped. but silence is often better than speech. a sudden intelligence came into the blue eyes of august. "they turn me off because i love jule anderson." [illustration: a little rustle brought her to consciousness.] julia blushed just a little. "i will love her all the same when i am gone. i will always love her." julia did not know what to say to this passionate speech, so she contented herself with looking a little grateful and very foolish. "but i am only a poor boy, and a dutchman at that"--he said this bitterly--"but if you will wait, jule, i will show them i am of some account. not good enough for you, but good enough for _them_. you will--" "i will wait--_forever_--for _you_, gus." her head was down, and her voice could hardly be heard. "good-by." she stretched out her hand, and he took it trembling. "wait a minute." he dropped the hand, and taking a pencil wrote on a beam: "march th, ." "there, that's to remember the dutchman by." "don't call yourself a dutchman, august. one day in school, when i was sitting opposite to you, i learned this definition, 'august: grand, magnificent,' and i looked at you and said, yes, that he is. august is grand and magnificent, and that's what you are. you're just grand!" i do not think he was to blame. i am sure he was not responsible. it was done so quickly. he kissed her forehead and then her lips, and said good-by and was gone. and she, with her apron full of eggs and her cheeks very red--it makes one warm to climb--went back to the house, resolved in some way to thank cynthy ann for sending her; but cynthy ann's face was so serious and austere in its look that julia concluded she must have been mistaken, cynthy ann couldn't have known that august was in the barn. for all she said was: "you got a right smart lot of eggs, didn't you? the hens is beginnin' to lay more peart since the warm spell sot in." chapter iv. a counter-irritant. "vot you kits doornt off vor? hey?" gottlieb wehle always spoke english, or what he called english, when he was angry. "vot for? hey?" all the way home from anderson's on that saturday night, august had been, in imagination, listening to the rough voice of his honest father asking this question, and he had been trying to find a satisfactory answer to it. he might say that mr. anderson did not want to keep a hand any longer. but that would not be true. and a young man with august's clear blue eyes was not likely to lie. "vot vor ton't you not shpeak? can't you virshta blain eenglish ven you hears it? hey? you a'n't no teef vot shteels i shposes, unt you ton't kit no troonks mit vishky? vot you too tat you pe shamt of? pin lazin' rount? kon you nicht eenglish shprachen? oot mit id do vonst!" "i did not do anything to be ashamed of," said august. and yet he looked ashamed. "you tidn't pe no shamt, hey? you tidn't! vot vor you loogs so leig a teef in der bentenshry? vot for you sprachen not mit me ven ich sprachs der blainest zort ov eenglish mit you? you kooms sneaggin heim zaturtay nocht leig a tog vots kot kigt, unt's got his dail dween his leks; and ven i aks you in blain eenglish vot's der madder, you loogs zheepish leig, und says you a'n't tun nodin. i zay you tun sompin. if you a'n't tun nodin den, vy don't you dell me vot it is dat you has tun? hey?" [illustration: gottlieb.] all this time august found that it was getting harder and harder to tell his father the real state of the case. but the old man, seeing that he prevailed nothing, took a cajoling tone. "koom, august, mine knabe, ton't shtand dare leig a vool. vot tit anterson zay ven he shent you avay?" "he said that i'd been seen a-talking to his daughter, jule anderson." "vell, you nebber said no hoorm doo shule, tid you? if i dought you said vot you zhoodn't zay doo shule, i vood shust drash you on der shpot! tid you gwarl mit shule, already?" "quarrel with jule! she's the last person in the world i'd think of quarreling with. she's as good as--" "oh! you pe in lieb mit shule! you vool, you! is dat all dat i raise you vor? i dells you, unt dells you, unt _dells_ you to sprach nodin put deutsche, unt to marry a kood deutsche vrau vot kood sprach mit you, unt now you koes right shtraight off unt kits knee-teep in lieb mit a vool of a yangee kirl! you doo ant pe doornt off!" august's countenance brightened. all the way home he had felt that it was somehow an unpardonable sin to be a dutchman. anderson had spoken hardly to him in dismissing him, and now it was a great comfort to find that his father returned the contempt of the yankees at its full value. all the conceit was not on the side of the yankees. it was at least an open question which was the most disgraced, he or julia, by their little love affair. but more comforting still was the quiet look of his sweet-faced mother, who, moving about among her throng of children like a hen with more chickens than she can hover[ ], never forgot to be patient and affectionate. if there had been a look of reproach on the face of the mother, it would have been the hardest trial of all. but there was that in her eyes--the dear moravian mother--that gave courage to august. the mother was an outside conscience, and now as gottlieb, who had lapsed into german for his wife's benefit, rattled on his denunciation of this cannanitish yankee, with whom his son was in love, the son looked every now and then into the eyes, the still german eyes of the mother, and rejoiced that he saw there no reflection of his father's rebuke. the older wehle presently resumed his english, such as it was, as better adapted to scolding. whether he thought to make his children love german by abusing them in english, i do not know, but it was his habit. [footnote : not until my attention was called to this word in the proof did i know that in this sense it is a provincialism. it is so used, at least in half the country, and yet neither of our american dictionaries has it.] "i dells you tese yangees is yangees. dere neber voz put shust von cood vor zompin. antrew antershon is von. he shtaid mit us ven ve vos all zick, unt he is zhust so cood as if he was porn in deutschland. put all de rest is yangees. marry a deutsche vrau vot's kot cood sense to ede kraut unt shleep unter vedder peds ven it's kalt. put shust led de yangees pe yangees." seeing august put on his hat and go to the door, he called out testily: "vare you koes, already?" "over to the castle." "veil, das is koot. ko doo de gassel. antrew vlll dell you vat sorts do yangee kirls pe!" chapter v. at the castle. by the time august reached andrew anderson's castle it was dark. the castle was built in a hollow, looking out toward the ohio river, a river that has this peculiarity, that it is all beautiful, from pittsburgh to cairo. through the trees, on which the buds were just bursting, august looked out on the golden roadway made by the moonbeams on the river. and into the tumult of his feelings there came the sweet benediction of nature. and what is nature but the voice of god? anderson's castle was a large log building of strange construction. everything about it had been built by the hands of andrew, at once its lord and its architect. evidently a whimsical fancy had pleased itself in the construction. it was an attempt to realize something of medieval form in logs. there were buttresses and antique windows, and by an ingenious transformation the chimney, usually such a disfigurement to a log-house, was made to look like a round donjon keep. but it was strangely composite, and i am afraid mr. ruskin would have considered it somewhat confused; for while it looked like a rude castle to those who approached it from the hills, it looked like something very different to those who approached the front, for upon that side was a portico with massive doric columns, which were nothing more nor less than maple logs. andrew maintained that the natural form of the trunk of a tree was the ideal and perfect form of a pillar. to this picturesque structure, half castle, half cabin, with hints of church and temple, came august wehle on saturday evening. he did not go round to the portico and knock at the front-door as a stranger would have done, but in behind the donjon chimney he pulled an alarm-cord. immediately the head of andrew anderson was thrust out of a gothic hole--you could not call it a window. his uncut hair, rather darker than auburn, fell down to his waist, and his shaggy red beard lay upon his bosom. instead of a coat he wore that unique garment of linsey-woolsey known in the west as wa'mus (warm us?), a sort of over-shirt. he was forty-five, but there were streaks of gray in his hair and board, and he looked older by ten years. "what ho, good friend? is that you?" he cried. "come up, and right welcome!" for his language was as archaic and perhaps as incongruous as his architecture. and then throwing out of the window a rope-ladder, he called out again, "ascend! ascend! my brave young friend!" and young wehle climbed up the ladder into the large upper room. for it was one peculiarity of the castle that the upper part had no visible communication with the lower. except august, and now and then a literary stranger, no one but the owner was ever admitted to the upper story of the house, and the neighbors, who always had access to the lower rooms, regarded the upper part of the castle with mysterious awe. august was often plied with questions about it, but he always answered simply that he didn't think mr. anderson would like to have it talked about. for the owner there must have been some inside mode of access to the second story, but he did not choose to let even august know of any other way than that by the rope-ladder, and the few strangers who came to see his books were taken in by the same drawbridge. [illustration: the castle.] the room was filled with books arranged after whimsical associations. one set of cases, for instance, was called the academy, and into these he only admitted the masters, following the guidance of his own eccentric judgment quite as much as he followed traditional estimate. homer, virgil, dante, and milton of course had undisputed possession of the department devoted to the "kings of epic," as he styled them. sophocles, calderon, corneille, and shakespeare were all that he admitted to his list of "kings of tragedy." lope he rejected on literary grounds, and goethe because he thought his moral tendency bad. he rejected rabelais from his chief humorists, but accepted cervantes, le sage, molière, swift, hood, and the then fresh pickwick of boz. to these he added the georgia scenes of mr. longstreet, insisting that they were quite equal to don quixote. i can only stop to mention one other department in his academy. one case was devoted to the "best stories," and an admirable set they were! i wish that anything of mine were worthy to go into such company. his purity of feeling, almost ascetic, led him to reject boccaccio, but he admitted chaucer and some of balzac's, and smollett, goldsmith, and de foe, and walter scott's best, irving's rip van winkle, bernardin st. pierre's "paul and virginia," and "three months under the snow," and charles lamb's generally overlooked "rosamund gray." there were eases for "socrates and his friends," and for other classes. he had amused himself for years in deciding what books should be "crowned," as he called it, and what not. and then he had another case, called "the inferno." i wish there was space to give a list of this department. some were damned for dullness and some for coarseness. miss edgeworth's moral tales, darwin's botanic garden, rollin's ancient history, and a hideously illustrated copy of the book of martyrs were in the first-class, don juan and some french novels in the second. tupper, swinburne, and walt whitman he did not know. in the corner next the donjon chimney was a little room with a small fireplace. thus the hermit economized wood, for wood meant time, and time meant communion with his books. all of his domestic arrangements were carried on after this frugal fashion. in the little room was a writing-desk, covered with manuscripts and commonplace books. "well, my young friend, you're thrice welcome," said andrew, who never dropped his book language. "what will you have? will you resume your apprenticeship under goethe, or shall we canter to canterbury with chaucer? grand old dan chaucer! or, shall we study magical philosophy with roger bacon--the friar, the admirable doctor? or read good sir thomas more? what would sir thomas have said if he could have thought that he would be admired by two such people as you and i, in the woods of america, in the nineteenth century? but you do not want books! ah! my brave friend, you are not well. come into my cell and let us talk. what grieves you?" and andrew took him by the hand with the courtesy of a knight, with the tenderness of a woman, and with the air of an astrologer, and led him into the apartment of a monk. [illustration: the sedilium at the castle.] "see!" he said, "i have made a new chair. it is the highest evidence of my love for my teutonic friend. you have now a right to this castle. you shall be perpetually welcome. i said to myself, german scholarship shall sit there, and the backwoods philosopher will sit here. so sit down on my _sedilium_, and let us hear how this uncivil and inconstant world treats you. it can not deal worse with you than it has with me. but i have had my revenge on it! i have been revenged! i have done as i pleased, and defied the world and all its hollow conventionalities." these last words were spoken in a tone of misanthropic bitterness common to andrew. his love for august was the more intense that it stood upon a background of general dislike, if not for the world, at least for that portion of it which most immediately surrounded him. august took the chair, ingeniously woven and built of rye straw and hickory splints. he knew that all this formality and apparent pedantry was superficial. he and andrew were bosom friends, and as he had often opened his heart to the master of the castle before, so now he had no difficulty in telling him his troubles, scarcely heeding the appropriate quotations which andrew made from time to time by way of embellishment. chapter vi. the backwoods philosopher. one reason for andrew's love of august wehle was that he was a german. far from sharing in the prejudices of his neighbors against foreigners, andrew had so thorough a contempt for his neighbors, that he liked anybody who did not belong to his own people. if a turk had emigrated to clark township, andrew would have fallen in love with him, and built a divan for his special accommodation. but he loved august also for the sake of his gentle temper and his genuine love for books. and only august or august's mother, upon whom andrew sometimes called, could exorcise his demon of misanthropy, which he had nursed so long that it was now hard to dismiss it. andrew anderson belonged to a class noticed, i doubt not, by every acute observer of provincial life in this country. in backwoods and out-of-the-way communities literary culture produces marked eccentricities in the life. your bookish man at the west has never learned to mark the distinction between the world of ideas and the world of practical life. instead of writing poems or romances, he falls to living them, or at least trying to. add a disappointment in love, and you will surely throw him into the class of which anderson was the representative. for the education one gets from books is sadly one-sided, unless it be balanced by a knowledge of the world. andrew anderson had always been regarded as an oddity. a man with a good share of ideality and literary taste, placed against the dull background of the society of a western neighborhood in the former half of the century, would necessarily appear odd. had he drifted into communities of more culture, his eccentricity, begotten of a sense of superiority to his surroundings, would have worn away. had he been happily married, his oddities would have been softened; but neither of these things happened. he told august a very different history. for the confidence of his "teutonic friend" had awakened in the solitary man a desire to uncover that story which he had kept under lock and key for so many years. "ah! my friend," said he with excitement, "don't trust the faith of a woman." and then rising from his seat he said, "the backwoods philosopher warns you. i pray you give good heed. i do not know julia. she is my niece. it ill becomes me to doubt her sincerity. but i know whose daughter she is. i pray you give good heed, my teutonic friend. _i know whose daughter she is_! "i do not talk much. but you have arrived at a critical point--a point of turning. out of his own life, out of his own sorrow, the backwoods philosopher warns you. i am at peace now. but look at me. do you not see the marks of the ravages of a great storm? a sort of a qualified happiness i have in philosophy. but what i might have been if the storm had not torn me to pieces in my youth--what i might have been, that i am not. i pray you never trust in a woman's keeping the happiness of your life!" [illustration: "look at me."] here andrew slipped his arm through wehle's, and began to promenade with him in the large apartment up and down an alley, dimly lighted by a candle, between solid phalanxes of books. "i pray you give good heed," he said, resuming. "i was always eccentric. people thought i was either a genius or fool. perhaps i was much of both. but this is a digression. i did not pay any attention to women. i shunned them. i said that to be a great author and a philosophical thinker, one must not be a man of society. i never went to a wood-chopping, to an apple-peeling, to a corn-shucking, to a barn-raising, nor indeed to any of our rustic feasts. i suppose this piqued the vanity of the girls, and they set themselves to catch me. i suppose they thought that i would be a trophy worth boasting. i have noticed that hunters estimate game according to the difficulty of getting it. but this is a digression. let us return. "there came among us, at that time, abigail norman. she was pretty. i swear by all the sacred cats of egypt, that she was beautiful. she was industrious. the best housekeeper in the state! she was high-strung. i liked her all the more for that. you see a man of imagination is apt to fall in love with a tragedy queen. but this is a digression. let us return. "she spread her toils in my path. while i was wandering through the woods writing poetry to birds and squirrels, abby norman was ambitious enough to hope to make me her slave, and she did. she read books that she thought i liked. she planned in various ways to seem to like what i liked, and yet she had sense enough to differ a little from me, and so make herself the more interesting. i think a man of real intellect never likes to have a man or woman agree with him entirely. but let us return. "i loved abigail desperately. no, i did not love abigail norman at all. i did not love her as she was, but i loved her as she seemed to my imagination to be. i think most lovers love an ideal that hovers in the air a little above the real recipient of their love. and i think we men of genius and imagination are apt to love something very different from the real person, which is unfortunate. "but i am digressing again. to return: i wrote poetry to abby. i courted her. i cut off my long hair for a woman, like samson. i tried to dress more decently, and made myself ridiculous no doubt, for a man can not dress well unless he has a talent for it. and i never had a genius for beau-knots. "but pardon the digression. let us return. i was to have married her. the day was set. then i found accidentally that she was engaged to my brother samuel, a young man with better manners than mind. she made him believe that she was only making a butt of me. but i think she really loved me more than she knew. when i had discovered her treachery, i shipped on the first flat-boat. i came near committing suicide, and should have jumped into the river one night, only that i thought it might flatter her vanity. i came back here and ignored her. she broke with samuel and tried to regain my affections. i scorned her. i trod on her heart! i stamped her pride into the dust! i was cruel. i was contemptuous. i was well-nigh insane. then she went back to samuel, and _made_ him marry her. then she forced my imbecile old father, on his death-bed, to will all the property to samuel, except this piece of rough hill-land and one thousand dollars. but here i built this castle. my thousand dollars i put in books. i learned how, to weave the coverlets of which our country people are so fond, and by this means, and by selling wood to the steamboats, i have made a living and bought my library without having to work half of my time. i was determined never to leave. i swore by all the arms of vishnu she should never say that she had driven me away. i don't know anything about julia. but i know whose daughter she is. my young friend, beware! i pray you take good heed! the backwoods philosopher warns you!" chapter vii. within and without. if the gentleman is not born in a man, it can not be bred in him. if it is born in him, it can not be bred out of him. august wehle had inherited from his mother the instinct of true gentlemanliness. and now, when andrew relapsed into silence and abstraction, he did not attempt to rouse him, but bidding him goodnight, with his own hands threw the rope-ladder out the window and started up the hollow toward home. the air was sultry and oppressive, the moon had been engulfed, and the first thunder-cloud of the spring was pushing itself up toward the zenith, while the boughs of the trees were quivering with a premonitory shudder. but august did not hasten. the real storm was within. andrew's story had raised doubts. when he went down the ravine the love of julia anderson shone upon his heart as benignly as the moon upon the waters. now the light was gone, and the black cloud of a doubt had shut out his peace. jule anderson's father was rich. he had not thought of it before! but now he remembered how much woodland he owned and how he had two large farms. jule anderson would not marry a poor boy. and a dutchman! she was not sincere. she was trifling with him and teasing her parents. or, if she were sincere now, she would not be faithful to him against every tempting offer. and he would have to drive on the rocks, too, as andrew had. at any rate, he would not marry her until he stood upon some sort of equality with her. the wind was swaying him about in its fitful gusts, and he rather liked it. in his anguish of spirit it was a pleasure to contend with the storm. the wind, the lightning, the sudden sharp claps of thunder were on his own key. he felt in the temper of old lear. the winds might blow and crack their cheeks. but it was not alone the suggestions of andrew that aroused his suspicions. he now recalled a strange statement that samuel anderson made in discharging him. "you said what you had no right to say about my wife, in talking to julia." what had he said? only that some woman had not treated andrew "just right." who the woman might be he had not known until his present interview with andrew. had julia been making mischief herself by repeating his words and giving them a direction he had not intended? he could not have dreamed of her acting such a part but for the strange influence of andrew's strange story. and so he staggered on, wet to the skin, defying in his heart the lightning and the wind, until he came to the cabin of his father. climbing the fence, for there was no gate, he pulled the latch-string and entered. they were all asleep; the hard-working family went to bed early. but chubby-faced wilhelmina, the favorite sister, had set up to wait for august, and he now found her fast asleep in the chair. "wilhelmina! wake up!" he said. "o august!" she said, opening the corner of one eye and yawning, "i wasn't asleep. i only--uh--shut my eyes a minute. how wet you are! did you go to see the pretty girl up at mr. anderson's?" "no," said august. "o august! she is pretty, and she is good and sweet," and wilhelmina took his wet checks between her chubby hands and gave him a sleepy kiss, and then crept off to bed. and, somehow, the faith of the child wilhelmina counteracted the skepticism of the and andrew, and august felt the storm subsiding. when he looked out of the window of the loft in which he slept the shower had ceased as suddenly as it had come, the thunder had retreated behind the hills, the clouds were already breaking, and the white face of the moon was peering through the ragged rifts. chapter viii. figgers won't lie "figgers won't lie," said elder hankins, the millerite preacher. "i say figgers won't lie. when a methodis' talks about fallin' from grace he has to argy the pint. and argyments can't be depended 'pon. and when a prisbyterian talks about parseverance he haint got the absolute sartainty on his side. but figgers won't lie noways, and it's figgers that shows this yer to be the last yer of the world, and that the final eend of all things is approachin'. i don't ask you to listen to no 'mpressions of me own, to no reasonin' of nobody; all i ask is that you should listen to the voice of the man in the linen-coat what spoke to dan'el, and then listen to the voice of the 'rithmetic, and to a sum in simple addition, the simplest sort of addition." all the millerite preachers of that day were not quite so illiterate as elder hankins, and it is but fair to say that the adventists of to-day are a very respectable denomination, doing a work which deserves more recognition from others than it receives. and for the delusion which expects the world to come to an end immediately, the adventist leaders are not responsible in the first place. from gnosticism to mormonism, every religious delusion has grown from some fundamental error in the previous religious teaching of the people. by the narrowly verbal method of reading the scripture, so much in vogue in the polemical discussions of the past generation, and still so fervently adhered to by many people, the ground was prepared for millerism. and to-day in many regions the soil in made fallow for the next fanaticism. it is only a question of who shall first sow and reap. to people educated as those who gathered in sugar grove school-house had been to destroy the spirit of the scripture by distorting the letter in proving their own sect right, nothing could be so overwhelming as elder hankins's "figgers." for he had clearly studied figgers to the neglect of the other branches of a liberal education. his demonstration was printed on a large chart. he began with the seventy weeks of daniel, he added in the "time and times and a half," and what daniel declared that he "understood not when he heard," was plain sailing to the enlightened and mathematical mind of elder hankins. when he came to the thousand two hundred and ninety days, he waxed more exultant than kepler in his supreme moment, and on the thousand three hundred and five and thirty days he did what jonas harrison called "the blamedest tallest cipherin' he'd ever seed in all his born days." jonas was the new hired man, who had stopped into the shoes of august at samuel anderson's. he sat by august and kept up a running commentary, in a loud whisper, on the sermon, "my feller-citizen," said jonas, squeezing august's arm at a climax of the elder's discourse, "my feller-citizen, looky thar, won't you? he'll cipher the world into nothin' in no time. he's like the feller that tried to find out the valoo of a fat shoat when wood was two dollars a cord. 'ef i can't do it by substraction i'll do it by long-division,' says he. and ef this 'rithmetic preacher can't make a finishment of this sub_lu_nary speer by addition, he'll do it by multiplyin'. they's only one answer in his book. gin him any sum you please, and it all comes out !" now in all the region round about sugar grove school-house there was a great dearth of sensation. the people liked the prospect of the end of the world because it would be a spectacle, something to relieve the fearful monotony of their lives. funerals and weddings were commonplace, and nothing could have been so interesting to them as the coming of the end of the world, as described by elder hankins, unless it had been a first-class circus (with two camels and a cage of monkeys attached, so that scrupulous people might attend from a laudable desire to see the menagerie!) a murder would have been delightful to the people of clark township. it would have given them something to think and talk about. into this still pool elder hankins threw the vials, the trumpets, the thunders, the beast with ten horns, the he-goat, and all the other apocalyptic symbols understood in an absurdly literal way. the world was to come to an end in the following august. here was an excitement, something worth living for. all the way to their homes the people disputed learnedly about the "time and times and a half," about "the seven heads and ten horns," and the seventh vial. the fierce polemical discussions and the bold sectarian dogmatism of the day had taught them anything but "the modesty of true science," and now the unsolvable problems of the centuries were taken out of the hands of puzzled scholars and settled as summarily and positively as the relative merits of "gourd-seed" and "flint" corn. samuel anderson had always planted his corn in the "light" of the moon and his potatoes in the "dark" of that orb, had always killed his hogs when the moon was on the increase lest the meat should all go to gravy, and he and his wife had carefully guarded against the carrying of a hoe through the house, for fear "somebody might die." now, the preaching of the elder impressed him powerfully. his life had always been not so much a bad one as a cowardly one, and to get into heaven by a six months' repentance, seemed to him a good transaction. besides he remembered that there men were never married, and that there, at last, abigail would no longer have any peculiar right to torture him. hankins could not have ciphered him into millerism if his wife had not driven him into it as the easiest means of getting a divorce. no doom in the next world could have alarmed him much, unless it had been the prospect of continuing lord and master of mrs. abigail. and as for that oppressed woman, she was simply scared. she was quite unwilling to admit the coming of the world's end so soon. having some ugly accounts to settle, she would fain have postponed the payday. mrs. anderson might truly have been called a woman who feared god--she had reason to. and as for august, he would not have cared much if the world had come to an end, if only he could have secured one glance of recognition from the eyes of julia. but julia dared not look. the process of cowing her had gone on from childhood, and now she was under a reign of terror. she did not yet know that she could resist her mother. and then she lived in mortal fear of her mother's heart-disease. by irritating her she might kill her. this dread of matricide her mother held always over her. in vain she watched for a chance. it did not come. once, when her mother's head was turned, she glanced at august. but he was at that moment listening or trying to listen to one of jonas harrison's remarks. and august, who did not understand the circumstances, was only able to account for her apparent coldness on the theory suggested by andrew's universal unbelief in women, or by supposing that when she understood his innocent remark about andrew's disappointment to refer to her mother, she had taken offense at it. and so, while the rest were debating whether the world would come to an end or not, august had a disconsolate feeling that the end of the world had already come. and it did not make him feel better to have wilhelmina whisper, "oh! but she _is_ pretty, that anderson girl--a'n't she, august?" chapter ix. the new singing-master "he sings like an owlingale!" jonas harrison was leaning against the well-curb, talking to cynthy ann. he'd been down to the store at brayville, he said, a listenin' to 'em discuss millerism, and seed a new singing-master there. "could he sing good?" cynthy asked, rather to prolong the talk than to get information. "sings like an owlingale, i reckon. he's got more seals to his ministry a-hanging onto his watch-chain than i ever seed. got a mustache onto the top story of his mouth, somethin' like a tuft of grass on the roof of a ole shed kitchen. peart? he's the peartest-lookin' chap i ever seed. but he a'n't no singin'-master--not of i'm any jedge of turnips. he warn't born to sarve his day and generation with a tunin'-fork. i think he's a-goin' to reckon-water a little in these parts and that he's only a-playin' singin'-master. he kin play more fiddles'n one, you bet a hoss! says he come up here fer his wholesome, and i guess he did. think ef he'd a-staid where he was, he mout a-suffered a leetle from confinement to his room, and that room p'raps not more nor five foot by nine, and ruther dim-lighted and poor-provisioned, an' not much chance fer takin' exercise in the fresh air!" [illustration: "don't be oncharitable, jonas."] "don't be oncharitable, jonas, don't. we're all mis'able sinners, i s'pose; and you know charity don't think no evil. the man may be all right, ef he does wear hair on his lip. charity kivers lots a sins." "ya-as, but charity don't kiver no wolves with wool. an' ef he a'n't a woolly wolf they's no snakes in jarsey, as little ridin' hood said when her granny tried to bite her head off. i'm dead sot in favor of charity, and mean to gin her my vote at every election, but i a'n't a-goin' to have her put a blind-bridle on to me. and when a man comes to clark township a-wearing straps to his breechaloons to keep hisself from leaving terry-firmy altogether, and a weightin' hisself down with pewter watch-seals, gold-washed, and a cultivating a crap of red-top hay onto his upper lip, and a-lettin' on to be a singin'-master, i suspicions him. they's too much in the git-up fer the come-out. well, here's yer health, cynthy!" and having made this oracular speech and quaffed the hard limestone water, jonas hung the clean white gourd from which he had been drinking, in its place against the well-curb, and started back to the field, while cynthy ann carried her bucket of water into the kitchen, blaming herself for standing so long talking to jonas. to cynthy everything pleasant had a flavor of sinfulness. the pail of water was hardly set down in the sink when there came a knock at the door, and cynthy found standing by it the strapped pantaloons, the "red-top" mustache, the watch-seals, and all the rest that went to make up the new singing-master. he smiled when he saw her, one of those smiles which are strictly limited to the lower half of the face, and are wholly mechanical, as though certain strings inside were pulled with malice aforethought and the mouth jerked out into a square grin, such as an ingeniously-made automaton might display. "is mr. anderson in?" "no, sir; he's gone to town." "is mrs. anderson in?" and so he entered, and soon got into conversation with the lady of the house, and despite the prejudice which she entertained for mustaches, she soon came to like him. he smiled so artistically. he talked so fluently. he humored all her whims, pitied all her complaints, and staid to dinner, eating her best preserves with a graciousness that made mrs. anderson feel how great was his condescension. for mr. humphreys, the singing-master, had looked at the comely face of julia, and looked over julia's shoulders at the broad acres beyond; and he thought that in clark township he had not met with so fine a landscape, so nice a figure-piece. and with the quick eye of a man of the world, he had measured mrs. anderson, and calculated on the ease with which he might complete the picture to suit his taste. he staid to supper. he smiled that same fascinating square smile on samuel anderson, treated him as head of the house, talked glibly of farming, and listened better than he talked. he gave no account of himself, except by way of allusion. he would begin a sentence thus, "when i was traveling in france with my poor dear mother," etc., from which mrs. anderson gathered that he had been a devoted son, and then he would relate how he had seen something curious "when he was dining at the house of the american minister at berlin." "this hazy air reminds me of my native mountains in northern new york." and then he would allude to his study of music in the conservatory in leipsic. to plain country people in an out-of-the-way western neighborhood, in , such a man was better than a lyceum full of lectures. he brought them the odor of foreign travel, the flavor of city, the "otherness" that everybody craves. [illustration: the hawk.] he staid to dinner, as i have said, and to supper. he staid over night. he took up his board at the house of samuel anderson. who could resist his entreaty? did he not assure them that he felt the need of a home in a cultivated family? and was it not the one golden opportunity to have the daughter of the house taught music by a private master, and thus give a special _eclat_ to her education? how mrs. anderson hoped that this superior advantage would provoke jealous remarks on the part of her neighbors! it was only necessary to the completion of her triumph that they should say she was "stuck up." then, too, to have so brilliant a beau for julia! a beau with watch-seals and a mustache, a beau who had been to paris with his mother, studied music in the conservatory at leipsic, dined with the american minister in berlin, and done ever so many more wonderful things, was a prospect to delight the ambitious heart of mrs. anderson, especially as he flattered the mother instead of the daughter. "he's a independent citizen of this federal union," said jonas to cynthy, "carries his head like he was intimately 'quainted with the 'merican eagle hisself. he's playin' this game sharp. he deals all the trumps to hisself, and most everything besides. he'll carry off the gal if something don't arrest him in his headlong career. jist let me git a chance at him when he's soarin' loftiest into the amber blue above, and i'll cut his kite-string for him, and let him fall like fork-ed lightnin' into a mud-puddle." cynthy said she did see one great sin that he had committed for sure. that was the puttin' on of gold and costly apparel. it was sot down in the bible and in the methodist discipline that it was a sin to wear gold, and she should think the poor man hadn't no sort o' regard for his soul, weighing it down with them things. but jonas only remarked that he guessed his jewelry warn't no sin. he didn't remember nothing agin wearin' pewter. chapter x. an offer of help. the singing-master, mr. humphreys, went to singing-school and church with julia in a matter-of-course way, treating her with attention, but taking care not to make himself too attentive. except that julia could not endure his smile--which was, like some joint stock companies, strictly limited--she liked him well enough. it was something to her, in her monotonous life under the eye of her mother, who almost never left her alone, and who cut off all chance for communication with august--it was something to have the unobtrusive attentions of mr. humphreys, who always interested her with his adventures. for indeed it really seemed that he had had more adventures than any dozen other men. how should a simple-hearted girl understand him? how should she read the riddle of a life so full of duplicity--of _multiplicity_--as the life of joshua humphreys, the music-teacher? humphreys intended to make love to her, but during the first two weeks he only aimed to gain her esteem. he felt that there was a clue which he had not got. but at last the key dropped into his hands, and he felt sure that the unsophisticated girl was in his power. among the girls that attended humphreys's singing-school was betsey malcolm, the near neighbor of the andersons. the singing-master often saw her at mr. anderson's, and he often wished that julia were as easy to win as he felt betsey to be. the sensuous mouth, the giddy eyes of betsey, showed quickly her appreciation of every flattering attention he paid her, and though in julia's presence he was careful how he treated her, yet when he, walking down the road one day, alone, met her, he courted her assiduously. he had not to observe any caution in her case. she greedily absorbed all the flattery he could give, only pettishly responding after a while: "o dear! that's the way you talk to me, and that's the way you talk to jule sometimes, i s'pose. i guess she don't mind keeping two of you as strings to her bow." "two! what do you mean, my fair friend? i havn't seen one, yet." "oh, no! you mean you haven't seen two. you see one whenever you look in the glass. the other is a dutchman, and she's dying after him. she may flirt with you, but her mother watches her night and day, to keep her from running off with gus wehle." like many another crafty person, betsey malcolm had fairly overshot the mark. in seeking to separate humphreys from julia, she had given him the clue he desired, and he was not slow to use it, for he was almost the only person that mrs. anderson trusted alone with julia. in the dusk of the evening of the very day of his talk with betsey, he sat on the long front-porch with julia. julia liked him better, or rather did not dislike him so much in the dark as she did in the light. for when it was light she could see him smile, and though she had not learned to connect a cold-blooded face with a villainous character, she had that childish instinct which made her shrink from humphreys's square smile. it always seemed to her that the real humphreys gazed at her out of the cold, glittering eyes, and that the smile was something with which he had nothing to do. sitting thus in the dusk of the evening, and looking out over the green pasture to where the nigher hills ceased and the distant seemed to come immediately after, their distance only indicated by color, though the whole ohio "bottom" was between, she forgot the mephistopheles who sat not far away, and dreamed of august, the "grand," as she fancifully called him. and he let her sit and dream undisturbed for a long time, until the darkness settled down upon the hills. then he spoke. "i--i thought," began humphreys, with well-feigned hesitancy, "i thought, i should venture to offer you my assistance as a true and gallant man, in a matter--a matter of supreme delicacy--a matter that i have no right to meddle with. i think i have heard that your mother is not friendly to the suit of a young man who--who--well, let us say who is not wholly disagreeable to you. i beg your pardon, don't tell me anything that you prefer to keep locked in the privacy of your own bosom. but if i can render any assistance, you know. i have some little influence with your parents, maybe. if i could be the happy bearer of any communications, command me as your obedient servant." julia did not know what to say. to get a word to august was what she most desired. but the thought of using humphreys was repulsive to her. she could not see his face in the gathering darkness, but she could _feel_ him smile that same soulless, geometrical smile. she could not do it. she did not know what to say. so she said nothing. humphreys saw that he must begin farther back. "i hear the young man spoken of as a praiseworthy person. german, i believe? i have always noticed a peculiar manliness about germans. a peculiar refinement, indeed, and a courtesy that is often wanting in americans. i noticed this when i was in leipsic. i don't think the german girls are quite so refined. german gentlemen in this country seem to prefer american girls oftentimes." all this might have sounded hollow enough to a disinterested listener. to julia the words were as sweet as the first rain after a tedious drouth. she had heard complaint, censure, innuendo, and downright abuse of poor gus. these were the first generous words. they confirmed her judgment, they comforted her heart, they made her feel grateful, even affectionate toward the fop, in spite of his watch-seals, his curled mustache, his straps, his cold eyes, and his artificial smile. poor fool you will call her, and poor fool she was. for she could have thrown herself at the feet of humphreys, and thanked him for his words. thank him she did in a stammering way, and he did not hesitate to repeat his favorable impressions of germans, after that. what he wanted was, not to break the hold of august until he had placed himself in a position to be next heir to her regard. chapter xi. the coon-dog argument. the reader must understand that all this time elder hankins continued to bombard clark township with the thunders and lightnings of the apocalypse, continued to whirl before the dazed imaginations of his rustic hearers the wheels within wheels and the faces of the living creatures of 'zek'el, continued to cipher the world out of existence according to formulas in dan'el, marched out the he-goat, made the seven heads and ten horns of the beast do service over and over again. and all the sweet mysteries of oriental imagery, the mystic figures which unexpounded give so noble a depth to the perspective of scripture, were cut to pieces, pulled apart, and explained, as though they were tricks of legerdemain. julia was powerfully impressed, not by the declamations of hankins, for she had sensibility enough to recoil from his vivisection of scripture, though she had been all her life accustomed to hear it from other than millerites, but she was profoundly affected by the excitement about her. her father, attracted in part by the promise that there should be no marrying there, had embraced millerism with all his heart, and was in such a state of excitement that he could not attend to his business. mrs. anderson was in continual trepidation about it, though she tried not to believe it. she was on the point of rebelling and declaring that the world _should_ not come to an end. but on the whole she felt that the government of the universe was one affair in which she would have to give up all hope of having her own way. meantime there was no increase of religion. some were frightened out of their vices for a time, but a passionate terror of that sort is the worst enemy of true piety. "fer my part," said cynthy ann, as she walked home with jonas, "fer my part, i don't believe none of his nonsense. john wesley" (jonas was a new-light, and cynthy always talked to him about wesley) "knowed a heap more about scripter than all the hankinses and millerses that ever was born, and he knowed how to cipher, too, i 'low. why didn't he say the world was goin' to wind up? an' our persidin' elder is a heap better instructed than hankins, and he says god don't tell nobody when the world's goin' to wind up." "goin' to run down, you mean, cynthy ann. 'kordin' to hankins it's a old clock gin out in the springs, i 'low. how does hankins know that 'zek'el's livin' creeters means one thing more'n another? he talks about them wheels as nateral as ef he was a wagon-maker fixin' a ole buggy. he says the thing's a gone tater; no more craps of corn offen the bottom land, no more electin' presidents of this free and glorious columby, no more fourths, no more shootin' crackers nor spangled banners, no more nothin'. he ciphers and ciphers, and then spits on his slate and wipes us all out. whenever gabr'el blows i'll b'lieve it, but i won't take none o' hankins's tootin' in place of it. i shan't git skeered at no tin-horns, and as for papaw whistles, why, i say jericho wouldn't a-tumbled for no sech music, and they won't fetch down no stars that air way." here old gottlieb wehle, who had just joined the millerites, came up. "yonas, you mags shport of de piple. ef dem vaces in der veels, and dem awvool veels in der veels, and dem figures vot always says aideen huntert vordy dree, ef dem tond mean sompin awvool, vot does dey mean? mean? hey?" "my venerated friend and feller-citizen of forren birth," said jonas, "you hit the nail on the crown of the head squar, with the biggest sort ov a sledge-hammer. you gripped a-holt of the truth that air time like the american bird a-grippin' the arries on the shield. what do they mean? that's jest the question, and you millerites allers argies like the man who warranted his dog to be a good coon-dog, bekase he warn't good fer nothin' else under the amber blue. now, my time-honored friend and beloved german voter, jest let me tell you that _on the coon-dog principle_ you could a-wound up the trade and traffic of this airth any time. fer ef they don't mean , what do they mean? why, or , of course. you don't come no coon-dog argyments over me, not while i remain sound in wind and limb." "goon-tog! who zed goon-tog? ich tidn't, hankins tidn't, ze'kel's wision tidn't zay nodin pout no goon-tog. what's goon-togs cot do too mit de end of de vorld? yonas, you pe a vool, maype." "the same to yerself, my beloved friend and free and enlightened feller-citizen. long may you wave, like a green bay boss, and a jimson-weed on the sunny side of a board-fence!" gottlieb hurried on, finding jonas much harder to understand than the prophecies. "i hear the singing-master is goin' to jine," said cynthy ann. "wonder ef they'll take him with all his seals and straps, and hair on his upper lip, with the plain words of the bible agin gold and costly apparel? wonder ef he's tuck in, too?" "tuck in? he an't one of that kind. he don't never git tuck in--he tucks in. he knows which side of his bread's got quince preserves onto it. i used to run second mate on the dook of orleans, and i know his kind. he'll soar around like a turkey-buzzard fer a while. presently he'll 'light. he's rusticatin' tell some scrape blows over. an' he'll make somethin' outen it. business afore pleasure is his motto. he don't hang that seducin' grin under them hawky eyes fer nothin'. wait till the pious and disinterested example 'lights somewheres. then look out for the feathers, won't ye! he won't leave nary bone. but here we air. i declare, cynthy, this walk seems _the shortest_, when i'm in superfine, number-one comp'ny!" cynthy was so pleased with this remark, that she did penance in her mind for a week afterwards. it was so wicked to enjoy one's self out of class-meeting! chapter xii. two mistakes. at the singing-school and at the church august waited as impatiently as possible for some sign of recognition from julia. he little knew the fear that beset her. having seen her hysterical mother prostrated for weeks by the excitement of a dispute with her father, it seemed to her that if she turned one look of love and longing toward young wehle, whose sweet german voice rang out above the rest in the hymns, she might kill her mother as quickly as by plunging a knife into her heart. the steam-doctor, who was the family physician, had warned her and her father separately of the danger of exciting mrs. anderson's most excitable temper, and now julia was the slave of her mother's disease. that lucky hysteria, which the steam-doctor thought a fearful heart-disease, had given mrs. abigail the whip-hand of husband and daughter, and she was not slow to know her advantage, using her heart in a most heartless way. august could not blame julia for not writing, for he had tried to break the blockade by a letter sent through jonas and cynthy ann, but the latter had found herself so well watched that the note oppressed her conscience and gave a hangdog look to her face for two weeks before she got it out of her pocket, and then she put it under the pillow of julia's bed, and had reason to believe that the suspicious mrs. anderson confiscated it within five minutes. for the severity of maternal government was visibly increased thereafter, and julia received many reminders of her ingratitude and of her determination to kill her self-sacrificing mother by her stubbornness. "well," mrs. anderson would say, "it's all one to me whether the world comes to an end or not. i should like to live to see the day of judgment. but i shan't. no affectionate mother can stand such treatment as i receive from my own daughter. if norman was only at home!" it is proper to explain here that norman was her son, in whom she took a great deal of comfort when he was away, and whom she would have utterly spoiled by indulgence if he had not been born past spoiling. he was the only person to whom she was indulgent, and she was indulgent to him chiefly because he was so weak of will that there was not much glory in conquering him, and because her indulgence to him was a rod of affliction to the rest of her family. failing to open communication through jonas and cynthy ann, august found himself in a desperate strait, and with an impatience common to young men he unhappily had recourse to betsey malcolm. she often visited julia, and twice, when julia was not at meeting, he went home with the ingenuous betsey, who always pretended to have something to tell him "about jule," and who yet, for the pure love of mischief-making, tried to make him think as poorly as possible of julia's sincerity, and who, from pure love of flirtation, puckered her red lips, and flashed at him with her sensuous eyes, and sighed and blushed, or rather flushed, while she sympathized with him in a way that might have been perilous if he had been an american instead of a constant-hearted "dutchman," wholly absorbed with the image of julia. but, so far as carrying messages was concerned, betsey was certainly a non-conductor. she professed never to be able to run the blockade with any communication of his. she said to herself that she wasn't going to help jule anderson to keep _all_ the beaus. she meant to capture one or the other of them if she could. and, indeed, she did not dream how grievous was the wrong she did. for she could appreciate no other feeling in the matter than vanity, and she could not see any particular harm in "taking jule anderson down a peg." and so she assured the anxious and already suspicious august that if she was in his place she should want that singing-master out of the way. "some girls can't stand people that wear jewelry and mustaches and straps and such things. and mr. humphreys is very careful of her, won't let her sit too late on the porch, and is very comforting in his way of talking to her. and she seems to like it. i tell you what it is, gus "--and she looked at him so bewitchingly that the pure and sensitive august blushed, he could hardly tell why--"i tell you jule's a nice girl, and got a nice property back of her, and i hope she won't act like her mother. and, indeed, i can't hardly believe she will, though the way she eyes that humphreys makes me mad." she had suggested the old doubt. a doubt is dangerous when its face grows familiar, and one recognizes the "monsieur tonson come again." and all the message the disinterested and benevolent betsey bore to julia was to tell her exultingly that gus had twice walked home with her. and they had had such a nice time! and julia, girl that she was, declared indignantly that she didn't care whom he went with; though she did care, and her eyes and face said so. thus the tongue sometimes lies--or seems to lie--when the whole person is telling the truth. the only excuse for the tongue is that it will not be believed, and it knows that it will not be believed! it only speaks diplomatically, maybe. but diplomatic talking is bad. better the truth. if jule had known that her words would be reported to august, she would have bitten out her tongue rather than to have let it utter words that were only the cry of her wounded pride. of course betsey met august in the road the next morning, in a quiet hollow by the brook, and told him, sympathizingly, almost affectionately, that she had begun to talk to julia about him, and that jule had said she didn't care. so while julia uttered a lie she spoke the truth, and while. betsey uttered the truth she spoke a lie, willful, malicious, and wicked. now, in the mean time, julia, on her side, had tried to open communication through the only channel that offered itself. she did not attempt it by means of betsey, because, being a woman, she felt instinctively that betsey was not to be trusted. but there was only one other to whom she was allowed to speak, except under a supervision as complete as it was unacknowledged. that other was mr. humphreys. he evinced a constant interest in her affairs, avowing that he always did have a romantic desire to effect the union of suitable people, even though it might pain his heart a little to see another more fortunate than himself. julia had given up all hope of communicating by letter, and she could not bring herself to make any confessions to a man who had such a smile and such eyes, but to a generous proposition of mr. humphreys that he should see august and open the way for any communication between them, she consented, scarcely concealing her eagerness. august was not in a mood to receive humphreys kindly. he hated him by intuition, and a liking for him had not been begotten by betsey's assurances that he was making headway with julia. august was riding astride a bag of corn on his way to mill, when humphreys, taking a walk, met him. "a pleasant day, mr. wehle!" "yes," said august, with a courtesy as mechanical as humphreys's smile. the singing-master was rather pleased than otherwise to see that august disliked him. it suited his purpose, just now to gall wehle into saying what he would not otherwise have said. "i hear you are in trouble," he proceeded. "how so?" "oh! i hear that mrs. anderson doesn't like dutchmen." the smile now seemed to have something of a sneer in it. "i don't know that that is your affair," said august, all his suspicions, by a sort of "resolution of force," changing into anger. "oh! i beg pardon," with a tone half-mocking. "i did not know but i might help settle matters. i think i have mrs. anderson's confidence; and i know that i have miss anderson's confidence in an unusual degree. i think a great deal of her. and she thinks me _her friend_ at least. i thought that there might be some little matters yet unsettled between you two, and she suggested that maybe there might be something you would like to say, and that if you would say it to me, it would be all the same as if it were said to her. she considers that in the relation i bear to her and the family, a message delivered to me is the same in effect as if given to her. i told her i did not think you would, as a gentleman, wish to hold her to any promises that might be irksome to her now." these words were spoken with a coolness and maliciousness of good-nature quite devilish, and august's fist involuntarily doubled itself to strike him, if only to make him cease smiling in that villainous rectangular way. but he checked himself. "you are a puppy. tell _that_ to jule, if you choose. i shall send her a release from all obligations, but not by the hand of a rascal!" like all desperadoes, humphreys was a coward. he could shoot, but he could not fight, and just now he was affecting the pious or at least the high moral role, and had left his pistols, brandy-flasks, and the other necessary appurtenances of a gentleman, locked in his trunk. besides it would not at all have suited his purpose to shoot. so in lieu of shooting he only smiled, as august rode off, that same old geometric smile, the elements of which were all calculated. he seemed incapable of any other facial contortion. it expressed one emotion, indeed, about as well as another, and was therefore as convenient as those pocket-knives which affect to contain a chest of tools in one. [illustration: "tell that to jule."] julia was already stung to jealousy by betsey malcolm's mischief-making, and it did not require much more to put her into a frenzy. as they walked home from meeting the next night--they had meeting all nights now, the world would soon end and there was so much to be done--as they walked home humphreys contrived to separate julia from the rest, and to tell her that he had had a conversation with young wehle. "it was painful, very painful," he said, "i think i had better not say any more about it." "why?" asked julia in terror. "well, i feel that your grief is mine. i have never felt so much interest in any one before, and i must say that i was grievously disappointed. this young man is not at all worthy of you." "what do you mean?" and there was a trace of indignation in her tone. "it does seem to me that the man who has your love should be the happiest in the world; but he refused to send you any message, and says that he will soon send you an entire release from all engagement to him. he showed no tenderness and made no inquiry." the weakest woman and the strongest can faint. it is a woman's last resort. when all else is gone, that remains. julia drew a sharp quick breath, and was just about to become unconscious. humphreys stretched his arms to catch her, but the sudden recollection that in case she fainted he would carry her into the house, produced a reaction. she released herself from his grasp, and hurried in alone, locking her door, and refusing admittance to her mother. from humphreys, who had put himself into a delicate minor key, mrs. anderson got such an account of the conversation as he thought best to give. she then opened and read a note placed into her hand by a neighbor as she came out from meeting. it was addressed to julia, and ran: "if all they say is true, you have quickly changed. i do not hold you by any promises you wish to break. "august wehle." mrs. anderson had no pity. she hesitated not an instant. julia's door was fast. but she went out upon the front upper porch, and pushing up the window of her daughter's room as remorselessly as she had committed the burglary on her private letter, she looked at her a moment, sobbing on the bed, and then threw the letter into the room, saying: "it's good for you. read that, and see what a fellow your dutchman is." then mrs. anderson sought her couch, and slept with a serene sense, of having done _her_ duty as a mother, whatever might be the result. chapter xiii. the spider spins. julia got up from her bed the moment that her mother had gone. her first feeling was that her privacy had been shamefully outraged. a true mother should honorably respect the reserve of the little child. but julia was now a woman, grown, with a woman's spirit. she rose from her bed, and shut her window with a bang that was meant to be a protest. she then put the tenpenny nail sometimes used to fasten the window down, in its place, as if to say, "come in, if you can." then she pulled out the folds of the chintz curtain, hanging on its draw-string half-way up the window. if there had been any other precaution possible, she would have taken it. but there was not. she took up the note, and read it. julia was not a girl of keen penetration. her training was that of a country life. she did not read between the lines of august's note, and could only understand that she was dismissed. outraged by her mother's tyranny, spurned by her lover, she stood like a hunted creature, brought to bay, looking for the last desperate chance for escape. crushed? no. if she had been weaker, if she had been of the quieter, frailer sort, instead of being, as she was, elastic, impulsive, recuperative, she might have been crushed. she was wounded in her heart of hearts, but all her pride and hardihood, of which she had not a little, had now taken up arms against outrageous fortune. she was stung at every thought of august and his letter, of betsey malcolm and her victory, of the fact that her mother had read the letter and knew of her humiliation. and she paced the floor of her room, and resolved to resist and to be revenged. she would marry anybody, that she might show betsey and august they had not broken he heart and that her love did not go begging. o julia! take care. many another woman has jumped off that precipice! and she would escape from her mother. the indications of affection adroitly given by humphreys were all remembered now. she could have him, and she would. he would take her to cincinnati. she would have her revenge all around. i am sorry to show you my heroine in this mood. but the fairest climes are sometimes subject to the fiercest hurricanes, the frightfulest earthquakes! after an hour the room seemed hot. she pulled back the chintz curtain and pushed up the window. the blue-grass in the pasture looked cool as it drank the heavy dews. she climbed through the window on to the long, old-fashioned upper porch. she sat down upon an old-fashioned settee with rockers, and began to rock. the motion relieved her nervousness and fanned her hot cheeks. yes, she would accept the first respectable lover that offered. she would go to the city with humphreys, if he asked her. it is only fair to say that julia did not at all consider--she was not in a temper to consider--what a marriage with humphreys implied. she only thought of it on two sides--the revenge upon august and betsey, and the escape from a thralldom now grown more bitter than death. true, her conscience was beginning to awaken, and to take up arms against her resolve. but nothing could be plainer. in marrying mr. humphreys she should marry a friend, the only friend she had. in marrying him she would satisfy her mother, and was it not her duty to sacrifice something to her mother's happiness, perhaps her mother's life? [illustration: tempted.] yes, yes, julia, a false spirit of self-sacrifice is another path over the cliff! in such a mood as this all paths lead into the abyss. her mind was made up. she braced her will against all the relentings of her heart. she wished that humphreys, who had indirectly declared his love so often, were there to offer at once. she would accept him immediately, and then the whole neighborhood should not say that she had been deserted by a dutchman. for in her anger she found her mother's epithets expressive. he was there! was it the devil that planned it? does he plan all those opportunities for wrong that are so sure to offer themselves? humphreys, having led a life that turned night into day, sat at the farther end of the long upper porch, smoking his cigar, waiting a bed-time nearer to the one to which he was accustomed. did he suspect the struggle in the heart of julia anderson? did he guess that her pride and defiance had by this time reached high-water mark? did he divine this from seeing her there? he rose and started in through the door of the upper hall, the only opening to the porch, except the window. but this was a feint. he turned back and sat himself down upon the farther end of the settee from julia. he understood human nature perfectly, and had had long practice in making gradual approaches. he begged her pardon for the bungling manner in which he had communicated intelligence that must be so terrible to a heart so sensitive! julia was just going to declare that she did not care anything for what august said or thought, but her natural truthfulness checked the transparent falsehood. she had not gone far enough astray to lie consciously; she was, as yet, only telling lies to herself. very gradually and cautiously did he proceed so as not to "flush the bird." even as i saw, an hour ago, a cat creep upon a sparrow with fascinating eyes, and a waving, snake-like motion of the tail, and a treacherous feline smile upon her face, even so, cautiously and by degrees, humphreys felt his way with velvet paws toward his prey. he knew the opportunity, that once gone might not come again; he soon guessed that this was the hour and power of darkness in the soul of julia, the hour in which she would seek to flee from her own pride and mortification. and if humphreys knew how to approach with a soft tread, very slowly and cautiously, he also knew--men of his "profession" always know--when to spring. he saw the moment, he made the spring, he seized the prey. "will you trust your destiny to me, miss anderson? you seem beset by troubles. i have means. i could not but he wholly devoted to your welfare. let me help you to flee away from--from all this mortification, and this--this domestic tyranny. will you intrust yourself to me?" he did not say anything about love. he had an instinctive feeling that it would not be best. she felt herself environed with insurmountable difficulties, threatened with agonies worse than death--so they seemed to her. he simply, coolly opened the door, and bade her easily and triumphantly escape. had he said one word of tenderness the reaction must have set in. she was silent. "i did hope, by sacrificing all my own hopes, to effect a reconciliation. but when that young man spoke insulting words about you, i determined at once to offer you my devoted protection. i ask no more than you are able to give, your respect will you accept my life-long protection as your husband?" "yes!" said the passionate girl in an agony of despair chapter xiv. the spider's web. now that humphreys had his prey he did not know just what to do with it. not knowing what to say, he said nothing, in which he showed his wisdom. but he felt that saying nothing was almost as bad as saying something. and he was right. for with people of impulsive temperament reactions are sudden, and in one minute after julia had said yes, there came to her memory the vision of august standing in the barn and looking into her eyes so purely and truly and loyally, and vowing such sweet vows of love, and she looked back upon that perfect hour with some such fooling perhaps as dives felt looking out of torment across the great gulf into paradise. only that dives had never known paradise, while she had. for the man or woman that knows a pure, self-sacrificing love, returned in kind, knows that which, of all things in this world, lies nearest to god and heaven. there be those who have ears to hear this, and for them is it written. julia thought of august's love with a sinking into despair. but then returned the memory of his faithlessness, of all she had been compelled to believe and suffer. then her agony came back, and she was glad that she had taken a decided step. any escape was a relief. i suppose it is under some such impulse that people kill themselves. julia felt as though she had committed suicide and escaped. humphreys on his part was not satisfied. i used the wrong figure of speech awhile ago. he was not a cat with paw upon the prey. he was only an angler, and had but hooked his fish. he had not landed it yet. he felt how slender was the thread of committal by which he held julia. august had her heart. he had only a word. the slender vantage that he had, he meant to use adroitly, craftily. and he knew that the first thing was to close this interview without losing any ground. the longer she remained bound, the better for him. and with his craft against the country girl's simplicity it would have fared badly with julia had it not been for one defect which always inheres, in a bad man's plots in such a case. a man like humphreys never really understands a pure woman. certain detached facts he may know, but he can not "put himself in her place." humphreys remarked with tenderness that julia must not stay in the night air. she was too precious to be exposed. this flattery was comforting to her wounded pride, and she found his words pleasant to her. had he stopped here he might have left the field victorious. but it was very hard for an affianced lover to stop here. he must part from her in some other way than this if he would leave on her mind the impression that she was irrevocably bound to him. he stooped quickly with a well-affected devotion and lifted her hand to kiss it. that act awakened julia anderson. she must have awaked anyhow, sooner or later. but when one is in the toils of such a man, sooner is better. the touch of humphreys's hand and lips sent a shudder through her frame that humphreys felt. instantly there came to her a perception of all that marriage with a repulsive man signifies. not suicide, but perdition. she jerked her hand from his as though he were a snake. "mr. humphreys, what did i say? i can't have you. i don't love you. i'm crazy to-night. i must take back what i said." "no, julia. let me call you _my_ julia. you must not break my heart." humphreys had lost his cue, and every word of tenderness he spoke made his case more hopeless. "i never can marry you--let me go in," she said, brushing past him. then she remembered that her door was fast on the inside. she had climbed out the window. she turned back, and he saw his advantage. "i can not release you. take time to think before you ask it. go to sleep now and do not act hastily." he stood between her and the window, wishing to get some word to which he could hold. julia's two black eyes grew brighter. "i see. you took advantage of my trouble, and you want to hold me to my words, and you are bad, and now--_now_ i hate you!" then julia felt better. hate is the only wholesome thing in such a case. she pushed him aside vigorously, stepped upon the settee, slipped in at the window, and closed it. she drew the curtain, but it seemed thin, and with characteristic impulsiveness she put out her light that she might have the friendly drapery of darkness about her. she heard the soft--for the first time it seemed to her stealthy--tread of humphreys, as he returned to his room. whether she swooned or whether she slept after that she never knew. it was morning without any time intervening, she had a headache and could scarcely walk, and there was august's note lying on the floor. she read it again--if not with more intelligence, at least with more suspicion. she wondered at her own hastiness. she tried to go about the house, but the excitement of the previous night, added to all she had suffered beside, had given her a headache, blinding and paralyzing, that sent her back to bed. [illustration: "now i hate you!"] and there she lay in that half-asleep, half-awake mood, which a nervous headache produces. she seemed to be a fly in a web, and the spider was trying to fasten her. a very polite spider, with that smile which went half-way up his face but which never seemed able to reach his eyes. he had straps to his pantaloons, and a reddish mustache, and she shuddered as he wound his fine webs about her. she tried to shake off the illusion. but the more absurd an illusion, the more it will not be shaken off. for see! the spider was kissing her hand! then she seemed to have made a great effort and to have broken the web. but her wings were torn, and her feet were shackled by the fine strands that still adhered. she could not get them off. wouldn't somebody help her, even as she had many a time picked off the webs from a fly's feet out of sheer pity? and all day she would perpetually return into these half-conscious states and feel the spider's web about her feet, and ask over and over again if somebody wouldn't help her to get out of the meshes. toward evening her mother brought her a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and for the first time in the remembered life of the daughter made an endeavor to show a little tenderness for her. it was a clumsy endeavor, for when the great gulf is once fixed between mother and child it is with difficulty bridged. and finding herself awkward in the new role, mrs. anderson dropped it and resumed her old gait, remarking, as she closed the door, that she was glad to know that julia was coming to her senses, and "had took the right road." for mrs. abigail was more vigorous than grammatical. julia did not see anything significant in this remark at first. but after a while it came to her that humphreys must have told her mother of something that had passed during the preceding night, something on which this commendation was founded. then she fell into the same torpor and was in the same old spider's web, and there was the same spider with the limited smile and the mustache and the watch-seals and the straps! and he was trying to fasten her, and she said "yes." and she could see the little word. the spider caught it and spun it into a web and fastened her with it. and she could break all the other webs but those woven out of that one little word from her own lips. that clung to her, and she could neither fly nor walk. august could not help her--he would not come. her mother was helping the spider. just then cynthy ann came along with her broom. would she see her and sweep her free? she tried to call her, but alas! she was a fly. she tried to buzz, but her wings were fast bound with the webs. she was being smothered. the spider had seized her. she could not move. he was smiling at her! then she woke shuddering. it was after midnight. chapter xv. the web broken. "poverty," says béranger, "is always superstitious." so indeed is human extremity of any sort. julia's healthy constitution had resisted the threatened illness, the feverishness had gone with the headache. she felt now only one thing: she must have a friend. but the hard piousness of cynthy ann's face had never attracted her sympathy. it had always seemed to her that cynthy disapproved of her affection quite as much as her mother did. cynthy's face had indeed a chronic air of disapproval. a nervous young minister said that he never had any "liberty" when sister cynthy ann was in his congregation. she seemed averse to all he said. but now julia felt that there was just one chance of getting advice and help. had she not in her dream seen cynthy ann with a broom? she would ask help from cynthy ann. there must be a heart under her rind. but to get to her. her mother's affectionate vigilance never left her alone with cynthy. perhaps it was this very precaution that had suggested cynthy ann to her as a possible ally. she must contrive to have a talk with her somehow. but how? there was one way. black-eyed people do not delay. bight or wrong, julia acted with sharp decision. before she had any very definite view of her plan, she had arisen and slipped on a calico dress. but there was one obstacle. mr. humphreys kept late hours, and he might be on the front-porch. she might meet him in the hall, and this seemed worse to her than would the chance of meeting a tribe of indians. she listened and looked out of her window; but she could not be sure; she would run the risk. with silent feet and loud-beating heart she went down the hall to the back upper porch, for in that day porches were built at the back and front of houses, above and below. once on the back-porch she turned to the right and stood by cynthy ann's door. but a new fear took possession of her. if cynthy ann should be frightened and scream! [illustration: at cynthy's door.] "cynthy! cynthy ann!" she said, standing by the bed in the little bare room which cynthy ann had occupied, for five years, but into which she had made no endeavor to bring one ray of sentiment or one trace of beauty. "cynthy! cynthy ann!" had cynthy ann slept anywhere but in the l of the house, her shriek--what woman could have helped shrieking a little when startled?--her shriek must have alarmed the family. but it did not. "why, child! what are you doing here? you are out of your head, and you must go back to your room at once." and cynthy had arisen and was already tugging at julia's arm. "i a'n't out of my head, cynthy ann, and i _won't_ go back to my room--not until i have had a talk with you." "what _is_ the matter, jule?" said cynthy, sitting on the bed and preparing to begin again her old fight between duty and inclination. cynthy always expected temptation. she had often said in class-meeting that temptations abounded on every hand, and as soon as julia told her she had a communication to make, cynthy ann was sure that she would find in it some temptation of the devil to do something she "hadn't orter do," according to the bible or the dis_cip_line, strictly construed. and cynthy was a "strict constructionist." julia did not find it so easy to say anything now that she had announced herself as determined to have a conversation and now that her auditor was waiting. it is the worst beginning in the world for a conversation, saying that you intend to converse. when an indian has announced his intention of having a "big talk," he immediately lights his pipe and relapses into silence until the big talk shall break out accidentally and naturally. but julia, having neither the pipe nor the indian's stolidity, found herself under the necessity of beginning abruptly. every minute of delay made her position worse. for every minute increased her doubt of cynthy ann's sympathy. "o cynthy ann! i'm so miserable!" "yes, i told your ma this morning that you was looking mis'able, and that you had orter have sassafras to purify the blood, but your ma is so took up with steam-docterin' that she don't believe in nothin' but corn-sweats and such like." "oh! but, cynthy, it a'n't that. i'm miserable in my mind. i wish i knew what to do." "i thought you'd made up your mind. your ma told me you was engaged to mr. humphreys." julia was appalled. how fast the spider spins his web! "i a'n't engaged to him, and i hate him. he got me to say yes when i was crazy, and i believe he brought about the things that make me feel so nigh crazy. do you think he's a good man, cynthy ann?" "well, no, though i don't want to set in no jedgment on nobody; but i don't see as how as he kin be good and wear all of them costly apparels that's so forbid in the bible, to say nothing of the dis_cip_line. the bible says you must know a tree by its fruits, and i 'low his'n is mostly watch-seals. i think a good sound conversion at the mourners' bench would make him strip off some of them things, and put them into the missionary collection. though maybe he a'n't so bad arter all, fer jonas says that liker'n not the things a'n't gold, but pewter washed over. but i'm afeard he's wor'ly-minded. but i don't want to be too hard on a feller-creatur'." [illustration: cynthy ann had often said in class-meeting that temptations abounded on every hand.] "cynthy, i drempt just now i was a fly and he was a spider, and that he had me all wrapped up in his web, and that just then you came along with a broom." "that must be a sign," said cynthy ann. "it's good you didn't dream after daylight. then 'twould a come true. but what about _him?_ i thought you loved gus wehle, and though i'm afeard you're makin' a idol out o' him, and though i'm afeard he's a onbeliever, and i don't noways like marryin' with onbelievers, yet i did want to help you, and i brought a note from him wunst and put it under the head of your bed. i was afeard then i was doin' what timothy forbids, when he says not to be pertakers in other folks's sins, but, you see, how could i help doin' it, when you was lookin' so woebegone like, and jonas, he axed me to do it. it's awful hard to say you won't to jonas, you know. so i put the letter there, and i don't doubt your ma mistrusted it, and got a holt on it." "did he write to me? a'n't he going with that betsey malcolm?" "can't be, i 'low. on'y this evenin' jonas said to me, says he, when i tole him you was engaged to mr. humphreys, says he, in his way, 'the hawk's lit, has he? that'll be the death of two,' says he, 'fer she'll die on it, an' so'll poor gus,' says he. and then he went on to tell as how as gus is all ready to leave, and had axed him to tell him of any news; but he said he wouldn't tell him that. he'd leave him some hope. fer he says gus was mighty nigh distracted to-day, that is yisterday, fer its most mornin' i 'low." now this speech did julia a world of good. it showed her that gus was not faithless, that she might count on cynthy, and that jonas was her friend, and that he did not like humphreys. jonas called him a hawk. that agreed with her dream. he was a hawk and a spider. "but, cynthy ann, i got a letter night before last; ma threw it in the window. in it gus said he released me. i hadn't asked any release. what did he mean?" "honey, i wish i could help you. it's that hawk, as jonas calls him, that's at the bottom of all this trouble. i don't believe but what he's told some lies or 'nother. i don't believe but what he's a bad man. i allers said i didn't 'low no good could come of a man that puts on costly apparel and wears straps. i'm afeard you're making a idol of gus wehle. don't do it. ef you do, god'll take him. misses pearsons made a idol of her baby, a kissin' it and huggin' it every minute, and i said, says i, misses pearsons, you hadn't better make a idol of a perishin' creature. and sure enough, god tuck it. he's jealous of our idols. but i can't help helpin' you. you're a onbeliever yet yourself, and i 'low taint no sin fer you to marry gus. it's yokin' like with like. i wish you was both christians. i'll speak to jonas. i don't know what i ought to do, but i'll speak to jonas. he's mighty peart about sech things, is jonas, and got as _good_ a heart as you ever see. and--" "cynth-ee a-ann!" it was the energetic voice of mrs. anderson rousing the house betimes. for the first time julia and cynthy ann noticed the early light creeping in at the window. they sat still, paralyzed. "cynth-ee!" the voice was now at the top of the stairs, for mrs. anderson always carried the war into africa if cynthy did not wake at once. "answer quick, cynthy ann, or she'll be in here!" said julia, sliding behind the bed. "ma'am!" said cynthy ann, starting toward the door, where she met mrs. abigail. "i'm up," said cynthy. "well, what makes you so long a-answerin' then? you make me climb the steps, and you know i may drop down dead of heart-disease any day. i'll go and wake jule." "better let her lay awhile," said cynthy, reproaching herself instantly for the deception. mrs. anderson hesitated at the top of the stairs. "jul-yee!" she called. poor jule shook from head to foot. "i guess i'll let her lay awhile; but i'm afraid i've already spoiled the child by indulgence," said the mother, descending the stairs. she relented only because she believed julia was conquered. "i declare, child, it's a shame i should be helping you to disobey your mother. i'm afeard the lord'll bring some jedgment on us yet." for cynthy ann had tied her conscience to her rather infirm logic. better to have married it to her generous heart. but before she had finished the half-penitent lamentation, jule was flying with swift and silent feet down the hall. arrived in her own room, she was so much relieved as to be almost happy; and she was none too soon, for her industrious mother had quickly repented her criminal leniency, and was again climbing the stairs at the imminent risk of her precarious life, and calling "jul-yee!" chapter xvi. jonas expounds the subject. "i 'lowed i'd ketch you here, my venerable and reliable feller-citizen!" said jonas as he entered the lower story of andrew anderson's castle and greeted august, sitting by andrew's loom. it was the next evening after julia's interview with cynthy ann. "when do you 'low to leave this terry-firmy and climb a ash-saplin'? to-night, hey? goin' to the queen city to take to steamboat life in hopes of havin' your sperrits raised by bein' blowed up? take my advice and don't make haste in the downward road to destruction, nor the up-hill one nuther. a game a'n't never through tell it's played out, an' the american eagle's a chicken with steel spurs. that air sweet singer of israel that is so hifalugeon he has to anchor hisself to his boots, knows all the tricks, and is intimately acquainted with the kyards, whether it's faro, poker, euchre, or french monte. but blamed ef providence a'n't dealed you a better hand'n you think. never desperandum, as the congressmen say, fer while the lamp holds out to burn you may beat the blackleg all to flinders and sing and shout forever. last night i went to bed thinkin' 'umphreys had the stakes all in his pocket. this mornin' i found he was in a far way to be beat outen his boots ef you stood yer ground like a man and a gineological descendant of plymouth rock!" andrew stopped his loom, and, looking at august, said: "our friend jonas speaks somewhat periphrastically and euphuistically, and--he'll pardon me--but he speaks a little ambiguously." "my love, i gin it up, as the fish-hawk said to the bald eagle one day. i kin rattle off odd sayings and big words picked up at fourth-of-julys and barbecues and big meetins, but when you begin to fire off your forty-pound bomb-shell book-words, i climb down as suddent as davy crockett's coon. maybe i do speak unbiguously, as you say, but i was givin' you the biggest talkin' i had in the basket. and as fer my good news, a feller don't like to eat up all his country sugar to wunst, i 'low. but i says to our young and promisin' friend of german extraction, beloved, says i, hold onto that air limb a little longer and you're saved." "but, jonas," said august, spinning andrew's winding-blade round and speaking slowly and bitterly, "a man don't like to be trifled with, if he is a dutchman!" "but sposin' a man hain't been trifled with, dutchman or no dutchman? sposin' it's all a optical delusion of the yeers? there's a word fer _you_, andrew, that a'n't nuther unbiguous nor peri-what-you-may-call-it." "but," said august, "betsey malcolm--" "_betsey malcolm!_" said jonas. "betsey malcolm to thunder!" and then he whistled. "set a dog to mind a basket of meat when his chops is a-waterin' fer it! set a kingfisher to take keer of a fish-pond! set a cat to raisin' your orphan chickens on the bottle! set a spider to nuss a fly sick with dyspepsy from eatin' too much molasses! i'd ruther trust a hen-hawk with a flock of patridges than to trust betsey malcolm with your affairs. i ha'n't walked behind you from meetin' and seed her head a bobbin' like a bluebird's and her eyes a blazin an' all that, fer nothin'. like as not, betsey malcolm's more nor half your trouble in that quarter." "but she said--" "it don't matter three quarters of a rotten rye-straw what she said, my inexper'enced friend. she don't keer what she says, so long as it's fur enough away from the truth to sarve her turn. an' she's told pay-tent double-back-action lies that worked both ways. what do you 'low jule anderson tho't when she hearn tell of your courtin' betsey, as betsey told it, with all her nods an' little crowin'? now looky here, gus, i'm your friend, as the irishman said to the bar that hugged him, an' i want to say about all that air that betsey told you, spit on the slate an' wipe that all off. they's lie in her soap an.' right smart chance of saft-soap in her lie, i 'low." these rough words of jonas brought a strange intelligence into the mind of august. he saw so many things in a moment that had lain under his eyes unnoticed. "there is much rough wisdom in your speech, jonas," said andrew. "that's a fact. you and me used to go to school to old benefield together when i was little and you was growed up. you allers beat everybody all holler in books and spellin'-matches, andy. but i 'low i cut my eye-teeth 'bout as airly as some of you that's got more larnin' under your skelp. now, i say to our young friend and feller-citizen, don't go 'way tell you've spoke a consolin' word to a girl as'll stick to you tell the hour and article of death, and then remains yours truly forever, amen." [illustration: jonas.] "how do you know that, jonas?" said august, smiling in spite of himself. "how do i know it? why, by the testimony of a uncorrupted and disinterested witness, gentlemen of the jury, if the honorable court pleases. what did that jule anderson do, poor thing, but spend some time making a most onseasonable visit to cynthy ann last night? and i 'low ef there's a ole gal in this sublunary spear as tells the truth in a bee-line and no nonsense, it's that there same, individooal, identical cynthy ann. she's most afeard to drink cold water or breathe fresh air fer fear she'll commit a unpard'nable sin. and that persecuted young pigeon that thought herself forsooken, jest skeeted into cynthy ann's budwoir afore daybreak this mornin' and told her all her sorrows, and how your letter and your goin' with that betsey malcolm"--here august winced--"had well nigh druv her to run off with the straps and watch-seals to get rid of you and betsey and her precious and mighty affectionate ma." "but she won't look at me in meeting, and she sent humphreys to me with an insulting message." "which text divides itself into two parts, my brethren and feller-travelers to etarnity. to treat the last head first, beloved, i admonish you not to believe a blackleg, unless it's under sarcumstances when he's got onusual and airresistible temptations to tell the truth. i don't advise yer to spit on the slate and rub it out in this case. break the slate and throw it away. to come to the second pertikeler, which is the first in the order of my text, my attentive congregation. she didn't look at you in meetin'. now, i 'spose you don't know nothin' of her mother's heart-disease. heart-disease is trumps with abigail anderson. she plays that every turn. just think of a young gal who thinks that ef she looks at her beau when her mother's by, she might kill her invalooable parient of heart-disease. fer my part, i don't take no stock in mrs. abby anderson's dyin' of heart-disease, no ways. might as well talk about a whale dyin' of footrot." "well, jonas, what counsel do you give our young friend? your sagacity is to be depended on." "why, i advise him to speak face to face with the angel of his life. let him climb into my room to-night. leave meetin' jest afore the benediction--he kin do without that wunst--and go double-quick acrost the fields, and git safe into my stoodio. ferther pertikelers when the time arrives." chapter xvii. the wrong pew. august's own good sense told him that the advice of jonas was not good. but he had made many mistakes of late, and was just now inclined to take anybody's judgment in place of his own. all that was proud and gentlemanly in him rebelled at the thought of creeping into another man's house in the night. modesty is doubtless a virtue, but it is a virtue responsible for many offenses. had august not felt so distrustful of his own wisdom, nothing could have persuaded him to make his love for julia anderson seem criminal by an action so wanting in dignity. but back of jonas's judgment was that of andrew, whose weakness was quixotism. he wanted to live and to have others live on the concert-pitch of romantic action. there was something of chivalry in the proposal of jonas, a spice of adventure that made him approve it on purely sentimental grounds. the more august thought of it, and the nearer he was to its execution, the more did he dislike it. but i have often noticed that people of a rather quiet temperament, such as young wehle's, show _vis inertiae_ in both, ways--not very easily moved, they are not easily checked when once in motion. august's velocity was not usually great, his momentum was tremendous, and now that he had committed himself to the hands of jonas harrison and set out upon this enterprise, he was determined, in his quiet way, to go through to the end. of course he understood the house, and having left the family in meeting, he had nothing to do but to scale one of the pillars of the front-porch. in those arcadian days upper windows were hardly ever fastened, except when the house was deserted by all its inmates for days. half-way up the post he was seized with a violent trembling. his position brought to him a confused memory of a text of scripture: "he that entereth not by the door ... but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber." bred under moravian influence, he half-believed the text to be supernaturally suggested to him. for a moment his purpose wavered, but the habit of going through with an undertaking took the place of his will, and he went on blindly, as baker the nile explorer did, "more like a donkey than like a man." once on the upper porch he hesitated again. to break into a man's house in this way was unlawful. his conscience troubled him. in vain he reasoned that mrs. anderson's despotism was morally wrong, and that this action was right as an offset to it. he knew that it was not right. i want to remark here that there are many situations in life in which a conscience is dreadfully in the way. there are people who go straight ahead to success--such as it is--with no embarrassments, no fire in the rear from any scruples. some of these days i mean to write an essay on "the inconvenience of having a conscience," in which i shall proceed to show that it costs more in the course of a year or two, than it would to keep a stableful of fast horses. many a man could afford to drive dexters and flora temples who would be ruined by a conscience. but i must not write the essay here, for i am keeping august out in the night air and his perplexity all this time. august wehle had the habit, i think i have said, of going through with an enterprise. he had another habit, a very inconvenient habit doubtless, but a very manly one, of listening for the voice of his conscience. and i think that this habit would have even yet turned him back, as he had his hand on the window-sash, had it not been that while he stood there trying to find out just what was the decision of his conscience, he heard the voices of the returning family. there was no time to lose, there was no shelter on the porch, in a minute more they would be in sight. he must go ahead now, for retreat was cut off. he lifted the window and climbed into the room, lowering the sash gently behind him. as no one ever came into this room but jonas, he felt safe enough. jonas would plan a meeting after midnight in cynthy ann's room, and in cynthy ann's presence. in groping for a chair, august drew aside the curtain of the gable-window, hoping to get some light. had jonas taken to cultivating flowers in pots? here was a "monthly" rose on the window-seat! surely this was the room. he had occupied it during his stay in the house. but he did not know that mrs. anderson had changed the arrangement between his leaving and the coming of jonas. he noticed that the curtains were not the same. he trembled from head to foot. he felt for the bureau, and recognized by various little articles, a pincushion, a tuck-comb, and the sun-bonnet hanging against the window-frame, that he was in julia's room. his first emotion was not alarm. it was awe, as pure and solemn as the high-priest may have felt in the holy place. everything pertaining to julia had a curious sacredness, and this room was a temple into which it was sacrilege to intrude. but a more practical question took his attention soon. the family had come in below, except jonas and cynthy ann--who had walked slowly, planning a meeting for august--and mr. samuel anderson, who stood at the front-gate with a neighbor. august could hear his shrill voice discussing the seventh trumpet and the thousand three hundred and thirty and five days. it would not do to be discovered where he was. beside the fright he would give to julia, he shuddered at the thought of compromising her in such a way. to go back was to insure his exposure, for samuel anderson had not yet half-settled the question of the trumpets. indeed it seemed to august that the world might come to an end before that conversation would. he heard humphreys enter his room. he was now persuaded that the room formerly occupied by julia must be jonas's, and he determined to get to it if he could. he felt like a villain already. he would have cheerfully gone to state's-prison in preference to compromising julia. at any rate, he started out of julia's room toward the one that was occupied by jonas. it was the only road open, and but for an unexpected encounter he would have reached his hiding-place in safety, for the door was but fifteen feet away. in order to explain the events that follow, i must ask the reader to go back to julia, and to events that had occurred two hours before. hitherto she had walked to and from meeting and "singing" with humphreys, as a matter of courtesy. on the evening in question she had absolutely refused to walk with him. her mother found that threats were as vain as coaxing. even her threat of dying with heart-disease, then and there, killed by her daughter's disobedience, could not move julia, who would not even speak with the "spider." her mother took her into the sitting-room alone, and talked with her. "so this is the way you trifle with gentlemen, is it? night before last you engaged yourself to mr. humphreys, now you won't speak to him. to think that my daughter should prove a heartless flirt!" i am afraid that the unfilial thought came into julia's mind that nothing could have been more in the usual order of things than that the daughter of a coquette should be a flirt. "you'll kill me on the spot; you certainly will." julia felt anxious, for her mother showed signs of going into hysterics. but she put her foot out and shook her head in a way that said that all her friends might die and all the world might go to pieces before she would yield. mrs. anderson had one forlorn hope. she determined to order that forward. leaving julia alone, she went to her husband. "samuel, if you value my life go and speak to your daughter. she's got your own stubbornness of will in her. she is just like you; she _will_ have her own way. i shall die." and mrs. abigail anderson sank into a chair with unmistakable symptoms of a hysterical attack. i am aware that i have so far let the reader hear not one word of samuel anderson's conversation. he has played a rather insignificant part in the story. nothing could be more _comme il faut_. insignificance was his characteristic. it was not so much that he was small. it is not so bad a thing to be a little man. but to be little and insignificant also is bad. there is only one thing worse, which is to be big and insignificant. if one is little and insignificant, one may be overlooked, insignificance and all. but if one is big and insignificant, it is to be an obtrusive cipher, a great lubber, not easily kept out of sight. appealed to by his wife, samuel anderson prepared to assert his authority as the head of the family. he almost strutted into julia's presence. julia had a real affection for her father, and nothing mortified her more than to see him acting as a puppet, moved by her mother, and yet vain enough to believe himself independent and supreme. she would have yielded almost any other point to have saved herself the mortification of seeing her father act the fool; but now she had determined that she would die and let everybody else die rather than walk with a man whose nature seemed to her corrupt, and whose touch was pollution. i do not mean that she was able to make a distinct inventory of her reasons for disliking him, or to analyze her feelings. she could not have told just why she had so deep and utter a repugnance to walking a quarter of a mile to the school-house in company with this man. she followed that strong instinct of truth and purity which is the surest guide. "julia, my daughter," said samuel anderson, "really you must yield to me as head of the house, and treat this gentleman politely. i thought you respected him, or loved him, and he told me that you had given consent to marry him, and had told him to ask my consent." in saying this, the "head of the house" was seesawing himself backward and forward in his squeaky boots, speaking in a pompous manner, and with an effort to swell an effeminate voice to a bass key, resulting in something between a croak and a squeal. julia sat down and cried in mortification and disgust. mr. anderson understood this to be acquiescence, and turned and went into the next room. [illustration: julia sat down in mortification.] "mr. humphreys, my daughter will be glad to ask your pardon. she is over her little pet; lovers always have pets. even my wife and i have had our disagreements in our time. julia will be glad to see you in the sitting-room." humphreys drew the draw-strings and set his face into its broadest and most parallelogrammatic smile, bowed to mr. anderson, and stepped into the hall. but when he reached the sitting-room door he wished he had staid away. julia had heard his tread, and was standing again with her foot advanced. her eyes were very black, and were drawn to a sharp focus. she had some of her mother's fire, though happily none of her mother's meanness. it is hard to say whether she spoke or hissed. "go away, you spider! i hate you! i told you i hated you, and you told people i loved you and was engaged to you. go away! you detestable spider, you! i'll die right here, but i will not go with you." but the smirking humphreys moved toward her, speaking soothingly, and assuring her that there was some mistake. julia dashed past him into the parlor and laid hold of her father's arm. "father, protect me from that--that--spider! i hate him!" mr. anderson stood irresolute a moment and looked appealingly to his wife for a signal. she solved the difficulty herself. on the whole she had concluded not to die of heart-disease until she saw julia married to suit her taste, and having found a hill she could not go through, she went round. seizing julia's arm with more of energy than affection, she walked off with her, or rather walked her off, in a sulky silence, while mr. anderson kept humphreys company. i thought best to keep august standing in the door of julia's room all this time while i explained these things to you, so that you might understand what follows. in reality august did not stop at all, but walked out into the hall and into difficulty. chapter xviii. the encounter. just before august came out of the door of julia's room he had heard humphreys enter his room on the opposite side of the hall. humphreys had lighted his cigar and was on his way to the porch to smoke off his discomfiture when he met august coming out of julia's door on the opposite side of the hall. the candle in humphreys's room threw its light full on august's face, there was no escape from recognition, and wehle was too proud to retreat. he shut the door of julia's room and stood with back against the wall staring at humphreys, who did not forget to smile in his most aggravating way. "thief! thief!" called humphreys. in a moment mrs. anderson and julia ran up the stairs, followed by mr. anderson, who hearing the outcry had left the matter of the apocalypse unsettled, and by jonas and cynthy ann, who had just arrived. "i knew it," cried mrs. anderson, turning on the mortified julia, "i never knew a dutchman nor a foreigner of any sort that wouldn't steal. now you see what you get by taking a fancy to a dutchman. and now _you_ see"--to her husband--"what _you_ get by taking a dutchman into your house. i always wanted you to hire white men and not dutchmen nor thieves!" "i beg your pardon, mrs. anderson," said august, with very white lips, "i am not a thief." "not a thief, eh? what was he doing, mr. humphreys, when you first detected him?" "coming out of miss anderson's room," said humphreys, smiling politely. "do you invite gentlemen to your room?" said the frantic woman to julia, meaning by one blow to revenge herself and crush the stubbornness of her daughter forever. but julia was too anxious about august to notice the shameless insult. "mrs. anderson, this visit is without any invitation from julia. i did wrong to enter your house in this way, but i only am responsible, and i meant to enter jonas's room. i did not know that julia occupied this room. i am to blame, she is not." "and what did you break in for if you didn't mean to steal? it is all off between you and jule, for i saw your letter. i shall have you arrested to-morrow for burglary. and i think you ought to be searched. mr. humphreys, won't you put him out?" humphreys stopped forward toward august, but he noticed that the latter had a hard look in his eyes, and had two stout german fists shut very tight. he turned back. "these thieves are nearly always armed. i think i had best get a pistol out of my trunk." "i have no arms, and you know it, coward," said august. "i will not be put out by anybody, but i will go out whenever the master of this house asks me to go out, and the rest of you open a free path." [illustration: "good-by!"] "jonas, put him out!" screamed mrs. anderson. "couldn't do it," said jonas, "couldn't do it ef i tried. they's too much bone and sinnoo in them arms of his'n, and moreover he's a gentleman. i axed him to come and see me sometime, and he come. he come ruther late it's true, but i s'pose he thought that sence we got sech a dee-splay of watch-seals and straps we had all got so stuck up, we wouldn't receive calls afore fashionable hours. any way, i 'low he didn't mean no harm, and he's my visitor, seein' he meant to come into my winder, knowin' the door was closed agin him. and he won't let no man put him out, 'thout he's a man with more'n half a dozen watch-seals onto him, to give him weight and influence." "samuel, will you see me insulted in this way? will you put this burglar out of the house?" the "head of the house," thus appealed to, tried to look important; he tried to swell up his size and his courage. but he did not dare touch august. "mr. anderson, i beg _your_ pardon. i had no right to come in as i did. i had no right so to enter a gentleman's house. if i had not known that this cowardly fop--i don't know what _else_ he may be--was injuring me by his lies i should not have come in. if it is a crime to love a young lady, then i have committed a crime. you have only to exercise your authority as master of this house and ask me to go." "i do ask you to go, mr. wehle." it was the first time that samuel anderson had ever called him mr. wehle. it was an involuntary tribute to the dignity of the young man, as he stood at bay. "mr. wehle, _indeed_!" said mrs. anderson. august had hoped julia would say a word in his behalf. but she was too much, cowed by her mother's fierce passion. so like a criminal going to prison, like a man going to his own funeral, august wehle went down the hall toward the stairs, which were at the back of it. humphreys instinctively retreated into his room. mrs. anderson glared on the young man as he went by, but he did not turn his head even when he passed julia. his heart and hope were all gone; in his mortification and defeat there seemed to him nothing left but his unbroken pride to sustain him. he had descended two or three steps, when julia suddenly glided forward and said with a tremulous voice: "you aren't going without telling me good-by, august?" "jule anderson! what do you mean?" cried her mother. but the hall was narrow by the stairway, and jonas, by standing close to cynthy ann, in an unconscious sort of a way managed to keep mrs. anderson back; else she would have laid violent hands on her daughter. when august lifted his eyes and saw her face full of tenderness and her hand reached over the balusters to him, he seemed to have been suddenly lifted from perdition to bliss. the tears ran unrestrained upon his cheeks, he reached up and took her hand. "good-by, jule! god bless you!" he said huskily, and went out into the night, happy in spite of all. chapter xix. the mother. out of the door he went, happy in spite of all the mistakes he had made and of all the _contretemps_ of his provoking misadventure; happy in spite of the threat of arrest for burglary. for nearly a minute august wehle was happy in that perfect way in which people of quiet tempers are happy--happy without fluster. but before he had passed the gate, he heard a scream and a wild hysterical laugh; he heard a hurrying of feet and saw a moving of lights. he would fain have turned back to find out what the matter was, he had so much of interest in that house, but he remembered that he had been turned out and that he could not go back. the feeling of outlawry mingled its bitterness with the feeling of anxiety. he feared that something had happened to julia; he lingered and listened. humphreys came out upon the upper porch and looked sharply up and down the road. august felt instinctively that he was the object of search and slunk into a fence-corner, remembering that he was now a burglar and at the mercy of the man whose face was enough to show him unrelenting. presently humphreys turned and went in, and then august came out of the shadow and hurried away. when he had gone a mile, he heard the hoofs of horses, and again he concealed himself with a cowardly feeling he had never known before. but when he found that it was jonas, riding one horse and leading another, on his way to bring dr. ketchup, the steam-doctor, he ran out. "jonas! jonas! what's the matter? who's sick? is it julia?" "i'll be bound you ax fer jule first, my much-respected comrade. but it's only one of the ole woman's conniption fits, and you know she's got nineteen lives. people of the catamount sort always has. you'd better gin a thought to yourself now. i got you into this scrape, and i mean to see you out, as the dog said to the 'possum in its hole. git up onto this four-legged quadruped and go as fur as i go on the road to peace and safety. now, i tell you what, the hawk's got a mighty good purchase onto you, my chicken, and he's jest about to light, and when he lights, look out fer feathers! don't sleep under the paternal shingles, as they say. go to andrew's castle, and he'll help you git acrost the river into the glorious state of ole kaintuck afore any warrant can be got out fer takin' you up. never once thought of your bein' took up. but don't delay, as the preachers say. the time is short, and the human heart is desperately wicked and mighty deceitful and onsartain." as far as jonas traveled his way, he carried august upon the gray horse. then the latter hurried across the fields to his father's cabin. little wilhelmina sat with face against the window waiting his return. "where did you go, august? did you see the pretty girl at anderson's?" he stooped and kissed her, but, without speaking a word to her, he went over to where his mother sat darning the last of her basket of stockings. all the rest were asleep, and having assured himself of this, he drew up a low chair and leaned his elbow on his knee and hi head on his hand, and told the whole adventure of the evening to his mother, and then dropped his head on her lap and wept in a still way. and the sweet-eyed, weary moravian mother laid her two hands upon his head and prayed. and wilhelmina knelt instinctively by the side of her brother. [illustration: the mother's blessing.] perhaps there is no god. or perhaps he is so great that our praying has no effect. perhaps this strong crying of our hearts to him in our extremity is no witness of his readiness to hear. let him live in doubt who can. let me believe that the tender mother-heart and the loving sister-heart in that little cabin _did_ reach up to the great heart that is over us all in fatherly love, did find a real comfort for themselves, and did bring a strength-giving and sanctifying something upon the head of the young man, who straightway rose up refreshed, and departed out into the night, leaving behind him mother and sister straining their eyes after him in the blackness, and carrying with him thoughts and memories, and--who shall doubt?--a genuine heavenly inspiration that saved him in the trials in which we shall next meet him. at two o'clock that night august wehle stood upon the shore of the ohio in company with andrew anderson, the backwoods philosopher. andrew waved a fire-brand at the steamboat "isaac shelby," which was coming round the bend. and the captain tapped his bell three times and stopped his engines. then the yawl took the two men aboard, and two days afterward andrew came back alone. chapter xx. the steam-doctor. to return to the house of samuel anderson. scarcely had august passed out the door when mrs. anderson fell into a fit of hysterics, and declared that she was dying of heart-disease. her time had come at last! she was murdered! murdered by her own daughter's ingratitude and disobedience! struck down in her own house! and what grieved her most was that she should never live to see the end of the world! and indeed she seemed to be dying. nothing is more frightful than a good solid fit of hysterics. cynthy ann, inwardly condemning herself as she always did, lifted the convulsed patient, who seemed to be anywhere in her last ten breaths, and carried her, with mr. anderson's aid, down to her room, and while jonas saddled the horse, mr. anderson put on his hat and prepared to go for the doctor. "samuel! o sam-u-el! oh-h-h-h-h!" cried mrs. anderson, with rising and falling inflections that even patient dr. rush could never have analyzed, laughing insanely and weeping piteously in the same breath, in the same word; running it up and down the gamut in an uncontrolled and uncontrollable way; now whooping like a savage, and now sobbing like the last breath of a broken-hearted. "samuel! sam-u-el! o samuel! ha! ha! ha! h-a-a! oh-h-h-h-h-h-h! you won't leave me to die alone! after the wife i've been to you, you won't leave me to die alone! no-o-o-o-o! hoo-hoo-oo-oo! you musn't. you shan't. send jonas, and you stay by me! think--" here her breath died away, and for a moment she seemed really to be dying. "think," she gasped, and then sank away again. after a minute she opened her eyes, and, with characteristic pertinacity, took up the sentence just where she had left off. she had carefully kept her place throughout the period of unconsciousness. but now she spoke, not with a gasp, but in that shrill, unnatural falsetto so characteristic of hysteria; that voice--half yell--that makes every nerve of the listener jangle with the discord. "think, oh-h-h samuel! why won't you think what a wife i've been to you? here i've drudged and scrubbed and scrubbed and drudged all these years like a faithful and industrious wife, never neglecting my duty. and now--oh-h-h-h--now to be left alone in my--" here she ceased to breathe again for a while. "in my last hours to die, to die! to die with, out--without--oh-h-h!" what mrs. anderson was left to die without she never stated. mr. anderson had beckoned to jonas when he came in, and that worthy had gone off in a leisurely trot to get the "steam-doctor." [illustration: "corn-sweats and calamus."] dr. ketchup had been a blacksmith, but bard work disagreed with his constitution. he felt that he, was made for something better than shoeing horses. this ambitious thought was first suggested to him by the increasing portliness of his person, which, while it made stooping over a horse's hoof inconvenient, also impressed him with the fact that his aldermanic figure would really adorn a learned profession. so he bought one of those little hand-books which the founder of the thomsonian system sold dirt-cheap at twenty dollars apiece, and which told how to cure or kill in every case. the owners of these important treasures of invaluable information were under bonds not to disclose the profound secrets therein contained, the fathomless wisdom which taught them how to decide in any given case whether ginseng or a corn-sweat was the required remedy. and the invested twenty dollars had brought the shrewd blacksmith a handsome return. "hello!" said jonas in true western style, as he reined up in front of dr. ketchup's house in the outskirts of brayville. "hello the house!" but dr. ketchup was already asleep. "takes a mighty long time to wake up a fat man," soliloquized jonas. "he gits so used to hearin' hisself snore that he can't tell the difference 'twixt snorin' and thunder. hello! hello the house! i say, hello the blacksmith-shop! dr. ketchup, why don't you git up? hello! corn-sweats and calamus! hello! whoop! hurrah for jackson and dr. ketchup! hello! thunderation! stop thief! fire! fire! fire! murder! murder! help! help! hurrah! treed the coon at last!" this last exclamation greeted the appearance of dr. ketchup's head at the window. "are you drunk, jonas harrison? go 'way with your hollering, or i'll have you took up," said ketchup. "you'll find that tougher work than making horseshoes any day, my respectable friend and feller-citizen. i'll have you took up fer sleeping so sound and snorin' so loud as to disturb all creation and the rest of your neighbors. i've heard you ever sence i left anderson's, and thought 'twas a steamboat. come, my friend, git on your clothes and accouterments, fer mrs. anderson is a-dyin' or a-lettin' on to be a-dyin' fer a drink of ginseng-tea or a corn-sweat or some other decoction of the healin' art. come, i fotch two hosses, so you shouldn't lose no time a saddlin' your'n, though i don't doubt the ole woman'd git well ef you never gin her the light of your cheerful count'nance. she'd git well fer spite, and hire a calomel-doctor jist to make you mad. i'd jest as soon and a little sooner expect a female wasp to die of heart-disease as her." [illustration: "fire! murder!! help!!!"] the head of dr. ketchup had disappeared from the window about the middle of this speech, and the remainder of it came by sheer force of internal pressure, like the flowing of an artesian well. dr. ketchup walked out, with ruffled dignity, carefully dressed. his immaculate clothes and his solemn face were the two halves of his stock in trade. under the clothes lay buried ketchup the blacksmith; under the wiseacre face was ketchup the ignoramus. ignoramus he was, but not a fool. as he rode along back with jonas, he plied the latter with questions. if he could get the facts of the case out of jonas, he would pretend to have inferred them from the symptoms and thus add to his credit. "what caused this attack, jonas?" "i 'low she caused it herself. generally does, my friend," said jonas. "had anything occurred to excite her?" "well, yes, i 'low they had; consid'able, if not more." "what was it?" "well, you see she'd been to hankins's preachin'. now, i 'low, my medical friend, the day of jedgment a'n't a pleasin' prospeck to anybody that's jilted one brother to marry another, and then cheated the jilted one outen his sheer of his lamented father's estate. do you think it is, my learned friend?" but dr. ketchup could not be sure whether jonas was making game of him or not. so he changed the subject. "nice hoss, this bay," said the "doctor." "well, yes," said jonas, "i don't 'low you ever put shoes on no better hoss than this 'ere in all your days--as a blacksmith. did you now, my medical friend?" "no, i think not," said ketchup testily, and was silent. mrs. anderson had grown impatient at the doctor's delay. "samuel! oo! oo! oo! samuel! my dear, i'm dying. jonas don't care. he wouldn't hurry. i wonder you trusted _him!_ if you had been dying, i should have gone myself for the doctor. oo! oo! oo! _oh!_ if i should die, nobody would be sorry." abigail anderson was not to blame for telling the truth so exactly in this last sentence. it was an accident. she might have recalled it but that dr. ketchup walked in at that moment. he felt her pulse; looked at her tongue; said that it was heart-disease, caused by excitement. he thought it must be religious excitement. she should have a corn-sweat and some wafer-ash tea. the corn-sweat would act as a tonic and strengthen the pericardium. the wafer-ash would cause a tendency of blood to the head, and thus relieve the pressure on the juggler-vein. cynthy ann listened admiringly to dr. ketchup's incomprehensible, oracular utterances, and then speedily put a bushel of ear-corn in the great wash-boiler, which was already full of hot water in expectation of such a prescription, and set the wafer-ash to draw. julia had, up to this time, stood outside her mother's door trembling with fear, and not daring to enter. she longed to do something, but did not know how it would be received. now, while the deep, sonorous voice of ketchup occupied the attention of all, she crept in and stood at the foot of mrs. anderson's bed. the mother, recovering from her twentieth dying spell, saw her. "take her away! she has killed me! she wants me to die! _i_ know! take her away!" and julia went to her own room and shut herself up in darkness and in wretchedness, but in all that miserable night there came to her not one regret that she had reached her hand to the departing august. the neighbor-women came in and pretended to do something for the invalid, but really they sat by the kitchen-stove and pumped cynthy ann and the doctor, and managed in some way to connect julia with her mother's illness, and shook their heads. so that when julia crept down-stairs at midnight, in hope of being useful, she found herself looked at inquisitively, and felt herself to be such an object of attention that she was glad to take the advice of cynthy ann and find refuge in her own room. on the stairs she met jonas, who said as she passed: "don't fret yourself, little turtle-dove. don't pay no 'tention to ole ketchup. your ma won't die, not even with his corn-sweats to waft her on to glory. you done your duty to-night like one of fox's martyrs, and like george washi'ton with his little cherry-tree and hatchet. and you'll git your reward, if not in the next world, you'll have it in this." julia lay down awhile, and then sat up, looking out into the darkness. perhaps god was angry with her for loving august; perhaps she was making an idol of him. when julia came to think that her love for august was in antagonism to the love of god, she did not hesitate which she would choose. all the best of her nature was loyal to august, whom she "had seen," as the apostle john has it. she could not reason it out, but a god who seemed to be in opposition to the purest and best emotion of her heart was a god she could not love. august and the love of august were known quantities. god and the love of god were unknown, and the god of whom cynthy spoke (and of whom many a mistaken preacher has spoken), that was jealous of mrs. pearson's love for her baby, and that killed it because it was his rival, was not a god that she could love without being a traitor to all the good that god had put in her heart. the god that was keeping august away from her because he was jealous of the one beautiful thing in her life was a moloch, and she deliberately determined that she would not worship or love him. the true god, who is a father, and who is not supreme selfishness, doing all for his own glory, as men falsely declare; the true god--who does all things for the good of others--loved her, i doubt not, for refusing to worship the conventional deity thus presented to her mind. even as he has pitied many a mother that rebelled against the governor of the universe, because she was told the governor of the universe, in a petty seeking for his own glory, had taken away her "idols." but julia looked up at the depths between the stars, and felt how great god must be, and her rebellion against him seemed a war at fearful odds. and then the sense of god's omnipresence, of his being there alone with her, so startled her and awakened such a feeling of her fearful loneliness, orphanage, antagonism to god, that she could bear it no longer, and at two o'clock she went down again; but mrs. brown looked over at mrs. orcutt in a way that said: "told you so! guilty conscience! can't sleep!" and so julia thought god, even as she conceived him, better company than men, or rather than women, for--well, i won't make the ungallant remark; each sex has its besetting faults. julia took back with her a candle, thinking that this awful god would not seem so close if she had a light. there lay on her bureau a testament, one of those old editions of the american bible society, printed on indifferent paper, and bound in a red muslin that was given to fading, the like whereof in book-making has never been seen since. she felt angry with god, who, she was sure, was persecuting her, as cynthy ann had said, out of jealousy of her love for august, and she was determined that she would not look into that red-cloth testament, which seemed to her full of condemnation. but there was a fascination about it she could not resist. the discordant hysterical laughter of her mother, which reached her ears from below, harrowed her sorely, and her grief and despair at her own situation were so great that she was at last fain to read the only book in the room in order that she might occupy her mind. there is a strange superstition among certain pietists which loads them to pray for a text to guide them, and then take any chance passage as a divine direction. i do not mean to say that julia had any supernatural leading in her reading. the new testament is so full of comfort that one could hardly manage to miss it. she read the seventh chapter of luke: how the lord healed the centurion's servant that was "dear unto him," and noted that he did not rebuke the man for loving his slave; how the lord took pity on that poor widow who wept at the bier of her only son, and brought him back to life again, and "restored him to his mother." this did not seem to be just the christ that cynthy ann thought of as the foe of every human affection. she read more that she did not understand so well, and then at the end of the chapter she read about the woman that was a sinner, that washed his feet with grateful tears and wiped them with her hair. and she would have taken the woman's guilt to have had the woman's opportunity and her benediction. at last, turning over the leaves without any definite purpose, she lighted on a place in matthew, where three verses at the end of a chapter happened to stand at the head of a column. i suppose she read them because the beginning of the page and the end of the chapter made them seem a short detached piece. and they melted into her mood so that she seemed to know christ and god for the first time. "come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden," she read, and stopped. that means me, she thought with a heart ready to burst. and that saying is the gateway of life. when the promises and injunctions mean me, i am saved. julia read on, "and i will give you rest." and so she drank in the passage, clause by clause, until she came to the end about an easy yoke and a light burden, and then god seemed to her so different. she prayed for august, for now the two loves, the love for august and the love for christ, seemed not in any way inconsistent. she lay down saying over and over, with tears in her eyes, "rest for your souls," and "weary and heavy laden," and "come unto me," and "meek and lowly of heart," and then she settled on one word and repeated it over and over, "rest, rest, rest." the old feeling was gone. she was no more a rebel nor an orphan. the presence of god was not a terror but a benediction. she had found rest for her soul, and he gave his beloved sleep. for when she awoke from what seemed a short slumber, the red light of a glorious dawn came in at the window, and her candle was flickering its last in the bottom of the socket. the testament lay open as she had left it, and for days she kept it open there, and did not dare read anything but these three verses, lest she should lose the rest for her soul that she found here. chapter xxi. the hawk in a new part. humphreys was now in the last weeks of his singing-school. he had become a devout millerite, and was paying attentions to the not unwilling betsey malcolm, though pretending at anderson's to be absolutely heart-broken at the conduct of julia in jilting him after she had given him every assurance of affection. and then to be jilted for a dutchman, you know! in this last regard his feeling was not all affectation. in his soul, cupidity, vanity, and vindictiveness divided the narrow territory between them. he inwardly swore that he'd get satisfaction somehow. debts which were due to his pride should be collected by his revenge. did you ever reflect on the uselessness of a landscape when one has no eyes to see it with, or, what is worse, no soul to look through one's eyes? humphreys was going down to the castle to call on the philosopher, and "shady hollow," as andrew called it, had surely never been more glorious than on the morning which he chose for his walk. the black-haw bushes hung over the roadside, the maples lifted up their great trunk-pillars toward the sky, and the grape-vines, some of them four and even six inches in diameter, reached up to the high boughs, fifty or a hundred feet, without touching the trunk. they had been carried up by the growth of the tree, tree and vine having always lived in each other's embrace. out through the opening in the hollow, humphreys saw the green sea of six-feet-high indian corn in the fertile bottoms, the two rows of sycamores on the sandy edges of the river, and the hazy hills on the kentucky side. but not one touch of sentiment, not a perception of beauty, entered the soul of the singing-master as he daintily-chose his steps so as to avoid soiling his glossy boots, and as he knocked the leaves off the low-hanging beech boughs with his delicate cane. he had his purpose in visiting andrew, and his mind was bent on his game. charon, the guardian of the castle, bayed his great hoarse bark at the hawk, and with that keen insight into human nature for which dogs are so remarkable, he absolutely forbade the dandy's entrance, until andrew appeared at the door and called the dog away. "i am delighted at having the opportunity of meeting a great light in literature like yourself, mr. anderson. here you sit weaving, earning your bread with a manly simplicity that is truly admirable. you are like cincinnatus at his plow. i also am a literary man." he really was a college graduate, though doubtless he was as much of a humbug in recitations and examinations as he had always been since. andrew's only reply to his assertion that he was a literary man was a rather severe and prolonged scrutiny of his oily locks, his dainty mustache, his breast-pin, his watch-seals, and finally his straps and his boots. for andrew firmly believed that neglected hair, byron collars, and unblackened boots were the first signs of literary taste. "you think i dress too well," said humphreys with his ghastly smirk. "you think that i care too much for appearances. i do. it is a weakness of mine which comes from a residence abroad." these words touched the philosopher a little. to have been abroad was the next best thing to having been a foreigner _ab origine_. but still he felt a little suspicious. he was superior to the popular prejudice against the mustache, but he could not endure hair-oil. "nature," he maintained, "made the whole beard to be worn, and nature provides an oil for the hair. let nature have her way." he was suspicious of humphreys, not because he wore a mustache, but because he shaved the rest of his face and greased his hair. he had, besides, a little intuitive perception of the fact that a smile which breaks against the rock-bound coast of cold cheek-bones and immovable eyes is a mask. and so he determined to test the literary man. i have heard that masonic lodges have been deceived by impostors. i have never heard that a literary man was made to believe in the genuineness of the attainments of a charlatan. and yet humphreys held his own well. he could talk glibly and superficially about books; he simulated considerable enthusiasm for the books which andrew admired. his mistake and his consequent overthrow came, as always in such cases, from a desire to overdo. it was after half an hour of talking without tripping that andrew suddenly asked: "do you like the ever-to-be-admired xenophanes?" it certainly is no disgrace to any literary man not to know anything of so remote a philosopher as xenophanes. the first characteristic of a genuine literary man is the frankness with which he confesses his ignorance. but humphreys did not really know but that xenophanes was part of the daily reading of a man of letters. "oh! yes," said he. "i have his works in turkey morocco." "what do you think of his opinion that god is a sphere?" asked the philosopher, smiling. "oh! yes--ahem; let me see--which god is it that he speaks of, jupiter or--well, you know he was a greek." "but he only believed in one god," said andrew sternly. "oh! ah! i forgot that he was a christian." so from blunder to blunder andrew pushed him, humphreys stumbling more and more in his blind attempts to right himself, and leaving, at last, with much internal confusion but with an unruffled smile. he dared not broach his errand by asking the address of august. for andrew did not conceal his disgust, having resumed work at his loom, suffering the bowing impostor to find his own way out without so much as a courteous adieu. chapter xxii. jonas expresses his opinion on dutchmen. sometimes the virus of a family is all drawn off in one vial. i think it is emerson who makes this remark. we have all seen the vials. such an one was norman anderson. the curious law of hereditary descent had somehow worked him only evil. "nater," observed jonas to cynthy, when the latter had announced to him that norman, on account of some disgrace at school, had returned home, "nater ha'n't done him half jestice, i 'low. it went through sam'el anderson and abig'il, and picked out the leetle weak pompous things in the illustrious father; and then hunted out all the spiteful and hateful things in the lovin' and much-esteemed mother, and somehow stuck 'em together, to make as ornery a chap as ever bit a hoe-cake in two." "i'm afeard her brother's scrape and comin' home won't make jule none the peacefuller at the present time," said cynthy ann. "wal," returned jonas, "i don't think she keers much fer him. she couldn't, you know. love him? now, cynthy ann, my dear"--here cynthy ann began to reproach herself for listening to anything so pleasant as these two last words--"now, cynthy ann, my dear, you see you might maybe love a cuckle-burr and nuss it; but i don't think you would be likely to. i never heern tell of nobody carryin' jimson-weed pods in their bosoms. you see they a'n't no place about norman anderson that love could take a holt of 'thout gittin' scratched." "but his mother loves him, i reckon," said cynthy ann. "wal, yes; so she do. loves her shadder in the lookin'-glass, maybe, and kinder loves norman bekase he's got so much of her devil into him. it's like lovin' like, i reckon. but i 'low they's a right smart difference with jule. sence she was born, that norman has took more delight in tormentin' jule than a yaller dog with a white tail does in worryin' a brindle tom-cat up a peach-tree. and comin' home at this junction he'll gin her a all-fired lot of trials and tribulation." at the time this conversation took place, two weeks had elapsed since mrs. anderson's "attack." julia had heard nothing from august yet. the "hawk" still made his head-quarters in the house, but was now watching another quarry. mrs. anderson was able to scold as vigorously as ever, if, indeed, that function had ever been suspended. and just now she was engaged in scolding the teacher who had expelled norman. the habit of fighting teachers was as chronic as her heart-disease. norman had always been abused by the whole race of pedagogues. there was from the first a conspiracy against him, and now he was cheated out of his last chance of getting an education. all this norman steadfastly believed. of course norman sided with his mother as against the dutchman. the more contemptible a man is, the more he contemns a man for not belonging to his race or nation. and norman felt that he would be eternally disgraced by any alliance with a german. he threw himself into the fight with a great deal of vigor. it helped him to forget other things. "jule," said he, walking up to her as she sat alone on the porch, "i'm ashamed of you. to go and fall in love with a dutchman like gus wehle, and disgrace us all!" "i wonder you didn't think about disgrace before," retorted julia, "i am ashamed to have august wehle hear what you've been doing." [illustration: norman anderson.] dogs that have the most practice in cat-worrying are liable to get their noses scratched sometimes. norman took care never to attack julia again except under the guns of his mother's powerful battery. and he revenged himself on her by appealing to his mother with a complaint that "jule had throwed up to him that he had been dismissed from school." and of course julia received a solemn lecture on her way of driving poor norman to destruction. she was determined to disgrace the family. if she could not do it by marrying a dutchman, she would do it by slandering her brother. norman thought to find an ally in jonas. "jonas, don't you think it's awful that jule is in love with dutchman like gus wehle?" "i do, my love," responded jonas. "i think a dutchman is a dutchman. i don't keer how much he larns by burnin' the midnight ile by day and night. my time-honored friend, he's a dutchman arter all. the dutch is bred in the bone. it won't fade. a dutchman may be a gentleman in his way of doin' things, may be honest and industrious, and keep all the commandments in the catalogue, but i say he is dutch, and that's enough to keep him out of the kingdom of heaven and out of this free and enlightened republic. and an american may be a good-fer-nothin', ornery little pertater-ball, wuthless alike to man and beast; he mayn't be good fer nothin', nuther fer work nur study; he may git drunk and git turned outen school and do any pertikeler number of disgraceful and oncreditable things, he may be a reg'ler milksop and nincompoop, a fool and a blackguard and a coward all rolled up into one piece of brown paper, ef he wants to. and what's to hender? a'n't he a free-born an' enlightened citizen of this glorious and civilized and christian land of hail columby? what business has a dutchman, ef he's ever so smart and honest and larned, got in our broad domains, resarved for civil and religious liberty? what business has he got breathin' our atmosphere or takin' refuge under the feathers of our american turkey-buzzard? no, my beloved and respected feller-citizen of native birth, it's as plain to me as the wheels of 'zek'el and the year . i say, hip, hip, hoo-ray fer liberty or death, and down with the dutch!" norman anderson scratched his head. what did jonas mean? he couldn't exactly divine; but it is safe to say that on the whole he was not entirely satisfied with this boomerang speech. he rather thought that he had better not depend on jonas. but he was not long in finding allies enough in his war against germany. chapter xxiii. somethin' ludikerous. there was an egg-supper in the country store at brayville. mr. mandluff, the tall and raw-boned hoosier who kept the store, was not unwilling to have the boys get up an egg supper now and then in his store after he had closed the front-door at night. for you must know that an egg-supper is a peculiar western institution. sometimes it is a most enjoyable institution--when it has its place in a store where there is no kentucky whisky to be had. but in brayville, in the rather miscellaneous establishment of the not very handsome and not very graceful mr. mandluff, an egg-supper was not a great moral institution. it was otherwise, and profanely called by its votaries a camp-meeting; it would be hard to tell why, unless it was that some of the insiders grew very happy before it was over. for an egg-supper at mandluff's store was to brayville what an oyster-supper at delmonico's is to new york. it was one tenth hard eggs and nine tenths that beverage which bears the name of an old royal house of france. how were the eggs cooked? i knew somebody would ask that impertinent question. well, they were not fried, they were not boiled, they were not poached, they were not scrambled, they were not omeletted, they were not roasted on the half-shell, they were not stuffed with garlic and served with cranberries, they were not boiled and served with anchovy sauce, they were not "_en salmi_." i think i had better stop there, lest i betray my knowledge of cookery. it is sufficient to say that they were not cooked in any of the above-named fashions, nor in any other way mentioned in catharine beecher's or marion harland's cookbooks. they were baked _à la mode_ backwoods. it is hardly proper for me to give a recipe in this place, that belongs more properly to the "household departments" of the newspapers. but to satisfy curiosity, and to tell something about cooking, which prof. blot does not know, i may say that they were broken and dropped on a piece of brown paper laid on the top of the old box-stove. by the time the egg was cooked hard the paper was burned to ashes, but the egg came off clean and nice from the stove, and made as palatable and indigestible an article for a late supper as one could wish. it only wanted the addition of mandluff's peculiar whisky to make it dissipation of the choicest kind. for the more a dissipation costs in life and health, the more fascinating it is. there was an egg-supper, as i said, at mandluff's store. there was to be a "camp-meeting" in honor of norman anderson's successful return to his liberty and his cronies. it gave norman, the greatest pleasure to return to a society where it was rather to his credit than otherwise that he had gone on a big old time, got caught, and been sent adrift by the old hunk that had tried to make him study latin. the eggs were baked in the true "camp-meeting" style, the whisky was drunk, and--so was the company. bill day's rather red eyes grew redder, and his nose shone with delight as he shuffled the greasy pack of "kyerds." the maudlin smile crossed the habitually melancholy lines of his face in a way that split and splintered his visage into a curious contradiction of emotions. "h--a--oo--p!" he shouted, throwing away the cards over the heads of his companions. "ha--oop! boys, thish is big--hoo! hoo! ha--oop! i say is big. let's do somethin'!" here there was a confused cry that "it _was_ big, and that they had better do somethin' or 'nother." "let's blow up the ole school-house," said bill day, who was not friendly to education. "i tell you what," said bob short, who was dealing the cards in another set--"i tell you what," and bob winked his eyes vigorously, and looked more solemn and wise than he could have looked if it had not been for the hard eggs and the whisky--"i tell you what," said bob a third time, and halted, for his mind's activity was a little choked by the fervor of his emotions--"i tell you what, boys--" "wal," piped jim west in a cracked voice, "you've told us _what_ four times, i 'low; now s'pose you tell us somethin' else." "i tell you what, boys," said bob short, suddenly remembering his sentence, "don't let's do nothin' that'll git us into no trouble arterwards. ef we blow up the school-house we'll be 'rested fer bigamy or--or--what d'ye call it?" "for larson," said bill day, hardly able to restrain another whoop. "no, 'taint larson," said bob short, looking wiser than a chief-justice, "it's arsony. now i say, don't let's go to penitentiary for no--no larson--no arsony, i mean." "ha--oop!" said bill. "let's do somethin' ludikerous. hurrah for arsony and larson! dog-on the penitentiary! ha--oop!" [illustration: somethin' ludikerous.] "let's go fer the dutchman," said norman anderson, just drunk enough to be good-naturedly murderous and to speak in dialect. "gus is turned out to committin' larson by breakin' into people's houses an' has run off. now let's tar and feather the ole one. of course, he's a thief. dutchmen always is, i 'low. clark township don't want none of 'em, i'll be dog-oned if it do," and norman got up and struck his fist on the counter. "an' they won't nobody hurt you; you see, he's on'y a dutchman," said bob short "larson on a dutchman don't hold." "i say, let's hang him," said bill day. "ha--oop! let's hang him, or do somethin' else ludikerous!" "i wouldn't mind," grinned norman anderson, delighted at the turn things had taken. "i'd just like to see him hung." "so would i," said bill day, leaning over to norman. "ef a dutchman wash to court my sishter, i'd--" "he'd be a fool ef he did," piped jim west. for bill day's sister was a "maid not vendible," as shakespeare has it. "see yer," said bill, trying in vain to draw his coat. "looky yer, jeems; ef you say anythin' agin ann marier, i'll commit the wust larson on you you ever seed." "i didn't say nothin' agin ann marier," squeaked jim. "i was talkin' agin the dutch." "well, that'sh all right ha--oop! boys, let's do somethin', larson or arsony or--somethin'." a bucket of tar and some feathers were bought, for which young anderson was made to pay, and bill day insisted on buying fifteen feet of rope. "bekase," as he said, "arter you git the feathers on the bird, you may--you may want to help him to go to roosht you know, on a hickory limb. ha--oop! come along, boys; i say let's do somethin' ludikerous, ef it's nothin' but a little larson." and so they went galloping down the road, nine drunken fools. for it is one of the beauties of lynch law, that, however justifiable it may seem in some instances, it always opens the way to villainous outrages. some of my readers will protest that a man was never lynched for the crime of being a dutchman. which only shows how little they know of the intense prejudice and lawless violence of the early west. some day people will not believe that men have been killed in california for being chinamen. of the nine who started, one, the drunkest, fell off and broke his arm; the rest rode up in front of the cabin of gottlieb wehle. i do not want to tell how they alarmed the mother at her late sewing and dragged gottlieb out of his bed. i shudder now when i recall one such outrage to which i was an unwilling witness. norman threw the rope round gottlieb's neck and declared for hanging. bill day agreed. it would be so ludikerous, you know! "vot hash i tun? hey? vot vor you dries doo hanks me already, hey?" cried the honest german, who was willing enough to have the end of the world come, but who did not like the idea of ascending alone, and in this fashion. mrs. wehle pushed her way into the mob and threw the rope off her husband's neck, and began to talk with vehemence in german. for a moment the drunken fellows hung back out of respect for a woman. then bill day was suddenly impressed with the fact that the duty of persuading mrs. wehle to consent to her husband's execution devolved upon him. "take keer, boys; let me talk to the ole woman. i'll argy the case." "you can't speak dutch no more nor a hoss can," squeaked jeems west. "blam'd ef i can't, though. hyer, ole woman, firshta dutch?" "ya." "now," said bill, turning to the others in triumph, "what did i tell you? well, you see, your boy august is a thief." "he's not a teef!" said the old man. "shet up your jaw. i say he is. now, your ole man's got to be hung." "vot vor?" broke in gottlieb. "bekase it's all your own fault. you hadn't orter be a dutchman." here the crowd fell into a wrangle. it was not so easy to hang a man when such a woman stood there pleading for him. besides, bob short insisted that hanging was arsony in the first degree, and they better not do it. to this bill day assented. he said he 'sposed tar and feathers was only larson in the second degree. and then it would be rale ludikerous. and now confused cries of "bring on the tar!" "where's the feathers?" "take off his clothes!" began to be raised. norman stood out for hanging. drink always intensified his meanness. but the tar couldn't be found. the man whom they had left lying by the roadside with a broken arm had carried the tar, and had been well coated with it himself in his fall. "ha-oop!" shouted bill day. "let's do somethin'. dog-on the arsony! let's hang him as high as dan'el." and with that the rope was thrown over gottlieb's, neck and he was hurried off to the nearest tree. the rope was then put over a limb, and a drunken half-dozen got ready to pull, while norman anderson adjusted the noose and valiant bill day undertook to keep off mrs. wehle. "all ready! pull up! ha-oop!" shouted bill day, and the crowd pulled, but mrs. wehle had slipped off the noose again, and the volunteer executioners fell over one another in such a way as to excite the derisive laughter of bill day, who thought it perfectly ludikerous. but before the laugh had finished, the indignant gottlieb had knocked bill day over and sent norman after him. the blow sobered them a little, and suddenly destroyed bill's ambition to commit "arsony," or do anything else ludikerous. but norman was furious, and under his lead wehle's arms were now bound with the rope and a consultation was held, during which little wilhelmina pleaded for her father effectively, and more by her tears and cries and the wringing of her chubby hands than by any words. bill day said he be blamed of that little dutch gal's takin' on so didn't kinder make him foul sorter scrimpshous you know. but the mob could not quit without doing something. so it was resolved to give gottlieb a good ducking in the river and send him into kentucky with a warning not to come back. they went down the ravine past andrew's castle to the river. mrs. wehle followed, believing that her husband would be drowned, and little wilhelmina ran and pulled the alarm and awakened the backwoods philosopher, who soon threw himself among them, but too late to dissuade them from their purpose, for andrew's own skiff, the "grisilde" by name, with three of the soberest of the party, had already set out to convey wehle, after one hasty immersion, to the other shore, while the rest stood round hallooing like madmen to prevent any alarm that wehle might raise attracting attention on the other side. chapter xxiv. the giant great-heart. as soon as andrew's skiff, the "grisilde," was brought back and the ruffians had gone off up the ravine, andrew left mrs. wehle sitting by the fire in the loom-room of the castle, while he crossed the river to look after gottlieb. little wilhelmina insisted on going with him, and as she handled a steering-oar well he took her along. they found gottlieb with his arms cruelly pinioned sitting on a log in a state of utter dejection, and dripping with water from his ducking. "ich zay, antroo, ish dish vat dey galls a vree goontry, already? a blace vare troonk sheounders dosh vot ever dey hadn't ort! dat is vree koontry. mein knabe ish roon off ver liebin a yangee; unt a vool he ish, doo. unt ich ish hoong unt troundt unt darrdt unt vedderd unt drakt out indoo de ribber, unt dolt if i ko back do mein vrau unt kinder i zhall pe kilt vunst more already. unt i shpose if ich shtays here der gainduckee beobles vill hang me unt dar me unt trown me all over in der ribber, doo, already, pekoz i ish deutsch. ich zay de voorld ish all pad, unt it aud doo pe vinished vunst already, i ton't gare how quick, so ash dem droonk vools kit vot pelongs doo 'em venever gabrel ploes his drumbet." [illustration: to the rescue.] "they'll get that in due time, my friend," said andrew, untying the rope with which gottlieb had been pinioned. "come, let us go back to our own shore." "bud daint my zhore no more. dey said i'd god doo hang again vanst more if i ever grossed de ohio ribber vunst again already, but i ton't vants doo hang no more vor noddin already." "but i'll take care of that," said andrew. "before to-morrow night i'll make your house the safest place in clark township. i've got the rascals by the throat now. trust me." it took much entreaty on the part of andrew and much weeping and kissing on the part of wilhelmina to move the heart of the terrified gottlieb. at last he got into the skiff and allowed himself to be rowed back again, declaring all the way that he nebber zee no zich a vree koontry ash dish voz already. when bill day and his comrades got up the next morning and began to think of the transactions of the night, they did not seem nearly so ludikerous as they had at the time. and when norman anderson and bill day and bob short read the notice on the door of mandluff's store they felt that "arsony" might have a serious as well as a ludikerous side. andrew at first intended to institute proceedings against the rioters, but he knew that the law was very uncertain against the influences which the eight or nine young men might bring to bear, and the prejudices of the people against the dutch. to prosecute would be to provoke another riot. so he contented himself with this "proclamation! "to whom it may concern: i have a list of eight men connected with the riotous mob which broke into the house of gottlieb wehle, a peaceable and unoffending citizen of the united states. the said eight men proceeded to commit an assault and battery on the person of the said gottlieb wehle, and even endeavored at one time to take his life. and the said riotous conduct was the result of a conspiracy, and the said assault with intent to kill was with malice aforethought. the said eight men, after having committed grievous outrages upon him by dipping him in the water and by other means, warned the said wehle not to return to the state. now, therefore, i give notice to all and several of those concerned in these criminal proceedings that the said wehle has returned by my advice; and that if so much as a hair of his head or a splinter of his property is touched i will appear against said parties and will prosecute them until i secure the infliction of the severest penalties made and provided for the punishment of such infamous crimes. i hope i am well enough known here to render it certain that if i once begin proceedings nothing but success or my death or the end of the world can stop them. "andrew anderson, "backwoods philosopher. "at the castle, may th, ." "it don't look so ludikerous as it did, does it, bill?" squeaked jim west, as he read the notice over bill's shoulder. "shet your mouth, you fool!" said bill. "don't you never peep. ef i'd a been sober i might a knowed ole grizzly would interfere. he always does." in truth, andrew was a sort of perpetual champion of the oppressed, and those who did not like him feared him, which is the next best thing. chapter xxv. a chapter of betweens. did you ever move? and, in moving, did you ever happen to notice how many little things there are to be picked up? now that i am about to shift the scene of my story from clark township, the narrow stage upon which it has progressed through two dozen chapters, i find a great number of little things to be picked up. one of the little things to be picked up is norman anderson. very little, if measured soul-wise. when his father had read the proclamation of andrew and divined that norman was interested in the riot, he became thoroughly indignant; the more so, that he felt his own lack of power to do anything in the premises against his wife. but when mrs. abigail heard of the case she was in genuine distress. it showed andrew's vindictiveness. he would follow her forever with his resentments, just because she could not love him. it was not her fault that she did not love him. poor norman had to suffer all the persecutions that usually fall to such innocent creatures. she must send him away from home, though it broke her mother's heart to do it; for if andrew didn't have him took up, the old dutchman would, just because his son had turned out a burglar. she said burglar rather emphatically, with a look at julia. and so samuel anderson took his son to louisville, and got him a place in a commission and produce house on the levee, with which mr. anderson had business influence. and samuel warned him that he must do his best, for he could not come back home now without danger of arrest, and norman made many promises of amendment; so many, that his future seemed to him barren of all delight. and, by way of encouraging himself in the austere life upon which he had resolved to enter, he attended the least reputable place of amusement in the city, the first night after his father's departure. in clark township the millerite excitement was at white heat. some of the preachers in other parts of the country had set one day, some another. i believe that mr. miller, the founder, never had the temerity to set a day. but his followers figured the thing more closely, and elder hankins had put a fine point on the matter. he was certain, for his part, that the time was at midnight on the eleventh of august. his followers became very zealous, and such is the nature of an infection that scarcely anybody was able to resist it. mrs. anderson, true to her excitable temper, became fanatic--dreaming dreams, seeing visions, hearing voices, praying twenty times a day[ ], wearing a sourly pious face, and making all around her more unhappy than ever. jonas declared that ef the noo airth and the noo heaven was to be chockful of sech as she, 'most any other place in the univarse would be better, akordin' to his way of thinkin'. he said she repented more of other folkses' sins than anybody he ever seed. [footnote : mrs. anderson was less devout than some of her co-religionists; the wife of a well-known steamboat-clerk was accustomed to pray in private fifty times a day, hoping by means of this praying without ceasing to be found ready when the trumpet should sound.] as summer came on, samuel anderson, borne away on the tide of his own and his wife's fanatical fever of sublimated devotion, discharged jonas and all his other _employés_, threw up business, and gave his whole attention to the straightening of his accounts for the coming day of judgment. before jonas left to seek a new place he told cynthy ann as how as ef he'd met her alrlier 'twould a-settled his coffee fer life. he was gittin' along into the middle of the week now, but he'd come to feel like a boy since he'd been a livin' where he could have a few sweet and pleasant words--ahem!--he thought december'd be as pleasant as may all the year round ef he could live in the aurora borealis of her countenance. and cynthy ann enjoyed his words so much that she prayed for forgiveness for the next week and confessed in class-meeting that she had yielded to temptation and sot her heart on the things of this perishin' world. she was afeared she hadn't always remembered as how as she was a poor unworthy dyin' worm of the dust, and that all the beautiful things in this world perished with the usin'. and brother goshorn, the class-leader at harden's cross-roads, exhorted her to tear every idol from her heart. and still the sweet woman's nature, god's divine law revealed in her heart, did assert itself a little. she planted some pretty-by-nights in an old cracked blue-and-white tea-pot and set it on her window-sill. somehow the pretty-by-nights would remind her of jonas, and while she tried to forget him with one half of her nature, the other and better part (the depraved part, she would have told you) cherished the memory of his smallest act and word. in fact, the flowers had no association with jonas except that along with the awakening of her love came this little sentiment for flowers into the dry desert of her life. but one day mrs. anderson discovered the old blue broken tea-pot with its young plants. "why, cynthy ann!" she cried, "a body'd think you'd have more sense than to do such a soft thing as to be raisin' posies at _your_ time of life! and that when the world is drawing to a close, too! you'll be one of the foolish virgins with no oil to your lamp, as sure as you see that day." as for julia's flowers, mrs. anderson had rudely thrown them into the road by way of removing temptation from her and turning her thoughts toward the awful realities of the close of time. but cynthy ann blushed and repented, and kept her broken tea-pot, with a fearful sense of sin in doing so. she never watered the pretty-by-nights without the feeling that she was offering sacrifice to an idol. chapter xxvi. a nice little game. it was natural enough that the "mud-clerk" on the old steamboat iatan should take a fancy to the "striker," as the engineer's apprentice was called. especially since the striker know so much more than the mud-clerk, and was able to advise him about many things. a striker with so much general information was rather a novelty, and all the officers fancied him, except sam munson, the second engineer, who had a natural jealousy of a striker that knew more than he did. the striker had learned rapidly, and was trusted to stand a regular watch. the first engineer and the third were together, and the second engineer and the striker took the other watch. the boat in this way got the services of a competent engineer while paying him only a striker's wage. about the time the heavily-laden iatan turned out of the mississippi into the ohio at cairo at six in the evening, the striker went off watch, and he ought to have gone to bed to prepare himself for the second watch of the night, especially as he would only have the dog-watch between that and the forenoon. but a passenger had got aboard at cairo, whose face was familiar. the sight of it had aroused a throng of old associations, pleasant and unpleasant, and a throng of emotions the most tender and the most wrathful the striker had ever felt. sleep he could not, and so, knowing that the mud-clerk was on watch, he sought the office after nine o'clock, and stood outside the bar talking to his friend, who had little to do, since most of the freight had been shipped through, and his bills for paducah were all ready. the striker talked with the mud-clerk, but watched the throng of passengers who drank with each other at the bar, smoked in the "social hall," read and wrote at the tables in the gentlemen's cabin, or sat with doffed hats and chatted gallantly in the ladies' cabin, which was visible as a distant background, seen over a long row of tables with green covers and under a long row of gilded wooden stalactites, which were intended to be ornamental. the little pendent prisms beneath the chandeliers rattled gayly as the boat trembled at each stroke of her wheels, and gaping backwoodsmen, abroad for the first time, looked at all the rusty gingerbread-work, and wondered if kings were able to afford anything half so fine as the cabin of the "palatial steamer iatan," as she was described on the bills. the confused murmur of many voices, mixed with the merry tinkling of the glass pendants, gave the whole an air of excitement. but the striker did not see the man he was looking for. "who got on at cairo? i think i saw a man from our part of the country," he said. "i declare, i don't know," said the mud-clerk, who drawled his words in a cold-blooded way. "let me look. here's a. robertson, and t. le fevre, and l.b. sykes, and n. anderson." "where is anderson going?" "paid through to louisville. do you know him?" but just then norman anderson himself walked in, and went up to the bar with a new acquaintance. they did not smoke the pipe of peace, like red americans, but, like white americans, they had a mysterious liquid carefully compounded, and by swallowing this they solemnly sealed their new-made friendship after the curious and unexplained rite in use among their people. norman had been dispatched on a collecting trip, and having nine hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, he felt as much elated as if it had been his own money. the gentleman with whom he drank, had a band of crape around his white hat. he seemed very nearsighted. "if that greeny is a friend of yours, gus, i declare you'd better tell him not to tie to the serious-looking young fellow in the white hat and gold specs, unless he means to part with all his loose change before bed-time." that is what the mud-clerk drawled to august the striker, but the striker seemed to hear the words as something spoken afar off. for just then he was seeing a vision of a drunken mob, and a rope, and a pleading woman, and a brave old man threatened with death. just then he heard harsh and muddled voices, rude oaths, and jeering laughter, and above it all the sweet pleading of a little girl begging for a father's life. and the quick blood came into his fair german face, and he felt that he could not save this norman anderson from the toils of the gambler, though he might, if provoked, pitch him over the guard of the boat. for was not andrew's letter, which described the mob, in his pocket, and burning a hole in his pocket as it had been ever since he received it? but then this was julia's brother, and there was nothing he would not do for julia. so, sometime after the mud-clerk had ceased to speak, the striker gave utterance to both impulses by replying, "he's no friend of mine," a little crisply, and then softly adding, "though i shouldn't like to see him fleeced." by this time a new actor had appeared on the scene in the person of a man with a black mustache and side-whiskers, who took a seat behind a card-table near the bar. "h'llo!" said the mud-clerk in a low and lazy voice, "parkins is back again. after his scrape at paducah last february, he disappeared, and he's been shady ever since. he's growed whiskers since, so's not to be recognized. but he'll be skeerce enough when we get to paducah. now, see how quick he'll catch the greenies, won't you?" the prospect was so charming as almost to stimulate the mud-clerk to speak with some animation. but august wehle, the striker on the iatan, had an uncomfortable feeling that he had seen that face before, and that the long mustache and side-whiskers had grown in a remarkably short space of time. could it be that there were two men who could spread a smile over the lower half of their faces in that automatic way, while the spider-eyes had no sort of sympathy with it? surely, this man with black whiskers and mustache was not just like the singing-master at sugar-grove school-house, who had "red-top hay on to his upper lip," and yet--and yet-- "gentlemen," said parkins--his dickensian name would be smirkins--"i want to play a little game just for the fun of the thing. it is a trick with three cards. i put down three cards, face up. here is six of diamonds, eight of spades, and the ace of hearts. now, i will turn them over so quickly that i will defy any of you to tell which is the ace. do you see? now, i would like to bet the wine for the company that no gentleman here can turn up the ace. all i want is a little sport. something to pass away the evening and amuse the company. who will bet the wine? the scripture says that the hand is quicker than the eye, and i warn you that if you bet, you will probably lose." and here he turned the cards back, with their faces up, and the card which everybody felt sure was the ace proved apparently to be that card. most of the on-lookers regretted that they had not bet, seeing that they would certainly have won. again the cards were put face down, and the company was bantered to bet the wine. nobody would bet. [illustration: a nice little game.] after a good deal of fluent talk, and much dexterous handling of the cards, in a way that seemed clear enough to everybody, and that showed that everybody's guess was right as to the place of the ace, the near-sighted gentleman, who had drunk with norman, offered to bet five dollars. "five dollars!" returned parkins, laughing in derision, "five dollars! do you think i'm a gambler? i don't want any gentleman's money. i've got all the money i need. however, if you would like to bet the wine with me, i am agreed." the near-sighted gentleman declined to wager anything but just the five dollars, and parkins spurned his proposition with the scorn of a gentleman who would on no account bet a cent of money. but he grew excited, and bantered the whole crowd. was there no _gentleman_ in the crowd who would lay a wager of wine for the company on this interesting little trick? it was strange to him that no gentleman had spirit enough to make the bet. but no gentleman had spirit enough to bet the wine. evidently there were no gentlemen in the company. however, the near-sighted man with the white hat adorned with crape now proposed in a crusty tone to bet ten dollars that he could lift the ace. he even took out a ten-dollar bill, and, after examining it, in holding it close to his nose as a penurious man might, extended his hand with, "if you're in earnest, let's know it. i'll bet you ten." at this parkins grew furious. he had never been so persistently badgered in all his life. he'd have the gentleman know that he was not a gambler. he had all the money he wanted, and as for betting ten dollars, he shouldn't think of it. but now that the gentleman--he said _gentleman_ with an emphasis--now that the gentleman seemed determined to bet money, he would show him that he was not to be backed down. if the young man would like to wager a hundred dollars, he would cheerfully bet with him. if the gentleman did not feel able to bet a hundred dollars, he hoped he would not say any more about it. he hadn't intended to bet money at all. but he wouldn't bet less than a hundred dollars with anybody. a man who couldn't afford to lose a hundred dollars, ought not to bet. "who is this fellow in the white hat with spectacles?" august asked of the mud-clerk. "that is smith, parkins's partner. he is only splurging round to start up the greenies." and the mud-clerk spoke with an indifference and yet a sort of _dilettante_ interest in the game that shocked his friend, the striker. "why don't they set these blacklegs ashore?" said august, whose love of justice was strong. "_you_ tell," drawled the mud-clerk. "the first clerk's tried it, but the old man protects 'em, and" (in a whisper) "get's his share, i guess. he can set them off whenever he wants to." (i must explain that there is only one "old man" on a steamboat--that is, the captain.) by this time parkins had turned and thrown his cards so that everybody knew or thought he knew where the ace was. smith, the man with the white hat, now rose five dollars more and offered to bet fifteen. but parkins was more indignant than ever. he told smith to go away. he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a handful of twenty-dollar gold-pieces. "if any gentleman wants to bet a hundred dollars, let him come on. a man who couldn't lose a hundred would better keep still." smith now made a big jump. he'd go fifty. parkins wouldn't listen to fifty. he had said that he wouldn't bet less than a hundred, and he wouldn't. he now pulled out handful after handful of gold, and piled the double-eagles up like a fortification in front of him, while the crowd surged with excitement. at last mr. smith, the near-sighted gentleman in spectacles, the gentleman who wore black crape on a white hat, concluded to bet a hundred dollars. he took out his little porte-monnaie and lifted thence a hundred-dollar bill. "well," said he angrily, "i'll bet you a hundred." and he laid down the bill. parkins piled five twenty-dollar gold-pieces atop it. each man felt that he could lift the ace in a moment. that card at the dealer's right was certainly the ace. norman was sure of it. he wished it had been his wager instead of smith's. but parkins stopped smith a moment. "now, young man," he said, "if you don't feel perfectly able to lose that hundred dollars, you'd better take it back." "i am just as able to lose it as you are," said smith snappishly, and to everybody's disappointment he lifted not the card everybody had fixed on, but the middle one, and so lost his money. "why didn't you take the other?" said norman boastfully. "i knew it was the ace." "why didn't you bet, then?" said smith, grinning a little. norman wished he had. but he had not a hundred dollars of his own, and he had scruples--faint, and yet scruples, or rather alarms--at the thought of risking his employer's money on a wager. while he was weighing motive against motive, smith bet again, and again, to norman's vexation, selected a card that was so obviously wrong that norman thought it a pity that so near-sighted a man should bet and lose. he wished he had a hundred dollars of his own and--there, smith was betting again. this time he consulted norman before making his selection, and of course turned up the right card, remarking that he wished his eyes were so keen! he would win a thousand dollars before bed-time if his eyes were so good! then he took norman into partnership, and norman found himself suddenly in possession of fifty dollars, gotten without trouble. this turned his brain. nothing is so intoxicating to a weak man as money acquired without toil. so norman continued to bet, sometimes independently, sometimes in partnership with, the gentlemanly smith. he was borne on by the excitement of varying fortune, a varying fortune absolutely under control of the dealer, whose sleight-of-hand was perfect. and the varying fortune had an unvarying tendency in the long run--to put three stakes out of five into the pockets of the gamblers, who found the little game very interesting amusement for gentlemen. chapter xxvii. the result of an evening with gentlemen. all the time that these smiling villains were by consummate art drawing their weak-headed victim into their tolls, what was august doing? where were his prompt decision of character, his quick intelligence, his fine german perseverance, that should have saved the brother of julia anderson from harpies? could our blue-eyed young countryman, who knew how to cherish noble aspirations walking in a plowman's furrow--could he stand there satisfying his revenge by witnessing the ruin of a young man who, like many others, was wicked only because he was weak? in truth, august was a man whose feelings were persistent. his resentment was--like his love--constant. but his love of justice was higher and more persistent, and he could not have seen any one fleeced in this merciless way without taking sides strongly with the victim. much less could he see the brother of julia tempted on to the rocks by the false lights of villainous wreckers without a great desire to save him. for the letter of andrew had ceased now to burn in his pocket. that other letter--the only one that julia had been able to send through cynthy ann and jonas--that other letter, written all over with such tender extravagances as love feeds on; the thought of that other letter, which told how beautiful and precious were the invitations to the weary and heavy-laden, had stilled resentment, and there came instead a keen desire to save norman for the sake of julia and justice. but how to do it was an embarrassing question--a question that was more than august could solve. there was a difficulty in the weakness and wrong-headedness of norman; a difficulty in norman's prejudice against dutchmen in general and august in particular; a difficulty in the fact that august was a sort of a fugitive, if not from justice, certainly from injustice. but when nearly a third of norman's employer's money had gone into the gamblers' heap, and when august began to understand that it was another man's money that norman was losing, and that the victim was threatened by no half-way ruin, he determined to do something, even at the risk of making himself known to norman and to parkins--was he humphreys in disguise?--and at the risk of arrest for house-breaking. august acted with his eyes open to all the perils from gamblers' pistols and gamblers' malice; and after he had started to interfere, the mud-clerk called him back, and said, in his half-indifferent way: "looky here, gus, don't be a blamed fool. that's a purty little game. that greeny's got to learn to let blacklegs alone, and he don't look like one that'll take advice. let him scorch a little; it'll do him good. it's healthy for young men. that's the reason the old man don't forbid it, i s'pose. and these fellows carry good shooting-irons with hair-triggers, and i declare i don't want to be bothered writing home to your mother, and explaining to her that you got killed in a fight with blacklegs, i declare i don't, you see. and then you'll get the 'old man' down on you, if you let a bird out of the trap in which he goes snucks; you will, i declare. and you'll get walking-papers at louisville. let the game alone. you haven't got any hand to play against parkins, nohow; and i reckon the greenhorns are his lawful prey. cats couldn't live without mice. you'll lose your place, i declare you will, if you say a word." [illustration: the mud-clerk] august stopped long enough to take in the full measure of his sacrifice. so far from being deterred by it, he was more than ever determined to act. not the love julia, so much, now, but the farewell prayer and benediction and the whole life and spirit of the sweet moravian mother in her child-full house at home were in his mind at this moment. things which a man will not do for the love of woman he may do for the love of god--and it was with a sense of moral exaltation that august entered into the lofty spirit of self-sacrifice he had seen in his mother, and caught himself saying, in his heart, as he had heard her say, "let us do anything for the father's sake!" some will call this cant. so much the worse for them. this motive, too little felt in our day--too little felt in any day--is the great impulse that has enabled men to do the bravest things that have been done. the sublimest self-sacrifice is only possible to a man by the aid of some strong moral tonic. god's love is the chief support of the strongest spirits. august touched norman on the arm. the face of the latter expressed anything but pleasure at meeting him, now that he felt guilty. but this was not the uppermost feeling with norman. he noticed that august's clothes were spotted with engine-grease, and his first fear was of compromising his respectability. in a hurried way august began to explain to him that he was betting with gamblers, but smith stood close to them, looking at august in such a contemptuous way as to make norman feel very uncomfortable, and parkins seeing the crowd attracted by august's explanations--which he made in some detail, by way of adapting himself to norman--of the trick by which the upper card is thrown out first, parkins said, "i see you understand the game, young man. if you do, why don't you bet?" at this the crowd laughed, and norman drew away from the striker's greasy clothes, and said that he didn't want to speak any further to a burglar, he believed. but august followed, determined to warn him against smith. smith was ahead of him, however, saving to norman, "look out for your pockets--that greasy fellow will rob you." and norman, who was nothing if not highly respectable, resolved to shake off the troublesome "dutchman" at once. "i don't know what you are up to now, but at home you are known as a thief. so please let me alone, will you?" this norman tried to say in an annihilating way. the crowd looked for a fight. august said loud enough to be heard, "you know very well that you lie. i wanted to save you from being a thief, but you are betting money now that is not yours." the company, of course, sympathized with the gentleman and against the machine-oil on the striker's clothes, so that there arose quickly a murmur, started by smith, "put the bully out," and august was "hustled." it is well that he was not shot. it was quite time for him to go on watch now; for the loud-ticking marine-clock over the window of the clerk's office pointed to three minutes past twelve, and the striker hurried to his post at the starboard engine, with the bitterness of defeat and the shame of insult in his heart. he had sacrificed his place, doubtless, and risked much beside, and all for nothing. the third engineer complained of his tardiness in not having relieved him three minutes before, and august went to his duties with a bitter heart. to a man who is persistent, as august was, defeat of any sort is humiliating. as for norman, he bet after this just to show his independence and to show that the money was his own, as well as in the vain hope of winning back what he had lost. he bet every cent. then he lost his watch, and at half-past one o'clock he went to his state-room, stripped of all loose valuables, and sweating great drops. and the mud-clerk, who was still in the office, remarked to himself, with a pleasant chuckle, that it was good for him; he declared it was; teach the fellow to let monte alone, and keep his eyes peeled when he traveled. it would so! the idea was a good one, and he went down to the starboard engine and told the result of the nice little game to his friend the striker, drawling it out in a relishful way, how the blamed idiot never stopped till they'd got his watch, and then looked like as if he'd a notion to jump into the "drink." but 'twould cure him of meddlin' with monte. it would so! he walked away, and august was just reflecting on the heartlessness of his friend, when the mud-clerk came back again, and began drawling his words out as before, just as though each distinct word were of a delightful flavor and he regretted that he must part with it. "i've got you even with parkins, old fellow. he'll be strung up on a lamp-post at paducah, i reckon. i saw a paducah man aboard, and i put a flea in his ear. we've got to lay there an hour or two to put off a hundred barrels of molasses and two hundred sacks of coffee and two lots of plunder. there'll be a hot time for parkins. he let on to marry a girl and fooled her. they'll teach him a lesson. you'll be off watch, and we'll have some fun looking on." and the mud-clerk evidently thought that it would be even funnier to see parkins hanged than it had been to see him fleece norman. gus the striker did not see how either scene could be very entertaining. but he was sick at heart, and one could not expect him to show much interest in manly sports. chapter xxviii. waking up an ugly customer. the steady beat of the wheels and the incessant clank of the engines went on as usual. the boat was loaded almost to her guards, and did not make much speed. the wheels kept their persistent beat upon the water, and the engines kept their rhythmical clangor going, until august found himself getting drowsy. trouble, with forced inaction, nearly always has a soporific tendency, and a continuous noise is favorable to sleep. once or twice august roused himself to a sense of his responsibility and battled with his heaviness. it was nearing the end of his watch, for the dog-watch of two hours set in at four o'clock. but it seemed to him that four o'clock would never come. an incident occurred just at this moment that helped him to keep his eyes open. a man went aft through the engine-room with a red handkerchief tied round his forehead. in spite of this partial disguise august perceived that it was parkins. he passed through to the place where the steerage or deck passengers are, and then disappeared from august's sight. he had meant to disembark at a wood-yard just below paducah, but for some reason the boat did not stop, and now, as august guessed, he was hiding himself from paducah eyes. he was not much too soon, for the great bell on the hurricane-deck was already ringing for paducah, and the summer dawn was showing itself faintly through the river fog. the alarm-bell rang in the engine-room, and wehle stood by his engine. then the bell rang to stop the starboard engine, and august obeyed it. the pilot of a western steamboat depends much upon his engines for steerage in making a landing, and the larboard engine was kept running a while longer in order to bring the deeply-loaded boat round to her landing at the primitive wharf-boat of that day. there is something fine in the faith with which an engineer obeys the bell of the pilot, not knowing what may be ahead, not inquiring what may be the effect of the order, but only doing exactly what he is bid when he is bid. august had stopped his engine, and stood trying to keep his mind off parkins and the events of the night, that he might be ready to obey the next signal for his engine. but the bell rang next to stop the other engine, at which the second engineer stood, and august was so free from responsibility in regard to that that he hardly noticed the sound of the bell, until it rang a second time more violently. then he observed that the larboard engine still ran. was munson dead or asleep? clearly it was august's duty to stand by his own engine. but then he was startled to think what damage to property or life might take place from the failure of the second engineer to stop his engine. while he hesitated, and all these considerations flashed through his mind, the pilot's bell rang again long and loud, and august then, obeying an impulse rather than a conviction, ran over to the other engine, stopped it, and then, considering that it had run so long against orders, he reversed it and set it to backing without waiting instructions. then he seized munson and woke him, and hurried back to his post. but the larboard engine had not made three revolutions backward before the boat, hopelessly thrown from her course by the previous neglect, struck the old wharf-boat and sunk it. but for the promptness and presence of mind with which wehle acted, the steamboat itself would have suffered severely. the mate and then the captain came rushing into the engine-room. munson was discharged at once, and the striker was promised engineer's wages. gus went off watch at this moment, and the mud-clerk said to him, in his characteristically indifferent voice, "such luck, i declare! i was sure you would be dismissed for meddling with parkins, and here you are promoted, i declare!" the mishap occasioned much delay to the boat, as it was very inconvenient to deliver freight at that day and at that stage of water without the intervention of the wharf-boat. a full hour was consumed in finding a landing, and in rigging the double-staging and temporary planks necessary to get the molasses and coffee and household "plunder" ashore. some hint that parkins was on the river had already reached paducah, and the sheriff and two deputies and a small crowd were at the landing looking for him. a search of the boat failed to discover him, and the crowd would have left the landing but for occasional hints slyly thrown out by the mud-clerk as he went about over the levee collecting freight-bills. these hints, given in a non-committal way, kept the crowd alive with expectation, and when the rumors thus started spread abroad, the levee was soon filled with an excited and angry multitude. if it had been a question of delivering a criminal to justice, august would not have hesitated to tell the sheriff where to look. but he very well knew that the sheriff could not convey the man through the mob alive, and to deliver even such a scoundrel to the summary vengeance of a mob was something that he could not find it in his heart to do. in truth, the sheriff and his officers did not seek very zealously for their man. under the circumstances, it was probable he would not surrender himself without a fight, in which somebody would be killed, and besides there must ensue a battle with the mob. it was what they called an ugly job, and they were not loth to accept the captain's assurance that the gambler had gone ashore. while august was unwilling to deliver the hunted villain to a savage death, he began to ask himself why he might not in some way use his terror in the interest of justice. for he had just then seen the wretched and bewildered face of norman looking ghastly enough in the fog of the morning. at last, full of this notion, and possessed, too, by his habit of accomplishing at all hazards what he had begun, august strolled back through the now quiet engine-room to the deck-passengers' quarter. it was about half an hour before six o'clock, when the dog-watch would expire and he must go on duty again. in one of the uppermost of the filthy bunks, in the darkest corner, near the wheel, he discovered what he thought to be his man. the deck-passengers were still asleep, lying around stupidly. august paused a moment, checked by a sense of the dangerousness of his undertaking. then he picked up a stick of wood and touched the gambler, who could not have been very sound asleep, lying in hearing of the curses of the mob on the shore. at first parkins did not move, but august gave him a still more vigorous thrust. then he peered out between the blanket and the handkerchief over his forehead. "i will take that money you won last night from that young man, if you please." [illustration: waking up an ugly customer.] parkins saw that it was useless to deny his identity. "do you want to be shot?" he asked fiercely. "not any more than you want to be hung," said august. "the one would follow the other in five minutes. give back that money and i will go away." the gambler trembled a minute. he was fairly at bay. he took out a roll of bills and handed it to august. there was but five hundred. smith had the other four hundred and fifty, he said. but august had a quiet german steadiness of nerve. he said that unless the other four hundred and fifty were paid at once he should call in the sheriff or the crowd. parkins knew that every minute august stood there increased his peril, and human nature is now very much like human nature in the days of job. the devil understood the subject very well when he said that all that a man hath will he give for his life. parkins paid the four hundred and fifty in gold-pieces. he would have paid twice that if august had demanded it. chapter xxix. august and norman. in a story such as i meant this to be, the development of character stands for more than the evolution of the plot, and herein is the true significance of this contact of wehle with the gamblers, and, indeed, of this whole steamboat life. it is not enough for one to be good in a country neighborhood; the sharp contests and severe ordeals of more exciting life are needed to give temper to the character. august wehle was hardly the same man on this morning at paducah, with the nine hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, that he had been the evening before, when he first felt the sharp resentment against the man who had outraged his father. in acting on a high plane, one is unconsciously lifted to that plane. men become christians sometimes from the effect of sudden demands made upon their higher moral nature, demands which compel them to choose between a life higher than their present living, or a moral degradation. such had been august's experience. he had been drawn upward toward god by the opportunity and necessity for heroic action. i have no doubt the good samaritan got more out of his own kindness than the robbed jew did. before he had a chance to restore the money to its rightful owner, the two hours of dog-watch had expired, and he was obliged to go on watch again, much to his annoyance. he had been nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, and after a night of such excitement it was unpleasant as well as perilous to have to hold this money, which did not belong to him, for six hours longer, liable at any minute to get into difficulty through any scheme of the gamblers and their allies, by which his recovery of the money might be misinterpreted. the morning seemed to wear away so slowly. all the possibilities of parkins's attacking him, of young anderson's committing suicide, and of the misconstruction that might be put upon his motives--the making of his disinterested action seem robbery--haunted his excitable imagination. at last, while the engines were shoving their monotonous shafts backward and forward, and the "palatial steamer" iatan was slowly pushing her way up the stream, august grew so nervous over his money that he resolved to relieve himself of part of it. so he sent for the mud-clerk by a passing deck-hand. "i want you to keep this money for me until i get off watch," said august. "i made parkins stand and deliver this morning while we were at paducah." "you did?" said the mud-clerk, not offering to touch the money. "you risked your life, i declare, for that fool that called you a thief. you are a fool, gus, and nothing but your blamed good luck can save you from getting salivated, bright and early, some morning. not a great deal i won't take that money. i don't relish lead, and i've got to live among these fellows all my days, and i don't hold that money for anybody. the old man would ship me at louisville, seeing i never stopped anybody's engine and backed it in a hurry, as you did. if i'd known where parkins was, i'd a dropped a gentle word in the ear of the crowd outside, but i wouldn't a pulled that greeny's coffee-nuts out of the fire, and i won't hold the hot things for you. i declare i won't. saltpeter wouldn't save me if i did." so gus had to content himself in his nervousness, not allayed by this speech, und keep the money in his pocket until noon. and, after all the presentiment he had had, noon came round. presentiments generally come from the nerves, and signify nothing; but nobody keeps a tally of the presentiments and auguries that fail. when the first-engineer and a new man took the engines at noon, gus was advised by the former to get some sleep, but there was no sleep for him until he had found norman, who trembled at the sight of him. "where is your state-room?" said august sternly, for he couldn't bring himself to speak kindly to the poor fellow, even in his misery. norman turned pale. he had been thinking of suicide all the morning, but he was a coward, and now he evidently felt sure that he was to be killed by august. he did not dare disobey, but led the way, stopping to try to apologize two or three times, but never getting any further than "i--i--" once in the state-room, he sat down on the berth and gasped, "i--i--" "here is your money," said august, handing it to him. "i made the gambler give it up." "i--i--" said the astonished and bewildered norman. "you needn't say a word. you are a cowardly scoundrel, and if you say anything, i'll knock you down for treating my father as you did. only for--for--well, i didn't want to see you fleeced." norman was ashamed for once, and hung his head. it touched the heart of august a little, but the remembrance of the attack of the mob on his father made him feel hard again, and so his generous act was performed ungraciously. chapter xxx. aground. not the boat. the boat ran on safely enough to louisville, and tied up at the levee, and discharged her sugar und molasses, and took on a new cargo of baled hay and corn and flour, and went back again, and made i know not how many trips, and ender her existence i can not tell how or when. what does become of the old steamboats? the iatan ran for years after she tied up at louisville that summer morning, and then perhaps she was blown up or burned up; perchance some cruel sawyer transfixed her; perchance she was sunk by ice, or maybe she was robbed of her engines and did duty as barge, or, what is more probable, she wore out like the one-hoss shay, and just tumbled to pieces simultaneously. it was not the gambler who got aground that morning. he had yet other nice little games, with three cards or more or none, to play. it was not the mud-clerk who ran aground--good, non-committal soul, who never look sides where it would do him any harm, and who never worried himself about anything. dear, drawling, optimist philosopher, who could see how other people's mishaps were best for them, and who took good care not to have any himself! it was not he that ran aground. it was not norman anderson who ran aground. he walked into the store with the proud and manly consciousness of having done his duty, he made his returns of every cent of money that had come into his hands, and, like all other faithful stewards, received the cordial commendation of his master. but august wehle the striker, just when he was to be made an engineer, when he thought he had smooth sailing, suddenly and provokingly found himself fast aground, with no spar or capstan by which he might help himself off, with no friendly craft alongside to throw him a hawser and pull him off. it seems that when the captain promised him promotion, he did not know anything of august's interference with the gamblers. but when parkins filed his complaint, it touched the captain. it was generally believed among the _employés_ of the boat that a percentage of gamblers' gains was one of the "old man's" perquisites, and he was not the only steamboat captain who profited by the nice little games in the cabin upon which he closed both eyes. and this retrieved nine hundred and fifty dollars was a dead loss of--well, it does not matter how much, to the virtuous and highly honorable captain. his proportion would have been large enough at least to pay his wife's pew-rent in st. james's church, with a little something over for charitable purposes. for the captain did not mind giving a disinterested twenty-five dollars occasionally to those charities that were willing to show their gratitude by posting his name as director, or his wife's as "lady manageress." in this case his right hand never knew what his left hand did--how it got the money, for instance. so when august drew his pay he was informed that he was discharged. no reason was given. he tried to see the captain. but the captain was in the bosom of his family, kissing his own well-dressed little boys, and enjoying the respect which only exemplary and provident fathers enjoy. and never asking down in his heart if these boys might become gamblers' victims, or gamblers, indeed. the captain could not see august the striker, for he was at home, and must not be interfered with by any of his subordinates. besides, it was sunday, and he could not be intruded upon--the rector of st. james's was dining with him on his wife's invitation, and it behooved him to walk circumspectly, not with eye-service as a man-pleaser, but serving the lord. so he refuted to see the anxious striker, and turned to compliment the rector on his admirable sermon on the sin of judas, who sold his master for thirty pieces of silver. and august wehle had nothing left to do. the river was falling fast, the large boats above the falls were, in steamboat-man's phrase, "laying up" in the mouths of the tributaries and other convenient harbors, there were plenty of engineers unemployed, and there were no vacancies. chapter xxxi. cynthy ann's sacrifice. jonas had been all his life, as he expressed it in his mixed rhetoric, "a wanderin' sand-hill crane, makin' many crooked paths, and, like the cards in french monte, a-turnin' up suddently in mighty on-expected places." he had been in every queer place from halifax to texas, and then had come back to his home again. naturally cautious, and especially suspicious of the female sex, it is not strange that he had not married. only when he "tied up to the same w'arf-boat alongside of cynthy ann, he thought he'd found somebody as was to be depended on in a fog or a harricane." this he told to cynthy ann as a reason why she should accept his offer of marriage. "jonas," said cynthy ann, "don't flatter. my heart is dreadful weak, and prone to the vanities of this world. it makes me abhor myself in dust and sackcloth fer you to say such things about poor unworthy me." "ef i think 'em, why shouldn't i say 'em? i don't know no law agin tellin' the truth ef you git into a place where you can't no ways help it. i don't call you angel, fer you a'n't; you ha'nt got no wings nor feathers. i don't say as how as you're pertikeler knock-down handsome. i don't pertend that you're a spring chicken. i don't lie nor flatter. i a'n't goin' it blind, like young men in love. but i do say, with my eyes open and in my right senses, and feelin' solemn, like a man a-makin' his last will and testament, that they a'n't no sech another woman to be found outside the leds of the bible betwixt the bay of fundy and the rio grande. i've 'sought round this burdened airth,' as the hymn says, and they a'n't but jest one. ef that one'll jest make me happy, i'll fold my weary pinions and settle down in a rustic log-cabin and raise corn and potaters till death do us part." cynthy trembled. cynthy was a saint, a martyr to religious feeling, a medieval nun in her ascetic eschewing of the pleasures of life. but cynthy ann was also a woman. and a woman whose spring-time had paused. when love buds out thus late, when the opportunity for the woman's nature to blossom comes unexpectedly upon one at her age, the temptation is not easily resisted. cynthy trembled, but did not quite yield up her christian constancy. "jonas, i don't know whether i'd orto or not. i don't deny--i think i'd better ax brother goshorn, you know, sence what would it profit ef i gained you or any joy in this world, and then come short by settin' you up fer a idol in my heart? i don't know whether a new light is a onbeliever or not, and whether i'd be onequally yoked or not. i must ax them as knows better nor i do." "well, ef i'm a onbeliever, they's nobody as could teach me to believe quicker'n you could. i never did believe much in women folks till i believed in you." "but that's the sin of it, jonas. i'd believe in you, and you'd believe in me, and we'd be puttin' our trust in the creatur instid of the creator, and the creator is mighty jealous of our idols, and he would take us away fer idolatry." "no, but i wouldn't worship you, though i'd rather worship you than anybody else ef i was goin' into the worshipin' business. but you see i a'n't, honey. i wouldn't sacrifice to you no lambs nor sheep, i wouldn't pray to you, nor i wouldn't kiss your shoes, like people does the pope's. an' i know you wouldn't make no idol of me like them greek gods that andrew's got picters of. i a'n't handsome enough by a long shot fer a jupiter or a 'pollo. an' i tell you, cynthy, 'tain't no sin to love. love is the fullfilling of the law." but cynthy ann persisted that she must consult brother goshorn, the antiquated class-leader at the cross-roads. brother goshorn was a good man, but jonas had a great contempt for him. he was a strainer out of gnats, though i do not think he swallowed camels. he always stood at the door of the love-feast and kept out every woman with jewelry, every girl who had an "artificial" in her bonnet, every one who wore curls, every man whose hair was beyond what he considered the regulation length of scripture, and every woman who wore a veil. in support of this last prohibition he quoted isaiah iii, : "the glasses and the fine linen and the hoods and the veils." to him cynthy ann presented the case with much trepidation. all her hopes for this world hung upon it. but this consideration did not greatly affect brother goshorn. hopes and joys were as nothing to him where the strictness of discipline was involved. the discipline meant more to a mind of his cast than the decalogue or the beatitudes. he shook his head. he did not know. he must consult brother hall. now, brother hall was the young preacher traveling his second year, very young and very callow. ten years of the sharp attritions of a methodist itinerant's life would take his unworldliness out of him and develop his practical sense as no other school in the world could develop it. but as yet brother hall had not rubbed off any of his sanctimoniousness, had not lost any of his belief that the universe should be governed on high general principles with no exceptions. so when brother goshorn informed him that one of his members, sister cynthy ann dyke, wished to marry, and to marry a man that was a new light, and had asked his opinion, and that he did not certainly know whether new lights were believers or not, brother hall did not stop to inquire what jonas might be personally. he looked and felt very solemn, and said that it was a pity for a christian to marry a new light. it was clearly a sin, for a new light was an arian. and an arian was just as good as an infidel. an arian robbed christ of his supreme deity, and since he did not worship the trinity in the orthodox sense he must worship a false god. he was an idolater therefore, and it was a sin to be yoked together with such an one. many men more learned than the callow but pious and sincere brother hall have left us in print just such deductions. when this decision was communicated to the scrupulous cynthy ann, she folded her hopes as one lays away the garment of a dead friend; she west to her little room and prayed; she offered a sacrifice to god not less costly than abraham's, and in a like sublime spirit. she watered the plant in the old cracked blue-and-white tea-pot, she noticed that it was just about to bloom, and then she dropped one tear upon it, and because it suggested jonas in some way, she threw it away, resolved not to have any idols in her heart. and, doubtless, god received the sacrifice, mistaken and needless as it was, a token of the faithfulness of her heart to her duty as she understood it. [illustration: cynthy ann's sacrifice.] cynthy ann explained it all to jonas in a severe and irrevocable way. jonas looked at her a moment, stunned. "did brother goshorn venture to send me any of his wisdom, in the way of advice, layin' round loose, like counterfeit small change, cheap as dirt?" "well, yes," said cynthy ann, hesitating. "i'll bet the heft of my fortin', to be paid on receipt of the amount, that i kin tell to a t what the good christian wanted me to do." "don't be oncharitable, jonas. brother goshorn is a mighty sincere man." "so he is, but his bein' sincere don't do me no good. he wanted you to advise me to jine the methodist class as a way of gittin' out of the difficulty. and you was too good a christian to ask me to change fer any sech reason, knowin' i wouldn't be fit for you ef i did." cynthy ann was silent. she would have liked to have jonas join the church with her, but if he had done it now she herself would have doubted his sincerity. "now, looky here, cynthy, ef you'll say you don't love me, and never can, i'll leave you to wunst, and fly away and mourn like a turtle-dove. but so long as it's nobody but goshorn, i'm goin' to stay and litigate the question till the millerite millennium comes. i appeal to cæesar or somebody else. neither brother goshorn nor brother hall knows enough to settle this question. i'm agoin' to the persidin' elder. and you can't try a man and hang him and then send him to the penitentiary fer the rest of his born days without givin' him one chance to speak fer hisself agin the world and everybody else. i'm goin' to see the persidin' elder myself and plead my own cause, and ef he goes agin me, i'll carry it up to the bishop or the archbishop or the nex' highest man in the heap, till i git plum to the top, and ef they all go agin me, i'll begin over agin at the bottom with brother goshorn, and keep on till i find a man that's got common-sense enough to salt his religion with." chapter xxxii. julia's enterprise. august was very sick at the castle. this wag the first news of his return that reached julia through jonas and cynthy ann. but in my interest in jonas and cynthy ann, of whom i think a great deal, i forgot to say that long before the events mentioned in the last chapter, humphreys had been suddenly called away from his peaceful retreat in the hill country of clark township. in fact, the "important business," or "the illness of a friend," whichever it was, occurred the very next day after norman anderson's father returned from louisville, and reported that he had secured for his son an "outside situation," that is to say, a place as a collector. when he had gone, jonas remarked to cynthy ann, "where the carcass is, there the turkey-buzzards is gethered. that shinin' example of early piety never plays but one game. that is, fox-and-geese. he's gone after a green goslin' now, and he'll find him when he's fattest." but the gentle singing-master had come back from his excursion, and was taking a profound interest in the coming end of the world. jonas observed that it "seemed like as ef he hed charge of the whole performance, and meant to shet up the sky like a blue cotton umbrell. he's got a single eye, and it's the same ole game. fox and geese always, and he's the fox." humphreys still lived at samuel anderson's, still devoted himself to pleasing mrs. abigail, still bowed regretfully to julia, and spoke caressingly to betsey malcolm at every opportunity. but august was sick at the castle. he was very sick. every morning dr. dibrell, a "calomel-doctor"--not a steam-doctor--rode by the house on his way to andrew's, and every morning mrs. anderson wondered afresh who was sick down that way. but the doctor staid so long that mrs. abigail made up her mind it must be somebody four or five miles away, and so dismissed the matter from her mind. for august's return had been kept secret. but julia noticed, in her heart of hearts, and with ever-increasing affliction, that the doctor staid longer each day than on the day before, and she thought she noticed also an increasing anxiety on his face as he rode home again. her desire to know the real truth, and to see august, to do for him, to give her life for him, were wearing her away. it is hard to see a friend go from you when you have done everything. but to have a friend die within your reach, while you are yet unable to help him, is the saddest of all. all this anxiety julia suffered without even the blessed privilege of showing it. the pent-up fire consumed her, and she was at times almost distract. every morning she managed to be on the upper porch when the doctor went by, and from the same watch-tower she studied his face when he went back. then came a morning when there were two doctors. a physician from the county-seat village went by, in company with dr. dibrell. so there must be a consultation at the castle. julia knew then that the worst had to be looked in the face. and she longed to get away from under the searching black eyes of her mother and utter the long-pent cry of anguish. another day of such unuttered pain would drive her clean mad. that evening jonas came over and sought an interview with cynthy ann. he had not been to see her since his unsuccessful courtship. julia felt that he was the bearer of a message. but mrs. anderson was in one of her most exacting humors, and it gave her not a little pleasure to keep cynthy ann, on one pretext and another, all the evening at her side. had cynthy ann been less submissive and scrupulous, she might have broken away from this restraint, but in truth she was censuring herself for having any backsliding, rebellious wish to talk with jonas after she had imagined the idol cast out of her heart entirely. her conscience was a tank-master not less grievous than mrs. anderson, and, between the two, jonas had to go away without leaving his message. and julia had to keep her breaking heart in suspense a while longer. why did she not elope long ago and get rid of her mother? because she was julia, and being julia, conscientious, true, and filial in spite of her unhappy life, her own character built a wall against such a disobedience. nearly all limitations are inside. you could do almost anything if you could give yourself up to it. to go in the teeth of one's family is the one thing that a person of julia's character and habits finds next to impossible. a beneficent limitation of nature; for the cases in which the judgment of a girl of eighteen is better than that of her parents are very few. besides, the inevitable "heart-disease" was a specter that guarded the gates of julia's prison. night after night she sat looking out over the hills sleeping in hazy darkness, toward the hollow in which stood the castle; night after night she had half-formed the purpose of visiting august, and then the life-long habit of obedience and a certain sense of delicacy held her back. but on this night, after the consultation, she felt that she would see him if her seeing him brought down the heavens. it was a very dark night. she sat waiting for hours--very long hours they seemed to her--and then, at midnight, she began to get ready to start. only those who have taken such a step can understand the pain of deciding, the agony of misgivings in the execution, the trembling that julia felt when she turned the brass knob on the front door and lifted the latch--lifted the latch slowly and cautiously, for it was near the door of her mother's room--and then crept out like a guilty thing into the dark dampness of the night, groping her way to the gate, and stumbling along down the road. it had been raining, and there was not one star-twinkle in the sky; the only light was that of glow-worms illuminating here and there two or three blades of grass by feeble shining. now and then a fire-fly made a spot of light in the blackness, only to leave a deeper spot of blackness when he shut off his intermittent ray. and when at last julia found herself at the place where the path entered the woods, the blackness ahead seemed still more frightful. she had to grope, recognizing every deviation from the well-beaten path by the rustle of the dead leaves which lay, even in summer, half a foot deep upon the ground. the "fox-fire," rotting logs glowing with a faint luminosity, startled her several times, and the hooting-owl's shuddering bass--hoo! hoo! hoo-oo-ah-h! (like the awful keys of the organ which "touch the spinal cord of the universe")--sent all her blood to her heart. under ordinary circumstances, she surely would not have started at the rustling made by the timid hare in the thicket near by. there was no reason why she should shiver so when a misstep caused her to scratch her face with the thorny twigs of a wild plum-tree. but the effort necessary to the undertaking and the agony of the long waiting had exhausted her nervous force, and she had none left for fortitude. so that when she arrived at andrew's fence and felt her way along to the gate, and heard the hoarse, thunderous baying of his great st. bernard dog, she was ready to faint. but a true instinct makes such a dog gallant. it is a vile cur that will harm a lady. julia walked trembling up to the front-door of the castle, growled at by the huge black beast, and when the philosopher admitted her, some time after she had knocked, she sank down fainting into a chair. chapter xxxiii. the secret stairway. "god bless you!" said andrew as he handed her a gourd of water to revive her. "you are as faithful as hero. you are another heloise. you are as brave as the maid of orleans. i will never say that women are unfaithful again. god bless you, my daughter! you have given me faith in your sex. i have been a lonely man; a boughless, leafless trunk, shaken by the winter winds. but _you_ are my niece. _you_ know how to be faithful. i am proud of you! henceforth i call you my daughter. if you _were_ my daughter, you would be to me all that margaret roper was to sir thomas more." and the shaggy man of egotistic and pedantic speech, but of womanly sensibilities, was weeping. the reviving julia begged to know how august was. "ah, constant heart! and he is constant as you are. noble fellow! i will not deceive you. the doctors think that he will not live more than twenty-four hours. but he is only dying to see you, now. your coming may revive him. we sent for you this morning by jonas, hoping you might escape and come in some way. but jonas could not get his message to you. some angel must have brought you. it is an augury of good." the hopefulness of andrew sprang out of his faith in an ideal, right outcome. julia could not conceal from herself the fact that his opinion had no ground. but in such a strait as hers, she could not help clinging even to this support. andrew was a little perplexed. how to take julia up-stairs? mrs. wehle and wilhelmina and the doctor went in regularly, not by the rope-ladder, but by a more secure wooden one which he had planted against the outside of the house. but andrew had suddenly conceived so exalted an opinion of his niece's virtues that he was unwilling to lead her into the upper story in that fashion. his imagination had invested her with all the glories of all the heroines, from penelope to beatrice, and from beatrice to scott's rebecca. at last a sudden impulse seized him. "my dear daughter, they say that genius is to madness close allied. when i built this house i was in a state bordering on insanity, i suppose. i pleased my whims--my whims were my only company--i pleased my whims in building an american castle. these whims begin to seem childish to me now. i put in a secret stairway. no human foot but my own has ever trodden it. august, whom i love more than any other, and who is one of the few admitted to my library, has always ascended by the rope-ladder. but you are my niece; i would you were my daughter. i will signalize my reverence for you by showing up the stairway the woman who knows how to love and be faithful, the feet that would be worthy of golden steps if i had them. come." spite of her grief and anxiety, julia was impressed and oppressed with the reverence shown her by her uncle. she had a veneration almost superstitious for the philosopher's learning. she was not accustomed to even respectful treatment, and to be worshiped in this awful way by such a man was something almost as painful as it was pleasant. the entrance to the stairway, if that could be called a stairway which was as difficult of ascent as a ladder, was through a closet by the side of the donjon chimney, and the logs had been so arranged without and within that the space occupied by the narrow and zigzag stairs was not apparent. up these stairs he took julia, leaving her in a closet above. as this closet was situated alongside the chimney, it opened, of course, into the small corner room which i have before described, and in which august was now lying. andrew descended the stairs and entered the upper story again by the outside ladder. he thought best to prepare august for the coming of julia, lest joy should destroy a life that was so far wasted. chapter xxxiv. the interview. we left august on that summer day on the levee at louisville without employment. he was not exactly disheartened, but he was homesick. that he was forbidden to go back by threats of prosecution for his burglarious manner of entering samuel anderson's house was reason enough for wanting to go; that his father's family were not yet free from danger was a stronger reason; but strongest of all, though he blushed to own it to himself, was the longing to be where he might perchance sometimes see the face he had seen that spring morning in the bottom of a sun-bonnet. right manfully did he fight against his discouragement and his homesickness, and his longing to see julia. it was better to stay where he was. it was better not to go back beaten. if he surrendered so easily, he would never put himself into a situation where he could claim julia with self-respect. he would stay and make his way in the world somehow. but making his way in the world did not seem half so easy now us it had on that other morning in march when he stood in the barn talking to julia. making your fortune always seems so easy until you've tried it. it seems rather easy in a novel, and still easier in a biography. but no samuel smiles ever writes the history of those who fail; the vessels that never came back from their venturous voyages left us no log-books. many have written the history of success. what melancholy plutarch shall arise to record, with a pen dipped in wormwood, the history of failure? no! he would not go back defeated. august said this over bravely, but a little too often, and with a less resolute tone at each repetition. he contemned himself for his weakness, and tried, but tried in vain, to form other plans. had he known how much one's physical state has to do with one's force of character, he might have guessed that he did not deserve the blame he meted out to himself. he might have remembered what shakespeare's portia says to brutus, that "humour hath his hour with every man." but with a dull and unaccountable aching in his head and back he compromised with himself. he would go to the castle and pass a day or two. then he would return and fight it out. so he got on the packet isaac shelby, and was soon shaking with a chill that showed how thoroughly malaria had pervaded his system. his very bones seemed frozen. but if you ever shook with such a chill, or rather if you were ever shaken by such a chill, taking hold of you like a demoniacal possession; if you ever felt your brain congealing, your icy bones breaking, your frosty heart becoming paralyzed, with a cold no fire could reach, you know what it is; and if you have not felt it, no words of mine can make you understand the sensations. after the chill came the period when august felt himself between two parts of milton's hell, between a sea of ice and a sea of fire; sometimes the hot wave scorched him, then it retired again before the icy one. at last it was all hot, and the boiling blood scalded his palms and steamed to his brain, bewildering his thoughts and almost blinding his eyes. he had determined when he started to get off at a wood-yard three miles below andrew's castle, to avoid observation and the chance of arrest; and now in his delirium the purpose as he had planned it remained fixed. he got up at two o'clock, crazed with fever, dressed himself, and went out into the rainy night. he went ashore in the mud and bushes, and, guided more by instinct than by any conscious thought, he started up the wagon-track along the river bank. his furious fever drove him on, talking to himself, and splashing recklessly into the pools of rain-water standing in the road. he never remembered his debarkation. he must have fallen once or twice, for he was covered with mud when he rang the alarm at the castle. in answer to andrew's "who's there?" he answered, "you'll have to send a harder rain than that if you want to put this fire out!" and so, what with the original disease, the mental discouragement, and the exposure to the rain, the fever had well-nigh consumed the life, and now that the waves of the hot sea after days of fire and nights of delirium had gone back, there was hardly any life left in the body, and the doctors said there was no hope. one consuming desire remained. he wanted to see julia once before he went away; and that one desire it seemed impossible to gratify. when he learned of the failure of jonas to get any message to julia through cynthy, he had felt the keenest disappointment, and had evidently been sinking since the hope that kept him up had been taken away. the mother sat by his bed, gottlieb sat stupefied at the foot, with jonas by his side, and wilhelmina was crying in a still fashion in one corner of the room. august lay breathing feebly, and with his life evidently ebbing. "august!" said andrew, as he stood over his bed, having come to announce the arrival of julia. "august!" andrew tried to speak quietly, but there was a something of hope in the inflection, a tremor of eagerness in the utterance, that made the mother look up quickly and inquiringly. august opened his eyes slowly and looked into the face of the philosopher. then he slowly closed his eyes again, and a something, not a smile--he was too weak for that--but a look of infinite content, spread over his wan face. "i know," he whisperd. "know what?" asked andrew, leaning down to catch his words. "julia." and a single tear crept out from under the closed lid. the tender mother wiped it away. after resting a moment, august looked up at andrew's face inquiringly. "she is coming," said the philosopher. august smiled very faintly, but andrew was sure he smiled, and again leaned down his ear. "she is here," whispered august; "i heard charon bark, and i--saw--your--face." andrew now stepped to the closet-door and opened it, and julia came out. "blamed ef he a'n't a witch!" whispered jonas. "cunjures a angel out of his cupboard!" julia did not see anybody or anything but the white and wasted face upon the pillow. the eyes were now closed again, and she quickly crossed the floor, and--not without a faint maidenly blush--stooped and kissed the parched lips, from which the life seemed already to have fled. and august with difficulty disengaged his wasted hand from the cover, and laid his nerveless fingers--alas! like a skeleton's now--in the warm hand of julia, and said--she leaned down to listen, an he whispered feebly through his dry lips out of a full heart--"thank god!" and the philosopher, catching the words, said audibly, "amen!" and the mother only wept. chapter xxxv. getting ready for the end. how julia spent two hours of blessed sadness at the castle; how august slept peacefully for five minutes at a time with his hand in hers, and then awoke and looked at her, and then slumbered again; how she moistened his parched lips for him, and gave him wine; how at last she had to bid him a painful farewell; how the mother gave her a benediction in german and a kiss; how wilhelmina clung to her with tears; how jonas called her a turtle-dove angel; how brother hall, the preacher who had been sent for at the mother's request, to converse with the dying man, spoke a few consoling words to her; how gottlieb confided to jonas his intention never to "sprach nodin 'pout yangee kirls no more;" and how at last uncle andrew walked home with her, i have not time to tell. when the philosopher bade her adieu, he called her names which she did not understand. but she turned back to him, and after a minute's hesitation, spoke huskily. "uncle andrew if he--if he should get worse--i want--" "i know, my daughter; you want him to die your husband?" "yes, if he wishes it. send for me day or night, and i'll come in spite of everybody." "god bless you, my daughter!" said andrew. and he watched until she got safely into the house without discovery, and then he went back satisfied and proud. of course august died, and julia devoted herself to philanthropic labors. it is the fashion now for novels to end thus sadly, and you would not have me be out of the fashion. but august did not die. joy is a better stimulant than wine. love is the best tonic in the pharmacopeia. and from the hour in which august wehle looked into the eyes of julia, the tide of life set back again. not perceptibly at first. for two days he was neither better nor worse. but this was a gain. then slowly he came back to life. but at andrew's instance he kept indoors while humphreys staid. humphreys, on his part, like ananias, pretended to have disposed of all his property, paid his debts, reserved enough to live on until the approaching day of doom, and given the rest to the poor of the household of faith, and there were several others who were sincere enough to do what he only pretended. among the leading adventists was "dr." ketchup, who still dealt out corn-sweats and ginseng-tea, but who refused to sell his property. he excused himself by quoting the injunction, "occupy till i come." but others sold their estates for trifles, and gave themselves up to proclaiming the millennium. mrs. abigail anderson was a woman who did nothing by halves. she was vixenish, she was selfish, she was dishonest and grasping; but she was religious. if any man think this paradox impossible, he has observed character superficially. there are criminals in state's-prison who have been very devout all their lives. religious questions took hold of mrs. anderson's whole nature. she was superstitious, narrow, and intense. she was as sure that the day of judgment would be proclaimed on the eleventh of august, , as she was of her life. no consideration in opposition to any belief of hers weighed a feather with her. her will mastered her judgment and conscience. and so she determined that samuel must sell his property for a trifle. how far she was influenced in this by a sincere desire to square all outstanding debts before the final settlement, how far by a longing to be considered the foremost and most pious of all, and how far by business shrewdness based on that feeling which still lurks in the most protestant people, that such sacrifices do improve their state in a future world, i can not tell. doubtless fanaticism, hypocrisy, and a self-interest that looked sordidly even at heaven, mingled in bringing about the decision. at any rate, the property was to be sold for a few hundred dollars. getting wind of this decision, andrew promptly appeared at his brother's house and offered to buy it. but mrs. abigail couldn't think of it. andrew had always been her enemy, and though she forgave him, she would not on any account sell him an inch of the land. it would not be right. he had claimed that part of it belonged to him, and to let him have it would be to admit his claim. "andrew," she said, "you do not believe in the millennium, and people say that you are a skeptic. you want to cheat us out of what you think a valuable piece of property. and you'll find yourself at the last judgment with the weight of this sin on your heart. you will, indeed!" "how clearly you reason about other people's duty!" said the philosopher. "if you had seen your own duty half so clearly, some of us would have been better off, and your account would have been straighter." here mrs. anderson grew very angry, and vented her spleen in a solemn exhortation to andrew to get ready for the coming of the master, not three weeks off at the farthest, and she warned him that the archangel might blow his trumpet at any moment. then where would he be? she asked in exultation. human meanness is never so pitiful as when it tries to seize on god's judgments as weapons with which to gratify its own spites. i trust this remark will not be considered as applying only to mrs. anderson. but mrs. anderson fired off all the heavenly small-shot she could find in the teeth and eyes of andrew, and then, to prevent a rejoinder, she told him it was time for her to go to secret prayer, and she only stopped upon the threshold to send back one parthian arrow in the shape of a warning to "watch and be ready." i wonder if a certain class of religious people have ever thought how much their exclusiveness and pharisaism have to do with the unhappy fruitlessness of all their appeals! had mrs. anderson been as blameless as an angel, such exhortations would have driven a weaker than andrew to hate the name of religion. but i must not moralize, for mr. humphreys has already divulged his plan of disposing of the property. he has a friend, one thomas a. parkins, who has money, and who will buy the farm at two hundred dollars. he could procure the money in advance any day by going to the village of bethany, the county-seat, and drawing on mr. parkins, and cashing the draft. it was a matter of indifference to him, he said, only that he would like to oblige so good a friend. this arrangement, by which the anderson farm was to be sold for a song to some distant stranger, pleased mrs. abigail. she could not bear that one of her unbelieving neighbors should even for a fortnight rejoice in a supposed good bargain at her expense. to sell to mr. humphreys's friend in louisville was just the thing. when pressed by some of her neighbors who had not received the adventist gospel, to tell on what principle she could justify her sale of the farm at all, she answered that if the farm would not be of any account after the end of the world, neither would the money. mr. humphreys went down to the town of bethany and came back, affecting to have cashed a draft on his friend for two hundred dollars. the deeds were drawn, and a justice of the peace was to come the next morning and take the acknowledgment of mr. and mrs. anderson. this was what jonas learned as he sat in the kitchen talking to cynthy ann. he had come to bring some message from the convalescent august, and had been detained by the attraction of adhesion. "i told you it was fox-and-geese. didn't i? and so thomas a. parkins _is_ his name. gus wehle said he'd bet the two was one. well, i must drive this varmint off afore he gits his chickens." chapter xxxvi. the sin of sanctimony. just at this point arrived mr. hall, whom i have before described as the good but callow methodist preacher on the circuit. some people think that a minister of the gospel should be exempt from criticism, ridicule, and military duty. but the manly minister takes his lot with the rest. nothing could be more pernicious than making the foibles of a minister sacred. doubtless mr. hall has long since come to laugh at his own early follies, his official sanctimoniousness, and all that; and why should not i, who have been a callow circuit-preacher myself in my day, laugh at my brother hall, for the good of his kind? he had come to visit sister cynthy ann, whose name had long stood on the class-book at harden's cross-roads as a good and acceptable member of the church in full connection. he was visiting formally and officially each family in which there was a member. had he visited informally and unofficially, and like a man instead of like a minister, he would have done more good. but he came to samuel anderson's, and informed mrs. anderson that he was visiting his members, and that as one of her household was a member, he would like to have a little religious conversation and prayer with the family. would she please gather them together? so julia was called down-stairs, and jonas was invited in from the kitchen. the sight of him distressed brother hall. for was not this new light sent here by satan to lead astray one of his flock? but, at least, he would labor faithfully with him. he began with mr. samuel anderson. but that worthy, after looking at his wife in vain for a cue, darted off about the trumpets of the apocalypse. "mr. anderson, as head of this family, your responsibility is very great. do you feel the full assurance, my brother?" asked mr. hall. "yes," said mr. anderson, "i am standing with my lamp trimmed and ready. i am listening for the midnight shout. to-night the trumpet may sound. i am afraid you don't do your duty, or you would lift up your voice. the tune and times and a half are almost out." mr. hall was a little dashed at this. a man whose religious conversation is of a set and conventional type, is always shocked and jostled when he is thrown from the track. and he himself, like everybody else, had felt the adventist infection, and did not want to commit himself. so he turned to mrs. anderson. she answered like a seraph every question put to her--the conventional questions never pierce the armor of a hypocrite or startle the conscience of a self-deceiver. mr. hall congratulated her in his most official tone (a compound of authority, awfulness, and sanctity) on her deep experience of the things that made for her everlasting peace. he told her that people of her high attainments must beware of spiritual pride. and mrs. anderson took the warning with beautiful meekness, sinking into forty fathoms of undisguised and rather ostentatious humility, heaving solemn sighs in token of self-reproach--a self-reproach that did not penetrate the cuticle. [illustration: a pastoral visit.] "and you, sister cynthy ann," he said, fighting shy of jonas for the present, "i trust you are trying to let your light shine. do you feel that you are pressing on?" poor cynthy ann sank into a despondency deeper than usual. she was afeard not. seemed like as ef her heart was cold and dead to god. seemed like as ef she couldn't no ways gin up the world. it weighed her down like a rock, and many was the fight she had with the enemy. no, she wuzn't getting on. "my dear sister," said mr. hall, "let me warn you. here is mrs. anderson, who has given up the world entirely. i hope you'll follow so good an example. do not be led astray by worldly affections; they are sure to entrap you. i am afraid you have not maintained your steadfastness as you should." here mr. hall's eye wandered doubtfully to jonas, of whom he felt a little afraid. jonas, on his part, had no reason to like mr. hall for his advice in cynthy's love affair, and now the minister's praises of mrs. anderson and condemnation of cynthy ann had not put him in any mood to listen to exhortation. "well, mr. harrison," said the young minister solemnly, approaching jonas much as a dog does a hedgehog, "how do you feel to-day?" "middlin' peart, i thank you; how's yourself?" this upset the good man not a little, and convinced him that jonas was in a state of extreme wickedness. "are you a christian?" "wal, i 'low i am. how about yourself, mr. hall?" "i believe you are a new light. now, do you believe in the lord jesus christ?" asked the minister in an annihilating tone. "yes, i do, my aged friend, a heap sight more'n i do in some of them that purtends to hev a paytent right on all his blessins, and that put on solemn airs and call other denominations hard names. my friend, i don't believe in no religion that's made up of sighs and groans and high temper" (with a glance at mrs. anderson), "and that thinks a good deal more of its bein' sound in doctrine than of the danger of bein' rotten in life. they's lots o' bad eggs got slick and shiny shells!" mr. hall happened to think just here of the injunction against throwing pearls before swine, and so turned to humphreys, who made his heart glad by witnessing a good confession, in soft and unctuous tones, and couched in the regulation phrases which have worn smooth in long use. julia had slunk away in a corner. but now he appealed to her also. "blest with a praying mother, you, miss anderson, ought to repent of your sins and flee from the wrath to come. you know the right way. you have been pointed to it by the life of your parents from childhood. reared in the bosom of a christian household, let me entreat you to seek salvation immediately." i do not like to repeat this talk here. but it is an unfortunate fact that goodness and self-sacrificing piety do not always go with practical wisdom. the novelist, like the historian, must set down things as he finds them. a man who talks in consecrated phrases is yet in the poll-parrot state of mental development. "do you feel a desire to flee from the wrath to come?" he asked. julia gave some sort of inaudible assent. "my dear young sister, you have great reason to be thankful--very great reason for gratitude to almighty god." (like many other pious young men, mr. hall said _gawd_.) "i met you the other night at your uncle's. the young man whose life we then despaired of has recovered." and with more of this, mr. hall told julia's secret, while mrs. anderson, between her anger and her rapt condition of mind, seemed to be petrifying. i trust the reader does not expect me to describe the feelings of julia while mr. hall read a chapter and prayed. nor the emotions of mrs. anderson. i think if mr. hall could have heard her grind her teeth while he in his prayer gave thanks for the recovery of august, he would not have thought so highly of her piety. but she managed to control her emotions until the minister was fairly out of the house. in bidding good-by, mr. hall saw how pale and tremulous julia was, and with his characteristic lack of sagacity, he took her emotion to be a sign of religious feelings and told her he was pleased to see that she was awakened to a sense of her condition. and then he left. and then came the deluge. chapter xxxvii. the deluge. the indescribable deluge! but, after all, the worst of anything of that sort is the moment before it begins. a plunge-bath, a tooth-pulling, an amputation, and a dress-party are all worse in anticipation than in the moment of infliction. julia, as she stood busily sticking a pin in the window-sash, waiting for her mother to begin, wished that the storm might burst, and be done with it. but mrs. anderson understood her business too well for that. she knew the value of the awful moments of silence before beginning. she had not practiced all her life without learning the fine art of torture in its exquisite details. i doubt not the black-robed fathers of the holy office were leisurely gentlemen, giving their victims plenty of time for anticipatory meditation, laying out their utensils quietly, inspecting the thumb-screw affectionately to make sure that it would work smoothly, discussing the rack and wheel with much tender forethought, as though torture were a sweet thing, to be reserved like a little girl's candy lamb, and only resorted to when the appetite has been duly whetted by contemplation. i never had the pleasure of knowing an inquisitor, and i can not certify that they were of this deliberate fashion. but it "stands to nature" that they were. for the vixens who are vixens of the highest quality, are always deliberate. mrs. anderson felt that the piece of invective which she was about to undertake, was not to be taken in hand unadvisedly, "but reverently, discreetly, and in the fear of god." and so she paused, and julia fumbled the tassel of the window-curtain, and trembled with the chill of expectation. and mrs. abigail continued to debate how she might make this, which would doubtless be her last outburst before the day of judgment, her masterpiece--worthy song of the dying swan. and then she hoped, she sincerely hoped, to be able by this awful _coup de main_ to awaken julia to a sense of her sinfulness. for there was such a jumble of mixed motives in her mind, that one could never distinguish her sincerity from her hypocrisy. mrs. anderson's conscience was quite an objective one. as jonas often remarked, "she had a feelin' sense of other folkses unworthiness." and the sins which she appreciated were generally sins against herself. julia's disobedience to herself was darker in her mind than murder committed on anybody else would have been. and now she sat deliberating, not on the limit of the verbal punishment she meant to inflict--that gave her no concern--but on her ability to do the matter justice. even as a tyrannical backwoods school-master straightens his long beech-rod relishfully before applying it. not that mrs. anderson was silent all this time. she was sighing and groaning in a spasmodic devotion. she was "seeking strength from above to do her whole duty," she would have told you. she was "agonizing" in prayer for her daughter, and she contrived that her stage-whisper praying should now and then reach the ears of its devoted object. humphreys remained seated, pretending to read the copy of "josephus," but watching the coming storm with the interest of a connoisseur. and while he remained jonas determined to stay, to keep julia in countenance, and he beckoned to cynthy to stay also. and samuel anderson, who loved his daughter and feared his wife, fled like a coward from the coming scene. everybody expected mrs. anderson to break out like a fury. but she knew a better plan than that. she felt a new device come like an inspiration. and perhaps it was. it really seemed to jonas that the devil helped her. for instead of breaking out into commonplace scolding, the resources of which she had long since exhausted, she dropped upon her knees, and began to pray for julia. no swearer ever curses like the priest who veils his personal spites in official and pious denunciations, and mrs. anderson had never dealt out abuse so roundly and terribly and crushingly, as she did under the guise of praying for the salvation of julia's soul from well-deserved perdition. but abigail did not say perdition. she left that to weak spirits. she thought it a virtue to say "hell" with unction and emphasis, by way of alarming the consciences of sinners. mrs. anderson's prayer is not reportable. that sort of profanity is too bad to write. she capped her climax--even as i have heard a revivalist pray for a scoffer that had vexed his righteous soul--by asking god to convert her daughter, or if she could not be converted to take her away, that she might not heap up wrath against the day of wrath. for that sort of religious excitement which does not quiet the evil passions, seems to inflame them, and mrs. anderson was not in any right sense sane. and the prayer was addressed more to the frightened julia than to god. she would have been terribly afflicted had her petition been granted. julia would have run away from the admonition which followed the prayer, had it not been that mrs. anderson adroitly put it under cover of a religious exhortation. she besought julia to repent, and then, affecting to show her her sinfulness, she proceeded to abuse her. had julia no temper? yes, she had doubtless a spice of her mother's anger without her meanness. she would have resisted, but that from childhood she had felt paralyzed by the utter uselessness of all resistance. the bravest of the villagers at the foot of vesuvius never dreamed of stopping the crater's mouth. but, happily, at last mrs. anderson's insane wrath went a little too far. "you poor lost sinner," she said, "to think you should go to destruction under my very eyes, disgracing us all, by running over the country at night with bad men! but there's mercy even for such as you." julia would not have understood the full meaning of this aspersion of her purity, had she not caught humphreys's eye. his expression, half sneer, half leer, seemed to give her mother's saying its full interpretation. she put out her hand. she turned white, and said: "say one word more, and i will go away from you and never come back! never!" and then she sat down and cried, and then mrs. anderson's maternal love, her "unloving love," revived. to have her daughter leave her, too, would be a sort of defeat. she hushed, and sat down in her splint-bottomed rocking-chair, which snapped when she rocked, and which seemed to speak for her after she had shut her mouth. her face settled into a martyr-like appeal to heaven in proof of the justice of her cause. and then she fell back on her forlorn hope. she wept hysterically, in sincere self-pity, to think that an affectionate mother should have such a daughter! julia, finding that her mother had desisted, went to her room. she did not exactly pray, but she talked to herself as she paced the floor. it was a monologue, and yet there was a conscious appeal to an invisible presence, who could not misjudge her, and so she passed from talking to herself to talking to god, and that without any of the formality of prayer. her mother had made god seem to be against her. now she, like david, protested her innocence to god. she recited half to herself, and yet also to god--for is not every appeal to one's conscience in some sense an appeal to god?--she recited all the struggles of that night when she went to august at the castle. people talk of the consolation there is in god's mercy. but julia found comfort in god's justice. he _could_ not judge her wrongly. then she opened the testament at the old place, and read the words long since fixed in her memory. and then she--weary and heavy laden--came again to him who invites, and found rest. and then she found, as many another has found, that coming to god is not, as theorists will have it, a coming once for a lifetime, but a coming oft and ever repeated. jonas and cynthy ann retired to the kitchen, and the former said hi his irreverent way, "blamed ef abigail ha'nt got more devils into her'n mary magdalene had the purtiest day she ever seed! i should think, arter a life with her fer a mother, the bad place would be a healthy and delightful clime. the devil a'n't a patchin' to her." "don't, jonas; you talk so cur'us, like as ef you was kinder sorter wicked." "that's jest what i am, my dear, but abigail anderson's wicked without the kinder sorter. she cusses when she's a-prayin'. she cusses that poar gal right in the lord's face. good by, i must go. smells so all-fired like brimstone about here." this last was spoken in an undertone of indignant soliloquy, as he crossed the threshold of cynthy's clean kitchen. chapter xxxviii. scaring a hawk. jonas was thoroughly alarmed. he exaggerated the harm that humphreys might do to august, now that he knew where he was. august, on his part, felt sure that humphreys would not do anything against him; certainly not in the way of legal proceedings. and as for the sale of samuel anderson's farms, that did not disturb him. like almost everybody else at that time, august wehle was strongly impressed by the assertions of the millerites, and if the world should be finished in the next month, the farms were of no consequence. and if millerism proved a delusion, the loss of samuel anderson's property would only leave julia on his level, so far as worldly goods went. the happiness this last thought brought him made him ashamed. why should he rejoice in mr. anderson's misfortune? why should he wish to pull julia down to him? but still the thought remained a pleasant one. jonas would not have it so. he had his plan. he went home from the adventist meeting that very night with cynthy ann, and then stood talking to her at the corner of the porch, feeling very sure that humphreys would listen from above. he heard his stealthy tread, after a while, disturb a loose board on the upper porch. then he began to talk to cynthy ann in this strain: "you see, i can't tell no secrets, cynthy ann, even to your royal goodness, as i might say, seein' as how as you a'n't my wife, and a'n't likely to be, if brother goshorn can have his way. but you're the queen of hearts, anyhow. but s'pose i was to hint a secret?" "sh--sh--h-h-h!" said cynthy ann, partly because she felt a sinful pleasure in the flattery, and partly because she felt sure that humphreys was above. but jonas paid no attention to the caution. "i'll give you a hint as strong as a irishman's, which they do say'll knock you down. let's s'pose a case. they a'n't no harm in s'posin' a case, you know. i've knowed boys who'd throw a rock at a fence-rail and hit a stump, and then say, 's'posin' they was a woodpecker on that air stump, wouldn't i a keeled him over?' you can s'pose a case and make a woodpecker wherever you want to. well, s'posin' they was a inquisition or somethin' of the kind from the guv'nor of the state of ole kaintuck to the guv'nor of the state of injeanny? and s'posin' that the dokyment got lodged in this 'ere identical county? and s'posin' it called fer the body of one thomas a. parkins, a_li_as j.w. 'umphreys? and s'posin' it speecified as to sartain and sundry crimes committed in paduky and all along the shore, fer all i know? now, s'posin' all of them air things, what _would_ clark township do to console itself when that toonful v'ice and them air blazin' watch-seals had set in ignominy for ever and ever? selah! good-night, and don't you breathe a word to a livin' soul, nur a dead one, 'bout what i been a-sayin'. you'll know more by daylight to-morry 'n you know now." and the last part of the speech was true, for by midnight the hawk had fled. and the sale of the anderson farm to humphreys was never completed. for three days the end of the world was forgotten in the interest which clark township felt in the flight of its favorite. and by degrees the story of norman's encounter with the gamblers and of august's recovery of the money became spread abroad through the confidential hints of jonas. and by degrees another story became known; it could not long be concealed. it was the story of betsey malcolm, who averred that she had been privately married to humphreys on the occasion of a certain trip they had made to kentucky together, to attend a "big meeting." the story was probably true, but uncharitable gossips shook their heads. it was only a few evenings after the flight of humphreys that jonas had another talk with cynthy ann, in which he confessed that all his supposed case about a requisition from the governor of kentucky for humphreys's arrest was pure fiction. "but, jonas, is--is that air right? i'm afeard it a'n't right to tell an ontruth." "so 'ta'n't; but i only s'posed a case, you know." "but brother hall said last sunday two weeks, that anything that gin a false impression was--was lying. now, i don't think you meant it, but then i thought i orto speak to you about it." "well, maybe you're right. i see you last summer a-puttin' up a skeercrow to keep the poor, hungry little birds of the air from gittin' the peas that they needed to sustain life. an' i said, what a pity that the best woman i ever seed should tell lies to the poor little birds that can't defend theirselves from her wicked wiles! but i see that same day a skeercrow, a mean, holler, high-percritical purtense of a ole hat and coat, a-hanging in brother goshorn's garden down to the cross-roads. an' i wondered ef it was your methodis' trainin' that taught you sech-like cheatin' of the little sparrys and blackbirds." "yes; but jonas--" said cynthy, bewildered. "and i see a few days arterwards a englishman with a humbug-fly onto his line, a foolin' the poor, simple-hearted little fishes into swallerln' a book that hadn't nary sign of a ginowine bait onto it. an' i says, says i, what a deceitful thing the human heart is!" "why, jonas, you'd make a preacher!" said cynthy ann, touched with the fervor of his utterance, and inly resolved never to set up another scarecrow. "not much, my dear. but then, you see, i make distinctions. ef i was to see a wolf a-goin' to eat a lamb, what would i do? why, i'd skeer or fool him with the very fust thing i could find. wouldn' you, honey?" "in course," said cynthy ann. "and so, when i seed a wolf or a tiger or a painter, like that air 'umphreys, about to gobble up fortins, and to do some harm to gus, maybe, i jest rigged up a skeercrow of words, like a ole hat and coat stuck onto a stick, and run him off. any harm done, my dear?" "well, no, jonas; i ruther 'low not." whether jonas's defense was good or not, i can not say, for i do not know. but he is entitled to the benefit of it. chapter xxxix. jonas takes an appeal jonas had waited for the coming of the quarterly meeting to carry his appeal to the presiding elder. the quarterly meeting for the circuit was held at the village of brayvllle, and beds were made upon the floor for the guests who crowded the town. every visiting methodist had a right to entertainment, and every resident methodist opened his doors very wide, for western people are hospitable in a fashion and with a bountifulness unknown on the eastern side of the mountains. who that has not known it, can ever understand the delightfulness of a quarterly meeting? the meeting of old friends--the social life--is all but heavenly. and then the singing of the old methodist hymns, such as "oh! that will be joyful! joyful! joyful! oh! that will be joyful, to meet to part no more." and that other solemnly-sweet refrain: "the reaping-time will surely come, and angels shout the harvest home!" and who shall describe the joy of a christian mother, when her scapegrace son "laid down the arms of his rebellion" and was "soundly converted"? let those sneer who will, but such moral miracles as are wrought in methodist revivals are more wonderful than any healing of the blind or raising of the dead could be. jonas turned up, faithful to his promise, and called on the "elder" at the place where he was staying, and asked for a private interview. he found the old gentleman exercising his sweet voice in singing, "come, let us anew our journey pursue, roll round with the year. and never stand still till the master appear. his adorable will let us gladly fulfill, and our talents improve by the patience of hope and the labor of love." "when he concluded the verse he raised his half-closed eyes and saw jonas standing in the door. "mr. persidin' elder," said jonas, trying in vain to speak with some seriousness and veneration, "i come to ax your consent to marry one of your flock--the best lamb you've got in the whole fold." "bless you, mr. harrison," said father williams, the old elder, laughing, "bless you, i haven't any right to consent or forbid. ask the lady herself!" "ax the lady!" said jonas. "didn't i though! and didn't mr. goshorn forbid the lady to marry me, under the pains and penalties pervided; and didn't mr. hall set his seal to the forbiddin' of goshorn! an' i says to her, 'i won't take nothin' less than a elder or a bishop on this 'ere vital question.' when i want a sheep, i don't go to the underlin,' but to the boss; and so i brought this appeal up to you on a writ of _habeas corpus_, or whatever you may call it." the presiding elder laughed again, and looked closely at jonas. then he stepped to the door and called in the circuit preacher, mr. hall, and the class leader, mr. goshorn, both of whom happened to be in the next room engaged in an excited discussion with a brother who was a little touched with millerism. "what's this mr. harrison tells me about your forbidding the banns in his case?" "he's a new light," said brother hall, showing his abhorrence in his face, "and it seemed to me that for a methodist to marry a new light was a sin--a being yoked together unequally with an unbeliever. you know, father williams, that new lights are arians." the old man seemed more amused than ever. turning to jonas, he asked him if he was an arian. "not as i knows on, my venerable friend. i may have caught the disease when i had the measles, or i may have been a arian in infancy, or i may be a arian on my mother's side, you know; but as i don't know who or what it may be, i a'n't in no way accountable fer it--no more'n brother goshorn is to blame fer his face bein' so humbly. but i take it arian is one of them air pleasant names you and the new light preachers uses in your christian intercourse together to make one another mad. i'm one of them as goes to heaven straight--never stoppin' to throw no donicks at the methodists, presbyterians, nor no other misguided children of men. they may ride in the packet, or go by flat-boat or keel-boat, ef they chooses. i go by the swift-sailin' and palatial mail-boat new light, and i don't run no opposition line, nor bust my bilers tryin' to beat my neighbors into the heavenly port." brother goshorn looked vexed. brother hall was scandalized at the lightness of jonas's conversation. but the old presiding elder, with keen common-sense and an equally keen sense of the ludicrous, could not look grave with all his effort to keep from laughing. [illustration: brother goshorn.] "are you an unbeliever?" he asked. "i don't know what you call onbeliever. i believe in god and christ, and keep sunday and the fourth of july; but i don't believe in all of brother goshorn's nonsense about wearing veils and artificials." "well," said brother hall, "would you endeavor to induce your wife to dress in a manner unbecoming a methodist?" [illustration: "say them words over again."] "i wouldn't fer the world. if i git the article i want, i don't keer what it's tied up in, calico or bombazine." "couldn't you join the methodist church yourself, and keep your wife company?" it was brother goshorn who spoke. "couldn't i? i suppose i could ef i didn't think no more of religion than some other folks. i could jine the methodist church, and have everybody say i jined to git my wife. that may be serving god; but i can't see how. and then how long would you keep me? the very fust time i fired off my blunderbuss in class-meetin', and you heerd the buckshot and the squirrel-shot and the slugs and all sorts of things a-rattlin' around, you'd say i was makin' fun of the gospel. i 'low they a'n't no methodist in me. i was cut out cur'us, you know, and made up crooked." "is there anything against mr. harrison, brother goshorn?" asked the elder. "he's a new light," said mr. goshorn, in a tone that signified his belief that to be a new light was enough. "is he honest and steady?" "never heard anything against him as a moralist." "well, then, it's my opinion that any member of your class would do better to marry a good, faithful, honest new light than to marry a hickory methodist." jonas got up like one demented, and ran out of the door and across the street. in a moment he came back, bringing cynthy ann in triumph. "now, soy them words over again," he said to the presiding elder. "sister cynthy ann," said the presiding elder, "you really love brother harrison?" "i--i don't know whether it's right to set our sinful hearts on the things of this perishin' world. but i think more of him, i'm afeard, than i had ort to. he's got as good a heart as i ever seed. but brother goshorn thought i hadn't orter marry him, seein' he is a onbeliever." "but i a'n't," said jonas; "i believe in the bible, and in everything in it, and in cynthy ann and her good methodist religion besides." "i think you can give up all your scruples and marry mr. harrison, and love him and be happy," said the presiding elder. "don't be afraid to be happy, my sister. you'll be happy in good company in heaven, and you'd just as well get used to it here." "i told you i'd find a man that had salt enough to keep his religion sweet. and, father williams, you've got to marry us, whenever cynthy ann's ready," said jonas with enthusiasm. and for a moment the look of overstrained scrupulosity on cynthy ann's face relaxed and a strange look of happiness came into her eyes. and the time was fixed then and there. brother hall was astonished. and brother goshorn drew down his face, and said that he didn't know what was to become of good, old-fashioned methodism and the rules of the discipline, if the presiding elders talked in that sort of a way. the church was going to the dogs. chapter xl. selling out. the flight of the hawk did not long dampen the ardor of those who were looking for signs in the heaven above and the earth beneath. i have known a school-master to stand, switch in hand, and give a stubborn boy a definite number of minutes to yield. the boy who would not have submitted on account of any amount of punishment, was subdued by the awful waiting. we have all read the old school-book story of the prison-warden who brought a mob of criminals to subjection by the same process. millerism produced some such effect as this. the assured belief of the believers had a great effect on others; the dreadful drawing on of the set time day by day produced an effect in some regions absolutely awful. an eminent divine, at that time a pastor in boston, has told me that the leaven of adventism permeated all religious bodies, and that he himself could not avoid the fearful sense of waiting for some catastrophe--the impression that all this expectation of people must have some significance. if this was the effect in boston, imagine the effect in a country neighborhood like clark township. andrew, skeptical as he was visionary, was almost the only man that escaped the infection. jonas would have been as frankly irreverent if the day of doom had come as he was at all times; but even jonas had come to the conclusion that "somethin' would happen, or else somethin' else." august, with a young man's impressibility, was awe-stricken with thoughts of the nearing end of the world, and julia accepted it as settled. it is a good thing that the invisible world is so thoroughly shut out from this. the effect of too vivid a conception of it is never wholesome. it was pernicious in the middle age, and clairvoyance and spirit-rapping would be great evils to the world, if it were not that the spirits, even of-the ablest men, in losing their bodies seem to lose their wits. it is well that it is so, for if washington irving dictated to a medium accounts of the other world in a style such as that of his "little britain," for instance, we should lose all interest in the affairs of this sphere, and nobody would buy our novels. this fever of excitement kept alive samuel anderson's determination to sell his farms for a trifle as a testimony to unbelievers. he found that fifty dollars would meet his expenses until the eleventh of august, and so the price was set at that. as soon as andrew heard of this, he privately arranged with jonas to buy it; but mrs. anderson utterly refused. she said she could see through it all. jonas was one of andrew's fingers. andrew had got to be a sort of a king in clark township, and jonas was--was the king's fool. she did not mean that any of her property should go into the hands of the clique that were trying to rob her of her property and her daughter. even for two weeks they should not own her house! before this speech was ended, bob walker entered the door. bob was tall, stooped, good-natured, and desperately poor. with ton children under twelve years of age, with an incorrigible fondness for loafing and telling funny stories, bob saw no chance to improve his condition. a man may be either honest or lazy and got rich; but a man who is both honest and indolent is doomed. bob lived in a cabin on the anderson farm, and when not hired by samuel anderson he did days' work here and there, riding to and from his labor on a raw-boned mare, that was the laughing-stock of the county. bob pathetically called her splinter-shin, and he always rode bareback, for the very good reason that he had neither saddle nor sheepskin. [illustration: "i want to buy your place."] "mr. anderson," said bob, standing in the door and trying to straighten the chronic stoop out of his shoulders, "i want to buy your place." if bob had said that he wanted to be elected president samuel anderson could not have been more surprised. "you look astonished; but folks don't know everything. i 'low i know how to lay by a little. but i never could git enough to buy a decent kind of a tater-patch. so i says to my ole woman this mornin', 'jane,' says i, 'let's git some ground. let's buy out mr. anderson, and see how it'll feel to be rich fer a few days. if she all burns up, let her burn, i say. we've had a plaguey hard time of it, let's see how it goes to own two farms fer awhile.' and so we thought we'd ruther hev the farms fer two weeks than a little money in a ole stocking. what d'ye say?" jonas here put in that he didn't see why they mightn't sell to him as well as to bob walker. cynthy ann had worked fer mrs. anderson fer years, and him and cynthy was a-goin' to be one man soon. why not sell to them? "because selling to you is selling to andrew," said mrs. abigail, in a conclusive way. and so bob got the farms, possession to be given after the fourteenth of august, thus giving the day of doom three days of grace. and bob rode round the county boasting that he was as rich a man as there was in clark township. and jonas declared that ef the eend did come in the month of august, abigail would find some onsettled bills agin her fer cheatin' the brother outen the inheritance. and clark township agreed with him. august was secretly pleased that one obstacle to his marriage was gone. if andrew should prove right, and the world should outlast the middle of august, there would be nothing dishonorable in his marrying a girl that would have nothing to sacrifice. andrew, for his part, gave vent to his feelings, as usual, by two or three bitter remarks leveled at the whole human race, though nowadays he was inclined to make exceptions in favor of several people, of whom julia stood first. she was a woman of the old-fashioned kind, he said, fit to go alongside héloise or chaucer's grisilde. chapter xli. the last day and what happened in it. the religious excitement reached its culmination as the tenth and eleventh of august came on. some made ascension-robes. work was suspended everywhere. the more abandoned, unwilling to yield to the panic, showed its effects on them by deeper potations, and by a recklessness of wickedness meant to conceal their fears. with tin horns they blasphemously affected to be angels blowing trumpets. they imitated the millerite meetings in their drunken sprees, and learned mr. hankins's arguments by heart. the sun of the eleventh of august rose gloriously. people pointed to it with trembling, and said that it would rise no more. soon after sunrise there were crimson clouds stretching above and below it, and popular terror seized upon this as a sign. but the sun mounted with a scorching heat, which showed that at least his shining power was not impaired. then men said, "behold the beginning of the fervent heat that is to melt the elements!" night drew on, and every "shooting-star" was a new sign of the end. the meteors, as usual at this time of the year, were plentiful, and the simple-hearted country-folk were convinced that the stars were falling out of the sky. a large bald hill overlooking the ohio was to be the mount of ascension. here gathered elder hankins's flock with that comfortable assurance of being the elect that only a narrow bigotry can give. and here came others of all denominations, consoling themselves that they were just as well off if they were christians as if they had made all this fuss about the millennium. here was august, too, now almost well, joining with the rest in singing those sweet and inspiring adventist hymns. his german heart could not keep still where there was singing, and now, in gratefulness at new-found health, he was more inclined to music than ever. so he joined heartily and sincerely in the song that begins: "shall simon bear his cross alone, and all the world go free? no, there's a cross for every one, and there's a cross for me. i'll bear the consecrated cross till from the cross i'm free, and then go home to wear the crown. for there's a crown for me! yes, there's a crown in heaven above, the purchase of a saviour's love. oh i that's the crown for me!" when the concourse reached the lines, "the saints have heard the midnight cry, go meet him in the air!" neither august nor any one else could well resist the infection of the profound and awful belief in the immediate coming of the end which pervaded the throng. strong men and women wept and shouted with the excitement. then elder hankins exhorted a little. he said that the time was short. but men's hearts were hard. as in the days of the flood, they were marrying and giving in marriage. not half a mile away a wedding was at that time taking place, and a man who called himself a minister could not discern the signs of the times, but was solemnizing a marriage. this allusion was to the marriage of jonas, which was to take place that very evening at the castle. mrs. anderson had refused to have "such wicked nonsense" at her house, and as cynthy had no home, andrew had appointed it at the castle, partly to oblige jonas, partly from habitual opposition to abigail, but chiefly to express his contempt for adventism. mrs. anderson herself was in a state of complete sublimation. she had sent for norman, that she might get him ready for the final judgment, and norman, without the slightest inclination to be genuinely religious, was yet a coward, and made a provisional repentance, not meant to hold good if elder hankins's figures should fail; just such a repentance as many a man has made on what he supposed to be his death-bed. do not i remember a panic-stricken man, converted by typhoid fever and myself, who laughed as soon as he began to eat gruel, to think that he had been "such a fool as to send for the preacher"? now, between mrs. anderson's joy at norman's conversion, and her delight that the world would soon be at an end and she on the winning side, and her anticipation of the pleasure she would feel even in heaven in saying, "i told you so!" to her unbelieving friends, she quite forgot julia. in fact she went from one fit of religious catalepsy to another, falling into trances, or being struck down with what was mysteriously called "the power." she had relaxed her vigilance about julia, for there were but three more hours of time, and she felt that the goal was already gained, and she had carried her point to the very last. a satisfaction for a saint! the neglected julia naturally floated toward the outer edge of the surging crowd, and she and august inevitably drifted together. "let us go and see jonas married," said august. "it is no harm. god can take us to heaven from one place as well as another, if we are his children." in truth, julia was wearied and bewildered, not to say disgusted, with her mother's peculiar religious exercises, and she gladly escaped with august to the castle and the wedding of her faithful friends. andrew, in a spirit of skeptical defiance, had made his castle look as flowery and festive as possible. the wedding took place in the lower story, but the library was illuminated, and the adventists who had occasion to pass by andrew's on their way to the rendezvous accepted this as a new fulfillment of prophecy to the very letter. they nodded one to another, and said, "see! marrying and giving in marriage, as in the days of noah!" august and julia were too much awe-stricken to say much on their way to the castle. but in these last hours of a world grown old and ready for its doom, they cleaved closer together. there could be neither heaven nor millennium for one of them without the other! loving one another made them love god the more, and love cast out all fear. if this was the last, they would face it together, and if it proved the beginning, they would rejoice together. at sight of every shooting meteor, julia clung almost convulsively to august. when they entered the castle, jonas and cynthy were already standing up before the presiding elder, and he was about to begin. cynthy's face showed her sense of the awfulness of marrying at a moment of such fearful expectation, or perhaps she was troubling herself for fear that so much happiness out of heaven was to be had only in the commission of a capital sin. but, like most people whose consciences are stronger than their intellects, she found great consolation in taking refuge under the wing of ecclesiastical authority. to be married by a presiding elder was the best thing in the world next to being married by a bishop. whatever fear of the swift-coming judgment others might have felt, the benignant old elder was at peace. common-sense, a clean conscience, and a child-like faith enlightened his countenance, and since he tried to be always ready, and since his meditations made the things of the other life ever present, his pulse would scarcely have quickened if he had felt sure that the archangel's trump would sound in an hour. he neither felt the subdued fear shown on the countenance of cynthy ann, nor the strong skeptical opposition of andrew, whose face of late had grown almost into a sneer. "do you take this woman to be your lawful and wedded wife--" and before the elder could finish it, jonas blurted out, "you'd better believe i do, my friend." and then when the old man smiled and finished his question down to, "so long as ye both shall live," jonas responded eagerly, "tell death er the jedgment-day, long or short." and cynthy ann answered demurely out of her frightened but too happy heart, and the old man gave them his benediction in an apostolic fashion that removed cynthy ann's scruples, and smoothed a little of the primness out of her face, so that she almost smiled when jonas said, "well! it's done now, and it can't be undone fer all the goshorns in christendom er creation!" and then the old gentleman--for he was a gentleman, though he had always been a backwoodsman--spoke of the excitement, and said that it was best always to be ready--to be ready to live, and then you would be ready for death or the judgment. that very night the end might come, but it was not best to trouble one's self about it. and he smiled, and said that it was none of his business, god could manage the universe; it was for him to be found doing his duty as a faithful servant. and then it would be just like stepping out of one door into another, whenever death or the judgment should come. while the old man was getting ready to leave, julia and august slipped away, fearing lest their absence should be discovered. but the peacefulness of the old elder's face had entered into their souls, and they wished that they too were solemnly pronounced man and wife, with so sweet a benediction upon their union. "i do not feel much anxious about the day of judgment or the millennium," said august, whose idiom was sometimes a little broken. "when i was so near dying i felt satisfied to die after you had kissed my lips. but now that it seems we have come upon the world's last days, i wish i were married to you. i do not know how things will be in the new heaven and the new earth. but i should like you to be my wife there, or at least to have been my wife on earth, if only for one hour." and then he proposed that they should be made man and wife now in the world's last hour. it was not wrong. it could not give her mother heart-disease, for she would not know of it till she should hear it in the land where there are neither marriages nor sickness. julia could not see any sin in her disobedience under such circumstances. she did so much want to go into the new jerusalem as the wedded wife of august "the grand," as she fondly called him. and so in the stillness of that awful night they walked back to andrew's castle, and found the venerable preacher, with saddle-bags on his arm, ready to mount his horse, for the presiding elder of that day had no leisure time. jonas and cynthy stood bidding him good-by. and the old man was saying again that if we were always ready it would be like stepping from one door into another. but he thought it as wrong to waste time gazing up into heaven to see christ come, as it had been to gaze after him when he went away. even jonas's voice was a little softened by the fearful thought ever present of the coming on of that awful midnight of the eleventh of august. all were surprised to see the two young people come back. "father williams," said august, "we thought we should like to go into the new jerusalem man and wife. will you marry us?" "sensible to the last!" cried jonas. "according to the laws of this state," said mr. williams, "you can not be married without a license from the clerk of the county. have you a license?" "no," said august, his heart sinking. just then andrew came up and inquired what the conversation was about. "why, uncle andrew," said julia eagerly, "august and i don't want the end of the world to come without being man and wife. and we have no license, and august could not go seven miles and back to get a license before midnight. it is too bad, isn't it? if it wasn't that we think the end of the world is so near, i should be ashamed to say how much i want to be married. but i shall be proud to have been august's wife, when i am among the angels." "you are a noble woman," said andrew. "come in, let us see if anything can be done." and he led the way, smiling. chapter xlii. for ever and ever. when they had all re-entered the castle, andrew made them sit down. the old minister did not see any escape from the fatal obstacle of a lack of license, but andrew was very mysterious. "virtue is its own reward," said the philosopher, "but it often finds an incidental reward besides. now, julia, you are the noblest woman in these degenerate times, according to my way of thinking." "that's true as preachin', ef you'll except one," chirped jonas, with a significant look at his cynthy ann. julia blushed, and the old minister looked inquiringly at andrew and at julia. this exaggerated praise from a man so misanthropic as andrew excited his curiosity. "without exception," said andrew emphatically, looking first at jonas, then at mr. williams, "my niece is the noblest woman i ever knew." "please don't, uncle andrew!" begged julia, almost speechless with shame. praise was something she could not bear. she was inured to censure. "do you remember that dark night--of course you do--when you braved everything and came here to see august, who would have died but for your coming?" andrew was now looking at julia, who answered him almost inaudibly. "and do you remember when we got to your gate, on your return, what you said to me?" "yes, sir," said julia. "to be sure you do, and" (turning to august) "i shall never forget her words; she said, if he should get worse, i should like him to die my husband, if he wishes it. send for me, day or night, and i will come in spite of everything." "did you say that?" asked august, looking at her eagerly. and julia nodded her head, and lifted her eyes, glistening with brimming tears, to his. "you do not know," said andrew to the preacher, "how much her proposal meant, for you do not know through what she would have had to pass. but i say that god does sometimes reward virtue in this world--a world not quite worn out yet--and she is worthy of the reward in store for her." saying this, andrew went into the closet leading to his secret stairway--secret no longer, since julia had ascended by that way--and soon came down from his library with a paper in his hand. "when you, my noble-hearted niece, proposed to make any sacrifice to marry this studious, honest, true-hearted german gentleman, who is worthy of you, if any man can be, i thought best to be ready for any emergency, and so i went the next day and procured the license, the clerk promising to keep my secret. a marriage-license is good for thirty days. you will see, mr. williams, that this has not quite expired." the minister looked at it and then said, "i depend on your judgment, mr. anderson. there seems to be something peculiar about the circumstances of this marriage." "very peculiar," said andrew. "you give me your word, then, that it is a marriage i ought to solemnize?" "the lady is my niece," said andrew. "the marriage, taking place in this castle, will shed more glory upon it than its whole history beside; and you, sir, have never performed a marriage ceremony in a case where the marriage was so excellent as this." "except the last one," put in jonas. i suppose mr. williams made the proper reductions for andrew's enthusiasm. but he was satisfied, and perhaps he was rather inclined to be satisfied, for gentle-hearted old men are quite susceptible to a romantic situation. when he asked august if he would live with this woman in holy matrimony "so long as ye both shall live," august, thinking the two hours of time left to him too short for the earnestness of his vows, looked the old minister in the eyes, and said solemnly: "for ever and ever!" "no, my son," said the old man, smiling and almost weeping, "that is not the right answer. i like your whole-hearted love. but it is far easier to say 'for ever and ever,' standing as you think you do now on the brink of eternity, than to say 'till death do us part,' looking down a long and weary road of toil and sickness and poverty and change and little vexations. you do not only take this woman, young and blooming, but old and sick and withered and wearied, perhaps. do you take her for any lot?" "for any lot," said august solemnly and humbly. and julia, on her part, could only bow her head in reply to the questions, for the tears chased one another down her cheeks. and then came the benediction. the inspired old man, full of hearty sympathy, stretched his trembling hands with apostolic solemnity over the heads of the two, and said slowly, with solemn pauses, as the words welled up out of his soul: "the peace of god--that passeth all understanding" (here his voice melted with emotion)--"keep your hearts--and minds--in the knowledge and love of god.--and now, may grace--mercy--and peace from god--_the father_--and _our_ lord jesus christ--be with you--evermore--amen!" and to the imagination of julia the spirit of god descended like a dove into her heart, and the great mystery of wifely love and the other greater mystery of love to god seemed to flow together in her soul. and the quieter spirit of august was suffused with a great peace. they soon left the castle to return to the mount of ascension, but they walked slowly, and at first silently, over the intervening hill, which gave them a view of the ohio river, sleeping in its indescribable beauty and stillness in the moonlight. presently they heard the melodious voice of the old presiding elder, riding up the road a little way off, singing the hopeful hymns in which he so much delighted. the rich and earnest voice made the woods ring with one verse of "oh! how happy are they who the saviour obey, and have laid up their treasure above i tongue can never express the sweet comfort and peace of a soul in its earliest love." and then he broke into watts's "when i can read my title clear to mansions in the skies, i'll bid farewell to every fear and wipe my weeping eyes!" there seemed to be some accord between the singing of the brave old man and the peacefulness of the landscape. soon he had reached the last stanza, and in tones of subdued but ecstatic triumph he sang: "there i shall bathe my weary soul in seas of heavenly rest, and not a wave of trouble roll across my peaceful breast." and with these words he passed round the hill and out of the hearing of the young people. "august," said julia slowly, as if afraid to break a silence so blessed, "august, it seems to me that the sky and the river and the hazy hills and my own soul are all alike, just as full of happiness and peace as they can be." "yes," said august, smiling, "but the sky is clear, and your eyes are raining, julia. but can it be possible that god, who made this world so beautiful, will burn it up to-night? it used to seem a hard world to me when i was away from you, and i didn't care how quickly it burned up. but now--" somehow august forgot to finish that sentence. words are of so little use under such circumstances. a little pressure on julia's arm which was in his, told all that he meant. when love makes earth a heaven, it is enough. "but how beautiful the new earth will be," said julia, still looking at the sleeping river, "the river of life will be clear as crystal!" "yes," said august, "the spanish version says, 'most resplendent, like unto crystal.'" "i think," said julia, "that it must be something like this river. the trees of life will stand on either side, like those great sycamores that lean over the water so gracefully." any landscape would have seemed heavenly to julia on this night. a venerable friend of mine, a true christian philanthropist, whose praise is in all the churches, wants me to undertake to reform fictitious literature by leaving out the love. and so i may when god reforms his universe by leaving out the love. love is the best thing in novels; not until love is turned out of heaven will i help turn it out of literature. it is only the misrepresentation of love in literature that is bad, as the poisoning of love in life is bad. it was the love of august that had opened julia's heart to the influences of heaven, and julia was to august a mediator of god's grace. by eleven o'clock august wehle and his wife--it gives me nearly as much pleasure as it did august to use that locution--were standing not far away from the surging crowd of those who, in singing hymns and in excited prayer, were waiting for the judgment. jonas and cynthy and andrew were with them. august, though not a recognized millerite, almost blamed himself that he should have been away these two hours from the services. but why should he? the most sacramental of all the sacraments is marriage. is it not an arbitrary distinction of theologians, that which makes two rites to be sacraments and others not? but if the distinction is to be made at all, i should apply the solemn word to the solemnest rite and the holiest ordinance of god's, even if i left out the sacred washing in the name of the trinity and the broken emblematic bread and the wine. these are sacramental in their solemn symbolism, that in the solemnest symbolism and the holiest reality. august's whole attention was now turned toward the coming judgment; and as he stood thinking of the awfulness of this critical moment, the exercises of the adventists grated on the deep peacefulness of his spirit, for from singing their more beautiful hymns, they had passed to an excited shouting of the old camp-meeting ditty whose refrain is: "i hope to shout glory when this world's all on fire! hallelujah!" he and julia hung back a moment, but mrs. abigail, who had recovered from her tenth trance, and had been for some time engaged in an active search for julia, now pounced upon her, and bore her off, before she had time to think, to the place of the hottest excitement. chapter xliii. the midnight alarm. at last the time drew on toward midnight, the hour upon which all expectation was concentrated. for did not the parable of the ten virgins speak of the coming of the bridegroom at midnight? "my friends and brethren," said elder hankins, his voice shaking with emotion, as he held his watch up in the moonlight, "my friends and brethren, ef the word is true, they is but five minutes more before the comin' in of the new dispensation. let us spend the last moments of time in silent devotion." "i wonder ef he thinks the world runs down by his pay-tent-leever watch?" said jonas, who could not resist the impulse to make the remark, even with the expectation of the immediate coming of the day of judgment in his mind. "i wonder for what longitude he calculates prophecy?" said andrew. "it can not be midnight all round the world at the same moment." but elder hankins's flock did not take any astronomical difficulty into consideration. and no spectator could look upon them, bowing silently in prayer, awed by the expectation of the sudden coming of the lord, without feeling that, however much the expectation might be illusory, the emotion was a fact absolutely awful. events are only sublime as they move the human soul, and the swift-coming end of time was subjectively a great reality to these waiting people. even andrew was awe-stricken from sympathy; as coleridge, when he stood godfather for keble's child, was overwhelmed with a sense of the significance of the sacrament from keble's stand-point. as for cynthy ann, she trembled with fear as she held fast to the arm of jonas. and jonas felt as much seriousness as was possible to him, until he heard norman anderson's voice crying with terror and excitement, and felt cynthy shudder on his arm. "for my part," said jonas, turning to andrew, "it don't seem like as ef it was much use to holler and make a furss about the corn crap when october's fairly sot in, and the frost has nipped the blades. all the plowin' and hoein' and weedin' and thinnin' out the suckers won't, better the yield then. an' when wheat's ripe, they's nothin' to be done fer it. it's got to be rep jest as it stan's. i'm rale sorry, to-night, as my life a'n't no better, but what's the use of cryin' over it? they's nothin' to do now but let it be gethered and shelled out, and measured up in the standard half-bushel of the sanctuary. and i'm afeard they'll be a heap of nubbins not wuth the shuckin'. but ef it don't come to six bushels the acre, i can't help it now by takin' on." at twelve o'clock, even the scoffers were silent. but as the sultry night drew on toward one o'clock, bill day and his party felt their spirits revive a little. the calculation had failed in one part, and it might in all. bill resumed his burlesque exhortations to the rough-looking "brethren" about him. he tried to lead them in singing some ribald parody of adventist hymns, but his terror and theirs was too genuine, and their voices died down into husky whispers, and they were more alarmed than ever at discovering the extent of their own demoralization. the bottle, one of those small-necked, big-bodied quart-bottles that western topers carry in yellow-cotton handkerchiefs, was passed round. but even the whisky seemed powerless to neutralize their terror, rather increasing the panic by fuddling their faculties. "boys!" said bob short, trembling, and sitting down on a stump, "this--this ere thing--is a gittin' serious. ef--well, ef it _was_ to happen--you know--you don't s'pose--ahem--you don't think god a'mighty would be _too_ heavy on a feller. do ye? ef it was to come to-night, it would be blamed short notice." at one o'clock the moon was just about dipping behind the hills, and the great sycamores, standing like giant sentinels on the river's marge, cast long unearthly shadows across the water, which grew blacker every minute. the deepening gloom gave all objects in the river valley a weird, distorted look. this oppressed august. the landscape seemed an enchanted one, a something seen in a dream or a delirium. it was as though the change had already come, and the real tangible world had passed away. he was the more susceptible from the depression caused by the hot sultriness of the night, and his separation from julia. he thought he would try to penetrate the crowd to the point where his mother was; then he would be near her, and nearer to julia if anything happened. a curious infatuation had taken hold of august. he knew that it was an infatuation, but he could not shake it off. he had resolved that in case the trumpet should be heard in the heavens, he would seize julia and claim her in the very moment of universal dissolution. he reached his mother, and as he looked into her calm face, ready for the millennium or for anything else "the father" should decree, he thought she had never seemed more glorious than she did now, sitting with her children about her, almost unmoved by the excitement. for mrs. wehle had come to take everything as from the heavenly father. she had even received honest but thick-headed gottlieb in this spirit, when he had fallen to her by the moravian lot, a husband chosen for her by the lord, whose will was not to be questioned. august was just about to speak to his mother, when he was forced to hang his head in shame, for there was his father rising to exhort. "o mine freunde! pe shust immediadely all of de dime retty. ton't led your vait vail already, and ton't let de debil git no unter holts on ye. vatch and pe retty!" and august could hear the derisive shouts of bill day's party, who had recovered their courage, crying out, "go it, ole dutchman! i'll bet on you!" he clenched his fist in anger, but his mother's eyes, looking at him with quiet rebuke, pacified him in a moment. yet he could not help wondering whether blundering kinsfolk made people blush in the next world. "holt on doo de last ent!" continued gottlieb. "it's pout goom! kood pye, ole moon! you koes town, you nebber gooms pack no more already." this exhortation might have proceeded in this strain indefinitely, to the mortification of august and the amusement of the profane, had there not just at that moment broken upon the sultry stillness of the night one of those crescendo thunder-bursts, beginning in a distant rumble, and swelling out louder and still louder, until it ended with a tremendous detonation. in the strange light of the setting moon, while everybody's attention was engrossed by the excitement, the swift oncoming of a thunder-cloud had not been observed by any but andrew, and it had already climbed half-way to the zenith, blotting out a third of the firmament. this inverted thunder-bolt produced a startling effect upon the over-strained nerves of the crowd. some cried out with terror, some sobbed with hysterical agony, some shouted in triumph, and it was generally believed that virginia waters, who died a maniac many years afterward, lost her reason at that moment. bill day ceased his mocking, and shook till his teeth chattered. and none of his party dared laugh at him. the moon had now gone, and the vivid lightning followed the thunder, and yet louder and more fearful thunder succeeded the lightning. the people ran about as if demented, and julia was left alone. august had only one thought in all this confusion, and that was to find julia. having found her, they clasped hands, and stood upon the brow of the hill calmly watching the coming tempest, believing it to be the coming of the end. between the claps of thunder they could hear the broken sentences of elder hankins, saying something about the lightning that shineth from one part of heaven to the other, and about the promised coming in the clouds. but they did not much heed the words. they were looking the blinding lightning in the face, and in their courageous trust they thought themselves ready to look into the flaming countenance of the almighty, if they should be called before him. every fresh burst of thunder seemed to august to be the rocking of the world, trembling in the throes of dissolution. but the world might crumble or melt; there is something more enduring than the world. august felt the everlastingness of love; as many another man in a supreme crisis has felt it. but the swift cloud had already covered half the sky, and the bursts of thunder followed one another now in quicker succession. and as suddenly as the thunder had come, came the wind. a solitary old sycamore, leaning over the water on the kentucky shore, a mile away, was first to fall. in the lurid darkness, august and julia saw it meet its fate. then the rail fences on the nearer bank were scattered like kindling-wood, and some of the sturdy old apple-trees of the orchard in the river-bottom were uprooted, while others were stripped of their boughs. julia clung to august and said something, but he could only see her lips move; her voice was drowned by the incessant roar of the thunder. and then the hurricane struck them, and they half-ran and were half-carried down the rear slope of the hill. now they saw for the first time that the people were gone. the instinct of self-preservation had proven stronger than their fanaticism, and a contagious panic had carried them into a hay-barn near by. not knowing where the rest had gone, august and julia only thought of regaining the castle. they found the path blocked by fallen trees, and it was slow and dangerous work, waiting for flashes of lightning to show them their road. in making a long detour they lost the path. after some minutes, in a lull in the thunder, august heard a shout, which he answered, and presently philosopher andrew appeared with a lantern, his grizzled hair and beard flying in the wind. "what ho, my friends!" he cried. "this is the way you go to heaven together! you'll live through many a storm yet!" guided by his thorough knowledge of the ground, they had almost reached the castle, when they were startled by piteous cries. leaving august with julia, andrew climbed a fence, and went down into a ravine to find poor bill day in an agony of terror, crying out in despair, believing that the day of doom had already come, and that he was about to be sent into well-deserved perdition. andrew stooped over him with his lantern, but the poor fellow, giving one look at the shaggy face, shrieked madly, and rushed away into the woods. "i believe," said the philosopher, when he got back to august, "i believe he took me for the devil." chapter xliv. squaring accounts. the summer storm had spent itself by daylight, and the sun rose on that morning after the world's end much as it had risen on other mornings, but it looked down upon prostrate trees and scattered fences and roofless barns. and the minds of the people were in much the same disheveled state as the landscape. one simple-minded girl was a maniac. some declared that the world had ended, and that this was the new earth, if people only had faith to receive it; some still waited for the end, and with some the reaction from credulity had already set in, a reaction that carried them into the blankest atheism and boldest immorality. people who had spent the summer in looking for a change that would relieve them from all responsibility, now turned reluctantly toward the commonplace drudgery of life. it is the evil of all day-dreaming--day-dreaming about the other world included--that it unfits us for duty in this world of tangible and inevitable facts. it was nearly daylight when andrew and august and julia reached the castle. the philosopher advised julia to go home, and for the present to let the marriage be as though it were not. august dreaded to see julia returned to her mother's tyranny, but andrew was urgent in his advice, and julia said that she must not leave her mother in her trouble. julia reached home a little after daylight, and a little before mrs. anderson was brought home in a fit of hysterics. poor mrs. abigail still hoped that the end of the world for which she had so fondly prepared would come, but as the days wore on she sank into a numb despondency. when she thought of the loss of her property, she groaned and turned her face to the wall. and samuel anderson sat about the house in a dumb and shiftless attitude, as do most men upon whom financial ruin comes in middle life. the disappointment of his faith and the overthrow of his fortune had completely paralyzed him. he was waiting for something, he hardly knew what. he had not even his wife's driving voice to stimulate him to exertion. there was no one now to care for mrs. anderson but julia, for cynthy had taken up her abode in the log-cabin which jonas had bought, and a happier housekeeper never lived. she watched jonas till he disappeared when he went to work in the morning, she carried him a "snack" at ten o'clock, and headways found her standing "like a picter" at the gate, when he came home to dinner. but cynthy ann generally spent her afternoons at anderson's, helping "that young thing" to bear her responsibilities, though mrs. anderson would receive no personal attentions now from any one but her daughter. she did not scold; her querulous restlessness was but a reminiscence of her scolding. she lay, disheartened, watching julia, and exacting everything from julia, and the weary feet and weary heart of the girl almost sank under her burdens. mrs. anderson had suddenly fallen from her position of an exacting tyrant to that of an exacting and helpless infant. she followed julia with her eyes in a broken-spirited fashion, as if fearing that she would leave her. julia could read the fear in her mother's countenance; she understood what her mother meant when she said querulously, "you'll get married and leave me." if mrs. anderson had assumed her old high-handed manner, it would have been easy for julia to have declared her secret. but how could she tell her now? it would be a blow, it might be a fatal blow. and at the same time how could she satisfy august? he thought she had bowed to the same old tyranny again for an indefinite time. but she could not forsake her parents in their poverty and afflictions. the fourteenth of august, the day on which possession was to have been given to bob walker, came and went, but no bob walker appeared. a week more passed, in which samuel anderson could not muster enough courage to go to see walker, in which samuel anderson and his wife waited in a vague hope that something might happen. and every day of that week julia had a letter from august, which did not say one word of the trial that it was for him to wait, but which said much of the wrong julia was doing to herself to submit so long. and julia, like her father and mother, was waiting for she knew not what. at last the suspense became to her unendurable. "father," she said, "why don't you go to see bob walker? you might buy the farm back again." "i don't know why he don't come and take it," said mr. anderson dejectedly. this conversation roused mrs. abigail. there was some hope. she got up in bed, and told samuel to go to the county-seat and see if the deeds had ever been recorded. and while her husband was gone she sat up and looked better, and even scolded a little, so that julia felt encouraged. but she dreaded to see her father come back. samuel anderson entered the house on his return with a blank countenance. sitting down, he put his face between his hands a minute in utter dejection. "why don't you speak?" said mrs. anderson in a broken voice. "the land was all transferred to andrew immediately, and he owns every foot of it. he must have sent bob walker here to buy it." "oh! i'm so glad!" cried julia. but her mother only gave her one reproachful look and went off into hysterical sobbing and crying over the wrong that andrew had done her. and all that night julia watched by her mother, while samuel anderson sat in dejection by the bed. as for norman, he had quickly relapsed into his old habits, and his former cronies had generously forgiven him his temporary piety, considering the peculiar circumstances of the case some extenuation. now that there was trouble in the house he staid away, which was a good thing so far as it went. the next afternoon mrs. anderson rallied a little, and, looking at julia, she said in her querulous way, "why don't you go and see him?" "who?" said julia with a shiver, afraid that her mother was insane. "andrew." julia did not need any second hint. leaving her mother with cynthy, she soon presented herself at the door of the castle. "did _she_ send you?" asked andrew dryly. "yes, sir." "i've been expecting you for a long time. i'll go back with you. but august must go along. he'll be glad of an excuse to see your face again. you look thin, my poor girl." they went past wehle's, and august was only too glad to join them, rejoicing that some sort of a crisis had come, though how it was to help him he did not know. with the restlessness of a man looking for some indefinable thing to turn up, samuel was out on the porch waiting the return of his daughter. jonas had come for cynthy ann, and was sitting on a "shuck-bottom" chair in front of the house. andrew reached out his hand and greeted his brother cordially, and spoke civilly to abigail. then there was a pause, and mrs. anderson turned her head to the wall and groaned. after a while she looked round and saw august. a little of her old indignation came into her eyes as she whimpered, "what did _he_ come for?" "i brought him," said andrew. "well, it's your house, do as you please. i suppose you'll turn us out of our own home now." "as you did me," said the philosopher, smiling. "let me remind you that i was living on the river farm. my father had promised it to me, and given me possession. a week before his death you got the will changed, by what means you know. you turned me off the farm which had virtually been mine for two years. if i turn you off now, it will be no more than fair." there was a look of pained surprise on julia's face. she had not known that the wrong her uncle had suffered was so great. she had not thought that he would be so severe as to turn her father out. "i don't want to talk of these things," andrew went on. "i ought to have broken the will, but i was not a believer in the law. i tell this story now because i must justify myself to these young people for what i am going to do. you have had the use of that part of the estate which was rightfully mine for twenty years. i suppose i may claim it all now." julia's eyes looked at him pleadingly. "why don't you send us off and be done with it then?" said mrs. abigail, rising up and resuming her old vehemence. "you set out to ruin us, and now you've done it. a nice brother you are! ruining us by a conspiracy with bob walker, and then sitting here and trying to make my own daughter think you did right, and bringing that hateful fellow here to hear it!" her finger was leveled at august. "i am glad to see you are better, abigail. i wanted to be sure you were strong enough to bear all i have to say." "say your worst and do your worst, you cruel, cruel man! i have borne enough from you in these years, and now you can say and do what you please; you can't do me any more harm. i suppose i must leave my old home that i've lived in so long." "you need not worry yourself about leaving; that's what i came over to say." "as if i'd stay in _your_ house an hour! i'll not take any favors at _your_ hand." "don't be rash, abigail. i have deeded this hill farm to samuel, and here is the deed. i have given you back the best half of the property, just what my father meant you to have. i have only kept the river land, that should have been mine twenty years ago. i hope you will not stick to your resolution not to receive anything at my hand." and julia said: "oh! i'm so--" but mrs. anderson had a convenient fit of hysterics, crying piteously. meantime samuel gladly accepted the deed. "the deed is already recorded. i sent it down yesterday as soon as i saw samuel come back, and i got it back this morning. the farm is yours without condition." this relieved abigail, and she soon ceased her sobbing. andrew could not take it back then, whatever she might say. "now," said andrew, "i have only divided the farms without claiming any damages. i want to ask a favor. let julia marry the man of her choice in peace." "you have taken one farm, and therefore i must let my daughter marry a man with nothing but his two hands," sobbed mrs. anderson. "two hands and a good head and a noble heart," said andrew. "well, i won't consent," said she. "if julia marries _him_," pointing to august, "she will marry without my consent, and he will not get a cent of the money he's after. not a red cent!" "i don't want your money. i did not know you'd get your farm back, for i did not know but that walker owned it, and i--wanted--julia all the same." august had almost told that he had married julia. "wanted her and married her," said andrew. "and i have not kept a corn-stalk of the property i got from you. i have given bob walker a ten-acre patch for his services, and all the rest i have deeded to the two best people i know. this august wehle married julia anderson when they thought the world might be near its end, and believing that, at any rate, she would not have a penny in the world. i have deeded the river farm to august wehle and his wife." "married, eh? come and ask my consent afterwards? that's a fine way!" and abigail grew white and grew silent with passion. "come, august, i want to show you and julia something," said andrew. he really wanted to give abigail time to look the matter in the face quietly before she committed herself too far. but he told the two young people that they might make their home with him while their house was in building. he had already had part of the material drawn, and from the brow of the hill they looked down upon the site he had chosen near the old tumble-down tenant's house. but andrew saw that julia looked disappointed. "you are not satisfied, my brave girl. what is the matter?" "oh! yes, i am very happy, and very thankful to you; and next to august i love you more than anybody--except my parents." "but something is different to what you wished it. doesn't the site suit you? you can look off on to the river from the rise on which the house will stand, and i do not know how it could be better." "it couldn't be better," said julia, "but--' "but what? you must tell me." "i thought maybe you'd let us live at the castle and take the burden of things off you. i should like to keep your house for you, just to show you how much i love my dear, good uncle." even an anchorite could not help feeling a pleasure at such a speech from such a young woman, and this shaggy, solitary, misanthropic but tender-hearted man felt a sudden rush of pleasure. august saw it, and was delighted. what one's nearest friend thinks of one's wife is a vital question, and august was happier at this moment than he had ever been. andrew's pleasure at julia's loving speech was the climax. "yes!" said the philosopher, a little huskily. "you want to sacrifice your pleasure by living in my gloomy old castle, and civilizing an old heathen like me. you mustn't tempt me too far." "i don't see why you call it gloomy. it wasn't only for your sake that i said it. i think it is the nicest old house i ever saw. and then the books, and--and--you." julia stumbled a little, she was not accustomed to make speeches of this sort. "you flatterer!" burst out andrew. "but no, you must have your own house." mrs. anderson, on her part, had concluded to make the best of it. julia already married and the mistress of the anderson river farm was quite a different thing from julia under her thumb. she was to be conciliated. besides, mrs. anderson did not want julia's prosperity to be a lifelong source of humiliation to her. she must take some stock in it at the start. "jule," she said, as her daughter re-entered the door, "i can let you have two feather-beds and four pillows, and a good stock of linen and blankets. and you can have the two heifers and the sorrel colt." the two "heifers" were six, and the sorrel "colt" was seven years of age; but descriptive names often outlive the qualities to which they owed their origin. just as a judge is even yet addressed as "your honor," and many a governor without anything to recommend him hears himself called "your excellency." when abigail surrendered in this graceful fashion, julia was touched, and was on the point of putting her arms around her mother and kissing her. but mrs. anderson was not a person easily caressed, and julia did not yield to her impulse. "cynthy ann, my dear," said jonas, as they walked home that evening, "do you know what abig'il anderson reminds me of?" no; cynthy ann didn't exactly know. in fact, it would have been difficult for anybody to have told what anything was likely to remind jonas of. there was no knowing what a thing might not suggest to him. "well, cynthy, my imperial sweetness, when i see abig'il come down so beautiful, it reminded me of a little fice-t dog i had when i was a leetle codger. i called him pick. his name was picayune. purty good name, wasn't it?" "yes, it was." "well, now, that air little pick wouldn't never own up as he was driv outen the house. when he was whipped out, he wouldn't never tuck his tail down, but curl it up over his back, and run acrost the yard and through the fence and down the road a-barkin' fit to kill. wanted to let on like as ef he'd run out of his own accord, with malice aforethought, you know. _that's_ abig'il." chapter xlv. new plans. except abigail anderson and one other person, everybody in the little world of clark township approved mightily the justice and disinterestedness of andrew. he had righted himself and julia at a stroke, and people dearly love to have justice dealt out when it is not at their own expense. samuel, who cherished in secret a great love for his daughter, was more than pleased that affairs had turned out in this way. but there was one beside abigail who was not wholly satisfied. august spent half the night in protesting in vain against andrew's transfer of the river-farm to him. but andrew said he had a right to give away his own if he chose. and there was no turning him. for if august refused a share in it, he would give it to julia, and if she refused it, he would find somebody who would accept it. the next day after the settlement at samuel anderson's, august came to claim his wife. mrs. abigail had now employed a "help" in cynthy ann's place, and julia could be spared. august had refused all invitations to take up his temporary residence with julia's parents. the house had unpleasant associations in his mind, and he wanted to relieve julia at once and forever from a despotism to which she could not offer any effectual resistance. mrs. anderson had eagerly loaded the wagon with feather-beds and other bridal property, and sent it over to the castle, that julia might appear to leave with her blessing. she kissed julia tenderly, and hoped she'd have a happy life, and told her that if her husband should ever lose his property or treat her badly--such things _may_ happen, you know--then she would always find a home with her mother. julia thanked her for the offer of a refuge to which she never meant to flee under any circumstances. and yet one never turns away from one's home without regret, and julia looked back with tears in her eyes at the chattering swifts whose nests were in the parlor chimney, and at the pee-wee chirping on the gate-post. the place had entered into her life. it looked lonesome now, but within a year afterward norman suddenly married betsey malcolm. betsey's child had died soon after its birth, and mrs. anderson set herself to manage both norman and his wife, who took up their abode with her. nothing but a reign of terror could have made either of them of any account, but mrs. anderson furnished them this in any desirable quantity. they were never of much worth, even under her management, but she kept them in bounds, so that norman ceased to get drunk more than five or six times a year, and betsey flirted but little and at her peril. once the old house was out of sight, there were no shadows on julia's face as she looked forward toward the new life. she walked in a still happiness by august as they went down through shady hollow. august had intended to show her a letter that he had from the mud-clerk, describing the bringing of humphreys back to paducah and his execution by a mob. but there was something so repelling in the gusto with which the story was told, and the story was so awful in itself, that he could not bear to interrupt the peaceful happiness of this hour by saying anything about it. august proposed to julia that they should take a path through the meadow of the river-farm--their own farm now--and see the foundation of the little cottage andrew had begun for them. and so in happiness they walked on through the meadow-path to the place on which their home was to stand. but, alas! there was not a stick of timber left. every particle of the material had been removed. it seemed that some great disappointment threatened them at the moment of their happiness. they hurried on in silent foreboding to the castle, but there the mystery was explained. "i told you not to tempt me too far," said andrew. "see! i have concluded to build an addition to the castle and let you civilize me. we will live together and i will reform. this lonely life is not healthy, and now that i have children, why should i not let them live here with me?" julia looked happy. i have no authentic information in regard to the exact words which she made use of to express her joy, but from what is known of girls of her age in general, it is safe to infer that she exclaimed, "oh! i'm so glad!" while andrew stood there smiling, with julia near him, august having gone to the assistance of the carpenters in a matter demanding a little more ingenuity than they possessed, jonas came up and drew the philosopher aside. julia could not hear what was said, but she saw andrew's brow contract. "i'll shoot as sure as they come!" he said with passion. "i won't have my niece or august insulted in my house by a parcel of vagabonds." "o uncle andrew! is it a shiveree?" asked julia. "yes." "well, don't shoot. it'll be so funny to have a shiveree." "but it is an insult to you and to august and to me. this is meant especially to be an expression of their feeling toward august as a german, though really their envy of his good fortune has much to do with it. it is a second edition of the riot of last spring, in which gottlieb came so near to being killed. now, i mean to do my country service by leaving one or two less of them alive if they come here to-night." for andrew was full of that destructive energy so characteristic of the western and southern people. "oh! no, don't shoot. can't you think of some other way?" pleaded julia. "well, yes, i could get the sheriff to come and bag a few of them." "and that will make trouble for many years. let me see. can't we do this?" and julia rapidly unfolded to andrew and jonas her plan of operations against the enemy. "number one!" said jonas. "they'll fall into that air amby-scade as sure as shootin'. that plan is military and christian and civilized and human and angelical and tancy-crumptious. it ort to meet the 'proval of the american fish-hawk with all his pinions and talents. i'll help to execute it, and beat the rascals or lay my bones a-bleachin' on the desert sands of shady holler." "well," said andrew to julia, "i knew, if i took you under my roof, you'd make a christian of me in spite of myself. and i _am_ a sort of savage, that's a fact." jonas hurried home and sent cynthy over to the castle, and there was much work going on that afternoon. andrew said that the castle was being made ready for its first siege. as night came on, julia was in a perfect glee. reddened by standing over the stove, with sleeves above her elbows and her black hair falling down upon her shoulders, she was such a picture that august stopped and stood in the door a minute to look at her as he came in to supper. "why, jule, how glorious you look!" he said. "i've a great mind to fall in love with you, mein liebchen!" "and i _have_ fallen in love with _you_, cæsar augustus!" and well she might, for surely, as he stood in the door with his well-knit frame, his fine german forehead, his pure, refined mouth, and his clear, honest, amiable blue eyes, he was a man to fall in love with. chapter xlvi. the shiveree. if webster's "american dictionary of the english language" had not been made wholly in new england, it would not have lacked so many words that do duty as native-born or naturalized citizens in large sections of the united states, and among these words is the one that stands at the head of the present chapter. i know that some disdainful prig will assure me that it is but a corruption of the french "_charivari,"_ and so it is; but then "_charivari_" is a corruption of the low latin "_charivarium_" and that is a corruption of something else, and, indeed, almost every word is a corruption of some other word. so that there is no good reason why "shiveree," which lives in entire unconsciousness of its french parentage and its latin grand-parentage, should not find its place in an "american dictionary." but while i am writing a disquisition on the etymology of the word, the "shiveree" is mustering at mandluff's store. bill day has concluded that he is in no immediate danger of perdition, and that a man is a "blamed fool to git skeered about his soul." bob short is sure the almighty will not be too hard on a feller, and so thinks he will go on having "a little fun" now and then. and among the manly recreations which they have proposed to themselves is that of shivereeing "that dutchman, gus wehle." it is the solemn opinion of the whole crowd that "no dutchman hadn't orter be so lucky as to git sech a beauty of a gal and a hundred acres of bottom lands to boot." the members of the party were all disguised, some in one way and some in another, though most of them had their coats inside out. they thought it necessary to be disguised, "bekase, you know," as bill day expressed it, "ole grizzly is apt to prosecute ef he gits evidence agin you." and many were the conjectures as to whether he would shoot or not. the instruments provided by this orchestra were as various as their musical tastes. it is likely that even mr. jubilee gilmore never saw such an outfit. bob short had a dumb-bull, a keg with a strip of raw-hide stretched across one end like a drum-head, while the other remained open. a waxed cord inserted in the middle of the drum-head, and reaching down through the keg, completed the instrument. the pulling of the hand over this cord made a hideous bellowing, hence its name. bill day had a gigantic watchman's rattle, a hickory spring on a cog-wheel. it is called in the west, a horse-fiddle, because it is so unlike either a horse or a fiddle. then there were melodious tin pans and conch-shells and tin horns. but the most deadly noise was made by jim west, who had two iron skillet-lids ("leds" he called them) which, when placed face to face, and rubbed, as you have seen children rub tumblers, made a sound discordant and deafening enough to have suggested milton's expression about the hinges which "grated harsh thunder." one of this party was a tallish man, so dressed as to look like a hunchback, and a hunchback so tall was a most singular figure. he had joined them in the dark, and the rest were unable to guess who it could be, and he, for his part, would not tell. they thumped him and pushed him, but at each attack he only leaped from the ground like a circus clown, and made his tin horn utter so doleful a complaint as set the party in an uproar of laughter. they could not be sure who he was, but he was a funny fellow to have along with them at any rate. he was not only funny, but he was evidently fearless. for when they came to the castle it was all dark and still. bill day said that it looked "powerful juberous to him. ole andy meant to use shootin'-ir'ns, and didn't want to be pestered with no lights blazin' in his eyes." but the tall hunchback cleared the fence at a bound, and told them to come on "ef they had the sperrit of a two-weeks-old goslin into 'em." so the bottle was passed round, and for very shame they followed their ungainly leader. "looky here, boys," said the hunchback, "they's one way that we can fix it so's ole grizzly can't shoot. they's a little shop-place, a sort of a shed, agin the house, on the side next to the branch. let's git in thar afore we begin, and he can't shoot." the orchestra were a little stupefied with drink, and they took the idea quickly, never stopping to ask how they could retreat if andrew chose to shoot. jim west thought things looked scaly, but he warn't agoin' to backslide arter he'd got so fur. when they got into andrew's shop, where he had a new and beautiful skiff in building, the tall hunchback shut the door, and the rest did not notice that he put the key in his pocket. that serenade! such a medley of discordant sounds, such a clatter and clangor, such a rattle of horse-fiddle, such a bellowing of dumb-bull, such a snorting of tin horns, such a ringing of tin pans, such a grinding of skillet-lids! but the house remained quiet. once bill day thought that he heard a laugh within. julia may have lost her self-control. she was so happy, and a little unrestrained fun was so strange a luxury! at last the door between the house and shop was suddenly opened, and julia, radiant as she could be, stood on the threshold with a candle in her hand. "come in, gentlemen." but the gentlemen essayed to go out. "locked in, by thunder!" said jim west, trying the outside door of the shop. "we heard you were coming, gentlemen, and provided a little entertainment. come in!" "come in, boys," said the hunchback, "don't be afeard of nobody." mechanically they followed the hunchback into the room, for there was nothing else to be done. a smell of hot coffee and the sight of a well-spread table greeted their senses. "welcome, my friends, thrice welcome!" said andrew. "put down your instruments and have some supper." "let me relieve you," said julia, and she took the dumb-bull from bob short and the "horse-fiddle" from day, the tin horns and tin pans from others, and the two skillet-lids from jim west, who looked as sheepish as possible. august escorted each of them to the table, though his face did not look altogether cordial. some old resentment for the treatment of his father interfered with the heartiness of his hospitality. the hunchback in this light proved to be jonas, of course; and bill day whispered to the one next to him that they had been "tuck in and done fer that time." "gentlemen," said andrew, "we are much obliged for your music." and cynthy would certainly have laughed out if she had not been so perplexed in her mind to know whether andrew was speaking the truth. such a motley set of wedding guests as they were, with their coats inside out and their other disguises! such a race of pied pipers! and looking at their hangdog faces you would have said, "such a lot of sheep-thieves!" though why a sheep-thief is considered to be a more guilty-looking man than any other criminal, i do not know. jonas looked bright enough and ridiculous enough with his hunch. they all ate rather heartily, for how could they resist the attentions of cynthy ann and the persuasions of julia, who poured them coffee and handed them biscuit, and waited upon them as though they were royal guests! and, moreover, the act of eating served to cover their confusion. as the meal drew to a close, bill day felt that he, being in some sense the leader of the party, ought to speak. he was not quite sober, though he could stand without much staggering. he had been trying for some time to frame a little speech, but his faculties did not work smoothly. "mr. president--i mean mr. anderson--permit me to offer you our pardon. i mean to beg your apologies--to--ahem--hope that our--that your--our--thousand--thanks--your--you know what i mean." and he sat down in foolish confusion. "oh! yes. all right; much obliged, my friend," said the philosopher, who had not felt so much boyish animal life in twenty-five years. and jim west whispered to bill: "you expressed my sentiments exactly." "mr. anderson," said jonas, rising, and thus lifting up his hunched shoulders and looking the picture of a long-legged heron standing in the water, "mr. anderson, you and our young and happy friend, mr. wehle, will accept our thanks. we thought that music was all you wanted to gin a delightful--kinder--sorter--well, top-dressin', to this interestin' occasion. now they's nothin' sweeter'n a tin horn, 'thout 'tis a melodious conch-shell utterin' its voice like a turkle-dove. then we've got the paytent double whirlymagig hoss-violeen, and the tin pannyforte, and, better nor all, the grindin' skelletled cymbals. we've laid ourselves out and done our purtiest--hain't we, feller-musicians?--to prove that we was the best band on the ohio river. an' all out of affection and respect for this ere happy pair. and we're all happy to be here. hain't we?" (here they all nodded assent, though they looked as though they wished themselves far enough.) "our enstruments is a leetle out of toon, owin' to the dampness of the night air, and so i trust you'll excuse us playin' a farewell piece." jim west was so anxious to get away that he took advantage of this turn to say good-evening, and though the mischievous julia insisted that he should select his instrument, he had not the face to confess to the skillet-lids, and got out of it by assuring her that he hadn't brought nothing, "only come along to see the fun." and each member of the party repeated the transparent lie, so that julia found herself supplied with more musical instruments than any young housekeeper need want, and andrew hung them, horns, pans, conch-shell, dumb-bull, horse-fiddle, skillet-lids, and all, in his library, as trophies captured from the enemy. much as i should like to tell you of the later events of the philosopher's life, and about julia and august, and their oldest son, whose name is andrew, and all that, i do not know that i can do better than to bow myself out with the abashed serenaders, letting this musical epilogue harmoniously close the book; writing just here. the end. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ tekla a romance of love and war by robert barr author of "a chicago princess," "the mutable many," etc. [illustration: decoration] grosset & dunlap publishers :: :: new york copyright, by robert barr to the countess laura contents. chapter page i. the emperor enters treves ii. the archer introduces himself iii. listeners hear little good of themselves iv. the emperor disappears v. love leads the way vi. an unwished-for marriage day vii. the flight of the countess viii. the rapier and the broadsword ix. a palatial prison x. the intercepted fugitives xi. in quest of a wife with a troop of horse xii. cupid's bow gives place to the archer's xiii. the black count is persuaded not to hang his emperor xiv. a reluctant welcome xv. castle thuron makes a full meal xvi. the countess tries to tame the bear xvii. the envoy's disastrous return xviii. a two-handed sword teaches deportment xix. a man and a woman meet by torchlight xx. a breakfast on the top of the south tower xxi. an experiment in diplomacy xxii. the first attack on castle thuron xxiii. the two archbishops fall out xxiv. count bertrich explains his failure xxv. the second assault on the castle xxvi. an illuminated night attack on thuron xxvii. the two years' siege begins xxviii. the second archer announces himself xxix. conrad ventures his life for his love xxx. the struggle in the dark xxxi. brave news of the emperor xxxii. "for your love i would defy fate." xxxiii. a grim interruption to a lovers' meeting xxxiv. the black count's defiance xxxv. the night escape of the emperor xxxvi. the five billetless arrows xxxvii. the traitor and his price xxxviii. the incognito falls xxxix. the emperor at the head of his army xl. the archbishops environed with a ring of iron xli. "why have you dared to levy war?" xlii. tekla replenishes her wardrobe xliii. the countess and the emperor tekla. chapter i. the emperor enters treves. the romans had long since departed, but their handiwork remained--a thin line laid like a whiplash across the broad country--a road. it extended northwestward from frankfort and passed, as straight as might be, through the almost trackless forest that lay to the south of moselle; for the great highway-builders had little patience with time-consuming curves; thus the road ranged over hill and down dale without shirking whatever came before it. nearing the western terminus, it passed along high lands, through a level unbroken forest. a wayfarer, after travelling many monotonous leagues, came suddenly to an opening in the timber, and found himself on the brow of a hill, confronted with a scene amazing in extent, well calculated to arrest his progress and cause him to regard with admiration, the wide spread landscape beneath and beyond. the scene was the more startling that it burst unexpectedly on the view, after miles of trees that seemed innumerable, hemming in, with their unvarying cloak of green, the outlook of the traveller. at the brow of the hill there had paused two men, excellently mounted, who now, with slackened rein, allowed their evidently exhausted horses to stand, while they gazed upon this prospect. the younger man was slightly in advance of his comrade, and sat easily on his horse, with hand on hip; while the other, an arm extended, was pointing to the city lying far below. the age of the former might have been anything between twenty-five and thirty-five: he was, in truth, twenty-eight years old at the time he first came within sight of this western city. he wore the dress of a young gallant of that period, with a light rapier by his side, but was otherwise unarmed. his costume indicated no special distinction, and would not have prepared a listener for the manner in which his fellow-traveller addressed him. "that, your majesty," he said, "is the ancient town of treves." the young emperor turned his eyes from the city to his companion. "it may be well to remember, siegfried," he said, speaking slowly, "that his majesty is now far from here on his way to the holy land, and that he who has, for the first time, looked upon treves, is plain rodolph the traveller, abroad to see something of the land the emperor is supposed to rule, and which his loyal subjects, the archbishops of treves and cologne, intend to rule for him." siegfried bowed low and said, "i will remember," checking himself barely in time from repeating again the title of his listener. "a trifle less deference, i beg of you, siegfried. an erect head and a tongue not too civil may make my way easier in the fair city of treves. where flows the moselle?" "between that cliff and the city. you may see it yonder to the right, below the town, and again along the plain in the distance above it." "is that the archbishop's palace in the wall?" "no, it is the black gate of the romans. the palace of the archbishop lies to the south by the roman basilica yonder. the cathedral whose spire you see, stands midway between the porta nigra and the palace." "think you we may be questioned narrowly when we enter?" "oh, no. many come because of the archbishop's court, which is said to outshine the emperor's at frankfort." "ah, that is better, siegfried. now is the emperor indeed well on his way to meet the infidel saracen when we talk freely of him in his absence. shall we then pass unchallenged through the gate?" "without doubt. there is also much traffic of trade between frankfort and treves, and interchange of visitors." "we met but few on the road, siegfried." "true. the traffic is mainly by the river. merchants frequent the boats going down, but many traverse the road from frankfort. had we been journeying eastward we should have met more travellers." "that sounds like a riddle, siegfried. there must be a glut of frankfort horses in treves, if all their riders return by boat." "the horses go by boat as well to coblentz, then are ridden along the rhine to frankfort." "ah, that is the solution, is it? well, let us get on to treves, and try our fortune at cozening the guards if we are questioned." downward rode the two, toward the ancient city, the horses refreshed by the halt at the top of the hill. the great cliff by the side of the unseen moselle seemed to rise higher and higher into the sky as they descended, until it stood like a huge rampart over the walled town. reaching level ground again, the riders took a westerly direction, bending their course so that they might enter the city by the northern gate. as they approached, it became evident that a throng was gathered on each side of the port, the way in the centre being kept clear by mounted soldiery. "you are versed in the manners of treves," said the emperor, "knowing all of note within its walls--what think you then is going forward at the gate? is it well for us to attempt entrance now, or are we more likely to pass unnoticed in the press?" "it is probable that the archbishop and his train are about to pass outward to his villa or water palace, as some call it. he travels in state, and there are always many onlookers." "where is his water palace?" "on the moselle, near zurlauben, a short half-hour's ride from the gate." "this then gives us excellent opportunity of seeing arnold von isenberg, archbishop of treves, ourselves unseen in the throng. shall we wait his coming outside or inside the gate?" "we were better outside, i think, for then we may enter unquestioned with the press of people when the show is over." thus the two horsemen ranged themselves by the side of the road with others also on horseback, merchants, travellers, messengers and the like, while the crowd on foot shifted here and there to find standing room that commanded a view. mounted men-at-arms rode hither and thither, roughly keeping the way clear and the mob in check, buffeting with their pike-handles those who were either reluctant or slow to move. the clattering of horses' shod hoofs on the stone-paved narrow street within the gate announced the coming of the cortège. "off with your hat, fellow," cried one of the men-at-arms, raising his pike. "his lordship, the archbishop, comes." rodolph's quick hand sought his sword-hilt, but a touch on his arm from his comrade recalled him to a sense of his position. he changed the downward motion of his hand to an upward one, and speedily doffed his cap, seeing now that every one else was uncovered, for the haughty archbishop allowed no disrespect abroad when he took an airing. first came a troop of landsknecht, numbering perhaps a score, then, with an interval between, the archbishop and his train, followed at a slight distance by another score of horsemen. arnold von isenberg sat upright on his black charger, looking much more the soldier than the churchman. on the further side of him rode a middle-aged nobleman, with whom the archbishop now and then exchanged a word. count bertrich never could have been handsome, and the red scar from a sabre cut over his nose had in no way added to his personal attractions, but his fame throughout the land as a fighter of both skill and courage, caused him to be reckoned a favourite with the electoral prelate, who had usually more need of warriors round him than of the numerous court gallants who followed in his train, and were now conversing in low tones with the ladies who accompanied them. but whether the softness of their words was caused by the tender import of them, or whether they feared to intrude their voices on the conversation or the meditations of the archbishop, the onlooking but unnoticed emperor could not have guessed, had his curiosity been aroused to inquire. rumour had it that the archbishop intended to bestow on count bertrich the hand, and incidentally, the broad lands of his ward, who rode at his right hand, and if this were true the girl showed little pleasure over it, to judge by the small heed she gave either to the crowd that lined the road on each side or to those who accompanied her in the august procession. she seemed neither to see nor to hear aught that went on around her, but with eyes looking straight forward, and a slight frown on her fair brow, rode onward in silence, a marked contrast to the prattling train which followed her. meanwhile, von isenberg spoke with the count, who bent his head deferentially to listen, and perhaps while doing so, to glance across the charger's mane at the proud and beautiful girl, who rode on the other side of the archbishop, heedless of glance or conversation. when the procession had passed, the young emperor sat looking after it, bonnet still in hand, with an absorbed expression on his face. and well might he gaze long at the iron archbishop, for he had come on a weary journey to see that potentate, and judge for himself what manner of man he might be who was reported to have remarked to his brother archbishop of cologne, when he cast the vote which helped to make rodolph an emperor, that the young man was said to be a romantic fool, who would be the more easily led by their lordships of treves and cologne, than any older and more seasoned noble. therefore had it been given out that the new emperor was gone to smite the saracen, whereas he had merely journeyed from frankfort to treves in disguise, to look upon a man who might prove more formidable to his peace than the fiercest saracen roaming the plains of the east. siegfried, who, though so much older, was rodolph's confidential friend, seemed anxious to know the estimate the emperor had formed of his probable adversary. "a hard, stern face," said siegfried. "a cold friend and an implacable enemy, to judge by the glance i got of him. what think you?" "an adorable face," murmured the young man, absently, still gazing after the rapidly disappearing cortège. "a face to dream over; to die for. who is she, siegfried?" "the countess tekla," answered siegfried, somewhat briefly and grimly, for here their expedition, not without peril, undertaken against his strongly urged advice, was turned from its purpose, at this critical moment, by a passing glimpse of a pretty face. perhaps, after all, the archbishop had made the remark attributed to him, and rodolph seemed determined on the most inopportune occasion, to give colour to it. "but who is she?" demanded the emperor, covering again. "the countess tekla is the ward of the archbishop. her father died in his service and is said to have been the only man arnold von isenberg ever had any affection for. the sole living relative she has, so far as known to me, is count heinrich, surnamed the black, of castle thuron, near coblentz. her mother was sister to the black count." "that marauder! no wonder she was not left his ward." "there was little love lost between her father and her uncle. 'tis said heinrich tried to get possession of tekla and has even had the temerity to threaten an attack upon the archbishop because of her, but he is hardly likely to do more than bluster, for, however much the count may lack common honesty, he is not devoid of common sense, and well knows that arnold could crush him in his castle as a snail is crushed in its shell under an iron heel." "the countess tekla," murmured the emperor, more to himself than to his companion. "she is the most beautiful vision that ever floated before the eyes of man." "she is betrothed to count bertrich, who rode at the archbishop's left hand," said siegfried, coldly. "what! to that florid image carved with a broadsword? i cannot believe it. 'twould be sacrilege." "rodolph, since you allow me to call you so," replied siegfried, solemnly, "i have also heard that you yourself are hardly free." "it is false," cried the young man, hotly. "i am pledged to none. such thought is utterly baseless. the princess herself would be the first to disclaim it." "i mentioned no one." "perhaps not. 'tis false nevertheless." two pikes, crossed, barred their entrance under the archway of the gate. "where from?" "frankfort." "your purpose in treves?" "we are two silk merchants." "your papers." siegfried handed down the documents to the officer who demanded them. he scrutinised them closely, and, apparently satisfied, returned them. "what news from frankfort? how fares our new emperor?" he asked. "he has betaken himself to the holy wars," answered siegfried. "by the coat then, and are there not blows enough for him in germany without going abroad for them? i heard he was more gallant than soldier." "it is not true," said siegfried, with some sternness. "soldier and gallant too, my friend," interjected rodolph, fearing that siegfried's loyalty might lead him to indulge in censure which might prove impolitic on the part of those seeking entrance, to those who were the guardians of a gate. "surely the two trades have gone hand in hand before now?" "aye, and will again," laughed the officer, twirling his moustache. baron siegfried von brunfels now led the way through a narrow street, riding confidently, like a man well acquainted with his direction. avoiding the main thoroughfare which led to the north gate, he turned into what seemed little more than a lane, and now the horsemen were compelled to travel in file, as the way was not broad enough for two horses conveniently to walk abreast. neither were there houses on each side, as was the case with the street they had just left, but instead, blank walls, such as might surround convents or monasteries, as indeed they did. so high were these enclosing barriers, that rodolph on his horse could not see over them, and he had the feeling of a man making his way along the deep bottom of a huge ditch, which impression was intensified by the gathering gloom of approaching night. the lane, continually bending toward the right of the riders, came at last to what was quite evidently the city wall, and on this abutted the lesser wall of the monastery grounds on the right, while that on the left ran for some distance parallel to the more lofty ring of stout masonry which encircled the city, leaving a narrow space between. the ringing sound of the iron-shod hoofs on the stone causeway echoed from the ramparts in the deep stillness. in the distance a large mansion built against the city wall, stood across the way and ended the lane. the windows were shuttered and heavily barred with iron, giving the building a forbidding, prison-like appearance. the lane terminated at a strong arched gate, with heavy double doors of oak, iron-bolted, in one leaf of which was a shuttered grating that, being lifted, enabled those within to see all who approached. the bastion to the left ended against the side of this sinister house. "by the gods, baron," cried the emperor, "it is well i have confidence in you, for never was man guided along a more death-trap road to such a sepulchre-looking ending. what fortress have we here, siegfried? this is no inn, surely." the baron half turned in his saddle, and spoke in a voice so low that its tone alone was a hint against unnecessary conversation. "it is my house," he said. "you will be better served and less spied upon than at an inn." a moment later the baron, stopping at the archway, but without dismounting, reached out his hand and pulled an iron rod which had a loop lower down for the convenience of one on foot. the faint clanging of a bell, jangling far within, could be heard. after the echoes died away there was a perceptible interval, then the shutter behind the grating was noiselessly lifted with some caution, and a pair of eyes appeared and disappeared at the iron network. instantly the gates were flung open and were as speedily closed when the horsemen had ridden into a courtyard. having parted with their tired steeds, host and guest, hardly less weary with their ride, mounted one broad stairway and two narrower ones, then walked along a passage that led them to a door, on opening which, siegfried conducted the emperor into a large square apartment lighted by two windows heavily barred outside. the inside shutters were open, and rodolph looked over an extensive landscape bounded by red cliffs and green hills, at the foot of which flowed the rapid moselle. although the sun had gone down and the view was growing indistinct in the twilight, rodolph went to one of the windows and gazed admiringly upon the prospect. the moon, nearly at the full, had risen, and was already flooding the scene with her silvery light. "you have a pleasant outlook here, siegfried," said the emperor. "yes, and a safe one." "a safe one?" echoed rodolph, inquiringly. "you see this house is a story higher than the city wall. a rope flung from that window gives a hurried man safe conduct to the open country without the necessity of passing through a gate." "true," said the emperor, with a smile; "but your hurried man would lose some valuable time in filing through these stout bars. he would be a ghost indeed to pass between them." "not if he knew their secret." saying this, siegfried laid hold of an iron stanchion, one of two that stood perpendicular on either side of the window-aperture from top to ledge, pressed against the thick stone wall. the stanchion left the stone under siegfried's efforts, and proved to be shaped like an elongated letter e, with three bolts of equal length that fitted into three holes drilled in the side of the window-opening, one at top and bottom, and the third in the middle. the baron pushed outward the heavy iron grating, which swung on hinges, pulling from the wall three bars with round loops at the end of each, into which the three bolts had interlocked when the grating was closed, and the e-like stanchion placed in position. "a most ingenious arrangement," cried the emperor, "lacking only the rope." "a rope lies there," said siegfried, kicking the coil with his foot, where it rested on the floor and had escaped notice in the gathering darkness. "it is fastened to a ring in the wall." "what a device for a lover!" exclaimed rodolph. "it is intended for a man's safety rather than his danger," said siegfried, with the slightest possible touch of austerity in his voice. the emperor laughed. "nevertheless," he said, "had i my lady-love in this house, i would prefer that she knew not the secret of this window. but why all these precautions, baron? they have not been put here because i am your visitor, for i think the grate moved rustily upon its hinges." "no, the window has been as you see it these many years. i do not know its history. i suspect that my father found it convenient sometimes to slip out of treves without much ado, for i know he felt safer on occasion in our strong rhine castle than in this sometimes turbulent city. i have not interfered with the device, although i have seldom had need of it. i even keep up an old custom of our house, disliking change as all my forefathers have done, although i have never profited by it." "what old custom?" "the stationing of a sentinel night and day in a small room above where we stand. when he sees a light in yonder house by the river, or hears by night or day the cry of a waterfowl that frequents the upper rhine, but which is unknown on the moselle, he instantly comes down to this room, throws open the casement and flings out the rope. although as i said, i have never had actual need of this method of exit or entrance, i have, nevertheless, tested the vigilance of my servants, and have climbed in hand over hand." "another question, baron, and forgive my curiosity. how is it that you, a noble and a householder in treves, enter the gates as a silk merchant unchallenged? surely the archbishop keeps slack guard." "although i know many of those about the archbishop's court, i am myself practically unknown. i attend once a year, perhaps, a formal function in treves, but it is generally supposed i am in my castle on the rhine, or at frankfort, which is indeed the case. my house attracts no attention, for it has belonged to my family for centuries. and now, your majesty, the room adjoining this, and connected with it, i design for your sleeping apartment, and i trust you will rest well there." "one more question, siegfried, in punishment for the title you have bestowed upon me; that house by the river--is it also yours?" "yes. a small place, but in some respects the complement of this. i keep there a fast horse, and a swift skiff, so that the man in a hurry, of whom i spoke, may betake himself either to the road or the river as best falls in with his humour or necessity." "by the gods, baron, and should we find it necessary to enter into a conspiracy against the great arnold von isenberg, we are reasonably well provided for any emergency." "it is said there is nothing entirely useless in this world, rodolph," answered the other, drily. the baron drew in the grating, replaced the three-bolted stanchion, and finally closed the inside shutters. a servant announced dinner, and rodolph betook himself to his room to prepare for it. chapter ii. the archer introduces himself. the emperor, having removed the stains of travel, followed his host downstairs to the banquet that had been prepared for him, and both fell to with an appetite sharpened by a long journey. the white wines of the moselle, supplemented by the vintage of the saar, speedily drove away all remembrance of the day's fatigue. after the meal, the baron, with a re-filled flagon at his elbow, stretched out his legs and enjoyed to the full the consciousness that he had been well fed and was comfortably housed, with nothing more arduous in prospect than an honestly earned night's repose. the young emperor looked across at this picture of contentment with a twinkle in his eye. "siegfried," he said, "i have a fancy for a moonlight stroll." the baron drew in his feet and sat bolt upright, an expression of dismay coming into his face. the sigh that followed, truly indicated what he perhaps hesitated to express, that he wished people knew when they were well off. the emperor laughed heartily and added, "you may not have noticed that the moon was nearly full." "if i had," said the baron, "i should merely have thanked heaven for it, resolved to stay indoors and follow her most excellent example. the wine flagon has more attraction for me than the fullest of moons, and i have some rare rhenish in my cellars regarding which i was about to invite your criticism--a more potent vintage than this of the saar." "the rhenish will be still older when we return, siegfried." "indeed, and that is true, rodolph. it may have aged so much that our heirs shall have the enjoyment of drinking it. the man who leaves a secure door in treves to stroll by moonlight has no surety of ever reaching it again. a slit throat is an ill conduit for sound rhenish." "is treves, then, so turbulent? i thought the archbishop kept strict rule." "much goes on in treves that the archbishop knows nothing of, as our own presence here is witness. the town is full of soldiers and bravos. there are many outbreaks in the streets, and a brawl might be fatal to your plans. we should assuredly be stopped and questioned, and we might have to trust to our swords." "you think then, a jaunt in the country would be safer than a moonlight stroll in the city?" "i do indeed." "that tallies exactly with my purpose. never say again that i disregard your advice, for it is not your secure door i would leave, but your insecure window, trusting to find the rope dangling there when we return. i am anxious to test your ingenious device of exit and entrance. we shall walk to the river, and you will make me free of your boat and your fleet horse. it is well that your servants at that small house on the moselle should know me, for if i enact the part of your man in a hurry, it would avail me little to scramble down the city wall, while you bravely kept the outer door with your sword against the minions of arnold, if your own minions by the river refused further means of escape." "that is true, but we are safe here for the night and may we not without prejudice put off further action until to-morrow?" "there speaks the comforting flagon, baron. you are too well versed in siege and surprise not to know that every precaution should be taken, and that no moment is too soon for doing what reconnoitering there is to be accomplished. i would not ask you to accompany me, were it not that i need your introduction in the house by the river." this brought siegfried instantly to his feet. "where you go, i go, introduction or none. let us then to the window before the night grows older." they mounted the stairs again, and unbolted the swinging window-grate. the baron going first, slid swiftly down the rope, and a moment after he reached the ground, the emperor followed. directly under the wall, they were in the shadow, but the broad plain before them, and the cliffs beyond, lay distinct in the moonlight. the small riverside hamlet, towards which they bent their steps, showed here and there a few twinkling lights, to guide them. the plain was uncultivated, covered with thick rank grass, which seemed to betoken a marshy nature of the soil, but the ground was nevertheless firm underfoot. the baron, as best knowing the way, took the lead, wading knee-deep in the thick grass, and was silent, thinking rather of the luxury of bench and wine-laden table than of the expedition in hand. the night was very quiet, the stillness being broken, now and then, by the far-away cry of some sentinel on the wall proclaiming that all was well, and that peace reigned over treves, invoking piously a blessing on the sleeping city--which christian benediction was a duty resting on all who kept watch and guard for that prince of the church, the archbishop. the pair walked in silence as had been arranged, and the first to violate the compact was the baron, who stumbling over something, pitched head-foremost, uttering a good round rhenish oath as he did so. the laugh on the emperor's lips was checked by the sudden springing up, as if from out the earth, of a man apparently fully armed, who instantly put himself in a posture of defence. simultaneously the swords of rodolph and siegfried flashed from their scabbards, and the baron, finding the stranger had leaped up between him and his friend, rapidly executed a semi-circular retreat, and stood at the side of the emperor, while the unexpected third, moving as on a pivot, faced siegfried, with a stout sword in his hand, making, however, no motion of attack. "if you propose to fight me together," said the stranger, quietly, "permit me to stoop unscathed for my pike, but if you are content to fall upon me one at a time, i shall be happy to meet you as i am, although you have the advantage of the longer blade." "what need to fight at all?" asked the emperor. "we are no enemies of thine." "if, as i take it, you are marauders seeking gain from belated wayfarers, it is but honest to tell you that, in case of victory, which is doubtful, seeing you are but two and germans at that, there is little to be picked from me but hard knocks, or, given a proper distance, a well-placed shaft which you would find harder to digest than anything you have taken inwardly this some time past. i say this but in the way of fair dealing as between man and man, to prevent after disappointment, and not as prejudicing a fair encounter should your inclination tend in that direction." "fellow, we are no marauders, but peaceable merchants from treves." "then the merchandise you deal in must pertain to combat, for you came more deftly by your blades than any yard-stick-handler i have met with in all my wanderings. i know a well-hung weapon when i see it, ready for thrust or parry, yet carried with seeming carelessness, as if nothing were further from your minds than either assault or defence." "you are a shrewd fellow," said the emperor. "why lie you here in ambush?" "it is no ambush other than one to capture sleep, which i had in thrall when your comrade trod on my stomach and straightway rescued and put to flight my drowsy prisoner." "and can a man of your ability provide yourself with no better bed than one in the high grass by the side of the moselle?" "there is little to complain of in the bed, my lord, for i take you to be no merchant, but a person of quality. a bed is but a place in which to sleep, and where slumber comes, the bed has served its purpose. i have before now laid down my head within walls and under roof in circumstances of such uncertainty that a man slept at the risk of a slit throat, while here the bed is wide with no danger of falling out, having good fighting ground, if one is molested, and ample space for flight should opposition over-match me. there is small fault to find with such a resting-place." "you are easily contented, but surely you should have a cloak to ward off, partly at least, the dews of night." "a cloak, my lord, although i admit its comfort, hampers a man suddenly awakened; still i should doubtless succumb to its temptations did i not need it for the protection of a weapon that i love even more than the pampering of my own body." saying this, the man stooped and lifted from the ground a cloak which he unfolded drawing from cover an unstrung bow somewhat longer than himself. resting one end on the ground against his foot, and bending the upper part over his shoulder, he deftly slipped the loop of the cord into its notch, and twanged the string, making it give forth a musical note that vibrated melodiously in the still air. "there, my lord, is a one-stringed harp, which sings of sudden death and nothing else. were it as good at arm's length as it is at stone's throw, i should cumber myself with no other weapon; but it is as delicate and capricious as a woman, and must be taken care of. so in the dampness of the river valley i wrap it in my cloak to keep the moisture from it." "i should think so tender a weapon would be of little use in the rough and tumble of actual war." "there speaks the unenlightened german! a slender shaft like this, two hundred years ago, killed a king and lost my country to the normans. the german swine are as gross in their killing as in their eating. they appreciate not delicacy in death, but must needs mutilate the image of their creator, slicing him with huge two-handed swords, or battering his head with battle-axe, but a gentle arrow, truly sped, passing daintily through an enemy, dipping its fleecy wing in the red core of his heart, leaving little mark to attest its passage, and furnishing thereby a corpse that is a delight to look upon, gives no pleasure to this uncivilised people." "you forget, fellow, that you are speaking to germans, and also that we have had the cross-bow for centuries, as well as instruments not dissimilar to thine," cried the baron, with natural indignation at the bowman's strictures. "hush, siegfried," whispered the emperor, "let him babble on. surely the conceit of the rascal shows he comes from england." "i am a free man," continued the archer, calmly, "and am used to speak my mind, but i seek not to shirk responsibility for my words. if any, hearing me, take just offence at the tenour of my expressions, i shall not deny him opportunity for satisfaction, under the equitable rule that the victor enter into possession, not thereafter to be disputed, of the belongings of the conquered. on these terms therefore i shall be pleased to uphold against you, sir, the truth of my remarks about the german people, your friend seeing fair combat betwixt us." "i cannot demean myself by fighting with a fellow of your quality." "those are high words to be spoken by an honest merchant, the progeny of a yard-stick, a class over which we men-at-arms hold ourselves the superior. in a fair field all men, bearing arms, willing to submit to the arbitration thereof, are considered equal. king william, perhaps with some justice surnamed the conqueror, questioned not the quality of a yeoman who hotly beset him at the battle of hastings, but honoured the man by cleaving him to the midriff with his battle-axe, the which is held in high esteem by the yeoman's descendants to this day. but touching the use of the long bow, i grant that you may well make some demur regarding unproven statements, if you have seen no better examples of its merits than is shown by your german archers, who lazily prefer the cumbrous cross-bow with a stake upright in the ground to steady it, necessitating thus a clumsy equipment hardly more portable than a catapult itself, whereas this fibrous length of toughened yew can be held lightly in the outstretched left hand, and given but the skill behind it, will nip you off a dozen men while the cross-bow villain is planting his marvellous engine. but let the arrow sing its own praises. you see yonder sentinel pacing back and forth in the moonlight on the wall near the gate. i will wing you a shaft through him, and he will never know whence comes the summons to a less contentious world." saying this, the bowman placed an arrow on the string with much deliberation and was about to raise his weapon when rodolph and siegfried, with simultaneous movement, sprang between the unconscious victim and the foreigner. "good heavens! what are you setting out to do?" cried the emperor. "would you slay an innocent man, and bring a hornet's nest unnecessarily about our ears?" "the hornets would not know whither to fly. the man would drop inside the wall most likely, or outside perchance, but no one could tell from which direction the shaft had sped, or whether it was let loose from city or country. i hold no malice against the sentinel, but merely offered this example in proof of what i spoke. indeed i myself would be the only one put to inconvenience by the shot, for you carry no bow and it is likely they would see by the shaft when they got it, that it differs from those in use hereabouts, for the germans have small skill in arrow-making; besides i did myself twice these last two days endeavour to gain entrance to that stupid city, hoping to win appointment to the archbishop's train, and may have mentioned something to the guardsmen at the gate of my own merit with the bow-string, but they, on both occasions, refused admission unless i were provided with passports, the which, of course, i could not show." "why do you travel, or expect admittance to a walled town without papers of identification?" "you have asked me many questions and answered none, excepting that about your occupation, which i take to be devoid of truth,--nay, no offence is meant, for i hold it each man's privilege to lie to any chance wayfarer as may suit his purpose, and i myself never cling to truth longer than my necessity serves. are you then adherents of the archbishop and have you any influence with his lordship such as might bend him to look with favour on my desire for employment?" "we are not known to the archbishop, therefore have no influence with him. i come from frankfort and my friend from the rhine. we are but visitors here, and so in some measure similar to yourself." "i take that to be well and truly answered. i shall deal with you in equal honesty. my papers would be small recommendation to arnold von isenberg, for they truly show that in his last campaign i fought manfully against him. but peace being unfortunately declared, i am now in want of occupation. know you of any noble in need of an unerring bow and a courageous heart at threepence a day, with victualling, and such lodgment as a man, who cares not where he sleeps, may require?" "i have no need of such a warrior," replied the baron, "but a man, expert at ridding the world of his fellow-creatures, would find more to do in the turbulent valley of the rhine than in the more peaceful vale of the moselle. here the nobles are awed by the archbishop, and when he is not in arms, the country rests, but on the rhine the barons are at continual feud and there is no strong hand to restrain them." "you forget the emperor," said rodolph, in a tone of mild reproach. "he, alas! has gone to fight the saracens," answered the baron, with calm mendacity. "ah, would he had taken me with him," sighed the archer. "i have heard that eastern bowmen have much skill in the art, and i would like to have tried conclusions with some of them. in truth, i had thought of going to frankfort when i heard some rumour of the emperor's departure. as there is little use in knocking at the door of treves i will on the morrow set my face down the moselle toward the rhine, in hope of falling among a less peaceably inclined people. and now, my lords, as it seems we can be of little use to each other, i will, if it please you, go once more to my interrupted sleep and allow you to proceed on your interrupted journey." the archer, as he said this, unstrung his bow, and carefully wrapped it once more in his cloak. with little ceremony he prepared to lie down on the grassy couch from which he had risen. "if i cannot give you employment," began the baron, "i can at least offer you a more comfortable sleeping-place than the one in which i have been the means of disturbing you. we are going to my house on the river, and i think my servant can provide you with a heap of straw where you will have a roof over your head. then you can proceed on your way down the river unmolested in the morning." "indeed," answered the bowman, indifferently, "in so far as the roof and the straw are concerned i would not travel a shaft's flight to secure them. i can sleep refreshingly wherever my head touches pillow, be it earth, stone, or straw, but if your generosity advances itself so far as to include a yard of beef and a stoup of wine i will not say i shall altogether and in spite of proper persuasions, refuse." "i am unacquainted with the present condition of my servant's larder, but as he looks to his own provender at my expense, i doubt not he will be well provided, and the chance may strike you as worth the risk of a brief walk." for answer the archer thrust his short hanger into the leathern sheath prepared for it, which hung at his belt, lifted his cloak-enveloped bow, and also a long pike, and thus accoutred signified his readiness to follow them. they marched in file, the baron leading and the archer bringing up the rear, reaching without further adventure the margin of the swift flowing moselle, then proceeded along its bank until they came to the first house in the small hamlet of zurlauben, where the procession paused, and its leader rapped lightly at the door of the dark dwelling. the only response was the baying of a hound within, and the low neigh of a horse in the adjoining outhouse. a louder knock merely resulted in a deeper bay from the hound. "he is perhaps asleep," said the baron. "the rascal keeps early hours." "more likely he is absent," suggested the emperor. the two went partly round the house, which was built with half of it resting on the river bank, while the other half was supported by piles rising from the water. this lower portion was enclosed, and had a door that allowed the skiff to be taken in or out. the baron, noticing that the water door was ajar, pushed it further open with his sword, and bending over, endeavoured to peer inside, as well as the darkness would allow him. "the boat is gone," he said; "the fellow evidently fancies a moonlight row. i shall hold some account with him when he returns." "i think he owes you an explanation," replied rodolph. "it would be somewhat inconvenient were the archbishop's troops after us, and we desired to escape by the water." the baron said nothing, but his black looks boded ill for the absent menial. "some apology is due to the archer for a postponed supper," continued rodolph. "let us quit this muddy spot and discharge that duty, in the hope that his conversation may strengthen our patience while we wait." they climbed up the bank and came again to the front of the house, where they found the bowman fully accoutred, sitting with his back against the wall, his head inclined on one shoulder, sound asleep. the moonlight shone upon him, and he snored gently. "his peaceful slumber is certainly a mark of confidence in his host. blessed is he who can sleep when he wills," said the emperor, looking down upon him. "if the fellow's skill at all equals his boasting, i might do worse than send him to frankfort, to instruct a band of archers that would give good account of themselves in time of trouble." "to whom in frankfort could you send him, and whom should the bowman name as his sponsor when he arrived there? if he said he was sent by a worthy merchant in treves, i doubt if he would receive much attention when his journey was completed." "that is true," returned rodolph. "i fear i must part company with him when we have fed him. still i should like to see some sample of his skill before we dismiss him." "that is easily tested if he does not shrink from the trial. on the other side of the river i see rising and flying further up first one heron, and then another, from which i surmise that my rascal is working his way homeward in the skiff along the further shore, where the current is slackest. he seems to be disturbing the birds and so this some time back i have noted his slow progress. if our archer can wing you one of these long-legged fowls, we may well believe he could have surprised the sentinel." "hey, bowman," continued the baron, stirring up the sleeper with his foot, "i hear my servant coming and we will be in presently. but first we would like to hear the hum of your bow-string, if your skill has not deserted you since you had sinister designs on the sentinel above the gate." the archer had sprung to his feet, wide-awake, the moment he felt a touch upon his body. "you can hardly expect me to bring down a man on treves' wall from here," he said, casting his eye toward the city. "my shaft does not live in the air longer than one may slowly count a score. nevertheless i am willing to try, although i cannot guarantee a pleasurable result." "we set no such impossibility before the strength of your weapon; what we desire----" "nay, i spoke not of impossibility, but of surety," interrupted the archer. "i can throw you an arrow high in the air and can guarantee that it will fall within treves or not far short of it, but to say definitely that it will hit such and such a button in a man's doublet at that distance, would be wild prophecy, for you cannot predict the home-coming of a descending shaft, from which, as it were, the life and vigour of it has departed, as you can the unerringness of an arrow sped horizontally, retaining the message given to it by thumb and fingers until it reaches the person to whom admonition is thus forwarded through its agency." while he spoke the archer had unwound the cloak from the bow and now he strung the weapon with anxious care, after which he plucked a shaft from the quiver that hung at his back. "there are herons rising ever and anon from yonder bank. the darkness of the cliff somewhat obscures them, and they hang not out against the sky like your soldier on the wall. nevertheless the moon shines fairly on them and the distance is less, so i beg of you to show us your skill upon the body of the next that comes between us and the rocks." "now the fiend fry me on his gridiron," cried the archer, glancing at the opposite cliffs, "i would rather shoot you ten soldiers than one bird flapping through the air, for that asks of a bowman the measuring of the distance the heron will advance from the time the arrow leaves the string until it coincides with its quarry, the which renders necessary also the nice adjustment by the eye of the space between myself and the bird, a difficult enough task in broad day, causing such a venture in the night to mix more blind chance with marksmanship than any one not versed in necromancy should be called upon to endure." "so this is the outcome of your bragging!" cried the baron, already angered by the absence of his servant. "you well knew we would allow no shots at a soldier and so you boasted safely. when a fair mark is offered you, then come excuses and the making of conditions. i have a mind, braggart, to lay my sword across your back, or rather a stout cudgel which would better accord with your condition." the archer stepped rapidly away from them at this threat and said, with arrow still notched on the string: "if you meditate any such breach of a hospitality which i accepted at your proffer, and not of my own seeking, i would tell you first that i am a free man, formal engagement having been refused by you, so keep your cudgels for your laggard who deserves them, as standing thus by his delay between a hungry man and his meat; while secondly i would inform you that on the attempt at my chastisement, seeing the same is unmerited, i would first put this shaft through you and then its mate into the middle of your comrade, before he could lift foot to help you, and neither of you would complain of any inaccuracy of aim, swift as the shafts would follow each other. so advance one or both at your peril." "tush, tush," cried the emperor, "no one will molest you. while you chatter the heron escapes. there is one rising even now and will vanish like his companions unscathed." the archer turned quickly to the north, his bow hanging almost horizontally in his left hand. he seemed in no hurry to shoot, but watched the bird beating the air heavily with its huge wings, its long legs trailing behind, making seemingly slow and laborious motion across the moonlit face of the opposite cliff. suddenly the archer, having to his satisfaction measured the distance with his eye, straightened himself, lifted his bow to the perpendicular, drew back the string to his right ear, and apparently taking no aim, let fly the shaft into the night. he leaned forward, trying to watch its flight, but none saw the arrow after it left the bow. the heron, however, with a cry of affright, plunged downward, and whirled over and over until it struck the water with a splash. "nevertheless," said the archer, in a dissatisfied tone, "'tis no fair test, and is, like enough, pure accident." "it is a marvellous shot," cried the emperor, with enthusiasm, "and such art is wondrous cheap at threepence a day." "with lodgment and provender," added the archer, once more unstringing his bow. "here, if your pouch has no hole in the bottom of it, is three months' pay, which will not come amiss in your journey down the moselle." "i thank your lordship," said the man, taking the money with great readiness, "this is more to my liking than offers of cudgelling." "and when you hear that the emperor has returned to frankfort i would strongly advise you to go thither, for he is a lover of good qualities wherever found. as for the offer of cudgelling, 'twas but a jest, or at most the outcome of the delay of our custodian." "here he is," said the baron. "i think he will speedily regret his absence." across the moonlit river, in a small boat that drifted sideways rapidly in the swift current, a man rowed with sturdy strokes. the two who awaited him stood silently on the bank and watched his approach. the archer had already seated himself with his back to the wall, and was snatching a moment's repose. as the boatman ceased rowing and allowed his craft to float down to its harbour, the baron said sternly: "get inside as speedily as you may and undo the door. then i will have a word with you." a few moments later there was a rattle of chains and bolts, the door was thrown open, and gave the visitors a glimpse of a young man with white face and trembling limbs. chapter iii. listeners hear little good of themselves. "come, archer," said the baron, "arouse yourself. i have work for you to do." "not before the meal, i hope," objected the man, rising to his feet. "yes; but it will not detain you long, and the supper shall be spread before your sight, to quicken your hand." they entered a lower room, long and narrow, meagrely furnished, containing a rough table thrust against the wall next the river, with two benches, on one of which the emperor seated himself. the trap-door by which the man had ascended was still open and the gurgling sound of flowing water came up. the hound crouched in a corner, and eyed the visitors with lips drawn back from his teeth, uttering a low growl, as if he did not like the situation so suddenly presented to him. the man who was the cause of it all, liked it even less, and stood dumb, as one paralysed with fright. "close the trap-door," said the baron, shortly. the man obeyed the order. "set a light in the upper window toward treves." the servant disappeared up a ladder, set the light, and returned. "place on the table supper for one, and a large flagon of wine." when this was accomplished, the servant, who had throughout spoken no word, moving mechanically to and fro like one walking in a dream, stood once more before his angry master. "take your place with your back against that wall." the man, breathing hard, but still silent, stood up at the end of the room, his wide eyes fastened in a hypnotism of fear on his master. "now, archer, i am ready. notch a shaft on your string and pin me this deserter though the heart to the wall." the archer, whose eyes had been riveted on the viands set on the table, impatiently waiting the word to set to, withdrew them with reluctance and turned them towards the victim who stood dumb and motionless at the other end of the room. "i am as loath to keep good victuals waiting as any man in the archbishopric, but, my lord, i have failed to make plain to you the nature of my calling. i am no executioner, but a soldier. if you give yonder fellow a blade in his hand to protect himself, i will be glad to carve him into as many pieces as may please your lordship, but to draw bow on an unarmed man at ten paces is a misuse of a noble weapon, and the request to do so, were it not that this good flagon yearns for lips to meet it, i would construe it into an insult to myself, warranting a hostile encounter." "you were not so choice when you proposed to slaughter an innocent man on the walls. here stands a traitor, who has deserted his post and richly earned his death, yet you----" "the man on the wall, my lord, was a soldier, at that moment bearing arms and enjoying pay for the risks he ran. when i myself mount guard i make no objection to your german cross-bowmen practising at my body with their bolts, taking whatever chance cares to offer, and holding it commendable that they should thus industriously attempt to perfect their marksmanship, but to send a shaft through a poor devil standing weaponless at arm's length, as one might say, is no work for an english archer, the which i will maintain, though you order this most tempting food back into the larder again." the baron scowled at the bowman, who returned his whole regard to the table. the emperor looked at his friend with a half quizzical smile on his lips, while the speechless victim gazed helplessly at his master. "siegfried, a word with you," said the emperor, pointing to the bench beside him. the baron crossed over and sat down. "it is not your intention to have this young man executed, is it?" "most assuredly; nothing but an order from the emperor will save his deservedly forfeited life." "then god help him," said rodolph, "for the emperor is far away. if, however, my own poor word can avail him, i would gladly see him spared, and this without in any way underrating the heinousness of his crime." "his desertion might have cost either of us our lives, as you yourself admitted but a short while since. i can forgive anything rather than absence from the post of duty." "i grant you that if he were not alone here his offence would be unpardonable, if but for the effect on others, but there is none other to make a precedent of leniency. then there is this to be said, he has had a stern lesson, for if ever man read death in the eye of another he saw it in yours a moment ago, although at first i thought you were jesting. if you spare him, he will therefore be the truer in future and will not soon forget this night, while another who takes his place will still have the lesson to learn. may i question him?" "certainly. he is yours, as i am." "hark ye, fellow, were you ever out with that boat before?" "yes, my lord." "you see it is not the first offence. i beg you to let me execute justice upon him," said the baron. "a worse man would have denied it," responded rodolph, eagerly. "he speaks the truth when he knows it prejudices his case. i like the fellow, although he is so badly frightened. where do you voyage, sirrah?" "to the archbishop's palace, my lord." "to the archbishop's palace?" echoed both rodolph and siegfried, in a breath. "in the fiend's name what have you to do with the archbishop or his palace?" the young fellow cleared his throat, and some colour mounted to his pale face. "my lord," he stammered, "a maid, who is named hilda----" "i could have sworn it," cried the emperor. "now we have the woman, the riddle unravels itself. what of hilda, my young gallant?" "she is tirewoman of the countess tekla----" "ha!" ejaculated the emperor, a sudden interest coming into his face, while the baron's frown grew blacker. "you met with hilda then to-night?" "not so, my lord. i was on my way to meet her when, in the still night, i heard a knock, and fearing it might be at this door i hurried back; alas! that i kept your lordship waiting." "then if i understand you aright, hilda has now accepted our late _rôle_." the man looked at the ground, evidently not comprehending the last remark. "hilda is at this moment waiting for you, then," explained rodolph. "yes, my lord." the emperor turned his frank smiling face upon the baron, who sat with his chin in his hand, grimly regarding the servant, who, now that there seemed hope of rescue, kept his eyes fixed on the floor. "you see," said rodolph, "'tis but a simple lover's meeting, and i have known great affairs of state put aside for such. what wonder that the boy forgot his duty and stole away in your skiff to have a few sweet words with the doubtless charming hilda." "i distrust him," said the baron, in a low voice. "i like not this traffic with the archbishop's palace. arnold von isenberg is a suspicious man, and has little scruple regarding the means he uses to satisfy either his curiosity or his resentment. this young fool may be innocent, but i doubt it. he made no protest against my judgment just now, but stood silent, like one who knew his doom was merited. the archbishop may have heard something from his spies about this shuttered house, and its mysterious horse, never taken out save for exercise. this young fellow is practically a stranger to me. he is not one of my hereditary servants, for i wished to have a man here who knew no one in my house at treves, and my servants there know nothing of this place at the river, except the man on guard, who unbars the window and throws down the rope when a light is displayed here, and he knows no more than that. as for this fellow here and his glib love story i mistrust him thoroughly." "i think you do him wrong. if ever i saw an honest face, it is his. besides, what harm can he do, since he knows nothing?" "the mystery of the house, and even his lack of knowledge might lead to an investigation. ordinarily i should care little for that, but now you are here, i wish to move with all caution." "then his truth is easily put to the test. i would vouch for the fellow from his looks alone, but, as you say, much depends on his fidelity. he cannot complain that his absence has aroused suspicion, so we will insist that a second absence shall allay it. we will go with him in the boat to meet this waiting girl and hear what comes of their conversation. he will have no chance of warning her, and if there is fair love-talk between them you will then be satisfied." "we cannot go with him unseen." "why not? we shall be in the shadow of the palace and in the bottom of the skiff with our cloaks around us. it will not be a dignified position, but anything is better than a slumbering distrust of one's underlings, and then our situation will be heavenly compared with his in any case. if he is a traitor he will assuredly betray himself by trying to warn his confederate: if he is merely a lover it will be somewhat embarrassing to uphold this character when he knows he has an audience. but a man will do much to save his neck, and he will doubtless come passably off with his rehearsal. if it is a woman who waits for him, and if she proves ardent in her affections, we may have some ado to keep from laughter, but even then our position will be enviable compared with his." the conversation at this point was broken in upon by a doleful voice which came from the patient archer. "i have met much hospitality of varying kinds, in different parts of the world," he said, mournfully; "but never anything bearing resemblance to this. i have heard that in savage lands they place food before a hungry prisoner, the which he is unable to reach, although the sight of it feasts his eyes and the aroma therefrom tickles his nostrils. but to think that in a christian land, where----" "in god's name, good fellow, are you still hungering?" cried the baron. "i thought when everything was prepared you would not need a formal invitation. fall to, fall to, without further delay, and prove yourself as good a trencherman as you are excellent in archery." the bowman, losing no further time in talk, at once began his long postponed repast, and continued the same with such absorption that the emperor and the baron went on with their conversation in no fear of interruption from him. siegfried, with some reluctance, agreed to the plan proposed by rodolph. the latter beckoned to the man standing by the wall, awaiting knowledge of his fate with that extreme anxiety which the uncertain tenure whereby he held his life was sure to occasion. "you know, doubtless," began the emperor, "that the late desertion of the post entrusted to you has forfeited your life to your justly incensed master?" the young man made a motion of assent to this proposition. "having found you false in one thing, it is but natural that your master should distrust you in all, and therefore he disbelieves the tale you have told of meeting with a maid, attributing other motives to your visit to the palace." "what other motive could i have?" "that remains to be seen. are you willing, then, that we should put your fidelity to the test?" "i am willing." "remember that you gain your life thereby. where is it that you meet this maid?" "on the river balcony of the palace, at the corner nearest here." "how high is this balcony from the water?" "less than a man's height. standing in the boat the floor is level with my shoulders." "is it your custom to ascend upon the balcony?" "no, my lord. i stand there holding the rope in my hand, which coming from the prow of the skiff passes round one of the balustrades. thus, in case of interruption, i can instantly release my hold, sit down, and float away unseen." the emperor glanced at siegfried with a look that plainly said, "this man speaks the truth." but the baron, with perplexed brows, showed that he thought all the worse of him. thus do the same words produce differing effects on different minds. "now, hark ye, fellow," said the emperor, with more severity in his tone than he had yet used, "and give good heed to what i say, for much depends on it, especially to you. we will accompany you in the boat to this tryst upon the water, but will so bestow ourselves that we shall be unseen by whoever there awaits you. now, mark this: you are to proceed thither silently; you are to give neither sign nor signal. if you so much as cough, your neck shall suffer for it. if you attempt to whisper, or say aught that is inaudible to us, as we lie in your boat, we will adjudge you a traitor. if it is but innocent love traffic that calls you to the balcony, you will carry on your flirtation as if we were not within hearing distance, and i will hold you unscathed for anything you may say. are you honest with this girl?" "as honest as i am with you, my lord." "ah! that is somewhat in doubt at the moment, but if you are honest then will i give your hilda a handsome dowry when she weds with the boatman of the moselle. are you content with the trial?" "i am content, my lord." "then get ready the boat, so that we may not keep the maiden waiting." the young man raised the trap-door and disappeared down the steps. "i hope he will prove himself a true man," said the baron, evidently somewhat shaken in his suspicions by the straightforward answers and actions of the person accused. "by the holy coat," cried the emperor, with a laugh, "it is well for us if he does so." "well for _us_?" echoed the baron; "well for him you mean surely." "not so. look you in what plight he has us should he be a traitor. we are wrapped in our cloaks, lying in the bottom of the skiff. the young man steers us to this balcony, springs nimbly upon it, the rope in his hand, deftly with his foot upsetting the boat, as, like my countryman, william tell, he leaps from it. he cries aloud, 'treason! treason against my lord, the archbishop!' the guards rush out, we are fished dripping from the water, and dragged before archbishop arnold to explain to him who we are and what we did cruising round his moselle palace. if he is false, being a quick-witted man he sees his doom is fixed should he refuse the test, while by accepting our proposal we at once deliver ourselves shackled into his hands. i should ask nothing better than to have two fools, who were my enemies, placed thus at my disposal." the baron sprang to his feet with an oath. "we shall go on no such hare-brained excursion," he cried. "pardon," said the emperor, calmly, "but i shall go, most assuredly. i am not the man to propose a test and then shrink from it. but it would be wiser for you to remain here, ready to stand sponsor for me with the archbishop, should i be captured. i assure you, good siegfried, your testimony will have much greater weight if you come to the palace dry, than if you are a dripping accomplice, rescued by his men-at-arms." "where you go, i go," answered the baron, nonplussed. the boatman put his head up through the trap-door and announced that the skiff was ready. the emperor laughed as he flung his cloak over his shoulders; the baron did likewise, but there was disquietude on his brow. "there is like to be enough of meat," said the archer, seeing they were about to depart, "but if you are to be long absent i would fain be put into communication with the hogshead from which this most excellent flagon is accustomed to be replenished. wine, when a man is eating, makes fair escort for good food down the throat, but one is scarcely able thus to judge satisfactorily of its quality, missing the aroma which the more leisurely drinking allows the palate to become acquainted with. i hold that the proper time for doing justice to a good wine is when hunger has been so thoroughly appeased that----" "the barrel is in the adjoining room," replied siegfried, as he disappeared down the trap-door. the boatman, sitting in the stern and using a paddle, propelled the skiff through the water-doorway and out upon the broad bosom of the river. his two passengers reclined near the prow and thus they floated down with the current, passing the numerous small buildings, all dark, which composed the little hamlet of zurlauben. the huge square bulk of the archbishop's palace rose in the moonlight at the further end of the village, showing some lights in the upper rooms. the man in the stern of the boat sat silent as a statue of death, and almost as motionless. he allowed the boat to drift with the current, making no effort to accelerate its progress by use of the paddle that trailed in the water behind, contenting himself by giving it a slight deflection to right or left and thus direct the impetus of the craft this way or that. the tall pointed windows of the large hall of the palace, which, filled with stained glass, gave a semi-ecclesiastical appearance to the river front of the edifice, glowed softly with coloured light, like jewelled pictures against the dark wall, showing that the room within was still illuminated. the two passengers now reclined with heads towards the prow, their cloaks entirely concealing their persons, and in the silence and the darkness, with the mute figure upright in the stern, the weird craft looked as if charon were its master, ferrying two lost souls over the styx. as the boat floated noiselessly as a leaf on the surface of the water into the great shadow which the palace threw upon the river, the stillness was broken by a woman's voice. she hissed out the one word-- "laggard!" "i am not to blame," answered the boatman, rising, taking the rope in his hand and flinging the loop of it upon the balcony, where it caught upon some projection, and swung the skiff gently round till the prow pointed up stream. "i assure you, hilda, i am not to blame. my master had commands for me which i could not dispose of sooner." "i wish i could see thy face," answered the girl, "then i would know whether you speak the truth or not. it is like that you have been to treves to meet some wench more complaisant than i. oh, i know of old how well you can arrange meetings in the city, and if with me why not with another?" "it is hard to be accused twice in one night of lying. i was on my way to meet you when my master came, and he would not believe what i said. i know not how to convince you of my truth unless you ask him whether or no he stopped me from coming earlier." "bring thy master to me instead, conrad, and i will vouch thou art truth teller except where women are concerned, and of that i have my doubts. what hast thou in thy boat, conrad? i saw the bulk of a burden when i peered my eyes out watching for thy slow coming." "'tis but dressed calves that i must deliver safe and sound at a house in the village further up the river. i came direct to thee before doing so." "who is thy master then, that asks such strange service from his man?" "he is a butcher who delights in the killing." the prone emperor nudged his companion and whispered, "the adage is true, siegfried; you are like to hear little that will flatter you." "conrad, tell me you have not been to treves." "i swear to you i have not." "and that you love none other than me?" "i love you only, and would stand against wall to be pierced through the heart for thy sake." "oh, conrad!" cried the girl, kneeling and taking his head in her arms. "no such test of thy love shall ever be required of thee, but i dearly yearn to hear thee tell me so. wilt thou come earlier to-morrow night; for when the light dims in the great hall windows i must away, and i feared to-night they would be dark ere i saw the boat. say thou wilt come earlier, then no time will be lost in chiding thee." "hilda, it must be as my master wills. he is a strict man, and hard. if he knows of my coming i cannot tell what may happen." "but why serve the butcher? if you quit him i will speak to my lady, who will surely get you a place in the household of his lordship." "advancement may be more certain with a hard master where there are few servants than with one like the archbishop, who has hundreds at his command. i will answer you to-morrow. if my master is just and regards truthful service he may look with favour on me." "but you said you knew little of him." "i know more of him now that he has returned. hilda, i pray you cast your memory back and tell me what i proposed to do when next i saw him." "you mean the telling him about our love and betrothal?" "yes." "then you have told him? what did he say!" "i have told him. i shall know to-morrow what he says." as he spoke the lights in the great windows dimmed and went out. "alas! alas!" cried the girl, "our time is spent. come earlier to-morrow night. and now get thee back to thy butcher." "in truth, hilda, he came nearer than you wot of, to the justifying of your term to-night. farewell." there was the smacking sound of several kisses hurriedly bestowed, then the young man pulled the prow end of the rope toward him, and sat down again in the stern. the boat floated along under the shadow of the palace, but the steersman with vigorous but silent strokes of the paddle prevented it from drifting into the moonlight, shooting the craft rapidly across the river until it reached the comparatively still water near the opposite bank. the two in the prow now sat up but remained silent, making no comment on the events of the evening in the hearing of the person most interested, who applied himself strenuously to the work in hand, and proved not only his strength, but his mastery of the waterman's art. the moonlight falling on the emperor's face, showed a resolute effort on the part of his majesty to keep from laughter, while the baron's countenance exhibited a settled gloom. when well above the village, the boatman, with a few quick, well-placed strokes, sped the skiff across the river, and timed his efforts so accurately that it floated into the open doorway under the house. rodolph and siegfried mounted the steps and found the archer with his head resting on his arms spread out over the table, sound asleep, and audibly enjoying his rest. "speaking for myself, i like hilda," said the emperor, with a laugh. "how does your more experienced judgment approve of the girl, siegfried?" but the baron did not answer the question. he said instead, with some indignation, "a butcher, indeed! i shall give the fellow his life, because i passed my word, but he is no longer servant of mine. i shall take instead this honest archer, who has passed the time of life when balcony work is attractive." "my lord baron, you will do nothing so foolish. the young man is a jewel. he is a proven man, while you know little of this stranger, who is a foreigner, and, by his own account, a mere hireling. if i am ever to make my escape from this place on horse, or in boat, i want this young fellow here to help me. i feel i can depend on him in an emergency." "in that case he remains." at this point conrad himself appeared, and closing down the trap-door, stood waiting orders. "you have proven yourself a true man," said the emperor, "and i will make my promise good to provide your hilda with a suitable dowry. for the time being your duty lies here, and i beg you to remember that a shut mouth will lead to an open purse. your master will tell you that you are, for the present, to obey me as you would him, and should i reach here without him, you are to be at my orders. meanwhile, no word to any of what happened to-night, least of all to hilda herself, who will not thank you, believe me, for providing witnesses able to give testimony regarding her undoubted affection for you. i shall add to your pay an amount equal to what my friend allows you. are you satisfied?" "yes, my lord." "you will give this archer breakfast in the morning," added the baron, "and then bid him god-speed. satisfy his hunger and thirst, but not his curiosity. and finally remember well that you are to hold yourself at all times under the special commands of this gentleman, to whom to-night you owe your life, for had i been alone i would undoubtedly have made good my title of your butcher." conrad bowed and remained silent. the emperor and the baron departed, and made their way across the plain to treves, where they found the dangling rope awaiting them, by the aid of which they reached their rooms, unimpeded by further adventure. chapter iv. the emperor disappears. for three days the emperor and siegfried wandered about treves and saw much to interest and instruct them. among other things they noted that the city was more efficiently garrisoned than was frankfort, the capital. soldiers swarmed everywhere, insolent and overbearing. one would imagine that no such person as the emperor existed, for all authority seemed vested in the archbishop. the talk was of what the archbishop would do or would not do. whatever nominal authority the emperor might possess in treves, the archbishop was the holder of actual power, and his wishes were law without appeal. "i think," said rodolph, "that when i return from the holy land i shall get together an army and pay a visit of state to this arnold. it would be some gratification for me to know that a few good people in this city were at least aware of my existence." once or twice the two were stopped and questioned with an arrogance that was particularly galling to both emperor and baron. on these occasions siegfried's suave diplomacy succeeded in avoiding disaster, but he was in continual fear that the anger of the emperor himself might be aroused and that something would be said resulting in peril. on the third day the crisis came, and then not through any indiscretion on the part of the emperor, but rather from the action of siegfried himself. as they approached the market-square on the evening of the third day, homeward bent, a truculent officer, with feet spread wide apart, opposed their passage. "hold, my fine fellow," he cried, placing his hand rudely on rodolph's shoulder. "are you military or civil?" "let me pass," said the emperor, quietly. "i am a peaceable merchant." "then by what right do you wear a sword at your hip?" "by what right do you question me?" "i question you in the name of his high and mighty lordship, the archbishop of treves." "then i answer that i wear this sword by permission of the emperor rodolph, being a citizen of frankfort." "the emperor rodolph is a swiss, and no true german." "you lie!" cried siegfried, whipping out his blade. "the emperor is a better german than you or any other treves cut-throat, and he is overlord of arnold von isenberg, whose menial you are. doff your cap to the name of the emperor, or i will smite your head to the pavement, cap and all." "treason, treason!" shouted the officer, springing back and unsheathing his sword. "treason to the archbishop! treason!" the cry brought instantly all the military, both officers and men, within hearing distance, to the spot, and caused, at the same time, the few civilians of the neighbourhood to escape as quickly as possible. the civil population well knew that in a military disturbance they were safer in their own houses. rodolph had also drawn his sword, ready to stand by the baron should an onslaught be made, yet he saw in a moment that resistance would be vain, surrounded as they now were by an angry well-armed-mob. "arrest those dogs," cried the infuriated officer, "who have dared to question the authority of the archbishop in his own town of treves, and have insulted him by drawing blade on one of his officers." several soldiers moved forward to execute this command, when siegfried, holding his sword aloft in the air, shouted: "have a care what you do! i am baron siegfried von brunfels, a resident and a householder in treves, as noble as the archbishop himself, which his lordship would be the first to allow. if there is to be an arrest, let the proper authority take into custody this brawling officer, who disgraces the uniform he wears by attempted mishandling of his superiors. by the gods, his lordship will be surprised to learn of the manners that prevail in his good city of treves during his absence, and he barely outside the walls." those around the baron instantly fell back upon the proclamation of his quality. another officer pressed forward with outstretched hand. "welcome to treves, my lord," he said. "i thought you were in frankfort." "i am but newly arrived," replied siegfried, taking the proffered hand of his acquaintance, "and come only to meet insult for myself and my guest." "i knew not his condition," pleaded the originator of the disturbance, in the most abject manner. "i crave your pardon, my lord, and that of your comrade." the baron made no reply, but turned his back upon the suppliant. with his anger rapidly cooling he began to realise the possible consequences of his revelation of identity. he would now be compelled to pay formal court to the archbishop, and give some plausible reason for his unexpected visit to treves. if any word reached the suspicious ear of the archbishop that he had been in the city secretly for several days, his already embarrassing situation would be rendered all the more difficult, and he might speedily find himself an inhabitant of the prison, where it was notorious that entrance was more easy than exit. he bade good-bye to the officer who had recognised him, pleaded fatigue from his journey in excuse for his refusal of hospitality that night at the officer's quarters, and departed with his guest, looked after somewhat curiously by all who remained. he knew that they would now hear his opponent's version of the beginning of the mêlée and that all would wonder why a noble of the baron's rank should be wandering through treves with a man who announced himself a merchant. the mystery would deepen the more it was discussed, and the baron felt increased uneasiness regarding his forthcoming interview with arnold von isenberg. yet what troubled him most was the future action of the emperor himself. he was resolved that rodolph should forthwith quit treves and hie him back to frankfort, leaving his friend to stand the brunt of whatever explanation might be forthcoming. in this lay difficulty. the emperor was so loyal to his friendships that he might refuse to leave treves. siegfried well knew that when rodolph made up his mind to a certain course of action, neither persuasion nor threats could swerve him from it. their coming had been but a foolhardy expedition at the best, and a most dangerous one as well. the emperor himself had given out that he had departed for the holy land. none but siegfried knew that such departure had not taken place. let but the crafty arnold get an inkling of the fact that the emperor was in treves secretly, and disguised as a merchant, and he would instantly surround the house with troops, convey both emperor and baron to the secret prison he possessed, and there hold them until it suited his purpose to let them go. no friend of either emperor or baron would have the slightest suspicion of their fate, for each had elaborately perfected the fiction that they had gone to the east, which fiction now seemed like to be their own undoing, more to be feared than the wrath of the archbishop himself. how the crafty arnold would chuckle at the trap they had laid for themselves! "baron," said the emperor, as they walked silently homeward, "i am sorry to disturb your most uncompanionable meditations, but i think we are followed." "followed!" echoed siegfried in alarm, casting a look over his shoulder. he saw in the distance behind them an officer and two soldiers, who seemed anxious to escape observation and who slunk under an archway when they saw the baron turn his head. "their suspicion is aroused then," said siegfried. "what can they expect to discover but that i go to my own house accompanied by my guest." "i thought, my valiant baron, you would propose to double on them and lead them a dance through the narrow streets of treves. there would be at least a little excitement in such a course." "it would merely confirm them in their evident belief that i have something to conceal. no. our wisest plan is to go directly to my house and let them report that we have done so. but i am convinced that you must leave treves, and that as soon as possible. i propose, therefore, that we ride through the gates to-morrow, and, if questioned, say we are about to pay a formal visit to the archbishop. we will then ride to zurlauben, where conrad shall mount my fleet horse and accompany you to frankfort." "and you?" "i shall wait upon the archbishop, and answer any question he is pleased to ask." "my good siegfried, no. i can scarcely desert you after having led you into what you were pleased to term a piece of folly. we go together, or we stay together." "but i must now wait upon the archbishop. this night's work makes that imperative. believe me, were i sure you were well on the road to frankfort, i would meet his lordship with an easy conscience." "well, we will discuss the project further to-morrow, and, as i am alone to blame, you will not find me obdurate. i shall fall in with any plan you think is to our advantage, for i see you are anxious regarding my welfare." the baron von brunfels was pleased to think that he had gained so easy and complete a victory. they had now reached the arched doorway, and were speedily admitted. after dinner the emperor retired early, as had been his custom ever since he reached treves, excepting on the first night of their visit. before von brunfels followed his guest's example he looked out upon the moonlit narrow street, and was somewhat alarmed to notice two soldiers on watch, although they were at such a distance that they probably hoped to escape observation. on the other side of the house he also saw two armed men. it was evident the dwelling was surrounded, and that all exit was now impossible, save by passing the guards or by slipping out of the barred window over the city wall. the distance at which the sentinels were posted seemed to indicate that this was not done by the archbishop's authority, but was a measure adopted by some of his officers, who might if necessary disclaim any intention of restricting the liberty of a noble so highly placed as baron von brunfels, yet who were determined that no one should leave or enter the house without their cognisance. the baron's first thought was to put the question to the test by himself passing through the cordon and seeing whether any dare question him, but remembering that the emperor was in his charge, he hesitated about further jeopardising his safety. he thought it better to consult the emperor himself, and if possible persuade him to escape by rope over the wall, make speed to the house by the river, and take horse from there instantly for frankfort. with this intent the baron ascended the stair and tried the door of the large apartment which communicated with the smaller room in which the emperor slept. the door was bolted fast on the inside. he rapped at first lightly, then more loudly, but there was no response. hesitating to break the emperor's slumber for what he might regard as a trivial cause, von brunfels returned to a lower floor and again reconnoitered, but now saw nothing of the guards on either side of the house. perplexed, thinking that he had perhaps jumped too hastily to a conclusion; that after all the house might not be invested by the archbishop's troops; that his own disquiet was the probable cause of his aroused suspicions; he determined not to awaken rodolph until there was more pressing reason for doing so, but to remain himself on guard until daylight. he asked a servant to put out all lights except that in the dining-room, where he sat with a re-filled flagon at his elbow, ears alert for any unaccustomed sound. toward midnight he again thought he saw soldiers move silently in the narrow street, as if guard were being changed, but although the moon shone with midsummer brightness, the depth of the shadows cast by the walls made it impossible for any definite judgment to be formed regarding what was taking place on the street below. when day began to break grayly, the baron watched the departing shadows, eager to learn whether or not their lifting would reveal anything of the guard he was convinced had been set on his house, but the clear light of morning showed the streets deserted and silent. breathing more freely, he threw himself on a bench with his cloak around him and was soon in a deep sleep. it was late when he awoke. calling a servant, he asked why he had not been informed when his guest had breakfasted, and learned with renewed alarm that the emperor had not yet made his appearance. springing to his feet he strode hastily up the stair to find the door still bolted. with ever-increasing uneasiness he mounted another stair to the small room in which his sentinel sat, whose duty it was to watch for the light in the river house, and to unbar the window below and throw down the rope. this room communicated with the emperor's apartments below by means of a secret circular stair. the guard seemed surprised to see the baron, and what was said did not serve to reassure his lordship. "the light by the river has been burning all night. when morning broke i pulled up the rope and closed the window. nobody came in." "why did you not inform me before daybreak?" "i thought it was your lordship who was out. you came in betimes these three nights past." "three nights?" cried the baron. "has the rope been in use for three nights?" "yes, my lord. but, until last night, entry was made long before cock-crow." the baron, stopping to make no further inquiry, went down the circular stair, and after rapping at the bedroom door, opened it. the room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. cursing his own thoughtlessness in allowing the night to pass before finding this out, the baron unbolted the door, went downstairs, and ordered his horse to be saddled. it was evident that for three nights the emperor had been engaged in nocturnal rambles of some sort, and it was also plain that he had intended to return on the third night as usual, otherwise the light would not have burned till day-dawn in the window. what, then, had prevented his return? into what trap had he fallen while the baron was uselessly guarding an empty house? had the suspected traitor at the river house informed the palace authorities of the advent of a mysterious visitor, and had they learned who that visitor was? these reflections tortured baron von brunfels as he paced the stone-paved court impatiently waiting for his horse. he resolved to ride at once to the house by the river and extort full confession from conrad at the point of his sword, slaying him with his own hand if there was the slightest suspicion of treachery. he sprang into the saddle, when the horse was led out, and roused the echoes of the silent narrow street as he galloped toward the north gate. he was permitted to pass through without question, and now proceeded more slowly toward the river, not desiring to show unusual haste. the light still burned in the upper window, and a few moments' investigation served to show that the house was untenanted and the boat gone. thoroughly convinced now that conrad was a traitor, he realised the futility of expecting to find him, as he would doubtless be well protected from vengeance by the archbishop. the baron bitterly regretted that he had not placed one of his own true and tried servants in charge of the river house. in his heart he had no fault to find with the young emperor for engaging, unknown to his host, in these hazardous midnight expeditions. rather he blamed himself for his reluctance in accompanying rodolph on the first stroll that they took to the river, and thought this reluctance the probable cause of the emperor's subsequent secrecy. having at last succeeded in forcing an entrance, siegfried unbolted the stable door and placed the horse he had ridden beside the one standing there. in the large room he found an iron lamp dimly burning, and the trap-door raised. everything tended to show that the emperor fully expected to return, as he had returned before. von brunfels sat down on a bench and buried his face in his hands. he had not the slightest idea what to do, hampered as he was on every side. he could not go into the streets of treves and cry that the emperor was missing. he could not go to the archbishop and seek assistance, as he might have done were the lost man any one else on earth than the emperor rodolph. he could not return to frankfort and raise an army to come to the assistance of a man all supposed to be in the holy land. he might go to frankfort and await developments, but rodolph at that moment probably needed the aid of his good sword, a few hundred yards from where he sat. every avenue seemed closed to him. rodolph, in whatever prison he lay, was not more helpless than his friend outside. as the baron sat there, in a state bordering on despair, his ear caught the sound of a bugle, giving out an imperative note from the direction of the archbishop's palace. this was answered faintly from the town. the archbishop was likely going to treves. siegfried sprang to his feet, and determined to present himself to arnold von isenberg, as he had need to do that day in any case, and by noting every look and expression of his lordship, endeavour to form some conclusion regarding rodolph's fate. once more outside, he found that, during his brief withdrawal, many things had happened. a troop of horse was drawn up in front of the palace. mounted men were hurrying to and fro between treves and zurlauben. from the north gate of the city another body of cavalry was issuing. bugle notes came over the plains from treves, and it was only too evident to the baron that something unusual was afoot. as may be imagined, these hasty military preparations did not tend to soothe his apprehensions. his first thought that the archbishop intended to proceed from zurlauben to treves seemed erroneous, because of the magnitude of the movement going forward. arnold marched in state when he went abroad, but he did not throw the whole military force at his disposal into commotion by doing so. the baron's practised eye, and his knowledge of life in treves at once told him that some unexpected event had led to the sudden rally of troops round the summer palace. he walked his horse slowly towards the body of cavalry, and as he approached was saluted by the officer in charge, whom he recognised as the friend who had come to his rescue the evening before. "you have chosen an inopportune time, my lord baron, for your visit to the archbishop, if such is your purpose," said the officer, in a low voice, when the baron came up with him. "i doubt if you will have audience with his lordship to-day." "i came with that design," answered siegfried, with a scarcely perceptible falter in his voice. "what has happened since i last saw you, for there appears to be some commotion of more than usual significance?" "ah, that i do not know," replied the officer. "there is something important in the wind that was not thought of last night. war, i hope. my instructions--there is nothing secret about them--is to take the road to frankfort with all speed. i merely wait the coming of one who is now with his lordship receiving final directions. count bertrich was in treves this morning when, it seems, the archbishop thought he should have been at hand. i spoke with the count two hours ago, and i'll swear he had no idea that there was anything extraordinary afoot. a company has already gone westward with all haste, and five messengers have been despatched, one after another, to treves for the count. so impatient is the archbishop that no sooner does one mounted man disappear through the north gate than another is sent off. here comes the count now on the gallop at the head of his troop." as he spoke the party which siegfried had seen leaving the city came racing up in a cloud of dust. count bertrich flung himself from his horse and strode into the palace, unheeding the salutations he received on all sides. at the same moment a man, booted and spurred, but not in armour, equipped rather for swift riding than for combat, came hurriedly down the steps, sprang on his horse and shouted "forward." the officer at once gave the word to his men, and the troop started off at a trot for the frankfort road. baron von brunfels sat on his horse, doubtful what next to do. as he hesitated, count bertrich came out of the palace, with pale face and set lips, mounted the horse he had left but a few moments before, gave a curt word of command, and galloped at the head of his company down the river road. whatever communication he had had with the archbishop must have been of the shortest, and the cloud on the count's brow showed it had been at least unpleasant. the baron determined to see the archbishop at all hazards, hoping that some chance word would give him a key to these swift and mysterious movements. he dismounted, left his horse in charge of one of the numerous retainers standing about, went up the steps and entered the large hall, which he found filled with officers and nobles, all speaking low to each other; all, quite palpably, in a state of anxiety and unsatisfied curiosity. the baron walked through this throng to a smaller ante-chamber into which he was admitted by the officer on guard, on mentioning his rank, and once there he sent his name to the archbishop. after a time the archbishop's monkish secretary came out, and bowing low said: "my lord, the archbishop sends greeting to baron siegfried von brunfels, and deeply regrets that it is impossible for his lordship to receive even the emperor to-day, were he to honour treves with his presence." "even the emperor!" repeated siegfried, slowly, looking with keen apprehension at the secretary-monk, who had delivered so singular a message. "those were his lordship's words," replied the monk, again bowing deferentially, which assurance did little to diminish the baron's anxiety. "i trust," said siegfried, "that nothing untoward has happened to cause his lordship apprehension." "i devoutly trust not," answered the monk, with non-committal obsequiousness, and after this remark he gravely took his leave. baron von brunfels again passed through the crowded hall, pausing to converse briefly with one or two acquaintances, but he learned nothing; on the contrary, he found those who knew him, expecting enlightenment themselves because he had just come from the ante-chamber. the baron mounted his horse and rode slowly back to treves, pondering on the exciting events of the day. these events had convinced him that if rodolph had been captured in the night, he had evidently escaped in the morning, and that this was the meaning of the hurried scouring of the country. there seemed nothing left but to return to his house in treves, for he thought that if rodolph could remain in hiding until nightfall he would probably attempt to re-enter the house by the way he had departed from it, knowing as he must, the anxiety his continued absence would cause his friend. besides it must undoubtedly occur to him that, while the search lasted, the safest place in which to hide was treves itself, for the archbishop would most likely imagine that the fugitive emperor had made for frankfort with all the speed he could command. reasoning thus, the baron passed again unchallenged through the gate to his house, which he found just as he had left it. he sent one of his servants to the cottage by the river with strict instructions not to quit the place until he was relieved, and to show two lights in the window if, for any reason, help was needed. then the baron threw himself down on a couch to get some rest, and await the coming of night. chapter v. love leads the way. on the night after his adventure in the boat with the baron, the emperor retired early, bolted his door, threw open the window, flung down the rope, and so descended to the plain outside the wall. he made his way across the plateau, pausing for some moments to look at the lighted windows of the palace, but hesitating to approach near, fearing to be challenged by the sentinels who marched up and down in front of the huge building. finally he proceeded to the upper part of the village, knocked at the door of his friend's châlet, and was admitted by the young man in charge. "well, conrad," he said, "has our eloquent and skilful archer left you yet?" "yes, my lord. he went away this morning after he had breakfasted." "most heartily, i warrant?" "yes, my lord!" "and whither went he?" "he said he thought of marching to the rhine, my master having advised him that he would there find employment." "i doubt not he will obtain it. they were ever a turbulent crew on the lordly rhine. we are quit of the archer then. have you seen hilda since last night?" "no, my lord," said the young man, casting his eyes on the floor. "ah, there i stand your friend. i am come to hold guard until you return from the balcony. but hark ye, conrad, we are all selfish in this world, and i demand due recompense for my watch and ward. will you make bargain then to requite good deed with good deed?" "so far as deed of mine may repay you, my lord, not only for what you offer, but because of that you have already done on my behalf, you are welcome to any service of mine you are pleased to accept. i hold my life at your hands." "then we begin fair, and i see i may make for myself a most favourable compact with you. we are both of an age, and although it may seem heresy to say so under the feudal law, there might be some difficulty, if each were stripped of his trappings, to proclaim which of us was noble and which plebeian. the valiant archer, who was your guest, said quite truly, that under arms the best wielder of his weapon was ever the best man, be he titled or nameless, and i think the same holds true where such archery as that of cupid comes in question. to be plain with you, conrad, as lover to lover, there exists a maid in yonder palace with whom i would fain hold balcony discourse--but, alas! she waits not for me, listening to the ripple of the river or for the splash of my paddle. in truth, my friend, she, like many in this district, knows not of my existence, and of the fact that i live and adore her i should dearly love to make her aware." "you mean the countess tekla, my lord?" "conrad, 'tis easy to see that you have learned the craft of the arrow, not from our stupid archer, but under the tutelage of the god of love himself. your first shaft shot straight home. has hilda ever spoken of her?" "sometimes, my lord. the countess is most unhappy, she says, because she is to wed the mighty war-lord bertrich, whom she loves not." "then are we laggards indeed, did we stand idly by and offer no aid to the lady. now, conrad, what i wish you to do is this: discover for me whether the countess walks in the garden attended only by hilda, and at what hour. get such particulars as you can regarding means of access to the spot, and beseech hilda, as she hopes her own love shall prosper, to be my friend should i seek speech with the countess." "my lord, there is a better way than that. hilda told me when last the court was at the river palace, that i was to hold myself in readiness with my boat, so that her ladyship might come secretly and be rowed by me upon the water. nothing has since been said of this excursion, but i will ask hilda to-night if it has been abandoned. i will ask her also to urge her ladyship to come, for hilda has a persuasive tongue, and the countess tekla thinks much of her. then i shall tell them that i must have a comrade to help me to manage the boat because of the strength of the current." "now the gods stand our friends, but that is a most happy conceit of yours, conrad! cupid should be the god of liars as of lovers. therefore get thee with haste to thy balcony. i see we will manage this most skilfully together. see that hilda be ready to say a soothing word should the countess take alarm at my addressing her. urge thou the water trip; dilate on the beauty of the full moon, the quickness with which it waneth, and the softness of the summer night. plead eloquently, conrad, and let hilda think your anxiety rises from your desire to sit near her in the skiff, which will indeed be the truth." "i shall do my best, my lord," said conrad, as he departed. the emperor strode up and down, humming to himself a song of the swiss mountains that told of dangers dared for the sake of a lady. he kept his watch, half-expecting that at any moment his friend siegfried might knock at the door; but no one came until he heard again the bump of the boat's prow underneath the house. a few moments later conrad appeared through the trap-door. "well, what news?" cried the impatient guard. "none, as yet. the countess has not of late spoken of the boating project, but hilda will suggest it and let me know the result to-morrow night." "then with that we must be content. to-morrow--at the same hour--i shall be here, and will again keep watch for you. meanwhile take this and present it to hilda to wear for my sake. i should have given it to you before you went to see her to-night, but became so interested in your plans that i forgot. set the light in the upper window, and so good night." he handed to the young man a jewelled necklace, and was gone. at the same hour on the second night the emperor was admitted by conrad. "now away to your tryst," cried rodolph, as soon as the door was barred. "i am impatient to hear the result of your oratory regarding the pleasures of boating in the moonlight." the young man hesitated, then took from his bosom the necklace that had been given him the night before. "i fear, my lord, that this gift is too costly for me to present or hilda to wear. i beg of you----" "tush, tush! do not stand there chattering about trifles. i promised hilda a dowry: it is in those jewels if i never give her more. this is an uncertain world, conrad, and few of us know how long we may remain in it. when you and hilda are married who knows where i may be? i may become emperor, or may be a beggar; so in one case i should forget, while in the other there would be little gear in my remembering. always take the good the gods send, when they send it. 'tis unsafe to wait a second offer. and now begone, begone. tell hilda to conceal the necklace until such time as she can wear it safely or transmute the stones into gold. away, away!" conrad descended to his boat without further ado, and again rodolph paced up and down the room with even more impatience than he had shown the previous night. it seemed hours before he heard the lover returning, and when the young man appeared-- "well, well, well?" cried the waiting emperor, "when do they come, when do they come?" "that i cannot yet tell, my lord." "good heavens! may not a conclusion be more speedily reached on a subject so trivial? what did hilda say?" "she asked the countess whether it was her will or no to go out in the boat, as had been formerly proposed. her ladyship seemed strangely moved by so simple a question. she wrung her hands, hilda said, and wept a little, crying that she knew not what to do. hilda assured her i held myself in readiness, upon which the countess walked up and down the room in agitation, and asked hilda to beg me not to fail her, if she called upon me." "there is more in this than appears on the surface. go on, go on." "she asked hilda to inquire particularly where i lived, and where the boat was kept; whether any one else was in the house with me, and the like. then she said she might go to-morrow night, but would let me know. she said she must see the archbishop first." "the archbishop!" cried rodolph. "in god's name, did she say why? is she a prisoner?" "hilda thinks she wishes to get his permission." "a thousand terrors! this is most awkward. it will mean guards, a retinue, and what not. why did you not urge hilda to beg her to come without such ceremony?" "i did, my lord, right earnestly. hilda has promised to do so, and let me know the result to-morrow night." "another postponement! i like not the thought of the archbishop mixing in this matter; but, come what will, we are ready to face it. to-morrow, then, and may it arrive speedily. i give you good-night, conrad. i will be here at the same hour to-morrow night, or earlier." when the emperor arrived on the third night the events happening in treves, that evening, increased his fear that something would prevent his meeting with the countess. he felt that he was entangling his feet in a skein that might at any time tighten and overthrow him. he well knew that these three nights' work would meet the strong disapproval of siegfried, who had reluctantly enough given his consent to the project when its objects were strictly political--the measuring of the archbishop's military strength and personal power--but now that mars had given way to cupid, rodolph dreaded the opinion of his friend, should he get inkling of the change of purpose. siegfried's hope was to see rodolph not only become a real emperor, but a great one, reducing his powerful and haughty subjects, the archbishops, for instance, to their proper relation to the imperial throne. the emperor had been inspired with enthusiasm when he left frankfort, resolving to fulfil his destiny, but now he could not conceal from himself that all political visions had dissolved for the moment because of one fleeting glance at a handsome woman. he knew he was jeopardising his brilliant future, and perhaps life itself, for the mere chance of speaking to her, and sitting near her. but he was twenty-eight, and he never even thought of turning back. conrad had nothing new to tell him when rodolph entered the house by the river, and the emperor hurried him away, begging him to make his visit at the balcony as brief as possible. the visit was indeed brief, for the emperor, impatient as he was, had hardly imagined conrad at the palace when the bumping of the boat underneath the house announced his return. conrad came up through the trap-door. "hilda is not there, my lord," he said. "not there? why did you not wait? my anxiety has brought me here early, yet i could have sworn i arrived later than on either of the other nights." "it is later; therefore i wonder what has detained her. i did not wait, my lord, but thought it best to return and let you know. i can go instantly back." "do so, conrad, do so. she may be waiting for you now." as conrad was about to depart there came a distinct knock at the door. the two men looked at each other, conrad in alarm, rodolph with an expression of annoyance in his face. much as he loved his friend, the baron was the last person on earth whose presence he desired at that moment. not even the archbishop would be more unwelcome. the knock was repeated with some emphasis. "is there any place from which you can see who knocks? the moon shines full on the front of the house," whispered rodolph. "yes; through the shutters of that bow-shot window." "then move cautiously to reconnoitre. we will decide how to act when we know who is there." conrad tip-toed to the window, peered through, and drew back with a suppressed exclamation. "it is the countess tekla herself," he cried. chapter vi. an unwished-for marriage day. the countess tekla having dismissed her waiting-maid, sat long in her boudoir over-looking the moselle, and thought deeply upon the question that the girl had brought uppermost, by asking if the countess had abandoned all purpose of making an excursion on the river. such indeed had once been her intention if the iron archbishop, her unrelenting guardian, persisted in forcing his will upon her. his last word had been given her the day the court left treves, and it was to the effect that she should hold herself in readiness to wed count bertrich at the cathedral when the court returned. the time for preparation was short, and once inside the walls of that grim city, all chance of escape would be cut off. could she but reach castle thuron, the lofty stronghold of her uncle count heinrich the black, on the lower moselle, she felt that, for the sake of kinship, if not for her broad lands, he would refuse to give her up again to the archbishop and to this abhorred union with a middle-aged ruffian, who, rumour said, had murdered his first wife. the stern black count, her uncle, she had never seen, and what she had heard of him was disquieting enough. his mailed hand was heavy, and it came down with crushing force on all who opposed his will; but he could not make for her a more detested match than that which the archbishop insisted upon; and then he was her mother's brother; if any trace of softness was concealed in his adamantine nature his niece might perhaps touch it, for he had no children of his own. yet the countess felt that in setting up her own will against that of her guardian she was doing an unheard of, unmaidenly act. all women were thus disposed of. how came it that rebellion against just authority arose in her heart? she could not herself account for this strange anomaly, and she feared that evil lurked somewhere in her nature. she had confessed this feeling to her spiritual adviser, and he had mildly, reproachfully censured her for it, placing her under penance that she willingly endured, hoping it would bring about a change; but it had not, and she shuddered every time the battle-scarred face of count bertrich leered upon her. the countess knelt before the image of her patron saint and implored help; help to decide; help to oppose; help to submit; but the placid saint had sent, as yet, no solution of the problem. when last the archbishop spoke, he spoke as one giving final decision and he permitted neither reply nor comment. the days by the river were slipping away and none knew how soon the archbishop might suddenly make up his mind to return to treves. then the cathedral, and the wedding procession! why had hilda spoken of the river and the skiff; that wild project which she had prayed for help to put out of her mind? was this then an indication that her saint had come to a decision and that too in her favour? it certainly seemed so. she resolved to seek her guardian, throw herself at his feet and implore him by the love he had once held for her father, who had lost his life in the archbishop's service, to release her from this loathed union. she would give up her lands willingly, if that were required, and would retire to a convent in treves, or to any other place of refuge that might be appointed. arnold von isenberg sat in a chair that was with difficulty to be distinguished from a throne. the back rose high above his head, and at the top was carved in gilded relief the arms of the electorate. the tall pointed coloured windows by the river, cast a subdued radiance of many hues on the smooth surface of the polished oaken floor. the lofty timbered roof of the large room gave the apartment the appearance of a chapel, which effect was heightened by an altar at one end, where several high wax candles burned unceasingly. near the archbishop, by a table, sat the monkish secretary, who wrote at his lordship's slow dictation, orders pertaining to business both ecclesiastical and military. at the door of the room, which was concealed by a heavy crimson curtain, stood two fully-mailed men-at-arms, with tall pikes upright, whose ends rested on the polished floor. near them, out of hearing of the archbishop's low voice, stood, cap in hand, a courier equipped for riding, evidently awaiting the despatches which the monk was writing. deep silence pervaded the great room and each person within it was motionless, save only the monk, who now was tying the despatches into bundles and sealing them at the small candle which burned on the table beside him. the heavy drapery over the door parted, and a retainer entered softly, standing with his back to the curtain until a scarcely perceptible motion of the archbishop's head permitted him to advance. dropping on one knee before the seated monarch, he said: "my lord archbishop, the countess tekla begs to be admitted." the archbishop made no reply, and the messenger remained on his knee. the despatches were given to the waiting courier, who departed. then his lordship said curtly, "admit her." the messenger, rising, went to the door, held back the curtains, and a moment later there glided into the room the countess tekla, who stood pale against the crimson background. the archbishop regarded her with a dark and menacing look, but gave no other greeting. seeing no motion which invited her to approach, the girl, after standing a moment or two in hesitation, moved swiftly forward and sank down before the throne. "my lord," she murmured; then agitation seemed to choke her utterance. "if you come here to kneel," said the archbishop, in low, deep tones, "kneel at the altar yonder and not to me. while you are there, pray that the saints bestow upon you a contrite spirit." "my lord," she cried, "i beg of you to take my lands, and graciously permit me to retire to a convent that you may be pleased to appoint for me." "your lands are mine, as your person is mine, to dispose of at my will, unquestioned." "my lord, when my father gave my guardianship to you----" "i hold my guardianship, not by your father's will, but through the reading of the feudal law. your father, in dutifully testifying that his wish ran parallel with the law, set an example which his daughter may profitably follow." "i wish to follow his example. i wish to render up to you all lands that were his. i wish to devote my poor services to mother church." "your poor services shall be given where i bestow them. betake yourself to your apartments, and come not here again until you bring with you a bending will and an unrebellious spirit." "my lord guardian, i do beseech you to hear me." "i have heard enough and too much," said the archbishop sternly. "write," he added to the secretary: "'to count bertrich. hold yourself in readiness to wed the countess tekla in the chapel of our summer palace two days hence--on friday at mid-day.'" the countess rose to her feet, the colour mounting to her cheek and brow. "my lord," she cried, a ring of indignation in her voice, "add to that a request that the count disclose to you the cause of his first wife's death, so that you may judge whether he is a fit person to entrust with a second." "you may question him regarding that after marriage. i have ever understood that a man will grant information to his bride which he risks peril of his soul by concealing from his confessor. to your apartments, obstinate woman; there is but brief space to prepare for the festivities." "my lord, my lord, i bid you beware. it is feudal law that you may dispose of my hand as you will; but by feudal law i also have the right to make choice instead of a convent and forfeiture of my lands." "despatch that message to count bertrich," said the elector to his secretary. "my lord archbishop, i will appeal to our holy father, the pope, and to the emperor." "do so. we will marry you first, and should we have made a mistake our holy father hath ample power to remedy it. and now, madame, your audience is ended." the countess retired to her apartments, knelt before the image of her saint and prayed for guidance. she was in some doubt that the harsh old man would insist on the carrying out of his threat, and she had hope that he would send for her to tell her so, but no message came from him. tekla slept little that night, and going down to early mass she saw the chapel already decorated for the dreaded ceremony, the workmen having evidently spent the night in preparing it. the floral wreaths, the loops of white flowers breathing sweetness and perfume, typical of love, joy and happiness, seemed in such ghastly contrast to the reality, that their simple presence did more to decide the girl than all the other influences which, on that eventful day, helped to shape her conduct. she resolved to escape from the thraldom of the archbishop; seek refuge in the castle of her uncle, and from that haven send an appeal to the pope and also to the emperor. the only question was now that of means. castle thuron was on the moselle; the river was swift; she knew little of the geography of the country, but she was aware that the roads by the stream were bad, and she doubted if they extended all or even the greater part of the way to the rhine. could she once get several hours start, on that rapid current, the chances of being overtaken were slight. while the countess had full confidence in her maid hilda, she thought it better not to confide her plans to any one. hilda would be sure to tell her lover, and that young man might at the very outset refuse to undertake so perilous a voyage. then if hilda were cross-questioned and became frightened, she could not confess what she did not know. in the case of failure tekla wished to face all the results of her rebellion alone, and leave herself the right to say that none other knew of her purpose. questioning hilda, and finding she had learned where conrad lived, the countess, with the natural craft of her sex, made preparations calculated to baffle her pursuers, temporarily at least. when darkness set in, she requested hilda to lay out for her the costume she usually wore. this costume she astonished hilda by asking her to put on. when the tire-woman had thus arrayed herself the two looked like sisters, and hilda laughed merrily at the transformation, which caused even the countess, anxious as she was, to smile. "now listen attentively, hilda, and act with circumspection. i have reason for wishing you to be mistaken for me to-night. you will put on this heavy veil so that none may see your face. go quietly through the palace and pass the guards without speaking to any or looking at any. avoid meeting three persons at all hazards; return at once if you see one or other of them, and hie forth again as soon as danger is past. these three are the archbishop, count bertrich, and the monk who is his lordship's secretary. the guards will not stop you nor speak to you, thinking it is i who pass. once outside, see that you are not followed, then get you to conrad's house and bid him instantly to take you in his boat to the watersteps of the palace, where i will await you." "conrad spoke of another to help him with the boat; should he be absent shall conrad search for him, my lady?" "no. if he is there, bring him; if he is not, come instantly without. but first you must come with me to the water-door and bolt the door when i am out upon the steps." "but how shall we return, my lady?" "i will tell thee more regarding our return when we are in the boat." hilda barred her lady out, which seemed a strange proceeding, then, safely reached without question or following, the door of baron siegfried, where she knocked twice. chapter vii. the flight of the countess. "it is the countess tekla herself," cried conrad, at the window. "then unbar at once and do not keep her waiting," commanded the emperor, eagerly. the bolts were instantly drawn back and the door thrown open. "oh, conrad," whispered hilda, flinging the veil over her shoulder, thus disclosing her face. she paused in the midst of her speech when she saw a stranger standing there. "it is hilda," said conrad, to the emperor. "why do you masquerade as the countess, hilda?" "it was her ladyship's wish. you are to take me in the boat with you immediately. the countess awaits us at the watersteps." the trap-door was open, and the emperor descended, saying, hastily, "come, conrad." "he is no boatman," whispered hilda, holding back in alarm. "who is----" "hush!" breathed conrad, "trust to me and come." an instant later the boat was pushed out with its three passengers, moving swiftly and silently down the stream, propelled by the lusty but noiseless strokes of conrad's paddle. as they approached the watersteps it seemed at first that no one was there, but as conrad with outstretched arm placed hand on the stone stairway and brought the boat to a stand, the shadowy form of the countess came away from the closed door and a whisper breathed the name of hilda. hilda responded reassuringly, and the countess came down the steps, rodolph standing and handing her into the boat with a deference that the lady was too much agitated to notice. her small hand, lightly touching his as she stepped into the boat, sent a thrill through him such as he had never experienced before. the countess sat down with her back toward him, facing hilda and conrad. "now, good rowers," she said, breathing quickly, "keep within the shadow of the bank until we are sure to have escaped espionage, then i shall have further instructions, and remember that if you work well and silently i shall reward you beyond your hopes." "may that prove true in my case," said rodolph to himself. the huge palace seemed to float to the west; the moon shone brightly, but there was shadow enough thrown by the low bank to conceal the voyagers not only from chance wayfarers, should there be any, which was unlikely, but also from each other. the summer night was warm, and not a breath of wind rippled the surface of the river. now and then some waterfowl, disturbed by their approach, plashed two or three times, beating wing against water, until it rose with a cry and soared away into the night. they had made down the river for nearly an hour when conrad began murmuring to hilda, who sat next him. "the countess does not know how swift this river is," he said. "we will not get back in a week if we go much further. if it had been up the stream time would matter little, but down----" "what does he say?" asked the countess. "he fears we cannot return betimes if we go further. the current is fleet to row against." "conrad," said the countess, bending towards him, "we go not back, but forward. seek the speediest part of the river, and guide the boat into it. i am on my way to castle thuron near the rhine." both hilda and conrad gave utterance to exclamations of astonishment and alarm. "but the archbishop?" cried hilda. "but my master!" groaned conrad. "the archbishop will follow us in hot haste when he finds us gone, hilda, which will be some time before noontide to-morrow, therefore must conrad persuade the swift stream to aid his stout arms." "the boat is not mine," said conrad, "and i have left my master without his sanction." "i will amply reward your master for the losing of his boat, and you for the guiding of it. both you and your comrade will i take into my employ, and neither shall lose by the transfer." "will you stand for me against my master as you did before, my lord," cried conrad, in great alarm at the possible consequences of his desertion from a master who brooked no excuse. "my lord!" cried the countess, half-rising and looking round for the first time at the second boatman, on whom the moonlight now fell, showing that he had removed his cap, and was bowing to her. "i pray you, madame, do not stand, for this boat is but unsteady at best. i beg you not to be alarmed, for i shall be as faithful to your behests as conrad here, and no man can give himself higher warrant." "what lord are you, or are you one?" "conrad, in his excitement, gives me title to which i make no claim, exaggerating my importance because of some influence i have exerted on his behalf with his master." "what is your name and quality, for i see you are no waterman?" "i am sorely disappointed to hear you say so, madame, for i hoped to make good my reputation as waterman by my work to-night. my name is rodolph, and none who know me will deny i am a gentleman." "are you german?" "as german as the emperor and a fellow-countryman of his." "you are a swiss adventurer, then?" "all men have a touch of the adventurer about them: i not more than others, i hope." "why are you here disguised as a boatman?" "i am not disguised, but in my ordinary dress--the costume in which i have appeared these few days past in treves. the house by the river, of which conrad is caretaker, belongs to my friend, who is conrad's master. it happened that i was there when your tire-woman came in real disguise, and when i heard that you awaited the boat on the watersteps of the palace i felt sure something more serious than an excursion by moonlight was intended, although conrad suspected nothing. i came, therefore, thinking you might perhaps need the help of a good sword, and that sword i now lay at your feet." "i need a swift paddle rather than the best of swords. my safety lies in flight, and not in fighting." "my services as oarsman are also at your disposal, madame. i trust that in your presence there will be no need for swordsmanship; but should such necessity arise a stout blade is not to be despised." the countess mused for some moments in silence, evidently disquieted by the intrusion of a stranger, yet well aware that if he proved true and staunch his help might be invaluable. it was impossible for her to question conrad about him in his presence, for she saw he was a gentleman, as he had asserted, but a fear arose that he might be some adherent of the archbishop, intent on furthering his own interests by delivering her into the hands of his lordship's minions. she knew that at various posts along the river, companies of the archbishop's troops were stationed--at bruttig, at cochem, and elsewhere; he could, at the moment of passing any one of these places, give the alarm which would result in her immediate capture. he was armed and conrad was not, therefore there might be some difficulty in disposing of him even if no help were at hand. still anything was better than uncertainty, and she resolved to act at once. the river now ran between high hills, densely wooded from top to water's edge. if he could be put off it were better to disembark him in a wilderness like this, than at some settlement where he had opportunity of raising the hue and cry of pursuit. yet she did not wish to leave him to starve or be torn in pieces by wild boars roaming an almost unlimited forest. the perplexing part of the problem lay in the fact that if he were a spy and a traitor he might refuse to land, while if he were a true man he would rid them of his company when he saw that it was not wanted. the countess leaned forward and spoke to conrad. "do you know this river?" "i know it as far as cochem, my lady." "where are we now, think you?" "we are some two leagues above the ancient roman town of boveris." turning to rodolph, she said: "is the archbishop your over-lord?" "no, madame. i am a free man, owing allegiance to none." "not to the emperor?" "to the emperor, of course, but to none other." "where did you come from, and how long have you been in treves?" "i came from frankfort some three or four days since, and never saw treves before." "you came to seek service with the archbishop perhaps?" "no, madame. i am a student as well as soldier. i came merely to inform myself regarding the manners and customs of so celebrated and ancient a city as treves." "know you who i am?" "you are the countess tekla, ward of the archbishop of treves and niece of count heinrich, to whose castle of thuron you are now betaking yourself." "you are well informed. for what object did you gather this knowledge?" "i sat on horseback outside the north gate, having just arrived from frankfort, when the archbishop and his train passed through on their way to the summer palace. i saw you riding by his side, and discovered who you were." "were you similarly inquisitive regarding the other ladies of the court?" "i saw no others, madame." the countess seemed taken aback by this reply and remained silent for a few moments. at last she said, with deep displeasure in her voice: "i distrust you, sir. if you are a gentleman, as you say, you are aware that none such thrusts himself uninvited into a lady's presence. i ask you, therefore, to leave us." "i am truly grieved, madame, to refuse your slightest request, but i will not leave you until i see you safely at the gate of castle thuron." this refusal at once confirmed all the fears the countess had entertained. with rising anger she cried: "not to the gates of thuron will you deliver me, but to the archbishop's troops at bruttig, and then return to treves for your reward." having said this she did what any girl of nineteen might have been expected to do--she buried her face in her hands and wept. "madame," said rodolph, "forgive me. i may have overrated my ability to serve you in the future, but i see there is no doubt i cause you present distress. i will at once do as you desire. conrad, draw the boat toward the northern shore." when the craft touched the bank rodolph sprang on a rock that jutted into the stream. before leaving the skiff he slipped his cloak from his shoulders and allowed it to remain where he had been seated. on landing he drew his sword from its scabbard and flung it to conrad, saying, "use that only when you are compelled to do so, but trust, unless something unforeseen occurs, to the paddle. keep the boat in the swiftest part of the current and stop question for none. and now, away with all speed, getting as far down the river as possible before daybreak." conrad looked stupidly from the sword lying at the bottom of the boat, up to its owner standing on the rock, not comprehending at first what had happened or was about to happen. when the situation broke upon him he cried: "you are surely not going to desert us, my lord?" rodolph gave no answer, but the countess, drying her tears, made reply to him. "it is my wish that he leave us, conrad." "if that be the case," said conrad, stoutly, "i return to treves. i have put my neck in a halter only on the assurance of his lordship that the rope be not pulled. if my surety is gone, then will the halter tighten. not an inch further down the moselle do i go; in truth, we are much too far already, and god knows what time we shall see treves again, against this current." "tell your fellow," said the countess, imperiously, to hilda, "that he must complete the task he has begun. he will obey you, even though he refuse orders from me, and i will protect him at the journey's end." "indeed, indeed, my lady," cried hilda, in despair, torn between love for her lover and loyalty to her mistress, "why cannot we go on as we began? what needs this lord to be sent thus adrift in the forest, weaponless?" "we want not his weapon; our safety, as he himself says, is in flight. give back the sword, conrad. i will protect you." "pardon me, my lady," replied conrad, with sullen stubbornness, "but how you can protect me when you are flying for your own safety i cannot comprehend. the one who can protect me and who has done so, stands on the bank, and either he comes again into the boat, or i go back to treves. the fewer words that are spoken the less time there is lost." the countess tekla was quick in her decisions. she turned to the young man standing silent in the moonlight upon the rock. she could not but see what a handsome manly fellow he was, and at the sight of him her fears regarding his loyalty diminished, in spite of herself, although she strove in her own mind to justify her action. "my lord, as they persist in calling you, in derision of your disclaimer, you see my crew has mutinied on your account. i beg of you, therefore, to return to your place." "countess," answered rodolph, "more great enterprises have been wrecked through mutiny within the ranks, than because of the enemy without. it is unpleasant to be looked upon as a traitor by one we are proud to serve freely, therefore, as a condition of returning i must ask you to withdraw the imputation you cast upon me." "i do withdraw it. have you further terms to make now that you see me helpless?" "i shall take advantage of your helplessness to impose one more condition. i am to be captain of this expedition, my power being absolute and unquestioned. you, not less than they, are to be under my orders, which must be obeyed promptly and implicitly. do you agree?" "having no choice, i agree." "countess, as you will, when your expedition succeeds, make generous amends for the present ungraciousness of your acceptance, i am content to wait for commendation until then. conrad, give me the sword. hilda, sit in the bottom of the boat, and conrad will fling his cloak about your shoulders. countess, my cloak will form but an inefficient carpet, still 'tis better than naught. lay your head in hilda's lap, and your own cloak shall be your coverlet. so. now to sleep. conrad, strike out for mid-stream." propelled by the sturdy strokes of both, the boat shot out from under cover of the land and re-commenced its rapid voyage down the river. now and then a sleeping village was passed, and once disaster was narrowly averted when conrad's quick eye recognised the floating logs which upheld the linked loops of chain that stretched across the river below a robber castle. this obstruction was intended to stop boats of deeper draught than the light skiff, and compel their owners to pay reluctant tribute to the lord of the castle. the skiff passed midway between two of the logs and floated over the submerged chain in safety. the banks on either hand were high, almost mountainous, and those on the northern side were clothed with vines nearly to the summit. the moon sank behind the hills and for a time the darkness was intense, rendering navigation a matter of some skill and alertness, not without a spice of danger. both the countess and hilda slept peacefully and neither man spoke. only an infrequent plash of paddle, or the lonely cry of a disturbed waterfowl, or night-bird, broke the stillness. at last the short summer night gave token of ending. the lightening surface of the water first heralded the approach of dawn, then the stars began to dim over the eastern hills, and a faint, ever-spreading suggestion of grey crept up the sky beyond. rodolph ventured on a sigh of relief and weariness as the light increased and the difficulties of the task lessened, but he soon saw they were merely exchanging danger of one kind for danger of another, as an early man-at-arms on the right bank espying him, loudly commanded them to draw in and explain themselves, which command, being unheeded, he forthwith planted stake in ground, strung his cross-bow and launched a bolt at them in such hurry that it fell uselessly short and was a good bolt lost. by the time the second was ready, the skiff and its occupants were hopelessly out of range. but the cry of the challenger had awakened the countess, who sat up to see the red rim of the sun breaking out above the hills and flooding the valley with golden light. "are we nearly there?" she asked. "i think not," answered rodolph. "in truth, i know not where we are. is it still far to thuron, conrad?" "we are not yet half-way. it is, i judge, but seven hours since we left treves, and if, with this current and our own work, we have sped two leagues an hour we have done well. that gives us fourteen leagues accomplished. from treves to thuron is somewhere about thirty-four leagues, so there must be twenty at least before us." the countess gave a cry of despair. "is it then so far? i thought we would reach the castle by daybreak. have we passed the archbishop's palace at cochem?" "no, my lady. cochem is but six short leagues from thuron." "is it your wish, madame, to stop at cochem?" asked rodolph. "oh no, no. anywhere but there. i am well known to all about the palace." "but none would have the right to detain you." "not the right perhaps, but the power. to see me travel thus, without fitting escort, would be sure to arouse suspicion, and the custodian of the palace might well take it upon himself to hold me there until he knew the archbishop's pleasure." "we must have food. conrad, know you of any inn further on?" "there are no inns along the moselle except at bruttig and cochem; i think there is a house at each place where soldiers drink and boatmen eat and lodge." "how far is bruttig from here?" "about ten leagues, my lord." "that is five hours at this going. what soldiers are at bruttig?" "the followers of count winneburg, those of the count of beilstein, and soldiers of the archbishop." "if the archbishop's soldiers are there i beg that you will not stop," said the countess. "i am not sure but protection lies in the very fact that they are there. your flight, in all likelihood, has not yet been discovered in treves; we have many hours the start of pursuit, and are not likely to be overtaken. still we shall not stop there, if food can be procured elsewhere." when the sun was two hours high, they drew in at a village on the northern bank, nestling at the foot of the vineyard-covered hill. here they rested for an hour and broke their fast in a fashion. nothing but the coarsest of black bread could be obtained, with some flagons of inferior white wine. the river was now broader and the current less swift, so that progress was more slow than had been the case during the night. in addition, they had frequently to creep close to the bank on one side or the other to escape observation, and this delayed them. consequently the sun was well past meridian when bruttig, with the castle above it came into sight, and all in the boat were ravenously hungry. "we will halt here and dine," said rodolph. "i think there is nothing to fear. i have a passport, and i am a merchant from frankfort, journeying from treves to coblentz. you, madame, are my--my sister, and these two are our servants. it is well to remember this if we are questioned separately. you, conrad, will wait by the boat, and i will have food and wine sent to you. countess, i shall escort you to the inn and hilda will wait upon you. much depends on acting naturally and showing no anxiety." the countess made no objection to this arrangement, and conrad, with a stroke of his paddle, turned his boat towards the sloping beach that ran along the river in front of the little town. chapter viii. the rapier and the broadsword. bruttig consisted of a row of houses facing the river, some few hundred feet back from it. in the centre of the row, near the landing, which was rudely paved with round stones, stood the inn, a sufficiently forbidding-looking square structure, with an arched gateway in front, apparently leading to a courtyard. the gates could be closed at night, and doubtless were, so that, in a way, the inn might be successfully defended from assault should necessity arise, as was often the case in those troublous times. the bewildering mixed jurisdiction of the place, governed as it was by no less than three over-lords, the count of winneburg, the archbishop of treves, and the count of beilstein, was shown by the different uniforms of the men-at-arms who now, in groups or singly, watched the landing of the party from the skiff. the three captains, who represented the three over-lords of bruttig, were lounging round the doorway of the inn, watching the landing of the mysterious boatload. such a frail craft coming down the moselle was an unusual sight, and naturally attracted the attention of the three officers, who were, as a rule, excellent friends, except when a fight was in progress, and some question of jurisdiction came up that had to be argued on the spot with two-handed swords. they referred to each other by the titles of their chiefs, each man, being spoken to by his comrades as the archbishop, beilstein, or winneburg. "what have we here, elector?" asked the captain who commanded the forces of count winneburg. "that is for our comrade beilstein to answer; this motley crew belongs to him. you had the last boat-load to exact tribute from, and i the one before. i am glad that it falls upon beilstein to deal with women, for such traffic befits not the church," replied the captain of treves. the captain of beilstein, a tall, powerful, swarthy man in full armour, twirled his black moustache, which spread across his cheeks like a pair of ravens' wings, and gazed down at the landing party. "there is this to be said, they give us little trouble in bringing them ashore, but are, apparently, about to walk confidently into the lion's mouth," remarked beilstein, "which seems to argue that they are waterfowl, little worth the plucking." "rather that they know not whither they are bound," suggested the elector. "the young spark hands my lady from the boat with something of an air about him that was not caught in trading booths, and the girl stepped daintily out upon the cobbles in a manner that suggests the court. if she improves on closer inspection, beilstein, you are in luck. would there were three women instead of two." "they are sufficient as it is," said winneburg, with a chuckle, "for the church has just disclaimed all desire for such merchandise." "ho, within there, host," cried beilstein, through the gateway. "here comes gentle custom for thine inn, and you are not by to welcome it." in response to his call a short burly sullen-looking man, with bullet head, came out and stood under the arch, looking at the group ascending from the river, but as there was little pleasure in his gaze he probably expected small profit from their approach. rodolph cast a rapid glance at the four men, bowed slightly to the three officers, who took no notice of his salutation, and addressing the host, said: "this lady desires a room where she may rest unmolested after her journey. let such refreshment as you have be instantly prepared. the lady will lunch in her room, and i will eat wherever pleases you. send as speedily as possible, food and wine to my servant, who remains with my boat by the landing." the host made no reply, but turned his lowering look upon the officers, as if waiting for word from one or all of them. "you hear his lordship's commands, i hope," roared beilstein, "the best in the house for the lady and that without delay. the gentleman will doubtless wish to remain here and make the acquaintance of three good fellows." the innkeeper, telling the countess briefly to follow him, led the way within. rodolph was about to enter the court-yard, when the stalwart captain blocked his way, standing with feet set wide apart before him. "friend," began the captain, genially, "we fall on turbulent times, when each man is suspicious of his neighbour. you have little objection, doubtless, to inform us who you are and why you travel." "none at all," replied rodolph. "i am a merchant of frankfort; i journeyed to treves, transacted there my business and am now returning to frankfort by way of coblentz." "and the lady?" "the lady is my sister. the two with us are our servants." "you have little room in your craft for merchandise." "we came to treves on horseback by the roman road, the merchandise carried by mules. it is now sold and thus i return empty-handed." "not entirely empty-handed, i trust, for you must have received something by way of honest recompense for honest merchandise. if you sent your gold back to frankfort by the way the goods came, and now journey down the moselle with barely enough to pay the innkeeper here for what you have of him, that, i fear, will be looked on by the virtuous barons as a slight upon their probity, and some may hold you to ransom merely to show all future travellers that the noble river is not to be thus lightly dealt with. but, as i before proclaimed to you, we live in a suspicious time, and you, probably do not expect your bare word to be taken regarding your quality. i need hardly ask you if there is in your possession some slight document having reference to your occupation." "i have a passport, which i shall be pleased to exhibit on being assured of the right of any questioner to demand it." "i am captain of the forces here, stationed to serve my lord, the count of beilstein, one of the three over-lords of bruttig. by consent of my two colleagues of treves and winneburg i am captain of the day, responsible to my master and to them that no traitors come within our precincts. if further warrant of my right to question is required, then my good two-handed sword stands sponsor to me, dealing forth argument that few care to controvert. is it your pleasure that i call upon it to set any doubts at rest concerning my authority?" "not so. the word of an officer is at all times sufficient for me. i merely desired to know to whom i should have the honour of submitting this document for inspection," saying which rodolph handed to the officer his passport, although it was evident a moment later that the worthy man, brave soldier as he might be, could not read it. he turned it over and over in his hand, then glanced at the captain of the elector, who watched him with a smile. "this seems in proper form," said beilstein, shrugging his shoulders, "but you soldiers of the church are on terms of acquaintance with these characters, which are denied to us who are more practised at arms than with the pen. construe for us the sheet, elector." the captain of the elector took the parchment and cast his eye over it. "there is nothing here of a sister, merchant," he said, looking at rodolph. "it is not customary in frankfort," replied rodolph, "to take much account of our women. they come and go as they please, providing they are accompanied by a relative or guardian who possesses a proper passport." "frankfort customs hold not on the banks of the moselle," said beilstein, menacingly. "did your sister enter and leave treves under this passport?" asked the elector. "freely." "unquestioned?" "absolutely unquestioned." "did the archbishop know of her presence?" "she had the honour of appearing at the archbishop's court." "hum!" ejaculated the captain of the elector, doubtingly, lowering at the polite stranger suspiciously from under his bushy eyebrows. "the manners of his lordship's court must have changed since i knew aught of them, if arnold von isenberg invites frankfort merchants to his circle." "we have the privilege of being vouched for by baron siegfried von brunfels, now in treves. i may also add that although i engage in traffic, there is no plebeian blood in my veins." the elector's captain handed the passport back to beilstein, saying in an undertone, "i should not meddle with these people were i in your stead. 'tis likely what he says may be true." "and what is that to me?" cried beilstein, angrily. "bruttig is not under the jurisdiction of arnold von isenberg alone, nor will winneburg or beilstein suffer sole jurisdiction to be claimed by him under any pretence whatever. speak i not true, winneburg?" "aye," agreed winneburg's captain cordially, "and this party falls to you by fair agreement previously made." "i have put forward no claim to special jurisdiction," said the elector. "i gave a hint to a friend that it is ill meddling with any pet of the lion of treves. you may act on it or not, as pleases you. i shall not interfere unless the merchant here brings me written message from arnold von isenberg. have you any such, sir? if so, give it to me before mistakes are made." the trend of the discussion showed rodolph that he was in danger of some kind, which might require all his craft to avoid, for if it came to blows he stood no chance whatever. he also realised that hope lay in winning to his side the good will of the archbishop's captain, and, if possible, in gaining some assurance of the neutrality of winneburg's man. he imagined, however, that he saw a disposition on the part of the two local authorities to stand together against the archbishop, and a reluctance on the part of the archbishop's delegate to force matters to an issue. it was, all in all, a most difficult position. "i have a message from the archbishop to you, but it will please him better if i am not compelled to deliver it. we are peaceful travellers in his lordship's domains, and have a right to pass on our way without hindrance." the surly host at this moment came out and announced that the meal was prepared. a lad passed through with a loaf and a measure of wine for conrad. rodolph, bowing to the three officers, followed the host. "what do you propose to do?" asked winneburg. "i can tell you better when i have had a glimpse of the maiden. if she suits my fancy i shall have a broadsword bout with the brother, by way of introducing myself amicably to the family." "not the best method, perhaps, of commending yourself to the lady, whether victor or vanquished." "the strong hand, winneburg, is ever the surest, whether it grasps girl or gold." the officer of the archbishop remained silent, while the other two discussed the question. something in the manner of rodolph impressed him with the belief that the young man spoke as one having authority, and he knew that if a mistake were made, arnold von isenberg was one to punish first and weigh excuses after. he knew that if he opposed beilstein, or even tendered advice, the obstinate officer would the more surely persist in whatever course he had marked out for himself, so he resolved to maintain silence and keep a watchful eye, governing his actions by whatever might befall. with a scarcely perceptible signal to his lieutenant, he conveyed a message to him that seemed to be instantly understood, for the subordinate at once set himself quietly to the gathering of his men, who grouped themselves round in an apparently casual manner, and remained within call. while beilstein and winneburg were conversing rodolph reappeared, with the countess and her maid accompanying him. the sun had already begun to decline far in the west, and the cloudless sky gave promise of a fine summer evening. beilstein strode forward. "i have questioned your brother, my girl," he said, "and now, by your leave, i would have a word or two with you. but first draw aside your veil that we may all see whom we have had the pleasure of entertaining in our poor town of bruttig." the countess shrank timidly from him without speaking, and rodolph at once stepped between her and the officer. "sir," he said, gravely, "i have answered all your questions fairly and fully. if you have more to ask, propound them, i beg of you, to me, and i shall again reply until you are satisfied." "merchant," cried the officer, working himself into an anger, "your passport makes no mention of this lady. i must therefore look upon her face and judge if there is any sisterly likeness that may give colour of truth to your words. madame, remove your veil, and put me not to the disagreeable duty of tearing it from your face." "is it possible, gentlemen," said rodolph to the other two, "that a lady is to be thus insulted in your presence, and am i to take it that we can look for no protection from you?" "it is none of my affair," said winneburg, impartially. "i can act only on the written authority of the archbishop or on the spoken word of a superior officer, whom i personally know," replied the archbishop's man, with a keen glance at rodolph, which said as plainly as words, "if you have such authority, in god's name, produce it." rodolph, turning to the countess, whispered, "slip away to the boat while i hold this fellow in check. get in and tell conrad to push out into mid-stream. float down the river and if i do not overtake you along the bank, hurry on alone to your journey's end." "sir," he said to the officer, "if you do not wish your own master to curse your interference, you will allow me to go my way without further question." "then you shall explain to my master who you are. come back!" he cried to the countess, who was hurrying down the slope, and he would have followed after her, but rodolph, whipping out his slender rapier, stood squarely in the way. "ho, there, men of beilstein!" shouted the officer, "stop those women. tie me up that fellow at the boat, and cast the boat adrift. now my fine merchant you have at last found your toy weapon. is it your purpose to stand against me with that shivering reed?" "i will do my best, if you insist on an encounter, which i beg of you and your comrades to note i have tried my utmost to avoid. but in fairness allow my sister to go, and wreak your vengeance on me alone. when did you men of the moselle begin to war on women?" "the woman shall be the prize of the contest," said the officer, confidently. the other two looked on in amazement. the rapier was entirely unknown throughout germany and had only recently come into use in italy, where rodolph, dwelling as he did, on the borders of that country, had learned its deadly use. the giant swung his two-handed sword once or twice round his head, and in a loud voice asked his antagonist if he were ready. rodolph answered nothing, but threw away his cloak, which he would have used as an article of defence had he been opposed to one similarly armed to himself, knowing that in this encounter he must depend on his agility for his safety, and to the cumbrous nature of his opponent's blade, for his chance of attack. the battle was over almost before the spectators knew it had begun. beilstein brought down an overhead swirl of his heavy blade which would assuredly have annihilated any living thing it encountered, but rodolph sprang nimbly aside and when the blade struck the earth he darted sharply forward, thrusting the thin rapier through the officer's neck, the only unprotected vital part of his body, springing back again out of arm's length in an instant. the giant strove to raise his blade, but the effort caused a red jet of blood to leap from his throat, and spatter down upon his breast-plate. rodolph stood apart, braced and alert, the sting of death held tense in his hand, showing not a trace of blood on its shining, needle-like length. no groan escaped the captain, but a pallour overspread his swarthy face; he swayed to and fro like a tottering oak, apparently upheld by his huge sword, the point of which he had been unable to extricate from the earth. then he suddenly collapsed, and came, with a clash of armour, to the ground. the horrified lieutenant of beilstein, seeing his master thus unaccountably slain, at once raised the cry of "beilstein." "up! men of beilstein!" he roared. "your master is murdered. surround his assassin and take him, dead or alive, to the castle. beilstein! beilstein!" "i ask your protection, gentlemen," appealed rodolph, turning to the remaining officers. "i claim adherence to the rule of the combat. i fought reluctantly, and only by compulsion. i demand the right to go without further opposition." "beilstein! beilstein! beilstein!" the cry reechoed through the town and soldiers came running from all quarters with weapons drawn. "he speaks truth," said the elector's man. "he has won his liberty, and may go for all i care." "not so," cried winneburg. "it was no fair contest, but devil's swordsplay. to the castle with him and his brood." the angry soldiery now pressed round rodolph, but took good care to keep out of the reach of his flashing weapon. "get a pike," said one; "that will outreach him." "pikes, lances, pikes!" ran from mouth to mouth. rodolph saw he must speedily be overpowered, and a scream from the affrighted women in the hands of the soldiery decided him to try a desperate remedy for a desperate case. he sprang upon the prostrate body of his foe, and towering over the heads of the clamouring throng, raised his sword aloft and shouted, "the archbishop! the lady is the countess tekla, ward of arnold von isenburg, insulted by these moselle ruffians, while you cravens stand by and see it done. officer, you have already nearly compassed your own damnation. redeem yourself by instantly falling to the rescue. treves! treves! is there an archbishop's man within hearing? treves! treves! treves!" the archbishop's officer at once gave the word, and his men, beating down opposition, formed around rodolph and the countess. winneburg stood undecided, and before he made up his mind, the fight was over, the beilstein men being demoralised for lack of a leader. "you have entangled us in this affair," said the officer to rodolph, "and if you have cried the archbishop's name unwarranted, your head is likely to roll off in consequence. i have seen the countess tekla. will she, therefore unveil so that i may be sure i have not been deluded, or do you prefer to wait until i hear from his lordship?" before rodolph could reply, the countess threw back her veil. "i am indeed, as you see, the countess tekla, ward of the archbishop," she said. "a fine watch you keep on the moselle," cried rodolph, with simulated indignation, "when the countess tekla cannot journey to her guardian's castle of cochem without having his lordship insulted in her person by unmannerly marauders at bruttig, where he supposes he holds through you, control and safe-conduct for all properly authenticated travellers!" the officer bowed low to the countess and to rodolph. "i crave your lordship's indulgence and forgiveness. had you but given me the slightest hint of this i would have protected you." "i gave you all the hint i could, but you paid little heed to it." "i am deeply to blame, and i implore your intercession with my lord the archbishop. i will myself, with a troop of horse, instantly escort you to cochem and see you safely bestowed there." "all i ask of you is to secure our boat and let us depart as we came." "alas! the boat is gone, and is now most likely half-way to cochem. shall i order you accommodation here until you can communicate with the archbishop?" "no, we will at once to cochem. have you horses for the countess and myself and for our servants?" "yes, my lord." "then we will set out on our journey as soon as they are ready." the officer saluted, and departed to give his orders. "what shall we do? oh, what shall we do?" asked the countess, wringing her hands. "do not be afraid," said rodolph, with a confidence he did not himself feel. "we will be so much the further from treves and so much the nearer to thuron. we will ride side by side to cochem, and then consult on what is best to be done when we get there. meanwhile, keep a firm command of your agitation, and do not show fear. the officer has no suspicion, and will do whatever i ask of him. they, perhaps, do not know yet of your flight at treves, and even if they did they cannot get here much before this time to-morrow, and not then unless they come by boat. have no fear; i will, as i promised, see you safe in thuron gate." the countess impulsively held out her hand, and gave a warm pressure to the one extended to her. "forgive me," she whispered, "for my distrust of you last night. you are a brave and true soldier." chapter ix. a palatial prison. the captain presently appeared with a dozen mounted men at his back, and four led horses. "i hold it well," he said to rodolph, "to get as speedily away from bruttig as may be. the lieutenant of count beilstein has gone in haste to the castle to tell his highness what has happened, and it was not within my right to detain him. the count will be beside himself with rage at the loss of his captain, so it is safer that you lodge within castle cochem as soon as possible. he will think twice before he attacks the archbishop's stronghold. is it your will that i send a messenger to treves to acquaint his lordship with the welfare of his ward?" "that is not necessary," replied rodolph. "the archbishop will doubtless prefer to hear of our safe arrival at cochem, and a messenger can be sent from there. is there a chance that we may be intercepted by the forces of count beilstein?" "no interception is possible. his men here are without a leader, and will attempt nothing, even if they were able to accomplish anything. the count himself will likely come in haste to bruttig, but by that time we shall be in cochem, i hope and although the road by the river is none of the best, it is as bad for him as for us." "let us get on, then," said rodolph. he assisted the countess to mount, sprang into his own saddle, and felt that exhilaration which comes to a horseman when he finds a spirited steed under him. four of the cavalry headed the procession, with eight to bring up the rear, the countess and her attendants riding between. rodolph rode by the side of the countess, with conrad and hilda out of earshot behind them, the captain leading the four horsemen in front. their rough way led along the right bank of the river. "nothing has been heard from the archbishop, i trust," said the countess. "there is little to fear from him until late to-morrow, and not even then unless your escape was discovered early to-day--a most unlikely event." "but might not the pursuers ride all night?" "a difficult and hazardous task they would set themselves in passing through the forest in the dark, and slow work even if successfully accomplished." "then we need have no apprehension if we can get clear of cochem before the pursuers from treves arrive at bruttig?" "once quit of cochem, pursuit will be futile. my plan is to keep a sharp look-out for the drifting boat. conrad will secure it if possible, and we will get away from cochem to-night, if we can leave the castle; but i know nothing of its conformation, nor of how it is guarded." the countess shook her head. "i am afraid it will be difficult to leave cochem at night," she said. "the castle is always well and strictly guarded, and occupies an almost inaccessible position on the top of a hill." "there is nothing for it then but to go with this escort to cochem, and trust to providence and our own ingenuity thereafter. i may have something to suggest when i have seen the place." the increasing roughness of the road made conversation more and more difficult. an hour's riding and a turn in the river brought them in sight of the grand castle of cochem, its numerous pinnacles glittering in the last rays of the setting sun. it was another hour before the cavalcade arrived opposite the place. a trumpeter of the troop blew a bugle blast that was echoed back from the rock-ribbed conical hill on which the castle stood. the signal was answered by another from the ramparts of the fortification itself, and presently a boat put out from the foot of the rock. in this boat the countess and her attendant were placed, while those on horseback set their steeds to the swift current and landed some distance below, at the lower end of the little village that clustered from the foot of the hill, extending down the valley. the countess mounted her dripping horse, and the troop rode slowly up a winding path that partly encircled the vine-clad hill, and at last arrived at the northern gate, which was the chief entrance to the castle. here, after a brief parley, the portcullis was raised and the party admitted to a large courtyard that hung high above the moselle, overlooking a long stretch of the river as it flowed toward the rhine. the custodian of the castle received his distinguished guest with that humble deference which befitted her lofty station, assisting her to dismount and evidently entertaining not the remotest suspicion that the visit was unauthorised. the countess enacted her part well. "i commend to your care," she said, imperiously, "my lord rodolph, who has conducted me from treves. until the archbishop himself arrives you are to hold yourself entirely at his orders." the custodian bowed low, first to the countess and then to rodolph. "how soon may we look for his highness the archbishop?" he asked. "you will most likely hear from him to-morrow. is my suite of apartments ready?" "they are now being prepared as speedily as possible; but as no messenger brought us word of your coming, i hope your ladyship will pardon the delay," answered the custodian, with some trepidation. the countess made no reply, but with her whip beckoned rodolph to her side. "do the troopers remain in the castle, or return to bruttig to-night?" "i have told their officer to keep them here until morning. if a messenger from the archbishop arrives at bruttig sooner than we look for, he will likely remain there until this officer returns. the archbishop would count on the captain being at his post, and it is not likely that the messenger's instructions would run further than bruttig, which will give us further time." "will you then give your commands to the custodian regarding the disposal of the men? i think he will obey you; but it is well to discover this by bestowing orders first that are unimportant, before we put our power to a supreme test." rodolph gave directions, which, to his relief, were instantly obeyed. the custodian escorted countess tekla into the castle, while rodolph walked round the courtyard to get some idea of the lay of the land and the construction of the fortifications. the view down the river was magnificent, as also was the outlook up the endertsbach valley, with the huge round tower of count winneburg's castle standing out against the evening sky, built on a hill nearly equal in height to the one crowned by schloss cochem. rodolph's short examination of the castle's position speedily showed him that it was a place difficult to get into or escape from. to steal away at night was hardly practicable, unless one had a ladder of ropes, while to escape by day was equally hopeless, as a fugitive could be seen for miles in any direction until he was lost in the forest. as the emperor stood at the corner of the elevated terrace, gazing down the river, he became aware of some one's approach, and a moment later the deferential voice of the aged custodian broke the silence. "a goodly sight, my lord," he said, "and although i have looked at it for many a year, it never becomes less lovely to my eyes. it is rarely the same, varying with every change in the atmosphere, but always beautiful." "it is indeed a marvelous view, and not to be the less enjoyed because your position up here is well nigh impregnable," answered rodolph. "altogether so, i think," replied the custodian, with the pride of an old retainer in his castle and a belief in its unassailableness, the result of many futile assaults he had seen. "before cochem falls the souls of hundreds of its assailants will seek a final abiding place, in bliss or other where, as god wills." "does the road we came by from bruttig, follow the river further down?" "no, my lord, it ends opposite the castle. on this side, however, there is a path that follows the river from village to village, but how far it goes, i do not know, for i never explored it to the end." "are there many castles between here and the rhine?" "only three or four, some standing back from the river in the valleys that run into the moselle. the chief castle is that of the black count, robber and marauder that he is, and it is called thuron. were it less strong, i think the good archbishop would have smoked him out long ere this. count heinrich has a chain across the river, stopping all honest traffic until tribute is paid, and if there is any cavilling about it, he takes the whole cargo and casts the merchant into a dungeon to teach him respect for the nobility, as he says. but some day there will be a reckoning, for black heinrich, while compelling due respect to be paid by all inferiors, is himself most disdainful to those above him." "flouts he the emperor, then?" "oh, the emperor!" said the custodian, with a shrug of his shoulders, that might have been held contemptuous, "the emperor is but a name, and commands scant respect along the moselle. he is some young man recently elected, who loves better the dallying of his court than the risking of good stout blows in the field. they tell me he comes from a noble family in switzerland, and is not of germany at all, and i warrant the archbishop does not wait to ask his leave if he wishes to pull down a castle about the ears of a truculent baron." "then it seems to me our friend, the archbishop, may be accused of the same want of respect for higher authority that you lay at the door of count heinrich the black." "the worthy archbishop, god bless him, recognises no over-lord but the pope himself and i have sometimes doubted whether arnold von isenberg paid very much attention even to his holiness; but then i am letting my tongue run away with me, and am talking of what concerns me not." "it will do you no harm as long as i am the sole listener. does castle thuron stand on this side of the river or on the other?" "on the other. it crowns a hill somewhat similar to this and as high, but it is as unlike cochem as one castle can be unlike another, for this is part palace and part fortress, while thuron is a fortress pure and simple, and a strong one at that. a stout wall has been built from the castle down to the river, and it is said that there is a passage within, where ten men can walk abreast, although that i doubt. there is certainly a passage by which food or water can be taken up to the castle, while the carriers pass unscathed, protected by strong stone walls." "it seems, then, that the first duty of besiegers would be to break that wall, and thus cut communication between the castle and the river." "that is easy to suggest, but there would be difficulty in the doing. the walls are stout and will stand some battering; then the two great round towers of the castle are armed with catapults which, they say, will fling round stones even across the river itself. besides this, there are engines along the wall for a similar purpose. the attacking party would have to remove solid cemented stone, while the defenders would merely have to sweep down along the hillside unprotected men who had little to cling to. i think it is no secret that the archbishop had thuron examined by spies with a view to its capture, but they strongly advised him to leave it alone; safe counsel, which his lordship followed." "when the assault takes place i hope we shall be there to see." "ah," said the ancient keeper, with a sigh of regret, "i fear i shall have no such pleasure, for i grow old and arnold grows cautious. my only hope comes from heinrich himself, for he is like enough to hurl some insult at the archbishop that cannot well result in anything but the uprising of pikes; indeed, he once threatened to attack cochem itself, and for a day or two we had merry preparation, but he thought better of it, and no more came of the threat, much to my regret, for i should have liked to see heinrich crack his crown against cochem. and now, my lord, if you will come within, you will find a meal prepared, for which i doubt not you have sufficient appetite." the young man and the old entered the castle together. chapter x. the intercepted fugitives. in spite of his anxiety, rodolph slept that night with a soundness that carried him, unconscious, further into the morning than he had intended when he lay down. it had been his purpose to rise early, and perfect some scheme for quitting the castle without arousing the suspicions of its inmates. the getting off, he knew, must be accomplished that day, and as soon as possible in the day, for undoubtedly the pursuers of the countess must now be well down the river. the emperor, on breakfasting, learned that the countess had been up long before, and was at that moment praying in the chapel. the captain and the escort had left for bruttig, and when rodolph went out upon the terrace he saw the band far below, climbing up the opposite bank on dripping horses, rising from the clear waters like spirits of the river, into the thin transparent mist that floated over the stream. the morning sun was gently gathering up the airy, white coverlet of the moselle, promising a clear and brilliant day. the troop below, seen dimly through the intervening haze, had formed in regular order, two and two, the captain at their head, with the archbishop's pennant flying above them, and were now trotting slowly up the river road. "always beautiful, and never the same, changing with every hour of the day. in a short time the slight fog will have lifted, and the heightening sun will reveal the full glory of the view." rodolph turned quickly and saw standing at his elbow the old custodian of the place, as he had stood on the same spot the evening before. the young man wondered if any suspicion of the real state of the case had entered the custodian's mind; whether his cat-like steps and unexpected appearances, his haunting of his guest, did not betoken some distrust that all was not as it should be. the custodian had likely learned from the captain that the countess came from treves to bruttig in a small boat, practically without escort, and that there was trouble before the identity of the party had been disclosed. on the other hand the custodian must know that the archbishop often adopted a course of action, the object of which was known to none but himself, and his lordship had small patience with any underling who exhibited inconvenient curiosity regarding the intentions of those above him. rodolph resolved to set his doubts at rest by a practical test. "the day," he said, "indeed promises to be fine. to a man of action, however, the precincts of the castle are somewhat circumscribed, and the marvellous view makes him more and more conscious of the limited extent of this most charming terrace. has the archbishop some good horses in his stables, or does he keep them all at treves?" "his lordship has a rare fondness for a choice bit of horse-flesh, and there is here an ample variety. does your lordship wish to ride this morning?" "is the country round about safe? i have no desire to be captured and thus put the archbishop to the trouble of knocking down some castle in effecting my rescue." "the district is reasonably safe. perhaps it may be well not to venture into the territory of the count of winneburg, up the valley of endertsbach yonder, but down the river there is little chance of molestation; still, i can provide you with an escort that will most likely leave you free from attack wherever you go." "no," said rodolph, with unconcern. "it is not worth while to turn out a guard, besides the archbishop himself may be here at any moment and i think he would like to find the whole garrison ready to receive him, although he said nothing to me about it." "yes, arnold von isenberg does not overlook scant ceremony when he takes himself abroad. would you care to see the horses, my lord?" rodolph thanked his host for the invitation, and together they went to the stables, where he selected four horses, and directed that they should be accoutred for riding, two for women and two for men. "the countess," he said, to the custodian, "has been accustomed to out-door recreation, and is an excellent horsewoman. i am sure she will desire to take advantage of this exhilarating morning, but i shall now wait upon her and learn her wishes." to the emperor's relief, the custodian remained behind to see that the orders were promptly carried out, while rodolph went back to the castle. he sought the chapel, which was reached by passing through the castle and crossing another courtyard looking toward the west. the chapel at the south-west angle of the castle seemed to hang over the river, standing as it did on a projecting rock, whose straight sides formed a perpendicular cliff, rising like a castle wall from the deep slope of the hill. the chapel was a small but very perfect bit of ecclesiastical architecture, recently built by arnold von isenberg himself. as rodolph entered the vestibule he was met by the countess hurrying out. "oh, my lord, my lord," she cried, with agitation in her voice, "the troops of the archbishop are now coming down the river. i have seen them from the window within." rodolph closed the door of the chapel so that they might not be overheard. "i think," he said, "that the men you saw are those who left us this morning. they are the troops of the archbishop indeed, but they are going toward bruttig." "no, no. hilda has been watching them for a long time, while i prayed before the altar. just now she told me she saw a troop meeting those who escorted us hither. come and see." the interior of the chapel was in dim-coloured obscurity, all the windows being of glass, sombrely stained. the lower part of one window looking to the south-west opened on hinges, and there hilda stood gazing up the river. for a long distance the moselle ran straight toward them, apparently broadening as it approached. far away rodolph saw the two troops meet, but the distance was too great for him to distinguish whose flag flew over the further party. "it may be that they are retainers of count beilstein," said the emperor. "if it should so chance, there is like to be a hostile meeting. if they belong to the archbishop, there will be a short conference, then all will probably return to cochem." as he spoke the approaching troops came together and it was soon evident that they had no hostile intentions towards each other. a cry from the countess called his attention to the fact that one horseman was hurrying alone toward bruttig, and that all the rest were riding at increased speed for cochem. "there are four horses now ready in the courtyard. countess, i beg of you to appear calm and to show no haste in getting away. we will ride slowly to the river and then into the forest: after that we will make what speed we may to thuron, and i much doubt if those who follow will have sight of us before we reach the castle." the countess and hilda went to their apartments to prepare for the journey, while rodolph sought conrad, and told him briefly that he was to make ready for travel. the four horses with their attendants stood in the courtyard, and presently the countess appeared coming leisurely down the steps, followed by hilda. the ancient custodian busied himself in seeing that everything was to the liking of his guests. the gates were thrown open, and the portcullis gradually raised with much creaking of rusty chain. the small cavalcade rode slowly forth, down the winding way, while the old guardian of the castle stood watching them as they descended. no word was spoken until they had rounded the hill and once more caught a glimpse of the river. the shoulder of the promontory on the opposite side cut off their view of the bruttig road, and there was, as yet, no sign of the oncoming troop. "even if there was only the river between us," said rodolph reassuringly, "we should win the race for their horses are tired, and ours are fresh and of the best. we can surely ride as fast as they along a road that is not well adapted for speed; the good custodian told me it is but a path, and he seemed uncertain how far even that extended. everything is in our favour, and so far as i can learn, nothing but a few leagues of forest and the waters of this river are between us and thuron gate." "is the castle, then, on the other side?" asked the countess. "yes, but the path, such as it is, is on this, and i have no doubt our horses, accustomed to the river, will make little of swimming across, when we catch a glimpse of the two round towers of thuron." "i can scarcely believe that we have come so easily forth from yon stronghold, for last night my heart sank within me as i heard the clang of the portcullis descending, and it seemed to me that we were trapped beyond hope of rescue." "you showed little fear, countess, if, indeed, you felt any, which from your words and manner at the time, i am inclined to doubt." the countess shook her head. "i quaked with fear, nevertheless," she said, simply, glancing sideways at him. reaching the foot of the hill they made their way, still without haste, along the front of the village, which straggled for some hundreds of yards facing the river. a short distance below cochem the cliffs projected to the moselle, and the path struggled up the hill in zig-zag fashion, finally forming a narrow cornice road running parallel with the stream, but high above it, and when at last it descended to a lower level cochem castle was finally shut from their view as they looked backward. rodolph, who was leading, now put spurs to his horse, and the rest of the company came trotting behind as best they could, conrad bringing up the rear. the path kept mostly along the margin of the stream, frequently diverging into the forest, and then always mounting upwards, to pass some obstacle where the banks were steep and the waters of the moselle lapped the face of the rocks. on every height rodolph paused till the others came up with him, and looked anxiously back where the trees permitted a retrospect, but no sign of pursuit was ever visible. thuron castle stood but five leagues from cochem, and between the two places the river ran nearly in a direct line, forgetting the crooked eccentricities that had marked its progress further up. the roughness of the path and its numerous divergencies from the level made it difficult for the riders to accomplish more than a league an hour. they had been four hours on the journey when rodolph called conrad to his side, and said to him: "have you any knowledge of the distance still between us and thuron?" "no, my lord. i have no acquaintance with the river below cochem." "the sun is at least two hours past meridian, and we must have food. ride on to yonder village and see if they will prepare something for us." "my lord, knowing how badly travellers fare who depend on chance foraging down this valley, i brought with me from cochem a skin of wine and food enough for half a dozen. we might rest on the hill top after passing through the village and there eat." "your foresight was wise in one way and dangerous in another. asking for food and wine might have aroused suspicion in the castle, although apparently it has not done so." "i took none into my confidence, my lord. the buttery is well provided, and they keep not such strict watch on it as they do at the outer gate. i was bidden go there and refresh myself; which i did, and then took with me what was most portable, palatable and sustaining." "in that case you are to be commended as a more thoughtful campaigner than myself, but, in truth, i was so anxious to get out of the castle i thought little of bringing anything else with me than those in my charge." passing through the village, which they learned was called hattonis porta, from the hill that overshadowed it to the east, they began the ascent that was to bring them to their resting-place. the top of the hill commanded the valley up the moselle for a distance of two or three leagues, and they would thus have ample notice of pursuit, and might therefore lunch in peace. furthermore, when rodolph reached the top, he was delighted to see but a short distance further on, and across the river which, rounding the promontory, turned toward the north, the two grey towers of a strong castle, which from the description he had received of it, he instantly knew to be thuron; thus their journey's end was in plain sight. the empty road far up the river gave him assurance that, should the enemy appear in view, there was ample time for them to cross the river and reach the castle before they were even caught sight of by their pursuers. rodolph slipped from his horse and stood there awaiting the arrival of the countess, whose tired steed was coming slowly up the hill. before he assisted her to dismount he pointed out the castle. "there, my lady," he said, "is the residence of the count, your uncle, and the end of your toilsome march." "now may the saints be thanked for their protection," cried the wearied girl. "how i have prayed this some time past for a sight of those towers!" she slipped from her horse into his arms, and he held her perhaps a moment longer than was necessary to set her safely on the turf. if the lady resented this, she at least made no complaint about it, but the colour came swiftly to her fair face, and she sighed, probably because the haven was so near. conrad and hilda now came up, and assisted each other in setting forth the meal that the former had brought from cochem. then the horses cropped the grass near by, securely tethered, as tekla and rodolph took their repast together, while hilda and conrad did likewise at a little distance. "what do you propose to do when we reach thuron?" asked the countess. "i shall first offer some good advice to the count heinrich, if he will listen to me." "what advice?" "to provision his castle instantly for the coming siege." "the coming siege? i do not understand you. the country is at peace." "true, but the peace will be speedily broken. the archbishop will invest thuron castle as soon as he can collect his forces." the countess looked at him for some moments with dilated eyes, in which apprehension grew more and more pronounced. "do you mean that there will be war because--because of me?" "most certainly. did you not know that?" the girl arose and regarded him with ever-increasing dismay. "i shall return instantly to cochem," she said, at last. "i will give myself up to the archbishop. there shall not be bloodshed on my account, no matter what happens to me." the emperor smiled at her agitation, and her innocence at not in the least appreciating the inevitable consequence of her revolt. "you will do nothing so foolish," he said. "besides, you are under my command until i deliver you safely to your uncle, and i assure you i permit no rebellion in my camp. even if you returned to the archbishop you would merely consign yourself to a prison, and would not prevent a conflict. i understand that your uncle has on more than one occasion demanded the custody of your person, and the crafty archbishop would never believe that he had no hand in your flight. his lordship has for some time been meditating an attack on thuron, and i learned at cochem that the devout arnold recently sent spies to discover how best the castle might be taken; so it is more than likely you are doing your uncle the greatest service in giving him warning of a struggle which is hardly preventable, and which might, at any moment, have taken him unaware." "a siege!" said the countess, clasping her hands before her, speaking more to herself than to her listener and gazing across the blue river at the two grim grey towers on the hill top. "a siege of castle thuron?" then turning suddenly on rodolph and flashing upon him a swift bewildering glance of her splendid eyes, speaking rapidly, she asked: "will you be in the castle during the conflict?" "i most sincerely hope and trust i shall," cried the young man, fervently. the girl drew a deep breath that was almost a sigh, but said nothing. rodolph stretched forth his hand to her and she put her hand in his, looking frankly into his honest face. no speech but that of their eyes passed between them. but there ran rapidly through her mind the thought that had the archbishop endeavoured to force her to marry a man like lord rodolph, she might never have sought escape from treves. conrad at this point interrupted them. "my lord," he said, "there is one coming up the hill, who looks like the archer." the emperor rose, and accompanied conrad to the brow of the descent, with some anxiety, fearing that the newcomer might prove to be one of the pursuers who had somehow escaped his vigilance. there was, however, no cause for alarm; a moment's glance showed that it was indeed the archer, who being stout and cumbered by pike, cloak, and various belongings, with longbow slung over his shoulder, toiled somewhat slowly up the steep ascent, pausing now and then to mop his brow and gaze around him, a habit of caution learned during the years of campaigning. on catching sight of the two men standing above him he stopped, took the bow from his shoulder, strung it, gazing up at them for a moment, then mounted leisurely as before, ready for any greeting he might receive. when within earshot he again stood still, and accosting the two, said: "good day to your honours, who seem to be men of peace and but scantily armed, the which makes it most unlikely that you can be of that service to me which doubtless your good nature would give you pleasure in rendering. i am, as you may have noticed, a man accustomed to the wars, and now on the outlook for some noble who has quarrels on hand and the will to pay for a skilful archer who, i may say in all modesty, seeing there is none to testify on my behalf, never misses a mark he aims at, providing the object be but a fair and reasonable distance away. i am desirous of taking upon me the quarrel of any such noble, all the better pleased if the quarrel be just, but not looking too closely into the merits of the dispute, as experience has shown me that few controversies exist, in which there is not something to be said for both sides; the only conditions i would be inclined to impose being that pay should be reasonably sure, and that the provender, such as a man may require to keep him in health, be ample, for a taut string is of little use unless there be good muscle behind it." "well and truly spoken, sir archer," cried rodolph, "and inaccurate only in one detail, which is that there stands a man before you who can testify most enthusiastically regarding your skill with the bow. then you have not yet won your way to the rhine?" "ah, my lord, is it indeed you? i thought there was something familiar in your appearance; but i saw you before for a short time only, and that at night. although i spoke just now of taking service with any noble who might be in need of a man-at-arms, still i hold myself in some measure as being under your orders, for i accepted from you three months' pay, and while it is true that i have had to provide food at my own expense and lodging where night overtook me, still neither the quality nor cost of either has been such as to invalidate our bargain, should you care to hold me to it. of the food along the moselle i can truly and of experience say it is most vile and swinish, always excepting the supper and breakfast provided me by the good fellow who stands at your side, and who is, if i mistake not, the same whom your comrade, having small knowledge of the dignity of archery, the which is only what might have been expected of him, being an untaught german, desired me to execute by driving a good shaft through him at three yards or so distance." "you have fallen among friends," said the emperor, "and although i fear, that, if your fasting has been involuntary, you can claim little credit from it for the benefit of your soul, yet we are happily in a position to give you one good meal, which will banish the remembrance of hunger and at least afford temporary benefit to your body." "i am loath to say that i give little thought to my soul," replied the archer, promptly advancing when he became aware that there was sustenance on the top of the hill, "and i minister unto it perhaps as much as any man now under arms in germany, which is not high recommendation; still the body has a practice of pressing its claims upon a man's mind in a way that will not be denied, and therefore i accept with most hearty gratitude any victual that your lordship may have at your disposal, and i trust that in the provisioning of your expedition such an important item as that of drink has not been forgotten." "your faith in the thoughtfulness of our caterer is far from being misplaced. i can guarantee you wine as good as the archbishop himself keeps in his cellars." the archer drew the back of his hand across his waiting lips, and smacked them in anticipation of the unexpected good fortune that had befallen him. rodolph asked conrad to provide as well for their visitor as the remnants of the feast would allow, and the archer, wasting no time in further conversation, fell to, and left nothing for a later guest, should such an one arrive. while the archer heroically made up for lost time, conrad brought round the horses, and rodolph assisted the countess to mount. hilda and conrad were also ready for the short journey that lay before them, but the emperor stood with bridle rein over his arm, and waited the finishing of the feast, desiring to give the archer hint that there was probably action ahead at thuron castle. "you have met with little encouragement, then, on your march down the river," said the emperor, as the bowman, with a deep sigh, ceased operations. "no encouragement at all, your lordship. never in all my travelling, either in germany or elsewhere, have i passed through a country so depressingly peaceful, which weighs heavily on one's spirits: indeed it is enough to make a man turn monk, and forsake the bow-string for a string of beads. what better evidence could there be of the sluggish nature of this district than the fact that there is at this moment approaching us, doubtless from yonder castle, three mounted and armed men, who in some sort appear to be trying to come upon us unmarked, yet here we are, a tranquil group, paying scant attention to their adjacency." as the archer, who was gazing toward thuron castle, spoke thus in a tone of complacent dejection, rodolph, who had been scanning the district to the west, turned suddenly round, and to his amazement beheld three men on horseback, who had evidently worked their way unseen up the opposite side of the hill from which the emperor and his party had ascended, and who now stood some distance off, regarding the startled quartette and their calm guest; the bowman not having the remotest idea what the sudden appearance of those to whom he had thus casually called attention meant to his hosts. to rodolph they were merely three armed men, but the keener eyesight of the countess brought swift knowledge to her, and caused a quick pallor to overspread her face. "the count bertrich!" she cried. the emperor clenched his fist and drew a deep breath, as the thought of all his useless scouring of the western horizon surged over him. "intercepted!" he muttered to himself, with a half-smothered oath. chapter xi. in quest of a wife with a troop of horse. when count bertrich flung himself from his horse in front of the archbishop's summer palace at zurlauben, and strode hastily up the steps that led to the entrance, he passed through the crowded hall, looking neither to the right nor the left until he reached the ante-chamber that communicated with the large room in which the elector transacted his business. the waiting and excited throng in the hall made way for him, as the great war-lord and acknowledged favourite of the powerful archbishop went clanking through among them clad in full armour, paying not the slightest heed to their salutations. the count found the secretary ready to conduct him instantly into the presence of the archbishop, and together, in silence, they entered the lofty apartment that was part chapel and part throne-room. at the further end of the noble presence-chamber arnold von isenberg paced back and forward across the polished floor, his hands clasped behind him, a dark frown on his downward bent brow. he was clad in the long silken robes of his priestly office, and their folds hissed behind him like a following litter of serpents as he walked. he paused in his promenade when the count and the monk entered, and, straightening his tall form, stood regarding them in silence, until the secretary slipped noiselessly from the room and left the summoned and summoner alone together. "you are here at last," began the archbishop, coldly. "it is full time you arrived. your bride has fled." "fled? the countess tekla?" "you have no other, i trust," continued the prince of the church, in even, unimpassioned tones. "my first thought on learning she was missing made me apprehensive that the girl had anticipated the marriage ceremony by flying to your notoriously open arms, and i expected to be asked to bless a bridal somewhat hastily encompassed; but i assume from your evident surprise that she has been given the strength to resist temptation which takes the form of your mature and manly virtues." the sword cut across count bertrich's face reddened angrily as he listened to the sneering, contemptuous words of the archbishop, but he kept his hot temper well in hand and said nothing. the manner of his over-lord changed, and he spoke sharply and decisively, as one whose commands admit neither question nor discussion. "last night the countess tekla took it upon herself to disappear. the guards say she passed them going outward about ten o'clock, and no one saw her return. this leads me to suspect that, with childish craftiness, the passing of the guards was merely a ruse on her part, intended to mislead, and so although i pay little attention to such a transparent wile, i have taken all precautions and have already acted on the clue thus placed in my hands, for there is every chance that the girl is indeed a fool; we usually err in ascribing too much wisdom to our fellow creatures. regarding the proposed marriage, which, strange and unaccountable as it may appear to me, and must appear to you, the countess seemed to view with little favour, she threatened to appeal to the emperor and also to his holiness the pope." on mentioning the name of the latter, the archbishop slightly inclined his head. "i take small account of the emperor, but have nevertheless sent a body of fleet troopers along the frankfort road in case she meant what she said, which i suppose may sometimes happen with a woman. they know not whom they seek, but have orders to arrest and bring back every woman they find, therefore we are like to have shortly in treves a screaming bevy of females, enough to set any city mad. i have thrown out a drag-net, and we shall have some queer fish when it is pulled in. but to you and to you alone, count bertrich, do i reveal my mind; see therefore that you make no mistake. the fool has taken to the water and is now committed to the sinuous moselle. "she said nothing in her protests about her uncle of thuron, and unless i am grievously misled, the crooked talons of the black vulture are in this business. he has doubtless provided boat and crew, and they are making their way down the river in the night, concealing themselves during the day. they will avoid bruttig and cochem. make you therefore for bruttig with what speed you may, sparing neither horse nor man; yourself i know you will not spare. if nothing has been heard of them there, order a chain across the river that will stop all traffic and set a night guard upon it; then press on to thuron across the country by the most direct line you can follow, coming back up the river to intercept them, for their outlook will be entirely directed toward what is following them. if, in spite of all our precautions, the girl reaches thuron, seek instant entrance to the castle and audience with the black count. demand in my name, immediate custody of the body of countess tekla; if this is refused, declare castle and lands forfeit and heinrich outlaw. retire at once to cochem, where i shall join you with my army. and now to horse and away. success here depends largely on speed." count bertrich made no reply but sank on one knee, rose quickly and left the room. the expression on his face as he passed through the multitude in the great hall was not such as to invite inquiry, and no one accosted him. "there is war in that red scar of bertrich's," said an officer to another. outside the count flung himself on his horse, gave a brief word of command to his waiting troop, and galloped away at the head of his men. he made no attempt to pursue the extremely crooked course of the upper river, but, knowing the country well, he left the moselle some distance below treves, and, taking a rude thoroughfare that was more path than road, followed it up hill and down dale through the forest. he was determined to reach bruttig that night, hoping to finish the journey by moonlight, taking advantage of the long summer day and riding as hard as horseflesh could endure. when the day wore on to evening bertrich saw that he had set to himself no easy task, for in the now pathless forest, speedy progress became more and more difficult, and when the moon rose, the density of the growth overhead allowed her light to be of little avail. several times a halt was sounded and the bugle called the troop together, for now all attempt at regularity of march had been abandoned, but on each occasion the numbers thus gathered were fewer than when the former rally was held. in spite of his temporary loss of men, bertrich, with stubborn persistence, determined to push on, even if he reached bruttig alone. for an hour they pressed northward to find the river which they now needed as a guide, knowing they would come upon it at bruttig or at least some short distance above or below it, but before the moselle was reached they suddenly met an unexpected check. the outposts of an unseen band commanded them to stop and give account of themselves. "who dares to bar the way of the archbishop's troops?" demanded count bertrich. "it is the archbishop's troops that we are here to stop. will you fight or halt?" was the answer. bertrich, with his exhausted men and jaded horses, was in no condition to fight, yet was he most anxious to pursue his way, and get some information of his whereabouts, so he spoke with less imperiousness than his impulse at first prompted. "i am count bertrich, commanding a division of his lordship's army. i am on a peaceful mission, and, when i left his lordship this morning, he had no quarrel with any. there has been some misunderstanding, and i should be loath to add to it by drawing sword unless i am attacked." "you shall not be molested if you stay where you are. if, however, you attempt to advance, our orders are to fall upon you," said a voice from the darkness. noticing that the voice which now spoke was not the one that had first challenged, count bertrich said, "are you in command, or am i speaking to a sentinel?" "i am in command." "then who are you and whom do you serve?" "doubtless you are well aware whom i serve?" "i know no more than the archbishop himself." "that i can well believe, and still would not hold you ignorant." "we are talking at cross purposes, fellow. there must be, as i have said, some mistake, for the domains of the archbishop are in a state of peace. there is no secret about my destination as there is none about the name which i have rendered to you. i am bound for bruttig and hope to reach there before day dawns." "my master knew of your destination and that is why i am here to prevent you reaching it." "what you allege is impossible. none knew of my destination save the archbishop and myself, and i have ridden from treves with such use of spur that news of my coming could not have forestalled me. again i ask you whom you serve." "that you doubtless guess, for you know whom you are sent against, and why you ride to bruttig." "you speak in riddles; what have you to fear from plain answers?" "i fear nothing. my duty is not to answer questions but to arrest your progress toward bruttig. if you have questions to ask, ask them of count beilstein." "oh ho! then it is to count beilstein i owe this midnight discourtesy. i thank you for that much information, which is to me entirely unexpected. where is the count?" "he is at bruttig." "how far is that from where we stand?" "something more than a league." "i cannot comprehend why count beilstein should endeavour to prevent my reaching bruttig, nor how he can be aware of an expedition of which neither the archbishop nor myself knew aught this morning. in addition to this, bruttig is under the joint jurisdiction of my master and yours and the count of winneburg, therefore the retainers of each over-lord have free entrance to the place." "such was indeed the case until the archbishop broke the truce. now beilstein and winneburg have combined, overthrown the archbishop's jurisdiction, and they hold bruttig together, with the men of the elector prisoners." "in the fiend's name when did this take place? we knew nothing of it at treves. how broke the archbishop the truce?" "it was broken by an emissary of his, who by magic sword-play slew my master's captain, leaving in his neck a hole no bigger than a pin's point, yet enough to let out the life of my fellow soldier. then when there was outcry at this foul play, the fellow, being sore pressed, cries 'treves, treves,' claiming that the wench with him was no other than the ward of the archbishop----" "ha! say you so? and what then?" "thereupon the archbishop's captain bugles up the men of treves, rallies round the emissary of his crafty lordship, and makes rescue, escorting him later, wench and all, to his lordship's stronghold of cochem, where doubtless they think themselves safe. but beilstein, issuing from his castle, went forthwith to bruttig, joined with winneburg, made prisoners of the men of treves, and sent me here in force to intercept any whom they expected the archbishop would shortly send, as indeed he seems to have done under your distinguished leadership." "you fill me with amazement. there is, as i surmised, a misunderstanding, and one of no small moment, which we must make it our business to set right. it is therefore most important that i should have speech with your master and that speedily. i pray you instantly to escort me with your men to bruttig." "that may i not do, my lord. my orders are strict and count beilstein is not the man to overlook divergence from them." "then come with me yourself; i shall go as your prisoner or in any guise you please, so that no time be lost. my men will camp here for the night." "i cannot part company from my orders, which are to stop you or to fight with you if you refuse to stand." "but the man you call emissary of the archbishop, who killed your comrade, is the one i travel in hot haste to arrest. him the archbishop will gladly yield to your master for fitting punishment, but while we babble here, time flies and he with it." "it will take more than the bare word of any follower of treves to make my master believe that the murderer, who went jauntily with escort of the archbishop's men to the archbishop's castle in cochem, is one whom the archbishop is desirous of handing over to my lord for punishment, still this much i may do. i will send at once a fleet messenger to my lord at bruttig, acquainting him with your presence here, and that messenger will take any word you are pleased to send to count beilstein." count bertrich sighed as he agreed to this, for he was too strict a disciplinarian himself not to know that the captain who offered to do this much, dare not wander from the definite instructions he had received. he had at first some thought of beseeching beilstein to send instant word to cochem to hold within the castle all who lodged there, until the arrival of commands from the archbishop, but he was loath to divulge to beilstein and winneburg the full facts of the case, and he was well aware that, without doing so, he would have some difficulty in explaining his own presence, which seemed to tally so exactly with the forecasts of those now temporarily opposing him. however, a league was but a short distance and a swift messenger would speedily cover it. his men, thoroughly exhausted, were, many of them, asleep in their saddles, and although he himself was still eager to be on his way, he saw that any attempt to move onward would be futile and would still further complicate the already intricate condition of things, so he contented himself with sending a message to the count, the purport of which was, that there had been a mistake which the archbishop would speedily rectify, and that it was imperative for the capture of the criminal, that an immediate conference should take place between count beilstein and himself. this done, he gave the order for dismounting and resting until the messenger returned. a camp was formed and picketed to prevent surprise, although he had little fear of an attack, as he had evidently convinced the opposing captain of his good faith, yet the military instinct was strong in count bertrich, and he took all the precautions which suggest themselves to a man in an enemy's country. the moment he threw himself on the ground he fell into a sound and much needed sleep. it was daylight when one of the sentinels awoke him, saying the messenger had returned. count beilstein gave bertrich choice of three courses of action: first, he might come alone to bruttig; second, he might bring his men with him, provided they first deliver up their arms to the captain who had stopped him; third, he might fight. count bertrich quickly decided. he ordered his followers to deliver up their arms to the captain, he himself retaining his weapons, and thus they marched into bruttig. it was soon made apparent to both the opposing nobles that the unknown young man who had proved himself so expert a swordsman was no minion of the archbishop. the archbishop's captain had not yet returned from cochem, so the only one who could give a connected account of what had taken place was winneburg's captain, who, under the shrewd cross-questioning of count bertrich, speedily proved that no document had passed between the young man and the archbishop's leader; that, in fact, the captain had several times asked for such, but it had not been produced. "it is as i suspected," said count bertrich, "the person who held a passport from frankfort is a follower of black heinrich, whose object is but too evident. he seeks to embroil you with the archbishop, and has come perilously near to success. if the scoundrel is still at cochem, into which castle i assure you he went with extreme reluctance, and only under pressure of circumstances, for you learn from your own man that he refused to send a messenger to treves when the captain offered to dispatch one, then we have him fast, and i undertake, on my own responsibility, to deliver him to the just vengeance of count beilstein. what i fear is, that this unfortunate delay has given him time to slip away from cochem and betake himself to thuron, where we may have to smoke him out, if black heinrich refuses to deliver him to us. as to this imprisoning of the archbishop's men in the absence of their captain, i think the least said about it the better. i shall certainly not dwell upon it when i return to treves, but i would suggest that they be liberated without further delay. the archbishop was not in the happiest temper when i parted from him yesterday, and one can never predict with certainty what he may do under provocation. i have myself been so anxious to avoid any cause of offence, that i have gone to the extreme length of disarming my men and coming unprotected among you, an act for which his lordship is little likely to commend me, should it come to his ears. the moment their weapons are restored, i shall journey to cochem and endeavour to catch my young swordsman." winneburg, the quarrel being none of his, having slept on the matter, and seeing more clearly than he did on the previous day the danger of entangling himself with so formidable an antagonist as the archbishop of treves, at once admitted that there had been a misunderstanding all round, and expressed his willingness to revert to the former condition of things, as the archbishop, through count bertrich, had disclaimed the doings of their visitor of the day before. beilstein, more hot-headed and more stubborn, was reluctant to admit himself in the wrong, but if his ally fell from him, there was nothing for it but submission, with the best grace he could bring to bear on his retreat; and certainly bertrich seemed in no way disposed to impose hard conditions, so he gave order that the prisoners should be released, and that their arms should be returned to bertrich's men. having eaten, count bertrich and his troop hastened down the river, hoping to intercept the fugitives at cochem. in sight of the castle he met the captain and his dozen horsemen returning. he sent all back with the exception of one man, whom he forwarded to treves to acquaint the archbishop with what had taken place. the captain was ordered to detain the countess tekla in cochem castle until the archbishop's pleasure should be known; to arrest the young man who accompanied her, take him to bruttig, and deliver him to count beilstein. then taking but two followers with him, count bertrich struck across the country direct for thuron castle. he approached that stronghold with caution, keeping to the high lands above the castle until he espied on the other side of the river the party of whom he was in search, and saw that they had indeed stolen away from cochem. coming down to the river edge, keeping all the while in concealment as much as the nature of the country permitted, knowing there was danger in crossing the stream in full view of thuron castle itself, but nevertheless not hesitating for a moment, he and his two men plunged their horses into the flood and won the other side a little below the promontory of hattonis porta. stealthily ascending the hill, hoping to take the party by surprise, but in any case having not the slightest doubt of the result of the encounter, count bertrich found himself within range of the alert eyes of the english archer. chapter xii. cupid's bow gives place to the archer's. rodolph's first thought ran toward the safety of the countess. he resolved at once to send her down the hill they had so recently climbed, and, under escort of conrad, ask her to cross on horseback to the other side of the river, reaching the castle as soon as might be, while he held count bertrich and the two men in check; but a moment's reflection convinced him that the count, having intercepted them by cutting across country to the south of the moselle, had most likely placed on the opposite bank a company of troops in ambush, ready to capture whoever came within its radius. the crossing must be done under shadow of the castle, so that any lurking enemy might be over-awed by the menace of its presence, and thus they could ascend unhindered to its frowning portal. that their situation was already attracting attention at thuron was evident, for the emperor saw bodies of men grouped upon the walls, while several horsemen were collected at the entrance as if in readiness to ride, should occasion demand their interference. but there was no signal by which rodolph could call for aid, and, of course, black heinrich had little suspicion that his own niece was probably about to be captured almost within the shadow of his strong castle. there was, however, scant time for pondering. now that concealment was no longer possible, count bertrich, adjusting his lance for the encounter, was advancing, closely followed by the two men. "conrad," cried the emperor, "take the countess down the hill till you lose sight of our assailants, then, as speedily as possible, bend through the forest to the north, circling this spot so that you come upon the moselle opposite thuron. cross the river and make for the castle gates." "but you, my lord, unarmed, cannot oppose three armoured men," objected conrad. "i stand by his lordship," said the archer, with an unruffled confidence, that in spite of the strait they were in brought the suggestion of a smile to the lips of the emperor. "we will hold our ground, with what success may befall us," replied rodolph, "but lose no time in your circuit, and keep strict watch for ambush." the countess, conrad, and hilda departed, leaving rodolph and the bowman alone on the top of the hill, in serious jeopardy, for neither man wore armour, and the emperor had no weapon except his slight rapier. the archer, seeing from the first that trouble was ahead, but having too little curiosity regarding its origin to cause him to venture inquiry, so long as no attempt was made to smooth away difficulty and bring about a peaceful understanding, caring not a jot whether the side of the quarrel he expected to champion was just, or the reverse, had unslung his bow, giving a hitch to the full quiver so that the ends of the arrows were convenient to his right hand, and now stood with left foot slightly forward as a bowman should, measuring critically with his half shut eye the distance between himself and the three horsemen. "is it your lordship's pleasure," he asked, "that i kill all three, or do you purpose to try conclusion yourself with one or other of them? if so, which shall i spare?" "these men are cased in iron, and proof against your shafts. i will parley with them and offer single combat to their leader; we cannot hope to prosper in a general onset." "their faces are bare, which is all the kindness i ask of any man who sets himself up as target." "if choice is to be made, spare the leader, and leave him for me to deal with," said rodolph, stepping forward and raising his voice, as he accosted the hostile party. "my lord, count bertrich," he cried, "i ask of you a truce and a parley, when we may each disclose our intentions to the other, and find if amicable adjustment be possible." an exclamation of intense disgust escaped the impatient archer at this pacific proclamation, but his drooping spirits revived on hearing the defiant tone of the count. "who are you, whelp, to propose a conference with me? were it not that i promised to take you alive so beilstein may have the pleasure of hanging you, i would now ride you down and put a good end upon mischievous interference. therefore surrender, and appeal for clemency to beilstein, for you will have none from me." "spoken like a brave man and a warrior," exclaimed the archer, with enthusiasm. "would there were more nobles in germany resembling him. now, my lord, surely the insult anent your hanging, demands that instant defiance be hurled at him." "peace, peace," whispered rodolph, "you will have your fighting, never fear. i must gain time so that the others may escape." then he cried aloud, "if i surrender, my lord count, it must be on terms distinctly set forth, with conditions stated and guaranteed by your knightly word." the emperor's diplomatic efforts were without avail. count bertrich made no reply, but giving a quick word of command to his followers, levelled lance and dug spurs into his horse. the three came on together, the count slightly in advance, his men at right and left of him, the pulsation of the beating hoofs on the hard turf breaking the intense stillness. the emperor stood firm with tightened lips awaiting the onslaught, having little hope that it would end favourably to him. the archer, however, gave forth a joyous cry that was half-cheer, half-chuckle, and, without awaiting for command, drew swiftly the string of his bow to his ear, letting fly twice in succession with a twang that sounded like a note from a harp. the arrows, with the hum of angry bees, passed first by one ear and then by the other of the advancing warrior, who instinctively swayed his head this way and that to avoid the light-winged missiles, thinking he was shot at and missed, but the piercing death-shriek first from the man at his left and then from the one at his right, speedily acquainted him with the true result. before him he saw the deadly weapon again raised, and felt intuitively that this time the shaft was directed against himself, although the archer paused in the launching of it, apparently awaiting orders from his superior. the emperor raised his right hand menacingly and cried in a voice that might almost have been heard at the castle: "back, my lord count. there is certain death to meet you in two horse-lengths more." the impetus of the count's steed was so great that it was impossible to check it in time, but he at once raised his lance in token that he had abandoned attack, and, pulling on the left bridle rein, swerved his course so that he described a semi-circle and came to a stand facing his foes, with the two dead men lying stark between him and his intended victims. with a downward sweep of the hand that had been lifted, the emperor signalled to his ally to lower his bow, which the archer reluctantly did, drawing a deep sigh that the battle should be so quickly done with. rodolph advanced a few steps and once more accosted his foe. "my lord," he said, "you see, i trust, that i hold your life at my mercy. i am willing to give terms to a brave antagonist, which he refused to me." "in truth," grumbled the archer, "i see nothing brave in one who attacks with three, all heavily armoured and mounted, two on foot, one of whom is without weapons. i beg you to tell him so, or allow me to speak my mind to him, for he is a proud man and i doubt not with proper goading, he may be urged to a fresh onset." rodolph paid no attention to the interruption, but continued: "if you will give me your word that you will return to cochem, you may pass unharmed, and we will not attempt to molest you further." the count, however, made no reply, but sat like a statue on his black horse, gazing on his fallen comrades and meditating on the changed situation. then he groped in a receptacle that hung by his saddle and drew forth, not a new weapon, as the archer, peering at him, suspected, but a filmy web that glittered like an array of diamonds. this, removing his gauntlets, he clasped about his neck, fastening it to the lower part of his helmet, shaking the folds over his shoulders like a cape. "fine chain armour of milan steel," murmured the archer, seemingly hovering between anxiety regarding the defensive qualities of the new accoutrement and delight at the thought that the count was again about to venture himself against them. with a clank of iron on iron the warrior brought down his barred visor over his face, and, drawing on his gauntlets which during these preparations had rested on his saddle bow, grasped his lance and lowered it, presenting now no pregnable point of his person to the flying arrow. "by saint george," cried the archer, "i would fain take service with that man. he displays a persistence in combat which warms my heart towards him." but the softness of the archer's heart did not cause him to take any precaution the less, for he drew out a sheaf of arrows, selecting carefully three that seemed to be thinner at the point than the others. two of these he placed in his mouth, letting their feathered ends stick out far to his left, so that his bow arm was free from their interference; the third he notched, with some minuteness, on the string. "my lord, i must shoot now," he mumbled with his encumbered mouth, looking anxiously at rodolph, who in turn was viewing no less anxiously the silent preparations of bertrich. the count, however, was in little hurry to begin, apparently wishing to satisfy himself that he had neglected no expedient necessary for his own safety. "there is no help for it," said the emperor. "do your best, and heaven speed the shaft." the bowman twanged the string, bending forward eagerly to watch the fate of his arrow. the shaft sang an ever lowering song, as it flew, falling fairly against the bars of the visor with an impact that rang back to them, palpably penetrating an interstice of the helmet, for it hung there in plain sight. the count angrily shook his head, like an impatient horse tormented by the bite of a fly, but he sat steady, which showed the archer there was an arrow wasted. the toss of his head did not dislodge the missile, and the count, with a sweep of his gauntlet, broke it away and cast it contemptuously from him. "alas!" groaned the archer, fitting the second to the string, "it was the thinnest bolt i had." count bertrich waited not for the second, but came eagerly to meet it, bending down as a man does who faces a storm--levelling lance and striking spur. the horse gallantly responded. the second arrow struck the helmet and fell shivered, the third was aimed at the chain armour on the neck, and striking it, glanced into the wood, disappearing among the thick foliage. still bertrich came on unchecked, raising his head now to see through the apertures of his visor to the transfixing of the archer, who, well knowing there was but scant time for further experiment, hastily plucked a fourth arrow from his quiver, and, without taking aim, launched it with a wail of grief at the charger, driving the arrow up to its very wing in the horse's neck just above the steel breastplate. the horse, with a roar of terror, fell forward on its knees, its rider's lance thrusting point into the earth some distance ahead, whereupon bertrich, like an acrobat vaulting on a pole, described an arc in the air and fell, with jangling clash of armour, at the feet of the emperor, relaxing his limbs and lying there with a smothered moan. the archer paid no attention to the fallen noble, but running forward to the horse began to bewail the necessity that had encompassed its destruction. he however thriftily pulled the arrow from its stiffening neck, wiped it on the grass, and spoke, as if to the dead horse, of the celerity of its end, and the generally satisfactory nature of bow-shot wounds, wishing that the animal might have had a realisation of its escape from being mauled to its death by clumsy germans. rodolph stooped over his foe to throw back on its hinges his visor, whose opening revealed the unconscious face of the count. "it seems inhuman to leave him thus," he said, "but there is a woman's safety in question, and i fear he must take the chance he drove down upon." "he can make no complaint of that," replied the archer, "and is like to come speedily to his contentious self again, if i may judge by the flutter of his eyelids. indeed, i grieve not for his bruises, but for the hurt his obstinacy forced me to inflict upon his poor horse, a noble animal which i never would have slain did not necessity compel." "capture a horse belonging to one of the fallen men, and accompany me down the hill," said rodolph, briefly. the archer first recovered the two arrows that had overthrown his unknown opponents, bestowing on their bodies none of the sympathy he had lavished on the horse, for, as he muttered to himself, it was their trade, and a well-met shaft should occasion them little surprise, which undoubtedly was the fact. having, with some difficulty, secured one of the horses, and with still more trouble succeeded in seating himself in the saddle--for, as he said, he was more accustomed to the broad of his foot than the back of a horse--he followed his leader, who, with grave anxiety, was scanning the river bank opposite alken, hoping to see some indication of the countess emerging from the forest. "archer," said rodolph, turning to his follower, "your great skill, and no less indomitable courage, has to-day saved my life, and has placed me otherwise under more obligation to you than you can easily estimate. i hope yet to make good my debt, but in the meantime i may cheer your heart by telling you that your expert bowmanship has made inevitable what was before extremely probable, which is, that these valleys will shortly ring with war, and the lord only knows when the conflict shall cease--possibly not until yonder castle is destroyed, or the archbishop returns defeated to treves." "say you so, my lord? then indeed is virtue rewarded, as i have always been taught, though seeing little confirmation of it in my wandering over this earth. i winged my shafts for the pure pleasure of seeing them speed, not forgetting my duty to you in the earning of my threepence a day, duly advanced into my palm before service was asked, the which, i know to my grief, is not customary among nobles, although fair encouragement in spoils gives compensation for backwardness in pay; still i had no hope for such outcome as war, when i drew string to ear, and am the more encouraged to think that a wholesome act, thus unselfishly accomplished, brings fitting recompense so trippingly on its trail. you spoke of the archbishop (god bless his lordship), do i fight, think you, for, or against him?" "as the man you have so recently overturned is the friend, favourite, and in general the right hand of the archbishop, judge you in which camp your neck is hereafter the safer." "i have long desired to fight for the church, but, for a devout man, it seems ever my fate to be on the opposite side. ah well, it matters little, and it serves the archbishop right for the inhospitality of his gate at treves, where they know not a useful soldier when they see one. we are like to be beleaguered in yon castle then?" "very like, indeed." "know you aught of how they are provisioned for a siege?" "that will be among the first things i shall inquire when i enter." "it is a most important particular, and in the inquiry it might not be a waste of breath to give some hint regarding the plenishing of the wine vaults." "i understand black heinrich has a secret passage to the river, so we are not likely to suffer from thirst." "'tis a sensible precaution; i would not say a word against water, which i have often found to be useful in the washing of wounds and otherwise, still when a man is expected to fight, i think there is nothing puts such heart in him as a drop of good sound wine, so it be not taken to excess, although the limit of its usefulness, in my own case, i have never yet had a sufficiency of the beverage to gauge." "the black count, from what i hear of him, is not one to neglect the laying in of wine; it however may be well to question him closely regarding his cellarage before you take service with him, for i surmise that he who finds lodgment in the castle will not soon get abroad again, as the troops of the archbishop will shortly encircle it closely." "the prospect," said the archer, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth as if his lips were already moist with good vintage, "is so alluring that i can scarce credit it, and fear the archbishop may give or accept apology, for we seem to be in a region where compromise is held in high esteem, and his lordship has already acquired the reputation of being a cautious man (may i be forgiven if i do him an injustice); still, if the count who plunged so bravely against us, hath the ear of him, he may whisper some courage into it, for he acquitted himself on the hilltop as a man should. i must confess that i should dearly cherish the privilege of being beleaguered in a strong castle, for it hath ever been my fortune to fight hitherto in the field, directing my shafts against various strongholds, and living with scant protection while launching them, sleeping where i might, in a ditch or in a tent, as the gods willed, and ever like to have my slumbers broken by a stampede or sortie when least expecting it. i was never one who yearned for luxury, but it must be a delight to rest under continual cover with a well-stocked cellar underneath, and the protection of a stout stone parapet while taking deliberate aim, not to mention the advantage that accrues to an archer who lets fly at one below him, rather than continually craning his neck to send his arrow among the clouds, the which gives little chance for accurate marksmanship. on one of yonder towers a man might well aspire to the delight of loosing string at the great archbishop himself, and may such luck attend me, although i am the least covetous of mortals." "well, archer, we shall presently see what befalls and i feel myself the safer that you did not take fee from the archbishop when you applied at the gates of treves." the archer looked gratefully at his leader for the compliment, and together they rode in silence to the waterside opposite alken. as yet there was nothing visible of conrad's party, who had probably taken a longer circuit than the occasion demanded, but the emperor saw the cavalry of the castle, which had watched the conflict motionless, now descend towards alken, and he rightly considered this move in his favour, did more of bertrich's men lie in ambush in the opposite forest. rodolph hoped that the black count himself was at the head of his men, but at that distance could distinguish nothing. as they drew near the spot rodolph was gratified to perceive conrad emerging from the forest, where he had asked his charge to remain until he had reconnoitred and proved that the way was clear. the horsemen from the castle had reached alken, and now stood drawn up fronting the river, ready to assist at the landing of the new-comers, or prevent the same, as might prove to be convenient. rodolph shouted across, asking that a boat be sent over, for he saw several lying on the beach, but those on the other side made no movement to comply with his wishes; in fact, it was doubtful if they understood, for here the moselle is wide, with water flowing slow and deep. conrad, at a word from his master, plunged his horse into the flood, entering below the spot where heinrich had placed a chain across the river for the encouragement of traffic, and, when he had landed, a boat was shoved off in which the countess and hilda were ferried over, the others following on swimming horses. chapter xiii. the black count is persuaded not to hang his emperor. the emperor, when his dripping charger climbed the incline before alken, looked with concern toward the troop of horse drawn up facing the river, wondering whether or no heinrich himself was there to greet them. the leader of this scant cavalry sat on his steed a horse-length in advance of his men, and was rather startlingly red than black. his hair and beard were fiery crimson in colour, while the face they framed was of a similar hue, scarcely less violent, although it deadened somewhat as it reached the nose, and painted that well developed and prominent organ a rich deep purple, giving evidence, rodolph thought, of the potency of heinrich's liquors. the man's eyes were shifty and suspicious, and, all in all, his face was as forbidding as one would care to see, bringing to life the conjecture which had more than once crossed the young man's mind, that in thus unceremoniously changing guardians the countess had scarcely bettered herself. however, he still had hopes that this crafty-looking horseman was not the uncle, from whom he expected violence perhaps, but not treachery. the emperor advanced and saluted the red warrior, who remained motionless upon his horse, bestowing an inquiring but none too friendly glance upon the approaching stranger. "i would have speech with count heinrich, of thuron," said rodolph. "then you must seek him in his castle," was the reply, which brought a sigh of relief to the lips of the emperor. "whom have i the honour of addressing?" he asked. "i am steinmetz, captain of castle thuron. who are you?" "my name is rodolph, a lord of frankfort, and i desire convoy to the castle." "that is as may be," answered the captain, with lowering brow. "what is your business with my lord the count, and who is the lady that accompanies you?" "my business i will relate to the count himself. the lady is the countess tekla, niece of count heinrich and sometime ward of archbishop arnold von isenberg of treves. if you have further questions to ask, it may be well to put them to your master, for my patience is at an end, and i am unaccustomed to the cross-examination of my inferiors. there is a chance that count heinrich may thank you for this delay, and a chance that he may not; you know him better than i, so act as best pleases you under that knowledge." the captain gave a whistle of astonishment when the name and quality of the lady were mentioned, and instantly saluted with his sword the man whom a moment before he had treated with scant courtesy. the truculence disappeared from his manner, and he said, with some eagerness: "i shall be pleased to act immediately as your convoy to the castle, my lord." "nothing could be more satisfactory," replied rodolph. the captain gave the word to his men, who formed in line, some before and some after the visitors, and thus the procession made way through the village and up the zig-zag path that led to the castle, a rugged slanting road rising higher and higher at each turn, and disclosing broader and broader views of the charming valley of the moselle. the scene was peaceful in the extreme, and, but for the clatter of armed men, one might have imagined that no such thing as conflict could exist in all that region. on the hilltop, beyond the river, rodolph could see that count bertrich had come to himself, had captured the remaining horse, and was transferring the accoutrements of his own animal to the new mount. while rodolph was watching his late opponent with keen interest, wondering whether the count would betake himself to cochem, or persist in his quest and visit thuron, tekla spoke to him. "my lord," she said, "you have somewhat neglected me of late, and i am still in ignorance of what happened when you so unceremoniously turned me off the hilltop. i trust you are unhurt." "not only unhurt, but untouched, countess, thanks, not to my own prowess, but to the marvellous skill of the english archer, who annihilated the foe like a necromancer with a touch of his wand." "is count bertrich slain then?" she asked, with a shudder. "no. yonder he stands gazing at us, seemingly in hesitation as to what he shall do next, but his two followers are dead, and the pride of bertrich encountered a shattering fall before he consented to let us pass him. i have proven myself a blundering guide, otherwise he had never intercepted us; but defenders are ever at hand when your ladyship needs them, and i trust we are about to find the chief of them within these walls." "now that we are at our journey's end, i am oppressed with fear. i am more afraid than i was in grim cochem itself, for i like not the look of this captain and his men." "they might be more prepossessing, it is true, but we should not judge hastily by externals. the outside of castle thuron seems forbidding enough, but no doubt a warm welcome awaits you within. count heinrich has to hold his possessions with a strong hand, and so cannot be too nice in the selection of those who are to do his work. you will find him, i trust, a true nobleman and an indulgent relative." "i hope so," said the girl, with a sigh, which seemed to indicate that she looked forward to the meeting with more apprehension than she had yet shown. the captain sounded a bugle that hung at his belt, and the gates of the castle were thrown open in response, allowing the cavalcade to enter a wide stone-paved courtyard. there was none in authority to meet them, which was not strange, as no news of their approach could possibly have yet reached the stronghold. the gates were instantly shut behind them, and the captain, flinging himself from his horse, strode into the castle, doubtless to acquaint his chief with the important tidings he carried. rodolph dismounted, assisted the countess to dismount, and then all stood there with the horsemen surrounding them, more in the attitude of captives than of welcome guests. the archer gazed about him with much nonchalance, at the defences of the place, and asked questions concerning them from some of the servitors and men-at-arms who stood silently by, regarding the newcomers with looks of distrust, answering nothing. far from being nonplussed by the scant attention paid his queries, he strutted round in high good humour, as if the castle were his own, and audibly made comments which were sometimes far from complimentary. "if this man, heinrich the black, has a head on his shoulders somewhat more intelligent than those of his men-at-arms, he might defend the place with reasonable success, providing he was amenable to advice regarding certain additions i consider necessary, for if the attacking party----" "do not cheapen your advice, archer, by tendering it unasked," said rodolph, somewhat sternly, "and avoid comment until you have made the acquaintance of the count." "indeed there is wisdom in that," replied the archer, unabashed, "and i would that his lordship showed greater anxiety to receive us suitably, for then the sooner would come a taste of his hospitality, the which i am already anxious to pass opinion on." further conversation was prevented by the return of the captain, who curtly informed rodolph that count heinrich commanded the whole party to be brought before him, adding with a malicious leer that he had not found his lordship so anxious for the meeting as the words spoken by the river bank had led him to suppose. "you will remain in your saddles until further orders," said the captain to his men, a behest that did little to reassure the emperor. the countess spoke no word, although her pale face showed that this reception was scarcely to her liking. they all followed the captain, who led them along a hall, up a broad stair, and through a doorway into a large and lofty room, where half-a-dozen men sat at a table with drinking flagons before them, while one strode angrily back and forward across the floor; his place at the head of the table was empty thus indicating that he was the count, although rodolph needed no such token to aid recognition. count heinrich was more than six feet high, and strongly built. his massive head was covered with a shock of jet black hair; his beard and fierce moustache were of the same sombre colour, while his face was so swarthy that at first sight one doubted if the man had a drop of saxon blood in him. he seemed more like the king of some heathen african domain, than a nobleman in a christian land. his piercing eyes lit up his dark face, and a glance from them reminded rodolph of a flash of lightning athwart a black cloud. he stopped abruptly in his march as those summoned into his presence entered, and roared rather than spoke: "well, madame, what do you here in thuron?" the countess had taken a step or two in advance of her comrades, but paused dumbfounded at the thunder in his tone and the savagery of the face turned upon her. "my lord--uncle," she faltered at last, "i am here to implore your protection." "protection?" shouted heinrich. "is not the lion of treves able to protect you? it is _his_ duty, not mine. why does he send you journeying with such a scurvy escort?" "my lord, if you will permit me to address you in private i will inform you why----" "you will inform me here. have you, as i suspect, left treves without sanction of the archbishop?" "yes, my lord." "of all reckless fools a woman--are your horsemen still in saddle?" he cried, abruptly, to captain steinmetz. "they are, my lord." "well, madame, we shall repair the mischief you have done as speedily as horseflesh may. you shall have escort to do you honour, but must make your peace with the archbishop as best you can. take her to cochem, and there present her to the archbishop, or, in his absence, to the officer in charge." "oh, uncle, uncle," cried the girl, throwing herself at his feet, "you cannot commit such a crime. remember, i am the daughter of your only sister. the archbishop commands me to marry the count bertrich----" "and a most proper union. it is his right to marry you to whomsoever pleases him. you cannot gainsay that. am i to engage in war with treves merely because you do not fancy count bertrich? it is enough that one of my line is a fool. i am none such." "if you will not shelter me, let me, i beseech you, pass on to frankfort to beg protection from the emperor. although you have the right to refuse hospitality you have no right to take me prisoner and send me back to cochem." "that shows you to be doubly a fool. the emperor has gone to the holy land, where god protect him, and were he at frankfort he would send you back to treves, for he must uphold the feudal law. the archbishop's will elected him, and if his will is to be void regarding a fire-brand like you, it would also be void regarding the emperor's own elevation. as for my right to prison you, i have what rights i take, which even the archbishop will hesitate to question." "my lord, touching the emperor," began rodolph, stepping forward, then checking himself, hardly knowing how to continue. "yes? touching the emperor? are you empowered to speak for him? who are you, sir, and what is your share in this business?" black heinrich had calmed perceptibly as the colloquy between him and his niece went on, but the interpolation of rodolph at once roused him to fury again, and caused him to turn on the young man with blazing eyes. "i am a namesake of the emperor, lord rodolph of frankfort, and i am further his most intimate friend." "are you so? then i am glad to hear it. you will thus make all the more acceptable a sacrifice to arnold von isenberg, who likes interference as little as do i, whether from emperor or serf. captain steinmetz, get hither your hangman, reeve a rope through a ring on the river front of the castle, and hang me this fellow so that the archbishop's emissaries will see him dangling as they come up to inquire respecting this enterprise." "my lord, i would like a word with you in private before you proceed to this extremity." "i transact my business publicly, that all the world may see." "the more fool you," returned rodolph, stoutly. "you have already bandied the epithet, therefore i use it. the archbishop, who is no such ranter, but who acts while you sleep, has had secret spies here to note your weakness. his army is doubtless now on its way to thuron. if you send back your niece he will think you to be a coward; he already holds you to be a liar, and will believe nothing you say anent this affair, though you hang your whole garrison outside the walls. while you stand babbling there, gloriously frightening women and threatening defenceless men, he, like a sane warrior, is surrounding you. what the archbishop thinks of your innocence in this matter is shown by the fact that count bertrich was sent directly to thuron, and met us almost at your gates. blood has already been shed, and two of the archbishop's men lie dead within sight of your towers. judge, then, of your childish paltry scheme of returning the countess tekla to cochem. he knows you to be a knave, and will think you poltroon as well, and is doubtless right in both estimates." something almost resembling a ruddy colour came into the atramentous face of black heinrich as he listened to this rating of himself in his own hall. his jaws came together with a snap, and as the tirade went on, his bearded lips parted and showed his teeth like a white line across his face, giving him an expression that might well be called diabolical. his eyes nearly closed, and his breath came and went with a hissing sound. he stood rigid and motionless, while on the faces of all present was mute amazement at this temerity on the part of one virtually a prisoner. when heinrich spoke, however, his former loudness was gone, and his words came quiet and measured. "you are not wanting in courage, therefore will i countermand the order for your hanging, and cause your head to be struck off instead." "oh, uncle, uncle!" cried the horrified girl. "do as you will with me, but he is guiltless even of previous knowledge regarding my escape from treves. it is his misfortune, not his fault, that he is here. i implore you----" "steinmetz, let two of your men conduct this fellow to the courtyard, and there behead him." the captain was about to move when a new voice from the corner of the apartment broke in upon the discussion. "may i ask your blackness," said the archer, "to turn your mind from the seeming peril of my lord, to the much more certain jeopardy which confronts yourself, and charge the heathen who obeys you to make no motion, otherwise shall you instantly die. without boasting, henry schwart, i beg to acquaint you with the fact that not all your men nor the surrounding of your strong castle can save your life if this string but slip my finger. i have killed two better men than you to-day when they were charging upon me at full speed, and well protected with armour; judge then what chance you have, standing there a rank temptation to an honest archer. my sure arrow cares not a jot whether it pierces the heart of a count palatine, or the honest if stupid brain of a serf. and now, my lord rodolph, the life of his blackness rests upon your lips. if you say 'let fly' i kill him and whoever stands behind him, for i will break bow if this shaft go not through at least three unarmoured men." "it is as the archer says, my lord," said rodolph, "and his expertness with his weapon is something almost beyond belief, as your own men, watching from your walls a while since, will doubtless testify. i beg that you make equitable terms with us, for i assure your lordship the archer is more to be feared at this moment than a round dozen of archbishops. i ask you to pass your knightly word, and to swear by the three kings of cologne and the holy coat of treves, that you will do us no hurt, but allow us to pass freely on to frankfort." the black count glared in speechless rage at the unwavering archer, and made no reply, but one of the men seated behind him shifted position gingerly, speaking as he did so. "it is no shame to yield, my lord," he said. "i was witness to the bowman's skill and saw the two men unaccountably fall with less difference in time between them than the drawing of a breath." the count spoke after a moment's silence. "if i respect not my own word, the swearing on kings of cologne or coat of treves will not make me keep it." "i will take your word, my lord, so that it includes us all, especially the archer, and stands also for the good conduct of your men." "my men will not lay finger on you with safe conduct from me. i give you, then, my word that you pass on unscathed to frankfort. does that suffice?" "it does, my lord. archer, unbend your bow." the archer, with a sigh, lowered his weapon, but apparently had no such trust as rodolph, for he still kept the arrow on the string. captain steinmetz looked shrewdly at his master, as if inquiring "does this hold?" but he met only a lowering frown and a sharp command to betake himself to the courtyard and disband his men. a bugle at that instant sounded outside, and the captain presently returned to announce that count bertrich was without, and demanded instant audience in the name of the archbishop of treves. "demands, does he? let him wait until i am ready to receive him," replied the swarthy count. then, turning to a servitor, he commanded him to ask the attendance of his lady. heinrich continued his pacing of the room, which he had abandoned when the emperor and those with him had entered. moodiness sat on his brow, and he spoke to none; all within the apartment maintained silence. presently there entered, dressed in deep black, a thin, sallow lady of dejected appearance, who probably had none too easy or pleasant a life of it with her masterful husband. heinrich stood, and without greeting said: "this is my niece, tekla of treves, now on her way to frankfort. she will rest here to-night, so i place her in your care." when the ladies had departed the count ordered that conrad and the archer should have refreshment, then turning to rodolph, he said: "as the visit of count bertrich may have connection with the escapade in the development of which you have no doubt ably assisted, i request you to remain here until the conference is ended, as your testimony concerning it may be called for." rodolph bowed without speaking. "admit count bertrich," directed the master of thuron, standing with his great knuckles resting on the table, ready to receive his warlike visitor. bertrich strode into the room quite evidently fuming because of the waiting he had been compelled to undergo. he made no salutation, but spoke in a loud voice, plunging directly into his subject. his face was pale, but otherwise he showed no sign of the rough treatment he had encountered. looking neither to the right nor to the left, but straight at the black count, he began: "heinrich of thuron, i bear the commands of my master and yours, arnold von isenberg, lord archbishop of treves. in his name i charge you to repair instantly to treves, bearing with you my lord's ward, the countess tekla, whom you have treacherously encouraged and assisted in setting at defiance the just will of his lordship. you are also to bring with you as prisoners those who aided her flight, and deliver them to the garrison at cochem." the eyes of count heinrich gleamed ominously from under the murky brow. "i have heard," he said, harshly. "is there anything further i can do to pleasure his lordship?" "you are to make public apology to him in his palace at treves, delivering into his hands the keys of castle thuron, and, after penance and submission have been duly performed and rendered, his lordship may, in his clemency, entrust you again with the keeping of the castle." "does the category end so lamely?" "i await your answer to as much as i have already cited." "the countess tekla is of my blood, but somewhat contaminated, i admit, by the fact that her father was your predecessor in the archbishop's favour. she was arnold's ward, betrothed to you, his menial. she was in your hands at the capital city of the archbishop, surrounded by spies and environed by troops. if then the girl has the wit to elude you all, baffle pursuit, and arrive unscathed in thuron, she is even more my relative than i had given her credit for, and now the chief loser in the game comes yelping here to me like a whipped spaniel, crying 'give her up.' god's wounds, why should i? she will but trick you again and be elsewhere to seek." "i demand your plain answer, yes or no, to be given at your peril!" "there is no peril in dealing with so stupid a band as that at treves, whose head a simple girl may cozen and whose chief warrior, mounted and encased in iron an unarmoured foot-soldier can overthrow. by the three kings, you strut here in my hall with jingling spurs which you have no right to wear. you know the rules of chivalry; give up your horse, your armour and your sword to the archer who rightfully owns them, having won them in fair field. when thus you have purged yourself of dishonesty, i will lend you a horse to carry my answer back to treves, which is as follows: tell the archbishop that the maiden is in my castle of thuron. if he want her, let him come and take her." the colour had returned in more than its usual volume to the pale face of count bertrich as he listened to this contemptuous speech, but he made no reply until he had withdrawn the gauntlet from his hand: then, flinging it at the feet of the black count, he cried: "there lies the gauge of my lord archbishop of treves, and when thuron castle is blazing, i shall beg of his lordship to allow me to superintend the hanging of the pirate who now inhabits it." heinrich threw back his head with a rasping bark that stood him in place of a laugh. "indeed, my lord, you have the true hangman's favour, and i marvel not the girl fled from you. i am, as you say, somewhat of a pirate, but with more honesty in me than passes current in treves, so i cannot lift the gauge without leave of its real owner. steinmetz, bring here the archer with his bow." when the wonder-stricken archer appeared, grasping his weapon, his mouth full, for he had been reluctantly haled from a groaning board, he looked with some apprehension at the black count, expecting a recantation of the promise wrung from him. "archer," cried heinrich, "there lies a gauntlet which is yours of right. i ask you for it." "indeed, my lord," replied the archer, hastily gulping his food to make utterance possible, "if i have aught to say concerning it, it is yours with right good will." "then from where you stand, as i refused your formal proposal to judge your marksmanship, pin it for me to the floor." the archer, nothing loath, drew bow, and with incredible swiftness shot one after another five shafts that pierced fingers and thumb of the glove, the first arrow still quivering while the last struck into its place. for the only time that day the dark face of the count palatine lit up, in radiant admiration of the stout foreigner who stood with a smirk of self-satisfaction while he nodded familiarly to captain steinmetz as who would say: "you see what would have happened if----" count bertrich regarded him with wonder in his eyes, then pulling a purse from under his breast-plate, he said: "archer, i am in your debt for horse, armour and arms, and think it little shame to confess defeat to one so skilful. if you will accept this gold in payment, and leave me steed and accoutrements, i shall hold myself still your debtor. my excuse for tardy payment is that you did not wait to claim your own." "my lord," said the archer, "i am always willing to compound in gold for any service i can render, and only hope to have another opportunity of practising against your closed helmet with arrows which i shall shortly make a trifle thinner in the shank than those i used to-day. i have to apologise to your lordship that my shafts were rather too thick at the point to give complete satisfaction either to you or to me." all sign of levity vanished from count bertrich's face as he turned again to the black count. "although the exhibition we have been favoured with is interesting," he said, "i do not understand what bearing it has upon the point we were discussing. do you accept challenge, or shall i intercede with my lord the archbishop to grant you the terms formerly recited by me?" "tell the archbishop that the glove has been pinned to my floor by five shafts, piercing the points of its five members; there it will remain until his lordship contritely enters this hall on his knees and pulls them out with his teeth. when he does this and delivers up count bertrich to my hangman he shall have peace." count bertrich, again without salutation, turned his back upon the company, and left the apartment while the archer gazed with admiration on black heinrich, whose language had no mincing diplomacy about it, but stood stoutly for a quarrel. chapter xiv. a reluctant welcome. after count bertrich's unceremonious departure, heinrich stood by the table with black brows, in the attitude of one who listened intently. no one in the room moved or spoke, and in the silence there came from the courtyard the noise of horse's hoofs on stone--first the irregular stamping of an animal struck or frightened by an impatient master, then the rhythmical clatter of the canter, gradually diminishing until it lapsed beyond the hearing. the shutting of the gates with a clang seemed to arouse the master of thuron. he drew a deep breath and glared about him fiercely, like a man ill-pleased, but determined. "steinmetz," he said, gruffly, "have you three men who can be trusted?" "i should hope, my lord, that we have many." "are you sure of three?" "yes, my lord." "then send them with money--no, i will not tempt the dogs. let one on horseback cross the river, and scour the region round munster-maifield, telling each peasant to bring to thuron all the grain he has to sell. announce that i will pay for wheat delivered here at once, a trifle higher than the market price." "indeed, my lord," said steinmetz, "it will not be believed; better trust your men with the money--if you really intend to pay." "tell the peasants that all who bring in grain to-morrow will be paid, and fair weight allowed. say that i will in person visit those who do not respond, accompanied by a troop of horse, and take then what pleases me without payment. see that no word slips out about the coming of the archbishop. another horseman is to go eastward and treat on our side of the river in the same way. let the third ride up the moselle and collect wine on similar terms. to-morrow it is bought; next day it is taken." "the sun is already set, my lord. the men cannot go far to-night. might it not be better----" "steinmetz, i spoke of hanging to-day, and i am still in the mood for it. if you do not listen silently and act promptly and accomplish effectually, you shall dangle. the three men you despatch must be in the saddle all night, returning here by sunrise, with a full account of what we may expect. they will be the surer of finding the peasants at home from now till cock-crow. if my vaults are not full to-morrow at this hour, some one's soul goes to purgatory. arrange as best pleases you, and account to me twenty-four hours hence. i shall myself superintend the intake, and will know how to deal with you if it is insufficient." steinmetz looked with evil eye at his imperious master, but left the room in silence and haste, to make the best of a dangerous commission. heinrich turned to rodolph, and was about to address him when the archer, who had been uneasily awaiting a chance to attract attention, clearing his throat emphatically and often, with little result, spoke up. "my lord, i am pleased to see that you so thoroughly understand the first requisite of a good captain, the which is to attend properly to the victualling of his garrison, but i was somewhat hastily removed from a full board at which i had hardly seated myself, leaving in my hurry to wait on your highness, a full tankard of wine, which i would fain return to. therefore, my lord----" "in the fiend's name, do so!" cried heinrich, who with wrinkled brow had at last comprehended his guest's volubility, whereupon the archer waited no further permission but took himself off with a celerity which caused more than one smile to brighten the anxious faces in the room. "you are doubtless as hungry as your man-at-arms," said heinrich, turning to rodolph, "but will possibly pardon the necessity that intervened between you and the board." "indeed, my lord, i care little for food to-night, being more in need of rest, and, if i have your leave, would be glad to get sight of bed, especially as i hold it necessary to be early astir to-morrow, if we are to make frankfort before nightfall." "it is not my intention that you go to frankfort; i have changed my mind. it will profit my niece nothing to go to frankfort, for even if the emperor were there, he is nothing but a hare-brained fool." "i most emphatically agree with your estimate of him, my lord." "i thought you were a friend of his?" "i am, and therefore know him well, and so with easy conscience can perform the part of candid friend and amply corroborate what you say concerning him." "i know him not, and judge him but by hearsay. he is a foreigner and no true german, and was elected by the two archbishops for their own purposes and cannot therefore be either a fighter or a man of brains. he lacks wisdom, think you?" "he has no more wisdom, my lord, than i, who mix with other people's quarrels and get scant thanks for my pains." "a man can scarcely be expected to give thanks when he finds that others have arranged a war for him without his knowledge or sanction." "that is very true, my lord, and consequently i expect no thanks from the archbishop, who thus finds his hand prematurely forced, and timely warning given to the redoubtable count heinrich. his secret preparations against you are thus unmasked, and i can well understand his rage thereat." the black count scowled darkly at the younger man, and seemed unable to measure accurately his apparent frankness, feeling the awkwardness of an unready man in the polished presence of a courtier, and resenting the feeling. "that was not my meaning," he said, curtly. "i am under little obligation to the archbishop, and therefore tell you frankly that i believe it was his intention to attack you later, and catch you unaware. i was confirmed in this belief by some remarks dropped by the custodian of cochem castle. he told me the archbishop had lately sent two spies secretly, to find out all there was to learn regarding your defences. they did so, and reported to his pious and crafty lordship." "did the custodian say arnold intended an attack?" "had he said so, then would i have surmised you were free from danger. on the contrary, he said the archbishop had thought better of it; but knowing the devious ways of the elector, i am convinced he was making secret preparations for your downfall. he is not a man to wear his plans upon his robes of office. imagine then his present rage at finding himself unaccountably forestalled, for nothing on earth will persuade him the flight of the countess is not all your doing. he is taken unprepared. his troops are some days' hard marching from thuron, and when they come, they find the land has already been scoured; that you have collected in your cellars all the meat and drink there is in the region round about, so therefore must he sustain his army from a distance and at increased labour and cost. instead of secretly encircling your castle with an army, as if he called his troops by magic from the ground, and driving back your foragers on a half empty larder, he comes upon you well stocked and waiting for him. instead of the haughty bertrich giving you his ultimatum with a company at his back, and the white tents of treves gleaming over the green landscape, the envoy goes back on the horse of one of his own slain men, himself compelled to compound with an unknown foot-soldier for his forfeited accoutrements, and that in the hall of his enemy, under the taunts of the master of thuron and the scornful gaze of his nobles. he returns to treves an overthrown man with good assurance that heinrich of thuron cares not one trooper's oath for either the archbishop or himself. therefore, my lord, you have right valid reason for thanking the countess tekla and myself, although i must own that some short time since, you gave but small token of your gratitude." heinrich regarded the young man as he spoke with a look of piercing intentness, tinctured with suspicion. as the recital went on and he began to see more clearly in what light his actions would go abroad, and how he stood in relation with the archbishop, he drew himself proudly up, the smell of coming battle seeming to thrill his nostrils. nevertheless there was rarely absent from his penetrating gaze the indication of slumbering distrust, with which a man uncouth and rough of tongue, usually listens to one of opposite qualities for here before him was a puzzle; a man who apparently did not fear him, who spoke smoothly and even flatteringly, yet who, in a manner, looked down upon him as if he were inferior clay. he had this young man entirely in his power, yet the position might have been reversed for all the comfort it gave the black count. "i am not sure but you have some qualities of a great commander," said heinrich, a compliment which although perhaps reluctantly given, the nobleman recalled in after life as a proof of his own foresight, when rodolph had become in the estimation of all europe the most notable emperor germany had ever seen. the young man laughed. "i am scarcely in physical condition to do justice to whatever qualities i may possess, for these two nights past i have had more fatigue than sleep." his entertainer, however, did not take the hint. his brow was knitted in deep thought. at last he said, with a return to scepticism to his eyes: "you spoke of being at cochem. what did you there? were you the guest of the archbishop?" "in a manner. a guest without his knowledge. the countess and her party enjoyed the hospitality of cochem last night." "you amaze me. in your flight from treves had you the actual temerity to make a hostel of the archbishop's own palace?" again the emperor laughed. "it was not our intention to do so, but hospitality was forced upon us. at bruttig i was, with some reluctance, compelled to slit the throat of beilstein's captain in defence of the countess, and, in the mêlée that followed, i had to proclaim the quality of the lady and demand protection from the archbishop's troops there stationed. they conducted us to cochem, and the countess was received by the custodian of the castle there with a courtesy which seems to be entirely absent from such ceremonies further down the moselle." the black count grunted and the expression on his countenance was not pleasing to look upon. however, he did not pursue the subject, but called to an aged waiting servant and said: "conduct lord rodolph to the round guest-chamber." "with your lordship's permission," said rodolph, "i would crave a word with the countess tekla. she has had recent trying experiences, and after the tension may come relapse. i would fain speak encouragingly to her, if you make no objection." heinrich threw back his lion head and laughed hoarsely. "objection of mine comes rather tardily. an unmarried woman who throws herself into the arms of the first chevalier who presents himself, and journeys with him night and day across the country, has no reputation left for me to protect. see her when you will for aught of me." rodolph reddened, and his lips came tightly together. "my lord," he said, slowly, "i have already informed you that i slit the throat of a man who spoke less slightingly of her ladyship than you have this moment done, and, from what i saw of him, he was as brave a warrior as you, and had the advantage of being surrounded by a larger following. yet he lies buried in bruttig." "we have had this trick performed to-day already by the archer, and it is now stale. push me not too often to the wall, for i am an impatient man, and some one is like to get hurt by it. i say nothing against the girl; she is my niece and if any one draw sword for her it should be me." then to the aged servitor who still stood waiting, he cried: "take him to my lady's portion of the castle, and after, to the round guest-chamber." rodolph followed the servant, who shuffled on before him through various passages, and at last came to a small door where he knocked. it was opened by an old woman, who, after explanation, conducted the young man through several small rooms, in the first of which the manservant awaited the emperor's return. this suite of rooms looked out on a courtyard overshadowed by one of the tall round towers of the castle, and in the courtyard there had been an attempt at gardening, unattended with marked success. the further room of the series was larger than any of the others, and was furnished less rudely than the huge apartment in which the black count and his men were gathered. the sallow wife of heinrich sat at a table near one of the windows and was gazing silently out on the courtyard. the countess tekla sat also by the table with her arms spread upon it and her head resting, face downward, upon them. hilda had a bench to herself in a corner of the room, and it was evident that all three women had been weeping in a common misery. the countess heinrich gave rodolph a timid, almost inaudible greeting, and when tekla raised her head at the slight sound, she sprang to her feet on seeing who had entered, undisguised joy in her wet eyes. "oh lord rodolph!" she cried, but could get no further. the emperor took her unresisting hand and raised it to his lips. "i have come, my lady tekla," he said, with a smile, "to congratulate you on the successful accomplishment of your dangerous journey." "successful!" she cried. "yes, successful as far as you could make it so, and most sincerely do i thank you. but cannot we leave for frankfort to-night? i am now rested, and eager to be quit of this inhospitable dungeon. i would rather be in the forest with you----" then adding in some confusion, realising what she had said in her zeal to set off without delay, "and conrad, and hilda, than to stay longer in thuron." "in that you would do grave injustice to your valiant uncle, who but now has said he would be first to draw sword for your defence. no, bertrich has returned empty-handed as he came, unless a bold defiance of the archbishop from heinrich of thuron be considered, which he takes with him to treves. the emperor, as heinrich truly says, is not at frankfort, so a journey thence might be ill-timed. your uncle freely extends to you the shelter and protection of thuron. i must own to having formed an admiration for the man, although at first my feeling tended rather in the opposite direction. but it must not be forgotten on his behalf that our coming was unexpected, and he can scarcely be blamed if, like a spirited horse, he shied at first." "he is a good man," said the countess of thuron, mildly, "if he be not crossed. he will brook no interference." "then we stay in thuron!" cried tekla, in amazement. "it is your uncle's wish." "and what of the archbishop? will he attack, think you?" "of that i have grave doubts. arnold is above all things a cautious man, and if one were sure what any other would do, one might guess that the archbishop would act the contrary. i think he will attack, but my thinking so quite prepares me for the opposite. in any case, lady tekla, you have nothing further to fear from count bertrich, for your uncle seems to hold him in less fear than you do yourself." "thank god for that!" said the countess, fervently, with an involuntary shudder. she stole a furtive glance at the young man before her. "do you depart from thuron on the morrow?" she asked, in a low voice. "that rests largely with count heinrich--and--and with you. if you desire my presence, or my absence, i shall endeavour to fulfil your wish." "your own affairs will not be bettered by your absence from them i fear." "indeed," said rodolph, with a laugh, "i doubt if it will make great difference either way." "if that is truly the case, i would be--i think my uncle will need all the stout hearts he can muster round him." "my own wish is to stay. but we will see what the morrow brings. meanwhile, you are tired, and little wonder. i wish you good rest, and i am sure you may sleep in serene peace of mind, for your troubles are at an end." with that he took leave of her, sighing to think they were no longer alone together, he her sole protector, and so it may have chanced that his eyes spoke what his lips dare not utter, but if this were the case tekla had no censure for him, but sighed in company, though so lightly he did not hear as he turned away. the ancient man, who was patiently waiting for him, had now a torch in his hand, which he lighted when he came to the courtyard, applying it to another that flared in an iron receptacle fastened to the stone wall. he led the way to one of the round towers, and climbed slowly up a narrow stone stair, passing several doors, but stopping at none until he seemed to have reached the top. then, resting his torch in an iron holder, he, with much effort, drew back heavy bolts and threw open the door. the torch lighted a round chamber in which were three narrow windows in the thick stone, wide at the inner surface of the wall, but narrowing to a mere slit, with scarce room for a man's hand to penetrate to the outer air. a pallet of straw lay by the wall furthest from the door, and there was in the room a rude table, and a ruder bench. the old servant placed the burning torch within the room, and muttering a good-night, withdrew, closing the door after him. a moment later rodolph heard the bolts being shot into their places. he cried aloud, beating the stout oaken panels with the hilt of his rapier. "here, fellow. you are exceeding your instructions. the count said nothing of my being barred in. i am no prisoner, but a guest." but the old man did not draw the bolts. "the instructions ever follow the order given. take him to the round guest-chamber, says my lord, which means also, bolt him in there." again rodolph loudly protested, but the shuffling steps of his guide echoed hollow from the circular stair. the emperor, when the last sound had ceased, threw himself, dressed as he was, on the straw, and an instant later was sound asleep. chapter xv. castle thuron makes a full meal. the sun, shining through one of the narrow slits in the circular wall, striking on rodolph's face, woke him next morning, and when he sat on his straw pallet he saw that the door had been unbarred and thrown partly open. he walked down into the quiet courtyard, with its neglected garden, and glanced up at the windows of the suite of rooms which the women of the castle inhabited, but saw no signs of any of them. passing through a hall he entered the outer courtyard, where the day before he had dismounted after his journey. the gates were wide apart, and the courtyard itself looked like a city market-place. the scene was one of hurry and animation. the enclosure was filled with rude carts, and with lowing cows and oxen that had drawn them, steaming after the exertion of dragging their heavy loads up the steep hill. a procession of others, waiting their turn, extended through the gateway and along the hillside road that led to it. the black count himself superintended the intake of sacks of grain and casks of wine, estimating rather than accurately measuring their value, and paying with his own hand for what was thus brought to his doors. count heinrich, like many other nobles of his time, had the right to coin gold and silver, and his mint-master had been busy all night striking off pieces of different sizes, each with a rude effigy of the count on one face of the coin, and its value in roman numerals on the other. heinrich seemed to be driving generous bargains, loudly demanding what the owner thought his contribution worth, and when the sum was tremblingly named, giving often more than was asked, but never less. he acted like a man who had long defied public opinion, but who now, for reasons of his own, preferred to court it, not knowing how soon he might be in some measure dependent upon it. rodolph learned that before midnight the wine from the upper valley had begun to come in, and that the count, having been in council with his captains until that hour, had gone forth to make payment by torchlight, while his mint-master sent him from the cellars of the castle, bags of currency still warm from the crucible. heinrich showed no sign of fatigue, but was as alert as any, standing on the stone steps that led to the castle door, a head or more above the throng, while two secretaries counted out the sums he demanded and handed them to him from the bags at his feet. his eagle eye covered the whole scene, and now and then when the incomers and outgoers became jammed in an apparently indissolvable tangle, wheels interlocking, and goads falling ineffectually on the patient backs of the cattle, the count with stentorian voice and eloquent gesture would command one to back here, another to go forward there, whereupon the knot would be speedily unloosed and the business go forward as it should. if the stout heinrich had little mercy on himself he had none at all on his servitors. panting men struggled with heavy sacks on their backs, disappearing through the open archway that led to the cellars, emerging empty handed, drawing sleeve across sweating brow, to bend back instantly under a fresh burden and return. full casks of wine were rolled and lowered out of sight, as if the castle were some huge open-jawed monster who was swallowing a gigantic meal with little sign of repletion. did a man pause but a moment to fill his lungs with the fresh morning air, the all-encompassing eye of the master had singled him out and a roar of rage made all within hearing tremble. it was evident that peasant and servitor alike, officer and foot soldier, were in deadly terror of the black count. rodolph made his way up to the battlements and looked down on this stirring scene. then he walked along the walls to gain some idea of the castle's strength and situation. there was a broad level promenade parallel to the river front, protected by a strong machicolated parapet. the promenade ran due north and south, and was nearly a hundred yards in length. at each end of the castle, but some distance back from the front, rose a round tower, the north tower being slightly lower than its brother. behind the north tower was a precipitous wooded cliff falling steeply down to the little river thaurand. the northern, eastern, and southern sides of the slope, at the top of which the castle stood, were densely wooded. the western slope, descending some hundreds of feet to the moselle, was covered with vines, through which, beginning near the northern end of the stronghold, ran at steep incline the stout wall that ended at the river, carrying on its back here and there a stumpy square stone guard-house. clustered at the foot of this wall, and stretching along the edge of the moselle, lay the small village of alken, over which was thrown the dark shadow of the black count's castle. beyond it flowed the broad smooth river, placid as a sheet of glass, reflecting, far down, the forest-covered hills of its western bank. at the junction of the hollow river wall with the castle, there stood on the terrace, at either side of the up-springing causeway, a huge, clumsy catapult, one commanding the northern face of the wall coming up from the river, the other the southern side. here and there, at the edge of the promenade furthest from the parapet, were piled, with some attempt at symmetry, many hundreds of round pieces of granite, each considerably larger than a man's head, and each weighing as much as a man might care to lift. these spheres were ammunition for the catapult, and rodolph saw that the count appreciated not only the necessity of guarding his way to the river, but also the difficulty the archbishop's men would find, in the face of hurling granite, to force a breach in the stonework. all in all, arnold had a hard nut to crack in castle thuron, defended as it was by a man of resource and resolute determination. on the opposite shore of the river rodolph saw collected many ox-carts, while the three boats which the day before had been drawn up on the bank at alken, were busy ferrying over the produce brought by the carts. sturdy villagers with bags on their backs were slowly plodding up the hill to the castle, ignoring the zig-zag road, and coming steeply and straight up the lanes between the rows of vines. as rodolph leaned against the stone parapet watching the villagers crawling like laden ants up the slopes, he was accosted by the cheery voice of the english archer. "i hope you have slept well, my lord," he said. "excellently. and you?" "never better. with the blue sky above me and my mind at peace with all the world; a bed of moss and a sloping hillside, that the water may speedily run away should a shower come on, no man can ask for better resting-place." "good heaven! the count did not turn you thus inhospitably adrift on the landscape surely? he has roof enough and room enough to give you some choice of a sleeping chamber." "oh, the count's intentions were doubtless fair enough; i make no complaint of his blackness. that he is uncivilised and knows nothing of the courtesy that pertains to a guest, is the fault of his upbringing and should not be justly charged against him. i was taken to a dark vault and barred in, the which i never can put up with, unless i am a legal prisoner, and even then only if it fall in with my convenience. i had some thought of slaying my jailor and taking his head with me to the count, to demand an unbarred door, but the rascal was too quick for me, and before i fathomed his inhospitable intent, had thrust bolt in socket, himself safely on the outside, scorning my protestations. a fastened door gives me a sense of suffocation that i find ill to abide. i tested the door by various expedients which lie at the hand of an experienced soldier, but found it proof against them all. window there was none, but the open chimney gave me a speedy way, working with hands and knees, to the roof. the moon, just past the full, was shining brightly, and at some risk to my bones i got from roof to lower roof, and so at last to the battlements, where by trusting my body somewhat precipitously to the top of a tree, i won my road to the ground outside the castle. there i made myself a bed and was awakened as a man should be, by the singing of the birds, after a most refreshing night of it. i wandered about in the forest testing the different trees to find timber for the making of arrows, or a bow if need be, although i found little suitable for the latter. with these branches of timber i presented myself at the entrance gate to the no small amazement of the guards, and found all in a bustle, with the buying and selling of grain. henry schwart espied me as soon as i entered, notwithstanding the throng, and he roared out how the devil i came there, and who had unbarred the door, whereat i laughed at him, and said they kept such loose watch at thuron that an industrious man might have cut all their throats while they slept, had he been so minded, and this brought greater blackness into heinrich's face than i had hitherto seen there." "if a suggestion does you any good," said rodolph, with some severity, "i would not make his lordship the subject of mirth." "indeed, my lord, your words are full of wisdom, which i marvel at considering your youth; but with me it is usually the word first and the thought after, which may be likened to putting the cart before the cow, as they would say in these parts. no; i saw that heinrich did not enjoy my merriment, but what was i to do when the laugh had already echoed from the stone walls, and was thus beyond recall. he sent one messenger to my room, and another to yours, with instructions to leave your door open and unbarred, which seemed to show that the black count may still be judiciously taught by good example. the messenger to your room reported you to be sleeping soundly, while the one to mine said the door was still bolted, which was undoubtedly true, for i had not meddled with it. but i much fear, as you have already hinted, that i have forfeited the love heinrich bore me yesterday, when i pointed an arrow at his heart, for when i asked permission to go to treves (granted that i received your leave) he opened his eyes till they were round as targets, and cried that he would see me in the region of the condemned with pleasure, but not to treves, which i took as an ill-natured remark, given coarsely as he put it." "to treves? why to treves of all places in the world? how could you expect count heinrich to permit you to go to treves from this castle when he is in momentary anticipation of being besieged by treves?" "i told him i should return unless i was decapitated by the archbishop or count bertrich, in which case he could hardly look to me to keep my tryst with him. i have a friend whom i left near treves, from whence, if i succeeded in getting employment, i was to send him word, so that he too might have a place beside me. in case of not hearing from me he was to betake himself to treves and there make inquiry regarding me; that, i fear, he has done, or is about to do, and i wish to engage him on my side in this quarrel. it has been our fate this many a year to be in opposing camps, and thus not only are we deprived of each other's company, but our lives are placed in jeopardy, each through the marksmanship of the other; and while i should as fain take my departure from this world on one of roger's shafts as otherwise, yet it would grieve him ever after, for he is a tender hearted man as ever let fly unerring arrow. it would greatly advantage black heinrich, had he but sense to see it, to let me go to treves and bring back roger kent with me." "is he then an archer also? there surely cannot be two such." "no, there is none like him. he regards me as his most promising pupil, but that is merely because of his fondness for me, who will patiently listen to the poetry he makes." "is he a poet as well? such a man, if he betters you in shooting, must write most stirringly of war." "he is the greatest of poets, for so he himself admitted to me. he writes poetry that no man on earth can understand, and if that be sign of greatness, it must be as he says. he has slight conceit of himself as an archer, in which craft i know him to be unequalled, but i am no judge of his verses, although they read most soothingly and put a man to sleep when aught else fails. he writes not of war, my lord, but of love. he indites verses to many foreign virgins of ancient times, whose very names i am never able to remember, and he has marvellous pages on the birds and the woods and mosses, and all flowers that grow, which, he says, speak to him in a language of their own, and that i can well believe, for i have no understanding of it. and he has penned many touching lines on the blessings of peace, though how he could earn his threepence a day if peace abounded, is something which even he, poet as he is, cannot explain." "i think such a soldier would be an acquisition to our garrison, and i shall see whether count heinrich can be persuaded to allow you a visit in treves, although i can well understand his reluctance, fearing the losing of so valuable an archer as yourself. i also have a message to send to treves, so perhaps we shall prevail on the count to think better of his decision. you gave me the name of your friend, but i have never yet learned your own." "i am called john surrey, my lord. i am saxon, as you may see, but roger is a norman, tall and thin and nearly as black as heinrich himself. we should be enemies and not friends, for the normans conquered the saxons, but as that conquest is now some time past, and i saw not how to better the matter by my interference so long as the normans had such archers as roger; and as he could get none of his own countrymen to listen to his poetry, we had need of each other, and our only grievance is that we fight usually on opposite sides, the which i should in this instance amend if the count but let me to treves before the archbishop has roger enlisted. if there is a tumult in treves and men are called for, he will be one of the first to offer himself, thinking to find me in the ranks, for he knows that it was to take service with arnold that i journeyed forth." "i have, as i said, a message to send to treves, so i shall speak to the count on behalf of your mission, but i doubt if he will risk the loss of one archer like you on the remote chance of gaining two such later." "am i then in the count's service and not in yours? have you transferred me to him, my lord?" "not so. you are at present my archer regiment, which i hope to increase in number as opportunity serves, but we must now do our best to aid the count, having helped in some measure to bring on his dilemma." "with right good will, my lord, so be it that he treats a man not as a slave or prisoner, and if it come to hanging, or the like, i would rather be hanged by you than by the count." rodolph smiled and said: "you may be sure i shall not deliver up to the count whatever rights i possess regarding your fate. i have always insisted on the esteemed privilege of hanging my own men; it is not an advantage i would willingly bestow upon another." "in that your lordship is wise," answered the bowman, soberly, "for the relinquishing of apparently trivial pretensions is generally followed by increased encroachment. i shall now bid your lordship good morning, for i must betake myself to the workshops of the castle and there teach a knave heinrich has given me, the proper making of arrows, the which is likely to be a task of some duration, for the rascal does not seem over-bright, and the germans have little skill, at best, in the accurate manufacture of shafts, and the correct balancing of them. i hold it well to prepare for the coming of the archbishop, and meet him with suitable offerings, lest he suspect us of disrespect to his high station." "i hope he will appreciate your thoughtfulness," said the emperor, whereupon the archer descended from the battlements. rodolph rested his arms on the parapet and gazed at the peasants toiling slowly up the incline from the river with their burdens. as the sun rose higher and higher the shadow of the great castle also moved imperceptibly up the slope, as if emulating the labourers. the houses of alken, closely packed together, as was the case with all mediæval villages, stood brilliantly out in the sunshine, now that the shadow of the castle was removed from them. in the clear air every stone of the place stood distinctly out, and it seemed so surprisingly near that one might have imagined he had but to stretch down his hand and touch its roofs. from its streets came up the merry laughter of children, joyous at the unusual bustle going forward, having not the slightest idea of the ominous meaning which the hurrying to and fro brought to older minds. a musical greeting caused the emperor to start from his reverie and turn suddenly round. the countess tekla stood before him, smiling, and seeming herself a spirit of the morning. to rodolph she appeared to be robed magnificently, and he wondered how she came by all this finery, which suited her so well, making her look the great lady she undoubtedly was. notwithstanding her youth, there was an unconscious dignity about her that awed him, even though he was accustomed to the splendour of the grand dames who thronged his now deserted court at frankfort. could this be the girl who had come through such rough usage with him from treves to thuron, standing now like a fair goddess of the moselle in her queenly beauty? here was one indeed to fight for and to die for, if necessity arose, thinking oneself blessed for the privilege. her head was coroneted by a semi-circular band of gold, encrusted with jewels. behind her fair neck the rich profusion of hair was kept in bounds by a clasp of finely-wrought silver, from which imprisonment it then flowed unimpeded, the colour of ripened wheat, each thread apparently spun from the golden beams of the sun itself. it covered her like a mantle, making even the embroidered splendour of her gown seem poor by comparison. to this radiant vision so unexpectedly risen before him, the emperor bowed with the slow, lowly deference of a courtier to his monarch, speechless for the moment through the emotions that stirred within him. the girl laughed merrily at his confusion. "you must not so critically regard me, my lord," she said. "my wardrobe is elsewhere, as you know, and i have been compelled to explore this grim castle for the wherewithal to attire myself, finding more of coats of mail than of ladies' adornments, for it is long since feminine vanity dwelt herein, so i have been compelled to piece out this with that, to make myself presentable, and i feel like one engaged in a masquerade, tricking myself out as they tell me the ladies do at some grand function given by the emperor at frankfort." "my lady, the emperor's court is lit by candles; i stand now in the radiance of the sun." the lady turned her dancing eyes upon him. "if that is a compliment, my lord, 'tis fit for frankfort itself; if it merely refers to the undoubted fact that the sun is shining bravely on you, and that the court is dim by comparison, think not you will deter me from going there, for i should dearly love to witness the pageantry of the capital." "indeed, countess, if you fail to do so it will not be through lack of invitation." "when invitation comes i shall eagerly accept it." "i sincerely trust you will, my lady." "perhaps you also will be there, and may not have forgotten me. if i see you, i shall ask you to point out to a stranger those who are notable." "such is my most devout wish, although i lacked the courage to give expression to it." "but i breathe a warning to you. my uncle tells me you spoke slightingly of the emperor last night. i was grieved to hear it, for i am a loyal subject of his, and were i a man, would draw sword, did any in my presence allude to the head of the state in other terms than those of respect." "knowing your pleasure, i shall be careful not to offend again. still, in my own defence, i should like to say that i spoke only of faults that the emperor himself would be the first to admit. an emperor should be an emperor, and not a nonentity whose wish commands but slight attention." the lady drew herself up, a slight frown marring the smoothness of her brow. "you pay little heed to my request, and while professing to comply, offend the more. a loyal noble would scarce call his emperor a nonentity." "look around you, countess. here are going forward busy preparations for war. does the count appeal to his over-lord against the suspected incursion of the archbishop? 'twould be grotesque to hint that such a thought ever occurred to him. does the archbishop send an envoy to frankfort acquainting the emperor with his purpose and asking leave to launch an army against thuron? not so. he doffs his clerical vestments and dons a coat of mail, as mindless of the emperor as if no such person existed. here red-handed war is about to open within a day's journey of the capital, in the centre of the emperor's domains, and if he ever hears of it, 'twill be because some friend tells him. that jumps not with my idea of the high office." "but the emperor is at the holy war in foreign lands." "then should he instead stand where i stand, in the midst of the unholy war in his own land, to stop it or to guide it." "if you think thus," said the girl, perplexed at the confident tone of the young man, and forgetting the censure she had just pronounced upon him, "why have you left his side? why do you not say to him what you say of him to me?" "indeed, my lady," replied rodolph with a laugh, "i have but little influence with his majesty. often has he pursued a course that has not met with my approval, being turned aside from great policies of state by the sight of a pretty face. you could sway him, countess, where i should be helpless. but i know that he has lately met one, who can if she likes, make a great emperor of him, should he prove capable of a distinguished career, so my part in his reformation will count for little." "then she will do so, of course, and be proud of the opportunity," cried the countess, eagerly. "perhaps. who can tell what a woman may do? it is my earnest hope that she prove not unwilling." "is she beautiful?" "the divinest--yes, she is accounted so." in spite of tekla's enthusiasm for the welfare of her emperor, the ardour with which the young man began his eulogy regarding the unknown lady in question, and the quick suppression of the same, did not escape her notice, nor did it bring that satisfaction which a moment before tekla had anticipated. she turned her eyes from him and allowed them to wander over the wide and peaceful landscape, whose beauty was so much enhanced by the winding, placid river. then she said suddenly, obviously apropos of the labouring peasants: "we shall be in little danger of starvation in thuron, unless the siege be long." "i am not so sure of that," replied rodolph. "i had no supper last night, and this morning none has said to me 'this is the way to the dining hall.'" "do you mean that you have not yet breakfasted?" cried tekla, turning to him with quick surprised interest. "and i have been standing here censuring a hungry man. you must think our race a most ungrateful one." "i had no such thought. but your mention of starvation reminded me that i am rather in the condition of a famishing garrison myself." "then come with me at once. i will be your hostess, and will endeavour to recompense you for the inhospitality of the castle. there is a delightful balcony overlooking the quiet inner courtyard, and there we shall spread your repast. come." the emperor followed her, and presently arrived at the balcony she had spoken of, overhanging the neglected garden. it was, indeed, a pleasant spot in so stern a fortress, shut off by heavy velvet hangings from the apartment out of which it projected and forming thus a little square room half inside the castle and half in the open air. rodolph sat at the table with the countess opposite him, while hilda waited on them. tekla chatted as her _vis-à-vis_ broke his long fast. "i intend to make this plot of ground my care, and, while all others are busy fighting for me, i shall be peacefully engaged in gardening. i hope to interest my aunt in horticulture. poor woman, she seems to have little to occupy her mind in this prison, and i fear her husband pays scant attention to her. him too i shall cultivate if i get an opportunity. he has need of civilisation, for he scarce seems to believe that women have a right to exist, and his wife has for years been so patient and uncomplaining, that he has been confirmed in his neglect of her." "i have already cautioned my archer this morning not to encroach too boldly on his lordship's good nature, which the count seems to have but short stock of. may i venture to suggest that the task of reforming him will be more safely accomplished perhaps when your ladyship occupies your strongest castle, with a stout garrison about you?" "have no fear, my lord. he came to us last night and sat talking to me as smoothly as if he were the archbishop himself--in truth, much more smoothly than the archbishop has lately spoken. he sat there with his elbow on the table looking fixedly at me, quite ignoring his wife, who trembled with fear while he was in the room, and groaned aloud when i spoke my mind to him on one or two occasions. he said that we two were the only kin each had and should think much of each other. i told him frankly i should be pleased to think much of him as soon as i saw occasion to do so, but that what i had seen of him heretofore had not made me proud of the kinship. my lady caught her breath and looked imploringly at me, but he, frowning, gazed sternly at me, first saying nothing, then after a long silence muttering: 'i would you were a man,' 'indeed, uncle,' i replied, 'such was my own wish this afternoon, when, instead of throwing myself at your feet i might have drawn sword and taught good manners in thuron.' then you should have seen him. his brow was like midnight, and his eyes blazed. he started up in wrath, and i little wondered that my lady moaned and wrung her hands, but i laughed and returned his look without flinching, although i may confess to you i was as frightened as when in cochem. but his frown cleared away, and something almost resembling a twinkle came into his piercing eyes. i am sure there was at least the beginning of a smile under his black beard as he said, quite in kindly tone, 'we are, indeed, relatives, tekla.' he placed his hand on my head as if i were a little child, sighed, turned on his heel and strode away without further farewell. my aunt gazed wonderingly at me as if i had baited a bear, and had unexpectedly come forth unscathed." "which is exactly my own opinion. i beg of you not to repeat the experiment." tekla looked archly at him across the table, with a smile on her face like the play of sunshine on the fair surface of the river. "why should i repeat it, my lord? it is only men who do that, and as your former advice was given to a man, it was of course well placed. a man always repeats. oh, i know his formula. first there is the haughty word; next the sneering reply; then a mounting flush of anger to the forehead, and hand on the hilt of the sword. it always ends with the sword, for the men have little patience and less originality. with a woman it must be different, for she carries no sword, and her ingenuity is her only weapon. my dark uncle, when he reflects slowly on his treatment, will come at last to a conclusion regarding what he shall do when next i laugh at him. but when he visits us again i shall be most kind to him, and he will learn with amaze how pleasant he finds it when he acts less like a bear with his women folk. i shall take him to this balcony and feed him tenderly. hilda knows the method of preparing some culinary dainties, which are common enough at treves, but utterly unknown at thuron. on each occasion my dear uncle will find me different, and whatever plan he prepares for one method of attack, will be utterly useless when confronted with another. i can see he is an unready man, and i shall never give him time to build up a line of defence while he is with me. oh, if the archbishop attacks thuron with half the skill with which i shall besiege my uncle, then is the castle doomed. and in the end you shall find that my dark uncle will so dearly assess me that he will fight for me against a whole house of archbishops." "i can well believe that," said rodolph, with undisguised admiration. before tekla could reply a wild cheer went up from the further courtyard, echoed by a fainter cheer outside the castle. rodolph started to his feet and listened as the acclamations continued. "run, hilda," cried the countess. "find the cause of the outcry and bring us tidings of it." when the girl breathlessly returned she said they were hoisting on the great southern tower the broad flag of thuron, and that the people were cheering as if they were mad, but the cause of it all she could not learn. "the archbishop's army is very likely in sight," said rodolph, "although how that can be, unless arnold has sent it close on bertrich's heels, i cannot understand. perhaps bertrich has met it between the castle and cochem and has returned with it. let us go and see." chapter xvi. the countess tries to tame the bear. once more tekla and rodolph found themselves on the battlements. the flag hung listless at the top of the pole in the still air, as if the time for action had not yet arrived. on a hill summit further up the river another flag was fluttering, and on the other side, still more distant, a third flag was being slowly raised against the sky. whether or not this betokened the coming of the archbishop, rodolph could not determine. the nearer flag seemed to be of the same design as the one that hung over thuron; the third flag was too far away to allow its character to be discerned. the line of peasants winding up from the river and stretching along the banks had taken up the cheering which echoed lustily from hill to hill. it was evident that that most infectious malady, the war spirit, was abroad, for fighting songs, ringing and truculent, with swinging, inspiring choruses, were being chanted in the village and along the river. some rumour or suspicion of what was going forward had undoubtedly permeated the mass of people collected within and under shadow of the castle; rodolph felt the enthusiasm of coming battle in the air. yet these people had always been tyrannised over by the black count, and this was probably the first time he had paid for what he took from them. nevertheless, they were shouting for him, and woe betide the man who now raised his voice against him. as rodolph looked on in wonderment, the black count himself came up the steps that led to the lofty promenade, and there was a gleam of fierce delight in his dark eye as he swept it over the animated scene. some of the songs sung had evidently not been intended as complimentary to the count when they were originally composed, but now the singers had either forgotten the first import of the words, or had added others that turned censure into laudation. the burden of the chorus in one of them was "the devil is black," a line oft repeated, and ending with a phrase which betokened the ultimate fate of his sable majesty. although some unthinkingly, carried away by the enthusiasm of the occasion, repeated the old ending, the majority gave the new rendering, which was to the effect that their devil was more than a match for any other devil in existence. the count as he approached the two young people standing by the parapet, had shaken off much of his habitual gloom, and was even humming to himself the catching refrain referring to the blackness of the devil, quite unheeding any personal reference it might contain. "good day to you, my lord count," said rodolph. "you have had little rest since i last spoke with you. do the flags on the hill-tops betoken the coming of treves?" "no, they are my signals, already agreed upon, to let the peasants know the castle can hold no more. thuron has had a full meal, and now let arnold come on when he pleases: we are ready for him." "shall you not follow the castle's example, uncle?" said tekla. "you must be both tired and hungry i have a meal in preparation for you." "hungry always; tired never. the loss of one night's sleep is nothing to me. if it were ten i might wrap my coat about me and look for a corner to lie down in. i shall eat with my men in the great hall, child, so never depend upon me for a table companion, but dine when and where it pleases you. i place few restrictions upon those within these walls, and suffer none at all to bind myself. go therefore to your apartments; the ramparts are for men-at-arms and not for women. i wish to have some words with this gentleman." "nay, but uncle," pleaded tekla, in a pretty tone of entreaty, placing her small white hand on his gigantic stalwart arm, "i have appointed myself caterer of the castle and must not have my housewifely arts so slighted by the chief thereof." "uncle me not so frequently," he cried, with rude impatience, trying to shake off her hand; but it clung there like a snowflake against a piece of rock. "i am rarely in the humour for pretty phrases. i am not a man of words, but a man of action." "then, mine only uncle, as you yourself reminded me last night, come and show yourself a man of action against the meal i shall prepare for you." black heinrich glanced helplessly at rodolph with so much of comic discomfiture that the young man had some ado to keep his countenance. "if i had a score of uncles," continued tekla. "i might lavish my kindness on them one after another; as i have but one he must be patient with me, and take to my civilising influence with the best grace he may. you will come then when i send for you?" "well, well," said the count gruffly, so that his giving way might attract the less notice, "if you leave us now, i will go." when tekla had departed and the two men were left alone together, rodolph was the first to speak. "i know not what you have to say to me, my lord count, but i have something to say to you. last night you told me i was not a prisoner, yet was i treated like one when i left you. i protested against being barred in, and was informed that when you ordered a guest to the round chamber, the bolting was included in the hospitality. i should like, therefore, to know what my standing is in this castle. am i a prisoner at night, and a free man during the day, or what?" "it is on that subject that i wish to speak with you," said the black count. "we were in a mixed company last night, and it was not convenient for me to enter into explanations, which i propose now to do. i am still in some ignorance concerning your part in this flight from treves. perhaps you will first tell me exactly who you are, what is your quality, and where your estates lie, if you have any?" rodolph had anticipated such inquiry and had thought deeply how he should answer when it was propounded. he had come to the conclusion that there would be great danger in making full confession to the black count, known far and near as a ruthless marauder, who, but for the strength and practically unassailable position of his castle, would have been laid by the heels long before, if not by emperor or archbishop, or surrounding nobles, by the banded merchants on whom he levied relentless tribute. to put such a man in possession of the fact that he had in his power the emperor of all the land, was to take a leap into a chasm, the bottom of which no eye could see. with such an important hostage what might not the ambition of the black count tempt him to do? no friend that rodolph possessed had the slightest hint of the emperor's position. it would be as difficult for him to get out of thuron without its owner's permission, as it was like to prove for the archbishop to get in. the black count was surrounded by daring and reckless men, to whom his word was law, and it was not probable that, in case of need, rodolph could hold his sword aloft and shout 'the emperor,' with any hope that a single warrior would rally to his side. he had learned much in his short journey through his own domains. he found that where his own title had no magic in its sound, the cry of 'the archbishop,' had placed an army at his command, and had turned the tide of battle that had threatened to overwhelm him at bruttig. if then he ever hoped to make the name of the emperor as potent a spell, he must, until he reached frankfort again, keep his identity a secret. therefore he fell back on the old fiction that he was a silk merchant at frankfort, in support of which he had a passport to show. "my lord count, this passport will tell you my name and quality, and will also give reason for my journey from frankfort to treves, at which latter place, through an entirely unexpected series of circumstances, i came to lend aid to your niece in her escape from arnold's stronghold. until i arrived in treves a few short days ago i had never heard of the lady. i am, as you will see by the parchment you hold in your hand, a silk merchant of frankfort, who journeyed to treves with a friend, to discover there the prospect of trade." "a merchant!" cried heinrich, frowning, and making no effort to conceal the contempt in which he held such a calling. "i understood you to say last night that you were noble, and laid claim to the title of lord." "i am as noble as yourself, my lord count, although not so renowned. many of us in these times of peace have taken to trade, and yet are none the less ready to maintain our nobility at the point of the sword, should our title be called into question. indeed i have heard that you yourself have on various occasions engaged in traffic of silk and other merchandise which passes your doors, and have become rich by such dealing. the only difference between you and me as traders is that i make less profit in the transaction than you do, as i am compelled to pay for the goods i resell." heinrich bent his lowering brow over the parchment he held in his hand, but whether it conveyed any meaning to his mind or not, rodolph was unable to conjecture. there was, for some moments, silence between them, then the count spoke: "are you a rich merchant?" "i am not poor." "you have had a hand in bringing me to the pass i find myself in, it is but right then that you should see me out, or further in; but right or wrong it is my intention to hold you, and if disaster comes, i shall make you bear some share in it. it is useless for me to demand ransom for you now, because if the archbishop knock down my house he will lay hands on whatever treasure lies therein. when we come to an end of the siege then i shall compound with you on terms that may seem to me just or otherwise, depending in a measure on how you hereafter comport yourself. if you give me your word of honour that you will make no attempt to leave the castle without my permission, then i will accept it as you accepted mine yesterday, and you shall be as free as any man within the castle. if you will not give me your word then you are prisoner, and shall be treated as such; in fact, i have some men-at-arms within call who will at once convey you to the round chamber, there to rest until my contest with the archbishop is decided." "then, my lord, is your word of little value, for you promised that i should be free to pursue my way to frankfort in the morning if the archer spared you." "not so. i promised you your life." "very well. we shall have no argument about it. i give you my word, and i swear to keep it as faithfully as you have kept yours." heinrich looked sternly at his guest with a suspicious expression which seemed to say: "now what devilish double meaning is there in that?" up from the outside of the walls came the chorus "the devil is black," and rodolph smiled as the refrain broke the stillness. "do you mean to impugn my word?" heinrich said aloud. "nothing is further from my intention. i mean to emulate it. it is my ambition to keep my word as fully as you keep yours, and you can ask no better guarantee than that, can you? the truth is i am as anxious to see the outcome of this contest as you are, and i intend to be in the thick of it. if you imprison me, the chances are that you will thrust bolt on the only man of brains in the place, not excepting your august self, for although you may be a stubborn fighter, i doubt if you know much of strategy, or can see far ahead of your prominent nose. so, my lord, you may act as best pleases you, and call up all the men-at-arms in the castle, if their presence comforts you. if you trust me, i may, at a critical moment, be of vast assistance to you. it is even possible that should the archbishop press you too closely, i may, by slipping out of thuron, make way through his camp and, gathering my own men, fall on him unexpectedly from behind, thus confusing your foe. if you choose to treat me as a prisoner, then do you put your wits against mine, and you will wake up some morning to find three of your best men gone. so, my lord, ponder on that, and lay what course you choose." it was plain that the unready count was baffled by the free and easy manner in which the other addressed him. the same feeling of mental inferiority which he had felt in rodolph's presence the night before, again came over him, and, while it angered him, his caution whispered the suggestion that here was a possible ally who might in stress prove most valuable. never had heinrich met one apparently helpless, who seemed so careless what his jailer might think or do. the count wished he had braved the archer's shaft, taken the risk of it, and hanged this man out of hand. however, it was too late to think of that now, and he asked, keeping control of his rising temper: "how many men answer to your call?" "enough to make the archbishop prefer, at any time, that they be not thrown in the scale against him. more than enough when he faces so doughty and brave a warrior as the devil of thuron, regarding whose colour and fate those peasants outside are chanting." "i take your word," cried heinrich, with sudden impetuousness. "i should, of course, allow you to go free to frankfort, but i beg of you to remain with me. i ask you not to leave until you have consulted with me, but, excepting that condition, you are as free of the castle as i am." "spoken like a true nobleman, and on such basis we shall have no fault to find with each other. and now i request your permission to send a messenger at once to treves." "to treves!" cried the black count, the old look of fierce suspicion coming again into his piercing eyes. "why to treves? the archer wants to go to treves. you want to send to treves. it is nothing but treves, treves, treves, till i am sick of the name. why to treves?" "it is a very simple matter, my lord count. i told you i came from frankfort with a friend. i also informed you that i took this journey down the moselle most unexpectedly. my friend, who distrusts the archbishop as much as you distrust him, and more if that be possible, is now in treves not knowing what has become of me. he will imagine that the archbishop has me by the heels, and may get himself into trouble by attempting my liberation. i wish, therefore, to get word to him of my whereabouts, not only that his just anxiety may be relieved, but also that if we are hard pressed, he may come to our timely rescue." "if we are to trust each other, i must have fuller knowledge. who is your friend?" "the baron von brunfels." "what? siegfried von brunfels of the rhine? the friend of the emperor?" "the same." "he has enough retainers of his own to raise the siege of thuron if he wished to do so." "that is true. all the more reason then that he should be acquainted with the fact that his friend is here, for, from what i have heard him say of you, he would never stir a man through love of heinrich of thuron." "if baron von brunfels is your friend, you are no merchant." "indeed, i have often thought so; for i make some amazingly bad bargains." "should the archbishop and his men come on, it will not be possible for a single horseman to get through to treves. i do not wish to lose the archer, nor can i spare one of my own men. do you intend yourself to go to treves." "no. neither do i desire to lose the archer, even though he should bring back his equal with the bow, which would be his purpose in setting out. he has a friend, he says, who excels him in skill, although that i doubt. i desire to send my own man, conrad, who knows treves, and who was in the employ of the baron. he will win his way through if any one can, and may bring the other archer back with him. besides, there is a chance that the crafty arnold is not yet on the move, and it would be interesting to learn something of what is going on in treves, and what happened when the valiant count bertrich returned to his master. this, conrad can discover much more effectually than the archer, for he is intelligent, and loves not the sound of his own voice as does our bowman. conrad is a listener rather than a talker; i cannot say the same for the skilful arrow-maker." in deep doubt black heinrich stood gazing on the stones at his feet. he was outmanoeuvred, yet knew not how to help himself. full authority was his, yet the control of affairs seemed slipping from his grasp. he had not entertained the slightest intention of allowing any one from the castle to depart for treves, yet here he felt he was about to consent. he chafed at the turn things had taken, but knew not how to amend them. if he refused permission to everything proposed, he feared he might be making a fool of himself, and acting against his own interests, and worse, that the cool confident young man would know he was making a fool of himself, and despise him accordingly; still, he was loath to allow even the semblance of power to pass away from him. "i like not this traffic with treves," he said, at last. "nor do i. still i am determined in some fashion to let brunfels know where i am. further than that i shall tell him nothing, if such knowledge is against your wish; but if you give your consent i shall ask him to keep an eye on this siege; and if, as is very likely, you beat off arnold, he is not to interfere, but if you are getting the worst of it, there is little harm in having a friend outside on whom we can, in emergency, call. it all rests with you, my lord; i merely make suggestions, and if they do not jump with your liking then they are of little value. your experience is greater than mine, and your courage is unquestioned. a man less brave might hesitate to lay plans for emergencies, but with you it is different. therefore you have but to command and i shall obey. i shall send word to brunfels of my own safety to relieve his anxiety, and i shall ask him to keep an eye on the siege if you care to have me do so. it can at least bring us no harm." the count looked at the speaker with an expression in which distrust seemed to be fighting with gratification. there was at first a lurking fear that the young man was trifling with him, but the other's serene countenance gave no indication of lack of earnestness, and heinrich's own self-esteem was so great that no praise of his courage could seem to him overdrawn. when all suspicion of rodolph's good faith had been allayed, he said, heartily: "send what message you will to the baron. we may be none the worse for a stroke from him at the right time." with that the count strode away, and rodolph gave his instructions to conrad, watching him ride from the gates in the direction of the frankfort road, with the passport of the silk merchant in his pocket. chapter xvii. the envoy's disastrous return. the sun rose and set, and rose and set again, before news came to castle thuron. there was no sign of an enemy; the moselle valley, as seen from the round towers, seemed a very picture of peace. during these two days the air was still, the flag drooped, unfluttering, from its staff, and the sun shone warmly in the serene heavens. yet there was something ominous in the silence, and each person in the castle felt, more or less, the tension of the time. black heinrich scanned the distance from the battlements with growing impatience, for, like all men of action, he chafed at the delay and was eager for the fight to come on, even should it prove disastrous to him. anything seemed better than this newsless waiting. the huge gates were never opened; in fact, it was now impossible to open them, for the outer courtyard was partly filled with sacks of grain and butts of wine, which were piled in a great heap against the two leaves of the gate, and any one desiring to depart from the castle had to climb down from the platform over the gates by a ladder resting there, which could be pulled up at any moment's notice. the two days were a most enjoyable interval for rodolph, who spent much of his time, in ever increasing delight, with the countess tekla. yet there was an alloy in his happiness. he felt that he was not wise in lingering in thuron, which at any moment might prove a trap from which escape was impossible, either through the count learning who he actually was, and thereupon imprisoning him to make the most of his detention, or through the sudden beleaguering of the castle by forces from treves. his confidence that conrad would reach his friend in the house by the city wall quieted his conscience, which with some persistence was telling him that he neglected duty and high affairs of state, all for the sake of spending the golden hours with a fascinating girl of nineteen. but these qualms left him when in her presence, and as he spent much of his time with her, there was little chance for his conscience to work a reformation. he consoled himself with the reflection that a man can be young but once, and there was probably a long life before him which he could energetically devote to the service of his country. he knew that baron von brunfels would carry out faithfully his instructions in frankfort, and if the emperor's presence became necessary there, he would bring on a force that neither the archbishop nor black heinrich could cope with, did either attempt to detain him against his will. he had unlimited faith in brunfels' judgment, and thus he lulled disquieting thought. nevertheless he knew that his place was at frankfort and not in thuron, where, if the turbulent archbishop moved an armed man without his sovereign's consent, that sovereign could emerge from the capital at the head of the german army and bid the haughty prelate back to treves; yet prudence told him such a course might plunge the country into civil war, for he knew not the exact military strength of the archbishop, and was well aware that his own army should be considerably augmented before it undertook so hazardous a commission, for nothing short of overwhelming force might overawe the fighting lord of treves. in truth it was to see for himself what manner of man the archbishop was, and to form some estimate of the forces at his back, that the secret journey to treves had been taken, now so strangely deflected from its original purpose. both the emperor and von brunfels believed that the present strength of the army at frankfort was not sufficient to cope with the battalions of treves, especially if the archbishops of cologne and mayence made common cause with their brother in the west--an eventuality not at all improbable. the first step then, should be the return of the emperor to his capital, to be followed by a quiet increase of the imperial army until it reached such strength that no combination could prevail against it. rodolph knew his duty, yet silken fetters held him from action. had he been certain of the sentiments of tekla regarding himself he would have spoken to her, without revealing his identity, and then might perhaps have made arrangement with her uncle by which he could proceed to frankfort, but although the events of a lifetime had been compressed within the last week, yet he could not conceal from himself the fact that the countess had known him for three or four days only, and he felt that to speak to her at the present moment would be premature. of course it was quite within his right to assume his place at the head of the state once more, and demand the lady, in which case neither her guardian nor the count would dare refuse, nor would one of them be the least likely to refuse, for black heinrich was not the man to underestimate the qualification of relationship with an empress. but the emperor was in no mind to follow the example of count bertrich, and accept an unwilling wife. he set before himself the enticing task of winning the lady as a nameless lord, letting her imagine that he was perhaps not her equal in station or fortune, and then, when consent had been willingly gained, to demand her from his throne, allowing himself to dwell with pleasure on her amazement at learning that her emperor and her lover were one and the same person. but there was savage news in store for him, and for all within castle thuron; news that made his rosy dreams dissolve as the light river mists dissolve before the fierce midsummer sun. on the evening of the third day after conrad's departure, an unkempt, tattered figure staggered from the forest and came tottering towards the gate of the castle. the archer, on duty above the gate, drew string to ear and ordered the fugitive to halt and explain himself. the forlorn man raised his hands above his head, gave a despairing upward look, took two faltering steps forward and fell prone on his face, as the bowman relaxing his weapon, and peering eagerly forward, cried aloud: "my god, it is conrad!" then instantly forgetting his duty as guardian of the gate, he dropped bow and sprang down the ladder, running to his fallen comrade. the news spread through the castle with marvellous rapidity, and the black count and rodolph were on the battlements above the gate before the archer and some of the garrison had hoisted the insensible man up the ladder. "take him to the great hall; he is wounded and seems famished as well. perhaps a cup of wine will revive him; meanwhile keep strict watch on the gate; those who have pursued him cannot be far distant. draw up the ladder and man the battlements, steinmetz." the captain at once gave the necessary commands, while those who had rescued conrad carried him to the great hall and laid him on a bench. his clothes were in rags, and his face gaunt from fatigue or want. as heinrich had suggested, a cup of wine held to his lips revived him, and, opening his eyes, he glanced at rodolph and gasped: "we are completely surrounded, my lord." "impossible!" cried rodolph. "the archbishop could never have moved his troops so quickly." the black count said nothing, but scowled down on the wounded man, whose garments the leech was removing in order to apply ointment to wounds evidently caused by shafts from the crossbow. john surrey looked on these wounds with a lofty contempt, muttering: "if i had drawn string at him there would be fewer hurts, but he would not be here to tell what happened." conrad drank a full flagon of wine, which revived him sufficiently to enable him to tell his adventures. he had directed his horse towards the roman road between frankfort and treves, but on approaching it saw troops. turning back he proceeded further west, but came again upon armed men. in neither case was he himself seen. retracing his way, he tried to pass to the west, nearer to the river, but there also he found an encampment. surmising now that the wide space between the roman road and the moselle was in the archbishop's hands, and that there was no chance of penetrating towards treves in that direction, he resolved to make for frankfort itself, get to the south of the roman road, and reach treves round about, through the great forest. to his amazement here also he saw portions of the army, and it began to dawn upon him that the castle was environed, at least on the south. he now determined to make no more attempts to break the circle, but return to thuron and report the alarming situation he had discovered. in journeying through the forest towards the castle he came unexpectedly upon a camp, and there, for the first time, was seen by the enemy. he tried flight, but a crossbow bolt brought down his horse and resulted in his capture. it never occurred to those who held him prisoner, that he had come from thuron; in fact they readily believed he was, what his passport proclaimed him, a merchant from frankfort who was trying to reach treves. they assured him that such a journey was impossible at the present moment, but said he could get through unmolested when the troops had drawn closer round thuron. they kept him merely a nominal prisoner, paid little attention to him, and talked freely before him, having no suspicion that he belonged to the castle. nothing was said of the flight of the countess tekla, and he surmised from this that her sudden departure was unknown. it was believed that the investment of thuron had been projected for a long time, and that the archbishop had struck thus suddenly to take the black count unaware. from the fact that the troops had been sent along the roman road in detachments, conrad inferred that they were there when count bertrich had flung his glove on the floor of thuron. in like manner part of an army had been sent down the river to cochem, and from that place had pushed round the castle on the north side of the stream until they saw their comrades on the other shore, while between the two camps a chain had been stretched and all traffic up and down the river stopped. but the most startling part of conrad's budget was this. the archbishop of cologne had come through the eifel region to treves and had joined hands with his colleague, arnold von isenberg. troops were then marching up the rhine from cologne, and the two electors had made common cause regarding the reduction of thuron. the army of treves had surrounded the castle, and would draw closer the moment the army of cologne arrived. it was supposed that the speedy environment of the place was to prevent the black count and his company from escaping to the rhine or to frankfort. conrad learned all this on the evening of the first day, and, watching his opportunity, made his escape, but was seen by the guards, whose bolts came near to making an end of him. for two nights and two days he wandered without food in the forest, not knowing his whereabouts, and following streams which he expected would lead him to the moselle, but was often forced to abandon them because of the hostile parties encamped near their waters, and thus at last he had reached thuron. the emperor listened to this recital, appalled at the position in which he found himself. with the two archbishops besieging the castle, there would be small chance of his reaching frankfort, and as the ultimate reduction of the castle was now certain, he would find himself the prisoner of his two turbulent and powerful subjects, treves and cologne, confronted with the problem of whether he preferred being hanged as an accomplice of the dark marauder who stood by his side, or revealing his identity and taking what chance might offer when the knowledge was thus brought to the archbishops. meanwhile his friend, baron von brunfels, would not have the slightest inkling of his whereabouts, and if the disappearance of the countess was thus kept secret, as seemed to be the intention of arnold and count bertrich, brunfels would not be able to hazard even a guess. however, there was this consolation, that at no time could he have escaped from thuron. he was in effect trapped the moment he set foot within its gates. had he, with the countess, set out the following morning for frankfort they would evidently have been intercepted by the archbishop's troops, and had he alone attempted to reach his capital the same fate would have been in store for him. his only regret now was that von brunfels must remain in ignorance of his position, but, as he had done his best to remedy that, he could only blame fate for its unkindness to him. the black count listened in sombre taciturnity to conrad's record and spoke no word when it was finished, but stood there in deep thought, his eyes on the floor. rodolph was the first to break the ensuing silence. "you see, my lord count, the case stands as i expected. it was arnold's intention to have besieged you, and he has craftily entered into negotiations with cologne, doubtless fearing to attack you alone. this scheme has been some time in concocting, and the flight of the countess, so far from bringing on the contest, has merely given you bare time for preparation." heinrich gave utterance to an exclamation which can be designated only by the inelegant term, grunt. it was his favourite method of expression when perturbed. he did not raise his eyes from the floor, nor did he reply. "the fact that two archbishops instead of one do you the honour to besiege you should really not have much bearing on the result. i doubt if they can carry the castle by storm, so their numbers are of little avail to them. they can but starve you, and that one archbishop could have done as well as two. i suppose you have at least a year's provision now in the vaults?" "two years," answered the black count, gruffly. "i shall turn out of the castle all but fighting men. not an extra mouth shall remain within the walls." "you surely do not intend to turn the countess tekla and your own countess from thuron?" cried rodolph in alarm. heinrich looked sullenly at him for some moments, and then said: "no. neither do i care to be questioned, and, least of all, interfered with. you see how much your precious scheme for informing baron von brunfels is worth, therefore be not so forward with advice or comment." "i beg to call your lordship's attention to the fact," said rodolph, with cool firmness, "that my precious scheme has informed you of the odds against you. you may take the knowledge with the petulance of a woman or the courage of a man, as best befits you. a gloomy brow never yet encouraged beleaguered garrison. if you hold off this pair of prelates with their armies for a year or more, then will your name be renowned in song and story wherever brave deeds are valued, and the two archbishops will become the laughing stock of christendom. by my good sword, the carvers of the black forest shall make wooden figures of them butting their twin heads against thuron, and the children of the world from now till doomsday will pull a string to see them jump. 'as foolish and as futile as the two archbishops' will pass into a proverb, or perhaps it will be 'as brave as heinrich of thuron.' you have indeed an opportunity which falls to but few, if you meet it with unwrinkled brow." the count's countenance had perceptibly cleared while this recital was going on, but he made no direct reply, merely telling the attendants to convey conrad to a room and see that he was well cared for. then he asked that captain steinmetz be brought before him, and when that ruddy, uncomely officer entered, he said: "have you disposed your men along the walls?" "yes, my lord." "are any of the archbishop's troops yet in sight?" "no, my lord." "send a trusty man to alken, and tell the dwellers therein that we are to be besieged by the archbishops of treves and cologne. ask them to spread the news along either bank of the river with these instructions, that all are to make the best terms with the archbishops they can; to sell their provisions and wine for the most money obtainable, preferring the gold to their lordships' blessings, if they take my advice. tell them i shall look out for myself, but that i cannot offer protection to any outside the castle walls; therefore, i shall in future, if victorious, not hold it against any man that he has saved his skin, or his grain, or his wine, by denouncing me. make all arrangement for the women folk and very old men who are now in the castle. pay for a year's keep of each of them, and say that if more money is required i shall see they get it. marshal the non-combatants over the wall and down the ladders as quickly as may be, and if any have friends in the village with whom they prefer to lodge, arrange it to their satisfaction." "all the women, my lord?" cried steinmetz, in astonishment. "all the women in the castle, with the exception of my wife and my niece, and all the old men incapable of bearing arms." steinmetz hesitated, yet seemed incapable of protest. "well!" roared the black count. "there will be grumbling among the men, my lord." heinrich brought his huge fist down on the table with a resounding blow. "bring me the head of the first man who grumbles. go and execute your orders, send the women away at once, and they will the sooner make terms with their innkeepers." steinmetz departed, and the black count strode up and down the room, muttering to himself and scowling like a demon. rodolph saw he was not in a humour to be remonstrated with, and so said nothing; indeed he understood the military necessity of the apparently harsh measures the count proposed in deporting from the castle all those who were not necessary to its defence, yet who would likely come to no ill through leaving the fortress. for a long time there was silence in the room, broken only by the count's measured stride on the oaken floor, in the centre of which count bertrich's glove lay pinned with arrows. rodolph himself was in no pleasant temper, and he looked ahead with some dismay toward imprisonment in a castle which was commanded by so rude and disagreeable a person as the swarthy count. the archer stood guard at the door, having been set there by the count's command when steinmetz's men took their places on the walls. rodolph wished that he might go to the entrance and talk with the good-natured bowman as an antidote to the gruffness of the count, whom he found becoming more and more unbearable. there had been moments when he thought the count might be won over by judicious flattery and soothing compliments, but as he learned more of his temperament he saw that all this had but a transient effect upon him; that, indeed, the count resented any superior readiness shown by others in conversation; and, in addition, had a nature so suspicious that after having had time to think on what had been said, he became more intractable than ever, evidently coming to the conclusion that the wheedling phrases used to him had been spoken for the purpose of mollifying him and attaining certain ends, all of which he resented. presently rodolph was startled from his reverie by the entrance of the countess tekla, accompanied by hilda, who was weeping. a rich colour mantled the cheeks of the countess, and it needed no second glance to see that she was in a state of angry indignation. rodolph, remembering that she expected to civilise her uncle, began to have doubts of her success. heinrich stopped in his walk when she came in, and glared blackly at her but without speaking. "oh, uncle, uncle!" cried tekla, her voice showing she was nearer tears than the haughty expression of her face indicated, "you surely cannot intend that hilda and i are to be separated, and that she, a stranger to all here and in alken, is to be taken to the village?" "i will have no interference with my orders, tekla--not from any one." "but one person more or less can make no difference in the result of the siege. if you think it will, give hilda and me a single share of food between us, but do not send her away." the black count with almost inarticulate rage at this crossing of his will, beat the table with his fist repeatedly, but seemed unable to speak. he stuttered, with white foam flecking his lips and his black beard. rodolph edged nearer the countess, and in a whisper begged her to go away; that unexpected tidings seemed to have for the moment overcome the count's self-control. "but they are waiting outside to take hilda with them. they will seize her unless the order is countermanded," cried the countess. "it is war, you fool!" at last roared the count. "if i have another word from you, huzzy! i shall send you also with your treves trollop; a fine to-do about a menial like her! and from you, who are the cause of all our trouble." "you know that is a lie," said rodolph, quietly. the count turned on the young man with an expression like that of a ravenous wolf; his jaw dropped, showing his white teeth against the jet black of his beard. he seemed about to spring at rodolph's throat, but his wild eye, wandering to the door, saw the dreaded archer on the alert, watching with absorbed interest the loud-talking group in the centre of the room. his weapon seemed itself on the alert, and there was enough of sanity somewhere in the count's brain to bid him pause in his projected onslaught. but the fact that he had to check himself added fuel to his anger. "get you out of this!" he shrieked; "all of you. i am master of this castle, and none breathes herein but by my permission, man or woman. whoever questions my authority by word or look, dies. now, out with you!" before any could move steinmetz strode into the hall, holding by the hair a human head lopped off at the neck, raggedly, the red drops falling on the floor as he walked. "there, my lord," he said, holding up the ghastly trophy at arm's length, while he cast a malignant leer at rodolph, who involuntarily shrank from the hideous object. even the black count himself seemed taken aback by the sudden apparition that confronted him. "what ... what is that?" he stammered. "the head of the first man who grumbled at your command about the women, my lord. i obeyed your orders and struck off his head." rodolph, pale as the dead face, stepped hurriedly between it and the countess, but not in time to prevent her getting sight of it. she raised a terrified scream that rang to the rafters and covered her eyes with her hands, tottering backwards, while hilda implored her to withdraw, saying she would go anywhere the count ordered, and begged her mistress not to cross him. rodolph sprang quickly to the side of the countess and supported her. the scream once more aroused the tigerous anger of her uncle. his eyes shot fire as he shouted: "you did right, steinmetz, and i am glad there is one man in the castle who obeys the master of it unquestioning. it is war!" and as with increased violence the black count roared these words, he smote the grinning head with his gigantic paw and sent it spinning along the floor like a round projectile from a catapult. "it is not war, it is murder!" wailed the countess. "there is a curse on this doomed roof, and it shall fall in deserved ruin." "hush, hush," whispered rodolph in her ear. "bend to the storm; nothing can be done with him now." "i am going with hilda; i am going with hilda. i care not where, so long as it is away from thuron." "no, no. hilda will be safe enough, while you are not, outside those walls. let me conduct you to your apartments, and i will be surety that you shall see hilda shortly. for her sake as well as your own, bend to the storm. don't you see you are dealing with a madman?" count heinrich stood watching them, laughing in short snarling harsh snatches that did indeed resemble the ejaculations of a lunatic, but he made no attempt to interfere with them. hilda, thoroughly hysterical through fear, leaving her mistress in the care of rodolph, had flung herself at the feet of the count, beseeching him to deal with her as he pleased, saying she would go anywhere he ordered her to go, and in the same breath imploring him not to be harsh with her mistress. "take her away, steinmetz," commanded heinrich, spurning her with his foot. "send her down to the village." the captain, grasping her wrist, jerked her rudely to her feet, pushed past rodolph and the countess, dragging the girl out with him. the countess seemed again about to protest, pausing in her progress, but the young man urged her towards the door, still counselling silence. "shall i pin him to the wall?" whispered the archer, who had been watching the scene with wide open eyes, his fingers twitching for the string, on tension for any sign from his master that might be constructed into permission to launch a shaft. "it seems high time." "no," said rodolph, sternly. "keep true guard where you stand. see nothing, and say nothing." man and woman disappeared, leaving the archer murmuring that he wished his master had some courage. the black count now alone, except for the silent archer at the door, resumed his walk up and down, first savagely kicking the decapitated head from his path. chapter xviii. a two-handed sword teaches deportment. the archer on guard in the rittersaal stood with his back to the doorway, bow ready to hand, his mouth pursed as if he were silently whistling, his eyes upraised to the ceiling, seeing nothing and saying nothing, as had been his orders. there was a look of seraphic calm on his face, as if he had never spent a more enjoyable half-hour than that which had just so tumultuously terminated. in a short time the heavy curtains that concealed the entrance to the room parted, and the emperor reentered alone. his face was pale and his lips were tightly drawn. the count stopped in his walk at the further end of the room, and turned to face the incomer. "well, my lord," he said, a savage leer of triumph in his red eyes, "you have seen, i hope, who is master of this castle. there have been indications that you supposed i was to be cajoled by flattery into relaxing my authority; but we shall have no more of that, i trust, and there will hereafter be no question regarding whose will is law within these walls." "on the contrary, count of thuron," said rodolph, with deferential smoothness, "it is that very question i now propose to discuss with you." "i will have no more discussion," cried the count, his anger returning. "there shall be nothing but the giving of orders here and the prompt obedience of them." "ah, in that i quite follow your lordship, and have great pleasure for once in agreeing entirely with the valiant count of the lower moselle. archer, close the doors and bar them." the archer, a smile coming into his cherubic face, dived behind the hangings and disappeared. "hold!" roared the count. "stand to your guard, and obey no orders but mine." there came from behind the curtains the clanking sound of the two heavy oaken leaves clashing together, then the shooting of bolts and the down-coming of the weighty timber bar, capable of standing almost any assault likely to be made against them. again the rich hangings parted and the archer stood once more before them, his eyes on the ceiling and lips prepared to whistle. "do you mean to defy me in my own hall of thuron?" said the count, in low, threatening tones, glaring luridly from under his bushy black brows at his opponent. "oh, defiance is a cheap commodity, and i have heard much of it since i entered this castle. of ranting and of shouting i have had enough. i propose now to see what capable action is at the back of all this plenitude of wind." the wall to the right was covered with many weapons and hung with armour. the emperor took down a huge two-handed sword, similar to the terrific weapon beilstein's captain had used so futilely against him at bruttig. he held it in both hands and seemed to estimate the weight of it, shaking it before him. then with the point of this sword placed under a similar weapon that hung against the wall, he flipped it from its fastenings and sent it, with ringing clangor, to the floor almost at the feet of the black count, who stood with folded arms and face like a thunder cloud, watching the movements of the younger man. he was swordsman enough to know that the very manner in which rodolph handled the weapon to estimate its weight and balance, proved him an adversary not to be lightly encountered. he made no motion to lift the blade at his feet. "is this, then, to be a duel at which no witnesses of mine are present?" "it is no duel," cried rodolph, his control over himself for the moment dissolving in the white heat of his continued anger. "it is to be the chastisement of a craven hound. not a single honourable wound shall i inflict upon you. you shall either kill me, or i will punish you as a cowardly dog is punished. up with your sword, courageous frightener of women, up with your sword, and let us see what it will do for you." the archer, breathing hard, had difficulty in fixing his eyes on the ceiling, and in endeavouring to conceal his excitement he began actually to whistle, the infectious refrain, "the devil is black," coming to his lips, and disturbing rather than breaking the silence which followed rodolph's words. the count still did not bend his back, but stood there with his arms across his breast. the whistling turned his attention to the door. the emperor looked round, annoyed at the interruption, whereupon the refrain suddenly ceased, and the bowman's eyes again sought the ceiling. "i understand," said the black count slowly. "it is a most admirable arrangement. when i have you at my mercy your follower there is ready to turn your defeat into a victory by sending shaft through my body; assassination beautifully planned under the guise of fair fight." "archer," commanded rodolph, "unbar again the door and place bow and arrows outside, then fasten bolts once more." "my lord," demurred surrey, "that will arrest attention and lead to interference, which is doubtless what his darkness desires, for the devil is not only black but treacherous." "there is truth in that," admitted the emperor. "unstring your bow, then, and give it to me." when the archer had done this with visible reluctance, for he was like a fish out of water deprived of his lithe instrument, rodolph, passing the count, flung the bow into the farther corner of the room, and returned to his place nearer the door. "now, my lord count," he said, "if you defeat me you can easily keep the unarmed archer away from his weapon. if he calls for help, it will be your own men who answer, for my only other follower lies sorely wounded in your service. if, on the other hand, i defeat you, the archer will have no need of his bow. is your chivalrous spirit now content? you have, lion-like, out-faced the women, and sent them beaten from your presence; let me see you now stand up to a man, for i swear to you that if i hear another word from those lips until you fight, i will throw knightly weapon aside and assault you with the back of my hand." the count, stooping, raised the sword, swung it powerfully this way and that, then whirled it round his head. unpleased with it, he strode to the wall and took down another and a heavier one. rodolph stood in an attitude of defence, watching intently every movement of his enemy, turning his body to face him as he walked to the wall and back. the count was a stalwart man somewhat past the prime of life, so far as active swordsmanship goes. rodolph having quickly thrown off his doublet, standing in his shirt sleeves, with their lace ruffles at their wrists, seemed no less powerful, and youth gave him an agility which was denied the elder man. but the count was partly encased in mail, while his rival had no such protection; a disastrous inequality should the opposing sword break through his defence. europe came later to know rodolph a master of weapons, as he was of statesmanship, but at this time the count little anticipated what he was about to face, and had no reason to doubt that he himself was a match for any swordsman in the empire. with bull-dog bravery he launched himself upon the young man, swinging his gigantic weapon with an ease and dexterity which, considering the weight of it, was little short of marvellous. that he had determined to kill, and not to wound, was evident from the first flash of his massive blade. rodolph, strictly on the defensive, gave way before him inch by inch. thus the two, their falchions glittering like lightning shafts around their heads, came slowly down the long length of the great room, admirable for such a contest, except for the semi-gloom that pervaded it. there was no sound save the ring of steel on steel. the archer stood with his back against the curtain, his hands on his hips, body inclined towards the combatants, neck craned forward, every muscle tense, almost breathless with the excitement of the moment. his master's back was in alignment with him, and he saw with dismay his almost imperceptible retreat. through the shimmering of the whirling steel the wild eyes of the count glared like sparks of fire, filled with relentless hate and a confidence of victory. sometimes the blades struck a shower of sparks that enveloped the fighters like a sudden glow of flame, illuminating the dark timbers of the ceiling, and drawing scintillations of light from the polished weapons along the wall. backward and backward came rodolph, nearer and nearer to the archer, who liked not this slow retreat, and wondered at it; thinking perhaps his master came thus toward him expecting something from him which he had not the wit to understand, but determining to intervene with his bare hands if his master's safety demanded it. why had he foolishly been deprived of his bow? he thought of stealing to the corner and re-possessing himself of it, but feared rodolph's displeasure, so stood rigid and helpless, looking at this contest of the giants, quailing at the inch by inch retreat. no human being could hope to keep up for long that onslaught, yet no sword stroke came through the cool guard of rodolph. the archer began at length to see with an exultation he could scarcely keep from translating into a victorious shout, that despite the yielding foot by foot his master seemed covered by a roof of steel. black heinrich might as well have rained his blows on the main round towers of his own castle; in fact, he could have done so with more visible effect. as the clashing tornado of strokes went on without cessation, the archer began to wish he could see the face of his friend and master, but he dared not move from the spot. the count was quite manifestly beginning to feel the effects of his own fury. his brow was corded and huge beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, interfering with his sight and causing him, now and then, to shake his head savagely, thus momentarily clearing his vision. the same motion scattered the foam gathering at his open lips, and flecked white splotches on his black beard. rodolph's attitude had been practically unchanged since the contest began, with the ever shifting backward motion, and now as the two neared the entrance end of the long room, the swing of the count's blade had gradually become automatic as it were, resembling measured strokes regulated by machinery, rather than designed and varied by a sentient human brain. in response to this, rodolph's defence took on a similar fixity and regularity of movement, and to the onlooker it seemed that the fight might so continue indefinitely, until one or the other dropped from sheer exhaustion. suddenly rodolph stepped swiftly back, whirled his blade round his head with a speed that made it whistle in the air like a gale through a key hole, and, in its sweep from right to left, curving upward, it caught the downward stroke of heinrich's sword near the hilt with irresistible impact, whirled the weapon out of the count's hands, and sent it flying to the left wall, from which, ringing against the armour, it fell clattering to the floor. rodolph, letting the point of his weapon rest at his feet, leaned his arms on the transverse piece, which gave the sword the appearance of a cross, and stood thus regarding his antagonist, who, as if the hilt he had grasped had been the source of his motion, remained in exactly the posture he held when it was struck out of his hands. he resembled a figure turned suddenly to stone by the sweep of a magician's wand. leaning forward, his hands outstretched, the one before the other, as if holding an invisible weapon, the spasmodic heaving of his breast was the only motion that agitated his indurate frame. for the first time rodolph saw in his eyes a lurking flash of fear. "take a moment's breathing space, my lord count," said the emperor. "if you exhaust yourself before attack begins how can your defence prosper?" then turning his head he said, across his shoulder, "bring the count his sword, archer." surrey saw with jubilation that there was no sign of fatigue on the calm face turned to him, and he had difficulty in smothering a joyous whoop as he picked up the weapon and gave it to black heinrich, who, taking it like a man in a dream, backed cautiously to the spot where the fight had begun. it needed no second glance to see that his unexpected disarming had thoroughly demoralised him; yet he made no appeal for mercy, but stood there in sullen obstinacy awaiting the attack which would bring death to him were his antagonist bent on killing him. "defend yourself," cried rodolph, advancing towards him. the other took a firmer grip of his sword hilt and stood ready. the contest was scarcely of a moment's duration. the emperor struck down his guard several times in succession until heinrich could have no doubt that he stood entirely at the assailant's mercy whenever he chose to take advantage of a defence that availed nothing; then whirling his weapon several times round his head while heinrich guarded here and there in doubt where the blow was about to fall, rodolph dealt the count a fearful blow on the cheek with the flat of the sword and sent him head over heels with a clatter of armour and the jingling of the liberated sword dancing along the floor. the count lay where he fell, so dazed that he held his elbow above his head as if that would protect it. "get up, you craven dog!" cried the emperor, the fever of battle unloosing his hitherto suppressed rage. "get up, you terroriser of women, you executioner of defenceless men. stand on your feet and don't cringe there like a whipped spaniel." but the man remained prone and made no motion to help himself. rodolph raised his sword once or twice and seemed about to strike his fallen foe with the flat of it, but he could not bring himself to hit a helpless enemy, so flinging the blade to the wall where its companion lay, he walked down the room, took up his doublet, and put it on. for a few moments he paced up and down the room as the count had done, then seeing heinrich getting somewhat unsteadily to his feet rodolph stopped and watched the very gradual uprising. the side of black heinrich's face was bruised and swollen, and he rubbed it tenderly with his open hand. "now, my lord count, if you are ready, we shall conclude this discussion regarding the exercise of authority within this castle." "oh, take the castle," cried its owner, dolorously, "and the devil give you good of it." "i have no wish to deprive you of castle or of anything else. i fought that our lives and liberties may not be at the disposal of a truculent coward." "i am no coward, my lord, as you yourself will willingly admit when you are cooler. it is little disgrace to me that i fell before such sword-play as yours, the like of which was never before seen in germany. if you have no distrust of me, i have no rancour against you for what has happened, and i am content to acknowledge my master when i meet him. what, then, have you to propose to me?" "i have invited no witnesses to this bout, not because i wished to take unfair advantage, as you suggested, but so that you might not be humiliated before your own men. the archer here will keep a still tongue anent what he has seen. you will bear me out in the promise of that, surrey?" "i will not mention it, even to the bow, my lord." "very well. then, count heinrich, you have nothing to fear if you play fairly. are you honest when you say you will bear no malice?" "i am honest," said the count, rubbing his swollen cheek, adding with a grunt, "indeed, i have every reason for wishing you my friend." "we will take it so. archer, place the swords where they were against the wall, and take up your bow from the corner. now i consent that you still exercise full authority in your castle, but we must have no more scenes like that of to-day, where we plead and protest in vain against your barbarous decisions." "it was a military necessity, my lord, that forced me to remove all useless persons from a castle about to be besieged. it is always done." "i quite agree with that, and quarrel with nought but the method of the doing. i will go further and say that your message to the villagers giving them liberty to make the best terms they could for themselves, had in it traces of nobleness that left me entirely unprepared for the madness which followed. to every rule there are exceptions. are you prepared to order the return of hilda, the handmaiden of your niece?" "such will be my first order on leaving this room." "you will perhaps promise there are to be no more murders by that cowardly assassin, steinmetz." "i shall punish him for what he has done. it was not my intention that any should be beheaded." "you cannot punish him, richly as he deserves it, for you are the real culprit, giving first the order and then approving the deed when it was done. you promise then, that there shall be no more of such sanguinary commands?" "i promise." "the archer will hereafter be my bodyguard, and where i go, he goes. he is to be under no orders but mine. i shall choose my lodgings in this castle where it best pleases me, and none shall enter therein without my invitation. it may be well to remember, that if it come to such a pass, the archer and myself are prepared to stand out against you and your whole garrison." "i had hoped that so brave a man as you, would have been willing to accept the word of an equally brave, if less youthful and less skilful, antagonist." "my confidence in mankind has not undergone improvement during my brief stay at thuron. some of your favourites i most thoroughly distrust, steinmetz for example. it will do no harm if you intimate to him that your severest displeasure will rest on whoever molests us. as for conrad, when he recovers----" but this sentence was never finished, and its lack of completion came near to costing conrad his life, but that was through no fault of count heinrich. the conference was interrupted by a vigourous knocking at the closed doors. the count looked at rodolph, and it was the latter who ordered the archer to withdraw the bolts and raise the bar. captain steinmetz entered, and seemed amazed at finding the door shut against him, but he saw the two men seated at a table as if they were merely in friendly converse together, and so thought no more of the unusual shutting in. "my lord," he cried, "the archbishop's men have entered alken, coming unexpectedly up the river, instead of from the direction of cochem. others have appeared on the heights above the valley by the north tower, and a further body to the south. foot soldiers are now marching down the left bank towards alken. a troop of horsemen were the first to enter the village, but now armed men appear in every direction. they are putting up tents on the plains above alken." "has the conductor of the women returned from the village?" "yes, my lord, he is now in the castle, and not a moment too soon." "he left the women there?" "yes, my lord." heinrich turned to rodolph and said in a low voice: "i am willing to venture a detachment, to rescue the girl, if such is your wish." "no, it is too late, and too hazardous. she will probably come to no harm where she is, and a detachment lost would weaken our force so that the castle might be taken in the first rush." chapter xix. a man and a woman meet by torchlight. heinrich and rodolph left the grand hall with the archer following at their heels, and ascended to the battlements. the sun had set, and long parallel belts of crimson clouds barred the western sky with glory. the wide valley of the moselle was filled with a lovely opalescent light, and the river, winding through it, shone like burnished silver. not a breath of wind stirred the listless flag, and here and there in the encampment slender columns of smoke rose perpendicularly in the air, spreading out like palm trees at the top. white tents had risen as if they had been a sudden crop of mushrooms, and the voices of men came up from among them through the still air. from the village was heard the beat of horses' hoofs, and mounted troopers galloped here and there up and down the darkening valley. on the heights across the thaurand chasm to the north of the castle, a huge tent was being erected, which heinrich surmised to be the headquarters of the archbishops. they had chosen the highest point of land in the neighbourhood with the exception of the spot on which thuron itself stood; a good coign of vantage, overlooking the moselle valley in part, and the village of alken and some of the lower tents, while behind it stretched the level open plain. "by the gods of our forefathers!" cried the black count, drawing down his brow, "i will venture a stone or two at that tent from the north tower catapult before it grows darker." "do nothing of the sort," advised rodolph. "in the first place, it may be well to let the archbishops begin the fray in whatever set form they choose. should the affair come up for arbitrament, that point will be in your favour. you were attacked, and you defended yourself. then i would waste no stones on an empty tent, for if you strike it, they will but move further afield. i should try the range when their august lordships are there to bear witness to the accuracy of your aim." "oh, very well," said the count, moodily. "nay," continued the emperor, in kindly tone, placing his hand in friendly manner on the other's shoulder, "i meant what i said merely as a suggestion. act as pleases you, untrammeled. i seek but to help, and not to hinder you. the utmost i ask is that, if i lodge protest, my protest shall be at least considered. on you rests the defence of the castle, and in that you must be unhampered." the count turned quickly and held out his hand, which the emperor grasped. "your suggestion was right, and mine was wrong. i want you to stand my friend in this pinch. i have few that wish me well, though perhaps i have as many as i deserve. but i never met a man like you, and i say truly that i would rather meet the two archbishops with you by my side than have the two with me, and you against me." "no fighter can ask a higher compliment than that, my lord count. we stand or fall together, let the fate of the castle be what it may." as darkness filled the valley, slowly climbing the hills, whose tops were the last to part with the waning light, numerous camp fires shone in spots of crimson along the river bank. the sound of horses plashing in the water, an occasional snatch of song, with now and then a distant bugle call, echoing against the opposite hills, interfered with the accustomed stillness of the valley. rodolph chose for himself and the archer two rooms at the top of the southern tower, one above the other, john surrey occupying the lower. the narrow stone stair which gave access to both rooms ended at the circular flat roof of the tower, a platform protected by a machicolated parapet. the flagstaff of the castle rose from the centre of this platform, and over the parapet one had a broad view, which included hilltop and high level plain, for the summit of the south tower was the highest spot in all the moselle district. from this lofty perch the weak point of the castle was easily recognised. if thuron was ever to be carried by assault the gate front would probably be the portion to give way. the builder of the castle had recognised this, and had constructed a gate ridiculously small when contrasted with the great bulk of the castle itself. the entrance was barely wide enough to allow a cart or two horsemen abreast to pass in. the flattened norman arch above it supported masonry pierced for the crossbow bolts that might be launched in its defence, and the flat parapet-protected platform over the gate might be covered with warriors, while a huge catapult lay there ready to hurl round stones on whoever attacked the portal. even if the two stout oaken leaves of the gate, iron bolted, and barred within by heavy timbers, were broken down, the gateway might be held by two expert swordsmen against an outside host. so when the assault was made the souls of many of the besiegers would pass through the gates of paradise before the bodies of their comrades won their way through the gates of thuron. nevertheless, the entrance was the weak point of the castle, for in front of it lay comparatively level ground, while everywhere else the slopes fell steeply from the walls, and the man who attacks up a hill is ever at a disadvantage when he meets the defender who is already on the top. the gate was at the south-western corner of the castle, facing the south. the south tower stood on the eastern face of the fortress twenty yards or less north of the south-eastern corner of the stronghold. rodolph came to the conclusion that when the gate was attacked, john surrey, stationed on the lofty platform of the south tower, with a bundle of arrows at his side, would give a good account of himself, and make some of the besiegers wish they had been elsewhere. the emperor, leaving surrey in his lofty eyrie, went down the stone steps, and endeavoured to send a message to the countess that he wished to have a word with her. the wholesale deportation of the servants made the carrying of intelligence about the castle difficult, and he, on personal investigation, found the door to the women's apartments barred. entering the inner courtyard, which was in darkness, for the moon which had been at the full a week before was now on the wane and had not yet risen, he groped his way until he estimated that the balcony was above him, and there softly cried his lady's name, but without receiving any response. no light shone in any of the windows, and a vague alarm filled his breast, not knowing what the countess might have done in her despair. that she could have left the castle was hardly possible, for the guard was now most vigilant, yet it might be that she had slipped away when the others were taken to alken, although, as rodolph had conducted her from the grand saal to the door of the women's apartments, he had imagined that the women and old men were already gone, the last to depart being hilda herself, who had been taken to the outer courtyard by captain steinmetz after the stormy interview in the great hall. the emperor left the courtyard and returned with a lighted torch, which he placed in a holder set against the wall on the side opposite to the windows, and this with its sputtering resinous flame illuminated the neglected garden, on which tekla's horticultural efforts had not yet made visible impression. the light had the effect rodolph desired. the curtains at the back of the balcony parted, and the countess, wrapped in a long white robe, looking, rodolph thought, like an angel, came to the edge of the stone coping. the rays of the torch showed her eyes still wet with tears, but their swimming brightness seemed more beautiful than ever. the young emperor caught his breath with delight on seeing the fair vision before and above him, standing out in pure dazzling white against the grim grey walls of the castle. he tried to speak, but could not trust his voice. "is it you, my lord rodolph?" asked the countess, in her low, rich voice, peering into the semidarkness of the garden. "yes, lady tekla," said the young man, at last finding utterance. "i could not go to rest without having a word with you. your door was barred and i could get no one to hear me, so i called fire to the aid of my impatience, and set up a torch before your windows." "we are self-made prisoners. i myself barred the door and paid no heed to the knocking, for i thought it was my uncle returned again. he came once and demanded admittance, which i refused. then to our amazement he went quietly away, when we fully expected he would batter down the door. my aunt is prostrate with fear of him, and i have but now left her bedside, where she has at last fallen into an exhausted sleep. oh! why," cried the countess, raising her arm as if in appeal to a just heaven, "are such uncivilised wretches as the master of thuron allowed to live and contaminate this fair earth?" "well," said rodolph, with a smile, happily unseen by the girl, who was intensely in earnest, "we must admit that the archbishops are doing their best to eliminate him. i have often thought that it is only our wonderful self-conceit that leads us to suppose we are actually enlightened beings, and i fear that perhaps future ages may look back on the thirteenth century, and deny to it the proud pre-eminence in civilisation it now so confidently claims. but i have had some conference with your uncle since i last saw you, and i think you will have nothing now to fear from him. there will be no more scenes such as that of this afternoon. he has promised me as much." "promised!" cried the girl, indignantly; "i put little faith in his promises." "there. i think, you do him an injustice. i make no attempt to defend his conduct, but he had most disquieting news brought by conrad, and----" "has conrad then returned?" "yes; a fugitive and sorely wounded. he brought news that the two archbishops, treves and cologne, are leagued against heinrich of thuron. this was sufficient to disturb a much less despotic and evil-tempered man than your uncle. he knew that the lines were rapidly closing in upon him, and his ordering of the non-combatants out of the castle, when they might go with no risk to themselves and live safely as humble villagers, was a measure that all custodians of a stronghold threatened with besiegement would have taken, had they been wise. there is no fault to be found with the act as it stands, although his method of carrying it out may lend itself to amendment. and the order was accomplished not a moment too soon, for the fugitives were scarcely in the village before the troops of the archbishop had taken the place; besides this, heinrich very nobly counselled none to make resistance but to disclaim all sympathy with the master of thuron." "are the archbishop's troops now in alken?" "in alken? they are all around us. not in alken alone but on the heights to the north, and on the plains to the south. we are completely environed, and, from the round tower above us, a thousand watch fires may be counted in every direction." "what of hilda, then, thrust thus among enemies?" "hilda is at this moment much safer than you are, my lady. the black count would have sent and brought her back but that he gave the order too late." "if she is free from harm, i have no complaint to make. you must not think that i protested against her removal through selfishness, or because i was in any way thinking of my own comfort. she has become to me friend as well as servant, and if privations are to be borne within this castle i have no wish to elude my share." "hilda is safe in the village and may come and go as she pleases so long as she does not approach the castle, and perhaps even that the archbishops' troops will allow. they are not warring with women, but with the master of thuron and his followers. all those who have left the castle are in more prosperous circumstances than we who remain, for should the fighting become desperate and a sack ensue, i should rather have friends of mine out than in." "is there danger of the castle being taken?" "i think the danger is not great, but the archbishops do not agree with me, otherwise they would not have encircled us. then chance works strange pranks in situations like ours. the truth is, no one can tell what may happen." "that is not encouraging, is it?" "you see i have got into the habit of talking to you just as if you were a fellow campaigner, for you are certainly not the least courageous in this garrison; indeed i doubt if any one else would have had the bravery to face the count as you have done on more than one occasion. i intended when i came here to-night, to relieve your mind of anxiety regarding hilda, and forgot that we might need mutual encouragement over our situation. i confess i am rather eager to know what is going to happen, and i wouldn't be anywhere else than where i am for the wealth of the archbishops themselves. i count much on your uncle, and i think their high and mighty lordships may wish they had encountered some one else before they are done with him. he is a man of the most headlong courage, as you will see when you know him better, and when you remember that he has probably never been contradicted in his life till we thrust ourselves upon him, i think he is almost amenable to reason." "alas, i have not found him so, and my aunt can hardly be looked upon as a favourable example of treatment by a reasonable man. she trembles when his name is mentioned, or when she hears his footstep." "nevertheless, i hope you will not give up all efforts toward his reclamation. believe me, he has sterling qualities that i would were more conspicuous in some of his followers." the countess sighed deeply and drew her robe closer about her. the torch had gone out, but the rising moon had begun to silver the top of the round tower. the place was as still and peaceful as if it had been some remote convent garden, far removed from the busy world and its strife. "it is growing late," said tekla, "and i must bid you good-night. your coming has cheered me." "it gives me delight to hear you say so. may i not come here to-morrow night at the same hour and bring you the latest news?" "yes," replied the lady, adding, "again good-night." her white form was swallowed up by the dark hangings and the young man climbed the stairs of the tall south tower. chapter xx. a breakfast on the top of the south tower. the emperor was awakened by the ringing martial sound of bugles, calling the various camps from slumber. the sun had not yet risen when he reached the platform that formed the roof of his chamber, and there he found john surrey scanning the military preparations around and below him with undisguised satisfaction. soldiers in the valley were already falling into line, and the clear stillness of the air made the sharp commands of the officers audible even at the distance where rodolph and the archer stood. the tall powerful figure of the black count could be seen pacing up and down the broad promenade on the west front, which seemed hardly less remote than the valley itself, so lofty was the tower. the whole design of the castle lay beneath them like a raised map. "i think he has been there all night," said the archer, nodding towards the count. "i sat here late making arrows in the moonlight, and he was on the battlements when i went down. i was here at daybreak, and there he was still. what a lovely scene it is, my lord, viewed from this perch," he cried, enthusiastically, waving his hand in a semi-circle about him. "it is indeed," concurred the emperor. "the placid river, the hill tops touched with the growing light, the green of the dense forest and the yellow of the ripening grain, with the dark cliffs of rock above the polished surface of the deep waters, are well worth getting up early to see." the archer scratched his head, and an expression of perplexity clouded his brow. "that was not quite what i meant, my lord, for although there may be pleasure in viewing hills, fields and river, as my friend, roger kent, the poet, often pointed out to me, yet to my mind all such, which we have continually seen these few days back, are little to be compared to the blossoming of the tents on the plain, the stir of marching men eager for the coming to conclusions with their fellows, as men should, and the dealing and receiving of honest blows, doughtily given. indeed, my lord, i would rather see one good two-handed sword argument like that between your lordship and his darkness yesterday, than all the hills that were ever piled one above the other in switzerland." "that contest," said rodolph, sternly, "is not to be spoken of. you heard me promise the count that you would keep silence regarding it?" "oh, i did not take it to mean that we might not discuss it among ourselves; indeed, it was my intention on the first opportunity to inquire of his blackness how he felt when he saw you approach like a windmill gone mad, with the sword in every place but where he expected it." "you hold your life lightly to trust it on such a query. you have my strict command to say nothing to him on any subject whatever unless he speak first to you, and then answer briefly and with not too much curiosity." "i shall cling close to your wish, my lord, the more as there is little of intelligent talk to be got out of his blackness at best. these warriors below are like to give us enough to think and speak about. they were early afoot, and got to their work like men who expected to take the castle before breakfast, sack it for mid-day eating, and be home to sup at treves. i trust we shall keep them with us longer than they think." the emperor glanced at the heap of feathered arrows which lay against the parapet partially hidden by a mantle that had been thrown over them. "has your arrow-maker proven a success then? you seem to be well supplied." "he is so far a success as a german can be expected to succeed in a delicate art. the making of an arrow," continued the archer with great complacency, taking a specimen in his hand the better to illustrate his argument, "is not merely one art, but rather the conjunction of several. there is an art in the accurate shaving of the shank with a sharp flint stone; there is an art in the correct pointing of it, and the sloping of its shoulders so that it take not the wind more on the one side of it than on the other, thus deflecting it from the true course; there is an art in the feathering of it, which is in reality the winging of it; the cutting of the notch requires great care, for there it receives its impetus, and the making of the notch i hold to be like the training of a youth, his course in after life depends on it; then it should, when completed, balance on your forefinger, thus, with just so much length to the right and so much to the left. in the making of a perfect arrow there are thirty-four major points to be kept in mind, added to fifty-seven minor details which must in no instance be neglected, the which, beginning with the major points, are as follows, to wit, firstly----" "we are early afoot, john surrey, but still too late for the beginning of such a recital. during the siege it is most likely that we may have to spend some sleepless nights on watch, and during these vigils you will tell me all the conditions that go to the constructing of a perfect arrow, for in the still watches i can give that attention to particulars which the importance of the subject demands." "the suggestion of your lordship is good, and shows that you have some appreciation of the task's difficulties, the which i have never been able to beat into the head of the german hind the count has bestowed upon me, although i find him useful in the splitting of wood and the rough shaping of the shaft; indeed he has advanced so surprisingly that he now sees that a piece of timber, bent and twisted like a hoop from a wine butt, is not suitable for the making of an arrow; that the presence of a straight grain is more desirable than many knots, and so i have a hope that in time he may gather much useful knowledge regarding the arrow-maker's craft. but i would on no account have your lordship labour under the delusion that the mastering of the major and minor points will guarantee you success in the construction of a shaft. no; you must be born to it as well, because there is an intuition in the estimating of its value when completed; for many of our archers in england, unerring in aim, could not, did their life depend upon it, make for themselves a true flying arrow; indeed the making and the speeding have ever been regarded as separate and distinct accomplishments, expertness in the one being no assurance of expertness in the other; the which is but to be expected in a civilised country, for england must not be confounded with the more barbarous nationalities of the continent; and so in my land the arrow-makers are a guild in themselves, to which trade a man must be duly apprenticed, forswearing in his indentures all vices by which the steadiness of his nerves are affected, as the drinking of strong liquors or the amorous pursuit of----" "yes, yes," cried the emperor, with scarcely concealed impatience, "all the virtues of earth are concentrated in your land and upon the inhabitants thereof." "nay, i made no such claim," continued the archer, calmly, "but i may state without suspicion of prejudice in favour of my countrymen that for honesty, bravery, skill, intelligence, modesty, integrity, patriotism, strength, nobility of character, firmness, justice, enlightenment, courage----" "and a good appetite. john surrey, have you breakfasted? do you feed with the men of the castle, or alone?" "the room below," said john, in no wise disconcerted by the sudden change of the subject, and ever ready to discourse on any topic presented to him, "being much too large for my sleeping accommodation, and one never knowing what may happen, especially after such a bout as you had with the master of the place--i beg your worship's pardon, i shall not more particularly refer to it--i might more properly have said, in the circumstances that have come to our private knowledge, i thought it wise to fill the remainder of the space with provisions from the outer courtyard, where they ran some danger of being spoiled by the first rain that falls; and i have also, with much effort and with the help of my arrow-making knave, trundled up these stairs, several of the smaller casks of wine from the same place, the hoisting of the larger butts presenting difficulties we could in no wise overcome. i have furthermore taken the precaution to provide myself with various trenchers, flagons, and the like, and a few stools, for as i have some skill in cookery, picked up in various countries, i thought i might have the privilege of preparing a meal for your lordship when you were disinclined to venture down these long stairs. i foresaw that such a thing might come as a siege within a siege, and for all such emergencies it is well to be ready, even though they never come. a stout swordsman in a pinch might hold these stairs though a thousand tried to mount them, and when he is tired, a skilful bowman might take his place without danger to any but those below him." "john, all the compliments you tender your countrymen do i multiply tenfold and bestow on thy resourceful head. wisdom, thy name is surrey. is thy knave in thy room below?" "aye. he sleeps, my lord, that being the greatest of his accomplishments." "then waken him; transport table and stools to this platform. prepare a choice breakfast for four. we will invite the count himself to breakfast with us, and the two ladies of the castle, if they will so honour us. therefore let me boast of thy skill with the viands, john." "i like not the coming of the count," said the archer, sturdily. "i did not wish him to know that we were also provisioned for a siege." "the knowledge should make him the more chary in attacking us, were such his intention. but he has no malignant designs. i trust count heinrich." "you trusted him before," persisted the archer, with the dogged tenacity of his race, "and all that came of it--again craving your pardon--was stout blows and the flying of sparks." "the count differs from you, archer, in learning a lesson and profiting by it. no more pardons for such allusions will be granted; three within an hour have exhausted my stock. attend you to the preparation of the meal; keep strict silence while serving it, and expect generous reward if it prove satisfactory. leave all dealing with the count to me, and if you cannot trust his lordship, trust in providence." saying this, rodolph went down the stairs, while the archer, grumbling to himself, descended to his room and kicked the slumbering menial into a state of wakefulness that enabled him to appreciate the hard realities of life. the emperor, reaching the battlements, greeted the lord of thuron, who returned his salutation without lavish excess of cordiality. "my lord count, in honour of the coming of the archbishops, i am having prepared a breakfast on the top of the southern tower. the archer pretends to some knowledge of cooking, and i ask your lordship to help me form an estimate of his abilities." "i shall breakfast on these battlements. i wish to watch the movements of the enemy." "there is no more admirable point of observation than the top of the tower, for from there you may view what is going on all round you, while from here you may see but towards the west. it is also my intention, with your permission, to invite the ladies, your wife and niece." count heinrich made no reply, his restless eye scouring the plain below. "i hold it well," continued rodolph, suavely, "to begin our conflict with peace and harmony within, whatever may happen outside the walls. have i your lordship's consent?" "my whole mind is in the coming fight," said the black count, still keeping his eyes on the valley, "and i have little skill in the nice customs and courtesies that perhaps you have been accustomed to. i am a soldier, and prefer to eat with soldiers." "am i to understand that you consider me no soldier?" "you twist my words. i am an awkward man. i mean that i care not for the company of women." "you owe some reparation to your niece for your harshness of yesterday. it is the least you can do to tell her that you are sorry. i have already said to her on your behalf that your mind was worried by the unexpected news of the junction of the two archbishops, and although that is no excuse for a grown man, still i think i persuaded her it was. she will, no doubt, forgive you, little as you deserve it." "forgive me!" cried the count, angrily. "aye. we all need forgiveness, and i judge you are not so free from blame that your statue will be erected in the valley as the saint heinrich of your day. come, my lord count, be a bear to your enemies if you like, but a lamb to your friends, whose scarcity you but last night deplored!" "the countess tekla has refused to see me; she barred my own door against me." "and quite right too. she is a girl of spirit, and worthy of her warlike ancestors. therefore, the more proud should you be that she consents to take you by the hand this morning." "but does she so consent?" asked the count, dubiously. "come to the tower and see. large minds bear no malice. we will signal to you when the meal is ready." rodolph found there was more difficulty in persuading heinrich's wife to be one at the table with her lord, than there was in winning tekla's consent, but at last all obstacles were removed and he escorted the ladies up the narrow winding stairs. the countess tekla was in unexpectedly high spirits, and she admitted to him gaily that she had been at her wit's end to know what they should do for breakfast, as all attendants had gone, and her uncle had shown no anxiety regarding their substance. it was tekla's first visit to the tall tower and she looked upon the marvellous scene spread before her with keen and enthusiastic appreciation. the sun had risen and the morning was already warm, but the skilful surrey had spread an awning from flag pole to parapet, which shielded the table from its rays. the elder lady seated herself on one of the stools, and paid no attention to the view, awaiting with evident apprehension the coming of her husband. tekla passed from point to point in the circle of the parapet and exclaimed joyously as the beauties of the landscape unfolded themselves to her. the deep, sombre, densely wooded chasm of the brawling little river thaurand, from which in three variants, the castle took the several names that designated it, she had never until this moment beheld; the more familiar valley of the moselle revealed new aspects at this height, not noticeable from the lower level of the battlements. rodolph accompanied her and pointed out this and that, having himself eyes for nothing but the delighted and delightful girl, and thus, telling the archer to summon the count, he paid no attention to surrey's method of doing so, which might not have met his approval. the count was standing at the edge of the battlements gazing abstractedly down upon the village of alken, his arms folded across his breast and his back towards the tower. the bowman deftly notched an arrow on the string and let fly with such precision that its feather must have brushed the count's ear. the amazed and startled man automatically smote the air and his ear with his open hand as if a bee had stung him, and sprang several yards from where he had been standing, glaring angrily round, wondering whence the missile had so unexpectedly come. "my lord," said the archer, deferentially, leaning over the stone coping and motioning with his bow, "breakfast is ready." for a moment the count stood as one transfixed, then a reluctant smile made itself visible through his thick beard, and he strode along the promenade, disappearing down the steps. a few moments later he was on the platform of the tower, visibly ill at ease. his eyes were on his niece, seemingly in doubt regarding the nature of her reception of him. the girl on hearing his steps had turned away from the parapet, and now stood somewhat rigidly with heightened colour, waiting for him to approach her. "tekla," he began, but she quietly interrupted him, saying: "when you have greeted my aunt, i shall be glad to receive your salutations." heinrich was taken aback at this. he had not thought of looking at his wife, but now he glanced at her shrinking form cowering on the stool. he took a step forward, and placed his hand roughly on her shoulder. "wife--" he said, and paused, not knowing what to add, until sudden inspiration seemed to come to him, and he cried, masterfully: "we are surrounded by enemies, but we will beat them off, damn them!" "yes, my lord," whispered his spouse, meekly, trembling under his heavy hand. tekla laughed merrily, and sprang forward to him, flinging her arms about him, to his great embarrassment. "you great swartzwald bear!" she cried, "of course you will beat them. i am sure no one can stand up against you." "tekla," he protested, with visible discomposure, "that is the archbishops' tent on the heights. they can see us." "let them!" cried the girl, waving her hands towards the large tent. "this is my uncle, heinrich of thuron, surnamed the black, my lords and archbishops, and we hurl defiance at you, for he fears you neither separately nor together." the black count smiled grimly, and very soon they were all seated at breakfast, rodolph and tekla bearing the burden of the conversation, the count and his wife adding but little to it. it was easily seen that heinrich's mind was not on his meal, but on what was passing in the valley, where his uneasy eye wandered ever and anon. as the breakfast ended and the countess tekla was congratulating the archer on its excellence, there came up to them a fan-fare of trumpets, and all saw, issuing from the forest to the south, an impressive cavalcade, headed by count bertrich, at whose side rode another, seemingly his equal in rank, and quite his superior in equipment, whom rodolph at once recognised by his blazonry as the representative of the archbishop of cologne. behind these two rode a group of perhaps threescore men, all gaily bedecked and fully armed. five or six horse-lengths in front of this notable procession came four heralds holding long trumpets from which depended gay silken banners in gorgeous colours, setting forth, two the arms of treves, and two the arms of cologne. as the cavalcade advanced the trumpeters raised bugles to lips and gave forth the musical notes that had first attracted the attention of those on the tower. the count sprang instantly to his feet, rodolph also rising. "a demand of surrender," said the latter, "about to be set forward with due ceremony and circumstance. i must say the archbishops acquit themselves creditably." "will you attend me while i make reply?" asked the count, of rodolph. "surely," returned the other. "i should be glad of your counsel," continued heinrich, "and of some slight hint regarding the choice of words to be used. we have usually fallen to without so much preliminary flourishing at thuron, and i am not versed in the etiquette of the occasion." "answer slowly," said the emperor, "taking ample time to consider each question, and if there is any hint to give, i will whisper it to you." the two men departed down the stairs, leaving at least one interested spectator of the conference about to take place. the elder woman remained where she was, with her hands folded on her lap; the countess tekla leaning against the parapet, saw her uncle and rodolph, attended by captain steinmetz and a guard of lancers, mount the platform above the gates, while the imposing troop of horsemen came to halt amidst another blast from the trumpets. chapter xxi. an experiment in diplomacy. in loud and sonorous voice count bertrich spoke, his words plainly heard by all on the castle walls and even far down the valley. "heinrich of thuron, sometime count palatine, now deposed by lawful authority duly proclaimed, you are summoned to surrender the castle of thuron at present held by you, to the custody of his high puissant and reverend lordship, konrad von hochstaden, archbishop of cologne, and his ally, the high puissant and reverend lordship, arnold von isenberg, archbishop of treves, and in event of such summons not being instantly obeyed, your life is declared forfeit and all within your walls outlaws." "ask him," whispered the emperor, "on what authority this summons is delivered." "on whose authority do you act?" cried heinrich, in a voice no less powerful than that of bertrich. "his lordship the archbishop of treves is your over-lord, and as such is entitled to make the demand i have set forth." "then ask him what the devil cologne is doing in this business," said rodolph. "why then is the archbishop of cologne put first in your proclamation, and by what right does he claim jurisdiction over me?" cried heinrich. the two emissaries of treves and cologne consulted for a few moments together, and it was quite evident that count bertrich had little liking for the turn the colloquy had taken, his haughty nature scorning lengthened talk with a man whom he considered an inferior, and in any case the sword was with him a readier weapon than the tongue, as indeed it was with heinrich himself, but the envoy of cologne seemed in a measure impressed by the replies of the lord of thuron, and appeared to be protesting against what the other was proposing, a backward wave of the hand seeming to betoken a desire to break off negotiations and return whence they came. at last bertrich again spoke. "their high and mighty lordships of cologne and treves are, as i have said, allies in this quarrel, and they demand your instant answer." "say it is impossible for you to recognise cologne in a matter that concerns you and treves only. add that if treves alone press the demand you will make suitable reply," dictated the emperor. "a noble answers only to his own over-lord," shouted heinrich. "if the archbishop of treves make a demand, he shall have my reply, but i stand no question from his lordship of cologne, nor can he justly prefer the right to question me except through my over-lord." "well spoken," said the emperor, emphatically, "and good feudal law." again a conference ensued between the two envoys, bertrich first protesting against the decision of his colleague, then reluctantly accepting it. in his anger shearing arnold of some of his adjectives, bertrich cried: "in the name of the archbishop of treves, my master and yours, i demand that you surrender to him the castle of thuron." "say that you appeal for justice to the over-lord of all, the emperor, and offer to surrender your castle when you see his signature to a document demanding it," whispered rodolph. heinrich turned to him in astonishment. "i fear the emperor less than i do treves, and have no intention of surrendering to either. he may have the signature of the emperor, and then i should be in serious jeopardy." "he has it not, nor can he obtain it. the emperor is in palestine." the humour of the situation began to appeal to heinrich. for the first time in his turbulent life he was posing as a respecter of the law and a stickler for forms. the envoy of cologne sat on his horse awaiting the answer with an expression on his face which showed that he believed the black count to be more in the right than he had hitherto suspected, while bertrich, fuming with impatience and anger, savagely dug spurs into his horse and then reined in the astonished animal with rude brutality when it curvetted under the sting of the steel. "in a case so serious," cried heinrich, sternly, "i appeal to the over-lord of the archbishop, who is my over-lord as well, his majesty the emperor. that no injustice may be done, i will deliver up my castle to the emperor, or, in his absence, to any delegate whom he empowers, the same to show me his credentials signed by his majesty." "the emperor," roared bertrich, "has already delegated his authority to the archbishop, who now acts thus under the power granted him. this juggling with words will not serve you. i demand----" but here he was interrupted by the envoy of cologne, who seemed surprised when it was alleged that the emperor had delegated his authority to the archbishop of treves. he laid his hand on bertrich's arm and spoke earnestly with him. "what comes next?" said heinrich. "oh, the rest is most simple," replied rodolph. "bertrich has lied, for there has been no delegating of imperial authority to his master. worse than that, he has sown seeds of dissension between the archbishop of treves and the haughty lord of cologne, and bertrich has not yet the sense to see it. tell him you did not know of this bestowal of authority. ask for the witnesses, if the delegation was verbal, or for a document if he has a written commission from his majesty." "but he may have it. how can you say whether he has or no?" "i tell you the man has lied. would the emperor, think you, dare to give to one what he did not give to another? see the surprise on cologne's face at such an absurd statement. have no hesitation. he has few qualifications fitting him to be a diplomatist." "i was not aware," cried heinrich, stoutly, "that the emperor had so favoured treves at the expense of his brother of cologne. if such is indeed the case, then we need parley no longer. on proof to me of this bestowal of imperial power on his lordship of treves, i will at once surrender my castle to him, leaving the emperor to adjudicate between us." then did the choleric count indeed justify rodolph's prophecy. shaking his sword over his head, bertrich shouted: "surrender the castle, you robber dog, or i will knock it down about your ears, black son of a rooting boar." the hand of count heinrich sprang to the hilt of his blade, and he would have answered angrily in kind, but the emperor, touching him gently, said: "softly, softly. call our astonished friend of cologne to witness that you have done everything you could in the way of peace, and the upholding of the feudal law." heinrich drew a deep quivering breath into his huge chest, and controlled himself with an effort that made his stalwart frame tremble. "i ask your colleague," he said, at last, in a voice that was somewhat uncertain, "to bear witness that i have been treated with grave disrespect while endeavouring to yield deference to all above me; the emperor no less than the archbishops. i am anxious to abide by the feudal law, and while protecting my own rights, infringe not on the rights of others." bertrich gave vent to a cry of disgusted impatience, spurring his horse onward and then round until his back was to the castle. the envoy of cologne bowed low to count heinrich, although he said nothing, which bow the black count handsomely returned. with a blast from the four trumpets, the glittering cavalcade turned, and at slow, dignified pace, as befitted an embassy, left the castle. rodolph and heinrich watched the departure in silence, the latter still struggling with his suppressed emotions, more than half feeling that he had not acquitted himself as a man should, by neglecting to fling back in the teeth of his enemy the contemptuous phrases he had received. "my lord count," said rodolph, "you have conducted the negotiations most admirably, and i desire to offer you my congratulations." "i would rather have cut his beggarly throat than bestowed smooth words upon him," muttered the count. "there is much that is commendable and even alluring in the project, and doubtless before the sun has set, bertrich will wish you had, for i do not envy him the meeting with his master. never was the archbishop so rascally served. one of two things will happen now, thanks to your diplomacy. the archbishop of treves, proud as he is, will be compelled to humble himself before his haughty ally, and declare that bertrich failed to speak the truth, or the archbishop of cologne will gather his men about him and depart down the rhine to the less picturesque precincts of his famous city. even if a peace be patched up between them, there will be deep distrust in von hochstaden's mind against the crafty isenberg, for, knowing the wily arnold as he does, cologne will never believe but his envoy blurted out the truth, in spite of his master's assurance that it is a lie. believe me, you might have rained blows on bertrich's back and he would consider the chastisement as nothing compared with the humiliating dilemma in which your words and calmness have placed him." "the words were not mine, but yours," said heinrich, much mollified. "i will not have you say so. i did indeed give you some hints but you clothed them in your own language, and in every case added force to them. it is not flattering to say i did not expect such from you, but i have to admit the truth. words, my lord count, are often more deadly than swords. the man of words who can keep his temper will ever rule the man of the sword. as you acted this morning you might guide an empire." "and as i acted yesterday, i could not rule my own household," said heinrich, dryly. "so far as i am concerned, my lord, yesterday is dead. i do not remember what happened. i deal only with to-day." "lord rodolph," cried heinrich, with sudden exultation, "we shall beat these villains yet." "so the countess tekla has prophesied, and so i devoutly believe. in any case this conference has postponed attack for a few days. it will take some time for the archbishops to adjust their differences, and who knows what may happen later?" whether the countess should prove a true prophet or no remained to be seen, but rodolph was quickly shown to be a false one. chapter xxii. the first attack on castle thuron. it is doubtful if a nation or a military commander is strengthened by securing an ally, even though that ally be powerful. one determined man will wage war with more success than will a committee that commands a larger force. a general with an ally must be ever thinking of what that ally will do, or will not do. he is hampered at every turn, and must be careful not to take too much glory to himself or show himself a better warrior than the other. as those within castle thuron afterwards discovered, what happened on the morning of the first attack was this. count bertrich in his original visit to thuron and his ignominious departure therefrom, saw with quick military eye, which he allowed no personal feeling to obscure, that the gate, narrow though it was, offered the best means of capturing the stronghold. once that was battered down, there would be a hot fight in the outer courtyard, then, resistance being overpowered by numbers, the castle belonged to the assaulters. his plan was approved by the archbishop, who, however, was annoyed to find that his colleague of cologne desired that heinrich should be summoned in due form to surrender peacefully before hostilities commenced. to this proposal von isenberg had to accede, and he did so the more readily as bertrich assured him that the hot-tempered count would make some insulting reply which would offend the northern archbishop when it was reported to him. although the cautious arnold was usually most scrupulous in his observance of forms and ceremonies, he had been so angered in this instance, first by the successful flight of his ward, from under his very roof, and second by the contemptuous defiance of himself by his vassal, heinrich of thuron, whom he had always hated, that he was now eager to recover lost prestige, and to accomplish by instant overwhelming force the downfall of the black count. he was the less particular in this matter as it never occurred to him that his action might possibly come up for review and judgment by his own nominal over-lord the emperor, for no emperor in recent ages had commanded the slightest respect. when it is remembered that twenty-two years before the election of rodolph, the archbishop of treves had captured the capital itself, frankfort being the place where the election of emperor was held, and, keeping the archbishops of cologne and mayence outside the gates, proceeded himself to elect an emperor, while the shut-out electors met under the walls and solemnly elected another, some idea may be formed of the slight influence an emperor had over his proud and powerful vassals. it was arranged that the force on the heights to the south of thuron, concealed in the forest, should be augmented by others from the plain by the river, comprising a company of crossbow men and a troop of lancers, the first to harass the garrison while the gate was being battered down, the second to storm the castle when a breach was made for them. the attack was to be delivered when the embassy had retired after receiving the contumacious reply of count heinrich. the assault was to have been led by count bertrich and the envoy of cologne, but when the two had reached the shelter of the forest, bertrich's colleague refused to take part in the fray, until he had first acquainted his master with the purport of the conference at the gate of thuron. by this time count bertrich felt that he had come badly off in his diplomatic bout with the black count, and the knowledge maddened him. he therefore told his ally that cologne might do as he pleased, but treves would attack immediately, and the two archbishops might settle details after the castle was captured. bertrich believed that his success in taking the fortress would more than blot out any resentment his master might feel for his failure in diplomacy, as he well knew the state of arnold von isenberg's mind regarding count heinrich; furthermore, he had not the slightest doubt that with the forces at his command, he would speedily be in possession of castle thuron. so the envoy of the archbishop of cologne, attended by his guard, passed through the forest into the ravine of the thaurand, and thus up to the heights of the bieldenburg, where the tent of his master was situated. rodolph and heinrich were still standing on the platform above the gate when they saw emerging from the forest a monster closely resembling the dragons which were supposed to infest the rhine, but from whose baleful presence the moselle had hitherto been free. rodolph gazed at its coming with astonishment in his eyes, and the swarthy countenance of the count seemed almost to blanch, for although that courageous man was not afraid of the archbishops and their armies, he was in deadly fear of dragons. if their lordships had invoked the aid of such, then was thuron indeed doomed. but as the apparition came nearer it proved to be a huge oaken tree, stripped of its bark, advancing, butt foremost, towards the castle. on the underpart all the limbs had been lopped off, but at each side of it the branches remained, stripped of leaves and twigs, sprouting out like the fins of a gigantic fish to right and left. the great tree was borne aloft on the shoulders of more than twoscore men, who were distributed equally on either side of it, and so it advanced slowly, with its white body and gaunt branches, like an enormous centipede. it was evidently the intention of the carriers to throw the tree from their shoulders at the gate, and then taking it by the branches, half a dozen or more at each limb, swing it back and forth, using it as a battering ram to force in the gate. the men carrying this monster oak had still breath enough left to cheer as they advanced, and count bertrich, in the full armour he had worn at the conference, rode by the side of this strange procession encouraging the bearers by word and motion of the sword. from out of the wood, like the first flakes of a snow storm driven by a gale, came bolts from crossbows, the pioneer shafts falling far short of the walls, but gradually coming nearer as the bowmen the better estimated the distance. bertrich waved his sword at those in the forest, indicating that a closer approach would please him better, and by and by the bolts began to strike against the walls and even fall into the courtyard. the black count, as soon as he was assured that he had to contend with the things of this world only, took on at once the mien of a true commander. he ordered up his catapult men, and two stalwart fellows were speedily at the levers of the engine, working back the flexible arms of timber which acted as motive power for the huge balls of stone. as the bolts from the crossbows began to fall here and there on the walls, heinrich turned to rodolph and curtly ordered him to seek another portion of the castle. "i am very well where i am," answered the emperor. "i wish to see the result of the attack, and am also anxious to watch your practice with this engine." the black count bent a look upon the younger man that was not pleasant to behold, but before he could speak again the other added hastily: "i am wrong, my lord; i go at once." "when you have armour on you, i shall be glad of your company," said heinrich, in a tone less truculent than his glance. the emperor, fearing to miss the issue of the fight, did not betake himself to the armoury to fit a suit to his body, but mounted to his eyrie on the south tower, where he found the archer watching the approach of the enemy with great interest. the catapult was at work, but doing no execution. it seemed impossible to predict where one of the huge pieces of rock it flung would alight; some went crashing into the forest and perhaps had an influence in frightening the crossbow men, although there was little indication of any such result, for the bolts came as thickly as ever, and were now so truly aimed that they harassed the defenders on the walls. the majority of the granite balls, however, fell to the right of the approaching party and bounded harmlessly down the hill. meanwhile the men at the levers worked like demons after each shot, and so hard was their labour that others had to take their places after a few rounds. there was no question that if they once succeeded in getting the range, and dropped a few of the boulders on the procession they would speedily demoralise it, but those carrying the tree not only moved forward, but advanced in a zig-zag fashion, that made marksmanship difficult, even had the cumbrous instrument lent itself to accurate aiming, which it did not. the emperor saw at once that heinrich should have had several catapults over the gate instead of one, for the interval after each discharge was quite long enough for great advances to be made between shots. also heinrich was weak in having no men of the crossbow. this siege had come upon him so suddenly that there had been scant time for the training or arming of crossbow men, and in his marauding expeditions he had never needed them. it was also evident that his men were unaccustomed to catapult work. the castle had never before been attacked, and although the engines had long been part of the equipment of the walls, yet had there been no occasion heretofore to use them. so the count fought at a grievous disadvantage, and was well aware of the fact, for he worked like a madman, sometimes even handling the levers himself, when a man was injured by the flying bolts, or showed signs of exhaustion. the men themselves, although they worked doggedly under the eyes of the count, gave no answering cheer when the besiegers shouted their exultation at the erratic work of the stone-heaver, and the crossbow brigade now issued from the forest, and boldly planted the stakes on which their weapons rested in the open, concentrating their bolts on those who manned the only engine of defence. one valiant crossbow man, panting for distinction under the eye of a leader who was quick to recognise bravery, ran with weapon and stake far ahead of those coming with the battering ram, planted his stake not more than a score of lance lengths from the gate, and began to prepare for a trial at close quarters. this so enraged the black count that he seized one of the great spheres of stone, and not waiting to place it in the slow engine, hoisted it up and poising it for one brief second above his head, as he stood on the edge of the parapet, flung it with such accuracy and such tremendous force, that it rolled at great speed towards the man, who turned and fled in terror, leaving his weapon and stake behind him, amidst the jeers of his own comrades, and the first cheer that went up from the garrison. "wait till we get the villains under us at the gate, and we will need no catapult," roared heinrich, in a voice of thunder; and indeed, here was a danger that made the attacking party pause for a moment until urged on again by their intrepid leader. when rodolph arrived at the top of the tower, the archer looked up at him with an expression of inquiry, and seemed not too well pleased with his coming. on the ledge of the stone coping, the emperor saw arrayed with nice precision a dozen arrows, all an equal distance apart. the bow was in surrey's hand, strung and ready for action, but his jaw dropped on seeing the emperor, who gazed at the mathematically arranged display on the coping with a smile curling his lip. "john surrey," he said, "i trust it was not your intention to molest the archbishop's troops without command of your superior officer." "well, my lord," replied the archer, in a hesitating tone most unusual with him, "it is difficult to see so pretty a fight in progress and not do something to the furthering of it. the archbishop has a hundred bowmen, such as they are, while his darkness does not appear to have one, if i am not to be allowed to draw string." "but we have no quarrel with the archbishop, john." "indeed, my lord," answered surrey, bitterly, "you forgot that, when you ordered me to bend bow against his two men-at-arms on the hill yonder." "true, true, so i did, and right well you acquitted yourself. can you do the same from this height?" "can i? my fingers were just getting beyond my control when you came up. no man could wish better shooting than is here to his hand." "we will wait a little and see if they cannot do better with the catapult. they need some practice, and will never have a finer opportunity." "look you, my lord, at the crossbow shooting. did you ever see the air so thick and so little damage done? 'tis a most contemptible instrument, as i have before averred to you, and now you can see its uselessness for yourself. a body of english archers would have had the castle taken and the count well hanged long ere this." "i hardly see how archers alone could scale the battlements, however expert they might be; but perhaps they project each other over stone walls attached to their arrows; they do such wonderful things in england." "i make bold to inform you, my lord, that----" "i do not doubt it. let us watch the fight." when the cheer went up that greeted the hurling of the stone, and the very precipitate flight of the jeopardised crossbow man, the emperor turned to the offended and silent archer and said: "now is your time, john. show them what true marksmanship is, and remember the eyes of germany are on you, or presently will be." the archer needed no second bidding. rubbing his right foot on the roof to make certain against slipping, then standing squarely with feet the correct distance apart, in a position where the arrows laid out were ready to his hand, surrey, with tightly set lips and wrinkled brow, launched shaft after shaft in marvellously quick succession. the first man at the butt end of the log on the right hand side fell, pierced in the neck downwards through the body. the second man on the same side dropped, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. the sixth man jumped, with a yell of terror, to one side, leaving his place, while the remainder not understanding what had happened, straining to uphold their increased burden, at last gave way, and the falling log pinned many of them to the ground. the archer, the frenzy of killing in his eye, a veritable angel of death on the tower, shouted sharply to the emperor, as if rodolph were his menial, "scatter more arrows on the coping," and his majesty promptly obeyed. into the midst of the now panic-stricken crowd, that a moment before had so proudly borne aloft the oaken tree, surrey sped his winged messengers, each bringing forth a yell of pain or an expiring groan. count bertrich, lashing about him with the flat of his sword, tried to stay the flight of his men, but without avail. "roll the log from your comrades, you cowardly dogs, and then fly if you must!" he shouted, but his commands were unheeded. "shoot none of those pinned to the ground," cried the emperor. "have you ever seen me shoot a helpless man or horse--except bertrich's?" cried the insulted archer. "more arrows and less talk." "discipline and respect have both gone for the time being," said rodolph to himself, with a chuckle, as he placed arrows from the pile along the coping. the thought of bertrich's horse turned the archer's attention to that thoroughly enraged commander. one arrow glanced from bertrich's shoulder, and another struck him squarely on the side of the head, shattering itself, but dealing a staggering blow to the count. bertrich shook aloft his sword defiantly at the man on the tower, and received a third arrow in his sleeve which came perilously near to be the undoing of him. "shoot me that archer on the tower!" he said, to his crossbow men. "let one bolt at least among the hundreds you have wasted account for itself." but the order was more easy to give than to obey. the crossbow is not suited to upward firing, for if a man uses a stake, he must lie down to shoot at a height. surrey, however, turned with an exultant laugh towards those bowmen who had the courage to try conclusions with him, and pinned three to the earth while the others took to flight leaving their cumbrous weapons behind them. a moment later the surviving crossbow men were safe in the forest. count bertrich, to whom the archer again turned his attention, sprang from his horse, paying little heed to the shafts, and, going to the tail end of the log, exerted his great strength, pulling it partly from those nearest him, who, getting up, sorely bruised as they were, lent a hand and rolled the log from the others. "stop!" cried the emperor to the archer, in a tone of voice which left no doubt that authority had returned to its usual habitation. surrey paused, and turned a sweat-bedewed face towards his master. "i am not hurting him," he protested, dolefully, "and it is excellent practice." "you need no practice, john; and the day is triumphantly yours and yours alone. never will i believe there lives on this earth a greater bowman, be he english or the devil himself." "ah," cried the archer, drawing a long breath of deep satisfaction, "if you could but see roger kent. god grant that he is not with yonder crowd on the plain, or some of us will never set foot out of thuron." black heinrich stood gazing up at the round tower, an unkempt figure, after his great but fruitless exertions. rodolph waved his hand to him, and leaning over the coping cried: "how like you our catapult, my lord?" "in truth it is amazing. guard the archer well, and see he does not expose himself. i will burn this clumsy implement and cook our dinners at the fire. 'tis all it's fit for." "your men are not in practice. give it another chance." when the log was rolling away, many who were under it lay prone on the ground, crushed to death. count bertrich approached the gate on foot, his hand upraised, unheeding the catapult which heinrich kept his men steadily working, saying that if bertrich did not give in, he would not cease battle, being less chivalrous toward a brave enemy than rodolph had proved himself. "my lord of thuron," cried bertrich, when within hearing distance, "although there is little chance of harm, we know not what accidents may arise, so i beg you to stop your practice, as some of my poor fellows, sorely hurt already, may suffer if i do not formally proclaim our defeat to you. i have no flag of truce with me, and, therefore, ask you to overlook informality, and give me the opportunity of conveying away my dead and wounded." "your request is granted, my lord," said heinrich, telling his men to cease their efforts, "and i hope that to-day's check will not deprive us of the happiness of meeting you again." "from what i have seen of your own military skill, my lord, we might in perfect safety camp within lance length of your gate." with which interchange of civilities bertrich strode back to attend to the removal of those who were injured, while the black count, moodily cursing his catapult, said to his men: "follow me to the north tower. we shall see if the engine there is no surer than this one." as the count strode away rodolph joined him, and heinrich explained half apologetically that he was about to test all the other catapults in the castle. "i am going to heave a stone into the archbishop's big tent, if you have no objection," said the count. "none in the least," cried the emperor, "providing the projecting machine is equally willing." a round stone was put in place, when the levers had done their duty, and heinrich himself discharged the shot. the formidable projectile described an arc over the profound valley of the thaurand, struck fairly the western end of the huge tent, and disappeared within it, leaving a ragged hole to attest its passage. "ah, that is better," said the black count in a tone of exultant satisfaction. chapter xxiii. the two archbishops fall out. the great white tent erected on the heights of bieldenburg was in reality much larger than it appeared from the battlement of thuron. it is doubtful if any who then beheld it, lord or serf, had the slightest conception of its significance. it was actually the precursor of what is perhaps the grandest cathedral the world has ever seen; and when, two years after, konrad von hochstaden laid the foundation stone of cologne cathedral, it was the designer of this tent who drew the plans for that splendid edifice, which was not to be completed for centuries later. if the three archbishops of cologne, mayence and treves, who were also electors, could have held honestly together, and could have suppressed their jealousy of each other, they might have swayed the destinies of germany much more surely than they did, for they needed but one more elector with them to form a majority of the electoral college, the number of whose members was now fixed at seven, a figure which the germans were loath to change, because it had come, in this connection, to have almost a mystical significance. not only had the electors power to nominate whom they pleased as emperor, but the college had also the right to depose him, yet the latter privilege was practically nullified by their fear and hatred of each other, so that afterwards an acknowledged fool, charles iv., who was held in such slight respect that a butcher in worms had him arrested for not paying his meat bill, so worked on the mutual dislikes of the electors that he not only reigned undeposed, in spite of a thousand reasons for being rid of him, but actually arranged matters so that his weak-minded son was elected to succeed him, in spite of the determination heretofore held, that no colour should be given for establishing a precedent that a son might succeed his father on the german throne. the rhine, flowing from mayence to cologne, seemed to have formed a link between the archbishops of each place, and they were usually found in alliance with each other, bonded against powerful treves, whose iron-handed master had defied them both and held them at bay outside the barred gates of frankfort. the astute arnold von isenberg had now resolved to lure the archbishop of cologne from the archbishop of mayence, and thus treves and cologne found themselves in alliance opposite thuron. what the inducements were is unknown, but as the archbishop of cologne two years later began the great cathedral, and as the archbishop of treves four years later began the castle of stolzenfels on the rhine, it may be surmised that there were mutual concessions, and that each was reasonably well guaranteed from interference by the other. stolzenfels stands, as near as may be, midway between cologne and mayence, so in fixing a fortress residence for himself and his successors right on the line of communication between his two rivals, it must be admitted that the archbishop of treves had a substantial advantage in the bargain. this desertion of his ancient ally must have somewhat surprised the archbishop of mayence, for he doubtless remembered that twenty-one years before, frederick von isenberg, a relative of the master of treves, had assassinated on the cavelsburg, engelbert von berg, archbishop of cologne, the predecessor of konrad von hochstaden, one archbishop reigning between. there were also reasons of locality which made an alliance between cologne and treves natural. mayence up the rhine, cologne down the rhine, and treves up the moselle formed the points of a large triangle, and the latter cities being further from the capital than the other, were perhaps freer from fear of whatever influence the court might possess. it had long been the ambition of cologne to build a cathedral in keeping with the growing ambition of the archbishopric. both mayence and treves had great cathedrals. the cathedral at mayence had been four times destroyed by fire within the past two centuries and had arisen like an ecclesiastical phoenix in greater splendour after each conflagration. that of treves had been built on the site of the roman basilica, and was said to rival the ancient edifice in size and magnificence. the ill-fated engelbert took the first steps towards the beginning of a cathedral in cologne that would at least equal those of mayence and treves, but his assassination ended the scheme for a time. his successor did nothing, and now that konrad von hochstaden was archbishop he was ambitious to link his name with the commencement of an edifice that would eclipse anything then in existence. it was his intention to employ the greatest architects in germany, and when this determination spread abroad, it caused many artists more or less known to submit plans to him, but none of these met the archbishop's entire approbation. there came a man from a small village near cologne who desired to submit designs for a great church, but being without influence and without wealth he never succeeded in gaining audience with the princely archbishop. he had no gold with which to bribe attendants and no highly placed friends who could whisper a word for him at the proper moment. yet he had one friend who believed in him. father ambrose, clerical secretary to the archbishop, was a native of the small and insignificant village of riehl near cologne, where the man ambitious to build a cathedral lived, and meister gerard, the architect, was well known to him. ambrose spoke once or twice to konrad regarding this man, but the archbishop was then busy with the secret envoys from treves, and while war is being concocted, churches must stand in abeyance. when these secret negotiations were completed, father ambrose again attempted to bespeak a hearing for his fellow-townsman. the archbishop, however, was not then in the architectural mood, and ambrose feared his request had been inopportune. "you are a good man, ambrose," said the archbishop, "but persistent. now let me tell you finally what my purpose is. it is not a village church i wish to see builded, but a cathedral that will outshine imperial rome herself. therefore it is not a village architect i am on the outlook for, but one who will prove the modern brother of the builder of the parthenon in athens." "i know not who built the parthenon, my lord," said the monk, with the dogged pertinacity of the north german, "but it may have been a village architect, despised by the great of greece." "it may indeed be so. whence comes this architect of yours?" "from riehl, my lord." "from riehl, indeed! you might at least have given us a town the size of bonn. from riehl!" the archbishop threw back his head and laughed. "'can any good come out of nazareth,' quoth they of old," said the monk, solemnly. the archbishop became instantly serious. "ambrose, that smacks strongly of the sacrilegious." "i may put it thus then--'a prophet is not without honour but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house,'" said the monk, giving the quotation in latin. "you think much of this man?" "i do indeed, my lord." "then i will give him a commission, but it shall not be the building of a cathedral. i have made compact with my brother of treves, arnold von isenberg, too long estranged from me. we are more like to find ourselves engaged in tearing down than in building up. let your architect then design for me a large tent, one that will hold a hundred men while seated at dinner, or five hundred, with tables removed, to hear mass. let the tent be well proportioned, for in that lies architectural skill. its ornamentation will give little scope to a dull man and much to one who is ingenious. draw what money is needed from the treasury for its construction, and see that the sum be ample, so that your architect may have fair recompense, and that i may not be ashamed of my tent, for within it shall the archbishop of treves meet me in conference. have the tent made ready as soon as possible, for i know not the day i may need it, and in the building of it let your fellow remember that the beauty of a tent is that it bears transportation well, being not over bulky, and that it is erected quickly and stands firmly in a storm." thus came the large tent, made in cologne, to be placed on the heights of bieldenburg over the moselle, with meister gerard himself superintending its erection. the floor had been constructed of flattened timber, bedded in the cement used for the building of castles, which when hardened was more difficult to break than the stones it bound together. over this was laid eastern cloths, soft in touch to the foot, and pleasing in colour to the eye. when the tent was erected, meister gerard waited eagerly until the sun rose next morning, so that he might persuade ambrose to ask the archbishop's criticism of the work now completed that he might thus obtain an opportunity to speak with the great ecclesiastic, on whom the architect felt his future depended. gerard saw the envoys depart on their mission to the castle, and, early as it was, he also saw konrad von hochstaden, the monk ambrose by his side, walking to and fro before the archbishop's residential tent. the great audience pavilion stood alone, one end facing the east, as any erection intended for the use of two princes of the church should stand. to the north of it was the cluster of tents occupied by konrad and the numerous attendants who waited upon him. to the south was a similar village belonging to the archbishop of treves, each village being at the point nearest the city from which its master took his title. the trumpets were blaring before castle thuron when ambrose induced the archbishop to inspect the new tent. he stood within it and gazed about him, while the architect, near by, waited for a word of approval or condemnation. "you have given us no ornamentation," said konrad at last. "the ornamentation, my lord, is largely in its correct proportion; nevertheless, i have ventured on a touch of colour which may be seen, or not, at your lordship's pleasure." "let us behold it, then." the architect gave a signal to two workmen who waited at the western end of the tent, and they, by the pulling of cords, rolled up an inner screen. there was disclosed a picture wrought in many coloured silks, deftly sewn together, representing the arms of cologne and treves in juxtaposition. the light shone through the scheme of colour from the outside, and the richness of the painting stood out with the more distinctness that the whole interior of the tent was of one subdued hue of white. "that is most ingenious," the archbishop was pleased to say, to the architect's gratification. "we will have it remain so." "i have another picture on the eastern end as well," said gerard. "have i your lordship's permission to exhibit that also?" "surely, surely," answered konrad, whereupon the two workmen walked the length of the tent, and rolled up another screen similar to the first. the result was most startling. the morning sun shone fully upon the eastern end of the tent and imparted a glory to the rich colouring, which gave the picture a brilliancy savouring more of heaven than of earth. the design represented a twin spired cathedral, worked out in the fullest detail, the spires encrusted with ornament, the beautiful gothic door between them being a model of correct proportion, yet of immense size, the whole representation one on which the eye rested with ever increasing delight, wonder, and admiration. for some moments the archbishop stood speechless before this marvel in line and tint. at last he said: "it is not possible that such a building actually exists and i have never heard of it! where is it?" "only in my brain, my lord, but it may exist in cologne, if your lordship so wills it." "ah!" the archbishop drew a long sigh of supreme gratification. "are you sure you sold not your soul to the devil for this design, meister gerard." "i had hoped your lordship would attribute the design to a higher source. it was my belief that inspiration prompted the picture which made me so persistent in trying to obtain permission from your lordship to exhibit to you the drawings. there will be no cathedral like that of cologne in all the rest of the world, if this building is erected." "you speak truly. let down the curtain, and see that it is securely fastened. the design cannot be seen from without, can it? i did not notice it as i entered." "no, my lord, unless at night when the tent is lighted, and then only when the curtain is raised." "this curtain is not to be raised. no one must look upon this picture. have a new end made for this tent, and put in a drawing of treves cathedral if you like, but this is to be seen by none. meister gerard, you are the architect of cologne cathedral. he is to have a room in the palace, ambrose, and a fitting allowance: see to it. as soon as another end is in place, get you back to cologne and work upon your plans. men less inspired will attend to the fighting." therefore was the stay of meister gerard, architect of cologne cathedral, of short duration in the neighbourhood of the moselle. the archbishop was still in the tent when his envoy returned from the mission to castle thuron, and reported there to his master the colloquy that had taken place between count heinrich and bertrich. konrad von hochstaden frowned as he listened, and for a time pondered deeply in silence over the information he had received. the architect and the workmen were gone, and archbishop, envoy and monk were alone in the tent. "you say that count bertrich attacked the castle as you departed. are any of my men in the fray?" "no, my lord. i urged count bertrich to postpone assault until you were made acquainted with the result of our conference at the gate, but this he refused to do. i then ordered your captain to hold aloof until he got direct command from you." "you did well. this bertrich seems to act much on his own responsibility; a hot-headed man, whom perhaps his master employs for that very reason; if successful, the archbishop may commend, and if unsuccessful, disclaim. is there a chance of capturing the castle through his onslaught?" "i could form no opinion thereon, not knowing how rigorously the place may be defended." "i must have some explanation from arnold von isenberg before the question is decided. ambrose, deliver greetings from me to the archbishop of treves, and acquaint him with the fact that i await him here, as there are matters of grave import to discuss." the monk departed, and presently the archbishop of treves entered the tent attended only by his secretary. after salutations had passed between the two princes, konrad von hochstaden began the discussion, going directly to the heart of the matter, as was his fashion, for he never imitated the round-about method of approaching a subject that so much commended itself to his more subtle colleague. "i am informed that count bertrich has attacked the castle, and is at present engaged in its reduction, and this without waiting for co-operation from my forces." "if he has done so," replied arnold suavely, "he has most gravely outrun his instructions." "he furthermore stated to the count of thuron that you had certain powers granted you by the emperor rodolph. what is the nature of those powers?" "in that also is count bertrich wrong. i have never so much as seen the emperor rodolph." "you may, nevertheless, have had communication with him." "i have had no communication with him." "it seems strange that such a claim should have been put forward on your behalf by your own envoy." "i cannot account for it. bertrich has not yet returned, but when he does, i shall ask him for an explanation, and that in your presence. he is a turbulent man, and a good fighter, but difficult to restrain. one has to work with the tools that come to one's hands, and often the service is ill-rendered, as seems to have been the case in this instance." as the archbishop ceased speaking there arose cheer after cheer from castle thuron, which caused all present to listen intently, and for a short time nothing further was said. it was his lordship of cologne who first broke silence. "those cries are too near at hand to betoken victory for count bertrich. perhaps it may be well to send him reinforcements." "no," said treves. "this action has been begun without my sanction, and bertrich must conduct it as best he can. he has the demerit of being over-confident, and a check, while not affecting the final result, may make him the easier to reason with, and prevent the recurrence of such hasty unauthorised action." "you take it coolly. i confess i would learn with some impatience that my troops were being over-borne, and my first impulse would be to send assistance." "your action would be natural and creditable to you, but there is more at stake than the issue of a mêlée. i find myself unexpectedly put on the defensive, and have no reply to make beyond giving you my simple word. i know no more than you do what has happened, and have had, as yet, no account of the parley with the occupier of thuron. it is necessary there should be complete confidence between you and me, and i regret that in the very beginning of our united action, suspicion should be engendered in your mind. if bertrich captures thuron, he mistakes me much if he thinks that the bringing thither of the black count will compensate for the shadow he has cast on my good faith with you. therefore i propose to await his coming, and i shall be most gratified to have you question him before he has had word with me, either in my presence, or in my absence, as best pleases you." the candour of arnold von isenberg made an evident impression on his suspicious colleague, who said after a pause: "yes, there must be confidence or our united action will be futile. there are our arms, side by side, on the end of this tent, facing the stronghold which we expect to reduce. our several motives should be as plainly in sight to each other, which is my excuse for speaking thus openly to you, rather than cherishing secret distrust." the sentence was strangely interrupted. the cheering had for some time ceased, and now through the arms of treves, blazoned on the wall, there came, with a sound of tearing cloth, the huge round stone shot from the catapult. it fell with a resounding crash on the floor and rolled between the two electors, who both started back with dismay on their faces. the silk and canvas hung in tatters, and showed beyond a bit of the blue and peaceful sky. the archbishop of cologne devoutly crossed himself, but his comrade of treves looked alternately at the rent, and at the great missile that caused it, like one stupefied. "if i believed in portents," said the archbishop of cologne in the uncertain voice of one who did so believe, "that might have seemed an unlucky omen." the lord of treves, recovering himself, shrugged his shoulders. "it is but a chance shot, and the rending of a bit of painted cloth. i shall send flag of truce to heinrich and ask him to deal us no more of these pleasant surprises. if he refuses, then must our encampment be removed further from the castle, while we shall place some catapults here and return his favours to him, so i have little doubt he will consent to leave us unmolested." as he finished speaking there entered to them count bertrich, his face flushed with anger, but his demeanour in a measure crestfallen. he bowed to each prince of the church, and stood there silent, wincing under the lowering indignant gaze bestowed on him by his imperious master. chapter xxiv. count bertrich explains his failure. the two archbishops looked at one another as if each waited for his colleague to begin. "will you question count bertrich, my lord?" said treves, at last. "no. he has represented you, and should account to you. as i have your permission to note his replies, i shall put question when i have heard what he has to say, if further examination seems necessary." "you went on a diplomatic mission," began treves, very slowly to his follower; "am i correct in surmising that you return from a battle?" "yes, my lord." "is it true that you began this attack notwithstanding the protest of my ally's representative?" "it is, my lord." "in pursuance of instructions previously given by me?" "no, my lord; i had no instructions from you to offer battle, but i knew it was your intention to fight, if heinrich refused to surrender. he did so refuse, and i took it upon myself to begin." "what was the outcome?" "i was defeated, my lord." "have you lost any men?" "something over a dozen, and under a score. they were killed by the archer i told you of, just on the point of victory. we would have had the castle otherwise." "you return, then, a defeated man, having insulted your master's ally by refusing to listen to his counsel, your followers are slain, and you admit having acted without orders. what have you to say in excuse, count bertrich?" "there is nothing to say. i stand here to take the brunt of my acts, and to endure what punishment is inflicted upon me. a fighting man makes mistakes, and must bear the issue of them." "yet, what i have chronicled is not the most serious of your offences. it seems hardly credible that you should have said such a thing, but i am told you boasted to heinrich that the emperor had bestowed certain authority on me. made you any such statement, and if so, what explanation have you to offer?" "i out-lied the villain, that was all?" "to whom do you refer when you speak of the villain?" "to the black thief of thuron. perhaps i should have admitted two villains, myself being the other. he said that he would surrender the castle if you had authority from the emperor. i knew he was lying, and would surrender to none, so i said you had such authority." "what grounds had you for making such statement?" "no grounds whatever, my lord. it was merely a case of two liars meeting, one on horseback, the other on the walls of thuron." notwithstanding the seriousness of the occasion, a slight smile disturbed the severe lips of the questioner, and a more kindly light came into his eyes. he was shrewd enough to see that the blunt and prompt outspokenness of the count served his purpose better than the answers of a more diplomatic man would have done. there was never a moment's pause between question and reply, nor was there any evidence on the part of bertrich of an endeavour to discover what his master wished him to say. any sign of an understanding between the two, any hesitation on bertrich's part in answering, might have added to the apprehensions of konrad von hochstaden. but the dullest could not help seeing that here stood a brave unscrupulous man who knew he had done wrong, yet who was not afraid to take upon himself all the consequences, attempting little excuse for his conduct. the lord of treves turned to the lord of cologne. "have you any question to ask?" he said. "not one. i have nothing to say except to beg of you not to visit any resentment you may feel upon count bertrich, who is a brave soldier, if an unskillful liar. indeed i am not sure but the count has done us both a service in bringing to an issue this matter, which, to our detriment, might have dragged on longer than would have been convenient. the black count seems to possess some skill in diplomacy, which i did not give him credit for, and it was probably his intention to keep us parleying with him until he was better prepared to receive us. all that now remains for us to do is to plan a comprehensive attack on the castle with our whole force, which will be immediately successful. your archer can do little when confronted by an army, for, as i understand it, there is but one archer in the castle. then we will take the black count and the other prisoners with us to treves in a few days, and there pass judgment upon him, for i think it better that such trial should take place under your jurisdiction than under mine, heinrich being your vassal, and he seems to show a preference for having all transactions done in strict accordance with the feudal law, which is but just and proper. he may then appeal to the emperor--if he can find his wandering majesty." "i entirely agree with your argument," replied treves; and turning to count bertrich, he continued, "in deference to what has been urged on your behalf by his lordship of cologne, i shall say nothing further in regard to your conduct, beyond breathing a fervent hope that you will not so offend again. take or send a flag of truce to thuron gates, and ask the black count to respect this camp. tell him that if he will not so arrange, he will merely put us to the trouble of moving back our tents, and placing catapults here instead. if he molest us not, we shall take no offensive measures against him from this quarter. this piece of rock has just been hurled from the castle through the tent, and it came dangerously near being the death of some of us." "by the gods, then," cried count bertrich, "heinrich has greatly improved his catapult practice in very short time." "we have no desire to be his targets, so make the arrangement with him if you can." "my lord, if i may venture the suggestion, it were better to have no further traffic with the black count, for i doubt if he will keep his word, even if he gave it. but besides that, this is the only point from which a catapult can be of service against the castle. placed here, half-a-dozen engines, energetically worked, might fill his courtyard for him. i strongly urge you to remove the tents and fix catapults in their places." "count bertrich," said arnold, harshly, gazing coldly upon him, "this morning's excursion has led you into delusions not yet cleared away, i fear. this campaign is to be conducted by the archbishop of cologne and myself. we desire no suggestions from you, but very prompt obedience. you have heard the order, transmit it to one of your officers, for i distrust your own powers as faithful envoy. when he reports the result of his conversation with count heinrich to you, you will then, perhaps, be good enough to bring the tidings to me." count bertrich reddened angrily, kept silence, bowed to the two dignitaries and withdrew. "nevertheless," he muttered to himself as he strode away, "it is folly to waste the best point of attack for the convenience of two archbishops. heinrich is no such fool as not to jump at such a senseless proposal." chapter xxv. the second assault on the castle. the swarthy heinrich, summoned once again by bugle blast to the gate top of the castle, seeing there a man with white flag, heard with amazement that the high and honourable archbishops did not wish to be incommoded by his catapult practice and the incoming inconvenience of the lumps of stone, and were, therefore, willing themselves to forego the bombarding of the castle from that point, if he would promise not to fling rounded granite again into the deliberations of the mighty lords aforesaid. heinrich, casting a glance over his shoulder at the heights of bieldenburg, scarcely believing that men pretending knowledge of war and siege would so easily forego so great an opportunity as the heights afforded them for the annoyance of the castle, not to mention the destruction which might be caused by the falling of stone on the roofs inside the walls, readily gave his consent to put the catapult of the north tower out of action--a promise which he duly kept in the letter, if not quite in the spirit, as will be seen when this history has somewhat farther extended itself. so great, however, was his distrust of humanity in general, and the archbishops in particular, that he did not remove his catapult from the north tower to some part of the battlements where it could make its influence felt on the invaders, but kept it there idle, expecting that their lordships would, when they came to realise the advantages of the situation, forthwith break their word, which, it is pleasant to record, they never did. the incident of the white flag and its mission encouraged heinrich mightily, for small as was his respect for his assailants before, it was less now. they might easily have shifted their tents farther back, while he could not remove the castle, nor eliminate the bieldenburg, and thus they possessed a notable natural advantage over him which they had recklessly bargained away, getting practically nothing in exchange. the black count walked up and down gleefully rubbing his hands together, communing with himself, for he was not a man to run and share his satisfaction with another. this was but the first day of the siege, yet he had enjoyed a victory in diplomacy, a victory in battle and a victory in bargaining, and in pluming himself thereon he quite overlooked the fact, as mankind is prone to do, that in none of the three cases was the merit due to himself, but to the actions of others. there were to be no more pleasant breakfasts on the top of the south tower, it being within the range of possibility that a crossbow bolt might find its way thither, so the two ladies of the castle could not be permitted to run the chance of such an eventuality. heinrich, however, beginning at that late day to show some human interest in his family, arranged that they should eat together in the great hall. here he took the head of the table, with his wife and tekla on one side, while rodolph occupied a seat on the other. the archer had proved himself no less expert with cooking utensils than with the bow, and on the promise of an extra penny a day, willingly prepared their meals, which were carried in by two men-at-arms, who proved, at first, clumsy waiters compared with the neat and deft-handed hilda. these meals, however, were anything but cheerful functions, for the count and his wife rarely broke silence, and although some conversation passed between rodolph and tekla, it was overshadowed by the continual gloom that sat on the brow of their taciturn host. watch was set for the night, as evening fell once more upon the valley, and again the hundreds of camp fires glowed in the darkness, while up from the tented plain, in the still air, came the singing of familiar songs, deep-throated bass mingling with soprano and tenor, the harmony mellowed by distance, sounding sweet in the ears of the beleaguered. the songs for the most part were those the crusade had brought forth, and the words, while often warlike, even more frequently told of christ and his influence on the world. they were the songs which had stirred the sentiment of the nation and had caused so many to go forth to battle for the rescue of the true sepulchre from infidel hands. militant marching tunes mingled with other sadder strains which mourned the nonreturn of friends from the death plains of the crimson east. in the morning the circling army was early astir, displaying an energy not less remarkable than it had exhibited on the previous day. it was evident that an attack of some kind was contemplated, and those within the castle had not long to wait before the design was disclosed. a line of men, probably numbering a thousand, was drawn up at the foot of the hill extending between the village of alken and the castle, from the north of the thaurand valley far towards the west. the warriors stood about, or sat down, or sprawled at full length on the ground, as suited each soldier's fancy, and apparently waited the word of command which their officers, standing on the alert, would give when some signal was shown or sounded. the few sentinels on watch along the eastern wall of the castle gave warning that a like company of men was crawling up the steep slopes of the thaurand through the forest, but little heed was given to them, as the eastern sides of the castle were so high that no man could easily win to the top with any ladder the besiegers might construct, and if they attempted such scaling, the guards at the top would have no difficulty in dislodging the ladders with their pikes and lances. the line near alken rested out of reach of catapult-stones, but in a measure only. although the catapult which heinrich at once set in operation, could not hurl a stone directly on their line, yet the balls of granite rolled down the hill with irresistible force, and while the men were inclined at first to hail these missiles with shouts of merriment, dancing this way and that to avoid them, several standing with legs widespread allowing the projectiles to pass between their feet, yet now and then a hurling stone would take an unexpected leap in the air and double up a man, whose laughter was heard no more. after some moments of eruptive activity on the part of the castle the soldiers were compelled to treat the efforts of the enemy with respect, while the officers moved their men in extended order, so decreasing the danger from the catapults. presently there emerged from the forest, in front of the gate, twoscore or more of men in complete armour. they advanced to the great oaken log which had proved so disastrous to their comrades the day before. crossbow bolts now flew again from the wood, but a wholesome fear of the archer on the tower kept the bowmen from showing themselves. the men in armour with some difficulty lifted the heavy log to their shoulders, and as they advanced towards the gate, surrey's arrows glancing ineffectually from their protected bodies, a bugle call rang out over the valley. instantly the men at the bottom of the hill gave a great cheer and charged up the slope, treading down the vines, while others behind them carried scaling ladders of a length suitable for the long low front of thuron. those at the catapults now worked like madmen, and their efforts told heavily on the advancing army, whose movement, laborious because of the steepness of the hill, the feet of the men entangled in the tenacious, trailing vines, was once or twice checked in the ascent, but they always rallied with a cheer, under the encouragement of their officers, and set their faces to the task before them with renewed energy. the archer on the tower desisted from his fruitless efforts against the men in armour, and now turned his attention to the unprotected horde climbing the hill, and although every arrow did execution, the stormers were in such multitude that his skill had no effect in checking the advance. the black count strode from catapult to catapult, alternately cursing and encouraging the workers. rodolph, now in full armour, commanded a body of men who stood on the battlements with axes on their shoulders, ready to spring forward when ladders were planted. the twoscore with their battering ram threw down their bulky burden at the gate, and endeavoured to put it to its use, but it was soon evident they could not hold the position they had won. besides, they were unaccustomed to the weight and awkwardness of armour and made little headway with their battery. their heads being enclosed in iron--for if they had shown an inch of their faces the archer would certainly not have turned discouraged from them--prevented their hearing the words of command, and they seemed incapable of swinging the log with rhythmic motion. count bertrich, on his horse, his visor up in spite of the archer, roared orders that were not obeyed, because unheard, and in his frenzy the count seemed about to ride down his own followers, while loudly cursing their clumsy stupidity. but worse than this was the rain of stones which even armour could not withstand. the black count, summoning his most stalwart followers, hurled down on the men beneath them the huge granite spheres, acting for the time as their own catapults. the machine itself did better execution than it had accomplished the day before, as its workers had now learned its peculiarities. the oak log gave infrequent feeble blows against the strong gate, but one after another of its carriers were felled by the stones, then the log itself proved too heavy for its thinned supporters, and so came to the ground, whereupon those who remained turned and fled for shelter in the forest, all of them sweating in the unaccustomed iron cases in which they found themselves: some falling prone on the ground through heat and exhaustion, not knowing how to unloose their headpieces to get a breath of fresh air. bertrich wasted no further effort on them, but called his crossbow brigade out of the wood to advance and harass those on the walls while the scaling ladders were being put into use. they came out timorously with an eye on the tower rather than on the direction of their bolts. here, at last, was surrey's opportunity. his hatred of a crossbow man as a cumberer of the earth lent strength to his aim, and his anger at being baffled by those in armour made the game he was now playing doubly enjoyable. he raised a saxon yell, heard far and wide over hill and dale. "oh, here you are at last!" he cried. "come along with your ox-bows and hay ricks." when half-a-dozen had fallen under the whizzing, almost invisible, shafts that so quickly succeeded each other, the ranks of the crossbow men wavered and broke, every man of them getting under cover as speedily as he could. those on the western wall under rodolph's command were now having all they could do. the hill climbers, although somewhat out of breath with their hurried ascent, swarmed in such numbers at the foot of the walls, that for a time their repulse seemed almost hopeless. each of the attacking soldiers carried, wound round his waist, a rope tied at one end to a piece of timber three or four feet long. this billet of wood they flung over the parapet, dragging instantly on the attached rope. sometimes the billet came down on them again, but more often it caught and held in the machicolations of the parapet, and then the soldier, setting his feet against the stone wall, climbed nimbly up the rope, usually to get knocked on the head with a battle-axe when he appeared at the top, but while many went thus down again, others obtained a precarious footing and fought fiercely until they fell backwards over the parapet. rodolph saw that the moment three or four of the enemy made good their stand at any one part of the wall, their comrades would swarm up at that point and the castle would be taken, for the besiegers were so numerous they might speedily overpower the little garrison. he gave the word to cut the ropes whether the ascending man got foothold or not. the defenders, in the fury of the battle, were paying more attention to the splitting of skulls than the destroying of the means of ascent, often leaving a rope dangling where another than its original owner might come up. after this command the battle-axes clove each rope at its junction with the wooden billet, and so destroyed its usefulness, for there was no time in the mêlée to retie the cord to other billets, even if other billets were to hand. when at last the ladders came, the fight waxed more fierce. here rodolph took pattern by the black count, and gave command to the defenders to hold catapult stones in readiness and wait till two or three men were following each other up a ladder, then hurl granite on the foremost, who in his fall brought down his comrades with him. in each case when this was accomplished the men on the walls were instructed to rush forward, pull up the ladder and throw it inside the courtyard. in this way most of the ladders had been taken before the attacking force rightly estimated their loss, or indeed noticed it in the exciting conflict which was going forward, and with each capture the danger to the castle grew less. black heinrich looked grimly on, taking little part in the defence now that the attack on the gate had been abandoned, but once when, in spite of all efforts of the defenders, four ladders had been placed simultaneously together and half-a-dozen men succeeded in mounting the battlements, the count sprang forward and grasping one after another of the invaders, flung them, head over heels, through the air in such quick succession, and with such incredible force, that most of them rolled well nigh into the village of alken before they came to rest on the hillside. the raiders gradually became discouraged, but were buoyed up by the hope that other points of attack might be more favoured by fate than theirs, else the retreat would have sounded from the bugle. but suddenly a riderless horse came galloping round a corner from the gate, and the officers recognised the animal from its trappings. like wildfire spread the rumour, "count bertrich is slain," then all heart departed from the attack, and a wild exultant cheer rose from those in the castle. the retreat down the hill became a panic-stricken flight, which the catapults, now in activity again, accelerated. "show your white flag!" roared heinrich, striding up and down the battlements, intoxicated with his triumph, and waving hands above his head like a madman. "show your white flag; you surely were not foolish enough to attack without it." the white flag presently did appear coming up from alken, and the request was made that they be allowed to bear away their dead and wounded. then at last the active engines ceased and the tired men sat on beams and parapet, drawing sleeves across their sweating brows. the foot of the walls presented an appalling spectacle. there was a windrow of dead and wounded, as if the poor wrecked human beings had been some sort of wingless moths who had flung themselves against these adamant walls, and had paid the last penalty of their rashness. parts of broken ladders lay mingled with the slain, together with the round lumps of stone which had been their undoing. "is it true that count bertrich has been slain?" asked rodolph of heinrich, when the latter had assumed his customary calm. "i know nothing of it. here is the archer who was on the tower; he may be able to tell us." "indeed," said surrey, "i fear it is not true, for i had no fair shot at him. it was not my intention to have killed him so early in the game, but he must needs insult me, so i let fly at him." "how did he insult you?" "he raved at the cautious crossbow men, telling them that if they did not come out from the wood they were cowards. now it is not fair to call a man a coward who fears my bow, and that expression i took as an insult. he is a wise man and not a coward who betakes himself to the wood when my arrows are abroad." "i can bear witness to the truth of that," said the black count. "i therefore loosed arrow at his slanderous mouth, but he turned his face just at the moment, and although i unhorsed him and he lay still enough till they dragged him away, i have my doubts regarding his death." during all the rest of that stirring day soldiers were busy carrying their dead and wounded comrades down the steep hill to the village, and the white flag flew until darkness blotted it out. chapter xxvi. an illuminated night attack on thuron. on the following morning there were no signs of activity in the camp, as the sentries on the castle walls gazed about them in the early dawn. heinrich thought that after a defeat so overwhelming the archbishops would strike tent and hie themselves back to their respective cities, there to resume the religious duties which had been interrupted by the martial bugle blast, but rodolph laboured under no such delusion. he said the defeat made a prolonged siege inevitable; that the feudal lords could not afford to turn their backs upon a vassal who had thus repulsed them, or their prestige in the land would be gone forever. and it was soon evident that, although there was no activity in the camp, neither was there any sign of departure. it was learned from those who came to make further search for the missing, that count bertrich lay grievously ill of his wound, and if he recovered there would be another scar on his already unattractive face, but hope was held that he might live, as he was being tenderly cared for in his own tent next to that of the archbishop of treves himself. rodolph acquainted the archer with the condition of his high-born foe, and surrey received the news with subdued dejection. "i had no fair chance," he said, sadly. "a man on a prancing horse is ever a difficult mark, but when he is encased in armour with only his face showing, and then unexpectedly turns his head just as arrow leaves string, death, however merited, can hardly be looked for." the archer spent most of his time on the tower top, industriously making arrows, and attended assiduously by his menial, who had conceived a strong attachment to him, chiefly through the medium of vigorous kicks and blows which john somewhat lavishly bestowed, hoping thus, as he said, to make a man of him. "you may have another opportunity of giving count bertrich a taste of your skill," said rodolph, "for i doubt if the siege is yet near its conclusion. indeed that we still hold the castle is due most of all to you." "we hold the castle through the mercy of providence alone," said the archer, gloomily, uninfluenced by his master's praise. "through that of course," remarked rodolph, "but also in a measure through our own hard blows and your accurate marksmanship." "i am saying nothing against the valour of the garrison, my lord. what i mean is, that if providence had led my friend roger kent into the camp of the enemy, as i supposed was probable, there would have been little use of our longer holding out, for he could have stood in alken or even further away and picked us off one by one as pleased him. no man would dare show face above parapet. i would rather undertake to conquer thuron with roger kent alone than with all the army of the archbishops." "let us be thankful therefore that he is elsewhere. you think then he is not with the archbishop?" "he has probably forgotten all about my going to treves," replied the archer, sorrowfully. "roger is an absent-minded man, and a dreamer. he is likely sitting on the bank of some stream, poetry making and watching the drying of the papyrus he fabricates, for unless hunger overcame him he would never think of accepting service with any, or of drawing bow. it was his hope that some good peasant would take charge of him, and feed him, allowing him to exchange poetry for what provender and lodging he had, but he has never found such, for he wants a hut in a picturesque spot, by a lake or near a waterfall, with hills or mountains round about, where he may make papyrus and poetry." "what is the nature of this papyrus he manufactures, and what is its purpose?" asked the emperor. "he says the egyptians produced it in ancient times. he macerates certain reeds and grasses together between two stones, in flowing water, and when he has compounded a substance like porridge, he spreads it thinly on a flat stone which lies in the sun. it dries very white, and is of light texture, like cloth, only more easily torn, and will last you a long time if kept dry, but in water it dissolves again. he has thus lost much good poetry, through lying in trenches during heavy rains, the which causes him to dislike campaigns where the tents are few. on his papyrus he indites with a sharp stylus his poems, and for safe keeping places the sheets under his doublet when he sleeps; but he rises, after a rainy night, encased in pulp, which he takes from various parts of his apparel with tender care, attempting to dry the same again in the sun. he tells me that even when successful in drying the substance, the poetry is gone. thus does he yearn for a warm hut of his own, or any one's for that matter, who will let him use it. but there is small chance of a peasant taking him up; few of them care for poetry, and he never can save the money he earns; he was always a fool in that respect, differing greatly from me; he gives away his money to the first beggar that comes with a pitiful story." "i like your friend roger from what you tell me of him, and if i ever come near to him, god granting he has not bow in hand, i shall be pleased to furnish him the hut he craves, if we can find one with stream and waterfall in conjunction." "what! and thus rob germany of the finest archer that ever bent yew wood? indeed, it is my hope that he shall find no such patron, but that we may both take service under one commander, fighting side by side in future battles, or perhaps instructing others in the use of the long bow, and thus raising a company that will be of use in german warfare!" as day by day passed without motion in the camp, it came to be believed in the castle that no further attack was contemplated until bertrich had so far recovered as to lead it. he alone knew the conformation of the fortress, as he alone had been inside thuron, so it was probable that his knowledge was regarded by the archbishop as necessary to an attacking force. the nights were now moonless, and although watch was strictly kept, the first intimation the garrison had of renewed hostilities was the resounding crash of the battering ram against the closed gate. the black count was instantly on the rampart above the gate with his stone heavers, launching out huge boulders into the darkness, and calling in his stentorian voice for torches, which seemed slow in coming. these lighted brands were flung down on the besiegers, to be trampled out by them at once, while the stone throwers, taking advantage of the momentary gleams of light, thundered down granite on the heads of the enemy. the gate did not yield as speedily as the assaulters expected, and they, not knowing it was barricaded behind by tons of grain in sacks, redoubled their efforts to gain quick entrance, for they were unarmoured, and knew their existence depended on a sudden forcing of the portal. rodolph, leaving the defence of the gate entirely to the black count, summoned his men to the long west battlement, fearing an attack there with the ladders, for he could not conceal from himself the fact that had the day attack been more intelligently conducted, with a concentration of forces at any one point along the lengthy wall, it would have come perilously near to success. he ordered a lavish supply of unlit torches, which he placed in position along the outer edge of the parapet, for their only hope lay in having plenty of light to deal successfully with an onslaught. to light the torches prematurely would be to lay the defenders open to a flight of bolts from crossbows, were a brigade of bowmen in attendance, as was extremely probable. shortly after the first sounds of battering at the gate aroused the citadel, the attack on the west front began. the besiegers apparently had not come up the hill as before, but swarmed round the corner of the castle from the level ground opposite the entrance, and at first rodolph thought the assault on the gate had been abandoned and the attacking party had come to try their fortunes against the comparatively low wall, which it was his duty to protect, but the blows of oak on oak still resounded, and now he saw he was face to face with a general attack similar to the one they had formerly repulsed in daylight, the enemy doubtless hoping to profit by the darkness, and perhaps thinking to take the garrison by surprise. in spite of his eagerness and anxiety, the emperor could not help pausing for a moment to note the unexpected transformation which took place in the valley and on all the hillsides round about. as soon as the cheers from thuron gave evidence that the attack was known and had been met, a line of fire seemed to encircle the castle far below and up the hills. thousands of torches were lit, and the cheers of their holders caused rodolph to expect an instant onslaught by the entire strength of the archbishops. this, however, was not the intention, for those bearing the torches marched and counter-marched in apparently aimless fashion, weaving a thousand threads of fire into a glowing web that dazzled the eyes of the onlookers, while cheer after cheer rent the air, as if to encourage the actual besiegers. the amazing illumination had at first the effect intended. it bewildered those who had to face it, while the assailants, with their backs to the scintillating brilliancy, were helped rather than disturbed by the universal glow, which faintly illumined the grey walls before them. rodolph had his torches lighted as rapidly as possible, for he knew that light was absolutely necessary to a successful defence, and the long train of flaming, smoking torches, which were here and there beaten down by the ends of ladders, suggested an expedient to him. he had ample help, for the whole force of the castle was now aroused, so he ordered up his reserves to carry wood and build two bonfires, one at each end of the stone terrace. with these roaring to the sky, the two great towers of thuron stood out in crimson relief, seeming to hang in the air, resting on nothing, for their bases were hid in the darkness below. before the fires blazed out, however, several of the enemy had obtained footing on the terrace, and fierce hand to hand fights were going on, the climbers for the most part getting the worst of it, for even when a man secures his footing on solid stone instead of ladder-round, he is scarcely on equality with his foe who has had to expend no exertion, merely waiting there until a head appears. when the two fires shot up to the sky the desultory cheering in the valley gave place to one mighty simultaneous shout of triumph, while torches were enthusiastically flung in the air. they were quite palpably under the delusion that the castle had been carried and was already burning. the fierce yell which came from thuron was an answer they had not expected, and now, as being of no further use, the torches below were extinguished as rapidly as they had been lighted. the great castle was self-illumined and must have presented a spectacle well worth viewing from the plain below, as it stood out against the dark sky like a glowing fortress of molten stone. with the sudden access of light, the attack on the gate had proved no more practicable than on the two previous occasions. the archer on the tower again cut down the unprotected men, and again the attacking party fled panic stricken to the forest or round to the west front, where matters were going little better for their comrades. the besiegers, with a lively remembrance of their former repulse along the same wall, became disheartened when they found themselves fighting in a light as strong as that of day. they knew if they did not scale the walls before the garrison became fully alive to what was taking place, they would have no further chance after they were discovered. again they saw their ladders pulled up when those who climbed them had been crushed by stones, shattered with battle-axe, or flung backwards by a lighted torch being thrust in their faces, and now they saw the ladders thrown on the fires to blaze up and illumine their discomfiture. yet the fight while it lasted had been fiercer than during the previous attack, and three of count heinrich's men had been slain. in spite of the victory, which wrought up the black count to a pitch of frenzy, during which he paraded the long terrace between the two fires, shaking a battle-axe above his head, and roaring defiance to the enemy, rodolph saw that if these attacks were continued the castle must inevitably fall, for the archbishops had more than a hundred men to heinrich's one, and the loss of two or three of the garrison on each occasion would soon leave the castle without defenders. for the greater part of the night the emperor paced the walls, keeping watch with the regular guard. the fires burned out, and as dawn approached he still walked up and down with his cloak drawn round him, pondering on the extraordinary situation, and wondering how it would end. he felt that he was the emperor in name only, as indeed many of his predecessors had been without complaining, so long as they had money to spend and good wine to drink. here was war of the most sanguinary nature raging in the centre of his dominion, his subjects not arrayed against a foreign foe, but mercilessly slaughtering each other, and if the emperor cried "stop," not even the most humble of the men-at-arms would heed the command. how to remedy this amazing state of affairs he had not the least idea. if he proclaimed himself to heinrich that noble would, as like as not, clap him into the deepest dungeon of castle thuron, and look about to see what profit might be made of his notable prisoner. should he approach the archbishops, a similar fate would probably await him. he would have given much for an hour's conversation with baron von brunfels, or even for the opportunity of letting his friend know where he was, but either chance was alike impossible, girt round as he was by hostile troops. the hill tops were lightening with coming dawn when rodolph sought his room in the south tower, and lay down wrapped in his cloak to a troubled rest, his great problem still unsolved by his night's vigil. chapter xxvii. the two years' siege begins. what the emperor feared the archbishops would do, and what would have been the proper thing to do from a military standpoint, was what the warlike prelates did not do. both were appalled at the loss of life which had accompanied their efforts to capture thuron. it is not to be supposed that a man whose ambition it was to link his name with the building of the greatest cathedral the world had yet seen, relished the outlook which promised instead to give him the reputation of a hannibal or an alexander, and that, too, without the compensating fame of a great conqueror, for the archbishop of cologne saw that even if the castle were captured, the feat would add few laurels to the brow of a commander at the head of a comparatively overwhelming force. he felt he had been tricked by his smooth-spoken colleague, who had persuaded him that the mere appearance of this imposing body of men before the walls of thuron would in a manner cause them to imitate the walls of jericho. in this suspicion, however, he wronged his brother of treves, who had not intentionally misled him, but had actually hoped to prevent bloodshed by employing a force so palpably irresistible that heinrich would at once come to terms. arnold von isenberg had no particular objection to the shedding of blood, and had before now held down his enemies with a strong hand, but results in this instance had been out of all proportion to their cost. he had been led, more than he himself cared to admit, by the impetuosity of his fiery follower, count bertrich, who now lay raving with the fever resulting from his wound. as arnold advanced in years he was more prone to depend on diplomacy for his victories than on actual force, but he liked to have the force in the background even if he did not care to use it. there was a stormy scene between the two dignitaries on the morning after the failure of the night attack. the dormant suspicions of von hochstaden were again roused. the assurance that the siege would be a bloodless one had been so quickly belied, that he now saw in bertrich's first impetuous attack a determination to drag the forces of cologne into a struggle which treves shrank from meeting alone, and now the apparently frank answers of the culprit which at the time had satisfied him, seemed but the deeper villainy, as having been probably rehearsed beforehand. thus the archbishop of cologne saw himself the easy dupe of his crafty co-elector, from whose latent methods he had more than once suffered, and whose cunning he had always feared. "you have deceived me," he cried angrily, when they were in the conference tent alone together, saving only the presence of their two secretaries. "i do not like your word 'deceived,'" replied von isenberg, who remained as calm as the other was agitated, "unless you apply it to me as well. i have deceived you, perhaps, but i was myself deceived. if you accuse me of miscalculation, i am willing to admit the truth of the charge." "you knew the character of this man heinrich; i did not. you said we had but to sit down before the castle, and it was ours. that was not true." "i have already admitted that i was mistaken," said arnold, quietly. "you can do nothing but admit it," cried von hochstaden, hotly; "the facts disclaim all denial. what i hold is that you knew this before we came, and have drawn me into a quarrel which is none of mine; that you have forced on the fighting so that we are now apparently committed to a course of which i entirely disapprove." "i assure you i did not expect to be compelled to fight." "that i do not believe." "my lord, you are too angry now to discuss this question as it should be discussed. you are overwrought, and naturally, at the loss of so many of your men." "i would not give the life of one rhine man for all the castles on the moselle!" exclaimed von hochstaden, impetuously. "i was about to add that i, too, am deeply grieved that your men have fallen, and also that so many of my own have been killed. i think it right then that we postpone further discussion until we can approach this grave situation with minds free from the emotions which now make reasoning difficult. are you willing that we leave decision until to-morrow?" "with all my heart. our talk cannot bring back to life the meanest of our following. to-morrow you will be unembarrassed by any suggestions from me." "why, my lord?" "because the moment i leave this tent i shall give orders to my captains to gather my men, when we shall together journey to cologne." "do you hold such determination to be fair to me?" "have you been fair to me? you have deceived me from the first." "twice you have said that, my lord, and for the second time i give you my earnest assurance that such is not the case. i counsel you as a friend not to make the charge the third time." "do you threaten me?" "have you not threatened me with your desertion? if you say you do not intend to withdraw, then we will lay plans together at a future time." "i am determined to return to cologne." "to begin your cathedral?" "'tis of more avail than dashing out the brains of my soldiers against a moselle rock." "let me give you good advice in the rearing of it. build your cathedral like a fortress. you will need a stronghold presently in cologne, whether you need a church or not." "from threatening my person you threaten my city." "frankly, i do," replied the archbishop of treves, without raising his voice. "you have hitherto been in some measure the ally of mayence. i cannot remember the time when i feared you combined, but it suited me to separate you. i have done so. i learn that our brother of mayence is both enraged and trembling. if you leave thuron i shall instantly propose alliance with him, who now thoroughly distrusts you, and he will gladly join me, for i have never pretended to be his friend, and he has ever feared me as an enemy. why did i propose alliance with you?" "for your own purposes, as i now know too well." "surely. but what suggested the thought that such an alliance might be accepted by you? you cannot guess? well, i will inform you. because your ally of mayence sent secret emissaries to me proposing an alliance with him. i saw there were differences between you, and instantly resolved to make an ally of the stronger. therefore my envoys went to you, while his were dealing with me in treves. when my men returned with your consent i told the envoys from mayence, with much regret, you had made the first proposal to me, and that although i had sent to you begging to be released from our compact, you had refused." "which was a lie." "say rather a whole series of them, my lord, or call it diplomacy if you wish to speak politely; but meanwhile do not neglect my advice to build your cathedral in the form of a fortress, and make it a strong one." "how can you expect me to trust you after such a cynical confession?" "i do not expect you to trust me. i have dealt with strict honesty towards you from the moment we joined together, yet you have displayed distrust since the first day. i do not in the least object to that. but as i cannot have the advantage of confidence i shall turn to the advantage of perfect frankness. i shall keep to the letter the bargain i have made with you. you shall keep to the letter the bargain you have made with me." "you mean, then, to attempt to stop my withdrawal?" "no. you may withdraw to-morrow if you wish to do so, and my men will form line and salute you as you pass. then i shall divide my forces into groups and attack thuron night and day until there is not a man left to defend it. that will not take many days, and it will give time for my brother of mayence to meet my victorious army at the junction of the rhine and the moselle, when we will journey amicably together to make some inquiries regarding the progress of your cathedral at cologne." konrad von hochstaden walked the length of the tent several times with knit brows, turning in his mind the problem that confronted him. arnold sat on the bench beside the long table which divided them, his face impassive and inscrutable. never during their colloquy had he raised his voice to a higher key than was necessary to make it distinctly heard. the two monks sat apart, downcast and silent, helpless spectators of a quarrel which might have the most momentous consequences. at last von hochstaden stopped in his walk, and stood regarding his ally with bewildered indecision stamped on his countenance. he had spoken heretofore in tones alternately tremulous with deep emotion and quavering with the anger he had tried in vain to suppress. "i cannot stand here," he said, "and see my men uselessly slaughtered." "with your humanity i am in complete sympathy. it is no pleasure to me to have soldiers killed, although sometimes the killing is necessary. were i alone i would, as i have said, throw force after force against castle thuron until it succumbed, but i am acting with you and eager to come to an understanding that will be satisfactory to you; but you have made no proposal, only a threat of withdrawal. now if it is your wish to take the castle without risking the life of another of your followers, i stand ready to make such arrangement." "can such arrangement be made?" "without doubt. we have come so suddenly on count heinrich that he has had no opportunity of provisioning his stronghold. the peasants tell my men that he has taken in nothing that will enable him to withstand a prolonged siege. we can therefore environ him so closely that in a comparatively short time hunger will compel him to sue for terms. this may consume days, but not the lives of men. i stand ready to agree to such a proposal willingly; in truth i will agree to anything you suggest, short of your own desertion, or of requiring me to retire defeated before the black man of thuron." "how long, think you, will the siege last?" "there is the castle; there are our men. you can answer your question as well as i. how many men has heinrich within his fortress? i do not know. what i do know is, that if no more grain enters the castle, the supply therein will, in time, be consumed, and then grim famine allies itself with the two archbishops--a foe that cannot be fought with bow or battle-axe. if we resolve to starve him out, then i shall proclaim to my men that i will hang any who shortens the life of one of his. there will thus be no more bloodshed, for he dare not sally forth to attack us, and we will keep bow-shot distance from him. the conditions of the game are all before us; you can form a conclusion as well as i, and if you prove in the wrong, i shall not accuse you of cozening me." the archbishop of cologne stood with clouded brow, arms folded across his breast, ruminating on what had been said by the other, who watched him keenly from under his shaggy eyebrows. at last von hochstaden spoke, with the sigh of a man out-generalled. "i do not wish to spend the remainder of my days sitting before thuron." "nor do i. the plan of starving them out is yours, not mine. at least it is my proposal as an alternative that may please you. with your co-operation, i would fling force after force against thuron, and so reduce it." "no, no!" cried the lord of cologne, "no more bloodshed. we have had enough of that." "very well; therefore i modify my desires to meet yours. you may withdraw as many of your men as are not necessary, retire yourself to cologne, and set them, with suitable prayers, to the building of your cathedral. i will send an equal number of mine to treves, and with what remains of our united forces we will surround that thieving scoundrel with an impregnable band of iron. all that i insist on is that the flags of cologne and treves continue to fly together on this tent, and that we encircle the castle with our allied troops." "have it as you wish," cried konrad, sorrowfully. "i defer to your opinion." "not so, my lord," said von isenberg. "it is i who give way to you. but from this moment the plan is mine as well as yours, and i shall loyally adhere to our agreement, come good or ill out of it." thus began the celebrated investure of thuron castle, which lasted two years, until famine did indeed spread its black wings over the fortress, while during that time, historians tell us, the besiegers merrily drank one thousand gallons of good moselle wine each day. chapter xxviii. the second archer announces himself. the first problem which the archbishops set themselves to solve was the estimating of the exact number of men required to surround the castle effectually, and keep watch night and day, with proper reliefs. the cordon was drawn closer round the castle. the axe-men hewed an avenue through the forest in straight lines, so that no point should be out of sight of two or more men who constantly paraded these woodland lanes. the village itself was completely cut off from thuron, and the living line extended between the castle and the brook thaurand, so as to make the getting of water impossible, the besiegers not knowing the castle itself possessed an inexhaustible well, and that all within were thus free from the dreadful danger of thirst. a group of tents was placed at the river end of the stoned-in passage that descended from the castle to the moselle. the besieging line of men ran up the deep valley of the thaurand, and so across the steep hill through the forest, and down again into the valley of the river, where the links of the living chain joined the line that extended south from the village. the guards were a few yards apart, and the orders concerning their watch were as strict as skilled officers could make them, for the archbishop of treves had commanded that a net with meshes so minute that not the smallest fish could penetrate, should be drawn round the doomed castle, and each officer knew that neglect would be punished with ruthless severity. the tents instead of being grouped together were placed along the outside of this line, so that no guardsman need have far to travel to his rest, nor any excuse to loiter in coming to his watch. a circle of fires surrounded the castle at night, serving the double purpose of giving light for seeing and heat for cooking. those in the castle witnessed the tightening of the line around them, and at first thought a new attack was meditated, but as time went on and no attack was delivered, the true state of affairs began to dawn upon them. the emperor was amazed to find so little military skill or pluck in the opposition camp, but he welcomed the change from activity to quiescence. he supposed the archbishops must know how well provisioned the castle was, for it had been filled in the eye of all the country, and he had heard heinrich's order to the peasantry to save themselves by giving any information they chose to the invaders; he was also cognizant of the fact that the black count had ruled his district with a hand by no means of the gentlest, so it never occurred to him that the besiegers had got little news from the people. the archer, perhaps, would have rested more contented had he been permitted to try his skill at long distance bowmanship on the environing soldiery, but the emperor thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie, and bestowed positive instructions upon john surrey to wing no shaft unless he saw a determined advance on the part of the enemy. the archer was most anxious to show how much superior his light instrument was to the cumbrous catapult, which admittedly could not carry so far as the ring around the castle, and he pleaded with rodolph to be allowed to dispatch, say, half a dozen shafts a day, by way of preventing the coming of weariness upon the opposing camp. nothing, he held, was so demoralising to an army as a feeling of absolute security; and if there was to be no sallying out against the archbishops, those within the castle owed it to the foe, if only from the dictates of common humanity, to allow a few arrows to descend from tower to tent each day. rodolph, however, was proof against all arguments the archer could bring to bear upon him, and john frequently sighed, and even murmured to himself a wish that he had taken service with the irascible heinrich rather than with so peaceably minded a man as rodolph. he consoled himself by sitting in the sun on the top of the southern tower, with his back against the parapet, busily employed in the making of arrows, the huge pile beside him bearing witness to his tireless industry, while many more were stored in his room below, and to the safe custody of this apartment he took down his day's manufacture each evening, where they might become seasoned, free from the dampness of the outside night air. in his occupation he was obsequiously waited upon by his german dependent, who in despite of the archer's rough treatment of him, looked up to his master with slavish admiration. usually conrad, now rapidly recovering from his wounds, lay at full length on the warm roof, saying little but thinking much of the absent hilda. the archer disdained all armour with the exception of a steel cap, which he wore to ward off battle-axe strokes, should he come into close quarters with the wielders of that formidable weapon, and this helmet he kept brightly polished till it shone like silver. it was somewhat hot to wear in mid-summer, but the head was defended from the warmth of the sun's rays by a lining of cloth which also made the cap more comfortable, because more soft, in the wearing. the archer sat thus with his pile of arrows by his side and the material for their making in front of him, while his slave crouched near, ready to anticipate his wants by promptly handing to him knife or scraping flint, or length of wood, or feather, as the case might require. surrey's steel cap projected above the parapet and glistened like a mirror in the sun. he was droning to himself a saxon song, and was as well contented with the world as a warrior may be who is not allowed, at the moment, to scatter wounds and death among his fellow creatures. suddenly he was startled by a blow on his steel helmet, which for an instant caused him to think some one had struck him sharply, forgetting that his position made such an act impossible, but this thought had barely time to flash through his mind when he saw an arrow quivering against the flag pole in front of him. he looked at it for a moment with dropped jaw like a man dazed, then as conrad and the other made motion to rise he cried gruffly: "lie down!" as though he spoke to a pair of dogs. the two, however, promptly obeyed. "there seems to be an expert archer in the camp as well as in the castle," said conrad. john surrey sat without moving and without replying, gazing on the arrow which had come to rest in the flag pole. at last he said to his dependent: "gottlieb, rise cautiously and peer over the battlements, taking care to show as little of your head as possible, and tell me if you see any one in the camp who looks as if he had sped a shaft." "i see a tall man," began gottlieb. "yes!" cried the archer. "who stands with his hand shading his eyes, looking up at this tower." "yes, yes." "in the fist by his side i think he holds a bow like yours; but the distance is too great for me to make sure what it is." "he has no cross-bow at least." "no, it is not a cross-bow." "i thought so. no cross-bow could have sent shaft like that. i doubt also if archer living, save roger kent, could have----" "he seems to be placing another arrow on the string." "then down, down with you. if he has caught sight of your head you are doomed." an instant later another arrow struck the helmet, glanced over the tower, and disappeared in the forest beyond. "now come and sit beside me, gottlieb," said surrey, as he lifted the helmet gently and moved away his head from beneath it, not shifting the cap except slightly upwards from its position. "get under this, and sit steadily so that the target may not be displaced." having thus crowned his dependent, surrey crawled to his bow and selected a well-finished arrow. "you are surely not going to use your weapon," said conrad. "the lord rodolph has forbidden it." "he has forbidden it unless i am attacked, and there is the arrow in the pole to prove attack. besides, i shoot not to kill." with much care surrey, exposing himself as little as might be, drew bow and let fly. the tall archer was seen to spring aside, then pause regardless of his danger, stoop and pick up something which lay at his feet, examining the object minutely. surrey also, unthinking of danger, stood up and watched the other, who, when his examination had been concluded to his satisfaction, dropped the arrow, which was undoubtedly what he had picked up, although the distance was too great for the archer to be sure of that, and, doffing his cap, waved it wildly in the air. surrey himself gave utterance to a shout that might have aroused even the archbishops on the height, and danced round like one gone mad, throwing his arms about as if he were an animated windmill. "it is roger! it is roger!" he cried. the emperor, hearing the tumult, came hurriedly up the stairs, expecting that an assault was in preparation, and, although relieved to find that no onslaught was intended, seemed to think the archer's ecstacy more vociferous than the occasion demanded. john pointed excitedly at his far-off friend, and said he wished permission to visit him at once, to learn what had befallen him since last they met. "that is impossible," replied rodolph. "you would be taken prisoner, and i have no wish to lose so good an archer merely because the opposition camp has, according to your account, a better one." this obvious comment on his proposal dampened the enthusiasm of the archer, who stood in deep thought regarding wistfully the distant form of his friend. at last he said: "would it not be possible then for roger to visit me here in the castle?" "i do not see how that may be accomplished. he cannot come here as our friend, and he must not come as a spy. if he refused to give information to his officers when they discovered he had been within the castle, they would imprison him. if he asked their consent before coming, permission would be given only because they expected to learn something from him on his return. we could not receive him even as a deserter, for if starvation be their game, we have enough mouths to feed as it is. and i do not suppose he would desert, if he has taken service with the archbishop." "alas, no," said surrey, sadly; "he would no more think of deserting than would i myself, having once taken fee for the campaign. it is a blessing that he is a modest man and not given to vaunting his own skill, in the which he differs somewhat from myself perhaps, and thus his commander is little likely to learn his usefulness providing roger is left to the making of papyrus and poetry, for he alone might subdue this strong castle. if he were set to it there would be no possibility of keeping watch or guard, for he could easily kill any man who showed head above parapet. not finding me in the ranks of the archbishop's men, he must have surmised i was here, for fate has always enlisted us on opposite sides, and he perhaps recognised the gleam of my helmet in the sun, and only sent his arrow the more surely to discover my presence, for there are guards on the battlements below whom he might readily have slaughtered had there been deadly motive in his aiming." "he is about to shoot again," cried conrad, in alarm. all looked towards the archer, and it was evident he was preparing another shaft. surrey waved at him and shouted a warning, but the distance was too great for his voice to carry effectually. roger kent on this occasion held the bow above his head and let fly at the arch of heaven. no one on the tower could mark the flight of the arrow, but they saw the sender of it stand and gaze upward after it. "it is a message of some sort," said surrey. "conrad and gottlieb, get you down to the room below, as you are unarmoured. it will not hurt my lord, who is in a suit of mail, and i wear my steel cap." the two obeyed the command with notable alacrity. "but it may strike you on the shoulder," protested rodolph. "i shall watch for it," replied surrey, "and will be elsewhere when it falls. do not look upward, i beg of you, my lord, for thus was our saxon king, harold, slain by a like shaft from one of roger's ancestors. stand where you are, looking downward, or, better, retire below." rodolph laughed. "i am surely as nimble as you are," he said, "and may thus escape like you the falling shaft." as the emperor spoke the arrow came in sight and swiftly descended, speeding down alongside the flag pole so close as almost to touch it on its way. the arrow shattered itself by impact on the stone, and thus loosened a scroll that had been wrapped tightly round it, fastened at each end. surrey pounced upon this and found the message to be in several sections, one being a letter, while on the others were verse, regarding which the writer, in his communication, begged perusal and criticism. the missive thus launched into the air had evidently been prepared for some time in readiness to be sent when opportunity offered. surrey gave utterance to several impatient exclamations as he, with considerable difficulty, conned the meaning of the script, and at last he said: "roger tells me nothing about how he came to be in the archbishop's army, nor does he give tidings of anything that should be of interest to a reasonable being. it is all upon his poetry and the lessons to be learned from a perusal of the same, which i think had been better put in the poetry itself, for if it convey so little to the reader that it needs must be explained 'twere as well not written." "that shows you to be no true poet, nor critic either," said the emperor. "but now that old friends are in correspondence with each other, i shall leave them to the furtherance of it, merely reminding you that if a message is sent similar to the one received, you will observe like caution in not mentioning anything that relates to the castle or its occupants." when the emperor left him the archer laboured hard to transcribe his thoughts on the back of a sheet containing one of the poems. he told roger he was not permitted to leave the castle, but that he had orders to go on guard upon the western battlements at midnight to take up his watch until daybreak, and if roger could quit the camp at that hour and climb the hill, keeping the north tower against the sky as his guide, the writer would endeavour to meet him half-way, when they could talk over their mutual adventures since parting. in case there was a companion at his watch that night, and it was thus impossible for him to desert the castle, the up-comer was to approach the wall under the northern tower, giving the customary cry of the water-fowl, when the friend on the wall and the one at the foot of it might have some whispered communication between them. he added, however, that there was little danger of a second man being on the battlements unless a new alarm of some kind intervened. the leaf containing these instructions he deftly fastened to the shaft of an arrow and so sped it to the feet of his friend, who was himself on guard. when roger had read what was sent he waved his hand in apparent token that the arrangement suited him, and surrey, so understanding the signal, went to the room below and threw himself on his pallet of straw to get the rest he needed before his watch began. like all great warriors he was instantly asleep, and knew no more until he felt gottlieb's hand on his shoulder announcing to him the beginning of his vigil. once on the ramparts, he relieved the man who had been there during the earlier part of the night, and was pleased to note that nothing had occurred to put an extra guard on the promenade. the camp fires had gone out, and the valley lay in blackness. surrey paced up and down the battlements for a while to let the sleepy man he had relieved get to his bed, then he looked about him for means of reaching the foot of the wall outside. there was as yet no cry of the night bird, and he began to fear that his friend had probably gone so soundly asleep that daylight alone would awaken him. surrey examined the wall with some care. he might jump over without running great risk of injuring himself, but he could not jump back again. at the remote end of the battlements under the north tower, his foot struck an obstacle, and, stooping to examine the obstruction, he found it one of the wooden missiles with a rope attached to it which the besiegers had flung over the machicolated parapet to enable them to climb the wall. the rope hung down outside, and surrey wondered that it had remained there all this time unnoticed, certainly a grave menace to the safety of the garrison, for a whole troop might have climbed up in the darkness with little chance of being seen by the one sentinel on top, whose watch, now that all fear of attack had left those in the castle, had become somewhat perfunctory. however, this was just the thing the archer needed, and he marvelled why he had not thought of such a plan before, for numbers of these ropes and billets lay in the courtyard of the fortress. he slipped down the cord and made his way cautiously through the vineyard towards the village, pausing now and then to give the signal. about half-way down the hill, he heard the breaking of twigs, and knew that his friend was coming up. he crouched under the vines and waited; then as the other came opposite him, he sprang up and gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder. instantly the stranger grappled him, pinioning his arms at his side, and the next thing the archer knew he had stumbled backwards and fallen, with the assailant's knee on his breast and a strong grip at his throat, shutting off the breath and making outcry impossible, even if it had been politic. chapter xxix. conrad ventures his life for his love. hilda had been given lodging in a house at the back of the village, and from her window she could see the castle which had so inhospitably sent her from its gates. but the girl had little time to mourn her fate, for the attacks on the castle followed so swiftly one upon another that alken became speedily filled with wounded men, all the houses of the place being transformed into hospitals for the time. in like manner the women were requisitioned as nurses, and to their care many of the stricken men owed life. into this humane occupation hilda threw herself with a fervour that was not only admirable in itself, but which was deeply appreciated by all those to whom she ministered. the other women of the village were anxious to do their best, but they were for the most part rude and ignorant peasants, knowing little of their new duties, and their aid was at all times clumsy and often ineffectual. but hilda brought to bear upon her task an enlightened intelligence and a deftness of hand, the product of long residence amidst civilised surroundings, which quickly gave her, by right of dexterity, the command of the nursing staff. she reduced the arrangements to cleanliness and order, and her bright presence, not less than her winning beauty, seemed to do more for the convalescent than the ointment of the physicians. she was thoroughly womanly, and thus was in her element while having charge of so many injured men, and every moment of her day being taken up with her work of mercy, she had no time to brood over her own expulsion from the castle, nor the severance from her lover and mistress; and so, in doing good to others, she unconsciously bestowed great benefit upon herself. once she had a fright that for the time almost deprived her of speech. in the midst of her duties a breathless messenger brought news that the archbishops themselves were coming to visit the wounded. hilda, pressing her hand to her heart, stood pale and confounded, not knowing what to do, for she feared the sharp eyes of arnold von isenberg, which had before fallen upon her in treves, might now recognise her. she hoped that the comparative obscurity of the room would shield her from too minute scrutiny, and, at first it seemed that this would be the case, but the officers who accompanied the prelates spoke so enthusiastically of her untiring efforts to ameliorate distress and pain, that arnold turned his keen eyes full upon her, slightly wrinkling his brow, as if her appearance brought recollection to him that he had difficulty in localising. the girl stood trembling before him, not daring to raise her eyes to his. after a moment's pause, filled with deep anxiety on her part, the dignified prelate stretched out his hand and rested it upon her fair hair. "blessed are those who do deeds of mercy, my child," he said, solemnly, in sonorous voice. "amen," responded the archbishop of cologne, with equal seriousness. "remember," said von isenberg, significantly, turning to his officers, "that on her head rests the benediction of our holy church." all present bowed low and the stately cortege withdrew, leaving the girl thankful that recognition had not followed the unlooked-for encounter, for so little do the great take account of those who serve them, that no suspicion crossed the archbishop's mind that the one he commended had been a member of his own household. thus it came about that hilda was a privileged person in alken and its environs, and there was not an officer or common soldier who would not instantly have drawn weapon to protect her from insult or injury had there been any in the camp inclined to transgress against her. late one night a lad called at the house where hilda lived and told her a soldier had hurt his foot and could not walk. he was seated on the river bank, the boy added, and asked the good nurse to come to him, as he could not come to her. hilda followed her conductor through the darkness without question, and found the man sitting by the margin of the stream. he gave a coin to the boy, who at once ran off to tell his comrades of his good luck, leaving the two alone. hilda, although without fear, called after the boy, but he paid little heed to her; then she turned to the man and said: "where is your wound?" "in the heart, hilda, and none save you can cure it," he answered in a low voice. the girl gave a little cry of joy. "conrad! is it indeed you? where have you come from?" "from the castle, where for many days i have lain wounded, but now i am well again and yearn only for you. so to-night i took one of the scaling ropes that the archbishop's men used, and which count heinrich captured, and, watching my opportunity when the sentinel was at the other end of the battlements, i clambered down to the foot of the wall, descended the hill, crawled through the lines unseen, and here i am. i was free from danger the moment i reached the village, for there are so many men hereabout that one more or less is not noticed, and luckily i am dressed as treves men dress. i looked to have trouble in finding where you lived, but every one knew of the nurse hilda, and spoke of her good deeds, so, not wishing to come upon you without warning, i asked the lad to bring you to a wounded soldier. it is not so long since i was one in reality." "but you are not wounded now?" asked hilda, anxiously. "no. i am as well as ever again." "and you have braved all this danger to see me?" "indeed the danger is but slight, hilda, and i do not even see you plainly, but perhaps you will make amends for the darkness"; saying which the young man placed his arm about her and kissed her tenderly, and to this demonstration there was little opposition on the part of hilda. "can you return unseen as you came?" she asked. "with less difficulty. the archer is on guard from midnight until dawn, and even if he detected me, he would say nothing, for we are right good friends. we are comrades, both serving lord rodolph, and not the black count. i shall not return before midnight." "oh, but i dare not remain here so long. they would search for me, and you would be discovered." "you will stay as long as you can, will you not, hilda? when you are gone i shall make my way back through the lines and wait for the coming of the archer on the battlements, unless there is good opportunity of mounting before then." "i like not all these risks for my sake, conrad." "i am more selfish than you think. it is for my own sake that i come." and again he proved the truth of his statement, although the girl forbore to chide him for his levity of conduct. "have you seen my lady? how is she?" asked hilda. "i see her but seldom, though she is well, i know." the two were so absorbed in their converse that neither noticed gathering round them, stealthily enclosing them, a group of a dozen men led by an officer. they were therefore startled when the officer cried: "stand! make no resistance. you are prisoner." the men instantly closed in on conrad and had him pinioned before he could think of escape. "why do you seize him?" said hilda to the leader, hiding her agitation the better because of the darkness that surrounded them. "he is a spy, gentle nurse," answered the officer in kindly tone, "and shall be hanged as one ere morning. his story of a wound is doubtless false. he gave the boy a coin with the effigy of the count heinrich on it, and one to whom the lad showed the coin sent warning to us. if this man can tell us how he came by such a silver piece, and can show us a wound got in honourable service under the archbishop, then he will save his neck, but not otherwise. what questions did he ask you, nurse? i heard you talking together." "none but those i might answer with perfect safety to both archbishops." "ah, nurse, you know much of healing, but little of camp life, i fear. a question that may appear trivial to you is like to seem important to his lordship. we give short trials to spies, which is the rule of war everywhere, and always must be." "he is no spy," maintained hilda stoutly. "if you hold him, i will go myself to the archbishop and claim his release. you must give me your word that nothing shall be done until i return." "it is better to see the captain before troubling the archbishop with so small a matter." "a man's life is no small matter." "indeed you will find the archbishop attaches but little importance to it. the case will go before the captain, and it will be well for you to see him, for he may release the man if he wishes. i must hold him prisoner in the square tower until i am told to let him go or to hang him." with this the officer moved his men on, the silent prisoner in their midst, to the square tower which stood over the centre street of the place. hilda followed, not knowing what to do. "i will see the captain," said the officer, evidently desiring to befriend her, "and i will tell you what his decision is. then you may perhaps be able to give him good reason why the prisoner should be released, or the man himself may be able to prove his innocence. in that case your intervention will not be needed." the prisoner had been taken up the narrow stair that led to a room in the tower above the arch that spanned the street. "i will await you here," said hilda. she walked up and down in the contracted street until the officer returned. "i am sorry to say," he began, "that the captain has gone to the archbishop's tent and no one knows when he will return." "what am i to do?" cried the girl. "it is better for you to go home, and when the captain comes i will let you know." "but if he insists on executing the prisoner, then am i helpless. it will be impossible for me to see the archbishop until morning." "has this man come from the castle?" "if i answer, what use will you make of what i say?" "i shall make no use of it, but will give you a hint." "i trust to your word then. he did come from the castle." "so i thought. well, i am responsible for the spies. the captain is responsible for the imperviousness of the line round the castle, and he will be most loath for any one to tell the archbishop that a man from the castle has broken through the lines to be captured by me on the bank of the river. if one man comes through why not all? will be the natural thought of the archbishop. this i dare not suggest to the captain, but you may do so, if you find your resolution to see the archbishop has no effect on him." "i thank you," said hilda, simply. the lieutenant took her hand and whispered: "what am i to get besides thanks for this valuable hint?" he tried to draw the girl towards him but she held back, and said quietly: "i will give you a hint for a hint. i call to your remembrance the words of the archbishop concerning me. the benediction of our holy church protected me, he said." the officer dropped her reluctant hand. "i will inform you when the captain comes," he replied, turning away from her. it was nearly midnight when the captain returned, the girl anxiously awaiting him. it was found, however, that her intercession was not necessary. the archbishop, it seemed, had given general instructions that any one attempting to leave thuron was to be sent back unharmed, on giving his parole that he would not again desert the stronghold. the shrewd prelate did not propose to help heinrich indirectly by capturing and executing his men, thus leaving him with fewer mouths to fill. his object was to bring starvation to thuron as speedily as possible, and it was not likely he would allow either death or imprisonment to be an ally of the black count. but a difficulty presented itself, for the prisoner, undeterred by threats, obstinately refused to give his word that he would not again attempt to break through the lines. in vain did the captain sternly acquaint him with the invariable fate of the spy, asserting that the clemency of the archbishop arose through his lordship's noted kindness of heart; that the terms of his liberation were simple and much more humane than any other commander in the world would impose; nevertheless, conrad stoutly maintained that he would break through the lines whenever it pleased him to do so, and if they caught him next time they were quite welcome to hang him. the captain was nonplussed, for the prisoner asserted this with the rope actually round his neck. the lieutenant whispered that the nurse hilda seemed to have wonderful influence over the man and proposed that she be called and the case stated to her, whereupon she might persuade him to be more reasonable, although all their threats had failed. accordingly hilda was sent for, the lieutenant telling her on the way that the captain would spare the prisoner's life if he but gave his word that he would not again return to alken, concealing, however, the fact that the captain dare not execute the man. "if i may speak with him alone," she said, "i will try to convince him that he should give the captain his word, and i know he will keep it once it is given, otherwise he would have promised you anything to get free." "yes, the captain himself said as much, wondering why a man should so hesitate in the face of certain death." they found conrad standing bound, with a loop round his neck, the rope being threaded through an iron ring in the ceiling, while two stout men-at-arms held the loose end ready to pull him to destruction when their officer gave the word. the captain, on hearing hilda's proviso, ordered his men to withdraw, and, following them himself with the lieutenant, left hilda alone with conrad. the subordinate officer suggested to his chief that the girl might untie the man and thus allow him to escape, as she seemed to have much interest in his welfare. "indeed," said the captain, with a shrug, "it is my devout hope that she will do so, if he refuses to take parole, for i know not what to do with the fool. if then you see him sneak away, in god's name let him go, and we will search ineffectually for him when it is too late. we shall be well rid of him." when all had gone, hilda said to her lover: "you must promise, conrad, not to come again to alken. you run a double risk; first from the officers here; second from your own master when you return. therefore give your word that you will attempt no such dangerous task again." "how can i do that, hilda? i must see you, otherwise life is unbearable to me. if i should promise i could not hold to it." "it will be easy for us to meet, conrad, without running such risks. i can pass through the lines at any time unchallenged, so on mid-week night i shall go up to the castle walls, and there we may be together without scathe. if we are discovered and i am made prisoner in thuron, that will not matter. they will not harm me, and i shall then be where i wish to be. but with you it is different; if they capture you again, it will be impossible for me to save you, for they will believe you are a spy. let me then meet you under the safe walls of thuron, for i am as anxious to see you as you are to see me." "it delights me to hear you say so, hilda, but i like not the thought of you climbing this dark hill alone." "pooh, that is nothing. i shall most willingly do it, and then we can whisper to each other whatever seems of most interest, without fear of being interrupted, the constant terror of which would haunt us in alken. the shadow of the frowning walls of thuron makes an ideal lover's trysting-place, therefore, conrad, give the captain your promise, and meet me under the north tower, two nights hence, at the same hour that you sent for me in alken." "it seems the only thing to do. i can come down the hill to meet you, so that you----" "no, no. we will meet under the walls of thuron; that is settled, and i shall now call the captain and his men to unbind you. i suppose they would not be pleased if i untied your cords." the impatient captain, to his amazement, was summoned, after he had quite made up his mind that the girl would connive at the prisoner's escape. conrad then, in presence of the men, gave the captain his word that he would not again attempt to pass the lines, and that he would inform no one in the castle of anything he might chance to have seen or heard while he was in alken. he was then unbound and conducted through the lines, and set his face towards the steep and dark hill as the deep toned bell of the castle struck the hour of midnight. although he had not told hilda so, he feared treachery from the captain and his men. he had seen the captain's hesitancy regarding his threatened execution and wondered why that officer contented himself with the simple word of a captured underling, for conrad knew how little dependence was placed even on the oath of such as he. he believed that for some reason the captain did not wish to hang him, but intended to have him set on in the dark and there quietly made away with. so when he had mounted a few steps he paused and listened intently, but could detect no indication of followers. further up he paused again, and this time he certainly heard some one coming with apparent caution, yet, as if unfamiliar with the ground, the follower stumbled now and again among the vines and bushes. conrad hurried up the slope and paused a third time, now being sure that he was indeed tracked, for the man behind came on with less circumspection and prudence. as conrad, resolving to distance his pursuer in the race, plunged onward and upwards, he was startled by a man springing from the bushes in front who seized him by the shoulder. instantly conrad sprang upon him, making no outcry and determined that his antagonist should make none either, for he clutched the unknown firmly by the throat, and bore him to the earth, squeezing all possibility of sound from his windpipe. kneeling thus above his unexpected foe, he tried to reach his knife, to give quietus to the under man before his accomplice could come up with them, for in spite of the absence of cries the two combatants made much noise thrashing about among the vines; but now the under man, who had been so easily pushed backwards, seemed to gather both strength and courage, fighting with such bravery of despair that conrad had all he could do to keep him down, using both hands instead of one. if he was to maintain his position on top, the knife was out of the question, so he devoted his efforts to the strangling of the man beneath him. in the midst of this arduous occupation, the third man arrived on the scene. chapter xxx. the struggle in the dark. "hold!" cried the newcomer. "which is for the archbishop--under dog or upper dog? a plague on this darkness which lets me see distinctly neither one nor the other." surrey underneath could not speak, and conrad above thought it more prudent not to speak. "answer, upper dog," cried roger kent, peering at them, "or take your fingers from the under dog's throat and let him answer, otherwise i will run my knife into you on the chance that you are my enemy." "you are free," said conrad, maintaining his hold, but conscious that he had little chance against the two of them, "therefore declare yourself." "i have no shame in doing so. i fight for the archbishop and the church." "then stand aside and see whether archbishop or black count wins." "nay, that i will not do. you are no true follower of the church or you would call me to your aid. release your hold of the other's throat, or i will draw my knife across yours." conrad, seeing that the game was up, and guessing also that the two were not comrades and accomplices, as he had at first supposed, relaxed his hold and stood up. the other lay gasping where he had fallen. "now speak, fellow, an' enough breath has returned to you; are you for the white cross or the black count?" with some difficulty surrey rose to a sitting posture, and said at last: "indeed i think i must be the black count himself, for with the choking i have had, my face, could any see it, more nearly resembles that of his swarthiness than it does the lilies of the field." "is it you, archer?" asked conrad in surprise, stepping forward. "yes," answered surrey and kent simultaneously, then the former added, shaking himself as he rose to his feet, "at least it was me before your most unlooked for interference, but who i am now it is beyond me accurately to tell. if you are conrad, then what the devil do you here out of the castle on the hillside after midnight, when all honest folk, except those on watch, should be sleeping soundly on straw?" "if it comes to that," replied conrad, "what do you here, honest watchman, who at this moment are supposed to be faithfully guarding the battlements of castle thuron?" "that in truth is a knotty question to answer, and i confess myself grievously in the wrong, in thus breaking my watch, and feel the more inclined to say, let us make a pact together, for if you inform not on me, then is my mouth shut regarding your own flagrant delinquencies. these i find hard to pardon, for a man owes it to his comrades during besiegement to stand by them and not to be found coming up from the camp of the enemy." "i am not on guard, and therefore have broken no oath. my desertion is as white compared to thine as was my face to thine a few moments since." "true, true. there is much to be said on both sides of the question, and if i had the judging in the matter we should each of us hang, that is, did the cases come impartially before me, without personal consequences affecting me in any way. and to think that i once had the privilege of sending an arrow through you at three yards distance, was begged to speed it, and neglected the opportunity! it serves me right well to be choked for thus putting aside the gifts of providence." "i am truly sorry i laid hands on you, but i was looking for an attack by the archbishop's men, and when you came suddenly upon me i did what seemed best, for it is ill running up the hill, and i feared to run down as i heard this fellow on my track." "i was journeying to meet my friend," said roger, "and had no thought that any was before me until i heard the struggle. we seem all three equally foolish and equally guilty, therefore let us all forgive one another, as becomes christians." "i bear no malice," said surrey; "but i will say that had he not taken me unaware, as i was looking for a friend, the contest might have turned out differently. still it matters little, unless they have discovered my absence in the castle and have sent conrad in search of me, in the which case i had better abandon bow and take to the camp of the archbishops. were you looking for me, conrad? if not, why are you here?" "i left the castle long before you did, most like. i went to the village to find hilda, who was with us on the voyage down from treves." "ah, that is the wench for whose sake you risked having an arrow hurtled through your vitals at zurlauben, and, learning nothing, stake your life for her again. the folly of man!" "judge him not harshly, john," murmured the poet. "admire rather the power wielded by true love. 'tis the most beautiful thing on earth: the noblest passion that inspires the human breast. that a man should gladly venture his life on the chance of a few words with his beloved, shows us this world is not the sordid, disputatious place we sometimes fancy it to be. what other motive could so influence a man?" "tush, roger!" cried his friend, with some impatience. "your head is ever in the clouds, and you therefore see not what lies at your feet. thousands of men continually risk their lives, and lose them, for less than threepence a day. no such motive as love! nonsense! friendship is every whit as strong, and we stand here to prove it, who have both this night risked our lives that we may but talk with one another. out upon rhapsodies." "nay, john, if you were a true poet you would not speak in gross ignorance as now you do. if you try to weave friendship into verse you will find that it rouses not the warmth which the smaller word 'love' calls forth. i say nothing against friendship, for i have tasted the sweets of it, and i know nothing of love, having never myself experienced a touch of it, but i find that in the making of poetry love is the most useful of all the themes that a poet may play upon. yet have i but to-day accomplished a poem on the delights of friendship, which i will now recite to you both, and which i think does justice to the subject in a manner that has hitherto been withheld from all writers, save perhaps homer himself!" "i must be gone to the castle," said conrad. "we will walk up the hill with you," rejoined surrey, "and, conrad, i wish you would take my watch on the wall till i relieve you. i desire to have converse with my friend here, and we will sit under the wall, where you can give me timely warning if you hear any one approach from within, although i think such interruption most unlikely. was it on your rope i descended, i wonder?" "i left a rope dangling at the north-west corner." "that was it. i marvelled how it came there, and thought it had been flung up by the besiegers, remaining unseen by the garrison. will you, then, take my watch for a time, conrad?" "surely. 'tis but slight recompense for the choking i----" "yes, yes," interrupted the archer, hurriedly, "we will not speak of that, for you took me by surprise. mount to the battlements, and you will find my pike lying on the top of the wall near the place of descent." they had by this time reached the castle, and there they stood for a few moments and listened, but everything was quiet, and conrad, aided by the hanging rope, ascended to the top, while the two archers sat down at the foot of the northern tower. "the poem on 'friendship,'--" began roger. "yes," broke in his friend, "we will come to it presently. how is it you are fighting for the archbishop?" "how is it you sent no word back to me as you promised to do?" "that is a long story. they would not even let me enter treves, for there was nothing of all this afoot when i was there. on finding service at last, having journeyed to a hill-top within a league of this place, i tried to send tidings to you by the young man who has just left us, but he was baffled and turned back by the forces of the archbishop, and could no more get to treves than i could enter it once i was at its gates. we are all prisoners here, and until your arrow tapped my steel cap i knew not where you were." "hearing nothing i went to treves in search of you, regretting i had not accompanied you, but you know there were important poems that i wished to complete when you left me--they are all finished now, and it would have done you good to hear them, in fact, it was that which made me follow you to treves, for the consummation of a poem is the listening to it. there is one set of verses on 'sleep' that luckily i remember, and can recite, if you will but harken." "what happened when you reached treves?" "i made enquiry concerning you from all with whom i could gain speech, but there was nothing save talk of war in the place, and nowhere could i hear aught of you. one army had already left treves, marching eastward, and another was then filling its ranks. the officer i spoke with, who was inducing all he could to join, offering great chances of plunder when the castle was taken, said he remembered you well, and that you had gone with the first army, leaving word that i was to join and follow you." "the liar. i wonder the archbishop retains the service of such, although perhaps he does not know his officers hold the truth in contempt." "it is strange you should refer so warmly to truth, for i esteem it the choicest of all virtues, and have written a poem on 'whiterobed truth,' which i hope remains in my memory, seeing it is so dark that no reading may be done. it begins----" "you believed him, of course, and enlisted with him?" "yes. he said we should find you here, and so indeed have i, but in the opposite camp. i marched with them down the river, and when we arrived i heard such wonderful stories of an infallible archer in the castle that i knew he must be you." "yes," cried john, rubbing his hands together in glee, "it was the most heavenly opportunity ever bestowed upon a mortal man. i wish you had been there to see. i was in the tower above the enemy, and i shot them in the neck, stringing them one after another on the shafts, like running skewers in a round of beef. not one did i miss." "oh, 'tis easily done," commented roger, carelessly. "'tis instinct, largely; you glance at your mark, and next instant your arrow is there." "roger kent," replied the other, in a despondent tone, "i have on various occasions passed favourable judgment on your poems; i think you might, in return, admit that i am at least proficient in the rudiments of archery." "john surrey, i have more than once expressed the opinion, which i still hold, that you will in time, with careful practice, become a creditable archer. you would not have me say more and thus forswear myself." "no," admitted john; "i am well content when you say as much, and now if it pleases you i will listen to as many of your verses as you can conveniently remember." surrey leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh, and the other, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm said: "i will recite you first the poem on 'friendship,' in honour of our meeting, and then you shall hear the verses on 'sleep,' which come the more timely on an occasion when we both deprive ourselves of it, in order to hear verse which you will be the first to admit is well worth the sacrifice." the poet then delivered his lines in smooth and measured tones, to which the other listened without comment. from poem to poem roger kent glided, sometimes interlarding the pauses between with a few sentences describing how the following effort came to maturity, thus cementing the poems together with their history, as a skilful mason lays his mortar between the stones. no literary enthusiast could have had a more patient listener, and the night wore on to the tuneful cadence of the poet's voice. at last he ceased. the steps of the patient conrad on the battlements echoed in the still night air. "those are all the poems i can remember," he said, "and you see that i have not misspent the time while you were journeying down the moselle. i do not know when i have had a more fruitful season. if i could but deliver these verses to some monk who would inscribe them on lasting parchment, for future ages to discuss and con over, i would be a happy man. alas, the monks care not to write of aught save the sayings of the fathers of the church, and look askance at poems dealing with human instincts and passions that are beyond the precincts of the cloister, even though such poems tend to the future enrichment of literature, had the holy men but the mind to appreciate them. thus i fear my verse will be lost to the world and that, in this deplorably contentious existence which we lead, my span may be suddenly at an end, with none to put in permanent form the work to which my life has been devoted. what poem, think you, of all you have heard, is the most likely to live after we are gone?" there was no reply, and in the silence that followed, the even breathing of john surrey brought to the mind of the poet the well nigh incredible suspicion that his friend was asleep. this suspicion, however, he dismissed as unworthy of either of them, and he shook his comrade by the shoulder, repeating his question. "eh? what?" cried john. "take your hand from my throat, villain." "my hand is not on your throat but on your shoulder, and i misdoubt you have for some time been asleep." "asleep?" cried john, with honest indignation. "i was far from being asleep. when you stopped reciting i had but let my mind wander for a moment on the rough usage i had had from conrad, who pretended he did not know me. i'll wing a shaft by his ear so close that it will make him jump a dozen yards, and for the space while he counts ten he will be uncertain whether he is in this world or the next. i called him villain, and i stick to it." "but what call you my poems?" "they are grand--all of them. you are getting better and better at rhyming; i swear by the bow, you are. i never heard anything to equal them." "indeed," replied the poet, complacently, "a man should improve with age, like good wine, if he have the right stuff in him, but though all are so good, there is surely some poem better than the rest, as in a company of men one must stand taller than his fellows. which was it, john?" "the last one you recited seemed to me the best," said john, scratching his head dubiously, and then not having the sense to let well enough alone, added, "the one on 'sleep.'" the poet rose to his feet and spoke with justifiable indignation. "i have recited to you a score since that, you sluggard. you have indeed been asleep." "i said not the last, but the first. i say the poem on 'sleep' is the best, and that i hold to." "the first was on 'friendship,'" said the poet gloomily. "nay, i count not the one on 'friendship' as aught but the introduction. 'twas given, you said, in honour of our meeting, therefore i regard the one on 'sleep' as the beginning, and although all are good, that seemed, in my poor judgment, the best." "i had hoped you would have liked the one on 'woman's love,'" murmured roger, evidently mollified. "ah, roger, what can you expect of a hardened bachelor like me? there was a time when i would have thrown up my cap and proclaimed that poem master of them all, which doubtless it will be accounted in the estimation of the world. even i admit it was enough to make my old bones burn again, and while you were reciting it, i was glad young conrad was not here, else he had straightway run to alken in his own despite. that poem will be the favourite of lovers all the world over; i am sure of it." "say you so, honest john?" cried roger, with glee. "it is indeed my own hope. you were the truest and wisest of critics, and no bowman in all germany can match you. forgive me that i mistook your meditation for slumber. and now, good night, old friend; we will meet again when i have composed some others, although i doubt if i ever do anything as good as that one." and thereupon the friends embraced and parted, each glowing with the praise of the other. chapter xxxi. brave news of the emperor. as the days went by and the seasons changed, dull monotony settled down upon the besieged castle, and all within felt more or less its depressing effects. the black count chafed under it like a caged lion, breaking out now and then into helpless rage, eager to do anything rather than the one thing which had to be done, and that was to sit quiet until the archbishops tired of their task, or until some commotion occurred elsewhere which would compel them to withdraw their troops. heinrich had wild schemes of breaking through the lines, marching on to treves, and there fomenting rebellion, so that arnold might find something to occupy him at home and be thus compelled to leave his neighbour in peace. but the cool head in the garrison was that of rodolph, who pointed out calmly to his nominal chief the impracticability of his plans. he knew more of treves than did the count, and asserted that no man could stir up trouble in that town, where all were but too well acquainted with the weight of the archbishop's iron hand. it was not to be expected that two men so differently constituted as the emperor and the count, thus hemmed in together, should grow to love each other; indeed, heinrich took small pains to conceal the dislike he felt for his enforced guest, although rodolph was more politic, and always treated his elder with grave respect. only once during the two years' siege did there come a conflict of authority between them, and this said much for the forbearance of the emperor. one morning rodolph found the count in the courtyard in full armour vigorously superintending his men, who were removing from the gates the bags of grain and casks of wine which were piled against them. "what is going forward?" asked rodolph, quietly. "something that concerns you not, and your assistance is neither asked nor wanted," answered the black count, in his most surly manner. "pardon me, if i venture to point out that anything which pertains to the safety of the castle concerns me." "whose castle is it?" roared the count. "that is precisely the point now under dispute," replied the emperor, with the utmost gravity. "if you do some foolish thing the castle doubtless will in a few hours belong to the archbishops, for they are probably counting on an act of folly which will bring them into possession. i am anxious that the castle remain in your hands, therefore i ask again, what are you proposing to do, and why are you taking away the materials which so well supported the gates when they were assaulted?" "i am commander here and not to be questioned." "that is hardly according to our compact, my lord. let us not, however, discuss the matter before the men, but in the council chamber alone together. i must know what you intend to do." "i have held my castle until now against all comers. i will continue to keep it in my own way." "your memory is short, my lord. your castle was saved in the first assault by my archer. in the two following it was kept largely by my generalship, if i may be so conceited as to claim as much. you did some stentorian shouting, and some wondrous catapult practice, which, if it killed any, wrought their death more by amazement at the work, than through the accuracy of the machines. i came here a stranger, but am now well known to the men, and they have confidence in me. if we must have deplorable dissensions in their presence i will at once give command for them to cease work, and you will see how many obey me. it is best not to force me to this extremity, for if i am thus put to it, you will give no more orders in this castle. let it come to an open contest between you and me, and you will be amazed to find that all who rally round you are steinmetz and one or two others, hirelings at best, whom you, knowing nothing of men, have placed above the others, and even they will at once desert you when they find you standing practically alone. therefore, my lord, i ask you for the third time what you intend to do?" the cool and firm insistence of the emperor had a quenching effect on the other's anger. the count began to doubt the wisdom of his hot-headed resolve, for he had, in spite of himself, a growing confidence in rodolph's generalship, and his bluster was largely caused by the shame he felt in placing his plans before the incisive criticism of his comrade in arms. he turned brusquely away from rodolph, and said, curtly: "very well. let us to the council chamber." the emperor followed him, and was in turn followed by the archer, who always kept an eye on his master, unless definitely commanded not to do so. the archer never pretended that he had the least belief in the good faith of count heinrich, and it is likely that rodolph, although he gave no utterance to his distrust, had as little confidence, for he rarely made objection to the watch john surrey kept over him. neither was their vigilance relaxed on the tower. they constantly increased their store of provisions, and allowed no one to come up the stair on any pretence whatever. when the archer was not on watch in the tower, conrad usually took his place, and the possibility of their having to stand a siege within a siege at any moment was rarely absent from the mind of the emperor. if the intentions of the black count were honest, there was no harm in being ready for the reverse. when the emperor and count reached the council chamber the latter turned sharply round and plunged at once into his explanation. "i am going to open the gates and sally forth at the head of my men. i shall cut their line and, sparing none who oppose me, fight as long as may be, then shall we return to the castle. in this way shall i harass them day by day, until they are glad to raise the siege." "how many men do you intend to leave with me to protect the castle in your absence?" "the castle needs no protection until i return to it. the archbishops will find enough to do without troubling thuron. i shall take all my men with me." "have you made any computation regarding the number of soldiers the archbishops have under their banners?" "what has that to do with it? the men are scattered north, east, south, and west of this place, and cannot be rallied in time to harm me." "i am, of course, not in the confidence of the archbishops and cannot tell how wisely or unwisely their plans are laid. were i in their place i should count on just such a sortie as you have proposed, caused either by folly or desperation. it is a thing a famished commander might do, or it might be done by one who knew no better. i should have it arranged that a bugle call would cause all available men to march instantly over the hills and cut you off from the gates before you could possibly retreat. as the archbishops have a hundred men and more to your one, there can be no possible doubt regarding the termination of such a venture as yours. you are as wise as a snail would be to leave his shell, and, unarmed, fight a hawk in the open. the castle is your shell, and remaining in it is your only salvation. i am astonished at the futility of your proposal." "i cannot sit inactive." "you must. otherwise the sane thing to do is to run up a white flag after taking down your own, make terms with the archbishops and deliver your castle to them. then you may get concessions, but to sally forth at the head of your men is to deliver your castle at once into their hands, and that without compensation, for then they take it and capture or kill you. it is the project of a madman." the count became fiercely enraged at this merciless criticism, and, almost foaming at the mouth, smote his fist on the table, crying: "our weakness is not that we are outnumbered a hundred to one. it is that we are one too many in thuron. no garrison can prosper under two commanders." "again you are mistaken. there are not two commanders, but one only. there are two commanders with the besiegers, and that fact, in spite of their army's strength, is probably the reason the castle has not been taken long since. there is but one commander in thuron, and i am he." "you lie!" yelled the black count. "i am master of thuron, and will remain so while a stone of it rests on another." "prove yourself so. the weapons with which we previously fought on this question still hang on the wall; only, take warning. i shall use the edge of the sword, and not the flat of it, upon your person when next i face you." "i shall not honour you by fighting with you, a nameless stranger, for whose quality no one can vouch." "i bore the honour you formerly bestowed upon me modestly enough, and no one has been told of our encounter. as for the quality of my fighting, you made no complaint at the time." "i will imprison you as an insubordinate traitor." "i am even prepared for that, and have been ever since i took my quarters in the tower. the moment you break your word with me i constitute myself my own jailer, and will retire to the tower. there my archer will kill your adherents one by one in the courtyard, or on the battlements, or wherever you dare show yourselves. i will haul down your banner and run up a flag of truce instead. then, when the envoys of the archbishop come, i will shout to them from the tower that we are commanded by a madman. i will make terms with them so far as the ladies are concerned, and will tell them how to take the castle, as not one of your men dare show face upon the walls, fearing my archer. i regret being compelled to show you that you are both helpless and, at the same time, a fool, but you would have it. now, my lord, what is to be done? are you content to hold command under my orders, or am i to be further troubled with your petulance, so that i must humiliate you in the eyes of your own men, depose you publicly, and perhaps imprison you in the castle i would be only too glad to have you hold and keep? i must know definitely and finally, for these discussions cannot continue." the black count rested his shaggy head in his hands, and for a long time there was silence in the room. at last he raised his blood-shot eyes, burning with hate, and shot a question at rodolph. "who are you?" "your master. take that for granted until this siege is ended, then you may discover you have not been in error. if you attempt to fight me as well as the archbishops the contest will be a short one. in the fiend's name, has your ill temper not left enough of sense in your brain to show you, even in your anger, that it is better to have me fighting for you than against you? your persistent stupidity exhausts my patience." "what am i to tell the men whom i have ordered to clear the sacks from the gate? they will think me indeed mad if i bid them reverse their work." "they think it now, as does every one with whom you come in contact. when the grain is all removed tell them to fill the empty sacks with earth and stones from the cellars, and to place them in position against the gates again. have this done whenever a sack is emptied in future, so that our consumption of corn will not interfere with the security of the gates. if you have said to any one that you intended to sally forth, tell him now that you have changed your mind." this was the last rebellion of count heinrich against the usurper within his gates. the ladies, when all met together for the evening meal, did not suspect that there had been any difference between the two men, for heinrich was invariably so gruff towards his women folk that his demeanour could hardly be made worse by any check he had encountered during the day, and rodolph's manner was marked by a deferential equanimity that was immutable. while they were seated at the evening repast captain steinmetz entered and made announcement that a holy palmer was before the gate asking admittance, saying he had news for the master of the castle. "where is he from? how did he get through the lines?" demanded the count. "i think he is from palestine," replied steinmetz, "and he came through the lines by permission of the archbishops. he says he bears news to you of the emperor." "of the emperor?" ejaculated rodolph, in amazement. "yes. his majesty is fighting in the holy land, and i think the monk comes from him with news of his battles." "ah!" rodolph looked closely at those who sat round the table, but said nothing further. tekla gazed with interest at the captain; the count's eyes were bent on the table, and his wife regarded his dark face timorously. "we want no news of the emperor's fighting," said the count, gruffly, at last. "what matters his fighting to us? a wise man goes not abroad to deal his blows, when there are good knocks to be given in his own land. tell the palmer we want none of his budget." "not so, my uncle," cried tekla, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, "we are all loyal subjects of his majesty, i hope, and i confess i should like to hear how he prospers. i beg you to admit the pious father." "he is most likely a pious spy, sent by the connivance of the archbishops, whose tool he is. their lordships desire to know how matters stand within the fortress." "even if that be the case," put in rodolph, mildly, "i should be the last to baulk their curiosity. it would give me pleasure to have them know that the stout count heinrich is well, and has no fear of them, either separate or united. it may comfort the archbishops to learn that we were faring generously when their envoy came upon us, and that heinrich of thuron thought them of so small account that he permitted a man coming from their camp and through their lines to enter his dining hall." the count's eye lit up for a moment as he glanced round his hall, then the light died out, gloom came upon his brow, and once more he bent his gaze on the table in silence. "i would suggest, however, that the palmer be blindfolded before he is taken up the ladder, and so conducted to the count's presence. it may be prudent to conceal from him how well the gates are barricaded. if he actually comes from the emperor, i confess, like the countess here, i think so much of his majesty that i should dearly love to have news of him. what say you, my lord count?" "have it as you will. there is no desire on my part to hear of his majesty, so question the palmer as best pleases you. admit the man, steinmetz, but blindfold him as has been suggested." a few minutes later the monk was led into the hall, advancing with caution as a blind man does, gropingly uncertain regarding his footsteps, placing one sandal tentatively before the other, as if he feared a trap, although led by the captain, who at last removed the bandage from his blinking eyes, thus bringing him suddenly from darkness to light. the monk bowed low to each one present, then stood with folded arms, awaiting permission to speak. if he were indeed a spy he showed no indication of it: his face was calm and imperturbable, and looked little like the countenance of a man in fear of the fate which must quickly have followed conviction as an informant. "you come from the holy land, father?" began rodolph. "not so, my lord. i come from frankfort, but there has recently arrived from palestine a messenger, who brought brave tidings from his noble majesty, the emperor rodolph of germany." "indeed. and who sends you forth, or do you come of your own accord?" "i am sent forth by the baron von brunfels, now in frankfort, to relate intelligence of the emperor in all castles and camps and strongholds, to those of noble birth, who are, i trust, loyal subjects of his majesty." "that are we all here, holy father," cried tekla with enthusiasm. the monk bowed low to the lady. "i trust that the baron von brunfels is well. he is a dear friend of mine," said rodolph. "he is well, my lord, but somewhat haggard with the care of state which has fallen upon him in his majesty's absence. he is thought to be over-anxious regarding his majesty's welfare; but i surmise that the news he has now received of him may bring more cheerfulness to his brow than has been seen there of late." "doubtless that will be the case," remarked rudolph, with a deep sigh. "do you know to what particular part of the business of state baron von brunfels bends his energies?" "particularly to the army, my lord. he has greatly increased it, drawing men mainly from southern germany, and placing in command of them officers who come from the emperor's own part of the country. it is said he is raising a company of archers, not armed with the cross-bow, but with a thin weapon held in one hand, so marvellously inaccurate that when the regiment practices near frankfort the people round about fly to their houses, saying there is little security for life while that company is abroad, as no prophet can predict where their shafts will alight. prayers are offered that this company be disbanded, or that providence will confer greater blessings on their marksmanship than has hitherto been vouchsafed." "ah, it is a pity we cannot lend the baron our good archer, who would do more for the efficiency of the company than much devotion. does rumour give any reason for this increase of the army, or has baron von brunfels said anything regarding its purpose?" "it is believed that a large reinforcement will presently be sent to the emperor in palestine, when the men are more accustomed to their duties." "a most scandalous waste of human lives," cried the black count, sternly. "german men should fight their enemies at home or on the borders of german land. of what benefit are the desert sands to us, even should we win them?" the monk seemed shocked at this, and devoutly crossed himself, but made no reply. tekla flashed an indignant look at her uncle, but spoke instead to rodolph. "my lord," she said, "you seem more interested in the baron than in the emperor. i wish to hear of his majesty's campaign in the holy land." "true, countess, i had forgotten myself, and i beg you to pardon me. the baron is a very dear friend of mine, as i have said, but i will have speech with our visitor later concerning him. now, father, what of the emperor?" "his majesty, the emperor, has proven himself a warrior not only of great personal bravery, but one who is a redoubted general as well. he has displayed marvellous knowledge of the arts of war, and has routed the infidels, horse and foot, wherever he encountered them, scattering them like chaff before the wind. threescore of their bravest leaders has he slain with his own hand, until now his very name spreads terror throughout the land. when it is known he leads the christian host, the saracens fly without giving battle, and cannot be lured into the field to face him." "in god's name, then," cried the irate count, "why doesn't he take palestine with his own hand, and return so that he may reduce at least two of his truculent princes to order and some respect for him? germany is languishing for a ruler of such prowess. told you the archbishops of all this?" "i did, my lord." "and what said they?" "they prayed that he might be long spared to perform such deeds in the holy land, and are about to offer mass in honour of his victories over the heathen." "i can well believe it. if masses will keep him in the east he will never return to germany. i have no patience with such old wives' tales." the count rose from his bench and strode from the room, saying to steinmetz as he departed: "see that this relator of fables is carefully deposited outside the walls in the way he came, and allow no loitering in the courtyard." "my lord," cried rodolph as the count approached the door, "i wish to have some converse with the good father alone, and i desire to offer him refreshment before he departs from us. have i your sanction?" the black count paused near the door and looked back at the assemblage before answering. then he said: "captain steinmetz, you will obey his lordship's orders as faithfully as if they came from me." with this command he withdrew from the room. the ladies also rose and bent their heads to receive the blessing of the monk, thanking him for what he had told them, and expressing a wish that this should not be his last visit to the castle. refreshments were placed on the table, to which the monk, on being invited, devoted himself with right good will. rodolph requested captain steinmetz to leave them alone together. "are you the only messenger baron von brunfels sends forth from frankfort?" asked rodolph. "no, my lord, there are many of us. one goes east, another west, and so in all directions. it is the desire of baron von brunfels that the people know as speedily as possible of the deeds done by their brave emperor." "a most loyal and laudable intention, which will be well carried out if all the messengers are as faithful and competent as you are, father. do you return instantly to frankfort?" "no, my lord. i go now up the moselle to treves, and so back in a southerly direction to the capital." "i ask you, then, to change your plans, and return forthwith to frankfort." "'twould be contrary to the orders of my lord of brunfels. i dare not disobey him." "nevertheless, i request you to do so, and i give you my assurance that you will be the most welcome visitor the baron has received this many a day, and that he himself will tell you so, blessing you for your disobedience." "if the news you have to send is so important to him, i might venture to change my route, but as i shall have to suffer if a mistake is made, while you are safe in this castle, i must judge of the importance of your message by hearing it." "friendship lends importance to tidings that may seem trivial to a stranger. the baron is my most intimate friend, therefore i ask of you to remember carefully and relate accurately what i have to send him. tell him the silk merchant whom he accompanied to treves is well, and is now in castle thuron." "i carry not news of silk merchants, but of emperors," cried the monk resentfully, for, despite his calling, even his humility was offended by the sudden descent from the highest to the lowest, in a country where rank was so greatly esteemed. "remember, father, that the founder of our holy church was the son of a carpenter." "he was the son of god." "most true, but reputed to be what i say, and his apostles were poor fishermen. therefore it may well be that when you carry news of a silk merchant you are no less ignoble a messenger than when you carry news of an emperor. tell the baron the silk merchant sends him greeting, and asks him to persevere in the augmenting of the army, which the silk merchant hopes will, from its very strength and efficiency, prove to be, not an engine of war, but an assurance of peace. to be thus effective, however, it must be undeniably stronger than any forces that may combine against it. say that the west and the north have combined, which fact he probably already knows. the baron is, therefore, not to interfere in any struggle that may be going on, but rather to keep a close watch upon it, and to have everything ready when a command is sent him. have you given strict heed to my message, good father? repeat it to me." "baron von brunfels is to be made aware that the silk merchant who accompanied him to treves is at present in castle thuron. the army is to be increased and made more efficient. the west and the north have combined, which i take to mean, that europe is as one against the saracen, and that the emperor's army is to be made stronger than the combination, so that when he gives the command, he will be at the head of a force superior to all others sent out, and may thus bring the war to an end without further blood being shed, through the mere terror of his name, supplemented by an army so redoubtable." "i beg you to colour not your message with your own explanations but to attend more strictly to the exact words i give you. say that when further news of the emperor comes to him, he is to send you again to castle thuron, and he may give you instructions that will be for my ear alone. you will, therefore, be careful, if you value the good opinion of the baron, to keep strictly apart the message for me and the general intelligence which you recite to the archbishops. say that the silk merchant is in safe quarters, and thinks it better to make no premature attempt to leave thuron. the main thing at present is to get together as many troops as will outnumber two to one the forces of the west and the north. all this is not done in a day. do you go back to the archbishops?" "no, my lord. i intended to journey up the moselle." "are you afoot?" "the baron von brunfels, wishing me speed, gave me a horse, to which i am only now becoming accustomed. i left it at the village below in care of a soldier, it being my intention to travel to-night to the valley of the brodenbach, and rest at the castle of ehrenburg." "ehrenburg can wait for its news of the emperor. go, therefore, up the brodenbach valley as was your first determination, but continue on past the castle until you come to the frankfort road. rest then if you must, but know that the sooner you reach frankfort the better will you please the baron." rodolph called to steinmetz, who again blindfolded the monk, and accompanied by emperor and captain the palmer was set once more outside the walls, and disappeared in the night down the hill towards alken. chapter xxxii. "for your love i would defy fate." the countess tekla spent the greater portion of her time waiting upon her aunt, who, never having known a true friend in her life before, clung to the girl with a pathetic insistence, unhappy if tekla was out of her sight. the natural positions of the two seemed reversed; the elder woman leaning dependently on the younger, and looking to her for protection, as a child looks to its mother. when tekla was busy in the courtyard garden her aunt would sit on the balcony and watch her every movement with a dumb, tender affection that was most touching. the elder rarely spoke, and never smiled except when tekla looked up to her with a smile on her own pretty lips. rodolph often wished the aunt were not quite so much the shadow of the niece, but there was such love between the two women that he never ventured to suggest to tekla his hope that he might be permitted now and then to enjoy her companionship unshared. he worked with her in the garden, and often said that he expected to make horticulture his occupation when the siege was over, so expert had he become under the charming instruction of his fair teacher. when winter intervened, and the spring came again, rodolph jokingly suggested that they should plant grain instead of flowers, as there was still no sign that the archbishops were becoming tired of their undertaking. the second winter passed, and a second spring found the living line around the castle still intact, thus rodolph's former jest began to take a grimmer meaning, for provisions were indeed running low, and the two years' supply, which seemed at first almost inexhaustible, was now coming to an end, yet not a pound of wheat or a gallon of wine had succeeded in getting through the cordon drawn by the stubborn archbishops. rodolph had counted on a quarrel between the two commanders ere this, but there was no indication of dissension in the opposing camp. the bitter persistence of the siege he laid to the account of the archbishop of treves, and in this he was right. there was, however, one grain of consolation in its continuance; so long as the armies of the archbishops were encircling thuron, they were out of mischief elsewhere, and the rest of germany was at peace. rodolph could not help thinking that if it came to a fight the troops would hardly be as warlike as they had shown themselves two years before, when the siege began, for the sound of revelry came up each night from the camp, and the idle men were industriously drinking their thousand gallons of wine each day, which tended more to hilarity than discipline. nevertheless, they held tightly to the castle, and there was no relaxing of the lines that surrounded it. on several occasions attempts were made to get through by one or other belonging to the garrison, but in each case without success. the deserters were turned back, the officers refusing even to make prisoners of them. meanwhile the emperor periodically received news from the capital, and was compelled also to listen to long-winded mythical accounts of his own bravery in the east, which did much credit to the fictional power of the romancer in frankfort who put the stories together. when at last it was reported to him that the army centred in frankfort, and at other points within easy call of the capital, was fit to cope successfully with all opposition, the emperor resolved to quit the castle by stealth if possible, and if that proved impracticable, to send word when next the monk came, telling brunfels to lead the army in person up the moselle and raise the siege of thuron. his hope, however, was to get away from the castle and himself give the command to the archbishops to cease their warfare. but another matter occupied his mind, almost to the exclusion of the great affairs of state, which should perhaps have had his undivided attention, because of their paramount importance. this interest held him a willing prisoner in thuron, and it may be some excuse for his inaction--for his reluctance in showing himself a real and not a nominal emperor--that he was less than thirty years of age. before he quitted thuron, therefore, he desired to know whether the countess tekla regarded him as a dear friend or a dearer lover. it was his right to come at the head of his army and demand the girl, for even if she had, when sorely pressed, rebelled against being bestowed upon an equal in rank and wealth in the person of count bertrich, yet, whatever her personal inclinations might be, she could not deny the suit of the emperor, were he as ugly as calaban, as old as methuselah, and as wicked as beelzebub. such a refusal would have been unheard of under the feudal law, and would certainly not have been allowed by the upholders of it. but rodolph was in the mind to keep all prerogatives of his position for other purposes, and trust to his own qualities in pursuing the course that cupid had marked out for him. if the girl cared nothing for him as lord rodolph, he would not ask her to bestow her affection upon the emperor. the moon was shining brightly over the moselle valley when he determined to escape from the castle, and as he had resolved to take the archer and conrad with him, not only as a bodyguard, but in order that there might be less demand on the almost empty larder of the castle, he had to wait for a night when the moon was obscured, or until it grew older and rose later. it would be impossible for the three of them to get away when night was as light as day; indeed experience had proved the futility of even one attempting to quit the stronghold; but the emperor was imbued with the belief that he could succeed where others had failed. the archer had formulated a plan for their escape in conjunction with his friend roger kent, who was now on guard at a portion of the line in the thaurand valley after midnight, and although surrey had had as yet no chance of consulting his friend, he surmised there would be little difficulty in persuading him to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear up the valley for a few minutes to accommodate an old comrade. things were at this pass when, one afternoon, rodolph was with the countess tekla in the garden while the girl's aunt sat on the balcony watching them. "my lady," said rodolph, in a low voice, "i have serious complaint to make of you." "of me, my lord," asked the girl, in surprise, glancing swiftly up at him. "yes, countess. while we have each, even to count heinrich himself, taken turns in keeping watch and ward on the battlements, you have never shouldered pike and marched up and down the promenade. yet is there reason for that. your doing so would attract rather than repel the enemy, so perhaps we were wise in allowing you to work in the garden instead. still, you should at least encourage those on guard, and as this promises to be a beautiful night, and as i pace the battlements until the stroke of twelve, i beg of you to come upon the parapet soon after our evening meal and bear me company for an hour or so. i make it a question of duty, if i cannot persuade you else." "i am not one to shirk from duty," said the countess, brightly, "so upon that basis will i assist you to repel the invaders. besides, i wish to see the valley bathed in the moonlight, and have long desired to venture on the battlements, and would have done so before now had not my uncle forbidden it. but that was long since, and perhaps he apprehends no danger at this time." "the ramparts are as safe as the quietest street in frankfort, and i do assure you that the valley in the moonlight is most lovely and well worth gazing upon. i may, then, look forward to your coming?" "yes, unless my uncle or aunt object." "they will not object, especially if you do not ask their permission, which i beg you not to do. just make the venture, and i will guarantee that no one will have aught to say against your presence on the platform of the west wall." and thus it came about that the countess tekla, with a fleecy white scarf thrown over her fair head, reaching down to her waist, looking as if it had been woven from the moonbeams themselves, walked on the stone terrace that night with lord rodolph of hapsburg, and then was the time, had the archbishops been looking for a favourable opportunity of attack, to charge upon the fortress, for never since the world began was watch so carelessly kept in ancient stronghold, as when these two young people guarded grim castle thuron. "this reminds me of another night," said rodolph. "the moon shone as brightly, and the river flowed on as peacefully under its mild radiance. does your recollection join with mine?" "yes. it was the night we left treves." "together." tekla looked up at him, then gently murmured a repetition of the word. "it was an idyllic voyage," he continued, "whose remembrance lingers as does the fragrance of a precious flower. its dangers seem to have faded away, and only the charm remains. the recollection of it is like a beautiful dream: a vision of heaven rather than an actuality of earth." the countess tekla paused in her walk, and clasping her hands over her breast, gazed up the valley at the winding ribbon of silver far below, the glamour and soft witchery of the moonlight in the lustre of her eyes. "there can be nothing more beautiful in the world than the moselle," she said, slowly. "it is indeed an enchanted river, but that night it looked upon a beauty superior to its own." "i shall not pretend ignorance of your meaning, my lord, and so take the compliment to myself, undeserving of it though i may be. but my treatment of you then was, i fear, a sad blemish on whatever of beauty i may possess. i see you now standing on the rock by the margin of the stream, to which my petulance and suspicion unwarrantably banished you. i often think of my injustice, pain mingling with pleasure in the remembrance, which is unaccountable, for i should dwell on the incident with regret only, yet it passes my comprehension that i experience felicity in conning it over. you looked like an indignant god of the moselle, standing there silent in the moonlight, and even although i deeply distrusted you then--you must remember i had not seen you until that moment--i felt as if i were a culprit, refusing to pay just toll as i floated on the river you guarded." "ah, countess, payment deferred makes heavy demand when time for settlement ultimately comes. the river god now asks for toll, with two years' interest, compounded and compounded, due." "alas!" cried the countess, arching her eyebrows, and spreading out her empty hands, accompanying the word with a little nervous laugh, "i fear i am bankrupt. should this siege succeed, as it seems like to do----" "what siege, my lady?" "the siege of castle thuron," she answered, looking sideways at him. "is there another?" "i had another in my mind at the moment. i trust that it too will be successful, or rather that it will be successful and the archbishops' effort fail. but if thuron falls, what then, my lady?" "then am i bankrupt, for my lands will be confiscated and other grievous things may happen. with lands and castles gone, how can i pay the river god his fee, even were he generous to forego his rightful interest, twice or thrice compounded?" "the gods, my lady, traffic not in castles nor in lands. were these tendered, free of fee or vassalage, your river god would value them no more than the lump of rock he stood upon, and would proclaim to all the moselle valley his charge was still unsatisfied." "then he is no god, but a frankfort usurer." "that he is indeed, my lady; rapacious, exacting, demanding that to which he has no rightful claim, yet still demanding. and worse than any mortgage broker, because he knows no debt has been incurred, but the reverse, for such slight service as he rendered was a pleasure to him, and he knew himself deeply the debtor in that it was accepted of him. and yet, my lady, this confessed cozening knave implores recompense so far above his merits, that there is this to say in his behalf: his tongue, more modest than his thoughts, hesitates to formulate in words his arrogant petition. i stand here landless and castleless, but i hope a gentleman, and if any man question that i am as noble as the archbishop himself i will dispute his contention with my sword; brushing aside all thought of the possessions that may come to you or to me, are you content, my lady tekla, to place your hand in my empty palm and say, 'rodolph, i take you for my future husband'?" he stood with both hands outstretched, and she a little distance from him, her head bowed, once venturing to dart a swift glance at him, again scrutinising the silent stones lying in the moonlight at her feet. then suddenly she placed both her hands in his, and cried breathlessly: "rodolph, rodolph, it were a foolish bargain for you, and i cannot have it so. wait, wait a little, till i know whether i have what should be mine; whether i am to be as poor as any village maiden in alken yonder; then ask me, rodolph. in either case ask me then, and i will answer you." "no, tekla, answer me now--now." "you are young, rodolph. oh, why must i be wise for two?--your way is to make, and i must not retard your career. you join a tottering house: my only relative cannot hold his own with his single sword. i feel disaster hovering over us, and yet so shallow a maid am i, that i came joyously forth to be with you on this promenade, unheeding of impending calamity. think what you do, my lord: the powerful archbishops are your enemies, and there is no kin of mine to befriend you. wait, wait, wait." "i have already waited--for two years have i waited; i want my answer now, tekla." "no, no. this madness is of the moonlight. they say the moon, when it shines brightly--our talk of the river spirits has made us blind to practical things, and so i seem to be myself one of the rhine maidens who lure men on to destruction. i will not be the lorelei of the moselle. let me go, my lord: i should not have come here to the battlements in the moonlight, for reason has fled from us. you shall not blight your noble career for one so ill-fated as i. see what i have already done. my uncle besieged this two years, and now certain of defeat. you imprisoned here when you should have been making your way in the east, or in germany, where, with your bravery, your name would have rung throughout the land. i will not embroil you with the archbishops, and perhaps with the emperor himself. go forth, lord rodolph, from this doomed house, and come to me, if you still wish, when i shall not retard you." "my career i shall look to with satisfied mind and heart, if first i have assurance from you that all is well with my love. i have no fears for my future. i willingly stayed my career at a single sight of you, for i came to treves to see the archbishop, and not to look upon the countess tekla. it seems to me amazing that there ever was a time when i had to say to my comrade, 'who is she?' yet such was indeed the case, for when i should have been gazing at arnold von isenberg, my thoughts and glances were all for the lady who rode by his side. my being in the skiff was no accident, as you thought, but the result of careful planning, with a craft worthy of arnold himself. i came here willingly, eagerly, and not through inadvertence, and thuron never held so complacent a prisoner, nor one who so welcomed captivity as i, less held by its adamantine walls than by your silken bondage, if my glad restraint merit so harsh a name. tekla, i love you at dawn, at mid-day, in darkness, or in moonlight; all's one to me. how is it with you, my lady of the silver light?" "oh, with me, with me, rodolph, what need to answer that which all may see so plainly? what need for you to ask, when every glance that fell from my eyes upon you must have betrayed me? oh, my knight of the water-lapped rock, i loved you ever since first i saw you standing there, flinging your abandoned sword at my feet, for the protection of one so cruel and unjust. and now must my foolish fondness drag you down with me into the torrent that may overwhelm us both? rodolph, rodolph, i cry to you beware, for i cannot protest longer, and am so selfish that, for your love, i would defy fate; so ungenerous that while my lips warn you my heart hopes you will not heed. oh, rodolph, i have loved you since the world began." the young man, suddenly releasing her imprisoned hands, clasped the girl unresisting to him and on her trembling dewy lips pressed, long and tenderly, their first kiss; she, with a deep sigh, closing her eyes, and resigning herself to his tenderness. for him, no less than for her, the moment was supreme, and it seemed as if the world had faded from them and they stood alone in delirious space together. the tent of the archbishops, precursor of the great cathedral, shone white in the moonlight, looking in calm unconsciousness at the plans of its august builders crumbling to pieces, through the action of a man and woman. chapter xxxiii. a grim interruption to a lover's meeting. not on the battlements alone did lovers meet. at nearly the same hour of the night after the ill-kept guard on the promenade, conrad set forth to greet hilda, as had been his custom for many evenings during the past two years. the girl stole quietly up among the sadly trampled grape vines to a corner of the castle which the two had made their own. there was an angle in the wall under the northern tower which was in darkness whether the moon shone or no, and above this stone alcove, the machicolated wall gave conrad an opportunity for descent unseen, which would not have been possible from the promenade itself, except on dark nights. here he placed his rope, and thus he slipped silently down to meet the girl who crept up from the village for the pleasure of holding whispered converse with him. when it had become evident that the castle was to be starved into submission, there was no further talk of hilda returning to her old service. the girl would at least have plenty to eat in the village, which could not be guaranteed to her in the castle, and although hilda would have run the risk of starving had she been allowed to return, the countess herself felt she could not, in justice to those beleaguered with her, allow the tire woman to leave her present lodging. of late, although they stood in the shadow, hilda's sharp eyes noted the ever-increasing gauntness of conrad, who, like all within the castle, except the two ladies, was placed on short rations, and at last the girl brought up with her, without saving anything, cakes of her own baking from the village, and although at first conrad thought of sharing his good fortune with his comrades, reflection showed him that this could not be done without endangering the secret of their rendezvous. thus their retreat in the secluded embrasure of the silent walls had become a nocturnal picnic, hilda watching her lover with tender solicitude while he ate, sure for one night at least he should not starve. she begged him to let her come oftener, but he, fearing discovery, would not permit this, for her passing through the lines too frequently might raise suspicion in the camp, where the greatest precautions were taken to permit no supplies to pass the cordon, in which task the besiegers were amazingly successful. their time of meeting was early in the evening, while the count and his household were at their last meal of the day, as at that hour there was less chance of interruption, and there was also the advantage that hilda could return to alken before it grew late. conrad had finished his welcome repast and the two stood in the darkness together, the gloom perhaps made the more intense because it contrasted so strongly with the sloping hillside flooded with bright moonlight, when hilda's quick ear, ever on the alert for a sound on the wall above or the earth beneath them, heard a stealthy step, and she whispered suddenly: "hush! some one is approaching along the west side." they remained breathless a few moments listening, and conrad was about to say he heard nothing, when round the corner came a muffled stooped figure, which, although it was in darkness itself, stood out like a black silhouette against the moonlit hills opposite. with a thrill of fear conrad recognised the evil face of captain steinmetz, peering with anxious eyes ahead of him, luckily not in their direction, but towards the plantation that clothed the hillside where the vineyard ended. at first he thought the captain had discovered something of the meeting in the corner, but it was soon evident that officer had no suspicion, thinking himself entirely alone. the two stood there in acute suspense, with steinmetz before them, almost within touching distance, did conrad but reach out his hand. while they trembled thus, scarce daring to breathe, they saw emerging from the plantation, two figures, also cloaked, who paused at the edge of the wood, and on the captain giving utterance to a low sibilant sound like the soft hissing of a serpent, the two darted quickly across the band of moonlight and stood beside the captain in the shadow of the great north tower. "have you brought the money?" were the first words of steinmetz, spoken under his breath, but as distinctly heard by conrad and his companion as by those to whom the remark was addressed. "we have brought three bags of it, captain," said the foremost man. "the rest will be given you when the castle is ours." "but that is not according to the bargain," protested steinmetz. "it is according to the command of the archbishop," replied the other, with a shrug of his shoulders. "his lordship is under the impression that you can trust him with quite as much faith as he can trust you. if you deal fair and honourably towards us, there will be no fear that you will be cozened out of the rest of the money. if not--well, you will be three weighty bags of gold to the good, but i warn you, there will be little opportunity of enjoying it, for the archbishop will exact stern interest when the castle ultimately falls, as fall it must." "a bargain is a bargain," muttered steinmetz, in no good humour. "the archbishop will keep it, and if you stand by your word, the remainder of the money will be paid you to-morrow night. so that is not long to wait, for you will have but small chance of spending it in the interval. your hesitation gives colour to the archbishop's suspicions that you intend to play him false. i would i were so sure of as much gold in so short a time, if you mean fair." "oh, i mean fair enough, and will take the gold, but i like not this distrust of a man's motives." "it is remarkable," replied the other, nonchalantly, "that the archbishop should be suspicious of you. i confess i do not understand it myself, but i am simply the messenger, and merely lay down the orders of my master. do you take the money?" "yes, unless you now say you have forgotten to bring it, and that i must deliver up the castle for nothing, and whistle for payment." "no; the gold is here. you accept the archbishop's terms, then?" "yes, since it is his will to drive so cautious a bargain." the other turned to his fellow and took from him three well-filled bags, each about half the size of a man's head, and these he passed to the captain, who concealed them under his cloak. when the folds of the cloak had fallen over and covered the treasure, the ambassador of the archbishop said: "what are your final instructions regarding the assault on the castle?" "i have caused to be removed from the gates the bags of sand and earth, for i have had communication with the black count, telling him there is no fear of an attack, and that we must hold ourselves in readiness, before hunger too much weakens us, to open the gates and sally forth to cut our way through the lines, and so escape. in this he agrees with me, and even while i speak the gates are free, and may be opened by any one from the inside. if you have your men in readiness to-morrow night when the bell tolls twelve, taking care to keep them unseen and under cover in the forest before the gates, until about an hour after midnight, when the moon begins to throw the shadow of the wood nearly to the wall, you can approach silently and with caution, when you will find the gates push open at a touch. we change guard at midnight, and it may be half an hour after that time before i will have opportunity to undo the bars and bolts and leave the gates swinging freely. i shall give orders to the sentinel to keep himself at the end of the battlements near this tower, still it will be as well if you observe caution until you are in the castle. i shall dispose the men-at-arms within so that you need not fear much opposition, for they are at best half starved, and will have little pluck to fight; but it is best to secure at once the body of the count, who may otherwise rally them and give you more trouble than you look for. with reasonable luck, and all precaution, there need not be a blow struck, but if you bungle and raise a premature alarm, you are like to stir a hornet's nest, unless you secure at once black heinrich and the young man rodolph, who is his lieutenant, and who can fight like the fiend himself. he it was who brought the countess tekla from treves, and i think the archbishop will be glad to have hold of him, and should give me extra pay for his capture." conrad had stood with dropped jaw, listening to this black treachery so calmly enunciated by the captain, whose oath laid it upon him to protect the lives of those he was thus coolly selling for gold. conrad remained motionless until the reference to the capture of his master was made, then, forgetting where he was and the great need of secrecy, he strode forward before hilda could restrain him and cried, his voice quivering with anger: "you traitorous devil! captain judas!" the three men jumped as if the black count himself had unexpectedly sprung upon them, each whipping out his sword. hilda, with a moan, sank almost senseless to the ground at the angle of the walls, where she lay unnoticed. conrad being unarmed, saw that he would have no chance against three, whose swords were already at his throat, so he sprang aside from the well swung blade of the captain, flung himself on one of the archbishop's men, and wrested his weapon from him, the other, baffled by the darkness and bewildered by the suddenness of the crisis, was thus unable to come to the assistance of his colleague. defending himself from the onslaught of captain steinmetz, conrad raised his voice and shouted: "help! turn out the guard! treason! treason!" along the top of the battlements were heard the hurried footsteps of the sentinel, who cried as he ran: "an attack! to arms; to arms!" the keen-witted captain saw that not a moment was to be lost, or destruction would fall on him. he turned savagely to the envoys and said: "fly at once. leave me to deal with this. you must not be seen." the ambassadors, nothing loth to be quit of a situation so unforeseen and so dangerous, fled to the plantation and disappeared. steinmetz easily parried the blows of conrad, who was unused to the handling of a sword, and when the sentinel looked over the wall, the captain said, sternly and authoritatively: "cease your foolish shouting. open the gates and send me here six armed men as quickly as possible. then come and stand on the wall at this corner. i have other commands for you." "shall i call his lordship the count?" "no. obey at once, and attend strictly to what i have said to you." the sentinel departed, trailing his pike behind him. a few moments later the six men with drawn swords came running along the western wall, to the spot where their master was holding off the infuriated conrad. "seize this traitor," cried steinmetz, "and gag him. then conduct him to the courtyard, where he is to be hanged forthwith. sentinel, search the battlements and find the ladder by which this rascal got out of the fortress." the six men, with their gagged prisoner, now marched back the way they had come, captain steinmetz, pleased with his own resourcefulness in a difficult situation, striding after them. "here is the rope dangling from the parapet," shouted the sentinel. "then bring it with you to the courtyard. i have use for it," cried the captain, over his shoulder. hilda, moaning hysterically, yet fearful she would discover herself, crouched along the wall in the shadow, following the cortége marching to the open gates. she was shrewd enough to recognise the fact that if she was to save her lover she must act quickly, and, if possible, get to the black count himself, or failing him, to rodolph. she knew there could be no appeal to captain steinmetz, who must kill the witness of his treachery, and that speedily, if he were to save his own head. she slipped in behind the procession before the gates were closed, and kept craftily in the rear of the excited throng who crowded round the prisoner and their captain. she saw the sentinel coming down from the battlements with the fatal rope in his hand, and heard as in a dream the captain telling his indignant followers of their comrade's treachery. waiting to hear no more the girl ran like a hare, easily unseen, for all attention was being paid to the captain's words, while curses were muttered against the gagged and helpless man, to the main doorway and up the stair, nearly upsetting surrey, who came out of the great hall with some trenchers in his hand. the count sat moody at the head of the table, with the others in their usual positions. to their surprise, there burst in upon them a wild, dishevelled, frantic creature, whom, at the moment, none of them recognised. "oh, my lord! my lord!" she cried; "they are hanging conrad in the courtyard. oh, my lord, save him! save him!" the black count started up in sudden anger, and roared with an oath: "what if they are? he deserves it, i doubt not. get you gone. how dare you come screeching here like a night owl? take this beldame away to a mad house!" he shouted to the archer, who had entered, anxious to learn what exciting event was going forward. "it is hilda! it is hilda!" cried the countess tekla, springing to her feet, and rushing to the frightened girl. "hilda, what is it? speak calmly. you are safe here." "oh, my lady, it is conrad who is in danger. save him, save him. i cannot talk or it will be too late. steinmetz is hanging him. the captain sold the castle to the archbishop, and conrad saw it done. therefore he is killing conrad. oh, make haste, my lord." "what is that?" roared the black count. "steinmetz a traitor? it is a lie!" "let us see to it at once, my lord," said rodolph, sternly, "the thing does not seem to me so incredible." count heinrich grasped a naked sword, and with it in his hand, strode to the door bareheaded as he was, his great shock of shaggy coal-black hair seeming to bristle in anger. rodolph, also picking up a sword, quickly followed him. the count jangled down the stone steps, and, emerging into the courtyard, beheld a striking scene. notwithstanding the bright moonlight, part of the courtyard was in darkness, and men stood there holding lighted torches above their heads, whose yellow flaring rays mingled strangely with the pure white beams of the moon. the gates were now shut, and the space within the walls was clamorous with excited men, most of whom were gazing upward at a man astride a piece of timber that projected from the castle wall, bidding him make haste. he had the rope between his teeth, and was working his way to the end of the beam, somewhat over-cautious, perhaps fearing a fall on the hard flags beneath. steinmetz, who shot forth curt commands, palpably nervous with impatience, feeling the necessity for a regular execution before witnesses, yet cursing the inevitable slowness of the proceedings, kept an eye on the doorway, and was thus the first to see the coming of the black count, whose mottled face in the glare of the torches looked like a death's head. the captain started, and clenched and unclenched his hands in an agony of anxiety, yet he knew his master could have no suspicion of the real state of the case, and he counted on his impulse to hang the man first and make inquiry after. it was not the count's coming he so much feared as that of the man who followed him, for he knew the cool mastery of lord rodolph, who would perhaps insist on the ungagging of the prisoner, and the hearing of his version. if then he could get conrad partly throttled while making explanations to his master, all might yet be well, even were the gag removed, and so after the first spasm of surprise at the unexpected coming of the black count, he breathed easier, casting an evil eye on rodolph, ready to resent his interference, and to inflame the count against him, if, as he rightly surmised, there was not too great a liking between the two. conrad swayed slightly from side to side as he stood bound and gagged, the loop of the rope round his neck. his face was ghastly in its pallor, and looked as if life had already left it, the wanness of its appearance being heightened by a trickle of blood which flowed down his chin from the spot where the rude putting in of the gag had cut his lip. the tall nobleman came forward with martial stride, his men falling into immediate silence as they noticed his presence among them. when he spoke it was with a level calmness for which rodolph was not prepared, after the outburst that almost immediately preceded it in the hall. the count looked lowering at his officer, and said: "what have we here, captain steinmetz?" "a traitor, my lord. i have, for some time, suspected him, and to-night kept watch upon him. he slipped down the walls by this rope which the sentinel but a few moments since found there. i came upon him trafficking with two emissaries of the archbishop, and when i called to the sentinel, all three fell upon me. this man himself, when the guards came to my rescue, was fighting with a sword belonging to the archbishop. my lieutenant here, who disarmed him, informs me that it is a treves blade, and he will tell you that he took it from him." "that is true, my lord," said the lieutenant, when the count darted a piercing glance at him. "in what is this man a traitor, captain steinmetz?" next asked the black count, still speaking with moderation. "i heard him agree to deliver up the castle to the archbishop's troops, letting them come over the wall by the same rope which he had used, while he himself stood sentry, and delivered us up by giving no alarm." "why this haste with his execution, captain steinmetz? am i not still lord of thuron, with the power of life and death over those within?" "yes, my lord, but if we are to be free from treachery, sharp punishment should fall on the offender. i myself caught him red-handed, and my lieutenant, as he has told you, took from him a traitorous sword of treves. for less than that, i cut off the head of a better man before the siege began." "true, so you did. this man has sold us, then? search him, and let us see at how much we are valued by their august lordships." two men at a nod from the count fell upon conrad and brought forth all there was to be found on him, a pitiful handful of small coins. these, at the count's command, the searchers poured into the huge open palm of his lordship, who looked closely at the pieces, demanding that a torch be held near him, while he made the examination. when it was finished the inspector thrust forth his open hand toward the captain, saying: "this is not traitorous money. every coin has my own effigy on it, which, if unlovely, is still honest? what say you to that, captain steinmetz?" "my lord, the money was not paid to him, but promised when the castle was delivered." "ah, captain steinmetz, there your own good heart deceives you. you know so little of treachery that you think all men equally innocent. that is not the way of the world, honest steinmetz, for a traitor is ever a suspicious villain, and demands not a few paltry pieces of silver, but the yellow gold paid in hand. strike a traitor, captain steinmetz, and he jingles with gold." as the black count spoke his voice gradually rose to a tone of such menace that more than one standing near him trembled, and a paleness of apprehension swept over the captain's hardened face. heinrich, with a sweep of his hand, scattered the coins clattering to the stones, and with the flat of his drawn sword struck the captain quickly, first on one side, then the other. an intense stillness pervaded the courtyard; every man seemed transformed into stone, and stood there motionless, dimly perceiving that something ominous was in the air, yet not understanding the drift of events. as each blow fell, a chink of coins broke the silence. the captain half drew his own sword, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the gates. "the gates are closed, steinmetz," roared the count, losing all control of himself in his wild rage. "lieutenant, see that they are securely barred and guarded. pikes here! lower, and surround this traitor." the lancemen jumped alertly at the word of command, and instantly a bristling array of levelled pikes circled the doomed captain, who, seeing the game was up and escape impossible, folded his arms across his breast and stood there making no outcry. "unbind this man. take the gag from his mouth and the rope from his neck. now, fellow, is it true that you were outside the walls? what were you doing there?" conrad stood speechless, apparently in a dazed condition, looking about him like one in a dream, but when the emperor spoke kindly to him, he moistened his dry lips, and drew the back of his hand across his chin. "what did you say?" he asked, turning his eyes upon his master. "my lord, the count, wishes to know if it is true that you were outside the walls, and asks why you were there." "i went to meet hilda, who had come up from alken." "then you disobeyed orders, and have deserved the fright you got," broke in the count. "how came you with a treves blade?" "i wrested it from one of the archbishop's men when the captain fell on me. i tried to defend myself and called for the guard, but when it came it arrested and gagged me." "what is the truth of this selling of the castle?" "the captain was to unbar the gates an hour after guard-changing to-morrow night, and the archbishop's troops were to enter silently. he told them to be certain to secure your lordship first, otherwise you might rally the men and defeat the soldiers, even though they got inside." the black count almost smiled as he heard this compliment paid him, and he cast a malignant glance at the silent captain. "yes," he cried, "the opening of the gates seems more likely than the climbing of the wall. now search steinmetz as you searched his prisoner, and let us see what you discover. i think i heard the chime of coin in his neighbourhood." without resistance the searchers brought forth the three bags of gold, one of which the count tore open, pouring the yellow pieces into his palm as he had done with conrad's silver. his eyes lit up again with the insane frenzy which now and then shone in them, as he gazed down at the coins, on each of which was the head of his old enemy, arnold von isenberg. scattering the money from his hand as if it had suddenly become red hot, he seized the three bags one after another and dashed them in fury on the stones, where they burst, sending the gold like a shower of sparks from a smith's anvil all over the courtyard. men's eyes glittered at the sight, but such was their terror of the black count that no one moved a muscle as this wealth rolled at their feet. "steinmetz," shouted the count, "draw your sword and cast it on the stones. no man can take it, for none amongst us is so low and vile but he would be contaminated by the touch of it." captain steinmetz drew his sword and flung it ringing at his master's feet. the count stamped on it near the hilt and shattered the blade like an icicle. turning to the followers he cried: "you see this man has sold us. what should be the fate of such a traitor?" with one voice the men shouted: "he should be hanged with the rope he designed for the other." the count pondered a moment with lowering brows, then said, his face as malignant as that of a demon: "not so. my good brother of treves has bought him, and i am too honest a trader to cheat the holy archbishop, god bless him, of his purchase. we shall bind our worthy captain and straightway deliver him, as goods duly bargained for, to his owner, von isenberg. tear off his cloak and bind him, leaving his legs free that he may walk." surprise and delight gleamed in the captain's eyes. merely to be delivered to the archbishop of treves, was getting well out of a predicament he had come to look upon as fatal. in spite of their fear of the master of thuron, there were murmurs at this unexampled clemency, and rodolph gave voice to the general feeling. "i think, my lord, that his treachery, not to speak of his usage of an innocent man, is inadequately punished by simply handing him over to the archbishop, who assuredly will not molest him further." but the count made no answer. when the elbows of the criminal were securely bound, heinrich said; "lieutenant, select a dozen of your best catapult men as guard to the prisoner. bring with you the rope and take this archbishop's man under close watch to the top of the north tower. let a torchbearer precede us. follow us, my lord rodolph, and you, fellow, who came so near to hanging." when they reached the top of the north tower, captain steinmetz, with sudden premonition of his fate, now for the first time cried aloud for mercy, but the count paid no heed to him. from this tower could best be descried the awful depth of the thaurand's chasm, made the more terrible by the partial illumination of the moon adding a seeming vastness to the gulf, which the clearer light of day dispelled. the profound and narrow valley appeared gloomy and unfathomable, and on the opposite height above it gleamed the great white tent of the archbishops. "bend back the catapult," commanded the count. the stalwart men threw themselves on the levers, and slowly worked back the tremendous arms of the engine, which bent grudgingly, groaning from long disuse. at last the claw-like clutches which held the incurvated beams in place until released by a jerk of the rope, snapped into position, and the catapult men, rising and straightening their backs from the levers, drew hand across perspiring brow. "take up the rope," said the count to conrad, who with visible reluctance lifted the release rope, and stood holding it. "now force this traitor's head between his knees. double up his legs, and tie him into a ball. the archbishop must not complain that we deliver goods slovenly." steinmetz screamed aloud, and cried that such punishment was inhuman; even the guard hesitated, but an oath from the black count and a fierce glare flung about him, put springs into their bodies, and they fell on their late captain, smothering his cries, jamming down his head as they had been directed to do, finally tying him into a bundle that looked like nothing human. the wails of the doomed man in this constrained position would have cried mercy to any less savage than the count. "place him on the catapult." two men picked him up and flung him into the jaws of the waiting monster with as little ceremony as if he were a sack of corn. "pull the rope, fellow." conrad stood motionless, gazing with horror at the furious count. "stop, stop," cried rodolph. "i protest against this cruelty. it is never your intention to launch him into eternity in such ghastly fashion. this is fiendish torture, not justice." the count, with the snarl of a wild beast, sprang forward, seized the rope from conrad's nerveless fingers, jerked the mechanism loose before any could move to prevent him, and the great beams shot out like the arms of a man swimming. the human bundle was hurled forth into space, giving vent to a long continued shriek, that struck terror into every heart but that of the man who stood with the rope in his hand, his exultant face turned triumphantly upward in the moonlight. the shriek, continually lessening, rose and fell as the victim's head revolved round and round in its course through the air. the human projectile disappeared long before it reached the earth, and every one stood motionless awaiting the crash which they thought would come to them in the still night air across the valley, but the count sprang forward, and standing at the parapet, shook his clenched fist toward the sky, filling the valley with a madman's laughter which came echoing back to them from the opposite cliffs, as if there were in the hills a cave full of malignant maniacs. "there, arnold von isenberg," he roared, "the gold is in my courtyard; the merchandise is in your camp." chapter xxxiv. the black count's defiance. during the two years that the siege lasted, the archbishops did not remain in their camp on the heights as pertinaciously as their soldiers had to cling to the line around the castle. konrad von hochstaden spent much of his time at cologne and arnold von isenberg in treves. frequent messengers kept the latter aware that nothing in particular was happening, but the former had no such interest in the progress of the contest, and was content to visit the camp at widely infrequent intervals. the lord of cologne became somewhat tired of being reminded by his colleague that the siege, as then conducted, was following the lines laid down by himself, and not those which would better have pleased the more aggressive lord of treves. whenever konrad, grudging the expense and inconvenience of keeping so many of his men in an occupation so barren of results, grumbled at the fruitlessness of their endeavours, the other called his attention to the fact that this bloodless method of conquest originated not in treves but in cologne. all this tended towards irritation, and the communications between the two allies were marked by an acerbity that was as deplorable as it was inevitable. in reply to the complaints of the archbishop of cologne, his friend of treves advised him to lay the corner-stone of his cathedral, and progress with its construction, leaving the conduct of the siege to those more eager for war than for the building of churches, but konrad von hochstaden held that he could not begin such an edifice while his hands were imbrued with blood. arnold replied cynically that in so far as that was concerned his lordship might go on with his architecture, for the siege was as bloodless as a pilgrimage. when nearly two years had been consumed in sitting before thuron, the archbishop of cologne declared his patience exhausted, and sent a message to treves with the announcement that he would appear in camp on a certain day and return to cologne with his men behind him. this message brought arnold von isenberg from treves to the camp some days in advance of his partner, and as he was himself tiring of the contest, he opened negotiations with captain steinmetz for the betrayal of the castle. the money was sent on the day that his lordship of cologne arrived, and next night, or the night after, at latest, the archbishop of treves expected to have the black count at his mercy. the two princes met that day at dinner, and greeted each other with somewhat distant courtesy. as the meal went on, and the wine flagons were emptied with greater frequency, conversation became less reserved and more emphatic than during the earlier part of the feast. the wine, so far from producing friendliness between the august confederates, had rather an opposite effect, and, as the hum of conversation deepened into one continuous roar, there was an undertone, acrid and ominous, of enmity and distrust. at the long table there were perhaps thirty men on each side. the chair at the head of the board was empty, for such was the jealousy between the two dignitaries that neither would concede to the other the right to sit there if both were present. when either the archbishop of treves or his brother of cologne was in camp alone, he sat in the chair of state at the head of the table, but now one had his place on the right hand side and the other sat facing him. next to treves was count bertrich, after him the secretary of the archbishop, then down the table on that side were all the various officers of treves, according to their rank. in like manner the followers of the archbishop of cologne were placed, and thus there were, fronting each other, two hostile rows of drinking men, theoretically allies. as the wine flowed freely, the assemblage resembled two lines of combatants, who only waited the disappearance of the table from between them to fly at each other's throats. exception, however, must be made of arnold von isenberg himself, whose attitude was coolly and scrupulously correct, and in the heated throng he was the only one who maintained control over voice and gesture; who answered questions quietly and put them with careful moderation of speech. yet it would have been difficult for an unprejudiced observer to understand thoroughly the motives that actuated the astute archbishop of treves, for while his own example had a restraining effect on the impulses of his men, and as a matter of fact on his opponents as well, he would, when matters seemed about to mend, interject some sneering, cutting phrase, all the more unbearable because it was peacefully uttered, sometimes with a glimmer of a smile about his thin lips, that would once more put his brother of cologne into a towering rage, and thus, while apparently quenching the fire, he was in reality adding fuel to it. when konrad, goaded beyond endurance by some taunt, gave forcible expression to his anger, arnold would look across the table at him with a pained and anxious expression, of which child-like innocence seemed the distinguishing characteristic, as if he could not understand what had so grievously disturbed his worthy colleague. konrad von hochstaden drank more than was his custom. he had resolved that night to withdraw his forces, a determination of which he had given treves full notice, in writing sent by special messenger, but arnold continued to ignore this communication, and when von hochstaden endeavoured to bring on a discussion with reference to their approaching severance, the other jauntily waived the subject aside, treating it as if it were a good-natured pleasantry which did not merit serious consideration. thus rebuffed, the archbishop of cologne drank deeply, so that when the time for action came, he would have made up for his natural deficiency of courage by a temporary bravery drawn from the flagon. arnold, as was his invariable custom, drank sparingly, sipping the wine occasionally rather than drinking it, and thus the two nominal friends, but actual foes, sat in contra-position to each other, the one getting redder and redder in the face and louder and louder in the voice, the other with firm hand on his appetites and even tones in his speech. "well," cried konrad von hochstaden, raising his flagon aloft, "here's good luck and speedy success to the archbishop of treves, in the reducing of the black count's castle, now that he is about to set himself to the task alone." "thank you," replied arnold von isenberg, "if i were indeed alone the siege would soon be ended." "what mean you by that, my lord?" asked cologne, flushing with anger. "have i then hampered your attack? i wish to god you had said as much two years ago. i was willing enough to withdraw." "i have never made complaint, my lord, of your lack of energy in retreat," replied arnold with a smile and a bow, and a general air of saying the most polite thing that could readily come to a man's tongue. konrad, glaring menacingly at his foe, half rose in his place, and put his right hand to the hilt of the sword by his side. "now by the three kings of cologne--" he cried, but the other interrupted him, saying with gentle suggestion: "and add the holy coat of treves, in token of our amicable compact. when i swear, which is seldom, so few occasions being worth the effort, i always use the coat and the kings in conjunction, as tending towards strength in their union, and as evidence of the loyalty of my partnership with the guardian of the bones of the magi, presented by frederick barbarossa, god rest his soul, to archbishop von dassele of cologne, god rest _his_ soul also, something less than a century ago. you will find great merit, my lord, in swearing by the combination." "our partnership, arnold of treves, is at an end, a fact of which i have already formally given you intimation. it is at an end because of continued deceit and treachery in the compact." "you grieve me deeply by your confession, my lord, and i am loath to credit anything to your disadvantage, even though the admission come from your own lips. had another made such charge against you, he should have had to answer personally to me. i hold your honor as dearly as my own." "i cannot pretend to follow your subtleties. i am an outspoken man, and do not feign friendship where there is none. confession? charge against me? i do not know what you mean." "there are but two to our compact, my lord. you say there has been treachery in it. there has been none on my part, therefore if truth dwells in your statement, and--i am put in the invidious position of being compelled to believe either that you have been treacherous or that you speak falsely--the deceit must have been practised by you. so i termed your remark a confession, and added in deep humility, that i was slow to believe it. i know of no deceit on your part, as i know of none on my own." the archbishop of cologne stood for a moment staring at his antagonist, then thrusting his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard, he sank again into his seat, and took a long draught from the flagon with shaking hand. many of his followers drank as deeply as himself, and were clamorous, shouting boisterously when he spoke; but others looked with anxiety towards their leader, fearing an outbreak, the consequences of which no one could foretell. "you have used deceit, and not i," said the archbishop of cologne. "you said this siege would last but a short time, while at the end of two years we are no nearer the possession of the castle than when we began." "we are two years nearer," replied the lord of treves, calmly, "but i made no predictions regarding the length of the siege when it began. the bloodless environment of the castle was your plan, and not mine. i had little belief in your method, and have less now, but i fell in with it to please you, and i regret to find that after two years' constant endeavour to meet your approval, i have apparently failed. but, although i may have hopes of saintship being the reward of my life-long patience and moderation, i have never pretended to the mantle of a prophet; therefore, i hazarded no opinion with reference to the duration of the siege." "you said heinrich of thuron was but imperfectly provisioned; that he did not have time to fill his castle with grain. in that you must admit you were wrong." "we are fallible creatures, my lord, which statement i make in all deference, willing instantly to withdraw it, if you object to being placed in a category in which i am compelled to include myself. i formed an opinion of the black count's resources from reports brought to me. these reports apparently contained mis-statements; therefore my deductions from them were wrong. in that there was error of judgment, but you spoke of wilful deceit--an entirely different matter, and a mistake on your part for which you are, doubtless, eagerly waiting opportunity to apologise." "no apology is due from me. in spite of your verbal trickery, i have been deluded and cozened from the first; that i say, and that i adhere to. still, of what avail is talk----" "true, true," murmured arnold, gently. "you were ever a man of action, my lord." "i shall be a man of action now; i have been too long quiescent!" cried von hochstaden, again half-drawing his sword and springing to his feet with a celerity that might not have been expected from one who had had the flagon so constantly under tribute. "i shall now leave this camp and bring with me every officer and man that is mine. they are as weary of this business as i am, and will be glad to follow. you may then get others to be your dupes." count bertrich, who had with difficulty kept his hot temper in hand during this dialogue, now leaped upright, and flashing out the sword that was by his side, smote the table with the hilt of it, as he shouted: "my lord of cologne, twice you have made a feeble attempt to draw your reluctant weapon; if you had kept your eyes on me you would have seen how easily the trick is done. my over-lord does not choose to chastise you for your insolence to him, but i would have you know there are good blades here ready to meet those of your men, the moment he gives the signal. if you want to appeal to the sword, in god's name have the courage to draw it; if you rest on argument and reason, then keep your seat and address my lord of treves with that respect which his position as prince of the church demands." at this wild cheers burst from the men of treves. each warrior stood up, and there was a bristling hedge of swords held in the air above their heads. the men of cologne rose also, but hesitatingly, not actuated by the instantaneous impulse which brought such quick action into play on the other side of the table. the archbishop of treves alone remained seated, a cynical smile parting his lips. he raised his hand as if to pronounce benediction, and by a slight motion of it, soothed and quelled the disturbance in a manner almost magical. the swords, seemingly of their own accord, returned to their scabbards, and one by one the wearers seated themselves. "you see, my lord," he said, in a low voice, "how quickly a bad example influences those who look on. your hand to the hilt brought steel into view even before a good half of your own formidable weapon was visible. my trusty captain has asked you, with all a soldier's bluntness, which a champion like yourself will be first to excuse, to be seated. may i, in the utmost humility, associate myself with his desire? the sword, alas, has its uses, still it is but a cumbrous instrument at a dinner table. you were speaking, i think, of withdrawing your men, but in the tumult, i fear, i missed your peroration." cologne thrust his weapon back into its scabbard, but he nevertheless remained standing. "if the tongue were a weapon----" "it is, in a measure." "--i would grant that you are master of it," said von hochstaden. "i thank you for the compliment, and its generosity gives me hope that we are about to come to an amicable understanding." "we have already come to an understanding, and if you consider it amicable, the better am i pleased. to-night i withdraw my troops." "and why?" "the reasons i have already set down in my communication to you at treves." "i do not recall them; at least my remembrance is, that on perusing them they did not seem to me to justify a withdrawal. would you, therefore, for our present enlightenment, recount the most important clauses of your letter?" "one reason will suffice. i cannot consent to have my troops longer engaged in a futile enterprise." "ah, yes. i recollect now that such an excuse for cowardice seemed entirely indefensible." "for cowardice, my lord?" "call it what you will. i shall not quarrel about terms; withdrawal is, i think, your favourite word. however, to please you, i acted instantly in the matter, and will therefore be in possession of the castle to-morrow night, or, making allowances for accidents, the night following. accordingly, my lord, you shall not withdraw your troops, but will enjoy the pleasures of conquest with me." "you will possess thuron so soon?" "of a surety." "if you are so certain of that, why did you not inform me of the prospect, i being an ally of yours?" "it is not my custom to spread my plans abroad. you were in cologne, probably most devoutly occupied, and i hesitated to obtrude worldly affairs on your attention. had you been here, and had you expressed any curiosity in the matter, i should have satisfied it, as i do now." "frankly, my lord, i do not believe you. this is but another of your crafty tricks to keep my men at your beck and call. i have had enough of such foolery, and am not to be again deluded. if this taking of thuron can be so speedily accomplished now, why was it not done six months or a year ago?" "i shall charge to the potency of the wine the insinuation made against my probity, and will therefore pass it by. your method of siege, my lord, was a plant of slow growth. i have but grafted upon it a little sprig of my own, which is now blossoming and will to-morrow bear fruit: an exceedingly swift maturity. six months ago, your slow growing stem was not ready to receive a graft; now it is, and there all's said. i therefore count confidently on your co-operation." "i shall not rob your lordship of the full glory of success. you shall have no co-operation from me." "you still do not believe what i say, perhaps?" "perhaps." "i am not given to substantiating my statements, but in this instance, such is my warm friendship for you, i will change an old habit and shortly furnish you with proof. i am momentarily expecting the return of my messengers, and you will hear from their lips that the castle has been bought and paid for, and that it will be in our possession at a given time, perhaps not more than twenty-four hours hence." "your messengers will report to you alone, my lord, for i shall not stay to question them," cried von hochstaden. "up, men of cologne, we have waited here too long. to the north, to the north!" the archbishop of treves, seeing that a crisis had come, leaned forward, and sharply hissed the word, "swords!" the single syllable might have been an incantation, so quickly was it acted upon. it was evidently a prearranged signal, for the moment it was uttered, every man on the treves side of the table whipped out his blade, and placed its point at the throat of the man who sat opposite him. none were so drunk as not to know that a single lunge forward on the part of the assailants would cause the simultaneous deaths of the followers of cologne. each, sobered by the sudden menace and the presence of a grave danger, sat motionless as if turned to stone. his lordship of cologne stood uncertainly, and cast a wavering eye down along the bridge of steel that spanned the table. his serene lordship of treves sat in his place, an ill-omened glitter in his piercing eye, while his thin bloodless lips were compressed into a straight line. after an interval of silence he spoke in silky tones: "i see, my lord, that it is unnecessary for me to caution your men not to move hand to hilt until some friendly arrangement is come to between you and me. the air has been thick with threats for some time past; it is well that definite action should clear it. how easy would it be for me to give another brief signal and thus end the lives of all your followers in this tent? with you a prisoner, word could be sent to the camp, and your unsuspecting soldiers would be prisoners as well. thus might i act were i a bloody-minded warrior, but i thank my maker, and you may well join your thanks with mine, that i am ever a man of peace, rarely using forceful measures except when compelled to do so. perhaps you will consent to reconsider your decision, my lord." "go on with your treacherous butchery, cut-throat of treves, and see what good you reap from it." "it is easy for you, my lord, to say go on, when your throat is unthreatened, but i grieve for those who must be victims of your stubbornness. in case you may imagine that the cut-throat of treves will hesitate when it comes to your own august person, i beg to remind your lordship that an ancestor of mine slew a predecessor of yours." "say murdered, and you will be nearer the mark." the archbishop of treves spread out his hands in conciliatory fashion and, bowing slightly, replied, "well, murdered then, if it please you. i am always willing to concede to a disputant his own choice of words." von hochstaden's secretary, standing at his master's elbow, filled with alarm at the threatening aspect of affairs, pleaded in whispers with him to give way, but the prelate, with an angry motion of his hand, waved the subordinate aside, bidding him hold his peace. the good ambrose, with uplifted eyes and paled face, prayed that heaven might send peace to that sorely divided camp. heaven replied in its own way, but in a manner which made the startled occupants of the tent imagine that the prayer had been literally answered. the archbishop of cologne was about to speak when there was an impact on the end of the tent which first made it bulge suddenly in, then the cloth ripped with a loud report, and there shot swiftly along the line of swords, sweeping many of them jangling from the hands of their owners, a nondescript bundle that sped hurtling down the table, coming to rest against the heavy chair at the head, with a woeful groan like the rending of a soul from a body; a groan that struck wild terror into every heart, so supernatural did it seem, giving appalling indication that there was yet life in the shapeless heap when it was hurled against the tent. even the archbishop of treves, for the first time that evening, sprang in quick alarm to his feet, as the living projectile dropped from the end of the table into the empty chair, and lay there motionless. the men of cologne, who had been seated breathless, with the sharp points of the swords at their throats, now took swift advantage of the amazing intervention, and, throwing themselves backwards, jumped upright, plucked blade from scabbard, and stood at least on equal terms with their foes, but having thus prepared themselves for defence, all remained silent and motionless, awe-struck by the astounding interruption. through the tattered rent in the end of the tent came the sound of distant laughter, like the laughter of some fiend suspended in the sky, and then all distinctly heard the words: "there, arnold von isenberg! the gold is in my courtyard; the merchandise is in your camp!" chapter xxxv. the night escape of the emperor. when the black count had shouted his defiance to the tent of the archbishop, he stood there in the calm moonlight with his clenched fist raised high above his head, while a deep silence held in thrall all who were on the roof of the northern tower. suddenly his upstretched hand dropped to his side, and the wild exultation faded from his fiery eyes. he turned, and curtly bidding the others to follow, clanked down the circular stone stair, and presently entered the courtyard he had so recently quitted. all his men there assembled stood motionless as he had left them. the yellow bits of gold lay where they had fallen, no man having had the courage to stoop and pick up a single coin. heinrich flashed a contemptuous glance at the scattered metal, and said: "lieutenant, see that this trash is gathered up. give half of it to the honest fellow who discovered the plot, and divide the rest among yourselves. you will take temporary command until i have further investigated this treachery." "my lord," interrupted rodolph, "conrad is my man, and i will myself undertake to compensate him for what he has undergone. i beg of you to divide the archbishop's gold entirely among those who have stood so faithfully by the castle. if you give orders to that effect, i would be glad to have a word with you in private." "what is done, is done," replied the black count, frowning. "there is little good in further talk about it. i mean with regard to the sending away of the traitor; that's past praying for; the dividing of the gold shall be according to your wish." "what is done, is done, as you most truly say, and i have no comment to make upon it. if a man is to be killed, and steinmetz richly merited death, i suppose it matters little how his taking off is accomplished so that it be speedy, and none can complain that he was kept long in suspense. i shall have the honour of following you to the council chamber, my lord." the black count strode up the stone steps and entered the now deserted room, turning round upon his guest with some apprehension on his brow. "well, my lord," he said, and from his tones had departed all their former truculence. "i have to ask your permission to leave the castle to-night. the time is ripe for my departure, and i think during the commotion that will inevitably ensue in the enemy's camp after the receipt of your startling message, i may the more surely make my way through the lines. i shall, with as little delay as need be, bring up my own men, and i imagine we will have small difficulty in raising the siege, or at least in getting through to you some necessary provender, if you can but hold out for a few days longer." "how many men answer to your command?" "enough to make their lordships regret that my followers are thrown in the scale against them." for a moment an elated gleam of hope lit up the dark eye of the count, but it soon died away as unbelief in the other's ability to do what he had promised reasserted itself. "you have been here for two years: your men are now most likely scattered, or may indeed be in the archbishop's own camp. when the hand of the master is withdrawn, his mercenaries look to themselves!" "true, my lord; but i have been in constant communication with my trusty lieutenant, and he now informs me that everything is ready." "how can you have been in communication with him?" "the good monk, my lord, was my secret messenger." "ah! that accounts for his frequent visits, then. well, go, in god's name, if you think you can benefit us. i trust you all the more because i believe there is one within these walls whom you would wish to see neither harmed nor starved. i am not blind, although i say little." "you are right, my lord, and your observation has not misled you. but i would like you to credit this; that even if there were none such, i would gladly come to your aid, on your account as well. i propose to take conrad and the archer with me, for we may arrive at blows in the getting away, and i wish two followers in whom i have confidence. besides, the departure of three will relieve, to that extent, the slender resources of the castle. i hope i have your approval of my project." "surely, surely. may prosperity attend you, and may i meet you at my own gate with your lancemen at your back. you will be most heartily welcome." the two shook hands and parted with much cordiality. rodolph made his way to his room in the tower, followed by conrad. there they found the archer, seemingly in deep dejection. "well," cried rodolph, "are you returned already? what luck have you had with the poet?" "roger is as stubborn as a mule, my lord, and insists that his oath to the archbishop will not allow him to let me pass through the lines. a plague on his good principles. i never let my principles interfere with the serving of a friend." "is it so, honest john? you would, then, at the request of roger, allow me to be captured by the archbishops?" "oh, no, my lord," replied the archer, in astonishment at the bare suggestion. "not for all the friends that were ever weaned in england would i betray your lordship." "i am sure of it. therefore must we not be too severe on the poet if he refuses to do for one friend what you would not do for a whole regiment of them. where is our faithful rhymester on guard?" "he stands in the valley of the thaurand, in a most excellent position for our escape, and that is the pity of it, curses on his stubbornness. we could slip through to the stream and either up the opposite hill or along the water course to the moselle quite unmolested, once we were past the lines. if your honour commands me to do it, i will send an arrow through his unfriendly heart, although i must say i would loosen string with grief and bitterness in my own; then we may pass unchecked." "no, no. such a trial shall not be put upon you. the arrow is silent, and if it be necessary we will send it through the heart of another on the line, and step over his body. but it is best to attain our object bloodlessly, if possible, for a man killed may cause the hue and cry to be raised after us. has roger no poetry to recite to you? no new verses or changes in the old, regarding which he wishes your sage opinions?" "oh, he has plenty of new verse, curse him, but i told him i would not wait to hear, saying i believed him no true poet at all, thus leaving him in deep melancholy, leaning on his bow regardless of the strain upon it, as i bent my way up the hill." "'tis a pity author and critic should part in anger. will you then make your way to him again, taking your bow and a well-filled quiver with you. apologise for your remarks reflecting on his quality as poet; say your bad temper made you speak, and not your critical judgment. induce him to recite all that is new in his composition, and also some of the old verses, until you hear my signal on the other side of the valley. then break his bow so that he may not injure you, and fly to us. during the recital we will steal through as silently as we can, trusting to the poet's fervour of genius for our being unseen and unheard. win to us then if you can; should this be impossible, conrad and i will have to make our way down the moselle without you. i will give you an hour to make your peace with the offended roger, then, when you hear the night bird's cry, know that we are about to steal through the lines. keep roger busily engaged without rest until the cry comes to you again from the other side of the valley. if he discover us and is about to give the alarm, i trust that you will let friendship fly to the winds for a short time and promptly throttle him, escaping after, as best you may." "i will do all i can, even if i have to wring his long neck," said the archer, buckling quiver to his back and taking up his bow. when he had gone rodolph turned to conrad. "hilda has had a somewhat exciting evening of it, and will be glad to have assurance that you are unhurt. seek her out, therefore, and bid her farewell for a few days. ask her, so that you may not be interrupted during your parting, to deliver a message to the countess tekla from me. tell the countess that i am on the battlements and beg of her indulgence that she meet me there. i value you so highly, conrad, that i will myself engage the countess in conversation, so that hilda may not be called upon by her ladyship, until your conference is ended. thus i hope to merit the gratitude of both hilda and yourself." "thank you, my lord," said conrad, with a smile as he departed on his mission. the young emperor, his hands clasped behind him, paced up and down the broad promenade in the moonlight. he was now at last on the eve of achievement; about to return to his capital and take his rightful place at the head of the state. an army awaited him, quietly accumulated and efficiently drilled. this huge weapon was ready to his hand to be wielded absolutely as pleased him, for the good or for the evil of his country. the young man pondered gravely on the situation. what would be the result? bloodshed and civil war, or peace and prosperity in the land? would the archbishops fight when he ordered the siege to be raised, or would they obey his command? only a few more moonlight nights lay between him and this knowledge. as he meditated on his danger and hopes, the white slender figure of the countess came up the steps to the promenade, and he rushed forward to meet her with both hands outstretched. "ah, tekla," he said, "it is kind of you to come." the girl put her hands in his, but there was an expression of concern on her face. "what has uncle done with captain steinmetz?" she asked. "he was a traitor," said rodolph, sternly. "i know, i know, but for long he was in my uncle's service, and he has been these two years one of our defenders. perhaps, half starved, he succumbed to the temptation of a moment. his years of good faith should not be forgotten at this time. is he in prison?" "no. the black count bound him and sent him, with a warlike message, to the archbishop of treves." "oh," cried the girl, much relieved, "i am glad that nothing more severe was done. i feared my uncle, in his just anger, might have acted harshly, but i think you have had a good influence on him, rodolph. i have noted, with gladness, how he defers to you." "i suppose we influence more or less all those with whom we come into contact. i should be glad to believe that i had a benign effect upon his conduct, but, before arriving at a definite conclusion in the matter, i shall await further proof of his lordship's leaning towards clemency and softness of speech." "what further proof could you wish than the incident to-night? i assure you, and you are yourself very well aware, that two years ago, yes, and often since then, my uncle would have killed steinmetz on evidence of such treachery." "i think he would have deserved his fate, tekla; and now i beg of you dismiss the traitor for ever from your mind, and give your unworthy lover some space in your thoughts. i am about to quit the castle, and i ask your good wishes in my venture. i hope shortly to return at the head of my own men, and have some influence on the siege if i have little with your uncle." "to leave the castle? does my uncle know?" "yes, and he cordially approves my scheme. furthermore, he has no doubts about my loyalty, for he says he is cognizant of the fact that i leave one within the castle to whom i shall be most eager to return, which is, indeed, the case, my tekla." "he knows that also, does he?" replied the girl, blushing, and hiding her blushes on the shoulder of her lover. rodolph, bending over and caressing her, undid a knot of ribbon at her throat, kissing the white neck thus laid bare. "i shall wear your colours on my arm, tekla, till i return, if you will but tie them there and entangle your good wishes with the knot." the girl tied the shred of ribbon on his arm, daintily pressing her lips to the knot when it was in place. "there," she cried, looking up at him with moist and glistening eyes, "that will bring you safely to me; but, rodolph, you will be careful and not rash. do not jeopardise your own safety for--for us. i fear your men are but few, and if that is the case, do not, i beg of you, adventure life in a hopeless enterprise. let us rather surrender and throw ourselves on the mercy of the archbishop." "i should scarcely care to trust to his tender heart, but you may be sure i shall use all caution. i think my men will be ample in number for the task i shall set to them, and in any case we will be strong in the justice of our cause and the prayers of our lady. and now tekla, i must be gone and trust myself to the outcome of the night. i hear conrad approaching with a clumsy noisiness that betokens a desire to deal with others as he would be dealt with himself. his coming shows that the moment of parting is at hand, for another awaits us, and our success depends on our being at our post in the valley at the exact time, so kiss me, my tekla, before the faithful head of conrad appears above the battlements." the kiss and others to supplement it were given and taken. "we shall always remember these battlements, rodolph," she whispered to him. when conrad at last came, rodolph and he disappeared over the wall together: tekla, leaning against the parapet, little as she imagined it, bade farewell for ever to her knight of the moselle. it was destined that the next lover she was to meet would be no unknown lord, but the emperor of germany himself. chapter xxxvi. the five billetless arrows. the bowman, with characteristic caution, stole down the hill until he neared the line, wound so tightly round the castle. here his circumspection redoubled, and, trailing his bow after him, he crawled on hands and knees towards his friend, roger kent, who, with bowed head, marched to and fro along his accustomed beat. the poet seemed in a state of blank despondency, but whether on account of the slanders of an unsympathetic world, or for the reason that he had parted in discordant terms from his comrade, john surrey could not tell. a warble from the forest caused the sentinel to raise his head and peer into the denseness of the thicket. the moon showed his face to be alert and expectant, expressions which changed into a look of joy when the warble was repeated and he saw emerge from the plantation the rotund figure of his friend and critic. the latter motioned him to come out of the moonlight into the shadow, and the unsuspicious roger, casting a glance round him, seeing the coast clear, approached until the gloom of the wood fell over him, then stood, realising that, after all, the insult had not been of his bestowal, and that etiquette at least demanded from john some verbal amends for his former verbal buffets, if there was to be peace between them. "roger," said john, "i could not sleep until i had told you how sorry i am that my roughness of speech gave you good cause for offence, and i beg you to think no more of my words." "what you said," replied roger, dolefully, "was no doubt true enough. i have been thinking over your estimate of my poems, and i fear i have, in my enthusiasm, at various times given you the idea that i held them in high esteem myself; but alas, no one knows better than i what poor trash they are, and i recited them to you that i might profit by your criticism. i cannot find fault with an honest opinion." "it was not an honest opinion," cried john, fervently. "i was disappointed that you refused to pleasure my master by allowing him to get free of the castle, but he has said that you were quite right to stand by your oath and showed me that, in your place, i would have done the same. ah, he has a high opinion of poets, my master." "has he so? then am i the more unfortunate that i cannot aid him to escape. i would i had taken the oath with him instead of under the archbishop, whom i have never seen, but such are the fortunes of war, and one of the many blessings of peace is that then a man is at liberty to do what he will for a friend, as i think i have well set forth in a verse conned over in my mind since you left me, which i shall entitle, 'peace boweth to friendship.'" "let me hear it, roger, in token of your forgiveness, for what i said to you a while since was but the reflex of my disappointment, and in no wise an indication of my true mind." "the verse is but a trivial one at best," said roger, in a tone of great complacency that rather belied his words, "and is, you must remember, not yet polished as it will be when i indite it on papyrus; still i have to admit that even in its present unfinished shape it contains the germ of what may be an epic. it runs thus----" and here he repeated the lines sonorously, while his comrade listened with rapt attention beaming on his upturned countenance. after this felicitous introduction the two sat down together, the sentinel rising now and then to cast a look about him, resolved that even the delights of a discussion upon poesy should not make him neglect the business he had in hand, but the night was still, with the castle and camp wrapped in equal silence. at last john's quick ear caught the low signal that told him rodolph and conrad were waiting to make good their way through the line, broken at this point by a literary conference. john looked sharply at his friend, wondering whether or no he also had heard the sound, but the other babbled serenely on. "you remember the poems you delivered that night at the foot of the wall long ago, when you so unjustly charged me with being asleep, because, i suppose, your first verses were on 'sleep?' recite them again in the order you then arranged them, if you can, and i will tell you whether you have improved the lines or not." the author rapturously began, and he had no complaint to make regarding his listener's lack of attention. john seemed fascinated, and fixed his eyes on the speaker with a keen inquiry that was most flattering. never had reciter so absorbed an audience, and the poet went on like one inspired. he glowed with the enthusiasm of his varying themes, and his voice was at times thrilled with the pathos or the tenderness of his changing subjects. once, indeed, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a quatrain, and whispered, alarmed: "what was that? a twig snapped; i am sure of it. did you hear nothing?" "nothing, roger, but the most marvellous lines that ever man was privileged to listen to. go on, for god's sake, and do not keep me thus deprived of the remainder. what follows: what follows, roger?" "ah, john," cried the poet, beaming upon him, "you have the true feeling for poesy; why was the gift of expression denied you?" "it is a question i cannot answer, but if i fail to make an arrow, i can judge it rightly when it is made. perhaps if i were a poet myself i could not so well appreciate the verses with which you delight the world." "true. i have met other versifiers who were so lacking in all valuation of genius that instead of listening to some of my best efforts they would insist on disturbing me with their own poor doggerel, which was entirely devoid of any just reason for existence. you would hear more of this poem, then?" "i would not lose a word of it for all the wine between here and treves. go on, i beg you, for i never before heard the like of it." the syllables of the poet flowed like the sweet purling of a stream, and finally, through it all, john's straining ears caught again the signal, but this time from the opposite side of the moonlit thaurand valley, high up on the hill, which intimated to him that his comrades were at last safe, and that they were making their way across the rocky headland which jutted out between the thaurand and the moselle to the north of the spot where the talker and the listener sat, and thus rodolph and conrad had avoided the danger of going down the valley and past the end of the village, which was thronged with the archbishop's men. john surrey still sat there until he thought his comrades had had time to reach the bank of the river, knowing that then if he were captured or killed, they, at least, would be free from molestation, for it had been arranged that they were to wait but a short time for him, and, on the first symptom of alarm, make the best of their way down the moselle, with such speed as was possible. two more poems were recited, and at the end of the last, john surrey rose and placed his hands on roger's shoulder, his friend, the poet, rising also. "if it should so chance, roger, that i do not live to tell you this again, mark well my last words. the verse you have rhymed to me will live long after our two heads are low, if you can but get them on parchment so that others may read them when we are gone. this is my true belief, for there is something in them that touches me, although i cannot explain why or what it is. i do not think i understand them, yet am i pleased and soothed to listen to them, for the words run smoothly, the one into the other, like music. this, roger, is my firm opinion, and perhaps my last, so remember it, and forget my petulance earlier in the night. how many arrows have you, roger?" "arrows? the saints save us! what have arrows to do with poetry, john? i carry five with me each night on guard, but have never yet had use for any. but respecting that last poem, did you notice----" "roger, old friend, good-bye." saying this with trembling voice, john surrey leaped down the hillside towards the stream, his stout body ill adapted to the recklessness of his descent, leaving the other standing open-mouthed in amazement, chagrin coming over him with the surmise that all this listening to his verse had been a mere cheat; yet john's last words of praise rang persistently and deliciously convincing in his ears. for a moment he stood thus, then a realisation of his duty burst upon him, and he seized bow, automatically placing an arrow accurately on the string. headlong the rotund john plunged downwards, expecting a command to stop, but no cry came. he splashed through the little stream, and knew that in his slow ascent up the steep crumbling hill, the moon would be shining full on his broad back, making him a target that would delight the heart of any archer who ever drew string to ear. he shivered in spite of his courage, in fear of the sudden pang which he himself had so often and so light-heartedly dealt, but the shiver was because his back was toward the danger, and he told himself that he would have faced certain death with equanimity could he but see the missile that was to slay him. he toiled panting up the hill, the ground crumbling under his feet and making progress doubly slow and tiresome, wondering why the shaft did not come. at last there was a swift hum at his right ear like the sharp baritone of an enraged wasp. into the earth, on a level with his nose, an arrow buried itself up to the feather on its shank. he almost fancied he felt the sting of it, and his hand went up to his ear without thought on his part. he turned round for one brief moment, and waved his hand to the tall man across the valley, then struggled up as before. the second arrow came as close to his left ear, struck a ledge of rock and glanced out of sight. still john laboured on and up. after a similar interval had passed and the distant bowman saw he did not intend to stop, the third arrow passed his side, grazing his doublet on a level with his panting heart. the hill seemed steeper and steeper, and john breathed as if his breast would burst, the breath coming hot as steam from his parched throat. he seemed intuitively to know when the next arrow would come, and it came exactly on the moment, not passing him as the others had done, but tearing his doublet and hanging there between the skin and the cloth, yet so far as john could tell in the excitement of the moment not cutting his flesh. he paused, turned, and lying back against the hill, gasped: "lord, roger, what a marksman you are!" even his lack of breath could not disguise the admiration in his tone. the tall archer on the further side leaned forward as he saw the other apparently fall, but he made no outcry. there was still one arrow left, and he held it notched on the string. the fugitive lay where he had sunk to the ground, and closed his eyes as he rested, drawing in long draughts of air while his heart beat like the drumming of a partridge's wing. it was but a short distance now to the crest of the ridge, and once over that he was safe, but he was under no delusion that he could reach shelter if the other cared to use his remaining shaft. the belief became fixed in his mind that he would be killed at the last moment, just as he reached the apex, for he knew roger would not have the heart to slay him sooner. he rose slowly, waved his hand, and set himself resolutely to the remainder of the task. the time passed at which the last arrow should have come, but still the bowman seemed to hesitate. so exhausted was the climber that he struggled up the last few yards of the terrible ascent on his hands and knees, grovelling like some wild beast, the sweat from his forehead drenching his eyes and blinding him. with a final effort he stood on the ridge, turned round, and in a panic of rapidly accumulated fear was about to precipitate himself down the opposite slope when he was saved the trouble of the effort, for the last arrow rang against his glittering steel cap, the impact flinging him on the loose rubble, half stunned by the blow. through his brain rang the thought, repeated and repeated: "roger has preferred his friend to his oath." after a time he began to fear he was really slain, and to convince himself that life was still in him, rose slowly, standing at last on the crest of the ridge, waving his arms. roger had remained like a statue after his last shaft had sped, his gaze fixed on the spot where his friend had fallen. when he saw that surrey was indeed alive, he sat down and buried his face in his hands. chapter xxxvii. the traitor and his price. of all those gathered in the large tent, the archbishop of treves was the first to realise that the bundle which had so unexpectedly dropped down upon them, as it were, from the skies, was a man. the dismal groan of agony which had marked the sweep of the strange missile along the table, followed by the distant words from the direction of the castle, caused von isenberg to fear that his envoy had been captured by the black count, probably betrayed by the captain, and had thus been flung back defiantly to his master by means of the tower catapult. whilst the others stood horrified and amazed, crossing themselves devoutly, the archbishop gave a quick command to bertrich. "it is a man, inhumanly bound, and thrown thus to his death. cut the cords that imprison him. call hither a physician, although i fear nothing can be done for him." two of bertrich's men lifted the bundle from the chair and placed it on the table. bertrich himself, drawing a dagger, at once severed the ropes, and the body, of its own accord, relaxed and straightened out, the limbs falling into a natural position after their constraint. to all appearances the man was dead. they turned him over, his ghastly purple face appearing uppermost in view of those who craned their necks to see. "it is steinmetz, captain of the castle," said bertrich, who recognised him. "the man we bought?" "yes, my lord." "ah." the archbishop's interjection was long drawn out. "that explains the words we heard. the mission has been bungled, and probably the envoys are prisoners." but as he spoke the physician entered, followed by the envoys themselves, who had just arrived up the hill from their interrupted conference. the physician announced that the man was not dead, but he gave little hope of his recovery after such frightful usage. he did recover, nevertheless, and lived to build the chapel on the bladenburg, standing exactly where the great tent stood, to mark the spot where he had fallen and had been so miraculously saved, his descent being broken by the tent itself. the archbishop enriched the traitor, as he enriched all those who served him, whether they were successful or the reverse, and part of this ill-gotten gold steinmetz expended in the erection of the stone chapel, thus showing gratitude to the saint who had intervened on his behalf in the hour of his direst strait. the chief of the two envoys told von isenberg how their meeting with the captain under the walls of the castle had been interrupted. the gold had been given to steinmetz, they said, and this the archbishop believed, because he had heard the wild cry of the black count. the archbishop of treves turned to his colleague of cologne, and said: "this unlooked-for incident may make an entire change in my plans. i must have further information before deciding what i shall do. if steinmetz lives, and is in his right mind, we shall, for the first time, have accurate tidings of the state of things in the interior of thuron. it may be that the count has supplies we know not of; if such is the case, and if you still hold it well to raise the siege, we will then leave this place together, you for cologne, i for treves. i trust, my lord, that you will agree to do nothing definite until we have further consultation with each other." "i will so agree," replied the archbishop of cologne. with this the high dignitaries parted for the night, to meet next morning in the conference tent. day had broken before the unfortunate steinmetz was able to speak. all his former truculence had departed, and although his bones were whole, thanks to the intercepting tent, his nervous system was shattered, and he seemed but a wreck of the bold soldier he had once been. when brought before the two archbishops, supported by a man on either side of him, there was alarmed apprehension in his roving eyes, and he started at the slightest sound. the archbishop of treves questioned him gently, speaking in a soothing monotone. "i surmise that you were thrown hither from the catapult on the north tower. was that the case?" the captain bowed and shuddered, making no audible reply. "your master, then, discovered that you intended surrendering the castle to me. how did this knowledge come to him?" captain steinmetz moistened his lips and in halting words related what had occurred in the courtyard of the castle. "the money sent by me has therefore been lost to you?" said the archbishop, when the recital was finished. "yes, my lord." "i would like to say that i make the loss mine, and will pay to you the whole sum originally agreed upon, as i am convinced you have done your best to terminate a struggle which, so far as count heinrich is concerned, was hopeless from the first. i have some curiosity to know how near starvation is to those within the castle." captain steinmetz hesitated. "there are two reasons why you may be loath to answer truthfully. the first is loyalty to your late master, but circumstances have caused me to apprehend that this consideration does not press heavily upon you. the second is that if starvation is within measurable distance, you may imagine that i repent paying good gold for a place shortly to be mine for nothing. it was to remove this impression that i stated to you a moment ago that the stipulated amount will be paid in full, not deducting the coins scattered in the castle yard. therefore, answer truly; how stands thuron as regards famine?" "famine is now there, my lord." "you mean they are already on short rations?" "we have been on short rations for a long time past. i mean there is not enough food to keep the garrison alive for another ten days." "you are sure of that?" "absolutely sure, my lord." "were you never able to get into the castle even a scant supply from outside our lines?" "we tried it often enough, but never succeeded." "ah," ejaculated the archbishop with satisfaction; then turning to his lordship of cologne, he added: "that is a compliment to our united forces, my lord. i like to see a thing well done, when it is attempted, although i confess a more active campaign would have pleased me better. this close blockade, therefore, i look upon as a triumph more personal to yourself, perhaps, than to me." "i trust my natural humility of mind will keep me from being too proud of it," replied his lordship of cologne, in dubious tones. "you think, then, that thuron cannot hold out many days longer?" continued treves, again addressing steinmetz. "if the surrounding line is held as tightly as it has been," answered the captain, "count heinrich must surrender or starve." "i see you are exhausted and will question you no more. you may retire." captain steinmetz, assisted by his two supporters, left the archbishops together. arnold von isenberg sat silent in his place, making no comment on the cross-examination. conrad von hochstaden walked up and down the tent with bowed head, absorbed in thought. he was apparently waiting for the lord of treves to speak first, but the other sat motionless and speechless, narrowly watching the movements of his reluctant ally. "i suppose," said von hochstaden at last, pausing in his promenade, "that you now expect me to remain in co-operation with you until the castle falls." "i am not sure that i expect anything. i am waiting to hear your views, as all the circumstances of the case are now before you. i admit that i am disappointed over the failure of my latest plan; still, such is the risk all must run who attempt anything. the man who never fails is the man who never tries." "if i could be sure this fellow speaks the truth----" "he does speak the truth." "how can you know?" "because it is not to his interest to tell a lie. he has placed the period of proving his words too near at hand to make dealing with fiction entirely safe. a prophet who sets a day for the fulfilment of his prediction must be either a true seer or a fool. steinmetz is no fool." "you think, perhaps, that i should be a fool to stand by you for two years and withdraw when the task is within ten days of completion." the archbishop of treves spread out his hands deprecatingly, and slightly shrugged his shoulders. "i should hesitate before i ventured to express an opinion in terms so strong as those you have suggested: i wait rather to hear your own judgment, hoping the verdict will be one with which i can cordially and conscientiously agree." "very well. it would be an act of folly to withdraw now that we are apparently within sight of the goal. i will, therefore, double the time held to be required, and will remain your faithful ally for twenty days longer. if, at the end of that period, the castle is not in your possession, you will place no obstacle in the way of my retirement to cologne. if that does not meet with your approval, then make a proposal to me." "i agree, and would have agreed had you placed the limit at ten days, so confident am i that the garrison of thuron are at this moment in the direst straits. if unforeseen circumstances make it necessary for you to retire at the end of twenty days, i also will retire at the same time, and thus we will share defeat as we would have shared victory. meanwhile, i suggest that until the twenty days have expired, it is necessary for both you and me to remain in this camp, for the castle may fall at any moment, and i desire that we march through its gates together, and raise the flag of cologne on one tower and the flag of treves on the other. i trust there is nothing impending that will make your return to cologne, during this time, imperative?" "no. it is not necessary for me to be in cologne until the middle of august. i have set the fourteenth of that month as the day on which the corner stone of my cathedral is to be laid, and i wish to have my hands free of blood and myself free from feud before then, so that god's blessing may rest on the edifice." "such a condition is most exemplary and most necessary," said the archbishop of treves, with some suspicion of a sneer in his tone. "i make no doubt but your cathedral will be a beautiful building, and thrice blessed in the admitted sanctity of its founder. well; we shall have ample time for the cleansing of hands before the fourteenth, not that there has been much blood to smear them for the past two years, but if your mind is ill at ease, i shall be happy, in the interests of good architecture, to be your confessor, and send you to the laying of the foundation stone fully absolved. it is then agreed that for twenty days we remain partners." thus the two archbishops concluded their bargain, thinking perhaps of many events that might intervene between their hope and its realisation, but giving no thought to the real thunder-cloud that had been gathering so long to the south of them, and having no knowledge of a young man at that moment making his way through the forest to the east of the rhine, his face set direct for frankfort. chapter xxxviii. the incognito falls. john surrey, the archer, stumbled wearily down the crumbling shale of the steep hill, guided by the low signal cry that sounded at intervals from the edge of the moselle. he found, on arriving breathless at the river, that conrad had secured a boat, which, pole in hand, he held against the bank while rodolph stood on shore impatiently awaiting the coming of his henchman. they were too near alken for any conversation to take place, and the moment surrey arrived, the emperor stepped into the skiff, motioning the archer to follow. conrad pushed the boat away from the bank, and standing upright, poled it down stream, keeping close to the southern shore, so as to be in the deep shadow of the hills. there was, however, little need for extreme caution. the whole attention of the besieging forces was concentrated in keeping intact the line around the castle, and no thought was given to what was passing outside that circle. the contest had been going on so long that the country had come to look upon it as the natural condition of the locality, and ordinary traffic up and down the river went to and fro as usual. three men were therefore unlikely to attract much attention merely because they were floating along the stream to that great thoroughfare of commerce, the lordly rhine. the distance to coblentz being slightly more than four leagues, and the current tolerably swift, the emperor expected to reach the larger river before the day dawned, short as the nights were, and in this he was not disappointed. the expedition passed unchallenged into the rhine, and continued across that river, coming to land opposite coblentz. here the archer, who had slept soundly during the voyage, set out to forage for food, while conrad, his pouch well filled with the gold of the archbishop of treves, a quantity of the coin having been taken for use while they were within his lordship's sphere of influence, began his search for three riding horses that would carry the party to frankfort. the purchase was speedily effected, for there was a depot on each side of the river for the sale or hiring of steeds, merchants from treves going by one bank to mayence or along the other to frankfort being the chief customers of these horse dealers. conrad was instructed to proclaim himself an emissary of the archbishop of treves, should he be questioned, and the emperor rightly anticipated that no one would undertake to molest the minion of so powerful and haughty a prince. but rodolph, not being certain what state of feeling existed between the archbishop of mayence and his proud brother of treves, now in active alliance with cologne, was not so sure that a proclamation of dependence on treves would serve to protect them further up the river, and so resolved to avoid the rhine route, striking instead across the country direct to frankfort, taking as his path the hypotenuse of that huge triangle, at the three extreme points of which stood frankfort, mayence, and coblentz. the distance as the crow flies is scarcely more than seventeen leagues, but rodolph knew the way would be rough, up hill and down, with numerous streams to ford, and finally the taurus range to cross, but the course seemed safer than risking detention by the archbishop of mayence, or by some stupid, obstinate robber baron along the banks of the rhine. the early dawn was just breaking as, having finished the hastily-prepared meal--the first satisfactory and full repast the archer or rodolph had enjoyed for some days--the three set off up the rhine until the lahn was crossed; then they struck into the pathless forest. at various points they engaged woodmen or charcoal burners to guide them, dismissing a man when he came to the limit of his local knowledge, and securing another when another was to be found. the legend of that journey remained in the district for many a long day, for each guide, instead of being cast aside with a blow for his trouble, as was the custom of the country, was given a bright gold coin with the effigy of the archbishop upon it, each piece representing untold wealth to the happy possessor. it came ultimately to be rumoured that it was the emperor himself who made this golden pilgrimage, and how such rumour had its origin no one can rightly surmise; but, although the tale is devoutly believed by the peasantry, careful historians have proved conclusively that it is a myth, for they show that the emperor was then returning triumphantly from the holy land, and consequently must have approached frankfort from the east, and not from the north. when the sun was at its highest altitude the party halted and rested for two hours or more in a rude hamlet on the borders of a stream in the depths of the forest; there they had their second meal, afterwards proceeding on their journey. having secured a guide in the village, rodolph was anxious to reach the foot of the taurus mountains before night, for there he was confident they would come on the roman road that led over the range directly into frankfort. this they accomplished, and once they were on the road all fear of losing their way left them. it had now become merely a question of endurance so far as the horses were concerned. conrad made no complaint, doing all that was required of him without grumbling, apparently untouched by fatigue; but the two years of inactivity in the castle had left the stout archer, never a good horseman, entirely unprepared for such exercise. he besought his master to rest for the night at the foot of the taurus and continue their expedition in the morning. "i know something of cities, my lord," he said, "and have been present at the taking of many. we will not be allowed within the gates to-night even if we reach the walls. therefore will it be useless for us to proceed further, for our horses are well nigh exhausted as it is, and no wonder, for the poor brutes have come through more to-day than any animal should be called upon to endure in such space of time. besides, as i have said, the gates will be closed and you could not get in were you the archbishop himself." "we shall be the readier to enter in the morning," answered rodolph sleepily, drowsing by the fire on which their supper was being prepared. "but, my lord, outside the walls there are usually gathered rough characters,--egyptians and cut throats, who, for the sake of one of our gold pieces, will murder us all without compunction and with but small chance of being punished for it, not that punishment would matter to us who lay there robbed with our throats sundered. here we may sleep safe, but a man's life is not worth a broken arrow outside the walls of frankfort in the night time with the gates closed." "i know frankfort well, having being a resident of the city, so it is unlikely you can give me information regarding it. you must not forget that while we eat freely here our comrades in thuron starve; therefore, we reach frankfort sometime between now and dawn, the sooner to dispatch sustenance and help to our friends, if it prove to be in our power to send them aid." "oh, i am as anxious as any can be to send help to thuron, and food as well, but nothing can be done in a sleeping city, and, if we are ourselves killed in our hurry, that will be small comfort to the black count and those with him. i am for making haste with caution." "if you are tired, my good archer, have the courage to admit it, and then rest you here, to follow when your convenience suits." "i am not tired, at least not more so than a man may without shame confess, who has come such a heathenish journey; but i see not the use of such eagerness to reach a city that will be sound asleep when we get there." "then we will awaken it, and so we may consider the discussion ended." with many groans the archer got him on his patient horse again, and during the journey tried various devices to make travelling easier for himself. he sat sideways on the animal, with his feet dangling now on the right and now on the left. then he tried to lie down but nearly fell off; then he sat with face to the rear, but this brought no amelioration. at last he rolled himself to the ground and swore he would walk the rest of the distance; indeed it was easy to keep pace with the jaded beasts who were now mounting the steep acclivity that leads to the heights of the range. at the summit the moon shone full on the wide plain below, and the emperor almost persuaded himself that he saw the ancient city of frankfort. they passed, with some caution, the stronghold of konigstein, frowning down upon them in the moonlight, looking like a castle of white marble, and the emperor breathed a sigh of relief when it was well in the rear with the trio still unmolested. when at length the north gate of the capital was reached they found it in truth barred against them, as the archer had so confidently predicted. rodolph rapped thrice upon it with the hilt of his sword. "you might as well try to hammer down the wall," said a figure that rose out of the shadow. "they will not open. we have tried it." "it is folly to open to any chance comer in a fortified town," grumbled the archer. "i knew well how it would be." but as he spoke three raps were heard on the inner side of the gate, which rodolph immediately answered with two, whereupon a small door at the side was opened slightly, and a voice asked: "who knocks?" "the silk merchant," answered rodolph. "travelling from where?" "travelling from treves." at once the small gate was closed and the bolts drawn from the larger leaves, which were then slowly swung apart. a crowd had rapidly gathered at the sound of the blows on the gate, and now tried to press through, but two soldiers with pikes beat them back. when conrad and the archer had followed their master, the gates were closed and barred again. the three horsemen found themselves under a dark echoing archway of stone, from the black mouth of which was given a view of a narrow moonlit street. "you have a guide here for me?" said rodolph. "yes, my lord. he is to take you to the golden flagon." "that is right. let him lead on at once, for we have had a long journey." a soldier stepped out into the light and the three followed him. he led them through the narrow winding streets of the city, flanked by tall houses whose overhanging gables caused the thoroughfares to seem more cramped than they actually were. at last he came to a street so much wider than the others that it might have been termed a square, and on one side of it stood the hostelry, from whose front the golden flagon swung in token of the good wine to be had within. here all was silent, and the three horsemen sat where they were, while the soldier hammered with the end of his pike against a door. when it was opened there was a whispered colloquy, and then some sleepy stable boys were roused to take charge of the horses of the belated guests, while the landlord himself invited them to enter. rodolph swung himself from his exhausted steed, the others following his example; the archer, who had ridden from the summit of the taurus, descending with painful slowness and extreme care. "take supper here," said rodolph to his men, "and then to rest. i am sure you need it. do not leave this house until i come or send for you. and now good-night." "are you not coming in also, my lord?" asked conrad, in surprise. "no. my night's work is just beginning." "then i shall go with you, my lord." "no. rest now, for i may need you early in the morning. soldier, you are to be my guide for a short distance farther." the soldier bowed and apparently needed no further instruction, for he led rodolph through his capital until at length they came to a small portal at the rear of the emperor's palace. "this is the place, my lord," he said, resting pike on butt and standing in attitude of attention. rodolph knocked thrice against the door, which signal was answered as it had been at the gate. again he announced himself as the silk merchant from treves, and so was admitted. dismissing the soldier, rodolph proceeded along a narrow passage and then up a stair into a wider hall. he was now on familiar ground, and walked briskly without hesitation until he approached a wide entrance, outside which two soldiers stood on guard. the emperor drew his enveloping cloak more closely about him, for his worn costume was not in such condition as befitted a monarch, but the ample cloak covered it's defects. the soldiers saluted and rodolph passed between them into a large ante-chamber, in which, late as it was, a number of officers and messengers sat on benches round the walls, while a group of the higher ranks stood talking together in low tones. the room of baron von brunfels was beyond, and at the communication between the two apartments heavy crimson curtains of great thickness hung, their tasseled fringes spreading over the floor. here two soldiers also stood, fully armed. on the entrance of the emperor all who were seated sprang instantly to their feet, making low obeisance, which his majesty acknowledged with an inclination of the head. "is baron von brunfels within?" asked rodolph, addressing the senior general. "yes, your majesty." "alone?" "yes, your majesty." "i will enter unannounced." the heavy curtain was held back for him, and the emperor passed through. so thick were the walls that the recess between the outer and inner curtains might almost itself be termed a small apartment. motioning away the attendant, who would have drawn back the inner curtains also, the emperor himself drew them aside and entered. at a large table, littered with documents and lit by a small roman lamp, sat a haggard, careworn man, at whom rodolph had to look twice or thrice before he recognised his faithful servitor and firm and loyal friend, baron von brunfels. his dark hair had become sprinkled with grey since rodolph last saw him, and as the emperor stood motionless with his back against the crimson hangings the great love he felt for the man lit up his eyes, while remembrance of the anxiety he must have caused the baron by an abrupt and long unexplained disappearance gave rodolph a thrill of pain. he had never before realised what that disappearance had meant for baron von brunfels. although there was no sound in the room, the baron looked suddenly up, craned forward and peered across the table, gazing with startled anxiety into the comparative darkness at the other end of the room. the emperor, with clanking spurs, took a rapid step or two forward. "rodolph!" cried brunfels, in a husky undertone, springing to his feet. he seemed about to advance, but something failed within him, and he leaned heavily against the table, crying, with a sob in his voice: "i thank god! i thank god!" the young emperor strode quickly to his friend, his hands upraised, and brought them down on the shoulders of the baron, whom he drew towards him in a cordial embrace. "my old friend," he said, repressing with difficulty the emotion that threatened to overmaster him. "my dear old friend, you are not more glad to see me than i am to see you. but i have brought an insistent personage with me other than rodolph, and he clamours for attention." "he! whom?" replied the baron, looking about him with apprehension, fearing that his friendly greeting might have had a witness, and that thus unwittingly he had embarrassed his sovereign. "the emperor is here, brunfels, with weighty matters on his mind that will permit of no delay. the emperor has at last arrived; i doubt if you have ever met him before." "he will have most cordial welcome and support from me." "he counts upon you, as on no other in the world. how many men have you encamped on the rhine?" "forty thousand, your majesty." "above or below mayence?" "above. i thought it well not to pass mayence until i received your majesty's definite order." "you were right. they are in divisions of ten thousand men, competently commanded, if i accurately understood your message. detach ten thousand at once under the commander in whom you have most confidence, and send them along the roman road to treves. my officer will announce to whomsoever he finds in command there that i am about to pay a visit of state to his lordship of treves, and that my men are to enter and occupy the town until my arrival." "if they meet opposition are they to attack treves and capture it?" "they will not be opposed. they go in the name of the emperor, the overlord of the archbishop. if the archbishop himself is there he will not be so foolish as to oppose the entrance of my troops; if he is not there i doubt if any subordinate will have the courage to embroil him with his sovereign in his absence. however, if the unexpected happens and my troops are refused admittance, let them encamp quietly on the plain between treves and zurlauben until i arrive, not giving battle unless they are themselves attacked. in that case they are to take treves if they can. send a horseman at once with these orders, and see that this detachment is away before daybreak if possible. the other three battalions are to proceed immediately down the rhine to coblentz. no one on the road will dispute the passage of thirty thousand men, but if opposition takes shape they are to go through to coblentz at all cost. reaching coblentz ten thousand men are to march to cologne on exactly the same terms as the division that has gone to treves. the remaining twenty thousand are to halt at coblentz until we come up with them, although it is likely we shall overtake them before they reach there. have you a thousand well-mounted men?" "five thousand, your majesty, and more if you need them." "in the morning, draw up across the square opposite the palace a thousand picked men. they are to be my bodyguard, and with them i shall ride to coblentz. i shall ride my best white charger, and i trust my silver armour has not been allowed to rust. i confess, brunfels, that i am resolved to undertake this initial state journey through my empire with something more of pomp than has been my custom, for although i care as little for the trappings of imperial power as any monk in my realm, yet display is not without its effect on the minds of many, and i have set to myself the task of not only overmastering the two archbishops but out-dazzling them in splendour as well. we have brute force on our side, which is an argument they have used so often themselves that they will have no difficulty in understanding it when they find it opposed to them; let us have, then, in addition to that, the gorgeousness which gives decorative effect to power." baron von brunfels glanced shrewdly at his master, a slight smile parting his lips, the first that had come to them for nigh upon two years. "the splendour has been provided as well as the force, your majesty. am i to take it as a fact that the countess tekla is within the fortress of thuron, as has been rumoured? you made no mention of the lady in your messages, and i could only guess that such was the case, because the monk who carried our despatches reported that a lady of marvellous beauty sat at your table." the emperor's eye twinkled as he answered. "the countess tekla is within the walls of thuron, and before many days, old brunfels, the empress tekla will be within the walls of frankfort. you will shortly see such a wedding, baron, in this stately city, that i am sure it will shake your firm resolution to remain a bachelor. she is the divinest maid, siegfried, that ever trod this earth, and for her sake i will be emperor in fact as well as in name." "the empress shall command, as she fully merits, our utmost devotion, your majesty." "that is right, old warrior; get your courtly phrases in train, for i expect we shall have little fighting to interfere with their use. indeed, i confidently look for the assistance of all three archbishops at the ceremony, and the especial blessing of the high prelate of treves. and now, my good brunfels, see that these orders are carried through without a moment's delay. give out that the emperor has returned triumphant from the holy land; this news, once set on its way, will soon spread faster than we can travel. i will now to bed, for i wish to be early on the road to-morrow." baron von brunfels led the emperor to a room not far from his own, in which stood a luxuriantly appointed couch, and rodolph waited no formality, but threw himself on the rich coverlet, booted and spurred as he was. before his friend could turn away to give effect to the commands bestowed upon him, the emperor was sound asleep. chapter xxxix. the emperor at the head of his army. tired as john surrey was when rodolph left him with conrad, the archer ordered a meal to be served to them, for he was ever ready to eat heartily. from the table the two travellers went to their well-earned rest, and slumber came to them speedily. when they awoke in the morning they found the inn in a commotion, and at breakfast the ever-curious archer inquired the cause. the innkeeper himself waited upon them, imagining their quality to be of no common order, in spite of their tattered apparel, for his commands regarding the care he was to take of whomsoever the soldier brought to him in the night or in the day had come from the palace itself. "oh, there is brave news," cried the elated host. "the emperor is returned from the east, and the town has put on all its finery to welcome him. flags are flying everywhere, and the whole population is afoot. a great body of horsemen, such as we have never seen in frankfort before, is drawn up in the palace square, and even they are not sufficient to keep the people back. one of my men, who went mad, like all the rest of the town, has just come back from the square and he saw the emperor himself, and so could not wait, but hurried here to tell us about it. the people made such acclamation that the emperor came out on the platform which runs along the facade of the palace, and stood before them. gottlieb says his majesty, heaven shower its blessings upon him, was clad from head to foot in silver armour, and looked like a statue of a stalwart war god. there is a scarlet cross on his breast, which, i doubt not, has wrought terror in the heart of many a heathen, and there is a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders. gottlieb says that no man in all germany may be compared with him, so grand and kinglike he looks. the horsemen, in spite of all discipline, waved their swords in the air, and roared at the top of their voices, while the people raised one continuous shout that we heard plainly where i stand. i hope he has given the saracen such a thrashing he will not have to turn eastward again in years to come, as trade is ever dull when the emperor is away. for two years there has been little coming and going, and the court at frankfort has been as quiet as if the monarch were dead and they had not elected his successor." "it must be a gallant show," said the archer, "and if i were not commanded to wait here till my orders come, i would go and see it. dare we risk it, think you, conrad?" "i was told to stay here, and here i stay," answered conrad, stoutly. "'tis a good military resolve, and would be commended by all the authorities, but nevertheless i should dearly like to see the emperor." "so should i; but unless his majesty comes to us i see not how we are to go to him." "there is nothing easier," said their host. "it is said that his majesty marches shortly through the western gate to review his troops now on the rhine, for there has lately been a great gathering of them by the river, and his way thither is through this square and past this door. they are even now clearing the road and lining it with armed men. the officer in front has just said that my guests are to be specially favoured, and that a space will be open at my door where you may stand, with none to obstruct your view. i am myself thought much of at court, although it may sound like boasting to proclaim the fact; nevertheless, when distinguished strangers like yourselves arrive, i have before now received orders to attend to their wants when it is not convenient, through reasons of state, into which i have no right to inquire, to lodge them at the palace. and thus i wait upon you myself, which is far from being my custom, though you might think otherwise did i not make the reason plain. i have asked no question of you further than how you like your food prepared and served; but i take you to be men of importance, and, without flattery, i may say of myself that i know a man of quality when i see him, even though his clothes be somewhat the worse for wear." "in this instance, good host, i fear your shrewdness does you a dis-service if you take us to be aught but what we are--plain, common folk, having no connection either with king or with court." "it is, of course, not for me to inquire closely regarding your affairs or your standing in the empire, but what you say to me goes no further, for i am one who meddles not in the doings of others, so long as bills for lodging and eating are duly paid, and, in addition, i am no gossiper, being indeed a man of few words." "i am but an indifferent talker myself," admitted the archer, "and would have been of more account in the world had i a better conceit of my own merits and possessed the words with which to convey some knowledge of the same to others. but if a belief that we are more worthy of consideration lead you to provide so well for us, as far as meat and drink are concerned, this wine being the best i ever set lips to, in heaven's name, then, persons of quality we are, and so shall we remain while guests of yours." the landlord chuckled and nodded his head sagely. "a droop of the eyelids is as good as a wag of the tongue with me, and i fully understand you, though it please you to speak lightly of your own worth. i had no doubt of it from the first, for i knew that common folk are not let through a frankfort gate at midnight, if their coming is unwelcome to the court." "by my favourite saint," cried the archer, as if an unaccustomed idea had penetrated his not too alert mind, "there is something in that, conrad, though it had not occurred to me before. you remember how i dreaded the closed gate, and how the others at the foot of the walls said they could not get through, yet three raps from my lord's hilt sent bolts flying as if he held a wizard's wand. 'tis most like my lord is well known at court, aye, and well thought of, too." "that is no news," replied conrad, quietly. "you yourself heard him tell the black count he knew the emperor." "true. so i did, but i did not believe it until now." the increasing shouts had drawn the incurious landlord from the room, and he now returned in high excitement. "the emperor comes at the head of his horsemen. there is not a moment to lose, and you will have as good a view of him as though you were one of his followers; better, indeed, than if you were among the troop of horse. but come at once." conrad immediately sprang to his feet, but the archer hung back a moment to take another huge mouthful of the black bread and to drain his flagon to the dregs. then, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth, he followed the others, hastily gulping down his food as he went. the city had indeed undergone a sudden transformation that well deserved all the landlord's eulogies. from every window and from every projection of the many-gabled street hung rainbow-coloured lengths of silk or more common cloth. flags flew from every staff, and cheering men clung perilously to the roofs and eaves of the buildings, or wherever precarious foothold could be found. opposite the golden flagon a dense crowd was massed, but the cleared way led directly past the door of the inn and gave colour to the assertion of the landlord that his hostelry was indeed favoured by the court. a continuous line of pikemen, standing shoulder to shoulder, kept back the jubilant throng, whose volleys of acclamation rang upwards and joined the cheers from the house-tops. the most inspiriting sight was the advance of the cavalry, a superb body of men splendidly mounted, who came two and two because of the narrowness of some of the streets, but who, with military precision that betokened accurate drilling, deployed on entering the square, until they marched in ranks of six, the sun glittering on their polished breast-plates, and touching with fire the points of their lances. in front of them came the emperor and suite, baron von brunfels riding by his sovereign's side. the emperor was mounted on a snow-white charger, and his noble bearing quite justified the unbounded enthusiasm of the people. as the imposing cavalcade approached, the archer with a low cry of amazement clutched the arm of his comrade, while conrad stared with open mouth at the resplendent monarch. "my god!" cried john surrey. "it is lord rodolph. how has he dared to impersonate the absent emperor and befool all these people?" conrad was so filled with astonishment at the remarkable spectacle that for the moment he was speechless. "can it be he?" continued the more voluble archer, "or has that good wine affected our sight, as it sometimes does. he casts no glance towards us, and seems more stern than ever i saw him, except when he fought the black count?" "fought the black count?" said conrad, turning to his friend. "when did he do that?" "oh, i have gone mad and am talking at random. can my lord rodolph have been really the emperor, and does that explain the quick opening of the gates and the babble of the landlord? it is as likely as that lord rodolph should rashly masquerade as the emperor in a town where the emperor must be well known. no. we are dreaming, conrad, or more drunk than ever before." "i am neither drunk nor asleep. lord rodolph is indeed the emperor. there beside him is the baron von brunfels, my former master in treves, who asked you to send an arrow through me, and all know the baron is the emperor's closest friend." "i did not recognise him, but then i had no such cause to remember as you had." an officer rode up to the two and cried out: "who are you, fellows, to stand covered when your emperor passes?" "e' god, he is no emperor of mine. i am an englishman," said the archer, defiantly; but he nevertheless removed his steel cap and stood uncovered, as did conrad. the emperor paused before them, and the procession behind him came to an instant stand. rodolph with difficulty repressed a smile as he looked down upon his former followers. the officer was about to lay hold of the archer for his truculent reply and his disrespectful behaviour, but rodolph held up his hand and the other fell back. "i think," said rodolph, doubtfully, "i have seen you before." "in truth, my lord--that is, your majesty," replied surrey, scratching his bare, perplexed head, while he held his steel cap upturned under his other arm, "i am less certain that i ever met your lordship--again i mean, your majesty,--before." "it may be i am mistaken, but you seem to me a silent man, not prone to talk, especially of the affairs of others, and i take you to be an archer from the packet of arrows on your back. i have need of a skilful, modest man, and i possess a regiment of archers awaiting your instruction. having hoped to meet you again i gave certain commands concerning you, one of which is that my treasurer fill with gold your head piece, which you hold so awkwardly and invitingly; so, see to it that they give you good measure; if they do not, make complaint to me when i return. still, i give you fair choice, and should you prefer to ride with me for several days to come, you shall have your wish, if you but give it utterance." a rueful grimace came over the archer's face at the mention of horsemanship. "i am well content, my majesty--i mean your lord--i will give the regiment the instruction they perhaps need, your majesty." "this is the skilful fellow i told you of. take charge of him and see that he has no cause to be dissatisfied with his change of position." to conrad, baron von brunfels spoke: "there is a led horse for you in the baggage train. mount it and follow us. come to my tent to-night when we encamp, and you will be fitted with apparel more suited to your new station. i hear a good account of you, and understand it is his majesty's pleasure that you are to meet great advancement." conrad bowed low without reply, and took his place behind the troop, which now without further halt marched through the western gate and thus rapidly on its way, overtaking the foot soldiers of the army before nightfall. chapter xl. the archbishops environed with a ring of iron. it would perhaps be wrong to censure the two archbishops for military neglect in failing to take note of anything that was happening except in the very limited space which was encircled by their combined forces. the siege had gone on for so long that it had become largely a matter for routine. the emperor was supposed to be in the far east, and their lordships had been kept continually informed of his valorous doings in that distant region, but even if he had been in his capital it is little likely that the august prelates would have paid much heed to his vicinity, for it had been a long time since the powerful princes who ruled in treves and cologne had taken account of the commands, much less the desires, of their nominal overlord at frankfort. it may seem strange that the news of a largely increased force at the capital had not reached them, but news at best travelled slowly, even when specially sent, and in this case it had to pass through the territory of the archbishop of mayence, and he, if he knew what was going on at frankfort, would not have felt it his duty to communicate the intelligence to one who had been his open enemy, or to the other who had deserted him. thus, then, it came about that the first intimation the archbishops had of impending calamity from outside was the appearance of the soldiers of the emperor on the plain at the edge of which their camp was set, while other troops were seen marching up the valley of the moselle. the progress of the newcomers was so rapid that simultaneous tidings of their approach came from several quarters at once, and before the fourth messenger had told his tale, a final one came from alken, saying a company had gone up the valley of the thaurand, and had cut off communication between the camp of their lordships and the force which was besieging the castle. while the archbishop of cologne was listening in wonder to this account of the entirely unexpected advent of an outside army, his more astute brother of treves at once saw that the camp was surrounded, and remembered that, although his own forces around thuron might be strong enough to repel the invaders, yet there was no officer among them with sufficient authority to command his troops to fight, unless he had orders to that effect from the archbishop himself. this situation lent seriousness to the position of their lordships, who might thus be taken prisoners while their own armies lay idle, almost within calling distance. "what does this incursion mean?" asked the archbishop of cologne, "and what is to be done in the face of it?" "neither of these questions can i answer at this moment. it cannot be that his lordship of mayence has made common cause with heinrich of thuron, and has had the temerity to put this small force against ours, yet our long futile lingering here may have given him a scant respect for us, which is not without a basis of reason." they were together in the large tent, and before konrad von hochstaden could reply, word was brought that baron von brunfels, accompanied by a strong escort, had ridden into camp and demanded audience. "ay!" cried the prince of treves, "it is brunfels, then, whom we have to thank for this surprise. the emperor's long absence has encouraged him to strike a blow on his own account. he will not be difficult to deal with, for he has no show of right in attacking nobles of higher station than his own, unless by the emperor's direct command, and he himself would be the first to counsel his majesty against so grave a blunder." "perhaps the emperor has sent him such permission." "it may be, but i doubt it. i remember now that when brunfels was last in treves i refused to see him, yet, if he resented that as a rebuff, he has taken long to bring his anger to a heat. he is a cautious man, and a dangerous one. i would much rather meet your friend of mayence. we will admit him and set conjecture at rest." when baron von brunfels entered, he bowed low to each of the prelates, who returned his salutation with dignified courtesy. "your lordships will pardon me if i plunge at once into my mission without introduction, as the matter with which i am charged is urgent. i am commanded by his majesty, rodolph of hapsburg, emperor of germany, to see that an immediate injunction is placed upon the commander of the besieging forces around thuron, ordering him to permit the passing of food and wine through the lines for the consumption of those in the beleaguered stronghold. the laden horses will presently reach alken, and it is his majesty's wish that they proceed to the castle without interruption." "it is most remarkable that the emperor should have found occasion to send from the holy land instructions so minute regarding the re-victualling of a castle on the moselle," said the archbishop of treves, in his most icy tone. "am i at fault if i infer that the imperial message has been coloured somewhat during transmission?" "my lord, you are evidently not aware that his majesty is now encamped within less than half a league of this spot. may i urge upon your consideration that there is danger in delay." "danger? to whom?" "i am a plain spoken man, my lord and i find a difficulty in impressing upon you the seriousness of the situation, in terms suitable for me to use in addressing you. his majesty is at the head of a force which, compared with that under your joint command, is overwhelming. your camp is at this moment surrounded, and the messenger you send will be compelled to carry a passport from his majesty before he gets word with your general. i therefore counsel you to make haste in forwarding the message, for, if the convoy reaches your lines before the messenger, it will force its way through to the castle gates, and thus we may have unnecessary bloodshed to deplore." "let us have no bloodshed," said the archbishop of cologne, speaking for the first time. "if the situation stands as baron von brunfels describes it, resistance is useless." "i assure you such is the case, my lord of cologne, and i thank you for your suggestion. i again implore you to give the order i ask for." "softly, softly," said the archbishop of treves, in his smoothest manner. "this haste appears to me more suspicious than convincing. i must ask to see the emperor before i can believe so readily that he has returned at a moment so critical." "the moment is so critical, my lord, that i ignore your reflection on my truthfulness, and, as regards seeing his majesty, my next office is to command the immediate attendance of both your lordships to make explanation satisfactory to him regarding this siege." "if the emperor desires explanation from me he may come to my city of treves and ask for it." "my lord, i deeply regret my inability to convince you of the peril in which you stand, and which you insist, to my sorrow, upon augmenting. i would his majesty had sent one more skilful in the use of words. it is no part of my duty to inform you that treves is at this moment in the possession of the imperial troops, as also is the city of cologne. it seems you cannot understand that, for the first time since frederick barbarossa, germany has an emperor. your angry sovereign i have with difficulty constrained to give you a hearing, and now my mission has failed. your camp is surrounded, your troops are outnumbered, your cities are taken, yet you stand here wasting the few moments allowed you to show some inclination of obedience, and thus give your friends an opportunity of interceding on your behalf with his majesty." "treves taken?" murmured von isenberg, like a man speaking in a dream. "i bid you farewell," continued the emissary of the emperor, "and return to his majesty to report the lack of success which has attended my mission." "stop! stop!" cried von hochstaden. "i will accompany you to the emperor's headquarters. the siege has been carried on against my will; indeed i should never have engaged in it were it not that i was assured the castle would be delivered to us when we sat down in force before it, and even then i assisted merely to uphold the feudal law which had been violated by black heinrich. his majesty was absent, and i held it but the bare duty of a good vassal to make a stand for rightful authority, when the emperor was not here to assert his privileges." the archbishop of treves cast one malignant glance of intense hatred at his timorous ally, who was so palpably eager to save himself at the expense of his partner. he scorned, however, to make reply, and remained silent while von brunfels spoke. "such is not the understanding his majesty has of the beginning of the contest. he is informed that count heinrich appealed to his emperor and yours, yet you immediately attacked the count, and i, acting for the emperor in his absence, have received no notice of the appeal, nor have i had any communication with either of you regarding this siege during the two years it has been in progress. i trust you will be able to convince his majesty that his present view of the case is based on inaccurate information." "i admit----" began the trembling archbishop of cologne, but his colleague interrupted him. "we admit nothing. we shall wait upon the emperor together, for in this matter my doughty auxiliary and i stand or fall in company. what has been done has been done after mutual consultations, and with the consent of both. if then we are to be threatened, i ask you to inform his majesty that we shall appeal direct to the pope, and i think the young emperor will be ill-advised to bring on a contest between himself and the holy church, for such conflicts have resulted disastrously for monarchs before now, even when they were more firmly seated on their thrones than rodolph of hapsburg is on his." "my lord, i am dismayed to find that what i have said has been construed into a threat. such was not my intention, and i beg you to believe that anything approaching a menace would bring censure on me from his majesty, and in the launching of it i should be gravely exceeding my commission. nevertheless, i cannot be blind to the fact that your words bear distinct defiance against his majesty the emperor, but as i have myself so far fallen short of my purpose, which was not to intimidate, but to impress upon you the plight in which you stand, i shall forget your words and consider them unsaid, extending to you that merciful construction of your language which i hope you, in turn, will kindly bestow upon me." "i ask no consideration from you, my lord of brunfels. what i have said, i have said. i shall appeal to the pope and place myself under his august protection. any action taken against me is an action against the holy church, and the consequences must fall on whose head they may, be it that of baron or that of emperor." "i the more deeply regret this decision that i have already had communication with his holiness the pope upon the matter in question." "ha! with what result?" "when the siege was begun, i considered it my duty, in the interest of the absent emperor, to obtain some decision from the pope that might be an aid to his majesty on his return. i sent an envoy to rome and acquainted his holiness with the cause of the quarrel, in so far as it was understood by me, informing him that the siege had been entered upon, asking him whether or not the emperor was to believe that the conduct of your lordships had the sanction and support of his holiness. the reply to my message stated that it was impossible for his holiness to judge who was in the right or who was in the wrong, as he had heard nothing of your lordships' side of the matter." "a most just and admirable decision." "commendable and cautious, as i thought at the time, but still erring, if anything, on the side of vagueness." "i cannot permit you to criticise the message of his holiness in my presence, baron von brunfels. the answer was clarity itself." "the second message undoubtedly was, and perhaps its receipt made me place less than true value on the first. when the siege had continued a year and a half without visible result, i thought it my duty to send another message to the pope giving him a brief outline of the situation. i said that count heinrich apparently held you both powerless. i feared that if you could do nothing against one of the humblest of your vassals, there was little to be expected were you suddenly confronted with the power of the empire. i informed his holiness that there was now collected in and near the capital a well-drilled force of nearly a hundred thousand men, all animated by the wildest enthusiasm for their emperor, to whose return they were most impatiently looking forward. i implored his holiness to give me his view of the case, so that i might be properly equipped for advising his majesty upon his arrival, saying that i feared the gravest complications, because war had been waged in his majesty's dominions without his consent, adding that his majesty might decide you were rebels caught red-handed, and might, alas, treat you as such." "your account did not lack a spice of partizanship and exaggeration." "i endeavoured to adhere strictly to the truth. the army at frankfort was larger than i stated, and its numbers were being continually increased. my prediction regarding his majesty's opinion of the siege has been more than fulfilled." "no matter. what said his holiness the pope?" "his answer was a marvel of close and accurate reasoning. he said he divided your authority under two heads, namely, the spiritual and the temporal. in one section he assumed responsibility; in the other he disclaimed it. what you did as archbishop of the church was his concern; your acts as an elector of the empire you must answer for to his majesty, to whom he sent his blessing. he had made inquiry regarding your quarrel with count heinrich, and so far as he understood it, no question affecting the church had arisen. count heinrich had been charged with a violation of the feudal law, and had therefore appealed to the emperor, and not to the pope, as would have been the case had the dispute been ecclesiastical. his holiness regarded your alliance as a military union between the electors of treves and cologne, and not as a spiritual conjunction of the archbishops of those two cities. the duty then devolved upon the emperor to deal with the two electors, and if the result unfortunately caused a vacancy in the archbishoprics of treves and cologne, his holiness would be pleased to appoint to those august offices two prelates who would be _personæ gratæ_ to his majesty." the archbishop of treves remained silent, a deep frown on his brow, his thin lips tightly compressed. during the interesting recital, he glanced darkly and suspiciously at the narrator several times, but he evidently saw no reason to doubt the accuracy of the report, in fact the account bore internal evidence of its correctness, for he knew the cautious nature of the pontiff, and was well aware that his holiness desired to have on the side of the church the strong and winning hand. the archbishop of cologne, however, was voluble in his praise of the pontifical decision. "a most able exposition," he cried. "would that i had heard it when it was delivered. i have been misled and deceived from the first. it was not my wish to continue the siege, and i am here now under coercion. that i can prove to his majesty, and i beg your intercession, baron von brunfels, explaining to his majesty that i am here, and have been here, against my will. if i had known that his holiness, the pope, had given such a decision--an admirable and most excellent laying down of the law--i would at once have withdrawn my men, even if we had to cut our way through all opposition. pray so inform his majesty. why did you not place before us the expression from his holiness, baron; then all this difficulty might have been avoided?" "i had not the honour to serve your lordships. i acted throughout in the interests of his majesty, the emperor, whose vassal i am. may i now for the last time ask you to give me the order i previously requested from you?" "surely, surely," cried von hochstaden, "and that at once. my lord of treves, it is your men who compose the line near the village, therefore i beseech you to give the order. i would immediately give it myself," he added, turning to von brunfels, "but i have little authority in the camp, and i might not be obeyed. if your laden horses will approach the castle from the other side, i will bestow instruction upon my captain there to permit them to pass." the archbishop of treves looked on in sullen silence and made no observation, but neither did he take the action required of him. a messenger entered breathless with the news that a force flying the imperial flag had broken the line near the village, and that a convoy of burdened animals was now mounting the slope towards the gates of the castle. the archbishop of cologne wrung his hands, and, almost on the verge of tears, bemoaned the unfortunate occurrence, calling on heaven and all present to witness that he was not the cause of it. the impassive mask of the archbishop of treves gave no indication regarding the nature of the thoughts that were passing through his mind. "my lords," said von brunfels impressively, "whoever is to blame, the action i feared has taken place, while we were wasting precious moments in useless talk. the second part of my mission is still to be accomplished, and i wish it a better ending than that which has attended the first. i command you, in the name of the emperor, to appear together before him at high noon in the royal tent now erected on this plain. you will come prepared to answer truthfully all questions put to you, and his majesty will listen patiently to whatever explanation you are pleased to offer for your grave infraction of the feudal law. i entreat you to believe that nothing but instant and abject submission will be of avail." "his majesty shall have it from me," earnestly alleged the archbishop of cologne. the archbishop of treves made no comment, but gravely inclined his head, as the envoy of the emperor took his departure. chapter xli. "why have you dared to levy war?" large as was the tent of the archbishops, it could not compare in size or splendour with the imperial pavilion. this canopy was not square like the shelter of their august lordships, but oval in shape, and over its peaked roof flew the great standard which signified not only that the erection stood on imperial soil, but also indicated the personal presence of the emperor under its folds. for the time being, that pavilion was the capital of the land. in it were collected the head of the state and his favoured councillors. at each of the numerous stakes which held in place the many ropes supporting the roof, stood a soldier, his tall weapon perpendicular beside him, and these lances, on whose glittering points the high sun sparkled, formed a palisade around the tent. approach to the royal pavilion was only possible down a long avenue composed of mounted men, who sat impassive in two extended lines under the hot sun. the interior of the great tent was hung with priceless tapestries and rich stuffs from the east, which softened the light that came from the sides and roof. at the further end from the entrance was a semi-circular dais, rendered accessible by three steps, and on this platform had been placed, under an awning of purple, a throne, on the apex of the high carved back of which rested a golden crown, a beautiful specimen of the skilled craftsmanship of nuremburg, where it had been made for the emperor henry iv. during his residence in that famous city of the empire. the hard ground which formed the floor of the tent was covered by soft rugs, making noiseless the footfalls of those within. the emperor, seated on his throne, had on either hand those high nobles of the realm who had flocked to his standard when the news of his return had spread like wildfire, and who, perhaps because he did not need their help, had made lavish proffers to him of all the forces at their command. these offers he had received with a graciousness that charmed all the would-be givers, and although he declined assistance, he somehow managed to make it felt that this prompt support was most gratifying to him. the nobles were delighted with the reception accorded them, and saw that they had in the emperor a liege who appreciated their worth; so held themselves proudly, as was their right, for most of them at one time or another had been treated with haughty scorn by those proud and powerful prelates who for generations had been the real rulers of the country. at the immediate right of the emperor stood baron von brunfels, a man universally esteemed by all who knew him, a stickler for the privileges of his order, and yet the last in the empire who would infringe on the rights of others. during the march down the rhine, nobles had joined the imperial forces at various points, coming from all quarters, for what purpose they themselves only knew, but apparently with the sole intention of being of service to his majesty in whatever expedition he was undertaking, the cause of which they could but guess. so much at least was to be gathered from their warm expressions of loyalty, which did not diminish on their viewing the formidable force which his majesty commanded. at the emperor's left hand stood the archbishop of mayence, who, on hearing that his majesty was to pass down the rhine, had hastily collected his army, and as hastily disbanded it when there marched through his town thirty thousand men, to be followed shortly by the emperor himself, accompanied by a regiment of horse that alone outnumbered the little company which the archbishop was able to assemble at the moment. thus it was that the archbishop contented himself by greeting his sovereign with merely a group of his clergy behind him, humbly placing the good city of mayence unreservedly at the disposal of the emperor, and begging permission to extend his benediction upon the expedition that had swung so jauntily along the stoned-paved river-front of the town, asking no one's leave, and making the air ring with patriotic songs. the emperor had dismounted, standing with bowed head to receive the prelate's blessing, and afterwards extended a cordial invitation to his lordship to accompany him, which overture was gratefully accepted. thus the prelate stood on the emperor's left, and the nobles were pleased to note that this position seemed to indicate that, while his majesty welcomed the co-operation of the church, still it would not be paramount in his counsels, as one of their own order occupied the first place. some rumour of what was about to occur had gone forth, and as the moment approached at which the archbishops were to appear before the throne, to plead perhaps for their lives, the face of his lordship of mayence was a study that might have afforded satisfaction to a physiognomist. he endeavoured to assume that air of superior righteousness which so well becomes a somewhat expansive and benign countenance. occasionally a smirk of satisfaction appeared, only to be smoothed instantly away, giving place to an expression of that deep resignation which is frequently bestowed, like a benediction, on a good man called upon to endure a sight of the humiliation of his enemies. he clasped his fat fingers before him--he was rather corpulent, and his hands had thus a resting place--essaying to compose his placid features into an unctuous semblance that betokened dim knowledge of the wickedness which is rampant in this world, and a solemn grief for the same, mitigated by a subdued confidence that virtue has other rewards than the mere satisfaction of possession. on the dais and on its steps, and along each wall, nobles were grouped according to their degree, while in the centre, between the dais and the entrance to the tent, a wide space was left vacant until their lordships of treves and cologne should arrive, which they did promptly at the hour named. they came in unattended, save by their two secretaries, the large escort which accompanied them from their camp being, by order of von brunfels, halted outside the pavilion. the archbishop of treves turned an unflinching look upon his sovereign, whom he now beheld for the first time, but the prelate of cologne took time by the forelock, and, without waiting to be addressed, flung himself prostrate on the lower steps of the dais, crying: "your gracious majesty, i implore your pardon. i have been deeply to blame, and bitterly do i regret my fault. had i known that my action was contrary to your majesty's will, i would have abandoned all my offices and honours, retiring humbly to the poorest monastery in my archbishopric rather than have offended your majesty." rodolph seemed taken aback by the unexpected and abject impetuosity of his lordship of cologne, and for a moment he sat silent, gazing with compassion in his glance upon the grovelling figure of the man at his feet. when at last he spoke, his accent was kindly. "my lord, i ask you to arise. we are all prone to error, and a man can but say, 'i am culpable, and i regret it.' if he make amends in after conduct there is little to be said against him, and i have small inclination to enact the implacable judge, hoping myself for mercy rather than for justice, as our holy church gives us assurance to expect. rise, therefore, my lord, and make answer to some questions i wish now to propound to you. are you content to return to your fair city of cologne and there busy yourself with what pertains to your office of archbishop, leaving me to deal with such nobles as count heinrich, should their punishment become necessary?" "i am more than content, your majesty," replied the archbishop fervently, once again upon his feet, although, with bowed head, he held himself most contritely. "are you content to permit the men in your command, now under arms around thuron, to join my army and renounce allegiance to you?" "yes, your majesty, and also those in cologne, if such is your majesty's pleasure." "i have sent to cologne ten thousand men, who are there to do fitting honour to your high office, and you will thus be saved the trouble of supporting a larger force than is necessary for your personal requirements. you have no objection to this arrangement, i trust?" "none in the least, your majesty, and as i take this to mean that your gracious clemency is about to be extended to me, i most loyally and gratefully thank your majesty." "then there is no more to be said, my lord. will you take your place at my left, in company with your brother of mayence, who is, i see, eager to give you a cordial welcome." the archbishop von hochstaden took station beside the archbishop of mayence, but such admirable control did the prelate of the upper rhine possess over his emotions, that no one would have suspected him of undue delectation in receiving a penitent sinner back into the circle of the righteous. "my lord of treves," said the emperor, "you have heard the terms on which i have consented to overlook the transgression against my rightful authority committed by your friend and ally. this knowledge will, i hope, make our conference brief. i therefore grant you a hearing." "i have to thank your majesty for the privilege, but i am somewhat at a loss to know what use to make of it. i was called hither for the purpose of answering certain questions which i was led to understand your majesty would ask, and the unnecessary caution was given me that i should make truthful rejoinder. if, then, your majesty will further favour me with the questions, i shall reply to the best of my poor ability." "oh, stands the case so, my lord? you shall not be kept waiting. why have you dared to levy war in my dominion with my permission neither asked nor received?" "i acted strictly within my rights. heinrich of thuron is my vassal. he connived at the escape or abduction of my ward, the countess tekla, who, flying from my strictly lawful control, sought refuge in thuron. my demand for her restoration was illegally refused, therefore i besieged the castle, and it would long since have been a heap of ruins had i not been fool enough to link myself with the craven coward to whom you have just given place by your imperial side." "was demand for restoration made of the count before you attacked him?" "yes, your majesty; made and refused." "am i right in stating that when such demand was made and refused, the count appealed to his sovereign and yours?" "i heard nothing of such an appeal." "who was your envoy?" "count bertrich." "where is count bertrich now?" "he is at the head of my escort, outside this tent, having been refused admission." "let him be called." an intense silence had reigned during this colloquy between the emperor and the archbishop. all eyes were now turned toward the entrance, and presently count bertrich, accompanied by the messenger sent for him, came in, and took his place before the dais near the spot where his master stood. the count blinked for a few moments, coming as he did from the brilliant sunshine outside into the comparative obscurity of the tent. at last he glanced about him, seeing many there whom he knew, all standing silent as if something ominous had happened or was expected to happen; finally his eye rested on the emperor, and a look of amazed incredulity came into his face on beholding before him the young man whose life he had attempted. ruddy as he was, the colour partially left his cheeks, and he stared, open-eyed, at his sovereign, receiving, however, no glance of recognition in return. the emperor sat imperturbable, his face stern and inscrutable, giving the warrior time to collect himself, then he spoke calmly. "i am told you are the envoy who carried the ultimatum of his lordship of treves to heinrich, count of thuron." "i was the envoy, your majesty." "is it a fact that the count, in refusing the demand to give up his castle to his lordship, appealed to the emperor?" "yes, your majesty." "is it true that you claimed for your master special authority from the emperor, and that count heinrich said he would deliver up his stronghold on the production of that authority?" "yes, your majesty." "of course you acquainted your master with such important incidents?" "no, your majesty. i immediately attacked the castle in defiance of the wishes of my lord of treves, and entirely without his sanction. i alone am to blame for the beginning of hostilities, from which, once begun, my lord could not withdraw without loss of prestige." "you did not then inform him of count heinrich's appeal until after your unsuccessful assault?" "i have no remembrance of ever so informing him, your majesty. shortly after the first attack i was wounded in the mouth and could not speak for many days." "you have entirely recovered, i am pleased to see, and no doubt your present speaking is much to the liking of the archbishop. you shamelessly admit, then, that you deceived your master, and at the same time gravely wronged count heinrich of thuron by neglecting to report his appeal." "i fully admit it, your majesty, and am prepared to suffer for my crime." "arrest this man, and see to it that he has no communication with any, until sentence is passed upon him." the archbishop of treves, who had been visibly uneasy during the latter part of this cross-examination, now intervened. "your majesty, permit me to mend an answer i gave to you. when i replied that i knew nothing of such an appeal as heinrich of thuron is said to have made----" "said to have made, my lord? the appeal is proven through the mouth of your own envoy. it seems that the caution to speak the truth, of which you complained, has been more than justified. i warn you, my lord, that you are treading on dangerous ground in thus attempting to juggle with me." "i beg to say, your majesty, that two years have passed since the events under discussion took place, and men's memories are sometimes at fault when even shorter periods are in question. for instance, my trusty ally, who leaped so quickly into your majesty's favour, doubtless forgets that a few brief days since he bound himself solemnly to stand or fall with me, whereas he has fallen alone--at your majesty's feet." "i was coerced," explained von hochstaden. "there also your remembrance fails you, my valourous lord. it was your own proposition. but all this has nothing to do with the point in argument, and it may be that count bertrich's loyalty has clouded his memory, while it is possible that my own recollection has not been of the best in dealing with doings long past, these doings having connection with so unscrupulous a man as heinrich of thuron. his appeal i did not consider as anything but a ruse to gain time. he well knew that your majesty was thousands of leagues away and that it would be long before his petition could be heard; in truth, for two years, as has been shown by your present return. therefore, i paid no heed to an invocation that was on the face of it dishonest. when count bertrich says he acted without my orders he speaks the technical truth, but everything he did had my most cordial approval, then and now; and, as i have said before, if we had not been harnessed with a poltroon, we should have had the castle within five days. it is futile, then, to punish this underling, and let the chief culprit go, if my action be adjudged censurable." "your action is adjudged a crime." "then i plead that, in justice, count bertrich should not suffer, being under my command." "your lordship is not logical. count bertrich has himself confessed that he acted without your sanction. your crime is that you approved of an illegal action, not that you gave illegal orders, which, it seems, you did not." what motion the proud prelate might have made at this juncture which would have led to his inevitable destruction, can only be surmised, but, happily for him, he cast a glance at his brethren of cologne and mayence, and detected on their faces ill-concealed looks of triumph. it meant much to them that the lion of treves should accomplish his own ruin, and the stern face of the emperor indicated that unqualified submission must be made to him, if, indeed, such submission were not already too long delayed. that brief gleam of triumph on the face of his late ally saved von isenberg. his manner instantly changed. "your majesty," he said in a penitential tone, "i am compelled to confess that i am illogical, and that the case against me is but too clear, looking at it from your majesty's higher point of view, unburdened by the prejudice, and, perhaps i should add with shame, the hatred which has enveloped me. i have no excuse to offer, and there is nothing left for me to hope, except that the clemency which you so generously bestowed on others you may extend to--count bertrich." the emperor's face lightened, and something almost approaching a smile touched his lips as he saw that the haughty archbishop, in spite of his evident intention to sue for favour when he began, could not bring himself to beg for any save a friend. the emperor ignored his lack of pleading for himself, and said: "are you content to return to treves and accept the protection which my soldiers will deem it an honour to supply?" "i am content, your majesty." "are you content to allow your men now gathered round thuron to join those under my standard?" "i am content, your majesty." "are you content to give up the guardianship of the countess tekla?" "it has brought me little profit and some loss of prestige, so i am well rid of it. i am content, your majesty." the emperor rose from his throne and descended the steps of the dais, extending his hand. "my lord archbishop," he said, "i hope from this day forward to count you one of my friends." "in truth, your majesty," replied von isenberg dryly, "i would rather have you my friend than my enemy." "it is a sentiment which finds an echo in my own breast," responded the emperor with undeniable amity, and casting a sharp glance on count bertrich, he added: "is that defective memory of yours local or general, my lord count?" "it is universal, your majesty. men whom i have met two years ago i could not recognise to-day." "ah! such misfortunes, deplorable as they may seem, are not without their compensation, my lord." saying this, the emperor mounted the dais, and in a few brief sentences made congratulatory reference to the peaceable adjustment, thus dismissing the assemblage. chapter xlii. tekla replenishes her wardrobe. the countess tekla leaned long over the parapet of castle thuron, gazing sadly into the night. the brilliant moonlight seemed a mockery of former happiness, now that she stood bathed in it alone. into the darkness of the forest, into the uncertainty of the future, her lover had gone, confident that his single arm would bring rescue to the besieged; and the girl, melancholy as she was at the parting, felt as assured of his success as if it were already accomplished. he had been compelled to steal away in the shadow of the trees, as cautiously and secretly as if he were on a mission of death, but she was sure he would return openly and triumphantly as a champion of life. her dreamy eyes lost sight of the dark wood, and she saw in imagination her hero at the head of his men break through the iron cordon which had so long encompassed the castle, bringing, with ringing cheers, succour to the oppressed. at last, with dimmed eyes and a deep sigh, the girl turned and beheld the ghost-like vision of hilda standing there, silently weeping. "oh, hilda, how you startled me. why are you sorrowing?" "so many terrible things have happened to-night, my lady, that i am filled with fear. i weep because i have lost my lover," said hilda, simply. "yes, hilda, the cruel wood has hidden him, but he will soon return, so have no fears. and, hilda, listen. we are two women alone together, and i think women are alike whatever their station; lady or serf, what can they do but weep when their lovers leave them? my own eyes are wet, hilda, because my lover went with yours!" "the lord rodolph, my lady?" exclaimed hilda, her curiosity and match-making instinct mastering her emotion. "the lord rodolph, hilda." "oh, my lady, i am glad." "are you, hilda?" cried the girl, embracing her. "so am i. now let us forget our mutual grief in our mutual joy. walk with me along this promenade, here in the moonlight, and tell me about it. where did you meet, and what did he say to you? do lovers talk the same language all the world over? i believe they do; a language understood only by themselves, and untranslatable to others. what did he tell you, hilda?" "i do not remember, my lady," said hilda, as they walked together up and down; hilda with drooping head. "we met, and were with each other, and seemed to want nothing more, and the words did not matter. sometimes he said the moon shone brightly, or, in the darkness, that the stars twinkled, and yet i knew he was speaking of me and not of the moon or the stars, and that i was thinking of him!" "yes," said tekla, with a sigh, "the moon shines and the stars twinkle and we think how beautiful they are, but that is because he is here, for now the moon shines as brightly for others, perhaps, but not for us, because he is absent, and we see none of the former beauty in the shining, but only the brilliant loneliness; the empty night." hilda glanced timorously about her when her lady spoke of the night, for the events of the evening had so unnerved her that even the thought of her rescued lover could not turn her mind from the dangers which surrounded them. everything seemed peaceful, but everything had seemed peaceful when conrad was suddenly pounced upon, and all but hanged. she shuddered and said tremblingly: "is it safe for us to walk thus conspicuously on the battlements? is it not dangerous?" "dangerous?" cried the countess, clasping her hands, and gazing with rapture along the promenade. "it is the most dangerous spot on earth, hilda, and the most delicious." "then let us leave it, my lady. an archer might mark us out, for the enemy are doubtless lingering near, although unseen by us." "it is too late, hilda. an archer has already marked me out and has shot me through the heart, all on these battlements, yet i cared little, for i had been mortally wounded before." hilda looked with dismay at the countess standing there oblivious to her surroundings, forgetting even that she had a companion, the moonlight enfolding her in its gentle radiance. from this wild talk of archers and wounding, hilda feared that reason had fled from her beloved mistress, but the countess, guessing her thought, turned suddenly toward her and laughed. "yes, hilda, reason has deserted me, and i have before now on this spot acted directly contrary to its teachings, and yet am i without regret. but we must talk no more of lovers and the moonlight, nor even of the subdued twinkling of the stars, and to show you how practical i am, i will tell you what we are to do these coming few days, so that we may think of nothing but that we have in hand. i have not yet told you, hilda, how glad i am that you are with me again, and how much i missed you all these long months. i am so helpless without you, and these hands are as useless--as useless----" "they are most beautiful, my lady." "yes, he said that, and it therefore must be true," murmured the countess, looking down at her fair hands as impartially as if they belonged to someone else, as indeed they did. "what could he see in me, hilda, to wish for me? i am obstinate and unruly. i left my guardian in a most unmaidenly manner; i am often defiant to all rightful authority, and have rebelled when my uncle has commanded. he knows all this, for he aided me in my flight, and he has seen me face my uncle in anger, and yet--and yet--why is it, hilda?" "you are the most lovely lady on this earth, countess tekla." "that cannot be, for i have heard there are the fairest ladies in frankfort, at the court, that man has ever looked upon, yet he came from frankfort, and from the emperor's court, and must have seen them. even were it true what you say, i would not have him love me for that alone. i care for him, not because he is the noblest and best in all the land, but because he is rodolph, and he--perhaps he cares for me because i am tekla. it is all a mystery which i cannot fathom. i left my guardian knowing nothing of rodolph, and now it seems as if i must always have known him, and that he was waiting for me, as in truth he was. but here am i talking of him again, after saying i would think no more until he returned. oh yes, i remember now what i wished to tell you, when your flattery about my hands set me off on the familiar path. hilda, in this castle i have made a wonderful discovery. ah, i have made more than one unlooked-for discovery since i inhabited thuron, for nothing is more wonderful or more entrancing than that i should have discovered his--oh, hilda, shall i ever talk sanely again? i doubt it." "what discovery in the castle, my lady?" "oh, that there is here a veritable robber's cave, such as the minstrels sing about." "indeed, such is what they call the castle itself down in alken." "do they? i wonder why. hilda, there is in thuron an enchanted room; i know it is enchanted, for the light is dim, and the ghosts of bygone ladies haunt it continually." "oh, my lady," cried hilda, horror-stricken. "you have not been near it, i hope." "how could i keep out of it, or how blame the poor ghosts for wandering through it? the room is filled with the most wonderful webs of cloth, of every dye, some filmy as spider's weaving, some thick as armour. had one the art to fashion it into women's garments, there is enough within that room to clothe most richly all the ladies of the court at frankfort. how came my uncle by this cloth, or what use can he have for it, i cannot imagine, but i am sure the ghosts of all the ladies for whom the webs were intended must haunt the place, sorrowful that they had never an opportunity of wearing the unmade apparel. when i enter the room i wave my hand and bid the ghosts begone, and then, being sorry for my cruelty, i spread out the cloth so that they may see how beautiful it is and of what rare texture, for the poor ghosts cannot do this by themselves. come with me, hilda, and i will show you the room." "oh no, no, my lady. i dare not venture in it. i would rather face all the archbishop's troops than those dead ghosts." "nonsense, child. there is really nothing there to fright you, and if i can enter the room often and often alone, surely you will not hang back when i am with you. you shall devise most lovely costumes for us both, so that when our lovers return we shall enslave them anew, and in the making of our robes we shall have something more practical to think of than the glamour of the moonlight. why did you not teach me to sew, hilda? i never knew what a useless creature i was until i stood among all that rare assortment, enough to delight any woman's eye, and had no skill in the fashioning of the smallest piece of it. then did i sit down and selfishly weep because you were not with me. and i have selected one web of quiet hue, but rich in texture, finely spun, which you shall make for my aunt, poor lady, who has never had anything to wear that she might be proud of. come, hilda, bring a lamp to ward off the darkness, and i shall keep the ghosts away from you." hilda, encouraged by the presence of the countess, ventured into the silken store-room, containing the unwilling tribute of many a merchant to the potentate of thuron, and once within the haunted chamber, was soon so much absorbed in the cutting of the material selected, and the fitting of it on the lovely model who posed before her, that all fear of spiritual onlookers fled, and so deft was the fair seamstress in the passion of her occupation that she would have measured and fitted even a ghost if the apparition had presented itself before her with a sepulchral request for a garment. when the attire of the countess was completed, the lady then began to wonder, not without an admixture of apprehension, what her turbulent uncle would say when this mutilation of his goods came to his knowledge, and so resolved to settle the question once for all before rodolph returned. tekla entered the great dining hall, arrayed in all her splendour, her heart fluttering with anxiety regarding her reception, yet she was in a measure sustained by that feeling of confidence which comes to those who know they are handsomely attired. heinrich's wife was so startled that she gasped in terror and cast an apprehensive glance at her husband, as his niece glided with apparent composure into the room. the black count himself looked up, but noticing no difference, merely grumbled that tekla was late and went on with his scanty meal. chapter xliii. the countess and the emperor. one morning word came hurriedly to the count that there was a commotion near alken, an attack being feared. heinrich ascended to the battlements without haste and without enthusiasm. if an assault came he would repel it if he could, but he had little heart in the prospect of a fight, and as little hope of ultimate success. he had welcomed the departure of rodolph and his two companions, largely because their going left three mouths less to feed, but he had such small faith in rodolph's proffer of rescue that all thought of the young man had already gone from his mind. reaching the battlements, he saw on the plain to the south of the village evidence of something unusual in progress. bugles were blowing, and men from the tents and the lines were hurriedly concentrating at a point where they seemed called upon to oppose some unexpected force. a man on horseback was listening to the protests of an officer of the archbishop, who gesticulated violently, and apparently all answer the horseman made was to point to the flag which waved above him. what the flag was that lazily floated above its staff, heinrich could not make out, but presently the horseman gave a signal to one of his buglers, and a trumpet call rang along the valley, and was echoed mockingly from the rocks opposite alken. in a short space of time there came out from the shelter of the village, along the river street, soldiers marching four abreast, one line following another so closely that they seemed to tread on each other's heels, quartette after quartette, as if the village were some huge reservoir of men, and was belching them forth in such numbers that there was little wonder the archbishop's officers stood helpless before this display of military power. at last the movement stopped, and the soldiers were halted four deep, standing at ease with their formidable array of lances bristling above them. again the mounted man seemed to prefer his request or command, and this time heed was given it. the archbishop's troops parted, leaving an open space, and through this came, not the soldiers who had the moment before exhibited their numbers, but laden animals with attendants, led by the officer on horseback. the procession came up the zig-zag path that ended at the castle gates, and every man of thuron's garrison, who now clustered on the walls, raised a simultaneous cheer. they recognised the move as a break in the archbishop's cordon, and vociferously acclaimed that help and food were coming to them. count heinrich, however, was no optimist. his naturally suspicious mind caused him to imagine that here was merely another trick of his enemy of treves, and he stood silent and grim, with arms folded across his breast, watching distrustfully the ascending cavalcade; and thus he remained until the trumpeter summoned the gate. the mounted officer rode boldly forward as if he feared no rebuff. "count heinrich of thuron," he cried to the motionless figure that stood like a lowering statue on the platform above the gate. "i greet you in the name of his majesty, the emperor, and am commanded by him to deliver to you food and wine, which i bring with me. i await your orders regarding their bestowal within your castle." "how am i to know that you come from the emperor, his majesty being at this moment in palestine." "the emperor rodolph has returned, my lord, and is now at the head of his army, gathered on the plain to the east of thuron. his troops have surrounded the camp of the archbishops, and it is his majesty's will that this siege be immediately raised. my orders were to force a passage through to your gates if resistance were offered, but that was not necessary, as the archbishops' officers made way for us when they found themselves confronted by overwhelming opposition; besides, they lacked orders from the archbishops, who are now themselves besieged and cannot communicate with their captains." a fierce fire lit up the eyes of the black count, and he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the archbishops' camp to see if there were any sign of the environment of which the imperial messenger spoke. a low murmur, not unlike a growl, broke from his own men, impatient at the delay. the animal was hungry and scented its food. "open the gates," cried heinrich, and the growl changed into a cheer again. the count knew that if this were a trap he had no option but to fall into it, for they could not hold out longer. the gates were thrown open and relief entered. willing hands speedily unpacked the hampers. many of the meats were already prepared for the table, well cooked and temptingly garnished. it required all the terror of the count's eye to prevent his men from rushing forward and helping themselves. the master of thuron appreciated the tension and saw that this was no time for delay or the display of undue authority. "make the parapets your table," he shouted, "and the battlements your dining hall. you shall feast in sight of the archbishops, if they care to look on. fall to, and wait no ceremony." never was even count heinrich's command obeyed more promptly. the emperor had been thoughtful and had sent a staff of cooks, with the material for their manipulation, and this was the more welcome when count heinrich heard, with something like consternation, that it was the emperor's intention to visit castle thuron that day and dine with its master. this was an honour for which count heinrich felt himself in no way prepared, nor was it a distinction which he coveted. he paced the large room gloomily when the envoy had left him, pondering over his predicament, for he was not accustomed to the etiquette of courts, and had little practice in the bending of the knee. upon his dilemma there suddenly intruded the radiant presence of his niece, aglow with excitement. he glared moodily at her approach. "is it true," she cried, "that the emperor is to visit us?" "i fear so," growled the count. "fear so, uncle? i am ashamed of you. how can you say you fear, when the moment he returned from the east he came to your rescue, no doubt as soon as my lord rodolph acquainted him with your position." "it is not likely lord rodolph had anything to do with it. i have heard nothing of lord rodolph." "nevertheless, you will soon hear of him, and he it was who caused this quick rescue to be brought about. rodolph will come to the castle by the side of the emperor, and i will not have him ashamed of us." "it matters not to me what lord rodolph thinks; if he has indeed had a hand in this, i wish him well for it." "but the emperor is coming! the emperor is coming. everything else gives way to that. we shall see him and speak with him, and he shall know that here are his most loyal subjects assembled. we must receive him royally." "what can we do? he comes--well, let him come. he has sent his dinner and the cooks to prepare it, so in god's name we will allow him to eat it, since it belongs to him, but what further can we do? i can say good-day to him, but if you expect me to bow and kneel and scrape to him, by the holy coat, i will leave the castle first." "you shall do nothing of the kind. you shall put under my orders every man you have; there is work enough for them all to do. hilda, come here." hilda, who had been standing at the door, came forward. "hilda, throw open the ghost room and tell a dozen of the men to carry down bales of cloth: the crimson silk to this room, the purple and blue and scarlet webs to the courtyard." "what?" roared the black count. "what do you know of those bales?" "everything, my lord uncle. i have rummaged all corners of the room and am thoroughly conversant with what it contains. and, hilda, tell them to bring here the crimson silk first and i will show them how to festoon it." "you are mad," cried her uncle, wrathfully, but standing before her uncertain what to do. "yes, with joy. i am to see the emperor, and my lord rodolph, for i know they come in company. and now, what can i do with you? your armour should be scoured, and--no, you are hopeless. i cannot festoon you with red silk, my uncle, so i shall not attempt to improve you. you look like a great bear, and such indeed you are, but the emperor, who is a fighter himself, will esteem valour in whatever shape it presents itself. he may have seen rougher men in the east, although i doubt it. now go and tell your garrison that i have taken charge of the castle until the emperor arrives, and wear just such a scowl as is now on your face when you order them to obey me." the helpless man laughed scornfully, but nevertheless made no objection, feeling that he had reached a situation which was beyond him, and that possibly his confident niece would retrieve the honour of his house. in a marvellously short time, under tekla's crisp direction, the appearance of the castle was completely changed, and old thuron would not have known itself, so bravely was it decked with silk and bunting, to the great depletion of his lordship's stores. the black count made no attempt to smarten himself and thus follow the example of his castle, but wandered impatiently about, accoutred as he was and always had been, not knowing what to do with himself, manifestly ill at ease, alternately frowning and grimacing at the preparations and decorating going on around him. once there arose a cry that the emperor was in sight, and tekla, in despair, wrung her hands that he came so soon, but it was a false alarm, and heinrich, going to the battlements, saw with a savage joy that the cause of the commotion was the striking of the tents belonging to the archbishop's army. the two years' siege was at last raised. the black count lifted his clenched fist towards the unoffending sky and hoarsely cursed the departing legion. from her fear that his majesty would come too soon, the countess began to apprehend that he would not come at all. the improvised carpet had been laid between the castle doorway and the gates; broad red cloth flanked by two webs of blue. purple was looped over the archway, and gaudy streamers floated from the walls. at last the detachment which had marched through the village began to ascend the slope, and soon from castle gate to river bank they lined each side of the way, forming an avenue of erect lances. ringing cheers sounded from the village, marking the imperial progress, for the whole population of the country roundabout had turned out: even the opposite banks of the moselle were thronged by thousands who could not get across. the countess tekla, accompanied by her aunt, stood on the battlements to get thus the first view of the emperor, although she had commanded her uncle to be in readiness, the moment his majesty appeared below, to take his place at the open gate, where, supported by his two women folk, he was to offer his sovereign the castle and the devotion of all within it. presently horsemen appeared advancing past the southern end of the village, numbering, perhaps, two score, then there was an interval, and all onlookers knew at once it was the emperor in his glittering armour who rode the prancing white horse, with but one attendant by his side. following him came another troop of horse, and thus ascended to castle thuron the emperor rodolph, who but a short time before had slipped away from it, a fugitive in the night. those manning the walls of the castle raised a great cheer when they saw his majesty, and tekla could scarce refrain from clapping her hands at the brave spectacle. the black count looked at the cavalcade with the sombre discontent of one surveying a funeral procession, and hilda sighed when she saw but a single attendant accompanying the emperor. "uncle, if you will lead us down, we will now take our places at the gate," said tekla, her voice quavering with conflicting emotions. the count obeyed in silence, and stood awkwardly, muttering low maledictions at this mummery, yet knowing there was nothing before him but endurance. his wife took up her position, trembling, at his right and his niece at his left. the foremost horsemen ranged themselves on each side of the gate, their evolutions, for the moment, concealing the chief personage from the view of those standing in the portal. when the emperor rode forward with conrad at his side, tekla cried out as one in fear, then for a moment leaned against her uncle for support. heinrich looked at her white face, not knowing what ailed her, and was about to speak roughly, as was his custom, when she gasped hurriedly under her breath: "uncle, uncle, look. who is the emperor?" the black count turned his gaze once more to the front and cried: "by my sins, it is no emperor at all, but lord rodolph." tekla, quicker of comprehension, whispered, holding bravely off the faintness that had suddenly come upon her: "lord rodolph is the emperor." rodolph swung himself lightly from the horse before conrad could put hand to stirrup, and advanced quickly towards them, the cavalry coming to a halt behind him. "my lord count," he cried, "you see how easy it is to take your castle when a real warrior comes against it." the count, having no answer at hand, made none, being troubled in his mind whether or no he should kneel, but if this neglect to bend the knee was a breach of court etiquette, he was pleased to note that the emperor was little likely to take heed of it. his majesty had eyes for none but the countess tekla, who appeared indeed a queen in the stately robes that became her so well. rodolph seemed suddenly stricken dumb by her beauty, for all the colour had fled from her face, leaving it like chiselled marble, as she stood demurely with her eyes bent on the ground. "tekla," he murmured, taking her hand with deep reverence, and raising it to his lips, "is the prince who returns as welcome as the unknown lord would have been?" "yes----your majesty," whispered tekla, casting a swift glance at him, the colour again touching her cheeks. "and is countess tekla willing to become empress tekla?" "the delight of a loyal subject is to obey the imperial command," she said, a smile coming at last to her lips. again the emperor raised her hand and kissed it. "i suppose," growled the black count, gruffly, "there is no further need of my standing here like a fool." the emperor laughed heartily, and the countess tekla joined him. the tensity of the situation was at once relieved by the unmannerly remark of the master of thuron. "no, my lord, no. what the countess and i have to say to each other may be very well said without listeners, and it is a pity a man should not enter his own house without asking permission. ah, hilda," he continued on seeing the girl, "i have made conrad a lord, and he tells me that in spite of his nobility, he loves a maid of low degree, and so we shall soon all be noble who once ventured our for tunes in a slight skiff on the moselle tekla," he whispered, as they entered the castle together, "you have now no guardian, for his lordship of treves willingly resigns control over so rebellious a vassal. peace reigneth in the land, and there will be no fewer than three archbishops at our marriage." _no field collection is complete without this book_ a little book _of_ tribune verse _by_ eugene field compiled and edited by joseph g. brown, formerly city editor of the _denver tribune_, and an intimate friend and associate of the poet during the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper. this volume resurrects a literary treasure which has been buried for many years in the forgotten files of a newspaper, and it is, as nearly as it has been possible to make, an absolutely complete collection of the hitherto unpublished poems of the gifted author. these poems are the early product of field's genius. they breathe the spirit of western life of twenty years ago. the reckless cowboy, the bucking broncho, the hardy miner, the english tenderfoot, the coquettish belle, and all the foibles and extravagances of western social life, are depicted with a naïveté and satire, tempered with sympathy and pathos, which no other writer could imitate. the book contains nearly three hundred pages, including an interesting and valuable introduction by the editor, and is printed from new type on fine deckle edge paper, and handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt tops. _retail price, cents_ grosset & dunlap duane street :: :: new york the popular novels of a. w. marchmont now offered in handsomely made cloth bound editions at low prices few writers of recent years have achieved such a wide popularity in this particular field as has mr. marchmont. for rattling good stories of love, intrigue, adventure, plots and counter-plots, we know of nothing better, and to the reader who has become surfeited with the analytical and so-called historical novels of the day, we heartily commend them. there is life, movement, animation, on every page, and for a tedious railway journey or a dull rainy afternoon, nothing could be better. they will make you forget your troubles. the following five volumes are now ready in our popular copyright series: by right of sword with illustrations by powell chase. a dash for a throne with illustrations by d. murray smith. miser hoadley's secret with illustrations by clare angell. the price of freedom with illustrations by clare angell. the heritage of peril with illustrations by edith leslie lang. large mo in size, handsomely bound in cloth, uniform in style. _price cents per volume, postpaid._ grosset & dunlap, publishers duane street :: :: new york susan clegg and her love affairs by anne warner author of "the rejuvenation of aunt mary," "sunshine jane," etc. with frontispiece by h. m. brett boston little, brown, and company _copyright, _, by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved_ published, may, reprinted, may, [illustration: "nothing but the floor stopped me from falling through to china." frontispiece. _see page ._] contents i. susan clegg's courting ii. susan clegg and the chinese lady iii. susan clegg solves the mystery iv. susan clegg and the olive branch v. susan clegg's "improvements" vi. susan clegg uprooted vii. susan clegg unsettled viii. susan clegg and the cyclone ix. susan clegg's practical friend x. susan clegg develops imagination xi. susan clegg and the playwright xii. susan clegg's disappearance susan clegg and her love affairs i susan clegg's courting mrs. lathrop sat on her front piazza, and susan clegg sat with her. mrs. lathrop was rocking, and susan was just back from the sewing society. neither mrs. lathrop nor susan was materially altered since we saw them last. time had moved on a bit, but not a great deal, and although both were older, still they were not much older. they were not enough older for mrs. lathrop to have had a new rocker, nor for susan to have purchased a new bonnet. susan indeed looked almost absolutely unaltered. she was a woman of the best wearing quality; she was hard and firm as ever, and if there were any plating about her, it was of the quadruple kind and would last. if the reader knows susan clegg at all, he will surmise that she was talking. and he will be right. susan was most emphatically talking. she had returned from the sewing society full to the brim, and mrs. lathrop was already enjoying the overflow. mrs. lathrop liked to rock and listen. she never went to the sewing society herself--she never went anywhere. "we was talking about dreams," susan was saying; "it's a very curious thing about dreams. do you know, mrs. lathrop," wrinkling her brow and regarding her friend with that look of friendship which is not blind to any faults, "do you know, mrs. lathrop, they said down there that dreams always go by contraries. we was discussing it for a long time, and they ended up by making me believe in it. you see, it all began by my saying how i dreamed last night that jathrop was back, and he was a cat and your cat, too, and he did something he wasn't let to, and you made one jump at him, and out of the window he went. now that was a very strange dream for me to have dreamed, mrs. lathrop, and mrs. lupey, who's staying with mrs. macy to-day and maybe to-morrow, too, says she's sure it's a sign. she says if dreams go by contraries, mine ought to be a sign as jathrop is coming back, for the contraries is all there: jathrop _wasn't_ a cat, and he never done nothing that he shouldn't--nor that he should, neither--and you never jump--i don't believe you've jumped in years, have you?" "i--" began mrs. lathrop reminiscently. "oh, that time don't count," said susan, "it was just my ball of yarn, even if it did look like a rat; i meant a jump when you meant it; you didn't mean that jump. well, an' to go back to the dream and what was said about it and to tell you the rest of it, there wasn't any more of it, but there was plenty more said about it. all of the dream was that the cat went out of the window, and i woke up, but, oh, my, how we did talk! gran'ma mullins wanted to know in the first place how i knew that the cat was jathrop. she was most interested in that, for she says she often dreams of animals, but it never struck her that they might be any one she knew. she dreamed she found a daddy-long-legs looking in her bureau drawer the other night, but she never gave it another thought. she'll be more careful after this, i guess. well, then i begun to consider, and for the life of me i can't think how i knew that that cat was jathrop. as i remember it was a very common looking cat, but being common looking wouldn't mean jathrop. jathrop was common looking, but not a common cat kind of common looking. it was a very strange dream, mrs. lathrop, the more i consider it, the more i can't see what give it to me. i finished up the doughnuts just before i went to bed, for i was afraid they'd mold in another day with this damp weather, but it don't seem as if doughnuts ought to result in cats like jathrop. if i'd dreamed of mice, it'd been different, for some of the doughnuts was gnawed in a way as showed as there'd been mice in the jar. it does beat all how mice get about. maybe it was the mice made me think jathrop was a cat. but even then i can't see how i did come to dream that dream. unless it was a sign. mrs. lupey's sure it was a sign. we talked about signs the whole of the sewing society. dreams and signs. everybody told all they knew. mrs. macy told about her snow dream. whenever mrs. macy has her snow dream, somebody dies. she says it's so interesting to look in a paper the next time she gets hold of one and see who it was. one time she thought it was edgar allen poe, but when she read it over twice, she see that it was just that he'd been born. she says her snow dream's a wonderful sign; it's never failed once. she dreamed it the night before the earthquake in italy, and she says to think how many died of it that time! "this started gran'ma mullins, and gran'ma mullins told about that dream she had the year before she met her husband. that was an awful dream. i wonder she met her husband a _tall_ after it. she thought she was alone in a thick wood, and she saw a man coming, and she was scared to death. she says she can feel her trembling now. she didn't know what to do, 'cause if she'd hid among the trees he couldn't have seen her, and that idea scared her as bad as the other. so she just stood and shook and watched the man coming nearer and nearer. i've heard her tell the story a hundred times, but my blood always sort o' runs cold to hear it. the man come nearer and nearer and, my, but she says he _was_ a man! she was just a young girl, but she was old enough to be afraid, and old enough not to want to hide from him, neither. she says it was an awful lesson to her about going in woods alone, because of course you can't never expect any sympathy if the man does murder you or kiss you--everybody'll just say, 'why didn't she hide in the woods?' well, gran'ma mullins says there she stood, and she can see herself still standing there. she says she's never been in the woods since just on account of that dream--and then, too, she's one of those that the mosquitos all get on in the woods. and then, besides, she doesn't like woods, anyway. and then, besides, there ain't no thick woods around here. but, anyhow, you know what happened--just as he got to her she woke up, and i must say of all the tame stories to have to sit and listen to over and over, that dream of gran'ma mullins is the tamest. i get tired the minute she begins it, but my dream had started every one to telling signs, and so of course gran'ma mullins had to tell hers along with the rest. "when she was done mrs. lupey told us about her mother, mrs. kitts, and a curious kind of prophetic dream she used to have and kept right on having up to the day she died. mrs. lupey said she never heard the like of those dreams of her mother's, and i guess nobody else ever has, either. no, nor never will. well, it seems mrs. kitts used to dream she was falling out of bed, and the curious part is that she always _did_ fall out of bed just as she dreamed it, so it never failed to come true. she'd dream she hit the floor _bang!_ and the next second she'd hit the floor _bang!_ mrs. lupey said she never saw such a dream for coming true; if old mrs. kitts dreamed she hit her head, she'd hit her head, and the time she dreamed she sprained her wrist, she sprained her wrist, and the time she had her stroke, as soon as her mind was got back in place she told them she'd dreamed she had a stroke in her chair just before she fell out of her chair with the stroke. even the minister's wife didn't have a word to say. "mrs. lupey said her mother was a most remarkable woman. she's very sorry now she didn't board that painter for a portrait of her. the painter was so awful took with old mrs. kitts that he was willing to do her for six weeks and with the frame for two months. but mrs. lupey was afraid to have a painter around. she'd just read a detective story about a painter that killed the woman he was painting because he didn't want any one else to paint her. mrs. lupey said it was a very frenchy story--there was a lot between the lines and on the lines, too--as she couldn't make out, but it taught her never to have painters around, for you never could be sure in a house with four other women that he'd kill the one he was painting. but she's sorry now, for she's older now and wiser and a match for any painter going, long-haired, short-haired or no hair at all. but it's too late now, and there's mrs. kitts dead unpainted, and all they've got left is a sweet memory and that cane she used to hit at 'em with when they weren't spry enough to suit her, and her hymn-book which she marked up without telling any one and left for a remembrance. mrs. lupey says such markings you never heard of. "when mrs. lupey was all done, mrs. brown took her turn and told us some very interesting things about amelia. seems amelia is so far advanced in learning what nobody can understand that she can see quite a little ways ahead now and tell just what she's going to do. she can't see for the rest of the family, but she can see for herself. sometimes it's just a day ahead, and sometimes it's a long way ahead. the longest way ahead that she's seen yet is that she can't see herself ever getting up to breakfast again. mrs. brown says of course she respects amelia's religious views, but it's trying when amelia wants to go to church, but doesn't see herself going, so has to stay at home. she says amelia just loves to sew, but she can't see herself sewing any more, so she's given it all up. she says amelia's got a superior mind--anybody can tell that only to see the way she's took to doing her hair--but she says it's a little hard on young doctor brown and her, who haven't got superior minds, to live with her. amelia don't want to kill flies any more, for fear they're going to be her blood relations a million years from now, and mrs. brown says she never was any good once a mouse was caught, but now she won't even hear to setting a trap; she says all things has equal rights, and if she feels a spider, some one has got to take it off her and set it gently outside on the grass. oh, mrs. brown says, amelia's very hard to live up to, even with the best will in the world. mrs.--" here susan was interrupted by brunhilde susan, the minister's youngest child, who brought the evening milk and the evening paper. "there was a letter, so i brought that, too," said brunhilde susan. "a letter!" said susan in surprise. "it's for mrs. lathrop," said brunhilde susan. "for me!" said mrs. lathrop in even greater surprise. "yes'm," said brunhilde susan. a letter for mrs. lathrop was indeed a surprise, as that good lady had only received two in the last five years. as those had been of the least interesting variety, she looked upon the present one with but mild interest. the next minute she gave a scream, for, turning it over as some people always do turn a letter over before opening it, she read on the back "return to jathrop lathrop..." and her fingers turning numb with surprise and her head dizzy for the same reason, she dropped it on the floor forthwith. brunhilde susan had turned and gone back down the walk. miss clegg, who had been regarding her friend's slowness to take action with ill-concealed impatience, now made no attempt at concealing anything, but leaned over abruptly and picked up the letter. as soon as she looked at it she came near dropping it, too. "from jathrop!" she exclaimed, in a tone appalled. "well, mrs. lathrop!" mrs. lathrop was quite speechless. susan held the letter and began to regard it closely. it was quite a minute before another sound was made, then suddenly a light burst over the younger woman's face. "it's my dream. i told you so. it _was_ a sign, just as mrs. lupey said. he's coming back!" she looked toward mrs. lathrop, but mrs. lathrop still sat quite limp and gasping for breath. "shall i open it and read it to you?" susan then suggested. "y--y--" began mrs. lathrop and could get no further. at that susan promptly opened the letter. it was written on the paper of a chicago hotel, and ran thus: "_dear mother_: "years have passed by, and here i am on my way home again. i've been to the klondike and am now rich and on my way home. i hope that you are well and safe at home. you'll be glad to see me home again, i know. how is everybody at home? how is susan clegg? i shall get home saturday morning. "your afft. son, "j. lathrop, esq." that was all and surely it was quite enough. "well, i declare!" susan clegg said, staring first at the letter and then at the mother. "well, mrs. lathrop! well, i declare. it _was_ a sign. you and me'll never doubt signs after _this_, i guess." mrs. lathrop made an effort to rally, but only succeeded in just feebly shaking her head. susan continued to hold the letter in her hand and contemplate it. another slow minute or two passed. but at last the wheels of life began to turn again, and that active mind, which grasped so much so readily, grasped this news, too. miss clegg ceased to view the letter and began to take action regarding it. "did you notice what he says here, mrs. lathrop? he says he's rich. i don't know whether you noticed or not as i read, but he says he's rich. i wonder how rich he means!" mrs. lathrop opened and shut her eyes in a futile way that she had, but continued speechless. "rich," repeated miss clegg, "and me dreaming of him last night; that's very curious, when you come to think of it, 'cause i'm rich, too. and i was dreaming of him! it doesn't make any difference my thinking he was a cat; i knew it was jathrop, even if he was only a cat in a dream. strange my dreaming of him that way! i can see him flying out of the window right now. he was one of those lanky, long cats that eat from dawn till dark and every time your back's turned and yet keep the neighbors saying you starve it. and to think it was jathrop all the time! thinking of me right that minute, probably. and he says, 'how's susan clegg?' and he's rich. i _do_ wonder what he'd call rich!" susan paused and looked at her friend, but mrs. lathrop remained dumb. "the klondike, that's where he went to, was it? goodness, i wonder how he ever got there! well, i'll never be surprised at nothing after this. i've had many little surprises in my life, but never nothing to equal this. jathrop lathrop come back rich! why, the whole town will be at the station to meet him to-morrow. i wonder if he'll come in the parlor-car! think of jathrop being a cat overnight and coming in a parlor-car next day! and he says, 'how's susan clegg?'" the last three words seemed to make quite an impression on susan, but mrs. lathrop appeared smashed so supremely flat that nothing could make any further impression on her. she continued dumb, and susan continued to hold the letter and comment on it. "i wonder what he looks like now. i wonder if he's grown any better looking! i certainly do wonder if he's got any homelier. and he's rich! why, nobody from this town has ever gone away and got rich before, not that i can remember. i call myself a rich woman, but i ain't rich enough to dream of writing it in a letter. i certainly should like to know what jathrop calls being rich. he couldn't possibly have millions, or it would have reached here somehow. maybe he's been digging under another name! i suppose three or four thousand would seem enough to make him call himself rich. if he comes home with three or four thousand and calls that being rich, i shall certainly feel very sorry for you, mrs. lathrop. he'll be very airy over his money, and he'll live on yours. if you've got to have any one live with you, it's better for them to have no money a _tall_, because if they've got ever such a little, they always feel so perky over it. mrs. brown says if amelia didn't have that six dollars and seventy-five cents a month from her dead mother, she'd be much easier to live with. mrs. brown says whenever doctor brown trys to control amelia, amelia hops up and says she'll pay for it with her own money. mrs. brown says to hear amelia, you'd think she had at least ten dollars a month of her own. mrs. brown's so sad over amelia. amelia sees herself doing such outlandish things some days. mrs. brown says your son's wife is the biggest puzzle a woman ever gets. i guess mrs. brown would have liked young doctor brown never to marry." mrs. lathrop opened her mouth and shut it again. "i suppose you're thinking where to put jathrop when he comes," susan said quickly. "i've been thinking of that, too. where can you put him, anyway? he never can sleep in that little shed bedroom where he used to sleep, if he's really rich, and he'll have to have some place to wash before we can find out." mrs. lathrop looked distressed. "i--" she began. "oh, that wouldn't do," said susan, knitting her brows quickly. "think of the work of changing all your things. no, i'll tell you what's the best thing to do; he can sleep over at my house. father's room was all cleaned last week, and i'll make up the bed, and jathrop can sleep there until we find out how to treat him. maybe his old shed bedroom will do, after all, or maybe he's so awfully rich he'll enjoy sleeping in it, like the president liked to stack hay. maybe he'll ask nothing better than to chop wood and take the ashes out of the stove just for a change. i do wonder how rich he is. if he's rich enough to have a private car, i expect this town _will_ open its eyes. you'll see a great change in your position, mrs. lathrop, if jathrop comes in a private car to-morrow morning. there's something about a private car as makes everybody step around lively. i don't say that i shan't respect him more myself if he comes in a private car. but he can sleep one night in father's room, anyway, although if he calls it being rich to come home with just two or three thousand, i think he'd better understand it's for just one night right from the start. i wouldn't want jathrop to think that i had any time to waste on him if he calls just two or three thousand being rich. it'd be no wonder i dreamed he was a cat, if he's got the face to call that being rich. but that would be just like jathrop. you know yourself that if jathrop could ever do anything to disappoint anybody, he never let the chance slide. i never had no use for jathrop lathrop, as you know to your cost, mrs. lathrop. but, still, if he really is rich, i haven't got anything against him, and i'll tell you what i'll do right now: i'll go home and put that room in order and get my supper, and then after supper i'll just run down to the square and see if anybody else knows, and then i'll come back and tell you if they do. it's no use your trying to put things a little in order, because you couldn't straighten this place up in a month, and, besides, it isn't worth fussing till we know how rich he is. he may just have writ that in for a joke--to break it to you gently that he's coming back again to live here. heaven help you if that's the case, mrs. lathrop, for jathrop never will. it isn't in me to deceive so much as a fly on the window, and i never have deceived you and i never will." with which promise susan took her departure. it was all of three hours--quite nine in the evening--when susan came back. she found mrs. lathrop transferred to her back porch and seemingly in a somewhat less complete state of total paralysis than when she had left her. mrs. lathrop looked up as her friend approached and smiled. "nobody knew," susan announced as she mounted the steps, "but every one knows now, for i told them. well, mrs. lathrop, you never saw anything like it. there isn't a person in town as ever expected to see jathrop again, and only about three as always thought he'd come back rich. every one's going to the station to-morrow morning, even mrs. macy. mrs. macy says if it's one of the mornings she can't walk, she'll hire hiram and his wheelbarrow just as she does for church those sundays. everybody's so interested. i told them about the private car, and everybody hopes that he's got one, and that he'll come in it. mr. dill says he must be rich if he's been to the klondike and come back a _tall_. he says there's no halfway work about the klondike. either you come back a millionaire or else you eat first your dog and then your boots and that's the last of you. gran'ma mullins says she never heard of eating boots in the klondike; she thought you rode on a sled there and that there weren't any women. she says hiram's spoken of going there once or twice, and lucy thought maybe the coasting would do him good, but gran'ma mullins says not while she's alive, no, sir. why, it's 'way across america and up a ways, and so many people want to go up that they have to sleep three in a berth, and she says will you only think of hiram, with the way she's brought him up, three in a berth. if the bed ain't tucked in with gran'ma mullins' own particular kind of tuck, hiram kicks at night and don't get any proper nourishment out of his sleep. no, gran'ma mullins says she couldn't think of hiram in the klondike sleeping under a snow-pile and having to hunt up a whale whenever he was in need of more kerosene oil. and she says what good would millions do her with the bones of the only baby she ever had feeding whatever kind of creature they have up there. no, she says, no, and a million times more, no; she's been reading about it in a new york paper that came wrapped around her new stove lid, and she knows all there is to know on that subject now. she says a new york paper is so interesting. she says the way they print them makes it very entertaining. she was reading about a sea serpent, and when she turned, she turned wrong, and she read twelve columns about the suffragettes, looking eagerly to see when the sea serpent was going on again. she says she give up trying to see why they print them so or ever trying to finish any one subject at a time; she just goes regularly through the paper now and lets the subjects fight it out to suit themselves. she says it makes the last part very interesting. you read about a baby, and after a while you find out whether it's the queen of spain's or just a race-horse. she says she supposes next sunday there'll be a picture of jathrop in the paper; maybe there'll be a view of this house with you and me. i think that that would be very interesting." susan paused to consider the idyllic little picture thus presented to her mind's eye, and mrs. lathrop continued to say nothing. after a while susan went on again: "i've been thinking a good deal about that letter, mrs. lathrop. i don't know whether you noticed or not, but to my order of thinking it was very strange his saying, 'how's susan clegg?' that's a curious thing for an unmarried man to ask his mother about an unmarried woman. when you come to consider how jathrop was wild to marry me once, it really means a terrible lot. i was the first woman except you he ever kissed; he wasn't but a year old, and i was thirteen, but those things make an impression. i don't mind telling you that i've often thought about jathrop nights--and days, too. and lately i've been thinking of him more and more. and you can see that he's been feeling the same about me, for he's showed that plain enough by saying in black and white, 'how's susan clegg?' jathrop is a very silent nature, you can see that from his never writing even to his own mother in all these years. it means a good deal when a silent nature opens its mouth all of a sudden and writes, 'how's susan clegg?' and then my dreaming of him was so strange. he had soft gray fur and big bright yellow eyes, and the way he flew out of the window! even in my dream i noticed how nice he jumped. he made a beautiful cat. and you know i always stood up for him, mrs. lathrop, i always did that. even when i thought he needed lynching as much as anybody, i never said so. and now he's come back rich, and he's coming home to you and me, and he says, 'how's susan clegg?' 'how's--susan--clegg?'" susan's voice died dreamily away. mrs. lathrop said nothing. after a minute susan's voice went on again: "it's too bad i haven't time to sort of freshen up my striped silk. it's got awful creasy laying folded so long. i'd of put some new braid around the bottom if i'd known, and if this town wasn't so noticey, i'd put my hair up on rollers to-night. a little crimp sets my wave off so. but, laws, everybody'd be asking why i did it, and if jathrop's got any idea of me in his head, it'll be very easy to knock it right straight out if this town gets first chance at him. but i don't intend that this town shall get first chance at him. i shall be on that platform to-morrow morning, and i'll be the nearest to that train, and once he gets off that train, i shall bring him right straight up here to you and me. it's safest, and it's his duty, too. as soon as you've seen him, i'll take him over to my house to wash. then i'll give him his breakfast, and by the time he's done his breakfast, if he really means anything, i'll know it. if he really means anything, we'll come over after breakfast, and it'll do your heart good to see how happy we'll look. he can leave his bag in father's room then, for we'll have so much to talk over it'll be more convenient to take him over there. you can see that for yourself, mrs. lathrop--you know how young people like to be alone together when they're engaged, and a woman of my age don't need no looking after any longer. i'm no gran'ma mullins to be worrying over woods nor yet any mrs. lupey as supposes every man you let into your house may be going to hit you over the head when you're thinking of something pleasant. "no, i ain't afraid of jathrop lathrop nor of any other man alive, thank heaven. _but_, if i find out as he don't mean anything, i shall march him over to you in sharp order, bag and all. if he don't mean anything, i'll soon know the reason why, and as soon as i know the reason why, i'll send mr. jathrop lathrop flying. 'how's susan clegg?' indeed! he'll find it's a very dangerous joke to go joking about me, no matter how much money he's scraped out of the klondike. a joke is a thing as i never stand, mrs. lathrop, and if you'd been one as joked, you'd have found that out to your deep and abiding sorrow long ago. very few people have ever tried to have any fun with me, and i've got even with the most of them, i'm happy to remark. i shall find out yet who sent me that comic valentine with the man skipping over the edge of the world and me after him with a net, and when i do find out, i'll get even about that, too. me with a net! i'd like to see myself skipping after any man that was skipping away from me. if he was skipping toward me, i wouldn't marry him--not 'nless i loved him. i know that. love is a thing as you can't raise and lower just as the fancy strikes you. a woman can't love but once, and i've got a kind of warm bubbling all around my heart as tells me that i've loved that once and that it was jathrop. it's very strange, mrs. lathrop, but i've been thinking of jathrop a great deal lately. i keep remembering more and more how much i've been thinking about him. i suppose he was thinking of me, and that's what started me. 'how's susan clegg?' i can just seem to hear jathrop's voice; jathrop had a very strange voice. 'how's susan clegg?' "the mind is a curious thing, when you stop to consider, mrs. lathrop. mrs. brown says amelia says minds can communicate if you know how. mrs. brown says if she calls to amelia when she's in the hammock and amelia don't answer, amelia always explains afterwards as she was communicating. "it all shows that the mind is a wonderful thing. there was jathrop and me communicating regularly, and me so little understanding what it all meant that i dreamed he was a cat. i can't get over that dream. i wonder if that meant that he's got whiskers now. if he's got whiskers, and he loves me, he's got to cut 'em right straight off. you'll have to speak to him about that as soon as you see him, mrs. lathrop, for i won't be able to, of course. and you can see for yourself that i couldn't have whiskers around. you can't teach an old dog new tricks, and i've had no experience with whiskers." mrs. lathrop promised to remonstrate with jathrop if he really had whiskers, and after some further conversation susan went home and to bed and slept soundly. in the morning she was up very promptly, and mrs. lathrop saw her off for the station. the whole town was at the station. but in front of them all--closest to the track--stood susan clegg. it was a breathless moment when johnny ran out with the flag and the train stopped. susan motioned the rest back with dignity and stood her ground alone. the car door opened, and a stout, homely man, with eyes set wide apart and a very large mouth, appeared on the platform. he was well dressed and carried an alligator-skin traveling-bag. everybody gasped. but it was not his appearance nor the alligator-skin bag that caused them to gasp. it was that jathrop lathrop, returning after his long absence, had brought back a lady with him. ii susan clegg and the chinese lady and not merely a lady, but a chinese lady at that. a particularly chubby, solemn, chinese lady, who descended from the train which brought jathrop lathrop back to his native town after making a fortune in the klondike, and meekly trotted along in his wake, carrying the large valise, while jathrop carried the small one. susan walked off straightway with jathrop and the chinese lady, while the town remained stock and staring behind. the town was frankly "done did up." that jathrop might return with a wife had never once entered the head of any one. still less had the idea of any one of that community ever wedding a chinese been entertained. it was a peculiarly overwhelming sensation, and one which led gran'ma mullins to lean against hiram, while mrs. macy leaned against the equally firm side-wall of the station itself. it was several seconds before people came to their senses enough to go around by the track gate and look to see how far the bewildering party had got on their way. they were just crossing the square. "well, if that doesn't beat the dutch," said mr. kimball, and his words seemed to break the deadlock; everybody scattered forthwith, all talking at once. meanwhile jathrop, arriving at his mother's gate, paused and said quite easily: "i'll go in alone, susan; mother will like the first hour or so quite alone with me, i know. won't you take hop loo to your house for breakfast?" susan, who had by no means as yet recovered from the shock of the celestial bride, opened and shut her mouth once and her eyes twice, and yielded. for the nonce she seemed as speechless as mrs. lathrop herself. jathrop's appealing ease of manner had overawed her all the way up from the station, and the walk had been accomplished in stately silence. if the klondike prodigal had been surprised over the alteration in susan, he had not said so, and now he quietly handed hop loo his alligator-skin traveling-bag (or hers, whichever it was), and passing in through his mother's gate, shut it forthwith behind him, and went on up the walk. susan cast one look, which would have thrown a basilisk into everlasting darkness, after him; and then, turning, marched back to her own gate. hop loo followed, susan opened her own gate and passed through it; hop loo passed through after her. susan went up her walk; hop kept close to her heels. together they mounted the steps and then entered the house. it was all of half an hour before mrs. macy, the first completely to rally from the shock at the station, arrived to call. when she climbed the steps and rang the bell, susan came to the door at once. she looked peculiarly grim and smileless. it was plain to be seen at the present moment that she was not pleased with the world in general. "i thought i'd just come up for a little," began mrs. macy, smiling enough for two all alone by herself. mrs. macy always tried to keep up her own spirits in a laudable attempt, possibly, to heighten those of others. "i thought maybe you'd be glad to see a face you knew." this allusion to the chinese lady was not intended as unkindly as it might have been in better society, mrs. macy being wholly incapable of anything so subtle. "sit down," said susan, briefly, indicating a porch chair. "there's no use taking you in; she's up-stairs unpacking, and she's already set about doing his cooking. it's plain to be seen that jathrop lathrop never come all this way from the klondike to take any chances of being poisoned by me as soon as he got here. no, sir, jathrop lathrop has learned too many little tricks for that." susan's tone was extremely bitter. she had removed the famous striped silk and applied her hairbrush to both sides of her head after dipping it (the hairbrush, not her head) in water. it was easy to be seen that the vanities of this life had suddenly become offensive in her nostrils. "do you suppose she's really his wife?" asked mrs. macy, seating herself and looking eagerly in her friend's face. "oh, yes, she's his wife," said susan. "oh, susan," mrs. macy went on, her eyes becoming quite globular under the severe stress of her curiosity, "do you suppose anybody married 'em, or did he just buy her for beads?" "i don't know," said susan, rocking severely back and forth, "i don't know a _tall_. you must ask some one wiser than me what a white man does about a chinese when he wants her to cook for him. you ought to have seen her in my kitchen, mrs. macy; she walked straight to my rack of pans and took down just whatever she fancied. i _never_ saw the beat! no, nor nobody else. she's learned how to be cool from jathrop and the north pole together, looks to me. i never see such ways as jathrop has picked up. he never said a word walking up--nothing but 'ah' once. i don't call 'ah' once much of a conversation for the woman as rocked your cradle and might have married you, too--if she'd wanted to. for i could have married jathrop lathrop, mrs. macy; nobody but me will ever know what passed between us, but i could have married him. i won't say what prevented, but i can tell you it wasn't him. and he's lived to regret it, too. just like the minister regrets it. when the minister speaks of the treasure that layeth up in heaven, he doesn't mean no chicken--he means me." susan paused and shook her head angrily. "i don't doubt but what he's sorry," said mrs. macy; "maybe he married a chinese for fear any other kind would remind him of you." miss clegg rejected this possible poetic view of jathrop's action with a look of great disgust accompanied by another shake of the head. "i don't believe it's very often that a man ever marries some other woman on account of any other woman. that's very pretty in books, but books ain't life. life's life, and if jathrop lathrop's married that heathen chinese, he's got very strange notions of life, and that's all i can say. why, if she didn't lug that heavy bag along and walk a little back, and he never bothered to speak to her. she's very different from what i'd have been, i can tell you. you can maybe fancy me carrying jathrop lathrop's bag a little behind jathrop lathrop! i think i see myself. 'how's susan clegg?' he'll soon find out how susan clegg is. what do you think, mrs. macy, what _do_ you think? when we came to his mother's gate, he just stopped, said he thought she'd like him alone best, said to me, 'give hop loo some breakfast, will you?'--and then if my gentleman didn't walk through the gate and shut it after him! well, i _never_ did. there was me and his wife carefully shut out on the other side of the fence like we was pigs. and then i had to bring her over here and give her father's room. what would my dead and gone father say to a chinese woman having his room, i wonder! father had very fine feelings for a man as got about so little, and if he was alive, i don't believe no jathrop lathrop would have gone sending no heathen chinese wife to live with _me_. she won't live with me long, i can tell you that to your face, mrs. macy. i took her because i was too dumb did up over having a gate shut in my face by jathrop lathrop to do anything else, but i ain't intending to have her long. i've always been for shutting the chinese out, and i ain't going back on my principles at my time of life. no, indeed. 'how's susan clegg?'" susan paused angrily. her repetition of the deceptive phrase in jathrop's letter seemed to turn her boiling wrath into one of still, white menace. she sat perfectly still, snapping her eyelids up and down, and breathing hard. "i don't blame you one mite, susan," said mrs. macy warmly; "i wish mrs. lupey was here. she wanted to come, too, but she's got her bag to pack to go home. she only come for one night, and to-night'll make two, so she wants to get packed. but she knows all about the chinese. her husband's got a cousin who is a missionary in china, and she could have felt for you. the cousin's got eleven chinese servants besides a bible class of two as she's training to be missionaries after they're trained. mrs. lupey says she'd have known what to do when that chinese lady got off the train this morning. they don't let 'em ride in the same cars in china." just here jathrop came out of his mother's front door and walked down the path. both ladies were freshly shocked by the sight. at the gate he turned in the opposite direction. both ladies stared after him. soon he was out of sight. then they stared at each other. "well, what is he up to now?" mrs. macy finally ejaculated. "i don't know," said susan in a tone of complete despair as to ever again gaining any insight into the motives which moved jathrop, "i d'n know, mrs. macy. don't ask me anything about jathrop lathrop after he's gone home to see his mother and has handed me over a chinese wife to board. he may be gone up to mrs. brown's to run off with amelia for all i know. nothing is ever going to surprise me any more after this day. i only know one thing, if he does run off with amelia, that chinee'll find herself and his valises dumped off of my premises pretty quick. i never was one for false feelings, and i should see no call for christian charity toward a heathen who comes to me with two black bags on her legs and a dressing-sack for an overcoat." "i wonder if jathrop likes her wearing such clothes," said mrs. macy. "everybody is wondering." "i don't know," said miss clegg, "men are very queer. there's no telling what they are going to fancy till they get out of the train married to it. think of his having the face to write 'how's susan clegg?' and him married to that puzzle-blocks thing all the time. i wonder what his mother said when he told her!" "let's go over and see mrs. lathrop!" suggested mrs. macy, "she's over there alone now." this idea immediately found favor with susan. "but i'll have to go in and see what _she's_ up to first," she said. "if she's caught a rat and is making soup in my teapot with it, i shan't feel to enjoy leaving her alone with my teapot." mrs. macy could but feel the extreme justice of this view, and susan, whose countenance indicated that she was sorely beset by misgivings, went into the house. when she came out, her face wore a relieved expression. "she's all safe," she said. "she's asleep on the floor. i must say it's changed my feelings toward her. it shows she knows her place." they walked sedately to mrs. lathrop's. they climbed the back steps, and they knocked. mrs. lathrop was busy making preparations for dinner. she came to the door with a promptitude which, in view of her well-known habit of deliberation, was little short of miraculous. "we came to see how you were," said mrs. macy. "come in," said mrs. lathrop. they walked in and seated themselves on two of the wooden-bottomed kitchen chairs. mrs. lathrop went on with her work. she was uncommonly active, and her face wore a broad, unusual smile. "jathrop's gone up to the cemetery," she said. "he's going to have a monument put up to his father." "what do you think of--?" interrupted susan. "yes, we come to--" began mrs. macy. "he's going," continued mrs. lathrop, taking down a plate and blowing the thick dust from its surface, "to have an awful handsome monument put up. not a animal like you put up to your father, susan, but a angel hanging to a pillar with both hands and feeling for a cloud with its feet. he showed me the picture. and he's going to have the parlor papered and give the town a watering-trough for horses, with a tin cup on a chain for people, and he's--" "yes, but--" interrupted susan. "you know, of course--" began mrs. macy. mrs. lathrop swept off the top of the rolling-pin with the stove-brush. "and he's going to build me on a bedroom right off the hall," she continued, "and put a furnace under the whole house. and one of those lamps that haul up and down, and a new set of kitchen things, and he'll come here every year and see if i want anything else, and if i do, i'm to have it. i'm to have a pew in church, even if i never do go to church, and a paper every day, and his baby picture done big, and be fitted for new glasses." "but, mrs. lathrop--" susan interrupted, seeing that mrs. lathrop was surely still in ignorance as to her mongolian daughter-in-law. "yes, you--" began mrs. macy. "liza em'ly is to do all the sewing i want," went on mrs. lathrop, proceeding with her baking preparations at a great rate, "and jathrop'll pay the bill. and any things i want, i'm just to send for, and jathrop'll pay the bill; and anything i can think of what i want done, i'm just to say so, and jathrop'll pay the bill." it seemed as if susan clegg would burst at this. it was plain now that jathrop really was rich, and here was his mother supposing the rose was utterly thornless. "but did he tell you about his wife?" she broke in desperately. "that's what i want to know." mrs. lathrop, who was mixing butter and sugar together in a yellow bowl, stopped suddenly and stared. "his wife!" she said blankly. "yes, his wife," repeated susan. "the wife he brought back with him," explained mrs. macy. "the wife he--" mrs. lathrop pushed the yellow bowl a little back on the table and rested her hands on the edge. they trembled visibly; "the wife he--" she repeated. "surely you know that he brought his wife back with him?" said mrs. macy. "surely he's told you?" mrs. lathrop--turned her usual dumb self again--looked at mrs. macy with almost unseeing eyes. "i--" she ejaculated faintly, "no, he--" "now, you see," exclaimed susan, half to the friend and half to the stricken mother, "it don't make any difference what a man turns into outside, he stays just the same inside. what have i always said to you, mrs. lathrop? you can't make no kind of a purse out of ears like jathrop's. jathrop lathrop could turn into fifty millionaires, and he'd still be jathrop lathrop. he can hang all the angels he pleases and water all the horses from here to meadville, and still he never could be any other man but just himself. and being himself, he never by no manner of means could be frank and open. he was always one that held things back. you thought it was because he didn't have no brains, but you was his mother and naturally looked on the best side of him. but he never deceived me, mrs. lathrop; i saw through jathrop right from the start. there was a foxiness about jathrop as nobody never fully saw into but me. that was my reason for never marrying him--one of my many reasons, for his foxiness hasn't been the only thing about jathrop that i've seen through. i never was one to soften the blows to a tempered lamb, so i will say that so many reasons for not loving a man as i've seen in jathrop i never see in any other man yet. but none of my reasons for not marrying him has ever equalled this new reason as has cropped up now in his bringing home a wife. when a man comes home with a wife, then you do see through him for good and all, and when jathrop come scrambling out from between those two cars this morning with a heathen chinee at his heels--" mrs. lathrop screamed loudly. "a--" "heathen chinee," repeated susan. "you know what a chinee is, don't you?" interposed mrs. macy; "they're from china, you know." mrs. lathrop retreated to her rocker with a totter. "yes, she's a heathen chinee," said susan, with unfailing firmness, "the kindest heart in the world couldn't mistake her for anything even as high up as a nigger. her eyes cross just under her nose, and she's got her hair wound round her head with a piece of black tape to hold it on. she wears divided skirts as is most plainly divided, and not a gore has she got to her name or her figure. she _is_ a chinese and no mistake, and you may believe me or not, just as you please, mrs. lathrop, but jathrop without a so much as by-your-leave dumped her onto me for breakfast, and she's asleep on father's floor now." "on your--" gasped mrs. lathrop. "no, on father's," said susan, "and now, mrs. lathrop, you see what he is at last. he not only marries a chinese when if he'd been patient he might have got a white one, but he brings her home, and don't even tell you he's brought her home, or even that he's got her, or even that he's married her, or anything. a man might line my house with furnaces and have his baby picture done big in every room, and i'd never forgive his acting in such a way. i never hear the beat. it throws all the other calamities as ever come upon anybody in this community clean out of the shade. what will be the use of your having a pew in church; you won't even be able to face the minister now with your son's marrying one of them as we have to give our good money to teach to wear clothes. what good will your having the parlor papered be with everybody ashamed to go to see a woman who has got a chinese daughter. to my order of thinking, you was better off poor. why, they eat the hen's nests, the chinese do, and prefer 'em to the eggs. it's small wonder i dreamed jathrop was a cat, with him descending on us like the wrath of heaven married to a china woman. jathrop's no fool though, and if you'd seen that humble heathen going along back of him with his big valise, you'd have to see as the man as picks out a wife like that never could have been a fool. i felt for her, i really did, only she was watching me with the wrong eye all the time, and it made me dizzy to try and look at her kindly. i'll tell you what, mrs. lathrop, when jathrop comes back, you'll just go for him and give it to him good. men must learn as they can't bring their chinese wives into this community. there's a principle as we'd ought to live up to whether we enjoy it or not, and it's all against marrying chinese. the chinese are all right, i hope and trust, but nothing as feeds itself with a toothpick had ever ought to be held pressed to the bosom of families like you and me, mrs. lathrop. it isn't the way we're brought up to look at them, and it's a well-known fact as no matter what the leopard does to the ethiopian, he sticks to his spot just the same as before--" "but--" broke in mrs. lathrop. "i don't want to hurt your feelings, mrs. lathrop,--we've been friends too long for me not to feel kindly to you,--but mrs. macy is a witness to his bringing her, even if i wasn't well known to be one as never lies. mrs. macy is a witness, too, to how he's got her dressed, and a more burning disgrace than this keeping your chosen wife in loose overalls and a jacket as any monkey on a hand-organ would weep to see the fit of, i never see. it may be the custom in the klondike and may be convenient for sliding, but this is no sliding community, and, to my order of thinking, jathrop would have showed you more affection and us more respect if he'd bought his wife a bonnet and a shawl before he brought her here." susan paused for breath. mrs. lathrop continued speechless. mrs. macy tried to lighten the atmosphere by remarking, "lands, she's got a pigtail, too." susan picked up the cudgels afresh at that. "wound twice around her head," she said bitterly; "oh, she _is_ a figure of fun and no mistake. i d'n know, i'm sure, what jathrop was ever thinking of the day he picked her out, but this i do know, and that is, that he'd better pick her off of me pretty quick. you know, mrs. lathrop, as a friend is a friend and i've always been a good friend to you, but i never was one to stand any nonsense--not now and not never--and when a man writes, 'i'm rich' and 'how's susan clegg?' he gets me where no chinese wife ain't going to please me in a hurry. i'm glad jathrop is rich, on your account, mrs. lathrop, but his being rich don't alter my views of him a mite. i look upon him as a gray deceiver, that's what i look upon him as, and if he's brought a piece of carnelian or anything back to me, you can tell him to give it to his lawfully wedded wife, for i don't want to have nothing more to do with him." "but, susan--" broke in poor mrs. lathrop. "don't interrupt me, mrs. lathrop; i'm in no mood to listen to no one just now. i ain't mad, but i'm hurt. it's no wonder i dreamed he was a cat, for of all the sly, back-door things a cat is the meanest. and there was always something very cat-like about jathrop lathrop--something soft and slow and creepy--nothing bold and out-spoken. i might have known as even if he did come home rich, he'd find a way to even it up. and now look how he has evened it up. think of your grandchildren; there won't be one of 'em able to ever look anybody straight in more'n one eye at once. marrying chinese is terrible, anyway--in some states it's forbidden. it's to be hoped jathrop'll keep out of those states or he may land in the penitentiary yet." just here the front door slammed, and jathrop's voice was heard calling, "where are you, mother?" he didn't wait for an answer, but came straight through the kitchen. entering there, what he saw startled him so much that he came to a sudden halt. "we've been telling your--" began mrs. macy. "--mother about your wife," finished up susan. jathrop looked at all three in great astonishment. "about my _wife_!" he repeated. "did you say 'my wife'?" "yes," said susan, absolutely undaunted. "i think it would have been kinder in you to have broke it to her yourself; but anyhow, we've done it now." "oh, jathrop, my son, my son!" wailed poor mrs. lathrop in heart-wringing biblical paraphrase. "but i haven't got any wife," said jathrop. "what under the sun do you mean?" there was a clammy pause; susan and mrs. macy clasped hands. "what made you think i had one?" jathrop asked, quite bewildered. "who said i had one?" susan rose with dignity and coughed. mrs. macy rose, too, looking at susan. poor mrs. lathrop seemed fairly terror-stricken. "i think i'll go now," said susan. "i hope i needn't board her much longer, that's all. even if she's only using the floor, it's a floor as has been sacred to my dead father up to now, and a dead father is not to be lightly took in vain by a heathen chinee." "but what does it all mean?" asked jathrop, appearing genuinely bewildered. "i don't understand. what are you talking about?" susan moved toward the door; mrs. macy faltered. "maybe it was all right in the klondike," she began, trying to put a brace under the situation. "maybe what was all right in the klondike?" asked jathrop. "to buy her with beads." "to buy who with beads? who's her?" jathrop's voice was becoming exasperated. "hop loo," said susan, in a tone of piercing scorn, "the chinese lady as you brought with you and gave me to board." jathrop looked at them all in amazement. "but hop loo's a boy--my boy," he said. "your boy!" said susan. "yes, my boy." miss clegg turned and gave him a long look fraught with disgust, pity, and hopeless resignation. "jathrop lathrop," she said, "i _did_ suppose you had some sense even in the view of all that's dead and gone, but i guess now i'll have to give up. i did have some respect for you while i thought she was maybe your wife, but if you've gone so clean crazy that you believe that that is your boy--well!" susan thereupon sailed out of mrs. lathrop's house with mrs. macy wobbling in her wake. iii susan clegg solves the mystery susan clegg and mrs. macy walked down to mrs. lathrop's gate, and out of her gate and to miss clegg's gate; the whole in a silence deadly and impressive. mrs. macy paused there. "i don't believe i'll come in," she said doubtfully. "i don't blame you," said susan, "i wouldn't if it was me. jathrop's boy, indeed! what kind of a man is it as'll have a chinese family and go forcing them onto the true and long-tried friends of his one and only mother!" "i can't see why he didn't leave the boy in the klondike," said mrs. macy slowly and reflectively. "i thought men always left their chinese families just where they found 'em. it's strange jathrop brought him home with him." "you see now what my dream meant," said susan darkly, "a cat, indeed. it's small wonder i knew the cat was jathrop lathrop. of all the mean, sly, creeping creatures that ever come up against the back of your legs sudden a cat is the worst. a snake is open and aboveboard beside a cat. you can see a snake. you don't see 'em often around here, thank heaven." "well, we haven't seen jathrop often around here for a long time," said mrs. macy, whose mind was as given to easy logical deduction as many of her mental caliber, "and we do see a lot of cats--you know that, susan." "'how's susan clegg?'" quoted susan in a tone of reflective wrath. "i don't know whether you know it or not, mrs. macy, but jathrop asked after me in his letter to his mother, and him with a chinese wife. 'how's susan clegg?' what did he write that for if he was married, i'd like to know." "maybe he wanted to know how you were," suggested mrs. macy. the look she received in recognition of this offered explanation led to her immediately proposing to go on home. "you've got the chinaman to look after, anyhow," she added. "you'd better come in while i go up and look at him again," said susan shortly. "it's a very strange sensation to be alone in your house with what you fully and freely take to your dead father's bed and board, supposing it's a wife, and then find out as it's her son instead. come on in." mrs. macy was easily persuaded, and they thereupon went up the walk. "i guess i'll go see if he's still asleep," susan said when they reached the piazza, and mrs. macy forthwith sat down to await what might come of it. susan was absent but a few minutes; she returned with a fresh layer of disapproval upon her face. "is he still sleeping?" mrs. macy asked. "yes, he's still sleeping," miss clegg replied, jerking a chair forward for herself. "you'd know he was jathrop lathrop's child just by the way he sleeps. you remember what a one jathrop always was for sleeping. i don't know as i remember jathrop's ever being awake till he was fairly grown. whatever you set him at always just made him more sleepy. you know yourself, mrs. macy, as he wouldn't be no grasshopper with mrs. lathrop for his mother, but a cocoon is a comet beside what jathrop lathrop always was. i don't know whether he's rich or not, but i do know that heathen chinee is his son, and i know it just by the way he sleeps." "and so jathrop's rich," said mrs. macy, rocking agreeably to and fro, and evidently striving toward more pleasant conversation. "yes," said susan darkly, "rich and with a chinese wife somewhere. just as often as i think of jathrop lathrop writing, 'how's susan clegg,' with a chinese wife i feel more and more tempered, and i can't conceal my feelings. i never was one to conceal anything; if i had a chinese wife the whole world might know it." just here gran'ma mullins hove in sight, coming slowly and laboriously up the street. "why, there's gran'ma mullins!" mrs. macy exclaimed. "she's surely coming to see you, too." both ladies remained silent, watching the progress of gran'ma mullins. gran'ma mullins arrived a good deal out of breath. susan brought a chair out of the house for her. "i come to--tell you," panted the new visitor as soon as she had attained unto the chair, "that jathrop's--things is--coming." "what things?" asked susan. "they all come on--the ten o'clock--from the junction; hiram is helping unload." "what's he brought?" susan asked. "well, he's brought an automobile," said gran'ma mullins, "and a lot of other trunks and boxes." "an automobile!" exclaimed mrs. macy, "well, he _is_ rich then!" "i wouldn't be too sure of that," said susan, "some very poor folks is riding that way nowadays." "and he brought three trunks and seventeen big wooden boxes," continued gran'ma mullins, "big boxes." "three trunks and sev-en-teen--three trunks and sev-en--" susan's voice faded into nothingness. "goodness knows what's in them," said gran'ma mullins. "hiram was getting so hot unloading that i wanted him to stop and let me fan him, but he wouldn't hear to it. hiram's so brave. if he said he'd unload something, he'd unload it if he dropped dead under it and was smashed to nothing." there was a pause of unlimited bewilderment while mrs. macy and susan raised jathrop upon the pedestal erected by his three trunks, seventeen boxes and the automobile. "and to think of his having a chinese wife," susan exclaimed, the keen edge of sorrow cutting crossways through all her words. it was just here that mrs. lupey now appeared, approaching at a good pace. mrs. lupey was a large, imposing woman and wore a silk dolman with fringe. it was immediately necessary for the party to adjourn to the sitting-room, as the piazza was strictly limited. it was mrs. lupey who without loss of time did away with the lathrop parentage of the young chinese. "why, he's his servant, of course," she said in a lofty scorn. "i'm surprised you didn't know that by his age." "i did think of his age," susan said, "but i read once in some paper as the women in china get married when they're four years old, so you'd never be able to tell nothing by the age of no one there. well, well, and so she isn't his wife, nor yet his son. well, i'm glad--for mrs. lathrop's sake." "but if jathrop's really got a automobile and seventeen trunks, he _must_ be awful rich," said mrs. macy. "it'll be a great thing for this town if jathrop's rich. he'd ought to be very grateful to the place where his happy childhood memories run around barefoot." "oh, he'll remember," said gran'ma mullins, "it's easy to remember when you've got the money to do it. but i hope to heaven he won't set hiram off on that track again. hiram does so want to go away and make a fortune; i'm worried for fear he will all the time. and lucy wants him to, too. i can't understand a woman as wants a fortune worse than she wants hiram. lucy doesn't seem to want hiram 'round at all any more. if he's asleep, she starts right in making the bed the same as if he wasn't in it, and if she's sewing, he don't dare go within the length of her thread. "life has come to a pretty pass when a wife'll run a needle into a husband just for the simple pleasure of feeling him go away when she sticks him." gran'ma mullins sighed. "i wonder what they're doing now!" mrs. macy said. all four turned at this and looked toward the lathrop house together. it was quiet as usual. "i d'n know as it changes my opinion of jathrop much, that being his servant," said miss clegg suddenly. "it's kind of different, his handing his wife or his son over to me; but his heathen chinee servant! i don't know as i'm very pleased." "pleased!" said mrs. lupey. "why, in san francisco they make 'em live underground like rats." "maybe that was why you dreamed he was a cat, susan?" suggested mrs. macy, whose brain seemed to grasp at the subject under consideration with special illumination. susan rose. "i think you'd better go," she said abruptly, "i've got to get dinner. my mind's in no state to deal with all these sides of jathrop and his chinaman just now." what the day brought up the street and in and around mrs. lathrop's house would take too long to catalogue. suffice it to say that poor mrs. lathrop, who had been for long years the veriest zero in the life of the community, became suddenly its center and apex. when jathrop went to new york at the end of the week, he left his mother not only sitting, but rocking in the lap of luxury, with her head leaning back against more luxury and her feet braced firmly on yet more luxury. even her friend over the way was rendered utterly content. and the pleasantest part of it all was the way that it affected susan clegg. as susan sat by mrs. lathrop and turned upon her that tender gaze which one old friend may turn on another old friend when the latter's son has suddenly bloomed forth golden, her full heart found utterance thus: "well, mrs. lathrop--well, mrs. lathrop, i guess no one will ever doubt anything again. talk about dreams, _now_! i dreamed jathrop was a cat, and the reason was that it's a well-known fact that cats _always_ come back. why, mrs. macy told me once how she chloroformed a cat, and put it in a flour sack with a stone, and put the sack in a hogshead of water, and put the cover on the hogshead, and put a stone--another stone--on that, and went to church to hear the minister preach on 'do unto others as you do unto others,' and when she came back, the cat was asleep on top of the hogshead, and mrs. macy got the worst shock she ever got. so you can easy see why i dreamed jathrop was a cat; and he _did_ come back. "i declare that'll always be the pleasantest recollection of my life, how i met him at the station and how we came chatting up the street together. how he has improved, mrs. lathrop--not but what he was always handsome! there was always something noble about jathrop. gran'ma mullins said yesterday as he made her think of a man she saw in a play once as stood on his crossed legs in front of a fire and smoked. so careless. "and then his bringing mrs. macy that polar-bear skin! mrs. macy says if there was one spot in the whole wide world where she never expected to set foot it was on top of a polar bear, and now she can stand on her head on one if the fancy takes her. i saw the minister when i was down in the square to-night, and he told me not to speak of it, but he thought a service of prayer for any stocks and mines as jathrop has would be the only fitting form of gratitude which a reverent and affectionate congregation might offer to the great and glorious generosity of him who is going to give us a steeple after all these years of finishing flat at the top. mr. kimball came out to tell me to ask you if you'd like some one to come regularly for your order, and he says he'll keep caviare from now on, just on the chance of jathrop's being here to eat it; he says why he didn't keep it before was he thought it was a kind of chamois skin. "it's beautiful to see the faces down-town, mrs. lathrop; you never saw nothing like it. everybody's just so happy. hiram is grinning from ear to ear over being took to the klondike, and everybody is swore to not let gran'ma mullins know he's going. he's going to climb out of the window at night and get away that way, and gran'ma mullins won't mind what she feels when he really does come back a millionaire, too. she'll be just like you, mrs. lathrop; no one minds anything once it's over. little misunderstandings are easy forgot. "and to think there's been a blue automobile puffing at these very kitchen steps! to think you and me was over to meadville and back between dinner and supper one day! i guess mrs. lupey never got such a start. she'd been all the morning getting home on the train and was only just putting her bonnet away in its box when we rolled up. i never enjoyed nothing like that roll up in all my life! i never see automobiles from the automobile's side before, but now i can. when a automobile goes over a duck it makes all the difference in the world whether it's your automobile or your duck. "and then jathrop's generosity! not but what he was always generous. deacon white says he will say that for jathrop, he was always generous. and look what he brought home. every child in town is just about out of their senses. felicia hemans is crazy about the earrings, and 'liza em'ly won't never take off the bracelet. mr. shores can't keep the tears back when he looks at his watch charm. i think it was so kind of jathrop. but jathrop was always kind; you know yourself that a kinder creature never lived than jathrop. i always said that for him. "and then his having a new fence built around the cemetery. it was thoughtful, and judge fitch says nobody can't say more. but judge fitch says jathrop was always thoughtful; he says he's been interested in him always just for that very reason. judge fitch says jathrop's nature was always that deep kind that's easy overlooked. he says he'll have to confess to his shame that some of the time he overlooked him himself. he says it's very difficult to understand a deep nature, because if a deep nature don't make money, there's hardly any way of ever knowing that it really was deep; people just think you're a fool then--like we always thought jathrop was. you know, nobody ever thought he ever could amount to nothing. you know that yourself, mrs. lathrop. but making money lets you see just what a person's got in 'em and see it plain. "i'm sure for all i've loved jathrop as if he was going to be my own, for years and years and years, still i never credited him with being the man he is. i supposed he was a tramp somewhere--yes, i really did, mrs. lathrop, you may believe me or not, but that's just what i thought when i thought anything at all about him--which wasn't often. "everybody in the whole place is busy remembering pleasant things about him now. the minister's wife remembers his coming to a christmas tree once a long time ago when they both was little; she says she hasn't thought of it in thirty years, but she remembers it as plain as day now,--he had on a coat and a little tie. "and gran'ma mullins says she never will forget the day before he was born, for she went to town and dropped her little bead bag, and you know how much she thinks of her little bead bag now when the beads is all worn off, so you can think what store she set by it when the beads were still on, and so she was all back and forth along the road hunting for it the whole blessed afternoon, and when she found it and went home, she _was_ tired, and she slept late next morning because her husband was out very late the night before, and when he slept late she always slept late, 'cause she said sleeping late was almost the only treat he ever give her, and, anyhow, when they did wake up and get up and get out, there was jathrop, and she says she shall never forget her joy over having found the bead bag again. "mrs. macy says she remembers the day he hid, and you thought he was in the cistern, and you was kneeling down looking in when he jumped out from behind the stove and give you such a start you went in head first. "i remember that day myself, too--father was insisting he was paralyzed then, and mother and me wouldn't take his word for it, and we fully expected he'd race over and help haul you out, but all he said was, 'she'll have to manage the best she can--i'm paralyzed,' and we really began to believe him from then on. "the minister says he shall always remember how well he looked when he put on long trousers; the minister's preparing a little paper on jathrop to read at the sunday-school annual, and he says he shall begin with the day he put on long trousers and then mark his rise step by step. the minister's so pleased over jathrop's patting brunhilde susan on the head; he says there are pats and pats, but that pat that jathrop give brunhilde susan was what he calls, in pure and biblical simplicity, _a_ pat." susan paused. mrs. lathrop just felt her diamond solitaires, glanced at the new kitchen range, and was silent. "and then, mrs. lathrop, that dear blessed little chinese angel--i tell you i shall never forget that boy. i liked his face when i first laid eyes on him, and when i thought he was jathrop's lawful wife, i loved him as i'd loved even a chinaman if he was your daughter; but when i saw him cleaning up my sink, polishing my pans, washing out my cupboards and all that, just the same as yours, _then_ was when i see that a heathen chinee has just the same right to go to heaven that anybody else has, and from then on i just trusted him completely and let him do every bit of the work till he left. "i see now why everybody's so happy being a missionary if you can just get away and live with the chinee. i'd have kept that boy if jathrop hadn't wanted him--i'd have been very glad to; and it's awful to think we're keeping quiet, lovable natures like his from settling here. a girl might do much worse than marry that chinese--_very_ much worse. a very great deal worse. though i suppose many would hesitate." mrs. lathrop rose, went to the cupboard, took out a bottle of homemade gooseberry wine, poured out a little, and took a sip. she did not offer any to susan. "it'll do you good," said susan encouragingly. "i don't like the taste myself, but it'll do you good. besides, mrs. lathrop, you must begin to get used to it. when you go around with jathrop in his private car, you'll have to drink wine, and if i was you, i'd stop tying a stocking around your neck nights, for you'll have to wear a very different cut of gowns soon. if jathrop buys that yacht he's gone to look at, you'll have to wear a sailor blouse." "oh," said mrs. lathrop faintly, "oh, susan, i--" miss clegg put her hastily back into her chair. "never mind if it does make your head go 'round a little, mrs. lathrop; you must learn how. it may be hard, but it'll make jathrop happy, and now he's come back rich, that's what everybody wants to do. "mrs. brown says next time he comes she's going to make him a jet-black pound-cake, and mrs. allen says she's going to work him a pincushion. she says it'll be a plain, simple token of affection, but those whom fortune smiles on soon learn to know the true worth of a simple gift of purest love. she says no one has ever known how she loved jathrop, 'cause she kept it to herself for fear you'd think she was after him for polly." mrs. lathrop rocked dreamily. susan rose to go. "don't--" said mrs. lathrop. "i must," said susan. "oh, mrs. lathrop, think of his giving me those fifty shares of stock just on account of my long-suffering friendship for you. i declare he's a great character--that's all i can say. "i always had a feeling he'd end in some unusual way; when they started to lynch him, i thought that was the way, but now i see that this was the way, and i thank heaven that i wasn't right the other time and am right this time. for human nature is human nature, mrs. lathrop, and people are always kinder to a woman whose son comes home from the klondike a millionaire than they are if they had the bother of lynching him, no matter how much he may have deserved it." mrs. lathrop continued to finger her solitaire earrings in happy silence. miss clegg, who never exhibited any tenderness toward anything, went over and arranged the fold-over of her friend's gold-embroidered, silk-quilted kimono. "i'll be glad when your new hair gets here, mrs. lathrop," she said tenderly, "it'll make a different woman of you. it's astonishing what a little extra hair can do; i always feel that when i put on my wave. "you and me will have to be getting used to all kinds of new things now. and that beautiful dream of mine letting us know he was coming. mrs. brown says amelia says the egyptians worshipped cats and used to pickle them when they died. "it's astonishing how, if you know enough, you can see how any dream is full of meaning. there's jathrop so fond of pickles, and you and me worshipping him. and he writing in every letter he has time to get somebody to write for him, 'how's susan clegg?'" mrs. lathrop lapsed into beatific slumber. susan clegg went quietly home. iv susan clegg and the olive branch it was not in reason to suppose that the return of jathrop lathrop should continue to occupy wholly the attention of the community. each week--even each day--brought its fresh interests. not the least exciting of the provocative elements was borne back from the metropolis to which 'liza em'ly, that hitherto negatively regarded olive branch of the ministerial family, had but recently emigrated. 'liza em'ly, it was whispered one day, had written a book. the sewing society, at its next meeting, discussed it, as a matter of course; and susan clegg, equally as a matter of course, promptly reported the proceedings to her friend and neighbor, mrs. lathrop. "well," she began, sitting down with the heavy thump of one who is completely and utterly overcome, "i give up. it's beyond me. i was to the sewing society, and it's beyond them all, too. the idea of 'liza em'ly's writing a book! no one can see how she ever come to think as she could write a book. no one can see where she got any ideas to put in a book. i don't know what any one thought she _would_ do when she set out for the city to earn her own living, but there wasn't a soul in town as expected her to do it, let alone writing a book, too. i can't see whatever gives any one the idea of earning their living by writing books. books always seem so sort of unnecessary to me, anyway--i ain't read one myself in years. no one in this community ever does read, and that's what makes everybody so surprised over 'liza em'ly, after living among us so long and so steady, starting up all of a sudden and doing anything like this. and what makes it all the more surprising is she never said a word about it either--never wrote home to the family or told a living soul. and so you can maybe imagine the shock to the minister when he got word as his own flesh and blood daughter had not only written a book but got it all printed without consulting him. his wife says he was completely done up and could hardly speak for quite a little while, and later when the newspaper clippings begin to come, he had to go to bed and have a salt-water cloth over his eyes. i tell you, mrs. lathrop, the minister is a very sensitive nature; it's no light thing to a sensitive nature to get a shock like a daughter's writing a book." "is--" asked mrs. lathrop. "well, i should say that it was," said miss clegg. "i should say that it was. and not only is it being advertised, but people are buying it just like mad, the papers say. the minister is still more upset over that; seems the responsibilities of even being connected with books nowadays is no light thing. there was that man as was shot for what he wrote in a book the other day, you know, and the minister's wife says as the minister is most nervous over what may be in the book; she says he says very few books as everybody is reading ought to be read, and he knows what he's talking about, for he's a great reader himself. why, his wife says he's got books hid all over the house, and she says--speaking confidentially--as he says most of 'em he's really very sorry he's read--after he's finished 'em. she says--he says he'll know no peace night or day now until he's read 'liza em'ly's book. i guess it's no wonder that he's nervous. 'liza em'ly's been a handful for years, and since she fell in love with elijah, there's been just no managing her a _tall_. if elijah'd loved her, of course it would have been different, but elijah wasn't a energetic nature, and 'liza em'ly was, and when a energetic nature loves a man like elijah, there's just no knowing where they will end up. i never see why elijah didn't love 'liza em'ly, but her grandmother's nose has always been against her, and he told me himself as it was all he could think of when he sat quietly down to think about her. but all that's neither here nor there, for it's a far cry from a girl's nose to her brains nowadays, thank heavens, and 'liza em'ly's got something to balance her now. polly white has sent for one of the books. she says she'll lend it around, no matter what's in it. polly says there's one good thing in getting married, and that is it makes you a married woman, and being a married woman lets you read all kinds of books. i guess polly's been a great reader since she was married. she's meant to get some good out of that situation, and she's done it. the deacon isn't so badly off, either. i wouldn't say that he's glad he's married all the time, but i guess some of the time he don't mind, and it's about all married people ask if only some of the time they can feel to not be sorry. a little let-up is a great relief." "you--" said mrs. lathrop. "yes, i know," said miss clegg, "but i pick up a good deal from others, and there's a feeling as married women have when they talk to a woman as they suppose can't possibly know anything just 'cause she never got into any of their troubles, as makes them show forth the truth very plainly. i won't say as married women strike me more and more as fools, for it wouldn't be kindly, but i will say as the way they revel in being married and saying how hard it is, kind of strikes me as amusing. _i_ wouldn't go into a store and buy a dress and then, when every one knew as i picked it out myself, keep running around telling how it didn't fit and was tearing out in all the seams--but that's about what most of this marriage talk comes to. i do wonder what 'liza em'ly has said about marriage in _deacon tooker talks_. that's a very funny name for a book, i think myself, but that's what she's named it. and as it seems to be about most everything, i suppose it must be about marriage, too. of course 'liza em'ly's so wild to marry elijah that everybody knows that that was what took her up to town. she didn't want to earn her living any more than any girl does. nobody ever really aches to earn their living. but some has to, and some wants to be around with men, and there ain't no better way to be around with men nowadays than to go to work with 'em. you have 'em all day long then, and pretty soon you have 'em all the time. 'liza em'ly wants to have elijah all the time." "what--" began mrs. lathrop. "oh, she says she thinks they're so congenial; she told me herself as elijah 'understood.' it seems to be a great thing to understand nowadays. it's another of those things we used to take for granted but which is now got new and uncommon and most remarkable. she told me when she and elijah watched the sun setting together, they both understood, and she seemed to feel that that was a safe basis on which to set out for town and start in to earn her own living. the minister didn't want her to go. he was very much against it. it cost such a lot, too. the minister's wife said it would have been ever so much cheaper to fix a girl to get married. you can get married with six pairs of new stockings, the minister's wife says, and it takes a whole dozen with the heels run to earn your living. the minister's wife was very confidential with me about it all, and 'liza em'ly confided considerably in me, too. they both knew i'd never tell. every one always confides in me because they know i never tell. why, the things folks in this community have told me! well!--but i _never_ tell. the real reason i never tell is because they always tell every one themselves before i can get around, but then a confiding nature is always telling its affairs, and so you can't really blame 'em. i never tell my own affairs, because i've learned as affairs is like love letters, and if they're interesting enough, it is very risky. but really, mrs. lathrop, i must be going now, and as soon as i get hold of that book, i'll be over with my opinion. _deacon tooker talks!_ my, but that is a funny name for a book! i can't see myself what kind of a book it can possibly be with that title--but anyway, we shall soon know now." "yes, we--" began mrs. lathrop. "yes, indeed," said susan, and the seance broke up for that day. it was resumed the day after, and the day after that, but no further progress having been made in the development of 'liza em'ly's affairs, that interesting topic remained in abeyance until after the next meeting of the sewing society, when the subject was put forward with emphasis. "you never hear the beat," said the lady who nearly always went to the sewing society to the lady who hadn't been there for years; "this book of 'liza em'ly's seems to be something just beyond belief. polly read it all aloud to us to-day, and i must say it's a _most_ astonishing book. i will tell you in confidence, mrs. lathrop, as i ain't surprised that the minister hid his copy and that the newspapers is all printing things about it. seems it's a man in bed talking to his wife who is asleep most of the time, only he don't pay the slightest attention to her not paying the slightest attention. polly had the name right, it is _deacon tooker talks_ (which is a _most_ singular name to my order of thinking). the cover has got a picture of the deacon's head on a pillow talking, and you can think how the minister would feel over his daughter's book's cover having a pillow on it! i walked home with mrs. fisher, and she will have it that 'liza em'ly's put her father into the book, soul and body. there's a man called mr. lexicon as is a lawyer in the book, and mrs. fisher says it's the minister. i wouldn't swear as it wasn't the minister myself, but i hate to believe it, for a girl as'll put her father in a book would be equal to most anything, i should suppose. but mrs. fisher's sure it's the minister; she says she knew him right off by his ear-muffs. only 'liza em'ly has disguised the ear-muffs by calling them overshoes. mr. lexicon has always got on his overshoes. mrs. fisher waited until we got away from all the rest, and then she showed me a review from a new york paper that just took my breath away. it says no such book has appeared before a welcoming public in two hundred and fifty years, and she's going to write the paper and ask what the book two hundred and fifty years ago was about. mrs. fisher says she's thinking very seriously of writing a book herself. she says she's always wanted to write a book, and now she thinks she'll go up to town and see 'liza em'ly and ask her about their writing a book together. she says she'll furnish all the story, and 'liza em'ly can write the book. then they'll divide the money even. and there'll be money to divide, too, for 'liza em'ly's book is surely selling. mrs. macy come up after mrs. fisher went home, and she had a piece out of another newspaper that mrs. lupey sent her, saying the book was in its ninth edition already. she had it with her at the sewing society, but she didn't bring it out, out of consideration for the feelings of the minister's wife. mrs. macy says she thinks she'll write a book, too. she's got the same idea as mrs. fisher about writing it with 'liza em'ly, only she says she'll let 'liza em'ly use some of her own ideas mixed in with mrs. macy's ideas, and she can have two thirds of the money. she says it can't be hard to write a book, or 'liza em'ly couldn't never have done it, but she says 'liza em'ly has got the fishers in her book, and she's surprised mrs. fisher didn't recognize 'em at the sewing society. 'liza em'ly calls 'em the hunters. fishers, hunters--you see! an' john bunyan she calls martin luther, an' in place of being a genius, she covered that all up by making him a painter. laws, mrs. macy says writing a book's easy. she says that book of 'liza em'ly's is really too flat for words, and what makes people buy it, she can't see. well, i shan't buy a copy, i know _that_. i ain't knowed 'liza em'ly all my life to go doing things like that now." with which very common view as to the works produced by our intimate friends, miss clegg rose to take her departure. "did--?" asked mrs. lathrop, when they next met. "no--i asked, but not a soul knew. we haven't got _any_ man in town as it could _possibly_ be. they was all discussing it, too. mrs. macy and mrs. fisher is really going to town to see 'liza em'ly and take up their ideas to talk over. mrs. macy is putting her ideas down on a piece of paper, so as to be sure she has 'em with her. mrs. fisher's keeping hers in her head, for she says if she lost them, anybody might write her book. they think they'll go tuesday. i hope they will, 'cause if they do, they'll come straight from the train and tell me, and then i'll come straight over and tell you." with which amicable arrangement miss clegg again took her departure. it was quite two weeks before affairs shaped themselves for mrs. macy and mrs. fisher to go to the city on their literary errand, but they managed it at last, and you may be very sure that mrs. lathrop peeked eagerly and earnestly out of her window many times the afternoon after their journey. they came up to call upon miss clegg and narrate their adventures quite according to their usual friendly ideals, and directly they took their leave that good lady hied herself rapidly to mrs. lathrop to tell the tale. mrs. lathrop met her at the door and both sank into chairs immediately. "well, what--" said the older lady then, and her younger friend rejoined promptly: "perfectly dumfounding; nothing like it was ever knowed before or ever will be again." "wha--?" began mrs. lathrop. "they're both completely paralyzed. mrs. fisher can't say a word, and mrs. macy can't keep still." "wha--?" began mrs. lathrop again. miss clegg drew a sharp breath. "they went to see 'liza em'ly, an' they saw her. my goodness heavens, i should think they did see her. mrs. macy says if any one ever supposed as the hanging gardens of babylon was any wonder, they'd ought to go to the city an' see 'liza em'ly, and the hanging gardens would keep their mouths shut forever after." "wha--?" began mrs. lathrop for the third time. but miss clegg was now quite ready to discharge her full duty. "seems 'liza em'ly's book went into the twentieth edition yesterday," she said, opening her eyes and mouth with great expressiveness. "they knew that before they got there, for you can believe mrs. macy or not, just as you please, mrs. lathrop, but there were actually signboards saying so stuck up all along in the fields as the train went by. the train-boy had the books for sale on the train, too, and kept dropping 'em on top of 'em all the way, but they didn't mind that, for mrs. fisher read her book as fast as she could until he picked it up again, and she read to good purpose, for this afternoon she asked for a glass of water, and while i was out with her in the kitchen getting it, she told me there isn't a mite of doubt but mrs. macy is in the book, and doctor carter of meadville is in right along with her. mrs. fisher says 'liza em'ly has called her miss grace and him doctor wagner of lemonadetown, but she says she knew 'em instantly by the description of how they was in love; she says you'd recognize how they was in love right off. i must say, mrs. lathrop, as i think 'liza em'ly ought to be very careful what she writes about real people if you can tell 'em as quick as that; but anyway, they got to town and took a street car, and then, lo and behold, if their first little surprise wasn't the finding as 'liza em'ly has stopped living where she lives and gone to live in a hotel, so they had to go to the hotel, too, and when they got there, what do you think?--if 'liza em'ly wasn't giving a reception to celebrate the twentieth edition!" "wh--?" cried mrs. lathrop. "yes, indeed," continued miss clegg, "certainly--yes, i should say so, too. if they didn't get a fine shock over 'liza em'ly and her hotel and her reception and the whole thing, mrs. macy says she'll never know what a shock is when she sees it. seems they was shoved into one end of a elevator without so much as by your leave and out the other end before they'd caught their breath, and then they found themselves in a room with flowers all tied up in banners, and elijah, with his hair parted in the middle, passing cups of tea which a lady, with her muff on her head, was pouring out, while 'liza em'ly sat on a table swinging her feet in shoes she never bought in _this_ town, mrs. macy'll take her bible oath, and a dress that trained on the floor even from the table." "my heavens alive!" cried mrs. lathrop. "oh, that isn't anything," said susan, "just you wait. well, and so mrs. macy says you can maybe imagine their feelings when they found their two perfectly respectable and well brought up selves in the middle of such a kind of a party! one man and one girl was under the piano playing cat's cradle, while another man was doing a sum on the wallpaper with a hatpin. mrs. macy says she wouldn't have been surprised at nothing after that, you'd think, but she says when it comes to 'liza em'ly nowadays, you don't know even what you're thinkin', for you'd suppose 'liza em'ly would at least have looked ashamed of her feet and her train. instead of that, she just clapped her hands and said, 'hello, home-folks,' which nearly sent mrs. fisher over backwards. elijah saw them then, and _he_ had the good manners to drop a teacup, but even he didn't look anywhere near as used up as in mrs. macy's opinion a man away from business with his hair parted in the middle in the middle of the afternoon had ought to look. he gave them chairs though, and they set down between a young lady as was smoking a cigarette and another as was very carefully powdering herself in a little mirror set in her pocketbook. just then there was a noise like a awful crash and a hailstorm, and after they'd both jumped and mrs. macy come near dislocating her hip, they see that a man was beginning on the piano. well, mrs. macy says _such_ piano-playing her one hope is as she may be going to be spared hereafter; she says he'd skitter up the piano with both hands, and then he'd bang his way back to where he belonged, and every time he hit the very bottom, he'd give his head a flop and jerk down another lot of hair over his eyes. mrs. macy says she never see a man with so much loose hair where he could manage it, for he kept getting down more and more till he looked like a cocoanut and nothing else, so help mrs. macy, and then, when he was completely hid, he hit the piano four cracks and folded his arms and was done." "mercy on--!" cried mrs. lathrop. "i should say so," continued miss clegg, "and mrs. macy says everybody clapped like mad, and then 'liza em'ly come to earth and went and threw her arms around his neck, which to mrs. macy's order of thinking, didn't look much like she was going to marry elijah. and then, before they could shake hands or say good-by or do a thing, a boy came in with a lot of telegrams on a tray, and while 'liza em'ly was fixing half a spectacle in one eye to read 'em, a young lady dressed in snakeskins, and very little else, jumped into the room right over the backs of their two chairs in a most totally unlooked-for way, and then began to spin about and wriggle here and there and in and out generally, and mrs. fisher got up and said they really must go, and elijah showed 'em to the door with the lady in snakeskins making figure eights around them all three and 'liza em'ly throwing a rose at them and kissing her hand till somehow they got into the hall. they walked down flights of stairs then till they thought there never would be a bottom anywhere, and then they looked at each other, and after a while they got where they could speak, and then they came home." "well, wha--?" began mrs. lathrop. "me, too," said susan, "i think it's _awful_! and the worst of it is for her to be the minister's daughter. think of it! they bought a paper as had her picture on it and a account of the reception as they'd just been at. it said herr schnitzel beerstein played, so they know his name now, and madame kalouka s-k-z-o-h danced, so when it comes to her name, they ain't much better off than they were before. wherever they looked they see posters of _deacon tooker talks_, and people in the cars was all discussing the book. two ministers is going to take it for a text to-morrow, and the candy stores has all got little candy boxes like beds with a chocolate drop for deacon tooker and a gum-drop for his wife." "well, wha--" began mrs. lathrop. "i don't know," said miss clegg. "the book's made right out of this community, and since i've read it myself, i can see who every one is _except_ deacon tooker. i can't see who deacon tooker is, for we haven't got anybody like him. he's talking the whole time; in fact, the book is all what he says about everything, and all his wife ever does is to wake up when he shakes her and then go to sleep again. the idea's very remarkable of a man laying awake chattering to himself all night long, but i never heard of any such person here. our only deacon is deacon white, and he never talks a _tall_." "i wonder if the min--" began mrs. lathrop. "no, i don't believe so," said miss clegg. "my goodness, suppose he did and hit something like they did! no, i hope he won't ever think of it, and as for 'liza em'ly, i hope she'll remember her married father and mother soon and remember her quiet and loving home, too, before she gets in the habit of having parties like that very often. my gracious, think of going to call on a girl as you see christened and having a snake-lady gartering her way up your leg while you were trying to say good-by and get away alive. mrs. macy says the creature was diving here and wriggling there and slipping under tables and over chairs in a way as made your flesh go creeping right after her. well, it's clear 'liza em'ly's started on a most singular career. mrs. macy says first they give her a sandwich with a bow of ribbon on it, and she swallowed the ribbon; and then they give her a piece out of a cake that they said had a lucky quarter in it, and she's almost sure she swallowed the quarter, so maybe she was prejudiced." "well, i--" began mrs. lathrop. "they felt the same way," said miss clegg; "they've come home very much used up. mrs. macy says you can talk to her about the days of ancient rome and the way folks act underground in paris, but she says she knows positively as what she and mrs. fisher saw with their own eyes in 'liza em'ly's sitting-room beat all those kind of little circuses hollow. mrs. macy says she's seen enough of what they call high life now to last her till she dies of shame. she says the only bright spot in the whole thing is as 'liza em'ly's nose isn't anywhere near as prominent as you'd think any more, and she's got a automobile and is going to europe when the book goes into its fiftieth edition." "well--i--" mused mrs. lathrop. "yes, and i will, too," said miss clegg. "i'll go straight home and do it. i'm awful tired. and it bothers me more than i like to own not knowing who deacon tooker is. you know my nature, mrs. lathrop, and although i was never one to try to find out things nor to talk about 'em after i've managed to find 'em out, still i never was one to like not to know things, and i must say i do want to know who deacon tooker is. well, they say all things comes to him who waits, so i think i won't stop here any longer. good-by, and when i do find out, you can count on my coming right over to tell you." "goo--" began mrs. lathrop. but miss clegg had shut the door after her. v susan clegg's "improvements" there was nothing small or mean or economical about jathrop lathrop, now that he had turned out rich. he was the soul of generosity, the epitome of liberality, the concentrated essence of filial devotion as expressed in checks and carte-blanche orders directed at his mother. one of his earliest kind thoughts was to have mrs. lathrop's home completely modernized, and as susan clegg lived next door and was his mother's best and dearest friend, he decided to build her house over, too. to that end he hunted up the highest-priced architect of whom he could hear and asked to have designs submitted forthwith. the highest-priced architect readily undertook the reconstruction of the lathrop and clegg domiciles, but being too occupied to go down into the country and look over the field personally, he delegated one of his youngest and most promising assistants to accomplish the task, and the young and promising assistant forthwith packed his dress-suit case and set off. he was an assistant of most extraordinary youth and almost unbelievable promise, and he saw a chance to plan colleges (endowed by j. lathrop, esq.), palaces (to be built for lathrop, the millionaire), possibly to be commissioned with the overseeing of the artistic development of some new, up-springing city (lathropville, alaska, or something of that sort), if he should only succeed in at once accomplishing a close union of feeling with the golden offspring of our old friend. his first really rich client is to a young débutant in bricks just what a well-hung picture is to the budding artist, or a song before royalty is to a singer. such being the well-known facts of life the young and promising assistant fully intended to do himself proud in the reconstruction of the two houses consigned by jathrop's benevolence to his tender mercies. the young architect came to town and went to the hotel (at jathrop's expense). he spent the next ten days in going twice each day to study his task, sketch its realities and idealities, and also make the acquaintance of mrs. lathrop and susan clegg, for he was a young man of new and novel ideas, and one of his newest and most novel ideas was to build a house which would really suit those who were to live in it. he was so young that he had no conception as to how this was to be done, nor the faintest inkling as to what a titanic-crossed-with-promethean undertaking it would be to do, if even he did know how; but he felt--and most truly--that it was a new view of the relation between house and builder, and he felt proud over having thought it out for himself as well as for all time to come. then he had another novel idea--not so altogether his own, however--which was that a house should "express its dweller." this latter idea was quite beyond the grasp of his present audience and just a little beyond his own grasp, too, but he was brave and conscientious and didn't see it that way at all. it has taken some time to lay out all these premises, but if there is any one with whom one can desire close acquaintance it is surely the man who comes to build over a comfortable and in-most-ways-satisfactory home of long years' standing, so i trust that the minutes have not been altogether wasted. mrs. lathrop and miss clegg received the young man and his mission in such states of mind as were entirely compatible with their individual outlook over life. "i must say i'm far from altogether liking him," susan said to her friend, a very real note of disapproval in her voice, one day toward the end of the week. mrs. lathrop was rocking in her new old-gold-plush stationary rocker and listened as usual with interest. "he's on the woodpile now, drawing a three-quarter profile of the woodshed. the way he perches anywhere and then goes to work and draws anything would surely make an english snail pull his castle right into his house along with him, for i've got a feeling as there's nothing about me as he hasn't got in his book by this time, and there's many things he's drawn as i never would choose to have the world in general looking over. i'm sure i don't want no view of my woodshed going down to posterity for one thing. i've had to have a woodshed, but i've never admired it, and the way i've nailed anything handy over holes in it is far from my usual way of mending. you've always mended 'hit or miss,' mrs. lathrop, and after years of such doings as was more worthy a poorhouse than a christian, heaven has seen fit to reward your patching with a son fresh from the klondike, but i've always darned blue with blue and brown with brown, and the only spot in my whole life that i haven't carefully and neatly matched the stripes in is my woodshed, and now to-day when i was thinking very seriously of using it up for the kitchen-stove next winter, if there isn't a young man from new york out drawing it in black and white, and ten to one he'll print it in some unexpected sunday paper marked 'jathrop lathrop's mother's friend susan clegg's woodshed!' that'll be a pretty kettle of fish, and you needn't tell me that there won't be somebody to perk up and say, 'no smoke without some fire,' which will be as good as throwing it in my teeth that i'm one of those as use a safety pin when a button's off, when it's a thing as i've never done and never would do even if there is a proverb that a pin's a pin for all that." susan paused here and looked upon her friend in serious question. mrs. lathrop, however, merely continued to rock pleasantly. a change had come over the spirit of her rocking since the return of jathrop. she had rocked for years with a more or less apologetic air, as if she knew that there were those who might criticize her action and yet she couldn't personally feel that she really ought to give it up. but now she rocked with a wide, free swing as if life was life and if she liked to rock, she was going to rock, and if there were those who objected, they could object--she didn't care. there is nothing that so quickly develops an independent standpoint as the possession of money; there is nothing that so fully produces a conviction that one is thoroughly justified in doing just exactly what one pleases; there is nothing that leads to quite the same lofty indifference as to whether what pleases one pleases or displeases all the rest of the world. we have but to look at jathrop to see that this is true. of all the tame, mild-eyed, listless young individuals, jathrop was the worst, falling asleep on an average of three times an afternoon in school, and never keeping conscious a whole evening. whether a sudden change in jathrop's character was the cause of making him a financial power or whether his klondike-acquired bank account was the cause of his awakening, it still is a fact that now in his quiet way he was a very live person. jathrop was indifferent to a degree, also, as witness his appearance with his chinese boy whom everybody took to be his wife with his great baggy trousers and pigtail that no respectable boy, chinese or otherwise, should wear. of course, it must be acceded that jathrop was indifferent in that case from ignorance. he did not know what the world was saying. perhaps that accounts for the lofty attitude, one might say lofty altitude, of so many of our millionaires. they are so far removed from the world that their ears cannot hear what is being said. people talk in whispers about the "very rich," which makes it doubly hard for them to hear, or hearing, to think that it matters very much, else people would shout. however, when all is said, money does make a difference. mrs. lathrop had been a silent, sat-upon, unaggressively-rocking person for years; now jathrop had come back from the klondike and altered all that; it was not that she had turned talkative, it was not that she had so far altered the very foundations of her being as to presume ever to try to contradict any other body's opinions, but the return of jathrop and the wealth of jathrop had found expression in his mother through the one medium of almost all expression with her. mrs. lathrop had ceased to concern herself as to the length or the vigor of her rocking. it was beautiful to see the energy of independence with which she went back and forth, bringing her feet down with an audible clap whenever she desired fresh impetus. susan clegg did not seem to sympathize. instead, sitting on her straight chair opposite, she shook her head severely, further discontent making itself visible in the manner of her shake. but mrs. lathrop was proof against all manifestations of disapproval now. she flew back and forth in the old-gold-plush stationary rocker like the happy pendulum of some beatific clock. jathrop was home. jathrop was rich. jathrop would buy her anything she wanted. "i d'n know, i'm sure, mrs. lathrop," susan went on, the discontent ringing somewhat more distinctly in her tone, "as i'm much taken with this idea of building us over, even if jathrop does mean it kindly. i know there's a many as would nigh to go out of their senses at the very idea of being made over new for nothing, but i was never one to go out of my senses easy, and that young man on the woodpile doesn't give me any kind of secure feeling as to what he'll make out of my house. he looks to me like the kind of young man as will open doors square across windows where the knob'll smash the glass sure if you're trying to carry a bureau out at the time of the house-cleaning. the kind of cravats he's got looks to me like his chimneys would be very likely not to draw, and their color gives me a feeling that doughnuts in his house will smell in shut-up closets a week after the frying. you know what shut-up fryings is like after they've had no fresh air for a week, but i wasn't raised that way. when i have fish i have fish and done with it, and when i have onions i have onions, and i ain't very wild over maybe boarding my fish and my onions in my best bonnet henceforth and forever. "mrs. brown was telling me yesterday as she heard of some city woman as had a system of ventilation put into her house, and the rats and mice used it so freely that you couldn't sleep nights. they nested in it, and they fought in it, and they died in it, all as happy and gay as you please, and the family had to have it picked out of the walls in the end and all new paper put on. that's the kind of ideas young men call modern improvements, and that young man on the woodpile is about as modern and improving as they make 'em, i take it. "i can't say what it is about that young man that i don't like, but, being as i'm always frank and open with you, i will remark that so far i ain't found one thing about him as i _do_ like. he's been down cellar hammering on the wall wherever the wind blew him to listeth to hammer, and i had to sit up-stairs and listen without no chance to blow myself. i caught him down on all fours this morning peeking under my front porch, and he didn't even have the manners to blush. as to the way he makes free with the outside of _your_ house, i wouldn't waste breath with trying to tell you, but my own feeling is that an architect learns his trade on a tight-rope to judge from that young man's manner, and from what i've seen while he was swinging by one arm from your premises, i wouldn't feel safe to take a bath even on top of a chimney, myself." susan rose at this and went to the window and looked out; from her expression as she turned, it was plain to be seen that the artist was still at his task. "i don't know, mrs. lathrop," she said, coming back to her seat, "i d'n know, i'm sure, as i'm took with this idea a _tall_. i never was one for favors either given or asked, and although i know this isn't no favor, but just a evidence of what i've been through with you first and last, still it's done in spite of me and i've got no feeling that i'm going to enjoy it. there's something about kindness as is always most trying to the people who've got no choice but to stand up and be tried. people who get freely given to is in the habit of getting what they don't want and can't use, but i ain't. i'm very far from it. there's nothing in me that's going to be pleased with getting a green hat when i needed a pink coat--no, sir. "and i don't need nothing. or if i do, i can buy it. i know jathrop means it kindly, but jathrop can't enter into my ways of thinking. jathrop is looking into life from the klondike gold-fields and i'm looking at it from my back stoop. that young man was out swishing his pocket handkerchief about and sucking his thumb and holding it up all yesterday afternoon, and about the time i'd made up my mind to bolt him out of the kitchen for a lunatic, he come in and told me he really thought there was wind enough in your back yard and my back yard together to run a windmill, in which case a water system could be easy inaugurated. i told him i didn't know you could inaugurate anything but a president, but he said anything as you hadn't had before and thought was going to work fine and be a great improvement could be inaugurated. i told him i supposed i could stand a windmill if you could. "what do you think--what _do_ you think, mrs. lathrop, if that young man didn't ask if he might go and look up the parlor fireplace! well, i told him he could, and i give him a newspaper to shake his head on after he was done looking, too. he's been in my garret until i bet he knows every trunk label by heart, and i must say i feel as if i'd have very little of my own affairs to tell on judgment day if he gets dressed and out of his grave quicker than i get dressed and out of mine. but that isn't all, whatever you may think. there's a many other things about him as i don't like and don't like a _tall_. "for one thing, he's got a way of looking around as if it was my house that was the main thing and i was the last and smallest piece of cross-paper tied in the kite's tail. to my order of thinking, that's a far from polite way for a young man as jathrop's hiring and boarding to look on a woman whose house he may thank his lucky stars if he may get the chance to build over. mrs. macy says mrs. lupey says architects is all like that, but i'm far from seeing why. i don't consider that young man superior a _tall_. i consider his brains as very far from being equal to my own. when he asks me to hold the other end of his tape-line and does it just as if a pin would do as well, only i was handier at the moment, i'm very far from feeling flattered. i never saw just such a young man before, and when i think of being delivered up to him--house and all--for the summer, i'm also very far from feeling easy. i d'n know, i'm sure, what will be the end of this, but i do know that it looks to me like a pretty bad business." susan paused again and looked at her friend, but mrs. lathrop just rocked onward. life had widened so tremendously for her that she couldn't possibly be perturbed in any way or by anything. if the roof fell in, jathrop would buy her another, and if she were smashed by it, jathrop would have her put together again. why worry? the young man remained ten days in all, and when his visit of investigation was completed, he returned to new york. jathrop took him to the lotus club to wash and to the yacht club to lunch and to claremont in the afternoon (in his motor), and they talked it all over. the young man had his sketches, ideas, ideals, and plans all tied into a neat patent cover with cost-estimates lightly glued in the back. jathrop was deeply interested, and the young man expounded the inmost soul of all his measurements and proposed altitudes and alterations. the young man reminded jathrop of his pertinent hypothesis that a house should express its owner. jathrop's own view of "express" was that if you could pay the bill, it beat freighting all out of sight, but he felt that perhaps the young man meant something different, so he merely gave him a cigar. the young man took the cigar and proceeded to elucidate his hypothesis by explaining that, having carefully studied both mrs. lathrop and miss clegg, he should suggest that miss clegg's house express her by being severely doric and that mrs. lathrop's should be rambling and queen anne with wide, free floor spaces. he further suggested a hyena-headed door-knocker for miss clegg and an electric button to press, so that the door opened of itself for mrs. lathrop. also a roofless pergola to connect the two houses. jathrop liked all his ideas and sketches very much, but as he was really good-hearted and had not the least desire to present green hats to those who wanted pink coats, he had the whole book sent down to his mother and begged her to carefully inspect it in company with susan clegg. they inspected it. "well," said susan, "all i can say is i'll have to carry this book home and sit down and try and make out what he _does_ mean. he's done it very neat, that i will say, but between crosses and dotted lines and your house behind mine like two roman emperors on a cameo pin, i can't make head or tail of what's going to be done to either of us. i can't even find my own house in this plan on some pages, and as for this bird-cage walk that i'm supposed to run back and forth in like a polar bear in a circus all day long, my own opinion is that if it's got no roof, it's going to be very hard indeed about the snow in winter, for i'll have to carry every single solitary shovelful to one end or the other so as to throw it out of either your kitchen window or mine. that's all the good that will do us." mrs. lathrop swung to and fro, totally unconcerned. no sort of proposition could disconcert her now. if the house when built over proved a failure, jathrop would build her another. susan took the prettily-bound portfolio home with her and spent the evening over it. she studied it profoundly and to some purpose, for the next morning when she brought it back to mrs. lathrop, it held but few secrets, other than those of a purely technical character, for her. "i've been all through it," she said to her friend, "and now i can't really tell what i think a _tall_. but this i _do_ know, if we ever really get these houses, i will be running back and forth from dawn to dark through that wire tunnel in a way as'll make the liveliest polar bear that ever kept taking a fresh turn look like a petrified tree beside me. why, only to keep the conveniences he's got put in scoured bright would take me all of every morning in my house, to say nothing of wiping up the floors, for jathrop isn't intending to buy us no carpets ever. we're to sit around on cherry when we ain't on georgia pine, and he's got every mantelpiece marked with the kind of wood we're to burn in it, and he's been kind enough to tell us what colored china we're to use in each bedroom. we're to shoot our clothes into the cellar through a hole from up-stairs and wash 'em there in those two square boxes as we couldn't make out. that thing i read 'angle-hook' is a 'inglenook,' and so far from sitting in it to fish we're to set in it to look at the fire, if we can get any mahogany to burn in that particular fireplace. "those fans are stairs, we're to go up 'em the way the arrow points, and heaven knows where or how we're to get down again. what we thought was beds is closets, and what we thought was closets is beds, and it's evident with all his hopping and hanging he didn't really charge his mind with us a _tall_, for he's got a bedroom in your house marked 'mr. lathrop,' when the last bit of real thought would have made him just _have_ to remember as you're a widow. he's give me a sewing-room when he must have seen that i always do my mending in the kitchen, and he's give us each enough places to wash to keep the whole community clean. i must say he's tried to be fair, for he's give both houses the same number of rooms and the same names to each room. we've each got a summer kitchen, but he left the spring and autumn to scratch along anyhow; we've each got a bathtub, and we've each got a china-closet as well as a pantry, which shows he had very little observation of the way _you_ keep things in order." mrs. lathrop absorbed all this with the happy calm of a contented (and rocking) sponge. "but what takes me is the way he's not only got a finger, but has just smashed both hands, into every pie on the place," susan continued. "he's moved the chicken-house and give us each a horse and give the cow a calf without even so much as 'by your leave.' i don't know which will be the most surprised if this plan comes true--me with my horse, or the cow finding herself with a calf in the fall as well as the spring this year. then it beats me where he's going to get all his trees, for both houses is a blooming bower, and the way tree-toads will sing me to sleep shows he's had no close friends in the country. trees brushing your window mean mosquitos at night and spiders whenever they feel so disposed. and that ain't all, whatever you may think, for you haven't got a window-pane over four inches square and, as every window has fifty-six of them, i see your windows going dirty till out of very shame i get 'em washed for your funeral. and that ain't all, whatever you may think, either, for the snow is going to lodge all around all those little gables and inglenooks he's trimmed your roof with, and you'll leak before six months goes by, or i'll lose my guess." but it was impossible to impress mrs. lathrop. if things leaked, jathrop would have them mended. she just rocked and rocked. "i don't know what to write jathrop about these plans," susan clegg said slowly. "of course, i've got to write him something, and i declare i don't know what to say. he means it kindly, and there's nothing in the wide world that makes things so hard as when people mean kindly. you can do all sorts of things when people is enemies, but when any one means anything kindly, you've got to eat it if it kills you. mrs. allen was telling me the other day that since she's took a vow to do one good action daily, she's lost most all of her friends. "that just shows how people feel about being grabbed by the neck and held under till you feel you've done enough good to 'em. jathrop means this well, but i've got a feeling as we'll go through a great deal of misery being built over, and i really don't think we'll be so much better off after we've survived. you'll have to be torn right down, and the day that that young man was up on my porch post, he said he couldn't be positive that i'd keep even my north wall. he pounded it all over in the dining-room until the paper was a sight, and then when he saw how very far from pleased i was, he tried to get out of it by saying the wall would have to come down, anyhow. i think he saw toward the last that he'd gone too far in a many little ways. i didn't like his taking the hens off their nests to measure how wide the henhouse was. i consider a hen is one woman when she's seated at work and had ought not to be called off by any man alive. but, laws, that young man wasn't any respecter of work or hens or anything else! he called himself an artist, and since i've been studying these plans, i've begun to think as he was really telling the truth, for artists is all crazy, and anything crazier than these plans i never did see. not content with having us wash in the sink and the cellar, we're to wash under the front stairs, too, not to speak of all but swimming up-stairs." mrs. lathrop just smiled and rocked more. "i'm not in favor of it," said miss clegg, rising to go. "i don't believe it'll be any real advantage. we'll be like the indians that die as soon as you civilize 'em--that's what we'll be. the windmill will keep us awake nights, and you don't use any water to speak of, anyhow. so i don't see why i should be kept awake. as for that laughing tiger he's give me on my front door, i just won't have it, and that's all there is about it. a laughing tiger's no kind of a welcome to people you want, and when people come that i don't want, i don't need no tiger to let 'em know it. no, i never took to that young man, and i don't take to his plans. i don't like those four pillars across my front any more than i do that mouse-hole without a roof that he's give me to go to you in. i consider it a very poor compliment to you, mrs. lathrop, that he's fixed it so if i once start to go to see you, i've got to keep on, for i can't possibly get out so to go nowhere else." susan clegg paused. mrs. lathrop rocked. "well?" said miss clegg, impatiently. but mrs. lathrop just rocked. if susan didn't like it, she needn't like it. jathrop would pay the bill. susan clegg went home, her mind still unconvinced. vi susan clegg uprooted many things against which we protest bitterly at first we eventually come to accept and possibly even to enjoy. it was that way, to a degree at least, with the reconstruction of the houses of susan clegg and her friend mrs. lathrop, neither lady being particularly charmed with the idea when it was originally presented, and miss clegg being even frankly displeased with the plans that were sent down for approval. but the plans were accepted, nevertheless, after some alterations, and by easy stages susan clegg and mrs. lathrop arrived at that degree of philosophy which enabled them to face with commendable composure the fact that they must vacate their dwellings for an indefinitely extended period. it was not that miss clegg had ceased to entertain doubts as to the advisability of "being renovated," nor was it that mrs. lathrop looked forward gladly to a temporary transplanting of herself and her rocker. but jathrop's glory as a millionaire was now so strongly to the fore in their minds that both bowed, more or less resignedly, to his wishes. "i must say i d'n know how this thing is going to work out in the end," susan observed to mrs. lathrop, as the date set for the beginning of the work drew nearer. "i'm against it myself, but i ain't against jathrop, so i'm giving up my views just to see what will happen. my own opinion is as it's all very well to build over most anything, but if your house is to be built over, you've got to get out of it, and i must say as i don't just see as yet when we get out of our houses what we're going to get into. jathrop says we can go to the hotel, and that he'll pay the bill. well, i must say it's good he'd pay the bill, for i'd never go to any hotel if somebody else didn't pay the bill--i know that. but even if i haven't got the bill to pay, i don't feel so raving, raring mad to go to the hotel. it wouldn't matter to you, mrs. lathrop, for nothing ever does matter to you, and anyway, even if anything had mattered to you before, you'd not mind it now that jathrop's come back. but just the same a hotel does matter to me. they take very little interest in their housekeeping in hotels, and no matter who's eat off of what, if they can use it again--and they generally can--they always do. why, they churn up the melted odds and ends of ice-cream and serve 'em out as fresh-made with that cheerful countenance as loveth no giver. and what we'd throw to the cat they scrape right back into the soup pot, and glad enough to get it. i don't suppose you'd mind what you ate, nor what kind of a cloth had dusted your plate, but i was brought up to be clean, and i don't want to sleep with spiders swinging themselves down to see how i do it. no, mrs. lathrop, i can't consider no hotel, not even in common affection for jathrop. i'd go down a well on my hands and knees to dig coal for him if necessary, or i'd do any other thing as a woman as respects jathrop might do if she didn't respect herself more. but live in a hotel i will not, and you can write and tell him so, for _i_ don't want to hurt his feelings. but all kindness has its limits, and if i let a boy architect run through the heart of my house, i consider as i've done enough to prove my christian spirit for one year." "what--?" ventured mrs. lathrop, but susan clegg went right on. "i don't see where we're ever going to put our things while they haul our walls down and rock our foundations. that young man says there won't be a room as won't have to have something done to it, and i don't want my furniture spoiled, even if i do have to have my house built over against my will. my furniture is very good furniture, mrs. lathrop. it's been oiled, and rubbed, and polished ever since it was bought, and none of the chairs has ever had their middles stepped on, and nothing of mine has got a sunk hole from sitting,--no, sir! my mattresses is all slept even, from side to side, and there ain't a bottle-mark in the whole house. it's a sin to take and wreck a happy home like mine. i shall have untold convenience hereafter, but i shall never take any more real comfort. that's what i see a-coming. and where under the sun we are going to put our things the lord only knows." mrs. lathrop was one of those who rarely take a question as a personal matter. she made no suggestion; she just rocked. "i can see what i've got to be doing," said susan, a clearer light breaking. "i've got to be getting up and seeing where you and me can go, and where we can put our goods. i don't want to live under the same roof with you if i can possibly help it. and not to do it's going to be hard, for knowing we're such friends, folks is going to naturally plan to take us together. i don't want to hurt your feelings, mrs. lathrop, and yet i can't in christian courtesy deny that to live with you would drive me distracted, and so i shan't consider it for a minute. not for one single minute. still, i can't live far from you, for we are old friends, and the brother that leaveth all else to cleave to his brother wasn't more close when he done it than i am to you. besides, if they're building our houses over, i shall naturally be pretty lively in watching them do it, and as one of the houses is yours, you'll like to be where i can easy tell you how it's being done. and so it goes without saying we've got to be close together. but not too close together." all these premises were so undeniably true that the passive mrs. lathrop could not have gainsaid them even had she been so disposed; which she wasn't. accordingly, upon the very next day, susan began her search for an abiding place, and the right abiding place was--as she had predicted--not to be easily found. "there's plenty of places," said susan, when she returned from her task, "but they don't any of them suit my views. you're easily suited, mrs. lathrop, but i'm not and never will be. i'm of a nature that never is to be lightly took in vain, nor yet to be just lightly took either. and no one isn't going to put me in a room that'll be sunny in july, nor yet in one that will be shady in september. no room as is pleasant in september can help being most hot in summer; and although i'm willing to be hot in my own house, i will not be hot in any place where i pay board. you'll do very well almost anywhere, mrs. lathrop, for lord knows whatever other virtues you may have, being particular could never be left at your door in no orphaned basket. but i'm different. mrs. brown would take us until young doctor brown and amelia gets back, and mrs. allen would be glad of the very dust of our feet; but i couldn't go to either of those two places. mrs. brown would have to have both of us, for there's no one else to take you, and mrs. allen would want to read us her poetry. it's all right to write if you ain't got brains or time for nothing better, but i have, and i ain't going to knowingly board myself with no one as hasn't." mrs. lathrop made no comment. she merely rocked and waited. "as for our things," susan continued, "i've found where we can put _them_. it wasn't easy, but i never give up, and mr. shores says he's willing we should have all the back of his upper part. i told him as i should want to be able to go to 'em any time, and he said far be it from him to desire to prevent no woman from visiting what was her own. i could see from his tone as he was thinking of his wife as run off with his clerk, and it does beat all how you can even make a misery out of a woman's visiting her furniture if you feel so inclined. so the goods is off our minds, and now it's just us as has got to be put somewheres till our own doors is opened to us again. i must say i'd like to know where we'll end." on the very next day the solution was effected. "i've got it all fixed," said susan, returning, dovelike, with the evening shadows. "mrs. macy'll take one of us and gran'ma mullins the other. gran'ma mullins says with hiram gone to the klondike and lucy gone to her father, either you or me can have their room; only for the love of heaven we mustn't look like hiram in bed; for her heart is aching and breaking, and the car-wheels of his train ain't grinding on any track half as much as they're grinding in her tenderest spot. now the question is, mrs. lathrop, which'll go which, and it's a thing as i must consider very carefully, for lord knows i don't want to be no more miserable than i've got to be. and it goes without saying i wouldn't choose to live with gran'ma mullins, nor mrs. macy, nor nobody else if i had my choice. i'm too much give to liking to live alone with myself. of course, mrs. macy is a pleasanter disposition than gran'ma mullins, for she ain't got hiram to wear my bones into skin over; but i feel as living with mrs. macy all summer will surely lead to her trying to make it come out even for the rent up to next january, so i would have to worry over that. then, too, even if gran'ma mullins is wearing, she's soothing too, and i shall need soothing this summer. i declare, mrs. lathrop, i can't well see how i'm ever going to pack up my things. i can't see what's to keep 'em from getting scratched and the corners knocked. how can i fix a toilet set smooth together? a toilet set don't never fit smooth together; the handles always stick out. and the frying-pan's got a handle too, and a clothesbar ain't any ways adaptable to nothing. chair legs is very bad and table legs is worse, and there's mother's wedding-present clock as found its level years ago and ain't been stirred since. father give it to her, and it's so heavy i couldn't stir it if i wanted to, anyhow. but i don't want to stir it. it's my dead mother's last wish, and as such is sacred. i wasn't to stir father nor the clock. it's a french clock, and it's marble. it's a handsome clock. it was father's one handsome present to mother. and now i've got to put it in storage. and then there's our hens. i don't know but what it'd be wisest to set right to eating them. i know one thing--i'll never board chickens. oh, mrs. lathrop, this is going to be an awful business! think of the carpets! think of the window shades, and my dead mother's lamberquins! think of the things in the garret! and the things in the cellar! and the things in the closets! i don't know, i'm sure, how we'll ever get moved." as the days went on, the slow trend of life brought the problem still more pressingly to the front. susan decided to lodge herself with gran'ma mullins. gran'ma mullins, whose heart was still very heavy over hiram's escape from the home nest, would have preferred mrs. lathrop. mrs. lathrop's capacity for listening would have meant much to gran'ma mullins in these hours of bitter loneliness; but mrs. macy wanted mrs. lathrop, and susan didn't want mrs. macy, so the outcome of that question was a fore-gone conclusion. when all was settled, jathrop dispatched emissaries who, with a deftness and dexterity possessed only by the hirelings of millionaires, descended on mrs. lathrop, and in the course of a single afternoon transferred her, her rocker, and the whole contents of her bedroom to mrs. macy's. the emissaries offered to do the same thing for susan clegg, but she rejected their aid. alone and unassisted susan wrestled with her packing, and no one ever knew just how she accomplished it. it took her several days, and it introduced a new order of things into not only her life but her speech. her struggle was valiant, but towards the end she had to call on felicia hemans and sam durny for help. when, on saturday night, susan arrived at gran'ma mullins's, her first observation was that when the lord got through with the creation it was small wonder he arranged to rest on the seventh day. "i d'n know as i shall ever get up again," she said to gran'ma mullins, who was watching her take off her bonnet. "a apron as has been used to carry things in for six days is bright and starched beside me. oh, gran'ma mullins, pray on your folded knees as hiram won't come back rich and want to build you over! anything but that." "oh, if he'll only come back, it's all i'll ask!" returned gran'ma mullins sadly. "to think he can't get there for four weeks yet. and think of hiram in a boat! why hiram can't even see a mirror tipped back and forth without having to go right where he'll be the only company. and then to be in a boat! a boat is such a tippy thing. i read about one man being drowned in one last week. they're hooking for him with dynamite to see if they can even get a piece of him back for his wife. his wife isn't much like lucy, i guess. oh, susan, you'll never know what i've stood from lucy! nobody will." miss clegg shook her head and looked about her quarters with an eye that was dubious. "i've got some eggs for supper," said gran'ma mullins, "one for you and one for me, and one for either of us as can eat two." "i can eat two," said susan, who thought best to declare herself at the outset. "is your things all out of the house?" gran'ma mullins asked, as they seated themselves at the table. "oh, yes," answered susan, "everything is out! towards the last we acted more like hens being fed than anything else, but we got everything finished." "did you get the clock out safe?" susan's expression altered suddenly. "the clock! oh, the clock! what _do_ you think happened to that clock? and i didn't feel to mind it, either." "oh, susan, you didn't break it!" "i did. and in sixty thousand flinders. and i'm glad, too. very glad. it's a sad thing as how we may be found out, no matter how careful we sweep up our trackings. and i don't mind telling you as the bitterest pill in my cup of clearing out has been that very same clock." "it was such a handsome clock," said gran'ma mullins, opening her naturally open countenance still wider. "oh, susan! what did happen?" "you thought it was a handsome clock," said susan, "and so did i. it was such a handsome clock that we weren't allowed to pick it up and look at it. father screwed it down with big screws, so we couldn't, and he wet 'em so they rusted in. i had a awful time getting those screws out to-day, i can tell you. you get a very different light on a dead and gone father when you're trying to get out screws that he wet thirty-five years ago. me on a stepladder digging under the claws of a clock for two mortal hours! and when i got the last one out, i had to climb down and wake my foot up before i could do the next thing. then i got a block and a bed-slat, and i proceeded very carefully to try how heavy that handsome clock--that handsome marble clock--might be. i put the block beside it, and i put the bed-slat over the block and under the clock. then i climbed my ladder again, and then i bore down on the bed-slat. well, gran'ma mullins, you can believe me or not, just as you please, but it's a solemn fact that nothing but the ceiling stopped that clock from going sky-high. and nothing but the floor stopped me from falling through to china. i come down to earth with such a bang as brought felicia hemans running. and the stepladder shut up on me with such another bang as brought sam durny." "the saints preserve us!" ejaculated gran'ma mullins. "it wasn't a marble clock a _tall_," confessed susan. "it was painted wood. that was why father screwed it down. oh, men are such deceivers! and the best wife in the world can't develop 'em above their natural natures. i expect it was always a real pleasure to father to think as mother and me didn't know that marble clock was wood. i don't know what there is about a man as makes his everyday character liking to deceive and his sunday sense of righteousness satisfied with just calling it fooling. well, he's gone now, and the bible says 'to him as hath shall be given,' so i guess he's settling up accounts somewheres. give me the other egg!" after supper they stepped over to mrs. macy's, which was next door, and the four sat on the piazza in the pleasant spring twilight. mrs. macy was so happy over having mrs. lathrop instead of susan clegg that she smiled perpetually. mrs. lathrop sat and rocked in her old-gold-plush rocker. gran'ma mullins and susan clegg occupied the step at the feet of the other two. "well, susan," mrs. macy remarked meditatively, "i never looked to see you leave your house any way except feet first. well, well, this certainly is a funny world." "yes," returned susan, brief for once, "it certainly is." "it's a very sad world, i think," contributed gran'ma mullins with a heavy, heavy sigh. "my goodness, to think this time last spring hiram was spading up the potato patch! and now where is he?" "nobody knows," answered susan. "see how many years it was till jathrop come back. but i do hope for your sake, gran'ma mullins, that when hiram does come back he won't take it into his head to buy this house and build it over for you." gran'ma mullins looked at mrs. macy, and mrs. macy looked back at gran'ma mullins, and a message flashed and was answered in the glances. "well, susan," said gran'ma mullins with neighborly interest, "you do see that the house needs fixing up, don't you?" susan was the owner and mrs. macy only the tenant, and the implication was not at all pleasing to her. she turned with the air of the weariest worm that had ever done so and gave gran'ma mullins a look that could only be translated as an admonition to mind her own business. whereupon gran'ma mullins promptly subsided, and the subject did not come up again. it was on a monday--the very next monday--that the workmen arrived and set to work to demolish the outer casing of the homes of susan and mrs. lathrop. susan went up and stood about for an hour, viewing the way they did it with great but resigned scorn. she went every day thereafter, and her heart was rent at the sight of the sacrilege. then, to add to her woe, gran'ma mullins proved less soothing than had been expected, and susan suffered keenly at her hands. "oh, mrs. lathrop," she said one morning, when the exigencies of shopping left the two old friends full freedom of intercourse, "if i'm going to live in that house for this whole summer, the first thing that i'll have to do is either to change gran'ma mullins or change me! i can see that. why, i never heard anything like gran'ma mullins' views on hiram. you've heard mrs. macy, and i've told you what lucy's told me whenever i've met her, but i never had no idea it was anything like what it is. i'm stark, raving crazy hearing about hiram. gran'ma mullins says no child was ever like hiram, and i begin to wonder if it ain't so. no child ever made such an impression on his mother before,--i can take my bible oath on that, for she's talking about him from the time i wake till long after i'm asleep,--and she remembers things in the stillness of the night and wakes me up to hear 'em for fear she'll forget 'em before morning. last night she was up at two to tell me how hiram used to shut his eyes before he went to sleep when he was a baby. she said he had a different way of doing it from any other child that's ever been born. he picked it all up by himself. she couldn't possibly tell me just how he did it, but it was most remarkable. he had it in may and well into june the year he was born, but along in july he began to lose it, and by october he opened and shut just like other people's babies. that's what i was woke up to hear, mrs. lathrop, and herod was a sweet and good-tempered mother of ten compared to me as i listened. and then at daybreak if she didn't come in again to explain as hiram was so different from all other babies that he crept before he walked, and the first of his trying to walk he climbed up a chair leg." "why, jathrop--" volunteered mrs. lathrop. "of course. they all do. but i must say i don't see how i'm going to stand it till my house is ready to receive me back with open bosom if this is the way she's going on straight along. i wouldn't stay with mrs. macy because i was tired of hearing what she said gran'ma mullins said about hiram, but it never once struck me that if i stayed with gran'ma mullins i'd have it all to hear straight from the fountain mouth. my lands alive, mrs. lathrop, you never hear the beat! hiram used to wrinkle up his face when she washed it, and he never wanted to have a bath. and he used to bring mud turtles into the house; and when she thinks of that and how now he's off for the klondike, she says she feels like going straight after him. she says she could be very useful in the klondike. she could polish his pick and his sled-runners, and hang up his snowy things, and wash out his gold and his clothes. she says she can't just see how they wash out gold, but she knows how to polish silver, and she says mother-love like hers can pick up anything. she goes on and on till i feel like going to the klondike myself. i'm getting a great deal of sympathy for lucy. lucy always said she could have been happy with hiram--maybe--if it hadn't been for his mother. lucy's got no kind of tender feeling for gran'ma mullins, and i certainly don't feel to blame her none." "is your--?" asked mrs. lathrop, striving towards pleasanter paths. "well, it ain't burnt up yet," answered susan. "i stopped at mr. shores' coming back and took a look at it, and i was far from pleased to find the door as opens into the next room to the room as my furniture is locked up in a little open. goodness knows who'd opened it, but it looked very much like some one had been trying my door, to me. i asked mr. shores, and i saw at a glance as it was news to him, which shows just how much interest he's taking in looking out for my things. he said maybe the cat had pushed it open. the cat! i unlocked my door and went in. the furniture's all safe enough, but it's enough to put any housekeeper's heart through the clothes wringer only to see how it's piled. the beds is smashed flat along the wall, and wherever they could turn a table or a chair upside down and plant something on the wrong side of it, they've done it. as for the way the dishes is combined, i can only say that the lord fits the back to the burden, so the wash-bowls is bearing everything. they've put mother's picture in a coal-hod for safety, and the coal-hod is sitting on the bookcase. it's a far from cheering sight, mrs. lathrop, but you know i was against being built over from the start. when i see the walls of my happy home being smashed flat and then picked over like they was raisins to see what'll do to use again, and then when i see my furniture put together in a way as no one living can make head or tail of, and when i see myself woke up at three in the night to be told that sometimes when hiram was a baby he would go to sleep and sometimes he wouldn't, why i feel as if that roman as they rolled down hill in a barrel because he wouldn't stay anywhere else where they put him was sitting smoking cross-legged compared to me. i d'n know what i'm going to do this summer. it would just drive an ordinary woman crazy. but i presume i'll survive." mrs. lathrop looked slightly saddened. "well, susan,--" she began to murmur sympathetically. "oh, it doesn't matter," said susan. "of course, if it gets where i can't stand it, we'll just have to change houses, that's all." vii susan clegg unsettled life under the roof of gran'ma mullins eventually--and eventually was a matter of days rather than weeks--became unbearable for susan clegg. at least, she so decided, and finding opportunity in the fact that both gran'ma mullins and mrs. macy had gone to market, susan hastened to her old friend, mrs. lathrop, and laid open her fresh burden of woes. "i can't stand it, mrs. lathrop," she declared with strongest emphasis, "i can't stand it. no matter what the bible says, a saint on a gridiron would smile all over and wriggle for nothing but joy only to think as where he was and wasn't boarding with gran'ma mullins. it's awful. that's what it is--awful. i never had no idea that nothing could be so awful. i've got to where i'm thinking very seriously of leaving my property to lucy. i'm becoming very sorry for lucy. lucy isn't properly appreciated. why, hiram was stung by a bee once,--no ordinary bee, but a bee a third bigger than the usual bee,--and it swelled up all different from common, and gran'ma mullins thought he was surely going to die right there before her streaming eyes. but hiram was so bright he remembered about putting mud on bee-bites, and he did it. only there wasn't no mud, and nobody knew what they could do about it. but hiram's mind wasn't like the mind of a ordinary person. hiram's mind is all different, and hiram said, just as quick as scat, to mix water and earth and make some mud. so they did, and the water and earth, gran'ma mullins says, made the finest mud she ever saw. they covered up hiram's bee-bite with it, and it didn't leave so much as a scar. and now there's hiram in the klondike, knowing just what to do when bit by a bee, but without a notion what to put on if a seal catches him unawares. and all this going on hour after hour, mrs. lathrop, and me sitting there waiting for my dinner, half mad anyway over the way my dead-and-gone father's home is being torn limb from limb, and in no mood to listen to anything. oh, laws, no! it's no use. i can't stand it, and i won't either." susan paused expressively. mrs. lathrop gasped. "what will--?" "i'm going to find another place to live right away," susan went on. "i've too much consideration for you to ask you to go there, mrs. lathrop, and besides, i feel it would be exchanging the fire for the stew-pan for me to come here. i'm going this town over this very afternoon, and i think i'll find some place where i can sleep part of the night, at any rate. i guess i got about three quarters of a hour's sleep last night. gran'ma mullins woke me up weeping on the foot of my bed before daylight. just before daylight is her special time for recollecting how hiram used to drink milk out of a cup when he was a baby, and how he used to eat candy if anybody gave him any, and other remarkable doings that he did. my lands, i wish job could have met gran'ma mullins! his friends and his boils would have just been pleasant things to amuse him, then. i'm going first to mrs. allen, and then i'm going to every one. i shan't make no bones about my errand, for everybody knows gran'ma mullins. i'll have the sympathy of the whole community. i need sympathy, and i feel i can soak up a good lot of it if i'm let to." "how's the--?" asked mrs. lathrop. "they're still pulling 'em down," said susan gloomily. "it's a awful sight, and one that doesn't give me more strength for gran'ma mullins. i shall never have another house that will suit me as mine did, mrs. lathrop. i know that jathrop means it kindly, and i'm far from being one to hold any gift-horse by the tail, but the truth is the truth, and i must say nothing teaches you to really prize your cupboards like seeing men going through 'em with pick-axes. there was many little conveniences in my house as i never really thought much of until now i see 'em gone forever. but it's a poor cat that lives on spilt milk, so i'll say no more of that, but go back and get ready to hunt up a place to live. for live i must, mrs. lathrop, and live i will. and i won't live by eating and drinking and breathing hiram mullins the twenty-four hours round, neither." miss clegg's round of visits ended, curiously enough, in her establishing herself with lucy mullins. "which i don't doubt is a very great surprise to you, mrs. lathrop," she confessed to her friend that evening. "but lucy ran across me in the street, and when she saw me, those two women who met in the bible and knew all each other's business directly was strangers passing on express trains beside lucy and me. i took one look at lucy, and i see she knowed it all. judge fitch is going to be away a lot this month, seeing where he can hire his witnesses for a big lawsuit, and lucy says she and me'll be alone and able to be silent from dawn to dark and on through the night. she don't want to have to listen to no manner of talk, she says, and i can have the second floor all alone to myself, for her and her father sleep in the wings down-stairs." "so you--" said mrs. lathrop. "yes, i didn't look no more. i was suited, so i didn't see no use in further fussing. i shall tell gran'ma mullins to-night and go there to-morrow. and i may in confidence remark as no howling oasis in a desert ever howled for joy the way i'll feel like howling when i get my trunk on a wheelbarrow again. i've spoke for the wheelbarrow at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, so i'll be over at lucy's and settled before you wake up, mrs. lathrop." the next day susan went, and, surprising as it may seem, gran'ma mullins was singularly content over her going. "i don't want to make no trouble between friends," said gran'ma mullins, clambering up mrs. macy's steps to sit with mrs. macy and mrs. lathrop. "but really, susan is become most changed since her house is begun to be built over. i wouldn't hardly have known her. i wouldn't say stuck-up and i wouldn't say airy, but i will say as she's most changed. i wouldn't say rude, neither, but i didn't consider it exactly friendly to always either pull her breath in long and loud or else let it out short and sharp whenever i mentioned hiram. hiram is my only legal and natural child, and with him in the klondike, and my heart aching and quaking and breaking for fear the ice'll thaw and let him through into some unexpected volcano all of a sudden, how can i but mention him? you know what hiram is to me, mrs. macy. we haven't lived in these two houses for forty years without your knowing what hiram is to me. you remember him as a baby, mrs. macy, but you don't, mrs. lathrop, so i'll tell you what hiram was as a baby. hiram was a most remarkable--" when mrs. lathrop saw susan clegg again, miss clegg was looking far from happy. "are you--?" enquired mrs. lathrop. "well, i d'n know," came the answer more than a little dubiously. then: "seeing that i am always frank and open with you, mrs. lathrop, i may as well say plainly as i ain't. very far from it. i never knew when i went to live with lucy as judge fitch has got a dog as barks. he ain't no ordinary dog--he's a most uncommon dog. he only barks when it's moonlight, or when he hears something, and i must say he's got the sharpest ears i ever see. but it isn't his barking that's so bad, as it is that whenever he barks, lucy gets right up to see whether it's hiram come back. it seems the reason lucy took me to board is she hates to go around the house alone nights with the dog and a candle. that's a pretty thing for me to never mistrust till i got there with my trunk. i must say i don't blame lucy for not liking to go around alone, for the dog smells your heels all the time, and if he was in the klondike with hiram his nose couldn't be colder. but all the same i think she ought to of told me. for whatever it may be to others, a cold nose is certainly most new to my heels. well, mrs. lathrop, we was out hunting with our dog three times last night, and lucy says often enough he gets her up nine and ten times. lucy's so nervous for fear hiram'll come back that she can't possibly sleep if she thinks there's a chance of it. she says if hiram's come back, she wants to know it right off. she says that's her nature. if she's got to have a tooth out, she wants it out at once. she says she never was one to shrink from nothing. and the dog's prompt, too. he's quite of the same mind as lucy. he gives one bark, and then he don't dilly-dally none. he gets right up, and by the time he's got to lucy, lucy's got up too, and they both come racing up-stairs for me to join 'em. my door don't lock, so the dog's licking my face before i know where i am. and then, before i know much more where i am, we're all three capering down-stairs together again. then we take the whole house carefully around and listen at every door and window, with the dog smelling while we listen. then, when we know for sure as it ain't hiram, the dog scrambles back into his basket, and lucy tucks him up, and she and i go back to bed alone and untucked. that's a pretty kettle of fish. and you can believe me or not, just as you please, mrs. lathrop, but i never had no notion of having my heels smelled by a cold dog's nose three times, and maybe nine, a night when i went to live at judge fitch's, and if it keeps on, i shall just leave. lucy's got no lease on me, and although i'm sorry for her, i ain't anywhere near sorry enough for her to be woke up to pussy-cornering all over the premises with a dog the livelong night through. as between having gran'ma mullins sitting on my feet wailing over hiram, and lucy's dog smelling of my heels while we hunt for hiram, i think i'd rather have gran'ma mullins. i was warm and comfortable and laid out flat at gran'ma mullins, but i'm goodness knows what at lucy's. and i do hate having my face licked. i don't like it. i never was used to such things, and i can't begin now." "what will--?" asked mrs. lathrop. "i shall look up another nice place to live," said miss clegg, "and i shall take a leaf out of the dog's book and be prompt about it, too. i've spoke for the wheelbarrow to-morrow at ten o'clock, and i shall move then, whether or no." susan, again on the lookout for a new abiding place, discovered a most attractive proposition in mrs. allen. mrs. allen and her husband lived alone, were neat and well-fed, and kept no dog. "i'll never go where there's a dog again, i know that," said susan. "why, mrs. lathrop, if i was in a blizzard in switzerland and fifty of those little beer-keg dogs they've got there came scurrying up to rescue me, i wouldn't get up and let 'em have the joy of seeing me obliged. i won't ever get up for no dog again in my life, i know that. and i know it for keeps. and there's a bolt on my side of my door at mrs. allen's. i've looked to that, too; and no one is to wake me nights; i've looked to that. i told mrs. allen all the story of what i'd suffered, and she said she'd see as i had peace in her house. she told me that i'd suffered because i needed to suffer, but now i was to have peace, and i'd have it with her. i didn't bother to ask what she meant, for i guess if she's got any secret thorn, i'll find it out quick enough, anyhow. and if it's anything that wakes me up nights, my present feeling is as i won't be well able to bear it. well, the wheelbarrow is set for ten o'clock, and so i must go, and when i see you, i'll know what's wrong with mrs. allen, and the lord help me if it's something as makes me have to move again. that's all i can say." susan did not visit her old friend directly after her third change of residence. two whole days passed by, and mrs. lathrop was openly troubled. "don't you worry," said gran'ma mullins soothingly. "there's nothing the matter with her, because i see her in the square this very morning. but she looked at me odd and went down a side street. i'm sure i hope susan's not losing her mind." "oh, wouldn't that be awful!" exclaimed mrs. macy with real sympathy. "we'd have to appoint a commission to catch her and sit on her, and then if she was put in the insane asylum, i guess susan clegg would be mad." "oh, susan wouldn't like that a bit," said gran'ma mullins meditatively. "they make little cups and saucers out of beads. i know, because hiram had one once. and they read books with the letters all punched out at you." "you're thinking of the home for the blind," corrected mrs. macy. "i was there once, too. i don't think susan would mind going there so much, because of course she can see, which would give her a great advantage over the others, and susan does like to have an advantage over anybody else. but i don't believe she'd like going to the insane asylum much. the insane asylum's so limited. my husband's sister went to the insane asylum once, but it didn't help her none, so she came home. it wouldn't ever suit susan." "well, maybe not," said gran'ma mullins amicably. "and i don't think she could go there, anyway, for she isn't crazy, and she's got her own money. so why should she be a charge on the county?" the very next day susan came wearily in to see her old friend. "well, i d'n know what i've ever done to have this kind of a summer," she began, seating herself sadly. "why didn't i stay in my own house and just simply take you to board while they laid violent hands on your house? i was against being built over all along, mrs. lathrop, you know that. and now the fox has his cheese and the cow has her corn, just as the scripture says, but susan clegg's absolutely forced to live with mrs. allen. oh, mrs. lathrop, you don't know what living with mrs. allen is, and you can't imagine, either. i never dreamed of such a thing before i went there. i was a little afraid she'd want to read me her poetry, but her poetry would have been paradise to what is. seems as if mrs. allen has got a new kind of religion, and heaven help the present run of mankind if any more new religions is sprung on us, and heaven help me if i've got to live long with mrs. allen's new one. mrs. allen's new religion is most peculiar. i never see nothing like it. it's persian, and it's very singular just to look at. but it's most awful to live with. lucy and her dog is simple beside it, and as to gran'ma mullins, she's nothing but a baby dabbing a ball in comparison. according to mrs. allen's new religion, you mustn't find fault with nothing or nobody--never. everything's all right, no matter how wrong it is; and if you lose your purse, you was meant to lose it, so why complain? you was give your purse for just a little while, and in place of wildly running here and there trying to find it, you must just thank heaven for kindly letting you have it so long, and think no more about it. if you're meant to see any more of that purse, it'll kindly look you up itself. but it's no manner of use your looking for it, because if heaven takes back a purse deliberately, never intending to return it, it never does return it, and that's all there is to be said on the subject. well, mrs. lathrop, you think perhaps you can see what it would be to live with any one that feels to see life in that way; but you don't really know what you think a good deal of the time, and never less than now. mrs. allen's things is mostly back in heaven's hands again, and her biscuits is mostly burnt, and not one bit does she care, seeing as she don't consider as she has the least thing to do with any of it. she's happy and singing and forgetting from dawn to dark. she says the day'll soon be that the whole earth will see the truth and be singing with her. she says the toiling millions will cease to toil then, and life'll be all adams and eves and no manner of misery. in the meantime, i don't get nothing to eat, and when i feel to holler down-stairs, she says dinner was meant to be late that day, or it couldn't possibly have been late. not by no manner of means." "well, i--" commented mrs. lathrop blankly. "just my way of seeing it," said susan, "and she aggravates me still more with pointing her moral, from dawn to dark. she says it's beautiful to see how beautiful life comes along. you and me needed quiet, and we got quiet. and now we need our houses built over, and we're getting 'em built over. i told her i didn't need my house built over a _tall_, and she said as i just thought so, but that i really did, or it wouldn't be being done. well, mrs. lathrop, i d'n know, i'm sure, what i will run up against next. but i don't believe i can stay at mrs. allen's. i really don't. there's one thing--it'll be mighty easy to leave her, for i shan't have to say nothing. i shall say i was meant to leave and then and there leave. it's a poor religion as don't fit others as easy as its own selves; and i ain't washed in the allens' dirty rain water full of dead and drowned bugs for two days because i was meant to wash and they was meant to drown, without learning how to turn even a drowned bug to my advantage. no, sir, i'm going out this afternoon and see what i can get, and if i can't do no better, i'll buy a bolt for my door and come back to gran'ma mullins. gran'ma mullins has her good points. i always said that, mrs. lathrop, gran'ma mullins certainly has her good points. and i must learn to bear hiram if i must. there's one thing certain: i can hear about hiram in bed, and i don't have to get up and out of bed to hunt for him. and whatever else gran'ma mullins does, she don't burn her bread and blame it on the almighty. mrs. allen's got the bible so pat that you don't need to do nothing, according to her--nothing a _tall_, but just sit still and let the world turn you around with its turning. she says solomon said the little lilies didn't spin, and so why should she? well, if we're to quit doing everything that lilies don't have a hand in, i must say we'll soon be in a pretty state. i never was one to admire solomon like some people, and as for david, i think he was a fool--dancing around the ark like he'd just got it for christmas!" susan searched long and wearily for a fourth abiding place that afternoon, but in the end she had to speak for the wheelbarrow for the next morning and move back to gran'ma mullins's. and gran'ma mullins was very glad to see her back. "your bed's all made up with the same sheets for you, susan," she said cordially, "and i ain't even swept so as to spoil the homelike look. you'll see your own last burnt matches and all, just as you left 'em." "i've bought a bolt for my door," said susan, "and i'll beg to borrow a screwdriver and something sharp to put it on with." "i'll get 'em," agreed gran'ma mullins happily, "and i won't wake you no more nights, susan. i suppose it's only natural that you, never having been married, can't possibly know the feelings of a mother. but i meant it kindly, susan. when lucy speaks of hiram, she means it unkindly. but when i speak of hiram, i always mean it kindly." "yes, i know," said susan, "and if i believed like mrs. allen does, i'd know i was meant to listen and wouldn't mind. but i don't take no stock in that religion of mrs. allen's, and i won't be woke up. and although i don't want to hurt your feelings, i do want that understood right from the beginning." "i'll remember," said gran'ma mullins submissively. "and now i'll fetch the screwdriver." that evening the four friends sat pleasantly once again on mrs. macy's piazza. "mrs. lathrop had a letter from jathrop to-day. did you know that, susan?" asked mrs. macy. "no, i didn't," returned susan clegg. "what did he say?" "he's going sailing to the west indies in his new boat," mrs. macy informed her. "he's going for his health, and he's going to take three other millionaires and their own doctor." susan appeared unimpressed. "he sent his mother a book about the place where he's going," said mrs. macy. "do you want to see it?" she went in and brought it out. susan took the volume and viewed the title with an indifferent eye. "_stark's guide to the bahamas_," she read aloud. "what are they--something to eat?" "you're thinking of bananas," suggested mrs. macy. "it's islands. it's where columbus hit first. nobody knows just where he hit, but he hit there; everybody knows that." susan placed the book under her arm. "i'll read it," she said briefly. "but i must say as to my order of thinking jathrop's setting off just now is very much like a hen getting up from her eggs. here's you and me--" addressing mrs. lathrop directly--"with our houses done away with, and him as has engineered the wreck skipping away with a parcel of men." "he isn't skipping," interposed mrs. macy. "he's sailing--sailing in his own private boat, like the tea-man with the cup." "oh, i don't care what he's doing," said susan, rising. "i'm about beat out, and i'm going home and going to bed. such a week! the bible says 'whom the lord loveth he chaseth,' and heaven knows i've been chased this week till my legs is about wore off. such a week! i've had all the chasing i want for one while. and i never was great on being loved, so i'm going home and going to bed." whereupon, with the _guide to the bahamas_ under her arm and a heavy fold between her brows, susan clegg stalked over to her temporary domicile. "i don't think susan's very well," said gran'ma mullins. "maybe she's worried over jathrop," suggested mrs. macy. mrs. lathrop said nothing. she just rocked. viii susan clegg and the cyclone "i d'n know, i'm sure, what star this town could ever have been laid out under," said susan clegg, one exceptionally hot night as the four friends sat out on mrs. macy's steps, "but my own opinion is as it must have been a comet, for we're always skiting along into some sort of hot water. when it ain't all of us, it's some of us, and when it ain't some of us, it's one of us, and now the walls of my house is up i'd be willing to bet a nickel as a calamity'll happen along just because something's always happening here and my walls is the youngest and tenderest thing in the community now." "your roof ain't--" began mrs. lathrop. "of course not; how could it be, when my walls is only just up? i don't wish to be casting no stones at him as is the least among us, but i will say, mrs. lathrop, as jathrop's orders seem to be taking you up under the loving protection of their wings, while i'm running around like i was a viper without no warm bosom to hatch me. _your_ walls have been up and a-doing for a week, but my walls have been sitting around waiting until i was nigh to put out. to see your laths going in and your plaster going on, while i stay lumber and nails, is a lesson in yielding to the will of heaven as i never calculated on. there's few things more aggravating than to see some other house speeding along while your own house sits silently, patiently waiting. of course i can't say nothing, as even the boy as carries water knows my house is going to be a present to me in the end. it's all right, and likely enough the lord has seen fit to send this summer to me as a chastisement; but i will say that if i'd known how this summer was going, the lord would most certainly have had to plan some other way to punish me. i don't say as it wasn't natural that your walls should go up first, jathrop being your son, and, now that he's rich, no more to me than a benefactor--" "oh, susan!" expostulated mrs. macy. "that's what he is, mrs. macy; he's my benefactor, and i can't escape if i want to. you may tend a man's mother ten years, day and night, house cleanings and cistern cleanings, moths and the well froze up, and if the man comes back rich, he's your benefactor." "susan!" cried mrs. lathrop, "you--" "don't deny it, mrs. lathrop; it's the truth. it's one of those truths that the wiser they are, the sadder you get. it's one of those truths as is the whole truth and a little left over; and i'm learning that i'm to be what's left over, more every day. after a life of being independent and living on my own money, i'm now going down on my knees learning the lesson of being humbly grateful for what i don't want. i may sound bitter, but if i do it isn't surprising, for i feel bitter; and gran'ma mullins knows i'm always frank and open, so she'll excuse my saying that there's nothing in living with _her_ as tends to calm me much. a woman as sleeps in a bed as hiram must have played leap-frog over all his life from the feel of the springs, and pours out of a pitcher as has got a chip out of its nose, ain't in no mood to mince nothing. i never was one to mince, and i never will be--not now and not never. mincing is for them as ain't got it in them to speak their minds freely; and my mind is a thing that's made to be free and not a slave." "well, really, susan," expostulated mrs. macy, "what ever--" "don't interrupt me, mrs. macy. i'm full of goodness knows what, but whatever it is, i'm too full of it for comfort. there's nothing in the life i'm leading this summer to make me expect comfort, and very little to make me feel full, but there's things as would make a man dying of starvation bust if he experienced them. and i'm full of such things. i never had no idea of being out of my house all summer, and now, when my walls is up at last, and it looks like maybe i'd get back a home feeling some day soon, i must up and get quite another kind of feeling--a feeling that something is going to happen. it's a very strange feeling, and at first i thought it was just some more of gran'ma mullins' cooking; but it kept getting stronger, and when i was in the square, i spoke to mr. kimball about it; and he says this is cyclone weather, and maybe a cyclone is going to happen. he says a man was in town yesterday wanting to insure everybody against fire and cyclones. most everybody did it. mr. kimball says after the young man got through, you pretty much had to do it. them as had policies with the company could get the word 'cyclone' writ in for a dollar. i guess the young man did a very good day's work. mr. kimball says if it's true as there's any cyclones coming nosing about here, he wants his dried-apple machine insured anyhow. it's a fine machine, and every kind of fruit as is left over each night comes out jam next day, while all the vegetables make breakfast food. he says it's a wonder." "what makes him think we're going to have a cyclone?" inquired mrs. macy anxiously. "he says the weather is cyclony. and he says if i feel queer that's a sign, for i'm a sensitive nature." "i never--" said mrs. lathrop. "no, nor me, neither. but mr. kimball seemed to feel there wasn't no doubt. he says i'm just the kind of sensitive nature as could feel a cyclone. why, he says cyclones take the roofs off the houses!" "ow!" cried gran'ma mullins in surprise. "if one's coming, i'm glad to know, for i never see one near to," said mrs. macy pensively. "you won't see it a _tall_," said susan, "for mr. kimball says the only safe place in a cyclone is the cellar; and to pull a kitchen table over you to keep the house from squashing you flat when it caves in." "my heavens alive!" cried mrs. lathrop. "that's what he said. but he says not to worry, for the young man told him as they're getting so common no one notices them any more. he says they're always going hop, skip, and jump over kansas and everywhere, and no one pays no attention to 'em. he knows all about it. but he wanted it clear as he was only insuring for _cyclones_; he says his firm wouldn't have nothing to do with tornadoes. you can get as much on a cyclone as on a fire, but you can't get a penny on a tornado--" "what's the diff--" asked gran'ma mullins. "that's the trouble; nobody can just tell. a cyclone is wind and lightning mixed by combustion and drove forward by expulsion, the young man told mr. kimball. he said they'd got cyclones all worked out, and they can average 'em up same as everything else, but he says a tornado is something as no man can get hold of, and no man will ever be able to study. tornadoes drive nails through fences--" "where do they get the nails?" asked gran'ma mullins. "i d'n know. pick 'em out of the fences first, i guess. and they strip the feathers off chickens and scoop up haystacks and carry them up in the air for good and all." "oh, my!" cried mrs. macy. "mr. kimball said the young man told him that a tornado dug up a complete marsh once in minnesota and spread it out upside down on top of a wood a little ways off; and when there's a tornado anywhere near, the sewing-machines all tick like they was telegraphing." "no!" cried mrs. macy. "yes, the young man said so." "but do you believe him?" "i don't know why not. i wouldn't believe mr. kimball because he's always fixing up his stories to sound better than they really are, which makes me have very little faith in him; but judge fitch says he'd make a splendid witness for any one just on that very account. judge fitch says with a little well-advised help mr. kimball would carry convictions to any man,--he don't except none,--but i see no reason why the young man wasn't telling the truth. young men do tell the truth sometimes; most everybody does that. a tornado catches up pigs and carries 'em miles and pulls up trees by the roots. i don't wonder they won't insure 'em." "the pigs?" asked mrs. macy. "no, the tornadoes." "what's the signs of a tornado?" asked gran'ma mullins uneasily. "well, the signs is alike for both. the signs is weather like to-day and a kind of breathlessness like to-night. mr. kimball says a funnel-shaped cloud is a great sign; and when you see it, in three minutes it's on you, and off goes your roof if it's a cyclone, and off you go yourself if it's a tornado." "my heavens alive!" cried mrs. lathrop, clutching the arms of her old-gold-plush stationary rocker. "do people ever come down again?" gran'ma mullins inquired; she was very pale. "elijah didn't, mr. kimball says." "elijah doxey?" cried mrs. macy. "why, is he off on a cyclone? no one ever told me." "no, elijah in the bible, you know. the elijah as was caught up in a chariot of fire. mr. kimball says there ain't a mite of doubt in his mind but that it was a tornado. i guess mr. kimball told the truth that time, for it's all in the bible." "that's true," said gran'ma mullins. "i remember elijah myself. he kept a tame raven, seems to me, or some such thing." "oh, susan!" mrs. lathrop cried out suddenly. "there's a fun--" her voice failed her; she raised her hand and pointed. susan turned quickly, and her face became suddenly gray-white. "it can't be a cy--" she faltered. with that all four women jumped different ways at once. "where shall we go?" shrieked mrs. macy. "oh, saints and sinners preserve us! oh, susan, where shall we go?" but susan clegg stood as if paralyzed, staring straight at the funnel-shaped cloud. gran'ma mullins started for her own house; mrs. lathrop sprang up and clasped the piazza post nearest; mrs. macy grabbed her skirts up at both sides and faced the cyclone just as she had once faced the cow. the funnel-shaped cloud came sweeping towards them. the town was between, and a darkness and a mighty roar arose. buildings seemed falling; the din was terrible. "i knew it," said susan grimly. "it _is_ a cyclone!" she faced the worst--standing erect. the next instant the storm was on them all. it lifted mrs. lathrop's old-gold-plush stationary rocker and hurled it at that good lady, smashing her hard against the post. it raised the roof of mrs. macy's house and dropped it like an extinguisher over the fleeing form of gran'ma mullins. "oh, gran'ma mullins, it _is_ a cyclone!" susan shrieked. but gran'ma mullins answered not. a second mighty burst of fury blew down two trees, and it blew susan herself back against the side wall of the house which shook and swayed like a bit of cardboard. "oh, yes, it's a cyclone," susan screamed over and over. "oh, mrs. lathrop, it's a real cyclone! it isn't a tornado; you can see the difference now. it's a cyclone; look at the roof; it's a cyclone!" mrs. lathrop could see nothing. she and the old-gold-plush stationary rocker were all piled together under the piazza post. and now came the third and worst burst of fury. it crashed on the blacksmith's shop; it carried the sails of the windmill swooping down the road, and then "without halting, without rest" lifted mrs. macy with her outspread skirts and carried her straight up in the air. "oh! oh!" she shrieked and sailed forth. susan gave a piercing yell. "oh, mrs. macy, it's a tornado, it's a tornado!" but mrs. macy answered not. tipping, swaying, ducking to the right or left, she flew majestically away over her own roof first and then over that of gran'ma mullins' woodshed. "help! help!" cried gran'ma mullins from under the roof. mrs. lathrop was oblivious to all, smashed by her own old-gold-plush stationary rocker. susan clegg stood as one fascinated, staring after the trail which was all that was left of mrs. macy. "it was a tornado!" she said over and over. "mrs. macy'll always believe in the bible now, i guess. it was a tornado! it _was_ a tornado!" * * * * * "no, they ain't found her yet," susan said, coming into the hotel room where mrs. lathrop and gran'ma mullins had found a pleasant and comfortable refuge and were occupied in recuperating together at jathrop's expense. neither lady was seriously injured. gran'ma mullins had been preserved from even a wetting through the neat capping of her climax by mrs. macy's roof; while mrs. lathrop's squeeze between the piazza post and her well beloved old-gold-plush stationary rocker had not--as gran'ma mullins put it--so much as turned a hair of even the rocker. "no one's heard anything from her yet," continued susan, "but that ain't so surprising as it would be if anybody had time to want to know. but nobody's got time for nothing to-day. the town's in a awful taking, and i d'n know as i ever see a worse situation. you two want to be very grateful as you're so nicely and neatly laid aside, for what has descended on the community now is worse'n any cyclone, and if you could get out and see what the cyclone's done, you'd know what _that_ means." "was you to my house, susan?" asked gran'ma mullins anxiously. "i was; but the insurance men was before me, or anyhow, we met there." "the insurance men!" "that's what i said,--the insurance men. oh, mrs. lathrop, we all know one side of what it is to insure ourselves, but now the lord in his infinite wrath has mercifully seen fit to show us the other side. the assyrian pouncing down on the wolf in his fold is a young mother wrapping up her first baby to look out the window compared to those insurance men. they descended on us bright and shining to-day, and if we was murderers with our families buried under the kitchen floor, we couldn't be looked on with more suspicion. i was far from pleased when i first laid eyes on 'em, for there's a foxiness in any city man as comes to settle things in the country as is far from being either soothing or syrupy to him as lives in the country; but you can maybe imagine my feelings when they very plainly informed me as i couldn't put the roof back on mrs. macy's house till it was settled whether it was a cyclone or a tornado--" "settled--whether--" cried mrs. lathrop. "cyclone or tornado," repeated susan. "the first thing isn't to get to rights, but it is to settle whether we've got any rights to get. i never dreamed what it was to be injured--no, or no one else neither. seems if it's a tornado, we don't get a cent of our insurance. and to think it all depends on mrs. macy." "on mrs.--" cried gran'ma mullins. "yes, because she's the only one as really knows whether she was carried off or not. well, all i can say is, if she don't come back pretty quick, we're going to have a little john brown raid right here in town; we--" "but what--?" "i'm telling you. it'll be the town rising up against the insurance men, and the insurance men will soon find that when it comes to dilly-dallying with folks newly cycloned upside down, it's life and death if you don't deal fair. what with chimneys down and roofs turned up at the corner like the inquiring angels didn't have time to take the cover all off but just pried up a little to see what was inside,--i say with all this and everything wet and mrs. macy gone, this community was in no mood to be sealed up--" "sealed up!" cried mrs. lathrop and gran'ma mullins together. "that's what it is. sealed up we are, and sealed up we've got to stay until mrs. macy gets back--" "but--" cried gran'ma mullins. "everybody's just as mad as you are. charging bulls is setting hens beside this town to-night. even mr. kimball's mad for once in his life; he's losing money most awful, for he can't sell so much as a paper of tacks. they've got both his doors and all his windows sealed, and he's standing out in front with nothing to do except to keep a sharp eye out for mrs. macy. he says it ain't in reason to expect as she'll fly back, but she's got to come from somewhere, and he means to prevent her getting away again on the sly. he says his opinion is as she'd have stood a better chance before airships was so common. he says ten years ago folks would have took steps for hooking at her just as quick as they saw her coming along, but nowadays it'd be a pretty brave man as would try to stop anything he saw flying overhead. i guess he's about right there. it's a hard question to know what to do with things that fly, even if mrs. macy hadn't took to it, too. my view is that we advance faster than we can learn how to manage our new inventions. i d'n know, i'm sure, though, what mrs. macy is going to do about this trip of hers. she went without even the moment's notice as folks in a hurry always has had up to now. she's been gone most twenty-four hours. she's skipped three meals already, not to speak of her night and her nap; and you know as well as i do how mrs. macy was give to her nights and her napping." susan shook her head, and mrs. lathrop looked wide-eyed and alarmed. "but now--" gran'ma mullins asked. "i've been all over the place," susan continued. "i didn't understand fully what was up when i scurried off to try and get those men to put the roof back on mrs. macy's house, but i know it all now. it's no use trying to get anybody to do nothing now; the whole town's upside down and inside out. i never see nothing like it. and the insurance men has got it laid down flat as nobody can't touch nothing till it's settled whether it's a cyclone or a tornado. seems a good many was insured for cyclones right in with their fires without knowing it; but there ain't a soul in the place insured against a tornado, because you can't get any insurance against tornadoes--no one will insure them. the insurance men say if it's a tornado, we won't have nothing to do except to do the best we can; but if it's a cyclone, we mus'n't touch anything till they can get some one to judge what's worth saving and how much it's worth and deduct that from our insurance. that's how it is." "but what has--?" began gran'ma mullins. "how long--?" demanded mrs. lathrop. "nobody knows," said susan. "the whole town is asking, and nobody knows. the insurance company won't let anybody go home or get anything unless they'll sign a paper giving up their insurance and swearing that it was a tornado. mr. dill just had to sign the paper because he was taking a bath and had nothing except the table cover to wear. he signed the paper and said he'd swear anything if only for his shoes alone; and it seems that his house isn't hurt a mite, and he didn't have no insurance anyhow. a good many is blaming him, but he says he really couldn't think of anything in the excitement and the table cloth. it's a awful state of things. the cyclone has tore everything to pieces, and the insurance men has put their seal on the chips. people is being drove to all lengths. the minister and his family is camping in the henhouse. our walls is fell in so goodness knows what will happen to you and me next, mrs. lathrop. the wires is all down, so we can't hear nothing about the storm. the rails is all up, so there's no trains. the church is stove in, so we can't pray. but i must say as to my order of thinking, it looks as if no one feels like praying. the insurance men is running all over, like winged ants hatching out, sealing up more doors and more windows every minute and getting more signatures as it was a tornado before they'll unstick them. nothing can't be really settled till mrs. macy comes back. mrs. macy is the key to the whole situation." "but why--?" asked mrs. lathrop. "the jilkins is in from cherry pond, and all it did there was to rain. the sperrits was in, too, and the storm was most singular with them. it hailed in the sunshine till they see four rainbows--they never see the beat. mr. weskins is advising everybody to go into their houses and make a test case of it. judge fitch is advising everybody not to. it's plain as he's on the side of the insurance men. he says just as they do, that we'd better wait till mrs. macy comes back and hear her story. he says in the very nature of things her view'll be a most general one. he says all there is to know she'll know; she'll know the area affected and be able to tell whether it was electricity or just wind. mr. kimball said if she went far enough, she'd be a star witness; but no one thinks that jokes about mrs. macy ought to be told now. the situation is too serious. it may be _very_ serious for mrs. macy. if the storm stopped sudden, it may be very serious indeed for mrs. macy. mrs. macy isn't as young as she was, and she hadn't the least idea of leaving town; she wasn't a bit prepared, that we can all swear to. she was just carried away by a sudden impulse--as you might say--and the main question is how far did she get on her impulse, and where is she now? to my order of thinking, it all depends on how she come down. cycloning along like she was, if she come down on a pond or a peak, she'll be far from finding it funny. i was thinking about her all the way here, and i can't think of any way as'll be easy for her to come to earth, no matter how she comes. and if she hits hard, she isn't going to like it. mrs. macy was never one as took a joke pleasant; she never made light of nothing. she took life very solemn-like--a owl was a laughing hyena compared to mrs. macy. it's too bad she was that way. my own view is as she never got over not getting married again. some women don't. she always took it as a reflection. there's no reflection to not getting married; my opinion is as there's a deal of things more important and most thing's more comfortable. if mrs. macy was married, she'd be much worse off than she is right now, for instead of being able to give her whole time and attention to whatever she's doing and looking over, she'd be wondering what he was giving his time and attention to doing and prying into. when a man's out of your sight, you've always got to wonder, and most of the time that's all in the world you can do about a man. now mrs. macy's perfectly independent, she can go where she pleases and come down when she pleases, and she hasn't got to tell what she saw unless she wants to. mrs. brown says she ain't never been nowhere. it's plain to be seen as mrs. brown's envying mrs. macy her trip." "but why--?" began gran'ma mullins with great determination. "that's just it," replied susan promptly. "i declare, i can't but wonder what'll happen next. i'm in that state that nothing will surprise me. everything's so upset and off the track there's no use even trying to think. my walls is fell into my cistern, and mrs. macy's roof is sitting on the ground beside her house yet. the insurance men has sealed up gran'ma mullins' house, and they wouldn't leave the henhouse open till i signed a affidavit on behalf of the hens and released 'em from all claims for feed. mr. dill said they tried to seal up his cow. they've got mr. kimball's dried-apple machine tied with a rope. it's awful." "but susan--" interrupted gran'ma mullins. "mr. weskins says the great difficulty is the insurance men say they don't see how anything is going to be settled or decided until we hear from mrs. macy. the point's right here. if she comes back, it's evidence as it was a tornado, because if she comes back it proves as she was carried off, in which case the insurance men won't have to pay nothing anyhow, and we'll all be unsealed and allowed to go to work putting our roofs back on our heads and clearing up as fast as we can. but mr. weskins says if mrs. macy don't come back, there'll be no way to prove as she was even carried off by the storm for you, mrs. lathrop, had your back turned; and you, gran'ma mullins, was under the roof; and i'm only one, and it takes two witnesses to prove anything as is contrary to law and nature." "do they doubt--?" cried mrs. lathrop, quite excited--for her. "yes, they do. they doubt everything. insurance men don't take nothing for granted. they've decided to just pin their whole case to mrs. macy, and there's mrs. macy gone away to, heaven knows where." "well, susan," said gran'ma mullins, "we must look on the bright side. mrs. macy'll have something to talk about as'll always interest everybody if she does come back, and if she don't come back, we'll always have her to remember." "yes, and if we don't get our houses unstuck pretty soon, we'll remember her a long while," said susan darkly. three days passed by and no word was heard from mrs. macy. as soon as the telegraph assumed its usual route, messages were sent all about in the direction whither she had flown, but not a trace of her was discovered by any one. the town was very much wrought up, for although its members were given to having strange experiences, no experience so strange as this had ever happened there before. the exasperation of being barred out of house and home until mrs. macy should be found, naturally heightened the interest. everybody had had just time to add the magic word "cyclone" to their policies before the cyclone came "damaging along"--as susan clegg expressed it. susan was much perturbed. "well, mrs. lathrop,"--she said on the afternoon of the third day, as she came into the hotel room where the mother of the millionaire was now equal to her usual vigorous exercise in her old-gold-plush stationary rocker. "well, mrs. lathrop, you may well be grateful as jathrop has got money enough for us to be living here, for the living of the community is getting to be no living a _tall_." gran'ma mullins, still in bed, turned herself about and manifested a vivid interest, "well, susan," she said, "it's three days now; how long is this going to keep up?" "it can't keep up very much longer, or we'll have a new french revolution, that's what we'll have," said susan. "why, the community is getting where it won't stand even being said good morning to pleasantly. the children is running all over, pulling each other's hair, and deacon white says he's going to buy a pistol. things is come to a pretty pass when deacon white wants to buy a pistol, for he's just as afraid of one end as the other. but it's a straw as shows which way the cyclone blew his house." "but isn't something--?" "something has got to be done. the boys stretched a string across the door of the insurance men's room this morning, and they fell in a heap when they started out; and some one as nobody can locate poured a pitcher of ice water through the ventilator as is over their bed. seeing that public feeling is on the rise, they sent right after breakfast for the appraisers, and they're going to begin appraising and un-sealing to-morrow morning. they've entirely give up the idea of waiting for mrs. macy. the town just won't stand for any more hanging around waiting for nothing. i never see us so before. every one is so upset and divided in their feelings that some think we'd ought to horsewhip the insurance men, and some think we'd ought to hold a burial service for mrs. macy." "i wouldn't see any good in holding a service for mrs. macy," said gran'ma mullins. "she wouldn't have been buried here if she was dead; she was always planning to go to meadville when she was dead." "yes," said susan, "i know. because mrs. lupey's got that nice lot with that nice mausoleum as she bought from the pennybackers when they got rich and moved even their great-grandfather to the city." "i remember the pennybackers," said gran'ma mullins. "old man pennybacker used to drive a cart for rags. it was a great day for the pennybackers when joe went into the pawnbroker business." "yes," said susan, "it's wonderful how rich men manage to get on when they're young. seems as if there's just no way to crowd a millionaire out of business or kill him off. i'm always reading what they went through in the papers, but it never helped none. a millionaire is a thing as when it's going to be is going to be, and you've just got to let 'em do it once they get started." "it was a nice mausoleum," said gran'ma mullins. "mrs. macy has told me about it a hundred times. it's so big, mrs. lupey says, she can live up to her hospitable nature at last, for there's room for all and to spare. mrs. macy was the first person she asked. mrs. macy thought that was very kind of just a cousin. there's only mrs. kitts there, now, and mrs. lupey's aunt, mrs. cogetts." "mrs. macy didn't know she had a aunt," said susan. "mrs. cogetts came way from jacoma just on account of the mausoleum. that's a long ways to come just to save paying for a lot where you are, seems to me; but some natures'll go to any lengths to save money." "i wonder where mrs. macy is now," said gran'ma mullins, with a sigh. "nobody knows. a good many is decided that it's surely a clear case of elijah, only nobody pretends to believe in the bible so much as to think that she can go up and stay there. mrs. macy'd have to come down, and the higher she went the more heaven help her when she does come down. mrs. macy was very solid, as we all know who've heard her sit down or seen her get up, and i can't see no happy ending ahead, even though we all wish her well. the insurance men is very blue over her not coming back, for they expected to prove a tornado sure; but even insurance men can't have the whole world run to suit them these days. anyhow, my view is as it's no use worrying. spilt milk's a poor thing to cook with. if you're in the fire, you ain't in the frying-pan. the real sufferers is this community, as is all locked out of their houses. the browns is living in the cellar to the cowshed, with two lengths of sidewalk laid over them. mrs. brown says she feels like a pilgrim father, and she sees why they got killed off so fast by the indians,--it was so much easier to be scalped than to do your hair. mr. and mrs. craig takes turns at one hammock all night long. mrs. craig says they change regular, for whoever turns over spills out, and the other one is sitting looking at the moon and waiting all ready to get in." "i declare, susan," said gran'ma mullins warmly, "i think it's most shocking. i won't say outrageous, but i will say shocking." "but what are you going to do about it?" said susan. "that's the rub in this country. there's plenty as is shocking, but here we sit at the mercy of any cyclone or congress as comes along. here we was, peaceful, happy, and loving, and a cyclone swishes through. down comes half a dozen men from the city and seals up everything in town. i tell you you ought to have heard me when they was sealing up your house and mrs. macy's. i give it to 'em, and i didn't mince matters none. i spoke my whole mind, and it was a great satisfaction, but they went right on and sealed up the houses." "oh, susan," began mrs. lathrop, "how are--?" "all in ruins," replied susan promptly. "i don't believe you and me is ever going to live in happy homes any more. fate seems dead set against the idea. and nobody can get ahead of fate. they may talk all they please about overcoming, and when i was young i was always charging along with my horns down and my tail waving same as every other young thing; but i'm older now, and i see as resignation is the only thing as really pays in the end. i get as mad as ever, but i stay meek. i wanted to lam those insurance men with a stick of wood as was lying most handy, but all i did was to walk home. mr. shores says he's just the same way. we was talking it over this morning. he says when his wife first run off with his clerk, he was nigh to crazy; he says he thought getting along without a wife was going to just drive him out of his senses, and he said her taking the clerk just seemed to add insult to perjury, but he says now, as he gets older, he finds having no wife a great comfort." "i wish jathrop would--" sighed mrs. lathrop. "well, he will, likely enough," said susan. "now he's rich, some girl will snap him up, and he won't find how he's been fooled till three or four months after the wedding." "i suppose jathrop could marry just any one he pleased now," said gran'ma mullins, sighing in her turn. "hiram didn't have no choice; jathrop'll have a choice." "he may be none the better for that," said susan darkly. "if jathrop lathrop is wise, he'll not go routing wildly around like a president after a elephant; he'll stick to what's tried and true. but i have my doubt as to jathrop's being wise; very few men with money have any sense." "who do _you_ think--?" began mrs. lathrop, looking intently at susan. "i d'n know," said susan, looking hard at mrs. lathrop; "far be it from me to judge." "they do say, susan," said gran'ma mullins wisely, "as he'll end up by marrying you. everybody says so." susan shook her head hard. "it's not for me to say. affairs has been going on and off between jathrop and me for too many years now for me to begin to discuss them. what is to be will be, and what isn't to be can't possibly be brought about." gran'ma mullins sighed again, and mrs. lathrop went on rocking. as she rocked, she viewed susan clegg from time to time in a speculative manner. it was many, many years since she had suggested to susan the idea of marrying jathrop. * * * * * it was the next morning that mrs. macy re-appeared on the scene. the insurance men had unsealed all the houses, and the result was her discovery. "well, you could drown me for a new-born kitten, and i'd never open my eyes in surprise after _this_," susan expounded to the friends at the hotel. "but mrs. macy always _was_ peculiar; she was always give to adventures. to think of her living there as snug as a moth in a rug, cooking her meals on the little oil-stove--" "but where--?" interposed mrs. lathrop. "i'm telling you. she's been sleeping in a good bed, too, and being perfectly comfortable while we've all been suffering along of waiting for her to come back." "but susan--" cried gran'ma mullins, wide-eyed. "i'll tell you where she was; she was in your house--that's where she was. the cyclone just gave her a lift over your woodshed, and then it set her down pretty quick. she says she came to earth like a piece of thistledown on the other side. her story is as your back door was open, so she run in, and then it begun to rain, so she saw no reason for going out again. when it stopped raining, she looked out and seen nobody. that isn't surprising, for we wasn't there. she thought that it was strange not seeing any lights, but she started to go home, and she says _what_ was her feelings when she fell over her own roof in the path. she says of all the strange sensations a perfectly respectable woman can possibly ever get to start to go home and fall over her own roof is surely the most singular. she says she was so sleepy she thought maybe she was dreaming, and not having any lantern, it was no use trying to investigate, so she just went back to your house and went to bed in my bed. she says she dreamed of hiram's ears all night long. i'd completely forgot hiram's ears, which is strange, for they was far and away the most amusing things in this community. i think that way he could turn 'em about was so entertaining. that way he used to cock 'em at you always give him the air of paying so much attention. they say he never cocked 'em at lucy but once--" "oh, my, that once!" exclaimed gran'ma mullins involuntarily. "it was a sin and a shame for lucy to choke hiram's ears off like she did," susan declared warmly. "she just seemed to take all the courage right out of 'em. hiram always reminded me of a black-and-tan as long as he had the free use of his ears, but after lucy broke their backbone like she did, he never reminded me of much of nothing." susan paused to sigh. gran'ma mullins wiped her eyes. "you and hiram give up to lucy too much," said susan. "i wish she'd married me." "i wish she had, susan," said gran'ma mullins. "i wouldn't wish to seem unkind to the wife of my born and wedded only son, but i do wish that she'd married you, and if hiram could only see lucy with a mother's clear blue eye, he'd wish it, too." "where is--?" asked mrs. lathrop, desiring to recur to the main object under discussion. "oh, she's gone straight over to meadville," said susan. "oh, my, she says, but think of her feelings as she sat inside that nice, comfortable house and realized that she was the only person in town with a roof over her head! you see, she heard me talking with the insurance men, and she didn't know why we was to be sealed up, but she got it all straight as we was going to be turned out of house and home, and she says she made up her mind as no one should ever know as she was in a house and so come capering up to put her out. she says she settled down as still as a mouse, made no smoke, and never lit so much as a candle nights. mrs. macy is surely most foxy!" "and she's gone to meadville?" said gran'ma mullins. "yes, she didn't want to pay board here, and her own house hasn't got no roof, so she's gone to mrs. lupey. old doctor carter was over here to appraise the damage done to folks, and he took her back with him." "i wonder if she'll ever--" wondered gran'ma mullins. "i d'n know. if folks talk about a marriage long enough, it usually ends up that way. doctor carter and mrs. macy has been kind of jumping at each other and then running away for fifteen years or so. they say he'd like her money, but he hates to be bothered with her." "she wouldn't like to be bothered with him, either," said gran'ma mullins. "i know," said susan. "that's what's making so few people like to get married nowadays. they don't want to be bothered with each other." mrs. lathrop fixed her little, black, beady eyes hard on susan. susan stared straight ahead. ix susan clegg's practical friend "mrs. sperrit can't stand it no longer, and she's going visiting," announced susan clegg to the three friends who, seated together on mrs. macy's piazza, had been awaiting her return from down-town. both mrs. macy and gran'ma mullins were now back in their own houses after the temporary absence due to the cyclone, and mrs. lathrop and she who might yet be her daughter-in-law were reëstablished as their paying guests. "why, i never knew that mr. sperrit was that kind of a man," said gran'ma mullins, opening her eyes very wide indeed. "i wouldn't say he's han'some, and i wouldn't say he's entertaining; but i always thought they got on well together." "he isn't that kind of a man a _tall_," rejoined susan, who had been holding one hatpin in her mouth while she felt for the other, but now freed herself of both. "it's just that mrs. sperrit's sick of all this clutter of mending up after the cyclone. she says she's nervous for the first time in her life and has got to have a change. she says the carrying off of the barn and its never being heard from any more has got on her nerves somehow, even if it was only a barn. she says god forgive her and not to mention it to you, mrs. macy, but she wishes every hour of her life as the cyclone had took you and left their barn, because the barn had her sewing-machine in it, and she'd as leave be dead as be without that sewing-machine." "where--?" mildly interpolated mrs. lathrop. "mr. sperrit says wherever she likes. he's been upset by the barn too, because it had his tool-chest in it, and he's such a handy man with his tools that he feels for her in a way as not many women get felt for." "where does--?" began gran'ma mullins. "she didn't know at first, but now she thinks she'll go and stay with her cousin. she hasn't had much to do with her cousin for years, and she says she feels as maybe the barn was a judgment. she never got along well with her cousin. she says her cousin was pretty, with curls, and she herself was freckled, with straight hair, and so it was only natural as she always hated her. i don't feel to blame her none, for curls is very hard on them as is born straight-haired. but there was more reasons than one for mrs. sperrit not to get along with her cousin, and she says it never was so much the curls as it was her not being practical. mrs. sperrit is practical, and she's always been practical, and her cousin wasn't. they didn't speak for years and years." "whatever set 'em at it again?" asked mrs. macy. "well, mrs. sperrit says it come by degrees. she says she first noticed as her cousin was trying to make up about five years ago, but she thought she'd best wait and be sure. mrs. sperrit's practical; she don't never look in anywhere until she's leaped around the edge enough to know what she's doing. she says her cousin named her first boy gringer, which is mrs. sperrit's family name; but then, it is the cousin's family name, too, so she didn't pay any attention to that. then she named her first girl eliza, which, as we know, is mrs. sperrit's own name, but seeing as it was the name of the grandmother of both of them, she didn't pay any attention to _that_, either. then she named the second boy sperrit, which was a little pointed, of course; and mrs. sperrit says if her cousin had been practical, she would certainly have thought that the sperrits ought to have given the child something. but she wasn't and didn't, and they didn't. then she named the second girl azile--which is eliza spelt backwards--and mrs. sperrit says it was the spelling of eliza backwards as first showed her how awful friendly her cousin was trying to get to be. then, when she named the third boy jacob, after mr. sperrit, and the fourth boy bocaj--which is jacob spelled backwards--mrs. sperrit says that it was no use pretending not to see. besides, naming the baby bocaj just did go to her heart, particularly as the baby wasn't very strong, anyway. so since then the sperrits has sent 'em a turkey every thanksgiving and a quarter apiece to the children every christmas." "what's she named the other children?" asked mrs. macy with real interest. "why, there ain't no more yet. bocaj is only six months old." "oh, then they ain't sent no turkey yet!" exclaimed mrs. macy. "no, not yet, but when they begin, they'll keep it up steady. and now mrs. sperrit says she'll go and visit and see for herself how things are. she's not very hopeful of enjoying herself, for she says visiting a person as isn't practical is most difficult. she knows, because when she taught school, she used to board with a family as was that way. she says she kept the things she bought then, and she shall take 'em all to her cousin's. she says when you stay with any one as isn't practical, you must take your own spirit-lamp, and teapot, and kettle, and tea, and matches, and a small blanket, and pen and ink, and a box of crackers, and a sharp knife, and some blank telegrams, and a good deal of court-plaster, and a teacup, and sugar if you take it, and a ball of good heavy string, and your own bible, and a pillow. and never forget to wear your trunk-key round your neck, even if you only go down-stairs to look at the clock. she's got all those things left over from her school-teaching days. she says everything always comes in handy again some time if you're practical, and she thanks god she's practical." "i don't think that i should care to visit that way," said gran'ma mullins thoughtfully. "i wouldn't say i wouldn't, and i wouldn't say i couldn't, but i don't think--" "she's going tuesday," continued susan clegg. "mr. sperrit says she can, and she's going tuesday. she's written her cousin, and her cousin's written her. her cousin says they'll be too glad for words, and for her to stay till christmas--or till thanksgiving, anyway. mrs. sperrit says she won't do that, but she'll stay until the end of next week if she can stand her cousin's husband. she says she never had any use for her cousin's husband, because he isn't practical either, and when he was young, his tie was never on straight. mrs. sperrit says a man that wears his tie crooked when he's young is the kind to keep shy of later. she says he'll never have a pocket knife and borrow hers, and never have a pencil and borrow hers. and then, too, she's almost sure as by this time he's spoilt her cousin's temper; and visiting a cousin whose temper's spoilt wouldn't be fun, even if she was practical. which this one ain't." "if her cousin's got a sharp tongue i--" began gran'ma mullins in quiet, sad reminiscence. "she was buying some wood alcohol and a cheap spoon at mr. kimball's," susan went on. "she took me in her buggy and drove me up to look at our houses, which is trying feebly to climb again to where they was before the cyclone. but they're a sorry sight. i don't know when we're ever going to get into them, i'm sure. i only wish jathrop was to see how slow those carpenters can be." then miss clegg's countenance assumed a coy expression, her eyes lowered bashfully, and her fingers nervously sought to touch between the buttons of her waist some treasured object hidden within. "i--i had a letter from him to-day." and at that all three listeners started in more or less violent amazement. "what!" cried mrs. lathrop. "nothing that i can tell any one," said susan serenely. "so it's no use asking me another word about it." mrs. sperrit left on tuesday precisely and practically as she had planned; but she returned very much sooner than she had expected. "and no wonder," declared susan, just back from the sewing society, to mrs. lathrop, who never went. "i should say it was no wonder. well, mrs. sperrit has had an experience, and i guess no lost barn will ever lead her into looking up no more cousins after this." "she's so worn-looking," said gran'ma mullins, who had returned with susan. "i wouldn't say white, and i wouldn't say worried, but i call it peaked." "why, she's been through enough to make a book," said mrs. macy, who had come in with the others, "--a book like _the jungle_, as makes you right down sick in spots." "oh, _the jungle_ isn't so bad," said susan. "if it was, roosevelt would have straightened it out soon enough when he was in it himself. but what's awful about mrs. sperrit is what she has suffered, for that woman certainly has suffered. she's a lesson once for all as to visiting. no one as hears her is ever going lightly visiting after this. she lost her trunk-key as soon as she landed in the house, and she says she was too took up to miss it for three days, which shows what kind of a time she had. why, her cousin went right to bed as soon as she got there, because she said as she knowed that mrs. sperrit was practical and could do everything better than she could. so that was a nice beginning to begin with. well, she says such a house you never see. the chickens come into the dining-room, and they was raising mud turtles in the bathtub, and caterpillars in the cake-box. the children was awful right from the start. she slept in the room with two of them, and they woke her up mornings playing shave with the ends of her braids. she found out as they dipped 'em first in the water pitcher and then in the tooth powder to make it like lather." "my heavens alive!" exclaimed mrs. lathrop. "then jacob, who's only two and a half, ate mashed potatoes with his fingers, which is a thing, mrs. sperrit says, as must be seen to be believed, and they all just swum in jam from dawn to dark. she says she never see such children, anyway. whenever anybody sat down, they'd play she was the alps, and go back and forth over her wherever they could get a purchase. and she says--would you believe it?--her cousin is got to be so calm that it drives you out of your senses only to see the way she takes things. mrs. sperrit says all she can say is as when a woman as isn't practical does go to bed, she's resigned to that degree that you wish you could blow her up with dynamite if only to see her move quick just once." "why didn't she come home?" asked mrs. macy. "my view would be as i'd come home. i said so to her to-day." "she did come home, didn't she?" said miss clegg. "you heard her, and you know she's home. it's mrs. lathrop as all this is new to, isn't it? well, mrs. lathrop, it would go to your heart to hear what happened to all those little conveniences as she took. there wasn't no sharp knife in the house but hers, so she never see hers after she unpacked it. there wasn't no string or court-plaster either, so they disappeared too. then they run out of tea the minute they see she brought some, and not being practical, her cousin's teapot naturally didn't have no nose, so she lost her teapot, too. the whole family took her hairbrush and used it for a clothes brush, and she thinks for a shoe brush when she was down-town. her cousin wore her stockings and her collars, and her cousin's husband slept on the pillow with the blanket folded around him. not being practical, he liked his feet free." "well, i nev--!" ejaculated mrs. lathrop. "mrs. sperrit said by the third day she had to begin to do something, so she asked if she could clean her own room, and her cousin said she was going to let her make herself happy in her own way and just to go ahead and clean the whole house if she liked. so she went to work and cleaned the whole house, and she says such a house she never dreamed could exist. she found families of mice, and families of swallows, and families of moths. she found things as had been lost for years, and they was wild with delight to see 'em again. she found things as, she says, she wouldn't like to say she found, because when all's said and done a cousin is still a cousin, but she says--good lands, what she found! well, she says when she got the house cleaned, her cousin was still in bed, so she took heart of grace and asked if she might teach the children to mind. her cousin said she didn't care, so mrs. sperrit went to work on those six children. well, she says that was a job, and it was that as led to her coming away like she did. she says the children was the very worst children anybody ever saw. she says she taught school, and she thought she knew children, but anything like those children nobody--even those as is chock full of things not fit to eat--could ever by any possibility of dreamed of. why, she says they was used to heating the poker and jabbing one another with it when mad; and while you was leaning down to tie your shoe, they'd snatch your chair away from behind you, and such games. but mrs. sperrit is practical, and she believes in her bible, and she thought as how the lord had delivered them into her hands and set to work. she said she begun by washing them all--for they was always slippery from jam. and then she cut their nails very short and started in. well, she says it was some work, for they was so funny she could hardly keep from laughing. she says they're mighty bright children--she must say that for 'em, although it don't soften her feelings a mite towards 'em. well, she says you couldn't do nothing a _tall_ with 'em. but she didn't lose courage. when she talked serious, they took it as a great joke, and she had to stop for meals so often that it used her all up; for she says such steady eating she never see. she says the meals was most terrible, too, as they always had herring, and of course the bones made so much picking that the children kept telling her she ate with her fingers, herself. she says that was the most awful part, the way they talked back. but she didn't despair. she kept washing them out of the jam and taking a fresh cut at their nails, until finally come the last hour of wrath. and then, she says, they did make her mad--good and mad." "but what did--?" began mrs. lathrop. "well, seems the worst child was 'zile. of course, mrs. sperrit, having taught school, thought they'd pronounce it like azalea, and make a real pretty name out of eliza spelt backwards, but seems they dropped the a and just called her 'zile to rhyme with file; and mrs. sperrit says she rhymed with file all right." "go on, susan," urged mrs. macy. "well, the cousin and the husband was invited to go on a all-day excursion, so the cousin got up and dressed and went. she said she might as well, seeing as mrs. sperrit was there with the children. when they was gone, mrs. sperrit made up her mind as now was her chance to bring those children to time, once and for all. so she rolled up her sleeves and give 'em all a good bath--for she says the way they'd get freshly jammed was most astonishing--and then she went up-stairs to get her scissors to cut their nails. she was opening her trunk to get out the scissors when she heard a click. well, when she run to the door, what do you suppose? she found they'd locked her in. "well, maybe you can imagine her feelings! she says she was never so mad in all her life. she called through the door, but not a sound. there was a crack big enough to put your hand through under the door, and she tried to look through it, but it wasn't high enough to put your eye to. then she heard a shout and run to the window. there they all was, out on the grass in front,--all but bocaj, who was asleep in his cradle down-stairs. well, such doings! she says 'zile, who was always full of ideas, was just outstripping herself in ideas this time. they had a old pair of scissors, and first they went to work for half an hour cutting each other's hair. she says you can maybe think of her feelings in the upper window, left in charge of 'em, with full permission to whip 'em if necessary, and having to sit and watch 'em trim each other anyway the notion hit 'em. she says tying a man to a tree while cannibals eat up his family is the only thing as would express it a _tall_. after they got done cutting hair, they went in and got a pot of jam and brought it out and sat down in full sight and eat jam with their fingers till there was no more jam. she says she'd stopped calling things to 'em by that time and was just sitting quietly in the window, thanking god for every minute as they stayed where she could see what they was doing. but when they had finished the jam, they went in the house and was so deathly quiet she was scared to fits. she thought maybe they was setting fire to something. but after a while they begun to bang on the piano, and when she was half crazy over the noise, she looked towards the door, and there was the key poked under. she made a jump for the key, and it was jerked back by a piece of string. and her own string at that. then she was called to the window by gringer yelling, and while she was trying to hear what he had to say--the piano jangling worse than ever--they opened the door suddenly and bundled bocaj into the room and then locked the door again. "the baby was just woke up and hungry, and it was a pretty kettle of fish. she says she made up her mind then and there to quit that house and adopt bocaj. she says she saw as there was no use trying to reform the rest; but bocaj was so little and helpless, and nothing in her heart made her feel as he couldn't be raised to be practical. she went to work and fed him crackers soaked in boiling water while she packed her trunk. and when her cousin came home, she was sitting with her bonnet on ready to go. her cousin just naturally felt awful. she wanted to call it a joke; but mrs. sperrit is a woman whose feelings isn't lightly took in vain. she left, and she took bocaj with her. she telegraphed mr. sperrit, and he met her at the train. he was some disappointed because he'd forgotten about the baby's name and thought from reading it in the telegraph that she was bringing back a monkey. seems mr. sperrit has always wanted a monkey, and she wouldn't have one. but now she says he can have a monkey or anything else, if he'll only stay practical. she says she doesn't believe she could ever live with any one as wasn't practical, after this experience." susan paused, mrs. macy and gran'ma mullins rose to go to their kitchens and get suppers for their guests. when they had gone, susan, having mrs. lathrop alone, eased a troubled conscience. "oh, mrs. lathrop," she confided, "do you remember me saying the other evening i'd had a letter from jathrop?" mrs. lathrop suddenly stopped rocking. "yes--yes, susan," she answered eagerly. "i--" "well, i didn't have one. it was just as everybody in this community has got their minds fixed on jathrop's being wild about me, so i felt to mention a letter, and i shall go on mentioning getting a letter from him whenever the spirit moves me." "why, susan--!" exclaimed mrs. lathrop. "it doesn't hurt him a _tall_," said susan clegg with calm decision, "and it saves me from being asked questions. and you know as well as i do, mrs. lathrop, that i can have him if i want him." mrs. lathrop sat open-mouthed, dumb. "if i don't have him, it'll be because i don't want him," added miss clegg with dignity. "so it's no use your saying one other word, mrs. lathrop." and mrs. lathrop, thus adjured, refrained from further speech. x susan clegg develops imagination "far be it from me, mrs. lathrop," said susan clegg, returning from an early errand down-town and dropping in at mrs. macy's to find her friend still in her own room and rocking in her old-gold stationary rocker. it was now autumn, and to take the chill off the room an oil burner was brightly ablaze. "far be it from me to say anything disrespectful of such a good samaritan as your son jathrop, but as we have it in the scriptures, he certainly does move in a mysterious way his neighbors to inform. it's mighty good of him to go to all the expense of building over my house in a way i'd never in this wide world have had it if i could 'a' understood those plans of that boy architect, and it may be--providing we escape earthquake, fire, blood, and famine--that i'll get into it once more before next summer, notwithstanding it's all of two months behind yours, you being his mother, mrs. lathrop, and me only your friend. but a early frost is sure to crack the plaster, and, seeing as the glass blowers has gone on a strike, there's no telling when they'll blow the panes for the windows. just the same, kind and good as jathrop is, he might have had more consideration for me as would this day have been his wife, if i'd felt to answer him with a three-letter word instead of a two, than to put me on the pillar of scorn before a community as has known me always as a scrupulous lover of the voracious truth." "you don't--" began mrs. lathrop, in mild astonishment. "yes, i do," continued susan, with growing indignation. "jathrop has done his best to make me out a liar, and i don't know as i'll ever be able to hold my head up again. he's struck me in the tenderest spot he could strike me in, and not boldly neither, but in a skulking, underhand way that makes it all the bitterer pill to swallow." "i can't see--" objected mrs. lathrop. "no, nor me neither. but he did, and in no time everybody'll know it from johnny, at the station, to mrs. lupey in meadville, not forgettin' the poor demented over to the insane asylum. and it all comes of those letters i have been getting from jathrop during the summer." "but--" "yes, i know and you know there was no letters a _tall_. but everybody else, except you and me and the postmaster, believed i had a letter regular every week. whenever i run short of subjects at the sewing society, i just fell back on my last letter from jathrop and told them all about what he was doing in those islands. i'd read the book he sent, and i'd read it to good profit. there was some things as i didn't quite understand, of course, but on them i just put my own interpretations, and knowing jathrop as i did, it was easy enough for me to figure out how he'd be most likely to act in a strange, barbaric land. the book didn't have a word to say about the costumes of the native tribes, but i'm not so ignorant as not to know how those south sea islanders never wear nothing more hamperin' than sea-shell earrings and necklaces of sharks' teeth; and i'd read, too, that foreign visitors, on account of the unbearable heat, was in the habit of adoptin' the native fashions in dress. when you get started makin' things up, there's no knowing just where you're likely as to end. it's so easy to go straight ahead and say just whatever you please that seems in any way interesting. and so, when mrs. fisher asked me one day whether i supposed there was any cannibals there, i said there was one cannibal tribe that was most ferocious and had appetites that there was no such thing as quenchin'. i said that in jathrop's last letter he had written me about how this tribe had captured the cook off the yacht and that when they finally found his captors and defeated them in a desperate battle lasting three days, all that was found of the cook was two chicken croquettes." "for gra--!" cried mrs. lathrop. "that's what mrs. fisher said. of course, with the cook eat up--all but what was in the two croquettes, that is,--jathrop and his millionaire friends was a good deal put about. there wasn't a one of 'em as knew the first thing about cooking, and after the exercise of the three days' battle they was most awful hungry. and then, i says, quoting from the letter from jathrop which never came, they had a piece of real luck, just as millionaires is always having. they had taken one prisoner, and by means of signs, not knowin' a word of the cannibal language, they discovered that the prisoner was the cook of the tribe. he pointed to the croquettes as a example of his handiwork, and jathrop said that he never saw anything in the cookin' line that looked more toothsome than they did. so, of course they engaged the cannibal cook on the spot and carried him back to the yacht with 'em. everything went well for a few days, but on a day when they had invited the chief of a friendly tribe to dinner, there was something as aroused their suspicions. the principal dish for the feast was, so far as they could make out from the cook's sign-language, a savory rabbit stew. now as they had never seen or heard tell of a rabbit in the bahamas, they was naturally curious to learn where the cook had managed to dig it up. he either couldn't or wouldn't tell. i says that jathrop says you might 'a' thought that the cook was a thirty-second degree mason and that the origin of the rabbit was a thirty-second degree masonic secret. the millionaires gathered in council and discussed the question, pro and con, from every obtainable or imaginable angle. then, just as they were about to adjourn without having reached any conclusion whatever, they rang for the cabin boy to fetch some liquid refreshment. but there wasn't no answer. and they might 'a' been ringing yet as to any good it would do. they never did see that cabin boy, and the only one to eat the savory rabbit stew was the visiting chief." "i don't--" observed mrs. lathrop, rocking faster. "well, mrs. lathrop, you're right about that," susan confirmed, loosening her shawl, for the oil-stove was rapidly lifting the room's temperature. "i don't see, myself, why anybody should ever have known any better, and nobody would have, if it hadn't been as jathrop took it into his head to talk to a newspaper man at atlantic city on about the same day as i had him missing the cabin boy and refusing a helping to the rabbit stew. mr. kimball showed me the paper as came from new york wrapped around a new ledger he just received by express. the reporter had written two columns and over about the 'klondike bonanza king,' and if jathrop had set his mind to makin' me out a ananias and a saphira boiled into one, he couldn't have succeeded better. he hasn't been in the bahamas a _tall_. the yacht started for there, but it went to cuba instead, and he and his friends only stayed in cuba a week. from there they went down to panama and looked over the canal as far as it's gone. they spent the summer sailin' from one summer resort to another, and i must say i should think there was better ways of passin' the time than that. when it comes to eatin', i'd about as leave eat the dishes of a cannibal cook as eat things made of the salt water that people go bathin' in, and that's what they do at atlantic city. the minister showed me some candy 'liza em'ly sent him from atlantic city in july, and i know what i'm talkin' about, for it was printed on the paper around each piece. 'salt-water taffy.' think of that! it's plain to be seen that they ain't got any fresh water there, or they wouldn't use salt. jathrop and the other millionaires, i suppose, drink nothin' but wine, but the poor folks must drink salt water or go thirsty. i suppose it saves salt in seasonin', but i'd rather have my vituals unseasoned than have 'em salted with water that folks has swum in. they certainly ain't got no enterprise, that's sure. if they had they'd pipe water--fresh water--from somewheres. and if there's no place near enough to pipe it from, they'd build cisterns. but water's not the only thing as shows their shiftlessness. our town isn't exactly a metropolis, but we got a few cement sidewalks. atlantic city ain't got a one. i heard about that long ago. and in these days of progress, too! nothing but a board walk on its principal street--nothing a _tall_." "what did--?" asked mrs. lathrop. "he said a good deal more'n his prayers, i can tell you that. he said his object in going to the bahamas, to which he never went, after all, was to look into the possibility of securin' a large tract of land there for the cultivation and growth of sisal. now what under the sun would you suppose sisal was? i saw in the book that sisal was being grown in increasing quantities in the islands, and i just naturally supposed it was some sort of animal. it might of been buffalo, or it might of been guinea pigs, but when i spoke at the sewing society of how jathrop had mentioned the great number of sisal, and mrs. allen says: 'what is sisal?' i just right then and there on the spur of the minute says: 'why, don't you know? sisal is a sort of small oxen striped like a zebra and spotted like a leopard.' and would you believe it, mrs. lathrop, when mr. kimball asked me that same question to-day, i said the very same thing--small oxen striped like a zebra and spotted like a leopard. 'that's what mrs. allen told me you said, miss clegg,' says he, 'but accordin' to the paper, jathrop lathrop don't quite agree with you.' i don't know, mrs. lathrop, i d'n know, i'm sure, why jathrop should take pleasure in making me appear like a ignoramus, but there ain't no question about it that that's what he did when he gave that interview to that there reporter. 'what kind of animal is a sisal, then, mr. kimball?' i asked, and you can believe me my blood was boilin' in my veins. 'it ain't no animal a _tall_,' he says. 'it's hemp what they make ropes out of to hang murderers with. and the seeds they feed canaries on.' 'well,' i says, 'that may be the reporter's sisal, but it ain't mine, and it ain't jathrop's. the newspapers never get nothin' right nohow, but when it comes to reducin' cattle into rope and birdseed, they are certainly goin' one better on the chicago pork packers.' in all my life i have never been a respecter of the untruth, but i know enough on the subject to tell a good lie when necessity calls upon me and to stick to it as long as it has an eyelid to hang by. but i will say this for your son jathrop, mrs. lathrop, and that is that before he got done with that reporter, he didn't leave so much as a eyelash, let alone a lid. it wasn't only that he'd never been to those islands a _tall_, and i'd been tellin' everybody in town as how i'd had a letter from him there every week the whole summer through, but he must air his acquaintance with things on the islands just as if he'd been born and raised there. and it seems there ain't no natives within miles of the bahamas, and hasn't been since columbus and his people was there, goin' on fifteen hundred years ago. columbus told 'em that he'd take 'em to the land where all their dead relatives and friends had gone to, a land flowin' with milk and honey, and he kept his word. seems he shipped every last mother's son and daughter of 'em back to spain with him, and left the islands bare for the next comers. it may have appeared a rather roundabout way for the native bahamians to reach heaven and their departed folks, seeing as it led through hard work in the spanish mines, but there ain't no question whatever that they every one got there in the end." "you mean--" suggested mrs. lathrop. "i mean that unless lathrop or the reporter made it up, or the pair of 'em together, that nobody lives there now except whites and blacks, and there's not enough whites to make a nice shepherd's plaid out of the combination. but savagery, except for pirates, has never had any place there, and cannibalism is absolutely unknown. it's all very humiliating, and it'd 'a' been much better to let people ask me and never said nothing back a _tall_. when people is in the dark, they've got to imagine for themselves, and as long as they don't tell what they imagine to others, no piece in a newspaper can never make 'em blush. i can tell you it's learnt me a lesson as i won't soon forget. i'll never get over the way mr. kimball looked at me when he said as how sisal was hemp; and me thinking all the time it was a animal when it was a herb. well, mrs. lathrop, it's a ill wind that don't chill the shorn lamb. i'm that chilled that i feel i never shall talk again. i'll never say black is black or white is white until i've looked at the color twice with my glasses on. accuracy is the best policy, i says, from this day henceforth." "you might--" began mrs. lathrop sympathetically. "that's true, too. i might have known that it didn't sound true to be getting letters every week from a man who went away to the klondike and never sent his mother so much as a picture postal card in all the years he was there. but then, too, you've got to consider the kind of folks as you're telling things to, and with all due respect to the ladies of the sewing society, from mrs. allen to gran'ma mullins, they're not over-burdened with the kind of intellect as can add two and two and get the same answer twice in succession. there wasn't a one of 'em as thought of that, or they'd 'a' said it straight out, without once considering my feelings. and i'll say this much for you, mrs. lathrop: you're not the best housekeeper i ever see, and you're about a match for mrs. sperrit's cousin when it comes to being practical, but you have got some brains, and i'd no more think of trying to deceive you than i'd think of trying to deceive judge fitch when he'd got a big retainer to get the truth out of me." mrs. lathrop leaned down and turned out the oil burner. "was that--?" "no, it wasn't all. there was something else that has set me all of a flutter. if it wasn't as you never can tell whether a newspaper is voracious or just bearing false witness, i'd certainly feel as if jathrop was playing fast and loose with my affections. i can remember, and you can remember, too, when the freedom of the press didn't mean freedom to make a pike's peak out of a ant hill. but in these days there's no telling whether, when we read of a poor soul being attacked by a wild beast, it's a jungle tiger or just a pet yellow kitten. folks would rather read about the tiger than the kitten, and so the papers give 'em what they want without any regard for the real facts a _tall_. elijah doxey, who's a real editor if there ever was one, and knows all about the paper business, says that the newspaper, like everything else, has to keep abreast of the times or go to the wall, and that since people in these days 'ld rather read fiction than history, it stands to reason a paper can't stand in its own light by sticking always to cold commonplace facts." "did the--?" mrs. lathrop attempted mildly to question. "i don't know, i d'n know, i'm sure, mrs. lathrop. but the interview with jathrop wasn't all interview, by no means. it said a lot about his party, and it mentioned each of the millionaires as was in it. seems the interview was given on one of those atlantic city board walks, and it was given--from what on earth do you think, mrs. lathrop? from a wheel chair. jathrop in a wheel chair! think of that! and not alone, either. 'beside him,' wrote the interviewer, 'was the beautiful, dark-eyed cuban señora who, rumor says, is soon to become his bride.' my lands! if it hadn't been for mr. kimball's apple barrel, i certainly would have dropped. it would 'a' been bad enough if they was both strong and well, but to think of jathrop being too weak to walk and going to marry a foreigner no more robust than himself. you can't imagine the shock it give me. for a minute i was clean speechless, and i'd 'a' been dumb yet, i do believe, if it wasn't as i begun to figure things out in my head and got sight of a ray of hope. just as like as not, i says, jathrop was suffering from the sudden change of climate,--from the klondike to cuba seems to me a pretty rigorous switch for any constitution,--and the cuban woman was more'n likely his trained nurse fetched from the island. either that or the woman was just recovering from a illness, and jathrop got in to ride with her out of pure kindness of heart. then, too, i remembered that: 'rumor says,' and cheered right up. rumor never told the truth yet, as far as i know, and it's not in reason to believe the shameless thing is going to reform in these degenerate days. jathrop may be going to marry the señora, i don't say he isn't, and i don't say he is. but before i believe it, i've got to have some better authority than what rumor says. he's steered clear of wives in the klondike, and he's steered clear of 'em in other places, and i don't see as there's any reason to think his steering apparatus come to grief while he was in cuba. 'how's susan clegg?' that was what he wrote in the first letter you'd had from him in a dog's age, mrs. lathrop, and it showed pretty clear to me who he was thinking of while engaged in the steering operation." "you don't think--" mrs. lathrop began distressfully. "no man as was seriously sick, mrs. lathrop, ever talked two whole long newspaper columns to a reporter. you can bank on that. he was well enough to make me out the king of prevaricators, and it took some strength and a good deal of attention to small details to do it, and as the cuban señora never said one word in all that time, i can't think as she is cutting any figure eights in his affairs. consequently, i don't believe it'll pay either of us to do any great lot of worrying." "if--" mrs. lathrop attempted once more to interpolate. "that's just what i told mr. kimball. 'if mrs. lathrop could only see this paper,' i says, 'i know she'd be delighted.' it stands to reason as a mother must be proud of a son who, after having no more sense than to take a kicking cow for a bad debt, goes to the klondike and comes back a millionaire; but it stands to reason, too, that she'd be more proud of him to get two columns of free advertising in a new york paper that can sell its columns to the department stores for real money. well, i asked him for the paper just to show you, and though he didn't feel to part with it, just the same he did in the end, and i carried it away in triumph." "you've brought--" "no, i haven't. i'm sorry to disappoint you, mrs. lathrop, more sorry than i am to disappoint mr. kimball in not being able to return it, but the truth is i lost it on the way home." "lost--" "every last scrap of it. and i can't say as it was altogether accidental either. as shakespeare says: 'self-protection is the best part of valor.' if that paper was ever to get before the sewing society, my character would be stripped off me to the last rag. mr. kimball can say what was in it, but without the paper itself, he'll have a hard time proving anything, and my word when it comes to a dispute is as good as his and a thousand times better." mrs. lathrop leaned forward and for a moment stopped rocking. "you--" she said quietly but tensely. "tore it into small bits," returned susan, rising, "and scattered them to the winds of heaven. there's a paper trail all the way from the square to mrs. macy's gate." mrs. lathrop resumed her rocking and relapsed into silence. susan clegg, laying her finger to her lips as a parting warning, went quietly out. xi susan clegg and the playwright "well," said miss clegg to her dear friend in the early fall of that same year, while they still waited under alien roofs the completion of their own made-over houses, "the men who write the sunday papers and say that when you look at the world with a impartial eye in this century you can't but have hopes of women some day developing into something, surely would know they spoke the truth if they could see elijah doxey now." "but eli--" expostulated mrs. lathrop. "no, of course not. but 'liza em'ly is, and it's her i'm talking about. she was up to see me this afternoon, and she says she'll spare no money nowhere. the trained nurse is to stay with him right along forever if he likes, and the two can have her automobile and ride or walk or do anything, without thinking once what it costs. there was a doctor up from the city again yesterday, and that makes four visits at a hundred a visit. but 'liza em'ly says even if elijah hadn't anything of his own, she'd pay all the bills sooner'n think anything that could be done was being left out. it's a pretty sad case, mrs. lathrop, and this last doctor says he never see a sadder. he said nothing more could be done right now, for there really is nothing in this community to remind elijah that he ever wrote a play, if they only could get those clippings from the newspapers away from him. but that's just what they can't do. he keeps looking them over, and then such a look of agony comes into his eyes,--and elijah was never one to bear pain as you must know, remembering him with the colic,--and he clasps his hands and shakes his head, and--well, mrs. lathrop, elijah just wasn't strong enough to write a play, and some one as was stronger ought to of restrained him right in the first of it." "he--" said mrs. lathrop pityingly. "yes, that's it," confirmed susan, "and oh, it's awful to take a bright young promising life like his and wreck it completely like that! to see elijah walking about with a trained nurse and those clippings at his age is surely one of the most touching sights as this town'll ever see. 'liza em'ly says she offered a thousand dollars to any newspaper as would print one good notice, 'cause the doctors say just one good notice might turn the whole tide of his brain. but the newspapers say if they printed one good notice of such a play, the pure food commission would have 'em up for libel within a week, and they just don't dare risk it. this last doctor says he can't blame elijah for going mad, 'cause he knows a little about the stage through being in love with a actress once, and he says he wasn't treated fair. he says play-writing is not like any other kind of writing, and elijah wasn't prepared for the great difference. seems all words on the stage mean something they don't mean in the dictionary, and that makes it very hard for a mere ordinary person to know what they're saying if they say anything a _tall_. and then, too, elijah never grasped that the main thing is to keep the gallery laughing, even if the two-dollar people have tears running down their cheeks. and you can't write for the stage nowadays without you keep folks laughing the whole time. elijah never thought about the laughing, because his play was a tragedy like _hamlet_, only with hamlet left out. for the lady is dead in the play, and her ghost is all that's left of her. but 'liza em'ly told me to-day as his trouble came right in the start, for the people who look plays over no sooner looked elijah's over before they took hold of it and fixed it. and they kept on fixing it till it was _hamlet_ with nobody but hamlet left in. and then, so as to manage the laughs, they dressed everybody like chickens if they turned back-to. so that while the audience was weeping, if any one on the stage turned 'round, they went off into shrieks of laughter. 'liza em'ly says they never told elijah about the chicken feathers, and the opening night was the first he knew about that little game, for he was laid up for ever so long before then. he got all used up in the first part of the rehearsals; for it seems you can only have a theater to rehearse in at times when even the people who sweep it don't feel to be sweeping. and so they always rehearse from one to six in the morning. and elijah naturally wasn't used to that. but they'd had trouble even before then; for right from the start there was a pretty how-d'ye-do over the plot. seems elijah wanted his own plot and his own people in his own play, and they had a awful time getting it through his head as it's honor enough to have your own play, and it's only unreasonable to stick out for your own plot and your own people too. 'liza em'ly says they had a awful time with him over it all, and there was a time when he felt so bad over giving up his plot and his people that any one ought to have seen right there as he'd never be strong enough to stand all the rest of what was surely coming. 'liza em'ly didn't tell me the whole of the rest what come, but mr. kimball told me that what was one great strain on elijah, right through to the hour he begun to scream, was that the leading lady fell in love with him and used to have him up at all hours to fix up her part, and then kiss him. and elijah didn't want to fix up her part, and he hated to be kissed. but they told him the part must be fixed up to suit her, and that the kisses didn't matter, because they was only little things after all. "he was wading along through the mire as best he could, when all of a sudden it come out as she had one husband as she'd completely overlooked and never divorced. he turned up most unexpectedly and come at elijah about the kisses. then they told elijah he couldn't do a better thing by his play than to let the man shoot him two or three times in places as would let him be carried pale and white to a box for the opening night; and then, between the last two acts, marry the lady and let it be in all the morning papers. you can maybe think, mrs. lathrop, how such a idea would come to the man as is to be shot. but, oh, my, they didn't make nothing of elijah's feelings in the matter. nothing a _tall_. they just set right to work and called a meeting of the play manager and the stage manager and the leading lady's manager and elijah's manager, and the man who really does the managing. they all got together, and they drew up a diagram as to where elijah was to be hit, and a contract for him and the leading lady to sign as they wouldn't marry anybody else in the meantime. and if it hadn't been for 'liza em'ly, the deal, as they called it, would have gone straight through. for elijah was so dead beat by this time that about all he was fit for was to sit on a electric battery with a ice bag on his head, and look up words in a stage dictionary and then cross 'em out of his play." "oh, i--" cried mrs. lathrop. "that's just what 'liza em'ly said she said," rejoined susan clegg. "i tell you, mrs. lathrop, 'liza em'ly is no fool since her book's gone into the thirty-seventh edition, and that's a fact. she told me to-day as when she realized the man she loved--for 'liza em'ly really loves elijah; any one can see that just by looking at the trained nurse she's got him--was being murdered alive, she went straight up and took a hand in the matter herself. i guess she had a pretty hard time, for the leading lady wouldn't hear to changing any of what they call the routing, and said if elijah wasn't shot and married according to the signed agreement, she wouldn't play. and when a leading lady won't play, then is when you find out what shakespeare really did write for, according to 'liza em'ly. for a little they was all running this way and that way, just beside themselves, with the leading lady in the adirondacks and two detectives watching her husband. and the man as was painting the scenery took a overdose of chloral and went off with all his ideas in his head, and that unexpected trouble brought 'em all together again. the husband came down off his high horse and said he'd take five per cent, of the net--don't ask me what that means, for mr. dill don't know either--and the littlest chorus girl and go to europe. and he said, too, as he'd sign a paper first releasing elijah from all claim on account of his wife. so they all signed, and he sailed. he was clear out to sea before they discovered as he had another wife as he'd never divorced, so the leading lady could of married elijah, after all. well, that was a pretty mess, with a husband as had no claim on nobody gone off to europe with five percent of the net. the stage manager and elijah's manager took the _mauretania_ and started right after him, for when it comes to five per cent. on any kind of stage thing, mr. kimball says, any monkeying counts up so quick that even hiring a yacht is nothing if you want to catch that five per cent. in time. so they was off, one in the captain's room and the other in the bridal suite, while 'liza em'ly was down in savannah getting local color to patch up the scenery, leaving elijah totally unprotected on his battery with his ideas. "but elijah wasn't to be left in peace even now. seems they was having a investigation into the poor quality of the electricity in the city, and a newspaper opened a referendum and made 'em double the power. the company was so mad, they didn't give no warning to a soul, but just slid up the needle from to right then and there; and one of the results was they blew elijah nearly through the ceiling. nothing in the world but the ice bag saved him from having his skull caved in, and the specialist thinks he's got a concussion in his sinus right now. poor elijah!" "but--?" mrs. lathrop queried. "they took him to the hospital, and from then on to the opening night he had nothing to do with his own play. the leading lady married the stage manager till she got the stage to suit her, and then she married the man who really does the managing until she got everything else to suit her. next, without letting any of the others know, she married elijah's manager secretly, so that when poor elijah in the hospital thought he was looking at his manager, he was really nursing a viper in his bosom. when 'liza em'ly came back with her local color, they told her they didn't want it because they was going to have the camping-out scene in the parlor, and play the people all liked a joke. when she went to a lawyer to protest, the lawyer looked through all elijah's contracts and said elijah had never stipulated as the camping-out scene should be in the woods. so 'liza em'ly paid him fifty dollars and come away a good deal wiser than she went. "then come the opening night, and mr. kimball says he shall never forget that opening night as long as he lives. you know he bought himself one of those hats as when you sit on 'em just gets a better shape, and then he went up to see his own nephew's own play. seems he sat on his hat in elijah's own box, but he says elijah was looking very bad even before the curtain went up. seems elijah didn't expect much, but he did have just a little hope that here and there in spots he'd see some of his own play. but the hope was very faint. after the curtain went up, it kept getting fainter. of course elijah meant it for a tragedy and called it _millicent_; and seeing the title changed to _milly tilly_ was a hard blow to him right in the beginning. seems the woman poisoned herself because she was unhappy, and after she's dead, she remembers there was some poison left in the bottle, and so she wants to warn the family. it was a very nice plot, polly white thinks, and elijah was wild over it 'cause there's never been a plot used like it. but of course his idea was as it should be took seriously. do you wonder then, mrs. lathrop, that the first time in the play when one of the play actors turned round he nearly died? mr. kimball says he nearly died himself. he says he never saw anything so funny as those chicken backs in all his life. he says people was just laying any way and every way in their seats, wailing to stop, so they could stop too. he says he was laughing fit to kill himself when all of a sudden he looked up to see elijah, and he says nothing ever give him such a chill as elijah's then-and-there expression. seems elijah was just staring at the leading lady as was flapping her wings and playing crow, while the gallery was pounding and yelling like mad. and then elijah suddenly shot out of the box and round behind the scenes and vanished completely." mrs. lathrop gasped and lifted her hands, but no word issued from between her lips. "well, of course we know now what happened, but nobody did then. nobody was expecting him on the stage, before the scenes or behind 'em, and mr. kimball didn't know where he was gone. so it was the end of the piece before he was really missed. then they begun to hunt, and no elijah high or low nowhere. you know how the papers was full of it, and there would have been more about it, only mr. kimball and 'liza em'ly supposed it was just advertising. even 'liza em'ly thought it was the wrong kind of advertising and that the leading lady had seen elijah's face and thought it was better to kidnap him until the play got settled down her way. seems if you can keep a play going any kind of a way for a little while, you can't never change it afterwards, no matter what you've put in it. it's all most remarkable business, a play is. but anyway, wherever he was, they all moved on to the next town anyhow. 'liza em'ly and mr. kimball went right with them to protect elijah's interest, as it was plain to be seen from where elijah's manager was sleeping, where his interest was now. and as soon as they begun to unload the scenery, the afternoon of that day, whatever do you suppose? there was elijah, just where he'd fell when he tripped over the first scene. they'd carted him off in the triangle that unfolds into a grand piano, right along to the baggage-car, where they'd piled the whole of his play on top of him, ending up even with the chicken feathers." "great heav--!" cried mrs. lathrop. "so he said," interrupted miss clegg. "but there was no help for it. seems while you're playing act iii. of a play, act ii. is getting packed up, and act i. is already in the train. so elijah was all packed and pretty flat before they even missed him, and most crazy before he was found. well, and so to try and soothe him they took him to the theater that night again, and the leading lady, when she looked at him and saw how awful weak he looked, sent him in a new idea she'd got, which was to let her have a poster done of him packed up in the scenery. then every night he could sit in a box and at a certain sign give a yell and shoot out. then she'd make a speech about his having been in the scenery car all the night before, and being naturally kind of excited. she said it would make the play draw like mad. well, elijah wouldn't consent to that a _tall_. and then again they worked with him and talked to him and called him a fool till he really begun to get awfully scared. they had in all the managers together, and they wouldn't let him consult any one. seems they just all sat looking at his forehead just over his nose where you hypnotize people, and he kept getting more and more scared. seems he told his nurse, during what they call a lucid interval, that you can talk all you please about will power--and it may be true of people in general--but no rule ever made on earth can possibly apply to any one who has just written a play. there's something about writing a play as takes all the marrow out of your bones and the blood out of your body. and he says he wasn't no more responsible when he signed that contract to go mad in a box every evening and at least one matinée every week than a grasshopper. he says his one and only thought by that time was to get away from 'em and make a break to where he'd never hear about his play again. but after he'd signed, they never let him out of sight. they locked him up in a dressing-room with the leading lady's pet mouse until after the performance, and then they took him and introduced him to two very big managers as was engaged to do nothing except manage him nights in the box. "well, you know the rest, mrs. lathrop. he really did go mad, then, and we've got him here now helpless, getting rich almost as fast as 'liza em'ly, and crazy as a loon. i declare, it's one of the saddest cases i ever see. i don't know whatever can be done. they say as fast as he gets sane, the play'll surely drive him crazy again, so i don't see what 'liza em'ly will do. she set with me the whole afternoon and talked very nicely about it all. to see her here, you'd never think she could act the way mrs. macy and mrs. fisher tell about. i can see she's got a little airy, and she says she misses her maid and her secretary more than she ever tells the minister's family; but on the whole i like her very much, and her devotion to elijah is most beautiful. she says he's the one love of her life, and she shall marry him if ever he gets sense enough to know what he's doing. if he doesn't, she says she shall take a yacht and sail with him and write books until he dies. she says they can land once in a while to get their provisions and their royalties. but she says the only possible salvation for elijah, as things are now, will be to stay where he never sees a car to remind him of scenery, or a house to remind him of a stage, for years and years to come. i asked her what she _really_ thought of his play, and she said she thought the leading lady was just right and very clever, only elijah was too sensitive a nature to understand little artistic touches like the chicken feathers. she says folks are too tired nowadays to be bothered to laugh. they want to be made to laugh without even thinking. she says elijah is a earnest nature as likes to work his laughs out very carefully and conscientious; but the leading lady understands getting the same effect, only a million times quicker, with chicken feathers and divorces. 'liza em'ly says the leading lady is very fair according to her own idea of fairness. she didn't have no money to put in the play, so she agreed to put in four divorces and one scandal as her part of the stock. now the play's only been on a month, and she's paid up everything except one divorce and the scandal; and she's done so well they're trying to work up some scheme to let her pay both those off at the same time. the play is going fine. they print columns about elijah and his madness, and the whole company is learning to crow together at the end of the second act. every night they take out a little of what elijah wrote, and the main manager says that there'll soon be nothing of elijah left in except the ghost, and the ghost of the bottle, and the agreement to pay elijah his royalties. and according to the main manager's views, that's being pretty fair and square with elijah." "do you--?" queried mrs. lathrop. "well, i don't know," answered miss clegg, "i really d'n know what to say. i'm kind of dumb did over both 'liza em'ly and elijah, for you know as well as i do, mrs. lathrop, that nobody ever looked for those kind of things from them." "shall--?" asked mrs. lathrop. "yes, if it ever comes where i can," responded miss clegg, "i shall like to see it very much." "did--?" pressed mrs. lathrop. "oh, yes, i asked her," susan admitted, "i asked her fair and square. i says: ''liza em'ly, there's no use denying as you've used real people in this community in your book, and now i want to know who is deacon tooker?' she said deacon tooker was just the book itself. she seemed more amused than there was any particular sense in; but i thought if anything could give her a good laugh, it wasn't me would begrudge her. there's this to be said for our young folks when they do get rich, mrs. lathrop, and that is that they're nice about it, and it makes every one feel kindly towards 'em. every one feels kindly towards jathrop, and every one feels kindly towards 'liza em'ly, and as for poor, dear elijah--well!" the tone was expressive enough. mrs. lathrop shook her head sadly. then both were silent. xii susan clegg's disappearance the "building-over" of susan clegg and her friend, mrs. lathrop, was completed during the second week in december, and in less than twenty-four hours they were once more established in their own dwellings, surrounded by their own goods and chattels. for only the briefest space, however, did miss clegg remain where she was put. then she hurried through the passageway afforded by the connecting pergola and burst excitedly into her neighbor's brand new kitchen in the very center of which sat mrs. lathrop in her old-gold-plush stationary rocker, calmly surveying her domiciliary spick-and-spanness. on her lap lay a just-opened letter; but for once the scrupulously observing miss clegg failed to observe. she was too full of fresh trials. "i d'n know whatever sins i committed in this world, mrs. lathrop," she began, dropping into the nearest chair and facing her friend in an upright, a little bent forward attitude that was clearly pugnacious, "that i should have these things visited upon me. the lord knows, just the same as you do, as i've always been a good and pure woman, loving my neighbors like myself and doing all my christian duties as i was give to see 'em. when i was tore up from my home by the roots and cast wilted and faded upon gran'ma mullins, where the infant memories of hiram certainly wasn't calculated to do no reviving, i made the best of it. i made the best of lucy and a dog with a cold nose, too; and i bore up with courage and no complaint under mrs. allen and her persian religion. and i did it all to please you, mrs. lathrop, and your fool of a son, jathrop, whose money, it's my opinion, has acted on him in a most injurious way. he never had much sense, as you yourself know, but now he ain't got no sense a _tall_." "i don't--" mrs. lathrop started gently to protest. "well, i do," rejoined susan clegg spiritedly; "and if you don't, you ought to. anyhow, i mean to tell you, if it's the last act of my life. anybody as has any sense a _tall_ must have seen that building over was just a mite removed from building new; and what's new never did go with what's old, and it never will. if we was to be built over, we ought to have been all built over or let alone. jathrop's built the houses over, but he ain't built over the furnishings, and the built-over houses and the not-built-over furniture and carpets and window shades and pots and kettles and pans and china and linen and everything else don't agree and just naturally can't and never can. they're fighting now like sixty, and they'll go on fighting the longer they're kept together. my house was restful and peaceful before, but now it's like a circus with all the wild animals let loose. and i can tell you this, mrs. lathrop; my things is getting the worst of it. why, before they went to storage at mr. shores', they was in the best repair you ever see, and now it would make your heart ache to look at 'em. they've aged a century at least during the summer. they're wrinkled and halt and lame and blind, and the new paper on the walls and the new polish on the floors and the new paint on the woodwork is making 'em look sicker and sicker every minute. if there's a society for the prevention of cruelty to furniture and other household goods, it ought to put jathrop lathrop in prison. i feel so sorry for those poor tables and chairs and bedsteads and all the rest of 'em as i could cry my eyes out this very minute. there's one walnut, haircloth sofa as father laid on before he was took to his bed as is pitiful to behold. it looks sicker than father did even in his last hours, and i wouldn't be surprised any minute to see it just turn over all of itself and give up the ghost. and everything has on such a reproachful look it's more than human nature can bear to face it. if i'd ever thought as being built over would of come to this, i'd of gone on my knees and worked 'em to the bare bones before i'd of put up with it." mrs. lathrop continued to rock in silence. "still, there's no cloud, however black, as hasn't got some silk in its lining, and the silk in this is the clock as father gave mother, which was supposed to be marble and wasn't. much as i hated that clock, i couldn't have borne to see its agonies when set on by the new fireplace below, and the pink and gold wall paper behind, and the roses and cupids in the cornish above. it must just of shriveled in shame instead of going out in glorious flight, as it did when i set it flying at the end of the bed-slat. lord knows, though, mrs. lathrop, that's a small thing to be thankful for; and it's the only thing. i haven't begun yet to tell you all. and i don't intend to. there's a limit to my temper, and if i once got started, there's no saying where i'd end. but there's one thing more as i can't hold in, and it's the thing as was marked on the plans: 'but. pan.' i never did understand why i should be give a separate room to keep butter pans in, seeing as i ain't got no cow, let alone no dairy. and even if i had, why i should keep my butter pans or my milk pans either in a little alley-way between the kitchen and the dining-room, just where the heat and smells could get at 'em from one side and the flies from both, not to mention the added footsteps put on me journeying from the stove to the dinner table. you can see for yourself, mrs. lathrop, there's no sense in it, whatever. but i'd never say a word about it, if that was all. but it ain't all. it's the littlest part. for jathrop's cruelty hasn't stopped with torturing the furniture. it's clear he couldn't be satisfied till he fixed up a trap as sooner or later would hit me square in the face and break my nose. at both ends of his 'but. pan.' he's had hung doors as swing, and springs on 'em to make 'em swing hard and deadly. what either one of those swinging doors might do to my features, let alone to the pudding or stew i might be carrying, it isn't in mortal tongue to express. if i could find one thing as was right in the whole house, i'd be fair and square enough to overlook the others; but there ain't to my mind a single solitary betterment. there's glass knobs on all the doors as will show every finger mark, and will keep me busy wiping from dawn to dark. the old brown knobs never showed nothing and didn't never have to be thought of, let alone polished. it's always been my idea as a cupboard was a place to shut things up in out of sight, and here if he hasn't gone and put glass doors on the one in the corner of the dining room, so as every one can see just what's meant to be hid. it's clear to be seen he's crazy on the subject of glass, which i ain't and never have been. and i don't like the way he's stinted things as is necessary and put all the money in things as had better been left out. necessities before everything is my motto. what use, i'd like to know, is that cupid and rose cornish? but he puts that there just to catch dust and leaves out the whole of one parlor wall. if you'll believe me, mrs. lathrop, there's not a hair or hide of a wall between my entry hall and my parlor. nothing but a pair of white posts as most people use on their piazzas. how i'm ever going to keep that parlor dark i don't see; for he's got glass over the front door and on both sides of it, and no shutters to keep the sun out. he's built in both the kitchen stove and the ice box, and for the life of me, i can't find no reasonable way of taking the ashes out of the one or the water out of the other. the builder says the ashes dump into a place in the cellar and the water from the ice drains down a pipe underneath the house. but i don't like neither plan. the drip from a ice box is a very cheering sound, i think, and with hot ashes going down cellar where you can't see 'em, i'll be in deadly fear of the house going up in smoke while i'm dreaming in my bed. the long and the short of it is, mrs. lathrop, i feel as i have been assaulted and robbed. jathrop's took away my home and left me a house as isn't a home to me and never can be. and as far as i can see, he's done the same to you, which is ten thousand times worse, you being his mother." "i--" began mrs. lathrop, taking up the letter from her lap so that at last it was forced upon susan's observance. "from him, i suppose," miss clegg instantly concluded, reaching for it. "if he's got anything to say in his defence, i'm sure i'd delight to read it. but no matter what he says, he can't undo to me what he's done to me. i'll never feel the same towards jathrop, your son or not your son, mrs. lathrop, as long as i live." mrs. lathrop passed the letter to miss clegg. like all of jathrop's letters, it was brief and to the point. he announced that he would spend christmas with his mother in her rebuilt home and would bring with him a friend as his guest. susan read it over twice, turning the page each time, evidently in hope of finding an enlightening postscript. "well, of all things!" she exclaimed, as she passed the letter back to her friend. "coming to see his work of destruction and going to bring _her_ with him!" "he don't--" mrs. lathrop endeavored to explain. "he don't, because he don't dare; but there's no question what he means. he's bringing the señora. and he wouldn't bring her if it wasn't that he's going to marry her. even you must see that. and if there was ever a insult multiplied by perjury, jathrop's done it in that action. it's a good thing he didn't ask: 'how's susan clegg?' this time, as he did the time he was coming back from the klondike. for i don't believe i could ever have stood that. all i can say, mrs. lathrop, is as i'm sorry for you from the soles of my feet up. you'll never in the world be able to get up a christmas dinner as will please any señora, you can take my word on that. and not to please her will be a bad beginning with a señora as is to be your future daughter-in-law. señoras don't care shucks for turkey and mince pie. they're not used to 'em and likely to get indigestion from 'em, and think what it would mean to jathrop, let alone to her, if she should be carried off by a acute attack right here in your new, built-over house, at the dinner table. he'd blame it on you, and like as not she'd haunt you the rest of your living days. no, sir. you've got to give her spanish omelets with lots of red peppers in 'em, and everything else creole style, which means all he't up with tabasco sauce fit to burn out your insides. it's eating like that as makes those spaniards and cubans so dark colored you can't tell 'em from mulattoes. the peppers and the tabasco sauce bakes 'em brown on the outside, after leaving 'em all scorched and parched within." for once, however, susan clegg was wrong in her deduction. jathrop arrived in a red automobile on the day before christmas, with a chauffeur in bear-skins driving, and a guest in sealskin beside him. but the guest was not the señora. it was one of jathrop's millionaire friends who, jathrop said, could buy and sell him twenty times over. he was a small man with a bald head and a red beard and old enough to be jathrop's father. miss clegg viewed the arrival from her bedroom window and was so glad it wasn't the señora that she at once set about baking extra doughnuts and mince pie to contribute to the festivities of the morrow. this occupied her until supper time. then she made a hurried meal, washed her one plate and cup and saucer, and loaded down with her thank offering, flitted through the pergola and in at mrs. lathrop's kitchen door. the kitchen was empty, but voices penetrating from the dining room told her that her friend and her visitors were still at table. being a trifle nervous and unable to sit quietly, she began at once to put the disordered kitchen into some degree of order, purely for the sake of occupation. she had just finished washing and scouring the pots and pans and was flushing the waste-pipe of mrs. lathrop's new porcelain sink with lye-water so strong that her eyes ran tears from the fumes, when the voices growing more and more audible told her that jathrop was leading his mother and his guest toward the kitchen. she just had time hurriedly to dry her hands on the roller towel when they appeared. "well, well," exclaimed jathrop, in apparent surprise, "if here ain't our old friend, susan clegg!" there is no question that miss clegg was slightly flustered at thus being taken unawares, but she recovered herself promptly, and shook hands cordially with jathrop and not less cordially with the little millionaire, whom he introduced as mr. kettlewell. and mr. kettlewell was cordiality itself. everybody sat down, right there in the kitchen and talked for a full hour, and in the course of the talk, jathrop told susan that he had arranged with a department store in new york to let her have whatever she needed for her built-over house and charge the same to his account. she could select the things from the firm's catalogue, or go to the city at his expense and pick out the actual articles. it was his christmas present to his mother's and his own oldest friend. in conclusion, jathrop joined with his mother in an invitation to susan to take christmas dinner with them; and mr. kettlewell smilingly begged her, for his sake, not to refuse. altogether susan had the pleasantest evening she had experienced in years, and the next morning, while jathrop and mr. kettlewell were off in the car after evergreens with which to decorate the two houses, she ran over with the express purpose of telling mrs. lathrop so. "jathrop mayn't have much judgment when it comes to selecting architects," she began, "nor again when it comes to selecting servants, as was proved by his bringing that hop loo all the way from the klondike. nor again, neither, when it comes to wives, if it's a real fact that he's going to marry a brown-baked señora; but there's no getting away from the fact that he's a king in choosing his men friends. i've seen men in my life of all sorts and descriptions, from the minister to the blacksmith, but i ain't never see before such a handsome, high-minded, superior gentleman as jathrop's friend, mr. kettlewell. i never thought much of bald-headed men before, but his head is so white and shiny, it's a pleasure to look at it. and i always just hated a red beard; but mr. kettlewell's beard is of a different red. it's a nice, warm, comforting red as makes you feel as cosy as the glow of a red-hot stove when the thermometer's down around zero. i can't say either, mrs. lathrop, as i wasn't more or less prejudiced against men as never rightly grew up, but stopped in the women's sizes. but there's a something about mr. kettlewell's proportions as gives you the idea he's really taller than he seems. and there's only one thing to compare his voice to. it's milk and honey. my lands, what a sweet, clear-rolling, liquid voice that mr. kettlewell has!" "ja--" began mrs. lathrop. "yes, i heard him. but i don't put that against mr. kettlewell, not a _tall_. i'm sure he made every penny of it honestly, and if he's retired from business now, it don't mean he's quit work. it's no easy job cutting coupons off all the bonds he must have, and collecting rents is a occupation i don't envy nobody. it's the penalty that rich men have to pay for their success. they work hard to get the principal, and then they're made to work twice as hard to get the interest. there's no such thing as rest for the rich any more'n there is for the poor. i used to think before father died as i'd like to roll in wealth, but it ain't no easy rolling, i can tell you that, mrs. lathrop, especially when you've got a tenant like mrs. macy, who won't buy so much as a gas-tip or do so much as drive a nail without charging it up to the owner." miss clegg's participation in the christmas dinner at her neighbors' was twofold. she took part in its preparation as well as in its discussion. it was her soup which began it, it was her "stuffing" which added zest to the roast turkey, it was her cranberry sauce which sweetened contrastingly the high seasoning, and it was her mince pie which brought the repast to a fitting and enjoyable close. seated opposite to mr. kettlewell, where she could revel in a full view of his shining pate and his warmly comforting whiskers, her enjoyment was ocular as well as gustatory; and under the caressing sweetness of his voice it was likewise auricular. for the occasion jathrop had provided a fine vintage champagne, and though miss clegg, whose total-abstinence principles forbade her to even taste, refrained from so much as touching her lips to the edge of her glass, she unquestionably warmed in the stimulating atmosphere of the sparkling, bubbling, golden juice of the grape. to her it was indeed the red-letter christmas of her life, and every incident, of the dinner especially, was a matter for reflection and rumination in the succeeding hours. in this vale of tears, however, there is apparently no great joy without its compensating sorrow; and in susan clegg's case the one followed swiftly on the heels of the other. in the pale gray of the dawn of the following day, susan clegg dashed wildly out of her kitchen door and flitted with lifted skirts across the brief intervening space that led to mrs. lathrop's back door. as pallid as the morning itself, her scant hair streaming, her eyes wide with mixed terror and indignation, she burst into her neighbor's kitchen, where to her great relief she found her old friend already up and occupied. one glimpse of susan was enough for mrs. lathrop. up went her hands and down went she on to the nearest chair with an inarticulate gasp of horrified yet questioning astonishment, while miss clegg flopped limply into another at the end of the kitchen table. there she must have sat for a full minute before she could get breath to utter a word, which, being contrary to all her habits, was in itself terrifying to her friend. eventually, however, she forced herself to assume an upright position and simultaneously attained a somewhat feeble attempt at speech. "well, of all things in this world to happen to me!" then she paused for a fresh breath, which being utterly without precedent, added mightily to mrs. lathrop's alarm. "and even now at this minute i don't really know whether i'm more dead than alive, or more alive than dead." mrs. lathrop, believing that the situation being extraordinary, some extraordinary effort on her part was demanded, stirred herself to a prolonged speech. "don't tell me i'm looking--" "no, i'm not a ghost, if that's what you mean. you are looking at susan clegg in the flesh--all the flesh that ain't been scared clean off her. but it's the greatest miracle as ever happened in this community that it's my body and not my spirit as is here to tell the tale. my house was broken into by a burglar, mrs. lathrop, and i was tied up and gagged in one of my own chairs." mrs. lathrop just gasped. susan drew herself up a little straighter, gaining courage from the sound of her own voice, and striking something like her old oral gait. "i was gagged for five hours, mrs. lathrop, and knowing me as you do for all these years and years, maybe you can feel what being gagged for five hours and not able to say even 'boo' meant to a active person like me. every one of those hours was like a eternity in a spanish inferno of torture. and everything i possess in this world, from my bonnet and striped silk dress to father's deeds at the mercy of that gagger. and all i've got to say is this: if i hadn't of been built over, it never in the wide creation would have happened. and if your son jathrop thinks he can ever make up to me for being gagged by inviting me to a christmas dinner, most of which i cooked with my own hands, and offering to give me strange pieces of furniture to take the place of pieces as is old friends and dearer than the apples of my two eyes, he'd better do some more thinking. there never was nothing about the house i was born in and my mother and father died in to make a burglar look at it twice. no burglar as had any respect for himself or his calling, mrs. lathrop, would have looked at it once or knowed as it was there. but built over it's as different as diamon's is from pebbles. it looks money from the tips of its lightning rods to its cellar windows and is as inviting to robbers as if it had a sign on the gatepost, reading: 'walk in!' so, however you look at it, there's nobody responsible for my gagging and for whatever is missing but one man, and that man is jathrop lathrop. it's easy to be seen as he's no more fit to have money than a crow as steals gold trinkets that cost fortunes and goes and hides 'em in hollow trees. he was born poor, and the lord meant him to stay poor, no matter what mrs. allen and her persian religion has to say about things as happens being meant to happen. the lord hadn't nothing to do with jathrop going to the klondike and getting rich, you can be certain about that. if he hadn't been fool enough to take a kicking cow for a perfectly good debt and then let it loose to ride over a peaceful and long-suffering community, he'd 'a' lived and died a pauper in this here very town. so's far as i can see it was the devil and not the lord as guided jathrop from the first, and everything as has happened since shows the devil is still guiding him. everything he turns his mind to goes by contraries. i'm not saying anything against the goodness of jathrop's intentions, mind you, mrs. lathrop, but no matter how good they are, evil and misery certainly seems sure to follow." the tirade stirred mrs. lathrop to her feet, but she was not resentful. she knew that susan clegg's bitterness was confined to her tongue, and that even with that she could salve as well as sting. "can't i--?" she suggested. "indeed you can," answered miss clegg. "i never felt as i needed a cup of tea more, and if the doughnuts i brought you ain't all eat up, i'd relish four or five of 'em right now." "you haven't--" began mrs. lathrop, taking down the teapot. "no; but i'm coming to it. i begun with the cause, and the effect'll come trailing after like the tails of mary's little lambs. only the tails in this case was bigger than the sheep. it may have been hearing the noise jathrop makes when he eats, or it may have been your turkey gravy or your biscuits, mrs. lathrop, or all of 'em put together. not knowing which, i'm not foolish enough to blame one more'n the other. but it's a fact as is undeniable that i never slept poorer than last night. i was in bed by nine, but i never closed my eyes till eleven, and i certainly heard the clock strike midnight. i counted goats jumping over a stile, and i counted 'em backward as well as forward, but i heard one struck, and i heard two. and then i heard something as set my hair up on end and the gooseflesh sprouting all over me. it sounded like footsteps in the 'but. pan.,' and they was too heavy for the cat's, i could tell that at once, though at two in the morning it's surprising how loud a cat's footsteps can sound, especially when it's reached the pouncing stage, and the rat ain't got no hole to run to. i'd forgot to put the turkey leg in the ice-box as i'd carried home with me, and all i could think of was that if it was the cat, there'd be nothing left on that bone by morning, unless i stopped things right then and immediately. you'd never believe how cold a house can be at two o'clock in the morning of the day after christmas unless you'd got up in it as i did; and now to look back at it, i see how lucky it was as it was as cold as it was, for if it hadn't of been, i'd a gone down just as i was, and i was in no trim to meet a man burglar, i can tell you _that_. so i just slipped into this flannel wrapper and a old pair of slippers, which i've got on now under these arctics, and i picked up the candle as i'd lit, and down-stairs i went. well, mrs. lathrop, i hope you may never in your born days in this world or the other have such a shock as met me there face to face in my own new, built-over kitchen. if there wasn't the biggest giant of a man i ever see coming out of the shadows between the cookstove and the cellar door. and he with his head all wrapped around in one of my best plaid roller towels, so that nothing of him was to be seen but two fierce, staring, bloodshot eyes as gleamed like a wild beast's. oh, my soul and body, mrs. lathrop, that minute! how i ever kept my senses i don't pretend to say, more especially as he was on me with one jump. there was no such thing as holding on to the candle, you can see that. it dropped, and i never knew i dropped it. for, of course, i shut my eyes, and when your eyes is shut, there's no knowing whether there's a lighted candle about or whether there isn't." in her agitation over the recital, mrs. lathrop, who was placing cups and saucers on the table, let one of the cups slide crashing to the floor. "oh, su--!" she exclaimed. "you may well say: 'oh, susan!'" miss clegg continued. "there is times when 'oh, susan' don't half express the state of affairs, and this was one of 'em, mrs. lathrop. it wasn't in nature for me not to scream, so i screamed, and it was that scream that did the business. it showed the burglar i wasn't deaf and dumb, and people as isn't deaf and dumb is looked on by burglars as their natural enemies. maybe some people can scream without opening their mouths, but i never was one of that kind, and the kind as open their mouths when they scream is the kind that all burglars prefer. it saves 'em the trouble of forcing apart their jaws. i never shut my mouth after opening it; for the burglar just shoved something in it as quick as scat, and then he tied a bandage around back of my head so i couldn't spit it out. then he picked me up and plumped me down hard in a chair and tied me fast to it with my own clothesline. and all the time he never no more opened his lips to speak than if he couldn't. it's my opinion he must have had a cold and lost his voice. either that, or his voice was such a unpleasant voice he was ashamed to let anybody hear it. for it ain't in common sense as a man, even if he is a burglar, could keep as still as he did, if he had a speaking voice that's in any way fit for use. i know in the time he took there was a lot of things i felt to say to him, and would if i could, and common sense'll tell you, mrs. lathrop, that he must have felt to say a lot of things to me. but he didn't make so much as a peep behind his roller towel." "did--?" asked mrs. lathrop, pouring the tea. "i can't say as he did or he didn't. i haven't missed nothing yet, but then i haven't looked. still, if he didn't i can't say as i'd have much respect for him. what sort of a burglar would a burglar be to take all that trouble of breaking in, binding and gagging, and then go away without helping himself to something for his trouble. i ain't got no love for burglars in general or in particular. but any burglar as 'ld do a fool trick like that i ain't got no respect for neither." "how--?" queried her neighbor as she passed susan her cup. "it was something of a job i can tell you, but when i sets my mind to a thing i sets my mind to it, and ropes and a kitchen chair ain't got the power to stop me. i begun wriggling as soon as i heard the burglar shut the door behind him, and i kept on wriggling for every minute of the five hours. a tramped-on worm never did more turning and wriggling than i did between two and seven this morning, and at last wriggling being its own reward, i wriggled free, first with my hands and then with my feet. but before i got my feet free, i undid the band and ungagged myself and said just a few of the things that was bottled up all that time. the bible says there's a time to talk and a time to be still, but there's such a thing as overdoing the still time, i think, and when you're gagged by a burglar is one of 'em." susan sipped her tea for a moment in silence. "where's jathrop and mr. kettlewell?" she asked at length. "ain't they up yet?" mrs. lathrop nodded. "they start--" she began. "you don't mean they've both lit out already?" asked susan in surprise. then: "i was hoping to see mr. kettlewell again. but it's a long journey back to new york, so i suppose they set off before light." mrs. lathrop nodded once more. "aren't--?" she questioned. "i certainly am. i'm going to report the burglary at once. i've got a clue, and it ought to be easy enough to run down that burglar." she drew from her bosom a rather damp handkerchief. "that's what he left me to chew on for five hours," she said, as she spread it out. "and there's the clue right there in the corner." mrs. lathrop took it to the window and inspected it through her glasses. the handkerchief was initialed with a "k." the new year came and january was passing and, so far as susan clegg cared to divulge at least, there was no news of her burglar. it was noted, however, not only by mrs. lathrop, but by mrs. macy and gran'ma mullins, and indeed by all the ladies of the sewing society, that miss clegg had adopted an air of secretiveness concerning the matter that was quite foreign to her usual frank, unreserved communicativeness. but the curiosity provoked by this strangely unfamiliar attitude was swallowed up in the sensational tidings which spread throughout the community shortly after. without so much as a hint of warning, susan clegg had vanished between dark and dawn, leaving her house locked, bolted, and barred, the blinds drawn, and the shutters fast closed. for once mrs. lathrop, thus deprived of her prop and her stay, evinced sufficient initiative to have the cellar door forced and a search of the premises made; a rumor having got abroad that the burglar had returned, this time more murderously inclined, and that miss clegg's mangled corpse would be found stiff and stark within her own darkened domicile. to every one's infinite relief the search proved the rumor utterly unfounded; and it proved something more, as well. it proved that susan's departure was plainly premeditated--"with malice prepense," to quote judge fitch--since all her best clothes had gone with her. whereupon sentiment switched to the opposite pole, and it was openly declared that miss clegg had gone after the burglar. the wonder was of a magnitude calculated to extend far beyond the proverbial nine days, and it probably would have greatly exceeded that limit, had not the heroine of the affair chosen to cut it short of her own volition by reappearing quite as suddenly as she had vanished, at the end of a single week. mrs. lathrop, looking across from her bedroom window as she arose from her night's sleep on the morning of the eighth day, was joyously startled to see the clegg windows unshaded, and the house otherwise displaying signs of rehabitation. nor did she have long to wait for the explanation of the mystery, which to the exclusion of everything else had filled her mind ever since her friend's going. with a shawl over her head and shoulders, she hastened through the pergola, and the next moment was facing her neighbor with glad eyes across four yards of kitchen floor space. "oh, susan! such a fri--" these were her four and a half words of greeting. "i knew it would," miss clegg caught her up, beaming as mrs. lathrop couldn't remember ever to have seen her beam before. "i knew it would frighten you all half to death, but when a thing's to be done, it's to be done, and there ain't no use shirking. i had to go, and i had to go quick, and i was never so glad of anything in my life, past or present, as that i went. of course, it was all along of that burglary, as any fool might have guessed if they took the trouble. in the first place, i don't mind telling you now, i went straight to mr. weskin the morning after it happened, and i took him the clue and showed it to him. the way he spun around in his spinning chair was fit to make even a level-headed person like me dizzy. he examined the linen, and he examined the way the k was worked, and then he says, no it couldn't possibly be mr. kimball's. now, what _do_ you think of that? just as if i ever suspected it was. i guess i know mr. kimball well enough to know him, even if he has got his head wrapped up in one of my new roller towels, and i told lawyer weskin so. mr. kimball, indeed! but lawyer weskin said as he didn't never hear of a burglar whose name commenced with k, and he didn't know a soul in these parts either, burglar or no burglar, whose name did, except mr. kimball. there's only one way to ferret out the perpetrator of a crime, he says, and that's by deduction, and the first rule of deduction is to guess what the k stands for. i never thought much of lawyer weskin, i'm free to admit that, but if he don't know nothing else, it's as clear as shooting that he does know about education. for in the end it worked out just as he said, and the lord be praised for it." "you don't--" began mrs. lathrop in astonishment. "i don't say as mr. kimball had a thing to do with it. i certainly don't. in the first place, mr. kimball would never dare to come to my house at such a hour of the morning, and in the second place mr. kimball never carried as fine a handkerchief as the one i chewed on. so that put it past mr. kimball. and the only other k i could possibly think of was old mrs. kitts over to meadville, who could no more of got over here than could the king of the sandwich islands, whose name begins with k, too. there was the kellys, of course, but the kellys couldn't qualify neither, for they're too rich to need to do any burglarizing. well, i can tell you, i soon come to a point where i didn't know where to turn, and i never would of turned neither, if it hadn't of been for a letter i got the day of the night i went away. you'd never guess in the world, mrs. lathrop, who that letter was from so i may as well tell you first as last. it was from mr. kettlewell." mrs. lathrop opened her mouth in astonishment, but no sound came forth. "i knew it'ld surprise you, but it's as true as we're both standing in this kitchen at this minute. it was a very nice letter, and it said as how he had admired me from the first minute he saw me, but more particularly after he'd sat opposite to me at the table and eat my cranberry sauce. he said he'd always loved cranberry sauce, but as he felt he'd never tasted none until he tasted mine. i certainly never see a more complimentary letter than that letter of mr. kettlewell's. but it was the end of the letter where he signed his name that lit me up with the clear light of revelation. until i see his name spelled out there in black and white, i never once believed it begun with a k. i'd thought all along as his name was cattlewell, with a c. far be it from me, mrs. lathrop, to ever have suspected as jathrop's friend would stoop to housebreaking and to binding and gagging a lone woman, but there's other ways as his handkerchief might have got to my mouth, and i felt to know the truth. his address was on the letter, and there was nothing as could have stayed me from getting to that address as fast as steam and steel could carry me. i left in the middle of the night, and i got to new york in the morning, and i didn't have that feeling for nothing. mr. kettlewell was at his hotel, and in all my born days i never see a person gladder to see anybody than mr. kettlewell was to see me. it's marvelous what a impression a little good cooking will make on a man, even if it's only in cranberry sauce. his mouth actually hadn't stopped watering yet. leastwise he said it hadn't, and i'd be a fool not to believe him. he begun talking about it right away, and i let him talk, just so's i could look at his shiny bald head and his red whiskers without having to think of anything else except the sound of his milk-and-honey voice. finally he said he supposed i'd come to the city to select jathrop's christmas present of furnishings, and if i'd like him to help me select 'em, he'd be glad enough to go along and lend a hand. well, nothing could of been nicer than that, now, could it? but i told him i wasn't one as traveled all the way to new york under false pretences, and that if he must have the truth, i'd never give one thought to jathrop's present since he mentioned it. all my thought, i said, had been give to finding a handkerchief with a k onto it, which i'd washed and ironed with my own hands and brought to him, believing i must of picked it up at the christmas dinner by mistake, and not wanting him to feel the need of it any longer. and you can believe me or not, mrs. lathrop, just as you feel about it, if he didn't right then and there on seeing that clue, confess that it did belong to him, and that he couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd left it." mrs. lathrop, who had been standing all the while, dropped into a chair at this point in dumb stupefaction. but susan, who had been caught with a bowl of batter in one hand and a spoon in the other, paused only to do a little more stirring. "yes, sir," she went on, still apparently as pleased as punch. "the clue belonged to mr. kettlewell and no one else, which led me to suspect right away that the burglar must have robbed your house first. i knowed very well that i never carried that clue home myself, though i'd said i might, just for the sake of drawing mr. kettlewell on. and so how could it have got into my mouth unless the burglar got it from mr. kettlewell himself? but there is stranger things in this world than you and me ever dreamed of, mrs. lathrop, and that was one of 'em. mr. kettlewell is a very frank and open gentleman, and seeing how disturbed i was over something, though i'd never so much as breathed burglar or burglary, he made another confession. and when it comes to dreaming, there is very few people, he said, as has the power to dream the way he does. he don't just lie still in bed and picture things out in his sleep, but he gets up and does the things he's dreaming about. he ain't got no limitations in it, either. sleepwalkers is more or less common. but sleepwalkers just walk, and that ends 'em. mr. kettlewell says he very seldom walks. he usually drives a automobile when he's dreaming, just as he does when he's wide awake. sometimes he comes to while he's driving, and he's found himself often as much as a couple a hundred miles from home, and without a cent in his clothes, the clothes usually being just pajamas with nothing but a handkerchief in the pocket. now, if you had any imagination a _tall_, mrs. lathrop, you'd see what i'm coming to, but as you haven't you don't, i can tell by the way you look. so you'll get the full benefit of the surprise when i say that on christmas night mr. kettlewell distinctly remembers he dreamed of committing a burglary. he says it wasn't my mince pie as did it, because he's often eaten mince pie before and never dreamed nothing worse than going to the electric chair; and it wasn't my stuffing neither, for turkey stuffing when it's indigestible always makes him dream he's a monkey climbing trees. he says once he woke up sudden and fell and broke his arm, but that that was a long while ago. now he's had more experience, he never wakes up till he's safe back in bed again. and he says doughnuts causes his dreams to run back to when he was a boy, and one time he come to, after a after-dinner nap, when he had doughnuts for dessert, playing marbles in the back alley with a lot of street urchins. i can tell you, mrs. lathrop, he was most interesting. he's got all his dreams sort of classified in that way, and can almost tell to a dot what he'll dream about according to what he eats. and he says soggy biscuits always makes him dream he's robbing a house or killing somebody. it was mighty lucky for me, as you can see for yourself, that this time he only dreamed of binding and gagging. if he'd dreamed of murder, i'd not be here now to tell the tale. and it's clean to be seen that your biscuits would of been an accessory before the fact." "then he--" "yes, it was him as done it, and without no moral blame attaching to him a _tall_. if he'd killed me, the law couldn't of touched him either, for the law takes no account of what a person does while they're asleep. but as you made the biscuits in your full senses and with your eyes wide open, you'd of been the only one to blame." mrs. lathrop groaned. "you know, sus--" she protested. "of course if i was alive, i'd never hold it against you, because i know very well you can't make biscuits no better, and ain't never had sense enough to learn. but if i was murdered, my ghost couldn't testify, and i don't see as how you could be saved from the law taking its course." at this juncture there was a sound overhead, and both ladies started, mrs. lathrop in surprise and her friend in sudden realization of neglected duties. "what is--?" inquired mrs. lathrop. "it's him," answered susan. "mr. kettlewell. and the coffee's boiled now till it's bitter, and there ain't a single cake on the griddle." she was turning back to the stove as mrs. lathrop's exclamation caught her and switched her around. "why, susan clegg!" "don't susan clegg me, mrs. lathrop," she commanded. "there ain't no susan clegg any more. when susan clegg disappeared a week ago last night, she disappeared for good, never to return. and if you suspect anything else, it's best i should introduce myself here and now,--susan kettlewell, from this time forth, if you please." mrs. lathrop sprang up and dropped back again. "you don't--" "i do. i do mean to say i'm married at last. we was wedded with a ring in new york last wednesday, and it's my husband's footsteps you hear up there in the new bathroom." she dropped three spreading spoonfuls of batter on the greased griddle and gave mrs. lathrop a full minute to absorb the announcement. then, as she drew the coffee pot to one side, she continued: "and it was purely a love match, make no mistake about that. he's got money enough to buy and sell jathrop, but he's as simple-minded and simple-tasted as a babe in arms. and there's nothing i can think of that he's not ready and willing to give me. besides, he's frank and open about everything. he says his teeth is false, and he has a bullet in his right leg, got one time when he dreamed somebody was shooting him; but that otherwise he's as perfect as a man of his age can be. he says he'll buy a wig if i want him to, and that if i don't like the color of his whiskers, he'll have 'em dyed whatever color i'd like best, and the wig'l be made to match. but i wouldn't have him changed the least mite. and if there's one thing in the world i'm thankful for it is that i got him and not jathrop. and i'm not thinking from the financial standpoint, neither." the end * * * * * distinctive fiction by anne warner the reading world owes anne warner a vote of thanks for her contributions to the best of american humor.--_new york times._ anne warner has taken her place as one of the drollest of american humorists.--_century magazine._ the gay and festive claverhouse a story of the desperate attempt of a supposedly dying man to lose the love of a girl. sunshine jane the joyful story of a sunshine nurse whose mission was not to care for sick bodies but to heal sick souls. when woman proposes. a clever and entertaining story of a woman who fell in love with an army officer. how leslie loved not only a buoyant love story but a penetrating satire on modern manners. just between themselves a vivacious satire on married life which is full of mirth of the quieter, chuckling variety. the taming of amorette a clever comedy telling how a man cured his attractive wife of flirting. susan clegg, her friend, and her neighbors a study of life which is most delectable for its simplicity and for the quaint character creation. susan clegg and a man in the house the remarkable happenings at the clegg homestead after the boarder came. the rejuvenation of aunt mary. the pranks of a scapegrace nephew who was showing his old aunt a "good time." in a mysterious way compounded of amusing studies of human nature in a rural community. a woman's will describes the wooing of a young american widow on the continent by a musical genius. little, brown & co., _publishers_, boston transcribed from the macmillan and co. edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org love of life and other stories by jack london author of "the call of the wild," "people of the abyss," etc., etc. new york published for the review of reviews company by the macmillan company london: macmillan and co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the macmillan company. {he watched the play of life before him: p .jpg} set up and electrotyped. published september, . reprinted december, ; december, . october, . love of life "this out of all will remain-- they have lived and have tossed: so much of the game will be gain, though the gold of the dice has been lost." they limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks. they were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured. they were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders. head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs. each man carried a rifle. they walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground. "i wish we had just about two of them cartridges that's layin' in that cache of ourn," said the second man. his voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. he spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed over the rocks, vouchsafed no reply. the other man followed at his heels. they did not remove their foot-gear, though the water was icy cold--so cold that their ankles ached and their feet went numb. in places the water dashed against their knees, and both men staggered for footing. the man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder, nearly fell, but recovered himself with a violent effort, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain. he seemed faint and dizzy and put out his free hand while he reeled, as though seeking support against the air. when he had steadied himself he stepped forward, but reeled again and nearly fell. then he stood still and looked at the other man, who had never turned his head. the man stood still for fully a minute, as though debating with himself. then he called out: "i say, bill, i've sprained my ankle." bill staggered on through the milky water. he did not look around. the man watched him go, and though his face was expressionless as ever, his eyes were like the eyes of a wounded deer. the other man limped up the farther bank and continued straight on without looking back. the man in the stream watched him. his lips trembled a little, so that the rough thatch of brown hair which covered them was visibly agitated. his tongue even strayed out to moisten them. "bill!" he cried out. it was the pleading cry of a strong man in distress, but bill's head did not turn. the man watched him go, limping grotesquely and lurching forward with stammering gait up the slow slope toward the soft sky-line of the low-lying hill. he watched him go till he passed over the crest and disappeared. then he turned his gaze and slowly took in the circle of the world that remained to him now that bill was gone. near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly, almost obscured by formless mists and vapors, which gave an impression of mass and density without outline or tangibility. the man pulled out his watch, the while resting his weight on one leg. it was four o'clock, and as the season was near the last of july or first of august,--he did not know the precise date within a week or two,--he knew that the sun roughly marked the northwest. he looked to the south and knew that somewhere beyond those bleak hills lay the great bear lake; also, he knew that in that direction the arctic circle cut its forbidding way across the canadian barrens. this stream in which he stood was a feeder to the coppermine river, which in turn flowed north and emptied into coronation gulf and the arctic ocean. he had never been there, but he had seen it, once, on a hudson bay company chart. again his gaze completed the circle of the world about him. it was not a heartening spectacle. everywhere was soft sky-line. the hills were all low-lying. there were no trees, no shrubs, no grasses--naught but a tremendous and terrible desolation that sent fear swiftly dawning into his eyes. "bill!" he whispered, once and twice; "bill!" he cowered in the midst of the milky water, as though the vastness were pressing in upon him with overwhelming force, brutally crushing him with its complacent awfulness. he began to shake as with an ague-fit, till the gun fell from his hand with a splash. this served to rouse him. he fought with his fear and pulled himself together, groping in the water and recovering the weapon. he hitched his pack farther over on his left shoulder, so as to take a portion of its weight from off the injured ankle. then he proceeded, slowly and carefully, wincing with pain, to the bank. he did not stop. with a desperation that was madness, unmindful of the pain, he hurried up the slope to the crest of the hill over which his comrade had disappeared--more grotesque and comical by far than that limping, jerking comrade. but at the crest he saw a shallow valley, empty of life. he fought with his fear again, overcame it, hitched the pack still farther over on his left shoulder, and lurched on down the slope. the bottom of the valley was soggy with water, which the thick moss held, spongelike, close to the surface. this water squirted out from under his feet at every step, and each time he lifted a foot the action culminated in a sucking sound as the wet moss reluctantly released its grip. he picked his way from muskeg to muskeg, and followed the other man's footsteps along and across the rocky ledges which thrust like islets through the sea of moss. though alone, he was not lost. farther on he knew he would come to where dead spruce and fir, very small and weazened, bordered the shore of a little lake, the _titchin-nichilie_, in the tongue of the country, the "land of little sticks." and into that lake flowed a small stream, the water of which was not milky. there was rush-grass on that stream--this he remembered well--but no timber, and he would follow it till its first trickle ceased at a divide. he would cross this divide to the first trickle of another stream, flowing to the west, which he would follow until it emptied into the river dease, and here he would find a cache under an upturned canoe and piled over with many rocks. and in this cache would be ammunition for his empty gun, fish-hooks and lines, a small net--all the utilities for the killing and snaring of food. also, he would find flour,--not much,--a piece of bacon, and some beans. bill would be waiting for him there, and they would paddle away south down the dease to the great bear lake. and south across the lake they would go, ever south, till they gained the mackenzie. and south, still south, they would go, while the winter raced vainly after them, and the ice formed in the eddies, and the days grew chill and crisp, south to some warm hudson bay company post, where timber grew tall and generous and there was grub without end. these were the thoughts of the man as he strove onward. but hard as he strove with his body, he strove equally hard with his mind, trying to think that bill had not deserted him, that bill would surely wait for him at the cache. he was compelled to think this thought, or else there would not be any use to strive, and he would have lain down and died. and as the dim ball of the sun sank slowly into the northwest he covered every inch--and many times--of his and bill's flight south before the downcoming winter. and he conned the grub of the cache and the grub of the hudson bay company post over and over again. he had not eaten for two days; for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted to eat. often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them into his mouth, and chewed and swallowed them. a muskeg berry is a bit of seed enclosed in a bit of water. in the mouth the water melts away and the seed chews sharp and bitter. the man knew there was no nourishment in the berries, but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than knowledge and defying experience. at nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer weariness and weakness staggered and fell. he lay for some time, without movement, on his side. then he slipped out of the pack-straps and clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture. it was not yet dark, and in the lingering twilight he groped about among the rocks for shreds of dry moss. when he had gathered a heap he built a fire,--a smouldering, smudgy fire,--and put a tin pot of water on to boil. he unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his matches. there were sixty-seven. he counted them three times to make sure. he divided them into several portions, wrapping them in oil paper, disposing of one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch, of another bunch in the inside band of his battered hat, of a third bunch under his shirt on the chest. this accomplished, a panic came upon him, and he unwrapped them all and counted them again. there were still sixty-seven. he dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. the moccasins were in soggy shreds. the blanket socks were worn through in places, and his feet were raw and bleeding. his ankle was throbbing, and he gave it an examination. it had swollen to the size of his knee. he tore a long strip from one of his two blankets and bound the ankle tightly. he tore other strips and bound them about his feet to serve for both moccasins and socks. then he drank the pot of water, steaming hot, wound his watch, and crawled between his blankets. he slept like a dead man. the brief darkness around midnight came and went. the sun arose in the northeast--at least the day dawned in that quarter, for the sun was hidden by gray clouds. at six o'clock he awoke, quietly lying on his back. he gazed straight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. as he rolled over on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort, and saw a bull caribou regarding him with alert curiosity. the animal was not mere than fifty feet away, and instantly into the man's mind leaped the vision and the savor of a caribou steak sizzling and frying over a fire. mechanically he reached for the empty gun, drew a bead, and pulled the trigger. the bull snorted and leaped away, his hoofs rattling and clattering as he fled across the ledges. the man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. he groaned aloud as he started to drag himself to his feet. it was a slow and arduous task. his joints were like rusty hinges. they worked harshly in their sockets, with much friction, and each bending or unbending was accomplished only through a sheer exertion of will. when he finally gained his feet, another minute or so was consumed in straightening up, so that he could stand erect as a man should stand. he crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect. there were no trees, no bushes, nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely diversified by gray rocks, gray lakelets, and gray streamlets. the sky was gray. there was no sun nor hint of sun. he had no idea of north, and he had forgotten the way he had come to this spot the night before. but he was not lost. he knew that. soon he would come to the land of the little sticks. he felt that it lay off to the left somewhere, not far--possibly just over the next low hill. he went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. he assured himself of the existence of his three separate parcels of matches, though he did not stop to count them. but he did linger, debating, over a squat moose-hide sack. it was not large. he could hide it under his two hands. he knew that it weighed fifteen pounds,--as much as all the rest of the pack,--and it worried him. he finally set it to one side and proceeded to roll the pack. he paused to gaze at the squat moose-hide sack. he picked it up hastily with a defiant glance about him, as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it; and when he rose to his feet to stagger on into the day, it was included in the pack on his back. he bore away to the left, stopping now and again to eat muskeg berries. his ankle had stiffened, his limp was more pronounced, but the pain of it was as nothing compared with the pain of his stomach. the hunger pangs were sharp. they gnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his mind steady on the course he must pursue to gain the land of little sticks. the muskeg berries did not allay this gnawing, while they made his tongue and the roof of his mouth sore with their irritating bite. he came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from the ledges and muskegs. ker--ker--ker was the cry they made. he threw stones at them, but could not hit them. he placed his pack on the ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow. the sharp rocks cut through his pants' legs till his knees left a trail of blood; but the hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger. he squirmed over the wet moss, saturating his clothes and chilling his body; but he was not aware of it, so great was his fever for food. and always the ptarmigan rose, whirring, before him, till their ker--ker--ker became a mock to him, and he cursed them and cried aloud at them with their own cry. once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. he did not see it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook. he made a clutch as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in his hand three tail-feathers. as he watched its flight he hated it, as though it had done him some terrible wrong. then he returned and shouldered his pack. as the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was more plentiful. a band of caribou passed by, twenty and odd animals, tantalizingly within rifle range. he felt a wild desire to run after them, a certitude that he could run them down. a black fox came toward him, carrying a ptarmigan in his mouth. the man shouted. it was a fearful cry, but the fox, leaping away in fright, did not drop the ptarmigan. late in the afternoon he followed a stream, milky with lime, which ran through sparse patches of rush-grass. grasping these rushes firmly near the root, he pulled up what resembled a young onion-sprout no larger than a shingle-nail. it was tender, and his teeth sank into it with a crunch that promised deliciously of food. but its fibers were tough. it was composed of stringy filaments saturated with water, like the berries, and devoid of nourishment. he threw off his pack and went into the rush-grass on hands and knees, crunching and munching, like some bovine creature. he was very weary and often wished to rest--to lie down and sleep; but he was continually driven on--not so much by his desire to gain the land of little sticks as by his hunger. he searched little ponds for frogs and dug up the earth with his nails for worms, though he knew in spite that neither frogs nor worms existed so far north. he looked into every pool of water vainly, until, as the long twilight came on, he discovered a solitary fish, the size of a minnow, in such a pool. he plunged his arm in up to the shoulder, but it eluded him. he reached for it with both hands and stirred up the milky mud at the bottom. in his excitement he fell in, wetting himself to the waist. then the water was too muddy to admit of his seeing the fish, and he was compelled to wait until the sediment had settled. the pursuit was renewed, till the water was again muddied. but he could not wait. he unstrapped the tin bucket and began to bale the pool. he baled wildly at first, splashing himself and flinging the water so short a distance that it ran back into the pool. he worked more carefully, striving to be cool, though his heart was pounding against his chest and his hands were trembling. at the end of half an hour the pool was nearly dry. not a cupful of water remained. and there was no fish. he found a hidden crevice among the stones through which it had escaped to the adjoining and larger pool--a pool which he could not empty in a night and a day. had he known of the crevice, he could have closed it with a rock at the beginning and the fish would have been his. thus he thought, and crumpled up and sank down upon the wet earth. at first he cried softly to himself, then he cried loudly to the pitiless desolation that ringed him around; and for a long time after he was shaken by great dry sobs. he built a fire and warmed himself by drinking quarts of hot water, and made camp on a rocky ledge in the same fashion he had the night before. the last thing he did was to see that his matches were dry and to wind his watch. the blankets were wet and clammy. his ankle pulsed with pain. but he knew only that he was hungry, and through his restless sleep he dreamed of feasts and banquets and of food served and spread in all imaginable ways. he awoke chilled and sick. there was no sun. the gray of earth and sky had become deeper, more profound. a raw wind was blowing, and the first flurries of snow were whitening the hilltops. the air about him thickened and grew white while he made a fire and boiled more water. it was wet snow, half rain, and the flakes were large and soggy. at first they melted as soon as they came in contact with the earth, but ever more fell, covering the ground, putting out the fire, spoiling his supply of moss-fuel. this was a signal for him to strap on his pack and stumble onward, he knew not where. he was not concerned with the land of little sticks, nor with bill and the cache under the upturned canoe by the river dease. he was mastered by the verb "to eat." he was hunger-mad. he took no heed of the course he pursued, so long as that course led him through the swale bottoms. he felt his way through the wet snow to the watery muskeg berries, and went by feel as he pulled up the rush-grass by the roots. but it was tasteless stuff and did not satisfy. he found a weed that tasted sour and he ate all he could find of it, which was not much, for it was a creeping growth, easily hidden under the several inches of snow. he had no fire that night, nor hot water, and crawled under his blanket to sleep the broken hunger-sleep. the snow turned into a cold rain. he awakened many times to feel it falling on his upturned face. day came--a gray day and no sun. it had ceased raining. the keenness of his hunger had departed. sensibility, as far as concerned the yearning for food, had been exhausted. there was a dull, heavy ache in his stomach, but it did not bother him so much. he was more rational, and once more he was chiefly interested in the land of little sticks and the cache by the river dease. he ripped the remnant of one of his blankets into strips and bound his bleeding feet. also, he recinched the injured ankle and prepared himself for a day of travel. when he came to his pack, he paused long over the squat moose-hide sack, but in the end it went with him. the snow had melted under the rain, and only the hilltops showed white. the sun came out, and he succeeded in locating the points of the compass, though he knew now that he was lost. perhaps, in his previous days' wanderings, he had edged away too far to the left. he now bore off to the right to counteract the possible deviation from his true course. though the hunger pangs were no longer so exquisite, he realized that he was weak. he was compelled to pause for frequent rests, when he attacked the muskeg berries and rush-grass patches. his tongue felt dry and large, as though covered with a fine hairy growth, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. his heart gave him a great deal of trouble. when he had travelled a few minutes it would begin a remorseless thump, thump, thump, and then leap up and away in a painful flutter of beats that choked him and made him go faint and dizzy. in the middle of the day he found two minnows in a large pool. it was impossible to bale it, but he was calmer now and managed to catch them in his tin bucket. they were no longer than his little finger, but he was not particularly hungry. the dull ache in his stomach had been growing duller and fainter. it seemed almost that his stomach was dozing. he ate the fish raw, masticating with painstaking care, for the eating was an act of pure reason. while he had no desire to eat, he knew that he must eat to live. in the evening he caught three more minnows, eating two and saving the third for breakfast. the sun had dried stray shreds of moss, and he was able to warm himself with hot water. he had not covered more than ten miles that day; and the next day, travelling whenever his heart permitted him, he covered no more than five miles. but his stomach did not give him the slightest uneasiness. it had gone to sleep. he was in a strange country, too, and the caribou were growing more plentiful, also the wolves. often their yelps drifted across the desolation, and once he saw three of them slinking away before his path. another night; and in the morning, being more rational, he untied the leather string that fastened the squat moose-hide sack. from its open mouth poured a yellow stream of coarse gold-dust and nuggets. he roughly divided the gold in halves, caching one half on a prominent ledge, wrapped in a piece of blanket, and returning the other half to the sack. he also began to use strips of the one remaining blanket for his feet. he still clung to his gun, for there were cartridges in that cache by the river dease. this was a day of fog, and this day hunger awoke in him again. he was very weak and was afflicted with a giddiness which at times blinded him. it was no uncommon thing now for him to stumble and fall; and stumbling once, he fell squarely into a ptarmigan nest. there were four newly hatched chicks, a day old--little specks of pulsating life no more than a mouthful; and he ate them ravenously, thrusting them alive into his mouth and crunching them like egg-shells between his teeth. the mother ptarmigan beat about him with great outcry. he used his gun as a club with which to knock her over, but she dodged out of reach. he threw stones at her and with one chance shot broke a wing. then she fluttered away, running, trailing the broken wing, with him in pursuit. the little chicks had no more than whetted his appetite. he hopped and bobbed clumsily along on his injured ankle, throwing stones and screaming hoarsely at times; at other times hopping and bobbing silently along, picking himself up grimly and patiently when he fell, or rubbing his eyes with his hand when the giddiness threatened to overpower him. the chase led him across swampy ground in the bottom of the valley, and he came upon footprints in the soggy moss. they were not his own--he could see that. they must be bill's. but he could not stop, for the mother ptarmigan was running on. he would catch her first, then he would return and investigate. he exhausted the mother ptarmigan; but he exhausted himself. she lay panting on her side. he lay panting on his side, a dozen feet away, unable to crawl to her. and as he recovered she recovered, fluttering out of reach as his hungry hand went out to her. the chase was resumed. night settled down and she escaped. he stumbled from weakness and pitched head foremost on his face, cutting his cheek, his pack upon his back. he did not move for a long while; then he rolled over on his side, wound his watch, and lay there until morning. another day of fog. half of his last blanket had gone into foot-wrappings. he failed to pick up bill's trail. it did not matter. his hunger was driving him too compellingly--only--only he wondered if bill, too, were lost. by midday the irk of his pack became too oppressive. again he divided the gold, this time merely spilling half of it on the ground. in the afternoon he threw the rest of it away, there remaining to him only the half-blanket, the tin bucket, and the rifle. an hallucination began to trouble him. he felt confident that one cartridge remained to him. it was in the chamber of the rifle and he had overlooked it. on the other hand, he knew all the time that the chamber was empty. but the hallucination persisted. he fought it off for hours, then threw his rifle open and was confronted with emptiness. the disappointment was as bitter as though he had really expected to find the cartridge. he plodded on for half an hour, when the hallucination arose again. again he fought it, and still it persisted, till for very relief he opened his rifle to unconvince himself. at times his mind wandered farther afield, and he plodded on, a mere automaton, strange conceits and whimsicalities gnawing at his brain like worms. but these excursions out of the real were of brief duration, for ever the pangs of the hunger-bite called him back. he was jerked back abruptly once from such an excursion by a sight that caused him nearly to faint. he reeled and swayed, doddering like a drunken man to keep from falling. before him stood a horse. a horse! he could not believe his eyes. a thick mist was in them, intershot with sparkling points of light. he rubbed his eyes savagely to clear his vision, and beheld, not a horse, but a great brown bear. the animal was studying him with bellicose curiosity. the man had brought his gun halfway to his shoulder before he realized. he lowered it and drew his hunting-knife from its beaded sheath at his hip. before him was meat and life. he ran his thumb along the edge of his knife. it was sharp. the point was sharp. he would fling himself upon the bear and kill it. but his heart began its warning thump, thump, thump. then followed the wild upward leap and tattoo of flutters, the pressing as of an iron band about his forehead, the creeping of the dizziness into his brain. his desperate courage was evicted by a great surge of fear. in his weakness, what if the animal attacked him? he drew himself up to his most imposing stature, gripping the knife and staring hard at the bear. the bear advanced clumsily a couple of steps, reared up, and gave vent to a tentative growl. if the man ran, he would run after him; but the man did not run. he was animated now with the courage of fear. he, too, growled, savagely, terribly, voicing the fear that is to life germane and that lies twisted about life's deepest roots. the bear edged away to one side, growling menacingly, himself appalled by this mysterious creature that appeared upright and unafraid. but the man did not move. he stood like a statue till the danger was past, when he yielded to a fit of trembling and sank down into the wet moss. he pulled himself together and went on, afraid now in a new way. it was not the fear that he should die passively from lack of food, but that he should be destroyed violently before starvation had exhausted the last particle of the endeavor in him that made toward surviving. there were the wolves. back and forth across the desolation drifted their howls, weaving the very air into a fabric of menace that was so tangible that he found himself, arms in the air, pressing it back from him as it might be the walls of a wind-blown tent. now and again the wolves, in packs of two and three, crossed his path. but they sheered clear of him. they were not in sufficient numbers, and besides they were hunting the caribou, which did not battle, while this strange creature that walked erect might scratch and bite. in the late afternoon he came upon scattered bones where the wolves had made a kill. the debris had been a caribou calf an hour before, squawking and running and very much alive. he contemplated the bones, clean-picked and polished, pink with the cell-life in them which had not yet died. could it possibly be that he might be that ere the day was done! such was life, eh? a vain and fleeting thing. it was only life that pained. there was no hurt in death. to die was to sleep. it meant cessation, rest. then why was he not content to die? but he did not moralize long. he was squatting in the moss, a bone in his mouth, sucking at the shreds of life that still dyed it faintly pink. the sweet meaty taste, thin and elusive almost as a memory, maddened him. he closed his jaws on the bones and crunched. sometimes it was the bone that broke, sometimes his teeth. then he crushed the bones between rocks, pounded them to a pulp, and swallowed them. he pounded his fingers, too, in his haste, and yet found a moment in which to feel surprise at the fact that his fingers did not hurt much when caught under the descending rock. came frightful days of snow and rain. he did not know when he made camp, when he broke camp. he travelled in the night as much as in the day. he rested wherever he fell, crawled on whenever the dying life in him flickered up and burned less dimly. he, as a man, no longer strove. it was the life in him, unwilling to die, that drove him on. he did not suffer. his nerves had become blunted, numb, while his mind was filled with weird visions and delicious dreams. but ever he sucked and chewed on the crushed bones of the caribou calf, the least remnants of which he had gathered up and carried with him. he crossed no more hills or divides, but automatically followed a large stream which flowed through a wide and shallow valley. he did not see this stream nor this valley. he saw nothing save visions. soul and body walked or crawled side by side, yet apart, so slender was the thread that bound them. he awoke in his right mind, lying on his back on a rocky ledge. the sun was shining bright and warm. afar off he heard the squawking of caribou calves. he was aware of vague memories of rain and wind and snow, but whether he had been beaten by the storm for two days or two weeks he did not know. for some time he lay without movement, the genial sunshine pouring upon him and saturating his miserable body with its warmth. a fine day, he thought. perhaps he could manage to locate himself. by a painful effort he rolled over on his side. below him flowed a wide and sluggish river. its unfamiliarity puzzled him. slowly he followed it with his eyes, winding in wide sweeps among the bleak, bare hills, bleaker and barer and lower-lying than any hills he had yet encountered. slowly, deliberately, without excitement or more than the most casual interest, he followed the course of the strange stream toward the sky-line and saw it emptying into a bright and shining sea. he was still unexcited. most unusual, he thought, a vision or a mirage--more likely a vision, a trick of his disordered mind. he was confirmed in this by sight of a ship lying at anchor in the midst of the shining sea. he closed his eyes for a while, then opened them. strange how the vision persisted! yet not strange. he knew there were no seas or ships in the heart of the barren lands, just as he had known there was no cartridge in the empty rifle. he heard a snuffle behind him--a half-choking gasp or cough. very slowly, because of his exceeding weakness and stiffness, he rolled over on his other side. he could see nothing near at hand, but he waited patiently. again came the snuffle and cough, and outlined between two jagged rocks not a score of feet away he made out the gray head of a wolf. the sharp ears were not pricked so sharply as he had seen them on other wolves; the eyes were bleared and bloodshot, the head seemed to droop limply and forlornly. the animal blinked continually in the sunshine. it seemed sick. as he looked it snuffled and coughed again. this, at least, was real, he thought, and turned on the other side so that he might see the reality of the world which had been veiled from him before by the vision. but the sea still shone in the distance and the ship was plainly discernible. was it reality, after all? he closed his eyes for a long while and thought, and then it came to him. he had been making north by east, away from the dease divide and into the coppermine valley. this wide and sluggish river was the coppermine. that shining sea was the arctic ocean. that ship was a whaler, strayed east, far east, from the mouth of the mackenzie, and it was lying at anchor in coronation gulf. he remembered the hudson bay company chart he had seen long ago, and it was all clear and reasonable to him. he sat up and turned his attention to immediate affairs. he had worn through the blanket-wrappings, and his feet were shapeless lumps of raw meat. his last blanket was gone. rifle and knife were both missing. he had lost his hat somewhere, with the bunch of matches in the band, but the matches against his chest were safe and dry inside the tobacco pouch and oil paper. he looked at his watch. it marked eleven o'clock and was still running. evidently he had kept it wound. he was calm and collected. though extremely weak, he had no sensation of pain. he was not hungry. the thought of food was not even pleasant to him, and whatever he did was done by his reason alone. he ripped off his pants' legs to the knees and bound them about his feet. somehow he had succeeded in retaining the tin bucket. he would have some hot water before he began what he foresaw was to be a terrible journey to the ship. his movements were slow. he shook as with a palsy. when he started to collect dry moss, he found he could not rise to his feet. he tried again and again, then contented himself with crawling about on hands and knees. once he crawled near to the sick wolf. the animal dragged itself reluctantly out of his way, licking its chops with a tongue which seemed hardly to have the strength to curl. the man noticed that the tongue was not the customary healthy red. it was a yellowish brown and seemed coated with a rough and half-dry mucus. after he had drunk a quart of hot water the man found he was able to stand, and even to walk as well as a dying man might be supposed to walk. every minute or so he was compelled to rest. his steps were feeble and uncertain, just as the wolf's that trailed him were feeble and uncertain; and that night, when the shining sea was blotted out by blackness, he knew he was nearer to it by no more than four miles. throughout the night he heard the cough of the sick wolf, and now and then the squawking of the caribou calves. there was life all around him, but it was strong life, very much alive and well, and he knew the sick wolf clung to the sick man's trail in the hope that the man would die first. in the morning, on opening his eyes, he beheld it regarding him with a wistful and hungry stare. it stood crouched, with tail between its legs, like a miserable and woe-begone dog. it shivered in the chill morning wind, and grinned dispiritedly when the man spoke to it in a voice that achieved no more than a hoarse whisper. the sun rose brightly, and all morning the man tottered and fell toward the ship on the shining sea. the weather was perfect. it was the brief indian summer of the high latitudes. it might last a week. to-morrow or next day it might he gone. in the afternoon the man came upon a trail. it was of another man, who did not walk, but who dragged himself on all fours. the man thought it might be bill, but he thought in a dull, uninterested way. he had no curiosity. in fact, sensation and emotion had left him. he was no longer susceptible to pain. stomach and nerves had gone to sleep. yet the life that was in him drove him on. he was very weary, but it refused to die. it was because it refused to die that he still ate muskeg berries and minnows, drank his hot water, and kept a wary eye on the sick wolf. he followed the trail of the other man who dragged himself along, and soon came to the end of it--a few fresh-picked bones where the soggy moss was marked by the foot-pads of many wolves. he saw a squat moose-hide sack, mate to his own, which had been torn by sharp teeth. he picked it up, though its weight was almost too much for his feeble fingers. bill had carried it to the last. ha! ha! he would have the laugh on bill. he would survive and carry it to the ship in the shining sea. his mirth was hoarse and ghastly, like a raven's croak, and the sick wolf joined him, howling lugubriously. the man ceased suddenly. how could he have the laugh on bill if that were bill; if those bones, so pinky-white and clean, were bill? he turned away. well, bill had deserted him; but he would not take the gold, nor would he suck bill's bones. bill would have, though, had it been the other way around, he mused as he staggered on. he came to a pool of water. stooping over in quest of minnows, he jerked his head back as though he had been stung. he had caught sight of his reflected face. so horrible was it that sensibility awoke long enough to be shocked. there were three minnows in the pool, which was too large to drain; and after several ineffectual attempts to catch them in the tin bucket he forbore. he was afraid, because of his great weakness, that he might fall in and drown. it was for this reason that he did not trust himself to the river astride one of the many drift-logs which lined its sand-spits. that day he decreased the distance between him and the ship by three miles; the next day by two--for he was crawling now as bill had crawled; and the end of the fifth day found the ship still seven miles away and him unable to make even a mile a day. still the indian summer held on, and he continued to crawl and faint, turn and turn about; and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at his heels. his knees had become raw meat like his feet, and though he padded them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones. once, glancing back, he saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail, and he saw sharply what his own end might be--unless--unless he could get the wolf. then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played--a sick man that crawled, a sick wolf that limped, two creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and hunting each other's lives. had it been a well wolf, it would not have mattered so much to the man; but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. he was finicky. his mind had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations, while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter. he was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear. the wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its weakness. it was ludicrous, but he was not amused. nor was he even afraid. he was too far gone for that. but his mind was for the moment clear, and he lay and considered. the ship was no more than four miles away. he could see it quite distinctly when he rubbed the mists out of his eyes, and he could see the white sail of a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea. but he could never crawl those four miles. he knew that, and was very calm in the knowledge. he knew that he could not crawl half a mile. and yet he wanted to live. it was unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone. fate asked too much of him. and, dying, he declined to die. it was stark madness, perhaps, but in the very grip of death he defied death and refused to die. he closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution. he steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. it was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. sometimes he was all but submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred of will and strike out more strongly. without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick wolf's breath. it drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude of time, and he did not move. it was at his ear. the harsh dry tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. his hands shot out--or at least he willed them to shoot out. the fingers were curved like talons, but they closed on empty air. swiftness and certitude require strength, and the man had not this strength. the patience of the wolf was terrible. the man's patience was no less terrible. for half a day he lay motionless, fighting off unconsciousness and waiting for the thing that was to feed upon him and upon which he wished to feed. sometimes the languid sea rose over him and he dreamed long dreams; but ever through it all, waking and dreaming, he waited for the wheezing breath and the harsh caress of the tongue. he did not hear the breath, and he slipped slowly from some dream to the feel of the tongue along his hand. he waited. the fangs pressed softly; the pressure increased; the wolf was exerting its last strength in an effort to sink teeth in the food for which it had waited so long. but the man had waited long, and the lacerated hand closed on the jaw. slowly, while the wolf struggled feebly and the hand clutched feebly, the other hand crept across to a grip. five minutes later the whole weight of the man's body was on top of the wolf. the hands had not sufficient strength to choke the wolf, but the face of the man was pressed close to the throat of the wolf and the mouth of the man was full of hair. at the end of half an hour the man was aware of a warm trickle in his throat. it was not pleasant. it was like molten lead being forced into his stomach, and it was forced by his will alone. later the man rolled over on his back and slept. * * * * * there were some members of a scientific expedition on the whale-ship _bedford_. from the deck they remarked a strange object on the shore. it was moving down the beach toward the water. they were unable to classify it, and, being scientific men, they climbed into the whale-boat alongside and went ashore to see. and they saw something that was alive but which could hardly be called a man. it was blind, unconscious. it squirmed along the ground like some monstrous worm. most of its efforts were ineffectual, but it was persistent, and it writhed and twisted and went ahead perhaps a score of feet an hour. * * * * * three weeks afterward the man lay in a bunk on the whale-ship _bedford_, and with tears streaming down his wasted cheeks told who he was and what he had undergone. he also babbled incoherently of his mother, of sunny southern california, and a home among the orange groves and flowers. the days were not many after that when he sat at table with the scientific men and ship's officers. he gloated over the spectacle of so much food, watching it anxiously as it went into the mouths of others. with the disappearance of each mouthful an expression of deep regret came into his eyes. he was quite sane, yet he hated those men at mealtime. he was haunted by a fear that the food would not last. he inquired of the cook, the cabin-boy, the captain, concerning the food stores. they reassured him countless times; but he could not believe them, and pried cunningly about the lazarette to see with his own eyes. it was noticed that the man was getting fat. he grew stouter with each day. the scientific men shook their heads and theorized. they limited the man at his meals, but still his girth increased and he swelled prodigiously under his shirt. the sailors grinned. they knew. and when the scientific men set a watch on the man, they knew too. they saw him slouch for'ard after breakfast, and, like a mendicant, with outstretched palm, accost a sailor. the sailor grinned and passed him a fragment of sea biscuit. he clutched it avariciously, looked at it as a miser looks at gold, and thrust it into his shirt bosom. similar were the donations from other grinning sailors. the scientific men were discreet. they let him alone. but they privily examined his bunk. it was lined with hardtack; the mattress was stuffed with hardtack; every nook and cranny was filled with hardtack. yet he was sane. he was taking precautions against another possible famine--that was all. he would recover from it, the scientific men said; and he did, ere the _bedford's_ anchor rumbled down in san francisco bay. a day's lodging it was the gosh-dangdest stampede i ever seen. a thousand dog-teams hittin' the ice. you couldn't see 'm fer smoke. two white men an' a swede froze to death that night, an' there was a dozen busted their lungs. but didn't i see with my own eyes the bottom of the water-hole? it was yellow with gold like a mustard-plaster. that's why i staked the yukon for a minin' claim. that's what made the stampede. an' then there was nothin' to it. that's what i said--nothin' to it. an' i ain't got over guessin' yet.--narrative of shorty. john messner clung with mittened hand to the bucking gee-pole and held the sled in the trail. with the other mittened hand he rubbed his cheeks and nose. he rubbed his cheeks and nose every little while. in point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, and sometimes, as their numbness increased, he rubbed fiercely. his forehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps of which went over his ears. the rest of his face was protected by a thick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost. behind him churned a heavily loaded yukon sled, and before him toiled a string of five dogs. the rope by which they dragged the sled rubbed against the side of messner's leg. when the dogs swung on a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope. there were many bends, and he was compelled to step over it often. sometimes he tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward, betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon his heels. when he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood. he found it difficult to keep up the circulation in that hand. but while he pounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose and cheeks with the other. "it's too cold to travel, anyway," he said. he spoke aloud, after the manner of men who are much by themselves. "only a fool would travel at such a temperature. if it isn't eighty below, it's because it's seventy- nine." he pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling got it back into the breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket. then he surveyed the heavens and ran his eye along the white sky-line to the south. "twelve o'clock," he mumbled, "a clear sky, and no sun." he plodded on silently for ten minutes, and then, as though there had been no lapse in his speech, he added: "and no ground covered, and it's too cold to travel." suddenly he yelled "whoa!" at the dogs, and stopped. he seemed in a wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer it furiously against the gee-pole. "you--poor--devils!" he addressed the dogs, which had dropped down heavily on the ice to rest. his was a broken, jerky utterance, caused by the violence with which he hammered his numb hand upon the wood. "what have you done anyway that a two-legged other animal should come along, break you to harness, curb all your natural proclivities, and make slave- beasts out of you?" he rubbed his nose, not reflectively, but savagely, in order to drive the blood into it, and urged the dogs to their work again. he travelled on the frozen surface of a great river. behind him it stretched away in a mighty curve of many miles, losing itself in a fantastic jumble of mountains, snow-covered and silent. ahead of him the river split into many channels to accommodate the freight of islands it carried on its breast. these islands were silent and white. no animals nor humming insects broke the silence. no birds flew in the chill air. there was no sound of man, no mark of the handiwork of man. the world slept, and it was like the sleep of death. john messner seemed succumbing to the apathy of it all. the frost was benumbing his spirit. he plodded on with bowed head, unobservant, mechanically rubbing nose and cheeks, and batting his steering hand against the gee-pole in the straight trail-stretches. but the dogs were observant, and suddenly they stopped, turning their heads and looking back at their master out of eyes that were wistful and questioning. their eyelashes were frosted white, as were their muzzles, and they had all the seeming of decrepit old age, what of the frost-rime and exhaustion. the man was about to urge them on, when he checked himself, roused up with an effort, and looked around. the dogs had stopped beside a water- hole, not a fissure, but a hole man-made, chopped laboriously with an axe through three and a half feet of ice. a thick skin of new ice showed that it had not been used for some time. messner glanced about him. the dogs were already pointing the way, each wistful and hoary muzzle turned toward the dim snow-path that left the main river trail and climbed the bank of the island. "all right, you sore-footed brutes," he said. "i'll investigate. you're not a bit more anxious to quit than i am." he climbed the bank and disappeared. the dogs did not lie down, but on their feet eagerly waited his return. he came back to them, took a hauling-rope from the front of the sled, and put it around his shoulders. then he _gee'd_ the dogs to the right and put them at the bank on the run. it was a stiff pull, but their weariness fell from them as they crouched low to the snow, whining with eagerness and gladness as they struggled upward to the last ounce of effort in their bodies. when a dog slipped or faltered, the one behind nipped his hind quarters. the man shouted encouragement and threats, and threw all his weight on the hauling-rope. they cleared the bank with a rush, swung to the left, and dashed up to a small log cabin. it was a deserted cabin of a single room, eight feet by ten on the inside. messner unharnessed the animals, unloaded his sled and took possession. the last chance wayfarer had left a supply of firewood. messner set up his light sheet-iron stove and starred a fire. he put five sun-cured salmon into the oven to thaw out for the dogs, and from the water-hole filled his coffee-pot and cooking-pail. while waiting for the water to boil, he held his face over the stove. the moisture from his breath had collected on his beard and frozen into a great mass of ice, and this he proceeded to thaw out. as it melted and dropped upon the stove it sizzled and rose about him in steam. he helped the process with his fingers, working loose small ice-chunks that fell rattling to the floor. a wild outcry from the dogs without did not take him from his task. he heard the wolfish snarling and yelping of strange dogs and the sound of voices. a knock came on the door. "come in," messner called, in a voice muffled because at the moment he was sucking loose a fragment of ice from its anchorage on his upper lip. the door opened, and, gazing out of his cloud of steam, he saw a man and a woman pausing on the threshold. "come in," he said peremptorily, "and shut the door!" peering through the steam, he could make out but little of their personal appearance. the nose and cheek strap worn by the woman and the trail- wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of black eyes to be seen. the man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven all except his mustache, which was so iced up as to hide his mouth. "we just wanted to know if there is any other cabin around here," he said, at the same time glancing over the unfurnished state of the room. "we thought this cabin was empty." "it isn't my cabin," messner answered. "i just found it a few minutes ago. come right in and camp. plenty of room, and you won't need your stove. there's room for all." at the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quick curiousness. "get your things off," her companion said to her. "i'll unhitch and get the water so we can start cooking." messner took the thawed salmon outside and fed his dogs. he had to guard them against the second team of dogs, and when he had reentered the cabin the other man had unpacked the sled and fetched water. messner's pot was boiling. he threw in the coffee, settled it with half a cup of cold water, and took the pot from the stove. he thawed some sour-dough biscuits in the oven, at the same time heating a pot of beans he had boiled the night before and that had ridden frozen on the sled all morning. removing his utensils from the stove, so as to give the newcomers a chance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of his grub- box, himself sitting on his bed-roll. between mouthfuls he talked trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove, was thawing the ice from his mustache. there were two bunks in the cabin, and into one of them, when he had cleared his lip, the stranger tossed his bed-roll. "we'll sleep here," he said, "unless you prefer this bunk. you're the first comer and you have first choice, you know." "that's all right," messner answered. "one bunk's just as good as the other." he spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on the edge. the stranger thrust a physician's small travelling case under his blankets at one end to serve for a pillow. "doctor?" messner asked. "yes," came the answer, "but i assure you i didn't come into the klondike to practise." the woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced bacon and fired the stove. the light in the cabin was dim, filtering through in a small window made of onion-skin writing paper and oiled with bacon grease, so that john messner could not make out very well what the woman looked like. not that he tried. he seemed to have no interest in her. but she glanced curiously from time to time into the dark corner where he sat. "oh, it's a great life," the doctor proclaimed enthusiastically, pausing from sharpening his knife on the stovepipe. "what i like about it is the struggle, the endeavor with one's own hands, the primitiveness of it, the realness." "the temperature is real enough," messner laughed. "do you know how cold it actually is?" the doctor demanded. the other shook his head. "well, i'll tell you. seventy-four below zero by spirit thermometer on the sled." "that's one hundred and six below freezing point--too cold for travelling, eh?" "practically suicide," was the doctor's verdict. "one exerts himself. he breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frost itself. it chills his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues. he gets a dry, hacking cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and dies the following summer of pneumonia, wondering what it's all about. i'll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below." "i say, tess," he said, the next moment, "don't you think that coffee's boiled long enough!" at the sound of the woman's name, john messner became suddenly alert. he looked at her quickly, while across his face shot a haunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery achieving swift resurrection. but the next moment, and by an effort of will, the ghost was laid again. his face was as placid as before, though he was still alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light had shown him of the woman's face. automatically, her first act had been to set the coffee-pot back. it was not until she had done this that she glanced at messner. but already he had composed himself. she saw only a man sitting on the edge of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of his moccasins. but, as she turned casually to go about her cooking, he shot another swift look at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back, caught his look. he shifted on past her to the doctor, though the slightest smile curled his lip in appreciation of the way she had trapped him. she drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it. one look at her illuminated face was enough for messner. in the small cabin the widest limit was only a matter of several steps, and the next moment she was alongside of him. she deliberately held the candle close to his face and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear and recognition. he smiled quietly back at her. "what are you looking for, tess?" the doctor called. "hairpins," she replied, passing on and rummaging in a clothes-bag on the bunk. they served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on messner's grub-box and facing him. he had stretched out on his bunk to rest, lying on his side, his head on his arm. in the close quarters it was as though the three were together at table. "what part of the states do you come from?" messner asked. "san francisco," answered the doctor. "i've been in here two years, though." "i hail from california myself," was messner's announcement. the woman looked at him appealingly, but he smiled and went on: "berkeley, you know." the other man was becoming interested. "u. c.?" he asked. "yes, class of ' ." "i meant faculty," the doctor explained. "you remind me of the type." "sorry to hear you say so," messner smiled back. "i'd prefer being taken for a prospector or a dog-musher." "i don't think he looks any more like a professor than you do a doctor," the woman broke in. "thank you," said messner. then, turning to her companion, "by the way, doctor, what is your name, if i may ask?" "haythorne, if you'll take my word for it. i gave up cards with civilization." "and mrs. haythorne," messner smiled and bowed. she flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal. haythorne was about to ask the other's name. his mouth had opened to form the question when messner cut him off. "come to think of it, doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my curiosity. there was a sort of scandal in faculty circles some two or three years ago. the wife of one of the english professors--er, if you will pardon me, mrs. haythorne--disappeared with some san francisco doctor, i understood, though his name does not just now come to my lips. do you remember the incident?" haythorne nodded his head. "made quite a stir at the time. his name was womble--graham womble. he had a magnificent practice. i knew him somewhat." "well, what i was trying to get at was what had become of them. i was wondering if you had heard. they left no trace, hide nor hair." "he covered his tracks cunningly." haythorne cleared his throat. "there was rumor that they went to the south seas--were lost on a trading schooner in a typhoon, or something like that." "i never heard that," messner said. "you remember the case, mrs. haythorne?" "perfectly," she answered, in a voice the control of which was in amazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turned aside so that haythorne might not see. the latter was again on the verge of asking his name, when messner remarked: "this dr. womble, i've heard he was very handsome, and--er--quite a success, so to say, with the ladies." "well, if he was, he finished himself off by that affair," haythorne grumbled. "and the woman was a termagant--at least so i've been told. it was generally accepted in berkeley that she made life--er--not exactly paradise for her husband." "i never heard that," haythorne rejoined. "in san francisco the talk was all the other way." "woman sort of a martyr, eh?--crucified on the cross of matrimony?" the doctor nodded. messner's gray eyes were mildly curious as he went on: "that was to be expected--two sides to the shield. living in berkeley i only got the one side. she was a great deal in san francisco, it seems." "some coffee, please," haythorne said. the woman refilled his mug, at the same time breaking into light laughter. "you're gossiping like a pair of beldames," she chided them. "it's so interesting," messner smiled at her, then returned to the doctor. "the husband seems then to have had a not very savory reputation in san francisco?" "on the contrary, he was a moral prig," haythorne blurted out, with apparently undue warmth. "he was a little scholastic shrimp without a drop of red blood in his body." "did you know him?" "never laid eyes on him. i never knocked about in university circles." "one side of the shield again," messner said, with an air of weighing the matter judicially. "while he did not amount to much, it is true--that is, physically--i'd hardly say he was as bad as all that. he did take an active interest in student athletics. and he had some talent. he once wrote a nativity play that brought him quite a bit of local appreciation. i have heard, also, that he was slated for the head of the english department, only the affair happened and he resigned and went away. it quite broke his career, or so it seemed. at any rate, on our side the shield, it was considered a knock-out blow to him. it was thought he cared a great deal for his wife." haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly and lighted his pipe. "it was fortunate they had no children," messner continued. but haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens. "i'm going out to get some wood," he said. "then i can take off my moccasins and he comfortable." the door slammed behind him. for a long minute there was silence. the man continued in the same position on the bed. the woman sat on the grub- box, facing him. "what are you going to do?" she asked abruptly. messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "what do you think i ought to do? nothing scenic, i hope. you see i am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful." she gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly. "but--" she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped. "i hope you don't want me to kill mr.--er--haythorne," he said gently, almost pleadingly. "it would be most distressing, and, i assure you, really it is unnecessary." "but you must do something," she cried. "on the contrary, it is quite conceivable that i do not have to do anything." "you would stay here?" he nodded. she glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. "night is coming on. you can't stop here. you can't! i tell you, you simply can't!" "of course i can. i might remind you that i found this cabin first and that you are my guests." again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk. "then we'll have to go," she announced decisively. "impossible. you have a dry, hacking cough--the sort mr.--er--haythorne so aptly described. you've already slightly chilled your lungs. besides, he is a physician and knows. he would never permit it." "then what are you going to do?" she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded an outbreak. messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse it. "my dear theresa, as i told you before, i don't know. i really haven't thought about it." "oh! you drive me mad!" she sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath. "you never used to be this way." "i used to be all softness and gentleness," he nodded concurrence. "was that why you left me?" "you are so different, so dreadfully calm. you frighten me. i feel you have something terrible planned all the while. but whatever you do, don't do anything rash. don't get excited--" "i don't get excited any more," he interrupted. "not since you went away." "you have improved--remarkably," she retorted. he smiled acknowledgment. "while i am thinking about what i shall do, i'll tell you what you will have to do--tell mr.--er--haythorne who i am. it may make our stay in this cabin more--may i say, sociable?" "why have you followed me into this frightful country?" she asked irrelevantly. "don't think i came here looking for you, theresa. your vanity shall not be tickled by any such misapprehension. our meeting is wholly fortuitous. i broke with the life academic and i had to go somewhere. to be honest, i came into the klondike because i thought it the place you were least liable to be in." there was a fumbling at the latch, then the door swung in and haythorne entered with an armful of firewood. at the first warning, theresa began casually to clear away the dishes. haythorne went out again after more wood. "why didn't you introduce us?" messner queried. "i'll tell him," she replied, with a toss of her head. "don't think i'm afraid." "i never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything." "and i'm not afraid of confession, either," she said, with softening face and voice. "in your case, i fear, confession is exploitation by indirection, profit- making by ruse, self-aggrandizement at the expense of god." "don't be literary," she pouted, with growing tenderness. "i never did like epigrammatic discussion. besides, i'm not afraid to ask you to forgive me." "there is nothing to forgive, theresa. i really should thank you. true, at first i suffered; and then, with all the graciousness of spring, it dawned upon me that i was happy, very happy. it was a most amazing discovery." "but what if i should return to you?" she asked. "i should" (he looked at her whimsically), "be greatly perturbed." "i am your wife. you know you have never got a divorce." "i see," he meditated. "i have been careless. it will be one of the first things i attend to." she came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "you don't want me, john?" her voice was soft and caressing, her hand rested like a lure. "if i told you i had made a mistake? if i told you that i was very unhappy?--and i am. and i did make a mistake." fear began to grow on messner. he felt himself wilting under the lightly laid hand. the situation was slipping away from him, all his beautiful calmness was going. she looked at him with melting eyes, and he, too, seemed all dew and melting. he felt himself on the edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was drawing him over. "i am coming back to you, john. i am coming back to-day . . . now." as in a nightmare, he strove under the hand. while she talked, he seemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of the lorelei. it was as though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were impinging on his ear-drums. suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her arms attempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door. he was in a panic. "i'll do something desperate!" he cried. "i warned you not to get excited." she laughed mockingly, and went about washing the dishes. "nobody wants you. i was just playing with you. i am happier where i am." but messner did not believe. he remembered her facility in changing front. she had changed front now. it was exploitation by indirection. she was not happy with the other man. she had discovered her mistake. the flame of his ego flared up at the thought. she wanted to come back to him, which was the one thing he did not want. unwittingly, his hand rattled the door-latch. "don't run away," she laughed. "i won't bite you." "i am not running away," he replied with child-like defiance, at the same time pulling on his mittens. "i'm only going to get some water." he gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and opened the door. he looked back at her. "don't forget you're to tell mr.--er--haythorne who i am." messner broke the skin that had formed on the water-hole within the hour, and filled his pails. but he did not return immediately to the cabin. leaving the pails standing in the trail, he walked up and down, rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit into the flesh like fire. his beard was white with his frozen breath when the perplexed and frowning brows relaxed and decision came into his face. he had made up his mind to his course of action, and his frigid lips and cheeks crackled into a chuckle over it. the pails were already skinned over with young ice when he picked them up and made for the cabin. when he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near the stove, a certain stiff awkwardness and indecision in his manner. messner set down his water-pails. "glad to meet you, graham womble," he said in conventional tones, as though acknowledging an introduction. messner did not offer his hand. womble stirred uneasily, feeling for the other the hatred one is prone to feel for one he has wronged. "and so you're the chap," messner said in marvelling accents. "well, well. you see, i really am glad to meet you. i have been--er--curious to know what theresa found in you--where, i may say, the attraction lay. well, well." and he looked the other up and down as a man would look a horse up and down. "i know how you must feel about me," womble began. "don't mention it," messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality of voice and manner. "never mind that. what i want to know is how do you find her? up to expectations? has she worn well? life been all a happy dream ever since?" "don't be silly," theresa interjected. "i can't help being natural," messner complained. "you can be expedient at the same time, and practical," womble said sharply. "what we want to know is what are you going to do?" messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness. "i really don't know. it is one of those impossible situations against which there can be no provision." "all three of us cannot remain the night in this cabin." messner nodded affirmation. "then somebody must get out." "that also is incontrovertible," messner agreed. "when three bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out." "and you're that one," womble announced grimly. "it's a ten-mile pull to the next camp, but you can make it all right." "and that's the first flaw in your reasoning," the other objected. "why, necessarily, should i be the one to get out? i found this cabin first." "but tess can't get out," womble explained. "her lungs are already slightly chilled." "i agree with you. she can't venture ten miles of frost. by all means she must remain." "then it is as i said," womble announced with finality. messner cleared his throat. "your lungs are all right, aren't they?" "yes, but what of it?" again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and judicial slowness. "why, i may say, nothing of it, except, ah, according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles. you can make it all right." womble looked with quick suspicion at theresa and caught in her eyes a glint of pleased surprise. "well?" he demanded of her. she hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. he turned upon messner. "enough of this. you can't stop here." "yes, i can." "i won't let you." womble squared his shoulders. "i'm running things." "i'll stay anyway," the other persisted. "i'll put you out." "i'll come back." womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself. then he spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice. "look here, messner, if you refuse to get out, i'll thrash you. this isn't california. i'll beat you to a jelly with my two fists." messner shrugged his shoulders. "if you do, i'll call a miners' meeting and see you strung up to the nearest tree. as you said, this is not california. they're a simple folk, these miners, and all i'll have to do will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth about you, and present my claim for my wife." the woman attempted to speak, but womble turned upon her fiercely. "you keep out of this," he cried. in marked contrast was messner's "please don't intrude, theresa." what of her anger and pent feelings, her lungs were irritated into the dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one hand clenched against her chest, she waited for the paroxysm to pass. womble looked gloomily at her, noting her cough. "something must be done," he said. "yet her lungs can't stand the exposure. she can't travel till the temperature rises. and i'm not going to give her up." messner hemmed, cleared his throat, and hemmed again, semi-apologetically, and said, "i need some money." contempt showed instantly in womble's face. at last, beneath him in vileness, had the other sunk himself. "you've got a fat sack of dust," messner went on. "i saw you unload it from the sled." "how much do you want?" womble demanded, with a contempt in his voice equal to that in his face. "i made an estimate of the sack, and i--ah--should say it weighed about twenty pounds. what do you say we call it four thousand?" "but it's all i've got, man!" womble cried out. "you've got her," the other said soothingly. "she must be worth it. think what i'm giving up. surely it is a reasonable price." "all right." womble rushed across the floor to the gold-sack. "can't put this deal through too quick for me, you--you little worm!" "now, there you err," was the smiling rejoinder. "as a matter of ethics isn't the man who gives a bribe as bad as the man who takes a bribe? the receiver is as bad as the thief, you know; and you needn't console yourself with any fictitious moral superiority concerning this little deal." "to hell with your ethics!" the other burst out. "come here and watch the weighing of this dust. i might cheat you." and the woman, leaning against the bunk, raging and impotent, watched herself weighed out in yellow dust and nuggets in the scales erected on the grub-box. the scales were small, making necessary many weighings, and messner with precise care verified each weighing. "there's too much silver in it," he remarked as he tied up the gold-sack. "i don't think it will run quite sixteen to the ounce. you got a trifle the better of me, womble." he handled the sack lovingly, and with due appreciation of its preciousness carried it out to his sled. returning, he gathered his pots and pans together, packed his grub-box, and rolled up his bed. when the sled was lashed and the complaining dogs harnessed, he returned into the cabin for his mittens. "good-by, tess," he said, standing at the open door. she turned on him, struggling for speech but too frantic to word the passion that burned in her. "good-by, tess," he repeated gently. "beast!" she managed to articulate. she turned and tottered to the bunk, flinging herself face down upon it, sobbing: "you beasts! you beasts!" john messner closed the door softly behind him, and, as he started the dogs, looked back at the cabin with a great relief in his face. at the bottom of the bank, beside the water-hole, he halted the sled. he worked the sack of gold out between the lashings and carried it to the water- hole. already a new skin of ice had formed. this he broke with his fist. untying the knotted mouth with his teeth, he emptied the contents of the sack into the water. the river was shallow at that point, and two feet beneath the surface he could see the bottom dull-yellow in the fading light. at the sight of it, he spat into the hole. he started the dogs along the yukon trail. whining spiritlessly, they were reluctant to work. clinging to the gee-pole with his right band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbled over the rope as the dogs swung on a bend. "mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!" he cried. "that's it, mush-on!" the white man's way "to cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night," i had announced on entering old ebbits's cabin; and he had looked at me blear- eyed and vacuous, while zilla had favored me with a sour face and a contemptuous grunt. zilla was his wife, and no more bitter-tongued, implacable old squaw dwelt on the yukon. nor would i have stopped there had my dogs been less tired or had the rest of the village been inhabited. but this cabin alone had i found occupied, and in this cabin, perforce, i took my shelter. old ebbits now and again pulled his tangled wits together, and hints and sparkles of intelligence came and went in his eyes. several times during the preparation of my supper he even essayed hospitable inquiries about my health, the condition and number of my dogs, and the distance i had travelled that day. and each time zilla had looked sourer than ever and grunted more contemptuously. yet i confess that there was no particular call for cheerfulness on their part. there they crouched by the fire, the pair of them, at the end of their days, old and withered and helpless, racked by rheumatism, bitten by hunger, and tantalized by the frying-odors of my abundance of meat. they rocked back and forth in a slow and hopeless way, and regularly, once every five minutes, ebbits emitted a low groan. it was not so much a groan of pain, as of pain-weariness. he was oppressed by the weight and the torment of this thing called life, and still more was he oppressed by the fear of death. his was that eternal tragedy of the aged, with whom the joy of life has departed and the instinct for death has not come. when my moose-meat spluttered rowdily in the frying-pan, i noticed old ebbits's nostrils twitch and distend as he caught the food-scent. he ceased rocking for a space and forgot to groan, while a look of intelligence seemed to come into his face. zilla, on the other hand, rocked more rapidly, and for the first time, in sharp little yelps, voiced her pain. it came to me that their behavior was like that of hungry dogs, and in the fitness of things i should not have been astonished had zilla suddenly developed a tail and thumped it on the floor in right doggish fashion. ebbits drooled a little and stopped his rocking very frequently to lean forward and thrust his tremulous nose nearer to the source of gustatory excitement. when i passed them each a plate of the fried meat, they ate greedily, making loud mouth-noises--champings of worn teeth and sucking intakes of the breath, accompanied by a continuous spluttering and mumbling. after that, when i gave them each a mug of scalding tea, the noises ceased. easement and content came into their faces. zilla relaxed her sour mouth long enough to sigh her satisfaction. neither rocked any more, and they seemed to have fallen into placid meditation. then a dampness came into ebbits's eyes, and i knew that the sorrow of self-pity was his. the search required to find their pipes told plainly that they had been without tobacco a long time, and the old man's eagerness for the narcotic rendered him helpless, so that i was compelled to light his pipe for him. "why are you all alone in the village?" i asked. "is everybody dead? has there been a great sickness? are you alone left of the living?" old ebbits shook his head, saying: "nay, there has been no great sickness. the village has gone away to hunt meat. we be too old, our legs are not strong, nor can our backs carry the burdens of camp and trail. wherefore we remain here and wonder when the young men will return with meat." "what if the young men do return with meat?" zilla demanded harshly. "they may return with much meat," he quavered hopefully. "even so, with much meat," she continued, more harshly than before. "but of what worth to you and me? a few bones to gnaw in our toothless old age. but the back-fat, the kidneys, and the tongues--these shall go into other mouths than thine and mine, old man." ebbits nodded his head and wept silently. "there be no one to hunt meat for us," she cried, turning fiercely upon me. there was accusation in her manner, and i shrugged my shoulders in token that i was not guilty of the unknown crime imputed to me. "know, o white man, that it is because of thy kind, because of all white men, that my man and i have no meat in our old age and sit without tobacco in the cold." "nay," ebbits said gravely, with a stricter sense of justice. "wrong has been done us, it be true; but the white men did not mean the wrong." "where be moklan?" she demanded. "where be thy strong son, moklan, and the fish he was ever willing to bring that you might eat?" the old man shook his head. "and where be bidarshik, thy strong son? ever was he a mighty hunter, and ever did he bring thee the good back-fat and the sweet dried tongues of the moose and the caribou. i see no back-fat and no sweet dried tongues. your stomach is full with emptiness through the days, and it is for a man of a very miserable and lying people to give you to eat." "nay," old ebbits interposed in kindliness, "the white man's is not a lying people. the white man speaks true. always does the white man speak true." he paused, casting about him for words wherewith to temper the severity of what he was about to say. "but the white man speaks true in different ways. to-day he speaks true one way, to-morrow he speaks true another way, and there is no understanding him nor his way." "to-day speak true one way, to-morrow speak true another way, which is to lie," was zilla's dictum. "there is no understanding the white man," ebbits went on doggedly. the meat, and the tea, and the tobacco seemed to have brought him back to life, and he gripped tighter hold of the idea behind his age-bleared eyes. he straightened up somewhat. his voice lost its querulous and whimpering note, and became strong and positive. he turned upon me with dignity, and addressed me as equal addresses equal. "the white man's eyes are not shut," he began. "the white man sees all things, and thinks greatly, and is very wise. but the white man of one day is not the white man of next day, and there is no understanding him. he does not do things always in the same way. and what way his next way is to be, one cannot know. always does the indian do the one thing in the one way. always does the moose come down from the high mountains when the winter is here. always does the salmon come in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river. always does everything do all things in the same way, and the indian knows and understands. but the white man does not do all things in the same way, and the indian does not know nor understand. "tobacco be very good. it be food to the hungry man. it makes the strong man stronger, and the angry man to forget that he is angry. also is tobacco of value. it is of very great value. the indian gives one large salmon for one leaf of tobacco, and he chews the tobacco for a long time. it is the juice of the tobacco that is good. when it runs down his throat it makes him feel good inside. but the white man! when his mouth is full with the juice, what does he do? that juice, that juice of great value, he spits it out in the snow and it is lost. does the white man like tobacco? i do not know. but if he likes tobacco, why does he spit out its value and lose it in the snow? it is a great foolishness and without understanding." he ceased, puffed at the pipe, found that it was out, and passed it over to zilla, who took the sneer at the white man off her lips in order to pucker them about the pipe-stem. ebbits seemed sinking back into his senility with the tale untold, and i demanded: "what of thy sons, moklan and bidarshik? and why is it that you and your old woman are without meat at the end of your years?" he roused himself as from sleep, and straightened up with an effort. "it is not good to steal," he said. "when the dog takes your meat you beat the dog with a club. such is the law. it is the law the man gave to the dog, and the dog must live to the law, else will it suffer the pain of the club. when man takes your meat, or your canoe, or your wife, you kill that man. that is the law, and it is a good law. it is not good to steal, wherefore it is the law that the man who steals must die. whoso breaks the law must suffer hurt. it is a great hurt to die." "but if you kill the man, why do you not kill the dog?" i asked. old ebbits looked at me in childlike wonder, while zilla sneered openly at the absurdity of my question. "it is the way of the white man," ebbits mumbled with an air of resignation. "it is the foolishness of the white man," snapped zilla. "then let old ebbits teach the white man wisdom," i said softly. "the dog is not killed, because it must pull the sled of the man. no man pulls another man's sled, wherefore the man is killed." "oh," i murmured. "that is the law," old ebbits went on. "now listen, o white man, and i will tell you of a great foolishness. there is an indian. his name is mobits. from white man he steals two pounds of flour. what does the white man do? does he beat mobits? no. does he kill mobits? no. what does he do to mobits? i will tell you, o white man. he has a house. he puts mobits in that house. the roof is good. the walls are thick. he makes a fire that mobits may be warm. he gives mobits plenty grub to eat. it is good grub. never in his all days does mobits eat so good grub. there is bacon, and bread, and beans without end. mobits have very good time. "there is a big lock on door so that mobits does not run away. this also is a great foolishness. mobits will not run away. all the time is there plenty grub in that place, and warm blankets, and a big fire. very foolish to run away. mobits is not foolish. three months mobits stop in that place. he steal two pounds of flour. for that, white man take plenty good care of him. mobits eat many pounds of flour, many pounds of sugar, of bacon, of beans without end. also, mobits drink much tea. after three months white man open door and tell mobits he must go. mobits does not want to go. he is like dog that is fed long time in one place. he want to stay in that place, and the white man must drive mobits away. so mobits come back to this village, and he is very fat. that is the white man's way, and there is no understanding it. it is a foolishness, a great foolishness." "but thy sons?" i insisted. "thy very strong sons and thine old-age hunger?" "there was moklan," ebbits began. "a strong man," interrupted the mother. "he could dip paddle all of a day and night and never stop for the need of rest. he was wise in the way of the salmon and in the way of the water. he was very wise." "there was moklan," ebbits repeated, ignoring the interruption. "in the spring, he went down the yukon with the young men to trade at cambell fort. there is a post there, filled with the goods of the white man, and a trader whose name is jones. likewise is there a white man's medicine man, what you call missionary. also is there bad water at cambell fort, where the yukon goes slim like a maiden, and the water is fast, and the currents rush this way and that and come together, and there are whirls and sucks, and always are the currents changing and the face of the water changing, so at any two times it is never the same. moklan is my son, wherefore he is brave man--" "was not my father brave man?" zilla demanded. "thy father was brave man," ebbits acknowledged, with the air of one who will keep peace in the house at any cost. "moklan is thy son and mine, wherefore he is brave. mayhap, because of thy very brave father, moklan is too brave. it is like when too much water is put in the pot it spills over. so too much bravery is put into moklan, and the bravery spills over. "the young men are much afraid of the bad water at cambell fort. but moklan is not afraid. he laughs strong, ho! ho! and he goes forth into the bad water. but where the currents come together the canoe is turned over. a whirl takes moklan by the legs, and he goes around and around, and down and down, and is seen no more." "ai! ai!" wailed zilla. "crafty and wise was he, and my first-born!" "i am the father of moklan," ebbits said, having patiently given the woman space for her noise. "i get into canoe and journey down to cambell fort to collect the debt!" "debt!" interrupted. "what debt?" "the debt of jones, who is chief trader," came the answer. "such is the law of travel in a strange country." i shook my head in token of my ignorance, and ebbits looked compassion at me, while zilla snorted her customary contempt. "look you, o white man," he said. "in thy camp is a dog that bites. when the dog bites a man, you give that man a present because you are sorry and because it is thy dog. you make payment. is it not so? also, if you have in thy country bad hunting, or bad water, you must make payment. it is just. it is the law. did not my father's brother go over into the tanana country and get killed by a bear? and did not the tanana tribe pay my father many blankets and fine furs? it was just. it was bad hunting, and the tanana people made payment for the bad hunting. "so i, ebbits, journeyed down to cambell fort to collect the debt. jones, who is chief trader, looked at me, and he laughed. he made great laughter, and would not give payment. i went to the medicine-man, what you call missionary, and had large talk about the bad water and the payment that should be mine. and the missionary made talk about other things. he talk about where moklan has gone, now he is dead. there be large fires in that place, and if missionary make true talk, i know that moklan will be cold no more. also the missionary talk about where i shall go when i am dead. and he say bad things. he say that i am blind. which is a lie. he say that i am in great darkness. which is a lie. and i say that the day come and the night come for everybody just the same, and that in my village it is no more dark than at cambell fort. also, i say that darkness and light and where we go when we die be different things from the matter of payment of just debt for bad water. then the missionary make large anger, and call me bad names of darkness, and tell me to go away. and so i come back from cambell fort, and no payment has been made, and moklan is dead, and in my old age i am without fish and meat." "because of the white man," said zilla. "because of the white man," ebbits concurred. "and other things because of the white man. there was bidarshik. one way did the white man deal with him; and yet another way for the same thing did the white man deal with yamikan. and first must i tell you of yamikan, who was a young man of this village and who chanced to kill a white man. it is not good to kill a man of another people. always is there great trouble. it was not the fault of yamikan that he killed the white man. yamikan spoke always soft words and ran away from wrath as a dog from a stick. but this white man drank much whiskey, and in the night-time came to yamikan's house and made much fight. yamikan cannot run away, and the white man tries to kill him. yamikan does not like to die, so he kills the white man. "then is all the village in great trouble. we are much afraid that we must make large payment to the white man's people, and we hide our blankets, and our furs, and all our wealth, so that it will seem that we are poor people and can make only small payment. after long time white men come. they are soldier white men, and they take yamikan away with them. his mother make great noise and throw ashes in her hair, for she knows yamikan is dead. and all the village knows that yamikan is dead, and is glad that no payment is asked. "that is in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river. one year go by, two years go by. it is spring-time again, and the ice has gone out of the river. and then yamikan, who is dead, comes back to us, and he is not dead, but very fat, and we know that he has slept warm and had plenty grub to eat. he has much fine clothes and is all the same white man, and he has gathered large wisdom so that he is very quick head man in the village. "and he has strange things to tell of the way of the white man, for he has seen much of the white man and done a great travel into the white man's country. first place, soldier white men take him down the river long way. all the way do they take him down the river to the end, where it runs into a lake which is larger than all the land and large as the sky. i do not know the yukon is so big river, but yamikan has seen with his own eyes. i do not think there is a lake larger than all the land and large as the sky, but yamikan has seen. also, he has told me that the waters of this lake be salt, which is a strange thing and beyond understanding. "but the white man knows all these marvels for himself, so i shall not weary him with the telling of them. only will i tell him what happened to yamikan. the white man give yamikan much fine grub. all the time does yamikan eat, and all the time is there plenty more grub. the white man lives under the sun, so said yamikan, where there be much warmth, and animals have only hair and no fur, and the green things grow large and strong and become flour, and beans, and potatoes. and under the sun there is never famine. always is there plenty grub. i do not know. yamikan has said. "and here is a strange thing that befell yamikan. never did the white man hurt him. only did they give him warm bed at night and plenty fine grub. they take him across the salt lake which is big as the sky. he is on white man's fire-boat, what you call steamboat, only he is on boat maybe twenty times bigger than steamboat on yukon. also, it is made of iron, this boat, and yet does it not sink. this i do not understand, but yamikan has said, 'i have journeyed far on the iron boat; behold! i am still alive.' it is a white man's soldier-boat with many soldier men upon it. "after many sleeps of travel, a long, long time, yamikan comes to a land where there is no snow. i cannot believe this. it is not in the nature of things that when winter comes there shall be no snow. but yamikan has seen. also have i asked the white men, and they have said yes, there is no snow in that country. but i cannot believe, and now i ask you if snow never come in that country. also, i would hear the name of that country. i have heard the name before, but i would hear it again, if it be the same--thus will i know if i have heard lies or true talk." old ebbits regarded me with a wistful face. he would have the truth at any cost, though it was his desire to retain his faith in the marvel he had never seen. "yes," i answered, "it is true talk that you have heard. there is no snow in that country, and its name is california." "cal-ee-forn-ee-yeh," he mumbled twice and thrice, listening intently to the sound of the syllables as they fell from his lips. he nodded his head in confirmation. "yes, it is the same country of which yamikan made talk." i recognized the adventure of yamikan as one likely to occur in the early days when alaska first passed into the possession of the united states. such a murder case, occurring before the instalment of territorial law and officials, might well have been taken down to the united states for trial before a federal court. "when yamikan is in this country where there is no snow," old ebbits continued, "he is taken to large house where many men make much talk. long time men talk. also many questions do they ask yamikan. by and by they tell yamikan he have no more trouble. yamikan does not understand, for never has he had any trouble. all the time have they given him warm place to sleep and plenty grub. "but after that they give him much better grub, and they give him money, and they take him many places in white man's country, and he see many strange things which are beyond the understanding of ebbits, who is an old man and has not journeyed far. after two years, yamikan comes back to this village, and he is head man, and very wise until he dies. "but before he dies, many times does he sit by my fire and make talk of the strange things he has seen. and bidarshik, who is my son, sits by the fire and listens; and his eyes are very wide and large because of the things he hears. one night, after yamikan has gone home, bidarshik stands up, so, very tall, and he strikes his chest with his fist, and says, 'when i am a man, i shall journey in far places, even to the land where there is no snow, and see things for myself.'" "always did bidarshik journey in far places," zilla interrupted proudly. "it be true," ebbits assented gravely. "and always did he return to sit by the fire and hunger for yet other and unknown far places." "and always did he remember the salt lake as big as the sky and the country under the sun where there is no snow," quoth zilla. "and always did he say, 'when i have the full strength of a man, i will go and see for myself if the talk of yamikan be true talk,'" said ebbits. "but there was no way to go to the white man's country," said zilla. "did he not go down to the salt lake that is big as the sky?" ebbits demanded. "and there was no way for him across the salt lake," said zilla. "save in the white man's fire-boat which is of iron and is bigger than twenty steamboats on the yukon," said ebbits. he scowled at zilla, whose withered lips were again writhing into speech, and compelled her to silence. "but the white man would not let him cross the salt lake in the fire-boat, and he returned to sit by the fire and hunger for the country under the sun where there is no snow.'" "yet on the salt lake had he seen the fire-boat of iron that did not sink," cried out zilla the irrepressible. "ay," said ebbits, "and he saw that yamikan had made true talk of the things he had seen. but there was no way for bidarshik to journey to the white man's land under the sun, and he grew sick and weary like an old man and moved not away from the fire. no longer did he go forth to kill meat--" "and no longer did he eat the meat placed before him," zilla broke in. "he would shake his head and say, 'only do i care to eat the grub of the white man and grow fat after the manner of yamikan.'" "and he did not eat the meat," ebbits went on. "and the sickness of bidarshik grew into a great sickness until i thought he would die. it was not a sickness of the body, but of the head. it was a sickness of desire. i, ebbits, who am his father, make a great think. i have no more sons and i do not want bidarshik to die. it is a head-sickness, and there is but one way to make it well. bidarshik must journey across the lake as large as the sky to the land where there is no snow, else will he die. i make a very great think, and then i see the way for bidarshik to go. "so, one night when he sits by the fire, very sick, his head hanging down, i say, 'my son, i have learned the way for you to go to the white man's land.' he looks at me, and his face is glad. 'go,' i say, 'even as yamikan went.' but bidarshik is sick and does not understand. 'go forth,' i say, 'and find a white man, and, even as yamikan, do you kill that white man. then will the soldier white men come and get you, and even as they took yamikan will they take you across the salt lake to the white man's land. and then, even as yamikan, will you return very fat, your eyes full of the things you have seen, your head filled with wisdom.' "and bidarshik stands up very quick, and his hand is reaching out for his gun. 'where do you go?' i ask. 'to kill the white man,' he says. and i see that my words have been good in the ears of bidarshik and that he will grow well again. also do i know that my words have been wise. "there is a white man come to this village. he does not seek after gold in the ground, nor after furs in the forest. all the time does he seek after bugs and flies. he does not eat the bugs and flies, then why does he seek after them? i do not know. only do i know that he is a funny white man. also does he seek after the eggs of birds. he does not eat the eggs. all that is inside he takes out, and only does he keep the shell. eggshell is not good to eat. nor does he eat the eggshells, but puts them away in soft boxes where they will not break. he catch many small birds. but he does not eat the birds. he takes only the skins and puts them away in boxes. also does he like bones. bones are not good to eat. and this strange white man likes best the bones of long time ago which he digs out of the ground. "but he is not a fierce white man, and i know he will die very easy; so i say to bidarshik, 'my son, there is the white man for you to kill.' and bidarshik says that my words be wise. so he goes to a place he knows where are many bones in the ground. he digs up very many of these bones and brings them to the strange white man's camp. the white man is made very glad. his face shines like the sun, and he smiles with much gladness as he looks at the bones. he bends his head over, so, to look well at the bones, and then bidarshik strikes him hard on the head, with axe, once, so, and the strange white man kicks and is dead. "'now,' i say to bidarshik, 'will the white soldier men come and take you away to the land under the sun, where you will eat much and grow fat.' bidarshik is happy. already has his sickness gone from him, and he sits by the fire and waits for the coming of the white soldier men. "how was i to know the way of the white man is never twice the same?" the old man demanded, whirling upon me fiercely. "how was i to know that what the white man does yesterday he will not do to-day, and that what he does to-day he will not do to-morrow?" ebbits shook his head sadly. "there is no understanding the white man. yesterday he takes yamikan to the land under the sun and makes him fat with much grub. to-day he takes bidarshik and--what does he do with bidarshik? let me tell you what he does with bidarshik. "i, ebbits, his father, will tell you. he takes bidarshik to cambell fort, and he ties a rope around his neck, so, and, when his feet are no more on the ground, he dies." "ai! ai!" wailed zilla. "and never does he cross the lake large as the sky, nor see the land under the sun where there is no snow." "wherefore," old ebbits said with grave dignity, "there be no one to hunt meat for me in my old age, and i sit hungry by my fire and tell my story to the white man who has given me grub, and strong tea, and tobacco for my pipe." "because of the lying and very miserable white people," zilla proclaimed shrilly. "nay," answered the old man with gentle positiveness. "because of the way of the white man, which is without understanding and never twice the same." the story of keesh keesh lived long ago on the rim of the polar sea, was head man of his village through many and prosperous years, and died full of honors with his name on the lips of men. so long ago did he live that only the old men remember his name, his name and the tale, which they got from the old men before them, and which the old men to come will tell to their children and their children's children down to the end of time. and the winter darkness, when the north gales make their long sweep across the ice-pack, and the air is filled with flying white, and no man may venture forth, is the chosen time for the telling of how keesh, from the poorest _igloo_ in the village, rose to power and place over them all. he was a bright boy, so the tale runs, healthy and strong, and he had seen thirteen suns, in their way of reckoning time. for each winter the sun leaves the land in darkness, and the next year a new sun returns so that they may be warm again and look upon one another's faces. the father of keesh had been a very brave man, but he had met his death in a time of famine, when he sought to save the lives of his people by taking the life of a great polar bear. in his eagerness he came to close grapples with the bear, and his bones were crushed; but the bear had much meat on him and the people were saved. keesh was his only son, and after that keesh lived alone with his mother. but the people are prone to forget, and they forgot the deed of his father; and he being but a boy, and his mother only a woman, they, too, were swiftly forgotten, and ere long came to live in the meanest of all the _igloos_. it was at a council, one night, in the big _igloo_ of klosh-kwan, the chief, that keesh showed the blood that ran in his veins and the manhood that stiffened his back. with the dignity of an elder, he rose to his feet, and waited for silence amid the babble of voices. "it is true that meat be apportioned me and mine," he said. "but it is ofttimes old and tough, this meat, and, moreover, it has an unusual quantity of bones." the hunters, grizzled and gray, and lusty and young, were aghast. the like had never been known before. a child, that talked like a grown man, and said harsh things to their very faces! but steadily and with seriousness, keesh went on. "for that i know my father, bok, was a great hunter, i speak these words. it is said that bok brought home more meat than any of the two best hunters, that with his own hands he attended to the division of it, that with his own eyes he saw to it that the least old woman and the last old man received fair share." "na! na!" the men cried. "put the child out!" "send him off to bed!" "he is no man that he should talk to men and graybeards!" he waited calmly till the uproar died down. "thou hast a wife, ugh-gluk," he said, "and for her dost thou speak. and thou, too, massuk, a mother also, and for them dost thou speak. my mother has no one, save me; wherefore i speak. as i say, though bok be dead because he hunted over-keenly, it is just that i, who am his son, and that ikeega, who is my mother and was his wife, should have meat in plenty so long as there be meat in plenty in the tribe. i, keesh, the son of bok, have spoken." he sat down, his ears keenly alert to the flood of protest and indignation his words had created. "that a boy should speak in council!" old ugh-gluk was mumbling. "shall the babes in arms tell us men the things we shall do?" massuk demanded in a loud voice. "am i a man that i should be made a mock by every child that cries for meat?" the anger boiled a white heat. they ordered him to bed, threatened that he should have no meat at all, and promised him sore beatings for his presumption. keesh's eyes began to flash, and the blood to pound darkly under his skin. in the midst of the abuse he sprang to his feet. "hear me, ye men!" he cried. "never shall i speak in the council again, never again till the men come to me and say, 'it is well, keesh, that thou shouldst speak, it is well and it is our wish.' take this now, ye men, for my last word. bok, my father, was a great hunter. i, too, his son, shall go and hunt the meat that i eat. and be it known, now, that the division of that which i kill shall be fair. and no widow nor weak one shall cry in the night because there is no meat, when the strong men are groaning in great pain for that they have eaten overmuch. and in the days to come there shall be shame upon the strong men who have eaten overmuch. i, keesh, have said it!" jeers and scornful laughter followed him out of the _igloo_, but his jaw was set and he went his way, looking neither to right nor left. the next day he went forth along the shore-line where the ice and the land met together. those who saw him go noted that he carried his bow, with a goodly supply of bone-barbed arrows, and that across his shoulder was his father's big hunting-spear. and there was laughter, and much talk, at the event. it was an unprecedented occurrence. never did boys of his tender age go forth to hunt, much less to hunt alone. also were there shaking of heads and prophetic mutterings, and the women looked pityingly at ikeega, and her face was grave and sad. "he will be back ere long," they said cheeringly. "let him go; it will teach him a lesson," the hunters said. "and he will come back shortly, and he will be meek and soft of speech in the days to follow." but a day passed, and a second, and on the third a wild gale blew, and there was no keesh. ikeega tore her hair and put soot of the seal-oil on her face in token of her grief; and the women assailed the men with bitter words in that they had mistreated the boy and sent him to his death; and the men made no answer, preparing to go in search of the body when the storm abated. early next morning, however, keesh strode into the village. but he came not shamefacedly. across his shoulders he bore a burden of fresh-killed meat. and there was importance in his step and arrogance in his speech. "go, ye men, with the dogs and sledges, and take my trail for the better part of a day's travel," he said. "there is much meat on the ice--a she- bear and two half-grown cubs." ikeega was overcome with joy, but he received her demonstrations in manlike fashion, saying: "come, ikeega, let us eat. and after that i shall sleep, for i am weary." and he passed into their _igloo_ and ate profoundly, and after that slept for twenty running hours. there was much doubt at first, much doubt and discussion. the killing of a polar bear is very dangerous, but thrice dangerous is it, and three times thrice, to kill a mother bear with her cubs. the men could not bring themselves to believe that the boy keesh, single-handed, had accomplished so great a marvel. but the women spoke of the fresh-killed meat he had brought on his back, and this was an overwhelming argument against their unbelief. so they finally departed, grumbling greatly that in all probability, if the thing were so, he had neglected to cut up the carcasses. now in the north it is very necessary that this should be done as soon as a kill is made. if not, the meat freezes so solidly as to turn the edge of the sharpest knife, and a three-hundred-pound bear, frozen stiff, is no easy thing to put upon a sled and haul over the rough ice. but arrived at the spot, they found not only the kill, which they had doubted, but that keesh had quartered the beasts in true hunter fashion, and removed the entrails. thus began the mystery of keesh, a mystery that deepened and deepened with the passing of the days. his very next trip he killed a young bear, nearly full-grown, and on the trip following, a large male bear and his mate. he was ordinarily gone from three to four days, though it was nothing unusual for him to stay away a week at a time on the ice-field. always he declined company on these expeditions, and the people marvelled. "how does he do it?" they demanded of one another. "never does he take a dog with him, and dogs are of such great help, too." "why dost thou hunt only bear?" klosh-kwan once ventured to ask him. and keesh made fitting answer. "it is well known that there is more meat on the bear," he said. but there was also talk of witchcraft in the village. "he hunts with evil spirits," some of the people contended, "wherefore his hunting is rewarded. how else can it be, save that he hunts with evil spirits?" "mayhap they be not evil, but good, these spirits," others said. "it is known that his father was a mighty hunter. may not his father hunt with him so that he may attain excellence and patience and understanding? who knows?" none the less, his success continued, and the less skilful hunters were often kept busy hauling in his meat. and in the division of it he was just. as his father had done before him, he saw to it that the least old woman and the last old man received a fair portion, keeping no more for himself than his needs required. and because of this, and of his merit as a hunter, he was looked upon with respect, and even awe; and there was talk of making him chief after old klosh-kwan. because of the things he had done, they looked for him to appear again in the council, but he never came, and they were ashamed to ask. "i am minded to build me an _igloo_," he said one day to klosh-kwan and a number of the hunters. "it shall be a large _igloo_, wherein ikeega and i can dwell in comfort." "ay," they nodded gravely. "but i have no time. my business is hunting, and it takes all my time. so it is but just that the men and women of the village who eat my meat should build me my _igloo_." and the _igloo_ was built accordingly, on a generous scale which exceeded even the dwelling of klosh-kwan. keesh and his mother moved into it, and it was the first prosperity she had enjoyed since the death of bok. nor was material prosperity alone hers, for, because of her wonderful son and the position he had given her, she came to be looked upon as the first woman in all the village; and the women were given to visiting her, to asking her advice, and to quoting her wisdom when arguments arose among themselves or with the men. but it was the mystery of keesh's marvellous hunting that took chief place in all their minds. and one day ugh-gluk taxed him with witchcraft to his face. "it is charged," ugh-gluk said ominously, "that thou dealest with evil spirits, wherefore thy hunting is rewarded." "is not the meat good?" keesh made answer. "has one in the village yet to fall sick from the eating of it? how dost thou know that witchcraft be concerned? or dost thou guess, in the dark, merely because of the envy that consumes thee?" and ugh-gluk withdrew discomfited, the women laughing at him as he walked away. but in the council one night, after long deliberation, it was determined to put spies on his track when he went forth to hunt, so that his methods might be learned. so, on his next trip, bim and bawn, two young men, and of hunters the craftiest, followed after him, taking care not to be seen. after five days they returned, their eyes bulging and their tongues a-tremble to tell what they had seen. the council was hastily called in klosh-kwan's dwelling, and bim took up the tale. "brothers! as commanded, we journeyed on the trail of keesh, and cunningly we journeyed, so that he might not know. and midway of the first day he picked up with a great he-bear. it was a very great bear." "none greater," bawn corroborated, and went on himself. "yet was the bear not inclined to fight, for he turned away and made off slowly over the ice. this we saw from the rocks of the shore, and the bear came toward us, and after him came keesh, very much unafraid. and he shouted harsh words after the bear, and waved his arms about, and made much noise. then did the bear grow angry, and rise up on his hind legs, and growl. but keesh walked right up to the bear." "ay," bim continued the story. "right up to the bear keesh walked. and the bear took after him, and keesh ran away. but as he ran he dropped a little round ball on the ice. and the bear stopped and smelled of it, then swallowed it up. and keesh continued to run away and drop little round balls, and the bear continued to swallow them up." exclamations and cries of doubt were being made, and ugh-gluk expressed open unbelief. "with our own eyes we saw it," bim affirmed. and bawn--"ay, with our own eyes. and this continued until the bear stood suddenly upright and cried aloud in pain, and thrashed his fore paws madly about. and keesh continued to make off over the ice to a safe distance. but the bear gave him no notice, being occupied with the misfortune the little round balls had wrought within him." "ay, within him," bim interrupted. "for he did claw at himself, and leap about over the ice like a playful puppy, save from the way he growled and squealed it was plain it was not play but pain. never did i see such a sight!" "nay, never was such a sight seen," bawn took up the strain. "and furthermore, it was such a large bear." "witchcraft," ugh-gluk suggested. "i know not," bawn replied. "i tell only of what my eyes beheld. and after a while the bear grew weak and tired, for he was very heavy and he had jumped about with exceeding violence, and he went off along the shore- ice, shaking his head slowly from side to side and sitting down ever and again to squeal and cry. and keesh followed after the bear, and we followed after keesh, and for that day and three days more we followed. the bear grew weak, and never ceased crying from his pain." "it was a charm!" ugh-gluk exclaimed. "surely it was a charm!" "it may well be." and bim relieved bawn. "the bear wandered, now this way and now that, doubling back and forth and crossing his trail in circles, so that at the end he was near where keesh had first come upon him. by this time he was quite sick, the bear, and could crawl no farther, so keesh came up close and speared him to death." "and then?" klosh-kwan demanded. "then we left keesh skinning the bear, and came running that the news of the killing might be told." and in the afternoon of that day the women hauled in the meat of the bear while the men sat in council assembled. when keesh arrived a messenger was sent to him, bidding him come to the council. but he sent reply, saying that he was hungry and tired; also that his _igloo_ was large and comfortable and could hold many men. and curiosity was so strong on the men that the whole council, klosh-kwan to the fore, rose up and went to the _igloo_ of keesh. he was eating, but he received them with respect and seated them according to their rank. ikeega was proud and embarrassed by turns, but keesh was quite composed. klosh-kwan recited the information brought by bim and bawn, and at its close said in a stern voice: "so explanation is wanted, o keesh, of thy manner of hunting. is there witchcraft in it?" keesh looked up and smiled. "nay, o klosh-kwan. it is not for a boy to know aught of witches, and of witches i know nothing. i have but devised a means whereby i may kill the ice-bear with ease, that is all. it be headcraft, not witchcraft." "and may any man?" "any man." there was a long silence. the men looked in one another's faces, and keesh went on eating. "and . . . and . . . and wilt thou tell us, o keesh?" klosh-kwan finally asked in a tremulous voice. "yea, i will tell thee." keesh finished sucking a marrow-bone and rose to his feet. "it is quite simple. behold!" he picked up a thin strip of whalebone and showed it to them. the ends were sharp as needle-points. the strip he coiled carefully, till it disappeared in his hand. then, suddenly releasing it, it sprang straight again. he picked up a piece of blubber. "so," he said, "one takes a small chunk of blubber, thus, and thus makes it hollow. then into the hollow goes the whalebone, so, tightly coiled, and another piece of blubber is fitted over the whale-bone. after that it is put outside where it freezes into a little round ball. the bear swallows the little round ball, the blubber melts, the whalebone with its sharp ends stands out straight, the bear gets sick, and when the bear is very sick, why, you kill him with a spear. it is quite simple." and ugh-gluk said "oh!" and klosh-kwan said "ah!" and each said something after his own manner, and all understood. and this is the story of keesh, who lived long ago on the rim of the polar sea. because he exercised headcraft and not witchcraft, he rose from the meanest _igloo_ to be head man of his village, and through all the years that he lived, it is related, his tribe was prosperous, and neither widow nor weak one cried aloud in the night because there was no meat. the unexpected it is a simple matter to see the obvious, to do the expected. the tendency of the individual life is to be static rather than dynamic, and this tendency is made into a propulsion by civilization, where the obvious only is seen, and the unexpected rarely happens. when the unexpected does happen, however, and when it is of sufficiently grave import, the unfit perish. they do not see what is not obvious, are unable to do the unexpected, are incapable of adjusting their well-grooved lives to other and strange grooves. in short, when they come to the end of their own groove, they die. on the other hand, there are those that make toward survival, the fit individuals who escape from the rule of the obvious and the expected and adjust their lives to no matter what strange grooves they may stray into, or into which they may be forced. such an individual was edith whittlesey. she was born in a rural district of england, where life proceeds by rule of thumb and the unexpected is so very unexpected that when it happens it is looked upon as an immorality. she went into service early, and while yet a young woman, by rule-of-thumb progression, she became a lady's maid. the effect of civilization is to impose human law upon environment until it becomes machine-like in its regularity. the objectionable is eliminated, the inevitable is foreseen. one is not even made wet by the rain nor cold by the frost; while death, instead of stalking about grewsome and accidental, becomes a prearranged pageant, moving along a well-oiled groove to the family vault, where the hinges are kept from rusting and the dust from the air is swept continually away. such was the environment of edith whittlesey. nothing happened. it could scarcely be called a happening, when, at the age of twenty-five, she accompanied her mistress on a bit of travel to the united states. the groove merely changed its direction. it was still the same groove and well oiled. it was a groove that bridged the atlantic with uneventfulness, so that the ship was not a ship in the midst of the sea, but a capacious, many-corridored hotel that moved swiftly and placidly, crushing the waves into submission with its colossal bulk until the sea was a mill-pond, monotonous with quietude. and at the other side the groove continued on over the land--a well-disposed, respectable groove that supplied hotels at every stopping-place, and hotels on wheels between the stopping-places. in chicago, while her mistress saw one side of social life, edith whittlesey saw another side; and when she left her lady's service and became edith nelson, she betrayed, perhaps faintly, her ability to grapple with the unexpected and to master it. hans nelson, immigrant, swede by birth and carpenter by occupation, had in him that teutonic unrest that drives the race ever westward on its great adventure. he was a large-muscled, stolid sort of a man, in whom little imagination was coupled with immense initiative, and who possessed, withal, loyalty and affection as sturdy as his own strength. "when i have worked hard and saved me some money, i will go to colorado," he had told edith on the day after their wedding. a year later they were in colorado, where hans nelson saw his first mining and caught the mining- fever himself. his prospecting led him through the dakotas, idaho, and eastern oregon, and on into the mountains of british columbia. in camp and on trail, edith nelson was always with him, sharing his luck, his hardship, and his toil. the short step of the house-reared woman she exchanged for the long stride of the mountaineer. she learned to look upon danger clear-eyed and with understanding, losing forever that panic fear which is bred of ignorance and which afflicts the city-reared, making them as silly as silly horses, so that they await fate in frozen horror instead of grappling with it, or stampede in blind self-destroying terror which clutters the way with their crushed carcasses. edith nelson met the unexpected at every turn of the trail, and she trained her vision so that she saw in the landscape, not the obvious, but the concealed. she, who had never cooked in her life, learned to make bread without the mediation of hops, yeast, or baking-powder, and to bake bread, top and bottom, in a frying-pan before an open fire. and when the last cup of flour was gone and the last rind of bacon, she was able to rise to the occasion, and of moccasins and the softer-tanned bits of leather in the outfit to make a grub-stake substitute that somehow held a man's soul in his body and enabled him to stagger on. she learned to pack a horse as well as a man,--a task to break the heart and the pride of any city-dweller, and she knew how to throw the hitch best suited for any particular kind of pack. also, she could build a fire of wet wood in a downpour of rain and not lose her temper. in short, in all its guises she mastered the unexpected. but the great unexpected was yet to come into her life and put its test upon her. the gold-seeking tide was flooding northward into alaska, and it was inevitable that hans nelson and his wife should he caught up by the stream and swept toward the klondike. the fall of found them at dyea, but without the money to carry an outfit across chilcoot pass and float it down to dawson. so hans nelson worked at his trade that winter and helped rear the mushroom outfitting-town of skaguay. he was on the edge of things, and throughout the winter he heard all alaska calling to him. latuya bay called loudest, so that the summer of found him and his wife threading the mazes of the broken coast-line in seventy-foot siwash canoes. with them were indians, also three other men. the indians landed them and their supplies in a lonely bight of land a hundred miles or so beyond latuya bay, and returned to skaguay; but the three other men remained, for they were members of the organized party. each had put an equal share of capital into the outfitting, and the profits were to be divided equally. in that edith nelson undertook to cook for the outfit, a man's share was to be her portion. first, spruce trees were cut down and a three-room cabin constructed. to keep this cabin was edith nelson's task. the task of the men was to search for gold, which they did; and to find gold, which they likewise did. it was not a startling find, merely a low-pay placer where long hours of severe toil earned each man between fifteen and twenty dollars a day. the brief alaskan summer protracted itself beyond its usual length, and they took advantage of the opportunity, delaying their return to skaguay to the last moment. and then it was too late. arrangements had been made to accompany the several dozen local indians on their fall trading trip down the coast. the siwashes had waited on the white people until the eleventh hour, and then departed. there was no course left the party but to wait for chance transportation. in the meantime the claim was cleaned up and firewood stocked in. the indian summer had dreamed on and on, and then, suddenly, with the sharpness of bugles, winter came. it came in a single night, and the miners awoke to howling wind, driving snow, and freezing water. storm followed storm, and between the storms there was the silence, broken only by the boom of the surf on the desolate shore, where the salt spray rimmed the beach with frozen white. all went well in the cabin. their gold-dust had weighed up something like eight thousand dollars, and they could not but be contented. the men made snowshoes, hunted fresh meat for the larder, and in the long evenings played endless games of whist and pedro. now that the mining had ceased, edith nelson turned over the fire-building and the dish-washing to the men, while she darned their socks and mended their clothes. there was no grumbling, no bickering, nor petty quarrelling in the little cabin, and they often congratulated one another on the general happiness of the party. hans nelson was stolid and easy-going, while edith had long before won his unbounded admiration by her capacity for getting on with people. harkey, a long, lank texan, was unusually friendly for one with a saturnine disposition, and, as long as his theory that gold grew was not challenged, was quite companionable. the fourth member of the party, michael dennin, contributed his irish wit to the gayety of the cabin. he was a large, powerful man, prone to sudden rushes of anger over little things, and of unfailing good-humor under the stress and strain of big things. the fifth and last member, dutchy, was the willing butt of the party. he even went out of his way to raise a laugh at his own expense in order to keep things cheerful. his deliberate aim in life seemed to be that of a maker of laughter. no serious quarrel had ever vexed the serenity of the party; and, now that each had sixteen hundred dollars to show for a short summer's work, there reigned the well-fed, contented spirit of prosperity. and then the unexpected happened. they had just sat down to the breakfast table. though it was already eight o'clock (late breakfasts had followed naturally upon cessation of the steady work at mining) a candle in the neck of a bottle lighted the meal. edith and hans sat at each end of the table. on one side, with their backs to the door, sat harkey and dutchy. the place on the other side was vacant. dennin had not yet come in. hans nelson looked at the empty chair, shook his head slowly, and, with a ponderous attempt at humor, said: "always is he first at the grub. it is very strange. maybe he is sick." "where is michael?" edith asked. "got up a little ahead of us and went outside," harkey answered. dutchy's face beamed mischievously. he pretended knowledge of dennin's absence, and affected a mysterious air, while they clamored for information. edith, after a peep into the men's bunk-room, returned to the table. hans looked at her, and she shook her head. "he was never late at meal-time before," she remarked. "i cannot understand," said hans. "always has he the great appetite like the horse." "it is too bad," dutchy said, with a sad shake of his head. they were beginning to make merry over their comrade's absence. "it is a great pity!" dutchy volunteered. "what?" they demanded in chorus. "poor michael," was the mournful reply. "well, what's wrong with michael?" harkey asked. "he is not hungry no more," wailed dutchy. "he has lost der appetite. he do not like der grub." "not from the way he pitches into it up to his ears," remarked harkey. "he does dot shust to be politeful to mrs. nelson," was dutchy's quick retort. "i know, i know, and it is too pad. why is he not here? pecause he haf gone out. why haf he gone out? for der defelopment of der appetite. how does he defelop der appetite? he walks barefoots in der snow. ach! don't i know? it is der way der rich peoples chases after der appetite when it is no more and is running away. michael haf sixteen hundred dollars. he is rich peoples. he haf no appetite. derefore, pecause, he is chasing der appetite. shust you open der door und you will see his barefoots in der snow. no, you will not see der appetite. dot is shust his trouble. when he sees der appetite he will catch it und come to preak-fast." they burst into loud laughter at dutchy's nonsense. the sound had scarcely died away when the door opened and dennin came in. all turned to look at him. he was carrying a shot-gun. even as they looked, he lifted it to his shoulder and fired twice. at the first shot dutchy sank upon the table, overturning his mug of coffee, his yellow mop of hair dabbling in his plate of mush. his forehead, which pressed upon the near edge of the plate, tilted the plate up against his hair at an angle of forty-five degrees. harkey was in the air, in his spring to his feet, at the second shot, and he pitched face down upon the floor, his "my god!" gurgling and dying in his throat. it was the unexpected. hans and edith were stunned. they sat at the table with bodies tense, their eyes fixed in a fascinated gaze upon the murderer. dimly they saw him through the smoke of the powder, and in the silence nothing was to be heard save the drip-drip of dutchy's spilled coffee on the floor. dennin threw open the breech of the shot-gun, ejecting the empty shells. holding the gun with one hand, he reached with the other into his pocket for fresh shells. he was thrusting the shells into the gun when edith nelson was aroused to action. it was patent that he intended to kill hans and her. for a space of possibly three seconds of time she had been dazed and paralysed by the horrible and inconceivable form in which the unexpected had made its appearance. then she rose to it and grappled with it. she grappled with it concretely, making a cat-like leap for the murderer and gripping his neck-cloth with both her hands. the impact of her body sent him stumbling backward several steps. he tried to shake her loose and still retain his hold on the gun. this was awkward, for her firm-fleshed body had become a cat's. she threw herself to one side, and with her grip at his throat nearly jerked him to the floor. he straightened himself and whirled swiftly. still faithful to her hold, her body followed the circle of his whirl so that her feet left the floor, and she swung through the air fastened to his throat by her hands. the whirl culminated in a collision with a chair, and the man and woman crashed to the floor in a wild struggling fall that extended itself across half the length of the room. hans nelson was half a second behind his wife in rising to the unexpected. his nerve processed and mental processes were slower than hers. his was the grosser organism, and it had taken him half a second longer to perceive, and determine, and proceed to do. she had already flown at dennin and gripped his throat, when hans sprang to his feet. but her coolness was not his. he was in a blind fury, a berserker rage. at the instant he sprang from his chair his mouth opened and there issued forth a sound that was half roar, half bellow. the whirl of the two bodies had already started, and still roaring, or bellowing, he pursued this whirl down the room, overtaking it when it fell to the floor. hans hurled himself upon the prostrate man, striking madly with his fists. they were sledge-like blows, and when edith felt dennin's body relax she loosed her grip and rolled clear. she lay on the floor, panting and watching. the fury of blows continued to rain down. dennin did not seem to mind the blows. he did not even move. then it dawned upon her that he was unconscious. she cried out to hans to stop. she cried out again. but he paid no heed to her voice. she caught him by the arm, but her clinging to it merely impeded his effort. it was no reasoned impulse that stirred her to do what she then did. nor was it a sense of pity, nor obedience to the "thou shalt not" of religion. rather was it some sense of law, an ethic of her race and early environment, that compelled her to interpose her body between her husband and the helpless murderer. it was not until hans knew he was striking his wife that he ceased. he allowed himself to be shoved away by her in much the same way that a ferocious but obedient dog allows itself to be shoved away by its master. the analogy went even farther. deep in his throat, in an animal-like way, hans's rage still rumbled, and several times he made as though to spring back upon his prey and was only prevented by the woman's swiftly interposed body. back and farther back edith shoved her husband. she had never seen him in such a condition, and she was more frightened of him than she had been of dennin in the thick of the struggle. she could not believe that this raging beast was her hans, and with a shock she became suddenly aware of a shrinking, instinctive fear that he might snap her hand in his teeth like any wild animal. for some seconds, unwilling to hurt her, yet dogged in his desire to return to the attack, hans dodged back and forth. but she resolutely dodged with him, until the first glimmerings of reason returned and he gave over. both crawled to their feet. hans staggered back against the wall, where he leaned, his face working, in his throat the deep and continuous rumble that died away with the seconds and at last ceased. the time for the reaction had come. edith stood in the middle of the floor, wringing her hands, panting and gasping, her whole body trembling violently. hans looked at nothing, but edith's eyes wandered wildly from detail to detail of what had taken place. dennin lay without movement. the overturned chair, hurled onward in the mad whirl, lay near him. partly under him lay the shot-gun, still broken open at the breech. spilling out of his right hand were the two cartridges which he had failed to put into the gun and which he had clutched until consciousness left him. harkey lay on the floor, face downward, where he had fallen; while dutchy rested forward on the table, his yellow mop of hair buried in his mush- plate, the plate itself still tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees. this tilted plate fascinated her. why did it not fall down? it was ridiculous. it was not in the nature of things for a mush-plate to up- end itself on the table, even if a man or so had been killed. she glanced back at dennin, but her eyes returned to the tilted plate. it was so ridiculous! she felt a hysterical impulse to laugh. then she noticed the silence, and forgot the plate in a desire for something to happen. the monotonous drip of the coffee from the table to the floor merely emphasized the silence. why did not hans do something? say something? she looked at him and was about to speak, when she discovered that her tongue refused its wonted duty. there was a peculiar ache in her throat, and her mouth was dry and furry. she could only look at hans, who, in turn, looked at her. suddenly the silence was broken by a sharp, metallic clang. she screamed, jerking her eyes back to the table. the plate had fallen down. hans sighed as though awakening from sleep. the clang of the plate had aroused them to life in a new world. the cabin epitomized the new world in which they must thenceforth live and move. the old cabin was gone forever. the horizon of life was totally new and unfamiliar. the unexpected had swept its wizardry over the face of things, changing the perspective, juggling values, and shuffling the real and the unreal into perplexing confusion. "my god, hans!" was edith's first speech. he did not answer, but stared at her with horror. slowly his eyes wandered over the room, for the first time taking in its details. then he put on his cap and started for the door. "where are you going?" edith demanded, in an agony of apprehension. his hand was on the door-knob, and he half turned as he answered, "to dig some graves." "don't leave me, hans, with--" her eyes swept the room--"with this." "the graves must be dug sometime," he said. "but you do not know how many," she objected desperately. she noted his indecision, and added, "besides, i'll go with you and help." hans stepped back to the table and mechanically snuffed the candle. then between them they made the examination. both harkey and dutchy were dead--frightfully dead, because of the close range of the shot-gun. hans refused to go near dennin, and edith was forced to conduct this portion of the investigation by herself. "he isn't dead," she called to hans. he walked over and looked down at the murderer. "what did you say?" edith demanded, having caught the rumble of inarticulate speech in her husband's throat. "i said it was a damn shame that he isn't dead," came the reply. edith was bending over the body. "leave him alone," hans commanded harshly, in a strange voice. she looked at him in sudden alarm. he had picked up the shot-gun dropped by dennin and was thrusting in the shells. "what are you going to do?" she cried, rising swiftly from her bending position. hans did not answer, but she saw the shot-gun going to his shoulder. she grasped the muzzle with her hand and threw it up. "leave me alone!" he cried hoarsely. he tried to jerk the weapon away from her, but she came in closer and clung to him. "hans! hans! wake up!" she cried. "don't be crazy!" "he killed dutchy and harkey!" was her husband's reply; "and i am going to kill him." "but that is wrong," she objected. "there is the law." he sneered his incredulity of the law's potency in such a region, but he merely iterated, dispassionately, doggedly, "he killed dutchy and harkey." long she argued it with him, but the argument was one-sided, for he contented himself with repeating again and again, "he killed dutchy and harkey." but she could not escape from her childhood training nor from the blood that was in her. the heritage of law was hers, and right conduct, to her, was the fulfilment of the law. she could see no other righteous course to pursue. hans's taking the law in his own hands was no more justifiable than dennin's deed. two wrongs did not make a right, she contended, and there was only one way to punish dennin, and that was the legal way arranged by society. at last hans gave in to her. "all right," he said. "have it your own way. and to-morrow or next day look to see him kill you and me." she shook her head and held out her hand for the shot-gun. he started to hand it to her, then hesitated. "better let me shoot him," he pleaded. again she shook her head, and again he started to pass her the gun, when the door opened, and an indian, without knocking, came in. a blast of wind and flurry of snow came in with him. they turned and faced him, hans still holding the shot-gun. the intruder took in the scene without a quiver. his eyes embraced the dead and wounded in a sweeping glance. no surprise showed in his face, not even curiosity. harkey lay at his feet, but he took no notice of him. so far as he was concerned, harkey's body did not exist. "much wind," the indian remarked by way of salutation. "all well? very well?" hans, still grasping the gun, felt sure that the indian attributed to him the mangled corpses. he glanced appealingly at his wife. "good morning, negook," she said, her voice betraying her effort. "no, not very well. much trouble." "good-by, i go now, much hurry," the indian said, and without semblance of haste, with great deliberation stepping clear of a red pool on the floor, he opened the door and went out. the man and woman looked at each other. "he thinks we did it," hans gasped, "that i did it." edith was silent for a space. then she said, briefly, in a businesslike way: "never mind what he thinks. that will come after. at present we have two graves to dig. but first of all, we've got to tie up dennin so he can't escape." hans refused to touch dennin, but edith lashed him securely, hand and foot. then she and hans went out into the snow. the ground was frozen. it was impervious to a blow of the pick. they first gathered wood, then scraped the snow away and on the frozen surface built a fire. when the fire had burned for an hour, several inches of dirt had thawed. this they shovelled out, and then built a fresh fire. their descent into the earth progressed at the rate of two or three inches an hour. it was hard and bitter work. the flurrying snow did not permit the fire to burn any too well, while the wind cut through their clothes and chilled their bodies. they held but little conversation. the wind interfered with speech. beyond wondering at what could have been dennin's motive, they remained silent, oppressed by the horror of the tragedy. at one o'clock, looking toward the cabin, hans announced that he was hungry. "no, not now, hans," edith answered. "i couldn't go back alone into that cabin the way it is, and cook a meal." at two o'clock hans volunteered to go with her; but she held him to his work, and four o'clock found the two graves completed. they were shallow, not more than two feet deep, but they would serve the purpose. night had fallen. hans got the sled, and the two dead men were dragged through the darkness and storm to their frozen sepulchre. the funeral procession was anything but a pageant. the sled sank deep into the drifted snow and pulled hard. the man and the woman had eaten nothing since the previous day, and were weak from hunger and exhaustion. they had not the strength to resist the wind, and at times its buffets hurled them off their feet. on several occasions the sled was overturned, and they were compelled to reload it with its sombre freight. the last hundred feet to the graves was up a steep slope, and this they took on all fours, like sled-dogs, making legs of their arms and thrusting their hands into the snow. even so, they were twice dragged backward by the weight of the sled, and slid and fell down the hill, the living and the dead, the haul-ropes and the sled, in ghastly entanglement. "to-morrow i will put up head-boards with their names," hans said, when the graves were filled in. edith was sobbing. a few broken sentences had been all she was capable of in the way of a funeral service, and now her husband was compelled to half-carry her back to the cabin. dennin was conscious. he had rolled over and over on the floor in vain efforts to free himself. he watched hans and edith with glittering eyes, but made no attempt to speak. hans still refused to touch the murderer, and sullenly watched edith drag him across the floor to the men's bunk- room. but try as she would, she could not lift him from the floor into his bunk. "better let me shoot him, and we'll have no more trouble," hans said in final appeal. edith shook her head and bent again to her task. to her surprise the body rose easily, and she knew hans had relented and was helping her. then came the cleansing of the kitchen. but the floor still shrieked the tragedy, until hans planed the surface of the stained wood away and with the shavings made a fire in the stove. the days came and went. there was much of darkness and silence, broken only by the storms and the thunder on the beach of the freezing surf. hans was obedient to edith's slightest order. all his splendid initiative had vanished. she had elected to deal with dennin in her way, and so he left the whole matter in her hands. the murderer was a constant menace. at all times there was the chance that he might free himself from his bonds, and they were compelled to guard him day and night. the man or the woman sat always beside him, holding the loaded shot-gun. at first, edith tried eight-hour watches, but the continuous strain was too great, and afterwards she and hans relieved each other every four hours. as they had to sleep, and as the watches extended through the night, their whole waking time was expended in guarding dennin. they had barely time left over for the preparation of meals and the getting of firewood. since negook's inopportune visit, the indians had avoided the cabin. edith sent hans to their cabins to get them to take dennin down the coast in a canoe to the nearest white settlement or trading post, but the errand was fruitless. then edith went herself and interviewed negook. he was head man of the little village, keenly aware of his responsibility, and he elucidated his policy thoroughly in few words. "it is white man's trouble," he said, "not siwash trouble. my people help you, then will it be siwash trouble too. when white man's trouble and siwash trouble come together and make a trouble, it is a great trouble, beyond understanding and without end. trouble no good. my people do no wrong. what for they help you and have trouble?" so edith nelson went back to the terrible cabin with its endless alternating four-hour watches. sometimes, when it was her turn and she sat by the prisoner, the loaded shot-gun in her lap, her eyes would close and she would doze. always she aroused with a start, snatching up the gun and swiftly looking at him. these were distinct nervous shocks, and their effect was not good on her. such was her fear of the man, that even though she were wide awake, if he moved under the bedclothes she could not repress the start and the quick reach for the gun. she was preparing herself for a nervous break-down, and she knew it. first came a fluttering of the eyeballs, so that she was compelled to close her eyes for relief. a little later the eyelids were afflicted by a nervous twitching that she could not control. to add to the strain, she could not forget the tragedy. she remained as close to the horror as on the first morning when the unexpected stalked into the cabin and took possession. in her daily ministrations upon the prisoner she was forced to grit her teeth and steel herself, body and spirit. hans was affected differently. he became obsessed by the idea that it was his duty to kill dennin; and whenever he waited upon the bound man or watched by him, edith was troubled by the fear that hans would add another red entry to the cabin's record. always he cursed dennin savagely and handled him roughly. hans tried to conceal his homicidal mania, and he would say to his wife: "by and by you will want me to kill him, and then i will not kill him. it would make me sick." but more than once, stealing into the room, when it was her watch off, she would catch the two men glaring ferociously at each other, wild animals the pair of them, in hans's face the lust to kill, in dennin's the fierceness and savagery of the cornered rat. "hans!" she would cry, "wake up!" and he would come to a recollection of himself, startled and shamefaced and unrepentant. so hans became another factor in the problem the unexpected had given edith nelson to solve. at first it had been merely a question of right conduct in dealing with dennin, and right conduct, as she conceived it, lay in keeping him a prisoner until he could be turned over for trial before a proper tribunal. but now entered hans, and she saw that his sanity and his salvation were involved. nor was she long in discovering that her own strength and endurance had become part of the problem. she was breaking down under the strain. her left arm had developed involuntary jerkings and twitchings. she spilled her food from her spoon, and could place no reliance in her afflicted arm. she judged it to be a form of st. vitus's dance, and she feared the extent to which its ravages might go. what if she broke down? and the vision she had of the possible future, when the cabin might contain only dennin and hans, was an added horror. after the third day, dennin had begun to talk. his first question had been, "what are you going to do with me?" and this question he repeated daily and many times a day. and always edith replied that he would assuredly be dealt with according to law. in turn, she put a daily question to him,--"why did you do it?" to this he never replied. also, he received the question with out-bursts of anger, raging and straining at the rawhide that bound him and threatening her with what he would do when he got loose, which he said he was sure to do sooner or later. at such times she cocked both triggers of the gun, prepared to meet him with leaden death if he should burst loose, herself trembling and palpitating and dizzy from the tension and shock. but in time dennin grew more tractable. it seemed to her that he was growing weary of his unchanging recumbent position. he began to beg and plead to be released. he made wild promises. he would do them no harm. he would himself go down the coast and give himself up to the officers of the law. he would give them his share of the gold. he would go away into the heart of the wilderness, and never again appear in civilization. he would take his own life if she would only free him. his pleadings usually culminated in involuntary raving, until it seemed to her that he was passing into a fit; but always she shook her head and denied him the freedom for which he worked himself into a passion. but the weeks went by, and he continued to grow more tractable. and through it all the weariness was asserting itself more and more. "i am so tired, so tired," he would murmur, rolling his head back and forth on the pillow like a peevish child. at a little later period he began to make impassioned pleas for death, to beg her to kill him, to beg hans to put him our of his misery so that he might at least rest comfortably. the situation was fast becoming impossible. edith's nervousness was increasing, and she knew her break-down might come any time. she could not even get her proper rest, for she was haunted by the fear that hans would yield to his mania and kill dennin while she slept. though january had already come, months would have to elapse before any trading schooner was even likely to put into the bay. also, they had not expected to winter in the cabin, and the food was running low; nor could hans add to the supply by hunting. they were chained to the cabin by the necessity of guarding their prisoner. something must be done, and she knew it. she forced herself to go back into a reconsideration of the problem. she could not shake off the legacy of her race, the law that was of her blood and that had been trained into her. she knew that whatever she did she must do according to the law, and in the long hours of watching, the shot-gun on her knees, the murderer restless beside her and the storms thundering without, she made original sociological researches and worked out for herself the evolution of the law. it came to her that the law was nothing more than the judgment and the will of any group of people. it mattered not how large was the group of people. there were little groups, she reasoned, like switzerland, and there were big groups like the united states. also, she reasoned, it did not matter how small was the group of people. there might be only ten thousand people in a country, yet their collective judgment and will would be the law of that country. why, then, could not one thousand people constitute such a group? she asked herself. and if one thousand, why not one hundred? why not fifty? why not five? why not--two? she was frightened at her own conclusion, and she talked it over with hans. at first he could not comprehend, and then, when he did, he added convincing evidence. he spoke of miners' meetings, where all the men of a locality came together and made the law and executed the law. there might be only ten or fifteen men altogether, he said, but the will of the majority became the law for the whole ten or fifteen, and whoever violated that will was punished. edith saw her way clear at last. dennin must hang. hans agreed with her. between them they constituted the majority of this particular group. it was the group-will that dennin should be hanged. in the execution of this will edith strove earnestly to observe the customary forms, but the group was so small that hans and she had to serve as witnesses, as jury, and as judges--also as executioners. she formally charged michael dennin with the murder of dutchy and harkey, and the prisoner lay in his bunk and listened to the testimony, first of hans, and then of edith. he refused to plead guilty or not guilty, and remained silent when she asked him if he had anything to say in his own defence. she and hans, without leaving their seats, brought in the jury's verdict of guilty. then, as judge, she imposed the sentence. her voice shook, her eyelids twitched, her left arm jerked, but she carried it out. "michael dennin, in three days' time you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead." such was the sentence. the man breathed an unconscious sigh of relief, then laughed defiantly, and said, "thin i'm thinkin' the damn bunk won't be achin' me back anny more, an' that's a consolation." with the passing of the sentence a feeling of relief seemed to communicate itself to all of them. especially was it noticeable in dennin. all sullenness and defiance disappeared, and he talked sociably with his captors, and even with flashes of his old-time wit. also, he found great satisfaction in edith's reading to him from the bible. she read from the new testament, and he took keen interest in the prodigal son and the thief on the cross. on the day preceding that set for the execution, when edith asked her usual question, "why did you do it?" dennin answered, "'tis very simple. i was thinkin'--" but she hushed him abruptly, asked him to wait, and hurried to hans's bedside. it was his watch off, and he came out of his sleep, rubbing his eyes and grumbling. "go," she told him, "and bring up negook and one other indian. michael's going to confess. make them come. take the rifle along and bring them up at the point of it if you have to." half an hour later negook and his uncle, hadikwan, were ushered into the death chamber. they came unwillingly, hans with his rifle herding them along. "negook," edith said, "there is to be no trouble for you and your people. only is it for you to sit and do nothing but listen and understand." thus did michael dennin, under sentence of death, make public confession of his crime. as he talked, edith wrote his story down, while the indians listened, and hans guarded the door for fear the witnesses might bolt. he had not been home to the old country for fifteen years, dennin explained, and it had always been his intention to return with plenty of money and make his old mother comfortable for the rest of her days. "an' how was i to be doin' it on sixteen hundred?" he demanded. "what i was after wantin' was all the goold, the whole eight thousan'. thin i cud go back in style. what ud be aisier, thinks i to myself, than to kill all iv yez, report it at skaguay for an indian-killin', an' thin pull out for ireland? an' so i started in to kill all iv yez, but, as harkey was fond of sayin', i cut out too large a chunk an' fell down on the swallowin' iv it. an' that's me confession. i did me duty to the devil, an' now, god willin', i'll do me duty to god." "negook and hadikwan, you have heard the white man's words," edith said to the indians. "his words are here on this paper, and it is for you to make a sign, thus, on the paper, so that white men to come after will know that you have heard." the two siwashes put crosses opposite their signatures, received a summons to appear on the morrow with all their tribe for a further witnessing of things, and were allowed to go. dennin's hands were released long enough for him to sign the document. then a silence fell in the room. hans was restless, and edith felt uncomfortable. dennin lay on his back, staring straight up at the moss- chinked roof. "an' now i'll do me duty to god," he murmured. he turned his head toward edith. "read to me," he said, "from the book;" then added, with a glint of playfulness, "mayhap 'twill help me to forget the bunk." the day of the execution broke clear and cold. the thermometer was down to twenty-five below zero, and a chill wind was blowing which drove the frost through clothes and flesh to the bones. for the first time in many weeks dennin stood upon his feet. his muscles had remained inactive so long, and he was so out of practice in maintaining an erect position, that he could scarcely stand. he reeled back and forth, staggered, and clutched hold of edith with his bound hands for support. "sure, an' it's dizzy i am," he laughed weakly. a moment later he said, "an' it's glad i am that it's over with. that damn bunk would iv been the death iv me, i know." when edith put his fur cap on his head and proceeded to pull the flaps down over his ears, he laughed and said: "what are you doin' that for?" "it's freezing cold outside," she answered. "an' in tin minutes' time what'll matter a frozen ear or so to poor michael dennin?" he asked. she had nerved herself for the last culminating ordeal, and his remark was like a blow to her self-possession. so far, everything had seemed phantom-like, as in a dream, but the brutal truth of what he had said shocked her eyes wide open to the reality of what was taking place. nor was her distress unnoticed by the irishman. "i'm sorry to be troublin' you with me foolish spache," he said regretfully. "i mint nothin' by it. 'tis a great day for michael dennin, an' he's as gay as a lark." he broke out in a merry whistle, which quickly became lugubrious and ceased. "i'm wishin' there was a priest," he said wistfully; then added swiftly, "but michael dennin's too old a campaigner to miss the luxuries when he hits the trail." he was so very weak and unused to walking that when the door opened and he passed outside, the wind nearly carried him off his feet. edith and hans walked on either side of him and supported him, the while he cracked jokes and tried to keep them cheerful, breaking off, once, long enough to arrange the forwarding of his share of the gold to his mother in ireland. they climbed a slight hill and came out into an open space among the trees. here, circled solemnly about a barrel that stood on end in the snow, were negook and hadikwan, and all the siwashes down to the babies and the dogs, come to see the way of the white man's law. near by was an open grave which hans had burned into the frozen earth. dennin cast a practical eye over the preparations, noting the grave, the barrel, the thickness of the rope, and the diameter of the limb over which the rope was passed. "sure, an' i couldn't iv done better meself, hans, if it'd been for you." he laughed loudly at his own sally, but hans's face was frozen into a sullen ghastliness that nothing less than the trump of doom could have broken. also, hans was feeling very sick. he had not realized the enormousness of the task of putting a fellow-man out of the world. edith, on the other hand, had realized; but the realization did not make the task any easier. she was filled with doubt as to whether she could hold herself together long enough to finish it. she felt incessant impulses to scream, to shriek, to collapse into the snow, to put her hands over her eyes and turn and run blindly away, into the forest, anywhere, away. it was only by a supreme effort of soul that she was able to keep upright and go on and do what she had to do. and in the midst of it all she was grateful to dennin for the way he helped her. "lind me a hand," he said to hans, with whose assistance he managed to mount the barrel. he bent over so that edith could adjust the rope about his neck. then he stood upright while hans drew the rope taut across the overhead branch. "michael dennin, have you anything to say?" edith asked in a clear voice that shook in spite of her. dennin shuffled his feet on the barrel, looked down bashfully like a man making his maiden speech, and cleared his throat. "i'm glad it's over with," he said. "you've treated me like a christian, an' i'm thankin' you hearty for your kindness." "then may god receive you, a repentant sinner," she said. "ay," he answered, his deep voice as a response to her thin one, "may god receive me, a repentant sinner." "good-by, michael," she cried, and her voice sounded desperate. she threw her weight against the barrel, but it did not overturn. "hans! quick! help me!" she cried faintly. she could feel her last strength going, and the barrel resisted her. hans hurried to her, and the barrel went out from under michael dennin. she turned her back, thrusting her fingers into her ears. then she began to laugh, harshly, sharply, metallically; and hans was shocked as he had not been shocked through the whole tragedy. edith nelson's break-down had come. even in her hysteria she knew it, and she was glad that she had been able to hold up under the strain until everything had been accomplished. she reeled toward hans. "take me to the cabin, hans," she managed to articulate. "and let me rest," she added. "just let me rest, and rest, and rest." with hans's arm around her, supporting her weight and directing her helpless steps, she went off across the snow. but the indians remained solemnly to watch the working of the white man's law that compelled a man to dance upon the air. brown wolf she had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud. she sent a questing glance across the tall grass and in and out among the orchard trees. "where's wolf?" she asked. "he was here a moment ago." walt irvine drew himself away with a jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of blossom, and surveyed the landscape. "he was running a rabbit the last i saw of him." "wolf! wolf! here wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing and took the trail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita jungle to the county road. irvine thrust between his lips the little finger of each hand and lent to her efforts a shrill whistling. she covered her ears hastily and made a wry grimace. "my! for a poet, delicately attuned and all the rest of it, you can make unlovely noises. my ear-drums are pierced. you outwhistle--" "orpheus." "i was about to say a street-arab," she concluded severely. "poesy does not prevent one from being practical--at least it doesn't prevent _me_. mine is no futility of genius that can't sell gems to the magazines." he assumed a mock extravagance, and went on: "i am no attic singer, no ballroom warbler. and why? because i am practical. mine is no squalor of song that cannot transmute itself, with proper exchange value, into a flower-crowned cottage, a sweet mountain- meadow, a grove of redwoods, an orchard of thirty-seven trees, one long row of blackberries and two short rows of strawberries, to say nothing of a quarter of a mile of gurgling brook. i am a beauty-merchant, a trader in song, and i pursue utility, dear madge. i sing a song, and thanks to the magazine editors i transmute my song into a waft of the west wind sighing through our redwoods, into a murmur of waters over mossy stones that sings back to me another song than the one i sang and yet the same song wonderfully--er--transmuted." "o that all your song-transmutations were as successful!" she laughed. "name one that wasn't." "those two beautiful sonnets that you transmuted into the cow that was accounted the worst milker in the township." "she was beautiful--" he began, "but she didn't give milk," madge interrupted. "but she _was_ beautiful, now, wasn't she?" he insisted. "and here's where beauty and utility fall out," was her reply. "and there's the wolf!" from the thicket-covered hillside came a crashing of underbrush, and then, forty feet above them, on the edge of the sheer wall of rock, appeared a wolf's head and shoulders. his braced fore paws dislodged a pebble, and with sharp-pricked ears and peering eyes he watched the fall of the pebble till it struck at their feet. then he transferred his gaze and with open mouth laughed down at them. "you wolf, you!" and "you blessed wolf!" the man and woman called out to him. the ears flattened back and down at the sound, and the head seemed to snuggle under the caress of an invisible hand. they watched him scramble backward into the thicket, then proceeded on their way. several minutes later, rounding a turn in the trail where the descent was less precipitous, he joined them in the midst of a miniature avalanche of pebbles and loose soil. he was not demonstrative. a pat and a rub around the ears from the man, and a more prolonged caressing from the woman, and he was away down the trail in front of them, gliding effortlessly over the ground in true wolf fashion. in build and coat and brush he was a huge timber-wolf; but the lie was given to his wolfhood by his color and marking. there the dog unmistakably advertised itself. no wolf was ever colored like him. he was brown, deep brown, red-brown, an orgy of browns. back and shoulders were a warm brown that paled on the sides and underneath to a yellow that was dingy because of the brown that lingered in it. the white of the throat and paws and the spots over the eyes was dirty because of the persistent and ineradicable brown, while the eyes themselves were twin topazes, golden and brown. the man and woman loved the dog very much; perhaps this was because it had been such a task to win his love. it had been no easy matter when he first drifted in mysteriously out of nowhere to their little mountain cottage. footsore and famished, he had killed a rabbit under their very noses and under their very windows, and then crawled away and slept by the spring at the foot of the blackberry bushes. when walt irvine went down to inspect the intruder, he was snarled at for his pains, and madge likewise was snarled at when she went down to present, as a peace-offering, a large pan of bread and milk. a most unsociable dog he proved to be, resenting all their advances, refusing to let them lay hands on him, menacing them with bared fangs and bristling hair. nevertheless he remained, sleeping and resting by the spring, and eating the food they gave him after they set it down at a safe distance and retreated. his wretched physical condition explained why he lingered; and when he had recuperated, after several days' sojourn, he disappeared. and this would have been the end of him, so far as irvine and his wife were concerned, had not irvine at that particular time been called away into the northern part of the state. riding along on the train, near to the line between california and oregon, he chanced to look out of the window and saw his unsociable guest sliding along the wagon road, brown and wolfish, tired yet tireless, dust-covered and soiled with two hundred miles of travel. now irvine was a man of impulse, a poet. he got off the train at the next station, bought a piece of meat at a butcher shop, and captured the vagrant on the outskirts of the town. the return trip was made in the baggage car, and so wolf came a second time to the mountain cottage. here he was tied up for a week and made love to by the man and woman. but it was very circumspect love-making. remote and alien as a traveller from another planet, he snarled down their soft-spoken love-words. he never barked. in all the time they had him he was never known to bark. to win him became a problem. irvine liked problems. he had a metal plate made, on which was stamped: return to walt irvine, glen ellen, sonoma county, california. this was riveted to a collar and strapped about the dog's neck. then he was turned loose, and promptly he disappeared. a day later came a telegram from mendocino county. in twenty hours he had made over a hundred miles to the north, and was still going when captured. he came back by wells fargo express, was tied up three days, and was loosed on the fourth and lost. this time he gained southern oregon before he was caught and returned. always, as soon as he received his liberty, he fled away, and always he fled north. he was possessed of an obsession that drove him north. the homing instinct, irvine called it, after he had expended the selling price of a sonnet in getting the animal back from northern oregon. another time the brown wanderer succeeded in traversing half the length of california, all of oregon, and most of washington, before he was picked up and returned "collect." a remarkable thing was the speed with which he travelled. fed up and rested, as soon as he was loosed he devoted all his energy to getting over the ground. on the first day's run he was known to cover as high as a hundred and fifty miles, and after that he would average a hundred miles a day until caught. he always arrived back lean and hungry and savage, and always departed fresh and vigorous, cleaving his way northward in response to some prompting of his being that no one could understand. but at last, after a futile year of flight, he accepted the inevitable and elected to remain at the cottage where first he had killed the rabbit and slept by the spring. even after that, a long time elapsed before the man and woman succeeded in patting him. it was a great victory, for they alone were allowed to put hands on him. he was fastidiously exclusive, and no guest at the cottage ever succeeded in making up to him. a low growl greeted such approach; if any one had the hardihood to come nearer, the lips lifted, the naked fangs appeared, and the growl became a snarl--a snarl so terrible and malignant that it awed the stoutest of them, as it likewise awed the farmers' dogs that knew ordinary dog-snarling, but had never seen wolf-snarling before. he was without antecedents. his history began with walt and madge. he had come up from the south, but never a clew did they get of the owner from whom he had evidently fled. mrs. johnson, their nearest neighbor and the one who supplied them with milk, proclaimed him a klondike dog. her brother was burrowing for frozen pay-streaks in that far country, and so she constituted herself an authority on the subject. but they did not dispute her. there were the tips of wolf's ears, obviously so severely frozen at some time that they would never quite heal again. besides, he looked like the photographs of the alaskan dogs they saw published in magazines and newspapers. they often speculated over his past, and tried to conjure up (from what they had read and heard) what his northland life had been. that the northland still drew him, they knew; for at night they sometimes heard him crying softly; and when the north wind blew and the bite of frost was in the air, a great restlessness would come upon him and he would lift a mournful lament which they knew to be the long wolf-howl. yet he never barked. no provocation was great enough to draw from him that canine cry. long discussion they had, during the time of winning him, as to whose dog he was. each claimed him, and each proclaimed loudly any expression of affection made by him. but the man had the better of it at first, chiefly because he was a man. it was patent that wolf had had no experience with women. he did not understand women. madge's skirts were something he never quite accepted. the swish of them was enough to set him a-bristle with suspicion, and on a windy day she could not approach him at all. on the other hand, it was madge who fed him; also it was she who ruled the kitchen, and it was by her favor, and her favor alone, that he was permitted to come within that sacred precinct. it was because of these things that she bade fair to overcome the handicap of her garments. then it was that walt put forth special effort, making it a practice to have wolf lie at his feet while he wrote, and, between petting and talking, losing much time from his work. walt won in the end, and his victory was most probably due to the fact that he was a man, though madge averred that they would have had another quarter of a mile of gurgling brook, and at least two west winds sighing through their redwoods, had wait properly devoted his energies to song-transmutation and left wolf alone to exercise a natural taste and an unbiassed judgment. "it's about time i heard from those triolets," walt said, after a silence of five minutes, during which they had swung steadily down the trail. "there'll be a check at the post-office, i know, and we'll transmute it into beautiful buckwheat flour, a gallon of maple syrup, and a new pair of overshoes for you." "and into beautiful milk from mrs. johnson's beautiful cow," madge added. "to-morrow's the first of the month, you know." walt scowled unconsciously; then his face brightened, and he clapped his hand to his breast pocket. "never mind. i have here a nice beautiful new cow, the best milker in california." "when did you write it?" she demanded eagerly. then, reproachfully, "and you never showed it to me." "i saved it to read to you on the way to the post-office, in a spot remarkably like this one," he answered, indicating, with a wave of his hand, a dry log on which to sit. a tiny stream flowed out of a dense fern-brake, slipped down a mossy-lipped stone, and ran across the path at their feet. from the valley arose the mellow song of meadow-larks, while about them, in and out, through sunshine and shadow, fluttered great yellow butterflies. up from below came another sound that broke in upon walt reading softly from his manuscript. it was a crunching of heavy feet, punctuated now and again by the clattering of a displaced stone. as walt finished and looked to his wife for approval, a man came into view around the turn of the trail. he was bare-headed and sweaty. with a handkerchief in one hand he mopped his face, while in the other hand he carried a new hat and a wilted starched collar which he had removed from his neck. he was a well-built man, and his muscles seemed on the point of bursting out of the painfully new and ready-made black clothes he wore. "warm day," walt greeted him. walt believed in country democracy, and never missed an opportunity to practise it. the man paused and nodded. "i guess i ain't used much to the warm," he vouchsafed half apologetically. "i'm more accustomed to zero weather." "you don't find any of that in this country," walt laughed. "should say not," the man answered. "an' i ain't here a-lookin' for it neither. i'm tryin' to find my sister. mebbe you know where she lives. her name's johnson, mrs. william johnson." "you're not her klondike brother!" madge cried, her eyes bright with interest, "about whom we've heard so much?" "yes'm, that's me," he answered modestly. "my name's miller, skiff miller. i just thought i'd s'prise her." "you are on the right track then. only you've come by the foot-path." madge stood up to direct him, pointing up the canyon a quarter of a mile. "you see that blasted redwood? take the little trail turning off to the right. it's the short cut to her house. you can't miss it." "yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he said. he made tentative efforts to go, but seemed awkwardly rooted to the spot. he was gazing at her with an open admiration of which he was quite unconscious, and which was drowning, along with him, in the rising sea of embarrassment in which he floundered. "we'd like to hear you tell about the klondike," madge said. "mayn't we come over some day while you are at your sister's? or, better yet, won't you come over and have dinner with us?" "yes'm, thank you, ma'am," he mumbled mechanically. then he caught himself up and added: "i ain't stoppin' long. i got to be pullin' north again. i go out on to-night's train. you see, i've got a mail contract with the government." when madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort to go. but he could not take his eyes from her face. he forgot his embarrassment in his admiration, and it was her turn to flush and feel uncomfortable. it was at this juncture, when walt had just decided it was time for him to be saying something to relieve the strain, that wolf, who had been away nosing through the brush, trotted wolf-like into view. skiff miller's abstraction disappeared. the pretty woman before him passed out of his field of vision. he had eyes only for the dog, and a great wonder came into his face. "well, i'll be damned!" he enunciated slowly and solemnly. he sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving madge standing. at the sound of his voice, wolf's ears had flattened down, then his mouth had opened in a laugh. he trotted slowly up to the stranger and first smelled his hands, then licked them with his tongue. skiff miller patted the dog's head, and slowly and solemnly repeated, "well, i'll be damned!" "excuse me, ma'am," he said the next moment "i was just s'prised some, that was all." "we're surprised, too," she answered lightly. "we never saw wolf make up to a stranger before." "is that what you call him--wolf?" the man asked. madge nodded. "but i can't understand his friendliness toward you--unless it's because you're from the klondike. he's a klondike dog, you know." "yes'm," miller said absently. he lifted one of wolf's fore legs and examined the foot-pads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "kind of soft," he remarked. "he ain't been on trail for a long time." "i say," walt broke in, "it is remarkable the way he lets you handle him." skiff miller arose, no longer awkward with admiration of madge, and in a sharp, businesslike manner asked, "how long have you had him?" but just then the dog, squirming and rubbing against the newcomer's legs, opened his mouth and barked. it was an explosive bark, brief and joyous, but a bark. "that's a new one on me," skiff miller remarked. walt and madge stared at each other. the miracle had happened. wolf had barked. "it's the first time he ever barked," madge said. "first time i ever heard him, too," miller volunteered. madge smiled at him. the man was evidently a humorist. "of course," she said, "since you have only seen him for five minutes." skiff miller looked at her sharply, seeking in her face the guile her words had led him to suspect. "i thought you understood," he said slowly. "i thought you'd tumbled to it from his makin' up to me. he's my dog. his name ain't wolf. it's brown." "oh, walt!" was madge's instinctive cry to her husband. walt was on the defensive at once. "how do you know he's your dog?" he demanded. "because he is," was the reply. "mere assertion," walt said sharply. in his slow and pondering way, skiff miller looked at him, then asked, with a nod of his head toward madge: "how d'you know she's your wife? you just say, 'because she is,' and i'll say it's mere assertion. the dog's mine. i bred 'm an' raised 'm, an' i guess i ought to know. look here. i'll prove it to you." skiff miller turned to the dog. "brown!" his voice rang out sharply, and at the sound the dog's ears flattened down as to a caress. "gee!" the dog made a swinging turn to the right. "now mush-on!" and the dog ceased his swing abruptly and started straight ahead, halting obediently at command. "i can do it with whistles," skiff miller said proudly. "he was my lead dog." "but you are not going to take him away with you?" madge asked tremulously. the man nodded. "back into that awful klondike world of suffering?" he nodded and added: "oh, it ain't so bad as all that. look at me. pretty healthy specimen, ain't i?" "but the dogs! the terrible hardship, the heart-breaking toil, the starvation, the frost! oh, i've read about it and i know." "i nearly ate him once, over on little fish river," miller volunteered grimly. "if i hadn't got a moose that day was all that saved 'm." "i'd have died first!" madge cried. "things is different down here," miller explained. "you don't have to eat dogs. you think different just about the time you're all in. you've never ben all in, so you don't know anything about it." "that's the very point," she argued warmly. "dogs are not eaten in california. why not leave him here? he is happy. he'll never want for food--you know that. he'll never suffer from cold and hardship. here all is softness and gentleness. neither the human nor nature is savage. he will never know a whip-lash again. and as for the weather--why, it never snows here." "but it's all-fired hot in summer, beggin' your pardon," skiff miller laughed. "but you do not answer," madge continued passionately. "what have you to offer him in that northland life?" "grub, when i've got it, and that's most of the time," came the answer. "and the rest of the time?" "no grub." "and the work?" "yes, plenty of work," miller blurted out impatiently. "work without end, an' famine, an' frost, an all the rest of the miseries--that's what he'll get when he comes with me. but he likes it. he is used to it. he knows that life. he was born to it an' brought up to it. an' you don't know anything about it. you don't know what you're talking about. that's where the dog belongs, and that's where he'll be happiest." "the dog doesn't go," walt announced in a determined voice. "so there is no need of further discussion." "what's that?" skiff miller demanded, his brows lowering and an obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead. "i said the dog doesn't go, and that settles it. i don't believe he's your dog. you may have seen him sometime. you may even sometime have driven him for his owner. but his obeying the ordinary driving commands of the alaskan trail is no demonstration that he is yours. any dog in alaska would obey you as he obeyed. besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in alaska, and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession of him. anyway, you've got to prove property." skiff miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle deeper on his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black cloth of his coat, carefully looked the poet up and down as though measuring the strength of his slenderness. the klondiker's face took on a contemptuous expression as he said finally, "i reckon there's nothin' in sight to prevent me takin' the dog right here an' now." walt's face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. his wife fluttered apprehensively into the breach. "maybe mr. miller is right," she said. "i am afraid that he is. wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of 'brown.' he made friends with him instantly, and you know that's something he never did with anybody before. besides, look at the way he barked. he was just bursting with joy. joy over what? without doubt at finding mr. miller." walt's striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop with hopelessness. "i guess you're right, madge," he said. "wolf isn't wolf, but brown, and he must belong to mr. miller." "perhaps mr. miller will sell him," she suggested. "we can buy him." skiff miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly, quick to be generous in response to generousness. "i had five dogs," he said, casting about for the easiest way to temper his refusal. "he was the leader. they was the crack team of alaska. nothin' could touch 'em. in i refused five thousand dollars for the bunch. dogs was high, then, anyway; but that wasn't what made the fancy price. it was the team itself. brown was the best in the team. that winter i refused twelve hundred for 'm. i didn't sell 'm then, an' i ain't a-sellin' 'm now. besides, i think a mighty lot of that dog. i've ben lookin' for 'm for three years. it made me fair sick when i found he'd ben stole--not the value of him, but the--well, i liked 'm like hell, that's all, beggin' your pardon. i couldn't believe my eyes when i seen 'm just now. i thought i was dreamin'. it was too good to be true. why, i was his wet-nurse. i put 'm to bed, snug every night. his mother died, and i brought 'm up on condensed milk at two dollars a can when i couldn't afford it in my own coffee. he never knew any mother but me. he used to suck my finger regular, the darn little cuss--that finger right there!" and skiff miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a fore finger for them to see. "that very finger," he managed to articulate, as though it somehow clinched the proof of ownership and the bond of affection. he was still gazing at his extended finger when madge began to speak. "but the dog," she said. "you haven't considered the dog." skiff miller looked puzzled. "have you thought about him?" she asked. "don't know what you're drivin' at," was the response. "maybe the dog has some choice in the matter," madge went on. "maybe he has his likes and desires. you have not considered him. you give him no choice. it has never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer california to alaska. you consider only what you like. you do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay." this was a new way of looking at it, and miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. madge took advantage of his indecision. "if you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also," she urged. skiff miller continued to debate with himself, and madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval. "what do you think?" the klondiker suddenly demanded. it was her turn to be puzzled. "what do you mean?" she asked. "d'ye think he'd sooner stay in california?" she nodded her head with positiveness. "i am sure of it." skiff miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal. "he was a good worker. he's done a heap of work for me. he never loafed on me, an' he was a joe-dandy at hammerin' a raw team into shape. he's got a head on him. he can do everything but talk. he knows what you say to him. look at 'm now. he knows we're talkin' about him." the dog was lying at skiff miller's feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other. "an' there's a lot of work in 'm yet. he's good for years to come. an' i do like him. i like him like hell." once or twice after that skiff miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. finally he said: "i'll tell you what i'll do. your remarks, ma'am, has some weight in them. the dog's worked hard, and maybe he's earned a soft berth an' has got a right to choose. anyway, we'll leave it up to him. whatever he says, goes. you people stay right here settin' down. i'll say good-by and walk off casual-like. if he wants to stay, he can stay. if he wants to come with me, let 'm come. i won't call 'm to come an' don't you call 'm to come back." he looked with sudden suspicion at madge, and added, "only you must play fair. no persuadin' after my back is turned." "we'll play fair," madge began, but skiff miller broke in on her assurances. "i know the ways of women," he announced. "their hearts is soft. when their hearts is touched they're likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an' lie like the devil--beggin' your pardon, ma'am. i'm only discoursin' about women in general." "i don't know how to thank you," madge quavered. "i don't see as you've got any call to thank me," he replied. "brown ain't decided yet. now you won't mind if i go away slow? it's no more'n fair, seein' i'll be out of sight inside a hundred yards."--madge agreed, and added, "and i promise you faithfully that we won't do anything to influence him." "well, then, i might as well be gettin' along," skiff miller said in the ordinary tones of one departing. at this change in his voice, wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. he sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on her hip and at the same time licking skiff miller's hand. when the latter shook hands with walt, wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on walt and licking both men's hands. "it ain't no picnic, i can tell you that," were the klondiker's last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail. for the distance of twenty feet wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. then, with a quick low whine, wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness, and strove gently to make him pause. failing in this, wolf raced back to where walt irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man. wolf's perturbation began to wax. he desired ubiquity. he wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance between them was increasing. he sprang about excitedly, making short nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick sharp whines and beginning to pant. he sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, the mouth opening and closing with jerking movements, each time opening wider. these jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. and in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. all this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling. but just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide-opened mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. suddenly wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded walt. the appeal was unanswered. not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be. a glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. he sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to madge. hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. he went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose--an old trick of his when begging for favors. he backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curvetting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance. this, too, he soon abandoned. he was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. no response could he draw from them, no help could he get. they did not consider him. they were as dead. he turned and silently gazed after the old master. skiff miller was rounding the curve. in a moment he would be gone from view. yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back. and in this fashion he went out of view. wolf waited for him to reappear. he waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without movement, as though turned to stone--withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. he barked once, and waited. then he turned and trotted back to walt irvine. he sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view. the tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. save for the meadow-larks, there was no other sound. the great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. madge gazed triumphantly at her husband. a few minutes later wolf got upon his feet. decision and deliberation marked his movements. he did not glance at the man and woman. his eyes were fixed up the trail. he had made up his mind. they knew it. and they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun. he broke into a trot, and madge's lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. but the caressing sound was not made. she was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. the pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly. wolf's trot broke into a run. wider and wider were the leaps he made. not once did he turn his head, his wolf's brush standing out straight behind him. he cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone. the sun-dog trail sitka charley smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the _police gazette_ illustration on the wall. for half an hour he had been steadily regarding it, and for half an hour i had been slyly watching him. something was going on in that mind of his, and, whatever it was, i knew it was well worth knowing. he had lived life, and seen things, and performed that prodigy of prodigies, namely, the turning of his back upon his own people, and, in so far as it was possible for an indian, becoming a white man even in his mental processes. as he phrased it himself, he had come into the warm, sat among us, by our fires, and become one of us. he had never learned to read nor write, but his vocabulary was remarkable, and more remarkable still was the completeness with which he had assumed the white man's point of view, the white man's attitude toward things. we had struck this deserted cabin after a hard day on trail. the dogs had been fed, the supper dishes washed, the beds made, and we were now enjoying that most delicious hour that comes each day, and but once each day, on the alaskan trail, the hour when nothing intervenes between the tired body and bed save the smoking of the evening pipe. some former denizen of the cabin had decorated its walls with illustrations torn from magazines and newspapers, and it was these illustrations that had held sitka charley's attention from the moment of our arrival two hours before. he had studied them intently, ranging from one to another and back again, and i could see that there was uncertainty in his mind, and bepuzzlement. "well?" i finally broke the silence. he took the pipe from his mouth and said simply, "i do not understand." he smoked on again, and again removed the pipe, using it to point at the _police gazette_ illustration. "that picture--what does it mean? i do not understand." i looked at the picture. a man, with a preposterously wicked face, his right hand pressed dramatically to his heart, was falling backward to the floor. confronting him, with a face that was a composite of destroying angel and adonis, was a man holding a smoking revolver. "one man is killing the other man," i said, aware of a distinct bepuzzlement of my own and of failure to explain. "why?" asked sitka charley. "i do not know," i confessed. "that picture is all end," he said. "it has no beginning." "it is life," i said. "life has beginning," he objected. i was silenced for the moment, while his eyes wandered on to an adjoining decoration, a photographic reproduction of somebody's "leda and the swan." "that picture," he said, "has no beginning. it has no end. i do not understand pictures." "look at that picture," i commanded, pointing to a third decoration. "it means something. tell me what it means to you." he studied it for several minutes. "the little girl is sick," he said finally. "that is the doctor looking at her. they have been up all night--see, the oil is low in the lamp, the first morning light is coming in at the window. it is a great sickness; maybe she will die, that is why the doctor looks so hard. that is the mother. it is a great sickness, because the mother's head is on the table and she is crying." "how do you know she is crying?" i interrupted. "you cannot see her face. perhaps she is asleep." sitka charley looked at me in swift surprise, then back at the picture. it was evident that he had not reasoned the impression. "perhaps she is asleep," he repeated. he studied it closely. "no, she is not asleep. the shoulders show that she is not asleep. i have seen the shoulders of a woman who cried. the mother is crying. it is a very great sickness." "and now you understand the picture," i cried. he shook his head, and asked, "the little girl--does it die?" it was my turn for silence. "does it die?" he reiterated. "you are a painter-man. maybe you know." "no, i do not know," i confessed. "it is not life," he delivered himself dogmatically. "in life little girl die or get well. something happen in life. in picture nothing happen. no, i do not understand pictures." his disappointment was patent. it was his desire to understand all things that white men understand, and here, in this matter, he failed. i felt, also, that there was challenge in his attitude. he was bent upon compelling me to show him the wisdom of pictures. besides, he had remarkable powers of visualization. i had long since learned this. he visualized everything. he saw life in pictures, felt life in pictures, generalized life in pictures; and yet he did not understand pictures when seen through other men's eyes and expressed by those men with color and line upon canvas. "pictures are bits of life," i said. "we paint life as we see it. for instance, charley, you are coming along the trail. it is night. you see a cabin. the window is lighted. you look through the window for one second, or for two seconds, you see something, and you go on your way. you saw maybe a man writing a letter. you saw something without beginning or end. nothing happened. yet it was a bit of life you saw. you remember it afterward. it is like a picture in your memory. the window is the frame of the picture." i could see that he was interested, and i knew that as i spoke he had looked through the window and seen the man writing the letter. "there is a picture you have painted that i understand," he said. "it is a true picture. it has much meaning. it is in your cabin at dawson. it is a faro table. there are men playing. it is a large game. the limit is off." "how do you know the limit is off?" i broke in excitedly, for here was where my work could be tried out on an unbiassed judge who knew life only, and not art, and who was a sheer master of reality. also, i was very proud of that particular piece of work. i had named it "the last turn," and i believed it to be one of the best things i had ever done. "there are no chips on the table," sitka charley explained. "the men are playing with markers. that means the roof is the limit. one man play yellow markers--maybe one yellow marker worth one thousand dollars, maybe two thousand dollars. one man play red markers. maybe they are worth five hundred dollars, maybe one thousand dollars. it is a very big game. everybody play very high, up to the roof. how do i know? you make the dealer with blood little bit warm in face." (i was delighted.) "the lookout, you make him lean forward in his chair. why he lean forward? why his face very much quiet? why his eyes very much bright? why dealer warm with blood a little bit in the face? why all men very quiet?--the man with yellow markers? the man with white markers? the man with red markers? why nobody talk? because very much money. because last turn." "how do you know it is the last turn?" i asked. "the king is coppered, the seven is played open," he answered. "nobody bet on other cards. other cards all gone. everybody one mind. everybody play king to lose, seven to win. maybe bank lose twenty thousand dollars, maybe bank win. yes, that picture i understand." "yet you do not know the end!" i cried triumphantly. "it is the last turn, but the cards are not yet turned. in the picture they will never be turned. nobody will ever know who wins nor who loses." "and the men will sit there and never talk," he said, wonder and awe growing in his face. "and the lookout will lean forward, and the blood will be warm in the face of the dealer. it is a strange thing. always will they sit there, always; and the cards will never be turned." "it is a picture," i said. "it is life. you have seen things like it yourself." he looked at me and pondered, then said, very slowly: "no, as you say, there is no end to it. nobody will ever know the end. yet is it a true thing. i have seen it. it is life." for a long time he smoked on in silence, weighing the pictorial wisdom of the white man and verifying it by the facts of life. he nodded his head several times, and grunted once or twice. then he knocked the ashes from his pipe, carefully refilled it, and after a thoughtful pause, lighted it again. "then have i, too, seen many pictures of life," he began; "pictures not painted, but seen with the eyes. i have looked at them like through the window at the man writing the letter. i have seen many pieces of life, without beginning, without end, without understanding." with a sudden change of position he turned his eyes full upon me and regarded me thoughtfully. "look you," he said; "you are a painter-man. how would you paint this which i saw, a picture without beginning, the ending of which i do not understand, a piece of life with the northern lights for a candle and alaska for a frame." "it is a large canvas," i murmured. but he ignored me, for the picture he had in mind was before his eyes and he was seeing it. "there are many names for this picture," he said. "but in the picture there are many sun-dogs, and it comes into my mind to call it 'the sun- dog trail.' it was a long time ago, seven years ago, the fall of ' , when i saw the woman first time. at lake linderman i had one canoe, very good peterborough canoe. i came over chilcoot pass with two thousand letters for dawson. i was letter carrier. everybody rush to klondike at that time. many people on trail. many people chop down trees and make boats. last water, snow in the air, snow on the ground, ice on the lake, on the river ice in the eddies. every day more snow, more ice. maybe one day, maybe three days, maybe six days, any day maybe freeze-up come, then no more water, all ice, everybody walk, dawson six hundred miles, long time walk. boat go very quick. everybody want to go boat. everybody say, 'charley, two hundred dollars you take me in canoe,' 'charley, three hundred dollars,' 'charley, four hundred dollars.' i say no, all the time i say no. i am letter carrier. "in morning i get to lake linderman. i walk all night and am much tired. i cook breakfast, i eat, then i sleep on the beach three hours. i wake up. it is ten o'clock. snow is falling. there is wind, much wind that blows fair. also, there is a woman who sits in the snow alongside. she is white woman, she is young, very pretty, maybe she is twenty years old, maybe twenty-five years old. she look at me. i look at her. she is very tired. she is no dance-woman. i see that right away. she is good woman, and she is very tired. "'you are sitka charley,' she says. i get up quick and roll blankets so snow does not get inside. 'i go to dawson,' she says. 'i go in your canoe--how much?' "i do not want anybody in my canoe. i do not like to say no. so i say, 'one thousand dollars.' just for fun i say it, so woman cannot come with me, much better than say no. she look at me very hard, then she says, 'when you start?' i say right away. then she says all right, she will give me one thousand dollars. "what can i say? i do not want the woman, yet have i given my word that for one thousand dollars she can come. i am surprised. maybe she make fun, too, so i say, 'let me see thousand dollars.' and that woman, that young woman, all alone on the trail, there in the snow, she take out one thousand dollars, in greenbacks, and she put them in my hand. i look at money, i look at her. what can i say? i say, 'no, my canoe very small. there is no room for outfit.' she laugh. she says, 'i am great traveller. this is my outfit.' she kick one small pack in the snow. it is two fur robes, canvas outside, some woman's clothes inside. i pick it up. maybe thirty-five pounds. i am surprised. she take it away from me. she says, 'come, let us start.' she carries pack into canoe. what can i say? i put my blankets into canoe. we start. "and that is the way i saw the woman first time. the wind was fair. i put up small sail. the canoe went very fast, it flew like a bird over the high waves. the woman was much afraid. 'what for you come klondike much afraid?' i ask. she laugh at me, a hard laugh, but she is still much afraid. also is she very tired. i run canoe through rapids to lake bennett. water very bad, and woman cry out because she is afraid. we go down lake bennett, snow, ice, wind like a gale, but woman is very tired and go to sleep. "that night we make camp at windy arm. woman sit by fire and eat supper. i look at her. she is pretty. she fix hair. there is much hair, and it is brown, also sometimes it is like gold in the firelight, when she turn her head, so, and flashes come from it like golden fire. the eyes are large and brown, sometimes warm like a candle behind a curtain, sometimes very hard and bright like broken ice when sun shines upon it. when she smile--how can i say?--when she smile i know white man like to kiss her, just like that, when she smile. she never do hard work. her hands are soft, like baby's hand. she is soft all over, like baby. she is not thin, but round like baby; her arm, her leg, her muscles, all soft and round like baby. her waist is small, and when she stand up, when she walk, or move her head or arm, it is--i do not know the word--but it is nice to look at, like--maybe i say she is built on lines like the lines of a good canoe, just like that, and when she move she is like the movement of the good canoe sliding through still water or leaping through water when it is white and fast and angry. it is very good to see. "why does she come into klondike, all alone, with plenty of money? i do not know. next day i ask her. she laugh and says: 'sitka charley, that is none of your business. i give you one thousand dollars take me to dawson. that only is your business.' next day after that i ask her what is her name. she laugh, then she says, 'mary jones, that is my name.' i do not know her name, but i know all the time that mary jones is not her name. "it is very cold in canoe, and because of cold sometimes she not feel good. sometimes she feel good and she sing. her voice is like a silver bell, and i feel good all over like when i go into church at holy cross mission, and when she sing i feel strong and paddle like hell. then she laugh and says, 'you think we get to dawson before freeze-up, charley?' sometimes she sit in canoe and is thinking far away, her eyes like that, all empty. she does not see sitka charley, nor the ice, nor the snow. she is far away. very often she is like that, thinking far away. sometimes, when she is thinking far away, her face is not good to see. it looks like a face that is angry, like the face of one man when he want to kill another man. "last day to dawson very bad. shore-ice in all the eddies, mush-ice in the stream. i cannot paddle. the canoe freeze to ice. i cannot get to shore. there is much danger. all the time we go down yukon in the ice. that night there is much noise of ice. then ice stop, canoe stop, everything stop. 'let us go to shore,' the woman says. i say no, better wait. by and by, everything start down-stream again. there is much snow. i cannot see. at eleven o'clock at night, everything stop. at one o'clock everything start again. at three o'clock everything stop. canoe is smashed like eggshell, but is on top of ice and cannot sink. i hear dogs howling. we wait. we sleep. by and by morning come. there is no more snow. it is the freeze-up, and there is dawson. canoe smash and stop right at dawson. sitka charley has come in with two thousand letters on very last water. "the woman rent a cabin on the hill, and for one week i see her no more. then, one day, she come to me. 'charley,' she says, 'how do you like to work for me? you drive dogs, make camp, travel with me.' i say that i make too much money carrying letters. she says, 'charley, i will pay you more money.' i tell her that pick-and-shovel man get fifteen dollars a day in the mines. she says, 'that is four hundred and fifty dollars a month.' and i say, 'sitka charley is no pick-and-shovel man.' then she says, 'i understand, charley. i will give you seven hundred and fifty dollars each month.' it is a good price, and i go to work for her. i buy for her dogs and sled. we travel up klondike, up bonanza and eldorado, over to indian river, to sulphur creek, to dominion, back across divide to gold bottom and to too much gold, and back to dawson. all the time she look for something, i do not know what. i am puzzled. 'what thing you look for?' i ask. she laugh. 'you look for gold?' i ask. she laugh. then she says, 'that is none of your business, charley.' and after that i never ask any more. "she has a small revolver which she carries in her belt. sometimes, on trail, she makes practice with revolver. i laugh. 'what for you laugh, charley?' she ask. 'what for you play with that?' i say. 'it is no good. it is too small. it is for a child, a little plaything.' when we get back to dawson she ask me to buy good revolver for her. i buy a colt's . it is very heavy, but she carry it in her belt all the time. "at dawson comes the man. which way he come i do not know. only do i know he is _checha-quo_--what you call tenderfoot. his hands are soft, just like hers. he never do hard work. he is soft all over. at first i think maybe he is her husband. but he is too young. also, they make two beds at night. he is maybe twenty years old. his eyes blue, his hair yellow, he has a little mustache which is yellow. his name is john jones. maybe he is her brother. i do not know. i ask questions no more. only i think his name not john jones. other people call him mr. girvan. i do not think that is his name. i do not think her name is miss girvan, which other people call her. i think nobody know their names. "one night i am asleep at dawson. he wake me up. he says, 'get the dogs ready; we start.' no more do i ask questions, so i get the dogs ready and we start. we go down the yukon. it is night-time, it is november, and it is very cold--sixty-five below. she is soft. he is soft. the cold bites. they get tired. they cry under their breaths to themselves. by and by i say better we stop and make camp. but they say that they will go on. three times i say better to make camp and rest, but each time they say they will go on. after that i say nothing. all the time, day after day, is it that way. they are very soft. they get stiff and sore. they do not understand moccasins, and their feet hurt very much. they limp, they stagger like drunken people, they cry under their breaths; and all the time they say, 'on! on! we will go on!' "they are like crazy people. all the time do they go on, and on. why do they go on? i do not know. only do they go on. what are they after? i do not know. they are not after gold. there is no stampede. besides, they spend plenty of money. but i ask questions no more. i, too, go on and on, because i am strong on the trail and because i am greatly paid. "we make circle city. that for which they look is not there. i think now that we will rest, and rest the dogs. but we do not rest, not for one day do we rest. 'come,' says the woman to the man, 'let us go on.' and we go on. we leave the yukon. we cross the divide to the west and swing down into the tanana country. there are new diggings there. but that for which they look is not there, and we take the back trail to circle city. "it is a hard journey. december is most gone. the days are short. it is very cold. one morning it is seventy below zero. 'better that we don't travel to-day,' i say, 'else will the frost be unwarmed in the breathing and bite all the edges of our lungs. after that we will have bad cough, and maybe next spring will come pneumonia.' but they are _checha-quo_. they do not understand the trail. they are like dead people they are so tired, but they say, 'let us go on.' we go on. the frost bites their lungs, and they get the dry cough. they cough till the tears run down their cheeks. when bacon is frying they must run away from the fire and cough half an hour in the snow. they freeze their cheeks a little bit, so that the skin turns black and is very sore. also, the man freezes his thumb till the end is like to come off, and he must wear a large thumb on his mitten to keep it warm. and sometimes, when the frost bites hard and the thumb is very cold, he must take off the mitten and put the hand between his legs next to the skin, so that the thumb may get warm again. "we limp into circle city, and even i, sitka charley, am tired. it is christmas eve. i dance, drink, make a good time, for to-morrow is christmas day and we will rest. but no. it is five o'clock in the morning--christmas morning. i am two hours asleep. the man stand by my bed. 'come, charley,' he says, 'harness the dogs. we start.' "have i not said that i ask questions no more? they pay me seven hundred and fifty dollars each month. they are my masters. i am their man. if they say, 'charley, come, let us start for hell,' i will harness the dogs, and snap the whip, and start for hell. so i harness the dogs, and we start down the yukon. where do we go? they do not say. only do they say, 'on! on! we will go on!' "they are very weary. they have travelled many hundreds of miles, and they do not understand the way of the trail. besides, their cough is very bad--the dry cough that makes strong men swear and weak men cry. but they go on. every day they go on. never do they rest the dogs. always do they buy new dogs. at every camp, at every post, at every indian village, do they cut out the tired dogs and put in fresh dogs. they have much money, money without end, and like water they spend it. they are crazy? sometimes i think so, for there is a devil in them that drives them on and on, always on. what is it that they try to find? it is not gold. never do they dig in the ground. i think a long time. then i think it is a man they try to find. but what man? never do we see the man. yet are they like wolves on the trail of the kill. but they are funny wolves, soft wolves, baby wolves who do not understand the way of the trail. they cry aloud in their sleep at night. in their sleep they moan and groan with the pain of their weariness. and in the day, as they stagger along the trail, they cry under their breaths. they are funny wolves. "we pass fort yukon. we pass fort hamilton. we pass minook. january has come and nearly gone. the days are very short. at nine o'clock comes daylight. at three o'clock comes night. and it is cold. and even i, sitka charley, am tired. will we go on forever this way without end? i do not know. but always do i look along the trail for that which they try to find. there are few people on the trail. sometimes we travel one hundred miles and never see a sign of life. it is very quiet. there is no sound. sometimes it snows, and we are like wandering ghosts. sometimes it is clear, and at midday the sun looks at us for a moment over the hills to the south. the northern lights flame in the sky, and the sun-dogs dance, and the air is filled with frost-dust. "i am sitka charley, a strong man. i was born on the trail, and all my days have i lived on the trail. and yet have these two baby wolves made me very tired. i am lean, like a starved cat, and i am glad of my bed at night, and in the morning am i greatly weary. yet ever are we hitting the trail in the dark before daylight, and still on the trail does the dark after nightfall find us. these two baby wolves! if i am lean like a starved cat, they are lean like cats that have never eaten and have died. their eyes are sunk deep in their heads, bright sometimes as with fever, dim and cloudy sometimes like the eyes of the dead. their cheeks are hollow like caves in a cliff. also are their cheeks black and raw from many freezings. sometimes it is the woman in the morning who says, 'i cannot get up. i cannot move. let me die.' and it is the man who stands beside her and says, 'come, let us go on.' and they go on. and sometimes it is the man who cannot get up, and the woman says, 'come, let us go on.' but the one thing they do, and always do, is to go on. always do they go on. "sometimes, at the trading posts, the man and woman get letters. i do not know what is in the letters. but it is the scent that they follow, these letters themselves are the scent. one time an indian gives them a letter. i talk with him privately. he says it is a man with one eye who gives him the letter, a man who travels fast down the yukon. that is all. but i know that the baby wolves are after the man with the one eye. "it is february, and we have travelled fifteen hundred miles. we are getting near bering sea, and there are storms and blizzards. the going is hard. we come to anvig. i do not know, but i think sure they get a letter at anvig, for they are much excited, and they say, 'come, hurry, let us go on.' but i say we must buy grub, and they say we must travel light and fast. also, they say that we can get grub at charley mckeon's cabin. then do i know that they take the big cut-off, for it is there that charley mckeon lives where the black rock stands by the trail. "before we start, i talk maybe two minutes with the priest at anvig. yes, there is a man with one eye who has gone by and who travels fast. and i know that for which they look is the man with the one eye. we leave anvig with little grub, and travel light and fast. there are three fresh dogs bought in anvig, and we travel very fast. the man and woman are like mad. we start earlier in the morning, we travel later at night. i look sometimes to see them die, these two baby wolves, but they will not die. they go on and on. when the dry cough take hold of them hard, they hold their hands against their stomach and double up in the snow, and cough, and cough, and cough. they cannot walk, they cannot talk. maybe for ten minutes they cough, maybe for half an hour, and then they straighten up, the tears from the coughing frozen on their faces, and the words they say are, 'come, let us go on.' "even i, sitka charley, am greatly weary, and i think seven hundred and fifty dollars is a cheap price for the labor i do. we take the big cut- off, and the trail is fresh. the baby wolves have their noses down to the trail, and they say, 'hurry!' all the time do they say, 'hurry! faster! faster!' it is hard on the dogs. we have not much food and we cannot give them enough to eat, and they grow weak. also, they must work hard. the woman has true sorrow for them, and often, because of them, the tears are in her eyes. but the devil in her that drives her on will not let her stop and rest the dogs. "and then we come upon the man with the one eye. he is in the snow by the trail, and his leg is broken. because of the leg he has made a poor camp, and has been lying on his blankets for three days and keeping a fire going. when we find him he is swearing. he swears like hell. never have i heard a man swear like that man. i am glad. now that they have found that for which they look, we will have rest. but the woman says, 'let us start. hurry!' "i am surprised. but the man with the one eye says, 'never mind me. give me your grub. you will get more grub at mckeon's cabin to-morrow. send mckeon back for me. but do you go on.' here is another wolf, an old wolf, and he, too, thinks but the one thought, to go on. so we give him our grub, which is not much, and we chop wood for his fire, and we take his strongest dogs and go on. we left the man with one eye there in the snow, and he died there in the snow, for mckeon never went back for him. and who that man was, and why he came to be there, i do not know. but i think he was greatly paid by the man and the woman, like me, to do their work for them. "that day and that night we had nothing to eat, and all next day we travelled fast, and we were weak with hunger. then we came to the black rock, which rose five hundred feet above the trail. it was at the end of the day. darkness was coming, and we could not find the cabin of mckeon. we slept hungry, and in the morning looked for the cabin. it was not there, which was a strange thing, for everybody knew that mckeon lived in a cabin at black rock. we were near to the coast, where the wind blows hard and there is much snow. everywhere there were small hills of snow where the wind had piled it up. i have a thought, and i dig in one and another of the hills of snow. soon i find the walls of the cabin, and i dig down to the door. i go inside. mckeon is dead. maybe two or three weeks he is dead. a sickness had come upon him so that he could not leave the cabin. the wind and the snow had covered the cabin. he had eaten his grub and died. i looked for his cache, but there was no grub in it. "'let us go on,' said the woman. her eyes were hungry, and her hand was upon her heart, as with the hurt of something inside. she bent back and forth like a tree in the wind as she stood there. 'yes, let us go on,' said the man. his voice was hollow, like the _klonk_ of an old raven, and he was hunger-mad. his eyes were like live coals of fire, and as his body rocked to and fro, so rocked his soul inside. and i, too, said, 'let us go on.' for that one thought, laid upon me like a lash for every mile of fifteen hundred miles, had burned itself into my soul, and i think that i, too, was mad. besides, we could only go on, for there was no grub. and we went on, giving no thought to the man with the one eye in the snow. "there is little travel on the big cut-off. sometimes two or three months and nobody goes by. the snow had covered the trail, and there was no sign that men had ever come or gone that way. all day the wind blew and the snow fell, and all day we travelled, while our stomachs gnawed their desire and our bodies grew weaker with every step they took. then the woman began to fall. then the man. i did not fall, but my feet were heavy and i caught my toes and stumbled many times. "that night is the end of february. i kill three ptarmigan with the woman's revolver, and we are made somewhat strong again. but the dogs have nothing to eat. they try to eat their harness, which is of leather and walrus-hide, and i must fight them off with a club and hang all the harness in a tree. and all night they howl and fight around that tree. but we do not mind. we sleep like dead people, and in the morning get up like dead people out of their graves and go on along the trail. "that morning is the st of march, and on that morning i see the first sign of that after which the baby wolves are in search. it is clear weather, and cold. the sun stay longer in the sky, and there are sun- dogs flashing on either side, and the air is bright with frost-dust. the snow falls no more upon the trail, and i see the fresh sign of dogs and sled. there is one man with that outfit, and i see in the snow that he is not strong. he, too, has not enough to eat. the young wolves see the fresh sign, too, and they are much excited. 'hurry!' they say. all the time they say, 'hurry! faster, charley, faster!' "we make hurry very slow. all the time the man and the woman fall down. when they try to ride on sled the dogs are too weak, and the dogs fall down. besides, it is so cold that if they ride on the sled they will freeze. it is very easy for a hungry man to freeze. when the woman fall down, the man help her up. sometimes the woman help the man up. by and by both fall down and cannot get up, and i must help them up all the time, else they will not get up and will die there in the snow. this is very hard work, for i am greatly weary, and as well i must drive the dogs, and the man and woman are very heavy with no strength in their bodies. so, by and by, i, too, fall down in the snow, and there is no one to help me up. i must get up by myself. and always do i get up by myself, and help them up, and make the dogs go on. "that night i get one ptarmigan, and we are very hungry. and that night the man says to me, 'what time start to-morrow, charley?' it is like the voice of a ghost. i say, 'all the time you make start at five o'clock.' 'to-morrow,' he says, 'we will start at three o'clock.' i laugh in great bitterness, and i say, 'you are dead man.' and he says, 'to-morrow we will start at three o'clock.' "and we start at three o'clock, for i am their man, and that which they say is to be done, i do. it is clear and cold, and there is no wind. when daylight comes we can see a long way off. and it is very quiet. we can hear no sound but the beat of our hearts, and in the silence that is a very loud sound. we are like sleep-walkers, and we walk in dreams until we fall down; and then we know we must get up, and we see the trail once more and bear the beating of our hearts. sometimes, when i am walking in dreams this way, i have strange thoughts. why does sitka charley live? i ask myself. why does sitka charley work hard, and go hungry, and have all this pain? for seven hundred and fifty dollars a month, i make the answer, and i know it is a foolish answer. also is it a true answer. and after that never again do i care for money. for that day a large wisdom came to me. there was a great light, and i saw clear, and i knew that it was not for money that a man must live, but for a happiness that no man can give, or buy, or sell, and that is beyond all value of all money in the world. "in the morning we come upon the last-night camp of the man who is before us. it is a poor camp, the kind a man makes who is hungry and without strength. on the snow there are pieces of blanket and of canvas, and i know what has happened. his dogs have eaten their harness, and he has made new harness out of his blankets. the man and woman stare hard at what is to be seen, and as i look at them my back feels the chill as of a cold wind against the skin. their eyes are toil-mad and hunger-mad, and burn like fire deep in their heads. their faces are like the faces of people who have died of hunger, and their cheeks are black with the dead flesh of many freezings. 'let us go on,' says the man. but the woman coughs and falls in the snow. it is the dry cough where the frost has bitten the lungs. for a long time she coughs, then like a woman crawling out of her grave she crawls to her feet. the tears are ice upon her cheeks, and her breath makes a noise as it comes and goes, and she says, 'let us go on.' "we go on. and we walk in dreams through the silence. and every time we walk is a dream and we are without pain; and every time we fall down is an awakening, and we see the snow and the mountains and the fresh trail of the man who is before us, and we know all our pain again. we come to where we can see a long way over the snow, and that for which they look is before them. a mile away there are black spots upon the snow. the black spots move. my eyes are dim, and i must stiffen my soul to see. and i see one man with dogs and a sled. the baby wolves see, too. they can no longer talk, but they whisper, 'on, on. let us hurry!' "and they fall down, but they go on. the man who is before us, his blanket harness breaks often, and he must stop and mend it. our harness is good, for i have hung it in trees each night. at eleven o'clock the man is half a mile away. at one o'clock he is a quarter of a mile away. he is very weak. we see him fall down many times in the snow. one of his dogs can no longer travel, and he cuts it out of the harness. but he does not kill it. i kill it with the axe as i go by, as i kill one of my dogs which loses its legs and can travel no more. "now we are three hundred yards away. we go very slow. maybe in two, three hours we go one mile. we do not walk. all the time we fall down. we stand up and stagger two steps, maybe three steps, then we fall down again. and all the time i must help up the man and woman. sometimes they rise to their knees and fall forward, maybe four or five times before they can get to their feet again and stagger two or three steps and fall. but always do they fall forward. standing or kneeling, always do they fall forward, gaining on the trail each time by the length of their bodies. "sometimes they crawl on hands and knees like animals that live in the forest. we go like snails, like snails that are dying we go so slow. and yet we go faster than the man who is before us. for he, too, falls all the time, and there is no sitka charley to lift him up. now he is two hundred yards away. after a long time he is one hundred yards away. "it is a funny sight. i want to laugh out loud, ha! ha! just like that, it is so funny. it is a race of dead men and dead dogs. it is like in a dream when you have a nightmare and run away very fast for your life and go very slow. the man who is with me is mad. the woman is mad. i am mad. all the world is mad, and i want to laugh, it is so funny. "the stranger-man who is before us leaves his dogs behind and goes on alone across the snow. after a long time we come to the dogs. they lie helpless in the snow, their harness of blanket and canvas on them, the sled behind them, and as we pass them they whine to us and cry like babies that are hungry. "then we, too, leave our dogs and go on alone across the snow. the man and the woman are nearly gone, and they moan and groan and sob, but they go on. i, too, go on. i have but one thought. it is to come up to the stranger-man. then it is that i shall rest, and not until then shall i rest, and it seems that i must lie down and sleep for a thousand years, i am so tired. "the stranger-man is fifty yards away, all alone in the white snow. he falls and crawls, staggers, and falls and crawls again. he is like an animal that is sore wounded and trying to run from the hunter. by and by he crawls on hands and knees. he no longer stands up. and the man and woman no longer stand up. they, too, crawl after him on hands and knees. but i stand up. sometimes i fall, but always do i stand up again. "it is a strange thing to see. all about is the snow and the silence, and through it crawl the man and the woman, and the stranger-man who goes before. on either side the sun are sun-dogs, so that there are three suns in the sky. the frost-dust is like the dust of diamonds, and all the air is filled with it. now the woman coughs, and lies still in the snow until the fit has passed, when she crawls on again. now the man looks ahead, and he is blear-eyed as with old age and must rub his eyes so that he can see the stranger-man. and now the stranger-man looks back over his shoulder. and sitka charley, standing upright, maybe falls down and stands upright again. "after a long time the stranger-man crawls no more. he stands slowly upon his feet and rocks back and forth. also does he take off one mitten and wait with revolver in his hand, rocking back and forth as he waits. his face is skin and bones and frozen black. it is a hungry face. the eyes are deep-sunk in his head, and the lips are snarling. the man and woman, too, get upon their feet and they go toward him very slowly. and all about is the snow and the silence. and in the sky are three suns, and all the air is flashing with the dust of diamonds. "and thus it was that i, sitka charley, saw the baby wolves make their kill. no word is spoken. only does the stranger-man snarl with his hungry face. also does he rock to and fro, his shoulders drooping, his knees bent, and his legs wide apart so that he does not fall down. the man and the woman stop maybe fifty feet away. their legs, too, are wide apart so that they do not fall down, and their bodies rock to and fro. the stranger-man is very weak. his arm shakes, so that when he shoots at the man his bullet strikes in the snow. the man cannot take off his mitten. the stranger-man shoots at him again, and this time the bullet goes by in the air. then the man takes the mitten in his teeth and pulls it off. but his hand is frozen and he cannot hold the revolver, and it fails in the snow. i look at the woman. her mitten is off, and the big colt's revolver is in her hand. three times she shoot, quick, just like that. the hungry face of the stranger-man is still snarling as he falls forward into the snow. "they do not look at the dead man. 'let us go on,' they say. and we go on. but now that they have found that for which they look, they are like dead. the last strength has gone out of them. they can stand no more upon their feet. they will not crawl, but desire only to close their eyes and sleep. i see not far away a place for camp. i kick them. i have my dog-whip, and i give them the lash of it. they cry aloud, but they must crawl. and they do crawl to the place for camp. i build fire so that they will not freeze. then i go back for sled. also, i kill the dogs of the stranger-man so that we may have food and not die. i put the man and woman in blankets and they sleep. sometimes i wake them and give them little bit of food. they are not awake, but they take the food. the woman sleep one day and a half. then she wake up and go to sleep again. the man sleep two days and wake up and go to sleep again. after that we go down to the coast at st. michaels. and when the ice goes out of bering sea, the man and woman go away on a steamship. but first they pay me my seven hundred and fifty dollars a month. also, they make me a present of one thousand dollars. and that was the year that sitka charley gave much money to the mission at holy cross." "but why did they kill the man?" i asked. sitka charley delayed reply until he had lighted his pipe. he glanced at the _police gazette_ illustration and nodded his head at it familiarly. then he said, speaking slowly and ponderingly: "i have thought much. i do not know. it is something that happened. it is a picture i remember. it is like looking in at the window and seeing the man writing a letter. they came into my life and they went out of my life, and the picture is as i have said, without beginning, the end without understanding." "you have painted many pictures in the telling," i said. "ay," he nodded his head. "but they were without beginning and without end." "the last picture of all had an end," i said. "ay," he answered. "but what end?" "it was a piece of life," i said. "ay," he answered. "it was a piece of life." negore, the coward he had followed the trail of his fleeing people for eleven days, and his pursuit had been in itself a flight; for behind him he knew full well were the dreaded russians, toiling through the swampy lowlands and over the steep divides, bent on no less than the extermination of all his people. he was travelling light. a rabbit-skin sleeping-robe, a muzzle- loading rifle, and a few pounds of sun-dried salmon constituted his outfit. he would have marvelled that a whole people--women and children and aged--could travel so swiftly, had he not known the terror that drove them on. it was in the old days of the russian occupancy of alaska, when the nineteenth century had run but half its course, that negore fled after his fleeing tribe and came upon it this summer night by the head waters of the pee-lat. though near the midnight hour, it was bright day as he passed through the weary camp. many saw him, all knew him, but few and cold were the greetings he received. "negore, the coward," he heard illiha, a young woman, laugh, and sun-ne, his sister's daughter, laughed with her. black anger ate at his heart; but he gave no sign, threading his way among the camp-fires until he came to one where sat an old man. a young woman was kneading with skilful fingers the tired muscles of his legs. he raised a sightless face and listened intently as negore's foot crackled a dead twig. "who comes?" he queried in a thin, tremulous voice. "negore," said the young woman, scarcely looking up from her task. negore's face was expressionless. for many minutes he stood and waited. the old man's head had sunk back upon his chest. the young woman pressed and prodded the wasted muscles, resting her body on her knees, her bowed head hidden as in a cloud by her black wealth of hair. negore watched the supple body, bending at the hips as a lynx's body might bend, pliant as a young willow stalk, and, withal, strong as only youth is strong. he looked, and was aware of a great yearning, akin in sensation to physical hunger. at last he spoke, saying: "is there no greeting for negore, who has been long gone and has but now come back?" she looked up at him with cold eyes. the old man chuckled to himself after the manner of the old. "thou art my woman, oona," negore said, his tones dominant and conveying a hint of menace. she arose with catlike ease and suddenness to her full height, her eyes flashing, her nostrils quivering like a deer's. "i was thy woman to be, negore, but thou art a coward; the daughter of old kinoos mates not with a coward!" she silenced him with an imperious gesture as he strove to speak. "old kinoos and i came among you from a strange land. thy people took us in by their fires and made us warm, nor asked whence or why we wandered. it was their thought that old kinoos had lost the sight of his eyes from age; nor did old kinoos say otherwise, nor did i, his daughter. old kinoos is a brave man, but old kinoos was never a boaster. and now, when i tell thee of how his blindness came to be, thou wilt know, beyond question, that the daughter of kinoos cannot mother the children of a coward such as thou art, negore." again she silenced the speech that rushed up to his tongue. "know, negore, if journey be added unto journey of all thy journeyings through this land, thou wouldst not come to the unknown sitka on the great salt sea. in that place there be many russian folk, and their rule is harsh. and from sitka, old kinoos, who was young kinoos in those days, fled away with me, a babe in his arms, along the islands in the midst of the sea. my mother dead tells the tale of his wrong; a russian, dead with a spear through breast and back, tells the tale of the vengeance of kinoos. "but wherever we fled, and however far we fled, always did we find the hated russian folk. kinoos was unafraid, but the sight of them was a hurt to his eyes; so we fled on and on, through the seas and years, till we came to the great fog sea, negore, of which thou hast heard, but which thou hast never seen. we lived among many peoples, and i grew to be a woman; but kinoos, growing old, took to him no other woman, nor did i take a man. "at last we came to pastolik, which is where the yukon drowns itself in the great fog sea. here we lived long, on the rim of the sea, among a people by whom the russians were well hated. but sometimes they came, these russians, in great ships, and made the people of pastolik show them the way through the islands uncountable of the many-mouthed yukon. and sometimes the men they took to show them the way never came back, till the people became angry and planned a great plan. "so, when there came a ship, old kinoos stepped forward and said he would show the way. he was an old man then, and his hair was white; but he was unafraid. and he was cunning, for he took the ship to where the sea sucks in to the land and the waves beat white on the mountain called romanoff. the sea sucked the ship in to where the waves beat white, and it ground upon the rocks and broke open its sides. then came all the people of pastolik, (for this was the plan), with their war-spears, and arrows, and some few guns. but first the russians put out the eyes of old kinoos that he might never show the way again, and then they fought, where the waves beat white, with the people of pastolik. "now the head-man of these russians was ivan. he it was, with his two thumbs, who drove out the eyes of kinoos. he it was who fought his way through the white water, with two men left of all his men, and went away along the rim of the great fog sea into the north. kinoos was wise. he could see no more and was helpless as a child. so he fled away from the sea, up the great, strange yukon, even to nulato, and i fled with him. "this was the deed my father did, kinoos, an old man. but how did the young man, negore?" once again she silenced him. "with my own eyes i saw, at nulato, before the gates of the great fort, and but few days gone. i saw the russian, ivan, who thrust out my father's eyes, lay the lash of his dog-whip upon thee and beat thee like a dog. this i saw, and knew thee for a coward. but i saw thee not, that night, when all thy people--yea, even the boys not yet hunters--fell upon the russians and slew them all." "not ivan," said negore, quietly. "even now is he on our heels, and with him many russians fresh up from the sea." oona made no effort to hide her surprise and chagrin that ivan was not dead, but went on: "in the day i saw thee a coward; in the night, when all men fought, even the boys not yet hunters, i saw thee not and knew thee doubly a coward." "thou art done? all done?" negore asked. she nodded her head and looked at him askance, as though astonished that he should have aught to say. "know then that negore is no coward," he said; and his speech was very low and quiet. "know that when i was yet a boy i journeyed alone down to the place where the yukon drowns itself in the great fog sea. even to pastolik i journeyed, and even beyond, into the north, along the rim of the sea. this i did when i was a boy, and i was no coward. nor was i coward when i journeyed, a young man and alone, up the yukon farther than man had ever been, so far that i came to another folk, with white faces, who live in a great fort and talk speech other than that the russians talk. also have i killed the great bear of the tanana country, where no one of my people hath ever been. and i have fought with the nuklukyets, and the kaltags, and the sticks in far regions, even i, and alone. these deeds, whereof no man knows, i speak for myself. let my people speak for me of things i have done which they know. they will not say negore is a coward." he finished proudly, and proudly waited. "these be things which happened before i came into the land," she said, "and i know not of them. only do i know what i know, and i know i saw thee lashed like a dog in the day; and in the night, when the great fort flamed red and the men killed and were killed, i saw thee not. also, thy people do call thee negore, the coward. it is thy name now, negore, the coward." "it is not a good name," old kinoos chuckled. "thou dost not understand, kinoos," negore said gently. "but i shall make thee understand. know that i was away on the hunt of the bear, with kamo-tah, my mother's son. and kamo-tah fought with a great bear. we had no meat for three days, and kamo-tah was not strong of arm nor swift of foot. and the great bear crushed him, so, till his bones cracked like dry sticks. thus i found him, very sick and groaning upon the ground. and there was no meat, nor could i kill aught that the sick man might eat. "so i said, 'i will go to nulato and bring thee food, also strong men to carry thee to camp.' and kamo-tah said, 'go thou to nulato and get food, but say no word of what has befallen me. and when i have eaten, and am grown well and strong, i will kill this bear. then will i return in honor to nulato, and no man may laugh and say kamo-tah was undone by a bear.' "so i gave heed to my brother's words; and when i was come to nulato, and the russian, ivan, laid the lash of his dog-whip upon me, i knew i must not fight. for no man knew of kamo-tah, sick and groaning and hungry; and did i fight with ivan, and die, then would my brother die, too. so it was, oona, that thou sawest me beaten like a dog. "then i heard the talk of the shamans and chiefs that the russians had brought strange sicknesses upon the people, and killed our men, and stolen our women, and that the land must be made clean. as i say, i heard the talk, and i knew it for good talk, and i knew that in the night the russians were to be killed. but there was my brother, kamo-tah, sick and groaning and with no meat; so i could not stay and fight with the men and the boys not yet hunters. "and i took with me meat and fish, and the lash-marks of ivan, and i found kamo-tah no longer groaning, but dead. then i went back to nulato, and, behold, there was no nulato--only ashes where the great fort had stood, and the bodies of many men. and i saw the russians come up the yukon in boats, fresh from the sea, many russians; and i saw ivan creep forth from where he lay hid and make talk with them. and the next day i saw ivan lead them upon the trail of the tribe. even now are they upon the trail, and i am here, negore, but no coward." "this is a tale i hear," said oona, though her voice was gentler than before. "kamo-tah is dead and cannot speak for thee, and i know only what i know, and i must know thee of my own eyes for no coward." negore made an impatient gesture. "there be ways and ways," she added. "art thou willing to do no less than what old kinoos hath done?" he nodded his head, and waited. "as thou hast said, they seek for us even now, these russians. show them the way, negore, even as old kinoos showed them the way, so that they come, unprepared, to where we wait for them, in a passage up the rocks. thou knowest the place, where the wall is broken and high. then will we destroy them, even ivan. when they cling like flies to the wall, and top is no less near than bottom, our men shall fall upon them from above and either side, with spears, and arrows, and guns. and the women and children, from above, shall loosen the great rocks and hurl them down upon them. it will be a great day, for the russians will be killed, the land will be made clean, and ivan, even ivan who thrust out my father's eyes and laid the lash of his dog-whip upon thee, will be killed. like a dog gone mad will he die, his breath crushed out of him beneath the rocks. and when the fighting begins, it is for thee, negore, to crawl secretly away so that thou be not slain." "even so," he answered. "negore will show them the way. and then?" "and then i shall be thy woman, negore's woman, the brave man's woman. and thou shalt hunt meat for me and old kinoos, and i shall cook thy food, and sew thee warm parkas and strong, and make thee moccasins after the way of my people, which is a better way than thy people's way. and as i say, i shall be thy woman, negore, always thy woman. and i shall make thy life glad for thee, so that all thy days will be a song and laughter, and thou wilt know the woman oona as unlike all other women, for she has journeyed far, and lived in strange places, and is wise in the ways of men and in the ways they may be made glad. and in thine old age will she still make thee glad, and thy memory of her in the days of thy strength will be sweet, for thou wilt know always that she was ease to thee, and peace, and rest, and that beyond all women to other men has she been woman to thee." "even so," said negore, and the hunger for her ate at his heart, and his arms went out for her as a hungry man's arms might go out for food. "when thou hast shown the way, negore," she chided him; but her eyes were soft, and warm, and he knew she looked upon him as woman had never looked before. "it is well," he said, turning resolutely on his heel. "i go now to make talk with the chiefs, so that they may know i am gone to show the russians the way." "oh, negore, my man! my man!" she said to herself, as she watched him go, but she said it so softly that even old kinoos did not hear, and his ears were over keen, what of his blindness. * * * * * three days later, having with craft ill-concealed his hiding-place, negore was dragged forth like a rat and brought before ivan--"ivan the terrible" he was known by the men who marched at his back. negore was armed with a miserable bone-barbed spear, and he kept his rabbit-skin robe wrapped closely about him, and though the day was warm he shivered as with an ague. he shook his head that he did not understand the speech ivan put at him, and made that he was very weary and sick, and wished only to sit down and rest, pointing the while to his stomach in sign of his sickness, and shivering fiercely. but ivan had with him a man from pastolik who talked the speech of negore, and many and vain were the questions they asked him concerning his tribe, till the man from pastolik, who was called karduk, said: "it is the word of ivan that thou shalt be lashed till thou diest if thou dost not speak. and know, strange brother, when i tell thee the word of ivan is the law, that i am thy friend and no friend of ivan. for i come not willingly from my country by the sea, and i desire greatly to live; wherefore i obey the will of my master--as thou wilt obey, strange brother, if thou art wise, and wouldst live." "nay, strange brother," negore answered, "i know not the way my people are gone, for i was sick, and they fled so fast my legs gave out from under me, and i fell behind." negore waited while karduk talked with ivan. then negore saw the russian's face go dark, and he saw the men step to either side of him, snapping the lashes of their whips. whereupon he betrayed a great fright, and cried aloud that he was a sick man and knew nothing, but would tell what he knew. and to such purpose did he tell, that ivan gave the word to his men to march, and on either side of negore marched the men with the whips, that he might not run away. and when he made that he was weak of his sickness, and stumbled and walked not so fast as they walked, they laid their lashes upon him till he screamed with pain and discovered new strength. and when karduk told him all would he well with him when they had overtaken his tribe, he asked, "and then may i rest and move not?" continually he asked, "and then may i rest and move not?" and while he appeared very sick and looked about him with dull eyes, he noted the fighting strength of ivan's men, and noted with satisfaction that ivan did not recognize him as the man he had beaten before the gates of the fort. it was a strange following his dull eyes saw. there were slavonian hunters, fair-skinned and mighty-muscled; short, squat finns, with flat noses and round faces; siberian half-breeds, whose noses were more like eagle-beaks; and lean, slant-eyed men, who bore in their veins the mongol and tartar blood as well as the blood of the slav. wild adventurers they were, forayers and destroyers from the far lands beyond the sea of bering, who blasted the new and unknown world with fire and sword and clutched greedily for its wealth of fur and hide. negore looked upon them with satisfaction, and in his mind's eye he saw them crushed and lifeless at the passage up the rocks. and ever he saw, waiting for him at the passage up the rocks, the face and the form of oona, and ever he heard her voice in his ears and felt the soft, warm glow of her eyes. but never did he forget to shiver, nor to stumble where the footing was rough, nor to cry aloud at the bite of the lash. also, he was afraid of karduk, for he knew him for no true man. his was a false eye, and an easy tongue--a tongue too easy, he judged, for the awkwardness of honest speech. all that day they marched. and on the next, when karduk asked him at command of ivan, he said he doubted they would meet with his tribe till the morrow. but ivan, who had once been shown the way by old kinoos, and had found that way to lead through the white water and a deadly fight, believed no more in anything. so when they came to a passage up the rocks, he halted his forty men, and through karduk demanded if the way were clear. negore looked at it shortly and carelessly. it was a vast slide that broke the straight wall of a cliff, and was overrun with brush and creeping plants, where a score of tribes could have lain well hidden. he shook his head. "nay, there be nothing there," he said. "the way is clear." again ivan spoke to karduk, and karduk said: "know, strange brother, if thy talk be not straight, and if thy people block the way and fall upon ivan and his men, that thou shalt die, and at once." "my talk is straight," negore said. "the way is clear." still ivan doubted, and ordered two of his slavonian hunters to go up alone. two other men he ordered to the side of negore. they placed their guns against his breast and waited. all waited. and negore knew, should one arrow fly, or one spear be flung, that his death would come upon him. the two slavonian hunters toiled upward till they grew small and smaller, and when they reached the top and waved their hats that all was well, they were like black specks against the sky. the guns were lowered from negore's breast and ivan gave the order for his men to go forward. ivan was silent, lost in thought. for an hour he marched, as though puzzled, and then, through karduk's mouth, he said to negore: "how didst thou know the way was clear when thou didst look so briefly upon it?" negore thought of the little birds he had seen perched among the rocks and upon the bushes, and smiled, it was so simple; but he shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. for he was thinking, likewise, of another passage up the rocks, to which they would soon come, and where the little birds would all be gone. and he was glad that karduk came from the great fog sea, where there were no trees or bushes, and where men learned water- craft instead of land-craft and wood-craft. three hours later, when the sun rode overhead, they came to another passage up the rocks, and karduk said: "look with all thine eyes, strange brother, and see if the way be clear, for ivan is not minded this time to wait while men go up before." negore looked, and he looked with two men by his side, their guns resting against his breast. he saw that the little birds were all gone, and once he saw the glint of sunlight on a rifle-barrel. and he thought of oona, and of her words: "and when the fighting begins, it is for thee, negore, to crawl secretly away so that thou be not slain." he felt the two guns pressing on his breast. this was not the way she had planned. there would be no crawling secretly away. he would be the first to die when the fighting began. but he said, and his voice was steady, and he still feigned to see with dull eyes and to shiver from his sickness: "the way is clear." and they started up, ivan and his forty men from the far lands beyond the sea of bering. and there was karduk, the man from pastolik, and negore, with the two guns always upon him. it was a long climb, and they could not go fast; but very fast to negore they seemed to approach the midway point where top was no less near than bottom. a gun cracked among the rocks to the right, and negore heard the war-yell of all his tribe, and for an instant saw the rocks and bushes bristle alive with his kinfolk. then he felt torn asunder by a burst of flame hot through his being, and as he fell he knew the sharp pangs of life as it wrenches at the flesh to be free. but he gripped his life with a miser's clutch and would not let it go. he still breathed the air, which bit his lungs with a painful sweetness; and dimly he saw and heard, with passing spells of blindness and deafness, the flashes of sight and sound again wherein he saw the hunters of ivan falling to their deaths, and his own brothers fringing the carnage and filling the air with the tumult of their cries and weapons, and, far above, the women and children loosing the great rocks that leaped like things alive and thundered down. the sun danced above him in the sky, the huge walls reeled and swung, and still he heard and saw dimly. and when the great ivan fell across his legs, hurled there lifeless and crushed by a down-rushing rock, he remembered the blind eyes of old kinoos and was glad. then the sounds died down, and the rocks no longer thundered past, and he saw his tribespeople creeping close and closer, spearing the wounded as they came. and near to him he heard the scuffle of a mighty slavonian hunter, loath to die, and, half uprisen, borne back and down by the thirsty spears. then he saw above him the face of oona, and felt about him the arms of oona; and for a moment the sun steadied and stood still, and the great walls were upright and moved not. "thou art a brave man, negore," he heard her say in his ear; "thou art my man, negore." and in that moment he lived all the life of gladness of which she had told him, and the laughter and the song, and as the sun went out of the sky above him, as in his old age, he knew the memory of her was sweet. and as even the memories dimmed and died in the darkness that fell upon him, he knew in her arms the fulfilment of all the ease and rest she had promised him. and as black night wrapped around him, his head upon her breast, he felt a great peace steal about him, and he was aware of the hush of many twilights and the mystery of silence. literary love-letters and other stories by robert herrick to g. h. p. literary love-letters: a modern account no. i. introductory and explanatory. (_eastlake has renewed an episode of his past life. the formalities have been satisfied at a chance meeting, and he continues_.) ... so your carnations lie over there, a bit beyond this page, in a confusion of manuscripts. sweet source of this idle letter and gentle memento of the house on grant street and of you! i fancy i catch their odor before it escapes generously into the vague darkness beyond my window. they whisper: "be tender, be frank; recall to her mind what is precious in the past. for departed delights are rosy with deceitful hopes, and a woman's heart becomes heavy with living. we are the woman you once knew, but we are much more. we have learned new secrets, new emotions, new ambitions, in love--we are fuller than before." so--for to-morrow they will be shrivelled and lifeless--i take up their message to-night. i see you now as this afternoon at the goodriches', when you came in triumphantly to essay that hot room of empty, passive folk. someone was singing somewhere, and we were staring at one another. there you stood at the door, placing us; the roses, scattered in plutocratic profusion, had drooped their heads to our hot faces. we turned from the music to _you_. you knew it, and you were glad of it. you knew that they were busy about you, that you and your amiable hostess made an effective group at the head of the room. you scented their possible disapproval with zest, for you had so often mocked their good-will with impunity that you were serenely confident of getting what you wanted. did you want a lover? not that i mean to offer myself in flesh and blood: god forbid that i should join the imploring procession, even at a respectful distance! my pen is at your service. i prefer to be your historian, your literary maid--half slave, half confidant; for then you will always welcome me. if i were a lover, i might some day be inopportune. that would not be pleasant. yes, they were chattering about you, especially around the table where some solid ladies of chicago served iced drinks. i was sipping it all in with the punch, and looking at the pinks above the dark hair, and wondering if you found having your own way as good fun as when you were eighteen. you have gained, my dear lady, while i have been knocking about the world. you are now more than "sweet": you are almost handsome. i suppose it is a question of lights and the time of day whether or not you are really brilliant. and you carry surety in your face. there is nothing in chicago to startle you, perhaps not in the world. she at the punch remarked, casually, to her of the sherbet: "i wonder when miss armstrong will settle matters with lane? it is the best she can do now, though he isn't as well worth while as the men she threw over." and her neighbor replied: "she might do worse than lane. she could get more from him than the showy ones." so lane is the name of the day. they have gauged you and put you down at lane. i took an ice and waited--but you will have to supply the details. meantime, you sailed on, with that same everlasting enthusiasm upon your face that i knew six years ago, until you spied me. how extremely natural you made your greeting! i confess i believed that i had lived for that smile six years, and suffered a bad noise for the sound of your voice. it seemed but a minute until we found ourselves almost alone with the solid women at the ices. one swift phrase from you, and we had slipped back through the meaningless years till we stood _there_ in the parlor at grant street, mere boy and girl. the babbling room vanished for a few golden moments. then you rustled off, and i believe i told mrs. goodrich that musicales were very nice, for they gave you a chance to talk. and i went to the dressing-room, wondering what rare chance had brought me again within the bondage of that voice. then, then, dear pinks, you came sailing over the stairs, peeping out from that bunch of lace. i loitered and spoke. were the eyes green, or blue, or gray; ambition, or love, or indifference to the world? i was at my old puzzle again, while you unfastened the pinks, and, before the butler, who acquiesced at your frivolity in impertinent silence, you held them out to me. only you know the preciousness of unsought-for favors. "write me," you said; and i write. what should man write about to you but of love and yourself? my pen, i see, has not lost its personal gait in running over the mill books. perhaps it politely anticipates what is expected! so much the better, say, for you expect what all men give--love and devotion. you would not know a man who could not love you. your little world is a circle of possibilities. let me explain. each lover is a possible conception of life placed at a slightly different angle from his predecessor or successor. within this circle you have turned and turned, until your head is a bit weary. but i stand outside and observe the whirligig. shall i be drawn in? no, for i should become only a conventional interest. "if the salt," etc. i remember you once taught in a mission school. the flowers will tell me no more! next time give me a rose--a huge, hybrid, opulent rose, the product of a dozen forcing processes--and i will love you a new way. as the flowers say good-by, i will say goodnight. shall i burn them? no, for they would smoulder. and if i left them here alone, to-morrow they would be wan. there! i have thrown them out wide into that gulf of a street twelve stories below. they will flutter down in the smoky darkness, and fall, like a message from the land of the lotus-eaters, upon a prosy wayfarer. and safe in my heart there lives that gracious picture of my lady as she stands above me and gives them to me. that is eternal: you and the pinks are but phantoms. farewell! no. ii. acquiescent and encouraging. (_miss armstrong replies on a dull blue, canvas-textured page, over which her stub-pen wanders in fashionable negligence. she arrives on the third page at the matter in hand_.) ah, it was very sweet, your literary love-letter. considerable style, as you would say, but too palpably artificial. if you want to deceive this woman, my dear sir trifler, you must disguise your mockery more artfully. why didn't i find you at the stanwoods'? i had nettie send you a card. i had promised you to a dozen delightful women, "our choicest lot," who were all agog to see my supercilious and dainty sir.... why will you always play with things? perhaps you will say because i am not worth serious moments. you play with everything, i believe, and that is banal. ever sincerely, edith armstrong. no. iii. explanatory and autobiographic. (_eastlake has the masculine fondness for seeing himself in the right_.) i turned the stanwoods' card down, and for your sake, or rather for the sake of your memory. i preferred to sit here and dream about you in the midst of my chimney-pots and the dull march mists rather than to run the risk of another, and perhaps fatal, impression. and so far as you are concerned your reproach is just. do i "play with everything"? perhaps i am afraid that it might play with me. imagine frolicking with tigers, who might take you seriously some day, as a tidbit for afternoon tea--if you should confess that you were serious! that's the way i think of the world, or, rather, your part of it. surely, it is a magnificent game, whose rules we learn completely just as our blood runs too slowly for active exercise. i like to break off a piece of its cake (or its rank cheese at times) and lug it away with me to my den up here for further examination. i think about it, i dream over it; yes, in a reflective fashion, i _feel_. it is a charming, experimental way of living. then, after the echo becomes faint and lifeless, or, if you prefer, the cheese too musty, i sally out once more to refresh my larder. you play also in your way, but not so intelligently (pardon me), for you deceive yourself from day to day that your particular object, your temporary mood, is the one eternal thing in life. after all, you have mastered but one trick--the trick of being loved. with that trick you expect to take the world; but, alas! you capture only an old man's purse or a young man's passion. artificial, my letters--yes, if you wish. i should say, not crude--matured, considered. i discuss the love you long to experience. i dangle it before your eyes as a bit of the drapery that goes to the ball of life. but when dawn almost comes and the ball is over, you mustn't expect the paper roses to smell. this mystifies you a little, for you are a plain, downright siren. your lovers' songs have been in simple measures. well, the moral is this: take my love-letters as real (in their way) as the play, or rather, the opera; infinitely true for the moment, unreal for the hour, eternal as the dead passions of the ages. further, it is better to feel the aromatic attributes of love than the dangerous or unlovely reality. you can flirt with number nine or marry number ten, but i shall be stored away in your drawer for a life. you have carried me far afield, away from men and things. so, for a moment, i have stopped to listen to the hum of this chaotic city as it rises from dearborn and state in the full blast of a commercial noon. you wonder why an unprofitable person like myself lives here, and not in an up-town club with my fellows. ah, my dear lady, i wish to see the game always going on in its liveliest fashion. so i have made a den for myself, not under the eaves of a hotel, but on the roof, among the ventilators. here i can see the clouds of steam and the perpetual pall of smoke below me. i can revel in gorgeous sunsets when the fiery light threads the smoke and the mists and the sodden clouds eastward over the lake. and at night i take my steamer chair to the battlements and peer over into a sea of lights below. as i sit writing to you, outside go the click and rattle of the elevator gates and other distant noises of humanity. my echo comes directly enough, but it does not deafen me. below there exists my barber, and farther down that black pit of an elevator lies lunch, or a cigar, or a possible cocktail, if the mental combination should prove unpleasant. across the hall is aladdin's lamp, otherwise my banker; and above all is haroun al raschid. am i not wise? in the morning, if it is fair, i take a walk among the bulkheads on the roof, and watch the blue deception of the lake. perhaps, if the wind comes booming in, i hear the awakening roar in the streets and think of work. perhaps the clear emptiness of a sunday hovers over the shore; then i wonder what you will say to this letter. will you feel with me that you should live on a housetop and eat cheese? do you long for a cool stream without flies, and a carpet of golden sand? do you want a coal fire and a husband home at six-thirty, or a third-class ticket to the realms of nonsense? are you thinking of lane's income, or smith's cleverness, or the ennui of too many dinners? i know: you are thinking of love while you read this, and are happy. if i might send you a new sensation in every line, i should be happy, too, for your prodigal nature demands novelty. i should then be master for a moment. and love is mastery and submission, the two poles of a strong magnet. adieu. no. iv. further autobiographic. (_eastlake continues apropos of a chance meeting_.) so you rather like the curious flavor of this new dish, but it puzzles you. you ask for facts? what a stamp chicago has put on your soul! you will continue to regard as facts the feeble fancies that god has allowed to petrify. i warn you that facts kill, but you shall have them. i had meditated a delightful sheet of love that has been disdainfully shoved into the waste-basket. a grave moral there for you, my lady! do you remember when i was very young and _gauche_? doubtless, for women never forget first impressions of that sort. you dressed very badly, and were quite ceremonious. i was the bantling son of one of your father's provincial correspondents, to adopt the suave term of the foreigners. i had been sent to chicago to fit for a technical school, where i was to learn to be very clever about mill machinery. perhaps you remember my father--a sweet-natured, wiry, active man, incapable of conceiving an interest in life that was divorced from respectability. i think he had some imagination, for now and then he was troubled about my becoming a loafer. however, he certainly kept it in control: i was to become a great mill owner. it was all luck at first: you were luck, and the tech. was luck. then i found my voice and saw my problem: to cross my father's aspirations, to be other than the wabash mill owner, would have been cruel. you see his desires were more passionate than mine. i worried through the mechanical, deadening routine of the tech. somehow, and finally got courage enough to tell him that i could not accept wabash quite yet. i had the audacity to propose two years abroad. we compromised on one, but i understood that i must not finally disappoint him. he cared so much that it would have been wicked. a few people in this world have positive and masterful convictions. an explosion or insanity comes if their wills smoulder in ineffectual silence. most of us have no more than inclinations. it seems wise and best that those of mere inclinations should waive their prejudices in favor of those who feel intensely. so much for the great questions of individuality and personality that set the modern world a-shrieking. this is a commonplace solution of the great family problem turgénieff propounded in "fathers and sons." perchance you have heard of turgénieff? so i prepared to follow my father's will, for i loved him exceedingly. his life had not been happy, and his nature, as i have said, was a more exacting one than mine. the price of submission, however, was not plain to me until i was launched that year in paris in a strange, cosmopolitan world. i was supposed to attend courses at the École polytechnique, but i became mad with the longings that are wafted about europe from capital to capital. i went to italy--to venice and florence and rome--to athens and constantinople and vienna. in a word, i unfitted myself for wabash as completely as i could, and troubled my spirit with vain attempts after art and feeling. you women do not know the intoxication of five-and-twenty--a few hundred francs in one's pockets, the centuries behind, creation ahead. you do not know what it is to hunger after the power of understanding and the power of expression; to see the world as divine one minute and a mechanic hell the next; to feel the convictions of the vagabond; to grudge each sunbeam that falls unseen by you on some mouldering gate in some neglected city, each face of the living wherein possible life looks out untried by you, each picture that means a new curiosity. no, for, after all, you are material souls; you need a bradshaw and a baedeker, even in the land of dreams. all men, i like to think, for one short breath in their lives, believe this narrow world to be shoreless. they feel that they should die in discontent if they could not experience, test, this wonderful conglomerate of existence. it is an old, old matter i am writing you about. we have classified it nicely, these days; we call it the "romantic spirit," and we say that it is made three parts of youth and two of discontent--a perpetual expression of the world's pessimism. i look back, and i think that i have done you wrong. women like you have something nearly akin to this mood. some time in your lives you would all be romantic lovers. the commonest of you anticipate a masculine soul that shall harmonize your discontent into happiness. most of you are not very nice about it; you make your hero out of the most obvious man. yet it is pathetic, that longing for something beyond yourselves. that passionate desire for a complete illusion in love is the one permanent note you women have attained in literature. in your heart of hearts you would all (until you become stiff in the arms of an unlovely life) follow a cabman, if he could make the world dance for you in this joyous fashion. some are hard to satisfy--for example, you, my lady--and you go your restless, brilliant little way, flirting with this man, coquetting with that, examining a third, until your heart grows weary or until you are at peace. you may marry for money or for love, and in twenty years you will teach your daughters that love doesn't pay at less than ten thousand a year. but you don't expect them to believe you, and they don't. i am not sneering at you. i would not have it otherwise, for the world would be one half cheaper if women like you did not follow the perpetual instinct. true, civilization tends to curb this romantic desire, but when civilization runs against a passionate nature we have a tragedy. the world is sweeter, deeper, for that. live and love, if you can, and give the lie to facts. be restless, be insatiable, be wicked, but believe that your body and soul were meant for more than food and raiment; that somewhere, somehow, some day, you will meet the dream made real, and that _he_ will unlock the secrets of this life. it is late. i am tired. the noises of the city begin, far down in the darkness. this carries love. no. v. aroused. (_miss armstrong protests and invites_.) it is real, real, _real_. if i can say so, after going on all these years with but one idea (according to my good friends) of settling myself comfortably in some large home, shouldn't you believe it? you have lived more interestingly than i, and you are not dependent, as most of us are. you really mock me through it all. you think i am worthy of only a kind of candy that you carry about for agreeable children, which you call love. to me, sir, it reads like an insult--your message of love tucked in concisely at the close. no, keep to facts, for they are your _metier_. you make them interesting. tell me more about your idle, contemplative self. and let me see you to-morrow at the thorntons'. leave your sombre eyes at home, and don't expect infinities in tea-gabble. i saw you at the opera last night. for some moments, while melba was singing, i wanted you and your confectioner's love. that melba might always sing, and the tide always flood the marshes! on the whole, i like candy. send me a page of it. e. a. no. vi. autobiographic. (_eastlake, disregarding her comments, continues._) dear lady, did you ever read some stately bit of prose, which caught in its glamour of splendid words the vital, throbbing world of affairs and passions, some crystallization of a rich experience, and then by chance turn to the "newsy" column of an american newspaper? (forsooth, these must be literary letters!) well, that tells the sensations of going from europe to wabash. i had caught the sound of the greater harmony, or struggle, and i must accept the squeak of the melodeon. i did not think highly of myself; had started too far back in the race, and i knew that laborious years of intense zeal would place me only third class, or even lower, in any pursuit of the arts. perhaps if i had felt that i could have made a good third class, i should have fought it out in europe. there are some things man cannot accomplish, however, our optimistic national creed to the contrary. and there would have been something low in disappointing my father for such ignoble results, such imperfect satisfaction. so to wabash i went. i resolved to adapt myself to the billiards and whiskey of the commercial club, and to the desk in the inner office behind the glass partitions. and i like to think that i satisfied my father those two years in the mills. after a time i achieved a lazy content. at first i tried to deceive myself; to think that the newsy column of wabash was as significant as the grand page of london or paris. that simple yarn didn't satisfy me many months. then my father died. i hung on at the mills for a time, until the strikes and the general depression gave me valid reasons for withdrawing. to skip details, i sold out my interests, and with my little capital came to chicago. my income, still dependent in some part upon those wabash mills, trembles back and forth in unstable equilibrium. chicago was too much like wabash just then. i went to florence to join a man, half german jew, half american, wholly cosmopolite, whom i had known in paris. his life was very thin: it consisted wholly of interests--a tenuous sort of existence. i can thank him for two things: that i did not remain forever in italy, trying to say something new, and that i began a definite task. i should send you my book (now that it is out and people are talking about it), but it would bore you, and you would feel that you must chatter about it. it is a good piece of journeyman work. i gathered enough notes for another volume, and then i grew restless. business called me home for a few months, so i came back to chicago. of all places! you say. yes, to chicago, to see this brutal whirlpool as it spins and spins. it has fascinated me, i admit, and i stay on--to live up among the chimneys, hanging out over the cornice of a twelve-story building; to soak myself in the steam and smoke of the prairie and in the noises of a city's commerce. am i content? yes, when i am writing to you; or when the pile of manuscripts at my side grows painfully page by page; or when, peering out of the fort-like embrasure, i can see the sun drenched in smoke and mist and the "sky-scrapers" gleam like the walls of a colorado canon. i have enough to buy me existence, and at thirty i still find peepholes into hopes. are these enough facts for you? shall i send you an inventory of my room, of my days, of my mental furniture? some long afternoon i will spirit you up here in that little steel cage, and you shall peer out of my window, tapping your restless feet, while you sniff at the squalor below. you will move softly about, questioning the watercolors, the bits of bric-à-brac, the dusty manuscripts, the dull red hangings, not quite understanding the fox in his hole. you will gratefully catch the sounds from the mound below our feet, and when you say good-by and drop swiftly down those long stories you will gasp a little sigh of relief. you will pull down your veil and drive off to an afternoon tea, feeling that things as they are are very nice, and that a little chicago mud is worth all the clay of the studios. and i? i shall take the roses out of the vase and throw them away. i shall say, "enough!" but somehow you will have left a suggestion of love about the place. i shall fancy that i still hear your voice, which will be so far away dealing out banalities. i shall treasure the words you let wander heedlessly out of the window. i shall open my book and write, "to-day she came--_beatissima hora_." no. vii. of the nature of a confession. (_miss armstrong is nearing the close of her fifth season. prospect and retrospect are equally uninviting. she wills to escape_.) i shall probably be thinking about the rents in your block, and wondering if the family had best put up a sky-scraper, instead of doing all the pretty little things you mention in your letter. at five-and-twenty one becomes practical, if one is a woman whose father has left barely enough to go around among two women who like luxury, and two greedy boys at college with expensive "careers" ahead. this letter finds me in the trough of the wave. i wonder if it's what you call "the ennui of many dinners?" more likely it's because we can't keep our cottage at sorrento. well-a-day! it's gray this morning, and i will write off a fit of the blues. i think it's about time to marry number nine. it would relieve the family immensely. i suspect they think i have had my share of fun. probably you will take this as an exquisite joke, but 'tis the truth, alas! last night i was at the hoffmeyers' at dinner. it was slow. all such dinners are slow. the good fraus don't know how to mix the sheep and the goats. for a passing moment they talked about you and about your book in a puzzled way. they think you so clever and so odd. but i know how hollow he is, and how thin his fame! i got some points on the new l from the hoffmeyers and young mr. knowlton. that was interesting and exciting. we dealt in millions as if they were checkers. these practical men have a better grip on life than the cynics and dreamers like you. you call them plebeian and _bourgeois_ and philistine and limited--all the bad names in your select vocabulary. but they know how to feel in the good, old, common-sense way. you've lost that. i like plebeian earnestness and push. i like success at something, and hearty enjoyment, and good dinners, and big men who talk about a million as if it were a ten-spot in the game. you see i am looking for number nine and my four horses. then i mean to invite you to my country house, to have a lot of "fat" girls to meet you who will talk slang at you, and one of them shall marry you--one whose father is a great newspaper man. and your new papa will start you in the business of making public opinion. you will play with that, too, but, then, you will be coining money. no, not here in chicago, but if you had talked to me at sorrento as you write me from your sanctum on the roof, i might have listened and dreamed. the sea makes me believe and hope. i love it so! that's why i made mamma take a house near the lake--to be near a little piece of infinity. yes, if you had paddled me out of the harbor at sorrento, some fine night when the swell was rippling in, like the groaning of a sleepy beast, and the hills were a-hush on the shore, then we might have gone on to that place you are so fond of, "the land east of the sun, and west of the moon." no. viii. biographic and judicial. (_eastlake replies analytically_.) but don't marry him until we are clear on all matters. i haven't finished your case. and don't marry that foreign-looking cavalier you were riding with to-day in the park. you are too american ever to be at home over there. you would smash their fragile china, and you wouldn't understand. england might fit you, though, for england is something like that dark green, prairie park, with its regular, bushy trees against a gainsborough sky. you live deeply in the fierce open air. the english like that. however, america must not lose you. you it was, i am sure, who moved your family in that conventional pilgrimage of ambitious chicagoans--west, south, north. neither your father nor your mother would have stirred from sober little grant street had you not felt the pressing necessity for a career. rumor got hold of you first on the south side, and had it that you were experimenting with some small contractor. the explosion which followed reached me even in vienna. did you feel that you could go farther, or did you courageously run the risk of wrecking him then instead of wrecking yourself and him later? oh well, he's comfortably married now, and all the pain you gave him was probably educative. you may look at his flaunting granite house on that broad boulevard, and think well of your courage. your father died. you moved northward to that modest house tucked in lovingly under the ample shelter of the millionnaires on the lake shore drive. i fancy there has always been the gambler in your nerves; that you have sacrificed your principle to getting a rapid return on your money. and you have dominated your family: you sent your two brothers to harvard, and filled them with ambitions akin to yours. now you are impatient because the thin ice cracks a bit. but i have great faith: you will mend matters by some shrewd deal with the manipulators at hoffmeyer's, or by marrying number nine. you will do it honestly--i mean the marrying; for you will convince him that you love, so far as love is in you, and you will convince yourself that marriage, the end of it all, is unselfish, though prosaic. you will accept resignation with an occasional sigh, feeling that you have gone far, perhaps as far as you can go. i trust that solution will not come quickly, however, because i cannot regard it as a brilliant ending to your evolution. for you have kept yourself sweet and clean from fads, and mean pushing, and the vulgar machinery of society. you never forced your way or intrigued. you have talked and smiled and bewitched yourself straight to the point where you now are. you were eager and curious about pleasures, and the world has dealt liberally with you. were you perilously near the crisis when you wrote me? did the reflective tone come because you were brought at last squarely to the mark, because you must decide what one of the possible conceptions of life you really want? don't think, i pray you; go straight on to the inevitable solution, for when you become conscious you are lost. do you wonder that i love you, my hybrid rose; that i follow the heavy petals as they push themselves out into their final bloom; that i gather the aroma to comfort my heart in these lifeless pages? i follow you about in your devious path from tea to dinner or dance, or i wait at the opera or theatre to watch for a new light in your face, to see your world written in a smile. you are dark, and winning, and strong. you are pagan in your love of sensuous, full things. you are grateful to the biting air as it touches your cheek and sends the blood leaping in glad life. you love water and fire and wind, elemental things, and you love them with fervor and passion. all this to the world! much more intimate to me, who can read the letters you scrawl for the impudent, careless world. for deep down in the core of that rose there lies a soul that permeates it all--a longing, restless soul, one moment revealing a heaven that the next is shut out in dark despair. yes, keep the cottage by the sea for one more dream. perchance i shall find something stable, eternal, something better than discontent and striving; for the sea is great and makes peace. no. ix. criticism. (_miss armstrong vindicates herself by scorning._) you are a tissue of phrases. you feel only words. you love! what mockery to hear you handle the worn, old words! you have secluded yourself in careful isolation from the human world you seem to despise. you have no right to its passions and solaces. incarnate selfishness, dear friend, i suspect you are. you would not permit the disturbance of a ripple in the contemplative lake of your life such as love and marriage might bring. pray what right may you have to stew me in a saucepan up on your roof, and to send me flavors of myself done up nicely into little packages labelled deceitfully "love"? it is lucky that this time you have come across a woman who has played the game before, and can meet you point by point. but i am too weary to argue with a man who carries two-edged words, flattery on one side and sneers on the reverse. mark this one thing, nevertheless: if i should decide to sell myself advantageously next season i should be infinitely better than you,--for i am only a woman. e. a. no. x. the limitation of life. (_eastlake summarizes, and intends to conclude._) my lady, my humor of to-day makes me take up the charges in your last letters; i will define, not defend, myself. you fall out with me because i am a dilettante (or many words to that one effect), and you abuse me because i deal in the form rather than the matter of love. is that not just to you? in short, i am not as your other admirers, and the variation in the species has lost the charm of novelty. believe me that i am honest to-day, at least; indeed, i think you will understand. only the college boy who feeds on oscar wilde and sentimental pessimism has that disease of indifference with which you crudely charge me. it is a kind of chicken-pox, cousin-french to the evils of literary paris. but i must not thank god too loudly, or you will think i am one with them at heart. no, i am in earnest, in terrible earnest, about all this--i mean life and what to do with it. that is a great day when a man comes into his own, no matter how paltry the pittance may be the gods have given him--when he comes to know just how far he can go, and where lies his path of least resistance. that i know. i am tremendously sure of myself now, and, like your good business men, i go about my affairs and dispose of my life with its few energies in a cautious, economical way. what is all this i make so much to-do about? very little, i confess, but to me more serious than l's and sky-scrapers; yes, than love. mine is an infinite labor: first to shape the true tool, and then to master the material! i grant you i may die any day like a rat on a housetop, with only a bundle of musty papers, the tags of broken conversations, and one or two dead, distorted nerves. that is our common risk. but i shall accomplish as much of the road as god permits the snail, and i shall have moulded something; life will have justified itself to me, or i to life. but that is not our problem to-day. why do i isolate myself? because a few pursuits in life are great taskmasters and jealous ones. a wise man who had felt that truth wrote about it once. i must husband my devotions: love, except the idea of love, is not for me; pleasure, except the idea of pleasure, is too keen for me; energy, except the ideas energy creates, is beyond me. i am limited, definite, alone, without you. i confess that two passions are greater than any man, the passion for god and the passion of a great love. they send a man hungry and naked into the street, and make his subterfuges with existence ridiculous. how rarely they come! how inadequate the man who is mistaken about them! we peer into the corners of life after them, but they elude us. there are days of splendid consciousness, and we think we have them--then---- no, it is foolish, _bête_, dear lady, to be deceived by a sentiment; better the comfortable activities of the world. they will suit you best; leave the other for the dream hidden in a glass of champagne. but let me love you always. let me fancy you, when i walk down these gleaming boulevards in the silent evenings, as you sit flashingly lovely by some soft lamplight, wrapped about in the cotton-wools of society. that will reconcile me to the roar of these noonday streets. the city exists for _you_. no. xi. unsatisfied. (_miss armstrong wills to drift_.) ... come to sorrento.... no. xii. the illusion. (_eastlake resumes some weeks later. he has put into bar harbor on a yachting trip. he sits writing late at night by the light of the binnacle lamp_.) sweet lady, a few hours ago we slipped in here past the dark shore of your village, in almost dead calm, just parting the heavy waters with our prow. it was the golden set of the summer afternoon: a thrush or two were already whistling clear vespers in he woods; all else was fruitfully calm. and then, in the stillness of the ebb, we floated together, you and i, round that little lighthouse into the sheltering gloom of the woods. then we drifted beyond it all, in serene solution of this world's fret! to-morrows you may keep for another. this night was richly mine. you brought your simple self, undisturbed by the people who expect of you, without your little airs of experience. i brought incense, words, devotion, and love. and i treasure now a few pure tones, some simple motions of your arm with the dripping paddle, a few pure feelings written on your face. that is all, but it is much. we got beyond necessity and the impertinent commonplace of chicago. we had ourselves, and that was enough. and to-night, as i lie here under the cool, complete heavens, with only a twinkling cottage light here and there in the bay to remind me of unrest, i see life afresh in the old, simple, eternal lines. these are _our_ days of full consciousness. do you remember that clearing in the woods where the long weeds and grass were spotted with white stones--burial-place it was--their bright faces turned ever to the sunshine and the stars? they spoke of other lives than yours and mine. forgotten little units in our disdainful world, we pass them scornfully by. other lives, and perhaps better, do you think? for them the struggle never came which holds us in a fist of brass, and thrashes us up and down the pavement of life. perhaps--can you not, at one great leap, fancy it?--two sincere souls could escape from this brass master, and live, unmindful of strife, for a little grave on a hillside in the end? they must be strong souls to renounce that cherished hope of triumph, to be content with the simple, antique things, just living and loving--the eternal and brave things; for, after all, what you and i burn for so restlessly is a makeshift ambition. we wish to go far, "to make the best of ourselves." why not, once for all, rely upon god to make? why not live and rejoice? and the little graves are not bad: to lie long years within sound of this great-hearted ocean, with the peaceful, upturned stones bearing this full legend, "this one loved and lived...." forgive me for making you sad. perhaps you merely laugh at the intoxication your clear air has brought about. well, dearest lady, the ships are striking their eight bells for midnight, the gayest cottages are going out, light by light, and somewhere in the still harbor i can hear a fisherman laboriously sweeping his boat away to the ocean. away!--that is the word for us: i, in this boat southward, and ever away, searching in grim fashion for an accounting with fate; you, in your intrepid loveliness, to other lives. and if i return some weeks hence, when i have satisfied the importunate business claims, what then? shall we slip the cables and drift quietly out "to the land east of the sun and west of the moon"? no. xiii. sanity. (_eastlake refuses miss armstrong's last invitation, continues, and concludes_.) last night was given to me for insight. you were brilliantly your best, and set in the meshes of gold and precious stones that the gods willed for you. there was not a false note, not an attribute wanting. over your head were mellow, clear, electric lights that showed forth coldly your faultless suitability. from the exquisitely fit pearls about your neck to the scents of the wine and the flowers, all was as it should be. i watched your face warm with multifold impressions, your nostrils dilate with sensuousness, appreciation, your pagan head above the perfect bosom; about you the languid eyes of your well-fed neighbors. the dusky recesses of the rooms, heavy with opulent comfort, stretched away from our long feast. there you could rest, effectually sheltered from the harsh noises of the world. and i rejoiced. each minute i saw more clearly things as they are. i saw you giving the nicest dinners in chicago, and scurrying through europe, buying a dozen pictures here and there, building a great house, or perhaps, tired of chicago, trying your luck in new york; but always pressing on, seizing this exasperating life, and tenaciously sucking out the rich enjoyments thereof! for the gold has entered your heart. what splendid folly we played at sorrento! if you had deceived yourself with a sentiment, how long would you have maintained the illusion? when would the morning have come for your restless eyes to stare out at the world in longing and the unuttered sorrow of regret? ah, i touch you but with words! the cadence of a phrase warms your heart, and you fancy your emotion is supreme, inevitable. nevertheless, you are a practical goddess: you can rise beyond the waves toward the glorious ether, but at night you sink back. 'tis alluring, but--eternal? few of us can risk being romantic. the penalty is too dreadful. to be successful, we must maintain the key of our loveliest enthusiasm without stimulants. you need the stimulants. you imagined that you were tired, that rest could come in a lover's arms. better the furs that are soft about your neck, for they never grow cold. perchance the lover will come, also, as a prince with his princedom. it will be comfortable to have your cake and the frosting, too. if not, take the frosting; go glittering on with your pulses full of the joys, until you are old and fagged and the stupid world refuses to revolve. remember my sure word that you were meant for dinners, for power and pleasure and excitement. trust no will-o'-the-wisp that would lead you into the stony paths of romance. some days in the years to come i shall enter at your feasts and watch you in admiration and love. (for i shall always love you.) then will stir in your heart a mislaid feeling of some joy untasted. but you will smile wisely, and marvel at my exact judgment. you will think of another world where words and emotions alone are alive, where it is always high tide, and you will be glad that you did not force the gates. for life is not always lyric. farewell. no. xiv. that other world. (_miss armstrong writes with a calm heart_.) i have but a minute before i must go down to meet _him_. then it will be settled. i can hear his voice now and mother's. i must be quick. so you tested me and found me wanting in "inevitableness." i was too much clay, it seems, and "pagan." what a strange word that is! you mean i love to enjoy; and, perhaps you are right, that i need my little world. who knows? one cannot read the whole story--even you, dear master--until we are dead. we can never tell whether i am only frivolous and sensuous, or merely a woman who takes the best substitute at hand for life. i do not protest, and i think i never shall. i, too, am very sure--_now_. you have pointed out the path and i shall follow it to the end. but one must have other moments, not of regret, but of wonder. did you have too little faith? am i so cheap and weak? before you read this it will all be over.... now and then it seems i want only a dress for my back, a bit of food, rest, and your smile. but you have judged otherwise, and perhaps you are right. at any rate, i will think so. only i know that the hours will come when i shall wish that i might lie among those little white gravestones above the beach. chicago, november, . a question of art i john clayton had pretty nearly run the gamut of the fine arts. as a boy at college he had taken a dilettante interest in music, and having shown some power of sketching the summer girl he had determined to become an artist. his numerous friends had hoped such great things for him that he had been encouraged to spend the rest of his little patrimony in educating himself abroad. it took him nearly two years to find out what being an artist meant, and the next three in thinking what he wanted to do. in paris and munich and rome, the wealth of the possible had dazzled him and confused his aims; he was so skilful and adaptable that in turn he had wooed almost all the arts, and had accomplished enough trivial things to raise very pretty expectations of his future powers. he had enjoyed an uncertain glory among the crowd of american amateurs. when his purse had become empty he returned to america to realize on his prospects. on his arrival he had elaborately equipped a studio in boston, but as he found the atmosphere "too provincial" he removed to new york. there he was much courted at a certain class of afternoon teas. he was in full bloom of the "might do," but he had his suspicions that a fatally limited term of years would translate the tense into "might have done." he argued, however, that he had not yet found the right _milieu_; he was fond of that word--conveniently comprehensive of all things that might stimulate his will. he doubted if america ever could furnish him a suitable _milieu_ for the expression of his artistic instincts. but in the meantime necessity for effort was becoming more urgent; he could not live at afternoon teas. clayton was related widely to interesting and even influential people. one woman, a distant cousin, had taken upon herself his affairs. "i will give you another chance," she said, in a business-like tone, after he had been languidly detailing his condition to her and indicating politely that he was coming to extremities. "visit me this summer at bar harbor. you shall have the little lodge at the point for a studio, and you can take your meals at the hotel near by. in that way you will be independent. now, there are three ways, any one of which will lead you out of your difficulties, and if you don't find one that suits you before october, i shall leave you to your fate." the young man appeared interested. "you can model something--that's your line, isn't it?" clayton nodded meekly. he had resolved to become a sculptor during his last six months in italy. "and so put you on your feet, professionally." clayton sighed. "or you can find some rich patron or patroness who will send you over for a couple of years more until your _chef d' oeuvre_ makes its appearance." her pupil turned red, and began to murmur, but she kept on unperturbed. "or, best of all, you can marry a girl with some money and then do what you like." at this clayton rose abruptly. "i haven't come to that," he growled. "don't be silly," she pursued. "you are really charming; good character; exquisite manners; pleasant habits; success with women. you needn't feel flattered, for this is your stock in trade. you are decidedly interesting, and lots of those girls who are brought there every year to get them in would be glad to make such an exchange. you know everybody, and you could give any girl a good standing in boston or new york. besides, there is your genius, which may develop. that will be thrown in to boot; it may bear interest." clayton, who had begun by feeling how disagreeable his situation was when it exposed him to this kind of hauling over, ended by bursting into a cordial laugh at the frank materialism with which his cousin presented his case. "well," he exclaimed, "it's no go to talk to you about the claims and ideals of art, cousin della, but i will accept your offer, if only for the sake of modelling a bust of 'the energetic matron (american).'" "of course, i don't make much of ideals in art and all that," replied his cousin, "but i will put this through for you, as harry says. you must promise me only one thing: no flirting with harriet and mary. henry has been foolish and lost money, as you know, and i cannot have another beggar on my hands!" ii by the end of july clayton had found out two things definitely; he was standing in his little workshop, pulling at his mustache and looking sometimes at a half-completed sketch, and sometimes at the blue stretch of water below the cliff. the conclusions were that he certainly should not become interested in harriet and mary, and, secondly, that mount desert made him paint rather than model. "it's no place," he muttered, "except for color and for a poet. a man would have to shut himself up in a cellar to escape those glorious hills and the bay, if he wanted to work at that putty." he cast a contemptuous glance at a rough bust of his cousin della, the only thing he had attempted. as a solution of his hopeless problem he picked up a pipe and was hunting for some tobacco, preparatory to a stroll up newport, when someone sounded timidly at the show knocker of the front door. "is that you, miss marston?" clayton remarked, in a disappointed tone, as a middle-aged woman entered. "the servants were all away," she replied, "and della thought you might like some lunch to recuperate you from your labors." this was said a little maliciously, as she looked about and found nothing noteworthy going on. "i was just thinking of knocking off for this morning and taking a walk. won't you come? it's such glorious weather and no fog," he added, parenthetically, as if in justification of his idleness. "why do you happen to ask me?" miss marston exclaimed, impetuously. "you have hitherto never paid any more attention to my existence than if i had been jane, the woman who usually brings your lunch." she gasped at her own boldness. this was not coquettishness, and was evidently unusual. "why! i really wish you would come," said the young man, helplessly. "then i'll have a chance to know you better." "well! i will." she seemed to have taken a desperate step. miss jane marston, della's sister-in-law, had always been the superfluous member of her family. such unenviable tasks as amusing or teaching the younger children, sewing, or making up whist sets, had, as is usual with the odd members in a family, fallen to her share. all this miss marston hated in a slow, rebellious manner. from always having just too little money to live independently, she had been forced to accept invitations for long visits in uninteresting places. as a girl and a young woman, she had shown a delicate, retiring beauty that might have been made much of, and in spite of gray hair, thirty-five years, and a somewhat drawn look, arising from her discontent, one might discover sufficient traces of this fading beauty to idealize her. all this summer she had watched the wayward young artist with a keen interest in the fresh life he brought among her flat surroundings. his buoyancy cheered her habitual depression; his eagerness and love of life made her blood flow more quickly, out of sympathy; and his intellectual alertness bewildered and fascinated her. she was still shy at thirty-five, and really very timid and apologetic for her commonplaceness; but at times the rebellious bitterness at the bottom of her heart would leap forth in a brusque or bold speech. she was still capable of affording surprise. "won't i spoil the inspiration?" she ventured, after a long silence. "bother the inspiration!" groaned clayton. "i wish i were a blacksmith, or a sailor, or something honest. i feel like a hypocrite. i have started out at a pace that i can't keep up!" miss marston felt complimented by this apparent confidence. if she had had experience in that kind of nature, she would have understood how indifferent clayton was to her personally. he would have made the same confession to the birds, if they had happened to produce the same irritation in his mind. "they all say your work is so brilliant," she said, soothingly. "thunder!" he commented. "i wish they would not say anything kind and pleasant and cheap. at college they praised my verses, and the theatres stole my music for the pudding play, and the girls giggled over my sketches. and now, at twenty-six, i don't know whether i want to fiddle, or to write an epic, or to model, or to paint. i am a victim of every artistic impulse." "i know what you should do," she said, wisely, when they had reached a shady spot and were cooling themselves. "smoke?" queried clayton, quizzically. "you ought to marry!" "that's every woman's great solution, great panacea," he replied, contemptuously. "it would steady you and make you work." "no," he replied, thoughtfully, "not unless she were poor, and in that case it would be from the frying-pan into the fire!" "you should work," she went on, more courageously. "and a wife would give you inspiration and sympathy." "i have had too much of the last already," he sighed. "and it's better not to have it all of one sort. after awhile a woman doesn't produce pleasant or profitable reactions in my soul. yes, i know," he added, as he noticed her look of wonderment, "i am selfish and supremely egotistical. every artist is; his only lookout, however, should be that his surroundings don't become stale. or, if you prefer to put it more humanely, an artist isn't fit to marry; it's criminal for him to marry and break a woman's heart." after this heroic confession he paused to smoke. "besides, no woman whom i ever knew really understands art and the ends which the artist is after. she has the temperament, a superficial appreciation and interest, but she hasn't the stimulus of insight. she's got the nerves, but not the head." "but you just said that you had had too much sympathy and molly-coddling." "did i? well, i was wrong. i need a lot, and i don't care how idiotic. it makes me courageous to have even a child approve. i suppose that shows how closely we human animals are linked together. we have got to have the consent of the world, or at any rate a small part of it, to believe ourselves sane. so i need the chorus of patrons, admiring friends, kind women, etc., while i play the protagonist, to tell me that i am all right, to go ahead. do you suppose any one woman would be enough? what a great posture for an arm!" his sudden exclamation was called out by the attitude that miss marston had unconsciously assumed in the eagerness of her interest. she had thrown her hand over a ledge above them, and was leaning lightly upon it. the loose muslin sleeve had fallen back, revealing a pretty, delicately rounded arm, not to be suspected from her slight figure. clayton quickly squirmed a little nearer, and touching the arm with an artist's instinct, brought out still more the fresh white flesh and the delicate veining. "don't move. that would be superb in marble!" miss marston blushed painfully. "how strange you are," she murmured, as she rose. "you just said that you had given up modelling, or i would let you model my arm in order to give you something to do. you should try to stick to something." "don't be trite," laughed clayton, "and don't make me consistent. you will keep yourself breathless if you try that!" "i know what you need," she said, persistently unmindful of his admonition. "you need the spur. it doesn't make so much difference _what_ you do--you're clever enough." "'truth from the mouths of babes----'" "i am not a babe." she replied to his mocking, literally. "even if i am stupid and commonplace, i may have intuitions like other women." "which lead you to think that it's all chance whether raphael paints or plays on the piano. well, i don't know that you are so absurd. that's my theory: an artist is a fund of concentrated, undistributed energy that has any number of possible outlets, but selects one. most of us are artists, but we take so many outlets that the hogshead becomes empty by leaking. which shall it be? shall we toss up a penny?" "painting," said miss marston, decisively. "you must stick to that." "how did you arrive at that conclusion--have you observed my work?" "no! i'll let you know some time, but now you must go to work. come!" she rose, as if to go down to the lodge that instant. clayton, without feeling the absurdity of the comedy, rose docilely and followed her down the path for some distance. he seemed completely dominated by the sudden enthusiasm and will that chance had flung him. "there's no such blessed hurry," he remarked at last, when the first excitement had evanesced. "the light will be too bad for work by the time we reach bar harbor. let's rest here in this dark nook, and talk it all over." clayton was always abnormally eager to talk over anything. much of his artistic energy had trickled away in elusive snatches of talk. "come," he exclaimed, enthusiastically, "i have it. i will begin a great work--a modern magdalen or something of that sort. we can use you in just that posture, kneeling before a rock with outstretched hands, and head turned away. we will make everything of the hands and arms!" miss marston blushed her slow, unaccustomed blush. at first sight it pleased her to think that she had become so much a part of this interesting young man's plans, but in a moment she laughed calmly at the frank desire he expressed to leave out her face, and the characteristic indifference he had shown in suggesting negligently such a subject. "all right. i am willing to be of any service. but you will have to make use of the early hours. i teach the children at nine." "splendid!" he replied, as the vista of a new era of righteousness dawned upon him. "we shall have the fresh morning light, and the cool and the beauty of the day. and i shall have plenty of time to loaf, too." "no, you mustn't loaf. you will find me a hard task-mistress!" iii true to her word, miss marston rapped at the door of the studio promptly at six the next morning. she smiled fearfully, and finding no response, tried stones at the windows above. she kept saying to herself, to keep up her courage: "he won't think about me, and i am too old to care, anyway." soon a head appeared, and clayton called out, in a sleepy voice: "i dreamt it was all a joke; but wait a bit, and we will talk it over." miss marston entered the untidy studio, where the _débris_ of a month's fruitless efforts strewed the floor. bits of clay and carving-tools, canvases hurled face downward in disgust and covered with paint-rags, lay scattered about. she tip-toed around, carefully raising her skirt, and examined everything. finally, discovering an alcohol-lamp and a coffee-pot, she prepared some coffee, and when clayton appeared--a somewhat dishevelled god--he found her hunting for biscuit. "you can't make an artist of me at six in the morning," he growled. in sudden inspiration, miss marston threw open the upper half of the door and admitted a straight pathway of warm sun that led across the water just rippling at their feet. the hills behind the steep shore were dark with a mysterious green and fresh with a heavy dew, and from the nooks in the woods around them thrush was answering thrush. miss marston gave a sigh of content. the warm, strong sunlight strengthened her and filled her wan cheeks, as the sudden interest in the artist's life seemed to have awakened once more the vigor of her feelings. she clasped her thin hands and accepted both blessings. clayton also revived. at first he leant listlessly against the door-post, but as minute by minute he drank in the air and the beauty and the hope, his weary frame dilated with incoming sensations. "god, what beauty!" he murmured, and he accepted unquestioningly the interference in his life brought by this woman just as he accepted the gift of sunshine and desire. "come to work," said miss marston, at last. "that's no go," he replied, "that subject we selected." "i dare say you won't do much with it, but it will do as well as any other for experiment and practice." "i see that you want those arms preserved." the little woman shrank into her shell for a moment: her lazy artist could scatter insults as negligently as epigrams. then she blazed out. "mr. clayton, i didn't come here to be insulted." clayton, utterly surprised, opened his sleepy eyes in real alarm. "bless you, my dear miss marston, i can't insult anybody. i never mean anything." "perhaps that's the trouble," replied miss marston, somewhat mollified. but the sitting was hardly a success. clayton wasted almost all his time in improvising an easel and in preparing his brushes. miss marston had to leave him just as he was ready to throw himself into his work. he was discontented, and, instead of improving the good light and the long day, he took a pipe and went away into the hills. the next morning he felt curiously ashamed when miss marston, after examining the rough sketch on the easel, said: "is that all?" and this day he painted, but in a fit of gloomy disgust destroyed everything. so it went on for a few weeks. miss marston was more regular than an alarm-clock; sometimes she brought some work, but oftener she sat vacantly watching the young man at work. her only standard of accomplishment was quantity. one day, when clayton had industriously employed a rainy afternoon in putting in the drapery for the figure, she was so much pleased by the quantity of the work accomplished that she praised him gleefully. clayton, who was, as usual, in an ugly mood, cast an utterly contemptuous look at her and then turned to his easel. "you mustn't look at me like that," the woman said, almost frightened. "then don't jabber about my pictures." her lips quivered, but she was silent. she began to realize her position of galley-slave, and welcomed with a dull joy the contempt and insults to come. one morning clayton was not to be found. he did not appear during that week, and at last miss marston determined to find him. she made an excuse for a journey to boston, and divining where clayton could be found, she sent him word at a certain favorite club that she wanted to see him. he called at her modest hotel, dejected, listless, and somewhat shamefaced; he found miss marston calm and commonplace as usual. but it was the calm of a desperate resolve, won after painful hours, that he little recognized. her instinct to attach herself to this strange, unaccountable creature, to make him effective to himself, had triumphed over her prejudices. she humbled herself joyfully, recognizing a mission. "della said that i might presume on your escort home," she remarked dryly, trembling for fear that she had exposed herself to some contemptuous retort. one great attraction, however, in clayton was that he never expected the conventional. it did not occur to him as particularly absurd that this woman, ten years his senior, should hunt him up in this fashion. he took such eccentricities as a matter of course, and whatever the circumstances or the conversation, found it all natural and reasonable. women did not fear him, but talked indiscreetly to him about all things. "what's the use of keeping up this ridiculous farce about my work?" he said, sadly. then he sought for a conventional phrase. "your unexpected interest and enthusiasm in my poor attempts have been most kind, my dear miss marston. but you must allow me to go to the dogs in my own fashion; that's the inalienable right of every emancipated soul in these days." the politeness and mockery of this little epigram stung the woman. "don't be brutal, as well as good for nothing," she said, bitterly. "you're as low as if you took to drink or any other vice, and you know it. i can't appreciate your fine ideas, perhaps, but i know you ought to do something more than talk. you're terribly ambitious, but you're too weak to do anything but talk. i don't care what you think about my interference. i can make you work, and i will make you do something. you know you need the whip, and if none of your pleasant friends will give it to you, i can. come!" she added, pleadingly. "jove!" exclaimed the young man, slowly, "i believe you're an awful trump. i will go back." on their return they scarcely spoke. miss marston divined that her companion felt ashamed and awkward, and that his momentary enthusiasm had evaporated under the influence of a long railroad ride. while they were waiting for the steamer at the mount desert ferry, she said, as negligently as she could, "i have telegraphed for a carriage, but you had better walk up by yourself." he nodded assent. "so you will supply the will for the machine, if i will grind out the ideas. but it will never succeed," he added, gloomily. "of course i am greatly obliged and all that, and i will stick to it until october for the sake of your interest." in answer she smiled with an air of proprietorship. one effect of this spree upon clayton was that he took to landscape during the hours that he had formerly loafed. he found some quiet bits of dell with water, and planted his easel regularly every day. sometimes he sat dreaming or reading, but he felt an unaccustomed responsibility if, when his mentor appeared with the children late in the afternoon, he hadn't something to show for his day. she never attempted to criticise except as to the amount performed, and she soon learned enough not to measure this by the area of canvas. although clayton had abandoned the magdalen in utter disgust, miss marston persisted in the early morning sittings. she made herself useful in preparing his coffee and in getting his canvas ready. they rarely talked. sometimes clayton, in a spirit of deviltry, would tease his mentor about their peculiar relationship, about herself, or, worse than all, would run himself and say very true things about his own imperfections. then, on detecting the tears that would rise in the tired, faded eyes of the woman he tortured, he would throw himself into his work. so the summer wore away and the brilliant september came. the unsanctified crowds flitted to the mountains or the town, and the island and sea resumed the air of free-hearted peace which was theirs by right. clayton worked still more out of doors on marines, attempting to grasp the perplexing brilliancy that flooded everything. "it's no use," he said, sadly, as he packed up his kit one evening in the last of september. "i really don't know the first thing about color. i couldn't exhibit a single thing i have done this entire summer." "what's the real matter?" asked miss marston, with a desperate calm. "why, i have fooled about so much that i have lost a lot i learnt over there in paris." "why don't you get--get a teacher?" clayton laughed ironically. "i am pretty old to start in, especially as i have just fifty dollars to my name, and a whole winter before me." they returned silently. the next morning miss marston appeared at the usual hour and made the coffee. after clayton had finished his meagre meal, she sat down shyly and looked at him. "you've never interested yourself much in my plans, but i am going to tell you some of them. i'm sick of living about like a neglected cat, and i am going to new york to--to keep boarders." her face grew very red. "they will make a fuss, but i am ready to break with them all." "so you, too, find dependence a burden?" commented clayton, indifferently. "you haven't taken much pains to know me," she replied. "and if i were a man," she went on, with great scorn, "i would die before i would be dependent!" "talking about insults--but an artist isn't a man," remarked clayton, philosophically smoking his pipe. "i hate you when you're like that," miss marston remarked, with intense bitterness. "then you must hate me pretty often! but continue with your plans. don't let our little differences in temperament disturb us." "well," she continued, "i have written to some friends who spend the winters in new york, and out of them i think i shall find enough boarders--enough to keep me from starving. and the house has a large upper story with a north light." she stopped and peeped at him furtively. "oh," said clayton, coolly, "and you're thinking that i would make a good tenant." "exactly," assented miss marston, uncomfortably. "and who will put up the tin: for you don't suppose that i am low enough to live off you?" "no," replied the woman, quietly. "i shouldn't allow that, though i was not quite sure you would be unwilling. but you can borrow two or three hundred dollars from your brother, and by the time that's gone you ought to be earning something. you could join a class; the house isn't far from those studios." clayton impulsively seized her arms and looked into her face. she was startled and almost frightened. "i believe," he began, but the words faded away. "no, don't say it. you believe that i am in love with you, and do this to keep you near me. don't be quite such a brute, for you _are_ a brute, a grasping, egotistical, intolerant brute." she smiled slightly. "but don't think that i am such a fool as not to know how impossible _that_ is." clayton still held her in astonishment. "i think i was going to say that i was in love with you." "oh, no," she laughed, sadly. "i am coffee and milk and bread and butter, the 'stuff that dreams are made on.' you want some noble young woman--a goddess, to make you over, to make you human. i only save you from the poor-house." iv there followed a bitter two years for this strange couple. clayton borrowed a thousand dollars--a more convenient number to remember, he said, than three hundred dollars--and induced a prominent artist "who happens to know something," to take him into his crowded classes for a year. he began with true grit to learn again what he had forgotten and some things that he had never known. at the end of the year he felt that he could go alone, and the artist agreed, adding, nonchalantly: "you may get there; god knows; but you need loads of work." domestically, the life was monotonous. clayton had abandoned his old habits, finding it difficult to harmonize his present existence with his clubs and his fashionable friends. besides, he hoarded every cent and, with miss marston's aid, wrung the utmost of existence out of the few dollars he had left. miss marston's modest house was patronized by elderly single ladies. it was situated on one of those uninteresting east side streets where you can walk a mile without remembering an individual stone. the table, in food and conversation, was monotonous. in fact, clayton could not dream of a more inferior _milieu_ for the birth of the great artist. miss marston had fitted herself to suit his needs, and in submitting to this difficult position felt that she was repaying a loan of a new life. he was so curious, so free, so unusual, so fond of ideas, so entertaining, even in his grim moods, that he made her stupid life over. she could enjoy vicariously by feeling his intense interest in all living things. in return, she learnt the exact time to bring him an attractive lunch, and just where to place it so that it would catch his eye without calling out a scowl of impatience. she made herself at home in his premises, so that all friction was removed from the young artist's life. he made no acknowledgment of her devotion, but he worked grimly, doggedly, with a steadiness that he had never before known. once, early in the first winter, having to return to boston on some slight business, he permitted himself to be entrapped by old friends and lazed away a fortnight. on his return miss marston noticed with a pang that this outing had done him good; that he seemed to have more spirit, more vivaciousness, more ideas, and more zest for his work. so, in a methodical fashion, she thought out harmless dissipations for him. she induced him to take her to the opera, even allowing him to think that it was done from pure charity to her. sunday walks in the picturesque nooks of new york--they both shunned the fifth avenue promenade for different reasons--church music, interesting novels, all the "fuel," as clayton remarked, that she could find she piled into his furnace. she made herself acquainted with the peculiar literature that seemed to stimulate his imagination, and sometimes she read him asleep in the evenings to save his overworked eyes. her devotion he took serenely, as a rule. during the second winter, however, after a slight illness brought on by over-application, he seemed to have a thought upon his mind that troubled him. one day he impatiently threw down his palette and put his hands upon her shoulders. "little woman, why do you persist in using up your life on me?" "i am gambling," she replied, evasively. "what do you expect to get if you win?" "a few contemptuous thanks; perhaps free tickets when you exhibit, or a line in your biography. but seriously, jack, don't you know women well enough to understand how they enjoy drudging for someone who is powerful?" "but even if i have any ability, which you can't tell, how do you enjoy it? you can't appreciate a picture." she smiled. "don't bother yourself about me. i get my fun, as you say, because you make me feel things i shouldn't otherwise. i suppose that's the only pay you artists ever give those who slave for you?" such talks were rare. they experienced that physical and mental unity in duality which comes to people who live and think and work together for a common aim. they had not separated a day since that first visit to boston. the summer had been spent at a cheap boarding-house on cape ann, in order that clayton might sketch in company with the artist who had been teaching him. neither thought of conventionality; it was too late for that. as the second year came to an end, the pressure of poverty began to be felt. clayton refused to make any efforts to sell his pictures. he eked out his capital and went on. the end of his thousand came; he took to feeding himself in his rooms. he sold his clothes, his watch, his books, and at last the truck he had accumulated abroad. "more fuel for the fire," he said bitterly. "i will lend you something," remarked miss marston. "no, thanks," he said, shortly, and then added, with characteristic brutality, "my body is worth a hundred. stevens will give that for it, which would cover the room-rent. and my brother will have to whistle for his cash or take it out in paint and canvas." she said nothing, for she had a scheme in reserve. she was content meantime to see him pinched; it brought out the firmer qualities in the man. her own resources, moreover, were small, for the character of her boarders had fallen. unpleasant rumors had deprived her of the unexceptionable set of middle-aged ladies with whom she had started, but she had pursued her course unaltered. the reproach of her relatives, who considered her disgraced, had been a sweet solace to her pride. the rough struggle had told on them both. he had forgotten his delicate habits, his nicety of dress. a cheap suit once in six months was all that he could afford. his mind had become stolidly fixed, so that he did not notice the gradual change. it was a grim fight! the elements were relentless; day by day the pounding was harder, and the end of his resistance seemed nearer. although he was deeply discontented with his work, he did not dare to think of ultimate failure, for it unnerved him for several days. miss marston's quiet assumption, however, that it was only a question of months, irritated him. "god must have put the idea into your head that i am a genius," he would mutter fiercely at her. "i never did, nor work of mine. you don't know good from bad, anyway, and we may both be crazy." he buried his face in his hands, overcome by the awfulness of failure. she put her arms about his head. "well, we can stand it a little longer, and then----" "and then?" he asked, grimly. "then," she looked at him significantly. they both understood. "lieber gott," he murmured, "thou hast a soul." and he kissed her gently, as in momentary love. she did not resist, but both were indifferent to passion, so much their end absorbed them. at last she insisted upon trying to sell some marines at the art stores. she brought him back twenty-five dollars, and he did not suspect that she was the patron. he looked at the money wistfully. "i thought we should have a spree on the first money i earned. but it's all fuel now." her eyes filled with tears at this sign of humanity. "next time, perhaps." "so you think that's the beginning of a fortune. i have failed--failed if you get ten thousand dollars for every canvas in this shop. you will never know why. perhaps i don't myself." and then he went to work. some weeks later he came to her again. this time she tried to enlist the sympathy of the one successful artist clayton knew, and through his influence she succeeded in selling a number of pictures and placed others upon sale. she was so happy, so sure that the prophetic instinct in her soul was justified, that she told clayton of her previous fraud. he listened carefully; his face twitched, as if his mind were adjusting itself to new ideas. first he took twenty-five dollars from the money she had just brought him and handed it to her. then putting his arms about her, he looked inquisitively down into her face, only a bit more tenderly than he squinted at his canvases. "jane!" she allowed him to kiss her once or twice, and then she pushed him away, making a pathetic bow. "thanks for your sense of gratitude. you're becoming more civilized. only i wish it had been something more than money you had been thankful for. is money the only sacrifice you understand?" "you can take your dues in taunts if you like. i never pretended to be anything but a huge, and possibly productive polypus. i am honest enough, anyway, not to fool with lovers' wash. you ought to know how i feel toward you--you're the best woman i ever knew." "kindest to you, you mean? no, jack," she continued, tenderly; "you can have me, body and soul. i am yours fast enough now, what there is left of me. i have given you my reputation, and that sort of thing long ago--no, you needn't protest. i know you despise people who talk like that, and i don't reproach you. but don't deceive yourself. you feel a little moved just now. if i had any charms, like a pretty model, you might acquire some kind of attachment for me, but love--you never dreamed of it. and," she continued, after a moment, "i begin to think, after watching you these two years, never will. so i am safe in saying that i am yours to do with what you will. i am fuel. only, oh, jack, if you break my heart, your last fuel will be gone. you can't do without me!" it seemed very absurd to talk about breaking hearts--a tired, silent man; a woman unlovely from sordid surroundings, from age, and from care. clayton pulled back the heavy curtain to admit the morning light, for they had talked for hours before coming to the money question. the terrible, passionate glare of a summer sun in the city burst in from the neighboring housetops. "why don't you curse _him_?" muttered clayton. "why?" "because he gave you a heart to love, and made you lonely, and then wasted your love!" "jack, the worst hasn't come. it's not all wasted." v clayton gradually became conscious of a new feeling about his work. he was master of his tools, for one thing, and he derived exquisite pleasure from the exercise of execution. the surety of his touch, the knowledge of the exact effect he was after, made his working hours an absorbing pleasure rather than an exasperating penance. and through his secluded life, with its singleness of purpose, its absence of the social ambitions of his youth, and the complexity of life in the world, the restlessness and agitation of his earlier devotion to his art disappeared. he was content to forget the expression of himself--that youthful longing--in contemplating and enjoying the created matter. in other words, the art of creation was attended with less friction. he worked unconsciously, and he did not, hen-like, call the attention of the entire barnyard to each new-laid egg. he felt also that human, comfortable weariness after labor when self sinks out of sight in the universal wants of mankind--food and sleep. perhaps the fact that he could now earn enough to relieve him from actual want, that to some extent he had wrestled with the world and wrung from it the conditions of subsistence, relieved the strain under which he had been laboring. he sold his pictures rarely, however, and only when absolutely compelled to get money. miss marston could not comprehend his feeling about the inadequacy of his work, and he gave up attempting to make her understand where he failed. the bond between them had become closer. this one woman filled many human relationships for him--mother, sister, friend, lover, and wife in one. the boarding-house had come to be an affair of transients and young clerks, so that all her time that could be spared from the drudgery of housekeeping was spent in the studio. slowly he became amenable to her ever-present devotion, and even, in his way, thoughtful for her. and she was almost happy. the end came in this way. one day clayton was discovered on the street by an intimate college friend. they had run upon each other abruptly, and clayton, finding that escape was decently impossible, submitted without much urging to be taken to one of his old clubs for a quiet luncheon. as a result he did not return that night, but sent a note to miss marston saying that he had gone to lenox with a college chum. that note chilled her heart. she felt that this was the beginning of the end, and the following week she spent in loneliness in the little studio, sleeping upon the neglected lounge. and yet she divined that the movement and stimulus of this vacation was what clayton needed most. she feared he was becoming stale, and she knew that in a week, or a fortnight, or perhaps a month, he would return and plunge again into his work. he came back. he hardly spoke to her; he seemed absorbed in the conception of a new work. and when she brought him his usual luncheon she found the door locked, the first time in many months. she sat down on the stairs and waited--how long she did not know--waited, staring down the dreary hall and at the faded carpet and at herself, faded to suit the surroundings. at length she knocked, and clayton came, only to take her lunch and say absently that he was much absorbed by a new picture and should not be disturbed. would she bring his meals? he seemed to refuse tacitly an entrance to the studio. so a week passed, and then one day clayton disappeared again, saying that he was going into the country for another rest. he went out as he had come in, absorbed in some dream or plan of great work. pride kept her from entering his rooms during that week. one day, however, he came back as before and plunged again into his work. this time she found the door ajar and entered noiselessly, as she had learned to move. he was hard at work; she admired his swift movements that seemed premeditated, the ease with which the picture before him was rowing. surely he had a man's power, now, to execute what his spirit conceived! and the mechanical effort gave him evidently great pleasure. his complete absorption indicated the most intense though unconscious pleasure. the picture stunned her. she knew that she was totally ignorant of art, but she knew that the picture before her was the greatest thing clayton had accomplished. it seemed to breathe power. and she saw without surprise that the subject was a young woman. clayton's form hid the face, but she could see the outline of a woman beside a dory, on a beach, in the early morning. so it had come. when she was very close to clayton, he felt her presence, and they both stood still, looking at the picture. it was almost finished--all was planned. miss marston saw only the woman. she was youthful, just between girlhood and womanhood--unconscious, strong, and active as the first; with the troubled mystery of the second. the artist had divined an exquisite moment in life, and into the immature figure, the face of perfect repose, the supple limbs, he had thrown the tender mystery that met the morning light. it was the new birth--that ancient, solemn, joyous beginning of things in woman and in day. clayton approached his picture as if lovingly to hide it. "isn't it immense?" he murmured. "it's come at last. i don't daub any more, but i can see, i can paint! god, it's worth the hell i have been through--" he paused, for he felt that his companion had left him. "jane," he said, curiously examining her face. "jane, what's the matter?" "don't you know?" she replied, looking steadily at him. he looked first at her and then at the picture, and then back again. suddenly the facts in the case seemed to get hold of him. "jane," he cried, impetuously, "it's all yours--you gave me the power, and made me human, too--or a little more so than i was. but i am killing you by living in this fashion. why don't you end it?" she smiled feebly at his earnestness. "there is only one end," she whispered, and pointed to his picture. clayton comprehended, and seizing a paint-rag would have ruined it, but the woman caught his hand. "don't let us be melodramatic. would you ruin what we have been living for all these years? don't be silly--you would always regret it." "it's your life against a little fame." "no, against your life." they stood, nervelessly eying the picture. "oh, jack, jack," she cried, at last, "why did god make men like you? you take it all, everything that life gives, sunshine and love and hope and opportunity. your roots seem to suck out what you want from the whole earth, and you leave the soil exhausted. my time has gone; i know it, i know it, and i knew it would go. now some other life will be sacrificed. for you'll break her heart whether she's alive now or you're dreaming of someone to come. you'll treat her as you have everything. it isn't any fault--you don't understand." the words ended with a moan. clayton sat doggedly looking at his picture. but his heart refused to be sad. little cranberry, me., august, . mare marto i the narrow slant of water that could be seen between the posts of the felza was rippling with little steely waves. the line of the heavy beak cut the opening between the tapering point of the lido and the misty outline of tre porti. inside the white lighthouse tower a burnished man-of-war lay at anchor, a sluggish mass like a marble wharf placed squarely in the water. from the lee came a slight swell of a harbor-boat puffing its devious course to the lido landing. the sea-breeze had touched the locust groves of san niccolò da lido, and caught up the fragrance of the june blossoms, filling the air with the soft scent of a feminine city. when the scrap of the island sant' elena came enough into the angle to detach itself from the green mass of the giardino pubblico, the prow swung softly about, flapping the little waves, and pointed in shore where a bridge crossed an inlet into the locust trees. "you can see the italian alps," miss barton remarked, pulling aside the felza curtains and pointing lazily to the snow masses on the blue north horizon. "that purplish other sea is the trevisan plain, and back of it is castelfranco--giorgione's castelfranco--and higher up where the blue begins to break into the first steps of the alps is perched asolo--browning's asolo. oh! it is so sweet! a little hill town! and beyond are bassano and belluno, and somewhere in the mist before you get to those snow-heads is pieve da cadore." her voice dropped caressingly over the last vowels. the mere, procession of names was a lyric sent across sea to the main. "they came over them, then, the curious ones," the younger man of the two who lounged on cushions underneath the felza remarked, as if to prolong the theme. "to the gates of paradise," he continued, while his companion motioned to the gondolier. "and they broke them open, but they could never take the swag after all." he laughed at her puzzled look. he seemed to mock her, and his face became young in spite of the bald-looking temples and forehead, and the copperish skin that indicated years of artificial heat. "they got some things," the older man put in, "and they have been living off 'em ever since." "but they never got _it_," persisted his companion, argumentatively. "perhaps they were afraid." the gondola was gliding under the stone bridge, skilfully following the line of the key-stones in the arch. it passed out into a black pool at the feet of the church of san niccolò. the marble bishop propped up over the pediment of the door lay silently above the pool. the grove of blossoming locusts dropped white-laden branches over a decaying barca chained to the shore. "what is _'it'_?" the girl asked, slowly turning her face from the northern mountains. she seemed to carry a suggestion of abundance, of opulence; of beauty made of emphasis. "you," the young man laughed back, enigmatically. "they came again and again, and they longed for you, and would have carried you away by force. but their greedy arms snatched only a few jewels, a dress or two, and _you_ they left." the girl caught at a cluster of locust blossoms that floated near. "it is an allegory." "i'll leave niel to untie his riddles." their companion lit his pipe and strode ashore. "i am off for an hour with the adriatic. don't bother about me if you get tired of waiting." he disappeared in the direction of the lido bathing stablimento. the two gathered up cushions and rugs, and wandered into the grove. the shade was dark and cool. beyond were the empty acres of a great fort grown up in a tangle of long grass like an abandoned pasture. across the pool they could see the mitred bishop sleeping aloft in the sun, and near him the lesser folk in their graves beside the convent wall. "no, i am not all that," miss barton said, thoughtfully, her face bending, as if some rich, half-open rose were pondering. "_he_ says that i am a fragment, a bit of detritus that has been washed around the world--" "and finally lodged and crystallized in italy." this mystified her again, as if she were compelled to use a medium of expression that was unfamiliar. "papa was consul-general, you know, first at madrid, then in the east, and lastly merely a consul at milan." she fell back in relief upon a statement of fact. "yes, i know." "and mamma--she was from the south but he married her in paris. they called me the polyglot bébé at the convent." she confided this as lazily interesting, like the clouds, or the locusts, or the faint chatter of the adriatic waves around the breakwater of the lido. "nevertheless you are venice, you are italy, you are pagan"--the young man iterated almost solemnly, as if a puritan ancestry demanded this reproach. then he rolled his body half over and straightened himself to look at her rigidly. "how did you come about? how could council bluffs make it?" his voice showed amusement at its own intensity. she shook her head. "i don't know," she said, softly. "it doesn't seem real. they tell me so, just as they say that the marble over there comes from that blue mountain. but why bother about it? i am here----" they drifted on in personal chat until the sunlight came in parallel lines between the leaves. "where is caspar?" he said at last, reluctantly. "it's too late to get back to the britannia for dinner." he jumped up as if conscious of a fault. "oh, we'll dine here. caspar has found some one at the stablimento and has gone off. ask bastian--there must be some place where we can get enough to eat." lawrence hesitated as if not quite sure of the outcome of such unpremeditation. but miss barton questioned the gondolier. "the buon pesche--that will be lovely; bastian will paddle over and order the supper. we can walk around." so lawrence, as if yielding against his judgment, knelt down and picked up her wrap. "bastian will take care of the rest," she said, gleefully, walking on ahead through the long grass of the abandoned fort. "be a bit of detritus, too, and enjoy the few half-hours," she added, coaxingly, over her shoulder. when they were seated at the table under the laurel-trees before the buon pesche, lawrence threw himself into the situation, with all the robustness of a moral resolve to do the delightful and sinful thing. just why it should be sinful to dine there out-doors in an evening light of luminous gold, with the scent of locusts eddying about, and the mirage-like show of venice sleeping softly over beyond--was not quite clear. perhaps because his companion seemed so careless and unfamiliar with the monitions of strenuous living; perhaps because her face was brilliant and naïve--some spontaneous thing of nature, unmarked by any lines of consciousness. under a neighboring tree a couple were already eating, or quarrelling in staccato phrases. lawrence thought that the man was an artist. miss barton smiled at his seriousness, crossing her hands placidly on the table and leaning forward. to her companion she gleamed, as if a wood-thing, a hamadryad, had slipped out from the laurel-tree and come to dine with him in the dusk. the woman of the inn brought a flask of thin yellow wine and placed it between them. lawrence mutely decanted it into the glasses. "well?" she said, questioningly. her companion turned his head away to the solemn, imperial mountains, that were preparing with purple and gold for a night's oblivion. "you are thinking of nassau street, new york, of the rooms divided by glass partitions, and typewriters and the bundles of documents--bah! chained!" she sipped scornfully a drop or two from the glass. the man flushed. "no, not that exactly. i am thinking of the police courts, of the squalor, of taking a deposition in a cell with the filthy breathing all about. the daily jostle." he threw his head back. "don't try it again," she whispered. "i am only over for six weeks, you know, health--" "yes? and there is a girl in lowell,"--she read his mind impudently. "was," he emended, with an uneasy blush. "poor, starved one! here is our fish and spaghetti. to-night is a night of feast." the dusk grew grayer, more powderish; the mountains faded away, and the long lido banks disappeared into lines pointed by the lights of torcello and murano. sant' elena became sea, and the evening wind from the adriatic started in toward the city. a few sailors who had come for a glass were sitting under the arbor of the buon pesche smoking, with an occasional stinging word dropped nonchalantly into the dusk. their hostess was working in the garden patch behind the house. at last the artist moved off with his companion through the grove of laurel between the great well-heads. bastian loitered suggestively near. so they gathered their thoughts and followed the gondolier to the bank. miss barton lingered by one of the well-heads to peer at the pitchy bottom. "here they came for fresh water, the last gift of venice before they took sail. and sometimes a man never went farther--it was a safe kind of a grave." she laughed unconcernedly. "perhaps you came out of the locusts and took a hand in pitching the bodies in." the woman shivered. "no! no! i only brought them here." bastian turned the prow into the current, heading to weather sant' elena. lawrence took an oar silently. he liked the rush on the forward stroke, the lingering recovery. the evening puffs were cool. they slid on past a ghostly full-rigged ship from the north, abandoned at the point of sant' elena, until the black mass of trees in the giardino pubblico loomed up. a little off the other quarter the lights from the island of san lazzaro gleamed and faded. it was so very silent on the waste of waters! "come." lawrence looked back at his companion; she was holding her hat idly, huddled limply on the cushions. "come," she said again, adding mockingly---- "if you are so ferocious, we shall get there too soon." lawrence gave up his oar and lay down at her feet. bastian's sweep dipped daintily in and out; the good current was doing his work. they drifted silently on near venice. the halo of light above the squares grew brighter. san giorgio maggiore appeared suddenly off the quarter. miss barton signed to the gondolier to wait. they were outside the city wash; the notes of the band in san marco came at intervals; the water slipped noiselessly around the channels, and fire-fly lights from the gondolas twinkled on the grand canal. san giorgio was asleep. miss barton's head was leaning forward, her eyes brooding over the black outlines, her ears sensuously absorbing the gurgle of the currents. a big market boat from palestrina winged past them, sliding over the oily water. several silent figures were standing in the stern. lawrence looked up; her eyes seemed lit with little candles placed behind. her face gleamed, and one arm slipped from her wrap to the cushion by his side. "bella venezia," he murmured. she smiled, enveloping him, mastering him, taking him as a child with her ample powers. "you will never go back to 'that'!" her arm by his side filled out the thought. "never," he heard himself say as on a stage, and the dusky lights from that radiant face seemed very near. "because----" "because i am----" "sh," she laid her fingers lightly on his forehead. "there is no thine and mine." bastian dipped his sweep once more. san giorgio's austere façade went out into the black night. one cold ripple of adriatic wind stirred the felza curtains. ii the garden on the giudecca was a long narrow strip on the seaward side, blossoming profusely with flowers. a low vine-covered villino slanted along the canal; beyond, there was a cow-house where a boy was feeding some glossy cows. the garden was full of the morning sun. lawrence could see her from the open door, a white figure, loitering in a bed of purple tulips. her dark hair was loosely knotted up; stray wisps fell about her ears. lawrence closed the door that opened from the canal and walked softly through the plats of lilies and tulips. miss barton glanced up. "ecco! il cavaliere!" "didn't you expect me!" he asked, clumsily, revealing one potent reason for his appearance. she smiled for an answer. "last night," he began again, explanatorily. her eyes followed his lips and interrupted him. "what do you think of our place?" she had turned away as if to direct his speech into indifferent channels. he looked about bewildered. "i can't think anything; i _feel_ it; it's one mass of sense." "exactly. we found it, papa and i, one day two years ago when we were paddling around the giudecca. one is so much at home here. at night you can see the lights along the lido, and all the campaniles over there in venice. then the redentore sweeps up so grandly--" lawrence slapped a bending tulip. "yes, the world lies far away." "and you are afraid to lose sight of it," she turned on him swiftly. and she added, before he could find defence, "you have come to redeem your words, to tell me that you love me desperately; that you want to make an engagement; and some day marry me and go over there to live?" she laughed. "well?" "caspar would do that." "and severance has something to offer," lawrence remarked, bluntly. "half a million." she began to walk slowly across the little grass-plot over to the lido side. here the oily swell was gurgling in the stone embankment. she was like a plant flowering in the garden--a plant, part lily, part hyacinth. "and you do not want me," she began, softly, less to him than to herself. "i don't fit in. you cannot take me up and put me aside, at your will. you would be _mine_." "good!" "it should have been different. we should never have met. they should have made you a saint, or a priest, or a pastor for the bleeding world. you are a trifle late; half a century ago, you could have given your soul to god, quite easily, and not bothered about one woman." "yes, i agree, but that was settled by the way the world has ground," the young man sighed. "why should it bother you, my fooling with the forlorn and wretched--the others? any more than i mind your dealings with men?" they turned about and crossed the dozen paces to the redentore wall where lay a blade of dark shade. "you could flirt with the multitude? yes, i should object," she looked at him slowly, "i couldn't understand it." he threw his head back as if to look beyond venice. "the maimed in body and spirit," he muttered. "they call you; i call you; you----" "i was starved," he pleaded, "i love flesh and glory, too." she laughed unconcernedly. "oh, no. i think not. you are trying to very hard. you think you are enjoying your wine and your figs and the sun; but you say a prayer." her words taunted him. the vines on the villino swayed in the sun. "come, we will go out to the water, and i will master your doubt." they stood silent, looking at each other, half curiously. at length she uttered what was common to their minds. "marry the world; it woos you. love me and leave me; love another and leave her. the world, that is your mistress." "and the world incarnate, that is you. the world, breathing, living, loving, the world a passion of delight." their hands touched for a moment. then she said, hastily: "too late! there is caspar. i forgot we were to go to burano. will you join us?" a figure in white ducks was coming toward them. his cordial smile seemed to include a comment--a mental note of some hint he must give. "in stalks the world of time and place," the young man muttered. "no, i will not go with you." he helped her into the waiting gondola. she settled back upon the cushions, stretched one languid arm in farewell. he could feel the smile with which she swept caspar severance, the women at work in the rio over their kettles, the sun-bright stretch of waters--all impartially. he lay down in the shade of the redentore wall. eight weeks ago there had been a dizzy hour, a fainting scene in a crowded court-room, a consultation with a doctor, the conventional prescription, a fortnight of movement--then _this_. he had cursed that combination of nerve and tissue; equally he cursed this. one word to his gondolier and in two hours he could be on the train for milan, paris, london--then indefinite years of turning about in the crowd, of jostling and being jostled. but he lay still while the sun crept over him. she was so unreal, once apart from her presence, like an evanescent mirage on the horizon of the mind. he told himself that he had seen her, heard her voice; that her eyes had been close to his, that she had touched him; that there had been moments when she stood with the flowers of the garden. he shook the drowsy sun from his limbs and went away, closing the door softly on the empty garden. venice, too, was a shadow made between water and sun. the boat slipped in across the zattere, in and out of cool water alleys, under church windows and palings of furtive gardens, until he came to the plashings of the waves on the marble steps along the grand canal. empty! that, too, was empty from side to side between cool palace façades, the length of its expressive curve. from silence and emptiness into silence the gondola pushed. someone to incarnate this empty, vacuous world! memory troubled itself with a face, and eyes, and hair, and a voice that mocked the little goings up and down of men. iii in the afternoon lawrence and severance were dawdling over coffee in the piazza. a strident band sent up voluminous notes that boomed back and forth between the palace and the stone arches of the procurate. "and burano?" lawrence suggested, idly. the older man nodded. "we lunched there--convent--miss barton bought lace." he broke the pause by adding, negligently: "i think i shall marry her." lawrence smoked; he could see the blue water about san giorgio. "marry her," he repeated, vaguely. "you are engaged?" severance nodded. the young man reached out a bony hand. one had but to wait to still the problems of life. they strolled across the piazza. "when do you leave?" severance inquired. "to-night," almost slipped from the young man's lips. he was murmuring to himself. "i have played with venice and lost. i must return to my busy village." "i can't tell," he said. severance daintily stepped into a gondola. "la giudecca." lawrence turned into the swarming alleys leading to the rialto. streams of venetians were eddying about the cul-de-sacs and enclosed squares, hurrying over the bridges of the canals, turning in and out of the calles, or coming to rest at the church doors. lawrence drifted tranquilly on. he had slipped a cable; he was free and ready for the open sea. following at random any turning that offered, he came out suddenly upon verocchio's black horseman against the black sky. the san zanipolo square was deserted; the cavernous san zanipolo tenanted by tombs. stone figures, seated, a-horse, lying carved in death, started out from the silent walls. "condottieri," the man muttered, "great robbers who saw and took! briseghella, mocenigo, leonardo loredan, vittore capello." he rolled the powerful names under his breath. "they are right--take, enjoy; then die." and he saw a hill sleeping sweetly in the mountains, where the sun rested on its going down, and a villino with two old trees where the court seemed ever silent. in the stealthy, passing hours she came and sat in the sun, and _was_. and the two remembered, looking on the valley road, that somewhere lay in the past a procession of storms and mornings and nights which was called the world, and a procession of people which was called life. but she looked at him and smiled. outside in the square the transparent dusk of venice settled down. in the broad canal of the misericordia a faint plash and drip from a passing gondola; then, in a moment, as the boat rounded into the rio, a resounding "stai"; again silence and the robber in bronze. iv he waited for a sign from the giudecca. he told himself that theodosia barton was not done with him yet, nor he with her. the tourist-stream, turning northward from rome and florence, met in venice a new stream of germans. the paved passage beside the hotel garden was alive with a cosmopolitan picnic party. lawrence lingered and watched; perhaps when the current set strongly to the north again, it would carry him along with it. he had not seen caspar severance. each day of delay made it more awkward to meet him, made the confession of disappointment more obvious, he reflected. each day it was easier to put out to the lagoons for a still dream, and return when the adriatic breeze was winding into the heated calles. over there, in the heavy-scented garden on the giudecca, lined against a purplish sea, she was resting; she had given free warning for him to go, but she was there----. "she holds me here in the mare morto, where the sea-weeds wind about and bind." and he believed that he should meet her somewhere in the dead lagoon, out yonder around the city, in the enveloping gloom of the waters which held the pearl of venice. so each afternoon his gondola crept out from the fondamenta del zattere into the ruffling waters of the giudecca canal, and edged around the deserted campo di marte. there the gondolier labored in the viscous sea-grass. one day, from far behind, came the plash of an oar in the channel. as the narrow hull swept past, he saw a hand gather in the felza curtains, and a woman kneel to his side. "so bastian takes you always to the dead sea," she tossed aboard. "bastian might convoy other forestieri," lawrence defended. "really? here to the laguna morta?" and as his gondola slid into the channel, she added: "i knew you were in venice; you could not go without--another time." "what would that bring?" he questioned her with his eyes. "how should i know?" she answered, evasively. "come with me out to the san giorgio in alga. it is the loneliest place in venice!" lawrence sat at her feet. the gondola moved on between the sea-weed banks. away off by chioggia, filmy gray clouds grew over the horizon. "rain." she shook her head. "for the others, landward. those opalescent clouds streaking the sky are merely the undertone of venice; they are always _here_." "the note of sadness," he suggested. "you thought to have ended with _me_." she rested her head on her hands and looked at him. he preferred to have her mention caspar severance. "whenever i was beyond your eyes, you were not quite sure. you went back to your hotel and wondered. the wine was over strong for your temperate nerves, and there was so much to do elsewhere!" she mocked him. "after all, i was a fragment. and you judged in your wise new-world fashion that fragments were--useless." just ahead was a tiny patch of earth, rimmed close to the edge by ruined walls. the current running landward drew them about the corner, under the madonna's hand, and the gondola came to rest beside the lichens and lizards of a crumbling wharf. "no," she continued, "i shall not let you go so easily." one hand fell beside his arm, figuratively indicating her thought. "and i shall carry you off," he responded, slowly. "it lies between you--and all, everything." the gondolier had gone ashore. silence had swallowed him up. "all, myself and the others; effort, variety--for the man who loves _you_, there is but one act in life." "splendid!" her lips parted as if savoring his words. his voice went on, low, strained to plunge his words into her heart. "you are the woman, the curious thing that god made to stir life. you would draw all activities to you, and through you nothing may pass. like the dead sea of grass you encompass the end of desire. you have been with me from my manhood, the fata morgana that laughed at my love of other creatures. i must meet you, i knew, face to face!" his lips closed. "go on!" "i have met you," he added, sullenly, "and should i turn away, i should not forget you. you will go with me, and i shall hunger for you and hate you, and you will make it over, my life, to fill the hollow of your hand." "to fill the hollow of my hand," she repeated softly, as if not understanding. "you will mould it and pat it and caress it, until it fits. you will never reason about it, nor doubt, nor talk; the tide flows underneath into the laguna morta, and never wholly flows out. god has painted in man's mind the possible; and he has painted the delusions, the impossible--and that is woman?" "impossible," she murmured. "oh, no, not that!" her eyes compelled him; her hand dropped to his hand. venice sank into a gray blot in the lagoon. the water was waveless like a deep night. "possible for a moment," he added, dreamily, "possible as the unsung lyric. possible as the light of worlds behind the sun and moon. possible as the mysteries of god that the angels whisper----" "the only possible," again her eyes flamed; the dark hair gleamed black above the white face. "and that is enough for us forever!" v the heavy door of the casa lesca swung in, admitting lawrence to a damp stone-flagged room. at the farther end it opened on a little cortile, where gnarled rose-bushes were in bloom. a broken venus, presiding over a dusty fountain, made the centre of the cortile, and there a strapping girl from the campagna was busy trimming the stalks of a bunch of roses. the signorina had not arrived; lawrence lounged against the gunwale of a gondola, which lay on one side of the court. a pretentious iron gate led from the cortile to the farm, where the running vines stretched from olive-stump to trellis, weaving a mat of undulating green. it was so quiet, here in the rear of the palace, that one could almost hear the hum of the air swimming over the broad vine leaves. lawrence, at first alert, then drowsy, reclined in the shade, and watched the girl. from time to time she threw him a soft word of venetian. then, gathering her roses, she shook them in his face and tripped up the stairs to the palace above. he had made the appointment without intention, but he came to fulfil it in a tumult of energy. _she_ must choose and _he_ arrange--for that future which troubled his mind. but the heated emptiness of the june afternoon soothed his will. he saw that whatever she bade, that he would do. still here, while he was alone, before her presence came to rule, he plotted little things. when he was left with himself he wondered about it; no, he did not want her, did not want it! his life was over there, beyond her, and she must bend to that conception. people, women, anyone, this piece of beauty and sense, were merely episodic. the sum was made from all, and greater than all. the door groaned, and he turned to meet her, shivering in the damp passage. she gathered a wrap about her shoulders. "caspar would not go," she explained, appealingly. "which one is to go?" the young man began. she sank down on a bench and turned her head wearily to the vineyard. over the swaying tendrils of the vine, a dark line, a blue slab of salt water, made the horizon. "should i know?" her face said, mutely. "he thinks you should," she spoke, calmly. "he has been talking two hours about you, your future, your brilliant performances----" "that detained you!" "he is plotting to make you a great man. you belong to the world, he said, and, the world would have you. they need you to plan and exhort, i believe." "so you come to tell me--" "let us go out to the garden." she laid her hand reprovingly on his arm. "we can see the pictures later." she took his arm and directed him down the arched walk between the vines, toward the purple sea. "i did not realize that--that you were a little ulysses. he warned me!" "indeed!" "that you would love and worship at any wayside shrine; that the spirit of devotion was not in you." "and you believed?" she nodded. "it seemed so. i have thought so. once a few feet away and you are wondering!" the young man was guiltily silent. "and i am merely a wayside chapel, good for an idle prayer." "make it perpetual." her arm was heavy. "caspar wants you--away. he will try to arrange it. perhaps you will yield, and i shall lose." "you mean he will make them recall me." she said nothing. "you can end it now." he stopped and raised her arm. they stood for a moment, revolving the matter; a gardener came down the path. "you will get the message tonight," she said, gloomily. "go! the message will say 'come,' and you will obey." lawrence turned. "shall we see the pictures?" the peasant girl admitted them to the hall, and opened, here and there, a long shutter. the vast hall, in the form of a latin cross, revealed a dusky line of frescoes. "veronese," she murmured. lawrence turned to the open window that looked across the water to the piazza. beneath, beside the quay, a green-painted greek ship was unloading grain. some panting, half-naked men were shovelling the oats. "we might go," he said; "caspar is probably waiting for his report. you can tell him that he has won." suddenly he felt her very near him. "no, not that way!" "you are good to--love," she added deliberatively, placing her hands lightly on his heart. "you do not care enough; ah! that is sad, sad. caspar, or denial, or god--nothing would stand if you cared, more than you care for the little people and things. see, i can take you now. i can say you are mine. i can make you love--as another may again. but love me, now, as if no other minute could ever follow." she sighed the words. "here i am, to be loved. let us settle nothing. let us have this minute for a few kisses." the hall filled with dusk. the girl came back again. suddenly a bell began ringing. "caspar," she said. "stay here; i will go." "we will go together." "no," she waved him back. "you will get the message. caspar is right. you are not for any woman for always." "go," he flung out, angrily. the great doors of the hall had rattled to, leaving him alone half will-less. he started and then returned to the balcony over the fondamenta. in the half-light he could see her stepping into a waiting gondola, and certain words came floating up clearly as if said to him---- "to-morrow evening, the contessa montelli, at nine." but she seemed to be speaking to her companion. the gondola shot out into the broad canal. vi the long june day, lawrence sat with the yellow cablegram before his eyes. the message had come, indeed, and the way had been cleared. eleven--the train for paris! passed; then, two, and now it was dusk again. had she meant those words for him? so carelessly flung back. that he would prove. * * * * * "the signorina awaits you." the man pointed to the garden, and turned back with his smoking lamp up the broad staircase that clung to one side of the court. across the strip of garden lay a bar of moonlight on the grass. she was standing over the open well-head at the farther end where the grass grew in rank tufts. the gloomy wall of the palace cast a shadow that reached to the well. just as he entered, a church-clock across the rio struck the hour on a cracked bell. "my friend has gone in--she is afraid of the night air," miss barton explained. "perhaps she is afraid of ghosts," she added, as the young man stood silent by her side. "an old doge killed his wife and her children here, some centuries ago. they say the woman walks. are you afraid?" "of only one ghost----" "not yet a ghost!" indeed, her warm, breathing self threw a spirit of life into the moonlight and gainsaid his idle words. "i have come for you," he said, a little peremptorily. "to do it i have lost my engagement with life." "so the message came. you refused, and now you look for a reward. a man must be paid!" "i tried to keep the other engagement and could not!" "i shall make you forget it, as if it were some silly boyish dream." she began to walk over the moonlit grass. "i was waiting for that--sacrifice. for if you desire _me_, you must leave the other engagements, always." "i know it." "i lie in the laguna morta, and the dead are under me, and the living are caught in my sea-weed." she laughed. "now, we have several long hours of moonlight. shall we stay here?" the young man shivered. "no, the lady dogessa might disturb us. let us go out toward murano." "are you really--alive and mine, not severance's?" he threw out, recklessly. she stopped and smiled. "first you tell me that i disturb your plans; then you want to know if i am preoccupied. you would like to have me as an 'extra' in the subscription." as they came out on the flags by the gondola, another boat was pushing a black prow into the rio from the misericordia canal. it came up to the water-steps where the two stood. caspar severance stepped out. "caspar!" miss barton laughed. "they told me you were here for dinner," he explained. he was in evening clothes, a roman cloak hanging from his shoulders. he looked, standing on the steps below the other two, like an impertinent intrusion. "lawrence! i thought you were on your way home." lawrence shook his head. all three were silent, wondering who would dare to open the final theme. "the signora contessa had a headache," miss barton began, nonchalantly. severance glanced skeptically at the young american by her side. "so you fetched il dottore americano? well, giovanni is waiting to carry us home." miss barton stepped forward slowly, as if to enter the last gondola whose prow was nuzzling by the steps. lawrence took her hand and motioned to his gondola. "miss barton----" severance smiled, placidly. "you will miss the midnight train." the young man halted a moment, and miss barton's arm slipped into his fingers. "perhaps," he muttered. "the night will be cool for you," severance turned to the woman. she wavered a moment. "you will miss more than the midnight train," severance added to the young fellow, in a low voice. lawrence knelt beside his gondola. he glanced up into the face of the woman above him. "will you come?" he murmured. she gathered up her dress and stepped firmly into the boat. severance, left alone on the fondamenta, watched the two. then he turned back to his gondola. the two boats floated out silently into the misericordia canal. "to the cimeterio," miss barton said. "to the canale grande," severance motioned. the two men raised their hats. * * * * * for a few moments the man and the woman sat without words, until the gondola cleared the fondamenta nuova, and they were well out in the sea of moonlight. ahead of them lay the stucco walls of the cimeterio, glowing softly in the white light. some dark spots were moving out from the city mass to their right, heading for the silent island. "there goes the conclusion," lawrence nodded to the funeral boats. "but between us and them lies a space of years--life." "who decided?" "you looked. it was decided." the city detached itself insensibly from them, lying black behind. a light wind came down from treviso, touching the white waves. "you are thinking that back there, up the grand canal, lie fame and accomplishment. you are thinking that now you have your fata morgana--nothing else. you are already preparing a grave for her in your mind!" lawrence took her head in his hands. "never," he shot out the word. "never--you are mine; i have come all these ocean miles to find you. i have come for an accounting with the vision that troubles man." her face drew nearer. "i am venice, you said. i am set in the mare morto. i am built on the sea-weed. but from me you shall not go. you came over the mountains for this." the man sighed. some ultimate conception of life seemed to outline itself on the whitish walls of the cimeterio--a question of sex. the man would go questioning visions. the woman was held by one. "caspar severance will find his way, and will play your game for you," she went on coaxingly. "but this," her eyes were near him, "_this_ is a moment of life. you have chosen. there is no mine and thine." one by one the campaniles of venice loomed, dark pillars in the white sky. and all around toward mestre and treviso and torcello; to san pietro di castello and the grim walls of the arsenal, the mare morto heaved gently and sighed. chicago, january, . the price of romance they were paying the price of their romance, and the question was whether they would pay it cheerfully. they had been married a couple of years, and the first flush of excitement over their passion and the stumbling-blocks it had met was fading away. when he, an untried young lawyer and delicate dilettante, had married her she was a miss benton, of st. louis, "niece of oliphant, that queer old fellow who made his money in the tobacco trust," and hence with no end of prospects. edwards had been a pleasant enough fellow, and oliphant had not objected to his loafing away a vacation about the old house at quogue. marriage with his niece, the one remaining member of his family who walked the path that pleased him, was another thing. she had plenty of warning. had he not sent his only son adrift as a beggar because he had married a little country cousin? he could make nothing out of edwards except that he was not keen after business--loafed much, smoked much, and fooled with music, possibly wrote songs at times. yet miss benton had not expected that cruel indifference when she announced her engagement to the keen old man. for she was fond of him and grateful. "when do you think of marrying?" had been his single comment. she guessed the unexpressed complement to that thought, "you can stay here until that time. then good-by." she found in herself an admirable spirit, and her love added devotion and faith in the future, her lover's future. so she tided over the months of her engagement, when her uncle's displeasure settled down like a fog over the pleasant house. edwards would run down frequently, but oliphant managed to keep out of his way. it was none of his affair, and he let them see plainly this aspect of it. her spirit rose. she could do as other women did, get on without candy and roses, and it hurt her to feel that she had expected money from her uncle. she could show him that they were above that. so they were married and went to live in a little flat in harlem, very modest, to fit their income. oliphant had bade her good-by with the courtesy due to a tiresome sunday visitor. "oh, you're off, are you?" his indifferent tones had said. "well, good-by; i hope you will have a good time." and that was all. even the colored cook had said more; the servants in general looked deplorable. wealth goes so well with a pretty, bright young woman! thus it all rested in the way they would accept the bed they had made. success would be ample justification. their friends watched to see how well they would solve the problem they had so jauntily set themselves. edwards was by no means a _fainéant_--his record at the columbia law school promised better than that, and he had found a place in a large office that might answer for the stepping-stone. as yet he had not individualized himself; he was simply charming, especially in correct summer costume, luxuriating in indolent conversation. he had the well-bred, fine-featured air of so many of the graduates from our eastern colleges. the suspicion of effeminacy which he suggested might be unjust, but he certainly had not experienced what oliphant would call "life." he had enough interest in music to dissipate in it. marriage was an excellent settler, though, on a possible income of twelve hundred! the two years had not the expected aspiring march, however; ten-dollar cases, even, had not been plenty in edwards's path, and he suspected that he was not highly valued in his office. he had been compelled to tutor a boy the second year, and the hot summers made him listless. in short, he felt that he had missed his particular round in the ladder. he should have studied music, or tried for the newspapers as a musical critic. sunday afternoons he would loll over the piano, picturing the other life--that life which is always so alluring! his wife followed him heroically into all his moods with that pitiful absorption such women give to the men they love. she believed in him tremendously, if not as a lawyer, as a man and an artist. somehow she hadn't been an inspiration, and for that she humbly blamed herself. how was it accomplished, this inspiration? a loving wife inspired the ordinary man. why not an artist? they got into the habit of planning their life all differently--so that it might not be limited and futile. _if_ they had a few thousand dollars! that was a bad sign, and she knew it, and struggled against it. _if_ she could only do something to keep the pot boiling while he worked at his music for fame and success! but she could reduce expenses; so the one servant went, and the house-bills grew tinier and tinier. however, they didn't "make connections," and--something was wrong--she wondered what. as the second summer came in they used to stroll out of their stuffy street of an evening, up st. nicholas avenue, to the park, or to the riverside drive. there they would sit speechless, she in a faded blue serge skirt with a crisp, washed-out shirtwaist, and an old sailor hat--dark and pretty, in spite of her troubled face; he in a ready-made black serge suit, yet very much the gentleman--pale and listless. their eyes would seek out any steamer in the river below, or anything else that reminded them of other conditions. he would hum a bit from an opera. they needed no words; their faces were evident, though mute, indications of the tragedy. then they would return at bed-time into the sultry streets, where from the open windows of the flats came the hammered music of the city. such discordant efforts for harmony! her heart would fill over him, yearning like a mother to cherish him in all the pleasant ways of life, but impotent, impotent! she never suggested greater effort. conditions were hard, she said over and over; if there were only a little money to give him a start in another direction. she admired his pride in never referring to old oliphant. her uncle was often in her mind, but she felt that even if she could bring herself to petition him, her husband would indignantly refuse to consider the matter. still, she thought about it, and especially this summer, for she knew he was then at quogue. moreover, she expected her first child. that worried her daily; she saw how hopeless another complication would make their fate. she cried over it at night when the room was too hot to sleep. and then she reproached herself; god would punish her for not wanting her baby. one day she had gone down town to get some materials for the preparations she must make. she liked to shop, for sometimes she met old friends; this time in a large shop she happened upon a woman she had known at quogue, the efficient wife of a successful minister in brooklyn. this mrs. leicester invited her to lunch at the cafe at the top of the building, and she had yielded, after a little urging, with real relief. they sat down at a table near the window--it was so high up there was not much noise--and the streets suddenly seemed interesting to mrs. edwards. the quiet table, the pleasant lunch, and the energetic mrs. leicester were all refreshing. "and how is your husband?" mrs. leicester inquired, keenly. as a minister's wife she was compelled to interest herself in sentimental complications that inwardly bored her. it was a part of her professional duties. she had taken in this situation at once--she had seen that kind of thing before; it made her impatient. but she liked the pretty little woman before her, and was sorry she hadn't managed better. "pretty well," mrs. edwards replied, consciously. "the heat drags one down so!" mrs. leicester sent another quick glance across the table. "you haven't been to quogue much of late, have you? you know how poorly your uncle is." "no! _you_ must know that uncle james doesn't see us." "well," mrs. leicester went on, hastily, "he's been quite ill and feeble, and they say he's growing queer. he never goes away now, and sees nobody. most of the servants have gone. i don't believe he will last long." then her worldliness struggled with her conventional position, and she relapsed into innuendo. "he ought to have someone look after him, to see him die decently, for he can't live beyond the autumn, and the only person who can get in is that fat, greasy dr. shapless, who is after his money for the methodist missions. he goes down every week. i wonder where mr. oliphant's son can be?" mrs. edwards took in every word avidly while she ate. but she let the conversation drift off to quogue, their acquaintances, and the difficulty of shopping in the summer. "well, i must be going to get the train," exclaimed mrs. leicester at last. with a sigh the young wife rose, looked regretfully down at the remains of their liberal luncheon, and then walked silently to the elevator. they didn't mention oliphant again, but there was something understood between them. mrs. leicester hailed a cab; just as she gathered her parcels to make a dive, she seemed illuminated with an idea. "why don't you come down some sunday--visit us? mr. leicester would be delighted." mrs. edwards was taken unawares, but her instincts came to her rescue. "why, we don't go anywhere; it's awfully kind, and i should be delighted; i am afraid mr. edwards can't." "well," sighed mrs. leicester, smiling back, unappeased, "come if you can; come alone." the cab drove off, and the young wife felt her cheeks burn. * * * * * the edwardses had never talked over oliphant or his money explicitly. they shrank from it; it would be a confession of defeat. there was something abhorrently vulgar in thus lowering the pitch of their life. they had come pretty near it often this last summer. but each feared what the other might think. edwards especially was nervous about the impression it might make on his wife, if he should discuss the matter. mrs. leicester's talk, however, had opened possibilities for the imagination. so little of uncle james's money, she mused, would make them ideally happy--would put her husband on the road to fame. she had almost made up her mind on a course of action, and she debated the propriety of undertaking the affair without her husband's knowledge. she knew that his pride would revolt from her plan. she could pocket her own pride, but she was tender of his conscience, of his comfort, of his sensibilities. it would be best to act at once by herself--perhaps she would fail, anyway--and to shield him from the disagreeable and useless knowledge and complicity. she couldn't resist throwing out some feelers, however, at supper that night. he had come in tired and soiled after a day's tramp collecting bills that wouldn't collect this droughty season. she had fussed over him and coaxed a smile out, and now they were at their simple tea. she recounted the day's events as indifferently as possible, but her face trembled as she described the luncheon, the talk, the news of her uncle, and at last mrs. leicester's invitation. edwards had started at the first mention of quogue. "it's been in his mind," she thought, half-relieved, and his nervous movements of assumed indifference made it easier for her to go on. "it was kind of her, wasn't it?" she ended. "yes," edwards replied, impressively. "of course you declined." "oh, yes; but she seemed to expect us all the same." edwards frowned, but he kept an expectant silence. so she remarked, tentatively: "it would be so pleasant to see dear old quogue again." her hypocrisy made her flush. edwards rose abruptly from the table and wandered about the room. at length he said, in measured tones, his face averted from her: "_of course_, under the circumstances, we cannot visit quogue while your uncle lives--unless he should send for us." thus he had put himself plainly on record. his wife suddenly saw the folly and meanness of her little plans. it was hardly a disappointment; her mind felt suddenly relieved from an unpleasant responsibility. she went to her husband, who was nervously playing at the piano, and kissed him, almost reverently. it had been a temptation from which he had saved her. they talked that evening a good deal, planning what they would do if they could get over to europe for a year, calculating how cheaply they could go. it was an old subject. sometimes it kept off the blues; sometimes it indicated how blue they were. mrs. edwards forgot the disturbance of the day until she was lying wide awake in her hot bed. then the old longings came in once more; she saw the commonplace present growing each month more dreary; her husband drudging away, with his hopes sinking. suddenly he spoke: "what made mrs. leicester ask us, do you suppose?" so he was thinking of it again. "i don't know!" she replied, vaguely. soon his voice came again: "you understand, nell, that i distinctly disapprove of our making any effort _that way_." she didn't think that her husband was a hypocrite. she did not generalize when she felt deeply. but she knew that her husband didn't want the responsibility of making any effort. somehow she felt that he would be glad if she should make the effort and take the responsibility on her own shoulders. why had he lugged it into plain light again if he hadn't expected her to do something? how could she accomplish it without making it unpleasant for him? before daylight she had it planned, and she turned once and kissed her husband, protectingly. * * * * * that august morning, as she walked up the dusty road, fringed with blossoming golden-rod, toward the little cottage of the leicesters, she was content, in spite of her tumultuous mind. it was all so heavenly quiet! the thin, drooping elms, with their pendent vines, like the waterfalls of a maiden lady; the dusty snarls of blackberry bushes; the midsummer contented repose of the air, and that distantly murmuring sea--it was all as she remembered it in her childhood. a gap of disturbed years closed up, and peace once more! the old man slowly dying up beyond in that deserted, gambrel-roofed house would forget and forgive. mrs. leicester received her effusively, anxious now not to meddle dangerously in what promised to be a ticklish business. mrs. edwards must stay as long as she would. the sundays were especially lonely, for mr. leicester did not think she should bear the heat of the city so soon, and left her alone when he returned to brooklyn for his sunday sermon. of course, stay as long as mr. edwards could spare her--a month; if possible. at the mention of mr. edwards the young wife had a twinge of remorse for the manner in which she had evaded him--her first deceit for his sake. she had talked vaguely about visiting a friend at moriches, and her husband had fallen in with the idea. new york was like a finely divided furnace, radiating heat from every tube-like street. so she was to go for a week or ten days. perhaps the matter would arrange itself before that time was up; if not, she would write him what she had done. but ten days seemed so long that she put uncomfortable thoughts out of her head. mrs. leicester showed her to her room, a pretty little box, into which the woodbine peeped and nodded, and where from one window she could get a glimpse of the green marshes, with the sea beyond. after chatting awhile, her hostess went out, protesting that her guest must be too tired to come down. mrs. edwards gladly accepted the excuse, ate the luncheon the maid brought, in two bites, and then prepared to sally forth. she knew the path between the lush meadow-grass so well! soon she was at the entrance to the "oliphant place." it was more run down than two years ago; the lower rooms were shut up tight in massive green blinds that reached to the warped boards of the veranda. it looked old, neglected, sad, and weary; and she felt almost justified in her mission. she could bring comfort and light to the dying man. in a few minutes she was smothering the hysterical enthusiasm of her old friend, dinah. it was as she had expected: oliphant had grown more suspicious and difficult for the last two years, and had refused to see a doctor, or, in fact, anyone but the rev. dr. shapless and a country lawyer whom he used when absolutely necessary. he hadn't left his room for a month; dinah had carried him the little he had seen fit to eat. she was evidently relieved to see her old mistress once more at hand. she asked no questions, and mrs. edwards knew that she would obey her absolutely. they were sitting in oliphant's office, a small closet off the more pretentious library, and mrs. edwards could see the disorder into which the old man's papers had fallen. the confusion preceding death had already set in. after laying aside her hat, she went up, unannounced, to her uncle's room, determined not to give him an opportunity to dismiss her out of hand. he was lying with his eyes closed, so she busied herself in putting the room to rights, in order to quiet her nerves. the air was heavily languorous, and soon in the quiet country afternoon her self-consciousness fell asleep, and she went dreaming over the irresponsible past, the quiet summers, and the strange, stern old man. suddenly she knew that he was awake and watching her closely. she started, but, as he said nothing, she went on with her dusting, her hand shaking. he made no comment while she brought him his supper and arranged the bed. evidently he would accept her services. her spirit leapt up with the joy of success. that was the first step. she deemed it best to send for her meagre satchel, and to take possession of her old room. in that way she could be more completely mistress of the situation and of him. she had had no very definite ideas of action before that afternoon; her one desire had been to be on the field of battle, to see what could be done, perhaps to use a few tears to soften the implacable heart. but now her field opened out. she must keep the old man to herself, within her own care--not that she knew specifically what good that would do, but it was the tangible nine points of the law. the next morning oliphant showed more life, and while she was helping him into his dressing-gown, he vouchsafed a few grunts, followed by a piercing inquiry: "is _he_ dead yet?" the young wife flushed with indignant protest. "broke, perhaps?" "well, we haven't starved yet." but she was cowed by his cynical examination. he relapsed into silence; his old, bristly face assumed a sardonic peace whenever his eyes fell upon her. she speculated about that wicked beatitude; it made her uncomfortable. he was still, however--never a word from morning till night. the routine of little duties about the sickroom she performed punctiliously. in that way she thought to put her conscience to rights, to regard herself in the kind rôle of ministering angel. that illusion was hard to attain in the presence of the sardonic comment the old man seemed to add. after all, it was a vulgar grab after the candied fruits of this life. she had felt it necessary to explain her continued absence to her husband. mrs. leicester, who did not appear to regard her actions as unexpected, had undertaken that delicate business. evidently, she had handled it tactfully, for mrs. edwards soon received a hurried note. he felt that she was performing her most obvious duty; he could not but be pleased that the breach caused by him had been thus tardily healed. as long as her uncle continued in his present extremity, she must remain. he would run down to the leicesters over sundays, etc. mrs. edwards was relieved; it was nice of him--more than that, delicate--not to be stuffy over her action. the uppermost question these days of monotonous speculation was how long would this ebb-tide of a tenacious life flow. she took a guilty interest in her uncle's condition, and yet she more than half wished him to live. sometimes he would rally. something unfulfilled troubled his mind, and once he even crawled downstairs. she found him shakily puttering over the papers in his huge davenport. he asked her to make a fire in the grate, and then, gathering up an armful of papers, he knelt down on the brick hearth, but suddenly drew back. his deep eyes gleamed hatefully at her. holding out several stiff papers, he motioned to her to burn them. usually she would have obeyed docilely enough, but this deviltry of merriment she resented. while she delayed, standing erect before the smouldering sticks, she noticed that a look of terror crept across the sick face. a spasm shook him, and he fainted. after that his weakness kept him in bed. she wondered what he had been so anxious to burn. from this time her thoughts grew more specific. just how should she attain her ends? had he made a will? could he not now do something for them, or would it be safer to bide their time? indeed, for a few moments she resolved to decide all by one straightforward prayer. she began, and the old man seemed so contentedly prepared for the scene that she remained dumb. in this extremity of doubt she longed to get aid from her husband. yet under the circumstances she dared to admit so little. one saturday afternoon he called at the house; she was compelled to share some of her perplexities. "he seems so very feeble," she remarked. they were sitting on the veranda some distance from oliphant's room, yet their conversation was furtive. "perhaps he should see a doctor or a minister." "no, i don't think so," edwards replied, assuringly. "you see, he doesn't believe in either, and such things should be left to the person himself, as long as he's in his right mind." "and a lawyer?" mrs. edwards continued, probingly. "has he asked for one?" "no, but he seems to find it hard to talk." "i guess it's best not to meddle. who's that?" a little, fat man in baggy black trousers and a seersucker coat was panting up the gentle hill to the gate. he had a puggy nose and a heavy, thinly bearded face incased about the eyes in broad steel spectacles. "that must be dr. shapless," she said, in a flutter. "what of it?" edwards replied. "he mustn't come in," she cried, with sudden energy. "you must see him, and send him away! he wants to see uncle oliphant. tell him he's too sick--to come another day." edwards went down the path to meet him. through the window she could hear a low conversation, and then crunched gravel. meantime oliphant seemed restlessly alert, expectant of something, and with suspicious eyes intent on her. her heart thumped with relief when the gate clicked. edwards had been effective that time. oliphant was trying to say something, but the hot august day had been too much for him--it all ended in a mumble. then she pulled in the blinds, settled the pillows nervously, and left the room in sheer fright. the fight had begun--and grimly. * * * * * "i wonder what the old cove wanted?" edwards said the next day; "he was dead set on seeing your uncle; said he had an engagement with him, and looked me up and down. i stood him off, but he'll be down again." "don't you know about that new fund the methodists are raising? uncle oliphant has always helped the methodists, and i suppose dr. shapless wanted to see him about some contributions." edwards asked no more questions, and, in fact, got back to town on a pretext of business that afternoon. he was clearly of no use in quogue. his wife sent for a physician that week. it was tardy justice to propriety, but it was safe then, for oliphant had given up all attempts to talk. the doctor came, looked at the old man, and uttered a few remarks. he would come again. mrs. edwards did not need to be told that the end was near. the question was, how soon? that week had another scare. somehow old slocum, the local lawyer oliphant used, had been summoned, and one morning she ran across him in the hall. she knew the man well of old. he was surprised and pleased to see her, and it was not difficult to get him out of the house without arousing his suspicions. but he would talk so boisterously; she felt her uncle's eyes aflame in anger. "be sure and send for me when he rallies, quick," slocum whispered loudly in the hall. "perhaps we can do a little something for some folks." and with a wink he went out. had she done the clever thing, after all, in shooing old slocum out? her mind went over the possibilities in tense anxiety. if there were no will, james, jr., would get the whole, she thought. if there was a will already in the house, in that old davenport, what then? would shapless get the money? she grew keen in speculation. to leave her in the lurch, to give it all to that greasy shapless, would be the most natural trick in the world for an incisive old fellow like oliphant. it was too much! she cried a little, and she began to hate the helpless man upstairs. it occurred to her to poke about in the papers in the adjoining room. she must do it at once, for she expected edwards every moment. first she ran upstairs to see if her uncle was all right. as soon as she entered, he glared at her bitterly and would have spoken. she noted the effort and failure, elated. he could not betray her now, unless he rallied wonderfully. so leaving the door ajar, she walked firmly downstairs. now she could satisfy her desire. if the money were _all_ left to shapless? she might secure the will, and bargain with the old parasite for a few thousands of dollars. her mind was full of wild schemes. if she only knew a little more about affairs! she had heard of wills, and read many novels that turned upon wills lost or stolen. they had always seemed to her improbable, mere novels. necessity was stranger than fiction. it did not take long to find the very articles she was after; evidently oliphant had been overhauling them on that last excursion from his room. the package lay where he had dropped it when he fainted. there were two documents. she unfolded them on the top of the mussy desk. they were hard reading in all their legal dress, and her head was filled with fears lest her husband should walk in. she could make out, however, that oliphant was much richer than she had ever vaguely supposed, and that since her departure he had relented toward his son. for by the first will in date she was the principal heir, a lot of queer charities coming in besides. in the second, james, jr., received something. her name did not appear. several clauses had been added from time to time, each one giving more money and lands to the methodists. probably shapless was after another codicil when he called. it had taken her into the twilight to gain even a meagre idea of all this. she was preparing to fold the documents up in their common wrapper, when she felt the door open behind her. all she could see in the terror of the moment was the gaunt white arm of her uncle, and the two angry eyes in the shaking head. she shrieked, from pure nervousness, and at her cry the old man fell in a heap. the accident steeled her nerves. dinah came in in a panic, and as they were lifting the bony frame from the floor edwards arrived. with his assistance they got the sick man to bed. that was clearly the last gasp. yet mrs. edwards shook in dread every time she entered the room. the look seemed conscious still, intensified malignity and despair creeping in. she was afraid and guilty and unstrung. perhaps, with some sudden revival of his forces, he would kill her. he was lying there, too still for defeat. his life had been an expression of hates; the last one might be dreadful. yet she stood to her post in the sick-room, afraid, as she knew, to trust herself with her husband. her mind was soiled with seething thoughts, and, in contrast, his seemed so fresh and pure! if she could keep him unsuspicious of her, all would be well in the end. but the task she had set herself for him was hard, so hard! that night when all was still she crept downstairs and groped about in the davenport for the papers. they had been lying there unopened where they had fallen earlier in the evening. she struck a match, caught up the fresher document, and hugged it to her as she toiled upstairs. when she had tucked it away in her satchel the end seemed near. they must wait now. she put her husband out of her mind. outside, the warm summer days died away over the sea, one by one, and the grass beyond the gates grew heavier with dust. life was tense in its monotony. * * * * * that had happened on a saturday; monday dr. shapless came again, his shoes dusty from his long walk from the station. he looked oiled as ever, but more determined. mrs. edwards daringly permitted him to see the dying man--he had been lying in a stupor--for she was afraid that the reverend doctor's loud tones in the hall might exasperate oliphant to some wild act. dr. shapless shut her from the room when he went in, but he did not stay long. a restless despair had settled down on her uncle's face, there to remain for the last few hours. her heart sank; she longed to cry out to the poor old man on the bed that _she_ did not want his money. she remained with him all night, yet she did not dare to approach his bed. she would disturb him. he died the next afternoon, and at the last he looked out on the world and at her with his final note of intelligence. it was pathetic, a suggestion of past tenderness defeated, and of defeat in hate, too. she shuddered as she closed his sad eyes; it was awful to meddle with a man's last purposes. the funeral was almost surreptitious; old dinah, the leicesters, and the edwardses occupied the one carriage that followed him to the graveyard across the village. they met a hay-cart or two on their way, but no curious neighbors. old oliphant's death aroused no interest in this village, ridden with summer strangers. the day was impersonally suave and tender, with its gentle haze and autumn premonitions. mr. leicester said a few equivocal words, while mrs. edwards gazed helplessly into the grave. the others fell back behind the minister. between her and her uncle down there something remained unexplained, and her heart ached. * * * * * they spent that night at the leicesters', for mrs. edwards wearily refused to return to the oliphant place. edwards carried the keys over to slocum, and told him to take the necessary steps toward settling the old man's affairs. the next day they returned to the little flat in harlem. the leicesters found their presence awkward, now that there was nothing to do, and mrs. edwards was craving to be alone with her husband, to shut out the past month from their lives as soon as possible. these september days, while they both waited in secret anxiety, she clung to him as she had never before. he was pure, the ideal she had voluntarily given up, given up for his sake in order that he might have complete perfection. his delicate sensitiveness kept him from referring to that painful month, or to possible expectations. she worshipped him the more, and was thankful for his complete ignorance. their common life could go on untainted and noble. yet edwards betrayed his nervous anxiety. his eagerness for the mail every morning, his early return from business, indicated his troubled mind. the news came at breakfast-time. mrs. edwards handed slocum's letter across the table and waited, her face wanly eager. the letter was long; it took some half-dozen large letter-sheets for the country lawyer to tell his news, but in the end it came. he had found the will and was happy to say that mrs. edwards was a large, a very large, beneficiary. edwards read these closing sentences aloud. he threw down the letter and tried to take her in his arms. but she tearfully pushed him away, and then, repenting, clasped his knees. "oh, will! it's so much, so very much," she almost sobbed. edwards looked as if that were not an irremediable fault in their good luck. he said nothing. already he was planning their future movements. under the circumstances neither cared to discuss their happiness, and so they got little fun from the first bloom. in spite of mrs. edwards's delicate health and her expected confinement they decided to go abroad. she was feverishly anxious for him to begin his real work at once, to prove himself; and it might be easier to forget her one vicious month when the atlantic had been crossed. they put their affairs to rights hurriedly, and early in november sailed for france. the leicesters were at the dock to bid them god-speed and to chirrup over their good fortune. "it's all like a good, old-fashioned story," beamed mrs. leicester, content with romance for once, now that it had arranged itself so decorously. "very satisfactory; quite right," the clergyman added. "we'll see you soon in paris. we're thinking of a gay vacation, and will let you know." edwards looked fatuous; his wife had an orderly smile. she was glad when sandy hook sank into the mist. she had only herself to avoid now. they took some pleasant apartments just off the rue de rivoli, and then their life subsided into the complacent commonplace of possession. she was outwardly content to enjoy with her husband, to go to the galleries, the opera, to try the restaurants, and to drive. yet her life went into one idea, a very fixed idea, such as often takes hold of women in her condition. she was eager to see him at work. if he accomplished something--even content!--she would feel justified and perhaps happy. as to the child, the idea grew strange to her. why should she have a third in the problem? for she saw that the child must take its part in her act, must grow up and share their life and inherit the oliphant money. in brief, she feared the yet unborn stranger, to whom she would be responsible in this queer way. and the child could not repair the wrong as could her husband. certainly the child was an alien. she tried to be tender of her husband in his boyish glee and loafing. she could understand that he needed to accustom himself to his new freedom, to have his vacation first. she held herself in, tensely, refraining from criticism lest she might mar his joy. but she counted the days, and when her child had come, she said to herself, _then_ he must work. this morbid life was very different from what she had fancied the rich future would be, as she looked into the grave, the end of her struggle, that september afternoon. but she had grown to demand so much more from _him_; she had grown so grave! his bright, boyish face, the gentle curls, had been dear enough, and now she looked for the lines a man's face should have. why was he so terribly at ease? the world was bitter and hard in its conditions, and a man should not play. late in december the leicesters called; they were like gleeful sparrows, twittering about. mrs. edwards shuddered to see them again, and when they were gone she gave up and became ill. her tense mind relieved itself in hysterics, which frightened her to further repression. then one night she heard herself moaning: "why did i have to take all? it was so little, so very little, i wanted, and i had to take all. oh, will, will, you should have done for yourself! why did you need this? why couldn't you do as other men do? it's no harder for you than for them." then she recollected herself. edwards was holding her hand and soothing her. some weeks later, when she was very ill, she remembered those words, and wondered if he had suspected anything. her child came and died, and she forgot this matter, with others. she lay nerveless for a long time, without thought; edwards and the doctor feared melancholia. so she was taken to italy for the cold months. edwards cared for her tenderly, but his caressing presence was irritating, instead of soothing, to her. she was hungry for a justification that she could not bring about. at last it wore on into late spring. she began to force herself back into the old activities, in order to leave no excuse for further dawdling. her attitude became terribly judicial and suspicious. an absorbing idleness had settled down over edwards, partly excused to himself by his wife's long illness. when he noticed that his desultory days made her restless, he took to loafing about galleries or making little excursions, generally in company with some forlorn artist he had picked up. he had nothing, after all, so very definite that demanded his time; he had not yet made up his mind for any attempts. and something in the domestic atmosphere unsettled him. his wife held herself aloof, with alien sympathies, he felt. so they drifted on to discontent and unhappiness until she could bear it no longer without expression. "aren't we to return to paris soon?" she remarked one morning as they idled over a late breakfast. "i am strong now, and i should like to settle down." edwards took the cue, idly welcoming any change. "why, yes, in the fall. it's too near the summer now, and there's no hurry." "yes, there _is_ hurry," his wife replied, hastily. "we have lost almost eight months." "out of a lifetime," edwards put in, indulgently. she paused, bewildered by the insinuation of his remark. but her mood was too incendiary to avoid taking offence. "do you mean that that would be a _life_, loafing around all day, enjoying this, that, and the other fine pleasure? that wasn't what we planned." "no, but i don't see why people who are not driven should drive themselves. i want to get the taste of harlem out of my mouth." he was a bit sullen. a year ago her strict inquiry into his life would have been absurd. perhaps the money, her money, gave her the right. "if people don't drive themselves," she went on, passionately, "they ought to be driven. it's cowardly to take advantage of having money to do nothing. you wanted the--the opportunity to do something. now you have it." edwards twisted his wicker chair into uncomfortable places. "well, are you sorry you happen to have given me the chance?" he looked at her coldly, so that a suspicious thought shot into her mind. "yes," she faltered, "if it means throwing it away, i _am_ sorry." she dared no more. her mind was so close on the great sore in her gentle soul. he lit a cigarette, and sauntered down the hotel garden. but the look he had given her--a queer glance of disagreeable intelligence--illumined her dormant thoughts. what if he had known all along? she remembered his meaning words that hot night when they talked over oliphant's illness for the first time. and why had he been so yielding, so utterly passive, during the sordid drama over the dying man? what kept him from alluding to the matter in any way? yes, he must have encouraged her to go on. _she_ had been his tool, and he the passive spectator. the blind certainty of a woman made the thing assured, settled. she picked up the faint yellow rose he had laid by her plate, and tore it slowly into fine bits. on the whole, he was worse than she. but before he returned she stubbornly refused to believe herself. * * * * * in the autumn they were again in paris, in soberer quarters, which were conducive to effort. edwards was working fitfully with several teachers, goaded on, as he must confess to himself, by a pitiless wife. not much was discussed between them, but he knew that the price of the _statu quo_ was continued labor. she was watching him; he felt it and resented it, but he would not understand. all the idealism, the worship of the first sweet months in marriage, had gone. of course that incense had been foolish, but it was sweet. instead, he felt these suspicious, intolerant eyes following his soul in and out on its feeble errands. he comforted himself with the trite consolation that he was suffering from the natural readjustment in a woman's mind. it was too drastic for that, however. he was in the habit of leaving her in the evenings of the opera. the light was too much for her eyes, and she was often tired. one wet april night, when he returned late, he found her up, sitting by the window that overlooked the steaming boulevard. somehow his soul was rebellious, and when she asked him about the opera he did not take the pains to lie. "oh, i haven't been there," he muttered, "i am beastly tired of it all. let's get out of it; to st. petersburg or norway--for the summer," he added, guiltily. now that the understanding impended she trembled, for hitherto she had never actually known. in suspicion there was hope. so she almost entreated. "we go to vienna next winter anyway, and i thought we had decided on switzerland for the summer." "you decided! but what's the use of keeping up the mill night and day? there's plenty of opportunity over there for an educated gentleman with money, if what you are after is a 'sphere' for me." "you want to--to go back now?" "no, i want to be let alone." "don't you care to pay for all you have had? haven't you any sense of justice to uncle oliphant, to your opportunities?" "oliphant!" edwards laughed, disagreeably. "wouldn't he be pleased to have an operetta, a gilbert and sullivan affair, dedicated to him! no. i have tried to humor your idea of making myself famous. but what's the use of being wretched?" the topic seemed fruitless. mrs. edwards looked over to the slight, careless figure. he was sitting dejectedly on a large fauteuil, smoking. he seemed fagged and spiritless. she almost pitied him and gave in, but suddenly she rose and crossed the room. "we've made ourselves pretty unhappy," she said, apologetically, resting her hand on the lapel of his coat. "i guess it's mostly my fault, will. i have wanted so much that you should do something fine with uncle oliphant's money, with _yourself_. but we can make it up in other ways." "what are you so full of that idea for?" edwards asked, curiously. "why can't you be happy, even as happy as you were in harlem?" his voice was hypocritical. "don't you know?" she flashed back. "you _do_ know, i believe. tell me, did you look over those papers on the davenport that night uncle james fainted?" the unexpected rush of her mind bewildered him. a calm lie would have set matters to rights, but he was not master of it. "so you were willing--you knew?" "it wasn't my affair," he muttered, weakly, but she had left him. he wandered about alone for a few days until the suspense became intolerable. when he turned up one afternoon in their apartments he found preparations on foot for their departure. "we're going away?" he asked. "yes, to new york." "not so fast," he interrupted, bitterly. "we might as well face the matter openly. what's the use of going back there?" "we can't live here, and besides i shall be wanted there." "you can't do anything now. talk sensibly about it. i will not go back." she looked at him coldly, critically. "i cabled slocum yesterday, and we must live somehow." "you--" but she laid her hand on his arm. "it makes no difference now, you know, and it can't be changed. i've done everything." chicago, august, . a rejected titian "john," my wife remarked in horrified tones, "he's coming to rome!" "who is coming to rome--the emperor?" "uncle ezra--see," she handed me the telegram. "shall arrive in rome wednesday morning; have watkins at the grand hotel." i handed the despatch to watkins. "poor uncle!" my wife remarked. "he will get it in the neck," i added, profanely. "they ought to put nice old gentlemen like your uncle in bond when they reach italy," watkins mused, as if bored in advance. "the _antichitàs_ get after them, like--like confidence-men in an american city, and the same old story is the result; they find, in some mysterious fashion, a wonderful titian, a forgotten giorgione, cheap at _cinque mille lire_. then it's all up with them. his pictures are probably decalcomanias, you know, just colored prints pasted over board. why, we _know_ every picture in venice; it's simply _impossible_--" watkins was a connoisseur; he had bought his knowledge in the dearest school of experience. "what are you going to do, mr. watkins?" my wife put in. "tell him the truth?" "there's nothing else to do. i used up all my ambiguous terms over that daub he bought in the piazza di spagna--'reminiscential' of half a dozen worthless things, 'suggestive,' etc. i can't work them over again." watkins was lugubrious. "tell him the truth as straight as you can; it's the best medicine." i was uncle ezra's heir; naturally, i felt for the inheritance. "well," my wife was invariably cheerful, "perhaps he has found something valuable; at least, one of them may be; isn't it possible?" watkins looked at my wife indulgently. "he's been writing me about them for a month, suggesting that, as i was about to go on to venice, he would like to have me see them; such treasures as i should find them. i have been waiting until he should get out. it isn't a nice job, and your uncle--" "there are three of them, aunt mary writes: cousin maud has bought one, with the advice of uncle ezra and professor augustus painter, and painter himself is the last one to succumb." "they have all gone mad," watkins murmured. "where did maudie get the cash?" i asked. "she had a special gift on coming of age, and she has been looking about for an opportunity for throwing it away"--my wife had never sympathized with my cousin, maud vantweekle. "she had better save it for her trousseau, if she goes on much more with that young professor. aunt mary should look after her." watkins rose to go. "hold on a minute," i said. "just listen to this delicious epistle from uncle ezra." "'... we have hoped that you would arrive in venice before we break up our charming home here. mary has written you that professor painter has joined us at the palazzo palladio, complementing our needs and completing our circle. he has an excellent influence for seriousness upon maud; his fine, manly qualities have come out. venice, after two years of berlin, has opened his soul in a really remarkable manner. all the beauty lying loose around here has been a revelation to him--'" "maud's beauty," my wife interpreted. "'and our treasures you will enjoy so much--such dashes of color, such great slaps of light! i was the first to buy--they call it a savoldo, but i think no third-rate man could be capable of so much--such reaching out after infinity. however, that makes little difference. i would not part with it, now that i have lived these weeks with so fine a thing. maud won a prize in her bonifazio, which she bought under my advice. then augustus secured the third one, a bissola, and it has had the greatest influence upon him already; it has given him his education in art. he sits with it by the hour while he is at work, and its charm has gradually produced a revolution in his character. we had always found him too germanic, and he had immured himself in that barbarous country for so long over his semitic books that his nature was stunted on one side. his picture has opened a new world for him. your aunt mary and i already see the difference in his character; he is gentler, less narrowly interested in the world. this precious bit of fine art has been worth its price many times, but i don't think augustus would part with it for any consideration now that he has lived with it and learned to know its power.'" "i can't see why he is coming to rome," watkins commented at the end. "if they are confident that they know all about their pictures, and don't care anyway who did them, and are having all this spiritual love-feast, what in the world do they want any expert criticism of their text for? now for such people to buy pictures, when they haven't a mint of money! why don't they buy something within their means really fine--a coin, a van dyck print? i could get your uncle a whistler etching for twenty-five pounds; a really fine thing, you know--" this was watkins's hobby. "oh, well, it won't be bad in the end of the hall at new york; it's as dark as pitch there; and then uncle ezra can leave it to the metropolitan as a giorgione. it will give the critics something to do. and i suppose that in coming on here he has in mind to get an indorsement for his picture that will give it a commercial value. he's canny, is my uncle ezra, and he likes to gamble too, like the rest of us. if he should draw a prize, it wouldn't be a bad thing to brag of." watkins called again the next morning. "have you seen uncle ezra?" my wife asked, anxiously. "no. three telegrams. train was delayed--i suppose by the importance of the works of art it's bringing on." "when do you expect him?" "about noon." "mr. watkins," my wife flamed out, "i believe you are just shirking it, to meet that poor old man with his pictures. you ought to have been at the station, or at least at the hotel. why, it's twelve now!" watkins hung his head. "i believe you are a coward," my wife went on. "just think of his arriving there, all excitement over his pictures, and finding you gone!" "well, well," i said, soothingly, "it's no use to trot off now, watkins; stay to breakfast. he will be in shortly. when he finds you are out at the hotel he will come straight on here, i am willing to bet." watkins looked relieved at my suggestion. "i believe you meant to run away all along," my wife continued, severely, "and to come here for refuge." watkins sulked. we waited in suspense, straining our ears to hear the sound of a cab stopping in the street. at last one did pull up. my wife made no pretence of indifference, but hurried to the window. "it's uncle ezra, with a big, black bundle. john, run down--no! there's a facchino." we looked at each other and laughed. "the three!" our patron of art came in, with a warm, gentle smile, his tall, thin figure a little bent with the fatigue of the journey, his beard a little grayer and dustier than usual, and his hands all a-tremble with nervous impatience and excitement. he had never been as tremulous before an opinion from the supreme court. my wife began to purr over him soothingly; watkins looked sheepish; i hurried them all off to breakfast. the omelette was not half eaten before uncle ezra jumped up, and began unstrapping the oil-cloth covering to the pictures. there was consternation at the table. my wife endeavored soothingly to bring uncle ezra's interest back to breakfast, but he was not to be fooled. my uncle ezra was a courageous man. "of course you fellows," he said, smiling at watkins, in his suave fashion, "are just whetting your knives for me, i know. that's right. i want to know the worst, the hardest things you can say. you can't destroy the intrinsic _worth_ of the pictures for us; i have lived with mine too long, and know how precious it is!" at last the three pictures were tipped up against the wall, and the madonnas and saints in gold, red, and blue were beaming out insipidly at us. uncle ezra affected indifference. watkins continued with the omelette. "we'll look them over after breakfast," he said, severely, thus getting us out of the hole temporarily. after breakfast my wife cooked up some engagement, and hurried me off. we left uncle ezra in the hands of the physician. two hours later, when we entered, the operation had been performed--we could see at a glance--and in a bloody fashion. the pictures were lying about the vast room as if they had been spat at. uncle ezra smiled wanly at us, with the courage of the patient who is a sceptic about physicians. "just what i expected," he said, briskly, to relieve watkins, who was smoking, with the air of a man who has finished his job and is now cooling off. "mr. watkins thinks painter's picture and maud's are copies, painter's done a few years ago and maud's a little older, the last century. my savoldo he finds older, but repainted. you said cinque cento, mr. watkins?" "perhaps, mr. williams," watkins answered, and added, much as a dog would give a final shake to the bird, "_much_ repainted, hardly anything left of the original. there may be a savoldo underneath, but you don't see it." watkins smiled at us knowingly. my wife snubbed him. "of course, uncle ezra, _that's_ one man's opinion. i certainly should not put much faith in one critic, no matter how eminent he may be. just look at the guide-books and see how the 'authorities' swear at one another. ruskin says every man is a fool who can't appreciate his particular love, and burckhardt calls it a daub, and eastlake insipid. now, there are a set of young fellows who think they know all about paint and who painted what. they're renaming all the great masterpieces. pretty soon they will discover that some tenth-rate fellow painted the sistine chapel." watkins put on an aggrieved and expostulatory manner. uncle ezra cut in. "oh! my dear! mr. watkins may be right, quite right. it's his business to know, i am sure, and i anticipated all that he would say; indeed, i have come off rather better than i expected. there is old paint in it somewhere." "pretty far down," watkins muttered. my wife bristled up, but uncle ezra assumed his most superb calm. "it makes no difference to me, of course, as far as the _worth_ of the work of art is concerned. i made up my mind before i came here that my picture was worth a great deal to me, much more than i paid for it." there was a heroic gasp. watkins interposed mercilessly, "and may i ask, mr. williams, what you did give for it?" uncle ezra was an honest man. "twenty-five hundred lire," he replied, sullenly. "excuse me" (watkins was behaving like a pitiless cad), "but you paid a great deal too much for it, i assure you. i could have got it for----" "mr. watkins," my wife was hardly civil to him, "it doesn't matter much what you could have got it for." "no," uncle ezra went on bravely, "i am a little troubled as to what this may mean to maud and professor painter, for you see their pictures are copies." "undoubted modern copies," the unquenchable watkins emended. "maud has learned a great deal from her picture. and as for painter, it has been an education in art, an education in life. he said to me the night before i came away, 'mr. williams, i wouldn't take two thousand for that picture; it's been the greatest influence in my life.'" i thought watkins would have convulsions. "and it has brought those two young souls together in a marvellous way, this common interest in fine art. you will find maud a much more serious person, jane. no, if i were painter i certainly should not care a fig whether it proves to be a copy or not. i shouldn't let that influence me in my love for such an educational wonder." the bluff was really sublime, but painful. my wife gave a decided hint to watkins that his presence in such a family scene was awkward. he took his hat and cane. uncle ezra rose and grasped him cordially by the hand. "you have been very generous, mr. watkins," he said, in his own sweet way, "to do such an unpleasant job. it's a large draft to make on the kindness of a friend." "oh, don't mention it, mr. williams; and if you want to buy something really fine, a van dyck print--a----" uncle ezra was shooing him toward the door. from the stairs we could still hear his voice. "or a whistler etching for twenty-five pounds, i could get you, now, a very fine----" "no, thank you, mr. watkins," uncle ezra said, firmly. "i don't believe i have any money just now for such an investment." my wife tiptoed about the room, making faces at the exposed masterpieces. "what shall we do?" uncle ezra came back into the room, his face a trifle grayer and more worn. "capital fellow, that watkins," he said; "so firm and frank." "uncle," i ventured at random, "i met flügel the other day in the street. you know flügel's new book on the renaissance. he's the coming young critic in art, has made a wonderful reputation the last three years, is on the _beaux arts_ staff, and really _knows_. he is living out at frascati. i could telegraph and have him here this afternoon, perhaps." "well, i don't know;" his tone, however, said "yes." "i don't care much for expert advice--for specialists. but it wouldn't do any harm to hear what he has to say. and maud and painter have made up their minds that maud's is a titian." so i ran out and sent off the despatch. my wife took uncle ezra down to the forum and attempted to console him with the ugliness of genuine antiquity, while i waited for flügel. he came in a tremendous hurry, his little, muddy eyes winking hard behind gold spectacles. "ah, yes," he began to paw the pictures over as if they were live stock, "that was bought for a bonifazio," he had picked up maud's ruby-colored prize. "of course, of course, it's a copy, an old copy, of titian's picture, no. , , in the national gallery at london. there is a replica in the villa ludovisi here at rome. it's a stupid copy, some alterations, all for the bad--worthless--well, not to the _antichità_, for it must be , i should say. but worthless for us and in bad condition. i wouldn't give cinque lire for it." "and the bissola?" i said. "oh, that was done in the seventeenth century--it would make good kindling. but this," he turned away from painter's picture with a gesture of contempt, "this is domenico tintoretto fast enough, at least what hasn't been stippled over and painted out. st. agnes's leg here is entire, and that tree in the background is original. a damn bad man, but there are traces of his slop work. perhaps the hair is by him, too. well, good-by, old fellow; i must be off to dinner." that was slight consolation; a leg, a tree, and some wisps of hair in a picture three feet six by four feet eight. our dinner that evening was labored. the next morning uncle ezra packed his three treasures tenderly, putting in cotton-wool at the edges, my wife helping him to make them comfortable. we urged him to stay over with us for a few days; we would all go on later to venice. but uncle ezra seemed moved by some hidden cause. back he would trot at once. "painter will want his picture," he said, "he has been waiting on in venice just for this, and i must not keep him." watkins turned up as we were getting into the cab to see uncle ezra off, and insisted upon accompanying us to the station. my wife took the opportunity to rub into him flügel's remarks, which, at least, made watkins out shady in chronology. at the station we encountered a new difficulty. the ticket collector would not let the pictures through the gate. my uncle expostulated in pure tuscan. watkins swore in roman. "give him five lire, mr. williams." poor uncle ezra fumbled in his pocket-book for the piece of money. he had never bribed in his life. it was a terrible moral fall, to see him tremblingly offer the piece of scrip. the man refused, "positive orders, _permesso_ necessary," etc., etc. the bell rang; there was a rush. uncle ezra looked unhappy. "here," watkins shouted, grabbing the precious pictures in a manner far from reverent, "i'll send these on, mr. williams; run for your train." uncle ezra gave one undecided glance, and then yielded. "you will look after them," he pleaded, "carefully." "you shall have them safe enough," my wife promised. "blast the pasteboards," watkins put in under his breath, "the best thing to do with them is to chop 'em up." he was swinging them back and forth under his arm. my wife took them firmly from him. "he shall have his pictures, and not from your ribald hands." a week later rome became suddenly oppressively warm. we started off for venice, watkins tagging on incorrigibly. "i want to see 'maud,'" he explained. the pictures had been packed and sent ahead by express. "the storm must have burst, tears shed, tempers cooled, mortification set in," i remarked, as we were being shoved up the grand canal toward the palazzo palladio. "there they are in the balcony," my wife exclaimed, "waving to us. something is up; maudie is hanging back, with aunt mary, and professor painter is at the other end, with uncle ezra." the first thing that caught the eye after the flurry of greetings was the impudent blue and red of uncle ezra's "sancta conversazione," domenico tintoretto, savoldo, or what not; st. agnes's leg and all, beaming at us from the wall. the other two were not there. my wife looked at me. maudie was making herself very gracious with little watkins. painter's solemn face began to lower more and more. aunt mary and uncle ezra industriously poured oil by the bucket upon the social sea. at last maud rose: "you _must_ take me over there at once, mr. watkins. it will be such an enjoyment to have someone who really knows about pictures and has taste." this shot at poor painter; then to my wife, "come, jane, you will like to see your room." painter crossed to me and suggested, lugubriously, a cigar on the balcony. he smoked a few minutes in gloomy silence. "does that fellow know anything?" he emitted at last, jerking his head at watkins, who was pouring out information at uncle ezra. i began gently to give charles henderson watkins a fair reputation for intelligence. "i mean anything about art? of course it doesn't matter what he says about my picture, whether it is a copy or not, but miss vantweekle takes it very hard about hers. she blames me for having been with her when she bought it, and having advised her and encouraged her to put six hundred dollars into it." "six hundred," i gasped. "cheap for a bonifazio, or a _titian_, as we thought it." "too cheap," i murmured. "well, i got bitten for about the same on my own account. i sha'n't get that rachel's library at berlin, that's all. the next time you catch me fooling in a subject where i don't know my bearings--like fine art--you see mr. williams found my picture one day when he was nosing about at an _antichita's_, and thought it very fine. i admire mr. williams tremendously, and i valued his opinion about art subjects much more then than i do now. he and mrs. williams were wild over it. they had just bought their picture, and they wanted us each to have one. they have lots of sentiment, you know." "lots," i assented. "mrs. williams got at me, and well, she made me feel that it would bring me nearer to miss vantweekle. you know she goes in for art, and she used to be impatient with me because i couldn't appreciate. i was dumb when she walked me up to some old madonna, and the others would go on at a great rate. well, in a word, i bought it for my education, and i guess i have got it! "then the man, he's an old jew on the grand canal--raffman, you know him? he got out another picture, the bonifazio. the williamses began to get up steam over that, too. they hung over that thing mr. williams bought, that savoldo or domenico tintoretto, and prowled about the churches and the galleries finding traces of it here in the style of this picture and that; in short, we all got into a fever about pictures, and miss vantweekle invested all the money an aunt had given her before coming abroad, in that bonifazio. "i must say that miss vantweekle held off some time, was doubtful about the picture; didn't feel that she wanted to put all her money into it. but she caught fire in the general excitement, and i may say"--here a sad sort of conscious smile crept over the young professor's face--"at that time i had a good deal of influence with her. she bought the picture, we brought it home, and put it up at the other end of the hall. we spent hours over that picture, studying out every line, placing every color. we made up our minds soon enough that it wasn't a bonifazio, but we began to think--now don't laugh, or i'll pitch you over the balcony--it was an early work by titian. there was an attempt in it for great things, as mr. williams said: no small man could have planned it. one night we had been talking for hours about them, and we were all pretty well excited. mr. williams suggested getting watkins's opinion. maud--miss vantweekle said, loftily, 'oh! it does not make any difference what the critics say about it, the picture means everything to me'; and i, like a fool, felt happier than ever before in my life. the next morning mr. williams telegraphed you and set off." he waited. "and when he returned?" "it's been hell ever since." he was in no condition to see the comic side of the affair. nor was miss vantweekle. she was on my wife's bed in tears. "all poor aunt higgins's present gone into that horrid thing," she moaned, "and all the dresses i was planning to get in paris. i shall have to go home looking like a perfect dowd!" "but think of the influence it has been in your life--the education you have received from that picture. how can you call all that color, those noble faces, 'that horrid thing?'" i said, reprovingly. she sat upright. "see here, jerome parker, if you ever say anything like that again, i will never speak to you any more, or to jane, though you are my cousins." "they have tried to return the picture," my wife explained. "professor painter and uncle ezra took it over yesterday; but, of course, the jew laughed at them." "'a copy!' he said." maud explained, "why, it's no more a copy than titian's 'assumption.' he could show us the very place in a palace on the grand canal where it had hung for four hundred years. of course, all the old masters used the same models, and grouped their pictures alike. very probably titian had a picture something like it. what of that? he defied us to find the exact original." "well," i remarked, soothingly, "that ought to comfort you, i am sure. call your picture a new titian, and sell it when you get home." "mr. watkins says that's an old trick," moaned maud, "that story about the palace. he says old raffman has a pal among the italian nobility, and works off copies through him all the time. i won't say anything about uncle ezra; he has been as kind and good as he can be, only a little too enthusiastic. but professor painter!" she tossed her head. the atmosphere in the palazzo palladio for the next few days was highly charged. at dinner uncle ezra placidly made remarks about the domenico tintoretto, almost vaingloriously, i thought. "such a piece of venice to carry away. we missed it so much, those days you had it in rome. it is so precious that i cannot bear to pack it up and lose sight of it for five months. mary, just see that glorious piece of color over there." meantime some kind of conspiracy was on foot. maud went off whole mornings with watkins and uncle ezra. we were left out as unsympathetic. painter wandered about like a sick ghost. he would sit glowering at maud and watkins while they held whispered conversations at the other end of the hall. watkins was the hero. he had accepted flügel's judgment with impudent grace. "a copy of titian, of course," he said to me; "really, it is quite hard on poor miss vantweekle. people, even learned people, who don't know about such things, had better not advise. i have had the photographs of all titian's pictures sent on, and we have found the original of your cousin's picture. isn't it very like?" it was very like; a figure was left out in the copy, the light was changed, but still it was a happy guess of flügel. "well, what are you going to do about it?" i said to maud, who had just joined us. "oh, mr. watkins has kindly consented to manage the matter for me; i believe he has a friend here, an artist, mr. hare, who will give expert judgment on it. then the american vice-consul is a personal friend of mr. watkins, and also count corner, the adviser at the academy. we shall frighten the old jew, sha'n't we, mr. watkins?" i walked over to the despised madonna that was tipped up on its side, ready to be walked off on another expedition of defamation. "poor bonifazio," i sighed, "maud, how can you part with a work of fine art that has meant so much to you?" "do you think, jerome, i would go home and have uncle higgins, with his authentic rembrandt and all his other pictures, laugh at me and my titian? i'd burn it first." i turned to uncle ezra. "uncle, what strange metamorphosis has happened to this picture? the spiritual light from that color must shine as brightly as ever; the intrinsic value remains forever fixed in maud's soul; it is desecration to reject such a precious message. why, it's like sending back the girl you married because her pedigree proved defective, or because she had lost her fortune. it's positively brutal!" maud darted a venomous glance at me; however, i had put the judge in a hole. "i cannot agree with you, jerome." uncle ezra could never be put in a hole. "maud's case is a very different one from mr. painter's or mine. we can carry back what we like personally, but for maud to carry home a doubtful picture into the atmosphere she has to live in--why, it would be intolerable--with her uncle a connoisseur, all her friends owners of masterpieces." uncle ezra had a flowing style. "it would expose her to annoyance, to mortification--constant, daily. above all, to have taken a special gift, a fund of her aunt's, and to apply it in this mistaken fashion is cruel." painter remarked bitterly to me afterward, "he wants to crawl on his share of the responsibility. i'd buy the picture if i could raise the cash, and end the whole miserable business." indeed, watkins seemed the only one blissfully in his element. as my wife remarked, watkins had exchanged his interest in pictures for an interest in woman. certainly he had planned his battle well. it came off the next day. they all left in a gondola at an early hour. painter and i watched them from the balcony. after they were seated, watkins tossed in carelessly the suspected picture. what went on at the _antichità's_ no one of the boat-load ever gave away. watkins had a hold on the man somehow, and the evidence of the fraud was overwhelming. about noon they came back, maud holding an enormous envelope in her hand. "i can never, never thank you enough, mr. watkins," she beamed at him. "you have saved me from such mortification and unhappiness, and you were so _clever_." that night at dinner uncle ezra was more than usually genial, and beamed upon maud and watkins perpetually. watkins was quite the hero and did his best to look humble. "how much rent did the spiritual influence cost, maud?" i asked. she was too happy to be offended. "oh, we bought an old ring to make him feel pleased, five pounds, and mr. hare's services were worth five pounds, and mr. watkins thinks we should give the vice-consul a box of cigars. "let's see; ten pounds and a box of cigars, that's three hundred lire at the price of exchange. you had the picture just three weeks, a hundred lire a week for the use of all that education in art, all that spiritual influence. quite cheap, i should say." "and mr. watkins's services, maud!" my wife asked, viciously. there was a slight commotion at the table. "may i, maud?" watkins murmured. "as you please, charles," maud replied, with her eyes lowered to the table. "maud has given herself," uncle ezra said, gleefully. painter rose from the table and disappeared into his room. pretty soon he came out bearing a tray with a dozen champagne glasses, of modern-antique venetian glass. "let me present this to you, miss vantweekle," he pronounced, solemnly, "as an engagement token. i, i exchanged my picture for them this morning." "some asti spumante, ricci." "to the rejected titian--" i suggested for the first toast. venice, may, . payment in full the two black horses attached to the light buggy were chafing in the crisp october air. their groom was holding them stiffly, as if bolted to the ground, in the approved fashion insisted upon by the mistress of the house. old stuart eyed them impatiently from the tower window of the breakfast-room where he was smoking his first cigar; mrs. stuart held him in a vise of astounding words. "they will need not only the lease of a house in london for two years, but a great deal of money besides," she continued in even tones, ignoring his impatience. "i've done enough for 'em already," the old fellow protested, drawing on his driving gloves over knotted hands stained by age. mrs. stuart rustled the letter that lay, with its envelope, beside her untouched plate. it bore the flourishes of a foreign hotel and a foreign-looking stamp. "my mother writes that their summer in wiesbaden has made it surer that lord raincroft is interested in helen. it is evidently a matter of time. i say two years--it may be less." "well," her husband broke in. "haven't they enough to live on?" "at my marriage," elucidated mrs. stuart, imperturbably, "you settled on them securities which yield about five thousand a year. that does not give them the means to take the position which i expect for my family in such a crisis. they must have a large house, must entertain lavishly," she swept an impassive hand toward him in royal emphasis, "and do all that that set expects--to meet them as equals. you could not imagine that lord raincroft would marry helen out of a pension?" "i don't care a damn how he marries her, or if he marries her at all." he rose, testily. "i guess my family would have thought five thousand a year enough to marry the gals on, and to spare, and it was more'n you ever had in your best days." "naturally," her voice showed scorn at his perverse lack of intelligence. "out contract was made with that understanding." "let helen marry a feller who is willing to go half way for her without a palace. why didn't you encourage her marrying blake, as smart a young man as i ever had? she was taken enough with him." "because i did not think it fit for my sister to marry your junior partner, who, five years ago, was your best floor-walker." "well, blake is a college-educated man and a hustler. he's bound to get on if i back him. if blake weren't likely enough, there's plenty more in chicago like me--smart business men who want a handsome young wife." "perhaps we have had enough of stuart, hodgson, and blake. there are other careers in the world outside chicago." "tut, tut! i ain't going to fight here all day. what's the figure? what's the figure?" he slapped his breeches with the morning paper. "you will have to take the house in london (the duke of waminster's is to let, mamma writes), and give them two hundred thousand dollars in addition to their present income for the two years." she let her eyes fall on his toast and coffee. the old man turned about galvanically and peered at her. "you're crazy! two hundred thousand these times, so's your sister can get married?" "she's the last," interposed mrs. stuart, deftly. "i tell you i've done more than most men. i've paid your old bills, your whole family's, your brothers' in college, to the tune of five thousand a year (worthless scamps!) and put 'em in business. you've had all of 'em at newport and paris, let alone their living here off and on nearly twenty years. now you think i can shell out two hundred thousand and a london house as easily as i'd buy pop-corn." "it was our understanding." mrs. stuart began on her breakfast. "not much. i've done better by you than i agreed to, because you've been a good wife to me. i settled a nice little fortune on you independent of your widder's rights or your folks." "your daughter will benefit by that," mrs. stuart corrected. "well, what's that to do with it?" he seemed to lose the scent. "what was our understanding when i agreed to marry you?" "i've done more'n i promised, i tell you." "as you very well know, i married you because my family were in desperate circumstances. our understanding was that i should be a good wife, and you were to make my family comfortable according to my views. isn't that right?" the old man blanched at this businesslike presentation; his voice grew feebler. "and i have, beatty. i have! i've done everything by you i promised. and i built this great house and another at newport, and you ain't never satisfied." "that was our agreement, then," she continued, without mercy. "i was just nineteen, and wise, for a girl, and you had forty-seven pretty wicked years. there wasn't any nonsense between us. i was a stunning girl, the most talked about in new york at that time. i was to be a good wife, and we weren't to have any words. have i kept my promise?" "yes, you've been a good woman, beatty, better'n i deserved. but won't you take less, say fifty thousand?" he advanced conciliatorily. "that's an awful figure!" his wife rose, composed as ever and stately in her well-sustained forty years. "do you think _any_ price is too great in payment for these twenty-one years?" contempt crept in. "not one dollar less, two hundred thousand, and i cable mamma to-day." stuart shrivelled up. "do you refuse?" she remarked, lightly, for he stood irresolutely near the door. "i won't stand that!" and he went out. when he had left mrs. stuart went on with her breakfast; a young woman came in hastily from the hall, where she had bade her father good-by. she stood in the window watching the coachman surrender the horses to the old man. the groom moved aside quickly, and in a moment the two horses shot nervously through the ponderous iron gateway. the delicate wheels just grazed the stanchions, lifting the light buggy in the air to a ticklish angle. it righted itself and plunged down the boulevard. fast horses and cigars were two of the few pleasures still left the old store-keeper. there was another--a costly one--which was not always forthcoming. miss stuart watched the groom close the ornate iron gates, and then turned inquiringly to her mother. "what's up with papa?" mrs. stuart went on with her breakfast in silence. she was superbly preserved, and queenly for an american woman. it seemed as if something had stayed the natural decay of her powers, of her person, and had put her always at this impassive best. something had stopped her heart to render her passionless, and thus to embalm her for long years of mechanical activity. she would not decay, but when her time should come she would merely stop--the spring would snap. the daughter had her mother's height and her dark coloring. but her large, almost animal eyes, and her roughly moulded hands spoke of some homely, prairie inheritance. her voice was timid and hesitating. at last mrs. stuart, her mail and breakfast exhausted at the same moment, rose to leave the room. "oh, edith," she remarked, authoritatively, "if you happen to drive down town this morning, will you tell your father that we are going to winetka for a few weeks? or telephone him, if you find it more convenient. and send the boys to me. miss bates will make all arrangements. i think there is a train about three." "why, mamma, you don't mean to stay there! i thought we were to be here all winter. and my lessons at the art institute?" mrs. stuart smiled contemptuously. "lessons at the art institute are not the most pressing matter for my daughter, who is about to come out. you can amuse yourself with golf and tennis as long as they last. then, perhaps, you will have a chance to continue your lessons in paris." "and papa!" protested the daughter, "i thought he couldn't leave this winter?" mrs. stuart smiled again provokingly. "yes?" "oh, i can't understand!" her pleading was almost passionate, but still low and sweet. "i want so much to go on with my lessons with the other girls. and i want to go out here with all the girls i know." "we will have them at winetka. and stuyvesant wheelright--you liked him last summer." the girl colored deeply. "i don't want him in the house. i had rather go away. i'll go to vassar with mary archer. you needn't hunt up any man for me." "pray, do you think i would tolerate a college woman in my house? it's well enough for school-teachers. and what does your painting amount to? you will paint sufficiently well, i dare say, to sell a few daubs, and so take the bread and butter from some poor girl. but i am afraid, my dear, we couldn't admit your pictures to the gallery." the girl's eyes grew tearful at this tart disdain. "i love it, and papa has money enough to let me paint 'daubs' as long as i like. please, please let me go on with it!" * * * * * that afternoon the little caravan started for the deserted summer home at winetka, on a high bluff above the sandy lake-shore. it had been bought years before, when not even the richest citizens dreamed of going east for the summer. of late it had been used only rarely, in the autumn or late spring, or as a retreat in which to rusticate the boys with their tutor. when filled with a large house-party, it made a jolly place, though not magnificent enough for the developed hospitalities of mrs. stuart. old stuart came home to an empty palace. he had not believed that his reserved wife would take such high measures, and he felt miserably lonely after the usual round of elaborate dinners to which he had grown grumblingly accustomed. his one senile passion was his pride in her, and he was avaricious of the lost days while she was absent from her usual victorious post as the mistress of that great house. the next day his heart sank still lower, for he saw in the sunday papers a little paragraph to the effect that mrs. stuart had invited a brilliant house-party to her autumn home in winetka, and that it was rumored she and her lovely young daughter would spend the winter in london with their relatives. it made the old man angry, for he could see with what deliberation she had planned for a long campaign. even the comforts of his club were denied him; everyone knew him and everyone smiled at the little domestic disturbance. so he asked his secretary, young spencer, to make his home for the present in the sprawling, brand-new "palace" that frowned out on the south boulevard. young spencer accepted, out of pity for the old man; for he wasn't a toady and he knew his own worth. people did talk in the clubs and elsewhere about the divided establishments. it would have been worse had the division come earlier, as had been predicted often enough, or had mrs. stuart ever given in her younger days a handle for any gossip. but her conduct had been so frigidly correct that it stood in good service at this crisis. she would not have permitted a scandal. that also was in the contract. of course there was communication between the two camps, the gay polo-playing, dinner-giving household on the bluff, and the forlorn, tottering old man with his one aide-de-camp, the blithe young secretary. now and then the sons would turn up at the offices down-town, amiably expectant of large checks. stuart grimly referred them to their mother. he had some vague idea of starving the opposition out, but his wife's funds were large and her credit, as long as there should be no recognized rupture, perfect. the daughter, edith, frequently established connections. in some way she had got permission to take her lessons at the art institute. her mother's open contempt for her aesthetic impulses had ruined her illusion about her ability, for mrs. stuart knew her ground in painting. but she still loved the atmosphere of the great studio-room at the art institute. she liked the poor girls and the western bohemianism and the queer dresses, and above all she liked to linger over her own little easel, undisturbed by the creative flurry around, dreaming of woods and soft english gardens and happy hours along a river where the water went gently, tenderly, on to the sea. and her sweet eyes, large and black like her mother's, but softer and gentler, to go with her low voice, would moisten a bit from the dream. "so nice," he would murmur to her picture, "to sit here and think of the quiet and rest, such as good pictures always paint. i'd like not to go back with thomas to the train--to winetka where they play polo and dress up and dance and flirt, but to sail away over the sea----" then her eyes would see in the purplish light of her picture a certain face that meant another life. she would blush to herself, and her voice would stop. for she couldn't think aloud about him. some days, when the murky twilight came on early, she would steal away altogether from the gay party in winetka and spend the night with her lonely father. they would have a queer, stately dinner for three served in the grand dining-room by the english butler and footman. stuart never had much to say to her; she wasn't his "smart," queenly wife who brought all people to her feet. when he came to his cigar and his whiskey, she would take young spencer to the gallery, where they discussed the new french pictures, very knowingly, spencer thought. she would describe for him the intricacies of a color-scheme of some tender diaz, and that would lead them into the leafy woods about barbizon and other realms of sentiment. when they returned to the library she would feel that there were compensations for this dreary separation at winetka and that her enormous home had never been so nice and comfortable before. as she bade the two men good-night, her father would come to the door, rubbing his eyes and forlorn over his great loss, and to her murmured "good-night" he would sigh, "so like her mother." "quite the softest voice in the world," thought spencer. once in her old little tower room that she still preferred to keep, covered with her various attempts at sea, and sky, and forest, she was blissfully conscious of independence, so far from stuyvesant wheelright and his mother--quite an ugly old dame with no better manners than the plain chicago people (who despised them all as "pork-packers" and "shop-keepers," nevertheless). on one of these visits late in october, edith had found her father ailing from a cold. he asked her, shamefacedly, to tell her mother that "he was very bad." mrs. stuart, leaving the house-party in full go, started at once for the town-house. old stuart had purposely stayed at home on the chances that his wife would relent. when she came in, she found him lying in the same morning-room, where hostilities had begun three months before. he grew confused, like an erring school-boy, as his wife kissed him and asked after his health in a neutral sort of way. he made out that he was threatened with a complication of diseases that might finally end him. "well, what can i do for you now," mrs. stuart said, with business-like directness. "spencer's looking after things pretty much. he's honest and faithful, but he ain't got any head like yours, beatty, and times are awful hard. people won't pay rents, and i don't dare to throw 'em out. stores and houses would lie empty these days. then there's the north shore electric--i was a fool to go in so heavy the fair year and tie up all my money. i s'pose you know the bonds ain't reached fifty this fall. i'm not so tremendously wealthy as folks think." mrs. stuart exactly comprehended this sly speech; she knew also that there was some truth in it. "say, beatty, it's so nice to have you here!" the old man raised himself and capered about like a gouty old house-dog. he made the most of his illness, for he suspected that it was a condition of truce, not a bond of peace. while he was in bed mrs. stuart drove to the city each day and, with spencer's help, conducted business for long hours. she had had experience in managing large charities; she knew people, and when a tenant could pay, with a little effort, he found madam more pitiless than the old shop-keeper. every afternoon she would take her stenographer to stuart's room and consult with him. "ain't she a wonder?" the old man would exclaim to spencer, in new admiration for his wife. and spencer, watching the stately, authoritative woman day after day as she worked quickly, exactly, with the repose and dignity of a perfect machine, shivered back an unwilling assent. "she's marvellous!" all accidents played into the hands of this masterful woman. her own presence in town kept her daughter at winetka _en evidence_ for stuyvesant wheelright and mrs. wheelright. for mrs. stuart had determined upon him as, on the whole, the most likely arrangement that she could make. he was american, but of the best, and mrs. stuart was wise enough to prefer the domestic aristocracy. so to her mind affairs were not going badly. the truce would conclude ultimately in a senile capitulation; meantime, she could advance money for the household in london. when stuart had been nursed back into comparative activity, the grand dinners began once more--a convenient rebuttal for all gossip. the usual lists of distinguished strangers, wandering english story-tellers in search of material for a new "shilling shocker," artists suing to paint her or "mademoiselle l'inconnue," crept from time to time into the genial social column of the newspaper. stuart spent the evenings in state on a couch at the head of the drawing-room, where he usually remained until the guests departed. in this way he got a few words with his wife before she sent him to bed. one night his enthusiasm over her bubbled out. "you're a great woman, beatty!" she looked a little pale, but otherwise unworn by her laborious month. it was not blood that fed those even pulses. "you will not need my help now. you can see to your business yourself," she remarked. "say, beatty, you won't leave me again, will you!" he quavered, beseechingly. "i need you these last years; 'twon't be for long." "oh, you are strong and quite well again," she asserted, not unkindly. "will a hundred thousand do?" he pleaded. "times are bad and ready money is scarce, as you know." "sell the electric bonds," she replied, sitting down, as if to settle the matter. "sell them bonds at fifty?" the old shop-keeper grew red in the face. "what's that!" she remarked, disdainfully. "what have i given?" her husband said nothing. "as i told you when we first talked the matter over, i have done my part to the exact letter of the law. you admit i have been a good and faithful wife, don't you? you know," a note of passion crept into her colorless voice, "you know that there hasn't been a suggestion of scandal with our home. i married you, young, beautiful, admired; i am handsome now." she drew herself up disdainfully. "i have not wanted for opportunity, i think you might know; but not one man in all the world can boast i have dropped an eyelash for his words. not one syllable of favor have i given any man but you. am i not right?" stuart nodded. "then what do you haggle for over a few dollars? have i ever given you reason to repent our arrangement? have i not helped you in business, in social matters put you where you never could go by yourself? and do you think my price is high?" "money is so scarce," stuart protested, feebly. "suppose it left you only half a million, all told! what's that, in comparison to what i have given? think of that. i don't complain, but you know we women estimate things differently. and when we sell ourselves, we name the price; and it matters little how big it is," her scorn pierced the old man's somewhat leathery sensibilities. "well, if it's a question of price, when is it going to end--when shall i have paid up? next year you'll want half a million hard cash." "there is no end." the next morning, mrs. stuart returned to winetka; the rupture threatened to prolong itself indefinitely. stuart found it hard to give in completely, and it made him sore to think that their marriage had remained a business matter for over twenty years. and yet it was hard to face death without all the satisfaction money could buy him. the crisis came, however, in an unexpected manner. one morning stuart found his daughter waiting for him at his office. she had slipped away from winetka, and taken an early train. "what's up, ede?" "oh, papa!" the young girl gasped "they make me so unhappy, every day, and i can't stand it. mamma wants me to marry stuyvesant wheelright, and he's there all the time." "who's he?" stuart asked, sharply. his daughter explained briefly. "he is what mamma calls 'eligible'; he is a great swell in new york, and i don't like him. oh, papa, i can't be a _grande dame_, like mamma, can i? won't you tell her so, papa? make up with her; pay her the money she wants for aunt helen, and then perhaps she'll let me paint." "no, you're not the figure your mother is, and never will be," stuart said, almost slightingly. "i don't think, ede, you'll ever make a great lady like her." "i don't think she is very happy," the girl bridled, in her own defence. "well, perhaps not, perhaps not. but who do you want to marry, anyway? you had better marry someone, ede, 'fore i die." "i don't know--that is, it doesn't matter much just now. i should like to go to california, perhaps, with the stearns girls. i want to paint, just daubs, you know--i can't do any better. but you tell mamma i can't be a great swell. i shouldn't be happy, either."' the old man resolved to yield. that very afternoon he drove out to winetka along the lake shore. he had himself gotten up in his stiffest best. he held the reins high and tight, his body erect in the approved form; while now and then he glanced back to see if the footmen were as rigid as my lady demanded. for mrs. stuart loved good form, and he felt nervously apprehensive, as if he were again suing for her maiden favors. he was conscious, too, that he had little enough to offer her--the last months had brought humility. beside him young spencer lolled, enjoying, with a free heart, his day off in the gentle, spring-like air. perhaps he divined that his lady would not need so much propitiation. they surprised a party just setting forth from the winetka house as they drove up with a final flourish. their unexpected arrival scattered the guests into little, curious groups; everyone anticipated immediate dissolution. they speculated on the terms, and the opinion prevailed that stuart's expedition from town indicated complete surrender. meanwhile stuart asked for an immediate audience, and husband and wife went up at once to mrs. stuart's little library facing out over the bluff that descended to the lake. "well, beatty," old stuart cried, without preliminary effort, "i just can't live without you--that's the whole of it." she smiled. "i ain't much longer to live, and then you're to have it all. so why shouldn't you take what you want now?" he drew out several checks from his pocket-book. "you can cable your folks at once and go ahead. you've been the best sort of wife, as you said, and--i guess i owe you more'n i've paid for your puttin' up with an old fellow like me all these years." mrs. stuart had a new sensation of pity for his pathetic surrender. "there's one thing, beatty," he continued, "so long as i live you'll own i oughter rule in my own house, manage the boys, and that." mrs. stuart nodded. "now i want you to come back with me and break up this party." mrs. stuart took the checks. "you've made it a bargain, beatty. you said i was to pay your family what you wanted, and you were to obey me at that price?" "well," replied mrs. stuart, good-humoredly. "we'll all go up to-morrow. isn't that early enough?" "that ain't all, beatty. you can't make everybody over; you couldn't brush me up much; you can't make a grand lady out of edith." mrs. stuart looked up inquiringly. "now you've had your way about your family, and i want you to let ede alone." "why?" "she doesn't want that wheelright fellow, and if you think it over you'll see that she couldn't do as you have. she ain't the sort." mrs. stuart twitched at the checks nervously. "i sort of think spencer wants her; in fact, he said so coming out here." "impertinent puppy!" "and i told him he could have her, if she wanted him. i don't think i should like to see another woman of mine live the sort of life you have with me. it's hard on 'em." his voice quivered. beatrice, lady stuart of winetka, as they called her, stood silently looking out to the lake, reviewing "the sort of life she had lived" from the time she had made up her mind to take the shop-keeper's millions to this moment of concession. it was a grim panorama, and she realized now that it had not meant complete satisfaction to either party. her twenty or more frozen years made her uncomfortable. while they waited, young spencer and miss stuart came slowly up the terraced bluff. "well, john," mrs. stuart smiled kindly. "i think this is the last payment,--in full. let's go down to congratulate them." chicago, march, . a prothalamion _the best man has gone for a game of billiards with the host. the maid of honor is inditing an epistle to one who must fall. the bridesmaids have withdrawn themselves, each with some endurable usher, to an appropriate retreat upon the other coasts of the veranda. the night is full of starlight in may. the lovers discover themselves at last alone._ _he._ what was that flame-colored book maud was reading to young bishop? _she. the dolly dialogues_; you remember we read them in london when they came out. _he._ what irreverent literature we tolerate nowadays! i suppose it's the aftermath of agnosticism. _she._ it didn't occur to me that it was irreligious. _he._ irreverent, i said--the tone of our world. _she._ but how i love that world of ours--even the _dolly dialogues_! _he_. because you love it, this world you feel, you are reverent toward it. i have hated it so many years; it carried so much pain with it that i thought every expression of life was pain, and now, now, if it were not for maud and the _dolly dialogues_, these last days would seem to launch us afresh upon quite another world. _she_. yes, another world, where there is a new terror, a strange, inhuman terror that i never thought of before, the terror of death. _he_. why, what a perversity! you think of immortality as so real, so sure! relief from that terror of death is the proper fruit of your firm belief. _she_. but i never cared before about the shape, the form, the kind of that other life. i was content to believe it quite different from this, for i knew this so well, enjoyed it so much. when the jam-pot should be empty, i did not want another one just like it. but now.... _he_. i know. and i lived so much a stranger to the experiences i could have about me that i was indifferent to what came after. now, what i am, what i have, is so precious that i cannot believe in any change which should let me know of this life as past and impossible. that would be "the supreme grief of remembering in misery the happy days that have been." _she._ it makes me shiver; it is so blasphemous to hate the state of being of a spirit. that would seem to degrade love, if through love we dread to lose our bodies. _he._ strange! you have come to this confession out of a trusting religion and i from doubt--at the best indifference. you are ashamed to confess what seems to you wholly blasphemous against that noble faith and prayer of a christian; and i find an invigorating pleasure in your blasphemy. there is no conceivable life of a spirit to compare with the pain, even, of the human body; it is better to suffer than to know no difference. _she._ but "the resurrection of the body": perhaps the creed, word for word without interpretation, would not mean that empty life which we moderns have grown to consider the supreme and liberal conception of existence. _he._ resurrection in a purified form fit for the bliss, whatever one of all the many shapes men have dreamed it may vision itself in! _she._ but this love of life, this excessive joy, must fade away. the record of the world is not that we keep that. think of the old people who dream peacefully of death, after knowing all the fulness of this life. think of the wretches who pray for it. that vision of the life of spirits which is so dreadful to us has been the comfort of the ages. there must be some inner necessity for it. perhaps with our bodies our wills become worn out. _he_. that, i think, is the mystery--the wearing out, which is death. for death occurs oftener in life than we think; i know so many dead people who are walking about. as for sick people, physicians say that in a long illness they never have to warn a patient of the coming end. he knows it, subtly, from some dim, underground intimation. without acknowledging it, he arranges himself, so to speak, for the grave, and comforts himself with those visions that religion holds out. or does he comfort himself? but apart from the dying, there are so many out of whose bodies and spirits life is ebbing. it may have been a little flood-tide, but they know it is going. you see it on their faces. they become dull. that leprosy of death attacks their life, joint by joint. they lay aside one pleasure, one function, one employment of their minds after another. the machine may run on, but the soul is dying. that is what i call _death in life_. the episode of life. jack lynton is becoming stone like that. his is a case in point, and a good one, because the atrophy is coming about not from physical disease, or from any dissipation. you would call him sane and full of fire. he was. he married three years ago. their life was full, too, like ours, and precious. they did not throw it away; they were wise guardians of all its possibilities. the second summer--i was with them, and jack has told me much besides--mary began talking, almost in joke, of these matters, of what one must prepare for; of second marriages, and all that. we chatted in as idle fashion as do most people over the utterly useless topics of life. one exquisite september day, all steeped in the essence of sunshine--misty everywhere over the fields--how well i remember it!--she spoke again in jest about something that might happen after her death. i saw a trace of pain on jack's face. she saw it, and was sad for a moment. now i know that all through that late summer and autumn those two were fighting death in innuendoes. they were not morbid people, but death went to bed with them each night. of course, this apprehension, this miasma, came in slowly, like those autumn sea-mists; appearing once a month, twice this week--a little oftener each time. jack is a sensible man; he does not shy at a shadow. his nerves are tranquil, and respond as they ought. they went about the business of life as joyfully as you or i, and in october we were all back in town. now, mary is dying; the doctor sees it now. i do not mean that he should have known it before. _she_ knew it, and _she_ noted how the life was fading away until the time came when what was so full of action, of feeling, of desire, was merely a shell--impervious to sensation. and jack is dying, too--his health is good enough, but pain which he cannot master is killing him into numbness. he watches each joy, each experience with which they were both tremulous, depart. and do you suppose it is any comfort for those two honest souls to believe that their spirits will recognize each other in some curious state that has dispensed with sense? do you suppose that a million of years of a divine communion would make up for one spoken word, for even a shade of agony that passes across mary's face? _she_. if god should change their souls in that other world, then perhaps their longings would be quite different; so that what we think of with chill they would accept as a privilege. _he_. in other words, those two, who have learned to know each other in human terms, who have loved and suffered in the body, will have ended their page? some strange transformation into another two? why not simply an end to the book? would that not be easier? _she_. if one had the courage to accept these few years of life and ask for no more. _he_. i think that it is cowardice which makes one accept the ghostly satisfaction of a surviving spirit. when the body in life feels the spirit. _she_. but have you never forgotten the body, dreamed what it would be to feel god? you have known those moments when your soul, losing the sense of contact with men or women, groped alone, in an enveloping calm, and knew content. i have had it in times of intoxication from music--not the personal, passionate music of to-day, but some one or two notes that sink the mazy present into darkness. i knew that my senses were gone for the time, and in their place i held a comfortable consciousness of power. there have been other times--in lent, at the close of the drama of christ--beside the sea--after a long dance--illusory moments when one forgot the body and wondered. _he._ i know. one night in the sierras we camped high up above the summits of the range. the altitude, perhaps, or the long ride through the forest, kept me awake. our fires died down; a chalky mist rose from the valleys, and, filtering through the ravines, at last capped the granite heads. the smouldering tree-trunks we had lit for fires and the little patch of rock where we lay, made an island in that white sea. between us and the black spaces among the stars there was nothing. how eternally quiet it was! i can feel that isolation now coming over my soul like the stealthy fog, until i lay there, unconscious of my body, in a wondering placidity, watching the stars burn and fade. i could seem to feel them whirl in their way through the heavens. and then a thought detached itself from me, the conception of an eternity passed in placidity like that without the pains of sense, the obligations of action; i loved it then--that cold residence of thought! _she._ you have known it, too. those moments when the body in life feels the state of spirit come rarely and awe one. dear heart, perhaps if our spirits were purified and experienced we should welcome that perpetual contemplation. we cannot be janus-faced, but the truth may lie with the monks, who killed this life in order to obtain a grander one. two souls in heaven remember the life lived on earth. _he._ can you conceive of any heaven for which you would change this shameful world? any heaven, i mean, of spirits, not merely an italian palace of delights? _she._ there is the heaven of the pagans, the heaven of glorified earth, but---- _he._ would you like to dine without tasting the fruit and the wine? what attainment would it be to walk in fields of asphodel, when all the colors of all the empyrean were equally dazzling, and perceived by the mind alone? for my part, i should prefer to hold one human violet. _she_. the heaven of the christian to-day? _he_. that may be interpreted in two ways: the heaven where we know nothing but god, and the heaven where we remember our former life. let us pass the first, for the second is the heaven passionately desired by those who have suffered here, who have lost their friends. suppose that we two had finished with the episode of death, and had come out beyond into that tranquillity of spirit where sorrows change to harmony. you and i would go together, or, perhaps, less fortunate, one should wait the other, but finally both would experience this transformation from body into spirit. should you like it? would it fill your heart with content--if you remembered the past? i think not. suppose we should walk out some fresh morning, as we love to do now, and look at that earth we had been compelled to abandon. where would be that fierce joy of inrushing life? for, i fancy, we should ever have a level of contentment and repose. indeed, there would be no evening with its comforting calm, no especially still nights, no mornings: nothing is precious when nothing changes, and where all can be had for eternity. we should talk, as of old, but the conversation of old men and women would be dramatic and passionate to ours. for everything must needs be known, and there could be no distinctions in feeling. should you see your sister dying in agony at sea, you would smile tranquilly at her temporary and childish sorrow. all the affairs of this life would not strike you, pierce your heart, or move your pulse. they would repeat themselves in your eyes with a monotonous precision, and they would be done almost before the actors had begun. indeed, if you should not be incapable of blasphemy, you would rebel at this blind game, played out with such fever. we must not forget that our creative force would be spent: planning, building, executing, toiling patiently for some end that is mirrored only in our minds--how much of our joy comes from these!--would be laid aside. we should have shaken the world as much as we could: now, _peace_.... again, i say, peace is felt only after a storm. like ulysses, we should look wistfully out from the isolation of heaven to the resounding waves of this unconquered world. of course, one may say that the mind might fashion cures for all this; that a greater architect would build a saner heaven. but, remember, that we must not change the personal sense; in heaven, however you plan it, no mortal must lose that "i" so painfully built from the human ages. if you destroy his sense of the past life, his treasures acquired in this earth, you break the rules of the game: you begin again and we have nothing to do with it. _she._ you have not yet touched upon the cruellest condition of the life of the spirit. _he._ ah, dearest, i know that. you mean the love of the person. indeed, so quick it hurts me that i doubt if you would be walking that morning in heaven with me alone. perhaps, however, the memories of our common life on earth would make you single me out. let us think so. we should walk on to some secluded spot, apart from the other spirits, and with our eyes cast down so that we might not see that earth we were remembering. you would look up at last with a touch of that defiance i love so now, as if a young goddess were tossing away divine cares to shine out again in smiles. ah, how sad! i should have some stir about the heart, some desire to kiss you, to embrace you, to possess you, as the inalienable joy of my life. my hand could not even touch you! would our eyes look love? could we have any individual longing for one-another, any affection kept apart to ourselves, not swallowed up in that general loving-kindness and universal beatification proper to spirits? i know upon earth to-day some women, great souls, too, who are incapable of an individual love. they may be married, they may have children; they are good wives and good mothers; but their souls are too large for a single passion. their world blesses them, worships them, makes saints of them, but no man has ever touched the bottom of their hearts. i suppose their husbands are happy in the general happiness, yet they must be sad some days, over this barren love. hours come when they must long, even for the little heart of a coquette that has dedicated itself to one other and with that other would trustingly venture into hell. well, that universal love is the only kind such spirits as you and i should be, could know. would that content you? we should sit mournfully silent, two impotent hearts, and remember, remember. i should worship your exquisite body as i had known it on earth. i should see that head as it bends to-night; i should hear again your voice in those words you were singing when i passed your way that first time; and your eyes would burn with the fire of our relinquished love. it would all come faintly out of the past, deadened by a thin film of recollection; now it strikes with a fierce joy, almost like a physical blow, and wakes me to life, to desire. _she._ yes. we women say we love the spirit of the man we have chosen, but it is a spirit that acts and expresses itself in the body. to that body, with all its habits, so unconscious! its sure force and power, we are bound--more than the man is bound to the loveliness of the woman he adores. we--i, it is safer so, perhaps--understand what i see, what i feel, what i touch, what i have kissed and loved. that is mine and becomes mine more each day i live with it and possess it. that love of the concrete is our limitation, so we are told, but it is our joy. _he_. so we should sit, without words, for we would shrink from speech as too sad, and we should know swiftly the thought of the other. and when the sense of our loss became quite intolerable, we should walk on silently, in a growing horror of the eternity ahead. at last one of us, moved by some acute remembrance of our deadened selves, would go to the master of the spirits and, standing before him in rebellion, would say: "cast us out as unfit for this heaven, and if thou canst not restore us into that past state at least give us hell, where we may suffer a common pain, instead of this passive calm and contemplation." the measure of joy in life. _she._ yet, how short it will be! how awful to have the days and weeks and months slip by, and know that at the best there is only a reprieve of a few years. i think from this night i shall have my shadow of death. i shall always be doing things for the last time; a sad life that! and perhaps we change; as you say, we may become dead in life, prepared for a different state; and in that change we may find a new joy--a longing for perfection and peace. _he_. that would be an acknowledgment of defeat, indeed, and that is the sad result of so much living. the world has been too hard, we cry--there is so much heartbreaking, so much misery, so few arrive! we look to another world where all that will be made right, and where we shall suffer no more. let the others have their opiate. you, at least, i think, are too brave for that kind of comfort. does it not seem a little grasping to ask for eternity, because we have fifty years of action? and an eternity of passivity, because we have not done well with action? no, the world has had too much of that coddling, that kind of shuffle through, as if it were a way station where we must spend the night and make the best of sorry accommodations. our benevolence, our warmheartedness, goes overmuch to making the beds a bit better, especially for the feeble and the sick and old, and those who come badly fitted out. we help the unfortunate to slide through: i think it would be more sensible to make it worth their while to stay. the great philanthropists are those who ennoble life, and make it a valuable possession. it would be well to poison the forlorn, hurry them post haste to some other world where they may find the conditions better suited. then give their lot of misery and opportunity to another who can find joy in his burden. _she._ a world without mercy would be hard--it would be full of a strident clamor like a city street. _he._ mercy for all; no favoritism for a few. whoever could find a new joy, a lasting activity; whoever could keep his body and mind in full health and could show what a tremendous reality it is to live--would be the merciful man. there would be less of that leprosy, death in life, and the last problem of death itself would not be insurmountable. so i think the common men who know things, concrete things,--the price of grain, if you will; the men of affairs who have their minds on the struggle; the artists who in paint or words explore new possibilities--all these are the merciful men, the true comforters whom we should honor. they make life precious--aside from its physical value. you know the keen movement that runs through your whole being when you come face to face with some great rembrandt portrait. how much the man knew who made it, who saw it unmade! or that bellini's pope we used to watch, whose penetrating smile taught us about life. and the greater titian, the man with a glove, that looks at you like a live soul, one whom a man created to live for the joy of other men. in another form, i feel the same gift of life in a new enterprise: a railroad carried through; a corrupt government cleaned for the day. and, again, that giorgione at paris, where the men and women are doing nothing in particular, but living in the sunlight, a joyful, pagan band. and then think of the simpler, deeper notes of the symphony, the elements of light and warmth and color in our world, the very seeds of existence. i count that day the richest when we floated into the cape harbor in the little rowboat, bathed in the afternoon sun. the fishermen were lazily winging in, knowing, like birds, the storm that would soon be on them. we drank the sun in all our pores. it rained down on you, and glorified your face and the flesh of your arms and your hands. we landed, and walked across the evening fields to that little hut. then nature lived and glowed with the fervor of actual experience. you and the air and the sun-washed ocean, all were some great throbs of actualities. _she._ you remember how i liked to ride with you and sail, the stormy days. how i loved to feel your body battling even feebly with the wind and rain. i loved to see your face grow crimson under the lash of the waves, and then to _feel_ you, alive and mine! _he._ it would not be bad, a heaven like that, of perpetual physical presentiment, of storms and sun, and rich fields, and long waves rolling up the beaches. for nerves ever alive and strung healthily all along the gamut of sensation! days with terrific gloom, like the german forests of the middle ages; days with small nights spent on the sea; september days with a concealed meaning in the air. one would ride and battle and sail and eat. then long kisses of love in bodies that spoke. _she._ and yet, how strange to life as it is is that picture--like some mediæval song with the real people left out; strange to the dirty streets, the breakfasts in sordid rooms, the ignoble faces, the houses with failure written across the door-posts; strange to the life of papa and mamma; to the comfortable home; the chatter of the day; the horses; the summer trips--everything we have lived, you and i. _he._ incomplete, and hence merely a literary paradise. it is well, too, as it is, for until we can go to bed with the commonplace, and dine with sorrow, we are but children,--brilliant children, but with the unpleasant mark of the child. not sorrow accepted, my love, and bemoaned; but sorrow fought and dislodged. he is great who feels the pain and sorrow and absorbs it and survives--he who can remain calm in it and believe in it. it is a fight; only the strong hold their own. that fight we call duty. and duty makes the only conceivable world given the human spirit and the human frame: even should we believe that the world is a revolving palæstrinum without betterment. and the next world--the next? it must be like ours, too, in its action; it must call upon the same activities, the same range of desires and loves and hates. grander, perhaps, more adorned, with greater freedom, with more swing, with a less troubled song as it rushes on its course. but a world like unto ours, with effort, with the keen jangle of persons in effort, with sorrow, aye, and despair: for there must be forfeits! is that not better than to slink away to death with the forlorn comfort of a "_requiescat in pace?_" paris, december, . the lilac sunbonnet a love story by s. r. crockett author of the stickit minister, the raiders, etc. contents. prologue.--by the wayside i.--the blanket-washing ii.--the mother of king lemuel iii.--a treasure-trove iv.--a cavalier puritan v.--a lesson in botany vi.--curled eyelashes vii.--concerning taking exercise viii.--the minister's man arms for conquest ix.--the advent of the cuif x.--the love-song of the mavis xi.--andrew kissock goes to school xii.--midsummer dawn xiii.--a string of the lilac sunbonnet xiv.--captain agnew greatorix xv.--on the edge of the orchard xvi.--the cuif before the session xvii.--when the kye comes hame xviii.--a daughter of the plcts xix.--at the barn end xx.-"dark-browed egypt" xxi.--the return of ebie farrish xxii.--a scarlet poppy xxiii.--concerning john bairdieson xxiv.--legitimate sport xxv.--barriers breaking xxvi.--such sweet peril xxvii.--the opinions of saunders mowdiewort upon besom-shanks xxviii.--that gipsy jess xxix.--the dark of the moon at the grannoch bridge xxx.--the hill gate xxxi.--the study of the manse of dullarg xxxii.--outcast and alien from the commonwealth xxxiii.--jock gordon takes a hand xxxiv.--the dew of their youth xxxv.--such sweet sorrow xxxvi.--over the hills and far away xxxvii.--under the red heather xxxviii.--before the reformer's chair xxxix.--jemima, kezia, and little keren-happuch xl.--a triangular conversation xli.--the meeting of the synod xlii.--purging and restoration xliii.--threads drawn together xliv.--winsome's last tryst xlv.--the last of the lilac sunbonnet prologue. by the wayside as ralph peden came along the dusty cairn edward road from the coach which had set him down there on its way to the ferry town, he paused to rest in the evening light at the head of the long wood of larbrax. here, under boughs that arched the way, he took from his shoulders his knapsack, filled with hebrew and greek books, and rested his head on the larger bag of roughly tanned westland leather, in which were all his other belongings. they were not numerous. he might, indeed, have left both his bags for the dullarg carrier on saturday, but to lack his beloved books for four days was not to be thought of for a moment by ralph peden. he would rather have carried them up the eight long miles to the manse of the dullarg one by one. as he sat by the tipsy milestone, which had swayed sidelong and lay half buried amid the grass and dock leaves, a tall, dark girl came by--half turning to look at the young man as he rested. it was jess kissock, from the herd's house at craig ronald, on her way home from buying trimmings for a new hat. this happened just twice a year, and was a solemn occasion. "is this the way to the manse of dullarg?" asked the young man, standing up with his hat in his hand, the brim just beneath his chin. he was a handsome young man when he stood up straight. jess looked at him attentively. they did not speak in that way in her country, nor did they take their hats in their hands when they had occasion to speak to young women. "i am myself going past the dullarg," she said, and paused with a hiatus like an invitation. ralph peden was a simple young man, but he rose and shouldered his knapsack without a word. the slim, dark-haired girl with the bright, quick eyes like a bird, put out her hand to take a share of the burden of ralph's bag. "thank you, but i am quite able to manage it myself," he said, "i could not think of letting you put your hand to it." "i am not a fine lady," said the girl, with a little impatient movement of her brows, as if she had stamped her foot. "i am nothing but a cottar's lassie." "but then, how comes it that you speak as you do?" asked ralph. "i have been long in england--as a lady's maid," she answered with a strange, disquieting look at him. she had taken one side of the bag of books in spite of his protest, and now walked by ralph's side through the evening coolness. "this is the first time you have been hereaway?" his companion asked. ralph nodded a quick affirmative and smiled. "then," said jess kissock, the rich blood mantling her dark cheeks, "i am the first from the dullarg you have spoken to!" "the very first!" said ralph. "then i am glad," said jess kissock. but in the young man's heart there was no answering gladness, though in very sooth she was an exceeding handsome maid. chapter i. the blanket-washing. ralph peden lay well content under a thorn bush above the grannoch water. it was the second day of his sojourning in galloway--the first of his breathing the heather scent on which the bees grew tipsy, and of listening to the grasshoppers chirring in the long bent by the loch side. yesterday his father's friend, allan welsh, minister of the marrow kirk in the parish of dullarg, had held high discourse with him as to his soul's health, and made many inquiries as to how it sped in the great city with the precarious handful of pious folk, who gathered to listen to the precious and savoury truths of the pure marrow teaching. ralph peden was charged with many messages from his father, the metropolitan marrow minister, to allan welsh--dear to his soul as the only minister who had upheld the essentials on that great day, when among the assembled presbyters so many had gone backward and walked no more with him. "be faithful with the young man, my son," allan welsh read in the quaintly sealed and delicately written letter which his brother minister in edinburgh had sent to him, and which ralph had duly delivered in the square, grim manse of dullarg, with a sedate and old-fashioned reverence which sat strangely on one of his years. "be faithful with the young man," continued the letter; "he is well grounded on the fundamentals; his head is filled with godly lear, and he has sound views on the headship; but he has always been a little cold and distant even to me, his father according to the flesh. with his companions he is apt to be distant and reserved. i am to blame for the solitude of our life here in james's court, but to you i do not need to tell the reason of that. the lord give you his guidance in leading the young man in the right way." so far gilbert peden's letter had run staidly and in character like the spoken words of the writer. but here it broke off. the writing, hitherto fine as a hair, thickened; and from this point became crowded and difficult, as though the floods of feeling had broken some dam. "o man allan, for my sake, if at all you have loved me, or owe me anything, dig deep and see if the lad has a heart. he shews it not to me." so that is why ralph peden lies couched in the sparce bells of the ling, just where the dry, twisted timothy grasses are beginning to overcrown the purple bells of the heather. tall and clean-limbed, with a student's pallor of clear-cut face, a slightly ascetic stoop, dark brown curls clustering over a white forehead, and eyes which looked steadfast and true, the young man was sufficient of a hero. he wore a broad straw hat, which he had a pleasant habit of pushing back, so that his clustering locks fell over his brow after a fashion which all women thought becoming. but ralph peden heeded not what women thought, said, or did, for he was trysted to the kirk of the marrow, the sole repertory of orthodox truth in scotland, which is as good as saying in the wide world--perhaps even in the universe. ralph peden had dwelt all his life with his father in an old house in james's court, edinburgh, overlooking the great bounding circle of the northern horizon and the eastern sea. he had been trained by his father to think more of a professor's opinion on his hebrew exercise than of a woman's opinion on any subject whatever. he had been told that women were an indispensable part of the economy of creation; but, though he accepted word by word the westminster confession, and as an inexorable addition the confessions and protests of the remnant of the true kirk in scotland (known as the marrow kirk), he could not but consider woman a poor makeshift, even as providing for the continuity of the race. surely she had not been created when god looked upon all that he had made and found it very good. the thought preserved ralph's orthodoxy. ralph peden had come out into the morning air, with his note-book and a volume which he had been studying all the way from edinburgh. as he lay at length among the grass he conned it over and over. he referred to passages here and there. he set out very calmly with that kind of determination with which a day's work in the open air with a book is often begun. not for a moment did he break the monotony of his study. the marshalled columns of strange letters were mowed down before him. a great humble-bee, barred with tawny orange, worked his way up from his hole in the bank, buzzing shrilly in an impatient, stifled manner at finding his dwelling blocked as to its exit by a mountainous bulk. ralph peden rose in a hurry. the beast seemed to be inside his coat. he had instinctively hated bees and everything that buzzed ever since as a child he had made experiments with the paper nest of a tree-building wasp. the humble-bee buzzed a little more, discontentedly, thought of going back, crept out at last from beneath the hebrew lexicon, and appeared to comb his hair with his feeler. then he slowly mounted along the broad blade of a meadow fox-tail grass, which bent under him as if to afford him an elastic send-off upon his flight. with a spring he lumbered up, taking his way over the single field which separated his house from the edge of the grannoch water--where on the other side, above the glistening sickle-sweep of sand which looked so inviting, yet untouched under the pines by the morning sun, the hyacinths lay like a blue wreath of peat smoke in the hollows of the wood. but there was a whiff of real peat smoke somewhere in the air, and ralph peden, before he returned to his book, was aware of the murmur of voices. he moved away from the humble-bee's dwelling and established himself on a quieter slope under a bush of broom. a whin-chat said "check, check" above him, and flirted a brilliant tail; but ralph peden was not afraid of whin-chats. here he settled himself to study, knitting his brows and drumming on the ground with the toe of one foot to concentrate his attention. the whin-chat could hear him murmuring to himself at intervals, "surely that is the sense--it must be taken this way." sometimes, on the contrary, he shook his head at luther's commentary, which lay on the short, warm turf before him, as if in reproof. ralph was of opinion that luther, but for his great protective reputation, and the fact that he had been dead some time, might have been served with a libel for heresy--at least if he had ministered to the marrow kirk. then after a little he pulled his hat over his eyes to think, and lay back till he could just see one little bit of loch grannoch gleaming through the trees, and the farm of nether crae set on the hillside high above it. he counted the sheep on the green field over the loch, numbering the lambs twice because they frisked irresponsibly about, being full of frivolity and having no opinions upon luther to sober them. gradually a haze spun itself over the landscape, and ralph peden's head slowly fell back till it rested somewhat sharply upon a spikelet of prickly whin. his whole body sat up instantly, with an exclamation which was quite in luther's manner. he had not been sleeping. he rejected the thought; yet he acknowledged that it was nevertheless passing strange that, just where the old single- arched bridge takes a long stride over the grannoch lane, there was now a great black pot a-swing above a blinking pale fire of peats and fir-branches, and a couple of great tubs set close together on stones which he had not seen before. there was, too, a ripple of girls' laughter, which sent a strange stirring of excitement along the nerves of the young man. he gathered his books to move away; but on second thoughts, looking through the long, swaying tendrils of the broom under which he sat, he resolved to remain. after all, the girls might be as harmless as his helper of yesterday. "yet it is most annoying," he said; "i had been quieter in james's court." still he smiled a little to himself, for the broom did not grow in james's court, nor the blackbirds flute their mellow whistle there. loch grannoch stretched away three miles to the south, basking in alternate blue and white, as cloud and sky mirrored themselves upon it. the first broad rush of the ling [footnote: common heath (erica tetralix).] was climbing the slopes of the crae hill above --a pale lavender near the loch-side, deepening to crimson on the dryer slopes where the heath-bells grew shorter and thicker together. the wimpling lane slid as silently away from the sleeping loch as though it were eloping and feared to awake an angry parent. the whole range of hill and wood and water was drenched in sunshine. silence clothed it like a garment--save only for the dark of the shadow under the bridge, from whence had come that ring of girlish laughter which had jarred upon the nerves of ralph peden. suddenly there emerged from the indigo shade where the blue spruces overarched the bridge a girl carrying two shining pails of water. her arms were bare, her sleeves being rolled high above her elbow; and her figure, tall and shapely, swayed gracefully to the movement of the pails. ralph did not know before that there is an art in carrying water. he was ignorant of many things, but even with his views on woman's place in the economy of the universe, he could not but be satisfied with the fitness and the beauty of the girl who came up the path, swinging her pails with the compensatory sway of lissom body, and that strong outward flex of the elbow which kept the brimming cans swinging in safety by her side. ralph peden never took his eyes off her as she came, the theories of james's court notwithstanding. nor indeed need we for a little. for this is winifred, better known as winsome charteris, a very important young person indeed, to whose beauty and wit the poets of three parishes did vain reverence; and, what she might well value more, whose butter was the best (and commanded the highest price) of any that went into dumfries market on wednesdays. fair hair, crisping and tendrilling over her brow, swept back in loose and flossy circlets till caught close behind her head by a tiny ribbon of blue--then again escaping it went scattering and wavering over her shoulders wonderingly, like nothing on earth but winsome charteris's hair. it was small wonder that the local poets grew grey before their time in trying to find a rhyme for "sunshine," a substantive which, for the first time, they had applied to a girl's hair. for the rest, a face rather oval than long, a nose which the schoolmaster declared was "statuesque" (used in a good sense, he explained to the village folk, who could never be brought to see the difference between a statue and an idol--the second commandment being of literal interpretation along the loch grannoch side), and eyes which, emulating the parish poet, we can only describe as like two blue waves when they rise just far enough to catch a sparkle of light on their crests. the subject of her mouth, though tempting, we refuse to touch. its description has already wrecked three promising reputations. but withal winsome charteris set her pails as frankly and plumply on the ground, as though she were plain as a pike-staff, and bent a moment over to look into the gypsy-pot swung on its birchen triangle. then she made an impatient movement of her hand, as if to push the biting fir-wood smoke aside. this angered ralph, who considered it ridiculous and ill-ordered that a gesture which showed only a hasty temper and ill-regulated mind should be undeniably pretty and pleasant to look upon, just because it was made by a girl's hand. he was angry with himself, yet he hoped she would do it again. instead, she took up one pail of water after the other, swung them upward with a single dexterous movement, and poured the water into the pot, from which the steam was rising. ralph peden could see the sunlight sparkle in the water as it arched itself solidly out of the pails. he was not near enough to see the lilac sprig on her light summer gown; but the lilac sunbonnet which she wore, principally it seemed in order that it might hang by the strings upon her shoulders, was to ralph a singularly attractive piece of colour in the landscape. this he did not resent, because it is always safe to admire colour. ralph would have been glad to have been able to slip off quietly to the manse. he told himself so over and over again, till he believed it. this process is easy. but he saw very well that he could not rise from the lee of the whin bush without being in full view of this eminently practical and absurdly attractive young woman. so he turned to his hebrew lexicon with a sigh, and a grim contraction of determined brows which recalled his father. a country girl was nothing to the hunter after curious roots and the amateur of finely shaded significances in piel and pual. "i will not be distracted!" ralph said doggedly, though a scot, correct for once in his grammar; and he pursued a recalcitrant particle through the dictionary like a sleuthhound. a clear shrill whistle rang through the slumberous summer air. "bless me," said ralph, startled, "this is most discomposing!" he raised himself cautiously on his elbow, and beheld the girl of the water-pails standing in the full sunshine with her lilac sunbonnet in her hand. she wared it high above her head, then she paused a moment to look right in his direction under her hand held level with her brows. suddenly she dropped the sunbonnet, put a couple of fingers into her mouth in a manner which, if ralph had only known it, was much admired of all the young men in the parish, and whistled clear and loud, so that the stone-chat fluttered up indignant and scurried to a shelter deeper among the gorse. a most revolutionary young person this. he regretted that the humble-bee had moved him nearer the bridge. ralph was deeply shocked that a girl should whistle, and still more that she should use two fingers to do it, for all the world like a shepherd on the hill. he bethought him that not one of his cousins, professor habakkuk thriepneuk's daughters (who studied chaldaeic with their father), would ever have dreamed of doing that. he imagined their horror at the thought, and a picture, compound of jemima, kezia, and kerenhappuch, rose before him. down the hill, out from beneath the dark green solid foliaged elder bushes, there came a rush of dogs. "save us," said ralph, who saw himself discovered, "the deil's in the lassie; she'll have the dogs on me!"--an expression he had learned from john bairdison, his father's "man," [footnote: church officer and minister's servant.] who in an unhallowed youth had followed the sea. then he would have reproved himself for the unlicensed exclamation as savouring of the "minced oath," had he not been taken up with watching the dogs. there were two of them. one was a large, rough deerhound, clean cut about the muzzle, shaggy everywhere else, which ran first, taking the hedges in his stride. the other was a small, short-haired collie, which, with his ears laid back and an air of grim determination not to be left behind, followed grimly after. the collie went under the hedges, diving instinctively for the holes which the hares had made as they went down to the water for their evening drink. both dogs crossed to windward of him, racing for their mistress. when they reached the green level where the great tubs stood they leaped upon her with short sharp barks of gladness. she fended them off again with gracefully impatient hand; then bending low, she pointed to the loch-side a quarter of a mile below, where a herd of half a dozen black galloway cows, necked with the red and white of the smaller ayrshires, could be seen pushing its way through the lush heavy grass of the water meadow. "away by there! fetch them, roger!" she cried. "haud at them--the kye's in the meadow!" the dogs darted away level. the cows continued their slow advance, browsing as they went, but in a little while their dark fronts were turned towards the dogs as after a momentary indecision they recognized an enemy. with a startled rush the herd drove through the meadow and poured across the unfenced road up to the hill pasture which they had left, whose scanty grasses had doubtless turned slow bovine thoughts to the coolness of the meadow grass, and the pleasure of standing ruminant knee-deep in the river, with wavy tail nicking the flies in the shade. for a little while ralph peden breathed freely again, but his satisfaction was short-lived. one girl was discomposing enough, but here were two. moreover the new-comer, having arranged some blankets in a tub to her satisfaction, calmly tucked up her skirts in a professional manner and got bare-foot into the tub beside them. then it dawned upon ralph, who was not very instructed on matters of household economy, that he had chanced upon a galloway blanket-washing; and that, like the gentleman who spied upon musidora's toilet, of whom he had read in mr. james thomson's seasons, he might possibly see more than he had come out to see. yet it was impossible to rise composedly and take his way manseward. ralph wished now that he had gone at the first alarm. it had become so much more difficult now, as indeed it always does in such cases. moreover, he was certain that these two vagabonds of curs would return. and they would be sure to find him out. dogs were unnecessary and inconvenient beasts, always sniffing and nosing about. he decided to wait. the new-comer of the kilts was after all no naiad or hebe. her outlines did not resemble to any marked degree the plates in his excellent classical dictionary. she was not short in stature, but so strong and of a complexion so ruddily beaming above the reaming white which filled the blanket tub, that her mirthful face shone like the sun through an evening mist. but ralph did not notice that, in so far as she could, she had relieved the taller maiden of the heavier share of the work; and that her laugh was hung on a hair trigger, to go off at every jest and fancy of winsome charteris. all this is to introduce miss meg kissock, chief and favoured maidservant at the dullarg farm, and devoted worshipper of winsome, the young mistress thereof. meg indeed, would have thanked no one for an introduction, being at all times well able (and willing) to introduce herself. it had been a shock to ralph peden when meg kissock walked up from the lane-side barefoot, and when she cleared the decks for the blanket tramping. but he had seen something like it before on the banks of the water of leith, then running clear and limpid over its pebbles, save for a flour-mill or two on the lower reaches. but it was altogether another thing when, plain as print, he saw his first goddess of the shining water-pails sit calmly down on the great granite boulder in the shadow of the bridge, and take one small foot in her hand with the evident intention of removing her foot-gear and occupying the second tub. the hot blood surged in responsive shame to ralph peden's cheeks and temples. he started up. meg kissock was tramping the blankets rhythmically, holding her green kirtle well up with both hands, and singing with all her might. the goddess of the shining pails was also happily unconscious, with her face to the running water. ralph bent low and hastened through a gap in the fence towards the shade of the elder bushes on the slope. he did not run--he has never acknowledged that; but he certainly came almost indistinguishably near it. as soon, however, as he was really out of sight, he actually did take to his heels and run in the direction of the manse, disconcerted and demoralized. the dogs completed his discomfiture, for they caught sight of his flying figure and gave chase--contenting themselves, however, with pausing on the hillside where ralph had been lying, with indignant barkings and militant tails high crested in air. winsome charteris went up to the broom bushes which fringed the slope to find out what was the matter with tyke and roger. when she got there, a slim black figure was just vanishing round the white bend of the far away turn. winsome whistled low this time, and without putting even one finger into her mouth. chapter ii. the mother of king lemuel. it was not till ralph peden had returned to the study of the manse of the marrow kirk of dullarg, and the colour induced by exercise had had time to die out of his naturally pale cheeks, that he remembered that he had left his hebrew bible and lexicon, as well as a half-written exegesis on an important subject, underneath the fatal whin bush above the bridge over the grannoch water. he would have been glad to rise and seek it immediately--a task which, indeed, no longer presented itself in such terrible colours to him. he found himself even anxious to go. it would be a serious thing were he to lose his father's lexicon and mr. welsh's hebrew bible. moreover, he could not bear the thought of leaving the sheets of his exposition of the last chapter of proverbs to be the sport of the gamesome galloway winds--or, worse thought, the laughing-stock of gamesome young women who whistled with two fingers in their mouths. yet the picture of the maid of the loch which rose before him struck him as no unpleasant one. he remembered for one thing how the sun shone through the tangle of her hair. but he had quite forgotten, on the other hand, at what part of his exegesis he had left off. it was, however, a manifest impossibility for him to slip out again. besides, he was in mortal terror lest mr. welsh should ask for his hebrew bible, or offer to revise his chapter of the day with him. all the afternoon he was uneasy, finding no excuse to take himself away to the loch-side in order to find his bible and lexicon. "i understand you have been studying, with a view to license, the last chapter of the proverbs of solomon?" said gilbert welsh, interrogatively, bending his shaggy brows and pouting his underlip at the student. the marrow minister was a small man, with a body so dried and twisted ("shauchelt" was the local word) that all the nerve stuff of a strong nature had run up to his brain, so that when he walked he seemed always on the point of falling forward, overbalanced by the weight of his cliff-like brow. "ralph, will you ground the argument of the mother of king lemuel in this chapter? but perhaps you would like to refer to the original hebrew?" said the minister. "oh, no," interrupted ralph, aghast at the latter suggestion, "i do not need the text--thank you, sir." but, in spite of his disclaimer, he devoutly desired to be where the original text and his written comment upon it were at that moment--which, indeed, was a consummation even more devoutly to be wished than he had any suspicion of. the marrow minister leaned his head on his hand and looked waitingly at the young man. ralph recalled himself with an effort. he had to repeat to himself that he was in the manse study, and almost to pinch his knee to convince himself of the reality of his experiences. but this was not necessary a second time, for, as he sat hastily down on one of allen welsh's hard-wood chairs, a prickle from the gorse bush which he had brought back with him from loch grannoch side was argument sharp enough to convince bishop berkeley. "compose yourself to answer my question," said the minister, with some slight severity. ralph wondered silently if even a minister of the marrow kirk in good standing, could compose himself on one whin prickle for certain, and the probability of several others developing themselves at various angles hereafter. ralph "grounded" himself as best as he could, explaining the views of the mother of king lemuel as to the woman of virtue and faithfulness. he seemed to himself to have a fluency and a fervour in exposition to which he had been a stranger. he began to have new views about the necessity for the creation of eve. woman might possibly, after all, be less purely gratuitous than he had supposed. "the woman who is above rubies," said he, "is one who rises early to care for the house, who oversees the handmaids as they cleanse the household stuffs--in a" (he just saved himself from saying "in a black pot")--"in a fitting vessel by the rivers of water." "well put and correctly mandated," said mr. welsh, very much pleased. there was unction about this young man. though a bachelor by profession, he loved to hear the praises of good women; for he had once known one. "she openeth her mouth with wisdom; and--" here ralph paused, biting his tongue to keep from describing the picture which rose before him. "and what," said the minister, tentatively, leaning forward to look into the open face of the young man, "what is the distinction or badge of true beauty and favour of countenance, as so well expressed by the mother of king lemuel?" "a lilac sunbonnet!" said ralph peden, student in divinity. chapter iii. a treasure-trove. winsome charteris was a self-possessed maid, but undeniably her heart beat faster when she found on the brae face, beneath the bush of broom, two books the like of which she had never seen before, as well as an open notebook with writing upon it in the neatest and delicatest of hands. first, as became a prudent woman of experience, she went up to the top of the hill to assure herself that the owner of this strange treasure was not about to return. then she carefully let down her high-kilted print dress till only her white feet "like little mice" stole in and out. it did not strike her that this sacrifice to the conventions was just a trifle belated. as she returned she said "shoo!" at every tangled bush, and flapped her apron as if to scare whatever curious wild fowl might have left behind it in its nest under the broom such curious nest- eggs as two great books full of strange, bewitched-looking printing, and a note-book of curious and interesting writings. then, with a half sigh of disappointment, winsome charteris sat herself down to look into this matter. meg kissock from the bridge end showed signs of coming up to see what she was about; but winsome imperiously checked the movement. "bide where you are, meg; i'll be down with you presently." she turned over the great hebrew bible reverently. "a. welsh" was written on the fly-leaf. she had a strange idea that she had seen it before. it seemed somehow thrillingly familiar. "that's the minister's hebrew bible book, no doubt," she said. "for that's the same kind of printing as between the double verses of the hundred-and-nineteenth psalm in my grandfather's big bible," she continued, sapiently shaking her head till the crispy ringlets tumbled about her eyes, and she had impatiently to toss them aside. she laid the bible down and peeped into the other strange-looking book. there were single words here of the same kind as in the other, but the most part was in ordinary type, though in a language of which she could make nothing. the note-book was a resource. it was at least readable, and winsome charteris began expectantly to turn it over. but something stirred reprovingly in her heart. it seemed as if she were listening to a conversation not meant for her. so she kept her finger on the leaf, but did not turn it. "no," she said, "i will not read it. it is not meant for me." then, after a pause, "at least i will only read this page which is open, and then look at the beginning to see whose it is; for, you know, i may need to send it back to him." the back she had seen vanish round the far away turn demanded the masculine pronoun. she lifted the book and read: "alas!" (so ran the writing, fluent and clear, small as printer's type, ralph peden's beautiful hellenic script), "alas, that the good qualities of the housewives of solomon's days are out of date and forgotten in these degenerate times! women, especially the younger of them, are become gadabouts, chatterers in the public ways, idle, adorners of their vain selves, pamperers of their frail tabernacles--" winsome threw down the book and almost trod upon it as upon a snake. "'tis some city fop," she said, stamping her foot, "who is tired of the idle town dames. i wonder if he has ever seen the sun rise or done a day's work in his life? if only i had the wretch! but i will read no more!" in token of the sincerity of the last assertion, she picked up the note-book again. there was little more to read. it was at this point that the humble-bee had startled the writer. but underneath there were woids faintly scrawled in pencil: "must concentrate attention"--"the proper study of mankind is"--this last written twice, as if the writer were practising copy-lines absently. then at the very bottom was written, so faintly that hardly any eyes but winsome's could have read the words: "of all colours i do love the lilac. i wonder all maids do not wear gear of that hue!" "oh!" said winsome charteris quickly. then she gathered up the books very gently, and taking a kerchief from her neck, she folded the two great books within it, fastening them with a cunning knot. she was carrying them slowly up towards the farm town of craig ronald in her bare arms when ralph peden sat answering his catechism in the study at the manse. she entered the dreaming courtyard, and walked sedately across its silent sun- flooded spaces without a sound. she passed the door of the cool parlour where her grandfather and grandmother sat, the latter with her hands folded and her great tortoiseshell spectacles on her nose, taking her afternoon nap. a volume of waverley lay beside her. into her own white little room winsome went, and laid the bundle of books in the bottom of the wall-press, which was lined with sheets of the cairn edward miscellany. she looked at it some time before she shut the door. "his name is ralph," she said. "i wonder how old he is--i shall know tomorrow, because he will come back; but--i would like to know tonight." she sighed a little--so light a breath that it was only the dream of a sigh. then she looked at the lilac sunbonnet, as if it ought to have known. "at any rate he has very good taste," she said. but the lilac sunbonnet said never a word. chapter iv. a cavalier puritan. the farm town of craig ronald drowsed in the quiet of noon. in the open court the sunshine triumphed, and only the purple-grey marsh mallows along the side of the house under the windows gave any sign of life. in them the bees had begun to hum at earliest dawn, an hour and a half before the sun looked over the crest of ben gairn. they were humming busily still. in all the chambers of the house there was the same reposeful stillness. through them winsome charteris moved with free, light step. she glanced in to see that her grandfather and grandmother were wanting for nothing in their cool and wide sitting-room, where the brown mahogany-cased eight- day clock kept up an unequal ticking, like a man walking upon two wooden legs of which one is shorter than the other. it said something for winsome charteris and her high-hearted courage, that what she was accustomed to see in that sitting-room had no effect upon her spirits. it was a pleasant room enough, with two windows looking to the south--little round-budded, pale- petalled monthly roses nodding and peeping within the opened window-frames. sweet it was with a great peace, every chair covered with old sprigged chintz, flowers of the wood and heather from the hill set in china vases about it. the room where the old folk dwelt at craig ronald was fresh within as is the dew on sweetbrier. fresh, too, was the apparel of her grandmother, the flush of youth yet on her delicate cheek, though the psalmist's limit had long been passed for her. as winsome looked within, "are ye not sleeping, grandmother?" she said. the old lady looked up with a resentful air. "sleepin'! the lassie's gane gyte! [out of her senses]. what for wad i be sleepin' in the afternune? an' me wi' the care o' yer gran'faither--sic a handling, him nae better nor a bairn, an' you a bit feckless hempie wi' yer hair fleeing like the tail o' a twa- year-auld cowt! [colt]. sleepin' indeed! na, sleepin's nane for me!" the young girl came up and put her arms about her grandmother. "that's rale unceevil o' ye, noo, granny whitemutch!" she said, speaking in the coaxing tones to which the scots' language lends itself so easily, "an' it's just because i hae been sae lang at the blanket-washin', seein' till that hizzy meg. an' ken ye what i saw!-ane o' the black dragoons in full retreat, grannie; but he left his camp equipage ahint him, as the sergeant said when--ye ken the story, grannie. ye maun hae been terrible bonny in thae days!" "'deed i'm nane sae unbonny yet, for a' yer helicat flichtmafleathers, sprigget goons, an' laylac bonnets," said the old lady, shaking her head till the white silk top-knots trembled. "no, nor i'm nane sae auld nayther. the gudeman in the corner there, he's auld and dune gin'ye like, but no me--no me! gin he warna spared to me, i could even get a man yet," continued the lively old lady, "an' whaur wad ye be then, my lass, i wad like to ken?" "perhaps i could get one too, grannie," she said. and she shook her head with an air of triumph. winsome kissed her grandmother gently on the brow. "nane o' yer englishy tricks an' trokin's," said she, settling the white muslin band which she wore across her brow wrinkleless and straight, where it had been disarrayed by the onslaught of her impulsive granddaughter. "aye," she went on, stretching out a hand which would have done credit to a great dame, so white and slender was it in spite of the hollows which ran into a triangle at the wrist, and the pale- blue veins which the slight wrinkles have thrown into relief. "an' i mind the time when three o' his majesty's officers--nane o' yer militia wi' horses that rin awa' wi' them ilka time they gang oot till exerceese, but rale sodgers wi' sabre-tashies to their heels and spurs like pitawtie dreels. aye, sirs, but that was before i married an elder in the kirk o' the marrow. i wasna twenty-three when i had dune wi' the gawds an' vanities o' this wicked world." "i saw a minister lad the day--a stranger," said winsome, very quietly. "sirce me," returned her grandmother briskly; "kenned i e'er the like o' ye, winifred chayrteris, for licht-heedit-ness an' lack o' a' common sense! saw a minister an' ne'er thocht, belike, o' sayin' cheep ony mair nor if he had been a wutterick [weasel]. an' what like was he, na? was he young, or auld--or no sae verra auld, like mysel'? did he look like an establisher by the consequence o' the body, or--" "but, grannie dear, how is it possible that i should ken, when all that i saw of him was but his coat-tails? it was him that was running away." "my certes," said grannie, "but the times are changed since my day! when i was as young as ye are the day it wasna sodger or minister ayther that wad hae run frae the sicht o' me. but a minister, and a fine, young-looking man, i think ye said," continued mistress walter skirving anxiously. "indeed, grandmother, i said nothing--" began winsome. "haud yer tongue, deil's i' the lassie, he'll be comin' here. maybes he's comin' up the loan this verra meenit. get me my best kep [cap], the french yin o' flanders lawn trimmed wi' valenceenes lace that captain wildfeather, of his majesty's--but na, i'll no think o' thae times, i canna bear to think o' them wi' ony complaisance ava. but bring me my kep--haste ye fast, lassie!" obediently winsome went to her grandmother's bedroom and drew from under the bed the "mutch" box lined with pale green paper, patterned with faded pink roses. she did not smile when she drew it out. she was accustomed to her grandmother's ways. she too often felt the cavalier looking out from under her puritan teaching; for the wild strain of the gordon blood held true to its kind, and winsome's grandmother had been a gordon at lochenkit, whose father had ridden with kenmure in the great rebellion. when she brought the white goffered mutch with its plaits and puckers, granny tried it on in various ways, winsome meanwhile holding a small mirror before her. "as i was sayin', i renounced thinkin' aboot the vanities o' youth langsyne. aye, it'll be forty years sin'--for ye maun mind that i was marriet whan but a lassie. aye me, it's forty-five years since ailie gordon, as i was then, wed wi' walter skirving o' craig ronald (noo o' his ain chammer neuk, puir man, for he'll never leave it mair)," added she with a brisk kind of acknowledgment towards the chair of the semi-paralytic in the corner. there silent and unregarding walter skirving sat--a man still splendid in frame and build, erect in his chair, a shawl over his knees even in this day of fervent heat, looking out dumbly on the drowsing, humming world of broad, shadowless noonshine, and often also on the equable silences of the night. "no that i regret it the day, when he is but the name o' the man he yince was. for fifty years since there was nae lad like walter skirving cam into dumfries high street frae stewartry or frae shire. no a fit in buckled shune sae licht as his, his weel-shapit leg covered wi' the bonny 'rig-an'-fur' stockin' that i knitted mysel' frae the cast on o' the ower-fauld [over-fold] to the bonny white forefit that sets aff the blue sae weel. walter skirving could button his knee-breeks withoot bendin' his back--that nane could do but the king's son himsel'; an' sic a dancer as he was afore guid an' godly maister cauldsowans took hand o' him at the tent, wi' preachin' a sermon on booin' the knee to baal. aye, aye, its a' awa'--an' its mony the year i thocht on it, let alane thocht on wantin' back thae days o' vanity an' the pride o' sinfu' youth!" "tell me about the officer men, granny," said winsome. "'deed wull i no. it wad be mair tellin' ye gin ye were learnin' yer caritches" [westminster catechism]. "but, grandmammy dear, i thought that you said that the officer men ran away from you--" "hear till her! rin frae me? certes, ye're no blate. they cam' frae far an' near to get a word wi' me. na, there was nae rinnin' frae a bonny lass in thae days. weel, there was three o' them; an' they cam' ower the hill to see the lasses, graund in their reed breeks slashed wi' yellow. an' what for no, they war his majesty's troopers; an' though nae doot they had been on the wrang side o' the dyke, they were braw chiels for a' that!" "an' they cam' to see you, granny?" asked winsome, who approved of the subject. "what else--but they got an unco begunk [cheat]. ye see, my faither had bocht an awfu' thrawn young bull at the dumfries fair, an' he had been gaun gilravagin' aboot; an' whaur should the contrary beast betak' himsel' to but into the roman camp on craig ronald bank, where the big ditch used to be? there we heard him routin' for three days till the cotmen fand him i' the hinderend, an' poo'ed him oot wi' cart-rapes. but when he got oot--certes, but he was a wild beast! he got at jock hinderlands afore he could climb up a tree; an', fegs, he gaed up a tree withoot clim'in', i'se warrant, an' there he hung, hanket by the waistband o' his breeks, baa-haain' for his minnie to come and lift him doon, an' him as muckle a clampersome [awkward] hobbledehoy as ever ye saw! "then what did carlaverock jock do but set his heid to a yett [gate] and ding it in flinders; fair fire-wood he made o't; an' sae, rampagin' into the meadow across whilk," continued the old lady, with a rising delight in her eye, "the three cavalry men were comin' to see me, wi' the spurs on them jangling clear. reed breeks did na suit jock's taste at the best o' times, and he had no been brocht up to countenance yellow facin's. so the three braw king george's sodgers that had dune sic graund things at waterloo took the quickest road through the meadow. captain st. clair, he trippit on his sword, an' was understood to cry oot that he had never eaten beef in his life. ensign withershins threw his shako ower his shoother and jumpit intil the water, whaur he expressed his opinion o' carlaverock jock stan'in' up to his neck in luckie mowatt's pool--the words i dinna juist call to mind at this present time, which, indeed, is maybe as weel; but it was lieutenant lichtbody, o' his majesty's heavy dragoons, that cam' aff at the waurst. he made for the stane dyke, the sven-fite march dyke that rins up the hill, ye ken. weel, he made as if he wad mak' ower it, but boreland'a big heelant bull had heard the routin' o' his friend carlaverock jock, an' was there wi' his horns spread like a man keppin' yowes [catching sheep]. aye, my certes!" here the old lady paused, overcome by the humour of her recollections, laughing in her glee a delightfully catching and mellow laugh, in which winsome joined. "sae there was my braw beau, lieutenant lichtbody, sittin' on his hunkers on the dyke tap girnin' at carlaverock jock an' the boreland hielantman on baith sides o' him, an' tryin' tae hit them ower the nose wi' the scabbard o' his sword, for the whinger itsel' had drappit oot in what ye micht ca' the forced retreat. it was bonny, bonny to see; an' whan the three cam' up the loanin' the neist day, 'sirs,' i said, 'i'm thinkin' ye had better be gaun. i saw carlaverock jock the noo, fair tearin' up the greensward. it wudna be bonny gin his majesty's officers had twice to mak' sae rapid a march to the rear--an' you, lieutenant lichtbody, canna hae a'thegither gotten the better o' yer lang sederunt on the tap o' the hill dyke. it's a bonny view that ye had. it was a peety that ye had forgotten yer perspective glasses.' "and wad ye believe it, lassie, the threesome turned on the braid o'their fit an' marched doon the road withoot as muckle as fair- guid-e'en or fair-guid-day!" "and what said ye, grannie dear?" said winsome, who sat on a low seat looking up at her granny. "o lassie, i juist set my braid hat ower my lug wi' the bonny white cockade intil't an' gied them 'the wee, wee german lairdie' as they gaed doon the road, an' syne on the back o't: "'awa, whigs, awa'! ye're but a pack----'" but the great plaid-swathed figure of winsome's grandfather turned at the words of the long-forgotten song as though waking from a deep sleep. a slumberous fire gleamed momentarily in his eye. "woman," he said, "hold your peace; let not these words be heard in the house of walter skirving!" having thus delivered himself, the fire faded out of his eyes dead as black ashes; he turned to the window, and lost himself again in meditation, looking with steady eyes across the ocean of sunshine which flooded the valley beneath. his wife gave him no answer. she seemed scarce to have heard the interruption. but winsome went across and pulled the heavy plaid gently off her grandfather's shoulder. then she stood quietly by him with one hand upon his head and with the other she gently stroked his brow. a milder light grew in his dull eye, and he put up his hand uncertainly as if to take hers. "but what for should i be takin' delicht in speakin' o' thae auld unsanctified regardless days," said her grandmother, "that 'tis mony a year since i hae ta'en ony pleesure in thinkin' on? gae wa', ye hempie that ye are!" she cried, turning with a sudden and uncalled-for sparkle of temper on her granddaughter; "there's nae time an' little inclination in this hoose for yer flichty conversation. i wonder muckle that yer thouchts are sae set on the vanities o' young men. and such are all that delight in them." she went on somewhat irrelevantly, "did not godly maister cauldsowans redd up [settle] the doom o' such--'all desirable young men riding upon horses--'" "an' i'll gae redd up the dairy, an' kirn the butter, grannie!" said winsome charteris, breaking in on the flow of her grandmother's reproaches. chapter v. a lesson in botany. no lassie in all the hill country went forth more heart-whole into the june morning than winsome charteris. she was not, indeed, wholly a girl of the south uplands. her grandmother was never done reminding her of her "englishy" ways, which, according to that authority, she had contracted during those early years she had spent in cumberland. from thence she had been brought to the farm town of craig ronald, soon after the death of her only uncle, adam skirving--whose death, coming after the loss of her own mother, had taken such an effect upon her grandfather that for years he had seldom spoken, and now took little interest in the ongoings of the farm. walter skirving was one of a class far commoner in galloway sixty years ago than now. he was a "bonnet laird" of the best type, and his farm, which included all kinds of soil--arable and pasture, meadow and moor, hill pasture and wood--was of the value of about l a year, a sum sufficient in those days to make him a man of substance and consideration in the country. he had been all his life, except for a single year in his youth when he broke bounds, a marrow man of the strictest type; and it had been the wonder and puzzle of his life (to others, not to himself) how he came to make up to ailie gordon, the daughter of the old moss-trooping lochenkit gordons, that had ridden with the laird of redgauntlet in the killing time, and more recently had been out with maxwell of nithsdale, and gordon of kenmure, to strike a blow for the "king-over-the-water." and to this very day, though touched with a stroke which prevented her from moving far out of her chair, ailie skirving showed the good blood and high- hearted lightsomeness that had won the young laird of craig ronald upon the loch grannoch side nearly fifty years before. it was far more of a wonder how ailie gordon came to take walter skirving. it may be that she felt in her heart the accent of a true man in the unbending, nonjuring elder of the marrow kirk. two great heart-breaks had crossed their lives: the shadow of the life story of winsome's mother, that earlier winsome whose name had not been heard for twenty years in the house of craig ronald; and the more recent death of adam, the strong, silent, chivalrous-natured son who had sixteen years ago been killed, falling from his horse as he rode home alone one winter's night from dumfries. it was a natural thing to be in love with winsome charteris. it seemed natural to winsome herself. ever since she was a little lass running to school in keswick, with a touse of lint-white locks blowing out in the gusts that came swirling off skiddaw, winsome had always been conscious of a train of admirers. the boys liked to carry her books, and were not so ashamed to walk home with her, as even at six years of age young cumbrians are wont to be in the company of maids. since she came to galloway, and opened out with each succeeding year, like the bud of a moss rose growing in a moist place, winsome had thought no more of masculine admiration than of the dull cattle that "goved" [stared stupidly] upon her as she picked her deft way among the stalls in the byre. in all craig ronald there was nothing between the hill and the best room that did not bear the mark of winsome's method and administrative capacity. in perfect dependence upon winsome, her granny had gradually abandoned all the management of the house to her, so that at twenty that young woman was a veritable napoleon of finance and capacity. only old richard clelland of the boreland, grave and wise pillar of the kirk by law established, still transacted her market business and banked her siller--being, as he often said, proud to act as "doer" for so fair a principal. so it happened that all the reins of government about this tiny lairdship of one farm were in the strong and capable hands of a girl of twenty. and meg kissock was her true admirer and faithful slave--winsome's heavy hand, too, upon occasion; for all the men on the farm stood in awe of meg's prowess, and very especially of meg's tongue. so also the work fell mostly upon these two, and in less measure upon a sister of meg's, jess kissock, lately returned from england, a young lady whom we have already met. during the night and morning winsome had studied with some attention the hebrew bible, in which the name allan welsh appeared, as well as the latin luther commentary, and the hebrew lexicon, on the first page of which the name of ralph peden was written in the same neat print hand as in the note-book. this was the second day of the blanket-washing, and winsome, having in her mind a presentiment that the proprietor of these learned quartos would appear to claim his own, carried them down to the bridge, where meg and her sister were already deep in the mysteries of frothing tubs and boiling pots. winsome from the broomy ridge could hear the shrill "giff-gaff" [give and take] of their colloquy. she sat down under ralph's very broom bush, and absently turned over the leaves of the note-book, catching sentences here and there. "i wonder how old he is?" she said, meditatively; "his coat-tails looked old, but the legs went too lively for an old man; besides, he likes maids to be dressed in lilac--" she paused still more thoughtfully. "well, we shall see." she bent over and pulled the milky-stalked, white-seeded head of a dandelion. taking it between the finger and thumb of her left hand she looked critically at it as though it were a glass of wine. "he is tall, and he is fair, and his age is--" here she pouted her pretty lips and blew. "one--ha, ha!--he was an active infant when he ran from the blanket-tramping--two, three, four--" some tiny feather-headed spikelets disengaged themselves unwillingly from the round and venerable downpolled dandelion. they floated lazily up between the tassels of the broom upon the light breeze. "five, six, seven, eight--faith, he was a clean-heeled laddie yon. ye couldna see his legs or coat-tails for stour as he gaed roon' the far away turn." winsome was revelling in her broad scots. she had learned it from her grandmother. "nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--i'll no can set the dogs on him then--sixteen, seventeen, eighteen--dear me, this is becoming interesting." the plumules were blowing off freely now, like snow from the eaves on a windy day in winter. "nineteen, twenty, twenty-one--i must reverence my elders. if i don't blow stronger he'll turn out to be fifty--twenty-three, twenty-f--" a shadow fell across the daintily-held dandelion and lay a blue patch on the grass. only one pale grey star stood erect on the stem, the vacant green sheathing of the calyx turning suddenly down. "twenty-four!--" said ralph peden quietly, standing with his hat in his hand and an eager flush on his cheek. the last plumule floated away. winsome charteris had risen instinctively, and stood looking with crimson cheeks and quicker-coming breath at this young man who came upon her in the nick of time. he was startled and a little indignant. so they stood facing one another while one might count a score--silent and drinking each the other in, with that flashing transference of electric sympathy possible only to the young and the innocent. it was the young man who spoke first. winsome was a little indignant that he should dare to come upon her while so engaged. not, of course, that she cared for a moment what he thought of her, but he ought to have known better than to have stolen upon her while she was behaving in such a ridiculous, childish way. it showed what he was capable of. "my name is ralph peden," he said humbly. "i came from edinburgh the day before yesterday. i am staying with mr. welsh at the manse." winsome charteris glanced down at the books and blushed still more deeply. the hebrew bible and lexicon lay harmlessly enough on the grass, and the luther was swinging in a frivolous and untheological way on the strong, bent twigs of broom. but where was the note-book? like a surge of solway tide the remembrance came over her that, when she had plucked the dandelion for her soothsaying, she had thrust it carelessly into the bosom of her lilac-sprigged gown. indeed, a corner of it peeped out at this moment. had he seen it?--monstrous thought! she knew young men and the interpretations that they put upon nothings! this, in spite of his solemn looks and mantling bashfulness, was a young man. "then i suppose these are yours," said winsome, turning sideways towards the indicated articles so as to conceal the note-book. the young man removed his eyes momentarily from her face and looked in the direction of the books. he seemed to have entirely forgotten what it was that had brought him to loch grannoch bridge so early this june morning. winsome took advantage of his glance to feel that her sunbonnet sat straight, and as her hand was on its way to her clustering curls she took this opportunity of thrusting ralph's note-book into more complete concealment. then her hands went up to her head only to discover that her sunbonnet had slipped backward, and was now hanging down her back by the strings. ralph peden looked up at her, apparently entirely satisfied. what was a note-book to him now? he saw the sunbonnet resting upon the wavy distraction of the pale gold hair. he had a luxurious eye for colour. that lilac and gold went well together, was his thought. trammelled by the fallen head-gear, winsome threw her head back, shaking out her tresses in a way that ralph peden never forgot. then she caught at the strings of the errant bonnet. "oh, let it alone!" he suddenly exclaimed. "sir?" said winsome charteris--interrogatively, not imperatively. ralph peden, who had taken a step forward in the instancy of his appeal, came to himself again in a moment. "i beg your pardon," he said very humbly, "i had no right--" he paused, uncertain what to say. winsome charteris looked up quickly, saw the simplicity of the young man, in one full eye-blink read his heart, then dropped her eyes again and said: "but i thought you liked lilac sunbonnets!" ralph peden had now his turn to blush. hardly in the secret of his own heart had he said this thing. only to mr. welsh had his forgetful tongue uttered the word that was in his mind, and which had covered since yesterday morn all the precepts of that most superfluous wise woman, the mother of king lemuel. "are you a witch?" asked ralph, blundering as an honest and bashful man may in times of distress into the boldest speech. "you want to go up and see my grandmother, do you not?" said winsome, gravely, for such conversation was not to be continued on any conditions. "yes," said the young man, perjuring himself with a readiness and facility most unbecoming in a student desiring letters of probation from the protesting and covenant-keeping kirk of the marrow. ralph peden lightly picked up the books, which, as winsome knew, were some considerable weight to carry. "do you find them quite safe?" she asked. "there was a heavy dew last night," he answered, "but in spite of it they seem quite dry. "we often notice the same thing on loch grannoch side," said winsome. "i thought--that is, i was under the impression--that i had left a small book with some manuscript notes!" said the young man, tentatively. "it may have dropped among the broom," replied the simple maid. whereupon the two set to seeking, both bareheaded, brown cropped head and golden wilderness of tresses not far from one another, while the "book of manuscript notes" rose and fell to the quickened heart-beating of that wicked and deceitful girl, winsome charteris. chapter vi. curled eyelashes. now meg kissock could stand a great deal, and she would put up with a great deal to pleasure her mistress; but half an hour of loneliness down by the washing was overly much for her, and the struggle between loyalty and curiosity ended, after the manner of her sex, in the victory of the latter. as ralph and winsome continued to seek, they came time and again close together and the propinquity of flushed cheek and mazy ringlet stirred something in the lad's heart which had never been touched by the mistresses thriepneuk, who lived where the new houses of the plainstones look over the level meadows of the borough muir. his father had often said within himself, as he walked the edinburgh streets to visit some sick kirk member, as he had written to his friend adam welsh, "has the lad a heart?" had he seen him on that broomy knowe over the grannoch water, he had not doubted, though he might well have been fearful enough of that heart's too sudden awakening. never before had the youth come within that delicate aura of charm which radiates from the bursting bud of the finest womanhood. ralph peden had kept his affections ascetically virgin. his nature's finest juices had gone to feed the brain, yet all the time his heart had waited expectant of the revealing of a mystery. winsome charteris had come so suddenly into his life that the universe seemed newborn in a day. he sprang at once from the thought of woman as only an unexplained part of the creation, to the conception of her (meaning thereby winsome charteris) as an angel who had not lost her first estate. it was a strange thing for ralph peden, as indeed it is to every true man, to come for the first time within the scope of the unconscious charms of a good girl. there is, indeed, no better solvent of a cold nature, no better antidote to a narrow education, no better bulwark of defence against frittering away the strength and solemnity of first love, than a sudden, strong plunge into its deep waters. like timid bathers, who run a little way into the tide and then run out again with ankles wet, fearful of the first chill, many men accustom themselves to love by degrees. so they never taste the sweetness and strength of it as did ralph peden in these days, when, never having looked upon a maid with the level summer lightning of mutual interest flashing in his eyes, he plunged into love's fathomless mysteries as one may dive upon a still day from some craggy platform among the westernmost isles into atlantic depths. winsome's light summer dress touched his hand and thrilled the lad to his remotest nerve centres. he stood light-headed, taking in as only they twain looked over the loch with far-away eyes, that subtle fragrance, delicate and free, which like a garment clothed the maid of the grannoch lochside. "the water's on the boil," cried meg kissock, setting her ruddy shock of hair and blooming, amplified, buxom form above the knoll, wringing at the same time the suds from her hands, "an' i canna lift it aff mysel'." her mistress looked at her with a sudden suspicion. since when had meg grown so feeble? "we had better go down," she said simply, turning to ralph, who would have cheerfully assented had she suggested that they should together walk into the loch among the lily beds. it was the "we" that overcame him. his father had used the pronoun in quite a different sense. "we will take the twenty-ninth chapter of second chronicles this morning, ralph--what do we understand by this peculiar use of vav conversive?" but it was quite another thing when winsome charteris said simply, as though he had been her brother: "we had better go down!" so they went down, taking the little stile at which winsome had meditated over the remarks of ralph peden concerning the creation of eve upon their way. meg kissock led the van, and took the dyke vigorously without troubling the steps, her kirtle fitting her for such exercises. winsome came next, and ralph stood aside to let her pass. she sprang up the low steps light as a feather, rested her fingertips for an appreciable fraction of a second on the hand which he instinctively held out, and was over before he realized that anything had happened. yet it seemed that in that contact, light as a rose-leaf blown by the winds of late july against his cheek, his past life had been shorn clean away from all the future as with a sharp sword. ralph peden had dutifully kissed his cousins jemima, kezia, and kerenhappuch; but, on the whole, he had felt more pleasure when he had partaken of the excellent bannocks prepared for him by the fair hands of kerenhappuch herself. but this was wholly a new thing. his breath came suddenly short. he breathed rapidly as though to give his lungs more air. the atmosphere seemed to have grown rarer and colder. indeed, it was a different world, and the blanket-washing itself was transferred to some deliciously homely outlying annex of paradise. yet it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should be helping this girl, and he went forward with the greatest assurance to lift the black pot off the fire for her. the keen, acrid swirls of wood-smoke blew into his eyes, and the rank steam of yellow home-made soap, manufactured with bracken ash for lye, rose to his nostrils. now, ralph peden was well made and strong. spare in body but accurately compacted, if he had ever struggled with anything more formidable than the folio hide-hound calvins and turretins on his father's lower shelf in james's court, he had been no mean antagonist. but, though he managed with a great effort to lift the black pot off its gypsy tripod, he would have let the boiling contents swing dangerously against his legs had not winsome caught sharply at his other hand and leaned over, so balancing the weight of the boiling water. so they walked down the path to where the tubs stood under the shade of the great ash-trees, with their sky-tossing, dry- rustling leaves. there ralph set his burden down. meg kissock had been watching him keenly. she saw that he had severely burned his hand, and also that he said nothing whatever about it. he was a man. this gained for the young man meg's hearty approval almost as much as his bashfulness and native good looks. what meg kissock did not know was that ralph was altogether unconscious of the wound in his hand. it was a deeper wound which was at that time monopolising his thoughts. but this little incident was more than a thousand certificates in the eyes of meg kissock, and meg's friendship was decidedly worth cultivating. even for its own sake she did not give it lightly. before winsome charteris could release her hand, ralph turned and said: "do you know you have not yet told me your name?" winsome did know it very well, but she only said, "my name is winsome charteris, and this is meg kissock." "winsome charteris, winsome charteris," said ralph's heart over and over again, and he had not even the grace to say "thank you"; but meg stepped up to shake him by the hand. "i'm braw an' prood to ken ye, sir," said meg. "that muckle sumph [stupid], saunders mowdiewort, telled me a' aboot ye comin' an' the terrible store o' lear [learning] ye hae. he's the minister's man, ye ken, an' howks the graves ower by at the parish kirk-yard, for the auld betheral there winna gang ablow three fit deep, and them that haes ill-tongued wives to haud doon disna want ony mistake--" "meg," said her mistress, "do not forget yourself." "deil a fear," said meg; "it was auld sim o' glower-ower-'em, the wizened auld hurcheon [hedgehog], that set a big thruch stane ower his first wife; and when he buried his second in the neist grave, he just turned the broad flat stone. 'guid be thankit!' he says, 'i had the forethocth to order a stane heavy eneuch to hand them baith doon!'" "get to the washing, meg," said winsome. "fegs!" returned meg, "ye waur in nae great hurry yersel' doon aff the broomy knowe! what's a' the steer sae sudden like?" winsome disdained an answer, but stood to her own tub, where some of the lighter articles--pillow-slips, and fair sheets of "seventeen-hundred" linen were waiting her daintier hand. as winsome and meg washed, ralph peden carried water, learning the wondrous science of carrying two cans over a wooden hoop; and in the frankest tutelage winsome put her hand over his to teach him, and the relation of master and pupil asserted its ancient danger. it had not happened to winsome charteris to meet any one to whom she was attracted with such frank liking. she had never known what it was to have a brother, and she thought that this clear-eyed young man might be a brother to her. it is a fallacy common among girls that young men desire them as sisters. ralph himself was under no such illusion, or at least would not have been, had he had the firmness of mind to sit down half a mile from his emotions and coolly look them over. but in the meanwhile he was only conscious of a great and rising delight in his heart. as winsome charteris bent above the wash-tub he was at liberty to observe how the blood mantled on the clear oval of her cheek. he had time to note--of course entirely as a philosopher--the pale purple shadow under the eyes, over which the dark, curling lashes came down like the fringe of the curtain of night. "why--i wonder why?" he said, and stopped aghast at his utterance aloud of his inmost thought. "what do you wonder?" said winsome, glancing up with a frank dewy freshness in her eyes. "i wonder why--i wonder that you are able to do all this work," he said, with an attempt to turn the corner of his blunder. winsome shook her head. "now you are trying to be like other people," she said; "i do not think you will succeed. that was not what you were going to say. if you are to be my friend, you must speak all the truth to me and speak it always." a thing which, indeed, no man does to a woman. and, besides, nobody had spoken of ralph peden being a friend to her. the meaning was that their hearts had been talking while their tongues had spoken of other things; and though there was no thought of love in the breast of winsome charteris, already in the intercourse of a single morning she had given this young edinburgh student of divinity a place which no other had ever attained to. had she had a brother, she thought, what would he not have been to her? she felt specially fitted to have a brother. it did not occur to her to ask whether she would have carried her brother's college note-book, even by accident, where it could be stirred by the beating of her heart. "well," ralph said at last, "i will tell you what i was wondering. you have asked me, and you shall know: i only wondered why your eyelashes were so much darker than your hair." winsome charteris was not in the least disturbed. "ministers should occupy their minds with something else," she said, demurely. "what would mr. welsh say? i am sure he has never troubled his head about such things. it is not fitting," winsome said severely. "but i want to know," said this persistent young man, wondering at himself. "well," said winsome, glancing up with mischief in her eye, "i suppose because i am a very lazy sort of person, and dark window- blinds keep out the light." "but why are they curled up at the end?" asked unblushingly the author of the remarks upon eve formerly quoted. "it is time that you went up and saw my grandmother!" said winsome, with great composure. "juist what i was on the point o' remarkin' mysel'!" said meg kissock. chapter vii. concerning taking exercise. winsome and ralph walked silently and composedly side by side up the loaning under the elder-trees, over the brook at the watering- place to which in her hoydenish girlhood winsome had often ridden the horses when the ploughmen loosed bell and jess from the plough. in these days she rode without a side-saddle. sometimes she did it yet when the spring gloamings were gathering fast, but no one knew this except jock forrest, the ploughman, who never told any more than he could help. silence deep as that of yesterday wrapped about the farmhouse of craig ronald. the hens were all down under the lee of the great orchard hedge, chuckling low to themselves, and nestling with their feathers spread balloon-wise, while they flirted the hot summer dust over them. down where the grass was in shadow a mower was sharpening his blade. the clear metallic sound of the "strake" or sharpening strop, covered with pure white loch skerrow sand set in grease, which scythemen universally use in galloway, cut through the slumberous hum of the noonday air like the blade itself through the grass. the bees in the purple flowers beneath the window boomed a mellow bass, and the grasshoppers made love by millions in the couch grass, chirring in a thousand fleeting raptures. "wait here while i go in," commanded winsome, indicating a chair in the cool, blue-flagged kitchen, which meg kissock had marked out in white, with whorls and crosses of immemorial antiquity--the same that her pictish forefathers had cut deep in the hard silurian rocks of the southern uplands. it was a little while before, in the dusk of the doorway winsome appeared, looking paler and fairer and more infinitely removed from him than before. instinctively he wished himself out with her again on the broomy knowe. he seemed somehow nearer to her there. yet he followed obediently enough. within the shadowed "ben"-room of craig ronald all the morning this oddly assorted pair of old people had been sitting--as indeed every morning they sat, one busily reading and often looking up to talk; while the other, the master of the house himself, sat silent, a majestic and altogether pathetic figure, looking solemnly out with wide-open, dreamy eyes, waking to the actual world of speech and purposeful life only at rare intervals. but walter skirving was keenly awake when ralph peden entered. it was in fact he, and not his partner, who spoke first--for walter skirving's wife had among other things learned when to be silent-- which was, when she must. "you honour my hoose," he said; "though it grieves me indeed that i canna rise to receive yin o' your family an' name! but what i have is at your service, for it was your noble faither that led the faithful into the wilderness on the day o' the great apostasy!" the young man shook him by the hand. he had no bashfulness here. he was on his own ground. this was the very accent of the society in which he moved in edinburgh. "i thank you," he said, quietly and courteously, stepping back at once into the student of divinity; "i have often heard my father speak of you. you were the elder from the south who stood by him on that day. he has ever retained a great respect for you." "it was a great day," walter skirving muttered, letting his arm rest on the little square deal table which stood beside him with his great bible open upon it--"a great day--aye, maister peden's laddie i' my hoose! he's welcome, he's mair nor welcome." so saying, he turned his eyes once more on the blue mist that filled the wide grannoch valley, and the bees hummed again in the honey-scented marshmallows so that all heard them. "this is my grandmother," said winsome, who stood quite quiet behind her chair, swinging the sunbonnet in her hand. from her flower-set corner the old lady held out her band. with a touch of his father's old-fashioned courtesy he stooped and kissed it. winsome instinctively put her hand quickly behind her as though he had kissed that. once such practices have a beginning, who knows where they may end? she had not expected it of him, though, curiously, she thought no worse of him for his gallantry. but the lady of craig ronald was obviously greatly pleased. "the lad has guid bluid in him. that's the minnie [mother] o' him, nae doot. she was a gilchrist o' linwood on nithsdale. what she saw in your faither to tak' him i dinna ken ony mair than i ken hoo it cam' to pass that i am the mistress o' walter skirving's hoose the day.--come oot ahint my chair, lassie; dinna be lauchin' ahint folks's backs. d'ye think i'm no mistress o' my ain hoose yet, for a' that ye are sic a grand hoosekeeper wi' your way o't." the accusation was wholly gratuitous. winsome had been grave with a great gravity. but she came obediently out, and seated herself on a low stool by her grandmother's side. there she sat, holding her hand, and leaning her elbow on her knee. ralph thought he had never seen anything so lovely in his life--an observation entirely correct. the old lady was clad in a dress of some dark stiff material, softer than brocade, which, like herself, was more beautiful in its age than even in youth. folds of snowy lawn covered her breast and fell softly about her neck, fastened there by a plain black pin. her face was like a portrait by henry raeburn, so beautifully venerable and sweet. the twinkle in her brown eyes alone told of the forceful and restless spirit which was imprisoned within. she had been reading a new volume of the great unknown which the lady elizabeth had sent her over from the big house of greatorix. she had laid it down on the entry of the young man. now she turned sharp upon him. "let me look at ye, maister ralph peden. whaur gat ye the 'ralph'? that's nae westland whig name. aye, aye, i mind--what's comin' o' my memory? yer grandfaither was auld ralph gilchrist; but ye dinna tak' after the gilchrists--na, na, there was no ane o' them weel faured--muckle moo'd [large-mouthed] gilchrists they ca'ed them. it'll be your faither that you favour." and she turned him about for inspection with her hand. "grandmother--" began winsome, anxious lest she should say something to offend the guest of the house. but the lady did not heed her gentle monition. "was't you that ran awa' frae a bonny lass yestreen?" she queried, sudden as a flash of summer lightning. it was now the turn of both the younger folk to blush. winsome reddened with vexation at the thought that he should think that she had seen him run and gone about telling of it. ralph grew redder and redder, and remained speechless. he did not think of anything at all. "i am fond of exercise," he said falteringly. the gay old lady rippled into a delicious silver stream of laughter, a little thin, but charmingly provocative. winsome did not join, but she looked up imploringly at her grandmother, leaning her head back till her tresses swept the ground. when mistress skirving recovered herself, "exerceese, quo' he, heard ye ever the like o' that? in their young days lads o' speerit took their exerceese in comin' to see a bonny lass--juist as i was sayin' to winifred yestreen nae faurer gane. hoot awa', twa young folk! the simmer days are no lang. waes me, but i had my share o' them! tak' them while they shine, bankside an' burnside an' the bonny heather. aince they bloomed for ailie gordon. once she gaed hand in hand alang the braes, where noo she'll gang nae mair. awa' wi' ye, ye're young an' honest. twa auld cankered carles are no fit company for twa young folks like you. awa' wi' ye; dinna be strange wi' his mither's bairn, say i--an' the guid man hae's spoken for the daddy o' him." thus was ralph peden made free of the big hoose of craig ronald. chapter viii. the minister's man arms eor conquest. saunders mowdiewort, minister's man and grave-digger, was going a sweethearting. he took off slowly the leathern "breeks" of his craft, sloughing them as an adder casts his skin. they collapsed upon the floor with a hideous suggestion of distorted human limbs, as saunders went about his further preparations. saunders was a great, soft-bodied, fair man, of the chuby flaxen type so rare in scotland--the type which looks at home nowhere but along the south coast of england. saunders was about thirty-five. he was a widower in search of a wife, and made no secret of his devotion to margaret kissock, the "lass" of the farm town of craig ronald. saunders was slow of speech when in company, and bashful to a degree. he was accustomed to make up his mind what he would say before venturing within the range of the sharp tongue of his well- beloved--an excellent plan, but one which requires for success both self-possession and a good memory. but for lack of these saunders had made an excellent courtier. saunders made his toilet in the little stable of the manse above which he slept. as he scrubbed himself he kept up a constant sibilant hissing, as though he were an equine of doubtful steadiness with whom the hostler behooved to be careful. first he carefully removed the dirt down to a kind of plimsoll load-line midway his neck; then he frothed the soap-suds into his red rectangular ears, which stood out like speaking trumpets; there he let it remain. soap is for putting on the face, grease on the hair. it is folly then to wash either off. besides being wasteful. his flaxen hair stood out in wet strands and clammy tags and tails. all the while saunders kept muttering to himself: "an' says i to her: 'meg kissock, ye're a bonny woman,' says i. 'my certie, but ye hae e'en like spunkies [will-o'-the-wisps] or maybes," said saunders in a meditative tone. "i had better say 'like whurlies in a sky-licht.' it micht be considered mair lovin' like!" "then she'll up an' say: 'saunders, ye mak' me fair ashamed to listen to ye. be mensefu' [polite], can ye no?'" this pleased saunders so much that he slapped his thigh so that the pony started and clattered to the other side of his stall. "then i'll up an' tak' her roun' the waist, an' i'll look at her like this--" (here saunders practised the effect of his fascinations in the glass, a panorama which was to some extent marred by the necessary opening of his mouth to enable the razor he was using to excavate the bristles out of the professional creases in his lower jaw. saunders pulled down his mouth to express extra grief when a five-foot grave had been ordered. his seven-foot manifestations of respect for the deceased were a sight to see. he held the opinion that anybody that had no more 'conceit o' themsel'' [were so much left to themselves] than to be buried in a three-foot grave, did not deserve to be mourned at all. this crease, then, was one of saunders's assets, and had therefore to be carefully attended to. even love must not interfere with it.) "sae after that, i shall tak' her roun' the waist, juist like this--" said he, insinuating his left arm circumferentially. it was an ill-judged movement, for, instead of circling meg kissock's waist, he extended his arm round the off hindleg of birsie, the minister's pony, who had become a trifle short tempered in his old age. now it was upon that very leg and at that very place that, earlier in the day, a large buzzing horse-fly had temporarily settled. birsie was in no condition, therefore, for argument upon the subject. so with the greatest readiness he struck straight out behind and took saunders what he himself called a "dinnle on the elbuck." nor was this all, for the razor suddenly levered upwards by birsie's hoof added another and entirely unprofessional wrinkle to his face. saunders uprose in wrath, for the soap was stinging furiously in the cut, and expostulated with birsie with a handful of reins which he lifted off the lid of the corn-chest. "ye ill-natured, thrawn, upsettin' blastie, ye donnart auld deevil!" he cried. "alexander mowdiewort, gin ye desire to use minced oaths and braid oaths indiscriminately, ye shall not use them in my stable. though ye be but a mere erastian and uncertain in yer kirk membership, ye are at least an occasional hearer, whilk is better than naething, at the kirk o' the marrow; and what is more to the point, ye are my own hired servant, and i desire that ye cease from makin' use o' any such expressions upon my premises." "weel, minister," said saunders, penitently, "i ken brawly i'm i' the wrang; but ye ken yersel', gin ye had gotten a dinnle i' the elbuck that garred ye loup like a troot i' luckie mowatt's pool, or gin ye had cuttit yersel' wi' yer ain razor, wad 'effectual callin',' think ye, hae been the first word i' yer mooth? noo, minister, fair hornie!" "at any rate," said the minister, "what i would have said or done is no excuse for you, as ye well know. but how did it happen?" "weel, sir, ye see the way o't was this: i was thinkin' to mysel', 'there's twa or three ways o' takin' the buiks intil the pulpit-- there's the way consequential--that's gilbert prettiman o' the kirkland's way. did ever ye notice the body? he hauds the bibles afore him as if he war moses an' aaron gaun afore pharaoh, wi' the coat-taillies o' him fleein' oot ahint, an' his chin pointin' to the soon'in'-board o' the pulpit." "speak respectfully of the patriarchs," said mr. welsh sententiously. saunders looked at him with some wonder expressed in his eyes. "far be it frae me," he said, "to speak lichtly o' ony ane o' them (though, to tell the truth, some o' them war gye boys). i hae been ower lang connectit wi' them, for i hae carriet the buiks for fifteen year, ever since my faither racket himsel' howkin' the grave o' yer predecessor, honest man, an' i hae leeved a' my days juist ower the wa' frae the kirk." "but then they say, saunders," said the minister, smilingly, "'the nearer the kirk the farther frae grace.'" "'deed, minister," said saunders, "grace kissock is a nice bit lassie, but an' jess will be no that ill in a year or twa, but o' a' the kissocks commend me till meg. she wad mak' a graund wife. what think ye, minister?" mr. welsh relaxed his habitual severe sadness of expression and laughed a little. he was accustomed to the sudden jumps which his man's conversation was wont to take. "nay," he said, "but that is a question for you, saunders. it is not i that think of marrying her." "the lord be thankit for that! for gin the minister gaed speerin', what chance wad there be for the betheral?" "have you spoken to meg herself yet?" asked mr. welsh. "na," said saunders; "i haena that, though i hae made up my mind to hae it oot wi' her this verra nicht--if sae it micht be that ye warna needin' me, that is--" he added, doubtfully, "but i hae guid reason to hope that meg--" "what reason have you, saunders? has margaret expressed a preference for you in any way?" "preference!" said saunders; "'deed she has that, minister; a maist marked preference. it was only the last tuesday afore whussanday [whitsunday] that she gied me a clour [knock] i' the lug that fair dang me stupid. caa that ye nocht?" "well, saunders," said the minister, going out, "certainly i wish you good speed in your wooing; but see that you fall no more out with birsie, lest you be more bruised than you are now; and for the rest, learn wisely to restrain your unruly member." "thank ye, minister," said saunders; "i'll do my best endeavours to obleege ye. meg's clours are to be borne wi' a' complaisancy, but birsie's dunts are, so to speak, gratuitous!" chapter ix. the advent of the cuif. "here's the cuif!" said meg kissock, who with her company gown on, and her face glowing from a brisk wash, sat knitting a stocking in the rich gloaming light at the gable end of the house of craig ronald. winsome usually read a book, sitting by the window which looked up the long green croft to the fir-woods and down to the quiet levels of loch grannoch, on which the evening mist was gathering a pale translucent blue. it was a common thing for meg and jessie kissock to bring their knitting and darning there, and on their milking-stools sit below the window. if winsome were in a mood for talk she did not read much, but listened instead to the brisk chatter of the maids. sometimes the ploughmen, jock forrest and ebie farrish, came to "ca' the crack," and it was winsome's delight on these occasions to listen to the flashing claymore of meg kissock's rustic wit. before she settled down, meg had taken in the three tall candles "ben the hoose," where the old people sat--walter skirving, as ever, silent and far away, his wife deep in some lively book lent her by the lady elizabeth out of the library of greatorix castle. a bank of wild thyme lay just beneath winsome's window, and over it the cows were feeding, blowing softly through their nostrils among the grass and clover till the air was fragrant with their balmy breath. "guid e'en to ye, 'cuif,'" cried meg kissock as soon as saunders mowdiewort came within earshot. he came stolidly forward tramping through the bog with his boots newly greased with what remained of the smooth candle "dowp" with which he had sleeked his flaxen locks. he wore a broad blue kilmarnock bonnet, checked red and white in a "dam-brod" [draught-board] pattern round the edge, and a blue-buttoned coat with broad pearl buttons. it may be well to explain that there is a latent meaning, apparent only to galloway folk of the ancient time, in the word "cuif." it conveys at once the ideas of inefficiency and folly, of simplicity and the ignorance of it. the cuif is a feckless person of the male sex, who is a recognized butt for a whole neighbourhood to sharpen its wits upon. the particular cuif so addressed by meg came slowly over the knoll. "guid e'en to ye," he said, with his best visiting manners. "can ye no see me as weel, saunders?" said jess, archly, for all was grist that came to her mill. saunders rose like a trout to the fly. "ow aye, jess, lass, i saw ye brawly, but it disna do to come seekin' twa lasses at ae time."' "dinna ye be thinkin' to put awa' meg, an' then come coortin' me!" said jess, sharply. saunders was hurt for the moment at this pointed allusion both to his profession and also to his condition as a "seekin'" widower. "wha seeks you, jess, 'ill be sair ill-aff!" he replied very briskly for a cuif. the sound of meg's voice in round altercation with jock gordon, the privileged "natural" or innocent fool of the parish, interrupted this interchange of amenities, which was indeed as friendly and as much looked for between lads and lasses as the ordinary greeting of "weel, hoo's a' wi' ye the nicht?" which began every conversation between responsible folks. "jock gordon, ye lazy ne'er-do-weel, ye hinna carried in a single peat, an' it comin' on for parritch-time. d'ye think my maister can let the like o' you sorn on him, week in, week oot, like a mawk on a sheep's hurdie? gae wa' oot o' that, lyin' sumphin' [sulking] an' sleepin' i' the middle o' the forenicht, an' carry the water for the boiler an' bring in the peats frae the stack." then there arose a strange elricht quavering voice--the voice of those to whom has not been granted their due share of wits. jock gordon was famed all over the country for his shrewd replies to those who set their wits in contest with his. jock is remembered on all deeside, and even to nithsdale. he was a man well on in years at this time, certainly not less than forty-five. but on his face there was no wrinkle set, not a fleck of gray upon his bonnetless fox-red shock of hair, weather-rusted and usually stuck full of feathers and short pieces of hay. jock gordon was permitted to wander as a privileged visitor through the length and breadth of the south hill country. he paid long visits to craig ronald, where he had a great admiration and reverence for the young mistress, and a hearty detestation for meg kissock, who, as he at all times asserted, "was the warst maister to serve atween the cairnsmuirs." "richt weel i'll do yer biddin', meg kissock," he answered in his shrill falsetto, "but no for your sake or the sake o' ony belangin' to you. but there's yae bonny doo [dove], wi' her hair like gowd, an' a fit that she micht set on jock gordon's neck, an' it wad please him weel. an' said she, 'do the wark meg kissock bids ye,' so jock gordon, lord o' kelton hill an' earl o' clairbrand, will perform a' yer wull. otherwise it's no in any dochter o' hurkle-backit [bent-backed] kissock to gar jock gordon move haund or fit." so saying, jock clattered away with his water-pails, muttering to himself. meg kissock came out again to sit down on her milking-stool under the westward window, within which was winsome charteris, reading her book unseen by the last glow of the red west. jess and saunders mowdiewort had fallen silent. jess had said her say, and did not intend to exert herself to entertain her sister's admirer. jess was said to look not unkindly on ebie farrish, the younger ploughman who had recently come to craig ronald from one of the farms at the "laigh" end of the parish. ebie had also, it was said, with better authority, a hanging eye to jess, who had the greater reason to be kind to him, that he was the first since her return from england who had escaped the more bravura attractions of her sister. "can ye no find a seat guid eneuch to sit doon on, cuif?" inquired meg with quite as polite an intention as though she had said, "be so kind as to take a seat." the cuif, who had been uneasily balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other, and apologetically passing his hand over the sleek side of his head which was not covered by the bonnet, replied gratefully: "'deed i wull that, meg, since ye are sae pressin'." he went to the end of the milk-house, selected a small tub used for washing the dishes of red earthenware and other domestic small deer, turned it upside down, and seated himself as near to meg as he dared. then he tried to think what it was he had intended to say to her, but the words somehow would not now come at call. before long he hitched his seat a little nearer, as though his present position was not quite comfortable. but meg checked him sharply. "keep yer distance, cuif," she said; "ye smell o' the muils" [churchyard earth]. "na, na, meg, ye ken brawly i haena been howkin' [digging] since setterday fortnicht, when i burriet tarn rogerson's wife's guid- brither's auntie, that leeved grainin' an' deein' a' her life wi' the rheumatics an' wame disease, an' died at the last o' eatin' swine's cheek an' guid cheddar cheese thegither at sandy mulquharchar's pig-killin'." "noo, cuif," said meg, with an accent of warning in her voice, "gin ye dinna let alane deevin' [deafening] us wi' yer kirkyaird clavers, ye'll no sit lang on my byne" [tub]. from the end of the peat-stack, out of the dark hole made by the excavation of last winter's stock of fuel, came the voice of jock gordon, singing: "the deil he sat on the high lumtap, hech how, black an' reeky! gang yer ways and drink yer drap, ye'll need it a' whan ye come to stap in my hole sae black an' reeky, o! hech how, black an' reeky! "hieland kilt an' lawland hose, parritch-fed an' reared on brose, ye'll drink nae drap whan ye come tae stap in my hole sae black an' reeky, o! hech how, black an' reeky!" meg kissock and her sweetheart stopped to listen. saunders mowdiewort smiled an unprofessional smile when he heard the song of the natural. "that's a step ayont the kirkyaird, meg," he said. "gin ye hae sic objections to hear aboot honest men in their honest graves, what say ye to that elricht craitur scraichin' aboot the verra deil an' his hearth-stane?" certainly it sounded more than a trifle uncanny in the gloaming, coming out of that dark place where even in the daytime the black galloway rats cheeped and scurried, to hear the high, quavering voice of jock gordon singing his unearthly rhymes. by-and-bye those at the house gable could see that the innocent had climbed to the top of the peat-stack in some elvish freak, and sat there cracking his thumbs and singing with all his might: "hech how, black an' reeky! in my hole sae black an' reeky, o!" "come doon oot o' that this meenit, jock gordon, ye gomeral!" cried meg, shaking her fist at the uncouth shape twisting and singing against the sunset sky like one demented. the song stopped, and jock gordon slowly turned his head in their direction. all were looking towards him, except ebie farrish, the new ploughman, who was wondering what jess kissock would do if he put his arm around her waist. "what said ye?" jock asked from his perch on the top of the peat- stack. "hae ye fetched in the peats an' the water, as i bade ye?" asked meg, with great asperity in her voice. "d'ye think that ye'll win aff ony the easier in the hinnerend, by sittin' up there like yin o' his ain bairns, takkin' the deil's name in vain?" "gin ye dinna tak' tent to [care of] yersel', meg kissock," retorted jock, "wi' yer eternal yammer o' 'peats, jock gordon, an' 'water, jock gordon,' ye'll maybes find yersel' whaur jock gordon'll no be there to serve ye; but the ill auld boy'll keep ye in routh o' peats, never ye fret, meg kissock, wi' that reed-heed [red head] o' yours to set them a-lunt [on fire]. faith an' ye may cry 'water! water!' till ye crack yer jaws, but nae jock gordon there--na, na--nae jock gordon there. jock kens better." but at this moment there was a prolonged rumble, and the whole party sitting by the gable end (the "gavel," as it was locally expressed) rose to their feet from tub and hag-clog and milking- stool. there had been a great land-slip. the whole side of the peat-stack had tumbled bodily into the great "black peat-hole" from which the winter's peats had come, and which was a favourite lair of jock's own, being ankle-deep in fragrant dry peat "coom"-- which is, strange to say, a perfectly clean and even a luxurious bedding, far to be preferred as a couch to "flock" or its kindred abominations. all the party ran forward to see what had become of jock, whose song had come to so swift a close. out of the black mass of down-fallen peat there came a strange, pleading voice. "o guid deil, o kind deil, dinna yirk awa' puir jock to that ill bit--puir jock, that never yet did ye ony hairm, but aye wished ye weel! lat me aff this time, braw deil, an' i'll sing nae mair ill gangs aboot ye!" "save us!" exclaimed meg kissock, "the craitur's prayin' to the ill body himsel'." ebbie farrish began to clear away the peat, which was, indeed, no difficult task. as he did so, the voice of jock gordon mounted higher and higher: "o mercy me, i hear them clawin' and skrauchelin'! dinna let the wee yins wi' the lang riven taes and the nebs like gleds [beaks like kites] get haud o' me! i wad rayther hae yersel', maister o' sawtan, for ye are a big mensefu' deil. ouch! i'm dune for noo, althegither; he haes gotten puir jock! sirce me, i smell the reekit rags o' him!" but it was only ebie farrish that had him by the roll of ancient cloth which served as a collar for jock's coat. when he was pulled from under the peats and set upon his feet, he gazed around with a bewildered look. "o man, ebie farrish," he said solemnly, "if i didna think ye war the deil himsel'--ye see what it is to be misled by ootward appearances!" there was a shout of laughter at the expense of ebie, in which meg thought that she heard an answering ripple from within winsome's room. "surely, jock, ye were never prayin' to the deil?" asked meg from the window, very seriously. "ye ken far better than that." "an' what for should i no pray to the deil? he's a desperate onsonsy chiel yon. it's as weel to be in wi' him as oot wi' him ony day. wha' kens what's afore them, or wha they may be behaudin' to afore the morrow's morn?" answered jock stoutly. "but d'ye ken," said john scott, the theological herd, who had quietly "daundered doon" as he said, from his cot-house up on the hill, where his bare-legged bairns played on the heather and short grass all day, to set his shoulder against the gable end for an hour with the rest. "d'ye ken what maister welsh was sayin' was the new doctrine amang thae new licht moderates--'hireling shepherds,' he ca'd them? noo i'm no on mysel' wi' sae muckle speakin' aboot the deil. but the minister was sayin' that the new moderates threep [assert] that there's nae deil at a'. he dee'd some time since!" "gae wa' wi' ye, john scott! wha's gaun aboot doin' sae muckle ill then, i wad like to ken?" said meg kissock. "dinna tell me," said jock gordon, "that the puir deil's deed, and that we'll hae to pit up wi' ebie farrish. na, na, jock's maybe daft, but he kens better than that!" "they say," said john scott, pulling meditatively at his cutty, "that the pooer is vested noo in a kind o' comy-tee [committee]!" "i dinna haud wi' comy-tees mysel'," replied meg; "it's juist haein' mony maisters, ilka yin mair cankersome and thrawn than anither!" "weel, gin this news be true, there's a heep o' fowk in this parish should be mentioned in his wull," said jock gordon, significantly. "they're near kin till him--forby a heep o' bairns that he has i' the laich-side o' the loch. they're that hard there, they'll no gie a puir body a meal o' meat or the shelter o' a barn." "but," said ebie farrish, who had been thinking that, after all, the new plan might have its conveniences, "gin there's nae deil to tempt, there'll be nae deil to punish." but the herd was a staunch marrow man. he was not led away by any human criticism, nor yet by the new theology. "new licht here, new licht there," he said; "i canna' pairt wi' ma deil. na, na, that's ower muckle to expect o' a man o' my age!" having thus defined his theological position, without a word more he threw his soft checked plaid of galloway wool over his shoulders, and fell into the herd's long swinging heather step, mounting the steep brae up to his cot on the hillside as easily as if he were walking along a level road. there was a long silence; then a ringing sound, sudden and sharp, and ebie farrish fell inexplicably from the axe-chipped hag-clog, which he had rolled up to sit upon. ebie had been wondering for more than an hour what would happen if he put his arm round jess kissock's waist. he knew now. then, after a little saunders mowdiewort, who was not unmindful of his prearranged programme nor yet oblivious of the flight of time, saw the stars come out, he knew that if he were to make any progress, he must make haste; so he leaned over towards his sweetheart and whispered, "meg, my lass, ye're terrible bonny." "d'ye think ye are the first man that has telled me that, cuif?" said meg, with point and emphasis. jock forrest, the senior ploughman--a very quiet, sedate man with a seldom stirred but pretty wit, laughed a short laugh, as though he knew something about that. again there was a silence, and as the night wind began to draw southward in cool gulps of air off the hills, winsome charteris's window was softly closed. "hae ye nocht better than that to tell us, cuif?" said meg, briskly, "nocht fresh-like?" "weel," said saunders mowdiewort, groping round for a subject of general interest, his profession and his affection being alike debarred, "there's that young enbra' lad that's come till the manse. he's a queer root, him." "what's queer aboot him?" asked meg, in a semi-belligerent manner. a young man who had burned his fingers for her mistress's sake must not be lightly spoken of. "oh, nocht to his discredit ava, only manse bell heard him arguin' wi' the minister aboot the weemen-folk the day that he cam'. he canna' bide them, she says." "he has but puir taste," said ebie farrish; "a snod bit lass is the bonniest work o' natur'. noo for mysel'--" "d'ye want anither?" asked jess, without apparent connection. "he'll maybe mend o' that opeenion, as mony a wise man has dune afore him," said meg, sententiously. "gae on, cuif; what else aboot the young man?" "oh, he's a lad o' great lear. he can read ony language back or forrit, up or doon, as easy as suppin' sowens. he can speak byordinar' graund. they say he'll beat the daddy o' him for preachin' when he's leecensed. he rade birsie this mornin' too, after the kickin' randie had cuist me aff his back like a draff sack." "then what's queer aboot him?" said jess. meg said nothing. she felt a draft of air suck into winsome's room, so that she knew that the subject was of such interest that her mistress had again opened her window. meg leaned back so far that she could discern a glint of yellow hair in the darkness. the cuif was about to light his pipe. meg stopped him. "nane o' yer lichts here, cuif," she said; "it's time ye were thinkin' aboot gaun ower the hill. but ye haena' telled us yet what's queer aboot the lad." "weel, woman, he's aye write--writin', whiles on sheets o' paper, and whiles on buiks." "there's nocht queer aboot that," says meg; "so does ilka minister." "but manse bell gied me ane o' his writings, that she had gotten aboot his bedroom somewhere. she said that the wun' had blawn't aff his table, but i misdoot her." "yer ower great wi' manse bell an' the like o' her, for a man that comes to see me!" said meg, who was a very particular young woman indeed. "it was cuttit intil lengths like the metre psalms, but it luikit gye an' daft like, sae i didna' read it," said the cuif hastily. "here it's to ye, meg. i was e'en gaun to licht my cutty wi't." something shone gray-white in saunders's hand as he held it out to meg, it passed into meg's palm, and then was seen no more. the session at the house end was breaking up. jess had vanished silently. ebie farrish was not. jock forrest had folded his tent and stolen away. meg and saunders were left alone. it was his supreme opportunity. he leaned over towards his sweetheart. his blue bonnet had fallen to the ground, and there was a distinct odour of warm candle- grease in the air. "meg," he said, "yer maist amazin' bonny, an' i'm that fond o' ye that i am faain' awa' frae my meat! o meg, woman, i think o' ye i' the mornin' afore the lord's prayer, i sair misdoot! guid forgie me! i find mysel' whiles wonderin' gin i'll see ye the day afore i can gang ower in my mind the graves that's to howk, or gin birsie's oats are dune. o meg, meg, i'm that fell fond o' ye that i gruppit that thrawn speldron birsie's hint leg juist i' the fervour o' thinkin' o' ye." "hoo muckle hae ye i' the week?" said meg, practically, to bring the matter to a point. "a pound a week," said saunders mowdiewort, promptly, who though a cuif was a business man, "an' a cottage o' three rooms wi' a graun' view baith back an' front!" "ow aye," said meg, sardonically, "i ken yer graund view. it's o' yer last wife's tombstane, wi' the inscriptions the length o' my airm aboot betty mowdiewort an' a' her virtues, that robert paterson cuttit till ye a year past in aprile. na, na, ye'll no get me to leeve a' my life lookin' oot on that ilk' time i wash my dishes. it wad mak' yin be wantin' to dee afore their time to get sic-like. gang an' speer [ask] manse bell. she's mair nor half blind onyway, an' she's fair girnin' fain for a man, she micht even tak' you." with these cruel words meg lifted her milking-stool and vanished within. the cuif sat for a long time on his byne lost in thought. then he arose, struck his flint and steel together, and stood looking at the tinder burning till it went out, without having remembered to put it to the pipe which he held in his other hand. after the last sparks ran every way and flickered, he threw the glowing red embers on the ground, kicked the pail on which he had been sitting as solemnly as if he had been performing a duty to the end of the yard, and then stepped stolidly into the darkness. the hag-clog was now left alone against the wall beneath winsome's window, within which there was now the light of a candle and a waxing and waning shadow on the blind as some one went to and fro. then there was a sharp noise as of one clicking in the "steeple" or brace of the front door (which opened in two halves), and then the metallic grit of the key in the lock, for craig ronald was a big house, and not a mere farm which might be left all night with unbarred portals. winsome stepped lightly to her own door, which opened without noise. she looked out and said, in a compromise between a coaxing whisper and a voice of soft command: "meg, i want ye." meg kissock came along the passage with the healthy glow of the night air on her cheeks, and her candle in her hand. she seemed as if she would pause at the door, but winsome motioned her imperiously within. so meg came within, and winsome shut to the door. then she simply held out her hand, at which meg gazed as silently. "meg!" said winsome, warningly. a queer, faint smile passed momentarily over the face of winsome's handmaid, as though she had been long trying to solve some problem and had suddenly and unexpectedly found the answer. slowly she lifted up her dark-green druggit skirt, and out of a pocket of enormous size, which was swung about her waist like a captured leviathan heaving inanimate on a ship's cable, she extracted a sheet of crumpled paper. winsome took it without a word. her eye said "good-night" to meg as plain as the minister's text. meg kissock waited till she was at the door, and then, just as she was making her silent exit, she said: "ye'll tak' as guid care o't as the ither yin ye fand. ye can pit them baith thegither." winsome took a step towards her as if with some purpose of indignant chastisement. but the red head and twinkling eyes of mischief vanished, and winsome stood with the paper in her hand. just as she had begun to smooth out the crinkles produced by the hands of manse bell who could not read it, saunders who would not, and meg kissock who had not time to read it, the head of the last named was once more projected into the room, looking round the edge of the rose-papered door. "ye'll mak' a braw mistress o' the manse, mistress--ralph-- peden!" she said, nodding her head after each proper name. chapter x. the love-song of the mavis. winsome stamped her little foot in real anger now, and crumpling the paper in her hand she threw it indignantly on the floor. she was about to say something to meg, but that erratic and privileged domestic was in her own room by this time at the top of the house, with the door barred. but something like tears stood in winsome's eyes. she was very angry indeed. she would speak to meg in the morning. she was mistress of the house, and not to be treated as a child. meg should have her warning to leave at the term. it was ridiculous the way that she had taken to speaking to her lately. it was clear that she had been allowing her far too great liberties. it did not occur to winsome charteris that meg had been accustomed to tease her in something like this manner about every man under forty who had come to craig ronald on any pretext whatever--from young johnnie dusticoat, the son of the wholesale meal-miller from dumfries, to agnew greatorix, eldest son of the lady elizabeth, who came over from the castle with books for her grandmother rather oftener than might be absolutely necessary, and who, though a papist, had waited for winsome three sabbath days at the door of the marrow kirk, a building which he had never previously entered during his life. winsome went indignant to bed. it was altogether too aggravating that meg should take on so, she said to herself. "of course i do not care a button," she said as she turned her hot cheek upon the pillow and looked towards the pale gray-blue of the window-panes, in which there was already the promise of the morning; though yet it was hardly midnight of the short midsummer of the north. "it would be too ridiculous to suppose that i should care for anybody whom i have only seen twice. why, it was more than a year before i really cared for dear old grannie! meg might know better, and it is very silly of her to say things like that. i shall send back his book and paper to-morrow morning by andrew kissock when he goes to school." still even after this resolution she lay sleepless. "now i will go to sleep," said winsome, resolutely shutting her eyes. "i will not think about him any more." which was assuredly a noble and fitting resolve. but winsome had yet to discover in restless nights and troubled morrows that sleep and thought are two gifts of god which do not come or go at man's bidding. in her silent chamber there seemed to be a kind of hushed yet palpable life. it seemed to winsome as if there were about her a thousand little whispering voices. unseen presences flitted everywhere. she could hear them laughing such wicked, mocking laughs. they were clustering round the crumpled piece of paper in the corner. well, it might lie there forever for her. "i would not read it even if it were light. i shall send it back to him to-morrow without reading it. very likely it is a greek exercise, at any rate." yet, for all these brave sayings, neither sleep nor dawn had come, when, clad in shadowy white and the more manifest golden glimmer of her hair, she glided to the windowseat, and drawing a great knitted shawl about her, she sat, a slender figure enveloped from head to foot in sheeny white. the shawl imprisoned the pillow tossed masses of her rippling hair, throwing them forward about her face, which, in the half light, seemed to be encircled with an aureole of pale florentine gold. in her hand winsome held ralph peden's poem, and in spite of her determination not to read it, she sat waiting till the dawn should come. it might be something of great importance. it might only be a greek exercise. it was, at all events, necessary to find out, in order that she might send it back. it was a marvellous dawning, this one that winsome waited for. dawn is the secret of the universe. it thrills us somehow with a far-off prophecy of that eternal dawning when the god that is shall reveal himself--the dawning which shall brighten into the more perfect day. it was just the slack water--the water-shed of the night. so clear it was this june night that the lingering gold behind the western ridge of the orchar hill, where the sun went down, was neither brighter nor yet darker than the faint tinge of lucent green, like the colour of the inner curve of the sea-wave just as it bends to break, which had begun to glow behind the fir woods to the east. the birds were waking sleepily. chaffinches began their clear, short, natural bursts of song. "churr!" said the last barn owl as he betook himself to bed. the first rook sailed slowly overhead from hensol wood. he was seeking the early worm. the green lake in the east was spreading and taking a roseate tinge just where it touched the pines on the rugged hillside. beneath winsome's window a blackbird hopped down upon the grass and took a tentative dab or two at the first slug he came across; but it was really too early for breakfast for a good hour yet, so he flew up again into a bush and preened his feathers, which had been discomposed by the limited accommodation of the night. now he was on the topmost twig, and winsome saw him against the crimson pool which was fast deepening in the east. suddenly his mellow pipe fluted out over the grove. winsome listened as she had never listened before. why had it become so strangely sweet to listen to the simple sounds? why did the rich tyrian dye of the dawn touch her cheek and flush the flowering floss of her silken hair? a thrush from the single laurel at the gate told her: "there--there--there--" he sang, "can't you see, can't you see, can't you see it? love is the secret, the secret! could you but know it, did you but show it! hear me! hear me! hear me! down in the forest i loved her! sweet, sweet, sweet! would you but listen, i would love you! all is sweet and pure and good! twilight and morning dew, i love it, i love it, do you, do you, do you?" this was the thrush's love-song. now it was light enough for winsome to read hers by the red light of the midsummer's dawn. this was ralph's greek exercise: "sweet mouth, red lips, broad unwrinkled brow, sworn troth, woven hands, holy marriage vow, unto us make answer, what is wanting now? love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow; love, love, love, and the days of long ago. "broad lands, bright sun, as it was of old; red wine, loud mirth, gleaming of the gold; something yet a-wanting--how shall it be told? love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow; love, love, love, and the days of long ago. "large heart, true love, service void of sound, life-trust, death-trust, here on scottish ground, as in olden story, surely i have found-- love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow, love, love, love, and the days of long ago." the thrush had ceased singing while winsome read. it was another voice which she heard--the first authentic call of the springtime for her. it coursed through her blood. it quickened her pulse. it enlarged the pupil of her eye till the clear germander blue of the iris grew moist and dark. it was a song for her heart, and hers alone. she felt it, though no more than a leaf blown to her by chance winds. it might have been written for any other, only she knew that it was not. ralph peden had said nothing. the poem certainly did not suggest a student of divinity in the kirk of the marrow. there were a thousand objections--a thousand reasons-- every one valid, against such a thing. but love that laughs at locksmiths is equally contemptuous of logic. it was hers, hers, and hers alone. a breath from love's wing as he passed came again to winsome. the blackbird was silent, but a thrush this time broke in with his jubilant love-song, while winsome, with her love-song laid against a dewy cheek, paused to listen with a beating heart and a new comprehension: "hear! hear! hear! dear! dear! dear! far away, far away, far away, i saw him pass this way, tirrieoo, tirrieoo! so tender and true, chippiwee, chippiwee, oh, try him and see! cheer up! cheer up! cheer up! he'll come and he'll kiss you, he'll kiss you and kiss you, and i'll see him do it, do it, do it!" "go away, you wicked bird!" said winsome, when the master singer in speckled grey came to this part of his song. so saying, she threw, with such exact aim that it went in an entirely opposite direction, a quaint, pink seashell at the bird, a shell which had been given her by a lad who was going away again to sea three years ago. she was glad now, when she thought of it, that she had kissed him because he had no mother, for he never came back any more. "keck, keck!" said the mavis indignantly, and went away. then winsome lay down on her white bed well content, and pillowed her cheek on a crumpled piece of paper. chapter xi andrew kissock goes to school. love is, at least in maidens' hearts, of the nature of an intermittent fever. the tide of solway flows, but the more rapid his flow the swifter his ebb. the higher it brings the wrack up the beach, the deeper, six hours after, are laid bare the roots of the seaweed upon the shingle. now winsome charteris, however her heart might conspire against her peace, was not at all the girl to be won before she was asked. also there was that delicious spirit of contrariness that makes a woman even when won, by no means seem won. besides, in the broad daylight of common day she was less attuned and touched to earnest issues than in the red dawn. she had even taken the poem and the exercise book out of the sacred enclosure, where they had been hid so long. she did not really know that she could make good any claim to either. indeed, she was well aware that to one of them at least she had no claim whatever. therefore she had placed both the note-book and the poem within the same band as her precious housekeeping account-book, which she reverenced next her bible--which very practical proceeding pleased her, and quite showed that she was above all foolish sentiment. then she went to churn for an hour and a half, pouring in a little hot water critically from time to time in order to make the butter come. this exercise may be recommended as an admirable corrective to foolish flights of imagination. there is something concrete about butter-making which counteracts an overplus of sentiment-- especially when the butter will not come. and hot water may be overdone. now winsome charteris was a hard-hearted young woman--a fact that may not as yet have appeared; at least so she told herself. she had come to the conclusion that she had been foolish to think at all of ralph peden, so she resolved to put him at once and altogether out of her mind, which, as every one knows, is quite a simple matter. yet during the morning she went three times into her little room to look at her housekeeping book, which by accident lay within the same band as ralph peden's lost manuscripts. first, she wanted to see how much she got for butter at cairn edward the monday before last; then to discover what the price was on that very same day last year. it is an interesting thing to follow the fluctuations of the produce market, especially when you churn the butter yourself. the exact quotation of documents is a valuable thing to learn. nothing is so likely to grow upon one as a habit of inaccuracy. this was what her grandmother was always telling her, and it behooved winsome to improve. each time as she strapped the documents together she said, "and these go back to-day by andra kissock when he goes to school." then she took another look, in order to assure herself that no forgeries had been introduced within the band while she was churning the butter. they were still quite genuine. winsome went out to relieve jess kissock in the dairy, and as she went she communed with herself: "it is right that i should send them back. the verses may belong to somebody else--somebody in edinburgh--and, besides, i know them by heart." a good memory is a fine thing. the kissocks lived in one of the craig ronald cot-houses. their father had in his time been one of the herds, and upon his death, many years ago, walter skirving had allowed the widow and children to remain in the house in which andrew kissock, senior, had died. mistress kissock was a large-boned, soft-voiced woman, who had supplied what dash of tenderness there was in her daughters. she had reared them according to good traditions, but as she said, when all her brood were talking at the same time, she alone quietly silent: "the kissocks tak' efter their faither, they're great hands to talk--a' bena [except] an'ra'." andrew was her youngest, a growing lump of a boy of twelve, who was exceeding silent in the house. every day andra betook himself to school, along the side of loch grannoch, by the path which looked down on the cloud-flecked mirror of the loch. some days he got there, but very occasionally. his mother had got him ready early this june morning. he had brought in the kye for jess. he had helped jock gordon to carry water for meg's kitchen mysteries. he had listened to a brisk conversation proceeding from the "room" where his very capable sister was engaged in getting the old people settled for the day. all this was part of the ordinary routine. as soon as the whole establishment knew that walter skirving was again at the window over the marshmallows, and his wife at her latest book, a sigh of satisfaction went up and the wheels of the day's work revolved. so this morning it came time for andra to go to school all too soon. andra did not want to stay at home from school, but it was against the boy's principle to appear glad to go to school, so andra made it a point of honour to make a feint of wanting to stay every morning. "can i no bide an' help ye wi' the butter-kirnin' the day, jess?" said andra, rubbing himself briskly all over as he had seen the ploughmen do with their horses. when he got to his bare red legs he reared and kicked out violently, calling out at the same time: "wad ye then, ye tairger, tuts--stan' still there, ye kickin' beast!" as though he were some fiery untamed from the desert. jess made a dart at him with a wet towel. "gang oot o' my back kitchen wi' yer nonsense!" she said. andra passaged like a strongly bitted charger to the back door, and there ran away with himself, flourishing in the air a pair of very dirty heels. ebie farrish was employed over a tin basin at the stable door, making his breakfast toilet, which he always undertook, not when he shook himself out of bed in the stable loft at five o'clock, but before he went in to devour jess with his eyes and his porridge in the ordinary way. it was at this point that andra kissock, that prancing galloway barb, breaking away from all restrictions, charged between ebie's legs, and overset him into his own horse-trough. the yellow soap was in ebie's eyes, and before he got it out the small boy was far enough away. the most irritating thing was that from the back kitchen came peal on peal of laughter. "it's surely fashionable at the sea-bathin' to tak' a dook [swim] in the stable-trough, nae less!" ebie gathered himself up savagely. his temperature was something considerably above summer heat, yet he dared not give expression to his feelings, for his experiences in former courtships had led him to the conclusion that you cannot safely, having regard to average family prejudice, abuse the brothers of your sweetheart. after marriage the case is believed to be different. winsome charteris stood at the green gate which led out of the court-yard into the croft, as andra was making his schoolward exit. she had a parcel for him. this occasioned no surprise, nor did the very particular directions as to delivery, and the dire threatenings against forgetfulness or failure in the least dismay andra. he was entirely accustomed to them. from his earliest years he had heard nothing else. he never had been reckoned as a "sure hand," and it was only in default of a better messenger that winsome employed him. then these directions were so explicit that there did not appear to be any possibility of mistake. he had only to go to the manse and leave the parcel for mr. ralph peden without a message. so andrew kissock, nothing loath, promised faithfully. he never objected to promising; that was easy. he carried the small, neatly wrapped parcel in his hand, walking most sedately so long as winsome's eyes were upon him. he was not yet old enough to be under the spell of the witchery of those eyes; but then winsome's eye controlled his sister meg's hand, and for that latter organ he had a most profound respect. now we must take the trouble to follow in some detail the course of this small boy going to school, for though it may be of no interest in itself save as a study in scientific procrastination, a good deal of our history directly depends upon it. as soon as andrew was out of sight he pulled his leather satchel round so that he could open it with ease, and, having taken a handful of broken and very stale crumbs out of it for immediate use, he dropped winsome's parcel within. there it kept company with a tin flask of milk which his mother filled for him every morning, having previously scalded it well to restore its freshness. this was specially carefully done after a sad occasion upon which his mother, having poured in the fine milk for andra's dinner fresh from crummie the cow, out of the flask mouth there crawled a number of healthy worms which that enterprising youth had collected from various quarters which it is best not to specify. not that andra objected in the least. milk was a good thing, worms were good things, and he was above the paltry superstition that one good thing could spoil another. he will always consider to his dying day that the very sound licking which his mother administered to him, for spoiling at once the family breakfast and his own dinner, was one of the most uncalled-for and gratuitous, which, even in his wide experience, it had been his lot to recollect. so andra took his way to school. he gambolled along, smelling and rooting among the ragged robin and starwort in the hedges like an unbroken collie. it is safe to say that no further thought of school or message crossed his mind from the moment that the highest white steading of craig ronald sank out of view, until his compulsory return. andra had shut out from his view so commonplace and ignominious facts as home and school. at the first loaning end, where the road to the nether crae came down to cross the bridge, just at the point where the grannoch lane leaves the narrows of the loch, andra betook himself to the side of the road, with a certain affectation of superabundant secrecy. with prodigious exactness he examined the stones at a particular part of the dyke, hunted about for one of remarkable size and colour, said "hist! hist!" in a mysterious way, and ran across the road to see that no one was coming. as we have seen, andra was the reader of the family. his eldest brother had gone to america, where he was working in new york as a joiner. this youth was in the habit of sending across books and papers describing the terrible encounters with indians in the boone country--the "dark and bloody land" of the early romancers. not one in the family looked at the insides of these relations of marvels except andra, who, when he read the story of the indian scout trailing the murderers of his squaw across a continent in order to annihilate them just before they entered new york city, felt that he had found his vocation--which was to be at least an indian scout, if indeed it was too late for him to think of being a full-blooded indian. the impressive pantomime at the bridge was in order to ascertain whether his bosom companion, dick little, had passed on before him. he knew, as soon as he was within a hundred yards of the stone, that he had not passed. indeed, he could see him at that very moment threading his way down through the tangle of heather and bog myrtle, or, as he would have said, "gall busses opposite." but what of that?--for mighty is the power of make-believe, and in andra, repressed as he was at home, there was concentrated the very energy and power of some imaginative ancestry. he had a full share of the quality which ran in the family, and was exceeded only by his brother jock in new york, who had been "the biggest leer in the country side" before he emigrated to a land where at that time this quality was not specially marked among so many wielders of the long bow. jock, in his letters, used to frighten his mother with dark tales of his hair-breadth escapes from savages and desperadoes on the frontier, yet, strangely enough, his address remained steadily new york. now it is not often that a galloway boy takes to lying; but when he does, a mere nithsdale man has no chance with him, still less a man from the simple-minded levels of the "shire."[footnote: wigtonshire is invariably spoken of in galloway as the shire, kirkcudbrightshire as the stewardry.] but andra kissock always lied from the highest motives. he elevated the saying of the thing that was not to the height of a principle. he often lied, knowing that he would be thrashed for it--even though he was aware that he would be rewarded for telling the truth. he lied because he would not demean himself to tell the truth. it need not therefore surprise us in the least that when dick little came across the bridge he was greeted by andra kissock with the information that he was in the clutches of the avenger of blood, who, mounted upon a mettle steed with remarkably dirty feet, curveted across the road and held the pass. he was required to give up a "soda scone or his life." the bold dick, who had caught the infection, stoutly refused to yield either. his life was dear to him, but a soda scone considerably dearer. he had rather be dead than hungry. "then die, traitor!" said andra, throwing down his bag, all forgetful of winsome charteris's precious parcel and his promises thereanent. so these two brave champions had at one another with most surprising valour. they were armed with wooden swords as long as themselves, which they manoeuvred with both hands in a marvellously savage manner. when a blow did happen to get home, the dust flew out of their jackets. but still the champions fought on. they were in the act of finishing the quarrel by the submission of dick in due form, when allan welsh, passing across the bridge on one of his pastoral visitations, came upon them suddenly. dick was on his knees at the time, his hands on the ground, and andra was forcing his head determinedly down toward the surface of the king's highway. meanwhile dick was objecting in the most vigorous way. "boys," said the stern, quiet voice of the minister, "what are you doing to each other? are you aware it is against both the law of god and man to fight in this way? it is only from the beasts that perish that we expect such conduct." "if ye please, sir," answered andra in a shamefaced way, yet with the assurance of one who knows that he has the authorities on his side, "dick little wull no bite the dust." "bite the dust!--what do you mean, laddie?" asked the minister, frowning. "weel sir, if ye please, sir, the buik says that the yin that got his licks fell down and bit the dust. noo, dick's doon fair aneuch. ye micht speak till him to bite the dust!" and andra, clothed in the garments of conscious rectitude, stood back to give the minister room to deliver his rebuke. the stern face of the minister relaxed. "be off with you to school," he said; "i'll look in to see if you have got there in the afternoon." andra and dick scampered down the road, snatching their satchels as they ran. in half an hour they were making momentary music under the avenging birch rod of duncan duncanson, the learned dullarg schoolmaster. their explanations were excellent. dick said that he had been stopped to gather the eggs, and andra that he had been detained conversing with the minister. the result was the same in both cases--andra getting double for sticking to his statement. yet both stories were true, though quite accidentally so, of course. this is what it is to have a bad character. neither boy, however, felt any ill-will whatever at the schoolmaster. they considered that he was there in order to lick them. for this he was paid by their parents' money, and it would have been a fraud if he had not duly earned his money by dusting their jackets daily. let it be said at once that he did most conscientiously earn his money, and seldom overlooked any of his pupils even for a day. back at the grannoch bridge, under the parapet, allan welsh, the minister of the kirk of the marrow, found the white packet lying which winsome had tied with such care. he looked all round to see whence it had come. then taking it in his hand, he looked at it a long time silently, and with a strange and not unkindly expression on his face. he lifted it to his lips and kissed the handwriting which addressed it to master ralph peden. as he paced away he carefully put it in the inner pocket of his coat. then, with his head farther forward than ever, and the immanence of his great brow overshadowing his ascetic face, he set himself slowly to climb the brae. chapter xii. midsummer dawn. true love is at once chart and compass. it led ralph peden out into a cloudy june dawning. it was soft, amorphous, uncoloured night when he went out. slate-coloured clouds were racing along the tops of the hills from the south. the wind blew in fitful gusts and veering flaws among the moorlands, making eddies and back-waters of the air, which twirled the fallen petals of the pear and cherry blossoms in the little manse orchard. as he stepped out upon the moor and the chill of dawn struck inward, he did not know that allan welsh was watching him from his blindless bedroom. dawn is the testing-time of the universe. its cool, solvent atmosphere dissolves social amenities. it is difficult to be courteous, impossible to be polite, in that hour before the heart has realized that its easy task of throwing the blood horizontally to brain and feet has to be exchanged for the harder one of throwing it vertically to the extremities. ralph walked slowly and in deep thought through the long avenues of glimmering beeches and under the dry rustle of the quivering poplars. then, as the first red of dawn touched his face, he looked about him. he was clear of the trees now, and the broad open expanse of the green fields and shining water meadows that ring in loch grannoch widened out before him. the winds sighed and rumbled about the hill-tops of the orchar and the black laggan, but in the valley only the cool moist wind of dawn drew largely and statedly to and fro. ralph loved nature instinctively, and saw it as a townbred lad rarely does. he was deeply read in the more scientific literature of the subject, and had spent many days in his majesty's botanic gardens, which lie above the broad breast of the forth. he now proved his learning, and with quick, sure eye made it real on the galloway hills. every leaf spoke to him. he could lie for half a day and learn wisdom from the ant. he took in the bird's song and the moth's flight. the keepers sometimes wondered at the lights which flashed here and there about the plantations, when in the coolness of a moist evening he went out to entrap the sidelong- dashing flutterers with his sugar-pots. but since he came to galloway, and especially since he smelled the smell of the wood-fire set for the blanket-washing above the crae water bridge, there were new secrets open to him. he possessed a voice that could wile a bird off a bought. his inner sympathy with wild and tame beasts alike was such that as he moved quietly among a drowsing, cud-chewing herd on the braes of urioch not a beast moved. among them a wild, untamed colt stood at bay, its tail arched with apprehension, yet sweeping the ground, and watched him with flashing eyes of suspicion. ralph held out his hand slowly, more as if it were growing out of his side by some rapid natural process than as if he were extending it. he uttered a low "sussurrus" of coaxing and invitation, all the while imperceptibly decreasing his distance from the colt. the animal threw back its head, tossed its mane in act to flee, thought better of it and dropped its nose to take a bite or two of the long coarse grass. then again it looked up and continued to gaze, fascinated at the beckoning and caressing fingers. at last, with a little whinny of pleasure, the colt, wholly reassured, came up and nestled a wet nose against ralph's coat. he took the wild thing's neck within the arch of his arm, and the two new friends stood awhile in grave converse. a moment afterwards ralph bent to lay a hand upon the head of one of the placid queys [footnote: young--cows.] that had watched the courtship with full, dewy eyes of bovine unconcern. instantly the colt charged into the still group with a wild flourish of hoofs and viciously snapping teeth, scattering the black-polled galloways like smoke. then, as if to reproach ralph for his unfaithfulness, he made a circle of the field at a full, swinging gallop, sending the short turf flying from his unshod hoofs at every stride. back he came again, a vision of floating mane and streaming tail, and stopped dead three yards from ralph, his forelegs strained and taut, ploughing furrows in the grass. as ralph moved quietly across the field the colt followed, pushing a cool moist nose over the young man's shoulder. when at last ralph set a foot on the projecting stone which stood out from the side of the grey, lichen-clad stone dyke, the colt stood stretching an eager head over as though desirous of following him; then, with a whinny of disappointment, he rushed round the field, charging at the vaguely wondering and listlessly grazing cattle with head arched between his forelegs and a flourish of widely distributed heels. over the hill, craig ronald was still wrapped in the lucid impermanence of earliest dawn, when winsome charteris set her foot over the blue flag-stones of the threshold. the high tide of darkness, which, in these northern summer mornings never rose very high or lasted very long, had ebbed long ago. the indigo grey of the sky was receding, and tinging towards the east with an imperceptibly graded lavender which merged behind the long shaggy outline of the piny ridge into a wash of pale lemon yellow. the world paused, finger on lip, saying "hush!" to winsome as she stepped over the threshold from the serenely breathing morning air, from the illimitable sky which ran farther and farther back as the angels drew the blinds from the windows of heaven. "hush!" said the cows over the hedge, blowing fragrant breaths of approval from their wide, comma-shaped nostrils upon the lush grass and upon the short heads of white clover, as they stood face to the brae, all with their heads upward, eating their way like an army on the march. "hush! hush!" said the sheep who were straggling over the shorter grass of the high park, feeding fitfully in their short, uneasy way--crop, crop, crop--and then a pause, to move forward their own length and begin all over again. but the sheep and the kine, the dewy grass and the brightening sky, might every one have spared their pains, for it was in no wise in the heart of winsome charteris to make a noise amid the silences of dawn. meg kissock, who still lay snug by jess in a plump-cheeked country sleep, made noise enough to stir the country side when, rising, she set briskly about to get the house on its morning legs. but winsome was one of the few people in this world --few but happy--to whom a sunrise is more precious than a sun set --rarer and more calming, instinct with message and sign from a covenant-keeping god. also, winsome betook her self early to bed, and so awoke attuned to the sun's rising. what drew her forth so early this june day was no thought or hope or plan except the desire to read the heart of nature, and perhaps that she might not be left too long alone with the parable of her own heart. a girl's heart is full of thought which it dares not express to herself--of fluttering and trembling possibilities, chrysalis-like, set aside to await the warmth of an unrevealed summer. in winsome's soul the first flushing glory of the may of youth was waking the prisoned life. but there were throbs and thrillings too piercingly sweet to last undeveloped in her soul. the bursting bud of her healthful beauty, quickened by the shy radiance of her soul, shook the centres of her life, even as a laburnum-tree mysteriously quivers when the golden rain is in act to break from the close-clustered dependent budlets. thus it was that, at the stile which helps the paths be tween the dullarg and craig ronald to overleap the high hill dyke, ralph met winsome. as they looked into one another's eyes, they saw nature suddenly dissolve into confused meaninglessness. there was no clear message for either of them there, save the message that the old world of their hopes and fears had wholly passed away. yet no new world had come when over the hill dyke their hands met. they said no word. there is no form of greeting for such. eve did not greet adam in polite phrase when he awoke to find her in the dawn of one eden day, a helpmeet meet for him. neither did eve reply that "it was a fine morn ing." it is always a fine morning in eden. they were silent, and so were these two. their hands lay within one another a single instant. then, with a sense of something wanting, ralph sprang lightly over the dyke as an edin burgh high-school boy ought who had often played hares and hounds in the hunter's bog, and been duly thrashed therefor by dr. adam [footnote: the aery famous master of the high school of edinburgh.] on the following morning. when ralph stood beside her upon the sunny side of the stile he instinctively resumed winsome's hand. for this he had no reason, certainly no excuse. still, it may be urged in excuse that it was as much as an hour or an hour and a half before winsome remembered that he needed any. our most correct and ordered thoughts have a way of coming to us belated, as the passenger who strolls in confidently ten minutes after the platform is clear. but, like him, they are at least ready for the next train. as winsome and ralph turned towards the east, the sun set his face over the great scotch firs on the ridge, whose tops stood out like poised irregular blots on the fire centred ocean of light. it was the new day, and if the new world had not come with it, of a surety it was well on the way. chapter xiii. a string of the lilac sunbonnet. for a long time they were silent, though it was not long before winsome drew away her hand, which, however, continued to burn consciously for an hour afterwards. silence settled around them. the constraint of speech fell first upon ralph, being town-bred and accustomed to the convenances at professor thriepneuk's. "you rise early," he said, glancing shyly down at winsome, who seemed to have forgotten his presence. he did not wish her to forget. he had no objection to her dreaming, if only she would dream about him. winsome turned the bewildering calmness of her eyes upon him. a gentleman, they say, is calm-eyed. so is a cow. but in the eye of a good woman there is a peace which comes from many generations of mothers--who, every one christs in their way, have suffered their heavier share of the eden curse. ralph would have given all that he possessed--which, by the way, was not a great deal--to be able to assure himself that there was any hesitancy or bashfulness in the glance which met his own. but winsome's eyes were as clearly and frankly blue as if god had made them new that morning. at least ralph looked upon their sabbath peace and gave thanks, finding them very good. a sparkle of laughter, at first silent and far away, sprang into them, like a breeze coming down loch grannoch when it lies asleep in the sun, sending shining sparkles winking shoreward, and causing the wavering golden lights on the shallow sand of the bays to scatter tremulously. so in the depths of winsome's eyes glimmered the coming smile. winsome could be divinely serious, but behind there lay the possibility and certainty of very frank earthly laughter. if, as ralph thought, not for the first time in this rough island story, this girl were an angel, surely she was one to whom her maker had given that rarest gift given to woman-- a well-balanced sense of humour. so when ralph said, hardly knowing what he said, "you rise early," it was with that far-away intention of a smile that winsome replied: "and you, sir, have surely not lagged in bed, or else you have come here in a great hurry." "i rose," returned ralph, "certainly betimes--in fact, a great while before day; it is the time when one can best know one's self." the sententiousness, natural to his years and education, to some extent rebuked winsome, who said more soberly: "perhaps you have again lost your books of study?" "i do not always study in books," answered ralph. winsome continued to look at him as though waiting his explanation. "i mean," said ralph, quickly, his pale cheek touched with red, "that though i am town-bred i love the things that wander among the flowers and in the wood. there are the birds, too, and the little green plants that have no flow ers, and they all have a message, if i could only hear it and understand it." the sparkle in winsome's eyes quieted into calm. "i too--" she began, and paused as if startled at what she was about to say. she went on: "i never heard any one say things like these. i did not know that any one else had thoughts like these except myself." "and have you thought these things?" said ralph, with a quick joy in his heart. "yes," replied winsome, looking down on the ground and playing with the loose string of the lilac sunbonnet. "i used often to wonder how it was that i could not look on the loch on sabbath morning without feeling like crying. it was often better to look upon it than to go to maister welsh's kirk. but i ought not to say these things to you," she said, with a quick thought of his profession. ralph smiled. there were few things that winsome charteris might not say to him. he too had his experiences to collate. "have you ever stood on a hill-top as though you were suspended in the air, and when you seem to feel the earth whirling away from beneath you, rushing swiftly eastward towards the sunrise?" "i have heard it," said winsome unexpectedly. "heard it?" queried ralph, with doubt in his voice. "yes," said winsome calmly, "i have often heard the earth wheeling round on still nights out on the top of the craigs, where there was no sound, and all the house was asleep. it is as if some great one were saying 'hush!' to the angels--i think god himself!" these were not the opinions of the kirk of the marrow; neither were they expressed in the acts declaratory or the protests or claims of right made by the faithful contending remnant. but ralph would not at that moment have hesitated to add them to the westminster confession. it is a wonderful thing to be young. it is marvellously delightful to be young and a poet as well, who has just fallen--nay, rather, plunged fathoms--deep in love. ralph peden was both. he stood watching winsome charteris, who looked past him into a distance moistly washed with tender ultramarine ash, like her own eyes too full of colour to be gray and too pearly clear to be blue. an equal blowing wind drew up the loch which lay be neath flooded with morning light, the sun basking on its broad expanse, and glittering in a myriad sparkles on the, narrows beneath them beside which the blanket-washing had been. a frolicsome breeze blew down the hill towards them in little flicks and eddies. one of these drew a flossy tendril of winsome's golden hair, which this morning had red lights in it like the garnet gloss on ripe wheat or indian corn, and tossed it over her brow. ralph's hand tingled with the desire to touch it and put it back under her bonnet, and his heart leaped at the thought. but though he did not stir, nor had any part of his being moved save the hidden thought of his heart, he seemed to fall in his own estimation as one who had attempted a sacrilege. "have you ever noticed," continued winsome, all unconscious, going on with that fruitful comparison of feelings which has woven so many gossamer threads into three-fold cords, "how everything in the fields and the woods is tamer in the morning? they seem to have forgotten that man is their natural enemy while they slept." "perhaps," said ralph theologically, "when they awake they forget that they are not still in that old garden that adam kept." winsome was looking at him now, for he had looked away in his turn, lost in a poet's thought. it struck her for the first time that other people might think him handsome. when a girl forgets to think whether she herself is of this opinion, and begins to think what others will think on a subject like this (which really does not concern her at all), the proceedings in the case are not finished. they walked on together down by the sunny edge of the great plantation. the sun was now rising well into the sky, climbing directly upward as if on this midsummer day he were leading a forlorn hope to scale the zenith of heaven. he shone on the russet tassels of the larches, and the deep sienna boles of the scotch firs. the clouds, which rolled fleecy and white in piles and crenulated bastions of cumulus, lighted the eyes of the man and maid as they went onward upon the crisping piny carpet of fallen fir-needles. "i have never seen nature so lovely," said ralph, "as when the bright morning breaks after a night of shower. everything seems to have been new bathed in freshness." "as if dame nature had had her spring cleaning," answered winsome, "or andrew kissock when he has had his face washed once a week," who had been serious long enough, and who felt that too much earnestness even in the study of nature might be a dangerous thing. but the inner thought of each was something quite different. this is what ralph thought within his heart, though his words were also perfectly genuine: "there is a dimple on her chin which comes out when she smiles," so he wanted her to smile again. when she did so, she was lovely enough to peril the faith or even the denomination. ralph tried to recollect if there were no more stiles on this hill path over which she might have to be helped. he had taken off his hat and walked beside her bareheaded, carrying his hat in the hand farthest from winsome, who was wondering how soon she would be able to tell him that he must keep his shoulders back. winsome was not a young woman of great experience in these matters, but she had the natural instinct for the possibilities of love without which no woman comes into the world--at once armour defensive and weapon offensive. she knew that one day ralph peden would tell her that he loved her, but in the meantime it was so very pleasant that it was a pity the days should come to an end. so she resolved that they should not, at least not just yet. if to-morrow be good, why confine one's self to to-day? she had not yet faced the question of what she would say to him when the day could be no longer postponed. she did not care to face it. sufficient unto the day is the good thereof, is quite as excellent a precept as its counterpart, or at least so winsome charteris thought. but, all the same, she wished that she could tell him to keep his shoulders back. a sudden resolve sprang full armed from her brain. winsome had that strange irresponsibility sometimes which comes irresistibly to some men and women in youth, to say something as an experiment which she well knew she ought not to say, simply to see what would happen. more than once it had got her into trouble. "i wish you would keep back your shoulders when you walk!" she said, quick as a flash, stopping and turning sideways to face ralph peden. ralph, walking thoughtfully with the student stoop, stood aghast, as though not daring to reply lest his ears had not heard aright. "i say, why do you not keep your shoulders back?" repeated winsome sharply, and with a kind of irritation at his silence. he had no right to make her feel uncomfortable, whatever she might say. "i did not know--i thought--nobody ever told me," said ralph, stammering and catching at the word which came uppermost, as he had done in college when professor thriepneuk, who was as fierce in the class-room as he was mild at home, had him cornered upon a quantity. "well, then," said winsome, "if every one is so blind, it is time that some one did tell you now." ralph squared himself like a drill-sergeant, holding himself so straight that winsome laughed outright, and that so merrily that ralph laughed too, well content that the dimple on her cheek should play at hide and seek with the pink flush of her clear skin. so they had come to the stile, and ralph's heart beat stronger, and a nervous tension of expectation quivered through him, bewildering his judgment. but winsome was very clear-headed, and though the white of her eyes was as dewy and clear as a child's, she was no simpleton. she had read many men and women in her time, for it is the same in essence to rule craig ronald as to rule rome. "this is your way," she said, sitting down on the stile. "i am going up to john scott's to see about the lambs. it will be breakfast-time at the manse before you got back." ralph's castle fell to the ground. "i will come up with you to john scott's," he said with an undertone of eagerness. "indeed, that you will not," said winsome promptly, who did not want to arrive at seven o'clock in the morning at john scott's with any young man. "you will go home and take to your book, after you have changed your shoes and stockings," she said practically. "well, then, let me bid you good-bye, winsome!" said ralph. her heart was warm to hear him say winsome--for the first time. it certainly was not unpleasant, and there was no need that she should quarrel about that. she was about to give him her hand, when she saw something in his eye. "mind, you are not to kiss it as you did grannie's yesterday; besides, there are john scott's dogs on the brow of the hill," she said, pointing upward. poor ralph could only look more crestfallen still. such knowledge was too high for him. he fell back on his old formula: "i said before that you are a witch--" "and you say it again?" queried winsome, with careless nonchalance, swinging her bonnet by its strings. "well, you can come back and kiss grannie's hand some other day. you are something of a favourite with her." but she had presumed just a hair-breadth too far on ralph's gentleness. he snatched the lilac sunbonnet out of her hands, tearing, in his haste, one of the strings off, and leaving it in winsome's hand. then he kissed it once and twice outside where the sun shone on it, and inside where it had rested on her head. "you have torn it," she said complainlngly, yet without anger. "i am very glad," said ralph peden, coming nearer to her with a light in his eye that she had never seen before. winsome dropped the string, snatched up the bonnet, and fled up the hill as trippingly as a young doe towards the herd's cottage. at the top of the fell she paused a moment with her hand on her side, as if out of breath. ralph peden was still holding the torn bonnet-string in his hand. he held it up, hanging loose like a pennon from his hand. she could hear the words come clear up the hill: "i'm very--glad--that--i--tore--it, and i will come and--see-- your--grandmother!" "of all the--" winsome stopped for want of words, speaking to herself as she turned away up the hill--"of all the insolent and disagreeable--" she did not finish her sentence, as she adjusted the outraged sunbonnet on her curls, tucking the remaining string carefully within the crown; but as she turned again to look, ralph peden was calmly folding tip the string and putting it in a book. "i shall never speak to him again as long as i live," she said, compressing her lips so that a dimple that ralph had never seen came out on the other side. this, of course, closed the record in the case. yet in a little while she added thoughtfully: "but he is very handsome, and i think he will keep his shoulders back now. not, of course, that it matters, for i am never to speak to him any more!" john scott's dogs were by this time leaping upon her, and that worthy shepherd was coming along a steep slope upon the edges of his boot-soles in the miraculous manner, which is peculiar to herds, as if he were walking on the turnpike. winsome turned for the last time. against the broad, dark sapphire expanse of the loch, just where the great march dyke stepped off to bathe in the summer water, she saw something black which waved a hand and sprang over lightly. winsome sighed, and said a little wistfully yet not sadly: "who would have thought it of him? it just shows!" she said. all which is a warning to maids that the meekest worm may turn. chapter xiv. captain agnew greatorix. greatorix castle sat mightily upon a hill. it could not be hid, and it looked down superciliously upon the little squiredom of craig ronald, as well as upon farms and cottages a many. in days not so long gone by, greatorix castle had been the hold of the wearers of the white cockade, rough riders after lag and sir james dalzyell, and rebels after that, who had held with derwentwater and the prince. now there was quiet there. only the lady elizabeth and her son agnew greatorix dwelt there, and the farmer's cow and the cottager's pig grazed and rooted unharmed--not always, however, it was whispered, the farmer's daughter, for of all serfdoms the droit du seignior is the last to die. still, greatorix castle was a notable place, high set on its hill, shires and towns beneath, the blue breath of peat reek blowing athwart the plain beneath and rising like an incense about. here the lady elizabeth dwelt in solemn but greatly reduced state. she was a woman devoted to the practice of holiness according to the way of the priest. it was the whole wish of her life that she might keep a spiritual director, instead of having father mahon to ride over from dumfries once a month. within the castle there were many signs of decay--none of rehabilitation. the carpets were worn into holes where feet had oftenest fallen, and the few servants dared not take them out to be beaten in the due season of the year, for indubitably they would fall to pieces. so the curtains hung till an unwary stranger would rest upon them with a hand's weight. then that hand plucked a palmbreadth away of the rotten and moth-eaten fabric. there was an aged housekeeper at greatorix castle, who dwelt in the next room to the lady elizabeth, and was supposed to act as her maid. mistress humbie, however, was an exacting person; and being an aged woman, and her infirmities bearing upon her, she considered it more fitting that the lady elizabeth should wait upon her. this, for the good of her soul, the lady elizabeth did. two maids and a boy, a demon boy, in buttons, who dwelt below- stairs and gave his time to the killing of rats with ingenious catapults and crossbows, completed the household--except agnew greatorix. the exception was a notable one. save in the matter of fortune, nature had not dealt unhandsomely with agnew greatorix; yet just because of this his chances of growing up into a strong and useful man were few. he had been nurtured upon expectations from his earliest youth. his uncle agnew, the lady elizabeth's childless brother, who for the sake of the favour of a strongly protestant aunt had left the mother church of the greatorix family, had been expected to do something for agnew; but up to this present time he had received only his name from him, in lieu of all the stately heritages of holywood in the nith valley hard by lincluden, and stennesholm in carrick. so agnew greatorix had grown up in the midst of raw youths who were not his peers in position. he companied with them till his mother pointed out that it was not for a greatorix to drink in the blue bell and at the george with the sons of wealthy farmers and bonnet lairds. by dint of scraping and saving which took a long time, and influence which, costing nothing, took for a greatorix no time at all, the lady elizabeth obtained for her son a commission in the county yeomanry. there he was thrown with maxwells of the braes, herons from the shireside, and gordons from the northern straths--all young men of means and figure in the county. into the midst of these agnew took his tightly knit athletic figure, his small firmly set head and full-blooded dark face--the only faults of which were that the eyes were too closely set together and shuttered with lids that would not open more than half way, and that he possessed the sensual mouth of a man who has never willingly submitted to a restraint. agnew greatorix could not compete with his companions, but he cut them out as a squire of dames, and came home with a dangerous and fascinating reputation, the best-hated man in the corps. so when captain agnew clattered through the village in clean-cut scarlet and clinking spurs, all the maids ran to the door, except only a few who had once run like the others but now ran no more. the captain came often to craig ronald. it was upon his way to kirk and market, for the captain for the good of his soul went occasionally to the little chapel of the permission at dumfries. still oftener he came with the books which the lady elizabeth obtained from edinburgh, the reading of which she shared with mistress walter skirving, whose kinship with the lochinvars she did not forget, though her father had been of the moorland branch of that honourable house, and she herself had disgraced her ancient name by marrying with a psalm-singing bonnet laird. but the inexplicability of saying whom a woman may not take it into her head to marry was no barrier to the friendship of the lady elizabeth, who kept all her religion for her own consumption and did not even trouble her son with it--which was a great pity, for he indeed had much need, though small desire, thereof. on the contrary, it was a mark of good blood sometimes to follow one's own fancy. the lady elizabeth had done that herself against the advice of the countess her mother, and that was the reason why she dwelt amid hangings that came away in handfuls, and was waiting-maid to mistress humbie her own housekeeper. agnew greatorix had an eye for a pretty face, or rather for every pretty face. indeed, he had nothing else to do, except clean his spurs and ride to the market town. so, since the author of waverley began to write his inimitable fictions, and his mother to divide her time between works of devotion and the adventures of ivanhoe and nigel, agnew greatorix had made many pilgrimages to craig ronald. here the advent of the captain was much talked over by the maids, and even anticipated by winsome herself as a picturesque break in the monotony of the staid country life. certainly he brought the essence of strength and youth and athletic energy into the quiet court-yard, when he rode in on his showily paced horse and reined him round at the low steps of the front door, with the free handling and cavalry swing which he had inherited as much from the long line of greatorixes who had ridden out to harry the warden's men along the marches, as from the yeomanry riding-master. now, the captain was neither an obliging nor yet a particularly amiable young man, and when he took so kindly to fetching and carrying, it was not long before the broad world of farm towns and herds' cot-houses upon which greatorix castle looked down suspected a motive, and said so in its own way. on one occasion, riding down the long loaning of craig ronald, the captain came upon the slight, ascetic figure of allan welsh, the marrow minister, leaning upon the gate which closed the loaning from the road. the minister observed him, but showed no signs of moving. agnew greatorix checked his horse. "would you open the gate and allow me to pass on my way?" he said, with chill politeness. the minister of the marrow kirk looked keenly at him from under his grey eyebrows. "after i have had a few words with you, young sir," said mr. welsh. "i desire no words with you," returned the young man impatiently, backing his horse. "for whom are your visits at craig ronald intended?" said the minister calmly. "walter skirving and his spouse do not receive company of such dignity; and besides them there are only the maids that i know of." "who made you my father confessor?" mocked agnew greatorix, with an unpleasant sneer on his handsome face. "the right of being minister in the things of the spirit to all that dwell in craig ronald house," said the minister of the marrow firmly. "truly a pleasant ministry, and one, no doubt, requiring frequent ministrations; yet do i not remember to have met you at craig ronald," he continued. "so faithful a minister surely must be faithful in his spiritual attentions." he urged his horse to the side of the gate and leaned over to open the gate himself, but the minister had his hand firmly on the latch. "i have seen you ride to many maids' houses, agnew greatorix, since the day your honoured father died, but never a one have i seen the better of your visits. woe and sorrow have attended upon your way. you may ride off now at your ease, but beware the vengeance of the god of jacob; the mother's curse and the father's malison ride not far behind!" "preach me no preachments," said the young man; "keep such for your marrow folk on sundays; you but waste your words." "then i beseech you by the memory of a good father, whom, though of another and an alien communion, i shall ever respect, to cast your eyes elsewhere, and let the one ewe lamb of those whom god hath stricken alone." the gate was open now, and as he came through, agnew greatorix made his horse curvet, pushing the frail form of the preacher almost into the hedge. "if you would like to come and visit us up at the castle," he said mockingly, "i dare say we could yet receive you as my forefathers, of whom you are so fond, used to welcome your kind. i saw the thumbikins the other day; and i dare say we could fit you with your size in boots." "the lord shall pull down the mighty from their seats, and exalt them that are of low estate!" said the preacher solemnly. "very likely," said the young man as he rode away. chapter xv. on the edge of the orchard. but agnew greatorix came as often as ever to craig ronald. generally he found winsome busy with her household affairs, sometimes with her sleeves buckled above her elbows, rolling the tough dough for the crumpy farles of the oat-cake, and scattering handfuls of dry meal over it with deft fingers to bring the mass to its proper consistency for rolling out upon the bake-board. leaving his horse tethered to the great dismounting stone at the angle of the kitchen (a granite boulder or "travelled stone," as they said thereabouts), with an iron ring into it, he entered and sat down to watch. sometimes, as to-day, he would be only silent and watchful; but he never failed to compass winsome with the compliment of humility and observance. it is possible that better things were stirring in his heart than usually brought him to such places. there is no doubt, indeed, that he appreciated the frankness and plain speech which he received from the very practical young mistress of craig ronald. when he left the house it was agnew greatorix's invariable custom to skirt the edge of the orchard before mounting. just in the dusk of the great oak-tree, where its branches mingle with those of the gean [wild cherry], he was met by the slim, lithe figure of jess kissock, in whose piquant elvishness some strain of romany blood showed itself. jess had been waiting for him ever since he had taken his hat in his hand to leave the house. as he came in sight of the watcher, agnew greatorix stopped, and jess came closer to him, motioning him imperiously to bring his horse close in to the shadow of the orchard wall. agnew did so, putting out his arm as if he would kiss her; but, with a quick fierce movement, jess thrust his hand away. "i have told you before not to play these tricks with me--keep them for them that ye come to craig ronald to see. it's the mistress ye want. what need a gentleman like you meddle with the maid?" "impossible as it may seem, the like has been done," said agnew, smiling down at the black eyes and blowing elf locks. "not with this maid," replied jess succinctly, and in deed slhe looked exceedingly able to take care of herself, as became meg kissock's sister. "i'll go no further with winsome," said greatorix gloomily, breaking the silence. "you said that if i consulted her about the well-being of the poor rats over at the huts, and took her advice about the new cottages for the foresters, she would listen to me. well, she did listen, but as soon as i hinted at any other subject, i might as well have been talking to the old daisy in the sitting-room with the white band round her head." "did anybody ever see the like of you menfolk?" cried jess, throwing up her hands hopelessly; "d'ye think that a bonny lass is just like a black ripe cherry on a bough, ready to drap into your mooth when it pleases your high mightinesses to hold it open?" "has winsome charteris any sweetheart?" asked the captain. "what for wad she be doing with a sweetheart? she has muckle else to think on. there's a young man that's baith braw an' bonny, a great scholar frae enbra' toon that comes gye an' aften frae the manse o' dullarg, whaur he's bidin' a' the simmer for the learnin'. he comes whiles, an' winsome kind o' gies him a bit convoy up the hill." "jess kissock," said the young man passionately, "tell me no lies, or--" "nane o' yer ill tongue for me, young man; keep it for yer mither. i'm little feared o' ye or ony like ye. ye'll maybe get a bit dab frae the neb o' a jockteleg [point of a sheath-knife] that will yeuk [tickle] ye for a day or twa gin ye dinna learn an' that speedily, as maister welsh wad say, to keep yer han's aff my faither's dochter." jess's good scots was infinitely better and more vigorous than the english of the lady's maid. "i beg your pardon, jess. i am a passionate, hasty man. i am sure i meant no harm. tell me more of this hulking landlouper [intruder], and i'll give you a kiss." "keep yer kisses for them that likes them. the young man's no landlouper ony mair nor yersel'--no as mickle indeed, but a very proper young man, wi' a face as bonny as an angel--" "but, jess, do you mean to say that you are going to help him with winsome?" asked the young man. "feint a bit!" answered the young woman frankly. "she'll no get him gin i can help it. i saw him first and bid him guid-day afore ever she set her een on him. it's ilka yin for hersel' when it comes to a braw young man," and jess tossed her gipsy head, and pouted a pair of handsome scarlet lips. greatorix laughed. "the land lies that way, does it?" he said. "then that's why you would not give me a kiss to-day, jess," he went on; "the black coat has routed the red baith but an' ben--but we'll see. you cannot both have him, jess, and if you are so very fond of the parson, ye'll maybe help me to keep winsome charteris to myself." "wad ye mairry her gin ye had the chance, agnew greatorix?" "certainly; what else?" replied the young man promptly. "then ye shall hae her," replied jess, as if winsome were within her deed of gift, "and you'll try for the student, jess?" asked the young man. "i suppose he would not need to ask twice for a kiss?" "na, for i would kiss him withoot askin'--that is, gin he hadna the sense to kiss me," said jess frankly. "well," said greatorix, somewhat reluctantly, "i'm sure i wish you joy of your parson. i see now what the canting old hound from the dullarg manse meant when he tackled me at the loaning foot. he wanted winsome for the young whelp." "i dinna think that," replied jess; "he disna want him to come aboot here ony mair nor you." "how do you know that, jess?" "ou, i juist ken." "can you find out what winsome thinks herself?" "i can that, though she hasna a word to say to me--that am far mair deservin' o' confidence than that muckle peony faced hempie, meg, that an ill providence gied me for a sis ter. her keep a secret?--the wind wad waft it oot o' her." thus affectionately jess. "but how can you find out, then?" persisted the young man, yet unsatisfied. "ou fine that," said jess. "meg talks in her sleep." before agnew greatorix leaped on to his horse, which all this time had stood quiet on his bridle-arm, only occasion ally jerking his head as if to ask his master to come away, he took the kiss he had been denied, and rode away laugh ing, but with one cheek much redder than the other, the mark of jess's vengeance. "ye hae ower muckle conceit an' ower little sense ever to be a richt blackguard," said jess as he went, "but ye hae the richt intention for the deil's wark. ye'll do the young mistress nae hurt, for she wad never look twice at ye, but i cannot let her get the bonny lad frae embra'-na, i saw him first, an' first come first served!" "where have you been so long," asked her mistress, as she came in. "juist drivin' a gilravagin' muckle swine oot o' the or chard!" replied jess with some force and truth. chapter xvi. the cuif before the session. "called, nominate, summoned to appear, upon this third citation, alexander mowdiewort, or moldieward, to answer for the sin of misca'in' the minister and session o' this parish, and to show cause why he, as a sectary notour, should not demit, depone, and resign his office of grave digger in the kirk-yard of this parish with all the emoluments, benefits, and profits thereto appertaining.--officer, call alexander mowdiewort!" thus jacob kittle, schoolmaster and session clerk of the parish of dullarg, when in the kirk itself that reverent though not revered body was met in full convocation. there was presiding the rev. erasmus teends himself, the minister of the parish, looking like a turkey-cock with a crumpled white neckcloth for wattles. he was known in the parish as mess john, and was full of dignified discourse and excellent taste in the good cheer of the farmers. he was a judge of nowt [cattle], and a connoisseur of black puddings, which he considered to require some isle of man brandy to bring out their own proper flavour. "alexander moldieward, alexander moldieward!" cried old snuffy callum, the parish beadle, going to the door. then in a lower tone, "come an' answer for't, saunders." mowdiewort and a large-boned, grim-faced old woman of fifty-five were close beside the door, but christie cried past them as if the summoned persons were at the top of the dullarg hill at the nearest, and also as if he had not just risen from a long and confidential talk with them. it was within the black interior of the old kirk that the session met, in the yard of which saunders mowdiewort had dug so many graves, and now was to dig no more, unless he appeased the ire of the minister and his elders for an offence against the majesty of their court and moderator. "alexander moldieward!" again cried the old "betheral," very loud, to some one on the top of the dullarg hill--then in an ordinary voice, "come awa', saunders man, you and your mither, an' dinna keep them waitin'--they're no chancy when they're keepit." saunders and his mother entered. "here i am, guid sirs, an' you mess john," said the grave-digger very respectfully, "an' my mither to answer for me, an' guid een to ye a'." "come awa', mistress mowdiewort," said the minister. "ye hae aye been a guid member in full communion. ye never gaed to a prayer- meetin' or whig conventicle in yer life. it's a sad peety that ye couldna keep your flesh an' bluid frae companyin' an' covenantin' wi' them that lichtly speak o' the kirk." "'deed, minister, we canna help oor bairns--an' 'deed ye can speak till himsel'. he is of age--ask him! but gin ye begin to be ower sair on the callant, i'se e'en hae to tak' up the cudgels mysel'." with this, mistress mowdiewort put her hands to the strings of her mutch, to feel that she had not unsettled them; then she stood with arms akimbo and her chest well forward like a grenadier, as if daring the session to do its worst. "i have a word with you," said mess john, lowering at her; "it is told to me that yon keepit your son back from answering the session when it was his bounden duty to appear on the first summons. indeed, it is only on a warrant for blasphemy and the threat of deprivation of his liveli hood that he has come to-day. what have you to say that he should not be deprived and also declarit excommunicate?" "weel, savin' yer presence, mess john," said mistress mowdiewort, "ye see the way o't is this: saunders, my son, is a blate [shy] man, an' he canna weel speak for him sel'. i thought that by this time the craiter micht hae gotten a wife again that could hae spoken for him, an' had he been worth the weight o' a bumbee's hind leg he wad hae had her or this--an' a better yin nor the last he got. aye, but a sair trouble she was to me; she had juist yae faut, saunders's first wife, an' that was she was nae use ava! but it was a guid thing he was grave-digger, for he got her buriet for naething, an' even the coffin was what ye micht ca' a second-hand yin--though it had never been worn, which was a wunnerfu' thing. ye see the way o't was this: there was creeshy callum, the brither o' yer doitit [stupid] auld betheral here, that canna tak' up the buiks as they should (ye should see my saunders tak' them up at the marrow kirk)--" "woman," said the minister, "we dinna want to hear--" "very likely no--but ye hae gien me permission to speak, an' her that's stannin afore yer honourable coort, brawly kens the laws. elspeth mowdiewort didna soop yer kirk an wait till yer session meetings war ower for thirty year in my ain man's time withoot kennin' a' the laws. a keyhole's a most amazin' convenient thing by whiles, an' i was suppler in gettin' up aff my hunkers then than at the present time." "silence, senseless woman!" said the session clerk. "i'll silence nane, jacob kittle; silence yersel', for i ken what's in the third volume o' the kirk records at the thirty second page; an' gin ye dinna haud yer wheesht, dominie, ilka wife in the pairish'll ken as weel as me. a bonny yin you to sit cockin' there, an' to be learnin' a' the bairns their caritches [catechism]." the session let her go her way; her son meantime stood passing an apologetic hand over his sleek hair, and making deprecatory motions to the minister, when he thought that his mother was not looking in his direction. "aye, i was speakin' aboot creeshy callum's coffin that oor saunders--the muckle tongueless sumph there got dirt cheap--ye see greeshy had been measured for't, but, as he had a short leg and a shorter, the joiner measured the wrang leg--joiners are a' dottle stupid bodies--an' whan the time cam' for creeshy to be streekit, man, he wadna fit--na, it maun hae been a sair disappointment till him--that is to say--gin he war in the place whaur he could think wi' ony content on his coffin, an' that, judgin' by his life an' conversation, was far frae bein' a certainty." "mistress mowdiewort, i hae aye respectit ye, an' we are a' willin' to hear ye noo, if you have onything to say for your son, but you must make no insinuations against any members of the court, or i shall be compelled to call the officer to put you out," said the minister, rising impressively with his hand stretched towards mistress elspeth mowdiewort. but elspeth mowdiewort was far from being impressed. "pit me oot, snuffy oallum; pit me, eppie mowdiewort, oot! na, na, snuffy's maybe no very wise, but he kens better nor that. man, maister teends, i hae kenned the hale root an' stock o' thae callums frae first to last; i hae dung greeshy till he couldna stand--him that had to be twice fitted for his coffin; an' wull that was hangit at dumfries for sheep-stealin'; an' meg that was servant till yersel--aye, an' a bonny piece she was as ye ken yersel'; an' this auld donnert carle that, when he carries up the bibles, ye can hear the rattlin' o' his banes, till it disturbs the congregation--i hae dung them a' heeds ower heels in their best days--an' to tell me at the hinner end that ye wad ca' in the betheral to pit oot elspeth mowdiewort! ye maun surely hae an awsome ill wull at the puir auld craitur!" "mither," at last said saunders, who was becoming anxious for his grave-diggership, and did not wish to incense his judges further, "i'm willin' to confess that i had a drap ower muckle the ither night when i met in wi' the minister an' the dominie; but, gin i confess it, ye'll no gar me sit on the muckle black stool i' repentance afore a' the fowk, an' me carries up the buiks i' the marrow kirk." "alexander mowdiewort, ye spak ill o' the minister an' session, o' the kirk an' the wholesome order o' this parish. we have a warrant for your apprehension and appearance which we might, unless moved by penitence and dutiful submission, put in force. then are ye aware whaur that wad land you--i' the jail in kirkcudbright toon, my man saunders." but still it was the dread disgrace of the stool of repentance that bulked most largely in the culprit's imagination. "na, na," interjected mistress mowdiewort, "nae siccan things for ony bairns o' mine. nae son o' mine sall ever set his hurdies on the like o't." "be silent, woman!" said the minister severely; "them that will to black stool maun to black stool. rebukit an' chastised is the law an' order, and rebukit and chastised shall your son be as weel as ithers." "'deed, yer nae sae fond o' rebukin' the great an' the rich. there's that young speldron frae the castle; its weel kenned what he is, an' hoo muckle he's gotten the weight o'." "he is not of our communion, and not subject to our discipline," began the minister. "weel," said elspeth, "weel, let him alane. he's a pape, an' gaun to purgatory at ony gate. but then there's bletherin' johnnie o' the dinnance mains--he's as fu' as solway tide ilka wednesday, an' no only speaks agin minister an' session, as maybe my saunders did (an' maybe no), but abuses providence, an the bellman, an' even blasphemes agin the fast day--yet i never heard that ye had him cockit up on the black henbauks i' the kirk. but then he's a braw man an' keeps a gig!" "the law o' the kirk is no respecter of persons," said mess john. "no, unless they are heritors," said cochrane of the holm, who had a pew with the name of his holding painted on it. "or members o' session," said sleeky carment of the kirkland, who had twice escaped the stool of repentance on the ground that, as he urged upon the body, "gleds [hawks] shouldna pike gleds een oot." "or parish dominies," said the session clerk, to give solidarity to his own position. "weel, i ken juist this if nae mair: my son disna sit on ony o' yer stools o' repentance," said eppie mowdiewort, demonstrating the truth of her position with her hand clenched at the dominie, who, like all clerks of ecclesiastical assemblies, was exceedingly industrious in taking notes to very small purpose. "mair nor that, i'm maybe an unlearned woman, but i've been through the testaments mair nor yince--the new testament mair nor twice--an' i never saw naethin' aboot stools o' repentance in the hoose o' god. but my son saunders was readin' to me the ither nicht in a fule history buik, an' there it said that amang the papists they used to hae fowk that didna do as they did an' believe as they believed. sae wi' a lang white serk on, an' a can'le i' their hands, they set them up for the rabble fowk to clod at them, an' whiles they tied them to a bit stick an' set lunt [fire] to them--an that's the origin o' yer stool o' repentance. what say ye to that?" mrs. mowdiewort's lecture on church history was not at all appreciated by the session. the minister rose. "we will close this sederunt," he said; "we can mak' nocht o' these two. alexander mowdiewort, thou art removed from thy office of grave-digger in the parish kirkyard, and both thysel' and thy mother are put under suspension for contumacy!" "haith!" said elspeth mowdiewort, pushing back her hair; "did ye ever hear the mak' o' the craitur. i haena been within his kirk door for twenty year. it's a guid job that a body can aye gang doon to godly maister welsh, though he's an awfu' body to deave [deafen] ye wi' the shorter quastions." "an it's a guid thing," added saunders, "that there's a new cemetery a-makkin'. there's no room for anither dizzen in yer auld kailyaird onyway--an' that i'm tellin' ye. an' i'm promised the new job too. ye can howk yer ain graves yersel's." "fash na yer heid, saunders, aboot them," said the old betheral at the door; "it's me that's to be grave-digger, but ye shall howk them a' the same in the mornin', an' get the siller, for i'm far ower frail--ye can hae them a' by afore nine o'clock, an' the minister disna pu' up his bedroom blind till ten!" thus it was that saunders mowdiewort ended his connection with an erastian establishment, and became a true and complete member of the marrow kirk. his mother also attended with exemplary diligence, but she was much troubled with a toothache on the days of catechising, and never quite conquered her unruly member to the last. but this did not trouble herself much--only her neighbours. chapter xvii. when the kye comes hame. that night saunders went up over the hill again, dressed in his best. he was not a proud lover, and he did not take a rebuff amiss; besides, he had something to tell meg kissock. when he got to craig ronald, the girls were in the byre at the milking, and at every cow's tail there stood a young man, rompish ebie farrish at that at which jess was milking, and quiet jock forrest at meg's. ebie was joking and keeping up a fire of running comment with jess, whose dark-browed gipsy face and blue-black wisps of hair were set sideways towards him, with her cheek pressed upon lucky's side, as she sent the warm white milk from her nimble fingers, with a pleasant musical hissing sound against the sides of the milking-pail. farther up the byre, meg leaned her head against crummy and milked steadily. apparently she and jock forrest were not talking at all. jock looked down and only a quiver of the corner of his beard betrayed that he was speaking. meg, usually so outspoken and full of conversation, appeared to be silent; but really a series of short, low-toned sentences was being rapidly exchanged, so swiftly that no one, standing a couple of yards away, could have remarked the deft interchange. but as soon as saunders mowdiewort came to the door, jock forrest had dropped crummy's tail, and slipped silently out of the byre, even before meg got time to utter her usual salutation of-- "guid een to ye, cuif! hoo's a' the session?" it might have been the advent of meg's would-be sweetheart that frightened jock forrest away, or again he might have been in the act of going in any case. jock was a quiet man who walked sedately and took counsel of no one. he was seldom seen talking to any man, never to a woman--least of all to meg kissock. but when meg had many "lads" to see her in the evening, he could he observed to smile an inward smile in the depths of his yellow beard, and a queer subterranean chuckle pervaded his great body, so that on one occasion jess looked up, thinking that there were hens roosting in the baulks overhead. jess and ebie pursued their flirtation steadily and harmlessly, as she shifted down the byre as cow after cow was relieved of her richly perfumed load, rumbling and clinking neck chains, and munching in their head-stalls all the while. saunders and meg were as much alone as if they had been afloat on the bosom of loch grannoch. "ye are a bonny like man," said meg, "to tak' yer minny to speak for ye before the session. man, i wonder at ye. i wonder ye didna bring her to coort for ye?" "war ye ever afore the session, meg?" "me afore the session--ye're a fule man, but ye dinna ken what yer sayin'--gin i thocht ye did--" here meg became so violently agitated that flecky, suffering from the manner in which meg was doing her duty, kicked out, and nearly succeeded in overturning the milk-pail. meg's quickness with hand and knee foiled this intention, but flecky succeeded quite in planting the edge of her hoof directly on the cuif's shin-bone. saunders thereupon let go flecky's tail, who instantly switched it into meg's face with a crack like a whip. "ye great muckle senseless hullion!" exclaimed meg, "gin ye are nae use in the byre, gang oot till ye can learn to keep haud o' a coo's tail! ye hae nae mair sense than an eerishman!" there was a pause. the subject did not admit of discussion, though saunders was a cuif, he knew when to hold his tongue--at least on most occasions. "an' what brocht ye here the nicht, cuif?" asked meg, who, when she wanted information, knew how to ask it directly, a very rare feminine accomplishment. "to see you, meg, my dawtie," replied saunders, tenderly edging nearer. "yer what?" queried meg with asperity; "i thocht that ye had aneuch o' the session already for caa'in' honest fowk names; gin ye begin wi' me, ye'll get on the stool o' repentance o' yer ain accord, afore i hae dune wi' ye!" "but, meg, i hae telled ye afore that i am sair in need o' a wife. it's byordinar' [extraordinary] lonesome up in the hoose on the hill. an' i'm warned oot, meg, so that i'll look nae langer on the white stanes o' the kirkyaird." "gin ye want a wife, saunders, ye'll hae to look oot for a deef yin, for it's no ony or'nar' woman that could stand yer mither's tongue. na, saunders, it wad be like leevin' i' a corn-mill rinnin' withoot sheaves." "meg," said saunders, edging up cautiously, "i hae something to gie ye!" "aff wi' ye, cuif! i'll hae nae trokin' wi' lads i' the byre--na, there's a time for everything--especial wi' widowers, they're the warst o' a'--they ken ower muckle. my granny used to say, gin solomon couldna redd oot the way o' a man wi' a maid, what wad he hae made o' the way o' a weedower that's lookin' for his third?" chapter xviii. a daughter of the picts. the cuif put his hands in his pockets as if to keep them away from the dangerous temptation of touching meg. he stood with his shoulder against the wall and chewed a straw. "what's come o' maister peden thae days?" asked meg. "he's maist michty unsettled like," replied saunders, "he's for a' the world like a stirk wi' a horse cleg on him that he canna get at. he comes in an' sits doon at his desk, an' spreads oot his buiks, an' ye wad think that he's gaun to be at it the leevelang day. but afore ye hae time to turn roon' an' get at yer ain wark, the craitur'll be oot again an' awa' up to the hill wi' a buik aneath his oxter. then he rises early in the mornin', whilk is no a guid sign o' a learned man, as i judge. what for should a learned man rise afore his parritch is made? there maun be something sair wrang," said saunders mowdiewort. "muckle ye ken aboot learned men. i suppose, ye think because ye carry up the bible, that ye ken a' that's in't," returned meg, with a sneer of her voice that might have turned milk sour. the expression of the emotions is fine and positive in the kitchens of the farm towns of galloway. "swish, swish!" steadily the white streams of milk shot into the pails. "jangle, jangle!" went the steel head chains of the cows. occasionally, as jess and meg lifted their stools, they gave flecky or speckly a sound clap on the back with their hand or milking-pail, with the sharp command of "stan' aboot there!" "haud up!" "mind whaur yer comin'!" such expressions as these jess and meg could interject into the even tenor of their conversation, in a way that might have been disconcerting in dialogues conducted on other principles. but really the interruptions did not affect ebie farrish or any other of the byre-visiting young men, any more than the rattling of the chains, as flecky and speckly arranged their own business at the end devoted to imports. these sharp words of command were part of the nightly and morningly ceremony of the "milking" at every farm. the cans could no more froth with the white reaming milk without this accompaniment of slaps and adjurations than speckly, flecky, and the rest could take their slow, thoughtfully considerate, and sober way from the hill pastures into the yard without meg at the gate of the field to cry: "hurley, hurley, hie awa' hame!" to the cows themselves; and "come awa' bye wi' them, fetch them, roger!" to the short-haired collie, who knew so much better than to go near their flashing heels. the conversation in the byre proceeded somewhat in this way: jess was milking her last cow, with her head looking sideways at ebie, who stood plaiting marly's tail in a newfangled fashion he had brought from the low end of the parish, and which was just making its way among young men of taste. "aye, ye'll say so, nae doot," said jess, in reply to some pointed compliment of her admirer; "but i ken you fowk frae the laich end ower weel. ye hae practeesed a' that kind o' talk on the lasses doon there, or ye wadna be sae gleg [ready] wi't to me, ebie." this is an observation which shows that jess could not have eaten more effectively of the tree of knowledge, had she been born in mayfair. ebie laughed a laugh half of depreciation, half of pleasure, like a cat that has its back stroked and its tail pinched at the same time. "na, na, jess, it a' comes by natur'. i never likit a lassie afore i set my een on you," said ebie, which, to say the least of it, was curious, considering that he had an assortment of locks of hair--black, brown, and lint-white--up in the bottom of his "kist" in the stable loft where he slept. he kept them along with his whipcord and best sunday pocket knife, and sometimes he took a look at them when he had to move them in order to get his green necktie. "i never really likit a lass afore, jess, ye may believe me, for i wasna a lad to rin after them. but whenever i cam' to craig ronald i saw that i was dune for." "stan' back, ye muckle slabber!" said jess, suddenly and emphatically, in a voice that could have been heard a hundred yards away. speckly was pushing sideways against her as if to crowd her off her stool. "say ye sae, ebie?" she added, as if she had not previously spoken, in the low even voice in which she had spoken from the first, and which could be heard by ebie alone. in the country they conduct their love-making in water-tight compartments. and though ebie knew very well that the cuif was there, and may have suspected jock forrest, even after his apparent withdrawal, so long as they did not trouble him in his conversation with jess, he paid no heed to them, nor indeed they to him. no man is his brother's keeper when he goes to the byre to plait cows' tails. "but hoo div ye ken, or, raither, what gars ye think that ye're no the first that i hae likit, jess?" "oh, i ken fine," said jess, who was a woman of knowledge, and had her share of original sin. "but hoo div ye ken?" persisted ebie. "fine that," said jess, diplomatically. a daughter of the picts "but tell us, jess," said ebie, who was in high good humour at these fascinating accusations. "oh," said jess, with a quick gipsy look out of her fine dark eyes, "brawly i kenned on saturday nicht that yon wasna the first time ye had kissed a lass!" "jess," said ebie, "ye're a wunnerfu' woman!" which was his version of ralph's "you are a witch." in ebie's circle "witch" was too real a word to be lightly used, so he said "wunnerfu' woman." he went on looking critically at jess, as became so great a connoisseur of the sex. "i hae seen, maybes, bonnier faces, as ye micht say--" "haud aff, wi' ye there; mind whaur yer comin', ye muckle senseless nowt!" said jess to her ayrshire hornie, who had been treading on her toes. "as i was sayin', jess, i hae seen--" "can ye no unnerstan', ye senseless lump?" cried jess, warningly; "i'll knock the heid aff ye, gin ye dinna drap it!" still to hornie, of course. but the purblind theorist went on his way: "i hae seen bonnier faces, but no mair takin', jess, than yours. it's no aye beauty that tak's a man, jess, ye see, an' the lassies that hae dune best hae been plain-favoured lassies that had pleasant expressions--" "tell the rest to hornie gin ye like!" said jess, rising viciously and leaving ebie standing there dumfounded. he continued to hold hornie's tail for some time, as if he wished to give her some further information on the theory of beauty, as understood in the "laich" end of the parish. saunders saw him from afar, and cried out to him down the length of the byre, "are ye gaun to mak' a watch-guard o' that coo's tail, ebie?--ye look fell fond o't." "ye see what it is to be in love," said john scott, the herd, who had stolen to the door unperceived and so had marked ebie's discomfiture. "he disna ken the difference between jess hersel' an' hornie!" said the cuif, who was repaying old scores. chapter xix. at the barn end in a little while the cows were all milked. saunders was standing at the end of the barn, looking down the long valley of the grannoch water. there was a sweet coolness in the air, which he vaguely recognized by taking off his hat. "open the yett!" cried jess, from the byre door. saunders heard the clank and jangle of the neck chains of hornie and specky and the rest, as they fell from their necks, loosened by jess's hand. the sound grew fainter and fainter as jess proceeded to the top of the byre where marly stood soberly sedate and chewed her evening cud. now marly did not like jess, therefore meg always milked her; she would not, for some special reason of her own, "let doon her milk" when jess laid a finger on her. this night she only shook her head and pushed heavily against jess as she came. "hand up there, ye thrawn randy!" said jess in byre tones. and so very sulkily marly moved out, looking for meg right and left as she did so. she had her feelings as well as any one, and she was not the first who had been annoyed by the sly, mischievous gipsy with the black eyes, who kept so quiet before folk. as she went out of the byre door, jess laid her switch smartly across marly's loins, much to the loss of dignity of that stately animal, who, taking a hasty step, slipped on the threshold, and overtook her neighbours with a slow resentment gathering in her matronly breast. when saunders mowdiewort heard the last chain drop in the byre, and the strident tones of jess exhorting marly, he took a few steps to the gate of the hill pasture. he had to pass along a short home-made road, and over a low parapetless bridge constructed simply of four tree-trunks laid parallel and covered with turf. then he dropped the bars of the gate into the hill pasture with a clatter, which came to winsome's ears as she stood at her window looking out into the night. she was just thinking at that moment what a good thing it was that she had sent back ralph peden's poem. so, in order to see whether this were so or not, she repeated it all over again to herself. when he came back again to the end of the barn, saunders found jess standing there, with the wistful light in her eyes which that young woman of many accomplishments could summon into them as easily as she could smile. for jess was a minx--there is no denying the fact. yet even slow saunders admitted that, though she was nothing to meg, of course, still there was something original and attractive about her--like original sin. jess was standing with her head on one side, putting the scarlet head of a poppy among her black hair. jess had strange tastes, which would be called artistic nowadays in some circles. her liking was always bizarre and excellent, the taste of the primitive galloway pict from whom she was descended, or of that picturesque glenkens warrior, who set a rowan bush on his head on the morning when he was to lead the van at the battle of the standard. scotland was beaten on that great occasion, it is true; but have the chroniclers, who complain of the place of galloway men in the ranks, thought how much more terribly scotland might have been beaten had galloway not led the charge? but this is written just because jess kissock, a galloway farm lassie, looked something like a cast back to the primitive pict of the south, a fact which indeed concerns the story not at all, for saunders mowdiewort had not so much as ever heard of a pict. jess did not regard saunders mowdiewort highly at any time. he was one of meg's admirers, but after all he was a man, and one can never tell. it was for this reason that she put the scarlet poppy into her hair. she meditated "i maybe haena meg's looks to the notion o' some folk, but i mak' a heap better use o' the looks that i hae, an' that is a great maitter!" "saunders," said jess softly, going up to the cuif and pretending to pick a bit of heather off his courting coat. she did this with a caressing touch which soothed the widower, and made him wish that meg would do the like. he began to think that he had never properly valued jess. "is meg comin' oot again?" jess inquired casually, the scarlet poppy set among the blue-black raven's wings, and brushing his beard in a distracting manner. saunders would hare given a good deal to be able to reply in the affirmative, but meg had dismissed him curtly after the milking, with the intimation that it was time he was making manseward. as for her, she was going within doors to put the old folks to bed. after being satisfied on this point the manner of jess was decidedly soothing. that young woman had a theory which was not quite complimentary either to the sense or the incorruptibility of men. it was by showing an interest in them and making them think that they (or at least the one being operated upon) are the greatest and most fascinating persons under the sun, almost anything can be done. this theory has been acted upon with results good and bad, in other places besides the barn end of craig ronald. "they're a' weel at the manse?" said jess, tentatively. "on aye," said saunders, looking round the barn end to see if meg could see him. satisfied that meg was safe in bed, saunders put his hand on jess's shoulder--the sleek-haired, candle-greased deceiver that he was. "jess, ye're bonny," said he. "na, na," said jess, very demurely, "it's no me that's bonny--its meg!" jess was still looking at him, and interested in getting all the rough wool off the collar of his homespun coat. the samson of the graveyard felt his strength deserting him. "davert, jess lass, but it's a queer thing that it never cam across me that ye were bonny afore!" jess looked down. the cuif thought that it was because she was shy, and his easy heart went out to her; but had he seen the smile that was wasted on a hopping sparrow beneath, and especially the wicked look in the black eyes, he might have received some information as to the real sentiments of girls who put red poppies in their hair in order to meet their sisters' sweethearts at the barn end. "is the young minister aye bidin' at the manse?" asked jess. "aye, he is that!" said saunders, "he's a nice chiel' yon. ye'll see him whiles ower by here. they say--that is manse bell says-- that he's real fond o' yer young mistress here. ken ye ocht aboot that, jess?" "hoots, havers, our young mistress is no for penniless students, i wot weel. there'll be nocht in't, an' sae ye can tell bell o' the manse, gin you an' her is so chief [intimate]." "very likely ye're richt. there'll be nocht in't, i'm thinkin'--at least on her side. but what o' the young man? d'ye think he's sair ta'en up aboot mistress winsome? meg was sayin' so." "meg thinks there's naebody worth lookin' at in the warl' but hersel' and mistress winifred charteris, as she ca's hersel'; but there's ithers thinks different." "what hae ye against her, jess? i thocht that she's a fell fine young leddy." "oh she's richt eneuch, but there's bonny lasses as weel as her; an' maybe, gin young maister peden comes ower by to oraig eonald to see a lass nnkenned o' a'--what faut wad there be in that?" "then it's meg he comes to see, and no' the young mistress?" said the alarmed grave-digger. "maybes aye an' maybes no--there's bonny lasses forby meg kissock for them that hae gotten een in their heads." "wi' jess! is't yerself?" said saunders. jess was discreetly silent. "ye'll no tell onybody, wull ye, maister mowdiewort?" she said anxiously. to saunders this was a great deal better than being called a "cuif." "na, jess, lass, i'll no tell a soul--no yin." "no' even meg-mind!" repeated jess, who felt that this was a vital point. so saunders promised, though he had intended to do so on the first opportunity. "mind, if ye do, i'll never gie ye a hand wi' meg again as lang as i leeve!" said jess emphatically. "jess, d'ye think she likes me?" asked the widower in a hushed whisper. "saunders, i'm jnist sure o't," replied jess with great readiness. "but she's no yin o' the kind to let on." "na," groaned saunders, "i wuss to peace she was. but ye mind me that i gat a letter frae the young minister that i was to gie to meg. but as you're the yin he comes to see, i maun as weel gie't direct to yoursel'." "it wad be as weel," said jess, with a strange sort of sea-fire like moonshine in her eyes. saunders passed over a paper to her readily, and jess, with her hand still on his coat-collar, in a way that meg had never used, thanked him in her own way. "juist bide a wee," she said; "i'll be wi' ye in a minute!" jess hurried down into the old square-plotted garden, which ran up to the orchard trees. she soon found a moss-rose bush from which she selected a bud, round which the soft feathery envelope was just beginning to curl back. then she went round by the edge of the brook which keeps damp one side of the orchard, where she found some single stems of forget-me-nots, shining in the dusk like beaded turquoise. she pulled some from the bottom of the half-dry ditch, and setting the pale moss-rosebud in the middle, she bound the whole together with a striped yellow and green withe. then snipping the stacks with her pocket scissors, she brought the posy to saunders, with instructions to wrap it in a dock-leaf and never to let his hands touch it the whole way. saunders, dazed and fascinated, forgetful even of meg and loyalty, promised. the glamour of jess, the gypsy, was upon him. "but what am i to say," he asked. "say its frae her that he sent the letter to; he'll ken brawly that meg hadna the gumption to send him that!" said jess candidly. saunders said his good-night in a manner which would certainly have destroyed all his chances with meg had she witnessed the parting. then he stolidly tramped away down the loaning. jess called after him, struck with a sudden thought. "see that ye dinna gie it to him afore the minister." then she put her hands beneath her apron and walked home meditating. "to be a man is to be a fool," said jess kissock, putting her whole experience into a sentence. jess was a daughter of the cot; put then she was also a daughter of eve, who had not even so much as a cot. chapter xx. "dark-browed egypt." as soon as jess was by herself in the empty byre, to which she withdrew herself with the parcel which the faithful and trustworthy cuif had entrusted to her, she lit the lantern which always stood in the inside of one of the narrow triangular wickets that admitted light into the byre. sitting down on the small hay stall, she pulled the packet from her pocket, looked it carefully over, and read the simple address, "in care of margaret kissock." there was no other writing upon the outside. opening the envelope carefully, he let the light of the byre lantern rest on the missive. it was written in a delicate but strong handwriting--the hand of one accustomed to forming the smaller letters of ancient tongues into a current script. "to mistress winifred charteris," it ran. "dear lady: that i have offended you by the hastiness of my words and the unforgivable wilfulness of my actions, i know, but cannot forgive myself. yet, knowing the kindness of your disposition, i have thought that you might be better disposed to pardon me than i myself. for i need not tell you, what you already know, that the sight of you is dearer to me than the light of the morning. you are connected in my mind and heart with all that is best and loveliest. i need not tell now that i love you, for you know that i love the string of your bonnet. nor am i asking for anything in return, save only that you may know my heart and not be angry. this i send to ease its pain, for it has been crying out all night long, 'tell her-- tell her!' so i have risen early to write this. whether i shall send it or no, i cannot tell. there is no need, winsome, to answer it, if you will only let it fall into your heart and make no noise, as a drop of water falls into the sea. whether you will be angry or not i cannot tell, and, truth to tell you, sweetheart, i am far past caring. i am coming, as i said, to craig ronald to see your grandmother, and also, if you will, to see you. i shall not need you to tell me whether you are angered with a man's love or no; i shall know that before you speak to me. but keep a thought for one that loves you beyond all the world, and as if there were no world, and naught but god and you and him. for this time fare you well. ralph peden." jess turned it over with a curious look on her face. "aye, he has the grip o't, an' she micht get him gin she war as clever as jess kissock; but him that can love yin weel can lo'e anither better, an' i can keep them sindry [asunder]. i saw him first, an' he spak to me first. 'ye're no to think o' him,' said my mither. think o' him! i hae thocht o' nocht else. think of him! since when is thinkin' a crime? a lass maun juist do the best she can for hersel', be she cotman's dochter or laird's. love's a' yae thing-- kitchen or byre, but or ben. see a lad, lo'e a lad, get a lad, keep a lad! ralph peden will kiss me afore the year's oot," she said with determination. so in the corner of the byre, among the fragrant hay and fresh-cut clover, jess kissock the cottar's lass prophesied out of her wayward soul, baring her intentions to herself as perhaps her sister in boudoir hushed and perfumed might not have done. there are ishmaels also among women, whose hand is against every woman, and who stand for their own rights to the man on whom they have set their love; and the strange thing is, that such are by no means the worst of women either. stranger still, so strong and dividing to soul and marrow is a clearly defined purpose and determinately selfish, that such women do not often fail. and indeed jess kissock, sitting in the hay- neuk, with her candle in the lantern throwing patterns on the cobwebby walls from the tiny perforations all round, made a perfectly correct prophecy. ralph peden did indeed kiss her, and that of his own free will as his love of loves within a much shorter space of time than a year. strangely also, jess the gipsy, the dark-browed pictess, was neither angry nor jealous when she read ralph's letter to winsome. according to all rules she ought to have been. she even tried to persuade herself that she was. but the sight of ralph writing to winsome gave no pang to her heart. nor did this argue that she did not love really and passionately. she did; but jess had in her the napoleon instinct. she loved obstacles. so thus it was what she communed with herself, sitting with her hand on her brow, and her swarthy tangle of hair falling all about her face. all women have a pose in which they look best. jess looked best leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. had there been a fender at her father's fireside jess would have often sat on it, for there is a dangerous species of girl that, like a cat, looks best sitting on a fender. and such a girl is always aware of the circumstance. "he has written to winsome," jess communed with herself. "well, he shall write to me. he loves her, he thinks; then in time he shall love me, and be sure perfectly o't. let me see. gin she had gotten this letter, she wadna hae answered it. so he'll come the morn, an' he'll no say a word to her aboot the letter. na, he'll juist look if she's pleased like, and gin that gomeral saunders gied him the rose, he'll no be ill to please eyther! but afore he gangs hame he shall see jess kissock, an' hear frae her aboot the young man frae the castle!" jess took another look at the letter." it's a bonny hand o' write," she said, "but dominie cairnochan learned me to write as weel as onybody, an' some day he'll write to me. i'se no be byre lass a' my life. certes no. there's oor meg, noo; she'll mairry some ignorant landward man, an' leeve a' her life in a cot hoose, wi' a dizzen weans tum'lin' aboot her! what yin canna learn, anither can," continued jess. "i hae listened to graun' fowk speakin', an' i can speak as weel as onybody. i'll disgrace nane. gin i canna mak' mysel' fit for kirk or manse, my name's no jess kissock. i'm nae country lump, to be left where i'm set doon, like a milkin' creepie [stool], an' kickit ower when they are dune wi' me." it is of such women, born to the full power and passion of sex, and with all the delicate keenness of the feminine brain, utterly without principle or scruple, that the cleopatras are made. for black-browed egypt, the serpent of old nile, can sit in a country byre, and read a letter to another woman. for cleopatra is not history; she is type. chapter xxi. the return of ebie farrish. now ebie farrish had been over at the nether crae seeing the lassies there in a friendly way after the scene in the byre, for galloway ploughmen were the most general of lovers. ebie considered it therefore no disloyalty to jess that he would display his watch-guard and other accomplishments to the young maids at the crae. nor indeed would jess herself have so considered it. it was only meg who was so particular that she did not allow such little practice excursions of this kind on the part of her young men. when ebie started to go home, it was just midnight. as he came over the grannoch bridge he saw the stars reflected in the water, and the long stretches of the loch glimmering pearl grey in the faint starlight and the late twilight. he thought they looked as if they were running down hill. his thoughts and doings that day and night had been earthly enough. he had no regrets and few aspirations. but the coolness of the twilight gave him the sense of being a better man than he knew himself to be. ebie went to sit under the ministrations of the reverend erasmus teends at twelve by the clock on sunday. he was a regular attendant. he always was spruce in his sunday blacks. he placed himself in the hard pews so that he could have a view of his flame for the time being. as he listened to the minister he thought sometimes of her and of his work, and of the turnip-hoeing on the morrow, but oftenest of jess, who went to the marrow kirk over the hills. he thought of the rise of ten shillings that he would ask at the next half- year's term, all as a matter of course--just as robert jamieson the large farmer, thought of the rent day and the market ordinary, and bringing home the "muckle greybeard "full of excellent glenlivat from the cross keys on wednesday. above them both the reverend erasmus teends droned and drowsed, as jess kissock said with her faculty for expression, "bummelin' awa like a bubbly-jock or a bum-bee in a bottle." but coming home in the coolness of this night, the ploughman was, for the time being, purged of the grosser humours which come naturally to strong, coarse natures, with physical frames ramping with youth and good feeding. he stood long looking into the lane water, which glided beneath the bridge and away down to the dee without a sound. he saw where, on the broad bosom of the loch, the stillness lay grey and smooth like glimmering steel, with little puffs of night wind purling across it, and disappearing like breath from a new knife-blade. he saw where the smooth satin plane rippled to the first water-break, as the stream collected itself, deep and black, with the force of the water behind it, to flow beneath the bridge. when ebie farrish came to the bridge he was a material galloway ploughman, satisfied with his night's conquests and chewing the cud of their memory. he looked over. he saw the stars, which were perfectly reflected a hundred yards away on the smooth expanse, first waver, then tremble, and lastly break into a myriad delicate shafts of light, as the water quickened and gathered. he spat in the water, and thought of trout for breakfast. but the long roar of the rapids of the dee came over the hill, and a feeling of stillness with it, weird and remote. uncertain lights shot hither and thither under the bridge, in strange gleams of reflection. the ploughman was awed. he continued to gaze. the stillness closed in upon him. the aromatic breath of the pines seemed to cool him and remove him from himself. he had a sense that it was sabbath morning, and that he had just washed his face to go to church. it was the nearest thing to worship he had ever known. such moments come to the most material, and are their theology. far off a solitary bird whooped and whinnied. it sounded mysterious and unknown, the cry of a lost soul. ebie farrish wondered where he would go to when he died. he thought this over for a little, and then he concluded that it were better not to dwell on this subject. but the crying on the lonely hills awed him. it was only a jack snipe from whose belated nest an owl had stolen two eggs. but it was ebie farrish's good angel. he resolved that he would go seldomer to the village public o' nights, and that he would no more find cakes and ale sweet to his palate. it was a foregone conclusion that on saturday night he would be there, yet what he heard and saw on grannoch bridge opened his sluggish eyes. of a truth there was that in the world which had not been there for him before. it is to jess kissock's credit, that when ebie was most impressed by the stillness and most under the spell of the night, he thought of her. he was only an ignorant, godless, good-natured man, who was no more moral than he could help; but it is both a testimonial and a compliment when such a man thinks of a woman in his best and most solemn moments. at that moment jess kissock was putting winsome charteris's letter into her pocket. there is no doubt that poor, ignorant ebie, with his highly developed body and the unrestrained and irregular propensities of his rudimentary soul, was nearer the almighty that night than his keen-witted and scheming sweetheart. a trout leaped in the calm water, and ebie stopped thinking of the eternities to remember where he had set a line. far off a cock crew, and the well-known sound warned ebie that he had better be drawing near his bed. he raised himself from the copestone of the parapet, and solemnly tramped his steady way up to the "onstead" of craig ronald, which took shape before him as he advanced like a low, grey-bastioned castle. as he entered the low square on his way across to the stable door he was surprised to notice a gleam of light in the byre. ebie thought that some tramps were trespassing on the good nature of the mistress of the house, and he had the feeling of loyalty to his master's interests which distinguished the galloway ploughman of an older time. he was mortally afraid of bogles, and would not have crossed the kirkyard after the glimmer of midnight without seeing a dozen corpse- candles; but tramps were quite another matter, for ebie was not in the least afraid of mortal man--except only of allan welsh, the marrow minister. so he stole on tiptoe to the byre door, circumnavigating the "wicket," which poured across the yard its tell-tale plank of light. standing within the doorway and looking over the high wooden stall, tenanted in winter by jock, the shaggy black bull, ebie saw jess kissock, lost in her dreams. the lantern was set on the floor in front of her. the candle had nearly burned down to the socket. jess's eyes were large and brilliant. it seemed to ebie farrish that they were shining with light. her red lips were pouted, and there was a warm, unwonted flush on her cheeks. in her dreams she was already mistress of a house, and considering how she would treat her servants. she would treat them kindly and well. she had heard her sister, who was servant at earlston, tell how the ladies there treated their servants. jess meant to do just the same. she meant to be a real lady. ambition in a woman has a double chance, for adaptation is inborn along with it. most men do not succeed very remarkably in anything, because at heart they do not believe in themselves. jess did. it was her heritage from some pict, who held back under the covert of his native woods so long as the roman tortoise crept along, shelved in iron, but who drave headlong into a gap with all his men, when, some accident of formation showed the one chance given in a long day's march. ebie thought he had never seen jess so beautiful. it had never struck him before that jess was really handsomer than meg. he only knew that there was a stinging wild-fruit fragrance about jess and her rare favours he had never experienced in the company of any other woman. and he had a large experience. was it possible that she knew that he was out and was waiting for him? in this thought, which slowly entered in upon his astonishment, the natural ebie forced himself to the front. "jess!" he exclaimed impulsively, taking a step within, the door. instantly, as though some night-flying bat had flown against it, the candle went out--a breath wafted by him as lightly and as silently as a snowy owl flies home in the twilight. a subtle something, the influence of a presence, remained, which mingled strangely with the odours of the clover in the neuk, and the sour night-smell of the byre. again there was a perfect silence. without, a corncrake ground monotonously. a rat scurried along the rafter. ebie in the silence and the darkness had almost persuaded himself that he had been dreaming, when his foot clattered against something which fell over on the cobble-stones that paved the byre. he stopped and picked it up. it was the byre lantern. the wick was still glowing crimson when he opened the little tin door. as he looked it drew slowly upward into a red star, and winked itself out. it was no dream. jess had been in the byre. to meet whom? he asked himself. ebie went thoughtfully up-stairs, climbing the stable ladder as the first twilight of the dawn was slowly pouring up from beneath into a lake of light and colour in the east, as water gushes from a strong well-eye. "ye're a nice boy comin' to yer bed at this time o' the mornin'," said jock forrest from his bunk at the other side. "nicht-wanderin' bairns needs skelpin'!" remarked jock gordon, who had taken up his abode in a vacant stall beneath. "sleep yer ain sleeps, ye pair o' draft-sacks, in yer beds," answered ebie farrish without heat and simply as a conversational counter. he did not know that he was quoting the earliest english classic. he had never heard of chaucer. "what wad jess say?" continued jock forrest, sleepily. "ask her," said ebie sharply. "at any rate, i'm no gaun to be disturbit in my nicht's rest wi' the like o' you, ebie farrish! ye'll eyther come hame in time o' nicht, or ye'll sleep elsewhere--up at the crae, gin ye like." "mind yer ain business," retorted ebie, who could think of nothing else to say. down below daft jock gordon, with some dim appropriateness was beginning his elricht croon of-- "the devil sat on his ain lum-tap, hech how--black and reeky--" when jock forrest, out of all patience, cried out down to him: "jock gordon, gin ye begin yer noise at twa o'clock i' the mornin' i'll come down an' pit ye i' the mill-dam!" "maybes ye'll be cryin' for me to pit you i' the mill-dam some warm day!" said jock gordon grimly, "but i'se do naething o' the kind. i'll een bank up the fires an' gie ye a turn till ye're weel brandered. ye'll girn for mill-dams then, i'm thinkin'!" so, grumbling and threatening in his well-accustomed manner, jock gordon returned to the wakeful silence which he kept during the hours usually given to sleep. it was said, however, that he never really slept. indeed, ebie and jock were ready to take their oath that they never went up and down that wooden ladder, from which three of the rounds were missing, without seeing jock gordon's eyes shining like a cat's out of the dark of the manger where, like an ape, he sat all night cross-legged. chaptek xxii. a scarlet poppy. it was early afternoon at craig ronald. afternoon is quite a different time from morning at a farm. afternoon is slack-water in the duties of the house, at least for the womenfolk--except in hay and harvest, when it is full flood tide all the time, night and day. but when we consider that the life of a farm town begins about four in the morning, it will be readily seen that afternoon comes far on in the day indeed for such as have tasted the freshness of the morning. in the morning, winsome had seen that every part of her farm machinery was going upon well-oiled wheels. she had consulted her honorary factor, who, though a middle-aged man and a bachelor of long and honourable standing, enrolled himself openly and avowedly in the army of winsome's admirers. he used to ask every day what additions had been made to the list of her conquests, and took much interest in the details of her costume. this last she mostly devised for herself with taste which was really a gift natural to her, but which seemed nothing less than miraculous to the maidens and wives of a parish which had its dressmaking done according to the canons of an art which the misses crumbcloth, mantua-makers at the dullarg village, had learned twenty-five years before, once for all. now it was afternoon, and winsome was once more at the bake-board. there were few things that winsome liked better to do, and she daily tried the beauty of her complexion before the open fireplace, though her grandmother ineffectually suggested that meg kissock would do just as well. while winsome was rubbing her hands with dry meal, before beginning, she became conscious that some one was coming up the drive. so she was not at all astonished when a loud knock in the stillness of the afternoon echoed through the empty house and far down the stone passages. it was ralph peden who knocked, as indeed she did not need to tell herself. she called, however, to meg kissock. "meg," she said, "there is the young minister come to see my grandmother. go and show him into the parlour." meg looked at her mistress. her reply was irrelevant. "i was born on a friday," she said. but notwithstanding she went, and received the young man. she took him into the parlour, where he was set down among strange voluted foreign shells with a pink flush within the wide mouth of every one of them. here there was a scent of lavender and subtle essences in the air, and a great stillness. while he sat waiting, he could hear afar off the sound of rippling water. it struck a little chill over him that, after the letter he had sent, winsome should not have come to greet him herself. from this he argued the worst. she might be offended, or--still more fatal thought--she and meg might be laughing over it together. a tall, slim girl entered the quiet parlour with a silent, catlike tread. she was at his side before he knew it. it was the girl whom he had met on his way to the manse the first day of his arrival. jess's experience as a maid to her ladyship has stood her in good stead. she had a fineness of build which even the housework of a farm could not coarsen. besides, winsome considered jess delicate, and did not allow her to lift anything really heavy. so it happened that when ralph peden came jess was putting the fresh flowers in the great bowls of low relief chinaware--roses from the garden and sprays of white hawthorn, which flowers late in galloway, blue hyacinths and harebells massed together--yellow marigolds and glorious scarlet poppies, of which jess with her taste of the savage was passionately fond. she had arranged some of these against a pale blue background of bunches of forget-me- nots, with an effect strangely striking in that cool, dusky room. when jess came in ralph had risen instinctively. he shook hands heartily with her. as she looked up at him, she said: "do you remember me?" ralph replied with an eager frankness, all the more marked that he had expected winsome instead of jess kissock: "indeed, how could i forget, when you helped me to carry my books that night? i am glad to find you here. i had no idea that you lived here." which was indeed true, for he had not yet been able to grasp the idea that any but winsome lived at craig ronald. jess kissock, who knew that not many moments were hers before meg might come in, replied: "i am here to help with the house. meg kissock is my sister." she looked to see if there was anything in ralph's eyes she could resent; but a son of the marrow kirk had not been trained to respect of persons. "i am sure you will help very much," he said, politely. "i'm not as strong as my sister, you see, so that i'm generally in the house," said jess, who was carrying two dishes of flowers at once across the room. at ralph's feet one of them overset, and poured all its wealth of blue and white and splashed crimson over the floor. jess stooped to lift them, crying shame on her own awkwardness. ralph kindly assisted her. as they stooped to gather them together, jess put forward all her attractions. her lithe grace never showed to more advantage. yet, for all the impression she made on ralph, she might as well have wasted her sweetness on jock gordon--indeed, better so, for jock recognized in her something strangely kin to his own wayward spirit. when the flowers were all gathered and put back: "now you shall have one for helping," said jess, as she had once seen a lady in england do, and she selected a dark-red, velvety damask rose from the wealth which she had cut and brought out of the garden. standing on tiptoe, she could scarcely reach his button-hole. "bend down," she said. obediently ralph bent, good-humouredly patient, to please this girl who had done him a good turn on that day which now seemed so far away--the day that had brought craig ronald and winsome into his life. but in spite of his stooping, jess had some difficulty in pinning in the rose, and in order to steady herself on tiptoe, she reached up and laid a staying hand on his shoulder. as he bent down, his face just touched the crisp fringes of her dark hair, which seemed a strange thing to him. but a sense of another presence in the room caused him to raise his eyes, and there in the doorway stood winsome charteris, looking so pale and cold that she seemed to be a thousand miles away. "i bid you good-afternoon, master peden," said winsome quietly; "i am glad you have had time to come and visit my grandmother. she will be glad to see you." for some moments ralph had no words to answer. as for jess, she did not even colour; she simply withdrew with the quickness and feline grace which were characteristic of her, without a flush or a tremor. it was not on such occasions that her heart stirred. when she was gone she felt that things had gone well, even beyond her expectation. when ralph at last found his voice, he said somewhat falteringly, yet with a ring of honesty in his voice which for the time being was lost upon winsome: "you are not angry with me for coming to-day. you knew i would come, did you not?" winsome only said: "my grandmother is waiting for me. you had better go in at once." "winsome," said ralph, trying to prolong the period of his converse with her, "you are not angry with me for writing what i did?" winsome thought that he was referring to the poem which had come to her by way of manse bell and saunders mowdiewort. she was indignant that he should try to turn the tables upon her and so make her feel guilty. "i received nothing that i had any right to keep," she said. ralph was silent. the blow was a complete one. she did not wish him to write to her any more or to speak to her on the old terms of friendship. he thought wholly of the letter that he had sent by saunders the day before, and her coldness and changed attitude were set down by him to that cause, and not to the embarrassing position in which winsome had surprised him when she came into the flower-strewn parlour. he did not know that the one thing a woman never really forgives is a false position, and that even the best of women in such cases think the most unjust things. winsome moved towards the inner door of her grandmother's room. ralph put out his hand as if to touch hers, but winsome withdrew herself with a swift, fierce movement, and held the door open for him to pass in. he had no alternative but to obey. chapter xxiii. concerning john bairdieson. "guid e'en to ye, maister ralph," said the gay old lady within, as soon as she caught sight of ralph. "keep up yer heid, man, an' walk like a gilchrist. ye look as dowie as a yow [ewe] that has lost her lammie." walter skirving from his arm-chair gave this time no look of recognition. he yielded his hand to ralph, who raised it clay- chill and heavy even in the act to shake. when he let it drop, the old man held up his palm and looked at it. "hae ye gotten aneuch guid gallawa' lear to learn ye no to rin awa frae a bonny lass yet, maister ralph?" said the old lady briskly. she had not many jokes save with winsome and meg, and she rode one hard when she came by it. but no reply was needed. "aye, aye, weelna," meditated the old lady, leaning back and folding her hands like a mediaeval saint of worldly tendencies, "tell me aboot your faither." "he is very robust and strong in health of body," said kalph. "ye leeve in edinbra'?" said the old lady, with a rising inflection of inquiry. "yes," said ralph, "we live in james's court. my father likes to be among his people." "faith na, a hantle o' braw folk hae leeved in james's court in their time. i mind o' the leddy partan an' mistress girnigo, the king's jeweller's wife haein' a fair even-doon fecht a' aboot wha was to hae the pick o' the hooses on the stair.--winifred, ma lassie, come here an' sit doon! dinna gang flichterin' in an' oot, but bide still an' listen to what maister peden has to tell us aboot his farther." winsome came somewhat slowly and reluctantly towards the side of her grandmother's chair. there she sat holding her hand, and looking across the room towards the window where, motionless and abstracted, walter skirving, who was once so bold and strong, dreamed his life away. "i hardly know what to tell you first," said ralph, hesitatingly. "hoot, tell me gin your faither and you bide thegither withoot ony woman body, did i no hear that yince; is that the case na?" demanded the lady of craig ronald with astonishing directness. "it is true enough," said ralph, smiling, "but then we have with us my father's old minister's man, john bairdieson. john has us both in hands and keeps us under fine. he was once a sailor, and cook on a vessel in his wild days; but when he was converted by falling from the top of a main yard into a dock (as he tells himself), he took the faith in a somewhat extreme form. but that does not affect his cooking. he is as good as a woman in a house." "an' that's a lee," said the old lady. "the best man's no as guid as the warst woman in a hoose!" winsome did not appear to be listening. of what interest could such things be to her? her grandmother was by no means satisfied with ralph's report. "but that's nae christian way for folk to leeve, withoot a woman o' ony kind i' the hoose--it's hardly human!" "but i can assure you, mistress skirving, that, in spite of what you say, john bairdieson does very well for us. he is, however, terribly jealous of women coming about. he does not allow one of them within the doors. he regards them fixedly through the keyhole before opening, and when he does open, his usual greeting to them is, 'noo get yer message dune an' be gaun!'" the lady of craig ronald laughed a hearty laugh. "gin i cam' to veesit ye i wad learn him mainners! but what does he do," she continued, "when some of the dames of good standing in the congregation call on your faither? does he treat them in this cavalier way?" "in that case," said ralph, "john listens at my father's door to hear if he is stirring. if there be no sign, john says, 'the minister's no in, mem, an' i could not say for certain when he wull be!' once my father came out and caught him in the act, and when he charged john with telling a deliberate lie to a lady, john replied, 'a'weel, it'll tak' a lang while afore we mak' up for the aipple!'" it is believed that john bairdieson here refers to eve's fatal gift to adam. "john bairdieson is an ungallant man. it'll be from him that ye learned to rin awa'," retorted the old lady. "grandmother," interrupted winsome, who had suffered quite enough from this, "master peden has come to see you, and to ask how you find yourself to-day." "aye, aye, belike, belike--but maister ralph peden has the power o' his tongue, an' gin that be his errand he can say as muckle for himsel'. young fowk are whiles rale offcecious!" she said, turning to ralph with the air of an appeal to an equal from the unaccountabilities of a child. winsome lifted some stray flowers that jess kissock had dropped when she sped out of the room, and threw them out of the window with an air of disdain. this to some extent relieved her, and she felt better. it surprised ralph, however, who, being wholly innocent and unembarrassed by the recent occurrence, wondered vaguely why she did it. "noo tell me mair aboot your faither," continued mistress skirving. "i canna mak' oot whaur the marrow pairt o' ye comes in --i suppose when ye tak' to rinnin' awa'." "grandmammy, your pillows are not comfortable; let me sort them for you." winsome rose and touched the old lady's surroundings in a manner that to ralph was suggestive of angels turning over the white- bosomed clouds. then ralph looked at his pleasant querist to find out if he were expected to go on. the old lady nodded to him with an affectionate look. "well," said ralph, "my father is like nobody else. i have missed my mother, of course, but my father has been like a mother for tenderness to me." "yer grandfaither, auld ralph gilchrist, was sore missed. there was thanksgiving in the parish for three days after he died!" said the old lady by way of an anticlimax. winsome looked very much as if she wished to say something, which brought down her grandmother's wrath upon her. "noo, lassie, is't you or me that's haein' a veesit frae this young man? ye telled me juist the noo that he had come to see me. then juist let us caa' oor cracks, an' say oor says in peace." thus admonished, winsome was silent. but for the first time she looked at ralph with a smile that had half an understanding in it, which made that yonng man's heart leap. he answered quite at random for the next few moments. "about my father--yes, he always takes up the bibles when john bairdieson preaches." "what!" said the old lady. "i mean, john bairdieson takes up the bibles for him when he preaches, and as he shuts the door, john says over the railing in a whisper,'noo, dinna be losin' the psalms, as ye did this day three weeks'; or perhaps,'be canny on this side o' the poopit; the hinge is juist pitten on wi' potty [putty];' whiles john will walk half-way down the kirk, and then turn to see if my father has sat quietly down according to instructions. this john has always done since the day when some inward communing overcame my father before he began his sermon, and he stood up in the pulpit without saying a word till the people thought that he was in direct communion with the almighty." "there was nane o' thae fine abstractions aboot your grandfaither, ralph gilchrist--na, whiles he was taen sae that he couldna speak he was that mad, an' aye he gat redder an' redder i' the face, till yince he gat vent, and then the ill words ran frae him like the skyreburn [footnote: a galloway mountain stream noted for sudden floods.] in spate." "what else did john bairdieson say to yer faither?" asked winsome, for the first time that day speaking humanly to ralph. that young man looked gratefully at her, as if she had suddenly dowered him with a fortune. then he paused to try (because he was very young and foolish) to account for the unaccountability of womankind. he endeavoured to recollect what it was that he had said and what john bairdieson had said, but with indifferent success. he could not remember what he was talking about. "john bairdieson said--john bairdieson said--it has clean gone out of my mind what john bairdieson said," replied ralph with much shamefacedness. the old lady looked at him approvingly. "ye're no a whig. there's guid bluid in ye," she said, irrelevantly. "yes, i do remember now," broke in ralph eagerly. "i remember what john bairdieson said. 'sit doon, minister,' he said, 'gin yer ready to flee up to the blue bauks'" [rafters--said of hens going to rest at nights]; "'there's a heap o' folk in this congregation that's no juist sae ready yet.'" ralph saw that winsome and her grandmother were both genuinely interested in his father. "ye maun mind that i yince kenned yer faither as weel as e'er i kenned a son o' mine, though it's mony an' mony a year sin' he was i' this hoose." winsome looked curiously at her grandmother. "aye, lassie," she said, "ye may look an' look, but the faither o' him there cam as near to bein' your ain faither--" walter skirving, swathed in his chair, turned his solemn and awful face from the window, as though called back to life by his wife's words. "silence, woman!" he thundered. but mistress skirving did not look in the least put out; only she was discreetly silent for a minute or two after her husband had spoken, as was her wont, and then she proceeded: "aye, brawly i kenned gilbert peden, when he used to come in at that door, wi' his black curls ower his broo as crisp an' bonny as his son's the day." winsome looked at the door with an air of interest. "did he come to see you, grandmammy?" she asked. "aye, aye, what else?--juist as muckle as this young man here comes to see me. i had the word o' baith o' them for't. ralph peden says that he comes to see me, an' sae did the faither o' him--" again mistress skirving paused, for she was aware that her husband had turned on her one of his silent looks. "drive on aboot yer faither an' john rorrison," she said; "it's verra entertainin'." "bairdieson," said winsome, correctingly. ralph, now reassured that he was interesting winsome as well, went on more briskly. winsome had slipped down beside her grandmother, and had laid her arm across her grandmother's knees till the full curve of her breast touched the spare outlines of the elder woman. ralph wondered if winsome would ever in the years to come be like her grandmother. he thought that he could love her a thousand times more then. "my father," said ralph, "is a man much beloved by his congregation, for he is a very father to them in all their troubles; but they give him a kind of adoration in return that would not be good for any other kind of man except my father. they think him no less than infallible. 'dinna mak' a god o' yer minister,' he tells them, but they do it all the same." winsome looked as if she did not wonder. "when i kenned yer faither," said the old dame, "he wad hae been nocht the waur o' a pickle mair o' the auld adam in him. it's a rale usefu' commodity in this life--" "why, grandmother--" began winsome. "noo, lassie, wull ye haud yer tongue? i'm sair deeved wi' the din o' ye! is there ony yae thing that a body may say withoot bern' interruptit? gin it's no you wi' yer 'grandmither!' like a cheepin' mavis, it's him ower by lookin' as if ye had dung doon the bible an' selled yersel' to sawtan. i never was in sic a hoose. a body canna get their tongue rinnin' easy an' comfortable like, but it's 'woman, silence!' in a yoice as graund an' awfu' as 'the lord said unto moses'--or else you wi' yer englishy peepin' tongue, 'gran'mither!' as terrible shockit like as if a body were gaun intil the kirk on sabbath wi' their stockin's doon aboot their ankles!" the little outburst seemed mightily to relieve the old lady. neither of the guilty persons made any signs, save that winsome extended her elbow across her grandmother's knee, and poised a dimpled chin on her hand, smiling as placidly and contentedly as if her relative's words had been an outburst of admiration. the old woman looked sternly at her for a moment. then she relented, and her hand stole among the girl's clustering curls. the little burst of temper gave way to a semi-humorous look of feigned sternness. "ye're a thankless madam," she said, shaking her white-capped head; "maybe ye think that the fifth commandment says nocht aboot grandmithers; but ye'll be tamed some day, my woman. mony's the gamesome an' hellicat [madcap] lassie that i hae seen brocht to hersel', an' her wings clippit like a sea-gull's i' the yaird, tethered by the fit wi' a family o' ten or a dizzen--" winsome rose and marched out of the room with all the dignity of offended youth at the suggestion. the old lady laughed a hearty laugh, in which, however, ralph did not join. "sae fine an' englishy the ways o' folk noo," she went on; "ye mauna say this, ye mauna mention that; dear sirse me, i canna mind them a'. i'm ower auld a pussy bawdrous to learn new tricks o' sayin' 'miauw' to the kittlins. but for a' that an' a' that, i haena noticed that the young folk are mair particular aboot what they do nor they waur fifty years since. na, but they're that nice they manna say this and they canna hear that." the old lady had got so far when by the sound of retreating footsteps she judged that winsome was out of hearing. instantly she changed her tone. "but, young man," she said, shaking her finger at him as if she expected a contradiction, "mind you, there's no a lass i' twunty parishes like this lassie o' mine. an' dinna think that me an' my guidman dinna ken brawly what's bringin' ye to craig ronald. noo, it's richt an' better nor richt--for ye're yer faither's son, an' we baith wuss ye weel. but mind you that there's sorrow comin' to us a'. him an' me here has had oor sorrows i' the past, deep buried for mair nor twenty year." "i thank you with all my heart," said ralph, earnestly. "i need not tell you, after what i have said, that i would lay my life down as a very little thing to pleasure winsome charteris. i love her as i never thought that woman could be loved, and i am not the kind to change." "the faither o' ye didna change, though his faither garred him mairry a gilchrist-an' a guid bit lass she was. but for a' that he didna change. na, weel do i ken that he didna change." "but," continued ralph, "i have no reason in the world to imagine that winsome thinks a thought about me. on the contrary, i have some reason to fear that she dislikes my person; and i would not be troublesome to her--" "hoot toot! laddie, dinna let the whig bluid mak' a pulin' bairn o' ye. surely ye dinna expect a lass o' speerit to jump at the thocht o' ye, or drap intil yer moo' like a black-ripe cherry aff a tree i' the orchard. gae wa' wi' ye, man! what does a blithe young man o' mettle want wi' encouragement--encouragement, fie!" "perhaps you can tell me--" faltered ralph. "i thought--" "na, na, i can tell ye naething; ye maun juist find oot for yersel', as a young man should. only this i wull say, it's only a cauldrife whigamore that wad tak' 'no' for an answer. mind ye that gin the forbears o' the daddy o' ye was on the wrang side o' bothwell brig that day--an' guid westland bluid they spilt, nae doot, whigs though they waur--there's that in ye that rode doon the west port wi' clavers, an' cried: 'up wi' the bonnets o' bonny dundee!'" "i know," said ralph with some of the stiff sententiousness which he had not yet got rid of, "that i am not worthy of your granddaughter in any respect--" "my certes, no," said the sharp-witted dame, "for ye're a man, an' it's a guid blessin' that you men dinna get your deserts, or it wad be a puir lookoot for the next generation, young man. gae wa' wi' ye, man; mind ye, i'll no' say a word in yer favour, but raither the ither way--whilk," smiled mistress skirving in the deep still way that she sometimes had in the midst of her liveliness, "whilk will maybe do ye mair guid. but i'm speakin' for my guid-man when i say that ye hae oor best guid-wull. we think that ye are a true man, as yer faither was, though sorely he was used by this hoose. it wad maybes be some amends," she added, as if to herself. then the dear old lady touched her eyes with a fine handkerchief which she took out of a little black reticule basket on the table by her side. as ralph rose reverently and kissed her hand before retiring, walter skirving motioned him near his chair. then he drew him downward till ralph was bending on one knee. he laid a nerveless heavy hand on the young man's head, and looked for a minute--which seemed years to ralph--very fixedly on his eyes. then dropping his hand and turning to the window, he drew a long, heavy breath. ralph peden rose and went out. chapter xxiv. legitimate sport. as ralph peden went through the flower-decked parlour in which he had met jess kissock an hour before, he heard the clang of controversy, or perhaps it is more correct to say, he heard the voice of meg kissock raised to its extreme pitch of command. "certes, my lass, but ye'll no hoodwink me; ye hae dune no yae thing this hale mornin' but wander athort [about] the hoose wi' that basket o' flooers. come you an' gie us a hand wi' the kirn this meenit! ye dinna gang a step oot o' the hoose the day!" ralph did not think of it particularly at the time, but it was probably owing to this utilitarian occupation that he did not again see the attractive jess on his way out. for, with all her cleverness, jess was afraid of meg. ralph passed through the yard to the gate which led to the hill. he was wonderfully comforted in heart, and though winsome had been alternatively cold and kind, he was too new in the ways of girls to be uplifted on that account, as a more experienced man might have been. still, the interview with the old people had done him good. as he was crossing the brook which flows partly over and partly under the road at the horse watering-place, he looked down into the dell among the tangles of birch and the thick viscous foliage of the green-berried elder. there he caught the flash of a light dress, and as he climbed the opposite grassy bank on his way to the village, he saw immediately beneath him the maiden of his dreams and his love-verses. now she leaped merrily from stone to stone; now she bent stealthily over till her palms came together in the water; now she paused to dash her hair back from her flushed face. and all the time the water glimmered and sparkled about her feet. with her was andra kissock, a bare-legged, bonnetless squire of dames. sometimes he pursued the wily burn trout with relentless ferocity and the silent intentness of a sleuthhound. often, however, he would pause and with his finger indicate some favourite stone to winsome. then the young lady, utterly forgetful of all else and with tremulous eagerness, delicately circumvented the red-spotted beauties. once throwing her head back to clear the tumbling avalanches of her hair, she chanced to see ralph standing silent above. for a moment winsome was annoyed. she had gone to the hill brook with andra so that she might not need to speak further with ralph peden, and here he had followed her. but it did not need a second look to show her that he was infinitely more embarrassed than she. this is the thing of all others which is fitted to make a woman calm and collected. it allows her to take the measure of her opportunity and assures her of her superiority. so, with a gay and quipsome wave of the hand, in which ralph was conscious of some faint resemblance to her grandmother, she called to him: "come down and help us to catch some trout for supper." ralph descended, digging his heels determinedly into the steep bank, till he found himself in the bed of the streamlet. then he looked at winsome for an explanation. this was something he had not practised in the water of leith. andra kissock glared at him with a terrible countenance, in which contempt was supposed to blend with a sullen ferocity characteristic of the noble savage. the effect was slightly marred by a black streak of mud which was drawn from the angle of his mouth to the roots of his hair. ralph thought from his expression that trout-fishing of this kind did not agree with him, and proposed to help winsome instead of andra. this proposal had the effect of drawing a melodramatic "ha! ha!" from that youth, ludicrously out of keeping with his usual demeanour. once he had seen a play-acting show unbeknown to his mother, when jess had taken him to cairn edward september fair. so "ha! ha!" he said with the look of smothered desperation which to the unprejudiced observer suggested a pain in his inside. "you guddle troot!" he cried scornfully, "i wad admire to see ye! ye wad only fyle [dirty] yer shune an' yer braw breeks!" ralph glanced at the striped underskirt over which winsome had looped her dress. it struck him with astonishment to note how she had managed to keep it clean and dry, when andra was apparently wet to the neck. "i do not know that i shall be of any use," he said meekly, "but i shall try." winsome was standing poised on a stone, bending like a lithe maid, her hands in the clear water. there had been a swift and noiseless rush underneath the stone; a few grains of sand rose up where the white under part of the trout had touched it as it glided beneath. slowly and imperceptibly winsome's hand worked its way beneath the stone. with the fingers of one hand she made that slight swirl of the water which is supposed by expert "guddlers" to fascinate the trout, and to render them incapable of resisting the beckoning fingers. andra watched breathlessly from the bank above. ralph came nearer to see the issue. the long, slender fingers, shining mellow in the peaty water, were just closing, when the stone on which ralph was standing precariously toppled a little and fell over into the burn with a splash. the trout darted out and in a moment was down stream into the biggest pool for miles. winsome rose with a flush of disappointment, and looked very reproachfully towards the culprit. ralph, who had followed the stone, stood up to his knees in the water, looking the picture of crestfallen humility. overhead on the bank andra danced madly like an imp. he would not have dared to speak to ralph on any other occasion, but guddling, like curling, loosens the tongue. he who fails or causes the failures of others is certain to hear very plainly of it from those who accompany him to this very dramatic kind of fishing. " ' a' the stupid asses!" cried that young man. "was there ever sic a beauty?--a pund wecht gin it was an ounce!--an' to fa' aff a stane like a six-months' wean!" his effective condemnation made winsome laugh. ralph laughed along with her, which very much increased the anger of andra, who turned away in silent indignation. it was hard to think, just when he had got the "prairie flower" of craig ronald (for whom he cherished a romantic attachment of the most desperate and picturesque kind) away from the house for a whole long afternoon at the fishing, that this great grown-up lout should come this way and spoil all his sport. andra was moved to the extremity of scorn. "hey, mon!" he called to ralph, who was standing in the water's edge with winsome on a miniature bay of shining sand, looking down on the limpid lapse of the clear moss-tinted water slipping over its sand and pebbles--"hey, mon!" he cried. "well, andra, what is it?" asked winsome charteris, looking up after a moment. she had been busy thinking. "tell that chap frae enbro'," said andra, collecting all his spleen into one tremendous and annihilating phrase--"him that tummilt aff the stane--that there's a feck o' paddocks [a good many frogs] up there i' the bog. he micht come up here an' guddle for paddocks. it wad be safer for the like o' him!" the ironical method is the favourite mode or vehicle of humour among the common orders in galloway. andra was a master in it. "andra," said winsome warmly, "you must not--" "please let him say whatever he likes. my awkwardness deserves it all," said ralph, with becoming meekness. "i think you had better go home now," said winsome; "it will soon be time for you to bring the kye home." "hae ye aneuch troots for the mistress's denner?" said andra, who knew very well how many there were. "there are the four that you got, and the one i got beneath the bank, andra," answered winsome. "nane o' them half the size o' the yin that he fleyed [frightened] frae ablow the big stane," said andra kissock, indicating the culprit once more with the stubby great toe of his left foot. it would have done ralph too much honour to have pointed with his hand. besides, it was a way that andrew had at all times. he indicated persons and things with that part of him which was most convenient at the time. he would point with his elbow stuck sideways at an acute angle in a manner that was distinctly libellous. he would do it menacingly with his head, and the indication contemptuous of his left knee was a triumph. but the finest and most conclusive use of all was his great toe as an index-finger of scorn. it stuck out apart from all the others, red and uncompromising, a conclusive affidavit of evil conduct. "it's near kye-time," again said winsome, while ralph yearned with a great yearning for the boy to betake himself over the moor. but andra had no such intention. "i'se no gaun a fit till i hae showed ye baith what it is to guddle. for ye mauna gang awa' to embro" [elbow contemptuous to the north, where andra supposed edinburgh to lie immediately on the other side of the double-breasted swell of blue cairnsmuir of carsphairn], "an' think that howkin' (wi' a lassie to help ye) in among the gravel is guddlin'. you see here!" cried andra, and before either winsome or ralph could say a word, he had stripped himself to his very brief breeches and ragged shirt, and was wading into the deepest part of the pool beneath the water-fall. here he scurried and scuttled for all the world like a dipper, with his breast showing white like that of the bird, as he walked along the bottom of the pool. most of the time his head was beneath the water, as well as all the rest of his body. his arms bored their way round the intricacies of the boulders at the bottom. his brown and freckled hands pursued the trouts beneath the banks. sometimes he would have one in each hand at the same time. when he caught them he had a careless and reckless way of throwing them up on the bank without looking where he was throwing. the first one he threw in this way took effect on the cheek of ralph peden, to his exceeding astonishment. winsome again cried "andra!" warningly, but andra was far too busy to listen; besides, it is not easy to hear with one's head under water and the frightened trout flashing in lightning wimples athwart the pool. but for all that, the fisherman's senses were acute, even under the water; for as winsome and ralph were not very energetic in catching the lively speckled beauties which found themselves so unexpectedly frisking upon the green grass, one or two of them (putting apparently their tails into their mouths, and letting go, as with the release of a steel spring) turned a splashing somersault into the pool. andra did not seem to notice them as they fell, but in a little while he looked up with a trout in his hand, the peat-water running in bucketfuls from his hair and shirt, his face full of indignation. "ye're lettin' them back again!" he exclaimed, looking fiercely at the trout in his hand. "this is the second time i hae catched this yin wi' the wart on its tail!" he said. "d'ye think i'm catchin' them for fun, or to gie them a change o' air for their healths, like fine fowk that come frae embro'!" "andra, i will not allow--" winsome began, who felt that on the ground of craig ronald a guest of her grandmother's should be respected. but before she had got further andra was again under the water, and again the trout began to rain out, taking occasional local effect upon both of them. finally andra looked up with an air of triumph. "it tak's ye a' yer time to grup them on the dry land, i'm thinkin'," said he with some fine scorn; "ye had better try the paddocks. it's safer." so, shaking himself like a water-dog, he climbed up on the grass, where he collected the fish into a large fishing basket which winsome had brought. he looked them over and said, as he handled one of them: "oh, ye're there, are ye? i kenned i wad get ye some day, impidence. ye hae nae business i' this pool ony way. ye belang half a mile faurer up, my lad; ye'll bite aff nae mair o' my heuks. there maun be three o' them i' his guts the noo--" here winsome looked a meaning look at him, upon which andra said: "i'm juist gaun. ye needna tell me that it's kye-time. see you an' be hame to tak' in yer grannie's tea. ye're mair likely to be ahint yer time than me!" haying sped this parthian shaft, andra betook himself over the moor with his backful of spoil. chapter xxv. barriers breaking. "andra is completely spoiled," exclaimed winsome; "he is a clever boy, and i fear we have given him too much of his own will. only jess can manage him." winsome felt the reference to be somewhat unfortunate. it was, of course, no matter to her whether a servant lass put a flower in ralph peden's coat; though, even as she said it, she owned to herself that jess was different from other servant maids, both by nature and that quickness of tongue which she had learned when abroad. still, the piquant resentment winsome felt, gave just that touch, of waywardness and caprice which was needed to make her altogether charming to ralph, whose acquaintance with women had been chiefly with those of his father's flock, who buzzed about him everywhere in a ferment of admiration. "your feet are wet," said winsome, with charming anxiety. andra was assuredly now far over the moor. they had rounded the jutting point of rock which shut in the linn, and were now walking slowly along the burnside, with the misty sunlight shining upon them, with a glistering and suffused green of fresh leaf sap in its glow. so down that glen many lovers had walked before. ralph's heart beat at the tone of winsome's inquiry. he hastened to assure her that, as a matter of personal liking, he rather preferred to go with his feet wet in the summer season. "do you know," said winsome, confidingly, "that if i dared i would run barefoot over the grass even yet. i remember to this day the happiness of taking off my stockings when i came home from the keswick school, and racing over the fresh grass to feel the daisies underfoot. i could do it yet." "well, let us," said ralph peden, the student in divinity, daringly. winsome did not even glance up. of course, she could not have heard, or she would have been angry at the preposterous suggestion. she thought awhile, and then said: "i think that, more than anything in the world, i love to sit by a waterside and make stories and sing songs to the rustle of the leaves as the wind sifts among them, and dream dreams all by myself." her eyes became very thoughtful. she seemed to be on the eve of dreaming a dream now. ralph felt he must go away. he was trespassing on the pleasaunce of an angel. "what do you like most? what would you like best to do in all the world?" she asked him. "to sit with you by the waterside and watch you dream," said ralph, whose education was proceeding by leaps and bounds. winsome risked a glance at him, though well aware that it was dangerous. "you are easily satisfied," she said; "then let us do it now." so ralph and winsome sat down like boy and girl on the fallen trunk of a fir-tree, which lay across the water, and swung their feet to the rhythm of the wimpling burn beneath. "i think you had better sit at the far side of that branch," said winsome, suspiciously, as ralph, compelled by the exigencies of the position, settled himself precariously near to her section of the tree-trunk. "what is the matter with this?" asked ralph, with an innocent look. now no one counterfeits innocence worse than a really innocent man who attempts to be more innocent than he is. so winsome looked at him with reproach in her eyes, and slowly she shook her head. "it might do very well for jess kissock, but for me it will balance better if you sit on the other side of the branch. we can talk just as well." ralph had thought no more of jess kissock and her flower from the moment he had seen winsome. indeed, the posy had dropped unregarded from his button-hole while he was gathering up the trout. there it had lain till winsome, who had seen it fall, accidentally set her foot on it and stamped it into the grass. this indicates, like a hand on a dial, the stage of her prepossession. a day before she had nothing regarded a flower given to ralph peden; and in a little while, when the long curve has at last been turned, she will not regard it, though a hundred women give flowers to the beloved. "i told you i should come," said ralph, beginning the personal tale which always waits at the door, whatever lovers may say when they first meet. winsome was meditating a conversation about the scenery of the dell. she needed also some botanical information which should aid her in the selection of plants for a herbarium. but on this occasion ralph was too quick for her. "i told you i should come," said ralph boldly, "and so you see i am here," he concluded, rather lamely. "to see my grandmother," said winsome, with a touch of archness in her tone or in her look--ralph could not tell which, though he eyed her closely. he wished for the first time that the dark-brown eyelashes which fringed her lids were not so long. he fancied that, if he could only have seen the look in the eyes hidden underneath, he might have risked changing to the other side of the unkindly frontier of fir-bough which marked him off from the land of promise on the farther side. but he could not see, and in a moment the chances were past. "not only to see your grandmother, who has been very kind to me, but also to see you, who have not been at all kind to me," answered ralph. "and pray, master ralph peden, how have i not been kind to you?" said winsome with dignity, giving him the full benefit of a pair of apparently reproachful eyes across the fir-branch. now ralph had strange impulses, and, like winsome, certainly did not talk by rule. "i do wish," he said complainingly, with his head a little to one side, "that you would only look at me with one eye at a time. two like that are too much for a man." this is that same ralph peden whose opinions on woman were written in a lost note-book which at this present moment is--we shall not say where. chapter xxvi. such sweet peril. winsome looked away down the glen, and strove to harden her face into a superhuman indignation. "that he should dare--the idea!" but it so happened that the idea so touched that rare gift of humour, and the picture of herself looking at ralph peden solemnly with one eye at a time, in order at once to spare his susceptibilities and give the other a rest, was too much for her. she laughed a peal of rippling merriment that sent all the blackbirds indignant out of their copses at the infringement of their prerogative. ralph's humour was slower and a little grimmer than winsome's, whose sunny nature had blossomed out amid the merry life of the woods and streams. but there was a sternness in both of them as well, that was of the heather and the moss hags. and that would in due time come out. it is now their day of love and bounding life. and there are few people in this world who would not be glad to sit just so at the opening of the flower of love. indeed, it was hardly necessary to tell one another. laughter, say the french (who think that their l'amour is love, and so will never know anything), kills love. but not the kind of laughter that rang in the open dell which peeped like the end of a great green-lined prospect glass upon the glimmering levels of loch grannoch; nor yet the kind of love which in alternate currents pulsed to and fro between the two young people who sat so demurely on either side of the great, many-spiked fir-branch. "is not this nice?" said winsome, shrugging her shoulders contentedly and swinging her feet. their laughter made them better friends than before. the responsive gladness in each other's eyes seemed part of the midsummer stillness of the afternoon. above, a red squirrel dropped the husks of larch tassels upon them, and peered down upon them with his bright eyes. he was thinking himself of household duties, and had his own sweetheart safe at home, nestling in the bowl of a great beech deep in the bowering wood by the loch. "i liked to hear you speak of your father to-day," said winsome, still swinging her feet girlishly. "it must be a great delight to have a father to go to. i never remember father or mother." her eyes were looking straight before her now, and a depth of tender wistfulness in them went to ralph's heart. he was beginning to hate the branch. "my father," he said, "is often stern to others, but he has never been stern to me--always helpful, full of tenderness and kindness. perhaps that is because i lost my mother almost before i can remember." winsome's wet eyes, with the lashes curving long over the under side of the dark-blue iris, were turned full on him now with the tenderness of a kindred pity. "do you know i think that your father was once kind to my mother. grandmother began once to tell me, and then all at once would tell me no more--i think because grandfather was there." "i did not know that my father ever knew your mother," answered ralph. "of course, he would never tell you if he did," said the woman of experience, sagely; "but grandmother has a portrait in an oval miniature of your father as a young man, and my mother's name is on the back of it." "her maiden name?" queried ralph. winsome charteris nodded. then she said wistfully: "i wish i knew all about it. i think it is very hard that grandmother will not tell me!" then, after a silence which a far-off cuckoo filled in with that voice of his which grows slower and fainter as the midsummer heats come on, winsome said abruptly, "is your father ever hard and-- unkind?" ralph started to his feet as if hastily to defend his father. there was something in winsome's eyes that made him sit down again--something shining and tender and kind. "my father," he said, "is very silent and reserved, as i fear i too have been till i came down here" (he meant to say, "till i met you, dear," but he could not manage it), "but he is never hard or unkind, except perhaps on matters connected with the marrow kirk and its order and discipline. then he becomes like a stone, and has no pity for himself or any. i remember him once forbidding me to come into the study, and compelling me to keep my own garret- room for a month, for saying that i did not see much difference between the marrow kirk and the other kirks. but i am sure he could never be unkind or hurtful to any one in the world. but why do you ask, mistress winsome?" "because--because--" she paused, looking down now, the underwells of her sweet eyes brimming to the overflow--"because something grandfather said once, when he was very ill, made me wonder if your father had ever been unkind to my mother." two great tears overflowed from under the dark lashes and ran down winsome's cheek. ralph was on the right side of the branch now, and, strangely enough, winsome did not seem to notice it. he had a lace-edged handkerchief in his hand which had been his mother's, and all that was loving and chivalrous in his soul was stirred at the sight of a woman's tears. he had never seen them before, and there is nothing so thrilling in the world to a young man. gently, with a light, firm hand, he touched winsome's cheek, instinctively murmuring tenderness which no one had ever used to him since that day long ago, when his mother had hung, with the love of a woman who knows that she must give up all, over the cot of a boy whose future she could not foresee. for a thrilling moment winsome's golden coronet of curls touched his breast, and, as he told himself after long years, rested willingly there while his heart beat at least ten times. unfortunately, it did not take long to beat ten times. one moment more, and without any doubt ralph would have taken winsome in his arms. but the girl, with that inevitable instinct which tells a woman when her waist or her lips are in danger-- matters upon which no woman is ever taken by surprise, whatever she may pretend--drew quietly back. the time was not yet. "indeed, you must not, you must not think of me. you must go away. you know that there are only pain and danger before us if you come to see me any more." "indeed, i do not know anything of the kind. i am sure that my father could never be unkind to any creature, and i am certain that he was not to your mother. but what has he to do with us, winsome?" her name sounded so perilously sweet to her, said thus in ralph's low voice, that once again her eyes met his in that full, steady gaze which tells heart secrets and brings either life-long joys or unending regrets. nor--as we look--can we tell which? "i cannot speak to you now, ralph," she said, "but i know that you ought not to come to see me any more. there must be something strange and wicked about me. i feel that there is a cloud over me, ralph, and i do not want you to come under it." at the first mention of his name from the lips of his beloved, ralph drew very close to her, with that instinctive drawing which he was now experiencing. it was that irresistible first love of a man who has never wasted himself even on the harmless flirtations which are said to be the embassies of love. but winsome moved away from him, walking down towards the mouth of the linn, through the thickly wooded glen, and underneath the overarching trees, with their enlacing lattice-work of curving boughs. "it is better not," she said, almost pleadingly, for her strength was failing her. she almost begged him to be merciful. "but you believe that i love you, winsome?" he persisted. low in her heart of hearts winsome believed it. her ear drank in every word. she was silent only because she was thirsty to hear more. but ralph feared that he had fatally offended her. "are you angry with me, winsome?" he said, bending from his masculine height to look under the lilac sunbonnet. winsome shook her head. "not angry, ralph, only sorry to the heart." she stopped and turned round to him. she held out a hand, when ralph took it in both of his. there was in the touch a determination to keep the barriers slight but sure between them. he felt it and understood. "listen, ralph," she said, looking at him with shining eyes, in which another man would have read the love, "i want you to understand. there is a fate about those who love me. my mother died long ago; my father i never knew; my grandfather and grandmother are--what you know, because of me; mr. welsh, at the manse, who used to love me and pet me when i was a little girl, now does not speak to me. there is a dark cloud all about me!" said winsome sadly, yet bravely and determinedly. yet she looked as bright and sunshiny as her own name, as if god had just finished creating her that minute, and had left the sabbath silence of thanksgiving in her eyes. ralph peden may be forgiven if he did not attend much to what she said. as long as winsome was in the world, he would love her just the same, whatever she said. "what the cloud is i cannot tell," she went on; "but my grandfather once said that it would break on whoever loved me-- and--and i do not want that one to be you." ralph, who had kept her hand a willing prisoner, close and warm in his, would have come nearer to her. he said: "winsome, dear" (the insidious wretch! he thought that, because she was crying, she would not notice the addition, but she did)--"winsome, dear, if there be a cloud, it is better that it should break over two than over one." "but not over you," she said, with a soft accent, which should have been enough, for any one, but foolish ralph was already fixed on his own next words: "if you have few to love you, let me be the one who will love you all the time and altogether. i am not afraid; there will be two of us against the world, dear." winsome faltered. she had not been wooed after this manner before. it was perilously sweet. little ticking pulses beat in her head. a great yearning came to her to let herself drift up on a sea of love. that love of giving up all, which is the precious privilege, the saving dowry or utter undoing of women, surged in upon her heart. she drew away her hand, not quickly, but slowly and firmly, and as if she meant it. "i have come to a decision--i have made a vow," she said. she paused, and looked at ralph a little defiantly, hoping that he would take the law into his own hands, and forbid the decision and disallow the vow. but ralph was not yet enterprising enough, and took her words a little too seriously. he only stood looking at her and waiting, as if her decision were to settle the fate of kingdoms. then winsome emitted the declaration which has been so often made, at which even the more academic divinities are said to smile, "i am resolved never to marry!" an older man would have laughed. he might probably have heard something like this before. but ralph had no such experience, and he bowed his head as to an invincible fate--for which stupidity winsome's grandmother would have boxed his ears. "but i may still love you, winsome?" he said, very quietly and gently. "oh, no, you must not--you must not love me! indeed, you must not think of me any more. you must go away." "go away i can and will, if you say so, winsome; but even you do not believe that i can forget you when i like." "and you will go away?" said winsome, looking at him with eyes that would have chained a stoic philosopher to the spot. "yes," said ralph, perjuring his intentions. "and you will not try to see me any more--you promise?" she added, a little spiteful at the readiness with which he gave his word. so ralph made a promise. he succeeded in keeping it just twenty- four hours--which was, on the whole, very creditable, considering. what else he might have promised we cannot tell--certainly anything else asked of him so long as winsome continued to look at him. those who have never made just such promises, or listened to them being made--occupations equally blissful and equally vain--had better pass this chapter by. it is not for the uninitiated. but it is true, nevertheless. so in silence they walked down to the opening of the glen. as they turned into the broad expanse of glorious sunshine the shadows were beginning to slant towards them. loch grannoch was darkening into pearl grey, under the lee of the hill. down by the high- backed bridge, which sprang at a bound over the narrows of the lane, there was a black patch on the greensward, and the tripod of the gipsy pot could faintly be distinguished. ralph, who had resumed winsome's hand as a right, pointed it out. it is strange how quickly pleasant little fashions of that kind tend to perpetuate themselves! as winsome's grandmother would have said, "it's no easy turnin' a coo when she gets the gate o' the corn." winsome looked at the green patch and the dark spot upon it. "tell me," she said, looking up at him, "why you ran away that day?" ralph peden was nothing if not frank. "because," he said, "i thought you were going to take off your stockings!" through the melancholy forebodings which winsome had so recently exhibited there rose the contagious blossom of mirth, that never could be long away even from such a fate-harassed creature as winsome charteris considered herself to be. "poor fellow," she said, "you must indeed have been terribly frightened!" "i was," said ralph peden, with conviction. "but i do not think i should feel quite the same about it now!" they walked silently to the foot of the craig ronald loaning, where by mutual consent they paused. winsome's hand was still in ralph's. she had forgotten to take it away. she was, however, still resolved to do her duty. "now you are sure you are not going to think of me any more?" she asked. "quite sure," said ralph, promptly. winsome looked a little disappointed at the readiness of the answer. "and you won't try to see me any more?" she asked, plaintively. "certainly not," replied ralph, who had some new ideas. winsome looked still more disappointed. this was not what she had expected. "yes," said ralph, "because i shall not need to think of you again, for i shall never stop thinking of you; and i shall not try to see you again, because i know i shall. i shall go away, but i shall come back again; and i shall never give you up, though every friend forbid and every cloud in the heavens break!" the gladness broke into his love's face in spite of all her gallant determination. "but remember," said winsome, "i am never going to marry. on that point i am quite determined." "you can forbid me marrying you, winsome dear," said ralph, "but you cannot help me loving you." indeed on this occasion and on this point of controversy winsome did not betray any burning desire to contradict him. she gave him her hand--still with the withholding power in it, however, which told ralph that his hour was not yet come. he bowed and kissed it--once, twice, thrice. and to him who had never kissed woman before in the way of love, it was more than many caresses to one more accustomed. then she took her way, carrying her hand by her side tingling with consciousness. it seemed as if ebie farrish, who was at the watering-stone as she passed, could read what was written upon it as plain as an advertisement. she put it, therefore, into the lilac sunbonnet and so passed by. ralph watched her as she glided, a tall and graceful young figure, under the archway of the trees, till he could no longer see her light dress glimmering through the glades of the scattered oaks. chapter xxvii. the opinions of saunders mowdiewort upon besomshanks. ralph peden kept his promise just twenty-four hours, which under the circumstances was an excellent performance. that evening, on his return to the manse, manse bell handed him, with a fine affectation of unconcern, a letter with the edinburgh post-mark, which had been brought with tenpence to pay, from cairn edward. manse bell was a smallish, sharp-tongued woman of forty, with her eyes very close together. she was renowned throughout the country for her cooking and her temper, the approved excellence of the one being supposed to make up for the difficult nature of the other. the letter was from his father. it began with many inquiries as to his progress in the special studies to which he had been devoting himself. then came many counsels as to avoiding all entanglements with the erroneous views of socinians, erastians, and pelagians in conclusion, a day was suggested on which it would be convenient for the presbytery of the marrow kirk to meet in edinburgh in order to put ralph through his trials for license. then it was that ralph peden felt a tingling sense of shame. not only had he to a great extent forgotten to prepare himself for his examinations, which would be no great difficulty to a college scholar of his standing, but unconsciously to himself his mind had slackened its interest in his licensing. the marrow kirk had receded from him as the land falls back from a ship which puts out to sea, swiftly and silently. he was conscious that he had paid far more attention to his growing volume of poems than he had done to his discourses for license; though indeed of late he had given little attention to either. he went up-stairs and looked vaguely at his books. he found that it was only by an effort that he could at all think himself into the old ralph, who had shaken his head at calvin under the broom- bush by the grannoch water. sharp penitence rode hard upon ralph's conscience. he sat down among his neglected books. from these he did not rise till the morning fully broke. at last he lay down on the bed, after looking long at the ridge of pines which stood sharp up against the morning sky, behind which craig ronald lay. then the underlying pang, which he had been crushing down by the night's work among the hebrew roots, came triumphantly to the surface. he must leave the manse of dullarg, and with it that solitary white farmhouse on the braeface, the orchard at the back of it, and the rose-clambered gable from which a dear window looked down the valley of the grannoch, and up to the heathery brow of the crae hill. so, unrefreshed, yet unconscious of the need of any refreshment, ralph peden rose and took his place at the manse table. "i saw your candle late yestreen," said the minister, pausing to look at the young man over the wooden platter of porridge which formed the frugal and sufficient breakfast of the two. porridge for breakfast and porridge for supper are the cure-alls of the true galloway man. it is not every scot who stands through all temptation so square in the right way as morning and night to confine himself to these; but he who does so shall have his reward in a rare sanity of judgment and lightness of spirit, and a capacity for work unknown to countrymen of less spartan habit. so ralph answered, looking over his own "cogfu' o' brose" as manse bell called them, "i was reading the book of joel for the second time." "then you have," said the minister, "finished your studies in the scripture character of the truly good woman of the proverbs, with which you were engaged on your first coming here?" "i have not quite finished," said ralph, looking a little strangely at the minister. "you ought always to finish one subject before you begin another," said mr. welsh, with a certain slow sententiousness. by-and-bye ralph got away from the table, and in the silence of his own room gave himself to a repentant and self-accusing day of study. remorsefully sad, with many searchings of heart, he questioned whether indeed he were fit for the high office of minister in the kirk of the marrow; whether he could now accept that narrow creed, and take up alone the burden of these manifold protestings. it was for this that he had been educated; it was for this that he had been given his place at his father's desk since ever he could remember. here he had studied in the far-off days of his boyhood strange deep books, the flavour of which only he retained. he had learned his letters out of the bible--the old testament. he had gone through the psalms from beginning to end before he was six. he remembered that the paraphrases were torn out of all the bibles in the manse. indeed, they existed only in a rudimentary form even in the great bible in the kirk (in which by some oversight a heathen binder had bound them), but allan welsh had rectified this by pasting them up, so that no preacher in a moment of demoniac possession might give one out. what would have happened if this had occurred in the marrow kirk it is perhaps better only guessing. at twelve ralph was already far on in latin and greek, and at thirteen he could read plain narrative hebrew, and had a hebrew bible of his own in which he followed his father, to the admiration of all the congregation. prigs of very pure water have sometimes been manufactured by just such means as this. sometimes his father would lean over and say, "my son, what is the expression for that in the original?" whereupon ralph would read the passage. it was between gilbert peden and his maker that sometimes he did this for pride, and not for information; but ralph was his only son, and was he not training him, as all knew, in order that he might be a missionary apostle of the great truths of the protesting kirk of the marrow, left to testify lonely and forgotten among the scanty thousands of scotland, yet carrying indubitably the only pure doctrine as it had been delivered to the saints? but, in spite of all, the lad's bent was really towards literature. the books of verses which he kept under lock and key were the only things that he had ever concealed from his father. again, since he had come to man's estate, the articles he had covertly sent to the edinburgh magazine were manifest tokens of the bent of his mind. all the more was he conscious of this, that he had truly lived his life before the jealous face of his father's god, though his heart leaned to the milder divinity and the kindlier gospel of one who was the bearer of burdens. ralph lay long on his bed, on which he had lain down at full length to think out his plans, as his custom was. it did not mean to leave winsome, this call to edinburgh. his father would not utterly refuse his consent, though he might urge long delays. and, in any case, edinburgh was but two days' journey from the dullarg; two days on the road by the burnsides and over the heather hills was nothing to him. but, for all that, the aching would not be stilled. hearts are strange, illogical things; they will not be argued with. finally, he rose with the heart of him full of the intention of telling winsome at once. he would write to her and tell her that he must see her immediately. it was necessary for him to acquaint her with what had occurred. so, without further question as to his motive in writing, ralph rose and wrote a letter to give to saunders mowdiewort. the minister's man was always ready to take a letter to craig ronald after his day's work was over. his inclinations jumped cheerfully along with the shilling which ralph--who had not many such--gave him for his trouble. within a drawer, the only one in his room that would lock, on the top of ralph's poems lay the white moss-rose and the forget-me-nots which, as a precious and pregnant emblem from his love, saunders had brought back with him. as ralph sat at the window writing his letter to winsome, he saw over the hedge beneath his window the bent form of allan welsh-- his great, pallid brow over-dominating his face--walking slowly to and fro along the well-accustomed walk, at one end of which was the little wooden summer house in which was his private oratory. even now ralph could see his lips moving in the instancy of his unuttered supplication. his inward communing was so intense that the agony of prayer seemed to shake his frail body. ralph could see him knit his hands behind his back in a strong tension of nerves. yet it seemed a right and natural thing for ralph to be immersed in his own concerns, and to turn away with the light tribute of a sigh to finish his love-letter--for, after all (say they), love is only a refined form of selfishness. "beloved," wrote ralph, "among my many promises to you yester even, i did not promise to refrain from writing to you; or if i did, i ask you to put off your displeasure until you have read my letter. i am not, you said, to come to see you. then will you come to meet me? you know that i would not ask you unless the matter were important. i am at a cross-roads, and i cannot tell which way to go. but i am sure that you can tell me, for your word shall be to me as the whisper of a kind angel. meet me to-night, i beseech you, for ere long i must go very far away, and i have much to say to thee, my beloved! saunders will bring any message of time or place safely. believing that you will grant me this request--for it is the first time and may be the last--and with all my heart going out to thee, i am the man who truly loves thee.--ralph peden." it was when saunders came over from his house by the kirkyard that ralph left his books and went down to find him. saunders was in the stable, occupying himself with the mysteries of birsie's straps and buckles, about which he was as particular as though he were driving a pair of bays every day. "an' this is the letter, an' i'm to gie it to the same lass as i gied the last yin till? i'll do that, an' thank ye kindly," said saunders, putting the letter into one pocket and ralph's shilling into the other; "no that i need onything but white silver kind o' buckles friendship. it's worth your while, an' its worth my while --that's the way i look at it." ralph paused a moment. he would have liked to ask what meg said, and how winsome looked, and many other things about saunders's last visit; but the fear of appearing ridiculous even to saunders withheld him. the grave-digger went on: "it's a strange thing--love--it levels a'. noo there's me, that has had a wife an' burriet her; i'm juist as keen aboot gettin' anither as if i had never gotten the besom i' the sma' o' my back. ye wad never get a besom in the sma' o' yer back?" he said inquiringly. "no," said ralph, smiling in spite of himself. "na, of course no; ye havna been mairrit. but bide a wee; she's a fell active bit lass, that o' yours, an' i should say"--here saunders spoke with the air of a connoisseur--"i wad say that she micht be verra handy wi' the besom." "you must not speak in that way," began ralph, thinking of winsome. but, looking at the queer, puckered face of saunders, he came to the conclusion that it was useless to endeavour to impress any of his own reverence upon him. it was not worth the pains, especially as he was assuredly speaking after his kind. "na, of course no," replied saunders, with a kind of sympathy for youth and inexperience in his tone; "when yer young an' gaun coortin' ye dinna think o' thae things. but bide a wee till ye gann on the same errand the second time, and aiblins the third time--i've seen the like, sir--an' a' thae things comes intil yer reckoning, so so speak." "really," said ralph, "i have not looked so far forward." saunders breathed on his buckle and polished it with the tail of his coat, after which he rubbed it on his knee. then he held it up critically in a better light. still it did not please him, so he breathed on it once more. "'deed, an' wha could expect it? it's no in youth to think o' thae things--no till it's ower late. noo, sir, i'll tell ye, whan i was coortin' my first, afore i gat her, i could hae etten [eaten] her, an' the first week efter maister teends mairrit us, i juist danced i was that fond o' her. but in anither month, faith, i thocht that she wad hae etten me, an' afore the year was oot i wussed she had. aye, aye, sir, it's waur nor a lottery, mairriage--it's a great mystery." "but how is it, then, that you are so anxious to get married again?" asked ralph, to whom these conversations with the cuif were a means of lightening his mind of his own cares. "weel, ye see, maister ralph," pursued the grave-digger, "i'm by inclination a social man, an' the nature o' my avocation, so to speak, is a wee unsocial. fowk are that curious. noo, when i gang into the square o' a forenicht, the lads 'll cry oot, 'dinna be lookin' my gate, saunders, an' wonnerin' whether i'll need a seven-fit hole, or whether a six-fit yin will pass!' or maybe the bairns'll cry oot, 'hae ye a skull i' yer pooch?' the like o' that tells on a man in time, sir." "without doubt," said ralph; "but how does matrimony, for either the first or the second time, cure that?" "weel, sir, ye see, mairriage mak's a man kind o' independent like. say, for instance, ye hae been a' day at jobs up i' the yaird, an' it's no been what ye micht ca' pleesant crunchin' through green wud an' waur whiles. noo, we'll say that juist as a precaution, ye ken, ye hae run ower to the black bull for a gless or twa at noo's an' nan's" [now and then]. "_i_ have run over, saunders?" queried ralph. "oh, it's juist a mainner o' speakin', sir; i was takin' a personal example. weel, ye gang hame to the wife aboot the gloamin', an' ye open the door, an' ye says, says you, pleesant like, bein' warm aboot the wame,' guid e'en to ye, guidwife, my dawtie, an' hoos a' thing been gaim wi' ye the day?' d'ye think she needs to luik roon' to ken a' aboot the black bull? na, na, she kens withoot even turnin' her heid. she kenned by yer verra fit as ye cam' up the yaird. she's maybe stirrin' something i' the pat. she turns roon' wi the pat-stick i' her haund. 'i'll dawtie ye, my man!' she says, an' whang, afore ye ken whaur ye are, the pat-stick is acquant wi' the side o' yer heid. 'i'll dawtie ye, rinnin' rakin' to the public-hoose wi' yer hard-earned shillin's. dawtie!' quo' she; 'faith, the black bull's yer dawtie!'" "but how does she know?" asked ralph, in the interests of truth and scientific inquiry. saunders thought that he was speaking with an eye on the future. he lifted up his finger solemnly: "dinna ye ever think that ye can gang intil a public hoose withoot yer wife kennin'. na, it's no the smell, as an unmarrit man micht think; and peppermints is a vain thing, also ceenimons. it's juist their faculty--aye, that's what it is--it's a faculty they hae; an' they're a' alike. they ken as weel wi' the back o' their heids till ye, an' their noses fair stuffit wi' the cauld, whether ye hae been makin' a ca' or twa on the road hame on pay-nicht. i ken it's astonishin' to a single man, but ye had better tak' my word for't, it's the case. 'whaur's that auchteenpence?' betty used to ask; 'only twal an' sixpence, an' your wages is fourteen shillings--forbye your chance frae mourners for happen the corp up quick'--then ye hummer an' ha', an' try to think on the lee ye made up on the road doon; but it's a gye queery thing that ye canna mind o't. it's an odd thing hoo jooky [nimble] a lee is whan ye want it in time o' need!" ralph looked so interested that saunders quite felt for him. "and what then?" said he. "then," said saunders, nodding his head, so that it made the assertion of itself without any connection with his body--"then, say ye, then is juist whaur the besom comes in"--he paused a moment in deep thought--"i' the sma' o' yer back!" he added, in a low and musing tone, as of one who chews the cud of old and pleasant memories. "an' ye may thank a kind providence gin there's plenty o' heather on the end o't. keep aye plenty o' heather on the end o' the besom," said saunders; "a prudent man aye sees to that. what is't to buy a new besom or twa frae a tinkler body, whan ye see the auld yin gettin' bare? nocht ava, ye can tak' the auld yin oot to the stable, or lose it some dark nicht on the moor! o aye, a prudent man aye sees to his wife's besom." saunders paused, musing. "ye'll maybe no believe me, but often what mak's a' the hale differ atween a freendly turn up wi' the wife, that kind o' cheers a man up, an' what ye micht ca' an onpleesantness-- is juist nae mair nor nae less than whether there's plenty o' heather on his wife's besom." saunders had now finished all his buckles to his satisfaction. he summed up thus the conclusion of his great argument: "a besom i' the sma' o' yer back is interestin' an' enleevinin', whan it's new an' bushy; but it's the verra mischief an' a' whan ye get the bare shank on the back o' yer heid--an' mind ye that." "i am very much indebted to you for the advice, saunders." "aye, sir," said saunders, "it's sound! it's sound! i can vouch for that." ralph went towards the door and looked out. the minister was still walking with his hands behind his back. he did not in the least hear what saunders had said. he turned again to him. "and what do you want another wife for, then, saunders?" "'deed, maister ralph, to tell ye the guid's truth, it's awfu' deevin' [deafening] leevin' wi' yin's mither. she's a awfu' woman to talk, though a rale guid mither to me. forbye, she canna tak' the besom to ye like yer ain wife--the wife o' yer bosom, so to speak--when ye hae been to the black bull. it's i' the natur' o' things that a man maun gang there by whiles; but on the ither haund it's richt that he should get a stap ta'en oot o' his bicker when he comes hame, an' some way or ither the best o' mithers haena gotten the richt way o't like a man's ain wife." "and you think that meg would do it well?" said ralph, smiling. "aye, sir, she avad that, though i'm thinkin' that she wad be kindlier wi' the besom-shank than jess; no that i wad for a moment expect that there wad be ony call for siclike," he said, with a look of apology at ralph, which was entirely lost on that young man, "but in case, sir--in case--" ralph looked in bewilderment at saunders, who was indulging in mystic winks and nods. "you see, the way o't is this, sir: yin's mither--(an' mind, i'm far frae sayin' a word agin my ain mither--she's a guid yin, for a' her tongue, whilk, ye ken, sir, she canna help ony mair than bein' a woman;) but ye ken, that when ye come hame frae the black bull, gin a man has only his mither, she begins to flyte on [scold] him, an' cast up to him what his faither, that's i' the grave, wad hae said, an' maybe on the back o' that she begins the greetin'. noo, that's no comfortable, ava. a man that gangs to the black bull disna care a flee's hin' leg what his faither wad hae said. he disna want to be grutten ower [wept over]; na, what he wants is a guid-gaun tongue, a wullin' airm, an' a heather besom no ower sair worn." ralph nodded in his turn in appreciative comment. "then, on the morrow's morn, when ye rub yer elbow, an' fin' forbye that there's something on yer left shoother-blade that's no on the ither, ye tak' a resolve that ye'll come straught hame the nicht. then, at e'en, when ye come near the black bull, an' see the crony that ye had a glass wi' the nicht afore, ye naturally tak' a bit race by juist to get on the safe side o' yer hame. i'm hearin' aboot new-fangled folk that they ca' 'temperance advocates,' maister ralph, but for my pairt gie me a lang-shankit besom, an' a guid-wife's wullin airm!" these are all the opinions of saunders mowdiewort about besom- shanks. chapter xxviii. that gipsy jess. saunders took ralph's letter to craig ronald with him earlier that night than usual, as ralph had desired him. at the high hill gate, standing directing the dogs to gather the cows off the hill for milking, he met jess. "hae ye ouy news, saunders?" she asked, running down to the little foot-bridge to meet him. saunders took it as a compliment; and, indeed, it was done with a kind of elfish grace, which cast a glamour over his eyes. but jess, who never did anything without a motive, really ran down to be out of sight of ebie farrish, who stood looking at her from within the stable door. "here's a letter for ye, jess," saunders said, importantly, handing her ralph's letter. "he seemed rale agitatit when he brocht it in to me, but i cheered him up by tellin' him how ye wad dreel him wi' the besom-shank gin he waur to gang to the black bull i' the forenichts." "gang to the black bull!--what div ye mean, ye gomeril?--saunders i mean; ye ken weel that maister peden wadna gang to ony black bull." "weel, na, i ken that; it was but a mainner o' speakin'; but i can see that he's fair daft ower ye, jess. i ken the signs o' love as weel as onybody. but hoo's meg--an' do ye think she likes me ony better?" "she was speakin' aboot ye only this mornin'," answered jess pleasantly, "she said that ye waur a rale solid, sensible man, no a young ne'er-do-weel that naebody kens whaur he'll be by the martinmas term." "did meg say that!" cried saunders in high delight, "ye see what it is to be a sensible woman. an' whaur micht she be noo?" now jess knew that meg was churning the butter, with jock forrest to help her, in the milk-house, but it did not suit her to say so. jess always told the truth when it suited as well as anything else; if not, then it was a pity. "meg's ben the hoose wi' the auld fowk the noo," she said, "but she'll soon be oot. juist bide a wee an' bind the kye for me." down the brae face from the green meadowlets that fringed the moor came the long procession of cows. swinging a little from side to side, they came--black galloways, and the red and white breed of ayrshire in single file--the wavering piebald line following the intricacies of the path. each full-fed, heavy-uddered mother of the herd came marching full matronly with stately tread, blowing her flower-perfumed breath from dewy nostrils. the older and staider animals--marly, and dumple, and flecky--came stolidly homeward, their heads swinging low, absorbed in meditative digestion, and soberly retasting the sweetly succulent grass of the hollows, and the crisper and tastier acidity of the sorrel- mixed grass of the knolls. behind them came spotty and speckly, young and frisky matrons of but a year's standing, who yet knew no better than to run with futile head at roger, and so encourage that short-haired and short-tempered collie to snap at their heels. here also, skirmishing on flank and rear, was winsome's pet sheep, "zachary macaulay"--so called because he was a living memorial to the emancipation of the blacks. zachary had been named by john dusticoat, who was the politician of cairn edward, and "took in" a paper. he was an animal of much independence of mind. he utterly refused to company with the sheep of his kind and degree, and would only occasionally condescend to accompany the cows to their hill pasture. often he could not be induced to quit poking his head into every pot and dish about the farm-yard. on these occasions he would wander uninvited with a little pleading, broken-backed bleat through every room in the house, looking for his mistress to let him suck her thumb or to feed him on oatcake or potato parings. to-night he came down in the rear of the procession. now and then he paused to take a random crop at the herbage, not so much from any desire for wayside refreshment, as to irritate roger into attacking him. but roger knew better. there was a certain imperiousness about zachary such as became an emancipated black. zachary rejoiced when speckly or any of the younger or livelier kine approached to push him away from a succulent patch of herbage. then he would tuck his belligerent head between his legs, and drive fore-and-aft in among the legs of the larger animals, often bringing them down full broadside with the whole of their extensive systems ignominiously shaken up. by the time that saunders had the cows safe into the byre, jess had the letter opened, read, and resealed. she had resolved, for reasons of her own, on this occasion to give the letter to winsome. jess ran into the house, and finding winsome reading in the parlour, gave her the letter in haste. "there's a man waiting for the answer," she said, "but he can easy bide a while if it is not ready." winsome, seeing it was the handwriting she knew so well, that of the note-book and the poem, went into her own room to read her first love-letter. it seemed very natural that he should write to her, and her heart beat within her quickly and strongly as she opened it. as she unfolded it her eye seemed to take in the whole of the writing at once as if it were a picture. she knew, before she had read a word, that "beloved" occurred twice and "winsome dear" twice, nor had she any fault to find, unless it were that they did not occur oftener. so, without a moment's hesitation, she sat down and wrote only a line, knowing that it would be all-sufficient. it was her first love-tryst. yet if it had been her twentieth she could not have been readier. "i shall be at the gate of the hill pasture," so she wrote, "at ten o'clock to-night." it was with a very tumultuous heart that she closed this missive, and went out quickly to give it to jess lest she should repent. a day before, even, it had never entered her mind that by any possibility she could write such a note to a young man whom she had only known so short a time. but then she reflected that certainly ralph peden was not like any other young man; so that in this case it was not only right but also commendable. he was so kind and good, and so fond of her grandmother, that she could not let him go so far away without a word. she ought at least to go and tell him that he must never do the like again. but she would forgive him this time, after being severe with him for breaking his word, of course. she sighed when she thought of what it is to be young and foolish. once the letter in jess's hands, these doubts and fears came oftener to her. after a few minutes of remorse, she ran out in order to reclaim her letter, but jess was nowhere to be seen. she was, in fact, at her mother's cottage up on the green, where she was that moment employed in coercing her brother andra to run on a message for her. "when she went out of the kitchen with winsome's reply in her pocket she made it her first duty to read it. this there was no difficulty in doing, for opening letters was one of jess's simplest accomplishments. then jess knitted her black brows, and thought dark and pictish thoughts. in a few moments she had made her dispositions. she was not going to let winsome have ralph without a struggle. she felt that she had the rude primogeniture of first sight. besides, since she had no one to scheme for her, she resolved that she would scheme for herself. shut in her mother's room she achieved a fair imitation of winsome's letter, guiding herself by the genuine document spread out before her. she had thought of sending only a verbal message, but reflecting that ralph peden had probably never seen winsome's handwriting, she considered it safer, choosing between two dangers, to send a written line. "meet me by the waterside bridge at ten o'clock," she wrote. no word more. then arose the question of messengers. she went out to find saunders mowdiewort; she got him standing at the byre door, looking wistfully about for meg. "saunders," she said, "you are to take back this answer instantly to the young master peden." "na, na, jess, what's the hurry? i dinna gang a fit till i hae seen meg," said saunders doggedly. "your affairs are dootless verra important, but sae are mine. your lad maun een wait wi' patience till i gang hame, the same as i hae had mony a day to wait. it's for his guid." jess stamped her foot. it was too irritating that her combinations should fail because of a cuif whom she had thought to rule with a word, and upon whom she had counted without a thought. she could not say that it was on winsome's business, though she knew that in that case he would have gone at once on the chance of indirectly pleasuring meg. she had made him believe that she herself was the object of ralph peden's affections. but jess was not to be beaten, for in less than a quarter of an hour she had overcome the scruples of andra, and despatched jock gordon on another message in another direction. jess believed that where there is a will there are several ways: the will was her own, but she generally made the way some one else's. then jess went into the byre, lifting up her house gown and covering it with the dust- coloured milking overall, in which she attended to speckly and crummy. she had done her best--her best, that is, for jess kissock--and it was with a conscience void of offence that she set herself to do well her next duty, which happened to be the milking of the cows. she did not mean to milk cows any longer than she could help, but in the meantime she meant to be the best milker in the parish. moreover, it was quite in accordance with her character that, in her byre flirtations with ebie farrish, she should take pleasure in his rough compliments, smacking of the field and the stable. jess had an appetite for compliments perfectly eclectic and cosmopolitan. though well aware that she was playing this night with the sharpest of edged tools, till her messengers should return and her combinations should close, jess was perfectly able and willing to give herself up to the game of conversational give-and-take with ebie farrish. she was a girl of few genteel accomplishments, but with her gipsy charm and her frankly pagan nature she was fitted to go far. chapter xxix. the dakk of the moon at the gkannoch bridge. over the manse of dullarg, still and grey, with only the two men in it; over the low-walled rectangular farm steading of craig ronald, fell alike the midsummer night. ten o'clock on an early july evening is in galloway but a modified twilight. but as the sun went down behind the pines he sent an angry gleam athwart the green braes. the level cloud-band into which he plunged drew itself upward to the zenith, and, like the eyelid of a gigantic eye, shut down as though god in his heaven were going to sleep, and the world was to be left alone. it was the dark of the moon, and even if there had been full moon its light would have been as completely shut out by the cloud canopy as was the mild diffusion of the blue-grey twilight. so it happened that, as ralph peden took his way to his first love- tryst, it was all that he could do to keep the path, so dark had it become. but there was no rain--hardly yet even the hint or promise of rain. yet under the cloud there was a great solitariness--the murmur of a land where no man had come since the making of the world. down in the sedges by the lake a blackcap sang sweetly, waesomely, the nightingale of scotland. far on the moors a curlew cried out that its soul was lost. nameless things whinnied in the mist-filled hollows. on the low grounds there lay a white mist knee-deep, and ralph peden waded in it as in a shallow sea. so in due time he came near to the place of his tryst. never had he stood so before. he stilled the beating of his heart with his hand, so loud and riotous it was in that silent place. he could hear, loud as an insurrection, the quick, unequal double- knocking in his bosom. a grasshopper, roosting on a blade of grass beneath, his feet, tumbled off and gave vent to his feelings in a belated "chirr." overhead somewhere a raven croaked dismally and cynically at intervals. ralph's ears heard these things as he waited, with every sense on the alert, at the place of his love-tryst. he thrilled with the subtle hope of strange possibilities. a mill- race of pictures of things sweet and precious ran through his mind. he saw a white-spread table, with winsome seated opposite to himself, tall, fair, and womanly, the bright heads of children between them. and the dark closed in. again he saw winsome with her head on his arm, standing looking out on the sunrise from the hilltop, whence they had watched it not so long ago. the thought brought him to his pocket-book. he took it out, and in the darkness touched his lips to the string of the lilac sunbonnet. it surely must be past ten now, he thought. would she not come? he had, indeed, little right to ask her, and none at all to expect her. yet he had her word of promise--one precious line. what would he say to her when she came? he would leave that to be settled when his arms were about her. but perhaps she would be colder than before. they would sit, he thought, on the parapet of the bridge. there were no fir-branches to part them with intrusive spikes. so much at least should be his. but then, again, she might not come at all! what more likely than that she had been detained by her grandmother? how could he expect it? indeed, he told himself he did not expect it. he had come out here because it was a fine night, and the night air cooled his brain for his studies. his heart, hammering on his life's anvil, contradicted him. he could not have repeated the hebrew alphabet. his head, bent a little forward in the agony of listening, whirled madly round; the ambient darkness surrounding all. there! he heard a footstep. there was a light coming down the avenue under the elders. at last! no, it was only the glow-worms under the leaves, shining along the grass by the wayside. the footstep was but a restless sheep on the hillside. then some one coughed, with the suppressed sound of one who covers his mouth with his hand. ralph was startled, but almost laughed to think that it was still only the lamb on the other side of the wall moving restlessly about in act to feed. time and again the blood rushed to his temples, for he was sure that he heard her coming to him. but it was only the echo of the blood surging blindly through his own veins, or some of the night creatures fulfilling their love-trysts, and seeking their destinies under the cloud of night. suddenly his whole soul rose in revolt against him. certainly now he heard a light and swift footstep. there was a darker shape coming towards him against the dim, faint grey glimmer of the loch. it was his love, and she had come out to him at his bidding. he had dreamed of an angel, and lo! now he should touch her in the hollow night, and find that she was a warm, breathing woman. wrapped from head to foot in a soft close shawl, she came to him. he could see her now, but only as something darker against the canopy of the night. so, in the blissful dark, which makes lovers brave, he opened his arms to receive her. for the first time in his life he drew them to him again not empty. the thrill electric of the contact, the yielding quiescence of the girl whom he held to his breast, stilled his heart's tumultuous beating. she raised her head, and their lips drew together into a long kiss. what was this thing? it was a kiss in which he tasted a strange alien flavour even through the passion of it. a sense of wrong and disappointment flowed round ralph's heart. so on the bridge in the darkness, where many lovers had stood ever since the first pict trysted his dark-browed bride by the unbridged water, the pair stood very still. they only breathed each other's breath. something familiar struck on ralph's senses. he seemed to be standing silent in the parlour at craig ronald--not here, with his arms round his love--and somehow between them there rose unmistakable the perfume of the flower which for an hour he had carried in his coat on the day that he and she went a-fishing. "beloved," he said tenderly, looking down, "you are very good to me to come!" for all reply a face was held close pressed to his. the mists of night had made her cheek damp. he passed his hand across the ripples of her hair. half hidden by the shawl he could feel the crisping of the curls under his fingers. it was harder in texture than he had fancied winsome's hair would be. he half smiled that he had time at such a moment to think such a thing. it was strange, however. he had thought a woman's hair was like floss silk--at least winsome's, for he had theorized about none other. "winsome, dear!" he said, again bending his head to look down, "i have to go far away, and i wanted to tell you. you are not angry with me, sweetest, for asking you to come? i could not go without bidding you good-bye, and in the daytime i might not have seen you alone. you know that i love you with all my life and all my heart. and you love me--at least a little. tell me, beloved!" still there was no answer. ralph waited with some certitude and ease from pain, for indeed the clasping arms told him all he wished to know. there was a brightness low down in the west. strangely and slowly the gloomy eyelid of cloud which had fallen athwart the evening lifted for a moment its sullen fringe; a misty twilight of lurid light flowed softly over the land. the shawl fell back like a hood from off the girl's shoulders. she looked up throbbing and palpitating. ralph peden was clasping jess kissock in his arms. she had kept her word. he had kissed her of his own free will, and that within a day. her heart rejoiced over winsome. "so much, at least, she cannot take from me." ralph peden's heart stopped beating for a tremendous interval of seconds. then the dammed-back blood-surge drave thundering in his ears. he swayed, and would have fallen but for the parapet of the bridge and the clinging arms about his neck. all his nature and love in full career stopped dead. the shock almost unhinged his soul and reason. it was still so dark that, though he could see the outline of her head and the paleness of her face, nothing held him but the intense and vivid fascination of her eyes. ralph would have broken away, indignant and amazed, but her arms and eyes held him close prisoner, the dismayed turmoil in his own heart aiding. "yes, ralph peden," jess kissock said, cleaving to him, "and you hate me because it is i and not another. you think me a wicked girl to come to you in her place. but you called her because you loved her, and i have come because i loved you as much. have i not as much right? do not dream that i came for aught but that. have i not as good a right to love as you?" she prisoned his face fiercely between her hands, and held him off from her as if to see into his soul by the light of the lingering lake of ruddy light low in the west. "in your bible where is there anything that hinders a woman from loving? yet i know you will despise me for loving you, and hate me for coming in her place." "i do not hate you!" said ralph, striving to go without rudely unclasping the girl's hands. her arms fell instantly again about his neck, locking themselves behind. "no, you shall not go till you have heard all, and then you can cast me into the loch as a worthless thing that you are better rid of." through his disappointment and his anger, ralph was touched. he would have spoken, but the girl went on: "no, you do not hate me--i am not worth it. you despise me, and do you think that is any better? i am only a cottar's child. i have been but a waiting-maid. but i have read how maids have loved the kings and the kings loved them. yes, i own it. i am proud of it. i have schemed and lain awake at nights for this. why should i not love you? others have loved me without asking my leave. why should i ask yours? and love came to me without your leave or my own that day on the road when you let me carry your books." she let her arms drop from his neck and buried her face in her hands, sobbing now with very genuine tears. ralph could not yet move away, even though no longer held by the stringent coercion of this girl's arms. he was too grieved, too suddenly and bitterly disappointed to have any fixed thought or resolve. but the good man does not live who can listen unmoved to the despairing catch of the sobbing in a woman's throat. then on his hands, which he had clasped before him, he felt the steady rain of her tears; his heart went out in a great pity for this wayward girl who was baring her soul to him. the whole note and accent of her grief was of unmistakable feeling. jess kissock had begun in play, but her inflammable nature kindled easily into real passion. for at least that night, by the bridge of the grannoch water, she believed that her heart was broken. ralph put his hand towards her with some unformed idea of sympathy. he murmured vague words of comfort, as he might have done to a wailing child that had hurt itself; but he had no idea how to still the tempestuous grief of a passion-pale woman. suddenly jess kissock slipped down and clasped him about the knees. her hair had broken from its snood and streamed a cloud of intense blackness across her shoulders. he could see her only weirdly and vaguely, as one may see another by the red light of a wood ember in the darkness. she seemed like a beautiful, pure angel, lost by some mischance, praying to him out of the hollow pit of the night. "i carried your burden for you once, the day i first saw you. let me carry your burden for you across the world. if you will not love me, let me but serve you. i would slave so hard! see, i am strong--" she seized his hands, gripping thorn till his fingers clave together with the pressure. "see how i love you!" her hands seemed to say. then she kissed his hands, wetting them with the downfalling of her tears. the darkness settled back thicker than before. he could not see the kneeling woman whose touch he felt. he strove to think what he should do, his emotions and his will surging in a troubled maelstrom about his heart. but just then, from out of the darkness high on the unseen hill above them, there came a cry--a woman's cry of pain, anger, and ultimate danger: "ralph, ralph, come to me--come!" it seemed to say to him. again and again it came, suddenly faltered and was silenced as if smothered--as though a hand had been laid across a mouth that cried and would not be silent. ralph sprang clear of jess kissock in a moment. he knew the voice. he would have known it had it come to him across the wreck of worlds. it was his love's voice. she was calling to him--ralph peden--for help. without a thought for the woman whose despairing words he had just listened to, he turned and ran, plunging into the thick darkness of the woods, hillward in the direction of the cry. but he had not gone far when another cry was heard--not the cry of a woman this time, but the shorter, shriller, piercing yell of a man at the point of death--some deadly terror at his throat, choking him. mixed with this came also unearthly, wordless, inhuman howlings, as of a wild beast triumphing. for a dozen seconds these sounds dominated the night. then upon the hill they seemed to sink into a moaning, and a long, low cry, like the whining of a beaten dog. lights gleamed about the farm, and ralph could vaguely see, as he sprang out of the ravine, along which he and winsome had walked, dark forms flitting about with lanterns. in another moment he was out on the moor, ranging about like a wild, questing hound, seeking the cause of the sudden and hideous outcry. chaptee xxx. the hill gate. there was no merry group outside winsome's little lattice window this night, as she sat unclad to glimmering white in the quiet of her room. in her heart there was that strange, quiet thrill of expectancy--the resolve of a maiden's heart, when she knows without willing that at last the flood-gates of her being must surely be raised and the great flood take her to the sea. she did not face the thought of what she would say. in such a case a man plans what he will say, and once in three times he says it. but a woman is wiser. she knows that in that hour it will be given her what she shall speak. "i shall go to him," said winsome to herself; "i must, for he is going away, and he has need of me. can i let him go without a word?" though ralph had done no noble action in her sight or within her ken, yet there was that about him which gave her the knowledge that she would be infinitely safe with him even to the world's end. winsome wondered how she could so gladly go, when she would not have so much as dreamed of stealing out at night to meet any other, though she might have known him all her life. she did not know, often as she had heard it read, that "perfect love casteth out fear." then she said to herself gently, as if she feared that the peeping roses at the window might hear, "perhaps it is because i love him." perhaps it was. happy winsome, to have found it out so young! the curtain of the dark drew down. moist airs blew into the room, warm with the scent of the flowers of a summer night. honeysuckle and rose blew in, and quieted the trembling nerves of the girl going to meet her first love. "he has sair need o' me!" she said, lapsing as she sometimes did into her grandmother's speech. "he will stand before me," she said, "and look so pale and beautiful. then i will not let him come nearer--for a while--unless it is very dark and i am afraid." she glanced out. it promised to be very dark, and a tremour came over her. then she clad herself in haste, drawing from a box a thin shawl of faded pale blue silk with a broad crimson edge, which she drew close about her shoulders. the band of red lying about her neck forced forward her golden tresses, throwing them about her brow so that they stood out round her face in a changeful aureole of fine-spun gold. she took a swift glance in the mirror, holding her candle in her hand. then she laughed a nervous little laugh all to herself. how foolish of her! of course, it would be impossible for him to see her. but nevertheless she put out her light, and went to the door smiling. she had no sense of doing that which she ought not to do; for she had been accustomed to her liberty in all matters whatsoever, ever since she came to craig ronald, and in the summer weather nothing was more common than for her to walk out upon the moor in the dewy close of day. she shut the door quietly behind her, and set her foot on the silent elastic turf, close cropped by many woolly generations. the night shut down behind her closer than the door. the western wind cooled her brain, and the singing in her heart rose into a louder altar-song. a woman ever longs to be giving herself. she rejoices in sacrifice. it is a pity that she so often chooses an indifferently worthy altar. yet it is questionable whether her own pleasure in the sacrifice is any the less. at the gate of the yard, which had been left open and hung backward perilously upon its hinges, she paused. "that is that careless girl, jess!" she said, practical even at such a moment. and she was right--it was jess who had so left it. indeed, had she been a moment sooner, she might have seen jess flit by, taking the downward road which led through the elder--trees to the waterside. as it was, she only shut the gate carefully, so that no night- wandering cattle might disturb the repose of her grandparents, laid carefully asleep by meg in their low-ceilinged bedroom. the whole farm breathed from its walls and broad yard spaces the peaceful rise and fall of an infant's repose. there was no sound about the warm and friendly place save the sleepy chunner of a hen on the bauks of the peat-house, just sufficiently awake to be conscious of her own comfort. the hill road was both stony and difficult, but winsome's light feet went along it easily and lightly. on not a single stone did she stumble. she walked so gladsomely that she trod on the air. there were no rocks in her path that night. behind her the light in the west winked once and went out. palpable darkness settled about her. the sigh of the waste moorlands, where in the haggs the wild fowl were nestling and the adders slept, came down over the well-pastured braes to her. winsome did not hasten. why hasten, when at the end of the way there certainly lies the sweet beginning of all things. already might she be happy in the possession of certainties? it never occurred to her that ralph would not be at the trysting-place. that a messenger might fail did not once cross her mind. but maidenly tremours, delicious in their uncertainty, coursed along her limbs and through all her being. could any one have seen, there was a large and almost exultant happiness in the depths of her eyes. her lips were parted a little, like a child that waits on tiptoe to see the curtain rise on some wondrous and long- dreamed-of spectacle. soon against the darker sky the hill dyke stood up, looking in the gloom massive as the picts' wall of long ago. it followed irregularly the ridgy dips and hollows downward, till it ran into the in tenser darkness of the pines. in a moment, ere yet she was ready, there before her was the gate of her tryst. she paused, affrighted for the first time. she listened, and there was no sound. a trembling came over her and an uncertainty. she turned, in act to flee. but out of the dark of the great dyke stepped a figure cloaked from head to heel, and while winsome wavered, tingling now with shame and fear, in an instant she was enclosed within two very strong arms, that received her as in a snare a bird is taken. suddenly winsome felt her breath shorten. she panted as if she could not get air, like the bird as it nutters and palpitates. "oh, i ought not to have come!" &he said, "but i could not help it!" there was no word in answer, only a closer folding of the arms that cinctured her. in the west the dusk was lightening and the eyelid of the night drew slowly and grimly up. when for the first time she looked shyly upward, winsome found herself in the arms of agnew greatorix. wrapped in his great military cloak, with a triumphant look in his handsome face, he smiled down upon her. great lord of innocence! give now this lamb of thine thy help! the leaping soul of pure disembodied terror stood in winsome's eyes. fascinated like an antelope in the coils of a python she gazed, her eyes dilating and contracting--the world whirling about her, the soul of her bounding and panting to burst its bars. "winsome, my darling!" he said, "you have come to me. you are mine"--bending his face to hers. not yet had the power to speak or to resist come back to her, so instant and terrible was her surprise. but at the first touch of his lips upon her cheek the very despair brought back to her tenfold her own strength. she pushed against him with her hands, straining him from her by the rigid tension of her arms, setting her face far from his, but she was still unable to break the clasp of his arms about her. "let me go! let me go!" she cried, in a hoarse and labouring whisper. "gently, gently, fair and softly, my birdie," said greatorix; "surely you have not forgotten that you sent for me to meet you here. well, i am here, and i am not such a fool as to come for nothing!" the very impossibility of words steeled winsome's heart, "_i_ send for you!" cried winsome; "i never had message or word with you in my life to give you a right to touch me with your little finger. let me go, and this instant, agnew greatorix!" "winsome, sweetest girl, it pleases you to jest. have not i your own letter in my pocket telling me where to meet you? did you not write it? i am not angry. you can play out your play and pretend you do not care for me as much as you like; but i will not let you go. i have loved you too long, though till now you were cruel and would give me no hope. so when i got your letter i knew it was love, after all, that had been in your eyes as i rode away." "listen," said winsome eagerly; "there is some terrible mistake; i never wrote a line to you--" "it matters not; it was to me that your letter came, brought by a messenger to the castle an hour ago. so here i am, and here you are, my beauty, and we shall just make the best of it, as lovers should when the nights are short." he closed his arms about her, forcing the strength out of her wrists with slow, rude, masculine muscles. a numbness and a deadness ran through her limbs as he compelled her nearer to him. her head spun round with the fear of fainting. with a great effort she forced herself back a step from him, and just as she felt the breath of his mouth upon hers her heart made way through her lips. "ralph! ralph! help me--help! oh, come to me!" she cried in her extremity of terror and the oncoming rigour of unconsciousness. the next moment she dropped limp and senseless into the arms of agnew greatorix. for a long moment he held her up, listening to the echoes of that great cry, wondering whether it would wake up the whole world, or if, indeed, there were none to answer in that solitary place. but only the wild bird wailed like a lost soul too bad for heaven, too good for hell, wandering in the waste forever. agnew greatorix laid winsome down on the heather, lifeless and still, her pure white face resting in a nest of golden curls, the red band of her mother's indian shawl behind all. but as the insulter stooped to take his will of her lips, now pale and defenceless, something that had been crouching beastlike in the heather for an hour, tracking and tracing him like a remorseless crawling horror, suddenly sprang with a voiceless rush upon him as he bent over winsome's prostrate body--gripped straight at his throat and bore him backward bareheaded to the ground. so unexpected was the assault that, strong man as greatorix was, he had not the least chance of resistance. he reeled at the sudden constriction of his throat by hands that hardly seemed human, so wide was their clutch, so terrible the stringency of their grasp. he struck wildly at his assailant, but, lying on his back with the biting and strangling thing above him, his arms only met on one another in vain blows. he felt the teeth of a great beast meet in his throat, and in the sudden agony he sent abroad the mighty roar of a man in the grips of death by violence. but his assailant was silent, save for a fierce whinnying growl as of a wild beast greedily lapping blood. it was this terrible outcry ringing across the hills that brought the farm steading suddenly awake, and sent the lads swarming about the house with lanterns. but it was ralph alone who, having heard the first cry of his love and listened to nothing else, ran onward, bending low with a terrible stitch in his side which caught his breath and threw him to the ground almost upon the white-wrapped body of his love. hastily he knelt beside her and laid his hand upon her heart. it was beating surely though faintly. but on the other side, against the gray glimmer of the march dyke, he could see the twitchings of some great agony. at intervals there was the ghastly, half-human growling and the sobbing catch of some one striving for breath. a light shone across the moor, fitfully wavering as the searcher cast its rays from side to side. ralph glanced behind him with the instinct to carry his love away to a place of safety. but he saw the face of meg kissock, with slow jock forrest behind her carrying a lantern. meg ran to the side of her mistress. "wha's dune this?" she demanded, turning fiercely to ralph. "gin ye--" "i know nothing about it. bring the lantern here quickly," he said, leaving winsome in the hands of meg. jock forrest brought the lantern round, and there on the grass was agnew greatorix, with daft jock gordon above him, his sinewy hands gripping his neck and his teeth in his throat. ralph pulled jock gordon off and flung him upon the heather, where jock forrest set his foot upon him, and turned the light of the lantern upon the fierce face of a maniac, foam-flecked and blood- streaked. jock still growled and gnashed his teeth, and struggled in sullen fury to get at his fallen foe. with his hat ralph brought water from a deep moss-hole and dashed it upon the face of winsome. in a little while, she began to sob in a heartbroken way. meg took her head upon her knees, and soothed her mistress, murmuring tendernesses. next he brought water to throw over the face and neck of greatorix, which jock gordon in his fury had made to look like nothing human. the rest might wait. it was ralph's first care to get winsome home. kneeling down beside her he soothed her with whispered words, till the piteous sobbing in her throat stilled itself. the ploughman was at this moment stolidly producing pieces of rope from his pockets and tying up jock gordon's hands and feet; but after his first attempts again to fly at greatorix, and his gasps of futile wrath when forced into the soft moss of the moor by jock forrest's foot, he had not offered to move. his paroxysm was only one of the great spasms of madness which sometimes come over the innocently witless. he had heard close by him the cries of winsome charteris, whom he had worshipped for years almost in the place of the god whom he had not the understanding to know. the wonder rather was that he did not kill greatorix outright. had it happened a few steps nearer the great stone dyke, there is little doubt but that jock gordon would have beat out the assailant's brains with a ragged stone. winsome had not yet awakened enough to ask how all these things came about. she could only cling to meg, and listen to ralph whispering in her ear. "i can go home now," she said earnestly. so ralph and meg helped her up, ralph wrapping her in her great crimson-barred shawl. ralph would have kissed her, but winsome, standing unsteadily clasping meg's arm, said tenderly: "not to-night. i am not able to bear it." it was almost midnight when ralph and the silent jock forrest got agnew greatorix into the spring-cart to be conveyed to greatorix castle. he lay with his eyes closed, silent. ralph took jock gordon to the manse with him, determined to tell the whole to mr. welsh if necessary; but if it were not necessary, to tell no one more than he could help, in order to shelter winsome from misapprehension. it says something for ralph that, in the turmoil of the night and the unavailing questionings of the morning, he never for a moment thought of doubting his love. it was enough for him that in the depths of agony of body or spirit she had called out to him. all the rest would be explained in due time, and he could wait. moreover, so selfish is love, that he had never once thought of jess kissock from the moment that his love's cry had pealed across the valley of the elder-trees and the plain of the water meadows. when he brought jock gordon, hardly yet humanly articulate, into the kitchen of the manse, the house was still asleep. then ralph wakened manse bell, who slept above. he told her that jock gordon had taken a fit upon the moor, that he had found him ill, and brought him home. next he went up to the minister's room, where he found mr. welsh reading his bible. he did not know that the minister had watched him both come and go from his window, or that he had remained all night in prayer for the lad, who, he misdoubted, was in deep waters. as soon as jock gordon had drunk the tea and partaken of the beef ham which manse bell somewhat grumblingly set before him, he said: "noo, i'll awa'. the tykes'll be after me, nae doot, but it's no in yin o' them to catch jock gordon gin yince he gets into the dungeon o' buchan." "but ye maun wait on the minister or maister peden. they'll hae muckle to ask ye, nae doot!" said bell, who yearned for news. "nae doot, nae doot!" said daft jock gordon, "an' i hae little to answer. it's no for me to tie the rape roond my ain craig [neck]. na, na, time aneu' to answer when i'm afore the sherra at kirkcudbright for this nicht's wark." with these words jock took his pilgrim staff and departed for parts unknown. as he said, it was not bloodhounds that could catch jock gordon on the rhinns of kells. in the morning there was word come to the cot-house of the kissocks that mistress kissock was wanted up at the castle to nurse a gentleman who had had an accident when shooting. mistress kissock was unable to go herself, but her daughter jess went instead of her, having had some practice in nursing, among other experiences which she had gained in england. it was reported that she made an excellent nurse. chaptee xxxi. the study of the manse of dullarg. it was growing slowly dusk again when ralph peden returned from visiting craig ronald along the shore road to the dullarg and its manse. he walked briskly, as one who has good news. sometimes he whistled to himself--breaking off short with a quick smile at some recollection. once he stopped and laughed aloud. then he threw a stone at a rook which eyed him superciliously from the top of a turf dyke. he made a bad shot, at which the black critic wiped the bare butt of his bill upon the grass, uttered a hoarse "a-ha!" of derision, and plunged down squatty among the dock- leaves on the other side. as ralph turned up the manse loaning to the bare front door, he was conscious of a vague uneasiness, the feeling of a man who returns to a house of gloom from a world where all things have been full of sunshine. it was not the same world since yesterday. even he, ralph peden, was not the same man. but he entered the house with that innocent affectation of exceeding ease which is the boy's tribute to his own inexperience. he went up the stairs through the dark lobby and entered allan welsh's study. the minister was sitting with his back to the window, his hands clasped in front of him, and his great domed forehead and emaciated features standing out against the orange and crimson pool of glory where the sun had gone down. ralph ostentatiously clattered down his armful of books on the table. the minister did not speak at first, and ralph began his explanation. "i am sorry," he said, hesitating and blushing under the keen eyes of his father's friend. "i had no idea i should have been detained, but the truth is--" "i ken what the truth is," said allan welsh, quietly. "sit down, ralph peden. i have somewhat to say to you." a cold chill ran through the young man's veins, to which succeeded a thrill of indignation. was it possible that he was about to reproach him, as a student in trials for the ministry of the marrow kirk, with having behaved in any way unbecoming of an aspirant to that high office, or left undone anything expected of him as his father's son? the minister was long in speaking. against the orange light of evening which barred the window, his face could not be seen, but ralph had the feeling that his eyes, unseen themselves, were reading into his very soul. he sat down and clenched his hands under the table, "i was at the bridge of grannoch this day," began the minister at last. "i was on my way to visit a parishioner, but i do not conceal from you that i also made it my business to observe your walk and conversation." "by what right do you so speak to me?" began ralph, the hotter blood of his mother rising within him. "by the right given to me by your father to study your heart and to find out whether indeed it is seeking to walk in the more perfect way. by my love and regard for you, i hope i may also say." the minister paused, as if to gather strength for what he had yet to say. he leaned his head upon his hand, and balph did not see that his frail figure was shaken with some emotion too strong for his physical powers, only kept in check by the keen and indomitable will within. "ralph, my lad," allan welsh continued, "do not think that i have not foreseen this; and had jour father written to inform me of his intention to send you to me, i should have urged him to cause you to abide in your own city. what i feared in thought is in act come to pass. i saw it in your eyes yestreen." kalph's eyes spoke an indignant query. "ralph peden," said the minister, "since i came here, eighteen years ago, not a mouse has crept out of craig ronald but i have made it my business to know it. i am no spy, and yet i need not to be told what happened yesterday or to-day." "then, sir, you know that i have no need to be ashamed." "i have much to say to you, ralph, which i desire to say by no means in anger. but first let me say this: it is impossible that you can ever be more to winifred charteris than you are to-day." "that is likely enough, sir, but i would like to know why in that case i am called in question." "because i have been, more than twenty years ago, where you are to-day, ralph peden, i--even i-- have seen eyes blue as those of winsome charteris kindle with pleasure at my approach. yes, i have known it. and i have also seen the lids lie white and still upon these eyes, and i am here to warn you from the primrose way; and also, if need be, to forbid you to walk therein." his voice took a sterner tone with the last words. ralph bowed his head on the table and listened; but there was no feeling save resentment and resistance in his heart. the minister went on in a level, unemotional tone, like one telling a tale of long ago, of which the issues and even the interests are dead and gone. "i do not look now like a man on whom the eye of woman could ever rest with the abandonment of love. yet i, allan welsh, have seen 'the love that casteth out fear.'" after a pause the high, expressionless voice took up the tale. "many years ago there were two students, poor in money but rich in their mutual love. they were closer in affection than twin brothers. the elder was betrothed to be married to a beautiful girl in the country; so he took down his friend with him to the village where the maid dwelt to stand by his side and look upon the joy of the bridegroom. he saw the trysted (betrothed) of his friend. he and she looked into one another's eyes and were drawn together as by a power beyond them. the elder was summoned suddenly back to the city, and for a week he, all unthinking, left the friends of his love together glad that they should know one another better. they walked together. they spoke of many things, ever returning back to speak of themselves. one day they held a book together till they heard their hearts beat audibly, and in the book read no more that day. "upon the friend's return he found only an empty house and distracted parents. bride and brother had fled. word came that they had been joined by old joseph paisley, the gretna green 'welder,' without blessing of minister or kirk. then they hid themselves in a little cumbrian village, where for six years the unfaithful friend wrought for his wife--for so he deemed her--till in the late bitterness of bringing forth she died, that was the fairest of women and the unhappiest." the minister ceased. outside the rain had come on in broad single drops, laying the dust on the road. ralph could hear it pattering on the broad leaves of the plane-tree outside the window. he did not like to hear it. it sounded like a woman's tears. but he could not understand how all this bore on his case. he was silenced and awed, but it was with the sight of a soul of a man of years and approved sanctity in deep apparent waters of sorrow. the minister lifted his head and listened. in the ancient woodwork of the manse, somewhere in the crumbling wainscoting, the little boring creature called a death-watch ticked like the ticking of an old verge watch. mr. welsh broke off with a sudden causeless auger very appalling in one so sage and sober in demeanour. "there's that beast again!" he said; "often have i thought it was ticking in my head. i have heard it ever since the night she died--" "i wonder at a man like you," said ralph, "with your wisdom and christian standing, caring for a worm--" "you're a very young man, and when you are older maybe you'll wonder at a deal fewer things," answered the minister with a kind of excited truculence very foreign to his habit, "for i myself am a worm and no man," he added dreamily. "and often i tried to kill the beast. ye see thae marks--" he broke off again--"i bored for it till the boards are a honeycomb, but the thing aye ticks on." "but, mr. welsh," said ralph eagerly, with some sympathy in his voice, "why should you trouble yourself about this story now--or i, for the matter of that? i can understand that winsome charteris has somehow to do with it, and that the knowledge has come to you in the course of your duty; but even if, at any future time, winsome charteris were aught to me or i to her--the which i have at present only too little hope of--her forbears, be they whomsoever they might, were no more to me than julius caesar. i have seen her and looked into her eyes. what needs she of ancestors that is kin to the angels?" something like pity came into the minister's stern eyes as he listened to the lad. once he had spoken just such wild, heart- eager words. "i will answer you in a sentence," he said. "i that speak with you am the cause. i am he that has preached law and the gospel--for twenty years covering my sin with the pharisee's strictness of observance. i am he that was false friend but never false lover-- that married without kirk or blessing. i am the man that clasped a dead woman's hand whom i never owned as wife, and watched afar off the babe that i never dared to call mine own. i am the father of winifred oharteris, coward before man, castaway before god. of my sin two know besides my maker--the father that begot you, whose false friend i was in the days that were, and walter skirving, the father of the first winifred whose eyes this hand closed under the peacock tree at crossthwaite." the broad drops fell on the window-panes in splashes, and the thunder rain drummed on the roof. the minister rose and went out, leaving ralph peden sitting in the dark with the universe in ruins about him. the universe is fragile at twenty-one. and overhead the great drops fell from the brooding thunder- clouds, and in the wainscoting of allan welsh's study the death- watch ticked. chapter xxxii. outcast and alien from the commonwealth. "moreover," said the minister--coming in an hour afterwards to take up the interrupted discussion--"the kirk of the marrow overrides all considerations of affection or self-interest. if you are to enter the marrow kirk, you must live for the marrow, and fight for the marrow, and, above all, you must wed for the marrow--" "as you did, no doubt," said ralph, somewhat ungenerously. ralph had remained sitting in the study where the minister had left him. "no, for myself," said the minister, with a certain firmness and high civility, which made the young man ashamed of himself, "i am no true son of the marrow. i have indeed served the marrow kirk in her true and only protesting section for twenty-five years; but i am only kept in my position by the good grace of two men--of your father and of walter skirving. and do not think that they keep their mouths sealed by any love for me. were there only my own life and good name to consider, they would speak instantly, and i should be deposed, without cavil or word spoken in my own defence. nay, by what i have already spoken, i have put myself in your hands. all that you have to do is simply to rise in your place on the sabbath morn and tell the congregation what i have told you-- that the minister of the marrow kirk in dullarg is a man rebuking sin when his own hearthstone is unclean--a man irregularly espoused, who wrongfully christened his own unacknowledged child." allan welsh laid his brow against the hard wood of the study table as though to cool it. "no," he continued, looking ralph in the face, as the midnight hummed around, and the bats softly fluttered like gigantic moths outside, "your father is silent for the sake of the good name of the marrow kirk; but this thing shall never be said of his own son, and the only hope of the marrow kirk--the lad she has colleged and watched and prayed for--not only the two congregations of edinburgh and the dullarg contributing yearly out of their smallest pittances, but the faithful single members and adherents throughout broad scotland--many of whom are coming to edinburgh at the time of our oncoming synod, in order to be present at it, and at the communion when i shall assist your father." "but why can not i marry winsome charteris, even though she be your daughter, as you say?" asked ralph. "o young man," said the minister, "ken ye so little about the kirk o' the marrow, and the respect for her that your father and myself cherish for the office of her ministry, that ye think that we could permit a probationer, on trials for the highest office within her gift, to connect himself by tie, bond, or engagement with the daughter of an unblest marriage? that wouald be winking at a new sin, darker even, than the old." then, with a burst of passion--"i, even i, would sooner denounce it myself, though it cost me my position! for twenty years i have known that before god i was condemned. you have seen me praying--yes, often--all night, but never did you or mortal man hear me praying for myself." ralph held out his hand in sympathy. mr. welsh did not seem to notice it. he went on: "i was praying for this poor simple folk--the elect of god--their minister alone a castaway, set beyond the mercy of god by his own act. have i not prayed that they might never be put to shame by the knowledge of the minister's sin being made a mockery in the courts of belial? and have i not been answered?" here we fear that mr. welsh referred to the ecclesiastical surroundings of the reverend erasmus teends. "and i prayed for my poor lassie, and for you, when i saw you both in the floods of deep waters. i have wept great and bitter tears for you twain. but i am to receive my answer and reward, for this night you shall give me your word that never more will you pass word of love to winsome, the daughter of allan charteris welsh. for the sake of the marrow kirk and the unstained truth delivered to the martyrs, and upheld by your father one great day, you will do this thing." "mr. welsh," said the young man calmly, "i cannot, even though i be willing, do this thing. my heart and life, my honour and word, are too deeply engaged for me to go back. at whatever cost to myself, i must keep tryst and pledge with the girl who has trusted me, and who for me has to-night suffered things whose depths of pain and shame i know not yet." "then," said the minister sternly, "you and i must part. my duty is done. if you refuse my appeal, you are no true son of the marrow kirk, and no candidate that i can recommend for her ministry. moreover, to keep you longer in my house and at my board were tacitly to encourage you in your folly." "it is quite true," replied ralph, unshaken and undaunted, "that i may be as unfit as you say for the office and ministry of the marrow kirk. it is, indeed, only as i have thought for a long season. if that be so, then it were well that i should withdraw, and leave the place for some one worthier." "i wonder to hear ye, ralph peden, your father's son," said the minister, "you that have been colleged by the shillings and sixpences of the poor hill folk. how will ye do with these?" "i will pay them back," said ralph. "hear ye, man: can ye pay back the love that hained and saved to send them to edinburgh? can ye pay back the prayers and expectations that followed ye from class to class, rejoicing in your success, praying that the salt of holiness might be put for you into the fountains of earthly learning? pay back, ralph peden?--i wonder sair that ye are not shamed!" indeed, ralph was in a sorrowful quandary. he knew that it was all true, and he saw no way out of it without pain and grief to some. but the thought of winsome's cry came to him, heard in the lonesome night. that appeal had severed him in a moment from all his old life. he could not, though he were to lose heaven and earth, leave her now to reproach and ignominy. she had claimed him only in her utter need, and he would stand good, lover and friend to be counted on, till the world should end. "it is true what you say," said ralph; "i mourn for it every word, but i cannot and will not submit my conscience and my heart to the keeping even of the marrow kirk." "ye should have thought on that sooner," interjected the minister grimly. "god gave me my affections as a sacred trust. this also is part of my religion. and i will not, i cannot in any wise give up hope of winning this girl whom i love, and whom you above all others ought surely to love." "then," said the minister, rising solemnly with his hand outstretched as when he pronounced the benediction, "i, allan welsh, who love you as my son, and who love my daughter more than ten daughters who bear no reproach, tell you, ralph peden, that i can no longer company with you. henceforth i count you as a rebel and a stranger. more than self, more than life, more than child or wife, i, sinner as i am, love the honour and discipline of the kirk of the marrow. henceforth you and i are strangers." the words fired the young man. he took up his hat, which had fallen upon the floor. "if that be so, the sooner that this house is rid of the presence of a stranger and a rebel the better for it, and the happier for you. i thank you for all the kindness you have shown to me, and i bid you, with true affection and respect, farewell!" so, without wailing even to go up-stairs for anything belonging to him, and with no further word on either side, ralph peden stepped into the clear, sobering midnight, the chill air meeting him like a wall. the stars had come out and were shining frosty-clear, though it was june. and as soon as he was gone out the minister fell on his knees, and so continued all the night praying with his face to the earth. chapter xxxiii. jock gordon takes a hand. whatever is too precious, too tender, too good, too evil, too shameful, too beautiful for the day, happens in the night. night is the bath of life, the anodyne of heartaches, the silencer of passions, the breeder of them too, the teacher of those who would learn, the cloak that shuts a man in with his own soul. the seeds of great deeds and great crimes are alike sown in the night. the good samaritan doeth his good by stealth; the wicked one cometh and soweth his tares among the wheat. the lover and the lustful person, the thief and the thinker, the preacher and the poacher, are abroad in the night. in factories and mills, beside the ceaseless whirl of machinery, stand men to whom day is night and night day. in cities the guardians of the midnight go hither and thither with measured step under the drizzling rain. no man cares that they are lonely and cold. yet, nevertheless, both light and darkness, night and day, are but the accidents of a little time. it is twilight--the twilight of the morning and of the gods--that is the true normal of the universe. night is but the shadow of the earth, light the nearness of the central sun. but when the soul of man goeth its way beyond the confines of the little multiplied circles of the system of the sun, it passes at once into the dim twilight of space, where for myriads of myriad miles there is only the grey of the earliest god's gloaming, which existed just so or ever the world was, and shall be when the world is not. light and dark, day and night, are but as the lights of a station at which the train does not stop. they whisk past, gleaming bright but for a moment, and the world which came out of great twilight plunges again into it, perhaps to be remade and reillumined on some eternal morning. it is good for man, then, to be oftentimes abroad in the early twilight of the morning. it is primeval-instinct with possibilities of thought and action. then, if at all, he will get a glimpse into his soul that may hap to startle him. judgment and the face of god justly angry seem more likely and actual things than they do in the city when the pavements are thronged and at every turning some one is ready for good or evil to hail you "fellow." so ralph peden stepped out into the night, the sense of injustice quick upon him. he had no plans, but only the quick resentments of youth, and the resolve to stay no longer in a house where he was an unwelcome guest. he felt that he had been offered the choice between his career and unfaithfulness to the girl who had trusted him. this was not quite so; but, with the characteristic one- sidedness of youth, that was the way that he put the case to himself. it was the water-shed of day and night when ralph set out from the dullarg manse. he had had no supper, but he was not hungry. naturally his feet carried him in the direction of the bridge, whither he had gone on the previous evening and where amid an eager press of thoughts he had waited and watched for his love. when he got there he sat down on the parapet and looked to the north. he saw the wimples of the lazy grannoch lane winding dimly through their white lily beds. in the starlight the white cups glimmered faintly up from their dark beds of leaves. underneath the bridge there was only a velvety blackness of shadow. what to do was now the question. plainly he must at once go to edinburgh, and see his father. that was the first certainty. but still more certainly he must first see winsome, and, in the light of the morning and of her eyes, solve for her all the questions which must have sorely puzzled her, at the same time resolving his own perplexities. then he must bid her adieu. right proudly would he go to carve out a way for her. he had no doubts that the mastership in his old school, which dr. abel had offered him a month ago, would still be at his disposal. that winsome loved him truly he did not doubt. he gave no thought to that. the cry across the gulf of air from the high march dyke by the pines on the hill, echoing down to the bridge in the valley of the grannoch, had settled that question once for all. as he sat on the bridge and listened to the ripple of the grannoch lane running lightly over the shallows at the stepping stones, and to the more distant roar of the falls of the black water, he shaped out a course for himself and for winsome. he had ceased to call her winsome charteris. "she," he called her--the only she. when next he gave her a surname he would call her winsome peden. instinctively he took off his hat at the thought, as though he had opened a door and found himself light-heartedly and suddenly in a church. sitting thus on the bridge alone and listening to the ocean-like lapse of his own thoughts, as they cast up the future and the past like pebbles at his feet, he had no more thought of fear for his future than he had that first day at craig ronald, under the whin- bushes on the ridge behind him, on that day of the blanket-washing so many ages ago. he was so full of love that it had cast out fear. suddenly out of the gloom beneath the bridge upon which he was sitting, dangling his legs, there came a voice. "maister ralph peden, maister ralph peden." ralph nearly fell backward over the parapet in his astonishment. "who is that calling on me?" he asked in wonder. "wha but juist daft jock gordon? the hangman haesna catchit him yet, an' thank ye kindly--na, nor ever wull." "where are you, jock, man?" said ralph, willing to humour the instrument of god. "the noo i'm on the shelf o' the brig; a braw bed it maks, if it is raither narrow. but graund practice for the narrow bed that i'll get i' the dullarg kirkyaird some day or lang, unless they catch puir jock and hang him. na, na," said jock with a canty kind of content in his voice, "they may luik a lang while or they wad think o' luikin' for him atween the foundation an' the spring o' the airch. an' that's but yin o' jock gordon's hidie holes, an' a braw an' guid yin it is. i hae seen this bit hole as fu' o' pairtricks and pheasants as it could hand, an' a' the keepers and their dowgs smellin', and them could na find it oot. na, the water taks awa' the smell." "are ye not coming out, jock?" queried ralph. "that's as may be," said jock briefly. "what do ye want wi' jock?" "come up," said ralph; "i shall tell you how ye can help me. ye ken that i helped you yestreen." "weel, ye gied me an unco rive aff that blackguard frae the castle, gin that was a guid turn, i ken na!" so grumbling, jock gordon came to the upper level of the bridge, paddling unconcernedly with his bare feet and ragged trousers through the shallows. "weel, na--hae ye a snuff aboot ye, noo that i am here? no--dear sirce, what wad i no do for a snuff?" "jock," said ralph, "i shall have to walk to edinburgh. i must start in the morning." "ye'll hae plenty o' sillar, nae doot?" said jock practically. ralph felt his pockets. in that wild place it was not his custom to carry money, and he had not even the few shillings which were in his purse at the manse. "i am sorry to say," he said, "that i have no money with me." "then ye'll be better o' jock gordon wi' ye?" said jock promptly. ralph saw that it would not do to be saddled with jock in the city, where it might be necessary for him to begin a new career immediately; so he gently broke the difficulties to jock. "deed na, ye needna be feared; jock wadna set a fit in a toon. there's ower mony nesty imps o' boys, rinnin' an' cloddin' stanes at puir jock, forby caa'in' him names. syne he loses his temper wi' them an' then he micht do them an injury an' get himsel' intil the gaol. na, na, when jock sees the blue smoor o' auld reeky gaun up into the lift he'll turn an' gae hame." "well, jock," said ralph, "it behooves me to see mistress winsome before i go. ye ken she and i are good friends." "so's you an' me; but had puir jock no cried up till ye, ye wad hae gane aff to embra withoot as muckle as 'fairguide'en to ye, jock.'" "ah, jock, but then you must know that mistress charteris and i are lad and lass," he continued, putting the case as he conceived in a form that would suit it to jock's understanding. "lad an' lass! what did ye think jock took ye for? this is nane o' yer castle tricks," he said; "mind, jock can bite yet!" ralph laughed. "no, no, jock, you need not be feared. she and i are going to be married some day before very long"--a statement made entirely without authority. "hoot, hoot!" said jock, "wull nocht ser' ye but that ava--a sensible man like you? in that case ye'll hae seen the last o' jock gordon. i canna be doin' wi' a gilravage o' bairns aboot a hoose--" "jock," said ralph earnestly, "will you help me to see her before i go?" "'deed that i wull," said jock, very practically. "i'll gaun an' wauken her the noo!" "you must not do that," said ralph, "but perhaps if you knew where meg kissock slept, you might tell her." "certes, i can that," said jock; "i can pit my haund on her in a meenit. but mind yer, when ye're mairret, dinna expect jock gordon to come farther nor the back kitchen." so grumbling, "it couldna be expeckit--i canna be doin' wi' bairns ava'--"jock took his way up the long loaning of craig ronald, followed through the elderbushes by ralph peden. chapter xxxiv. the dew of their youth. jock made his way without a moment's hesitation to the little hen- house which stood at one end of the farm steading of craig ronald. up this he walked with his semi-prehensile bare feet as easily as though he were walking along the highway. up to the rigging of the house he went, then along it--setting one foot on one side and the other on the other, turning in his great toes upon the coping for support. thus he came to the gable end at which meg slept. jock leaned over the angle of the roof and with his hand tapped on the window. "wha's there? "said meg from her bed, no more surprised than if the knock had been upon the outer door at midday. "it's me, daft jock gordon," said jock candidly. "gae wa' wi' ye, jock! can ye no let decent fowk sleep in their beds for yae nicht?" "ye maun get up, meg," said jock. "an' what for should i get up?" queried meg indignantly. "i had ancuch o' gettin' up yestreen to last me a gye while." "there's a young man here wantin' to coort your mistress!" said jock delicately. "haivers!" said meg, "hae ye killed another puir man?" "na, na, he's honest--this yin. it's the young man frae the manse. the auld carle o' a minister has turned him oot o' hoose an' hame, and he's gaun awa' to enbra'. he says he maun see the young mistress afore he gangs--but maybe ye ken better, meg." "gae wa' frae the wunda, jock, and i'll get up," said meg, with a brevity which betokened the importance of the news. in a little while meg was in winsome's room. the greyish light of early morning was just peeping in past the little curtain. on the chair lay the lilac-sprigged muslin dress of her grandmother's, which winsome had meant to put on next morning to the kirk. her face lay sideways on the pillow, and meg could see that she was softly crying even in her sleep. meg stood over her a moment. something hard lay beneath winsome's cheek, pressing into its soft rounding. meg tenderly slipped it out. it was an ordinary memorandum-book written with curious signs. on the pillow by her lay the lilac sunbonnet. meg put her arms gently round winsome, saying: "it's me, my lamb. it's me, your meg!" and meg's cheek was pressed against that of winsome, moist with sleep. the sleeper stirred with a dovelike moaning, and opened her eyes, dark with sleep and wet with the tears of dreams, upon meg. "waken, my bonnie; meg has something that she maun tell ye." so winsome looked round with the wild fear with which she now started from all her sleeps; but the strong arms of her loyal meg were about her, and she only smiled with a vague wistfulness, and said: "it's you, meg, my dear!" so into her ear meg whispered her tale. as she went on, winsome clasped her round the neck, and thrust her face into the neck of meg's drugget gown. this is the same girl who had set the ploughmen their work and appointed to each worker about the farm her task. it seems necessary to say so. "noo," said meg, when she had finished, "ye ken whether ye want to see him or no!" "meg," whispered winsome, "can i let him go away to edinburgh and maybe never see me again, without a word?" "ye ken that best yersel'," said meg with high impartiality, but with her comforting arms very close about her darling. "i think," said winsome, the tears very near the lids of her eyes, "that i had better not see him. i--i do not wish to see him--meg," she said earnestly; "go and tell him not to see me any more, and not to think of a girl like me--" meg went to winsome's little cupboard wardrobe in the wall and took down the old lilac-sprayed summer gown which she had worn when she first saw ralph peden. "ye had better rise, my lassie, an' tak' that message yersel'!" said meg dryly. so obediently winsome rose. meg helped her to dress, holding silently her glimmering white garments for her as she had done when first as a fairy child she came to craig ronald. some of them were a little roughly held, for meg could not see quite so clearly as usual. also when she spoke her speech sounded more abruptly and harshly than was its wont. at last the girl's attire was complete, and winsome stood ready for her morning walk fresh as the dew on the white lilies. meg tied the strings of the old sunbonnet beneath her sweet chin, and stepped back to look at the effect; then, with sudden impulsive movement, she went tumultuously forward and kissed her mistress on the cheek. "i wush it was me!" she said, pushing winsome from the room. the day was breaking red in the east when winsome stepped out upon the little wooden stoop, damp with the night mist, which seemed somehow strange to her feet. she stepped down, giving a little familiar pat to the bosom of her dress, as though to advertise to any one who might be observing that it was her constant habit thus to walk abroad in the dawn. meg watched her as she went. then she turned into the house to stop the kitchen clock and out to lock the stable door. through the trees winsome saw ralph long before he saw her. she was a woman; he was only a naturalist and a man. she drew the sunbonnet a little farther over her eyes. he started at last, turned, and came eagerly towards her. jock gordon, who had remained about the farm, went quickly to the gate at the end of the house as if to shut it. "come back oot o' that," said meg sharply. jock turned quite as briskly. "i was gaun to stand wi' my back til't, sae that they micht ken there was naebody luikin'. d'ye think jock gordon haes nae mainners?" he said indignantly. "staun wi' yer back to a creel o' peats, jock; it'll fit ye better!" ooserved meg, giving him the wicker basket with the broad leather strap which was used at craig ronald for bringing the peats in from the stack. winsome had not meant to look at ralph as she came up to him. it seemed a bold and impossible thing for her ever again to come to him. the fear of a former time was still strong upon her. but as soon as she saw him, her eyes somehow could not leave his face. he dropped his hat on the grass beneath, as he came forward to meet her under the great branches of the oak-trees by the little pond. she had meant to tell him that he must not touch her --she was not to be touched; yet she went straight into his open arms like a homing dove. her great eyes, still dewy with the warm light of love in them, never left his till, holding his love safe in his arms, he drew her to him and upon her sweet lips took his first kiss of love. "at last!" he said, after a silence. the sun was rising over the hills of heather. league after league of the imperial colour rolled westward as the level rays of the sun touched it. "now do you understand, my beloved?" said ralph. perhaps it was the red light of the sun, or only some roseate tinge from the miles of galloway heather that stretched to the north, but it is certain that there was a glow of more than earthly beauty on winsome's face as she stood up, still within his arms, and said: "i do not understand at all, but i love you." then, because there is nothing more true and trustful than the heart of a good woman, or more surely an inheritance from the maid-mother of the sinless garden than her way of showing that she gives her all, winsome laid her either hand on her lover's shoulders and drew his face down to hers--laying her lips to his of her own free will and accord, without shame in giving, or coquetry of refusal, in that full kiss of first surrender which a woman may give once, but never twice, in her life. this also is part of the proper heritage of man and woman, and whoso has missed it may attain wealth or ambition, may exhaust the earth--yet shall die without fully or truly living. a moment they stood in silence, swaying a little like twin flowers in the wind of the morning. then taking hands like children, they slowly walked away with their faces towards the sunrise. there was the light of a new life in their eyes. it is good sometimes to live altogether in the present. "sufficient unto the day is the good thereof," is a proverb in all respects equal to the scriptural original. for a little while they thus walked silently forward, and on the crest of the ridge above the nestling farm ralph paused to take his last look of craig ronald. winsome turned with him in complete comprehension, though as yet he had told her no word of his projects. nor did she think of any possible parting, or of anything save of the eyes into which she did not cease to look, and the lover whose hand it was enough to hold. all true and pure love is an extension of god--the gladness in the eyes of lovers, the tears also, bridals and espousals, the wife's still happiness, the delight of new-made homes, the tinkle of children's laughter. it needs no learned exegete to explain to a true lover what john meant when he said, "for god is love." these things are not gifts of god, they are parts of him. it was at this moment that meg kissock, having seen them stand a moment still against the sky, and then go down from their hilltop towards the north, unlocked the stable door, at which ebie fairrish had been vainly hammering from within for a quarter of an hour. then she went indoors and pulled close the curtains of winsome's little room. she came out, locked the bedroom door, and put the key in her pocket. her mistress had a headache. meg was a treasure indeed, as a thoughtful person about a household often is. as winsome and ralph went down the farther slope of the hill, towards the road that stretched away northward across the moors, they fell to talking together very practically. they had much to say. before they had gone a mile the first strangeness had worn off, and the stage of their intimacy may be inferred from the fact that they were only at the edge of the great wood of grannoch bank, when winsome reached the remark which undoubtedly mother eve made to her husband after they had been some time acquainted: "do you know, i never thought i should talk to any one as i am talking to you?" ralph allowed that it was an entirely wonderful thing--indeed, a belated miracle. strangely enough, he had experienced exactly the same thought. "was it possible?" smiled winsome gladly, from under the lilac sunbonnet. such wondrous and unexampled correspondence of impression proved that they were made for one another, did it not? at this point they paused. exercise in the early morning is fatiguing. only the unique character of these refreshing experiences induces us to put them on record. then winsome and ralph proceeded to other and not less extraordinary discoveries. sitting on a wind-overturned tree- trunk, looking out from the edge of the fringing woods of the grannoch bank towards the swells of cairnsmuir's green bosom, they entered upon their position with great practicality. nature, with an unusual want of foresight, had neglected to provide a back to this sylvan seat, so ralph attended to the matter himself. this shows that self-help is a virtue to be encouraged. ralph had some disinclination to speak of the terrors of the night which had forever rolled away. still, he felt that the matter must be cleared up; so that it was with doubt in his mind that he showed winsome the written line which had taken him to the bridge instead of to the hill gate. "that's jess kissock's writing!" winsome said at once. ralph had the same thought. so in a few moments they traced the whole plot to its origin. it was a fit product of the impish brain of jess kissock. jess had sent the false note of appointment to ralph by andra, knowing that he would be so exalted with the contents that he would never doubt its accuracy. then she had despatched jock gordon with "winsome's real letter to greatorix castle; in answer to the supposed summons, which was genuine enough, though not meant for him, agnew greatorix had come to the hill gate, and jess had met ralph by the bridge to play her own cards as best she could for herself. "how wicked!" said winsome, "after all." "how foolish!" said ralph, "to think for a moment that any one could separate you and me." but winsome bethought herself how foolishly jealous she had been when she found jess putting a flower into ralph's coat, and jess's plot did not look quite so impossible as before. "i think, dear," said ralph, "you must after this make your letters so full of your love, that there can be no mistake whom they are intended for." "i mean to," said winsome frankly. there was also some fine scenery at this point. but there was no hesitation in ralph peden's tone when he settled down steadily to tell her of his hopes. winsome sat with her eyes downcast and her head a little to one side, like a bright-eyed bird listening. "that is all true and delightful," she said, "but we must not be selfish or forget." "we must remember one another!" said ralph, with the absorption of newly assured love. "we are in no danger of forgetting one another," said that wise woman in counsel; "we must not forget others. there is your father--you have not forgotten him." with a pang ralph remembered that there was yet something that he could not tell winsome. he had not even been frank with her concerning the reason of his leaving the manse and going to edinburgh. she only understood that it was connected with his love for her, which was not approved of by the minister of the marrow kirk. "my father will be as much pleased with you as i," said ralph, with enthusiasm. "no doubt," said winsome, laughing; "fathers always are with their sons' sweethearts. but you have not forgotten something else?" "what may that be?" said ralph doubtfully. "that i cannot leave my grandfather and grandmother at craig ronald as they are. they have cared for me and given me a home when i had not a friend. would you love me as you do, if i could leave them even to go out into the world with you?" "no," said ralph very reluctantly, but like a man. "then," said winsome bravely, "go to edinburgh. fight your own battle, and mine," she added. "winsome," said ralph, earnestly, for this serious and practical side of her character was an additional and unexpected revelation of perfection, "if you make as good a wife as you make a sweetheart, you will make one man happy." "i mean to make a man happy," said winsome, confidently. the scenery again asserted its claim to attention. observation enlarges the mind, and is therefore pleasant. after a pause, winsome said irrelevantly. "and you really do not think me so foolish?" "foolish! i think you are the wisest and--" "no, no." winsome would not let him proceed. "you do not really think so. you know that i am wayward and changeable, and not at all what i ought to be. granny always tells me so. it was very different when she was young, she says. do you know," continued winsome thoughtfully, "i used to be so frightened, when i knew that you could read in all these wise books of which i did not know a letter? but i must confess--i do not know what you will say, you may even be angry--i have a note-book of yours which i kept." but if winsome wanted a new sensation she was disappointed, for ralph was by no means angry. "so that's where it went?" said ralph, smiling gladly. "yes," said winsome, blushing not so much with guilt as with the consciousness of the locality of the note-book at that moment, which she was not yet prepared to tell him. but she consoled herself with the thought that she would tell him one day. strangely however, ralph did not seem to care much about the book, so winsome changed the subject to one of greater interest. "and what else did you think about me that first day?--tell me," said winsome, shamelessly. it was ralph's opportunity. "why, you know very well, winsome dear, that ever since the day i first saw you i have thought that there never was any one like you--" "yes?" said winsome, with a rising inflection in her voice. "i ever thought you the best and the kindest--" "yes?" said winsome, a little breathlessly. "the most helpful and the wisest--" "yes?" said winsome. "and the most beautiful girl i have ever seen in my life!" "then i do not care for anything else!" cried winsome, clapping her hands. she had been resolving to learn hebrew five minutes before. "nor do i, really," said ralph, speaking out the inmost soul that is in every young man. as ralph peden sat looking at winsome the thought came sometimes to him--but not often--"this is allan welsh's daughter, the daughter of the woman whom my father once loved, who lies so still under the green sod of crossthwaite beneath the lea of skiddaw." he looked at her eyes, deep blue like the depths of the mediterranean sea, and, like it, shot through with interior light. "what are you thinking of?" asked winsome, who had also meanwhile been looking at him. "of your eyes, dear!" said ralph, telling half the truth--a good deal for a lover. winsome paused for further information, looking into the depths of his soul. ralph felt as though his heart and judgment were being assaulted by storming parties. he looked into these wells of blue and saw the love quivering in them as the broken light quivers, deflected on its way through clear water to a sea bottom of golden sand. "you want to hear me tell you something wiser," said ralph, who did not know everything; "you are bored with my foolish talk." and he would have spoken of the hopes of his future. "no, no; tell me--tell me what you see in my eyes," said winsome, a little impatiently. "well then, first," said truthful ralph, who certainly did not flinch from the task, "i see the fairest thing god made for man to see. all the beauty of the world, losing its way, stumbled, and was drowned in the eyes of my love. they have robbed the sunshine, and stolen the morning dew. the sparkle of the light on the water, the gladness of a child when it laughs because it lives, the sunshine which makes the butterflies dance and the world so beautiful--all these i see in your eyes." "this story is plainly impossible. this practical girl was not one to find pleasure in listening to flattery. let us read no more in this book." this is what some wise people will say at this point. so, to their loss will they close the book. they have not achieved all knowledge. the wisest woman would rather hear of her eyes than of her mind. there are those who say the reverse, but then perhaps no one has ever had cause to tell them concerning what lies hid in their eyes. many had wished to tell winsome these things, but to no one hitherto had been given the discoverer's soul, the poet's voice, the wizard's hand to bring the answering love out of the deep sea of divine possibilities in which the tides ran high and never a lighthouse told of danger. "tell me more," said winsome, being a woman, as well as fair and young. these last are not necessary; to desire to be told about one's eyes, it is enough to be a woman. ralph looked down. in such cases it is necessary to refresh the imagination constantly with the facts. as in the latter days wise youths read messages from the quivering needle of the talking machine, so ralph read his message flash by flash as it pulsated upward from a pure woman's soul. "once you would not tell me why your eyelashes were curled up at the ends," said this eager columbus of a new continent, drawing the new world nearer his heart in order that his discoveries might be truer, surer, in detail more trustworthy. "i know now without telling. would you like to know, winsome?" winsome drew a happy breath, nestling a little closer--so little that no one but ralph would have known. but the little shook him to the depths of his soul. this it is to be young and for the first time mastering the geography of an unknown and untraversed continent. the unversed might have thought that light breath a sigh, but no lover could have made the mistake. it is only in books, wordy and unreal, that lovers misunderstand each other in that way. "i know," said ralph, needing no word of permission to proceed, "it is with touching your cheek when you sleep." "then i must sleep a very long time!" said winsome merrily, making light of his words. "underneath in the dark of either eye," continued ralph, who, be it not forgotten, was a poet, "i see two young things like cherubs." "i know," said winsome; "i see myself in your eyes--you see yourself in mine." she paused to note the effect of this tremendous discovery. "then," replied ralph, "if it be indeed my own self i see in your eyes, it is myself as god made me at first without sin. i do not feel at all like a cherub now, but i must have been once, if i ever was like what i see in your eyes." "now go on; tell me what else you see," said winsome. "your lips--" began ralph, and paused. "no, six is quite enough," said winsome, after a little while, mysteriously. she had only two, and ralph only two; yet she said with little grammar and no sense at all, "six is enough." but a voice from quite other lips came over the rising background of scrub and tangled thicket. "gang on coortin'," it said; "i'm no lookin', an' i canna see onything onyway." it was jock gordon. he continued: "jock scott's gane hame till his breakfast. he'll no bother ye this mornin', sae coort awa'." chaptee xxxv. such sweet sorrow. winsome and ralph laughed, but winsome sat up and put straight her sunbonnet. sunbonnets are troublesome things. they will not stick on one's head. manse bell contradicts this. she says that her sunbonnet never comes off, or gets pushed back. as for other people's, lasses are not what they were in her young days. "i must go home," said winsome; "they will miss me." "you know that it is 'good-bye,' then," said ralph. "what!" said winsome, "shall i not see you to-morrow?" the bright light of gladness dying out of her eye. and the smile drained down out of her cheek like the last sand out of the sand-glass. "no," said ralph quietly, keeping his eyes full on hers, "i cannot go back to the manse after what was said. it is not likely that i shall ever be there again." "then when shall i see you?" said winsome piteously. it is the cry of all loving womanhood, whose love goes out to the battle or into the city, to the business of war, or pleasure, or even of money- getting. "then when shall i see you. again?" said winsome, saying a new thing. there is nothing new under the sun, yet to lovers like winsome and ralph all things are new. there was a catch in her throat. a salter dew gathered about her eyes, and the pupils expanded till the black seemed to shut out the blue. very tenderly ralph looked down, and said, "winsome, my dear, very soon i shall come again with more to ask and more to tell." "but you are not going straight away to edinburgh now? you must get a drive to dumfries and take the edinburgh coach." "i cannot do that," said ralph; "i must walk all the way; it is nothing." winsome looked at ralph, the motherly instinct that is in all true love surging up even above the lover's instinct. it made her clasp and unclasp her hands in distress, to think of him going away alone over the waste moors, from the place where they had been so happy. "and he will leave me behind!" she said, with a sudden fear of the loneliness which would surely come when the bright universe was emptied of ralph. "had it only been to-morrow, i could have borne it better," she said. "oh, it is too soon! how could he let us be so happy when he was going away from me?" winsome knew even better than ralph that he must go, but the most accurate knowledge of necessity does not prevent the resentful feeling in a woman's heart when one she loves goes before his time. but the latent motherhood in this girl rose up. if he were truly hers, he was hers to take care of. therefore she asked the question which every mother asks, and no sweetheart who is nothing but a sweetheart has ever yet asked: "have you enough money?" ralph blushed and looked most unhappy, for the first time since the sun rose. "i have none at all," he said; "my father only gave me the money for my journey to the dullarg, and mr. welsh was to provide me what was necessary--" he stopped here, it seemed such a hard and shameful thing to say. "i have never had anything to do with money," he said, hanging down his head. now winsome, who was exceedingly practical in this matter, went forward to him quickly and put an arm upon his shoulder. "my poor boy!" she said, with the tenderest and sweetest expression on her face. and again ralph peden perceived that there are things more precious than much money. "now bend your head and let me whisper." it was already bent, but it was in his ear that winsome wished to speak. "no, no, indeed i cannot, winsome, my love; i could not, indeed, and in truth i do not need it." winsome dropped her arms and stepped back tragically. she put one hand over the other upon her breast, and turned half way from him. "then you do not love me," she said, purely as a coercive measure. "i do, i do--you know that i do; but i could not take it," said ralph, piteously. "well, good-bye, then," said winsome, without holding out her hand, and turning away. "you do not mean it; winsome, you cannot be cruel, after all. come back and sit down. we shall talk about it, and you will see--" winsome paused and looked at him, standing so piteously. she says now that she really meant to go away, but she smiles when she says it, as if she did not quite believe the statement herself. but something--perhaps the look in his eyes, and the thought that, like herself, he had never known a mother--made her turn. going back, she took his hand and laid it against her cheek. "ralph," she said, "listen to me; if _i_ needed help and had none i should not be proud; i would not quarrel with you when you offered to help me. no, i would even ask you for it! but then i love you." it was hardly fair. winsome acknowledges as much herself; but then a woman has no weapons but her wit and her beauty--which is, seeing the use she can make of these two, on the whole rather fortunate than otherwise. ralph looked eager and a little frightened. "would you do that really?" he asked eagerly. "of course i should!" replied winsome, a little indignantly. ralph took her in his arms, and in such a masterful way, that first she was frightened and then she was glad. it is good to feel weak in the arms of a strong man who loves you. god made it so when he made all things well. "my lassie!" said ralph for all comment. then fell a silence so prolonged that a shy squirrel in the boughs overhead resumed his researches upon the tassels and young shoots of the pine-tops, throwing down the debris in a contemptuous manner upon winsome and ralph, who stood below, listening to the beating of each other's hearts. finally winsome, without moving, produced apparently from regions unknown a long green silk purse with three silver rings round the middle. as she put it into ralph's hand, something doubtful started again into his eyes, but winsome looked so fierce in a moment, and so decidedly laid a finger on his lips, that perforce he was silent. as soon as he had taken it, winsome clapped her hands (as well as was at the time possible for her--it seemed, indeed, altogether impossible to an outsider, yet it was done), and said: "you are not sorry, dear--you are glad?" with interrogatively arched eyebrows. "yes," said ralph, "i am very glad." as indeed he might well be. "you see," said the wise young woman, "it is this way: all that is my very own. _i_ am your very own, so what is in the purse is your very own." logic is great--greatest when the logician is distractingly pretty; then, at least, it is sure to prevail--unless, indeed, the opponent be blind, or another woman. this is why they do not examine ladies orally in logic at the great colleges. we have often tried to recover ralph's reply, but the text is corrupt at this place, the context entirely lost. experts suspect a palimpsest. perhaps we linger overly long on the records; but there is so much called love in the world, which is no love, that there may be some use in dwelling upon the histories of a love which was fresh and tender, sweet and true. it is at once instruction for the young, and for the older folk a cast back into the days that were. if to any it is a mockery or a scorning, so much the worse--for of them who sit in the scorner's chair the doom is written. winsome and ralph walked on into the eye of the day, hand in hand, as was their wont. they crossed the dreary moor, which yet is not dreary when you came to look at it on such a morning as this. the careless traveller glancing at it as he passed might call it dreary; but in the hollows, miniature lakes glistened, into which the tiny spurs of granite ran out flush with the water like miniature piers. the wind of the morning waking, rippled on the lakelets, and blew the bracken softly northward. the heather was dark rose purple, the "ling" dominating the miles of moor; for the lavender-grey flush of the true heather had not yet broken over the great spaces of the south uplands. so their feet dragged slower as they drew near to that spot where they knew they must part. there was no thought of going back. there was even little of pain. perfect love had done its work. all frayed and secondhand loves may be made ashamed by the fearlessness of these two walking to their farewell trysting-place, lonely amid the world of heather. only daft jock gordon above them, like a jealous scout, scoured the heights--sometimes on all-fours, sometimes bending double, with his long arms swinging like windmills, scaring even the sheep and the deer lest they should come too near. overhead there was nothing nearer them than the blue lift, and even that had withdrawn itself infinitely far away, as though the angels themselves did not wish to spy on a later eden. it was that midsummer glory of love-time, when grey galloway covers up its flecked granite and becomes a true purple land. if there be a fairer spot within the four seas than this fringe of birch-fringed promontory which juts into westernmost loch ken, i do not know it. almost an island, it is set about with the tiniest beaches of white sand. from the rocks that look boldly up the loch the heather and the saxifrage reflect themselves in the still water. to reach it winsome led ralph among the scented gall-bushes and bog myrtle, where in the marshy meadows the lonely grass of parnassus was growing. pure white petals, veined green, with spikelets of green set in the angles within, five-lobed broidery of daintiest gold stitching, it shone with so clear a presage of hope that ralph stooped to pick it that he might give it to winsome. she stopped him. "do not pull it," she said; "leave it for me to come and look at-- when--when you are gone. it will soon wither if it is taken away; but give me some of the bog myrtle instead," she added, seeing that ralph looked a little disappointed. ralph gathered some of the narrow, brittle, fragrant leaves. winsome carefully kept half for herself, and as carefully inserted a spray in each pocket of his coat. "there, that will keep you in mind of galloway!" she said. and indeed the bog myrtle is the characteristic smell of the great world of hill and moss we call by that name. in far lands the mere thought of it has brought tears to the eyes unaccustomed, so close do the scents and sights of the old free province--the lordship of the picts--wind themselves about the hearts of its sons. "we transplant badly, we plants of the hills. you must come back to me," said winsome, after a pause of wondering silence. loch ken lay like a dream in the clear dispersed light of the morning, the sun shimmering upon it as through translucent ground glass. teal and moor-hen squattered away from the shore as winsome and ralph climbed the brae, and stood looking northward over the superb levels of the loch. on the horizon cairnsmuir showed golden tints through his steadfast blue. whaups swirled and wailed about the rugged side of bennan above their heads. across the loch there was a solitary farm so beautifully set that ralph silently pointed it out to winsome, who smiled and shook her head. "the shirmers has just been let on a nineteen years' lease," she said, "eighteen to run." so practical was the answer, that ralph laughed, and the strain of his sadness was broken. he did not mean to wait eighteen years for her, fathers or no fathers. then beyond, the whole land leaped skyward in great heathery sweeps, save only here and there, where about some hill farm the little emerald crofts and blue-green springing oatlands clustered closest. the loch spread far to the north, sleeping in the sunshine. burnished like a mirror it was, with no breath upon it. in the south the dee water came down from the hills peaty and brown. the roaring of its rapids could faintly be heard. to the east, across the loch, an island slept in the fairway, wooded to the water's edge. it were a good place to look one's last on the earth, this wooded promontory, which might indeed have been that mountain, though a little one, from which was once seen all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them. for there are no finer glories on the earth than red heather and blue loch, except only love and youth. so here love and youth had come to part, between the heather that glowed on the bennan hill and the sapphire pavement of loch ken. for a long time winsome and ralph were silent--the empty interior sadness, mixed of great fear and great hunger, beginning to grip them as they stood. lives only just twined and unified were again to twain. love lately knit was to be torn asunder. eyes were to look no more into the answering eloquence of other eyes. "i must go," said ralph, looking down into his betrothed's face. "stay only a little," said winsome. "it is the last time." so he stayed. strange, nervous constrictions played at "cat's cradle" about their hearts. vague noises boomed and drummed in their ears, making their own words sound strange and empty, like voices heard in a dream. "winsome!" said ralph. "ralph!" said winsome. "you will never for a moment forget me?" said winsome charteris. "you will never for a moment forget me?" said ralph peden. the mutual answer taken and given, after a long silence of soul and body in not-to-be-forgotten communion, they drew apart. ralph went a little way down the birch-fringed hill, but turned to look a last look. winsome was standing where he had left her. something in her attitude told of the tears steadily falling upon her summer dress. it was enough and too much. ralph ran back quickly. "i cannot go away, winsome. i cannot bear to leave you like this!" winsome looked at him and fought a good fight, like the brave girl she was. then she smiled through her tears with the sudden radiance of the sun upon a showery may morning when the white hawthorn is coming out. at this a sob, dangerously deep, rending and sudden, forced itself from ralph's throat. her smile was infinitely more heart-breaking than her tears. ralph uttered a kind of low inarticulate roar at the sight--being his impotent protest against his love's pain. yet such moments are the ineffaceable treasures of life, had he but known it. many a man's deeds follow his vows simply because his lips have tasted the salt water of love's ocean upon the face of the beloved. "be brave, winsome," said ralph; "it shall not be for long." yet she was braver than he, had he but known it; for it is the heritage of the woman to be the stronger in the crises which inevitably wait upon love and love's achievement. winsome bent to kiss, with a touch like a benediction, not his lips now but his brow, as he stood beneath her on the hill slope. "go," she said; "go quickly, while i have the strength. i will be brave. be thou brave also. god be with thee!" so ralph turned and fled while he could. he dared not trust himself to look till he was past the hill and some way across the moor. then he turned and looked back over the acres of heather which he had put between himself and his love. winsome still stood on the hill-top, the sun shining on her face. in her hand was the lilac sunbonnet, making a splash of faint pure colour against the blonde whiteness of her dress. ralph could just catch the golden shimmer of her hair. he knew but he could not see how it crisped and tendrilled about her brow, and how the light wind blew it into little cirrus wisps of sun-flossed gold. the thought that for long he should see it no more was even harder than parting. it is the hard things on this earth that are the easiest to do. the great renunciation is easy, but it is infinitely harder to give up the sweet, responsive delight of the eye, the thought, the caress. this also is human. god made it. the lilac sunbonnet waved a little heartless wave which dropped in the middle as if a string were broken. but the shining hair blew out, as a waft of wind from the bennan fretted a moving patch across the loch. ralph flung out his hand in one of the savage gestures men use when they turn bewildered and march away, leaving the best of their lives behind them. so shutting his eyes ralph plunged headlong into the green glades of the kenside and looked no more. winsome walked slowly and sedately back, not looking on the world any more, but only twining and pulling roughly the strings of her sunbonnet till one came off. winsome threw it on the grass. what did it matter now? she would wear it no longer. there was none to cherish the lilac sunbonnet any more. chapter xxxvi. over the hills and far awa'. winsome came back to a quiet craig ronald. the men were in the field. the farmsteading was hushed, meg not to be seen, the dogs silent, the bedroom blind undrawn when she entered to find the key in the door. she went within instantly and threw herself down upon the bed. outside, the morning sun strengthened and beat on the shining white of the walls of craig ronald, and on ralph far across the moors. winsome must wait. we shall follow ralph. it is the way of the world at any rate. the woman always must wait and nothing said. with the man are the keen interests of the struggle, the grip of opposition, the clash of arms. with the woman, naught worth speaking of--only the silence, the loneliness, and waiting. ralph went northward wearing winsome's parting kiss on his brow like an insignia of knighthood. it meant much to one who had never gone away before. so simple was he that he did not know that there are all-experiencing young men who love and sail away, clearing as they go the decks of their custom-staled souls for the next action. he stumbled, this simple knight, blindly into the ruts and pebbly water courses down which the winter rains had rushed, tearing the turf clean from the granite during the november and february rains. so he journeyed onward, heedless of his going. to him came jock gordon, skipping like a wild goat down the bennan side. "hey, mon, d'ye want to drive intil loch ken? ye wad mak' braw ged-bait. haud up the hill, breest to the brae." through his trouble ralph heard and instinctively obeyed. in a little while he struck the beautiful road which runs north and south along the side of the long loch of ken. now there are fairer bowers in the south sunlands. there are highlands and alp-lands of sky-piercing beauty. but to galloway, and specially to the central glens and flanking desolations thereof, one beauty belongs. she is like a plain girl with beautiful eyes. there is no country like her in the world for colour--so delicately fresh in the rain- washed green of her pasture slopes, so keen the viridian [footnote: veronese green] of her turnip-fields when the dew is on the broad, fleshy, crushed leaves, so tender and deep the blue in the hollow places. it was small wonder that ralph had set down in the note-book in which he sketched for future use all that passed under his eye: "hast thou seen the glamour that follows the falling of summer rain- the mystical blues in the hollows, the purples and greys on the plain?" it is true that all these things were but the idle garniture of a tale that had lost its meaning to ralph this morning; but yet in time the sense that the beauty and hope of life lay about him stole soothingly upon his soul. he was glad to breathe the gracious breaths of spraying honeysuckle running its creamy riot of honey-drenched petals over the hedges, and flinging daring reconnaissances even to the tops of the dwarf birches by the wayside. so quickly nature eased his smart, that--for such is the nature of the best men, even of the very best--at the moment when winsome threw herself, dazed and blinded with pain, upon her low white bed in the little darkened chamber over the hill at craig ronald, ralph was once more, even though with the gnaw of emptiness and loss in his heart, looking forward to the future, and planning what the day would bring to him on which he should return. even as he thought he began to whistle, and his step went lighter, jock gordon moving silently along the heather by his side at a dog's trot. let no man think hardly of ralph, for this is the nature of the man. it was not that man loves the less, but that with him in his daring initiative and strenuous endeavour the future lies. the sooner, then, that he could compass and overpass his difficulties the more swiftly would his face be again set to the south, and the aching emptiness of his soul be filled with a strange and thrilling expectancy. the wind whistled in his face as he rounded the bennan and got his first glimpse of the kells range, stretching far away over surge after surge of heather and bent, through which, here and there, the grey teeth of the granite shone. it is no blame to him that, as he passed on from horizon to horizon, each step which took him farther and farther from craig ronald seemed to bring him nearer and nearer to winsome. he was going away, yet with each mile he regained the rebounding spirit of youth, while winsome lay dazed in her room at craig ronald. but let it not be forgotten that he went in order that no more she might so lie with the dry mechanic sobs catching ever and anon in her throat. so the world is not so ill divided, after all. and, being a woman, perhaps winsome's grief was as dear and natural to her as ralph's elastic hopefulness. soon ralph and jock gordon were striding across the moors towards moniaive. ralph wished to breakfast at one of the inns in new galloway, but this jock gordon would not allow. he did not like that kind o' folk, he said. "gie's tippens, an' that'll serve brawly," said jock. ralph drew out winsome's purse; he looked at it reverently and put it back again. it seemed too early, and too material a use of her love-token. "nae sillar in't?" queried jock. "how's that? it looks brave and baggy." "i think i will do without for the present," said ralph. "aweel," said jock, "ye may, but i'm gaun to hae my breakfast a' the same, sillar or no sillar." in twenty minutes he was back by the dykeside, where he had left ralph sitting, twining winsome's purse through his fingers, and thinking on the future, and all that was awaiting him in edinburgh town. jock seemed what he had called winsome's purse--baggy. then he undid himself. from under the lower buttons of his long russet "sleeved waistcoat" with the long side flaps which, along with his sailor-man's trousers, he wore for all garment, he drew a barn-door fowl, trussed and cooked, and threw it on the ground. now came a dozen farles of cake, crisp and toothsome, from the girdle, and three large scones raised with yeast. then followed, out of some receptacle not too strictly to be localized, half a pound of butter, wrapped in a cabbage-leaf, and a quart jug of pewter. ralph looked on in amazement. "where did you get all these?" he asked. "get them? took them!" said jock succinctly. "i gaed alang to mistress macmorrine's, an' says i, 'guid-mornin' till ye, mistress, an' hoo's a' wi' ye the day?' for i'm a ceevil chiel when folks are ceevil to me." "'nane the better for seein' you, jock gordon,' says she, for she's an unceevil wife, wi' nae mair mainners nor gin she had just come ower frae donnachadee--the ill-mainnered randy. "'but,' says i, 'maybes ye wad be the better o' kennin' that the kye's eatin' your washin' up on the loan. i saw provost weir's muckle ayreshire halfway through wi' yer best quilt,' says i. "she flung up her hands. "'save us!' she cries; 'could ye no hae said that at first?' "an' wi' that she ran as if auld hornie was at her tail, screevin' ower the kintra as though she didna gar the beam kick at twa hunderweicht guid." "but was that true, jock gordon?" asked ralph, astounded. "true!--what for wad it be true? her washin' is lyin' bleachin', fine an' siccar, but she get a look at it and a braw sweet. a race is guid exercise for ony yin that its as muckle as luckie macmorrine." "but the provisions--and the hen?" asked ralph, fearing the worst. "they were on her back-kitchen table. there they are now," said jock, pointing with his foot, as though that was all there was to say about the matter. "but did you pay for them?" he asked. "pay for them! does a dowg pay for a sheep's heid when he gangs oot o' the butcher's shop wi' yin atween his teeth, an' a twa-pund wecht playin' dirl on his hench-bane? pay for't! weel, i wat no! didna yer honour tell me that ye had nae sillar, an' sae gaed it in hand to jock?" ralph started up. this might be a very serious matter. he pulled out winsome's purse again. in the end he tried first there was silver, and in the other five golden guineas in a little silken inner case. one of the guineas ralph took out, and, handing it to jock, he bade him gather up all that he had stolen and take his way back with them. then he was to buy them from luckie macmorrine at her own price. "sic a noise aboot a bit trifle!" said jock. "what's aboot a bit chuckle an' a heftin' o' cake? haivers!" but very quickly ralph prevailed upon him, and jock took the guinea. at his usual swift wolf's lope he was out of sight over the long stretches of heather and turf so speedily that he arrived at the drying-ground on the hillside before luckie macmorrine, handicapped by her twenty stone avoirdupois, had perspired thither. jock met her at the gate. "noo, mistress," exclaimed jock, busily smoothing out the wrinkles and creases of a fine linen sheet, with "e. m. m." on the corner, "d'ye see this? i juist gat here in time, and nae mair. ye see, thae randies o' kye, wi' their birses up, they wad sune hae seen the last o' yer bonny sheets an' blankets, gin i had letten them." mistress macmorrine did not waste a look on the herd of cows, but proceeded to go over her washing with great care. jock had just arrived in time to make hay of it, before the owner came puffing up the road. had she looked at the cows curiously it might have struck her that they were marvellously calm for such ferocious animals. this seemed to strike jock, for he went after them, throwing stones at them in the manner known as "henchin'" [jerking from the side], much practised in galloway, and at which jock was a remarkable adept. soon he had them excited enough for anything, and pursued them with many loud outcryings till they were scattered far over the moor. when he came back he said: "mistress macmorrine, i ken brawly that ye'll be wushin' to mak' me some sma' recompense for my trouble an' haste. weel, i'll juist open my errand to ye. ye see the way o't was this: there is twa gentlemen shooters on the moors, the laird o' balbletherum an' the laird o' glower-ower-'em-twa respectit an' graund gentlemen. they war wantin' some luncheon, but they were that busy shootin' that they hadna time to come, so they says to me, 'jock gordon, do ye ken an honest woman in this neighbourhood that can supply something to eat at a reasonable chairge?' 'yes,' says i, 'mistress macmorrine is sic a woman, an' nae ither.' 'do ye think she could pit us up for ten days or a fortnight?' says they. 'i doot na', for she's weel plenisht an' providit,' i says. 'noo, i didna ken but ye micht be a lang time detained wi' the kye (as indeed ye wad hae been, gin i hadna come to help ye), an' as the lairds couldna be keepit, i juist took up the bit luncheon that i saw on your kitchie table, an' here it is, on its way to the wames o' the gentlemen--whilk is an honour till't.'" mistress macmorrine did not seem to be very well pleased at the unceremonious way in which jock had dealt with the contents of her larder, but the inducement was too great to be gainsaid. "ye'll mak' it reasonable, nae doot," said jock, "sae as to gie the gentlemen a good impression. there's a' thing in a first impression." "tak' it till them an' welcome--wi' the compliments o' mrs. macmorrine o' the blue bell, mind an' say till them. ye may consider it a recognition o' yer ain trouble in the matter o' the kye; but i will let the provost hear o't on the deafest side o' his heid when he ca's for his toddy the nicht." "thank ye, mistress," said jock, quickly withdrawing with his purchases; "there's nocht like obleegements for makin' freends." at last ralph saw jock coming at full speed over the moor. he went forward to him anxiously. "is it all right?" he asked. "it's a' richt, an' a' paid for, an' mair, gin ye like to send jock for't; an' i wasna to forget mistress macmorrine's compliments to ye intil the bargain." ralph looked mystified. "ye wadna see the laird o' balbletherum? did ye?" said jock, cocking his impudent, elvish head to the side. "who is he?" asked ralph. "nor yet the laird o' glower--ower--'em?" "i have seen nobody from the time you went away," said ralph. "then we'll e'en fa' to. for gin thae twa braw gentlemen arena here to partake o' the guid things o' this life, then there's the mair for you an' jock gordon." jock never fully satisfied ralph's curiosity as to the manner in which he obtained this provender. luckie morrine bestowed it upon him for services rendered, he said; which was a true, though somewhat abbreviated and imperfect account of the transaction. what the feelings of the hostess of the blue bell were when night passed without the appearance of the two lairds, for whom she had spread her finest sheets, and looked out her best bottles of wine, we have no means of knowing. singularly enough, for some considerable time thereafter jock patronized the "cross keys" when he happened to be passing that way. he "preferred it to the blue bell," he said. chapter xxxvii. under the bed heather. so refreshed, ralph and jock passed on their way. all the forenoon they plodded steadily forward. from moniaive they followed the windings of a flashing burn, daching and roaring in a shallow linn, here and there white with foam and fretting, and again dimpling black in some deep and quiet pool. through the ducal village of thornhill and so northward along the nithside towards the valley of the menick they went. the great overlapping purple folds of the hills drew down about these two as they passed. jock gordon continually scoured away to either side like a dog fresh off the leash. ralph kept steadily before him the hope in his heart that before long the deep cleft would be filled up and that for always. it so happened that it was night when they reached the high summit of the leadhills and the village of wanlockhead gleamed grey beneath them. ralph proposed to go down and get lodgings there; but jock had other intentions. "what for," he argued, "what for should ye pay for the breadth of yer back to lie doon on? jock gordon wull mak' ye juist as comfortable ablow a heather buss as ever ye war in a bed in the manse. bide a wee!" jock took him into a sheltered little "hope," where they were shut in from the world of sheep and pit-heads. with his long, broad-bladed sheath-knife jock was not long in piling under the sheltered underside of a great rock over which the heather grew, such a heap of heather twigs as ralph could hardly believe had been cut in so short a time. these he compacted into an excellent mattress, springy and level, with pliable interlacings of broom. "lie ye doon there, an' i'll mak' ye a bonnie plaidie," said jock. there was a little "cole" or haystack of the smallest sort close at hand. to this jock went, and, throwing off the top layer as possibly damp, he carried all the rest in his arms and piled it on ralph till he was covered up to his neck. "we'll mak' a' snod [neat] again i' the mornin'!" he said. "noo, we'll theek [thatch] ye, an' feed ye!" said jock comprehensively. so saying, he put other layers of heather, thinner than the mattress underneath, but arranged in the same way, on the top of the hay. "noo ye're braw an' snug, are ye na'? what better wad ye hae been in a three-shillin' bed?" then jock made a fire of broken last year's heather. this he carefully watched to keep it from spreading, and on it he roasted half a dozen plover's eggs which he had picked up during the day in his hillside ranging. on these high moors the moor-fowls go on laying till august. these being served on warmed and buttered scones, and sharpened with a whiff of mordant heather smoke, were most delicious to ralph, who smiled to himself, well pleased under his warm covering of hay and overthatching of heather. after each egg was supplied to him piping hot, jock would say: "an' isna that as guid as a half-croon supper?" then another pee-wit's egg, delicious and fresh-- "luckie morrine couldna beat that," said jock. there was a surprising lightness in the evening air, the elastic life of the wide moorland world settling down to rest for a couple of hours, which is all the night there is on these hill-tops in the crown of the year. jock gordon covered himself by no means so elaborately as he had provided for ralph, saying: "i hae covered you for winter, for ye're but a laddie; the like o' me disna need coverin' when the days follow yin anither like sheep jumpin' through a slap." ralph was still asleep when the morning came. but when the young sun looked over the level moors--for they were on the very top of the heathery creation--jock gordon made a little hillock of dewy heather to shelter ralph from the sun. he measured at the same time a hand's breadth in the sky, saying to himself, "i'll wakken the lad when he gets to there!" he was speaking of the sun. but before the flood of light overtopped the tiny break-water and shot again upon ralph's face, he sat up bewildered and astonished, casting a look about him upon the moorland and its crying birds. jock gordon was just coming towards him, having scoured the face of the ridge for more plover's eggs. "dinna rise," said jock, "till i tak' awa' the beddin'. ye see," continued the expert in camping out on hills, "the hay an' the heather gets doon yer neck an' mak's ye yeuk [itch] an' fidge a' day. an' at first ye mind that, though after a while gin ye dinna yeuk, ye find it michty oninterestin'!" ralph sat up. something in jock's bare heel as he sat on the grass attracted his attention. "wi', jock," he said, infinitely astonished, "what's that in yer heel?" "ou!" said jock, "it's nocht but a nail!" "a nail!" said ralph; "what are ye doin' wi' a nail in yer foot?" "i gat it in last martinmas," he said. "but why do you not get it out? does it not hurt?" said ralph, compassionating. "'deed did it awhile at the first," said jock, "but i got used to it. ye can use wi' a'thing. man's a wunnerful craitur!" "let me try to pull it out," said ralph, shivering to think of the pain he must have suffered. "na, na, ye ken what ye hae, but ye dinna ken what ye micht get. i ken what i hae to pit up wi', wi' a nail in my fit; but wha kens what it micht be gin i had a muckle hole ye could pit yer finger in? it wadna be bonny to hae the clocks howkin' [beetles digging] and the birdies biggin' their nests i' my heel! na, na, it's a guid lesson to be content wi' yer doon-settin', or ye may get waur!" it was in the bright morning light that these two took the edinburgh road, which clambered down over the hillsides by the village of leadhills into the valley of the clyde. through abingdon and biggar they made their way, and so admirable were jock's requisitioning abilities that winsome's green purse was never once called into action. when they looked from the last downward step of the mid-lothian table-land upon the city of edinburgh, there was a brisk starting of smoke from many chimneys, for the wives of the burgesses were kindling their supper fires, and their husbands were beginning to come in with the expectant look of mankind about meal-time. "come wi' me, jock, and i'll show ye edinburgh, as ye have showed me the hills of heather!" this was ralph's invitation. "na," said jock, "an' thank ye kindly a' the same. there's muckle loons there that micht snap up a guid-lookin' lad like jock, an' ship him ontill their nesty ships afore he could cry 'mulquarchar and craignell!' jock gordon may be a fule, but he kens when he's weel aff. nae auld reekies for him, an' thank ye kindly. when he wants to gang to the gaol he'll steal a horse an' gang daicent! he'll no gang wi' his thoom in his mooth, an' when they say till him, 'what are ye here for?' be obleeged to answer, 'fegs, an' i dinna ken what for!' na, na, it wadna be mensefu' like ava'. a' the gordons that ever was hae gaen to the gaol--but only yince. it's aye been a hangin' maitter, an' jock's no the man to turn again the rule an' custom o' his forebears. 'yince gang, yince hang,' is jock's motto." ralph did not press the point. but he had some unexpected feeling in saying good-bye to jock. it was not so easy. he tried to put three of winsome's guineas into his hand, but jock would have none of them. "me wi' gowden guineas!" he said. "surely ye maun hae an ill-wull at puir jock, that wusses ye weel; what wad ony body say gin i poo'ed out sic a lump of gowd? 'there's that loon jock been breakin' somebody's bank,' an' then 'fare-ye-weel, kilaivie,' to jock's guid name. it's gane, like his last gless o' whusky, never to return." "but you are a long way from home, jock; how will you get back?" "hoots, haivers, maister ralph, gin jock has providit for you that needs a' things as gin ye war in a graund hoose, dinna be feared for jock, that can eat a wamefu' o' green heather-taps wi' the dew on them like a bit flafferin' grouse bird. or jock can catch the muir-fowl itsel' an' eat it ablow a heather buss as gin he war a tod [fox]. hoot awa' wi' ye! jock can fend for himsel' brawly. sillar wad only tak' the edge aff his genius." "then is there nothing that i can bring you from edinburgh when i come again?" said ralph, with whom the coming again was ever present. "'deed, aye, gin ye are so ceevil--it's richt prood i wad be o' a boxfu' o' maister cotton's dutch sneeshin'--him that's i' the high street--they say it's terrible graund stuff. wullie hulliby gat some when he was up wi' his lambs, an' he said that, after the first snifter, he grat for days. it maun be graund!" ralph promised, with gladness to find some way of easing his load of debt to jock. "noo, maister ralph, it's a wanchancy [uncertain] place, this enbra', an' i'll stap aff an' on till the morrow's e'en here or hereaboots, for sae it micht be that ye took a notion to gang back amang kent fowk, whaur ye wad be safe an' soun'." "but, jock," urged ralph, "ye need not do that. i was born and brought up in edinburgh!" "that's as may be; gin i bena mista'en, there's a byous [extraordinary] heap o' things has happened since then. gang yer ways, but gin ye hae message or word for jock, juist come cannily oot, an' he'll be here till dark the morn." chapter xxxviii. before the reformer's chair. "the lord save us, maister ralph, what's this?" said john bairdieson, opening the door of the stair in james's court. it was a narrow hall that it gave access to, more like a passage than a hall. "hoo hae ye come? an' what for didna maister welsh or you write to say ye war comin'? an' whaur's a' the buiks an' the gear?" continued john bairdieson. "i have walked all the way, john," said ralph. "i quarrelled with the minister, and he turned me to the door." "dear sirce!" said john anxiously, "was't ill-doing or unsound doctrine?" "mr. welsh said that he could not company with unbelievers." "then it's doctrine--wae's me, wae's me! i wuss it had been the lasses. what wull his faither say? gin it had been ill-doin', he micht hae pitten it doon to the sins o' yer youth; but ill- doctrine he canna forgie. o maister ralph, gin ye canna tell a lee yersel', wull ye no haud yer tongue--i can lee, for i'm but an elder--an' i'll tell him that at a kirn [harvest festival] ye war persuaded to drink the health o' the laird, an' you no bein' acquant wi' the strength o' glenlivat--" "john, john, indeed i cannot allow it. besides, you're a sailor- man, an' even in galloway they do not have kirns till the corn's ripe," replied ralph with a smile. "aweel, can ye no say, or let me say for ye, gin ye be particular, that ye war a wee late oot at nicht seein' a bit lassie--or ocht but the doctrine? it wasna anything concernin' the fundamentals o' the marrow, maister ralph, though, surely," continued john bairdieson, whose elect position did not prevent him from doing his best for the interests of his masters, young and old. indeed, to start with the acknowledged fact of personal election sometimes gives a man like john bairdieson an unmistakable advantage. ralph went to his own room, leaving john bairdieson listening, as he prayed to be allowed to do, at the door of his father's room. in a minute or two john bairdieson came up, with a scared face. "ye're to gang doon, maister ralph, an' see yer faither. but, o sir, see that ye speak lown [calm] to him. he hasna gotten sleep for twa nichts, an' he's fair pitten by himsel' wi' thae ill-set conformists--weary fa' them! that he's been in the gall o' bitterness wi'." ralph went down to his father's study. knocking softly, he entered. his father sat in his desk chair, closed in on every side. it had once been the pulpit of a great reformer, and each time that gilbert peden shut himself into it, he felt that he was without father or mother save and except the only true and proper covenant-keeping doctrine in broad scotland, and the honour and well-being of the sorely dwindled kirk of the marrow. gilbert peden was a noble make of a man, larger in body though hardly taller than his son. he wore a dark-blue cloth coat with wide flaps, and the immense white neckerchief on which john bairdieson weekly expended all his sailor laundry craft. his face was like his son's, as clear-cut and statuesque, though larger and broader in frame and mould. there was, however, a coldness about the eye and a downward compression of the lips, which speaks the man of narrow though fervid enthusiasms. ralph went forward to his father. as he came, his father stayed him with the palm of his hand, the finger-tips turned upward. "abide, my son, till i know for what cause you have left or been expelled from the house of the man to whom i committed you during your trials for license. answer me, why have you come away from the house of allan welsh like a thief in the night?" "father," said ralph, "i cannot tell you everything at present, because the story is not mine to tell. can you not trust me?" "i could trust you with my life and all that i possess," said his father; "they are yours, and welcome; but this is a matter that affects your standing as a probationer on trials in the kirk of the marrow, which is of divine institution. the cause is not mine, my son. tell me that the cause of your quarrel had nothing to do with the marrow kirk and your future standing in it, and i will ask you no more till you choose to tell me of your own will concerning the matter." the marrow minister looked at his son with a gleam of tenderness forcing its way through the sternness of his words. but ralph was silent. "it was indeed in my duty to the marrow kirk that mr. welsh considered that i lacked. it was for this cause that he refused to company further with me." then there came a hardness as of grey hill stone upon the minister's face. it was not a pleasant thing to see in a father's face. "then," he said slowly, "ralph peden, this also is a manse of the marrow kirk, and, though ye are my own son, i cannot receive ye here till your innocence is proven in the presbytery. ye must stand yer trials." ralph bowed his head. he had not been unprepared for something like this, but the pain he might have felt at another time was made easier by a subtle anodyne. he hardly seemed to feel the smart as a week before he might have done. in some strange way winsome was helping him to bear it--or her prayers for him were being answered. john bairdieson broke into the study, his grey hair standing on end, and the shape of the keyhole cover imprinted on his brow above his left eye. john could see best with his left eye, and hear best with his right ear, which he had some reason to look upon as a special equalization of the gifts of providence, though not well adapted for being of the greatest service at keyholes. "save us, minister!" he burst out; "the laddie's but a laddie, an' na doot his pranks hae upset guid maister welsh a wee. lads will be lads, ye ken. but maister ralph's soond on the fundamentals--i learned him the shorter questions mysel', sae i should ken--forbye the hunner an' nineteenth psalm that he learned on my knee, and how to mak' a fifer's knot, an' the double reef, an' a heap o' usefu' knowledge forbye; an' noo to tak' it into your heid that yer ain son's no soond in the faith, a' because he has fa'en oot wi' a donnert auld carle--" "john," said the minister sternly, "leave the room! you have no right to speak thus of an honoured servant of the kirk of the marrow." ralph could see through the window the light fading off the fife lomonds, and the long line of the shore darkening under the night into a more ethereal blue. there came to him in this glimpse of woods and dewy pastures overseas a remembrance of a dearer shore. the steading over the grannoch loch stood up clear before him, the blue smoke going straight up, winsome's lattice standing open with the roses peeping in, and the night airs breathing lovingly through them, airing it out as a bed-chamber for the beloved. the thought made his heart tender. to his father he said: "father, will you not take my word that there is nothing wicked or disgraceful in what i have done? if it were my own secret, i would gladly tell you at once; but as it is, i must wait until in his own time mr. welsh communicates with you." the minister, sitting in the reformer's seat, pulling at his stern upper lip, winced; and perhaps had it not been for the pulpit the human in him might have triumphed. but he only said: "i am quite prepared to support you until such time as at a meeting of the presbytery the matter be tried, but i cannot have in a marrow manse one living under the fama of expulsion from the house of a brother minister in good standing." "thank you, father," said his son, "for your kind offer, but i do not think i shall need to trouble you." and so with these words the young man turned and went out proudly from the father's sight, as he had gone from the manse of the other minister of the marrow kirk. as he came to the outside of the door, leaving his father sitting stately and stern in the reformer's pulpit, he said, in the deeps of his heart: "god do so to me, and more also, if i ever seek again to enter the marrow kirk, if so be that, like my father, i must forget my humanity in order worthily to serve it!" after he had gone out, the reverend gilbert peden took his bible and read the parable of the prodigal son. he closed the great book, which ever lay open before him, and said, as one who both accuses and excuses himself: "but the prodigal son was not under trials for license in the kirk of the marrow!" at the door, john bairdieson, his hair more than ever on end, met ralph. he held up his hands. "it's an awfu'--like thing to be obleegit to tell the hale truth! o man, couldna ye hae tell't a wee bit lee? it wad hae saved an awfu' deal o' fash! but it's ower late now; ye can juist bide i' the spare room up the stair, an' come an' gang by door on the castle bank, an' no yin forbye mysel' 'ill be a hair the wiser. i, john bairdieson, 'll juist fetch up yer meals the same as ordinar'. ye'll be like a laddie at the mastheid up there; it'll be braw an' quate for the studyin'!" "john, i am much obliged to you for your kind thought," said ralph, "but i cannot remain in his house against my father's expressed wish, and without his knowledge." "hear till him! whaur else should he bide but in the hoose that he was born in, an' his faither afore him? that would be a bonny like story. na, na, ye'll juist bide, maister ralph, an'--" "i must go this very night," said ralph. "you mean well, john, but it cannot be. i am going down to see my uncle, professor thriepneuk." "leave yer faither's hoose to gang to that o' a weezened auld--" "john!" said ralph, warningly. "he's nae uncle o' yours, onygate, though he married your mother's sister. an' a sair life o't she had wi' him, though i doot na but thae dochters o' his sort him to richts noo." so, in spite of john bairdieson's utmost endeavours, and waiting only to put his clothes together, ralph took his way over to the sciennes, where his uncle, the professor, lived in a new house with his three daughters, jemima, kezia, and keren-happuch. the professor had always been very kind to ralph. he was not a marrow man, and therefore, according to the faith of his father, an outcast from the commonwealth. but he was a man of the world of affairs, keen for the welfare of his class at the university college--a man crabbed and gnarled on the surface, but within him a strong vein of tenderness of the sort that always seems ashamed of catching its possessor in a kind action. to him ralph knew that he could tell the whole story. the sciennes was on the very edge of the green fields. the corn-fields stretched away from the dyke of the professor's garden to the south towards the red-roofed village of echo bank and the long ridge of liberton, crowned by the square tower on which a stone dining-room table had been turned up, its four futile legs waving in the air like a beetle overset on its back. chapter xxxix. jemima, kezia, and little keren-happuch. ralph found the professor out. he was, indeed, engaged in an acrimonious discussion on the wernerian theory, and at that moment he was developing a remarkable scientific passion, which threatened to sweep his adversaries from the face of the earth in the debris of their heresies. within doors, however, ralph found a very warm welcome from his three cousins--jemima, kezia, and keren-happuch. jemima was tall and angular, with her hair accurately parted in the middle, and drawn in a great sweep over her ears--a fashion intended by nature for keren-happuch, who was round of face, and with a complexion in which there appeared that mealy pink upon the cheeks which is peculiar to the metropolis. kezia was counted the beauty of the family, and was much looked up to by her elder and younger sisters. these three girls had always made much of ralph, ever since he used to play about the many garrets and rooms of their old mansion beneath the castle, before they moved out to the new house at the sciennes. they had long been in love with him, each in her own way; though they had always left the first place to kezia, and wove romances in their own heads with ralph for the central figure. jemima, especially, had been very jealous of her sisters, who were considerably younger, and had often spoken seriously to them about flirting with ralph. it was jemima who came to the door; for, in those days, all except the very grandest persons thought no more of opening the outer than the inner doors of their houses. "ralph peden, have you actually remembered that there is such a house as the sciennes?" said jemima, holding up her face to receive the cousinly kiss. ralph bestowed it chastely. whereupon followed kezia and little keren-happuch, who received slightly varied duplicates. then the three looked at one another. they knew that this ralph had eaten of the tree of knowledge. "that is not the way you kissed us before you went away," said outspoken kezia, who had experience in the matter wider than that of the others, looking him straight in the eyes as became a beauty. for once ralph was thoroughly taken aback, and blushed richly and long. kezia laughed as one who enjoyed his discomfiture. "i knew it would come," she said. "is she a milkmaid? she's not the minister's daughter, for he is a bachelor, you said!" jemima and keren-happuch actually looked a little relieved, though a good deal excited. they had been standing in the hall while this conversation was running its course. "it's all nonsense, kezia; i am astonished at you!" said jemima. "come into the sitting-parlour," said kezia, taking ralph's hand; "we'll not one of us bear any malice if only you tell us all about it." jemima, after severe consideration, at last looked in a curious sidelong way to ralph. "i hope," she said, "that you have not done anything hasty." "tuts!" said kezia, "i hope he has. he was far too slow before he went away. make love in haste; marry at leisure--that's the right way." "can i have the essay that you read us last april, on the origin of woman?" asked keren-happuch unexpectedly. "you won't want it any more, and i should like it." even little keren-happuch had her feelings. the three misses thriepneuks were a little jealous of one another before, but already they had forgotten this slight feeling, which indeed was no more than the instinct of proprietorship which young women come to feel in one who has never been long out of their house, and with whom they have been brought up. but in the face of this new interest they lost their jealousy of one another; so that, in place of presenting a united front to the enemy, these three kindly young women, excited at the mere hint of a love-story, vied with one another which should be foremost in interest and sympathy. the blush on ralph's face spoke its own message, and now, when he was going to speak, his three cousins sat round with eager faces to listen. "i have something to tell, girls," said ralph, "but i meant to tell it first to my uncle. i have been turned out of the manse of dullarg, and my father will not allow me to live in his house till after the meeting of the presbytery." this was more serious than a love-story, and the bright expression died down into flickering uncertainty in the faces of jemima, kezia, and keren-happuch. "it's not anything wrong?" asked jemima, anxiously. "no, no," said ralph quickly, "nothing but what i have reason to be proud enough of. it is only a question of the doctrines and practice of the marrow kirk--" "oh!" said all three simultaneously, with an accent of mixed scorn and relief. the whole matter was clear to them now. "and of the right of the synod of the marrow kirk to control my actions," continued ralph. but the further interest was entirely gone from the question. "tell us about her," they said in unison. "how do you know it is a 'her'?" asked ralph, clumsily trying to put off time, like a man. kezia laughed on her own account, keren-happuch, because kezia laughed, but jemima said solemnly: "i hope she is of a serious disposition." "nonsense! _i_ hope she is pretty," said kezia. "and _i_ hope she will love me," said little keren-happuch. ralph thought a little, and then, as it was growing dark, he sat on the old sofa with his back to the fading day, and told his love-story to these three sweet girls, who, though they had played with him and been all womanhood to him ever since he came out of petticoats, had not a grain of jealousy of the unseen sister who had come suddenly past them and stepped into the primacy of ralph's life. when he was half-way through with his tale he suddenly stopped, and said: "but i ought to have told all this first to your father, because he may not care to have me in his house. there is only my word for it, after all, and it is the fact that i have not the right to set foot in my own father's house." "we will make our father see it in the right way," said jemima quietly. "yes," interposed kezia, "or i would not give sixpence for his peace of mind these next six months." "it is all right if you tell us," said little keren-happuch, who was her father's playmate. jemima ruled him, kezia teased him--the privilege of beauty--but it was generally little keren-happuch who fetched his slippers and sat with her cheek against the back of his hand as he smoked and read in his great wicker chair by the north window. there was the sound of quick nervous footsteps with an odd halt in their fall on the gravel walk outside. the three girls ran to the door in a tumultuous greeting, even jemima losing her staidness for the occasion. ralph could hear only the confused babble of tongues and the expressions, "now you hear, father--" "now you understand--" "listen to me, father--" as one after another took up the tale. ralph retold the story that night from the very beginning to the professor, who listened silently, punctuating his thoughts with the puffs of his pipe. when he had finished, there was an unwonted moisture in the eyes of professor thriepneuk--perhaps the memory of a time when he too had gone a-courting. he stretched the hand which was not occupied with his long pipe to ralph, who grasped it strongly. "you have acted altogether as i could have desired my own son to act; i only wish that i had one like you. let the marrow kirk alone, and come and be my assistant till you see your way a little into the writer's trade. pens and ink are cheap, and you can take my classes in the summer, and give me quietness to write my book on 'the abuses of ut with the subjunctive.'" "but i must find lodgings--" interrupted ralph. "you must find nothing--just bide here. it is the house of your nearest kin, and the fittest place for you. your meat's neither here nor there, and my lasses--" "they are the best and kindest in the world," said ralph. the professor glanced at him with a sharp, quizzical look under his eyebrows. he seemed as if he were about to say something, and then thought better of it and did not. perhaps he also had had his illusions. as ralph was going to his room that night kezia met him at the head of the stairs. she came like a flash from nowhere in particular. "good-night, ralph," she said; "give your winsome a kiss from me-- the new kind--like this!" then kezia vanished, and ralph was left wondering, with his candle in his hand. chapter xl. a triangular conversation. it was the day of the fast before the communion in the dullarg. the services of the day were over, and allan welsh, the minister of the marrow kirk, was resting in his study from his labours. manse bell came up and knocked, inclining her ear as she did so to catch the minister's low-toned reply. "mistress winifred charteris frae the craig ronald to see ye, sir." allan welsh commanded his emotion without difficulty--what of it he felt--as indeed he had done for many years. he rose, however, with his hand on the table as though for support, as winsome came in. he received her in silence, bending over her hand with a certain grave reverence. winsome sat down. she was a little paler but even lovelier in the minister's eyes than when he had seen her before. the faint violet shadows under her lower lids were deeper, and gave a new depth to her sapphire eyes whose irises were so large that the changeful purple lights in them came and went like summer lightnings. it was winsome who first spoke, looking at him with a strange pity and a stirring of her soul that she could not account for. she had come unwillingly on her errand, disliking him as the cause of her lover's absence--one of the last things a woman learns to forgive. but, as she looked on allan welsh, so bowed and broken, his eyes fallen in, looking wistfully out of the pain of his life, her heart went out to him, even as she thought that of a truth he was ralph peden's enemy. "my grandfather," she said, and her voice was low, equable, and serious, "sent me with a packet to you that he instructed me only to give into your own hands." winsome went over to the minister and gave him a sealed parcel. allan welsh took it in his hand and seemed to weigh it. "i thank you," he said, commanding his voice with some difficulty. "and i ask you to thank walter skirving for his remembrance of me. it is many years since we were driven apart, but i have not forgotten the kindness of the long ago!" he opened the parcel. it was sealed with walter skirving's great seal ring which he wore on his watch-chain, lying on the table before him as he kept his never-ending vigil. there was a miniature and a parcel of letters within. it was the face of a fair girl, with the same dark-blue eyes of the girl now before him, and the same golden hair--the face of an earlier but not a fairer winifred. allan welsh set his teeth, and caught at the table to stay his dizzying head. the letters were his own. it was walter skirving's stern message to him. from the very tomb his own better self rose in judgment against him. he saw what he might have been--the sorrow he had wrought, and the path of ultimate atonement. he had tried to part two young lovers who had chosen the straight and honest way. it was true that his duty to the kirk which had been his life, and which he himself was under condemnation according to his own standard, had seemed to him to conflict with the path he had marked out for ralph. but his own letters, breaking from their brittle confining band, poured in a cataract of folded paper and close-knit writing which looked like his own self of long ago, upon the table before him. he was condemned out of his own mouth. winsome sat with her face turned to the window, from which she could see the heathery back of a hill which heaved its bulk between the manse and the lowlands at the mouth of the dee. there was a dreamy look in her eyes, land her heart was far away in that edinburgh town from which she had that day received a message to shake her soul with love and pity. the minister of the dullarg looked up. "do you love him?" he asked, abruptly and harshly. winsome looked indignant and surprised. her love, laid away in the depths of her heart, was sacred, and not thus to be at the mercy of every rude questioner. but as her eye rested on allan welsh, the unmistakable accent of sincerity took hold on her--that accent which may ask all things and not be blamed. "i do love him," she said--"with all my heart." that answer does not vary while god is in his heaven. the eye of allan welsh fell on the miniature. the woman he had loved so long ago took part in the conversation. "that is what you said twenty years ago!" the unseen winsome said from the table. "and he loves you?" he asked, without looking up. "if i did not believe it, i could not live!" allan welsh glanced with a keen and sudden scrutiny at winsome charteris; but the clearness of her eye and the gladness and faith at the bottom of it satisfied him as to his thought. this ralph peden was a better man than he. a sad yearning face looked up at him from the table, and a voice thrilled in his ears across the years-- "so did not you!" "you know," said allan welsh, again untrue to himself, "that it is not for ralph peden's good that he should love you." the formal part of him was dictating the words. "i know you think so, and i am here to ask you why," said winsome fearlessly. "and if i persuade you, will you forbid him?" said allan welsh, convinced of his own futility. winsome's heart caught the accent of insincerity. it had gone far beyond forbidding love or allowing it with ralph peden and herself. "i shall try!" she said, with her own sweet serenity. but across the years a voice was pleading their case. as the black and faded ink of the letters flashed his own sentences across the minister's eye, the soul god had put within him rose in revolt against his own petty and useless preaching. "so did not you" persisted the voice in his ear. "me you counselled to risk all, and you took me out into the darkness, lighting my way with love. did ever i complain--father lost, mother lost, home lost, god well nigh lost--all for you; yet did i even regret when you saw me die?" "think of the marrow kirk," said the minister. "her hard service does not permit a probationer, before whom lies the task of doctrine and reproof, to have father or mother, wife or sweetheart." "and what did you," said the voice, "in that past day, care for the marrow kirk, when the light shone upon me, and you thought the world, and the marrow kirk with it, well lost for love's sake and mine?" allan welsh bowed his head yet lower. winsome charteris went over to him. his tears were falling fast on the dulled and yellowing paper. winsome put her hands on his shoulder. "is that my mother's picture?" she said, hardly knowing what she said. allan welsh put his hand greedily about it, he could not let it go. "will you kiss me for your mother's sake?" he said. and then, for the first time since her babyhood, winsome charteris, whose name was welsh, kissed her father. there were tears on her mother's miniature, but through them the face of the dead winifred seemed to smile well pleased. "for my mother's sake!" said winsome again, and kissed him of her own accord on the brow. thus walter skirving's message was delivered. chapter xli. the meeting of the synod. with the vestry of the marrow kirk in bell's wynd the synod met, and was constituted with prayer. sederunt, the reverend gilbert peden, moderator, minister of the true kirk of god in scotland, commonly called the marrow kirk, in which place the synod for the time being was assembled; the reverend allan welsh, minister of the marrow kirk in dullarg, clerk of the synod; john bairdieson, synod's officer. the minutes of the last meeting having been read and approved of, the court proceeded to take up business. inter alia the trials of master ralph peden, some time student of arts and humanity in the college of edinburgh, were a remit for this day and date. accordingly, the synod called upon the reverend allan welsh, its clerk, to make report upon the diligence, humility, and obedience, as well as upon the walk and conversation of the said ralph peden, student in divinity, now on trials for license to preach, the gospel. allan welsh read all this gravely and calmly, as if the art of expressing ecclesiastical meaning lay in clothing it in as many overcoats as a city watchman wears in winter. the moderator sat still, with a grim earnestness in his face. he was the very embodiment of the kirk of the marrow, and though there were but two ministers with no elders there that day to share the responsibility, what did that matter? he, gilbert peden, successor of all the (faithful) reformers, was there to do inflexible and impartial justice. john bairdieson came in and sat down. the moderator observed his presence, and in his official capacity took notice of it. "this sederunt of the synod is private," he said. "officer, remove the strangers." in his official capacity the officer of the court promptly removed john bairdieson, who went most unwillingly. the matter of the examination of probationers comes up immediately after the reading of the minutes in well-regulated church courts, being most important and vital. "the clerk will now call for the report upon the life and conduct of the student under trials," said the moderator. the clerk called upon the reverend allan welsh to present his report. then he sat down gravely, but immediately rose again to give his report. all the while the moderator sat impassive as a statue. the minister of dullarg began in a low and constrained voice. he had observed, he said, with great pleasure the diligence and ability of master ralph peden, and considered the same in terms of the remit to him from the synod. he was much pleased with the clearness of the candidate upon the great questions of theology and church government. he had examined him daily in his work, and had confidence in bearing testimony to the able and spiritual tone of all his exercises, both oral and written. soon after he began, a surprised look stole over the face of the moderator. as allan welsh went on from sentence to sentence, the thin nostrils of the representative of the reformers dilated. a strange and intense scorn took possession of him. he sat back and looked fixedly at the slight figure of the minister of dullarg bending under the weight of his message and the frailty of his body. his time was coming. allan welsh sat down, and laid his written report on the table of the synod. "and is that all that you have to say?" queried the moderator, rising. "that is all," said allan welsh. "then," said the moderator, "i charge it against you that you have either said too much or too little: too much for me to listen to as the father of this young man, if it be true that you extruded him, being my son and a student of the marrow kirk committed to your care, at midnight from your house, for no stated cause; and too little, far too little to satisfy me as moderator of this synod, when a report not only upon diligence and scholarship, but also upon a walk and conversation becoming the gospel, is demanded." "i have duly given my report according to the terms of the remit," said allan welsh, simply and quietly. "then," said the moderator, "i solemnly call you to account as the moderator of this synod of the only true and protesting kirk of scotland, for the gravest dereliction of your duty. i summon you to declare the cause why ralph peden, student in divinity, left your house at midnight, and, returning to mine, was for that cause denied bed and board at his father's house." "i deny your right, moderator, to ask that question as an officer of this synod. if, at the close, you meet me as man to man, and, as a father, ask me the reasons of my conduct, some particulars of which i do not now seek to defend, i shall be prepared to satisfy you." "we are not here convened," said the moderator, "to bandy compliments, but to do justice--" "and to love mercy," interjected john bairdieson through the keyhole. "officer," said the moderator, "remove that rude interrupter." "aye, aye, sir," responded the synod officer promptly, and removed the offender as much as six inches. "you have no more to say?" queried the moderator, bending his brows in threatening fashion. "i have no more to say," returned the clerk as firmly. they were both combative men; and the old spirit of that momentous conflict, in which they had fought so gallantly together, moved them to as great obstinacy now that they were divided. "then," said the moderator, "there's nothing for't but another split, and the lord do so, and more also, to him whose sin brings it about!" "amen!" said allan welsh. "you will remember," said the moderator, addressing the minister of dullarg directly, "that you hold your office under my pleasure. there is that against you in the past which would justify me, as moderator of the kirk of the marrow, in deposing you summarily from the office of the ministry. this i have in writing under your own hand and confession." "and i," said the clerk, rising with the gleaming light of war in his eye, "have to set it against these things that you are guilty of art and part in the concealment of that which, had you spoken twenty years ago, would have removed from the kirk of the marrow an unfaithful minister, and given some one worthier than i to report on the fitness of your son for the ministry. it was you, gilbert peden, who made this remit to me, knowing what you know. i shall accept the deposition which you threaten at your hands, but remember that co-ordinately the power of this assembly lies with me--you as moderator, having only a casting, not a deliberative vote; and know you, gilbert peden, minister and moderator, that i, allan welsh, will depose you also from the office of the ministry, and my deposition will stand as good as yours." "the lord preserve us! in five meenetes there'll be nae marrow kirk" said john bairdieson, and flung himself against the door; but the moderator had taken the precaution of locking it and placing the key on his desk. the two ministers rose simultaneously. gilbert peden stood at the head and allan welsh at the foot of the little table. they were so near that they could have shaken hands across it. but they had other work to do. "allan welsh," said the moderator, stretching out his hand, "minister of the gospel in the parish of dullarg to the faithful contending remnant, i call upon you to show cause why you should not be deposed for the sins of contumacy and contempt, for sins of person and life, confessed and communicate under your hand." "gilbert peden," returned the minister of the dullarg and clerk to the marrow synod, looking like a cock-boat athwart the hawse of a leviathan of the deep, "i call upon you to show cause why you should not be deposed for unfaithfulness in the discharge of your duty, in so far as you have concealed known sin, and by complicity and compliance have been sharer in the wrong." there was a moment's silence. gilbert peden knew well that what his opponent said was good marrow doctrine, for allan welsh had confessed to him his willingness to accept deposition twenty years ago. then, as with one voice, the two men pronounced against each other the solemn sentence of deposition and deprivation: "in the name of god, and by virtue of the law of the marrow kirk, i solemnly depose you from the office of the ministry." john bairdieson burst in the door, leaving the lock hanging awry with the despairing force of his charge. "be merciful, oh, be merciful!" he cried; "let not the philistines rejoice, nor the daughter of the uncircumcised triumph. let be! let be! say that ye dinna mean it! oh, say ye dinna mean it! tak' it back--tak' it a' back!" there was the silence of death between the two men, who stood lowering at each other. john bairdieson turned and ran down the stairs. he met ralph and professor thriepneuk coming up. "gang awa'! gang awa'!" he cried. "there's nae leecense for ye noo. there's nae mair ony marrow kirk! there's nae mair heaven and earth! the kirk o' the marrow, precious and witnessing, is nae mair!" and the tears burst from the old sailor as he ran down the street, not knowing whither he went. half-way down the street a seller of sea-coal, great and grimy, barred his way. he challenged the runner to fight. the spirit of the lord came upon john bairdieson, and, rejoicing that a foe withstood him, he dealt a buffet so sore and mighty that the seller of coal, whose voice could rise like the grunting of a sea beast to the highest windows of the new exchange buildings, dropped as an ox drops when it is felled. and john bairdieson ran on, crying out: "there's nae kirk o' god in puir scotland ony mair!" chapter xlii. purging and restoration. it was the lord's day in edinburgh town. the silence in the early morning was something which could be felt--not a footstep, not a rolling wheel. window-blinds were mostly down--on the windows provided with them. even in bell's wynd there was not the noise of the week. only a tinker family squabbled over the remains of the deep drinking of the night before. but then, what could bell's wynd expect--to harbour such? it was yet early dawn when john bairdieson, kirk officer to the little company of the faithful to assemble there later in the day, went up the steps and opened the great door with his key. he went all round the church with his hat on. it was a popish idea to take off the head covering within stone walls, yet john bairdieson was that morning possessed with the fullest reverence for the house of god and the highest sense of his responsibility as the keeper of it. he was wont to sing: "rather in my god's house would i keep a door than dwell in tents of sin." that was the retort which he flung across at taminas laidlay, the beadle of the established kirk opposite, with all that scorn in the application which was due from one in john bairdieson's position to one in that of tammas laidlay. but this morning john had no spirit for the encounter. he hurried in and sat down by himself in the minister's vestry. here he sat for a long season in deep and solemn thought. "i'll do it!" he said at last. it was near the time when the minister usually came to enter into his vestry, there to prepare himself by meditation and prayer for the services of the sanctuary. john bairdieson posted himself on the top step of the stairs which led from the street, to wait for him. at last, after a good many passers-by, all single and all in black, walking very fast, had hurried by, john's neck craning after every one, the minister appeared, walking solemnly down the street with his head in the air. his neckcloth was crumpled and soiled--a fact which was not lost on john. the minister came up the steps and made as though he would pass john by without speaking to him; but that guardian of the sanctuary held out his arms as though he were wearing sheep. "na, na, minister, ye come na into this kirk this day as minister till ye be lawfully restored. there are nae ministers o' the kirk o' the marrow the noo; we're a body without a heid. i thocht that the kirk was at an end, but the lord has revealed to me that the marrow kirk canna end while the world lasts. in the nicht season he telled me what to do." the minister stood transfixed. if his faithful serving-man of so many years had turned against him, surely the world was at an end. but it was not so. john bairdieson went on, standing with his hat in his hand, and the hairs of his head erect with the excitement of unflinching justice. "i see it clear. ye are no minister o' this kirk. mr. welsh is no minister o' the dullarg. i, john bairdieson, am the only officer of the seenod left; therefore i stand atween the people and you this day, till ye hae gane intil the seenod hall, that we ca' on ordinary days the vestry, and there, takkin' till ye the elders that remain, ye be solemnly ordainit ower again and set apairt for the office o' the meenistry." "but i am your minister, and need nothing of the sort!" said gilbert peden. "i command you to let me pass!" "command me nae commands! john bairdieson kens better nor that. ye are naither minister nor ruler; ye are but an elder, like mysel'-- equal among your equals; an' ye maun sit amang us this day and help to vote for a teachin' elder, first among his equals, to be set solemnly apairt." the minister, logical to the verge of hardness, could not gainsay the admirable and even-handed justice of john bairdieson's position. more than that, he knew that every man in the congregation of the marrow kirk of bell's wynd would inevitably take the same view. without another word he went into the session-house, where in due time he sat down and opened the bible. he had not to wait long, when there joined him gavin macfadzean, the cobbler, from the foot of leith walk, and alexander taylour, carriage-builder, elders in the kirk of the marrow; these, forewarned by john bairdieson, took their places in silence. to them entered allan welsh. then, last of all, john bairdieson came in and took his own place. the five elders of the marrow kirk were met for the first time on an equal platform. john bairdieson opened with prayer. then he stated the case. the two ex-ministers sat calm and silent, as though listening to a chapter in the acts of the apostles. it was a strange scene of equality, only possible and actual in scotland. "but mind ye," said john bairdieson, "this was dune hastily, and not of set purpose--for ministers are but men--even ministers of the marrow kirk. therefore shall we, as elders of the kirk, in full standing, set apairt two of our number as teaching elders, for the fulfilling of ordinances and the edification of them that believe. have you anything to say? if not, then let us proceed to set apairt and ordain gilbert peden and allan welsh." but before any progress could be made, allan welsh rose. john bairdieson had been afraid of this. "the less that's said, the better," he said hastily, "an' it's gottin' near kirk-time. we maun get it a' by or then." "this only i have to say," said allan welsh, "i recognize the justice of my deposition. i have been a sinful and erring man, and i am not worthy to teach in the pulpit any more. also, my life is done. i shall soon lay it down and depart to the father whose word i, hopeless and castaway, have yet tried faithfully to preach." then uprose gilbert peden. his voice was husky with emotion. "hasty and ill-advised, and of such a character as to bring dishonour on the only true kirk in scotland, has such an action been. i confess myself a hasty man, a man of wrath, and that wrath unto sin. i have sinned the sin of anger and presumption against a brother. long ere now i would have taken it back, but it is the law of god that deeds once done cannot be undone; though we seek repentance carefully with tears, we cannot put the past away." thus, with the consecration and the humility of confession gilbert peden purged himself from the sin of hasty anger. "like uzzah at the threshing-floor of nachon," he went on, "i have sinned the sin of the israelite who set his hand to the ox-cart to stay the ark of god. it is of the lord's mercy that i am not consumed, like the men of beth-shemesh." so gilbert peden was restored, but allan welsh would not accept any restoration. "i am not a man accepted of god," he said. and even gilbert peden said no word. "noo," said john bairdieson, "afore this meetin' scales [is dismissed], there is juist yae word that i hae to say. there's nane o' us haes wives, but an' except alexander taylour, carriage- maker. noo, the proceedings this mornin' are never to be jince named in the congregation. if, then, there be ony soond of this in the time to come, mind you alexander taylour, that it's you that'll hae to bear the weight o't!" this was felt to be fair, even by alexander taylour, carriage- maker. the meeting now broke up, and john bairdieson went to reprove margate truepenny for knocking with her crutch on the door of the house of god on the sabbath morning. "d'ye think," he said, "that the fowk knockit wi' their staves on the door o' the temple in jerusalem?" "aiblins," retorted margate, "they had feller [quicker] doorkeepers in thae days nor you, john bairdieson." the morning service was past. gilbert peden had preached from the text, 'greater is he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city." "oor minister is yin that looks deep intil the workings o' his ain heart," said margate, as she hirpled homeward. but when the church was empty and all gone home, in the little vestry two men sat together, and the door was shut. between them they held a miniature, the picture of a girl with a flush of rose on her cheek and a laughing light in her eyes. there was silence, but for a quick catch in the stronger man's breathing, which sounded like a sob. gilbert peden, who had only lost and never won, and allan welsh, who had both won and lost, were forever at one. there was silence between them, as they looked with eyes of deathless love at the picture which spoke to them of long ago. walter skirving's message, which winsome had brought to the manse of dullarg, had united the hearts estranged for twenty years. winsome had builded better than she knew. chapter xliii. threads drawn together. winsome took her grandmother out one afternoon into the rich mellow august light, when the lower corn-fields were glimmering with misty green shot underneath with faintest blonde, and the sandy knowes were fast yellowing. the blithe old lady was getting back some of her strength, and it seemed possible that once again she might be able to go round the house without even the assistance of an arm. "and what is this i hear," said mistress skirving, "that the daft young laird frae the castle has rin' aff wi' that cottar's lassie, jess kissock, an' marriet her at gretna green. it's juist no possible." "but, grandma, it is quite true, for jock gordon brought the news. he saw them postin' back from gretna wi' four horses!" "an' what says his mither, the lady elizabeth?" "they say that she's delighted," said winsome. "that's a lee, at ony rate!" said the mistress of craig ronald, without a moment's hesitation. she knew the lady elizabeth, "they say," said winsome, "that jess can make them do all that she wants at the castle." "gin she gars them pit doon new carpets, she'll do wonders," said her grandmother, acidly. she came of a good family, and did not like mesalliances, though she had been said to have made one herself. but there was no misdoubting the fact that jess had done her sick nursing well, and had possessed herself in honourable and lawful wedlock of the honourable agnew greatorix--and that too, apparently with the consent of the lady elizabeth. "what took them to gretna, then?" said winsome's grandmother. "well, grandmammy, you see, the castle folk are catholic, and would not have a minister; an' jess, though a queer christian, as well as maybe to show her power and be romantic, would have no priest or minister either, but must go to gretna. so they're back again, and jock gordon says that she'll comb his hair. he has to be in by seven o'clock now," said winsome, smiling. "wha's ben wi' yer grandfaither?" after a pause, mistress skirving asked irrelevantly. "only mr. welsh from the manse," said winsome. "i suppose he came to see grandfather about the packet i took to the manse a month ago. grandmother, why does mr. welsh come so seldom to craig ronald?" she asked. but her grandmother was shaking in a strange way. "i have not heard any noise," she said. "you had better go in and see." winsome stole to the door and looked within. she saw the minister with his head on the swathed knees of her grandfather. the old man had laid his hand upon the grey hair of the kneeling minister. awed and solemnised, winsome drew back. she told her grandmother what she had seen, and the old lady said nothing for the space of a quarter of an hour. at the end of that time she said: "help me ben." and winsome, taking her arm, guided her into the hushed room where her husband sat, still holding his hand on the head of allan welsh. something in the pose of the kneeling man struck her--a certain helpless inclination forward. winsome ran, and, taking allan welsh by the shoulders, lifted him up in her strong young arms. he was dead. he had passed in the act of forgiveness. walter skirving, who had sat rapt and silent through it all as though hardly of this world, now said clearly and sharply: "'for if ye forgive men their trespasses, so also shall your heavenly father forgive you.'" walter skirving did not long survive the man, in hatred of whom he had lived, and in unity with whom he had died. it seemed as though he had only been held to the earth by the necessity that the sun of his life should not go down upon his wrath. this done, like a boat whose moorings are loosed, very gladly he went out that same night upon the ebb tide. the two funerals were held upon the same day. minister and elder were buried side by side one glorious august day, which was a marvel to many. so the dullarg kirk was vacant, and there was only manse bell to take care of the property. jonas shillinglaw came from cairn edward and communicated the contents of both walter skirving's will and of that of allan welsh to those whom it concerned. jonas had made several journeys of late both to the manse as well as to the steading of craig ronald. walter skirving left craig ronald and all of which he died possessed to winsome charteris, subject to the approval of her grandmother as to whom she might marry. there was a recent codicil. "i desire to record my great satisfaction that winifred charteris or welsh is likely to marry the son of my old friend gilbert peden, minister of the marrow kirk in edinburgh; and hearing that the young man contemplates the career of letters, i desire that, if it be possible, in the event of their marriage, they come to abide at craig ronald, at least till a better way be opened for them. i commend my wife, ever loving and true, to them both; and in the good hope of a glorious resurrection i commit myself to him who made me." allan welsh left all his goods and his property to ralph peden, "being as mine own son, because he taught me to know true love, and fearlessness and faith unfeigned. also because one dear to him brought me my hope of forgiveness." there was indeed need of ralph at craig ronald. mistress skirving cried out incessantly for him. meg begged winsome to let her look every day at the little miniature ralph had sent her from edinburgh. the cuif held forth upon the great event every night when he came over to hold the tails of meg's cows. jock forrest still went out, saying nothing, whenever the cuif came in, which the cuif took to be a good sign. only ebie fairrish, struck to the heart by the inconstancy of jess, removed at the november term back again to the "laigh end" of the parish, and there plunged madly into flirtations with several of his old sweethearts. he is reported to have found in numbers the anodyne for the unfaithfulness of one. as for what winsome thought and longed for, it is better that we should not begin to tell, not having another volume to spare. only she went to the hill-top by the side of loch ken and looked northward every eventide; and her heart yearned within her. chapter xliv. winsome's last tryst. it was the morn before a wedding, and there had been a constant stir all night all about the farmsteading, for a brand-new world was in the making. such a marrying had not been for years. the farmers' sons for miles around were coming on their heavy plough- horses, with here and there one of better breed. long ago in the earliest morning some one had rung the bell of the little kirk of the dullarg. it came upon the still air a fairy tinkle, and many a cottar and many a shepherd turned over with a comfortable feeling: "this is the sabbath morn; i need not rise so soon to-day." but all their wives remembered, and turned them out with wifely elbow. it was winsome charteris's wedding day. the flower of all the countryside was to wed the young edinburgh lad who had turned out so great a poet. it was the opinion of the district that her "intended" had unsettled the thrones of all the great writers of the past by his volume of poems, which no one in the parish had read; but the fame of whose success had been wafted down upon the eastern breezes which bore the snell bite of the metropolis upon their front. "tra-la-la-la!" chanted the cocks of craig ronald. "tra-la-la-la-la!" airily sang the solitary bird which lived up among the pine woods, where, in the cot of mistress kissock, ralph peden occupied the little bedroom which meg had got ready for him with such care and honour. "tra-la-la-laa!" was echoed in the airiest diminuendo from the far-away leader of the harem at the nether orae. his challenge crossed the wide gulf of air above loch grannoch, from which in the earliest morning the mists were rising. ralph peden heard all three birds. he had a delightfully comfortable bedroom, and the flowers on the little white-covered table have come from the front square of mistress kissock's garden. there was a passion-flower on his table, which somehow reminded him of a girl who had put poppies in hair of the raven's wing hue. it had not grown in the garden of the cot. yet ralph was out in the earliest dawn, listening to the sighing of the trees and taking in the odour of the perfume from the pines on the slope. ralph did not write any poem this morning, though the muses were abroad in the stillness of the dawn. his eyes were on a little window once more overclambered by the june roses. his poem was down there, and it was coming to him. how eagerly he looked, his eyes like telescopes! then his heart thrilled. in the cool flood of slanting morning sunshine which had just overflowed the eastern gable of the house, some one swiftly crossed the court-yard of the farm. in a moment the sun, winking on a pair of tin pails, told him that meg kissock was going to the well. from the barn end some one stepped out by her side and walked to the well. then, as they returned, it was not the woman who was carrying the winking pails. at the barn end they drew together in the shadow for a long minute, and then again ralph saw meg's back as she walked sedately to the kitchen door, the cans flashing rhythmically as she swung them. so high was he above them that he could even notice the mellow dimple of diffused light from the water in the bright pail centring and scattering the morning sunlight as it swayed. presently the one half of the blue kitchen door became black. it had been opened. ralph's heart gave a great bound. then the black became white and glorified, for framed within it appeared a slender shape like a shaft of light. ralph's eyes did not leave the figure as it stepped out and came down by the garden edge. along the top of the closely-cut hawthorn a dot of light moved. it was but a speck, like the paler centre of the heather bells. ralph ran swiftly down the great dyke in a manner more natural to a young man than dignified in a poet. in a minute he came to the edge of the glen in which andra kissock had guddled the trouts. that flash of layender must pass this way. it passed and stayed. so in the cool translucence of morning light the lovers met in this quiet glade, the great heather moors above them once more royally purple, the burnie beneath singing a gentle song, the birds vying with each other in complicated trills of pretended artlessness. it was purely by chance that winsome charteris passed this way. and a kind providence, supplemented on ralph's side by some activity and observation, brought him also to the glen of the elders that june morning. yet there are those who say that there is nothing in coincidence. when winsome, moving thoughtfully onward, gently waving a slip of willow in her hand, came in sight of ralph, she stood and waited. ralph went towards her, and so on their marriage morn these two lovers met. it was like that morning on which by the lochside they parted, yet it was not like it. with that prescience which is a sixth sense to women, winsome had slipped on the old sprigged gown which had done duty at the blanket-washing so long ago, and her hair, unbound in the sun, shone golden as it flowed from beneath the lilac sunbonnet. as for ralph, it does not matter how he was dressed. in love, dress does not matter a brass button after the first corner is turned--at least not to the woman. "sweet," said ralph, "you are awake?" winsome looked up with eyes so glorious and triumphant that a blind man could scarce have doubted the fact. "and you love me?" he continued, reading her eyes. with her old ripple of laughter she lightened the strain of the occasion. "you are a silly boy," she said; "but you'll learn. i have come out to gather flowers," she added, ingenuously. "i shall expect you to help. no--no--and nothing else." had ralph been in a fit condition to observe nature this morning, it might have occurred to him that when girls come out to gather flowers for somewhat extensive decoration, they bring with them at least a basket and generally also their fourth best pair of scissors. winsome had neither. but he was not in a mood for careful inductions. the morning lights sprayed upon them as they went hither and thither gathering flowers--dew-drenched hyacinths, elastic wire- strung bluebells the colour of the sky when the dry east wind blows, the first great red bushes of the ling. now it is a known fact that, in order properly to gather flowers, the collectors must divide and so quarter the ground. "but this was not a scientific expedition," said ralph, when the folly of their mode of proceeding was pointed out to him. it was manifestly impossible that they could gather flowers walking with the palm of ralph's left hand laid on the inside of winsome's left arm. the thing cannot be done. at least so ralph admitted afterwards. "no," said ralph, "but you made me promise to keep my shoulders back, and i am trying to to do it now." and his manner of assisting winsome to gather her flowers for her wedding bouquet was, when you come to think of it, admirably adapted for keeping the shoulders back. "meg waked me this morning," said winsome suddenly. "she did, did she?" remarked ralph ineffectively, with a quick envy of meg. then it occurred to him that he had no need to envy meg. and winsome blushed for no reason at all. then she became suddenly practical, as the protective instinct teaches women to be on these occasions. "you have not seen your study," she said. "no," said ralph, "but i have heard enough about it. it has occupied sixteen pages in the last three letters." ralph considered the study a good thing, but he had his views upon the composition of love-letters. "you are an ungrateful boy," said winsome sternly, "and i shall see that you get no more letters--not any more!" "i shall never want any, little woman," cried ralph joyously, "for i shall have you!" it was a blessing that at this moment they were passing under the dense shade of the great oaks at the foot of the orchard. winsome had thought for five minutes that it would happen about there. it happened. a quarter of an hour later they came out into the cool ocean of leaf shadow which lay blue upon the grass and daisies. winsome now carried the sunbonnet over her arm, and in the morning sunshine her uncovered head was so bright that ralph could not gaze at it long. besides, he wanted to look at the eyes that looked at him, and one cannot do everything at once. "this is your study," she said, standing back to let him look in. it was a long, low room with an outside stair above the farthermost barn, and winsome had fitted it up wondrously for ralph. it opened off the orchard, and the late blossoms scattered into it when the winds blew from the south. they stood together on the topmost step. there was a desk and one chair, and a low window-seat in each of the deep windows. "you will never be disturbed here," said winsome. "but i want to be disturbed," said ralph, who was young and did not know any better. "now go in," said winsome, giving him a little push in the way that, without any offence, a proximate wife may. "go in and study a little this morning, and see how you like it." ralph considered this as fair provocation, and turned, with bonds and imprisonment in his mind. but winsome had vanished. but from beneath came a clear voice out of the unseen: "if you don't like it, you can come round and tell me. it will not be too late till the afternoon. any time before three!" a mere man is at a terrible disadvantage in word play of this kind. on this occasion ralph could think of nothing better than-- "winsome charteris, i shall pay you back for this!" then he heard what might either have been a bell ringing for the fairies' breakfast, or a ripple of the merriest earthly laughter very far away. then he sat down to study. it took him quite an hour to arrive at a conclusion; but when reached it was a momentous one. it was, that it is a mistake to be married in summer, for three o'clock in the afternoon is such a long time in coming. chapter xlv. the last of the lilac sunbonnet. craig ronald lies bright in a dreaming day in mid-september. the reapers are once more in the fields. far away there is a crying of voices. the corn-fields by the bridge are white with a bloomy and mellow whiteness. some part of the oats is already down. close into the standing crop there is a series of rhythmic flashes, the scythes swinging like a long wave that curls over here and there. behind the line of flashing steel the harvesters swarm like ants running hither and thither crosswise, apparently in aimless fashion. up through the orchard comes a girl, tall and graceful, but with a touch of something nobler and stiller that does not come to girlhood. it is the seal of the diviner eden grace which only comes with the after eden pain. winsome peden carries more than ever of the old grace and beauty; and the eyes of her husband, who has been finishing the proofs of his next volume and at intervals looking over the busy fields to the levels of loch grannoch, tell her so as she comes. but suddenly from opposite sides of the orchard this girl with the gracious something in her eyes is borne down by simultaneous assault. shrieking with delight, a boy and a girl, dressed in complete defensive armour of daisies, and wielding desperate arms of lath manufactured by andra kissock, their slave, rush fiercely upon her. they pull down their quarry after a brisk chase, who sinks helplessly upon the grass under a merciless fire of caresses. it is a critical moment. a brutal and licentious soldiery are not responsible at such moments. they may carry sack and rapine to unheard of extremities. "you young barbarians, be careful of your only mother--unless you have a stock of them!" calls a voice from the top of the stairs which lead to the study. "father's come out--hurrah! come on, allan!" shouts field-marshal winifred the younger who is leader and commander, to her army whose tottery and chubby youth does not suggest the desperation of a forlorn hope. so the study is carried at the point of the lath, and the banner of the victors--a cross of a sort unknown to heraldry, marked on a white ground with a blue pencil--is planted on the sacred desk itself. winsome the matron comes more slowly up the stairs. "can common, uninspired people come in?" she says, pausing at the top. she looks about with a motherly eye, and pulls down the blind of the window into which the sun has been streaming all the morning. it is one of the advantages of such a wife that her husband, especially the rare literary variety, may be treated as no more than the eldest but most helpless of the babes. it is also true that ralph had pulled up the blind in order that he might the better be able to see his wife moving among the reapers. for winsome was more than ever a woman of affairs. she stood in the doorway, looking in spite of the autumn sun and the walk up from the corn-field, deliriously cool. she fanned herself with a broad rhubarb-leaf--an impromptu fan plucked by the way. she sat down on the ledge of the upper step of ralph's study, as she often did when she worked or rested. ralph was again within, reclining on a window-seat, while the pack of reckless banditti swarmed over him. "have the rhymes been behaving themselves this morning?" winsome said, looking across at ralph as only a wife of some years' standing can look at her husband--with love deepened into understanding, and tempered with a spice of amusement and a wide and generous tolerance--the look of a loving woman to whom her husband and her husband's ways are better than a stage play. such a look is a certificate of happy home and an ideal life, far more than all heroics. the love of the after-years depends chiefly on the capacity of a wife to be amused by her husband's peculiarities--and not to let him see it. "there are three blanks," said ralph, a little wistfully. "i have written a good deal, but i dare not read it over, lest it should be nothing worth." this was a well-marked stage in ralph's composition, and it was well that his wife had come. "i fear you have been dreaming, instead of working," she said, looking at him with a kind of pitying admiration. ralph, too, had grown handsomer, so his wife thought, since she had him to look after. how, indeed, could it be otherwise? she rose and went towards him. "sun down, now, children, and play on the grass," she said. "sun, chicks--off with you--shoo!" and she flirted her apron after them as she did when she scattered the chickens from the dairy door. the pinafored people fled shrieking across the grass, tumbling over each other in riotous heaps. then winsome went over and kissed her husband. he was looking so handsome that he deserved it. and she did not do it too often. she was glad that she had made him wear a beard. she put one of her hands behind his head and the other beneath his chin, tilting his profile with the air of a connoisseur. this can only be done in one position. "well, does it suit your ladyship?" said ralph. she gave him a little box on the ear. "i knew," he said, "that you wanted to come and sit on my knee!" "i never did," replied winsome with animation, making a statement almost certainly inaccurate upon the face of it. "that's why you sent away the children," he went on, pinching her ear. "of all things in this world," said winsome indignantly, "commend me to a man for conceit!" "and to winsome wives for wily ways!" said her husband instantly. to do him justice, he did not often do this sort of thing. "keep the alliteration for the poems," retorted winsome. "truth will do for me." after a little while she said, without apparent connection: "it is very hot." "what are they doing in the hay-field?" asked ralph. "jock forrest was leading and they were cutting down the croft very steadily. i think it looks like sixty bushels to the acre," she continued practically; "so you shall have a carpet for the study this year, if all goes well." "that will be famous!" cried ralph, like a schoolboy, waving his hand. it paused among winsome's hair. "i wish you would not tumble it all down," she said; "i am too old for that kind of thing now!" the number of times good women perjure themselves is almost unbelievable. but the recording angel has, it is said, a deaf side, otherwise he would need an ink-eraser. ralph knew very well what she really meant, and continued to throw the fine-spun glossy waves over her head, as a miser may toss his gold for the pleasure of the cool, crisp touch. "then," continued winsome, without moving (for, though so unhappy and uncomfortable, she sat still--some women are born with a genius for martyrdom), "then i had a long talk with meg." "and the babe?" queried ralph, letting her hair run through his fingers. "and the babe," said winsome; "she had laid it to sleep under a stock, and when we went to see, it looked so sweet under the narrow arch of the corn! then it looked up with big wondering eyes. i believe he thought the inside of the stook was as high as a temple." "it is not i that am the poet!" said ralph, transferring his attention for a moment from her hair. "meg says jock forrest is perfectly good to her, and that she would not change her man for all greatorix castle." "does jock make a good grieve?" asked ralph. "the very best; he is a great comfort to me," replied his wife. "i get far more time to work at the children's things--and also to look after my ursa major!" "what of jess?" asked ralph; "did meg say?" "jess has taken the lady elizabeth to call on my lord at bowhill! what do you think of that? and she leads agnew greatorix about like a lamb, or rather like a sheep. he gets just one glass of sherry at dinner," said winsome, who loved a spice of gossip--as who does not? "there is a letter from my father this morning," said ralph, half turning to pick it off his desk; "he is well, but he is in distress, he says, because he got his pocket picked of his handkerchief while standing gazing in at a shop window wherein books were displayed for sale, but john bairdieson has sewed another in at the time of writing. they had a repeating tune the other day, and the two new licentiates are godly lads, and turning out a credit to the kirk of the marrow." "and that is more than ever you would have done, ralph," said his wife candidly. "kezia is to be married in october, and there is a young man coming to see little keren-happuch, but jemima thinks that the minds of both of her younger sisters are too much set on the frivolous things of this earth. the professor has received a new kind of snuff from holland which kezia says is indistinguishable in its effects from pepper--one of his old students brought it to him--and that's all the news," said ralph, closing up the letter and laying it on the table. "has saunders moudiewort cast his easy affections on any one this year yet?" ralph asked, returning to the consideration of winsome's hair. saunders was harvesting at present at craig ronald. the mistress of the farm laughed. "i think not," she said; "saunders says that his mother is the most' siccar' housekeeper that he kens of, and that after a while ye get to mind her tongue nae mair nor the mill fanners." "that's just the way with me when you scold me," said ralph. "very well, then, i must go to the summer seat and put you out of danger," replied winsome. "since you are so imposed upon, i shall see if the grannymother has done with her second volume. she never gets dangerous, except when she is kept waiting for the third." but before they had time to move, the rollicking storm-cloud of younglings again came tumultuously up the stairs--winifred far in front, allan toddling doggedly in the rear. "see what granny has put on my head!" cried mistress winifred the youngest, whose normal manner of entering a room suggested a revolution. "oo" said allan, pointing with his chubby finger, "yook, yook! mother's sitting on favver's knee-rock-a-by, favver, rock-a-by!" but ralph had no eyes for anything but the old sunbonnet in which, the piquant flower face of mistress five-year-old winifred was all but lost. he stooped and kissed it, and the face under it. it was frayed and faded, and it had lost both strings. then he looked up and kissed the wife who was still his sweetheart, for the love the lilac sunbonnet had brought to them so many years ago was still fresh with the dew of their youth. the end. google books (the new york public library) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books https://books.google.com/books?id=paaoaaaamaaj (the new york public library) leisure hours series. --------------------- the shield of love by b. l. farjeon new york henry holt and company copyright, , by henry holt & co. the mershon company press, rahway, n. j. contents. chapter i. in which some particulars are given of the fox-cordery family. ii. poor cinderella. iii. a family discussion. iv. wherein cinderella asserts herself. v. in which john dixon informs mr. fox-cordery that he has seen a ghost. vi. in which we make the acquaintance of rathbeal. vii. billy turns the corner. viii. the gambler's confession. ix. mr. fox-cordery is not easy in his mind. x. in which mr. fox-cordery meets with a repulse. xi. little prue. xii. "drip--drip--drip!" xiii. in which rathbeal makes a winning move. xiv. do you remember billy's last prayer? xv. friends in council. xvi. mr. fox-cordery's master-stroke. xvii. retribution. the shield of love. chapter i. in which some particulars are given of the fox-cordery family. this is not exactly a story of cinderella, although a modern cinderella--of whom there are a great many more in our social life than people wot of--plays her modest part therein; and the allusion to one of the world's prettiest fairy-tales is apposite enough because her prince, an ordinary english gentleman prosaically named john dixon, was first drawn to her by the pity which stirs every honest heart when innocence and helplessness are imposed upon. pity became presently sweetened by affection, and subsequently glorified by love, which, at the opening of our story, awaited its little plot of fresh-smelling earth to put forth its leaves, the healthy flourishing of which has raised to the dignity of a heavenly poem that most beautiful of all words, home. her christian name was charlotte, her surname fox-cordery, and she had a mother and a brother. these, from the time her likeness to cinderella commenced, comprised the household. had it occurred to a stranger who gazed for the first time upon mr. and miss fox-cordery, as they sat in the living-room of the fox-cordery establishment, that for some private reason the brother and sister had dressed in each other's clothes, he might well have been excused the fancy. it was not that the lady was so much like a gentleman, but that the gentleman was so much like a lady; and a closer inspection would certainly have caused the stranger to do justice at least to miss fox-cordery. she was the taller and stouter of the twain, and yet not too tall or stout for grace and beauty of an attractive kind. there was some color in her face, his was perfectly pallid, bearing the peculiar hue observable in waxwork figures; her eyes were black, his blue; her hair was brown, his sandy; and the waxwork suggestion was strengthened by his whiskers and mustache, which had a ludicrous air of having been stuck on. there was a cheerful energy in her movements which was conspicuously absent in his, and her voice had a musical ring in it, while his was languid and deliberate. she was his junior by a good ten years, her age being twenty-eight, but had he proclaimed himself no more than thirty, only those who were better informed would have disputed the statement. when men and women reach middle age the desire to appear younger than they are is a pardonable weakness, and it was to the advantage of mr. fox-cordery that it was less difficult for him than for most of us to maintain the harmless fiction. this was not the only bubble which mr. fox-cordery was ready to encourage in order to deceive the world. his infantile face, his appealing blue eyes, his smooth voice, were traps which brought many unwary persons to grief. nature plays numberless astonishing tricks, but few more astonishing than that which rendered the contrast between the outer and inner mr. fox-cordery even more startling than that which existed in the physical characteristics of this brother and sister. there were other contrasts which it may be as well to mention. as brother and sister they were of equal social rank, but the equality was not exhibited in their attire. mr. fox-cordery would have been judged to be a man of wealth, rich enough to afford himself all the luxuries of life; charlotte would have been judged a young woman who had to struggle hard for a living, which, indeed, was not far from the truth, for she was made to earn her bread and butter, if ever woman was. her clothing was common and coarse, and barely sufficient, the length of her frock being more suitable to a girl of fifteen than to a woman of twenty-eight. this was not altogether a drawback, for charlotte had shapely feet and ankles, but they would have been seen to better advantage in neat boots or shoes than in the worn-out, down-at-heels slippers she wore. depend upon it she did not wear them from choice, for every right-minded woman takes a proper pride in her boots and shoes, and in her stockings, gloves, and hats. the slippers worn at the present moment by charlotte were the only available coverings for her feet she had. true, there was a pair of boots in the house which would fit no other feet than hers, but they were locked up in her mother's wardrobe. then her stockings. those she had on were of an exceedingly rusty black, and had been darned and darned till scarcely a vestige of their original self remained. another and a better pair she ought to have had the right to call her own, and these were in the house, keeping company with her boots. in her poorly furnished bedroom you would have searched in vain for hat or gloves; these were likewise under lock and key, with a decent frock and mantle she was allowed to wear on special occasions, at the will of her taskmasters. so that she was considerably worse off in these respects than many a poor woman who lives with her husband and children in a garret. but for all this charlotte was a pleasant picture to gaze upon, albeit just now her features wore rather a grave expression. she had not an ornament on her person, not a brooch or a ring, but her hair was luxuriant and abundant, and was carefully brushed and coiled; her neck was white, and her figure graceful; and though in a couple of years she would be in her thirties, there was a youthfulness in her appearance which can only be accounted for by her fortunate inheritance of a cheerful spirit, of which, drudge as she was, her mother and her brother could not rob her. this precious inheritance she derived from her father, who had transmitted to her all that was spiritually best in his nature: and nothing else. it was not because he did not love his daughter that she was left unendowed, but because of a fatal delay in the disposition of his world's goods. procrastination may be likened to an air-gun carrying a deadly bullet. mr. fox-cordery, the younger, "took" after his mother. occasionally in life these discrepant characteristics are found grouped together in one family, the founders of which, by some strange chance, have become united, instead of flying from each other, as do certain violently antagonistic chemicals when an attempt is made to unite them in a friendly partnership. the human repulsion occurs afterward, when it is too late to repair the evil. if marriages are made in heaven, as some foolish people are in the habit of asserting, heaven owes poor mortality a debt it can never repay. far different from charlotte's was mr. fox-cordery's appearance. as to attire it was resplendent and magnificent, if these terms may be applied to a mortal of such small proportions. he was excruciatingly careful in the combing and brushing of his hair, but in the effect produced he could not reach her point of excellence, and this drawback he inwardly construed into a wrong inflicted upon him by her. he often struck a mental balance after this fashion, and brought unsuspecting persons in his debt. moreover, he would have liked to change skins with her, and give her his waxy hue for her pearly whiteness. could the exchange have been effected by force he would have had it done. at an early stage of manhood he had been at great pains to impart an upward curly twist to his little mustache, in the hope of acquiring a military air, but the attempt was not successful, and his barber, after long travail, had given it up in despair, and had advised him to train his mustache in the way it was inclined to go. "let it droop, sir," said the barber, "it will look beautiful so. there's a sentiment in a drooping mustache that always attracts the sex." the argument was irresistible, and mr. fox-cordery's little mustache was allowed to droop and to grow long; and it certainly did impart to his countenance a dreaminess of expression which its wearer regarded as a partial compensation for the disappointment of his young ambition. no man in the world ever bestowed more attention upon his person, or took greater pains to make himself pleasing in the sight of his fellow-creatures, than did mr. fox-cordery; and this labor of love was undertaken partly from vanity, partly from cunning. a good appearance deceived the world; it put people off their guard; if you wished to gain a point it was half the battle. he spent hours every week with his tailor, the best in london, discussing fits and fashions, trying on coats, vests, and trousers, ripping and unripping to conquer a crease, and suggesting a little more padding here, and a trifle less there. his hats and boots were marvels of polish, his shirts and handkerchiefs of the finest texture, his neckties marvels, his silk socks and underwear dainty and elegant, and his pins and, rings would have passed muster with the most censorious of fashion's votaries. he was spick and span from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. as he walked along the streets, picking his way carefully, or sat in his chair with his small legs crossed, he was a perfect little model of a man, in animated pallid waxwork. he preferred to sit instead of stand; being long-waisted it gave beholders a false impression of his height. from his cradle he had been his mother's idol and his father's terror. mrs. fox-cordery ruled the roost, and her husband, preferring peace to constant warfare, gave the reins into her hands, and allowed her to do exactly as she pleased. this meant doing everything that would give pleasure to the fox-cordery heir, who soon discovered his power and made use of it to his own advantage. what a tyrant in the domestic circle was the little mannikin! the choicest tidbits at meals, the food he liked best, the coolest place in summer, and warmest in winter, all were conceded to him. he tortured birds and cats openly, and pinched servants on the sly. the good-tempered, cheerful-hearted father used to gaze in wonder at his son, and speculate ruefully upon the kind of man he was likely to grow into. when young fox-cordery was near his eleventh birthday charlotte was born, and as the mother held the son to her heart, so did the father hold the daughter to his. they became comrades, father and daughter on one side, mother and son on the other, with no sympathies in common. mr. fox-cordery took his little daughter for long rides and walks, told her fairy stories, and gave her country feasts; and it is hard to say who enjoyed them most. the introduction of charlotte into young fox-cordery's life afforded him new sources of delight. he pinched her on the sly as he pinched the servants, he pulled her ears, he slapped her face, and the wonder of it was that charlotte never complained. her patience and submission did not soften him; he tyrannized over her the more. hearing his father say that charlotte ought to have a doll, he said that he would buy her one, and the father was pleased at this prompting of affection. obtaining a sum of money from his mother, young fox-cordery put half of it into his pocket, and expended the other half in the purchase of a doll with a woebegone visage, dressed in deep mourning. presenting it to his sister he explained that the doll had lost everybody belonging to her, and was the most wretched and miserable doll in existence. "she will die soon," he said, "and then i will give you a coffin." but the young villain's purpose was foiled by charlotte's sweet disposition. the poor doll, being alone in the world, needed sympathy and consolation, and charlotte wept over her, and kissed and fondled her, and did everything in her power to make her forget her sorrows. eventually charlotte's father suggested that the doll had been in mourning long enough and he had her dressed like a bride, and restored to joy and society; but this so enraged young fox-cordery that he got up in the night and tore the bridal dress to shreds, and chopped the doll into little pieces. the fond companionship between mr. fox-cordery and his daughter did not last very long. before charlotte was seven years old her father died. on his deathbed the thought occurred to him that his daughter was unprovided for. his will, made shortly after his marriage, when he was still in ignorance of his wife's true character, left everything unreservedly to her; and now, when he was passing into the valley of the shadow of death, he trembled for his darling charlotte's future. the illness by which he was stricken down had been sudden and unexpected, and he had not troubled to alter his will, being confident that many years of life were before him. and now there was little time left. but he lived still; he could repair the error; he yet could make provision for his little girl. lying helpless, almost speechless, on his bed, he motioned to his wife, and made her understand that he wished to see his lawyer. she understood more; she divined his purpose. she had read the will, by which she would become the sole inheritor of his fortune--she and her son, for all she had would be his. should she allow her beloved fox to be robbed, and should she assist in despoiling him? her mind was quickly made up. "i will send for the lawyer," she said to her husband. "at once, at once!" "yes, at once." a day passed. "has the lawyer come?" whispered the dying man to his wife. "he was in the country when i wrote yesterday," she replied. "he returns to-morrow morning, and will be here then." "there must be no delay," said he. his wife nodded, and bade him be easy in his mind. "excitement is bad for you," she said. "the lawyer is sure to come." he knew that it would be dangerous for him to agitate himself, and he fell asleep, holding the hand of his darling child. in the night he awoke, and prayed for a few days of life, and that his senses would not forsake him before the end came. his wife, awake in the adjoining room, prayed also, but it will be charitable to draw a veil over her during those silent hours. another day passed, and again he asked for his lawyer. "he called," said his wife, "but you were asleep, and i would not have you disturbed." it was false; she had not written to the lawyer. that night the dying man knew that his minutes were numbered, and that he would not see another sunrise in this world. speech had deserted him; he was helpless, powerless. he looked piteously at his wife, who would not admit any person into the room but herself, with the exception of her children and the doctor. she answered his look with a smile, and with false tenderness smoothed his pillow. the following morning the doctor called again, and as he stood by the patient's bedside observed him making some feeble signs which he could not understand. appealing to mrs. fox-cordery, she interpreted the signs to him. "he wishes to know the worse," she said. the doctor beckoned her out of the room, and told her she must prepare for it. "soon?" she inquired, with her handkerchief to her dry eyes. "before midnight," he said gravely, and left her to her grief. she did not deprive her husband of his last sad comfort; she brought their daughter to him, and placed her by his side. mrs. fox-cordery remained in the room, watching the clock. "before midnight, before midnight," she whispered to herself a score of times. the prince of the house, soon to be king, came to wish his father farewell. there was not speck or spot upon the young man, who had been from home all day, and had just returned. during this fatal illness he had been very little with his father. "what is the use of my sitting mum chance by his bedside?" he said to his mother. "i can't do him any good; and i don't think he cares for me much. all he thinks of is that brat." charlotte was the brat, and she gazed with large solemn eyes upon her brother as he now entered the chamber of death. he was dressed in the height of fashion, and he did not remove his gloves as he pressed his father's clammy hand, and brushed with careless lips the forehead upon which the dews of death were gathering. then he wiped his mouth with his perfumed handkerchief, and longed to get out of the room to smoke. the father turned his dim eyes upon the fashionably attired young man, standing there so neat and trim and fresh, as if newly turned out of a bandbox, and from him to charlotte in an old cotton dress, her hair in disorder, and her face stained with tears. maybe a premonition of his little girl's future darkened his last moments, but he was too feeble to express it. needless to dwell upon the scene, pregnant and suggestive as it was. the doctor's prediction was verified; when the bells tolled the midnight hour mr. fox-cordery had gone to his rest, and charlotte was friendless in her mother's house. chapter ii. poor cinderella. then commenced a new life for the girl; she became a drudge, and was made to do servants' work, and to feel that there was no love for her beneath the roof that sheltered her. she accepted the position unmurmuringly, and slaved and toiled with a willing spirit. early in the morning, while her tyrants were snug abed, she was up and doing, and though she never succeeded in pleasing them and was conscious that she had done her best, she bore their scolding and fault-finding without a word of remonstrance. they gave her no schooling, and yet she learned to read and write, and to speak good english. there were hidden forces in the girl which caused her to supply, by unwearying industry, the deficiencies of her education. hard as was her life she had compensations, which sprang from the sweetness of her nature. her early acquaintance with errand boys and tradesmen's apprentices led her into the path strewn with lowly flowers. she became familiar with the struggles of the poor, and, sympathizing with them, she performed many acts of kindness which brought happiness to her young heart; and though from those who should have shown her affection she received constant rebuffs, she was not soured by them. the treatment she and her brother met with in the home in which they each had an equal right, and should have had an equal share, was of a painfully distinctive character. nothing was good enough for him; anything was good enough for her. very well; she ministered to him without repining. he and his mother took their pleasures together, and charlotte was never invited to join them, and never asked to be invited. there was no interchange of confidences between them. they had secrets which they kept from her; she had secrets which she kept from them. those shared by mr. fox-cordery and his mother savored of meanness and trickery; charlotte's were sweet and charitable. they did not open their hearts to her because of the fear that she might rebel against the injustice which was being inflicted upon her; she did not open her heart to them because she felt that they would not sympathize with her. they would have turned up their noses at the poor flowers she cherished, and would have striven to pluck them from her--and, indeed, the attempt was made, fortunately without success. charlotte's practical acquaintance with kitchen work, and the economical spirit in which she was enjoined by her mother to carry out her duties, taught her the value of scraps of food, a proper understanding of which would do a great many worthy people no harm. recognizing that the smallest morsels could be turned to good account, she allowed nothing to be thrown away or wasted. even the crumbs would furnish meals for birds, and they were garnered with affectionate care. she was well repaid in winter and early spring for her kindness to the feathered creatures, some of which she believed really grew to know her, and it is a fact that none were frightened of her. many pretty little episodes grew out of this association which was the cause of genuine pleasure to charlotte, and she discovered in these lowly ways of life treasures which such lofty people as her mother and brother never dreamed of. if she had authority nowhere else in her home she had some in the kitchen, so every scrap of food was looked after, collected, and given to pensioners who were truly grateful for them. these pensioners were all small children, waifs of the gutters, of whom there are shoals in every great city. thus it will be seen that the position assigned to charlotte by her mother and brother ennobled and enriched her spiritually; it brought into play her best and sweetest qualities. her charities were dispensed with forethought and wisdom, and mr. fox-cordery took no greater pains in the adornment of his person than charlotte did to make her scraps of food palatable to the stomachs of her little pensioners. with half an onion, nicely shredded, and the end of a stray carrot, she produced of these scraps a stew which did her infinite credit as a cook of odds and ends; and it was a sight worth seeing to watch her preparing such a savory meal for the bare-footed youngsters who came at nightfall to the kitchen entrance of her home. when these proceedings were discovered by her mother she was ordered to discontinue them, but in this one instance she showed a spirit of rebellion, and maintained her right to give away the leavings instead of throwing them into the dustbin. that she was allowed to have her way was perhaps the only concession made to her in her servitude. for an offense of another kind, however, she was made to pay dearly. she obtained permission one evening to go out for a walk, an hour to the minute being allowed her. on these occasions, which were rare, she always chose the poorer thoroughfares for her rambles, and as she now strolled through a narrow street she came upon a woman, with a baby in her arms, sitting on a doorstep. pity for the wan face, of which she caught just one glance, caused charlotte to stop and speak to the woman. the poor creature was in the last stage of want and destitution, and charlotte's heart bled as she listened to the tale of woe. the wail of the hungry babe sent a shiver through the sympathizing girl. she could not bear to leave the sufferers, and yet what good could be done by remaining? she had not a penny to give them. charlotte never had any money of her own, it being part of the system by which her life was ruled to keep her absolutely penniless. she learned from the poor woman that every article of clothing she possessed that could with decency be dispensed with had found its way to the pawn-shop. "see," said the wretched creature, raising her ragged frock. it was all there was on her body. the pitiful revelation inspired charlotte. she had on a flannel and a cotton petticoat. stepping aside into the shadow of an open door she loosened the strings of her petticoats, and they slipped to the ground. "take these," said the young girl, and ran home as fast as she could. she was a few minutes behind her time, and her mother was on the watch for her. upon charlotte making her appearance she was informed that she would never be allowed out again, and she stood quietly by without uttering a word of expostulation. the scene ended by charlotte being ordered instantly to bed, and to secure obedience mrs. fox-cordery accompanied her daughter to her bedroom. there, on undressing, the loss of the two petticoats was discovered. mrs. fox-cordery demanded an explanation and it was given to her, and the result was that every article of charlotte's clothing was taken from her room, and locked in her mother's wardrobe. there was not so much as a lace or a piece of tape left. but, stripped as she was of every possession, charlotte, as she lay in the darkness and silence of her dark room, was not sorry for her charitable deed. she thought of the poor woman and her babe, and was glad that they had something to eat; and she was sure, if the same thing occurred again, that she would act as she had already done. the next morning early, mrs. fox-cordery unlocked the door of her daughter's bedroom, and entered with a bundle of clothes in her arms. though it was imperative that charlotte should be punished for her bad behavior, there was work in the kitchen to do, and the girl was not to be allowed to dawdle all day in bed because she had misconducted herself. that would be a reward, not a punishment. "your brother and i have been talking about you," said mrs. fox-cordery. "he is shocked at your behavior. if you have the least sense of what is right you will beg him to forgive you." "why should i do that?" asked charlotte, pondering a little upon the problem presented to her. "i have not hurt him in any way." "did you not hear me say," exclaimed mrs. fox-cordery, frowning, "that he is shocked at your behavior? is that not hurting him?" "not that i can see, mother," replied charlotte. "i cannot help it if he looks upon what i have done in a wrong light." "in a wrong light, miss impertinence!" cried mrs. fox-cordery. "the view your brother takes of a thing is always right." "if you will give me my clothes," said charlotte, with pardonable evasion, "i will get up." "you will get up when i order you, and not before. i am speaking to you by your brother's instructions, and we will have this matter out, once and for all." charlotte lay silent. it did not appear to her that she had anything to defend, and she instinctively felt that the most prudent course was to say as little as possible. "will you tell your brother that you are sorry for what you have done, or shall i?" "i am not sorry, mother." mrs. fox-cordery was rather staggered by this reply. "there is an absence of moral perception in you," she said severely, "that will lead to bad results. if you were not my daughter i should call in a policeman." charlotte opened her eyes wide, and she shivered slightly. she was neither a theorist nor a logician; she never debated with herself whether a contemplated action was right or wrong; she simply did what her nature guided her to do. a policeman in her eyes was a blue-frocked, helmeted creature who held unknown terrors in his hand, which he meted out to those who had been guilty of some dreadful action. of what dreadful action had she been guilty that her mother should drag a policeman into the conversation? it was this reflection that caused her to shiver. "you gave away last night," said mrs. fox-cordery, regarding the symptom of fear with satisfaction, "what did not belong to you." "my clothes are my own," pleaded charlotte. "they are not your own. they represent property, and every description of property in this family belongs to me and to your brother. the clothes you wear are lent to you for the time being, and by disposing of them as you have done you have committed a theft. you are sharp enough, i presume, to know what a theft is." "yes," said charlotte. monstrous as was the proposition, she was unable to advance any argument in confutation. "that we do not punish you as you deserve," pursued mrs. fox-cordery, "is entirely due to your brother's mercy. we will take care that you do not repeat the offense. such clothes as you are permitted to wear will be given to you as occasion requires; and everything will be marked in my name--you shall do the marking yourself--in proof that nothing belongs to you. dress yourself now, and go to your work." "mother," said charlotte, getting out of bed, opening her little chest of drawers, and looking round the room, "you have taken everything away from me." "yes, everything." "but something is mine, mother." "nothing is yours." "father gave me his picture; let me have that back." "you will have nothing back. we will see how you behave in the future, and you will be treated accordingly. before you go downstairs pray for a more thankful heart, and for sufficient sense to make you appreciate our goodness. have you any message to send to your brother?" "no, mother." "as i supposed. it is a mystery to me how i ever came to have such a child." charlotte said her prayers before she left her bedroom; her father had taught her to do so, night and morning; but she did not pray for a more thankful heart, nor for sense to make her appreciative of the goodness of the family tyrants. perhaps she was dull; perhaps she failed to discover cause for gratitude; certain it is that she was selfish enough to pray for her father's picture back, a prayer that was never answered. and it is also certain that she had a wonderful power of endurance, which enabled her to bear the heavy burden of domestic tyranny, and even to be happy under it. from that morning she was practically a prisoner in her home, and the course of her daily life was measured out to her, as it were, from hour to hour. and still she preserved her cheerfulness and sweetness and snatched some gleams of sunshine from her gloomy surroundings. a brighter gleam shone upon her when, a woman of twenty-five, she made the acquaintance of john dixon, who for twelve months or so came regularly to the house on business of a confidential nature with mr. fox-cordery. this business connection was broken violently and abruptly, but not before the star of love was shining in charlotte's heart; and when her lover was turned from the door she bade him good-by with a smile, for she felt that he would be true to her through weal or woe. chapter iii. a family discussion. charlotte sat at the window, darning stockings; mr. fox-cordery sat at the table killing flies. there are more ways than one of killing flies, and there is something to be said about the pastime on the score of taste. the method adopted by mr. fox-cordery was peculiar and original. he had before him a tumbler and a bottle, and he was smoking a cigar. the tumbler was inverted, and into it the operator had inveigled a large number of flies, which he stupefied with smoke. the cigar he was smoking was a particularly fragrant one, and the flies could not therefore complain that they were being shabbily treated. when they were rendered completely helpless he transferred them to the bottle, taking the greatest possible care to keep it corked after each fresh importation, in order that the prisoners should not have the opportunity of escaping in any chance moment of restored animation. by this means mr. fox-cordery had collected some hundreds of flies, whose dazed flutterings and twitchings he watched with languorous interest, his air being that of a man whose thoughts were running upon other matters almost, if not quite, as important as this. he continued at his occupation until the tumbler was empty and the bottle nearly full; and then he threw the stump of his cigar out of window, and, with a smart wrench at the cork, put the bottle on the mantelshelf. he rose, and stood beside his sister. "did mr. dixon give you no inkling of what he wanted to see me about?" he asked, in his low, languid voice. "none whatever," replied charlotte, drawing the stocking she was darning from her left hand, and stretching it this way and that, to assure herself that the work was well done. they were her own stockings she was mending, and heaven knows how many times they had gone through the process. "and you did not inquire?" "i did not inquire." some note in her voice struck mr. fox-cordery as new and strange, and he regarded her more attentively. "the old affair, i suppose," he said maliciously. "if you mean that mr. dixon has any intention of reopening the subject with you," said charlotte, laying aside the sorely-darned stocking and taking up its fellow, "you are mistaken." perhaps the act of stooping had brought the blood to her face, for there was a flush upon it when she lifted her head. "it is not often that i am." "yet it may happen." the flush in her face had died away, and she was now gravely attending to her work. mr. fox-cordery pulled down the ends of his little silky mustache. "be careful how you address me, charlotte. it is a long time since you and mr. dixon met." "no; we have seen each other several times this past year." "you made no mention to me of these meetings." "there was no reason why i should, fox." "did you inform mother?" "that is an unnecessary question. had i informed her you would not have remained in ignorance. mother keeps nothing from you." "you have grown into a particularly intelligent young woman," he said, and added spitefully, "well, not exactly a young woman----" pausing to note the effect of the shot. "i am twenty-eight," said charlotte, in her usual tone, "and you, fox, will be forty soon." her shot told better than his. "we will not continue the conversation," he said shortly. "as you please, fox." he stepped to the fireplace, gave the bottle of flies a violent shake, looked at charlotte as if he would have liked to serve her the same, and then resumed his place by the window, and drummed upon a pane. "mr. dixon's visit here was a presumption. how dare he intrude himself into this house?" "settle it when he calls again," said charlotte. "he came to see you upon some business or other." "which you insist upon concealing from me." "indeed i do not. i cannot tell you what i do not know." "at three o'clock, you say?" "yes, at three o'clock." "i will consider whether he shall be admitted. don't move, charlotte." there was a fly on her hair, which he caught with a lightning sweep of his hand. as he thrust his unfortunate prisoner into the bottle he chuckled at the expression of disgust on charlotte's face. the fly disposed of, he said: "mother shall judge whether you are right or wrong." "don't put yourself to unnecessary trouble," said charlotte. "i can tell you beforehand how she will decide." the entrance of mrs. fox-cordery did not cause her to raise her head; she proceeded with her darning, and awaited the attack of the combined forces. a singular resemblance existed between mother and son. her face, like his, was of the hue of pallid wax, her eyes were blue, her hair sandy, and she spoke in a low and languid voice. she held an open letter in her hand. "here is a house that will suit you, my love," she said, holding out the letter to him. "it faces the river; there is a nice piece of meadow-land, and a lawn, and a garden with flowers and fruit trees. it stands alone in its own grounds, and there is a little arm of the river you may almost call your own, with a rustic bridge stretching to the opposite bank. the terms are rather high, twelve guineas a week for not less than three months, paid in advance, but i think we must go and see it. i should say it is exactly the place to suit your purpose." charlotte listened in wonder. this contemplated removal to a house near the river was new to her--and what scheme was fox engaged upon that would be furthered by a proceeding so entirely novel? mr. fox-cordery put the letter in his pocket without reading it, and said in a displeased tone: "we will speak of it by and by." mrs. fox-cordery glanced sharply from her son to her daughter. "charlotte, what have you been doing to annoy fox?" "nothing," replied charlotte. "she can prevaricate, you know, mother," observed mr. fox-cordery quietly. "of course she can prevaricate. have we not had innumerable instances of it?" "i will finish my work in my own room," said charlotte rising. "do not stir," commanded mrs. fox-cordery, "till permission is given you. fox, my love, what has she done?" "mr. dixon has paid a visit to charlotte in this house." "impossible!" "fox has stated what is not correct," said charlotte, resuming her seat and her work. "mr. dixon called to see fox." "that is her version," said mr. fox-cordery. "she seeks to excuse herself by throwing it upon me." "your conduct is disgraceful," said mrs. fox-cordery to her daughter, "and i am ashamed of you." "i have done nothing disgraceful," retorted charlotte, "and i am not ashamed of myself." mrs. fox-cordery stared at her in astonishment, and mr. fox-cordery nodded his head two or three times, and said: "you observe a change in charlotte. there was a time when she would not have dared to put her will in opposition to ours, but i think i shall be found equal to my duty as master of this house. i do not say i am perfect, but i know of what i am capable. i have had my crosses and disappointments; i have had my sorrows. i have them still. let us, at least, have harmony in our home." "amen!" intoned mrs. fox-cordery, with a reproachful look at charlotte. "there is but one way," continued mr. fox-cordery, "to secure this harmony. by obedience to orders. i am the head of this house and family, and i will not be thwarted or slighted." "i will support you, my love," said his mother, "in all ways." "i never for a moment doubted you, mother. we will not be uncharitable to charlotte; we will be, as we have ever been, tender and considerate toward her. she inherits a family characteristic which she turns to a wrong account. tenacity is an excellent quality, but when it is in alliance with intense selfishness, it is productive of great mischief. i am not a hard man; my nature is tender and susceptible, and i am easily led. convince me that i am wrong in any impression i have formed, and i yield instantly. i learn from charlotte, mother, that she has been in the habit of meeting mr. dixon during the last year in a clandestine and secret manner." before mrs. fox-cordery could express her horror at this revelation, charlotte interposed: "fox is misrepresenting me. what i told him was that mr. dixon and i have seen each other several times. we have not met secretly or clandestinely." "you met without our knowledge or sanction," said mr. fox-cordery, "and it comes to the same thing." "quite the same thing," assented his mother. "_i_ never equivocate," said mr. fox-cordery, in his most amiable tone, "_i_ am never evasive. when mr. dixon was on friendly terms with us, he was admitted freely into our family circle, and was made welcome. for reasons which i need not enter into i was compelled to sunder all association with him, and to forbid him the house. you, mother, knowing my character, will know whether i was justified or not." "who should know you better than your mother?" said mrs. fox-cordery fondly. "i am not acquainted with your reasons, but i am satisfied that they were just. have you yet to learn, charlotte, that your brother is the soul of honor and justice?" mr. fox-cordery waited for charlotte's indorsement, but she was obstinately silent, and he proceeded: "it would have been natural, in the attitude i was compelled to assume toward mr. dixon, that every member of my family should have had confidence in me, for i was working in their interest. unfortunately, it was not so; charlotte stood aloof, probably because i had discovered that a secret understanding existed between her and mr. dixon." "there was none," said charlotte indignantly. "what was known to mr. dixon and myself was known to you and mother. i see no reason to be ashamed of the avowal that we loved each other." "the avowal is coarse and indelicate," said mrs. fox-cordery, with a frown. mr. fox-cordery held out his hands, palms upward, as expressing, "what can one expect of a person so wrong-headed as charlotte?" "i trust," said charlotte, with a bright blush on her face, "that the confession of an honest attachment is not a disgrace. you used to speak in the highest terms of mr. dixon." "we live to be deceived," said mr. fox-cordery, sadly surveying the ceiling, "to find our confidence abused. we create an ideal, and discover, too late, that we have been worshiping a mask, the removal of which sends a shudder through our"--he could not find the word he wanted, so he added--"system." his mother's eyes were fixed admiringly upon him, but there was no admiration in charlotte's face as, with her hand to her heart, she said boldly: "you are fond of using fine phrases, fox, but i do not think you believe in them." "i am not to be deterred by insults from doing my duty," he replied. "mr. dixon asked permission to pay his addresses to you, and, as your natural guardians and protectors, we refused. that should have put an end to the affair." "i should be justified in asking you," said charlotte, "whether you think other persons have feelings as well as yourself. if i were to interfere in your love matters i wonder what you would say." "the cases are different," said mr. fox-cordery pathetically. "i am a man; you are a woman." "yes," said charlotte, with bitterness, "i am a woman, and am therefore expected to sacrifice myself. have you finished, fox?" "there is only this to say. it is your mother's command, and mine, that the intimacy between you and mr. dixon shall cease. we will not allow it to continue." he gave his mother a prompting glance. "your brother has expressed it correctly," she said. "we will not receive mr. dixon into our family. he is an utterly objectionable person, and we will have nothing to do with him. if you have a grain of decent feeling in you, you will obey. now you can go to your room." chapter iv. wherein cinderella asserts herself. charlotte rose, work in hand, and went toward the door, they following her with their eyes, desiring her obedience and approving of it, and yet curious to ascertain what was passing in her mind. for that she was unusually stirred was evident from her manner, which was that of one who had been beaten down all her life, and in whom the seeds of rebellion were struggling to force themselves into light. suddenly she turned and faced them, and they saw in her eyes the spirit of a brave resolve. "you have spoken plainly to me," she said. "i must speak plainly to you." "go to your room this instant," sternly said her mother. that the hard cold voice should have given her fresh courage, was a novel experience to them; generally it compelled obedience, but now it had failed. it seemed, indeed, as if she had burst the bonds of oppression which had held her fast for so many years. "not till i have said what i have to say, mother. it is something you ought to hear." she paused a moment before she continued. "it is three years ago this very day since we had our last conversation about mr. dixon." "really!" exclaimed mrs. fox-cordery, and would have expressed herself more violently had not her son restrained her with a warning look, which meant, "let her go on; she will be sure to commit herself." "mr. dixon was in the habit for some time of coming regularly to the house, and his visits formed the pleasantest remembrances in my life, with the exception of the happy years when my dear father was alive." "your dear father, indeed!" was mrs. fox-cordery's scornful comment. "from the date of my dear father's death," said charlotte steadily; she was speaking now calmly and resolutely, "mr. dixon is the only gentleman who has shown me any consideration, and who has made me feel that i have some claim to a higher position in this house than that of a menial. i am ignorant of the nature of his business with fox----" "i will enlighten you," interposed mr. fox-cordery; "he was in my employ, a paid servant." "he served you faithfully, i am sure; it is not in his nature to be otherwise than faithful in all that he undertakes. he was received here as an equal, and he treated me as such. neither you nor my mother ever did. i have no memory of one kind look i have received from either of you; and it is hardly to be wondered at that i should have felt grateful to the gentleman who spoke to me in a kind and gentle voice, and who showed in his manner toward me that he regarded me as a lady. he awoke within me a sense of self-respect which might have slept till i was an old woman, whose life, since the death of my father, had never been brightened by a ray of love. he awoke within me, also, a sense of shame; and i saw how humiliating it was that i should be dressed as i am dressed now, in clothes which a common servant would be ashamed to wear. but i had no choice. you gave me food, and you gave me nothing else, not even thanks. you pay your servants wages; you might have paid me something so that i could have bought clothes in which i should not feel degraded. i have not a shilling i can call my own----" "don't stop me, fox," cried mrs. fox-cordery, thoroughly enraged; "i must speak! you shameless creature, how dare you utter these falsehoods? you have a beautiful gown, and a hat, and boots, and everything a woman can wish for; and you stand there, and deny it to my face!" "i do deny it, mother. are these things really mine? if they are, why do you keep them locked up in your wardrobe, and why do you allow me to wear them only when i go out with you, or when any particular visitor comes to the house?" "because you are not fit to be trusted, you ungrateful child!" "no, mother, it is not that. you allow me to put them on sometimes because you cannot with decency allow me to be seen as i am. you forget, mother; you have told me over and over again that the clothes i wear--even those i have on now--are not my own, and are only lent to me." "and so they are. it was not your money that paid for them." "it could not well have been, seeing i never had any. will you give them to me to-day, so that i may put them on, and not feel ashamed when i look in the glass?" "to enable you to go flaunting about, and disgracing yourself and us? no, i will not." "you are at your shifty tricks again, charlotte," said mr. fox-cordery. "finish with your mr. dixon." "yes, i will do so if you will let me. all the time he was visiting here you said nothing to me to show you did not wish me to be intimate with him." "we were not aware of what was going on," said mrs. fox-cordery. "we concealed nothing from you. three years ago he asked me to be his wife. i answered gladly, yes, and wondered what he could see in me to stoop so low." "upon my word!" ejaculated her mother. "and this from a fox-cordery!" "he explained that he was not in good circumstances, and that i would have to wait till he could furnish a home. i said that i would wait for him all my life, and so we were engaged. then he went from me to you, fox, and to mother, and asked for your consent." "and it so happened," said mr. fox-cordery, "that it was the very day on which i discovered that he was not fit to be trusted." "he is above doing a dishonorable action," said charlotte, with generous warmth, "and whatever it was you discovered it was not to his discredit." "that is as good as saying," cried mrs. fox-cordery, advancing a step toward charlotte, and would have advanced farther if her son had not laid his hand upon her arm, "that the discovery your brother speaks of was to _his_ discredit, and that it was _he_ who was guilty of a dishonorable action. you shall be punished for making these comparisons between your brother and such a creature as mr. dixon. my dear fox, have we not heard enough?" "no," replied mr. fox-cordery, smiling blandly upon his sister. "we must not give charlotte the opportunity of saying that she is unfairly treated. speak freely, charlotte; you are unbosoming yourself to your best friends. do not be afraid. we will protect and take care of you. charlotte harbors none but the most affectionate feelings for us, mother. if in a moment of excitement she says something that is not exactly loving and dutiful, we will excuse her. she will be sorry for it afterward, and that shall be her punishment. go on, my dear." "it is scarcely possible," said charlotte, with a look of repugnance at her brother, "that we can be always right, not even the best of us; sometimes we are mistaken in our judgment, and fox is when he speaks harshly of mr. dixon." "convince me of it, my dear," said mr. fox-cordery, nodding genially at her, "and i will make the handsomest apology to him. i will have it written out and illuminated, and he shall hang it, framed, in his room. you cannot complain that i am unfair, after that." "i was not present when mr. dixon spoke to you about our engagement, but i heard high words pass between you." "listening at keyholes!" exclaimed mrs. fox-cordery scornfully. "what next?" "no, no, mother," expostulated mr. fox-cordery; "be just. it was quite natural that charlotte should listen. everybody would not have done so, but then charlotte is not everybody." "my happiness was at stake," said charlotte, "and i was anxious." "you hear, mother. charlotte was anxious." "i was not eavesdropping," said charlotte. "i was downstairs, and your voices forced themselves upon me. shortly afterward mr. dixon came down and told me that there had been a disagreeable scene between you, and that you would not listen to what he had to say about our engagement. 'but i will not give you up,' he said, 'unless you turn away from me.' i answered that it depended upon him, and that i should be very unhappy if our engagement were broken. he said it should not be broken, and that if i would remain true to him he would remain true to me." "it has a pastoral sound," observed mr. fox-cordery. "such charming simplicity!" "he suggested that, before he left the house, we should speak to you together of an agreement we had entered into, and we came up to you. you cannot have forgotten what passed at that interview." "you were informed that we would not sanction the engagement." "and mr. dixon, speaking for himself and for me, told you that we held to it, and that we had agreed not to think seriously of marriage for three years, during which time he hoped to so improve his position that he would be able to make a home for me. we bound ourselves to this in your presence, and mr. dixon said that he would not visit the house without some strong inducement. he has not done so. when he calls this afternoon you will learn why he has come now. during these three years we have corresponded, and have met occasionally in the streets, and have spoken together." "i believe," remarked mr. fox-cordery, "that servants and their young men are in the habit of meeting in this way." "i have been no better than a servant," retorted charlotte, "and many a poor girl has left service to enter into a happy marriage." "as you are going to do?" "i do not know. what i wish you and mother to understand is that the three years have expired, and that we do not consider ourselves bound to you any longer." "never in the whole course of my life," said mrs. fox-cordery, "did i listen to anything so unladylike and indelicate." "what it is necessary for you to understand," said mr. fox-cordery, "is that mr. dixon will not be permitted to visit you here." "he will not come to see me here." "where, then?" "i prefer not to tell you." "you have some idea of a place of meeting?" "i have something better than an idea, fox; i have almost a hope." he repeated her words thoughtfully, "almost a hope," and fixed his eyes upon her face; but he could not read there what he desired to read. "have you given any consideration," he asked, "to your circumstances? do you think that any man would receive you--as you are?" it was a cruel taunt, and she felt it. "yes, i have thought of it," she answered sadly, "and it is a deep trouble to me. if i dared to make an appeal to you----" "make it," he said, during the pause that ensued. "i am your sister, fox. i have done nothing to disgrace you--nothing of which i should be ashamed. if mr. dixon tells me he has a home ready for me, how can i go to him--as i am?" she looked down at her feet, she spread out her hands piteously, and the tears started to her eyes. "well?" "i think," she said, in an imploring tone, "if father could have seen the future he would have made some provision for me, ever so little, that would enable me to enter a home of my own in a creditable manner." "what is it, dear charlotte, that you wish me to do for you?" "give me a little money, fox, to buy a few decent clothes for myself." "in other words," he said, "furnish you with the means to act in direct opposition to our wishes, to what we are convinced is best for your welfare." "it is a hard way of expressing it, fox." "it is the correct way, charlotte. i perceive that you are speaking more humbly now. you are not so defiant. you recognize, after all, that you cannot exactly do without us." "you are my brother. mother has only you and me." "your brother," said mrs. fox-cordery, in a tone of relentless severity, "has been a blessing to me. it is more than i can say of you." "i have worked hard, mother; i have had few pleasures; i have not cost you much." "you have cost us too much. we have been overindulgent to you, and in return you insult your brother and set yourself in direct opposition to us. when your father died he left his property wisely. he knew you were not to be trusted; he knew that your ungrateful, willful nature would bring irreparable mischief upon us if it were left uncontrolled. he said as much to me. 'charlotte will need a strong hand over her,' he said, 'to prevent her bringing shame to your door.'" "no, no, mother!" "his very words. i have never repeated them to you because i wished to spare your feelings. 'to prevent her bringing shame to your door. keep a strict watch over her for all your sakes.' we have done so in fulfillment of our duty, and now it has come to this." mr. fox-cordery knew that these words had never been uttered by his father, and that there was not a grain of truth in them, but he thoroughly approved of the unworthy device. when he was working to gain a point, there was no trick that was not justifiable in his eyes; and although upon the present occasion he did not exhibit any consciousness of his mother's duplicity, neither of them was deceived by it or ashamed of it. charlotte was dismayed by this pretended voice from the grave. was it possible that it could be true? had the words really been spoken by the kind father who had left with her a cherished memory of kindness and love? but her experience of her mother was of such a nature that the doubt did not remain long to torture her. she swept it away; and except for the brief period of pain it caused her, it passed, and left no sting behind. she turned to her brother for a response to her appeal. "is the hope you referred to," he asked, "the hope of getting money out of me?" "no," she replied. "oblige me by informing me what it is." "not till you answer me," she said firmly. "take your answer, then. you shall not have a farthing, not one farthing. now for your hope, please." "will nothing move you, fox?" "nothing." "you leave me no alternative; i must appeal elsewhere. i think i know someone who will extend a helping hand to me. on the few occasions she has been here, and on which you have allowed me to see her, she has spoken to me with such unvarying kindness that i feel confident she will assist me. she has a tender heart, i am sure, and she will feel for me. i hope you will be happy with her; i hope it from my heart----" she was not allowed to finish. her brother, striding forward, seized her by the wrist so fiercely that she gave utterance to a cry of pain. the next moment she released herself--not a difficult matter, for, woman as she was, her strength exceeded his. mr. fox-cordery had so effectually schooled himself that he had an almost perfect command over his features, and it was seldom that he was so forgetful as to show the fury of his soul. even now, when a tempest was raging within him, there was little indication of it in his face, and but for the glittering of his blue eyes there was no evidence of his agitation. in a cold voice he said: "no further subterfuge. name the lady." "mrs. grantham." mr. fox-cordery and his mother exchanged glances. "do you mean," he asked, "that you would go to her and beg?" "i would go to her," replied charlotte, "and relate the story of my life--of my outward and inward life, fox--from beginning to end. if i do, it will be you who drive me to it." "we now fully realize, my dear mother," said mr. fox-cordery, seating himself and crossing his legs, "charlotte's character. at length she has revealed her true nature." "i have nourished a serpent in my bosom," said mrs. fox-cordery. "she would destroy the hope of my life," continued mr. fox-cordery; "she would blight my happiness forever. knowing that i love the lady she has named, and that it is the one wish of my heart to make her my wife, she would deliberately blacken my character with her lies, and, under the pretense of a womanly appeal to that lady's feelings, would do her best to wreck my future." "if my cause is not a just one," said charlotte, "no appeal of mine will avail with mrs. grantham. god forbid that i should step between you and her; but i have my future to look to, as you have yours, and i am weary of the life i have led. a happier life is offered to me, and i cannot relinquish it at your bidding without an effort. if i tamely submitted to your will i should be unworthy of the gentleman who has honored me with his love." "we will leave that gentleman, as you call him, out of the question. the contention lies between you and me, and i am free to confess that you have the advantage of me. i am no match for you, charlotte. you are far too clever and cunning for me, and the feelings i entertain for the lady whose name has been dragged into this unhappy discussion place me at your mercy. i have made no secret of these feelings; i have foolishly bared my breast to you and you tread upon it. i yield; i hold out a flag of truce. you will give me time to consider your proposition? it comes upon me as a surprise, you know. i was not prepared for it." "yes, fox, i will give you time," said charlotte, somewhat bewildered at finding herself master of the situation. she had not expected so sudden a victory. "but there is one thing i wish you would ask mother to do at once." "what is it, charlotte?" "let me have my clothes that are in her wardrobe. i am wretched and miserable in these." "you will give them to her, mother," said mr. fox-cordery; and his mother, taking the cue, replied: "she can have them; i have only kept them in my room to take proper care of them." "there, charlotte, you have nothing now to complain of." "but you have not answered me yet, fox," said charlotte, resolved not to lose sight of the main point. "about the money you ask for? may i inquire if you are in a great hurry to get married?" "i am not in a great hurry, fox," said charlotte rather awkwardly. "it rests with mr. dixon." "what does he say about it?" "he thinks we might get married in two or three months." "there is no particular hurry, then; we have time before us to conquer the repugnance we feel toward him. after all, it will make you happier if you marry with our sanction." "much happier, fox." "mother and i will talk over the matter together dispassionately, and if we can bring ourselves to look upon him with friendly eyes we will do so. that is fair speaking, is it not?" "yes," said charlotte, hesitating a little, "i think so." she was drifting from the advantageous position she had gained, and she was weakly sensible of it; but her brother's manner was so conciliatory, and her own desire for peace so strong, that she could scarcely help herself. "the money you require is not required immediately, and just now i am rather embarrassed with calls upon me. you would not wish to injure me financially, charlotte?" "no, fox; indeed i would not." "everything will come right," said mr. fox-cordery. "in a month or two i hope to set myself straight. meanwhile, as we have agreed, we will enter into a truce. there shall be no more unpleasantnesses between us. we have had a family disagreement, that is all; i blow it away." he made a motion with his lips, as though he were blowing away a cloud. "so, for two months, we will say nothing more concerning the affair. if you have had something to complain of in the past, it is perhaps due to the anxieties by which i have been overwhelmed. you do not know what a man's troubles are, fighting with the world and with people who are trying to get the advantage of him. be thankful that you are a woman, and are spared these trials. you shall have nothing to complain of in the future." "thank you, fox." "i have your promise, charlotte, that the matter shall rest for two months, when, no doubt, you will have everything you wish for." "yes, i promise," said charlotte, feeling rather helpless. "and you will say nothing to mrs. grantham about our little disagreement till that time has expired, when there will be no occasion whatever to humiliate yourself and us? that, of course, is agreed." "yes, fox." "it is a sacred promise, mind." "i have given it, and i will keep to it." "very well; we are good friends again, and always shall be. by the way, charlotte, i am going to take a house on the thames for the summer months." "i heard mother mention it." "partly to give you some pleasure and relaxation. we will have pleasant times there." "i hope so, fox." "mother," said mr. fox-cordery, as if the idea had just occurred to him, instead of having been in his mind for several weeks, "you might invite mrs. grantham to pay us a visit there, and to remain with us a little while. it will be company for charlotte." "i will write to-day if you wish, my love," said mrs. fox-cordery, responding to his suggestion immediately, as she always did. these two perfectly understood each other. "not to-day, mother; we must wait till i have taken the house. the one you spoke of will do capitally, if it answers to the description in the letter. and, charlotte, when mother writes to mrs. grantham, you might write also, saying how glad you will be if she comes to us--a nice letter, charlotte, with as many pretty things in it as you can think of. you see the confidence i place in you, my dear." "i will write when you tell me, fox. it will be a great pleasure to me if she comes." "that is what i want--to give you as much pleasure as possible. now, my dear, go to your room. i am very glad our little misunderstanding has ended so amicably." he smiled affection upon charlotte, and she left mother and son together. for a few moments there was silence--he chewing the cud of savage reflection, she throbbing with affection for him and with anger at her daughter's presumption. "what made you so smooth with her, fox?" asked mrs. fox-cordery. "it was the only way to muzzle her," he replied. "if she had done what she threatened it would have ruined all." "she would never have dared," said mrs. fox-cordery. "she would have dared, egged on by that scoundrel dixon, and by her love for him." "love!" muttered mrs. fox-cordery, contemptuously. "or what she fancies is love; but i think she really loves the man, and i know what love will dare." "for heaven's sake," exclaimed mrs. fox-cordery, "don't institute comparisons between you and her! she is not fit to black your shoes." "she has polished them often enough," he remarked grimly; "but that is coming to an end now. a good job; i'm sick of the sight of her; i'm sick of myself; i'm sick of everything, and everybody." "not everybody, my love," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder fondly. he shook her off, and she did not murmur. they resembled each other most wonderfully, but there was a marked difference in the quality of their affection. she--cold, hard, and ungenerous to all but him--was nobler than he, for she was ready and willing to sacrifice herself for him. it had been so from his birth, and her love had grown into a passion which nothing could affect, not even ingratitude and indifference from the son she adored. in her eyes he was a paragon; his vices were virtues, his meanness commendable, his trickery the proof of an ingenious mind. he could do no wrong. quick to discover the least sign of turpitude in others, she discerned none in him; she was morally blind to his defects, and the last thing she would have believed him capable of was the judas kiss. far different was it with him. he was conscious of all his mother's faults, and he excused her for none. his absorbing vanity so clouded his mind that it was only the baser qualities of those with whom he was associated that forced themselves upon his attention, and these being immediately accepted the door was closed upon the least attribute which rendered them worthy of respect and esteem. his chronic suspicion of his fellow-creatures did not spring from his intellect, but from those lower conditions of the affections in which the basest qualities of mankind occupy the prominent places. theophrastus says that the suspicious man imputes a fraudulent intention to everyone with whom he has to do, and this was the case with mr. fox-cordery, who viewed his mother--the one being in the world who, though he stood universally condemned and execrated, would have shed the last drop of her blood in his defense and vindication--in the same light as he viewed those who were as ready to spurn him in the day of his prosperity as in the day of his downfall, should such a day ever dawn upon him. "follow my lead," he said to his mother, "in your treatment of charlotte. she has declared war, and war it shall be, though she shall not see it till the proper time. just now she is necessary to me. strange as it may sound, her good word will be of assistance to me with mrs. grantham. i cannot account for it, and i am not going to trouble myself about it; the only thing that troubles me is that the lady i have loved for so many years should still hold off, should still refuse to speak the word that will make me happy. what am i taking a country house for except to further the dearest wish of my heart? i think of no one but her; i dream of no one but her. she was snatched from me once, and i had to bear it; and then fortune declared itself in my favor, and still i could not obtain the prize i have been so long working for." "you are a model of constancy, my love," said his mother, affectionately and admiringly. "no woman in the world is good enough for my dear son." "perhaps not, perhaps not," he muttered; "but i will die before i am thwarted. when did i give up an object upon which i set my heart? never, and i will not give up this. mark the hour that makes mrs. grantham my wife, and you will see me a changed man. she shall be my slave then, as i am hers now. during her visit to us i will conquer her irresolution, her obstinacy. let charlotte understand that her happiness depends upon mine; that will win her completely to my side. i will be the most affectionate of brothers; you shall be the most affectionate of mothers. charlotte will say to herself, 'i have been mistaken in them; it is i who have been at fault all these years.' this will tell in my favor when she and mrs. grantham are talking together confidentially. we rob her, you see, of her power of detraction. you, i know, will do your best, and charlotte shall do her best instead of her worst. she has defied me; she shall be made to pay for it. i have her promise for two months, and she is at my mercy. do you understand now why i was so smooth with her?" "yes, my love. depend upon me to do everything in my power." "before those two months have gone mrs. grantham and i shall be man and wife; and then, mother, charlotte may go to the----" "exactly so, my love," said his mother. chapter v. in which john dixon informs mr. fox-cordery that he has seen a ghost. it is an article of belief that every englishman's private residence must include an apartment which, by a polite fiction, is denominated a study. this apartment, which generally smells of musty bones, is, as a rule, extremely small, extremely dark, and extremely useless. dust lies thick upon the shabby furniture, by reason of the housemaid never being allowed to enter it with duster and broom; and the few volumes on the shelves of the parody of a bookcase lean against each other at a drunken angle, with a dissipated air of books that have lost all respect for themselves. to add to the conspicuous cheerlessness of the room, its one insufficient window looks out upon a dreary back wall, a constant contemplation of which would be likely to drive a man's thoughts in the direction of suicide. provided with the necessary cupboard, no more suitable hiding-place could be found for the proverbial family skeleton, without which no well-regulated establishment can be said to be complete. into such an apartment was john dixon shown when he was informed that mr. fox-cordery would receive him. this cold welcome was a sufficient indication that the master of the house did not regard his visitor in the light of a friend; but, clear as was the fact to john dixon, it did not disturb him. with his rubicund face, his bright eyes, and his genial manners, he presented the appearance of a man not easily disturbed, of a man who accepted the rubs of life with equanimity, and made the best of them. he was in his prime, a well-built gentleman, with nothing particularly serious on his conscience, and when mr. fox-cordery entered the room the advantage was on john dixon's side, physically and morally. they glanced at each other inquiringly, and with a certain curiosity, for it was long since they had met face to face. mr. fox-cordery was disappointed; he had hoped to see signs of wear and tear in his old friend, in the shape of crows'-feet, wrinkles, and gray hairs, but none were visible. on the contrary, there was an assertion of robust youth and good health about john dixon which gave positive pain to mr. fox-cordery. "good-day, fox," said john dixon cordially. mr. fox-cordery did not respond to the salutation. stiffening his little body--an action which brought a broad smile to john dixon's lips--he said in his iciest tone: "to what may i ascribe the----" "the honor of this visit," broke in john dixon heartily. "i'll come to it soon. you don't seem comfortable, fox." "whether i am comfortable or not," said mr. fox-cordery, who would have administered a dose of poison to his visitor with the greatest pleasure in life, "cannot possibly concern or interest you." "oh! but i beg your pardon. everything appertaining to charlotte's brother must concern and interest me. it stands to reason. we shall one day be brothers-in-law. brothers-in-law! good lord! don't shift your legs so, fox. keep still and straight, as you were a moment ago. to a little man like you repose is invaluable." "your familiarity, mr. dixon----" "come, come," interrupted john dixon, with a genial shake of his head; "why not john? i shall not take offense at it." "have you paid me an unwelcome visit to force a quarrel upon me?" "by no means. i know that my visit is an unwelcome one. you don't like my company, fox." "your room would be preferable." "it is a treat to hear something honest from you. there, there, man, don't fume! you can't alter me any more than i can alter you. what is bred in the bone, you know. and let me tell you, fox, you can't expect to have everything your own way. who plays at bowls must be prepared for rubbers." "let me tell _you_, mr. dixon," said mr. fox-cordery, becoming suddenly calm, "that i will submit to none of your impertinence." he was about to continue in this strain when he suddenly recollected that he had assumed a new attitude toward charlotte, and that, if her lover represented to her that he had been insulted by him, it might interfere with his plans. it was advisable, therefore, that not a word that passed at the present interview should reach charlotte's ears, and he saw a way to compass this. changing front instantly, he said slyly: "i should like to know if we are speaking in confidence?" "in strict confidence," said john dixon readily. "for your sake, fox, not for mine." "never mind for whose sake. you have your opinions, i have mine. i take your word, and shall be outspoken with you. you had the presumption to pay a visit to my sister this morning----" "no, no, fox, to you; though i must confess i was delighted to see her, and have a chat with her." "it was for that purpose you came. as we have met in perfect confidence, and as nothing that we say to each other will be repeated by either of us outside this room--that is a perfectly honorable engagement, is it not?" "it is on my side," said john dixon gravely. "i have bound myself, mr. dixon, and am therefore free to warn you that you must cease from persecuting charlotte with your addresses. i speak in her name." "not true, fox; you speak in your own. why, if she herself uttered those words to me i should not believe they came from her heart; i should know that you forced her to speak them. but there is no fear of anything of that sort occurring. charlotte and i understand each other; and, oppressed and ground down as she has been in your house, she has a higher courage than you give her credit for. i am proud of having won her love, and i will make her a happy woman, as truly as i stand here. however, it is not to tell you what you already know that i have come to see you; it is for a different reason altogether." "you speak defiantly, mr. dixon. it is not the way to conciliate me." "conciliate you! i am not such an ass as to try. i will try my own way. if i can manage it, you shall fear me." "if you can manage it!" said mr. fox-cordery, a little uneasy at his visitor's confident tone. "yes, if you can manage it. i should imagine you will find it a difficult task. if you think you can frighten me by your bullying you are mistaken." "oh! i don't want to frighten you. i am going to play my cards openly, knowing perfectly well that you will not expose one of yours. shall we proceed to business?" "say what you have to say," exclaimed mr. fox-cordery blandly, "and the devil take you!" john dixon laughed. "when you speak softly, fox, you are most deadly. it was just the same when you, i, and robert grantham were at school together in the country. poor bob! what a careless, reckless, generous fellow he was! what a tool he was in your hands, and how you worked him and played upon him!" "you lie," said mr. fox-cordery, in a passionless voice. few persons acquainted with him would have suspected how deeply he was agitated by this reference to his old schoolmate. "the scapegoat of the school," proceeded john dixon, as if mr. fox-cordery had not spoken. "as easily led as a fly in harness. we three were differently circumstanced. my people were poor, and could allow me very little pocket-money; bob grantham's people were rich, and he had a liberal supply. what your people allowed you no one knew. you kept your affairs very secret, fox; you were always a sly, vain, cautious customer. poor bob was the soul of frankness; he made no secret of anything, not even of his weaknesses, which he laughed at as freely as some others did. regularly every fourth monday his foolish people sent him ten pounds, and quite as regularly on the very next day he had not a penny of his ten pounds left. where did his money go to? who, in the course of a few short hours, had got hold of it? some said he gave it away to any poor man or woman he happened to meet. some said he chucked it into the pond out of dare-devilry. when he was questioned, he turned it off with a laugh. you used to be asked about it, and you used to answer, 'how should i know?' it was a mystery, and bob never blabbed--nor did you, fox!" "how could i supply information," said mr. fox-cordery, "upon a matter so mysterious; and what is the meaning of all this rhodomontade?" "i suppose," continued john dixon, still as if mr. fox-cordery had not spoken, "that most boys set up for themselves a code of honor which they stick to, more or less, according to their idea of things. i remember i did; i am quite sure poor bob grantham did; i don't know whether you did, because you were so secretive, so very secretive. i leave you out, fox, for a cogent reason. i guess, as our american cousins say, you are not in it when i speak of honor; and in making this observation you will perceive that i have no desire to conciliate you or to win your favor. now, old fellow, there were only three boys in the whole of that school--and there were thirty-five of us--who knew what became of bob grantham's money." "three persons!" "just three persons, and no more. the first was poor bob himself, the second was fox-cordery, the third was john dixon." "indeed! you?" "i, on the honor of a gentleman." mr. fox-cordery's lips curled in derision as he remarked: "no man in the world would give you the credit of being one. and pray, where did mr. grantham's money go to?" "into your pockets, fox, as regularly as a clockwork machine." "a precious secret, truly," said mr. fox-cordery, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve, "and a most valuable one for you to have preserved all these years. i presume if a man, or a schoolboy, is weak enough to lend his money he has a right to receive it back." "an indubitable right; but in this case there is no question of borrowing and paying back. would you like to hear how i came into a knowledge of this mystery?" "i have no desire; it is quite immaterial to me." "it was an accidental discovery. you and bob grantham were bosom friends. it was touching to observe how deeply attached you were to him; and, in these circumstances, any friendship he formed being on his part sincere, it was natural that you should be much in each other's society. now, it was noticeable that every fourth monday evening you and he disappeared for an hour or two, and it was for this reason that you used to be asked what bob grantham did with the ten pounds he received regularly on that day. on one of these monday evenings i happened to be taking a lonely walk in a pretty bit of forest about two miles from the schoolhouse. there was a nook in the forest which was very secluded, and one had to go out of one's way to get to it. i went out of my way on that particular monday evening, not because i wanted to reach this secluded nook, because i did not know of it, but aimlessly and without any special purpose. i heard voices, and peeping through a cluster of trees, i saw you and bob sitting on the grass, playing cards. a white handkerchief was spread between you, and on this handkerchief were the stakes you were playing for--bob's money and your own. i waited, and observed. sovereign after sovereign went into your pocket. you were quiet, and cool, and bland, as you are now, though i dare say something is passing inside of you. what a rare power you have of concealing your feelings, fox! some people might envy you; i don't. bob grantham, all the time he was losing, laughed and joked, and bore his losses like a man; and he kept on losing till he was cleaned out. then he rose, and laughingly said: 'you will give me my revenge, fox?' 'when you like, old fellow,' you answered; 'what bad luck you have.' 'oh, it will turn,' he said; 'all you've got to do is to stick to it.' that is how i discovered where poor bob's money went to, fox." "well, and what of it?" said mr. fox-cordery, with a sneer. "he was fond of a game of cards, and he played and lost. that there was nothing wrong in it was proved by your silence. and that is what you have come here to-day to tell me! you are a fool for your pains, john dixon." "i was silent," said john dixon, "because bob pledged me to secrecy. my intention was to expose you to the whole school, and so put an end to--what shall we call it? robbery?" "you would not dare to make that charge against me in public. there are no witnesses present, and you, therefore, know you are protected against an action for libel." "you are losing sight of your compact of silence, fox. tiled in as we are, we can call each other what names we please, and there is no obligation upon us to be choice in our language. pull yourself together, my little man; i have no desire to take you at a disadvantage. what do you say, now, to our agreeing that this meeting shall not be confidential, and that when we part we shall each of us be free to reveal what passes?" "my word once given," replied mr. fox-cordery, putting on his loftiest air, "i never depart from it." "for all that," said john dixon, "i will give you the opportunity of challenging me in public, and of seeing whether i will not give you the chance of bringing an action for libel against me. having made up my mind what to do i considered it right to tell bob of my intention. he turned white with anger; he called me a treacherous dog; he said that i had sneaked my way into a secret which had nothing whatever to do with me, and that i should be playing a base part by revealing it. we had some warm words about you, fox, and he defended you tooth and nail. upon my word, after our quarrel i had a greater admiration for poor bob than ever. the end of it was that he bound me down, upon honor, to keep the secret from any but our three selves, and that is why it never leaked out." "mr. grantham had his good points," observed mr. fox-cordery; "there was something of the gentleman in him; that is why i chummed with him. may i inquire how it was that, entertaining such an opinion of me, you, a good many years after we all left school, accepted the offer of employment i made you--which never would have been made, i need hardly say, if i had known you then as i know you now?" "i was down in the world; things had gone badly with me, and it was necessary for me to get something to do without delay. you are aware that i have an old mother to support: and when needs must--i need not finish the old saying. when, meeting by chance, as we did, you made me the offer, i did not tell you i was in low water, or you would have screwed me down without mercy. i intended to remain with you only long enough to save a few pounds, but getting to know charlotte, and growing fond of her, i could not tear myself away from her. i will continue the story of poor bob. the discovery i made did not alter things in the least; it rather improved them for you. bob and you became more and more attached to each other, and you left school firm friends. i never could understand what he saw in you, but you have the faculty of inspiring confidence in some people--worse luck for them in the long run." "i am waiting for your insults to come to an end," said mr. fox-cordery, "and to have the pleasure of hearing the street door close on you." "all in good time, fox; i told you i should not try conciliatory methods. our school-days over, we lost sight of each other, that is to say, i lost sight of you and bob, and what i have now to speak of has come to my knowledge in various ways. after leaving school a series of family adventures befell robert grantham. his parents died, his elder brother died, a rich uncle died, and to bob's share fell a larger fortune than he expected to inherit. his good luck must have bewildered him, for he appointed you his agent. the next point of interest to touch upon is the introduction of a lady in your lives. her maiden name, lucy sutherland. correct me if i am making any misstatement." "i decline to make myself responsible for any statement of yours, whether it be correct or otherwise. your introduction of this lady's name is a gross impertinence." "not at all; it belongs to the story, which, without it, is incomplete. i have not the pleasure of this lady's acquaintance, and, to my knowledge, have never seen her, but i have heard of her, through you and charlotte." "through me!" "to be sure," continued john dixon, "you never mentioned her to me by that name, but by the name she now bears, mrs. grantham. probably you would never have mentioned her to me at all had it not been that she was concerned in the business you set me to do during my service with you. you had the management of her financial affairs, as you had the management of her husband's. but i am running ahead of my story. as a maiden lady she had many suitors, which is not to be wondered at, for though she had terrible anxieties and trials she is still, as i learn from charlotte, very beautiful, and as good as she is beautiful. i trust charlotte's judgment in this as in all things. only two of these suitors for her hand did miss sutherland smile upon. one was poor bob grantham, the other yourself. but you did not hold an equal place in her regard. she smiled upon poor bob because she loved him, she smiled upon you because you were the bosom friend of the gentleman she loved. into the sincerity of your feelings for her i do not inquire; i pass over what does not concern me, and i come to the commencement of an important chapter in this lady's life, which opens with her marriage with robert grantham." "you pass over what does not concern you," said mr. fox-cordery. "what, then, is your object in dragging the lady's name into the conversation?" "you will learn presently. the chapter opens brightly, but we have only to turn a leaf and we see clouds gathering. mark you; from all i can gather these two loved each other with a very perfect love; but poor bob had one besetting vice which darkened his life and hers, and which eventually ruined both. he was an inveterate gamester. the seeds of this vice, which you helped to nourish in our school days, were firmly implanted in him when he grew to manhood. he was, as i have already said, weak, and easily led, and no doubt the harpies who are always on the watch for such as he encouraged him and fattened upon him. he had not the strength to withstand temptation, and he fell lower and lower. observe, fox, that in the narration of the story i am merely giving you a plain recital of facts." "or what you suppose to be facts," interrupted mr. fox-cordery. "a plain recital of facts," repeated john dixon, "the truth of which can be substantiated. i do not ask you whether you took a hand in poor bob's ruin, and profited by it. that some harpies did is not to be doubted, because in the end poor bob lost every penny of his fortune, which all found its way into their pockets, as the weak schoolboy's ten pounds found their way regularly every month into yours. i do not seek to excuse poor bob; there is a thin line which separates weakness and folly from sin, and bob was one of the many who stepped over this line. i have reflected deeply upon his wretched history. knowing the goodness of his heart and the sweetness of his disposition, i have wondered how he could have been so blind as not to see that he was breaking the heart of the woman he loved and had sworn to protect; her nature must also have been one of rare goodness that she did not force it upon him, that she did not take the strongest means to show him the miserable pit he was digging for them. i have wondered, too, how, through another influence than that of his wife, he himself should not have awakened from his fatal infatuation. they had a child, a little girl, and his instinctive tenderness for children should have stepped in to save him. i am not myself a gambler, and i cannot realize the complete power which the vice obtains over a man's moral perception, sapping all that is noble and worthy in him, and destroying all the finer instincts of his nature. happily mrs. grantham had a fortune in her own right over which her husband had no control; some portion of it went, i believe, to save him from disgrace--and then the end came. i have related the story in its broad outlines; there must have been scenes of agony between husband and wife of which i know nothing, but it is not difficult to imagine them. during the whole of these miserable years, fox, you remained the close friend and associate of this unhappy couple, and you know what the end of it was." "what i know i know," said mr. fox-cordery, "and i do not propose to enlist you in my confidence." "i do not ask you to do so. it was probably during these years that mrs. grantham learned to rely upon you and to trust to your counsel and judgment. you have maintained your position to this day." "well?" "in the course of the business i transacted for you i became somewhat familiar with mrs. grantham's pecuniary affairs. you are, in a certain sense, her trustee and guardian; you have the management of her little fortune; it was partly with respect to the investments you made for her that we severed our connection." "that i dismissed you from my service," corrected mr. fox-cordery. "you had the presumption to suppose that you had the right to interfere in my management. i opened your eyes to your position, and sent you packing." "as it suited me to accept employment when you offered it to me, so it suited me to leave your service at the time i did. a better situation was open to me, with the prospect of a future partnership. on the day i left you i went to my new situation, and have been in it ever since. in a short time i shall become a partner in the firm of paxton and freshfield, solicitors, bedford row." "it is not of the slightest interest to me, mr. dixon, whether you become a partner in this firm or go to the dogs. i can forecast which of the two is the more likely." "had you the disposition of my future i know pretty well what it would be; but i promise you disappointment. although you take no interest in the circumstances of my becoming a partner in paxton and freshfield i will leave our address with you, in case you may wish to consult me." he laid a card upon the table, of which mr. fox-cordery took no notice. "this, then," he said, "is the reason of your intrusion. to solicit my patronage? you would have made a good commercial traveler." "you are miles from the truth. i do not think we would undertake your business. i leave my card for private, not for professional reasons. what i have stated to you leads directly to the object of my visit. i have hitherto asked you no questions; perhaps you will not object to my asking you one or two now?" "say what you please. i can answer or not, at my discretion." "entirely so; and pray take it from me that i am not here in a professional capacity, but solely as a private individual who will certainly at no distant date be a member of your family, whether you like it or not; or," he added, with a slight laugh, "whether i like it or not. in conveying to you my regret that i shall have a relationship thrust upon me which i would very gladly dispense with, my reference is not to charlotte. a relationship to you, apart from other considerations, is no credit; but, so far as charlotte and i are concerned, i would prefer it without the additional drawback of a public scandal. many singular pieces of business fall into the hands of paxton and freshfield. one of such a nature came into the office a short time since, but it was not brought before my notice till to-day. have you seen the _times_ this morning?" "i decline to answer idle questions." "whether you have seen it or not, an advertisement in its personal columns has certainly escaped your attention, or you would not have met this particular question so calmly. the advertisement, as you will see--i have brought the paper with me--was inserted by my firm. it will interest you to read it." he took the _times_ from his pocket, and offered it to mr. fox-cordery, pointing to the advertisement of which he spoke; mr. fox-cordery hesitated a moment, and then, paper in hand, stepped to the dusty window, and read the advertisement, which ran as follows: if mr. robert grantham, born in leamington, warwickshire, will call upon messrs. paxton and freshfield, solicitors, bedford row, london, he will hear of something to his advantage. to read so short an advertisement would occupy a man scarcely half a minute, but mr. fox-cordery stood for several minutes at the window, with his back turned to john dixon. perhaps there was something in the prospect of the dreary back wall that interested him, for he stood quite still, and did not speak. his contemplation at an end, he faced his visitor, and handed back the paper. "have you anything to remark?" inquired john dixon. "nothing." "close as wax, fox, as usual. when i read the advertisement this morning it gave me a strange turn, and i came direct to your house to speak to you about it. before i did so, i made myself acquainted with the nature of the business concerning which our firm desires to see mr. robert grantham. it is a simple matter enough. an old lady has died in leamington; she was aunt to poor bob, and she has left him a small legacy of two hundred pounds. not a fortune, but a useful sum to a man in low water." "you are talking rubbish," said mr. fox-cordery. "you know perfectly well that it is throwing money away to put such an advertisement in the papers. is it in other papers as well as the _times?_" "ah, ha, friend fox!" said john dixon. "caught tripping for once. actually betraying interest in the object of my visit, when indifference was your proper cue! no, it is not in other papers; the whole of the small legacy must not be eaten up in expenses. had i been informed of this business before the insertion of the advertisement even in one paper, i should have suggested to paxton and freshfield the advisability of a little delay until i had made certain inquiries. lawyers are practical people, and they would have recognized the absurdity of inviting by public proclamation a visit from a ghost. there is no mistake, i suppose, about poor bob being dead?" "you know he is dead." "softly, fox, softly. i know nothing of poor bob except what i have gathered from you. if mrs. grantham is a widow, why of course robert grantham is a dead man; if she is not a widow, why of course robert grantham is alive, and you stand small chance of stepping into his shoes, which i believe you are eager to do. it is hardly likely that she has seen the advertisement, but it must be brought to her notice very soon." "by whom?" "naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent, because, in the event of bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his heirs. failing you, naturally by paxton and freshfield, who have this inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it. probably we shall await some communication from you or mrs. grantham upon the matter. it may be that paxton and freshfield will expect something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as proof of poor bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death, where buried, etcetera. all of which you will be able to supply, being positive that mrs. grantham is a widow. now, fox, i have still a word or two to say to you in private. call it an adventure, an impression, what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it from charlotte's brother. until to-day i have not mentioned it to a soul. we have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have established a record in fogs. i do not remember a year in which we have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of march usurped the especial privilege of the month of november. i cannot recall the precise date, but it was about the middle of march when i walked from the strand into regent street by way of the seven dials. it was one of the foggiest nights we had, and i had to be careful how i picked my steps. men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close, elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary glance of a face. a flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in egyptian darkness. two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, i could have sworn that i saw the face of robert grantham's ghost. i turned to follow it, but it was gone. that is all, fox; i thought you would like to know." if a face of the pallid hue of mr. fox-cordery's could be said to grow white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed no sign of agitation. he made no comment upon it, and asked no questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape john dixon's observation. "it is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said. "good-morning, mr. dixon." "good-morning, fox," said john dixon. "you will probably acknowledge that i had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit." he did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without another word. mr. fox-cordery stood motionless by the window. there was writing on the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his. "if he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and pursued his thought no further in spoken words. a quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother. "have you given charlotte her clothes?" he asked. "not yet, fox," she replied. "what did that man want with you?" "that man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my bitter enemy. go, and give charlotte her clothes immediately. and, mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. be sweet to her. curse her and him! be sweet to her, and say i gave you the money to buy the presents. we need her on our side more than ever. don't stop to argue with me; do as i bid you!" "i will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him solicitously. he motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet. chapter vi. in which we make the acquaintance of rathbeal. that same night, as big ben was striking the hour of nine, mr. fox-cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease upon him, crossed westminster bridge, kennington way, bent on an errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored neighborhood. in some quarters of london the houses have a peculiarly forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and not worth troubling about. if general cheerlessness and despondency had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their success, but certainly not upon their taste. it is as easy to make houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in the consciousness of the average englishman, who remains stupidly content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to be met with in such streets as mr. fox-cordery was traversing. he paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light was to be seen. striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to summon the inmates. but the knocker had seen its best days, and was almost past knocking. rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its office. failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears, mr. fox-cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were six or seven. as there was no indication of the particular bell which would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. some were mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the summons by anyone in the house. the appearance of a hobbledehoy promised to be of assistance to him. this hobbledehoy was a stripling of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of consequences from the lawful owner. "mr. rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired mr. fox-cordery. the hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in admiration. such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never presented itself to him before. open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped. mr. fox-cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question. "lots o' people lives 'ere," he replied. "who's mr. what's-his-name, when he's at 'ome, and does 'is mother know he's out when he ain't?" mr. fox-cordery spelt the name, letter by letter--"r-a-t-h-b-e-a-l." "don't know the gent," said the hobbledehoy. "is he a sport?" no, mr. fox-cordery could not say he was a sport. "is he a coster?" no, mr. fox-cordery could not say he was a coster. "is it sweeps?" no, mr. fox-cordery could not say it was sweeps. "give it up," said the hobbledehoy. "arsk me another." another did not readily present itself to mr. fox-cordery's usually fertile mind, and he stood irresolute. "i tell yer wot," suggested the hobbledehoy. "give me tuppence, and i'll go through the lot." with a wry face, mr. fox-cordery produced the coppers, which the hobbledehoy spun in the air, and pocketed. then he conscientiously went through the list of the inmates of the house from basement to attic, mr. fox-cordery shaking his head at each introduction. "there's the gent with the 'air on," he said, in conclusion; "and that finishes it." mr. fox-cordery's face lighted up. "long gray hair?" he asked. "yes," replied the hobbledehoy. "could make a pair of wigs out of it." "down to here?" asked mr. fox-cordery, with his hand at his breast. "that's the wery identical. looks like the wizard of the north. long legs and arms, face like a lion." "that is the person i want," said mr. fox-cordery. "third floor back," said the hobbledehoy; and, with the virtuous feeling of a boy who has earned his pennies, he walked into the house, with his head up; whereby mr. fox-cordery learned that knockers and bells were superfluities, and that anyone was free of the street door, and could obtain entrance by a simple push. following the instruction, he mounted the stairs slowly, lighting matches as he ascended to save himself from falling into a chance trap; a necessary precaution, for the passages were pitch dark, and the balustrades and staircases generally in a tumbledown, rickety condition. the third floor was the top of the house, and comprised one front and one back room. he knocked at the latter without eliciting a response, and knocked again with the same result. then he turned the handle, which yielded to his pressure, and entered. the room was as dark as the passages, and mr. fox-cordery, after calling in vain, "here, you, rathbeal, you!" had recourse to his matchbox again; and seeing the end of a candle in a tall candlestick of curious shape upon the table, he lighted it and looked around. from the moment of his entering the room he had been conscious of a faint odor, rather disturbing to his senses, and now, as he looked around, he satisfied himself as to the cause. on a quaintly carved bracket were a bottle and a small box. the bottle was empty, but there was a little opium in the box. "at his old game," he muttered. "why doesn't it kill him? but i wouldn't have him die yet. i must first screw the truth out of him." by "him" he meant the tenant of the room, who lay on a narrow bed asleep. before disturbing him, mr. fox-cordery devoted attention to the articles by which he was surrounded. the furniture of this humble attic was extraordinary of its kind, and had probably been picked up at odd times, in one auction-room and another. on the floor was an old oriental rug, worn quite threadbare; the two chairs were antiques; the carved legs of the table represented the legs of fabulous animals; even the fire-irons were old-fashioned. there were several brackets on the walls, carved by the sleeping man, showing a quaint turn of fancy; and on each bracket rested an article of taste, here a small eastern vase, here a twisted bottle, here the model of a serpent standing upright on two human legs. a dealer in old curiosities would not have given more than a sovereign or two for all the furniture and ornaments in the room, for none of them were of any particular value. but the collection was a remarkable one to be found in an attic in such a neighborhood; and, if it denoted nothing else, was an indication that the proprietor was not of the common order of english workingmen, such as one would have expected to occupy the apartment; if, indeed, he was an englishman at all. mr. fox-cordery was not a gentleman of artistic taste, and he turned up his nose and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at these belongings. then he devoted a few moments more to an examination of the room, opening drawers without hesitation, and running his eyes over some manuscripts on the table. the written characters of these manuscripts were exquisite, albeit somewhat needlessly fantastic here and there: and the manuscripts themselves furnished a clew to the occupation of the tenant, which was that of a copyist. there were no paintings or engravings on the walls, which, however, were not entirely devoid of pictorial embellishment. four neatly cut pieces of drawing-paper were tacked thereon--north, south, east, and west--bearing each a couplet beautifully written within an illuminated scroll. the colors of the scrolls were green and gold, and the verses were written in shining indian ink. on the tablet on the north wall the lines ran: he whose soul by love is quickened, never can to death be hurled; written is my life immortal in the records of the world. on the south wall: oh, heart! thy springtime has gone by, and at life's flowers has failed thy aim. gray-headed man, seek virtue now; gain honor and a spotless name. on the west wall: now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming, and with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning. on the east wall: if all upon the earth arise to injure myself or my friend, the lord, who redresses wrong, shall avenge us all in the end. mr. fox-cordery's judgment upon these couplets was that the writer's brain was softening; and considering that he had wasted sufficient time in making discoveries of no value, he stepped to the narrow bed, and contemplated the sleeper. the contrast between the two men was noteworthy, but it was the good or bad fortune of mr. fox-cordery always to furnish a contrast of more or less interest when he stood side by side with his fellow-men. at this moment his clean, pallid face, with its carefully arranged hair and drooping mustache, wore an ugly expression singularly at odds with his diminutive stature. it is not pleasant for a man with a thorough belief in his own supremacy to suspect that he has been tricked by one whom he gauges to be of meaner capacity than himself; but this had been mr. fox-cordery's suspicion since his interview with john dixon, and he had come hither either to verify or falsify it. the sleeper's age could not have been less than sixty years; he was a large-limbed man, six feet in height, and proportionately broad and massive. his full-fleshed eyelids with their shaggy eyebrows, his abundant tangled hair, and the noble gray beard descending to his breast, denoted a being of power and sensibility; and though he lay full length and unconscious beneath the little man who was gazing wrathfully upon him, he seemed to tower majestically above the pygmy form. mr. fox-cordery shook the sleeper violently, and called: "rathbeal, you scoundrel; just you wake up! do you hear? no shamming! wake up!" rathbeal slowly opened his eyes, which like his hair were gray, and fixed them upon mr. fox-cordery. recognition of his unexpected visitor did not immediately come to him, and he continued to gaze in silence upon the intruder. half asleep and half awake as he was, there was a magnetic quality in his eyes which did not tend to put mr. fox-cordery at his ease; and in order to make a proper assertion of himself, he said, in a bullying tone: "when you have had your stare out, perhaps you'll let me know." the voice assisted rathbeal, who, closing his eyes and with a subtle smile on his lips, murmured, in perfect english: "the enemy thy secret sought to gain: a hand unseen repelled the beast profane." "beast yourself!" retorted mr. fox-cordery. "here, no going off to sleep again! you're wanted, particularly wanted; and i don't intend to stand any of your infernal nonsense!" but these lordly words, peremptorily uttered, did not seem to produce their intended effect, for rathbeal, still with closed eyes, murmured: "be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone; all men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have sown." the couplet, being of the order of those affixed to the walls, conveyed no definite idea, and certainly no satisfaction, to mr. fox-cordery's mind. he cried masterfully: "are you going to get up or not? i've something to say to you; and you've got to hear it, if i stay all night." then rathbeal opened his eyes again, and there was recognition in them, as he said courteously: "ah, mr. fox-cordery, your pardon; i was scarcely awake. you have taken me from the land of dreams. it is the first time you have honored me in this apartment. to see you here is a surprise." "i dare say," chuckled mr. fox-cordery, "and not an agreeable one either. eh, old man?" "if it were not agreeable," said rathbeal, spreading out his hands, which were large and shapely, and in keeping with his general appearance, "i should not confess it. you are my guest." "guest be hanged!" exclaimed mr. fox-cordery, resenting the suggestion as claiming equality with him. "do you think i have come to partake of your hospitality? not by a long way. are you awake yet?" "wide, very wide," replied rathbeal, rising calmly from his bed. "i have been in the spirit"--he consulted a silver watch--"nine hours. if you had not aroused me i should have been by this time conscious. excuse me; i have no other apartment." there was a small shut-up washstand in a corner, and he opened it, and pouring out water, laved his hands. when he had dried them he combed out his noble beard with his fingers, and said, "i am now ready for work." "people, as a rule, leave off at this hour," remarked mr. fox-cordery, who for reasons of his own, which had suggested themselves since he entered the room, did not intend to rush into his grievance. under any circumstances he might not have done so, absorbing as it was, for it was his method to lead up to a subject artfully in the endeavor to gain some advantage beforehand. "i commence at this hour," said rathbeal, "and work through the night. you have something to say to me?" "a good deal, and you'll need all your wits. i say, you, rathbeal, what are you?" his eyes wandered about the room, and gave point to his inquiry. "i have known you a pretty long time, but i have never been able to make up my mind about you. not that i have troubled myself particularly; but since i have been here i have grown curious. that's frank, isn't it?" "very. what am i? you open up a vast field. what is man? who has been sufficiently wise to answer the question? what is man? what is life? some say a dream, and that it commences with death. some say that the soul of man exists long before the man is born, and that it is enshrined in a human body for the purpose of overcoming the temptations and debasing influences of the material life. successful, it earns its place in celestial abodes, unsuccessful, it is forever damned." "you think yourself precious clever," sneered mr. fox-cordery. "no, i am an enigma to myself, as all reflective men must be." "reflective men!" exclaimed mr. fox-cordery. "hear him!" "one thing i know," said rathbeal, ignoring the taunt. "you, i, and all lesser and greater mortals, are part of a system." "hang your system, and your palaver with it! i'll tell you in a minute or two what i came here for, but i shall be obliged if you will first tell me something of yourself. i have the right to know your history." "i have no objection. you wish to learn my personal history. it is soon told." "none of your lies, you know; i shall spot them if you try to deceive me. i am as wide awake as you are." "wider, far wider. you have the wisdom of the serpent." "here, i say," cried mr. fox-cordery, "none of your abuse. what do you mean by that?" "you should receive it as a compliment." he pointed to the figure of a serpent on human legs standing on a bracket. "i compare you to the serpent in admiration. shall i commence at the beginning of my life?" "commence where you like, only cut it short." "my father was a persian; my mother also. they came to england to save their lives. one week longer in persia, and they would have been slain." "a pity." "that they did not remain in their native land? that they were not slain? perhaps. who shall say? but there is a fate. who shall resist it? safe in england, where i was born a week after their arrival, my parents lived till i was a youth. they imbued me with their spirit. as you see." he waved his hand around. "i live by the art of my pen. that is all." "quite enough; it is plain there is no getting anything out of you. now, listen to me. you accepted a commission from me, which you led me to believe you fulfilled. if it is not fulfilled you practiced a fraud upon me for which the law can punish you." "i am acquainted with the english law. i have a perception of a higher--the divine law. we will proceed fairly, for you have spoken of a serious business. many years ago you desired some parchments copied, and, hearing i had some skill with the pen, you sought me out. i performed the work you intrusted to me, and from time to time you favored me with further orders. the engagement ended; you needed my pen no more. but you deemed me worthy to undertake a commission of another nature. you had a friend, or a foe, who was suffering, and whose presence in england was inconvenient to you." "lie number one," said mr. fox-cordery. "it is a true interpretation. you came to me and said, 'this man is dying; i wish his last hours to be peaceful. there are memories here that torture him. make friends with him. opium will relieve him; ardent spirits will assuage his pain; travel will beguile his senses. his constitution is broken. go with him to paris; i will allow you a small monthly stipend, and, when his pain is over, you shall have a certain sum for your labor.'" "lies, and lies, and yet more lies," said mr. fox-cordery, watching rathbeal's face warily. "you have a fine stock of them, and of all colors and shapes. why, you would come out first in a competition." "you compliment me," said rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "did those words exist only in my imagination? yet, as you unfolded your wishes to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, i thought i heard them spoken. 'do i know the unfortunate man?' i inquired, 'of whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully inclined.' you replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned him by name. no, i had never heard of the gentleman. 'i must see him first,' i said, 'before giving you an answer.' you instructed me how to find him, and i sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a being racked with a mortal sorrow. you came to me the following day for an answer; i informed you that you had come too soon, and that i had not decided. 'be speedy,' you urged. 'i am anxious to get the man out of my sight.'" "still another lie," said mr. fox-cordery. "not a word you have quoted was ever spoken by me." "my imagination again," said rathbeal, with the same gentle smile; "and yet they are in my mind. perhaps i translated your thoughts as you went on. after a fortnight had passed i consented to your wishes, and your friend, or your foe, left england for the continent in my company. it was expressly stipulated by you that no mention should be made by me of your goodness, and that if he asked for the name of the friend who was befriending him i was to answer guardedly that you wished to preserve it secret. only once did he refer to you, and then not by name; but i understood him to say that he knew to whom he was indebted, and that there was only one man in the world who had not deserted him in his downfall." "may i inquire," asked mr. fox-cordery, "whether your companion let you into the secrets of his life--for we all have secrets, you know." "yes, every man, high and low. he did not; he preserved absolute silence respecting his history. we remained on the continent a considerable time, supporting ourselves partly by your benefactions, partly by copying manuscripts, an art i taught him. i learned to love the gentleman to whom you had introduced me for some evil purpose of your own----" "for an evil purpose! you are raving!" "for some evil purpose of your own, which i could no more fathom than i could the nature of the sorrow that was consuming him. 'try opium,' i said to him, 'it will help you to forget.' he refused. 'i will allow myself no indulgence.' and this, indeed, was true to the letter. he lived upon water and a bare crust. so did the monks of old, but their lives were less holy than his, for it was only of themselves and their own souls they thought, while he, with no concern for his own welfare, temporal or spiritual, thought only of others, and applied every leisure hour and every spare coin to their relief and consolation. he was a singular mixture of qualities----" "spare me your moralizings," interrupted mr. fox-cordery. "i knew what he was, long before you set eyes on him. keep to the main road." "in the life of every man," said rathbeal, "though he be evil and corrupt, there are byways wherein flowers may be found, and it was of such byways i was about to speak in the life of this man of sorrow, who was neither evil nor corrupt; but i perceive you do not care to hear what i can say to his credit, so i will keep to the main road, as you bid me. there dwelt in my mind during all the time we spent in foreign lands the words you addressed to me: 'when you tell me that i shall be troubled with him no more, you will lighten my heart.'" "how many more versions are you going to give," said mr. fox-cordery, "of what i never said to you? you are a liar, self-confessed." "is that so? and yet, shrewd sir, i insist that the words are not of my sole coining. at length i was in a position to inform you that your desire was accomplished, and that your friend, or your foe, would trouble you no more; and so, upon my return to england--with the payment of a smaller sum than i expected from you, for you made deductions--all business between us came to an end. upon your entrance into this room to-night i remarked that your presence was a surprise to me. i did not expect you, and i am puzzled to know how you discovered where i lodge." "when i weave a web, rathbeal," chuckled mr. fox-cordery, "nothing ever escapes from it." "an unfortunate figure of speech," said rathbeal impressively, "for you liken yourself to a human spider. but there are other webs than those that mortals weave. fate is ever at work; it is at work now, weaving a mesh for you, in spots invisible to you, in men and women who are strangers to you, and you shall no more escape from it than you shall escape from death when your allotted hour comes." "oh, i daresay. go and frighten babies with your balderdash. what i have come to know is, whether you have obtained money from me under false pretenses. it is an offense for which the law provides----" a movement on the part of his companion prevented him from finishing the sentence. rathbeal had risen from his chair, and was standing by the door in the act of listening, and mr. fox-cordery did not observe that he had slipped the key out of the lock. he was about to rise and throw open the door, in the hope of making a discovery which would bring confusion upon rathbeal, when the latter, by a sudden and rapid movement, quitted the room. mr. fox-cordery turned the handle of the door, with the intention of following him. "hanged if the beggar hasn't locked me in!" he cried, in consternation. "here, you, rathbeal, you! play me any of your tricks, and i'll have the law of you! if you don't open the door this instant i'll call the police!" no answer was made to the threat, and mr. fox-cordery, seriously alarmed that he had fallen into a trap, and unable to open the door, though he shook it furiously, lifted the window-sash to call for help, but the room was at the back of the house, and when he put his head out of the window he could not pierce the dense darkness into which he peered. he screamed out nevertheless, and was answered by a touch upon his shoulder which caused him to tremble in every limb and to give utterance to a cry of fear. turning, he saw rathbeal smiling upon him. "my shrewd sir," said rathbeal, "what alarms you?" mr. fox-cordery recovered his courage instantly. "confound you!" he blustered. "what do you mean by locking me in?" "locking you in!" exclaimed rathbeal, pointing to the key in the lock. "you are dreaming. i thought i heard a visitor ascending the stairs, and as i was sure you did not wish for the presence of a third party till our interview was over i went out to dismiss him." "or her," suggested mr. fox-cordery, with malicious emphasis. "or her, if you will. sit down and compose yourself. you were saying when i left the room that i had obtained money from you on false pretenses, and that it is an offense for which the law provides. it is doubtless the case--not that i have obtained your money falsely, but that the law could punish me if i had. explain yourself. you came hither to speak to me, and yet it is i who have chiefly spoken. you have heard me; let me hear you." "what i want to know," said mr. fox-cordery, "and what i will know, is whether you have given me false information." "upon what subject, shrewd sir?" "upon the subject you have been speaking of." "you must be more explicit. if i choose not to admit that i understand you when you speak in vague terms it is because of the attitude you have assumed toward me, which you will excuse me for remarking is deficient in politeness. speak clearly, shrewd sir, and you shall have like for like. i will not be behindhand with you in frankness." "all right. i wished to serve a friend who was in a bad way. he was broken down, and needed change of air and scene; i provided the means, and sent you with him as a companion who might have a beneficial effect upon him. i did not expect him to recover; he was too far gone, his health being completely shattered. as a matter of course i did not wish the thing to go on forever, and i desired to be kept posted how it progressed, and, if it came to the worst, to be informed at the earliest moment. you informed me that all was over, that my poor friend was dead, and i paid you handsomely for your personal attention to the matter. am i to understand that the information you gave me was true?" "i pin you to greater clearness, shrewd sir, or you will obtain no answer from me." "the devil seize you! is it true that the man i speak of is dead?" "did i so inform you?" "you did." "i have no recollection of it. you have my letter. produce it. the written words are--i can recall them--'rest content. your desire is compassed; you will be troubled no more.' pay a little attention now to me, shrewd sir. you have spoken to me in unmannerly fashion; you have threatened me with the law. i despise your threats; i despise you. profit by a lesson it will be well for you to learn in this humble room. never make an enemy of a man, not even of the meanest man. you never know when he may help to strike you down. when i worked for you as a copyist you formed an estimate of my character upon grounds shaped by yourself for your own private purposes--purposes into which, up to the present moment, i have made no active inquiry, though i have pondered upon them. i do not engage myself to be in the future so practically incurious and retiring." "bully away," said mr. fox-cordery, inwardly boiling over with rage. "i have nothing to fear from you." "you said to yourself, 'here is a man of foreign origin who will do anything for money,' and this opinion emboldened you to proceed with a scheme which needed an unscrupulous agent, such as you supposed me to be, to insure success. unsolicited you introduced your scheme to me, not in plain words, for which you could be made directly accountable, but in veiled allusions and metaphors which needed intellectual power to comprehend. intellect is required for the success of base as well as of worthy ends. your mock compassion amazed me, and i made a mental study of you, as of something new--a confession which perhaps will surprise you. not i the dupe, shrewd sir, but you. men of my nation have a habit of expressing themselves in metaphor, and are taught to grasp a meaning, not from what is said, but from what is not said; and i, though i have never been in my parents' native land, acquired this habit from them. i divined your wish, but saw not, and see not now, the springs which prompted it. plainly, it was a crime you proposed to me, and left the means at my discretion; and after making the acquaintance of the gentleman whose end you hired me to compass, i accepted the commission, nothing being farther from my mind than to assist in its accomplishment. not i, but fortune, favored you. you were troubled by a mortal's existence; you were released from your trouble, and your end was attained. thus much i tell you, and will tell you no more. be content, and go." "come now," said mr. fox-cordery, drawing a long breath of relief, "you have talked a lot of infernal bosh, and told any number of lies; but i will excuse you for everything if you will inform me where it took place." "not one word will i add to those i have already spoken." "hang it! i have a right to know. you could be forced to tell!" "make the attempt. for the second time, i bid you go." he threw open the door, and stood aside to give his visitor unobstructed passage. recognizing the uselessness of remaining any longer, mr. fox-cordery laughed insolently in rathbeal's face, and, feeling his way down the dark stairs, reached the lower landing in safety, and passed into the street. although he was not in the most amiable of humors, his mind was greatly relieved. robert grantham was dead. of that he had been assured by rathbeal; not, certainly, in such plain words as he would have preferred to hear, but in terms that left no doubt in his mind. "i put his back up," he muttered, as he walked along, "and that is why he wouldn't speak out. besides, he wasn't going to criminate himself. i was an idiot to take the trouble i did over the affair. grantham was quite broken down at the time, and couldn't have lasted long under any circumstances. there isn't an office in england that would have taken a year's insurance on his life. he was done for; death was in his face. they have all played into my hands, every one of them." but notwithstanding the relief he experienced, the events of the day were not of a nature to afford him pleasant reflection. he had been three times defied. first by charlotte, then by john dixon, then by rathbeal. charlotte he did not fear as an enemy; despite her outbreak, he had been too long accustomed to dominate her to be apprehensive of her. she was in his power, and had pledged herself to silence for two months. john dixon and rathbeal stood on a different platform; but even from them he had little if anything to fear. as to john dixon's account of having seen robert grantham's face in a fog, he snapped his fingers at it. it was, at best, a clumsy invention; had he been in dixon's place, he would have done better. his enemies had put him on his guard--that was all the good they had done for themselves. when he reached the middle of westminster bridge, he paused and looked down into the water. the darkness had lifted a little, and a few stars had come out and were reflected in the river. the lamps upon the banks formed a long line of restless, shifting light, converging to a point in the far distance. an imaginative mind could have woven rare fancies out of the glimmering sheen in the river's heart, which seemed to pulse with spiritual life. cathedral aisles, with dusky processions winding between, descending into the depths to make room for those that crowded behind. lights upon a distant battlefield, a confused tangle of horses and fighting men, the wounded and dying crawling into the deep shades. a wash of the waves, and a wild _mèlée_ of dancers was created, lasting but a moment--as, indeed, did all the pictures,--and separating into peaceable units with the broadening out of the water. a ripple, almost musical in its poetic silence, bearing bride and bridegroom to love and joy. a band of rioters, upheaving, with waving limbs inextricably mingled, replaced by an orderly line of hooded monks, gliding on with folded arms. none of these pictures presented themselves to mr. fox-cordery's imagination. he saw only two figures in the water: one of a dead man floating onward to oblivion; the other of a woman with peaceful, shining face, inviting him, with smiling eyes, to come to her embrace. the wish was father to the thought, and the figures were there as he had conjured them up. the face of the dead man brought no remorse to his soul; he was susceptible only of those affections in which his own personal safety and his own personal desires were concerned. it was for the death of this man and the possession of this woman that he had schemed and toiled. the man he hated, and had pursued to his ruin; the woman he loved and would have bartered his soul for. his passion for her had grown to such a pitch as to make him reckless of consequences; or, more properly speaking, blind to them. had she yielded to his wooing in years gone by, he would have made a slave of her, and have tyrannized over her as he did over all with whom he had dealings. but she had not favored him, except in the way of friendship, and had given herself to the man he hated and despised. it can scarcely be said that a nature so mean and cruel as his was capable of pure and honest love; but passion and baffled desire took the place of love, and had obtained such complete possession of his senses that he was not master of himself where she was concerned. at his age the fever of the blood should have been cooled, but opposition and disappointment had produced a kind of frenzy in him; and, in addition, he had always been a law unto himself, ready to put his foot upon the neck of any living creature who ventured to obstruct his lightest wish. a black cloud blotted out the stars; the beautiful face disappeared. awaking from his reverie, mr. fox-cordery proceeded to cross the bridge. staggering toward him in the opposite direction was a lad in the last stage of want and destitution; a large-eyed, white-faced lad literally clothed in rags. his trousers were held up by a piece of knotted string, crossing his breast and back; he had no cap on his matted hair; his naked toes peeped out of his boots. that he was faint and ill was evident from his staggering gait, and indeed he hardly knew where he was going, so genuinely desperate was his forlorn condition. it chanced that he stumbled against the dapper form of mr. fox-cordery, who, crying, "what's your game, you young ruffian?" gave him a brutal push, and sent him reeling into the road. the lad had no strength to save himself from falling. gasping for breath, he clutched at the air, and fell, spinning, upon the stones. passing callously on, mr. fox-cordery did not observe, and was not observed by a man who, seeing the lad fall, ran forward to assist him. stooping and raising the lad's head, the man looked into his face. "why, billy!" cried the man compassionately. the lad opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and answered, "yes, it's me, mr. gran "; and then the dark clouds seemed to fall upon him, and he lay limp and insensible in the man's arms. chapter vii. billy turns the corner. robert grantham for a moment was undecided what to do. no one was near them; he and billy were just then alone on the bridge. resolving upon his course of action, he raised billy in his arms and walked with his burden toward rathbeal's lodging. billy was nothing of a weight for a man to carry, being but skin and bone, and grantham experienced no difficulty in the execution of the merciful task he had taken upon himself. he was not troubled by inquiries from the few persons he encountered. a policeman looked after them, but as grantham made no appeal to him, and there was no evidence of the law being broken, he turned and resumed his beat. robert grantham was a quarter of an hour walking to the house in which rathbeal lodged. without hesitating, he pushed the street door open, and ascended the stairs. rathbeal heard him coming up, and waited for him on the landing. "what have you got there?" he asked. "a lump of misery," replied grantham. rathbeal made way for his friend, who entered the room and laid billy on the bed. then he examined the lad to see if any bones were broken, rathbeal, better skilled than he, assisting him. "where did you find him, robert?" "on westminster bridge. he must have stumbled against someone who pushed him off into the road, where he fell fainting. i have known the poor little fellow for months, but i have not seen him for the last three or four weeks. i wondered what had become of him." "where do his people live?" "heaven knows! he has none, i believe; or at all events, none who care to look after him. he is a waif of the streets, not an uncommon growth in london." "you have been good to him?" "i have given him bread sometimes, when i had it to give; and the last time i met him i took him home with me, and made up a bed on the floor for him. he remained with me a week, and then he unaccountably disappeared. what is to be done? he does not recover. he is not dead, thank god! there is a faint beat of the heart." rathbeal produced a bottle in which there was some brandy. he moistened the lad's lips with the spirit, and poured a few drops, diluted with water, down his throat. still the lad did not open his eyes. "have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked robert grantham. "there is a little bread and meat," said rathbeal. "he looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food. make some water hot, rathbeal. i will go and get a packet of oatmeal; a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him." "wait a minute, robert." rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad, and added gravely: "on the opposite side of the road, half a dozen doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. ask him to come up at once and see the boy." "i will;" and meeting rathbeal's eyes, he said, "do you fear there is any danger?" "yes. i have some medical skill, as you know; but i do not hold a diploma. it will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy." robert grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. rathbeal handed him five shillings. "thank you, rathbeal," said grantham, and ran down the stairs. in less than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and accompanied by the doctor. while the doctor examined the lad, rathbeal busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove. "yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. put a teaspoonful of brandy in it. a son of yours?" "no," answered grantham; "my friend, mr. rathbeal, has never seen him before. i found him in this condition in the street." "where are his parents?" "i do not know, nor whether he has any." "but you must have had some previous knowledge of him," said the doctor, looking with curiosity at grantham. "oh, yes. i met him by chance some months since, when he was in want of food, and we struck up an acquaintance. is he in danger?" "he may not live through the night." he put up his hand; billy was coughing, and a little pink foam gathered about his lips, which the doctor wiped away. "exposure and want have reduced him to this state. he has been suffering a long time, and his strength is completely wasted. had he been attended to months ago, there would have been a chance for him. listen!" billy was coughing again, a faint, wasting cough, painful to hear. "i can do very little. i will send you a bottle of medicine, which may give him temporary relief; and i will come again about midnight, if you wish." "i shall feel obliged to you. we shall be here all night. should he have brandy after he has taken the gruel?" "a few drops now and then will do him no harm. he needs all the strength you can put into him. endeavor to get from him some information about his relatives, and go for them." "would it be best to take him to a hospital?" "he should not be removed; he will not trouble you long." "it is more a grief than a trouble." "i understand. see, he is coming to. how do you feel now, my little man?" "_i_ don' know," murmured billy. "there's somethink 'ere." he moved his hand feebly to his chest. "is that you, mr. gran? where am i?" "with good friends, billy." "you've allus been that to me, sir." "now try and eat a little of this," said grantham, raising the lad gently in his arms. billy, with a grateful smile, managed to get two or three spoonfuls down, and then sank back on the bed. "do not force him," said the doctor. "where do you live, billy?" "i don't know--anywhere." "but try and remember." "i can't remember nothink--only mr. gran. it ain't likely i'll forgit 'im. thank yer kindly, sir, for wot you've done for me; there ain't many like yer." he closed his eyes, and appeared to sleep. "i will see him again at midnight," said the doctor, and stepped softly from the room. rathbeal cleared the table, and arranged some manuscripts. "we may as well work while we watch, robert. these must be copied by the morning." he spoke in a whisper, and, sitting down, commenced to write. grantham lingered awhile by the bedside, and as billy did not stir, presently joined his friend, and proceeded with his copying. he did not observe that billy, when he left his side, slyly opened his eyes, and gazed upon him with a look of grateful, pathetic love. every time grantham turned to him he closed his eyes, in order that it should be supposed he was sleeping. the writing proceeded almost in silence, the friends only exchanging brief, necessary words relating to their work. now and then grantham rose and went to the bedside, and when the bottle of medicine arrived he laid his hand gently on billy's shoulder. "yes, mr. gran," said the lad, "i'm awake." "take this, billy; it will do you good." "nothink'll do me good, sir; but i'll take it. i _did_ want to see you before i went where i'm going to." "there, there, my dear boy," said robert grantham, "you must not exhaust yourself by talking too much. you have taken the medicine bravely. now try and swallow a spoonful of gruel." he had kept it hot for the lad on the gas-stove. "thank you, mr. gran, i'll try; but i _should_ like to know where i'm going to." "if you do not get well, billy, you will be in a better place than this." "glad to 'ear it, sir; though luck's agin me. yer didn't think it bad o' me to cut away from yer so sly, did yer?" "no, my lad, no; but what made you go?" "i'll tell yer 'ow it was, sir. i didn't want to take the bread out of yer mouth, and i found out i was doing it, without yer ever saying a word about it. there was the last day i was with yer, mr. gran; you 'ad dry bread, i 'ad treacle on mine; yer give me a cup 'o broth, and water was good enough for you. at supper you didn't take a bite of anythink, while i was tucking away like one o'clock. 'it's time for you to cut yer lucky, billy,' i sed; and i did." "foolish lad! foolish lad!" said robert grantham, smoothing billy's hair. "where did you go to?" "i don' know, mr. gran--into the country somewhere; but i didn't 'ave better luck there than 'ere, sir. i was took bad, and i was told i was dying; but i got better, mr. gran, and strong enough to walk back to london. i only come to-night, sir. when i was bad in the country, an old woman sed i was done for, and that if i didn't pray for salvation i should go to--you know where, sir. she give me a ha'penny, and sed, 'now, you go away and pray as 'ard as yer can.' but i didn't think that'd do me any good, and ses i to myself, 'i'll toss up for it. heads, salwation; tails, t'other.' i sent the ha'penny spinning, and down it come--tails, t'other. jest like my luck, wasn't it, mr. gran?" "billy," said robert grantham earnestly, "you must drive that notion out of your head. we are all equal in the sight of god----" "oh, are we, mr. gran? that's a 'ard notion, as yer call it, to drive out o' my head, and i don't think i've got time for it. beggin' yer pardon, sir." rathbeal, pen in hand, stopped in his work, and listened to the conversation. "i tell you we are all equal in the eyes of god--rich and poor, high and low. the prayers of a poor boy reach god's ears as readily as the prayers of a rich man." "if _you_ prayed, mr. gran," said billy, "gawd'd listen to yer. per'aps yer wouldn't mind praying for me a bit." robert grantham covered his eyes with his hand. "'ave i 'urt yer, sir?" moaned billy. "don't say i've 'urt yer!" "no, my boy, no. if i had as little to answer for as you----" he paused awhile. "your state is not of your own creating, billy." "no, sir; i don't know as it is. i couldn't 'elp bein' wot i am." "there are many who could not say as much, who walk into sin with their eyes wide open--billy!" the lad was seized with a sudden paroxysm of coughing, which lasted several minutes. the fit over, he lay back exhausted, the red foam issuing from his mouth. it was no time for exhortation. robert grantham cleared the fatal sign from the sufferer's mouth, and patted billy's hand and stroked his face pitifully. billy's lips touched the consoling hand. "thank yer, sir. let me lay still a bit." the men resumed their work, and the boy was quiet. at midnight the doctor called again. "as i feared," he said, apart to robert grantham; "he will last but a few hours." robert grantham asked him what his fee was. the doctor shook his head, and said: "i have done nothing; i could do nothing. permit me to play my humble part in your kind charity. good-night." he shook hands with them, put billy in an easy position, and left them. "it isn't altogether a bad world, robert," observed rathbeal. "it is what we make it," replied robert grantham, with a heavy sigh. "that will not apply to the poor outcast lying there," said rathbeal, looking at billy. "true, true," rejoined grantham. "i was thinking of my own life." rathbeal had the intention, when mr. fox-cordery left him, of saying something about his visit, but this sad adventure had put it out of his head. he thought of his intention now, when robert grantham said the world was what we made it; and he resolved that before many days had passed he would invite his friend's confidence in a direct way. in the presence of death he could not do so, and he set the matter aside for the present. their copying was finished at three o'clock, and rathbeal gathered the pages, and put them in order. there had been no apparent change in the lad, but the solemnity of the scene impressed the men deeply. the house was very quiet, and no sound came to them from the street. they had endeavored, without success, to obtain from billy some information of his relations. either he did not or would not understand them, for he gave them no intelligible replies to their questions. they decided to make another effort during the next interval of consciousness, and, sitting by his bedside, they watched their opportunity. it came as rathbeal's watch pointed to the hour of four. billy raised his lids; his hands moved feebly. the men inclined their ears. rathbeal left it to robert grantham to speak. "billy!" "yes, mr. gran; yes, sir." "i want you, for my sake, to try and remember. you had a father and mother?" "yes, mr. gran, a long time ago." "where are they?" "i don' know, sir." "is it very long since you saw them?" "oh, ever so long!" "but there must be someone--an aunt or uncle." "nobody, nobody!" "try, billy; try to recollect--for my sake, remember." "yes, sir; yes, mr. gran, i'll try." but he seemed to forget it immediately, for he said nothing more. it must have been half-an-hour after this that rathbeal touched robert grantham's arm impressively. the dews of death were on billy's forehead, and his lips were moving. "prue, little prue!" he murmured. "a girl's pet name, probably," whispered rathbeal in robert grantham's ear. "yes, billy, yes," prompted grantham; "who is little prue?" "sweethearts we wos. little prue! little prue!" at this dying boy's mouth fate was weaving its web; and some miles away mr. fox-cordery was dreaming of the woman he loved and the friend he had ruined. "where does she live, billy?" "we wos sweethearts. i liked little prue." "try and remember where she lives, billy." "is that you speaking, mr. gran?" "yes, my boy. do you understand what i say?" "i don' know. 'now you go away and pray as 'ard as ever yer can,' the old woman ses, and i goes away and tosses up for it. 'eads, salwation; tails, t'other. and down it comes--tails. just like my luck. but there's something i _do_ want to pray for! it's all i can do for 'im, and he ses gawd'll 'ear a pore boy. so 'ere goes. where's my ha'penny to toss with? no, i don't mean that. i mean gawd, are yer listenin'?" "say your prayer, billy," whispered grantham, seeing that the lad's last moments had come; "god is listening to you." "o lawd gawd!" prayed billy, pausing painfully between each word; "give mr. gran all he wants, and a bit over. look out! i am going to turn the corner." a few moments afterward billy had turned the corner, and was traveling on the road of eternity, with angels smiling on him. chapter viii. the gambler's confession. "you have asked me two or three times lately, my dear rathbeal," wrote robert grantham, "to relate to you the story of my life, and you have mysteriously hinted that it might be in your power to render me a valuable service, and perhaps to restore the happiness which it was evident to you i had lost. i did not respond to your friendly advances, in which there was a note of affection which touched me deeply; but it seems to me now churlish to refuse the confidence you ask for. it was not because i doubt you that i remained silent. i have long known that i possess in you a friend whose feelings for me are truly sincere, and who would be only too willing to make any personal sacrifice in his power to console and comfort me in my misery. that, indeed, you have already done; and although i can never repay the debt of gratitude i owe you, rest assured, dear friend, that i am deeply sensible of your sympathetic offices. but you can go no farther than this. all your wisdom and goodness would not avail to fulfill the hopes you entertain for my future. so far as i am personally and selfishly concerned i have no earthly future. i shaped my course, and marched straight on--deaf to the dictates of conscience, blind to virtue and suffering--so steeped in the vice that enslaved me, that it was only when the fell destroyer death took from me the treasures which should have been my redemption, that the consciousness of my wrong-doing rushed upon me, and stabbed me to the heart. it was then too late for repentance, too late to fall upon my knees and pray for mercy and forgiveness. i deserved my punishment, and i bowed my head to it, not with meekness and resignation, but with a bitterness and scorn for myself which words are powerless to portray. "i cannot recall when it was that i first became a gamester, but it was during my school-days that my evil genius obtained a mastery over me that i did not shake off until it had compassed my ruin and the ruin of innocent beings i should have cherished and protected. in the school i went to i had a friend and comrade, a lad of amiable parts and qualities, with whom i chiefly associated; and somehow it happened that he and i fell into the habit of playing cards for our pocket-money. i was not even then a fortunate player, but the loss of my few shillings was amply repaid by the delight i took in these games of chance. there were occasions when my friend reproved me for my infatuation, but i would not listen to him, and i made it a point of honor with him that he should give me opportunities of regaining the money i had lost. not that i had any great desire to win my money back; it was play i craved for. he was much more concerned at my losses than myself; and i remember once that he offered to return all he had won, which, of course, i would not listen to. "when, school-days over, i commenced to live the life of a man, i sought places and opportunities for pursuing my favorite pastime. i became a member of private clubs established for the gratification of enthusiasts like myself, and there i lost my money and enjoyed myself to my heart's content. i never questioned myself as to the morality of my passion, and whether i won or lost was almost a matter of indifference to me, so far as the actual value of the money i left behind me, or took away with me, was concerned. i had ample means, for more than one fortune was bequeathed to me; and i continued on the fatal road i had entered with so much zeal, and never once thought of turning back. at this period of my life the vice harmed no one but myself. if it had, i might have reflected; but how dare i make this lame excuse for my sinful conduct when i know that in after times it did affect others, and that even then i did not turn back? "my friendship and intimacy with my schoolmate continued, and he often accompanied me to my favorite haunts, and gambled a little, but not to the same extent as i did, and with better luck. he accompanied me to france and italy, where i found ample scope for indulgence in my besetting vice. by this time my schoolmate and i were bosom friends and inseparable; and when he remonstrated with me on my last night's losses, i used to laugh at him, and to challenge him there and then to sit down with me to a game of chance, saying, 'someone must win my money, why not you?' and our intimacy was of such a nature that he could not refuse, though his compliance was not too readily given. at the continental gaming-tables he would be my banker when i was cleaned out, and one day he suggested that he should act as a kind of steward of my fortune, which was still considerable. i consented gladly enough, for i had no head for figures, and he saved me a world of trouble. then something took place which ought to have saved me, had not my besetting vice taken such absolute possession of me as to deprive me completely of moral control. i met a young and beautiful girl, and fell in love with her. my love was returned, and in a few months afterward she became my wife. "surely that should have opened my eyes to my folly, if anything could. a sweet and pure influence was by my side; and it is true that for a little while my mad course was checked. i was happy in my wife's society, as no man could fail to be who enjoyed the heaven of her love. a sweeter, nobler lady never drew breath. i tremble with shame as i write of her; i shudder with remorse as i think of the fate to which i brought her. for we had not been married many months before my evil genius began to haunt and tempt me. understand that i should not then have spoken of my vice as an evil genius. i saw no evil in it, and i thought i had a right to pursue my pleasure; and so i began gradually to neglect my home, and to resume my old pursuit. "my angel wife did not complain; she bore my neglect with sweetness and patience--smiling upon me when i left her side, smiling upon me when i returned. she had no knowledge of my secret; she did not see her fatal rival at my elbow wooing me away from her pure companionship. some unrecognized feeling of shame kept me from exposing my degrading weakness to her. she devoted herself to her child, and by a thousand innocent arts--they make my heart bleed as i think of them--strove to win me more constantly to her side. "yes, rathbeal, we had a child, a sweet flower from heaven, whose grace and beauty should have opened my eyes to my sin. do not think that i did not love them. when i was with them, when i held my sweet little girl on my lap and felt her little hands upon my face, i thanked god for giving me a treasure so lovely and fair. then my wife would timidly ask me whether i would not remain at home that night, and my evil genius would tempt me so sorely that i had not the strength to resist. it is a shameful confession, but having commenced i will go through with it to the bitter end; and if it lose me your friendship, if you turn from me in scorn for my folly and weakness, i must accept it as a part of my punishment. "my angel wife suffered, and her sufferings increased as time went on. i did not see it then; i do now. she grew thin and pale, believing that i no longer loved her, believing that i repented my union with her. what else could she believe as she saw the ties of home weakening day by day? there are women who, in such a strait, would have challenged the man boldly, but she was not one of these. her nature was too pliant and gentle, and terrible must have been her grief as she felt the rock she depended upon for protection and support crumbling away at her touch. "my luck never varied. occasionally, it is true, i won small sums, but these were invariably counterbalanced shortly afterward by heavier losses. the consequence was that the inroads upon my fortune became too serious to be overlooked. i asked my friend and steward for a large sum of money to pay a gambling debt; he looked grave. i inquired why he was so serious, and he invited me to look over the accounts. i did so; and though i could not understand the array of figures he placed before me, i saw clearly that my large fortune was almost entirely gone. "'i have warned you,' said my friend, 'time after time; i could do no more.' "'spare me your reproaches,' i said. 'you have been a good friend, and i have paid no heed to your warnings. wind up my affairs, and tell me how much i have left.' "the following day he informed me that i still had three thousand pounds i could call my own. "'would you like a check for it?' he asked. "i answered, 'yes,' and he gave it to me. "'and here,' he said, 'my stewardship ends. you must give me a full quittance of all accounts between us.' "i drew up the paper at his dictation. he preferred, he said, that the quittance should be in my own handwriting; and when he had done i added words of thanks for the services he had rendered me, and signed the document. "that night he accompanied me to a club, and watched my play. i won five hundred pounds, and we walked away together, late in the morning, in the highest spirits. he parted from me at the door of my house. "'will you play to-morrow night?' he asked. "'of course i shall play to-morrow night," i replied, 'and every night after that. i will get back every shilling i have lost. look at what i have done already; i have won five hundred pounds.' "'it is your only chance of saving your wife and child from beggary,' he said. "i thought of his words as i stepped softly into the house: 'my only chance of saving my wife and child from beggary.' it was true. it was a duty i owed to them to continue to play and win back the fortune i had lost. it was not my money; it was theirs. i was their only dependence. yes, they should not say in the future that i had ruined their lives. luck must change; it had commenced to smile upon me. there entered into my soul that night, rathbeal, the spirit of greed. i had been too careless hitherto, too unmindful as to whether i won or lost. hereafter i would be more careful; i would be cunning, as the men i played with were. i would invent a system which would break them and every man i played with. tired as i was, i sat down and began to calculate chances. a newspaper was on the table, and when i had jotted down some columns of figures, and, aided by my recollection of certain bets i had made a night or two before, proved that had i played wisely i ought to have won instead of lost, i took up the newspaper, and carelessly ran my eyes down its columns. they stopped at an account of an englishman's marvelous winnings at monte carlo--forty thousand pounds in three days. i pondered over it. if he, why not i? i would go and get my money back there. sometimes in the haunts i frequented money ran short; men, winning, would leave with their gains, and there was no one left to play with except the losers, and i knew from experience how desperate that chance was. at monte carlo there was unlimited money. you could continue playing as long as you liked, and go away with your winnings in your pockets in hard cash. witness this englishman with his forty thousand pounds in three days. but it would be as well to take a large sum of money with me. i had over three thousand pounds; i would make it into ten here, and then would go to monte carlo to wrest back my fortune. my mind made up, i crept to my bedroom. my wife was there, sleeping as i thought. in an adjoining room slept my little girl, clair. standing at the bedside of my wife i observed--shame upon me! for the first time with any consciousness that i was the cause of the change--how white and thin she had become. the sight of her wan face, and of her lovely lashes still moist with the tears she had shed, cut me like a knife. i did not dare to kiss her; i feared that she would awake and see my face, for i had looked at it in the glass, and was shocked at my haggard appearance. i stepped softly into the adjoining room where our little clair was sleeping. she was rosy with health and young life, her red lips parted, showing her pearly teeth, her hair in clustering curls about her brow. her i did not fear that i should awake, her slumbers were so profound, and i stooped and kissed her. "'robert!' said my wife. "she had been awake when i entered her room, but had not opened her eyes lest she should offend me. hearing me go into our child's bedroom, she had risen quietly and followed me. "'lucy!' i replied, my hands upon her shoulders. "she fell into my arms, weeping, but no sound escaped her. clair slept and must not be disturbed. "i drew her into our bedroom, and closed the door upon clair. "'what is the matter, lucy?' i asked. 'are you not well?' "she lifted her wet eyes with a sad wonder in them. "'did you not know, robert?' "'know! what?' "'that the doctor has been attending me lately,' she answered. 'do not let it trouble you, dear. you also are not well. how changed you are! how changed! there is something on your mind, my dear." "she did not say this in reproach, but in loving entreaty and pity; and though she did not directly ask me to confide in her, i understood her appeal. but i did not dare to confess my folly and my shame. i had kept my secret well, and she did not suspect it. no, i would not expose my degradation to her and my child. perhaps, when i had won back the fortune i had lost, when i could say, 'i have not completely ruined your future,' then i might find courage to tell her all. but now, when i was nearly beggared and fortune was in my grasp, i must be silent; my secret must be kept from her. "'it is nothing, lucy,' i said; 'nothing. what does the doctor say?' "she withdrew from my embrace, and said, coldly i thought: "'i am not very well; that is all, robert.' "nothing more passed between us that night. i believed--because i wished to believe--that there was nothing serious the matter with her; and if i was right in my conjecture that she was cold to me, it sprang probably because i would not confess what was weighing on my mind. "how shall i describe the events of the next few weeks? night after night i went from my home and kept out, often till daylight, endeavoring to wrest my losses from my fellow-gamesters. my wife did not ask me now to remain with her; she did not complain, and no further reference was made to the doctor. this was a comfort to me. if there had been anything to be really alarmed at i should not have been kept in ignorance of it. so i went blindly on, greedy now for money, chafing at my losses, suspecting all around me, and yet continuing to play till i had completely beggared myself. my companions did not know. it was not likely i was going to confess to them that if i lost i had not the means of paying. they continued to play with me, and i got in their debt, inventing excuses for being short of money. it was only temporary, i said; i should be in funds very soon. do you see, rathbeal, how low i had fallen? "a sharper experience was to be mine. i lost a large sum and my paper was out for two thousand pounds. it was a debt of honor and must be paid. the misery of it was that i had perfected a system at roulette, which, with money at my command, could not possibly fail; and i had no means at my disposal to go to monte carlo, where unlimited wealth was awaiting me. it would be necessary to break up my home, but even that would not supply me with sufficient funds to pay my debts of honor and go to monte carlo. there was but one course open to me. my wife had a small private fortune of her own; i would ask her to advance me a portion of it as a loan which i would soon repay. i broached the subject to her. "'it is only temporary,' i said, annoyed with myself that they should be the same words i had used to the men who held my paper. "'you know how much i have, robert,' she said, averting her eyes from me. 'it is clair's more than mine. she must not be left penniless. i do not think you ought to ask me for so large a sum.' "i mentioned a lower sum, and she said: "'yes, robert, you can have that. do not ask me for more.' "i felt humiliated at this bargaining, and angry with her for her coldness and want of sympathy with me. i summoned up a false courage, and said it was likely that i should have to break up our home. she expressed no surprise. "'in a little while, lucy,' i said,' i will provide you with a better.' "she did not wish for a better, she said; she could be happy in the humblest cottage, if---- and then she paused and sighed, and i saw the tears in her eyes. i took her hand; she gently withdrew it. "'i intended to tell you something to-day,' she said. 'my health has broken down. the doctor says i must leave england as soon as possible if i wish to live. i do wish to live, for my dear clair's sake.' "'not for mine, lucy?' "i saw a struggle going on within her, but she sighed heavily again, and did not reply. "'i am grieved to hear the doctor's report,' i said. 'may he not be mistaken?' "'he is not mistaken. if i remain here i shall die.' "'where does he tell you to go to?' "'to some village in the south of france, near the sea, where there is perfect quiet, where there are few people and no excitement.' "such a place, i thought, would be death to me, with the plan i had in my head of my projected venture at monte carlo. "'very well, lucy,' i said; 'if it must be, it must be. i will join you there.' "'you cannot go with us?' "'not immediately. i have something of the utmost importance to attend to elsewhere. it will not occupy me long, and then i will come to you.' "'i did not expect you would accompany us,' she said. "not once had she looked at me or turned toward me. the impression her conduct made upon me was not so strong then as afterward, when i awoke from my dream of wealth, and when fate dealt me the fatal stroke. "we parted. i received the money i asked her to lend me from her little fortune, and we parted. i stood on the platform with her and our clair; my faithful friend and once steward stood a little apart from us. he had offered to go with them to dover, and his services had been accepted. it was impossible for me to go even so far. my creditors were clamoring, and i had arranged to meet a broker at my house, to sell him everything in it, and to get the money immediately from him. if my debts of honor were not paid that evening, i was threatened with public exposure. therefore it was imperative that i should stay in london. it was then my intention to proceed immediately to monte carlo, to commence operations; and, my fortune restored to me, to join my dear wife, and commence a new life. "of all this she, of course, knew nothing. ignorant of the real cause of my downfall, how could she have divined the truth? had there been that confidence between us which should exist between man and wife, i might at this moment be different from what i am. i should not be, as i am, bowed down with a sense of guilt from which my soul can never be cleansed. it was not she who was at fault, but i. had i confided to her, had she been really aware where and in what company i spent my nights, she would have been spared the agony of a belief which, out of charity to me, she would not shame me and herself by revealing. so we two stood on the platform bidding a cold farewell to each other, each tortured by a secret we dared not confess. i kissed her, and kissed my sweet clair. "'do come with us, papa!' said clair, nestling in my arms. "my wife looked up into my face appealingly. in that one moment, had i seized the opportunity, there was still a chance of redemption. "'robert!' she said, involuntarily raising her hands and clasping them. "ah, if i had met her appeal! if i had said: 'do not go by this train; i will confess everything to you!' but the prompting did not come to me; if it had, i should have disregarded it. "'i cannot come with you, clair,' i said; 'i have such a deal to do before i leave london.' "'poor papa!' she said. 'that is why you keep out so late at night. poor papa!' "my wife turned her head from us, but i saw the scarlet blush on her face, which i attributed to her displeasure at my refusal. or was it that she suspected my secret? "'you have not betrayed me?' i said apart to my friend. 'she does not know how i have lost my fortune, and what has brought me to this?' "'on my honor, no,' he answered. 'she has not the least suspicion of your stupid infatuation.' "'you will not call it stupid in three or four weeks,' i said. "'it is not possible for your system to fail?' he questioned. "'there isn't the remotest possibility of it,' i replied. 'clever people think that everything has been found out about figures and chances. i am going to show them something new.' "the whistle sounded; the guard bade the passengers take their places. i walked along the platform as the train moved away. clair waved her handkerchief to me; my friend nodded good-by; my wife did not raise her head to look at me. "i hastened back to my house, and found the broker there. he was a wealthy dealer, and was going through the rooms when i entered, appraising everything and putting down figures. i accompanied him from one room to another, and we smoked as he made his calculations. i was impatient and unhappy, but he would not be hurried. he opened the door of my wife's morning-room; i pulled him back. "'not this room?' he asked. "'pshaw!' i said. 'everything must go.' "there were some small things in the room which seemed to me to have so close a personal relation to my wife that i was angry to see him handle them. why had she not taken these things away with her? she might have spared me the reproach. i walked out of the room while he valued them. "at length his catalogue was ended. "'you want the money immediately?' he asked. "'immediately,' i replied. "'a check will do, of course.' "'no, i must have cash.' "'that will make a slight difference,' he said, and he named the amount he was willing to give me. it was less than i anticipated, but the business worried me, and i agreed. saying he would return in an hour and complete the bargain, he left me. "i was alone in the house to which i had brought my wife, a bride. all the servants had been paid off, and had left. i had arranged this because i could not endure that they should see the sacrifice i was making. memories of the past rushed upon me--of my young wife's delight as i took her through the rooms, of the fond endearments at my cleverness and forethought, of the happy evening we passed, sitting in the gloaming and talking of the future. alas, the future! how fearful the contrast between my young bride's fond imaginings and the reality! in solitary communing i strolled through the rooms and marked each spot and each article hallowed by some cherished recollection. the piano at which she used to sit and sing in the early days of our marriage, the window from which we used to watch the sunset, the small articles on her dressing-table--there seemed to be a living spirit in them that greeted me reproachfully, and asked, 'why have you done this? why have you blighted that fair young life?' our clair was born in the house. the cot in which she slept was there, her favorite child-pictures hung upon the wall. what pangs went through me as i surveyed the wreck of bright hopes! 'but i will atone for it,' i said inwardly. 'when fortune is mine once more i will confess all, and ask my dear wife's forgiveness. then, then for the happy future!' no warning whispers reached me. no voice cried,' sinner and fool! you have done what can never be undone. not only fortune, but love, is lost forever!' "if i dwell upon these small matters, rathbeal, it is because the impressions of that lonely hour are as strong within me now as then, and because they are pregnant with an awful lesson. "the hour over, the broker returned with wagons and men. as he paid me the money his workmen commenced to remove the furniture. i left the house to their mercies, and went to meet the men to whom i was indebted. i paid them to the last shilling, and, honor satisfied, was master of a sum sufficiently large, i thought, to carry on my operations at monte carlo. i played at the club that night, and lost a few pounds. it did not affect me; i was rather glad, indeed, for it pointed to the road where wealth awaited me. i had taken a bed in a hotel, but an impulse seized me to visit my house once more. it was two in the morning when i turned the key and lit the hall gas. my footsteps resounded on the dusky passages. the broker had been expeditious; everything in the house was removed, and i seemed to be walking through a hollow grave--but it was a grave, haunted by ghostly shadows, eloquent with accusing voices. i shut my eyes, i put my hands to my ears, but i still saw the ghostly shadows and heard the accusing voices. i rushed from the house, conscience-stricken and appalled. "the next morning my courage returned; the sun shone brightly, and i had money, and my system, in my pocket. away, then, to monte carlo, to redeem the past! "i did not commence immediately; i studied the tables, the croupiers, the players, and i spent several hours in going over the figures and combinations i had prepared. then i took the plunge. "as is frequently the case, i was successful at first; in four days i doubled my capital. my friend came to see me, as i had requested him to do, to give me news of my wife. she had not written to me, and i asked him the reason; he said he was not acquainted with the reason, and he asked me how i was progressing. i showed him, exultingly, what i had done; he expressed surprise and satisfaction. "'how long will it take you to accomplish your aim?' he asked. "'if i play as i am playing now," i replied, 'some two or three weeks. if i play more boldly, a week may accomplish it.' "'why not play boldly?' he suggested. "i had half intended to do so, and his words encouraged me. we went to the tables together, and i began to plunge. before i left the rooms i had lost all i had won, and some part of the money i had brought with me. i pretended to make light of it. "'these adverse combinations occasionally occur," i said, 'but they right themselves infallibly if you hold on. it is only a temporary repulse.' "but though i spoke confidently my heart was fainting within me. theory is one thing, practice another. we can be very bold on paper, but when we are fighting with the enemy we feel his blows. "the next day my friend accompanied me again to the tables, with all my boasting i had not the daring to risk my capital in half-a-dozen bold coups; i put on much smaller sums, and i had the mortification of learning that my want of courage prevented me from winning what i ought to have done. "'you see,' i said to my friend. 'faint heart never succeeded yet. but it is only a little time lost, and it proves the certainty of my calculations.' "he had to leave me that evening, and he made me promise that i would write to him daily of my progress. as he was going to see my wife, i gave him a letter to her, in which i begged her to write to me at monte carlo. he said he would deliver the letter, and it was not until some time afterward that i recalled his manner as being somewhat strained. "the story of the next few days is soon told. hope, despair; hope again, followed by despair. i came down to my last hundred pounds. over and over again, in the solitude of my room, i proved to myself how weak i had been in not doing this or that at the right moment; over and over again i proved to my own misery that it was due to my own lack of courage that i had not won back my fortune. i conned the numbers i had written down as they were called out. 'fool, fool, fool!' i cried, striking my forehead. 'wretched, contemptible coward!' i rose in the morning haggard and weary; i had not slept a moment all the night. there was still a chance left: i had a hundred pounds; i would play on a lower martingale, and as i won i would increase it. i did so. that day i remained at the tables ten hours without rising from the seat i had secured. i won, i lost, i won again, i lost again. a few minutes before the rooms closed i had followed my system to a point whereat, after a series of losses, it needed but a large amount to be staked to get all back again. i had this amount before me. on previous occasions i had drawn back at such a critical juncture, and had suffered for it by hearing the number called which, in its various winning chances, would have recouped, with large profit, all that had been lost in the series. i would not be guilty of this cowardice again. with a trembling hand i put every franc i had on the various chances which were certain this time to win. the number was called. great god! i was beggared! without a word i rose and went to my hotel. "can you imagine the torments of hell, rathbeal? i suffered them then. but there was worse in store for me. "figures, figures, figures, red and black, living figures that moved, that spoke, that glared and mocked me--the voices of the croupiers, the exclamations of the gamesters, the rattle of the money--curses and benedictions--now surrounded by a blaze of light, now plunged into black darkness--painted women, men with hideous faces, lips that smiled and derided--these were the images that haunted me in the night. i had drunk brandy, contrary to my usual habit, for i was never fond of drink, and my brain was burning. from time to time i dozed, and scarcely knew whether i was awake or asleep, whether what i saw were phantoms or actual forms of things. was that a knock at my door? was that the voice of a waiter speaking to me outside? i did not answer; i did not move. what mattered anything now? if the door opened, it could signify nothing to me; if some person entered and went away, there was no interest in the movements to beguile me from the tortures i was suffering. ruin and i were company enough. "the sun was streaming into my room long before i rose; when i got out of bed i staggered like a drunken man, though, except for the delirium of my senses, i was perfectly sober. it was not till i had washed and dressed that i observed a letter upon my table. taking it up, i saw that it was in the handwriting of my wife. "i hardly dared to open it; by my own act i had destroyed any claim to her affection. i had brought deep unhappiness upon her; i had systematically neglected her; i had lost the home which should have been hers; i had taken our child's money, and could not return it. but the letter must be read. with trembling hands i unfastened the envelope, and drew forth the sheet. "it bore neither date nor address. i have the letter by me now, and i copy it word for word: "i can bear my agony in silence no longer. i write to you, i speak to you, for the last time. this is my last farewell to him i loved, to the father of my child, to the husband who should have been my shield. "do you remember the words you addressed to me when we were married? 'i love you,' you said, 'i am your husband and lover. nothing shall ever harm or wound you. i am your shield--the shield of love.' "with what fondness i used to repeat these words to myself! my shield! my shield of love! side by side with my worship of the eternal did i worship you, as the realization of a young girl's happiest dreams; my joy, my hope, my shield of love! "slowly, slowly did i awake from my dream. i would not, i could not, believe what you were showing me day by day, but the terrible truth forced itself upon me with power so resistless, with conviction so absolute, that i could no longer refuse to believe. how bitter was the knowledge, how bitter, how bitter! "i gave you all my love. but for your own actions it would never have wavered. o richard! if in a moment of temptation you had turned to me, i might have been your shield, as you promised to be mine! "i know your secret. i have known it for years--for long, bitter years. i cannot blame myself that i did not satisfy your expectations. all that a loving woman could do i did to retain your love. i hid nothing from you; i strove with all my might to make your home pleasant and attractive to you; what power lay within me to keep you faithful to the vows we pledged was exercised by me to the utmost of my abilities. i used to say to myself, 'what can i do to win my husband's society and confidence? how can i act so that he shall not continue to grow weary of me?' you will never know how hard i strove, you will never know the tears i shed as i slowly recognized that my shield of love was a mockery, and that there was as little loving meaning in your declaration as if it had been uttered by a deadly enemy. "yes, richard, i know your secret; i know that you have not been faithful to me; i know that for years your heart has been given to another. i cannot say that i hope you will be happy with her who occupies my place. at this solemn moment i will not be guilty of a subterfuge. the issue lies in god's hand, not in mine, nor in yours. "i should not address this farewell to you if it were not that i feel i have not long to live. it is grief that is killing me, not a mortal disease which doctors can minister to. "it is with distinct purpose that i put no address to this farewell. i have left the place i went to when you bade me good-by in london, and it is my desire that you shall not know where i am, that you shall not come to me. remorse may touch your soul, and you may wish to come; but it would not be a sincere wish, springing, as it must, from a sudden false feeling of compassion in which there is no truth or depth. how could i believe what you said, after all the years of suffering i have gone through? and as a wife i must preserve my self-respect. coming to me from a woman for whom you deserted me, i would not receive you. it is long since i bade farewell to happiness. i now bid farewell to you." "that was all. many times did i pause to question myself, and to read again, in doubt whether i had mistaken the words. that the accusation my wife brought against me was untrue you may believe, rathbeal. no woman had won me from her side, and i was so far innocent. that, ignorant of the true cause of my neglect, she may have had grounds for suspicion, i could well believe, but she seemed to speak with something more than suspicion. who had maligned me? who had played me false? and for what purpose? "i could think of no one. at times during my degraded career in london i had had disagreements with the men i played with, but i could not convict one of them with any degree of certainty. "the postmark on the envelope was paris, and there was but one means of ascertaining my wife's address--through the only friend i had in the world. to go to her, beggared as i was, would be adding shame to shame. besides, i could not pay my hotel bill. but still it impressed itself upon me as an imperative duty that i should find her and make full confession; and then to bid her farewell forever. "i wrote to my friend, to his address in london; i made a strong appeal to him, and informed him of the position i was in. he wrote back after a delay of two days; he said he had something of a very grave nature to attend to that would take him from england, and he could not, therefore, come to me at once. when he saw me he would inform me why he could not come earlier. i was to remain where i was till he arrived; he would be responsible for my hotel bill; i was not to trouble myself about that. i learned from the landlord that he had received a letter from my friend, making himself responsible for my debt to him. "'you have had a turn of ill luck at the tables,' said the landlord. 'it is the way with most gentlemen; but sometimes a turn comes the other way.' he appeared perfectly satisfied, but i could not help feeling that he regarded me as a personal hostage for the amount of the bill. "i wrote again to my friend, imploring him not to delay, and this time i received no answer to my letter. i supposed he had left england on the business he referred to, and in my helpless position i was compelled to wait and eat my heart away. "ten days elapsed before he came; he was dressed in mourning, and was sad and anxious, as though he had passed through some deep trouble. "'it was impossible for me to get here before,' he said gravely. "i nodded impatiently, and then, with an awkward, consciousness that something was due to him, i touched his black coat. "'you have had a loss," i said. "'you will hear sad news presently,' he answered, 'and you must prepare yourself for it. but tell me first of your troubles here. i was so harassed and grieved at the time your letter arrived that i hardly understood it; and then i laid it aside and could not find it again.' "curbing my impatience, for he insisted upon my exposing the full extent of my misfortunes, i related to him briefly the result of my mad venture. "'and you are utterly ruined?' he said. "'utterly, utterly ruined,' i replied. 'enough of myself for the present. tell me of my wife.' "his countenance fell. there was a significance in his manner which profoundly agitated me. eager for an answer, and dreading it, i asked him why he did not speak. "'it is cruel,' he murmured, his face still averted from me, 'at such a time, when you have lost every hope in life, to say what i have come to say. we will speak together to-morrow.' "'we will speak together now!' i cried, seizing him by the arm, and compelling him to turn toward me. 'do you think that anything you can say, any message you may bring from her, can add to the misery and degradation of my position? tell me of my wife!' "'how can i speak?' he murmured. 'what can i say?' "'speak the truth,' i said, 'and do not spare me. i deserve no mercy. i had none upon her; i cannot expect her to have any upon me. but an imputation has been cast upon me, an infamous, revolting imputation, and i must clear myself of it. that done, i shall not care what becomes of me. i have not told you of the last letter i received from her, the only letter she has written to me since we parted. in that letter she brings a horrible charge against me, instigated by some villain who bears me ill will, and i insist upon my right to defend myself.' "i would have said more, but my emotion overpowered me. "'she will not hear you,' said my friend sadly. "'she has told me so in her letter,' i replied; 'but you can give me her address, and i will write to her.' "'it will be useless,' he said, 'quite useless, i grieve to say.' "'you mean that she will return the letter to me unopened; but i will not rest until she receives my denial of the crime of which she believes me guilty.' "'she will never receive it,' he said in a solemn tone. 'cannot you guess the truth?' "'good god!' i cried, a despairing light breaking upon me. "'i can keep it from you no longer,' said my friend; 'sooner or later it must be spoken. she had been for a long time in bad health, as you know; it was impossible to disguise it--her state was serious. the only hope for her lay in a change of climate and in perfect freedom from mental anxiety. in my answer to your letter informing me of your misfortunes at this fatal place i told you i had something of a grave nature to attend to. it concerned your wife. a secret sorrow which she did not impart to me had aggravated her condition, which had become so alarming that the doctor held out no hope of recovery. she had another terrible grief to contend with. your child--but i cannot go on.' "'you must go on. my wife--my clair!----' "he assisted me to a seat; i was too weak to stand. "'go on,' i muttered. 'go on. all must be told--all, all! do not spare me. let me know the worst.' "'grave symptoms had developed themselves in clair,' he continued, 'and it was feared that she would share the fate that awaited your wife. in these distressing circumstances she called upon me, and i went to her without delay. i was shocked at her appearance. death was in her face; death was in the face of your child! i begged her to let me send for you. she would not hear of it; it terrified me to hear the vehemence of her refusal. "he shall not look upon me again, dead or alive!" she cried. "he shall not look upon my child! we are parted for ever and ever!" the doctor, coming in at that moment, warned me that opposition to anything upon which she had set her heart would snap the frail cord that bound her to life. "she can survive but a short time," he said. "in mercy to her, let her last moments be peaceful." what could i say--what could i do but obey?' "my friend waited for my answer. 'you did what was right,' i murmured, racked with anguish. 'was she at this time in the village she went to when we parted?' "'she had removed from it without my knowledge, in order that you should not find her. it grieves me to make these revelations to you, but the time has gone by for concealment. clair died first. her death was painless.' "'did she not speak? did she not ask for me?' "'she spoke no word that i could hear. she passed away with her lips to her mother's face. "i am glad my clair has gone first," your wife said. "it would have pained me to leave her alone in this cruel world. she is safe now; she has not lived to have her heart broken. she is waiting for me, and i shall join her soon--very soon!" i remained with her to the last. believe me when i say i would have written to you had she not bound me by a solemn obligation which i dared not break. she demanded an oath from me, and to ease her aching heart i gave it. i could not, i could not refuse her. she died on the following day. your wife and child lie in one grave.' "'where?' i found voice to ask. "'i dare not tell you. not for any worldly consideration will i be false to the dead. again she made me swear that absolute secrecy should be preserved as to her last resting-place. "i should not rest in my grave," she said, "if my husband stood above it." i implore you not to press me, for i will not, i cannot be false to my trust. alas, that i should be compelled to say this to the friend of my youth! you know the worst now. there is nothing more to tell.' "it was just; it was what i had earned. of what avail would tears have been, shed over the cold earth that covered the forms of my wife and child? i had tortured them for years, and i was justly punished. "'she sent me no message?' i asked, after a long pause. "'none; and she made no distinct complaint against you. all that she said was that her heart was broken, and that she left the world gladly. it is the saddest of news, but we reap as we sow.' "i acknowledged it. as i had sown, so had i reaped. what better harvest could i have expected? desolate and alone i stood upon the shore, without kith or kin. it was with a stern satisfaction that i thought i should not remain long on earth. it was truly my impression at that time; i had the firmest belief that my hours were numbered. "'you will make no attempt,' said my friend, 'to discover where they are laid?' "'her wishes shall be respected,' i said gloomily. 'i could have brought no comfort to her or to my child had they lived. i will not disturb them now they are gone.' "'it is due from you, i think,' he said, and presently added, 'what will you do now?' "'with my life?' i asked; and then i told him what i believed, that i had not long to live. 'but for the short time that yet remains to me i cut myself entirely away from all personal associations with men and women whom i have known. i renounce even the name i bear, to avoid recognition, and shall assume another. i am as one who has died, and who commences life anew. if by my actions during the days that yet may be mine i can atone in some small measure for the guilt that lies upon my soul, such atonements shall be made. it is likely i may not reside in england; the recollections that would force themselves upon me there would be too painful to bear.' "he approved of my resolution, and offered to render me some small regular assistance to assist me to live. i accepted it after some hesitation; he had made money out of me while acting as my steward, and i thought he could afford it. should i find myself master of more than would be requisite for the barest necessaries, i would devote it to the children of misery in memory of my wife, who had a charitable heart, and was always giving to the poor. but what sweet virtue could be named that did not grace her soul? "you know now, rathbeal, how it was that i did not bear my own name when you first became acquainted with me. it was by chance that you made this discovery, and it was partly because i felt that there was a cowardice in the subterfuge, and that i was practicing it to avoid the moral punishment i had earned, that when we were together abroad i resumed my own. there was no need to make my friend acquainted with this, and it is probable that he is in ignorance of it to this day. it does not in any way concern him. i have cut myself away from him as i have done from every person who knew me during my wife's lifetime. the motive that induced me to request you to inform him that he would be troubled with me no more was this: i had to some extent bound myself to him not to return to england, and when i resolved to do so in your company i felt that i was partially violating that understanding. consequently i determined to sever all personal relations between him and myself. he has not sought me, nor shall i ever seek him. our ways of life lie widely apart, and it is hardly likely we shall ever meet again. he believes me probably to be dead; let him rest in this belief. "i have nothing to add, rathbeal, to this lengthy confession. you know the worst of me. if you condemn me be silent, it will be charitable. if i am still allowed to retain your friendship, it will ease my heart. "robert grantham." chapter ix. mr. fox-cordery is not easy in his mind. in a state of deep dissatisfaction with the world in general, mr. fox-cordery paced the lawn fronting the country house he had taken on the banks of the thames. he was smoking one of his fragrant cigars, but it had no soothing effect upon him; a common weed of british make would have afforded him as much gratification. he was perplexed and annoyed, and was growing savage; and yet he had cause, if not for gratitude--of which it may be doubted whether he was capable--at least for self-congratulation. to commence with the credit side of his ledger, here he was comfortably installed in the house facing the river of which we have heard his mother speak, with its piece of meadow-land, and its lawn, and its garden of fruit and flowers, and its rustic bridge stretching to a bank on the opposite side. this bridge, being erected over an inlet, did not interfere with the traffic of the river proper, and was a decided attraction to the summer residence which mr. fox-cordery had taken to carry out a long cherished design. the arm of water it spanned was deep, and upon it was floating a gayly-painted boat, bearing in gilt letters the name, "lucy and clair." he had so christened it in honor of the guests he was entertaining, mrs. grantham and her little daughter. he had intended to call it simply "lucy"; but love is sometimes wanting in boldness, and for this reason, or because he was not sure of his ground, he had associated the names of mother and daughter, which he considered the lady he was scheming to win could not but regard as a delicate mark of attention. to go on with, his mind was more at ease with respect to the fate of the friend he had betrayed than it had been on the day of his interviews with john dixon and rathbeal. six weeks had passed by and he had not seen or heard from john dixon: a distinct proof that that astute person had been gasconading when he spoke of having caught a glimpse of robert grantham's face on a foggy night in march. mr. fox-cordery had arrived at the conclusion that the tale was a clumsy invention, introduced for the purpose of winning compliance with john dixon's suit for the hand of his sister charlotte. "dixon thought i would strike my flag," he reasoned, "and that i would implore him to take charlotte at once, and a handsome dowry with her, as the price of his silence. a likely thing when he had nothing to sell but an empty tale!" of the legacy he had heard nothing more. mrs. grantham had not seen the advertisement in the _times_, the paper being one which she did not read, nor had she been approached by the lawyers with respect to it, as had been threatened by john dixon. "lawyers don't part with money too readily," again reasoned mr. fox-cordery, "when once it gets into their clutches. i know their tricks." then, charlotte was behaving admirably. she and mrs. grantham and clair were constantly together, mr. fox-cordery believed that his sister was doing something--perhaps in an indirect way, but that was of no account--to advance his cause. and yet that cause was making no progress. it was unaccountable, and he was moodily reflecting upon this as he paced the lawn and smoked his cigar. on the debit side of the ledger were some ridiculous, though mysterious, eccentricities on the part of rathbeal. rathbeal did not appear personally, but he kept himself in mr. fox-cordery's mind by a series of written and pictorial communications. these, carefully sealed, were addressed to mr. fox-cordery's london residence, and were forwarded on to his suburban home. he destroyed them, wrathfully, almost as soon as he received them, but it was an additional annoyance that he could not forget them after they were destroyed; indeed, the impression they produced was so strong that they were the cause of many fantastic and disturbing dreams from which he would awake in perturbation. the peculiar nature of these communications will be seen from the following examples: "when you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote rathbeal, quoting an observation made by mr. fox-cordery in the course of their recent interview, "nothing ever escapes from it. (signed) "rathbeal." beneath these words was the picture of a large web, in a corner of which lurked a spider, bearing an unmistakable likeness to mr. fox-cordery. a number of unfortunate creatures, with human faces, struggled in the meshes. the face of one figure, designated fate, was hidden, purposely it seemed. again, after an interval of a few days: "there are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote rathbeal, quoting his reply to mr. fox-cordery's observation. "fate is ever at work. (signed) "rathbeal." beneath this was the same web, but this time mr. fox-cordery was in the meshes, struggling in terror to release himself; while in the corner lurked the figure of fate, still with its face hidden. "the man is crazy," was mr. fox-cordery's comment, "or in his dotage." nevertheless he could not banish these sketches from his mind, and he found himself wondering who the figure with his hidden face was intended to represent. at intervals came couplets of verse: the bark we steer has stranded. o breeze, auspicious swell: we yet may see once more the friend we love so well. "for auspicious," wrote rathbeal, "read malefic. for love, read hate." at another time: better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles. another post brought: what serves thy armor 'gainst fate's arrows fierce? what serves thy shield if destiny transpierce? had mr. fox-cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their frequency, savored of persecution. he was tempted, as his eyes fell upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it, unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself, and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness. but these were small matters in comparison with the one desire of which he had become the slave. in the retreat he had chosen he had hoped to attain his wish, and to win from mrs. grantham a promise that she would become his wife. long as he had loved her, he had not had the courage to speak to her openly. many times had he approached the boundary line which stood between friendship and love, and had never dared to cross it. something in her manner, which he could not define or satisfactorily explain to himself, deterred him; and he lacked the gamester's mettle to risk his all upon the hazard of the die. he argued with himself that she could scarcely mistake the meaning of the attentions he was paying her during this visit. daily offerings of flowers, a constant ministering to her pleasure, fulfillment of any wish she expressed, the most careful attention to the adornment of his small person, a display of amiability to her, to charlotte and his mother, and even to the servants who waited on them--all these efforts seemed to be thrown away upon her. as has been stated, he was growing savage to find his meaning thus misunderstood, his desire thus frustrated. had he seen her while he was restlessly and moodily pacing the lawn and been able to read what was passing within her, he might have arrived at a better understanding of the position of affairs; and had he witnessed a scene which was presently to take place between mrs. grantham and his sister charlotte, it would not have assisted in comforting him. mrs. grantham was alone in her room. it was charlotte's birthday, and she was looking in her trunk for a gift she designed to give her friend, a brooch of turquoise and pearls which she herself had worn as a young girl. the brooch was in a desk which lay at the bottom of the trunk, and it was seldom she opened it, for it contained mementos of the past which it pained her to handle; but they were dear to her despite the pain they caused her, and she would not have parted with them for untold gold. lifting the desk from the trunk, she rose with it in her hands and seated herself at a table. the deep sorrow of her life had left its traces on her face, had touched her eyes with an abiding sadness; but a delicate beauty dwelt there still. charlotte, who had insisted upon being her handmaiden, and had begged to be allowed to attend her when she retired to bed, would comment admiringly upon the graces of her person, comments which mrs. grantham would receive with gentle deprecation. until late years charlotte had known nothing of mrs. grantham, and was even now as ignorant of her history as she was of the close association which had existed between her and her brother. during the present visit a fond confidence was established between the women, and each knew that in the other she possessed a true and faithful friend. but mrs. grantham had not admitted charlotte into the secrets of her married life. the anguish and indignation which had tortured her soul when she learned from mr. fox-cordery that her husband was unfaithful to her had long since passed away. death had consecrated her grief, and had robbed it of its bitter sting. mrs. grantham unlocked her desk. in a small box, at the top of two or three packets of letters, were the brooch and a few ornaments she used to wear in happier days. she placed the brooch aside, and taking out the other articles of jewelry, gazed at them with yearning tenderness. they were chiefly gifts which her husband had given her during their courtship and the first few months of their marriage. since she had received the news of her husband's death from the lips of mr. fox-cordery she had not worn an ornament he had given her; and the only ring upon her fingers was her wedding ring, which had never been removed. but she had preserved them all, even the smallest article, and every letter he had written to her was in the desk, carefully folded and preserved. an impulse stirred her to untie the packets and read the endearing words he had addressed to her, and for a moment she was inclined to yield to it, but she went no farther than to place her fingers on the ribbon which held them together. with a sigh she replaced the packets in the desk, but not before she had put her lips to them. her husband, living, had sorely wronged her, but when she heard that he was dead she forgave him, and did not thereafter allow her thoughts to dwell upon any remembrances of him that were not tender and kind. he had sinned, and had suffered for his sin. she could not carry resentment beyond the grave. and he was the father of her child, the sweetest hope the world contained for her. when her trunk was repacked the turquoise and pearl brooch was not the only ornament she had retained, there was a ring of gold set with one black pearl which her husband used to wear. one day she had expressed admiration of it, and he had had it made smaller for her. she put it on her finger now, and pressed her lips to it. as she did so her eyes filled with tears. "may i come in?" it was charlotte's voice, following a tap at the door. "yes, come in, dear." charlotte entered, a different young woman from the last occasion upon which we saw her. she was neatly dressed, and her eyes were sparkling and her face radiant. "a happy birthday to you, dear," said mrs. grantham. "let me fasten this on." charlotte had never possessed a gold ornament of any kind, and her eyes fairly danced as she looked at herself in the glass. "for me, mrs. grantham? really for me?" "yes, dear. it was one i used to wear when i was a girl, and i thought you would like it." "like it! i shall love it all my life. do you know, mrs. grantham, it is the first brooch i have ever had!" "you don't mean that? and you twenty-nine to-day!" "yes, i am not a girl, as you were when you wore it. i am not at all sorry to be twenty-nine, for i think no one is happier than i am." the fact is charlotte had received this morning the tenderest letter from john dixon, wishing her happiness and every good on earth, he had bought a birthday gift for her (said john dixon), but it had required a little alteration, and to his annoyance the man who was making the alteration had disappointed him; but he was after him like a tiger (said john dixon), and she should have the token that very morning, or he would know the reason why. john dixon always wrote to charlotte in good spirits, and in this birthday letter he was at his blithest. "it takes very little to make you happy," observed mrs. grantham, looking rather thoughtfully at charlotte, who was exhibiting, not the pleasure of a woman at her gift, but the delight of a child. "do you call this very little?" asked charlotte, gayly. "i call it a great deal." "charlotte," said mrs. grantham, "did not your mother or your brother ever give you a brooch, or a bracelet, or any little thing of the kind?" charlotte was on her guard instantly. she had felt during the past few weeks that much depended upon her mother and brother, and that they expected her to speak of them at their best. therefore she was uncertain what to say in answer to mrs. grantham's straight question. "but tell me, dear," urged mrs. grantham, "did you never have such a gift?" "do not ask me," replied charlotte. "i must not say anything unkind." "it is an answer, dear," said mrs. grantham, with a pitying smile. "i have noticed that you never wear the smallest ornament." "nor do you; only your wedding ring. and now i declare you have another ring on! is it a pearl?" "yes, charlotte. it is a ring my husband gave me. i have not worn any jewels since his death, but i have a number in my desk." "and you have put it on to-day in remembrance." "yes, dear, in remembrance." she was on the point of saying that she did not wish to continue the subject, but she was reminded that this would afford charlotte a valid excuse for not giving her some information which she was now desirous to obtain. she had not been quite oblivious of the attentions which mr. fox-cordery was paying her, and although she had marked out her course of life, she had lately become not only curious concerning him, but doubtful. upon her first introduction to charlotte she had observed the menial dress the young woman wore, and the want of affection displayed toward her in her home. mr. fox-cordery and his mother had not been careful to disguise their feelings in her presence, and it was pity and sympathy for charlotte which had attracted her. she afterward learned to love charlotte for her own sake, and it was chiefly because of charlotte's pleadings that she had been induced to accept the invitation which led to her present visit. and in this closer association she had grown to love the young woman more. never before had charlotte the opportunity of unbosoming herself to one of her own sex, to one in whom she felt she could confide. in their walks together, she and her little clair and charlotte, constant evidences of charlotte's kindness of heart and humane instincts had presented themselves to her, and she more than once suspected that here was a well which never yet had had free play. the information that this little brooch was the first gift of any value that charlotte could call her own caused her to reflect. that a being so tender and kind should be treated with so much neglect gave her a shock. "dear mrs. grantham," said charlotte, "how you must have suffered when you lost your dear husband! i can imagine it. i should wish to die." "there was my little clair left to me, dear; and life means, not love alone, but duty. i am glad i lived to take care of my child. do you expect to be married soon, charlotte?" "some time this year, i think." "when in your position, dear, one thinks one generally knows. i should not be a false prophet if i said for certain this year." "i think it will be." "i have not seen your intended, dear." "he is noble and good," said charlotte, enthusiastically. "and loves you with his whole heart, as you love him." "yes, it is truly so." the women kissed each other. "you must introduce me to him," said mrs. grantham, "when he comes to london." "oh, but he is in london," said charlotte simply. "he lives here." mrs. grantham looked at her in astonishment. "but why does he not visit you?" charlotte's face grew scarlet; she dared not answer the question. "never mind, dear," said mrs. grantham, pitying her confusion; "but you understand that i wish to know him, for your sake." "i understand. mrs. grantham, i ought not to keep anything from you. the reason why mr. dixon does not come to see me here, is that he and my brother are not exactly friends. they had a disagreement in business, and that is how the trouble occurred. do not say anything to my brother about it; it might make him angry." "with me, dear?" "oh, no," said charlotte, without thinking, "he could not be angry with you." "with you, then?" said mrs. grantham, her mind half on charlotte and half on herself. "i don't know how it is," said charlotte, in a tone of distress, "but i seem to be saying things i ought not to speak of. if i were clever it would not happen." "you are clever, dear, and you are good; that is why i love you." "if i only thought that what i have said without intending it, and what perhaps i have made you think without intending it, wouldn't make you run away from us----" "i will not run away, charlotte. if you wish it, i will stay as long as i have promised." "i do wish it; with all my heart i wish it. i never had a friend like you; i never had a sister----" but here charlotte quite broke down; her sobs would not allow her to proceed. "there, there, dear," said mrs. grantham, soothing her. "tears on your birthday! why, charlotte, what are you thinking of? and with a true friend by your side----!" "i know, i know," murmured charlotte. "i am very ungrateful." "you are a dear, loveable young woman, and you have won my heart. and who knows whether i may not be able to help you just where you most need help? there is a knock at the door. don't move; no one must catch you crying, or they will have a bad opinion of me. i will go and see who it is." it was a maid with a little parcel for charlotte. "i was to give it to miss fox-cordery at once, ma'am," said the maid, "and i was told she was in your room." "she is here," said mrs. grantham, "and she shall have it immediately." the maid departed, and mrs. grantham locked the door, so as to be secure from intrusion. "something for you, dear. i guess a birthday present." "oh!" cried charlotte eagerly, starting to her feet and holding out her hand. "the question is, from whom," said mrs. grantham, with tender playfulness. "i know!" said charlotte, still more eagerly. "from your brother?" charlotte shook her head rather sadly. "from your mother?" another sad shake of charlotte's head. "they have given you something already, perhaps!" "no, mrs. grantham; i do not expect anything from them. they do not make birthday presents." "don't think i want to tease you; i only want to find out how i can best serve you. i will not keep you in suspense any longer. here it is, dear." charlotte opened the packet clumsily, her fingers trembled so, and disclosed a tiny note and a small jewel case. the note ran: my dear charlotte: accept this, with my fond and constant love. ever yours, john. the jewel case contained a ring of diamonds. the tears that glistened now in charlotte's eyes were tears of joy. "an engagement ring, i should say," said mrs. grantham, gayly. "i want more than ever to be friends with john. and it fits perfectly. now, how did john manage that?" her mood changed from gayety to tender solicitude. she drew charlotte to her side. "i wish you a happy life, dear. take a piece of advice from a friend who has had experiences: when you are married have no secrets from your husband. trust him unreservedly; conceal nothing from him. if you note any change in him that causes you uneasiness do not brood over it in silence; ask him frankly the reason, and if he is reluctant to give it, implore him to confide in you. in married life there is no true happiness unless full confidence exists between husband and wife. and if the man is true and the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow." "i will remember what you say, mrs. grantham. i hope fox will not be displeased. he is not friends with john, and i have never worn a ring; and this is so grand and beautiful----" "never meet trouble, dear. perhaps i shall have an opportunity of saying something to your brother to-day." charlotte looked at her and hesitated; there was something on her tongue to which she did not venture to give utterance. knowing it was her brother's wish to make mrs. grantham his wife, she wondered whether any words to that end had passed between them. to call mrs. grantham sister would be a great happiness to her, but she trembled to think of the price at which that happiness would be bought. the oppression to which she herself had been subjected in her home since her father's death rose before her. was such a fate in store for mrs. grantham? was it not her duty to warn her? but she dared not speak; she could only hope that nothing had been settled, and that her dear friend would be spared unhappiness. "of what are you thinking, dear?" asked mrs. grantham, perceiving that a struggle was going on in charlotte's heart. "of nothing," charlotte replied, and inwardly prayed for courage to warn her before it was too late. chapter x. in which mr. fox-cordery meets with a repulse. shortly afterward mr. fox-cordery saw mrs. grantham issue from the house and advance toward him. with conspicuous gallantry he went to meet her, and raised his hat. he was careful to omit no form of politeness and attention to establish himself in her regard. "i have come especially to have a chat with you," said mrs. grantham, declining the arm he offered her. "such old friends as ourselves need not stand upon ceremony." mr. fox-cordery looked upon this as a promising opening. "there is something i wish to say to you," he said boldly and tenderly, "if you will listen to me." "certainly i will listen to you. is it about business?" "it is of far more importance than business," he replied, with a significance of tone that could not fail to convey some perception of his meaning. she paused awhile before she spoke again, and then seemed to have arrived at a decision. "i wish to say a word about your sister." "dear charlotte!" he murmured, and could not have said anything, nor uttered what he said in a tone that would have been more fatal to his cause, even if she were willing to listen to it favorably. he had been his own enemy, and had forged the weapon that was to strike him down; for it was mrs. grantham's insight into the life charlotte must have led with him and her mother that had made her reflect upon the true nature of the man who had been for so many years her husband's friend and her own. the closer intimacy of the last few weeks had served him ill. mrs. grantham was a lady of much sweetness, but the trials she had passed through had taught her to observe and sometimes to suspect. "to-day is charlotte's birthday," she said. "charlotte's birthday!" he exclaimed. "how could we have overlooked it? charlotte's birthday! why so it is! i must wish her every happiness." he began to pick some flowers. "for charlotte," he said. "she will appreciate them. i have grown very fond of your sister." "you could not say anything to make me happier--except----" she nipped his tenderly suggested exception in the bud by continuing: "she has the most amiable nature in the world--" "no, no," he protested; "not the _most_ amiable nature in the world." "and is so sweet-tempered and self-sacrificing--" "she shares the best qualities of our family," he managed to get in. "that i am as anxious for her happiness as you yourself can be. she has had two birthday presents, which have given her great pleasure, one especially." ("confound her!" was mr. fox-cordery's thought, as he bent over a dwarf rose tree. "who has been making her birthday presents?") "i have given her a poor little brooch"--("that is one of the presents," thought mr. fox-cordery, "and clair has given her the other. of course, of course." he was content that the gifts should have come from mrs. grantham and her little girl)--"and mr. dixon," continued mrs. grantham, "sent her an engagement ring." mr. fox-cordery looked suddenly up. "mr. dixon!" he cried. "an engagement ring!" "yes," said mrs. grantham, ignoring his surprise, "a very beautiful ring. it is set with diamonds, and charlotte, you may depend, put it on her finger at once. she must never take it off, at least till she is married. we foolish women, you know, have superstitions." "charlotte has been telling you a great deal about mr. dixon," said mr. fox-cordery, striving to speak amiably, and not succeeding. "not a great deal; very little, indeed. it is only because i would have an answer to my questions that i learned anything at all. i have a common failing of my sex: i am intensely curious. and i am really annoyed, taking the interest i do in your sister, that i have not yet been introduced to mr. dixon. how is it that i have not been introduced to mr. dixon? put a little forget-me-not in your posy; it means remembrance." he obeyed her, and then took the bull by the horns. "mrs. grantham," he said, "inspired by a hope i have entertained for many years, you must not remain in ignorance of our family secrets. i do not blame charlotte for speaking to you about mr. dixon----" "no," she gently interposed, "you must not blame her. we chat together every night before we retire, and little things come out in our conversation. if you must blame anybody, blame me, for it is entirely my fault that i know anything of her engagement. i teased it out of her." "i regarded it as a family secret," he said. "the fact is--it pains me to make the statement--that neither my mother nor i quite approve of mr. dixon. you do not know him, and i do not wish to say anything against him. we are more likely to form a correct estimate of his character than charlotte. we have a wider experience of human nature." "granted. but charlotte has set her heart upon him, and he appears to have a very sincere love for her. but i am wrong, perhaps, in presuming to interfere in a matter which you say is a family secret. i was not aware of it when i commenced to speak to you. forgive me." "dear mrs. grantham," he said, "do not distress me by saying that you are wrong. you are right, entirely right, in everything you do. i only wished to explain to you why it is that mr. dixon does not visit us. we have charlotte's interests at heart, and if she insists upon having her way we shall not thwart her. our hope will be that her marriage will turn out better than we anticipate. it is true that we put her upon probation for a time. we desired her--you can ask her for confirmation of my statement--to wait for two months before she finally committed herself, and she consented to do so. and now, mrs. grantham----" "pardon me," interrupted mrs. grantham; "let me justify myself completely. in speaking to you about your sister, i was prompted by my affection for her; she is not a young girl, and can to some extent judge for herself. we will not discuss mr. dixon, who is represented to me in two opposite lights. let us hope for the best, and that her union with that gentleman will be a happy one. my own married life taught me much that brought sadness to my heart; i will pray that no shadow shall rest upon hers. but my sorrows have been softened by time, and i have a heavenly consolation in the love of my child, to whom, since i lost my husband, i have consecrated my life." "let that life," he said grandiloquently, "be consecrated to make another happy, as well as your darling child." "no," she said firmly; "i am fixed in my resolve to form no other ties. mr. fox-cordery, it would be a mere pretense for me to say i do not understand you. i beg you to go no farther--to say nothing more. you were my husband's friend; you are mine. let us remain friends." "but, dear mrs. grantham," he stammered, enraged and confounded at this unexpected repulse, "surely you must have seen, you must have known--the devotion of years----" either inability to proceed, or an expression in her face, restrained him here. "do not say what cannot be unsaid or forgotten. it will be best for both of us. clair and i have been very happy during our visit. if you wish to drive us away----" "no, no!" he cried; "you are cruel to make the suggestion. i do not deserve such a return. my mother would look upon it as an affront; and charlotte--you love charlotte----" he hardly knew what to say in his confusion; but he felt it would be quite fatal to his hopes if he lost his present hold upon her. "you do not deserve such a return," she said; "and not for worlds would i wound your mother's feelings or yours. it was only an hour ago that i promised charlotte not to curtail my visit; and i will promise you, if you will engage not to reopen the subject. let us forget what has passed. shall we exchange promises?" she held out her hand, and he deluded himself into the belief that he saw signs of softening in her face. as he took her hand his native cunning and coolness returned to him, and he was more than ever determined that she should not slip from him. he would be her master yet, and she should pay for her treatment of him. even as he held her hand in his, the skeleton of a scheme to force her compliance presented itself to his mind, fertile in schemes and snares. "i am almost inclined to be jealous of dear clair," he said, in a plaintive tone, "for she seems to stand in the way of my happiness." "you must not say that. if it were not for her, i might not be living this day. through her, i saw my duty clear before me. i live only for her and for her happiness. it is an understanding, then?" "yes," he said, "it is an understanding. excuse me now; i will go and give these flowers to charlotte." but he did nothing of the kind. he walked away, and when he was sure that no one saw him he tore the posy to pieces, and trod savagely upon the fragments, stamping at the same time upon every living thing beneath him that caught his eye. such acts of destruction and cruelty always afforded him satisfaction, and after a few minutes so occupied he devoted himself more calmly to the difficulties of his position. gradually a scheme formed itself in his mind, and he smiled at the thought that it would lead him to victory. he recalled the words mrs. grantham had spoken: "the love of her child is a heavenly consolation to her, and she has consecrated her life to the brat. she lives only for clair's happiness. if i prove to her how that happiness is imperiled, and that her infernal consecration will land her in the gutter .... yes, i see my way; i see my way!" but he saw not the nemesis that was following his footsteps, born of a base action he had committed without ruth or remorse. he thought it was dead and buried, and that a woman he had wronged--not the only one--was happily lost to him, if not to the world. neither did he bestow a thought upon robert grantham, nor upon the double deceit he had practiced upon husband and wife. in fancied security he paced a secluded path, meditating upon the new lie which would bring mrs. grantham to her knees, for the sake of the child she loved so well. chapter xi. little prue. who roxy was, what was his occupation, and whether he lived in a bygone age or was living at the present day, are matters which are not pertinent to our story, the course of which brings us, in a remote and indirect manner, to the knowledge that such a being once existed, or exists now. that he was responsible for the miserable dozen tenements known as "roxy's rents" may be accepted, as may be also the undoubted reason for his giving them the eccentric name they bore; the rents of the hovels he erected being lawfully his, if he could find tenants to occupy them. a stranger to the wretched ways of life of thousands upon thousands of poor people in such a city as london might reasonably have doubted the wisdom of spending money in the erection of such hovels; but roxy knew what he was about when he went into the speculation. a comprehensive knowledge of humanity's outcasts had taught him that the more dismal and wretched the habitations, the more likely it was that there would be numerous applicants for the shelter they afforded; and his wisdom was proved by the result, not a room in roxy's rents ever being empty longer than a day or two. the narrow blind alley lined by the hovels, half a dozen on each side, may be found to-day in all its desolation or wretchedness in the south of london, by any person with a leaning to such explorations. it is well known to the police, who seldom have occasion to go there, because, strangely enough, it is chiefly tenanted by people who work hard for a living, often without obtaining it. roxy himself, or his agent, who collects the rents regularly every saturday night from eight o'clock till past midnight, is very particular in his choice of tenants, which he is able to be by reason of the delectable tenements being in demand. there are numbers of landlords in more favored localities who would like to stand in roxy's shoes in this respect. the alley is some eight feet wide, and its one architectural embellishment is a kind of hood at its entrance, the only use of which is to deepen its darkness by day and night. there is no public lamp in roxy's rents, nor near it in the street, very little wider than the alley, in which it forms a slit; therefore the darkness is very decided in its character on foggy days and moonless nights. this has never been a subject of complaint on the part of the residents or the parish authorities--officers who, as a rule, have an objection to stir up muddy waters: by which inaction they show their respect for an ancient proverb, the vulgar version of which is, "let sleeping dogs lie." to one of the hovels in roxy's rents the course of our story takes us. the room is on the ground floor, the time is night, the persons in it are a woman and her child. the woman's name is flower; the name of her child, a girl of eight or nine, is prue, generally called "little prue." the apartment is used for every kind of living purpose--working, cooking, eating, and sleeping, it is furnished with an ordinary stove, one bed on the floor in a corner (a bedstead being a luxury beyond the means of the family), two wooden chairs, a child's low chair, the seat of which once was cane but now is hollow, a deal table, a few kitchen utensils, and very little else. on the mantelshelf are two or three cracked cups and saucers, a penny, and a much-faded photograph of two young women, with, their arms round each other's waists. there is a family likeness in their faces, and one bears a faint resemblance to mrs. flower. the paper on the walls hangs loose, and the walls themselves reek with moisture; the plaster on the ceiling has dropped in places, and bare rafters are visible. not a palatial abode, but the flowers have lived there for years, and it forms their home--a mocking parody on a time-honored song. mrs. flower is standing at the table, ironing clothes. she takes in washing when she can get it to do, having but few garments of her own to wash. mrs. flower was working with a will, putting her whole soul into the iron. the apartment was chiefly in shadow, the only light being that from one tallow dip, twelve to the pound. the candle was on the table, being necessary for the woman's work, and its rays did not reach little prue, who sat in the low hollow-seated chair by the bed. mrs. flower enlivened her toil by singing, or rather humming with bated breath, a most lugubrious air for which she was famous in her maiden days, but then it used to be given forth with more spirit than she put into it now. occasionally she turned to her child, who was sitting quite still with her eyes closed. there was a faint sickly smell of scorching in the room, proceeding from a wisp of carpet on the floor before the fire, upon which mrs. flower tested her hot irons. it had served this purpose so long that it was scorched almost to tinder. presently the woman broke off in her melancholy singing, and called softly: "prue!" no answer coming, she called again, "prue!" "yes, mother," said the child, opening her eyes. her voice was weak, as might have been expected from a child with a face so pale and limbs so thin. "i thought you were asleep, prue." "so i was, mother. why didn't you let me be?" "dreaming of things?" "oh, of sech things, mother! i was 'aving a feast of sheep's trotters." mrs. flower sighed. "there was a 'ole pile of 'em, and the 'ot pie man was giving pies away. i was just reaching out my 'and for one." "never mind, never mind," said mrs. flower, rather fretfully. "you talk as if i could get blood out of a stone." "do i, mother? i didn't know. i _am_ 'ungry!" "what's the use of worriting? didn't i promise you should have some supper? i'm going to ask mrs. fry to pay me for the washing when i take it home. i do hope she won't say there's anything missing. she always does; and when i ask her to look over the things again, she sends word she can't till the morning. that's how she puts me off time after time; but i'll be extra particular to-night. three dozen at one and nine--that's five and three. she don't often give out so much; that's luck for us, prue." "i say, mother?" "well?" "d'yer think father'll come 'ome? i 'ope he won't." "he won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you may depend on. go to sleep again, child, till i've finished." but little prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. rising to her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. the shelf was high, and prue was a very small child. it was only by tiptoeing, and running the danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished to know. stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side. "there's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother." "don't worry; how can i get on with my work if you do? it's father's penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so that he couldn't spend it till he came home." aside she said, with a sidelong look of pity at prue, "i daren't touch it!" "i'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded prue, plucking her mother's gown. "my inside's grinding away like one o'clock." mrs. flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered, "if i look sharp, i shall be back with the washing money before he comes in." stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from the mantel, and thrust it into prue's hand. "there; go and get a penn'orth of peas-pudding." "oh, mother, mother!" cried little prue joyfully, and was running out, when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned sooner than he was expected. mr. flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. however much he drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason, probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned. "hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder. "is the house on fire? where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?" "nowhere, father," replied prue, slipping her hand with the penny in it behind her back. "nowhere, eh? you're in a precious pelt to get there. what have you got in your hand?" "nothink, father!" "nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing prue with something more than suspicion. "no, father. wish i may die if i 'ave!" without more ado, mr. flower seized the little hand and, wresting the tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. looking toward the mantelshelf, he said: "stealing my money, eh, you young rat? who learnt you to tell lies?" "you did!" replied mrs. flower, stepping between them. she had finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was proceeding. "you did, you drunken vagabond!" "you shut up! as for you," he said, throwing prue violently on the bed; "you stop where you are, or i'll break every bone in your body!" "lay a finger on her," cried mrs. flower fiercely, "and i'll throw the iron at your head! don't mind him, prue; i'll soon be back." "ah, you'd better!" said mr. flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife, who was looking at him in anger. "what are you staring at?" "at you." "well, and what do you make of me?" "what i've made of you ever since the day i married you." "for better or worse, eh?" "for worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "i wonder why the lord allows some people to live." "here, that's enough of your mag, with your lord and your lord! what's your lord done for me? off you go, now!" but mrs. flower was not so easily disposed of. "have you brought home any money?" she asked. "money! how should i get money?" "why work for it, like other men, you----" she repressed herself, and, with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed. "work for it!" he cried, with a laugh, and immediately afterward turned savage. "well, ain't i willing?" "yes, you show yourself willing," said mrs. flower, bitterly; "hanging round public-houses, and loafing from morning to night!" "think i'm going to work for a tanner an hour?" demanded mr. flower. "not me! i'll have my rights, i will!" "while we starve!" "starve! when you can get washing to do, and live on the fat of the land! if i was a woman, i'd rejoice in such clean work." "and don't i do it? haven't i sat up night after night, wearing my fingers to the bone for you?" "for me? oh, oh! i like that!" "yes, for you," repeated mrs. flower, thoroughly roused. "and what's the good of it all? you drink away every penny i earn, you sot; and you call yourself a man!" "i'll call you something, if you don't cut your stick! i wonder what i married you for?" "i'll tell you. you married me to make me work for you; and you're not the only one that speaks soft to a woman till he's got her in his clutches. there ought to be a law for such as you." "law! talk of what you understand. there was your sister martha. ah, she was a girl! such eyes--such skin--such lips!" he smacked his own, in his desire to further aggravate her. "i was real nuts on her; and i'd have had her instead of you, if she hadn't took up with a swell. i hope she's found out her mistake by this time." "i dare say she has. we all do, whether we're married or not." she turned to little prue, who sat dumb during the scene, which presented no features of novelty to her; from her earliest remembrance she had been a witness of such. "i shan't be gone long," she whispered, kissing the child, "and then you shall have some supper." "mind you get the money for the washing, and bring it straight home!"--called mr. flower after her as she left the room. "selfish cat!" he slammed the door to. "never thinks of anyone but herself--never thinks of me! what are you sniveling at?" prue, now that her mother had gone, began to cry. "come here; i've got something to say to you. ain't i your father?" "yes, father." "and a good father?" "yes, father." "and a kind father?" "yes, father." "very well, then. how old are you?" "i don't know, father." "you don't know, father! you're old enough to get your own living, and here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. d'you see these!" he pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket. "yes, father." "what are they?" "matches, father." "count 'em. d'you hear me? count 'em." the child was reeling, and he shook her straight. "count 'em." "one--two--three--four--five--six." "six it is. now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches, and bring home tenpence for 'em. how are you going to do it, eh?" "i don't know, father." "don't give me any more of your don't knows. you've got no more sense than your mother; but i'm not going to let you grow up as idle and selfish as she is--not if i know it, i ain't. stop your blubbering, and listen to me. you go to charing cross station, you do, where all the lights are, and where everybody's happy. what are you shaking your head for?" "i don't know--i mean, i can't find my way, father." "i shall have to take you there; i'm only fit to be a slave. there you'll stand, with the lights shining on you. that'll be nice, won't it?" "yes, father." "nice and warm; and you get it for nothing, all for nothing. there's a treat i'm giving you! you stand in the gutter, mind that; and you ain't to look happy and bright. you're to try all you know to look miserable and hungry. do you hear?" "i'll try to, father." "ah, you'd better, or it'll be the worse for you! when an old gent or an old lady gives you a penny, don't you offer 'em a box; there's a lot of mean beasts that'd take it. you hold the boxes tight, and you bring me back not less than a bob for the six--not less than a bob, mind!" "yes, father." "here, i'll give you a lesson. blest if we don't have a rehearsal! stand there, in the gutter, and look miserable. i'm a gent. hold out your hand. 'here's a penny for you, little girl.' take it--quick! and hold on tight to the matches. the gent goes away. i'm an old lady. 'my poor child, what brings you out at such an hour?' what do you say to the kind old lady?" "father sent me out, please; and told me to stand in the gutter----" "shut up! you're a born fool! what you say is this. just you repeat after me. 'kind lady----'" "'kind lady!'" "'father's dead----'" "'father's dead!'" "'and mother's laying ill of a fever----'" "'and mother's laying ill of a fever!'" "'and baby's dying----'" "'and baby's dying!'" "''cause we ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday----'" "''cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!'" "that's more like it. and then you can begin to cry. have you got that in your head?" "yes, father." "come along, then, and step out. i'll keep my eye on you to see how you do it." taking little prue by the hand, he led her out of roxy's rents into the wider thoroughfares, to play her part in the sad drama of poverty that runs its everlasting course from year's end to year's end in this city of unrest. chapter xii. "drip-drip-drip!" as they issued from the hooded portal of roxy's rents, a woe-stricken woman approached the alley, and looked wearily around. dark as was the night, and though years had passed since she had visited the locality, she had found her way without inquiry; but her steps faltered at the entrance to the narrow court, and her manner was that of one who was uncertain of the errand she had undertaken. to resolve her doubts, she accosted a young girl about to pass her: "this is roxy's rents, isn't it?" "yes," replied the girl. "can you tell me if mrs. flower lives here?" "yes, the last house but one on the right; front room, ground floor." "is she at home, do you know?" "i don't know." "thank you." the girl went her way, singing; she was in her spring. the woman entered the alley, sighing; winter had come upon her too soon. when she arrived at the last house but one on the right, she seemed to be glad to see the glimmering of a light through the torn blind on the front window. the street door stood open, and she stepped into the dark passage, and paused before the door of the room in which mrs. flower lived. "janey!" she called, and listened for the answer. none reaching her ear, she entered without further ceremony. the candle, which mr. flower had inadvertently left alight, was burnt nearly to its socket, and the woman shivered as she noted the unmistakable signs of privation in the room. "it _is_ janey's place, i suppose!" she said, and looking toward the mantelshelf, saw there the faded photograph of herself and sister. "yes, it's all right." she took down the photograph, and gazed at it with a curl of her lip as rueful as it was bitter. "here we are together, janey and me, before . . . ." a shudder served to complete the sentence. "how well i remember the day this was taken! we had a week at the seaside, and stood together on the sands, as happy as birds. the sun was shining, the children were playing and laughing. if i had known--if i had known! i never see children laughing now, and i sometimes wonder if the sun ever comes out. i was good-looking then, and nicely dressed, and no one could say anything against me. but what's the use of thinking about it? thinking won't alter it." she had contracted a habit of speaking to herself, and was scarcely conscious that she was uttering audible words. "i don't mean to stand it long," she said presently. "i've come to london for something, and if he doesn't do what he ought to, i'll put an end to it. as i'm a living woman, i'll put an end to it! i don't care much which way it is. i've nothing to live for now!" she sat down and covered her face with her hands; the candle had been spluttering and, being now at its last gasp, went out. the woman was left in darkness. it suited her mood. the sound of water slowly dropping outside attracted her attention. she removed her hands from her face, and listened; as she listened she followed the rhythm with the sound of her voice. "drip, drip drip! drip, drip, drip!" the pattering of the drops and her accompaniment fascinated her. "drip, drip, drip!" she continued to murmur, and did not stop till another sound diverted her attention. the door of the room was sharply opened, and mrs. flower entered. the woman stirred in her chair. "is that you, prue?" asked mrs. flower. "stop a minute; i'll get a light." "no," replied the woman, "it isn't prue." "my god!" cried mrs. flower, "whose voice is that?" she groped for the end of a candle, and lit it; holding it up, she looked at her visitor, who had risen, and was facing her. "martha!" "yes, janey, it's me. you're not glad to see me, i dare say, after all these years." "how can you say that? how long have you been here, and where's prue?" "i've been here--i don't know how long, and there was no one in the room when i came in. who's prue?" "my little girl. where can she have got to? i forgot, janey. i didn't have a baby when----" she paused. "finish it," said martha. "when i ran away and disgraced myself." "o martha!" said mrs. fowler, throwing her arms round her sister and kissing her, "don't think i'm hard on you. god knows i've no call to be hard on anyone, least of all on you. we all make mistakes." "and have got to pay for them. thank you for your welcome, janey; it's more than i deserve." "you're my sister, and i love you, martha. sit down, sit down, and tell me everything. how often i've wondered what had become of you! but i'm worried about prue. i left her here with her father when i went out." "your husband's alive. that's a comfort." "is it? you wouldn't say so if he was yours. i suppose he's taken her into the streets with him. he's done it before, and got her to beg for him, the brute! it's no use my going out to find her; i shouldn't know where to look." "that tells a tale, and i am sorry for you, janey. i mightn't have come if i'd known; but i'd nowhere else to go to." "of course you came here. what a time it is since we saw each other!" "we haven't improved much, either of us," said martha. "i was hoping you were better off." "i might have been if my husband was a man. the truth must be told: i couldn't be worse off than i am, i left my prue hungry, and promised her some supper. i take in washing, martha, and there was five shillings due to me, but the woman wouldn't pay me to-night; i've got to wait till to-morrow, so prue will have to go to sleep on an empty stomach. it's hard lines on a sickly child, but what can i do?" "i can't assist you, janey. i've spent my last penny." "there's no help for it, then; we're in the same boat. but tell me where you've been all these years." "in manchester. it's a puzzle to me how i got here, but i made up my mind to come to london, to try and screw something out of the man who took me away from home. i've got his address, and i went to his house this afternoon. he was away in the country, they told me, but i couldn't get them to tell me where. there was a man saw me standing at his door after they'd shut it in my face, and he came up and asked if he could do anything for me, and whether i would mind telling him what i wanted with mr. fox-cordery, for that's the name of the villain that deceived me, but i said it was no business of his, and i walked away, and left him looking after me. i wandered about till it was dark, and then i thought i'd come and ask you to let me sleep here to-night. must i turn out?" "how can you ask such a thing? you're welcome to stop if you don't mind. this is the only room we've got, and i can't give you anything to eat because the cupboard's as empty as my pocket." "oh, i'm used to that! your heart isn't changed, janey." "i couldn't be hard to you if i tried; and i'm not going to try. in manchester you've been? you disappeared so suddenly and mysteriously----" "yes, yes; but we were carrying on together long before i went away. he wanted to get me out of london, away from him, you know: he was tired of me, and i wasn't in the best of tempers; he got frightened a bit, i think, because i said if he threw me over i'd have him up at the police court when my baby was born. he's a very respectable man--oh, very respectable!--and looks as soft and speaks as soft as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. but he's clever, and cunning, and sly, for all that, and he talked me over. i was to go away from london, and he was to allow me so much a week. he did for a little while, and sent it on to me in manchester. janey, when he first pretended to get fond of me he promised to marry me." "yes, they all do that, and women are fools enough to believe em." "i was, and i used to remind him of his promise. that was while i was in london. when i was in manchester he thought himself safe. then my baby came, and it cost him a little. i had to write to him for every shilling almost, and he'd send me a postal order without a word of writing to say who it came from. that made me wild, and i wrote and said if he didn't write me proper letters i'd come back to london and worry his life out of him. that pulled him up, and he did write, but he never signed his name. he just put 'f.' at the bottom of his letters; i've got them in my pocket, every one of them. well, then i got a situation as a shop-woman--they didn't know i had a baby, and i didn't tell them, you may be sure--and i put by a shilling or two. it was wanted, because his money dropped off. i lost my situation, and then i frightened him into coming to manchester to see me. he was as soft and smooth as ever, and he swore to me that i should never want; he took his oath on it, and i told him if he didn't keep it i'd make it hot for him. janey, you don't know the promises that man made to me when we first came together; it was a long time before i could bring myself to like him, but he spoke so fair that at last i gave way. and he played me false, after all. don't think that i wanted to sponge on him; if i could have got my own living in an honest way.--and i never intend to get it any other way; i'm not thoroughly bad, janey--i wouldn't have troubled him; but i couldn't. i have been in such misery, that if it had not been for my child i should have made away with myself long ago; but nothing keeps me back now. i have lost my child; it was buried by the parish." "hush, martha, hush!" "it's no use talking to me, janey. i can't live this life any longer; and if the man that's brought me to it won't help me, i've made up my mind what to do. nothing can change it--nothing. look at me; i've hardly a rag to my back. it's a rosy look-out, to-morrow is. if i had decent clothes and a pound in my pocket, i might get into service; but who'd take me as i am?" "you are changed from what you were, martha; you used to be as merry as a lark." "the lark's taken out of me long ago, and you haven't much of it left in you that i can see. i don't know that you're any better off than me, though you _are_ a respectable married woman; you've had to pay for your respectability. much comfort it brings you, according to your own reckoning! what water is that dripping outside?" she asked this question in the dark; the candle had gone out, and mrs. flower had no more. "the water-butt leaks." "drip, drip, drip--and then it becomes a large pool--i see it spreading out--large enough to drown one's self in!" "martha!" "which would be best, janey? that or what i shall be forced into if no one helps me? supposing i'm alive! there it goes--drip, drip, drip! it might be drops of blood. there isn't a sheet of water i've seen since my child died that hasn't seemed to draw me to it, that hasn't whispered, 'come, and end it!' when you wake up of a morning sometimes, aren't you sorry?" "i am, god help me!" "you've had a long sleep, and you've been happy; and you wake up--to this! wouldn't it be better never to wake up? drip, drip, drip! it's singing 'come, come, come!' it drips just to that tune." she began to sing softly, with a pause between each word, to keep time to the water, "come--come--come! let me alone, janey; don't lay hands on me. i'm all right for a day or two--i won't say for how much longer. i'll try and get some sleep." chapter xiii. in which rathbeal makes a winning move. on this same day rathbeal had met with adventures. there was a coffee shop in his neighborhood to which he was in the habit of going, two or three times a week, to have a cup of coffee and play a game of chess with the hoary proprietor. it belonged to a class of shops which once were a favorite resort for working people, but are now fast dying out; they are only to be found in second-class neighborhoods, and seem, as it were, to be striving to keep themselves out of sight, with a painful consciousness that they are relics of a bygone age, and have no business to be in existence. it cannot be said that they die hard, for there is a patient and sad resignation in their appearance, which in its humbleness and abasement is almost pathetic. the interior of these shops is as shabby and uninviting as their exterior. there are the narrow boxes which cramp the legs to sit in, the tables are bare of covering, the knives and forks are of ancient fashion, the crockery is in its last stage, and the once brilliant luster of the dominoes has quite disappeared, double one especially looking up with two hollow dead white eyes which cannot but have an inexpressibly depressing influence upon the players. the draughts and chessmen with their one wooden board are in a like condition of decay, and the games played thereon are the reverse of lively. there is another peculiarity which forces itself upon the attention. all the newspapers are old, some dating back several weeks, and they are allowed to lie about till they are in a condition so disgraceful that they are fit for nothing but lighting fires. these newspapers are never bought on the day of issue, but considerably later on, at less than a quarter their original price. thus it was that in the coffee shop to which rathbeal was in the habit of resorting there were always to be found two or three copies of the _times_, of dates varying from one to two months ago. on the day in question, rathbeal, while the hoary proprietor was fetching the chessmen and board, happened to take up one of these sheets and run his eyes down the columns. it was not news he was glancing at, but advertisements, and he was conning the first page of the newspaper. when the proprietor of the shop took his seat opposite to him and arranged his men, rathbeal, folding the paper neatly, laid it beside him on the table. then he proceeded to place his warriors, and the game was commenced. the proprietor was a slow player, rathbeal moved very quickly; thus it was that he had plenty of leisure to glance from time to time at the newspaper by his side. "check," he called, and turned his eyes upon the paper. a sudden color flushed into his face, caused by an advertisement he had up to this time overlooked. this was what he read: if mr. robert grantham, born in leamington, warwickshire, will call upon messrs. paxton and freshfield, solicitors, bedford row, london, he will hear of something to his advantage. rising hastily, he upset the chessboard. the proprietor looked up in surprise. "your game," said rathbeal, and then consulted the date of the newspaper. it was nearly seven weeks old. permission being given to him to make a cutting from the paper, he cut out the advertisement very neatly, and asked the proprietor whether he had a london directory in the shop. "i have one," said the proprietor, "but it is twelve years old." "that will do," said rathbeal. "lawyers are rocks." turning over the pages of the directory, he found the number in bedford row at which paxton and freshfield carried on their practice. wishing the proprietor good-day, he left the shop, and went straight to robert grantham's lodging. grantham was at home. "i have something to ask you, robert," he said, without beating about the bush. "were you born in leamington?" "yes," replied grantham. "leamington in warwickshire?" "yes." "then this concerns you," said rathbeal, and handed him the cutting. the expression on robert grantham's face was not one of pleasure; to be thus publicly advertised for seemed to cause him discomfort. he read the advertisement, and offered no remark upon it. "it was by chance," said rathbeal, "using your own term, for i do not admit that chance is a factor in our lives, that i came across it. the paper i cut it from is nearly two months old. what are you going to do about it?" "nothing," said grantham. "something to your advantage, it says. that sounds like money. you cannot afford to neglect it, robert." "i would rather have nothing to do with it." "gently, friend. how much coin have you in your pocket at the present moment?" "two small silver pieces and a few pennies. to be exact, one shilling and tenpence." "your rent is due to-morrow." "i shall earn it." "do not be too sure. if this advertisement means money for you, it becomes your duty to claim it." "how so?" "remember the penance you imposed upon yourself. you would spend for your own necessities only what was requisite for the plainest food; any money you had remaining should be devoted to the children of misery. you have nobly carried out your resolution. do you consider you have atoned for the sins and errors of the past?" "i could not atone for them if i lived twice my allotted span." "then the right is not yours to throw away this money. it belongs, not to you, but to the poor, whose sufferings it would alleviate. neglect of the opportunity which now presents itself would become a crime. and why do you desire to let the matter rest? to save yourself a possible personal annoyance, you shrink from publicity; you tremble at the idea that some old friend or acquaintance may learn that you still live. i did not think you capable of such weakness." "i am reproved, rathbeal; but still i would rather not appear in the matter until the last moment, until it is certain that my appearance is necessary, and would benefit others. will you take this office of friendship upon yourself, and make inquiries for me at the lawyer's?" "willingly, if you will give me full powers. i must be prepared to show that i am acting for you." "draw up a paper, rathbeal. i will sign whatever you write." in his neat handwriting rathbeal drew out something in the shape of a power of attorney, which robert grantham signed. before he went upon his mission rathbeal made an appointment to meet grantham at nine o'clock that night; the appointment would have been made for an earlier hour, but grantham had some copying to finish and deliver, and the work could not be neglected. when rathbeal arrived at the offices of paxton and freshfield he asked to see one of the principals, and he heard a clerk tell another to see if mr. dixon was in. mr. dixon was not in, but mr. paxton was, and would see mr. rathbeal. "i have come about this advertisement," he said, showing the cutting to an old gentleman wearing gold spectacles. mr. paxton glanced at the advertisement, and said: "our partner, mr. dixon, has taken it in hand; he will return at four o'clock." "i will wait for him," said rathbeal, "but meanwhile you can perhaps give me some information concerning it." "i know very little about it," said the lawyer, cautiously. "mr. dixon is in possession of the full particulars. you are not mr. grantham?" he referred to the card rathbeal had sent in. "no, i am mr. grantham's friend and agent. i have authority to act for him." he produced the document grantham had signed. "it is drawn out and signed to-day, you see." "i see. how is it that so long a time has elapsed before answering the advertisement?" "it only came to mr. grantham's knowledge a couple of hours ago. would you object to inform me whether it is really something to his advantage, whether it means money?" "there is a small legacy left to mr. grantham, i believe, which he can obtain if the proofs are clear." a clerk knocked at the door, and entered. "mr. dixon has come in, sir." "show this gentleman to his room." being introduced to mr. dixon, rathbeal opened up his business, and observed signs of agitation in john dixon's face, which he construed unfavorably. with the signed document before him--which he examined, rathbeal thought, with suspicious attention--john dixon schooled himself presently to a more strictly professional method, but he did not immediately make any observation. "the document is genuine, sir," said rathbeal. "it was signed in my presence." "upon that point," said john dixon, with studious brows, "i must be quite certain. you are a stranger to me, and your name is strange; and you bring me startling news, mr. rathbeal. why did not mr. grantham come himself? are you aware that it is believed by his friends that he is dead?" "i know that it was his wish to be thought so, and i am acquainted with his reasons for a course of conduct which, without proper explanation, must be viewed with mistrust. as to the trouble i am taking, it is, i assure you, sir, not actuated by selfish motives. he has a strong disinclination to appear personally in the matter, and his motives could only be disclosed to friends in whom he has the most thorough confidence. i can satisfy you as to my respectability----" "i throw no doubt upon it, mr. rathbeal: you do not seem to understand that the intervention of a second party is quite useless. the principal must appear himself." "i accept your word, sir, but i would ask you whether the affair could not be conducted confidentially--without publicity, i mean. i have learnt that a small legacy has been left to mr. grantham. however small it is, it will be of great value to him: he is very poor, as i am myself." john dixon did a singular thing here. motioning rathbeal not to proceed at present, he arranged the papers on his table, put others in a desk, which he locked, opened a shut-up washstand and laved his hands, brushed his hair, put on his hat, and then asked rathbeal to give him the favor of his company in his private chambers, which were situated in craven street, strand. rathbeal consenting, they walked together from the office, and john dixon called a cab, in which they rode to craven street. on the road rathbeal would have continued to speak of the mission he had undertaken, but john dixon said, "wait till we get to my rooms; these confounded wheels make conversation difficult." his voice, as he made this observation, was entirely different from the professional voice he had adopted in the office; there was a frank heartiness in it which attracted rathbeal favorably, and he deferred to his companion's wish and said nothing more till they arrived at craven street. "sit down, mr. rathbeal," said john dixon. "let me offer you a cigar. now we can speak openly; i am no longer a lawyer; i am robert grantham's friend. you look surprised. i have a very close interest in the news you have brought me, and if you have spoken the truth--pardon me for saying this; i am justified by the nature of the circumstances--i may be able to serve him, and shall be glad to do so. if i understand aright, you and he are intimate friends." "we have been intimate friends for years. there is no man living for whom i have a greater affection." "you state that the signature to the document empowering you to act for him is in his handwriting." "i saw him write it." "this very day?" "this very day. the date is on the paper." "could you take me to him?" "i could, but i would not do so without his permission." "we are both on guard, as it were, mr. rathbeal. i was robert grantham's schoolfellow." "that is a piece of news," said rathbeal, and added significantly, "he had other schoolfellows." "shall we say one especially?" "yes, we will say that." "whose name you know?" "whose name i know." "i am tempted to make a curious proposition to you, which if you accede to, and it turns out successful, may satisfy each of us that we may work together on behalf of one whose career has been unfortunate and unhappy." "make your proposition, sir." "one other of robert grantham's schoolfellows has been referred to. we will each write down his name on separate pieces of paper, which we will exchange. if the name is the same, we can proceed with our conversation with less reserve." "i agree, sir," said rathbeal, and wrote the name that was in his mind. john dixon did the same, and when they exchanged papers they saw that the name they had penciled was "fox-cordery." "could we exchange opinions of this gentleman on the same plan?" asked john dixon. "i will give you mine, sir, byword of mouth. the gentleman, as you call him, is a reptile in human shape. to touch his hand in friendship is a degradation." "the terms are strong, but he has proved deserving of them. the peculiar circumstances of my connection with him would have made the expression of my opinion more temperate. you must be aware of the imperative necessity of carrying the disclosure of the existence of robert grantham to other ears, even though he persists in keeping himself in concealment." "no, sir, i am aware of no such necessity," said rathbeal. "for reasons best known to himself, mr. fox-cordery desired the death of mr. grantham. some short time since, disturbed probably by something that had come to his ears, he paid me a visit to assure himself that mr. grantham was not of this world. i refused to betray the confidence reposed in me by my friend, and mr. fox-cordery went away no wiser, for any information he received from me, than he came." "are you quite honest," said john dixon rather sternly, "in saying that you are not aware of the necessity for mr. grantham making his existence known to certain persons?" "perfectly honest, sir. mr. grantham is alone in the world; no one has the least claim upon him, and whatever judgment you may pass upon him, he has a distinct right to do as he pleases with himself and his identity." "have you no thought for his wife and child?" asked john dixon. "do you really maintain that a husband and a father has the right to assist by his own premeditated action in the lie that his wife is a widow and his child an orphan?" "i should be sorry to maintain an assumption so monstrous. we cannot assist each other by playing at cross-purposes, which is what we appear to be doing. mr. grantham, i repeat, is alone in the world. he has no wife and child." "he has no wife and child!" exclaimed john dixon, in amazement. "unhappily, he has lost them, and it is the distressing circumstances of this sad loss that has made him what he is--an outcast on the face of the earth. as we have gone so far, sir, i may tell you that mr. grantham has no secrets from me. he has revealed to me all the sorrowful circumstances of his life, and he has drained the bitter cup of agony and remorse. i trust to you, sir, to keep this confidence sacred. you have wrung it out of me, and it must go no farther. if mr. grantham consents to see you, and if then he confides to you what he has confided to me, you will receive from him a full verification of my statements. will you now, sir, give me the particulars of the legacy that has been left to him?" it was impossible for john dixon to doubt that rathbeal was speaking without guile or deceit. his manly, sympathetic voice, the frankness of his manner, and his honest look carried conviction with them. "we will speak of the legacy presently," he said. "there is a mystery here which must first be cleared up. from whom did you receive the information that mr. robert grantham's wife and child were dead?" "from his own lips." "how did he obtain the information?" "it came through mr. fox-cordery." "do you tell me this seriously," asked john dixon, pale with excitement, "or are you inventing a fantastic and horrible tale for some purpose of your own?" "i have no purpose of my own to serve," replied rathbeal. "i am here to serve a noble and suffering man, who erred grievously in years gone by, and who is now passing his life in the work of expiation. your words, your manner, point to a mystery indeed--a mystery it is out of my power to pierce. i scarcely know what to say, what to think. you could not demand from me a sacrifice i would be unwilling to make if i could assist in bringing comfort to my friend's heart. trust me, sir; i am worthy of trust. do not speak to me in metaphor; but explain to me the meaning of words i cannot at present understand." during the last few moments there had dawned upon john dixon a light in which mr. fox-cordery's villainous duplicity was to some extent made clear, and he resolved to avail himself of rathbeal's assistance to bring him to justice. a husband who believed that those he loved were in their grave, a wife who believed herself widowed, a child who believed she was an orphan--the figures of these three wronged beings rose before him, and appealed to him to take up their cause and bring the truth to light. "if i were to tell you," he said slowly, "that i have this day written to robert grantham's wife, informing her of the legacy left to her husband, and asking for her instructions thereon, what would you say?" hitherto rathbeal had preserved his calmness, but it was his turn now to exhibit agitation. "you have written to robert grantham's wife!" he exclaimed. "to robert grantham's wife, who is in her grave!" "she lives," said john dixon, "and is now, with her child, in mr. fox-cordery's house." "the child's name, clair?" "the child's name, clair," said john dixon. "the time for concealment is over; plain-speaking is now the order of the day, and justice our watchword. tell me all you know; you shall receive a like confidence from me." thereupon the men related to each other all they knew of husband, wife, and child; and when their stories were told mr. fox-cordery's wiles were fully exposed. uncertain on the spur of the moment what action it was advisable to take, they pledged each other to secrecy for two days, by which time they would have devised a plan to unmask the traitor. their reason for resolving not to communicate their discoveries immediately to robert grantham was that they feared he would do some rash action which would put mr. fox-cordery on his guard, and give him an opportunity to crawl out of the net he had woven around these innocent beings, and which now was closing round himself. cooler brains than his should devise a fitting means of exposure, and should bring retribution upon the traitor and schemer. this decided, they talked of minor matters affecting the main issue. john dixon expressed a wish to see robert grantham without himself being seen--for even now at odd moments a kind of wondering doubt stole upon him whether all he had heard was true--and rathbeal, ripe in expedients, suggested the way to this. "at ten o'clock to-night," he said, "come to the entrance to charing cross station, and i will pass you in the company of robert grantham; then you will have an opportunity of seeing him. do not accost us; but having satisfied yourself, take your departure. i can easily manage to bring grantham to the spot, and to-morrow i will call upon you at any hour you name." upon this understanding they separated, rathbeal well satisfied with his day's work, and glowing with anticipation of the enemy's overthrow. "you do wrong to make enemies, shrewd sir" (thus his thoughts ran); "they are more zealous against you, more determined for victory, when they scent the coming battle. you are a fool, shrewd sir, for all your cleverness. your sun is setting, and you see not the shadows beyond. but the veil shall soon be drawn by willing hands. with what truth could robert say: "i, as thou knowest, went forth, and my heart with sorrow oppressed, where ruthless fate had bestowed what i needed for life and rest. we are but instruments in the hands of fate. sooner or later the ax shall fall." he had an idle hour before his appointment with robert grantham, and instinctively he had turned his steps in the direction of mr. fox-cordery's house. as he walked on the opposite side of the street he saw a miserably-clad woman, whose face, equally with her dress, was a melancholy index to her woeful state, standing at the door, exchanging words with a servant who had responded to her knock. crossing the road, he heard something of what was passing between them, and learned that mr. fox-cordery was in the country. closer contact with the woman disclosed more plainly to him that she was destitute and in sore trouble, and he was particularly struck at the half-defiant and wholly reckless tone in which she spoke. the door was shut upon her, and she was left standing in the street. then he observed that she directed a threatening and despairing look at the house; and, as she was walking slowly away, he went up and asked her if he could be of any assistance to her, and whether she would tell him what she wanted with mr. fox-cordery. it was martha he accosted, but she would have nothing to say to him. bidding him sullenly to mind his own business, she quickened her steps to a run and disappeared. he reproached himself afterward for not hastening after her, and tempting her with a bribe; for he felt that the woman had some bitter grievance against mr. fox-cordery, and that she could have been of assistance in bringing him to bay. but he shrugged his shoulders, muttering "what is, is; what will be, will be," and followed in the direction she had taken, without, however, seeing her again. chapter xiv. do you remember billy's last prayer? at ten o'clock that night rathbeal and robert grantham were at charing cross station, as he had engaged they should be. he had no difficulty in wooing grantham to the neighborhood, in which they had taken many a stroll on leisure nights. he had given his friend an unfaithful version of his interview with the lawyers, saying there was a difficulty in obtaining the information he required, and that he was to call upon them again to-morrow. "there is a small sum of money attaching to the business," he said, "but we must wait for the precise particulars. it is likely you will have to put in an appearance." "i will do whatever you advise," said grantham, "but assist in keeping me out of it till the last moment." rathbeal promised, and they strolled to and fro, westward to trafalgar square, eastward not farther than buckingham street, conversing, as was their wont, on the typical signs of life that thronged this limited space. robert grantham was always deeply impressed by these signs which, in their contrasts of joy and misery, and of wealth and poverty, furnish pregnant pictures of the extremes of human existence. grantham was saying something to this effect when he paused before a white-faced, raggedly-dressed child--no other than little prue--who had some boxes of matches in her hands, and was saying to a woman who had also paused to observe her: "kind lady! father's dead, and mother's laying ill of a fever, and baby's dying 'cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!" the woman gave little prue a penny, and the next moment a man stepped to her side and snatched the penny from her hand, the child making no objection. "a suggestive scene," said rathbeal. "the brute is the girl's father, i suppose, and she stands there in the gutter by his directions, probably repeating the speech he has drilled into her. does not such a picture tempt you not to give? is it not almost a justification for the existence of institutions which contend that beggary is a preventable disease?" "not in my eyes," replied robert grantham. "i have no sympathy with anti-natural societies, organized for the suppression of benevolent impulse. the endeavor to deaden charitable feeling, and to inculcate into kindly-hearted people that pity must be guided by a kind of mathematical teaching, is a deplorable mistake. carry such a teaching out to its natural end, and the sweetest influences of our nature would be lost. seeing what i have seen, i would not give to that poor child, but i would take her away from the brute: and the first thing i would do would be to set her down before a hot, wholesome meal. poor little waif! see, rathbeal, the brute is on the watch on the opposite side. now, if providence would take him in hand, and deal out to him what he deserves, we might give the child a foretaste of heaven." rathbeal, looking to the opposite side of the road, saw john dixon approaching them, and in order that he should have a clear view of grantham he took his friend's arm, and proceeded onward a few yards to a spot which was brilliantly lighted up. john dixon passed them slowly, and exchanged a look of recognition with rathbeal, which grantham did not observe. "it is time to get home," said rathbeal, who, now that john dixon was gone, saw no reason to linger. "a moment, rathbeal," said grantham. "i can't get that child out of my head. is there no way of doing her an act of kindness without the intervention of the brute?" little prue had just finished another appeal in a weak, languid voice, addressed to no one in particular. she appeared to be dazed as the words dropped slowly from her bloodless lips. she could scarcely keep her eyes open; her frail body began to sway. "she is fainting," said rathbeal hurriedly; "the child is overpowered by want and fatigue." the brute on the opposite side saw this also, and he started forward, not impelled by pity, but with the intention of keeping little prue's strength in her by means of threats. a judgment fell upon him. it was as if providence had heard what robert grantham said, and had taken him in hand; for as he was crossing the road in haste he got tangled in a conflict of cabs and omnibuses, and was knocked to the ground. rathbeal darted forward to see what had happened to him, while grantham, taking little prue's hand, said some gentle words to her, which she was too exhausted to understand. a great crowd had assembled on the spot where the brute had fallen, and rathbeal, returning, whispered to grantham that he had been run over. "what are they doing with him?" asked grantham. "they are carrying him to charing cross hospital." "he will be all right there. if we want to inquire after him we can do so to-morrow. let us look after the child." she needed looking after; but for grantham's sustaining arm she would have sunk into the gutter. "i know the hospital to take her to," said grantham, "and the medicine she needs." with little prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street, accompanied by rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. the swift motion through the air had done something to revive little prue, the tea and food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only one who was famished could. the men looked on in wondering pity, and did not interrupt her engrossing labors. it was not until nature was satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed into her eyes. "what's the matter, child?" asked robert grantham. "father'll be the death of me!" she replied. "don't be frightened; he will not hurt you." "are you sure, sir? you don't know father!" "i am quite sure; we have seen him." this satisfied little prue, and the look of terror changed to one of gratitude. "thank yer kindly, sir," she said. "i think i should 'ave died if i 'adn't 'ad somethink to eat. it's a long time since i had sech a tuck-out. i couldn't eat another mouthful if i tried." "and now, child, tell us where you live, and whether you have a mother." "oh, yes, sir, i've got a mother; and i live in roxy's rents." "i've heard of the place," said rathbeal; "it's in lambeth. we will see the little one home." "thank yer, sir. i don't think i could find my way without father. oh!" she cried, looking about distressfully, "where's my matches?" they had dropped from her hands when she was falling, and the friends had not stopped to pick them up. "never mind your matches." "but father'll wollup me if i don't sell 'em before i go 'ome! i can't go 'ome till i've got a shilling!" "you shall have the shilling. here it is. we will take care of it till we get to roxy's rents, and you shall give it to your mother. what is your name, child?" "prue, sir; little prue." robert grantham laid his hand on rathbeal's arm. "little prue!" he said. "that is poor billy's sweetheart, that he spoke of with his dying breath." he addressed the child: "did you know a poor boy called billy?" "oh, yes, sir; we used to play together. he sed he'd marry me when he grew up, if he could get a suit of clothes. what's become of billy, sir? i ain't seen 'im for a long time." "he is happier than he was, my child," said grantham; "all his troubles are over." "i'm glad to 'ear that, sir. i wish mine and mother's was." "they will be, one day. now, child, we must be moving." little prue rose and put her hand in grantham's and they left the restaurant. they rode to lambeth by 'bus and tram, and then, being in streets familiar to her, little prue conducted them to roxy's rents. her mother's room was in darkness. "are yer coming in, sir?" "yes; we will see your mother before we leave you." "mother, mother!" cried prue, opening the door. mrs. flower started up and, running to the door, caught her child in her arms. "o prue, prue! where have you been? i was afraid you were lost!" "i should 'ave been, mother, if it 'adn't been for the gentlemen." "the gentlemen?" she could not see them. "do not be alarmed," said robert grantham. "your little one was not well, and we brought her home. she is all right now." "you're very good, sir; i'm ever so much obliged to you." "oh, mother, i've 'ad sech a supper! did yer get the money for the washing?" she was accustomed to take her part in these domestic matters, which were, in a sense, vital. "don't worry, child, before the gentlemen." "but did yer, mother?" persisted little prue, thinking of the chances of food for to-morrow. "no. there, child, let me alone." "have you a candle in the place?" asked grantham, suspecting the state of affairs. "no, sir. i am really ashamed----" "we owe your little one a shilling for some matches," said grantham, pitying her confusion, and slipping the money into her hand. "is it too late to buy some candles?" he would have taken his departure under these awkward circumstances, but he considered it his duty to tell mrs. flower of the accident that had happened to her husband. "one of the lodgers will sell me one, sir, if you don't mind waiting." "we will wait." "martha!" called mrs. flower; but martha was asleep, and did not speak. "it's my sister, sir; i thought she might be awake. i won't be gone a minute." she ran to another room, and obtaining the candle, returned with it alight. her visitors sighed at the misery it displayed. martha's arms were spread upon the table, and her head rested upon them. prue pulled her mother's dress. "who is she, mother?" "your aunt martha." prue went to the sleeping woman, and tried to get a glimpse of her face. "i have bad news to tell you about your husband," said grantham, speaking low, so that the child should not hear. "he has met with an accident, and has been taken to charing cross hospital." he broke the news to her in a gentle voice, and she received it without emotion. her husband had crushed all love for him from her breast long since, and she had felt for years that it would be a happy release if he were dead. "is he much hurt, sir?" she asked, with tearless eyes. "i do not know. he was knocked down by a cab, and was carried to the hospital at once. he will be better cared for there than here." "yes, sir; i have no money to pay for doctors. did prue see the accident?" "she knows nothing of it." "drip--drip--drip! oh, god! will it never stop?" it was martha who was speaking. the men were awed by the despairing voice. "it's my sister, sir; i told you, i think. she came upon me quite sudden to-night. i haven't seen her for years. she's in trouble. martha, martha!" she shook the woman, who started wildly to her feet and looked this way and that with swift glances, more like a hunted animal than a human creature. rathbeal uttered an exclamation. it was the woman he had seen that afternoon standing at mr. fox-cordery's door. "fate!" he said, and advanced toward her. a violent spasm of fear seized martha, and shook her in every limb. crazed perhaps by her dreams, or terrified by the suspicion of a hidden evil in the appearance of rathbeal, whom she instantly recognized, and who must have tracked her down for some new oppression, she retreated as he advanced, and watching her opportunity, rushed past him from the room, and flew into the dark shelter of the streets. they gazed after her in astonishment, and then followed her into the alley, and thence into the wider thoroughfare, but they saw no trace of her. "her troubles have driven her mad," said mrs. flower, "and no wonder. how she's lived through them is a mystery. she's in such a state that i'm afraid she'll do herself a mischief." "i intended her no harm," said rathbeal. "i saw her once before to-day, and if my suspicions are well founded, it may be in my power to render her a service, even to obtain some kind of justice for her, if her troubles are caused by a man." "a man, you call him!" said mrs. flower, with bitter emphasis. "do you know him?" "i heard his name for the first time to-night." "is it fox-cordery?" in the dark he felt robert grantham give a start, and he pressed his arm as a warning to be silent. "that's the villain that's brought her to this; that took her away from her home and disgraced her, and then left her to starve. if there's justice in heaven, he ought to be made suffer for it." "there's justice in heaven," said rathbeal, "and it shall overtake him. your sister needs a man to champion her cause; i offer myself as that man. without a powerful defender, the reptile who has brought this misery upon her will spurn and laugh at her. it is too late to talk together to-night; your child is waiting for you, and your sister may return at any moment. after a night's rest, she will listen to me--will believe in me. may i call upon you to-morrow morning early?" "yes, sir, as early as you like. i get up at six. you speak fair, and you've been kind to prue. god bless you for your goodness! i shall have to go to the hospital in the morning, but i'll wait at home till ten for you." "very well. meanwhile, this may be of service to you." he gave her two shillings, and wishing her goodnight, the friends took their departure. "what does all this mean, rathbeal?" asked robert grantham. "i am wrapt in mystery." "you trust me, robert?" "i would trust you with my life." "then believe that i have my reasons for keeping silence to-night. before long the mystery shall be explained to you. i am working for your happiness, robert." "for my happiness?" echoed grantham, with a groan. "you are not a skeptic? you believe in eternal mercy and justice?" "i do, god help me!" "hold fast to that belief. the clouds are breaking, and i see a light shining on your life. do you remember poor billy's last prayer?' o lord god, give mr. gran all he wants, and a bit over!' the lord of the universe heard that prayer. ask me no questions, but before you go to bed to-night pray with a thankful heart; for the age of miracles is not yet over, robert, my friend." chapter xv. friends in council. rathbeal presented himself at mrs. flower's room as the clock struck nine. in anticipation of his visit, the woman had "tidied" up the apartment, and little prue looked quite neat, with her hands and face washed, and her hair properly combed and brushed. rathbeal's two shillings had enabled them to have a sufficient breakfast, and the child, naturally shy, raised her eyes gratefully to her benefactor. "well, little one," he said, pinching her cheek, "do you feel better this morning?" "oh, ever so much, sir!" replied little prue. he looked round for martha, and mrs. flower told him sorrowfully that her sister had not come back. "i shall be worried out of my life till i see her, sir," she said. "we will try and find her for you," he said. "and now tell me everything you know concerning her." she related all that she had learned from martha; and when she had done he plied her with questions, which she answered freely. having obtained all the information it was in her power to give him, and leaving his address with her, he rode to craven street, his appointment with john dixon having been made for an early hour. he was received with cordiality all john dixon's suspicions being now quite dispelled. "i recognized robert grantham the moment i saw him," he said, "thanks to his wearing no hair on his face; but it bears the marks of deep suffering." "he has passed through the fire," said rathbeal. "i have more news for you. another weapon against mr. fox-cordery is placed in our hands." with that he gave an account of his adventures with martha and little prue, to which john dixon listened with grave attention, and then said he had also news to impart. "it will be necessary, i think," he said, "to strike earlier than we expected. you will be surprised to hear that i expect shortly to be connected with mr. fox-cordery by marriage. i have no wish to spare him on that account, but for the sake of my intended wife i should wish, if possible, to avoid a public exposure. justice must be done to robert grantham and his wife and child--that is imperative; and if we can compel mr. fox-cordery privately to make some reparation to the poor woman who has so strangely been introduced into this bad business, so much the better. it is likely, however, that she will disappear from the scene; my opinion is that she will not return to her sister. so far as she is concerned, there is no law to touch her betrayer: her case, unhappily, is a common one, and he can snap his fingers at her; and, moreover, if she personally annoy him, he can prosecute her. but he may be willing to sacrifice something to prevent his name being dragged into the papers. as for any punishment he may have incurred for his infamous conduct toward the granthams, the choice of visiting it upon him must be left to your friend. speaking as a lawyer, we have no standing in the matter: it is not us he has wronged; we are simple lookers on." "may i ask how you expect to be connected with mr. fox-cordery by marriage?" "there is now no secret about it. he has a sister, whom he has oppressed after his own brutal fashion since she was a child. that two natures so opposite as theirs should be born of the same parents is a mystery beyond my comprehension, but so it is. she is the personification of sweetness and charity, but i will not dilate upon her virtues. it is enough that i am engaged to be married to her, and that the engagement is viewed with intense dislike by her brother and her mother, both of whom would, i have not the least doubt, he rejoiced to hear that i had met my death in a railway accident or by some equally agreeable means. it is, i believe, chiefly because of her liking for my intended wife that mrs. grantham accepted the invitation of mr. fox-cordery to become a guest in the house by the river which he has taken for the summer months. besides, you must bear in mind that he is mrs. grantham's business agent, and that she is ignorant of his true character. i have an idea that her eyes are being opened, for i have received a letter from my intended this morning in which she informs me that mrs. grantham is in great trouble, and wishes to consult me privately. she asks me to meet her to-night near her brother's house, when i shall hear what the trouble is. i am prepared for some fresh villainy on the part of mr. fox-cordery, who has entertained a passion for mrs. grantham for years. he knew her in her maiden days, and would have paid open suit to her, but her love was given to robert grantham." "do you tell me that he desires to marry her now?" "i understand from charlotte--the name of my intended; i cannot speak of her as miss fox-cordery, there is something hateful in the name--that it is his ardent wish, and that he has set his heart upon it. that may be the reason for his taking the house by the river and for his wish to make mrs. grantham his guest there. part of a plan--and his plans are generally well laid. he hoped to bring his suit to a happy ending, for him, before the termination of her visit." "but robert grantham lives!" exclaimed rathbeal. "he believes him to be dead, remember; you yourself told me so." "yes, yes; i was forgetting for the moment. i see now why he came to me; the motive of all his actions is clear. but this must not be allowed to go on any longer. in justice to her, in justice to robert, the truth must no longer be withheld." "my own opinion: there has been but little time lost; it is only yesterday that you and i first met. my idea is, to bring matters to a conclusion this very night. i shall go to meet my intended, and hear what she has to say. i am not sure whether mrs. grantham will be with her. if she is not, i will not leave without an interview in which she shall learn the solemn truth. it will be a difficult task to prepare her for it, but it is a duty that must be performed. meanwhile you must prepare robert grantham for the wonderful happiness in store for him. do you think it advisable that we shall go down together?" "it will be best; and on our way we can determine upon our course of action. i imagine that we shall have to keep in the background until we receive an intimation from you to appear; but we can talk of all that by-and-by. i have paved the way with robert already, and he is now impatiently awaiting me. ah-ha! mr. fox-cordery, when you weave a web, nothing ever escapes from it! a stronger hand than yours has woven for you a web, and scattered yours to the four winds of heaven. i have tortured him already with letters, trusting to fate to aid me, and he stands, unmasked, defeated, disgraced for evermore." this outburst was enigmatical to john dixon, but time was too valuable for him to ask for an explanation. there was much to do, and every minute of the day would be occupied. he made an appointment to meet rathbeal and grantham in the evening, and they parted to go upon their separate tasks. chapter xvi mr. fox-cordery's master-stroke. mr. fox-cordery had made the move he had thought of to insure success. on the morning of the day that charlotte wrote to john dixon to come to her, he sent word to mrs. grantham that he wished to see her upon business of importance, either in his room or hers. she sent word back that she would see him in her apartment, and he went there to deal a master-stroke. her child clair was with her, and charlotte also; and he drew clair to him, and spent a few moments in endearments which manifestly did not give the girl any pleasure. he had not succeeded in making himself a favorite with her, and as soon as she could she escaped from him and ran to her mother's side. he was quite aware that clair was not fond of him, but he made no protest; the future should pay him for all. mrs. grantham and charlotte were both employed in needlework, and they did not lay it aside when he entered. "charlotte!" he said, sternly. "yes, fox," she answered. he motioned with his head to the door, indicating that she was to leave the room. charlotte rose immediately. "where are you going, charlotte?" asked mrs. grantham. he replied for her. "i wish to speak to you alone," he said. "take clair with you, charlotte, and go and gather some flowers." "you can speak before them," said mrs. grantham; "they will be very quiet." "yes, mamma," said clair, "we will be very quiet." "what i have to say is for your ears alone," he said, and he motioned again to the door. the masterfulness of the order did not escape mrs. grantham. she moved her chair to the window, which looked out upon the lawn, and from which she could also see the bridge. "go with charlotte, my dear," she said to clair, "but keep on the lawn, so that i can see you." "yes, mamma." "my dear mrs. grantham," commenced mr. fox-cordery, in a bland voice of false pity, "i have deplorable news to convey to you. a short time since, when i had the honor of making a proposal to you----" the look she gave him stopped him. "if you are about to renew that proposal, mr. fox-cordery, i must ask you to go no further. i gave you my answer then; it would be my answer now." "i am unfortunate in my choice of words," he said, losing the guard he had kept upon himself during her visit. "i did not wish to shock you too suddenly by disclosing abruptly what it is my duty, as your man of business, to disclose." "to shock me too suddenly!" she said, pausing in her work. "it was my desire. believe me, i am your friend, as i have ever been; make any call you like upon me, and you will not find me unwilling to respond. but to come down so low in the world, to lose one's all, to be suddenly beggared----" he put his hand to his eyes, and watched slyly through his fingers. her work dropped into her lap; her mouth trembled, but she did not speak. "it might have been borne with resignation," he continued, "if one did not have a beloved child to care for and protect from the hardships of a cruel world. in your place i can imagine how it would affect me, how i should tremble at what is before me. love is all-powerful, but there are circumstances in which it brings inexpressible grief to the heart. how shall i tell you? i cannot, i cannot!" he rose from his chair, and paced the room with downcast head, but he kept his stealthy watch upon her face all the time. he was disconcerted that she did not speak, that she uttered no cry of alarm. he expected her to assist him through the scene he had acted to himself a dozen times. he had put words into her mouth, natural words which should by rights have been spoken in the broken periods of his revelation; but she sat quite silent, waiting for him to proceed. "still, it must be told, and should have been told before. i grieve to say that you have lost your fortune, and that, unless you have resources with which i am unacquainted--and with all my heart i hope you have--your future and the future of your dear child is totally unprovided for." and having come to this termination, he threw himself into his chair with the air of a man whose own hopes and prospects were utterly blighted. she found her voice. "how have i lost my fortune, sir?" she asked with dry lips. her throat was parched, and her husky voice had a note of pain in it which satisfied him that he had succeeded in terrifying her. "you had the sole control of it." "alas, yes! how ardently do i wish that it had been in the control of another man, to whom you were indifferent, and who could have told you calmly what it shakes me to the soul to tell! i have also lost, but i can afford it; it is only a portion of my fortune that has gone down in wreck. i have still a competence left that makes me independent of the buffets of the world, that enables me to provide a home for those i love." "i fail to understand you, sir," she said, glancing from the window at her child, who was walking on the lawn with charlotte, and who, seeing her mother looking at her, smiled and kissed her hand to her. "you have not yet informed me how i have lost my fortune." "you made investments----" "acting upon your advice, sir." "true; i believed my advice to be good, and i invested part of my money also in the same stocks and shares. unhappily the papers you have signed----" "always by your directions, sir. you informed me that the investments were good, and that i need have no anxiety." "i cannot deny it; i was wrong, foolishly, madly wrong. i thought your fortune would be doubled, trebled. it has turned out disastrously, every shilling you possessed is lost. and, unhappily, as i was saying, the papers you have signed have involved you beyond the extent of your means. it racks me to think of what is before you, unless you accept the assistance which a friend is ready to tender you. a life of poverty, of privation for you and your dear child--it maddens me to think of it!" "for how long have you known this?" she asked faintly. it was the question he wished her to put to him. "i knew it," he said humbly, "when i made the proposal which you rejected. i knew then that you were ruined, and it was my desire to spare you. had you answered as my heart led me to hope you would have done, i still should have kept the secret from your knowledge until the day that made you mine, to love, to shelter, to protect. it is the truth, dear mrs. grantham--it is the truth, on the word of an honorable gentleman." he put his hand to his heart, and sighed heavily. "i cannot but believe you," said mrs. grantham, pondering more upon his manner than the words he uttered; it seemed to her as if a light had suddenly descended upon her, through which she saw for the first time the true character of the man she had trusted. "i cannot but believe you when you tell me i am ruined, and that starvation lies before me and my child." "alas!" he put in here. "your child, your dear clair!" "i had no understanding of business, and i relied implicitly upon you. i never questioned, never for a moment doubted." "nor i," he murmured. "am i not a sufferer, like yourself? does that not prove how confident i was that i was acting for the best? call me foolish, headstrong, if you will; inflict any penance you please upon me, and i am by your side to bear it." she shivered inwardly at the insidious tenderness he threw into his voice, but she was at the same time careful to conceal this feeling. she was in his power; her whole future was in his hands, and with it the future of her beloved clair. she had no other friend; she could not think of another being in the world whom she could ask for help at this critical juncture. it seemed as if the very bread she and her child ate from this day forth might depend upon him who had brought ruin upon them. "yes," he continued, "i will not desert you. a single word from your lips, and your misfortune will become a blessing." "is nothing left, sir?" she asked. "have i really lost everything?" "you are cruel to make me repeat what i have said, what i have endeavored to make clear to you. you have not only lost everything, but are responsible for obligations it is, i am afraid, out of your power to discharge. mrs. grantham, will you listen to me?" "i have listened patiently, sir. have you any other misfortunes to make clear to me?" "none, i am thankful to say. you know all; there is nothing to add to the sad news i have been compelled to impart. think only of yourself and your dear child." "i am thinking of her, sir." "she is not strong; she has not been accustomed to endure poverty. can we not save her from its stings? is it not a duty?" "to me, sir, a sacred duty, if i can see a way." "let me show you the way," he said eagerly. "dear mrs. grantham, my feelings are unchanged. even in your maiden days i loved you, but stifled my love and kept it buried in my breast when i saw that another had taken the place it was the wish of my heart to occupy. you gave to another the love for which i yearned, and i looked on and suffered in silence. is not my devotion worthy of a reward? it is in your power to bestow it; it is in your power to save dear clair from a life of misery. i renew the offer i made you. promise to become my wife, and the grievous loss you have sustained need not give you a moment's anxiety." the artificial modulation of his tones, his elaborate actions, and his evident desire to impress her with a sense of the nobility of his offer, filled her with a kind of loathing for him. it was as though he held out an iron chain, and warned her that if she refused to be bound she was condemning her child to poverty and despair. but agonizing as was this reflection, she could not speak the words he wished to hear; she felt that she _must_ have time to think. "what you have told me," she said, "is so unexpected, i was so little prepared for it, that it would not be fair to answer you immediately. my mind is confused; pray do not press me; in a little while i shall be calmer, and then----" "and then," he said, taking up her words and thinking the battle won, "you will see that it is the only road of happiness left open to you, and you will give me a favorable answer. we will tread this road together, and enjoy life's pleasures. shall we say this evening?" she shook her head. "to-morrow, then?" "give me another day," she pleaded. "till the day after to-morrow, by all means," he said gayly. "it would be ungallant to refuse. but, dear mrs. grantham--may i not rather say dear lucy?--it must be positively the day after to-morrow. i shall count the minutes. to be long in your society in a state of suspense, or in the knowledge that you refuse to be mine, would be more than i can bear." she silently construed these words; they conveyed a threat. if in two days she did not give him a favorable answer, she and clair would have to leave the house at once, and go forth into the world, stripped and beggared. "and now i will leave you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "do not look at the cloud, dear lucy--look only at the silver lining." he was about to go, when she said: "mr. fox-cordery, if i wish to speak to a friend, can i do so here, in your house?" "why, surely here," he replied, wondering who the friend could be, and feeling it would be best for him that the meeting should be an open and not a secret one. "where else but in the home in which you are mistress?" she thanked him, and he kissed her hand again, and looked languishingly at her lips, and then left her to her reflections. she locked her door, and devoted herself to a consideration of her despairing position. she tried in vain to recollect what papers she had signed; there had been many from time to time, and she had had such confidence in the man who had managed her husband's affairs, and since his death had managed hers, that when he said, "put your name here, where my finger is, mrs. grantham," she had grown into the habit of obeying without reading what she signed. the longer she thought, the more she grew confused. there was but little time for decision, scarcely two days. where could she turn for counsel? where could she find a friend who might be able to point out a way of escape? she stood at the window as she asked these questions of herself, and as her eyes wandered over the prospect they lighted upon charlotte. the moment they did so she thought of john dixon. the questions were answered. she would implore charlotte to bring about an interview with him. under ordinary circumstances she would not have dreamt of asking a sister of mr. fox-cordery to assist her in opposing his wishes, but the circumstances were not ordinary. these last few days mr. fox-cordery and his mother had thrown off the mask in their treatment of charlotte, and mrs. grantham had noticed with pain the complete want of affection they displayed. she had spoken sympathetically to charlotte of this altered behavior, and charlotte had answered wearily that she had been accustomed to it all her life. the pitiful confession made mrs. grantham very tender toward her, and she consoled charlotte with much feeling. then charlotte poured forth her full heart, and it needed but little persuasion to cause her to relate the story of her lifelong oppression. the bond of affection which united the women was drawn still closer, and they exchanged confidences without reserve. now, in her own hour of trouble, mrs. grantham sought charlotte, and confided to her the full extent of the misfortune that had overtaken her. "if i could see your john," she said, "he might be able to advise me perhaps." "i will write to him," said charlotte impulsively; "he will come at once." and so it was arranged. a little later, mrs. grantham said: "i must not anger your brother by meeting john secretly. you shall meet him, and ask him to come and speak to me here in my own room." "but may he?" inquired charlotte. "your brother has given me permission to receive in this house any friend i wish to consult. there is no one else in the world whose advice i can rely upon; i am sure your john is a true and sincere gentleman. will it make any difference to you, charlotte, if your brother discovers that you have assisted to bring about this meeting?" "none," replied charlotte, in a decided tone. "i ought to know him by this time. he made me a half-promise that he would give me a little money to buy a few clothes, but the way he has behaved to me lately proves that he has no intention of helping me. i shall have to go to john as i am." then the women spent an hour in mutual consolation, and exchanged vows that nothing should ever weaken their affection for each other. "john will be your true friend," said charlotte, "remember that. you may believe every word he says. oh, my dear, i hope things will turn out better than they look!" "i put my trust in god," said mrs. grantham solemnly, and, clasping her hands, raised her eyes in silent prayer. chapter xvii. retribution. at five o'clock in the evening robert grantham and rathbeal joined john dixon in his rooms in craven street. the revelation which rathbeal had made to grantham had produced a marked change in him. with wonder and incredulity had he listened at first to the strange story, but his friend's impressive earnestness had gradually convinced him that it was no fable which rathbeal was relating. the first force of his emotions spent, hope, humility, and thankfulness were expressed in his face. it seemed to him that the meeting between him and his wife, which rathbeal had promised should take place that night, was like the meeting of two spirits that had been wandering for ages in darkness. it was not without fear that he looked forward to it. the sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon the woman he had vowed to cherish and protect was as strong within him now as it had been through all these years, from the day upon which he heard that she was dead. would she accept his assurance that he had not been false to her, would she believe in his repentance, would she forgive him? "i ask but that," he said to rathbeal, "and then i shall be content to go my way, and spend the rest of my life in the task of self-purification." "hope for something better," rathbeal replied: "for a reunion of hearts, for a good woman's full forgiveness, and forgetfulness of the errors of the past. the clouds have not lifted only to deceive. there is a bright future before you, my friend." "my future is in god's hands," said grantham. "he will direct your wife aright. hope and believe." in this spirit they wended their way to john dixon's rooms. grantham and he had not met since they left school, but he received his old schoolfellow as though there had been no break in their early association. they shook hands warmly, and the look that passed between rathbeal and john dixon told the latter that the truth had been revealed to the wronged man. they wasted no time in idle conversation, but started immediately on their journey. for a reason which he did not divulge to his companions, john dixon had elected to drive to mr. fox-cordery's summer residence; he had a vague idea that occasion might arise to render it necessary that he should run off with charlotte that very night; if so, there was a carriage, with a pair of smart horses, at his command. the coachman he had engaged had received his instructions, and when they got out of the tangle of the crowded thoroughfares the horses galloped freely along the road. while they proceed upon their way some information must be given of martha's movements. she had rushed from her sister's room in a state of delirium. her privations and sufferings, and the conflicting emotions which tortured her, had destroyed her mental balance, and she was not responsible for her actions. she had no settled notion where she was going; the only motive by which she was guided was her desire to escape from her fellow-creatures. instinctively she chose the least frequented roads, and she stumbled blindly on till she was out of london streets. she had no food, and no money to purchase it, but she scarcely felt her hunger. one dominant idea possessed her--under the floating clouds and with silence all around her, she heard the drip of water. it pierced the air, it made itself felt as well as heard. drip, drip, drip! the sound wooed her on toward the valley of the thames, and unconsciously she pursued a route which had been familiar to her in her girlhood's days. she walked all that night, and through the whole of the following day, compelled to stop now and again for rest, but doing so always when there was a danger of her being accosted by persons who approached her from an opposite direction. rathbeal, had he been acquainted with her movements, would have answered the question whether it was chance or fate that took her in the direction of mr. fox-cordery's house. when night came on again she was wandering along the banks of the thames, within a short distance of the man who had wrecked her life. she knew that she had reached her haven, and she only waited for the moment to put her desperate resolve into execution. the water looked so peaceful and shining! the tide silently lapped the shore, but she heard the drip, drip, drip of the water. death held out its arms to her, and invited her to its embrace. it was a starlight night, but she saw no stars in heaven. the moon sailed on, but she saw no light. "i shall soon be at rest." that was her thought, if it can be said that she thought at all. the occupants of a carriage, drawn by a pair of smart horses, saw the figure of a woman moving slowly on toward the little rustic bridge which stretched from mr. fox-cordery's lawn to the opposite bank. they took no notice of her, being entirely occupied with the important mission upon which they were engaged. they had remarked that it was fortunate the night was so fine. could they have heard the sound that sounded like a death-knell in martha's ears, they might have changed their minds, and recognized that no night could be fine which bore so despairing a message to a mortal's ears. drip, drip, drip! "i am coming," whispered martha to her soul. "i am coming. the water is deep beneath that bridge!" at nine o'clock robert grantham and his companions reached their destination. the coachman drew up at an inn, and the men alighted. "now," said john dixon, as they strolled toward mr. fox-cordery's house, "we must be guided by charlotte's instructions. the night is so clear that we shall be able to see each other from a distance. you must not be in sight when charlotte comes; i must explain matters to her. the bank by that bridge stands high. go there and remain till you hear from me. before i enter the house i shall have a word to say as to the method of our proceedings. someone is coming toward us. yes, it is charlotte. go at once, and keep wide of her." they obeyed, and walked toward the bridge. martha was on the opposite side, and perceiving men approaching, she crouched down and waited. "john," said charlotte, in a low, clear voice. "charlotte!" only a moment for a loving embrace, and then they began to converse. what they said to each other did not occupy many minutes. john dixon left her standing alone, and went to his friends. "i am going to the house," he said, "and am to speak to mrs. grantham"--how robert trembled at the utterance of the name!--"in her room. that is her window; there is a light in the room. if i come to the window and wave a white handkerchief, follow me into the house without question. allow no one to stop you. i do not know how long i may be there, but i will bring matters to an issue as soon as possible." they nodded compliance, and robert grantham breathed a prayer. then john dixon rejoined charlotte, and they entered the house. martha, crouching by the bridge, heard nothing of this. all she heard was the drip of water; all she saw were the dark shadows of men on the opposite side. they would soon be gone, and then, and then---- mr. fox-cordery and his mother, being closeted together, were not aware of the entrance of john dixon. unobstructed he ascended the stairs to the first floor, and was conducted to the presence of mrs. grantham. what she had to disclose to him, and what he had to disclose to her, is already known to the reader. she told her story first, and john dixon said that, from his knowledge of mr. fox-cordery, he was more than inclined to believe that her agent had been false to his trust. he informed her that he had gained an insight into her affairs during the time he had served mr. fox-cordery, and that their disagreement had arisen partly from a remonstrance he had made as to his employer's management of certain speculations. "my impression was then," said john dixon, "that mr. fox-cordery was exceeding his powers, and that in case of a loss he could be made responsible for it." "god bless you for those words!" exclaimed mrs. grantham. "the thought of being forced into marriage with him makes me shudder. but what can i do? to see my child in want of food would break my heart." "there is no question of a marriage with him," said john dixon gravely; his own task was approaching. "it is impossible. i will tell you why presently, mrs. grantham. you will need all your strength. it is not on your affairs alone that i am here to-night. before i say what i am come to say, let us finish with mr. fox-cordery. i am a partner in a respectable firm of solicitors, and my advice is that you place your business affairs in our hands. we shall demand papers, and a strict investigation; and i think i can promise you that we shall be able to save something substantial for you. are you agreeable to this course?" "yes, dear friend, yes." "then i understand from this moment i am empowered to act for you?" "it is so," she replied, and thanked heaven for having sent her this friend and comforter. "thank charlotte also," he said. then he began to speak of the important branch of his visit to her. delicately and gently he led up to it; with the tenderness of a true and tender-hearted man he brought the solemn truth before her. with dilating eyes and throbbing breast she listened to the wonderful revelation, and to the description of the life her husband had led since he had received the false news of her death. much of this he had learned from rathbeal, who had armed him with the truth; and as he went on the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw with the eyes of her heart the man she had loved, weak, erring, and misguided, but now truly repentant and reformed, and not the guilty being she had been led by mr. fox-cordery to believe he was. she had no thought for the wretch who had worked out his infamous design; she thought only that robert was true to her, and that her dear child was not fatherless. john dixon gave her time for this to sink into her mind, and then told her that her husband had accompanied him, and was waiting outside for the signal of joy. "i will go to him! i will go to him!" she cried. but john dixon restrained her. "let him come into the house," he said. "let your enemy know that he is here, and that his schemes are foiled. remember, i am your adviser. be guided by me."' trembling in every limb, she went to the window and opened it. "shall i give him the signal?" asked john dixon. "no; i will do it," she replied, and, reaching forth, waved the white flag of love and forgiveness. robert grantham, his eyes fixed in painful anxiety upon the window, was the first to see the signal. with a gasp of joy he started for the house, and rathbeal, whose attention just then had been diverted by the figure of martha crouching by the bridge, hearing his footsteps, turned to follow him. at the moment of his doing so, martha, seeing them walk away, crept on to the bridge and leaned over. suddenly she straightened herself, and raising her arms aloft, whispered softly, "i'm coming--i'm coming!" and let herself fall into the water. the heavy splash, accompanied by a muffled scream, reached rathbeal's ears before he had proceeded twenty yards. turning to the bridge, and missing the figure of the crouching woman, he instinctively divined what had happened. "don't stop for me," he cried hurriedly to grantham. "i'll follow you." then he ran back to the bridge. robert grantham did not hear him, so absorbed was he in the supreme moment that was approaching. had a storm burst upon him, he would scarcely have been conscious of it. who was that standing at the window, waving the handkerchief! it was not john dixon. his eyes were dim, his heart palpitated violently, as he fancied he recognized the form of his wife. if it were so, indeed his hope was answered. he was met at the door by charlotte, who led him to the room above. standing upon the threshold he saw his wife looking with wistful yearning toward him--toward her husband who, after these long years, had come to her, as it were, from the grave. they were spellbound for a few moments, incapable of speech or motion, each gazing upon the other for a sign. john dixon stepped noiselessly to charlotte's side, and the lovers left the room hand in hand, closing the door gently behind them. husband and wife, so strangely reunited, were alone. she was the first to move. bending forward, she held out her arms, and her eyes shone with ineffable love; with a sob he advanced, and fell upon his knees before her. sinking into a chair, she drew his head to her breast and folded her arms around him. let the veil fall upon those sacred minutes. aching hearts were eased, faith was restored, and love shed its holy light upon lucy and robert. "our child!" he whispered. "our clair!" "i will take you to her," she said, and led him to the bed where clair was sleeping. meanwhile rathbeal, hastening to the bridge, saw his suspicions confirmed by the death-bubbles rising to the surface of the water. with the energy and rapidity of a young man, he tore off his coat and waistcoat, and plunged into the river. he was a grand swimmer, and he did not lose his self-possession. he had eyes in his hands and fingers, and when, after some time had elapsed, he grasped a woman's hair, he struck out for the bank, and reaching it in safety, drew the woman after him. she lay inanimate upon the bank, and, clearing his eyes of the water, he knelt down to ascertain if he had rescued her in time to save her. he put his ear to her heart, his mouth to her mouth, but she gave no sign of life. the moon, which had been hidden behind a cloud, now sailed forth into the clearer space of heaven, and its beams illumined the woman's face. "it is martha!" he cried, and without a moment's hesitation he caught her up in his arms and ran with her to the house. mr. fox-cordery, closeted with his mother in a room on the ground floor, heard sounds upon the stairs which had a disturbing effect upon him. the sounds were those of strange footsteps and whispering voices. opening the door quickly he saw, by the light of the hall-lamp, john dixon and charlotte coming down--john with his arm round charlotte's waist, she inclining tenderly toward the man she loved. "you here!" cried mr. fox-cordery. "you behold no spirit," replied john dixon, releasing charlotte, and placing her behind him; "i am honest flesh and blood." mr. fox-cordery, his mother now by his side, looked from john dixon to charlotte with a spiteful venom in his eyes which found vent in his voice. "you drab!" he cried. "you low-minded hussy! and you, you sneak and rogue! have you conspired to rob the house? i'll have the law of you; you shall stand in the dock together. curse the pair of you!" "easy, easy," said john dixon, calm and composed. "don't talk so freely of law and docks. and don't forget that curses come home to roost." other sounds from the first floor distracted mr. fox-cordery. "is there a gang of you here? whose steps are those above? mother, alarm the house. call up the servants, and send for the police." "aye, do," said john dixon, as mrs. fox-cordery pulled the bell with violence, "and let them see and hear what you shall see and hear. don't be frightened, charlotte. the truth must out now." mr. fox-cordery's pallid lips quivered, and he started back with a smothered shriek. robert grantham and his wife appeared at the top of the stairs, and as they slowly descended he retreated step by step, and seized his mother's arm. "be quiet, can't you?" he hissed. "go and send the servants away. we do not want them. say it was a mistake--a false alarm--anything--but keep them in their rooms!" retribution stared him in the face. the edifice he had built up with so much care had toppled over, and he was entangled in the ruins. it was well for them that he had no weapon in his hands, for coward as he was, his frenzy would have impelled him to use it upon them. "i am here," said john dixon, "by the permission you gave to mrs. grantham, and i am armed with authority to act for her. you see, i have not come alone." "you devil! you devil!" muttered mr. fox-cordery, through the foam that gathered about his mouth. "say nothing more to him, mr. dixon," said robert grantham, who had reached the foot of the stairs. "the truth has been brought to light, and his unutterable villainy is fully exposed. leave to the future what is yet to be done. lucy, go and dress our child. we quit this house within the hour. do not fear; no one shall follow you." mrs. grantham went upstairs to clair, and she had scarcely reached the room when the street door was burst open, and rathbeal appeared with martha in his arms. "this poor woman threw herself into the water," said rathbeal. "tired of life, she sought the peace of death in the river. give way, mr. fox-cordery; she must be attended to without delay. obstruct us, and the crime of murder will be on your soul!" he beat mr. fox-cordery back into the room, and laid his burden down on the floor. "you see who it is!" "she is a stranger to me," muttered mr. fox-cordery, his heart quaking with fear. "false! you know her well. if she is dead you will be made responsible; for you and no other drove her to her death!" it was no time to bandy further words. assisted by charlotte and john dixon, he set to work in the task of bringing respiration into the inanimate form, mr. fox-cordery and his mother standing silently by, while robert grantham guarded the staircase. their efforts were successful. in a quarter of an hour martha gave faint signs of life, and they redoubled their efforts. martha opened her eyes, and they fell upon mr. fox-cordery. "that man! that monster!" she murmured, and would have risen, but her strength failed her. "rest--rest," said rathbeal soothingly. "justice shall be done. you are with friends who will not desert you." returned to mr. fox-cordery. "have you no word to speak to your victim?" "i have no knowledge of her," replied mr. fox-cordery. "you are mad, all of you, and are in a league against me." "you ruined and betrayed her," said rathbeal, "and then left her to starve. is it true, martha?" "it is true," she moaned. "god have pity upon me, it is true!" "liars--liars!" cried mr. fox-cordery. "liars all!" "she speaks god's truth, and it shall be made known to man," said rathbeal. he did not scruple to search the room for spirits, and he found some in a sideboard. "drink," he whispered to her, "and remember that you have met with friends. you shall not be left to starve. we will take care of her, will we not, mr. dixon?" "i take the charge of her upon myself," said john dixon. "she shall have the chance of living a respectable life." "robert!" said mrs. grantham, in a gentle tone. she was standing by his side, holding clair by the hand. seeing the woman on the floor she started forward. "oh, can i do anything? poor creature! poor creature!" "we can do all that is required," said john dixon. "she is getting better already. go with your husband and child to the inn where we put up the horses. mr. grantham knows the way. we will join you there as soon as possible." charlotte whispered a few words in his ear. "take charlotte with you, please. she must not sleep another night beneath her brother's roof. go, my dear." "remain here!" cried mrs. fox-cordery, speaking for the first time. "i command you!" but charlotte paid no heed to her. accompanied by her friends, she left her brother's home, never to return. but little remains to be told. baffled and defeated, mr. fox-cordery was compelled to sue for mercy, and it was granted to him under certain conditions, in which, be sure, martha was not forgotten. his accounts were submitted to a searching investigation, and, as john dixon had anticipated, it was discovered that only a portion of mrs. grantham's fortune was lost. sufficient was left to enable her and her husband and child to live in comfort. purified by his sufferings, robert grantham was the tenderest of husbands and fathers, and he and those dear to him commenced their new life of love and joy, humbly grateful to god for the blessings he had in store for them. neither were little prue and her mother forgotten. each of those who are worthy of our esteem contributed something toward a fund which helped them on in the hard battle they were fighting. a month later our friends were assembled at the wedding of charlotte and john dixon. the ceremony over, the newly-married couple bade their friends good-by for a little while. they were to start at once upon their honeymoon. "it is a comfort," said rathbeal, shaking john heartily by the hand, "in our travels through life to meet with a man. i have met with two." "i shall never forget," said john, apart to mrs. grantham, "nor will charlotte, some words of affection you once addressed to her. we know them by heart: 'if the man is true,' you said, 'and the woman is true, they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow.' charlotte and i will be to each other a shield of love. thank you for those words, and god bless you and yours." the last kisses were exchanged. "god protect you, dear charlotte," said mrs. grantham, pressing the bride to her heart. "a happy life is before you." "and before you, dear mrs. grantham," said charlotte, hardly able to see for the tears in her eyes. "yes, my dear. the clouds have passed away. come, my child; come, dear robert!" [illustration: "give it to the poor woman with the sick baby," whispered effie--chapter iii] effie maurice or what do i love best a tale london gall and inglis, paternoster square; _and edinburgh_. contents. chapter i. the first commandment ii. plans proposed iii. new year's day iv. the miser v. the poor widow vi. generosity and justice vii. the new book viii. another of mr. maurice's lessons ix. the funeral effie maurice or what do i love best chapter i. 'thou shalt have no other gods before me.' 'mother,' said little effie maurice, on a sabbath evening in winter, 'mr l---- said to-day that we are all in danger of breaking the first commandment,--do you think we are?' 'did not mr l. give you his reasons for thinking so?' 'yes, mother.' 'didn't you think he gave good reasons?' 'i suppose he did, but i could not understand all he said, for he preached to men and women. perhaps he thought children were in no danger of breaking it.' 'well, bring your bible--' 'o mother, i can say all the commandments, every word. the first is, "thou shalt have no other gods before me." i thought this was for the burmans and chinese, and all those who worship idols where the missionaries go.' 'the poor heathen are not the only idolaters in the world, my child; we have many of them in our own christian land.' 'what! _here_, mother? do people worship idols in this country?' 'yes, my dear, i fear we do.' '_we_ do, mother? you don't mean to say that you, and papa, and deacon evarts, and all such good people, worship idols?' 'do you suppose, effie, that all the idols or false gods in the world are made of wood and stone?' 'oh no, mother, i read in my sunday-school book of people's worshipping animals, and plants, and the sun, and moon, and a great many of the stars.' 'and gold and silver, and men, women and children, did you not?' 'yes mother.' 'well, if a man loves gold or silver better than he loves god, does it make any difference whether he has it made into an image to pray to, or whether he lays it away in the shape of silver dollars and gold eagles?' effie sat for a few moments in thought, and then suddenly looking up, replied,--'men don't worship dollars and eagles.' 'are you sure?' inquired mrs maurice. 'i never heard of any one who did.' 'you mean you never heard of one who prayed to them; but there are a great many people who prefer money to anything else, and who honour a fine house, fine furniture, and fine dress, more than the meek and quiet spirit which god approves.' 'and then money is the god of such people, i suppose, and they are the ones that break the first commandment?' 'not the only ones, my dear; there are a great many earthly gods, and they are continually leading us away from the god of heaven. whatever we love better than him, becomes our god, for to that we yield our heart-worship.' 'i never thought of that before, mother. yesterday, jane wiston told me that her mother didn't visit mrs aimes because she was poor; and when i told her that you said mrs aimes was very pious, she said it did not make any difference, ladies never visited there. is mrs wiston's god money?' 'if mrs wiston, or any other person, honours wealth more than humble, unaffected piety, she disobeys the first commandment. but in judging of others, my dear, always remember that _you cannot see the heart_, and so, however bad the appearance may be, you have a right to put the best possible construction on every action.' 'how can i believe that mrs wiston's heart is any better than her actions, mother?' 'in the first place, jane might have been mistaken, and money may have nothing to do with her mother's visits; and if she is really correct, mrs wiston may never have considered this properly, and so at least she deserves charity. i desire you to think a great deal on this subject, and when you understand it better, we will talk more about it.' 'i think i understand it now, mother. every thing we love better than the god of heaven becomes our god, and if we don't bow down to pray to it, we give it our _heart-worship_, as you said, and that is quite as wicked. but after all, mother, i don't think there is any danger of my breaking the first commandment.' 'do you remember the text harry repeated at the table this morning? "let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall."' effie looked very thoughtful for a moment, and then laying her face in her mother's lap, she said: 'it is not because i am so good that i think so, mother; i know i am very wicked, but i am sure that i love my heavenly father better than any thing else.' 'i am glad to believe you do,' said mrs maurice, drawing the child nearer to her and kissing her cheek. 'i am persuaded that calmly and deliberately you would not prefer the world to him. but perpetual distrust of self, with constant trust in god, is your only ground of safety. those who do not fall, may for a moment slip, and you with all the rest of us must watch and pray.' chapter ii. plans proposed. the conversation that effie maurice had had with her mother made a very deep impression on her mind; but still, with all the confidence of one who has had but few trials, she was grieved that any one should suppose she could for a moment forget her heavenly father, or prefer any thing to his glory and honour. she repeated what her mother had said to her brother harry, and he increased her self-confidence by recalling a great many little sacrifices she had made, which he was quite sure other young persons would not do. 'and now, effie,' said the kind-hearted brother, 'we will talk no more about this, for it makes you very sober. remember that to-morrow is new year's day, and we've got the money to spend that aunt norton sent us, so we must be out early, or all the prettiest things will be sold. i went by mr t.'s shop to-night, and it was all lighted up so that i could see great sticks of candy, almost as big round as my wrist, and jars of sweetmeats, and there was a rocking horse all saddled and bridled, and the neatest little whip you ever did see, and _such_ a little rifle--but i forgot, girls don't mind those things; let me think--i dare say there were dolls, though i didn't look for them, and then such a pretty little rocking-chair all cushioned with purple silk, just about big enough for dolly, and heaps of other nice things--so we must be out early, effie.' 'harry--' 'what is it, effie?' 'i was thinking--' 'what about? do you want something i haven't mentioned? i dare say it is there.' 'no, i was thinking--i--i believe i will give my money to the missionaries.' 'now, effie!' 'then i shan't make a god of it.' 'but aunt norton gave you this to buy some pretty things for yourself.' 'i know it, but--' 'and you have given ever so much to the missionaries.' 'well, harry, i don't know that i need any new toys.' 'when you see mr t.'s shop--' 'i don't want to see mr t.'s shop, that would be going in the way of temptation.' harry was silent a few moments,--he was two years older than effie, and although sometimes dazzled by appearances, as in the case of the attractive toy shop, when he waited to think, his judgment was usually very good for one so young. at last he looked up with a smile, 'i've thought it out, effie, we don't need any new toys; we might buy books for our little library, but father has promised us two or three more soon. then our subscriptions to the missionary society, and the bible society, and the colporteur society, are paid (to be sure it wouldn't hurt us to give a little more), but i have just thought what to do with this money (that is, yours and mine together, you know), which i think is better than all the rest.' 'what is it?' 'we'll make a new year's present of it.' 'to whom?' 'can't you think?' 'to father, or mother?' 'no, i should love to buy them something, but they would rather not.' 'to old phillis, then?' 'old phillis!--it _would_ be a good notion to buy her a gown, wouldn't it, but i was thinking of john frink.' 'you didn't mean to give it to _him_, i hope, such an idle, good-for-nothing boy as he is?' 'he isn't idle and good-for-nothing now, effie. since he began to go to the sunday school he's as different as can be. now if we could put our money together, and help him to go to school this winter (he can't even read the bible, effie,) i think it would do more good than anything else in the world.' 'perhaps it would, but i never liked john frink very well. he will learn to read the bible at the sunday school, and if he did know any more, i'm not sure he'd make a good use of it.' 'perhaps he wouldn't, but we could hope, effie, and pray, and then we should have the pleasure of knowing that our duty was done, as mr l. said the other day. if john frink should become reformed, only think of how much good he might do in that wicked family, and among the wicked boys here in the city, and then when he gets to be a man--' 'but if he isn't reformed, harry?' 'that is just what mr s. said to father, the other day, when he asked him for money to buy tracts for boatmen on the canal--"if they don't read them," said he. 'father told him that if we did our duty faithfully, it was all that is required of us, and we must leave the results in the hands of god. now i think just so of john frink, only that i can't help believing that he will reform. the bible says, "in the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good." now, maybe, all the money you have given this year will do good, but perhaps this to john frink most of all.' 'i believe you are right, harry,' said effie, 'but you will give me to-night to think about it.' 'oh yes, to be sure, you could not give the money, with your whole heart, unless you believed it was to do good, and so you may think just as long as you please. now your kiss, effie, for i must go to bed. we will be up early, if we _don't_ go to mr t.'s shop.' chapter iii. new year's day. harry maurice was out 'bright and early,' wishing everybody a 'happy new year,' and making them happy at least for the moment, by the expression of his ruddy, laughing face. we love to see in children cheerfulness and contentment. harry's head was full of plans for doing good, and though more than half of them were visionary, they seemed realities then, and so being in good humour with himself, he could not fail of being so with everybody else. effie refused to go with him to mrs frink's, for she had her own little gifts to dispense, but she consented to take a walk with him in the afternoon, and even to call at mr t.'s shop, for she concluded there could be no danger in looking at the toys after they had disposed of their money. harry's account of his reception at mrs frink's was anything but satisfactory to effie, for although he evidently endeavoured to make the best of it, he said not a single word of john's gratitude. 'i am afraid, effie,' he rather mischievously whispered, 'if you had gone with me to mrs frink's you would have thought dirt was her god, for i believe she loves it better than anything else.' 'o harry, i am sure it is wicked to make fun--' 'i didn't mean to make fun, effie, but i'm sure i couldn't help thinking of the old man in pilgrim's progress with the muck rake, refusing the crown, all the time i was there.' 'father told me that the man with the muck rake, meant the miser.' 'well, i suppose it does, but i should think it might mean any body that is not a christian, for such people, you know, are rejecting a heavenly crown for worldly things, which are in reality worth about as much as the trash the old man is raking together in the picture.' effie stared at her brother in complete astonishment, for she could not but wonder how so small a head could contain such a wondrous amount of knowledge. harry endured a stare for a moment with considerable dignity, but he was naturally a modest lad, and finally added, 'that is pretty nearly the substance of what frank ingham told me about it--i can't remember the words quite.' after dinner was over, and harry and effie had distributed the remnants of it among several poor families that lived on an adjoining street, they set out on their walk. the day was extremely cold, but clear and still, and altogether as beautiful as any day in the whole year. effie in cloak, hood, and muff, seemed the very picture of comfort as she walked along beside her brother in his equally warm attire, towards mr t.'s shop. 'are you cold? what makes you shiver so?' inquired harry. effie did not answer, but she drew her hand from her muff and pointed with her gloved finger to a little girl who stood a few yards from her, stamping her feet, and clapping her red bare hands, and then curling them under her arms as if to gain a little warmth from thence. 'poor thing!' said harry, 'i should think she would freeze, with nothing but that old rag of a handkerchief about her shoulders, and that torn muslin bonnet. i don't wonder you shivered, effie, it makes me cold to look at her.' 'let us see if she wants anything,' said effie. by this time the attention of the little girl was attracted by the children's conversation and glances, and she came running towards them, crying at every step, 'give me a sixpence, please?' 'we have no money, not even a penny,' said harry, 'are you very hungry?' the girl began to tell how long it was since she had had anything to eat, but she talked so hurriedly, and used so many queer words, that the two children found it very difficult to understand her. 'she is in want, no doubt,' whispered harry to his sister, 'but father would say, it was best to give her food and clothing, not money.' 'i wish i had a sixpence, though,' said effie. the wealthy and the gay, the poor and the apparently miserable, went pouring by in crowds, and some did not hear the beggar-child's plea, others that heard did not heed it, while many paused from idle curiosity to gaze at her, and a few flung her a penny, and passed on. harry and effie too went on, frequently looking back and forming little plans for the good of the child, until their attention was attracted by other objects of compassion or admiration. sleighs were continually dashing past them, drawn by beautiful horses, and filled with the forms of the young, the gay, and the happy. old men, bowed down by the weight of years, hobbled along on the pavements, their thin blue lips distorted by a smile--a smile of welcome to the year that, perhaps, before its departure, would see them laid in the grave--and busy tradesmen, with faces strongly marked by care, or avarice, or anxiety, jostled by them; ladies too, in gay hats and large rich shawls, or the more comfort-seeking in cloaks and muffs; and poor women, with their tattered clothing drawn closely around their shrinking forms, were hurrying forward apparently with the same intent. every variety of the human species seemed crowded on those narrow pavements. harry and effie were only a few rods from mr t.'s door, when mr maurice overtook them, on his way to some other part of the city. he smiled, as he always did, on his children, then putting a few pence into effie's hand, whispered something about '_temptation money_,' and passed on. 'i shan't be tempted, though,' said the child, holding the coin before her brother's eyes. 'no, effie,' replied the boy, 'it isn't wrong to spend this money for yourself, so you can't be tempted to do wrong with it. this is every body's day for pleasure, and you ought to enjoy it.' 'i have enjoyed it,' said effie, looking upon her brother smilingly, 'and i guess somebody else has helped me.' 'i guess so, too,' was the reply, 'i think we have been a great deal happier than if we had come here in the morning.' children though they were, they were demonstrating the words of the lord jesus, 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.' mr t.'s shop was crowded to overflowing with children, a few grown people intermingling: and every one, from the errand boy, that, with his hard-earned pittance in his hand, was estimating the amount of good things it would purchase, to the child of the wealthy merchant, murmuring because the waxen doll she contemplated adding to her store, was not in every respect formed to suit her difficult taste, seemed intent on pleasure. harry and effie were as much pleased as any one, and some, who had seen with what readiness they had parted with their money in the morning, would have wondered at their taste for toys; but these children had one talent which a great many grown people as well as children would do well to imitate. it was not absolutely necessary that they should _possess_ a thing in order to _enjoy_ it. they had been taught when very young, to distinguish beautiful things from those that were merely novel, and although they liked (as i believe is natural) to call things their own, they could be pleased with what was calculated to produce pleasure, without envying its possessor, just as you would look upon a beautiful sunset, or a fine landscape, without thinking of becoming its owner. but effie had a little money to spend, and this occasioned a great deal of deliberation, for to tell the truth, the little girl was so pleased with her day's work, that she was still determined on self-denial. 'take care,' whispered harry, as he watched her examining some trifles which he was pretty sure were intended for old phillis, 'take care, effie, that you don't get proud of your generosity--there is more than one way to make self a god.' effie blushed, and calling for some nuts, threw her money on the counter, saying to her brother, 'we can share them together in the evening.' the nuts were scarce stowed away in reticule and muff, when a poorly-clad young woman, very pale and thin, bearing in her arms an infant still paler, pressed her way through the throng, and gained the counter. she inquired for cough lozenges. it was a long time before she could be attended, but she stood very patiently, though seemingly scarce able to support the weight of her own person. harry involuntarily glanced around the shop for a chair, and as he did so, his eye rested on a bright-faced little girl, close beside his sister, who was choosing and rejecting a great many pretty toys, and now and then casting a glance at the well-filled purse in her hand, as if to ascertain after each purchase the state of her finances. 'beautiful!' she exclaimed, her eye glistening with pleasure at the sight of the purple cushioned rocking-chair of which harry had told his sister. 'is that all?' inquired a sad, low voice, and again harry's eye turned to the poor woman who was purchasing the lozenges. 'yes, ma'am, to be sure,' replied the pert shopkeeper, 'and a pretty large all too--what could you expect for a penny?' the poor woman made no reply, but the hurried glance she gave her infant with its accompanying sigh, seemed to say, 'god help my poor baby then!' harry involuntarily thrust his hand into his pocket, but he quickly withdrew it, and glanced at the little girl who was purchasing the rocking-chair. 'this chair has cost so much,' she said, addressing the shopkeeper, 'that i have only a shilling left.' 'oh, then,' whispered effie, emboldened by her brother's looks of anxiety, 'give it to the poor woman with the sick baby.' the little girl stared at her somewhat rudely, then turning to the woman, exclaimed, 'what! _that_ one, with the horrid looking bonnet!' and, shaking her head, laughingly replied, 'thank you, miss, i have a better use for it.' effie was really distressed. the poor woman looked so pale and sad, and yet so meek and uncomplaining withal, that both brother and sister found themselves strangely interested. 'o how i wish we could do something for her,' whispered harry. 'will you please exchange my nuts for cough lozenges?' inquired effie in a faltering voice, of the shopkeeper. 'rather too busy, miss.' 'but it will oblige me very much.' 'happy to oblige you on any other day, miss, but we really have no time for exchanges now.' by this time the poor woman had gained the door, and effie, looking round, observed that her brother too was missing. 'he followed the woman with the baby,' said the little girl who had purchased the rocking-chair; then pursing up her mouth with an expression as near contempt as such a pretty mouth could wear, she inquired, 'is she your _aunt_?' the angry blood rushed in a flood to effie's face, but she quickly subdued it, and with ready thought replied, 'no, my _sister_.' it was now the turn of the stranger girl to blush, and at the same time she cast upon her new companion a slight glance of surprise. she then turned over with her fingers her new toys, glanced at the rocking-chair, and seemingly dissatisfied with all, again turned to effie. 'please give her this,' she said, putting the remaining shilling in her hand. 'i know what you mean, my mother taught me that, but--she is dead now.' 'if harry finds where the poor woman lives,' returned effie, 'we will go there together.' the little girl seemed to waver for a moment, then said hastily, 'no, i must go home--give the money to her,' and hurried away as fast as the crowd would permit. in a few moments harry returned. he had found out where the poor woman lived, but it was a great distance, and he was too considerate to leave his sister alone. harry was not one of those philanthropists who, in doing a great amount of good, become blind to trifles; for his father had taught him, that duties never interfere with each other, and he knew that he owed effie every care and attention. i have often observed that those children, who are the most kind and considerate to brothers and sisters, always shew more justice and generosity to others, than those who think such attentions of but little importance. harry found out but little more of the woman, than that she was poor, and sick, and friendless. her baby too, her only comfort, was wasting away before her eyes, whether of disease or for lack of food, she did not tell, and there was none to help her. 'we will speak to father about her,' said harry, as they proceeded homeward, 'perhaps he can do something for them,--it is a sweet little baby, effie, with a skin clear and white, and eyes--oh, you never saw such eyes! they look so soft and loving, that you would think the poor thing knew every word you said, and how i pitied it. i could hardly help crying, effie.' 'i am glad you followed the poor woman.' 'so am i. but effie, you don't know how vexed i was with that selfish little miss, that bought the rocking-chair.' 'harry!' 'now, don't go to taking her part, effie, it will do no good, i can tell you; she is the most selfish and unfeeling little girl that i ever saw. because the woman wore an _old bonnet_, she couldn't help her--only think of that! how mean!' 'she--o harry! now i know what mother meant when she talked to me so much about having charity for people, and told me that we could not always judge the heart by the actions. i thought as badly of her as you at first, but i'm sure now she is not unfeeling.' 'well, if she has any feeling, i should like to see her shew it, that's all. i tell you, effie, if anybody ever made a god of self, it is that little girl we saw to-night. she thought her gratification of more consequence than that poor baby's life.' 'no, harry, she is one of the thoughtless ones mother tells us so much about. if you had seen her when she gave me this money,' putting the silver piece into her brother's hand, 'you would never call her unfeeling.' 'did you tease her for it?' 'no, i didn't ask her again, for i did feel a little vexed--yes, a good deal so, at first, but, harry, i don't feel vexed now, i am sorry for her. there was a tear in her eye, i am pretty sure, though she was ashamed to have me see it, and her lips quivered, and she looked--oh, so sad, when she told me her mother was dead; i wish you could have seen her, harry.' 'i would rather not see her again, for i can't bear proud people--' effie was about interrupting her brother in defence of the little stranger girl, but at that moment a new object attracted their attention. it was a fine sleigh drawn by a pair of beautiful gray horses, that, with proudly arched neck and flowing mane, stepped daintily, as if perfectly aware of the fact that they were gentlemen's horses, and carried as fashionable a load as new york afforded. a little girl leaned quite over the side of the sleigh, and smiled and nodded to effie, then waving her handkerchief, to attract still more attention, dropped something upon the ground. it was the child they had seen at the toy-shop. harry flew to pick up the offering, and gave it to his sister. 'now, what do you think of her?' inquired effie, as her eye lighted on the self-same purse she had seen but a little while before; 'i knew she must be kind-hearted--did you ever see anything so generous? here is ever so much money, and all for the poor woman and her sick baby--why don't you speak, harry?' 'because--i--' 'you don't think she is selfish now, i hope?' 'i don't think anything about it, effie, because i don't know. if she gave her own money she is generous, but if she begged it of somebody else to give--' 'if she begged it of somebody else, it was generous in her to give it to this poor woman, instead of putting it to some other use.' 'well, effie, the money will certainly do the poor woman a great deal of good, and i rather think the little girl feels better for giving, so i am sure we ought to be glad.' 'i wish i could find out her name,' said effie, 'perhaps it is on the purse.' harry drew the silken purse from his pocket, and after examining it closely, found engraved on one of the rings the name of 'rosa lynmore.' in the evening the children related the events of the day to their mother, and found her approbation a sufficient reward for all their self-denial. the conduct of rosa lynmore was duly canvassed, too; and, while mrs maurice praised her generosity, she endeavoured to shew her children the difference between this one impulsive act, and the constant, self-denying effort which is the result of true benevolence. 'this little girl,' she said, 'may make but a small sacrifice in parting with this money, not half so great as it would be to go and seek out the poor woman and administer to her necessities, but still we have no right to find fault with what is so well done, and i am sure, my children, that you do not desire it.' 'no, mother,' said effie, 'i see now why you told me not to judge mrs wiston by appearances; if i had come away a little sooner, i should have thought this pretty rosa lynmore one of the most selfish little girls in the world. but now i know she was only thoughtless.' 'well, i hope, my child, you will always remember not to judge hastily, and without sufficient reason; yet to be utterly blind to the apparent faults of those around you, is neither safe nor wise. it is not safe, because by being too credulous you may easily make yourself the object of imposition; and not wise, because, by such indiscriminate charity, you lose a useful lesson.' 'i think, mother,' said harry, 'that i can see the lesson we can learn from rosa lynmore's faults.' 'i don't see that she has any faults,' said effie, earnestly. 'i am sure, harry, you ought not to make so much of that one careless little word about the bonnet; it _was_ an ugly bonnet, with so deep a front that i dare say rosa didn't see the poor woman's pale face.' 'you call it a careless word, effie,' said mrs maurice, 'you admit that this little girl was guilty of thoughtlessness, and surely you cannot consider _that_ no fault--but under certain circumstances this fault is more pardonable than under others. now you know nothing of these circumstances, and so could not, if you wished, be rosa lynmore's judge. but, taking everything as it appears, you may draw your lesson without assuming a province which does not belong to you. now, harry, we will hear what you have to say.' 'it was not what rosa _said_, that i meant, mother,--i was thinking of what we might learn to-day from all her actions, and i am sure i didn't want to blame her more than effie did.' 'i supposed not, my son.' 'but, mother, harry had reason to blame her more, for he didn't see how sorry she looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, "she is dead now."--meaning her mother, i shouldn't think a little girl would ever do right, without a mother to teach her.' 'such children deserve pity, my love, and i am glad you have a heart to pity them, but i suspect that all little girls have wicked thoughts and feelings that they must strive against, and whether they are blessed with parents, or have only a heavenly father to guide them, they will have need to watch and pray. but harry has not given his lesson yet.' 'father told me a story the other day--an allegory he called it--about impulse and principle. 'principle went straight forward, and did whatever was right, and tried to make her feelings agree with it, but impulse hurried along in a very crooked path, stopping here, and then bounding forth at the sight of some new object--one minute neglecting every duty, and the next, doing something so great that everybody was surprised, and praised her beyond all measure. principle very seldom did wrong, and made so little show, that she was quite unobserved by the world in general, but impulse was as likely to do wrong as right, and according as good or evil predominated, received her full share of praise or censure. principle had an approving conscience, and however she might be looked upon by the world, she was contented and happy, while poor impulse was half of the time tossed about by a light thing called vanity, or gnawed by a monster named remorse. i liked the story very much, and i couldn't help remembering it to-day, when the little girl dropped the purse over the side of the sleigh. i thought she was governed by impulse, and though this is a good act, unless she has a better heart than most people, it is no true sign that the next one will be good.' 'very true, my son, but you have not explained to effie what you mean by impulse and principle.' 'you can explain it better than i can, mother. i don't remember half that father said about it.' 'well, tell me as much as you can remember then.' 'why, principle means ground of action, and people who are governed by principle always have some good reason for what they do, and do not act without thinking. father says old people are more apt to be governed by principle of some kind, either good or bad, than children, for he says children generally act first, and think afterwards.' 'and impulse?' inquired effie. 'people that act from impulse are altogether at the mercy of circumstances, and are driven about by their own feelings. they never wait to inquire whether a thing is right before they do it, but if it seems right for the minute it is sufficient.' harry's explanation seemed quite satisfactory to his mother, and what was just then of more importance, to effie, who, it was but natural, should find some fault with a definition which seemed to throw anything like discredit on her new favourite. any further allusion to the subject was, however, prevented by the entrance of mr maurice, who, as he had been out all day, making charitable and professional instead of fashionable calls, had some very interesting stories to relate. but there was one so strange, and to the children so new, that it threw the rest quite into the shade, and absorbed their whole stock of sympathy. it was late before mr maurice finished his story, and as it may be late before our readers get to a better stopping-place, we shall reserve it fer another chapter. chapter iv. the miser. 'in passing through a narrow back lane,' said mr maurice, after relating several tales of minor importance, 'i paused to look upon a low building, so old that one corner of it was sunken so much as to give it a tottering appearance, and if possible it was more dark and dismal than the others. it seemed to be occupied by several families, for a little gray smoke went straggling up from two or three crumbling chimneys, but the rooms were all on the ground floor. as i stood gazing at it, i was startled by a boy (about your age, harry, or a little older perhaps) who came bounding from the door, and grasping my coat untreated me to go in and see his grandfather.' 'did you go, father?' inquired effie, 'wasn't you afraid?' 'afraid! what had he to be afraid of?' exclaimed her brother, 'i should just as lief go as not.' yet, notwithstanding the little boy's vaunt there was a slight tremor on his lip, and his large blue eyes grew larger still and darker where they were dark, while the whites became unusually prominent. 'of course i went,' resumed mr maurice, in a sad tone, 'and a fearful spectacle did i behold. i had expected to see some poor widow, worn out by toil and suffering, perchance by anguish and anxiety, dying alone, or a family of helpless ones, such as i had often visited, or a drunken husband. i had often glanced at guilt and crime, but never would my imagination have pictured the scene before me. the room was dark and loathsome, containing but few articles of furniture, and those battered and defaced by age, and with a rickety bed in one corner, on which lay stretched in mortal agony the figure of a wrinkled, gray-haired old man, apparently approaching the final struggle. o my children, poverty, loneliness, want, are the portion of many on this fair, beautiful earth, but such utter wretchedness as appeared in that man's face, can only be the result of crime.' mr maurice was evidently deeply affected, and his wife and children were for a moment silent. 'was he dying, father?' at length harry ventured to inquire, in a subdued tone. 'he seemed very weak, except now and then when he was seized with convulsions, and then he would writhe and throw himself about, and it was more than i could do to keep him on his bed--i do not think it possible for him to survive till morning.' 'didn't he say anything, father?' 'it was a long time before he said anything, but after i had succeeded in warming some liquid, which i found in an old broken cup, over the decayed fire, i gave him a little of it, and in time he became much calmer. between his paroxysms of pain, i induced him to give some account of himself, and the circumstances that brought him to his present situation, and what think you was the prime moving cause of all this wretchedness?' 'i suspect he was very poor,' said effie. 'something worse than that i should think,' added her brother, 'perhaps he was a gamester.' 'or a drunkard,' suggested effie. 'or both,' responded the mother, or perhaps he commenced by being merely a time-waster, and money-waster, and finally was reduced to what persons of that stamp are very apt to consider the necessity of committing crime, by way of support. mr maurice shook his head. 'it was neither poverty, nor play, nor drunkenness, nor indolence, nor extravagance, that made that old man wretched, and yet he was the most wretched being i ever saw.' 'he was poor, though, wasn't he, father?' 'poverty is but a small thing, effie, and in our land of equal laws and charitable institutions, very few suffer from absolute want, but that old man was richer (in gold and silver i mean) than i am.' 'what! and lived in that dreadful place, father?' 'oh! i see it,' exclaimed harry; 'he is a miser.' 'yes, harry,' returned mr maurice, 'you are right, the love of money is the cause of all his misery. he came to this city a great many years ago, (he could not himself tell how many, for his memory evidently wavered,) and commenced business as a linen draper. he had one only daughter then, and he lavished all his earnings on her at first, but finally she married, and from that time he became wholly engrossed with self. he was never very fond of show, and so did not become a spendthrift, but he adopted the equally dangerous course of hoarding up all his savings, until it became a passion with him. after a while he retired from business, but the passion clung to him with all the tenacity of a long established habit, and he became a usurer. he was known to all the young profligates, the bad young men who throng our city, and became as necessary to them as the poor avaricious jew was in former days to the spendthrifts and gamesters in london. he told me frightful stories, my children, of tyranny and fraud, of ruined young men led on by him till they committed self-murder, of old men shorn of their fortunes through his ingenious villainy--' 'o father!' exclaimed little effie, covering her eyes with her hands. 'all this,' said mr maurice, solemnly, 'was the result of the indulgence of a single bad passion.' 'but the little boy?' inquired mrs maurice. 'the husband of the daughter proved to be a miserable, worthless fellow, and for some time the old man sent them remittances of money, but after a while his new passion triumphed over paternal love, and the prayers of the poor woman were unheeded. two or three years ago she came to the city on foot--a weary distance, the old man said, but he could not tell how far, bringing with her the little boy that first attracted my attention to-night. her husband was dead, and her elder children had one by one followed him to the grave, till there was only this, the youngest left. she had come to the city, hoping that her presence would be more successful than her letters had been in softening the old man's heart, but she only came to die. her journey had worn her out, and she was to be no tax upon the old man's treasures. she died, and the miserable grandfather could not cast off her only son. the little fellow's face looks wan and melancholy; as if from suffering and want, and he seems to have passed at once from a child into an old man, without knowing anything of the intermediate stage.' 'poor boy!' said mrs maurice 'you didn't leave him alone with his grandfather, i hope?' 'no, i engaged a neighbour to spend the night with them, and called at my office on my way home to write a letter to a brother, of whom the old man told me, who is now residing in the country. the little grandson will probably be wealthy now, but i do not believe the enjoyment of it will make up for his past suffering.' 'i hope he won't be a miser,' said effie. 'i shouldn't think it very strange if he should be,' replied her brother, 'the example of his grandfather is enough to spoil him.' 'but you forget, harry,' said mrs maurice, 'what a terrible example it was. i think the little fellow will be likely to avoid it.' 'very probably,' added mr maurice, 'there is more danger of his going into the opposite extreme.' 'i am sure, father,' said harry, 'that it can't be so bad to spend money foolishly, as to hoard it up the way that old man did.' 'no,' said effie, 'for he made a _god_ of it, and it is better to care too little about it, than too much.' 'but the man that spends his money in frivolous pursuits, or what would be called slightly criminal adventures, who lavishes the money which god has given him to do good with, upon himself, seeking only his own gratification--' 'o father!' interrupted harry, 'he made a _god_ of himself.' 'such a man,' continued mr maurice, 'may be led on from one step to another until he becomes as guilty as the old man of whom i have told you to-night.' 'if i were a man,' said little effie, shuddering, 'i should be afraid to do anything lest i should do wrong.' 'and why so?' asked mrs maurice; 'you forget, my dear, that you, too, are exposed to temptations, that none of us are exempt from trials, and our only hope is in the promise that the child of god shall not be tempted above what he is able to bear.' 'remember,' added mr maurice, taking the family bible from its shelf preparatory to their evening devotions, 'to love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. and remember, when you are searching your hearts to discover their hidden idols, that the same divine being has said, "if any man love the world, the love of the father is not in him."' chapter v. the poor widow. the next morning, in accordance with his children's wishes, mr maurice accompanied harry to the residence of the poor woman they had seen at mr t.'s shop. it was a miserable hovel, but after all there was an air of cleanliness and comfort about it, that the most abject poverty can seldom of itself destroy. a white curtain, mended it is true, in very many places, yet looking quite respectable, still shaded the only window of the apartment. there were a few coals, on which was laid a single stick of wood, in the open fire-place, but it sent forth but a small quantity of heat, and the room felt damp and chilly. on a narrow bed drawn close to the fire lay the sick child, and beside it sat the mother plying her needle steadily, and every now and then casting an anxious eye upon her babe. she arose when mr maurice and harry entered, and her reception of the boy was truly affecting. she told again and again of his following her the day before, and how kindly he had inquired if he could do anything for her, and then bursting into loud sobs, and leaning over the bed, she said nobody could do anything unless it was to cure her baby. mr maurice took the hand of the little sufferer, but it was burning hot, and the face, which was the day before pale, was now so flushed that harry could scarcely recognise it. 'he has a fever,' said mr maurice. 'a fever! oh don't say so,' shrieked the poor woman, 'it was of that his father died--it is a cold, nothing but a cold! oh, how could i be so foolish as to take him out!' what could mr maurice do, but soothe her, and promise to be the child's physician? in a few moments she became calmer, and then she told him that her baby had been failing for a long time--day by day she could see that he grew poorer, but she could not tell why, till at last a cough had come, and concluding that it was occasioned by a cold, she had given the usual remedies, but without effect. the day before, having no one with whom to leave him, she had taken him out, and the fever that ensued was the result. 'do you think i have killed my baby, sir?' she inquired mournfully; and she looked so long and earnestly into mr maurice's face for an answer, that he was obliged to reply 'no.' it was easy for him to discern that the death-blow was before received. 'oh thank you,' replied the poor mother, joyfully, 'i was sure he must get well.' mr maurice was about to speak, but interrupted himself--should he undeceive her? should he tear from her her last hope? perhaps it was weakness, but he could not do it. the blow was too sudden, too heavy, and it must be softened to her. she said nothing of poverty, but he knew by the rapidity with which she plied her needle in the intervals of conversation that she was toiling for her bread and fuel, and he secretly resolved to place her in a condition to devote herself entirely to the care of the child. as mr maurice glanced around the room, noting each article it contained, and gaining from thence some item of knowledge concerning the character of its owner, his eye fell upon a shelf on which lay a few tracts, a bible, and a hymn-book. 'i see,' said he, pointing to them, 'that whatever trial you may be called to pass through, you are provided with a better comforter than any earthly friend.' the poor woman shook her head, 'they were my husband's, sir.' 'your husband was a pious man, then?' 'he used to read the bible and have family worship. sometimes i went with him on sunday to hear the minister, but i was always tired and drowsy, and could not keep awake.' 'i suppose you don't go at all now?' 'no, sir' 'nor read the bible?' 'no, not very often--i don't get time.' 'you surely have time on the sabbath-day?' 'oh, sir, that is the only leisure day i have, and then i like to take little james, and go with him to his father's grave, and when i get back, there's tea to make, (i never have tea but on sundays, sir,) and somehow the time slips away till dark, when i go to bed. i can't afford to light a candle on sunday nights.' 'do you never visit your neighbours on that day?' 'oh no, sir, since my husband died, i have not cared for going out, and a lone woman like me is but poor company for others, so they never come to see me.' 'you tell me of visiting your husband's grave--when you stand over it, do you ever think of the time you will meet him again?' 'not often; he used to talk to me about it, but i never can think of anything but _him_, just as he lived, and i remember a great many kind things he used to say, and speak them over to the baby (little james--he was named for his father, sir,) in his own words.' and the poor woman bent over her work, and plied her needle faster than ever. 'it is natural,' said mr maurice, kindly, 'that you should remember your husband as he was when living, but it is strange that you so seldom think of seeing him again.' 'oh, sir, that looks like a dream to me, i can't more than half believe it, but i know the other to be reality.' 'yet one is as true as the other.' the woman sighed, and her countenance looked troubled, but she made no answer. 'you believe the bible?' 'ye-es, sir--my james believed it, and so it must be true.' 'then you will allow me to read you a chapter, i suppose.' 'if you please, sir, but it always seemed to me a very gloomy book, and i am afraid it will make me low-spirited.' 'no, i think not, it may raise your spirits.' mr maurice took down the bible, and opened it at the fifteenth chapter of first corinthians. a piece of torn paper lay between the opened leaves, and a few of the verses were marked with a pencil. as mr maurice proceeded to read, the face of the poor woman was gradually lowered till it almost rested on her bosom, and at last, yielding to the intensity of her feelings, she buried her face in the bed-clothes, and did not raise it again till the chapter was finished. 'oh, many and many is the time he has read it to me!' she exclaimed, 'and he put in the mark only the day before he died, so that i might find it; but i could not, oh i couldn't bear to read it!' 'and why not?' 'oh, i know it is true! i know i shall see him again! but, sir, he was a _christian_.' 'and so prepared to die, was he not?' 'yes, sir, and my poor baby--' 'if it is taken away it will go to him in heaven.' 'oh no, oh no! my baby must not die! my james was good, and has talked to me hours, and hours, about being ready to die, but i used to laugh at him--_that_ goes to my heart the worst, sir, to laugh at _him_ who was as gentle as that baby, _him_ who is in his grave now. oh if i could forget _that_! he is in heaven, sir, but i--i shall never get there! it's of no use to read the bible to me, and talk to me--james used to pray for me, but it was of no use, i am too wicked. but if you can save the baby, sir, if god will let the child live, i shall have a little comfort.' mr maurice had succeeded in rousing the poor woman's feelings, but he found that she felt more acutely than he imagined, and he now brought to his aid the still small voice of the gospel. he told her of the fountain in which sin might be washed away, he told her of the place where the weary might find rest, and pointed her to the lord jesus christ, for mercy; but though she appeared to listen, her thoughts were evidently fixed upon her husband and child, and the truths he uttered fell unheeded on her ear. after talking some time, he again read a portion of the bible, prayed with the poor woman, and went away. 'oh, how i pity her, father,' said harry, when they were on their way home. 'do you really think the little baby will get well?--i do hope it will.' 'that is a natural wish, my child; but god knows what is best, and if he should see fit to remove it, we have no right to murmur.' 'no, father, but poor mrs gilman will feel so dreadfully, for then she will be entirely alone. she told us, you know, that before she married james gilman she was a poor servant girl, and an orphan, and she don't know whether she has any relatives or not. it will be very hard for her to see everything she loves taken from her and buried in the grave.' 'so it will, my dear boy, and she deserves all our sympathy; but it may be that a kind heavenly parent, since she has no earthly ones to guide her, is using these means to draw the poor widow nearer to him. if this chastisement is sent by his hand, it will undoubtedly be in love and mercy.' 'do you think, father, that mrs gilman loves her little james too well?' 'i will answer your question by asking another, harry. do you think her love for the child interferes with that she owes to god?' harry was for a few moments silent. at last he answered, 'she certainly loves him better than she does god, and that is not right; but you always told effie and me that we could not love each other too well.' 'and i told you right, provided _that_ love is made subservient to a holier one. but your first duty is, in the words of our saviour, "to love the lord thy god with all thy heart." obedience to this precept involves a great many other duties, but none of these should interfere with the great first command.' 'but, father,' inquired harry, 'if mrs gilman should become a christian, would she love her baby less.' 'no, she might love it more, but not with the same kind of affection she bears it now. this is a blind idolatry--her child is her all, and she cannot bear to part with it, even though it should join her lost husband, and wear a crown in glory. if she were a christian, she would be able to say, "thy will be done," and to place entire confidence in the divine master, and bow in submission to his requirements, even though they should call on her to resign this treasure.' 'oh, how happy we should be, if we loved god better than anything else!' said harry. after they had arrived at home, and while mrs maurice was engaged in preparing some comfortable things for the poor woman, harry was heard to whisper in his sister's ear, 'poor mrs gilman makes a god of her baby, effie.' chapter vi. generosity and justice. several days passed away, and little effie was watching every opportunity for making applications of the truth her mother had taught her, but yet, (such is the deceitfulness of the human heart,) she still considered herself out of danger. if any little boys or girls who may perchance read this story, are as confident as effie, we only ask them to watch over their thoughts and actions for as long a time as she did, and see if they do not discover their mistake. one day mrs maurice went to make a call on a lady of her acquaintance, and as harry was engaged with his father, she allowed effie to accompany her. it was a beautiful parlour into which they were ushered, and mrs town received them with due politeness. they were scarce seated when the servant announced another visitor, and a lady with whom mrs maurice was very well acquainted entered, and immediately stated the object of her call--to obtain subscriptions for a charitable society. 'i am tired of these societies,' said mrs town, 'do not you think, mrs maurice, that individual charity is preferable?' 'undoubtedly, in many instances, but societies have done much good, and i am therefore disposed to countenance them.' 'but don't you think,' said mrs town, 'that a person is very apt to think by being a member of a society she is freed from individual responsibility?' 'there may be such people,' was the reply, 'and undoubtedly are, but they are those who give merely because they are expected to do so, and this is the easiest mode of cheating the world and themselves that could be devised.' 'well,' replied mrs town, 'i have always made it a point never to place my name on a subscription list, so i shall be obliged to decline. i hope,' she said to the disappointed lady, who had been advised to call upon her because she was rich, 'i hope you will meet with better success elsewhere.' 'i hope i shall,' the lady could scarce forbear saying, as mrs town curtsied gracefully in answer to her embarrassed nod, but she soon calmed her excited feelings and passed on. 'poor mrs d.!' said mrs town. 'this must be very unpleasant business. i can't see what could induce a lady of her respectability to engage in it.' 'i know of no one who could perform the task better,' said mrs maurice. 'certainly not, but--' mrs town paused, and then added, hesitatingly, 'it seems a little too much like begging.' 'it surely is begging,' said mrs maurice, with much animation, 'begging for the poor, the weak, the desolate, the unfriended--these have claims upon those who to-morrow may be in their places--and more, mrs town, it is begging for our brethren, our sisters--these have claims upon us that cannot be waived--but above all, it is begging for the king of kings, him who hesitated not to give his own son for us, and his claims cover all others. not only our gold and silver are his, but ourselves.' 'oh, my dear mrs maurice, i would not have you to suppose that i object to _giving_--by no means--it is only from an ostentatious display of charity that i shrink--this is a duty that should be exercised in private, a--' mrs town was interrupted in the midst of her vindication by a servant who entered and placed a note in her hand, which she folded closer and was about putting in her pocket--'please, ma'am,' said the servant, 'she wishes you to read it now, and say if you can see her.' mrs town glanced at the note and coloured slightly, but she had been too long accustomed to concealing her feelings for a stronger manifestation. 'tell her to come to-morrow,' said she. the servant was gone a moment and again returned, 'please, ma'am,' said he, 'the woman won't go away, she says she _will_ see you, for her husband is sick, and her children starving, and she must have her _pay_.' mrs town started from her seat: this was a strange comment upon her beautiful theory of individual charity. mrs maurice retired as soon as possible, and as she passed through the hall she saw a miserably-clad woman with a face extremely haggard and care-worn, whom she supposed to be the person claiming--not _charity_, but _justice_, of mrs town. effie saw that her mother's face was unusually clouded, and she did not venture to comment upon the past scene, but she said to her brother as soon as they were alone, 'i am glad we are not rich like mrs town, harry, lest we should make a _god_ of our money.' mrs maurice did not, however, neglect at a suitable time to fix upon effie's mind the impression she had received from the scene at mrs town's. 'remember, my child,' she said, 'if you should ever live to become a woman, that _justice_ should be preferred to _generosity_, and never talk of _giving_ while some poor person may be suffering for that which is her just due.' 'mother,' said harry, 'elisha otis told me to-day that his father thinks people who talk so much of giving, are all hypocrites.' 'people who make a great noise about any good act which they perform appear somewhat pharisaical, but we have no right to condemn them upon that score _alone_, for it often proceeds from a great desire to do good. you know we are very apt to talk of that which most occupies our thoughts, harry. but where did elisha otis's father get such notions of charitable people?' 'that is what i was going to tell you about, mother. you know how much deacon brown, gives--he heads all the subscription papers, and i heard father say the other day that he was a great help to the church; but mr otis says that he is never willing to pay people that work for him their full price, and then they have to wait, and dun, and dun, before they can get anything.' 'i am sorry to hear this, my son, very sorry.' 'isn't it true mother?' 'it is true that deacon brown in some instances has seemed more generous than just, and this case is very good to illustrate what i before said; but mr otis makes it appear much worse than it is.' 'then he don't cheat his workmen, mother?' 'no; but, by procrastination, thoughtlessness, or even perhaps the desire which business men may have to make a good bargain, he may do wrong, and so lay himself open to all these remarks. bad qualities, you know, shew much plainer in a good man than a bad one, and are almost always made to appear worse than they really are. but let this be a warning to you, my boy--remember that _good_ (not _great_) actions seldom cover faults, but faults obscure the lustre of many good actions, and destroy the usefulness of thousands of really good and pious people.' chapter vii. the new book. 'a present for you, effie,' said mr maurice, a few days after the foregoing conversation, 'a present from your uncle william! it is in this nice little packet, now guess what it is.' 'o father--' 'no, but you must guess.' 'why it's a book--say a book, effie,' interposed harry, 'with sights of pictures, i dare say, and may be pretty gilt letters on the back, too.' 'is it a book?' inquired effie, her little eyes dancing with pleasure, 'and from uncle william, too? oh how good he is to remember a little girl like me!' by this time mr maurice had unwound the cord and unfolded the paper, and displayed a neat little book--what think you it was? 'peter parley's stories,' says one, 'the love token,' says another. no, you are both wrong. effie maurice was almost a woman before these books were written. mrs sherwood was then the children's friend, and some beautiful stories she told them, too. the book had neither pictures, nor gilt letters, but this did not spoil it for effie, and she was soon so busily engaged in reading that she forgot that there was anything in the world but herself and the delightful book--more still, she forgot even her own existence, and thought only of the people about whom she was reading. a half-hour passed away and then mrs maurice reminded effie of her room, and told her it had better be put in order. 'yes, mother, in a few minutes.' the few minutes passed away, and mrs maurice spoke again. 'i will, mother.' mrs maurice saw that effie forgot these words almost as soon as spoken, but instead of telling her at once to put up the book, and do as she was bidden, she allowed her to pursue her own course for this once, hoping by this means to cure her of a very bad habit. soon after, mrs maurice descended to the kitchen to give some directions, and effie was left alone. once the thought entered her mind that she had promised to visit mrs gilman that day, but she immediately concluded another time would do as well, and so continued her reading. after a while harry, who had been out with his father, entered in great haste, with a packet of medicine in his hand. 'effie,' he said, 'father wants you to take this to mrs gilman's when you go, it is for her little james, and i--' 'i am not going to-day, harry.' 'can't you go? oh do! don't mind the book! you can read it another time.' 'so i can go to mrs gilman's another time.' 'oh, but the medicine, effie.' 'can't you take it as well as i? it is too bad for me to have to be running there all the time.' it was very unusual for effie to speak so peevishly, but harry was in a very happy mood, so he merely exclaimed, 'why, effie!' and glanced at the book as much as to say, 'did you learn it there!' effie saw the glance, and ashamed of her ill nature said, 'oh it is such a good story, harry! but if you can't go to mrs gilman's, why not send a servant?' 'father said some of _us_ ought to go; so do, effie, just put up your book for this once. the medicine is to prevent the convulsions that frightened us so yesterday, but father is going out into the country (it is delightful sleighing!) and he says i may go. you know it isn't every day i can get a sleigh-ride, effie.' and the delighted boy gave his sister such a very hearty kiss that she could not forbear answering good humouredly, especially as she had some suspicion that she had not spoken pleasantly at first, 'well, i will go, harry, but don't hinder me now, i shall get through the chapter in a few minutes.' 'well, don't forget, and when i come back i will tell you about all i see.' effie finished her chapter and thought of the medicine, and wondered if it was really so important that it should go immediately; but she was now in the most interesting part of the story, and she continued to read a little farther. so the time stole away--i can't exactly tell how, but perhaps some of my little readers (especially if they have read the little book that delighted effie so much) can imagine--till the dinner hour. by this time effie had finished her book, and her father and harry had returned from the sleigh-ride, the latter particularly in excellent spirits. effie thought of the medicine as she sat down to the table, and in a moment all her enjoyment vanished; for she had been guilty of procrastination, she had broken her word, and what excuse had she to offer for her neglect? that she had scarcely known what she was about, was no excuse at all, for she knew she ought to have known. she could not, however, prevail upon herself to confess her fault, until after she had repaired it, and so decided to go to mrs gilman's immediately after dinner, and when she had set all right again, to tell the whole affair to her parents and brother. harry was full of stories about his ride, and she heard as well as she could about the farmer's big dog that at first wouldn't let them come in, and afterwards shook hands with them, and the cat that could open doors, and the hens and rabbits, but she forgot all about them in a moment, and only wished she could slide away from the table and nobody see her. at last the meal was ended, and they were about rising from the table when they were startled by a message from mrs gilman's. her little boy was in convulsions. 'i will go immediately,' said mr maurice, 'poor little fellow! nothing can save him now--that medicine was my last hope.' 'oh, father!' exclaimed effie. 'nay, my child--' mr maurice began, but he saw that it was not mere pity that produced so much agitation, and inquired hastily 'what is the matter?' poor effie attempted to speak, but burst into tears. 'oh, effie!' exclaimed her brother, grasping her arm, 'you couldn't have forgotten the medicine.' the poor child only sobbed the harder, and harry, turning to the table, pointed to the little packet, thus explaining the mystery! 'and so for a selfish gratification you have endangered a fellow-creature's life,' said mr maurice, sternly. 'oh, father!' exclaimed harry, 'she's so sorry! don't cry, effie, don't cry!' he whispered, at the same time passing his arm around her neck, 'father didn't mean to be so severe, he is only frightened about little james--i am very sorry i didn't go, for it was too bad to make you leave the book.' but all harry's soothing words could not make effie blind to her own neglect, and when she saw her father go out with an anxious, troubled face, and her mother looked so sorrowful without saying a single word to her, she could not help going back in her thoughts to mrs town, rosa lynmore, and even the miser, and thinking she was worse than any of them. her brother harry still clung around her neck, and kept whispering she was not to blame, the fault was his, till mrs maurice called him away, and then very reluctantly he quitted her side. poor effie, thus left without sympathy, crept away to her own little room, and sat down, not merely to weep, but to enter into a regular self-examination. the truths she thus discovered were exceedingly humiliating, but the child began to feel that she needed humbling, and she did not shrink from the task. i do not know but effie's self-condemnation was greater than the fault really called for, but it certainly was of great use to her, and made her humbler, and gentler, and more forgiving than she ever was before. effie did not see her father or harry again that night, but when her mother came to see if she was warm in her little bed, she whispered in her ear, 'oh, i have so many faults: and my heart is full of false gods. i am afraid i never really loved my heavenly father.' 'yet, effie, a great many children, and some grown people, would consider this neglect of yours to-day a very small thing.' 'oh, mother! i know it is not small, though i never thought it was so very wicked before.' 'and what makes you think it is wicked now?' 'because it has led me to do so many wicked things. in the first place, it was wrong to read immediately after breakfast, for then is the time that you desire me to work.' 'well, do you see any bad effect that the neglect of this rule may have on your future life?' 'i suppose i should make a very useless woman, if i should grow up in ignorance of work.' 'yes, certainly you would; when i insist upon your attending to your few duties at a particular time--can you imagine the reason of this? why not read the book this morning, and make up the lost time this evening?' effie could not tell, and mrs maurice went on to explain the necessity of _order_ in the distribution of time, and shewed her little daughter, that it was as necessary in the government of a house as in the government of a nation. 'but that is not the only bad effect,' she added, 'of your self-indulgence.' 'oh no, mother, it made me disobedient to you, though i am sure i didn't think of being so at the time.' 'i dare say not, but you see when we once go wrong, we are like a traveller who has lost his path, and can be certain of nothing.' 'then i forgot my duty to poor mrs gilman--i even made myself believe that there was no need of going to see her; and i was cross to harry, and so selfish, that if i had not been ashamed to own it, i would have had him give up his ride and go with the medicine.' 'and he would rather have gone ten times than--' 'i know it, mother, rather a hundred times than have the baby die.' 'or see you do so very wrong.' 'oh, harry has been crying about it, i know, though he can't feel half so badly as i do. but that was not all, mother--last of all, i broke my promise. i told harry i would go as soon as i finished the chapter.' 'and all this,' said mrs maurice, 'is the result of what, under other circumstances, would be a mere innocent gratification, a pleasant pastime, and a useful exercise.' 'but, mother, when i once begun, i thought i could not stop.' 'then that was the very moment when you should have stopped, and this one victory would have made others easier. now i am not afraid, my dear, of your being led astray (at least at present) by things which you know to be wrong; your danger lies on the unguarded side, and yet it is as likely to prove fatal to your peace of mind, your piety, and your usefulness.' 'it never seemed to me before, that so much evil could come from such a small thing.' 'then you have learned an all-important lesson, which i trust will not be soon forgotten.' 'but, mother, i shall always be afraid of doing wrong now--i don't even know what is right.' 'that shews me, effie, that you begin to look upon yourself as you really are. if you are left to yourself, you will do wrong; but if you distrust self, and place all your confidence in god, and at the same time study to do right, you will not, for any long time, be left in darkness.' the conversation of mrs maurice continued to a late hour; but as the remaining time was spent in encouraging poor effie, who needed all that could be said to her, we will pass it over, and merely inform our readers that she awoke in the morning wiser, and even happier; for the joy that is felt in heaven over a repenting sinner, is reflected upon that sinner's own heart. chapter viii. another of mr maurice's lessons. 'father,' said harry, after the little family had gathered around the fire as usual, on the ensuing evening, 'it seems strange that people can love good books too well.' 'i believe they are not very apt to, harry, especially boys who are so fond of snowballing and sliding, as a certain little fellow i met to-day.' 'oh you mean me, now, father, but i thought you liked to have me play.' 'so i do; only look out that the books and play go together. one is for the mind, and the other is for the body, and both should be cared for.' 'well, father, mr titus tells the boys, that the mind is the only thing worthy of attention, at least he talks as though he thought so; and so some of the larger boys think it is not scholarlike to play, and sit mewed up in the house from morning till night, like so many drones.' 'and so grow pale and sickly-looking, do they not?' 'yes, sir; and what's more, i don't think they learn a bit faster than some of the rest of us.' 'very likely, harry--for whether they think proper attention to the body important or not, the state of the mind depends very much upon it. a healthy mind, that is, a perfectly sound, active, and energetic one, cannot dwell in a diseased body; and so your play, while it amuses you, and seems to others to be mere waste of time, invigorates the body, affords rest to the mind, and is in reality as essential to your well-being as the food you eat, or the clothing you wear in winter.' 'i wish mr titus could hear you say that, father.' 'perhaps it would not be safe to talk so to all his boys, for i presume the most of them would at present be more benefited by what he says. children seldom love study too well. even our little book-worm, effie, would never become too much engaged in anything but a story.' 'father, thomas marvin says that he can't get to school for a while, and he can't spend the time in exercise; as he says fun takes his mind off his books, and makes him lose a great deal. he is intending to teach a school when he goes away from here, but i don't believe he will, for he looks sickly now. but he thinks it is very foolish to spend time in jumping about, and all that, when there are things so much more important to be done.' 'the body, which god has so wonderfully made, and which he watches over with such tender care, is very far from being beneath our notice, harry; and while we should give the greater care to the immortal part, we should not neglect the other. i have been visiting a scholar to-day, who i doubt not was once of young marvin's opinion in these things, and, poor fellow! he does not even see his folly now.' 'please tell us about him, father,' said effie, with interest, 'did he study so much to make him selfish and wicked?' 'i will tell you the story, and then you must be the judge,' returned mr maurice. 'i believe, however, that in this case selfishness was more out of the question than usual; he had too much zeal, "a zeal not according to knowledge." lewis varden was the son of a poor widow, who contrived to support a large family in comfort and to give them a good education. he was the youngest son, and perhaps from the circumstance of being too tenderly nurtured, and perhaps from some constitutional defect, was never so strong and muscular as his brothers, and so his mother determined that he should study a profession. 'lewis was particularly pleased with the arrangement, as he had a natural fondness for sedentary employments, and at sixteen had become so extensive a reader, as to be a kind of family encyclopedia. the question, however, remained to be decided whether he should study law or medicine, the only professions which among us are at all lucrative. 'while he was yet wavering between the two, he lost his mother, and suddenly the whole object of his life, even his own character, became changed. mrs varden was what is usually called a good woman, that is, with a sharp eye upon her worldly interests, she maintained her standing in the church, and bore a fair reputation; but she was a worldly-minded christian, and as such had not sufficiently encouraged in her children any peculiar love for holiness. she was, however, a devoted, self-sacrificing mother, as far as their worldly interests were concerned: and never was a lost parent more sincerely mourned. 'from that time forth, lewis seemed to lose all connection with the business part of the world, and he devoted himself more closely than ever to his books. 'yet among these books, the bible now found a place, and occupied a large share of his attention. from reading it, because it suited his now serious thoughts, he began to love its contents, and finally he made them the guide of his life. he became a member of the church in the little village where he resided, and was soon regarded as a very promising young man. 'his new friends were exceedingly anxious that he should study for the ministry, and he entered with alacrity upon his new duties. but not content with what he considered the circuitous way to usefulness usually taken, he determined by industry to cut it short, and so the noonday sun and midnight lamp found him at the same task. when worn out by his incessant mental labours, he would throw himself down and sleep for a little time; but his dreams were only a continuation of his waking thoughts, so that even in sleep he was studying still. 'when his fellow-students expostulated, he laughed at the idea of his health being injured by incessant application, and seemed to be afraid that variety of employment would distract his attention. so he went on from week to week, and month to month, preparing his mind for usefulness, but his body for the grave. his pale brow grew yet paler, his cheek hollow, and his hand thin and colourless, but still he declared himself to be in perfect health, and no one knew his danger. 'finally, he was attacked by a cold, a very slight one, he at first thought, but it clung to him, and could not be shaken off. the poor fellow is now wasting away by consumption, but i cannot convince him of his danger, and to-day when i called on him at the house of his brother, i found him surrounded by books and papers, his large dark eye absolutely glowing with enthusiasm, and a deep red spot burning on either cheek.' 'oh, father, what did you say to him?' inquired harry, earnestly. 'a short time ago i recommended quiet and relaxation, telling him plainly that his disease was beyond the reach of medicine, so he understood my look of painful surprise at once. 'he only shook his head, laughingly, and said, "ah, doctor, this life is too short to throw away, and so i have gone to work. but you must not blame me," he said, observing that i was about to speak, "i am only planning a few sermons i intend to preach next summer." 'and then he went on to talk about his intentions, and inquired my opinion of some particular sentiments that he had been writing down, until he became so much excited that i was obliged to order the removal of all his papers. poor fellow! he will never preach a sermon. in his impatience to become useful, he has destroyed his power to do good.' 'i don't think,' said effie, 'that poor mr varden makes knowledge his _god_ exactly, because he does it all for good; but it would be very wicked for harry or me to do so, because we know how wrong it is. i wish everybody that praised people for studying too hard could know it is wicked.' 'but remember,' said mr maurice, 'that where one person's cheek is paled by hard study, fifty make themselves utterly useless by neglecting the bodily exercise which _moderate_ mental effort demands. it is aversion to active employment, and not the love of knowledge, that has slain its hundreds and crippled its thousands.' chapter ix. the funeral. it was a bright and sunshiny day, and so warm as to make the snow moist and yielding beneath the foot--such a day as children love and choose for their happiest sports; but to at least two children it was anything but a day of pleasure. poor mrs gilman's little james had lingered on beyond all expectation, and finally died, calmly and quietly, as if he had been composing himself for sleep. and so it was--a long sleep. this was the day on which the little one was to be buried, and harry and effie were sincere mourners. not like the poor mother--oh no, no one could feel like her--but they wept as one child of adversity weeps for another, all through life, from the cradle to the grave. children are sad when they see those of their own age falling like the spring flowers around them; and when the little infant grows cold and lifeless in its cradle, beneath a loving mother's eye, and is borne away to the silent, lonely graveyard, they insensibly grow thoughtful, and if they have been deprived of previous instructions, death becomes their teacher, and for a little time they grow wise beneath the influence of his lessons. but harry and effie had not been thus deprived, and as hand in hand they followed the little coffin to the grave, through their tears of sadness and sympathy there gleamed out a bright and elevated expression, almost a happy one, which shewed that they looked beyond these sorrow-claiming objects, and saw the suffering child they had loved and pitied a redeemed spirit of light. they could see that the little flower, which had drooped and faded in the atmosphere of this world, grew bright and beautiful in the sunshine of immortal love. they knew that the kingdom of god was made up of just such little children--those who had died before they knew anything of the sin and wickedness of this world; or having known it, having grown old and gray beneath its heavy burden, had laid all at the feet of jesus, and in spirit gone back to helpless, guileless infancy again. they knew that their little friend now dwelt with that dear saviour, who, when on earth, blessed little children, who gathers the lambs in his arms, and carries them in his bosom. yet it was a sad day for them, for they mourned the dead, as mortals always mourn when mortals die, although they did not wish him back, and they pitied the living. more tears were indeed shed for mrs gilman, than for the child. the contents of rosa lynmore's purse had been reserved by mr maurice for this sad occasion, he having supplied all previous wants; and it had been sufficient to give a decent burial to the little boy, who slept quietly at his father's side--to be awakened only when you and i, my dear reader, shall be aroused from the same slumber. mr maurice was right when he said if mrs gilman was stricken, it would be in mercy; for her heart being weaned from the world, at last found a refuge from its loneliness in the consolations of religion, and left the broken reed of earthly love, on which it had leaned too confidently, for the rock, christ jesus, the friend that never fails. she entered mr maurice's family as a domestic, and has grown gray in its service. harry maurice, it was for a long time thought, would become a preacher of the gospel; but when he became old enough to judge, he decided in favour of his father's profession, declaring that he who fails to do good in one situation in life, would most decidedly fail in another. sweet little effie! her struggle with her heart on the occasion of the book was not the last; it was difficult for her to learn its deceitfulness, and she required repeated lessons. as she grew older, however, she was always complaining of her own sinfulness, while every one else thought her the meekest, the gentlest, and most self-sacrificing being that ever lived. she had, indeed, become remarkably sharp-sighted to her own faults, and, in proportion, forgiving to those of others. but at last a trial came. she was called on to leave all she loved on earth, and carry the gospel to a far off benighted land. she wept at parting with her parents, but even then she whispered in her mother's ear thanks for the early lessons she had received, and added, 'but for these i might never have learned true self-denial, and might have preferred my dear home to the service of my master.' effie loved her home sincerely, but she loved her saviour who gave it to her better, and she will have her reward. and now, my little readers, i have not told you this story simply to amuse you, although i should like to see you interested in its perusal, but i had a better object. it is not enough that you should see your own faults, and try to mend them yourself; neither is it enough that you should pray, 'lead us not into temptation;' but you must '_watch and pray_' also, always remembering that however pleasant and beautiful this world is, there is a brighter and a better, where little children and old men may equally sit down together in happiness, having one god and one father. [frontispiece: they stopped and had a drink of the cool water] the early bird _a business man's love story_ by george randolph chester author of the making of bobby burnit with illustrations by arthur william brown indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company contents chapter i a very busy young man ii mr. turner plunges iii a matter of delicacy iv greek meets greek v miss josephine's father vi maraschino chocolates vii a dance number viii not sam's fault this time ix a violent flirt x a pianola training xi the westlakes invest xii another missed appointment xiii a ride with miss stevens xiv matrimonial eligibility xv the hero of the hour xvi an interrupted proposal xvii she calls him sam! xviii a business partner illustrations they stopped and had a drink of the cool water . . . _frontispiece_ they waylaid him on the porch hepseba studied him from head to foot sam played again the plaintive little air "i don't like to worry you, sam" "excuse me!" stammered mr. stevens the early bird chapter i wherein a very busy young man starts on an absolute rest the youngish-looking man who so vigorously swung off the train at restview, wore a pair of intensely dark blue eyes which immediately photographed everything within their range of vision--flat green country, shaded farm-houses, encircling wooded hills and all--weighed it and sorted it and filed it away for future reference; and his clothes clung on him with almost that enviable fit found only in advertisements. immediately he threw his luggage into the tonneau of the dingy automobile drawn up at the side of the lonely platform, and promptly climbed in after it. spurred into purely mechanical action by this silent decisiveness, the driver, a grizzled graduate from a hay wagon, and a born grump, as promptly and as silently started his machine. the crisp and perfect start, however, was given check by a peremptory voice from the platform. "hey, you!" rasped the voice. "come back here!" as there were positively no other "hey yous" in the landscape, the driver and the alert young man each acknowledged to the name, and turned to see an elderly gentleman, with a most aggressive beard and solid corpulency, gesticulating at them with much vigor and earnestness. standing beside him was a slender sort of girl in a green outfit, with very large brown eyes and a smile of amusement which was just a shade mischievous. the driver turned upon his passenger a long and solemn accusation. "hollis creek inn?" he asked sternly. "meadow brook," returned the passenger, not at all abashed, and he smiled with all the cheeriness imaginable. "oh," said the driver, and there was a world of disapprobation in his tone, as well as a subtle intonation of contempt. "you are not mr. stevens of boston." "no," confessed the passenger; "mr. turner of new york. i judge that to be mr. stevens on the platform," and he grinned. the driver, still declining to see any humor whatsoever in the situation, sourly ran back to the platform. jumping from his seat he opened the door of the tonneau, and waited with entirely artificial deference for mr. turner of new york to alight. mr. turner, however, did nothing of the sort. he merely stood up in the tonneau and bowed gravely. "i seem to be a usurper," he said pleasantly to mr. stevens of boston. "i was expected at meadow brook, and they were to send a conveyance for me. as this was the only conveyance in sight i naturally supposed it to be mine. i very much regret having discommoded you." he was looking straight at mr. stevens of boston as he spoke, but, nevertheless, he was perfectly aware of the presence of the girl; also of her eyes and of her smile of amusement with its trace of mischievousness. becoming conscious of his consciousness of her, he cast her deliberately out of his mind and concentrated upon mr. stevens. the two men gazed quite steadily at each other, not to the point of impertinence at all, but nevertheless rather absorbedly. really it was only for a fleeting moment, but in that moment they had each penetrated the husk of the other, had cleaved straight down to the soul, had estimated and judged for ever and ever, after the ways of men. "i passed your carryall on the road. it was broke down. it'll be here in about a half hour, i suppose," insisted the driver, opening the door of the tonneau still wider, and waving the descending pathway with his right hand. both mr. stevens of boston and mr. turner of new york were very glad of this interruption, for it gave the older gentleman an object upon which to vent his annoyance. "is meadow brook on the way to hollis creek?" he demanded in a tone full of reproof for the driver's presumption. the driver reluctantly admitted that it was. "i couldn't think of leaving you in this dismal spot to wait for a dubious carryall," offered mr. stevens, but with frigid politeness. "you are quite welcome to ride with us, if you will." "thank you," said mr. turner, now climbing out of the machine with alacrity and making way for the others. "i had intended," he laughed, as he took his place beside the driver, "to secure just such an invitation, by hook or by crook." for this assurance he received a glance from the big eyes; not at all a flirtatious glance, but one of amusement, with a trace of mischief. the remark, however, had well-nigh stopped all conversation on the part of mr. stevens, who suddenly remembered that he had a daughter to protect, and must discourage forwardness. his musings along these lines were interrupted by an enthusiastic outburst from mr. turner. "by george!" exclaimed the latter gentleman, "what a fine clump of walnut trees; an even half-dozen, and every solitary one of them would trim sixteen inches." "yes," agreed the older man with keenly awakened interest, "they are fine specimens. they would scale six hundred feet apiece, if they'd scale an inch." "you're in the lumber business, i take it," guessed the young man immediately, already reaching for his card-case. "my name is turner, known a little better as sam turner, of turner and turner." "sam turner," repeated the older man thoughtfully. "the name seems distinctly familiar to me, but i do not seem, either, to remember of any such firm in the trade." "oh, we're not in the lumber line," replied mr. turner. "not at all. we're in most anything that offers a profit. we--that is my kid brother and myself--have engineered a deal or two in lumber lands, however. it was only last month that i turned a good trade--a very good trade--on a tract of the finest trees in wisconsin." "the dickens!" exclaimed the older gentleman explosively. "so you're the turner who sold us our own lumber! now i know you. i'm stevens, of the maine and wisconsin lumber company." sam turner laughed aloud, in both surprise and glee. mr. stevens had now reached for his own card-case. the two gentlemen exchanged cards, which, with barely more than a glance, they poked in the other flaps of their cases; then they took a new and more interested inspection of each other. both were now entirely oblivious to the girl, who, however, was by no means oblivious to them. she found them, in this new meeting, a most interesting study. "you gouged us on that land, young man," resumed mr. stevens with a wry little smile. "worth every cent you paid us for it, wasn't it?" demanded the other. "y-e-s; but if you hadn't stepped into the deal at the last minute, we could have secured it for five or six thousand dollars less money." "you used to go after these things yourself," explained mr. turner with an easy laugh. "now you send out people empowered only to look and not to purchase." "but what i don't yet understand," protested mr. stevens, "is how you came to be in the deal at all. when we sent out our men to inspect the trees they belonged to a chap in detroit. when we came to buy them they belonged to you." "certainly," agreed the younger man. "i was up that way on other business, when i heard about your man looking over this valuable acreage; so i just slipped down to detroit and hunted up the owner and bought it. then i sold it to you. that's all." he smiled frankly and cheerfully upon mr. stevens, and the frown of discomfiture which had slightly clouded the latter gentleman's brow, faded away under the guilelessness of it all; so much so that he thought to introduce his daughter. miss josephine having been brought into the conversation, mr. turner, for the first time, bent his gaze fully upon her, giving her the same swift scrutiny and appraisement that he had the father. he was evidently highly satisfied with what he saw, for he kept looking at it as much as he dared. he became aware after a moment or so that mr. stevens was saying something to him. he never did get all of it, but he got this much: "--so you'd be rather a good man to watch, wherever you go." "i hope so," agreed the other briskly. "if i want anything, i go prepared to grab it the minute i find that it suits me." "do you always get everything you want?" asked the young lady. "always," he answered her very earnestly, and looked her in the eyes so speculatively, albeit unconsciously so, that she found herself battling with a tendency to grow pink. her father nodded in approval. "that's the way to get things," he said. "what are you after now? more lumber?" "rest," declared mr. turner with vigorous emphasis. "i've worked like a nailer ever since i turned out of high school. i had to make the living for the family, and i sent my kid brother through college. he's just been out a year and it's a wonder the way he takes hold. but do you know that in all those times since i left school i never took a lay-off until just this minute? it feels glorious already. it's fine to look around this good stretch of green country and breathe this fresh air and look at those hills over yonder, and to realize that i don't have to think of business for two solid weeks. just absolute rest, for me! i don't intend to talk one syllable of shop while i'm here. hello! there's another clump of walnut trees. it's a pity they're scattered so that it isn't worth while to buy them up." the girl laughed, a little silvery laugh which made any memory of grand opera seem harsh and jangling. both men turned to her in surprise. neither of them could see any cause for mirth in all the fields or sky. "i beg your pardon for being so silly," she said; "but i just thought of something funny." "tell it to us," urged mr. turner. "i've never taken the time i ought to enjoy funny things, and i might as well begin right now." but she shook her head, and in some way he acquired an impression that she was amused at him. his brows gathered a trifle. if the young lady intended to make sport of him he would take her down a peg or two. he would find her point of susceptibility to ridicule, and hammer upon it until she cried enough. that was his way to make men respectful, and it ought to work with women. when they let him out at meadow brook, mr. stevens was kind enough to ask him to drop over to hollis creek. mr. turner, with impulsive alacrity, promised that he would. chapter ii wherein mr. turner plunges into the business of resting at meadow brook sam turner found w. w. westlake, of the westlake electric company, a big, placid man with a mild gray eye and an appearance of well-fed and kindly laziness; a man also who had the record of having ruthlessly smashed more business competitors than any two other pirates in his line. westlake, unclasping his fat hands from his comfortable rotundity, was glad to see young turner, also glad to introduce the new eligible to his daughter, a girl of twenty-two, working might and main to reduce a threatened inheritance of embonpoint. mr. turner was charmed to meet miss westlake, and even more pleased to meet the gentleman who was with her, young princeman, a brisk paper manufacturer variously quoted at from one to two million. he knew all about young princeman; in fact, had him upon his mental list as a man presently to meet and cultivate for a specific purpose, and already mr. turner's busy mind offset the expenses of this trip with an equal credit, much in the form of "by introduction to h. l. princeman, jr. (princeman and son paper mills, aa ), whatever it costs." he liked young princeman at sight, too, and, proceeding directly to the matter uppermost in his thoughts, immediately asked him how the new tariff had affected his business. "it's inconvenient," said princeman with a shake of his head. "of course, in the end the consumers must pay, but they protest so much about it that they disarrange the steady course of our operations." "it's queer that the ultimate consumer never will be quite reconciled to his fate," laughed mr. turner; "but in this particular case, i think i hold the solution. you'll be interested, i know. you see--" "i beg your pardon, mr. turner," interrupted miss westlake gaily; "i know you'll want to meet all the young folks, and you'll particularly want to meet my very dearest friend. miss hastings, mr. turner." mr. turner had turned to find an extraordinarily thin young woman, with extraordinarily piercing black eyes, at miss westlake's side. "indeed, i do want to meet all the young people," he cordially asserted, taking miss hastings' claw-like hand in his own and wondering what to do with it. he could not clasp it and he could not shake it. she relieved him of his dilemma, after a moment, by twining that arm about the plump waist of her dearest friend. "is this your first stay at meadow brook?" she asked by way of starting conversation. she was very carefully vivacious, was miss hastings, and had a bird-like habit, meant to be very fetching, of cocking her head to one side as she spoke, and peering up to men--oh, away up--with the beady expression of a pet canary. "my very first visit," confessed mr. turner, not yet realizing the disgrace it was to be "new people" at meadow brook, where there was always an aristocracy of the grandchildren of original meadow brookers. "however, i hope it won't be the last time," he continued. "we shall all hope that, i am certain," miss westlake assured him, smiling engagingly into the depths of his eyes. "it will be our fault if you don't like it here;" and he might take such tentative promise as he would from that and her smile. "thank you," he said promptly enough. "i can see right now that i'm going to make meadow brook my future summer home. it's such a restful place, for one thing. i'm beginning to rest right now, and to put business so far into the background that--" he suddenly stopped and listened to a phrase which his trained ear had caught. "and that is the trouble with the whole paper business," mr. princeman was saying to mr. westlake. "it is not the tariff, but the future scarcity of wood-pulp material." "that's just what i was starting to explain to you," said mr. turner, wheeling eagerly to mr. princeman, entirely unaware, in his intensity of interest, of his utter rudeness to both groups. "my kid brother and myself are working on a scheme which, if we are on the right track, ought to bring about a revolution in the paper business. i can not give you the exact details of it now, because we're waiting for letters patent on it, but the fundamental point is this: that the wood-pulp manufacturers within a few years will have to grow their raw material, since wood is becoming so scarce and so high priced. well, there is any quantity of swamp land available, and we have experimented like mad with reeds and rushes. we've found one particular variety which grows very rapidly, has a strong, woody fiber, and makes the finest pulp in the world. i turned the kid loose with the company's bank roll this spring, and he secured options on two thousand acres of swamp land, near to transportation and particularly adapted to this culture, and dirt cheap because it is useless for any other purpose. as soon as the patents are granted on our process we're going to organize a million dollar stock company to take up more land and handle the business." "come over here and sit down," invited princeman, somewhat more than courteously. "wait a minute until i send for mccomas. here, boy, hunt mr. mccomas and ask him to come out on the porch." the new guest was reaching for pencil and paper as they gathered their chairs together. the two girls had already started hesitantly to efface themselves. half-way across the lawn they looked sadly toward the porch again. that handsome young mr. turner, his back toward them, was deep in formulated but thrilling facts, while three other heads, one gray and one black and one auburn, were bent interestedly over the envelope upon which he was figuring. later on, as he was dressing for dinner, mr. turner decided that he liked meadow brook very much. it was set upon the edge of a pleasant, rolling valley, faced and backed by some rather high hills, upon the sloping side of one of which the hotel was built, with broad verandas looking out upon exquisitely kept flowers and shrubbery and upon the shallow little brook which gave the place its name. a little more water would have suited sam better, but the management had made the most of its opportunities, especially in the matter of arranging dozens of pretty little lovers' lanes leading in all directions among the trees and along the sides of the shimmering stream, and the whole prospect was very good to look at, indeed. taken in conjunction with the fact that one had no business whatever on hand, it gave one a sense of delightful freedom to look out on the green lawn and the gay gardens, on the brook and the tennis and croquet courts, and on the purple-hazed, wooded hills beyond; it was good to fill one's lungs with country air and to realize for a little while what a delightful world this is; to see young people wandering about out there by twos and by threes, and to meet with so many other people of affairs enjoying leisure similar to one's own. of course, this wasn't a really fashionable place, being supported entirely by men who had made their own money; but there was princeman, for instance, a fine chap and very keen; a well-set-up fellow, black-haired and black-eyed, and of a quick, nervous disposition; one of precisely the kind of energy which turner liked to see. mccomas, too, with his deep red hair and his tendency to freckles, and his frank smile with all the white teeth behind it, was a corking good fellow; and alive. mccomas was in the furniture line, a maker of cheap stuff which was shipped in solid trains of carload lots from a factory that covered several acres. the other men he noticed around the place seemed to be of about the same stamp. he had never been anywhere that the men averaged so well. as he went down-stairs, mccomas introduced his wife, already gowned for the evening. she was a handsome woman, of the sort who would wear a different stunning gown every night for two weeks and then go on to the next place. well, she had a right to this extravagance. besides it is good for a man's business to have his wife dressed prosperously. a man who is getting on in the world ought to have a handsome wife. if she is the right kind, of miss stevens' type, say, she is a distinct asset. after dinner, miss westlake and miss hastings waylaid him on the porch. [illustration: they waylaid him on the porch] "i suppose, of course, you are going to take part in the bowling tournament to-night," suggested miss westlake with the engaging directness allowable to family friendship. "i suppose so, although i didn't know there was one. where is it to be held?" "oh, just down the other side of the brook, beyond the croquet grounds. we have a tournament every week, and a prize cup for the best score in the season. it's lots of fun. do you bowl?" "not very much," mr. turner confessed; "but if you'll just keep me posted on all these various forms of recreation, you may count on my taking a prominent share in them." "all right," agreed miss hastings, very vivaciously taking the conversation away from miss westlake. "we'll constitute ourselves a committee of two to lay out a program for you." "fine," he responded, bending on the fragile miss hastings a smile so pleasant that it made her instantly determine to find out something about his family and commercial standing. "what time do we start on our mad bowling career?" "they'll be drifting over in about a half-hour," miss westlake told him, with a speculative sidelong glance at her dearest girl friend. "everybody starts out for a stroll in some other direction, as if bowling was the least of their thoughts, but they all wind up at the alleys. i'll show you." a slight young man of the white-trousered faction, as distinguished from the dinner-coat crowd, passed them just then. "oh, billy," called miss westlake, and introduced the slight young man, who proved to be her brother, to mr. turner, at the same time wreathing her arm about the waist of her dear companion. "come on, vivian; let's go get our wraps," and the girls, leaving "billy" and mr. turner together, scurried away. the two young men looked at each other dubiously, though each had an earnest desire to please. they groped for human understanding, and suddenly that clammy, discouraged feeling spread its muffling wall between them. billy was the first to recover in part. "charming weather, isn't it?" he observed with a polite smile. mr. turner opined that it was, the while delving into mr. westlake's mental workshop and finding it completely devoid of tools, patterns or lumber. "the girls are just going to take me over to bowl," mr. turner ventured desperately after a while. "do you bowl very much?" "oh, i usually fill in," stated mr. westlake; "but really, i'm a very poor hand at it. i seem to be a poor hand at most everything," and he laughed with engaging candor, as if somehow this were creditable. the conversation thereupon lagged for a moment or two, while mr. turner blankly asked himself: "what in thunder _does_ a man talk about when he has nothing to say and nobody to say it to?" presently he solved the problem. "it must be beautiful out here in the autumn," he observed. "yes, it is indeed," returned mr. westlake with alacrity. "the leaves turn all sorts of colors." once more conversation lagged, while billy feebly wondered how any person could possibly be so dull as this chap. he made another attempt. "beastly place, though, when it rains," he observed. "yes, i should imagine so," agreed mr. turner. great scott! the voice of mccomas saved him from utter imbecility. "you'll excuse mr. turner a moment, won't you, billy?" begged mccomas pleasantly. "i want to introduce him to a couple of friends of mine." billy westlake bowed his forgiveness of mr. mccomas with fully as much relief as sam turner had felt. over in the same corner of the porch where he had sat in the afternoon with mccomas and princeman and the elder westlake, sam found awaiting them mr. cuthbert, of the american papier-mâché company, an almost viciously ugly man with a twisted nose and a crooked mouth, who controlled practically all the worth-while papier-mâché business of the united states, and mr. blackrock, an elderly man with a young toupee and particularly gaunt cheek-bones, who was a corporation lawyer of considerable note. both gentlemen greeted mr. turner as one toward whom they were already highly predisposed, and mr. princeman and mr. westlake also shook hands most cordially, as if sam had been gone for a day or two. mr. mccomas placed a chair for him. "we just happened to mention your marsh pulp idea, and mr. cuthbert and mr. blackrock were at once very highly interested," observed mccomas as they sat dawn. "mr. blackrock suggests that he don't see why you need wait for the issuance of the letters patent, at least to discuss the preliminary steps in the forming of your company." "why, no, mr. turner," said mr. blackrock, suavely and smoothly; "it is not a company anyhow, as i take it, which will depend so much upon letters patent as upon extensive exploitation." "yes, that's true enough," agreed sam with a smile. "the letters patent, however, should give my kid brother and myself, without much capital, controlling interest in the stock." upon this frank but natural statement the others laughed quite pleasantly. "that seems a plausible enough reason," admitted mr. westlake, folding his fat hands across his equator and leaning back in his chair with a placidity which seemed far removed from any thought of gain. "how did you propose to organize your company?" "well," said sam, crossing one leg comfortably over the other, "i expect to issue a half million participating preferred stock, at five per cent., and a half-million common, one share of common as bonus with each two shares of preferred; the voting power, of course, vested in the common." a silence followed that, and then mr. cuthbert, with a diagonal yawing of his mouth which seemed to give his words a special dryness, observed: "and i presume you intend to take up the balance of the common stock?" "just about," returned mr. turner cheerfully, addressing cuthbert directly. the papier-mâché king was another man whom he had inscribed, some time since, upon his mental list. "my kid brother and myself will take two hundred and fifty thousand of the common stock for our patents and processes, and for our services as promoters and organizers, and will purchase enough of the preferred to give us voting power; say five thousand dollars worth." mr. cuthbert shook his head. "very stringent terms," he observed. "i doubt if you will interest your capital on that basis." "all right," said sam, clasping his knee in his hands and rocking gently. "if we can't organize on that basis we won't organize at all. we're in no hurry. my kid brother's handling it just now, anyhow. i'm on a vacation, the first i ever had, and not keen upon business, by any means. in the meantime, let me show you some figures." five minutes later, billy westlake and his sister and miss hastings drew up to the edge of the group. young westlake stood diffidently for two or three minutes beside mr. turner's chair, and then he put his hand on that summer idler's shoulder. "oh, good evening, mr.--mr.--mr.--" sam stammered while he tried to find the name. "westlake," interposed billy's father; and then, a trifle impatiently, "what do you want, billy?" "mr. turner was to go over with us to the bowling shed, dad." "that's so," admitted mr. turner, glancing over to the porch rail where the girls stood expectantly in their fluffy white dresses, and nodding pleasantly at them, but not yet rising. he was in the midst of an important statement. "just you run on with the girls, billy," ordered mr. westlake. "mr. turner will be over in a few minutes." the others of the circle bent their eyes gravely upon billy and the girls as they turned away, and waited for mr. turner to resume. at a quarter past ten, as mr. turner and mr. princeman walked slowly along the porch to turn into the parlors for a few minutes of music, of which sam was very fond, a crowd of young people came trooping up the steps. among them were billy westlake and his sister, another young gentleman and miss hastings. "by george, that bowling tournament!" exclaimed mr. turner. "i forgot all about it." he was about to make his apologies, but miss westlake and miss hastings passed right on, with stern, set countenances and their heads in air. apparently they did not see mr. turner at all. he gazed after them in consternation; suddenly there popped into his mind the vision of a slender girl in green, with mischievous brown eyes--and he felt strangely comforted. before retiring he wired his brother to send some samples of the marsh pulp, and the paper made from it. chapter iii mr. turner applies business promptness to a matter of delicacy morning at meadow brook was even more delightful than evening. the time mr. turner had chosen for his outing was early september, and already there was a crispness in the air which was quite invigorating. clad in flannels and with a brand new tennis racket under his arm, he went into the reading-room immediately after breakfast, bought a paper of the night before and glanced hastily over the news of the day, paying more particular attention to the market page. prices of things had a peculiar fascination for him. he noticed that cereals had gone down, that there was another flurry in copper stock, and that hardwood had gone up, and ranging down the list his eye caught a quotation for walnut. it had made a sharp advance of ten dollars a thousand feet. out of the window, as he looked up, he saw miss westlake and miss hastings crossing the lawn, and he suddenly realized that he was here to wear himself out with rest, so he hurried in the direction the girls had taken; but when he arrived at the tennis court he found a set already in progress. both miss westlake and miss hastings barely nodded at mr. turner, and went right on displaying grace and dexterity to a quite unusual degree. decidedly mr. turner was being "cut," and he wondered why. presently he strode down to the road and looked up over the hill in the direction he knew hollis creek inn to be. he was still pondering the probable distance when mr. westlake and billy and young princeman came up the brook path. "just the chap i wanted to see, sam," said mr. westlake heartily. "i'm trying to get up a pin-hook fishing contest, for three-inch sunfish." "happy thought," returned sam, laughing. "count me in." "it's the governor's own idea, too," said billy with vast enthusiasm. "bully sport, it ought to be. only trouble is, princeman has some mysterious errand or other, and can't join us." "no; the fact is, the stevenses were due at hollis creek yesterday," confessed mr. princeman in cold return to the prying billy, "and i think i'll stroll over and see if they've arrived." sam turner surveyed princeman with a new interest. danger lurked in princeman's black eyes, fascination dwelt in his black hair, attractiveness was in every line of his athletic figure. it was upon the tip of sam's tongue to say that he would join princeman in his walk, but he repressed that instinct immediately. "quite a long ways over there by the road, isn't it?" he questioned. "yes," admitted princeman unsuspectingly, "it winds a good bit; but there is a path across the hills which is not only shorter but far more pleasant." sam turned to mr. westlake. "it would be a shame not to let princeman in on that pin-hook match," he suggested. "why not put it off until to-morrow morning. i have an idea that i can beat princeman at the game." there was more or less of sudden challenge in his tone, and princeman, keen as sam himself, took it in that way. "fine!" he invited. "any time you want to enter into a contest with me you just mention it." "i'll let you know in some way or other, even if i don't make any direct announcement," laughed sam, and princeman walked away with mr. westlake, very much to billy's consternation. he was alone with this dull turner person once more. what should they talk about? sam solved that problem for him at once. "what's the swiftest conveyance these people keep?" he asked briskly. "oh, you can get most anything you like," said billy. "saddle-horses and carriages of all sorts; and last year they put in a couple of automobiles, though scarcely any one uses them." there was a certain amount of careless contempt in billy's tone as he mentioned the hired autos. evidently they were not considered to be as good form as other modes of conveyance. "where's the garage?" asked sam. "right around back of the hotel. just follow that drive." "thanks," said the other crisply. "i'll see you this evening," and he stalked away leaving billy gasping for breath at the suddenness of sam. after all, though, he was glad to be rid of mr. turner. he knew the stevenses himself, and it had slowly dawned on him that by having his own horse saddled he could beat princeman over there. it took sam just about one minute to negotiate for an automobile, a neat little affair, shiny and new, and before they were half-way to hollis creek, his innate democracy led him into conversation with the driver, an alert young man of the near-by clay. "not very good soil in this neighborhood," sam observed. "i notice there is a heavy outcropping of stone. what are the principal crops?" "summer resorters," replied the driver briefly. "and do you mean to tell me that all these farm-houses call themselves summer resorts?" inquired sam. "no, only those that have running water. the others just keep boarders." "i see," said sam, laughing. a moment later they passed over a beautifully clear stream which ran down a narrow pocket valley between two high hills, swept under a rickety wooden culvert, and raced on across a marshy meadow, sparkling invitingly here and there in the sunlight. "here's running water without a summer resort," observed the passenger, still smiling. "it's too much shut in," replied the chauffeur as one who had voiced a final and insurmountable objection. all the "summer resorts" in this neighborhood were of one pattern, and no one would so much as dream of varying from the first successful model. sam scarcely heard. he was looking back toward the trough of those two picturesquely wooded hills, and for the rest of the drive he asked but few questions. at hollis creek, where he found a much more imposing hotel than the one at meadow brook, he discovered miss stevens, clad in simple white from canvas shoes to knotted cravat, in a summer-house on the lawn, chatting gaily with a young man who was almost fat. sam had seen other girls since he had entered the grounds, but he could not make out their features; this one he had recognized from afar, and as they approached the summer-house he opened the door of the machine and jumped out before it had come properly to a stop. "good morning, miss stevens," he said with a cheerful self-confidence which was beautiful to behold. "i have come over to take you a little spin, if you'll go." miss stevens gazed at the caller quizzically, and laughed outright. "this is so sudden," she murmured. the caller himself grinned. "does seem so, if you stop to think of it," he admitted. "rather like dropping out of the clouds. but the auto is here, and i can testify that it's a smooth-running machine. will you go?" she turned that same quizzical smile upon the young man who was almost fat, and introduced him, curly hair and all, to mr. turner as mr. hollis, who, it afterward transpired, was the heir to hollis creek inn. "i had just promised to play tennis with mr. hollis," miss stevens stated after the introduction had been properly acknowledged, "but i know he won't mind putting it off this time," and she handed him her tennis bat. "certainly not," said young hollis with forcedly smiling politeness. "thank you, mr. hollis," said sam promptly. "just jump right in, miss stevens." "how long shall we be gone?" she asked as she settled herself in the tonneau. "oh, whatever you say. a couple of hours, i presume." "all right, then," she said to young hollis; "we'll have our game in the afternoon." "with pleasure," replied the other graciously, but he did not look it. "where shall we go?" asked sam as the driver looked back inquiringly. "you know the country about here, i suppose." "i ought to," she laughed. "father's been ending the summer here ever since i was a little girl. you might take us around bald hill," she suggested to the chauffeur. "it is a very pretty drive," she explained, turning to sam as the machine wheeled, and at the same time waving her hand gaily to the disconsolate hollis, who was "hard hit" with a different girl every season. "it's just about a two-hour trip. what a fine morning to be out!" and she settled back comfortably as the machine gathered speed. "i do love a machine, but father is rather backward about them. he will consent to ride in them under necessity, but he won't buy one. every time he sees a handsome pair of horses, however, he has to have them." "i admire a good horse myself," returned sam. "do you ride?" she asked him. "oh, i have suffered a few times on horseback," he confessed; "but you ought to see my kid brother ride. he looks as if he were part of the horse. he's a handsome brat." "except for calling him names, which is a purely masculine way of showing affection, you speak of him almost as if you were his mother," she observed. "well, i am, almost," replied sam, studying the matter gravely. "i have been his mother, and his father, and his brother, too, for a great many years; and i will say that he's a credit to his family." "meaning just you?" she ventured. "yes, we're all we have; just yet, at least." this quite soberly. "he must talk of getting married," she guessed, with a quick intuition that when this happened it would be a blow to sam. "oh, no," he immediately corrected her. "he isn't quite old enough to think of it seriously as yet. i expect to be married long before he is." miss stevens felt a rigid aloofness creeping over her, and, having a very wholesome sense of humor, smiled as she recognized the feeling in herself. "i should think you'd spend your vacation where the girl is," she observed. "men usually do, don't they?" he laughed gaily. "i surely would if i knew the girl," he asserted. "that's a refreshing suggestion," she said, echoing his laugh, though from a different impulse. "i presume, then, that you entertain thoughts of matrimony merely because you think you are quite old enough." "no, it isn't just that," he returned, still thoughtfully. "somehow or other i feel that way about it; that's all. i have never had time to think of it before, but this past year i have had a sort of sense of lonesomeness; and i guess that must be it." in spite of herself miss josephine giggled and repressed it, and giggled again and repressed it, and giggled again, and then she let herself go and laughed as heartily as she pleased. she had heard men say before, but always with more or less of a languishing air, inevitably ridiculous in a man, that they thought it about time they were getting married; but she could not remember anything to compare with sam turner's naïveté in the statement. he paid no attention to the laughter, for he had suddenly leaned forward to the chauffeur. "there is another clump of walnut trees," he said, eagerly pointing them out. "are there many of them in this locality?" "a good many scattered here and there," replied the boy; "but old man gifford has a twenty-acre grove down in the bottoms that's mostly all walnut trees, and i heard him say just the other day that walnut lumber's got so high he had a notion to clear his land." "where do you suppose we could find old man gifford?" inquired mr. turner. "oh, about six miles off to the right, at the next turning." "suppose we whizz right down there," said sam promptly, and he turned to miss stevens with enthusiasm shining in his eyes. "it does seem as if everything happens lucky for me," he observed. "i haven't any particular liking for the lumber business, but fate keeps handing lumber to me all the time; just fairly forcing it on me." "do you think fate is as much responsible for that as yourself?" she questioned, smiling as they passed at a good clip the turn which was to have taken them over the pretty bald hill drive. sam had not even thought to apologize for the abrupt change in their program, because she could certainly see the opportunity which had offered itself, and how imperative it was to embrace it. the thing needed no explanation. "i don't know," he replied to her query, after pausing to consider it a moment. "i certainly don't go out of my road to hunt up these things." "no-o-o-o," she admitted. "but fate hasn't thrust this particular opportunity upon me, although i'm right with you at the time. it never would have occurred to me to ask about those walnut trees." "it would have occurred to your father," he retorted quickly. "yes, it might have occurred to father, but i think that under the circumstances he would have waited until to-morrow to see about it." "i suppose i might be that way when i arrive at his age," sam commented philosophically, "but just now i can't afford it. his 'seeing about it to-morrow' cost him between five and six thousand dollars the last time i had anything to do with him." she laughed. she was enjoying sam's company very much. even if a bit startling, he was at least refreshing after the type of young men she was in the habit of meeting. "he was talking about that last night," she said. "i think father rather stands in both admiration and awe of you." "i'm glad to hear that," he returned quite seriously. "it's a good attitude in which to have the man with whom you expect to do business." "i think i shall have to tell him that," she observed, highly amused. "he will enjoy it, and it may put him on his guard." "i don't mind," he concluded after due reflection. "it won't hurt a particle. if anything, if he likes me so far, that will only increase it. i like your father. in fact i like his whole family." "thank you," she said demurely, wondering if there was no end to his bluntness, and wondering, too, whether it were not about time that she should find it wearisome. on closer analysis, however, she decided that the time was not yet come. "but you have not met all of them," she reminded him. "there are mother and a younger sister and an older brother." "don't matter if there were six more, i like all of them," sam promptly informed her. then, "stop a minute," he suddenly directed the chauffeur. that functionary abruptly brought his machine to a halt just a little way past a tree glowing with bright green leaves and red berries. "i don't know what sort of a tree that is," said sam with boyish enthusiasm; "but see how pretty it is. except for the shape of the leaves the effect is as beautiful as holly. wouldn't you like a branch or two, miss stevens?" "i certainly should," she heartily agreed. "i don't know how you discovered that i have a mad passion for decorative weeds and things." "have you?" he inquired eagerly. "so have i. if i had time i'd be rather ashamed of it." he had scrambled out of the car and now ran back to the tree, where, perching himself upon the second top rail of the fence he drew down a limb, and with his knife began to snip off branches here and there. the girl noticed that he selected the branches with discrimination, turning each one over so that he could look at the broad side of it before clipping, rejecting many and studying each one after he had taken it in his hand. he was some time in finding the last one, a long straggling branch which had most of its leaves and berries at the tip, and she noticed that as he came back to the auto he was arranging them deftly and with a critical eye. when he handed them in to her they formed a carefully arranged and graceful composition. it was a new and an unexpected side of him, and it softened considerably the amused regard in which she had been holding him. "they are beautifully arranged," she commented, as he stopped for a moment to brush the dust from his shoes in the tall grass by the roadside. "do you think so?" he delightedly inquired. "you ought to see my kid brother make up bouquets of goldenrod and such things. he seems to have a natural artistic gift." she bent on his averted head a wondering glance, and she reflected that often this "hustler" must be misunderstood. "you have aroused in me quite a curiosity to meet this paragon of a brother," she remarked. "he must be well-nigh perfection." "he is," replied sam instantly, turning to her very earnest eyes. "he hasn't a flaw in him any place." she smiled musingly as she surveyed the group of branches she held in her hand. "it is a pity these leaves will wither in so short a time," she said. "yes," he admitted; "but even if we have to throw them away before we get back to the hotel, their beauty will give us pleasure for an hour; and the tree won't miss them. see, it seems as perfect as ever." "it wouldn't if everybody took the same liberties with it that you did," she remarked, glancing back at the tree. sam had climbed in the car and had slammed the door shut, but any reply he might have made was prevented by a hail from the woods above them at the other side of the road, and a man came scrambling down from the hillside path. "why, it's mr. princeman!" exclaimed the girl in pleased surprise. "think of finding you wandering about, all alone in the woods here." "i wasn't wandering about," he protested as he came up to the machine and shook hands with miss josephine. "i was headed directly for hollis creek inn. your brother wrote me that you were expected to arrive there yesterday evening, and i was dropping over to call on you right away this morning. i see, however, that i was not quite prompt enough. you're selfish, mr. turner. you knew i was going over to hollis creek, and you might have invited me to ride in your machine." "you might have invited me to walk with you," retorted sam. "but you knew that i was coming and i didn't know that you even knew--" he paused abruptly and fixed a contemplative eye upon young mr. turner, who was now surveying the scenery and mr. princeman in calm enjoyment. the arrival at this moment of a cloud of dust out of which evolved a lone horseman, and that horseman billy westlake, added a new angle to the situation, and for one fleeting moment the three men eyed one another in mutual sheepish guilt. "rather good sport, i call it, miss stevens," declared billy, aware of a sudden increase in his estimation of mr. turner, and letting the cat completely out of the bag. "each of us was trying to steal a march on the rest, but mr. turner used the most businesslike method, and of course he won the race." "i'm flattered, i'm sure," said miss josephine demurely. "i really feel that i ought to go right back to the house and be the belle of the ball; but it's impossible for an hour or so in this case," and she turned to her escort with the smile of mischief which she had worn the first time he saw her. "you see, we are out on a little business trip, mr. turner and myself. we're going to buy a walnut grove." mr. turner turned upon her a glance which was half a frown. "i promised to get you back in two hours, and i'll do it," he stated, "but we mustn't linger much by the wayside." "with which hint we shall wend our hollis creek-ward way," laughed princeman, exchanging a glance of amusement with miss stevens. "i think we shall visit with your father until you come back." "please do," she urged. "he will be as glad to see you both as i am," with which information she settled herself back in her seat with a little air of the interview being over, and the chauffeur, with proper intuition, started the machine, while mr. princeman and billy looked after them glumly. "queer chap, isn't he?" commented billy. "queer? well, hardly that," returned princeman thoughtfully. "there's one thing certain; he's enterprising and vigorous enough to command respect, in business or--anything else." at about that very moment mr. turner was impressing upon his companion a very important bit of ethics. "you shouldn't have violated my confidence," he told her severely. "how was that?" she asked in surprise, and with a trifle of indignation as well. "you told them that we were going to buy a walnut grove. you ought never to let slip anything you happen to know of any man's business plans." "oh!" she said blankly. having voiced his straightforward objection, and delivered his simple but direct lesson, mr. turner turned as decisively to other matters. "son," he asked, leaning over toward the chauffeur, "are there any speed limit laws on these roads?" "none that i know of," replied the boy. "then cut her loose. do you object to fast driving, miss stevens?" "not at all," she told him, either much chastened by the late rebuke or much amused by it. she could scarcely tell which, as yet. "i don't particularly long for a broken neck, but i never can feel that my time has come." "it hasn't," returned sam. "let's see your palm," and taking her hand he held it up before him. it was a small hand that he saw, and most gracefully formed, but a strong one, too, and sam turner had an extremely quick and critical eye for both strength and beauty. "you are going to live to be a gray-haired grandmother," he announced after an inspection of her pink palm, "and live happily all your life." it was noteworthy that no matter what his impulse may have been he did not hold her hand overly long, nor subject it to undue warmth of pressure, but restored it gently to her lap. she was remarking upon this herself as she took that same hand and passed its tapering fingers deftly among the twigs of the tree-bouquet, arranging a leaf here and a berry there. chapter iv a little vacation pastime in which greek meets greek old man gifford was not at home in his squat, low-roofed farm-house, but a woman shaped like a pyramid of diminishing pumpkins directed them down through the grove to the corn patch. it was necessary to lift strenuously upon the sagging end of a squeaky old gate, and scrape it across gulleys, to get the automobile into the narrow, deeply-rutted road, and with a mind fearful of tires the chauffeur wheeled down through the grove quite slowly, a slowness for which sam was duly grateful, since it allowed him to take a careful appraisement of the walnut trees, interspersed with occasional oaks, which bordered both sides of their path. they were tall, thick, straight-trunked trees, from amongst which the underbrush had been carefully cut away. it was a joy to his now vandal soul, this grove, and already he could see those majestic trunks, after having been sawed with as little wasteful chopping as possible, toppling in endless billowy furrows. old man gifford came inquiringly up between the long rows of corn to the far edge of the grove. he was bent and weazened, and more gnarled than any of his trees, and even his fingers seemed to have the knotty, angular effect of twigs. a fringe of gray beard surrounded his clean-shaven face, which was criss-crossed with innumerable little furrows that the wind and rain had worn in it; but a pair of shrewd old eyes twinkled from under his bushy eyebrows. "morning, 'ennery," he said, addressing the chauffeur with a squeaky little voice in which, though after forty years of residence in america, there was still a strong trace of british accent; and then his calculating gaze rested calmly in turns upon the other occupants of the machine. "good morning, mr. gifford," returned the chauffeur. "fine day, isn't it?" "good corn-ripenin' weather," agreed the old man, squinting at the sky from force of habit, and then, being satisfied that there was no threatening cloud in all the visible blue expanse, he returned to a calm consideration of the strangers, waiting patiently for mr. turner to introduce himself. "i understand, mr. gifford, that you are open to an offer for your walnut trees," began mr. turner, looking at his watch. "well, i might be," admitted the old man cautiously. "i see," returned sam; "that is, you might be interested if the price were right. let's get right down to brass tacks. how much do you want?" "standin' or cut?" "well, say standing?" "how much do you offer?" miss stevens' gaze roved from the one to the other and found enjoyment in the fact that here greek had met greek. sam's reply was prompt and to the point. he named a price. "no," said the old man instantly. "i been a-holdin' out for five dollars a thousand more than that." things were progressing. a basis for haggling had been established. sam turner, however, had the advantage. he knew the sharp advance in walnut announced that morning. old man gifford would not be aware of it until the rural free delivery brought his evening paper, of the night before, some time that afternoon. in view of the recent advance, even at mr. gifford's price there was a handsome profit in the transaction. "the reason you've had to hold out for your rate until right now was that nobody would pay it," said sam confidently. "now i'm here to talk spot cash. i'll give you, say, a thousand dollars down, and the balance immediately upon measurement as the logs are loaded upon the cars." the old man nodded in approval. "the terms is all right," he said. "how much will you take f. o. b. restview?" "well, cuttin' and trimmin' and haulin' ain't much in my line," returned the old man, again cautious; "but after all, i reckon that there'd be less damage to my property if i looked after it myself. of course, i'd have to have a profit for handlin' it. i'd feel like holdin' out for--for--" and after some hesitation he again named a figure. "you've made that same proposition to others," charged sam shrewdly, "and you couldn't get the price." upon the heels of this he made his own offer. the old man shook his head and turned as if to start back to the corn field. "no, i can get better than that," he declared, shaking his head. "come back here and let's talk turkey," protested sam compellingly. "you name the very lowest price you'll take, delivered on board the cars at restview." the old man reached down, pulled up a blade of grass, chewed it carefully, spit it out, and named his very, very lowest price; then he added: "what's the most you'll give?" miss stevens leaned forward intently. sam very promptly named a figure five dollars lower. "i'll split the difference with you," offered the old man. "it's a bargain!" said sam, and reaching into the inside pocket of his tennis coat, he brought out some queer furniture for that sort of garment--a small fountain pen and an extremely small card-case, from the latter of which he drew four folded blank checks. he reached over and borrowed the chauffeur's enameled cap, dusted it carefully with his handkerchief, laid a check upon it and held his fountain pen poised. "what are your initials, please, mr. gifford?" "wait a minute," said the old man hastily. "don't make out that check just yet. i don't do any business or sign any contracts till i talk with hepseba." "all right. climb right in with henry there," directed sam, seizing upon the chauffeur's name. "we'll drive straight up to see her." "i'll walk," firmly declared mr. gifford. "i never have rode in one of them things, and i'm too old to begin." "very well," said sam cheerfully, jumping out of the machine with great promptness. "i'll walk with you. back to the house, henry," and he started anxiously to trudge up the road with mr. gifford, leaving henry to manoeuver painfully in the narrow space. after a few steps, however, a sudden thought made him turn back. "maybe you'd rather walk up, too," he suggested to miss stevens. "no, i think i'll ride," she said coldly. he opened the door in extreme haste. "do come on and walk," he pleaded. "don't hold it against me because i just don't seem to be able to think of more than one thing at a time; but i was so wrapped up in this deal that-- really," and he sank his voice confidentially, "i have a tremendous bargain here, and i'll be nervous about it until i have it clenched. i'll tell you why as we go home." he held out his hand as a matter of course to help her down. the white of his eyes was remarkably clear, the irises were remarkably blue, the pupils remarkably deep. suddenly her face cleared and she laughed. "it was silly of me to be snippy, wasn't it?" she confessed, as she took his hand and stepped lightly to the ground. it had just recurred to her that when he knew princeman was walking over to see her he had said nothing, but had engaged an automobile. old man gifford had nothing much to say when they caught up with him. mr. turner tried him with remarks about the weather, and received full information, but when he attempted to discuss the details of the walnut purchase, he received but mere grunts in reply, except finally this: "there's no use, young man. i won't talk about them trees till i get hepseba's opinion." at the house hepseba waddled out on the little stoop in response to old man gifford's call, and stood regarding the strangers stonily through her narrow little slits of eyes. "this gentleman, hepseba," said old man gifford, "wants to buy my walnut trees. what do you think of him?" in response to that leading question, hepseba studied sam turner from head to foot with the sort of scrutiny under which one slightly reddens. [illustration: hepseba studied him from head to foot] "i like him," finally announced hepseba, in a surprisingly liquid and feminine voice. "i like both of them," an unexpected turn which brought a flush to the face of miss stevens. "all right, young man," said old man gifford briskly. "now, then, you come in the front room and write your contract, and i'll take your check." all alacrity and open cordiality now, he led the way into the queer-old front room, musty with the solemnity of many dim sundays. "just set down here in this easy chair, mrs.-- what did you say your name is?" mr. gifford inquired, turning to sam. "turner; sam j. turner," returned that gentleman, grinning. "but this is miss stevens." "no offense meant or taken, i hope," hastily said the old man by way of apology; "but i do say that mr. turner would be lucky if he had such a pretty wife." "you have both good taste and good judgment, mr. gifford," commented sam as airily as he could; then he looked across at miss stevens and laughed aloud, so openly and so ingenuously that, so far from the laughter giving offense, it seemed, strangely enough, to put miss josephine at her ease, though she still blushed furiously. there was nothing in that laugh nor in his look but frank, boyish enjoyment of the joke. there ensued a crisp and decisive conversation between mr. gifford and mr. turner about the details of their contract, and 'ennery was presently called in to append to it his painfully precise signature in vertical writing, miss stevens adding hers in a pretty round hand. then hepseba, to bind the bargain, brought in hot apple pie fresh from the oven, and they became quite a little family party indeed, and very friendly, 'ennery sitting in the parlor with them and eating his pie with a fork. "i know what hepseba thinks," said old man gifford, as he held the door of the car open for them. "she thinks you're a mighty keen young man that has to be watched in the beginning of a bargain, because you'll give as little as you can; but that after the bargain's made you don't need any more watching. but lord love you, i have to be watched in a bargain myself. i take everything i can." as he finished saying this he was closing the door of the car, but hepseba called to them to wait, and came puffing out of the house with a little bundle wrapped in a newspaper. "i brought this out for your wife," she said to mr. turner, and handed it to miss josephine. "it's some geranium slips. everybody says i got the very finest geraniums in the bottoms here." "goodness, hepseba," exclaimed old man gifford, highly delighted; "that ain't his wife. that's miss stevens. i made the same mistake," and he hawhawed in keen enjoyment. hepseba was so evidently overcome with mortification, however, and her huge round face turned so painfully red, that miss stevens lost entirely any embarrassment she might otherwise have felt. "it doesn't matter at all, i assure you, mrs. gifford," she said with charming eagerness to set hepseba at ease. "i am very fond of geraniums, and i shall plant these slips and take good care of them. i thank you very, very much for them." as the machine rolled away hepseba turned to old man gifford: "i like both of them!" she stated most decisively. chapter v miss josephine's father agrees that sam turner is all business "and now," announced sam in calm triumph as they neared hollis creek inn, "i'll finish up this deal right away. there is no use in my holding for a further rise at this time, and i'll just sell these trees to your father." "to father!" she gasped, and then, as it dawned upon her that she had been out all morning to help sam turner buy up trees to sell to her own father at a profit, she burst forth into shrieks of laughter. "what's the joke?" sam asked, regarding her in amazement, and then, more or less dimly, he perceived. "still," he said, relapsing into serious consideration of the affair, "your father will be in luck to buy those trees at all, even at the ten dollars a thousand profit he'll have to pay me. there is not less than a hundred thousand feet of walnut in that grove. "mercy!" she said. "why, that will make you a thousand dollars for this morning's drive; and the opportunity was entirely accidental, one which would not have occurred if you hadn't come over to see me in this machine. i think i ought to have a commission." "you ought to be fined," sam retorted. "you had me scared stiff at one time." "how was that?" she demanded. "why, of course you didn't think, but when you told the boys that i was going out to buy a walnut grove, they were right on their way to see your father. it would have been very natural for one of them to mention our errand. your father might have immediately inquired where there was walnut to be found, and have telephoned to old man gifford before i could reach him." "you needn't have worried!" stated miss josephine in a tone so indignant that sam turned to her in astonishment. "my father would not have done anything so despicable as that, i am quite sure!" "he wouldn't!" exclaimed sam. "i'll bet he would. why, how do you suppose your father became rich in the lumber trade if it wasn't through snapping up bargains every time he found one?" "i have no doubt that my father has been and is a very alert business man," retorted miss josephine most icily; "but after he knew that you had started out actually to purchase a tract of lumber, he would certainly consider that you had established a prior claim upon the property." "your father's name is theophilus stevens, isn't it?" "yes." "humph!" said sam, but he did not explain that exclamation, nor was he asked to explain. miss stevens had been deeply wounded by the assault upon her father's business morality, and she desired to hear no further elaboration of the insult. she was glad that they were drawing up now to the porch, glad this ride, with its many disagreeable features, was over, although she carefully gathered up her bright-berried branches, which were not half so much withered as she had expected them to be, and held her geranium slips cautiously as she alighted. her father came out to the edge of the porch to meet them. he paid no attention to his daughter. "well, sam turner," said mr. stevens, stroking his aggressive beard, "i hear you got it, confound you! what do you want for your lumber contract?" "just the advance of this morning's quotations," replied sam. "princeman tell you i was after it?" "no, not at first," said stevens. "i received a telegram about that grove just an hour ago, from my partner. princeman was with me when the telegram came, and he told me then that you had just gone out on the trail. i did my best to get gifford by 'phone before you could reach him." "father!" exclaimed miss josephine. "what's the matter, jo?" "you say you actually tried to--to get in ahead of mr. turner in buying this lumber, knowing that he was going down there purposely for it?" "why, certainly," admitted her father. "but did you know that i was with mr. turner?" "_why, certainly_!" "father!" was all she could gasp, and without deigning to say good-by to mr. turner, or to thank him for the ride or the bouquet of branches or even the geranium slips which she had received under false pretenses, she hurried away to her room, oppressed with heaven only knows what mortification, and also with what wonder at the ways of men! however, princeman and billy westlake and young hollis with the curly hair were impatiently waiting for miss josephine at the tennis court, as they informed her in a jointly signed note sent up to her by a boy, and hastily removing the dust of the road she ran down to join them. as she went across the lawn, tennis bat in hand, sam turner, discussing lumber with mr. stevens, saw her and stopped talking abruptly to admire the trim, graceful figure. "does your daughter play tennis much?" he inquired. "a great deal," returned mr. stevens, expanding with pride. "jo's a very expert player. she's better at it than any of these girls, and she really doesn't care to play except with experts. princeman, hollis and billy westlake are easily the champions here." "i see," said sam thoughtfully. "i suppose you're a crack player yourself," his host resumed, glancing at sam's bat. "me? no, worse than a dub. i never had time; that is, until now. i'll tell you, though, this being away from the business grind is a great thing. you don't know how i enjoy the fresh air and the being out in the country this way, and the absolute freedom from business cares and worries." "but where are you going?" asked stevens, for sam was getting up. "you'll stay to lunch with us, won't you?" "no, thanks," replied sam, looking at his watch. "i expect some word from my kid brother. i have wired him to send some samples of marsh pulp, and the paper we've had made from it." "marsh pulp," repeated mr. stevens. "that's a new one on me. what's it like?" "greatest stunt on earth," replied sam confidently. "it is our scheme to meet the deforestation danger on the way--coming." already he was reaching in his pocket for paper and pencil, and sat down again at the side of mr. stevens, who immediately began stroking his aggressive beard. fifteen minutes later sam briskly got up again and mr. stevens shook hands with him. "that's a great scheme," he said, and he gazed after sam's broad shoulders admiringly as that young man strode down the steps. on his way sam passed the tennis court where the one girl and three young men were engaged in a most dextrous game, a game which all the other amateurs of hollis creek inn had stopped their own sets to watch. in the pause of changing sides miss josephine saw him and waved her hand and wafted a gay word to him. a second later she was in the air, a lithe, graceful figure, meeting a high "serve," and sam walked on quite thoughtfully. when he arrived at meadow brook his first care was for his telegram. it was there, and bore the assurance that the samples would arrive on the following morning. his next step was to hunt miss westlake. that plump young person forgot her pique of the morning in an instant when he came up to her with that smiling "been-looking-for-you-everywhere, mighty-glad-to-see-you" cordiality. "i want you to teach me tennis," he said immediately. "i'm afraid i can't teach you much," she replied with becoming diffidence, "because i'm not a good enough player myself; but i'll do my best. we'll have a set right after luncheon; shall we?" "fine!" said he. after luncheon mr. westlake and mr. cuthbert waylaid him, but he merely thrust his telegram into mr. westlake's hands, and hurried off to the tennis grounds with miss westlake and miss hastings and lanky bob tilloughby, who stuttered horribly and blushed when he spoke, and was in deadly seriousness about everything. never did a man work so hard at anything as sam turner worked at tennis. he had a keen eye and a dextrous wrist, and he kept the game up to top-notch speed. of course he made blunders and became confused in his count and overlooked opportunities, but he covered acres of ground, as vivian hastings expressed it, and when, at the end of an hour, they sat down, panting, to rest, young tilloughby, with painful earnestness, assured him that he had "the mum-mum-makings of a fine tennis player." sam considered that compliment very thoughtfully, but he was a trifle dubious. already he perceived that tennis playing was not only an occupation but a calling. "thanks," said he. "it's mighty nice of you to say so, tilloughby. what's the next game?" "the nun-nun-next game is a stroll," tilloughby soberly advised him. "it always stus-stus-starts out as a foursome, and ends up in tut-tut-two doubles." so they strolled. they wound along the brookside among some of the pretty paths, and in the rugged places miss westlake threw her weight upon sam's helping arm as much as possible; in the concealed places she languished, which she did very prettily, she thought, considering her one hundred and sixty-three pounds. they took him through a detour of shady paths which occupied a full hour to traverse, but this particular game did not wind up in "two doubles." in spite of all the excellent tête-à-tête opportunities which should have risen for both couples, miss westlake was annoyed to find miss hastings right close behind, and holding even the conversation to a foursome. in the meantime, sam turner took careful lessons in the art of talking twaddle, and they never knew that he was bored. having entered into the game he played it with spirit, and before they had returned to the house mr. tilloughby was calling him sus-sus-sam. the girls disappeared for their beauty sleep, and sam found mccomas and billy westlake hunting for him. "do you play base-ball?" inquired mccomas. "a little. i used to catch, to help out my kid brother, who is an expert pitcher." "good!" said mccomas, writing down sam's name. "princeman will pitch, but we needed a catcher. the rivalry between meadow brook and hollis creek is intense this year. they've captured nearly all the early trophies, but we're going over there next week for a match game and we're about crazy to win." "i'll do the best i can," promised sam. "got a base-ball? we'll go out and practise." they slammed hot ones into each other for a half hour, and when they had enough of it, mccomas, wiping his brow, exclaimed approvingly: "you'll do great with a little more warming up. we have a couple of corking players, but we need them. hollis always pitches for hollis creek, and he usually wins his game. on baseball day he's the idol of all the girls." sam turner placed his hand meditatively upon the back of his neck as he walked in to dress for dinner. making a good impression upon the girls was a separate business, it seemed, and one which required much preparation. well, he was in for the entire circus, but he realized that he was a little late in starting. in consequence he could not afford to overlook any of the points; so, before dressing for dinner, he paid a quiet visit to the greenhouses. that evening, while he was bowling with all the earnestness that in him lay, josephine stevens, resisting the importunities of young hollis for some music, sat by her father. "father," she asked after long and sober thought, "was it right for you, knowing mr. turner to be after that walnut lumber, to try to get it away from him by telephoning?" "it certainly was!" he replied emphatically. "turner went down there with a deliberate intention of buying that lumber before i could get it, so that he could sell it to me at as big a gain as possible. i paid him one thousand dollars profit for his contract. i had struggled my best to beat him to it; only i was too late. both of us were playing the game according to the rules, but he is a younger player." "i see." another long pause. "here's another thing. mr. turner happened to know of this increase in the price of lumber, and he hurried down there to a man who didn't know about that, and bought it. if mr. gifford had known of the new rates, mr. turner could not have bought those trees at the price he did, could he?" "certainly not," agreed her father. "he would have had to pay nearly a thousand dollars more for them." "then that wasn't right of mr. turner," she asserted. "my child," said mr. stevens wearily, "all business is conducted for a profit, and the only way to get it is by keeping alive and knowing things that other people will find out to-morrow. sam turner is the shrewdest and the livest young man i've met in many a day, and he's square as a die. i'd take his word on any proposition; wouldn't you?" "yes, i think i'd take his word," she admitted, and very positively, after mature deliberation. "but truly, father, don't you think he's too much concentrated on business? he hasn't a thought in his mind for anything else. for instance, this morning he came over to take me an automobile ride around bald hill, and when he found out about this walnut grove, without either apology or explanation to me he ordered the chauffeur to drive right down there." "fine," laughed her father. "i'd like to hire him for my manager, if i could only offer him enough money. but i don't see your point of criticism. it seems to me that he's a mighty presentable and likable young fellow, good looking, and a gentleman in the sense in which i like to use that word." "yes, he is all of those things," she admitted again; "but it is a flaw in a young man, isn't it," she persisted, betraying an unusually anxious interest, "for him never to think of a solitary thing but just business?" they were sitting in one of the alcoves of the assembly room, and at that moment a bell-boy, wandering around the place with apparent aimlessness, spied them and brought to miss josephine a big box. she opened it and an exclamation of pleasure escaped her. in the box was a huge bouquet of exquisite roses, soft and glowing, delicious in their fragrance. impulsively she buried her face in them. "oh, how delightful!" she cried, and she drew out the white card which peeped forth from amidst the stems. "they are from mr. turner!" she gasped. "you're quite right about him," commented her father dryly. "he's all business." chapter vi in which the summer loafer orders some maraschino chocolates before sam had his breakfast the next morning, he sat in his room with some figures with which blackrock and cuthbert had provided him the evening before. he cast them up and down and crosswise and diagonally, balanced them and juggled them and sorted them and shifted them, until at last he found the rat hole, and smiling grimly, placed those pages of neat figures in a small letter file which he took from his trunk. one thing was certain: the meadow brook capitalists were highly interested in his plan, or they would never go to the trouble to devise, so early in the game, a scheme for gaining control of the marsh pulp corporation. well, they were the exact people he wanted. immediately after breakfast miss stevens telephoned over to thank him for his beautiful roses, and he had the pleasure of letting her know, quite incidentally, that he had gone down to the rose-beds and picked out each individual blossom himself, which, of course, accounted for their excellence. also he suggested coming over that morning for a brief walk. no, she was very sorry, but she was just making ready to go out horseback riding with mr. hollis, who, by the way, was an excellent rider; but they would be back from their canter about ten-thirty, and if mr. turner cared to come over for a game of tennis before luncheon, why-- "sorry i can't do it," returned mr. turner with the deepest of genuine regret in his tone. "my kid brother is sending me some samples of pulp and paper which will arrive at about eleven o'clock, and i have called a meeting of some interested parties here to examine them at about eleven." "business again," she protested. "i thought you were on a vacation." "i am," he assured her in surprise. "i never lazied around so or frittered up so much time in my life; and i'm enjoying every second of my freedom, too. i tell you, it's fine. but say, this meeting won't take over an hour. why can't i come over right after lunch?" she was very sorry, this time a little less regretfully, that after luncheon she had an engagement with mr. princeman to play a match game of croquet. but, and here she relented a trifle, they were getting up a hasty, informal dance over at hollis creek for that evening. would he come over? he certainly would, and he already spoke for as many dances as she would give him. "i'll give you what i can," she told him; "but i've already promised three of them to billy westlake, who is a divine dancer." sam turner was deeply thoughtful as he turned away from the telephone. hollis was a superb horseback rider. billy westlake was a divine dancer. princeman, he had learned from miss stevens, who had spoken with vast enthusiasm, was a base-ball hero. hollis and princeman and westlake were crack bowlers, also crack tennis players, and no doubt all three were even expert croquet players. it was easy to see the sort of men she admired. sam turner only knew one recipe to get things, and he had made up his mind to have miss stevens. he promptly sought miss westlake. "do you ride?" he wanted to know. "not as often as i'd like," she said. really, she had half promised to go driving with tilloughby, but it was not an actual promise, and if it were she was quite willing to get out of it, if mr. turner wanted her to go along, although she did not say so. young tilloughby was notoriously an impossible match. but possibly mr. tilloughby and miss hastings might care to join the party. she suggested it. "why, certainly," said sam heartily. "the more the merrier," which was not the thing she wanted him to say. tilloughby, a trifle disappointed yet very gracious, consented to ride in place of drive, and miss hastings was only too delighted; entirely too much so, miss westlake thought. accordingly they rode, and sam insisted on lagging behind with miss westlake, which she took to be of considerable significance, and exhibited a very obvious fluttering about it. sam's motive, however, was to watch tilloughby in the saddle, for in their conversation it had developed that tilloughby was a very fair rider; and everything that he saw tilloughby do, sam did. en route they met hollis and miss stevens, cantering just where the bald hill road branched off, and the cavalcade was increased to six. once, in taking a narrow cross-cut down through the woods, sam had the felicity of riding beside miss stevens for a moment, and she put her hand on his horse and patted its glossy neck and admired it, while sam admired the hand. he felt, in some way or other, that riding for that ten yards by her side was a sort of triumph over hollis, until he saw her dash up presently by the side of hollis again and chat brightly with that young gentleman. thereafter sam quit watching tilloughby and watched hollis. curly-head was an accomplished rider, and sam felt that he himself cut but an awkward figure. in reality he was too conscious of his defects. by strict attention he was proving himself a fair ordinary rider, but when hollis, out of sheer showiness, turned aside from the path to jump his horse over a fallen tree, and miss stevens out of bravado followed him, sam turner well-nigh ground his teeth, and, acting upon the impulse, he too attempted the jump. the horse got over safely, but sam went a cropper over his head, and not being a particle hurt had to endure the good-natured laughter of the balance of them. miss stevens seemed as much amused as any one! he had not caught her look of fright as he fell nor of concern as he rose, nor could he estimate that her laugh was a mild form of hysteria, encouraged because it would deceive. what an ass he was, he savagely thought, to exhibit himself before her in an attempt like that, without sufficient preparation! he must ride every morning, by himself. miss josephine and mr. hollis were bound for the bald hill circle, and they insisted, the insistence being largely on the part of miss stevens, on the others accompanying them; but mr. turner's engagement at eleven o'clock would not admit of this, and reluctantly he took miss hastings back with him, leaving miss westlake and young tilloughby to go on. the arrangement suited him very well, for at least hollis' ride with miss stevens would not be a tête-à-tête. miss westlake strove to let him understand as plainly as she could that she was only going with mr. tilloughby because of her previous semi-engagement with him--and there seemed a coolness between miss westlake and miss hastings as they separated. miss hastings did her best on the way back to console mr. turner for the absence of miss westlake. vivacious as she always was, she never was more so than now, and before sam knew it he had engaged himself with her to gather ferns in the afternoon. upon his arrival at meadow brook, he found his express package and also a couple of important letters awaiting him, and immediately held on the porch a full meeting of the tentative marsh pulp company. in that meeting he decided on four things: first, that these hard-headed men of business were highly favorable to his scheme; second, that princeman and cuthbert, who knew most about paper and pulp, were so profoundly impressed with his samples that they tried to conceal it from him; third, that princeman, at first his warmest adherent, was now most stubbornly opposed to him, not that he wished to prevent forming the company, but that he wished to prevent sam's having his own way; fourth, that the crowd had talked it over and had firmly determined that sam should not control their money. princeman was especially severe. "there is no question but that these samples are convincing of their own excellence," he admitted; "but properly to estimate the value of both pulp and paper, it would be necessary to know, by rigid experiment, the precise difficulties of manufacture, to say nothing of the manner in which these particular specimens were produced." mr. princeman's words had undoubted weight, casting, as they did, a clammy suspicion upon sam's samples. "i had thought of that," confessed mr. turner, "and had i not been prepared to meet such a natural doubt, to say nothing of such a natural insinuation, i should never have submitted these samples. mr. princeman, do you know g. w. creamer of the eureka paper mills?" mr. princeman, with a wince, did, for g. w. creamer and the eureka paper mills were his most successful competitors in the manufacture of special-priced high-grade papers. mr. cuthbert also knew mr. creamer intimately. "good," said sam; "then mr. creamer's letter will have some weight," and he turned it over to mr. blackrock. that gentleman, setting his spectacles astride his nose and assuming his most profoundly professional air, read aloud the letter in which mr. creamer thanked turner and turner for reposing confidence enough in him to reveal their process and permit him to make experiments, and stated, with many convincing facts and figures, that he had made several separate samples of the pulp in his experimental shop, and from the pulp had made paper, samples of which he enclosed under separate cover, stating further that the pulp could be manufactured far cheaper than wood pulp, and that the quality of the paper, in his estimation, was even superior; and when the company was formed, he wished to be set down for a good, fat block of stock. having submitted exhibit a in the form of his brother's samples of pulp and paper, exhibit b in the form of mr. creamer's letter, and exhibit c in the form of mr. creamer's own samples of pulp and paper, mr. turner rested quite comfortably in his chair, thank you. "this seems to make the thing positive," admitted mr. princeman. "mr. turner, would you mind sending some samples of your material to my factory with the necessary instructions?" "not at all," replied sam suavely. "we would be pleased indeed to do so, just as soon as our patents are allowed." "pending that," suggested mr. westlake placidly, looking out over the brook, "why couldn't we organize a sort of tentative company? why couldn't we at least canvass ourselves and see how much of mr. turner's stock we would take up among us?" "that is," put in mr. cuthbert, screwing the remark out of himself sidewise, "provided the terms of incorporation and promotion were satisfactory to us." "i have already drawn up a sort of preliminary proposition, after consultation with our friends here," mr. blackrock now stated, "and purely as a tentative matter it might be read." "go right ahead," directed sam. "i'm a good listener." mr. blackrock slowly and ponderously read the proposed plan of incorporation. sam rose and looked at his watch. "it won't do," he announced sharply. "that whole thing, in accordance with the figures you submitted me last night, is framed up for the sole purpose of preventing my ever securing control, and if i do not have a chance, at least, at control, i won't play." "you seem to be very sure of that," said mr. princeman, surveying him coldly; "but there is another thing equally sure, and that is that you can not engage capital in as big an enterprise as this on any basis which will separate the control and the money." "i'm going to try it, though," retorted sam. "if i can't separate the control and the money i suppose i'll have to put up with the best terms i can get. if you will let me have that prospectus of yours, mr. blackrock, i'll take it up to my room and study it, and draw up a counter prospectus of my own." "with pleasure," said mr. blackrock, handing it over courteously, and mr. turner rose. "i'll say this much, sam," stated mr. westlake, who seemed to have grown more friendly as mr. princeman grew cooler; "if you can get a proposition upon which we are all agreed, i'll take fifty thousand of that stock myself, at fifty." "as a matter of fact, mr. turner," added mr. cuthbert, "including your friend creamer, who insists upon being in, i imagine that we can finance your entire company right in this crowd--if the terms are right." "nothing would give me greater pleasure, i'm sure," said mr. turner, and bowed himself away. in place of going to his room, however, he went to the telegraph office, and wired his brother in new york: "how are you coming on with pulp company stock subscription?" the telegraph office was in one corner of the post-office, which was also a souvenir room, with candy and cigar counters, and as he turned away from the telegraph desk he saw princeman at the candy counter. "no, i don't care for any of these," princeman was saying. "if you haven't maraschino chocolates i don't want any." sam immediately stepped back to the telegraph desk and sent another wire to his brother: "express fresh box maraschino chocolates to miss josephine stevens hollis creek inn enclose my card personal cards in upper right-hand pigeonhole my desk." then he went up-stairs to get ready for lunch. immediately after luncheon he received the following wire from his brother: "stock subscription rotten everybody likes scheme but object to our control but no hurry why don't you rest maraschinos shipped congratulate you." chapter vii which exhibits the importance of remembering a dance number and so the kid was finding the same trouble which he had met. they had been too frank in stating that they intended to obtain control of the company without any larger investments than their patents and their scheme. sam wandered through the hall, revolving this matter in his mind, and out at the rear door, which framed an inviting vista of green. he strolled back past the barn toward the upper reaches of the brook path, and sitting amid the comfortably gnarled roots of a big tree he lit a cigar and began with violence to snap little pebbles into the brook. if he were promoting a crooked scheme, he reflected savagely, he would have no difficulty whatever in floating it upon almost any terms he wanted. well, there was one thing certain; at the finish, control would be in his own hands! but how to secure it and still float the company promptly and advantageously? there was the problem. he liked this crowd. they were good, keen, vigorous, enterprising men, fine men with whom to do business, men who would snatch control away from him if they could, and throw him out in the cold in a minute if they deemed it necessary or expedient. of course that was to be expected. it was a part of the game. he would rather deal with these progressive people, knowing their tendencies, than with a lot of sapheads. how to get control? he lingered long and thoughtfully over that question, perhaps an hour, until presently he became aware that a slight young girl, with a fetching sun-hat and a basket, was walking pensively along the path on the opposite side of the brook, for the third time. her passing and repassing before his abstracted and unseeing vision had become slightly monotonous, and for the first time he focused his eyes back from their distant view of pulp marshes and stock certificates and inspected the girl directly. why, he knew that girl! it was miss hastings. as if in obedience to his steady gaze she looked across at him and waved her basket. "where are you going?" he asked with the heartiness of enforced courtesy. "after ferns," she responded, and laughed. "by george, that's so!" he said, and ran up the stream to a narrow place where he made a magnificent jump and only got one shoe wet. he was profuse, not in his apologies, but in his intention to make them. "jinks!" he said. "i'm ashamed to say i forgot all about that. i found myself suddenly confronted with a business proposition that had to be worked out, and i thought of nothing else." "i hope you succeeded," she said pleasantly. there wasn't a particle of vengefulness about miss hastings. she was not one to hold this against him; he could see that at once! she understood men. she knew that grave problems frequently confronted them, and that such minor things as fern gathering expeditions would necessarily have to step aside and be forgotten. she was one of the bright, cheerful, always smiling kind; one who would make a sunshiny helpmate for any man, and never object to anything he did--before marriage. all this she conveyed in lively but appealing chatter; all, that is, except the last part of it, a deduction which sam supplied for himself. for the first time in his life he had paused to judge a girl as he would "size up" a man, and he was a little bit sorry that he had done so, for while miss hastings was very agreeable, there was a certain acidulous sharpness about her nose and uncompromising thinness about her lips which no amount of laughing vivacity could quite conceal. dutifully, however, he gathered ferns for the rockery of her aunt in albany, and miss hastings, in return, did her best to amuse and delight, and delicately to convey the thought of what an agreeable thing it would be for a man always to have this cheerful companionship. she even, on the way back, went so far as inadvertently to call him sam, and apologized immediately in the most charming confusion. "really," she added in explanation, "i have heard mr. westlake and the others call you sam so often that the name just seems to slip out." "that's right," he said cordially. "sam's my name. when people call me mr. turner i know they are strangers." "then i think i shall call you sam," she said, laughing most engagingly. "it's so much easier," and sure enough she did as soon as they were well within the hearing of miss westlake, at the hotel. "oh, sam," she called, turning in the doorway, "you have my gloves in your pocket." miss westlake stiffened like an icicle, and a stern resolve came upon her. whatever happened, she saw her duty plainly before her. she had introduced mr. turner to miss hastings, and she was responsible. it was her moral obligation to rescue him from the clutches of that designing young person, and she immediately reminded him that she had an engagement to give him a tennis lesson every day. there was still time for a set before dinner. also, far be it from her to be so forward as to call him sam, or to annoy him with silly chattering. she was serious-minded, was miss westlake, and sweet and helpful; any man could see that; and she fairly adored business. it was so interesting. when they came back from their tennis game, hurrying because it was high time to dress for dinner and the dance, she met miss hastings in the hall, but the two bosom friends barely nodded. there had sprung up an unaccountable coolness between them, a coolness which sam by no means noticed, however, for at the far end of the porch sat princeman, already back from hollis creek to dress, and with him were westlake and mccomas and blackrock and cuthbert, and they were in very close conference. when sam approached them they stopped talking abruptly for just one little moment, then resumed the conversation quite naturally, even more than quite naturally in fact, and the experienced sam smiled grimly as he excused himself to dress. billy westlake met him as he was going up-stairs. to billy had been entrusted the office of rounding up all the young people who were going over to hollis creek, and by previous instruction, though wondering at his sister's choice, he assigned sam to that young lady, a fate which sam accepted with becoming gratitude. he had plenty of food for thought as he donned his costume of dead black and staring white, and somehow or other he was distrait that evening all the way over to hollis creek. only when he met miss stevens did he brighten, as he might well do, for miss stevens, charming in every guise, was a revelation in evening costume; a ravishing revelation; one to make a man pause and wonder and stand in awe, and regard himself as a clumsy creature not worthy to touch the hem of the garment which embellished such a divine being. nevertheless he conquered that wave of diffidence in a jiffy, or something like half that space of time, and shook hands with her most eagerly, and looked into her eyes and was grateful; for he found them smiling up at him in most friendly fashion, and with rather an electric thrill in them, too, though whether the thrill emanated from the eyes or was merely within himself he was not sure. "how many dances do i get?" he abruptly demanded. "just two," she told him, and showed him her card and gave him one on which a list of names had already been marked by the young ladies of hollis creek. he saw on the card two dances with miss stevens, one each with miss westlake and miss hastings, and one each with a number of other young ladies whom he had met but vaguely, and one each with some whom he had not met at all. he dutifully went through the first dance with a young lady of excellent connections who would make a prime companion for any advancing young man with social aspirations; he went dutifully through the next dance with a young lady who was keen on intellectual pursuits, and who would make an excellent helpmate for any young man who wished to advance in culture as he progressed in business, and danced the next one with a young lady who believed that home-making should be the highest aim of womankind; and then came his first dance with miss stevens! they did not talk very much, but it was very, very comforting to be with her, just to know that she was there, and to know that somehow she understood. he was sorry, though, that he stepped upon her gown. the promenade, which had seemed quite long enough with the other young ladies, seemed all too short for sam up to the point when billy westlake came to take miss josephine away. he was feeling rather lonely when tilloughby came up to him, with a charming young lady who was in quite a flutter. it seemed that there had been a dreadful mistake in the making out of the dance cards, which the young ladies of hollis creek had endeavored to do with strict equity, though hastily, and all was now inextricable confusion. the charming young lady was on the cards for this dance with both mr. tilloughby and mr. turner, and mr. tilloughby had claimed her first. would mr. turner kindly excuse her? just behind her came another young lady whom mr. tilloughby introduced. this young lady was on sam's card for the next dance following this one, but it should be for the eighth dance, and would mr. turner please change his card accordingly, which mr. turner obligingly did, wondering what he should do when it came to the eighth dance and he should find himself obligated to two young ladies. oh, well, he reflected, no doubt the other young lady was down for the eighth dance with some one else, if they had things so mixed. of one thing he was sure. he had that tenth dance with miss stevens. he had inspected both cards to make certain of that, and had seen with carefully concealed joy that she had compared them as minutely as he had. he saw confusion going on all about him, laughing young people attempting to straighten out the tangle, and the dance was slow in starting. almost the first two on the floor were miss stevens and billy westlake, and as he saw them, from his vantage point outside one of the broad windows, gliding gracefully up the far side of the room, he realized with a twinge of impatience what a remarkably unskilled dancer he himself was. billy and miss stevens were talking, too, with the greatest animation, and she was looking up at billy as brightly, even more brightly he thought, than she had at himself. there was a delicate flush on her cheeks. her lips, full and red and deliciously curved, were parted in a smile. confound it anyhow! what could she find to talk about with billy westlake? he was turning away in more or less impatience, when mr. stevens, looking, in some way, with his aggressive, white, outstanding beard, as if he ought to have a red ribbon diagonally across his white shirt front, ranged beside him. "fine sight, isn't it?" observed mr. stevens. "yes," admitted mr. turner, almost shortly, and forced himself to turn away from the following of that dazzling vision, which was almost painful under the circumstances. by mutual impulse they walked down the length of the side porch and across the front porch. sam drew himself away from dancing and certain correlated ideas with a jerk. "i've been wanting to talk with you, mr. stevens," he observed. "i think i'll drop over to-morrow for a little while." "glad to have you any time, sam," responded mr. stevens heartily, "but there is no time like the present, you know. what's on your mind?" "this marsh pulp company," said sam; "do you know anything about pulp and paper?" "a little bit. you know i have some stock in princeman's company." "oh," returned sam thoughtfully. "not enough to hurt, however," stevens went on. "twenty shares, i believe. when i went in i had several times as much, but not enough to make me a dominant factor by any means, and princeman, as he made more money, wanted some of it, so i let him buy up quite a number of shares. at one time i was very much interested, however, and visited the mills quite frequently." "you're rather close to princeman in a business way, aren't you?" sam asked after duly cautious reflection. "not at all, although we get along very nicely indeed. i made money on my paper stock, both in dividends and in a very comfortable advance when i sold it. our relations have always been friendly, but very little more. why?" "oh, nothing. only princeman is much interested in my pulp company, and all the people who are going in are his friends. the crowd over at meadow brook talks of taking up approximately the entire stock of my company. i thought possibly you might be interested." "i am right now, from what i have already heard of it," returned stevens, who had almost at first sight succumbed to that indefinable personal appeal which caused sam turner to be trusted of all men. "i shall be very glad to hear more about it. it struck me when you spoke of it yesterday as a very good proposition." they had reached the dark corner at the far end of the porch, illumined only by the subdued light which came from a half-hidden window, and now they sat down. sam fished in the little armpit pocket of his dress coat and dragged forth two tiny samples of pulp and two tiny samples of paper. "these two," he stated, "were samples sent me to-day by my kid brother." mr. stevens took the samples and examined them with interest. he felt their texture. he twisted them and crumpled them and bent them backward and forward and tore them. then, the light at this window being too weak, he went to one of the broad windows where a stronger stream of light came out, and examined them anew. sam, still sitting in his chair, nodded in satisfied approval. he liked that kind of inspection. mr. stevens brought the samples back. "they are excellent, so far as i am able to judge," he announced. "these are samples made by yourselves from marsh products?" "yes," sam assured him. "made from marsh-grown material by our new process, which is much cheaper than the wood-pulp process. do you know mr. creamer of the eureka paper mills?" "not very well. i've met him once or twice at dinners, but i'm not intimately acquainted with him. i hear, however, that he is an authority." "here's a letter from him, and some samples made by him under our process," said sam with secret satisfaction. "i just received them this morning." from the same pocket he took the letter without its envelope, and with it handed over the two other small samples. "that's a fine showing," stevens commented when he had examined document and samples and brought them back, and he sat down, edging about so that he and sam sat side by side but facing each other, as in a tête-à-tête chair. "now tell me all about it." on and on went the music in the ball-room, on went the shuffling of feet, the swish of garments, the gay talk and laughter of the young people; and on and on talked mr. stevens and mr. turner, until one familiar strain of music penetrated into sam's inner consciousness; the _home sweet home_ waltz! "by george!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "that can't be the last." "sounds like it," commented mr. stevens, also rising. "it is the last if they make up programs as they did in my young days. i don't remember of many dances where the _home sweet home_ waltz didn't end it up. it's late enough anyhow. it's eleven-thirty." "then i have done it again!" said sam ruefully. "i had the number ten dance with your daughter." mr. stevens closed his eyes to laugh. "you certainly have put your foot in it," he admitted. "oh, well, jo's sensible," he added with a father's fond ignorance. "she'll understand." "that's what i'm afraid of," replied mr. turner ruefully. "you'll have to intercede for me. explain to her about it and soften the case as much as you can. frankly, mr. stevens, i'd be tremendously cut up to be on the outs with miss josephine." "there are shoals of young men who feel that way about it, sam," said mr. stevens with large and commendable pride. "however, i am glad that you have added yourself to the list," and he gazed after sam with considerable approbation, as that young man hurried away to display his abjectness to the young lady in question. three times, on the arm of princeman, she whirled past the open doorway where sam stood, but somehow or other he found it impossible to catch her eye. the dance ended when she was on the other side of the room, and immediately, with the last strains, the floor was in confusion. sam tried desperately to hurry across to where she was, but he lost her in the crowd. he did not see her again until all of the meadow brook folk, including himself, were seated in the carryalls, at which time the hollis creek folk were at the edge of the porte-cochère and both parties were exchanging a gabbling pandemonium of good-bys. he saw her then, standing back among the crowd, and shouting her adieus as vociferously as any of them. he caught her eye and she nodded to him as pleasantly as to anybody, which was really worse than if she had refused to acknowledge him at all! chapter viii not sam's fault this time no, miss stevens was sorry that she could not go walking with him that morning, which was the morning after the dance. she was very polite about it, too; almost too polite. her voice over the telephone was as suave and as limpid as could possibly be, but there was a sort of metallic glitter behind it, as it were. no, she could not see him that afternoon either. she had made a series of engagements, in fact, covering the entire day. also, she regretted to say, upon further solicitation, that she had made engagements covering the entire following day. no, she was not piqued about his last night's forgetfulness; by no means; certainly not; how absurd! she quite understood. he had been talking business with her father, and naturally such a trifling detail as a dance with frivolous young people would not occur to him. frivolous young people! this was the exact point of the conversation at which sam, with his ear glued to the receiver of the telephone and no necessity for concealing the concerned expression on his countenance, thought, in more or less of a panic, that he must really be getting old, which was a good joke, inasmuch as nobody ever took him to be over twenty-five. heretofore his boyish appearance had worried him because it rather stood in the way of business, but now he began to fear that he was losing it; for he was nearing thirty! well, pleading was of no avail. he had to give it up. reluctantly he went out and took a solitary walk, then came in and religiously played his two hours of tennis with miss westlake and miss hastings and tilloughby. was he not on vacation, and must he not enjoy himself? just before he went in to luncheon, however, there was a telephone call for him. miss stevens was perplexed to know what divine intuition had told him her obsession for maraschino chocolates. she had one in her fingers at the very moment she was telephoning, and she was going to pop it into her mouth while he talked. being a mere man he could not realize how delightfully refreshing was a maraschino chocolate. sam had a lively picture of that dainty confection between the tips of her dainty fingers; he could see the white hand and the graceful wrist, and then he could see those exquisitely curved red lips parting with a flash of white teeth to receive the delicacy; and he had an impulse to climb through the telephone. a little bird had told him about her preference, he stated. he had that little bird regularly in his employ to find out other preferences. "i had those sent just to show you that i am not altogether absorbed in business," he went on; "that i can think of other things. have another chocolate." "i am," she laughingly said; "but i'm not going to eat them all. i'm going to save one or two for you." "good," returned sam in huge delight and relief. "i'll come over to get them any time you say." "all right," she gaily agreed. "as i told you this morning, i have an engagement for this afternoon, but if you'll come over after luncheon i'll try to find a half-hour or so for you anyhow." great blotches of perspiration sprang out on his forehead. "jinks!" he ejaculated. "you know, right after you telephoned me this morning i made an engagement with mr. blackrock and mr. cuthbert and mr. westlake, to go over some proposed incorporation papers." "oh, by all means, then, keep your engagement," she told him, and he could feel the instant frigidity which returned to her tone. a zero-like wave seemed to come right through the transmitter of the telephone and chill the perspiration of his brow into a cold trickle. "no, i'll see if i can not set that engagement off for a couple of hours," he hastily informed her. "by no means," she protested, more frigidly than before. "come to think of it, i don't believe i'd have time anyhow. in fact, i'm sure that i would not. mr. hollis is calling me now. good-by." "wait a minute," he called desperately into the telephone, but it was dead, and there is nothing in this world so dead as the telephone from which connection has been suddenly shut off. sam strode into the dining-room and went straight over to blackrock's table. "i find i have some pressing business right after luncheon," he said, bending over that gentleman's chair. "i can't possibly meet you at two o'clock. will four do you?" "why, certainly," mr. blackrock was kind enough to say, and he furthermore agreed, with equal graciousness, to inform the others. sam ate his luncheon in worried silence, replying only in monosyllables to the remarks of mccomas, who sat at his table, and of mrs. mccomas, who had taken quite a young-motherly fancy to him; and the amount that he ate was so much at variance with his usual hearty appetite that even the maid who waited on his table, a tall, gangling girl with a vinegar face and a kind heart, worried for fear he might be sick, and added unordered delicacies to his american plan meal. he went over to hollis creek in the swiftest conveyance he could obtain, which was naturally an auto, but he did not have 'ennery for his chauffeur, of which he was heartily glad, for 'ennery might have wanted to talk. on the porch of hollis creek inn he found princeman and mr. stevens in earnest conversation. he knew what that meant. princeman was already discussing with mr. stevens the matter of control of the marsh pulp company. princeman rose when sam stepped up on the porch, and strolled away from mr. stevens. he nodded pleasantly to turner, and the latter, returning the nod fully as pleasantly, was about to hurry on in search of miss josephine, when mr. stevens checked him. "hello, sam," he called. "i've just been waiting to see you." "all right," said sam. "i'll be around presently." "no, but come here," insisted mr. stevens. sam cast a nervous glance about the grounds and along the side porch; miss josephine most certainly was not among those present. he still hesitated, impatient to get away. "just a minute, sam," insisted stevens. "i want to talk to you right now." with unwilling feet sam went over. "sit down," directed stevens, pushing forward a chair. "what is it?" asked sam, still standing. "i have been talking with princeman and westlake about your marsh pulp company." "yes," inquired sam nervously. "and everybody seems to be most enthusiastic about it. fact of the matter is, my boy, i consider it a tremendous investment opportunity. the only drawback there seems to be is in the matter of stock distribution and voting power. i want you to explain this very fully to me." "i thought you were quite satisfied with our talk last night," returned sam, glancing hastily over his shoulder. "i am, in so far as the investment goes, sam. i've promised you that i'd take a good block of stock, and you've promised to make room for me in the company. i expect to go through with that, but i want to know about this other phase of the matter before i get into any entanglements with opposing factions. now you sit right down there and tell me about it." despairingly sam sat down and proceeded briefly and concisely to explain to him the various plans of incorporation which had been proposed. ten minutes later he almost groaned, as a trap, drawn by a pair of handsome buckskin horses, driven by princeman and containing miss josephine, crunched upon the gravel driveway in front of the porch. miss stevens greeted mr. turner very heartily indeed, princeman stopping for that purpose. sam ran down and shook hands with her. oh, she was most cordial; just as cordial and polite as anybody he knew! "i did not expect you at all," she said, "but i knew you were here, for i saw you from the window as you came up the drive. pleasant weather, isn't it? oh, papa!" "yes," answered mr. stevens ponderously from his place on the porch. "up on my dresser you will find a box of candy which mr. turner was kind enough to have sent me, and he confesses that he has never tasted maraschino chocolates. won't you please run up and get them and let mr. turner sample them?" "huh!" grunted mr. stevens. "if sam turner insists upon running me up two flights of stairs on an errand of that sort, i suppose i'll have to go. but he won't." "you're lazy," she said to her father in affectionate banter, then, with a wave of her hand and a bright nod to mr. turner, she was gone! sam trudged slowly up on the porch with the heart gone entirely out of him for business; and yet, as he approached mr. stevens he pulled himself together with a jerk. after all, she was gone, and he could not bring her back, and in his talk with stevens he had just approached a grave and serious situation. "the fact of the matter is, mr. stevens," said he as he sat down again, "these people are the very people i want to get into my concern, but they are old hands at the stock incorporation game, and even before i've organized the company they are planning to get it out of my hands. now it is my scheme, mine and the kid brother's, and i don't propose to allow that." "well, sam," said mr. stevens slowly, "you know capital of late has had a lot of experience with corporate business, and it isn't the fashionable thing this year for the control and the capital to be in separate hands--right at the very beginning." this was the signal for the struggle, and sam plunged earnestly into the conflict. at three-fifteen he suddenly rose and made his adieus. he would have liked to stay until miss josephine came back, so that he could make one more desperate attempt to set himself right with her, but there was that deferred engagement with blackrock, and reluctantly he whirled back to meadow brook. chapter ix wherein sam turner proves himself to be a violent flirt the rest of that week was a worried and an anxious one for sam. he sent daily advices to his brother, and he received daily advices in return. the people upon whom he had originally counted to form the marsh pulp company had set themselves coldly against the matter of control, and on comparing the apparent situation in new york with the situation at meadow brook, he made sure that he could secure more advantageous terms with the princeman crowd. he spent his time in wrestling with his prospective investors both singly and in groups, but they were obdurate. they liked his company, they saw in it tremendous possibilities, but they did not intend to invest their money where they could not vote it. that was flat! this was on the business side. about the really important matter of miss stevens, since his most recent bad performance, the time when he had made the special trip to see her and had spent his time in talking business with her father, he had not been able to come near her. she was always engaged. he saw her riding with hollis; he saw her driving with princeman; he saw her playing tennis with billy westlake, but the greatest boon he ever received was a nod and a pleasant word. he industriously sent her flowers. she as industriously sent him nice, polite little notes of thanks. in the meantime, alternating with his marsh pulp wrangles, he worked like a trojan at the athletic graces he should have cultivated in his younger days. he rode every morning; he practised every day at tennis and croquet; every evening he bowled; and every time some one sat at the piano and played dance music and the young people fell into impromptu waltzes and two-steps on the porch, he joined them and danced religiously with whomsoever he found to hand; usually miss hastings or miss westlake. the latter ingenious young lady, during this while, continued to adore business, and with increasing fervor every day, and regretted, quite aloud, that she had never paid sufficient attention to this absorbing amusement, out of which all the men, that is, those who were really strong and purposeful, seem to derive so much satisfaction! on the following monday at bald hill, when hollis creek and meadow brook fraternized together, in the annual union picnic, she found occasion for the most direct tête-à-tête of all anent commercial matters. under bald hill were any number of charming natural retreats, jumbles of titanically toy-strewn, clean, bare rocks, screened here and there by tangles of young scrub oak and pine which grew apparently on bare stone surfaces and out of infinitesimal chinks and crannies, in utter defiance of all natural law. go where you would on that day, there were couples in each of the rock shelters; young couples, engaged in that fascinating pastime of finding out all they could about each other, and wondering about each other, and revealing themselves to each other as much as they cared to do, and flirting; oh, in a perfectly respectable sort of a way, you know; legitimate and commendable flirting; the sort of flirting which is only experimental and necessary, and which may cease at any moment to become mere airy trifling, and turn into something intensely and desperately serious, having a vital bearing upon the entire future lives of people; and there were deeply solemn moments, in spite of all the surface hilarity and gaiety, in many of these little out of way nooks kindly provided by beneficent nature for this identical purpose. in one of these nooks, a curious sort of doll's amphitheatre, partly screened by dwarf cedars, were miss westlake and mr. turner, and sam could not tell you to this day how she had roped him out of the herd, and isolated him, and brought him there. "business is just perfectly fascinating," she was saying. "i've been talking a lot to papa about it here lately. he thinks a great deal of you, by the way." "he does," sam grunted in non-committal acknowledgment, with the sharp reflection that he had better look out for himself if that were the case, since the most of westlake's old friends were bankrupt, he being the best business man of them all. "yes; he says you have an excellent business proposition, too, in your new marsh pulp company." she said marsh pulp without an instant's hesitation. "i think it's good myself," agreed sam; "that is, if i can keep hold of it." inwardly he added, "and if i can keep old westlake's clutches off." she laughed lightly. "papa mentioned that very thing," she informed him. "i don't think i quite understand what control of stock means, although i've had papa explain it to me. i gather this much, however, that it is something you want very much, but can scarcely get without some large stockholder voting his stock with you." sam inspected her narrowly. "you seem to have a pretty good idea of the thing after all," he admitted, wondering how much she really knew and understood. "but maybe your father wouldn't like your repeating to me what you accidentally learned from him in conversation. business men are usually pretty particular about that." "oh, he wouldn't mind at all," she said airily. "i'm having him explain a lot of things to me, because he's making separate investments for billy and me. all his new enterprises are for us, and in the last two or three years he's turned over lots of stock to us in our own names. but i've never done any actual voting on it. i've only given proxies. i sign a little blank, you know, that papa fills out for me and shows me where to put my name and mails to somebody or other, or else takes it and votes it himself; but i'd rather vote it my own self. i should think it would be ever so much fun. i'm trying to find out about how they do such things, and i'd be very glad to have you tell me all you can about it. it's just perfectly fascinating." "yes, it is," sam admitted. "so you think you may eventually own some stock in the marsh pulp company?" and he became quite interested. "if papa takes any i'm quite sure i shall," she returned; "and i think he will, from what he said. he seems to be so enthusiastic about it that i'm going to ask him for this stock, and let billy have the next that he buys. i hope he does take a good lot of it. isn't this the dearest place imaginable?" and with charming naïveté she looked about the tiny amphitheatre-like circle, admiring the projecting stones which formed natural seats, and the broad shelving of slippery rock which led up to it. "yes, it is," said sam with considerable thoughtfulness, and once more inspected miss westlake critically. there was no question that she would be as stout as her mother and her father when she reached their age. however, personal attractiveness is an essence and can not be weighed by the pound. sam was bound to admit, after thoughtful judgment, that miss westlake might be personally attractive to a great many people, but really there hadn't seemed to be anything flowing from him to her or from her to him, even when he had held tightly to her hand to help her up the steep slope of the rock floor. "yes, it is a charming place," he once more admitted. "looks almost as if this little semi-circle had been built out of these loose rocks by design. of course, your father wouldn't take the original stock in your name." "oh, no, i don't suppose so," she said. "he never does. he takes out the stock himself, and then transfers it to us." "of course," sam agreed; "and naturally he'd hold it long enough to vote at the original stock-holders' meeting." "i couldn't say about that," she laughed. "that's going beyond my business depth just yet, but i'm going to learn all about such things," and she looked across at him with apparent shy confidence that he would take pleasure in teaching her. "hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!" came a sudden call from down in the road, and, turning, they saw miss hastings and billy westlake, who both waved their hands at the amphitheatre couple and came scrambling up the rocks. "mr. princeman and mr. tilloughby are looking for you everywhere, hallie," said miss hastings to miss westlake. "you know you promised to make that famous salad dressing of yours. luncheon is nearly ready, all but that, and they're waiting for you over at the glade. my, what a dear little place this is! how did you ever find it?" miss hastings was now quite conspicuously panting and fanning herself. "i'm so tired climbing those rocks," she went on. "i shall simply have to sit down and rest a bit. billy will take you over, hallie, and mr. turner will bring me by and by, i am sure." mr. turner stated that he would do so with pleasure. miss westlake surveyed her dearest friend more in anger than in sorrow. it was such a brazen trick, and she gazed from her brother to mr. turner in sheer wonder that they were not startled into betrayal of how shocked they were. whatever strong emotions they might have had upon that subject were utterly without reflection upon the outside, however, for billy westlake and sam turner were eying each other solely with a vacuous mutual wish of saying something decently polite and human. mr. turner made a desperate stab. "i hope you're in good form for the bowling tournament to-night," he observed with self-urged anxiety. "hollis creek mustn't win, you know." "i'm as near fit as usual," said billy; "but princeman is the chap who's going to carry off the honors for meadow brook. bowled an average last night of two forty-five. i'm sorry you couldn't make the team." "i should have started fifteen years ago to do that," said sam with a wry smile. "i think i would get along all right, though, if they didn't have those grooves at the side of the alleys." billy westlake looked at him gravely. since sam did not smile, this could not be a joke. "but they are absolutely necessary, you know," he protested, as he took his sister's arm and helped her down the slope. miss westlake went away entirely out of patience with the two men, and very much to billy's surprise gave him her revised estimate of that hastings girl. miss hastings, however, was in a far different frame of mind. she was an exclamation point of admiration about an endless variety of things; about the dear little amphitheatre, about how well her friend miss westlake was looking and how successful hallie had been this summer in reducing, and how much mr. turner was improving in his tennis and croquet and riding and bowling and everything. "and, mr. turner, what is pulp? and do they actually make paper out of it?" she wound up. very gravely mr. turner informed her on the process of paper making, and she was a chorus of little vivacious ohs and ahs all the way through. she sat on the side of the stone circle from which she could look down the road, and she chattered on and on and on, and still on, until something she saw below warned her that she was staying an unconscionable length of time, so she rose and told mr. turner they must really go, and held out her hand to be helped down the slope. that was really a very slippery rock, and it was probably no fault of miss hastings that her feet slipped and that she had to throw herself squarely into mr. turner's embrace, and even throw her arm up over his shoulder to save herself. it was a staggery place, even for a sturdily muscled young man like mr. turner to keep his footing, and with that fair burden upon him he had to stand some little time poised there to retain his balance. then, very gently and carefully, he turned straight about, lifting miss hastings entirely from her feet and setting her gravely down on the safe ledge below the sloping rock; but before he had even had time to let go of her he glanced down into the road, toward which the turn had faced him, and saw there, looking up aghast at the tableau, mr. princeman and miss stevens! the sharp and instantly suppressed laugh of princeman came floating up to them, but miss stevens turned squarely about in the direction of the glade, and being instantly joined by princeman, they walked quietly away. mr. turner suddenly found himself perspiring profusely, and was compelled to mop his brow, but miss hastings disdained to give any sign that anything unusual whatsoever had happened, except by walking with a limp, albeit a very slight one, as she returned to the glade. that limp comforted mr. turner somewhat, and, spying miss stevens in a little group near the tables, he was very careful to parade miss hastings straight over there and place her limp on display. miss stevens, however, walked away; no mere limp could deceive her! well, if she wanted to be miffed at a little accident like that, and read things falsely, and think the worst of people, she might; that was all sam had to say about it! but what he had to say about it did not comfort him. he rather savagely "shook" miss hastings at his first opportunity, and vivian's dearest friend, who had been hovering in the offing, saw him do it, which was a great satisfaction to her. later she seized upon him, although he had savagely sworn to stick to the men, and by some incomprehensible process sam found himself once more tête-à-tête with miss westlake, just over at the edge of the glade where the sumac grew. she made him gather a lot of the leaves for her, and showed him how they used to weave clover wreaths when she was a little girl, and wove one for him of sumac, and gaily crowned him with it; and just as she was putting the fool thing on his head he glanced up, and there princeman, laughing, was just passing them a little ways off, in company with miss josephine stevens! chapter x the value of a pianola training on that very same evening hollis creek came over to the bowling tournament, and miss stevens, arriving with young hollis, promptly lost that perfervid young man, who had become somewhat of a nuisance in his sentimental insistence. mr. turner, watching her from afar, saw her desert the calfly smitten one, and immediately dashed for the breach. he had watched from too great a distance, however, for billy westlake gobbled up miss josephine before sam could get there, and started with her for that inevitable stroll among the brookside paths which always preceded a bowling tournament. while he stood nonplussed, looking after them, miss hastings glided to his side in a matter of course way. "isn't it a perfectly charming evening?" she wanted to know. "it is a regular dear of an evening," admitted sam savagely. in his single thoughtedness he was scrambling wildly about within the interior of his skull for a pretext to get rid of miss hastings, but it suddenly occurred to him that now he had a legitimate excuse for following the receding couple, and promptly upon the birth of this idea, he pulled in that direction and miss hastings came right along, though a trifle silently. with all her vivacious chattering, she was not without shrewdness, and with no trouble whatever she divined precisely why sam chose the path he did, and why he seemed in such almost blundering haste. they _were_ a little late, it was true, for just as they started, billy and miss stevens turned aside and out of sight into the shadiest and narrowest and most involved of the shrubbery-lined paths, the one which circled about the little concealed summer-house with a dove-cote on top, which was commonly dubbed "the cooing place." following down this path the rear couple suddenly came upon a tableau which made them pause abruptly. billy westlake, upon the steps of the summer-house, was upon his knees, there in the swiftly blackening dusk, before the appalled miss stevens; actually upon his knees! silently the two watchers stole away, but when they were out of earshot miss hastings tittered. sam, though the moment was a serious one for him, was also compelled to grin. "i didn't know they did it that way any more," he confessed. "they don't," miss hastings informed him; "that is, unless they are very, very young, or very, very old." "apparently you've had experience," observed sam. "yes," she admitted a little bitterly. "i think i've had rather more than my share; but all with ineligibles." sam felt a trace of pity for miss hastings, who was of polite family, but poor, and a guest of the westlakes, but he scarcely knew how to express it, and felt that it was not quite safe anyhow, so he remained discreetly silent. by mutual, though unspoken impulse, they stopped under the shade of a big tree up on the lawn, and waited for the couple who had been found in the delicate situation either to reappear on the way back to the house, or to emerge at the other end of the path on the way to the bowling shed. it was scarcely three minutes when they reappeared on the way back to the house, and both watchers felt an instant thrill of relief, for the two were by no means lover-like in their attitudes. billy had hold of miss josephine's arm and was helping her up the slope, but their shoulders were not touching in the process, nor were arms clasped closely against sides. they passed by the big tree unseeing, then, as they neared the house, without a word, they parted. miss stevens proceeded toward the porch, and stopped to take a handkerchief from her sleeve and pass it carefully and lightly over her face. billy westlake strode off a little way toward the bowling shed, stopped and lit a cigarette, took two or three puffs, started on, stopped again, then threw the cigarette to the ground with quite unnecessary vigor, and stamped on it. miss hastings, without adieus of any sort, glided swiftly away in the direction of billy, and then a dim glimmer of understanding came to sam turner that only miss stevens had stood in the way of miss hastings' capture of billy westlake. he wasted no time over this thought, however, but strode very swiftly and determinedly up to miss josephine. "i'm glad to find you alone," he said; "i want to make an explanation." "don't bother about it," she told him frigidly. "you owe me no explanations whatsoever, mr. turner." "i'm going to make them anyhow," he declared. "you saw me twice this afternoon in utterly asinine situations." "i remember of no such situations," she stated still frigidly, and started to move on toward the house. "but wait a minute," said sam, catching her by the arm and detaining her. "you did see me in silly situations, and i want you to know the facts about them." "i'm not at all interested," she informed him, now with absolute north pole iciness, and started to move away again. he held her more tightly. "the first time," he went on, "was when miss hastings slipped on the rocks and i had to catch her to keep her from falling." "will you kindly let me go, mr. turner?" demanded miss josephine. "no, i will not!" he replied, and pulled her about a trifle so that she was compelled to face him. "i don't choose to have anybody, least of all you, think wrongly of me." "mr. turner, i do not choose to be detained against my will," declared miss josephine. "mr. turner," boomed a deep-timbered voice right behind them, "the lady has requested you to let her go. i should advise you to do so." mr. turner was attempting to frame up a reasonable answer to this demand when miss josephine prevented him from doing so. "mr. princeman," said she to the interrupting gallant, "i thank you for your interference on my behalf, but i am quite capable of protecting myself," and leaving the two stunned gentlemen together, she once more took her handkerchief from her sleeve and walked swiftly up to the porch, brushing the handkerchief lightly over her face again. "well, i'll be damned!" said princeman, looking after her in more or less bewilderment. "so will i," said sam. "have you a cigarette about you?" princeman gave him one and they took a light from the same match, then, neither one of them caring to discuss any subject whatever at that particular moment, they separated, and sam hunted a lonely corner. he wanted to be alone and gloom. confound bowling, anyhow! it was a dull and uninteresting game. he cared less for it as time went on, he found; less to-night than ever. he crept away into the dim and deserted parlor and sat down at the piano, the only friend in which he cared to confide just then. he played, with a queer lingering touch which had something of hesitation in it, and which reduced all music to a succession of soft chords, _the maid of dundee_ and _annie laurie_, _the banks of banna_ and _the last rose of summer_, then one of the simpler nocturnes of chopin, and, following these, a quaint, slow melody which was like all of the others and yet like none. "bravo!" exclaimed a gentle voice in the doorway, and he turned, startled, to see miss stevens standing there. she did not explain why she had relented, but came directly into the room and stood at the end of the piano. he reached up and shook hands with her quite naturally, and just as naturally and simply she let her hand lie in his for an instant. how soft and warm her palm was, and how grateful the touch of it! "what a pleasant surprise!" she said. "i didn't know you played." "i don't," he confessed, smiling. "if you had stopped to listen you would have known. you ought to hear my kid brother play though. he's a corker." "but i did listen," she insisted, ignoring the reference to his "kid brother." "i stood there a long time and i thought it beautiful. what was that last selection?" he flushed guiltily. "it was--oh, just a little thing i sort of put together myself," he told her. "how delightful! and so you compose, too?" "not at all," he hastily assured her. "this is the only thing, and it seemed to come just sort of naturally to me from time to time. i don't suppose it's finished yet, because i never play it exactly as i did before. i always seem to add a little bit to it. i do wish that i had had time to know more of music. what little i play i learned from a pianola." "a what?" she gasped. he laughed in a half-embarrassed way. "a pianola," he repeated. "you see i've always been hungry for music, and while my kid brother was still in college i began to be able to afford things, and one of the first luxuries was a pianola. you know the machine has a little lever which throws the keys in or out of engagement, so that you can play it as a regular piano if you wish, and if you leave the keys engaged while you are playing the rolls, they work up and down; so by watching these i gradually learned to pick out my favorite tunes by hand. i couldn't play them so well by myself as the rolls played them, but somehow or other they gave me more satisfaction." miss stevens did not laugh. in some indefinable way all this made a difference in sam turner--a considerable difference--and she felt quite justified in having deliberately come to the conclusion that she had been "mean" to him; in having deliberately slipped away from the others as they were all going over to the bowling alleys; in having come back deliberately to find him. "your favorite tunes," she repeated musingly. "what was the first one, i wonder? one of those that you have just been playing?" "the first one?" he returned with a smile. "no, it was a sort of rag-time jingle. i thought it very pretty then, but i played it over the other day, the first time in years, and i didn't seem to like it at all. in fact, i wonder how i ever did like it." rag-time! and now, left entirely to his own devices and for his own pleasure, he was playing chopin! yes, it made quite a difference in sam turner. she was glad that she had decided to wear his roses, glad even that he recognized them. at her solicitation sam played again the plaintive little air of his own composition--and played it much better than ever he had played it before. then they walked out on the porch and strolled down toward the bowling shed. half way there was a little side path, leading off through an arbor into a shady way which crossed the brook on a little rustic bridge, which wound about between flowerbeds and shrubbery and back by another little bridge, and which lengthened the way to the bowling shed by about four times the normal distance--and they took that path; and when they reached the bowling alley they were not quite ready to go in. [illustration: sam played again the plaintive little air] there seemed no reasonable excuse for staying out longer, however, for the bowling had already started, and, moreover, young tilloughby happened to come to the door and spied them. princeman was just getting up to bowl for the honor and glory of meadow brook, and within one minute later miss stevens was watching the handsome young paper manufacturer with absorbed interest. he was a fine picture of athletic manhood as he stood up, weighing the ball, and a splendid picture of masculine action as he rushed forward to deliver it. sam had to acknowledge that himself, and out of fairness he even had to join in the mad applause when princeman made strike after strike. they had princeman up again in the last frame, and it was a ticklish moment. the hollis creek team was fifty points ahead. dramatic unities, under the circumstances, demanded that princeman, by a tremendous exercise of coolness and skill, overcome that lead by his own personal efforts, and he did, winning the tournament for meadow brook with a breathless few points to spare. but did sam turner care that princeman was the hero of the hour? more power to princeman, for from the bevy of flushed and eager girls who flocked about the adonis-like victor, miss josephine stevens was absent. she was there, with him, in paradise! incidentally sam made an engagement to drive with her in the morning, and when, at the close of that delightful evening, the carryall carried her away, she beamed upon him; gave him two or three beams in fact, and said good-by personally and waved her hand to him personally; nobody else was there in all that crowd but just they two! chapter xi the westlakes decide to invest miss hastings did not exactly snub sam in the morning, but she was surprisingly indifferent to him after all her previous cordiality, and even went so far as to forget the early morning constitutional she was to have taken with him; instead she passed him coolly by on the porch right after an extremely early breakfast, and sauntered away down lovers' lane, arm in arm with billy westlake, who was already looking very much comforted. sam, who had been dreading that walk, released it with a sigh of intense satisfaction, planning that in the interim until time for his drive, he would improve his tennis a bit with miss westlake. he was just hunting her up when he met bob tilloughby, who invited him to join a riding party from both houses for a trip over to sunset rock. "sorry," said sam with secret satisfaction, "but i've an engagement over at hollis creek at ten o'clock," and tilloughby carried that information back to miss westlake, who had sent him. an engagement at hollis creek at ten o'clock, eh? well, miss westlake knew who that meant; none other than her dear friend, josephine stevens! being a young lady of considerable directness, she went immediately to her father. "have you definitely made up your mind, pop, to take stock in mr. turner's company?" she asked, sitting down by that placid gentleman. without removing his interlocked hands from their comfortable resting-place in plain sight, he slowly twirled his thumbs some three times, and then stopped. "yes, i think i shall," he said. "about how much?" miss westlake wanted to know. "oh, about twenty-five thousand." "who's to get it?" "why, i thought i'd divide it between billy and you." miss westlake put her hand on her father's arm. "say, pop, give it to me, please," she pleaded. "billy can take the next stock you buy, or i'll let him have some of my other in exchange." mr. westlake surveyed his daughter out of a pair of fish-gray eyes without turning his head. "you seem to be especially interested in this stock. you asked about it yesterday and sunday and one day last week." "yes, i am," she admitted. "it's a really first-class business investment, isn't it?" "yes, i think it is," replied westlake; "as good as any stock in an untried company can be, anyhow. at least it's an excellent investment chance." "that's what i thought," she said. "i'm judging, of course, only by what you say, and by my impression of mr. turner. it seems to me that almost anything he goes into should be highly successful." mr. westlake slowly whirled his thumbs in the other direction, three separate twirls, and stopped them. "yes," he agreed. "i'm investing the money in just sam myself, although the scheme itself looks like a splendid one." miss westlake was silent a moment while she twisted at the button on her father's coat sleeve. "i don't quite understand this matter of stock control," she went on presently. "you've explained it to me, but i don't seem quite to get the meaning of it." "well, it's like this," explained mr. westlake. "sam turner, with only a paltry investment, say about five thousand dollars, wants to be able to dictate the entire policy of a million-dollar concern. in other words, he wants a majority of stock, which will let him come into the stock-holders' meetings, and vote into office his own board of directors, who will do just what he says; and if he wanted to he might have them vote the entire profits of the concern for his salary." "but, father, he wouldn't do anything like that," she protested, shocked. "no, he probably wouldn't," admitted mr. westlake, "but i wouldn't be wise to let him have the chance, just the same." "but, father," objected miss hallie, after further thought, "it's his invention, you know, and his process, and if he doesn't have control couldn't all you other stock-holders get together and appropriate the profits yourselves?" mr. westlake gave his thumbs one quick turn. "yes," he grudgingly confessed. "in fact, it's been done," and there was a certain grim satisfaction at the corners of his mouth which his daughter could not interpret, as he thought back over the long list of absorptions which had made old bill westlake the power that he was. "but--but, father," and she hesitated a long time. "yes," he encouraged her. "even if you won't let him have enough stock to obtain control, if some one other person should own enough of the stock, couldn't they put their stock with his and let him do just about as he liked?" "oh, yes," agreed mr. westlake without any twirling of his thumbs at all; "that's been done, too." "would this twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of stock that you're buying, pop, if it were added to what you men are willing to let mr. turner have, give him control?" again mr. westlake turned his speculative gray eyes upon his daughter and gave her a long, careful scrutiny, which she received with downcast lashes. "no," he replied. "how much would?" "well, fifty thousand would do it." "say, pop--" "yes." another long interval. "i wish you'd buy fifty thousand for me in place of twenty-five." "humph," grunted mr. westlake, and after one sharp glance at her he looked down at his big fat thumbs and twirled them for a long, long time. "well," said he, "sam turner is a fine young man. i've known him in a business way for five or six years, and i never saw a flaw in him of any sort. all right. you give billy your sugar stock and i'll buy you this fifty thousand." miss westlake reached over and kissed her father impulsively. "thanks, pop," she said. "now there's another thing i want you to do." "what, more?" he demanded. "yes, more," and this time the color deepened in her cheeks. "i want you to hunt up mr. turner and tell him that you're going to take that much." mr. westlake with a smile reached up and pinched his daughter's cheek. "very well, hallie, i'll do it," said he. she patted him affectionately on the bald spot. "good for you," she said. "be sure you see him this morning, though, and before half-past nine." "you're particular about that, eh?" "yes, it's rather important," she admitted, and blushed furiously. westlake patted his daughter on the shoulder. "hallie," said he, "if billy only had your common-sense business instinct, i wouldn't ask for anything else in this world; but billy is a saphead." mr. westlake, thinking that he understood the matter very thoroughly, though in reality overunderstanding it--nice word, that--took it upon himself with considerable seriousness to hunt up sam turner; but it was fully nine-thirty before he found that energetic young man. sam was just going down the driveway in a neat little trap behind a team of spirited grays. "wait a minute, sam, wait a minute," hailed westlake, puffing laboriously across the closely cropped lawn. sam held up his horses abruptly, and they stood swinging their heads and champing at their bits, while sam, with a trace of a frown, looked at his watch. "what's your rush?" asked westlake. "i've been hunting for you everywhere. i want to talk about some important features of that marsh pulp company of yours." "all right," said sam. "i'm open for conversation. i'll see you right after lunch." "no. i must see you now," insisted westlake. "i've--i've got to decide on some things right this morning. i--i've got to know how to portion out my investments." sam looked at his watch and was genuinely distressed. "i'm sorry," said he, "but i have an engagement over at hollis creek at exactly ten o'clock, and i've scant time to make it." "business?" demanded westlake. "no," confessed sam slowly. "oh, social then. well, social engagements in america always play second fiddle to business ones, and don't you forget it. i'll talk about this matter this morning or i won't talk about it at all." sam stopped nonplussed. westlake was an important factor in the prospective marsh pulp company. "tell you what you do," said he, after some quick thought. "why can't you get in the trap and drive over to hollis creek with me? we can talk on the way and you can visit with your friends over there until time for luncheon; then i'll bring you back and we can talk on the way home, too." miss hallie and princeman and young tilloughby came cantering down the drive and waved hands at the two men. "all right," said westlake decisively, looking after his daughter and answering her glance with a nod. "wait until i get my hat," and he wheeled abruptly away. sam fumed and fretted and jerked his watch back and forth from his pocket, while westlake wasted fifteen precious minutes in waddling up to the house and hunting for his hat and returning with it, and two minutes more in bungling his awkward way into the buggy; then sam started the grays at such a terrific pace that, until they came to the steep hill midway of the course, there was no chance for conversation. while the horses pulled up this steep hill, however, westlake had his opportunity. "i suppose you know," he said, "that you're not going to be allowed over two thousand shares of common stock for your patents." "i'm beginning to give up the hope of having more," admitted sam. "however, i'm going to stick it out to the last ditch." "it won't be permitted, so you might as well give up that idea. how much stock do you think of buying?" "about five thousand dollars' worth of the preferred," said sam. "which will give you fifty bonus shares of the common. i suppose of course you figure on eventually securing control in some way or other." "not being an infant, i do," returned sam, flicking his whip at a weed and gathering his lines up quickly as the mettled horses jumped. "i don't know of any one person who's going to buy enough stock to help you out in that plan; unless i should do it myself," suggested westlake, and waited. sam surveyed the other man long and silently. westlake, as the largest minority shareholder, had done some very strange things to corporations in his time. "neither do i," said sam non-committally. there was another long silence. "if you carry through this marsh pulp company to a successful termination, you will be fairly well fixed for a young man, won't you?" the older man ventured by and by. "well," hesitated sam, "i'll have a start anyhow." "i should say you would," westlake assured him, placing his hands in his favorite position for contemplative discussion. "you'll have a good enough start to enable you to settle down." "yes," admitted sam. "what you need, my boy, is a wife," went on mr. westlake. "no man's business career is properly assured until he has a wife to steady him down." "i believe that," agreed sam. "i've come to the same conclusion myself, and to tell you the truth of the matter i've been contemplating marriage very seriously since i've been down here." "good!" approved westlake. "you're a fine boy, sam. i may tell you right now that i approve of both you and your decision very heartily. i rather thought there was something in the wind that way." "yes," confessed sam hesitantly. "i don't mind admitting that i have even gone so far as to pick out the girl, if she'll have me." mr. westlake smiled. "i don't think there will be any trouble on that score," said he. "of course, sam, i'm not going to force your confidence, or anything of that sort, but--but i want to tell you that i think you're all right," and he very solemnly shook hands with mr. turner. they had just reached the top of the hill when westlake again returned to business. "i'm glad to know you're going to settle down, sam," he said. "it inspires me with more confidence in your affairs, and i may say that i stand ready to subscribe, in my daughter's name, for fifty thousand dollars' worth of the stock of your company." "well," said sam, giving the matter careful weight. "it will be a good investment for her." before mr. westlake had any time to reply to this, the grays, having just passed the summit of the hill, leaped forward in obedience to another swish of sam's whip. chapter xii another missed appointment the trio from meadow brook, on their way to sunset rock galloped up to the hollis creek porch, and, finding miss stevens there, gaily demanded that she accompany them. "i'm sorry," said miss stevens, who was already in driving costume, "but i have an engagement at ten o'clock," and she looked back through the window into the office, where the clock then stood at two minutes of the appointed time; then she looked rather impatiently down the driveway, as she had been doing for the past five minutes. "well, at least you'll come back to the bar with us and have an ice-cream cocktail," insisted princeman, reining up close to the porch and putting his hand upon the rail in front of her. "i don't see how i can refuse that," said miss stevens with a smile and another glance down at the driveway, "although it's really a little early in the day to begin drinking," and she waited for them to dismount, going back with them into the little ice-cream parlor and "soft drink" and confectionery dispensary which had been facetiously dubbed "the bar." here she was careful to secure a seat where she could look out of the window down toward the road, and also see the clock. after a weary while, during which miss josephine had undergone a variety of emotions which she was very careful not to mention, the party rose from the discussion of their ice-cream soda and the bowling tournament and all the various other social interests of the two resorts, and made ready to depart, miss westlake twining her arm about the waist of her friend miss stevens as they emerged on the porch. "well, anyway, we've made you forget your engagement," miss westlake gaily boasted, "for you said it was to be at ten, and now it's ten-thirty." "yes, i noticed the time," admitted miss stevens, rather grudgingly. "i'm sorry we dragged you away," commiserated miss westlake with a swift change of tone. "probably the party of the second part didn't know where to find you." "no, it couldn't be anything like that," decided miss josephine after a thoughtful pause. "did you see anything of mr. turner this morning?" she asked with sudden resolve. "mr. turner," repeated miss westlake in well-feigned surprise. "why, yes, i know papa said early this morning that he was going to have a business talk with mr. turner, and as we left meadow brook papa was just going after his hat to take a drive with him." "i wonder if it would be an imposition to ask you to wait about five minutes longer," inquired miss stevens with a languidness which did _not_ deceive. "i think i can change to my riding-habit almost within that time." "we'll be delighted to wait," asserted miss westlake eagerly, herself looking apprehensively down the driveway; "won't we, boys?" "sure; what is it?" returned princeman. "josephine says that if we'll wait five minutes longer she'll go with us." "we'll wait an hour if need be," declared princeman gallantly. "it won't need be," said miss stevens lightly, and hurrying into the office she ordered the clerk to send for her saddle-horse. for ten interminable minutes miss westlake never took her eyes from the road, at the end of which time miss stevens returned, hatted and habited and booted and whipped. the hollis creek young lady was rather grim as she rode down the graveled approach beside miss westlake, and both the girls cast furtive glances behind them as they turned away from the meadow brook road. when they were safely out of sight around the next bend, miss westlake laughed. "mr. turner is such a funny person," said she. "he's liable at any moment to forget all about everything and everybody if somebody mentions business to him. if he ever takes time to get married he'll make it a luncheon hour appointment." even miss josephine laughed. "and even then," she added, by way of elaboration, "the bride is likely to be left waiting at the church." there was a certain snap and crackle to whatever miss stevens said just now, however, which indicated a perturbed and even an angry state of mind. ten minutes later, sam turner, hatless, and carrying a buggy whip and wearing a torn coat, trudged up the hollis creek inn drive, afoot, and walked rapidly into the office. "is miss stevens about?" he wanted to know. "not at present," the clerk informed him. "she ordered out her horse a few minutes ago, and started over to sunset rock with a party of young people from meadow brook." "which way is sunset rock?" the clerk handed him a folder which contained a map of the roadways thereabouts, and pointed out the way. "could you get me a saddle-horse right away?" the clerk pounded a bell and ordered up a saddle-horse for mr. turner, who immediately thereupon turned to the telephone, and, calling up meadow brook, instructed the clerk at that resort to send a carriage for mr. westlake, who was sitting in the trap, entirely unharmed but disinclined to walk, at the foot of laurel hill; then he explained that the grays had run away down this steep declivity, that the yoke bar had slipped, the tongue had fallen to the ground, had broken, and had run back up through the body of the carriage. the horses had jerked the doubletree loose, and the last he had seen of their marks they had turned up the bald hill road and were probably going yet. by the time he had repeated and amplified this explanation enough to beat it all through the head of the man at the other end of the wire, his horse was ready for him, and very much to the wonderment of the clerk he started off at a rattling gait, without taking the trouble either to have himself dusted or to pin up his badly torn pocket. he only lost his way once among the devious turns which led to sunset rock, and arrived there just as the party, quite satisfied with the inspection of a view they had seen a score of times before, were ready to depart, his appearance upon the scene with the telltale pocket being greatly to the discomfiture of everybody concerned except miss stevens, who found herself unaccountably pleased that sam's delay had been due to an accident, and able to believe his briefly told explanation at once. miss westlake was in despair. she had really hoped, and believed, that sam had forgotten his engagement in business talk, and she had felt quite triumphant about it. tilloughby, satisfied to be with miss westlake, and princeman, more than content to ride by the side of miss stevens, were neither of them overjoyed at the appearance of the fifth rider, who made fully as much a crowd as any "third party" has ever done; and he disarranged matters considerably, for, though at first lagging behind alone, a narrow place in the road shifted the party so that when they emerged upon the other side of it miss westlake was riding by the side of sam, and tilloughby was left to ride alone in the center. thereupon miss westlake's horse developed a sudden inclination to go very slowly. "papa says i'm becoming a very keen business woman," she remarked, by and by. "well, you've the proper blood in you for it," said sam. "that doesn't seem to count," she laughed; "look at billy. but i think i did a remarkably clever stroke this morning. i induced papa to say he'd double his stock in your company and give it to me. he tells me i've enough to 'swing' control. isn't that jolly?" "it's hilariously jolly," admitted sam, but with an inward wince. control and westlake were two words which did not make, for him, a cheerful juxtaposition. "so now you'll have to be very nice indeed to me," went on miss westlake banteringly, "or i'm likely to vote with the other crowd." "i'll be just as nice to you as i know how," offered sam. "just state what you want me to do and i'll do it." miss westlake did not state what she wanted him to do. in place of that she whipped up her horse rather smartly, after a thoughtful silence, and joined tilloughby, the three of them riding abreast. the next shifting, around a deep mud hole which only left room for an indian file procession, brought sam alongside miss josephine, and here he stuck for the balance of the ride, leaving princeman to ride part of the time alone between the two couples, and part of the time to be the third rider with each couple in alternation. miss josephine was very much concerned about mr. turner's accident, very happy to know how lucky he had been to come off without a scratch, except for the tear in his coat, and very solicitous indeed about any further handling of the obstreperous gray team; and, forgiving him readily under the circumstances, she renewed her engagement to drive with him the next morning! sam rode on home at the side of miss westlake, after leaving miss stevens at hollis creek, in a strange and nebulous state of elation, which continued until bedtime. as he was about to retire he was handed a wire from his brother: "just received patent papers meet me at restview morning train." chapter xiii a pleasure ride with miss stevens the morning train was due at ten o'clock. at ten o'clock also sam was due at hollis creek to take his long deferred drive with miss stevens. it was a slight conflict, her engagement, but the solution to that was very easy. as early in the morning as he dared, sam called up miss josephine. "i've some glorious news," he said hopefully. "my kid brother will arrive at restview on the ten o'clock train." "you are to be congratulated," miss stevens told him, with an echo of his own delight. "but you know we've an engagement to go driving at ten o'clock," he reminded her, still hopefully, but trembling in spirit. there was an instant of hesitation, which ended in a laugh. "don't let that interfere," she said. "we can defer our drive until some other time, when fate is not so determined against it." "but that doesn't suit me at all," he assured her. "why can't you be ready at nine in place of ten, let me call for you at that time and drive over to restview with me to meet jack?" "is that his name?" she asked in blissfully reassuring tones. "you've never spoken of him as anybody but your 'kid brother.' why of course i'll drive over to restview with you. i shall be delighted to meet him." privately she had her own fears of what jack turner might turn out to be like. sam was always so good in speaking of him, always held him in such tender regard, such profound admiration, that she feared he might prove to be perfect only in sam's eyes. "good," said sam. "just for that i'm going to bring you over some choice blooms that i have been having the gardener save back for me," and he turned away from the telephone quite happy in the thought that for once he had been able to kill two birds with one stone without ruffling the feathers of either. armed with a huge consignment of brilliant blossoms, enough to transform her room into a fairy bower, he sped quite happily to hollis creek. "oh, gladiolas!" cried miss josephine, as he drove up. "how did you ever guess it! that little bird must have been busy again." "honestly, it was the little bird this time. i just had an intuition that you must like them because i do so well," upon which naïve statement miss josephine merely smiled, and calling her father with pretty peremptoriness, she loaded that heavy gentleman down with the flowers and with instructions concerning them, and then stepped brightly into the tonneau with sam. it was a pleasant ride they had to restview, and it was a pleasant surprise which greeted miss josephine when the train arrived, for out of it stepped a youth who was unmistakably a turner. he was as tall as sam, but slighter, and as clean a looking boy as one would find in a day's journey. there was that, too, in the hand-clasp between the brothers which proclaimed at once their flawless relationship. miss stevens was so relieved to find the younger turner so presentable that she took him into her friendship at once. he was that kind of chap anyhow, and in the very first greeting she almost found herself calling him jack. just behind him, however, was a little, dried-up man with a complexion the color of old parchment, with sandy, stubby hair shot with gray, and a stubby gray beard shot with red. his lips were a wide straight line, as grim as judgment day. he walked with a slight stoop, but with a quick staccato step which betokened great nervous energy, a quality which the alert expression of his beady eyes confirmed with distinct emphasis. "hello, creamer!" hailed sam to this gentleman. "i didn't expect to see you here quite so soon." "you had every right to expect me," snapped the little man querulously. "after all the experimenting i have done for you boys, you had every reason to keep me posted on all your movements; and yet i reckon if i hadn't been in your office yesterday evening when jack said he was coming down here, you would not have notified me until you had your company all formed. then i suppose you'd have written to tell me how much stock you had assigned to me. i'm going to be in on the formation of this company, and i'm going to have my say about it!" "will you never get over that dyspepsia?" chided sam easily. "there was no intention of leaving you out." "just what i told him," declared jack, turning from miss stevens to them. "i have been swearing to him that as soon as we had found out to-day what we were to do i would have wired him at once." "you were quite right, jack," approved sam, opening the door of the car for them, "and as a proof of it, creamer, when you return to your office you will find there a letter postmarked yesterday, telling you our exact progress here, and warning you to be in readiness to come on telegram." "all right, then," said mr. creamer, somewhat mollified, "but since that letter's there and i'm here, you might as well tell me what you've done." sam stopped the proceedings long enough to introduce creamer to miss stevens after he had closed the door upon them and had taken his own seat by the chauffeur. "all right," he then said to mr. creamer, "i'll begin at the beginning." he began at the beginning. he told mr. creamer all the steps in the development of the company. he detailed to him the names of the gentlemen concerned, and their complete commercial histories, pausing to answer many pertinent side questions and observations from his younger brother, who proved to be as keen a student of business puzzles as sam himself. "that's all very well," said mr. creamer, "and now i'm here. i want to get away to-night: can't we form that company to-day? at what figure do you propose offering the original stock?" "the preferred at fifty, with a par value of a hundred," returned sam promptly. "common?" asked mr. creamer crisply. "one share of common with each two shares of preferred." "eh! well, i've twenty-five thousand dollars to put into this marsh pulp business, if i can have any figure in the management. i want on the board." "it's quite likely you'll be on the board," returned sam. "we shall have a very small list of subscribers, and the board will not be unwieldy if every investor is a director." "voting power in the common stock?" "in the common stock," repeated sam. "do you intend to buy any preferred?" asked creamer. "a hundred shares." "how much common do you expect to take out for your patents?" "two hundred and fifty thousand," sam answered without an instant's hesitation. "never!" exclaimed mr. creamer. "the time for that's gone by, young man, no matter how good your proposition is. it's too old a game. you won't handle my money with control in your hands. i have no objection to letting you have two hundred thousand dollars worth of common stock out of the half million, because that will give you an incentive to make the common worth par; but you shan't at any time have or be able to acquire a share over two hundred and forty-nine thousand; not if i know anything about it! can you call a meeting as soon as we get there?" "i think so," replied sam, with a more or less worried air. "i'll try it. tell you what i'll do. i'll run right on over to get mr. stevens, who wants to join the company, and in the meantime mr. westlake or princeman can round up the others." for the first time in that drive miss stevens had something to say, but she said it with a briefness that was like a dash of cold water to the preoccupied sam. "father is over there now, i think," she said. "good," approved mr. creamer. "we can have a little direct business talk and wind up the whole affair before lunch. what time do we arrive at meadow brook?" "before eleven o'clock." "that will give us two hours. two hours is enough to form any company, when everybody knows exactly what he wants to do. got a lawyer over there?" "one of the best in the country." miss stevens sat in the center seat of the tonneau. sam, in addressing his remarks to the others and in listening to their replies, was compelled to sweep his glance squarely across her, and occasionally in these sweeps he paused to let his gaze rest upon her. she was a relief to his eyes, a blessing to them! miss stevens, however, seldom met any of these glances. very much preoccupied she was, looking at the passing scenery and not seeing it. there had begun boiling and seething in miss stevens a feeling that she was decidedly _de trop_, that these men could talk their absorbing business more freely if she were not there; not because she embarrassed them, but because she used up space! nobody seemed to give her a thought. nobody seemed to be aware that she was present. they were almost gaspingly engrossed in something far more important to them than she was. it was uncomplimentary, to say the least. she was not used to playing "second fiddle" in any company. she was in the habit of absorbing the most of the attention in her immediate vicinity. mr. princeman or mr. hollis would neither one ignore her in that way, to say nothing of billy westlake. she was glad when they reached meadow brook. their whole talk had been of marsh pulp, and company organization, and preferred and common stock, and who was to get it, and how much they were to pay for it, and how they were going to cut the throats of the wood pulp manufacturers, and how much profit they were going to make from the consumers and with all that, not a word for her. not a single word! not even an apology! oh, it was atrocious! as soon as they drew up to the porch she rose, and before sam could jump down to open the door of the tonneau she had opened it for herself and sprung out. "i'll hunt up father right away for you," she stated courteously. "glad to have met you, mr. creamer. i presume i shall meet you again, mr. turner," she said to jack. "thank you so much for the ride," she said to sam, and then she was gone. sam looked after her blankly. it couldn't be possible that she was "huffy" about this business talk. why, couldn't the girl see that this had to do with the birth of a great big company, a million dollar corporation, and that it was of vital importance to him? it meant the apex of a lifetime of endeavor. it meant the upbuilding of a fortune. couldn't she see that he and his brother were two lone youngsters against all these shrewd business men, whose only terms of aiding them and floating this big company was to take their mastery of it away from them? couldn't she understand what control of a million dollar organization meant? he was not angry with miss stevens for her apparent attitude in this matter, but he was hurt. he was not impatient with her, but he was impatient of the fact that she could not appreciate. now the fat was in the fire again. he felt that. under other circumstances he would have said that it was much more trouble than it was worth to keep in the good graces of a girl, but under the present circumstances--well, his heart had sunk down about a foot out of place, and he had a sort of faint feeling in the region of his stomach. he was just about sick. he followed her in, just in time to see the flutter of her skirts at the top of the stairway, but he could not call without making himself and her ridiculous. confound things in general! mr. stevens joined him while he was still looking into that blank hole in the world. "glad i happened to be here, sam," said stevens. "jo tells me that your brother and mr. creamer have arrived and that you want to form that company right away." "yes," admitted sam. "was she sarcastic about it?" mr. stevens closed his eyes and laughed. "not exactly sarcastic," he stated; "but she did allude to your proposed corporation as 'that old company!'" "i was afraid so," said sam ruefully. stevens surveyed him in amusement for a moment, and then in pity. "never mind, my boy," he said kindly. "you'll get used to these things by and by. it took me the first five years of my married life to convince mrs. stevens that business was not a rival to her affections, when, if i'd only have known the recipe, i could have convinced her at the start." "how did you finally do it?" asked sam, vitally interested. "made her my confidante and adviser," stated stevens, smiling reminiscently. sam shook his head. "was that safe?" he asked. "didn't she sometimes let out your secrets?" "bosh!" exclaimed stevens. "i'd rather trust a woman than a man, any day, with a secret, business or personal. that goes for any woman; mother, sister, sweetheart, wife, daughter, or stenographer. just give them a chance to get interested in your game, and they're with you against the world." "thanks," said sam, putting that bit of information aside for future pondering. "by the way, mr. stevens, before we join the others i'd like to ask you how much stock you're going to carry in the marsh pulp company." "well," returned mr. stevens slowly, "i did think that if the thing looked good on final analysis, i might invest twenty-five thousand dollars." "can't you stretch that to fifty?" "can't see it. but why? don't you think you're going to fill your list?" "we'll fill our list all right," returned sam. "as a matter of fact, that's what i'm afraid of. these fellows are going to pool their stock, and hold control in their own hands. now if i could get you to invest fifty thousand and vote with me under proper emergency, i could control the thing; and i ought to. it is my own company. seems to me these fellows are selfish about it. you think i'm a good business man, don't you?" "i certainly do," agreed mr. stevens emphatically. "well, it stands to reason that if i have two hundred and sixty thousand dollars of common stock that isn't worth a picayune unless i make it worth par, i'll hustle; and if i make my common stock worth par, i'm making a fine, fat profit for these other fellows, to say nothing of the raising of their preferred stock from the value of fifty to a hundred dollars a share, and their common from nothing to a hundred." "that's all right, sam," returned mr. stevens; "but you'll work just as hard to make your common worth par if you only have two hundred thousand; and there's a growing tendency on the part of capital to be able to keep a string on its own money. strange, but true." "all right," said sam wearily. "we won't argue that point any more just now; but will you invest fifty thousand?" "i can't promise," said stevens, and he walked out on the porch. much worried, sam followed him, and with many misgivings he introduced mr. stevens to his brother jack and to mr. creamer. the prospective organizers of the marsh pulp company were already in solemn conclave on the porch, with the single exception of princeman, who was on the lawn talking most perfunctorily with miss josephine. that young lady, with wickedness of the deepest sort in her soul, was doing her best to entice mr. princeman into forgetting the important meeting, but as soon as princeman saw the gathering hosts he gently but firmly tore himself away, very much to her surprise and indignation. why, he had been as rude to her as sam turner himself, in placing the charms of business above her own! immediately afterward she snubbed billy westlake unmercifully. had he the qualities which would go to make a successful man in any walk of life? no! chapter xiv a dual question of matrimonial eligibility and stock subscription mr. westlake dropped back with his old friend stevens as they trailed into the parlor which blackstone had secured. "are you going to subscribe rather heavily in the company, stevens?" inquired westlake, with the curiosity of a man who likes to have his own opinion corroborated by another man of good judgment. "well," replied the father of miss josephine, "i think of taking a rather solid little block of stock. i believe i can spare twenty-five thousand dollars to invest in almost any company sam turner wants to start." "he's a fine boy," agreed westlake. "a square, straight young fellow, a good business man, and a hustler. i see him playing tennis with my girl every day, and she seems to think a lot of him." "he's bound to make his mark," mr. stevens acquiesced, sharply suppressing a fool impulse to speak of his own daughter. "do you fellows intend to let him secure control of this company?" "i should say not!" replied westlake, with such unnecessary emphasis that stevens looked at him with sudden suspicion. he knew enough about old westlake to "copper" his especially emphatic statements. "are you agreeable to princeman's plan to pool all stock but turner's?" "well--we can talk about that later." "huh!" grunted mr. stevens, and together the two heavy-weights, stevens with his aggressive beard suddenly pointed a trifle more straight out, and mr. westlake with his placidity even more marked than usual, stalked on into the parlor, where mr. blackstone, taking the chair _pro tem_., read them the preliminary agreement he had drawn up; upon which sam turner immediately started to wrangle, a proceeding which proved altogether in vain. the best he could get for patents and promotion was two thousand out of the five thousand shares of common stock, and finally he gave in, knowing that he could not secure the right kind of men on better terms. mr. blackstone thereupon offered a subscription list, to which every man present solemnly appended his name opposite the number of shares he would take. sam, at the last moment, put down his own name for a block of stock which meant a cash investment of considerably more than he had originally figured upon. he cast up the list hurriedly. five hundred shares of preferred, carrying half that much common, were still to be subscribed. with whom could he combine to obtain control? the only men who had subscribed enough for that purpose were princeman, who was out of the question, and, in fact, would be the leader of the opposition, and westlake. the highest of the others were creamer, cuthbert and stevens. sam would have to subscribe for the entire five hundred in order to make these men available to him. mccomas and blackstone had only subscribed for the same amount as sam. they could do him no good, and he knew it was hopeless to attempt to get two men to join with him. he looked over at westlake. that gentleman was smiling like a placid cherub, all innocence without, and kindliness and good deeds; but there was nevertheless something fishy about westlake's eyes, and sam, in memory, cast over a list of maimed and wounded and crushed who had come in westlake's business way. the logical candidate was stevens. stevens simply had to take enough stock to overbalance this thing, then he simply must vote his stock with sam's! that was all there was to it! sam did not pause to worry about how he was to gain over stevens' consent, but he had an intuitive feeling that this was his only chance. "stevens," said he briskly, "there are five hundred shares left. i'll take half of it if you'll take the other half." his brother jack looked at him startled. their total holdings, in that case, would mean an investment of more money than they could spare from their other operations. it would cramp them tremendously, but jack ventured no objections. he had seen sam at the helm in decisive places too often to interfere with him, either by word or look. as a matter of fact such a proceeding was not safe anyhow. "i don't mind--" began westlake, slowly fixing a beaming eye upon sam, and crossing his hands ponderously upon his periphery; but before he could announce his benevolent intention, mr. stevens, with what might almost have been considered a malevolent glance toward mr. westlake, spoke up. "i'll accept your proposition," he said with a jerk of his beard as his jaws snapped. so miss westlake thought a great deal of sam, eh? and old westlake knew it, eh? and he had already subscribed enough stock to throw sam control, eh? "thanks," said sam, and shot mr. stevens a look of gratitude as he altered the subscription figures. "stop just a moment, sam," put in mr. westlake. "how many shares of common stock does that give you in combination with your bonus?" "two thousand two hundred and sixty," said sam. "oh!" said mr. westlake musingly; "not enough for control by two hundred and forty one shares; so you won't mind, since you haven't enough for control anyhow, if i take up that additional two hundred and fifty shares of preferred, with its one hundred and twenty-five of common, myself." sam once more paused and glanced over the subscription list. as it stood now, aside from princeman, there were two members, westlake and stevens, with whom, if he could get either one of them to do so, he could pool his common stock. if he allowed westlake to take up this additional two hundred and fifty shares, westlake was the only string to his bow. "no, thanks," said sam. "i prefer to keep them myself. it seems to me to be a very fair and equitable division just as it is." in the end it stood just that way. chapter xv the hero of the hour on that very same afternoon, the youth and beauty, also the age and wisdom, of both hollis creek and meadow brook, gathered around the ball field of the former resort, to watch the titanic struggle for victory between the two picked nines. as sam took his place behind the bat for the first man up, who was hollis, he felt his first touch of self-confidence anent the strictly amusement features of summer resorting. in all the other athletic pursuits he had been backward, but here, as he smacked his fist in his glove, he felt at home. the only thing he did not like about it, as princeman wound himself up to deliver the first ball, was that princeman had the position of glory. on that gentleman the spotlight burned brightly all the time, and if they won, he would be the hero of the hour; the modest, reliable catcher would scarcely be thought of except by the men who knew the finer points of the game, and it was not the men whom he had in mind. honestly and sincerely, he desired to shine before miss josephine stevens. she was over there at the edge of the field under an oak tree. before her, cavorting for her amusement, were not only princeman and himself, but billy westlake and hollis, each of them alert for action at this moment; for now princeman, with a mighty twirl upon his great toe, released the ball. it never reached sam turner's hands; instead it bounced off the bat with a "crack!" and sailed right down through billy westlake, who, at second, made a frantic grab for it, and then it spun out between center and right field, losing itself in the bushes, while hollis, amid the frantic cheers of the audience, which consisted of miss josephine stevens and several unconsidered other spectators, tore around the circuit. his colleagues strove wildly to hold hollis at third, for the ball was found and was sailing over to that base. it arrived there just as he did, but far over the head of the third baseman, and fat, curly-haired hollis, who looked like an ice wagon but ran like a motorcycle, secured the first run for hollis creek. the next batter was up. princeman, his confidence loftily unshaken, gave a correct imitation of a pretzel and delivered the ball. the batsman swung viciously at it. spat! it landed in sam's glove. "strike one!" called the strident voice of blackrock, who, jerking himself back several years into youth again, was umpiring the game with great joy. nonchalantly sam snapped the ball back over-hand. princeman smiled with calm superiority. he wound himself up. spat! the ball had cut the plate and was in sam's hands, while the batsman stood looking earnestly at the path over which it had come. "strike two!" called blackstone. sam jerked the ball back with an underwrist toss of great perfection. princeman drew himself up with smiling ease and posed a moment for the edification of the on-lookers. sam turner was the very first to detect the unbearable arrogance of that pose. princeman eyed the batsman critically, mercilessly even, and delivered the third fatal plate-splitter. z-z-z-ing! the sphere slammed right out through billy westlake, who made a frantic grab for it. it bounded down between center and right field, and the players bumped shoulders in trying to stop it. it nestled among the bushes. the batsman tore around the bases. his colleagues tried to hold him at third, for the ball was streaking in that direction, but the batsman pawed straight on. the ball crossed the base before he did, but it bounded between the third sacker's feet, and score two was marked up for hollis creek, with nobody out! with undiminished confidence, though somewhat annoyed, princeman made a cute little knot of himself for the next batsman. spat! the ball landed in sam's glove, two feet wide of the plate. "ball one!" called blackstone. spat! in sam's glove again, with the batsman jumping back to save his ribs. "ball two!" cried blackstone. spat! "ball three." "put 'em over, princeman!" yelled billy westlake from second. "don't be afraid of him! he couldn't hit it with a pillow!" jeered the third baseman. in a calm, superior sort of way, mr. princeman smiled and shot over the ball. "four balls. take your base!" said mr. blackstone, quite gently. reassuringly mr. princeman smiled upon his supporters, consisting of miss josephine stevens and some other summer resorters, and proceeded to take out his revenge upon the next batter. the first two lofts were declared to be balls, and then sam, catching his man playing too far off, snapped the pill down to the nearest suburb and nailed the first out. encouraged by this, princeman put over three successive strikes, and there were two gone. the next batter up, however, laced out, for two easy way-points, the first ball presented him. the next athlete brought him in with a single, and the next one put down a three-bagger which bored straight through princeman and short stop and center field. that inglorious inning ended with a brilliant throw of sam's to billy westlake at second, nipping a would-be thief who had hoped to purloin the seventh tally for hollis creek. billy westlake, then taking the bat, increased the meadow brook depression by slapping the soft summer air three vicious spanks and retiring to think it over, and young tilloughby bounced a feeble little bunt square at the feet of hollis and was tossed out at first by something like six furlongs. the third batsman popped up a slow, lazy foul which gave the catcher almost plenty of time to roll a cigarette before it came down, and the meadow brook side was ignominiously retired. score, six to nothing at the end of the first. princeman hit the first man up in the next inning and sent him down to the initial bag, which was a flat stone, happily limping. he issued free transportation to the next man and let the cripple hobble on to second, chortling with glee. the third man went to the first station on a measly little bunt with which sam and princeman and third base did some neat and shifty foot work, and the next man up soaked out a wright brothers beauty among the trees over beyond left field, and cleared the bases amid the perfectly frantic rejoicing of the fickle miss josephine stevens and all the negligible balance of hollis creek. oh, it was disgraceful! sam turner ground his teeth in impotent rage. he walked up to princeman. "say, old man," he pleaded. "we've just _got_ to settle down! we _must_ pull this game out of the fire! we _can't_ let hollis creek walk away with it!" princeman was pale, but clutched at his fast-slipping-away nonchalance with the grip of desperation. "we'll hold them," he declared, and with careful deliberation he put over a ball which the next batter sent sailing right down inside the right foul line, pulling the first baseman away back almost to right field. princeman stood gaping at that bingle in paralyzed dismay; but the batsman, who was a slow runner and slow thinker, stood a fatal second to see whether the ball was fair or foul. almost at the crack of the bat sam turner started, raced down to first, caught the right fielder's throw and stepped on the stone, one handsome stride ahead of the runner! then, as blackrock, speechless with admiration, waved the runner out, the first mighty howl went up from meadow brook, and one partisan of the hollis creek nine, turning her back for the moment squarely upon her own colors, led the cheering. sam heard her voice. it was a solo, while all the rest of the cheering was a faint accompaniment, and with such elation as comes only to the heroes in victorious battle, he trotted back to his place and caught three balls and three strikes on the next batter. also, the next one went out on a pop fly which sam was able to catch. in their half princeman redeemed himself in part by a three bagger which brought in two scores, and the second inning ended at ten to three in favor of hollis creek. confident and smiling, reinforced by the memory of his three bagger, princeman took the mount for the beginning of the third, and with his compliments he suavely and politely presented a base to the first man up. a groan arose from all meadow brook. the second batsman shot a stinger to princeman, who dropped it, and that batsman immediately thereafter roosted on first, crowing triumphantly; but the hot liner allowed princeman a graceful opportunity. he complained of a badly hurt finger on his pitching hand. he called time while he held that injured member, and expressed in violent gestures the intolerable agony of it. bravely, however, he insisted upon "sticking it out," and passed two wild ones up to the next willow wielder; then, having proved his gameness, he nobly sacrificed himself for the good of meadow brook, called time and asked for a substitute pitcher. he would go anywhere. he would take the field or he would retire. what he wanted was meadow brook to win. this was precisely what sam turner also wanted, and he lost no time in calling, with ill-concealed satisfaction, upon his brother jack. then jack turner, nothing loath, deserted his comfortable seat by the side of miss josephine stevens, and strode forth to the mound, leaving the unfortunate princeman to take his place by the side of miss stevens and give her an opportunity to sympathize with his poor maimed pitching hand, which, after a perfunctory moment of interest, she was too busy to do; for jack turner and sam turner, smiling across at each other in mutual confidence and esteem, proceeded to strike out the next three batters in succession, leaving men cemented to first and second bases, where they had been wildly imploring for opportunities to tear themselves loose. what need to tell of the balance of that game; of the calm, easy, one-two-three work of the invincible turner battery; of the brilliant base throwing and fielding of turner and turner, and their mighty swats when they came to bat? you know how the game turned out. anybody would know. it ended in a triumph for meadow brook at the end of the seventh inning, which is all any summer resort game ever goes, and two innings more than most, by a total and glorious score of twenty-one to seventeen. and who were the heroes of the hour, as smilingly but modestly they strode from the diamond? who, indeed, but jack turner and sam turner; and by token of their victory, after receiving the frenzied plaudits of all meadow brook and the generous plaudits of all hollis creek, they marched in triumph from the field, one on either side of miss josephine stevens! where now were hollis and princeman and billy westlake? nowhere! they were forgotten of men, ignored of women, and the laurels of sweet victory rested upon the brow of busy sam turner! chapter xvi an interrupted but properly finished proposal of marriage jack's first opportunity for a quiet talk with his brother did not occur for an hour after the game. "i don't like to worry you while you're resting, sam," he began, "but i'll have to tell you that the flatbush deal seems likely to drop through. it reaches a head to-morrow, you know." [illustration: "i don't like to worry you, sam"] sam turner grabbed for his watch. "it can't drop through!" he vigorously declared. "i'll go right up there to-night and look after it." "but you're on your vacation," protested jack. "that's no way to rest." "on my vacation!" snorted sam. "of course i am. i'm not losing a minute of my vacation. the proper way to have a vacation is to do the thing you enjoy most. don't you suppose i'll enjoy closing that flatbush deal?" "certainly," admitted his brother, "and i'll enjoy seeing you do it. i know you can." "of course i can. but you're to stay here." "it's not my turn for an outing," protested jack. "i haven't earned one yet." "you're to work," explained sam. "you see, jack, in one week i can't become a bowling or golf expert enough to beat princeman, nor a tennis or dancing expert enough to outshine billy westlake, nor a horseback or croquet expert enough to make a deuce out of hollis. you can do all these things, and i want you to give this crowd of distinguished amateurs a showing up. jack, if you ever worked for athletic honors in your life now is the time to do it; and in between time stick to miss stevens like glue. monopolize her. don't give these three or any other contenders any of her time. keep her busy. let me know every day what progress you're making; don't stop to write; wire! for remember, jack, i'm going to marry her. i've got to." "well, then you'll marry her," jack sagely concluded. "does she know it yet?" "i don't think she's quite sure of it," returned sam with careful analysis. "of course she's thought about it. sometimes she thinks she won't, and sometimes she thinks she will, and sometimes she isn't quite sure whether she will or not. don't you worry about that part, though, and don't bother to boost me. just quietly you take the shine out of these summer champions and leave the rest to your brother sam." "fine," agreed jack. "run right along and sell your papers, sammy, and i'll wire you every time i put over a point." sam hunted and found miss josephine. "i'm sorry i have to take a run back to new york for two or three days," he said. she bent upon him a glance of amusement; the old glance of mingled amusement and mischief. "i thought you were on your vacation," she observed. "and i am," he insisted. "i've been having a bully time, and i'll come back here to finish up the couple of days i have left." "then the drive which didn't count this morning, and which was postponed again until to-morrow morning, will have to be put off once more," she reminded him with a gay laugh. "by george, that's so!" he exclaimed. "in all the excitement it had quite slipped my mind." "i presume you're going up on business," she slyly observed. "yes, i am," he admitted. she laughed and gave him her hand. "well, i wish you good luck," she said. "i hope you make all the money in the world. but you won't forget us who are down here in the country dawdling away our time in useless amusements." "forget you!" he returned impetuously. "never for a minute!" and he was in such deadly earnest about it that she hastily checked further speech, although she did not know why. "good!" she hurriedly exclaimed. "i'm glad you will bear us in mind while you're gone. are you going to take your brother along?" "no," he said with a smile. "i'm putting him in as my vacation substitute, and i'll give him special instructions to call you up every morning for orders. you'll find him in perfect discipline. he'll do whatever you tell him." "i shall give him a thorough trial," she laughed. "i never yet had anybody to come and go abjectly at the word of command, and i think it will be a delightful novelty." jack approaching just then, she took his arm quite comfortably. "your brother tells me that during his absence you are to be my chief aide and attaché," she advised that young man gaily; "that you'll fetch and carry and do what i tell you; and the first thing you must do is to call for me when you take mr. turner to the train." it is glorious to part so pleasantly as that from people you have persistently in mind, and sam, with such cheerful recollections, enjoyed his vacation to the full as he did new and brilliant and unexpected things in closing up the flatbush deal, keeping, in the meantime, in constant touch with his office and with such telegrams as these: "established new tennis record this morning westlake nowhere and has been snubbed do not know why." "bowled two eighty five last night against princeman two twenty am teaching her." "danced six dances out of twelve with her says i'm better dancer than billy westlake." "jumped hollis creek after her hat on horseback this afternoon hollis dared not follow am to give her riding lessons." then came this one: "her father just told me she refused princeman last night she will not talk to hollis and scarcely to me is dull and does not eat i beat all entries in ten mile marathon today and she hardly applauded wire instructions." sam turner took the next train. one look at miss stevens, after he had traveled two years to reach restview, made him suddenly intoxicated, for in her eyes there was ravenous hunger for him and he read it, and feeling rather sure of his ground he determined that now was the time to strike. with that decisive end in view he dropped jack at meadow brook and went right on over to hollis creek with miss josephine. of course there was no chance to talk quite intimately, with henry up there ahead listening with all his ears, but there was every chance in the world to look into her eyes and grow delirious; to touch elbows; to look again and gaze deep into her eyes and see her turn away startled and half frightened; to say perfunctory things which meant nothing and everything, and receive perfunctory answers which meant as little and as much; but before they had arrived at hollis creek sam was frankly and boldly holding her hand and she was letting him do it, and they were both of them profoundly happy and profoundly silly, and would just as leave have ridden on that way for ever. words seemed superfluous, but yet they were more or less necessary, so sam got out at hollis creek inn with her, and led the way determinedly and directly into the stuffy little parlor just off the main assembly room. he saw mr. stevens in the door of the post-office, but only nodded to him, and then he drew miss josephine into the corner freest from observation. "you know why i came back," he informed her, fixing her with a masterly eye; "i had to see you again. my whole life is changed since i met you. i need you. i can not do without you. i--" "beg your pardon, sam," said mr. stevens, appearing suddenly in the doorway, and then he paused, much more confused even than the young people, for sam was holding both miss josephine's hands and gazing down at her with an earnestness which, if harnessed, would have driven a four-ton dynamo; and she was gazing up at him just as earnestly, with an entirely breathless, but by no means displeased expression. "excuse me!" stammered mr. stevens. [illustration: "excuse me!" stammered mr. stevens.] it was miss josephine who first found her aplomb. she smiled her rare smile of mingled amusement and mischief at sam, and then at her father. "you're quite excusable, i guess, father," she said sweetly. "what is it?" "why, your brother jack just called you up from meadow brook, sam, and wants to tell you something immediately," stammered mr. stevens, plucking at a beard which in that moment seemed to have lost all its aggressiveness. "he called twice before you arrived, and is on the 'phone now." sam, as he walked to the telephone, had time to find that his heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs, that his breath was short and fluttery, and that stage fright had suddenly crept over him and claimed him for its own; so it was with no great patience or understanding that he heard jack tell him in great glee about some tests which princeman had had made in his own paper mills with the marsh pulp, and how princeman was sorry he had not taken more stock, and could not the treasury stock be opened for further subscription? "tell him no," said sam shortly, and hung up the receiver; then he repented of his bluntness and spent five precious minutes in recalling his brother and apologizing for his bruskness, explaining that princeman was probably trying to plan another attempt to pool the stock. in the meantime theophilus stevens had stood surveying his daughter in contrition. "i'm afraid i came in at a most inopportune moment," he said by way of apology. "yes, i'm afraid you did," she admitted with a smile. "however, i don't think sam will forget what he wanted to say," and suddenly she reached up and put her arms around her father's neck and drew his face down and kissed him rapturously. "i'm glad to see you feel the way you do about it," said mr. stevens delightedly, petting her gently upon the shoulder with one hand and with the other smoothing back the hair from her forehead. she was the dearest to him of all his children, although he never confessed it, even to himself, and just now they were very, very close together indeed. "i'm glad to hear you call him sam, too. he's a fine young man and he is bound to be a howling success in everything he undertakes." he smiled reminiscently. "i rather thought there was something between you two," he went on, still patting her shoulder, "and when dan westlake told me that his girl thought a great deal of sam and that he was going to buy enough stock in sam's company to give sam control, i turned right around and bought just as much stock as westlake had, although just before the meeting i had refused to invest as much money as sam wanted me to. moreover, westlake and myself, between us, stopped the move to pool the outside stock, just yet. he's a smart young man, that boy," he continued admiringly. "i didn't see, until i went into that meeting, why he was so crazy to have me buy enough stock to gain control-- what's the matter?" he stopped in perplexity, for his daughter, looking aghast at him, had pushed back from his embrace and was regarding him with perfectly round eyes, while over her face, at first pale, there gradually crept a crimson flush. "well, of all things!" she gasped. "of all the cold-blooded, cruel, barter-and-sale proceedings! why, father, how--how could you! how could he! i never in all my life--" "why, jo, what do you mean? what's the trouble?" "if you don't understand i can't make you," she said helplessly. "well, i'll be--busted!" observed mr. stevens under his breath. to his infinite relief sam came in just then, and mr. stevens, wondering what he had done now, slipped hastily out of the room. mr. turner, coming from the bright office into the dim room and innocent of any change in the atmosphere, approached confidently and eagerly to miss josephine with both hands extended, but she stepped back most indignantly. "you need not finish what you were going to say!" she warned him. "my father has just given me some information which changes the entire aspect of affairs. i am not a part of a business bargain! i refuse to be regarded as a commercial proposition! i heard something from mr. princeman of what desperate efforts you were making to secure the command, whatever that may be, of the--of the stock--board--of shares in your new company, but i did not think you would go to such lengths as this!" "why, my dear girl," began sam, shocked. "i am not your dear girl and i never shall be," she told him, and angrily dabbed at some sudden tears. "i never was. i was only a business possibility." "that's unjust," he charged her. "i don't see how you could accuse me of regarding you in any other way than as the dearest and the sweetest and the most beautiful girl in all the world, the wisest and the most sensible, the most faithful, the most charming, the most delightful, the most everything that is desirable." "wait just a moment," she told him, very coldly indeed; with almost extravagant coldness, in fact, as she beat out of her consciousness the enticing epithets he had bestowed upon her. "do you mean to say that never in your calculations did you consider that if you married me my father would vote his stock with yours--i believe that's the way he puts it--and give you command or whatever it is of your company?" "well," considered sam, brought to a standstill and put straight upon his honor, "i can't deny that it did seem to me a very satisfactory thing that my father-in-law should own enough stock in the company--" "that will do," she interrupted him icily. "that is precisely what i have charged. we will consider this subject as ended, mr. turner; as one never to be referred to again." "we'll do nothing of the sort," returned sam flat-footedly. "i've been composing this speech for the last two weeks and i'm going to deliver it. i'm not going to have it wasted. i've unconsciously been rehearsing it every place i went. even up in flatbush, showing a man the superior advantages of that yellow-mud district, i found myself repeating sentence number twelve. it's been the first thing i thought of in the morning and the last thing i thought of at night. it's been with me all day, riding and walking and talking and eating and drinking and just breathing. now i'm going to go through with it. "i--i--confound it all! i've forgotten how i was going to say it now! after all, though, it only amounted to this: i love you! i want you to know it and understand it. i love you and love you and love you! i never loved any woman before in my life. i never had time. i didn't know what it was like. if i had i'd have fought it off until i met you, because i could not afford it for anybody short of you. it takes my whole attention. it distracts my mind entirely from other things. i can't think of anything else consecutively and connectedly. i--i'm sorry you take the attitude you do about this thing, but--i'm not going to accept your viewpoint. you've got to look at this thing differently to understand it. "i know you've been glad i loved you. you were glad the first day we met, and you always will be glad! whatever you have to say about it just now don't count. i'm going to let you alone a while to think it over, and then i'm coming back to tell you more about it," and with that sam stalked from the room, leaving miss josephine stevens gasping, dazed, quite sure that he was unforgivable, indignant with everything, still rankling, in spite of all sam had said, with the thought that she had been made a mere part of a commercial transaction. why, it was like those barbarous countries she had read about, where wives are bought and sold! preposterous and unbearable! while she was in this storm of mixed emotions her father came in upon her, this time seriously perplexed. "what has happened to sam turner?" he demanded. "he slammed out of the house, passed me on the porch with only a grunt, and jumped into his automobile. you must have done something to anger him." "i hope that i did!" she retorted with spirit. "i refused to marry him." "you did!" he returned in surprise. "why, i thought it was all cut and dried between you." "it was until you blundered into us and spoiled everything," she charged. "but i'm glad you did. you let me know that sam turner wanted to marry me because you had bought shares enough in his company to give him the advantage. i'm ashamed of you and ashamed of sam--of mr. turner--and ashamed of myself. why, you make a bargain-counter remnant of me! i never, _never_ was so humiliated!" "poor child!" her father blandly sympathized. "also, poor sam. by the way, though, he doesn't need you to secure control of his company. dan westlake, as i told you, has bought enough stock to do the work, and miss westlake would marry him in a minute. if sam wants control of his company, he only has to go to her and say the word." "father!" exclaimed his daughter with stern indignation. "i don't see how you can even suggest that!" "suggest what? now, what have i said?" "that sam--that mr. turner would even dream of marrying that westlake girl, just in order to get the better of a business transaction," and very much to theophilus stevens' surprise and consternation and dismay, she suddenly crumpled up in a heap in her chair and burst out crying. "well, i'll be busted!" her father muttered into his beard. chapter xvii she calls him sam! miss josephine, finding all ordinary occupations stale, unprofitable and wearisome on the following morning, and finding herself, moreover, possessed of a restless spirit which urged her to do something or other and yet recoiled at each suggestion she made it, started out quite aimlessly to walk by herself. she walked in the direction of meadow brook. the paths in that direction were so much prettier. sam turner, finding all other occupations stale, unprofitable and wearisome, at the same moment started out to walk by himself, going in the direction of hollis creek because that was the exact direction in which he wanted to go. as he walked much more rapidly than miss stevens, he arrived midway of the distance before she did, but at the valley where the unnamed stream came rippling down he paused. he had looked often at this little hollow as he had passed it, and every time he had looked upon it he seemed to have an idea of some sort in the back of his head regarding it; a dim, unformed, fugitive sort of idea which had never asserted itself very prominently because he had been too busy to listen to its rather timid voice. just now, however, the idea suddenly struggled to make itself loudly known, whereupon sam bade it come forth. given hearing it proved to be a very pleasant idea, and a forceful one as well; so much so that it even checked the speed with which sam had set out for hollis creek. he looked calculatingly across the road to where the little stream went flashing from under its wooden bridge across the field and hid around a curve behind some bushes, then reappeared, dancing in the sunlight, until finally it plunged among some far trees and was lost to him. he gazed up the stream. he had not very far to look, for there it ran down between two quite steep hills, through a sort of pocket valley, closed or almost closed, at the upper end, by another hill equally steep, its waters being augmented by a leaping little stream from a strong spring hidden away somewhere in the hill to the left. as his eyes calculatingly swept stream and hills, they suddenly caught a flutter of white through the trees, and it was coming down the winding path which led across the hills to hollis creek. as it emerged more from the concealment of the leaves his blood gave a leap, for the flutter of white was a gown inclosing the unmistakable figure of miss josephine stevens. the whole valley suddenly seemed radiant. "hello!" he called to her as she approached. "i didn't expect to find you here." "i did not expect to be here," she laughed. "i just started out for a stroll and happened to land in this beautiful spot." "beautiful is no name for it," he replied with sudden vast enthusiasm, and ran up the path to help her down over a steep place. for a moment, in the wonderful mystery of the touch of her hand and the joy of her presence, he forgot everything else. what was this strange phenomenon, by which the mere presence of one particular person filled all the air with a tingling glow? marvelous, that's what it was! if miss josephine had any of the same wonder she was extremely careful not to express it, nor let it show, especially after yesterday's conversation, so she immediately talked of other things; and the first thing which came handy was another reference to the beautiful valley. "you know, it is a wonder to me," she said, "that no one has built a summer resort here. i think it ever so much more charming than either hollis creek or meadow brook." "do you believe in telepathy?" asked sam, almost startled. "i do. it hasn't been but a few minutes since that identical idea popped into my head, and i had just now decided that if i could secure options on this property i would have a real summer resort here--one that would make hollis creek and meadow brook mere farm boarding-houses. do you see how close together these hills draw at their feet? the hollow is at least a thousand feet across at the widest part, but down there at the road, where the stream emerges to the fields, they close in with natural buttresses, as it were, to not over a hundred feet in width. well, right across there we'll build a dam, and there is enough water here to make a beautiful lake up as high as that yellow rock." miss josephine looked up at the yellow rock and clasped her hands with an exclamation of delight. "glorious!" she said. "i never would have thought of that; and how beautiful it will be! why, if the lake comes up that high it will go clear back around that turn in the valley, won't it?" "easily," he replied; "although that might make us trouble, for i don't know where that turn in the valley leads. i have never explored that region. suppose we go up and look it over." "won't that be fun?" she agreed, and they started to follow the stream. as they reached the rear of the "pocket," where they could see around the curve, they turned and looked back over the route they had just traversed. "my idea," sam explained, having waited until they reached this viewpoint to do so, "is to build the dam down there at the roadside, and build the hotel right over it so that arriving guests will, after an elevator has brought them up to the height of the main floor, find the blue of the lake suddenly bursting upon them from the main piazza, which will face the valley. all of the inside rooms will, of course, have hanging balconies looking out over the water." "perfectly ideal!" she agreed, her enthusiasm growing. "i think i'd better investigate the curve of the valley," he decided, studying the path carefully. "it seems rather rough for you, and i'll go alone. all i want to see is how far the water height will carry around there, and if it will become necessary to build a dam at the other end." "oh, it isn't too rough for me," she declared immediately. "i am an excellent climber," and together they started to explore the now narrowing valley, following the stream over steep rocks and fallen trees, and pushing through tangled undergrowth and among briers and bushes and around slippery banks until they came to another tortuous turn, where a second spring, welling up from under a flat, overhanging rock, tumbled down to augment the supply for the future lake; and here they stopped and had a drink of the cool, delicious water, sam making the girl a cup from a huge leaf which she said made the water taste fuzzy, and then showing her how to get down on her hands and knees--spreading his coat on the ground to protect her gown--and drink _au naturel_, a trick at which she was most charming, and probably knew it. the valley here had grown most narrow, but they followed the now very small stream around one sharp curve after another until they found its source, which was still another spring, and here there was no more valley; but a cleft in the hill to the right, which they suddenly came upon, gave them an exquisite view out over the beautiful low-lying country, miles in extent, which lay between this and the next range of hills; a delightful vista dotted with green farms and white farm-houses and smiling streams and waving trees and grazing cattle. they stopped in awe at the beauty of it and looked out over the valley in silence; and unconsciously the girl slipped her hand within the arm of the man! "just imagine a sunset out over there," he said. "you see those fleecy clouds that are out there now. if clouds like those are still there when the sun goes down, they will be a fleet of pearl-gray vessels, with carmine keels, upon a sea of gold." she glanced at him quickly, but she did not express her marvel that this man had so many sides. before she could comment, and while she was still framing some way to express her appreciation of his gentler gifts, he returned briskly to practical things. "our lake will scarcely come up to this point," he judged. "i don't think that at any point it will be high enough to cover the springs. we don't want it to if we can help it, for that would destroy some of the beauty of it. have you noticed that our lake will be much like a kite in shape, with this winding ravine the tail of it. we'll have to take in a lot of acreage to cover this property, but it will be worth it. i'm going to look after options right away. i'm glad now i had already decided to stay another two weeks." of course she was still angry with sam, she reminded herself, but she was inexpressibly glad, somehow or other, to find that he was intending to stay two weeks longer, and was startled as she recognized that fact. "it will take a lot of money, won't it, to build a hotel here?" she asked, getting away from certain troublesome thoughts as quickly as she could. "yes, it will take a great deal," he admitted, as they turned to scramble down the ravine again. "i should judge, however, that about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would finance it." "but i thought, from something father once said, that you did not have so much money as that?" "bless you, no!" replied sam, smiling. "no indeed! i've enough to cover an option on this property and that's about all, now, since i'm tangled up so deeply with my pulp company, but i figure that i can make a quick turn on this property to help me out on the other thing. what i'll do," he explained, "is to get this option first of all, and then have some plans drawn, including a nice perspective view of the hotel--a water-color sketch, you know, showing the building fronting the lake--and upon that build a prospectus to get up the stock company. i'll take stock for my control of the land and for my services in promotion. then i'll sell my stock and get out. i ought to make the turn in two or three months and come out fifteen, or possibly twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars to the good. it is a nice, big scheme." "oh," she said blankly, "then you wouldn't actually build a hotel yourself?" "hardly," he returned. "i'll be content to make the profit out of promoting it that i'd make in the first four or five years of running the place." "i see," she said musingly; "and you'd get this up just like you formed your marsh pulp company, i think father called it, and of course you'd try to get--what is it?--oh, yes; control." he smiled at her. "i'd scarcely look for that in this deal," he explained. "if i can just get a nice slice of promotion stock and sell it i shall be quite well satisfied." she bent puzzled brows over this new problem. "i don't quite understand how you can do it," she confessed, "but of course you know how. you're used to these things. father says you're very good at promoting." "that's the way i've made all my money, or rather what little i have," he told her, modestly enough. "i expect this pulp company, however, to lift me out of that, for a few years at least; then when i come back into the promoting field i can go after things on a big scale. the pulp company ought to make me a lot of money if i can just keep it in my own hands," and involuntarily he sighed. she looked at him musingly for a moment, and was about to say something, but thought better of it and said something else. "the tail of your kite will be almost a perfect letter 's'," she observed. "how beautiful it will be; the big, broad lake out there in the main valley, and then the nice, little, secluded, twisty waterway back in through here; a regular lover's lane of a waterway, as it were. i don't suppose these springs have any names. they must be named, and--why, we haven't even named the lake!" "yes, we have," he quickly returned. "i'm going to call it lake josephine." "you haven't asked my permission for that," she objected with mock severity. "there are plenty of josephines in the world," he calmly observed. "nobody has a copyright on the name, you know." she smiled, as one sure of her ground. "yes, but you wouldn't call it that, if i were to object seriously." "no, i guess i wouldn't," he gave up; "but you're not going to object seriously, are you?" "i'll think it over," she said. they were now making their way along a bank that was too difficult of travel to allow much conversation, though it did allow some delicious helping, but when they came out into the main valley where they could again look down on the road, they paused to survey the course over which they had just come, and to appreciate to the full the beauty of sam's plan. "i don't believe i quite like your idea of the hotel built down there at the roadside," she objected as they sat on a huge boulder to rest. "it cuts off the view of the lake from passers-by, and i should think it would be the best advertisement you could have for everybody who drove past there to say: 'oh, what a pretty place!' now i should think that right about here where we are sitting would be the proper location for your hotel. just think how the lake and the building would look from the road. right here would be a broad porch jutting out over the water, giving a view down that first bend of the kite tail, and back of the hotel would be this big hill and all the trees, and hills and trees would spread out each side of it, sort of open armed, as it were, welcoming people in." "it couldn't be seen, though," objected sam. "the dam down there would necessarily be about thirty feet high at the center, and people driving along the roadway would not be able to see the water at all. they would only see the blank wall of the dam. of course we could soften that by building the dam back a few feet from the roadway, making an embankment and covering that with turf, or possibly shrubbery or flowers, but still the water would not be visible, nor the hotel!" "i see," she said slowly. they both studied that objection in silence for quite a little while. then she suddenly and excitedly ejaculated: "_sam_!" he jumped, and he thrilled all through. she had called him sam entirely unconsciously, which showed that she had been thinking of him by that familiar name. with the exclamation had come sparkling eyes and heightened color, not due to having used the word, but due to a bright thought, and he almost lost his sense of logic in considering the delightful combination. it occurred to him, however, that it would be very unwise for him to call attention to her slip of the tongue, or even to give her time to think and recognize it herself. "another idea?" he asked. "indeed yes," she asserted, "and this time i know it's feasible. i don't know much about measurements in feet and inches, but there are three feet in a yard." "yes." "well, doesn't the road down there, from hill to hill, dip about ten yards?" "yes." "well then, that's thirty feet, just as high as you say the dam will have to be. why not raise the road itself thirty feet, letting it be level and just as high as your dam?" sam rose and solemnly shook hands with her. "you must come into the firm," he declared. "that solves the entire problem. we'll run a culvert underneath there to the fields. the road will reinforce the dam and the edge of the dam will be entirely concealed. it will be merely a retaining wall with a nice stone coping, which will be repeated on the field side. there will be no objection from the county commissioners, because we shall improve the road by taking two steep hills out of it. your plan is much better than mine. i can see myself, for instance, driving along that road on my way to hollis creek from restview, looking over that beautiful little lake to the hotel beyond, and saying to myself: 'well, next summer i won't stop at hollis creek. i'll stop at lake jo.'" "i thought it was to be lake josephine," she interposed. "i thought so too," he agreed, "but lake jo just slipped out. it seems so much better. lake jo! that would look fine on a prospectus." "you'd print the cover of it in blue and gold, i suppose, wouldn't you?" "there would need to be a splash of brown-red in it," he reminded her, considering color schemes for a moment. "the roof of the hotel would, of course, be red tile. we'd build it fireproof. there is plenty of gray stone around here, and we'd build it of native rock." "and then," she went on, in the full swing of their idea, "think of the beautiful walks and climbs you could have among these hills; and the driveway! your approach to the hotel would come around the dam and up that hill, would wind up through those trees and rocks, and right here at the bend of the ravine it would cross the thick part of the kite tail to the hotel on a quaint rustic bridge; and as people arrived and departed you'd hear the clatter of the horses' hoofs." "great!" he exclaimed, catching her enthusiasm and with it augmenting his own, "and guests leaving would first wave good-by at the porte-cochère just about where we are sitting. they'd clatter across the bridge, with their friends on the porch still fluttering handkerchiefs after them; they'd disappear into the trees over yonder and around through that cleft in the rocks. and see; on the other side of the cleft there is a little tableland which juts out, and the road would wind over that, where carriages would once more be seen from the hotel porch. then they'd twist in through the trees again down the winding driveway, and once more, for the very last glimpse, come into view as they went across our new road in front of the lake; and there the last flutter of handkerchiefs would be seen. you know it's silly to stand and wave your friends out of sight for a long distance when they're always in view, but if the view is interrupted two or three times it relieves the monotony." chapter xviii sam turner acquires a business partner they followed the stream down to the road, at every step gaging with the eye the height of the lake and judging the altered scenic view from the level of the water. there would be room for dozens and dozens of boats upon that surface without interference. sam calculated that from the upper spring there would be headway enough to run a small fountain in the center, surrounded by a pond-lily bed which would be kept in place by a stone curbing. in the hill to the right there was a deep indenture. back in there would go the bathing pavilions. they even went up to look at it, and were delighted to find a natural, shallow bowl. by cementing the floor of that bowl they could have a splendid swimming-pool for timid bathers, where they could not go beyond their depth; and it was entirely surrounded by a thick screen of shrubbery. oh, it was delightful; it was perfect! at the road they looked back up over the valley again. it was no longer a valley. it was a lake. they could see the water there. sam drew from his pocket a pencil and an envelope. "the hotel will have to be long and tall," he observed, "for there will not be much room on that ledge, from front to back. the building will stretch out quite a ways. three or four hundred feet long it will be, and about five stories in height," and taking a letter from the envelope, he sat down upon a fallen log and began rapidly to sketch. he drew the hotel with wide-spreading spanish roofs and balconies, and a wide porch with rippling water in front of it, and rowboats and people in them; and behind the hotel rose the broken sky-line of the hills and the trees, with an indication of fleecy clouds above. it was just a light sketch, a sort of shorthand picture, as it were, and yet it seemed full of sunlight and of atmosphere. "i hadn't any idea you could draw like that," she exclaimed in admiration. "i do a little of everything, i think, but nothing perfectly," he admitted with some regret. "it seems to me you do everything excellently," she objected quite seriously; and she was, in fact, deeply impressed. he walked over to the stream, a trifle confused, but not displeased, by any means, by the earnestness of her compliment. "i must have the water analyzed to see if it has any medicinal virtue," he said. "the spring out of which we drank has a sweetish-like taste, but the water here--" and he caught up some of it in his hand and tasted it, "seems to be slightly salt." he had left her sitting on the log with the sketch in her lap. now the sketch fluttered to the ground and the letter turned over, right side up. it was a letter which sam had written to his brother jack and had not mailed because he had suddenly decided to come down to the scene of action. as she stooped over to pick it up her eyes caught the sentence: "i love her, jack, more than i can tell you, more than i can tell anybody, more than i can tell myself. it's the most important, the most stupendous thing--" she hastily turned that letter over and was very careful to have it lying upon her lap, back upward, exactly as he had left it there, and when he came back she was very, very careful indeed to hand it nonchalantly over to him, with the sketch uppermost. "of course," he said, looking around him comprehensively, "this is only a day-dream, so far. it may be impossible to realize it." "why?" she asked, instantly concerned. "this project _must_ be carried through! it is already as good as completed. it just must be done. i never before had a hand, even in a remote way, in planning a big thing, and i couldn't bear not to see this done. what is to prevent it?" "i may not be able to get the land," returned sam soberly. "it is probably owned by half a dozen people, and one or more of them is certain to want exorbitant prices for it." "it certainly can't be very valuable," she protested. "it isn't fit for anything, is it?" "for nothing but the building of lake jo," he agreed. "right now it is worthless, but the minute anybody found out i wanted it it would become extremely valuable. the only way to do would be to see everybody at once and close the options before they could get to talking it over among themselves." "what time is it?" she demanded. he looked at his watch. "ten-thirty," he said. "then let's go and see all these people right away," she urged, jumping to her feet. he smiled at her enthusiasm, but he was none loath to accept her suggestion. "all right," he agreed. "i wish they had telephones here in the woods. we'll simply have to walk over to meadow brook and get an auto." "come on," she said energetically, and they started out on the road. they had not gone far, however, when young tilloughby, with miss westlake, overtook them in a trap. he reined up, and miss westlake greeted the pedestrians with frigid courtesy. jack turner had accidentally dropped her a hint. now that she had begun to appreciate mr. tilloughby--bob--at his true value, she wondered what she had ever seen in sam turner--and she never had liked josephine stevens! "gug-gug-gug-glorious day, isn't it?" observed tilloughby, his face glowing with joy. "fine," agreed sam with enthusiasm. "there never was a more glorious day in all the world. you've just come along in time to save our lives, tilloughby. which way are you bound?" "wuw-wuw-wuw-we had intended to go around bald hill." "well, postpone that for a few minutes, won't you, tilloughby, like a good fellow? trot back to meadow brook and send an auto out here for us. get henry, by all means, to drive it." "wuw-wuw-wuw-with pleasure," replied tilloughby, wondering at this strange whim, but restraining his curiosity like a thoroughbred. "huh-huh-huh-henry shall be back here for you in a jiffy," and he drove off in a cloud of dust. miss stevens surveyed the retiring trap in satisfaction. "good," she exclaimed. "i already feel as though we were doing something to save lake jo." they walked back quite contentedly to the valley and surveyed it anew, there resting now on both of them a sense of almost prideful possession. they discovered a high point on which a rustic observatory could be built; they planned paths and trails; they found where the water-line came just under an overhanging rock which would make a cave large enough for three or four boats to scurry under out of the rain. they found delightful surprises all along the bank of the future lake, and miss stevens declared that when the dam was built and the lake began to fill, she never intended to leave it except for meals, until it was up to the level at which they would permit the overflow to be opened. henry, returning with the automobile, found them far up in the valley discussing a floating band pavilion, but they came down quickly enough when they saw him, and scrambled into the tonneau with the haste of small children. henry watched them take their places with smiling affection. he had not only had good tips but pleasant words from sam, and miss stevens was her own incentive to good wishes and good will. "henry," said sam, "we want to drive around to see the people who own this land." "oh, shucks," said henry, disappointed. "i can't drive you there. the man that owns all this land lives in new york." "in new york!" repeated sam in dismay. "what would anybody in new york want with this?" "the fellow that bought it got it about ten years ago," henry informed them. "he was going to build a big country house, back up there in the hills, i understand, and raise deer to shoot at, and things like that; got an architect to make him plans for house and stables and all costing hundreds of thousands of dollars; but before he could break ground on it him and his wife had a spat and got a divorce. he tried to sell the land back again to the people he bought it from, but they wouldn't take it at any price. they were glad to be shut of it and none of his rich friends wanted to buy it after that, because, they said, there were so many of those cheap summer resorts around here." "i see," said sam musingly. "you don't happen to know the man's name, do you?" "dickson, i think it was. henry dickson. i remember his first name because it was the same as mine." "great!" exclaimed sam, overjoyed. "why, i know henry dickson like a book. i've engineered several deals for him. he's a mighty good friend of mine too. that simplifies matters. drive us right over to hollis creek." "to hollis creek!" she objected. "i should think you'd drive to meadow brook instead and dress for the trip. aren't you going to catch that afternoon train and go right up there?" "by no means. this is saturday, and by the time i'd get to new york he couldn't be found anywhere; and anyhow, i wouldn't have time to deliver you at hollis creek and make this next train." "don't mind about me," she urged. "i could go to the train with you and henry could take me back to hollis creek." "that's fine of you," returned sam gratefully; "but it isn't the program at all. i happen to know that dickson stays in his office until one o'clock on saturdays. i'll get him by long distance." they were quite silent in calculation on the way to hollis creek, and miss josephine found herself pushing forward to help make the machine go faster. breathlessly she followed sam into the house, and he obligingly left the door of the telephone booth ajar, so that she could hear his conversation with dickson. "hello, dickson," said sam, when he got his connection. "this is sam turner. . . . oh yes, fine. never better in my life. . . . up here in hamster county, taking a little vacation. say, dickson, i understand you own a thousand acres down here. do you want to sell it? . . . how much?" as he received the answer to that question he turned to miss josephine and winked, while an expression of profound joy, albeit materialized into a grin, overspread his features. "i won't dicker with you on that price," he said into the telephone. "but will you take my note for it at six per cent.?" he laughed aloud at the next reply. "no, i don't want it to run that long. the interest in a hundred years would amount to too much; but i'll make it five years. . . . all right, dickson, instruct your lawyer chap to make out the papers and i'll be up monday to close with you." he hung up the receiver and turned to meet her glistening eyes fixed upon him in ecstasy. "it's better than all right," he assured her. he was more enthusiastic about this than he had ever been about any business deal in his life, that is, more openly enthusiastic, for miss josephine's enthusiasm was contagion itself. he took her arm with a swing, and they hurried into the writing-room, which was deserted for the time being on account of the mail having just come in. sam placed a chair for her and they sat down at the table. "i want to figure a minute," said he. "now that i have actual possession of the property, in place of a mere option, i can go at the thing differently. first of all, when i go up monday i'll see my engineer, and on tuesday morning i'll bring him down here with me. then i shall secure permission from the county to alter that road and we'll build the dam. that will cost very little in comparison to the whole improvement. then, and not till then, i'll get out my stock prospectus, and i'll drive prospective investors down here to look at lake jo. i'll be almost in position to dictate terms." "isn't that fine!" she exclaimed. "and then i suppose you can secure--control," she ventured anxiously. "yes, i think i can if i want it," he assured her. "i'm so glad," she said gravely. "i'm so very glad." "really, though, i have a big notion to see if i can't finance the entire project myself. i'm quite sure i can get dickson to give me a clear deed to that land merely on my unsupported note. if i can do that i can erect all the buildings on progressive mortgages. roadways and engineering work of course i'll have to pay for, and then i can finance a subsidiary operating company to rent the plant from the original company, and can retain stock in both of them. i'll figure that out both ways." it was all greek to her, this talk, but she knitted her brows in an earnest effort to understand, and crowded close to him to look over the figures he was putting down. the touch of her arm against his own threw out his calculations entirely. he could not add a row of figures to save his life. "i'll go over the financial end of this later on," he said, but he did not put away the paper. he kept it there for them both to look at, touching arms. "all right," she agreed, "but you must let me see you do it. of course i can't understand, but i do want to feel as if i were helping when it is done." "i won't take a step in it without consulting you or having you along," he promised. at that moment the bugle sounded the first call for luncheon. "you'll stay for luncheon," she invited. "certainly," he assured her. "you couldn't drive me away." "very well, right after luncheon let's go out and look at the place again. it will look different now that it is--" she caught herself. she had almost said "now that it is ours." "now that it is secured," she finished. after luncheon they drove back to the site of lake jo, and spent a delirious while planning the things which were to be done to make that spot an earthly paradise. never was a couple so prolific of ideas as they were that afternoon. with 'ennery waiting down in the road they tramped all over the hills again, standing first on one spot and then another to survey the alluring prospect, and to plan wonderful new and attractive features of which no previous summer resort builder had ever even dared to dream. during the afternoon not one word passed between them which might be construed to be of an intimately personal nature, but as they drove to hollis creek, tired but happy, sam somehow or other felt that he had made quite a bit of progress, and was correspondingly elated. leaving miss stevens on the porch he hurried home to dress for dinner, for it was growing late, but immediately after dinner he drove over again. when he arrived miss josephine was in the seldom used parlor with her father. "i haven't seen you since breakfast," mr. stevens had said, pinching her cheek, "hollis and billy westlake have been looking for you everywhere." "oh, they," she returned with kindly contempt. "i'm glad i didn't see them. they're nice boys enough, but father, i don't believe that either one of them will ever become clever business men!" "no?" he replied, highly amused. "well, i don't think they will either. business is a shade too big a game for them. but where have you been?" "out on business with s-s-s--with mr. turner," she replied demurely. "i came in late for lunch, and you had already finished and gone. then we went right back out again. father, we have found the dearest, the most delightful, the most charming business opportunity you ever saw. you must go out with us to-morrow and look at it. sam's going to build a lake and call it lake jo. you know where that little stream is between here and meadow brook? well, that's the place. we found out this morning what a delightful spot it would make for a lake and a big summer resort hotel, and at noon sam bought the property, and we have been planning it all afternoon. he's bought it outright and he's going to capitalize it for a quarter of a million dollars. how much stock are you going to take in it?" "how much what?" "how many shares of stock are you going to take in it? you must speak up quickly, because it's going to be a favor to you for us to let you in." "well, i don't know," said mr. stevens, resisting a sudden desire to guffaw. "i'd have to look it over first before i decide to invest. sounds like a sort of wild-eyed scheme to me. besides that, i already have a good big block of stock in one of sam turner's enterprises." "oh, yes," she said, puckering her brows. "are you going to vote your pulp stock with his?" mr. stevens' eyes twinkled, but his tone was conservative gravity itself. "well, since it's a purely business deal it would not be a very wise thing to do; and though sam turner is a mighty fine boy, i don't think i shall." "but you will!" she vigorously protested. "why, father, you wouldn't for a minute vote against your own son-in-law!" "no, i wouldn't!" declared mr. stevens emphatically, and suddenly drew her to him and kissed her; and she clung about his neck half laughing and half crying. do you suppose there is anything in telepathy? it would seem so, for it was at this moment that sam stepped up on the porch. they in the parlor heard his voice, and mr. stevens immediately slipped out the back way in order not to be _de trop_ a second time. now sam could not possibly have known what had been said in the parlor, and yet when he found his way in there, he and miss josephine, without any palaver about it, without exchanging a solitary word, or scarcely even a look, just naturally fell into each other's arms. neither one of them made the first move. it just somehow happened, and they stood there and held and held and held that embrace; and whatever foolishness they said and did in the next hour is none of your business nor of mine; but later in the evening, when they were sitting quietly in the darkest corner of the porch, and sam had his hand on the arm of her chair with her elbows resting upon his fingers--it didn't matter, you know, where he touched her, just so he did--she turned to him with thoughtful earnestness in her voice. "sam," she said, and this time she used his first name quite consciously and was glad it was dark so that he could not see her trace of shyness, "i wish you would explain to me just what you mean by control in a stock company." sam turner moved his fingers from under her elbow and caught her hand, which he firmly clasped before he began. "well, jo, it's just this way," he said, and then, quite comfortably, he explained to her all about it. the end generously made available by the internet archive.) madame x _a story of mother-love_ by j. w. mcconaughy from the play of the same name by alexandre bisson illustrations by edward c. volkert new york grosset & dunlap publishers table i. two invalids ii. the return iii. magdalen iv. opening for the defense v. continuing for the prosecution vi. closing for the defense vii. the wanderers viii. "confidential missions" ix. the hotel of the three crowns x. the uses of adversity xi. concerning dower claims xii. "who saves another----" xiii. from out the shadow xiv. sic itur ad averno xv. the swelling of jordan xvi. a woman of mystery xvii. two lovers and a lecture xviii. a ghost rises xix. hope at last xx. the trial begins xxi. cherchez l'homme xxii. madame x speaks xxiii. the verdict xxiv. the guttering flame xxv. "while the lamp holds out to burn----" _elegie_ (_from the french of massenet_) _oh, spring of days long ago, blooming and bright,_ _far have you fluttered away_! _no more the skies azure light, caroling birds_ _waken and glisten for me_! _bearing all joy from my heart--loved one_! _how far from my life hast thou flown_! _vainly to me does the springtime return_! _it brings thee never again--dark is the sun_! _dead are the days of delight_! _cold is my heart and as dark as the grave_! _life is in vain--evermore_! madame x chapter i two invalids a night lamp--the chosen companion of illness, misery and murder--burned dimly on a little table in the midst of a grim array of bottles and boxes. in a big armchair between the table and the bed, and within easy reach of both, sat a young man. it was his fourteenth night in that chair and he leaned his head back against the cushions in an attitude of utter exhaustion. the hands rested on the arms with the palms turned up. but the strong, clean-cut face--that for two weeks had been a mask of fear and suffering--was transfigured with joy and thanksgiving when he reached over every few minutes and touched the forehead of the little boy in the bed. there was moisture under the dark curls and the fever flush had given way to the pallor of weakness. louis floriot was a man with steel nerves and an unbending will. barely in his thirty-first year, he was deputy attorney of paris, and in all the two weeks he had watched at the bedside of his boy he had not been ten seconds late at the opening of court in the morning. his work and his child were all that were left to him and he divided the day between them without a thought of himself. the woman that had made both dear to him was gone. he had loved the baby with almost more than a father's love because he was hers--theirs. he had slaved for fame and power to lay them at her feet as a proof of his love. two short years ago it would have been impossible to find a happier man within the girth of the seven seas. then one night he had returned from his office too early--returned to find his life in ruins and his home made desolate. and she had fled from him into the night and had gone out of his life--but not out of his memory. he had striven with all the strength of his will to forget her; but in his heart he knew that as long as he breathed her image would be there. he worked with feverish energy and poured his love out on raymond. the child was with him every moment that he was not in court or in his office, but his dark curly hair and great dark eyes were his mother's and forgetfulness did not lie that way. in the two years that had passed since the whole scheme of his life had been shattered he had barely had time to piece together a make-shift plan that would give him an excuse for living. in this new plan raymond was the one element of tenderness. but for his love for the boy he would have become as stem and inexorable as the laws in which he dealt. he could not tear jacqueline out of his heart but he forced himself to remember only the bitterness of her perfidy. in the past two weeks the memory had come back more bitterly. how different, he had thought in the long nights, if she had been there! they would have watched hand in hand and whispered hope and comfort to each other. one would have slept calmly when wearied, knowing that the tender love of the other guarded their baby. and what happiness would have been theirs that hour when the fever broke and raymond passed from stupor to natural sleep! but she had not loved him--she had not even loved her boy; for she had deserted both. rose, the maid, who had been in their house since his marriage, softly opened the door and whispered that madame varenne was in the library waiting to see him. he rose with a sigh, and after a last look at the sleeping child, tiptoed out of the room and noiselessly shut the door behind him. madame varenne was a sprightly young widow, the sister of dr. chennel, who attended raymond as if the boy were his own son. madame varenne, too, had almost a motherly affection for the child and something beyond admiration for the handsome, slightly grayed father. they supposed, as did everyone else in passy, that madame floriot was dead. floriot was living in paris when she left him and he moved out to passy shortly afterward. he shook hands with her cordially as he came in. "how kind of you to come, madame varenne!" he said, gratefully. the young woman looked up at him with a happy smile. "i am delighted with the news that rose has just given me!" she exclaimed, pressing his hand. "yes," he smiled wearily, "our nightmare is over and it was time it finished. i couldn't have held out much longer." "you have had a bad time of it," she murmured, sympathetically. "it hasn't been easy. and i shall never be able, to thank your brother enough for what he has done for me," and floriot's voice trembled. "he has thought of nothing else beside the boy for weeks and he was always talking about him," declared madame varenne, shaking her head. "the day before yesterday he went to see one of his old professors to consult him on the treatment, and he was hard at work that night experimenting and reading." floriot nodded. "he tells me that it was then that he got the idea which has saved raymond's life. i owe my boy's life to your brother, madame varenne," he added, his voice vibrant with gratitude, "and you may be sure that i will never forget it." "what he has done has been its own reward," she replied gently. "my brother is so fond of raymond!" floriot smiled tenderly. "and you?" "oh, i love the child!" she exclaimed. "he loves you, too," floriot assured her. "you were the first person he asked for when the fever left him. and now, that we are alone for a moment i want to take the opportunity of thanking you from the bottom of my heart!" "thanking me! for what?" "for your friendship." "how absurd you are!" she laughed. "then i ought to be making pretty speeches to you to thank you for yours as well!" "it is not quite the same thing," returned floriot. "you are a charming, happy, amiable and altogether delightful woman while i--well, i'm just a bear." "you don't mean to say so!" she exclaimed, with a look of mock alarm. "oh, yes!" he nodded with a smile. "bear is the only word that describes me--an ill-tempered bear, at that!" "you will never be as disagreeable as my husband was!" and madame varenne shook her head decidedly. floriot laughed. "really! was he even gloomier than i?" "my husband! good gracious me! you are a regular devil of a chap compared to him!" exclaimed the sprightly lady, earnestly. again floriot burst into a laugh. it was the first exercise of the kind he had had in some time. "you can't have amused yourself much," he suggested. "you can't have had a wildly merry time." "i didn't!" was the forcible response. "but now everything and everybody appear charming by contrast!" "even i?" he smiled. "yes, even you!" she admitted, with another smile. at that moment her brother entered and floriot greeted him affectionately. his first questions were about raymond and the replies were satisfactory. he rubbed his hands enthusiastically and busied himself with his bag, while floriot attempted to continue his speech of thanks in the face of protests from both. "there, there, there!" broke in the doctor. "how do you know that we are not both of us sowing that we may reap? one never knows how useful it may be to be friends with a man in your profession," he chuckled. madame varenne made her adieux and left with a rather wistful look at floriot as she pressed his hand. she promised to come back the first thing in the morning. "and now, friend floriot," said the doctor, looking at him gravely, "as the boy is out of danger, you begin taking care of yourself." floriot stared at him in surprise. "why, there's nothing the matter with me!" he exclaimed. "oh, yes, there is!" retorted the man of medicine. "and a great deal more than you think!" "nonsense!" said floriot, lightly. "i'm a little tired, but a few days' rest will----" "no, no, no!" interrupted the doctor, with an energetic shake of the head. "you are working too much and you are taking too little exercise. you brood and worry over things and you must take a cure!" "what sort of a cure?" inquired floriot, with an uneasy glance. "every morning, no matter what the weather is, you must take a smart two hours' walk." "but, my dear fellow----" "you must walk at a smart pace for two hours," insisted the doctor. "and you must feed heartily." "my dear fellow, i can hardly get through a cutlet for my lunch!" protested floriot. "i will let you off to-day, but from to-morrow on you must eat two," he continued firmly, as if he had not heard the interruption. considering that luncheon was some eight hours in the past, this was not much of a concession. "i shall never be able to do anything of the sort!" floriot declared. "oh, yes, you will!" the doctor assured him with exasperating confidence. "on your way home every evening you must look in at the fencing school and fence for half-hour, take a cold shower and walk home." "walk! out to passy?" "out to passy." "my dear doctor," he smiled pityingly, "i can't possibly follow your prescription. i haven't the time." "then you must get married," returned the doctor calmly. floriot gazed at him for a few moments in dumb amazement and then laughed amusedly. "distraction of some sort is absolutely necessary for your case," the doctor explained as gravely as a judge. "there is nothing to be startled at--you've been married before"--floriot winced--"you can do so again. a lonely life is not the life for you. look out for a happy-minded woman, who will keep you young and be a mother to your child, and marry her. i have an idea," he smiled knowingly, "that you won't have much difficulty in finding the very woman!" in a flash the young lawyer saw what was in his friend's mind. he saw, too, that he must make him a confidant--tell him a story that he had sworn should never be put into words. for almost a minute emotion held him tongue-tied. then he said brokenly: "my friend, i see now that i ought to--i ought to have--told you before. i--am not a widower!" dr. chennel fell back against the table astounded. "not a widower!" he gasped. "my wife is living," said floriot in a low, unsteady voice. "after three years of married life--she left me--with a lover. i came home unexpectedly one day--and found them--together. they rushed out of the house in terror. i should have killed them both, i think, if they had not run." the doctor murmured something meant to be sympathetic. he was too much amazed for speech. "i have sometimes thought of telling you, but, somehow, i could not talk of it. chennel, old man!" he cried, miserably, laying his hand on his friend's arm, "you can't guess how horribly unhappy i am!" "then--you--you love her still?" asked the doctor, gently. floriot bowed his head to conceal the agony written on his face and threw up a hand in a gesture of despair. "i can think of no other woman! god knows, i have tried hard to forget her! she was the whole joy of my life--my life itself! i cannot tell you how i suffered. i would have died if i had dared. but i thought of the child, and that saved me from suicide. i remembered my duty to the boy and the thought of it kept me alive. if i had lost him----" he choked and turned abruptly away. "he will be running about in a week," said the doctor's quiet voice. "thanks to you, doctor, thanks to you!" he cried, his eyes shining with tears and gratitude as he turned to his friend with both hands outstretched. "you have saved both of our lives!" they were gripping each other's hands hard when rose appeared at the door to announce that master raymond was awake. arm in arm they hurried off to the sick-room. rose was about to follow a little later when she heard the buzz of the muffled door bell. "it is monsieur noel," she thought as she hurried to the door. noel sauvrin, a life-long friend of floriot's expected to reach the house in passy from the south of france that night. she opened the door with a smile of welcome that changed to a stare of frightened astonishment. there was a quick swish of skirt, a half-sob of "rose!" a half-smothered exclamation of "madame!" and a young woman threw herself into the maid's arms. jacqueline floriot had returned. chapter ii the return madame floriot's face told its own story of remorse and suffering. the cheeks had lost their smooth, lovely contour and the dark clouds under the beautiful eyes spoke of nights spent in tears. the eyes themselves were now dilated as she gripped the maid's arms until she hurt her and gazed into her face with searching dread. "my boy! raymond!" she gasped, brokenly. "is it true--has he been ill?" the maid gently disengaged herself from the clinging arms and glanced uneasily at the library door. madame floriot followed the look and moved quickly forward as the maid answered: "for more than two weeks, madame." the woman timidly pushed the door open and stepped into the library. she gave a quick gasp of relief when she saw that the room was empty. "i only heard of--it--yesterday--by accident," she half-whispered, her hand at her throat. then as the memory of the hours of grief and dread swept over her she cried: "rose, i must see him!" the maid looked her alarm. "monsieur floriot is with him, madame!" "ah--h!" she stifled a sob. "poor little chap!" said rose, tenderly. "we thought he could never get over it!" the tortured mother sank into a chair with a moan of anguish. "but the danger is over now," continued rose, gently. "the doctor says he will soon be well again." jacqueline's eyes fell on a photograph of the boy on the table beside her and she seized it with both hands and held it to her face. "my raymond! my laddie!" she sobbed, softly. "how he has grown! how big--and strong--he looks!" "he does not look strong now, madame," and rose shook her head. "to think--that he might have died! and i should never have seen him again! my darling, my little laddie!" the face of the picture was wet with tears and kisses. "i wonder if he will recognize me! does he remember me at all?" she cried eagerly. the maid gave a start and an exclamation of alarm. "here's monsieur floriot!" jacqueline rose unsteadily with a smothered cry and all but reeled toward the door. in a moment rose's arm was around her. "no, no!" she whispered, reassuringly. "i was mistaken! i thought i heard him coming." the woman stood with both hands pressed to her breast and rose watched her pityingly. she had loved her young mistress dearly and had seen much in her short married life to which both husband and wife had been blind. it was several moments before jacqueline had sufficiently recovered from the shock to speak. "how--my heart--beats!" she panted. and then after another pause: "what--will he say--to me? but i don't care--i don't care what he says if he will only pardon me enough to let me stay here with my boy. if he--if he refuses to see me--i don't know what will happen to me! rose! rose!" she cried, piteously, sobbing on the maid's shoulder, "i--i am afraid!" rose patted her shoulder and murmured sympathy until the sobs became less violent. then she suggested gently: "wouldn't it be better to write to monsieur floriot, madame? he does--he doesn't expect you and--you know how quick-tempered he is." "i have written to him! i have written three letters in the last three weeks and he has not answered them." "he didn't open them," said rose, very low. there was another convulsive sob and then jacqueline straightened and threw back her head, her eyes shining with feverish resolve. "i _must_ see him! i _will_ see him!" she cried in a high, unnatural voice. "he cannot--he _must_ not condemn me unheard! he loved me a little once--he must hear me now! does he ever speak of me?" the maid sadly shook her head. "never, madame." "never!" she echoed faintly. "no, madame." jacqueline turned away for a moment with a sob of despair. "what did he say--what did he do when i--left? do you remember?" rose shuddered at the recollection. "i shall never forget it! he was like a madman! he shut himself up in his room for days together and wouldn't see anyone. once he went out and was gone for twenty-four hours. i used to listen outside his door and i heard him sobbing and crying. i was so frightened once that in spite of his orders i went into his room. it was in the evening and he was sitting by the fire burning your letters and photographs and the tears were rolling down his cheeks!" jacqueline listened white-faced, and as rose told the story of her husband's grief a sudden gleam of hope made her dizzy and faint. he had loved her deeply, after all! he must still love her a little! she had not lost everything! "the boy saved his brain, i think," rose was saying, but she barely heard her. "he never would let him leave him, night or day. then he began to calm down a little and seemed to settle to his work again. he has worked a little harder than before--that's all. then we moved out here," she added. jacqueline turned to her and she was more nearly calm than she had been at any moment since entering the house. "rose, i must see him!" she cried, determinedly. "go and tell him that a lady wants to speak to him, but do not let him guess who it is!" "ah, but----" "rose, i beg of you!" the maid shook her head doubtfully and then with a sigh of resignation, went out to carry the message. jacqueline, her knees trembling, dropped weakly into a chair and strove to compose herself for the terrible interview to come. in returning she had had no hope of forgiveness, for she had not believed that her husband had ever truly loved her. but now that she had gained hope from rose's story of his grief her emotions were beyond control. there was no natural vice in her, and for that reason she had walked in the purgatory of the fallen who are still permitted to see themselves with the eyes of the virtuous. vice breeds callousness. she had been gay, witty, laughter-loving and emotional. without love, as she understood it, she felt herself to be incomplete. she had worshipped her husband, but at last had come to believe that she was giving far more than she received. she never knew the heart of the silent, serious, hard-working man. her vanity was hurt, and through her vanity she fell--to be driven away from her husband and her boy. her boy! for two years she had thought of little else, had dreamed of nothing else but the hour when she would be permitted to hold him to her breast. surely, even the stem attorney who had loved her once would not deny her the mother's right to be with her child in his illness! he must permit her to live where she could see her boy sometimes and watch him grow to manhood! she picked up the photograph and kissed it passionately again and again. "oh, my darling, my dear one! my laddie!" she half sobbed. "if it were not for you i----" a door facing her opened softly and her husband stepped into the room! chapter iii magdalen floriot did not recognize her as he entered. she was rising and her head was bowed. he turned slowly with hand still on the knob of the door and their eyes met! every muscle in his body grew rigid and the pallor of his face, born of his long nights in the chair by his boy's bed, changed slowly to a pasty, sickly white. the woman gazed at him with heaving bosom and hope and dread in her eyes. "you----!" he choked. jacqueline timidly took a half step toward him, and clasped her hands. "yes--i. i----," she began fearfully, but the sound of her voice galvanized the statue at the door. "leave this house!" he commanded sternly and he advanced firmly into the room. "louis! i----" "leave this house at once!" he interrupted, his voice rising with his anger. "listen, louis, please! i----" "go! do you hear me!" he cried furiously as he stalked past her, opened the door into the hall, and held it for her to pass out. jacqueline crept toward him looking up with frightened, tear-stained face. "yes, yes! i will go, i will go!" she panted hurriedly. "i--i promise i will go right away! but, please, louis, listen--one moment, _please_!" he looked at the crouching, pleading figure and the anger in his face gave way to an expression as indescribable as unforgettable, and he sharply turned away. "well, what is it then? be quick! what do you want?" he demanded roughly. she sank to her knees and raised her hands to him in piteous appeal. "louis, forgive me! for----" "what!" his voice startled her like a pistol shot. but she stammered on: "forgive me, louis, so----" he slammed the door and in two strides was standing over with clenched fists. she could not meet his furious eyes and her head bowed almost to his feet. "forgive you! forgive you!" and he laughed a short, bitter laugh that was more terrible and hope-destroying than curses would have been to the crouching woman. "for two years i have lived day and night with the thought of you in another man's arms and your kisses on his lips! and you ask me to forgive you! you----" "louis! louis!" she moaned. "in our child's name----" "stop!" he broke in sternly. "don't dare to mention him! he is nothing to you and you are nothing to him! he is mine--mine only! did you think of him when you left us?" "louis, for god's sake! i was mad! i was----" "oh, of course!" his harsh laugh grated in again. "that is about what i expected." then his face hardened and he lashed her with his scorn. "i was false to my husband. i deserted my child--i was mad! i stole out of my home like a thief and took all of its happiness with me--i was mad! i went away with my lover to what i believed would be a life of pleasure--i was mad!" i trampled on every "louis! louis!" she sobbed, and writhed at his feet. "it's the truth! i was mad! i----" "the truth! hah! would you like to hear the truth? you were tired of being an honorable woman--a pure mother! you were tired of me and loved--him! that's the truth! you loved him, didn't you? you loved him!" "he loved me! he said he would kill himself for me! and i----" "and you believed him! you never thought of me and i"--for a moment grief conquered anger and his voice broke--"i worshipped you! and ours was a love match," he went on bitterly, "for you told me once a thousand years ago that you loved me!" his face worked, in a spasm of anguish, and he tried to move away, but the woman clutched a leg of his trousers with both hands and lifted her head suddenly. "and it was--it is true, louis!" she cried desperately. his look was more than answer enough. "it is! it is, louis!" she pleaded feverishly. "we didn't understand each other, that's all! it was my fault, my fault! you loved me passionately but i did not know it! i could not see it! and you made me only part of your home--never part of your life! i was never your friend--you were gentle with me, but you never took me into your life--you never really knew my heart, and with you i always felt alone. i loved you but"--she fought for breath and coherence--"but i was always afraid of you--you were so serious and severe! i wanted to laugh and have a good time! you never noticed it--you had your work, your ambitions, your legal friends and i--had nothing! nothing!" she sobbed. "and i was so young--twenty! hardly twenty! oh, louis, forgive me! forgive me!" floriot half staggered to a chair and sank into it. the unexpectedness of the soul-wracking scene coming on top of the strain of his two weeks' vigil in the sick-room was almost too much for even his iron nerve. jacqueline, huddled on the floor, was sobbing convulsively. he buried his face in his hands and groaned. at the sound she struggled to her feet and took a step toward him, gasping to control her heaving bosom. he waved a hand toward the door without raising his head. "louis!" she cried passionately, desperately, "you would not condemn the lowest criminal if there were any defense for him, and i am the mother of your boy! it is all my fault, but you could have helped me if you would! you swore to love, honor and protect me, and did you do it? you loved me but you never honored me! you did not think i was worthy to be the companion to you that a wife should be! you looked for companionship to your friends. i might as well have been your mistress! did you protect me? you brought _him_ to the house the first time? you said he was your friend and you encouraged me to be kind to him. you permitted him to be my escort wherever i wanted to go, because my pleasure would not then interfere with your work or your plans!" she choked. floriot did not stir. "he grew to be everything to me that you should have been. he sympathized with me in everything! he anticipated every thought and desire! you would not even make an effort to please me if my request interfered with your work--always your work!" "life of pleasure!" she quoted bitterly. "louis, i never loved him! you angered me and hurt me because you would not let me come close to your real life. and i--i--louis, i was mad! but you could have saved me! a little attention--if i could have felt that i was anything more than a plaything--something to amuse you in the few minutes that you ever took for amusement--louis.. you will never know how i fought with myself--the torture of those days--and when i came to you for help----!" the words died away in a sob. there was no sound from the husband but the labor of his breathing. "do you remember a few days before--before--i--the night i--left--i wanted you to go to fontainebleau with me and you wouldn't? and i went with--him! that day in the park he--kissed my hands--and the lace of my dress--and said he would kill himself at my feet if i didn't love him----!" she stopped with a gasp and went on, bringing the words out in broken phrases. "i made him take me home--i was running from him--from myself--to you! i found you in your study and begged you--to go out with me! i wanted to--show myself--that i loved you only! do you remember what you said? 'i'm too busy. run along--and get lescelles to take you!'" "oh, louis, louis!" she cried, throwing herself at his feet, while the storm of weeping shook her again, "you could have saved me then!" still the bowed figure in the chair did not stir. he was so numbed that his consciousness seemed to be that of another--watching, listening and judging. he was the type of man whom duty, once embraced, grips with hug like the iron maiden's, and even gains a monstrous pleasure as life itself or all that makes life worth while is slowly crushed out. had she come a month before this scene would have left him unshaken, but now----! his boy--their boy--lay up-stairs, saved from death by a miracle. her clasped hands rested on one of his knees and her head touched his arms. his eyes were closed, but he nearly swooned when he breathed the perfume of her hair that brought back the picture of a dark head on the white pillow in the dim moonlight or the gray of dawn. then came the terrible thought that for two years that picture had been the joy of another.... fragments of his talk with madame varenne flashed through his mind. was there a little fault on his side?... he need not speak a word. he had but to open his eyes and look forgiveness and her warm body would be pressed again to his breast, her soft arms would be around his neck and her soft lips would shower kisses on his face. ... he drew a sharp breath and rose slowly and uncertainly. "jacqueline!" he said in an unsteady voice, not daring to let his wavering eyes look down. "jacqueline, you must go!" a long, convulsive sob and: "ah, why did i go at all? why did i ever go?" she moaned. "you would have killed me and that would have been the end of it! louis, forgive me! forgive me!" and she clasped his limp hand in both of hers and looked up piteously. "no! no!" he cried, fighting desperately with an impulse to stoop and crush the slender body in his arms and kiss the tears from the upturned face. "surely, you see that i----" "what will become of me?" she pleaded, as her instinct told her that he was weakening. "go back to him! go back to the man who would have killed himself for you!" he cried in a voice that he tried in vain to make as bitter as the words. and he made no effort to free his hand. the answer was a barely audible whisper: "he is dead!" floriot jerked his hand away with an exclamation of horror and sprang back, his eyes flashing with anger. "so that is why you've come back!" he blazed furiously. "no! no!" she protested, frightened, struggling to her feet with arms outstretched. "i came to see our boy--our raymond! to beg you--to----" [illustration: "_leave the house_"] the flaming scorn in his eyes stopped her. "and i was on the point of yielding!" his laugh made the woman wince. "what a fool i was! i actually believed you! so he is dead, is he?" she bowed her head in utter despair. "i wrote--to tell you." "and now that he is dead you thought of me again--of me, of your idiot of a husband"--his voice rose with fury--"the simple-minded fool who would be only too glad to take you back again!" "louis, i love you--i wanted to see you, to see our child again! can't you see i've changed?" she pleaded. she threw open her arms and tears ran unheeded down her face. "changed! hah!--leave the house!" and he pointed imperiously to the door. "louis, it's true! let me see our boy again!"-- "he has forgotten you!" "let me kiss him--just once!" she begged. "he believes you to be dead!" he said, with cold cruelty. the mother rushed to him with half-stifled shriek and terror in her face. "louis! no! no!" she screamed, "no! no! no!" "he does!" "louis, no! don't say that!" horror was driving her to hysteria. "it can't be true! you wouldn't tell him that! louis, you loved me once! you loved me! it's not possible! i am your wife--his mother! his mother!" floriot eyed her, cold and unmoved. "you have gone out of his life and mine," he replied calmly. jacqueline moaning, sank to the floor. "oh, my god!" she prayed. "help me! help me! louis, be kind to me! a life of repentance----" he pulled her roughly to her feet and half-carried her toward the door. "don't take my child away from me!" she panted, struggling. "go! leave the house!" "oh! let me see him! i won't--speak! let me kiss him! i won't--say a word!" she gasped as they reached the door and he pushed her violently through into the hall. "louis! pity--! raymond! my child, my----" the slam of the door cut off the sound of the pleading voice from his ears. he held the knob to prevent her from reopening it. for a few moments there was silence. then floriot heard through the door something between a choke and a sob and the quickly receding rustle of skirts. the bang of the outside door echoed through the silent house. chapter iv opening for the defense for more than a minute floriot stood motionless, but now he was leaning his weight on the hand that held the knob. he listened--half-hoping, half-fearing that he would hear her at the outside door--and then staggered across the room and collapsed into the chair where she had sat, lying with arms and head on the table above the photograph that jacqueline had kissed. he had won--but to know that he would have found happiness in defeat. "god!" he groaned aloud. "she's gone! she's gone! and i love her! i love her! and i shall never see her again! she must never see raymond! her influence would be----no!" he cried, as if fighting something within himself. "she must never come back. god give me strength to forget!" he prayed in anguish. "let me forget! let me forget!" there was a sound of someone at the door leading to the stairway, and he barely had time to wipe the moisture from his forehead and half-compose himself before dr. chennel swung breezily into the room. "he's doing splendidly!" cried the doctor with a cheery smile. "and he's hungry--the best sign in the world! i have left my orders with the nurses." he began packing his little bag on a side table. "he's to have a little milk and three spoonfuls of soup before he goes to sleep and nothing else until i come again in----why, what's the matter?" he cried in alarm, hurrying over to his friend as he caught a glimpse of his face. "are you ill?" floriot straightened up and put out his hand. his face was lined and livid and his eyes were wild with grief. "my dear--doctor!" he said, brokenly, "i have just gone through--the most awful fifteen minutes of my life. my--my wife--has been here!" "your wife!" the doctor fell back a step and stared at him. floriot buried his face in his handkerchief. "yes, she has--just gone! you can imagine--how i felt no, you can't!" he cried, bitterly, springing up with clenched fists. "for a moment i was afraid of myself--afraid that i would kill her!" dr. chennel watched the writhing face in silence as floriot paced wildly up and down the room. "doctor, in these few minutes--i have lived five years over again! all the joy, all the miseries, all my love, all her----" the other stopped him with a gentle touch on the arm. "floriot, my friend," he said quietly, "sit down a moment and try to get hold of yourself." the calm strong voice of the physician had the effect that he desired. floriot's shoulders squared and his voice grew firm. "you're right, doctor. i will forget all about it! do you know why she came back?" he added bitterly. "her lover is dead!" rose opened the hall door. "monsieur noel has come, sir!" floriot nodded. "show him in here, rose," he said quietly and turned to dr. chennel. "noel is an old and very dear friend whom i thought dead until this morning," he explained. "poor chap! he and i----" a well-set-up young man--apparently several years younger than floriot, though his hair was more heavily grayed--entered the library with a springy step and cheery call of: "well, here i am! and very much alive!" his blue eyes were smiling and his white teeth gleamed in the lamplight but his face bore the marks of storms that sweep the soul. and on his right temple was visible the end of a large scar that extended up under the hair. "my dear old noel!" exclaimed floriot, hurrying to meet him with both hands extended. the friends stood with their hands locked and looked each other over with the affection mixed with curiosity that may be marked when two who have been as brothers meet after a long separation. "this is my friend, dr. chennel," said floriot, turning at last. "shake hands with him, old man! he has just saved my boy's life!" "then i'm more than glad to shake you by the hand, doctor," said noel, gracefully, as he took the doctor's fingers in his. "for anything that touches floriot comes very near to me!" the doctor bowed his appreciation and floriot, who had never taken his eyes off his friend, remarked with a smile: "you look in very good health for a dead man." noel turned and asked with whimsical surprise: "then you heard of my suicide?" "yes," returned his friend gravely, "and the papers said you were dead." "in the words of a great american humorist," laughed noel, 'the report was greatly exaggerated!'" "two bullets, they said." "yes, and they were right," nodded the "suicide," brightly. "but two bullets were not enough for me. i've always been a bit hardheaded, you know, though one of the doctors had another explanation." the other two looked at him inquiringly, particularly dr. chennel, who was prepared to combat any heretical theory. "when i was on the highway to recovery," resumed noel, "one of the doctors told me that he didn't think that i would ever get to be marksman enough to hit my brain. said i ought to practise trying to hit a pea in a wine barrel before i tried it again. then i found out i could laugh," and he burst into one to prove it, "and decided that as long as i could take enough interest in life to laugh there was no occasion for my going on with my suicide plans." dr. chennel and floriot joined in the laugh with considerable restraint and the former felt that he was the "undesirable third." "well, i must be going," he said, gathering up his hat and bag and shaking hands with both the friends. "you have a good deal to tell each other. i'll be back in the morning," he added to floriot. then with many injunctions about the medicine and food he departed. "and now," said noel, putting a hand affectionately on each shoulder and holding his friend off at arm's length, "let me have a look at you, louis, old man!" he paused and gravely scrutinized the smiling face. "life has not been much kinder to you than to me, judging from your looks," he said at last. the hands fell and he turned away. "find me looking old, do you?" "no, not old for your age," smiled noel. "how old are you--forty?" "thirty-five!" protested floriot. "well, nobody would say that you were a day more than forty-two!" his friend gravely assured him. "thank you!" was the ironic response, and they smiled into each other's eyes. "fancy! five whole years since i saw you!" "and five weeks' separation, in the old days, seemed a century!" "you're going to stay here all night and take breakfast with me in the morning." "most assuredly." "an early breakfast, though," floriot smiled a warning. "i have to be in court at nine." "ah, of course!" nodded his friend. "you're deputy attorney now." "yes, i received my promotion more than a year ago." "i always knew you'd get on!" exclaimed noel, patting his shoulder. floriot turned away with a sigh. "i have not much to worry about there," he said, without enthusiasm. "but, i want to hear about you, old man! what happened to you? why did you want to commit suicide. who was she?" noel threw him a quick, searching glance. "it _was_ a woman," he nodded. "of course it was! for some time before you went away i noticed a change in you." again there was the sharp look. "ah, you did, did you?" "yes, you were not as jolly and lively as you had been before," floriot continued gently. "and you used to be away for days at a time; so i knew it must be a woman. you loved her?" a long steady gaze answered him. "and she was false to you?" "she did not even know i loved her!" was the low response. "didn't you tell her?" asked floriot, surprised. "no!" "why?" he persisted with freedom of a friend. "was she free?" "she loved another man," replied noel. there was not a tremor in his voice but he stood very still and did not meet his friend's questioning eyes. "when i heard of her marriage i felt that my life was of no particular use to me. so," with a shrug of the shoulders, "i tried to get rid of it--and failed. ridiculous, eh?" floriot laid his hand on his friend's arm. the grip of the fingers told his unspoken sympathy. "oh, i am used to being a fool!" declared noel, lightly, but with a sub-current of bitterness in his voice. "i was the fool of the family at home and one of the best jokes they ever had at school. i might have known that the woman i loved would have sense enough to pick out another man. i even made a fool of myself when i tried to take my life!" "but you were badly hurt?" "pretty badly," replied noel gravely; "but i was soon on my feet again. then," the shrug again, "having nothing on earth to live for but an occasional laugh--which doesn't cost much--i made a ridiculous amount of money in the canadian fur business." "but, why didn't you write to me?" demanded floriot, reproachfully. noel turned to him apologetically. "i wanted to forget and to be forgotten, old man," he said. "the papers reported me dead, and the fact that i didn't die didn't seem to interest them, so i seized the opportunity to stay dead until it suited my pleasure to come to life again." "are you married?" "no!" was the emphatic reply. "i shall never marry!" "so you still love her?" noel made an impatient movement "i don't want anyone else!" he answered, curtly. "besides, i'm too old to think of marrying now let's talk about you, louis. are you happy? how is jacqueline? little jennie wren, we used to call her," he went on with a tenderly reminiscent smile. "what a pretty, lively little thing she was! i suppose she's more quiet now after five years with a solemn old crank like you. why, louis! what's the matter?" floriot had sunk into an armchair, his face white and drawn. in two strides his friend was beside him, bending over him in alarm. "don't--don't worry! it's nothing--nothing!" said floriot unsteadily. "my child has been at death's door--for the last few days and i thought --i--had lost him. my nerves are just a little--out of joint. that's all!" "my dear old chap!" cried noel anxiously, "the boy is all right now?" "yes, raymond's out of danger now." there was a long pause and then in altered tones noel asked. "and how old is this monsieur raymond?" "four." "quite a man. is he your only child?" there was a curious strained quality in his voice. floriot nodded. "i will see him, of course?" floriot wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and returned it to his pocket. then he replied more calmly. "certainly! in the morning. he can't be disturbed to-night." there was another long pause broken by noel. "don't tell your wife i'm here," he said. "i want to see her face when she comes in and sees me!" he walked slowly across the room with his back to his friend. "you--won't see her," was the low reply. noel turned quickly. "oh, she's away?" floriot leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. "yes, she's--gone!" "gone!" echoed noel in bewildered astonishment. floriot rose and lurched a step or two away. noel could see less than his profile and barely caught the words, but they were enough to leave him momentarily tongue-tied and paralyzed with amazement. "she left me--two years ago--with her lover!" noel stared at him, dumb with amazement, and stammered something incoherently, of which floriot could catch only the words, "little jennie wren!" in tones of pity. he wheeled on him. "you pity _her_!" noel raised his eyebrows and looked calmly at his friend. "is she not to be pitied most?" he asked gently. "do you think so?" cried floriot bitterly. "then, what of me who adored her--and whose life she wrecked? i am an old man at thirty-five you told me so, yourself! now, you know why!" the other half raised his hand and murmured something sympathetic. "you can never imagine what these last two years have been to me!" floriot's voice was hoarse with anguish. "i have been tom with jealousy and dreams of vengeance and tortured almost beyond endurance by the memory of the happiness i have lost!" he dropped, shuddering, into a chair, his handkerchief pressed to his face. noel gazed at him in pitying silence for several minutes. then he spoke as gently as before. "and yet, she was not wicked," he said, and floriot writhed. "she was only frivolous and wanted luxury and pleasure. life was too serious a problem for her. and you never suspected anything?" "no!" groaned the figure in the chair. "i loved her and believed in her." noel walked over and put his arm affectionately across his friend's bowed shoulders. "my dear old man, brace up!" he said, with not quite enough cheerfulness to grate. "remember you have your boy still and--who knows? one of these days, perhaps, she'll be bitterly sorry for the misery she has caused, and you'll see her here again, asking----" "i have seen her again!" "she came back then?" asked noel, dropping back, startled, as floriot sprang up, his face blazing with anger again. "this very day she had the impudence----" "she came back?" repeated noel's quiet voice, insistently. "and for what?" "oh, not for much!" replied floriot with bitter irony. "merely to ask my pardon, and to ask me to take her back into my house--in her old place, between my son and myself!" "and what did you say?" the gentle voice and mild blue eyes were turning hard and metallic. "i told her to go!" "you turned her out?" "turned her out! of course, i did!" and he stared in astonishment at his friend's set face and narrowed eyes. "floriot!" said noel, sternly, "you have made a mistake! you turned her out in the street without knowing where she was going! my friend, unless, i'm badly mistaken myself, you'll be sorry for this in the morning!" floriot stood dumbly for a moment, twice began to speak, and then with a gesture of despair turned away. noel watched him in silence. presently he wheeled again, his face calm with some sudden resolve. the pain was in his eyes. "will you sit down, old man?" he said, quietly. "i want to tell you something." chapter v continuing for the prosecution when floriot swore that the story of the wreck of his life should never be told until judgment day he did not know that the only man to whom he could possibly have poured out his grief was alive, and he could not foresee that one day he would be so near to collapse that he would be forced to seek the relief of confession. it is rarely that high-strung, sensitive men can put into words such a story as that which floriot was about to confide to his friend. that is why they call upon the gunsmith instead of the divorce court for aid in "cleansing their honor." but now the need of counsel and comfort was strong upon him. noel's refusal to agree with him, coming with the recollection of his owns wavering before his pleading wife, shook his faith in himself. he was willing to live again the terrible drama of his wrongs, and his grief to harden his bitter resolution and make a sure ally of noel. the latter, when he was invited to sit down and listen, looked uncertainly at his friend's drawn face for a moment and then slowly settled back in the big chair, shading his eyes with his hands, until the other could barely tell whether they were open or closed. floriot did not sit. he paced slowly up and down the room in silence as if preparing himself for the ordeal; and then he began. "noel, my friend," he said, in low steady tones, "there is no man--or woman--alive excepting you, to whom i could talk as i'm going to do. i have no one left in the world but you and my boy and, god knows, i need both of you--if there is a god," he added bitterly. "you were about to defend her just now without question. you said that she was most to be pitied. i know why--you knew her before she was married. that was five years ago. marriage develops people"--there was the bitter note again--"and she developed into a woman that you never knew and never dreamed could live in the same body with her. she had the happiness of a home and the life's happiness of two--and possibly three--persons in her hands. for the sake of a vicious intrigue which she now sees could never bring her anything but misery, she sacrificed her boy and me. and there is no consolation for me in the thought that she was caught in the ruins of the home that she pulled down!" noel stirred in his chair but did not speak. in spite of his breezy humor and love of light conversation he had been blessed with the divine power of silence. "her misery is no consolation to me," floriot went on, his voice trembling slightly, "because i--i--old man, i still love her! and she loved me--for a year! oh, noel, that is the worst of the hell that i have lived in for two years! she loved me--for a year!" he paused in his walk and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. noel watched him silently. "but i am not weak enough nor cowardly enough to let that weigh with me. the boy must be protected. he must never know that she is alive--never know what she did." he seemed to be talking more to himself than to his friend. "if she came back there is no knowing how long she would stay!" he clenched his fists end cried bitterly: "the man who said that a woman who was untrue to one man would be untrue to two or a dozen knew her and her kind!" noel was motionless; and, after a few more turns up and down the room, floriot went on: "i know that she must have loved me, or why should she have married me? if she wanted position she could have married men farther up in the world than i was--than i am now. if she wanted money she could have married a bigger bank account than mine. no! she loved me--for a year. you said she was not naturally wicked. she was nothing else. her love is a passion that bums itself out in a year and she will probably have a dozen lovers before she dies!" there was a restless movement in the chair that floriot did not notice. "noel, you can't realize the happiness of my life until i--i--learned that i was a fool! for the first year i pitied the whole world because it couldn't be as utterly happy as i was. it didn't seem possible that a man could be more completely filled with joy and content. then our boy was born, and after that it seemed that before i had been miserable by contrast!" anguish choked him and he was silent until he recovered control. "before that time i thought that i had fully the average man's capacity for work and then it was doubled. i was in my office early and late--every moment that i could tear myself away from my home. i even worked in my study at night so that i could be near her and our baby and still be struggling for them. and my spirit was always with her--at her feet--god! how i worshipped her!" he groaned, his hands pressed to his face. again there was a silence in which noel could hear his friend's heavy breathing. "noel," he went on at last, "if i had not lost belief in everything but hell, i would believe that god himself must have destroyed my happiness because he envied me, and could promise me none in heaven to equal that i had on earth! it was too great, too complete, for this life! "i had set my eyes on the position i now hold as the first big step in my climb, and i was tireless in my work for it. i was as sure that i would win as i was of the sanctity of my home. then came the scandal in the finance department." "did you hear anything about it? do you remember? some rather big men were convicted." noel nodded almost imperceptibly. "there was one brilliant young fellow in the lot, of whom you may not have heard--thanks to my efforts. lescelles--albert lescelles. i was morally certain before i had been working on the case three days that he was innocent. the older and dishonest cabal had carefully prepared a chain of circumstantial evidence that would lead to lescelles. none of my associates agreed with me, and that made my work harder; but i finally proved my theory to be the sound one, and you remember the sensation it created when the net of lies was finally ripped and some of our most respected public officers were dragged into the scandal. "it was a great triumph for me, though my part in it was not generally known beyond official circles. lescelles knew it and tried to kill me with gratitude. the day that he was discharged we were both drunk with excitement, and i insisted that he should come home to dinner with me that evening." floriot paused again in his tramp to and fro to wipe his moist brow. "it was a merry dinner the three of us had that night! lescelles was a brilliant young fellow and i never knew jacqueline to be wittier or more entertaining. for the few months preceding she had been a little more contained and reserved, but she blossomed out into her old self. "after dinner i left them together and went to my study to attend to some urgent matters that were to come up the next day, and i can remember now how i smiled to hear the laughter coming up to me. if the wine had poisoned him!" he groaned.... "he came to see us often after that. he was alone in the world and seemed to have such a good time with us that i was always glad to have him. i could see that jacqueline liked him and that was enough for me. he never tired of thanking me for what i had done for him, and his face would light with pleasure whenever he saw me. "how was i to suspect anything? as his visits became more frequent and my work grew more absorbing, i encouraged him to escort jacqueline to the races and the other places of amusement of which she was always so fond. i seldom had time to go with her. but in spite of this friendship jacqueline grew more affectionate to me every day and pleaded with me constantly to go about with her and let my work take care of itself. i showed her time and again how impossible this was, and then she would pout until lescelles came, and i would tell him to take her somewhere. "what a blind fool i was!" he cried with a harsh laugh. "i can see it all now. and what an actress she was! the more guilty she grew with lescelles the more affection she displayed for me to prevent any hint of suspicion. "one day i told her that i would be unusually busy--would dine at a café and would not be home until very late. but, as it happened, when i returned to my office after dinner, i found there was nothing of importance and so i went home." he stopped again and the other could see that he was fighting to retain his composure as he reached the climax of the story. noel did not speak or stir, but the hand that had but rested on the arm of the chair gripped it tightly. "noel!" there was unspeakable anguish in his voice. "noel! in the blackness of these two years i've suffered so that i've sometimes wished that i had not gone home that night until i was expected! it was raining a little and when i reached the front door i let myself in without making any noise. i wanted to surprise jacqueline and----oh, god! i did--i did--i did!" and with a sobbing groan he sank into a chair and bowed his head on his arms. it was a long time before he could continue, and when he began again his voice was hoarse with the effort he made to speak calmly. "my friend, god grant that you may never know what i felt when i opened the door of the room where they were and found them--together! for you will never know till you have been--as i was! i think the shock must have unbalanced my mind in the moment that i saw them as i opened the door, for i leaned against the door-post and stared at them as if paralyzed. they leaped up and were staring back at me, and their faces--! they probably thought that i was enjoying a moment of bitter joy before i killed them both, and do you know what was passing in my mind? i was thinking that a chair just behind her was too close to the divan, and that if she leaned back in it, it would probably strike and scar the furniture. my mind refused to grasp the horror that my eyes had seen. "and then in some dim, vague way the idea worked into my benumbed brain--i must shock them! i turned away from the door and stumble down the hall toward my study. i didn't have any desire to kill them in any way--at that moment i didn't even think that i ought to do it. but it seemed to me that i must kill them, and with a revolver--in the same way that a man would go through a distasteful social function. "i was some little time finding my revolver, but that did not seem at the time to make any difference. i came back with it in my hand, fully expecting to find them there, waiting to be shot--but the room was empty! "and then the paralysis passed from my brain and i went mad with fury. i rushed through every room in the house, cursing them at the top of my voice. fortunately, none of the servants was at home. "then i ran bareheaded out into the rain and dashed down the street aimlessly, in the hope that i had taken the right direction and might come up with them. before i had gone a hundred feet i ran into someone and nearly shot him accidentally. he yelled with fright and ran. i had just sense enough to put the revolver in my outside coat pocket, and with my hand still gripping it, i hurried on." he paused again to mop his brow, but his voice i grew firmer and higher as the story of his wrongs worked him from grief to rage. "i don't remember much of the rest of that night. i was only conscious of the rain on my face and that i was walking always at top speed without any goal. now i was along the quays, then i remember peering into a few cafés. it seems to me that i was stopped several times by gendarmes, who released me when i showed them my card, but i never heard of it afterward. i think i passed through the bois once, but when dawn came i was in some vile street in montmartre. and with the daylight came some sort of calm. "i started back toward my house, and after a short walk found a cab. in that drive i became, as i thought, complete master of myself again. i know now that i was practically a somnambulist. i thought the whole thing over in an almost impersonal way, and decided i would devote the rest of my life to vengeance. i would hunt both of them down and kill them, and i would begin the hunt systematically that day. "when i reached home my clothes were soaking wet and my collar and necktie were gone. i had probably tom them off and thrown them away. rose met me in the hall, and it did not strike me as being at all strange that she asked no questions. i went up to my room, took a bath and dressed in the most faultless style that my wardrobe would permit. with the pistol in my pocket i started, out again, first sending word that i would not, probably, be in my office for several days. "all that day i haunted the cafés and clubs that i knew lescelles frequented. i did not intend to kill him there unless he saw me. my plan was to follow him to whatever place he had taken jacqueline, and kill them together. "no one had seen him and i went home early in the morning, bitterly disappointed. i sat in my study most of the day planning, imagining, devising the most delightful ways in which to commit the double murder, as i did not intend to use the revolver unless it became necessary. the way that struck me as being best would be to find them asleep and waken them with one hand on the throat of each. those throats haunted me. a dozen times that night i felt the joy of sinking my fingers into them, slowly squeezing out their lives as they stared up at me with eyes pleading for mercy. "i was setting out again that evening when i met rose a few steps outside my door. i think she was waiting for me--and she had the baby in her arms." his voice wavered and sank as if the rest were too terrible to tell. "noel," he went on at last in a strained, uncertain voice, "up to that moment i had not felt the slightest grief. i was apparently rational, but i was as insane as any man that ever lived. fury and the lust of vengeance left no room for any other emotion. and," the voice dropped with horror until it was barely more than a hoarse whisper, "for a fraction of a moment i felt an impulse to kill the baby because it was hers!" again he stopped, unable to go on. noel could not repress a shudder but his hand shaded his features and he made no other sign that he had heard. then floriot spoke again. "noel! noel!" he half-sobbed. "i thought the next moment that i was dying and--if it had only been true! for then for the first time came the realization of what i had lost. i must have staggered into my room and locked the door before i fainted, for light was coming in the window when i recovered consciousness and i was lying across my bed. with consciousness came the suffering hat has not ceased for two years!... "i will not try to tell you what the next few days were. i lost track of time. i could not eat or drink or sleep. my revolver lay on the table and a dozen times i picked it up to blow out my brains, but the thought of the baby stopped me. i wept because i couldn't do it. she was so completely part of me that i did not see how i could live any longer. "finally, i made up my mind that no matter how dreary and empty my life might be, i must; live for the boy's sake, and with that resolution i locked up the revolver, burned every letter and photograph of her that i had, i held them in the fire, one by one, until the flames burned my fingers! then i came into the world again. "i fled to work like a man running away from something and the work brought--success! success!"--and he ended with a grating laugh. then he turned his white, drawn face and feverish eyes on the still figure in the chair. "now," he demanded, "my friend, which of us deserves the most pity?" chapter vi closing for the defense a minute--two--minutes--passed but noel gave no sign that he had heard the question. the hand that shaded the eyes prevented floriot from finding in his face any clue to his thoughts. he turned away with a sigh that might have been weariness or disappointment or both and sank slowly into a chair. at last noel rose and shook himself slightly as if shaking off a hypnotic spell. his face was a little pale and his eyes had a queer look. he walked over and put his hand on his friend's arm. "floriot," he said, gently, "between us there need be no talk of sympathy. you know that i feel your pain almost as much as if it were mine. but i see this thing from a different angle. even before i heard your story i understood, of course, that she was guilty of grave misconduct. but it seems to me that she has been punished enough--and she has repented!" floriot's only reply was an exclamation of scorn and contempt. "then why should she have come back?" asked noel. "i don't think i told you that her lover is dead," replied floriot, bitterly. then he straightened up determinedly: "she shall never come into this house again!" "she's your wife!" said noel calmly. "i won't have her near the boy!" "he's her boy, too! and whatever becomes of your boy's mother now, my friend, you can take the responsibility." floriot stared at him in astonishment and anger. "i! responsible! for her?" he exclaimed. "yes, you are responsible," was the firm reply. "who knows what that poor woman may do now--after you have thrown her out!" floriot rose and burst out between anger and astonishment: "noel, what on earth is the matter with you? this woman has wrecked my home and ruined my life! haven't i any rights? wouldn't you have done what i did?" "your rights!" sneered his friend, with a scornful laugh. "do you think that you have the right to sentence the mother of your boy to the life that she will have to lead now? your own conscience must be singularly clear and your own life wonderfully blameless, my friend! your rights! humph! what about your duties? did you look after your duties as faithfully as you are now looking out for your rights? "jacqueline was young and thoughtless--did you guide her and guard her? by your own story you threw her in the way of an attractive man so that you could shift some of your duties on to his shoulders! "did you study her heart? you expected her to make you happy--did you study her happiness?" he cried with bitter scorn. "did you remember that she is far younger than you are? did your age try to understand her youth and its needs?" he paused. floriot had sunk uncertainly back into his chair under the weight of this arraignment. "you don' t answer! and because she--erred--because she has wounded your vanity by preferring--i'm not defending her!--by preferring another man to you when you did everything you could to make her do it, you throw her out and close your door against her! and you tell me you love her!" "god knows i love her!" groaned floriot. noel turned away with a short, scornful laugh. "you loved her!" he exclaimed, contemptuously. "noel!" noel wheeled on him with flashing eyes. "i say, it's not true!" he cried. "i tell you, you did not love her! love is stronger than hate, for nothing can stop it! true love will trample down any obstacle to pardon, to sacrifice! and no one who has not suffered can be sure that he has loved. no, my friend," he went on more calmly, "you didn't love jacqueline. you loved her grace and her beauty and her charm but it did not blind you to her weakness! if you had really loved her she could have done you no irreparable wrong; for, even when she made this mistake, your love would have found an excuse!" floriot sprang up with an angry protest. "no, no!" he cried. "any man in the same place would have done what i did! you would--what would you do?" noel hesitated a moment. "i don't know----exactly--what i should do," he replied gravely, "because i am a man with a man's limitations. but i know what _you ought_ to do!" "i will never forgive her! i----" "listen to me a minute, louis!" interrupted his friend, sternly. "jacqueline is the mother of your son. he is her child and you have dared to separate them for life! instead of holding out a helping hand to her, you have thrown her out of your house! you might have saved her from her future and you have given her the first push down the hill that leads--we both know where! wait! listen to me! you are a public servant. when you plead against a criminal you ask for a verdict and a sentence in proportion to the crime committed. your wife loved you and gave you a son. she sinned against you and is sorry for her sin, and yet"--his voice rose with bitter passion--"and yet you have sentenced her to misery, despair and death!" a growing fright was driving the angry gleam from floriot's eyes as he raised his hand in protest. "no! no! i----" he began in an altered voice. "yes! yes!" broke in his friend. "what will she do? what will become of her? have you ever thought of that? she will have a dozen lovers, will she? who will be responsible? have you ever thought of that? "you have not! i can see it in your face! and i suppose you consider yourself an honorable man, a model husband, a blameless father! if you won't do your duty, floriot, by the living god! i'll do it for you!" floriot started up and moved toward his friend with queer, halting steps. "what--do--you--mean?" came from his lips in barely more than a whisper. noel looked squarely into his eyes. "i mean that your wife shall find in my house the place that you refuse her! my life shall be hers--and i will ask nothing in exchange!" floriot halted and stiffened and for a dozen seconds the two men gazed into each other's eyes. then floriot spoke slowly and coldly: "it seems to me, noel, that you are presuming little beyond the privilege of even a friend." "in this case i have more than the privilege--of a friend!" was the calm reply, with a note of meaning in the voice. floriot continued to stare at him with a mixture of wonder and resentment. then a sudden thought made him catch his breath with a sharp hiss. his figure relaxed and he took a half-step forward. "noel! ... noel!" he gasped. "jacqueline! ... she was the woman--you loved!" the blue eyes did not waver. "yes, it was jacqueline! and," he added, bitterly, "i loved her better, if not more, than you did!..." in the nerve-wracking night floriot had exhausted, he thought, every emotion. this last shock numbed him. he groped his way to a chair and with both hands to his head tried to collect his wandering mind and grasp the meaning of noel's admission. noel had loved jacqueline! this was the woman for whom he had tried to kill himself! his brain reeled dizzily and he stared down at the carpet with unseeing eyes. it put his friend in a strange and almost incomprehensible light. all that he had said and done now took on a different aspect. noel had loved her! he still loved her and defended her! all that his friend had said, all that jacqueline had said, his talk with madame varenne--all swept back over him with a new meaning! was he wrong? should he have obeyed the impulse to forgive when she sobbed at his feet--the impulse that he strangled almost at the cost of reason?... noel was speaking but he barely heard the words. "i loved her for years before your marriage," he was saying. "many and many a time i made up my mind to speak to her but--i loved her more than i could tell her! i was afraid to risk everything on a word. again and again i went away on my long wanderings, trying to show myself that i wanted nothing more than my freedom. the farther i traveled from st. pierre the more miserable i grew and i always came back more in love than ever." there was no grief or pain in his voice. he was still the judge denouncing the culprit. "then i began to think that she was falling in love with you! i tried again to take my life in my hands and to tell her i loved, but i couldn't. i ran away again, and this time i made up my mind that i would never come back. i got as far as messina and bought my ticket for the next east-bound p. & o. then i deliberately missed the boat and the next one. i couldn't drag myself up the gangplank! "the next day, without hardly knowing how it happened, i found myself in the railway station, on my way back to france. i had nearly reached her house when i heard of your betrothal!" he paused for a moment and eyed his friend's bowed figure. "i suppose you wonder, louis, why i was not more completely overcome and horrified by your story of your madness. my madness carried me a little farther. i, too, sat up in my room with a revolver one night trying to decide whether i should kill you or myself or both of us!" floriot gave no sign that he had heard. "the old padre told me once when i was a boy," he went on in the same bitter tone, "there is a line somewhere in the holy writings which says, 'greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' but his friend ought to show that he appreciates the sacrifice!" he paused again for a moment. "if i had dreamed," he said with stem calmness, "that jacqueline would be where she is to-night, i would have killed you, my friend, before i tried to kill myself!" the voice ceased abruptly and noel turned slowly away. the silence seemed to stir floriot more than the lashing words. he raised his head wearily. "what do you think i ought to do?" "do! do!" cried noel, wheeling, his face blazing with scorn. he walked quickly to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. "i am going to find jacqueline! are you coming with me?" floriot rose unsteadily--doubt, dread and the faint promise of returning hope in his face. he moved uncertainly over toward his friend with hand outstretched. noel seized it in an eager, painful grip and they looked into each other's eyes with trembling lips. then, without a word, they passed down the hall and out of the house. chapter vii the wanderers you will find in the chronicle of matthew of paris (and a reference to it somewhere in the apocrypha) a legend of a jew who refused a resting place on the bench by his door to the friend of the world as he passed on his way to calvary. and as he walked on he said: "i go to my rest in my father's house but thou shalt wander o'er the earth till i come again." many great writers have loved to believe the strange old tale, and it has been immortalized in prose and verse. as the curse was launched, try to imagine that the ancient jew felt in his heart a great dread and unrest, and he rose from the seat that he denied the saviour and struck out across the desert. then--who knows?--for his further punishment the wind piled sand-dunes in his path, and as he toiled over them new ones rose, and ever in the form of the cross. the palm trees were as crosses through the heat-haze. a hundred times he was near death from thirst and heat but he could not die. and when he came to the mountains the torrents were crosses and the snow drifts and the crags. he turned and sought death in the frozen north and the icebergs rose in cold and shining crosses. and southward in the trackless jungles, in the creepers at his feet and the vines overhead he saw the sign of him who walked on to calvary. wandering over the face of the earth in suffering of the body and misery of the soul, praying daily for the death that is denied him, he must go on and on, and always about his path the hated symbol of his curse. louis floriot thought often of the queer old legend in the dark years that followed that night in the house at passy. some one once said that the greatest hell on earth is reserved for the man who returns to his empty house from his wife's funeral and begins to ask himself whether he was or was not responsible for her death. but there is one even more terrible than that--believing that he is in a large measure responsible for her shame. and louis floriot stretched himself on that bed of torture every night of his life. when he and noel set out on their search they fully expected to find her within forty-eight hours at the longest. they learned at the passy station that a woman answering jacqueline's description had taken a train for paris a short time before they arrived! so that simplified the hunt. they roamed through the cafés of the better sort and examined the registers of the larger hotels all through the night, planning to get help in the morning. there was one dread in the hearts of both that neither dared speak until after daylight. they had found no clue after seeing the man at the passy station, and when they took breakfast together they were avoiding each other's eyes as they talked. floriot would not eat, but his friend insisted that he drink several cups of coffee and two small glasses of brandy. when he saw his eye brighten and a faint touch of color return to his pale cheeks, noel suggested as gently as possible: "there is one more place that we ought to visit before we do anything else, louis." floriot glanced at him with questioning dread. noel read his thoughts and nodded. "i don't think she would do it--as long--as long--as the boy is alive, and i don't want to alarm you needlessly. but we might as well be sure," he continued. both had feared all night that when jacqueline reached paris and realized that she was alone! in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to for aid, comfort or advice, she might have thrown herself in the seine. they were going to the morgue to see if her body had been found. they walked through the rows of the silent figures wrapped in white sheets, and as the face of every woman was uncovered, floriot gave a gasp and closed his eyes before he dared to look. the body they dreaded to find was not there, and they silently thanked god as they came out into the sunlight again. then they hastily formed a plan of campaign. noel went out to the house in passy to get a photograph of jacqueline that he had in his bag. it was six years old, but it was better than none. he was to meet floriot at the office of the chief of the parisian police. the chief knew the young deputy attorney very well, and had a deep admiration and respect for him. he did not ask any useless or embarrassing questions when floriot told him what he wanted. being a good policeman he already knew much of the private life of the man, and it was easy for him to fill in the gaps in floriot's story. noel returned with the photograph and he promised that he would have a number of reproductions made and put his best men on the search. leaving the office of the police chief they made the rounds of all the hospitals without learning anything of a woman answering jacqueline's description. then noel insisted that they could do nothing more that day and that they had better go out to passy, have a good dinner and a night's rest. all the way home, at dinner, and throughout the evening noel talked to his friend with a buoyancy he did not feel. as the day wore on he realized what a task they had undertaken, and already he began to feel that if they succeeded in finding her it must be due more to chance than otherwise. but he had no idea of abandoning the search. in his heart he told himself that he would devote his life to it if necessary. and floriot? like the jew of the legend the spirit of unrest had already entered his soul. he made a hundred vain and impracticable suggestions in the course of the evening, each one involving useless activity on the part of himself and his friend. but the manifest futility of adopting any of his plans did not weigh with him. he wanted to be doing something. noel finally drugged him with burgundy and persuaded him to go to bed with many assurances that the chief would have her or be on the trail in the morning. "noel, old man, i don't want to sleep!" was his last protest. "what do you think about going, as i suggested, down to----" "tut! tut!" interrupted noel, testily. "what have you employed the police for? go to sleep, old man! it'll be all right by to-morrow night!" and with a final hand-shake he left him. in spite of his protest that he did not want to sleep, a mine explosion would not have stirred floriot two minutes after he touched the bed. exhausted nature seized the opportunity to make up for the drains of more than two weeks, and he was still sleeping heavily when noel came to call him shortly after noon. "i've just come from the chief's office," said noel, brightly, after he had listened to and put aside floriot's reproaches for not calling him. he did not mention that he had been to the morgue again. "and what does he say?" demanded the other sitting up with eager anxiety. noel avoided his eyes. "he hasn't anything definite to report but he assures me that it is only a question of hours," he replied, cheerfully. "he has telegraphed to the frontiers and all the seaports, and unless jacqueline has left france we have her just as surely as if she were in the next room now!" "left france! she can't have done that!" exclaimed floriot. "it's hardly possible in that length of time," agreed the other, "and for that reason i think that our friend the chief will have news for us by to-morrow night--_sure_!" but there was no news "to-morrow night" nor the next night. the nights grew to weeks and the weeks to months and the months to years, and there was never a trace of the missing woman from the moment she left the passy station. noel, true to the vow he had sworn the day after she left, spent his life in the search for her. he had ample funds, and floriot was well provided for in the goods of the world. all the capitals of europe and the larger cities he searched, aided by the police. he made friends with the demi-monde and the "submerged" of many races. the painted women of st. petersburg and the belles of, the tenderloin knew him equally well. but it! was all in vain. jacqueline had disappeared. floriot could not abandon his work, for the sake of his boy, but he took from it all the time that he could spare. he labored now without soul and without ambition. the one thing in his life that seemed worth while was to find his wife. he and noel wrote to each other constantly when the latter was away--advising, suggesting, planning. all the time that he could take from the courts he employed in roaming about europe while noel was on the other side of the world. and like the sign of the cross to the ancient jew, a hundred times a year he thought that in the glimpse of a profile or the sound of a woman's voice behind him, he had reached the end of his quest. and each disappointment was more bitter than the last. even in his home there was no escape. for as raymond grew up it became more evident every year that his dark, passionate eyes, smooth forehead and dark curly hair were his mother's. the firmly cut jaw and mouth and straight, high-bred nose came from his father. he was growing into a splendid young man, as clean mentally as he was physically. he was the one joy of his father's life and he tried to make up in his love what the boy missed in not having the mother that had been driven away. he had an inherited taste for the law and at school he was a source of constant pride to his father. he was prouder when the young man--just turned twenty-four--was admitted to practice in the courts of france. floriot had been transferred from paris to dijon and from there to bordeaux. he was appointed president of the toulouse court just before raymond became a full-fledged advocate. this made it necessary for father and son to part because the son could not practise in his father's court. it was therefore decided that raymond should remain in bordeaux with rose as housekeeper. she had been the nurse of the boy's babyhood, had raised him, and grown gray hair in the service. she was a fixture for life in the floriot establishment. about this time two men who had never even heard of any of the characters in this story-excepting m. floriot, for whom they entertained a marked respect and hearty dislike, although he did not know of their existence--sat down one morning and wrote a letter, the effect of which was far beyond their foresight or wildest imaginings. chapter viii "confidential missions" it was nearly twenty years after the disappearance of jacqueline that m. robert henri perissard and his very dear confrère, m. modiste hyacinthe merivel, reached their office in a little street not very far from the palace of justice, about nine o'clock in the morning, as was their custom. they always took a cab in going to and from their place of business for the same reason that the cab never took them to the door of their residence. and, for the same reason, their residence was in one of the worst streets of montmartre. one maintained an address in the rue fribourg and the other in rue st. denis, but neither could ever be found there. their little home was beautifully furnished, but it was on the top floor of a squalid-looking building, and scarcely a soul in the world besides themselves knew that they lived there. they did not look at all like residents of the vilest quarter of paris. in fact, their appearance was so blamelessly respectable that it would have aroused the suspicions of a clever policeman. all this may seem strange, but in their relation to society it was quite necessary. it was their mission in life to avenge all transgressions of the laws of god and man. they ferreted out evildoing that escaped or was not punishable by the police, and heavily fined the evildoers. it was a lucrative business, but they dared not live up to anything like the full strength of their income. it would attract too much attention, and gentlemen who engage in that business always shrink from notoriety. as it is, they are frequently found in queer places decorated with bullet holes or knife wounds of great merit. then, besides, the natural guardians of the community--the police--are frequently brutal enough to call them "blackmailers" and send them to prison for long terms. so you can see that only gentlemen of great caution and perspicacity can ply the trade successfully. m. perissard, the elder of the two, had in conversation a mixture of pomposity and unction that was truly edifying. he was about medium height with a rotund figure, bald head, bushy side-whiskers and little porcine eyes in a fat face. if you were not a close observer of men you would have taken him for a prosperous banker. his companion, m. merivel, was the larger and younger man. he affected an even more subdued and painfully respectable garb. he had oily black hair and heavy jowls. he was gifted with a deep heavy voice, though not so glib a tongue, but it was most impressive to hear him back up his co-worker's statements with rumbling affirmatives. the commodities in which they dealt are not hard to come by--especially in continental europe. there is scarcely a wealthy family that has not some secret that it would rather the world did not know. for men with the shrewdness and insight of messrs. perissard and merivel a whisper, a breath, was enough. a patient and careful system of espionage and research and a little judicious bribing of servants and, lo! the thing was done! lately their business had been remarkably successful and was spreading rapidly--so rapidly that they had found it necessary to take in another man to look after their interests in lyons, where they had two or three "_most_ promising affairs," as m. merivel would have put it. and now they felt the need of a shrewd man in bordeaux--shrewd and courageous, for they had laid out a "mission" there that was so dangerous that neither cared to handle it in person, and yet so lucrative that it could not be abandoned. the man in lyons had proved that he was just the genius needed there and the partners feared that they should "never look upon his like again." for weeks they had gone over the field of reckless and unscrupulous blackguards whom they knew--and knew to be at that time out of prison--but they could not fix upon one who, they were sure, had the ability and the loyalty combined. it was in this dilemma that m. perissard began opening the morning's mail, sighing heavily, while his associate busied himself with a collection of society papers from various capitals in the hope of unearthing a profitable hint of threatened scandal. the first letter was from the editor of a black-mailing weekly who received commissions on all of his "tips" that developed into financial gain for the firm of "perissard and merivel, confidential missions." it contained the information that a certain marquise had gone into a secluded part of switzerland "for her health" and was very anxious to maintain the utmost secrecy, as it was well known that her husband had been in the far east for more than a year. m. perissard put the letter carefully to one side of his desk and picked up the next, which bore a queer-looking south american stamp. he opened it and glanced over the two sheets of notepaper that it contained, and as he read his face expressed a grateful and uplifting joy. "my dear merivel!" he exclaimed. "our problem is solved! the--veree--thing!" m. merivel ponderously folded his paper and turned a look of heavy inquiry on his associate. "indeed!" he rumbled. "true! my dear friend, true!" m. perissard assured him, joyously. "listen!" and this is what he read: café libertad, buenos ayres, feb. th. _my revered preceptor_: you will no doubt be surprised to hear from me, and especially in this god-forsaken place, but here i am without exactly knowing how i got here. furthermore, now that i am here and have been here for some weeks, i don't see how i am going to live much longer. south america is a great place for government officials and cattle raisers. cattle thieves, i am told, do rather well, too, but none of these three lines of occupation is open to me. i haven't the influence for the first, the capital for the second or the inclination for the third. it is _bourgeois_, and it is well for us of the upper classes to keep our hands clean of vulgar theft. the more gentlemanly forms of acquiring mentionable sums are practically useless. these people of latin america have the suspicious nature of all provincials; and, as most of them chat about their family scandals in the cafés, it is not a fruitful field for a discreet young man with a keen scent. the very wealthy are usually investing in revolutions, and i have no vocation for that form of promoting. all this, my dear teacher, is simply a prelude to the information that i want to get back to la belle france--want to very badly. if you can find something for me to do and want me badly enough to pay my passage, i will take the first ship that sails. you can reach me at the above address, unless a certain yellow-skinned suitor of one of the ladies at the café knifes me before i hear from you. believe me to be yours dutifully, frederic laroque. m. perissard read and m. merivel heard this flippant letter without the trace of a smile. they were serious-minded folk. "confidential missions" have the effect of dwarfing the sense of humor, and they had been in the profession for many years. "a-ahem!" said m. merivel heavily. "and this frederic laroque---? "he is a young man who was a clerk in my office before we became partners, my dear merivel," explained m. perissard, smiling happily. "he displayed a singular aptitude for our work but----youth! youth!" he shook his head. "he would not stay with me as i advised. he insisted on going his own way and i lost sight of him in a short time. i am really surprised that he is not in prison, but it shows that he must have developed as i knew that he would. his hardships in the new world probably have had the needed subduing effect. and now he is an instrument made to our hand! thoroughly loyal to his friend or employer he always was, i assure you, my dear merivel, and without fear--without fear absolutely! oh, it is providential! providential!" and he raised his hands piously. "_most_ providential!" echoed m. merivel in rolling thunder. then he added: "you are certain, my dear robert, that the young man is trustworthy? you remember that guadin was also fearless!" "oh, quite so! quite so, my dear friend!" his confrère hastened to assure him. "he is the soul of honor! he would not think of attempting anything dishonest with me!" "in that case," came from the depths of m. merivel's chest, "i think that we would do well to send him the money." "just what i was going to propose the moment i finished his letter!" declared m. perissard. so the letter was written and a postal order for a thousand francs enclosed. laroque was requested to meet m. perissard at the hotel of the three crowns in bordeaux as soon as he could get there. * * * * * some three weeks later m. frederic laroque, accompanied by the lady of the café libertad, walked up the gangplank of the "amazon," bound for france, while on the pier, manuel silvas blasphemed the virgin because he was armed only with a knife; and laroque had carelessly dropped his hand on his pistol pocket as he passed. chapter ix the hotel of the three crowns marie, the pretty chambermaid of the hotel of the three crowns, was visibly nervous one misty day in april. she could not be kept away from the front door, which opened on a dingy street a few minutes' walk from the railway station. not that there was any particular reason why she should not be there. the guests of the hotel of the three crowns were late risers as a rule. it was too early to set about her duties, and in the meantime the proprietor would rather have had her at the front door than anywhere else, for we have mentioned the fact that she was pretty, and that made her the only attractive feature about the front of the down-at-heel little inn. transients of the commercial traveler type were seldom known to walk past the door if they caught a glimpse of marie. it was for one of these gentlemen that marie was so anxiously waiting, and her nervousness was due to the fact that her husband, victor, the "boots" of the hotel, was roaming around in the background. he was as simple-minded and unattractive as a husband ought to be. whenever his intellect tried to grasp anything beyond the mysteries of cleaning shoes and carrying trunks it ran into heavy opaque obstructions. marie might have carried on a dozen flirtation under his very chin and he would have been none the wiser. but she had never done it, because of her naturally clean morals. so now, that she was preparing to inflict on him the greatest wrong that she had in her power to commit, she felt the trepidation that always precedes the first plunge into crime. in spite of the wrought-up condition of her mind she could not help observing curiously a queer-looking pair that alighted from a cab in front of the door. the man was a tall, rather slender but muscular man of thirty-five or past with sandy hair, a bold chin and sparkling pale gray eyes that ran over her trim figure and pretty face with undisguised pleasure. it was his dress that most attracted her attention. he wore a long, check traveling coat of rough english cloth and soft gray hat, patent-leather shoes with singularly high heels, brown and very baggy "peg-top" trousers. his open coat and overcoat disclosed a gray silk shirt and loose black tie. but the really bizarre feature of the costume was a broad red sash about the waist in place of the conventional belt or braces. the woman, his companion, was rather flashily dressed in clothes that bore the marks of travel and long wear. she was small and might once have been pretty. she was now plainly past forty and looked all of it. her figure still retained suggestions of a departed grace. her hair was dark and wavy but it was cut short, and she had dark, unnaturally bright eyes. even marie knew enough of the world to place her at once in a calling that is older than the profession of arms. in her face, glance and walk she bore the brand that nature places on those who "eat the bread of infamy and take the wage of shame." but what marie did not understand was the unearthly, almost translucent, pallor of her face and the peculiar delicacy of the pouches under the eyes--the hall-marks of the drug slave. the man dropped a large traveling bag on the sidewalk and then helped the driver of the cab unship a small and much battered trunk. the woman eyed the proceedings listlessly. then he turned to marie with a breezy smile. "well, my dear, have you a room to spare and some strong and willing young man to help me carry this trunk up to it?" he asked. on being addressed, the maid started and then smiled sweetly. "oh, yes, monsieur! i think there is still a vacant room. victor! victor!" she called, turning her head to the doorway. in a few moments her husband shambled out. he had a placid, gently inquiring expression that made his face resemble nothing so much as that of a good-natured horse. "just give me a lift with this trunk, my man," commanded the guest, briskly, as victor came down the steps. the procession streamed into the house, leaving marie still on guard at the door, much to the gentleman's regret. victor showed the way up two flights of stairs to a rather large room under the roof. it contained one big bed, two small tables, a dressing-case and several chairs. the porter, in a slow drawl, pointed out that one of the most stylish features of the apartment was a small dressing-room that opened off it. the walls and low ceiling were kalsomined. the floor was stained with cheap paint and a few cheaper rugs were scattered about. a step or two inside the door the man stopped, looked around and laughed. "h'm! i've seen better!" he remarked. "it's the only one we've got left, monsieur," drawled victor. "not a palace, is it?" he went on, turning to his companion. she shrugged her shoulders slightly. "oh, what does it matter? this room or any other!" she replied, and the indifference of tone and words matched the weariness of her manner and the carelessness of her tawdry attire. "well, i don't suppose we shall be here long," said her companion. he and victor carried the luggage into the dressing-room. the woman took off her hat and cloak, put the former on the dresser, threw the latter carelessly across a chair and dropped wearily into another. "oh, i'm tired!" she sighed. "has anyone inquired for m. laroque--frederic laroque?" the man was asking as he came back with victor. the porter handed him a card. "this gentleman called about an hour ago," he replied. laroque glanced at it. "perissard," he nodded, half to himself. "he said he'd come back in about an hour," he drawled. "all right! show him up when he does," he ordered briskly, taking off his coat and overcoat. "can i get you anything, monsieur?" "a bottle of absinthe!" was the prompt reply. "yes, monsieur." "and some cigarettes." "yes, monsieur." and, the guest adding nothing further to the order, he shuffled out and slowly closed the door. laroque looked again at the card that he still held in his hand. "i wonder what that old devil is up to now!" he murmured, thoughtfully. he had been wondering ever since he received the letter and the thousand francs. the woman did not hear him; or, if she did, paid no attention. "this is better than the ship, anyhow, isn't it?" she remarked from the depths of the big armchair. laroque was busily emptying his pockets on to the top of the dresser. as he took out the pistol he thought of senor silvas and smiled. "yes!" he declared emphatically, "i've had enough of the sea for a long time. you ought to be glad to be back again; you were certainly anxious to see 'la belle france,' weren't you?" "i've been away from it for twenty--twenty years!" said the woman in a low voice. "i shouldn't wonder if you found a change or two," he suggested pleasantly, marching into the dressing-room to "wash up." she sighed wearily. "i don't suppose i'll find any changes greater than those in myself." "because you have your hair cut short?" came from the dressing-room with a laugh. "people often have their hair cut short for all sorts of reasons. typhoid fever is better than most. and i rather like your short curly hair. you look like a boy, dressed up!" "i'm not thinking of my hair," she returned wearily. "i'm thinking of what i was twenty years ago when i left france and what i am to-day." "if it hurts you to think of it, my girl, don't think of it!" he suggested lightly, appearing at the door with a towel in his hands. "i suppose you are right--perhaps that is the better way," was the reply in world-weary tones. "of course, it is!" he assured her cheerfully. "what's done can't be undone, old girl. there are lots of women more to be pitied than you are." "i wonder!" she murmured, with a faint bitter smile. "to begin with," he went on, vigorously polishing his nails on his trouser legs, "you are the only woman i have loved for the last six months! that ought to count for something, oughtn't it?" "twenty years ago!" she repeated more to herself than to him. "i was young and pretty then." "oh, you look all right by gaslight now!" he assured her. "i had a husband and child," she went on without heeding. "now, i am alone--with nothing left!" "and what about me, pray!" he protested with a laugh. "don't i count for something?" "oh, shut up!" she snapped, pettishly. "i don't want to play the fool to-day!" "so i see," retorted laroque, with an ironical bow. "madame has her nerves, has she?" "to-day i'm sick of everything," she continued drearily. "life disgusts me. i'd sell mine for a centime!" "oh, it's worth more than that! now, buck up!" he cried, cheerfully. "i quite understand that you used to be a rich woman and now you are not, but everyone has his ups and downs. look at me! i used to be a lawyer's clerk--old perissard's clerk--and look at me now! take the times as they come, old girl, and money when you can get your hands on it! that's my motto--money's the only thing that matters!" she turned her head slowly toward him with a contemptuous look. "oh, i know you'd do anything for money!" m. laroque shrugged his shoulders. "better that than do nothing and get nothing for it," he replied with light philosophy, taking a chair at the opposite side of the table. victor entered with bottle of absinthe and the cigarettes and deposited them carefully between them. laroque rubbed his hands together and gazed at the bottle with glistening eyes. "good!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "now, mix up the drinks, old girl, and put some power in 'em! you want yours about as badly as i want mine!" the woman uncorked the bottle and began preparing the absinthe while he lighted a cigarette and turned to victor, who stood stolidly by the table. "what's going on in bordeaux?" he asked pleasantly. "is there any fun?" victor studied the question gravely and then drawled: "well, it's amusing sometimes, then sometimes it isn't." laroque's clear laugh rang out. "now, we know all about it, don't we?" victor stared at him with the mild gaze of a surprised cow. he did not see the joke and didn't feel up to the mental effort of looking for it. "will you dine at the table d'hôte?" he inquired. "what's the cooking like?" again victor pondered for several moments. "well," he drawled at last, "some people say it's good and then--some people say it isn't." again laroque roared with laughter. "well, you are a mine of information, aren't you?" he shouted. victor did not acknowledge the compliment. "dinner's at seven," he announced solemnly. "right!" "if you want anything, ring once for me and twice for the chambermaid." "thank you, my lord!" bowed laroque. "shall i take away the absinthe?" he asked, as the woman slowly put the bottle down when enough of the milky fluid had dripped slowly into, the tumblers. the other quickly put out a restraining hand. "nay, nay, my lord!" he replied, firmly. "never remove a bottle until it's empty!" "it makes no difference to me, monsieur." "just what i thought!" was the retort. "but it makes a good deal of difference to me!" and as victor slowly slouched out he picked up one of the tumblers with trembling hands and took a sip. "great! great!" he murmured, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "yes, it is good, isn't it?" and the woman took a long drink. "it's a marvel! a marvel! there's nothing you do better than an absinthe! light up, old girl and let's be happy!" she lighted a cigarette, and for several minutes they smoked and sipped in silence. "are we going to stay here long?" she asked at last, in a tone that implied that it made no difference to her whether they did or not. "i don't know," he replied, passing over his empty glass as she began laying the foundations of another drink. "that depends on perissard. i must have a chat with him before i can say." "who is perissard?" she inquired indifferently. "i told you i used to be his clerk. he's a lawyer!" "what sort of a man is he?" "oh, he's a clever old devil!" smiled laroque. "he knows the code napoleon backwards! when i wrote to him i thought to myself, 'there's a postage stamp wasted, for perissard has either retired from business or he's making felt shoes in prison somewhere, unless he's flirting with the dusky native ladies of new caledonia.' but i was wrong, you see, for he's not in prison, says he's glad to hear from me and sends me a thousand francs to pay my passage. that knocked me edgewise! the old fox certainly needs me for something. he doesn't spend a thousand francs for nothing!" "be careful!" she warned him, but the tone was a mockery of the words. "don't worry!" he replied jauntily. "i'll keep my eyes open and----" a knock at the door interrupted him. "there he is now, i guess. come in!" he called, turning his head toward the door. it was opened quickly and with brisk step, m. perissard, closely followed by his associate in "confidential missions," bustled in. chapter x the uses of adversity "my dear laroque!" exclaimed m. perissard, effusively holding out his hand as the adventurer advanced to meet him. "well! how are you, monsieur?" returned the ether, cordially shaking his hand. "by heaven! you've put on flesh, haven't you?" m. perissard laughed. "ah! i put most of that on with my clothes every morning," he explained with a wink of elephantine slyness. "every morning! what on earth for?" demanded laroque, blankly. "thin people do not inspire confidence," declared m. perissard, impressively, but still smiling. "fat people do!" then he noticed the woman in the chair and evolved an elaborate bow, seconded by m. merivel. "madame!" "my life's companion--for the last six months," said laroque, with flippant irony and an introductory wave of his hand. the partners bowed once more in unison and the woman acknowledged the introduction with a perfunctory nod, the absinthe and cigarette immediately reclaiming her attention. "let me present m. merivel," said perissard, suavely. "formerly a schoolmaster, but now my friend and associate!" "delighted!" exclaimed laroque, squeezing a limp, mushy hand, "but, sit down! sit down!" all three took chairs, the visitors carefully placing their silk hats on the floor beside them. "and first let me thank you," he went on addressing himself to the older man, "to begin with----" "for the thousand francs i sent you?" "yes," nodded laroque. m. perissard smiled. "when i received your letter it struck me that you were not exactly rolling in money," he said with ponderous playfulness. "i wasn't--exactly!" laughed the young man. "so i thought it was well to send you a little on account," continued m. perissard. "and supposing i had put the money in my pocket and remained in south america?" "i should have lost my thousand francs. but i wasn't afraid of that," his prospective employer assured him. "i knew you too well, laroque. i knew you to be too--too----" "too honest?" grinned the adventurer. "too intelligent," corrected m. perissard, "to do such a foolish thing. what are a thousand francs," with an expressive sweep of his arm, "in the position i am going to offer you!" "as good as that, eh?" there was an eager gleam in his eyes. "ask m. merivel!" said the senior partner bowing toward his friend. m. merivel, thus appealed to, delivered his first contribution to the chat in an unctuous bass. "a first class position! _most_ admirable!" "well! that sounds interesting!" and laroque hitched his chair a little nearer. the woman had just finished concocting a third glass of absinthe and now she rose with: "i'll leave you to your business talk and go and unpack the trunk." "yes, do, my girl!" nodded her "life's companion," and she passed out with the drink and the package of cigarettes. "now then, to business!" said m. perissard in slightly crisper tones when the door had closed. "right!" "to begin with, i'm no longer a lawyer," declared m. perissard. "so i see," nodded laroque. "according to your card you are now a notary public." his eyes twinkled. messrs. perissard and merivel laughed at the same moment and for precisely the same length of time. the siamese twins were in constant discord compared with these two. "that's to inspire confidence," explained the senior partner. "i see! like this!" chuckled the adventurer sticking his finger into m. perissard's paunch. "ah, yes!" rumbled m. merivel, rolling his eyes up piously and clasping his hands, "confidence is such a be--u--tiful thing in these days of disrespect! alas! to-day respect is rapidly disappearing. the young have ceased to respect the old and the family solicitor no longer holds the proud position that was his. 'where are the snows of yesteryear'?" laroque listened to this speech with a grin that indicated an utter absence of the virtue the decline of which struck m. merivel as so exceedingly deplorable. "by jove! he talks well, doesn't he?" he exclaimed. "like a book!" declared m. perissard in a hoarse but enthusiastic whisper. "but to resume," he added in his "business" voice, "i'm in business now." "what sort of business?" inquired the adventurer. "business of all kinds. i refuse no business!" "with money in it," amended m. merivel, in a thunderous aside. "but we deal principally in the faults, vices and weakness of our fellow men," continued the senior partner. "sounds like a good trade!" commented laroque, heartily, his lips twitching, as he glanced from one to the other. "and a _most_ moral one!" came unctuously from the unsounded depths of m. merivel's chest, "for we do good with the strong hand, you see. ah-_utile dulci_--the latin--ahem!" "i don't altogether get you," said the young man, crossing one knee over the other with the air of a man who has made up his mind not to understand hints. m. perissard shifted his chair a little, cleared his throat and leaned forward with his hands on his thighs. "you shall!" he declared, a little more of the "stagey" quality was missing in his voice. "there are very few houses without a skeleton in the closet." "skeletons are cheap to-day!" struck in m. merivel's bass. "and in the best families there are often secrets which are worth a fortune," continued m. perissard, impressively. laroque's eye-brows went up. "o, i see," he said a trifle coolly, "blackmail!" four large fat hands went up simultaneously in a gesture of horror and two shocked voices burst forth as one. "sh--h--h! my dear young friend! what an ugly word!" "we are humble helpers in the cause of justice! _most_ ugly word!" "find it rather dangerous, don't you?" pursued laroque in the same tone. "we do not!" came the reply in chorus, baritone and bass. "pays, does it?" again the four plump hands went up. "pay! my dear laroque, i should think it did!" cried perissard. "you will very soon find out for yourself how well it pays for i propose paying you--in addition to your salary--ten per cent upon the profits! you won't find it hard work and you won't find it difficult. quickness, discretion and tact are all that are required. i know you pretty well, my dear friend. you are intelligent and energetic and i'm sure you are honest! not too scrupulously so at all times--but--ah--you understand!" "scruples are out of date," groaned m. merivel, shaking his head gloomily, "_ne quid nimis_--the latin again--ahem!" "and you are fond of money!" went on the spokesman. laroque smiled and nodded. "well, then! you shall have the money!" declared m. perissard. word, look and tone were those of a true philanthropist. "it's a tempting offer," admitted the adventurer rubbing his chin, reflectively; "but, you know, i was sometime getting out of----it has not been many years since i was in trouble and i don't want any more trouble if i can help it." "what possible trouble can there be?" m. perissard protested. "well, you know, even a lamb will bleat if you handle him roughly." "our little lambkins don't!" the older man as? sured him with an oily, paternal smile in which his confrère nobly seconded him. "they have a horror of all kinds of fuss and do net draw attentions to themselves if they can help it." "the fear of a fuss is the beginning of wisdom!" rose from m. merivel's diaphragm in oracular thunder. "so there is nothing to be afraid of! our head office is in paris," resumed m. perissard, "but i have come to bordeaux to open a branch office of which m. merivel will be temporary manager. in a little while, when you understand our methods thoroughly, he will go to marseilles and leave you in charge. then we will double your salary and increase your share of the profits to fifteen per cent!" laroque wavered a moment, then suddenly straightened up to his feet and held out his hand. "it's a bargain!" he said. chapter xi concerning dower claims when the partners had pawed over and patted their new employer like a couple of affectionate behemoths welcoming back their lost offspring, the elder suggested that they must now come to the business details of the first mission which was to be entrusted to him. laroque resumed his seat and prepared to listen but they smiled at him in paternal reproof. "not here, my indiscreet friend!" "_most_ certainly not!" the young man gazed at them astonished. "why, what's the matter with this place?" he demanded. "never discuss an important matter in detail within ear-shot of any wall, my dear young man!"! smiled m. perissard, shaking his head. "_most_ certainly not!" affirmed his confrère, decidedly, "_muribus aures_--ahem!--the latin has it!" laroque rose and reached for his hat and coat with a smile of amusement. "well, where do you want to go?" "we will seek a--ah--safe spot in the vicinity!" replied the senior partner. laroque put his head in the dressing room and remarked chat he was going out for a little while and the three allies departed. m. perissard led the way to a large café and selected a table in a not too prominent location but still where there was no chance of being overheard. he ordered a bottle of chateau lafitte and expensive cigars, gave the waiter more than suitable pourboire and told him they would require nothing more. they were as much alone as they would have been on a south sea atoll. three glasses were raised together and a little later three clouds of smoke arose from the table. m. perissard gazed into his glass reflectively for a moment. "you must understand, my dear laroque," he began, "that our business is largely with those men who, in public or private life, are a menace to the well-being of society." the adventurer nodded with a little smile of weary cynicism. m. merivel said something about "_latrones in officio_." "imagine the shock, the grief to my colleague and myself," continued m. perissard, "when we learned that a very high official of this fair city of france had falsified his accounts to the extent of one million francs, _at least_!" if he expected to rouse his new employé to eager enthusiasm he was not disappointed. laroque's face expressed it. "his name i will disclose to you in due time," said m. perissard, in reply to an unspoken question. "you are wondering how so a large a peculation can possibly be concealed and therefore be of any value to us. "i will not conceal from you that the man is a power in this part of the country and has many rich and influential friends. he recently threw himself on the mercy of these and appealed to them for help. as they were under obligations of more or less doubtful character they could not fail to respond. "they have now made up more than eight hundred thousand francs, i have reason to believe, and will have no difficulty in raising the balance. but there is no occasion for haste and he is all the more useful to them while they still have this hold over him. "fortunately for the cause of civic and national purity--so dear to the heart of every true citizen of the republic!--some of them were so indiscreet as to put part of the negotiations into the form of correspondence. a letter or two, quite providentially--" "_most_ providentially!" interjected m. merivel. "--fell into our hands. we made investigations in a quiet way, as was our duty, and have secured what is almost legal proof of this astounding corruption!" laroque, stretched back in his chair, with his gleaming eyes half-veiled by the drooping lids nodded almost imperceptibly as m. perissard paused. m. merivel shook his head in heavy sadness over the fresh proof of the wickedness of man and sipped his wine. "now, then," resumed m. perissard. "since they are so willing to come forward with the full amount of his shortage they will undoubtedly be only too glad to add fifty or seventy-five thousand francs to the amount to insure the utmost secrecy. ah--you understand, now?" laroque slowly heaved himself upright in his chair and rubbed his chin for a moment before replying. "i understand, all right," he said doubtfully, "but if these friends of his can save him any time they choose, what is to prevent them from coming up with the money the moment we approach him?" m. perissard indulged him with another fatherly smile. "ah, my dear young sir, you don't quite understand as yet! if we go to the public prosecutor and lay our information in his hands he will have no way of knowing whether the money has been refunded without an official investigation, which will certainly ruin the gentlemen. for even if he escapes prison the fact that he is guilty of misconduct in office must be brought to light." laroque's face brightened. "ah, ha! i see!" he exclaimed, "it certainly begins to look promising!" "_most_ promising!" rumbled m. merivel. then they began to outline the details of the campaign, and it was late in the afternoon when m. perissard suggested that there was nothing more to do. "i need not impress upon you the necessity for the utmost tact and caution in dealing with this gentleman," he said in conclusion. "you can see that in his position he has powerful official influence and we must be careful that he does not trip us. he is shrewd, bold and unscrupulous." "_most_ unscrupulous!" affirmed m. merivel. "by the way," said his colleague, suddenly, "you aren't married, are you?" "lord! no!" laughed laroque. "that's all right!" said m. perissard, approvingly. "women are charming creatures, but in business-s-s!" m. merivel's hands, shoulders and eye-brows went up. "i was afraid when i saw the lady and i meant to mention it sooner!" "most charming woman!" declared m. merivel, unctuously, "artistic! good-looking!" "i met her at buenos ayres," explained laroque, "she hadn't a son to bless herself with and was picking up a living around a café. there's no harm in her but she's taking a lot of trash--morphine, ether, opium and that sort of stuff--to help her forget, she says. she's a married woman, you know. wife of a man in a good position and quite a shining light at the bar, she says." "really!" exclaimed m. perissard, with interest, and he exchanged a glance with his colleague. "yes," went on laroque carelessly, "deputy attorney in paris, i believe. she was false to him and he turned her out." m. merivel's upraised hands indicated that he was shocked. "oh dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!" he groaned with a sigh like the roar of a tornado, "even the morals of our magistrates and leading lawyers _are_ not above suspicion these degenerate days!" "have some more wine!" laughed laroque, filling his glass. but m. perissard hardly heard either of them. "was this long ago?" he demanded eagerly. "twenty years ago," replied the young man, settling back in his chair. "she says she went to england shortly after he turned her out. since then she has been to america, colombia, brazil, all over the place--sometimes rich and sometimes poor. when i met her she was dying to get back to france and didn't have a centime, so i brought her with me. never liked to travel alone," he added with a grin. but the master of "confidential missions" did not smile. "did she tell you the story herself?" he persisted. "yes," nodded laroque, "one day when she'd had a little more ether than usual. it's funny sort of stuff--that! she's a silent sort of woman as a rule, but when she's been drinking ether she gets talkative, and if she doesn't become maudlin over her past, she breaks out with a hellish temper and says anything. she won't live long. about worn out--poor tramp!" m. perissard listened attentively. "i have been thinking," he said slowly, when laroque had finished, "that if her husband was a deputy attorney in paris twenty years ago, he may be attorney general now." "indeed, yes!" his partner nodded emphatically. "this might lead to business," pursued the other in the same thoughtful tone. laroque's face betrayed that he, too, had grown suddenly keenly interested. "how?" he demanded. "supposing the husband is now occupying a position worth having," suggested the older man, "he would be likely to make a sacrifice to prevent scandal about his wife from becoming public property." m. merivel's fat countenance expressed the most exalted admiration. "isn't he a wonderful man?" he breathed ecstatically. "always getting ideas like that! a benefactor of humanity! most certainly a benefactor!" but his partner and laroque did not heed. "do you know her husband's name?" asked the former. "no, she never told me that." "how old would you take her to be?" "past forty." "h'm! he must have been rather young for the position if he was near her age. you are sure she never mentioned his name?" "i would have remembered it if she had," replied laroque. "h'm! well, i don't know that it matters. a deputy attorney in paris whose wife left him twenty years ago ought not be difficult to find." "do you think so?" "mere child's play, my dear boy! and i think," he added, thoughtfully, "i think that, on the whole, this had better be your first piece of business. ah! wait!" he exclaimed with a sudden thought, "did she ever mention that her own people were wealthy at the time of her marriage?" laroque scratched his head in an effort to remember. "no, i don't think she ever did," he said at last "why? it's the husband we'll have to see anyway? what have her people to do with it?" "why, don't you see," cried m. perissard almost pityingly, "that if she is only a little past forty she must have married young and left her husband shortly afterward. the inference is that he was probably a young lawyer and without a great deal of money. he could not have married her unless she brought a _dot_." "well?" demanded laroque, not catching the ether drift. "well, then! if he drove her out of the house she has a good claim to that money--unless he gave it to her then or later," he added anxiously. "do you know?" "i don't know whether she ever had a _dot_," replied laroque, as the scheme dawned on him, "but if she did i'm certain that she didn't take it away with her." "excellent! excellent!" exclaimed m. perissard, pressing the palms of his hands together. "_most_ excellent! wonderful man!" breathed m. merivel, with an upward glance of thanksgiving. "now, then," continued the former briskly, "we will stay the hand of punishment temporarily in the matter of this official scoundrel and teach this magistrate or attorney-general, or whatever he is, that he cannot turn his wife out of his house and keep her money!" "but," objected laroque. "i think there is a child, though i'm not certain." "makes no difference whatsoever!" declared m. perissard. "the money goes to the child upon the death of its mother--not before!" he glanced at his watch. "you go back and find out all that you can from the lady and we will wait for you here. you should be able to pump her thoroughly in an hour. that will give you plenty of time to catch the six-thirty train for paris. you might as well begin on the work right away." "_most_ certainly!" agreed m. merivel, with a heavy nod. "_nulla dies sine_--h'm!--the latin, of course!" "we will wait for you here and give you your final instructions," added m. perissard, as laroque rose. "oh, and try to get a power of attorney from her!" the latter nodded. "i'll be back in an hour!" he promised, and with a wave of the hand he hurried out. chapter xii "who saves another----" when the footsteps of the three protectors of society died away down the stairway of the three crowns, the woman opened the door of the dressing room and crept out. "thank god, they've gone!" she muttered, wearily, "i'd like to be alone always. people bore me to death. what a life! what a life!" she walked across the room a trifle unsteadily and deposited her empty glass on the little table with the absinthe and sat down at the other one with her face to the door. she fumbled in a dingy hand-bag, slung to her left wrist, and presently produced a small vial, followed by a greasy pack of cheap cards. none but the eyes of abiding love or undying hate would have seen in the pitiful, drug-ridden, half drunken, fast-sinking wreck any trace of the bewitching, laughing bride of twenty-odd years before. the austere ancient, who virtuously wrote "the descent into hell is easy," might have read in her face a different story of that dark pathway. she took a swallow of the fluid in the bottle and coughed sharply as she recorked it. the peculiar odor of ether spread through the room. then she began shuffling the cards as if about to play solitaire. suddenly she stopped, threw herself across the table, buried her face in her arms and burst into tears.... our life is like some vast lake that is slowly filling with the stream of our years. as the waters creep surely upward the landmarks of the past are one by one submerged. but there shall always be one memory to lift its head above the tide until the lake is full to overflowing. in the calmness of our days it is little noted, but the tempest-lashed waters are swept upon it again and again. it may be but the memory of a moment when a woman looked into our eyes with trust, or it maybe that that trust was betrayed. but sweet or bitter, its ghost shall come in the hour of woe to whisper hope and solace, or to press more deeply the thorns into the anguished brow and add its weight to the burden of the cross.... far back over the path of those twenty years jacqueline had learned to hate her husband, but the memory and love of her boy grew stronger. she had sunk from indifference to degradation and from degradation to despair. she had been a man's joy of a year, his pleasure of a month and his plaything of an hour. but through it all the mother love had lived in the blackened soul and the mother heart--scarred and calloused as it was--yet yearned for her boy. but for this, the years of loathsome vice, of drink and drugs, would have brought at last the numbness of oblivion. she had sought it in vain. she had steeped herself in vice until at times the life within flickered dangerously. but it brought never a moment of forgetfulness. when she was sober, or not under the influence of drugs, she lived in the darkness of black despair. and when she turned to these "to help her forget," she did not know that that was not the reason. they revived and quickened the slowly numbing brain until she could feel again the wild anguish of hopeless loss; and as she sobbed out her agony she vaguely felt that she was again more nearly worthy to press her child to her breast. in the past few months her enfeebled mind had gloated miserably over one dismal ray of hope--the hope of one moment of joy before she died. she had learned from a half-breed woman in caracas the art of telling fortunes with cards, and hour after hour she retold her future with the soiled pack that she always carried. they told her that the fleeting second of happiness would be bought at the price of one life, to be followed by the end of her own. to that promise she clung.... the storm of weeping, as is the case with sobs that are due wholly or in part to drunkenness, ended as abruptly as it had begun. she took another swallow of the ether and began laying out the cards in the same weary seven rows. she looked over them quickly and wept again. always the two deaths! "now, then," she straightened up with a snuffle, "i'll try again." she was spreading them out once more when there came a knock at the door. "come in!" she called, without looking up. the maid, marie, entered with pen and ink and a form that the police require the hotel-keepers to have filled out and filed by every guest. she advanced, a little timidly, to the table and said. "i hope i'm not disturbing you, madame, but the police make us go through this business." she held up the blank form. the woman looked up, puzzled for a moment, and then nodded. "oh, yes, well then----oh, write it yourself!" she snapped irritably, turning again to the cards. she took another drink of ether and looked up at the maid, as if she did not exactly remember the purpose of her visit. "monsieur and madame laroque," she said at last, listlessly, her eyes on the table. "from buenos ayres, on their way to paris." marie filled in the blank. "to paris. thank you, madame," she said. then she stood looking curiously at the cards. the woman raised her head. "is that all?" "yes, thank you. are you telling fortunes with the cards?" marie asked, timidly as the woman began studying the table once more. "yes." "then you really believe in them?" "they're the only thing i do believe in," was the weary response. "that's funny!" exclaimed the maid, with a nervous little smile. "i don't believe in them at all!" "you will!" was the grim comment. "oh, it's like palmistry and all that sort of thing. it's all nonsense." jacqueline looked up at her pityingly. "you don't know what you're talking about!" she declared, a little thickly. the ether and absinthe were beginning to work more powerfully. "what do the cards tell you?" asked marie, growing interested. jacqueline gazed over the table again. "always the same thing, always the same thing!" she said, with a glassy stare, meant to be impressive. "death! my own death! and it's coming very soon. that's what the cards tell me!" the maid's eyes opened wide. "really!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "they never change!" the woman went on in a dull monotone. dissipation had left little of expression and given much of harshness to her voice. "i can see blood--a great deal of blood! but before i die i shall see the two people that i always see in my dreams, waking or sleeping--the man i love more than anything else in the world and the man i hate more than anything else in the world! the cards have been promising me for the last three months that i shall see them soon and that--i'll die! the cards have never been wrong, and that's why i wanted to get back to france." "you believe in them as much as that?" asked the maid, wonderingly. "yes!" she watched her rearranging the cards for some moments in silence. "won't you tell my fortune?" she asked at last with a little hesitation. "what's the good if you don't believe?" retorted the woman, without looking up. "oh, i don't be--i don't believe in it," she stammered with a slight blush, "but i--i--do believe in it!" jacqueline glanced at her with the dispassionate, rolling gaze of a drunkard. "sit down!" she commanded. while marie was settling herself on the edge of the bed she took another drink of the ether. "is that ether you're drinking?" asked the girl. "ye--yes!" coughed the woman, slipping in the cork. "it smells horribly strong! what does it do to you?" she inquired, with shuddering curiosity. "it changes my ideas and that's a good deal," was the grim reply. "but it gets on my nerves sometimes and then i cry or smash the furniture." marie started. "but that doesn't matter! what do you want to know?" "oh, but if i tell you that," smiled the maid, cunningly, "there'll be nothing in your telling my fortune, will there?" "don't tell me anything!" mumbled jacqueline, shuffling the cards and spreading them out once more. she studied them in dead silence for a minute or more. then: "you're married!" she announced. "oh, there's nothing in that!" sniffed marie; "you saw my ring." "you have a child." "yes, the darling! seven months old." "you're in love." the maids cheeks flushed with excitement. "yes! yes!" she exclaimed. "but not with your husband." she straightened up. [illustration: '_death! my own death! that's what the cards tell me_ ...] "no, i should think not!" she exclaimed, almost indignantly. "you are going to leave your husband!" went on the dull, even voice. marie's cheeks paled and she gasped but did not reply. jacqueline looked up slowly. "is it true?" "yes! it's quite true!" was the low reply in an awed tone. then she added by way of justification: "my husband is victor, the boots, who brought up your luggage." "he seems to be a good fellow," remarked the woman, indifferently. "yes," the girl sniffed contemptuously, "but he's such a common sort of man!" "and the other?" there was awakening interest in the stupid eyes and dull voice. "oh, the other is a gentleman! a real gentleman!" cried marie, clasping her hands joyously. "he's a commercial traveler--in soap! he dresses beautifully and he smells--ah--m-m! i am to meet him to-night at the grand café, opposite the theater, and to-morrow we shall be fa-a-r-away!" "and your baby?" the girl shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "he's out to nurse," she replied, "and i know his father will not let him want for anything!" jacqueline consulted the bottle again. "look here, my girl! you're going to make a fool of yourself!" she declared with drunken bluntness. "take my tip and stay with your husband! be false to him if you must, but stay with him!" "no, no! i love no one in the world but anatole!" cried the girl, melodramatically. "and i'm going away with him to-night!" "well, you'll suffer in the long run!" was the other's grim assurance, with something of a return of her usual indifference. "no, i shan't! anatole loves the very ground i walk on!" declared marie, proudly. "h'mph! he may now, but it won't last," retorted the woman. "your lover will leave and you'll take another--and then a third and fourth, and you'll see what sort of a life that means. i _know_!" the girl opened her pretty eyes wide. "do you?" she asked, with a little shiver of awe. "yes! i was about your age when i left my husband and my child. i hate my husband god! how i hate him!" she burst out, her eyes blazing with insane fury, he clenched fists above her head. marie half started toward the door, fearing that one of the furniture-breaking moods was coming on. but as suddenly the voice dropped back to its toneless level and the eyes dulled. "but i'm dying because my child is not with me. child! why, he must be a man of twenty-four now, and i'm sure he's a tall, handsome fellow that everybody loves and admires. just think of it! i might be walking down the street--now--on his arm! wouldn't i be proud! and i don't even know him. i think of him night and day--all the time i think of him. and if he came into this room now i wouldn't know him. but i shall see him again!" she cried, excitedly, clutching the cards. "i'm sure of that! i know it! but--but i shall not--be able to--kiss him--and press him to my heart. he'll never know who i am!" jacqueline shook her head with a solemnity born of the stimulants, and went on thickly: "i'd be ashamed! he might despise me or reproach me, and i couldn't stand that. he--he--thinks i died years ago and--and i'm glad of it oh, raymond! my boy, my laddie!" and again there was a quick burst of tears. marie sprang up hastily and hurried over to the table, touching the sobbing woman gently on the arm. "oh, madame! don't cry, don't cry!" she pleaded, with clumsy sympathy. "better be warned by my case!" wept the woman, in a high, queer voice. "you're a pretty girl--now--but you--won't be long! your lover'll leave you as mine left me! men--soon get tired. i used to be pretty, too!" the girl began to cry at the sight of the other's distress. "i'm sure anatole will never leave me!" she whimpered. jacqueline's tears stopped as suddenly as if they had been turned off at a spigot and she sat up, rigid. "then you're a d----d fool!" she snapped marie wept more bitterly. and then--god knows how!--as she stared at the sobbing girl, somewhere in her warped! soul the ether found a spark of womanly pity and fanned it to a little flame of weak resolve. ... "he saved others. himself he could not save. "sit down!" she commanded, harshly. "and let me tell you a story, and maybe it will save you some of the suffering that i went through." chapter xiii from out the shadow jacqueline brushed the cards to one side, coughed over the ether bottle again and lit another cigarette. the girl settled herself, snuffling on the edge of the bed and wiped her eyes. when she looked up the woman was leering at her contemptuously. "s'pose you think you're beautiful, don't you?" she demanded scornfully, slurring huskily over the words. "s'pose you think you see why anybody'd grow tired of me, but you're different, eh? let me tell you, m'girl, when i was your age, if anybody'd put us side by side, there's no man in the world would ha' looked at you twice!" and she glared at her as if daring her to deny it. "not a man in the world!" she repeated, proudly, fixing her bleared eyes on the girl's fresh, young face. "why, my lovers used to tell that----but that's not what i wanted to tell you! let me see! what was it?" her eyes wandered and she frowned. the ether was sweeping over her in waves. "oh, yes! i wanted to tell you that's it's all right 'bout your husband. don't pay any attention to this rot about being true to him. nobody cares anything 'bout husbands! husbands are no good! no good! i could have a dozen husbands!" her head sank and she waved her hand feebly as if dismissing the whole tribe of married men. the mumbled words died away in incoherencies. the girl watched her a little frightened. "you were going to tell me a story," she reminded her timidly. jacqueline sat bolt upright, her eyes blazing with senseless anger. "of course, i am!" she snapped. "you shut up and le' me tell it my own way an' maybe it'll do you some good!" marie shrank back and glanced nervously at the door. "but that's all light!" the woman assured her generously. "you didn't mean anything wrong. i'm going t' tell you why you better not go'way and leave your boy like i did...." she bowed her head again for a moment and, spurred by the drug, her memory slowly unfolded the panorama of her past. all its happiness, all its sorrow, misery and despair came back to her. as she told the tale her voice was sometimes harsh and indifferent and sometimes only a drunken mumble. again it was faintly vibrant with the ghost of a lost emotion, or the knife-thrust of reawakened grief cut off the words in her throat. and the simple girl on the bed leaned forward and listened with glistening eyes and hectic cheeks.... "twenty-five--twenty-six--i don't know how many years ago--i lived in a big house not many miles from this place," she began, slowly. "i was the only child and i don't remember much about my father and mother. they died young. it was a small place and i didn't know much about life--but i learned plenty afterwards. "you're a peasant," she went on with harsh contempt. "you don't know anything about how girls like i was, are brought up. when i was sixteen i knew only two young men more than to bow to when i met them. one was named noel--i'd known him all my life--and the other's name was--louis!" the liquid word came gratingly off her tongue. "he was older than noel and he was one of these grave, dignified young men, all wrapped up in his work. he was a lawyer and i guess he was a pretty good one. everybody seemed to think so. well, anyway, we fell in love with each other, and i married him before i was nineteen. maybe the other one loved me, too," she added, carelessly "he tried to kill himself a little while after i married his friend. "after our honeymoon we took a house in paris, where his work was. he was ambitious and wanted to be a deputy attorney. i didn't see much of him after we settled down, because he was giving so much time to his work, but i didn't care much--then. i loved him so and--i had something else to think about. and when _he_ came i was the happiest girl in paris. he was the prettiest, little, dark-eyed----" the sentence ended in a choke and she put out her hand for the ether bottle.... "for a while the baby was everything to me, but he couldn't be always. i wanted my husband. i liked fun and a gay time, but he was always too busy--too busy!--until i grew angry at him. he thought that the baby and the little that i saw of him in the evening occasionally were all that i needed. "sometimes when he was working in his study i used to go in and try to talk to him and get him to tell me what he was doing. i wanted to be more in his life. he always laughed and said that i wouldn't understand and--then he'd turn me out. "i begged him to take me to the theater, to the carnival, to the country--anywhere for life and amusement--but he never had time. i used to cry myself to sleep at night. "one evening he brought home a young man to dinner with him. they were very happy. my husband had saved the young man in some case or other--he never took the trouble to tell me, or i forget what it was. he was a witty, handsome fellow, and that was the merriest dinner i ever had. "the young man--his name was albert--seemed to have a pretty good time himself, for he came often after that. i suppose my fool of a husband," she grated the word viciously, "thought that he was coming all the time to show his gratitude! one afternoon while he was there, i wanted to go driving and he asked albert to take me--so he could go on with his d----d work! "that's the way he discovered how to keep me amused and without interfering with his own plans. albert was always my escort after that, and the more my husband neglected me the angrier i grew. he didn't have brains enough to know that no man devotes his time to a married woman out of gratitude to her husband. "albert was always respectful--oh, yes, always respectful! but he could tell a lot with his eyes, and the more enraged i was with my husband the more i listened to what his eyes were saying. once, in a carriage, he picked up my gloves and kissed them again and again. but he never spoke a word of love or put a disrespectful finger on me. oh, he knew women, he did! he knew women!" she chuckled, tipsily. "i had one of the first editions of every new book. there were flowers every day. he had me in a box at the opening of every new play. once i mentioned that i would like to have some real white heather to make birthday favors. i didn't see him for four days and then he came out to the house with a trunk-load, nearly. he had gone to scotland for it. d'you ever have a lover'd do that for you?" she demanded, with a fierce frown. "you bet you didn't!" she went on proudly, while marie was trying to imagine anatole en route for scotland. "that's the kind of lovers i had! "well, one sunday i wanted my husband to go to fontainebleau with me and he wouldn't do it. that was the finish! albert saw something--for he began to make love to me. when i felt his first kiss on my hand, i started! i was about to jerk it away, when i remembered how my husband had treated me and i let him go on. ah! he knew how to make love!" she declared, with the admiration of a savant. "when i returned to my husband that night, i was frightened! i knew that i cared for albert more than i should and i wanted him to protect me. when i tried to talk to him he told me to run along and play with albert! and i did! i went! i went! i went! i----" the voice trailed off into a sob. she buried her face in her arms for a few moments and the table shook. the girl on the bed was in a semi-hypnotic trance and did not stir. when jacqueline raised her head her face was set in its usual stony mask. "when i came back that night," her voice was hard and high, "i was no longer a pure woman. i crept into bed and wept, afraid that my husband would question me when he came to say good-night. he didn't come. he was thinking about one of his problems and forgot it. all my remorse was gone in a moment. i didn't think of him or my boy. i was mad--crazy! i gave myself up to albert without a thought of the future! "but it didn't last long!" she wagged her head solemnly. "my husband came home too early one night and found us in my room. never should ha' been there! never! never, never! but i thought i hated him so much that i wanted to be untrue to him in his own house. well, when he opened the door he just stood there and looked at us for a minute and didn't say a word. then he went off down the hall toward his study. we ran down-stairs and out of the house and----" she stopped, her eyes wavering and her face wrinkling, as the absinthe or the ether apparently sketched a humorous picture on her mind. "hee! hee!" she cackled hysterically. "i'll bet he was surprised when he came back! hee, hee, hee! i never thought of that! hee, hee, hee! ha, ha, ha! i never--ha, ha, ha!" and she rocked back and forth in uncanny mirth until the laughter changed to sobs. then she stiffened suddenly and tried to glare at marie with watery eyes. "what you laughing at? s'there anything funny?" she demanded, belligerently. the frightened girl, who had not made a sound, began a stammering protest. she was too much fascinated by the evil story and its creepy narrator to think of rushing out of the room. "'s all right! all right! but don't do it again," jacqueline warned her. "now, le' me see! oh, yes! well, albert and i went down south and bought a little place in the country and lived there for a long time. happy? no, i wasn't happy! i wanted my boy. my boy! my boy!" and again she burst into tears. "i hadn't been there but a little more than a year," she went on, snuffling and wiping her eyes, "when i told him i couldn't live without my baby and i was going to ask my husband to forgive me. he begged me not to do it, and for months i was afraid to try. at last, he took pneumonia and died. "i wrote three letters to my husband, asking aim to see me, and he never answered. that made me all the more afraid to meet him, and i don't think i would ever have had the courage if i had not overheard a conversation between two men in a café one evening. they had just come from paris. they were lawyers, and one of them was wondering at my husband's strength. he said that my boy had been dangerously ill, and that my husband was beside his bed all night, but in court every day as usual. "when i heard that my baby might be dying i nearly swooned; and, before i had recovered, the two men were gone. i called a cab and drove to the railway station as fast as i could, and within a few hours i was in paris. nearly all of my fear of my husband was gone in my grief about my baby and i hurried to the house where we had lived as fast as a horse could go. when i got there i found that he had moved to passy shortly after i--i left him. it was late in the evening when i found the place." jacqueline paused and her head sank slowly on to the table. after a few moments she sat up and reached feverishly for the ether bottle. "the--hugh!--maid knew--hugh! hugh--knew, me," she coughed, "but i begged her to tell my husband that a woman wanted to see him, without giving him my name. when he came in he tried to put me out of the house without listening to me. i groveled at his feet and begged him to let me see my boy! i told him how i had suffered and how bitterly i had repented the wrong i had done him, and for a time i thought he would yield and forgive me. but when i told him that my lover was dead he thought that was the only reason that i had returned to him and he went mad with rage. in spite of my tears and struggles he pushed me out of the house and--and--and--i had lost--my boy--forever!..." "you remember that, d'you hear?" she demanded. "you can kill a man, and if you've any sort of reason everybody may forgive. but if you're untrue to your husband--it doesn't make any difference how much reason you have--every-body'll kick you...." chapter xiv sic itur ad averno jacqueline fumbled in the box for another cigarette and held it, unlighted, in her hand as she went on. "i don't remember much what happened for the next few hours after that. i must have found my way back to paris somehow, because while it was still dark i was standing at the edge of an embankment looking into the seine. "it was raining and my clothes were wet through and through. i didn't know what i was doing or how i got there. a light on the other side threw a reflection across, almost to my feet; and, as i looked down, i saw my baby in the water!" her voice had dropped until it was barely audible across the room, and she leaned toward marie, her eyes shining with an insane light. "i s'pose you think i'm crazy, eh? couldn't have seen? well, you don't know all about babies, my girl! "d'you ever see your baby in the river?" she demanded, with hoarse fierceness. the girl's only reply was a dry sob and a shudder. "well, you will if you run away with that d----d soap peddler of yours," she grumbled, settling back in her chair.... "i was just going to get into the river and take him in my arms when someone caught hold of my wrist and i heard a man's voice asking, 'are you ill, madame?' "i don't know what i said, but he put his arm through mine, led me into a little café where he made me drink some brandy before he would let me say a word. then he called a cab and asked me where i lived. "in the light of the café i had a chance to look at him when the brandy made me feel a little warmer. i knew by his accent that he was an englishman. he had curly brown hair and a pink and white skin--altogether a nice-looking young man! he seemed to be less than thirty, and he talked and acted toward me as he would have if i had been his sister. "when the cab came he wanted to take me home in it. i told him that i had no place to go and begged him to go away and leave me. he sat down again and i don't remember how much of my story i told him. "he told me afterward that i fainted in the cab; but when i could understand things clearly once more, i was lying in a big soft bed in a beautifully furnished room. there were pictures and statues and heavy draperies everywhere. foils and arms and books were scattered about. there was a little table covered with bottles beside my bed and a nurse sitting near by. when she saw that i was awake she told me that i was in the englishman's apartment and that i had been delirious for three weeks. "in a little while he came in and told me how he had brought me home and had sent for a doctor and nurse. the doctor said that i had narrowly escaped brain fever. i went to sleep again in a little while and did not wake until the next day. the nurse stayed less than a week after that and he came into my room and read and talked to me by the hour. he told me all about himself. he was the son of a wealthy english family and had developed a love for painting which he had ample money to cultivate. "he was a bright, cheerful young fellow, and in his company and through his care i grew strong rapidly. he never asked me to tell him one word about my past or my plans for the future. when i was able to sit up comfortably in bed he brought his easel into the room and painted me. he was given honorable mention for it. "all this time i was worrying about what i was to do when i grew strong enough to leave his rooms. i made up my mind that i would try to find work of some sort in the millinery shops. one day i mentioned to him that i would be leaving in a short time, and he looked very grave and asked me what i intended doing. i told him and he approved of the plan. in all this time he had not as much as given me a passionate glance. "he insisted, when i was able to go out, that i should make my home there, until i was established in a place where i could make a living, and loaned me the money to get clothes that i needed. i did not love him, but i worshipped him for his goodness. "it was disappointing work--trying to find employment, and i could not make enough to live on decently. i had never had to be very careful of money before, and i did not know how. he advised me, and helped me, cheered me all he could, and we ate supper together every night. "i was making a few francs a week trimming hats, and when we began telling our experiences of the day those little suppers were almost merry. i was learning to hate my husband with a hate that will be with me till i die," and the glow of her dark eyes put the seal of truth on the words, "and when john--my englishman--told his jokes and blunders, the pain of the longing for my boy did not hurt so much. "then i lost my miserable position, and it was days before i got another, although it was a better one when i did find it. during that time he was even more thoughtful and attentive and did not give me a chance to feel hopeless very long. "the night, after i went to work again, we were sitting in the room where i had lain ill and he was telling me, with many laughs, about a picture that a fellow student was painting. as i watched his clean, handsome face and listened to his cheery talk i thought of all that he had done for me--that he had asked for nothing and received nothing but my empty words of gratitude--and my eyes filled with tears. the next moment i was kneeling before his chair, kissing his hands.... "his story stopped with a gasp, and i felt him tremble. then he drew his hands away and raised me up to him and i kissed his lips and eyes and hair again and again. and ... that night ... i gave him ... all i had ... to give!... "he never really loved me, but he was happy with me for a long time, and when he went back to england he took me with him. his home was only a few hours' ride from london, where he found apartments for me, and he was with me more than he was at home. "finally his visits were not so frequent and regular and they kept falling off, until once i did not see him for nearly three weeks. when he came he told me he had to tell me something that he was sure would hurt me, but he couldn't help it. he had fallen in love with an english girl, whom he had known all his life, and hoped to marry her; so he would have to break with me. he was always very liberal in money matters, and he wanted to keep on sending me the same allowance that he had given me when i settled in london. but i was too proud--then--to take it. i gathered together what money i had saved, packed my clothes and left that day. "i took a cheap room and started out to find work again. i was given a place as clerk in a millinery store and by living as carefully as i could i did not have to draw often on my savings. but i had to draw on them a little and i was beginning to feel reckless, when an american theatrical man, who was spending part of the summer in england, came into the store one day o buy some ladies' gloves. i waited on him, and--well, in a few days i left my cheap room, and that fall i went back to new york with him. "he wasn't as careful of my feelings as the englishman was----you'll find that out, too, my girl," she broke off, with a grin of drunken cynicism. "after the first two or three, your lovers don't think much about your feelings. he left me destitute in less than a month after we got to new york! "i tried to get work but i couldn't. the woman where i roomed took all of my clothes, except those had on, to pay for my room, and turned me out. i walked the streets all that night and the next day without anything to eat, and the next night stopped a well-dressed man and asked him if he could give me enough money to get some food. he walked on as if he had not heard me, and then next instant a man stepped out of a doorway and told me i was under arrest! "he took me to a police station where i spent the rest of the night in cell, and the next morning i was taken to court. the detective who had arrested me told the judge that he had seen me speak to a strange man on the street, and the judge gave me my choice of paying a fine of twenty-five francs or going to prison for a month. i tried to explain that i had had nothing to eat for two days and that i had only asked the man for a little money, but they would not listen to me. just as they were about to take me away to prison, as i had seen them take three or four other girls before me, a young man, very stylishly dressed, came forward and said that he would pay my fine. the clerk took his money and he led me out of the courtroom. "when we were outside i tried to thank him, but i was so weak with hunger and weariness that i could hardly speak or stand. he took me to a little restaurant a few steps away and made me eat until i felt that i would never be hungry again. during breakfast he learned that i was alone, friendless and penniless, and he said he would help me. i went with him and he took me to his room where ... we stayed all day! "that night he took me out, saying that he would get me a room of my own. we went to a nice-looking house not far from one of the main streets of the city where a pleasant woman met us at the door. he asked me to sit down while he explained about me to the woman and when she came in to show me to my room she was very kind. the next morning my clothes were gone from my room and there was nothing in their place but a low-cut wrapper that i couldn't wear on the street. i was a prisoner.... "i was in that house for more than a year and i made sometimes seventy-five--a hundred--a hundred and fifty francs in a day and a night, but i was never allowed to keep any of the money. the woman took part of it and the man who brought me there got the rest. i was on the point of trying to run away two or three times, but the girls in the house told me that i would be arrested and sent to prison and would have to come back to him in the end. several of them had tried when they were first made slaves...." the voice that had been dispassionate, almost impersonal through the latter part of the story, suddenly ceased. jacqueline gulped at the ether bottle again and lit the cigarette she had been holding in her fingers. she was silent so long that marie looked up at her, with something between a sob and a shudder. "is that all?" she half whispered. the woman once more burst into a harsh, eerie laugh. "all! all!" she repeated with drunken scorn. "oh, hell! that's only the beginning! where d'you s'pose i've been for the last fifteen years?--well, i've been where you'll be if you run off with your soap peddler!" and she glared wickedly. "i was sent all over the country," she went on, "always living the same life, and always with a different master. at last i got back to new york and had to go on the streets to make a living for myself and money for the man that owned me. one night, when my feet were wet with rain and i was cold all through, a girl showed me that an opium pill would make me feel better. "after that i was never without some sort of drug, but i found out that ether is the best. ether is the best!" and her eyes rested lovingly on the little bottle. "i don't know how many years i was in the 'land of the free.' i'd have been about as well off there as anywhere else if it hadn't been for a lot of fool-women who were always trying to save me. there's a lot of women over there that have plenty of money and nothing to do, and instead of doing nothing they keep sticking their noses into other people's business. i'd like to choke some of 'em!" she blazed out viciously. "save me!" she sneered with her mirthless laugh. "they got hold of me once when i was arrested and gave me a place where i could make twenty-five or thirty francs a week if i worked hard. all the time they looked at me and acted as if i was some new sort of a wild beast. when they put me in that work-shop they all called and said, 'now, you're all right!' "'all right!' i could hardly help laughing in their faces. they couldn't put my boy in my arms nor clean the stain from my body or drive the hell out of my soul, but they thought that twenty-five francs a week ought to be a good substitute for all three. it wouldn't much more than buy my food and whiskey and drugs. and because i left i was, 'incorrigible' and they sent me to prison----! "when i was released the man that was collecting my money at that time told me that i wouldn't be of any more use to him in new york and he sold me to a man who was taking some women to south america. it isn't hard to get a lover in south america, and i had been there only a little while when i was free. then i roamed around from one city to another, sometimes with one man, sometimes with another, until i met--this"--she nodded toward the door--"in buenos ayres. a woman in a dance-hall at caracas taught me how to tell fortunes with cards, and when i learned that i had not long to live and would see my boy before i died i wanted to get back to france. he brought me." there was a long silence, broken only by the sound of marie's soft weeping. jacqueline looked at her reflectively. "now, you're going to go the same way i did," she went on with a solemn air, born of the stimulants. "remember what i tell you, m'girl. when you run away with that man you're through with being a decent, happy woman! i was an aristocratic prostitute once. you'll never be anything but a common one! nobody'll try to stop you. women'll be a sight harder on you than men. the men'll amuse themselves with you and push you a little farther down, but the women'll push you down and swear at you while they're doing it!----well?" "i'm sure--anatole--will never--leave me!" sobbed the girl. jacqueline gazed at her as if trying to decide whether it were worth while to continue the argument. then the ether moved her to impatient anger. "all right, you d----d fool!" she snapped, "get out of here!" marie rose, weeping more loudly and bitterly. "isn't there--something--i can do for you?" "no! get out!" as the door closed behind the girl jacqueline's head fell on the table with a long convulsive sob. she was silent for a long time and then, sitting up, she turned once more to the cards. chapter xv the swelling of jordan laroque almost skipped with delight as he hurried back to the three crowns. the prospect of making plenty of money without working for it acted like champagne on his restless, reckless mind. before he had walked a hundred steps he was building air-castles to be inhabited four or five years hence. he had no intention of remaining long as an employé of messrs. perissard and merivel. the pay was good and the percentage of the two "missions" that had already been unfolded to him would be larger. he told himself that the first really big sum of money that he collected he would brazenly put in his pocket and whistle at the partners. then he would buy out a small café somewhere in a paying neighborhood and settle down to a life of ease. and if the woman at the hotel had really brought her husband a dower of considerable size, as perissard's logic seemed to prove, here was the chance made right to his hand. he would get the money, abandon the woman, and the rest of his years would be a pathway of ease. so he sprang up the stairs, three at a time and threw open the door of the room, singing a song of the dance-halls. jacqueline glanced up as he came in and then went on with her reading of the future. he tossed his hat on to the bed, kicked a chair up to the table and dropped into it with a cheery: "do you know, old girl, this man perissard is a wonderful old chap?" "is he?" she asked, absent-mindedly, without raising her head. "i should think he was!" was the enthusiastic response. "brimful of ideas!" "has he got anything for you?" "rather! he's offered me a place in his office?" "what does he do in his office?" "oh--business!" at the evasive reply, jacqueline raised her head curiously. "what kind of business?" she asked, with a trace of interest in the thick voice. "oh, business of all kinds! he really is an extraordinary man! do you know, the moment he set eyes on you he saw that you were a woman of good family?" these were the first words that she seemed to hear clearly, and her face displayed a foolish smile of gratified vanity. "did he really?" "yes! 'there's blood in her,' he said," went on laroque, impressively. "those were the very words he used." jacqueline raised the ether bottle. "here's his health!" she cried, taking another drink. "i told him he could go and bet on it!" continued laroque. "you--you didn't tell him--who i was!" exclaimed jacqueline, a dawning fright in her bleared eyes. she had forgotten for the moment that laroque did not really know. "not much!" was the emphatic reply. "no," he laughed. "i told him, after making him promise to keep it secret, that you were the daughter of a general--that your father and mother were very rich--that your husband was a marquis and you had brought him , francs on your marriage!" jacqueline's hysterical cackle was added to his laugh. "that's good! veree good!" she chuckled. "and he b'lieved it, did he?" "every word of it! what do you think of that? three hundred thousand francs! ha, ha! and i suppose you didn't bring him a son, did you?" jacqueline fell into the trap without a thought. she stiffened with drunken dignity. "i beg your pardon!" she said, with a haughtiness somewhat impaired by her difficulty of enunciation. "i did not bring my husband , francs on my marriage, certainly! but i did bring him , !" laroque hid the gleam in his eyes. "oh, nonsense! you're joking!" he laughed, " , francs!" "i 'sure you it's true!" declared jacqueline, solemnly. "tut, tut! you're stretching it some!" "not a sou--more nor less!" "truth and honor?" he cried, laughing and raising his hand in the gesture of the oath. "truth _an_' honor!" "a hundred and twenty-five thousand francs?" "a hundred and twenty-five thousand francs!" and she nodded her head with heavy importance. "then where's the money?" he suddenly demanded. jacqueline stared at him in mild surprise. "wha'd'you mean?" "did your husband give the money back to you?" his voice had changed from a bantering tone to excited harshness. "no, of course not!" she replied roughly. laroque sprang up, pretended anger in his face. "i can't believe you were such a fool as that! do you mean to tell me that when your husband turned you out you didn't ask him for the money?" "the money's not mine!" she mumbled, her eyes wandering. "whose is it, then?" "my son's!" the words were barely audible. "but you're alive still!" he protested angrily. "your son will get it when you die!" "my son thinks i'm dead," she replied, wearily. "his father told him i was. and when he was twenty-one he probably came into my fortune." laroque half-turned away with a quick gesture of impatience. "what a fool you are!" he cried, disgustedly. "i don't suppose he saw a sou of it!" he was racking his mind for some lure that would draw her husband's name from her. but this last lead was fatal. jacqueline glared at him suddenly, her eyes wild. "what the hell's it to you?" she blazed out fiercely. "you've got nothing to do with it, have you? what business is it o' yours, anyway?" "but you ought to clear it up!" protested laroque, in a milder tone, as he saw that he had erred. "that's what perissard thinks, and perissard knows what he's talking about." "what business is it of perissard's?" she shouted. laroque extended his hands soothingly. "he only spoke in your interests!" he hastily explained. "when i told him you had brought your husband , francs, he asked me whether you had got them back again. i said i didn't know, and he declared that you had a perfect right to the money." "well, i shan't claim it!" declared jacqueline, sullenly sinking back into her chair. "why not?" he persisted. "because i don't--want to!" "but why?" jacqueline burst into tears again. "i'd rather beg in the streets!" she wept in a high whine. "i'd rather starve in the gutter man ask that man for a son!" "yes! yes! of course, i understand that!" he agreed, eagerly. "that's natural pride, that is! but you might get somebody else to get your money for you. you might give somebody the power of attorney." the sobs stopped abruptly and she stared at him in drunken scorn. "signed with my name and address, eh? no, thanks!" "well, a letter then," he suggested. "i should think a letter would do just as well. look here! give me a letter and i'll go and get your money for you!" "i'd rather die than let my son know i'm alive!" she cried, her voice hoarse with passion and weeping. "he's not to know at any price! i'd rather kill myself! yes, i would! kill myself!" "but he'll never know!" protested laroque. he was fairly dancing with excitement. but jacqueline apparently did not hear him. "if he ever thinks of me," she went on between raging and sobbing, "i want him to regret me and i want him to feel sorry now and then because i'm not with him. he never knew me! i want him to respect my memory and love me!" "now, don't get excited!" interrupted laroque soothingly. "i don't want him to know what kind of a woman his mother is. and he shan't know it!" she shouted with sudden fury. "he shall never know it, i tell you! _never_! i tell you! _never!"_ "all right! don't lose your temper! who on earth is going to tell him? i certainly won't, and it isn't likely his father will." jacqueline sank back into her chair and glowered at him. "i don't want to talk about it any more!" "but the money's worth the trouble!" he insisted, trying to hide his exasperation. "d----n the money!" "a hundred and twenty-five thousand francs! think what a difference they'd make to us!" "oh, shut your d----d mouth!" she growled. "i don't want to talk about the money, i tell you!" laroque's eyes sparkled. "look here, my girl!" he cried, threateningly. "you keep a civil tongue in your head or i'll teach you who you're talking to!" jacqueline measured him with that boundless contempt that is given only the very drunk to feel. "you can't teach me any more than i know about you!" she retorted with unmistakably insulting meaning. laroque elected to ignore this last thrust and ostentatiously looked at his watch. "will you write me a letter so i can get the money?" he demanded with an air of finality. "_no_!" she screamed. he took off his coat and vest and went into the dressing-room with the remark that "he could do without the letter." jacqueline did not at first catch its significance but an idea slowly worked into her brain. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "oh, there's no trouble about finding a deputy attorney!" was the cheerful reply, accompanied by noise of splashing. she rose unsteadily. "what are you doing in there?" "dressing." "are you going out?" "yes, my girl, i'm going out." "where are you going?" she demanded. "to paris," he replied, calmly, through the open door. "this evening?" "right away!" "then i'll come with you!" she declared, determinedly. "no, you won't!" he replied, coolly, returning into the room. "perissard objects." jacqueline faced him with dilated eyes. "you're not to try and find my husband!" she cried, between anger and dread. she swayed on her feet. the thick slur had disappeared from her voice in the instant. "mind your own business!" snapped laroque, picking up his hat and coat, "and i'll mind mine!" "you are not to ask him for that money!" she cried, her voice rising shrilly. "i'll do just as i like!" he sneered. jacqueline clutched the lapel of his coat with both hands and glared into his face with blazing eyes. "you shall not go!" she screamed furiously. "what kind of a fool do you think i am?" he cried, roughly, trying to break away from her grip. "who'll stop me?" jacqueline, with clenched teeth, clung grimly to his coat. "take care, my girl!" he cried, threateningly, as he tried to wrench his coat out of her hands. "take care or you'll regret it!" "you shall not go, i tell you! you shan't go into that house and see my child. i won't let you go!" laroque jerked his coat out of her grip and in the same motion threw her violently against the bed. "let me alone!" he snarled, and stalked into the dressing-room to get his traveling bag. jacqueline lurched to her feet and staggered over toward the hall door.... the room was reeling around her in crimson streaks. he must not pass that door! at the price of her life, he must not pass that door! ... there was no key! ... he would go and tell her husband of her shame!... her boy would blush now for the mother, for whose memory he had wept.... crazed with rage and horror and drugs she put her back to the door and stared helplessly around the room. the dresser was at her right, and there within easy reach was his revolver! with a gasp she clutched it as macbeth might have reached for the phantom dagger.... what was his life compared with the thought that her boy would know his mother's shame?... she heard him coming and hid the revolver in the folds of her skirt. bag in hand, he walked briskly up to the door and attempted to push her to one side. "no! you shan't go! you shan't go!" she panted, struggling. "we'll see!" he laughed, derisively, getting his hand on the knob. [illustration: "you shan't go" she panted struggling.] "take care!" "don't be a fool!" he snarled. "get out of the way or i'll _make_ you!" and at the word he shoved her roughly against the foot of the bed. with an effort she regained her balance. "_there_--then!" the pistol flashed up and at the same instant the report rang through the house. laroque dropped his bag, and his right hand went up to his left side. she gazed at him fearfully and he stared back for a few moments with a look of blank amazement. then his eyes suddenly glazed and he pitched forward on his face at her feet, rolled over and was still. there was a rush of footsteps up the stairs and down the hall and frightened voices calling back and forth. then the door was thrown open and victor, followed by a dozen guests and servants, dashed into the room. jacqueline was still standing with the warm pistol in her hand, looking down at the face of the dead man. she did not even lift her head when they entered. victor took the pistol out of her limp fingers and called in a shaking voice: "she's killed him! run for the police, somebody. quick!" jacqueline did not take her eyes off laroque's still, white face. "there's no hurry," she said, in dull, passionless tones. "i shan't try to get away!" chapter xvi a woman of mystery it is a well-known fact that a sudden and powerful shock will have a remarkable counter-effect on a mind under the influence of alcohol and other stimulants. the shock is immediately succeeded by a numbness which in a few moments gives way to an astonishing clarity of thought. jacqueline went down the stairs of the three crowns and out into the street on the arm of a sergeant of police. she was in a trance, but before she had been taken a hundred steps from the door she had come to a full realization of her position. the officer who arrested her was a veteran, and knew full well that in the two or three minutes immediately after the commission of a great crime the criminal is more than likely to make startling admissions or give hints that lead to the discovery of the real motive. this does not, of course, apply to habitual criminals who seldom utter a syllable until their defense is totally prepared and tested. on the way down the stairs sergeant fontaine asked the woman, point-blank, why she had killed her companion. in the voice of a somnambulist she replied that she had done it to prevent him from committing an "abominable act that would bring grief and shame on someone she loved." and after that she could not be induced to open her mouth. they were followed to the police station by a curious and excited throng of men and women, the latter reviling the prisoner and threatening her with the extremity of punishment while the sergeant had to stop several times and threaten to draw his saber to keep some of the men from laying violent hands on her. "the law's delay," upon which the high priests of jurisprudence have opened the floodgates of their wrath, generally proves a blessing in criminal cases. for, by a singular contradiction of a natural law, the laws of a civilized community rise above their source--a majority of the individuals. the commune is less cruel than its component parts. let an ultra-civilized, hyper-refined man stand between the slayer and his victim and watch the life blood's fitful spurts from a wrecked artery, and all his veneer of refinement and civilization is burned up in a blast of horror and rage. he does not know--does not care to know--whether there was justification for the deed. in a breath he is hurled back thousands of years, and he demands the instant and primitive justice of his tribal forefathers. fortunately, it is not then that laws are either made or executed. men who have grown gray and wise in the analysis of the human brute sit far removed from scenes of violence and frame the laws, and they are executed when natural passions have cooled. of this latter type of man was henri valmorin, the public prosecutor of bordeaux. he was remarkably able and ambitious, but his ambition did not take the form of worldly advancement. he had a comfortable income beyond his salary and enough reserve to give his daughter a handsome _dot_, so he did not feel the need of a higher position for the sake of money. his office as public prosecutor appealed to him and he filled it so ably that he would have been advanced a dozen times had it not been known that he preferred this work to any other. he had a true and broad conception of his functions. his work was to protect the community and punish its enemies, but he never erred by falling into the habit of regarding every individual accused of a crime as a presumptive criminal. he was rather counsel for the defense until the police and examining magistrate placed in his hands the weapons of attack. then he became the shrewd, skilful, uncompromising prosecutor. m. valmorin was in the office of his friend, m. feverel, examining magistrate, when the woman of the three crowns was brought before him. he remained in the background and paid but little attention to the proceedings--for as much as a minute. then his interest was keyed up to the highest pitch. m. feverel began with the usual questions as to name, age, place of birth, etc., which are to examiner and examined a mutual test of strength, as two pugilists dance around each other for the first round of a fight without striking a blow. to the surprise of both men the woman maintained an absolute and indifferent silence. there was nothing about her suggestive of sullen stubbornness. she looked over m. feverel's head through an open window with an expression which indicated that she had not even heard the questions. m. valmorin studied her face closely. through the ravages of vice and the mask of despair his experienced eyes could see the wreck of a departed beauty and refinement of features that must have been once remarkable. m. feverel, though less experienced, perceived also that there was apparently some deep and tragic purpose back of the silence that he had at first attributed to the sullen brutishness of her class. but how to break it down? "madame," he said, courteously, dropping his brusque professional manner, "you must see that your present course cannot but be prejudicial to your case. the authorities will have no difficulty in ultimately establishing your identity but you can readily save us much inconvenience by replying to these simple questions----is your name laroque? was this man your husband?" the woman gave no sign that she had heard. m. feverel bit his lip. he had purposely used the most polished french and he was sure that she understood him. but he was apparently no nearer to making her speak. "what did you mean by saying that you killed this man to prevent him from bringing grief and shame on someone you love?" he demanded suddenly. the lips moved almost imperceptibly, and for a fraction of a second the eyes wavered and met the magistrate's sharp gaze. but she did not make a sound and the next moment her face was as impassive as before. m. valmorin, narrowly watching her, waited for the magistrate's next move. the latter had, at command, a voice as soft and persuasive as a woman's and many an evildoer had felt its spell and had been lured to confession. "do not think, madame," he began, his tone at once, respectful, inclusive and inviting, "that i would try to draw you into saying anything that can injure your cause! do not consider me an enemy. i know that you shot this man laroque in the hotel of the three crowns and i am more than willing to believe that you had some good reason for this terrible act. your words to the policeman who arrested you are an indication of that. it is not my duty to try to convict you of crime which was probably justifiable. the man that you killed was an ex-convict and society is well-rid of him. you have probably simply saved the state the expense of putting him in prison once more and keeping him there. i am more than willing to believe that your reasons for killing him were excusable, even in the eyes of the law. "look upon me as a friend!" he continued persuasively. "in my office there is no criminal, no judge. you are simply accused of a homicide which you undoubtedly committed. but the law holds that many forms of homicide are justifiable. convince me that you had even a fairly good reason for shooting this man--and i won't be hard to convince--and it is likely that you may never even come to trial--that your story may be buried with the few who must know it. my stenographer and my friend, the prosecutor, will leave us here together and you can explain everything to me and to me, alone." valmorin rose with a bow and passed slowly out followed by m. feverel's stenographer. jacqueline's eyes met his as the door closed and he began to speak again. "now we are alone!" and the tone was even more inviting and confidential. "you can talk to me now without fear. i do not care to pry into the secrets of your past. you need not mention any names. but just to tell me as simply as you can the reason you killed this prison rat!" the voice put them on the same level--made them allies against the dead. in its soft, gentle rise and fall, in the dark sympathetic eyes and clean, aquiline face there was something approaching hypnotic power, as several ladies of bordeaux knew. she began to feel a strange sensation of rest and comfort and vaguely wished that he would go on. m. feverel's trained eye caught the all but imperceptible relaxation of the rigid figure. a thrill of triumph ran through him. he was winning! but there was no sign of elation or impatience in his voice or words when he continued. he begged her not to think that the machinery of the law was directed against her. justice was not blind. she was clear-sighted. she was not sternly even-handed, but more frequently merciful. she had long since forgotten the bitter law of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. she could make allowances for the frailty of humanity. she could understand that there might be many circumstances under which an assassination might be justifiable. nay, more--when it became a duty to kill! twice when he paused, jacqueline's lips trembled and her eyes looked into his with yearning. she seemed about to speak, but her lips closed firmly and her glance sought the window, without a word uttered. suddenly he rang a bell and a policeman appeared at the door. "remove the prisoner!" he commanded in a harsh, curt tone that fell on the woman like the blow of a whip. she hesitated and half-extended her hand as if to stop him and once more the magistrate thought that he had triumphed. but the impulse was conquered and she passed out of his office without having uttered a word. m. valmorin returned and in reply to his questioning look, the magistrate shook his head. "she would not speak," he said, wearily. m. valmorin's interest as an expert was aroused, and with the magistrate he went over the examination in detail. m. feverel told him the impression that he had made once or twice and expressed the fear that she would never be forced to tell her story. "you can see, my friend," he said, "that she is addicted to the use of drugs. she has now been without anything of the sort for forty-eight hours. that means that her nerves must be in a bad shape, and it also means that she has an iron will to conceal the fact so determinedly and foil the examination." m. feverel's prophecy proved true. in the first few hours of her arrest jacqueline's instinct told, her she would be helpless in a verbal duel with these trained men of the law. an apparently aimless question and a careless answer might be the combination to open the locked gates of her past and then she would have killed laroque in vain. so, as the days passed and the examinations followed each other with nerve-wracking persistency, she wept, shrieked, and groaned for hours in her cell, begging for ether or morphine, but not a word of her story could be forced from her. she refused counsel and when the court appointed an advocate she would not see him. at last, m. feverel abandoned hope. "you will have to try the case as a plain homicide," he told m. valmorin. "the testimony of the servants and the policeman is ample for conviction but--what is back of it all?" "and you could not even find out her name!" mused the prosecutor. "call her madame x!" snapped the exasperated magistrate. "she is about as thoroughly and stubbornly mysterious and elusive as any quantify in the algebra of my youth!" m. valmorin laughed a little and told the story in the courts that day. the mysterious woman had already attracted some attention among the journalists who frequent the halls of justice, and when brilliant m. feverel called her "madame x," as an acknowledgement of defeat, her case in the three days became a _cause célèbre_ in bordeaux. in the cafés, in the courts, in the homes, nothing else was talked about for weeks. in spite of the elaborate passport system and registry, here was a woman who absolutely defied the authorities to find a clue to her identity. the police of buenos ayres could not help them, and beyond that city her past was a blank. who was she? where had she come from? why had she killed her companion? was he her husband? these and a hundred other questions were asked every hour of the day. scores of rumors were set afloat. she was the daughter of a noble house who had run away from a convent. she was the wife of a marquis, had left him and married an adventurer. she was the queen of a band of kidnappers. she was the leader of a secret society of murder. she had served a sentence for counterfeiting in an american penitentiary. she was a nihilist, escaped from siberia. and so on. dozens were turned away from the prison gate every day. morbid women and curious men pleaded with the police for a chance to look at her, assuring the chief that they would be able to identify her. a number of hysterical women started! a fund for her defense, but this was firmly suppressed. advocates of established reputation, who had smilingly congratulated maître raymond floriot on his first brief and expressed the hope that it would lead to something worth while, now regretted that they had not been appointed by the court to defend her, though it was an unprofitable and hopeless case. but m. valmorin was unaffectedly pleased. he was glad that young floriot had stumbled into a position to attract so much attention, and was almost sorry that the young man had no chance to win his case. the reason is not far to seek. for several years m. valmorin and m. floriot, père, had seen that m. raymond was in love with blue-eyed, sweet-faced helene valmorin. there was nothing remarkable about this, as numbers of young men in bordeaux were in precisely the same state of mind. but what was important was that it was equally plain that mademoiselle helene was passionately in love with the dark-eyed, curly-haired young advocate. the fathers knew that it was only a question of a very short time when they would be formally requested to sanction the marriage. hence m. valmorin's desire to see his prospective son-in-law rise as rapidly as possible. that the young man would rise, he was certain. he had inherited, as has been mentioned, his father's faultlessly logical mind and love of his profession and his mother's quickly sympathetic and emotional temperament. his mind was quick to grasp a situation or an unexpected point and equally quick to give it its true value. coupled with these gifts he had a marked facility of expression and a smooth, vibrant voice. as mademoiselle helene said, he made love beautifully. m. valmorin was prepared to do what he could financially, and he knew that raymond's father would strain himself to establish the young people properly, but the young man must look to success in his profession to raise a family. m. floriot had written that he would come over from toulouse to watch his son handle his first case, and m. valmorin planned to talk things over with him then. it was to be a great day for raymond and all who were dear to him had promised to be in court when he appeared for the first time on the firing-line. rose had promised to take charge of helene. his father, by request of the president of the court of bordeaux, would sit on the bench with the judges. "uncle" noel and dr. chennel were coming from paris. the young man worked hard all day on his case and told helene about it in the evening, and then worked far into the night. he read parts of his speech to her, while her father pretended to be eavesdropping in the hall "to learn the secrets of the defense." he did not have any false notions about the strength of his battle-line. he knew that he had a bad case but he was determined to do as well as could be done. as he remarked, "it is hard work defending a homicide whose conduct is the best evidence for the prosecution." as the day approached he was nervous, anxious, restless--but ready. chapter xvii two lovers and a lecture it was a day of excitement in the house of floriot the morning before the trial. m. floriot arrived from toulouse on the preceding evening and m. valmorin planned to call on him that morning if he could find time. helene was at the house before ten o'clock eager to see raymond. he had gone to the prison early to make a last attempt to see his client, and she put in the time of waiting by chatting with rose and lamenting the fact that raymond's father could not be the judge in the case so he would have a reasonably certain chance of winning! "it's hard enough to get cases, isn't it?" she complained. "i don't know anything about it," replied rose cheerfully, "but i guess the law is like anything else--you have to make a beginning!" "and raymond is beginning to-morrow!" murmured the girl, as if it had just occurred to her. "to-morrow he is pleading his first case!" "and a capital case to begin with it is!" declared rose. "everyone is talking about it!" "oh, i hope he'll win!" exclaimed the girl, almost tearfully. "i haven't thought of anything else for weeks!" "oh, i'm not anxious about that!" returned rose, with the confidence of an old and loyal servant. "m. raymond is clever, i tell you! he'll convince them!" "do you think he'll be back soon?" asked helene, anxiously. "that depends!" smiled rose. "does he know you're here?" "i--i don't think so---no!" helene replied, turning hastily to the window of the study where they were talking. "i only told him that my father would probably call on m. floriot this morning at eleven o'clock, and that i might come and meet him. rose, what are you laughing at?" "oh, nothing in particular." "don't tease me!" she pleaded. "well, i was laughing," chuckled the housekeeper, "because you came here in such a hurry at half-past nine to meet your father, who won't be here until eleven!" helene blushed. "i suppose you think i'm an awfully silly girl?" "oh, dear, no!" rose assured her with a grave little smile. "i'm only too glad to see that you and raymond love each other." the girl's face lit up with a quick little gleam of pleasure. "really, does that please you?" she asked softly. "very much!" nodded rose. and the next moment the girl kissed her withered cheek. "i brought the young man up, you know," she continued, slipping her arm affectionately around helene's waist. "and i feel as if he belonged to me a little. i am very happy that he has made such a good choice." "he is going to talk to his father about it this morning," said the girl, timidly. rose smiled. "i don't think he'll surprise him much." helene gave her a startled look. "you don't think m. floriot suspects?" she gasped. "that you and raymond are in love with each other? oh, of course, not!" laughed rose. "he would have to be blind not to see it. everyone in the neighborhood knows it!" with a gasp of consternation the girl hid her face in her hands. "the baker asked me yesterday when the wedding was to be celebrated," went on the housekeeper, wickedly. "and day before yesterday it was the butcher. a few days ago the grocer made some inquiries about it, and----" she was apparently prepared to continue indefinitely when a joyous voice from the doorway interrupted her. "there you are!" and maître raymond floriot hurried in. "yes, there she is--quite by accident! you didn't expect to see her, did you?" they heard her laughing as she went down the hall. helene managed to recover a semblance of her prim dignity as she gave him both her hands and looked up into his dancing eyes. "you did not expect to see me this early, did you?" she asked. "no, i didn't expect you in the least!" he laughed. "i shouldn't wonder if that was why i came so early myself!" "but seriously, aren't you surprised to find me here?" he bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. "no, i'm not surprised," he replied, gravely. "i like to think that you are as impatient as i am,--and it seems weeks since i saw you!" "twelve hours!" she laughed happily. "twelve years!" "have you thought of me since then?" he answered that question in a manner that the custom of some thousands of years has proved to be the best. "did you dream of me?" "not at all!" he shook his head and smiled. she moved away in mock offense. "reality is too sweet a dream, dearest, for us to need dreams!" he added, tenderly. this little speech was followed by a silence of several minutes, in which occurred the performance considered proper under the circumstances. helene drew gently away. "have you been working hard?" she asked. "yes, i was up at five o'clock this morning finishing my brief. i'm quite ready now." "and the case comes off to-morrow!" she exclaimed, softly. "to-morrow is the great day!" nodded raymond. "and i'm to hear you!" "of course! but i'll have to find a place where i can't see you. i'd forget what i was talking about if i caught sight of you; and just think what it would mean if i should stutter and stammer and break down with you in court! why, i'd never get over it!" he shivered with a dread that was not all feigned. "and you've made up your mind to speak to your father to-day?" she asked timidly, after a little pause. "yes, i'm going to speak to him as soon as he comes in," declared her lover with an air of hardihood that was far from real. "well, you must be careful not to stutter and stammer and break down then!" she smiled. rose put her head in the door an instant. "m. the president is here!" she whispered and was gone. "now, then, shoulder arms!" ordered helene, in an eager undertone as they heard the step of the father in the hall outside. she was bubbling with inward laughter as her panic-stricken love hastily fell back out of the direct line of vision from the door. so when m. floriot walked up and kissed her he did not at first see that his son was present. "good morning, my child!" he said with a ten der smile. raymond edged forward and cleared his throat. "you might say, 'good morning, my children,' father," he suggested in an uncertain voice. "if you like!" was the smiling reply. and taking a hand of each he said: "good morning, my two dear children!" helene ran over to his desk and returned with an enormous bunch of roses in a slender vase. "i brought you these this morning, monsieur," she said, looking up at him shyly. m. the president took them with both hands and buried his face in their fragrance. "they are only less charming than the donor!" he declared with a stately bow. "oh, m. floriot!" she protested with a blush, and smile. then as he turned to replace the' bouquet on his desk she added in a whisper to raymond: "i think you might speak to him now." "so do i!" he agreed in the same tone. "my father told me to tell you that he would be over to see you about eleven o'clock, m. floriot," she remarked as he turned to them again. "i shall be charmed to see him!" "i'll go and bring him--if you don't mind!" she offered eagerly. m. the president smiled. "i'll try not to be very angry!" he assured her. the three walked slowly out into the garden where the older man found a seat in a little rustic house while the lovers moved slowly toward the gate. he pretended to be much absorbed in the morning paper, but watched them slyly out of the corner of his eye. instead of going outside, helene stopped behind a big shrub that totally concealed her, and raymond came back with not exactly eager strides. within ten feet of the seated figure in the rustic house he stopped and twice opened his mouth, but could not get out a word. his father did not seem to have the slightest idea that he was there. he took another timid step; and then, as the paper rustled, he bolted in the direction of the bush that concealed his ally. helene stepped out, shaking with silent laughter, and waved him back with imperious gestures. he returned once more to the attack, but again gave way to panic at the critical moment. at last he edged up to within conversational ear-shot and asked with a mock solemnity that did not conceal his nervousness: "is m. the president extremely busy?" "extremely!" replied his father, without looking up from the paper. raymond winced slightly; and, then, raising his eyes to the sky, murmured dolefully: "what a beastly nuisance!" m. the president glanced up in surprise. "did you want to speak to me?" he inquired, politely. "yes--and quite seriously!" his father rose with a laugh and folded his paper. "for how long?" he demanded, with a mischievous smile. "not very long!" raymond hastily assured him. "at least, i don't think it will take long to say it." "try it in four words!" "i love helene valmorin!" he blurted out, desperately. m. the president fell back a step, his face expressing the utmost astonishment, but his eyes were laughing. "do you!" he exclaimed. raymond gazed at him doubtfully a moment and then saw it all. "did--did you know it?" he asked, sheepishly. his father burst into a hearty laugh. "what an old fool you must think i am!" the lover's instinct told raymond to strike quickly. "and i want to marry her," he went on. m. the president nodded. "i can quite understand that," he smiled. "well, god bless you both and make you happy! is that all you want to say?" "yes, that's all!" breathed his son, with a deep sigh of relief. m. floriot gazed into the eyes that were so like the lost woman's, and all the love and yearning that he had ever felt for mother and son shone in his own. he stepped up to the boy and laid a hand affectionately on his shoulder. raymond felt the grip of the fingers as his father began to speak. "my boy," he said, in grave, gentle tones, "you're a good fellow, and you've been the one joy of my life. i think helene is worthy of you. love her, my lad! and love her always--whatever happens! be her friend, her guide, her mainstay--as well as her husband. "above all--do your best to understand her! women are not always easy to understand; but don't leave your wife out of your own life! "share everyone of your joys and everyone of your sorrows with her. you will have hours of gloomy thought and bitterness, perhaps--most men do. but never forget in those unhappy hours that a husband has a heavy responsibility. always remember, raymond, my boy, that you are responsible for the life and soul and happiness of the woman who gives herself to you!" the young man listened gravely with bowed head. as his father paused he looked up with a tender smile. "i don't think the responsibility will be a very heavy one in my case, father," he said. "life sometimes proves to be exceedingly cruel, my boy," replied his father, shaking his head. "valmorin will be here presently and i will have a talk with him. i must tell him a secret before i ask him to give you his daughter's hand." "a secret!" exclaimed the young man, startled. "yes," nodded his father. "i'll tell you what it is afterwards." raymond felt a growing uneasiness and dread. lovers are easily-alarmed. "your secret--won't--won't prevent him----?" he stammered. "no!" replied his father with a light laugh, "ii don't think so." chapter xviii a ghost rises for a time the two were silent in that close communion which is possible only to father and son, who are all in all to each other. then the father's face lit up with a whimsical smile. "mind you, i don't expect that helene will be very rich," he said. raymond laughed. "i don't either!" he replied. "you have the , francs of your mother's fortune and i will add as much as i can myself." "oh, we'll get along all right," his son assured him with a smile. "you seem to forget my briefs." "impossible!" laughed his father. "you haven't any." "i have one that isn't bringing in anything in the way of money but it is giving me advertisement that will lead to profitable cases." m. the president, being of the old school of lawyers, shook his head at this value set on publicity; but he made no comment. "are you ready for to-morrow?" he asked. raymond nodded. "i saw the presiding judge this morning and he was full of praise for you," went on his father with a fond gleam in his eyes. "they are going to make a place for me to-morrow." "so you told me. but you'll make me terribly nervous!" protested raymond. "not a bit of it! have you really an interesting case?" "well, yes and no," replied the young advocate. "a wretched woman who has killed her lover for no reason that anyone can find out--and she won't speak. for the last three months she has not uttered a word in the prison that can be of any interest to anybody. we don't know who she is, where she comes from or what her name is. i haven't even seen her or heard the sound of her voice; and when the names of the judges, the public prosecutor and her defending lawyer were sent in to her, she tore up the paper without looking at it." "and couldn't the examining magistrate get anything out of her?" "nothing! he dubbed her madame x," added raymond with a smile. "what sort of a woman is she?" "oh, like all women of her kind. she is, i understand, addicted to the use of drugs, and her supply being cut off she naturally turns from stupidity to hysteria all the time. i'm afraid it's one of the cases that are worked out before they come to trial. i don't see how the court proceedings can last much longer than five minutes. but i'll do my best." "try pathos," suggested his father. "try to work on the sympathies of the judge and jury." "that's what i'm going to do," smiled raymond. "i've been practising tears in my voice for the last three days, but i'm not going to have an easy time of it. it's rather hard to find excuses for a woman when you don't know why the crime was committed." and he shook his head dubiously. "on the contrary, that gives you every chance," declared his father. "see here! your client won't speak and so she can't contradict. this gives you a fine opportunity to invent a host of reasons. make the jury respect her silence! throw a veil of mystery over the whole crime and give your imagination play. say that she is the victim of heredity--say anything you can think of that will work on the jury's feelings and you have a good chance to win." raymond listened with eager attention. "i had something of that in mind," he said, "but i'll work it up stronger than i intended. i didn't----" he was interrupted by a cheery shout from the house-door and both turned quickly to see m. noel hurrying across the garden. the elder men greeted each other with hearty affection. "and how is the young disciple of st. yves?" asked noel. "st. yves?" questioned raymond with a puzzled smile as he shook hands. "why, certainly! st. yves of brittany! don't you know----? how does the latin go, louis?" m. the president threw up his hands and laughed. "let me see! 'advocatus sed non latro--latro'--i can't remember it. anyway, it fits your case, maître raymond. he was an advocate but not a thief, and devoted his life to the service of the poor. so he is supposed to be the patron saint of the lawyers--though more of them to-day are rather inclined to lay votive offerings on the shrine of mammon. so to-morrow is the great day, eh?" "yes, to-morrow is the day." "feel frightened?" "a little excited," the young man admitted. "have you really come all the way from paris to be here to-morrow?" "of course i have!" the lined face softened. "i'd have come from kamschatka to see you fight your first battle!" "chennel is coming, too," remarked floriot. "good! you were not particularly blooming the day i met the worthy doctor, young man," said noel, turning to raymond. "no, so i've been told," smiled raymond; "dr. chennel is going to take a practice at biarritz. he often comes here to see me. now, i think i'll go over my brief again, father, and see if i can't work in some of the things you suggested." "yes, that's it! shake them up, my lad!" nodded his father. "after all she may be more sinned against than sinning--or you can make them think so, anyway. well, what do you think of the boy?" he demanded, as raymond disappeared in the direction of the large bush near the gate. "you ought to be proud of him." "i am! very proud!" said floriot, softly. there was a long pause. floriot motioned his friend to a seat on the bench in the rustic house and sat beside him. he felt the need of comfort and counsel; for the hour that he had dreaded for years was upon him at last. he must tell raymond the truth about his mother. twenty years of tireless searching had, indeed, proved utterly vain. there was every reason to believe that jacqueline was dead and that the true story of the boy's mother might be buried with the three men and one woman who knew it. but this loophole of escape from the ordeal did not even present itself to a man with floriot's stem sense of honor. how would he take it? floriot had no idea of defending himself or trying to distort the facts in the least degree. if anything, he would take more than his share of the blame for the wreck of his home. it would be terrible enough to tell raymond that his mother had fallen, but what would he say when he was told that she had repented and pressed her forehead against her husband's shoes only to be hurled out, friendless, on the world--condemned to death, or worse than death? would the boy--at last knowing why he had grown up without a mother's love, and all the million priceless and nameless joys the phrase contains--rise in the wrath of his outraged youth and denounce the father who had robbed him? what would he say to the neglect that had driven his mother to shame and placed the brand on his own pure life? and now, whatever the cost, he must tell him.... in the twenty years they had pursued a common quest, these long silences were not unusual when the two friends met. noel divined a little--but only a very little--of what was passing in the other's mind. he had not foreseen this crisis. "i never look at him without thinking of his mother!" he said, softly. "louis, it's awful to think that in all these years we have never been able to find a trace." floriot's only reply was a somber shake of the head. "god knows we've hunted!" "i've done all i can--we've done all we can!" returned the husband in bitter hopelessness. "detectives, advertising--everything! i haven't told you that i went to monte carlo a few days ago to see a woman that seemed to answer the description. the usual result!" and he gazed out across the garden. "and last week i thought i had come to the end of the hunt," returned noel. "the first night that i reached paris i dropped into a music hall and thought that i recognized her on the stage. i got an introduction to the woman. she had jacqueline's eyes to a line almost, but that was all. i was sure from the front of the house! you remember those eyes?" "if i could only forget them!" groaned the other, burying his face in his hands. there was a long silence. in the last few years growing despair and the inaction that is the inevitable outgrowth of the conviction of failure had succeeded the constantly reviving hope that had fed the energy of the search. their talks, recently, had been bitter reminiscences instead of optimistic plans. at last floriot raised his head and spoke in a low voice. "i think sometimes that she must be dead or we should have found her!" he said. noel, staring at the ground between his feet, did not answer at once; then: "perhaps!" he said in the same low tone. "and perhaps that is the best thing that could have happened!" the other understood his meaning and shuddered. there was another pause and then floriot spoke of the matter that lay heaviest on his mind. "i have never--dared yet--to tell raymond--the truth about his mother," he said, unsteadily; "but i have to now!" noel stared at his friend in amazement. "tell raymond!" he exclaimed, "why?" "he wants to marry and--and--i must tell him the truth!" there was a smothered exclamation from noel as he grasped the situation. he was silent a few moments and then he asked with meaning emphasis: "will you tell him the _whole_ truth?" floriot straightened up with a determined expression. "yes!" he declared, "i am going to tell him everything! he must know the whole unvarnished truth and--god knows what he'll think of me!" noel confusedly murmured something meant to be reassuring but floriot interrupted. "oh, i have no illusions!" he cried bitterly. "youth doesn't make allowances! it is possible that he may love me a little after he has heard all of it but he will never forgive me for having robbed him of his mother!" noel pulled himself together and replied with a heartiness that he did not feel. "why, of course, he will!" he declared. "he knows what kind of a man you are--what a father you have been to him--and he will not need to be told how you have suffered and repented." the other shook his head hopelessly. "the boy is in love!" he groaned. "if it were not for that there might be some hope. but, don't you see?--he is madly in love with a pure, beautiful girl. he will try to put himself in my place and fail! he will try to imagine himself throwing helene out into the street in the rain after she has grovelled at his feet--and he will think i am a monster!" before noel could think of a counter-argument rose hurried out from the house with a visiting card in her hand. composing himself, floriot looked up and asked: "what is it, rose?" she handed him the card with: "it's the two gentlemen who were here before and wanted to see you, m. the president." "perissard! perissard!" mused the president, studying the bit of pasteboard. "i don't know the name. however, rose, show them in and take m. noel up to his room." the friends silently gripped hands as a mute promise that they would renew the conversation later and noel went in with the housekeeper. chapter xix hope at last messrs. perissard and merivel were not hopelessly shocked and grief-stricken over the death of laroque. they were grateful to his memory, inasmuch as he had put them in the way of making , francs with more ease and less risk than they had expected to incur in collecting, at the outside, three-fifths of that amount in bordeaux. they were doubly grateful when they reflected that his timely death had saved them ten per cent of that amount. while he would have been useful in the matter of the public official of bordeaux, they felt that they would eventually find as trustworthy an agent. on the whole, from the viewpoint of the partners in confidential missions, nothing in his life became him as the leaving it. the fact that he had been murdered by the wife of the president of the court of toulouse put that gentleman in position where he could not possibly refuse to pay for "discretion." they went over all this as they sat in a café not far from the floriot house in bordeaux and waited for m. floriot's return. it had taken them nearly three months to finally fix upon him as the husband of the homicide of the three crowns. they went to toulouse to interview him and found that he had just gone to bordeaux to attend the trial in which his son was to appear for the defense. they fairly hugged themselves with pious joy when they saw the shocking corruption of the whole proceedings. "we have got him, my dear merivel," declared m. perissard. "and he has actually come to bordeaux to see the trial!" "a most shrewd man!" rumbled his colleague. "i should say so!" returned m. perissard. "he has his own son chosen for the defense, and according to gossip, his son is to marry the daughter of the public prosecutor!" "a _most_ clever man!" insisted m. merivel in a voice like the roar of the surf. "and they tell me that floriot's wife refused to say a word to the examining magistrate." "of course! the husband has been telling her what to do!" "obviously! obviously!" agreed the senior partner with a vigorous nod. "in this way, you see, her name won't even be mentioned, and as nobody knows her in bordeaux----" a two-handed gesture and a shrug of the shoulders filled the hiatus. "none of the trouble will get out of the family," concluded m. merivel heavily. "the jury will find her guilty or acquit her--that is of no interest whatever. but no one will ever know the inner interest!" "excepting ourselves, my dear perissard," corrected the ex-schoolmaster. "exactly! exactly! it is _most_ providential!" it was with the situation thus reasoned out that the defenders of society presented themselves for the second time at the house of m. floriot, when they were conducted to the garden. m. the president received them with grave courtesy and invited them to take seats. with all three comfortably settled, m. merivel being a little in the background, he asked: "what can i do for you, gentlemen?" "have i the honor of speaking to president floriot?" inquired m. perissard in his most polished manner. "yes, monsieur. and your name is----?" "perissard! this is m. merivel, my associate," he added, rising with a bow to that gentleman who also rose and saluted m. the president with a profound obeisance. "and what business brings you to bordeaux?" m. floriot inquired once more when they had all resumed their seats. "a--a matter of some delicacy, m. the president," began the senior partner, clearing his throat impressively. "a matter which interests you personally." m. floriot raised his eyebrows a trifle. "well?" m. perissard fidgeted slightly. when he spoke again it was in his most "inspiring" manner. "every man has, at one time or another in his life, reason to regret the past, and these regrets--however secretly we may hide them--remain open wounds," he began, heavily. "alas!" exclaimed m. merivel in gloomy thunder. m. floriot stirred impatiently. "probably true. but kindly explain yourself!" he commanded, shortly. m. perissard at once decided that nothing was to be gained by moralizing, so he went directly to business. "m. the president, you were deputy attorney in paris twenty years ago, were you not?" "yes." "and if i am correctly informed you married a lady named jacqueline lefevre, at the town hall in the rue drouot. she brought you a dot of , francs." floriot's glance was troubled and uneasy. "your information is perfectly correct," he said. "but why all these questions?" "because they are indispensable," m. perissard assured him, and he was backed up by a ponderous nod from his colleague. "in family matters of this kind one cannot take too many precautions. in matters of honor, i have always said----" floriot half-rose. his face had paled slightly and his manner was nervous. "my time is limited!" he broke in, abruptly. "i beg your pardon, monsieur! i beg your pardon!" and four fat hands motioned him back to his seat. "i will be brief!" m. perissard assured him. "your marriage was not altogether as happy as it might have been, and one day you had a violent scene. you turned out of your house the lady who had the honor of bearing your name!" "how do you know this? who told you?" demanded floriot. his voice was low and menacing. "ah, it is true, then!" exclaimed m. perissard. the other gave no sign and perissard took the silence as an assent. "very good! after this incident," he continued, hastily. "madame floriot traveled. she traveled very far and was more or less--happy. more or less!" floriot sprang up, white-faced and trembling. "she is dead!" he cried. "you have come to tell me she is dead!" m. perissard smiled cunningly. he could appreciate good acting. "oh, no, i haven't!" he replied. "she is _alive_?" "undoubtedly!" "_most_ certainly!" thundered m. merivel. "and where is she? in paris! in france! where?" cried floriot, almost too excited for coherency. m. perissard was beginning to be really puzzled. was it possible that this man did not know who the woman of the three crowns was? was it possible that he had not arranged the whole defense? "do you really mean that you don't know where your wife is now?" he demanded. "no! no! but you've come to tell me, haven't you?" he was feverishly eager. he walked up and down before them with quick nervous strides? and looked from one to the other with burning eyes. "this is really most extraordinary!" declared m. perissard. "i should have thought with all your means of getting information----" "i have never heard from her or of her since the day she disappeared!" "never?" insisted the other, wonderingly. "never! i thought she was dead!" "extraordinary! isn't it?" m. perissard appealed to his partner. "_most_ extraordinary!" was the prompt response. floriot was fairly dancing with excitement and impatience. "you know where she is and where i can see her?" he demanded. "indeed, i do!" declared m. perissard. "tell me, man! tell me!" he cried. m. perissard stroked his chin a moment. all this excitement indicated excellent opportunities for financial advancement and he did not want to spoil anything through unwary haste. "i have not been instructed to tell you," he said, guardedly. "good god, man! you don't mean to say you refuse?" "my--my client has so instructed me----" began m. perissard in his most professional tone. "you come from her?" interrupted the other. "she's your client? what does she want? what can i do?" m. perissard drew a quick breath. "she wants the money she brought with her on her marriage!" he plumped out. "her dot? her , francs?" "she wants that sum refunded to her!" affirmed m. perissard, pursing up his lips impressively. "she would have had it long ago if i had known where to find her!" cried floriot. "then you will raise no objections?" there was a triumphant gleam in m. perissard's pig-like i eyes. "none whatever! the money is here!" the two partners rose as one and held out their hands. "i will tell her what you say--word for word!" declared the senior. "give me her address so i can go and see her at once!" pleaded floriot, eagerly. "m. the president," replied m. perissard in his heaviest manner. "i must beg you to excuse me: i have no authority from my client to give you her address." "but----" "i am only acting on instructions!" "but what reason can she have for refusing to see me?" he protested, wildly. "i don't know that she has any reason, but before giving you her address i must ask her permission!" was the firm response. "then you are going to see her?" "i shall write to her," replied m. perissard. "i may confide one thing in you, i think, without exceeding my professional duty." "yes?" questioned floriot eagerly. "may i count on your discretion?" "absolutely! you have my word for it!" m. perissard appeared to hesitate. "madame floriot is just now in--ah--er--tight place," he said. "a very tight place!" echoed his partner. "she is absolutely penniless!" "great heavens!" gasped floriot, horror-stricken. he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "are--are you willing to send her some money?" inquired the senior partner. floriot sprang up, his face flushed. "by all means!" he cried, his hand darting into his coat pocket. "will you see that she gets it? _immediately_?" "without a moment's delay!" m. perissard assured him, heartily. floriot bowed his head as he worked with the leather tongue of his pocket-book, and when he looked up his eyes were misty with tears. "gentlemen," he said, brokenly, "you must excuse my emotion--when i think that--she--is without a penny----! here are francs--all i have with me. send it to her at once and----" "she shall receive the money to-day!" m. perissard broke in. "allow me to give you a receipt. and when can i see you again, m. the president? will the day after to-morrow suit you?" "can you have an answer by then?" "i hope so!" "i'll expect you in the morning then." he smiled almost joyously and held out his hands to the visitors. "we can go and see her together! i need not ask you to be discreet, need i? nobody must know!" he added anxiously. m. perissard drew himself up haughtily. "m. the president!" he said stiffly, "i have not the honor of being known to you, but remember these words: whatever may happen, we are engaged by our word of honor to remain silent--my partner, you and i!" "silent as the tomb!" echoed m. merivel. "and you may always reckon--always, i repeat--on our entire discretion!" floriot put out a hand which was eagerly gripped. "gentlemen, i thank you!" he said in a grave, unsteady voice. and with many a scrape and hand-shake and assurance of their perfect discretion the firm of perissard and merivel bowed itself out. for a moment, after they had gone, floriot stood with head raised and fists clenched. "oh, jacqueline! jacqueline!" he murmured aloud, as if he felt that the cry from his heart must reach her ears. "forgive--forgive me!" then he darted across the garden and into the house like a boy. up the steps he raced, three at a time, and burst into noel's room with tears streaming down his face, speechless with emotion. noel started up from the suit-case he was unpacking and stared at his friend in alarm. "for god's sake, louis!" he cried. "what's the matter?" "jacqueline--jacqueline is alive!" in a bound noel was across the room, with a grip on his friend's shoulder. "what do you mean?" he cried, shaking him fiercely. "alive! who told you?" in broken, gasping phrases floriot told the story; and as noel finally grasped the details, he clutched his friend's arms, and with a shout of joy hurled him on to the bed. floriot bounded back to his feet and swung his fist into the other's back. then these two gray-haired men threw each other around the room, rolled over together on the bed, knocked chairs over and tables upside down, shouting and laughing at the top of their lungs. "day after to-morrow! twenty years, old man! i knew we'd win out at last!" the uproar reached raymond in his studio at the other end of the house and he ran up to see what was the matter. as he threw open the door of the disordered room he saw his father and m. noel shaking hands as enthusiastically as if they had not met for years. "why, father, what's the matter?" he cried. floriot ran over and threw an arm across his son's shoulders. "raymond, my boy!" he shouted, "a wonderful--an unbelievable happiness has come to your father! i can't tell you anything yet but, my god! i'm happy!" chapter xx the trial begins although he had been up most of the night at work on his speech, maître raymond floriot was among the early arrivals at court the next morning. his unlined, youthful face wore an expression of grave responsibility as incongruous as his black advocate's gown when he took his seat at his desk. the more he had hammered at his appeal to the jury the more he realized that in the strength of his speech lay his one hope of victory. all the evidence would be against him. he did not expect to profit much by cross-examination. the affair was too simple. he must move the jury to pity. there was not even a chance to instil a doubt into the minds of the men who would judge his case. that is usually the chief aim of a defending lawyer in a bad murder trial. he does not have to convince twelve men of conscience that his client is innocent if he can work one drop of the poison of uncertainty into their minds he is usually safe. for the man of average imagination would rather violate his duty to the state a dozen times and let a dozen murderers go free than send one to the gallows and risk the punishment of remorse. "certainty beyond reasonable doubt," which is the formula of the law, is a farce with most jurors. if there exists, to them, any doubt at all, nothing can convince them that that doubt is unreasonable. with this powerful weapon taken from him, the young advocate had but one left--an appeal to the emotions. had he had to face a jury of cold, law-worshipping anglo-saxons or stolid, virtue-loving teutons his best move would have been a plea of guilty and an invocation to mercy. on these a lawyer might wear out an oratorical rod of moses without producing a drop of moisture in the way of a tear. but here were volatile, easily moved latins, and louis floriot knew his people when he told his son to "shake them up." so the young man decided to ignore the evidence and build his whole speech on the statement that the woman made to the sergeant of gendarmes on her way to the prison after the shooting--that she had killed laroque to prevent him from "doing an abominable act." he was very nervous when he took his seat at the table reserved for counsel for the defense, just in front of the dock. he felt himself growing more uneasy when the judges in their robes of red and black marched in from their room at the rear and the clerk solemnly proclaimed that court was in session. the great hall was crowded to the doors with men and women from every plane of the social scale. dozens of lawyers came to watch their new brother break his first spear. a number of seats were reserved for municipal officers. veiled society women sat among them. banker, butcher and baker rubbed elbows and craned necks in the general throng, and women of all descriptions squeezed and jostled their way through them. raymond ran his eye hurriedly over the first rows and caught a smile of pride on helene's lovely face, gazing at him over the railing that cut off the spectators from the attorneys and court officials. m. noel and dr. chennel gave him reassuring nods as they met his glance and rose waved her hand. he turned hastily away and began busying himself with his papers as the prisoner was led in between two gendarmes. she was crying and held her handkerchief to her eyes as she took her seat in the dock. raymond watched her nervously and tried to say a few encouraging words but he could only stammer. m. valmorin, from his desk on the opposite side of the "bank," smiled at his future son-in-law's symptoms of panic and gave him a friendly nod. raymond had watched court proceedings in criminal cases so often that he was as familiar with the routine as a practised lawyer but now that he was for the first time an actor it all seemed strange and overwhelming. he was conscious only that helene and his father never took their eyes off him but he never looked their way again. the voice of the clerk reading the charge sounded far away and seemed to be no part of the present scene. "--in consequence of which the woman, laraque, is accused of having, on april rd, --, at half-past five in the afternoon, committed an act of voluntary homicide in room of the hotel of the three crowns in bordeaux, on the person of her lover, frederick laroque, a crime punishable by articles and of the penal code." the voice stopped amid absolute silence, and then raymond heard the grave, gentle tones of the kindly old president of the court. "woman laroque, you have heard the charge against you. you are accused of having committed an act of voluntary homicide on the person of your lover, frederick laroque. what have you to say in your defense? do you admit that you are guilty of this crime?" he paused and raymond, turning in his chair, locked up at his client. every eye in the room was on her. she was dressed entirely in black and wore a black cloth shawl over her head that almost entirely concealed her face, excepting from those directly in front of her. her profile was toward the judges. the black background made her pallor almost ghastly. her features were set and hard--a hopeless mask of chalk. she gave no sign that she had heard the president's words. "you refuse to reply?" he went on. "you persist in keeping silent as you kept silent under examination? let me beg of you, in your own interests, to speak. your silence can only be harmful to your case. you refuse to speak?"--he paused again. "the matter is in the hands of the jury. you shall hear the evidence against you. clerk of the court, call the first witness!" a stir and a murmur ran through the court as the president settled back in his chair and the clerk called, "victor chouquet! victor chouquet!" perissard and merivel had managed to secure seats well forward and watched the proceedings with the interest of experts. "what did i tell you, my dear merivel!" whispered the senior partner. "it has all been arranged!" "of course it has!" while they were awaiting the appearance of the boots of the three crowns, raymond gazed curiously at his client. it was the first time he had ever seen her, and he was wondering what tragic story was masked behind her stony, inscrutable face. she did not seem to be aware that he was alive, and turning her head, glanced over the row of judges. suddenly raymond saw her eyes widen with horror and amazement her bosom heaved and her lips worked as if she were trying to speaks he rose hastily and leaned over the dock. "what is the matter, madame? are you ill?" he asked in quick undertone. she turned to him with the jerky, uncertain movements of an automaton, but kept her eyes fastened on the bench. "what--who--who is that gentleman--talking to the judges?" she whispered. the words could barely be heard. "president floriot, from toulouse," answered raymond. he supposed that she had asked this apparently idle question to conceal the real thought that had caused her agitation, and so went on earnestly: "believe me, madame, your silence may lose your case for you. i beg you to speak!" she drew the cloth more closely about her face and stared out over his head with wild eyes. with a shrug of his shoulders raymond dropped back into his chair and turned to listen to the examination of chouquet. he was beginning to feel more master of himself and more certain that his case was hopeless. "state your name, age, and profession!" commanded the president as victor took his stand behind the witness railing. "victor emmanuel chouquet, twenty-nine years of age, boots of the hotel of the three crowns," replied victor in his high-pitched drawl. "where do you live?" "at the hotel, m. the president." "you are no relation of the prisoner, are you, or in any way connected with her service?" "no, m. the president." "raise your right hand!--do you swear to speak without hatred or fear, to tell the whole truth? say, 'i swear it.'" "i swear it!" repeated the witness. "put down your hand. give your evidence!" victor shuffled uneasily up against the railing and turned to the jury. "on april d," he began, "a man and woman came to the hotel----" "what time was it?" interrupted the president. "it was a short time after lunch." "go on!" "they had a trunk and a bag. i took them up to room on the top floor, and the man said, as he went into the room, 'not a palace, is it?' and the woman said, 'oh, what does it matter--this room or another one!' to which the man replied, 'well, i don't suppose we will be here long.' then they asked me for absinthe and cigarettes which i got for them, and the man asked me to leave the bottle." "did they drink much?" interrupted the president. "i didn't notice." "what was the attitude of the woman?" "she didn't have any," replied victor, and a titter ran over the benches. the court usher frowned and rapped on his desk. "did she look happy, sad, calm or nervous?" explained the president, irritably. victor considered for several moments. "she looked very tired," he replied. "go on!" "some time afterward my wife went up to their room for the police form and took down their names--m. and mme. laroque, from buenos ayres on their way to paris." "your wife was at the hotel?" "yes, she was chambermaid there." "why has she not been called as a witness?" the judge demanded with a frown. victor rubbed his hand across his eyes and snuffled. "because she's not there any longer. on the evening after the murder she left me and i haven't seen her since. a few days after she had gone she wrote me a note, saying, 'don't worry about me. i am very happy. take care of the child.'" there was a quick shuffling of feet and exclamations of pity and sympathy swept across the court. the usher frowned and pounded his desk again. the president's face softened as he watched victor wiping away his tears, and he gave him time to recover before requesting him to go on. "at about half-past five, as i was taking water to a room on the same floor," said victor at last, "i heard a shot fired and a shriek in room . i rushed in and found m. laroque lying on the floor in front of his wife, who held a smoking revolver in her hand. i took the revolver away from her and held her tight." "did she say anything?" "she said, 'there's no hurry. i shan't try to get away.' then the police came and took her off." "that's all you know?" "yes, m. the president." "the prisoner is the woman you call madame laroque, is she?" victor gazed at the white face above raymond's head. "yes, m. the president," he said. the president looked in the same direction. "prisoner, you have heard the evidence of this witness? have you anything to say?" he asked, solemnly. jacqueline had not heard the evidence. from the moment she recognized her husband a thousand mad thoughts had stormed through her mind in a bewildering phantasmagoria. her fierce hatred had given birth to a hundred fantastic schemes of vengeance that the situation made possible. should she wait until her character and her shame had been painted their blackest and then tell the crowded court that he was her husband? should she go to the place of execution and denounce him from the scaffold? no! she could not do that because of her boy. she had killed laroque to hide her shame from her son. how could she proclaim it now and make that terrible crime useless? but couldn't she tell just enough to show _him_--god! how she hated him! who she was and to what he had driven her? she could picture his face as he recognized her and listened to the horrible story of her degradation. she was glad that there was no vice so low that it had not soiled her; for thus the greater would be his anguish when she proclaimed it.... "you insist on remaining silent?" the president was saying. "wait a little! wait a little while!" she murmured, but so low that even raymond could not catch the words. "gentlemen of the jury, have you any questions to ask the jury?" he paused and turned to m. valmorin. "thank you, no, m. the president," bowed the prosecutor. "has the counsel for the defense anything to ask the witness?" the instinct of the cross-examiner triumphed over the nervousness of youth. "the witness has mentioned that my client had been drinking absinthe," said raymond, rising. his voice was sure and steady. "i should like to know whether he thinks she was intoxicated." the president nodded and turned to victor. "you hear the question? was the prisoner drunk or sober when you ran into the room and found her with the revolver in her hand?" victor shifted uneasily and appeared to hesitate. "well, she was very much excited," he said. "there's no doubt about that, m. the president her eyes were like a crazy woman's and her face was red and she didn't seem to know what she was doing." a stir and murmur from the benches told raymond that the audience credited him with a point scored. "would you say she was drunk?" he insisted. "well, some would say she was and some would say she wasn't," replied the witness, falling back on his never-failing formula. a titter ran through the court at this conservative answer, and the president frowned. "what would _you_ say?" demanded raymond. victor's confusion was complete. "i--i wouldn't say!" he stammered. raymond turned back to his desk with a shrug of his shoulders. "counsel for the defense, have you any more questions to ask the witness?" demanded the court. "no, m. the president," was the reply. "stand down!" commanded the president "clerk of the court, call the next witness!" the next witness was sergeant fontaine, the gendarme who had arrested jacqueline. he talked in jerky, military tones, and gave his evidence as if he were dictating an official report he told of arresting her in the hotel and taking her to the prison. "did she say anything while you were taking her off?" asked the court. "i did most of the talking," he replied. "i asked her why she had killed laroque and she said she had done it to prevent him doing a disgraceful thing which would have brought unhappiness and despair to some one she loved. i tried to make her say more, but she wouldn't. she said that she wouldn't say another word to anybody, and she didn't." no one had any questions to ask the witness, though it was plain from the manner in which some of the jurors gazed at the prisoner that the policeman's testimony had made an impression. they were the usual run of jurors--plain middle-class tradesmen with a rather better than average intelligence; and, as raymond looked them over, he felt that there was grim work ahead if he would upset their judgment and make them follow the impulse of emotion. he did not think he could do it. victor and the sergeant were the only two witnesses, and the president turned to jacqueline when the gendarme had taken a seat beside victor on the bench reserved for witnesses. "before calling on the public prosecutor," he said solemnly, "i ask you for the last time, prisoner, in your own interest, to tell the jury why you committed this crime. you told the policeman who arrested you, and who has just given his evidence, that you killed laroque to prevent him from committing an infamous and abominable act which would have caused trouble to some one you loved. to what act did you allude? to whom would it have brought trouble? knowledge of the reasons which caused you to commit the murder may have an important influence on the jury in reaching a verdict. you refuse, to speak? you have made up your mind to say nothing----" he paused; and then: "m. the prosecutor!" he announced. m. valmorin rose slowly and bowed to the president, and then to the jury. it was an old story with him--the murder of a degenerate man by a fallen woman. he had only to go over an old formula. "there you are!" whispered m. perissard to his colleague. "it is practically over!" "gentlemen of the jury, i shall not keep you long," began m. valmorin, in a gentle, pleasant voice. "the crime on which you have to give your verdict is simple and baneful. the woman has killed her lover--but who is this woman? what is her real name? where does she come from? who is she? we do not know! since her arrest the prisoner has refused to answer all questions that have been put to her. she has not spoken a syllable in reply to the examining magistrate, and you have seen for yourselves that here in court she has insisted on remaining obstinately silent, although her silence cannot but harm her case--if she has the slightest shred of defense! "there is sometimes an explanation of a murder--if not an excuse for it--to be found in the motives that inspired it. murders are committed for reasons of money, for reasons of love, for reasons of jealousy, or to quench a thirst for vengeance. and the passion which arms the criminal's hand, which disturbs her power of reasoning and which makes her act without thinking--this, to some extent, diminishes her responsibility and the horror which the act of murder makes every man feel." the jurors were leaning forward, their eyes fastened on his face and their reasons hypnotized by the musical, confident voice. "when one or other of these reasons is brought forward, justice may be tempered with mercy. but how can you be asked to find excuses for an act, the motive of which the prisoner refuses to disclose? by this very refusal we may be forgiven for believing--nay, we are almost forced to believe that they are the worst possible motives. i distrust, for my part, the impenetrable mystery in which the prisoner has robed herself, and i can feel no pity for a guilty woman whose lips have not uttered a word of repentance!" a loud, clear voice rang suddenly and sharply through the court. "_i will speak presently_!" a burst of laughter would not have been more disconcerting! m. valmorin stopped, and every eye in the court was on the prisoner. half of the men in the great room had started to their feet. the attitude and the look of suffering and the dark, hunted eyes were not visibly changed, but it was undoubtedly the woman who had spoken. the prosecutor bit his lip. ten seconds before he had read in every eye in the jury-box, and in nearly every face in the courtroom, a placid acquiescence. now there was pity in the glance of more than one of the twelve who would judge his case, and he would have to win them away from it. this would be harder than gaining their confidence at the outset had been. the usher hammered the top of his desk until the excitement died away and there was order in court once more. then m. valmorin began the work of repairing the damage. "as i was saying, gentlemen of the jury, we know nothing about the woman laroque," he continued, calmly, as if he considered of little importance the sensation that accompanied the dramatic interruption. "we have found no proof that she was ever a resident of france. "in buenos ayres it is not known where she came from. during her stay in south america she did not, so far as we can learn, offend any of the laws of the country. in the month of march she took passage on board the amazon for bordeaux. nothing particular was remarked about her during the trip, excepting that she told the fortunes of the passengers with a deck of cards--that she said she was certain she would die before long, and that she was in a great hurry to get back to france. this is all we know about her past. "on the afternoon of april d she arrived at the hotel of the three crowns, and at half-past five she killed her lover--a man whose past will not bear scrutiny, and who had been sentenced for theft on two occasions. you have heard the evidence of the servant with reference to the overexcitement of the prisoner. i will draw no conclusion from this evidence, nor is it necessary to go into the question of the prisoner's moral responsibility, which overexcitement--caused by drink--may have affected. i will leave this phase of the case to my friend, the counsel for the defense--maître raymond floriot----" a frightful, unearthly shriek drowned the soothing voice of the prosecutor and brought every man and woman in the courtroom, pale-faced and startled, to their feet. several women screamed, and the others stared, frightened at the prisoner. she was standing, rigid and swaying, head raised and eyes closed, her stiffened arms held close to her sides, her hands opening and closing convulsively. two gendarmes seized her and tried to force her back into her chair. "my god! my god!" she shrieked again and again. raymond was beside her in a moment, his hand on her arm, begging her to be calm. "for god's sake! stop torturing that woman!" roared a man's voice from the audience. it was the signal for a pandemonium! the usher pounded on his desk until the boards cracked, but the crowd lurched forward against the railing in a terrific uproar. "let her alone!" "she's dying!" "great god! it's jacqueline! it's floriot's wife!" shouted noel in dr. chennel's ear. and the next moment that elderly physician was over the railing like a boy. he burst through the gendarmes and rushed over to the dock. but jacqueline was again in her seat and waved him back. he and raymond bent over her. "are you ill? shall i ask for an adjournment?" they asked breathlessly. "no! no! no!" she panted, "i'm all right--all right!" her eyes were still closed and her lips worked as if she were trying to speak. dr. chennel's fingers closed over her left wrist. he leaned over and whispered reassuring words in her ear and gently patted her shoulder. the subtle magnetism cf the physician seemed to have its effect at last and she slowly opened her eyes and sat up. the din in the courtroom died as suddenly as it had begun, and the spectators shamefacedly sought their seats under the blazing eyes of the president. he was livid with anger. "this is the most disgraceful scene that ever stained a french court!" he cried in a voice that trembled with suppressed rage. "if there is another sound from the benches during these proceedings i will order the gendarmes to clear the hall!" noel glanced quickly at his friend in his seat behind the judges to see if he, too, had recognized "the woman, laroque." floriot's face was buried in his hands. he pressed a handkerchief so tightly to his eyes that noel fancied he could see the whiteness of the nails. any great blow--mental or physical--is immediately followed by a practically complete cessation of all activity of the senses. the mind --if it works at all--revolves around singular and ridiculous trifles, utterly foreign to the disaster or its effect. it was this condition that the recognition of jacqueline left her husband. he was conscious that quiet had been restored and that valmorin was continuing his speech, but the scene and its actors seemed remote from his life. "as for the reason of the crime," the prosecutor was saying, "i repeat that we do not know it. now that the prisoner has promised to speak, we may learn what it was." speak!--would she speak!--raymond was standing half facing the prosecutor, his profile toward the woman. his right hand rested on the top of the railing in front of the dock. jacqueline's eyes were on his handsome head, and in them there was unutterable love and unutterable dread. his delicate nostrils were quivering, and a touch of color came and went in his cheeks. he was watching valmorin with eager, anxious eyes. timidly, as a child, her hand crept out and closed softly over his fingers. he glanced up at her quickly, with what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but the early stage fright was returning. the prosecutor was nearing the end of his speech and in a few moments he must rise to reply. she drew her hand away, and he looked from it to the woman for a moment as if something remarkable had happened. ... an invisible band that has never been measured by our mortal standards binds mother and child together. it, alone of earthly ties, takes no count of time or space, and joy and degradation and wealth and want and woe alike are powerless to loosen. it has been called the only unselfish love, but it is not that. for, "damned in body and soul," the boy clings to his mother as to a promise of salvation; and a mother, dying in shame and despair, yet sees in her child--immortality!... as if it had needed but that touch of the fingers to draw the cord tightly around his heart, raymond felt for a moment that his soul was going out to the wretched woman that he had never seen until that day. emotions that he had never known before were stirred to life. a desire to take her in his arms almost overpowered him. and what it meant to the mother only a mother may know. "speak!" she would commit a thousand murders and go a thousand times to execution rather than utter a syllable now!... "you, gentlemen of the jury, will weigh in the balance her sincerity and repentance with her guilt, and let your conscience be the judge of what punishment is proportionate to the crime she has committed." there was a rustle and low murmur of whispered conversation as m. valmorin resumed his seat. "i don't think much of m. the public prosecutor," muttered m. perissard. m. merivel nodded his acquiescence without taking his eyes off the scene beyond the railing. the prisoner was huddled over the front of the dock, sobbing violently the president gazed at her with pity in his eyes. "woman laroque, will you answer my questions now?" he asked, kindly. she did not seem to hear. "you said a few minutes ago that you would speak." jacqueline raised her wet, anguish-stricken face and held out both hands, as if warding off a blow. "no! never! never!" she cried, wildly, and sank down again. "take time for reflection, and let me, for the last time, advise you not to remain obstinate!" persisted the judge. there was no reply save a storm of weeping that shook the dock. murmurs of pity rose again and the usher rapped sharply on his desk for attention. "counsel for the defense!" called the president, chapter xxi cherchez l'homme raimond straightened up with an effort and turned to face the jury. his face was almost as white as the prisoner's. his lips trembled and his eyes burned. from the moment the woman had pressed his hand he had been struggling with an emotion more unnerving than stage fright. hitherto he had known misery only as we who never stir from home know the suffering of an arctic explorer. for the first time in his life he had been thrown into actual contact with the raw reality, stripped of the veneer and varnish of the story-teller. when he looked at the crouching woman and felt the railing tremble with her sobs he dimly understood the despair that could welcome death as a friend. if he had only known--if he could only have felt this way when he had written his speech! what was his speech? how did it begin? his eye met his father's for a wavering instant and the frightened gaze and livid features of the stern magistrate completed the demoralization of his son. his father saw that he would fail and shame him, he thought! he dared not glance toward helene. he must begin! he fixed his eyes on a light stain on the dark wood of the jury-box and tried to remember the opening words of his address. they would not come. the overwhelming sense of failure, the foreknowledge that he could not make the jury feel the flood of emotion that had paralyzed his tongue, brought team to his eyes! the courtroom was preternaturally still. a juryman coughed, and at the sound raymond felt an overmastering impulse to scream or run out. there was a long-drawn sob behind him and he straightened up--rigid. he raised his eyes and the jury-box was a gray-black blur. his lips felt stiff and his tongue dry--but he must begin! he bowed stiffly and hurriedly to the bench and quickly drew the back of his hand across his eyes to clear away the mist of tears.... "gentlemen--of the jury!" his voice sounded strange to his own ears, and he leaned with both hands on the table. what were his opening words?--it was useless! but he must stumble on some way! "i cannot--i will not try--to conceal--the very great emotion that i feel! i hope--you must pardon me----" he met the eyes of one of the jurors, and instead of the contempt and amusement that he had expected he saw a gleam of sympathy. oh, if he had only the power to play upon it! why couldn't he remember his speech? he could only tell them how he felt, and plead for mercy for the woman. "my wish is to be cool--and to keep calm--but my eyes fill with tears in spite of all--my efforts." and again he quickly dashed his hand across his eyes. he looked up at the men, who must judge him and his speech, with almost piteous bravery. "my heart is beating--quicker than it should! my voice is trembling--and it is all that i can do to keep from breaking down and crying like a child instead of pleading for my client--here before you. i crave your indulgence for this weakness--but it does not make me blush!" he threw back his head, and at last he saw the jurors clearly before him. "it is the first time in my life that i have come close to the bitterness of a woman's grief and misery and--my heart is tom by the fear that i shall not be able to prove myself equal to the noble task that i have undertaken!" he paused and wet his dry lips with his tongue. "i can find none of the arguments that i had prepared for the purpose of moving and convincing you, and my ready-made phrases have vanished from my brain, dispersed by one glance at the suffering and distress of this poor woman! "look at her, gentlemen! no words of mine can have the power of tears to move you to mercy!" there was a falter and piteous break in his voice as he half turned and laid his hand on the dock. there was not another sound save the woman's sobs. the faces of the jurors told him that they were listening with eager attention and the fear of being made ridiculous began to pass. blindly, instinctively, he had stumbled on to the greatest rule of the greatest orator that ever lived: "be earnest!" in those few minutes the jurymen had felt the force of clean emotion, of noble purpose, behind the stumbling words, and they waited breathlessly. with the growing confidence some of the arguments that he had embodied in his written speech came back to him; but he could not remember the words. "and there is a mystery--a veil of mystery which has not been torn by the evidence and still surrounds this woman for whom i am pleading," he went on. "who is this weeping and despairing woman? where does she come from, and why did she kill the man with whom she lived? we do not know!" his voice was gaining a strong, commanding ring. "she alone can rend this veil that surrounds her life, and she refuses to do so! she alone knows the secret and keeps it! why? so as to mislead the cause of justice? certainly not! for if that were her object, she would speak. she would try to justify herself. she would lie, so as to appear innocent! "she could find a dozen plausible reasons for the murder of her lover! a quarrel, a violence on his part, a momentary madness--nobody could give her the lie. nobody saw or heard what happened immediately before the murder; and laroque, the only person in the room besides the prisoner, is dead! but my client has disdained all subterfuge! she knew perfectly well what the consequence of her act would be--_and--she--has not--tried--to--escape it_! "'there's no hurry,' she said to the boots of the hotel, who wrenched the revolver from her hand. 'i sha'n't try to getaway.' and since then she has been silent. why? her own words tell us why, gentlemen, and will lift a corner of the curtain which hides the truth from us! "the policeman who arrested her has told us that he asked the prisoner why she killed laroque, and that she answered: 'i killed him to prevent him from doing an infamous and shameful thing which would have brought misfortune on some one i love!' "this, gentlemen," he cried, his voice rising, "tells us the secret of this poor creature! "she killed this man laroque, of whose past--as my friend the public prosecutor rightly said--no good was known. she killed this man who has, on two occasions, undergone punishment for theft and was capable of anything. _she killed him, because taking his life was the only way she could prevent an infamy that would have brought shame land despair on some one she loved!_ "does this not explain the insistency of her silence? this woman, this poor wreck, who has been beaten down to the lowest rungs of the ladder of physical and moral misery, this wretched creature--_loves_! good women will sweep their skirts from her touch in the streets, but love is in her heart, and the happiness of him or her whom she loves is dearer to her than her own life! "one day she sees a menace to this happiness and kills--kills without hesitation the scoundrel who was about to destroy it!" gone was the stage fright--gone the fear of failure! as the ear of a musician tells him when his hands have found a chord, so is there a psychic ear which tells the orator that the spirit of his audience is in harmony with his words. as this telepathic message reached his brain, raymond felt at last within him the power to move the hearts of men. words poured forth in a rushing flood! "love was the motive that made her a criminal! love, and love only! and whom does she love to the sacrifice of herself? is it a father who is respected and honored by all in his old age? is it a husband or lover to whom she has been false and whom she left long ago? is it a child who knows nothing of his mother's shame and lives unconscious and happy? "we do not know! but some such love is the secret of my client and the reason of her silence. she cares nothing for what men may say of her, nor for man's judgment of her! she does not care for her own life, and sacrifices it with gladness! but she will not let herself be known! there is only one single being of importance to her, and she will not let her name be spoken lest the sentence stain her picture in the heart of the one she worships! "gentlemen of the jury, a woman who can feel like this is no vulgar criminal! i feel sure that i shall prove to you that it is no mere criminal who stands before you! the police have moved heaven and earth to establish her identity, and they have failed. this is alone sufficient proof that this crime is her first; for had she been convicted before, the police would have found traces of her past! "and there is no doubt, gentlemen"--his voice was vibrant and his eyes flashed through the tears--"there is no doubt that a man was originally responsible for my client's fall. when a woman falls and rolls in the gutter, it is not with her that we should feel indignant--it is not against her breast that we should cast the stones! "a man has done this thing!" he shouted, his features quivering. "he has seduced or ill-treated her! he is a lover without scruple, or a husband with too little nobility of character and too much pride--a husband who has not known how to pity, and who sentenced her for a first fall to a life of sin! "the laws of man are powerless against such a lover or such a husband," he cried, stepping forward with clenched fist above his head, "but god sees him--and god judges him! "such a man has made this woman what you see her to-day, and he alone is responsible!" he paused and gulped to swallow an imaginary something in his throat. then he went on bitterly: "he, no doubt, lives happily--his name respected and his conscience calm! but in the eyes of eternal justice this man stands by this woman's side, or lower still! and in the name of a higher law, in the name of your mothers and sisters, i call upon you to do justice--with pity--to this woman whose life has been the plaything of the man who should stand in her place!" he paused again. his head felt hot and his; feet cold. he knew that he had not used a syllable of his original speech, but words and phrases that he had never dreamed of before leaped to his tongue in battalions. his voice, that had been hoarse and uncertain at the opening, was now true to every changing note of his heart. without looking in their direction he was conscious that helene and rose were crying. from the audience he heard the strained coughing of "men and the muffled weeping of women. he glanced toward the bench and saw, with vague wonder, his father's bowed and shaking figure. his eloquence had even moved that iron judge, he thought! he could not know the agony of which he was the author! he could not dream that the generous wrath that flamed up from his pure heart had made his tongue a lash for his father's soul! noel, watching and listening, his eyes shaded by his hand, felt the terrible torture of his friend, and twice he rose as if he would interrupt the boy's bitter arraignment of his father. but raymond swept on with his speech. "in the course of the eloquent address for the prosecution my friend reminded us that murder might sometimes be worthy of forgiveness, and that the wave of passion which causes murder sometimes excuses it. "gentlemen, i ask you on your consciences_--is this woman guilty_? does she deserve punishment for wiping out of existence the pestilent criminal who was threatening the happiness of the one person she loved? does this unfortunate woman deserve punishment for the silence she has kept heroically to save her name from scandal--and for whom? for the sake of another! "no, gentlemen, a thousand times--_no!_ attire mere thought my heart cries out in protest! and you will, i know, gentlemen, share my emotion--and my conviction! "gentlemen of the jury, my cause is just, and the verdict will bear witness to its justice! i await it without fear! were you to find my client guilty--even with extenuating circumstances--your verdict would only prove that i have not been equal to my task! "and i should never cease to regret my lack of ability to make you feel those sentiments and convictions which bid me declare in a loud voice, with my hand upon my heart_--this woman is not guilty_!" chapter xxii madame x speaks the speech was over. for a moment there was an awed hush. then raymond dropped heavily into his chair--exhausted and limp. his body lay half-way across the table, his face buried in his arms. he did not know until it was all over what the effort had cost in nervous force. a listless indifference and the feeling that he had failed came as a reaction to the exaltation of a moment before. a quivering sigh swept through the room, followed by sounds of snuffling and the violent blowing of noses! and the spell was broken. the president drew a long breath and was turning to address the jury when there was an unexpected interruption. victor chouquet, who probably alone of those in the courtroom had been unmoved--for the reason that he couldn't understand--had had time to look around him with boorish curiosity. he had seen two men who, while they were dry-eyed, were listening with the appreciation of experts. "excuse me, m. the president!" he cried, in his high drawl. the president started. "who is speaking?" "i, m. the president!" and victor rose. the judge glanced at him impatiently. "have you anything else to say?" "yes, m. the president." "well? you may speak." victor did not lose any time. it had taken his dull mind some fifteen or twenty minutes to connect cause and effect, and he was ready. he turned and pointed along the front of the benches to the spot where the partners in confidential missions were seated. "those two over there came to the hotel and asked for m. laroque before the boat came in," he said. "they came back and saw him after he arrived, and i took them up to his room. they went out with m. laroque and stayed a long time. he came back about fifteen or twenty minutes before the murder was committed." the judges and court officers gazed sharply at the two men, who were trying to conceal themselves behind the other spectators. "this is important!" muttered the president "have you anything else to say?" "no, monsieur," replied victor, resuming his seat. "usher, bring those two men to the bar!" commanded the president. "i have discretionary powers to question them as witnesses, although they have not previously been summoned--and i will use it." the "confidential agents" looked nervously around the room as if seeking some way of escape as the usher advanced on them. "for pity's sake, be careful!" whispered perissard, anxiously. "keep your mouth shut and leave it to me!" "don't worry! i won't say a word!" replied his colleague in the same tone. "gentlemen, if you please, this way!" cried the usher from the railing. as they came into the enclosure the president thought of something. "let one of them step forward and the other be taken to the waiting-room," he ordered. with another quick warning look at his confrère, m. perissard walked up to the witness-stand while a gendarme escorted the other out behind the dock. with one hand resting lightly on the railing in front of the witness-stand and the other nursing his immaculate silk hat, m. perissard surveyed the judges and jury with an oily, benevolent smile. "your name and surname?" demanded the president. "perissard--robert henri!" replied the witness in his most unctuous tones, accompanying the answer with a half-bow. "your age?" "fifty-nine years, m. the president!" "your profession," continued the judge. "confidential missions," was the reply, with another bend. "your address?" "no. rue fribourg, paris." "tell us what you know about the murder of laroque!" the president commanded, and leaned back in his chair. m. perissard's manner had not deceived him in the slightest measure. he knew the breed; and, knowing that the witness was a shrewd man, he tried to put him at a disadvantage by making him tell the story without questions. but m. perissard knew the danger of that system of examination as well as did the president. "i know nothing about it at all, m. the president!" he declared earnestly. "i know absolutely nothing! and i cannot understand----" "did you know laroque?" interrupted the judge, abruptly. m. perissard shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "i used to know him years ago in paris," he admitted, with a fine air of candor. "about six months ago i received a letter from him asking for work. i offered him a place in my office, and i went to see him when he arrived. that's all!" something familiar in the sound of his voice brought floriot out of the stupor that succeeded the agony he had suffered. he raised his haggard face from his hands and met m. perissard's eyes fixed upon him. he recognized him at once. "did you come from paris to bordeaux on purpose to see him?" pursued the examiner. "no, m. the president, i had to come to bordeaux to start a branch of my paris house here." "is that the reason of your coming here to-day?" m. perissard paused and fixed his glance slowly and meaningly on the president of the toulouse court, over the judge's shoulder. "no, m. the president," he said with deliberation. "i came to bordeaux on a special matter of business, the business of one of my clients--a very delicate affair! it concerns the honor of a well-known family, and i hope to carry it through successfully. i am honorably known in my profession, and my clients know that they can always reckon_--always_ reckon, i repeat--on my entire discretion!" "what did you say to laroque in the course of your conversation with him?" continued the president. "nothing much, nothing much!" m. perissard assured him, with an offhand gesture. "it was a business talk, in which i gave him a few general instructions about the work of my office. that is all!" "you do not know anything about the shooting?" "not a thing, m. the president!" was the emphatic reply. "do you know the prisoner?" m. perissard turned and gave jacqueline a long and careful scrutiny, as if he were not certain that he had ever seen her before. "i saw her with laroque," he said at last, "but i do not know who she is." "you may----" began the president and stopped with a start. the prisoner was slowly rising. her body was tense, and she leaned forward out of the dock with one rigid arm pointing at perissard. with the black garb, livid face, and burning eyes and the clawlike hand pointing at the witness--whose fat pink cheeks had suddenly paled--she was like some uncanny sibyl about to launch a curse. "but _i_ know _you_!" she cried in a hoarse voice that carried to the farthest corner. "_you are the real cause of the murder!_" in a moment the audience was on its feet. "i! i!" cried the blackmailer, stepping back with well-feigned astonishment while the usher hammered at his desk and shouted for order. but even the president was too much absorbed in the sudden dramatic development to heed the excitement in the court. "yes, _you_!" she repeated, stabbing at him with her stiff forefinger. "you found out that i was married and that i had left my husband, and you advised laroque to find him and ask him for the money that i brought him on my marriage!" m. perissard had been in many a tight place--in many a situation where self-possession and nerve had saved him--and he quickly recovered from the shock of the denunciation. ignoring the excitement that had upset the decorum of the court he turned to the president and said suavely: "m. the president, laroque told me during our conversation that his wife had had typhoid fever hast year and that her brain had suffered." but the woman was not to be silenced by such a trick. "i nearly died last year, and my head was shaved," she said, slowly, turning and looking straight at floriot, who was watching her with grief-stricken eyes. "that is why those who used to know me cannot recognize me now!" floriot hid his face in his hands and shuddered. noel, white-faced, was gripping the railing in front of him with both hands. "but i am not mad!" she cried, her voice rising to a shrill note as she faced perissard once more. "i begged and prayed laroque not to follow your hateful advice, and he refused to listen to me. as i would not run the risk of his seeing and speaking to my son, _i killed him_!" muttered imprecations and half-smothered exclamations of anger swept through the court, and the throng heaved forward against the railings. raymond sprang up into the dock and with one arm around the woman's waist and the other resting on the arm nearest him, he gently forced her down into her chair once more. the usher pounded his desk and the gendarmes struggled to push the crowd back from the railing. it was several minutes before order was restored, but the president, hastily consulting his confrères on the bench, paid no heed. "you may go!" he said, when the room had reached almost its normal semi-hush and the voices had dropped into excited whisperings. "call the other witness!" m. perissard started hurriedly for the door, but at a signal from m. valmorin the gendarmes stopped him. "no, m. perissard," said the prosecutor. "do not leave the court, if you please. we may want you again." "the presiding judge said i could go, and i have important business!" protested the blackmailer. "and i ask you to stay!" repeated m. valmorin, firmly. "kindly sit down!" he was escorted, muttering and grumbling, to the witnesses' bench. "i really don't understand! it's disgraceful!" he fumed. "i was not regularly cited--article of the code of criminal instruction. it's a shame!" but no one paid any further attention to him, excepting a few jurors and the nearest of the spectators, who favored him with curious and unpleasant glances. the usher brought m. merivel to the stand. he came with mincing steps, and many bows, and a confident smirk on his fat, heavy face. the president eyed him with rather more dislike than he had shown for the other partner. "your name and surname!" he commanded, curtly. "merivel--modiste hyacinthe!" replied the junior partner, in his blandest professional tones. "your age?" "fifty-two years, m. the president!" "your profession?" "confidential missions!" replied m. merivel, with an obsequious tow. "your address!" demanded the judge. "no. rue st. denis, paris." "what do you know about the murder of laroque?" m. merivel threw open his hands and drew himself up. "nothing. m. the president!" he declared. "nothing?" questioned the judge with a frown. "nothing whatever!" m. merivel assured him with much earnestness. "did you know laroque?" was the next question. "no, m. the president," was the prompt reply. "had you never seen him?" "never!" exclaimed the witness, without hesitation. some one tittered and m. perissard cursed his colleague heartily under his breath. "you did not go to see him in his room at the hotel of the three crowns on april d?" "no, m. the president!" replied m. merivel, with a solemn shake of the head. a ripple of laughter ran along the benches and m. merivel began to perspire. his glance wavered before the president's stern eye. "be careful! the hotel people saw you!" he warned. m. merivel glanced uneasily at his partner for a cue, but perissard was afraid to give him a sign. "they must have made a mistake, m. the president!" he said, at last, with a great assumption of firmness. "oh, what an ass!" growled his partner fiercely. m. valmorin rose suddenly. "m. the president," he said, "the attitude of these two men is distinctly suspicious, and, by virtue of article of the code of criminal instruction, i ask you to order their immediate arrest for perjury!" m. perissard bounded up with agility that fitted strangely with his corpulent figure. "look here!" he shouted angrily, "it isn't my fault if that fool----" "who are you calling a fool?" demanded his partner, advancing belligerently. "gendarmes, remove those two men!" commanded the president. "i protest----" began m. merivel, loudly, holding up his hand. "you have no right to do this! it is perfectly----" stormed the other. "take them away!" interrupted the judge. "i'll have my revenge!" foamed m. merivel, in a voice that made the chairs tremble, as the gendarmes laid hold of him. "shut your mouth, you d----d idiot!" roared the other. "i'll write to the papers! i'll----" and struggling, and threatening, cursing the court and each other, they were dragged off to be held on charges of perjury, while the crowd hissed them out. and this, it may be remarked here, ended their long careers of crookedness. merivel was convicted of perjury, but the case against the senior partner could not be made to hold. merivel was so enraged when the other was acquitted that he turned state's evidence and gave m. valmorin the history of some of perissard's "deals," with the result that both were sent to prison for long terms. when the excitement attending the exit of the pair had subsided the president made one last appeal to the prisoner before giving the case to the jury. "woman laroque," he said, gently, with a slight hesitation at the name, "have you anything to say in your defense? tell the truth and the whole truth!" to his astonishment, the woman slowly rose. a hush of eager expectancy fell over the room. looking straight before her into the dead wall she began in a low, uncertain tone. "my counsel has said all that could be said. i shall never forget his words, and i thank him from my heart!" the voice trembled and stopped. "he was right!" she went on, unsteadily, her hands tightly clutching the desk as she struggled for control. "i was not naturally bad! a coward broke my life and made me what i have become!" the president heard a muffled groan behind him where his guest was sitting, but he did not take; his eyes off the woman's face. "i had wronged him, i admit, but i was sorry--and hated myself for my fault. i begged his pardon--begged for it on my knees! and he told me to go--threw me out into the streets! me! his wife--the mother of his child! "thanks to him i rolled in the gutter! thanks to him i have suffered a thousand deaths_--and i have killed_! i hate him! i hate him!" she cried wildly, her voice shaking with passion. "and with my last breath i will curse his name!" she paused with a gasp and swallowed hard. floriot sat with his face in his hands and his heaving shoulders told the story of his agony. rose and helene, their heads close together, were openly crying, and there were sounds of sobbing and snuffling from all over the room. the jury sat; like twelve men hypnotized. raymond stood looking up into her face, while a hundred emotions swept him. the feeling of pity, the desire to comfort, that had moved him when she pressed his hand, returned with reawakened force. he could not know it--but she dared not glance down at him. "and yet i do not complain," she went on, with a strange note of tenderness. "no, i do not complain! i have a son--a son whom i love, whom i love more than i can say!" once more she paused, and when she spoke again some of the excitement under which she had labored returned. "but he does not know me!" she cried. "the sound of my voice--thank god!--can awaken no echo in his heart! he will never see me again--know nothing of my shame and," she faltered, "his memory of me will be vague and sweet and beautiful; for--when i became--lost to him--he was a child! he is so far--from me--now! but i love him! i worship him! all my heart is his. my one wish--is that he--should be happy--that--ah!" the words ended in a long-drawn sob and she sank into her chair, huddled over the desk. chapter xxiii the verdict eloquent and earnest as had been raymond's impassioned outburst it hardly moved the throng as did the woman's short and broken confession. in the hearts of all men and women who are worthy of the name there is ever pity for a fallen woman; but in this case there was something more than that. pity for the wrecks of vice is often tempered by the instinctive feeling that the lost are mercifully drugged by their own excesses until they are incapable of realizing fully that they have fallen beyond the reach of redemption. but here there was none of that. in that prayer for her son, every mother in the room heard a mother crying out to her across an unbridgeable gulf--every man knew that the woman's soul was writhing under the torture of seeing herself as she was; and the soft weeping and the pressed lips and shining eyes were eloquent of their emotion. even the old president felt the spell, and it was with an effort that he took his eyes off the bowed figure with raymond bending over it and turned to address the jury. at his first words--delivered tin a matter-of-fact "legal" tone--a rustle and stir ran over the benches. it was over. "gentlemen of the jury," he said, "you have to answer this question: is the prisoner guilty of the murder committed on april d, on the body of her lover, frederick laroque? if the majority of you believe that the prisoner is guilty or not guilty, your verdict will be worded accordingly. "if the majority of you believe, on the other hand, that there are extenuating circumstances, you are to give your verdict in these words: "'the majority of the jurors believe that there are extenuating circumstances in favor of the prisoner.' "i point out to you that your vote must be a secret one. kindly withdraw to the jury-room. the court is rising!" as he spoke he rose, accompanied by the ether' judges and moved toward the door of his private room, opening off the "bank." the usher pounded his desk. "the court is rising!" he repeated in a loud tone. with the shuffling of many feet the throng rose and the hum of conversation filled the room. escorted by two gendarmes, jacqueline was taken out to the prisoner's room to await the verdict. floriot, walking like a drunken man, went out with m. valmorin to the latter's little office. noel tried to reach him, but he disappeared before he could cross the court. dr. chennel followed him and raymond suddenly stopped them, returning from the door of the prisoner's room, where he had accompanied the woman. the big hall was practically deserted. helene had quickly recovered from her emotion in her pride in raymond, but rose wept inconsolably, and the girl led her out to the open air. raymond eagerly seized the hands of his father's friends. "do you think she will get off, doctor?" he asked, quickly. "i hope so," responded the surgeon with an affectionate smile; "and if she does, she may i thank you, my boy!" "is that so?" he exclaimed, with a pleased little laugh and nervous toss of his head. "i thought i was awfully bad!" "and i thought you were marvelous!" rejoined noel, with unmistakable meaning. he was looking curiously at the young man's flushed and handsome face. "oh, come now!" protested raymond. "i mean it. you reached me--and not only me!" he added half to himself. raymond shook his hand with hearty gratitude. "it's awfully good of you to tell me these things," he said, "and i'm mighty proud of one thing! do you know that i made my father cry? i did, for a fact! 'the man of bronze,' some one told me they call him! i managed to glance at him a couple of times, and i'm sure he was crying! "now, that's a success, you know! for a young fellow like me to make the presiding judge of another criminal court cry over his first speech is pretty good, whether the young lawyer is the judge's son or not! "my, but i was nervous! that poor woman completely upset me. you remember when she called out and nearly fainted?" the others nodded. "yes," said noel. "you turned around and looked up and spoke to her, i think." "exactly!" raymond rattled on, excitedly. "i put my hand on the edge of the rail and she took hold of it, and pressed it, and--do you know, i forgot all about my speech, and everything else? it's a fact! she looked at me in the most extraordinary way!" he paused a moment and then went on soberly, with a vague, puzzled look in his dark eyes. "she drew me toward her, somehow. i don't know how to explain it to you. i wanted to take her in my arms and console her and kiss her--yes, kiss her! kind of foolish, eh?" he added, with a quick smile. "queer sort of a lawyer who'd want to kiss his clients, isn't it? but i swear that's what i did want! it was one of the most extraordinary sensations i have ever felt, and it upset me so that i caught myself talking for a full minute without knowing what i was saying. luckily, i sort of got hold of myself, and--and--i'm almighty glad it's all over. ah, here comes the president of the toulouse court!" his few minutes in m. valmorin's office had partially restored floriot's steel nerves. he took a drink of water and gently put aside the prosecutor's solicitous questions, and then he hurried out to find his son, knowing that the boy would feel hurt if he was not among the first to congratulate him. but his white, lined face and haggard eyes bore witness to the terrible suffering of the recent ordeal. raymond hastened forward a few steps to meet him. "thank you, my boy, thank you!" said floriot unsteadily, as he gripped his son's hand. "it was a noble speech!" then he dropped wearily into a chair. raymond stared at him, startled. "why, is anything the matter, father?" he cried, stepping quickly over to his side. floriot raised his hand as if to motion him away. "no! nothing, nothing!" he replied. "i think mademoiselle valmorin wants to speak to you, raymond," interrupted noel, hurriedly. the young man threw a quick look up toward the benches and saw that helene had returned and was trying to telegraph him with her eyes. a father's claims must always yield to a lover's, and with a lingering glance at the figure in the chair, raymond hurried off to his sweetheart's, side. noel put his hand under floriot's arm and drew him off to a corner by the bench, where they were partially hidden, while dr. chennel did sentry duty in the background. "you recognized her, of course?" said floriot, in a low broken voice, without meeting his friend's eye. noel nodded, but did not speak. "there's no doubt about it!" went on his friend. "it is jacqueline, and this is what she has become! this is my work! jacqueline! jacqueline!" he groaned, piteously. "what are you going to do?" demanded noel. the effort to control himself made his voice sound hard. floriot shook his head miserably. "i don't know!" he groaned. "what do you think?" "it doesn't seem to me," retorted noel, bitterly, "that this is exactly a time for thinking! if she should be convicted, maybe it would be better to let things take their natural course and never let raymond know who she was. but if she is acquitted, you will have to tell him, and we will have to do what we can to--to--wipe out twenty years!" floriot's only reply for a moment was a dry sob. then: "how can i tell him--_now_! god!" he cried, "he will add his curses to hers! i will lose him! i----" the sharp clang of a bell broke in. noel started, it was the signal that the court was coming in. "already!" he exclaimed. "the jury didn't take long!" he hastily gripped his friend's hand as the door of the president's room opened, and pushed him toward his seat. "keep your heart, old man!" he added, kindly. "we'll come through all right!" raymond brushed against him as he walked back to his seat. his ears were singing with helene's whispers. "it's a good sign, isn't it?" he said in low, eager tones. noel nodded and passed outside the railing. the crowd was swarming in from both doors, and by the time the judges had comfortably settled themselves the hall was packed once more. the jury filed slowly into the box and sat down. the usher rapped for silence. there was not a sound in the court when the president solemnly commanded: "gentlemen of the jury, give your verdict!" the foreman, a round-faced, dry-goods salesman, plainly oppressed by the importance of his position, rose, and, with his right hand over his heart, declared, in husky tones: "on my honor and on my conscience, before god and before men, the declaration of the jury is: "no, the prisoner is not guilty!" a gasp swept across the hall, and then the great throng burst into a cheer. men sprang up and slapped each other on the back, and women, with tear-stained faces, frantically waved their limp handkerchiefs. rose gave helene a convulsive hug, and it was returned with interest. sergeant fontaine so far forgot his official reserve as to seize victor's hand and shake it with enthusiasm, while he twisted his mustache violently with the other. raymond was trying to combine the dignity of an advocate with an expression of rapturous delight. the usher hammered his desk and the gendarmes shouted for order. only floriot sat with bowed head, and noel watched him under the hand that shaded his eyes. evidently feeling that the shortest way was the quickest, the president ordered the usher to bring in the prisoner. as soon as the door opened and the woman walked slowly in between the gendarmes, the din fell away to a tense hush. there was a spot of color in her cheeks that had not been there before, and her eyes were wilder. dr. chennel gazed at her with close scrutiny. "she has a very high fever!" he whispered to noel. the latter nodded, without turning his head. "clerk of the court, read the declaration of the jury!" commanded the president. the clerk, who had been busily writing out that document in the form prescribed, rose with the paper in his hand and read, in a droning monotone: "the declaration of the jury is: no, the prisoner is not guilty. in consequence whereof the court proclaims the prisoner's innocence of the crime of which she is accused, orders her acquittal, and orders that she be immediately set at liberty, unless there be other reason for her detention. the court is risen!" the last words were lost in a frightful shriek from the prisoner. "_no! no! no_!" she screamed, struggling in the grip of the two guards as she tried to throw herself out of the dock. "_let me die! i want to, die! i want to die!_" in an instant the court was again in an uproar with oaths, cries of anger, and shrieks of women. the crowd swept forward to the railing. "clear the court!" roared the president; and the gendarmes threw themselves into the press, driving the packed men and women toward the exits. the din was terrific, and above it all rose jacqueline's screams. "_i want to die! i want to die!_" raymond was the first to reach her, closely fol lowed by dr. chennel and noel, and then floriot "_for god's sake_! _doctor! help her_!" he cried. chapter xxiv the guttering flame as the rear of the hysterical mob was driven from the hall and the doors locked, jacqueline collapsed into her chair, unconscious. at the same moment the president hurried up, pulling on his street coat. "carry her into my room!" he commanded. the two muscular gendarmes picked her up, chair and all, and carried her into the little dressing-room. then, with a sign, he dismissed them and immediately followed himself, leaving the little party alone. leaving helene in her father's care, rose followed the solemn little procession into the president's room. dr. chennel met her at the door and gave her a few hasty orders as to medicine, and she hurried away. then he turned to the patient. in a moment he had noel administering smelling salts and raymond moistening her temples with cologne, which he produced from his emergency tag. floriot, with white, compressed lips and frightened eyes, stood watching as the doctor felt her pulse, listened with ear to her heart, and turned back the lids of the sightless eyes. floriot was the first to speak. "is she--in danger?" he whispered, brokenly. the doctor slowly shook his head. "i can't tell yet," he replied, without taking his eyes off her face. "her heart is undoubtedly badly affected. it is worn out--like the rest of her. my great fear is that she may die of utter exhaustion." floriot turned away with an inarticulate groan. "doctor! i think she moved just now!" exclaimed noel. the doctor was watching her face keenly. "yes, she's coming around all right," he nodded. "this crisis is over, but----" he shrugged his shoulders. the dark eyelids trembled and slowly opened. there was a long, fluttering sigh. dr. chennel bent over. "how do you feel now?" he asked. she swallowed slowly once or twice, and looked listlessly at the circle of faces around her. floriot was standing where he could not be seen. "not well," she murmured, feebly. "i'm all broken up. i--don't--seem to have--any strength. where am i?" "in the law courts--in the president's room," replied chennel. she started, as if to rise. "the president's!" she gasped. her brain was still hazy, but she could think of only one president. noel seemed to divine something of what was in her mind, for he threw floriot in the background a look that said: "leave this to me!" floriot opened the door and stumbled out. at an imperative gesture from noel, raymond followed him. when the door had closed behind them, noel bent over until his lips all but touched the woman's ear. "jacqueline!" he murmured. she looked up at him with dull eyes. "who are you?" she asked, indifferently. "you seem to know my name--who are you?" he looked steadily and tenderly into her eyes. "don't you remember me?" she shook her head. "but i'm sure you haven't altogether forgotten me!" he insisted, gently. she studied his face for several moments and then recognition slowly dawned in her eyes. "wait a minute! but--no, it's impossible! it can't be!" she cried, excitedly. dr. chennel tactfully stepped back to the opposite side of the little room. "little jenny wren!" whispered noel. "_noel! noel! you!_" she cried, clutching his arm and looking hungrily up into his face. "yes, it's noel!" he smiled. she seized his hand and pressed it again and again to her cheek. "oh, thank god! thank god!" she sobbed. "i'm no longer alone! noel! noel! noel!" "are you really as glad as all that to see me again, jennie wren?" he whispered, tenderly. he sat on the arm of the chair and she clung to him as if she were afraid he might disappear as suddenly as he had come. "noel! noel! pity me! pity me!" she sobbed. he gently laid his fingers across her lips. "don't talk of pity!" he whispered. "everything is forgotten!" "ah! as if i could ever forget!" she moaned. "of course, you can!" he cried, cuddling her up close to him. "it was all a nightmare, and you're awake now. don't cry, jacqueline, don't cry! we're all together again, and we'll all be happy together and your son----" jacqueline tore herself away from him with a frightened cry and tried to rise. "raymond!" she gasped. "has any one told him? does he know?" "no! no! he doesn't know anything yet!" noel assured her hastily. but the dread of meeting her son and having him know her was too strong. she still struggled to rise, but was too weak. "is he here?" she panted. "he mustn't see me! oh, let me go away! let me go away!" she got half-way out of her chair, but fell back exhausted. dr. chennel stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. "you will be able to go presently, madame," he said, quietly. "your strength will come back to you shortly." jacqueline glanced at him eagerly. "you are a doctor, aren't you?" she panted. "yes," he replied, with a nod. "don't excite yourself and i'll cure you in a few minutes, for can have perfect confidence in me. i am a friend of your son--a friend of raymond!" "oh! then--you know----" "yes, i know everything," he interrupted, gravely. "but he will never know, doctor, will he?" she asked, feverishly, gripping his hand. "no, he shall know nothing at all," he assured. "promise me! promise me!" she cried. "i promise!" he repeated. she released his hand and sank back with a piteous sob. "i have nothing left--to me now--but my memories of him," she wept, "and his thoughts of what he believes me to have been. i want him to love me always! always!--ah--h--h!" she closed her eyes and hid her face as the door opened; but it was only rose with the medicine, on a little tray with a tumbler of water and a teaspoon. "quick, rose, here!" ordered the doctor, sharply. he quickly mixed some of the stimulant with the water and held the tumbler to her lips. she drank a little and presently revived. "doctor," she said, faintly. "i believe i'm going to die!" "nonsense! don't be foolish!" laughed the doctor. rose broke into sobs and jacqueline recognized her, and the next moment mistress and maid were in each other's arms. they kissed and wept over each other for a minute or two and then noel cried lightly: "there you are! now let's not have any more nonsense about dying!" while noel kept up a running fire of pleasant chat in an effort to revive jacqueline's spirits, dr. chennel drew rose off to one side of the room. "where is m. floriot?" he asked, in a low undertone. "just outside--with m. raymond," replied rose. "tell him not to go away!" rose looked up at him quickly and her cheeks paled. "do you--think that----" she stopped short. the expression of his eyes gave her the answer. "hush!" he whispered. "it is only a question of time--and a short time!" rose slipped out and he returned to his patient in time to hear noel reorganizing her wardrobe, with much laughter, and making plans for a trip to the country. she was smiling faintly, but the smile faded when he made her take some more of the bitter medicine. "tastes rather horrible, eh?" he said with a smile, "but you feel better, don't you?" "yes, thank you," answered jacqueline, weakly. "i don't suffer at all. it's my strength--i feel so--weak!" "your strength will come back fast enough!" he assured her heartily. "i'll tell you what we'll do! i shall take you to my house in biarritz! there i can look after you comfortably and easily, and you'll be around in no time!" "oh, doctor!" she cried, a grateful catch in her voice. "you are too kind! but it's impossible. i should be in the way." "not the least bit in the world!" he replied briskly. "the house is a big comfortable sort of a barn. i live there all alone, excepting an elderly sister, and she will be only too happy to have you. you'll be with friends there; for, although you don't know it, my sister and i have been your friends for a long time." "my friends?" she repeated, with a little questioning smile. "he saved raymond's life, you know," explained noel, quickly. the expression of jacqueline's face altered in a moment to one of unutterable gratitude. she seized his hand and kissed it passionately. "doctor, i--i--cannot thank you!" she murmured brokenly. the doctor gently disengaged his hand and stepped back, turning his face away. the pity of the scene had all but overcome the well-schooled emotions of the man of medicine. "he and his sister did all they could to console floriot," whispered noel; "the poor chap was broken-hearted." noel felt the limp figure stiffen at the mention of the hated name. "not as broken-hearted as i was!" she exclaimed, bitterly. "how do you know, jacqueline? 'judge not, lest ye be judged,'" he quoted softly. "i have been judged!" she replied in the same hard undertone. "he drove me out of his house like a dog!" noel was silent for a moment; and when he spoke his voice was vibrant with the emotion that the memory of that terrible night awoke. "i was there that day, jacqueline, after you had gone," he said. "i saw his grief--and his repentance. i heard him curse his anger and his pride. and since then he--we have searched the world for you. for twenty years he has not had a thought that was not of you, and in those twenty years he has never known peace or happiness. ah! jacqueline, dearest, i believe he has suffered even more than you have!" "he had his son and i had nobody!" was the bitter reply. and as if her words had been a call to him, the door was thrown violently open and raymond dashed headlong into the room. chapter xxv "while the lamp holds out to burn----" when floriot and raymond passed out of the little room, the former dropped heavily into one of the big empty armchairs on the bank where the judges had sat a short time before. raymond gazed at him anxiously. his face was buried in his hands and he made no sound. "what's the matter, father?" asked the young man, laying his hand on the quivering shoulder. but still his father did not speak. he was trying to nerve himself up to meet the hour that he had dreaded for years. the time for delay was past. he believed that jacqueline would live only a few hours and he dared not let raymond's mother die and have him learn afterward that he had been! robbed of his one chance to speak to her and know. he felt that raymond might possibly forgive anything but that. with an effort he raised his haggard eyes to his son's and took the boy's hand in his. "my boy," he said, his voice hoarse and trembling with emotion, "i must tell you something unbelievably terrible. i know--how you have loved me and looked up to me--as the sort of man you want to be. when you've heard--what i must tell you now--you will curse god for making me your father!" "father!" cried the boy in horror, throwing his arm around his neck. "father! what----" but floriot gently pushed him away and silenced him with a gesture. "your mother--is not dead!" he faltered. the words struck the color from raymond's face and he almost staggered back and stared at his father with terrified eyes. "not dead!" he repeated in a dull whisper. floriot shook his head. "when you were hardly a year old she left--me!" he said. the boy started forward with a cry that was something between a choke and a sob. "wait!" commanded his father, hoarsely. "it was my fault! i didn't know her--i didn't understand her! my neglect drove her to it. she went off with a lover!" raymond pressed his hands to his face and crouched against the broad desk as if the blow had physically crushed him. "but there is worse than that!" cried floriot, rising. "she came back to me and begged for forgiveness. she groveled at my feet and pleaded for mercy! she made me see that i shared the blame of her fall! but my cheap, foolish pride conquered every other feeling--every instinct of pity, every impulse of nobility! and i threw her out into the street!" the boy straightened up with a sob of anguish. "and--and--what became--of her?" he panted. floriot's left hand went up to his throat as if he felt himself choking. he turned his head away, and with a terrible effort raised his other hand, pointed to the door of the president's room and gasped brokenly: "_she is there! that woman--is--your mother_!" raymond swayed on his feet and his father's rigid figure swam in a haze before his eyes. his, mother! that woman his mother! in the hundred emotions that swept him in the ghost of a second only one was missing--shame for her stained body and blackened soul. his heart--starved all its life--quivered with a joy that was almost pain at the thought at last it would feel the love of even such a mother, as the lost and parched wanderer in the desert falls with a prayer of thanksgiving at the edge of a brackish pool. with a choking cry of _"mother_!" he stumbled blindly to the door. the instant he rushed into the room, dr. chennel and noel saw what had happened, and the former was in front of him in a stride. "be careful!" he warned, in a stern whisper that brought the boy to his senses like a dash of cold water. "any strong excitement may be too? much for her!" he gripped raymond's arm and held him until he saw that he had nearly recovered control of himself, and then, with another whisper of "remember!" he released him. "yes, yes! i understand!" exclaimed raymond in the same tone, holding himself with a mighty effort. "i'll control myself! she sha'n't know!" noel was administering a little more of the stimulant as he advanced. he gave raymond a warning look as, with a gasp of terror, jacqueline attempted to rise. the young man seemed not to notice her agitation, and with a bright smile he cried: "well, my dear client, are you better?" "oh, it's nothing!" dr. chennel answered for her. "just a little fit of the nerves which, after all, is quite natural!" "that's all right!" cried raymond, heartily. "i didn't want to leave the court without asking' how you were." her eyes ran hungrily over his graceful but muscular figure, and the pale, handsome face. "you--are--very good!" she murmured, uncertainly. noel signalled the doctor with his eyes, and they went out softly, leaving the door ajar. raymond briskly pulled a chair up close beside his mother's and went on in the same light tone. "and i couldn't go without thanking you!" he said. she smiled into his face, but there was still a trace of alarm in her eyes. "thanking _me_?" she repeated. "of course!" replied raymond. "why, i owe my first success to you! to-day has brought me the greatest joy of my life!" "but if you thank me, what can i say to you?" she asked, her voice trembling with tenderness. he smiled back at her. "tell me that you are glad," he suggested she gazed into his eyes with her heart in hers. "yes, i am glad--very glad--almost happy!" she said, in a low, vibrant voice. "but i did not dare hope for the happiness that has come to me to-day!" her strength did, indeed, seem to be returned rapidly. her voice was surer, her eyes sparkled, and there was a fleck of color in her cheeks. raymond felt his lips tremble and he fought with a desire to throw himself into her arms. it was several seconds before he trusted himself to speak. then: "i hope i won't tire you," he said, politely. "before i go, don't you think we might have a little chat? you haven't spoiled me much in that respect, have you?" he added, with a sudden smile. "you are my first client and i hardly know you!" she reached out and touched his arm in quick apology. "you must forgive me for having received you so rudely," she said. raymond laughed. "you didn't receive me at all, as a matter of fact," he declared. "but i wasn't angry. i said to myself, 'she probably finds me too young, or has no confidence in me, or--or----'" his eyes dropped and in a lower tone he added, "or she doesn't think--she would like me." he felt a sudden, almost painful pressure on his arm. "ah! don't think that!" she pleaded, quickly. "but i was so sad--so despairingly sad!" raymond raised his eyes to her face. "and now?" he half whispered. "and now--thanks to you!--i am almost happy!" "it makes me happy to hear you say so! do you know," he went on, hitching up his chair in a confidential manner, "i felt the deepest sympathy for you from the first!" "really?" she smiled. "it's a fact!" he declared, with an energetic nod. "from the start; for i was sure you were unhappy, and surer still that you should not have been unhappy. i wanted to console you--to tell you to pluck up your courage--to convince you that i was not only your counsel but your friend--a true and sincere friend!" "if i had only known--if i had only known!" murmured the woman, with a sharp catch in her voice. it cost raymond an effort to continue in his bright, boyish tones; but he succeeded. "i made myself a promise that i would win your case for you," he went on; "that i would work it out with all my might! as you wouldn't give me your secret, i made up my mind i would guess it, and you see--i succeeded! i made the truth clear, and every heart in the court felt for you. now you are free!--free to go to the son you love so dearly! promise me," his voice trembled, "promise me that you will not forget me altogether!" her eyes were misty with tears and her face quivered. "forget you! forget you!" she cried, brokenly. raymond turned his face away. "i know i shall always remember you!" he said in a low voice, as one making a sacred vow. with a half-cry, half-sob she struggled to her feet. he had promised to spare her the pain of knowing that he knew her to be a mother, but even that paled beside the agony of feeling his presence within touch of her hands, and knowing that she must never clasp him to her heart. "i must go--i must go away!" she panted feverishly. but before raymond could rise, her weakened limbs had collapsed and she sank back into her chair. "and i cannot!" she moaned, her hands pressed to her eyes. "please don't go!" he pleaded, laying his hand lightly on her arm. at the touch of his fingers she straightened up with a gasp. "before you go," she said, in a piteous half-whisper, "i should like to give you some little trifle as a keepsake, but i have absolutely nothing. but you can be sure that as long as i live--as long--as my heart beats and--my breath lasts--i will never forget you!" an impulse that he could not resist moved raymond to reach out and take her fingers in his. "give me your hand!" he said. his voice quivered and the woman could feel him tremble. "do you remember during the trial just now," he went on unsteadily as he slowly bent toward her, "when i turned toward you, you took my hand and pressed it? i--i could feel your eyes--looking into my very heart! i--i--wanted then--to take you in my arms--and press you to my heart!" her wild eyes closed and her body was rigid and tense. "will you--won't you--won't you kiss me--_mother_?" the words rushed out in a sob as he slid from the chair to his knees by her side. with a cry that was more than human and strength that was more than a woman's, she flung her arms around his neck, crushed his dark head to her bosom and rained kisses on his eyes and hair and lips and brow.... "oh, my raymond! my darling! my darling boy!" she sobbed again and again, and his face was wet with her tears.... "it is too much! ah, god! i can't stand this joy! my raymond! my little laddie!..." minute after minute passed and there was no sound but jacqueline's quick breathing. "are you in pain, mother?" he murmured tenderly, trying to lift his head. he could feel against his cheek that the tumultuous beating of her heart suddenly died away to an unsteady flutter. "no, no, dear!" she whispered, faintly. "don't go! don't move! how--did you--know----?" "father just told me, mother mine!" he replied, softly, nestling his head into the hollow where it had not lain for twenty-three years. "he told me all that you had suffered. but it is over now. we'll forget those long years of separation--together!" her reply was a long, delicious hug and a dozer? soft kisses. there was another silence. then raymond spoke, a little timidly: "fath--my father is waiting, mother. won't you see him?" she smiled down into his upturned face, but there was a strange dimness in her eyes and his voice sounded far away. "yes, yes!" came in a faint whisper. "tell him--to come--quickly!" he gave her a long kiss, sprang up and ran out into the courtroom. she half-rose and stretched out her hand for the glass of medicine but could not reach it. "raymond!" she tried to call, but her lips barely framed the word. there was a roaring in her ears that might have been the roar of the unknown sea, and a mist before her eyes that might have been the mist upon its waters.... raymond ran in, closely followed by the three older men. "hurry, father! she is waiting!" he stopped. something in the position of the still figure in the chair wiped the words from his lips. dr. chennel advanced quickly, touched the limp hand and stepped back with bowed head. raymond threw himself at her feet with a cry of anguish! "_mother! mother_!" * * * * * in a little churchyard in the valley of vienne, not far from the birthplace of the blessed maid, you may find a slender column of white marble marked with the name "floriot" in large letters. beneath is an inscription which begins: "here lies the body of jacqueline claire gilberte lefevre, the beloved mother of raymond ----." "madame x" had found in death what she had lost in life--love and a name. transcriber's notes: minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected. variant spellings and hyphenations changed when there is a clear majority. other variable and archaic spellings were retained. a list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. judith shakespeare her love affairs and other adventures by william black author of "a daughter of heth," "madcap violet," "a princess of thule," "white wings," "yolande," etc., etc. a. l. burt company, publishers new york judith shakespeare. chapter i. an assignation. it was a fair, clear, and shining morning, in the sweet may-time of the year, when a young english damsel went forth from the town of stratford-upon-avon to walk in the fields. as she passed along by the guild chapel and the grammar school, this one and the other that met her gave her a kindly greeting; for nearly every one knew her, and she was a favorite; and she returned those salutations with a frankness which betokened rather the self-possession of a young woman than the timidity of a girl. indeed, she was no longer in the first sensitive dawn of maidenhood--having, in fact, but recently passed her five-and-twentieth birthday--but nevertheless there was the radiance of youth in the rose-leaf tint of her cheeks, and in the bright cheerfulness of her eyes. those eyes were large, clear, and gray, with dark pupils and dark lashes; and these are a dangerous kind; for they can look demure, and artless, and innocent, when there is nothing in the mind of the owner of them but a secret mirth; and also--and alas!--they can effect another kind of concealment, and when the heart within is inclined to soft pity and yielding, they can refuse to confess to any such surrender, and can maintain, at the bidding of a wilful coquetry, an outward and obstinate coldness and indifference. for the rest, her hair, which was somewhat short and curly, was of a light and glossy brown, with a touch of sunshine in it; she had a good figure, for she came of a quite notably handsome family; she walked with a light step and a gracious carriage; and there were certain touches of style and color about her costume which showed that she did not in the least undervalue her appearance. and so it was "good-morrow to you, sweet mistress judith," from this one and the other; and "good-morrow, friend so-and-so," she would answer; and always she had the brightest of smiles for them as they passed. well, she went along by the church, and over the foot-bridge spanning the avon, and so on into the meadows lying adjacent to the stream. to all appearance she was bent on nothing but deliberate idleness, for she strayed this way and that, stooping to pick up a few wild flowers, and humming to herself as she went. on this fresh and clear morning the air seemed to be filled with sweet perfumes after the close atmosphere of the town; and if it was merely to gather daisies, and cuckoo-flowers, and buttercups, that she had come, she was obviously in no hurry about it. the sun was warm on the rich green grass; the swallows were dipping and flashing over the river; great humble-bees went booming by; and far away somewhere in the silver-clear sky a lark was singing. and she also was singing, as she strayed along by the side of the stream, picking here and there a speedwell, and here and there a bit of self-heal or white dead-nettle; if, indeed that could be called singing that was but a careless and unconscious recalling of snatches of old songs and madrigals. at one moment it was: why, say you so? oh no, no, no; young maids must never a-wooing go. and again it was: come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, jolly hunter! and again it was: for a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year! and in truth she could not have lit upon a sweeter morning than this was; just as a chance passer-by might have said to himself that he had never seen a pleasanter sight than this young english maiden presented as she went idly along the river-side, gathering wild flowers the while. but in course of time, when she came to a part of the avon from which the bank ascended sharp and steep, and when she began to make her way along a narrow and winding foot-path that ascended through the wilderness of trees and bushes hanging on this steep bank, she became more circumspect. there was no more humming of songs; the gathering of flowers was abandoned, though here she might have added a wild hyacinth or two to her nosegay; she advanced cautiously, and yet with an affectation of carelessness; and she was examining, while pretending not to examine, the various avenues and open spaces in the dense mass of foliage before her. apparently, however, this world of sunlight and green leaves and cool shadow was quite untenanted; there was no sound but that of the blackbird and the thrush; she wandered on without meeting any one. and then, as she had now arrived at a little dell or chasm in the wood, she left the foot-path, climbed up the bank, gained the summit, and finally, passing from among the bushes, she found herself in the open, at the corner of a field of young corn. now if any one had noticed the quick and searching look that she flashed all around on the moment of her emerging from the brush-wood--the swiftness of lightning was in that rapid scrutiny--he might have had some suspicion as to the errand that had brought her hither; but in an instant her eyes had recovered their ordinary look of calm and indifferent observation. she turned to regard the wide landscape spread out below her; and the stranger, if he had missed that quick and eager glance, would have naturally supposed that she had climbed up through the wood to this open space merely to have a better view. and indeed this stretch of english-looking country was well worth the trouble, especially at this particular time of the year, when it was clothed in the fresh and tender colors of the spring-time; and it was with much seeming content that this young english maiden stood there and looked abroad over the prospect--at the placid river winding through the lush meadows; at the wooden spire of the church rising above the young foliage of the elms; at here and there in the town a red-tiled house visible among the thatched roofs and gray walls and orchards--these being all pale and ethereal and dream-like in the still sunshine of this quiet morning. it was a peaceful english-looking picture that ought to have interested her, however familiar it may have been; and perhaps it was only to look at it once more that she had made her way up hither; and also to breathe the cool sweet air of the open, and to listen to the singing of the birds, that seemed to fill the white wide spaces of the sky as far as ever she could hear. suddenly she became aware that some one was behind her and near her, and instantly turning, she found before her an elderly man with a voluminous gray beard, who appeared to affect some kind of concealment by the way he wore his hat and his long cloak. "god save you, sweet lady!" he had said, almost before she turned. but if this stranger imagined that by his unlooked-for approach and sudden address he was likely to startle the young damsel out of her self-possession, he knew very little with whom he had to deal. "good-morrow to you, good master wizard," said she, with perfect calmness, and she regarded him from head to foot with nothing beyond a mild curiosity. indeed, it was rather he who was embarrassed. he looked at her with a kind of wonder--and admiration also; and if she had been sufficiently heedful and watchful she might have observed that his eyes, which were singularly dark, had a good deal of animation in them for one of his years. it was only after a second or so of this bewildered and admiring contemplation of her that he managed to say, in a grave and formal voice, something in praise of her courage in thus keeping the appointment he had sought. "nay, good sir," said she, with much complacency, "trouble not yourself about me. there is no harm in going out to gather a few flowers in the field, surely. if there be any danger, it is rather you that have to fear it, for there is the pillory for them that go about the country divining for gold and silver." "it is for no such vain and idle purposes that i use my art," said he; and he regarded her with such an intensity of interest that sometimes he stumbled forgetfully in his speech, as if he were repeating a lesson but ill prepared, "it is for the revelation of the future to them that are born under fortunate planets. and you are one of these, sweet lady, or i would not have summoned you to a meeting that might have seemed perilous to one of less courage and good heart. if it please you to listen, i can forecast that that will befall you----" "nay, good sir," said she, with a smile, "i have heard it frequently, though perhaps never from one so skilled. 'tis but a question between dark and fair, with plenty of money and lands thrown in. for that matter, i might set up in the trade myself. but if you could tell me, now----" "if i were to tell you--if by my art i could show you," said he, with a solemnity that was at least meant to be impressive (though this young maid, with her lips inclining to a smile, and her inscrutable eyes, did not seem much awe-stricken)--"if i could convince you, sweet lady, that you shall marry neither dark nor fair among any of those that would now fain win you--and rumor says there be several of those--what then?" "rumor?" she repeated, with the color swiftly mantling in her face. but she was startled, and she said, quickly, "what do you say, good wizard? not any one that i know? what surety have you of that? is it true? can you show it to me? can you assure me of it? is your skill so great that you can prove to me that your prophecy is aught but idle guessing? no one that i have seen as yet, say you? why," she added half to herself, "but that were good news for my gossip prue." "my daughter," said this elderly person, in slow and measured tones, "it is not to all that the stars have been so propitious at their birth." "good sir," said she, with some eagerness, "i beseech you to forgive me if i attend you not; but--but this is the truth, now, as to how i came in answer to your message to me. i will speak plain. perchance rumor hath not quite belied herself. there may be one or two who think too well of me, and would have me choose him or him to be my lover; and--and--do you see now?--if there were one of those that i would fain have turn aside from idle thoughts of me and show more favor to my dear cousin and gossip prudence shawe--nay, but to tell the truth, good wizard, i came here to seek of your skill whether it could afford some charm and magic that would direct his heart to her. i have heard of such things----" and here she stopped abruptly, in some confusion, for she had in her eagerness admitted a half-belief in the possible power of his witchcraft which she had been careful to conceal before. she had professed incredulity by her very manner; she had almost laughed at his pretensions; she had intimated that she had come hither only out of curiosity; but now she had blundered into the confession that she had cherished some vague hope of obtaining a love-philtre, or some such thing, to transfer away from herself to her friend the affections of one of those suitors whose existence seemed to be so well known to the wizard. however, he soon relieved her from her embarrassment by assuring her that this that she demanded was far away beyond the scope of his art, which was strictly limited to the discovery and revelation of such secrets as still lay within the future. "and if so, good sir," said she, after a moment's reflection, "that were enough, or nearly enough, so that you can convince us of it." "to yourself alone, gracious lady," said he, "can i reveal that which will happen to you. nay, more, so fortunate is the conjunction of the planets that reigned at your birth--the _ultimum supplicium auri_ might almost have been declared to you--that i can summon from the ends of the earth, be he where he may, the man that you shall hereafter marry, or soon or late i know not; if you will, you can behold him at such and such a time, at such and such a place, as the stars shall appoint." she looked puzzled, half incredulous and perplexed, inclined to smile, blushing somewhat, and all uncertain. "it is a temptation--i were no woman else," said she, with a laugh. "nay, but if i can see him, why may not others? and if i can show them him who is to be my worshipful lord and master, why, then, my gossip prue may have the better chance of reaching the goal where i doubt not her heart is fixed. come, then, to prove your skill, good sir. where shall i see him, and when? must i use charms? will he speak, think you, or pass as a ghost? but if he be not a proper man, good wizard, by my life i will have none of him, nor of your magic either." she was laughing now, and rather counterfeiting a kind of scorn; but she was curious; and she watched him with a lively interest as he took forth from a small leather bag a little folded piece of paper, which he carefully opened. "i cannot answer all your questions, my daughter," said he; "i can but proceed according to my art. whether the person you will see may be visible to others i know not, nor can i tell you aught of his name or condition. pray heaven he be worthy of such beauty and gentleness; for i have heard of you, gracious lady, but rumor had but poor words to describe such a rarity and a prize." "nay," said she, in tones of reproof (but the color had mounted to a face that certainly showed no sign of displeasure), "you speak like one of the courtiers now." "this charm," said he, dropping his eyes, and returning to his grave and formal tones, "is worth naught without a sprig of rosemary; that must you get, and you must place it within the paper in a threefold manner--thus; and then, when sol and luna are both in the descendant--but i forget me, the terms of my art are unknown to you; i must speak in the vulgar tongue; and meanwhile you shall see the charm, that there is nothing wicked or dangerous in it, but only the wherewithal to bring about a true lovers' meeting." he handed her the open piece of paper; but she, having glanced at the writing, gave it him back again. "i pray you read it to me," she said. he regarded her for a second with some slight surprise; but he took the paper, and read aloud, slowly, the lines written thereon: "dare you haunt our hallowed green? none but fairies here are seen. down and sleep, wake and weep, pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true, when you come to hear us sing, or to tread our fairy ring, pinch him black, and pinch him blue-- oh, thus our nails shall handle you!" "why, 'tis like what my father wrote about herne the hunter," said she, with a touch of indifference; perhaps she had expected to hear something more weird and unholy. "please you, forget not the rosemary; nothing will come of it else," he continued. "then this you must take in your hand secretly, and when no one has knowledge of your outgoing; and when luna--nay, but i mean when the moon has risen to-night so that, standing in the church-yard, you shall see it over the roof of the church, then must you go to the yew-tree that is in the middle of the church-yard, and there you shall scrape away a little of the earth from near the foot of the tree, and bury this paper, and put the earth firmly down on it again, saying thrice, _hieronymo! hieronymo! hieronymo!_ you follow me, sweet lady?" "'tis simple enough," said she, "but that on these fine evenings the people are everywhere about; and if one were to be seen conjuring in the church-yard----" "you must watch your opportunity, my daughter," said he, speaking with an increased assumption of authority. "one minute will serve you; and this is all that needs be done." "truly? is this all?" said she, and she laughed lightly. "then will my gallant, my pride o' the world, my lord and master, forthwith spring out of the solid ground? god mend me, but that were a fearful meeting--in a church-yard! gentle wizard, i pray you----" "not so," he answered, interrupting her. "the charm will work there; you must let it rest; the night dews shall nourish it; the slow hours shall pass over it; and the spirits that haunt these precincts must know of it, that they may prepare the meeting. to-night, then, sweet lady, you shall place this charm in the church-yard at the foot of the yew-tree, and to-morrow at twelve of the clock----" "by your leave, not to-morrow," said she, peremptorily. "not to-morrow, good wizard; for my father comes home to-morrow; and, by my life, i would not miss the going forth to meet him for all the lovers between here and london town!" "your father comes home to-morrow, mistress judith?" said he, in somewhat startled accents. "in truth he does; and master tyler also, and julius shawe--there will be a goodly company, i warrant you, come riding to-morrow through shipston and tredington and alderminster; and by your leave, reverend sir, the magic must wait." "that were easily done," he answered, after a moment's thought, "by the alteration of a sign, if the day following might find you at liberty. will it so, gracious lady?" "the day after! at what time of the day?" she asked. "the alteration of the sign will make it but an hour earlier, if i mistake not; that is to say, at eleven of the forenoon you must be at the appointed place----" "where, good wizard!" said she--"where am i to see the wraith, the ghost, the phantom husband that is to own me?" "that know i not myself as yet; but my aids and familiars will try to discover it for me," he answered, taking a small sun-dial out of his pocket and adjusting it as he spoke. "and with haste, so please you, good sir," said she, "for i would not that any chance comer had a tale of this meeting to carry back to the gossips." he stooped down and placed the sun-dial carefully on the ground, at a spot where the young corn was but scant enough on the dry red soil, and then with his forefinger he traced two or three lines and a semicircle on the crumbling earth. "south by west," said he, and he muttered some words to himself. then he looked up. "know you the road to bidford, sweet lady?" "as well as i know my own ten fingers," she answered. "for myself, i know it not, but if my art is not misleading there should be, about a mile or more along that road, another road at right angles with it, bearing to the right, and there at the junction should stand a cross of stone. is it so?" "'tis the lane that leads to shottery; well i know it," she said. "so it has been appointed, then," said he, "if the stars continue their protection over you. the day after to-morrow, at eleven of the forenoon, if you be within stone's-throw of the cross at the junction of the roads, there shall you see, or my art is strangely mistaken, the man or gentleman--nay, i know not whether he be parson or layman, soldier or merchant, knight of the shire or plain goodman dick--i say there shall you see him that is to win you and wear you; but at what time you shall become his wife, and where, and in what circumstances, i cannot reveal to you. i have done my last endeavor." "nay do not hold me ungrateful," she said, though there was a smile on her lips, "but surely, good sir, what your skill has done, that it can also undo. if it have power to raise a ghost, surely it has power to lay him. and truly, if he be a ghost, i will not have him. and if he be a man, and have a red beard, i will not have him. and if he be a slape-face, i will have none of him. and if he have thin legs, he may walk his ways for me. good wizard, if i like him not, you must undo the charm." "my daughter, you have a light heart," said he, gravely. "may the favoring planets grant it lead you not into mischief; there be unseen powers that are revengeful. and now i must take my leave, gracious lady. i have given you the result of much study and labor, of much solitary communion with the heavenly bodies; take it, and use it with heed, and so fare you well." he was going, but she detained him. "good sir, i am your debtor," said she, with the red blood mantling in her forehead, for all through this interview she had clearly recognized that she was not dealing with any ordinary mendicant fortune-teller. "so much labor and skill i cannot accept from you without becoming a beggar. i pray you----" he put up his hand. "not so," said he, with a certain grave dignity. "to have set eyes on the fairest maid in warwickshire--as i have heard you named--were surely sufficient recompense for any trouble; and to have had speech of you, sweet lady, is what many a one would venture much for. but i would humbly kiss your hand; and so again fare you well." "god shield you, most courteous wizard, and good-day," said she, as he left; and for a second she stood looking after him in a kind of wonder, for this extraordinary courtesy and dignity of manner were certainly not what she had expected to find in a vagabond purveyor of magic. but now he was gone, and she held the charm in her hand, and so without further ado she set out for home again, getting down through the brushwood to the winding path. she walked quickly, for she had heard that master bushell's daughter, who was to be married that day, meant to beg a general holiday for the school-boys; and she knew that if this were granted these sharp-eyed young imps would soon be here, there, and everywhere, and certain to spy out the wizard if he were in the neighborhood. but when she had got clear of this hanging copse, that is known as the wier brake, and had reached the open meadows, so that from any part around she could be seen to be alone, she had nothing further to fear, and she returned to her leisurely straying in quest of flowers. the sun was hotter on the grass now; but the swallows were busy as ever over the stream; and the great bees hummed aloud as they went past; and here and there a white butterfly fluttered from petal to petal; and, far away, she could hear the sound of children's voices in the stillness. she was in a gay mood. the interview she had just had with one in league with the occult powers of magic and witchery did not seem in the least to have overawed her. perhaps, indeed, she had not yet made up her mind to try the potent charm that she had obtained; at all events the question did not weigh heavily on her. for now it was, oh, mistress mine, where are you roaming? and again it was, for a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year! and always another touch of color added to the daintily arranged nosegay in her hand. and then, of a sudden, as she chanced to look ahead, she observed a number of the school-boys come swarming down to the foot-bridge; and she knew right well that one of them--to wit, young willie hart--would think a holiday quite thrown away and wasted if he did not manage to seek out and secure the company of his pretty cousin judith. "ah! there, now," she was saying to herself, as she watched the school-boys come over the bridge one by one and two by two, "there, now, is my sweetheart of sweethearts; there is my prince of lovers! if ever i have lover as faithful and kind as he, it will go well. 'nay, susan,' says he, 'i love you not; you kiss me hard, and speak to me as if i were still a child; i love judith better.' and how cruel of my father to put him in the play, and to slay him so soon; but perchance he will call him to life again--nay, it is a favorite way with him to do that; and pray heaven he bring home with him to-morrow the rest of the story, that prue may read it to me. and so are you there, among the unruly imps, you young prince mamillius? have you caught sight of me yet, sweetheart blue-eyes? why, come, then; you will outstrip them all, i know, when you get sight of cousin judith; for as far off as yon are, you will reach me first, that i am sure of; and then, by my life, sweetheart willie, you shall have a kiss as soft as a dove's breast!" and so she went on to meet them, arranging the colors of her straggling blossoms the while, with now and again a snatch of careless song: come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn, hunter! come, blow thy horn--jolly hunter! chapter ii. signior crab-apple. there was much ado in the house all that day, in view of the home-coming on the morrow, and it was not till pretty late in the evening that judith was free to steal out for a gossip with her friend and chief companion, prudence shawe. she had not far to go--but a couple of doors off, in fact; and her coming was observed by prudence herself, who happened to be sitting at the casemented window for the better prosecution of her needle-work, there being still a clear glow of twilight in the sky. a minute or so thereafter the two friends were in prudence's own chamber, which was on the first floor, and looking out to the back over barns and orchards; and they had gone to the window, to the bench there, to have their secrets together. this prudence shawe was some two years judith's junior--though she really played the part of elder sister to her; she was of a pale complexion, with light straw-colored hair; not very pretty, perhaps, but she had a restful kind of face that invited friendliness and sympathy, of which she had a large abundance to give in return. her custom was of a puritanical plainness and primness, both in the fashion of it and in its severe avoidance of color; and that was not the only point on which she formed a marked contrast to this dear cousin and wilful gossip of hers, who had a way of pleasing herself (more especially if she thought she might thereby catch her father's eye) in apparel as in most other things. and on this occasion--at the outset at all events--judith would not have a word said about the assignation of the morning. the wizard was dismissed from her mind altogether. it was about the home-coming of the next day that she was all eagerness and excitement; and her chief prayer and entreaty was that her friend prudence should go with her to welcome the travellers home. "nay, but you must and shall, dear prue; sweet mouse, i beg it of you!" she was urging. "every one at new place is so busy that they have fixed upon signior crab-apple to ride with me; and you know i cannot suffer him; and i shall not have a word of my father all the way back, not a word; there will be nothing but a discourse about fools, and idle jests, and wiseman matthew the hero of the day--" "dear judith, i cannot understand how you dislike the old man so," her companion said, in that smooth voice of hers. "i see no garden that is better tended than yours." "i would i could let slip the mastiff at his unmannerly throat!" was the quick reply--and indeed for a second she looked as if she would fain have seen that wish fulfilled. "the vanity of him!--the puffed-up pride of him.--he thinks there be none in warwickshire but himself wise enough to talk to my father; and the way he dogs his steps if he be walking in the garden--no one else may have a word with him!--sure my father is sufficiently driven forth by the preachers and the psalm-singing within-doors that out-of-doors, in his own garden, he might have some freedom of speech with his own daughter--" "judith, judith," her friend said, and she put her hand on her arm, "you have such wilful thoughts, and wild words too. i am sure your father is free of speech with every one--gentle and simple, old and young, it matters not who it is that approaches him." "this signior crab-apple truly!" the other exclaimed, in the impetuosity of her scorn. "if his heart be as big as a crab-apple, i greatly doubt; but that it is of like quality i'll be sworn. and the bitterness of his railing tongue! all women are fools--vools he calls them, rather--first and foremost; and most men are fools; but of all fools there be none like the fools of warwickshire--that is because my worshipful goodman gardener comes all the way from bewdley. 'tis meat and drink to him, he says, to discover a fool, though how he should have any difficulty in the discovering, seeing that we are all of us fools, passes my understanding. nay, but i know what set him after that quarry; 'twas one day in the garden, and my father was just come home from london, and he was talking to my uncle gilbert, and was laughing at what his friend benjamin jonson had said, or had written, i know not which. 'of all beasts in the world,' says he, 'i love most the serious ass.' then up steps goodman matthew. 'there be plenty of 'em about 'ere, zur,' says he, with a grin on his face like that on a cat when a dog has her by the tail. and my father, who will talk to any one, as you say truly, and about anything, and always with the same attention, must needs begin to challenge goodman crab-apple to declare the greatest fools that ever he had met with; and from that day to this the ancient sour-face hath been on the watch--and it suits well with his opinion of other people and his opinion of himself as the only wise man in the world--i say ever since he hath been on the watch for fools; and the greater the fool the greater his wisdom, i reckon, that can find him out. a purveyor of fools!--a goodly trade! i doubt not but that it likes him better than the tending of apricots when he has the free range of the ale-houses to work on. he will bring a couple of them into the garden when my father is in the summer-house. ''ere, zur, please you come out and look 'ere, zur; 'ere be a brace of rare vools.' and the poor clowns are proud of it; they stand and look at each other and laugh. 'we be, zur--we be.' and then my father will say no, and will talk with them, and cheer them with assurance of their wisdom; then must they have spiced bread and ale ere they depart; and this is a triumph for master matthew--the withered, shrivelled, dried-up, cankered nutshell that he is!" "dear judith, pray have patience--indeed you are merely jealous." "jealous!" she exclaimed, as if her scorn of this ill-conditioned old man put that well out of the question. "you think he has too much of your father's company, and you like it not; but consider of it, judith, he being in the garden, and your father in the summer-house, and when your father is tired for the moment of his occupation, whatever that may be, then can he step out and speak to this goodman matthew, that amuses him with his biting tongue, and with the self-sufficiency of his wisdom--nay, i suspect your father holds him to be a greater fool than any that he makes sport of, and that he loves to lead him on." "and why should my father have to be in the summer-house but that in-doors the wool-spinning is hardly more constant than the lecturing and the singing of psalms and hymns?" "judith! judith!" said her gentle friend, with real trouble on her face, "you grieve me when you talk like that--indeed you do, sweetheart! there is not a morning nor a night passes that i do not pray the lord that your heart may be softened and led to our ways--nay, far from that, but to the lord's own ways--and the answer will come; i have faith; i know it; and god send it speedily, for you are like an own sister to me, and my heart yearns over you!" the other sat silent for a second. she could not fail to be touched by the obvious sincerity, the longing kindness of her friend, but she would not confess as much in words. "as yet, sweet prue," said she, lightly, "i suppose i am of the unregenerate, and if it is wicked to cherish evil thoughts of your neighbor, then am i not of the elect, for i heartily wish that tom quiney and some of the youths would give matthew gardener a sound ducking in a horse-pond, to tame his arrogance withal. but no matter. what say you, dear prue? will you go with me to-morrow, so that we may have the lad tookey in charge of us, and signior crab-apple be left to his weeding and grafting and railing at human kind? do, sweet mouse--" "the maids are busy now, judith," said she, doubtfully. "but a single day, dear mouse!" she urged. "and if we go early we may get as far as shipston, and await them there. have you no desire to meet your brother, prudence--to be the first of all to welcome him home? nay, that is because you can have him in your company as often as you wish; there is no goodman-wiseman-fool to come between you." "dear heart," said prudence shawe, with a smile, "i know not what is the witchery of you, but there is none i wot of that can say you nay." "you will, then?" said the other, joyfully. "ah, look, now, the long ride home we shall have with my father, and all the news i shall have to tell him! and all good news, prue; scarcely a whit or bit that is not good news: the roan that he bought at evesham is well of her lameness--good; and the king's mulberry is thriving bravely (i wonder that wiseman matthew has not done it a mischief in the night-time, for the king, being above him in station, must needs have nothing from him but sour and envious words); and then the twenty acres that my father so set his heart upon he is to have--i hear that the combes have said as much--and my father will be right well pleased; and the vicar is talking no longer of building the new piggery over against the garden--at least for the present there is nothing to be done: all good news; but there is better still, as you know; for what will he say when he discovers that i have taught bess hall to ride the mastiff?" "pray you have a care, dear judith," said her friend, with some apprehension on her face. "'tis a dangerous-looking beast." "a lamb, a very lamb!" was the confident answer. "well, now, and as we are riding home he will tell me of all the things he has brought from london; and you know he has always something pretty for you, sweet puritan, though you regard such adornment as snares and pitfalls. and this time i hope it will be a silver brooch for you, dear mouse, that so you must needs wear it and show it, or he will mark its absence; and for the others let us guess; let us see. there may be some more of that strange-fashioned murano glass for susan, for as difficult as it is to carry; and some silk hangings or the like for my mother, or store of napery, perchance, which she prizeth more; and be sure there is the newest book of sermons from paul's churchyard for the doctor; a greyhound, should he hear of a famous one on the way, for thomas combe; toys for the little harts, that is certain; for my aunt joan--what?--a silver-topped jug, or some perfumes of musk and civet?--and what else--and for whom else--well--" "but what for yourself, dear judith?" her friend said, with a smile. "will he forget you? has matthew gardener driven you out even from his recollection? will he not have for you a pretty pair of rose shoe-strings, or one of the new tasselled french hoods they are speaking of, or something of the kind, that will turn the heads of all the lads in stratford twice further round? you are a temptress surely, sweetheart; i half forget that such vanities should displease me when i see the way you wear them; and that i think you must take from your father, judith; for no matter how plain his apparel is--and it is plain indeed for one that owns the new place--he wears it with such an ease, and with such a grace and simplicity, that you would say a prince should wear it even so." "you put me off, prue," her friend said with a sort of good-natured impatience. "why, i was showing you what nicelings and delicates my father was bringing, and what i had thought to say was this: that he may have this for one, and that for the other, and many a one proud to be remembered (as i shall be if he thinks of me), but this that i know he is bringing for little bess hall is something worth all of these, for it is nothing less than the whole love of his heart. nay, but i swear it; there is not a human creature in the world to compare with her in his eyes; she is the pearl that he wears in his heart of hearts. if it were london town she wanted, and he could give it to her, that is what he would bring for her." "what! are you jealous of her too?" said prudence, with her placid smile. "by yea and nay, sweet puritan, if that will content you, i declare it is not so," was the quick answer. "why, bess is my ally! we are in league, i tell you; we will have a tussle with the enemy ere long; and, by my life, i think i know that that will put goodman-wiseman's nose awry!" at this moment the secret confabulation of these two friends was suddenly and unexpectedly broken in upon by a message from without. something white came fluttering through the open casement, and fell, not quite into judith's lap, which was probably its intended destination, but down toward her feet. she stooped and picked it up; it was a letter, addressed to her, and tied round with a bit of rose-red silk ribbon that was neatly formed into a true-lover's knot. chapter iii. the planting of the charm. the embarrassment that ensued--on her part only, for the pale and gentle face of her friend betrayed not even so much as surprise--was due to several causes. judith could neither read nor write. in her earlier years she had been a somewhat delicate child, and had consequently been excused from the ordinary tuition, slight as that usually was in the case of girls; but when, later on, she grew into quite firm and robust health, in her wilfulness and pride and petulance she refused to retransform herself into a child and submit to be taught children's lessons. moreover, she had an acute and alert brain; and she had a hundred reasons ready to show that what was in reality a mere waywardness on her part was the most wise and natural thing in the world; while her father, who had a habitual and great tolerance for everything and everybody that came within his reach, laughed with her rather than at her, and said she should do very well without book-learning so long as those pink roses shone in her cheeks. but she had one reason that was not merely an excuse. most of the printed matter that reached the house was brought thither by this or that curate, or by this or that famous preacher, who, in going through the country, was sure of an eager and respectful welcome at new place; and perhaps it was not kindly nor civilly done of them--though it may have been regarded as a matter of conscience--that they should carry thither and read aloud, among other things, the fierce denunciations of stage-plays and stage-players which were common in the polemical and puritanical literature of the day. right or wrong, judith resented this with a vehement indignation; and she put a ban upon all books, judging by what she had heard read out of some; nay, one day she had come into the house and found her elder sister, who was not then married, greatly distressed, and even in the bitterness of tears; and when she discovered that the cause of this was a pamphlet that had been given to susanna, in which not only were the heinous wickednesses of plays and players denounced, but also her own father named by his proper name, judith, with hot cheeks and flashing eyes, snatched the pamphlet from her sister's hand and forthwith sent it flying through the open window into the mud without, notwithstanding that books and pamphlets were scarce and valuable things, and that this one had been lent. and when she discovered that this piece of writing had been brought to the house by the pious and learned walter blaise--a youthful divine he was who had a small living some few miles from stratford, but who dwelt in the town, and was one of the most eager and disputatious of the puritanical preachers there--it in no way mitigated her wrath that this worthy master blaise was regarded by many, and even openly spoken of, as a suitor for her own hand. "god mend me," said she, in her anger (and greatly to the distress of the mild-spoken prudence), "but 'tis a strange way of paying court to a young woman to bring into the house abuse of her own father! sir parson may go hang, for me!" and for many a day she would have nothing to say to him; and steeled and hardened her heart not only against him, but against the doctrines and ways of conduct that he so zealously advocated; and she would not come in to evening prayers when he happened to be present; and wild horses would not have dragged her to the parish church on the sunday afternoon that it was his turn to deliver the fortnightly lecture there. however, these things abated in time. master walter blaise was a civil-spoken and an earnest and sincere young man, and prudence shawe was the gentle intermediary. judith suffered his presence, and that was about all as yet; but she would not look the way of printed books. and when prudence tried to entice her into a study of the mere rudiments of reading and writing, she would refuse peremptorily, and say, with a laugh, that, could she read, the first thing she should read would be plays, which, as sweet cousin prue was aware, were full of tribulation and anguish, and fit only for the foolish galatians of the world, the children of darkness and the devil. but this obstinacy did not prevent her overcoming her dear cousin prue's scruples, and getting her to read aloud to her in the privacy of their secret haunts this or the other fragments of a play, when that she had adroitly purloined a manuscript from the summer-house in new place; and in this surreptitious manner she had acquired a knowledge of what was going on at the globe and the blackfriars theatres in london, which, had they but guessed of it, would have considerably astounded her mother, her sister, and good parson blaise as well. in more delicate matters still, prudence was her confidante, her intermediary, and amanuensis: and ordinarily this caused her no embarrassment, for she wished for no secrets with any of human kind. but in one direction she had formed certain suspicions; and so it was that on this occasion, when she stooped down and picked up the letter that had been so deftly thrown in at the casement, her face flushed somewhat. "i know from whom it comes," said she, and she seemed inclined to put it into the little wallet of blue satin that hung at her side. then she glanced at prudence's eyes. there was nothing there in the least approaching displeasure or pique, only a quiet amusement. "it was cleverly done," said prudence, and she raised her head cautiously and peeped through one of the small panes of pale green glass. but the twilight had sunk into dusk, and any one outside could easily have made his escape unperceived through the labyrinth of barns and outhouses. judith glanced at the handwriting again, and said, with an affectation of carelessness: "there be those who have plenty of time, surely, for showing the wonders of their skill. look at the twisting and turning and lattice-work of it--truly he is a most notable clerk; i would he spent the daylight to better purpose. read it for me, sweet prue." she would have handed the letter--with much studied indifference of look and manner--to her friend, but that prudence gently refused it. "'tis you must undo the string; you know not what may be inside." so judith herself opened the letter, which contained merely a sprig of rosemary, along with some lines written in a most ornate calligraphy. "what does he say?" she asked, but without any apparent interest, as she gave the open letter to her companion. prudence took the letter and read aloud; "rosemary is for remembrance between us day and night; wishing that i might always have you present in my sight. this from your true well-wisher, and one that would be your loving servant unto death. t. q." "the idle boy!" she said, and again she directed a quick and penetrating look of inquiry to her friend's face. but prudence was merely regarding the elaborate handwriting. there was no trace of wounded pride or anything of the kind in her eyes. nay, she looked up and said, with a smile, "for one that can wrestle so well, and play at foot-ball, and throw the sledge as they say he can, he is master of a most delicate handwriting." "but the rosemary, prue!" judith exclaimed, suddenly, and she groped about at her feet until she had found it. "why, now, look there, was ever anything so fortunate? truly i had forgotten all about rosemary, and my reverend wizard, and the charm that is to be buried to-night; and you know not a word of the story. shall i tell you, sweet mouse? is there time before the moon appears over the roof of the church?--for there i am summoned to fearful deeds. why, prue, you look as frightened as if a ghost had come into the room--you yourself are like a ghost now in the dusk--or is it the coming moonlight that is making you so pale?" "i had thought that better counsels would have prevailed with you, judith," she said, anxiously. "i knew not you had gone to see the man, and i reproach myself that i have been an agent in the matter." "a mouth-piece only, sweet prue!--a mere harmless, innocent whistle that had nothing to do with the tune. and the business was not so dreadful either; there was no caldron, nor playing with snakes and newts, no, nor whining for money, which i expected most; but a most civil and courteous wizard, a most town-bred wizard as ever the sun set eye on, that called me 'gracious lady' every other moment, and would not take a penny for his pains. marry, if all the powers of evil be as well-behaved, i shall have less fear of them; for a more civil-spoken gentleman i have never encountered; and 'sweet lady' it was, and 'gracious lady,' and a voice like the voice of my lord bishop; and the assurance that the planets and the stars were holding me in their kindest protection; and a promise of a ghost husband that is to appear that i may judge whether i like him or like him not; and all this and more--and he would kiss my hand, and so farewell, and the reverend magician makes his obeisance and vanishes, and i am not a penny the poorer, but only the richer because of my charm! there, i will show it to you, dear mouse." after a little search she found the tiny document; and prudence shawe glanced over it. "judith! judith!" said she, almost in despair, "i know not whither your wilfulness will carry you. but tell me what happened. how came you by this paper? and what ghost husband do you speak of?" then judith related, with much circumstantiality, what had occurred that morning: not toning it down in the least, but rather exaggerating here and there; for she was merry-hearted, and she liked to see the sweet puritan face grow more and more concerned. moreover, the dull gray light outside, instead of deepening into dark, appeared to be becoming a trifle clearer, so that doubtless the moon was declaring itself somewhere; and she was looking forward, when the time came, to securing prudence's company as far as the church-yard, if her powers of persuasion were equal to that. "but you will not go--surely you will not go, darling judith," said prudence, in accents of quite pathetic entreaty. "you know the sin of dealing with such ungodly practices--nay, and the danger too, for you would of your own free will go and seek a meeting with unholy things, whereas i have been told that not so long ago they used in places to carry a pan of frankincense round the house each night to keep away witchcraft from them as they slept. i beseech you, dearest judith, give me the paper, and i will burn it!" "nay, nay, it is but an idle tale, a jest; i trust it not," said her friend to reassure her. "be not afraid, sweet prue. those people who go about compelling the planets and summoning spirits and the like have lesser power than the village folk imagine, else would their own affairs thrive better than they seem to do." "then give me the paper; let me burn it, judith!" "nay, nay, mouse," said she, withholding it; and then she added, with a sort of grave merriment or mischief in her face: "whether the thing be aught or naught, sure i cannot treat so ill my courteous wizard. he was no goose-herd, i tell you, but a most proper and learned man; and he must have the chance of working the wonders he foretold. come, now, think of it with reason, dear prue. if there be no power in the charm, if i go to shottery for my morning walk and find no one in the lane, who is harmed? why, no one; and grandmother hathaway is pleased, and will show me how her garden is growing. then, on the other hand, should the charm work, should there be some one there, what evil if i regard him as i pass from the other side of the way? is it such a wonder that one should meet a stranger on the bidford road? and what more? man or ghost, he cannot make me marry him if i will not. he cannot make me speak to him if i will not. and if he would put a hand on me, i reckon roderigo would speedily have him by the throat, as i hope he may some day have goodman matthew." "but, judith, such things are unlawful and forbidden----" "to you, sweet saint--to you," said the other, with much good-humor. "but i have not learned to put aside childish things as yet; and this is only a jest, good prue; and you, that are so faithful to your word, even in the smallest trifle, would not have me break my promise to my gentle wizard? 'gracious lady,' he says, and 'sweet lady,' as if i were a dame of the court; it were unmannerly of me not to grant him this small demand----" "i wish i had misread the letter," said prudence, so occupied with her own fears that she scarcely knew what to do. "what!" exclaimed her friend, in tones of raillery, "you would have deceived me? is this your honesty, your singleness of heart, sweet puritan? you would have sent me on some fool's errand, would you?" "and if it were to be known you had gone out to meet this conjurer, judith, what would your mother and sister say?--and your father?" "my mother and sister--hum!" was the demure reply. "if he had but come in the garb of a preacher, with a bible under one arm and a prayer-book under the other, i doubt not that he would have been welcome enough at new place--ay, and everything in the house set before him, and a flanders jug full of quiney's best claret withal to cheer the good man. but when you speak of my father, dear prue, there you are wide of the mark--wide, wide of the mark; for the wizard is just such an one as he would be anxious to know and see for himself. indeed, if my mother and susan would have the house filled with preachers, my father would rather seek his company from any strange kind of vagrant cattle you could find on the road--ballad-singers, strolling players, peddlers, and the like; and you should see him when some ancient harper in his coat of green comes near the town--nay, the constable shall not interfere with him, license or no license--my father must needs entertain him in the garden; and he will sit and talk to the old man; and the best in the house must be brought out for him; and whether he try his palsied fingers on the strings, or perchance attempt a verse of 'pastime with good company' with his quavering old voice, that is according to his own good-will and pleasure; nothing is demanded of him but that he have good cheer, and plenty of it, and go on his way the merrier, with a groat or two in his pouch. nay, i mind me, when susan was remonstrating with my father about such things, and bidding him have some regard for the family name--'what?' says he, laughing; 'set you up, madam pride! know you not, then, whence comes our name? and yet 'tis plain enough. _shacks_, these are but vagrant, idle, useless fellows; and then we come to _pere_, that is, an equal and companion. there you have it complete--_shackspere_, the companion of strollers and vagabonds, of worthless and idle fellows. what say you, madam pride?' and, indeed, poor susan was sorely displeased, insomuch that i said, 'but the spear in the coat of arms, father--how came we by that?' 'why, there, now,' says he, 'you see how regardless the heralds are of the king's english. i warrant me they would give a ship to shipston and a hen to enstone.' indeed, he will jest you out of anything. when your brother would have left the town council, prue----" but here she seemed suddenly to recollect herself. she rose quickly, thrust open the casement still wider, and put out her head to discover whereabouts the moon was; and when she withdrew her head again there was mischief and a spice of excitement in her face. "no more talking and gossip now, prue; the time has arrived for fearful deeds." prudence put her small white hand on her friend's arm. "stay, judith. be guided--for the love of me be guided, sweetheart! you know not what you do. the profaning of sacred places will bring a punishment." "profaning, say you, sweet mouse? is it anything worse than the children playing tick round the grave-stones; or even, when no one is looking, having a game of king-by-your-leave?" "it is late, judith. it must be nine o'clock. it is not seemly that a young maiden should be out-of-doors alone at such an hour of the night." "marry, that say i," was the light answer. "and the better reason that you should come with me, prue." "i?" said prudence, in affright. "wherefore not, then? nay, but you shall suffer no harm through the witchery, sweet mouse; i ask your company no further than the little swing-gate. one minute there, and i shall be back with you. come, now, for your friend's sake; get your hood and your muffler, dear prue, and no one shall know either of us from the witch of endor, so quickly shall we be there and back." still she hesitated. "if your mother were to know, judith----" "to know what, sweetheart? that you walked with me as far as the church and back again? why, on such a fine and summer-like night i dare be sworn, now, that half the good folk of stratford are abroad; and it is no such journey into a far country that we should take one of the maids with us. nay, come, sweet prue! we shall have a merry ride to-morrow; to-night for your friendship's sake you must do me this small service." prudence did not answer, but somewhat thoughtfully, and even reluctantly, she went to a small cupboard of boxes that stood in the corner of the apartment, and brought forth some articles of attire which (although she might not have confessed it) were for the better disguising of herself, seeing that the night was fine and warm. and then judith, having also drawn a muffler loosely round her neck and the lower half of her face, was ready to go, and was gone, in fact, as far as the door, when she suddenly said: "why, now, i had nearly forgot the rosemary, and without that the charm is naught. did i leave it on the window-shelf?" she went back and found it, and this time she took the precaution of folding it within the piece of paper that she was to bury in the church-yard. "is it fair, dear judith?" prudence said, reproachfully, before she opened the door. "is it right that you should take the bit of rosemary sent you by one lover, and use it as a charm to bring another?" "nay, why should you concern yourself, sweet mouse?" said judith, with a quick glance, but indeed at this end of the room it was too dark for her to see anything. "my lover, say you? let that be as the future may show. in the meantime i am pledged to no one, nor anxious that i should be so. and a scrap of rosemary, now, what is it? but listen to this, dear prue: if it help to show me the man i shall marry--if there be aught in this magic--will it not be better for him that sent the rosemary that we should be aware of what is in store for us?" "i know not--i scarcely ever know--whether you are in jest or in earnest, judith," her friend said. "why, then, i am partly in starched cambric, good mouse, if you must know, and partly in damask, and partly in taffeta of popinjay blue. but come, now, let us be going. the awful hour approaches, prue. do you not tremble, like faustus in the cell? what was't he said? it strikes; it strikes. now, body, turn to air! come along, sweet prue." but she was silent as they left. indeed, they went down the dark little staircase and out at the front door with as little noise as might be. judith had not been mistaken: the fine, clear, warm evening had brought out many people; and they were either quietly walking home or standing in dusky little groups at the street corners talking to each other; whilst here and there came a laugh from a ruddy-windowed ale-house; and here and there a hushed sound of singing, where a casement had been left a bit open, told that the family within were at their devotional exercises for the night. the half-moon was now clear and silvery in the heavens. as they passed under the massive structure of the guild chapel the upper portions of the tall windows had a pale greenish glow shining through them that made the surrounding shadows look all the more solemn. whether it was that their mufflers effectually prevented their being recognized, or whether it was that none of their friends happened to be abroad, they passed along without attracting notice from any one, nor was a word spoken between themselves for some time. but when they drew near to the church, the vast bulk of which, towering above the trees around, seemed almost black against the palely clear sky, the faithful prudence made bold to put in a final word of remonstrance and dissuasion. "it is wickedness and folly, judith. naught can come of such work," she said. "then let naught come of it, and what harm is done?" her companion said, gayly. "dear mouse, are you so timorous? nay, but you shall not come within the little gate; you shall remain without. and if the spirits come and snatch me, as they snatched off doctor faustus, you shall see all the pageant, and not a penny to pay. what was it in the paper? 'pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true!' did it not run so? but they cannot pinch you, dear heart; so stand here now, and hush!--pray do not scream if you see them whip me off in a cloud of fire--and i shall be with you again in a minute." she passed through the little swinging gate and entered the church-yard, casting therewith a quick glance around. apparently no one was within sight of her, either among the gray stones or under the black-stemmed elms by the river; but there were people not far off, for she could hear their voices--doubtless they were going home through the meadows on the other side of the stream. she looked but once in that direction. the open country was lying pale and clear in the white light; and under the wide branches of the elms one or two bats were silently darting to and fro; but she could not see the people, and she took it for granted that no one could now observe what she was about. so she left the path, made her way through the noiseless grass, and reached the small yew-tree standing there among the grave-stones. the light was clear enough to allow her to open the package and make sure that the sprig of rosemary was within; then she rapidly, with her bare hand, stooped down and scooped a little of the earth away; she imbedded the packet there, repeating meanwhile the magic words; she replaced the earth, and brushed the long grass over it, so that, indeed, as well as she could make out, the spot looked as if it had not been disturbed in any manner. and then, with a quick look toward the roof of the church to satisfy herself that all the conditions had been fulfilled, she got swiftly back to the path again, and so to the little gate, passing through the church-yard like a ghost. "the deed is done, good prue," said she, gayly, but in a tragic whisper, as she linked her arm within the arm of her friend and set out homeward. "now are the dark powers of the earth at league to raise me up--what think you, sweetheart?--such a gallant as the world ne'er saw! ah! now when you see him come riding in from shottery, will not the town stare? none of your logget-playing, tavern-jesting, come-kiss-me-moll lovers, but a true-sworn knight on his white war steed, in shining mail, with a golden casque on his head and ostrich feathers, and on his silver shield 'st. george and england!'" "you are light-hearted, judith," said the timid and gentle-voiced puritan by her side; "and in truth there is nothing that you fear. well, i know not, but it will be in my prayers that no harm come of this night." chapter iv. a pageant. on the morning after the arrival of judith's father he was out and abroad with his bailiff at an early hour, so that she had no chance of speaking to him; and when he returned to new place he went into the summer-house in the orchard, where it was the general habit and custom to leave him undisturbed. and yet she only wished to ask permission to take the mastiff with her as far as shottery; and so, when she had performed her share of the domestic duties, and got herself ready, she went out through the back court and into the garden, thinking that he would not mind so brief an interruption. it was a fresh and pleasant morning, for there had been some rain in the night, and now there was a slight breeze blowing from the south, and the air was sweet with the scent of the lilac bushes. the sun lay warm on the pink and white blossoms of the apple-trees and on the creamy masses of the cherry; martins were skimming and shooting this way and that, with now and again a rapid flight to the eaves of the barn; the bees hummed from flower to flower, and everywhere there was a chirping, and twittering, and clear singing of birds. the world seemed full of light and color, of youth, and sweet things, and gladness: on such a morning she had no fear of a refusal, nor was she much afraid to go near the summer-house that the family were accustomed to hold sacred from intrusion. but when she passed into the orchard, and came in sight of it, there was a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. she might have guessed--she might have known. there, blocking up the doorway of the latticed and green-painted tenement, was the figure of goodman matthew; and the little bandy-legged pippin-faced gardener was coolly resting on his spade while he addressed his master within. was there ever (she asked herself) such hardihood, such audacity and impertinence? and then she rapidly bethought her that now was a rare opportunity for putting in practice a scheme of revenge that she had carefully planned. it is true that she might have gone forward and laid her finger on matthew's arm (he was rather deaf), and so have motioned him away. but she was too proud to do that. she would dispossess and rout him in another fashion. so she turned and went quickly again into the house. now at this time dr. hall was making a round of professional visits at some distance away in the country; and on such occasions susanna hall and her little daughter generally came to lodge at new place, where judith was found to be an eager and assiduous, if somewhat impatient and unreasoning, nurse, playmate, and music-mistress. in fact, the young mother had to remonstrate with her sister, and to point out that, although baby elizabeth was a wonder of intelligence and cleverness--indeed, such a wonder as had never hitherto been beheld in the world--still, a child of two years and three months or so could not be expected to learn everything all at once; and that it was just as reasonable to ask her to play on the lute as to imagine that she could sit on the back of don the mastiff without being held. however, judith was fond of the child, and that incomparable and astute small person had a great liking for her aunt (in consequence of benefits received), and a trust in her which the wisdom of maturer years might have modified; and so, whenever she chose, judith found no difficulty in obtaining possession of this precious charge, even the young mother showing no anxiety when she saw the two go away together. so it was on this particular morning that judith went and got hold of little bess hall, and quickly smartened up her costume, and carried her out into the garden. then she went into the barn, outside of which was the dog's kennel; she unclasped the chain and set free the huge, slow-stepping, dun-colored beast, that seemed to know as well as any one what was going forward; she affixed to his collar two pieces of silk ribbon that did very well for reins; and then she sat little bess hall on don roderigo's back, and gave her the reins to hold, and so they set out for the summer-house. on that may morning the wide and gracious realm of england--which to some minds, and especially at that particular season of the year, seems the most beautiful country of any in the world--this rich and variegated england lay basking in the sunlight, with all its lush meadows and woods and hedges in the full and fresh luxuriance of the spring; and the small quiet hamlets were busy in a drowsy and easy-going kind of fashion; and far away around the white coasts the blue sea was idly murmuring in; but it may be doubted whether in all the length and breadth of that fair land there was any fairer sight than this that the wit of a young woman had devised. she herself was pleasant enough to look on (and she was always particularly attentive about her attire when her father was at home), and now she was half laughing as she thought of her forthcoming revenge; she had dressed her little niece in her prettiest costume of pink and white, and pink was the color of the silken reins; while the great slow-footed don bore his part in the pageant with a noble majesty, sometimes looking up at judith as if to ask whether he were going in the right direction. and so the procession passed on between the white-laden cherry-trees and the redder masses of the apple-blossom; and the miniature ariadne, sitting sideways on the back of the great beast, betrayed no fear whatsoever; while her aunt judith held her, walking by her, and scolding her for that she would not sing. "tant sing, aunt judith," said she. "you can sing well enough, you little goose, if you try," said her aunt, with the unreasoning impatience of an unmarried young woman. "what's the use of your going hunting without a hunting song? come along, now: 'the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day;--' try it, bess!" "hunt is up, hunt is up," said the small rider; but she was occupied with the reins, and clearly did not want to be bothered. "no, no, that is not singing, little goose. why, sing it like this, now: 'the hunt is up, the hunt is up, and it is well-nigh day;-- and harry our king is gone hunting to bring his deer to bay!'" however, the music lesson came to an abrupt end. they had by this time almost reached the summer-house. saturnine matthew, gardener, who still stood there, blocking up the doorway, had not heard them approach, but his master within had. the next instant goodman matthew suddenly found himself discarded, dismissed, and treated, indeed, as if he were simply non-existent in the world; for judith's father, having paused for a moment to regard from the doorway the pretty pageant that had been arranged for him (and his face lit up, as it were, with pleasure at the sight), was the next minute down beside his little granddaughter, with one knee on the ground, so that he was just on a level with her outstretched hands. "what, bess?" he said, as he caught her by both hands and feet. "you imp, you inch, you elfin queen, you!--would you go a-hunting, then?" "send away don--me want to ride the high horse," said the small bess, who had her own ideas as to what was most comfortable, and also secure. "and so you shall, you sprite, you ariel, you moonlight wonder!" he exclaimed, as he perched her on his shoulder and rose to his feet again. "the high horse, truly; indeed, you shall ride the high horse! come, now, we will go see how the king's mulberry thrives; that is the only tree we have that is younger than yourself, you ancient, you beldame, you witch of endor, you!" "father," said judith, seeing that he was going away perfectly regardless of anybody or anything except his granddaughter, "may i take the don with me for an hour or so?" "whither away, wench--whither?" he asked, turning for a moment. "to shottery, father." "well, well," said he, and he turned again and went off. "come, bess, you world's jewel, you, you shall ride with me to london some day, and tell the king how his mulberry thrives; that shall you, you fairy, you princess, you velvet-footed maidiekin! to london, bess--to london!" judith did not stay to regard them further; but she could not help casting a look before she left at goodman matthew, who stood there discomfited, dispossessed, unheeded, annihilated, as it were. and then, calling the dog after her, she went in by the back court and through the house again (for chapel lane was in a sad condition after the rain of the night, and was not a pleasant pathway even in the best of times). and she was laughing to herself at matthew's discomfiture, and she was singing to herself as she went out by the front door, there's never a maid in all the town, but well she knows that malt's come down. and in the street it was "good-morrow to you, master jelleyman; the rain will do good, will it not?" and, again, "good-morrow, neighbor pike; do you know that my father is come home?" and again, "get you within the doorway, little parsons, else the wagon-wheels will be over thee." and then, when she was in the freedom of the fields, she would talk blithely to don roderigo, or snatch a buttercup here or there from among the long, lush, warm grass, or return to her careless singing: for malt's come down, and malt's come down-- oh, well she knows that malt's come down! chapter v. in a wooded lane. now it would be extremely difficult to say with what measure of faith or scepticism, of expectation or mere curiosity, she was now proceeding through these meadows to the spot indicated to her by the wizard. probably she could not have told herself, for what was really uppermost in her mind was a kind of malicious desire to frighten her timid puritan friend with the wildness of such an adventure. and then she was pretty safe. ostensibly she was going to shottery to pay a visit to her grandmother; to look at the pansies, the wall-flowers, the forget-me-nots in the little garden, and see how the currants and raspberries were getting on. she could hardly expect a ghost to rise from the ground in broad daylight. and if any mere strangers happened to be coming along the lane leading in from the bidford road, don roderigo was a sufficient guardian. on the other hand, if there was anything real and of verity in this witchcraft--which had sought her, and not she it--was it not possible that the wizard might on one point have been mistaken? if her future husband were indeed to appear, would it not be much more likely to be parson blaise or tom quiney, or young jelleyman, or one or other of them that she knew in everyday life? but yet she said to herself--and there was no doubt about her absolute conviction and certainty on this point--that, even if she were to meet one of those coming in from evesham, not all the magic and mystery and wizardry in the world would drive her to marry him but of her own free good-will and choice. when she had passed through the meadows and got near to the scattered cottages and barns and orchards of the little hamlet, instead of going forward to these, she bore away to the left, and eventually found herself in a wide and wooded lane. she was less light of heart now; she wished the place were not so still and lonely. it was a pretty lane, this; the ruddy-gray road that wound between luxuriant hedges and tall elms was barred across by alternate sunlight and shadow, and every now and again she had glimpses of the rich and fertile country lying around, with distant hills showing an outline serrated by trees along the pale, summer-like sky. but there was not a human being visible anywhere, nor a sound to be heard but the soft repeated note of the cuckoo. she wished that there were some farm people near at hand, or a shepherd lad, or anybody. she spoke to roderigo, and her voice sounded strange--it sounded as if she were afraid some one was listening. nay, she began, quite unreasonably, to be angry with the wizard. what business had he to interfere with her affairs, and to drive her on to such foolish enterprises? what right had he to challenge her to show that she was not afraid? she was not afraid, she assured herself. she had as good a title to walk along this lane as any one in warwickshire. only the thought that as soon as she had got as far as the cross at the meeting of the roads (this was all that had been demanded of her) she would go back to stratford by the public highway rather than return by this solitary lane, for on the public highway there would be farm servants and laden wains and carriers, and such-like comfortable and companionable objects. the next minute--she had almost reached the cross--her heart bounded with an unreasoning tremor of fear: she had suddenly become aware that a stranger was entering the lane from the wide highway beyond. she had only one glimpse of him, for instantly and resolutely she bent her eyes on don roderigo, and was determined to keep them there until this person should have passed; and yet that one lightning-like glimpse had told her somewhat. the stranger was young, and of a distinguished bearing and presence; and it certainly was a singular and unusual thing that a gentleman (as he seemed to be, although his travelling cloak concealed most of his attire) should be going afoot and unattended. but her only concern was to let him pass. ghost or man as he might be, she kept her eyes on don roderigo. and then, to her increased alarm, she found that the stranger was approaching her. "i beseech your pardon, lady," said he, in a most respectful voice, "but know you one in this town of the name of master shakespeare?" she certainly was startled, and even inwardly aghast; but she had a brave will. she was determined that nothing would drive her either to scream or to run away. and indeed when she looked up and said, rather breathlessly, "there be several of the name, sir," she was quickly assured that this was no ghost at all, but a substantial and living and breathing young man, tall and dark, of a pleasant expression of face, though in truth there was nothing in those singularly black eyes of his but the most ordinary and matter-of-fact inquiry. "one master william shakespeare," said he, in answer to her, "that is widely known." "it is my father, sir, you speak of," said she, hastily and, in fact, somewhat ashamed of her fright. at this news he removed his hat and made her a gracious obeisance, yet simply, and with not too elaborate a courtesy. "since i am so fortunate," said he, "may i beg you to direct me how i shall find the house when i get to the town? i have a letter for him, as you may see." he took out a letter, and held it so that, if she liked, she might read the superscription--"_to my loving good friend master william shakespeare: deliver these._" but judith merely glanced at the writing. "'tis from master ben jonson--that you know of, doubtless, madam--commending me to your father. but perhaps," he added, directing toward her a curious timid look of inquiry, "it were as well that i did not deliver it?" "how so, sir?" she asked. "i am one that is in misfortune," said he, simply; "nay, in peril." "truly i am sorry for that, sir," said she, regarding him with frank eyes of sympathy, for indeed there was a kind of sadness in his air, that otherwise was distinguished enough, and even noble. and then she added: "but surely that is the greater reason you should seek my father." "if i dared--if i knew," he said, apparently to himself. and then he addressed her: "if i make so bold, sweet lady, as to ask you if your father be of the ancient faith--or well disposed toward that, even if he do not openly profess it--i pray you set it down to my need and hard circumstances." she did not seem to understand. "i would ask if he be not at heart with the catholic gentlemen that are looking for better times--for indeed i have heard it stated of him." "oh no, sir--surely not," said judith, in some alarm, for she knew quite enough about the penal laws against priests and recusants, and would not have her father associated in any way with these, especially as she was talking with a stranger. "nay, then, it were better i did not deliver the letter," said the young man, with just a touch of hopelessness in his tone. "under the protection of your father i might have had somewhat more of liberty, perchance; but i am content to remain as i am until i can get proofs that will convince them in authority of my innocence; or mayhap i may get away from the country altogether, and to my friends in flanders. if they would but set my good friend walter raleigh free from the tower, that also were well, for he and i might make a home for ourselves in another land. i crave your pardon for detaining you, madam, and so bid you farewell." he raised his hat and made her a most respectful obeisance, and was about to withdraw. "stay, sir," said she, scarcely knowing what she said, but with trouble and anxiety in her gentle eyes. indeed, she was somewhat bewildered. so sudden had been the shock of surprise that she had forgotten, or very nearly forgotten, all about ghosts and wizards, about possible lovers or husbands, and only knew that here, in actual fact, was a stranger--and a modest young stranger, too--that was in trouble, and yet was afraid to seek shelter and aid from her father. that he had no reason to be thus afraid she was certain enough; and yet she dare not assume--she had no reason for believing--that her father was secretly inclined to favor those that were still hoping for the re-establishment of the catholic faith. the fact was that her father scarcely ever spoke of such matters. he would listen, if he happened to be in the house, to any theological discussion that might be going on, and he would regard this or that minister or preacher calmly, as if trying to understand the man and his opinions; but he would take no part in the talk; and when the discussion became disputatious, as sometimes happened, and the combatants grew warm and took to making hot assertions, he would rise and go out idly into the garden, and look at the young apple-trees or talk to don roderigo. indeed, at this precise moment, judith was quite incapable of deciding for herself which party her father would most likely be in sympathy with--the puritans, who were sore at heart because of the failure of the hampton court conference, or the catholics, who were no less bitter on account of the severity of the penal laws--and a kind of vague wish arose in her heart that she could ask prudence shawe (who paid more attention to such matters, and was, in fact, wrapped up in them) before sending this young man away with his letter of commendation unopened. "your brother-in-law, madam, dr. hall," said he, seeing that she did not wish him to leave on the instant, "is well esteemed by the catholic gentry, as i hear." judith did not answer that; she had been rapidly considering what she could do for one in distress. "by your leave, sir, i would not have you go away without making further inquiry," said she. "i will myself get to know how my father is inclined, for indeed he never speaks of such matters to us; and sure i am that, whatever be his opinion, no harm could come to you through seeking his friendship. that i am sure of. if you are in distress, that is enough; he will not ask you whence you come; nor has he censure for any one; and that is a marvel in one that is so good a man himself, that he hath never a word of blame for any one, neither for the highwayman that was taken red-handed, as it were, last sunday near to oxford--'why,' says my father, 'if he take not life, and be a civil gentleman, i grudge him not a purse or two'--nor for a lesser criminal, my cousin willie hart, that but yesterday let the portuguese singing-bird escape from its cage. 'well, well,' says my father, 'so much the better, if only it can find food for itself.' indeed, you need fear naught but kindness and gentleness; and sure i am that he would be but ill pleased to know that one coming from his friend benjamin jonson had been in the neighborhood and gone away without having speech of him." "but this is no matter of courtesy, sweet lady," said he. "it is of a more dangerous cast; and i must be wary. if, now, you were inclined to do as you say--to make some discreet inquiry as to your good father's sentiments----" "not from himself," said she, quickly, and with some color mounting to her cheeks--"for he would but laugh at my speaking of such things--but from my gossip and neighbor i think i could gain sufficient assurance that would set your fears at rest." "and how should i come to know?" he said, with some hesitation--for this looked much like asking for another meeting. but judith was frank enough. if she meant to confer a kindness, she did not stay to be too scrupulous about the manner of doing it. "if it were convenient that you could be here this evening," said she, after a moment's thought, "willie hart and myself often walk over to shottery after supper. then could i let you know." "but how am i to thank you for such a favor?" said he. "nay, it is but little," she answered, "to do for one that comes from my father's friend." "rare ben, as they call him," said he, more brightly. "and now i bethink me, kind lady, that it ill becomes me to have spoken of nothing but my own poor affairs on my first having the honor of meeting with you. perchance you would like to hear something of master jonson, and how he does? may i accompany you on your homeward way for a space, if you are returning to the town? the road here is quiet enough for one that is in hiding, as well as for pleasant walking; and you are well escorted, too," he added, looking at the grave and indifferent don. "with such a master as your father, and such a sweet mistress, i should not wonder if he became as famous as sir john harrington's bungey that the prince asked about. you have not heard of him?--the marvellous dog that sir john would intrust with messages all the way to the court at greenwich; and he would bring back the answer without more ado. i wonder not that prince henry should have asked for an account of all his feats and doings." now insensibly she had turned and begun to walk toward shottery (for she would not ask this unhappy young man to court the light of the open highway), and as he respectfully accompanied her his talk became more and more cheerful, so that one would scarcely have remembered that he was in hiding, and in peril of his life mayhap. and he quickly found that she was most interested in jonson as being her father's friend and intimate. "indeed, i should not much marvel to hear of his being soon in this very town of stratford," said he, "for he has been talking of late--nay, he has been talking this many a day of it, but who knows when the adventure will take place?--of travelling all the way to scotland on foot, and writing an account of his discoveries on the road. and then he has a mind to get to the lake of lomond, to make it the scene of a fisher and pastoral play, he says; and his friend drummond will go with him; and they speak of getting still farther to the north, and being the guests of the new scotch lord, mackenzie of kintail, that was made a peer last winter. nay, friend ben, though at times he gibes at the scots, at other times he will boast of his scotch blood--for his grandfather, as i have heard, came from annandale--and you will often hear him say that whereas the late queen was a niggard and close-fisted, this scotch king is lavish and a generous patron. if he go to scotland, as is his purpose, surely he will come by way of stratford." "it were ill done of him else," said judith. but truly this young gentleman was so bent on entertaining her with tales of his acquaintance in london, and with descriptions of the court shows and pageants, that she had not to trouble herself much to join in the conversation. "a lavish patron the king has been to him truly," he continued, stooping to pat the don's head, as if he would make friends with him too, "what with the masks, and revels, and so forth. their last tiltings at prince henry's barriers exceeded everything that had gone before, as i think--and i marvel not that ben was found at his best, seeing how the king had been instructing him. nay, but it was a happy conceit to have our young lord of the isles addressed by the lady of the lake, and have king arthur hand him his armor out of the clouds----" "but where was it, good sir?" said she (to show that she was interested). and now he seemed so cheerful and friendly that she ventured to steal a look at him. in truth, there was nothing very doleful or tragic in his appearance. he was a handsomely made young man, of about eight-and-twenty or so, with fine features, a somewhat pale and sallow complexion (that distinguished him markedly from the rustic red and white and sun-brown she was familiar with), and eyes of a singular blackness and fire that were exceedingly respectful; but that could, as any one might see, easily break into mirth. he was well habited too, for now he had partly thrown his travelling cloak aside, and his slashed doublet and hose and shoes were smart and clearly of a town fashion. he wore no sword; in his belt there was only a small dagger, of venetian silver-work on the handle, and with a sheath of stamped crimson velvet. "dear lady, you must have heard of them," he continued, lightly--"i mean of the great doings in the banqueting-house at whitehall, when prince henry challenged so many noble lords. 'twas a brave sight, i assure you; the king and queen were there, and the ambassadors from spain and venice, and a great and splendid assemblage. and then, when ben's speeches came to be spoken, there was cyril davy, that is said to have the best woman's voice in london, as the lady of the lake, and he came forward and said, 'lest any yet should doubt, or might mistake what nymph i am, behold the ample lake of which i'm styled; and near it merlin's tomb;' and then king arthur appeared, and our young lord of the isles had a magic shield handed to him. oh, 'twas a noble sight, i warrant you! and i heard that the duke of lennox and the earls of arundel and southampton and all of them were but of one mind, that friend ben had never done better." indeed, the young man, as they loitered along the pretty wooded lane in the hush of the warm still noon (there was scarce enough wind to make a rustle in the great branching elms), and as he talked of all manner of things for the entertainment of this charming companion whom a happy chance had thrown in his way, seemed to be well acquainted with the court and its doings, and all the busy life of london. if she gathered rightly, he had himself been present when the king and the nobles went in the december of the previous year to deptford to witness the launching of the great ship of the east india company--the _trade's encrease_, it was called--for he described the magnificent banquet in the chief cabin, and how the king gave to sir thomas smith, the governor, a fine chain of gold, with his portrait set in a jewel, and how angry his majesty became when they found that the ship could not be launched on account of the state of the tide. but when he again brought in the name of jonson, and said how highly the king thought of his writings, and what his majesty had said of this or the other device or masque that had been commanded of him, judith grew at length to be not so pleased; and she said, with some asperity, "but the king holds my father in honor also, for he wrote him a letter with his own hand." "i heard not of that," said he, but of course without appearing to doubt her word. "nay, but i saw it," said she--"i saw the letter; and i did not think it well that my father should give it to julius shawe, for there are some others that would have valued it as much as he--yes, and been more proud of it, too." "his own daughter, perchance?" he said gently. judith did not speak. it was a sore subject with her; indeed, she had cried in secret, and bitterly, when she learned that the letter had been casually given away, for her father seemed to put no great store by it. however, that had nothing to do with this unhappy young gentleman that was in hiding. and soon she had dismissed it from her mind, and was engaged in fixing the exact time at which, as she hoped, she would be able to bring him that assurance, or that caution, in the evening. "i think it must be the province of women to be kind to the unfortunate," said he, as they came in sight of the cottages; and he seemed to linger and hesitate in his walk, as if he were afraid of going further. "it is but a small kindness," said she; "and i hope it will bring you and my father together. he has but just returned from london, and you will not have much news to give him from his friend; but you will be none the less welcome, for all are welcome to him, but especially those whom he can aid." "if i were to judge of the father by the daughter, i should indeed expect a friendly treatment," said he, with much courtesy. "nay, but it is so simple a matter," said she. "then fare you well, mistress judith," said he, "if i may make so bold as to guess at a name that i have heard named in london." "oh, no, sir?" said she, glancing up with some inquiry. "but indeed, indeed," said he, gallantly. "and who can wonder? 'twas friend ben that i heard speak of you; i marvel not that he carried your praises so far. but now, sweet lady, that i see you would go--and i wish not to venture nearer the village there--may i beseech of you at parting a further grace and favor? it is that you would not reveal to any one, no matter what trust you may put in them, that you have seen me or spoken with me. you know not my name, it is true, though i would willingly confide it to you--indeed, it is leofric hope, madam; but if it were merely known that you had met with a stranger, curious eyes might be on the alert." "fear not, sir," said she, looking at him in her frank way--and there was a kind of friendliness, too, and sympathy in her regard. "your secret is surely safe in my keeping. i can promise you that none shall know through me that you are in the neighborhood. farewell, good sir. i hope your fortunes will mend speedily." "god keep you, sweet mistress judith," said he, raising his hat and bowing low, and not even asking to be allowed to take her hand. "if my ill fortune should carry it so that i see you not again, at least i will treasure in my memory a vision of kindness and beauty that i trust will remain forever there. farewell, gentle lady; i am your debtor." and so they parted; and he stood looking after her and the great dog as they passed through the meadows; and she was making all the haste she might, for although, when judith's father was at home, the dinner hour was at twelve instead of at eleven, still it would take her all the time to be punctual, and she was scrupulous not to offend. he stood looking after her as long as she was in sight, and then he turned away, saying to himself: "why, our ben did not tell us a tithe of the truth!--for why?--because it was with his tongue, and not with his pen, that he described her. by heaven, she is a marvel!--and i dare be sworn, now, that half the clowns in stratford imagine themselves in love with her." chapter vi. within-doors. when in the afternoon judith sought out her gentle gossip, and with much cautious tact and discretion began to unfold her perplexities to her, prudence was not only glad enough to hear nothing further of the wizard--who seemed to have been driven out of judith's mind altogether by the actual occurrences of the morning--but also she became possessed with a secret wonder and joy; for she thought that at last her dearest and closest friend was awaking to a sense of the importance of spiritual things, and that henceforth there would be a bond of confidence between them far more true and abiding than any that had been before. but soon she discovered that politics had a good deal to do with these hesitating inquiries; and at length the bewildered prudence found the conversation narrowing and narrowing itself to this definite question: whether, supposing there were a young man charged with complicity in a catholic plot, or perhaps having been compromised in some former affair of the kind, and supposing him to appeal to her father, would he, judith's father, probably be inclined to shelter him and conceal him, and give him what aid was possible until he might get away from the country? "but what do you mean, judith?" said prudence, in dismay. "have you seen any one? what is't you mean? have you seen one of the desperate men that were concerned with catesby?" indeed, it was not likely that either of these two warwickshire maidens had already forgotten the terrible tidings that rang through the land but a few years before, when the gunpowder treason was discovered; nor how the conspirators fled into this very county; nor yet how in the following january, on a bitterly cold and snowy day, there was brought into the town the news of the executions in st. paul's churchyard and at westminster. and, in truth, when prudence shawe mentioned catesby's name, judith's cheek turned pale. it was but for an instant. she banished the ungenerous thought the moment that it occurred to her. no, she was sure the unhappy young man who had appealed to her compassion could not have been concerned in any such bloody enterprise. his speech was too gentle for that. had he not declared that he only wanted time to prove his innocence? it is true he had said something about his friends in flanders, and often enough had she heard the puritan divines denouncing flanders as the very hot-bed of the machinations of the jesuits; but that this young man might have friends among the jesuits did not appear to her as being in itself a criminal thing, any more than the possibility of his being a catholic was sufficient of itself to deprive him of her frank and generous sympathy. "i may not answer you yea nor nay, sweet mouse," said she; "but assure yourself that i am not in league with any desperate villain. i but put a case. we live in quiet times now, do we not, good prue? and i take it that those who like not the country are free to leave it. but tell me, if my father were to speak openly, which of the parties would he most affect? and how stands he with the king? nay, the king himself, of what religion is he at heart, think you?" "these be questions!" said prudence, staring aghast at such ignorance. "i but use my ears," said judith, indifferently, "and the winds are not more variable than the opinions that one listens to. well you know it, prue. here is one that says the king is in conscience a papist, as his mother was; and that he gave a guarantee to the catholic gentry ere he came to the throne; and that soon or late we shall have mass again; and then comes another with the story that the pope is hot and angry because the king misuseth him in his speech, calling him antichrist and the like and that he has complained to the french king on the matter, and that there is even talk of excommunication. what can one believe? how is one to know? indeed, good mouse, you would have me more anxious about such things; but why should one add to one's difficulties? i am content to be like my father, and stand aside from the quarrel." "your wit is too great for me, dear judith," her friend said, rather sadly; "and i will not argue with you. but well i know there may be a calmness that is of ignorance and indifference, and that is slothful and sinful; and there may be a calmness that is of assured wisdom and knowledge of the truth, and that i trust your father has attained to. that he should keep aside from disputes, i can well understand." "but touching the king, dear cousin," said judith, who had her own ends in view. "how stands my father with the king and his religion? nay, but i know, and every one knows, that in all other matters they are friends; for your brother has the king's letter----" "that i wish you had yourself, judith, since your heart is set upon it," said her companion, gently. judith did not answer that. "but as regards religion, sweet prue, what think you my father would most favor, were there a movement any way?--a change to the ancient faith perchance?" she threw out the question with a kind of studied carelessness, as if it were a mere matter of speculation; but there was a touch of warmth in prudence's answer: "what, then, judith? you think he would disturb the peace of the land, and give us over again to the priests and their idol-worship? i trow not." then something seemed to occur to her suddenly. "but if you have any doubt, judith, i can set your mind at rest--of a surety i can." "how, then, dear mouse?" "i will tell you the manner of it. no longer ago than yesterday evening i was seated at the window reading--it was the volume that dr. hall brought me from worcester, and that i value more and more the longer i read it--and your father came into the house asking for julius. so i put the book on the table, with the face downward, and away i went to seek for my brother. well, then, sweet cousin, when i came back to the room, there was your father standing at the window reading the book that i had left, and i would not disturb him; and when he had finished the page, he turned, saying, 'good bishop! good bishop!' and putting down the book on the table just as he had found it. dear judith, i hope you will think it no harm and no idle curiosity that made me take up the book as soon as my brother was come in, and examine the passage, and mark it----" "harm!--bless thee, sweetheart!" judith exclaimed. and she added, eagerly: "but have you the book? will you read it to me? is it about the king? do, dear cousin, read to me what it was that my father approved. beshrew me! but i shall have to take to school lessons, after all, lest i outlive even your gentle patience." straightway prudence had gone to a small cupboard of boxes in which she kept all her most valued possessions, and from thence she brought a stout little volume, which, as judith perceived, had a tiny book-mark of satin projecting from the red-edged leaves. "much comfort indeed have i found in these comfortable notes," said she. "i wish, judith, you, that can think of everything, would tell me how i am to show to dr. hall that i am more and more grateful to him for his goodness. what can i do?--words are such poor things!" "but the passage, good prue--what was't he read? i pray you let me hear," said judith, eagerly; for here, indeed, might be a key to many mysteries. "listen, then," said her companion, opening the book. "the bishop, you understand, judith, is speaking of the sacrifices the jews made to the lord, and he goes on to say: "'thus had this people their peace-offerings; that is, duties of thankfulness to their god for the peace and prosperity vouchsafed unto them. and most fit it was that he should often be thanked for such favors. the like mercies and goodness remain to us at this day: are we either freed from the duty or left without means to perform it? no, no; but as they had oxen and kine, and sheep and goats, then appointed and allowed, so have we the calves of our lips and the sacrifice of thanksgiving still remaining for us, and as strictly required of us as these (in those days) were of them. offer them up, then, with a free heart and with a feeling soul. our peace is great; our prosperity comfortable; our god most sweet and kind; and shall we not offer? the public is sweet, the private is sweet, and forget you to offer? we lay us down and take our rest, and this our god maketh us dwell in safety. oh, where is your offering? we rise again and go to our labor, and a dog is not heard to move his tongue among us: owe we no offering? o lord, o lord, make us thankful to thee for these mercies: the whole state we live in, for the common and our several souls, for several mercies now many years enjoyed! o touch us; o turn us from our fearful dulness, and abusing of this so sweet, so long, and so happy peace! continue thy sacred servant'--surely you know, judith, whom he means--'the chiefest means under thee of this our comfort, and ever still furnish him with wise helps, truly fearing thee, and truly loving him. let our heads go to the grave in this peace, if it may be thy blessed pleasure, and our eyes never see the change of so happy an estate. make us thankful and full of peace-offerings; be thou still ours, and ever merciful. amen! amen!'" "and what said he, sweet prue--what said my father?" judith asked, though her eyes were distant and thoughtful. "'good bishop! good bishop!' said he, as if he were right well pleased, and he put down the book on the table. nay, you may be certain, judith, that your father would have naught to do with the desperate men that would fain upset the country, and bring wars among us, and hand us over to the pope again. i have heard of such; i have heard that many of the great families have but a lip loyalty, and have malice at their heart, and would willingly plunge the land in blood if they could put the priests in power over us again. be sure your father is not of that mind." "but if one were in distress, prudence," said the other, absently, "perchance with a false charge hanging over him that could be disproved--say that one were in hiding, and only anxious to prove his innocence, or to get away from the country, is my father likely to look coldly on such a one in misfortune? no, no, surely, sweet mouse!" "but of whom do you speak, judith?" exclaimed her friend, regarding her with renewed alarm. "it cannot be that you know of such a one? judith, i beseech you speak plainly! you have met with some stranger that is unknown to your own people? you said you had but put a case, but now you speak as if you knew the man. i beseech you, for the love between us, speak plainly to me, judith!" "i may not," said the other rising. and then she added, more lightly, "nay, have no fear, sweet prue; if there be any danger, it is not i that run it, and soon there will be no occasion for my withholding the secret from you, if secret there be." "i cannot understand you, judith," said her friend, with the pale, gentle face full of a tender wistfulness and anxiety. "such timid eyes!" said judith, laughing good-naturedly. "indeed, prudence, i have seen no ghost, and goodman wizard has failed me utterly; nor sprite nor phantom has been near me. in sooth i have buried poor tom's bit of rosemary to little purpose. and now i must get me home, for master parson comes this afternoon, and i will but wait the preaching to hear susan sing: 'tis worth the penance. farewell, sweet mouse; get you rid of your alarm. the sky will clear all in good time." so they kissed each other, and she left; still in much perplexity, it is true, but nevertheless resolved to tell the young man honestly and plainly the result of her inquiries. as it turned out, she was to hear something more about the king and politics and religion that afternoon; for when she got home to new place, master blaise was already there, and he was eagerly discussing with judith's mother and her sister the last news that had been brought from london; or rather he was expounding it, with emphatic assertions and denunciations that the women-folk received for the most part with a mute but quite apparent sympathy. he was a young man of about six-and-twenty, rather inclined to be stout, but with strongly lined features, fair complexion and hair, an intellectual forehead, and sharp and keen gray eyes. the one point that recommended him to judith's favor--which he openly and frankly, but with perfect independence, sought--was the uncompromising manner in which he professed his opinions. these frequently angered her, and even at times roused her to passionate indignation; and yet, oddly enough, she had a kind of lurking admiration for the very honesty that scorned to curry favor with her by means of any suppression or evasion. it may be that there was a trace of the wisdom of the serpent in this attitude of the young parson, who was shrewd-headed as well as clear-eyed, and was as quick as any to read the fearless quality of judith's character. at all events, he would not yield to any of her prejudices; he would not stoop to flatter her; he would not abate one jot of his protests against the vanity and pride, the heathenish show and extravagance, of women; the heinousness and peril of indifferentism in matters of doctrine; and the sinfulness of the life of them that countenanced stage plays and such like devilish iniquities. it was this last that was the real stumbling-block and contention between them. sometimes judith's eyes burned. once she rose and got out of the room. "if i were a man, master parson," she was saying to herself, with shut teeth, "by the life of me i would whip you from stratford town to warwick!" and indeed there was ordinarily a kind of armed truce between these two, so that no stranger or acquaintance could very easily decide what their precise relations were, although every one knew that judith's mother and sister held the young divine in great favor, and would fain have had him of the family. at this moment of judith's entrance he was much exercised, as has been said, on account of the news that was but just come from london--how that the king was driving at still further impositions because of the commons begrudging him supplies; and naturally master blaise warmly approved of the commons, that had been for granting the liberties to the puritans which the king had refused. and not only was this the expression of a general opinion on the subject, but he maintained as an individual--and as a very emphatic individual too--that the prerogatives of the crown, the wardships and purveyances and what not, were monstrous and abominable, and a way of escape from the just restraint of parliament, and he declared with a sudden vehemence that he would rather perish at the stake than contribute a single benevolence to the royal purse. judith's mother, a tall, slight, silver-haired woman, with eyes that had once been of extraordinary beauty, but now were grown somewhat sad and worn, and her daughter susanna hall, who was darker than her sister judith as regarded hair and eyebrows, but who had blue-gray eyes of a singular clearness and quickness and intelligence, listened and acquiesced; but perhaps they were better pleased when they found the young parson come out of that vehement mood; though still he was sharp of tongue and sarcastic, saying as an excuse for the king that now he was revenging himself on the english puritans for the treatment he had received at the hands of the scotch presbyterians, who had harried him not a little. he had not a word for judith; he addressed his discourse entirely to the other two. and she was content to sit aside, for indeed this discontent with the crown on the part of the puritans was nothing strange or novel to her, and did not in the least help to solve her present perplexity. and now the maids (for judith's father would have no serving-men, nor stable-men, nor husbandmen of any grade whatever, come within-doors; the work of the house was done entirely by women-folk) entered to prepare the long oaken table for supper, seeing which master blaise suggested that before that meal it might be as well to devote a space to divine worship. so the maids were bidden to stay their preparations, and to remain, seating themselves dutifully on a bench brought crosswise, and the others sat at the table in their usual chairs, while the preacher opened the large bible that had been fetched for him, and proceeded to read the second chapter of the book of jeremiah, expounding as he went along. this running commentary was, in fact, a sermon applied to all the evils of the day, as the various verses happened to offer texts; and the ungodliness and the vanity and the turning away from the lord that jeremiah lamented were attributed in no unsparing fashion to the town of stratford and the inhabitants thereof: "hear ye the word of the lord, o house of jacob, and all the families of the house of israel: thus saith the lord, what iniquity have your fathers found in me, that they are gone far from me, and have walked after vanity, and are become vain?" nor did he spare himself and his own calling: "the priests said not, where is the lord? and they that should minister the law knew me not: the pastors also offended against me, and the prophets prophesied in baal, and went after things that did not profit." and there were bold paraphrases and inductions, too: "what hast thou now to do in the way of egypt, to drink the waters of nilus? or what makest thou in the way of asshur, to drink the waters of the river?" was not that the seeking of strange objects--of baubles, and jewels, and silks, and other instruments of vanity--from abroad, from the papist land of france, to lure the eye and deceive the senses, and turn away the mind from the dwelling on holy things? "can a maid forget her ornament, or the bride her attire? yet my people have forgotten me days without number." this was, indeed, a fruitful text, and there is no doubt that judith was indirectly admonished to regard the extreme simplicity of her mother's and sister's attire; so that there can be no excuse whatever for her having in her mind at this very moment some vague fancy that as soon as supper was over she would go to her own chamber and take out a certain beaver hat. she did not often wear it, for it was a present that her father had once brought her from london, and it was ranked among her most precious treasures; but surely on this evening (she was saying to herself) it was fitting that she should wear it, not from any personal vanity, but to the end that this young gentleman, who seemed to know several of her father's acquaintances in london, should understand that the daughter of the owner of new place was no mere country wench, ignorant of what was in the fashion. it is grievous that she should have been concerned with such frivolous thoughts. however, the chapter came to an end in due time. then good master blaise said that they would sing the one-hundred-and-thirty-seventh psalm; and this was truly what judith had been waiting for. she herself was but an indifferent singer. she could do little more than hum such snatches of old songs as occurred to her during her careless rambles, and that only for her private ear; but her sister susanna had a most noble, pure, and clear contralto voice, that could at any time bring tears to judith's eyes, and that, when she joined in the choral parts of the service in church, made many a young man's heart tremble strangely. in former days she used to sing to the accompaniment of her lute; but that was given over now. once or twice judith had brought the discarded instrument to her, and said, "susan, sweet susan, for once, for once only, sing to me '_the rose is from my garden gone_.'" "why, then--to make you cry, silly one?" the elder sister would answer. "what profit those idle tears, child, that are but a luxury and a sinful indulgence?" "susan, but once!" judith would plead (with the tears almost already in her eyes)--"once only, '_the rose is from my garden gone_.' there is none can sing it like you." but the elder sister was obdurate, as she considered was right; and judith, as she walked through the meadows in the evening, would sometimes try the song for herself, thinking, or endeavoring to think, that she could hear in it the pathetic vibrations of her sister's voice. indeed, at this moment the small congregation assembled around the table would doubtless have been deeply shocked had they known with what a purely secular delight judith was now listening to the words of the psalm. there was but one bible in the house, so that master blaise read out the first two lines (lest any of the maids might have a lax memory): "when as we sat in babylon, the rivers round about;" and that they sang; then they proceeded in like manner: "and in remembrance of sion, the tears for grief burst out; we hanged our harps and instruments the willow-trees upon; for in that place men for their use had planted many a one." it is probable, indeed, that judith was so wrapped up in her sister's singing that it did not occur to her to ask herself whether this psalm, too, had not been chosen with some regard to the good preacher's discontent with those in power. at all events, he read out, and they sang, no further than these two verses: "then they to whom we prisoners were, said to us tauntingly: now let us hear your hebrew songs and pleasant melody. alas! (said we) who can once frame his sorrowful heart to sing the praises of our loving god thus under a strange king? "but yet if i jerusalem out of my heart let slide, then let my fingers quite forget the warbling harp to guide; and let my tongue within my mouth be tied forever fast, if that i joy before i see thy full deliverance past." then there was a short and earnest prayer; and, that over, the maids set to work to get forward the supper; and young willie hart was called in from the garden--judith's father being away at wilmcote on some important business there. in due course of time, supper being finished, and a devout thanksgiving said, judith was free; and instantly she fled away to her own chamber to don her bravery. it was not vanity (she again said to herself), it was that her father's daughter should show that she knew what was due to him and his standing in the town; and indeed, as she now regarded herself in the little mirror--she wore a half-circle farthingale, and had on one of her smartest ruffs--and when she set on her head of short brown curls this exceedingly pretty hat (it was a gray beaver above, and underneath it was lined with black satin, and all around the rim was a row of hollow brass beads that tinkled like small bells), she was quite well satisfied with her appearance, and that she was fairly entitled to be. then she went down and summoned her sweetheart willie, to act as her companion and protector and ally; and together these two passed forth from the house--into the golden clear evening. chapter vii. a farewell. always, when she got out into the open air, her spirits rose into a pure content; and now, as they were walking westward through the peaceful meadows, the light of the sunset was on her face; and there was a kind of radiance there, and careless happiness, that little willie hart scarce dared look upon, so abject and wistful was the worship that the small lad laid at his pretty cousin's feet. he was a sensitive and imaginative boy; and the joy and crown of his life was to be allowed to walk out with his cousin judith, her hand holding his; and it did not matter to him whether she spoke to him, or whether she was busy with her private thinking, and left him to his own pleasure and fancies. he had many of these; for he had heard of all kinds of great and noble persons--princesses, and empresses, and queens; but to him his cousin judith was the queen of queens; he could not believe that any one ever was more beautiful--or more gentle and lovable, in a magical and mystical way--than she was; and in church, on the quiet sunday mornings, when the choir was singing, and all else silence, and dreams were busy in certain small brains, if there were any far-away pictures of angels in white and shining robes, coming toward one through rose-red celestial gardens, be sure they had judith's eyes and the light and witchery of these; and that, when they spoke (if such wonderful creatures vouchsafed to speak), it was with the softness of judith's voice. so it is not to be conceived that judith, who knew something of this mute and secret adoration, had any malice in her heart when, on this particular evening, she began to question the boy as to the kind of sweetheart he would choose when he was grown up: the fact being that she spoke from idleness, and a wish to be friendly and companionable, her thoughts being really occupied elsewhere. "come now, willie, tell me," said she, "what sort of one you will choose, some fifteen or twenty years hence, when you are grown up to be a man, and will be going abroad from place to place. in coventry, perchance, you may find her, or over at evesham, or in warwick, or worcester, or as far away as oxford; in all of them are plenty of pretty maidens to be had for the asking, so you be civil-spoken enough, and bear yourself well. now tell me your fancy, sweetheart; what shall her height be?" "why, you know, judith," said he, rather shamefacedly. "just your height." "my height?" she said, carelessly. "why, that is neither the one way nor the other. my father says i am just as high as his heart; and with that i am content. well, now, her hair--what color of hair shall she have?" "like yours, judith; and it must come round about her ears like yours," said he, glancing up for a moment. "eyes: must they be black, or gray, or brown, or blue? nay, you shall have your choice, sweetheart willie; there be all sorts, if you go far enough afield and look around you. what eyes do you like, now?" "you know well, judith, there is no one has such pretty eyes as you; these are the ones i like, and no others." "bless the boy!--would you have her to be like me?" "just like you, judith--altogether," said he, promptly; and he added, more shyly, "for you know there is none as pretty, and they all of them say that." "marry, now!" said she, with a laugh. "here be news. what? when you go choosing your sweetheart, would you pick out one that had as large hands as these?" she held forth her hands, and regarded them; and yet with some complacency, for she had put on a pair of scented gloves which her father had brought her from london, and these were beautifully embroidered with silver, for he knew her tastes, and that she was not afraid to wear finery, whatever the preachers might say. "why, you know, judith," said he, "that there is none has such pretty hands as you, nor so white, nor so soft." "heaven save us! am i perfection, then?" she cried (but she was pleased). "must she be altogether like me?" "just so, cousin judith; altogether like you; and she must wear pretty things like you, and walk as you walk, and speak like you, else i shall not love her nor go near her, though she were the queen herself." "well said, sweetheart willie!--you shall to the court some day, if you can speak so fair. and shall i tell you, now, how you must woo and win such a one?" she continued, lightly. "it may be you shall find her here or there--in a farm-house, perchance; or she may be a great lady with her coach; or a wench in an ale-house; but if she be as you figure her, this is how you shall do: you must not grow up to be too nice and fine and delicate-handed; you must not bend too low for her favor; but be her lord and governor; and you must be ready to fight for her, if need there be--yes, you shall not suffer a word to be said in dispraise of her; and for slanderers you must have a cudgel and a stout arm withal; and yet you must be gentle with her, because she is a woman; and yet not too gentle, for you are a man; and you must be no slape-face, with whining through the nose that we are all devilish and wicked and the children of sin; and you must be no tavern-seeker, with oaths and drunken jests and the like; and when you find her you must be the master of her--and yet a gentle master: marry, i cannot tell you more; but, as i hope for heaven, sweet willie, you will do well and fairly if she loves thee half as much as i do." and she patted the boy's head. what sudden pang was it that went through his heart? "they say you are going to marry parson blaise, judith," said he, looking up at her. "do they, now?" said she, with a touch of color in her face. "they are too kind that would take from me the business of choosing for myself." "is it true, judith?" "it is but idle talk; heed it not, sweetheart," said she, rather sharply. "i would they were as busy with their fingers as with their tongues; there would be more wool spun in warwickshire!" but here she remembered that she had no quarrel with the lad, who had but innocently repeated the gossip he had heard; and so she spoke to him in a more gentle fashion; and, as they were now come to a parting of the ways, she said that she had a message to deliver, and bade him go on by himself to the cottage, and have some flowers gathered for her from out of the garden by the time she should arrive. he was a biddable boy, and went on without further question. then she turned off to the left, and in a few minutes was in the wide and wooded lane where she was to meet the young gentleman that had appealed to her friendliness. and there, sure enough, he was; and as he came forward, hat in hand, to greet her, those eloquent black eyes of his expressed so much pleasure (and admiration of a respectful kind) that judith became for a moment a trifle self-conscious, and remembered that she was in unusually brave attire. there may have been something else: some quick remembrance of the surprise and alarm of the morning; and also--in spite of her determination to banish such unworthy fancies--some frightened doubt as to whether, after all, there might not be a subtle connection between her meeting with this young gentleman and the forecasts of the wizard. this was but for a moment, but it confused her in what she had intended to say (for, in crossing the meadows, she had been planning out certain speeches as well as talking idly to willie hart), and she was about to make some stumbling confession to the effect that she had obtained no clear intelligence from her gossip prudence shawe, when the young gentleman himself absolved her from all further difficulty. "i beseech your pardon, sweet lady," said he, "that i have caused you so much trouble, and that to no end; for i am of a mind now not to carry the letter to your father, whatever hopes there might be of his sympathy and friendship." she stared in surprise. "nay, but, good sir," said she, "since you have the letter, and are so near to stratford, that is so great a distance from london, surely it were a world of pities you did not see my father. not that i can honestly gather that he would have any favor for a desperate enterprise upsetting the peace of the land----" "i am in none such, mistress judith, believe me," said he, quickly. "but it behooves me to be cautious; and i have heard that within the last few hours which summons me away. if i were inclined to run the risk, there is no time at this present: and what i can do now is to try to thank you for the kindness you have shown to one that has no habit of forgetting." "you are going away forthwith?" said she. there was no particular reason why she should be sorry at his departure from the neighborhood, except that he was an extraordinarily gentle-spoken young man, and of a courteous breeding, whom her father, as she thought, would have been pleased to welcome as being commended from his friend ben jonson. few visitors came to new place; the faces to be met with there were grown familiar year after year. it seemed a pity that this stranger--and so fair-spoken a stranger, moreover--should be close at hand, without making her father's acquaintance. "yes, sweet lady," said he, in the same respectful way, "it is true that i must quit my present lodging for a time; but i doubt whether i could find anywhere a quieter or securer place--nay, i have no reason to fear you; i will tell you freely that it is bassfield farm, that is on the left before you go down the hill to bidford; and it is like enough i may come back thither, when that i see how matters stand with me in london." and then he glanced at her with a certain diffidence. "perchance i am too daring," said he; "and yet your courtesy makes me bold. were i to communicate with you when i return----" he paused, and his hesitation well became him; it was more eloquent in its modesty than many words. "that were easily done," said judith at once, and with her usual frankness; "but i must tell you, good sir, that any written message you might send me i should have to show to my friend and gossip prudence shawe, that reads and writes for me, being so skilled in that; and when you said that to no one was the knowledge to be given that you were in this neighborhood----" "sweet lady," said he, instantly, with much gratitude visible in those handsome dark eyes, "if i may so far trespass on your goodness, i would leave that also within your discretion. one that you have chosen to be your friend must needs be trustworthy--nay, i am sure of that." "but my father too, good sir----" "nay, not so," said he, with some touch of entreaty in his voice. "take it not ill of me, but one that is in peril must use precautions for his safety, even though they savor of ill manners and suspicion." "as you will, sir--as you will; i know little of such matters," judith said. "but yet i know that you do wrong to mistrust my father." "nay, dearest lady," he said, quickly, "it is you that do me wrong to use such words. i mistrust him not; but, indeed, i dare not disclose to him the charge that is brought against me until i have clearer proofs of my innocence, and these i hope to have in time, when i may present myself to your father without fear. meanwhile, sweet mistress judith, i can but ill express my thanks to you that you have vouchsafed to lighten the tedium of my hiding through these few words that have passed between us. did you know the dulness of the days at the farm--for sad thoughts are but sorry companions--you would understand my gratitude toward you----" "nay, nothing, good sir, nothing," said she; and then she paused, in some difficulty. she did not like to bid him farewell without any reference whatsoever to the future; for in truth she wished to hear more of him, and how his fortunes prospered. and yet she hesitated about betraying so much interest--of however distant and ordinary a kind--in the affairs of a stranger. her usual frank sympathy conquered: besides, was not this unhappy young man the friend of her father's friend? "is it to the farm that you return when you have been to london?" she asked. "i trust so: better security i could not easily find elsewhere; and my well-wishers have means of communication with me, so that i can get the news there. pray heaven i may soon be quit of this skulking in corners! i like it not: it is not the life of a free man." "i hope your fortunes will mend, sir, and speedily," said she, and there was an obvious sincerity in her voice. "why," said he, with a laugh--for, indeed, this young man, to be one in peril of his life, bore himself with a singularly free and undaunted demeanor; and he was not looking around him in a furtive manner, as if he feared to be observed, but was allowing his eyes to rest on judith's eyes, and on the details of her costume (which he seemed to approve), in a quite easy and unconcerned manner--"the birds and beasts we hunt are allowed to rest at times, but a man in hiding has no peace nor freedom from week's end to week's end--no, nor at any moment of the day or night. and if the good people that shelter him are not entirely of his own station, and if he cares to have but little speech with them, and if the only book in the house be the family bible, then the days are like to pass slowly with him. can you wonder, sweet mistress judith," he continued, turning his eyes to the ground in a modest manner, "that i shall carry away the memory of this meeting with you as a treasure, and dwell on it, and recall the kindness of each word you have spoken?" "in truth, no, good sir," she said, with a touch of color in her cheeks, that caught the warm golden light shining over from the west. "i would not have you think them of any importance, except the hope that matters may go well with you." "and if they should," said he, "or if they should go ill, and if i were to presume to think that you cared to know them, when i return to bassfield i might make so bold as to send you some brief tidings, through your friend mistress prudence shawe, that i am sure must be discreet, since she has won your confidence. but why should i do so?" he added, after a second. "why should i trouble you with news of one whose good or evil fortune cannot concern you?" "nay, sir, i wish you well," said she, simply, "and would fain hear better tidings of your condition. if you may not come at present to new place, where you would have better counsel than i can give you, at least you may remember that there is one in the household there that will be glad when she hears of your welfare, and better pleased still when she learns that you are free to make her father's friendship." this was clearly a dismissal; and after a few more words of gratitude on his part (he seemed almost unable to take away his eyes from her face, or to say all that he would fain say of thanks for her gracious intervention and sympathy) they parted; and forthwith judith--now with a much lighter heart, for this interview had cost her not a little embarrassment and anxiety--hastened away back through the lane in the direction of the barns and gardens of shottery. all these occurrences of the day had happened so rapidly that she had had but little time to reflect over them; but now she was clearly glad that she should be able to talk over the whole affair with prudence shawe. there would be comfort in that, and also safety; for, if the truth must be told, that wild and bewildering fancy that perchance the wizard had prophesied truly would force itself on her mind in a disquieting manner. but she strove to reason herself and laugh herself out of such imaginings. she had plenty of courage and a strong will. from the first she had made light of the wizard's pretensions; she was not going to alarm herself about the possible future consequences of this accidental meeting. and, indeed, when she recalled the particulars of that meeting, she came to think that the circumstances of the young man could not be so very desperate. he did not speak nor look like one in imminent peril; his gay description of the masques and entertainments of the court was not the talk of a man seriously and really in danger of his life. perhaps he had been in some thoughtless escapade, and was waiting for the bruit of it to blow over: perhaps he was unused to confinement, and may have exaggerated (for this also occurred to her) somewhat in order to win her sympathy. but, anyhow, he was in some kind of misfortune or trouble, and she was sorry for him; and she thought that if prudence shawe could see him, and observe how well-bred and civil-spoken and courteous a young gentleman he seemed to be, she, too, would pity the dulness of the life he must be leading at the farm, and be glad to do anything to relieve such a tedium. in truth, by the time judith was drawing near her grandmother's cottage, she had convinced herself that there was no dark mystery connected with this young man; that she had not been holding converse with any dangerous villain or conspirator; and that soon everything would be cleared up, and perhaps he himself present himself at new place, with ben jonson's letter in his hand. so she was in a cheerful enough frame of mind when she arrived at the cottage. this was a picturesque little building of brick and timber, with a substantial roof of thatch, and irregularly placed small windows; and it was prettily set in front of a wild and variegated garden, and of course all the golden glow of the west was now flooding the place with its beautiful light, and causing the little rectangular panes in the open casements to gleam like jewels. and here, at the wooden gate of the garden, was willie hart, who seemed to have been using the time profitably, for he had a most diverse and sweet-scented gathering of flowers and herbs of a humble and familiar kind--forget-me-nots, and pansies, and wall-flower, and mint, and sweet-brier, and the like--to present to his pretty cousin. "well done, sweetheart? and are all these for me?" said she, as she passed within the little gate, and stood for a moment arranging and regarding them. "what, then, what is this?--what mean you by it, cousin willie?" "by what, cousin judith?" said the small boy, looking up with his wondering and wistful eyes. "why," said she, gayly, "this pansy that you have put fair in the front. know you not the name of it?" "indeed i know it not, cousin judith." "ah, you cunning one! well you know it, i'll be sworn! why, 'tis one of the chiefest favorites everywhere. did you never hear it called 'kiss me at the gate?' marry, 'tis an excellent name; and if i take you at your word, little sweetheart?" and so they went into the cottage together; and she had her arm lying lightly round his neck. chapter viii. a quarrel. but instantly her manner changed. just within the doorway of the passage that cut the rambling cottage into two halves, and attached to a string that was tied to the handle of the door, lay a small spaniel-gentle, peacefully snoozing; and well judith knew that the owner of the dog (which she had heard, indeed, was meant to be presented to herself) was inside. however, there was no retreat possible, if retreat she would have preferred; for here was the aged grandmother--a little old woman, with fresh pink cheeks, silver-white hair, and keen eyes--come out to see if it were judith's footsteps she had heard; and she was kindly in her welcome of the girl, though usually she grumbled a good deal about her, and would maintain that it was pure pride and wilfulness that kept her from getting married. "here be finery!" said she, stepping back as if to gain a fairer view. "god's mercy, wench, have you come to your senses at last?--be you seeking a husband?--would you win one of them? they have waited a goodly time for the bating of your pride; but you must after them at last--ay, ay, i thought 'twould come to that." "good grandmother, you give me no friendly welcome," said judith. "and willie here; have you no word for him, that he is come to see how you do?" "nay, come in, then, sweetings both; come in and sit ye down: little willie has been in the garden long enough, though you know i grudge you not the flowers, wench. ay, ay, there is one within, judith, that would fain be a nearer neighbor, as i hear, if you would but say yea; and bethink ye, wench, an apple may hang too long on the bough--your bravery may be put on to catch the eye when it is overlate----" "i pray you, good grandmother, forbear," said judith, with some asperity. "i have my own mind about such things." "all's well, wench, all's well," said the old dame, as she led the way into the main room of the cottage. it was a wide and spacious apartment, with heavy black beams overhead, a mighty fire-place, here or there a window in the walls just as it seemed to have been wanted, and in the middle of the floor a plain old table, on which were placed a jug and two or three horn tumblers. of course judith knew whom she had to expect: the presence of the little spaniel-gentle at the door had told her that. this young fellow that now quickly rose from his chair and came forward to meet her--"good-even to you, judith," said he, in a humble way, and his eyes seemed to beseech her favor--was as yet but in his two-and-twentieth year, but his tall and lithe and muscular figure had already the firm set of manhood on it. he was spare of form and square-shouldered; his head smallish, his brown hair short; his features were regular, and the forehead, if not high, was square and firm; the general look of him was suggestive of a sculptured greek or roman wrestler, but that this deprecating glance of the eyes was not quite consistent. and, to tell the truth, wrestling and his firm-sinewed figure had something to do with his extreme humility on this occasion. he was afraid that judith had heard something. to have broken the head of a tapster was not a noble performance, no matter how the quarrel was forced on him; and this was but the most recent of several squabbles; for the championship in the athletic sports of a country neighborhood is productive of rivals, who may take many ways of provoking anger. "good-even to you, judith," said he, as if he really would have said, "pray you believe not all the ill you hear of me!" judith, however, did not betray anything by her manner, which was friendly enough in a kind of formal way, and distinctly reserved. she sat down, and asked her grandmother what news she had of the various members of the family, that now were widely scattered throughout warwickshire. she declined the cup of merry-go-down that the young man civilly offered to her. she had a store of things to tell about her father; and about the presents he had brought; and about the two pieces of song-music that master robert johnson had sent, that her father would have susan try over on the lute; and the other twenty acres that were to be added; and the talk there had been of turning the house opposite new place, at the corner of chapel street and scholars lane, into a tavern, and how that had happily been abandoned--for her father wanted no tavern-revelry within hearing; and so forth; but all this was addressed to the grandmother. the young man got scarce a word, though now and again he would interpose gently, and, as it were, begging her to look his way. she was far kinder to willie hart, who was standing by her side; for sometimes she would put her hand on his shoulder, or stroke his long yellow-brown hair. "willie says he will have just such another as i, grandmother," said she, when these topics were exhausted, "to be his sweetheart when he grows up; so you see there be some that value me." "look to it that you be not yourself unmarried then, judith," said the old dame, who was never done grumbling on this account. "i should not marvel; they that refuse when they are sought come in time to wonder that there are none to seek--nay, 'tis so, i warrant you. you are hanging late on the bough, wench; see you be not forgotten." "but, good grandmother," said judith, with some color in her cheeks (for this was an awkward topic in the presence of this youth), "would you have me break from the rule of the family? my mother was six-and-twenty when she married, and susan four-and-twenty; and indeed there might come one of us who did not perceive the necessity of marrying at all." "in god's name, if that be your mind, wench, hold to it. hold to it, i say!" and then the old dame glanced with her sharp eyes at the pretty costume of her visitor. "but i had other thoughts when i saw such a fine young madam at the door; in truth, they befit you well, these braveries; indeed they do; though 'tis a pity to have them bedecking out one that is above the marrying trade. but take heed, wench, take heed lest you change your mind when it is too late; the young men may hold you to your word, and you find yourself forsaken when you least expect it." "give ye thanks for your good comfort, grandmother," said judith, indifferently. and then she rose. "come, willie, 'tis about time we were going through the fields to the town. what message have you, grandmother, for my father? he is busy from morning till night since his coming home; but i know he will be over to visit you soon. the flowers, willie--did you leave them on the bench outside?" but she was not allowed to depart in this fashion. the old dame's discontents with her pretty granddaughter--that was now grown into so fair and blithe a young woman--were never of a lasting nature; and now she would have both judith and little willie taste of some gingerbread of her own baking, and then judith had again to refuse a sup of the ale that stood on the table, preferring a little water instead. moreover, when they had got out into the garden, behold! this young man would come also, to convoy them home on their way across the fields. it was a gracious evening, sweet and cool; there was a clear twilight shining over the land; the elms were dark against the palely luminous sky. and then, as the three of them went across the meadows toward stratford town, little willie hart was intrusted with the care of the spaniel-gentle--that was young and wayward, and possessed with a mad purpose of hunting sparrows--and as the dog kept him running this way and that, he was mostly at some distance from these other two, and judith's companion, young quiney, had every opportunity of speaking with her. "i sent you a message, judith," said he, rather timidly, but anxiously watching the expression of her face all the time, "a token of remembrance: i trust it did not displease you?" "you should have considered through whose hands it would come," said she, without regarding him. "how so?" he asked, in some surprise. "why, you know that prudence would have to read it." "and why not, judith? why should she not? she is your friend; and i care not who is made aware that--that--well, you know what i mean, dear judith, but, i fear to anger you by saying it. you were not always so hard to please." there was a touch of reproach in this that she did not like. besides, was it fair? of course she had been kinder to him when he was a mere stripling--when they were boy and girl together; but now he had put forth other pretensions; and they stood on a quite different footing; and in his pertinacity he would not understand why she was always speaking to him of prudence shawe, and extolling her gentleness and sweet calm wisdom and goodness. "the idle boy!" she would say to herself; "why did god give him such a foolish head that he must needs come fancying me?" and sometimes she was angry because of his dulness and that he would not see; though, indeed, she could not speak quite plainly. "you should think," said she, on this occasion, with some sharpness, "that these idle verses that you send me are read by prudence. well, doubtless, she may not heed that----" "why should she heed, judith?" said he. "'tis but an innocent part she takes in the matter--a kindness, merely." she dared not say more, and she was vexed with him for putting this restraint upon her. she turned upon him with a glance of sudden and rather unfriendly scrutiny. "what is this now that i hear of you?" said she. "another brawl! a tavern brawl! i marvel you have escaped so long with a whole skin." "i know not who carries tales of me to you, judith," said he, somewhat warmly, "but if you yourself were more friendly you would take care to choose a more friendly messenger. it is always the worst that you hear. if there was a brawl, it was none of my seeking. and if my skin is whole, i thank god i can look after that for myself; i am not one that will be smitten on one cheek and turn the other--like your parson friend." this did not mend matters much. "my parson friend?" said she, with some swift color in her cheeks. "my parson friend is one that has respect for his office, and has a care for his reputation, and lives a peaceable, holy life. would you have him frequent ale-houses, and fight with drawers and tapsters? marry and amen! but i find no fault with the parson's life." "nay, that is true, indeed," said he, bitterly: "you can find no fault in the parson--as every one says. but there are others that see with other eyes, and would tell you in what he might amend----" "i care not to know," said she. "it were not amiss," said he, for he was determined to speak--"it were not amiss if sir parson showed a little more honesty in his daily walk--that were not amiss, for one thing." "in what is he dishonest, then?" said she, instantly, and she turned and faced him with indignant eyes. well, he did not quail. his blood was up. this championship of the parson, that he had scarce expected of her, only fired anew certain secret suspicions of his; and he had no mind to spare his rival, whether he were absent or no. "why, then, does he miscall the king, and eat the king's bread?" said he, somewhat hotly. "is it honest to conform in public, and revile in private? i say, let him go forth, as others have been driven forth, if the state of affairs content him not. i say that they who speak against the king--marry, it were well done to chop the rogues' ears off!--i say they should be ashamed to eat the king's bread." "he eats no king's bread?" said judith.--and alas! her eyes had a look in them that pierced him to the heart: it was not the glance he would fain have met with there. "he eats the bread of the church, that has been despoiled of its possessions again and again by the crown and the lords; and why should he go forth? he is a minister; is there harm that he should wish to see the services reformed? he is at his post; would you have him desert it, or else keep silent? no, he is no such coward, i warrant you. he will speak his mind; it were ill done of him else?" "nay, he can do no harm at all--in your judgment," said he, somewhat sullenly, "if it all be true that they say." "and who is it, then, that should speak of idle tales and the believing of them?" said she, with indignant reproach. "you say i welcome evil stories about you? and you? are you so quick to put away the idle gossip they bring you about me? would you not rather believe it? i trow you would as lief believe it as not. that it is to have friends! that it is to have those who should defend you in your absence; but would rather listen to slander against you! but when they speak about women's idle tongues, they know little; it is men who are the readiest to listen, and to carry evil reports and lying!" "i meant not to anger you, judith," said he, more humbly. "yes, but you have angered me," said she (with her lips becoming tremulous, but only for a second). "what concern have i with parson blaise? i would they that spake against him were as good men and honest as he----" "indeed, they speak no ill of him, judith," said he (for he was grieved that they were fallen out so, and there was nothing he would not have retracted that so he might win back to her favor again, in however small a degree), "except that he is disputatious, and would lead matters no one knows whither. 'tis but a few minutes ago that your grandmother there was saying that we should never have peace and quiet in church affairs till the old faith was restored----" here, indeed, she pricked up her ears; but she would say no more. she had not forgiven him yet; and she was proud and silent. "and though i do not hold with that--for there would be a bloody struggle before the pope could be master in england again--nevertheless, i would have the ministers men of peace, as they profess to be, and loyal to the king, who is at the head of the church as well as of the realm. however, let it pass. i wish to have no quarrel with you, judith." "how does your business?" said she, abruptly changing the subject. "well--excellently well; it is not in that direction that i have any anxiety about the future." "do you give it your time? you were best take heed, for else it is like to slip away from you," she said; and he thought she spoke rather coldly, and as if her warning were meant to convey something more than appeared. and then she added: "you were at wilmecote on tuesday?" "you must have heard why, judith," he said. "old pike was married again that day, and they would have me over to his wedding." "and on the wednesday, what was there at bidford, then, that you must needs be gone when my mother sent to you?" "at bidford?" said he (and he was sorely puzzled as to whether he should rejoice at these questions as betraying a friendly interest in his affairs, or rather regarded them as conveying covert reproof, and expressing her dissatisfaction with him, and distrust of him). "at bidford, judith--well, there was business as well as pleasure there. for you must know that daniel hutt is come home for a space from the new settlements in virginia, and is for taking back with him a number of laborers that are all in due time to make their fortunes there. marry, 'tis a good chance for some of them, for broken men are as welcome as any, and there are no questions asked as to their having been intimate with the constable and the justice. so there was a kind of merry-meeting of daniel's old friends, that was held at the falcon at bidford--and the host is a good customer of mine, so it was prudent of me to go thither--and right pleasant was it to hear daniel hutt tell of his adventures by sea and shore. and he gave us some of the tobacco that he had brought with him. and to any that will go back with him to jamestown he promises allotments of land, though at first there will be tough labor, as he says, honestly. oh, a worthy man is this daniel hutt, though, as yet his own fortune seems not so secure." "with such junketings," said she, with ever so slight a touch of coldness, "'tis no wonder you could not spare the time to come and see my father on the evening of his getting home." "there, now, judith!" he exclaimed. "would you have me break in upon him at such a busy season, when even you yourself are careful to refrain? it had been ill-mannered of me to do such a thing; but 'twas no heedlessness that led to my keeping away, as you may well imagine." "it is difficult to know the reasons when friends hold aloof," said she. "you have not been near the house for two or three weeks, as i reckon." and here again he would have given much to know whether her speech--which was curiously reserved in tone--meant that she had marked these things out of regard for him, or that she wished to reprove him. "i can give you the reason for that, judith," said this tall and straight young fellow, who from time to time regarded his companion's face with some solicitude, as if he fain would have found some greater measure of friendliness there. "i have not been often to new place of late because of one i thought i might meet there who would be no better pleased to see me than i him; and--and perhaps because of another--that i did not know whether she might be the better pleased to have me there or find me stay away----" "your reasons are too fine," said she. "i scarce understand them." "that is because you won't understand; i think i have spoken plain enough ere now, judith, i make bold to say." she flushed somewhat at this; but it was no longer in anger. she seemed willing to be on good terms with him, but always in that measured and distant way. "willie!" she called. "come hither, sweetheart!" with some difficulty her small cousin made his way back to her, dragging the reluctant spaniel so that its head seemed to be in jeopardy. "he _will_ go after the birds, cousin judith; you will never teach him to follow you." "i?" she said. "willie knows i want you to have the dog, judith," her companion said, quickly. "i got him for you when i was at gloucester. 'tis a good breed--true maltese, i can warrant him; and the fashionable ladies will scarce stir abroad without one to follow them, or to carry with them in their coaches when they ride. will you take him judith?" she was a little embarrassed. "'tis a pretty present," said she, "but you have not chosen the right one to give it to." "what mean you?" said he. "nay, now, have not i the don?" she said, with greater courage. "he is a sufficient companion if i wish to walk abroad. why should you not give this little spaniel to one that has no such companion--i mean to prudence shaw?" "to prudence!" said he, regarding her; for this second introduction of judith's friend seemed strange, as well as the notion that he should transfer this prized gift to her. "there, now, is one so gentle and kind to every one and everything that she would tend the little creature with care," she continued. "it would be more fitting for her than for me." "you could be kind enough, judith--if you chose," said he, under his breath, for willie hart was standing by. "nay, i have the don," said she, "that is large, and worldly, and serious, and clumsy withal. give this little playfellow to prudence, who is small and neat and gentle like itself; surely that were fitter." "i had hoped you would have accepted the little spaniel from me, judith," said he, with very obvious disappointment. "moreover," said she, lightly, "two of a trade would never agree: we should have this one and the don continually quarrelling, and sooner or later the small one would lose its head in the don's great jaws." "why, the mastiff is always chained, and at the barn gate, judith," said he. "this one would be within-doors, as your playfellow. but i care not to press a gift." "nay, now, be not displeased," said she, gently enough. "i am not unthankful; i think well of your kindness, but it were still better done if you were to change your intention and give the spaniel to one that would have a gentler charge over it, and think none the less of it, as i can vouch for. pray you give it to prudence." "a discarded gift is not worth the passing on," said he; and as they were now come quite near to the town, where there was a dividing of ways, he stopped as though he would shake hands and depart. "will you not go on to the house? you have not seen my father since his coming home," she said. "no, not to-night, judith," he said. "doubtless he is still busy, and i have affairs elsewhere." she glanced at him with one of those swift keen glances of hers. "where go you to spend the evening, if i may make so bold?" she said. "not to the ale-house, as you seem to suspect," he answered, with just a trifle of bitterness; and then he took the string to lead away the spaniel, and he bade her farewell--in a kind of half-hearted and disappointed and downcast way--and left. she looked after him a second or so, as she fastened a glove-button that had got loose. and then she sighed as she turned away. "sweetheart willie," said she, putting her hand softly on the boy's shoulder, as he walked beside her, "i think you said you loved me?" "why, you know i do, cousin judith," said he. "what a pity it is, then," said she, absently, "that you cannot remain always as you are, and keep your ten years forever and a day, so that we should always be friends as we are now!" he did not quite know what she meant, but he was sufficiently well pleased and contented when he was thus close by her side; and when her hand was on his shoulder or on his neck it was to him no burden, but a delight. and so walking together, and with some gay and careless prattle between them, they went on and into the town. chapter ix. through the meadows. some two or three days after that, and toward the evening, prudence shawe was in the church-yard, and she was alone, save that now and again some one might pass along the gravelled pathway, and these did not stay to interrupt her. she had with her a basket, partly filled with flowers, also a small rake and a pair of gardener's shears, and she was engaged in going from grave to grave, here putting a few fresh blossoms to replace the withered ones, and there removing weeds, or cutting the grass smooth, and generally tending those last resting-places with a patient and loving care. it was a favorite employment with her when she had a spare afternoon; nor did she limit her attention to the graves of those whom she had known in life; her charge was a general one, and when they who had friends or relatives buried there came to the church on a sunday morning, and perhaps from some distance, and when they saw that some gentle hand had been employed there in the interval, they knew right well that that hand was the hand of prudence shawe. it was a strange fancy on the part of one who was so averse from all ornament or decoration in ordinary life that nothing was too beautiful for a grave. she herself would not wear a flower, but her best, and the best she could beg or borrow anywhere, she freely gave to those that were gone away; she seemed to have some vague imagination that our poor human nature was not worthy of this beautifying care until it had become sanctified by the sad mystery of death. it was a calm, golden-white evening, peaceful and silent; the rooks were cawing in the dark elms above her; the swallows dipping and darting under the boughs; the smooth-flowing yellow river was like glass, save that now and again the perfect surface was broken by the rising of a fish. over there in the wide meadows beyond the stream a number of boys were playing at rounders or prisoner's-base, or some such noisy game; but the sound of their shouting was softened by the distance; so quiet was it here, as she continued at her pious task, that she might almost have heard herself breathing. and once or twice she looked up, and glanced toward the little gate as if expecting some one. it was judith, of course, that she was expecting; and at this moment judith was coming along to the church-yard to seek her out. what a contrast there was between these two--this one pale and gentle and sad-eyed, stooping over the mute graves in the shadow of the elms; that other coming along through the warm evening light with all her usual audacity of gait, the peach-bloom of health on her cheek, carelessness and content in her clear-shining eyes, and the tune of "green sleeves" ringing through a perfectly idle brain. indeed, what part of her brain may not have been perfectly idle was bent solely on mischief. prudence had been away for two or three days, staying with an ailing sister. all that story of the adventure with the unfortunate young gentleman had still to be related to her. and again and again judith had pictured to herself prudence's alarm and the look of her timid eyes when she should hear of such doings, and had resolved that the tale would lose nothing in the telling. here, indeed, was something for two country maidens to talk about. the even current of their lives was broken but by few surprises, but here was something more than surprise--something with suggestions of mystery and even danger behind it. this was no mere going out to meet a wizard. any farm wench might have an experience of that kind; any ploughboy, deluded by the hope of digging up silver in one of his master's fields. but a gentleman in hiding--one that had been at court--one that had seen the king sitting in his chair of state, while ben jonson's masque was opened out before the great and noble assemblage--this was one to speak about, truly, one whose fortunes and circumstances were like to prove a matter of endless speculation and curiosity. but when judith drew near to the little gate of the church-yard, and saw how prudence was occupied, her heart smote her. green sleeves was all my joy, green sleeves was my delight, went clear out of her head. there was a kind of shame on her face; and when she went along to her friend she could not help exclaiming, "how good you are, prue!" "i!" said the other, with some touch of wonder in the upturned face. "i fear that cannot be said of any of us, judith." "i would i were like you, sweetheart," was the answer, with a bit of a sigh. "like me, judith?" said prudence, returning to her task (which was nearly ended now, for she had but few more flowers left). "nay, what makes you think that? i wish i were far other than i am." "look, now," judith said, "how you are occupied at this moment. is there another in stratford that has such a general kindness? how many would think of employing their time so? how many would come away from their own affairs----" "it may be i have more idle time than many," said prudence, with a slight flush. "but i commend not myself for this work; in truth, no; 'tis but a pastime; 'tis for my own pleasure." "indeed, then, good prue, you are mistaken, and that i know well," said the other, peremptorily. "your own pleasure? is it no pleasure, then, think you, for them that come from time to time, and are right glad to see that some one has been tending the graves of their friends or kinsmen? and do you think, now, it is no pleasure to the poor people themselves--i mean them that are gone--to look at you as you are engaged so, and to think that they are not quite forgotten? surely it must be a pleasure to them. surely they cannot have lost all their interest in what happens here--in stratford--where they lived; and surely they must be grateful to you for thinking of them, and doing them this kindness? i say it were ill done of them else. i say they ought to be thankful to you. and no doubt they are, could we but learn." "judith! judith! you have such a bold way of regarding what is all a mystery to us," said her gentle-eyed friend. "sometimes you frighten me." "i would i knew, now," said the other, looking absently across the river to the boys that were playing there, "whether my little brother hamnet--had you known him you would have loved him as i did, prudence--i say i wish i knew whether he is quite happy and content where he is, or whether he would not rather be over there now with the other boys. if he looks down and sees them, may it not make him sad sometimes--to be so far away from us? i always think of him as being alone there, and he was never alone here. i suppose he thinks of us sometimes. whenever i hear the boys shouting like that at their play i think of him; but indeed he was never noisy and unruly. my father used to call him the girl-boy, but he was fonder of him than of all us others; he once came all the way from london when he heard that hamnet was lying sick of a fever." she turned to see how prudence was getting on with her work; but she was in no hurry; and prudence was patient and scrupulously careful; and the dead, had they been able to speak, would not have bade her cease and go away, for a gentler hand never touched a grave. "i suppose it is grandmother hathaway who will go next," judith continued, in the same absent kind of way; "but indeed she says she is right well content either to go or to stay; for now, as she says, she has about as many kinsfolk there as here, and she will not be going among strangers. and well i know she will make for hamnet as soon as she is there, for like my father's love for bess hall was her love for the boy while he was with us. tell me, prudence, has he grown up to be of my age? you know we were twins. is he a man now, so that we should see him as some one different? or is he still our little hamnet, just as we used to know him?" "how can i tell you, judith?" the other said, almost in pain. "you ask such bold questions; and all these things are hidden from us and behind a veil." "but these are what one would like to know," said judith, with a sigh. "nay, if you could but tell me of such things, then you might persuade me to have a greater regard for the preachers; but when you come and ask about such real things, they say it is all a mystery; they cannot tell; and would have you be anxious about schemes of doctrine, which are but strings of words. my father, too: when i go to him--nay, but it is many a day since i tried--he would look at me and say, 'what is in your brain now? to your needle, wench, to your needle!'" "but naturally, judith! such things are mercifully hidden from us now, but they will be revealed when it is fitting for us to know them. how could our ordinary life be possible if we knew what was going on in the other world? we should have no interest in the things around us, the greater interest would be so great." "well, well, well," said judith, coming with more practical eyes to the present moment, "are you finished, sweet mouse, and will you come away? what, not satisfied yet? i wonder if they know the care you take. i wonder if one will say to the other: 'come and see. she is there again. we are not quite forgotten.' and will you do that for me, too, sweet prue? will you put some pansies on my grave, too?--and i know you will say out of your charity, 'well, she was not good and pious, as i would have had her to be; she had plenty of faults; but at least she often wished to be better than she was.' nay, i forgot," she added, glancing carelessly over to the church; "they say we shall lie among the great people, since my father bought the tithes--that we have the right to be buried in the chancel; but indeed i know i would a hundred times liefer have my grave in the open here, among the grass and the trees." "you are too young to have such thoughts as these, judith," said her companion, as she rose and shut down the lid of the now empty basket. "come; shall we go?" "let us cross the foot-bridge, sweet prue," judith said, "and go through the meadows and round by clopton's bridge, and so home; for i have that to tell you will take some time; pray heaven it startle you not out of your senses withal!" it was not, however, until they had got away from the church-yard, and were out in the clear golden light of the open, that she began to tell her story. she had linked her arm within that of her friend. her manner was grave; and if there was any mischief in her eyes, it was of a demure kind, not easily detected. she confessed that it was out of mere wanton folly that she had gone to the spot indicated by the wizard, and without any very definite hope or belief. but as chance would have it, she did encounter a stranger--one, indeed, that was coming to her father's house. then followed a complete and minute narrative of what the young man had said--the glimpses he had given her of his present condition, both on the occasion of that meeting and on the subsequent one, and how she had obtained his permission to state these things to this gentle gossip of hers. prudence listened in silence, her eyes cast down; judith could not see the gathering concern on her face. nay, the latter spoke rather in a tone of raillery; for, having had time to look back over the young gentleman's confessions, and his manner, and so forth, she had arrived at a kind of assurance that he was in no such desperate case. there were many reasons why a young man might wish to lie perdu for a time; but this one had not talked as if any very imminent danger threatened him; at least, if he had intimated as much, the impression produced upon her was not permanent. and if judith now told the story with a sort of careless bravado--as if going forth in secret to meet this stranger was a thing of risk and hazard--it was with no private conviction that there was any particular peril in the matter, but rather with the vague fancy that the adventure looked daring and romantic, and would appear as something terrible in the eyes of her timid friend. but what now happened startled her. they were going up the steps of the foot-bridge, prudence first, and judith, following her, had just got to the end of her story. prudence suddenly turned round, and her face, now opposed to the westering light, was, as judith instantly saw, quite aghast. "but, judith, you do not seem to understand!" she exclaimed. "was not that the very stranger the wizard said you would meet?--the very hour, the very place? in good truth, it must have been so! judith, what manner of man have you been in company with?" for an instant a flush of color overspread judith's face, and she said, with a sort of embarrassed laugh: "well, and if it were so, sweet mouse? if that were the appointed one, what then?" she was on the bridge now. prudence caught her by both hands, and there was an anxious and piteous appeal in the loving eyes. "dear judith, i beseech you, be warned! have nothing to do with the man! did i not say that mischief would come of planting the charm in the church-yard, and shaming a sacred place with such heathenish magic? and now look already--here is one that you dare not speak of to your own people; he is in secret correspondence with you. heaven alone knows what dark deeds he may be bent upon, or what ruin he may bring upon you and yours. judith, you are light-hearted and daring, and you love to be venturesome; but i know you better than you know yourself, sweetheart. you would not willingly do wrong, or bring harm on those that love you; and for the sake of all of us, judith, have nothing to do with this man." judith was embarrassed, and perhaps a trifle remorseful; she had not expected her friend to take this adventure so very seriously. "dear prue, you alarm yourself without reason," she said (but there was still some tell-tale color in her face). "indeed, there is no magic or witchery about the young man. had i seen a ghost, i should have been frightened, no doubt, for all that don roderigo was with me; and had i met one of the stratford youths at the appointed place, i should have said that perhaps the good wizard had guessed well; but this was merely a stranger coming to see my father; and the chance that brought us together--well, what magic was in that?--it would have happened to you had you been walking in the lane: do you see that, dear mouse?--it would have happened to yourself had you been walking in the lane, and he would have asked of you the question that he asked of me. nay, banish that fancy, sweet prue, else i should be ashamed to do anything further for the young man that is unfortunate, and very grateful withal for a few words of friendliness. and so fairly spoken a young man, too; and so courtly in his bearing; and of such a handsome presence----" "but, dear judith, listen to me!--do not be led into such peril! know you not that evil spirits can assume goodly shapes--the prince of darkness himself----" she could not finish what she had to say, her imagination was so filled with terror. "sweet puritan," said judith, with a smile, "i know well that he goeth about like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour; i know it well; but believe me it would not be worth his travail to haunt such a lonely and useless place as the lane that goes from shottery to the bidford road. nay, but i will convince you, good mouse, by the best of all evidence, that there is nothing ghostly or evil about the young man; you shall see him, prue--indeed you must and shall. when that he comes back to his hiding, i will contrive that you shall see him and have speech with him, and sure you will pity him as much as i do. poor young gentleman, that he should be suspected of being satan! nay, how could he be satan, prue, and be admitted to the king's court? hath not our good king a powerful insight into the doings of witches and wizards and the like? and think you he would allow satan in person to come into the very banqueting-hall to see a masque?" "judith! judith!" said the other, piteously, "when you strive against me with your wit, i cannot answer you; but my heart tells me that you are in exceeding danger. i would warn you, dear cousin; i were no true friend to you else." "but you are the best and truest of friends, you dearest prue," said judith, lightly, as she released her hands from her companion's earnest grasp. "come, let us on, or we shall go supperless for the evening." she passed along and over the narrow bridge, and down the steps on the other side. she did not seem much impressed by prudence's entreaties; indeed, she was singing aloud: hey, good fellow, i drink to thee, pardonnez moi, je vous en prie; to all good fellows, where'er they be, with never a penny of money! prudence overtook her. "judith," said she, "even if he be not of that fearful kind--even if he be a real man, and such as he represents himself, bethink you what you are doing! there may be another such gathering as that at dunchurch; and would you be in correspondence with a plotter and murderer? nay, what was't you asked of me the other day?" she added, suddenly; and she stood still to confront her friend, with a new alarm in her eyes. "did you not ask whether your father was well affected toward the papists? is there another plot?--another treason against the king?--and you would harbor one connected with such a wicked, godless, and bloodthirsty plan?" "nay, nay, sweet mouse! have i not told you? he declares he has naught to do with any such enterprise; and if you would but see him, prudence, you would believe him. sure i am that you would believe him instantly. why, now, there be many reasons why a young gentleman might wish to remain concealed----" "none, judith, none!" the other said, with decision. "why should an honest man fear the daylight?" "oh, as for that," was the careless answer, "there be many an honest man that has got into the clutches of the twelve-in-the-hundred rogues; and when the writs are out against such a one, i hold it no shame that he would rather be out of the way than be thrown among the wretches in bocardo. i know well what i speak of; many a time have i heard my father and your brother talk of it; how the rogues of usurers will keep a man in prison for twelve years for a matter of sixteen shillings--what is it they call it?--making dice of his bones? and if the young gentleman fear such treatment and the horrible company of the prisons, i marvel not that he should prefer the fresh air of bidford, howsoever dull the life at the farm may be." "and if that were all, why should he fear to bring the letter to your father?" the other said, with a quick glance of suspicion: she did not like the way in which judith's ready brain could furnish forth such plausible conjectures and excuses. "answer me that, judith. is your father one likely to call aloud and have the man taken, if that be all that is against him? why should he be afraid to bring the letter from your father's friend? nay, why should he be on the way to the house with it, and thereafter stop short and change his mind? there is many a mile betwixt london and stratford; 'tis a marvellous thing he should travel all that way, and change his mind within a few minutes of being in the town. i love not such dark ways, judith; no good thing can come of them, but evil; and it were ill done of you--even if you be careless of danger to yourself, as i trow you mostly are--i say it is ill done of you to risk the peace of your family by holding such dangerous converse with a stranger, and one that may bring harm to us all." judith was not well pleased; her mouth became rather proud. "marry, if this be your christian charity, i would not give a penny ballad for it!" said she, with some bitterness of tone. "i had thought the story had another teaching--i mean the story of him who fell among thieves and was beaten and robbed and left for dead--and that we were to give a helping hand to such, like the samaritan. but now i mind me 'twas the priest that passed by on the other side--yes, the priest and the levite--the godly ones who would preserve a whole skin for themselves, and let the other die of his wounds, for aught they cared! and here is a young man in distress--alone and friendless--and when he would have a few words of cheerfulness, or a message, or a scrap of news as to what is going on in the world--no, no, say the priest and the levite--go not near him--because he is in misfortune he is dangerous--because he is alone he is a thief and a murderer--perchance a pirate, like captain ward and dansekar, or even catesby himself come alive again. i say, god keep us all from such christian charity!" "you use me ill, judith," said the other, and then was silent. they walked on through the meadows, and judith was watching the play of the boys. as she did so, a leather ball, struck a surprising distance, came rolling almost to her feet, and forthwith one of the lads came running after it. she picked it up and threw it to him--threw it awkwardly and clumsily, as a girl throws, but nevertheless she saved him some distance and time, and she was rewarded with many a loud "thank you! thank you!" from the side who were out. but when they got past the players and their noise, prudence could no longer keep silent; she had a forgiving disposition, and nothing distressed her so much as being on unfriendly terms with judith. "you know i meant not that, dear judith," said she. "i only meant to shield you from harm." as for judith, all such trivial and temporary clouds of misunderstanding were instantly swallowed up in the warm and radiant sunniness of her nature. she broke into a laugh. "and so you shall, dear mouse," said she, gayly; "you shall shield me from the reproach of not having a common and ordinary share of humanity; that shall you, dear prue, should the unfortunate young gentleman come into the neighborhood again; for you will read to me the message that he sends me, and together we will devise somewhat on his behalf. no? are you afraid to go forth and meet the pirate dansekar? do you expect to find the ghost of gamaliel ratsey walking on the evesham road? such silly fears, dear prue, do not become you: you are no longer a child." "you are laying too heavy a burden on me, judith," the other said, rather sadly. "i know not what to do; and you say i may not ask counsel of any one. and if i do nothing, i am still taking a part." "what part, then, but to read a few words and hold your peace?" said her companion, lightly. "what is that? but i know you will not stay there, sweet mouse. no, no; your heart is too tender. i know you would not willingly do any one an injury, or harbor suspicion and slander. you shall come and see the young gentleman, good prue, as i say; and then you will repent in sackcloth and ashes for all that you have urged against him. and perchance it may be in new place that you shall see him----" "ah, judith, that were well!" exclaimed the other, with a brighter light on her face. "what? would you desire to see him, if he were to pay us a visit?" judith said, regarding her with a smile. "surely, surely, after what you have told me: why not, judith?" was the placid answer. "there would be nothing ghostly about him then?" "there would be no secret, judith," said prudence, gravely, "that you have to keep back from your own people." "well, well, we will see what the future holds for us," said judith, in the same careless fashion. "and if the young gentleman come not back to stratford, why, then, good fortune attend him, wherever he may be! for one that speaks so fair and is so modest sure deserves it. and if he come not back, then shall your heart be all the lighter, dear prue; and as for mine, mine will not be troubled--only, that i wish him well, as i say, and would fain hear of his better estate. so all is so far happily settled, sweet mouse; and you may go in to supper with me with untroubled eyes and a free conscience: marry, there is need for that, as i bethink me; for master parson comes this evening, and you know you must have a pure and joyful heart with you, good prudence, when you enter into the congregation of the saints." "judith, for my sake!" "nay, i meant not to offend, truly; it was my wicked, idle tongue, that i must clap a bridle on now--for, listen!----" they were come to new place. there was singing going forward within; and one or two of the casements were open; but perhaps it was the glad and confident nature of the psalm that led to the words being so clearly heard without: the man is blest that hath not bent to wicked rede his ear; nor led his life as sinners do, nor sat in scorner's chair. but in the law of god the lord doth set his whole delight, and in that law doth exercise himself both day and night. he shall be like the tree that groweth fast by the river's side; which bringeth forth most pleasant fruit in her due time and tide; whose leaf shall never fade nor fall, but flourish still and stand: even so all things shall prosper well that this man takes in hand. and so, having waited until the singing ceased, they entered into the house, and found two or three neighbors assembled there, and master walter was just about to begin his discourse on the godly life, and the substantial comfort and sweet peace of mind pertaining thereto. * * * * * some few days after this, and toward the hour of noon, the mail-bearer came riding post-haste into the town; and in due course the contents of his saddle-bags were distributed among the folk entitled to them. but before the news-letters had been carefully spelled out to the end, a strange rumor got abroad. the french king was slain, and by the hand of an assassin. some, as the tidings passed quickly from mouth to mouth, said the murderer was named ravelok, others havelok; but as to the main fact of the fearful crime having been committed, there was no manner of doubt. naturally the bruit of this affair presently reached julius shawe's house; and when the timid prudence heard of it--and when she thought of the man who had been in hiding, and who had talked with judith, and had been so suddenly and secretly summoned away--her face grew even paler than its wont, and there was a sickly dread at her heart. she would go to see judith at once; and yet she scarcely dared to breathe even to herself the terrible forebodings that were crowding in on her mind. chapter x. a play-house. but judith laughed aside these foolish fears; as it happened, far more important matters were just at this moment occupying her mind. she was in the garden. she had brought out some after-dinner fragments for the don; and while the great dun-colored beast devoured these, she had turned from him to regard matthew gardener; and there was a sullen resentment on her face; for it seemed to her imagination that he kept doggedly and persistently near the summer-house, on which she had certain dark designs. however, the instant she caught sight of prudence, her eyes brightened up; and, indeed, became full of an eager animation. "hither, hither, good prue!" she exclaimed, hurriedly. "quick! quick! i have news for you." "yes, indeed, judith," said the other; and at the same moment judith came to see there was something wrong--the startled pale face and frightened eyes had a story to tell. "why, what is to do?" said she. "know you not, judith? have you not heard? the french king is slain--murdered by an assassin!" to her astonishment the news seemed to produce no effect whatever. "well, i am sorry for the poor man," judith said, with perfect self-possession. "they that climb high must sometimes have a sudden fall. but why should that alarm you, good prue? or have you other news that comes more nearly home?" and then, when prudence almost breathlessly revealed the apprehensions that had so suddenly filled her mind, judith would not even stay to discuss such a monstrous possibility. she laughed it aside altogether. that the courteous young gentleman who had come with a letter from ben jonson should be concerned in the assassination of the king of france was entirely absurd and out of the question. "nay, nay, good prue," said she, lightly, "you shall make him amends for these unjust suspicions; that you shall, dear mouse, all in good time. but listen now: i have weightier matters; i have eggs on the spit, beshrew me else! can you read me this riddle, sweet prue? know you by these tokens what has happened? my father comes in to dinner to-day in the gayest of humors; there is no absent staring at the window, and forgetting of all of us; it is all merriment this time; and he must needs have bess hall to sit beside him; and he would charge her with being a witch; and reproach her for our simple meal, when that she might have given us a banquet like that of a london company, with french dishes and silver flagons of theologicum, and a memorial to tell each of us what was coming. and then he would miscall your brother--which you know, dear prudence, he never would do were he in earnest--and said he was chamberlain now, and was conspiring to be made alderman, only that he might sell building materials to the corporation and so make money out of his office. and i know not what else of jests and laughing; but at length he sent to have the evesham roan saddled; and he said that when once he had gone along to the sheep-wash to see that the hurdles were rightly up for the shearing, he would give all the rest of the day to idleness--to idleness wholly; and perchance he might ride over to broadway to see the shooting-match going forward there. now, you wise one, can you guess what has happened? know you what is in store for us? can you read me the riddle?" "i see no riddle, judith," said the other, with puzzled eyes. "i met your father as i came through the house; and he asked if julius were at home: doubtless he would have him ride to broadway with him." "dear mouse, is that your skill at guessing? but listen now"--and here she dropped her voice as she regarded goodman matthew, though that personage seemed busily enough occupied with his watering-can. "this is what has happened: i know the signs of the weather. be sure he has finished the play--the play that the young prince mamillius was in: you remember, good prue?--and the large fair copy is made out and locked away in the little cupboard, against my father's next going to london; and the loose sheets are thrown into the oak chest, along with the others. and now, good prue, sweet prue, do you know what you must manage? indeed, i dare not go near the summer-house while that ancient wiseman is loitering about; and you must coax him, prue; you must get him away; sometimes i see his villain eyes watching me, as if he had suspicion in his mind----" "'tis your own guilty conscience, judith," said prudence, but with a smile; for she had herself connived at this offence ere now. "by fair means or foul, sweet mouse, you must get him away to the other end of the garden," said she, eagerly; "for now the don has nearly finished his dinner, and goodman-wiseman-fool will wonder if we stay longer here. nay, i have it, sweet prue: you must get him along to the corner where my mother grows her simples; and you must keep him there for a space, that i may get out the right papers; and this is what you must do: you will ask him for something that sounds like latin--no matter what nonsense it may be; and he will answer you that he knows it right well, but has none of it at the present time; and you will say that you have surely seen it among my mother's simples, and thus you will lead him away to find it and the longer you seek the better. do you understand, good prue?--and quick! quick!" prudence's pale face flushed. "you ask too much, judith. i cannot deceive the poor man so." "nay, nay, you are too scrupulous, dear mouse. a trifle--a mere trifle." and then prudence happened to look up, and she met judith's eyes; and there was such frank self-confidence and audacity in them, and also such a singular and clear-shining beauty, that the simple puritan was in a manner bedazzled. she said, with a quiet smile, as she turned away her head again: "well, i marvel not, judith, that you can bewitch the young men, and bewilder their understanding. 'tis easy to see--if they have eyes and regard you, they are lost; but how you have your own way with all of us, and how you override our judgment, and do with us what you please, that passes me. even dr. hall: for whom else would he have brought from coventry the green silk stockings and green velvet shoes?--you know such vanities find little favor in his own home----" "quick, quick, sweetheart, muzzle me that gaping ancient!" said judith, interrupting her. "the don has finished; and i will dart into the summer-house as i carry back the dish. detain him, sweet prue; speak a word or two of latin to him; he will swear he understands you right well, though you yourself understand not a word of it----" "i may not do all you ask, judith," said the other, after a moment's reflection (and still with an uneasy feeling that she was yielding to the wiles of a temptress), "but i will ask the goodman to show me your mother's simples, and how they thrive." a minute or two thereafter judith had swiftly stolen into the summer-house--which was spacious and substantial of its kind, and contained a small black cupboard fixed up in a corner of the walls, a table and chair, and a long oak chest on the floor. it was this last that held the treasure she was in search of; and now, the lid having been raised, she was down on one knee, carefully selecting from a mass of strewn papers (indeed, there were a riding-whip, a sword and sword-belt, and several other articles mixed up in this common receptacle) such sheets as were without a minute mark which she had invented for her own private purposes. these secured and hastily hidden in her sleeve, she closed the lid, and went out into the open again, calling upon prudence to come to her, for that she was going into the house. they did not, however, remain within-doors at new place, for that might have been dangerous; they knew of a far safer resort. just behind julius shawe's house, and between that and the garden, there was a recess formed by the gable of a large barn not quite reaching the adjacent wall. it was a three-sided retreat; overlooked by no window whatsoever; there was a frail wooden bench on two sides of it, and the entrance to it was partly blocked up by an empty cask that had been put there to be out of the way. for outlook there was nothing but a glimpse of the path going into the garden, a bit of greensward, and two apple-trees between them and the sky. it was not a noble theatre, this little den behind the barn; but it had produced for these two many a wonderful pageant; for the empty barrel and the bare barn wall and the two trees would at one time be transformed into the forest of arden, and rosalind would be walking there in her pretty page costume, and laughing at the love-sick orlando; and again they would form the secret haunts of queen titania and her court, with the jealous oberon chiding her for her refusal; and again they would become the hall of a great northern castle, with trumpets and cannon sounding without as the king drank to hamlet. indeed, the elder of these two young women had an extraordinarily vivid imagination; she saw the things and people as if they were actually there before her; she realized their existence so intensely that even prudence was brought to sympathize with them, and to follow their actions now with hot indignation, and now with triumphant delight over good fortune come at last. there was no stage-carpenter there to distract them with his dismal expedients; no actor to thrust his physical peculiarities between them and the poet's ethereal visions; the dream-world was before them, clear and filled with light; and prudence's voice was gentle and of a musical kind. nay, sometimes judith would leap to her feet. "you shall not!--you shall not!" she would exclaim, as if addressing some strange visitant that was showing the villainy of his mind; and tears came quickly to her eyes if there was a tale of pity; and the joy and laughter over lovers reconciled brought warm color to her face. they forgot that these walls that enclosed them were of gray mud; they forgot that the prevailing odor in the air was that of the malt in the barn for now they were regarding romeo in the moonlight, with the dusk of the garden around, and juliet uttering her secrets to the honeyed night; and again they were listening to the awful voices of the witches on the heath, and guessing at the sombre thoughts passing through the mind of macbeth; and then again they were crying bitterly when they saw before them an old man, gray-haired, discrowned, and witless, that looked from one to the other of those standing by, and would ask who the sweet lady was that sought with tears for his benediction. they could hear the frail and shaken voice: "methinks i should know you, and know this man; yet i am doubtful: for i am mainly ignorant what place this is: and all the skill i have remembers not these garments; nor i know not where i did lodge last night. do not laugh at me; for, as i am a man, i think this lady to be my child cordelia." and now, as they had retired into this sheltered nook, and prudence was carefully placing in order the scattered sheets that had been given her, judith was looking on with some compunction. "indeed i grieve to give you so much trouble, sweetheart," said she. "i would i could get at the copy that my father has locked away----" "judith!" her friend said, reproachfully. "you would not take that? why, your father will scarce show it even to julius, and sure i am that none in the house would put a hand upon it----" "if it were a book of psalms and paraphrases, they might be of another mind," judith said; but prudence would not hear. "nay," said she, as she continued to search for the connecting pages. "i have heard your father say to julius that there is but little difference; and that 'tis only when he has leisure here in stratford that he makes this copy writ out fair and large; in london he takes no such pains. truly i would not that either julius or any of his acquaintance knew of my fingering in such a matter: what would they say, judith? and sometimes, indeed, my mind is ill at ease with regard to it--that i should be reading to you things that so many godly people denounce as wicked and dangerous----" "you are too full of fears, good mouse," said judith, coolly, "and too apt to take the good people at their word. nay, i have heard; they will make you out everything to be wicked and sinful that is not to their own minds; and they are zealous among the saints; but i have heard, i have heard." "what, then?" said the other, with some faint color in her face. "no matter," said judith, carelessly. "well, i have heard that when they make a journey to london they are as fond of claret wine and oysters as any; but no matter: in truth the winds carry many a thing not worth the listening to. but as regards this special wickedness, sweet mouse, indeed you are innocent of it; 'tis all laid to my charge; i am the sinner and temptress; be sure you shall not suffer one jot through my iniquity. and now have you got them all together? are you ready to begin?" "but you must tell me where the story ceased, dear judith, when last we had it; for indeed you have a marvellous memory, even to the word and the letter. the poor babe that was abandoned on the sea-shore had just been found by the old shepherd--went it not so?--and he was wondering at the rich bearing-cloth it was wrapped in. why, here is the name--perdita," she continued, as she rapidly scanned one or two of the papers--"who is now grown up, it appears, and in much grace; and this is a kind of introduction, i take it, to tell you all that has happened since your father last went to london--i mean since the story was broken off. and florizel--i remember not the name--but here he is so named as the son of the king of bohemia----" a quick laugh of intelligence rose to judith's eyes; she had an alert brain. "prince florizel?" she exclaimed. "and princess perdita! that were a fair match, in good sooth, and a way to heal old differences. but to the beginning, sweetheart, i beseech you; let us hear how the story is to be; and pray heaven he gives me back my little mamillius, that was so petted and teased by the court ladies." however, as speedily appeared, she had anticipated too easy a continuation and conclusion. the young prince florizel proved to be enamored, not of one of his own station, but of a simple shepherdess; and although she instantly guessed that this shepherdess might turn out to be the forsaken perdita, the conversation between king polixenes and the good camillo still left her in doubt. as for the next scene--the encounter between autolycus and the country clown--judith wholly and somewhat sulkily disapproved of that. she laughed, it is true; but it was sorely against her will. for she suspected that goodman matthew's influence was too apparent here; and that, were he ever to hear of the story, he would in his vanity claim this part as his own; moreover, there was a kind of familiarity and every-day feeling in the atmosphere--why, she herself had been rapidly questioned by her father about the necessary purchases for a sheep-shearing feast, and susan, laughing, had struck in with the information as to the saffron for coloring the warden-pies. but when the sweet-voiced prudence came to the scene between prince florizel and the pretty shepherdess, then judith was right well content. "oh, do you see, now, how her gentle birth shines through her lowly condition!" she said, quickly. "and when the old shepherd finds that he has been ordering a king's daughter to be the mistress of the feast--ay, and soundly rating her, too, for her bashful ways--what a fright will seize the good old man! and what says she in answer?--again, good prue--let me hear it again--marry, now, i'll be sworn she had just such another voice as yours!" "to the king polixenes," prudence continued, regarding the manuscript, "who is in disguise, you know, judith, she says: 'welcome, sir! it is my father's will i should take on me the hostess-ship o' the day:--you're welcome, sir.' and then to both the gentlemen: 'give me those flowers there, dorcas.--reverend sirs, for you there's rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savor all the winter long: grace and remembrance be to you both, and welcome to our shearing!'" "ah, there, now, will they not be won by her gentleness?" she cried, eagerly. "will they not suspect and discover the truth? it were a new thing for a prince to wed a shepherdess, but this is no shepherdess, as an owl might see! what say they then, prue? have they no suspicion?" so prudence continued her patient reading--in the intense silence that was broken only by the twittering of the birds in the orchard, or the crowing of a cock in some neighboring yard; and judith listened keenly, drinking in every varying phrase. but when florizel had addressed his speech to the pretty hostess of the day, judith could no longer forbear: she clapped her hands in delight. "there, now, that is a true lover; that is spoken like a true lover," she cried, with her face radiant and proud. "again, good prue--let us hear what he says--ay, and before them all, too, i warrant me he is not ashamed of her." so prudence had to read once more florizel's praise of his gentle mistress: "'what you do still betters what is done. when you speak, sweet, i'd have you do it ever: when you sing, i'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms; pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs, to sing them too. when you do dance, i wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that; move still, still so, and own no other function. each your doing, so singular in each particular, crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, that all your acts are queens!'" "in good sooth, it is spoken like a true lover," judith said, with a light on her face as if the speech had been addressed to herself. "like one that is well content with his sweetheart, and is proud of her, and approves! marry, there be few of such in these days; for this one is jealous and unreasonable, and would have the mastery too soon; and that one would frighten you to his will by declaring you are on the highway to perdition; and another would have you more civil to his tribe of kinsfolk. but there is a true lover, now; there is one that is courteous and gentle; one that is not afraid to approve: there may be such in stratford, but god wot, they would seem to be a scarce commodity! nay, i pray your pardon, good prue: to the story, if it please you--and is there aught of the little mamillius forthcoming?" and so the reading proceeded; and judith was in much delight that the old king seemed to perceive something unusual in the grace and carriage of the pretty perdita. "what is't he says? what are the very words?" "'this is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward: nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than herself; too noble for this place.'" "yes! yes! yes!" she exclaimed, quickly. "and sees he not some likeness to the queen hermione? surely he must remember the poor injured queen, and see that this is her daughter? happy daughter, that has a lover that thinks so well of her! and now, prue?" but when in the course of the hushed reading all these fair hopes came to be cruelly shattered; when the pastoral romance was brought to a sudden end; when the king, disclosing himself, declared a divorce between the unhappy lovers, and was for hanging the ancient shepherd, and would have perdita's beauty scratched with briers; and when prudence had to repeat the farewell words addressed to the prince by his hapless sweetheart-- "'wilt please you, sir, be gone? i told you what would come of this. beseech you, of your own state take care: this dream of mine-- being now awake, i'll queen it no inch further, but milk my ewes, and weep--'" there was something very like tears in the gentle reader's eyes; but that was not judith's mood; she was in a tempest of indignation. "god's my life!" she cried, "was there ever such a fool as this old king? he a king! he to sit on a throne! better if he sate in a barn and helped madge-howlet to catch mice! and what says the prince? nay, i'll be sworn he proves himself a true man, and no summer playfellow; he will stand by her; he will hold to her, let the ancient dotard wag his beard as he please!" and so, in the end, the story was told, and all happily settled; and prudence rose from the rude wooden bench with a kind of wistful look on her face, as if she had been far away, and seen strange things. then judith--pausing for a minute or so as if she would fix the whole thing in her memory, to be thought over afterward--proceeded to tie the pages together for the better concealment of them on her way home. "and the wickedness of it?" said she, lightly. "wherein lies the wickedness of such a reading, sweet mouse?" prudence was somewhat shamefaced on such occasions; she could not honestly say that she regretted as she ought to have done, giving way to judith's importunities. "some would answer you, judith," she said, "that we had but ill used time that was given us for more serious purposes." "and for what more serious purposes, good gossip? for the repeating of idle tales about our neighbors? or the spending of the afternoon in sleep, as is the custom with many? are we all so busy, then, that we may not pass a few minutes in amusement? but, indeed, sweet prue," said she, as she gave a little touch to her pretty cap and snow-white ruff, to put them right before she went out into the street, "i mean to make amends this afternoon. i shall be busy enough to make up for whatever loss of time there has been over this dangerous and godless idleness. for, do you know, i have everything ready now for the new portugal receipts that you read to me; and two of them i am to try as soon as i get home; and my father is to know nothing of the matter--till the dishes be on the table. so fare you well, sweet mouse; and give ye good thanks, too: this has been but an evil preparation for the church-going of the morrow, but remember, the sin was mine--you are quit of that." and then her glance fell on the roll of papers that she held in her hand. "the pretty perdita!" said she. "her beauty was not scratched with briers, after all. and i doubt not she was in brave attire at the court; though methinks i better like to remember her as the mistress of the feast, giving the flowers to this one and that. and happy perdita, also, to have the young prince come to the sheep-shearing, and say so many sweet things to her! is't possible, think you, prue, there might come such another handsome stranger to our sheep-shearing that is now at hand?" "i know not what you mean, judith." "why, now, should such things happen only in bohemia?" she said, gayly, to the gentle and puzzled prudence, "soon our shearing will begin, for the weather has been warm, and i hear the hurdles are already fixed. and there will be somewhat of a merry-making, no doubt; and--and the road from evesham hither is a fair and goodly road, that a handsome young stranger might well come riding along. what then, good mouse? if one were to meet him in the lane that crosses to shottery--and to bid him to the feast--what then?" "oh, judith, surely you are not still thinking of that dangerous man!" the other exclaimed. but judith merely regarded her for a second, with the clear-shining eyes now become quite demure and inscrutable. chapter xi. a remonstrance. next morning was sunday; and judith, having got through her few domestic duties at an early hour, and being dressed in an especially pretty costume in honor of the holy day, thought she need no longer remain within-doors, but would walk along to the church-yard, where she expected to find prudence. the latter very often went thither on a sunday morning, partly for quiet reverie and recalling of this one and the other of her departed but not forgotten friends whose names were carven on the tombstones, and partly--if this may be forgiven her--to see how the generous mother earth had responded to her week-day labors in the planting and tending of the graves. but when judith, idly and carelessly as was her wont, reached the church-yard, she found the wide, silent space quite empty; so she concluded that prudence had probably been detained by a visit to some one fallen sick; and she thought she might as well wait for her; and with that view--or perhaps out of mere thoughtlessness--she went along to the river-side, and sat down on the low wall there, having before her the slowly moving yellow stream and the fair, far-stretching landscape beyond. there had been some rain during the night; the roads she had come along were miry; and here the grass in the church-yard was dripping with the wet; but there was a kind of suffused rich light abroad that bespoke the gradual breaking through of the sun; and there was a warmth in the moist atmosphere that seemed to call forth all kinds of sweet odors from the surrounding plants and flowers. not that she needed these, for she had fixed in her bosom a little nosegay of yellow-leaved mint, that was quite sufficient to sweeten the scarcely moving air. and as she sat there in the silence it seemed to her as if all the world were awake--and had been awake for hours--but that all the human beings were gone out of it. the rooks were cawing in the elms above her; the bees hummed as they flew by into the open light over the stream; and far away she could hear the lowing of the cattle on the farms; but there was no sound of any human voice, nor any glimpse of any human creature in the wide landscape. and she grew to wonder what it would be like if she were left alone in the world, all the people gone from it, her own relatives and friends no longer here and around her, but away in the strange region where hamnet was, and perhaps, on such a morning as this, regarding her not without pity, and even, it might be, with some touch of half-recalled affection. which of them all should she regret the most? which of them all would this solitary creature--left alone in stratford, in an empty town--most crave for, and feel the want of? well, she went over these friends and neighbors and companions and would-be lovers; and she tried to imagine what, in such circumstances, she might think of this one and that; and which of them she would most desire to have back on the earth and living with her. but right well she knew in her heart that all this balancing and choosing was but a pretence. there was but the one; the one whose briefest approval was a kind of heaven to her, and the object of her secret and constant desire; the one who turned aside her affection with a jest; who brought her silks and scents from london as if her mind were set on no other things than these. and she was beginning to wonder whether, in those imagined circumstances, he might come to think differently of her and to understand her somewhat; and indeed she was already picturing to herself the life they might lead--these two, father and daughter, together in the empty and silent but sun-lit and sufficiently cheerful town--when her idle reverie was interrupted. there was a sound of talking behind her; doubtless the first of the people were now coming to church; for the doors were already open. she looked round, and saw that this was master walter blaise who had just come through the little swinging gate, and that he was accompanied by two little girls, one at each side of him, and holding his hand. instantly she turned her head away, pretending not to have seen him. "bless the man!" she said to herself, "what does he here of a sunday morning? why is so diligent a pastor not in charge of his own flock?" but she felt secure enough. not only was he accompanied by the two children, but there was this other safeguard that he would not dare to profane the holy day by attempting anything in the way of wooing. and it must be said that the young parson had had but few opportunities for that, the other members of the household eagerly seeking his society when he came to new place, and judith sharp to watch her chances of escape. the next moment she was startled by hearing a quick footstep behind her. she did not move. "give you good-morrow, judith," said he, presenting himself, and regarding her with his keen and confident gray eyes. "i would crave a word with you; and i trust it may be a word in season, and acceptable to you." he spoke with an air of cool authority, which she resented. there was nothing of the clownish bashfulness of young jelleyman about him; nor yet of the half-timid, half-sulky jealousy of tom quiney; but a kind of mastery, as if his office gave him the right to speak, and commanded that she should hear. and she did not think this fair, and she distinctly wished to be alone; so that her face had but little welcome in it, and none of the shining radiance of kindness that willy hart so worshipped. "i know you like not hearing of serious things, judith," said he (while she wondered whither he had sent the two little girls: perhaps into the church?), "but i were no true friend to you, as i desire to be, if i feared to displease you when there is need." "what have i done, then? in what have i offended? i know we are all miserable sinners, if that be what you mean," said she, coldly. "i would not have you take it that way, judith," said he; and there really was much friendliness in his voice. "i meant to speak kindly to you. nay, i have tried to understand you; and perchance i do in a measure. you are in the enjoyment of such health and spirits as fall to the lot of few; you are well content with your life and the passing moment; you do not like to be disturbed, or to think of the future. but the future will come, nevertheless, and it may be with altered circumstances; your light-heartedness may cease, sorrow and sickness may fall upon you, and then you may wish you had learned earlier to seek for help and consolation where these alone are to be found. it were well that you should think of such things now, surely; you cannot live always as you live now--i had almost said a godless life, but i do not wish to offend; in truth, i would rather lead you in all kindliness to what i know is the true pathway to the happiness and peace of the soul. i would speak to you, judith, if in no other way, as a brother in christ; i were no true friend to you else; nay, i have the command of the master whom i serve to speak and fear not." she did not answer, but she was better content now. so long as he only preached at her, he was within his province, and within his right. "and bethink you, judith," said he, with a touch of reproach in his voice, "how and why it is you enjoy such health and cheerfulness of spirits; surely through the lord in his loving-kindness answering the prayers of your pious mother. your life, one might say, was vouchsafed in answer to her supplications; and do you owe nothing of duty and gratitude to god, and to god's church, and to god's people? why should you hold aloof from them? why should you favor worldly things, and walk apart from the congregation, and live as if to-morrow were always to be as to-day, and as if there were to be no end to life, no calling to account as to how we have spent our time here upon earth? dear judith, i speak not unkindly; i wish not to offend; but often my heart is grieved for you; and i would have you think how trifling our present life is in view of the great eternity whither we are all journeying; and i would ask you, for your soul's sake, and for your peace of mind here and hereafter, to join with us, and come closer with us, and partake of our exercises. indeed you will find a truer happiness. do you not owe it to us? have you no gratitude for the answering of your mother's prayers?" "doubtless, doubtless," said she (though she would rather have been listening in silence to the singing of the birds, that were all rejoicing now, for the sun had at length cleared away the morning vapors, and the woods and the meadows and the far uplands were all shining in the brilliant new light). "i go to church as the others do, and there we give thanks for all the mercies that have been granted." "and is it enough, think you?" said he--and as he stood, while she sat, she did not care to meet those clear, keen, authoritative eyes that were bent on her. "does your conscience tell you that you give sufficient thanks for what god in his great mercy has vouchsafed to you? lip-service every seventh day!--a form of words gone through before you take your afternoon walk! why, if a neighbor were kind to you, you would show him as much gratitude as that; and this is all you offer to the lord of heaven and earth for having in his compassion listened to your mother's prayers, and bestowed on you life and health and a cheerful mind?" "what would you have me do? i cannot profess to be a saint while at heart i am none," said she, somewhat sullenly. it was an unlucky question. moreover, at this moment the bells in the tower sent forth their first throbbing peals into the startled air; and these doubtless recalled him to the passing of time, and the fact that presently the people would be coming into the church-yard. "i will speak plainly to you, judith; i take no shame to mention such a matter on the lord's day; perchance the very holiness of the hour and of the spot where i have chanced to meet you will the better incline your heart. you know what i have wished; what your family wish; and indeed you cannot be so blind as not to have seen. it is true, i am but a humble laborer in the lord's vineyard; but i magnify my office; it is an honorable work; the saving of souls, the calling to repentance, the carrying of the gospel to the poor and stricken ones of the earth--i say that is an honorable calling, and one that blesses them that partake in it, and gives a peace of mind far beyond what the worldlings dream of. and if i have wished that you might be able and willing--through god's merciful inclining of your heart--to aid me in this work, to become my helpmeet, was it only of my own domestic state i was thinking? surely not. i have seen you from day to day--careless and content with the trifles and idle things of this vain and profitless world; but i have looked forward to what might befall in the future, and i have desired with all my heart--yea, and with prayers to god for the same--that you should be taught to seek the true haven in time of need. do you understand me, judith?" he spoke with little tenderness, and certainly with no show of lover-like anxiety; but he was in earnest; and she had a terrible conviction pressing upon her that her wit might not be able to save her. the others she could easily elude when she was in the mind; this one spoke close and clear; she was afraid to look up and face his keen, acquisitive eyes. "and if i do understand you, good master blaise," said she desperately; "if i do understand you--as i confess i have gathered something of this before--but--but surely--one such as i--such as you say i am--might she not become pious--and seek to have her soul saved--without also having to marry a parson?--if such be your meaning, good master blaise." it was she who was in distress and in embarrassment; not he. "you are not situated as many others are," said he. "you owe your life, as one may say, to the prayers of god's people; i but put before you one way in which you could repay the debt--by laboring in the lord's vineyard, and giving the health and cheerfulness that have been bestowed on you to the comfort of those less fortunate----" "i? such a one as i? nay, nay, you have shown me how all unfit i were for that," she exclaimed, glad of this one loophole. "i will not commend you, judith, to your face," said he, calmly, "nor praise such worldly gifts as others, it may be, overvalue; but in truth i may say you have a way of winning people toward you; your presence is welcome to the sick; your cheerfulness gladdens the troubled in heart; and you have youth and strength and an intelligence beyond that of many. are all these to be thrown away?--to wither and perish as the years go by? nay, i seek not to urge my suit to you by idle words of wooing, as they call it, or by allurements of flattery; these are the foolish devices of the ballad-mongers and the players, and are well fitted, i doubt not, for the purposes of the master of these, the father of lies himself; rather would i speak to you words of sober truth and reason; i would show you how you can make yourself useful in the garden of the lord, and so offer some thanksgiving for the bounties bestowed on you. pray consider it, judith; i ask not for yea or nay at this moment; i would have your heart meditate over it in your own privacy, when you can bethink you of what has happened to you and what may happen to you in the future. life has been glad for you so far; but trouble might come; your relatives are older than you; you might be left so that you would be thankful to have one beside you whose arm you could lean on in time of distress. think over it, judith, and may god incline your heart to what is right and best for you." but at this moment the first of the early comers began to make their appearance--strolling along toward the church-yard, and chatting to each other as they came--and all at once it occurred to her that if he and she separated thus, he might consider that she had given some silent acquiescence to his reasons and arguments; and this possibility alarmed her. "good master blaise," said she, hurriedly, "pray mistake me not. surely, if you are choosing a helpmeet for such high and holy reasons, it were well that you looked further afield. i am all unworthy for such a place--indeed i know it; there is not a maid in stratford that would not better become it; nay, for my own part, i know several that i could point out to you, though your own judgment were best in such a matter. i pray you think no more of me in regard to such a position; god help me, i should make a parson's wife such as all the neighbors would stare at; indeed i know there be many you could choose from--if their heart were set in that direction--that are far better than i." and with this protest she would fain have got away; and she was all anxiety to catch a glimpse of prudence, whose appearance would afford her a fair excuse. how delightful would be the silence of the great building and the security of the oaken pew! with what a peace of mind would she regard the soft-colored beams of light streaming into the chancel, and listen to the solemn organ music, and wait for the silver-clear tones of susan's voice! but good master walter would have another word with her ere allowing her to depart. "in truth you misjudge yourself, judith," said he, with a firm assurance, as if he could read her heart far better than she herself. "i know more of the duties pertaining to such a station than you; i can foresee that you would fulfil them worthily, and in a manner pleasing to the lord. your parents, too: will you not consider their wishes before saying a final nay?" "my parents?" she said, and she looked up with a quick surprise. "my mother, it may be----" "and if your father were to approve also?" for an instant her heart felt like lead; but before this sudden fright had had time to tell its tale in her eyes she had reassured herself. this was not possible. "has my father expressed any such wish?" said she; but well she knew what the reply would be. "no, he has not, judith," he said, distinctly; "for i have not spoken to him. but if i were to obtain his approval, would that influence you?" she did not answer. "i should not despair of gaining that," said he, with a calm confidence that caused her to lift her eyes and regard him for a second, with a kind of wonder, as it were, for she knew not what this assurance meant. "your father," he continued, "must naturally desire to see your future made secure, judith. think what would happen to you all if an accident befell him on his journeyings to london. there would be no man to protect you and your mother. dr. hall has his own household and its charges, and two women left by themselves would surely feel the want of guidance and help. if i put these worldly considerations before you, it is with no wish that you should forget the higher duty you owe to god and his church, and the care you should have of your own soul. do i speak for myself alone? i think not. i trust it is not merely selfish hopes that have bidden me appeal to you. and you will reflect, judith; you will commune with yourself before saying the final yea or nay; and if your father should approve----" "good master blaise," said she, interrupting him--and she rose and glanced toward the straggling groups now approaching the church--"i cannot forbid you to speak to my father, if it is your wish to do that; but i would have him understand that it is through no desire of mine; and--and, in truth, he must know that i am all unfit to take the charge you would put upon me. i pray you hold it in kindness that i say so:--and there, now," she quickly added, "is little willie hart, that i have a message for, lest he escape me when we come out again." he could not further detain her; but he accompanied her as she walked along the path toward the little swinging gate, for she could see that her small cousin, though he had caught sight of her, was shyly uncertain as to whether he should come to her, and she wished to have his hand as far as the church door. and then--alas! that such things should befall--at the very same moment a number of the young men and maidens also entered the church-yard; and foremost among them was tom quiney. one rapid glance that he directed toward her and the parson was all that passed; but instantly in her heart of hearts she knew the suspicion that he had formed. an assignation?--and on a sunday morning, too! nay, her guess was quickly confirmed. he did not stay to pay her even the ordinary courtesy of a greeting. he went on with the others; he was walking with two of the girls; his laughter and talk were louder than any. indeed, this unseemly mirth was continued to within a yard or two of the church door--perhaps it was meant for her to hear? little willie hart, as he and his cousin judith went hand in hand through the porch, happened to look up at her. "judith," said he, "why are you crying?" "i am not!" she said, angrily. and with her hand she dashed aside those quick tears of vexation. the boy did not pay close heed to what now went on within the hushed building. he was wondering over what had occurred--for these mysteries were beyond his years. but at least he knew that his cousin judith was no longer angry with him; for she had taken him into the pew with her, and her arm, that was interlinked with his, was soft and warm and gentle to the touch; and once or twice, when the service bade them to stand up, she had put her hand kindly on his hair. and not only that, but she had at the outset taken from her bosom the little nosegay of mint and given it to him; and the perfume of it (for it was judith's gift, and she had worn it near her heart, and she had given it him with a velvet touch of her fingers) seemed to him a strange and sweet and mystical thing--something almost as strange and sweet and inexplicable as the beauty and shining tenderness of her eyes. chapter xii. divided ways. some few weeks passed quite uneventfully, bringing them to the end of june; and then it was that mistress hathaway chanced to send a message into the town that she would have her granddaughter judith come over to see her roses, of which there was a great show in the garden. judith was nothing loath; she felt she had somewhat neglected the old dame of late; and so, one morning--or rather one midday it was, for the family had but finished dinner--found her in her own room, before her mirror, busy with an out-of-door toilet, with prudence sitting patiently by. judith seemed well content with herself and with affairs in general on this warm summer day; now she spoke to prudence, again she idly sang a scrap of some familiar song, while the work of adornment went on apace. "but why such bravery, judith?" her friend said, with a quiet smile. "why should you take such heed about a walk through the fields to shottery?" "truly i know not," said judith, carelessly; "but well i wot my grandmother will grumble. if i am soberly dressed, she says i am a sloven, and will never win me a husband; and if i am pranked out, she says i am vain, and will frighten away the young men with my pride. in heaven's name, let them go, say i; i can do excellent well without them. what think you of the cap, good prue? 'twas but last night i finished it, and the beads i had from warwick." she took it up and regarded it, humming the while: o say, my joan, say, my joan, will not that do? i cannot come every day to woo. "is't not a pretty cap, good gossip?" prudence knew that she ought to despise such frivolities, which truly were a snare to her, for she liked to look at judith when she was dressed as she was now, and she forgot to condemn these pretty colors. on this occasion judith was clad in a gown of light gray, or rather buff, with a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, elaborately quilted with her own handiwork; the small ruff she wore, which was open in front, and partly showed her neck, was snow-white and stiffly starched; and she was now engaged in putting on her soft brown hair this cap of gray velvet, adorned with two rows of brass beads, and with a bit of curling feather at the side of it. prudence's eyes were pleased, if her conscience bade her disapprove; nay, sometimes she had to confess that at heart she was proud to see her dear gossip wear such pretty things, for that she became them so well. "judith," said she, "shall i tell you what i heard your father say of you last night? he was talking to julius, and they were speaking of this one and that, and how they did; and when you were mentioned, 'oh yes,' says your father, 'the wench looks bravely well; 'tis a pity she cannot sell the painting of her cheeks: there may be many a dame at the court would buy it of her for a goodly sum.'" judith gave a quick, short laugh: this was music in her ears--coming from whence it did. "but, judith," said her friend, with a grave inquiry in her face, "what is't that you have done to tom quiney that he comes no longer near the house?--nay, he will avoid you when he happens to see you abroad, for that i have observed myself, and more than once. what is the matter? how have you offended him?" "what have i done?" she said; and there was a swift and angry color in her face. "let him ask what his own evil imaginings have done. not that i care, in good sooth!" "but what is it, judith? there must be a reason." "why," said judith, turning indignantly to her, "you remember, sweetheart, the sunday morning that mrs. pike's little boy was taken ill, and you were sent for, and did not come to church? well, i had gone along to the church-yard to seek you, and was waiting for you, when who must needs make his appearance but the worthy master blaise--nay, but i told you, good prue, the honor he would put upon me; and, thank heaven, he hath not returned to it, nor spoken to my father yet, as far as i can learn. then, when the good parson's sermon was over--body o' me, he let me know right sharply i was no saint, though a saint i might become, no doubt, were i to take him for my master--as i say, the lecture he gave me was over, and we were walking to the church door, when who should come by but master quiney and some of the others. oh, well i know my gentleman! the instant he clapped eyes on me he suspected there had been a planned meeting--i could see it well--and off he goes in high dudgeon, and not a word nor a look--before the others, mind you, before the others, good prue; that was the slight he put upon me. marry, i care not! whither he has gone, there he may stay!" she spoke rapidly and with warmth: despite the scorn that was in her voice, it was clear that that public slight had touched her deeply. "nay, judith," said her gentle companion, "'twere surely a world of pity you should let an old friend go away like that--through a mischance merely----" "an old friend?" said she. "i want none of such friends, that have ill thoughts of you ere you can speak. let him choose his friends elsewhere, say i; let him keep to his tapsters, and his ale-house wenches; there he will have enough of pleasure, i doubt not, till his head be broke in a brawl some night!" then something seemed to occur to her. all at once she threw aside the bit of ribbon she had in her fingers, and dropped on her knee before her friend, and seized hold of prudence's hands. "i beseech your pardon, sweet prue!--indeed, indeed, i knew not what i said; they were but idle words; good mouse, i pray you heed them not. he may have reasons for distrusting me; and in truth i complain not; 'tis a small matter; but i would not have you think ill of him through these idle words of mine. nay, nay, they tell me he is sober and diligent, that his business prospers, that he makes many friends, and that the young men regard him as the chief of them, whether it be at merriment or aught else." "i am right glad to hear you speak so of the young man, judith," prudence said, in her gentle way, and yet mildly wondering at this sudden change of tone. "if he has displeased you, be sure he will be sorry for it, when he knows the truth." "nay, nay, sweet mouse," judith said, rising and resuming her careless manner, as she picked up the ribbon she had thrown aside. "'tis of no moment. i wish the young man well. i pray you speak to none of that i have told you; perchance 'twas but an accident, and he meant no slight at all; and then--and then," she added, with a kind of laugh, "as the good parson seems determined that willy-nilly i must wed him and help him in his charge of souls, that were a good ending, sweet prue?" she was now all equipped for setting forth, even to the feather fan that hung from her girdle by a small silver cord. "but i know he hath not spoken to my father yet, else i should have heard of it, in jest or otherwise. come, mouse, shall we go? or the good dame will have a scolding for us." indeed, this chance reference to the slight put upon her in the church-yard seemed to have left no sting behind it. she was laughing as she went down the stair, at some odd saying of bess hall's that her father had got hold of. when they went outside she linked her arm within that of her friend, and nodded to this or the other passer-by, and had a merry or a pleasant word for them, accordingly as they greeted her. and green sleeves was all my joy, green sleeves was my delight, came naturally into her idle brain; for the day seemed a fit one for holiday-making; the skies were clear, with large white clouds moving slowly across the blue; and there was a fair west wind to stir the leaves of the trees and the bushes, and to touch warmly and softly her pink-hued cheek and pearly neck. "ah, me," said she, in mock desolation, "why should one go nowadays to shottery? what use is in't, sweet prue, when all the magic and enticement is gone from it? aforetime i had the chance of meeting with so gracious a young gentleman, that brought news of the king's court, and spoke so soft you would think the cuckoo in the woods was still to listen. that was something to expect when one had walked so far--the apparition--a trembling interview--and then so civil and sweet a farewell! but now he is gone away, i know not whither; and he has forgotten that ever he lodged in a farm-house, like a king consorting with shepherds; and doubtless he will not seek to return. well----" "you have never heard of him since, judith?" her friend said, with rapid look. "alas, no!" she said, in the same simulated vein. "and sometimes i ask myself whether there ever was such a youth--whether the world ever did produce such a courtly gentleman, such a paragon, such a marvel of courtesy--or was it not but a trick of the villain wizard? think of it, good prue--to have been walking and talking with a ghost, with a thing of air, and that twice, too! is't not enough to chill the marrow in your bones? well, i would that all ghosts were as gentle and mannerly; there would be less fear of them among the warwickshire wenches. but do you know, good prue," she said, suddenly altering her tone into something of eagerness, "there is a matter of more moment than ghosts that concerns us now. by this time, or i am mistaken quite, there must be a goodly bulk of the new play lying in the oaken chest; and again and again have i tried to see whether i might dare to carry away some of the sheets, but always there was some one to hinder. my father, you know, has been much in the summer-house since the business of the new twenty acres was settled; and then again, when by chance he has gone away with the bailiff somewhere, and i have had my eye on the place, there was goodman matthew on the watch, or else a maid would come by to gather a dish of green gooseberries for the baking, or susan would have me seek out a ripe raspberry or two for the child, or my mother would call to me from the brew-house. but 'tis there, prue, be sure; and there will come a chance, i warrant; i will outwit the ancient matthew----" "do you never bethink you, judith, what your father would say were he to discover?" her friend said, glancing at her, as they walked along the highway. judith laughed, but with some heightened color. "my father?" said she. "truly, if he alone were to discover, i should have easy penance. were it between himself and me, methinks there were no great harm done. a daughter may fairly seek to know the means that has gained for her father the commendation of so many of the great people, and placed him in such good estate in his own town. marry, i fear not my father's knowing, were i to confess to himself; but as for the others, were they to learn of it--my mother, and susan, and dr. hall, and the pious master walter--i trow there might be some stormy weather abroad. at all events, good prue, in any such mischance, you shall not suffer; 'tis i that will bear the blame, and all the blame; for indeed i forced you to it, sweet mouse, and you are as innocent of the wickedness as though you had ne'er been born." and now they were just about to leave the main road for the foot-path leading to shottery, when they heard the sound of some one coming along on horseback; and turning for a second, they found it was young tom quiney, who was on a smart galloway nag, and coming at a goodly pace. as he passed them he took off his cap, and lowered it with formal courtesy. "give ye good-day," said he; but he scarcely looked at them, nor did he pull up for further talk or greeting. "we are in such haste to be rich nowadays," said judith, with a touch of scorn in her voice, as the two maidens set forth to walk through the meadows, "that we have scarce time to be civil to our friends." but she bore away no ill-will; the day was too fine for that. the soft west wind was tempering the heat and stirring the leaves of the elms; red and white wild roses were sprinkled among the dark green of the hedges; there was a perfume of elder blossom in the air; and perhaps also a faint scent of hay, for in the distance they could see the mowers at work among the clover, and could see the long sweep of the scythe. the sun lay warm on the grass and the wild flowers around them; there was a perfect silence but for the singing of the birds; and now and again they could see one of the mowers cease from his work, and a soft clinking sound told them that he was sharpening the long, curving blade. they did not walk quickly; it was an idle day. presently some one came up behind them and overtook them. it was young master quiney, who seemed to have changed his mind, and was now on foot. "you are going over to shottery, prudence?" said he. prudence flushed uneasily. why should he address her, and have no word for judith? "yes," said she; "mistress hathaway would have us see her roses; she is right proud of them this year." "'tis a good year for roses," said he, in a matter-of-fact way, and as if there were no restraint at all on any of the party. and then it seemed to occur to him that he ought to account for his presence. "i guessed you were going to shottery," said he, indifferently, and still addressing himself exclusively to prudence; "and i got a lad to take on the nag and meet me at the cross-road; the short-cut through the meadows is pleasant walking. to mistress hathaway's, said you? i dare promise you will be pleased with the show; there never was such a year for roses; and not a touch of blight anywhere, as i have heard. and a fine season for the crops, too; just such weather as the farmers might pray for; look at that field of rye over there, now--is't not a goodly sight?" he was talking with much appearance of self-possession; it was prudence who was embarrassed. as for judith, she paid no heed; she was looking before her at the hedges and the elms, at the wild flowers around, and at the field of bearded rye that bent in rustling gray-green undulations before the westerly breeze. "and how does your brother, prudence?" he continued. "'tis well for him his business goes on from year to year without respect of the seasons; he can sleep o' nights without thinking of the weather. it is the common report that the others of the town council hold him in great regard, and will have him become alderman ere long; is it not so?" "i have heard some talk of it," prudence said, with her eyes cast down. at this moment they happened to be passing some patches of the common mallow that were growing by the side of the path; and the tall and handsome youth who was walking with the two girls (but who never once let his eyes stray in the direction of judith) stooped down and pulled one of the brightest clusters of the pale lilac blossoms. "you have no flower in your dress, prudence," said he, offering them to her. "nay, i care not to wear them," said she; and she would rather have declined them, but as he still offered them to her, how could she help accepting them and carrying them in her hand? and then, in desperation, she turned and addressed the perfectly silent and impassive judith. "judith," said she, "you might have brought the mastiff with you for a run." "truly i might, sweetheart," said judith, cheerfully, "but that my grandmother likes him not in the garden; his ways are overrough." "now that reminds me," said he, quickly (but always addressing prudence), "of the little spaniel-gentle that i have. do you know the dog, prudence? 'tis accounted a great beauty, and of the true maltese breed. will you accept him from me? in truth i will hold it a favor if you will take the little creature." "i?" said prudence, with much amazement; for she had somehow vaguely heard that the dog had been purchased and brought to stratford for the very purpose of being presented to judith. "i assure you 'tis just such an one as would make a pleasant companion for you," said he; "a gentle creature as ever was, and affectionate too--a most pleasant and frolicsome playfellow. will you take it, prudence? for what can i do with the little beast? i have no one to look after it." "i had thought you meant judith to have the spaniel," said she, simply. "nay, how would that do, sweetheart?" said judith, calmly. "do you think the don would brook such invasion of his domain? would you have the little thing killed? you should take it, good cousin; 'twill be company for you should you be alone in the house." she had spoken quite as if she had been engaged in the conversation all the way through; there was no appearance of anger or resentment at his ostentatious ignoring of her presence: whatever she felt she was too proud to show. "then you will take the dog, prudence," said he. "i know i could not give it into gentler hands, for you could not but show it kindness, as you show to all." "give ye good thanks," said prudence, with her pale face flushing with renewed embarrassment, "for the offer of the gift; but in truth i doubt if it be right and seemly to waste such care on a dumb animal when there be so many of our fellow-creatures that have more pressing claims on us. and there are enough of temptations to idleness without our wilfully adding to them. but i thank you for the intention of your kindness--indeed i do." "nay, now, you shall have it, good prudence, whether you will or no," said he with a laugh. "you shall bear with the little dog but for a week, that i beg of you; and then if it please you not, if you find no amusement in its tricks and antics, i will take it back again. 'tis a bargain; but as to your sending of it back, i have no fears; i warrant you 'twill overcome your scruples, for 'tis a most cunning and crafty playfellow, and merry withal; nor will it hinder you from being as kind and helpful to those around you as you have ever been. i envy the dog that is to have so gentle a guardian." they were now come to a parting of the ways; and he said he would turn off to the left, so as to reach the lane at the end of which his nag was awaiting him. "and with your leave, prudence," said he, "i will bring the little spaniel to your house this evening, for i am only going now as far as bidford; and if your brother be at home he may have half an hour to spare, that we may have a chat about the corporation, and the new ordinances they propose to make. and so fare you well, and good wishes go with you!" and with that he departed, and was soon out of sight. "oh, judith," prudence exclaimed, almost melting into tears, "my heart is heavy to see it!" "what, then, good cousin?" said judith, lightly. "the quarrel." "the quarrel, dear heart! think of no such thing. in sober truth, dear prudence, i would not have matters other than they are; i would not; i am well content; and as for master quiney, is not he improved? did ever mortal hear him speak so fair before? marry, he hath been learning good manners, and profited well. but there it is; you are so gentle, sweetheart, that every one, no matter who, must find you good company; while i am fractious, and ill to bear with; and do i marvel to see any one prefer your smooth ways and even disposition? and when he comes to-night, heed you, you must thank him right civilly for bringing you the little spaniel; 'tis a great favor; the dog is one of value that many would prize----" "i cannot take it--i will not have it. 'twas meant for you, judith, as well you know," the other cried, in real distress. "but you must and shall accept the gift," her friend said, with decision. "ay, and show yourself grateful for his having singled you out withal. neither himself nor his spaniel would go long a-begging in stratford, i warrant you; give him friendly welcome, sweetheart." "he went away without a word to you, judith." "i am content." "but why should it be thus?" prudence said, almost piteously. "why? dear mouse, i have told you. he and i never did agree; 'twas ever something wrong on one side or the other; and wherefore should not he look around for a gentler companion? 'twere a wonder should he do aught else; and now he hath shown more wisdom than ever i laid to his credit." "but the ungraciousness of his going, judith," said the gentle prudence, who could in no wise understand the apparent coolness with which judith seemed to regard the desperate thing that had taken place. "heaven have mercy! why should that trouble you if it harm not me?" was the instant answer. "my spirits are not like to be dashed down for want of a 'fare you well.' in good sooth, he had given you so much of his courtesy and fair speeches that perchance he had none to spare for others." by this time they were come to the little wooden gate leading into the garden; and it was no wonder they should pause in passing through that to regard the bewildering and glowing luxuriance of foliage and blossom, though this was but a cottage inclosure, and none of the largest. the air seemed filled with the perfume of this summer abundance; and the clear sunlight shone on the various masses of color--roses red and white, pansies, snapdragon, none-so-pretty, sweet-williams of every kind, to say nothing of the clustering honeysuckle that surrounded the cottage door. "was't not worth the trouble, sweetheart?" judith said. "indeed, the good dame does well to be proud of such a pageant." as she spoke her grandmother suddenly made her appearance, glancing sharply from one to the other of them. "welcome, child, welcome," she said, "and to you, sweet mistress shawe." and yet she did not ask them to enter the cottage; there was some kind of hesitation about the old dame's manner that was unusual. "well, grandmother," said judith, gayly, "have you no grumbling? my cap i made myself; then must it be out of fashion. or i did not make it myself; then it must have cost a mint of money. or what say you to my petticoat--does not the color offend you? shall i ever attain to the pleasing of you, think you, good grandmother?" "wench, wench, hold your peace!" the old dame said, in a lower voice. "there is one within that may not like the noise of strangers--though he be no stranger to you, as he says----" "what, grandmother?" judith exclaimed, and involuntarily she shrank back a little, so startled was she. "a stranger? in the cottage? you do not mean the young gentleman that is in hiding--that i met in the lane----" "the same, judith, the same," she said, quickly; "and i know not whether he would wish to be seen by more than needs be----" she glanced at judith, who understood: moreover, the latter had pulled together her courage again. "have no fear, good grandmother," said she; and she turned to prudence. "you hear, good prue, who is within." "yes," the other answered, but somewhat breathless. "now, then, is such an opportunity as may ne'er occur again," judith said. "you will come with me, good prue? nay, but you must." "indeed i shall not!" prudence exclaimed, stepping back in affright. "not for worlds, judith, would i have aught to do with such a thing. and you, judith, for my sake, come away! we will go back to stratford!--we will look at the garden some other time!--in truth, i can see your grandmother is of my mind too. judith, for the love of me, come!--let us get away from this place!" judith regarded her with a strange kind of smile. "i have had such courtesy and fair manners shown me to-day, sweet prue," said she, with a sort of gracious calmness, "that i am fain to seek elsewhere for some other treatment, lest i should grow vain. will it please you wait for me in the garden, then? grandmother, i am going in with you to help you give your guest good welcome." "judith!" the terrified prudence exclaimed, in a kind of despair. but judith, with her head erect, and with a perfect and proud self-possession, had followed her grandmother into the house. chapter xiii a herald mercury. the distance between this luxuriant garden, all radiant and glowing in light and color, and the small and darkened inner room of the cottage, was but a matter of a few yards; yet in that brief space, so alert was her brain, she had time to reconsider much. and with her, pride or anger was always of short duration, the sunny cheerfulness of her nature refusing to harbor such uncongenial guests. why, she asked herself, should she take umbrage at the somewhat too open neglect that had just been shown her? was it not tending in the very direction she had herself desired? had she not begged and prayed him to give prudence the little spaniel-gentle? nay, had she not wilfully gone and buried in the church-yard the bit of rosemary that he had sent her to keep, putting it away from her with the chance of it summoning an unknown lover? so now, she said to herself, she would presently come out again to the poor affrighted prudence, and would reassure her, and congratulate her, moreover, with words of good cheer and comfort for the future. and then again, in this lightning-like survey of the situation, she was conscious that she was becomingly dressed--and right glad indeed that she had chanced to put on the gray velvet cap with the brass beads and the curling feather; and she knew that the young gentleman would be courteous and civil, with admiring eyes. moreover, she had a vague impression that he was somewhat too much given to speak of ben jonson; and she hoped for some opportunity to let him understand that her father was one of good estate, and much thought of by every one around, whose daughter knew what was due to his position, and could conduct herself not at all as a country wench. and so it was that the next minute found her in the twilight of the room; and there, truly enough, he was, standing at the small window. "give ye good welcome sir," said she. "what! fair mistress judith?" he said, as he quickly turned round. and he would have come forward and kissed her hand, perchance, but that a moment's hesitation prevented him. "it may be that i have offended you," said he, diffidently. "in what, good sir?" she was quite at her ease; the little touch of modest color in her face could scarcely be attributed to rustic shyness; it was but natural; and it added to the gentleness of her look. "nay, then, sweet lady, 'twas but a lack of courage that i would ask you to pardon," said he--though he did not seem conscious of heavy guilt, to judge by the way in which his black and eloquent eyes regarded judith's face and the prettinesses of her costume. "there was a promise that i should communicate with you if i returned to this part of the country; but i found myself not bold enough to take advantage of your kindness. however, fortune has been my friend, since again i meet you; 'tis the luckiest chance; i but asked your good grandmother here for a cup of water as i passed, and she would have me take a cup of milk instead; and then she bade me to come in out of the heat for a space--which i was nothing loath to do, as you may guess; and here have i been taking up the good lady's time with i know not what of idle gossip----" "but sit ye down, grandchild," the good dame said; "and you, sir, pray sit you down. here, wench," she called to the little maid that was her sole domestic; "go fill this jug from the best barrel." and then she herself proceeded to get down from the high wooden rail some of the pewter trenchers that shone there like a row of white moons in the dusk; and these she placed on the table, with one or two knives; and then she began to get forth cakes, a cheese, a ham, some spiced bread, the half of a cold gooseberry-tart, and what not. "'tis not every day we come by a visitor in these quiet parts," said she--"ay, good sir, and one that is not afraid to speak out his mind. nay, nay, grandchild, i tell thee sit thee down; thou art too fine a madam this morning to meddle wi' kitchen matters. tell the gentleman i be rather deaf; but i thank him for his good company. sit ye down, sweeting; sooth, you look bravely this morning." "have i pleased you at last, grandmother?--'tis a miracle, surely," she said, with a smile; and then she turned gravely to entertain the old dame's visitor. "i hope your fortunes have mended, sir," said she. "in a measure--somewhat; but still i am forced to take heed--" "perchance you have still the letter to my father?" she asked. "nay, madam, i considered it a prudent thing to destroy it--little as that was in my heart." "i had thought on your next coming to the neighborhood that you would have taken the chance to make my father's friendship," said she, and not without some secret disappointment; for she was anxious that this acquaintance of ben jonson's should see the new place, with all its tapestries, and carved wood, and silver-gilt bowls; with its large fair garden, too, and substantial barns and stables. perhaps she would have had him carry the tale to london? there were some things (she considered) quite as fine as the trumpery masques and mummeries of the court that the london people seemed to talk about. she would have liked him to see her father at the head of his own table, with her mother's napery shining, and plenty of good friends round the board, and her father drinking to the health of bess hall out of the silver-topped tankard that thomas combe, and russell, and sadler, and julius shawe, and the rest of them, had given him on his last birthday. or perchance she would have had him see her father riding through the town of stratford with some of these good neighbors (and who the handsomest of all the company? she would make bold to ask), with this one and that praising the evesham roan, and the wagoners as they passed touching their caps to "worthy mahster shacksper." ben jonson! well, she had seen ben jonson. there was not a maid in the town would have looked his way. whereas, if there were any secret enchantments going forward on hallowmas-eve (and she knew of such, if the ministers did not), and if the young damsels were called on to form a shape in their brain as they prayed for the handsome lover that was to be sent them in the future, she was well aware what type of man they would choose from amongst those familiar to them; and also it had more than once reached her ears that the young fellows would jokingly say among themselves that right well it was that master shakespeare was married and in safe-keeping, else they would never have a chance. in the meanwhile, and with much courtesy, this young gentleman was endeavoring to explain to her why it was he dared not go near stratford town. "truly, sweet mistress judith," said he, in his suave voice, and with modestly downcast eyes, "it is a disappointment to me in more regards than one; perchance i dare not say how much. but in these times one has to see that one's own misfortunes may not prove harmful to one's friends; and then again, ever since the french king's murder, they are becoming harder and harder against any one, however innocent he may be, that is under suspicion. and whom do they not suspect? the parliament have entreated the king to be more careful of his safety; and the recusants--as they call those that have some regard for the faith they were brought up in--must not appear within ten miles of the court. nay, they are ordered to betake themselves to their own dwellings; and by the last proclamation all roman priests, jesuits, and seminaries are banished the kingdom. i wonder not your good grandmother should have a word of pity for them that are harried this way and that for conscience' sake." "i say naught, i say naught; 'twere well to keep a still tongue," the old dame said, being still busy with the table. "but i have heard there wur more peace and quiet in former days when there wur but one faith in the land; ay, and good tending of the poor folk by the monks and the rich houses." however, the chance reference to the french king had suddenly recalled to judith that prudence was waiting her in the garden; and her conscience smote her for her neglect; while she was determined that so favorable an opportunity should not be lost of banishing once and forever her dear gossip's cruel suspicions. so she rose. "i crave your pardon, good sir," said she, "if i leave you for a moment to seek my gossip prudence shawe, that was to wait for me in the garden. i would have you acquainted with each other; but pray you, sir, forbear to say anything against the puritan section of the church, for she is well inclined that way, and she has a heart that is easily wounded." "and thank you for the caution, fair mistress judith," said he; and he rose, and bowed low, and stood hat in hand until she had left the apartment. at first, so blinding was the glare of light and color, she could hardly see; but presently, when her eyes were less dazzled, she looked everywhere, and found the garden quite empty. she called; there was no answer. she went down to the little gate; there was no one in the road. and so, taking it for granted that prudence had sought safety in flight, and was now back in stratford town, or on the way thither, she returned into the cottage with a light heart, and well content to hear what news was abroad. "pray you, sir," said old mistress hathaway, "sit in to the table; and you, grandchild, come your ways. if the fare be poor, the welcome is hearty. what, then, judith? dined already, sayst thou? body o' me, a fresh-colored young wench like you should be ready for your dinner at any time. well, well, sit thee in, and grace the table; and you shall sip a cup of claret for the sake of good company." master leofric hope, on the other hand, was not at all backward in applying himself to this extemporized meal; on the contrary, he did it such justice as fairly warmed the old dame's heart. and he drank to her, moreover, bending low over his cup of ale; but he did not do the like by judith--for some reason or another. and all the while he was telling them of the affairs of the town; as to how there was much talking of the new river that was to bring water from some ten or twelve miles off, and how one middleton was far advanced with the cutting of it, although many were against it, and would have the project overthrown altogether. of these and similar matters he spoke right pleasantly, and the old dame was greatly interested; but judith grew to think it strange that so much should be said about public affairs, and what the people were talking about, and yet no mention made of her father. and so it came about, when he went on to tell them of the new ship of war that so many were going to see at woolwich, and that the king made so much of, she said: "oh, my father knows all about that ship. 'twas but the other day i heard him and master combe speak of it; and of the king too; and my father said, 'poor man, 'tis a far smaller ship than that he will make his last voyage in.'" "said he that of the king?" she looked up in quick alarm. "but as he would have said it of me, or of you, or of any one," she exclaimed. "nay, my father is well inclined toward the king, though he be not as much at the court as some, nor caring to make pageants for the court ladies and their attendants and followers." if there were any sarcasm in this speech, he did not perceive it; for it merely led him on to speak of the new masque that ben jonson was preparing for the prince henry; and incidentally he mentioned that the subject was to be oberon, the fairy prince. "oberon?" said judith, opening her eyes. "why, my father hath writ about that!" "oh, yes, as we all know," said he, courteously; "but there will be a difference----" "a difference?" said she. "by my life, yes! there will be a difference. i wonder that master jonson was not better advised." "nay, in this matter, good mistress judith," said he, "there will be no comparison. i know 'tis the fashion to compare them----" "to compare my father and master jonson?" she said, as if she had not heard aright. "why, what comparison? in what way? pray you remember, sir, i have seen master ben jonson. i have seen him, and spoken with him. and as for my father, i'll be bound there is not his fellow for a handsome presence and gracious manners in all warwickshire--no, nor in london town neither, i'll be sworn!" "i meant not that, sweet lady," said he, with a smile; and he added, grimly: "i grant you our ben looks as if he had been in the wars; he hath had a tussle with bacchus on many a merry night, and bears the scars of these noble combats. no; 'tis the fashion to compare them as wits----" "i'd as lief compare them as men, good sir," said she, with a touch of pride; "and i know right well which should have my choice." "when it is my good fortune, dear lady," said the young man, "to have master william shakespeare's daughter sitting before me, i need no other testimony to his grace and bearing, even had i never set eyes on him." and with that he bowed low; and there was a slight flush on her face that was none of displeasure; while the old dame said: "ay, ay, there be many a wench in warwickshire worse favored than she. pray heaven it turn not her head! the wench is a good wench, but ill to manage; and 'twere no marvel if the young men got tired of waiting." to escape from any further discussion of this subject, judith proposed that they should go out and look at her grandmother's roses and pansies, which was in truth the object of her visit; and she added that if master hope (this was the first time she had named him by his name) were still desirous of avoiding observation, they could go to the little bower at the upper hedge-row, which was sufficiently screened from the view of any passer-by. the old dame was right willing, for she was exceedingly proud of this garden, that had no other tending than her own; and so she got her knitting-needles and ball of wool, and preceded them out into the warm air and the sunlight. "dear, dear me," said she, stopping to regard two small shrubs that stood withered and brown by the side of the path. "there be something strange in that rosemary, now; in good sooth there be. try as i may, i cannot bring them along; the spring frost makes sure to kill them." and then she went on again. "strange, indeed," said the young man to his companion, these two being somewhat behind, "that a plant that is so fickle and difficult to hold should be the emblem of constancy." "i know not what they do elsewhere," said judith, carelessly pulling a withered leaf or two to see if they were quite inodorous, "but hereabouts they often use a bit of rosemary for a charm, and the summoning of spirits." he started somewhat, and glanced at her quickly and curiously. but there was clearly no subtle intention in the speech. she idly threw away the leaves. "have you faith in such charms, mistress judith?" said he, still regarding her. "in truth i know not," she answered, as if the question were of but little moment. "there be some who believe in them, and others that laugh. but strange stories are told; marry, there be some of them that are not pleasant to hear of a winter's night, when one has to change the warm chimney-corner for the cold room above. there is my grandmother, she hath a rare store of them; but they fit not well with the summer-time and with such a show as this." "a goodly show, indeed," said he; and by this time they were come to a small arbor of rude lattice-work mostly smothered in foliage; and there was a seat within it, and also a tiny table; while in front they were screened from the gaze of any one going along the road by a straggling and propped-up wall of peas that were now showing their large white blossoms plentifully among the green. "'tis a quiet spot," said he, when they were seated, and the old dame had taken to her knitting; "'tis enough to make one pray never to hear more of the din and turmoil of london." "i should have thought, sir," said judith, "you would have feared to go near london, if there be those that would fain get to know of your whereabout." "truly," said he, "i have no choice. i must run the risk. from time to time i must seek to see whether the cloud that is hanging over me give signs of breaking. and surely such must now be the case, when fortune hath been so kind to me as to place me where i am at this moment--in such company--with such a quiet around. 'tis like the work of a magician; though from time to time i remind me that i should rise and leave, craving your pardon for intruding on you withal." "trouble not yourself, young sir," the old dame said, in her matter-of-fact way, as she looked up from her knitting; "if the place content you, 'tis right well; we be in no such hurry in these country parts; we let the day go by as it lists, and thank god for a sound night's rest at the end of it." "and you have a more peaceful and happy life than the london citizens, i'll be bound," said he, "with all their feasts and gayeties and the noise of drums and the like." "we hear but the murmur of such things from a far distance," judith said. "was there not a great to-do on the river when the citizens gave their welcome to the prince?" "why, there, now," said he, brightening up at this chance of repaying in some measure the courtesy of his entertainers; "there was as wonderful a thing as london ever saw. a noble spectacle, truly; for the companies would not be outdone; and such bravery of apparel, and such a banqueting in the afternoon! and perchance you heard of it but through some news-letter! shall i tell you what i saw on my own part?" "if it be not too troublesome to you, good sir." he was glad enough; for he had noticed, when he was describing such things, that judith's eyes grew absent, and he could gaze at them without fear of causing her to start and blush. moreover, it was a pretty face to tell a story to; and the day was so still and shining; and all around them there was a scent of roses in the air. "why, it was about daybreak, as i should think," he said, "that the citizens began to come forth; and a bright fair morning it was; and all of them in their best array. and you may be sure that when the companies learned that the whole of the citizens were minded to show their love for the prince henry on his coming back from richmond, they were not like to be behindhand; and such preparations had been made as you would scarce believe. well, then, so active were they in their several ways that by eight of the clock the companies were all assembled in their barges of state to wait the lord mayor and aldermen; and such a sound of drums and trumpets and fifes was there; and the water covered with the fleet, and the banks all crowded with them that had come down to see. then the lord mayor and the aldermen being arrived, the great procession set forth in state; and such a booming of cannon there was, and cheering from the crowd. 'twas a sight, on my life; for they bore the pageant with them--that was a huge whale and a dolphin; and on the whale sat a fair and lovely nymph, corinea she was called, the queen of cornwall; and she had a coronet of strange sea-shells, and strings of pearls around her neck and on her wrists; and her dress was of crimson silk, so that all could make her out from a distance; and she had a silver shield slung on to her left arm, and in her right hand a silver spear--oh, a wonderful sight she was; i marvel not the crowd cheered and cheered again. then on the other animal--that is, the dolphin--sat one that represented amphion--he was the father of music, as you must know; and a long beard he wore, and he also had a wreath of sea-shells on his head, and in his hand a harp of gold that shone in the sun. well, away they set toward chelsea; and there they waited for the prince's approach----" "and the young prince himself," judith said, quickly and eagerly; "he bears himself well, does he not? he bears himself like a prince? he would match such a pageant right royally, is't not so?" "why, he is the very model and mirror of princehood!--the pink of chivalry!--nor is there one of them at the court that can match him at the knightly exercises," said this enthusiastic chronicler, who had his reward in seeing how interested she was. "well, when the young prince was come to chelsea, there he paused; and the queen corinea addressed him in a speech of welcome--truly, i could not hear a word of it, there was such a noise among the multitude; but i was told thereafter that it presented him with their love and loyal duty; and then they all set forth toward whitehall again. by this time 'twas late in the day; and no man would have believed so many dwelt in the neighborhood of our great river; and that again was as naught to the crowd assembled when they were come again to the town. and here--as it must have been arranged beforehand, doubtless--the fleet of barges separated and formed two long lines, so as to make a lane for the prince to pass through, with great cheering and shouting, so that when they were come to the court steps, he was at the head of them all. and now it was that the dolphin approached, and amphion, that was riding on his back, bid the prince a loyal farewell in the name of all the citizens; and at the end of the speech--which, in truth the people guessed at rather than heard--there was such a tumult of huzzas, and a firing of cannon, and the drums and the trumpets sounding, and on every hand you could hear nothing but 'long live our prince of wales, the royal henry!'" "and he bore himself bravely, i'll dare be sworn!" she exclaimed. "i have heard my father speak of him; he is one that will uphold the honor of england when he comes to the throne!" "and there was such a feasting and rejoicing that evening," he continued, "within doors and without; and many an honest man, i fear me, transgressed, and laid the train for a sore-distracted head next day. then 'twas some two or three evenings after that, if i remember aright, that we had the great water-fight and the fire-works; but perchance you heard of these, sweet mistress judith?" "in truth, good sir," she answered, "i heard of these, as of the welcome you speak of, but in so scant a way as to be worth naught. 'tis not a kind of talking that is encouraged at our house; unless, indeed, when julius shawe and master combe and some of them come in of an evening to chat with my father; and then sometimes i contrive to linger, with the bringing in of a flagon of rhenish or the like, unless i am chid and sent forth. i pray you, good sir, if i do not outwear your patience, to tell us of the water-fight, too." "'tis i that am more like to outwear your patience, fair judith," said he. "i would i had a hundred fights to tell you of. but this one--well, 'twas a goodly pageant; and a vast crowd was come down to the water's edge to see what was going forward, for most of the business of the day was over, and both master and 'prentice were free. and very soon we saw how the story was going; for there was a turkish pirate, with fierce men with blackened faces; and they would plunder two english merchantmen and make slaves of the crews. this was but the beginning of the fight; and there was great firing of guns and manoeuvring of the vessels; and the merchantmen were like to fare badly, not being trained to arms like the pirate. in sooth they were sore bestead; but presently up came two ships of war to rescue; and then the coil began in good earnest, i warrant you; for there was boarding and charging and clambering over the bulwarks--ay, and many a man on both sides knocked into the sea; until in the end they had killed or secured all the pirates, and then there was naught to do but to blow up the pirate ship into the air, with a noise like thunder, and scarce a rag or spar of him remaining. 'twas a right good ending, i take it, in the minds of the worthy citizens; doubtless they hoped that every turkish rogue would be served the like. and then it was that the blowing up of the pirate ship was a kind of signal for the beginning of the fire-works; and it had grown to dusk now, so that the blazes of red light and blue light and the whizzing of the squibs and what not seemed to fill all the air. 'twas a rare climax to the destruction of the turks; and the people cheered and cheered again when 'twas well done; and then at the end came a great discharge of guns and squibs and showers of stars, that one would have thought the whole world was on fire. sure i am that the waters of the thames never saw such a sight before. and the people went home right well content, and i doubt not drank to the confusion of all pirates, as well as to the health of the young prince, that is to preserve the realm to us in years to come." they talked for some time thereafter about that and other matters, and about his own condition and occupations at the farm; and then he rose, and there was a smile on his face. "you know, fair mistress judith," said he, "that a wise man is careful not to out-stay his welcome, lest it be not offered to him again; and your good grandmother has afforded me so pleasant an hour's gossip and good company that i would fain look forward to some other chance of the same in the future." "must you go, good sir?" said judith, also rising. "i trust we have not over-taxed your patience. we country folk are hungry listeners." "to have been awarded so much of your time, sweet mistress judith," said he, bowing very low, "is an honor i am not likely to forget." and then he addressed the old dame, who had missed something of this. "give ye good thanks for your kindness, good mistress hathaway," said he. "good fortune attend ye, sir," said the old dame, contentedly, and without ceasing from her knitting. judith was standing there, with her eyes cast down. "sweet lady, by your leave," said he, and he took her hand and raised it and just touched her fingers with his lips. then he bowed low again, and withdrew. "fare you well, good sir," judith had said at the same moment, but without any word as to a future meeting. then she returned into the little arbor and sat down. "is't not like a meteor, grandmother, shooting across the sky?" said she, merrily. "beshrew me, but the day has grown dark since he left! didst ever hear of such a gallymawfrey of dolphins and whales, and prince's barges, and the roaring of cannon, and fire-works? sure 'tis well we live in the country quiet, our ears would be riven in twain else. and you, grandmother, that was ever preaching about prudent behavior, to be harboring one that may be an outlaw--a recusant; perchance he hath drawn his sword in the king's presence----" "what know you of the young gentleman, judith?" the old dame said, sharply. "marry, not a jot beyond what he hath doubtless told to yourself, good grandmother. but see you any harm in him? have you suspicion of him? would you have me think--as prudence would fain believe--that there is witchcraft about him?" "truly i see no harm in the young gentleman," the old grandmother was constrained to say. "and he be fair-spoken, and modest withal. but look you to this, wench, should you chance to meet him again while he bideth here in this neighborhood--i trow 'twere better you did not--but should that chance, see you keep a still tongue in your head about church and king and parliament. let others meddle who choose; 'tis none of your affairs: do you hear me, child? these be parlous times, as the talk is; they do well that keep the by-ways, and let my lord's coaches go whither they list." "grandmother," said judith, gravely, "i know there be many things in which i cannot please you, but this sin that you would lay to my charge--nay, dear grandam, when have you caught me talking about church and king and parliament? truly i wish them well; but i am content if they go their own way." the old dame glanced at her, to see what this demure tone of speech meant. "thou?" she said, in a sort of grumble. "thy brain be filled with other gear, i reckon. 'tis a bit of ribbon that hath hold of thee; or the report as to which of the lads shot best at the match; or perchance 'tis the purchase of some penny ballads, that you may put the pictures on your chamber wall, as if you were a farm wench just come in from the milking pail." "heaven have pity on me, good grandmother," said she, with much penitence, and she looked down at her costume, "but i can find no way of pleasing you. you scold me for being but a farm wench; and truly this petticoat, though it be pretty enough, methinks might have been made of a costlier stuff; and my cap--good grandmother, look at my cap--" she took it off, and smoothed the gray velvet of it, and arranged the beads and the feather. "--is the cap also too much of the fashion of a farm wench? or have i gone amiss the other way, and become too like a city dame? would that i knew how to please you, grandam!" "go thy ways, child; get thee home!" the old woman said, but only half angrily. "thy foolish head hath been turned by hearing of those court gambols. get you to your needle; be your mother's napery all so well mended that you can spend the whole day in idleness?" "nay, but you are in the right there, good grandmother," said judith, drawing closer to her, and taking her thin and wrinkled hand in her own warm, white, soft ones. "but not to the needle--not to the needle, good grandam; i have other eggs on the spit. did not i tell you of the portugal receipts that prudence got for me?--in good sooth i did; well, the dishes were made; and next day at dinner my father was right well pleased. 'tis little heed he pays to such matters; and we scarce thought of asking him how he liked the fare, when all at once he said: 'good mother, you must give my thanks to jane cook; 'twill cheer her in her work; nay, i owe them.' then says my mother: 'but these two dishes were not prepared by the cook, good husband; 'twas one of the maids.' 'one of the maids?' he says. 'well, which one of the maids? truly, 'tis something rare to be found in a country house.' and then there was a laughing amongst all of them; and he fixes his eyes on me. 'what?' he says, 'that saucy wench? is she striving to win her a husband at last?' and so you see, good grandmother, i must waste no more time here, for prudence hath one or two more of these receipts; and i must try them to see whether my father approves or not." and so she kissed the old dame, and bade her farewell, refusing at the same time to have the escort of the small maid across the meadows to the town. all the temporary annoyance of the morning was now over and forgotten; she was wholly pleased to have had this interview, and to have heard minutely of all the great doings in london. she walked quickly; a careless gladness shone in her face; and she was lightly singing to herself, as she went along the well-beaten path through the fields, "sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever." but it was not in the nature of any complaint against the inconstancy of man that this rhyme had come into her head. quite other thoughts came as well. at one moment she was saying to herself: "why, now, have i no spaniel-gentle with me to keep me company?" and then the next minute she was saying with a sort of laugh: "god help me, i fear i am none of the spaniel-gentle kind!" but there was no deep smiting of conscience even when she confessed so much. her face was radiant and content; she looked at the cattle, or the trees, or the children, as it chanced, as if she knew them all, and knew that they were friendly toward her; and then again the idle air would come into her brain: then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds of woe into hey, nonny, nonny! chapter xiv. a tire-woman. it was not until after supper that evening that judith was free to seek out her companion, who had fled from her in the morning; and when she did steal forth--carrying a small basket in her hand--she approached the house with much more caution than was habitual with her. she glanced in at the lower windows, but could see nothing. then, instead of trying whether the latch was left loose, she formally knocked at the door. it was opened by a little rosy-cheeked girl of eleven or twelve, who instantly bobbed a respectful courtesy. "is mistress prudence within, little margery?" she said. "yes, if it please you," said the little wench, and she stood aside to let judith pass. but judith did not enter; she seemed listening. "where is she?" "in her own chamber, if it please you." "alone, then?" "yes, if it please you, mistress judith." judith patted the little maid in requital of her courtesy, and then stole noiselessly up-stairs. the door was open. prudence was standing before a small table ironing a pair of snow-white cuffs, the while she was repeating to herself verses of a psalm. her voice, low as it was, could be heard distinctly: open thou my lips, o lord, and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise. for thou desirest no sacrifice, though i would give it; thou delightest not in burnt-offering. the sacrifices of god are a contrite spirit; a contrite and a broken heart, o god, thou will not despise. be favorable unto zion for thy good pleasure; build the walls of jerusalem. then shalt thou accept the sacrifices of righteousness, even the burnt offering and oblation; then shall they offer calves upon thine altar. she happened to turn her head; and then she uttered a slight cry of surprise, and came quickly to judith, and caught her by the hand. "what said he?" she exclaimed, almost breathlessly. "you saw him? 'twas the same, was it not? how came he there? judith, tell me!" "you timid mouse that ran away!" the other said, with a complacent smile. "why, what should he say? but prithee go on with the cuffs, else the iron will be cold. and are you alone in the house, prudence? there is no one below?" "none but the maids, i trow; or julius, perchance, if he be come in from the malt-house." "quick, then, with the cuffs," judith said, "and get them finished. nay, i will tell thee all about the young gentleman thereafter. get thee finished with the cuffs, and put them on----" "but i meant them not for this evening, judith," said she, with her eyes turned away. "'tis this evening, and now, you must wear them," her friend said, peremptorily. "and more than these. see, i have brought you some things, dear mouse, that you must wear for my sake--nay, nay, i will take no denial--you must and shall--and with haste, too, must you put them on, lest any one should come and find the mistress of the house out of call. is not this pretty, good prudence?" she had opened the basket and taken therefrom a plaited ruff that the briefest feminine glance showed to be of the finest cobweb lawn, tinged a faint saffron hue, and tied with silken strings. prudence, who now divined the object of her visit, was overwhelmed with confusion. the fair and pensive face became rose red with embarrassment, and she did not even know how to protest. "and this," said judith, in the most matter-of-fact way, taking something else out of the basket, "will also become you well--nay, not so, good mouse, you shall be as prim and puritanical as you please to-morrow; to-night you shall be a little braver; and is it not handsome, too?--'twas a gift to my mother--and she knows that i have it--though i have never worn it." this second article that she held out and stroked with her fingers was a girdle of buff-colored leather, embroidered with flowers in silk of different colors, and having a margin of filigree silver-work both above and below and a broad silver clasp. "come, then, let's try----" "nay, judith," the other said, retreating a step; "i cannot--indeed i cannot----" "indeed you must, silly child!" judith said, and she caught hold of her angrily. "i say you shall. what know you of such things? must i teach you manners?" and when judith was in this authoritative mood, prudence had but little power to withstand her. her face was still burning with embarrassment, but she succumbed in silence, while judith whipped off the plain linen collar that her friend wore, and set on in its stead this small but handsome ruff. she arranged it carefully, and smoothed prudence's soft fair hair, and gave a finishing touch to the three-cornered cap; then she stepped back a pace or two to contemplate her handiwork. "there!" she exclaimed (pretending to see nothing of prudence's blushes). "a princess! on my life, a princess! and now for the girdle; but you must cast aside that housewife's pouch, sweetheart, and i will lend thee this little pomander of mine; in truth 'twill suit it well." "no, no, dear judith!" the other said, almost piteously. "indeed i cannot prank me out in these borrowed plumes. if you will have it so, i will wear the ruff; but not the girdle--not the girdle, dear cousin--that all would see was none of mine----" "what's that?" judith exclaimed, suddenly, for there was a noise below. "'tis julius come in from the barn," prudence said. "mercy on us," the other cried, with a laugh, "i thought 'twas the spaniel-gentle come already. so you will not wear the girdle? well, the ruff becomes you right fairly: and--and those roses in your cheeks, good prue--why, what is the matter? is there aught wonderful in one of julius's friends coming to see him in the evening? and as the mistress of the house you must receive him well and courteously; and be not so demure of speech and distant in manner, dearest heart, for youth must have a little merriment, and we cannot always be at our prayers." "i know not what you mean, judith, unless it be something that is far away from any thought or wish of mine." there was a touch of sincerity in this speech that instantly recalled judith from her half-gibing ways. the truth was that while she herself was free enough in confiding to this chosen gossip of hers all about such lovers or would-be lovers as happened to present themselves, prudence had never volunteered any similar confidence in return; and the very fact that there might be reasons for this reticence was enough to keep judith from seeking to remove the veil. judith herself was accustomed to make merry over the whole matter of sweethearts and rhymed messages and little tender gifts; but prudence was sensitive, and judith was careful not to wound her by indiscreet questioning. and at this moment, when prudence was standing there confused and abashed, some compunction seized the heart of her friend. she took her hand. "in good sooth, i meant not to tease you, sweetheart," said she, in a kindly way; "and if i advise you in aught, 'tis but that you should make your brother's house a pleasant resort for them that would be friendly with him and visit him. what harm can there be in receiving such with a cheerful welcome, and having a pretty house-mistress, and all things neat and comfortable? dear mouse, you so often lecture me that i must have my turn; and i do not find fault or cause of quarrel; 'tis but a wish that you would be less severe in your ways, and let your kind heart speak more freely. men, that have the burden of the world's fight to bear, love to meet women-folk that have a merry and cheerful countenance; 'twere a marvel else; and of an evening, when there is idleness and some solace after the labors of the day, why should one be glum, and thinking ever of that next world that is coming soon enough of its own accord? look you how well the ruff becomes you; and what sin is in it? the girdle, too; think you my mother would have worn it had there been aught of evil in a simple piece of leather and embroidery?" "'tis many a day since she put it aside, as i well remember," prudence said, but with a smile, for she was easily won over. "truly," said judith, with a touch of scorn, "the good preachers are pleased to meddle with small matters when they would tell a woman what she should wear, and order a maiden to give up a finger ring or a bit of lace on peril of her losing her soul. these be marvellous small deer to be so hunted and stormed about with bell, book, and candle. but now, good prudence, for this one evening, i would have you please your visitor and entertain him; and the spaniel-gentle--that, indeed, you must take from him----" "i cannot, dear judith; 'twas meant for you," prudence exclaimed. "you cannot go back from your promise, good cousin," judith said, coolly, and with some slight inattention to facts. "'twould be unmannerly of you to refuse the gift, or to refuse ample thanks for it either. and see you have plenty on the board, for men like good fare along with good company; and let there be no stint of wine or ale as they may choose, for your brother's house, prudence, must not be niggard, were it only for appearance' sake." "but you will stay, dear judith, will you not?" the other said, anxiously. "in truth you can entertain them all wherever you go; and always there is such heart in the company----" "nay, i cannot, sweet mouse," judith said, lightly. "there is much for me to do now in the evenings since susan has gone back to her own home. and now i must go, lest your visitor arrive and find you unprepared: marry, you must wear the cuffs as they are, since i have hindered you in the ironing." "but you cannot go, judith, till you have told me what happened to-day at the cottage," the other pleaded. "what happened? why, nothing," judith said, brightly. "only that my grandmother is of a mind with myself that a fairer-spoken young gentleman seldom comes into these parts, and that, when he does, he should be made welcome. bless thy heart, hadst thou but come in and seen how attentive the good dame was to him! and she would press him to have some claret wine; but he said no: perchance he guessed that good grandam had but small store of that. nay, but you should have come in, sweet mouse; then would you have been conscience-smitten about all your dark surmisings. a murderer, forsooth! a ghost! a phantom! why, so civil was his manner that he but asked for a cup of water in passing, and my grandmother must needs have him come in out of the sun, and rest him, and have some milk. was that like a ghost? i warrant you there was naught of the ghost about him when she put a solid repast before him on the table: ghosts make no such stout attacks on gooseberry tart and cheese, else they be sore belied." "but who and what is this man, judith?" "why, who can tell what any man is?" said the other. "they all of them are puzzles, and unlike other human creatures. but this one--well, he hath a rare store of knowledge as to what is going forward at the court--and among the players, too; and as we sat in the little bower there you would have sworn you could see before you the river thames, with a wonderful pageant on it--dolphins, and whales, and crowned sea-queens, and the like; and in the midst of them all the young prince henry--'long live the young prince henry!' they cried; and there was such a noise of drums and cannons and trumpets that you could scarce hear my grandmother's bees among the flowers. i warrant you the good dame was well repaid for her entertainment, and right well pleased with the young gentleman. i should not marvel to find him returning thither, seeing that he can remain there in secrecy, and have such gossip as pleases him." "but, judith, you know not what you do!" her friend protested, anxiously. "do you forget--nay, you cannot forget--that this was the very man the wizard prophesied that you should meet; and, more than that, that he would be your husband!" "my husband?" said judith, with a flush of color, and she laughed uneasily. "nay, not so, good prudence. he is not one that is likely to choose a country wench. nay, nay, the juggler knave failed me--that is the truth of it; the charm was a thing of naught; and this young gentleman, if i met him by accident, the same might have happened to you, as i showed you before. marry, i should not much crave to see him again, if anything like that were in the wind. this is stratford town, 'tis not the forest of arden; and in this neighborhood a maiden may not go forth to seek her lover, and coax him into the wooing of her. my father may put that into a play, but methinks if he heard of his own daughter doing the like, the key would quickly be turned on her. nay, nay, good prue, you shall not fright me out of doing a civil kindness to a stranger, and one that is in misfortune, by flaunting his lovership before my eyes. there be no such thing: do not i know the tokens? by my life, this gentleman is too courteous to have a lover's mind within him!" "and you will go and see him again, judith?" her friend asked, quickly. "nay, i said not that," judith answered, complacently. "'tis not the forest of arden; would to heaven it were, for life would move to a pleasanter music! i said not that i would go forth and seek him; that were not maidenly; and belike there would come a coil of talking among the gossips or soon or late; but at this time of the year, do you see, sweet cousin, the country is fair to look upon, and the air is sweeter in the meadows than it is here in the town; and if a lone damsel, forsaken by all else, should be straying silent and forlorn along the pathway or by the river-side, and should encounter one that hath but lately made her acquaintance, why should not that acquaintance be permitted in all modesty and courtesy to ripen into friendship? the harm, good prue--the harm of it? tush! your head is filled with childish fears of the wizard; that is the truth; and had you but come into the house to-day, and had but five minutes' speech of the young gentleman, you would have been as ready as any one to help in the beguilement of the tedium of his hiding, if that be possible to two or three silly women. and bethink you, was't not a happy chance that i wore my new velvet cap this morning?" but she had been speaking too eagerly. this was a slip; and instantly she added, with some touch of confusion, "i mean that i would fain have my father's friends in london know that his family are not so far out of the world, or out of the fashion." "is he one of your father's friends, judith?" prudence said, gravely. "he is a friend of my father's friends, at least," said she, "and some day, i doubt not, he will himself be one of these. truly that will be a rare sight, some evening at new place, when we confront you with him, and tell him how he was charged with being a ghost, or a pirate, or an assassin, or something of the like." "your fancy runs free, judith," her friend said. "is't a probable thing, think you, that one that dares not come forth into the day, that is hiding from justice, or perchance scheming in catholic plots, should become the friend of your house?" "you saw him not at my grandmother's board, good prue," said judith, coolly. "the young gentleman hath the trick of making himself at home wherever he cometh, i warrant you. and when this cloud blows away, and he is free to come to stratford, there is none will welcome him more heartily than i, for methinks he holdeth master benjamin jonson in too high consideration, and i would have him see what is thought of my father in the town, and what his estate is, and that his family, though they live not in london, are not wholly of moll the milkmaid kind. and i would have susan come over too; and were she to forget her preachers and her psalms for but an evening, and were there any merriment going forward, the young gentleman would have to keep his wits clear, i'll be bound. there is the house, too, i would have him see; and the silver-topped tankard with the writing on it from my father's good friends; nay, i warrant me julius would not think of denying me the loan of the king's letter to my father--were it but for an hour or two----" but here they were startled into silence by a knocking below; then there was the sound of a man's voice in the narrow passage. "'tis he, sweetheart," judith said, quickly, and she kissed her friend, and gave a final touch to the ruff and the cap. "get you down and welcome him; i will go out when that you have shut the door of the room. and be merry, good heart, be merry--be brave and merry, as you love me." she almost thrust her out of the apartment, and listened to hear her descend the stairs; then she waited for the shutting of the chamber door; and finally she stole noiselessly down into the passage, and let herself out without waiting for the little maid margery. chapter xv. a first performance. "nay, zur," said the sour-visaged matthew, as he leaned his chin and both hands on the end of a rake, and spoke in his slow-drawling, grumbling fashion--"nay, zur, this country be no longer the country it wur; no, nor never will be again." "why, what ails the land?" said judith's father, turning from the small table in the summer-house, and lying back in his chair, and crossing one knee over the other, as if he would give a space to idleness. "not the land, zur," rejoined goodman matthew, oracularly--"not the land; it be the men that live in it, and that are all in such haste to make wealth, with plundering of the poor and each other, that there's naught but lying and cheating and roguery--god-a-mercy, there never wur the loike in any country under the sun! why, zur, in my vather's time a pair o' shoes would wear you through all weathers for a year; but now, with their half-tanned leather, and their horse-hide, and their cat-skin for the inner sole, 'tis a marvel if the rotten leaves come not asunder within a month. and they be all aloike; the devil would have no choice among 'em. the cloth-maker he hideth his bad wool wi' liquid stuff; and the tailor, no matter whether it be doublet, cloak, or hose, he will filch you his quarter of the cloth ere you see it again; and the chandler--he be no better than the rest--he will make you his wares of stinking offal that will splutter and run over, and do aught but give good light; and the vintner, marry, who knoweth not his tricks and knaveries of mixing and blending, and the selling of poison instead of honest liquor? the rogue butcher, too, he will let the blood soak in, ay, and puff wind into the meat--meat, quotha!--'tis as like as not to have been found dead in a ditch!" "a bad case indeed, good matthew, if they be all preying on each other so." "'tis the poor man pays for all, zur. though how he liveth to pay no man can tell; what with the landlords racking the rents, and inclosing the commons and pasturages--nay, 'tis a noble pastime the making of parks and warrens, and shutting the poor man out that used to have his cow there and a pig or two; but no, now shall he not let a goose stray within the fence. and what help hath the poor man? may he go to the lawyers, with their leases and clauses that none can understand--ay, and their fists that must be well greased ere they set to the business? 'tis the poor man pays for all, zur, i warrant ye; nor must he grumble when the gentleman goes a-hunting and breaks down his hedges and tramples his corn. corn? 'tis the last thing they think of, beshrew me else! they are busiest of all in sending our good english grain--ay, and our good english beef and bacon and tallow--beyond the seas; and to bring back what?--baubles of glass beads and amber, fans for my ladies, and new toys from turkey! the proud dames--i would have their painted faces scratched!" "what, what, good matthew?" judith's father said, laughing. "what know you of the city ladies and their painting?" "nay, nay, zur, the london tricks be spread abroad, i warrant ye; there's not a farmer's wife nowadays but must have her french-hood, and her daughter a taffeta cap--marry, and a grogram gown lined through with velvet. and there be other towns in the land than london to learn the london tricks; i have heard of the dames and their daughters; set them up with their pinching and girding with whalebone, to get a small waist withal!--ay, and the swallowing of ashes and candles, and whatever will spoil their stomach, to give them a pale bleak color. lord, what a thing 'tis to be rich and in the fashion!--let the poor man suffer as he may. corn, i' faith!--there be plenty of corn grown in the land, god wot; but 'tis main too dear for the poor man; the rack-rents for him, and a murrain on him; the corn for the forestallers and the merchants and gentlemen, that send it out of the country; and back come the silks and civets for proud madam and her painted crew!" "god have mercy on us, man!" judith's father exclaimed, and he drove him aside, and got out into the sunlight. at the same moment he caught sight of judith herself. "come hither, wench, come hither!" he called to her. she was nothing loath. she had merely been taking some scraps to the don; and seeing matthew in possession there, she had not even stayed to look into the summer-house. but when her father came out and called to her, she went quickly toward him; and her eyes were bright enough, on this bright morning. "what would you, father?" for answer he plucked off her cap and threw it aside, and took hold of her by a bunch of her now loosened and short sun-brown curls. "father!" she protested (but with no great anger). "there be twenty minutes' work undone!" "where bought you those roses?" said he, sternly. "answer me, wench!" "i bought no roses, father!" "the paint? is't not painted? where got you such a face, madam?" "father, you have undone my hair; and the parson is coming to dinner." "nay, i'll be sworn 'tis as honest a face as good mother nature ever made. this goodman matthew hath belied you!" "what said he of me?" she asked, with a flash of anger in her eyes. her father put his hand on her neck, and led her away. "nay, nay, come thy ways, lass; thou shalt pick me a handful of raspberries. and as for thine hair, let that be as god made it; 'tis even better so; and yet, methinks"--here he stopped, and passed his hand lightly once or twice over her head, so that any half-imprisoned curls were set free--"methinks," said he, regarding the pretty hair with considerable favor, "if you would as lief have some ornament for it, i saw that in london that would answer right well. 'twas a net-work kind of cap; but the netting so fine you could scarce see it; and at each point a bead of gold. now, madame vanity, what say you to that? would you let your hair grow free as it is now, and let the sunlight play with it, were i to bring thee a fairy cap all besprinkled with gold?" "i will wear it any way you wish, father, and right gladly," said she, "and i will have no cap at all if it please you." "nay, but you shall have the gossamer cap, wench; i will not forget it when next i go to london." "i would you had never to go to london again," said she, rather timidly. he regarded her for a second with a scrutinizing look, and there was an odd sort of smile on his face. "why," said he, "i was but this minute writing about a man that had to use divers arts and devices for the attainment of a certain end--yea, and devices that all the world would not approve of, perchance; and that was ever promising to himself that when the end was gained he would put aside these spells and tricks, and be content to live as other men live, in a quiet and ordinary fashion. wouldst have me live ever in stratford, good lass?" "the life of the house goes out when you go away from us," said she, simply. "well, stratford is no wilderness," said he, cheerfully; "and i have no bitter feud with mankind that i would live apart from them. didst ever think, wench," he added, more absently, "how sad a man must have been ere he could speak so: 'happy were he could finish forth his fate in some unhaunted desert, most obscure from all societies, from love and hate of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure; then wake again, and ever give god praise, content with hips and haws and brambleberry; in contemplation spending all his days, and change of holy thoughts to make him merry; where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush, where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.'" "is it that you are writing now, father?" "nay, indeed," said he, slowly, and a cloud came over his face. "that was written by one that was my good friend in by-gone days; by one that was betrayed and done to death by lying tongues, and had but sorry favor shown him in the end by those he had served." he turned away. she thought she heard him say, "my noble essex," but she was mutely following him. and then he said: "come, lass; come pick me the berries." he kept walking up and down, by himself, while her nimble fingers were busy with the bushes; and when she had collected a sufficiency of the fruit, and brought it to him, she found that he appeared to be in no hurry this morning, but was now grown cheerful again, and rather inclined to talk to her. and she was far from telling him that her proper place at this moment was within-doors, to see that the maids were getting things forward; and if she bestowed a thought of any kind on the good parson, it was to the effect that both he and the dinner would have to wait. her father had hold of her by the arm. he was talking to her of all kinds of things, as they slowly walked up and down the path, but of his friends in stratford mostly, and their various ways of living; and this she conceived to have some reference to his project of withdrawing altogether from london, and settling down for good among them. indeed, so friendly and communicative was he on this clear morning--in truth, they were talking like brother and sister--that when at last he went into the summer-house, she made bold to follow; and when he chanced to look at some sheets lying on the table, she said: "father, what is the story of the man with the devices?" for an instant he did not understand what she meant; then he laughed. "nay, pay you no heed to such things, child." "and why should not i, father, seeing that they bring you so great honor?" "honor, said you?" but then he seemed to check himself. this was not julius shawe, to whom he could speak freely enough about the conditions of an actor's life in london. "well, then, the story is of a banished duke, a man of great wisdom and skill, and he is living on a desert island with his daughter--a right fair maiden she is, too, and she has no other companion in the world but himself." "but he is kind to her and good?" she said, quickly. "truly." "what other companion would she have, then? is she not content--ay, and right well pleased withal?" "methinks the story would lag with but these," her father said, with a smile. "would you not have her furnished with a lover--a young prince and a handsome--one that would play chess with her, and walk with her while her father was busy?" "but how on a desert island? how should she find such a one?" judith said, with her eyes all intent. "there, you see, is where the magic comes in. what if her father have at his command a sprite, a goblin, that can work all wonders--that can dazzle people in the dark, and control the storm, and whistle the young prince to the very feet of his mistress?" judith sighed, and glanced at the sheets lying on the table. "alas, good father, why did you aid me in my folly, and suffer me to grow up so ignorant?" "folly, fond wench!" said he, and he caught her by the shoulders and pushed her out of the summer-house. "thank god you have naught to do with any such stuff. there, go you and seek out prudence, and get you into the fields, and give those pink roses in your cheeks an airing. is't not a rare morning? and you would blear your eyes with books, silly wench? get you gone--into the meadows with you--and you may gather me a nosegay if your fingers would have work." "i must go in-doors, father; good master blaise is coming to dinner," said she; "but i will bring you the nosegay in the afternoon, so please you. so fare you well," she added; and she glanced at him, "and pray you, sir, be kind to the young prince." he laughed and turned away; and she hurried quickly into the house. in truth, all through that day she had plenty to occupy her attention; but whether it was the maids that were asking her questions, or her mother seeking her help, or good master walter paying authoritative court to her, her eyes were entirely distraught. for they saw before them a strange island, with magic surrounding it, and two young lovers, and a grave and elderly man regarding them; and she grew to wonder how much more of that story was shut up in the summer-house, and to lament her misfortune in that she could not go boldly to her father and ask him to be allowed to read it. she felt quite certain that could she but sit down within there and peruse these sheets for herself, he would not say her nay; and from that conclusion to the next--that on the first chances she would endeavor to borrow the sheets and have them read to her--was but an obvious step, and one that she had frequently taken before. moreover, on this occasion the chance came to her sooner than she could have expected. toward dusk in the evening her father went out, saying that he was going along to see how the harts were doing. matthew gardener was gone home; the parson had left hours before; and her mother was in the brew-house, and out of hearing. finally, to crown her good fortune, she discovered that the key had been left in the door of the summer-house; and so the next minute found her inside on her knees. it was a difficult task. there was scarcely any light, for she dare not leave the door open; and the mark that she put on the sheets, to know which she had carried to prudence, was minute. and yet the sheets seemed to have been tossed into this receptacle in fairly regular order; and when at length, and after much straining of her eyes, she had got down to the marked ones, she was rejoiced to find that there remained above these a large bulk of unperused matter, and the question was as to how much it would be prudent to carry off. further, she had to discover where there was some kind of division, so that the story should not abruptly break off; and she had acquired some experience in this direction. in the end, the portion of the play that she resolved upon taking with her was modest and small; there would be the less likelihood of detection; and it was just possible that she would have no opportunity of returning the sheets that night. and then she quickly got in-doors, and put on her hood and muffler, and slipped out into the dusk. she found prudence alone in the lower room, sitting sewing, the candles on the table being already lit; and some distance off, curled up and fast asleep on the floor, lay the little spaniel-gentle. "dear heart," said judith, brightly, as she glanced at the little dog, "you have shown good sense after all; i feared me you would fall away from my wise counsel." "my brother was well inclined to the little creature," prudence said, with some embarrassment. "and you had a right merry evening, i'll be bound," judith continued, blithely. "and was there singing?--nay, he can sing well when he is in the mood--none better. did he give you 'there is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow,' for julius is more light-hearted in such matters than you are, dear mouse. and was there any trencher business--and wine? i warrant me julius would not have his guest sit dry-throated. 'twas a merry evening, in good sooth, sweetheart?" "_they_ talked much together," prudence said, with her eyes cast down. "they talked? mercy on us, were you not civil to him? did you not thank him prettily for the little spaniel?" "in a measure i think 'twas julius took the little creature from him," prudence said, bashfully. "beshrew me now, but you know better!--'twas given to you, you know right well. a spaniel-gentle for your brother! as soon would he think of a farthingale and a petticoat! and what did he say? had he aught special to say to you, dear mouse?" "he would have me look at an ancient book he had, with strange devices on the leaves," prudence said. "truly 'twas strange and wonderful, the ornamentation of it in gold and colors, though i doubt me 'twas the work of monks and priests. he would have me take it from him," she added, with a faint blush. "and you would not, silly one?" judith exclaimed, angrily. "would you have me place such popish emblems alongside such a book as that that dr. hall gave me? dear judith, 'twould be a pollution and a sin!" "but you gave him thanks for the offer, then?" "of a surety; 'twas meant in friendship." "well, well; right glad am i to see the little beast lying there; and methinks your gentleness hath cast a spell o'er it already, sweetheart, or 'twould not rest so soundly. and now, dear mouse, i have come to tax your patience once more: see, here is part of the new play; and we must go to your chamber, dear prue, lest some one come in and discover us." prudence laughed in her quiet fashion. "i think 'tis you that casteth spells, judith, else i should not be aiding thee in this perilous matter." but she took one of the candles in her hand nevertheless, and led the way up-stairs; and then, when they had carefully bolted the door, judith placed the roll of sheets on the table, and prudence sat down to arrange and decipher them. "but this time," judith said, "have i less weight on my conscience; for my father hath already told me part of the story, and why should not i know the rest? nay, but it promises well, i do assure thee, sweetheart. 'tis a rare beginning: the desert island, and the sprite that can work wonders, and the poor banished duke and his daughter. ay, and there comes a handsome young prince, too; marry, you shall hear of marvels! for the sprite is one that can work magic at the bidding of the duke, and be seen like a fire in the dark, and can lead a storm whither he lists----" "'tis with a storm that it begins," prudence said, for now she had arranged the sheets. and instantly judith was all attention. it is true, she seemed to care little for the first scene and the squabbles between the sailors and the gentlemen; she was anxious to get to the enchanted island; and when at length prudence introduced prospero and miranda, judith listened as if a new world were being slowly opened before her. and yet not altogether with silence, for sometimes she would utter a few words of quick assent, or even explanation; but always so as not to interfere with the gentle-voiced reader. thus it would go: "then prospero says to her-- 'be collected: no more amazement: tell your piteous heart there's no harm done. _miranda._ oh, woe the day! _prospero._ no harm. i have done nothing but in care of thee, of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who art ignorant of what thou art, naught knowing of whence i am, nor that i am more better than prospero, master of a full poor cell, and thy no greater father. _miranda._ more to know did never meddle with my thoughts.'" "a right dutiful daughter!" judith would exclaim--but as apart. "a rare good wench, i warrant; and what a gentle father he is withal!" and then, when the banished duke had come to the end of his story, and when he had caused slumber to fall upon his daughter's eyes, and was about to summon ariel, judith interposed to give the patient reader a rest. "and what say you, prudence?" said she, eagerly. "is't not a beautiful story? is she not a sweet and obedient maiden, and he a right noble and gentle father? ah, there, now, they may talk about their masques and pageants of the court, and gods and goddesses dressed up to saw the air with long speeches: see you what my father can tell you in a few words, so that you can scarcely wait, but you must on to hear the rest. and do i hurry you, good prue? will you to it again? for now the spirit is summoned that is to work the magic." "indeed, 'tis no heavy labor, judith," her friend said, with a smile. "and now here is your ariel: 'all hail! great master! grave sir, hail! i come to answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding task ariel and all his quality!' then says prospero: 'hast thou, spirit, performed to point the tempest that i bade thee? _ariel._ to every article. i boarded the king's ship; now on the beak, now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, i flamed amazement; sometimes i'd divide, and burn in many places; on the topmast, the yards and bowsprit, would i flame distinctly, then meet and join. jove's lightnings, the precursors o' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary and sight-outrunning were not.... _prospero._ my brave spirit! who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason? _ariel._ not a soul but felt a fever of the mad, and played some tricks of desperation. all but mariners plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, then all afire with me: the king's son ferdinand----'" "the prince, sweetheart!--the prince that is to be brought ashore." "doubtless, judith, 'the king's son ferdinand, with hair up-staring--then like reeds, not hair-- was the first man that leaped: cried, "hell is empty, and all the devils are here." _prospero._ why, that's my spirit! but was not this nigh shore? _ariel._ close by, my master. _prospero._ but are they, ariel, safe? _ariel._ not a hair perished, on their sustaining garments not a blemish, but fresher than before; and, as thou badst me, the king's son have i landed by himself; whom i left cooling of the air with sighs in an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, his arms in this sad knot.'" "and hath he not done well, that clever imp!" judith cried. "nay, but my father shall reward him--that he shall--'twas bravely done and well. and now to bring him to the maiden that hath never seen a sweetheart--that comes next, good prue? i marvel now what she will say?" "'tis not yet, judith," her friend said, and she continued the reading, while judith sat and regarded the dusky shadows beyond the flame of the candle as if wonder-land were shining there. then they arrived at ariel's song, "come unto these yellow sands," and all the hushed air around seemed filled with music; but it was distant, somehow, so that it did not interfere with prudence's gentle voice. "then says prospero to her: 'the fringed curtains of thine eye advance, and say what thou seest yond. _miranda._ what is't? a spirit? lord, how it looks about! believe me, sir, it carries a brave form. but 'tis a spirit. _prospero._ no, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses as we have, such. this gallant which thou seest was in the wreck; and but he's something stained with grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him a goodly person. he hath lost his fellows, and strays about to find them. _miranda._ i might call him a thing divine, for nothing natural i ever saw so noble.'" "and what says he? what thinks he of her?" judith said, eagerly. "nay, first the father says--to himself, as it were 'it goes on, i see, as my soul prompts it. spirit, fine spirit! i'll free thee within two days, for this.' and then the prince says: 'most sure, the goddess on whom these airs attend! vouchsafe, my prayer may know, if you remain upon this island; and that you will some good instruction give, how i may bear me here; my prime request, which i do last pronounce, is, o you wonder! if you be maid or no? _miranda._ no wonder, sir, but certainly a maid. _ferdinand._ my language! heavens! i am the best of them that speak this speech, were i but where 'tis spoken.'" "but would he take her away?" said judith, quickly (but to herself, as it were). "nay, never so! they must remain on the island--the two happy lovers--with ariel to wait on them: surely my father will so make it?" then, as it appeared, came trouble to check the too swift anticipations of the prince, though judith guessed that the father of miranda was but feigning in his wrath; and when prudence finally came to the end of such sheets as had been brought her, and looked up, judith's eyes were full of confidence and pride--not only because she was sure that the story would end happily, but also because she would have her chosen gossip say something about what she had read. "well?" said she. "'tis a marvel," prudence said, with a kind of sigh, "that shapes of the air can so take hold of us." judith smiled; there was something in her manner that prudence did not understand. "and master jonson, good prue--that they call ben jonson--what of him?" "i know not what you mean, judith." "sure you know they make so much of him at the court, and of his long speeches about greece and rome and the like; and when one comes into the country with news of what is going forward, by my life you'd think that master jonson were the only writer in the land! what say you, good prue: could worthy master jonson invent you a scene like that?" "in truth i know not, judith; i never read aught of his writing." judith took over the sheets and carefully rolled them up. "why," said she, "'twas my father brought him forward, and had his first play taken in at the theatre!" "but your father and he are great friends, judith, as i am told; why should you speak against him?" "i speak against him?" said judith, as she rose, and there was an air of calm indifference on her face. "in truth, i have naught to say against the good man. 'tis well that the court ladies are pleased with demogorgons and such idle stuff, and 'tis passing well that he knows the trade. now give ye good-night and sweet dreams, sweet mouse; and good thanks, too, for the reading." but at the door below--prudence having followed her with the candle--she turned, and said, in a whisper: "now tell me true, good cousin: think you my father hath ever done better than this magic island, and the sweet miranda, and the rest?" "you know i am no judge of such matters, judith," her friend answered. "but, dear heart, were you not bewitched by it? were you not taken away thither? saw you not those strange things before your very eyes?" "in good sooth, then, judith," said the other, with a smile, "for the time being i knew not that i was in stratford town, nor in our own country of england either." judith laughed lightly and quickly, and with a kind of pride too. and when she got home to her own room, and once more regarded the roll of sheets, before bestowing them away in a secret place, there was a fine bravery of triumph in her eyes. "ben jonson!" she said, but no longer with any anger, rather with a sovereign contempt. and then she locked up the treasure in her small cupboard of boxes, and went down-stairs again to seek out her mother, her heart now quite recovered from its envy, and beating warm and equally in its disposition toward all mankind, and her mind full of a perfect and complacent confidence. "ben jonson!" she said. chapter xvi. by the river. the next morning she was unusually demure, and yet merry withal. in her own chamber, as she chose out a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, and laid on the bed her girdle of buff-colored leather, and proceeded to array herself in these and other braveries, it was to the usual accompaniment of thoughtless and quite inconsequent ballad-singing. at one moment it was "green-sleeves was all my joy," and again "fair, fair, and twice so fair," or perhaps-- "an ambling nag, and a-down, a-down, we have borne her away to dargison." but when she came to take forth from the cupboard of boxes the portion of the play she had locked up there the night before, and when she carefully placed that in a satchel of dark blue velvet that she had attached to the girdle, she was silent; and when she went down-stairs and encountered her mother, there was a kind of anxious innocence on her face. the good parson (she explained) had remained so late on the previous afternoon, and there were so many things about the house she had to attend to, that she had been unable to get out into the fields, as her father had bade her, to bring him home some wild flowers. besides, as every one knew, large dogs got weak in the hind-legs if they were kept chained up too continuously; and it was absolutely necessary she should take don roderigo out for a run with her through the meadows, if her father would permit. "there be plenty of flowers in the garden, surely," her mother said, who was busy with some leather hangings, and wanted help. "but he would liefer have some of the little wildlings, good mother," said judith. "that i know right well; for he is pleased to see them lying on the table before him; and sometimes, too, he puts the names of them in his writing." "how know you that?" was the immediate and sharp question. "as i have heard, good mother," judith said, with calm equanimity. and then she went to the small mirror to see that her gray velvet cap and starched ruff were all right. "what can your father want with wild flowers if he is to remain the whole day at warwick!" her mother said. "is my father gone to warwick?" she asked, quickly. "if he be not already set forth." she glanced at the window; there was neither horse nor serving-men waiting there. and then she hastily went out and through the back yard into the garden; and there, sure enough was her father, ready booted for the road, and giving a few parting directions to his bailiff. "well, wench," he said, when he had finished with the man, "what would you?" she had taken from her purse all the money she could find there. "good father," said she, "will you do this errand for me at warwick?" "more vanities?" said he. "i wonder you have no commissioner to despatch to spain and flanders. what is't, then?--a muff of satin--a gimmal ring----" "no, no, not so, father; i would have you buy for me a clasp-knife--as good a one as the money will get; and the cutler must engrave on the blade, or on the handle, i care not which, a message--an inscription, as it were; 'tis but three words--_for judith's sweetheart_. could you remember that, good father? is't too much of a trouble?" "how now?" said he. "for whom do you wish me to bring you such a token?" "nay, sir," said she, demurely, "would you have me name names? the gift of a sweetheart is a secret thing." "you are a mad wench," said he (though doubtless he guessed for whom the knife was intended), and he called to matthew gardener to go round and see if master shawe were not yet ready. "but now i bethink me, child, i have a message for thee. good master walter spoke to me yesternight about what much concerns him--and you." instantly all her gay self-confidence vanished; she became confused, anxious, timid; and she regarded him as if she feared what his look or manner might convey. "yes, sir," she said, in rather a low voice. "well, you know what the good man wishes," her father said, "and he spoke fairly, and reasoneth well. your mother, too, would be right well pleased." "and you, sir?" she said, rather faintly. "i?" said he. "nay, 'tis scarce a matter that i can say aught in. 'tis for yourself to decide, wench; but were you inclined to favor the young parson, i should be well pleased enough--indeed 'tis so--a good man and honest, as i take him to be, of fair attainment, and i know of none that bear him ill-will, or have aught to say against him. nay, if your heart be set that way, wench, i see no harm; you are getting on in years to be still in the unmarried state; and, as he himself says, there would be security in seeing you settled in a home of your own, and your future no longer open and undecided. nay, nay, i see no harm. he reasons well." "but, father, know you why he would have me become his wife?" judith said, with a wild feeling overcoming her that she was drowning and must needs throw out her hands for help. "'tis for no matter of affection that i can make out--or that he might not as well choose any other in the town; but 'tis that i should help him in his work, and--and labor in the vineyard, as he said. in truth i am all unfit for such a task--there be many another far better fitted than i; my mother must know that right well. there is little that i would not do to please her; but surely we might all of us have just as much of the good man's company without this further bond. but what say you, father? what is your wish?" she added, humbly. "perchance i could bring my mind to it if all were anxious that it should be so." "why, i have told thee, wench, thou must choose for thyself. 'twould please your mother right well, as i say; and as for the duties of a parson's wife--nay, nay, they are none so difficult. have no fears on that score, good lass; i dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." (the gratitude that sprang to her eyes, and shone there, in spite of her downcast face!) "nor must you think the good parson has but that end in view; 'tis not in keeping with his calling that he should talk the language of romance. and there is more for you to think of. even if master blaise be no vehement lover, as some of the young rattlepates might be, that is but a temporary thing; 'tis the long years of life that weigh for the most; and all through these you would be in an honorable station, well thought of, and respected. nay, there be many, i can tell thee, lass, that might look askance now at the player's daughter, who would be right glad to welcome the parson's wife." "what say you, father?" said she--and she was so startled that the blood forsook her lips for a moment. "that--that there be those--who scorn the player's daughter--and would favor the parson's wife?" and then she instantly added: "i pray you, sir, did not you say that i was to decide for myself?" "truly, child, truly," said he, somewhat wondering at her manner, for her face had grown quite pale. "then i have decided, father." "and how? what answer will you have for master walter?" she spoke slowly now, and with a distinctness that was almost harsh. "this, so please you, sir--that the player's daughter shall not, and shall never, become the parson's wife, god helping her!" "why, how now? what a coil is this!" he exclaimed. "good lass, 'twas not the parson that said aught of the kind. lay not that to his charge, in fair honesty." "i have decided," she said proudly and coldly. "father, the horses are brought round--i can hear them. you will not forget the knife, and the message on the blade?" he looked at her, and laughed, but in a kindly way; and he took her by the shoulder. "nay, now, wench, thou shalt not throw over the good man for a matter that was none of his bringing forward. and why should you wish to have less than the respect of all your neighbors, all and sundry, whatever be their views? in good sooth i meant to speak for the parson, and not to harm him; and when i have more time i must undo the ill that i have done him. so soften your heart, you proud one, and be thankful for the honor he would do you; and think over it; and be civil and grateful." "nay, i will be civil enough to the good minister," said she, with a return to her ordinary placid humor, "if he speak no more of making me his wife." "he will win you yet, for as stubborn as you are," her father said, with a smile. "he hath a rare gift of reason: do not say nay too soon, wench, lest you have to recall your words. fare you well, lass, fare you well." "and forget not the knife, good father. '_with judith's love_,' or '_for judith's sweetheart_,' or what you will." and then she added, daringly: "'tis for the young prince mamillius, if you must know, good sir." he was just going away; but this caused him to stop for a second; and he glanced at her with a curious kind of suspicion. but her eyes had become quite inscrutable. whatever of dark mischief was within them was not to be made out but by further questioning, and for that he had now no time. so she was left alone, mistress of the field, and rather inclined to laugh at her own temerity; until it occurred to her that now she could go leisurely forth for her stroll along the banks of the avon, taking the great dog with her. indeed, her anger was always short-lived. or perhaps it was the feeling that this danger was got rid of--that the decision was taken, and the parson finally and altogether left behind her--that now raised her spirits. at all events, as she went along the thoroughfare, and cheerfully greeted those that met her, the neighbors said 'twas little wonder that master william shakespeare's second daughter put off the choosing of a mate for herself, for that she seemed to grow younger and more winsome every day. and she knew all the children by name, and had a word for them--scolding or merry, as the case might be--when that she passed them by; and what with the clear sunlight of the morning, and the fresher atmosphere as she got out of the town, it seemed to herself as if all the air were filled with music. "then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny," she said or sung to herself; and she had not a trace of ill-will in her mind against the parson (although she did not fail to recollect that she was a player's daughter); and she was admonishing the don to take good care of her, for that phantom conspirators and such like evil creatures might be about. and so she got down to the river-side; but she did not cross; she kept along by the path that followed the windings of the stream, between the wide meadows and the luxurious vegetation that overhung the current. this english-looking landscape was at its fairest on this fair morning, for some heavy rain in the night had washed the atmosphere clear; everything seemed sharp and luminous; and the rows of trees along the summits of the distant and low-lying hills were almost black against the white and blue sky. nearer her all the foliage of the wide-branching elms was stirring and rustling before a soft westerly breeze; the flooded river was of a tawny brown; while its banks were a wilderness of wild flowers between the stems of the stunted willows--straggling rose-bushes of white and red, tall masses of goose-grass all powdered over with cream-white blossom, a patch of fragrant meadow-sweet here and there, or an occasional blood-red poppy burning among the dark, dull greens. and as for companions? well, she caught a glimpse of a brood of ducks sidling along by the reeds, and tried to follow them, but the bushes shut them out from her sight. a mare and her foal, standing under the cool shadow of the trees, gazed blankly at her as she passed. further off there were some shorn sheep in the meadows; but she could see no shepherd. the harsh note of the corn-crake sounded somewhere in the long grass; and the bees were busy; and now and again a blue-backed swallow would swoop by her and over the stream; while all around there was a smell of clover sweetening the westerly wind. at this moment, she convinced herself, she bore no ill-will at all against the good parson: only that she had it in her mind that she would be well content to remain a player's daughter. her condition, she imagined, was one that she did not desire to have bettered. why, the air that touched her cheek was like velvet; and there could be nothing in the world fairer than the pink and white roses bestarring the bushes there; and the very pulse of her blood seemed to beat to an unheard and rhythmical and subtle tune. what was it her father had said? "i dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." she laughed to herself, with a kind of pride. and she was so well content that she wished she had little willie hart here, that she might put her hand on his shoulder and pet him, and convey to him some little of that satisfaction that reigned within her own bosom. no matter; he should have the clasp-knife--"_with judith's love_;" and right proud he would be of that, she made sure. and so she went idly on her way, sometimes with "fair, fair, and twice so fair, and fair as any may be," coming uncalled for into her head; and always with an eye to the various wild flowers, to see what kind of a nosegay she would be able to gather on her homeward walk. but by and by her glances began to go further afield. master leofric hope, in his brief references to his own habits and condition at the farm, had incidentally remarked that of all his walks abroad he preferred the following of the path by the river-side; for there he was most secure from observation. nay, he said that sometimes, after continued solitude, a longing possessed him to see a town--to see a populated place filled with a fair number of his fellow-creatures--and that he would come within sight of stratford itself and have a look at the church, and the church spire, and the thin blue smoke rising over the houses. that, he said, was safer for him than coming over such an exposed thoroughfare as bardon hill; and then again, when he was of a mind to read--for this time he had brought one or two books with him--he could find many a sheltered nook by the side of the stream, where even a passer-by would not suspect his presence. nor could judith, on this fresh, warm, breezy morning, conceal from herself the true object of her coming forth. if she had tried to deceive herself, the contents of the blue velvet satchel would have borne crushing testimony against her. in truth she was now looking with some eagerness to find whether, on such a pleasant morning, it was possible that he could have remained within-doors, and with the very distinct belief that sooner or later she would encounter him. nor was she mistaken, though the manner of the meeting was unexpected. the mastiff happened to have gone on a yard or two in front of her, and she was paying but little attention to the beast, when all of a sudden it stopped, became rigid, and uttered a low growl. she sprang forward and seized it by the collar. at the same instant she caught sight of some one down by the water's edge, where, but for this occurrence, he would doubtless have escaped observation. it was leofric hope, without a doubt; for now he was clambering up through the bushes, and she saw that he had a small book in his hand. "my good fortune pursues me, fair mistress judith," said he (but with a watchful eye on the dog), "that i should so soon again have an opportunity of meeting with you. but perchance your protector is jealous? he likes not strangers?" "a lamb, sir--a very lamb!" judith said, and she patted the dog and coaxed him, and got him into a more friendly--or at least neutral and watchful--frame of mind. "i marvel not you have come forth on such a morning," said he, regarding the fresh color in her face. "'tis a rare morning; and 'tis a rare chance for one that is a prisoner, as it were, that his dungeon is not four walls, but the wide spaces of warwickshire. will you go further? may i attend you?" "nay, sir," said she, "i but came forth to look at the country, and see what blossoms i could carry back to my father; i will go as far as the stile there, and rest a few minutes, and return." "'tis like your kindness, sweet lady, to vouchsafe me a moment's conversation; a book is but a dull companion," said he, as they walked along to the stile that formed part of a boundary hedge. and when they reached it she seated herself on the wooden bar with much content, and the mastiff lay down, stretching out his paws, while the young gentleman stood idly--but not carelessly--by. he seemed more than ever anxious to interest his fair neighbor, and so to beguile her into remaining. "a dull companion," he repeated, "it is. one would rather hear the sound of one's voice occasionally. when i came along here this morning i should have been right glad even to have had a she shepherd say 'good morrow' to me----" "a what, good sir?" she asked. he laughed. "nay, 'tis a book the wits in london have much merriment over just now--a guide-book for the use of foreigners coming to this country--and there be plenty of them at present, in the train of the ambassadors. marry, the good man's english is none of the best. '_for to ask the way_' is a chapter of the book; and the one traveller saith to the other, '_ask of that she shepherd_'--in truth the phrase hath been caught up by the town. but the traveller is of a pleasant and courteous turn; when that he would go to bed, he saith to the chambermaid: 'draw the curtains, and pin them with a pin. my she friend, kiss me once, and i shall sleep the better. i thank you, fair maiden.' well, their english may be none of the best, but they have a royal way with them, some of those foreigners that come to our court. when the constable of castile was at the great banquet at whitehall--doubtless you heard of it, sweet mistress judith?--he rose and drank the health of the queen from a cup of agate of extraordinary value, all set with diamonds and rubies, and when the king had drank from the same cup the constable called a servant, and desired that the cup should be placed on his majesty's buffet, to remain there. was't not a royal gift? and so likewise he drank the health of the king from a beautiful dragon-shaped cup of crystal all garnished with gold; but he drank from the cover only, for the queen, standing up, drank the pledge from the cup itself; and then he would have that in turn transferred to her buffet, as he had given the other one to the king." "my father," said she, with much complacent good-nature--for she had got into the way of talking to this young gentleman with a marvellous absence of restraint or country shyness, "hath a tankard of great age and value, and on the silver top of it is a tribute engraved from many of his friends--truly i would that you could come and see it, good sir--and--and--my father, too, he would make you welcome, i doubt not. and what book is it," she continued, with a smile, "that you have for companion, seeing that there be no she shepherd for you to converse withal?" "'tis but a dull affair," said he, scarce looking at it, for judith's eyes were more attractive reading. "and yet if the book itself be dull, there is that within its boards that is less so. perchance you have not heard of one master browne, a young devonshire gentleman, that hath but late come to london, and that only for a space, as i reckon?" "no, sir," she said hesitatingly. "the young man hath made some stir with his poems," he continued, "though there be none of them in the booksellers' hands as yet. and as it hath been my good fortune to see one or two of them--marry, i am no judge, but i would call them excellent, and of much modesty and grace--i took occasion to pencil down a few of the lines inside the cover of this little book. may i read them to you mistress judith?" "if it please you, good sir." he opened the book, and she saw that there were some lines pencilled on the gray binding; but they must have been familiar to him, for he scarce took his eyes from judith's face as he repeated them. "they are a description," said he, "of one that must have been fair indeed: 'her cheeks, the wonder of what eye beheld, begot betwixt a lily and a rose, in gentle rising plains divinely swelled, where all the graces and the loves repose, nature in this piece all her works excelled, yet showed herself imperfect in the close, for she forgot (when she so fair did raise her) to give the world a wit might duly praise her. 'when that she spoke, as at a voice from heaven, on her sweet words all ears and hearts attended; when that she sung, they thought the planets seven by her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended; when she did sigh, all were of joy bereaven; and when she smiled, heaven had them all befriended: if that her voice, sighs, smiles, so many thrilled, oh, had she kissed, how many had she killed!'" "'tis a description of a lady of the court?" judith asked timidly. "no, by heavens," he said, with warmth; "the bonniest of our english roses are they that grow in the country air!" and his glance of admiration was so open and undisguised, and the application of his words so obvious, that her eyes fell, and in spite of herself the color mounted to her cheeks. in her embarrassment she sought safety in the blue velvet satchel. she had contemplated some other way of introducing this latest writing of her father's; but now that had all fled from her brain. she knew that the town gentlemen were given to flattery; but then she was not accustomed to it. and she could not but swiftly surmise that he had written down these lines with the especial object of addressing them to her when he should have the chance. "good sir," said she, endeavoring to hide this brief embarrassment by assuming a merry air, "a fair exchange, they say, is no robbery. methinks you will find something here that will outweigh good master browne's verses--in bulk, if not in merit." he gazed in astonishment at the parcel of sheets she handed to him, and he but glanced at the first page when he exclaimed. "why, i have heard naught of this before." "nay, sir," said she, with a calm smile, "the infant is but young--but a few weeks, as i take it; it hath had but little chance of making a noise in the world as yet. will you say what you think of it?" but now he was busy reading. then by and by she recollected something of the manner in which she had meant to introduce the play. "you see, sir, my father hath many affairs on his hands; 'tis not all his time he can give to such things. and yet i have heard that they be well spoken of in london--if not by the wits, perchance, or by the court ladies, at least by the common people and the 'prentices. we in these parts have but little skill of learning; but--but methinks 'tis a pretty story--is it not, good sir?--and perchance as interesting as a speech from a goddess among the clouds?" "in truth it is a rare invention," said he, but absently, for his whole and rapt attention was fixed on the sheets. she, seeing him so absorbed, did not interfere further. she sat still and content--perhaps with a certain sedate triumph in her eyes. she listened to the rustling of the elms overhead, and watched the white clouds slowly crossing the blue, and the tawny-hued river lazily and noiselessly stealing by below the bushes. the corn-crake was silent now--there was not even that interruption; and when the bell in the church tower began to toll, it was so soft and faint and distant that she thought it most likely he would not even hear it. and at what point was he now? at the story of how the sweet miranda came to grow up in exile? or listening to ariel's song? or watching the prince approach this new wonder of the magic island? her eyes were full of triumph. "ben jonson!" she had said. but suddenly he closed the sheets together. "it were unmannerly so to keep you waiting," said he. "nay, heed not that, good sir," she said instantly. "i pray you go on with the reading. how like you it? 'tis a pretty story, methinks; but my father hath been so busy of late--what with acres, and tithes, and sheep, and malt and the like--that perchance he hath not given all his mind to it." "it is not for one such as i, fair mistress judith," said he, with much modesty, "to play the critic when it is your father's writing that comes forward. beshrew me, there be plenty of that trade in london, and chiefly the feeble folk that he hath driven from our stage. no, sweet lady; rather consider me one of those that crowd to see each new piece of his, and are right thankful for aught he pleaseth to give us." "is that so?" said she; and she regarded him with much favor, which he was not slow to perceive. "why," said he, boldly, "what needs your father to heed if some worshipful master scoloker be of opinion that the play of the prince hamlet belongeth to the vulgar sort, and that the prince was but moon-sick; or that some one like master greene--god rest his soul, wherever it be!--should call him an upstart crow, and a johannes factotum, and the like? 'tis what the people of england think that is of import; and right sure am i what they would say--that there is no greater writer than your father now living in the land." "ah, think you so?" she said, quickly, and her face grew radiant, as it were, and her eyes were filled with gratitude. "this master greene," he continued, "was ever jibing at the players, as i have heard, and bidding them be more humble, for that their labor was but mechanical, and them attracting notice through wearing borrowed plumes. nay, he would have it that your father was no more than that--poor man, he lived but a sorry life, and 'twere ill done to cherish anger against him; but i remember to have seen the apology that he that published the book made thereafter to your father--in good truth it was fitting and right that it should be printed and given to the world; and though i forget the terms of it, 'twas in fair praise of master william shakespeare's gentle demeanor, and his uprightness of conduct, and the grace of his wit." "could you get that for me, good sir?" said she, eagerly. "is't possible that i could get it?" and then she stopped in some embarrassment, for she remembered that it was not becoming she should ask this stranger for a gift. "nay, sir, 'twould be of little use to me, that have no skill of reading." "but i pray you, sweet mistress judith, to permit me to bring you the book; 'twill be something, at least, for you to keep and show to your friends----" "if i might show it to prudence shawe, i could return it to you, good sir," said she. and then she added, "not that she--no, nor any one in stratford town--would need any such testimony to my father's qualities, that are known to all." "at least they seem to have won him the love and loyalty of his daughter," said he, gallantly; "and they know most about a man who live nearest him. nay, but i will beg you to accept the book from me when i can with safety get to london again; 'twill be a charge i am not likely to forget. and in return, fair mistress judith, i would take of you another favor and a greater." "in what manner, gentle sir?" "i have but glanced over this writing, for fear of detaining you, and but half know the value of it," said he. "i pray you let me have it with me to my lodging for an hour or two, that i may do it justice. when one hath such a chance come to him, 'tis not to be lightly treated, and i would give time and quiet to the making out the beauties of your father's latest work." she was at first somewhat startled by this proposal, and almost involuntarily was for putting forth her hand to receive the sheets again into safe-keeping; but then she asked herself what harm there could be in acceding to his request. she was eagerly anxious that he should understand how her father--even amidst those multifarious occupations that were entailed on him by his prominent position in the town--could, when he chose, sit down and write a tale far exceeding in beauty and interest any of the mummeries that the court people seemed to talk about. why should not he have a few hours' time to study this fragment withal? her father had gone to warwick for the day. nay, more, she had taken so small a portion of what had been cast aside that she knew the absence of it would not be noticed, however long it might be kept. and then this young gentleman, who was so civil and courteous, and who spoke so well of her father, was alone, and to be pitied for that he had so few means of beguiling the tedium of his hiding. "in the afternoon," said he, seeing that she hesitated, "i could with safety leave it at your grandmother's cottage, and then, perchance, you might send some one for it. nay, believe me, sweet mistress judith, i know the value of that i ask; but i would fain do justice to such a treasure." "you would not fail me, sir, in leaving it at the cottage?" said she. "you do me wrong, mistress judith, to doubt--in good sooth you do. if you can find a trusty messenger----" "nay, but i will come for it myself, good sir, and explain to my grandmother the nature of the thing, lest she suspect me of meddling with darker plots. let it be so, then, good sir, for now i must get me back to the town. i pray you forget not to leave the package; and so--farewell!" "but my thanks to you, dear lady----" "nay, sir," said she, with a bright look of her eyes "bethink you you have not yet fairly made out the matter. tarry till you have seen whether these sheets be worth the trouble--whether they remind you in aught of the work of your friend master jonson--and then your thanks will be welcome. give ye good-day, gentle sir." there was no thought in her mind that she had done anything imprudent in trusting him with this portion of the play for the matter of an hour or two; it was but a small equivalent, she recollected, for his promise to bring her from london the retractation or apology of one of those who had railed at her father, or abetted in that, and found himself constrained by his conscience to make amends. and now it occurred to her that it would look ill if, having come out to gather some wild flowers for the little table in the summer-house, she returned with empty hands; so, as she proceeded to walk leisurely along the winding path leading back to the town, she kept picking here and there such blossoms as came within her reach. if the nosegay promised to be somewhat large and straggling, at least it would be sweet-scented, and she felt pretty sure that her father would be well content with it. at first she was silent, however; her wonted singing was abandoned; perchance she was trying to recall something of the lines that master leofric hope had repeated to her with so marked an emphasis. "and what said he of our english roses?" she asked herself, with some faint color coming into her face at the mere thought of it. but then she forcibly dismissed these recollections, feeling that that was due to her own modesty, and busied herself with her blossoms and sprays; and presently, as she set out in good earnest for the town, she strove to convince herself that there was nothing more serious in her brain than the tune of "green-sleeves:" "green-sleeves, now farewell, adieu; god i pray to prosper thee; for i am still thy lover true-- come once again and love me!" chapter xvii. wild words. her light-heartedness did not last long. in the wide clear landscape a human figure suddenly appeared, and the briefest turn of her head showed her that tom quiney was rapidly coming toward her across the fields. for a second her heart stood still. had he been riding home from ludington? or from bidford? was it possible that he had come over bardon hill, and from that height espied the two down by the river? she could not even tell whether that was possible, or what he had done with his horse, or why he had not interfered sooner, if he was bent on interfering. but she had an alarmed impression that this rapid approach of his boded trouble, and she had not long to wait before that fear was confirmed. "judith, who is that man?" he demanded, with a fury that was but half held in. she turned and faced him. "i knew not," she said, coldly and slowly, "that we were on a speaking platform." "'tis no time to bandy words," said he; and his face was pale, for he was evidently striving to control the passion with which his whole figure seemed to quiver from head to heel. "who is that man? i ask. who is he, that you come here to seek him, and alone?" "i know not by what right you put such questions to me," she said; but she was somewhat frightened. "by what right? and you have no regard, then, for your good name?" there was a flash in her eyes. she had been afraid; she was no longer afraid. "my good name?" she repeated. "i thank god 'tis in none of your keeping!" in his madness he caught her by the wrist. "you shall tell me----" "unhand me, sir!" she exclaimed; and she threw off his grasp, while her cheeks burned with humiliation. "nay, i quarrel not with women," said he. "i crave your pardon. but, by god, i will get to know that man's name and purpose here if i rive it from his body!" so he strode off in the direction that leofric hope had taken; and for a moment she stood quite terror-stricken and helpless, scarcely daring to think of what might happen. a murder on this fair morning? this young fellow, that was quite beside himself in his passion of jealous anger, was famed throughout the length and breadth of warwickshire for his wrestling prowess. and the other--would he brook high words? these things flashed across her mind in one bewildering instant; and in her alarm she forgot all about her pride. she called to him, "i pray you--stay!" he turned and regarded her. "stay," said she, with her face afire. "i--i will tell you what i know of him--if you will have it so." he approached her with seeming reluctance, and with anger and suspicion in his lowering look. he was silent, too. "indeed, there is no harm," said she (and still with her face showing her mortification that she was thus forced to defend herself). "'tis a young gentleman that is in some trouble--his lodging near bidford is also a hiding, as it were--and--and i know but little of him beyond his name, and that he is familiar with many of my father's friends in london." "and how comes it that you seek him out here alone?" said he. "that is a becoming and maidenly thing!" "i promised you i would tell you what i know of the young gentleman," said she, with scornful lips. "i did not promise to stand still and suffer your insolence." "insolence!" he exclaimed, as if her audacity bewildered him. "how know you that i sought him out?" she said, indignantly. "may not one walk forth of a summer morning without being followed by suspicious eyes--i warrant me, eyes that are only too glad to suspect! to think evil is an easy thing, it seems, with many; i wonder, sir, you are not ashamed." "you brave it out well," said he, sullenly; but it was evident that her courage had impressed him, if it still left him angered and suspicious. and then he asked: "how comes it that none of your friends or your family know aught of this stranger?" "i marvel you should speak of my family," she retorted. "i had thought you were inclined to remain in ignorance of them of late. but had you asked of prudence shawe she might have told you something of this young gentleman; or had you thought fit to call in at my grandmother's cottage, you might perchance have found him seated there, and a welcome guest at her board. marry, 'tis easier far to keep aloof and to think evil, as one may see." and then she added: "well, sir, are you satisfied? may i go home without farther threats?" "i threatened you not, judith," said he, rather more humbly. "i would have my threats kept for those that would harm you." "i know of none such," she said, distinctly. "and as for this young gentleman--that is in misfortune--such as might happen to any one--and not only in hiding, but having intrusted his secret to one or two of us that pity him and see no harm in him--i say it were a cruel and unmanly thing to spy out his concealment, or to spread the rumor of his being in the neighborhood." "nay, you need not fear that of me, judith," said he. "man to man is my way, when there is occasion. but can you marvel if i would have you for your own sake avoid any farther meetings with this stranger? if he be in hiding, let him remain there, in god's name; i for one will set no beagles to hunt him out. but as for you, i would have you meddle with no such dangerous traps." "good sir," said she, "i have my conduct in my own keeping, and can answer to those that have the guardianship of me." he did not reply to this rebuke. he said: "may i walk back to the town with you, judith?" "you forget," she said, coldly, "that if we were seen together the gossips might say i had come out hither to seek you, and alone." but he paid no heed to this taunt. "i care not," said he, with an affectation of indifference, "what the gossips in stratford have to talk over. stratford and i are soon to part." "what say you?" said she, quickly--and they were walking on together now, the don leisurely following at their heels. "nay, 'tis nothing," said he, carelessly; "there are wider lands beyond the seas, where a man can fight for his own and hold it." "and you?" she said. "you have it in your mind to leave the country?" "marry, that have i!" said he, gayly. "my good friend daniel hutt hath gotten together a rare regiment, and i doubt not i shall be one of the captains of them ere many years be over." her eyes were downcast, and he could not see what impression this piece of news had made upon her--if, indeed, he cared to look. they walked for some time in silence. "it is no light matter," said she at length, and in rather a low voice, "to leave one's native land." "as for that," said he, "the land will soon be not worth the living in. why, in former times, men spoke of the merry world of england. a merry world? i trow the canting rogues of preachers have left but little merriment in it; and now they would seek to have all in their power, and to flood the land with their whining and psalm-singing, till we shall have no england left us, but only a vast conventicle. think you that your father hath any sympathy with these? i tell you no; i take it he is an englishman, and not a conventicle-man. 'tis no longer the england of our forefathers when men may neither hawk nor hunt, and women are doomed to perdition for worshipping the false idol starch, and the very children be called in from their games of a sunday afternoon. god-a-mercy, i have had enough of brother patience-in-suffering, and his dominion of grace!" this seemed to judith a strange reason for his going away, for he had never professed any strong bias one way or the other in these religious dissensions; his chief concern, like that of most of the young men in stratford, lying rather in the direction of butt-shooting, or wrestling, or having a romp with some of the wenches to the tune of "packington's pound." "nay, as i hear," said he, "there be some of them in such discontent with the king and the parliament that they even talk of transplanting themselves beyond seas, like those that went to holland: 'twere a goodly riddance if the whole gang of the sour-faced hypocrites went, and left to us our own england. and a fair beginning for the new country across the atlantic--half of them these puritanical rogues, with their fastings and preachments; and the other half the constable's brats and broken men that such as hutt are drifting out: a right good beginning, if they but keep from seizing each other by the throat in the end! no matter: we should have our england purged of the double scum!" "but," said judith, timidly, "methought you said you were going out with these same desperate men?" "i can take my life in my hand as well as another," said he gloomily. and then he added: "they be none so desperate, after all. broken men there may be amongst them, and many against whom fortune would seem to have a spite; perchance their affairs may mend in the new country." "but your affairs are prosperous," judith said--though she never once regarded him. "why should you link yourself with such men as these?" "one must forth to see the world," said he; and he went on to speak in a gay and reckless fashion of the life that lay before him, and of its possible adventures and hazards and prizes. "and what," said he, "if one were to have good fortune in that far country, and become rich in land, and have good store of corn and fields of tobacco; what if one were to come back in twenty years' time to this same town of stratford, and set up for the trade of gentleman?" "twenty years?" said she, rather breathlessly. "'tis a long time; you will find changes." "none that would matter much, methinks," said he, indifferently. "there be those that will be sorry for your going away," she ventured to say--and she forced herself to think only of prudence shawe. "not one that will care a cracked three-farthings!" was the answer. "you do ill to say so--indeed you do!" said she, with just a touch of warmth in her tone. "you have many friends; you serve them ill to say they would not heed your going." "friends?" said he. "yes, they will miss me at the shovel-board, or when there is one short at the catches." "there be others than those," said she with some little hesitation. "who, then?" said he. "you should know yourself," she answered. "think you that prudence, for one, will be careless as to your leaving the country?" "prudence?" said he, and he darted a quick glance at her. "nay, i confess me wrong, then; for there is one that hath a gentle heart, and is full of kindness." "right well i know that--for who should know better than i?" said judith. "as true a heart as any in christendom, and a prize for him that wins it, i warrant you. if it be not won already," she added, quickly. "as to that, i know not." they were now nearing the town--they could hear the dull sound of the mill, and before them was the church spire among the trees, and beyond that the gray and red huddled mass of houses, barns, and orchards. "and when think you of going?" she said, after a while. "i know not, and i care not," said he, absently. "when i spoke of my acquaintances being indifferent as to what might befall me, i did them wrong, for in truth there be none of them as indifferent as i am myself." "'tis not a hopeful mood," said she, "to begin the making of one's fortunes in a new country withal. i pray you, what ails this town of stratford, that you are not content?" "it boots not to say, since i am leaving it," he answered. "perchance in times to come, when i am able to return to it, i shall be better content. and you?" "and i?" she repeated, with some surprise. "nay, you will be content enough," said he, somewhat bitterly. "mother church will have a care of you. you will be in the fold by then. the faithful shepherd will have a charge over you, to keep you from communication with the children of anger and the devil, that rage without like lions seeking to destroy." "i know not what you mean," said she, with a hot face. "right well you know," said he, coolly; but there was an angry resentment running through his affected disdain as he went on: "there be those that protest, and go forth from the church. and there be those that protest, and remain within, eating the fat things, and well content with the milk and the honey, and their stores of corn and oil. marry, you will be well provided for--the riches of the next world laid up in waiting for you, and a goodly share of the things of this world to beguile the time withal. nay, i marvel not; 'tis the wisdom of the serpent along with the innocence of the dove. what matters the surplice, the cross in baptism, and the other relics of popery, if conformity will keep the larder full? better that than starvation in holland, or seeking a home beyond the atlantic, where, belike, the children of the devil might prove overrude companions. i marvel not, i; 'tis a foolish bird that forsakes a warm nest." and now she well knew against whom his bitter speech was levelled; and some recollection of the slight he had put upon her in the church-yard came into her mind, with the memory that it had never been atoned for. and she was astounded that he had the audacity to walk with her now and here, talking as if he were the injured one. the sudden qualm that had filled her heart when he spoke of leaving the country was put aside; the kindly reference to prudence was forgotten; she only knew that this sarcasm of his was very much out of place, and that this was far from being the tone in which he had any right to address her. "i know not," said she, stiffly, "what quarrel you may have with this or that section of the church; but it concerns me not. i pray you attack those who are better able to defend themselves than i am, or care to be. methinks your studies in that line have come somewhat late." "'tis no greater marvel," said he, "than that you should have joined yourself to the assembly of the saints; it was not always so with you." "i?" she said; but her cheeks were burning; for well she knew that he referred to his having seen her with the parson on that sunday morning, and she was far too proud to defend herself. "heaven help me now, but i thought i was mistress of my own actions!" "in truth you are, mistress judith," said he, humbly (and this was the first time that he had ever addressed her so, and it startled her, for it seemed to suggest a final separation between them--something as wide and irrevocable as that twenty years of absence beyond the seas). and then he said, "i crave your pardon if i have said aught to offend you; and would take my leave." "god be wi' you," said she, civilly; and then he left, striking across the meadows toward the bidford road, and, as she guessed, probably going to seek his horse from whomsoever he had left it with. and as she went on, and into the town, she was wondering what prudence had said to him that should so suddenly drive him to think of quitting the country. all had seemed going well. as for master leofric hope, his secret was safe; this late companion of hers seemed to have forgotten him altogether in his anger against the good parson. and then she grew to think of the far land across the ocean, that she had heard vaguely of from time to time; to think how twenty years could be spent there: and what stratford would be like when that long space was over. "twenty years," she said to herself, with a kind of sigh. "there are many things will be settled, ere that time be passed, for good or ill." chapter xviii. a conjecture. when she got back to new place she found the house in considerable commotion. it appeared that the famous divine, master elihu izod, had just come into the town, being on his way toward leicestershire, and that he had been brought by the gentleman whose guest he was to pay a visit to judith's mother. judith had remarked ere now that the preachers and other godly persons who thus honored the new place generally made their appearance a trifling time before the hour of dinner; and now, as she reached the house, she was not surprised to find that prudence had been called in to entertain the two visitors--who were at present in the garden--while within doors her mother and the maids were hastily making such preparations as were possible. to this latter work she quickly lent a helping hand; and in due course of time the board was spread with a copious and substantial repast, not forgetting an ample supply of wine and ale for those that were that way inclined. then the two gentlemen were called in, prudence was easily persuaded to stay, and, after a lengthened grace, the good preacher fell to, seasoning his food with much pious conversation. at such times judith had abundant opportunities for reverie, and for a general review of the situation of her own affairs. in fact, on this occasion she seemed in a manner to be debarred from participation in these informal services at the very outset. master izod, who was a tall, thin, dark, melancholy-visaged man--unlike his companion, godfrey buller, of the leas, near to hinckley, who, on the contrary, was a stout, yeoman-like person, whose small gray absent eyes remained motionless and vacant in the great breadth of his rubicund face--had taken for his text, as it were, a list he had found somewhere or other of those characters that were entitled to command the admiration and respect of all good people. these were: a young saint; an old martyr; a religious soldier; a conscionable statesman; a great man courteous; a learned man humble; a silent woman; a merry companion without vanity; a friend not changed with honor; a sick man cheerful; a soul departing with comfort and assurance. and as judith did not make bold to claim to be any one of these--nor, indeed, to have any such merits or excellences as would extort the approval of the membership of the saints--she gradually fell away from listening; and her mind was busy with other things; and her imagination, which was vivid enough, intent upon other scenes. one thing that had struck her the moment she had returned was that prudence seemed in an unusually cheerful mood. of course the arrival of two visitors was an event in that quiet life of theirs; and no doubt prudence was glad to be appointed to entertain the strangers--one of them, moreover, being of such great fame. but so pleased was she, and so cheerful in her manner, that judith was straightway convinced there had been no quarrel between her and tom quiney. nay, when was there time for that? he could scarcely have seen her that morning; while the night before there had certainly been no mention of his projected migration to america, else prudence would have said as much. what, then, had so suddenly driven him to the conclusion that england was no longer a land fit to live in? and why had he paid prudence such marked attention--why had he presented her with the spaniel-gentle and offered her the emblazoned missal--one evening, only to resolve the next morning that he must needs leave the country? nay, why had he so unexpectedly broken the scornful silence with which he had recently treated herself? he had given her to understand that, as far as he was concerned, she did not exist. he seemed determined to ignore her presence. and yet she could not but remember that, if this contemptuous silence on his part was broken by the amazement of his seeing her in the company of a stranger, his suspicions in that direction were very speedily disarmed. a few words and they fled. it was his far more deadly jealousy of the parson that remained; and was like to remain, for she certainly would not stoop to explain that the meeting in the church-yard was quite accidental. but why should he trouble his head about either her or the parson? had he not betaken himself elsewhere--and that with her right good-will? nay, on his own confession he had discovered how kind and gentle prudence was: there was a fit mate for him--one to temper the wildness and hot-headedness of his youth. judith had never seen the sea, and therefore had never seen moonlight on the sea; but the nearest to that she could go, in thinking of what prudence's nature was like, in its restful and sweet and serious beauty, was the moonlight she had seen on the river avon in the calm of a summer's night, the water unbroken by a ripple, and not a whisper among the reeds. could he not perceive that too, and understand? as for herself, she knew that she could at any moment cut the knot of any complications that might arise by allowing master walter to talk her over into marrying him. her father had assured her that the clear-headed and energetic young parson was quite equal to that. well, it was about time she should abandon the frivolities and coquetries of her youth; and her yielding would please many good people, especially her mother and sister, and obtain for herself a secure and established position, with an end to all these quarrels and jealousies and uncertainties. moreover, there would be safety there. for, if the truth must be told, she was becoming vaguely and uncomfortably conscious that her relations with this young gentleman who had come secretly into the neighborhood were no longer what they had been at first. their friendship had ripened rapidly; for he was an audacious personage, with plenty of self-assurance; and with all his professions of modesty and deference, he seemed to know very well that he could make his society agreeable. then those lines he had repeated: why, her face grew warm now as she thought of them. she could not remember them exactly, but she remembered their purport; and she remembered, too, the emphasis with which he had declared that the bonniest of our english roses were those that grew in the country air. now a young man cut off from his fellows as he was might well be grateful for some little solace of companionship, or for this or the other little bit of courtesy; but he need not (she considered) show his gratitude just in that way. doubtless his flattery might mean little; the town gentlemen, she understood, talked in that strain; and perhaps it was only by an accident that the verses were there in the book; but still she had the uneasy feeling that there was something in his manner and speech that, if encouraged, or suffered to continue without check, might lead to embarrassment. that is to say, if she continued to see him; and there was no need for that. she could cut short this acquaintance the moment she chose. but on the one hand she did not wish to appear uncivil; and on the other she was anxious that he should see the whole of this play that her father had written--thrown off, as it were, amid the various cares and duties that occupied his time. if master leofric hope talked of ben jonson when he came into the country, she would have him furnished with something to say of her father when he returned to town. these were idle and wandering thoughts; and in one respect they were not quite honest. in reality she was using them to cloak and hide, or to drive from her mind altogether, a suspicion that had suddenly occurred to her that morning, and that had set her brain afire in a wild way. it was not only the tune of "green-sleeves" that was in her head as she set off to walk home, though she was trying to force herself to believe that. the fact is this: when master leofric hope made the pretty speech about the country roses, he accompanied it, as has been said, by a glance of only too outspoken admiration; and there was something in this look--apart from the mere flattery of it--that puzzled her. she was confused, doubtless; but in her confusion it occurred to her that she had met that regard somewhere before. she had no time to pursue this fancy further; for in order to cover her embarrassment she had betaken herself to the sheets in her satchel; and thereafter she was so anxious that he should think well of the play that all her attention was fixed on that. but after leaving him, and having had a minute or two to think over what had happened, she recalled that look, and wondered why there should be something strange in it. and then a startling fancy flashed across her mind--the wizard! was not that the same look--of the same black eyes--that she had encountered up at the corner of the field above the weir brake?--a glance of wondering admiration, as it were? and if these two were one and the same man? of course that train, being lit, ran rapidly enough: there were all kinds of parallels--in the elaborate courtesy, in the suave voice, in the bold and eloquent eyes. and she had no magical theory to account for the transformation--it did not even occur to her that the wizard could have changed himself into a young man--there was no dismay or panic in that direction; she instantly took it for granted that it was the young man who had been personating the wizard. and why?--to what end, if this bewildering possibility were to be regarded for an instant? the sole object of the wizard's coming was to point out to her her future husband. and if this young man were himself the wizard? a trick to entrap her? ariel himself could not have flashed from place to place more swiftly than this wild conjecture; but the next moment she had collected herself. her common-sense triumphed. she bethought her of the young man she had just left--of his respectful manners--of the letter he had brought for her father--of the circumstances of his hiding. it was not possible that he had come into the neighborhood for the deliberate purpose of making a jest of her. did he look like one that would play such a trick; that would name himself as her future husband; that would cozen her into meeting him? she felt ashamed of herself for harboring such a thought for a single instant. her wits had gone wool-gathering! or was it that prudence's fears had so far got hold of her brain that she could not regard the young man but as something other than an ordinary mortal? in fair justice, she would dismiss this absurd surmise from her mind forthwith; and so she proceeded with her gathering of the flowers; and when she did set forth for home, she had very nearly convinced herself that there was nothing in her head but the tune of "green-sleeves." nay, she was almost inclined to be angry with prudence for teaching her to be so suspicious. nevertheless, during this protracted dinner, while good master izod was enlarging upon the catalogue of persons worthy of honor and emulation, judith was attacked once more by the whisperings of the demon. for awhile she fought against these, and would not admit to herself that any further doubt remained in her mind; but when at last, she found herself, despite herself, going back and back to that possibility, she took heart of grace and boldly faced it. what if it were true? supposing him to have adopted the disguise, and passed himself off as a wizard, and directed her to the spot where she should meet her future husband--what then? what ought she to do? how ought she to regard such conduct? as an idle frolic of youth? or the device of one tired of the loneliness of living at the farm, and determined at all hazards to secure companionship? or a darker snare still--with what ultimate aims she could not divine? or again (for she was quite frank), if this were merely some one who had seen her from afar, at church, or fair, or market, and considered she was a good-looking maid, and wished to have further acquaintance, and could think of no other method than this audacious prank? she had heard of lovers' stratagems in plenty; she knew of one or two of such that had been resorted to in this same quiet town of stratford. and supposing that this last was the case, ought she to be indignant? should she resent his boldness in hazarding such a stroke to win her? and then, when it suddenly occurred to her that, in discussing this possibility, she was calmly assuming that master leofric hope was in love with her--he never having said a word in that direction, and being in a manner almost a stranger to her--she told herself that no audacity on his part could be greater than this on hers; and that the best thing she could do would be to get rid once and forever of such unmaidenly conjectures. no; she would go back to her original position. the facts of the case were simple enough. he would have brought no letter to her father had he been bent on any such fantastic enterprise. was it likely he would suffer the thraldom of that farm-house, and live away from his friends and companions, for the mere chance of a few minutes' occasional talk with a stratford wench? as for the similarity between his look and that of the wizard, the explanation lay no doubt in her own fancy, which had been excited by prudence's superstitious fears. and if in his courtesy he had applied to herself the lines written by the young devonshire poet--well, that was but a piece of civility and kindness, for which she ought to be more than usually grateful, seeing that she had not experienced too much of that species of treatment of late from one or two of her would-be suitors. she was awakened from these dreams by the conversation suddenly ceasing; and in its place she heard the more solemn tones of the thanksgiving offered up by master izod: "the god of glory and peace, who hath created, redeemed, and presently fed us, be blessed forever and ever. so be it. the god of all power, who hath called from death that great pastor of the sheep, our lord jesus, comfort and defend the flock which he hath redeemed by the blood of the eternal testament; increase the number of true preachers; repress the rage of obstinate tyrants; mitigate and lighten the hearts of the ignorant; relieve the pains of such as be afflicted, but specially of those that suffer for the testimony of thy truth; and finally, confound satan by the power of our lord jesus christ. amen." and then, as the travellers were continuing their journey forthwith, they proposed to leave; and master buller expressed his sorrow that judith's father had not been at home to have made the friendship of a man so famous as master izod; and the good parson, in his turn, as they departed, solemnly blessed the house and all that dwelt therein, whether present or absent. as soon as they were gone, judith besought her mother for the key of the summer-house, for she wished to lay on her father's table the wild flowers she had brought; and having obtained it, she carried prudence with her into the garden, and there they found themselves alone, for goodman matthew had gone home for his dinner. "dear mouse," said she, quickly, "what is it hath happened to tom quiney?" "i know not, judith," the other said, in some surprise. "it is in his mind to leave the country." "i knew not that." "i dare be sworn you did not, sweetheart," said she, "else surely you would have told me. but why? what drives him to such a thing? his business prospers well, as i hear them say; and yet must he forsake it for the company of those desperate men that are going away to fight the indians beyond seas. nothing will content him. england is no longer england; stratford is no longer stratford. mercy on us, what is the meaning of it all?" "in truth i know not, judith." then judith regarded her. "good cousin, i fear me you gave him but a cold welcome yesternight." "i welcomed him as i would welcome any of my brother's friends," said prudence, calmly and without embarrassment. "but you do not understand," judith said, with a touch of impatience. "bless thy heart! young men are such strange creatures; and must have all to suit their humors; and are off and away in their peevish fits if you do not entertain them, and cringe, and say your worship to every sirrah of them! oh, they be mighty men of valor in their own esteem; and they must have us poor handmaidens do them honor; and if all be not done to serve, 'tis boot and spur and off to the wars with them, and many a fine tale thereafter about the noble ladies that were kind to them abroad. marry! they can crow loud enough; 'tis the poor hens that durst never utter a word; and all must give way before his worship! what, then? what did you do? was not the claret to his liking? did not your brother offer him a pipe of trinidado?" "indeed, judith, it cannot be through aught that happened last night, if he be speaking of leaving the country," prudence said. "i thought he was well content, and right friendly in his manner." "but you do not take my meaning," judith said. "dear heart, bear me no ill-will; but i would have you a little more free with your favors. you are too serious, sweet mouse. could you not pluck up a little of the spirit that the pretty rosalind showed--do you remember?--when she was teasing orlando in the forest? in truth these men are fond of a varying mood; when they play with a kitten they like to know it has claws. and again, if you be too civil with them, they presume, and would become the master all at once; and then must everything be done to suit their lordships' fantasies, or else 'tis up and away with them, as this one goes." "i pray you, judith," her friend said, and now in great embarrassment, "forbear to speak of such things: in truth, my heart is not set that way. right well i know that if he be leaving the country, 'tis through no discontent with me, nor that he would heed in any way how i received him. nay, 'tis far otherwise; it is no secret whom he would choose for wife. if you are sorry to hear of his going away from his home, you know that a word from you would detain him." "good mouse, the folly of such thoughts!" judith exclaimed. "why, when he will not even give me a 'good-day to you, wench'!" "you best know what reasons he had for his silence, judith; i know not." "reasons?" said she, with some quick color coming to her face. "we will let that alone, good gossip. i meddle not with any man's reasons, if he choose to be uncivil to me; god help us, the world is wide enough for all!" "did you not anger him, judith, that he is going away from his home and his friends?" "anger him? perchance his own suspicions have angered him," was the answer; and then she said, in a gentler tone: "but in truth, sweetheart, i hope he will change his mind. twenty years--for so he speaks--is a long space to be away from one's native land; there would be many changes ere he came back. twenty years, he said." judith rather timidly looked at her companion, but indeed there was neither surprise nor dismay depicted on the pale and gentle face. her eyes were absent, it is true, but they did not seem to crave for sympathy. "'tis strange," said she. "he said naught of such a scheme last night, though he and julius spoke of this very matter of the men who were preparing to cross the seas. i know not what can have moved him to such a purpose." "does he imagine, think you," said judith, "that we shall all be here awaiting him at the end of twenty years, and as we are now? or is he so sure of his own life? they say there is great peril in the new lands they have taken possession of beyond sea, and that there will be many a bloody fight ere they can reap the fruit of their labors in peace. nay, i will confess to thee, sweet mouse, i like not his going. old friends are old friends, even if they have wayward humors; and fain would i have him remain with us here in stratford--ay, and settled here, moreover, with a sweet puritan wife by his side, that at present must keep everything hidden. well no matter," she continued, lightly. "i seek no secrets--except those that be in the oaken box within here." she unlocked the door of the summer-house, and entered, and put the flowers on the table. "tell me, prue," said she, "may we venture to take some more of the play, or must i wait till i have put back the other sheets?" "you have not put them back?" "in truth, no," said judith, carelessly. "i lent them to the young gentleman, leofric hope." "judith!" her friend exclaimed, with frightened eyes. "what then?" "to one you know nothing of? you have parted with these sheets--that are so valuable?" "nay, nay, good mouse," said she; "you know the sheets are cast away as useless. and i but lent them to him for an hour or two to lighten the tedium of his solitude. nor was that all, good prue, if i must tell thee the truth; i would fain have him know that my father can do something worth speaking of as well as his friend ben jonson, and perchance even better; what think you?" "you have seen him again, then--this morning?" "even so," judith answered, calmly. "judith, why would you run into such danger?" her friend said, in obvious distress. "in truth i know not what 'twill come to. and now there is this farther bond in this secret commerce--think you that all this can remain unknown? your meeting with him must come to some one's knowledge--indeed it must, sweetheart." "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. "if you would assure yourself, good prue, that the young gentleman is no grisly ghost or phantom, methinks you could not do better than ask tom quiney, who saw him this very morning--and saw us speaking together, as i guess." "he saw you!" prudence exclaimed. "and what said he?" "he talked large and wild for a space," said judith, coolly, "but soon i persuaded him there was no great harm in the stranger gentleman. in sooth his mind was so full of his own affairs--and so bitter against all preachers, ministers, and pastors--and he would have it that england was no longer fit to live in--marry, he told me so many things in so few minutes that i have half forgotten them!" and then it suddenly occurred to her that this fantasy that had entered her mind in the morning, and that had haunted her during master elihu izod's discourse, would be an excellent thing with which to frighten prudence. 'twas but a chimera, she assured herself; but there was enough substance in it for that. and so, when she had carefully arranged the flowers on the table, and cast another longing look at the oaken chest, she locked the door of the summer-house, and put her arm within the arm of her friend, and led her away for a walk in the garden. "prudence," said she, seriously, "i would have you give me counsel. some one hath asked me what a young maiden should do in certain circumstances that i will put before you; but how can i tell, how can i judge of anything, when my head is in a whirligig of confusion with parsons' arguments, and people leaving the country, and i know not what else? but you, good mouse--your mind is ever calm and equable--you can speak sweet words in israel--you are as daniel that was so excellent a judge even in his youth----" "judith!" the other protested; but indeed judith's eyes were perfectly grave and apparently sincere. "well, then, sweetheart, listen: let us say that a young man has seen a young maiden that is not known to him but by name--perchance at church it may have been, or as she was walking home to her own door. and there may be reasons why he should not go boldly to her father's house, though he would fain do so; his fancy being taken with her in a small measure, and he of a gentle disposition, and ready to esteem her higher than she deserved. and again it might be that he wished for private speech with her--to judge of her manners and her inclinations--before coming publicly forward to pay court to her: but alack, i cannot tell the story as my father would; 'tis the veriest skeleton of a story, and i fear me you will scarce understand. but let us say that the young man is bold and ingenious, and bethinks him of a stratagem whereby to make acquaintance with the damsel. he writes to her as a wizard that has important news to tell her; and begs her to go forth and meet him; and that on a certain morning he will be awaiting her at such and such a place. now this maiden that i am telling you of has no great faith in wizards, but being curious to see the juggling, she goes forth to meet him as he asks----" "judith, i pray you speak plain; what is't you mean?" prudence exclaimed; for she had begun to suspect. "you must listen, good mouse, before you can give judgment," said judith, calmly; and she proceeded: "now you must understand that it was the young gentleman himself whom she met, though she knew it not; for he had dressed himself up as an ancient wizard, and he had a solemn manner, and latin speech, and what not. then says the wizard to her, 'i can show you the man that is to be your lover and sweetheart and husband; that will win you and wear you in the time coming; and if you would see him, go to such and such a cross-road, and he will appear.' do you perceive, now, sweet mouse, that it was a safe prophecy, seeing that he had appointed himself to be the very one who should meet her?" prudence had gradually slipped her arm away from that of her friend, and now stood still, regarding her breathlessly, while judith, with eyes quite placid and inscrutable, continued her story: "'twas a noteworthy stratagem, and successful withal; for the maiden goes to the cross-road, and there she meets the young gentleman--now in his proper costume. but she has no great faith in magic; she regards him not as a ghost summoned by the wizard; she would rather see in this meeting an ordinary accident; and the young man being most courteous and modest and civil-spoken, they become friends. do you follow the story? you see, good mouse, there is much in his condition to demand sympathy and kindness--he being in hiding, and cut off from his friends; and she, not being too industrious, and fond rather of walking in the meadows and the like, meets him now here, now there, but with no other thought than friendliness. i pray you, bear that in mind, sweetheart; for though i esteem her not highly, yet would i do her justice: there was no thought in her mind but friendliness, and a wish to be civil to one that seemed grateful for any such communion. and then one morning something happens--beshrew me if i can tell thee how it happened, and that is the truth--but something happens--an idea jumps into her head--she suspects that this young gentleman is no other than the same who was the wizard, and that she has been entrapped by him, and that he, having played the wizard, would now fain play the lover----" "judith, is't possible! is't possible!" "hold, cousin, hold; your time is not yet. i grant you 'tis a bold conjecture, and some would say not quite seemly and becoming to a maiden, seeing that he had never spoken any word to her of the kind; but there it was in her head--the suspicion that this young gentleman had tricked her, for his own amusement, or perchance to secure her company. now, sweet judge in israel, for your judgment! and on two points, please you. first supposing this conjecture to be false, how is she to atone to the young gentleman? and how is she to punish herself? and how is she to be anything but uneasy should she chance to see him again? nay, more, how is she to get this evil suspicion banished from her mind, seeing that she dare not go to him and confess, and beg him for the assurance that he had never heard of the wizard? then the second point: supposing the conjecture to be true, ought she to be very indignant? how should she demean herself? should she go to him and reproach him with his treachery? she would never forgive it, dear mouse, would she, even as a lover's stratagem?" "judith, i cannot understand you; i cannot understand how you can even regard such a possibility, and remain content and smiling----" "then i ought to be indignant? good cousin, i but asked for your advice," judith said. "i must be angry; i must fret and fume, and use hot language, and play the tragedy part? in good sooth, when i think on't, 'twas a piece of boldness to put himself forward as my future husband--it was indeed--though twas cunningly contrived. marry, but i understand now why my goodman wizard would take no money from me; 'twas myself that he would have in payment of his skill; and 'gracious lady' and 'sweet lady,' these were the lures to lead me on; and his shepherd's dial placed on the ground! then off go beard and cloak, and a couple of days thereafter he is a gay young gallant; and 'sweet lady' it is again--or 'fair lady,' was't?--'know you one master shakespeare in the town?' and such modesty, and such downcast eyes, and an appeal for one in misfortune. heaven save us, was it not well done? modesty! by my life, a rare modest gentleman! he comes down to stratford, armed with his london speech and his london manners, and he looks around. which one, then? which of all the maidens will his lordship choose for wife? 'oh!' saith he, 'there is judith shakespeare; she will do as well as another; perchance better, for new place is the fairest house in the town, and doubtless she will have a goodly marriage portion. so now how to secure her? how to charm her away from any clownish sweetheart she may chance to have? easily done, i' faith! a country wench is sure to believe in magic; 'tis but raising my own ghost out of the ground, and a summons to her, and i have her sure and safe, to win and to wear, for better or worse!'" she looked at prudence. "heaven's blessings on us all, good prue, was there ever poor maiden played such a scurril trick?" "then your eyes are opened, judith?" said prudence, eagerly; "you will have naught more to do with such a desperate villain?" again judith regarded her, and laughed. "i but told a story to frighten thee, good heart," said she. "a desperate villain? yes, truly; but 'tis i am a desperate villain to let such rascal suspicions possess me for an instant. nay, good mouse, think of it! is't possible that one would dare so much for so poor a prize? that the young gentleman hath some self-assurance, i know; and he can quickly make friends; but do you think, if any such dark design had been his, he would have entered my grandmother's cottage, and ate and drank there, and promised to renew his visit? sweet judge in israel, your decision on the other point, i pray you! what penance must i do for letting such cruel thoughts stray into my brain? how shall i purge them away? to whom must i confess? nay, methinks i must go to the young gentleman himself, and say: 'good sir, i have a friend and gossip that is named prudence shawe, who hath a strange belief in phantom-men and conspirators. i pray you pardon me that through her my brain is somewhat distraught; and that i had half a mind to accuse you of a plot for stealing me away--me, who have generally this stout mastiff with me. i speech you, sir, steal me not--nay, forgive me that i ever dreamed of your having any such purpose. 'tis our rude country manners, good sir, that teach a maid to believe a man may not speak to her without intent to marry her. i pray you pardon me--my heart is kneeling to you, could you but see--and give me such assurance that you meditated no such thing as will bring me back my scattered senses.' were not that well done? shall that be my penance, good mouse?" "dear judith, tell me true," her friend said, almost piteously, "do you suspect him of having played the wizard to cheat you and entrap you?" "good cousin," said she, in her frankest manner, "i confess: i did suspect--for an instant. i know not what put it into my head. but sure i am i have done him wrong--marry, 'twere no such deadly sin even had he been guilty of such a trick; but i believe it not--nay, he is too civil and gentle for a jest of the kind. when i see him again i must make him amends for my evil thinking: do not i owe him as much, good gossip?" this was all she could say at present, for matthew gardener here made his appearance, and that was the signal for their withdrawing into the house. but that afternoon, as judith bethought her that master leofric hope would be coming to her grandmother's cottage with the manuscript he had promised to return, she became more and more anxious to see him again. somehow she thought she could more effectually drive away this disquieting surmise if she could but look at him, and regard his manner, and hear him speak. as it turned out, however, it was not until somewhat late on in the evening that she found time to seek out little willie hart, and propose to him that he should walk with her as far as shottery. chapter xix. a daughter of england. "sweetheart willie," she said--and her hand lay lightly on his shoulder, as they were walking through the meadows in the quiet of this warm golden evening--"what mean you to be when you grow up?" he thought for a second or two, and then he rather timidly regarded her. "what would you have me to be, cousin judith?" he said. "why, then," said she, "methinks i would have you be part student and part soldier, were it possible, like the gallant sir philip sidney, that queen elizabeth said was the jewel of her reign. and yet you know, sweetheart, that we cannot all of us be of such great estate. there be those who live at the court, and have wealth and lands, and expeditions given them to fit out, so that they gain fame; that is not the lot of every one, and i know not whether it may be yours--though for brave men there is ever a chance. but this i know i would have you ready to do, whether you be in high position or in low, and that is to fight for england, if needs be, and defend her, and cherish her. why," she said, "what would you think, now, of one brought up by a gentle mother, one that owes his birth and training to this good mother, and because there is something amiss in the house, and because everything is not to his mind, he ups and says he must go away and forsake her? call you that the thought of a loyal son and one that is grateful? i call it the thought of a peevish, froward, fractious child. because, forsooth, this thing or the other is not to his worship's liking, or all the company not such as he would desire, or others of the family having different opinions--as surely, in god's name, they have a right to have--why, he must needs forsake the mother that bore him, and be off and away to other countries! sweetheart willie, that shall never be your mind, i charge you. no, you shall remain faithful to your mother england, that is a dear mother and a good mother, and hath done well by her sons and daughters for many a hundred years; and you shall be proud of her, and ready to fight for her, ay, and to give your life for the love of her, if ever the need should be!" he was a small lad, but he was sensitive and proud-spirited; and he loved dearly this cousin judith who had made this appeal to him; so that for a second the blood seemed to forsake his face. "i am too young as yet to do aught, cousin judith," said he, in rather a low voice, for his breath seemed to catch; "but--but when i am become a man i know that there will be one that will sooner die than see any spaniard or frenchman seize the country." "bravely said, sweetheart, by my life!" she exclaimed (and her approval was very sweet to his ears). "that is the spirit that women's hearts love to hear of, i can tell thee." and she stooped and kissed him in reward. "hold to that faith. be not ashamed of your loyalty to your mother england! ashamed? heaven's mercy! where is there such another country to be proud of? and where is there another mother that hath bred such a race of sons? why, times without number have i heard my father say that neither greece, nor rome, nor carthage, nor any of them, were such a race of men as these in this small island, nor had done such great things, nor earned so great a fame, in all parts of the world and beyond the seas. and mark you this, too: 'tis the men who are fiercest to fight with men that are the gentlest to women; they make no slaves of their women; they make companions of them; and in honoring them they honor themselves, as i reckon. why, now, could i but remember what my father hath written about england, 'twould stir your heart, i know; that it would; for you are one of the true stuff, i'll be sworn; and you will grow up to do your duty by your gracious mother england--not to run away from her in peevish discontent!" she cast about for some time, her memory, that she could not replenish by any book-reading, being a large and somewhat miscellaneous store-house. "'twas after this fashion," said she, "if i remember aright: 'this royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of mars, this fortress, built by nature for herself against infestion and the hand of war; this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall, or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands-- this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this england!' mark you that, sweetheart?--is't not a land worth fighting for? ay, and she hath had sons that could fight for her; and she hath them yet, i dare be sworn, if the need were to arise. and this is what you shall say, cousin willie, when you are a man and grown: 'come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them. naught shall make us rue, if england to itself do rest but true!'" these quotations were but for the instruction of this small cousin of hers, and yet her own face was proud. "shall i be a soldier, then, cousin judith?" the boy said. "i am willing enough. i would be what you would wish me to be; and if i went to the wars, you would never have need to be ashamed of me." "that know i right well, sweetheart," said she, and she patted him on the head. "but 'tis not every one's duty to follow that calling. you must wait and judge for yourself. but whatever chances life may bring you, this must you ever remain, if you would have my love, sweetheart, and that i hope you shall have always--you must remain a good and loyal son to your mother england, one not easily discontented with small discomforts, and sent forth in a peevish fit. where is there a fairer country? marry, i know of none. look around--is't not a fair enough country?" and fair indeed on this quiet evening was that wide stretch of warwickshire, with its hedges and green meadows, and low-lying wooded hills bathed in the warm sunset light. but it was the presence of judith that made it all magical and mystical to him. whatever she regarded with her clear-shining and wondrous eyes was beautiful enough for him--while her hand lay on his shoulder or touched his hair. he was a willing pupil. he drank in those lessons in patriotism: what was it he would not do for his cousin judith? what was it he would not believe if it were she who told him, in that strange voice of hers, that thrilled him, and was like music to him, whether she spoke to him in this proud, admonitory way, or was in a teasing mood, or was gentle and affectionate toward him? yes, this warwickshire landscape was fair enough, under the calm sunset sky; but he knew not what made it all so mystical and wonderful, and made the far golden clouds seem as the very gateways to heaven. "or is there one with a prouder story?" she continued. "or a land of greater freedom? why, look at me, now. here am i, a woman, easily frightened, helpless if there were danger, not able to fight any one. why, you yourself, cousin willie, if you were to draw a dagger on me, i declare to thee i would run and shriek and hide. well, look at me as i stand here: all the might and majesty of england cannot harm me; i am free to go or to stay. what needs one more? none durst put a hand on me. my mind is as free as my footsteps. i may go this way or that as i choose; and no one may command me to believe this, that, or the other. what more? and this security--think you it had not to be fought for?--think you it was not worth the fighting for? or think you we should forget to give good thanks to the men that faced the spaniards, and drove them by sea and shore, and kept our england to ourselves? or think you we should forget our good queen bess, that i warrant me had as much spirit as they, and was as much a man as any of them?" she laughed. "perchance you never heard, sweetheart, of the answer that she made to the spanish ambassador?" "no, judith," said he, but something in her manner told him that there had been no cowardice in that answer. "well," she said, "i will tell thee the story of what happened at deptford. and now i bethink me, this must you do, cousin willie, when you are grown to be a man; and whether you be soldier or sailor, or merchant, or student, 'tis most like that some day or other you will be in london; and then must you not fail to go straightway to deptford to see the famous ship of sir francis drake lying there. i tell thee, 'twas a goodly thought to place it there; that was like our brave queen bess; she would have the youth of the country regard with honor the ship that had been all round the world, and chased the spaniards from every sea. nay, so bad is my memory that i cannot recall the name of the vessel--perchance 'twas the judith--at least i have heard that he had one of that name; but there it lies, to signal the glory of england and the routing of spain." "the judith?" said he, with wondering eyes. "did he name the ship after you, cousin?" "bless the lad! all that i'm going to tell thee happened ere i was born." "no matter," said he, stoutly: "the first thing i will ask to see, if ever i get to london is that very ship." "well, then, the story," she continued, shaping the thing in her mind (for being entirely destitute of book learning, historical incidents were apt to assume a dramatic form in her imagination, and also to lose literal accuracy of outline). "you must know the spaniards were sore vexed because of the doings of francis drake in all parts of the world, for he had plundered and harried them and burned their ships and their towns, and made the very name of england a terror to them. 'tis no marvel if they wished to get hold of him; and they declared him to be no better than a pirate; and they would have the queen--that is, our last queen--deliver him over to them that they might do with him what they willed. marry, 'twas a bold demand to made of england! and the queen, how does she take it, think you?--how is she moved to act in such a pass? why, she goes down to deptford, to this very ship that i told thee of--she and all her nobles and ladies, for they would see the famous ship. then they had dinner on board, as i have heard the story; and the queen's majesty asked many particulars of his voyages from master drake, and received from him certain jewels as a gift, and was right proud to wear them. then says she aloud to them all: 'my lords, is this the man the spaniards would have me give over to them?' right well she knew he was the man; but that was her way, and she would call the attention of all of them. 'your majesty,' they said, ''tis no other.' then she swore a great oath that the queen of england knew how to make answer to such a demand. 'come hither, master drake,' says she, in a terrible voice. 'kneel!' then he knelt on his knee before her. 'my lord,' says she to one of the noblemen standing by, 'your sword!' and then, when she had the sword in her hand, she says, in a loud voice, 'my lords, this is the man that spain would have us give up to her; and this is the answer of england: arise, sir francis!'--and with that she taps him on the shoulder--which is the way of making a knight, cousin willie; and i pray you may be brave and valiant, and come to the same dignity, so that all of us here in stratford shall say, 'there, now, is one that knew how to serve faithfully his fair mother england!' but that was not all, you must know, that happened with regard to sir francis drake. for the spanish ambassador was wroth with the queen; ay, and went the length even of speaking with threats. ''twill come to the cannon,' says he. 'what?' says she, turning upon him. 'your majesty,' says he, 'i fear me this matter will come to the cannon.' and guess you her answer?--nay, they say she spoke quite calmly, and regarded him from head to foot, and that if there were anger in her heart there was none in her voice. 'little man, little man,' says she, 'if i hear any more such words from thee, by god i will clap thee straight into a dungeon!'" judith laughed, in a proud kind of way. "that was the answer that england gave," said she, "and that she is like to give again, if the don or any other of them would seek to lord it over her." three-fourths of these details were of her own invention, or rather--for it is scarcely fair to say that--they had unconsciously grown up in her mind from the small seed of the true story. but little willie hart had no distrust of any legend that his cousin judith might relate to him. whatever judith said was true, and also luminous in a strange kind of fashion; something beautiful and full of color, to be thought over and pondered over. and now as they walked along toward the village, idly and lazily enough--for she had no other errand than to fetch back the manuscript that would be lying at the cottage--his eyes were wistful. his fancies were far away. what was it, then, that he was to do for england--that judith should approve in the after-years? and for how long should he be away--in the spanish main, perchance, of which he had heard many stories, or fighting in the lowlands of holland, or whatever he was called to do--and what was there at the end? well, the end that he foresaw and desired--the reward of all his toil--was nothing more nor less than this: that he should be sitting once again in a pew in stratford church, on a quiet sunday morning, with judith beside him as of old, they listening to the singing together. he did not think of his being grown up, or that she would be other than she was now. his mind could form no other or fairer consummation than that--that would be for him the final good--to come back to stratford town to find judith as she had ever been to him, gentle, and kind, and soft-handed, and ready with a smile from her beautiful and lustrous eyes. "yes, sweetheart willie," said she, as they were nearing the cottages, "look at the quiet that reigns all around, and no priests of the inquisition to come dragging my poor old grandmother from her knitting. what has she to do but look after the garden, and scold the maid, and fetch milk for the cat? and all this peace of the land that we enjoy we may have to fight for again; and then, if the king's majesty calls either for men or for money, you shall have no word but obedience. heard you never of the scotch knight, sir patrick spens?--that the scotch king would send away to norroway at an evil time of the year? did he grumble? did he say his men were ill content to start at such a time? nay, as i have heard, when he read the king's letter the tears welled in his eyes; but i'll be sworn that was for the companions he was taking with him to face the cruel sea. 'the king's daughter from norroway, 'tis we must fetch her home,' he says; and then they up with their sails, and set out from the land that they never were to see more. what of that? they were brave men; they did what was demanded of them; though the black seas of the north were too strong for them in the end. 'twas a sad tale, in good sooth: 'o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' the fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! 'and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' their gold combs in their hair, all waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. 'half owre, half owre to aberdour, 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies good sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet.' but what then? i tell thee, sweetheart, any maiden that would be worth the winning would a hundred times liefer wail for a lover that had died bravely than welcome him back safe and sound as a coward. you shall be no coward, i warrant me, when you are grown up to be a man; and above all, as i say, shall you be gentle and forgiving with your mother england, even if your own condition be not all you wish; and none the less for that shall you be willing to fight for her should she be in trouble. nay, i'll answer for thee, lad: i know thee well." "but, judith," said he, "who are they you speak of, that are discontented, and would go away and leave the country?" well, it is probable she might have found some embarrassment in answering this question (if she had been pressed to name names) but that what she now beheld deprived her of the power of answering altogether. she had come over from the town with no other thought than to pay a brief visit to her grandmother, and fetch back the portion of the play, and she had not the slightest expectation of encountering master leofric hope. but there unmistakably he was, though he did not see her, for he was standing at the gate of her grandmother's cottage, and talking to the old dame, who was on the other side. there was no pretence of concealment. here he was in the public path, idly chatting, his hand resting on the gate. and as judith had her cousin willie with her, her first thought was to hurry away in any direction in order to escape an interview; but directly she saw that this was impossible, for her grandmother had descried her, if leofric hope had not. the consequence was that, as she went forward to the unavoidable meeting, she was not only surprised and a trifle confused and anxious, but also somewhat and vaguely resentful; for she had been intending, before seeing him again, to frame in her mind certain tests which might remove or confirm one or two suspicions that had caused her disquietude. and now--and unfairly, as she thought--she found herself compelled to meet him without any such legitimate safeguard of preparation. she had no time to reflect that it was none of his fault. why had not he left the play earlier? she asked herself. why had not he departed at once? why, with all his professions of secrecy, should he be standing in the open highway, carelessly talking? and what was she to say to little willie hart that would prevent his carrying back the tale to the school and the town? when she went forward, it was with considerable reluctance; and she had a dim, hurt sense of having been imposed upon, or somehow or another injured. chapter xx. varying moods. but the strange thing was that the moment he turned and saw her--and the moment she met the quick look of friendliness and frank admiration that came into his face and his eloquent dark eyes--all her misgivings, surmises, suspicions, and half-meditated safeguards instantly vanished. she herself could not have explained it; she only knew that, face to face with him, she had no longer any doubt as to his honesty; and consequently that vague sense of injury vanished also. she had been taken unawares, but she did not mind. everything, indeed, connected with this young man was of a startling, unusual character; and she was becoming familiar with that, and less resentful at being surprised. "ah, fair mistress judith," said he, "you come opportunely: i would thank you from the heart for the gracious company i have enjoyed this afternoon through your good-will; in truth, i was loath to part with such sweet friends, and perchance detained them longer than i should." "i scarce understand you, sir," said she, somewhat bewildered. "not the visions that haunt a certain magic island?" said he. her face lit up. "well, sir?" she asked, with a kind of pride; but at this point her grandmother interposed, and insisted--somewhat to judith's surprise--that they should come in and sit down, if not in the house, at least in the garden. he seemed willing enough; for without a word he opened the gate to let judith pass; and then she told him who her cousin was; and in this manner they went up to the little arbor by the hedge. "well, good sir, and how liked you the company?" said she, cheerfully, when she had got within and sat down. her grandmother had ostensibly taken to her knitting; but she managed all the same to keep a sharp eye on the young man; for she was curious, and wanted to know something further of the parcel that he had left with her. it was not merely hospitality or a freak of courtesy that had caused her to give him this sudden invitation. her granddaughter judith was a self-willed wench and mischievous; she would keep an eye on her too; she would learn more of this commerce between her and the young gentleman who had apparently dropped, as it were, from the skies. as for little willie hart, he remained outside, regarding the stranger with no great good-will; but perhaps more with wonder than with anger, for he marvelled to hear judith talk familiarly with this person, of whom he had never heard a word, as though she had known him for years. "'tis not for one such as i," said master leofric hope, modestly--and with such a friendly regard toward judith that she turned away her eyes and kept looking at this and that in the garden--"to speak of the beauties of the work; i can but tell you of the delight i have myself experienced. and yet how can i even do that? how can i make you understand that--or my gratitude either, sweet mistress judith--unless you know something of the solitude of the life i am compelled to lead? you would have yourself to live at bassfield farm; and watch the monotony of the days there; and be scarcely able to pass the time: then would you know the delight of being introduced to this fair region that your father hath invented, and being permitted to hear those creatures of his imagination speak to each other. nay, but 'tis beautiful! i am no critical judge; but i swear 'twill charm the town." "you think so, sir?" said she, eagerly, and for an instant she withdrew her eyes from the contemplation of the flowers. but immediately she altered her tone to one of calm indifference. "my father hath many affairs to engage him, you must understand, good sir; perchance, now, this play is not such as he would have written had he leisure, and--and had he been commanded by the court, and the like. perchance 'tis too much of the human kind for such purposes?" "i catch not your meaning, sweet lady," said he. "i was thinking," said she, calmly, "of the masques you told us of--at theobald's and elsewhere--that master benjamin jonson has written, and that they all seem to prize so highly: perchance these were of a finer stuff than my father hath time to think of, being occupied, as it were, with so many cares. 'tis a rude life, having regard to horses, and lands, and malt, and the rest; and--and the court ladies--they would rather have the gods and goddesses marching in procession, would they not? my father's writing is too much of the common kind, is it not, good sir?--'tis more for the 'prentices, one might say, and such as these?" he glanced at her. he was not sure of her. "the king, sweet lady," said he, "is himself learned, and would have the court familiar with the ancient tongues; and for such pageants 'tis no wonder they employ master jonson, that is a great scholar. but surely you place not such things--that are but as toys--by the side of your father's plays, that all marvel at, and applaud, and that have driven away all others from our stage?" "say you so?" she answered, with the same indifferent demeanor. "nay, i thought that master scoloker--was that his worship's name?--deemed them to be of the vulgar sort. but perchance he was one of the learned ones. the king, they say, is often minded to speak in the latin. what means he by that, good sir, think you? hath he not yet had time to learn our english speech?" "wench, what would you?" her grandmother interposed, sharply. "nay, good sir, heed her not; her tongue be an unruly member, and maketh sport of her, as i think; but the wench meaneth no harm." "the king is proud of his learning, no doubt," said he; and he would probably have gone on to deprecate any comparison between the court masques and her father's plays but that she saw here her opportunity, and interrupted him. "i know it," she said, "for the letter that the king sent to my father is writ in the latin." "nay, is it so?" said he. she affected not to observe his surprise. "'twas all the same to my father," she continued, calmly, "whether the letter was in one tongue or the other. he hath one book now--how is it called?--'tis a marvellous heap of old stories--the jests----" "not the _gesta romanorum_?" he said. "the same, as i think. well, he hath one copy that is in english, and of our own time, as i am told; but he hath also another and a very ancient copy, that is in the latin tongue; and this it is--the latin one, good sir--that my father is fondest of; and many a piece of merriment he will get out of it, when julius shawe is in the house of an evening." "but the _gesta_ are not jests, good mistress judith," said he, looking somewhat puzzled. "i know not; i but hear them laughing," said she, placidly. "and as for the book itself, all i know of it is the outside; but that is right strange and ancient, and beautiful withal: the back of it white leather stamped with curious devices; and the sides of parchment printed in letters of red and black; and the silver clasps of it with each a boar's head. i have heard say that that is the crest of the scotch knight that gave the volume to my father when they were all at aberdeen; 'twas when they made laurence fletcher a burgess; and the knight said to my father, 'good sir, the honor to your comrade is a general one, but i would have you take this book in particular, in the way of thanks and remembrance for your wit and pleasant company'--that, or something like that, said he; and my father is right proud of the book, that is very ancient and precious; and often he will read out of it--though it be in the latin tongue. oh, i assure you, sir," she added, with a calm and proud air, "'tis quite the same thing to him. if the king choose to write to him in that tongue, well and good. marry, now i think of it, i make no doubt that julius shawe would lend me the letter, did you care to see it." he looked up quickly and eagerly. "goes your goodness so far, sweet mistress judith? would you do me such a favor and honor?" "nay, young sir," the grandmother said, looking up from her knitting, "tempt not the wench; she be too ready to do mad things out of her own mind. and you, grandchild, see you meddle not in your father's affairs." "why, grandam," judith cried, "'tis the common property of stratford town. any one that goeth into julius shawe's house may see it. and why julius shawe's friends only? beshrew me, there are others who have as good a title to that letter--little as my father valueth it." "nay, i will forego the favor," said he at once, "though i owe you none the less thanks, dear lady, for the intention of your kindness. in truth, i know not how to make you sensible of what i already owe you; for, having made acquaintance with those fair creations, how can one but long to hear of what further befell them? my prayer would rather go in that direction--if i might make so bold." he regarded her now with a timid look. well, she had not undertaken that he should see the whole of the play, nor had she ever hinted to him of any such possibility; but it had been in her mind, and for the life of her she could not see any harm in this brief loan of it. harm? had not even this brief portion of it caused him to think of her father's creations as if they were of a far more marvellous nature than the trumpery court performances that had engrossed his talk when first she met him? "there might be some difficulty, good sir," said she, "but methinks i could obtain for you the further portions, if my good grandmother here would receive them and hand them to you when occasion served." "what's that, wench?" her grandmother said, instantly. "'tis but a book, good grandam, that i would lend master hope to lighten the dulness of his life at the farm withal: you cannot have any objection, grandmother?" "'tis a new trade to find thee in, wench," said her grandmother. "i'd 'a thought thou wert more like to have secret commerce in laces and silks." "i am no pedler, good madam," said he, with a smile; "else could i find no pleasanter way of passing the time than in showing to you and your fair granddaughter my store of braveries. nay, this that i would beg of you is but to keep the book until i have the chance to call for it; and that is a kindness you have already shown in taking charge of the little package i left for mistress judith here." "well, well, well," said the old dame, "if 'tis anything belonging to her father, see you bring it back, and let not the wench get into trouble." "i think you may trust me so far, good madam," said he, with such simplicity of courtesy and sincerity that even the old grandmother was satisfied. in truth she had been regarding the two of them with some sharpness during these few minutes to see if she could detect anything in their manner that might awaken suspicion. there was nothing. no doubt the young gentleman regarded judith with an undisguised wish to be friendly with her, and say pretty things; but was that to be wondered at? 'twas not all the lads in stratford that would be so modest in showing their admiration for a winsome lass. and this book-lending commerce was but natural in the circumstances. she would have been well content to hear that his affairs permitted him to leave the neighborhood, and that would happen in good time; meanwhile there could be no great harm in being civil to so well-behaved a young gentleman. so now, as she had satisfied herself that the leaving of the package meant nothing dark or dangerous, she rose and hobbled away in search of the little maid, to see that some ale were brought out for the refreshment of her visitor. "sweetheart willie," judith called, "what have you there? come hither!" her small cousin had got hold of the cat, and was vainly endeavoring to teach it to jump over his clasped hands. he took it up in his arms, and brought it with him to the arbor, though he did not look in the direction of the strange gentleman. "we shall be setting forth for home directly," said she. "wilt thou not sit down and rest thee?" "'tis no such distance, cousin," said he. he seemed unwilling to come in; he kept stroking the cat, with his head averted. so she went out to him, and put her arm round his neck. "this, sir," said she, "is my most constant companion, next to prudence shawe; i know not to what part of all this neighborhood we have not wandered together. and such eyes he hath for the birds' nests; when i can see naught but a cloud of leaves he will say, why, 'tis so and so, or so and so; and up the tree like a squirrel, and down again with one of the eggs, or perchance a small naked birdling, to show me. but we always put them back, sweetheart, do we not?--we leave no bereft families, or sorrowing mother bird to find an empty nest. we do as we would be done by; and 'tis no harm to them that we should look at the pretty blue eggs, or take out one of the small chicks with its downy feathers and its gaping bill. and for the fishing, too--there be none cleverer at setting a line, as i hear, or more patient in watching; but i like not that pastime, good cousin willie, for or soon or late you are certain to fall through the bushes into the river, as happened to dickie page last week, and there may not be some one there to haul you out, as they hauled out him." "and how fares he at the school?" said the young gentleman in the arbor. "oh, excellent well, as i am told," said she, "although i be no judge of lessons myself. marry, i hear good news of his behavior; and if there be a bloody nose now and again, why, a boy that's attacked must hold his own, and give as good as he gets--'twere a marvel else--and 'tis no use making furious over it, for who knows how the quarrel began? nay, i will give my cousin a character for being as gentle as any, and as reasonable; and if he fought with master crutchley's boy, and hit him full sore, i fear, between the eyes--well, having heard something of the matter, i make no doubt it served young crutchley right, and that elder people should have a care in condemning when they cannot know the beginning of the quarrel. well, now i bethink me, sweetheart, tell me how it began, for that i never heard. how began the quarrel?" "nay, 'twas nothing," he said, shamefacedly. "nothing? nay, that i will not believe. i should not wonder now if it were about some little wench. what? nay, i'll swear it now! 'twas about the little wench that has come to live at the vicarage--what's her name?--minnie, or winnie?" "'twas not, then, judith," said he. "if you must know, i will tell you; i had liefer say naught about it. but 'twas not the first time he had said so--before all of them--that my uncle was no better than an idle player, that ought to be put in the stocks and whipped." "why, now," said she, "to think that the poor lad's nose should be set a-bleeding for nothing more than that!" "it had been said more than once, cousin judith; 'twas time it should end," said he, simply. at this moment master leofric hope called to him. "come hither, my lad," said he. "i would hear how you get on at school." the small lad turned and regarded him, but did not budge. his demeanor was entirely changed. with judith he was invariably gentle, submissive, abashed: now, as he looked at the stranger, he seemed to resent the summons. "come hither, my lad." "thank you, no, sir," he said; "i would as lief be here." "sweetheart, be these your manners?" judith said. but the young gentleman only laughed good-naturedly. "didst thou find any such speeches in the _sententiæ pueriles_?" said he. "they were not there when i was at school." "when go we back to stratford, judith?" said the boy. "presently, presently," said she (with some vague impression that she could not well leave until her grandmother's guest showed signs of going also). "see, here is my grandam coming with various things for us; and i warrant me you shall find some gingerbread amongst them." the old dame and the little maid now came along, bringing with them ale and jugs and spiced bread and what not, which were forthwith put on the small table; and though judith did not care to partake of these, and was rather wishful to set out homeward again, still, in common courtesy, she was compelled to enter the arbor and sit down. moreover, master hope seemed in no hurry to go. it was a pleasant evening, the heat of the day being over; the skies were clear, fair, and lambent with the declining golden light: why should one hasten away from this quiet bower, in the sweet serenity and silence, with the perfume of roses all around, and scarce a breath of air to stir the leaves? he but played with this slight refection; nevertheless, it was a kind of excuse for the starting of fresh talk; and his talk was interesting and animated. then he had discovered a sure and easy way of pleasing judith, and instantly gaining her attention. when he spoke of the doings in london, her father was no longer left out of these: nay, on the contrary, he became a central figure; and she learned more now of the globe and blackfriars theatres than ever she had heard in her life before. nor did she fail to lead him on with questions. which of her father's friends were most constant attendants at the theatre? doubtless they had chairs set for them on the stage? was there any one that her father singled out for especial favor? when they went to the tavern in the evening, what place had her father at the board? did any of the young lords go with them? how late sat they? did her father outshine them all with his wit and merriment, or did he sit quiet and amused?--for sometimes it was the one and sometimes the other with him here in stratford. did they in london know that he had such a goodly house, and rich lands, and horses? and was there good cooking at the tavern--portugal dishes and the like? or perchance (she asked, with an inquiring look from the beautiful, clear eyes) it was rather poor? and the napery, now: it was not always of the cleanest? and instead of neat-handed maids, rude serving-men, tapsters, drawers, and so forth? and the ale--she could be sworn 'twas no better than the warwickshire ale; no, nor was the claret likely to be better than that brought into the country for the gentlefolk by such noted vintners as quiney. her father's lodging--that he said was well enough, as he said everything was well enough, for she had never known him utter a word of discontent with anything that happened to him--perchance 'twas none of the cleanliest? for she had heard that the london housewives were mostly slovens, and would close you doors and windows against the air, so that a countryman going to that town was like to be sickened. and her father--did he ever speak of his family when he was in london? did they know he had belongings? nay, she was certain he must have talked to his friends and familiars of little bess hall, for how could he help that? "you forget, sweet mistress judith," said he, in his pleasant way, "that i have not the honor of your father's friendship, nor of his acquaintance even, and what i have told you is all of hearsay, save with regard to the theatre, where i have seen him often. and that is the general consent: that this one may have more learning, and that one more sharpness of retort, but that in these encounters he hath a grace and a brilliancy far outvying them all, and, moreover, with such a gentleness as earns him the general good-will. such is the report of him; i would it had been in my power to speak from my own experience." "but that time will come, good sir," said she, "and soon, i trust." "in the mean while," said he, "bethink you what a favor it is that i should be permitted to come into communion with those fair creations of his fancy; and i would remind you once more of your promise, sweet mistress judith; and would beseech your good grandmother to take charge of anything you may leave for me. nay, 'twill be for no longer than an hour or two that i would detain it; but that brief time i would have free from distractions, so that the mind may dwell on the picture. do i make too bold, sweet lady? or does your friendship go so far?" "in truth, sir," she answered, readily, "if i can i will bring you the rest of the play--but perchance in portions, as the occasion serves; 'twere no great harm should you carry away with you some memory of the duke and his fair daughter on the island." "the time will pass slowly until i hear more of them," said he. "and meanwhile, good grandmother," said she, "if you will tell me where i may find the little package, methinks i must be going." at this he rose. "i beseech your pardon if i have detained you, sweet lady," said he, with much courtesy. "nay, sir, i am indebted to you for welcome news," she answered, "and i would i had longer opportunity of hearing. and what said you--that he outshone them all?--that it was the general consent?" "can you doubt it?" he said, gallantly. "nay, sir, we of his own household--and his friends in stratford--we know and see what my father is: so well esteemed, in truth, as julius shawe saith, that there is not a man in warwickshire would cheat him in the selling of a horse, which they are not slow to do, as i hear, with others. but i knew not he had won so wide and general a report in london, where they might know him not so well as we." "let me assure you of that, dear lady," he said, "and also that i will not forget to bring or send you the printed tribute to his good qualities that i spoke of, when that i may with safety go to london. 'tis but a trifle; but it may interest his family; marry, i wonder he hath not himself spoken of it to you." "he speak of it!" said she, regarding him with some surprise, as if he ought to have known better. "we scarce know aught of what happeneth to him in london. when he comes home to warwickshire it would seem as if he had forgotten london and all its affairs, and left them behind for good." "left them behind for good, say you, wench?" the old dame grumbled, mostly to herself, as she preceded them down the path. "i would your father had so much sense. what hath he to gain more among the players and dicers and tavern brawlers and that idle crew? let him bide at home, among respectable folk. hath he not enough of gear gathered round him, eh? it be high time he slipped loose from those mummers that play to please the cut-purses and their trulls in london. hath he not enough of gear?" "what say you, grandmother? you would have my father come away from london and live always in warwickshire? well, now, that is nearer than you think, or my guesses are wrong." but her grandmother had gone into the cottage; and presently she returned with the little package. then there was a general leave-taking at the gate; and leofric hope, after many expressions of his thanks and good-will, set out on his own way, judith and her cousin taking the path through the meadows. for some time they walked in silence; then, as soon as the stranger was out of ear-shot, the lad looked up and said, "who is that, judith?" "why," said she, lightly, "i scarcely know myself; but that he is in misfortune and hiding, and that he knoweth certain of my father's friends, and that he seems pleased to have a few words with one or other of us to cheer his solitude. you would not begrudge so much, sweetheart? nay, there is more than that i would have you do: his safety depends on there being no talk about him in the town; and i know you can keep a secret, cousin willie; so you must not say a word to any one--whether at school, or at home, or at new place--of your having seen him. you will do as much for my sake, sweetheart?" "yes; but why for your sake, cousin?" said the boy, looking up. "why should you concern yourself?" "nay, call it for anybody's sake, then," said she. "but i would not have him betrayed by any one that i had aught to do with--and least of all by you, sweetheart, that i expect to show nothing but fair and manly parts. nay, i trust you. you will not blab." and then, as they walked on, it occurred to her that this young gentleman's secret--if he wished it kept--was becoming somewhat widely extended in his neighborhood. in her own small circle how many already knew of his presence?--her grandmother, prudence shawe, herself, tom quiney, and now this little willie hart. and she could not but remember that not much more than half an hour ago she had seen him at the garden gate, carelessly chatting, and apparently not heeding in the least what passers-by might observe him. but that was always the way: when she left him, when she was with her own thoughts, curious surmises would cross her mind; whereas, when she met him, these were at once discarded. and so she took to arguing with herself as to why she should be so given to do this young man injustice in his absence, when every time she encountered him face to face she was more than ever convinced of his honesty. fascination? well, she liked to hear of london town and the goings on there; and this evening she had been particularly interested in hearing about the globe theatre, and the spectators, and the tavern to which her father and his friends repaired for their supper; but surely that would not blind her if she had any reason to think that the young man was other than he represented? and then, again, this evening he had been markedly deferential. there was nothing in his manner of that somewhat too open gallantry he had displayed in the morning when he made his speech about the english roses. had she not wronged him, then, in imagining even for a moment that he had played a trick upon her in order to make her acquaintance? it is true, she had forgotten to make special remark of his eyes, as to whether they were like those of the wizard; for indeed the suspicion had gone clean out of her mind. but now she tried to recall them; and she could not fairly say to herself that there was a resemblance. nay, the wizard was a solemn person, who seemed to rebuke her light-heartedness; he spoke gravely and slow; whereas this young man, as any one could see, had a touch of merriment in his eye that was ready to declare itself on further acquaintance, only that his deference kept him subdued, while his talk was light and animated and rapid. no, she would absolve him from this suspicion; and soon, indeed, as she guessed, he would absolve himself by removing from the neighborhood, and probably she would hear no more of him, unless, perchance, he should remember to send her that piece of print concerning her father. and then her thoughts went far afield. she had heard much of london that evening; and london, in her mind, was chiefly associated with her father's plays, or such as she knew of them; and these again were represented to her by a succession of figures, whose words she thought of, whose faces she saw, when, as now, her fancies were distant. and she was more silent than usual as they went on their way across the meadows, and scarce addressed a word to her companion; insomuch that at last he looked up into her face, and said, "judith, why are you so sad this evening?" "sad, sweetheart? surely no," she answered; and she put her hand on his head. "what makes thee think so?" "did dame hathaway speak harshly to you?" said he. "methought i heard her say something. another time i will bid her hold her peace." "nay, nay, not so," said she; and as they were now come to a stile, she paused there, and drew the boy toward her. not that she was tired; but the evening was so quiet and still, and the whole world seemed falling into a gentle repose. there was not a sound near them; the earth was hushed as it, sank to sleep; far away they could hear the voices of children going home with their parents, or the distant barking of a dog. it was late, and yet the skies seemed full of light, and all the objects around them were strangely distinct and vivid. behind them, the northwestern heavens were of a pale luminous gold; overhead and in front of them, the great vault was of a beautiful lilac-gray, deepening to blue in the sombre east; and into this lambent twilight the great black elms rose in heavy masses. the wide meadows still caught some of the dying radiance; and there was a touch of it on the westward-looking gables of one or two cottages; and then through this softened glow there came a small keen ray of lemon yellow--a light in one of the far-off windows that burned there like a star. so hushed this night was, and so calm and beautiful, that a kind of wistfulness fell over her mind--scarcely sadness, as the boy had imagined--but a dull longing for sympathy, and some vague wonder as to what her life might be in the years to come. "why, sweetheart," said she, absently, and her hand lay affectionately on his shoulder, "as we came along here this evening we were speaking of all that was to happen to you in after-life; and do you never think you would like to have the picture unrolled now, and see for yourself, and have assurance? does not the mystery make you impatient, or restless, or sad--so that you would fain have the years go by quick, and get to the end? nay, i trow not; the day and the hour are sufficient for thee; and 'tis better so. keep as thou art, sweetheart, and pay no heed to what may hereafter happen to thee." "what is't that troubles you, judith?" said he, with an instinctive sympathy, for there was more in her voice than in her words. "why, i know not myself," said she, slowly, and with her eyes fixed vacantly on the darkening landscape. "nothing, as i reckon. 'tis but beating one's wings against the invisible to seek to know even to-morrow. and in the further years some will have gone away from stratford, and some to far countries, and some will be married, and some grown old; but to all the end will be the same; and i dare say now that, hundreds of years hence, other people will be coming to stratford, and they will go into the church-yard there, and walk about and look at the names--that is, of you and me and all the rest of us--and they will say, 'poor things, they vexed themselves about very small matters while they were alive, but they are all at peace at last.'" "but what is it that troubles you, judith?" said he; for this was an unusual mood with her, who generally was so thoughtless and merry and high-hearted. "why, nothing, sweetheart, nothing," said she, seeming to rouse herself. "'tis the quiet of the night that is so strange, and the darkness coming. or will there be moonlight? in truth, there must be, and getting near to the full, as i reckon. a night for jessica! heard you ever of her sweetheart?" "no, judith." "well, she was a fair maiden that lived long ago, somewhere in italy, as i think. and she ran away with her lover, and was married to him, and was very happy; and all that is now known of her is connected with music and moonlight and an evening such as this. is not that a fair life to lead after death: to be in all men's thoughts always as a happy bride, on such a still night as this is now? and would you know how her lover spoke to her?--this is what he says: 'how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep to our ears; soft stillness and the night become the touches of sweet harmony. sit, jessica: look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; there's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims: such harmony is in immortal souls; but, whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.-- come, ho, and wake diana with a hymn; with sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, and draw her home with music.' is not that a gentle speech? and so shall you speak to your bride, sweetheart, in the years to come, when you have wooed her and won her. and then you will tell her that if she loves you not--ay, and if she loves you not dearly and well--then is she not like one that you knew long ago, and that was your cousin, and her name was judith shakespeare. come, sweetheart," said she, and she rose from the stile and took his hand in hers. "shall i draw thee home? but not with sweet music, for i have not susan's voice. i would i had, for thy sake." "you have the prettiest voice in the whole world, cousin judith," said he. and so they walked on and into the town, in silence mostly. the world had grown more solemn now: here and there in the lilac-gray deeps overhead a small silver point began to appear. and sure he was that whatever might happen to him in the years to come, no sweetheart or any other would ever crush out from his affection or from his memory this sweet cousin of his; for him she would always be the one woman, strange and mystical and kind; there never would be any touch like the touch of her hand, so gentle was it as it rested on his hair; and there never would be anything more wonderful and gracious to look forward to than the old and familiar sitting in the church pew by judith's side, with the breathless fascination of knowing that she was so near, and the thrill of hearing her join (rather timidly, for she was not proud of her voice) in the singing of the choir. chapter xxi. a discovery. "that be so as i tell ye, zur," said matthew gardener, as he slowly sharpened a long knife on the hone that he held in his hand; "it all cometh of the pampering of queasy stomachs nowadays that cannot hold honest food. there be no such folk now as there wur in former days, when men wur hardy, and long-lived, and healthy; and why, zur?--why, but that they wur content wi' plain dishes of pulse or herbs, and for the most worshipful no more than a dish of broth and a piece of good wholesome beef withal. but nowadays, lord! lord!--dish after dish, with each his several sauce; and this from portugal and that from france, so that gluttony shall have its swing, and never a penny be kept for the poor. nay, i tell ye, zur, rich and poor alike wur stronger and healthier when there wur no such waste in the land; when a man would wear his frieze coat and hosen of the color of the sheep that bore them; and have his shirt of honest hemp or flax, and could sleep well with his head on a block of wood and a sheep-skin thrown o'er it. but nowadays must he have his shirt of fine lawn and needle-work; ay, and his soft pillow to lie on, so that his lily-white body shall come to no scratching; nor will he drink any longer small drink, no, nor water, but heavy ales and rich wines; and all goeth to the belly, and naught to his poorer neighbor. and what cometh of this but tender stomachs, and riot, and waste?--and lucky if bocardo be not at the end of it all." as it chanced on this fine morning, judith's father had strolled along to look at some trained apple-trees at the further end of the garden, and finding goodman matthew there, and having a mind for idleness, had sat down on a bench to hear what news of the condition of the land matthew might have to lay before him. "nay, but, good matthew," said he, "if these luxuries work such mischief, 'tis the better surely that the poor have none of them. they, at least, cannot have their stomachs ruined with sauces and condiments." "lord bless ye, zur," said the ancient, with a wise smile, "'tis not in one way, but in all ways, that the mischief is done; for the poorest, seeing such waste and gluttony everywhere abroad, have no continence of their means, but will spend their last penny on any foolishness. lord! lord! they be such poor simple creatures! they that have scarce a rag to their backs will crowd at the mops and fairs, and spend their money--on what? why, you must ha' witnessed it, zur--the poor fools!--emptying their pouches to see a woman walking on a rope, or a tumbler joining his hands to his heels, or a hen with two heads. the poor simple creatures!--and yet i warrant me they be none so poor but that the rascal doctor can make his money out o' them: 'tis a foine way o' making a fortune that, going vagrom about the country with his draughts and pills--not honest medicines that a body might make out o' wholesome herbs, but nauseous stinking stuff that robs a man of his breath in the very swallowing of it. and the almanac-makers, too--marry, that, now, is another thriving trade!--the searching of stars, and the prophesying of dry or wet weather! weather? what know they of the weather, the town-bred rogues, that lie and cheat to get at the poor country folks' money? god 'a mercy, a whip to their shoulders would teach them more o' the weather than ever they are like to get out of the stars! and yet the poor fools o' countrymen--that scarce know a b from a battle-door--will sit o' nights puzzling their brains o'er the signs o' the heavens; and no matter what any man with eyes can see for himself--ay, and fifty times surer, as i take it--they will prophesy you a dry month or a wet month, because the almanac saith so; and they will swear to you that taurus--that is a lion--and the virgin scales have come together, therefore there must be a blight on the pear-trees! heard you ever the like, zur?--that a man in lunnon, knowing as much about husbandry and farm-work as a cat knows about quoit-throwing, is to tell me the weather down here in warwickshire? god help us, they be poor weak creatures that think so; i'd liefer look at the cover of a penny ballad, if i wanted to know when there was to be frost o' nights." at this juncture the old man grinned, as if some secret joke were tickling his fancy. "why, zur," said he, looking up from the hone, "would you believe this, zur--they be such fools that a rogue will sell them a barren cow for a milch cow if he but put a strange calf to her. 'tis done, zur--'tis done, i assure ye." "in truth, a scurvy trick!" judith's father said. he was idly drawing figures on the ground with a bit of stick he had got hold of. perhaps he was not listening attentively; but at all events he encouraged matthew to talk. "but surely with years comes wisdom. the most foolish are not caught twice with such a trick." "what of that, zur?" answered matthew. "there be plenty of other fools in the land to make the trade of roguery thrive. 'tis true that a man may learn by his own experience; but what if he hath a son that be growing up a bigger fool than himself? and that's where 'tis nowadays, zur; there be no waiting and prudence; but every saucy boy must match on to his maid, and marry her ere they have a roof to put over their heads. 'tis a fine beginning, surely! no waiting, no prudence--as the rich are wasteful and careless, so are the poor heedless of the morrow; and the boy and the wench they must have their cottage at the lane end, run up of elder poles, and forthwith begin the begetting of beggars to swarm over the land. a rare beginning! body o' me, do they think they can live on nettles and grass, like nebuchadnezzar?" and so the old man continued to rail and grumble and bemoan, sometimes with a saturnine grin of satisfaction at his own wit coming over his face; and judith's father did not seek to controvert; he listened, and drew figures on the ground, and merely put in a word now and again. it was a pleasant morning--fresh, and clear, and sunny; and this town of stratford was a quiet place at that hour, with the children all at school. sometimes judith's father laughed; but he did not argue; and goodman matthew, having it all his own way, was more than ever convinced not only that he was the one wise man among a generation of fools, but also that he was the only representative and upholder of the spartan virtues that had characterized his forefathers. it is true that on more than one occasion he had been found somewhat overcome with ale; but this, when he had recovered from his temporary confusion, he declared was entirely due to the rascal brewers of those degenerate days--and especially of warwickshire--who put all manner of abominations into their huff-cap, so that an honest worcestershire stomach might easily be caught napping, and take no shame. and meanwhile what had been happening in another part of the garden? as it chanced, judith had been sent by her mother to carry to the summer-house a cup of wine and some thin cakes; and in doing so she of course saw that both her father and goodman matthew were at the further end of the garden, and apparently settled there for the time being. the opportunity was too good to be lost. she swiftly went back to the house, secured the portion of the play that was secreted there, and as quickly coming out again, exchanged it for an equal number of new sheets. it was all the work of a couple of minutes; and in another second she was in her own room, ready to put the precious prize into her little cupboard of boxes. and yet she could not forbear turning over the sheets, and examining them curiously, and she was saying to herself: "you cruel writing, to have such secrets, and refuse to give them up! if it were pictures, now, i could make out something with a guess; but all these little marks, so much alike, what can one make of them?--all alike--with here and there a curling, as if my father had been amusing himself--and all so plain and even, too, with never a blot: marry, i marvel he should make the other copy, unless with the intent to alter as he writes. and those words with the big letters at the beginning--these be the people's names--ferdinand, and sweet miranda, and the duke, and the ill beast that would harm them all. why, in heaven's mercy, was i so fractious? i might even now be learning all the story--here by myself--the only one in the land: i might all by myself know the story that will set the london folk agog in the coming winter. and what a prize were this, now, for master ben jonson! could one but go to him and say, 'good sir, here be something better than your masques and mummeries, your greeks and clouds and long speeches: put your name to it, good sir--nay, my father hath abundant store of such matter, and we in warwickshire are no niggards--put your name to it, good sir, and you will get the court ladies to say you have risen a step on the ladder, else have they but a strange judgment!' what would the goodman do? beshrew me, prudence never told me the name of the play! but let us call it _the magic island_. _the magic island, by master benjamin jonson._ what would the wits say?" but here she heard some noise on the stairs; so she quickly hid away the treasure in the little drawer, and locked it up safe there until she should have the chance of asking prudence to read it to her. that did not happen until nearly nightfall; for prudence had been away all day helping to put the house straight of a poor woman that was ill and in bed. moreover, she had been sewing a good deal at the children's clothes and her eyes looked tired--or perhaps it was the wan light that yet lingered in the sky that gave her that expression, the candles not yet being lit. judith regarded her, and took her hand tenderly, and made her sit down. "sweet mouse," said she, "you are wearing yourself out in the service of others; and if you take such little heed of yourself, you will yourself fall ill. and now must i demand of you further labor. or will it be a refreshment for you after the fatigues of the day? see, i have brought them all with me--the sprite ariel, and the sweet prince, and miranda; but in good sooth i will gladly wait for another time if you are tired----" "nay, not so, judith," she answered. "there is nothing i could like better--but for one thing." "what, then?" "mean you to show this also to the young gentleman that is at bidford?" "and wherefore not, good prue? he hath seen so much of the story, 'twere a pity he should not have the rest. and what a small kindness--the loan but for an hour or two; and i need not even see him, for i have but to leave it at my grandmother's cottage. and if you heard what he says of it--and how grateful he is: marry, it all lies in this, sweet prue, that you have not seen him, else would you be willing enough to do him so small a favor." by this time prudence had lit the candles; and presently they made their way up-stairs to her own room. "and surely," said judith, as her gentle gossip was arranging the manuscript, "the story will all end well, and merrily for the sweet maiden, seeing how powerful her father is? will he not compel all things to her happiness--he that can raise storms, and that has messengers to fly round the world for him?" "and yet he spoke but harshly to the young man when last we saw them," prudence said. "why, what's this?" she had run her eye down the first page; and now she began reading: "'_enter_ ferdinand _bearing a log_. _ferdinand._ there be some sports are painful, and their labor delight in them sets off. this my mean task would be as heavy to me as odious, but the mistress which i serve quickens what's dead, and makes my labors pleasures. oh, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed; and he's composed of harshness. i must remove some thousands of these logs and pile them up, upon a sore injunction. my sweet mistress weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness had never like executor.'" judith's face had gradually fallen. "why, 'tis cruel," said she; "and 'tis cruel of my father to put such pain on the sweet prince, that is so gentle, and so unfortunate withal." but prudence continued the reading: "'_enter_ miranda. _miranda._ alas, now, pray you, work not so hard: i would the lightning had burnt up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile! pray, set it down and rest you; when this burns, 'twill weep for having wearied you. my father is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; he's safe for these three hours. _ferdinand._ o most dear mistress, the sun will set before i shall discharge what i must strive to do. _miranda._ if you'll sit down, i'll bear your logs the while: pray give me that-- i'll carry it to the pile.'" at this point judith's eyes grew proud and grateful (as though miranda had done some brave thing), but she did not speak. "'_ferdinand._ no, precious creature: i had rather crack my sinews, break my back, than you should such dishonor undergo, while i sit lazy by. _miranda._ you look wearily. _ferdinand._ no, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me, when you are by at night. i do beseech you (chiefly that i may set it in my prayers), what is your name? _miranda._ miranda.--o my father, i have broke your hest to say so! _ferdinand._ admired miranda! indeed, the top of admiration; worth what's dearest to the world! full many a lady i have eyed with best regard; and many a time the harmony of their tongues hath into bondage brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues have i liked several women; never any with so full soul but some defect in her did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, and put it to the foil. but you, o you, so perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature's best! _miranda._ i do not know one of my sex: no woman's face remember, save, from my glass, mine own; nor have i seen more that i may call men than you, good friend, and my dear father; how features are abroad, i am skill-less of; but, by my modesty (the jewel in my dower), i would not wish any companion in the world but you; nor can imagination form a shape, besides yourself, to like of: but i prattle something too wildly, and my father's precepts i therein do forget.'" "nay, is she not fair and modest!" judith exclaimed--but apart; and, as the reading proceeded, she began to think of how master leofric hope would regard this maiden. would he not judge her to be right gentle, and timid, and yet womanly withal, and frank in her confiding? and he--supposing that he were the young prince--what would he think of such a one? was it too submissive that she should offer to carry the logs? ought she to so openly confess that she would fain have him to be her companion? and then, as judith was thus considering, this was what she heard, in prudence's gentle voice: "'_miranda._ do you love me? _ferdinand._ o heaven, o earth, bear witness to this sound, and crown what i profess with kind event, if i speak true; if hollowly, invert what best is boded me, to mischief! i, beyond all limit of what else i' the world, do love, prize, honor you. _miranda._ i am a fool to weep at what i am glad of. _ferdinand._ wherefore weep you? _miranda._ at mine unworthiness, that dare not offer what i desire to give; and much less take what i shall die to want: but this is trifling; and all the more it seeks to hide itself, the bigger bulk it shows. hence, bashful cunning! and prompt me, plain and holy innocence! i am your wife, if you will marry me; if not, i'll die your maid; to be your fellow you may deny me; but i'll be your servant, whether you will or no. _ferdinand._ my mistress, dearest; and i thus humble ever. _miranda._ my husband, then? _ferdinand._ ay, with a heart as willing as bondage e'er of freedom; here's my hand. _miranda._ and mine, with my heart in't; and now farewell, till half an hour hence. _ferdinand._ a thousand thousand!'" she clapped her hands and laughed, in delight and triumph. "why, sure her father will relent," she cried. "but, judith, judith, stay," prudence said, quickly, and with scarce less gladness. "'tis so set down; for this is what her father says: 'so glad of this as they i cannot be, who are surprised withal; but by rejoicing at nothing can be more.' nay, i take it he will soon explain to us why he was so harsh with the young prince--perchance to try his constancy?" well, after that the reading went on as far as the sheets that judith had brought; but ever her mind was returning to the scene between the two lovers, and speculating as to how leofric hope would look upon it. she had no resentment against ben jonson now; her heart was full of assurance and triumph, and was therefore generous. her only vexation was that the night must intervene before there could be a chance of the young london gentleman calling at the cottage; and she looked forward to the possibility of seeing him some time or other with the determination to be more demure than ever. she would not expect him to praise this play. perchance 'twas good enough for simple warwickshire folk; but the london wits might consider it of the vulgar kind? and she laughed to herself at thinking how awkward his protests would be if she ventured to hint anything in that direction. prudence put the sheets carefully together again. "judith, judith," she said, with a quiet smile, "you lead me far astray. i ought to find such things wicked and horrible to the ear; but perchance 'tis because i know your father, and see him from day to day, that i find them innocent enough. they seem to rest the mind when one is sorrowful." "beware of them, good prue; they are the devil himself come in the guise of an angel to snatch thee away. nay, but, sweetheart, why should you be sorrowful?" "there is martha hodgson," said she, simply, "and her children, nigh to starving; and i cannot ask julius for more----" judith's purse was out in an instant. "why," said she, "my father did not use half of what i gave him for the knife he bought at warwick--marry, i guess he paid for it mostly himself; but what there is here you shall have." and she emptied the contents on to the table, and pushed them over to her friend. "you do not grudge it, judith?" said prudence. "nay, i will not ask thee that. nor can i refuse it either, for the children are in sore want. but why should you not give it to them yourself, judith?" "why?" said judith, regarding the gentle face with kindly eyes. "shall i tell thee why, sweetheart? 'tis but this: that if i were in need, and help to be given me, i would value it thrice as much if it came from your hand. there is a way of doing such things, and you have it; that is all." "i hear julius is come in," prudence said, as she took up the two candles. "will you go in and speak with him?" there was some strange hesitation in her manner, and she did not go to the door. she glanced at judith somewhat timidly. then she set the candles down again. "judith," said she, "your pity is quick, and you are generous and kind; i would you could find it in your heart to extend your kindness." "how now, good cousin?" judith said, in amazement. "what's this?" prudence glanced at her again, somewhat uneasily, and obviously in great embarrassment. "you will not take it ill, dear judith?" "by my life, i will not! not from you, dear heart, whatever it be. but what is the dreadful secret?" "tom quiney has spoken to me," she said, diffidently. judith eagerly caught both her hands. "and you! what said you? 'tis all settled, then!" she exclaimed, almost breathlessly. "it is as i imagined, judith," said prudence, calmly--and she withdrew her hands, with a touch of maidenly pride, perhaps, from what she could not but imagine to be a kind of felicitation. "he hath no fault to find with the country. if he goes away to those lands beyond seas, 'tis merely because you will say no word to hold him back." "i!" said judith, impatiently; and then she checked herself. "but you, sweetheart, what said he to you?" prudence's cheeks flushed red. "he would have me intercede for him," she said, timidly. "intercede? with whom?" "why, you know, judith; with whom but yourself? nay, but be patient--have some kindness. the young man opened his heart to me; and i know he is in trouble. 'twas last night as we were coming home from the lecture; and he would have me wait till he left a message at his door, so that thus we fell behind; and then he told me why it was that stratford had grown distasteful to him, and not to be borne, and why he was going away. how could i help saying that that would grieve you?--sure i am you cannot but be sorry to think of the young man banishing himself from his own people. and he said that i was your nearest friend; and would i speak for him? and i answered that i was all unused to such matters, but that if any pleading of mine would influence you i would right gladly do him that service; and so i would, dear judith; for how can you bear to think of the youth going away with these godless men, and perchance never to return to his own land, when a word from you would restrain him?" judith took both her hands again, and looked with a kindly smile into the timid, pleading eyes. "and 'tis you, sweet mouse, that come to me with such a prayer? was there ever so kind a heart? but that is you ever and always--never a thought for yourself, everything for others. and so he had the cruelty to ask you--you--to bring this message?" "judith," said the other, with the color coming into her face again, "you force me to speak against my will. nay, how can i hide from myself, dear friend, that you have plans and wishes--perchance suspicions--with regard to me? and if what i guess be true--if that is your meaning--indeed 'tis all built on a wrong foundation: believe me, judith, it is so. i would have you assured of it, sweetheart. you know that i like not speaking of such matters; 'tis not seemly and becoming to a maiden; and fain would i have my mind occupied with far other things; but, judith, this time i must speak plain; and i would have you put away from you all such intentions and surmises--dear heart, you do me wrong!" "in good sooth, am i all mistaken?" judith said, glancing keenly at her. "do you doubt my word, judith?" said she. "and yet," her friend said, as if to herself, and musingly, "there were several occasions: there was the fortune-teller at hampton lucy that coupled you, and quiney seemed right merry withal; and then again, when he would have us play kiss-in-the-ring on the evening after mary sadler's marriage, and i forbade it chiefly for your sake, sweet mouse, then methought you seemed none overpleased with my interference----" but here she happened to look at prudence, and she could not fail to see that the whole subject was infinitely distressing to her. there was a proud, hurt expression on the gentle face, and a red spot burning in each cheek. so judith took hold of her and kissed her. "once and forever, dearest heart," said she, "i banish all such thoughts. and i will make no more plans for thee, nor suspect thee, but let thee go in thine own way, in the paths of charity and goodness. but i mean not to give up thy friendship, sweet prue; if i cannot walk in the same path, at least i may stretch a hand over to thee; and if i but keep so near so true a saint, marry, i shall not go so far wrong." she took up one of the candles. "shall we go down and see julius?" said she. "but tom quiney, judith--what shall i say?" prudence asked, anxiously. "why, say nothing, sweetheart," was the immediate answer. "'twas a shame to burden you with such a task. when he chooses he can at any moment have speech of me, if his worship be not too proud or too suspicious. in stratford we can all of us speak the english tongue, i hope." "but, judith," said the other, slowly and wistfully, "twenty years is a long space for one to be away from his native land." "marry is it, sweet mouse," judith answered, as she opened the door and proceeded to go down the narrow wooden steps. "'tis a long space indeed, and at the end of it many a thing that seemeth of great import and consequence now will be no better than an old tale, idle and half forgotten." chapter xxii. portents. it was somewhat hard on little bess hall that her aunt judith was determined she should grow up as fearless as she herself was, and had, indeed, charged herself with this branch of her niece's education. the child, it is true, was not more timid than others of her age, and could face with fair equanimity beggars, school-boys, cows, geese, and other dangerous creatures; while as for ghosts, goblins, and similar nocturnal terrors, judith had settled all that side of the question by informing the maids of both families, in the plainest language, that any one of them found even mentioning such things to this niece of hers would be instantaneously and without ceremony shot forth from the house. but beyond and above all this judith expected too much, and would flout and scold when bess hall declined to perform the impossible, and would threaten to go away and get a small boy out of the school to become her playmate in future. at this moment, for example, she was standing at the foot of the staircase in dr. hall's house. she had come round to carry off her niece for the day, and she had dressed her up like a small queen, and now she would have her descend the wide and handsome staircase in noble state and unaided. bess hall, who had no ambition to play the part of a queen, but had, on the other hand, a wholesome and instinctive fear of breaking her neck, now stood on the landing, helpless amid all her finery, and looking down at her aunt in a beseeching sort of way. "i shall tumble down, aunt judith; i know i shall," said she, and budge she would not. "tumble down, little stupid! why, what should make you tumble down? are you going forever to be a baby? any baby can crawl down-stairs by holding on to the balusters." "i know i shall tumble down, aunt judith--and then i shall cry." but even this threat was of no avail. "come along, little goose; 'tis easy enough when you try it. do you think i have dressed you up as a grown woman to see you crawl like a baby? a fine woman--you! come along, i say!" but this lesson, happily for the half-frightened pupil, was abruptly brought to an end. judith was standing with her face to the staircase, and her back to the central hall and the outer door, so that she could not see any one entering, and indeed the first intimation she had of the approach of a stranger was a voice behind her: "be gentle with the child, judith." and then she knew that she was caught. for some little time back she had very cleverly managed to evade the good parson, or at least to secure the safety of company when she saw him approach. but this time she was as helpless as little bess herself. dr. hall was away from home; judith's sister was ill of a cold, and in bed; there was no one in the house, besides the servants, but herself. the only thing she could do was to go up to the landing, swing her niece on to her shoulder, and say to master walter that they were going round to new place, for that susan was ill in bed, and unable to look after the child. "i will walk with you as far," said he, calmly, and, indeed, as if it were rather an act of condescension on his part. she set out with no good-will. she expected that he would argue, and she had an uncomfortable suspicion that he would get the best of it. and if she had once or twice rather wildly thought that in order to get rid of all perplexities, and in order to please all the people around her, she would in the end allow master walter blaise to win her over into becoming his wife, still she felt that the time was not yet. she would have the choosing of it for herself. and why should she be driven into a corner prematurely? why be made to confess that her brain could not save her? she wanted peace. she wanted to play with bess hall, or to walk through the meadows with willie hart, teaching him what to think of england. she did not want to be confronted with clear, cold eyes, and arguments like steel, and the awful prospect of having to labor in the vineyard through the long, long, gray, and distant years. she grew to think it was scarcely fair of her father to hand her over. he at least might have been on her side. but he seemed as willing as any that she should go away among the saints, and forsake forever (as it seemed to her) the beautiful, free and clear-colored life that she had been well content to live. and then, all of a sudden, it flashed upon her mind that she was a player's daughter, and a kind of flame went to her face. "i pray you, good master blaise," said she, with a lofty and gracious courtesy, "bethink you, ere you give us your company through the town." "what mean you, judith?" said he, in some amazement. "do you forget, then, that i am the daughter of a player?--and this his granddaughter?" said she. "in truth, i know not what you mean, judith," he exclaimed. "why," said she, "may not the good people who are the saints of the earth wonder to see you consort with such as we?--or, rather, with one such as i, who am impenitent, and take no shame that my father is a player--nay, god's my witness, i am wicked enough to be proud of it, and i care not who knows it, and they that hope to have me change my thoughts on that matter will have no lack of waiting." well, it was a fair challenge; and he answered it frankly, and with such a reasonableness and charity of speech that, despite herself, she could not but admit that she was pleased, and also, perhaps, just a little bit grateful. he would not set up to be any man's judge, he said; nor was he a pharisee; the master that he served was no respecter of persons--he had welcomed all when he was upon the earth--and it behooved his followers to beware of pride and the setting up of distinctions; if there was any house in the town that earned the respect of all, it was new place; he could only speak of her father as he found him, here, in his own family, among his own friends--and what that was all men knew; and so forth. he spoke well, and modestly; and judith was so pleased to hear what he said of her father that she forgot to ask whether all this was quite consistent with his usual denunciations of plays and players; his dire prophecy as to the fate of those who were not of the saints, and his sharp dividing and shutting off of these. he did not persecute her at all. there was no argument. what he was mostly anxious about was that she should not tire herself with carrying bess hall on her shoulder. "nay, good sir," said she, quite pleasantly, "'tis a trick my father taught me; and the child is but a feather-weight." he looked at her--so handsome and buxom, and full of life and courage; her eyes lustrous, the rose-leaf tint of health in her cheeks; and always at the corner of her mouth what could only be called a disposition to smile, as if the world suited her fairly well, and that she was ready at any moment to laugh her thanks. "there be many, judith," said he, "who might envy you your health and good spirits." "when i lose them, 'twill be time enough to lament them," said she, complacently. "the hour that is passing seems all in all to you; and who can wonder at it?" he continued. "pray heaven your carelessness of the morrow have reason in it! but all are not so minded. there be strange tidings in the land." "indeed, sir; and to what end?" said she. "i know not whether these rumors have reached your house," he said, "but never at any time i have read of have men's minds been so disturbed--with a restlessness and apprehension of something being about to happen. and what marvel! the strange things that have been seen and heard of throughout the world of late--meteors, and earthquakes, and visions of armies fighting in the heavens. even so was armageddon to be foreshadowed. nay, i will be honest with you, judith, and say that it is not clear to my own mind that the great day of the lord is at hand; but many think so; and one man's reading of the book of revelation is but a small matter to set against so wide a belief. heard you not of the vision that came to the young girl at chipping camden last monday?" "indeed, no, good sir." "i marvel that prudence has not heard of it, for all men are speaking of it. 'twas in this way, as i hear. the maiden is one of rare piety and grace, given to fasting, and nightly vigils, and searching of the heart. 'twas on the night of sunday last--or perchance toward monday morning--that she was awakened out of her sleep by finding her room full of light; and looking out of the window she beheld in the darkness a figure of resplendent radiance--shining like the sun, as she said; only clear white, and shedding rays around; and the figure approached the window, and regarded her; and she dropped on her knees in wonder and fear, and bowed her head and worshipped. and as she did so, she heard a voice say to her: 'watch and pray: behold, i come quickly.' and she durst not raise her head, as she says, being overcome with fear and joy. but the light slowly faded from the room; and when at last she rose she saw something afar off in the sky, that was now grown dark again. and ever since she has been trembling with the excitement of it, and will take no food; but from time to time she cries in a loud voice, 'lord jesus, come quickly! lord jesus, come quickly!' many have gone to see her, as i hear, and from all parts of the country; but she heeds them not; she is intent with her prayers; and her eyes, the people say, look as if they had been dazzled with a great light, and are dazed and strange. nay, 'tis but one of many things that are murmured abroad at present; for there have been signs in the heavens seen in sundry places, and visions, and men's minds grow anxious." "and what think you yourself, good sir? you are one that should know." "i?" said he. "nay, i am far too humble a worker to take upon myself the saying ay or no at such a time; i can but watch and pray and wait. but is it not strange to think that we here at this moment, walking along this street in stratford, might within some measurable space--say, a year, or half a dozen years or so--that we might be walking by the pure river of water that john saw flowing from the throne of god and of the lamb? do you not remember how the early christians, with such a possibility before their eyes, drew nearer to each other, as it were, and rejoiced together, parting with all their possessions, and living in common, so that the poorest were even as the rich? 'twas no terror that overtook them, but a happiness; and they drew themselves apart from the world, and lived in their own community, praying with each other, and aiding each other. 'all that believed,' the bible tells us, 'were in one place, and had all things common. and they sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every one had need. and they continued daily in the temple, and, breaking bread at home, did eat their meat together with gladness and singleness of heart, praising god, and had favor with all the people; and the lord added to the church from day to day such as should be saved.' such a state of spiritual brotherhood and exaltation may come among us once more; methinks i see the symptoms of its approach even now. blessed are they who will be in that communion with a pure soul and a humble mind, for the lord will be with them as their guide, though the waters should arise and overflow, or fire consume the earth." "yes, but, good sir," said she, "when the early christians you speak of thought the world was near to an end they were mistaken. and these, now, of our day----" "whatever is prophesied must come to pass," said he, "or soon or late, though it is possible for our poor human judgment to err as to the time. but surely we ought to be prepared; and what preparation, think you, is sufficient for so great and awful a change? joy there may be in the trivial things of this world--in the vanities of the hour, that pass away and are forgotten; but what are these things to those whose heart is set on the new jerusalem--the shining city? the voice that john heard proclaimed no lie: 'twas the voice of the lord of heaven and earth--a promise to them that wait and watch for his coming. 'and god shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, neither crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the first things are passed.... and there shall be no more curse, but the throne of god and of the lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him. and they shall see his face, and his name shall be in their foreheads. and there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the lord god giveth them light, and they shall reign for evermore.'" she sighed. "'tis too wonderful a thing for poor sinful creatures to expect," she said. but by this time they were at the house, and he could not say anything further to her; indeed, when he proposed that she should come into the sitting-room, and that he would read to her a description of the glories of the new jerusalem, out of the book of revelation, she excused herself by saying that she must carry bess hall to see her father. so he went in and sat down, waiting for judith's mother to be sent for; while aunt and niece went out and through the back yard to the garden. "bess," said judith, on the way, "heardst thou aught of a white figure?" "no, judith," said the child, who had been engaged all the way in examining the prettinesses of her aunt's velvet cap, and ruff, and what not. "that is well," said she. when she got into the garden, she could see that good man matthew eyed their approach with little favor--for bess hall, when her grandfather had charge of her, was allowed to tear flowers, and walk over beds, or do anything she chose; but judith did not mind that much. on the other hand, she would not go deliberately and disturb her father. she would give him his choice--to come forth or not as he pleased. and so, quite noiselessly, and at a little distance off, she passed the summer-house. there was no sign. accordingly, she went on idly to the further end of the garden, and would doubtless have remained there (rather than return within-doors) amusing the child somehow, but that the next minute her father appeared. "come hither, bess! come hither, wench!" he called. nay, he came to meet them; and as he lifted the child down from judith's shoulder, something--perhaps it was the touch of the sunlight on the soft brown of her short curls--seemed to attract his notice. "why, wench," said he to judith, "methinks your hair grows prettier every day. and yet you keep it overshort--yes, 'tis overshort--would you have them think you a boy?" "i would i were a man," said she, glancing at him rather timidly. "how, then? what, now?" "for then," said she, "might i help you in your work, so please you, sir." he laughed, and said: "my work? what know you of that, wench?" the blood rushed to her face. "nay, sir, i but meant the work of the fields--in going about with the bailiff and the like. the maids say you were abroad at five this morning." "well, is't not the pleasantest time of the day in this hot weather?" he said--and he seemed amused by her interference. "but why should you give yourself so many cares, good father?" she made bold to say (for she had been meditating the saying of it for many a day back). "you that have great fame, and land, and wealth. we would fain see you rest a little more, father; and 'tis all the harder to us that we can give you no help, being but women-folk." there was something in the tone of her voice--or perhaps in her eyes--that conveyed more than her words. he put his hand on her head. "you are a good lass," said he. "and listen. you can do something for me that is of far more value to me than any help in any kind of work: nay, i tell thee 'tis of greater value to me than all of my work; and 'tis this: keep you a merry heart, wench--let me see your face right merry and cheerful as you go about--that is what you can do for me; i would have you ever as you are now, as bright and glad as a summer day." "'tis an easy task, sir, so long as you are content to be pleased with me," she managed to answer; and then little bess hall--who could not understand why she should have been so long left unnoticed--began to scramble up his knees, and was at last transferred to his arms. judith's heart was beating somewhat quickly--with a kind of pride and gladness that was very near bringing tears to her eyes; but, of course, that was out of the question, seeing that he had enjoined her to be cheerful. and so she forced herself to say, with an odd kind of smile, "i pray you, sir, may i remain with you for a space--if bess and i trouble you not?" "surely," said he, regarding her; "but what is it, then?" "why," said she, pulling herself together, "good master blaise is within-doors, and his last belief is enough to frighten a poor maiden--let alone this small child. he says the world is nigh unto its end." "nay, i have heard of some such talk being abroad," said he, "among the country folk. but why should that frighten thee? even were it true, we can make it nor better nor worse." "only this, father," said she, and she looked at him with the large, clear-shining gray eyes no longer near to tears, but rather suggesting some dark mystery of humor, "that if the end of the world be so nigh at hand, 'twould be an idle thing for the good parson to think of taking him a wife." "i ask for no secrets, wench," her father said, as he sat little bess hall on the branch of an apple-tree. "nay, sir, he but said that as many were of opinion that something dreadful was about to happen, we should all of us draw nearer together. that is well, and to be understanded; but if the world be about to end for all of us surely 'twere a strange thing that any of us should think of taking husband or wife." "i'll meddle not," her father said. "go thine own ways. i have heard thou hast led more than one honest lad in stratford a madcap dance. take heed; take heed--as thy grandmother saith--lest thou outwear their patience." and then something--she could scarce tell what--came into her head: some wild wish that he would remain always there at stratford: would she not right willingly discard all further thoughts of lovers or sweethearts if only he would speak to her sometimes as he had just been speaking; and approve of her hair; and perchance let her become somewhat more of a companion to him? but she durst not venture to say so much. she only said, very modestly and timidly, "i am content to be as i am, sir, if you are content that i should bide with you." "content?" said he, with a laugh that had no unkindness in it. "content that thou shouldst bide with us? keep that pretty face of thine merry and glad, good lass--and have no fear." chapter xxiii. a letter. when she should get back from master leofric hope the last portion of the yet unnamed play, there remained (as she considered) but one thing more--to show him the letter written by the king to her father, so that when the skies should clear over the young gentleman's head, and he be permitted to return among his friends and acquaintances, he might have something else occasionally to talk of than ben jonson and his masques and his favor at court. nor had she any difficulty in procuring the letter; for prudence was distinctly of opinion that by right it belonged to judith, who had coveted it from the beginning. however, judith only now wanted the loan of it for a day or two, until, in her wanderings, she might encounter master hope. that opportunity soon arrived; for whether it was that the young gentleman kept a sharp lookout for her, or whether she was able to make a shrewd guess as to his probable whereabouts at certain hours of the day, she had scarcely ever failed to meet him when she went over to shottery for the successive instalments of the play that he had left for her there. on this occasion she had found the last of these awaiting her at the cottage; and when she had put it into her velvet satchel, and bade good-by to her grandmother, she set out for home with a pretty clear foreknowledge that sooner or later the young gentleman would appear. was it not his duty?--to say what he thought of all this romance that he had been allowed to see; and to thank her; and say farewell? for she had a vague impression that she had done as much as could reasonably be expected of her in the way of cheering the solitude of one in misfortune: and she had gathered, moreover, that he was likely soon to leave the neighborhood. but she would not have him go without seeing the king's letter. well, when he stepped forth from behind some trees, she was not surprised; and even the don had grown accustomed to these sudden appearances. "give ye good-day, sweet lady," said he. "and to you, sir," she said. "i thank you for your care in leaving me these pages; i would not have had any harm come to them, even though my father will in time throw them away." "and my thanks to you, sweet mistress judith," said he--"how can i express them?"--and therewith he entered upon such a eulogy of the story he had just been reading as she was not likely to hear from any stratford-born acquaintance. indeed, he spoke well, and with obvious sincerity; and although she had intended to receive these praises with indifference (as though the play were but a trifle that her father had thrown off easily amid the pressure of other labors), she did not quite succeed. there was a kind of triumph in her eyes; her face was glad and proud; when he quoted a bit of one of ariel's songs, she laughed lightly. "he is a clever musician, that merry imp, is he not?" said she. "i would i had such a magic-working spirit to serve me," said he, looking at her. "one could shape one's own course then. 'under the blossom that hangs on the bough,' would be my motto; there would be no going back to london or any other town. and what think you: might he not find out for me some sweet miranda?--not that i am worthy of such a prize, or could do aught to deserve her, except in my duty and humble service to her. the miranda, i think, could be found," he said, glancing timidly at her; "nay, i swear i know myself where to find just such a beautiful and gentle maiden; but where is the ariel that would charm her heart and incline her to pity and kindness?" "here, sir," said she, quickly, "is the letter i said i would bring you, that the king wrote to my father." he did not look at the blue velvet satchel; he looked at her--perhaps to see whether he had gone too far. but she did not show any signs of confusion or resentment; at all events she pretended not to be conscious; and, for one thing, her eyes were lowered, for the satchel seemed for a second or so difficult to open. then she brought forth the letter. "perchance you can tell me the english of it, good sir?" said she. "'tis some time since master blaise read it for us, and i would hear it again." "nay, i fear my latin will scarce go so far," said he--"'tis but little practice in it i have had since my school-days; but i will try to make out the sense of it." she carefully opened the large folded sheet of paper, and handed it to him. this was what he found before him: "jacobus d. g. rex anglorum et scotorum poetæ nostro fideli et bene dilecto gulielmo shakespeare, s. p. d. "cum nuper apud londinium commorati comoediam tuam nobis inductam spectâssemus, de manu viri probi eugenii collins fabulæ libro accepto, operam dedimus ut eam diligenter perlegeremus. subtilissima illa quidem, multisque ingenii luminibus et artis, multis etiam animi oblectamentis, excogitata, nimis tamen accommodata ad cacchinationem movendam vulgi imperiti, politioris humanitatis expertis. quod vero ad opera tua futura attinet, amicissime te admonemus ut multa commentatione et meditatione exemplaria verses antistitum illorum artis comoedicæ, menandri scilicet atheniensis et plauti et terentii romani, qui minus vulgi plausum captabant quam vitiis tanquam flagellis castigandis studebant. qui optimi erant arte et summa honestate et utilitate, qualem te etiam esse volumus; virtutum artium et exercitationum doctores, atque illustrium illorum a deo ad populum regendum præpositorum adminicula. quibus fac ne te minorem præstes; neque tibi nec familiaribus tuis unquam deerimus quin, quum fiat occasio, munere regali fungamur. te interea deus opt. max. feliciter sospitet. "datum ex regia nostra apud greenwich x. kal. jun." he began his translation easily: "'to our trusty and well-beloved poet, william shakespeare: health and greeting.'" but then he began to stammer. "'when formerly--when recently--tarrying in london--thy comedy--thy comedy'--nay, fair mistress judith, i beseech your pardon; i am grown more rusty than i thought, and would not destroy your patience. perchance, now, you would extend your favor once more, and let me have the letter home with me, so that i might spell it out in school-boy fashion?" she hesitated; but only for a second. "nay, good sir, i dare not. these sheets of the play were thrown aside, and so far of little account; but this--if aught were to come amiss to this letter, how should i regard myself? if my father value it but slightly, there be others who think more of it; and--and they have intrusted it to me; i would not have it go out of my own keeping, so please you, and pardon me." it was clear that she did not like to refuse this favor to so courteous and grateful a young gentleman. however, her face instantly brightened. "but i am in no hurry, good sir," said she. "why should you not sit you on the stile there, and take time to master the letter, while i gather some wild flowers for my father? in truth, i am in no hurry; and i would fain have you know what the king wrote." "i would i were a school-boy again for five minutes," said he, with a laugh; but he went obediently to the stile, and sat down, and proceeded to pore over the contents of the letter. and then she wandered off by herself (so as to leave him quite undisturbed), and began to gather here and there a wild rose from the hedge, or a piece of meadow-sweet from the bank beneath, or a bit of yarrow from among the grass. it was a still, clear, quiet day, with some rainy clouds in the sky; and beyond these, near to the horizon, broad silver shafts of sunlight striking down on the woods and the distant hills. it looked as if a kind of mid-day sleep had fallen over the earth; there was scarce a sound; the birds were silent; and there was not even enough wind to make a stirring through the wide fields of wheat or in the elms. the nosegay grew apace, though she went about her work idly--kneeling here and stretching a hand there; and always she kept away from him, and would not even look in his direction; for she was determined that he should have ample leisure to make out the sense of the letter, of which she had but a vague recollection, only that she knew it was complimentary. even when he rose and came toward her she pretended not to notice. she would show him she was in no hurry. she was plucking the heads of red clover, and sucking them to get at the honey; or she was adding a buttercup or two to her nosegay; or she was carelessly humming to herself: "o stay and hear; your true love's coming, that can sing both high and low." "well, now, mistress judith," said he, with an air of apology, "methinks i have got at the meaning of it, however imperfectly; and your father might well be proud of such a commendation from so high a source--the king, as every one knows, being a learned man, and skilled in the arts. and i have not heard that he has written to any other of the poets of our day----" "no, sir?" said she, quickly. "not to master jonson?" "not that i am aware of, sweet lady," said he, "though he hath sometimes messages to send, as you may suppose, by one coming from the court. and i marvel not that your father should put store by this letter that speaks well of his work----" "your pardon, good sir, but 'tis not so," said judith, calmly. "doubtless if the king commend my father's writing, that showeth that his majesty is skilled and learned, as you say; and my father was no doubt pleased enough--as who would not be?--by such a mark of honor; but as for setting great value on it, i assure you he did not; nay, he gave it to julius shawe. and will you read it, good sir?--i remember me there was something in it about the ancients." "'tis but a rough guess that i can make," said he, regarding the paper. "but it seems that the king had received at the hands of one eugene collins the book of a comedy of your father's that had been presented before his majesty when he was recently in london. and very diligently, he says, he has read through the same; and finds it right subtly conceived, with many beauties and delights, and such ornaments as are to be approved by an ingenious mind. it is true his majesty hints that there may be parts of the play more calculated than might be to move the laughter of the vulgar; but you would not have a critic have nothing but praise?--and the king's praise is high indeed. and then he goes on to say that as regards your father's future work, he would in the most friendly manner admonish him to study the great masters of the comic art; that is, menander the athenian, and the romans plautus and terentius, who--who--what says the king?--less studied to capture the applause of the vulgar than to lash the vices of the day as with whips. and these he highly commends as being of great service to the state; and would have your father be the like: teachers of virtue, and also props and aids to those whom god hath placed to rule over the people. he would have your father be among these public benefactors; and then he adds that, when occasion serves, he will not fail to extend his royal favor to your father and his associates; and so commends him to the protection of god. nay, 'tis a right friendly letter; there is none in the land that would not be proud of it; 'tis not every day nor with every one that king james would take such trouble and play the part of tutor." he handed her the letter, and she proceeded to fold it up carefully again and put it in her satchel. she said nothing, but she hoped that these phrases of commendation would remain fixed in his mind when that he was returned to london. and then there was a moment of embarrassment--or at least of constraint. he had never been so near the town with her before (for his praise of her father's comedy, as they walked together, had taken some time), and there before them were the orchards and mud walls, and, further off, the spire of the church among the trees. she did not like to bid him go, and he seemed loath to say farewell, he probably having some dim notion that, now he had seen the end of the play and also this letter, there might be some difficulty in finding an excuse for another meeting. "when do you return to london?" said she, for the sake of saying something. "or may you return? i hope, good sir, your prospects are showing brighter; it must be hard for one of your years to pass the time in idleness." "the time that i have spent in these parts," said he, "has been far more pleasant and joyful to me than i could have imagined--you may easily guess why, dear mistress judith. and now, when there is some prospect of my being able to go, i like it not; so many sweet hours have been passed here, the very fields and meadows around have acquired a charm----" "nay, but, good sir," said she, a little breathlessly, "at your time of life you would not waste the days in idleness." "in truth it has been a gracious idleness!" he exclaimed. "at your time of life," she repeated, quickly, "why, to be shut up in a farm----" "the prince ferdinand," said he, "though i would not compare myself with him, found the time pass pleasantly and sweetly enough, as i reckon, though he was shut up in a cave. but then there was the fair miranda to be his companion. there is no ariel to work such a charm for me, else do you think i could ever bring myself to leave so enchanting a neighborhood?" "good sir," said she (in some anxiety to get away), "i may not ask the reason of your being in hiding, though i wish you well, and would fain hear there was no further occasion for it. and i trust there may be none when next you come to warwickshire, and that those of our household who have a better right to speak for it than i, will have the chance of entertaining you. and now i would bid you farewell." "no, dear judith!" he exclaimed, with a kind of entreaty in his voice. "not altogether? why, look at the day!--would you have me say farewell to you on such a day of gloom and cloud? surely you will let me take away a brighter picture of you, and warwickshire, and our brief meetings in these quiet spots--if go i must. in truth i know not what may happen to me; i would speak plainer; but i am no free agent; i can but beg of you to judge me charitably, if ever you hear aught of me----" and here he stopped abruptly and paused, considering, and obviously irresolute and perplexed. "why," said he at length, and almost to himself--"why should i go away at all? i will carry logs--if needs be--or anything. why should i go?" she knew instantly what he meant; and knew, also, that it was high time for her to escape from so perilous a situation. "i pray you pardon me, good sir; but i must go. come, don." "but one more meeting, sweet mistress judith," he pleaded, "on a fairer day than this--you will grant as much?" "i may not promise," said she; "but indeed i leave with you my good wishes; and so, farewell!" "god shield you, dearest lady," said he, bowing low; "you leave with me also a memory of your kindness that will remain in my heart." well, there was no doubt that she felt very much relieved when she had left him and was nearing the town; and yet she had a kind of pity for him too, as she thought of his going away by himself to that lonely farm: one so gentle, and so grateful for company, being shut up there on this gloomy day. whereas she was going back to a cheerful house; prudence was coming round to spend the afternoon with them, and help to mark the new napery; and then in the evening the whole of them, her father included, were going to sup at dr. hall's, who had purchased a dishful of ancient coins in one of his peregrinations, and would have them come and examine them. perhaps, after all, that reference to miranda was not meant to apply to her. it was but natural he should speak of miranda, having just finished the play. and carrying logs: he could not mean carrying logs for her father; that would be a foolish jest. no, no; he would remain at the farm and spend the time as best he could; and then, when this cloud blew over, he would return to london, and carry with him (as she hoped) some discreet rumor of the new work of her father's that he had praised so highly, and perchance some mention of the compliments paid by the king; and if, in course of time, the young gentleman should make his way back to stratford again, and come to see them at new place, and if his pleasant manner and courtesy proved to be quite irresistible, so that she had to allow the wizard's prophecy to come true in spite of herself, why, then, it was the hand of fate, and none of her doing, and she would have to accept her destiny with as good a grace as might be. as she was going into the town she met tom quincy. he was on the other side of the roadway, and after one swift glance at her, he lowered his eyes, and would have passed on without speaking. and then it suddenly occurred to her that she would put her pride in her pocket. she knew quite well that her maidenly dignity had been wounded by his suspicions, and that she ought to let him go his own way if he chose. but, on the other hand (and this she did not know), there was in her nature an odd element of what might be called boyish generosity--of frankness and common-sense and good comradeship. and these two had been very stanch comrades in former days, each being in a curious manner the protector of the other; for while she many a time came to his aid--being a trifle older than he, and always ready with her quick feminine wit and ingenuity when they were both of them likely to get into trouble--he, on his side, was her shield and bold champion by reason of his superior stature and his strength, and his terrible courage in face of bulls or barking dogs and the like. for the moment she only thought of him as her old companion; and she was a good-natured kind of creature, and frank and boyish in her ways, and so she stepped across the road, though there was some mud about. "why can't we be friends?" said she. "you have enough of other friends," said he. it was a rebuff; but still--she would keep down her girlish pride. "i hope you are not going away from the country?" said she. he did not meet her look; his eyes were fixed on the ground. "what is there to keep me in it?" was his answer. "why, what is there to keep any of us in it?" she said. "heaven's mercy, if we were all to run away when we found something or another not quite to our liking, what a fine thing that would be! nay, i hope there is no truth in it," she continued, looking at him, and not without some memories of their escapades together when they were boy and girl. "'twould grieve many--indeed it would. i pray you think better of it. if for no other, for my sake; we used to be better friends." there were two figures now approaching. "oh, here come widow clemms and her daughter," she said; "a rare couple. 'twill be meat and drink to them to carry back a story. no matter. now, fare you well; but pray think better of it; there be many that would grieve if you went away." he stole a look at her as she passed on: perhaps there was a trifle more than usual of color in her radiant and sunny face, because of the approach of the two women. it was a lingering kind of look that he sent after her; and then he, too, turned and went on his way--cursing the parson. chapter xxiv. a visitor. master leofric hope, on leaving judith, returned to the farm, but not to the solitude that had awakened her commiseration. when he entered his room, which was at the back of the house, and facing the southern horizon (that alone showed some streaks of sunlight on this gloomy day), he found a stranger there--and a stranger who had evidently some notion of making himself comfortable, for he had opened the window, and was now sitting on the sill, and had just begun to smoke his pipe. his hat, his sword, and sword-belt he had flung on the table. for a second the proper owner of the apartment knew not who this new tenant might be--he being dark against the light; but the next second he had recognized him, and that with no good grace. "what the devil brings you here?" said he, sulkily. "a hearty welcome, truly!" the other said, with much complacency. "after all my vexation in finding thee out! a goodly welcome for an old friend! but no matter, jack--come, hast naught to offer one to drink? i have ridden from banbury this morning; and the plague take me if i had not enough trouble ere i found the hare in her form. but 'tis snug--'tis snug. the place likes me; though i thought by now you might have company, and entered with care. come, man, be more friendly! will you not ask me to sit? must i call the landlady--or the farmer's wife--myself, and beg for a cup of something on so hot a day? where be your manners, gentleman jack?" "what the devil brings you into warwickshire?" the other repeated, as he threw his hat on the table, and dropped into a chair, and stretched out his legs, without a further look at his companion. "nay, 'tis what the devil keeps thee here--that is the graver question--though i know the answer right well. come, jack, be reasonable! 'tis for thy good i have sought thee out. what, man, would you ruin us both?--for i tell thee, the end is pressing and near." seeing that his unwilling host would not even turn his eyes toward him, he got down from the window-sill, and came along to the table, and took a chair. he was a short, stout young man, of puffy face and red hair, good-natured in look, but with a curious glaze in his light blue-gray eyes that told of the tavern and himself being pretty close companions. his dress had some show of ornament about it, though it was rather travel-stained and shabby; he wore jewelled rings in his ears; and the handkerchief which he somewhat ostentatiously displayed, if the linen might have been whiter, was elaborately embroidered with thread of coventry blue. for the rest, he spoke pleasantly and good-humoredly, and was obviously determined not to take offence at his anything but hearty reception. "hoy-day," said he, with a laugh, "what a bother i had with the good dame here, that would scarce let me come in! for how knew i what name you might be dancing your latest galliard in?--not plain jack orridge, i'll be bound!--what is't, your worship?--or your lordship, perchance?--nay, but a lord would look best in the eyes of a daughter of will shakespeare, that loveth to have trumpets and drums going, and dukes and princes stalking across his boards. but 'fore heaven, now, jack," said he, interrupting himself, and sending an appealing look round the room, "have you naught to drink in the house? came you ever to my lodging and found such scurvy entertainment?" the reluctant host left the apartment for a second or two, and presently returned, followed by the farmer's wife, who placed on the table a jug of small beer, and some bread and cheese. the bread and cheese did not find much favor with the new-comer, but he drank a large horn of the beer, and took to his pipe again. "come, jack, be friendly," said he; "'tis for thine own good i have sought thee out." "i would you would mind your own business," the other said, with a sullen frown remaining on his face. "mine and yours are one, as i take it, good coz," his companion said, coolly; and then he added in a more friendly way: "come, come, man, you know we must sink or swim together. and sinking it will be, if you give not up this madcap chase. nay, you carry the jest too far, _mon ami_. 'twas a right merry tale at the beginning--the sham wizard, and your coquetting with will shakespeare's daughter to while away the time; 'twas a prank would make them roar at the cranes in the vintry; and right well done, i doubt not--for, in truth, if you were not such a gallant gentleman, you might win to a place in the theatres as well as any of them; but to come back here again--to hide yourself away again--and when i tell you they will no longer forbear, but will clap thee into jail if they have not their uttermost penny--why, 'tis pure moonshine madness to risk so much for a jest!" "i tell thee 'tis no jest at all!" the other said, angrily. "in heaven's name, what brought you here?" "am i to have no care of myself, then, that am your surety, and have their threats from hour to hour?" he laughed in a stupid kind of way, and filled out some more beer and drank it off thirstily. "we had a merry night, last night, at banbury," said he. "i must pluck a hair of the same wolf to-day. and what say you? no jest? nay, you look sour enough to be virtuous, by my life, or to get into a pulpit and preach a sermon against fayles and tick-tack, as wiles of the devil. no jest? have you been overthrown at last--by a country wench? must you take to the plough, and grow turnips? why, i should as soon expect to see gentleman jack consort with the finsbury archers, or go a-ducking to islington ponds! our gentleman jack a farmer! the price of wheat, goodman dickon?--how fatten your pigs?--will the fine weather last, think you? have done with this foolery, man! if all comes to the worst, 'twere better we should take to the road, you and i, and snip a purse when chance might serve." "you?" said his companion, with only half-concealed contempt. "the first click of a pistol would find you behind a hedge." "why, old lad," said the other (who did not seem to have heard that remark, during his pouring out of another hornful of beer), "i know you better than you know yourself. this time, you say, 'tis serious--ay, but how many times before hast thou said the same? and ever the wench is the fairest of her kind, and a queen? for how long?--a fortnight!--perchance three weeks. oh, the wonder of her! and 'tis all a love-worship; and the praising of her hands and ankles; and tom morley's ditty about a lover and his lass, 'that through the green corn fields did pass in the pretty spring-time, ring-a-ding-ding!' ay, for a fortnight; and then gentleman jack discovers that some wench of the bankside hath brighter eyes and freer favors than the country beauty, and you hear no more of him until he has ne'er a penny left, and comes begging his friends to be surety for him, or to write to his grandam at oxford, saying how virtuous a youth he is, and in how sad a plight. good lord, that were an end!--should you have to go back to the old dame at last, and become tapster--no more acting of your lordship and worship--what ho, there! thou lazy knave, a flask of rhenish, and put speed into thy rascal heels!" the cloud on his companion's face had been darkening. "peace, drunken fool!" he muttered--but between his teeth, for he did not seem to wish to anger this stranger. "come, come, man," the other said, jovially, "unwitch thee! unwitch thee! fetch back thy senses. what?--wouldst thou become a jest and byword for every tavern table between the temple and the tower? nay, i cannot believe it of thee, jack. serious? ay, as you have been twenty times before. lord, what a foot and ankle!--and she the queen o' the world--the rose and crown and queen o' the world--and the sighing o' moonlight nights-- 'mignonne, tant je vous aime, mais vous ne m'aimez pas'-- and we are all to be virtuous and live cleanly for the rest of our lives; but the next time you see gentleman jack, lo, you, now!--'tis at the bear-house; his pockets lined with angels wrung from old ely of queenhithe; and as for his company--lord! lord! and as it hath been before, so 'twill be again, as said solomon the wise man; only that this time--mark you now, jack--this time it were well if you came to your senses at once; for i tell thee that ely and the rest of them have lost all patience, and they know this much of thy stratford doings, that if they cannot exactly name thy whereabout, they can come within a stone's-cast of thee. and if i come to warn thee--as is the office of a true friend and an old companion--why shouldst thou sit there with a sulky face, man? did i ever treat thee so in fetter lane?" while he had been talking, a savory odor had begun to steal into the apartment, and presently the farmer's wife appeared, and proceeded to spread the cloth for dinner. her lodger had given no orders; but she had taken his return as sufficient signal, and naturally she assumed that his friend would dine with him. accordingly, in due course, there was placed on the board a smoking dish of cow-heel and bacon, with abundance of ale and other garnishings; and as this fare seemed more tempting to the new-comer than the bread and cheese, he needed no pressing to draw his chair to the table. it was not a sumptuous feast; but it had a beneficial effect on both of them--sobering the one, and rendering the other somewhat more placable. master leofric hope--as he had styled himself--was still in a measure taciturn; but his guest--whose name, it appeared, was francis lloyd--had ceased his uncomfortable banter; and indeed all his talk now was of the charms and wealth of a certain widow who lived in a house near to gray's inn, on the road to hampstead. he had been asked to dine with the widow; and he gave a magniloquent description of the state she kept--of her serving-men, and her furniture, and her plate, and the manner in which she entertained her friends. "and why was i," said he--"why was poor frank lloyd--that could scarce get the wherewithal to pay for a rose for his ear--why was he picked out for so great a favor? why, but that he was known to be a friend of handsome jack orridge. 'where be your friend master orridge, now?' she says, for she hath sometimes a country trick in her speech, hath the good lady. 'business, madam--affairs of great import,' i say to her, 'keep him still in the country.' would i tell her the wolves were waiting to rend you should you be heard of anywhere within london city? 'handsome jack, they call him, is't not so?' says she. would i tell her thou wert called 'gentleman jack?' as if thou hadst but slim right to the title. then says she to one of the servants, 'fill the gentleman's cup.' lord, jack, what a sherris that was!--'twas meat and drink; a thing to put marrow in your bones--cool and clear it was, and rich withal--cool on the tongue and warm in the stomach. 'fore heaven, jack, if thou hast not ever a cup of that wine ready for me when i visit thee, i will say thou hast no more gratitude than a toad. and then says she to all the company (raising her glass the while), 'absent friends;' but she nods and smiles to me, as one would say: 'we know whom we mean; we know.' lord, that sherris, jack! i have the taste of it in my mouth now; i dream o' nights there is a jug of it by me." "dreaming or waking, there is little else in thy head," said the other; "nor in thy stomach, either." "is it a bargain, jack?" he said, looking up from his plate and regarding his companion with a fixed look. "a bargain?" "i tell thee 'tis the only thing will save us now." this frank lloyd said with more seriousness than he had hitherto shown. "heavens, man, you must cease this idling; i tell thee they are not in the frame for further delay. 'tis the widow becket or the king's highway, one or t'other, if you would remain a free man; and as for the highway, why, 'tis an uncertain trade, and i know that gentleman jack is no lover of broken heads. what else would you? live on in a hole like this? nay, but they would not suffer you. i tell you they are ready to hunt you out at this present moment. go beyond seas? ay, and forsake the merry nights at the cranes and the silver hind? when thy old grandam is driven out of all patience, and will not even forth with a couple of shillings to buy you wine and radish for your breakfast, 'tis a bad case. wouldst go down to oxford and become tapster?--gentleman jack, that all of them think hath fine fat acres in the west country, and a line of ancestors reaching back to noah the sailor or adam gardener. come, man, unwitch thee! collect thy senses. if this sorry jest of thine be growing serious--and i confess i had some thought of it, when you would draw on harry condell for the mere naming of the wench's name--then, o' heaven's name, come away and get thee out of such foolery! i tell thee thou art getting near an end, o' one way or another; and wouldst thou have me broken too, that have ever helped thee, and shared my last penny with thee?" "broken?" said his friend, with a laugh. "if there be any in the country more broken than you and i are at this moment, frank, i wish them luck of their fortunes. but still there is somewhat for you. you have not pawned those jewels in your ears yet. and your horse--you rode hither, said you not?--well, i trust it is a goodly beast, for it may have to save thee from starvation ere long." "nay, ask me not how i came by the creature," said he, "but 'tis not mine, i assure ye." "whose, then?" master frank lloyd shrugged his shoulders. "if you cannot guess my errand," said he, "you cannot guess who equipped me." "nay," said his friend, who was now in a much better humor, "read me no riddles, frank. i would fain know who knew thee so little as to lend thee a horse and see thee ride forth with it. who was't, frank?" his companion looked up and regarded him. "the widow becket," he answered, coolly. "what?" said the other, laughing. "art thou so far in the good dame's graces, and yet would have me go to london and marry her?" "'tis no laughing matter, master jack, as you may find out ere long," the other said. "the good lady lent me the horse, 'tis true; else how could i have come all the way into warwickshire?--ay, and lent me an angel or two to appease the villain landlords. i tell thee she is as bountiful as the day. lord, what a house!--i'll take my oath that master butler hath a good fat capon and a bottle of claret each evening for his supper--if he have not, his face belieth him. and think you she would be niggard with handsome jack? nay, but a gentleman must have his friends; ay, and his suppers at the tavern, when the play is over; and store of pieces in his purse to make you good company. why, man, thy fame would spread through the blackfriars, i warrant you: where is the hostess that would not simper and ogle and court'sy to gentleman jack, when that he came among them, slapping the purse in his pouch?" "'tis a fair picture," his friend said. "thy wits have been sharpened by thy long ride, frank. and think you the buxom widow would consent, were one to make bold and ask her? nay, nay; 'tis thy dire need hath driven thee to this excess of fancy." for answer master lloyd proceeded to bring forth a small box, which he opened, and took therefrom a finger ring. it was a man's ring, of massive setting; the stone of a deep blood-red, and graven with an intaglio of a roman bust. he pushed it across the table. "the horse was lent," said he, darkly. "that--if it please you--you may keep and wear." "what mean you?" leofric hope said, in some surprise. "'i name no thing, and i mean no thing,'" said he, quoting a phrase from a popular ballad. "if you understand not, 'tis a pity. i may not speak more plainly. but bethink you that poor frank lloyd was not likely to have the means of purchasing thee such a pretty toy, much as he would like to please his old friend. nay, canst thou not see, jack? 'tis a message, man! more i may not say. take it and wear it, good lad; and come back boldly to london; and we will face the harpies, and live as free men, ere a fortnight be over. what?--must i speak? nay, an' you understand not, i will tell no more." he understood well enough; and he sat for a second or two moodily regarding the ring; but he did not take it up. then he rose from the table, and began to walk up and down the room. "frank," said he, "couldst thou but see this wench----" "nay, nay, spare me the catalogue," his friend answered, quickly. "i heard thee declare that ben jonson had no words to say how fair she was: would you better his description and overmaster him? and fair or not fair, 'tis all the same with thee; any petticoat can bewitch thee out of thy senses: black almaine or new almaine may be the tune, but 'tis ever the same dance; and such a heaving of sighs and despair!-- 'thy gown was of the grassy green, thy sleeves of satin hanging by; which made thee be our harvest queen-- and yet thou wouldst not love me.' 'tis a pleasant pastime, friend jack; but there comes an end. i know not which be the worse, wenches or usurers, for landing a poor lad in jail; but both together, jack--and that is thy case--they are not like to let thee escape. 'tis not to every one in such a plight there cometh a talisman like that pretty toy there: beshrew me, what a thing it is in this world to have a goodly presence!" he now rose from the table and went to the door, and called aloud for some one to bring him a light. when that was brought, and his pipe set going, he sat him down on the bench by the empty fire-place, for the seat seemed comfortable, and there he smoked with much content, while his friend continued to pace up and down the apartment, meditating over his own situation, and seemingly not over well pleased with the survey. presently something in one of the pigeon-holes over the fire-place attracted the attention of the visitor; and having nothing better to do (for he would leave his friend time to ponder over what he had said), he rose and pulled forth a little bundle of sheets of paper that opened in his hand as he sat down again. "what's this, jack?" said he. "hast become playwright? surely all of this preachment is not in praise of the fair damsel's eyebrows?" his friend turned round, saw what he had got hold of, and laughed. "that, now," said he, "were something to puzzle the wits with, were one free to go to london. i had some such jest in mind; but perchance 'twas more of idleness that made me copy out the play." "'tis not yours, then? whose?" said master frank lloyd, looking over the pages with some curiosity. "whose? why, 'tis by one will shakespeare, that you may have heard of. would it not puzzle them, frank? were it not a good jest, now, to lay it before some learned critic and ask his worship's opinion? or to read it at the silver hind as of thy writing? would not dame margery weep with joy? out upon the mermaid!--have we not poets of our own?" he had drawn near, and was looking down at the sheets that his friend was examining. "i tell thee this, jack," the latter said, in his cool way, "there is more than a jest to be got out of a play by will shakespeare. would not the booksellers give us the price of a couple of nags for it if we were pressed so far?" "mind thine own business, fool!" was the angry rejoinder; and ere he knew what had happened his hands were empty. * * * * * and at that same moment, away over there in stratford town, judith was in the garden, trying to teach little bess hall to dance, and merrily laughing the while. and when the dancing lesson was over she would try a singing lesson; and now the child was on judith's shoulder, and had hold of her bonny sun-brown curls. "well done, bess; well done! now again-- 'the hunt is up--the hunt is up-- awake, my lady dear! o a morn in spring is the sweetest thing cometh in all the year!' well done indeed! will not my father praise thee, lass; and what more wouldst thou have for all thy pains?" chapter xxv. an appeal. great changes were in store. to begin with, there were rumors of her father being about to return to london. then dr. hall was summoned away into worcestershire by a great lady living there, who was continually fancying herself at the brink of death, and manifesting on such occasions a terror not at all in consonance with her professed assurance that she was going to a happier sphere. as it was possible that dr. hall would seize this opportunity to pay several other professional visits in the neighboring county, it was proposed that susan and her daughter should come for a while to new place, and that judith should at the same time go and stay with her grandmother at shottery, to cheer the old dame somewhat. and so it happened, on this july morning, that judith's mother having gone round to see her elder daughter about all these arrangements, judith found herself not only alone in the house, but, as rarely chanced, with nothing to do. she tried to extract some music from her sister's lute, but that was a failure; she tried half a dozen other things; and then it occurred to her--for the morning was fine and clear, and she was fond of the meadows and of open air and sunlight--that she would walk round to the grammar school and beg for a half-holiday for willie hart. he, as well as bess hall, was under her tuition; and there were things she could teach him of quite as much value (as she considered) as anything to be learned at a desk. at the same time, before going to meet the staring eyes of all those boys, she thought she might as well repair to her own room and smarten up her attire--even to the extent, perhaps, of putting on her gray beaver hat with the row of brass beads. that was not at all necessary. nothing of the kind was needful to make judith shakespeare attractive and fascinating and wonderful to that crowd of lads. the fact was, the whole school of them were more or less secretly in love with her; and this, so far from procuring willie hart such bumps and thrashings that he might have received from a solitary rival, gained for him; on the contrary, a mysterious favor and good-will that showed itself in a hundred subtle ways. for he was in a measure the dispenser of judith's patronage. when he was walking along the street with her he would tell her the name of this one or that of his companions (in case she had forgotten), and she would stop and speak to him kindly, and hope he was getting on well with his tasks. also the other lads, on the strength of willie hart's intermediation, would now make bold to say, with great politeness, "give ye good-morrow, mistress judith," when they met her, and sometimes she would pause for a moment and chat with one of them, and make some inquiries of him as to whether her cousin did not occasionally need a little help in his lessons from the bigger boys. then there was a kind of fury of assistance instantly promised; and the youth would again remember his good manners, and bid her formally farewell, and go on his way, with his heart and his cheeks alike afire, and his brain gone a-dancing. even that dread being, the head-master, had no frown for her when she went boldly up to his desk, in the very middle of the day's duties, to demand some favor. nay, he would rather detain her with a little pleasant conversation, and would at times become almost facetious (at sight of which the spirits of the whole school rose into a seventh heaven of equanimity). and always she got what she wanted; and generally, before leaving, she would give one glance down the rows of oaken benches, singling out her friends here and there, and, alas! not thinking at all of the deadly wounds she was thus dealing with those lustrous and shining eyes. well, on this morning she had no difficulty in rescuing her cousin from the dull captivity of the school-room; and hand in hand they went along and down to the river-side and to the meadows there. but seemingly she had no wish to get much farther from the town; for the truth was that she lacked assurance as yet that master leofric hope had left that neighborhood; and she was distinctly of a mind to avoid all further communications with him until, if ever, he should be able to come forward openly and declare himself to the small world in which she lived. accordingly she did not lead willie hart far along the river-side path; they rather kept to seeking about the banks and hedge-rows for wild flowers--the pink and white bells of the bind-weed she was mostly after, and these did not abound there--until at last they came to a stile; and there she sat down, and would have her cousin sit beside her, so that she should give him some further schooling as to all that he was to do and think and be in the coming years. she had far other things than lilly's grammar to teach him. the sententiæ pueriles contained no instruction as to how, for example, a modest and well-conducted youth should approach his love-maiden to discover whether her heart was well inclined toward him. and although her timid-eyed pupil seemed to take but little interest in the fair creature that was thus being provided for him in the future, and was far more anxious to know how he was to win judith's approval, either now or then, still he listened contentedly enough, for judith's voice was soft and musical. nay, he put that imaginary person out of his mind altogether. it was judith, and judith alone, whom he saw in these forecasts. would he have any other supplant her in his dreams and visions of what was to be? this world around him--the smooth-flowing avon, the wooded banks, the wide white skies, the meadows and fields and low-lying hills: was not she the very spirit and central life and light of all these? without her, what would these be?--dead things; the mystery and wonder gone out of them; a world in darkness. but he could not think of that; the world he looked forward to was filled with light, for judith was there, the touch of her hand as gentle as ever, her eyes still as kind. "so must you be accomplished at all points, sweetheart," she was continuing, "that you shame her not in any company, whatever the kind of it may be. if they be grave, and speak of the affairs of the realm, then must you know how the country is governed, as becomes a man (though, being a woman, alack! i cannot help you there), and you must have opinions about what is best for england, and be ready to uphold them, too. then, if the company be of a gayer kind, again you shall not shame her, but take part in all the merriment; and if there be dancing, you shall not go to the door, and hang about like a booby; you must know the new dances, every one; for would you have your sweetheart dance with others, and you standing by? that were a spite, i take it, for both of you!--nay, would not the wench be angry to be so used? let me see, now--what is the name of it?--the one that is danced to the tune of 'the merchant's daughter went over the field?'--have i shown you that, sweetheart?" "i know not, cousin judith," said he. "come, then," said she, blithely; and she took him by the hand and placed him opposite her in the meadow. "look you, now, the four at the top cross hands--so (you must imagine the other two, sweetheart); and all go round once--so; and then they change hands, and go back the other way--so; and then each takes his own partner, and away they go round the circle, and back to their place. is it not simple, cousin? come, now, let us try properly." and so they began again; and for music she lightly hummed a verse of a song that was commonly sung to the same tune: maid, will you love me, yes or no? tell me the truth, and let me go. "the other hand, willie--quick!" it can be no less than a sinful deed (trust me truly) to linger a lover that looks to speed (in due time duly). "why, is it not simple!" she said, laughing. "but now, instead of crossing hands, i think it far the prettier way that they should hold their hands up together--so: shall we try it, sweetheart?" and then she had to sing another verse of the ballad: consider, sweet, what sighs and sobs do nip my heart with cruel throbs, and all, my dear, for the love of you (trust me truly); but i hope that you will some mercy show (in due time duly). "and then," she continued, when they had finished that laughing rehearsal, "should the fiddles begin to squeal and screech--which is as much as to say, 'now, all of you, kiss your partners!'--then shall you not bounce forward and seize the wench by the neck, as if you were a ploughboy besotted with ale, and have her hate thee for destroying her head-gear and her hair. no, you shall come forward in this manner, as if to do her great courtesy, and you shall take her hand and bend one knee--and make partly a jest of it, but not altogether a jest--and then you shall kiss her hand, and rise and retire. think you the maiden will not be proud that you have shown her so much honor and respect in public?--ay, and when she and you are thereafter together, by yourselves, i doubt not but that she may be willing to make up to you for your forbearance and courteous treatment of her. marry, with that i have naught to do; 'tis as the heart of the wench may happen to be inclined; though you may trust me she will be well content that you show her other than ale-house manners; and if 'tis but a matter of a kiss that you forego, because you would pay her courtesy in public, why, then, as i say, she may make that up to thee, or she is no woman else. i wonder, now, what the bonnybel will be like--or tall, or dark, or fair----" "i wish never to see her, judith," said he, simply. however, there was to be no further discussion of this matter, nor yet greensward rehearsals of dancing; for they now descried coming to them the little maid who waited on judith's grandmother. she seemed in a hurry, and had a basket over her arm. "how now, little cicely?" judith said, as she drew near. "i have sought you everywhere, so please you, mistress judith," the little maid said, breathlessly, "for i was coming in to the town--on some errands--and--and i met the stranger gentleman that came once or twice to the house--and--and he would have me carry a message to you----" "prithee, good lass," said judith, instantly, and with much composure, "go thy way back home. i wish for no message." "he seemed in sore distress," the little maid said, diffidently. "how, then? did a gentleman of his tall inches seek help from such a mite as thou?" "he would fain see you, sweet mistress, and but for a moment," the girl answered, being evidently desirous of getting the burden of the message off her mind. "he bid me say he would be in the lane going to bidford, or thereabout, for the next hour or two, and would crave a word with you--out of charity, the gentleman said, or something of the like--and that it might be the last chance of seeing you ere he goes, and that i was to give his message to you very secretly." well, she scarcely knew what to do. at their last interview he had pleaded for another opportunity of saying farewell to her, and she had not definitely refused; but, on the other hand, she would much rather have seen nothing further of him in these present circumstances. his half-reckless references to prince ferdinand undergoing any kind of hardship for the sake of winning the fair miranda were of a dangerous cast. she did not wish to meet him on that ground at all, even to have her suspicions removed. but if he were really in distress? and this his last day in the neighborhood? it seemed a small matter to grant. "what say you, cousin willie?" said she, good-naturedly. "shall we go and see what the gentleman would have of us? i cannot, unless with thee as my shield and champion." "if you wish it, cousin judith," said he: what would he not do that she wished? "and cicely--shall we all go?" "nay, so please you, mistress judith," the girl said; "i have to go back for my errands. i have been running everywhere to seek you." "then, willie, come along," said she, lightly. "we must get across the fields to the evesham road." and so the apple-cheeked little maiden trudged back to the town with her basket, while judith and her companion went on their way across the meadows. there was a kind of good-humored indifference in her consent, though she felt anxious that the interview should be as brief as possible. she had had more time of late to think over all the events that had recently happened--startling events enough in so quiet and even a life; and occasionally she bethought her of the wizard, and of the odd coincidence of her meeting this young gentleman at the very spot that had been named. she had tried to laugh aside certain recurrent doubts and surmises, and was only partially successful. and she had a vivid recollection of the relief she had experienced when their last interview came to an end. "you must gather me some flowers, sweetheart," said she, "while i am speaking to this gentleman; perchance he may have something to say of his own private affairs." "i will go on to your grandmother's garden," said he, "if you wish it, cousin judith, and get you the flowers there." "indeed, no," she answered, patting him on the shoulder. "would you leave me without my champion? nay, but if you stand aside a little, that the gentleman may speak in confidence, if that be his pleasure, surely that will be enough." they had scarcely entered the lane when he made his appearance, and the moment she set eyes on him she saw that something had happened. his face seemed haggard and anxious--nay, his very manner was changed; where was the elaborate courtesy with which he had been wont to approach her? "judith," said he, hurriedly, "i must risk all now. i must speak plain. i--i scarce hoped you would give me the chance." but she was in no alarm. "now, sweetheart," said she, calmly, to the little lad, "you may get me the flowers; and if you find any more of the bind-weed bells and the st. john's wort, so much the better." then she turned to master leofric hope. "i trust you have had no ill news," said she, but in a kind way. "indeed, i have. well, i know not which way to take it," he said, in a sort of desperate fashion. "it might be good news. but i am hard pressed; 'twill be sink or swim with me presently. well, there is one way of safety opened to me: 'tis for you to say whether i shall take it or not." "i, sir?" she said; and she was so startled that she almost recoiled a step. "nay, but first i must make a confession," said he, quickly, "whatever comes of it. think of me what you will, i will tell you the truth. shall i beg for your forgiveness beforehand?" he was regarding her earnestly and anxiously, and there was nothing but kindness and a dim expression of concern in his honest, frank face and in the beautiful eyes. "no, i will not," he said. "doubtless you will be angry, and with just cause; and you will go away. well, this is the truth. the devils of usurers were after me; i had some friends not far from here; i escaped to them; and they sought out this hiding for me. then i had heard of you--you will not forgive me, but this is the truth--i had heard of your beauty; and satan himself put it into my head that i must see you. i thought it would be a pastime, to while away this cursed hiding, if i could get to know you without discovering myself. i sent you a message. i was myself the wizard. heaven is my witness that when i saw you at the corner of the field up there, and heard you speak, and looked on your gracious and gentle ways, remorse went to my heart; but how could i forego seeking to see you again? it was a stupid jest. it was begun in thoughtlessness; but now the truth is before you: i was myself the wizard; and--and my name is not leofric hope, but john orridge--a worthless poor devil that is ashamed to stand before you." well, the color had mounted to her face: for she saw clearly the invidious position that this confession had placed her in; but she was far less startled than he had expected. she had already regarded this trick as a possible thing, and she had also fully considered what she ought to do in such circumstances. now, when the circumstances were actually laid before her, she made no display of wounded pride, or of indignant anger, or anything of the kind. "i pray you," said she, with a perfect and simple dignity, "pass from that. i had no such firm belief in the wizard's prophecies. i took you as you represented yourself to be, a stranger, met by chance, one who was known to my father's friends, and who was in misfortune; and if i have done aught beyond what i should have done in such a pass, i trust you will put it down to our country manners, that are perchance less guarded than those of the town." for an instant--there was not the slightest doubt of it--actual tears stood in the young man's eyes. "by heavens," he exclaimed, "i think you must be the noblest creature god ever made! you do not drive me away in scorn; you have no reproaches? and i--to be standing here--telling you such a tale----" "i pray you, sir, pass from that," said she. "what of your own fortune? you are quitting the neighborhood?" "but how can you believe me in anything, since you know how i have deceived you?" said he, as if he could not understand how she should make no sign of her displeasure. "'twas but a jest, as you say," she answered, good-naturedly, but still with a trifle of reserve. "and no harm has come of it. i would leave it aside, good sir." "harm?" said he, regarding her with a kind of anxious timidity. "that may or may not be, sweet lady, as time will show. if i dared but speak to you--well, bethink you of my meeting you here from day to day, in these quiet retreats, and seeing such a sweetness and beauty and womanliness as i have never met in the world before--such a wonder of gentleness and kindness----" "i would ask you to spare me these compliments," said she, simply. "i thought 'twas some serious matter you had in hand." "serious enough i' faith!" he said, in an altered tone, as if she had recalled him to a sense of the position in which he stood. "but there is the one way out of it, after all. i can sell my life away for money to pacify those fiends; nay, besides that, i should live in abundance, doubtless, and be esteemed a most fortunate gentleman, and one to be envied. a gilded prison-house and slavery; but what would the fools think of that if they saw me with a good fat purse at the tavern?" again he regarded her. "there is another way yet, however, if i must needs trouble you, dear mistress judith, with my poor affairs. what if i were to break with that accursed london altogether, and go off and fight my way in another country, as many a better man hath done? ay, and there be still one or two left who would help me to escape if they saw me on the way to reform, as they would call it. and what would i not do in that way--ay, or in any way--if i could hope for a certain prize to be won at the end of it all?" "and that, good sir?" "that," said he, watching her face--"the reward that would be enough and more than enough for all i might suffer would be just this--to find judith shakespeare coming to meet me in this very lane." "oh, no, sir," was her immediate and incoherent exclamation; and then she promptly pulled herself together, and said, with some touch of pride: "indeed, good sir, you talk wildly. i scarce understand how you can be in such grave trouble." "then," said he, and he was rather pale, and spoke slowly, "it would be no manner of use for any poor ferdinand of these our own days to go bearing logs or suffering any hardships that might arise? there would be no miranda waiting for him, after all?" she colored deeply; she could not affect to misunderstand the repeated allusion; and all she had in her mind now was to leave him and get away from him, and yet without unkindness or anger. "good sir," said she, with such equanimity as she could muster, "if that be your meaning--if that be why you wished to see me again--and no mere continuance of an idle jest, plain speech will best serve our turn. i trust no graver matters occupy your mind; as for this, you must put that away. it was with no thought of any such thing that i--that i met you once or twice, and--and lent you such reading as might pass the time for you. and perchance i was too free in that, and in my craving to hear of my father and his friends in london, and the rest. but what you say now, if i understand you aright--well, i had no thought of any such thing. indeed, good sir, if i have done wrong in listening to you about my father's friends, 'twas in the hope that soon or late you would continue the tale in my father's house. but now--what you say--bids me to leave you--and yet in no anger--for in truth i wish you well." she gave him her hand, and he held it for a moment. "is this your last word, judith?" said he. "yes, yes, indeed," she answered, rather breathlessly and earnestly. "i may not see you again. i pray heaven your troubles may soon be over; and perchance you may meet my father in london, and become one of his friends; then might i hear of your better fortunes. 'twould be welcome news, believe me. and now fare you well." he stooped to touch her hand with his lips; but he said not a word; and she turned away without raising her eyes. he stood there motionless and silent, watching her and the little boy as they walked along the lane toward the village--regarding them in an absent kind of way, and yet with no great expression of sadness or hopelessness in his face. then he turned and made for the highway to bidford; and he was saying to himself as he went along: "well, there goes one chance in life, for good or ill. and what if i had been more persistent? what if she had consented, or even half consented, or said that in the future i might come back with some small modicum of hope? nay: the devil only knows where i should get logs to carry for the winning of so fair a reward. frank lloyd is right. my case is too desperate. so fare you well, sweet maiden; keep you to your quiet meadows and your wooded lanes: and the clown that will marry you will give you a happier life than ever you could have had with jack orridge and his broken fortunes." indeed, he seemed in no downcast mood. as he walked along the highway he was absently watching the people in the distant fields, or idly whistling the tune of "calen o custure me." but by and by, as he drew near the farm, his face assumed a more sombre look; and when, coming still nearer, he saw frank lloyd calmly standing at the door of the stables, smoking his pipe, there was a sullen frown on his forehead that did not promise well for the cheerfulness of that journey to london which master lloyd had sworn he would not undertake until his friend was ready to accompany him. chapter xxvi. to london town. but that was not the departure for london which was soon to bring judith a great heaviness of heart, and cause many a bitter fit of crying when that she was lying awake o' nights. she would rather have let all her lovers go, and welcome, a hundred times over. but, as the days passed, it became more and more evident, from certain preparations, that her father was about to leave stratford for the south, and finally the very moment was fixed. judith strove to keep a merry face (for so she had been bid), but again and again she was on the point of going to him and falling on her knees and begging him to remain with them. she knew that he would laugh at her; but did he quite know what going away from them meant? and the use of it? had they not abundance? still, she was afraid of being chid for meddling in matters beyond her; and so she went about her duties with as much cheerfulness as she could assume; though, when in secret conclave with prudence, and talking of this, and what the house would be like when he was gone, quiet tears would steal down her face in the dusk. to suit the convenience of one or two neighbors, who were also going to london, the day of departure had been postponed; but at last the fatal morning arrived. judith, from an early hour, was on the watch, trying to get some opportunity of saying good-by to her father by herself (and not before all the strangers who would soon be gathering together), but always she was defeated, for he was busy in-doors with many things, and every one was lending a helping hand. moreover, she was in an excited and trembling state; and more than once she had to steal away to her chamber and bathe her eyes with water lest that they should tell any tale when he regarded her. but the climax of her misfortunes was this. when the hour for leaving was drawing nigh she heard him go out and into the garden, doubtless with the intention of locking up the cupboard in the summer-house; and so she presently and swiftly stole out after him, thinking that now would be her chance. alas! the instant she had passed through the back-court door she saw that matthew gardener had forestalled her; and not only that, but he had brought a visitor with him--the master constable, grandfather jeremy, whom she knew well. anger filled her heart; but there was no time to stand on her dignity. she would not retire from the field. she walked forward boldly, and stood by her father's side, as much as to say: "well, this is my place. what do you want? why this intrusion at such a time?" grandfather jeremy was a little, thin, round-shouldered ancient, with long, straggling gray hair, and small, shrewd, ferret-like eyes that kept nervously glancing from judith's father to goodman matthew, who had obviously introduced him on this occasion. indeed, the saturnine visage of the gardener was overspread with a complacent grin, as though he were saying, "look you there, zur, there be a rare vool." judith's father, on the other hand, showed no impatience over this interruption; he kept waiting for the old man to recover his power of speech. "well, now, master constable, what would you?" he said gently. "why can't 'ee tell his worship, jeremy?" matthew gardener said, in his superior and facetious fashion, "passion o' me, man, thy tongue will wag fast enough at mother tooley's ale-house." "it wur a contrevarsie, so please your worship," the ancient constable said, but with a kind of vacant stare, as if he were half lost in looking back into his memory. "ay, and with whom?" said judith's father, to help him along. "with my poor old woman, so please your worship. she be a poor, mean creature in your honor's eyes, i make no doubt; but she hath wisdom, she hath, and a strength in contrevarsie past most. lord, lord, why be i standing here now--and holding your worship--and your worship's time and necessities--but that she saith, 'jeremy, put thy better leg avore;' 'speak out,' saith she; ''twur as good for thee as a half-ox in a pie, or a score of angels in thy pouch.' 'speak out,' she saith, 'and be not afraid, jeremy.'" "but, master constable," said judith's father, "if your good dame be such a mary ambree in argument, she should have furnished you with fewer words and more matter. what would you?" "nay, zur, i be as bold as most," said the constable, pulling up his courage, and also elevating his head somewhat with an air of authority. "i can raise hue and cry in the hundred, that can i; and if the watch bring me a rogue, he shall lie by the heels, or i am no true man. but lord, zur, have pity on a poor man that be put forward to speak for a disputation. when they wur talking of it at furst, your worship--this one and the other, and all of them to once--and would have me go forward to speak for them, 'zure,' says i, 'i would as lief go to a bride-ale with my legs swaddled in wisps as go avore mahster shaksper without a power o' voine words.' but joan, she saith, 'jeremy, fear no man, howsoever great, for there be but the one lord over us all; perzent thyself like a true countryman and an honest officer; take thy courage with thee,' saith she; 'and remember thou speakest vor thy friends as well as vor thyself. 'tis a right good worshipful gentleman,' she saith, meaning yourself, sweet mahster shaksper; 'and will a not give us a share?'" "in heaven's name, man," said judith's father, laughing, "what would you? had joan no clearer message to give you?" "i but speak her words, so please your worship," said the ancient constable, with the air of one desperately trying to recall a lesson that had been taught him. "and all of them--they wur zaying as how she hath a power o' wisdom--and, 'jeremy,' she saith, 'be not overbold with the worthy gentleman; 'tis but a share; and he be a right worthy and civil gentleman; speak him fair, jeremy,' she saith, 'and put thy better leg avore, and acquit thee as a man. nay, be bold,' she saith, 'and think of thy vriends, that be waiting without for an answer. think of them, jeremy,' she saith, 'if thy speech fail thee. 'tis but a share; 'tis but a share; and he a right worshipful and civil gentleman.'" judith's father glanced at the sun-dial on the gable of the barn. "my good friend," said he, "i hear that your wife joan is ailing; 'tis through no lack of breath, i warrant me. an you come not to the point forthwith, i must be gone. what would you? or what would your good dame have of me?--for there we shall get to it more quickly." "so please you, zur," said matthew, with his complacent grin, "the matter be like this, now: this worthy master constable and his comrades of the watch, they wur laying their heads together like; and they have heard say that you have written of them, and taken of their wisdom the couple o' nights they wur brought in to supper; and they see as how you have grown rich, so please you, zur, with such writing----" "a vast o' money--a vast o' money and lands," the other murmured. "and now, zur, they would make bold to ask for their share, for the help that they have given you. nay, zur," continued matthew gardener, who was proud of the ease with which he could put into words the inarticulate desires of this good constable, "be not angry with worthy jeremy; he but speaketh for the others, and for his wife joan too, that be as full of courage as any of them, and would have come to your worship but that she be sore troubled with an ague. lord, zur, i know not how much the worthy gentlemen want. perchance good jeremy would be content wi' the barn and the store of malt in the malt-house----" at this the small deep eyes of the ancient began to twinkle nervously; and he glanced in an anxious way from one to the other. "and the watch, now," continued matthew grinning, and regarding the old constable; "why, zur, they be poor men; 'twould go well with them to divide amongst them the store of good wine in the cellar, and perchance also the leather hangings that be so much talked of in the town. but hark you, good jeremy, remember this, now--that whoever hath the garden and orchard fall to his lot must pay me my wages, else 'tis no bargain." for the first time in her life judith saw her father in a passion of anger. his color did not change; but there was a strange look about his mouth, and his eyes blazed. "thou cursed fool," he said to the gardener, "'tis thou hast led these poor men into this folly." and then he turned to the bewildered constable, and took him by the arm. "come, good friend," said he, in a kindly way, "come into the house and i will explain these matters to thee. thou hast been mislead by that impudent knave--by my life, i will settle that score with him ere long; and in truth the aid that you and your comrades have given me is chiefly that we have passed a pleasant evening or two together, and been merry or wise as occasion offered. and i would have you spend such another to-night among yourselves, leaving the charges at the ale-house to me; and for the present, if i may not divide my store of wine among you, 'tis no reason why you and i should not have a parting cup ere i put hand to bridle----" that was all that judith heard; and then she turned to the ancient wise man and said, coolly, "were i in thy place, good matthew, i would get me out of this garden, and out of stratford town too, ere my father come back." and matthew was too frightened to answer her. the outcome of all this, however, was that judith's father did not return to the garden; and when she went into the house she found that he had taken such time to explain to jeremy constable how small a share in his writings had been contributed by these good people that certain of the members of the expedition bound for london had already arrived. indeed, their horses and attendants were at the door; and all and everything was in such a state of confusion and uproar that judith saw clearly she had no chance of saying a quiet good-by to her father all by herself. but was she to be again balked by goodman matthew? she thought not. she slipped away by the back door and disappeared. there was quite a little crowd gathered to see the cavalcade move off. dr. hall was not there, but tom quiney was--bringing with him as a parting gift for judith's father a handsome riding-whip; and the worthy parson blaise had also appeared, though there was no opportunity for his professional services amid so much bustle. and then there were hand-shakings and kissings and farewells; and judith's father was just about to put his foot in the stirrup, when susanna called out: "but where is judith? is she not coming to say good-by to my father?" then there were calls for judith, here, there, and everywhere, but no answer; and her mother was angry that the girl should detain all this assemblage. but her father, not having mounted, went rapidly through the house, and just opened the door leading into the garden. the briefest glance showed him that the mastiff was gone. then he hurried back. "'tis all well, good mother," said he, as he got into the saddle. "i shall see the wench ere i go far. i know her tricks." so the company moved away from the house, and through the streets, and down to clopton's bridge. once over the bridge, they struck to the right, taking the oxford road by shipston and enstone; and ere they had gone far along the highway, judith's father, who seemed less to join in the general hilarity and high spirits of the setting out than to be keeping a watch around, perceived something in the distance--at a corner where there was a high bank behind some trees--that caused him to laugh slightly, and to himself. when they were coming near this corner the figure that had been on the sky-line had disappeared; but down by the road-side was judith herself, looking very tremulous and ashamed as all these people came along, and the great don standing by her. her father, who had some knowledge of her ways, bade them all ride on, and then he turned his horse, and sprang down from the saddle. "well, wench," said he, and he took her by the shoulders, "what brings you here?" in answer, she could only burst into tears, and hide her face in his breast. "why, lass," said he, "what is a journey to london? and have you not enough left to comfort you? have you not sweethearts a plenty?" but she could not speak; she only sobbed and sobbed. "come, come, lass, i must be going," said he, stroking the soft brown hair. "cheer up. wouldst thou spoil the prettiest eyes in warwickshire? nay, an thou have not a right merry and beaming face when i come again, i will call thee no daughter of mine." then she raised her head--for still she could not speak--and he kissed her. "heaven's blessings on thee, good wench! i think 'tis the last time i shall ever have the courage to leave thee. fare you well, sweetheart; keep your eyes bright and your face happy--to draw me home again." then she kissed him on each cheek, and he got into the saddle and rode on. she climbed up to the top of the bank, and watched him and his companions while they were still in sight, and then she turned to go slowly homeward. and it seemed to her, when she came in view of stratford, and looked down on the wide meadows and the placid river and the silent homesteads, that a sort of winter had already fallen over the land. that long summer had been very beautiful to her--full of sunlight and color and the scent of flowers; but now a kind of winter was come, and a sadness and loneliness; and the days and days that would follow each other seemed to have no longer any life in them. chapter xxvii. evil tidings. but a far sharper winter than any she had thought of was now about to come upon her, and this was how it befell: after the departure of her father, good master walter blaise became more and more the guide and counsellor of these women-folk; and indeed new place was now given over to meetings for prayer and worship, and was also become the head-quarters in the town for the entertainment of travelling preachers, and for the institution of all kinds of pious and charitable undertakings. there was little else for the occupants of it to do: the head of the house was in london; judith was at shottery with her grandmother; susanna was relieved from much of her own domestic cares by the absence of her husband in worcestershire; and the bailiff looked after all matters pertaining to the farm. indeed, so constant were these informal services and ministerings to pious travellers that julius shawe (though not himself much given in that direction, and perhaps mostly to please his sister) felt bound to interfere and offer to open his house on occasion, or pay part of the charges incurred through this kindly hospitality. nay, he went privately to master blaise and threw out some vague hints as to the doubtful propriety of allowing a wife, in the absence of her husband, to be so ready with her charity. now master blaise was an honest and straightforward man, and he met this charge boldly and openly. he begged of master shawe to come to new place that very afternoon, when two or three of the neighbors were to assemble to hear him lecture; and both prudence and her brother went. but before the lecture, the parson observed that he had had a case of conscience put before him--as to the giving of alms and charity, by whom, for whom and on whose authority--which he would not himself decide. the whole matter, he observed, had been pronounced upon in the holiday lectures of that famous divine master william perkins, who was now gone to his eternal reward; these lectures having recently been given to the world by the aid of one thomas pickering, of emmanuel college, cambridge. and very soon it appeared, as the young parson read from the little parchment-covered book, that the passages he quoted had been carefully chosen and were singularly pertinent. for after a discourse on the duty of almsgiving, as enjoined by scripture (and it was pointed out that christ himself had lived on alms--"not by begging, as the papists affirm, but by the voluntary ministration and contribution of some to whom he preached"), master blaise read on, with an occasional glance at julius shawe: "'it may be asked whether the wife may give alms without the consent of her husband, considering that she is in subjection to another, and therefore all that she hath is another's, and not her own. answer. the wife may give alms of some things, but with these cautions: as, first, she may give of those goods that she hath excepted from marriage. secondly, she may give of those things which are common to them both, provided it be with the husband's consent, at least general and implicit. thirdly, she may not give without or against the consent of her husband. and the reason is, because both the law of nature and the word of god command her obedience to her husband in all things. if it be alleged that joanna, the wife of chuza, herod's steward, with others, did minister to christ of their goods (luke viii., ), i answer: it is to be presumed that it was not done without all consent. again, if it be said that abigail brought a present to david for the relief of him and his young men, whereof she made not nabal, her husband, acquainted ( sam. xxv., ), i answer, it is true, but mark the reason. nabal was generally of a churlish and unmerciful disposition, whereupon he was altogether unwilling to yield relief to any, in how great necessity soever; whence it was that he railed on the young men that came to him, and drove them away, ver. . again, he was a foolish man, and given to drunkenness, so as he was not fit to govern his house or to dispense his alms. besides, that abigail was a woman of great wisdom in all her actions, and that which she now did was to save nabal's and her own life--yea, the lives of his whole family; for the case was desperate, and all that they had were in present hazard. the example, therefore, is no warrant for any woman to give alms, unless it be in the like case.'" and then he summed up in a few words, saying, in effect, that as regards the question which had been put before him, it was for the wife to say whether she had her husband's general and implied consent to her pious expenditure, and to rule her accordingly. this completely and forever shut julius shawe's mouth. for he knew, and they all knew, that judith's father was well content that any preachers or divines coming to the house should be generously received; while he on his part claimed a like privilege in the entertainment of any vagrant person or persons (especially if they were making a shift to live by their wits) whom he might chance to meet. strict economy in all other things was the rule of the household; in the matter of hospitality the limits were wide. and if judith's mother half guessed, and if susanna hall shrewdly perceived, why this topic had been introduced, and why julius shawe had been asked to attend the lecture, the subject was one that brought no sting to their conscience. if the whole question rested on the general and implied consent of the husband, judith's mother had naught to tax herself with. after that there was no further remonstrance (of however gentle and underhand a kind) on the part of julius shawe; and more and more did parson blaise become the guide, instructor, and mainstay of the household. they were women-folk, some of them timid, all of them pious, and they experienced a sense of comfort and safety in submitting to his spiritual domination. as for his disinterestedness, there could be no doubt of that; for now judith was away at shottery, and he could no longer pay court to her in that authoritative fashion of his. it seemed as if he were quite content to be with these others, bringing them the news of the day, especially as regarded the religious dissensions that were everywhere abroad, arranging for the welcoming of this or that faithful teacher on his way through the country, getting up meetings for prayer and profitable discourse in the afternoon, or sitting quietly with them in the evening while they went on with their tasks of dress-making or embroidery. and so it came about that master walter was in the house one morning--they were seated at dinner, indeed, and prudence was also of the company--when a letter was brought in and handed to judith's mother. it was an unusual thing; and all saw by the look of it that it was from london; and all were eager for the news, the good parson as well as any. there was not a word said as judith's mother, with fingers that trembled a little from mere anticipation, opened the large sheet, and began to read to herself across the closely written lines. and then, as they waited, anxious for the last bit of tidings about the king or the parliament or what not, they could not fail to observe a look of alarm come into the reader's face. "oh, susan," she said, in a way that startled them, "what is this?" she read on, breathless and stunned, her face grown quite pale now; and at last she stretched out her shaking hand with the letter in it. "susan, susan, take it. i cannot understand it. i cannot read more. oh, susan, what has the girl done?" and she turned aside her chair, and began to cry stealthily; she was not a strong-nerved woman, and she had gathered but a vague impression that something terrible and irrevocable had occurred. susan was alarmed, no doubt; but she had plenty of self-command. she took the letter, and proceeded as swiftly as she could to get at the contents of it. then she looked up in a frightened way at the parson, as if to judge in her own mind as to how far he should be trusted in this matter. and then she turned to the letter again--in a kind of despair. "mother," said she at last, "i understand no more than yourself what should be done. to think that all this should have been going on, and we knowing naught of it! but you see what my father wants; that is the first thing. who is to go to judith?" at the mere mention of judith's name a flash of dismay went to prudence's heart. she knew that something must have happened; she at once bethought her of judith's interviews with the person in hiding; and she was conscious of her own guilty connivance and secrecy; so that the blood rushed to her face, and she sat there dreading to know what was coming. "mother," susan said again, and rather breathlessly, "do you not think, in such a pass, we might beg master blaise to give us of his advice? the doctor being from home, who else is there?" "nay, if i can be of any service to you or yours, good mistress hall, i pray you have no scruple in commanding me," said the parson--with his clear and keen gray eyes calmly waiting for information. judith's mother was understood to give her consent; and then susan (after a moment's painful hesitation) took up the letter. "indeed, good sir," said she, with an embarrassment that she rarely showed, "you will see there is reason for our perplexity, and--and i pray you be not too prompt to think ill of my sister. perchance there may be explanations, or the story wrongly reported. in good truth, sir, my father writes in no such passion of anger as another might in such a pass, though 'tis but natural he should be sorely troubled and vexed." again she hesitated, being somewhat unnerved and bewildered by what she had just been reading. she was trying to recall things, to measure possibilities, to overcome her amazement, all at once. and then she knew that the parson was coolly regarding her, and she strove to collect her wits. "this, good sir, is the manner of it," said she, in as calm a way as she could assume, "that my father and his associates have but recently made a discovery that concerns them much, and is even a disaster to them; 'tis no less than that a copy of my father's last written play--the very one, indeed, that he finished ere leaving stratford--hath lately been sold, they scarce know by whom as yet, to a certain bookseller in london, and that the bookseller is either about to print it and sell it, or threatens to do so. they all of them, my father says, are grievously annoyed by this, for that the publishing of the play will satisfy many who will read it at home instead of coming to the theatre, and that thus the interests of himself and his associates will suffer gravely. i am sorry, good sir, to trouble you with such matters," she added, with a glance of apology, "but they come more near home to us than you might think." "i have offered to you my service in all things--that befit my office," said master walter, but with a certain reserve, as if he did not quite like the course that matters were taking. "and then," continued susan, glancing at the writing before her, "my father says that they were much perplexed (having no right at law to stop such a publication), and made inquiries as to how any such copy could have found its way into the bookseller's hands; whereupon he discovered that which hath grieved him far more than the trouble about the play. prudence, you are her nearest gossip; it cannot be true!" she exclaimed; and she turned to the young maiden, whose face was no longer pale and thoughtful, but rose-colored with shame and alarm. "for he says 'tis a story that is now everywhere abroad in london--and a laugh and a jest at the taverns--how that one jack orridge came down to warwickshire, and made believe to be a wizard, and cozened judith--judith, prudence, our judith!--heard ye ever the like?--into a secret love affair; and that she gave him a copy of the play as one of her favors----" "truly, now, that is false on the face of it," said master blaise, appositely. "that is a tale told by some one who knows not that judith hath no skill of writing." "oh, 'tis too bewildering!" susan said, as she turned again to the letter in a kind of despair. "but to have such a story going about london--about judith--about my sister judith--how can you wonder that my father should write in haste and in anger? that she should meet this young man day after day at a farm-house near to bidford, and in secret, and listen to his stories of the court, believing him to be a worthy gentleman in misfortune! a worthy gentleman truly!--to come and make sport of a poor country maiden, and teach her to deceive her father and all of us, not one of us knowing--not one----" "susan! susan!" prudence cried, in an agony of grief, "'tis not as you think. 'tis not as it is written there. i will confess the truth. i myself knew of the young man being in the neighborhood, and how he came to be acquainted with judith. and she never was at any farm-house to meet him, that i know well, but--but he was alone, and in trouble, he said, and she was sorry for him, and durst not speak to any one but me. nay, if there be aught wrong, 'twas none of her doing, that i know: as to the copy of the play, i am ignorant; but 'twas none of her doing. susan, you think too harshly--indeed you do." "sweetheart, i think not harshly," said the other, in a bewildered way. "i but tell the story as i find it." "'tis not true, then. on her part, at least, there was no whit of any secret love affair, as i know right well," said prudence, with a vehemence near to tears. "i but tell thee the story as my father heard it. poor wench, whatever wrong she may have done, i have no word against her," judith's sister said. "i pray you continue," interposed master blaise, with his eyes calmly fixed on the letter; he had scarcely uttered a word. "oh, my father goes on to say that this orridge--this person representing himself as familiar with the court, and the great nobles, and the like--is none other than the illegitimate son of an oxfordshire gentleman who became over well acquainted with the daughter of an innkeeper in oxford town; that the father meant to bring up the lad, and did give him some smattering of education, but died; that ever since he hath been dependent on his grandmother, a widow, who still keeps the inn; and that he hath lived his life in london in any sort of company he could impose upon by reason of his fine manners. these particulars, my father says, he hath had from ben jonson, that seems to know something of the young man, and maintains that he is not so much vicious or ill-disposed as reckless and idle, and that he is as likely as not to end his days with a noose round his neck. this, saith my father, is all that he can learn, and he would have us question judith as to the truth of the story, and as to how the copy of the play was made, and whether 'twas this same orridge that carried it to london. and all this he would have inquired into at once, for his associates and himself are in great straits because of this matter, and have urgent need to know as much as can be known. then there is this further writing toward the end--'i cannot explain all to thee at this time; but 'tis so that we have no remedy against the rascal publisher. even if they do not register at the stationers' company, they but offend the company; and the only punishment that might at the best befall them would be his grace of canterbury so far misliking the play as to cause it to be burnt--a punishment that would fall heavier on us, i take it, than on them; and that is in no case to be anticipated.'" "i cannot understand these matters, good sir," judith's mother said drying her eyes. "'tis my poor wench that i think of. i know she meant no harm--whatever comes of it. and she is so gentle and so proud-spirited that a word of rebuke from her father will drive her out of her reason. that she should have fallen into such trouble, poor wench! poor wench!--and you, prudence, that was ever her intimate, and seeing her in such a coil--that you should not have told us of it!" prudence sat silent under this reproach: she knew not how to defend herself. perhaps she did not care, for all her thoughts were about judith. "saw you ever the young man?" susan said, scarcely concealing her curiosity. "nay, not i," was prudence's answer. "but your grandmother hath seen him, and that several times." "my grandmother!" she exclaimed. "for he used to call at the cottage," said prudence, "and pass an hour or two--being in hiding, as he said, and glad to have a little company. and he greatly pleased the old dame, as i have heard, because of his gracious courtesy and good breeding; and when they believed him to be in sad trouble, and pitied him, who would be the first to speak and denounce a stranger so helpless? nay, i know that i have erred. had i had more courage i should have come to you, susan, and begged you to draw judith away from any further communication with the young man; but i--i know not how it came about; she hath such a winning and overpersuading way, and is herself so fearless." "a handsome youth, perchance?" said susan, who seemed to wish to know more about this escapade of her sister's. "right handsome, as i have heard; and of great courtesy and gentle manners," prudence answered. "but well i know what it was that led judith to hold communication with him after she would fain have had that broken off." and then prudence, with such detail as was within her knowledge, explained how judith had come to think that the young stranger talked overmuch of ben jonson, and was anxious to show that her father could write as well as he (or better, as she considered). and then came the story of the lending of the sheets of the play, and prudence had to confess how that she had been judith's accomplice on many a former occasion in purloining and studying the treasures laid by in the summer-house. she told all that she knew openly and simply and frankly; and if she was in distress, it was with no thought of herself; it was in thinking of her dear friend and companion away over there at shottery, who was all in ignorance of what was about to befall her. then the three women, being somewhat recovered from their dismay, but still helpless and bewildered, and not knowing what to do, turned to the parson. he had sat calm and collected, silent for the most part, and reading in between the lines of the story his own interpretation. perhaps, also, he had been considering other possibilities--as to the chances that such an occasion offered for gathering back to the fold an errant lamb. "what your father wants done, that is the first thing, sweetheart," judith's mother said, in a tremulous and dazed kind of fashion. "as to the poor wench, we will see about her afterward. and not a harsh word will i send her; she will have punishment enough to bear--poor lass! poor lass! so heedless and so headstrong she hath been always, but always the quickest to suffer if a word were spoken to her; and now if this story be put about, how will she hold up her head--she that was so proud? but what your father wants done, susan, that is the first thing--that is the first thing. see what you can do to answer the letter as he wishes: you are quicker to understand such things than i." and then the parson spoke, in his clear, incisive, and authoritative way: "good madam, 'tis little i know of these matters in london; but if you would have judith questioned--and that might be somewhat painful to any one of her relatives--i will go and see her for you, if you think fit. if she have been the victim of knavish designs, 'twill be easy for her to acquit herself; carelessness, perchance, may be the only charge to be brought against her. and as i gather from prudence that the sheets of manuscript lent to the young man were in his possession for a certain time, i make no doubt that the copy--if it came from this neighborhood at all--was made by himself on those occasions, and that she had no hand in the mischief, save in overtrusting a stranger. doubtless your husband, good madam, is desirous of having clear and accurate statements on these and other points; whereas, if you, or mistress hall, or even prudence there, were to go and see judith, natural affection and sympathy might blunt the edge of your inquiries. you would be so anxious to excuse (and who would not, in your place?) that the very information asked for by your husband would be lost sight of. therefore i am willing to do as you think fitting. i may not say that my office lends any special sanction to such a duty, for this is but a worldly matter; but friendship hath its obligations: and if i can be of service to you, good mistress shakespeare, 'tis far from repaying what i owe of godly society and companionship to you and yours. these be rather affairs for men to deal with than for women, who know less of the ways of the world; and i take it that judith, when she is made aware of her father's wishes, will have no hesitation in meeting me with frankness and sincerity." it was this faculty of his of speaking clearly and well and to the point that in a large measure gave him such an ascendency over those women; he seemed always to see a straight path before him; to have confidence in himself, and a courage to lead the way. "good sir, if you would have so much kindness," judith's mother said. "truly, you offer us help and guidance in a dire necessity. and if you will tell her what it is her father wishes to know, be sure that will be enough; the wench will answer you, have no fear, good sir." then susan said, when he was about to go: "worthy sir, you need not say to her all that you have heard concerning the young man. i would liefer know what she herself thought of him; and how they came together; and how he grew to be on such friendly terms with her. for hitherto she hath been so sparing of her favor; though many have wished her to change her name for theirs; but always the wench hath kept roving eyes. handsome was he, prudence? and of gentle manners, said you? nay, i warrant me 'twas something far from the common that led judith such a dance." but prudence, when he was leaving, stole out after him; and when he was at the door, she put her hand on his arm. he turned, and saw that the tears were running down her face. "be kind to judith," she said--not heeding that he saw her tears, and still clinging to his arm; "be kind to judith, from my heart i beg it of you--i pray you be kind and gentle with her, good master blaise; for indeed she is like an own sister to me." chapter xxviii. renewals. as yet she was all unconscious; and indeed the dulness following her father's departure was for her considerably lightened by this visit to her grandmother's cottage, where she found a hundred duties and occupations awaiting her. she was an expert needle-woman, and there were many arrears in that direction to be made up: she managed the cooking, and introduced one or two cunning dishes, to the wonder of the little cicely; she even tried her hand at carpentering, where a shelf, or the frame of a casement, had got loose; and as a reward she was occasionally invited to assist her grandmother in the garden. the old dame herself grew wonderfully amiable and cheerful in the constant association with this bright young life; and she had a great store of ballads with which to beguile the tedium of sewing--though, in truth, these were for the most part of a monotonous and mournful character, generally reciting the woes of some poor maiden in oxfordshire or lincolnshire who had been deceived by a false lover, and yet was willing to forgive him even as she lay on her death-bed. as for judith, she took to this quiet life quite naturally and happily; and if she chanced to have time for a stroll along the wooded lanes or through the meadows, she was now right glad that there was no longer any fear of her being confronted by master leofric hope--or jack orridge, as he had called himself. of course she thought of him often, and of his courteous manners, and his eloquent and yet modest eyes, and she hoped all was going well with him, and that she might perchance hear of him through her father. nor could she forget (for she was but human) that the young man, when disguised as a wizard, had said that he had heard her named as the fairest maid in warwickshire; and subsequently, in his natural character, that he had heard ben jonson speak well of her looks, and she hoped that if ever he recalled these brief interviews, he would consider that she had maintained a sufficiency of maidenly dignity, and had not betrayed the ignorance or awkwardness of a farm-bred wench. nay, there were certain words of his that she put some store by--as coming from a stranger. for the rest, she was in no case likely to undervalue her appearance: her father had praised her hair, and that was enough. one morning she had gone down to the little front gate, for some mischievous boys had lifted it off its hinges, and she wanted to get it back again on the rusty iron spikes. but it had got jammed somehow, and would not move; and in her pulling, some splinter of the wood ran into her hand, causing not a little pain. just at this moment--whether he had come round that way on the chance of catching a glimpse of her, it is hard to say--tom quiney came by; but on the other side of the road, and clearly with no intention of calling at the cottage. "good-morrow, judith," said he, in a kind of uncertain way, and would have gone on. well, she was vexed and impatient with her fruitless efforts, and her hand smarted not a little; so she looked at him and said, half angrily, "i wish you would come and lift this gate." it was but a trifling task for the tall and straight-limbed young fellow who now strode across the highway. he jerked it up in a second, and then set it down again on the iron spikes, where it swung in its wonted way. "but your hand is bleeding, judith!" he exclaimed. "'tis nothing," she said. "it was a splinter. i have pulled it out." but he snatched her hand peremptorily, before she could draw it away, and held it firmly and examined it. "why, there's a bit still there; i can see it." "i can get it out for myself," said she. "no, you cannot," he answered. "'tis far easier for some one else. stay here a second, and i will fetch out a needle." he went into the cottage, and presently reappeared, not only with a needle, but also a tin vessel holding water, and a bit of linen and a piece of thread. then he took judith's soft hand as gently as he could in his muscular fingers, and began to probe for the small fragment of wood, just visible there. he seemed a long time about it; perhaps he was afraid of giving her pain. "do i hurt you, judith?" he said. "no," she answered, with some color of embarrassment in her face. "be quick." "but i must be cautious," said he. "i would it were my own hand; i would make short work of it." "let me try myself," said she, attempting to get away her hand from his grasp. but he would not allow that; and in due time he managed to get the splinter out. then he dipped his fingers in the water and bathed the small wound in that way; and then he must needs wrap the piece of linen round her hand--very carefully, so that there should be no crease--and thereafter fasten the bandage with the bit of thread. he did not look like one who could perform a surgical operation with exceeding delicacy; but he was as gentle as he could be, and she thanked him--in an unwilling kind of way. then all at once her face brightened. "why," said she, "i hear that you gave my father a riding-whip on his going." "did you not see it, judith?" he said, with some disappointment. "i meant you to have seen it. the handle was of ivory, and of a rare carving." "i was not at the door when they went away--i met my father as they passed along the road," said she. "but i shall see it, doubtless, when he comes home again. and what said he? was he pleased? he thanked you right heartily, did he not?" "yes, truly; but 'twas a trifling matter." "my father thinks more of the intention than of the value of such a gift," said she--"as i would." it was an innocent and careless speech, but it seemed to suddenly inspire him with a kind of wild wish. "ah," said he, regarding her, "if you, judith, now, would but take some little gift from me--no matter what--that would be a day i should remember all my life." "will you not come into the house?" said she, quickly. "my grandam will be right glad to see you." she would have led the way; but he hesitated. "nay, i will not trouble your grandmother, judith," said he. "i doubt not but that she hath had enough of visitors since you came to stay with her." "since i came?" she said, good-naturedly--for she refused to accept the innuendo. "why, let me consider, now. the day before yesterday my mother walked over to see how we did; and before that--i think the day before that--mistress wyse came in to tell us that they had taken a witch at abbots morton; and then yesterday farmer bowstead called to ask if his strayed horse had been seen anywhere about these lanes. there, now, three visitors since i have come to the cottage: 'tis not a multitude." "there hath been none other?" said he, looking at her with some surprise. "not another foot hath crossed the threshold to my knowledge," said she, simply, and as if it were a matter of small concern. but this intelligence seemed to produce a very sudden and marked alteration in his manner. not only would he accompany her into the house, but he immediately became most solicitous about her hand. "i pray you be careful, judith," said he, almost as if he would again take hold of her wrist. "'tis but a scratch," she said. "nay, now, if there be but a touch of rust, it might work mischief," said he, anxiously. "i pray you be careful; and i would bathe it frequently, and keep on the bandage until you are sure that all is well. nay, i tell you this, judith: there are more than you think of that would liefer lose a finger than that you should have the smallest hurt." and in-doors, moreover, he was most amiable and gentle and anxious to please, and bore some rather sharp sayings of the old dame with great good-nature; and whatever judith said, or suggested, or approved of, that was right, once and for all. she wished to hear more of the riding-whip also. where was the handle carved? had her father expressed any desire for such ornamentation? "truly 'twas but a small return for his kindness to us the other day," said the young man, who was half bewildered with delight at finding judith's eyes once more regarding him in the old frank and friendly fashion, and was desperately anxious that they should continue so to regard him (with no chilling shadow of the parson intervening). "for cornelius greene being minded to make one or two more catches," he continued--and still addressing those eyes that were at once so gentle and so clear and so kind--"he would have me go to your father and beg him to give us words for these, out of any books he might know of. not that we thought of asking him to write the words himself--far from that--but to choose them for us; and right willingly he did so. in truth, i have them with me," he added, searching for and producing a paper with some written lines on it. "shall i read them to you, judith?" he did not notice the slight touch of indifference with which she assented; for when once she had heard that these compositions (whatever they might be) were not her father's writing, she was not anxious to become acquainted with them. but his concern, on the other hand, was to keep her interested and amused and friendly; and cornelius greene and his doings were at least something to talk about. "the first one we think of calling 'fortune's wheel,'" said he; "and thus it goes: 'trust not too much, if prosperous times do smile, nor yet despair of rising, if thou fall: the fatal lady mingleth one with th' other, and lets not fortune stay, but round turns all.' and the other one--i know not how to call it yet--but cornelius takes it to be the better of the two for his purpose; thus it is: 'merrily sang the ely monks when rowed thereby canute the king. "row near, my knights, row near the land, that we may hear the good monks sing."' see you now how well it will go, judith--_merrily sang--merrily sang--the ely monks--the ely monks--when rowed thereby_--canute the king!" said he, in a manner suggesting the air. "'twill go excellent well for four voices, and cornelius is already begun. in truth, 'twill be something new at our merry-meetings----" "ay, and what have you to say of your business, good master quiney?" the old dame interrupted, sharply. "be you so busy with your tavern catches and your merry-makings that you have no thought of that?" "indeed, i have enough regard for that, good mistress hathaway," said he, in perfect good-humor; "and it goes forward safely enough. but methinks you remind me that i have tarried here as long as i ought; so now i will get me back to the town." he half expected that judith would go to the door with him; and when she had gone so far, he said, "will you not come a brief way across the meadows, judith?--'tis not well you should always be shut up in the cottage--you that are so fond of out-of-doors." he had no cause for believing that she was too much within-doors; but she did not stay to raise the question; she good-naturedly went down the little garden path with him, and across the road, and so into the fields. she had been busy at work all the morning; twenty minutes' idleness would do no harm. then, when they were quite by themselves, he said seriously: "i pray you take heed, judith, that you let not the blood flow too much to your hand, lest it inflame the wound, however slight you may deem it. see, now, if you would but hold it so, 'twould rest on mine, and be a relief to you." he did not ask her to take his arm, but merely that she should rest her hand on his; and this seemed easy to do, and natural (so long as he was not tired). but also it seemed very much like the time when they used to go through those very meadows as boy and girl together, the tips of their fingers intertwined: and so she spoke in a gentle and friendly kind of fashion to him. "and how is it with your business, in good sooth?" she asked. "i hope there be no more of these junketings, and dancings, and brawls." "dear judith," said he, "i know not who carries such tales of me to you. if you knew but the truth, i am never in a brawl of mine own making or seeking; but one must hold one's own, and the more that is done, the less are any likely to interfere. nay," he continued, with a modest laugh, "i think i am safe for quiet now with any in warwickshire; 'tis only a strange lad now and again that may come among us and seek cause of quarrel; and surely 'tis better to have it over and done with, and either he or we to know our place? i seek no fighting for the love of it; my life on that; but you would not have any stranger come into stratford a-swaggering, and biting his thumb at us, and calling us rogues of fiddlers?" "mercy on us, then," she cried, "are you champion for the town--or perchance for all of warwickshire? a goodly life to look forward to! and what give they their watch-dog? truly they must reward him that keeps such guard, and will do battle for them all?" "nay, i am none such, judith," said he; "i but take my chance like the others." he shifted her hand on his, that it might rest the more securely, and his touch was gentle. "and your merchandise--pray you, who is so kind as to look after that when you are engaged in those pastimes?" she asked. "i have no fault to find with my merchandise, judith," said he. "that i look after myself. i would i had more inducement to attend to it, and to provide for the future. but it goes well; indeed it does." "and daniel hutt?" "he has left the country now." "and his vagabond crew--have they all made their fortunes?" "why, judith, they cannot have reached america yet," said he. "i am glad that you have not gone," she remarked, simply. "well," he said, "why should i strive to push my fortunes there more than here? to what end? there be none that i could serve either way." and then it seemed to him that it was an ungracious speech; and he was anxious to stand well with her, seeing that she was disposed to be friendly. "judith," he said, suddenly, "surely you will not remain over at shottery to-morrow, with all the merriment of the fair going on in the town? nay, but you must come over--i could fetch you, at any hour that you named, if it so pleased you. there is a famous juggler come into the town, as i hear, that can do the most rare and wonderful tricks, and hath a dog as cunning as himself; and you will hear the new ballads, to judge which you would have; and the peddlers would show you their stores. now, in good sooth, judith, may not i come for you? why, all the others have someone to go about with them; and she will choose this or that posy or ribbon, and wear it for the jest of the day; but i have no one to walk through the crowd with me, and see the people, and hear the bargainings and the music. i pray you, judith, let me come for you. it cannot be well for you always to live in such dulness as is over there at shottery." "if i were to go to the fair with you," said she, and not unkindly, "methinks the people would stare, would they not? we have not been such intimate friends of late." "you asked me not to go to america, judith," said he. "well, yes," she admitted. "truly i did so. why should you go away with those desperate and broken men? surely 'tis better you should stay among your own people." "i stayed because you bade me, judith," said he. she flushed somewhat at this; but he was so eager not to embarrass or offend her that he instantly changed the subject. "may i, then, judith? if you would come but for an hour!" he pleaded, for he clearly wanted to show to everybody that judith was under his escort at the fair; and which of all the maidens (he asked himself) would compare beside her? "why, there is not one of them but hath his companion, to buy for her some brooch, or pretty coif, or the like----" "are they all so anxious to lighten their purses?" said she, laughing. "nay, but truly i may not leave my grandmother, lest the good dame should think that i was wearying of my stay with her. pray you, get some other to go to the fair with you--you have many friends, as i know, in the town----" "oh, do you think 'tis the fair i care about?" said he, quickly. "nay, now, judith, i would as lief not go to the fair at all--or but for a few minutes--if you will let me bring you over some trinket in the afternoon. nay, a hundred times would i rather not go--if you would grant me such a favor; 'tis the first i have asked of you for many a day." "why," she said, with a smile, "you must all of you be prospering in stratford, since you are all so eager to cast abroad your money. the peddlers will do a rare trade to-morrow, as i reckon." this was almost a tacit permission, and he was no such fool as to press her for more. already his mind ran riot--he saw himself ransacking all the packs and stalls in the town. "and now," she said, as she had come within sight of the houses, "i will return now or the good dame will wonder." "but i will walk back with you, judith," said he, promptly. she regarded him, with those pretty eyes of hers clearly laughing. "methought you came away from the cottage," said she, "because of the claims of your business; and now you would walk all the way back again?" "your hand, judith," said he, shamefacedly, "you must not let it hang down by your side." "nay, for such a dangerous wound," said she, with her eyes gravely regarding him, "i will take precautions; but cannot i hold it up myself--so--if need were?" he was so well satisfied with what he had gained that he would yield to her now as she wished. and yet he took her hand once more, gently and timidly, as if unwilling to give up his charge of it. "i hope it will not pain you, judith," he said. "i trust it may not lead me to death's door," she answered, seriously; and if her eyes were laughing, it was with no unkindness. and then they said good-bye to each other, and she walked away back to shottery, well content to have made friends with him again, and to have found him for the time being quit of his dark suspicions and jealousies of her; while as for him, he went on to the town in a sort of foreknowledge that all stratford fair would not have anything worthy to be offered to judith; and wondering whether he could not elsewhere, and at once, and by any desperate effort, procure something fine and rare and beautiful enough to be placed in that poor wounded hand. chapter xxix. "the rose is from my garden gone." now when parson blaise set forth upon the mission that had been intrusted to him, there was not a trace of anger or indignation in his mind. he was not even moved by jealous wrath against the person with whom judith had been holding these clandestine communications, nor had he any sense of having been himself injured by her conduct. for one thing, he knew enough of judith's pride and self-reliance to be fairly well satisfied that she was not likely to have compromised herself in any serious way; and for another, his own choice of her, from among the stratford maidens, as the one he wished to secure for helpmate, was the result not so much of any overmastering passion as of a cool and discriminating judgment. nay, this very complication that had arisen, might he not use it to his own advantage? might it not prove an argument more powerful than any he had hitherto tried? and so it was that he set out, not as one armed to punish, but with the most placable intentions; and the better to give the subject full consideration, he did not go straight across the meadows to the cottage, but went through the town, and away out the alcester road, before turning round and making for shottery. nor did it occur to him that he was approaching this matter with any mean or selfish ends in view. far from that. the man was quite honest. in winning judith over to be his wife, by any means whatever, was he not adding one more to the number of the lord's people? was he not saving her from her own undisciplined and wayward impulses, and from all the mischief that might arise from these? what was for his good was for her good, and the good of the church also. she had a winning way; she was friends with many who rather kept aloof from the more austere of their neighbors; she would be a useful go-between. her cheerfulness, her good temper, nay, her comely presence and bright ways--all these would be profitably employed. nor did he forget the probability of a handsome marriage-portion, and the added domestic comfort and serenity that that would bring himself. even the marriage-portion (which he had no doubt would be a substantial one) might be regarded as coming into the church in a way; and so all would work together for good. when he reached the cottage he found the old dame in the garden, busy with her flowers and vegetables, and was told that judith had just gone within-doors. indeed, she had but that minute come back from her stroll across the fields with quiney, and had gone in to fetch a jug, so that she might have some fresh water from the well in the garden. he met her on the threshold. "i would say a few words with you, judith--and in private," said he. she seemed surprised, but was in no ill-humor, so she said, "as you will, good sir," and led the way into the main apartment, where she remained standing. "i pray you be seated," said he. she was still more surprised; but she obeyed him, taking her seat under the window, so that her face was in shadow, while the light from the small panes fell full on him sitting opposite her. "judith," said he, "i am come upon a serious errand, and yet would not alarm you unnecessarily. nay, i think that when all is done, good may spring out of the present troubles----" "what is it?" she said quickly. "is any one ill? my mother----" "no, judith," he said; "'tis no trial of that kind you are called to face. the lord hath been merciful to you and yours these several years; while others have borne the heavy hand of affliction and lost their dearest at untimeous seasons, you have been spared for many years now, all but such trials as come in the natural course: would i could see you as thankful as you ought to be to the giver of all good. and yet i know not but that grief over such afflictions is easier to bear than grief over the consequences of our own wrong-doing; memory preserves this last the longer; sorrow is not so enduring, nor cuts so deep, as remorse. and then to think that others have been made to suffer through our evil-doing--that is an added sting; when those who have expected naught but filial obedience and duty--and the confidence that should exist between children and their parents----" but this phrase about filial obedience had struck her with a sudden fear. "i pray you, what is it, sir? what have i done?" she said, almost in a cry. then he saw that he had gone too fast and too far. "nay, judith," he said, "be not over-alarmed. 'tis perchance but carelessness, and a disposition to trust yourself in all circumstances to your own guidance that have to be laid to your charge. i hope it may be so; i hope matters may be no worse; 'tis for yourself to say. i come from your mother and sister, judith," he continued, in measured tones. "i may tell you at once that they have learned of your having been in secret communication with a stranger who has been in these parts, and they would know the truth. i will not seek to judge you beforehand, nor point out to you what perils and mischances must ever befall you, so long as you are bent on going your own way, without government or counsel; that you must now perceive for yourself--and i trust the lesson will not be brought home to you too grievously." "is that all?" judith had said quickly to herself, and with much relief. "good sir," she said to him, coolly, "i hope my good mother and susan are in no bewilderment of terror. 'tis true, indeed, that there was one in this neighborhood whom i met and spoke with on several occasions; if there was secrecy, 'twas because the poor young gentleman was in hiding; he dared not even present the letter that he brought commending him to my father. nay, good master blaise, i pray you comfort my mother and sister, and assure them there was no harm thought of by the poor young man." "i know not that, judith," said he, with his clear, observant eyes trying to read her face in the dusk. "but your mother and sister would fain know what manner of man he was, and what you know of him, and how he came to be here." then the fancy flashed across her mind that this intervention of his was but the prompting of his own jealousy, and that he was acting as the spokesman of her mother and sister chiefly to get information for himself. "why, sir," said she, lightly, "i think you might as well ask these questions of my grandmother, that knoweth about as much as i do concerning the young man, and was as sorry as i for his ill fortunes." "i pray you take not this matter so heedlessly, judith," he said, with some coldness. "'tis of greater moment than you think. no idle curiosity has brought me hither to-day; nay, it is with the authority of your family that i put these questions to you, and i am charged to ask you to answer them with all of such knowledge as you may have." "well, well," said she, good-naturedly; "his name----" she was about to say that his name was leofric hope, but she checked herself, and some color rose to her face--though he could not see that. "his name, good sir, as i believe, is john orridge," she continued, but with no embarrassment; indeed she did not think that she had anything very serious either to conceal or to confess; "and i fear me the young man is grievously in debt, or otherwise forced to keep away from those that would imprison him; and being come to warwickshire he brought a letter to my father, but was afraid to present it. he hath been to the cottage here certain times, for my grandmother, as well as i, was pleased to hear of the doings in london; and right civil he was, and well-mannered; and 'twas news to us to hear about the theatres, and my father's way of living there. but why should my mother and susan seek to know aught of him? surely prudence hath not betrayed the trust i put in her--for indeed the young man was anxious that his being in the neighborhood should not be known to any in stratford. however, as he is now gone away, and that some weeks ago, 'tis of little moment, as i reckon; and if ever he cometh back here, i doubt not but that he will present himself at new place, that they may judge of him as they please. that he can speak for himself, and to advantage and goodly showing, i know right well." "and that is all you can say of this man, judith," said he, with some severity in his tone--"with this man that you have been thus familiar with?" "marry is it!" she said, lightly. "but i have had guesses, no doubt; for first i thought him a gentleman of the court, he being apparently acquainted with all the doings there; and then methought he was nearer to the theatres, from his knowledge of the players. but you would not have had me ask the young man as to his occupation and standing, good sir? 'twould have been unseemly in a stranger, would it not? could i dare venture on questions, he being all unknown to any of us?" and now a suspicion flashed upon him that she was merely befooling him, so he came at once and sharply to the point. "judith," said he, endeavoring to pierce with his keen eyes the dusk that enshrouded her, "you have not told me all. how came he to have a play of your father's in his possession?" "now," said she, with a quick anger, "that is ill done of prudence! no one but prudence knew; and for so harmless a secret--and that all over and gone, moreover--and the young man himself away, i know not where--nay, by my life! i had not thought that prudence would serve me so. and to what end? why, good sir, i myself lent the young man the sheets of my father's writing--they were the sheets that were thrown aside--and i got each and all of them safely back, and replaced them. prudence knew what led me to lend him my father's play; and where was the harm of it? i thought not that she would go and make trouble out of so small a thing." by this time the good parson had come to see pretty clearly how matters stood--what with prudence's explanations and judith's present confessions; and he made no doubt that this stranger--whether from idleness, or for amusement, or with some more sinister purpose, he had no means of knowing--had copied the play when he had taken the sheets home with him to the farm; while as to the appearance in london of the copy so taken, it was sufficiently obvious that judith was in complete ignorance, and could afford no information whatever. so that now the first part of his mission was accomplished. he asked her a few more questions, and easily discovered that she knew nothing whatever about the young man's position in life, or whether he had gone straight from the farm to london, or whether he was in london now. as to his being in possession, or having been in possession, of a copy of her father's play, it was abundantly evident that she had never dreamed of any such thing. and now he came to the more personal part of his mission, that was for him much more serious. "judith," said he, "'tis not like you should know what sad and grievous consequences may spring from errors apparently small. how should you? you will take no heed or caution. the advice of those who would be nearest and dearest to you is of no account with you. you will go your own way--as if one of your years and experience could know the pitfalls that lie in a young maiden's path. the whole of life is but a jest to you--a tale without meaning--something to pass the hour withal. and think you that such blindness and wilfulness bring no penalty? nay, sooner or later the hour strikes; you look back and see what you have done--and the offers of safe guidance that you have neglected or thrust aside." "i pray you, sir, what is it now?" she said, indifferently (and with a distinct wish that he would go away and release her, and let her get out into the light again). "methought i had filled up the measure of my iniquities." "thus it is--thus it will be always," said he, with a kind of hopelessness, "so long as you harden your heart and have no thought but for the vanities of the moment." and then he addressed her more pointedly. "but even now methinks i can tell you what will startle you out of your moral sloth, which is an offence in the eyes of the lord, as it is a cause for pity and almost despair to all who know you. it was a light matter, you think, that you should hold this secret commerce with a stranger; careless of the respect due to your father's house; careless of the opinion and the anxious wishes of your friends; careless, even, of your good name----" "my good name?" said she, quickly and sharply. "i pray you, sir, have heed what you say." "have heed to what i have to tell you, judith," said he, sternly. "ay, and take warning by it. think you that i have pleasure in being the bearer of evil tidings?" "but what now, sir? what now? heaven's mercy on us, let us get to the end of the dreadful deeds i have done!" she exclaimed, with some anger and impatience. "i would spare you, but may not," said he, calmly. "and, now, what if i were to tell you that this young man whom you encouraged into secret conversation--whose manners seemed to have had so much charm for you--was a rascal, thief, and villain? how would your pride bear it if i told you that he had cozened you with some foolish semblance of a wizard?" "good sir, i know it," she retorted. "he himself told me as much." "perchance. perchance 'twas part of his courteous manners to tell you as much!" was the scornful rejoinder. "but he did not tell you all--he did not tell you that he had copied out every one of those sheets of your father's writing; that he was about to carry that stolen copy to london, like the knave and thief that he was; that he was to offer it for money to the booksellers. he did not tell you that soon your father and his associates in the theatre would be astounded by learning that a copy of the new play had been obtained, in some dark fashion, and sold; that it was out of their power to recover it; that their interests would be seriously affected by this vile conspiracy; or that they would by and by discover that this purloined play, which was like to cause them so much grievous loss and vexation of mind, had been obtained here--in this very neighborhood--and by the aid of no other than your father's daughter." "who--told--you--this?" she asked in a strange, stunned way: her eyes were terror-stricken, her hands all trembling. "a good authority," said he--"your father. a letter is but now come from london." she uttered a low, shuddering cry; it was a moan almost. "see you now," said he (for he knew that all her bravery was struck down, and she entirely at his mercy), "what must ever come of your wilfulness and your scorn of those who would aid and guide you? loving counsel and protection are offered you--the natural shield of a woman; but you must needs go your own way alone. and to what ends? think you that this is all? not so. for the woman who makes to herself her own rule of conduct must be prepared for calumnious tongues. and bethink you what your father must have thought of you--the only daughter of his household now--when he learned the story of this young man coming into warwickshire, and befooling you with his wizard's tricks, and meeting you secretly, and cozening you of the sheets of your father's play. these deeds that are done in the dark soon reach to daylight; and can you wonder, when your father found your name abroad in london--the heroine of a common jest--a byword--that his vexation and anger should overmaster him? what marvel that he should forthwith send to stratford, demanding to know what further could be learned of the matter--perchance fondly trusting, who knows, to find that rumor had lied? but there is no such hope for him--nor for you. what must your mother say in reply? what excuse can she offer? or how make reparation to those associates of your father who suffer with him? and how get back your good name, that is being bandied about the town as the heroine of a foolish jest? your father may regain possession of his property--i know not whether that be possible or no--but can he withdraw the name of his daughter from the ribald wit of the taverns? and i know which he valueth the more highly, if his own daughter know it not." he had struck hard; he knew not how hard. "my father wrote thus?" she said; and her head was bent, and her hands covering her face. "i read the letter no more than an hour ago," said he. "your mother and sister would have me come over to see whether such a story could be true; but prudence had already admitted as much----" "and my father is angered?" she said, in that low, strange voice. "can you wonder at it?" he said. again there came an almost inarticulate moan, like that of an animal stricken to death. as for him, he had now the opportunity of pouring forth the discourse to her that he had in a measure prepared as he came along the highway. he knew right well that she would be sorely wounded by this terrible disclosure; that the proud spirit would be in the dust; that she would be in a very bewilderment of grief. and he thought that now she might consent to gentle leading, and would trust herself to the only one (himself, to wit) capable of guiding her through her sorrows; and he had many texts and illustrations apposite. she heard not one word. she was as motionless as one dead; and the vision that rose before her burning brain was the face of her father as she had seen it for a moment in the garden, on the morning of his departure. that terrible swift look of anger toward old matthew she had never forgotten--the sudden lowering of the brows, the flash in the eyes, the strange contraction of the mouth; and that was what she saw now--that was how he was regarding her--and that, she knew, would be the look that would meet her always and always as she lay and thought of him in the long, wakeful nights. she could not go to him. london was far away. she could not go to him and throw herself at his feet, and beg and pray with outstretched and trembling hands for but one word of pity. the good parson had struck hard. and yet in a kind of way he was trying to administer consolation--at all events, counsel. he was enlarging on the efficacy of prayer. and he said that if the canaanitish woman of old had power to intercede for her daughter, and win succor for her, surely that would not be denied to such an one as judith's mother, if she sought, for her daughter, strength and fortitude in trouble where alone these could be found. "the canaanitish woman," said he, "had but the one saving grace, but that an all-powerful one, of faith; and even when the disciples would have her sent away, she followed worshipping, and saying 'lord, help me.' and the lord himself answered and said, 'it is not good to take the children's bread, and to cast it to whelps.' but she said, 'truth, lord; yet indeed the whelps eat of the crumbs which fall from their master's table.' then our lord answered, and said, 'o woman, great is thy faith; be it to thee as thou desirest.' and her daughter was made whole at that hour." judith started up; she had not heard a single word. "i pray you, pardon me, good sir," she said, for she was in a half-frantic state of misery and despair; "my--my grandmother will speak with you--i--i pray you pardon me----" she got up into her own little chamber--she scarce knew how. she sat down on the bed. there were no tears in her eyes, but there was a terrible weight on her chest that seemed to stifle her; and she was breathless, and could not think aright, and her trembling hands were clinched. sometimes she wildly thought she wanted prudence to come to her; and then a kind of shudder possessed her--and a wish to go away--she cared not where--and be seen no more. that crushing weight increased, choking her; she could not rest; she rose, and went quickly down the stair, and through the garden into the road. "judith, wench!" called her grandmother, who was talking to the parson. she took no heed. she went blindly on; and all these familiar things seemed so different now. how could the children laugh so? she got into the bidford road; she did not turn her eyes toward any whom she met, to see whether she knew them or no--there was enough within her own brain for her to think of. she made her way to the summit of bardon hill, and there she looked over the wide landscape; but it was toward london that she looked, and with a strange and trembling fear. and then she seemed anxious to hide away from being seen, and went down by hedge-rows and field-paths, and at last she was by the river. she regarded it, flowing so stealthily by, in the sad and monotonous silence. here was an easy means of slipping away from all this dread thing that seemed to surround her and overwhelm her--to glide away as noiselessly and peacefully as the river itself to any unknown shore, she cared not what. and then she sat down, still looking vaguely and absently at the water, and began to think of all that had happened to her on the banks of this stream; and she looked at these visionary pictures and at herself in them as if they were apart and separated from her, and she never to be like that again. was it possible that she ever could have been so careless and so happy, with no weight at all resting on her heart, but singing out of mere thoughtlessness, and teaching willie hart the figures of dances, herself laughing the while? it seemed a long time ago now, and that he was cut off from her too, and all of them, and that there was to be no expiation for evermore for this that she had done. how long she sat there she knew not. everything was a blank to her but this crushing consciousness that what had happened could never be recalled; that her father and she were forever separated now--and his face regarding her with the terrible look she had seen in the garden; that all the happy past was cut away from her, and she an outcast, and a byword, and a disgrace to all that knew her. and then she thought, in the very weariness of her misery, that if she could only walk away anywhere--anywhere alone, so that no one should meet her or question her--until she was broken and exhausted with fatigue, she would then go back to her own small room, and lie down on the bed, and try if sleep would procure some brief spell of forgetfulness, some relief from her aching head and far heavier heart. but when she rose she found that she was trembling from weakness, and a kind of shiver as of cold went through her, though the autumn day was warm enough. she walked slowly, and almost dragged herself, all the way home. her hand shook so that she could scarce undo the latch of the gate. she heard her grandmother in the inner apartment, but she managed to creep noiselessly up-stairs into her own little chamber, and there she sank down on the bed, and lay in a kind of stupor, pressing her hands on her throbbing brow. it was some two hours afterward that her grandmother, who did not know that judith had returned, was walking along the little passage, and was startled by hearing a low moaning above--a kind of dull cry of pain--so slight that she had to listen again ere she could be sure that it was not mere fancy. instantly she went up the few wooden steps and opened the door. judith was lying on the bed, with all her things on, just as she had seen her go forth. and then--perhaps the noise of the opening of the door had wakened her--she started up, and looked at her grandmother in a wild and dazed kind of way, as if she had just shaken off some terrible dream. "oh, grandmother," she said, springing to her, and clinging to her like a child, "it is not true--it is not true--it cannot be true!" but then she fell to crying--crying as if her heart would break. the whole weight of her misery came back upon her, and the hopelessness of it, and her despair. "why, good lass," said her grandmother, smoothing the sun-brown hair that was buried in her bosom, and trying to calm the violence of the girl's sobbing, "thou must not take on so. thy father may be angered, 'tis true, but there will come brighter days for thee. nay, take not on so, good lass!" "oh, grandmother, you cannot understand!" she said, and her whole form was shaken with sobs. "you cannot understand. grandmother, grandmother, there was--there was but the one rose--in my garden--and that is gone now." chapter xxx. in time of need. late that night, in the apartment below, tom quiney was seated by the big fireplace, staring moodily into the chips and logs that had been lit there, the evenings having grown somewhat chill now. there was a little parcel lying unopened and unheeded on the table. he had not had patience to wait for the fair of the morrow; he had ridden all the way to warwick to purchase something worthy of judith's acceptance, and he had come over to the cottage in high hopes of her being still in that kindly mood that reminded him of other days. then came the good dame's story of what had befallen; and how that the parson had been over, bringing with him these terrible tidings; and how that since then judith would not hear of any one being sent for, and would take no food, but was now lying there, alone in the dark, moaning to herself at times. and the good dame--as this tall young fellow sat there listening to her, with his fists clinched, and the look on his face ever growing darker--went on to express her fear that the parson had been over-hard with her grandchild; that probably he could not understand how her father had been the very idol of her life-long worship; that the one thing she was ever thinking of was how to win his approval--to be rewarded by even a nod of encouragement. "nay, i liked not the manner of his speaking, when he wur come to me in the garden," the old dame continued. "i liked it not. he be sharp of tongue, the young pahrson, and there were too much to my mind of discipline, and chastening of proud spirits, and the like o' that. to my mind he have not years enough to be placed in such authority." "the church is behind him," said this young fellow, almost to himself, and his eyes were burning darkly as he spoke. "i may not put hand on him. the church is behind him. marry, 'tis a goodly shelter for men that be of the woman kind." then he looked up quickly, and his words were savage.--"what think you, good grandmother, were one to seize him by the neck and heel and break his back on the rail of clopton's bridge? were it not well done? by my life i think it were well done!" "nay, nay, now," said she, quickly, for she was somewhat alarmed, seeing his face set hard with passion and his eyes afire. "i would have no brawling. there be plenty of harm done already. perchance the good pahrson hath not spoken so harshly after all. in good sooth, now, none but her own people can understand how the wench hath ever looked up to her father--for a word or a nod commending her, as i say--and when she be told now that she hath wrought mischief, and caused herself to be talked about, and her father vexed, and all the rest of the tale, why 'tis like to drive her out of her mind. and now this be all her cry--that she may see no one of her people any more, she would bide with me here; 'grandmother, grandmother,' she saith, 'i will bide with you, if you will suffer me. i will show myself in stratford no more; they shall have no shame through me.' nay, but the wench be half out of her senses, as i think, and saith wild things--that she would go and sell herself to be a slave in the indies, could she restore the money to her father or bring him back this that he hath lost. 'tis a terrible plight for the poor wench; and always she saith, 'grandmother, grandmother, let me bide with you; i will never go back to new place; grandmother, i can work as well as any, and you will let me bide with you.' poor lass--poor lass!" "but how came the parson to interfere?" quiney said, hotly. "i'll be sworn judith's father did not write to him. how came he to be preaching his discipline and chastisement? how came he to be intrusted with the task of abusing her and crushing the too proud spirit? by heavens, now, there may be occasion erelong to tame some one's proud spirit, but not the spirit of a defenceless young maid--marry, that is work fit only for parsons. man to man is the better way--and it will come erelong." "nay, softly, softly, good master quiney," said the old dame in her gentlest tones. "would you mar all the good opinion that judith hath of you? why, to-day, now, just ere the parson came, i wur in the garden, putting things straight a bit, and as she came through she says to me, quite pleasant-like, i have just been across the fields, grandmother, with master quiney--or tom quiney, as she said, being friendly and pleasant-like--and i hear less now of his quarrelling and fighting among the young men; and his business goeth on well; and to-morrow, grandmother, he is going to buy me something at the fair." "said she all that?" he asked, quickly, and with a flush of color rushing to his face. "marry did she, and looked pleased; for 'tis a right friendly wench, and good-natured withal," the old dame said, glad to see that these words had for the moment scattered his wrath to the winds; and she went on for some little time talking to him in her garrulous easy fashion about judith's frank and honest qualities, and her goodhearted ways, and the pretty daintinesses of her coaxing when she was so inclined. it was a story he was not loath to listen to, and yet it seemed so strange; they were talking of her almost as of one passed away--as if the girl lying there in that darkened room, instead of torturing her brain with incessant and lightning-like visions of all the harm she had caused in london, were now far removed from all such troubles, and hushed in the calm of death. he went to the table and opened the box, and took out the little present he had brought for judith. it was a pair of lace cuffs, with a slender silver circle at the wrist, the lace going back from that in a succession of widening leaves. it was not only a pretty present, it was also (in proportion to his means) a costly one, as the old dame's sharp eyes instantly saw. "i think she would have been pleased with them," he said, absently. and then he said, "good grandmother, it were of no use to lay them near her in the morning--on a chair or at the window--that perchance she might look at them?" "nay, nay," the grandmother said, shaking her head, "'tis no child's trouble that hath befallen the poor wench, that she can be comforted with pretty trifles." "i meant not that," said he, flushing somewhat. "'tis that i would have her know that--that there were friends thinking of her all the same--those that would rather have her gladdened and tended and made much of, than--than--chidden with any chastisement." this word chastisement seemed to recall his anger. "i say that judith hath done no wrong at all," he said, as if he were confronting some one not there; "and that i will maintain; and let no man in my hearing say aught else. why, now, the story as you tell it, good grandmother--'tis as plain as daylight--a child can see it--all that she did was done to magnify her father and his writing; and if the villain sold the play--or let it slip out of his hands--was that her doing? doubtless it is a sore mischance; but i see not that judith is to be blamed for it; and right well i know that if her father were to hear how she is smitten down with grief he would be the first to say, 'good lass, there is no such harm done. a great harm would be your falling sick; get you up and out, seek your friends again, and be happy as you were before.' that is what he would say, i will take my oath of it; and if the parson and his chastisements were to come across him, by my life i would not seek to be in the parson's shoes!" "i must make another trial with the poor wench," said the good grandmother, rising, "that hath eaten nothing all the day. in truth her only crying is to be left alone now, and that hereafter i am to let her bide with me. it be a poor shelter, i think, for one used to live in a noble house; but there 'tis, so long as she wisheth it." "nay, but this cannot be suffered to go on, good mistress hathaway," said he, as he rose and got his cap; "for if judith take no food, and will see no one, and be alone with her trouble, of a surety she will fall ill. now to-morrow morning i will bring prudence over. if any can comfort her, prudence can; and that she will be right willing, i know. they have been as sisters." "that be well thought of, master quiney," said the grandmother, as she went to the door with him. "take care o' the ditch the other side of the way; it be main dark o' nights now." "good-night to you, good grandmother," said he, as he disappeared in the darkness. but it was neither back home nor yet to stratford town that tom quiney thought of going all that long night. he felt a kind of constraint upon him (and yet a constraint that kept his heart warm with a secret satisfaction) that he should play the part of a watch-dog, as it were--as if judith were sorely ill, or in danger, or in need of protection somehow; and he kept wandering about in the dark, never at any great radius from the cottage. his self-imposed task was the easier now that, as the black clouds overhead slowly moved before the soft westerly wind, gaps were opened, and here and there clusters of stars were visible, shedding a faint light down on the sombre roads and fields and hedges. many strange fancies occurred to him during that long and silent night, as to what he could do, or would like to do, for judith's sake. breaking the parson's neck was the first and most natural, and the most easily accomplished; but fleeing the country, which he knew must follow, did not seem so desirable a thing. he wanted to do something--he knew not what. he wished he had been less of a companion with the young men, and less careful to show, with them, that stratford town and the county of warwick could hold their own against all comers. if he had been more considerate and gentle with judith, perhaps she would not have sought the society of the parson. he knew he had not the art of winning her over, like the parson. he could not speak so plausibly. nor had he the authority of the church behind him. it was natural for women to think much of that, and to be glad of the shelter of authority. parsons themselves (he considered) were a kind of half women, being in women's secrets, and entitled to speak to them in ghostly confidence. but if judith, now, wanted some one to do something for her, no matter what, in his rough-and-ready way--well, he wondered what that could be that he would refuse. and so the dark hours went by. with the gray of the dawn he began to cast his eyes abroad, as if to see if any one were stirring, or approaching the cluster of cottages nestled down there among the trees. the daylight widened and spread up in the trembling east; the fields and the woods became clear; here and there a small tuft of blue smoke began to arise from a cottage chimney. and now he was on bardon hill, and could look abroad over the wide landscape lying between shottery and stratford town; and if any one--any one bringing lowering brows and further cruel speech to a poor maid already stricken down and defenceless--had been in sight, what then? watchfully and slowly he went down from the hill, and back to the meadows lying between the hamlet and stratford, there to interpose, as it were, and question all comers. and well it was, for the sake of peace and charity, that the good parson did not chance to be early abroad on this still morning; and well it was for the young man himself. there was no wise-eyed athene to descend from the clouds and bid this wrathful achilles calm his heart. he was only an english country youth, though sufficiently greek-like in form; and he was hungry and gray-faced with his vigil of the night, and not in a placable mood. nay, when a young man is possessed with the consciousness that he is the defender of some one behind him--some one who is weak and feminine and suffering--he is apt to prove a dangerous antagonist; and it was well for all concerned that he had no occasion to pick a quarrel on this morning in these quiet meadows. in truth he might have been more at rest had he known that the good parson was in no hurry to follow up his monitions of the previous day; he wished these to sink into her mind and take root there, so that thereafter might spring up such wholesome fruits as repentance and humility, and the desire of godly aid and counsel. by-and-by he slipped away home, plunged his head into cold water to banish the dreams of the night, and then, having swallowed a cup of milk to stay his hunger, he went along to chapel street, to see if he could have speech of prudence. he found that not only were all of the household up and doing, but that prudence herself was ready to go out, being bent on one of her charitable errands; and it needed but a word to alter the direction of her kindness: of course she would at once go to see judith. "truly i had fears of it," said she, as they went through the fields, the pale, calm face having grown more and more anxious as she listened to all that he had to tell her. "her father was as the light of the world to her. with the others of us she hath ever been headstrong in a measure, and careless--and yet so lovable withal, and merry, that i for one could never withstand her--nay, i confess i tried not to withstand her, for never knew i of any wilfulness of hers springing from anything but good-nature and her kind and generous ways. but that she was ever ready to brave our opinions i know, and perchance make light of our anxieties, we not having her courage; and in all things she seemed to be a guide unto herself, and to walk sure and have no fear. in all things but one. indeed 'tis true what her grandmother told you, and who should know better than i, who was always with her? the slightest wish of her father's--that was law to her. a word of commending from him, and she was happy for days. and think what this must be now--she that was so proud of his approval--that scarce thought of aught else. nay, for myself i can see that they have told him all a wrong story in london, that know i well; and 'tis no wonder that he is vexed and angry; but judith--poor judith----" she could say no more just then; she turned aside her face somewhat. "do you know what she said to her grandmother, prudence, when she fell a crying? that there had been but the one rose in her garden, and that was gone now." "'tis what susan used to sing," said prudence, with rather trembling lips. "'_the rose is from my garden gone_,' 'twas called. ay, and hath she that on her mind now? truly i wish that her mother and susan had let me break this news to her; none know as well as i what it must be to her." and here tom quiney quickly asked her whether it was not clear to her that the parson had gone beyond his mission altogether--and that in a way that would have to be dealt with afterward, when all these things were amended? prudence, with some faint color in her pale face, defended master blaise to the best of her power, and said she knew he could not have been unduly harsh; nay, had she not herself, just as he was setting forth, besought him to be kind and considerate with judith? hereupon quiney rather brusquely asked what the good man could mean by phrases about discipline and chastenings and chastisements; to which prudence answered gently that these were but separate words, and that she was sure master blaise had fulfilled what he undertook in a merciful spirit, which was his nature. after that there was a kind of silence between these two; perhaps quiney considered that no good end could be served at present by stating his own ideas on that subject. the proper time would come, in due course. at length they reached the cottage. but here, to their amazement, and to the infinite distress of prudence, when judith's grandmother came down the wooden steps again, she shook her head, saying that the wench would see no one. "i thought as 'twould be so," she said. "but me, good grandmother! me!" prudence cried, with tears in her eyes. "surely she will not refuse to see me!" "no one, she saith," was the answer. "poor wench, her head do ache so bad. and when one would cheer her or comfort her a morsel, 'tis another fit of crying--that will wear her to skin and bone, if she do not pluck up better heart. she hath eaten naught this morning neither; 'tis for no wilfulness, poor lass, for she tried an hour ago; and now 'tis best as i think to leave her alone." "by your leave, good grandmother," said prudence, with some firmness, "that will i not. if judith be in such trouble, 'tis not likely that i should go away and leave her. it hath never been the custom between us two." "as you will, prudence," the grandmother said. "young hearts have their confidences among themselves. perchance you may be able to rouse her." prudence went up the stairs silently and opened the door. judith was lying on the bed, her face turned away from the light, her hands clasped over her forehead. "judith!" there was no answer. "judith," said her friend, going near, "i am come to see you." there was a kind of sob--that was all. "judith, is your head so bad? can i do nothing for you?" she put over her hand--the soft and cool and gentle touch of which had comforted many a sick-bed--and she was startled to find that both judith's hands and forehead were burning hot. "no, sweetheart," was the answer, in a low and broken voice, "you can do nothing for me now." "nay, nay, judith, take heart," prudence said, and she gently removed the hot fingers from the burning forehead, and put her own cooler hand there, as if to dull the throbbing of the pain. "sweetheart, be not so cast down! 'twill be all put right in good time." "never--never!" the girl said, without tears, but with an abject hopelessness of tone. "it can never be undone now. he said my name was become a mockery among my father's friends. for myself, i would not heed that--nay, they might say of me what they pleased--but that my father should hear of it--a mockery and scorn--and they think i cared so little for my father that i was ready to give away his papers to any one pretending to be a sweetheart and befooling me--and my father to know it all, and to hear such things said--no, that can never be undone now. i used to count the weeks and the days and the very hours when i knew he was coming back--that was the joy of my life to me--and now, if i were to know that he were coming near to stratford i should fly and hide somewhere--anywhere--in the river as lief as not. nay, i make no complaint. 'tis my own doing, and it cannot be undone now." "judith, judith, you break my heart!" her friend cried. "surely to all troubles there must come an end." "yes, yes," was the answer, in a low voice, and almost as if she were speaking to herself. "that is right. there will come an end. i would it were here now." all prudence's talking seemed to be of no avail. she reasoned and besought--oftentimes with tears in her eyes--but judith remained quite listless and hopeless; she seemed to be in a stunned and dazed condition after the long sleeplessness of the night; and prudence was afraid that further entreaties would only aggravate her headache. "i will go and get you something to eat now," said she. "your grandmother says you have had nothing since yesterday." "do not trouble; 'tis needless, sweetheart," judith said; and then she added with a brief shiver, "but if you could fetch a thick cloak, dear prudence, and throw it over me--surely the day is cold somewhat." a few minutes after (so swift and eager was everybody in the house) judith was warmly wrapped up; and by the side of the bed, on a chair, was some food the good grandmother had been keeping ready, and also a flask of wine that quiney had brought with him. "look you, judith," said prudence, "here is some wine that thomas quiney hath brought for you--'tis of a rare quality, he saith--and you must take a little. nay, you must and shall, sweetheart; and then perchance you may be able to eat." she sipped a little of the wine; it was but to show her gratitude and send him her thanks. she could not touch the food. she seemed mostly anxious for rest and quiet; and so prudence noiselessly left her and stole down the stair again. prudence was terribly perplexed and in a kind of despair almost. "i know not what to do," she said. "i would bring over her mother and susan, but that she begs and prays me not to do that--nay, she cannot see them she says. and there is no reasoning with her. it cannot be undone now--that is her constant cry. what to do i cannot tell; for surely, if she remain so, and take no comfort, she will fall ill." "ay, and if that be so who is to blame?" said quiney, who was walking up and down in considerable agitation. "i say that letter should never have been put into the parson's hands. was it meant to be conveyed to judith? i warrant me it was not! did her father say that he wished her chidden? did he ask any of you to bid the parson go to her with his upbraidings? would he himself have been so quick and eager to chasten her proud spirit? i tell you no. he is none of the parson kind. vexed he might have been, but he would have taken no vengeance. what--on his own child? by heavens, i'll be sworn now that if he were here, at this minute, he would take the girl by the hand, and laugh at her for being so afraid of his anger--ay, i warrant me he would--and would bid her be of good cheer, and brighten her face, that was ever the brightest in warwickshire, as i have heard him say. that would he--my life on it!" "ah," said prudence, wistfully, "if you could only persuade judith of that!" "persuade her?" said he. "why, i would stake my life that is what her father would do?" "you could not persuade her," said prudence, with a hopeless air. "no; she thinks it is all over now between her father and her. she is disgraced and put away from him. she hath done him such injury, she says, as even his enemies have never done. when he comes back again, she says, to stratford, she will be here, and she knows that he will never come near this house; and that will be better for her, she says, for she could never again meet him face to face." well, all that day judith lay there in that solitary room, desiring only to be left alone; taking no food; the racking pains in her head returning from time to time; and now and again she shivered slightly, as if from cold. tom quiney kept coming and going to hear news of her, or to consult with prudence as to how to rouse her from this hopelessness of grief; and as the day slowly passed, he grew more and more disturbed and anxious and restless. could nothing be done? could nothing be done? was his constant cry. he remained late that evening, and prudence stayed all night at the cottage. in the morning he was over again early, and more distressed than ever to hear that the girl was wearing herself out with this agony of remorse--crying stealthily when that she thought no one was near, and hiding herself away from the light, and refusing to be comforted. but during the long and silent watches he had been taking counsel with himself. "prudence," said he, regarding her with a curious look, "do you think now, if some assurance were come from her father himself--some actual message from him--a kindly message--some token that he was far indeed from casting her away from him--think you judith would be glad to have that?" "'twould be like giving her life back to her," said the girl, simply. "in truth i dread what may come of this; 'tis not in human nature to withstand such misery of mind. my poor judith, that was ever so careless and merry!" he hesitated for a second or two, and then he said, looking at her, and speaking in a cautious kind of way. "because, when next i have need to write to london, i might beg of some one--my brother dick, perchance, that is now in bucklersbury, and would have small trouble in doing such a service--i say i might beg of him to go and see judith's father, and tell him the true story, and show him that she was not so much to blame. nay, for my part i see not that she was to blame at all, but for over-kindness and confidence, and the wish to exalt her father. the mischief that hath been wrought is the doing of the scoundrel and villain on whose head i trust it may fall erelong; 'twas none of hers. and if her father were to have all that now put fairly and straight before him, think you he would not be right sorry to hear that she had taken his anger so much to heart, and was lying almost as one dead at the very thought of it? i tell you, now, if all this be put before him, and if he send her no comfortable message--ay, and that forthwith, and gladly--i have far misread him. and as for her, prudence--'twould be welcome, say you?" "'twould be of the value of all the world to her," prudence said, in her direct and earnest way. well, he almost immediately thereafter left (seeing that he could be of no further help to these women-folk), and walked quickly back to stratford, and to his house, which was also his place of business. he seemed to hurry through his affairs with speed; then he went up-stairs and looked out some clothing; he took down a pair of pistols and put some fresh powder in the pans, and made a few other preparations. next he went round to the stable, and the stout little galloway nag whinnied when she saw him at the door. "well, maggie, lass," said he, going into the stall, and patting her neck, and stroking down her knees, "what sayst thou? wouldst like a jaunt that would carry thee many a mile away from stratford town? nay, but if you knew the errand, i warrant me you would be as eager as i! what, then--a bargain, lass! by my life, you shall have many a long day's rest in clover when this sharp work is done!" chapter xxxi a lost arcadia. it was on this same morning that judith made a desperate effort to rouse herself from the prostration into which she had fallen. all through that long darkness and despair she had been wearily and vainly asking herself whether she could do nothing to retrieve the evil she had wrought. her good name might go--she cared little for that now--but was there no means of making up to her father the actual money he had lost? it was not forgiveness she thought of, but restitution. forgiveness was not to be dreamed of; she saw before her always that angered face she had beheld in the garden, and her wish was to hide away from that, and be seen of it no more. then there was another thing: if she were to be permitted to remain at the cottage, ought she not to show herself willing to take a share of the humblest domestic duties? might not the good dame begin to regard her as but a useless encumbrance? if it were so that no work her ten fingers could accomplish would ever restore to her father what he had lost through her folly, at least it might win her grandmother's forbearance and patience. and so it was on the first occasion of her head ceasing to ache quite so badly she struggled to her feet (though she was so languid and listless and weak that she could scarcely stand), and put round her the heavy cloak that had been lying on the bed, and smoothed her hair somewhat, and went to the door. there she stood for a minute or two, listening, for she would not go down if there were any strangers about. the house seemed perfectly still. there was not a sound anywhere. then, quite suddenly, she heard little cicely begin to sing to herself--but in snatches, as if she were occupied with other matters--some well-known rhymes to an equally familiar tune-- "by the moon we sport and play; with the night begins our day; as we drink the dew doth fall, trip it, dainty urchins all! lightly as the little bee, two by two, and three by three, and about go we, go we." --and she made no doubt that the little girl was alone in the kitchen. accordingly, she went down. cicely, who was seated near the window and busily engaged in plucking a fowl, uttered a slight cry when she entered, and started up. "dear mistress judith," she said, "can i do aught for you? will you sit down? dear, dear, how ill you do look!" "i am not at all ill, little cicely," said judith, as cheerfully as she could, and she sat down. "give me the fowl--i will do that for you, and you can go and help my grandmother in whatever she is at." "nay, not so," said the little maid, definitely refusing. "why should you?" "but i wish it," judith said. "do not vex me now--go and seek my grandmother, like a good little lass." the little maid was thus driven to go, but it was with another purpose. in about a couple of minutes she had returned, and preceding her was judith's grandmother. "what! art come down, wench?" the old dame said, patting her kindly on the shoulder. "that be so far well--ay, ay, i like that now--that be better for thee than lying all alone. but what would you with the little maid's work, that you would take it out of her hands?" "why, if i am idle, and do nothing, grandmother, you will be for turning me out of the house," the girl answered, looking up with a strange kind of smile. "turn thee out of the house," said her grandmother, who had just caught a better glimpse of the wan and tired face. "ay, that will i--and now. come thy ways, wench; 'tis time for thee to be in the fresh air. cicely, let be the fowl now. put some more wood on the fire, and hang on the pot--there's a clever lass. and thou, grandchild, come thy ways with me into the garden, and i warrant me when thou comest back a cupful of barley-broth will do thee no harm." judith obeyed, though she would fain have sat still. and then, when she reached the front door what a bewilderment of light and color met her eyes! she stood as one dazed for a second or two. the odors of the flowers and the shrubs were so strange, moreover--pungent and strange and full of memories. it seemed so long a time since she had seen this wonderful glowing world and breathed this keen air, that she paused on the stone flag to collect her senses as it were. and then a kind of faintness came over her, and perhaps she might have sank to the ground, but that she laid hold of her grandmother's arm. "ay, ay, come thy ways and sit thee down, dearie," the old dame said, imagining that the girl was but begging for a little assistance in her walking. "i be main glad to see thee out again. i liked not that lying there alone--nay, i wur feared of it, and i bade prudence send your mother and susan to see you----" "no, no, good grandmother, no, no!" judith pleaded, with all the effort that remained to her. "but yea, yea!" her grandmother said, sharply. "foolish wench, that would hide away from them that can best aid thee! ay, and knowest thou how the new disease, as they call it, shows itself at the beginning? why, with a pinching of the face and sharp pains in the head. wouldst thou have me let thee lie there, and perchance go from bad to worse, and not send for them--ay, and for susan's husband, if need were? nay, but let not that fright thee, good wench," she said, in a gentler way. "'tis none so bad as i thought, else you would not be venturing down the stairs--nay, nay, there be no harm done as yet, i warrant me--'tis a breath of fresh air to sharpen thee into a hungry fit that will be the best doctor for thee. here, sit thee down and rest now, and when the barley-broth be warm enough, cicely shall bring thee out a dish of it. nay, i see no harm done. keep up thy heart, lass; thou wert ever a brave one--ay, what was there ever that could daunt thee? and not the boldest of the youths but was afraid of thy laugh and thy merry tongue. heaven save us, that thou should take on so! and if you would sell yourself to work in slavery in the indies, think you they would buy a poor, weak, trembling creature? nay, nay, we will have to fetch back the roses to your cheeks ere you make for that bargain, i warrant me!" they were now seated in the little arbor. on entering judith had cast her eyes round it in a strange and half-frightened fashion; and now, as she sat there, she was scarcely listening to the good-natured garrulity of the old dame, which was wholly meant to cheer her spirits. "grandmother," said she, in a low voice, "think you 'twas really he that took away with him my father's play?" "i know not how else it could have been come by," said the grandmother, "but i pray you, child, heed not that for the present. what be done and gone cannot be helped--let it pass--there, there, now, what a lack of memory have i, that should have shown thee the pretty lace cuffs that thomas quiney left for thee--fit for a queen they be, to be sure--ay, and the fine lace of them, and the silver, too. he hath a free hand, he hath; 'tis a fair thing for any that will be in life-partnership with him; 'twill not away, marry 'twill not; 'twill bide in his nature--that will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone, as they say; and i like to see a young man that be none of the miser kind, but ready forth with his money where 'tis to please them he hath a fancy for. a brave lad he is too, and one that will hold his own; and when i told him that you were pleased that his business went forward well, why, saith he, as quick as quick, 'said she that?' and if my old eyes fail me not, i know of one that setteth greater share by your good word than you imagine, wench." she but half heard; she was recalling all that had happened in this very summer-house. "and think you, grandmother," said she, slowly, and with absent eyes, "that when he was sitting here with us, and telling us all about the court doings, and about my father's friends in london, and when he was so grateful to us--or saying that he was so--for our receiving of him here, think you that all the time he was planning to steal my father's play, and to take it and sell it in london? grandmother can you think it possible? could any one be such a hypocrite? i know that he deceived me at the first, but 'twas only a jest, and he confessed it all, and professed his shame that he had so done. but, grandmother, think of him--think of how he used to speak--and ever so modest and gentle; is't possible that all the time he was playing the thief, and looking forward to the getting away to london to sell what he had stolen?" "for love's sake, sweetheart, heed that man no more! 'tis all done and gone--there can come no good of vexing thyself about it," her grandmother said. "be he villain or not, 'twill be well for all of us that we never hear his name more. in good sooth i am as much to blame as thou thyself, child, for the encouraging him to come about, and listening to his gossip--beshrew me, that i should have meddled in such matters, and not bade him go about his business! but 'tis all past and gone now, as i say--there be no profit in vexing thyself----" "past and gone, grandmother!" she exclaimed, and yet in a listless way. "yes--but what remains? good grandmother, perchance you did not hear all that the parson said. 'tis past and gone, truly--and more than you think." the tone in which she uttered these words somewhat startled the good dame, who looked at her anxiously. and then she said, "why, now, i warrant me the barley-broth will be hot enough by this time: i will go fetch thee a cupful, wench--'twill put warmth in thy veins, it will--ay, and cheer thy heart too." "trouble not, good grandmother," she said. "i would as lief go back to my room now. the light hurts my eyes strangely." "back to your room? that shall you not!" was the prompt answer, but not meant unkindly. "you shall wait here, wench, till i bring thee that will put some color in thy white face--ay, and some of thomas quiney's wine withal; and if the light hurt thee, sit farther back, then--of a truth 'tis no wonder, after thou hast hid thyself like a dormouse for so long." and so she went away to the house. but she was scarcely gone when judith--in this extreme silence that the rustling of a leaf would have disturbed--heard certain voices; and listening more intently she made sure that the new-comers must be susan and her mother, whom prudence had asked to walk over. instantly she got up, though she had to steady herself for a moment by resting her hand on the table; and then, as quickly as she could, and as noiselessly, she stole along the path to the cottage, and entered, and made her way up to her own room. she fancied she had not been heard. she would rather be alone. if they had come to accuse her, what had she to answer? why, nothing: they might say of her what they pleased now, it was all deserved; only, the one denunciation of her that she had listened to--the one she had heard from the parson--seemed like the ringing of her death-knell. surely there was no need to repeat that? they could not wish to repeat it, did they but know all it meant to her. then the door was quietly opened, and her sister appeared, bearing in one hand a small tray. "i have brought you some food, judith, and a little wine, and you must try and take them, sweetheart," said she. "'twas right good news to us that you had come down and gone into the garden for a space. in truth, making yourself ill will not mend matters; and prudence was in great alarm." she put the tray on a chair, for there was no table in the room--but judith, finding that her sister had not come to accuse her, but was in this gentle mood, said quickly and eagerly, "oh, susan, you can tell me all that i would so fain know! you must have heard, for my father speaks to you of all his affairs, and at your own wedding you must have heard when all these things were arranged. tell me, susan--i shall have a marriage-portion, shall i not?--and how much, think you? perchance not so large as yours, for you are the elder, and dr. hall was ever a favorite with my father. but i shall have a marriage-portion, susan, shall i not? nay, it may already be set aside for me." and then the elder sister did glance somewhat reproachfully at her. "i wonder you should be thinking of such things, judith," said she. "ah, but 'tis not as you imagine," the girl said, with the same pathetic eagerness. "tis in this wise now: would my father take it in a measure to repay him for the ill that i have done? would it make up the loss, susan, or a part of it? would he take it, think you? ah, but if he would do that!" "why, that were an easy way out of the trouble, assuredly!" her sister exclaimed. "to take the marriage-portion that is set aside for thee--and if i mistake not, 'tis all provided--ay, and the rowington copyhold, which will fall to thee, if 'tis not thine already; truly, 'twere a wise thing to take these to make good this loss, and then, when you marry, to have to give you your marriage-portion all the same!" "nay, nay, not so, susan!" her sister cried, quickly. "what said you? the rowington copyhold also? and perchance mine already? susan, would it make good the loss? would all taken together make good the loss? for, as heaven is my witness, i will never marry--nor think of marrying--but rejoice all the days of my life if my father would but take these to satisfy him of the injury i have done him. nay, but is't possible, susan? will he do that for me--as a kindness to me? i have no right to ask for such--but--but if only he knew--if only he knew!" the tears were running down her face; her hands were clasped in abject entreaty. "sweetheart, you know not what you ask," her sister said, but gently. "when you marry, your marriage-portion will have to be in accordance with our position in the town--my father would not have it otherwise; were you to surrender that now, would he let one of his daughters go forth from his house as a beggar, think you? or what would her husband say to be so treated? you might be willing to give up these, but my father could not, and your husband would not." "susan, susan, i wish for no marriage," she cried; "i will stay with my grandmother here; she is content that i should bide with her; and if my father will take these, 'twill be the joy of my life; i shall wish for no more; and new place shall come to no harm by me; 'tis here that i am to bide. think you he would take them, susan--think you he would take them?" she pleaded; and in her excitement she got up, and tried to walk about a little, but with her hands still clasped. "if one were to send to london now--a message--or i would walk every foot of the way did i but think he would do this for me--oh, no! no! no! i durst not--i durst never see him more--he has cast me off--and--and i deserve no less!" her sister went to her and took her by the hand. "judith, you have been in sore trouble, and scarce know what you say," she said, in that clear, calm way of hers. "but this is now what you must do. sit down and take some of this food. as i hear, you have scarce tasted anything these two days. you have always been so wild and wayward; now must you listen to reason and suffer guidance." she made her sit down. the girl took a little of the broth, some of the spiced bread, and a little of the wine, but it was clear that she was forcing herself to it; her thoughts were elsewhere. and scarcely had she finished this make-believe of a repast when she turned to her sister and said, with a pathetic pleading in her voice, "and is it not possible, susan? surely i can do something! it is so dreadful to think of my father imagining that i have done him this injury, and gone on the same way, careless of what has happened. that terrifies me at night! oh, if you but knew what it is in the darkness, in the long hours, and none to call to, and none to give you help; and to think that these are the thoughts he has of me; that it was all for a sweetheart i did it--that i gave away his writing to please a sweetheart--and that i care not for what has happened, but would do the like again to-morrow! it is so dreadful in the night." "i would comfort you if i could, judith," said her sister, "but i fear me you must trust to wiser counsel than mine. in truth i know not whether all this can be undone, or how my father regards it at the moment; for at the time of the writing they were all uncertain. but surely now you would do well to be ruled by some one better able to guide you than any of us women-folk; master blaise hath been most kind and serviceable in this as in all other matters, and hath written to your father in answer to his letter, so that we have had trust and assurance in his direction. and you also--why should you not seek his aid and counsel?" at the mere mention of the parson's name judith shivered instinctively, she scarce knew why. "judith," her sister continued, regarding her watchfully, "to-morrow, as i understand, master blaise is coming over here to see you." "may not i be spared that? he hath already brought his message," the girl said, in a low voice. "nay, he comes but in kindness--or more than kindness, if i guess aright. bethink you, judith," she said, "'tis not only the loss of the money--or great or small i know not--that hath distressed my father. there was more than that. nay, do not think that i am come to reproach you; but will it not be ever thus so long as you will be ruled by none, but must always go your own way? there was more than merely concerned money affairs in my father's letter, as doubtless master blaise hath told you; and then, think of it, judith, how 'twill be when the bruit of the story comes down to stratford----" "i care not," was the perfectly calm answer. "that is for me to bear. can master blaise tell me how i may restore to my father this that he hath lost? then his visit might be more welcome, susan." "why will you harden your heart so?" the elder sister said, with some touch of entreaty in her tone. "nay, think of it, judith! here is an answer to all. if you but listen to him, and favor him, you will have one always with you as a sure guide and counsellor; and who then may dare say a word against you?" "then he comes to save my good name?" the girl said, with a curious change of manner. "nay, i will give him no such tarnished prize!" and here it occurred to the elder sister, who was sufficiently shrewd and observant, that her intercession did not seem to be producing good results, and she considered it better that the parson should speak for himself. indeed, she hoped she had done no mischief, for this that she now vaguely suggested had for long been the dream and desire of both her mother and herself; and at this moment, if ever, there was a chance of judith's being obedient and compliant. not only did she forthwith change the subject, but also she managed to conquer the intense longing that possessed her to learn something further about the young man who (as she imagined) had for a time captured judith's fancies. she gave her sister what news there was in the town. she besought her to take care of herself, and to go out as much as possible, for that she was looking far from well. and, finally, when the girl confessed that she was fain to lie down for a space (having slept so little during these two nights), she put some things over her and quietly left, hoping that she might soon get to sleep. judith did not rest long, however. the question whether the sacrifice of her marriage-portion might not do something toward retrieving the disaster she had caused was still harassing her mind; and then again there was the prospect of the parson coming on the morrow. by-and-by, when she was certain that her mother and sister were gone, she went down-stairs, and began to help in doing this or the other little thing about the house. her grandmother was out-of-doors, and so did not know, to interfere, though the small maid-servant remonstrated as best she might. luckily, however, nature was a more imperative monitress, and again and again the girl had to sit down from sheer physical weakness. but there came over a visitor in the afternoon who restored to her something of her old spirit. it was little willie hart, who, having timidly tapped at the open door without, came along the passage and entered the dusky chamber where she was. "ah, sweetheart," said she (but with a kind of sudden sob in her throat), "have you come to see me?" "i heard that you were not well, cousin," said he, and he regarded her with troubled and anxious eyes as she stooped to kiss him. "nay, i am well enough," said she, with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. "fret not yourself about that. and what a studious scholar you are, cousin willie, to be sure, that must needs bring your book with you! were i not so ignorant myself, i should hear you your tasks; but you would but laugh at me----" "'tis no task-book, judith," said he, diffidently. "'twas prudence who lent it to me." and then he hesitated, through shyness. "why, you know, judith," he said, "you have spoken to me many a time about sir philip sidney; and i was asking this one and the other, at times, and prudence said she would show me a book he had written that belongs to her brother. and then to-day, when i went to her, she bade me bring the book to you, and to read to you, for that you were not well and might be pleased to hear it, she not being able to come over till the morrow." "in truth, now, that was well thought of, and friendly," said she, and she put her hand in a kindly fashion on his shoulder. "and you have come all the way over to read to me! see you how good a thing it is to be wise and instructed. well, then, we will go and sit by the door, that you may have more of light; and if my grandmother catch us at such idleness, you shall have to defend me--you shall have to defend me, sweetheart--for you are the man of us two, and i must be shielded." so they went to the door, and sat down on the step, the various-colored garden and the trees and the wide heavens all shining before them. "and what is the tale, cousin willie?" said she, quite pleasantly (for indeed she was glad to see the boy, and to chat with one who had no reproaches for her, who knew nothing against her, but was ever her true lover and slave). "nay, if it be by sir philip sidney, 'twill be of gallant and noble knights, assuredly." "i know not, cousin judith," said he; "i but looked at the beginning as i came through the fields. and this is how it goes." he opened the book and began to read-- "'it was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new apparel against the approach of her lover, and that the sun running a most even course becomes an indifferent arbiter between the night and the day, when the hopeless shepherd strephon was come to the sands which lie against the island of cythera, where, viewing the place with a heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastor claius unto him, and, setting first down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak, "o my claius," said he----'" thus he went on; and as he read, her face grew more and more wistful. it was a far-off land that she heard of; and beautiful it was; it seemed to her that she had been dwelling in some such land, careless and all unknowing. "'the third day after,'" she vaguely heard him say, "'in the time that the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, the nightingales, striving one with the other which could in most dainty variety recount their wrong-caused sorrow, made them put off their sleep, and rising from under a tree, which that night had been their pavilion, they went on their journey, which by-and-by welcomed musidorus's eyes with delightful prospects. there were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so to by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'" surely she had herself been living in some such land of pleasant delights, without a thought that ever it would end for her, but that each following day would be as full of mirth and laughter as its predecessor. she scarcely listened to the little lad now; she was looking back over the years, so rare and bright and full of light and color were they--and always a kind of music in them--and laughter at the sad eyes of lovers. she had never known how happy she had been. it was all distant now--the idle flower-gathering in the early spring-time; the afternoon walking in the meadows, she and prudence together (with the young lads regarding them askance); the open casements on the moonlit nights, to hear the madrigal singing of the youths going home; or the fair and joyous mornings that she was allowed to ride away in the direction of oxford, to meet her father and his companions coming in to stratford town. and now, when next he should come--to all of them, and all of them welcoming him--even neighbors and half-strangers--and he laughing to them all, and getting off his horse, and calling for a cup of wine as he strode into the house, where should she be? not with all of these--not laughing and listening to the merry stories of the journey--but away by herself, hiding herself, as it were, and thinking, alone. "dear judith, but why are you crying?" said the little lad, as he chanced to look up; and his face was of an instant and troubled anxiety. "why, 'tis a fair land--oh, indeed, a fair land," said she, with an effort at regarding the book, and pretending to be wholly interested in it. "nay, i would hear more of musidorus, sweetheart, and of that pretty country. i pray you continue the reading--continue the reading, sweetheart willie. nay, i never heard of a fairer country i assure thee, in all the wide world!" chapter xxxii. a resolve. then that night, as she lay awake in the dark, her incessant imaginings shaped themselves toward one end. this passion of grief she knew to be unavailing and fruitless. something she would try to do, if but to give evidence of her contrition: for how could she bear that her father should think of her as one having done him this harm and still going on light-hearted and unconcerned? the parson was coming over on the morrow. and if she were to put away her maidenly pride (and other vague dreams that she had sometimes dreamed), and take it that her consent would re-establish her in the eyes of those who were now regarding her askance, and make her peace with her own household? and if the surrender of her marriage-portion and her interest in the rowington copyhold (whatever it might be) were in a measure to mitigate her father's loss? it was the only thing she could think of. and if at times she looked forward with a kind of shudder (for in the night-time all prospects wear a darker hue) to her existence as the parson's wife, again there came to her the reflection that it was not for her to repine. some sacrifice was due from her. and could she not be as resolute as the daughter of the gileadite? oftentimes she had heard the words read out in the still afternoon: "now when iphtah came to mizpeh unto his house, behold his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and dances: which was his only child; he had none other, son nor daughter. and when he saw her he rent his clothes, and said, alas! my daughter, thou hast brought me low, and art of them that trouble me." the jewish maiden had done no ill, and yet was brave to suffer. why should she repine at any sacrifice demanded of her to atone for her own wrong-doing? what else was there? she hoped that susan and her mother would be pleased now, and that her father and his friends in london would not have any serious loss to regret. there was but the one way, she said to herself again and again. she was almost anxious for the parson to come over, to see if he would approve. with the daylight her determination became still more clear, and also she saw more plainly the difficulties before her; for it could not be deemed a very seemly and maidenly thing that she, on being asked to become a bride (and she had no doubt that was his errand), should begin to speak of her marriage-portion. but would he understand? would he help her over her embarrassment? nay, she could not but reflect, here was an opportunity for his showing himself generous and large-minded. he had always professed, or at least intimated, that his wish to have her for wife was based mostly on his care for herself and his regard for the general good of the pious community to which he belonged. she was to be a helpmate for one laboring in the lord's vineyard; she was to be of service in the church; she was to secure for herself a constant and loving direction and guidance. and now, if he wished to prove all this--if he wished to show himself so noble and disinterested as to win for himself her life-long gratitude--what if he were to take over all her marriage-portion, as that might be arranged, and forthwith and chivalrously hand it back again, so that her grievous fault should so far be condoned? if the girl had been in her usual condition of health and spirits, it is probable that she would have regarded this question with a trifle of scepticism (for she was about as shrewd in such matters as susan herself); nay, it is just probable that she might have experienced a malicious joy in putting him to the proof. but she was in despair; her nerves were gone through continual wakefulness and mental torture; this was the only direction in which she saw light before her, and she regarded it, not with her ordinary faculty of judgment, but with a kind of pathetic hope. master blaise arrived in the course of the morning. his reception was not auspicious, for the old dame met him at the gate, and made more than a show of barring the way. "indeed, good sir," said she, firmly, "the wench be far from well now, and i would have her left alone." he answered that his errand was of some importance, and that he must crave a few minutes' interview. both her mother and sister, he said, were aware he was coming over to see her, and had made no objection. "no, no, perchance not," the grandmother said, though without budging an inch, "but she be under my care now, and i will have no harm befall her----" "harm! good mistress hathaway?" said he. "well, she be none so strong as she were--and--and perchance there hath been overmuch lecturing of the poor lass. nay, i doubt not 'twas meant in kindness; but there hath been overmuch of it, as i reckon, and what i say is, if the wench have done amiss, let those that have the right to complain come to her. nay, 'twas kindness, good sir; 'twas well meant, i doubt not; and 'tis your calling belike to give counsel and reproof; i say naught against that, but i am of a mind to have my grandchild left alone at present." "if you refuse me, good mistress hathaway," said he, quite courteously and calmly, "there is no more to be said. but i imagine that her mother and sister will be surprised. and as for the maiden herself--go you by her wishes?" "nay, not i," was the bold answer. "i know better than all of them together. for to speak plainly with you, good master parson, your preaching must have been oversharp when last you were within here--and was like to have brought the wench to death's door thereafter; marry, she be none so far recovered as to risk any further of such treatment. perchance you meant no harm; but she is proud and high-spirited, and by your leave, good sir, we will see her a little stronger and better set up ere she have any more of the discipline of the church bestowed on her." it was well that judith appeared at this juncture, for the tone of the old dame's voice was growing more and more tart. "grandmother," said she, "i would speak with master blaise." "get thee within-doors at once, i tell thee, wench!" was the peremptory rejoinder. "no, good grandmother, so please you," judith said, "i must speak with him. there is much of importance that i have to say to him. good sir, will you step into the garden?" the old dame withdrew, sulky and grumbling, and evidently inclined to remain within ear-shot, lest she should deem it necessary to interfere. judith preceded master blaise to the door of the cottage, and asked the little maid to bring out a couple of chairs. as she sat down he could not but observe how wan and worn her face was, and how listless she was in manner; but he made no comment on that; he only remarked that her grandmother seemed in no friendly mood this morning, and that only the fact that his mission was known to susan and her mother had caused him to persist. it was clear that this untoward reception had disconcerted him somewhat; and it was some little time before he could recover that air of mild authority with which he was accustomed to convey his counsels. at first he confined himself to telling judith what he had done on behalf of her mother and susan, in obedience to their wishes; but by and by he came to herself and her own situation; and he hoped that this experience through which she had passed, though it might have caused her bitter distress for the time, would eventually make for good. if the past could not be recalled, at least the future might be made safe. indeed one or two phrases he had used sounded as if they had done some previous service, perhaps he had consulted with mistress hall ere making this appeal--but in any case judith was not listening so particularly as to think of that--she seemed to know beforehand what he had to say. to tell the truth, he was himself a little surprised at her tacit acquiescence. he had always had to argue with judith, and many a time he had found that her subtle feminine wit was capable of extricating herself from what he considered a defenceless position. but now she sat almost silent. she seemed to agree to everything. there was not a trace left of the old audacious self-reliance, nor yet of those saucy rejoinders which were only veiled by her professed respect for his cloth--she was at his mercy. and so, growing bolder, he put in his own personal claim. he said little that he had not said or hinted on previous occasions; but now all the circumstances were changed; this heavy misfortune that had befallen her was but another and all too cogent reason why she should accept his offer of shelter and aid and counsel, seeing into what pitfalls her own unguided steps were like to lead her. "i speak the words of truth and soberness," said he, as he sat and calmly regarded her downcast face, "and make no appeal to the foolish fancies of a young and giddy-headed girl--for that you are no longer, judith. the years are going by. there must come a time in life when the enjoyment of the passing moment is not all in all--when one must look to the future, and make provision for sickness and old age. death strikes here and there; friends fall away. what a sad thing it were to find one's self alone, the dark clouds of life thickening over, and none by to help and cheer. then your mother and sister, judith----" "yes, i know," she said, almost in despair--"i know 'twould please them." and then she reflected that this was scarcely the manner in which she should receive his offer, that was put before her so plainly and with so much calm sincerity. "i pray you, good sir," said she, in a kind of languid way, "forgive me if i answer you not as frankly as might be. i have been ill; my head aches now; perchance i have not followed all you said. but i understand it--i understand it--and in all you say there is naught but good intention." "then it is yes, judith?" he exclaimed; and for the first time there was a little brightness of ardor--almost of triumph--in this clearly conceived and argued wooing. "it would please my mother and sister," she repeated, slowly. "they are afraid of some story coming from london about--about--what is passed. this would be an answer, would it not?" "why, yes!" he said, confidently, for he saw that she was yielding (and his own susceptibilities were not likely to be wounded in that direction). "think you we should heed any tavern scurrility? i trow not! there would be the answer plain and clear--if you were my wife, judith." "they would be pleased," again she said, and her eyes were absent. and then she added, "i pray you pardon me, good sir, if i speak of that which you may deem out of place, but--but if you knew--how i have been striving to think of some means of repairing the wrong i have done my father, you would not wonder that i should be anxious, and perchance indiscreet. you know of the loss i have caused him and his companions. how could i ever make that good with the work of my own hands? that is not possible; and yet when i think of how he hath toiled for all of us--late and early, as it were--why, good sir, i have myself been bold enough to chide him--or to wish that i were a man, to ride forth in the morning in his stead and look after the land; and then that his own daughter should be the means of taking from him what he hath earned so hardly--that i should never forget; 'twould be on my mind year after year, even if he were himself to try to forget it." she paused for a second; the mere effort of speaking seemed to fatigue her. "there is but the one means, as i can think, of showing him my humble sorrow for what hath been done--of making him some restitution. i know not what my marriage-portion may be--but 'twill be something--and susan saith there is a part of the manor of rowington, also, that would fall to me; now, see you, good master blaise, if i were to give these over to my father in part quittance of this injury--or if, belike--my--my--husband would do that--out of generosity and nobleness--would not my father be less aggrieved?" she had spoken rather quickly and breathlessly (to get over her embarrassment), and now she regarded him with a strange anxiety, for so much depended on his answer! would he understand her motives? would he pardon her bluntness? would he join her in this scheme of restitution? he hesitated only for a moment. "dear judith," he said, with perfect equanimity, "such matters are solely within the province of men, and not at the disposition of women, who know less of the affairs of the world. whatever arrangements your father may have made in respect of your marriage-portion--truly i have made no inquiry in that direction--he will have made with due regard to his own circumstances, and with regard to the family and to your future. would he be willing to upset these in order to please a girlish fancy? why, in all positions in life pecuniary losses must happen; and a man takes account of these; and is he likely to recover himself at the expense of his own daughter?" "nay, but if she be willing! if she would give all that she hath, good sir!" she cried, quickly. "'twould be but taking it from one pocket to put it in the other," said he, in his patient and forbearing way. "i say not, if a man were like to become bankrupt, that his family might not forego their expectations in order to save him; but your father is one in good position. think you that the loss is so great to him? in truth it cannot be." the eagerness fell away from her face. she saw too clearly that he could not understand her at all. she did not reckon her father's loss in proportion to his wealth--in truth, she could not form the faintest notion of what that loss might be; all her thought was of her winning back (in some remote day, if that were still possible to her) to her father's forgiveness, and the regarding of his face as no longer in dread wrath against her. "why," said he, seeing that she sat silent and distraught (for all the hope had gone out of her), "in every profession and station in life a man must have here or there a loss, as i say; but would he rob his family to make that good? surely not. of what avail might that be? 'tis for them that he is working, 'tis not for himself; why should he take from them to build up a property which must in due course revert and become theirs? i pray you put such fancies out of your head, judith. women are not accustomed to deal with such matters; 'tis better to have them settled in the ordinary fashion. were i you i would leave it in your father's hands." "and have him think of me as he is thinking now!" she said, in a kind of wild way. "ah, good sir, you know not!--you know not! every day that passes is but the deeper misery--for--for he will be hardened in the belief--'twill be fixed in his mind forever--that his own daughter did him this wrong, and went on lightly--not heeding--perchance to seek another sweetheart. this he is thinking now, and i--what can i do?--being so far away and none to help!" "in truth, dear judith," said he, "you make too much of your share in what happened. 'tis not to you your father should look for reparation of his loss, but to the scoundrel who carried the play to london. what punishment would it be for him--or what gain to your father--that your father should upset the arrangements he has made for the establishment and surety of his own family? nay, i pray you put aside such a strange fancy, dear heart, and let such things take their natural course." "in no wise, in no wise!" she exclaimed, almost in despair. "in truth i cannot. 'twould kill me were nothing to be done to appease my father's anger; and i thought that if he were to learn that you had sought me in marriage--and--and agreed that such restitution as i can make should be made forthwith--or afterward, as might be decided--but only that he should know now that i give up everything he had intended for me--then i should have great peace of mind." "indeed, judith," said he, somewhat coldly, "i could be no party to any such foolish freak--nay, not even in intention, whatever your father might say to it. the very neighbors would think i was bereft of my senses. and 'twould be an ill beginning of our life together--in which there must ever be authority and guidance, as well as dutiful obedience--if i were to yield to what every one must perceive to be an idle and fantastic wish. i pray you consult your own sober judgment; at present you are ailing, and perturbed; rest you awhile until these matters have calmed somewhat, and you will see them in their true light." "no, no," she said, hurriedly and absently--"no, no, good sir, you know not what you ask. rest? nay, one way or the other this must be done, and forthwith. i know not what he may have intended for me; but be it large or small, 'tis all that i have to give him--i can do no more than that--and then--then there may be some thoughts of rest." she spoke as if she were scarcely aware of the good parson's presence; and in truth, though he was not one to allow any wounded self-love to mar his interests, he could not conceal from himself that she was considering the proposal he had put before her mainly, if not wholly, with a view to the possible settlement of these troubles and the appeasing of her friends. whether, in other circumstances, he might not have calmly overlooked this slight, needs not now be regarded; in the present circumstances--that is to say, after her announced determination to forego every penny of her marriage-portion--he did take notice of it, and with some sharpness of tone, as if he were truly offended. "indeed you pay me no compliment, judith," said he. "i come to offer you the shelter of an honest man's home, an honorable station as his wife, a life-long guidance and protection; and what is your answer?--that perchance you may make use of such an offer to please your friends and to pay back to your father what you foolishly think you owe him. if these be the only purposes you have in view--and you seem to think of none other--'twould be a sorry forecast for the future, as i take it. at the very beginning an act of madness! nay, i could be no party to any such thing. if you refuse to be guided by me in great matters, how could i expect you to be guided in small?" these words, uttered in his clear and precise and definite manner, she but vaguely understood (for her head troubled her sorely, and she was tired, and anxious to be at rest) to be a withdrawal of his proposal. but that was enough; and perhaps she even experienced some slight sense of relief. as for his rebuking of her, she heeded not that. "as you will, sir, as you will," she said, listlessly, and she rose from her chair. and he rose too. perhaps he was truly offended; perhaps he only appeared to be; but at all events he bade her farewell in a cold and formal manner, and as if it were he who had brought this interview to an end, and that for good. "what said he, wench, what said he?" her grandmother asked (who had been pretending all the time to be gathering peas, and now came forward). "nay, i caught but little--a word here or there--and yet methinks 'tis a brave way of wooing they have nowadays that would question a maid about her marriage-portion! heaven's mercy, did ever any hear the like? 'twas not so when i was young--nay, a maid would have bade him go hang that brought her such a tale. oh, the good parson! his thoughts be not all bent on heaven, i warrant me! ay, and what said he? and what saidst thou, wench? truly you be in no fit state to answer him; were you well enough, and in your usual spirits, the good man would have his answer--ay, as sharp as need be. but i will say no more; master quiney hath a vengeful spirit, and perchance he hath set me too much against the good man; but as for thyself, lass, there be little cause for talking further of thy offences, if 'tis thy marriage-portion the parson be after now!" "good grandmother, give me your arm," judith said, in a strange way. "my head is so strange and giddy. i know not what i have said to him--i scarce can recollect it--if i have offended, bid him forgive me--but--but i would have him remain away." "as i am a living woman," said the old dame (forgetting her resolve to speak smooth words), "he shall not come within the door, nor yet within that gate while you bide with me and would have him kept without! what then? more talk of chastenings? marry now thomas quiney shall hear of this--that shall he--by my life he shall!" "no, no, no, good grandmother, pray you blame no one," the girl said, and she was trembling somewhat. "'tis i that have done all the harm--to every one. but i know not what i said--i--i would fain lie down, grandmother, if you will give me your arm so far--'tis so strangely cold--i understand it not--and i forget what wast he said to me--but i trust i offended him not----" "nay, but what is it, then, my deary?" the old woman said, taking both the girl's hands in hers. "what is it that you should fret about? nay, fret not, fret not, good wench; the parson be well away, and there let him bide. and would you lie down?--well, come, then; but sure you shake as if 'twere winter. come, lass! nay, fret not, we will keep the parson away, i warrant, if 'tis that vexes thee!" "no, grandmother, 'tis not so," the girl said, in a low voice. "'twas down by the river, as i think--'twas chilly there--i have felt it ever since, from time to time--but 'twill pass away when i am laid down and become warm again." "heaven grant it be no worse," the old dame said to herself, as she shrewdly regarded the girl; but of course her outward talk, as she took her within-doors, was ostensibly cheerful. "come thy ways, then, sweeting, and we shall soon make thee warm enough. ay, ay, and prudence be coming over this afternoon, as i hear; and no doubt thomas quiney too; and thou must get thyself dressed prettily, and have supper with us all, though 'tis no treat to offer to a man of his own wine. nay, i warrant me he will think naught of that so thou be there with a pleasant face for him; he will want nor wine nor aught else if he have but that, and a friendly word from thee, as i reckon; ay, and thou shalt put on the lace cuffs now, to do him fair service for his gift to thee--that shalt thou, and why not? i swear to thee, my brave lass, they be fit for a queen!" and she would comfort her and help her (just as if this granddaughter of hers, that always was so bright and gay and radiant, so self-willed and self-reliant, with nothing but laughter for the sad eyes of the stricken youths, was now but a weak and frightened child, that had to be guarded and coaxed and caressed), and would talk as if all her thinking was of that visit in the afternoon; but the only answer was---- "will you send for prudence, grandmother? oh, grandmother, my head aches so! i scarce know what i said." swiftly and secretly the old dame sent across to the town; and not to prudence only, but also (for she was grown anxious) to mistress hall, to say that if her husband were like to return soon to stratford he might come over and see judith, who was far from well. as for prudence, a word was sufficient to bring her; she was there straightway. she found judith very much as she had left her, but somewhat more restless and feverish perhaps, and then again hopelessly weak and languid, and always with those racking pains in the head. she said it was nothing--it would soon pass away; it was but a chill she had caught in sitting on the river-bank; would not prudence now go back to her duties and her affairs in the house? "judith," said her friend, leaning over her and speaking low, "i have that to tell thee will comfort thee, methinks." "nay, i cannot listen to it now," was the answer--and it was a moan almost. "dear mouse, do not trouble about me--but my head is so bad that i--that i care not now. and the parson is gone away, thinking that i have wronged him also--'tis ever the same now--oh, sweetheart, my head, my head!" "but listen, judith," the other pleaded. "nay, but you must know what your friends are ready to do for you--this surely will make thee well, sweetheart. think of it now; do you know that quiney is gone to see your father?" "to my father!" she repeated, and she tried to raise her head somewhat, so that her eyes might read her friend's face. "i am almost sure of it, dear heart," prudence said, taking her hot hand in hers. "nay, he would have naught said of it. none of his family know whither he is gone, and i but guess. but this is the manner of it, dear judith--that he and i were talking, and sorely vexed he was that your father should be told a wrong story concerning you--ay, and sorry to see you so shaken, judith, and distressed; and said he, 'what if i were to get a message to her from her father--that he was in no such mood of anger--and had not heard the story aright--and that he was well disposed to her, and grieved to hear she had taken it so much to heart--would not that comfort her?' he said. and i answered that assuredly it would, and even more perchance than he thought of; and i gathered from him that he would write to some one in london to go and see your father, and pray him to send you assurance of that kind. but now--nay, i am certain of it, dear judith--i am certain that he himself is gone all the way to london to bring thee back that comfort; and will not that cheer thee now, sweetheart?" "he is doing all that for me?" the girl said, in a low voice, and absently. "ah, but you must be well and cheerful, good mouse, to give him greeting when he comes back," said prudence, striving to raise her spirits somewhat. "have i not read to thee many a time how great kings were wont to reward the messengers that brought them good news?--a gold chain round their neck, or lands perchance. and will you have no word of welcome for him? will you not meet him with a glad face? why, think of it now--a journey to london--and the perils and troubles by the way--and all done to please thee. nay, he would say naught of it to any one--lest they might wonder at his doing so much for thee, belike--but when he comes back 'twere a sorry thing that you should not give him a good and gracious welcome." judith lay silent and thinking for a while, and then she said--but as if the mere effort to speak were too much for her-- "whatever happens, dear prudence--nay, in truth i think i am very ill--tell him this--that he did me wrong--he thought i had gone to meet the parson that sunday morning in the church-yard--'twas not so--tell him it was not so--'twas but a chance, dear heart--i could not help it----" "judith, judith," her friend said, "these be things for thine own telling. nay, you shall say all that to himself, and you must speak him fair; ay, and give him good welcome and thanks that hath done so much for thee." judith put her head down on the pillow again, languidly; but presently prudence heard her laugh to herself, in a strange way. "last night," she said--"'twas so wonderful, dear prue--i thought i was going about in a strange country, looking for my little brother hamnet, and i knew not whether he would have any remembrance of me. should i have to tell him my name? i kept asking myself. and 'judith, judith,' i said to him, when i found him; but he scarce knew; i thought he had forgotten me, 'tis so long ago now; 'judith, judith,' i said; and he looked up, and he was so strangely like little willie hart that i wondered whether it was hamnet or no----" but prudence was alarmed by these wanderings, and did her best to hush them. and then, when at length the girl lay silent and still, prudence stole down-stairs again and bade the grandmother go to judith's room, for that she must at once hurry over to stratford to speak with susan hall. chapter xxxiii. arrivals. some few mornings after that two travellers were standing in the spacious archway of the inn at shipston, chatting to each other, and occasionally glancing toward the stable-yard, as if they were expecting their horses to be brought round. "the wench will thank thee for this service done her," the elder of the two said; and he regarded the younger man in a shrewd and not unkindly way. "nay, i am none well pleased with the issue of it at all," the young man said, moodily. "what, then?" his companion said. "can nothing be done and finished but with the breaking of heads? must that ever crown the work? mercy on us!--how many would you have slaughtered? now 'tis the parson that must be thrown into the avon; again it is gentleman jack you would have us seek out for you; and then it is his friend, whose very name we know not, that you would pursue through the dens and stews of london town. a hopeful task, truly, for a stratford youth! what know you of london, man? and to pursue one whose very name you have not--and all for the further breaking of heads, that never did any good anywhere in the world." "your are right, sir," the younger man said, with some bitterness. "i can brag and bluster as well as any. but i see not that much comes of it. 'tis easy to break the heads of scoundrels--in talk. their bones are none the worse." "and better so," the other said, gravely. "i will have no blood shed. what, man, are you still fretting that i would not leave you behind in london?" "nay, sir, altogether i like not the issue of it," he said, but respectfully enough. "i shall be told, i doubt not, that i might have minded my own business. they will blame me for bringing you all this way and hindering your affairs." "heaven bless us," said the other, laughing, "may not a man come to see his own daughter without asking leave of the neighbors?" "'tis as like as not that she herself will be the first to chide me," the younger man answered. "a message to her was all i asked of you, sir. i dreamt not of hindering your affairs so." "nay, nay," said judith's father, good-naturedly. "i can make the occasion serve me well. trouble not about that, friend quiney. if we can cheer up the wench, and put her mind at rest--that will be a sufficient end of the journey; and we will have no broken heads withal, so please you. and if she herself should have put aside these idle fears, and become her usual self again, why, then, there is no harm done either. i mind me that some of them wondered that i should ride down to see my little hamnet when he lay sick, for 'twas no serious illness that time, as it turned out; but what does that make for now? now, i tell you, i am right glad i went to see the little lad; it cheered him to be made so much of, and such small services or kindnesses are pleasant things for ourselves to think of, when those who are dearest to us are no longer with us. so cease your fretting, friend quiney, for the hindering of my affairs i take it that i am answerable to myself, and not to the good gossips of stratford town. and if 'tis merely to say a kind word to the lass--if that is all that needs be done--well, there are many things that are of different value to different people; and the wench and i understand each other shrewdly well." the horses were now brought round; but ere they mounted, judith's father said, again regarding the youth in that observant way, "nay, i see how it is with you, good lad--you are anxious as to how judith may take this service you have done her. is't not so?" "perchance she may be angry that i called you away, sir," he said. "have no fear. 'twas none of thy doing; 'twas but a whim of mine own. nay, there be other and many reasons for my coming--that need not be explained to her. what, must i make apology to my own daughter? she is not the guardian of stratford town. i am no rogue; she is no constable. may not i enter? nay, nay, have no fear, friend quiney; when that she comes to understand the heavy errand you undertook for her, she will give you her thanks, or i know nothing of her. her thanks?--marry, yes!" he looked at the young man again. "but let there be no broken heads, good friend, i charge you," said he, as he put his foot in the stirrup. "if the parson have been over-zealous we will set all matters straight, without hurt or harm to any son of adam." and now as they rode on together, the younger man's face seemed more confident and satisfied, and he was silent for the most part. of course he would himself be the bearer of the news; it was but natural that he should claim as much. and as judith's father intended to go first to new place, quiney intimated to him that he would rather not ride through the town; in fact, he wanted to get straightway (and unobserved, if possible) to shottery, to see how matters were there. when he arrived at the little hamlet, willie hart was in the garden, and instantly came down to the gate to meet him. he asked no questions of the boy, but begged of him to hold the bridle of his horse for a few minutes; then he went into the house. just within the threshold he met judith's sister. "ah," said he, quickly, and even joyously, "i have brought good news. where is judith? may i see her? i want to tell her that her father is come, and will be here to see her presently----" and then something in the scared face that was regarding him struck him with a sudden terror. "what is it?" he said, with his own face become about as pale as hers. "judith is very ill," was the answer. "yes, yes," he said eagerly, "and that she was when i left. but now that her father is come, 'twill be all different--'twill be all set right now. and you will tell her, then, if i may not? nay, but may not i see her for a moment--but for a moment--to say how her father is come all the way to see her--ay, and hath a store of trinkets for her--and is come to comfort her into the assurance that all will go well? why, will not such a message cheer her?" "good master quiney," susan said, with tears welling into her eyes, "if you were to see her she would not know you--she knows no one--she knows not that she is ill--but speaks of herself as some other----" "but her father!" he exclaimed, in dismay, "will she not know him? will she not understand? nay, surely 'tis not yet too late!" but here doctor hall appeared; and when he was told that judith's father was come to the town, and would shortly be at the cottage, he merely said that perhaps his presence might soothe her somewhat, or even lead her delirious wanderings into a gentler channel, but that she would almost certainly be unable to recognize him. nor was the fever yet at its height, he said, and they could do but little for her. they could but wait and hope. as for quiney, he did not ask to be admitted to the room. he seemed stunned. he sat down in the kitchen, heeding no one, and vaguely wondering whether any lengthening of the stages of the journey would have brought them better in time. nay, had he not wasted precious hours in london in vainly seeking to find himself face to face with jack orridge! prudence chanced to come down-stairs. as he entered the kitchen he forgot to give her any greeting; he only said, quickly, "think you she will not understand that her father is come to see her? surely she must understand so much, prudence! you will tell her, will you not? and ask her if she sees him standing before her?" "i know not--i am afraid," said prudence, anxiously. "perchance it may frighten her the more; forever she says that she sees him, and always with an angry face toward her; and she is for hiding herself away from him--and even talking of the river! good lack, 'tis pitiful that she should be so struck down--and almost at death's door--and all we can do of so little avail." "prudence," said he, starting to his feet, "there is her father just come; i hear him; now take him to her--and you will see--you will see. i may not go--a strange face might frighten her--but i know she will recognize him--and understand--and he will tell her to have no longer any fear of him----" prudence hurried away to meet judith's father, who was in the doorway, getting such information as was possible, from the doctor. and then they all of them (all but quiney) stole gently up-stairs; and they stood at the door in absolute silence, while judith's father went forward to the bed--so quietly that the girl did not seem to notice his approach. the grandmother was there, sitting by the bedside and speaking to her in a low voice. "hush thee now, sweeting, hush thee now," she was saying, and she patted her hand. "nay, i know 'twas ill done; 'tis quite right what thou sayest; they treated her not well; and the poor wench anxious to please them all. but have no fear for her--nay, trouble not thy head with thoughts of her--she be safe at home again, i trust. hush thee, now, sweeting; 'twill go well with her, i doubt not; i swear to thee her father be no longer angry with the wench; 'twill all go well with her, and well. have no fear." the girl looked at her steadily, and yet with a strange light in her eyes, as if she saw distant things before her, or was seeking to recall them. "there was susan, too," she said, in a low voice, "that sang so sweet--oh, in the church it was so sweet to hear her; but when it was '_the rose is from my garden gone_,' she would not sing that, though that was ever in her sister's mind after she went away down to the river-side. i cannot think why they would not sing it to her; perchance the parson thought 'twas wicked--i know not now. and when she herself would try it with the lute, nothing would come right--all went wrong with her--all went wrong; and her father came angry and terrible to seek her--and 'twas the parson that would drag her forth--the bushes were not thick enough--good grandam, why should the bushes in the garden be so thin that the terrible eyes peered through them, and she tried to hide and could not?" "nay, i tell thee, sweetheart," said the grandmother, whispering to her, "that the poor wench you speak of went home; and all were well content with her, and her father was right pleased; indeed, indeed, 'twas so." "poor judith, poor judith!" the girl murmured to herself; and then she laughed slightly. "she was ever the stupid one; naught would go right with her; ay, and evil-tempered she was, too, for quiney would ride all the way to london for her, and she thanked him with never a word or a look--never a word or a look, and he going all the way to please her. poor wench, all went wrong with her somehow; but they might have let her go; she was so anxious to hide; and then to drag her forth--from under the bushes--grandam, it was cruelly done of them, was it not?" "ay, ay, but hush thee now, dearie," her grandmother said, as she put a cool cloth on the burning forehead. "'tis quite well now with the poor wench you speak of." her father drew nearer, and took her hand quietly. "judith," said he, "poor lass, i am come to see you." for an instant there was a startled look of fear in her eyes; but that passed, and she regarded him at first with a kind of smiling wonder, and thereafter with a contented satisfaction, as though his presence was familiar. nay, she turned her attention altogether toward him now, and addressed him--not in any heart-broken way, but cheerfully, and as if he had been listening to her all along. it was clear that she did not in the least know who he was. "there now, lass," said he, "knowest thou that quiney and i have ridden all the way from london to see thee? and thou must lie still and rest, and get well again, ere we can carry thee out into the garden." she was looking at him with those strangely brilliant eyes. "but not into the garden," she said, in a vacant kind of way. "that is all gone away now--gone away. 'twas long ago--when poor judith used to go into the garden--and right fair and beautiful it was--ay, and her father would praise her hair and the color of it--until he grew angry, and drove her away far from him then--and then--she wandered down to the river--and always susan's song was in her mind--or the other one, that was near as sad as that, about the western wind, was it not? how went it now?-- "'western wind, when will you blow?' nay, i cannot recall it--'tis gone out of my head, grandam, and there is only fire there--and fire--and fire-- "'western wind, when will you blow?' it went--and then about the rain next, what was it?-- "'so weary falls the rain!' ay, ay, that was it now--i remember susan singing it-- "'western wind, when will you blow? so weary falls the rain! oh, if my love were in my arms, or i in my bed again!'" and here she turned away from them and fell a-crying, and hid from them, as it were, covering her face with both her hands. "grandmother, grandmother," they could hear her say through her sobbing, "there was but the one rose in my garden, and that is gone now--they have robbed me of that--and what cared i for aught else? and quiney is gone too, without a word or a look--without a word or a look--and ere he be come back--well, i shall be away by then--he will have no need to quarrel with me and think ill of me that i chanced to meet the parson. 'tis all over now, grandmother, and done with, and you will let me bide with you for just a little while longer--a little while, grandmother; 'tis no great matter for so little a while, though i cannot help you as i would--but cicely is a good lass--and 'twill be for a little while--for last night again i found hamnet--ay, ay, he hath all things in readiness now--all in readiness----" and then she uttered a slight cry, or moan rather. "grandmother, grandmother, why do you not keep the parson away from me? you said that you would!" "hush, hush, child," the grandmother said, bending over her and speaking softly and closely. "you are over-concerned about the poor lass that was treated so ill. take heart now; i tell thee all is going well with her; her father hath taken her home again, and she is as happy as the day is long. nay, i swear to thee, good wench, if thou lie still and restful, i will take thee to see her some of these days. hush thee now, dearie; 'tis going right well with the lass now." the doctor touched the arm of judith's father, and they both withdrew. "she knew you not," said he; "and the fewer people around her the better--they set her fancies wandering." they went down-stairs to where quiney was awaiting them, and the sombre look on their faces told its tale. "she is in danger!" he said, quickly. the doctor was busy with his own thoughts, but he glanced at the young man and saw the burning anxiety of his eyes. "the fever must run its course," said he, "and judith hath had a brave constitution these many years that i fear not will make a good fight. 'twas a sore pity that she was so distressed and stricken down in spirits, as i hear, ere the fever seized her." quiney turned to the window. "too late--too late!" said he. "and yet i spared not the nag." "you have done all that man could do," her father said, going to him. "nay, had i myself guessed that she was in such peril--but 'tis past recall now." and then he took the young man by the hand, and grasped it firmly. "good lad," said he, "this that you did for us was a right noble act of kindness, and i trust in heaven's mercy that judith herself may live to thank you. as for me, my thanks to you are all too poor and worthless; and i must be content to remain your debtor--and your friend." chapter xxxiv. an awakening. it was going ill with her. late one night, quiney, who had kept hovering about the house, never able to sit patiently and watch the anxious coming and going within-doors, and never able to tear himself away but for a few hundred yards, wandered out into the clear starlit darkness. his heart was full. they had told him the crisis was near at hand. and almost it seemed to him that it was already over. judith was going away from them. and those stars overhead--he knew but little of their names; he understood but little of the vast immensities and deeps that lay between them; they were to him but as grains of light in a darkened floor: and far above that floor rose the wonderful shining city that he had heard of in the book of revelation. and already, so wild and unstrung were his fancies, he could see the four square walls of jasper, and the gates of pearl, and the wide white steps leading up to these; and who was that who went all alone--giving no backward thought to any she was leaving behind--up those shining steps, with a strange light on her forehead and on her trembling hands? he saw her slowly kneel at the gate, her head meekly bowed, her hands clasped. and when they opened it, and when she rose, and made to enter, he could have cried aloud to her for one backward look, one backward thought, toward stratford town and the friends of her childhood and her youth. alas! there was no such thing. there was wonder on her face, as she turned to this side and to that, and she went hesitatingly; and when they took her hands to lead her forward, she regarded them--this side and that--pleased and wondering and silent; but there was never a thought of stratford town. could that be judith that was going away from them so--she that all of them had known so dearly? and to leave her own friends without one word of farewell! those others there--she went with them smiling and wondering, and looking in silence from one to the other--but she knew them not. her friends were here--here--with breaking hearts because she had gone away and forgotten them, and vanished within those far-shining gates. and then some sudden and sullen thought of the future would overtake him. the injunctions laid on him by judith's father could not be expected to last forever. and if this were to be so--if the love and desire of his youth were to be stolen away from him--if her bright young life, that was so beautiful a thing to all who knew her, was to be extinguished, and leave instead but a blankness and an aching memory through the long years--then there might arrive a time for a settlement. the parson was still coming about the house, for the women-folk were comforted by his presence; but judith's father regarded him darkly, and had scarce ever a word for him. as for quiney, he moved away, or left the house, when the good man came near--it was safer so. but in the future? when one was freer to act? for those injunctions could not be expected to last forever; and what greater joy could then be secured than the one fierce stroke of justice and revenge? he did not reason out the matter much: it was a kind of flame in his heart whenever he thought of it. and in truth that catastrophe was nearly occurring now. he had been wandering vaguely along the highways, appealing to the calmness of the night, as it were, and the serenity of the starlit heavens, for some quieting of his terrible fears; and then in his restlessness he walked back toward the cottage, anxious for further news and yet scarcely daring to enter and ask. he saw the dull red light in the window, but could hear no sound. and would not his very footfall on the path disturb her? they all of them went about the house like ghosts. and were it not better that he should remain here, so that the stillness dwelling around the place should not be broken even by his breathing? so quiet the night was, and so soundless, he could have imagined that the wings of the angel of mercy were brooding over the little cottage, hushing it, as it were, and bringing rest and sleep to the sore-bewildered brain. he would not go near. these were the precious hours. and if peace had at last stolen into the sick-chamber, and closed the troubled eyelids, were it not better to remain away, lest even a whisper should break the charm? suddenly he saw the door of the cottage open, and in the dull light a dark figure appeared. he heard footsteps on the garden-path. at first his heart felt like a stone, and he could not move, for he thought it was some one coming to seek him with evil views; but presently, in the clear starlight, he knew who this was that was now approaching him. he lost his senses. all the black night went red. "so, good parson," said he (but he clinched his fists together so that he should not give way), "art thou satisfied with thy handiwork?" there was more of menace in the tone than in the taunt; at all events, with some such phrase as "out of the way, tavern-brawler!" the parson raised his stick, as if to defend himself, and then the next instant, he was gripped firm, as in a vise; the stick was twisted from his grasp and whirled away far into the dark; and forthwith, for it all happened in a moment, five fingers had him by the back of the neck. there was one second of indecision--what it meant to this young athlete, who had his eyes afire and his mind afire with thoughts of the ill that had been done to the one he loved the dearest, can well be imagined. but he flung his enemy from him, forward, into the night. "take thy dog's life and welcome--coward and woman-striker!" he waited; there was no answer. and then, all shaking from the terrible pressure he had put on himself, and still hungering and athirst to go back and settle the matter then and there, he turned and walked along the road, avoiding the cottage, and still with his heart aflame, and wondering whether he had done well to let the hour of vengeance go. but that did not last long. what cared he for this man that any thought of him should occupy him at such a moment? all his anxieties were elsewhere--in that hushed, small chamber, where the lamp of life was flickering low, and all awaiting, with fear and trembling, what the dawn might bring. and if she were to slip away so--escaping from them, as it were--without a word of recognition? it seemed so hard that the solitary figure going up those far, wide steps should have no thought for them she had left behind. as he saw her there, content was on her face, and a mild radiance and wonder; and her new companions were pleasant to her. she would go away with them--she was content to be with them--she would disappear among them, and leave no sign. and sunday morning after sunday morning he would look in vain for her coming through the church-yard, under the trees; and there would be a vacant place in the pew; no matter who might be there, one face would be wanting; and in the afternoon the wide meadows would be empty. look where he might--from the foot-bridge over the river, from bardon hill, from the wier brake--there would be no more chance of his descrying judith walking with prudence--the two figures that he could make out at any distance almost. and what a radiance there used to be on her face--not that mild wonder that he saw as she passed away with her companions within the shining gates, but a happy, audacious radiance, so that he could see she was laughing long ere he came near her. that was judith--that was the judith he had known--laughing, radiant--in summer meadows, as it seemed to him--careless of the young men, though her eyes would regard them--and always with her chief secrets and mystifications for her friend prudence. that was judith--not this poor, worn sufferer, wandering through darkened ways, the frail lamp of her life going down and down, so that they dared not speak in the room. and that message that she had left for him with prudence--was it a kind of farewell? they were about the last words she had spoken ere her speech lost all coherence and meaning--a farewell before she entered into that dark and unknown realm. and there was a touch of reproach in them too--"tell him he did me wrong to think i had gone to meet the parson in the church-yard: 'twas but a chance." the judith of those former days was far too proud to make any such explanation; but this poor stricken creature seemed anxious to appease every one and make friends. and was he to have no chance of begging her forgiveness for doing her that wrong, and of telling how little she need regard it, and how that she might dismiss the parson from her mind altogether, as he had done? the ride to london--she knew nothing of that; she knew nothing of her father having come all the way to see her. why, as they came riding along by uxbridge and wycombe, and woodstock and enstone, many a time he looked forward to telling judith of what he had done; and he hoped that she would go round to the stable and have a word for the galloway nag and pet the good beast's neck. but all that was over now, and only this terrible darkness and the silence of the roads and the trees; and always the dull, steady, ominous light in the small window. and still more terrible, that vision overhead--the far and mystic city, and judith entering with those new and strange companions, regarding this one and that, and ever with a smile on her face and a mild wonder in her eyes; they leading her away by the hand, and she timid, and looking from one to the other, but pleased to go with them into the strange country. and as for her old friends, no backward look or backward thought for them; for them only the sad and empty town, the voiceless meadows, the vacant space in the pew, to which many an eye would be turned as week by week came round. and there would be a grave somewhere that prudence would not leave untended. but with the first gray light of the dawn there came a sudden trembling joy, that was so easily and eagerly translated into a wild, audacious hope. judith had fallen into a sound sleep--a sleep hushed and profound, and no longer tortured with moanings and dull low cries as if for pity; a slumber profound and beneficent, with calmer breathing and a calmer pulse. if only on the awakening she might show that the crisis was over, and she started on the road--however long and tedious that might be--toward the winning back of life and health! it was prudence who brought him the news. she looked like a ghost in the wan light, as she opened the door and came forth. she knew he would not be far away; indeed, his eyes were more accustomed to this strange light than hers, and ere she had time to look about and search for him he was there. and when she told him this news, he could not speak for a little while, for his mind rushed forward blindly and wildly to a happy consummation; he would have no misgivings; this welcome sleep was a sure sign judith was won back to them; not yet was she to go away all alone up those wide, sad steps. "and you, prudence," said he, or rather he whispered it eagerly, that no sound should disturb the profound quiet of the house, "now you must go and lie down; you are worn out; why, you are all trembling----" "the morning air is a little cold," said she; but it was not that that caused her trembling. "you must go and lie down, and get some sleep too," said he (but glancing up at the window, as if his thoughts were there). "what a patient watcher you have been! and now when there is this chance--do, dear prudence, go within and lie down for a while----" "oh, how could i?" she said; and unknown to herself she was wringing her hands--not from grief, but from mere excitement and nervousness. "but for this sleep, now, the doctor was fearing the worst. i know it, though he would not say it. and she is so weak! even if this sleep calm her brain, or if she come out of it in her right mind--one never knows, she is so worn away--she might waken only to slip away from us." but he would not hear of that. no, no; this happy slumber was but the beginning of her recovery. now that she was on the turn, judith's brave constitution would fight through the rest. he knew it; he was sure of it; had there ever been a healthier, a happier wench--or one with such gallant spirits and cheerfulness? "you have not seen her these last two days," prudence said, sadly. "nay, i fear not now--i know she will fight through," said he, confidently (even with an excess of confidence, so as to cheer this patient and gentle nurse). "and what a spite it is that i can do nothing? did you ask the doctor, prudence? is there nothing that i can fetch him from harwich? ay, or from london, for that matter? 'tis well for you that can do so much for your friend: what can i do but hang about the lanes? i would take a message anywhere, for any of you, if you would but tell me; 'tis all that i can do. but when she is getting better, that will be different--that will be all different then; i shall be able to get her many things, to please her and amuse her; and--and--think of this, prudence," said he, his fancies running away with him in his eagerness, "do you not think, now, that when she is well enough to be carried into the garden--do you not think that pleydell and i could devise some kind of couch, to be put on wheels, see you, and slung on leather bands, so that it would go easily? why, i swear it could be made--and might be in readiness for her. what think you, prudence? no one could object if we prepared it. ay, and we should get it to go as smooth as velvet, so that she could be taken along the lanes or through the meadows." "i would there were need of it," prudence said, wistfully. "you go too fast. nay, but if she come well out of this deep sleep, who knows? pray heaven there be need for all that you can do for her." the chirping of a small bird close by startled them--it was the first sound of the coming day. and then she said, regarding him, "would you like to see judith--for a moment? 'twould not disturb her." he stepped back, with a sudden look of dismay on his face. "what mean you, prudence?" he said, quickly. "you do not think that--that--there is fear--that i should look at her now?" "nay, not so; i trust not," she said simply. "but if you wished, you might slip up the stair; 'twould do no harm." he stooped and took off his shoes and threw them aside; then she led the way into the house, and they went stealthily up the short wooden stair. the door was open an inch or two; prudence opened it still farther, but did not go into the room. nor did he; he remained at the threshold, for judith's mother, who was sitting by the bedside, and who had noticed the slight opening of the door, had raised her hand quietly, as if in warning. and was this judith, then, that the cold morning light, entering by the small casement, showed him--worn and wasted, the natural radiance of her face all fled, and in place of that a dull, hectic tone that in nowise concealed the ravages the fever had made? but she slept sound. the bent arm, that she had raised to her head ere she fell asleep, lay absolutely still. no, it was not the judith he had known--so gay and radiant and laughing in the summer meadows; but the wasted form still held a precious life, and he had no mistrust--he would not doubt; there was there still what would win back for him the judith that he had known--ay, if they had to wait all through the winter for the first silver-white days of spring. they stole down-stairs again and went to the front door. all the world was awaking now; the light was clear around them; the small birds were twittering in the bushes. "and will you not go and get some sleep now, prudence?" said he. "surely you have earned it; and now there is the chance." "i could not," she said simply. "there will be time for sleep by-and-by. but now, if you would do us a service, will you go over to the town, and tell susan that judith is sleeping peacefully, and that she need not hurry back, for there be plenty of us to watch and wait? and julius would like to hear the good news, that i know. then you yourself--do you not need rest? why----" "heed not for me, dear prudence," said he quickly, as if it were not worth while wasting time on that topic. "but is there naught else i can do for you? naught that i can bring for you--against her getting well again?" "nay, 'tis all too soon for that," was prudence's answer. "i would the occasion were here, and sure." well, he went away over to the town, and told his tale to those that were astir, leaving a message for those who were not; and then he passed on to his own house, and threw himself on his bed. but he could not rest. it was too far away, while all his thoughts were concentrated on the small cottage over there. so he wandered back thither, and again had assurance that judith was doing well; and then he went quietly up to the summer-house and sat down there; and scarcely had he folded his arms on the little table, and bent forward his head, than he was in a deep sleep, nature claiming her due at last. the hours passed; he knew nothing of them. he was awakened by judith's father, and he looked around him strangely, for he saw by the light that it was now afternoon. "good lad," said he, "i make no scruple of rousing you. there is better news. she is awake, and quite calm and peaceable, and in her right mind--though sadly weak and listless, poor wench." "have you seen her--have you spoken with her?" he said, eagerly. "nay, not yet," judith's father said. "i am doubtful. she is so faint and weak. i would not disturb her----" "i pray you, sir, go and speak with her!" quiney entreated. "nay, i know that will give her more peace of mind than anything. and if she begin to recall what happened ere she fell ill--i pray you, sir, of your kindness, go and speak with her." judith's father went away to the house slowly, and with his head bent in meditation. he spoke to the doctor for a few minutes. but when, after some deliberation, he went up-stairs and into the room, it was his own advice, his own plan, he was acting on. he went forward to the bedside and took the chair that the old grandmother had instantly vacated, and sat down just as if nothing had occurred. "well, lass, how goes it with thee?" he said, with an air of easy unconcern. "bravely well, i hear. thou must haste thee now, for soon we shall be busy with the brewing." she regarded him in a strange way, perhaps wondering whether this was another vision. and then she said, faintly, "why are you come back to stratford, father?" "oh, i have many affairs on hand," said he; "and yet i like not the garden to be so empty. i cannot spare thee over here much longer. 'tis better when thou art in the garden, and little bess with thee--nay, i swear to thee thou disturbest me not--and so must thou get quickly well and home again." he took her hand--the thin, worn, white hand--and patted it. "why," said he, "i hear they told thee some foolish story about me. believe them not, lass. thou and i are old friends, despite thy saucy ways, and thy laughing at the young lads about, and thy lecturing of little bess hall--oh, thou hast thy faults--a many of them too--but heed no idle stories, good lass, that come between me and thee. nay, i will have a sharp word for thee an thou do not as the doctor bids; and thou must rest thee still and quiet, and trouble not thy head, for we want thee back to us at new place. why, i tell thee i cannot have the garden left so empty; wouldst have me with none to talk with but goodman matthew? so now farewell for the moment, good wench; get what sleep thou canst, and take what the doctor bids thee; why, knowest thou not of the ribbons and gloves i have brought thee all the way from london? i warrant me they will please thee!" he patted her hand again, and rose and left, as if it were all a matter of course. for a minute or two after the girl looked dazed and bewildered, as if she were trying to recall many things; but always she kept looking at the hand that he had held, and there was a pleased light in her sad and tired eyes. she lay still and silent--for so she had been enjoined. but by-and-by she said, in a way that was like the ghost of judith's voice of old, "grandmother--i can scarce hold up my hand--will you help me? what is this that is on my head?" "why, 'tis a pretty lace cap that susan brought thee," the grandmother said, "and we would have thee smart and neat ere thy father came in." but she had got her hand to her head now, and then the truth became known to her. she began to cry bitterly. "oh, grandmother, grandmother," she said, or sobbed, "they have cut off my hair, and my father will never look with favor on me again. 'twas all he ever praised!" "dearie, dearie, thy hair will grow again as fair as ever--ay, and who ever had prettier?" the old grandmother said. "why, surely; and the roses will come to thy cheeks, too, that were ever the brightest of any in the town. thy father--heardst thou not what he said a moment ago--that he could not bear to be without thee? nay, nay, fret not, good lass, there be plenty that will right gladly wait for the growing of thy hair again--ay, ay, there be plenty and to spare that will hold thee in high favor and think well of thee--and thy father most of all of them--have no fear!" and so the grandmother got her soothed and hushed, and at last she lay still and silent. but she had been thinking. "grandmother," said she, regarding her thin, wasted hand, "is my face like that?" "hush thee, child; thou must not speak more now, or the doctor will be scolding me." "but tell me, grandmother," she pleaded. "why, then," she answered, evasively, "it be none so plump as it were--but all that will mend--ay, ay, good lass, 'twill mend, surely." again she lay silent for a while, but her mind was busy with its own fears. "grandmother," she said, "will you promise me this--to keep quiney away? you will not let him come into the room, good grandmother, should he ever come over to the cottage?" "ay, and be this thy thanks, then, to him that rode all the way to london town to bring thy father to thee?" said the old dame, with some affectation of reproach. "were i at thy age i would have a fairer message for him." "a message, grandmother?" the girl said, turning her languid eyes to her with some faint eagerness. "ay, that i would send him willingly. he went to london for me, that i know; prudence said so. but perchance he would not care to have it, would he, think you?" the old dame listened, to make sure that the doctor was not within hearing, for this talking was forbidden; but she was anxious to have the girl's mind pleased and at rest, and so she took judith's hand and whispered to her. "a message? ay, i warrant me the lad would think more of it than of aught else in the world. why, sweetheart, he hath been never away from the house all this time--watching to be of service to any one--night and day it hath been so--and that he be not done to death passes my understanding. ay, and the riding to london, and the bringing of thy father, and all--is't not worth a word of thanks? nay, the youth hath won to my favor, i declare to thee; if none else will speak for him i will; a right good honest youth, i warrant. but there now, sweeting, hush thee; i may not speak more to thee, else the doctor will be for driving me forth." there was silence for some time; then judith said, wistfully, "what flowers are in the garden now, grandmother?" the old dame went to the window slowly; it was an excuse for not having too much talking going on. "the garden be far past its best now," said she, "but there be marigolds and michaelmas daisies----" "could you get me a bit of rosemary, grandmother?" the girl asked. "rosemary!" she cried in affright, for the mention of the plant seemed to strike a funeral note. "foolish wench, thou knowest i can never get the rosemary bushes through the spring frosts. rosemary, truly! what wantest thou with rosemary?" "or a pansy, then?" "a pansy, doubtless--ay, ay, that be better now--we may find thee a pansy somewhere--and a plenty of other things, so thou lie still and get well." "nay, i want but the one, grandmother," she said slowly. "you know i cannot write a message to him, and yet i would send him some token of thanks for all that he hath done. and would not that do, grandmother? could you but find me a pansy--if there be one left anywhere--and a small leaf or two; and if 'twere put in a folded paper, and you could give it him from me, and no one knowing? i would rest the happier, grandmother, for i would not have him think me ungrateful--no, no, he must not think me that. and then, good grandmother, you will tell him that i wish him not to see me; only--only, the little flower will show him that i am not ungrateful; for i would not have him think me that." "rest you still now, then, sweeting," the old dame said. "i warrant me we will have the message conveyed to him; but rest you still--rest you still--and ere long you will not be ashamed to show him the roses coming again into your cheeks." chapter xxxv. toward the light. this fresh and clear morning, with a south wind blowing and a blue sky overhead, made even the back yard of quiney's premises look cheerful, though the surroundings were mostly empty barrels and boxes. and he was singing, too, as he went on with his task; sometimes-- "play on, minstrèl, play on, minstrèl, my lady is mine only girl;" and sometimes-- "i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee;" or, again, he would practise his part in the new catch-- "merrily sang the ely monks, when rowed thereby canute the king." and yet this that he was so busy about seemed to have nothing to do with his own proper trade. he had chalked up on the wall a space about the size of an ordinary cottage-window; at each of the upper corners he had hammered in a nail, and now he was endeavoring to suspend from these supports, so that it should stand parallel with the bottom line, an oblong basket roughly made of wire, and pretty obviously of his own construction. his dinner of bread and cheese and ale stood untouched and unheeded on a bench hard by. sometimes he whistled, sometimes he sang, for the morning air was fresh and pleasant, and the sunlight all about was enlivening. presently judith's father made his appearance, and the twisting and shaping of the wire hooks instantly ceased. "she is still going on well?" the lad said, with a rapid and anxious glance. "but slowly--slowly," her father answered. "nay, we must not demand too much. if she but hold her own now, time is on our side, and the doctor is more than ever hopeful that the fever hath left no serious harm behind it. when that she is a little stronger, they talk of having her carried down-stairs--the room is larger--and the window hath a pleasant outlook." "i heard of that," said quiney, glancing at the oblong basket of wire. "i have brought you other news this morning," judith's father said, taking out a letter and handing it to quiney. "but i pray you say nothing of it to the wench; her mind is at rest now; we will let the past go." "nay, i can do no harm in that way," said the younger man, in something of a hurt tone, "for they will not let me see her." "no, truly? why, that is strange, now," her father said, affecting to be surprised, but having a shrewd guess that this was some fancy of the girl's own. "but they would have her kept quiet, i know." quiney was now reading the letter. it was from one of judith's father's companions in london, and the beginning of it was devoted to the imparting of certain information that had apparently been asked from him touching negotiations for the purchase of a house in blackfriars. quiney rightly judged that this part had naught to do with him, and scanned it briefly; and as he went on he came to that which had a closer interest for him. the writer's style was ornate and cumbrous and confused, but his story, in plainer terms, was this: the matter of the purloined play was now all satisfactorily ascertained and settled, except as regarded jack orridge himself, whom a dire mischance had befallen. it appeared that, having married a lady possessed of considerable wealth, his first step was to ransom--at what cost the writer knew not--the play that had been sold to the booksellers, not by himself but by one francis lloyd. it was said that this lloyd had received but a trifle for it, and had, in truth, parted with it in the course of a drunken frolic; but that "gentleman jack," as they called him, had to disburse a goodly sum ere he could get the manuscript back into his own hands. that forthwith he had come to the theatre and delivered up the play, with such expressions of penitence and shame that they could not forbear to give him full quittance for his fault. but this was not all; for, having heard that francis lloyd had in many quarters been making a jest of the matter, and telling of orridge's adventures in warwickshire, and naming names, the young man had determined to visit him with personal chastisement, but had been defeated in this by lloyd being thrust into prison for debt. that thereafter lloyd, being liberated from jail, was sitting in a tavern with certain companions; and there "gentleman jack" found him, and dealt him a blow on the face with the back of his hand, with a mind to force the duello upon him. but that here again orridge had ill-fortune; for lloyd, being in his cups, would fight then and there, and flung himself on him, without sword or anything, as they thought; but that presently, in the struggle, orridge uttered a cry, "i am stabbed," and fell headlong, and they found him with a dagger-wound in his side, bleeding so that they thought he would have died ere help came. and that in truth he had been nigh within death's door, and was not yet out of the leech's hands; while as for lloyd, he had succeeded in making good his escape, and was now in flanders, as some reported. this was the gist of the story, as far as quiney was interested; thereafter came chiefly details about the theatre, and the writer concluded with wishing his correspondent all health and happiness, and bidding him ever remember "his true loving friend, henry condell." quiney handed back the letter. "i wish the dagger had struck the worser villain of the two," said he. "'tis no concern of ours," judith's father said. "and i would have the wench hear never a word more of the matter. nay, i have already answered her that 'twas all well and settled in london, and no harm done; and the sooner 'tis quite forgotten the better. the young man hath made what amends he could; i trust he may soon be well of his wound again. and married, is he? perchance his hurt may teach him to be more of a stay-at-home." judith's father put the letter in his pocket, and was for leaving, when quiney suggested that if he were going to the cottage he would accompany him, as some business called him to bidford. and so they set out together--the younger man having first of all made a bundle of the wire basket and the nails and hooks and what not, so that he could the more easily carry them. it was a clear and mild october day; the wide country very silent; the woods turning to yellow and russet now and here and there golden leaves fluttering down from the elms. so quiet and peaceful it all was in the gracious sunlight; the steady ploughing going on; groups of people gleaning in the bean-field, but not a sound of any kind reaching them, save the cawing of some distant rooks. and when they drew near to shottery, quiney had an eye for the cottage-gardens, to see what flowers or shrubs were still available; for of course the long wire basket, when it was hung outside judith's window, must be filled--ay, and filled freshly at frequent intervals. if the gardens or the fields or the hedge-rows would furnish sufficient store, there would be no lack of willing hands for the gathering. they went first to the front door (the room that judith was to be moved into looked to the back), and here, ere they had crossed the threshold, they beheld a strange thing. the old grandmother was standing at the foot of the wooden stair, with a small looking-glass in her hand; she had not heard them approach, so it was with some amazement they saw her deliberately let fall the glass on to the stone passage, where naturally it was smashed into a hundred fragments. and forthwith she began to scold and rate the little cicely, and that in so loud a voice that her anger must have been plainly heard in the sick-room above. "ah, thou mischief, thou imp, thou idle brat, thou must needs go break the only looking-glass in the house! a handy wench, truly; thou can hold nothing with thy silly fingers, but must break cup and platter and pane, and now the looking-glass--'twere well done to box thine ears, thou mischief!" and with that she patted the little girl on the shoulder, and shrewdly winked and smiled and nodded her head; and then she went up the stair, again and loudly bewailing her misfortune. "what a spite be this now!" they could hear her say, at the door of judith's room. "the only looking-glass in the house and just as thou wouldst have it sent for! that mischievous, idle little wench--heard you the crash, sweetheart? well, well, no matter; i must still have the tiring of thee--against any one coming to see thee; ay, and i would have thee brave and smart, when thou art able to sit up a bit--ay, and thy hair will soon be grown again, sweeting--and then the trinkets that thy father brought--and the lace cuffs that quiney gave thee--these and all thou must wear. was ever such a spite, now?--our only looking-glass to be broken so; but thou shalt not want it, sweetheart--nay, nay, thou must rest in my hands--i will have thee smart enough; when any would come to see thee----" that was all they heard, for now she shut the door; but both of them guessed readily enough why the good dame had thrown down and smashed the solitary mirror of the house. then they went within, and heard from prudence that judith was going on well but very slowly, and that her mind was in perfect calm and content, only that at times she seemed anxious that her father should return to london, lest his affairs should be hindered. "and truly i must go ere long," said he, "but not yet. not until she is more fairly on the highway." they were now in the room that was to be given up to judith, because of its larger size. "prudence," said quiney, "if the bed were placed so--by the window--she might be propped up, so that when she chose she could look abroad. were not that a simple thing--and cheerful for her? and i have arranged a small matter so that every morning she may find some fresh blossoms awaiting her--and yet not disturbing her with any one wishing to enter the room. methinks one might better fix it now, ere she be brought down, so that the knocking may not harm her." "i would she were in a fit state to be brought down," prudence said, rather sadly; "for never saw i any one so weak and helpless." all the same he went away to see whether the oblong basket of wire and the fastenings would fit; and although (being a tall youth) he could easily reach the foot of the window with his hands, he had to take a chair with him in order to gain the proper height for the nails. prudence from within saw what he was after, and when it was all fixed up she opened one of the casements to speak to him, and her face was well pleased. "truly, now, that was kindly thought of," said she. "and shall i tell her of this that you have contrived for her?" "why, 'tis in this way, prudence," said he, rather shamefacedly, "she need not know whether 'tis this one or that that puts a few blossoms in the basket--'twill do for any one--any one that is passing along the road or through the meadows, and picks up a pretty thing here or there. 'twill soon be hard to get such things--save some red berries or the like--but when any can stop in passing and add their mite, 'twill be all the easier, for who that knows her but hath good-will toward her?" "and her thanks to whom?" said prudence, smiling. "why, to all of them," said he, evasively. "nay, i would not have her even know that i nailed up the little basket--perchance she might think i was too officious." "and can you undo it?" she asked. "can you take it down?" "surely," he answered, and he lifted the basket off the hooks to show her. "for," said she, "if you would bring it round, might we not put a few flowers in it, and have them carried up to judith, to show her what you have designed for her? in truth it would please her." he was not proof against this temptation. he carried the basket round, and they fell to gathering such blossoms as the garden afforded--marigolds, monthly roses, michaelmas daisies, and the like, with some scarlet hips from the neighboring hedges, and some broad green leaves to serve as a cushion for all of these. but he did not stay to hear how his present was received. he was on his way to bidford, and on foot, for he had kept his promise with the galloway nag. so he bade prudence farewell, and said he would call in again on his way back in the evening. the wan, sad face lit up with something like pleasure when judith saw this little present brought before her; it was not the first by many of similar small attentions that he had paid her--tokens of a continual thoughtfulness and affection--though he was not even permitted to see her, much less to speak with her. how his business managed to thrive during this period they could hardly guess, only that he seemed to find time for everything. apparently, he was content with the most hap-hazard meals, and seemed able to get along with scarcely any sleep at all; and always he was the most hopeful one in the house, and would not admit that judith's recovery seemed strangely slow, but regarded everything as happening for the best, and tending toward a certain and happy issue. one result of his being continually in or about the cottage was this--that master walter blaise had not looked near them since the night on which the fever reached its crisis. the women-folk surmised that, now there was a fair hope of judith's recovery, he perchance imagined his ministrations to be no longer necessary, and was considerately keeping out of the way, seeing that he could be of no use. at all events, they did not discuss the subject much, for more than one of them had perceived that, whenever the parson's name was mentioned, judith's father became reticent and reserved--which was about his only way of showing displeasure--so that they got into the habit of omitting all mention of master blaise, for the better preserving and maintaining the serenity of the domestic atmosphere. and yet master blaise came to be talked of--and to judith herself--this very morning. when prudence went into the room, carrying quiney's flowers, the old grandmother said she would go down and see how dinner was getting forward (she having more mouths to feed than usual), and prudence was left in her place, with strict injunctions to see that judith took the small portions of food that had been ordered her at the proper time. prudence sat down by the bedside. these two had not had much confidential chatting of late, for judith had been forbidden to talk much, and was, indeed, far too weak and languid for that, while generally there was some third person about in attendance. but now they were alone; and prudence had a long tale to tell of quiney's constant watchfulness and care, and of all the little things he had thought of and arranged for her, up to the construction of the wire flower-basket. "but what he hath done, judith, to anger parson blaise, i cannot make out," she continued--"ay, and to anger him sorely; for yesternight, when i went over to see how my brother did, i met master blaise, and he stayed me and talked with me for a space. nay, he spoke too harshly of quiney, so that i had to defend him, and say what i had seen of him--truly, i was coming near to speaking with warmth--and then he went away from that. and think you what he came to next, judith?" the pale, quiet face of the speaker was overspread with a blush, and she looked timidly at her friend. "what then, sweetheart?" "perchance i should not tell you," she said, with some hesitation; and then she said, more frankly, "nay, why should there be any concealment between us, judith? and he laid no charge of secrecy on me--in truth, i said that i would think of it, and might even ask for counsel and guidance. he would have made me his wife, judith." judith betrayed no atom of surprise, nay, she almost instantly smiled her approval--it was a kind of friendly congratulation, as it were--and she would have reached out her hand only that she was so weak. "i am glad of that, dear mouse," said she, as pleasantly as she could. "there would you be in your proper place; is't not so? and what said you? what said you, sweetheart? ah, they all would welcome you, be sure; and a parson's wife--a parson's wife, prudence--would not that be your proper place? would you not be happy so?" "i know not," the girl said, and she spoke wistfully, and as if she were regarding distant things. "he had nearly persuaded me, good heart, for indeed there is such power and clearness in all he says; and it was almost put before me as a duty, and something incumbent on me, for the pleasing of all of them, and the being useful and serviceable to so many; and then--and then----" there was another timid glance, and she took judith's hand; and her eyes were downcast as she made the confession: "nay, i will tell thee the truth, sweetheart. had he spoken to me earlier--i--i might not have said him nay--so good a man and earnest withal, and not fearing to give offence if he can do true service to the master of us all. judith, if it be unmaidenly, blame me not, but at one time i had thoughts of him; and sometimes, ashamed, i would not go to your house when he was there in the afternoon, though julius wondered, seeing that there was worship and profitable expounding. but now--now--now 'tis different." "why, dear mouse, why?" judith said, with some astonishment; "you must not flout the good man. 'tis an honorable offer." prudence was looking back on that past time. "if he had spoken then," she said, absently, "my heart would have rejoiced; and well i knew 'twould have been no harm to you, dear judith, for who could doubt how you were inclined--ay, through all your quarrels and misunderstandings? and if 'twas you the good parson wished for in those days----" "prudence," her friend said, reproachfully, "you do ill to go back over a by-gone story. if you had thoughts of him then, when as yet he had not spoken, why not now, when he would have you be his wife? 'tis an honorable offer, as i say; and you--were you not meant for a parson's wife, sweetheart?" then prudence regarded her with her honest eyes. "i should be afraid, judith. perchance i have listened overmuch to your grandmother's talking and to quiney's; they are both of them angered against him. they say he wrought you ill, and was cruel when he should have been gentle with you, and was overproud of his office. nay, i marked that your father had scarce ever a word for him when he was coming over to the cottage, but would get away somehow and leave him. and--and methinks i should be afraid, judith; 'tis no longer as it used to be in former days; and then, without perfect confidence, how should one dare to venture on such a step? no, no, judith, i should be afraid." "in truth i cannot advise thee, then, dear heart," her friend said, looking at her curiously. "for more than any i know should you marry one that would be gentle with you and kind. and think you that the parson would overlord it?" "i know not--i know not," she said, in the same absent way. "but with doubt, with hesitation, without perfect confidence--how could one take such a step?" and then she bethought her. "why, now, all this talking over my poor affairs?" she said, more cheerfully. "a goodly nurse i am proving myself! 'tis thy affairs are of greater moment, and thou must push forward, sweetheart, and get well more rapidly, else they will say we are careless and foolish, that cannot bring thee into firmer health." "but i am well content," said judith, with a perfectly placid smile. "content! but you must not be content," prudence exclaimed. "would you remain within-doors until your hair be grown? vanity is it, then? ah, for shame--you that always professed to be so proud, and careless of what they thought! content, truly! look at so thin a hand--are you content to remain so?" "i am none so ill," judith said, pleasantly. "the days pass well enough, and every one is kind." "but i say you must not be content!" prudence again remonstrated. "did ever any one see such a poor, weak, white hand as that? look at the thin, thin veins." "ah, but you know not, sweetheart," judith said, and she herself looked at those thin blue veins in the white hand; "they seem to me to be running full of music and happiness ever since i came out of the fever and found my father talking to me in the old way." chapter xxxvi. "western wind, when will you blow?" there was much laughing among the good folk of stratford town--or rather among those of them allowed to visit quiney's back yard--over the nondescript vehicle that he and his friend pleydell were constructing there. but that was chiefly at the first, when the neighbors would call it a coffin on wheels or a grown-up cradle; afterward, when it grew into shape and began to exhibit traces of decoration (the little canopy at the head, for example, was covered, over with blue taffeta that made a shelter from the sun), they moderated their ridicule, and at last declared it a most ingenious and useful contrivance, and one that went as easily on its leather bands as any king's coach that ever was built. and they said they hoped it would do good service, for they knew it was meant for judith; and she had won the favor and good-will of many in that town, in so far as an unmarried young woman was deemed worthy of consideration. but that was an anxious morning when quiney set forth with this strange vehicle for the cottage. little willie hart was there, and quiney had flung him inside, saying he would give him a ride as far as shottery, but thereafter he did not speak a word to the boy. for this was the morning on which he was to see judith for the first time since the fever had left her, and not only that, but he had been appointed to carry her down-stairs to the larger room below. this was by the direct instructions of the doctor. judith's father was now in london again, the doctor was not a very powerful man, the staircase was over-narrow to let two of the women try it between them; who, therefore, was there but this young athlete to gather up that precious charge and bear her gently forth? but when he thought of that first meeting with judith he trembled, and dismay and apprehension filled his heart lest he should show himself in the smallest way shocked by her appearance. careless as she might have been of other things, she had always put a value on that; she knew she had good looks, and she liked to look pretty and dainty, and to wear becoming and pretty things. and again and again he schooled himself and argued with himself. he must be prepared to find her changed--nay, had he not already had one glimpse of her, as she lay asleep, in the cold light of the dawn?--he must be prepared to find the happy and radiant face no longer that, but all faded and white and worn, the clear shining eyes no longer laughing, but sunken and sad, and the beautiful sun-brown hair--that was her chiefest pride of all--no longer clustering round her neck. not that he himself cared--judith was for him always and ever judith, whatever she might be like, but his terror was lest he should betray, in the smallest fashion, some pained surprise. he knew how sensitive she was, and as an invalid she would be even more so, and what a fine thing it would be if her eyes were suddenly to fill with tears on witnessing his disappointment! and so he argued and argued, and strove to think of judith as a ghost--as anything rather than her former self; and when he reached the cottage, he asked whether judith was ready to be brought down, in so matter-of-fact a way that he seemed perfectly unconcerned. well, she was not ready, for her grandmother had the tiring of her, and the old dame was determined that (if she had her way) her grandchild should look none too like an invalid. if the sun-brown curls were gone, at least the cap that she wore should have pretty blue ribbons where it met under the chin. and she would have her wear the lace cuffs, too, that quiney had brought her from warwick--did not she owe it to him to do service for the gift? and when all that was done, she made judith take a little wine-and-water, to strengthen her for the being carried down-stairs, and then she sent word that quiney might come up. he made his appearance forthwith, a little pale, perhaps, and hesitating and apprehensive as he crossed the threshold. and then he came quickly forward, and there was a sudden wonder of joy and gladness in his eyes. "judith," he exclaimed, quite involuntarily, and forgetting everything, "why, how well you are looking!--indeed, indeed you are!--sweetheart, you are not changed at all!" for this was judith; not any of the spectral phantoms he had been conjuring up, but judith herself, regarding him with friendly (if yet timid) eyes, and her face, as he looked at her in this glad way, was no longer pale, but had grown rose-red as the face of a bride. her anxiety and nervousness had been far greater than she dared to tell any of them; but now his surprise and delight were surely real, and then--for she was very weak, and she had been anxious and full of fear, and this joy of seeing him--of seeing a strange face, that belonged to the former happy time--was too much for her. her lips were tremulous, tears rose to her eyes, and she would have turned away to hide her crying--but that all at once he recalled his scattered senses, and inwardly cursed himself for a fool, and forthwith addressed her in the most cheerful and simple way. "why, now, what stories they have been telling me, judith! i should scarce know you had been ill. you are thinner--oh, yes, you are a little thinner; and if you went to the woods to gather nuts i reckon you would not bring home a heavy bag; but that will all mend in time. in honest truth, dear judith, i am glad to see you looking none so ill; now i marvel not at your father going away to see after his affairs--so sure he must have been." "i am glad that he went, i was fretting so," she said (and it was so strange to hear judith's voice, that always stirred his heart as if with the vibration of susan's singing), and then she added, timidly regarding him--"and you--i have caused you much trouble also." he laughed; in truth he was so bewildered with the delight of seeing this real living judith before him that he scarce knew what he said. "trouble! yes, trouble, indeed, that i could do nothing for you, and all the others waiting with you and cheering you. but now, dear judith, i have something for you--oh, you shall see it presently; and you may laugh, but i warrant me you will find it easy and comfortable when that you are allowed to go forth into the garden. 'tis a kind of couch, as it were, but on wheels--nay, you may call it your chariot, judith, if you would be in state; and if you may not go farther than the garden at first, why, then you may lie in it, and have some one read to you; and there is a small curtain if you would shut them all out and go to sleep; ay, and when the time comes for you to go along the lanes, then you may sit up somewhat, for there are pillows for your head and for your back. as for the drawing of it, why, little willie hart can pull me when i am in it, and surely he can do the same for you, that are scarce so heavy as i, as i take it. oh, i warrant you, you will soon get used to it; and 'twill be so much pleasanter for you than being always within-doors--and the fresher air--the fresher air will soon bring back your color, judith." for now that the first flush of embarrassment was gone he could not but see (though still he talked in that cheerful strain) how pale and worn was her face; and her hands, that lay listlessly on the coverlet, with the pretty lace cuffs going back from the wrists, were spectral hands, so thin and white were they. "master quiney," said the old dame, coming to the door, "it be all ready now below, if you can carry the wench down. and take time--take time--there be no hurry." "you must come and help me, good grandmother," said he, "to get her well into my arms." in truth he was trembling with very nervousness as he set about this task. should some mischance occur--some stumble! and then he found himself all too strong and uncouth and clumsy, with her so frail and delicate and weak. but her grandmother lifted the girl's hand to his shoulder, or rather to his neck, and bade her hold on so, as well as she might; and then he got his arms better round her, and with slow and careful steps made his way down to the room below. there the bed was near the window, and when he had gently placed her on it, and propped up her head and shoulders, so that she was almost sitting, the first thing that she saw before her was the slung box of flowers and leaves outside the little casement. she turned to him and smiled, and looked her thanks with grateful eyes: he sought for no more than that. of course they were all greatly pleased at this new state of affairs--it seemed a step on the forward way, a hopeful thing. moreover, there was a brighter animation in the girl's look--whether that was owing to the excitement of the change or the pleasure at seeing the face of an old friend. and as the others seemed busy among themselves, suggesting small arrangements, and the like, quiney judged it was time for him to go; his services were no longer needed. he went forward to her. "judith," said he, "i will bid you good-day now. if you but knew how glad i am to have seen you--ay, and to find you going on so well! i will take away a lighter heart with me." she looked up at him hesitating and timid, and then she gathered courage. "but why must you go?" said she, with some touch of color in the pale face. he glanced at the others. "perchance they may not wish me to stay; they may fear your being tired with talking." "but if i wish you to stay--for a little while?" she said, gently. "if your business call you not----" "my business!" he said. "my business must shift for itself on such a day as this; think you 'tis nothing for me to speak with you again, judith, after so long a time?" "and my chariot," she said, brightly--"may not i see my chariot?" "why, truly!" he cried. "willie hart is in charge of it without. we will bring it along the passage, and you will see it at the door; and you must not laugh, dear judith--'tis a rude-made thing, i know--but serviceable--you shall have comfort from it, i warrant you." they wheeled it along the passage, but could not get it within the apartment; however, through the open door she could see very easily the meaning and construction of it. and when she observed with what care and pretty taste it had been adorned for her, even to the putting ribbons at the front corners of the little canopy (but this was not the work of men's fingers; it was prudence who had contributed these), she was not in the least inclined to laugh at the efforts of these good friends to be of use to her and to gratify her. she beckoned him to come to her. "'tis but a patchwork thing to look at," said he, rather shamefacedly, "but i hope you will find it right comfortable when you use it. i hope soon to hear of you trying it, judith." "give me your hand," said she. she took his hand and kissed it. "i cannot speak my thanks to you," she said, in a low voice, "for not only this but all that you have done for me." there were tears in her eyes, and he was so bewildered, and his heart so wildly aflame, that he could only touch her shoulder and say, "be still now, judith. be still and quiet, and perchance they may let me remain with you a little space further." * * * * * well, it was a long and a weary waiting. she seemed, too, content with her feeble state; there were so many who were kind to her; and her father sending her messages from london; and quiney coming every morning to put some little things--branches of evergreens, or the like, when flowers were no longer to be had--in the little basket outside the window. he could reach to that easily; and when she happened to hear his footsteps coming near, even when she could not see him, she would tap with her white fingers on the window-panes--that was her thanks to him, and morning greeting. it was a bitter winter, and ever they were looking forward to the milder weather, to see when they might risk taking her out-of-doors, swathed up in her chariot, as she called it; but the weeks and weeks went by, hard and obdurate, and at last they found themselves in the new year. but she could get about the house a little now, in a quiet way; and so it was that, one morning, she and quiney were together standing at the front window, looking abroad over the wide white landscape. snow lay everywhere, thick and silent; the bushes were heavy with it; and far beyond those ghostly meadows, though they could not see it they knew that the avon was fixed and hard in its winter sleep, under the hanging banks of the wier brake. "'_western wind, when will you blow?_'" she said, and yet not sadly, for there was a placid look in her eyes: she was rather complaining, with a touch of the petulance of the judith of old. the arm of her lover was resting lightly on her shoulder--she was strong enough to bear that now, and she did not resent the burden; and she had got her soft sunny-brown curls again, though still they were rather short; and her face had got back something of its beautiful curves; and her eyes, if they were not so cruelly audacious as of old, were yet clear-shining and gentle, and with abundance of kind messages for all the world, but with tenderer looks for only one. "'_western wind_,'" she repeated, with that not over-sad complaint of injury, "'_when will you blow--when will you blow?_'" "all in good time, sweetheart, all in good time," said he; and his hand lay kindly on her shoulder, as if she were one to whom some measure of gentle tending and cheering words were somewhat due. "and guess you now what they mean to do for you when the milder weather comes? i mean the lads at the school. why, then, 'tis a secret league and compact--i doubt not that your cousin willie may have been at the suggesting of it--but 'twas some of the bigger lads who came to me. and 'tis all arranged now, and all for the sake of you, dear heart. for when the milder weather comes, and the year begins to wake again, why, they are all of them to keep a sharp and eager eye here and there--in the lanes or in the woods--for the early peeping up of the primroses; and then 'tis to be a grand whole holiday that i am to get for them, as it appears; and all the school is to go forth to search the hedge-rows and the woods and the banks--all the country-side is to be searched and searched--and for what, think you? why, to bring you a spacious basketful of the very first primroses of the spring! see you, now, what it is to be the general favorite. nay, i swear to you, dear judith, you are the sweetheart of all of them; and what a shame it is that i must take you away from them all!" the end. list of corrections: p. : "and a semicicle on the crumbling earth" was changed to "and a semicircle on the crumbling earth." p. : "she did not not seem" was changed to "she did not seem." p. : "from you own people" was changed to "from your own people." p. : "chance of the the same" was changed to "chance of the same." p. : "we sat in the litttle bower" was changed to "we sat in the little bower." p. : "she had heard vaguely of from time time" was changed to "she had heard vaguely of from time to time." p. : "this acquaintence the moment she chose." was changed to "this acquaintance the moment she chose." p. : "the deliberare purpose" was changed to "the deliberate purpose." p. : "letters of red and biack;" was changed to "letters of red and black;" p. : "as he slowy sharpened" was changed to "as he slowly sharpened." p. : "for how long?--a fornight!" was changed to "for how long?--a fortnight!" p. : "her contritition" was changed to "her contrition." p. : "lead her delirous wanderings" was changed to "lead her delirious wanderings." p. : "so sure be must have been" was changed to "so sure he must have been." errata: p. : "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. should be "nay, but this time you have hit the mark," said judith, complacently. p. : "'twas a bold demand to made of england!" should be "'twas a bold demand to make of england!" http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) love in a mask _or_ imprudence _and_ happiness _a hitherto unpublished novel by_ honorÉ de balzac _translated by_ alice m. ivimy rand mcnally & company chicago new york a note balzac, in gratitude to the duchesse de dino for her friendship and unfailing kindness to him, one day presented her with the story of "l'amour masque" (love in a mask) in his own handwriting. the duchess was one of the few french aristocrats who in balzac's time welcomed untitled authors to their salons, and her library boasted many such offerings from the literary men of her day. she placed balzac's unpublished book on her shelves by the side of similarly unpublished poems by alfred de musset, and stories by eugene sue and others. the balzac manuscript was incased in a finely tooled binding of great richness and beauty, bearing the _ex libris_ of the ducal family. for more than half a century the manuscript remained where the duchess had placed it. then her son, m. maurice de talleyrand-perigord, the present duc de dino, made it a present to his friend, the learned lucien aubanel. by him it was given to m. gillequin, with the suggestion that it be published, and it accordingly appeared in print for the first time in march, . the duc de dino, in a letter written to m. gillequin on this occasion, guaranteed the history of the volume which for so long had been one of the treasured possessions of his family. the publishers. contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii love in a mask or imprudence and happiness i midnight was striking, and all paris was astir; the streets were filled with people bent on merrymaking; it was the eve of _mardi gras_ (shrove tuesday). léon de préval, a young cavalry officer, had just made his way into the opera ball. there, for over an hour, he wandered aimlessly amid the throng that seethed forward and backward, finding no one he knew, and quite failing to grasp the meaning of the stupid greetings flung at him from time to time by the women he passed. finally, choked with dust, overcome with heat, dizzy with the ceaseless buzz of all these black-robed specters, he asked himself impatiently whether this were indeed pleasure, and turned to find the door. at that moment two masked women came down the steps into the ballroom. both were strikingly graceful, and both were strikingly well dressed. they were accompanied by a genial looking man without a mask. a little murmur of admiration greeted them, and a band of giddy youths fell in behind them, hurling flippant compliments and extravagant gallantries at the two masks. léon followed with the rest. at every step the curiosity of the crowd added to the numbers of the little procession; soon, it encountered a group of masqueraders, themselves the center of a cortège, who, coming from the opposite direction, threw such confusion into the ranks that one of the ladies, the younger looking of the two, was separated from her friends. glancing anxiously around her in search of a protector, her eyes fell on léon, who was following her movements with a good deal of interest, and, hastily seizing his arm, "oh, i implore you," she said nervously, using the familiar _thou_, "get us out of this and help me find my friends." "i am at your service, lovely mask. don't be afraid; trust yourself to me, and come with me." and, with the lady clinging to one arm, with the other he cleared a way for her through the press, bringing her safely out at last to the cloak room; there he seated her on a bench, and volunteered to go to find her some refreshments. "no, stay with me," she said; "i don't want anything. i am really ashamed to have given way to such foolish terror." "ah, but i am ready to bless the cause; without it, i should not have known the happiness of being chosen by you to protect you." "i am willing to admit that you have rendered me a great service, and i am grateful. i will even implore you to continue to extend your protection until we can find my friends." "what! you want to leave me already? ah, if only from gratitude, grant me a few minutes." "well, then, as a reward, i will stay a few minutes with you." they sat down side by side, and the time sped swiftly while they chatted gaily, lightly together. at last the charming mask bethought herself once more of her missing party. "but who are these friends of yours?" said léon. "is it your mother, or sister? and, perhaps, a husband?" "a husband? no, indeed, thank god!" "you are not married?" "no, not now." "what, already a widow? how sorry i am for you!" "pray, why should you suppose that i am to be pitied? are all husbands so kind? are all men so tender? is there, on the contrary, one who deserves to be regretted?" "oh, what an anathema! he is a happy fellow who succeeds in inspiring you with juster, milder feelings!" "toward men? heaven forbid!" "then you are determined to drive to despair all the troop of admirers who, no doubt--" "i haven't one; i have just arrived from the other side of the world, and know nobody here." "nobody, really? then, fair mask, i put myself down as your first, and you will see that i shall be ever the most devoted, the most constant--" "constant! _bon dieu_! if it is in that strain you are going to talk, i shall leave you forthwith." "what, does constancy--? "constancy is but a chain that we pretend to wear in order to impose its weight on another. now that i am free, perfectly free, i intend to remain so; no man living could induce me to forswear myself." "there is no more freedom for me, i feel that, but i cannot regret it. the chain shall, however, be for me only; you cannot prevent my loving you, or hoping--" "ah, no, no, no, monsieur; i do not want love; i do not want promises; and least of all do i want any one to hope for anything from me." "but, cruel mask, incomprehensible mask, what then _do_ you want? what must one do to obtain at least your pity?" "one must neither rave nor deceive; neither exaggerate a feeling of which he is barely conscious, nor fancy it possible to induce a sensible woman to change her plans for a few romantic words, or hypocritical attentions; one must be humble, discreet, patient. i must have time to make up my mind, to find out exactly what i want, and then, perhaps--" "then, perhaps, what? charming mask, finish the sentence, let me know my fate. i will be obedient; silence, submission, patience, i promise everything." as he spoke léon's face glowed with love and hope, and he gazed eagerly into the large, black eyes, which, soft and sparkling, appeared to be studying him with calm and close scrutiny. entirely disregarding his impassioned tones, she went on with a thoughtful air: "this gold braid must betoken a grade. you are in the service, no doubt?" confounded by her self-possession, léon could only reply by a gesture of assent. "in what regiment?" "i am captain in the sixth horse," he replied, a little hurt. "you are on furlough, perhaps? does your family live in this city?" "no; my people belong to a distant part of the country. they are far from rich, but they are honorable and highly respected. i only came up with my regiment, and, like you, lovely mask, have been but a few days in the capital; like you, too, i know no one here; like you, i am free, with no attachments and no ties. fate seems to have brought me here to lose at one blow my heart, my liberty, and my peace of mind." "and find in return, of course, nothing but a hard-hearted, ungrateful woman! these are the conventional things that we all say. now, i am going to do justice to chance, that is at times kind to us, and i am inclined to believe that it has been so this time in bringing us two together. it may be that i shall have it to thank for the one blessing that was lacking in my life." "adorable and mysterious lady, if only i could fall at your feet, and there swear that henceforth léon de préval, grateful and humble, will do all in his power to merit so sweet an avowal!" "an avowal!" she said. "you call that an avowal? did one ever see anything to equal the presumption of these men?" "but how can one help believing a little in what one so fondly hopes? may i not know who is the fascinating creature that takes a pleasure in teasing me? may i not raise the mask that hides the features--" "which perhaps are not so very plain!" "if only i might see them for a moment, if i might but read there!" "can't you read all you need to know in my eyes?" "they are bewitching, but suppose a sweet smile went with them?" she rose from her seat, and in a colder, more serious manner she said: "no, you will never see me, never know me, and never will you learn anything about me." léon stood as though petrified. "did one ever hear of such inconceivable caprice? it is useless, madame, for me to trouble you any longer. i see you are anxious to rejoin your friends. we must look for them." she interrupted him, not noticing his anger. "léon de préval, that's your name, isn't it," she said dreamily, "captain of the sixth horse? do you expect to stay long in the city?" "what can that matter to you, cruel one, since you do not mean to see me ever again?" "but what makes you think i don't mean to see you again? how little it takes to throw these wiseacres off their balance! i am, on the contrary, so determined to see you again that--" "_mon dieu_, my dear, what ever has become of you?" cried a woman's voice behind them. "we have been hunting for you these two hours past." it was the friend and escort of the pretty mask. thus suddenly brought together again, each in turn ran quickly over the incidents of the night. "i am worn out with fatigue, and bored to death," said the lady who had just arrived upon the scene. "for pity's sake, let us go home." "with all my heart. there is nothing to keep me here any longer." "what, so soon?" exclaimed léon. "at least, you will not forbid me to accompany you to your carriage?" this favor was granted, and the pair followed the others out of the hall. "be merciful," said léon, "and finish the charming sentence you had begun when we were so annoyingly interrupted. we were talking of meeting again. but when? where? and how? think that in a minute more i shall have lost everything but the remembrance of you. will you not leave me a little hope?" "ah, then he has got over his fit of temper?" "do not play with me now. i am about to lose you. how shall i be able to--" "well, there is just the possibility that i may come to the mi-carême ball here." "three weeks to wait! ye gods, three centuries!" "yes, three weeks, perhaps, and perhaps never." "i shall be dead by that time, dead with impatience and worry." "that will entirely upset my plans." "your plans?" but they had reached the door. a carriage had just drawn up, but in the darkness it was impossible to distinguish either its color or its coat of arms. a black servant was holding the door open. "may i not at least cherish the hope that you will be sorry for my sufferings?" "indeed, i fancy you are going to occupy my mind considerably." as she finished speaking, she sprang lightly into the carriage, and the horses dashed rapidly off. léon stood and gazed after that coach which was carrying away from him his new conquest, and, caring no more for the ball, he made his way homeward, his brain in confusion, his heart a little troubled; his mind ran upon his adventure, and he reproached himself bitterly for not having found some means of carrying it a little farther. "who can she be," he said to himself, "so attractive and so odd? she cannot be a _demi-mondaine_, with that noble bearing, at once modest and proud, and with such unmistakable ease of manner. what can she want? and why should she alternately encourage and repel me? she talked of her plans, and wanted to know all sorts of details about me; our meeting might prove a happy thing for her--yet i am never to see her again, and must never know who she is--was she only playing with me? if i thought that, what a revenge i would take! but pray, how and on whom? she may not come to the next ball; i may have lost all trace of her forever. i should be sorry, for i am convinced that she is charming. what a soft sensuousness there is in her pretty, flexible figure! what beautiful eyes she has, and what an expressive voice! and such a graceful, witty way of talking! these three weeks are going to be endless. i had better spend them in looking for and finding her. it might be as well to get some sleep in the first place!" but there was no sleep for léon that night. at an early hour he rose and began at once his search. ii the whole of the first week was spent in searching the streets, shops, theaters, and pastry-cooks'; in following up every woman who seemed to bear the faintest resemblance to the stranger; committing a thousand blunders, and many impertinences, with no other result than to prove to himself the utter uselessness of his attempt. the second week found him thoroughly disheartened, and in the course of the third he began to wonder how much longer he was going to act as a puppet in the hands of a coquette who was perhaps only concealing herself from his eyes in order to enjoy the sight of his discomfiture. then one day a missive was left at his door containing these words: "m. de préval will of course remember that he is expected on thursday at the opera ball at one a.m., under the clock." as he read, his hopes were fired anew. on the day appointed, midnight had scarcely struck when léon took up his position beneath the clock, consumed with amorous impatience and keen curiosity. a long hour had slipped away when, at length, the white domino flitted by. she bowed slightly, and, slackening her pace to allow her companions to pass on before her, she accepted the arm that léon had sprung up to offer her. delighted to meet her again, beside himself with hope and happiness, he gently pressed her round arm to his side, and described in eloquent terms all the sufferings of the last few days, his vain search, his fears, his impatience. quietly she listened, then suddenly interrupted him. "well, i fared better than you," she said, "for i found out at once all i wanted to know about you." "about me?" "yes, indeed; i found all you had told me was strictly true, but i learned in addition that you are popular with your comrades, and that your superior officers think highly of you. they say, moreover, that you are capable of acting honestly by women, and might even be trusted to keep any promise extorted from you." "that would be merely my duty; do please let us talk about my happiness. have you really been thinking about me? is it possible you were sufficiently interested in me to hope i might be worthy your regard, and to try to find out--" "but i had to, if i meant to carry out my plans!" "ah, those plans of yours! i hope i am now going to hear what they are. kind mask, go on; do, i beseech you, trust the fortunate mortal whose heart already beats for you alone, and who is only waiting a word from you to give himself to you forever." "i should be very sorry!" she exclaimed hastily. for a few moments léon was silenced. "oh," he said at last, "do not play this cruel game with me any longer. why tease me with alternate kindness and coldness? this is the last of these balls, but do not think to escape me again. i shall dog your footsteps and follow you until you promise to meet me again, and give me an opportunity to lay my heart and my hopes at your feet, and hear from you what these plans can be." "oh, no, no; i must first be quite sure of your reasonableness and prudence. there are certain conditions i shall have to impose, and your word of honor duly signed and sealed, must be my guarantee of their fulfilment." "my word of honor! my signature!" said léon, considerably astonished at her cold-blooded precautions and also at the solemnity she seemed to attach to a treaty made at the opera ball. he looked down at his companion. she was clearly embarrassed and meditative; her bosom heaved with obvious agitation; and he almost fancied he could detect a blush beneath her mask. she on her side was abstractedly watching him, and seemed perplexed and doubtful. convinced that the moment had come when with a little pressure she would give way, léon went on eagerly: "charming but inexplicable creature! well, then, i consent to whatever you ask, and i will renew the vow i made at the last ball to be obedient, docile, and discreet. i accept your conditions beforehand, if you in return will leave me the joy of hoping to meet you again and holding finally in my arms her--" "it must be so," she murmured absently, apparently replying rather to some thought in her own mind than to what he was saying. but léon noticed only her words, and they completely turned his head. "oh, how glad i am!" he cried. "let us go away, dear, unknown lady. perfect my happiness by coming away with me out of this tiresome crowd. let us go where i can tear off this odious mask and take your commands. then in greater freedom than is possible here, let me pay love's debt." as he spoke he drew her gently forward; but suddenly she paused, withdrew her arm, and regaining the haughty carriage that seemed natural to her she said in a calm cold voice: "you are strangely mistaken, m. de préval. your rash transports and vain declarations offend and hurt me. believe me, i am not what you dare to think, and i am entitled to more consideration, greater respect, and more prudence from you. i am going to overlook this offense, however, because i admit that my own odd behavior might well have misled you; but you must do all i tell you. tomorrow you shall hear from me and i will then let you know exactly what conditions i mean to make. till then, be patient and resign yourself." as she spoke, she moved away into the crowd, intending to give him the slip, but he dashed after her in pursuit. "no," he cried, "i am not going to leave you. you shall not run away like this. cruel creature, you touch my heart, set my imagination on fire and then forsake me." "take me to my carriage," she said, and in her voice there rang a note of command. he grasped the hand she offered, and again poured forth his lamentations and prayers, but all to no effect. the faithful negro was standing at the door. the stranger quickly entered her carriage, saying to léon, "good-bye, till tomorrow. you may rely on my promise." "at least permit me to see you home," he said, his foot on the step. "close the door, and drive home," she said energetically. her order was instantly obeyed, and once again léon saw his hopes vanish with her who had inspired them. iii the impatience with which léon waited for the morrow may be more easily imagined than described. how often did he run up to his rooms to see if the letter had yet arrived! how delighted he was when at last it was handed to him! but what was his astonishment to read these words: "yesterday m. de préval appeared keenly to desire to see again the lady in the white domino whom he met at the opera ball. to obtain this favor he declared himself ready to do anything she asked of him. "here are the conditions on which he may have what he so persistently demanded: " . m. de préval must be in his rooms at midnight tomorrow; a trustworthy man whom he has already seen once will call for him with a hired carriage which will convey him to his destination, only m. de préval must allow his eyes to be blindfolded. " . he must refrain from questioning his guide, and must not attempt to bribe him (this would be quite useless), but he must quietly follow instructions. " . he must promise to make no noise, and no scandal; he must not make a fuss about the darkness, and must not attempt to induce the person who will be waiting for him to break the silence she has determined to keep. " . finally, when his guide returns to fetch him, he must follow him out to the carriage and thence homeward, with the same precautions, and afterward, without making vain attempts to discover what is to be done with him, he must patiently await the enlightenment that is faithfully promised to him. " . if m. de préval accepts these conditions he can write on the foot of this sheet that he will keep them, add his signature, and leave it in an envelope at his door to wait till called for." when he had read through this extraordinary document léon, astonished beyond measure, was torn by a thousand conflicting feelings. how was he to reconcile the elaborate precautions of this strange compact with the enlightenment that was promised? how could he make this appointment agree with the air of lofty distinction and reserve of the stranger? he told himself over and over again that it would be the height of folly and imprudence to sign such a treaty, and embark on such a wild-goose chase. and yet, as the graceful image of the pretty mask rose before his mind's eye, and their animated talk at the ball recurred again to his memory, the contrast between her pride and her weakness, the piquancy of the situation, his now strongly aroused curiosity, and his vanity at stake, all combined to make up an irresistible temptation. for a moment he even fancied there might be a spice of danger in trusting himself to some unknown man to be led to an unknown place, his hands tied by his promise, and his person exposed defenseless to all risks. but this prospect added savor to the rest. "no, indeed," he cried, "i shall not draw back now; the precious reward offered is well worth a little folly." and, seizing a pen, this wise cato wrote like any harebrained youth: "i accept all the conditions imposed, and undertake on my word of honor to fulfil them scrupulously. i only ask permission to wear my sword. "lÉon de prÉval." in the course of the evening some one called for his answer, and on the following day he received another note, containing these few words: "he may wear his sword, but m. de préval has nothing to fear for either his honor or his safety." never was day so long. for two hours léon, ready dressed, had been walking up and down his room when the sound of a carriage drawing up to the door brought his heart into his mouth. seizing his sword, he ran rapidly downstairs, and found the black servant standing there. the man motioned him to get into the carriage, and then, in his bad french, respectfully asked permission to bandage his eyes. léon made no resistance. after driving a short time the negro ordered the coachman to stop, and helped léon to step out on to the pavement. together they walked a few yards, and then entered a house where they mounted a short staircase. léon could perceive that he was being led through some large rooms until they reached one that was filled with sweet scents. at this moment his bandage was removed, and, glancing eagerly round, he found himself in a dark apartment, at the end of which was an open door that revealed an elegant boudoir dimly lighted by an alabaster lamp. the negro standing beside him with a dark lantern in his hand pointed to the boudoir and in a low tone uttered the words: "honor and silence." he then disappeared. léon laid aside his sword, and entered swiftly. a woman, his unknown friend, dressed in a simple négligé, her head wrapped in a veil, was half reclining on a sofa. léon threw himself at her feet. "i am a happy man!" he cried. "but what? are you still hiding your face from me? for pity's sake make no more mystery; throw off your veil." as he spoke he lifted his impatient hand. no obstacle was interposed but at the same instant the lap went out. we dare not throw light on the darkness that léon respected. we will not infringe the order of silence; we will only say that his highest hopes were surpassed by the reality, and in the pleasure of that meeting he had no desire to break his word. time passed quickly, and the night was far advanced when a slight sound was heard in the apartment; a secret door had been opened, the stranger disappeared, and léon found himself alone. the negro stood again before him, and respectfully requested him to replace the bandage over his eyes and follow him. "no," he replied, both pained and vexed, "i will not go until i have seen her--until i have obtained--" a woman's voice interrupted him, whispering close beside him, "honor and silence." léon rushed toward the voice to find only a wall; he groped along it and came upon a small door fastened on the other side, through whose cracks he could distinguish a light that receded rapidly and then disappeared. "cruel," he said, not daring to speak aloud, "stop one moment, only one word--" "honor and silence," said the negro firmly. "yes," léon replied sadly. "i am bound to honor, i promised, i submit. i can only hope that others will be as faithful to their word as i am to mine." the bandage was replaced, and léon followed his guide out to the carriage. soon he was at home again, where, alone with his memories, alternately delicious and sad, happy and anxious, he, now madly in love, wondered if indeed the whole thing were not a dream, and fell asleep in the hope of prolonging it. iv but who shall describe his anxiety and distress as the days went by, then a week, a second and a third, with still no news from the stranger? still she took no trouble to soothe his impatience. his mind dwelt painfully on the incident. "what!" he said, "is it possible that my loyalty and honor were invoked merely to satisfy the passing caprice of an unprincipled and immoral woman? no, no i am unjust to her and ungrateful too. i could feel her heart beating with fear. o my beloved lady why hide from my love? why lift me to a pinnacle of bliss only to dash me to earth again directly after? the memory of the moments we spent together entirely absorbs me; is it possible they have no power over you?" in this apostrophe to his mysterious belle léon was interrupted by the arrival of a letter which seemed nicely timed to reply to it. he recognized at once the handwriting of the conditions, and opened the envelope with a hand that shook with pleasure. this is what he read: "how many illusions i am destroying! what tender hopes will now be blighted! what prestige dwindle away! you think yourself the victor, but instead you are under orders. your vanity must have been stirred at the thought of the irresistible influence you wielded over a weak woman but it is you who have to obey her will. you are of course waiting impatiently to see and know her, to establish your empire over her by fresh transports on your side and fresh weaknesses on hers--and that moment will never come. all is over between her and you. "nevertheless, the loyalty and delicacy of your behavior deserve some recognition from me. i don't think i can better prove my gratitude than by confiding to you those plans you were so curious to hear, and explaining the conduct which must have seemed strange at least in your eyes, if not imprudent, though, thanks to you, i believe i shall never have cause to regret it. "an unequal match which brought me only misery, humiliation, injustice, and violence has left in me an invincible repugnance for a tie that weighs heavily on the weak, upholds the strong and sanctions injustice. when therefore i found myself at the age of twenty-five free, wealthy, and my own mistress, i vowed to remain so always, but i very soon discovered that i was purchasing my independence at the price of nature's sweetest solace. when i looked around me i found not a creature who needed my care and tenderness, not one to love me and tell me so. i was continually haunted by sorrow for my childless condition, and by degrees this became a real grief. i was born beneath a fierce sky, and my blood is hot, my passions strong. what more can i say? i gradually came to form the singular plan by which i might know the joys of maternity without submitting to a hated yoke. still, do not think me a strong-minded woman, and do not imagine that i scorn as prejudices those laws which i know to be useful to society. no, i have the greatest respect for them, and if, for this time alone, i have dared to set them aside, believe me, it is for this once only, because special circumstances made it possible for me to save at the same time appearances and reputation. "my plan, formed in the first instance in fear and trembling, soon occupied all my waking thought. i will confess that there was a romantic glamour about it that lent it an additional charm in my eyes. soon it grew to be a passion. you know how i succeeded in putting it in execution, and to you i shall owe the sole blessing that my life lacked. at first i meant to leave you in ignorance of the truth, and forget you entirely. now i have changed my mind and have come to think that i owe you some explanation. moreover, if my hopes are fulfilled, i may die before the object of my affection is old enough to take care of itself. it will inherit all my fortune, but i think i ought not to deprive it of its natural protector. "no matter then where duty may call you, when the time comes you will receive from me a split ring on which there will be engraved the date of a birth; the setting will inform you of the sex, a diamond signifying a son, an emerald a daughter. the second half of this ring will be given to the child in the event of my death, with all the clues necessary for finding you out. when the second half is placed in your hand the fact of its matching your own will prove the right of the bearer to your protection, and my personal regard for you makes me very sure it will not be asked in vain. "adieu, monsieur, adieu, léon; farewell forever! take no steps to discover me; they would be in vain, since in a few days i shall be far away. forget a fantastic creature whom you do not and must not know; forget the dream of a single night that cannot return. be happy; this is my one wish for you, and if i learn that it has been realized, i shall be happy too." "happy!" cried léon, flinging the letter down angrily. "i am to be happy when she coldly informs me i am never to see her again; when her insulting confidences just reveal the value of the prize that is lost to me, never to be regained! but let her not think to escape me altogether; she is mine; she herself formed the tie between us. could she have done it only to sever it immediately? wherever she goes i shall follow her, and everywhere i shall insist on my claims being heard. she cannot shirk them." then, after a moment's reflection, he added: "alas! i am forgetting that she is going away. she is probably returning to her own land, and the wide seas will divide us. unhappy man that i am, why did i ever go to the ball! why was i such a fool as to accept her artful conditions?" the suddenness of the blow thus inflicted on his fondest hopes took such effect on léon that for several days he was ill. as soon as he was able to go out again he started his search with more energy than ever, but, being himself a stranger in the city, there were few means open to him, and he soon found himself reduced to a state of passive regret, which is perhaps the worst of all evils. during this period of his life his temper took on a tinge of melancholy which never entirely deserted him. brought up by an honorable family who had instilled good principles into the lad, léon had never indulged in the usual license of barracks; his professional studies, and a succession of fatiguing and glorious campaigns, had left him little leisure to form any lasting liaison. though of an affectionate disposition, he had never loved, and this, the first serious impression made upon him, was so much the deeper in consequence. and now chance had thrown in his way an attractive woman, rendered still more piquante by the mystery with which she had surrounded herself, and she had vanished like a shadow. on the very eve, perhaps, of becoming a father, he was yet never to be allowed to press to his heart the child of his love; united by the tenderest and strongest of ties to persons visible only to his imagination, he was doomed never to know them in the flesh. thoughts such as these left him no peace; yet, after reading her letter over and over again, he fancied he could detect in it some faint promise for the future. all hope of finding his unknown mistress was not yet lost; this enigmatic ring that she promised him, and that was to announce the most passionately longed-for of events, constituted in itself a kind of correspondence. besides, since an arrangement was to be made by which the child should at any time be able to find its father, it was evident that his fate and existence must continue to interest the mother, and the thought that the invisible stranger would be watching over his fortunes took hold of his imagination and afforded him some consolation. but a fresh grief awaited him; orders were given for his regiment to go into garrison in a small town of the north of france, and léon, forced to accompany his men, was plunged anew into the depths of despair. he felt that in leaving paris he lost all chance of discovering traces of her he sought, and that, once buried in the distant provinces, he might easily be forgotten; even the message he was awaiting with such impatience would perhaps never reach him there. still he had no alternative but to leave, and residence in the little town, with no society and no resource but solitary country walks, did not contribute greatly to relieve léon's melancholy mood. v whilst léon, brooding in dull exile over his troubles, was mentally calculating the hours that must elapse before the expected message could be despatched, his unknown friend, also in seclusion, but in a charming estate situated on the road from tours to bordeaux, was freely indulging in those joyful anticipations that her audacity, coupled with her warm, eager blood, had warranted. in the independent position in which she now found herself everything was new, and everything seemed pleasant. born in martinique, and reared amongst a slave population, the youthful elinor at sixteen had never known any restraint but that of her parents' indulgent rule; she had never felt the salutary yoke of the hard and fast laws of society. but at this period of her life her beauty, which had begun to make some stir in the place, aroused the admiration of m. de roselis, the richest settler in the island. he came forward to ask for her hand, and his wealth so dazzled her ambitious relatives that it was granted immediately. he was a man of some forty years, with a handsome face but a character as odious as it was contemptible. he had been the overseer of the property he now owned, and had spent his life there, and the habit of command had developed in him all those vices which invariably spring from isolation and unlimited power. suspicious and violent, unprincipled and unscrupulous, his vanity, flattered by the possession of the handsomest girl in the colony, soon effaced in him any sentiment for her except that of a mean jealousy, which he indulged with the inflexibility of his imperious temper. elinor, shut up amongst her negresses, over whom she had no control--many of them being, indeed, her own rivals--had now to endure the vilest treatment. her proud and sensitive heart was filled with a deep-rooted resentment, and she visited on all men the hatred and contempt which were merited by the only one whom she had opportunity of judging. her parents died of grief at having thus sacrificed their only child, and shortly after her husband, worn out by a manner of life whose pleasures he had thoroughly exhausted, began to make preparations to remove to france. he had already arranged for the purchase of an estate in that country, when he was suddenly overtaken by death in the midst of a debauch. thus the beautiful elinor de roselis found herself at the age of twenty-five at once the richest and most independent woman in the colony, but, disgusted with a place in which she had known only sorrow, she resolved to put into execution her husband's plans, and settle in france. one of her childhood friends, mme. de gernancé, who had been more fortunate than herself in marriage, was also about to remove with her family and fortune to france, so a vessel was chartered for them, and mme. de roselis, having once more vowed on the tomb of her parents to give no man in future a right to dispose of her person and fate went on board, her mind filled with a thousand schemes, and nursing as many fond hopes. in the first years of her unhappy married life mme. de roselis had suffered keenly from her disappointment in having no children; later she found consolation in the fear lest a child of hers should inherit the vices that caused her such lasting and acute pain. in the first flush of her recovered liberty this regret returned with fresh force; alone, without relatives, without affection, on the eve of landing on a foreign shore where she knew no one, she realized that independence is not the only requisite for happiness, and that we all need some interest in life to attach us to it. the company of her friend's children, who were constantly with them during the voyage, riveted her thoughts to the subject, and it was their kisses and the games she played with them that first gave her the idea of the strange scheme we have seen her carry out. the long journey afforded her plenty of leisure in which to devise a way to guard against the serious inconveniences that might arise from such a proceeding; and in proportion as the idea took shape in her mind she became ever more enchanted with it, until by the time bordeaux was reached she was completely under its spell. making only a short stay in that city, she quickly followed m. and mme. de gernancé to paris, where they intended to spend the winter together. we have seen with what rashness and success she accomplished her object, and how her lucky star threw in her way a man like léon de préval, whose honesty and steadiness of character saved her from the dangers to which she was bent on exposing herself. admitting only her faithful black servant into her confidence, she had commissioned him to find for her in some distant suburb the little house that in the interval between the two balls she arranged to suit her purpose. the secret spring that extinguished the lamp and the secret door by which she escaped were the fruit of the careful forethought that she lavished on a scheme which assuredly could be justified by none. as she was staying in the same hotel as her traveling companions, she was obliged to prepare them for her disappearance by telling them she intended to leave for the country on the day following the mi-carême. accordingly, on the day appointed, notwithstanding her friends' entreaties, she duly left, attended by the negro, but she went only as far as the little house. the rest of her household having started a few hours earlier, all passed off as she had planned. after the meeting that she had arranged with such care she remained concealed a short time in the villa. it was from thence she had written to him the letter that had caused léon so much pain. a few days later, she left for touraine. her first care on arriving was to spread a report in the district that her husband, already ill when they started, had died on the voyage; this was confirmed by her mourning dress. soon she allowed it to be known that she was hoping shortly to possess a tardy token of their union. after some time the hope became an obvious certainty, and toward the end of the autumn mme. de roselis obtained her heart's desire, and gave birth to a daughter who was brought up by her side in the chateau. with what transports of joy she pressed her long-desired child to her bosom--the child in whom all the happiness of her life was bound up, and in whom all her tenderest feelings would be centered! "you will love me dearly," she said, "you will thank me for the care and love i shall lavish on you. i shall live for you only, and shall never have to fear lest desertion and insult may be the reward of my devotion. at last i have at my side a creature who is bound to me by the sweetest and closest of ties, whose innocent affection and childish joy will, i hope, suffice for my own happiness." it was but natural that the memory of him to whom she owed her new happiness should be present with her in the first glow of it. she thought how delighted léon would be if he could see his child, and this brought back to her mind the promise she had made to let him know the date of its birth. the negro was sent to paris to order the ring that had been described to léon. he was told to find out at the war office the whereabouts of his regiment, and to start immediately, at full speed, to take him this last message. he was himself to place it in the hands of m. de préval, and to depart instantly, without giving the young officer time to ask a single question. the black carried out his instructions with as much accuracy as intelligence. vi one morning, léon, who had hailed with some excitement the opening of the month of november, returned from drill in low spirits and full of anxious thought. he was about to go at once to his quarters when he heard behind him the trot of a horse, and, turning his head, recognized the negro. he uttered a cry of surprise and delight as the black rode up to him and, without dismounting, said: "here is something i was ordered to bring to you," and at the same moment he placed in his hand a sealed box. then he set spurs to his horse and was out of sight in an instant. léon, dumbfounded, followed him with his eyes, and but for the box he still held would have been tempted to set the sudden event down to an apparition to be attributed to his own nervous condition. hastily, he opened the case. it contained only the half of a gold ring, split like a french wedding ring, on which was engraved "november , --." it was set with a very fine emerald. "so it is a girl!" cried léon. "i am a father--and not a line, not a word for me! she is still making sport of me! this ends everything, probably, and i shall never hear another word about her. who ever can she be, this unget-at-able creature who does as she likes with me and seems to hold my future in her hand, who remains invisible, and yet can find me out in this distant spot, and, according to her wayward humor, seeks me or forsakes me? wretched ball! fatal meeting!" he turned the matter over in his disturbed mind in a hundred different ways, but never came to any satisfactory conclusion. a long year passed in this way. then, with the approach of the following spring, there were rumors of a coming war; a spanish expedition was talked of, and the officers, looking forward to promotion and glory, were thankful for the prospect of escape from inaction. léon was specially impatient for the signal to enter the fray, for he was sick of living with his memories, in the idleness that fostered them. what then was his surprise to receive one day a despatch from the war office, informing him of his nomination as aide-de-camp to general de x. and ordering him to start at once for paris, where he was to join that officer. to léon, who had never seen his chief, and knew no one about his person who could have exerted any influence in his behalf, this promotion was inexplicable. for some time past, however, he had been living in an atmosphere of extraordinary events; this last filled him with mingled joy and hope. might not his unknown mistress have had a hand in the matter? if so, surely here was a clue to her name and place of residence. at all events, he was going back to paris, and however short his stay in the capital, some lucky chance might help him in his search. thus he found himself once more back in the city, where he was received in the kindest way by his general, who installed him in his own house and gave him a place at his table. at first the multiplicity of his duties prevented him from taking any of those steps which he had already proved to be more than useless, but after a little while, having won the regard of his chief and having become in some sort a favorite with him, he ventured to ask the name of the person to whom he owed this post of honor. the general informed him that the recommendation of m. de b., who was in charge of the war staff, and the record of léon's distinguished conduct in the last campaign, had led him to ask for the young man as his aide-de-camp. "and that reminds me," he continued, "you ought to go and thank him. i shall be going there one evening soon, and if you like i will take you with me." although this reply was a disappointment to léon, he gratefully accepted the offer, and a few days later the general took him in his own carriage to call upon m. de b. they found a number of people already assembled in the drawing room when they arrived, and mme. de b. had just arranged some card tables and resumed her place near the fire, where she was chatting with a small circle of friends, consisting of some three or four women and as many men. when léon was introduced to her he endeavored to obtain from her the information he was so eager to get, but in vain. after some civilities the conversation again became general, and mme. de b. begged one of the gentlemen to continue the story he had commenced. thus léon, his hopes frustrated, found himself obliged to listen with the rest. a string of tales, some amusing, others strange, were told by one and another of the guests, and then mme. de b., careful that each in turn should have an opportunity to shine, turned toward léon and asked him, with a smile, whether in the course of his campaigns and the vicissitudes of a soldier's life, he had not met with some adventure that would bear relating. léon's mind was ever engrossed with his own recent experiences, and he at once told the tale, placing it, however, to the account of a brother officer, but imparting to it the living interest that only a man who is full of his subject can command. when he had finished, a lively discussion of this singular fad of independence followed. the ladies judged with just severity the inexcusable imprudence that had led a woman so lightly to expose herself, and they blamed her for having sacrificed her principles to a mistaken taste for freedom. the men held that her action was a sign of character and imagination, and that she had lived her romance with as much wit as decision, and they set her down as a charming woman. they all wished they had been in the shoes of that officer, but all declared they would not have allowed themselves to be so easily shaken off, for no vows would have induced them to refrain from unmasking and subjugating the beautiful fugitive. "indeed," said a lady of a certain age, with some dryness, "one need hardly have been so scrupulous with a person who had so little respect for herself." "i admit," said a very pretty woman seated in the corner of the fireplace, "that it is impossible to justify her conduct. still, one may suppose that her aversion for a second marriage rested on some powerful and secret motive. the passion of maternity seems to have done the rest, and which of us, when fondling the child who smiles up at us, but can find in our heart some excuse for an error prompted by this feeling?" "but you must at least admit that it was very hard upon this poor officer?" "why, what harm has she done to him?" asked the pretty lady in a careless tone. "what harm!" cried léon with some heat. "is it then nothing for him to be ever pursued by the memory of a charming woman whom he loves for her grace and spirit, the possession of whom caused him such exquisite pleasure, and who now obstinately conceals herself from his sight and his affection--a woman who, apparently, only aroused his passion to forsake him at once, and who only preserves just such relations with him as may keep alive a desire that she never means to gratify? he is a husband and a father, and yet may not know the objects of the most natural of sentiments; he does not even know their whereabouts, though he is followed, found, and disposed of at will. obligations are forced on him while he, less fortunate than the lowest of men, will never enjoy the reward of that domestic happiness which is open to all except himself." "oh, admit there is some exaggeration in all this. what is to prevent him from marrying?" "but how can he, madame? even supposing time should at length wear out the deep impression made on him by his transient happiness, can he be said to belong to himself now? as long as she he loves is free, can he cease to be so too? if that odd aversion for a natural tie should pass away, and he could some day obtain the hand he has so long desired, how would he console himself if in the meantime he had disposed of his own?" "you certainly attribute to your friend very great delicacy of feeling," said the lady, fixing on léon a glance in which there was both softness and interest. he was touched, and went on with increasing fervor: "and then this ring divided between his child and him, is not that too a chain that must hold him forever? no matter in what position he may be placed, his affection and fatherly care may one day be claimed--he belongs henceforth to some one, though no one belongs to him! and as a finishing touch to a unique situation, he can only hope to find his child by losing its mother! the first sight of that beloved object will tell him that one dearer yet is no more; and it is only at the price of a husband's happiness that he can hope for that of a father!" as he pronounced the last words léon's voice broke; a tear gathered in his eyes. "my word, my dear préval," said the general, smiling, "you have given us so pathetic a picture of the young man's situation that one is tempted to think you are drawing it from life." mme. de b., seeing léon's emotion and embarrassment, hastened to change the subject. he remained standing against the chimney piece, near the pleasant-looking woman. there was a moment's silence. "you have roused a good deal of interest in your friend," she said gently. "impossible to depict his feelings with greater eloquence." "at least, madame, the picture is a true one, but the campaign now about to begin will distract his mind from his troubles, and the hope of putting a glorious end to a life that offers no prospect of happiness--" "what are you thinking of, monsieur?" said the lovely lady. "if you have any influence over him you ought to use it to turn his mind from so terrible an idea; and tell him it is his duty to preserve his life for that child." "but why should he recognize duties that can bring him no recompense? how can he owe his life to those who have spoiled it for him? but," he added with a melancholy smile, "a bullet settles very many questions." at that moment the general called to him, and they took their leave amid cordial wishes from their friends for future glory and a safe return. "that is a very interesting young man," said mme. de b. when the general and his aide-de-camp had left; "he has a charming face and a fine mind. it would be a great pity if he perished in spain." vii from that moment mme. de roselis (for she, of course, it was) lost the tranquil ease and proud indifference she had flattered herself she would be able to preserve. she now measured the gravity and danger of her act by the severity with which the women had judged it, while the light comments of the men revealed to her the magnitude of the debt she owed to léon's rare delicacy of conduct. this consideration increased her regard for him. by degrees the idea that she had injured a man who worshiped her and whom she could not help liking, the peril and glory that hung around him lending him the glamour that women love, and, finally, the element of anxiety about him,--the food on which both love and memory thrive,--all these things helped to waken in her heart a feeling that was new to her. she was seized with a longing to see her daughter again, and regain her solitude, and her one thought was to get away as quickly as possible. while paying her farewell visit to mme. de b. she heard that general x. and his pleasant young aide-de-camp were on their way to spain, where hostilities had already begun. her heart smote her. she cut her call short; an almost painful restlessness impelled her homewards to hasten the preparations for departure. what a difference there was between her present state of mind and that in which she had arrived at the beginning of the winter, when on mme. de gernancé's pressing invitation she had agreed to spend that season in paris. cheerful, contented, in the flower of her youth, looking forward to every kind of enjoyment, such was mme. de roselis then, and it may be imagined with what favor the beautiful and wealthy widow was received in a society where happiness constitutes a great merit. mme. de b. was one of the first persons to whom elinor was introduced. m. de gernancé was an intimate friend of that lady's husband and when the first rumors of war had begun to circulate in the city the idea had struck elinor to utilize this friendship to procure a better and less dangerous post for léon. she had given m. de gernancé to understand that the young man had been recommended to her by his family, and she only requested that her name might not be mentioned in the transaction. her intervention was crowned with success, and then by a coincidence the meeting between the two had taken place and the whole course of her life was suddenly changed. mme. de roselis then wended her way back to touraine, worried, anxious, vexed with herself for the folly that had brought about such unlooked for results. her lively imagination painted as imminent all the most terrible disasters that could possibly befall, and her heart melted at the contemplation of misfortunes that she was inventing for herself. she left her black servant in paris to collect and forward all the news that came in from spain, for she was beginning to take a keen interest in the events that were passing there. at the sight of her daughter she felt her dearer to her than ever; she detected a likeness hitherto unnoticed, and new kisses, fonder than the first, were the result of this discovery. more lonely now than she had ever been, mme. de roselis spent the summer watching the daily progress of her darling babe; every month it grew in beauty and in intelligence. elinor was charmed; yet frequently she would have been glad to find at her side some one who could share her maternal enthusiasm. "it is sad, after all," she said to herself, "to have nobody with me who can enter into my happiness and share it with me. i suppose," she went on, with a sigh that her pride promptly stifled, "only a father could take pleasure in these childish things. and even so, who knows, but afterwards, a despotic lord and master might hinder my plans for bringing her up, and his rigid strictness--ah, but léon would never be despotic. he has a very gentle expression and a tender smile. he would make a good father." then she remembered that he was far away, and exposed to all the dangers of war; that he sought death, was perhaps already dead. and mme. de roselis wrote for tidings from spain, only regaining her cheerful and proud mien when she learned that m. de préval was in such or such a town, and in good health. as winter approached, her friends, unable to conceive what was the attraction that kept her away alone, wrote urging her to come up to town and stay with them again. but she could not make up her mind as yet to leave her little léonie again, for she loved her more passionately every day, and, not caring to inform mme. de gernancé of the child's existence, she made various excuses for postponing her departure. it was not until january that she finally went up to paris. but all the brilliant gaiety and pleasant parties that had so delighted her the previous year now failed to interest her at all; they seemed tedious and insipid. she returned home worn out, and discontented; felt lonely when she got there, and began to wonder whether the independence that she worshiped was not too frequently purchased at the price of an empty heart and the dullness it involves. wearied by the persistent attentions of a crowd of triflers, who were encouraged by her position, she told herself that she would have done better to attach to her side one who would have rid her of the rest; that in society an attractive and beautiful woman needs a protector who will compel all others to respect her; and imperceptibly, the memory of léon became less indifferent to her. then, suddenly, there came tidings of fierce fighting in spain. in great alarm elinor, filled with the gloomiest presentiments, hastened to call on mme. de b. she found her friends already occupied with the subject that filled her thoughts, but what was her emotion when, after mentioning the names of several officers who had perished in the engagement, mme. de b., turning to her, said: "do you remember, madame, that nice young aide-de-camp of general x.'s who told us that strange story? well, he has disappeared since the battle. he is not to be found among either the living or the dead." elinor's only reply was a cry of surprise. fortunately for her, all those present broke into an eager discussion of the news. she listened in silence to conjectures each more dismal than the last, and then hastily took her leave. she knew at last that, notwithstanding all her precautions, a man had the power to disturb her happiness and influence the course of her life. she remained in paris a month longer, hoping always to obtain reliable information, but as no news came to throw light on the darkness hanging over the fate of léon, she decided to return to touraine. in vain mme. de gernancé, who could not understand her low spirits, tried to dissuade her from leaving them, fearing, in her uneasiness about her friend's health, lest loneliness might be prejudicial to her. elinor departed, carrying with her the anxiety and regret that she could not shake off. the sight of her child only increased her sorrow. "she has only me now," she said. "he who might one day have taken my place is gone." she watched the post impatiently, but nearly two months passed, and still no news came of léon's fate. viii she sat one evening in a corner of the park, watching the child at play and musing idly on the man whose image léonie always called up before her mind. presently there reached her ear confused voices, coming from the servants, who seemed to be searching for her. "madame must be somewhere in the park with her daughter," she heard one say. "with her daughter!" exclaimed a voice that she recognized as mme. de gernancé's. at the same moment that lady came in sight, and the two friends fell into each other's arms. "dear elinor," said her visitor affectionately, "my anxiety about you gave me no peace. your letters have been so few and far between, and were so sad, that i felt i must come and see for myself how you really were. i have come to share and, if possible, enliven your solitude for a little time." but while her friend was uttering her earnest thanks for this mark of friendship, mme. de gernancé had fixed her eyes on the child in much surprise and curiosity, for she saw that she was treated by the servants as the daughter of the house, and in her baby talk she constantly called out to her mother. when they had gone back to the house mme. de roselis said, smiling: "i see your astonishment, and i can guess your curiosity. yes, dear friend, i have been keeping a secret from you, a secret that i could not bring myself to confide in you. but now, tomorrow, you shall hear all about it, and my story will at the same time explain my sadness." notwithstanding the fatigue of her journey, mme. de gernancé scarcely slept that night, so great was her anxiety to hear the explanation of what was a mystery to her. she was up early in the morning, and hastened to find elinor, and together the two wandered out into the park to have their talk alone. mme. de roselis walked in silence by her friend's side, a little shy of making this confidence that she had promised. at last, hesitating slightly, she thus began: "it is too late now, dear friend, to attempt to hide from you a secret that i have always wanted to tell you, and which i only delayed because i knew you would not approve. however, since i must confess, the baby who has so excited your curiosity is my daughter. i had so longed for a child, but i could not bear to place my neck a second time under the yoke that had weighed so heavy on me before." mme. de gernancé could not refrain from showing the surprise she felt; but without giving her time to speak, elinor went on to tell her about the rash scheme she had formed on the voyage, and the means she had adopted for carrying it out. she came at last to the birth of the child, but here she was interrupted impetuously by her friend. "what precautions and prudence to bestow on an act of sheer madness! how much you risked! how could you compromise in such a way your reputation, and indeed your very life! and why all these sacrifices? just to grasp an imperfect happiness you are obliged to hide, and dare not show! so this is to what your excessive caution has brought you! carried away by your imagination, you have hugged a chimera which led you to refuse the real blessings of life in favor of the hollow satisfaction of following a caprice! oh, take my advice, lose no time in recalling the father of that dear child. do not any longer deprive yourself of the pleasures of natural affection and the sweetest of home ties." "ah, it is no longer in my power," exclaimed mme. de roselis. "listen a moment, and you shall see how i have been punished for the error you so severely condemn." then she reminded her of the young aide-de-camp who had been so much talked about at mme. de b.'s, and who had been so keenly regretted by everybody. "what!" cried mme. de gernancé, "was it he? oh, what have you done, elinor? how i pity you! now you see how your folly has destroyed your peace of mind and happiness, and by a punishment that you richly deserve, it is not even possible for you to make any amends. henceforth you will be a wife without a right to bear the name, and a mother, though you scarcely dare to have it known. you will spend your life blushing for the most natural and honorable of feelings, and you, so beautiful, so brilliant, so richly gifted by nature and fortune, have by your own perverse act deprived yourself of the happiness the meanest of women is entitled to enjoy, the happiness of having husband and child, the sweetest of all! but there is more in it even than that. i can read your heart; it is useless for your pride to try to conceal the fact from your friend and from yourself. your heart is no longer in your own keeping; you love, you have given it--" at this, mme. de roselis hid her face in her hands; the tears flowed from her eyes. "dear elinor," said mme. de gernancé kindly, drawing nearer to her and taking her in her arms, "when i see you weep, i realize i love you too well to be your judge. don't grieve any more for an evil that may be remedied. let us hope that léon is still alive, and that all may yet be condoned." but at that word elinor's tears ceased. "condoned!" she said proudly. "no, my dear, i do not think i should easily consent to what you call condoning it. i have done wrong, it is true, but not from weakness. i did it on purpose, after long consideration of the troubles i had borne. it is true i grieve over the fate of a man who does interest me, and whose life i have disturbed and perhaps shortened. i cannot be happy again until i know he is not dead; but as for giving up my independence, and by this change of mind letting people think i had been either weak or inconsequent this i shall never consent to." mme. de gernancé saw that it was not the moment to attack either the prejudices or the pride of her friend; from that moment, however, léon became their one subject of conversation, and by thus constantly talking about him, elinor unconsciously strengthened the inclination she already felt for him. for her part mme. de gernancé would draw an attractive picture of the happiness she herself enjoyed, and which she assured her friend might easily be hers as well. elinor, now touched, and somewhat shaken in her resolution, would smile at her friend's advice, and anon, returning to her cherished chimera of liberty, would wax indignant at the suggestion that she should give it up, after the sacrifices she had made in its name. still, on one point the two friends were ever agreed, and that was in wishing that léon might return. elinor and mme. de gernancé were one day together, discussing their favorite subject, when a messenger came to tell them that the servant of a traveler, who was passing along the high road, was imploring help for his master, who, ill and in great pain, had just fainted away in his carriage. mme. de roselis at once gave orders that everything possible should be done for him, and urged by compassion, so natural to women, went herself, accompanied by her friend, to see the sick man. he had been lifted out of the carriage and was lying on the grass, pale, unconscious, and covered with blood; his frightened servant was declaring that the wound had opened and his master was lost. it was at this moment that mme. de roselis arrived on the scene; but scarcely had her eyes fallen on the inanimate form before her when she screamed, and, hiding her face on her friend's shoulder, she said, in a stifled voice: "it is he! he is going to die before my very eyes!" "in heaven's name," replied mme. de gernancé in a whisper, "take courage! don't betray yourself!" those few words were enough to bring elinor to her senses; feeling the danger of the situation, she summoned all her strength and ordered the interesting invalid to be carried, still fainting, into the chateau. ix when he once more opened his eyes léon found himself in bed with a surgeon seated beside him. his wound had been redressed, and everything done for him that kindness could suggest. his servant, whom he tried to question, was eager to tell him, in a few words, what had happened, but the surgeon interrupted him and ordered silence and rest. to mme. de roselis, who was anxiously awaiting news of the sick man, it was a shock to learn that he was extremely weak from loss of blood and that, in the event of fever setting in, he could hardly be expected to resist it. perfect quiet was ordered. it was decided that the ladies must not go into his room, but should content themselves with seeing that he had everything he needed. next morning, elinor rang her bell before dawn, and was terrified to learn that fever had set in during the night, to be followed by delirium. it was only then, in the surprise she felt at her own despair, that she realized how dear léon had become to her, and she now admitted to herself that she could never be happy without him. of her pride and futile prejudices nothing remained; her whole being was engrossed by the thought of his danger. mme. de gernancé was so afraid her agitation would betray her that she took great trouble throughout the day to keep her out of the patient's room; but the next night, when her household was in bed, and she was once more alone and sleepless in the solemn silence which intensifies suffering and renders fear unbearable, elinor, unable any longer to wrestle with her anxiety, rose and slipped out into the corridor to listen at the door of léon's room and find out how he was. he was still evidently delirious, and the distressed accents of his trembling voice came brokenly to her ear. forgetting everything but her grief, she opened the door softly and went in. the nurse had fallen asleep. by the dim light of the lamp she recognized the pleasant features that were so deeply graven on her memory; but the eyes were now fixed, the face bright with fever; his labored breathing could scarcely lift the sheet that seemed to weigh all too heavily on his chest. elinor dropped into an arm-chair that was close to the door and hid her face and her tears in her two hands. the slight noise she made roused léon from his momentary stupor. "is that she?" he said. "will she come? i am going to die. let me see her at last. tell her i am dying. but where is she to be found? i have lost her--lost her forever." he paused, and then began again. "my daughter--bring her to me. can they refuse to let me see my child when i am dying? poor little thing! don't try to find your father. you have none. he was not able even to give you his blessing in his last moments." this was too much for elinor, and she burst out sobbing. léon started and turned his head slightly, but his eyes, still fixed, saw nothing. "where is this mysterious hiding place? what do i see on the sofa? it is you, you whom i adore, you whom i sought. i hold you in my arms. but your mask--take off your mask, do take it off. what! you still want to run away? no, no, you shall not escape me again." as he spoke, he made an effort to raise himself. "léon," cried elinor, rushing to the bedside, "léon, stop!" he looked up at her, startled, uncertain; then, after an instant's silence, he began again more calmly: "it is too much. lift my head. ah! if i could but sleep!" by this time the nurse, roused by elinor's cry, had come forward to support him, but he turned from her, and let his head drop on elinor's bosom. by degrees, a more tranquil sleep seemed to steal over his senses. a little later mme. de gernancé joined them, looking anxiously for her friend. she too had risen before daybreak and, not finding elinor in her own apartments, had hastened to the sick room, where the spectacle before her eyes arrested her at the door. léon was asleep, supported on elinor's shoulder, while she, seated motionless on the edge of the bed with her head bent over her lover's, was vainly endeavoring to check the tears that streamed from her eyes. mme. de gernancé hastened up to the bed. "what are you doing here, elinor?" she said in a low whisper. "how imprudent you are!" "leave me alone," her friend rejoined. "nothing will induce me to leave this bed until this unfortunate man is either dead or saved. i don't care who knows that i love him and that i am his; it is a just punishment for my offenses. if only he might live! nothing else matters." fear of disturbing the patient kept them both silent after that, and léon's sleep continued as calm as it was sound. he had slept several hours when, half opening his eyes, and making an effort to lift the heavy lids, his first glance fell on the trembling elinor, who was trying gently to put him back on the pillows. he closed his eyes again. then, once more opening them, "where am i?" he said in a weak voice. then, seeing that he was almost in the arms of a woman who did not look like a nurse, he made a movement to try to help her to set down her burden. his eyes, wild no longer, but filled with surprise and doubt, followed elinor behind the curtain, where she was attempting to conceal herself. "is it a dream?" he said, speaking with difficulty. "i seem to have seen that face before. ah, madame, am i to believe--" "he has recognized me," she said to herself in a fright and blushing crimson. "once, i think, at mme. de b.'s house, but once is sufficient. one could never forget you," and his large languid eyes were still riveted on her. "be quiet! be quiet! no more talking. you are ordered the strictest silence. keep still, and do not even think. hope and sleep." the doctor arrived shortly. he declared that the long sleep had done the patient a world of good, that the fever had gone down, and if the temperature now remained steady through the coming night he might be considered to be saved. elinor listened, holding her breath, and drinking in the reassuring words. her joy, too great to be repressed, brought back a charming color to her pale, wet cheeks. when night fell she insisted on taking her place in a corner of léon's room, to await the dreaded attack of fever. it did not come, however, and the night proved a good one. the following day the doctor announced that there was no longer any danger, but he thought it his duty to warm mme. de roselis that convalescence would probably be slow, and that it would be dangerous to move the patient until the wound was thoroughly healed. elinor, making a great effort to show only a cool compassion, trembled with joy at the prospect of the long days to come, when, in sweet intimacy, she would be able to devote herself to léon and restore him to happiness as she had already restored him to life. it was not long before he was able to express his gratitude to the kind chatelaine, whom, as he believed, he had seen but once before, but whose beauty, indulgence, and sensitiveness had made the deepest impression on him. the two friends hardly left his room. they amused him, read to him, played soft music to him. it was the story over again of bayard nursed by the two sisters; nay, it was more. elinor, ever watchful, seemed to guess and forestall his every want; she always knew how to find for him the easiest position, and she surrounded him with those thousand and one little attentions which add to your comfort without attracting your attention. it was then that léon told them how, wounded severely in a hot fight in spain, and left on the field of battle, he had been dragged from the jaws of death by a woman, who, touched by his youth and condition, had taken him home with her and nursed him tenderly. he was recovering when a troop of guerillas arrived at the place and he was forced to flee from his benefactress' house in order to escape from their hands. after many narrow escapes he had finally reached bayonne, where he had been too restless to stay long enough to be entirely cured, and the fatigues of the journey had brought about the accident to which he owed her generous hospitality. this was his story, and it explained to elinor the uncertainty that had for so long hung about his fate. x meantime, poor little léonie was the only person who had a right to feel aggrieved by the arrival of the new guest, for she was carefully excluded from his room, where her high spirits might have appeared too boisterous. elinor had a feeling of shame about showing her to léon, as if she feared that he might guess his own interest in her; but the child, having been accustomed to be always with her mother, was constantly running after her. finding the sick man's door ajar, one day, she softly pushed it, and put her pretty head through to look in. her eyes, both timid and inquisitive, fell on the stranger whom she had never yet seen. léon was the first to catch sight of her. he called out in surprise. "where does that beautiful baby come from?" he exclaimed. she had already fled, but her mother, with beating heart and flushed cheeks, called her back, took her in her arms, and placed her on léon's knees. he was conscious of a sudden rush of memory, and in an inexplicable tide of feeling he gazed fondly at her, covered her with caresses, and then inquired her age in a voice that betrayed great emotion. elinor, confused and now convinced that he had guessed the truth, added a year. "i should have taken her to be younger," said léon, with a sign and fell into a muse. the little girl, having forgotten her fears, now refused to leave the lap of her new friend; nor could he bear to set her down. "but i must part you," said elinor, smiling; "when i see you so distressed, i regret having brought her in." "ah, madame, if you knew of what she reminds me!" "but if i may take you to be the hero of an interesting anecdote that i have by no means forgotten, i can easily guess--" "well, yes, madame, it was i, and though she has betrayed and cast me off, after apparently choosing me, i have remained in spite of myself faithful to her memory, ever regretting a shadow, and pursuing a vain chimera, unable to die, or to live happy any longer." elinor could hardly keep back her tears. "then," she said timidly, "you love her still?" "i scarcely know if i do, if i am weak enough to love her still; but our meetings, the moments spent in her presence, her grace, even her capriciousness,--all are graven on my memory. she has bruised my soul, and taken the glamour from life for me." "oh," cried elinor in a heartbroken voice, "such constancy deserves reward. you may be sure that the day will come when she will return, humbled in her turn, softened, to heal the wounds she has caused and to win your pardon." "never! for three years that proud, unfeeling woman has never condescended to send me as much as a word of remembrance. she has probably gone back to her own land, to india, america, or where not. she has triumphed, and must be laughing at my credulity, and i should like to forget her. lately i have almost thought it might be possible, and perhaps, indeed," he added, in an altered voice, "i shall succeed only too soon." "you will forget her, léon?" the words had been spoken in a voice of such tender reproach that léon gazed at her. he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "ah, madame," he said, after a moment's pause, "your sympathy is very dear to me! if only she had your nature, your responsive sensitiveness, i should be a happy man today. my own child, perhaps as pretty as yours, would be now sitting on my knee." then, turning on elinor his still languid eyes: "and her mother--close beside me--loving--" "these recollections only sadden you, and do you no good at all," said elinor, shaking all over, and picking up her child. "decidedly, i shall have to part you." "forgive me, madame; i have been dreaming. but why wake me so soon?" not daring to listen to another word, elinor fled with her child to tell mme. de gernancé all that had passed between them. from that day, little léonie was as assiduous as her mother in her attentions to the convalescent. he continually asked for her, and became passionately attached to her. the child, for her part, called him her friend, heaped kisses on him, and insisted on being always between him and her mother. her artless affection for them both gave rise to many an embarrassing scene that was fraught with pleasure for elinor, but left léon ever more depressed and pensive. meantime, he was growing visibly stronger; his wound was making progress; time, which passes so swiftly in the happy days of a budding friendship, had brought winter back again with the month of december. mme. de gernancé had for some time talked of leaving them; she now declared she could no longer postpone her departure. then, all at once, in a voice that showed the effort the words cost him, léon begged permission to accompany her. greatly surprised at so sudden a decision, mme. de roselis opposed the plan. "ah, madame," he answered quickly, "pray let me go; i have but too long reveled in a happiness that is full of danger, since it is not for me. let me flee from you and your child, from the spell of your kind care, and these happy days that fly so fast. let me return to the solitude that must ever be my lot." "but at least, wait till we can ask the doctor if you are fit to--" "there are dangers from which the doctor with his science is powerless to preserve me. my destiny is to flee all that is lovable, all that might captivate and charm. i cannot get away from this place too soon--" "well, my dear," said elinor, turning to her friend, "i must then trust my wounded knight to your care. you will answer to me for his safety, at all events." a little taken aback, perhaps, at her letting him go so easily, léon went out to give the necessary orders for his departure. elinor followed him with her eyes, a smile on her face. "well, perhaps you will be kind enough to explain this new comedy to me," said mme. de gernancé in much vexation. "it is clear that he is running away because he is afraid he might love you. then what are you waiting for? why not reveal yourself, and end this folly that has lasted already far too long? can you find any pleasure in this new way of tormenting him?" "ah, dear, how fascinating it is to be your own rival, to win him twice under such different guises! he is true to me even in his inconstancy; he has so much delicacy and honor that he runs from me so as not to betray me. he loved me once; he loves no one but me. how happy i am!" "but léon, poor léon! when are you going to begin to think about his happiness? say what you have to say to him, elinor, and let us all go to paris together, where you can make a marriage that will, i suppose, have no terrors for you. "no, i have a plan in my head. you go with him, and i will follow you very shortly." "elinor, elinor, still romantic, still imagining wild schemes!" "dear friend only this once. it shall be the very last time, i swear!" at that moment, léon returned. he seemed disturbed and excited. everything was being got ready for his journey. mme. de gernancé, displeased with her friend, but forced to yield to her, went off to make her own preparations. but when the time came to say good-bye, every one broke down; elinor, in tears, handed her patient over to mme. de gernancé, who promised to take him home with her and to look after him carefully; léon, white and grave, stood beside the carriage, thanking her over and over again in impassioned tones. he constantly left and then returned to the child, who cried aloud when she saw her friend going away. mme. de gernancé came close to elinor. "there is still time," she said in a whisper. wavering for a moment, mme. de roselis at last replied: "no, there is only one way in which i can make that difficult confession." then mme. de gernancé drew léon away, took her seat in the carriage with him, and the horses started at once, bearing both out of sight. xi alone again, elinor found her solitude unbearable; the happiness she had lately tasted could henceforth alone satisfy her heart. her one thought now was to hasten to rejoin her friend and the man whom she already regarded as her husband. a week after their departure found her with her little daughter back in her town house. mme. de gernancé was the only person who had been informed of her arrival. after a long talk, in which she explained to her friend the way--a trifle romantic withal--in which she intended to make herself known to léon, she succeeded in inducing her friend to help her carry out the scheme that pleased her fancy, and the pair separated, having arranged all the details agreed upon. the season of the opera balls had opened, and mme. de gernancé invited léon one night to accompany her to one. he declined at first, with a hot haste she had not anticipated; the scene of the adventure that was to have such an influence upon his life had become hateful to him, and he had sworn never to set foot there again. but mme. de gernancé insisted; she asked him only to lend her his arm until she could find a stranger who had promised to come, and whom she wanted to puzzle. léon, unable to refuse anything to mme. de roselis' friend, at last consented, though with inward repugnance, and they set off together. his entrance into the ballroom was a painful moment for him; a tumult of memories surged up in his mind. mme. de gernancé made a few turns round the hall with him, and then, pretending to have discovered the person she was seeking, she set him at liberty and said good-bye. scarcely had she left his arm when a voice, in spite of the slight affectation of manner inseparable from a masked ball, made his every pulse leap, uttered close beside him the words: "ah ha, i have caught you, faithless one! it is not for me you are looking, this time, at the opera ball!" he turned and saw before him--who was it? his unknown lady herself. the white domino, the mask, even the diamond buckle that fastened her belt which he had noticed on that other occasion,--all were there. "it is she!" he exclaimed, seizing her arm and slipping it beneath his own. "have i found you again? is it you i am looking at, is it you i hold? by what inconceivable miracle--" "is it really so astonishing? you know my talent for miracles." "it is true. it is the only thing i do know about you." "but what is past is nothing; there is much more to come. now that you have fallen again in my power, you may expect the most extraordinary consequences. your fate is sealed, your destiny is about to be fulfilled." but while she talked a growing disappointment damped the sudden joy that léon had experienced at the first sight of her. he was bitterly wounded by the light, imperious tone she had adopted after those three years of total forgetfulness, added to her other wrongs. all the hard thoughts he had harbored of her in the long interval crowded back now upon his mind. he stopped short. "well, madame," he said coldly, "what is it you want of me? what fresh scheme are you devising? what new way of taking me in?" "oh, what a change three years can work in a man! is this the tender, gentle, attentive léon, who in this very room so fervently vowed to be wholly constant and submissive?" "ah, if i am changed, whose is the fault, cruel one? is it not your own? for you devoted to my undoing all the charm that has most power over the heart of man, and having betrayed my faith, you cast me off, without remorse as without pity. did you not take a pleasure in teaching me the value of what you cheated me out of, and then leave me for three years to my regrets, to forget you as best i could?" "léon, you are too severe. here i am with you again. i have come back to atone for the wrong i did you, and restore to you all you pined for." "ah, how can i put any faith in your words now? perhaps, in a minute or two, you will once more disappear from my view, leaving no trace behind you but the pain you cause me. you are possibly already contriving some fresh ruse--" here she interrupted him, saying in a softened voice: "no, no more ruses, no more secrets. ah, léon, i too have suffered. but let us forget the folly and pain that are over now. you may know and claim your wife now." "you did not want to be my wife--" "true, but i was wrong; now i have come back to surrender to your love." "once you disdained it--a pure and lasting love that filled my heart for you. what new caprice prompts you now to claim it? are you sure it still exists for you? was i to foster an insane passion for an invisible woman who had forsaken me? what makes you suppose me unchanged? why should i not in my turn reject a chain once hateful to yourself? why should not i too now cherish my independence? to me its cost is less than it is to you." these terrible words smote elinor to the core. all the gaiety and fond hope that she had brought with her to the ball were gone now. she admitted the justice of the unexpected reproaches with which he had met her advances, and in her humiliation, her courage and her strength both deserted her. léon saw that she could scarcely stand, and he led her to a bench away from the crowd, seating himself beside her. fortunately, the pain she was enduring found relief in tears. "ah, forgive me," said léon, touched at the spectacle of her genuine grief, "forgive me, o you whom i cannot understand. i am angry now with myself for my misplaced harshness! only, having received so many marks of your indifference, could i expect to find you vulnerable?" then he pressed her to drop her mask, and allow him to see her home. at first she was tempted to comply, and to reveal the face that would instantly have disarmed him; but she dreaded a scene that might attract all eyes to them, and a wish to put him to one more proof restrained her. drawing her hood down over her eyes, and disguising her voice more carefully than ever, she said sadly: "no, why take me home? the hour is late, and you have taught me circumspection. why remove my mask? of what use to know a woman you can no longer love? i can see why you are so cold. i know where you spent your convalescence, and whose hands nursed you." "well, then, madame," said léon, seriously, "you know also that my gratitude could not possibly be too warm, or my admiration too high. yes, i do not deny it. in three months of the most endearing intimacy, tended by a woman whose beauty was the least of her charms, a woman sympathetic and reasonable, who unites the dignity proper to her sex with that kindness of heart that is an ornament the more--could i fail to appreciate so many lovable qualities? could i ever forget her?" elinor, beside herself with joy at his words, felt that if she stayed another moment she would betray herself in spite of her efforts. she rose at once. "be happy then," she said. "your happiness will be mine. i say no more about myself. i ask nothing; you are free. but would you care to see your daughter?" "would i, indeed! you cannot doubt it!" "then come and lunch with me tomorrow and you shall." she gave him her address, but without adding her name. "my people will know," she said. "they will show you in." she left, deeply affected by what had passed. "what would have become of me," she said to herself in terror, "what should i have done, if i had never had the opportunity of winning his esteem and his love in another aspect?" xii that night was spent by léon in the greatest agitation. at last, then, he had found the object of such keen desire and such lasting regret! soon he was to know her! he was to see his daughter--his daughter, whose image he had so vainly tried to conjure up. no doubt it was now open to him to take up the position of husband and father! the title for which he had longed was now, probably, within his reach. and yet the remembrance of mme. de roselis would place itself in the midst of the picture, and the comparison was not to the advantage of the unknown lady. indeed, could any woman match elinor in his eyes? on the following day, punctual to the appointment, he arrived at the hour named, and the first person who met his eyes was the negro who was so closely associated with his recollections. the black conducted him through several richly furnished apartments to a door which he threw open, announcing m. de préval. léon went forward, and found himself in a boudoir that instantly recalled to his mind one that three long years had not effaced from his memory. the illusion was completed by the sight of a woman in the same attitude as before, wearing the same dress and seated on a sofa. a child was sitting on her lap. as léon approached, she turned around. "what do i see?" he cried. "elinor! is such happiness possible? ah! if this be some cruel game, stop, i beg you, or i die before your eyes." at the same moment the little léonie ran to throw herself in his arms, and showing him a half ring that was hanging round her neck, she said in her sweet, childish way: "friend léon, will you mend my ring for me?" he glanced at it, made an exclamation, and then, overcome with surprise and happiness, he was forced to drop into a chair, murmuring feebly: "elinor! my daughter!" but elinor was already at his side. he threw one arm around her, and with the other he held their child on his knee. they gazed into each other's eyes, their tears falling, mingling. neither could find a word to express what both were feeling. then elinor, leaning her head softly against her lover's shoulder, said tenderly: "yes, this is your daughter. and your unknown lady, your mistress, friend, and nurse, who in so many different shapes has been caring for your welfare, wants nothing henceforth but to be her mother and your wife. forgive me, léon, forgive me all the troubles i have caused you; forgive the wicked folly by which i, too, have suffered; it was the first offense and shall be the last. that haughty, heedless unknown lady learned a salutary lesson last night at the ball, and your wife will never forget it." "ah, forgive me, too!" said léon. "my friend, my baby, the dear objects of such anxiety and sorrow, how shall i make up to myself the three years that you have been out of reach of my love!" then mme. de gernancé arrived, and with friendly cordiality entered into the rapturous joy of the happy couple. but, ever practical and sensible, "confess, elinor," she said to her friend, "you would have attained this happy end as surely had you never departed from the path marked out for us by duty and social laws, and you would even have spared yourselves three years of grief." "don't let us say anything more about it," said mme. de roselis, kissing her. "don't let us ever say another word about it. i am wholly converted now. it is only at the expense of her happiness that a woman can attempt to escape from the trammels that have been imposed on her sex." page images generously made available by early canadiana online (http://www.canadiana.org/eco/index.html) note: images of the original pages are available through early canadiana online. see http://www.canadiana.org/eco/itemrecord/ ?id= fdb bf c d f a dozen ways of love by l. dougall author of 'beggars all,' 'the zeitgeist,' 'the madonna of a day,' etc. london adam and charles black to m. s. e. without whose aid, i think, my books would never have been written contents page i. young love ii. a marriage made in heaven iii. thrift iv. a taint in the blood v. 'hath not a jew eyes?' vi. a commercial traveller vii. the syndicate baby viii. witchcraft ix. the girl who believed in the saints x. the pauper's golden day xi. the soul of a man xii. a freak of cupid i young love it was after dark on a november evening. a young woman came down the main street of a small town in the south of scotland. she was a maid-servant, about thirty years old; she had a pretty, though rather strong-featured, face, and yellow silken hair. when she came toward the end of the street she turned into a small draper's shop. a middle-aged woman stood behind the counter folding her wares. 'can ye tell me the way to mistress macdonald's?' asked the maid. 'ye'll be a stranger.' it was evident that every one in those parts knew the house inquired for. the maid had a somewhat forward, familiar manner; she sat down to rest. 'what like is she?' the shopkeeper bridled. 'is it mistress macdonald?' there was reproof in the voice. 'she is much respectet--none more so. it would be before you were born that every one about here knew mistress macdonald.' 'well, what family is there?' the maid had a sweet smile; her voice fell into a cheerful coaxing tone, which had its effect. 'ye'll be the new servant they'll be looking for. is it walking ye are from the station? well, she had six children, had mistress macdonald.' 'what ages will they be?' the woman knit her brows; the problem set her was too difficult. 'i couldna tell ye just exactly. there's miss macdonald--she that's at home yet; she'll be over fifty.' 'oh!' the maid gave a cheerful note of interested understanding. 'it'll be her perhaps that wrote to me; the mistress'll be an old lady.' 'she'll be nearer ninety than eighty, i'm thinking.' there was a moment's pause, which the shop-woman filled with sighs. 'ye'll be aware that it's a sad house ye're going to. she's verra ill is mistress macdonald. it's sorrow for us all, for she's been hale and had her faculties. she'll no' be lasting long now, i'm thinking.' 'no,' said the maid, with good-hearted pensiveness; 'it's not in the course of nature that she should.' she rose as she spoke, as if it behoved her to begin her new duties with alacrity, as there might not long be occasion for them. she put another question before she went. 'and who will there be living in the house now?' 'there's just miss macdonald that lives with her mother; and there's mistress brown--she'll be coming up most of the days now, but she dinna live there; and there's ann johnston, that's helping miss macdonald with the nursing--she's been staying at the house for a year back. that's all that there'll be of them besides the servants, except that there's dr. robert. his name is macdonald, too, ye know; he's a nephew, and he's the minister o' the kirk here. he goes up every day to see how his aunt's getting on. i'm thinking he'll be up there now; it's about his time for going.' the maid took the way pointed out to her. soon she was walking up a gravel path, between trim, old-fashioned laurel hedges. she stood at the door of a detached house. it was an ordinary middle-class dwelling--comfortable, commodious, ugly enough, except that stolidity and age did much to soften its ugliness. it had, above all, the air of being a home--a hospitable open-armed look, as if children had run in and out of it for years, as if young men had gone out from it to see the world and come back again to rest, as if young girls had fluttered about it, confiding their sports and their loves to its ivy-clad walls. now there hung about it a silence and sobriety that were like the shadows of coming oblivion. the gas was turned low in the hall. the old-fashioned omnibus that came lumbering from the railway with a box for the new maid seemed to startle the place with its noise. in the large dining-room four people were sitting in dreary discussion. the gas-light flared upon heavy mahogany furniture, upon red moreen curtains and big silver trays and dishes. by the fire sat the two daughters of the aged woman. they both had grey hair and wrinkled faces. the married daughter was stout and energetic; the spinster was thin, careworn and nervous. two middle-aged men were listening to a complaint she made; the one was robert macdonald the minister, the other was the family doctor. 'it's no use robina's telling me that i must coax my mother to eat, as if i hadn't tried that'--the voice became shrill--'i've begged her, and prayed her, and reasoned with her.' 'no, no, miss macdonald--no, no,' said the doctor soothingly. 'you've done your best, we all understand that; it's mistress brown that's thinking of the situation in a wrong light; it's needful to be plain and to say that mistress macdonald's mind is affected.' robina brown interposed with indignation and authority. 'my mother has always had her right mind; she's been losing her memory. all aged people lose their memories.' the minister spoke with a meditative interest in a psychological phenomenon. 'ay, she's been losing it backwards; she forgot who we were first, and remembered us all as little children; then she forgot us and your father altogether. latterly she's been living back in the days when her father and mother were living at kelsey farm. it's strange to hear her talk. there's not, as far as i know, another being on this wide earth of all those that came and went to kelsey farm that is alive now.' miss macdonald wiped her eyes; her voice shook as she spoke; the nervousness of fatigue and anxiety accentuated her grief. 'she was asking me how much butter we made in the dairy to-day, and asking if the curly cow had her calf, and what jeanie trim was doing.' 'who was jeanie trim?' asked the minister. 'how should i know? i suppose she was one of the kelsey servants.' 'curious,' ejaculated the minister. 'this jeanie will have grown old and died, perhaps, forty years ago, and my aunt's speaking of her as if she was a young thing at work in the next room!' 'and what did you say to mistress macdonald?' the doctor asked, with a cheerful purpose in his tone. 'i explained to her that her poor head was wandering.' 'nay, now, but, miss macdonald, i'm thinking if i were you i would tell her that the curly cow had her calf.' 'i never'--tearfully--'told my mother a falsehood in my life, except when i was a very little girl, and then'--miss macdonald paused to wipe her eyes--'she spoke to me so beautifully out of the bible about it.' the married sister chimed in mournfully, 'how often have i heard my mother say that not one of her children had ever told her a lie!' 'yes, yes, but----' there was a tone in the doctor's voice as if he would like to have used a strong word, but he schooled himself. 'it's curious the notion she has got of not eating,' broke in the minister. 'i held the broth myself, but she would have none of it.' in the next room the flames of a large fire were sending reflections over the polished surfaces of massive bedroom furniture. the wind blew against this side of the house and rattled the windows, as if angry to see the picture of luxury and warmth within. it was a handsome stately room, and all that was in it dated back many a year. in a chintz arm-chair by the fireside its mistress sat--a very old lady, but there was still dignity in her pose. her hair, perfectly white, was still plentiful; her eye had still something of brightness, and there was upon the aged features the cast of thought and the habitual look of intelligence. beside her upon a small table were such accompaniments of age as daughter and nurse deemed suitable--the large print bible, the big spectacles and caudle cup. the lady sat looking about her with a quick restless expression, like a prisoner alert to escape; she was tied to her chair--not by cords--by the failure of muscular strength; but perhaps she did not know that. she eyed her attendant with bright furtive glances, as if the meek sombre woman who sat sewing beside her were her jailer. the party in the dining-room broke up their vain discussion, and came for another visit of personal inspection. 'mother, this is the doctor come to see you. do you not remember the doctor?' the old lady looked at all four of them brightly enough. 'i haena the pleasure of remembering who ye are, but perhaps it will return to me.' there was restrained politeness in her manner. the doctor spoke. 'it's a very bad tale i'm hearing about you to-day, that you've begun to refuse your meat. a person of your experience, mistress macdonald, ought to know that we must eat to live.' he had a basin of food in his hand. 'now just to please me, mistress macdonald.' the old dame answered with the air that a naughty child or a pouting maiden might have had. 'i'll no eat it--tak' it away! i'll no eat it. not for you, no--nor for my mither there'--she looked defiantly at her grey-haired daughter--'no, nor for my father himself!' 'not a mouthful has passed her lips to-day,' moaned miss macdonald. she wrung excited hands and stepped back a pace into the shadow; she felt too modest to pose as her mother's mother before the curious eyes of the two men. the old lady appeared relieved when the spinster was out of her sight. 'i don't know ye, gentlemen, but perhaps now my mither's not here, ye'll tell me who it was that rang the door-bell a while since.' the men hesitated. they were neither of them ready with inventions. she leaned towards the doctor, strangely excited. 'was it mr. kinnaird?' she whispered. the doctor supposed her to be frightened. 'no, no,' he said in cheerful tones; 'you're mistaken--it wasn't kinnaird.' she leaned back pettishly. 'tak' away the broth; i'll no' tak' it!' the discomfited four passed out of the room again. the women were weeping; the men were shaking their heads. it was just then that the new servant passed into the sick-room, bearing candles in her hands. 'jeanie, jeanie trim,' whispered the old lady. the whisper had a sprightly yet mysterious tone in it; the withered fingers were put out as if to twitch the passing skirt as the housemaid went by. the girl turned and bent a look--strong, helpful, and kindly--upon this fine ruin of womanhood. the girl had wit 'yes, ma'am?' she answered blithely. 'i'll speak with ye, jeanie, when this woman goes away; it's her that my mither's put to spy on me.' the nurse retired into the shadow of the wardrobe. 'she's away now,' said the maid. 'jeanie, is it mr. kinnaird?' 'well, now, would you like it to be mr. kinnaird?' the maid spoke as we speak to a familiar friend when we have joyful news. 'oh, jeanie trim, ye know well that i've longed sair for him to come again!' the maid set down her candles, and knelt down by the old dame's knee, looking up with playful face. 'well, now, i'll tell ye something. he came to see ye this afternoon.' 'did he, jeanie?' the withered face became all wreathed with smiles; the old eyes danced with joy. 'what did ye say to him?' 'oh, well, i just said'--hesitation--'i said he was to come back again to-morrow.' 'my father doesn't know that he's been here?' there was apprehension in the whisper. 'not a soul knows but meself.' 'ye didna tell him i'd been looking for him, jeanie trim?' 'na, na, i made out that ye didna care whether he came or not.' 'but he wouldna be hurt in his mind, would he? i'd no like him to be affronted.' 'it's no likely he was affronted when he said he'd come back to-morrow.' the smile of satisfaction came again. 'did he carry his silver-knobbed cane and wear his green coat, jeanie?' 'ay, he wore his green coat, and he looked as handsome a man as ever i saw in my life.' the coals in the grate shot up a sudden brilliant flame that eclipsed the soft light of the candles and set strange shadows quivering about the huge bed and wardrobe and the dark rosewood tables. the winsome young woman at her play, and the old dame living back in a tale that was long since told, exchanged nods and smiles at the thought of the handsome visitor in his green coat. the whisper of the aged voice came blithely-- 'ay, he is that, jeanie trim; as handsome a man as ever trod!' the maid rose, and passing out observed the discarded basin of broth. 'what's this?' she said. 'ye'll no be able to see mr. kinnaird to-morrow if ye don't take yer soup the night.' 'gie it to me, jeanie trim; i thought he wasna coming again when i said i wouldna.' the nurse slipped out of the shadow of the wardrobe and went out to tell that the soup was being eaten. 'kinnaird,' repeated the minister meditatively. 'i never heard my aunt speak the name.' 'kinnaird,' repeated the daughters; and they too searched in their memories. 'i can remember my grandfather and my grandmother--the married daughter spoke incredulously--'there was never a gentleman called kinnaird that any of the family had to do with. i'm sure of that, or i'd have as much as heard the name.' the minister shook his head, discounting the certainty. 'maybe john will remember the name; your father, and your grandfather too, had great talks with him when he was a lad. i'll write a line and ask him. poor william or thomas might have known, if they had lived.' william and thomas, grey-haired men, respected fathers of families, had already been laid by the side of their father in the burying-ground. john lived in a distant country, counting himself too feeble now to cross the seas. the daughters, the younger members of this flock, were passing into advanced years. the mother sat by her fireside, and smiled softly to herself as she watched the dancing flame, and thought that her young lover would return on the morrow. the days went on. 'i cannot think it right to tamper with my mother in this false way.' the spinster daughter spoke tearfully. 'would you rather see mistress macdonald die of starvation?' the doctor spoke sharply; he was tired of the protest. the doctor approved of the new maid. 'she's a wise-like body,' he said; 'let her have her way.' 'don't you know us, mother?' the daughters would ask patiently, sadly, day by day. but she never knew them; she only mistook one or the other of them at times for her own mother, of whom she stood in some awe. 'surely ye've not forgotten ann johnston, ma'am?' the nurse would ask, carefully tending her old mistress. the force of long habit had made the old lady patient and courteous, but no answering gleam came in her face. 'ye know who i am?' the new maid would cry in kindly triumph. 'oh, ay, i know you, jeanie trim.' 'and now, look, i brought you a fine cup of milk, warm from the byre.' 'oh, i canna tak' it; i'm no thinking that i care about eating the day.' 'well, but i want to tell ye'--with an air of mystery. 'who d'ye think's downstairs? it's mr. kinnaird himself.' 'did he come round by the yard to the dairy door?' 'that he did; and all to ask how ye were the day.' the sparkle of the eye returned, and the smile that almost seemed to dimple the wrinkled cheek. 'and i hope ye offered him something to eat, jeanie; it's a long ride he takes.' 'bread and cheese, and a cup of milk just like this.' 'what did he say? did he like what ye gave him?' 'he said a sup of milk sudna cross his lips till you'd had a cupful the like of his; so i brought it in to ye. you'd better make haste and take it up.' 'did he send ye wi' the cup, jeanie trim?' 'ay, he did that; and not a bit nor sup will he tak till ye've drunk it all, every drop.' with evident delight the cup was drained. 'ye told him i was ailing and couldna see him the day, jeanie?' 'maybe ye'll see him to-morrow.' the maid stooped and folded the white shawl more carefully over the dame's breast, and smiled in protective kindly fashion. she had a good heart and a womanly, motherly touch, although many a mistress had called her wilful and pert. there were times when the minister came and sat himself behind his aunt's chair to watch and to listen. he was a meditative man, and wrote many an essay upon modern theology, but here he found food for meditation of another sort. there was no being in the world that he reverenced as he had reverenced this aged lady. in his childhood she had taught him to lisp the measures of psalm and paraphrase; in his youth she had advised him with shrewdest wisdom; in his ministerial life she had been to him a friend, always holding before him a greater spiritual height to be attained, and now---- he thought upon his uncle as he had known him, a very reverent elder of the kirk, a man who had led a long and useful life, and to whom this woman had rendered wifely devotion. he thought upon his cousins, in whose lives their mother's life had seemed unalterably bound up. he would at times emerge from his corner, and, sitting down beside the lady, would take her well-worn bible and read to her such passages as he knew were graven deep upon her heart by scenes of joy or sorrow, parting or meeting, or the very hours of birth or death, in the lives that had been dearer to her than her own. he was not an emotional man, but yet there was a ringing pathos in his voice as he read the rhythmic words. at such times she would sit as if voice and rhythm soothed her, or she would bow her head solemnly at certain pauses, as if accustomed to agree to the sentiment expressed. heart and thought were not awake to him, nor to the book he read, nor to the memories he tried to arouse. the fire of the lady's heart sprang up only for one word, that word a name, the name of a man of whose very existence, it seemed, no trace was left in all that country-side. the minister would retreat out of the lady's range of vision; and so great did his curiosity grow that he instigated the maid to ask certain questions as she played at the game of the old love-story in her sprightly, pitying way. 'now i'll tell ye a thing that i want to know,' said the maid, pouring tea in a cup. 'what's his given name? will ye tell me that?' 'is it mr. kinnaird ye mean?' 'it's mr. kinnaird's christened name that i'm speering for.' 'an' i canna tell ye that, for he never told it to me. it'd be no place of mine to ask him before he chose to speak o' it himsel'.' 'did ye never see a piece of paper that had his name on it, or a card, maybe?' 'i dinna mind that i have, jeanie. he's a verra fine gentleman; it's just mr. kinnaird that he's called.' 'what for will ye no let me tell the master that he comes every day?' 'ye must no tell my father, jeanie trim'--querulously. 'no, no; nor my mither. they'll maybe be telling him to bide away.' 'why would they be telling him to bide away?' 'tuts! how can i tell ye why, when i dinna ken mysel'? why will ye fret me? i'll tak' no more tea. tak' it away!' 'i tell ye he'll ask me if ye took it up. he's waiting now to hear that ye took a great big piece of bread tae it. he'll no eat the bread and cheese i've set before him till ye've eaten this every crumb.' 'is that sae? well, i maun eat it, for i wouldna have him wanting his meat.' the meal finished, the maid put on her most winsome smile. 'now and i'll tell ye what i'll do; i'll go back to mr. kinnaird, and i'll tell him ye sent yer _love_ tae him.' 'ye'll no do sic a thing as that, jeanie trim!' all the dignity and authority of her long womanhood returned in the impressive air with which she spoke. 'ye'll no do sic a thing as that, jeanie trim! it's no for young ladies to be sending sic messages to a gentleman, when he hasna so much as said the word "love."' had he ever said the word 'love,' this kinnaird, whose memory was a living presence in the chamber of slow death? the minister believed that he had not. there was no annal in the family letters of his name, although other rejected suitors were mentioned freely. had he told his love by look or gesture, and left it unspoken, or had look and gesture been misunderstood, and the whole slight love-story been born where it had died, in the heart of the maiden? 'where it had died!'--it had not died. seventy years had passed, and the love-story was presently enacting itself, as all past and all future must for ever be enacting to beings for whom time is not. then, too, where was he who, by some means, whether of his own volition or not, had become so much a part of the pulsing life of a young girl that, when all else of life passed from her with the weight of years, her heart still remained obedient to him? where was he? had his life gone out like the flame of a candle when it is blown? or, if he was anywhere in the universe of living spirits, was he conscious of the power which he was wielding? was it a triumph to him to know that he had come, gay and debonair, in the bloom of his youth, into this long-existing sanctuary of home, and set aside, with a wave of his hand, husband, children, and friends, dead and living? whatever might be the psychical aspects of the case, one thing was certain, that the influence of kinnaird--kinnaird alone of all those who had entered into relations with the lady--was useful at this time to come between her and the distressing symptoms that would have resulted from the mania of self-starvation. for some months longer she lived in comfort and good cheer. this clear memory of her youth was oddly interwoven with the forgetful dulness of old age, like a golden thread in a black web, like a tiny flame on the hearth that shoots with intermittent brilliancy into darkness. she was always to see her lover upon the morrow; she never woke to the fact that 'to-day' lasted too long, that a winter of morrows had slipped fruitless by. the interviews between jeanie trim and kinnaird were not monotonous. all else was monotonous. december, january, february passed away. the mornings and the evenings brought no change outwardly in the sick-room, no change to the appearance of the fine old face and still stately figure, suggested no variety of thought or emotion to the lady's decaying faculties; but at the hours when she sat and contentedly ate the food that the maid brought her, her mental vision cleared as it focused upon the thought of her heart's darling. it was she whose questions suggested nearly all the variations in the game of imagination which the young woman so aptly played. 'was he riding his black mare, jeanie trim?' 'i didna see the beast. he stood on his feet when he was tapping at the door.' 'whisht! ye could tell if he wore his boots and spurs, an' his drab waistcoat, buttoned high?' 'now that ye speak of it, those were the very things he wore.' 'it'd be the black mare he was riding, nae doubt; he'll have tied her to the gate in the lane.' or again: 'was it in the best parlour that ye saw him the day? he'd be drinking tea wi' my mither.' 'that he was; and she smiling tae him over the dish of tea.' 'ay, he looks fine and handsome, bowing to my mither in the best parlour, jeanie trim. did ye notice if he wore silk stockings?' 'fine silk stockings he wore.' 'and his green coat?' 'as green and smart as a bottle when ye polish, it with a cloth.' 'did ye notice the fine frills that he has to his shirt? i've tried to make my father's shirts look as fine, but they never have the same look.' the hands of the old dame would work nervously, as if eager to get at the goffering-irons and try once more. 'an' he'd lay his hat on the floor beside him; it's a way he has. did my mither tell him that i was ailing? his eyes would be shining the while. do ye notice how his eyes shine, jeanie?' 'ay, do i; his eyes shine and his hair curls.' 'ye're mistaken there, his hair doesna curl, jeanie trim--ye've no' obsairved rightly; his hair is brown and straight; it's his beard and whiskers that curl. eh! but they're bonny! there's a colour and shine in the curl that minds me of the lights i can see in the old copper kettle when my mither has it scoured and hung up on the nail; but his hair is plain brown.' 'he's a graun' figure of a man!' cried the blithe maid, ever sympathetic. 'tuts! what are ye saying, jeanie! he's no' a great size at all; the shortest of my brithers is bigger than him! ye might even ca' him a wee man; it's the spirit that he has wi' it that i like.' thus, by degrees, touch upon touch, the portrait of kinnaird was painted, and whatever misconceptions they might form of him were corrected one by one. there was little incident depicted, yet the figure of kinnaird was never drawn passive, but always in action. 'did my father no' offer to send him home in the spring-cart? it's sair wet for him to be walking in the wind and the rain the day.' or: 'he had a fine bloom on his cheeks, i'll warrant, when he came in through this morning's bluster of wind.' or again: 'he'll be riding to the hunt with my father to-day; have they put their pink coats on, jeanie trim?' the relations between kinnaird and the father and mother appeared to be indefinite rather than unfriendly. there were times, it is true, when he came round by the dairy and gave private messages to jeanie trim, but at other times he figured as one of the ordinary guests of a large and hospitable household. no special honour seemed to be paid him; there was always the apprehension in the love-sick girl's heart that such timely attentions as the offer of proper refreshment or of the use of the spring-cart might be lacking. the parents were never in the daughter's confidence. she always feared their interference. there was no beginning to the story, no crisis, no culmination. 'now tell me when ye first saw mr. kinnaird?' asked the maid. but to this there was no answer. it had not been love at first sight, its small beginnings had left no impression; nor was there ever any mention of a change in the relation, or of a parting, only that suggestion of a long and weary waiting, given in the beginning of this phase of memory, when she refused to touch her food, and said she was 'sair longing' to see him again. the household at kelsey farm had flourished in the palmy days of agriculture. hunters had been kept and pink coats worn, and the mother, of kin with the neighbouring gentry, had kept her carriage to ride in. there had been many pleasures, no doubt, for the daughter of such a house, but only one pleasure remained fixed on her memory, the pleasure of seeing kinnaird's eyes shining upon her. these days of the lady's youth had happened at a time when religion, if strong, was a sombre thing; and to those who held the pleasures of life in both hands, it was little more than a name and a rite. so it came to pass that no religious sentiment was stirred with the thought of this old joy and succeeding sorrow. the minister never failed to read some sacred texts when he sat beside her; and when he found himself alone with the old dame, he would kneel and pray aloud in such simple words as he thought she might understand. he did it more to ease his own heart because of the love he bore her than because he supposed that it made any difference in the sight of god whether she heard him or not. he was past the prime of life, and had fallen into pompous and ministerial habits of manner, but in his heart he was always pondering to find what the realities of life might be; he seldom drew false conclusions, although to many a question he was content to find no answer. he wore a serious look--people seldom knew what was passing in his mind; the doctor began to think that he was anxious for the safety of the old dame's soul. 'i am not without hope of a lucid interval at the end,' he said; 'there is wonderful vitality yet, and it's little more than the power of memory that is impaired.' at this hope the daughters caught eagerly. they were plain women, narrow and dull, but their mother had been no ordinary woman; her power of love had created in them an affection for her which transcended ordinary filial affection. they had inherited from her such strong domestic feelings that they felt her defection from all family ties for the sake of the absent father and brothers, felt it with a poignancy which the use and wont of those winter months did not seem to blunt. no sudden shock or fit came to bring about the end. gradually the old dame's strength failed. there came an hour in the spring time--it was the midnight hour of an april night--when she lay upon her bed, sitting up high against white pillows, gasping for the last breaths that she would ever draw. they had drawn aside the old-fashioned bed-curtains, so that they hung like high dark pillars at the four posts. they had opened wide the windows, and the light spring wind blew through the room fresh with the dews of night. outside, the moon was riding among her clouds; the night was white. the budding trees shook their twigs together in the garden. inside the room, firelight and lamplight, each flickering much because of the wind, mingled with the moonlight, but did not wholly obscure its misty presence. they all stood there--the minister, the doctor, the grey-haired daughters sobbing, looking and longing for one glance of recognition, the nurse, and the new maid. they all knelt, while the minister said a prayer. 'she's looking differently now,' whispered the home-keeping daughter. she had drawn her handkerchief from her eyes, and was looking with awed solicitude at her mother's face. 'yes, there's a change coming,' said the married daughter; her large bosom heaved out the words with excited emotion. 'speak to her of my father--it will bring her mind back again,' they appealed to the minister, pushing him forward to do what they asked. the minister took the lady's hands in his, and spoke out clearly and strongly in her ear; but he spoke not, at first, of husband or children, but of the son of god. memories that had lain asleep so long seemed slowly to awaken for one last moment. 'you know what i am saying, auntie?' the minister spoke strongly, as to one who was deaf. there was a smile on the handsome old face. 'ay, i know weel: "the lord is my shepherd; i shallna want ... though i walk through the valley o' the shadow of death."' 'my uncle, and thomas, and william have gone before you, auntie.' 'ay'--with a satisfied smile--'they've gone before.' 'you know who i am?' he said again. she knew him, and took leave of him. she took leave of each of her daughters, but in a calm, weak way, as one who had waded too far into the river of death to be much concerned with the things of earth. the doctor pressed her hand, and the faithful nurse. the minister, feeling that justice should be done to one whose wit had brought great relief, bid the maid go forward. she was weeping, but she spoke in the free, caressing way that she had used so long. 'ye know who i am, ma'am?' the dying eyes looked her full in the face, but gave no recognition. 'it's jeanie trim.' 'na, na, i remember a jeanie trim long syne, but you're not jeanie trim!' the maid drew back discomfited. the minister began to repeat a psalm that she loved. the daughters sat on the bedside, holding her hands. so they waited, and she seemed to follow the meaning of the psalm as it went on, until suddenly---- she turned her head feebly towards a space by the bed where no one stood. she drew her aged hands from her daughters', and made as if to stretch them out to a new-comer. she smiled. 'mr. kinnaird!' she murmured; then she died. 'you might have thought that he was there himself,' said the daughters, awestruck. and the minister said within himself, 'who knows but that he was there?' ii a marriage made in heaven in the backwoods of canada, about eighty miles north of lake ontario, there is a chain of three lakes, linked by the stream of a rapid river, which leads southward from the heart of a great forest. the last of the three lakes is broad, and has but a slow current because of a huge dam which the early scottish settlers built across its mouth in order to form a basin to receive the lumber floated down from the lakes above. hence this last lake is called haven, which is also the name of the settlement at the side of the dam. the worthy scotsmen, having set up a sawmill, built a church beside it, and by degrees a town and a schoolhouse. the wealth of the town came from the forest. the half-breed indian lumber-men, toiling anxiously to bring their huge tree-trunks through the twisting rapids, connected all thoughts of rest and plenty with the peaceful haven lake and the town where they received their wages; and, perhaps because they received their first ideas of religion at the same place, their tripping tongues to this day call it, not 'haven,' but 'heaven.' the town throve apace in its early days, and no one in it throve better than mr. reid, who kept the general shop. he was a cheerful soul; and it was owing more to his wife's efforts than his own that his fortune was made, for she kept more closely to the shop and had a sharper eye for the pence. mrs. reid was not cheerful; she was rather of an acrid disposition. people said that there was only one subject on which the shopkeeper and his wife agreed, that was as to the superiority of their daughter in beauty, talent, and amiability, over all other young women far or near. in their broad scotch fashion they called this daughter eelan, and the town knew her as 'bonnie eelan reid'; everyone acknowledged her charms, although there might be some who would not acknowledge her preeminence. mr. and mrs. reid carried their pride in their daughter to a great extent, for they sent her to a boarding-school in the town of coburgh, which was quite two days' journey to the south. when she came back from this educating process well grown, healthy, handsome, and, in their eyes, highly accomplished, the parents felt that there was no rank in the canadian world beyond their daughter's reach, if it should be her pleasure to attain it. 'it wouldn't be anything out of the way even,' chuckled the happy mr. reid, 'if our eelan should marry the governor-general.' 'tuts, father, governors!' said his wife scornfully, not because she had any inherent objection to governors as sons-in-law, but because she usually cried down what her husband said. 'the chief difficulty would be that they are usually married before they come to this country--aren't they, father?' eelan spoke with a twinkling smile. she did not choose to explain to any one what she really thought; she had fancies of her own, this pretty backwoods maiden. 'well, well, there are lads enough in town, and i'll warrant she'll pick and choose,' said the jolly father in a resigned tone. he was not particular as to a governor, after all. that conversation happened when eelan first came home; but a year or two after, the family conferences took a more serious tone. she had learnt to keep her father's books in the shop, and had become deft at housework; but there was no prospect of her settling in a house of her own; many of the best young men in the place had offered themselves as lovers and been refused. 'oh! what's the use o' talking, father,' cried mrs. reid; 'if the girl won't, she won't, and that's all.--but i can tell _you_, eelan reid, that all your looks and your manners won't save you from being an old maid, if you turn your back on the men.' 'i wasn't talking,' said mr. reid humbly; 'i was only saying to the lassie that i didn't want her to hurry; but i'd be right sorry when i'm getting old not to have some notion where i was going to leave my money--it'll more than last out eelan's day, if it's rightly taken care of.' 'but i can't marry unless i should fall in love,' said eelan wistfully. her parents had a vague notion that this manner of expressing herself was in some way a proof of her high accomplishments. life was by no means dull in the little town. there were picnics in summer, sleigh-drives in winter, dances, and what not; and eelan was no recluse. still, she loved the place better than the people, and there was not a spot of ground in the neighbourhood that she did not know by heart. in summer, the sparkling water of the lake rippled under a burning sun, and the thousand tree-trunks left floating in it, held near to the edge by the floating boom of logs, became hot and dry on the upper side, while the green water-moss caught them from beneath. it was great fun for the school children to scamper out daringly on these floating fields of lumber; and eelan liked to go with them, and sometimes walk far out alone along the edge of the boom. she would listen to the birds singing, the children shouting, to the whir of the saws in the mill, and the plash of the river falling over the dam; and she would feel that it was enough delight simply to live without distressing herself about marriage yet awhile. when winter came, eelan was happier still. all the roughness and darkness of the earth was lost in a downy ocean of snow. where the waterfall had been there was a fairy palace of icicles glancing in the sun, and smooth white roads were made across the frozen lake. eelan never drew back dazzled from the glittering landscape; she was a child of the winter, and she loved its light. she would often harness her father's horse to the old family sleigh and drive alone across the lake. she took her snow-shoes with her, and, leaving the horse at some friendly farmhouse, she would tramp into the woods over the trackless snow. the girl would stand still and look up at the solemn pines and listen, awed by their majestic movement and the desolate loveliness all around. at such time, if the thought of marriage came, she did not put it aside with the light fancy that she wished still to remain free; she longed, in the drear solitude, for some one to sympathise with her, some one who could explain the meaning of the wordless thoughts that welled up within her, the vague response of her heart to the mystery of external beauty. alas! among all her suitors there was not such a friend. there was no one else in the town who cared for country walks as eelan did--at least, no one but the schoolmaster. she met him occasionally, walking far from home; he was a quaint, old-looking man, and she thought he had a face like an angel's. she might have wished sometimes to stop and speak to him, but when they met he always appeared to have his eyes resting on the distant horizon, and his mind seemed wrapped in some learned reverie, to the oblivion of outward things. the schoolmaster lived in the schoolhouse on the bank of the curving river, a bit below the waterfall. he took up his abode there a few months before eelan reid came home from school. he had come from somewhere nearer the centres of education--had been imported, so to speak, for the special use of haven settlement, for the leading men of the place were a canny set and knew the worth of books. his testimonials had told of a higher standard of scholarship than was usual in such schools, and the keen scots had snapped at the chance and engaged him without an interview; but when he arrived they had been grievously disappointed. he was a gentle, unsophisticated man, shy as a girl, and absent-minded withal. 'aweel, i'll not say but he'll do to put sums and writing into the youngsters' heads and teach them to spout their poems; but he's not just what i call a _man_.' this was the opinion which macpherson, the portly owner of the mill, had delivered to his friends. 'there's something lacking, i'm thinking,' said one; 'he's thirty-six years old, and to see him driving his cow afield, you'd say he was sixty, and him not sickly either.' 'i doubt he's getting far too high a salary,' said macpherson solemnly. 'to pass examinations is all very well; but he's not got the grit in him that i'd like to see.' so they had called a school committee meeting, and suggested to the new schoolmaster, as delicately as they could, that they were much disappointed with his general manner and appearance, but that, as he had come so far, they were graciously willing to keep him if he would consent to take a lower salary than that first agreed on. at this the schoolmaster grew very red, and, with much stammering, he managed to make a speech. he said that he liked the wildness and extreme beauty of the country, and the children appeared to him attractive; he did not wish to go away; and as to salary, he would take what they thought him worth. in this way they closed the bargain with him on terms quite satisfactory to themselves. 'but hoots,' said the stout macpherson as he ambled home from the meeting, 'i've only half a respect for a man that can't stand up for himself;' and this sentiment was more or less echoed by them all. happily, the schoolmaster did not desire society. the minister's wife asked him to tea occasionally; and he confided to her that, up to that time, he had always lived with his mother, and that it was because of her death that he had left his old home, where sad memories were too great a strain upon him, and come farther west. no one else took much notice of him, partly because he took no notice of them. at the ladies' sewing meeting the doctor's wife looked round the room with an injured air and asked: 'how is it possible to ask a gentleman to tea when you know that he'll meet you in the street next morning and won't remember who you are?' 'a lady who respected herself couldn't do it,' replied mrs. reid positively; and then in an undertone she remarked to herself, 'the gaby!' miss ann blakely pursed her lips and craned her thin neck over her work. 'as to that i don't know, mrs. reid; no one could visit the school, as i have done, and fail to observe that the youth of the town are more obedient than formerly. in my opinion, a gentleman who can command the respect of the growing masculine mind----' she finished the sentence only by an expressive wave of her head. 'there is much truth in miss blakely's remark,' said a timid little mother of six sons. people married early, as a general thing, in haven settlement, and miss blakely, having been accidentally overlooked, had, before he came, indulged in some soft imaginations of her own with regard to the new schoolmaster; like others, she was disappointed in him; but she had not yet decided 'whether,' to use her own phrase, 'he would not, after all, be better than none.' she poised this question in her mind with a nice balancing of reasons for and against for about three years, and the man who was thus the object of her interest continued to live peacefully, ignorant alike of hostile criticism and tender speculation. it was a terrible day for the schoolmaster when the honest widow who lived with him as housekeeper was called by the death of a daughter-in-law to go and keep the house of her son in another town. she could only tell of her intention two weeks before it was necessary to leave; and very earnestly did the schoolmaster consult with her in the interval as to what he could possibly do to supply her place, for servants in haven settlement were rare luxuries. 'i don't know, i'm sure, sir, what you can do,' said mrs. sims hopelessly. 'the girls in these parts are far too proud to be hired to work in a house. why, the best folks in town mostly does their own work; there's mrs. reid, so rich, just has a woman to do the charing; and eelan--that's the beauty, you know--makes the pies and keeps the house spick-and-span. but you couldn't keep your own house clean, could you, sir?--let alone the meals; and you wouldn't live long if you hadn't _them_.' as the days wore on, the schoolmaster became more urgent in his appeals for advice, but he did not get encouragement to expect to find a servant of any sort, for the widow was too sincere to suggest hope when she felt none, and the difficulty was not an easy one to solve. she made various inquiries among her friends. it was suggested that the master should go to 'the boarding-house,' which was a large barn-like structure, in which business men who did not happen to have families slept in uncomfortable rooms and dined at a noisy table. mrs. sims reported this suggestion faithfully, and added: 'but it's my belief it would kill you outright.' the schoolmaster looked at his books and the trim arrangements of his neat house, and negatived the proposition with more decision than he had ever shown before. after a while, mrs. sims received another idea of quite a different nature; but she did not report this so hastily--it required more finesse. it was entrusted to her care with many injunctions to be 'tactful,' and it was suggested that if there was a mess made of it, it would be her fault. the idea was nothing less than that it would be necessary for the master to marry; and it was the gaunt miss ann blakely herself who confided to his present housekeeper that she should have no objections to become his bride, provided he wrote her a pretty enough, humble sort of letter that she could show to her friends. 'for, mind you, i'd not go cheap to the like of him,' she said, raising an admonishing finger, as she took leave of her friend: 'i'd rather remain single, far.' 'i think he could write the letter,' replied mrs. sims; 'leastways, if he can't do that, i don't know what he can do, poor man.' having been solemnly enjoined to be careful, mrs. sims thought so long over what she was to say before she said it, that she made herself quite nervous, and when she began, she forgot the half. over her sewing in the sitting-room one evening she commenced the subject with a flustered little run of words. 'i'm sure such an amiable man as you are, sir, almost three years i've been in this house and never had a word from you, not one word'--it is to be remarked that the widow did not intend to assert that the schoolmaster had been mute--'and you are nice in all your ways, too; if i do say it, quite the gentleman.' 'oh!' said the schoolmaster, in a tone of surprise, not because he had heard what she said, but because he was surprised that she should begin to talk to him when he was correcting his books. 'and not a servant to be had far or near,' she went on with agitated volubility; 'and as for another like myself, of course that's too much to be hoped for.' she did not say this out of conceit, but merely as representing the actual state of affairs. the schoolmaster began to look frightened. he was not a matter-of-fact person, but, as long as a man is a man, the prospect of being left altogether without his meals must be appalling. 'so, why you shouldn't get married, i don't know.' she added this in tremulous excitement, speaking in an argumentative way, as if she had led him by an ordered process of thought to an inevitable conclusion. 'oh!' exclaimed the schoolmaster in surprise again, this time because he _had_ heard what was said. the worst was over now; and mrs. sims, having once suggested the desperate idea of the necessity of marriage, could proceed more calmly. she found, however, that she had to explain the notion at length before he could at all grasp it, and then she was obliged to urge its necessity for some time before he was willing to consider it. he became agitated in his turn, and, rising, walked up and down the room, his arms folded and an absent look in his eyes, as though he were thinking of things farther off. 'i do not mind telling you, for i believe you are a motherly woman, mrs. sims, that it is not the first time that the thought of marriage has crossed my mind' (with solemn hesitation). 'i _have_ thought of it before; but i have always been hindered from giving it serious consideration from the belief that no woman would be willing to--ah--to marry me.' 'well, of course there's some truth in that, sir,' said his faithful friend, reluctantly obliged by her conscience to say what she thought. 'just so, mrs. sims,' said the schoolmaster with a patient sigh; 'and therefore, perhaps it will be unnecessary to discuss the subject further.' 'still, there's no accounting for tastes; there might be some found that would.' 'it would not be necessary to find more than one,' said he, with a quiet smile. 'no, that's true, sir, which makes the matter rather easier. it's always been my belief that while there is life there is hope.' 'true, true,' he replied; and then he indulged in a long fit of musing, which she more than suspected had little to do with the immediate bearing of the subject on his present case. it was necessary to rouse him, for there was no time to be lost. 'of course i don't say that there's many that would have you; there's girls enough--but laws! they'd all make game of you if you were to go a-courting to them, and, i take it, courting's not the sort of thing you're cleverest at.' 'true,' said the schoolmaster again, and again he sighed. 'but now, a good sensible woman, like miss blakely, as would keep you and your house clean and tidy, not to speak of cooking--i make bold to say you couldn't do better than to get such a one, if she might be so minded.' 'who is miss blakely?' he asked wonderingly. 'it's her that visits the school so often; you've seen her time and again.' 'i recollect,' he said; 'but i have not spoken much with her.' 'that's just what i said,' she observed triumphantly. 'you'd be no more up to courting than cows are up to running races. now, as to miss blakely, not being as young as some, nor to say good-looking, she might not stand on the ceremony of much courting; if you just wrote her one letter, asking her quite modest, and putting in a few remarks about flowers and that sort of thing, as you could do so well, being clever at writing, i give it as my opinion it's not unlikely she'd take you out of hand; not every one would, of course, but she has a kind heart, has miss blakely.' 'kind is she?' said he, with a tone of interest; 'and sweet-tempered?' mrs. sims said more in favour of the scheme; it required that she should say much, for the schoolmaster was not to be easily persuaded. she had, however, three strong arguments in its favour, which she reiterated again and again, with more and more assurance of certitude as she warmed to the subject. the first point was, that if he did not marry, he must either starve at home or go to the boarding-house, and at the latter place she assured him again, as she had done at first, he would probably soon die. her second point was, that no one else would be willing to marry him except miss blakely; and her third--although in this matter she expressed herself with some mysterious caution--that miss blakely would marry him if asked. mrs. sims bridled her head, spoke in lower tones than was her wont, and said that she had the secret of miss blakely's partiality from good authority. she sighed; and he heard her murmur over her sewing that the heart was always young. in fact, without saying it in so many words, she gave her listener to understand clearly that miss blakely had conceived a very lively affection for him. and this last, if she had but known it, was the only argument that carried weight, for the schoolmaster could have faced either the prospect of starvation or a lingering death in the rude noise of a boarding-house; but he was tender-hearted, and, moreover, he had a beautiful soul, and supposed all women to be like his mother, whom he had loved with all his strength. 'you'd better make haste, sir,' said mrs. sims, 'for i must leave on thursday, and now it's saturday night. there's not overmuch time for everything--although, indeed, mrs. graham, that goes out charing, might come in and make you your meals for a week, though it will cost you half a quarter's salary, charing is that expensive in these parts.' the schoolmaster proceeded to think over the matter--that is to say, he proceeded to muse over it; by which process he did not face the facts as they were--did not become better acquainted with the real miss blakely, but made some sort of progress in another way, for he conjured up an ideal miss blakely, gentle and good, cheerful, with intellectual tastes like his own, a person who, like himself, had not fared very happily in the world until now, and for whom his love and protection would make a paradise. it did occur to him, occasionally, that the picture he was drawing might not be quite correct, and at those times he would seek mrs. sims, and ask a few questions of this oracle by way of adjusting his own ideas to the truth. poor mrs. sims, between her extreme honesty and her desire to see the schoolmaster, whom she really loved, assured of future comfort, had much ado to be 'tactful' and say the right thing. she naturally regarded comfort as pertaining solely to the outer man, and fully believed that this marriage was the best step he could take; so her answers, when they could not be satisfactory, were vague. 'how can you doubt, sir, that you'll be much happier with a wife to cook your meals regular, and no more bother about changements all your life? i'm sure if i were you, sir, i wouldn't hesitate between the joys of matrimony and single life.' 'perhaps not, mrs. sims; but i, being i, do hesitate. it is a very important step to take, just because, as you say, there will be no more change.' 'and it's just you that have been telling me that the very thing you dislike most in this world is change. and there are other advantages, too, in having kith and kin, for it's lonesome without when you're old; and just think how beautiful for a wife to weep over you when you're a-dying--and she'll do all that, miss blakely will, sir; i'm sure, as her friend, i can answer for it.' 'the wills above be done,' murmured the schoolmaster, 'but i would fain die a dry death.' time pressed; the schoolmaster procrastinated; the very evening before the widow's departure had arrived, and yet nothing was done. then it happened, as is frequently the case when the mind is balancing between two opinions, that a very small circumstance determined him to write the all-important note. the circumstance was none other than his having a convenient opportunity of sending it; for to him, as to many other unpractical minds, the small difficulties in the way of any action had as great a deterring power as more important considerations. miss blakely happened to live on the other side of the town, and though the master walked much farther than that himself every day, he felt that in this case it would hardly be dignified to be his own messenger. it was early in the evening, and the master's window was open to the soft spring air that came in full of the freshness of young leaves and the joyous splash of the flooded river. two of his schoolboys were loitering under the window, wishing to speak to him, yet too bashful; he got up and sat on the window-sill, smiled at them, and they smiled back. they had a tale to tell; but, as it was of a somewhat delicate nature and hard to explain, he had to listen very patiently. they had a dollar--a brown and green paper dollar--which they gave him with an air of solemn importance. they said that they and some of their comrades had been a long way from home gathering saxifrage, and that they had met one of the young ladies of the town. she had her arms full of flowers, and her pocket quite full of moss, so full that she had had to take her purse and handkerchief out and hold them in her hand with the flowers because the moss was wet. when she came upon them, they were trying to get some saxifrage that was on a ledge of rock; they could only climb half-way up the rock, and were none of them tall enough to reach it; so she put down all her flowers and things and climbed up and got it for them; but in the meantime one of them opened the purse and took out the dollar. she never found it out, and went away. 'not either of you?' said the schoolmaster. 'no, sir; one of the other fellows did it. but he's sorry, and wants to give it back; so we said that we would tell you, and perhaps you would give it to her.' 'why couldn't you go and give it to her, just as you have given it to me?' 'because we knew you'd b'lieve us that it was just the way we said; and her folks, you know, might think we'd done it when we said we hadn't. or, mother said, if you didn't want to be troubled, perhaps you'd just write a line to say how it was, and we'll go and leave it at the house after dark and come away quick.' the master had no objection to this; so he brought the boys in and got out his best note-paper--he was fastidious about some things--and wrote a note beginning 'dear madam,' telling in a few lines that the money had been stolen and restored. 'what is the lady's name?' he asked, taking up the envelope. 'it was eelan reid, sir; mr. reid's daughter that keeps the shop.' so the schoolmaster wrote 'miss eelan reid' in a fair round hand, and then he paused for a moment. he was making up his mind to the all-decisive action. 'perhaps you can wait for another note and take that for me at the same time,' he said. he gave them some picture papers to look at. then he wrote the note of such moment to himself, beginning, as before, 'dear madam,' and doing his best to follow the many instructions which the faithful mrs. sims had given him. it was a curious specimen of literature, in which a truly elegant mind and warm heart were veiled, but not hidden, by an embarrassed attempt at conventional phrases--a letter that most women would laugh at, and that the best women would reverence. he addressed that envelope too, and sealed the notes and sent away the boys. there was no sleep for the schoolmaster that night. with folded arms he paced his room in restless misery. now that the die was cast, the ideal miss blakely faded from his mind; he felt instinctively that she was mythical. he saw clearly that he had forfeited the best possibilities of life for the sake of temporary convenience, that he had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. the long night passed at length, as all nights pass. the sun rose over purple hills to glow upon the spring-stirred forest and to send golden shafts deep down into the clear heart of lake and stream. the fallen beauty of past woodland summers had tinged the water till it glowed like nut-brown wine; so brown it was that the pools of the river, where it swirled and rushed past the schoolhouse bend, seemed to greet the sun with the soft dark glances of fawn-eyed water-sprites. the glorious sky, the tender colours of the budding wood, the very dandelions on the untrimmed bank, contrived their hues to accord and rejoice with the laughing water, and the birds swelled out its song. in the rapture of spring and of morning there was no echo of grief; for the unswerving law of nature, moving through the years, had set each thing in its right home. it is only the perplexed soul that is forced to choose its own way and suffer from the choice, and the song of our life is but set to the accompaniment of a sad creed if we may not trust that, above our human wills, there is a power able to overrule the mistakes of true hearts, to lead the blind by unseen paths, and save the simple from their own simplicity. very early in the morning the schoolmaster, haggard and worn, slipped out of his own door to refresh himself in the sunlight that gleamed down upon his bit of green through the budding willow trees that grew by the river-side. he stood awhile under the bending boughs, watching the full stream as it tossed its spray into the lap of the flower-fringed shore. he looked, as he stood there, like a ghost of the preceding night, caught against his will and embraced by the joyous morning. just then he had a vision. a girl came towards him across the grass and stood a few paces distant. the slender willow twigs, with their hanging catkins and tiny golden leaves, made a sort of veil between them. she was very beautiful, at least so the schoolmaster thought; perhaps she was the personification of the morning, perhaps she was a wood-nymph--it did not matter much; he felt, in his excitement and exhaustion, that her beauty and grace were not real, but only an hallucination of moving sun and shade. she took the swaying willow-twigs in her pretty hands and looked through them at him and stroked the downy flowers. 'why did you send me that letter?' she said at last, with a touch of severity in her voice. 'the letter,' he stammered, wondering what she could mean. he remembered, with a sort of dull return of consciousness, that he _was_ guilty of having sent a letter--terribly guilty in his own estimation--but it was sent to miss blakely, and this was not miss blakely. that one letter had so completely absorbed all his mind that he had quite forgotten any others that he might have written in the course of his whole life. 'do not be angry with me,' he said imploringly. he had but one idea, that was, to keep this radiant dream of beauty with him as long as possible. 'i'm not angry; i am not angry at all--indeed'--and here she looked down at the twigs in her hand and began pulling the young leaves rather roughly--'i am not sure but that i am rather pleased. i have so often met you in the woods, you know; only i didn't know that you had ever noticed me.' 'i never did,' said the schoolmaster; but happily his nervous lips gave but indistinct utterance to the words, and his tone was pathetic. she thought he had only made some further pleading. 'i--i--i like you very much,' she said. 'i suppose, of course, everybody will be very much surprised, and mother may not be pleased, you know, just at first; but she's good and dear, mother is, in spite of what she says; and father will be glad about anything that pleases me.' he did not understand what she said; but he felt distressed at the moment to notice that she was twisting the tender willow leaves, albeit he saw that she only did so because, in her embarrassment, her fingers worked unconsciously. he came forward and took her hands gently, to disentangle them from the twigs. she let them lie in his, and looked up in his face and smiled. 'i will try to be a good wife, and manage all the common things, and not tease you to be like other men, if you will sometimes read your books to me and explain to me what life means, and why it is so beautiful, and why things are as they are.' 'i'm afraid i don't understand these matters myself very well,' he said; 'but we can talk about them together.' while he held her hands, she drooped her head till it touched his shoulder. he had kissed no one since his mother died, and the great joy that took possession of his heart brought, by its stimulus, a sudden knowledge of what had really happened to his mind. in a marvellously tender way, for a man who could not go a-courting, he put his hand under the pretty chin and looked down wonderingly, reverently, at the serious upturned face. 'and this is bonnie eelan reid?' then eelan, thinking that he was teasing her gently for being so easily won when she had gained the reputation of being so proud, cast down her eyes and blushed. so they were married, and lived happily, very happily, although they had their sorrows, as others have. the schoolmaster was man enough to keep the knowledge of his blunder a secret between himself and god. as for miss blakely, she never quite understood who had stolen the dollar, or when, or where; but she was glad to get it back. she never forgave mrs. sims for having managed her trust so ill, although the widow declared, with tears in her eyes, that she had done her best. 'he would have taken in the knowingest person, he would indeed, ann blakely; and, to my notion, a straightforward woman like you is well quit of a man who, while he looked so innocent, could act so deep.' iii thrift the end of march had come. the firm canadian snow roads had suddenly changed their surface and become a chain of miniature rivers, lakes interspersed by islands of ice, and half-frozen bogs. a young priest had started out of the city of montreal to walk to the suburb of point st. charles. he was in great haste, so he kilted up his long black petticoats and hopped and skipped at a good pace. the hard problems of life had not as yet assailed him; he had that set of the shoulders that belongs to a good conscience and an easy mind; his face was rosy-cheeked and serene. behind him lay the hill-side city, with its grey towers and spires and snow-clad mountain. all along his way budding maple trees swayed their branches overhead; on the twigs of some there was the scarlet moss of opening flowers, some were tipped with red buds and some were grey. the march wind was surging through them; the march clouds were flying above them,--light grey clouds with no rain in them,--veil above veil of mist, and each filmy web travelling at a different pace. the road began as a street, crossed railway tracks and a canal, ran between fields, and again entered between houses. the houses were of brick or stone, poor and ugly; the snow in the fields was sodden with water; the road---- 'i wish that the holy prophet elijah would come to this jordan with his mantle,' thought the priest to himself. this was a pious thought, and he splashed and waded along conscientiously. he had been sent on an errand, and had to return to discharge a more important duty in the same afternoon. the suburb consisted chiefly of workmen's houses and factories, but there were some ambitious-looking terraces. the priest stopped at a brick dwelling of fair size. it had an aspect of flaunting respectability; lintel and casements were shining with varnish; cheap starched curtains decked every window. when the priest had rung a bell which jingled inside, the door was opened by a young woman. she was not a servant, her dress was fur-belowed and her hair was most elaborately arranged. she was, moreover, evidently protestant; she held the door and surveyed the visitor with an air that was meant to show easy independence of manner, but was, in fact, insolent. the priest had a slip of paper in his hand and referred to it. 'mrs. o'brien?' he asked. 'i'm not mrs. o'brien,' said the young woman, looking at something which interested her in the street. a shrill voice belonging, as it seemed, to a middle-aged woman, made itself heard. 'louisy, if it's a cath'lic priest, take him right in to your gran'ma; it's him she's expecting.' a moment's stare of surprise and contempt, and the young woman led the way through a gay and cheaply furnished parlour, past the door of a best bedroom which stood open to shew the frills on the pillows, into a room in the back wing. she opened the door with a jerk and stared again as the priest passed her. she was a handsome girl; the young priest did not like to be despised; within his heart he sighed and said a short prayer for patience. he entered a room that did not share the attempt at elegance of the front part of the house; plain as a cottage kitchen, it was warm and comfortable withal. the large bed with patchwork quilt stood in a corner; in the middle was an iron stove in which logs crackled and sparkled. the air was hot and dry, but the priest, being accustomed to the atmosphere of stoves, took no notice, in fact, he noticed nothing but the room's one inmate, who from the first moment compelled his whole attention. in a wooden arm-chair, dressed in a black petticoat and a scarlet bedgown, sat a strong old woman. weakness was there as well as strength, certainly, for she could not leave her chair, and the palsy of excitement was shaking her head, but the one idea conveyed by every wrinkle of the aged face and hands, by every line of the bowed figure, was strength. one brown toil-worn hand held the head of a thick walking-stick which she rested on the floor well in front of her, as if she were about to rise and walk forward. her brown face--nose and chin strongly defined--was stretched forward as the visitor entered; her eyes, black and commanding, carried with them something of that authoritative spell that is commonly attributed to a commanding mind. great physical size or power this woman apparently had never had, but she looked the very embodiment of a superior strength. 'shut the door! shut the door behind ye!' these were the first words that the youthful confessor heard, and then, as he advanced, 'you're young,' she said, peering into his face. without a moment's intermission further orders were given him: 'be seated; be seated! take a chair by the fire and put up your wet feet. it is from father m'leod of st. patrick's church that ye've come?' the young man, whose boots were well soaked with ice-water, was not loth to put them up on the edge of the stove. it was not at all his idea of a priestly visit to a woman who had represented herself as dying, but it is a large part of wisdom to take things as they come until it is necessary to interfere. 'you wrote, i think, to father m'leod, saying that as the priests of this parish are french and you speak english----' some current of excitement hustled her soul into the midst of what she had to say. ''twas father maloney, him that had st. patrick's before father m'leod, who married me; so i just thought before i died i'd let one of ye know a thing concerning that marriage that i've never told to mortal soul. sit ye still and keep your feet to the fire; there's no need for a young man like you to be taking your death with the wet because i've a thing to say to ye.' 'you are not a catholic now,' said he, raising his eyebrows with intelligence as he glanced at a bible and hymn-book that lay on the floor beside her. he was not unaccustomed to meeting perverts; it was impossible to have any strong emotion about so frequent an occurrence. he had had a long walk and the hot air of the room made him somewhat sleepy; if it had not been for the fever and excitement of her mind he might not have picked up more than the main facts of all she said. as it was, his attention wandered for some minutes from the words that came from her palsied lips. it did not wander from her; he was thinking who she might be, and whether she was really about to die or not, and whether he had not better ask father m'leod to come and see her himself. this last thought indicated that she impressed him as a person of more importance and interest than had been supposed when he had been sent to hear her confession. all this time, fired by a resolution to tell a tale for the first and last time, the old woman, steadying as much as she might her shaking head, and leaning forward to look at the priest with bleared yet flashing eyes, was pouring out words whose articulation was often indistinct. her hand upon her staff was constantly moving, as if she were about to rise and walk; her body seemed about to spring forward with the impulse of her thoughts, the very folds of the scarlet bedgown were instinct with excitement. the priest's attention returned to her words. 'yes, marry and marry and marry--that's what you priests in my young days were for ever preaching to us poor folk. it was our duty to multiply and fill the new land with good cath'lics. father maloney, that was his doctrine, and me a young girl just come out from the old country with my parents, and six children younger than me. hadn't i had enough of young children to nurse, and me wanting to begin life in a new place respectable, and get up a bit in the world? oh, yes! but father maloney he was on the look-out for a wife for terry o'brien. he was a widow man with five little helpless things, and drunk most of the time was terry, and with no spirit in him to do better. oh! but what did that matter to father maloney when it was the good of the church he was looking for, wanting o'brien's family looked after? o'brien was a good, kind fellow, so father maloney said, and you'll never hear me say a word against that. so father maloney got round my mother and my father and me, and married me to o'brien, and the first year i had a baby, and the second year i had another, so on and so on, and there's not a soul in this world can say but that i did well by the five that were in the house when i came to it. 'oh! "house"!---- d'ye think it was one house he kept over our heads? no, but we moved from one room to another, not paying the rent. well, and what sort of a training could the children get? father maloney he talked fine about bringing them up for the church. did he come in and wash them when i was a-bed? did he put clothes on their backs? no, and fine and angry he was when i told him that that was what he ought to have done! oh! but father maloney and i went at it up and down many a day, for when i was wore out with the anger inside me, i'd go and tell him what i thought of the marriage he'd made, and in a passion he'd get at a poor thing like me teaching him duty. 'not that i ever was more than half sorry for the marriage myself, because of o'brien's children, poor things, that he had before i came to them. likely young ones they were too, and handsome, what would they have done if i hadn't been there to put them out of the way when o'brien was drunk, and knocking them round, or to put a bit of stuff together to keep them from nakedness? '"well," said father maloney to me, "why isn't it to o'brien that you speak with your scolding tongue?" faix! and what good was it to spake to o'brien, i'd like to know? did you ever try to cut water with a knife, or to hurt a feather-bed by striking at it with your fist? a nice good-natured man was terry o'brien--i'll never say that he wasn't that,--except when he was drunk, which was most of the time--but he'd no more backbone to him than a worm. that was the sort of husband father maloney married me to. 'the children kept a-coming till we'd nine of them, that's with the five i found ready to hand; and the elder ones getting up and needing to be set out in the world, and what prospect was there for them? what could i do for them? me always with an infant in my arms! yet 'twas me and no other that gave them the bit and sup they had, for i went out to work; but how could i save anything to fit decent clothes on them, and it wasn't much work i could do, what with the babies always coming, and sick and ailing they were half the time. the sisters would come from the convent to give me charity. 'twas precious little they gave, and lectured me too for not being more submiss'! and i didn't want their charity; i wanted to get up in the world. i'd wanted that before i was married, and now i wanted it for the children. likely girls the two eldest were, and the boy just beginning to go the way of his father.' she came to a sudden stop and breathed hard; the strong old face was still stretched out to the priest in her eagerness; the staff was swaying to and fro beneath the tremulous hand. she had poured out her words so quickly that there was in his chest a feeling of answering breathlessness, yet he still sat regarding her placidly with the serenity of healthy youth. she did not give him long rest. 'what did i see around me?' she demanded. 'i saw people that had begun life no better than myself getting up and getting up, having a shop maybe, or sending their children to the "model" school to learn to be teachers, or getting them into this business or that, and mine with never so much as knowing how to read, for they hadn't the shoes to put on---- 'and i had it in me to better them and myself. i knew i'd be strong if it wasn't for the babies, and i knew, too, that i'd do a kinder thing for each child i had, to strangle it at it's birth than to bring it on to know nothing and be nothing but a poor wretched thing like terry o'brien himself----' at the word 'strangle' the young priest took his feet from the ledge in front of the fire and changed his easy attitude, sitting up straight and looking more serious. 'it's not that i blamed o'brien over much, he'd just had the same sort of bringing up himself and his father before him, and when he was sober a very nice man he was; it was spiritiness he lacked; but if he'd had more spiritiness he'd have been a wickeder man, for what is there to give a man sense in a rearing like that? if he'd been a wickeder man i'd have had more fear to do with him the thing i did. but he was just a good sort of creature without sense enough to keep steady, or to know what the children were wanting; not a notion he hadn't but that they'd got all they needed, and i had it in me to better them. will ye dare to say that i hadn't? 'after terry o'brien went i had them all set out in the world, married or put to work with the best, and they've got ahead. all but o'brien's eldest son, every one of them have got ahead of things. i couldn't put the spirit into _him_ as i could into the littler ones and into the girls. well, but he's the only black sheep of the seven, for two of them died. all that's living but him are doing well, doing well' (she nodded her head in triumph), 'and their children doing better than them, as ought to be. some of them ladies and gentlemen, real quality. oh! ye needn't think i don't know the difference' (some thought expressed in his face had evidently made its way with speed to her brain)--'my daughter that lives here is all well enough, and her girl handsome and able to make her way, but i tell you there's some of my grandchildren that's as much above her in the world as she is above poor terry o'brien--young people that speak soft when they come to see their poor old grannie and read books, oh! i know the difference; oh! i know very well--not but what my daughter here is well-to-do, and there's not one of them all but has a respect for me.' she nodded again triumphantly, and her eyes flashed. 'they know, they know very well how i set them out in the world. and they come back for advice to me, old as i am, and see that i want for nothing. i've been a _good_ mother to them, and a good mother makes good children and grandchildren too.' there was another pause in which she breathed hard; the priest grasped the point of the story; he asked-- 'what became of o'brien?' 'i drowned him.' the priest stood up in a rigid and clerical attitude. 'i tell ye i drowned him.' she had changed her attitude to suit his; and with the supreme excitement of telling what she had never told, there seemed to come to her the power to sit erect. her eagerness was not that of self-vindication; it was the feverish exaltation with which old age glories over bygone achievement. 'i'd never have thought of it if it hadn't been o'brien himself that put it into my head. but the children had a dog, 'twas little enough they had to play with, and the beast was useful in his way too, for he could mind the baby at times; but he took to ailing--like enough it was from want of food, and i was for nursing him up a bit and bringing him round, but o'brien said that he'd put him into the canal. 'twas one sunday that he was at home sober--for when he was drunk i could handle him so that he couldn't do much harm. so says i, "and why is he to be put in the canal?" 'says he, "because he's doing no good here." 'so says i, "let the poor beast live, for he does no harm." 'then says he, "but it's harm he does taking the children's meat and their place by the fire." 'and says i, "are ye not afraid to hurry an innocent creature into the next world?" for the dog had that sense he was like one of the children to me. 'then said terry o'brien, for he had a wit of his own, "and if he's an innocent creature he'll fare well where he goes." 'then said i, "he's done his sins, like the rest of us, no doubt." 'then says he, "the sooner he's put where he can do no more the better." 'so with that he put a string round the poor thing's neck and took him away to where there was holes in the ice of the canal, just as there is to-day, for it was the same season of the year, and the children all cried; and thinks i to myself, "if it was the dog that was going to put their father into the water they would cry less." for he had a peevish temper in drink, which was most of the time. 'so then, i knew what i would do. 'twas for the sake of the children that were crying about me that i did it, and i looked up to the sky and i said to god and the holy saints that for terry o'brien and his children 'twas the best deed i could do; and the words that we said about the poor beast rang in my head, for they fitted to o'brien himself, every one of them. 'so you see it was just the time when the ice was still thick on the water, six inches thick maybe, but where anything had happened to break it the edges were melting into large holes. and the next night when it was late and dark i went and waited outside the tavern, the way o'brien would be coming home. 'he was just in that state that he could walk, but he hadn't the sense of a child, and we came by the canal, for there's a road along it all winter long, but there were places where if you went off the road you fell in, and there were placards up saying to take care. but terry o'brien hadn't the sense to remember them. i led him to the edge of a hole, and then i came on without him. he was too drunk to feel the pain of the gasping. so i went home. 'there wasn't a creature lived near for a mile then, and in the morning i gave out that i was afraid he'd got drowned, so they broke the ice and took him up. and there was just one person that grieved for terry o'brien. many's the day i grieved for him, for i was accustomed to have him about me, and i missed him like, and i said in my heart, "terry, wherever ye may be, i have done the best deed for you and your children, for if you were innocent you have gone to a better place, and if it were sin to live as you did, the less of it you have on your soul the better for you; and as for the children, poor lambs, i can give them a start in the world now i am rid of you!" that's what i said in my heart to o'brien at first--when i grieved for him; and then the years passed, and i worked too hard to be thinking of him. 'and now, when i sit here facing the death for myself, i can look out of my windows there back and see the canal, and i say to terry again, as if i was coming face to face with him, that i did the best deed i could do for him and his. i broke with the cath'lic church long ago, for i couldn't go to confess; and many's the year that i never thought of religion. but now that i am going to die i try to read the books my daughter's minister gives me, and i look to god and say that i've sins on my soul, but the drowning of o'brien, as far as i know right from wrong, isn't one of them.' the young priest had an idea that the occasion demanded some strong form of speech. 'woman,' he said, 'what have you told me this for?' the strength of her excitement was subsiding. in its wane the afflictions of her age seemed to be let loose upon her again. her words came more thickly, her gaunt frame trembled the more, but not for one moment did her eye flinch before his youthful severity. 'i hear that you priests are at it yet. "marry and marry and marry," that's what ye teach the poor folks that will do your bidding, "in order that the new country may be filled with cath'lics," and i thought before i died i'd just let ye know how one such marriage turned; and as he didn't come himself you may go home and tell father m'leod that, god helping me, i have told you the truth.' the next day an elderly priest approached the door of the same house. his hair was grey, his shoulders bent, his face was furrowed with those benign lines which tell that the pain which has graven them is that sympathy which accepts as its own the sorrows of others. father m'leod had come far because he had a word to say, a word of pity and of sympathy, which he hoped might yet touch an impenitent heart, a word that he felt was due from the church he represented to this wandering soul, whether repentance should be the result or not. when he rang the bell it was not the young girl but her mother who answered the door; her face, which spoke of ordinary comfort and good cheer, bore marks of recent tears. 'do you know,' asked the father curiously, 'what statement it was that your mother communicated to my friend who was here yesterday?' 'no, sir, i do not.' 'your mother was yesterday in her usual health and sound mind?' he interrogated gently. 'she was indeed, sir,' and she wiped a tear. 'i would like to see your mother,' persisted he. 'she had a stroke in the night, sir; she's lying easy now, but she knows no one, and the doctor says she'll never hear or see or speak again.' the old man sighed deeply. 'if i may make so bold, sir, will you tell me what business it was my mother had with the young man yesterday or with yourself?' 'it is not well that i should tell you,' he replied, and he went away. iv a taint in the blood chapter i the curate was walking on the cliffs with his lady-love. all the sky was grey, and all the sea was grey. the soft march wind blew over the rocky shore; it could not rustle the bright green weed that hung wet from the boulders, but it set all the tufts of grass upon the cliffs nodding to the song of the ebbing tide. the lady was the vicar's daughter; her name was violetta. 'let us stand still here,' said the curate, 'for there is something i must say to you to-day.' so they stood still and looked at the sea. 'violetta,' said the curate, 'you cannot be ignorant that i have long loved you. last night i took courage and told your father of my hope and desire that you should become my wife. he told me what i did not know, that you have already tasted the joy of love and the sorrow of its disappointment. i can only ask you now if this former love has made it impossible that you should love again.' 'no,' she answered; 'for although i loved and sorrowed then with all the strength of a child's heart, still it was only as a child, and that is past.' 'will you be my wife?' said the curate. 'i cannot choose but say "yes," i love you so much.' then they turned and went back along the cliffs, and the curate was very happy. 'but tell me,' he said, 'about this other man that loved you.' 'his name was herbert. he was the squire's son. he loved me and i loved him, but afterwards we found that his mother had been mad----' violetta paused and turned her sweet blue eyes upon the sea. 'so you could not marry?' said the curate. 'no,' said violetta, casting her eyes downward, 'because the taint of madness is a terrible thing.' she shuddered and blushed. 'and you loved him?' 'dearly, dearly,' said violetta, clasping her hands. 'but madness in the blood is too terrible; it is like the inheritance of a curse.' 'he went away?' said the curate. 'yes, herbert went away; and he died. he loved me so much that he died.' 'i do not wonder at that,' said the curate, 'for you are very lovely, violetta.' they walked home hand in hand, and when they had said good-bye under the beech trees that grew by the vicarage gate, the curate went down the street of the little town. the shop-keepers were at their doors breathing the mild spring air. the fishermen had hung their nets to dry in the market-place near the quay. the western cloud was turning crimson, and the steep roofs and grey church-tower absorbed in sombre colours the tender light. the curate was going home to his lodgings, but he bethought him of his tea, and turned into the pastry-cook's by the way. 'have you any muffins, mrs. yeander?' he asked. 'no, sir,' said the portly wife of the baker, in a sad tone, 'they're all over.' 'crumpets?' said he. 'past and gone, sir,' said the woman with a sigh. she had a coarsely poetical cast of mind, and commonly spoke of the sale of her goods as one might speak of the passing of summer flowers. the curate was turning away. 'i would make bold, sir,' said the woman, 'to ask if you've heard that we've let our second-floor front for a while. it's a great thing for us, sir, as you know, to 'ave it let, not that you'll approve the person as 'as took it.' 'oh!' said the curate, 'how is that?' 'he's the new jewish rabbi, sir, being as they've opened the place of their heathenish worship again. it's been shut this two year, for want of a hebrew to read the language.' 'oh, no, mrs. yeander; you're quite mistaken in calling the jews heathens.' 'the meeting-place is down by the end of the street, sir--a squarish sort of house. it's not been open in your time; likely you'll not know it. the new rabbi's been reading a couple of weeks to them. they do say it's awful queer.' 'oh, indeed!' said the curate; 'what are their hours of service?' 'well, to say the truth, sir, they'll soon be at it now, for it's friday at sunset they've some antics or other in the place. the rabbi's just gone with his book.' 'i think i'll look them up, and see what they're at,' said he, going out. he was a thin, hard-working man. his whole soul was possessed by his great love for violetta, but even the gladness of its success could not turn him from his work. when the day was over he would indulge in brooding on his joy; until then the need of the world pressed. he stepped out again into the evening glow. the wind had grown stronger, and he bent his head forward and walked against it towards the west. he felt a sudden sympathy for this stranger who had come to minister in his own way to the few scattered children of the jews who were in the town. he knew the unjust sentiment with which he would be surrounded as by an atmosphere. the curate was broad in his views. 'all nations and all people,' thought he, 'lust for an excuse to deem their neighbour less worthy than themselves, that they may oppress him. this is the selfishness which is the cause of all sin and is the devil.' when he got to this point in his thoughts he came to a sudden stand and looked up. 'but, thank god,' he said to himself, 'the true life is still in the world, and as we resist the evil we not only triumph ourselves, but make the triumph of our children sure.' so reasoned the curate; he was a rather fanatical fellow. the people near gave him 'good-day' when they saw him stop. all up and down the street the children played with shrill noises and pattering feet. the sunset cloud was brighter, and the dark peaked roofs of tile and thatch and slate, as if compelled to take some notice of the fire, threw back the red where, here and there, some glint of moisture gave reflection to the coloured light. he had come near the end of the town, and, where the houses opened, the red sky was fretted with dark twigs and branches of elm trees which grew on the grassy slope of the cliff. the elm trees were in the squire's park, and the curate looked at them sadly and thought of herbert who had died. up a little lane at the end of the street he found the entrance to a low square hall. there was a small ante-room to the place of service, and in this a dull-looking man was seated polishing a candlestick. he was a crossing-sweeper by trade and a friend of the curate. 'well, issachar; so you've got your synagogue open again!' the man issachar made some sound meant for a response, but not intelligible. 'how many jews will there be in the town?' 'twenty that are heads of families, and two grown youths,' said issachar. 'that's enough to keep up a service, for some of them will be rich?' 'some are very rich,' said issachar, wrinkling his face with satisfaction when he said the words. 'then how is it you don't always keep up the service?' but issachar had no explanation to give. he polished his candlestick the more vigorously, and related at some length what he knew of the present reader, which was, in fact, nothing, except that he was a foreigner and had only offered to read while he was visiting the town. 'i have come for the service,' said the curate. 'better not,' said issachar; 'it's short to-night, and there'll not be many.' the curate answered by opening the inner door and entering. there were some high pews up and down the sides of the room. there was a curtain at the farther end and a reading desk in the centre, both of which were enclosed in a railing ornamented by brass knobs, and in which were set high posts supporting gas-lamps, nine in all, which were lit, either for heat or ceremony, and turned down to a subdued light. the evening light entered through the domed roof. hebrew texts which the curate could not decipher were painted on the dark walls. he took off his hat reverently and sat down. there was no one there. he felt very much surprised at finding himself alone. to his impressible nervous nature it seemed that he had suddenly entered a place far removed in time and space from the every-day life with which he was so familiar. he sat a long time; it was cold, and the evening light grew dim, and yet no one came. issachar entered now and then, and made brief remarks about sundry things as he gave additional polish to the knobs on the railing, but he always went out again. at length a side door opened and the reader came in from his vestry. he had apparently waited in hope of a congregation, but now came in to perform his duty without their aid. perhaps he was not so much disappointed as the curate was. it would have been very difficult to tell from looking at him what his emotions were. he was a stout large man with a coarse brown beard. there was little to be seen of his face but the hair upon it, and one gathered the suggestion, although it was hard to know from what, that the man and his beard were not as clean as might be. he wore a black gown and an ordinary high silk hat, although pushed much farther back on his head than an englishman would have worn it. he walked heavily and clumsily inside the railing, and stood before the desk, slowly turning over backward the leaves of the great book. then suddenly he began to chant in the hebrew tongue. his voice fell mellow and sweet upon the silence, filling it with drowsy sound, as the soft music of a humble-bee will suddenly fill the silence of a woodland glade. there was no thought, only feeling, conveyed by the sound. issachar had gone out, and the anglican priest sat erect, gazing at the jew through the fading light, his attention painfully strained by the sense of loneliness and surprise. from mere habit he supposed the chant to be an introduction to a varied service, but no change came. on and on and on went the strange music, like a potent incantation, the big jew swaying his body slightly with the rhythm, and at long intervals came the whisper of paper with the turning of the leaf. the curate gazed and wondered until he forgot himself. then he tried with an effort to recall who he was, and where he was, and all the details of the busy field of labour he had left just outside the door. he wished that the walls of the square room were not so thick, that some sound from the town might come in and mingle with the chant. he strained his ear in vain to catch a word of the hebrew which might be intelligible to him. he wondered much what sort of a man this jew might be, actuated by what motives, impelled by what impulses to his lonely task. all the sorrow of a hope deferred through ages, and a long torture patiently borne, seemed gathered in the cadence; but the man--surely the man was no refined embodiment of the high sentiment of his psalm! and still the soft rich voice chanted the unknown language, and the daylight grew more dim. the curate was conscious that again he tried to remember who he was, and where; and then the surroundings of the humble synagogue fell away, and he himself was standing looking at a jewel. it was a purple stone, oval-shaped and polished, perhaps about as large as the drop of dew which could hang in a harebell's heart. the stone was the colour of a harebell, and there was a ray of light in it, as if in the process of its formation the jewel had caught sight of a star, and imprisoned the tiny reflection for ever within itself. the curate moved his head from side to side to see if the ray within the stone would remain still, but it did not, turning itself to meet his eye as if the tiny star had a life and a light of its own. then he looked at the setting, for the stone was set in steel. a zigzag-barred steel frame held it fast, and outside the zigzag bars there was a smooth ring, with some words cut upon it in hebrew. the characters were very small; he knew, rather than saw, that they were hebrew; but he did not know what they meant. all this time he had been stooping down, looking at this thing as if it lay very near the ground. then suddenly he noticed upon what it was lying. there was a steel chain fastened to it, and the chain was around the neck of a woman who lay upon the earth; the jewel was upon her breast. but how white and cold the breast was! surely there was no life in it. and he observed with horror that the garments which had fallen back were oozing with water, and that the hair was wet. he hardly saw the face; for a moment he thought he saw it, and that it was the face of a jewess, young and beautiful, but the vision passed from him. the chant had ceased, and the rabbi was kissing his book. very solemnly the jew bowed himself three times and kissed the book, and then in the twilight of the nine dim lamps he stumbled out and shut the door, without giving a glance to his one listener. as for the young christian priest, he was panic-stricken. when our senses themselves deceive us we are cut off from our cheerful belief in the reality of material things, or forced to face the unpleasant fact that we hold no stable relationship to them. he rushed out into the street. issachar was at the entrance as he passed, and he fancied he saw the face of the reader peeping at him from the vestry window, but he crushed his hat hard down on his head and strode away, courting the bluster of the wind, striving by the energy of action to cast off the trance that seemed to enslave him. when he reached his own door he found the baker's wife sitting on the doorstep. it was quite dusk; perhaps that was the reason he did not recognise her at first. 'la, sir, i found them two muffins lying unbeknown in the corner of the shelf, so i brought them round, thinking you mightn't 'ave 'ad your tea.' 'muffins?' said the curate, as if he were not quite sure what muffins might be. then he began to wonder if he was really losing his wits, and he plunged into talk with the woman, saying anything and everything to convince himself that he was not asleep or mad. 'do you know, mrs. yeander, that i am going to be married?' 'well, i am sure, sir,' said she, curtseying and smiling. 'it's a great compliment to me to hear it from your own lips; not that it's unexpected. miss violetta's a sweet saint, just like her ma, she is, an' her ma's a saint if there ever was one. mr. higgs, the verger, says that to see her pray that length of time on her knees after the service is over in church is a touching sight.' 'but i don't think miss violetta is like her mother,' said the curate. 'well no, sir; now that you mention it, perhaps she's not--at least, not in looks. but lor' sir, she's wonderful like her ma when it comes to paying a bill, not but what they're to be respected for keeping a heye on the purse. i often tell yeander that if we were a bit more saving, like the vicar's lady, we'd lay by a bit for our old age.' 'yes, mrs. yeander, yes; that would be an excellent plan,' said the curate, fumbling with his latch-key in the door. 'suppose you come in and make my tea for me, mrs. yeander. i'm all alone to-night.' 'i bethought i might do that, sir, when i came along. yeander was in the shop, and i said, mrs. jones having gone to see her son, that you'd 'ave no one, so i just says to yeander, "i'll step round, an' if i'm asked i'll make tea."' the curate lit his lamp and poked his fire, and the portly woman began to toast his muffins. the flame lit up the placid wrinkles of her face as she knelt before it: 'but i don't think miss violetta is in the least like her mother,' said he again. 'lor' sir, don't you? well, you ought to know best. they do say what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh; but it'll be none the worse for you if she looks sharp after the spending. you're not much given to saving.' the curate walked nervously up and down his small room. 'make the tea strong to-night,' he said. 'mr. higgs, the verger, do hate the vicar's lady, sir--he do, and no mistake--but he says anybody could see with 'alf a heye that she was a real saint. the subscriptions she puts down to missions and church restorings--it's quite wonderful.' the curate ran his hand wearily through his hair. he felt called upon to say something. 'i have the highest respect for mrs. moore,' he began. 'i know her to be a most devoted helpmeet to the vicar, and a truly good woman. at the same time'--he coughed--'at the same time, i should wish to say distinctly that after being niggardly in her domestic affairs, which is unfortunately the case, i do not think it adds to her stock of christian virtues to give the money thus saved to church work.' the curate cleared his throat. it was because he was flying from himself that he had let the woman talk until this speech of his had been made necessary; but at all times his humble friends in this town were well nigh irrepressible in their talk. this woman was in full tide now. 'they do say, sir, there's a difference between honest saving and greed. mr. higgs said to yeander one day, says he, "mrs. moore's folks far back made their money by sharp trading, and greed's in the family, and it's the worst sort of greed, for it grasps both at 'eaven and earth, both at this life and the 'eavenly. and," says he, "no one could doubt that the lady's that way constituted that she couldn't cut a loaf of bread in 'alf without giving herself the largest share, even if it were the bread of life."' 'my good mrs. yeander----' began the curate in stern rebuke. 'oh, no, sir, mr. higgs don't mean no harm. he only gets that riled at mrs. moore sometimes that he kind of lets off to yeander and me.' 'and i don't think, mrs. yeander,' said the curate, for the third time, 'that miss violetta is at all like her mother.' 'she's young yet, sir,' said the woman. then she went away, leaving the curate to interpret her last remark as he chose. chapter ii about a week after that there was a fine dinner given at the vicarage to welcome the curate into the family. the old squire was invited, but he refused to come. violetta's mamma wrote and asked some of her relatives to come down from town. 'our chosen son-in-law is not rich,' she wrote, 'but he comes of an old family, and that is a great thing. dear violetta will, of course, inherit my own fortune, which will be ample for them, and his good connections, with god's blessing, will complete their happiness.' so they came down. there was the vicar's brother, who was a barrister, and his wife. then there were two sisters of mrs. moore, who were both very rich. one was an old maid, and one was married to a dean--she brought her husband. 'you see,' said violetta's mamma to the curate, 'our relatives are all either law or clergy.' there were very grand preparations made for the dinner, and mrs. higgs, the wife of the verger, came to the curate's rooms the day before and took away his best clothes, that she might see they were well brushed for the occasion. she did up his collar and wristbands herself, and gave them a fine gloss. higgs brought them back just in time for the dinner. 'it's just about five years since they had such a turn-out at the vicarage,' said higgs in a crisp little voice. 'miss violetta was nineteen then; she'll be twenty-four now.' 'yes,' said the curate absently; 'what was up then?' ''twas a dinner much of a muchness to this. mrs. higgs, she was just reminding me of it. but that was in honour of mr. herbert, of the 'all. you'll 'ave heard of him?' 'oh, yes,' said the curate, 'all that was very sad.' 'the more so,' said higgs briskly, 'that when it was broke hoff, mr. herbert died of love. he went to some foreign countries and took up with low company, and there he died. squire hasn't held his head up straight since that day.' 'all that was before i came,' said the curate very gravely, for he did not know exactly what to say. 'lor' bless you, sir,' said higgs, 'i was in no way blaming you. there's no blame attaching to any, that i know; squire's wife was as mad as a hare. miss violetta, she cried her pretty eyes nigh out for mr. herbert; it's time she'd another.' the curate went to the dinner, and it was a very fine affair indeed. violetta wore a silk gown and looked charming. she does not look a day older than she did when i saw her five years ago,' said the dean to the curate, meaning to be very polite, but the curate did not smile at the compliment. 'how fine your flowers are!' said the maiden aunt to violetta. 'where did you get them, my dear?' 'the squire sent them to me,' said violetta, with a droop of her eyelids which made her look more charming than ever. then they had dinner, and after dinner violetta gave them some music. it was sacred music, for mrs. moore did not care for anything else. when the song was over mrs. moore said to the curate, 'it has been my wish to give dear violetta a little gift as a slight remembrance of this happy occasion, and i thought that something of my own would be more valuable than----' here the mother's voice broke with very natural emotion, and she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. 'you must excuse me,' she murmured, 'she is such a dear--such a very dear girl, and she is our only child.' 'indeed, i can well understand,' said he, with earnest sympathy. 'such a dear--such a very dear girl,' murmured mrs. moore again. then she rose and embraced violetta and wept, and the aunts all shed tears, and the vicar coughed. violetta's own blue eyes over-flowed with very pretty tears. the curate felt very uncomfortable indeed, and said again that he quite understood, and that it was quite natural. the dean and the barrister both said what they ought. the dean remarked that these dear parents ought not to sorrow at losing a daughter, but rejoice at finding a son. the barrister pointed out that as the bride was only expected to move into the next house but one after her marriage, all talk of parting was really quite absurd. the vicar did not say anything; he rarely did when his wife was present. then mrs. moore became more composed, and put a ring on her daughter's finger. the curate did not see the ring at the moment. he was leaning against the mantel-shelf, feeling very much overcome by the responsibility of his new happiness. 'oh, mamma, how lovely!' cried violetta. 'how perfectly beautiful!' 'a star-amethyst!' said the barrister in a tone of surprise. 'is it a star-amethyst indeed?' said the dean, looking over the shoulders of the group with his double eye-glass. 'i am not aware that i ever saw one before; they are a very rare and beautiful sort of gem.' 'where did you get it, sister matilda?' asked the maiden aunt. now, although mrs. moore was in a most gracious humour, she never liked being asked questions at any time. 'i am surprised that you should ask me that, eliza. i have had it for many years.' 'but you must have got it somewhere at the beginning of the years,' persisted eliza, who was of a more lively disposition. mrs. moore gave her a severe glance for the frivolous tone of her answer. 'i was just about to explain that this stone has been lying for years among the jewellery which poor uncle ford bequeathed to me. i thought it a pity that such a beautiful stone should lie unnoticed any longer.' 'oh, a great pity!' they all cried. 'i should not have supposed that poor dear uncle ford possessed such a rare thing,' said the wife of the dean. 'it is very curious you never mentioned it before,' said eliza. but eliza was not in favour. 'not at all,' said mrs. moore; 'i take very little interest in such things. life is too short to allow our attention to be diverted from serious things by mere ornaments.' 'that is very true,' said the dean. violetta broke through the little circle to show her lover the ring. 'look,' she said, holding up her pretty hand. 'isn't it lovely? isn't mamma very kind?' the curate turned his eyes from the fire with an effort. he had been listening to all they said in a state of dreamy surprise. he did not wish to look at the stone, and the moment he saw it he perceived it was what he had seen before. it was not exactly the same shade of purple, but it appeared to him that he had seen it before by daylight, and now the lamps were lit. it was the same shape and size, and the tiny interior star was the same. he moved his head from side to side to see if the ray moved to meet his eye, and he found that it did so. he looked at violetta. how beautiful she was in her white gown, with her little hand uplifted to display the shining stone, and her face upturned to his! the soft warm curve of the delicate breast and throat, the red lips that seemed to breathe pure kisses and holy words, the tender eyes shining like the jewel, dewy with the sacred tears she had been shedding, and the yellow hair, smooth, glossy, brushed saintly-wise on either side of the nunlike brow--all this he looked at, and his senses grew confused. the sad rise and fall of the hebrew chant was in his ears again; the bright room and the people were not there, but the chant seemed in some strange way to rise up in folds of darkness and surround violetta like a frame; and everything else was dark and filled with the music, except violetta, who stood there white and shining, holding up the ring for him to look at; and at her feet lay that other woman, wet and dead, with the same stone in the steel chain at her throat. 'isn't it lovely? isn't mamma very kind?' violetta was saying. 'my dear, i think he is ill,' said the vicar. they took him by the arm, putting him on a chair, and fetched water and a glass of wine. he heard them talking together. 'i daresay it has been too much for him,' said the dean. 'joy is often as hard to bear as grief.' 'he is such a fellow for work,' said the vicar, 'i never knew any one like him.' the curate sat up quite straight. 'did any of you ever see an amethyst like this set in steel?' 'in steel? what an odd idea!' said the maiden aunt. 'he is not quite himself yet,' said the dean in a low voice, tapping her on the shoulder. 'i think it would be very inappropriate, indeed very wrong, to set a valuable stone in any of the baser metals,' said mrs. moore. she spoke as if the idea were a personal affront to herself, but then she had an immense notion of her own importance, and always looked upon all wrong-doing as a personal grievance. 'whatever made you think of it?' asked violetta. 'i daresay it was rather absurd,' said the curate meekly. 'by no means,' said the barrister; 'the idea of making jewellery exclusively of gold is modern and crude. in earlier times many beautiful articles of personal ornamentation were made of brass and even of iron.' 'mamma,' said violetta, 'i remember one day seeing a curious old thing in the bottom of your dressing-case. it looked as if it might be made of steel. it was a very curious old thing--chain, and a pendant with some inscription round it.' 'did you?' said mrs. moore. 'i have several old trinkets. i do not know to which you refer.' she bade violetta ring for tea. 'i am sure you will be the better for a cup of tea,' she said, turning to the curate. 'i am quite well,' he replied. 'i think, if you will excuse me, i will walk home at once; the air will do me good.' but they would not hear of his walking home. they made him drink tea and sit out the evening with them. violetta gave them some more music; and they all made themselves exceedingly agreeable. when the evening was over they sent the curate home in the carriage. chapter iii the night was frosty, calm, and clear, and quite light, for the march moon was just about to rise from the eastern sea. when the carriage set him down at his own door the curate had no mind to go in. he waited till the sound of the horse's feet had died away, and then he walked back down the empty street. the town was asleep; his footsteps echoed sharply from roofs and walls. he was not given to morbid fancies or hallucinations, and he was extremely annoyed at what had taken place. twice in the last eight days he had been the subject of a waking dream, and now he was confronted with what seemed an odd counterpart of his vision in actual fact. it was no doubt a mere coincidence, but it was a very disagreeable one. of course if he saw the old trinket described by violetta, the chances were that it would be quite different from the setting of the stone which the dead woman wore; but even if the two were exactly the same, what difference could it make? a dream is nothing, and that which appears in a dream is nothing. the coincidence had no meaning. he turned by the side of the church down the lane which led to the little quay. the tide was halfway up the dark weed, and the fishing-boats were drawn near to the quay, ready for the cruise at dawn; their dark furled sails were bowing and curtseying to one another with all ceremony, like ghosts at a stately ball. to the east and south lay the sea, vacant, except that on the eastern verge stood a palace of cloud, the portals of which were luminous with the light from within, and now they were thrown open with a golden flash, and yellow rays shot forth into the upper heavens, spreading a clear green light through the deep midnight of the sky where the other worlds wandered. then the yellow moon came from her palace, wrapping herself at first with a mantle of golden mist, as if--godiva-like--she shrank from loosening her garments; but the need of the darkling earth pressed upon her, and she dropped her covering and rode forth in nakedness. everything was more lovely now, for there was light to see the loveliness. the bluff wind that came from the bosom of the sea seemed only to tell of a vast silence and a world asleep. the rocky shore, with its thin line of white breakers, stretched round to the west. about a mile away there was a rugged headland, with some crags at its feet, which had been broken off and rolled down into the sea by the frost demon of bygone years. the smallest was farthest out, and wedged behind it and sheltered by it was the black hulk of a wrecked vessel. this outermost rock lay so that it broke the waves as they came against the wreck, and each was thrown high in a white jet and curl of spray, and fell with a low sob back into the darkness of the sea. the curate turned and walked toward the headland on the cliff path where he had walked a week before with violetta. the cliffs were completely desolate, except for some donkeys browsing here and there, their brown hair silvered by the frost. there was a superstition in the town that the place was haunted on moonlight nights by the spirit of a woman who had perished in the wreck. it had been a french vessel, wrecked five years before, and all on board were drowned--six men and one woman, the wife of the skipper. they had all been buried in one grave in the little cemetery that was on the top of the headland; and it was easy to see how the superstition of the haunting came about, for as the curate watched the spray on the rock near the wreck rise up in the moonlight and fall back into the sea, he could almost make himself believe that he saw in it the supple form of a woman with uplifted hands, praying heaven for rescue. the wind was pretty rough when he got to the head of land, and he walked up among the graves to find a place where he might be sheltered and yet have advantage of the view. he knew that close by the edge of the cliff, over the grave of the shipwrecked people, stood a marble cross, large enough to shelter a man somewhat if he leaned against it. upon this cross was a long inscription giving a touching account of the wreck, and stating that it was erected by matilda moore, wife of the vicar, out of grief for the sad occurrence, and with an earnest prayer for the unknown bereaved ones. the curate was rather fond of reading this inscription, as we all are apt to be fond of going over words which, although perfectly familiar to us, still leave some space for curiosity concerning their author and origin, and he was wondering idly as he walked whether there would be light enough from the moon to read them now. the wind came, like the moonlight, from the south-east, and he walked round by the western side of the graveyard in order to come up the knoll on which the cross stood by the sheltered side. everything around him was intensely bleak and white, for the moon, having left the horizon, had lost her golden light, and the colouring of the night had toned down to white and purple. patches of wild white cloud were scudding across the pallid purple sky beneath the stars, and there was a silver causeway across the purple sea. the purple was not unlike that of an amethyst. the cliffs sloped back to the town; the boats and peaked roofs and church tower were seen by the sharp outline of their masses of light and shade. the street lamps were not lit in the town because of the moon, and only in two or three places there was the warm glow of a casement fringed with the rays of a midnight candle. to the left of the cliffs, close to the town, were the trees of the squire's park and the roof of the hall. perhaps it was because the curate was looking at these things, as he walked among the graves, that he did not look at the monument towards which he was making way, until he came within half a dozen yards of it; then he suddenly saw that there was another man leaning against it, half hid in the shadow. he stopped at once and stood looking. the man had thrown his arms backward over the arms of the cross, and was leaning, half hanging, upon it; the young priest was inexpressibly shocked and startled by the attitude. he knew that none of the humbler inhabitants of the town would venture near such a place at such a time, nor could he think of any one else who was likely to be there. besides, although he could not see the stranger distinctly, he himself was standing in full moonlight, and yet the man in the shadow of the cross made no sign of seeing him. at that moment he would gladly have gone home without asking further question, but that would have looked as if he were afraid. he tried a chance remark. 'it is a fine night,' he said, as lightly as might be. 'yes,' said the other, and moved his arms from the arms of the cross. it was only one word, but the curate recognised the soft voice at once. it was the jewish rabbi. 'i was at one of your services the other day,' he said, advancing nearer. 'yes.' 'i felt sorry your people did not turn out better.' there was no answer. 'it is a very cold wind,' said the curate. 'i hardly know why i came out so far.' 'shall i tell you?' asked the jew softly. he spoke good english, but very slowly, and with some foreign accent. 'certainly, if you can.' 'i desired very much to see you.' 'but you did not tell me, so that could not be the reason. your will could not influence my mind. i assure you i came of my own free will; it would be terrible if one man should be at the mercy of another's caprice.' 'be it so; let us call it chance then. i desired that you should come, and you came.' 'but you do not think that you have a power over other men like that?' 'i do not know; i find that with some men such correspondence between my will and their thoughts and actions is not rare; but i could not prove that it is not chance. it makes no difference to me whether it be chance or not. i have been thinking of you very much, desiring your aid, and twice you have come to me--as you say--of your own free will.' 'if you have such a power, you may be responsible for a very disagreeable dream i had in your synagogue the other day.' 'what was the dream?' 'nay, if you created it you should be able to tell me what it was.' 'i have no idea what it was; if i influenced your imagination i did so unconsciously.' there was about this jew such a complete gentleness and repose, such earnestness without eagerness, such self-confidence without self-assertion, that the curate's heart warmed to him instinctively. 'i believe you are an honest christian,' said the jew very simply. 'i hope honest christians are not rare.' 'i think a wholly honest man is very rare, because to see what is honest it is necessary to look at things without self-interest or desire.' 'i am certainly not such a man. the most i can say is that i try to be more honest every day.' 'that is very well said,' said the jew. 'if you had believed in your own honesty, i should have doubted it.' then, in a very simple and quiet way, he told the curate a strange story. he said that he lived in antwerp. they were five in one family--the parents, a sister and brother, and himself. his father and brother did business with the english ships, but he was a teacher and reader in the synagogue. there had been in their family a very sacred heirloom in the form of an amulet or charm. their forefathers had believed that it came from jerusalem before their nation lost the holy city; but he himself did not think that this could be true; he only knew that it was ancient, and possessed very valuable properties as a talisman to those who knew how to use it. about five years before, his sister, who was beautiful and wayward, had loved and married a french sea-captain. the father cursed his daughter, but the mother could not let her go from them under the fear of this curse, and she hung the amulet about her neck as a safeguard. alas for such safeguard! in a few weeks the captain's ship was wrecked, and all on her were drowned. he said that it was that same ship which lay near them, a wreck among the waves, and his sister lay buried beneath their feet. the family did not hear of the wreck till some time after the burial, and then they knew for the first time what their mother had done with the amulet. his brother came over at once to this town to seek it, but in vain. the people said they had not seen the necklace; that it had certainly not been buried with the girl. the people seemed simple and honest; the brother was a shrewd man, and he believed that they spoke the truth. he returned home, in distress; they could not tell what to think, for they knew their sister would not have dared to take off the necklace, and the chain was too strong to be broken by the violence of the waves. some months after they heard that there was a young englishman dying in antwerp who came from this town. the name of the town was graven on their hearts, and they went to see him. he was a mere boy, a pretty boy, and when they asked him about the wreck he became excited in his weakness and fever, and told them all the story of it as he had seen it with his own eyes. it was an october afternoon. a storm had been lowering and partially breaking over the town for three days, and that day there was a glare of murky light from the cloud that made the common people think that the end of the world was come. when the ship struck, the fisher-people ran out of the town to the shore nearest her, and this boy would have run out with them and been among the foremost but that a very pious and charitable lady of the place had besought him to take her with him. there was a great rain and wind, and it was with difficulty that he led the lady out and helped her down to the shore. by that time the wreck had been dashed to pieces, and the fishermen were bringing in the dead bodies of the crew. there was a woman among them, and when they brought her body in, they did not lay it with the bodies of the sailors, but carried it respectfully and laid it close to the lady who stood in the shelter of some rocks. the wet clothes had fallen back from her breast--the boy remembered it well, for it had been his first sight of death, and his heart was touched by the girl's youth and beauty. he had not seen her again, for he had gone to help with the boats, and the fishermen's wives had run at the lady's bidding and brought coverings to wrap her in. the jewish father then told the dying man about the amulet. he said that, to the best of his memory, some such thing had been about the neck of the dead girl, but that he was certain that none of the fisher-people would have been bad enough to steal from the dead. they entreated him to think well what he said, and to consider again if there was no doubtful character there who might have had the opportunity and the baseness to commit the crime. at that the dying man fell into profound thought, and when he looked at them again the fever-flush had mounted to his face, and there was a light in his eyes. he told them that if there was any one upon the shore that day who would have done such a thing it was the very rich and pious lady that he himself had taken to the wreck. she had been alone with the body when she sent the other women for wrappings. they thought that perhaps his mind was wandering, and left him, promising to return next day; but when they came again he was dead. 'i have learned since i came here,' said the jew, 'that he was the son of the old man who lives in the great house down there among the trees.' they both looked down at the park. the leafless elms stood up like giant feathers in the white mist of the moonbeams, and the chimney-stacks of the house threw a deep shadow on the shining roof. 'but we felt,' said the jew, 'that even if the judgment of the dying boy were a true one, and this lady had committed the crime, we still had no evidence against her, and that whoever was wicked enough to steal would certainly deny the act, and conceal that which was stolen. hopeless as it seemed to wait, doing nothing, our only chance of redress would be lost by making any inquiry which might frighten her. we sent a message to the goldsmith in london who mends her jewels, asking him to watch for this necklace, and so we waited. at last we heard news. an amethyst which we do not doubt is ours came to the goldsmith to be put in a ring; but there was no necklace with it. i came here to see if i could do something, but i have been here for some time and can devise no plan. if she still possess the other part, to speak would be to cause its destruction, and how can i find out without asking if she still has by her the thing that would prove her crime? do not be angry with me when i tell you this. remember it was not i who presumed to suspect the wife of your priest, but the english boy, who knew her well.' 'yes,' said the curate, 'i shall remember that.' he had grown tired of standing in the wind, and had sat down on the frosty grass below the cross. the blast was very cold, and he crouched down to avoid it, hugging his knees with his hands. 'you are about to be united to the family,' said the jew; 'perhaps you have seen the stone. will you, for the sake of that justice which we all hope for, try to find out for me if the other part of the amulet still exists? i will give you a drawing of it, and if you find it as i describe, you will know that my tale is true. remember this--that we have no wish to make the wrong public or punish the wrong-doer. we only want to obtain our property.' 'have you got a drawing of it now?' 'yes, i have it here.' the curate rose up and took the paper. he lit a match, and held its tiny red flame in the shelter of the stone. the paper was soiled and untidily folded, but the drawing was clear. it took but a glance to satisfy him that what he had seen in his dream was but the reflection in his own thought of the idea in the jew's mind. he did not stop to ask any explanation of the fact; the fact itself pressed too hard upon him. while the match was still burning he mechanically noticed the jew's face, as it leaned over the paper near his own--not a handsome face, but gentle and noble in its expression. then the match went out; it dropped from his hand, a tiny spark, into the grass, and for a moment illuminated the blades among which it fell. chapter iv the two men walked back over the bleak cliffs together, and for the greater part of the way in silence; at last the curate spoke. he told the jew quite truly that he believed the vicar's wife had his jewel, and that he supposed she must have come by it according to his worst suspicions. 'but,' he added, 'i believe she is a good woman.' the other looked at him in simple surprise. 'that is very curious,' he said. 'let us not try to find out her secret by prying; let us go to her to-morrow, and tell her openly what we think. you fear that she will deny her action; i have no such fear; and if she does not stand our test, i give you my word for it, you shall not be the loser.' 'i have put my case in your hands,' said the jew. 'i will do as you say.' they turned into the sleeping town; but when they reached the place of parting the curate put his hand on the jew's arm and said, 'i should not have your forbearance. if some one unconnected with myself had wronged me so, at the same time making profession of religion, i should think she deserved both disgrace and punishment.' 'and that she shall have, but not from us,' he replied. 'the sin will surely be visited on her and on her children.' 'surely not on the children,' said the curate. 'you cannot believe that. it would be unjust.' 'you have seen but little of the world if you do not know that such is the law. the vagabond who sins from circumstances may have in him the making of a saint, and his children may be saints; but with those who sin in spite of the good around them it is not so. for them and for their children is the curse.' 'god cannot punish the innocent for the guilty,' said the priest passionately. 'surely not; for that is the punishment--that they are not innocent. the children of the proud are proud; the children of the cruel, cruel; and the children of the dishonest are dishonest, unto the third and fourth generation. fight against it as they may, they cannot see the difference between right and wrong; they can only, by struggling, come _nearer_ to the light. do you call this unjust of god? is it unjust that the children of the mad are mad, and the children of the virtuous virtuous.' 'you take from us responsibility if we inherit sin.' 'nay, i increase responsibility. if we inherit obliquity of conscience, we are the more responsible for acting not as seems right in our own eyes, the more bound to restrain and instruct ourselves, for by this doctrine is laid upon us the responsibility of our children and children's children, that they may be better, not worse, than we.' all night long the curate paced up and down his room. the dawn came and he saw the fishermen hurry away to the boats at the quay. the sunrise came with its dull transient light upon the rain cloud. when the morning advanced he went for the jew, and they walked down the street in the driving rain. the wet paving-stones and roofs reflected the grey light of the clouds which hurried overhead. the ruddy-twigged beech trees at the vicarage gate were shaken and buffeted by the storm. the two men shook their dripping hats as they entered the house. they were received in a private parlour, which was filled with objects of art and devotion. very blandly did the good wife of the vicar greet them, yet with business-like condescension. the jew, in a few very simple words, told the story of his sister's death and the loss of the amulet. he told the peculiar value of the amulet, and added, 'i have reason, madam, to believe that it has come into your possession. if so, and if you have it still by you, i entreat that you will give it to me at once, for to you it can only be a pretty trinket, and to us it is like a household god.' she looked at the jew with evident emotion. 'i cannot tell you how it grieves me to hear you speak as if you attributed to any inanimate object the saving power which belongs to god alone,' she said. 'think for a moment, only think, how dishonouring such a superstition is to the creator.' 'madam!' said the jew in utmost surprise. 'consider how wrong such a superstition is,' she said. 'what virtue can there be in a stone, or a piece of metal, or an inscription? none. they are as dead and powerless as the idols of the heathen; and to put the faith in any such thing that we ought to put in god's providence, is to dishonour him. it grieves me to think that you, or any other intelligent man, could believe in such a superstition.' 'madam,' said the jew again, 'these things are as we think of them. you think one way and i another.' 'but you think wrongly. i would have you see your error, and turn from it. can you believe in the christian faith and yet----' 'i am a jew,' he said. 'a jew!' she exclaimed. she began to preach against that error also; entering into a long argument in a dull dogmatic way, but with an earnestness which held the two men irresolute with wonder and surprise. 'it would seem, madam,' said the jew, after she had talked much, 'that you desire greatly to set an erring world to rights again.' 'and should we not all desire that?' she asked, unconscious of the irony. 'for what else are we placed in the world but to pass on to others the light that god has entrusted to us?' 'i verily believe, madam,' said he seriously, 'that you think exactly what you say, and that you desire greatly to do me good. but, putting these questions aside, will you tell me if you have this ornament which i venerate?' 'yes, i have it.' 'you took it from the breast of my sister when she lay dead upon your shore?' 'i unfastened it from her neck, and have kept it with the greatest care. it was an ornament which was quite unsuitable to your sister's station in life. i could not have allowed any of our poor women to see such a valuable stone on the neck of a girl like themselves in station; it would have given them false ideas, and i am careful to teach them simplicity in dress. in england we do not approve of people of your class wearing jewellery.' the curate put his arms on the table and bowed his head on his hands. 'be that as it may,' said the jew, rising, 'i will thank you if you will give me my property now and let me go.' 'i cannot give it to you.' she was a little flustered in her manner, but not much. 'it would be against my conscience to give you what you would use profanely. providence has placed it in my care, and i am responsible for its use. if i gave it to you it would be tempting you to sin.' he sat down again and looked at her with wonder in his soft brown eyes. 'you have had the stone taken out,' he said, 'and set in a ring.' 'yes, and i have given it to my daughter, so that it is no longer mine to return to you. you must be aware that the marble cross stone i set up over your sister's grave cost me much more than the value of this stone. i am very much surprised that you should ask me to give it back. surely any real feeling of gratitude for what i did for her would prompt you to be glad that you have something to give me in return.' she paused, then harped again upon the other string. 'but under any circumstances i could not feel justified in giving you anything that you would put to a bad use.' 'that you have stolen my property does not make it yours to withhold, whatever may be your sentiments concerning it.' '"stolen!" i do not understand you when you use such a word. do you think it possible that i should steal? i took the chain from your sister's neck with the highest motives. do not use such a word as "stolen" in speaking to me.' 'truly, madam,' he said, 'you could almost persuade me that you are in the right, and that i insult you.' she looked at him stolidly, although evidently not without some inward apprehension. it was a piteous sight--the poor distorted reasoning faculty grovelling as a slave to the selfish will. 'i cannot give you back the amethyst,' she said, 'for i have given it away; but if you will promise me never again to regard it as having any value as an amulet or talisman, i will give you the necklace, and i will pay you something to have another stone put in.' the curate looked up. 'get him the necklace and violetta's ring,' he said, 'and we will go.' a man had arisen within the curate who was stronger than his self-control. they might have argued with her for ever: he frightened her into compliance. he took her by the arm and turned her to the door. 'there is not a man, woman or child in this town,' he said, 'who shall not hear of this affair if you delay another moment to get him the chain and the ring. it is due to his charity if the matter is concealed then.' when she was gone the jew was disposed to make remarks. 'i truly believe,' he said, 'that it is as you say, that this woman is very virtuous in the sight of her own conscience.' a servant brought them a packet. the jew opened it, taking out the chain and the ring reverently and putting them in his breast. then they went out into the wind and the rain. the jew went to his native city, and the curate accompanied him as far as london. there he said good-bye to him as to a friend. he did not return at once to his parish, but found a substitute to do his work there, and went inland for a month, seeking by change and relaxation to attain to the true judgment of calm pulses and quiet nerves. it was in april and in lent that he returned. higgs, the irrepressible, received him with joy. 'it's you that are the good sight for sore eyes,' he said. 'not but what we've been 'aving an uncommon peaceful time for lent. the vicar's lady she's took bad and took to bed.' the curate reproved the wicked higgs, but he inquired after the health of the invalid. 'i hope mrs. moore is not very ill?' 'bless you, no, sir; she's 'ale and 'earty. cook says she's sure she've fell out with some one. that's her way; she takes to bed when she've fell out with any one. it makes them repent of their sins.' a soft grey mist lay over land and sea. the church and vicarage were grey and wet. the beeches at the vicarage gate had broken forth in a myriad buds of silver green, and all the buds were tipped with water, and the grey stems were stained and streaked. the yew trees in the churchyard were bedewed with tiny drops. at the little gate that led from the vicarage into the churchyard, between the yew trees and the beeches, the curate waited for violetta, after evensong. she came out of the old grey porch and down the path between the graves and the yew trees with her prayer-book in her hand. she looked like an easter lily that holds itself in bud till the sadness of lent is past, so pure, so modest, such a perfect thing from the hand of god. she stopped and started when she saw her lover, and then greeted him with a little smile, but blent with some reproachful dignity. 'i am glad you have come at last, for i have been wanting to speak to you. poor mamma has been very poorly and ill. it has grieved her very much indeed that you should have so misunderstood her motives, and treated her so rudely. mamma takes things like that most deeply to heart.' 'she told you why i treated her rudely?' 'yes, she told me, but she did not tell papa anything about it; it would only vex papa and do no good. mamma told me to tell you that she had made up her mind to forgive you, and to say no more about it, although she was deeply grieved that you should have so misunderstood her.' 'yes,' said the curate vaguely, for he did not know what else to say. 'of course, as to the necklace, it may be a matter of opinion as to whether mamma judged rightly or not; but no one who knows her could doubt that her one desire was to do what was right. it is quite true what she says: that the stone was most unsuitable to the station of those people; every one says that the man was a very common and vulgar-looking person; and of course to regard such a thing with superstitious veneration is a very great sin, from which she saved them as long as she kept it. mamma says of course she knew she ran the risk of being misunderstood in acting as she did, but she thought it her duty to run that risk if by that means she could save anything that god had entrusted to her keeping from being misused. you know what mamma is; there is nothing she would not do if she thought it right.' 'yes,' he said again, as though simply admitting that he had heard what she said. 'so i think we had better not say anything more about it. i know you will see that it is wisest to say nothing to papa or any one else. people think so differently about such things that it would only cause needless argument, and give poor mamma more pain when she has already suffered so much.' 'you may trust me. i will never mention the matter to your father, or to any one else. no one shall ever hear of it through me.' 'i was sure that you would see that it is wisest not to; i told mamma so. when she is better, and you have shown her that you regret having misunderstood her, we shall all be very happy again.' she held up her pretty face for a kiss. no one could see them except the chattering starlings in the church tower, for they stood in the soft mist between the dewy yew trees and the red-budding hedge by the vicarage lawn. the beech trees stretched out their graceful twigs above them, the starlings talked to one another rather sadly, and far off through the stillness of the mist came the sound of the tide on the shore. the curate was very pale and grave. his tall frame trembled like a sick woman's as he stooped to give violetta that kiss. he took her hands in his for a moment, and then he clasped her in his arms, lifting her from the grass and embracing her in a passion of tenderness and love. then he put her from him. 'violetta, it is amiable of you, and loyal, to excuse and defend your mother, but tell me--tell me, as you speak before god, that you do not think as you have spoken. you are a woman now, with a soul of your own; tell me you know that to take this necklace and to keep it secretly was a terrible sin.' 'indeed'--with candour--'i do not think anything of the sort. i think it is wicked of you to slander mamma in that way. and if you want to know what i think'--with temper now--'i think it was most unkind of you to give away my ring. after it had been given to me on such an occasion, too, it was priceless to us, but we could easily have paid that vulgar man all it was worth to him.' 'i will not argue with you. i perceive now that that would do no good.' there was a heart-broken tone in his voice that frightened violetta. 'i will--i will only say----' 'what?' she asked. the thin sharp sound in her voice was a note of alarm. 'i will not marry you,' moaned the curate. 'not marry me!' she exclaimed in astonishment. 'i love you. i shall always love you. no other woman shall ever be my wife; but i will never marry you; and i shall go away and leave you free to forget me.' 'but why? what have i done?' she asked, her breath catching her tones. 'you have done nothing, my poor, poor girl; but--oh, my darling, i would gladly die if by dying i could open your eyes to see the simple integrity of unselfishness!' 'it is very absurd for you to speak of unselfishness at the very moment when you are selfishly giving me so much pain,' she cried, defiant. he bent his head and covered his face with his hands. she stood and looked at him, her cheeks flushed and her breast heaving with a great anger. 'good-bye, violetta,' he said, and turned slowly away. 'i never heard of anything so dishonourable,' she cried. and that was what the world said; the curate was in disgrace with society for the rest of his life. v 'hath not a jew eyes?' mr. saintou the hairdresser was a frenchman, therefore his english neighbours regarded him with suspicion. he was also exceedingly stout, and his stoutness had come upon him at an unbecomingly early age, so that he had long been the object of his neighbours' merriment. when to these facts it is added that, although a keen and prosperous business man, he had attained the age of fifty without making any effort to marry, enough will have been said to show why he was disliked. why was he not married? were english women not good enough for him? the pretty milliner across the street had been heard to remark in his presence that she should never refuse a man simply because he was a foreigner. or if he did not want an english wife, why did he not import one from paris with his perfumes? no, there was no reason for his behaviour, and mr. saintou was the object of his neighbours' aversion. neighbours are often wrong in their estimates. in the heart of this shrewd and stout french hairdresser there lay the rare capacity for one supreme and lasting affection. mr. saintou's love story was in the past, and it had come about in this way. one day when the hairdresser was still a young man, not long after he had first settled in albert street, the door of his shop opened, and a young woman came in. her figure was short and broad, and she was lame, walking with a crutch. her face and features were large and peculiarly frank in expression; upon her head was a very large hat. when she spoke, it was with a loud staccato voice; her words fell after one another like hailstones in a storm, there was no breathing space between them. 'i want mr. saintou.' 'what may i have the pleasure of showing madame?' 'good gracious, i told you i wanted to be shown mr. saintou. are you mr. saintou? none of your assistants for me; i want my hair cut.' the hairdresser laid his hand upon his heart, as though to point out his own identity. he bowed, and as even at that age he was very stout, the effort of the bow caused his small eyes to shut and open themselves again. there was nothing staccato about the manner of the hairdresser, he had carefully cultivated that address which he supposed would be most soothing to those who submitted themselves to his operations. 'very well,' said the little lady, apparently satisfied with the identification, 'i want my hair cut. it is like a sheaf of corn. it is like a court train. it is like seven horses' manes tied together, if they were red. it is like a comet's tail.' it is probable that the hairdresser only took in that part of this speech upon which he was in the habit of concentrating his attention, and that the force of the similes which followed one another like electric shocks escaped him altogether. he was about to show the new customer into the ladies' room, where his staid and elderly sister was accustomed to officiate, but she drew back with decision. 'no, not at all; i have come to have my hair cut by mr. saintou, and i want to have it done in the room with the long row of chairs where the long row of men get shaved every morning. i told my sister i should sit there. you have no men in at this time of day, have you, mr. saintou? now i shall sit here in the middle chair, and you shall wash my hair. my father is the baker round the corner. he makes good bread; do you wash people's hair as well? will you squirt water on it with that funny tube? will you put it in my eyes? now, i am up on the chair. don't put the soap in my eyes, mr. saintou.' saintou was not a man easily surprised. 'permit me, mademoiselle, would it not be better to remove the hat? mon dieu! holy mary, what hair!' for as the eastern women carry their burdens on the crown of the head to ease the weight, so, when the large hat was off, it appeared that the baker's daughter carried her hair. 'like the hair of a woman on a hair-restorer bottle, if it were red,' remarked the girl in answer to the exclamation. 'no, mademoiselle, no, it is not red. mon dieu! it is not red. holy mary! it is the colour of the sun. mon dieu, what hair!' as he untwined the masses, it fell over the long bib, over the high chair, down till it swept the floor, in one unbroken flood of light. 'wash it, and cut it, and let me go home to make my father's dinner,' said the quick voice with decision. 'my father is the baker round the corner, and he takes his dinner at two.' 'is it that mademoiselle desires the ends cut?' asked the hairdresser, resuming his professional manner. 'which ends?' 'which ends?' he exclaimed, baffled. 'mon dieu! these ends,' and he lifted a handful of the hair on the floor and held it before the eyes of the girl. 'good heavens, no! do you think i am going to pay you for cutting those ends? it's the ends at the top i want cut. lighten it; that's what i want. do you think i am a woman in a hairdresser's advertisement to sit all day looking at my hair? i have to get my father's dinner. lighten it, mr. saintou; cut it off; that's what i want.' 'mon dieu, no!' saintou again relapsed from the hairdresser into the man. he too could have decision. he leant against the next chair and set his lips very firmly together. 'by all that is holy, no,' he said; 'you may get some villain englishman to cut that hair, but me, never.' 'you speak english very well, mr. saintou. have you been long in the country? well, wash the hair then, and be done. don't put the soap in my eyes.' saintou was in ecstasies. he touched the hair reverently as one would touch the garments of a saint. he laid aside his ordinary brushes and sponges, and going into the shop he brought thence what was best and newest. do not laugh at him. have we not all at some time in our lives met with what seemed the embodiment of our ideal; have we not set aside for the time our petty economies and reserves, and brought forth whatever we had that was best, of thought, or smiles, or vesture? 'ah, mademoiselle,' he said, 'to take care of such hair for ever--that would be heaven. i am a frenchman; i have a soul; i can feel.' 'should you be afraid to die a sudden death, mr. saintou?' said the quick voice from the depths of a shower of water. 'ciel! we do not speak of such things, mademoiselle. there will come a time, i know, when my hair will turn grey; then for the sake of my profession i shall be obliged to dye it. there will come a time after that when i shall die; but we do not even think of these things, it is better not.' 'but should you be afraid to die now?' persisted the girl. 'very much afraid,' said the hairdresser candidly. 'then don't feel, mr. saintou. i never feel. i make it the business of my life not to feel. they tell me there is something wrong at my heart, and that if i ever feel either glad or sorry i shall go off, pop, like a crow from a tree when it is shot, like a spark that falls into water.' the hairdresser meditated upon this for some time. he did not believe her. he had drawn the bright hair back now from the water, and was fondling it with his whitest and softest towels. 'who was it that said to mademoiselle that her heart was bad?' 'good gracious, mr. saintou, my heart is not bad. i know my catechism and go to church, and cook my father's dinner every day, and a very good dinner it is too. what put it into your head that i had a bad heart?' 'pardon! mademoiselle; i mistake. who told mademoiselle that she was sick at heart?' 'good gracious heavens! i am not sick at heart. to be sure my mother is dead, and my sister is ill, and my father is as cross as two sticks, but for all that i am not heart-sick. i like this world very well, and when i feel sad i put more onions into the soup.' saintou went on with his work for some time in silence, then he tried again. 'you say i speak good english, and i flatter myself i have the accent very well, but what avails if i cannot make you understand? was it a good doctor who said mademoiselle's heart was affected; touched, i might say?' there was a shout of laughter from under the shower of gold. 'my heart touched! one would think i was in love. no, my heart is not touched yet; least of all by you, mr. saintou. 'least of all by you, mr. saintou.' she repeated this last rhyming couplet with a quaint musical intonation, as though it was the refrain of a song, and after her voice and laughter had died away she went on nodding her head in time to the brushing as if she were singing it over softly to herself. this distressed the hairdresser not a little, and he remained silent. 'what shall i pay you, mr. saintou?' said the little lady, when the large hat was once more on the head. 'if mademoiselle would but come again,' said the hairdresser, putting both hands resolutely behind his back. 'when i come again i shall pay you both for that time and this,' she said, with perhaps more tact than could have been expected of her. 'and if you want to live long, mr. saintou, don't feel. if i should feel i should die off, quick, sharp, like a moth that flies into the candle.' she made a little gesture with her hand, as if to indicate the ease and suddenness with which the supposed catastrophe was to take place, and hobbled down the street. saintou stood in the doorway looking after her, and his heart went from him. he sent her flowers--flowers that a duchess might have been proud to receive. he sent them more than once, and they were accepted; he argued much from that. he made friends with the baker in order that he might bow to him morning and evening. then he waited. he said to himself, 'she is english. if i go to see her, if i put my hand on my heart and weep, she will jeer at me; but if i wait and work for her in silence, then she will believe.' he made a parlour for her in the room above his shop; and every week, as he had time and money, he went out to choose some ornament for it. his maiden sister watched these actions with suspicion, threw scornful looks at when he observed her watchfulness, and lent a kindly helping hand when he was out of sight. the parlour grew into a shrine ready for its divinity, and the hairdresser worked and waited in silence. in this he made a mistake, but he feared her laughter. meanwhile the girl also waited. she could not go back to the hairdresser's shop lest she should seem to invite a renewal of those attentions which had given her the sweet surprise of love. the law of her woman's nature stood like a lion in the path. she waited through the months of the dreary winter till the one gleam of sunshine which had come into her hard young life had faded, till the warmth it had kindled in her heart died--as a lamp's flame dies for lack of oil; died--as a flower dies in the drought; died into anger for the man who had disturbed her peace, and when she thought she cared for him no more she went again to get her hair cut. 'you have come,' said saintou; but the very strength of his feeling made him grave. 'good gracious, yes, i have come to have my hair cut. you would not cut it when i was here, and i have been very poorly these three months. i could not come out, so the other day i had my sister cut it off. my father wanted to send for you, but i said "no," and, oh, my! it looks just as if a donkey had come behind and mistaken it for hay.' how quickly a train of thought can flash through the brain! saintou asked himself if he loved the girl or the hair, and his heart answered very sincerely that the hair, divine as it was, had been but the outward sign which led him to love the inward grace of the girl. 'mademoiselle ought not to have said "no"; i should have come very willingly and would have cut her hair, if i had known it must be so.' 'i made my sister cut it, but it's frightful. it looks as if one had tried to mow a lawn with a pair of scissors, or shear a sheep with a penknife.' 'i will make all that right,' said saintou soothingly; 'i will make it all right. just in a moment i will make it very nice.' yes, it was too true, the hair was gone; and very barbarously it had been handled. 'i shall make it all right,' he said cheerfully; 'i shall trim it beautifully for mademoiselle. ah, the beautiful colour is there all the same.' 'as red as a sunset or a geranium,' she said. 'you do not believe that,' sighed saintou. he trimmed the hair very tenderly, and curled it softly round the white face, till it looked like a great fair marigold just beginning to curl in its petals for the night. he worked slowly, for he had something he wanted to say, and when his work was done he summoned up courage and said it. he told her his hopes and fears. he told her the story blunderingly enough, but it had its effect. 'mon dieu!' said saintou, but he said it in a tone that made his sister, who was listening to every word through the door, leave that occupation and dart in to his assistance. 'qu'elle est morte,' was her brief stern comment. and so it was. the baker's daughter had felt, and she had died. 'this is not wholly unexpected,' said the baker sadly, when he came to carry away the corpse of his daughter. 'we all expected it,' said the neighbours; 'she had heart disease.' and they talked their fill, and never discovered the truth it would have pleased them best to talk about. the short hair curled softly about the face of the dead girl as she lay in her coffin, and saintou paid heavily for masses for her sweet soul. when they had laid her in the churchyard he came home, and took the key, and went into the little parlour all alone. she had never seen it. she had never even heard of it. it is sad to bury a baby that is dead; it is sadder, if we but knew it, to bury in darkness and silence a child that has never lived. a joy that has gone from us for ever is a jewel that trembles like a tear on sorrow's breast, but the brightest stars in her diadem are the memories of hopes that have passed away unrealised and untold. ah well, perhaps the gay trappings of the little room, by their daily influence on his life, drew him nearer to heaven. he gave the key to his sister afterwards, and they used the room as their own; but that day he locked himself in alone, and, hiding his face in the cushions of her chair, he wept as only a strong man can weep. vi a commercial traveller mam'selle zilda chaplot keeps the station hotel at st. armand, in the french country. the hotel is like a wooden barn with doors and windows, not a very large barn either. the station is merely a platform of planks between the hotel and the rails. the railroad is roughly made; it lies long and straight in a flat land, snow-clad in winter, very dusty in the summer sun, and its line is only softened by a long row of telegraph poles, which seem to waver and tremble as the eye follows their endless repetition into the distance. in some curious way their repetition lends to the stark road a certain grace. when zilda chaplot was young there were fewer wires on these telegraph poles, fewer railway-lines opposite the station, fewer houses in st. armand, which lies half a mile away. the hotel itself is the same, but in those days it was not painted yellow, as it is now, and was not half so well kept. the world has progressed by twenty years since mam'selle was a girl, and, also, she owns the place herself now, and is a much better inn-keeper than was her father. mam'selle chaplot is a very active person, tall, and somewhat stout. her complexion is brown; her eyes are very black; over them there is a fringe of iron-grey hair, which she does up in curl-papers every night, and which, in consequence, stands in very tight little curls all day. mam'selle chaplot minds her affairs well; she has a keen eye to the main chance. she is sometimes sharp, a trifle fiery, but on the whole she is good-natured. there are lines about the contour of her chin, and also where the neck sweeps upward, which suggest a more than common power of satisfaction in certain things, such as dinners and good sound sleep, and good inn-keeping--yes, and in spring flowers, and in autumn leaves and winter sunsets. zilda chaplot was formed for pleasure, yet there is no tendency latent in her which could have made her a voluptuary. there are some natures which have so nice a proportion of faculties that they are a law of moderation to themselves. they take such keen delight in small pleasures that to them a little is enough. the world would account mam'selle chaplot to have had a life of toil and stern limitations; a prosperous life, truly, for no one could see her without observing her prosperity, but still a hard dry life. even her neighbours, whose ideas of enjoyment do not soar above the st. armand level, think that her lot would be softer if she married. many of the men have offered marriage, not with any disinterested motive, it is true, but with kindly intent. they have been set aside like children who make requests unreasonable, but so natural for them to make that the request is hardly worth noticing. the women relatives of these rejected suitors have boasted to mam'selle of their own domestic joys, and have drawn the contrast of her state in strong colour. zilda only says 'chut!' or she lifts her chin a little, so that the pretty upward sweep of the neck is apparent, and lets them talk. mam'selle is not the woman to be turned out of her way by talk. the way of single blessedness is not chosen by zilda chaplot because of any fiction of loyalty to a quondam lover. her mind is such that she could not have invented obligations for herself, because she has not the inventive faculty. no, it is simply this: mam'selle chaplot loved once, and was happy; her mind still hugs the memory of that happiness with exultant reserve; it is enough; she does not desire other happiness of that sort. when she looks out on the little station platform and sees the loungers upon it, once and again she lets her busy mind stop in its business to think of some one else she was once accustomed to see there. when she looks with well-practised critical eye down the hotel dining-room, which is now quite clean and orderly, when she is scolding a servant, or serving a customer, her mind will revert to the room in its former rough state, and she will remember another customer who used to eat there. when the spring comes, and far and near there is the smell of wet moss, and shrubs on the wide flat land shoot forth their leaves, and the fields are carpeted with violets, then mam'selle looks round and hugs her memories, and thinks to herself, 'ah! well, i have had my day.' and because of the pleasant light of that day she is content with the present twilight, satisfied with her good dinners and her good management. this is the story of what happened twenty years ago. st. armand is in the french country which lies between the town of quebec and the townships where the english settlements are. at that time the railway had not been very long in existence; two trains ran southward from the large towns in the morning, and two trains ran northward to the large towns in the evening; besides these, there was just one local train which came into st. armand at noon, and passengers arriving at noon were obliged to wait for the evening train to get on farther. there were not many passengers by this short local line. even on the main line there was little traffic that affected st. armand. yet most of the men of the place found excuse of business or pleasure to come and watch the advent of the trains. the chief use of the station platform seemed to be for these loungers; the chief use of the bar at the hotel was to slake their thirst, although they were not on the whole an intemperate lot. they stood about in homespun clothes and smoked. a lazy, but honest set of humble-minded french papists were the men at st. armand. it was on the station platform that zilda chaplot came out in society, as the phrase might be. she was not a child, for when her father took the place she was twenty-four. there was red in her cheeks then, and the lashes of her eyes were long; her hair was not curled, for it was not the fashion, but brushed smoothly back from broad low brows. she was tall, and not at all thin. she was very strong, but less active in those days, as girls are often less active than women. when zilda had leisure she used to stand outside the hotel and watch the men on the platform. she was always calm and dignified, a little stupid perhaps. she did not attract a great deal of attention from them. they were all french at st. armand, but most of the strangers which chance brought that way spoke english, so that the st. armand folks could speak english also. anything which is repeated at appreciable intervals has to occur very often before the unscientific mind will perceive the law of its repetition. there was a little red-haired englishman, john gilby by name, who travelled frequently that way. it was a good while before the loungers at the station remarked that upon a certain day in the week he always arrived by the local train and waited for the evening train to take him on to montreal. it was, in fact, gilby himself who pointed out to them the regularity of his visits, for he was of a social disposition, and could not spend more than a few afternoons at that dull isolated station without making friends with some one. he travelled for a firm in montreal; it was his business to make a circuit of certain towns and villages in a certain time. he had no business at st. armand, but fate and the ill-adjusted time-table decreed that he should wait there. this little red-haired gentleman--for gentleman, in comparison with the st. armand folk he certainly was--was a thorough worldling in the sense of knowing the world somewhat widely, and corresponding to its ways, although not to its evil deeds. indeed, he was a very good sort of man, but such a worldling, with his thick gold chain, and jaunty clothes, and quick way of adjusting himself to passing circumstances, that it was some time before his good-natured sociableness won in the least upon the station loungers. they held aloof, as from an explosive, not knowing when it would begin to emit sparks. he was short in stature, much shorter than the hulking fellows who stood and surveyed him through the smoke of their pipes, but he had such a cocky little way with him that he overawed them much more than a big man would have done. out of sheer dulness he took to talking to zilda. zilda stood with her back against the wall. 'fine day,' said gilby, stopping beside her. 'oui, monsieur.' gilby had taken his cigar from his mouth, and held it between two fingers of his right hand. her countrymen commonly held their pipes between their thumb and finger. to zilda, gilby's method appeared astonishingly elegant, but she hardly seemed to observe it. 'you have a flat country here,' said he, looking round at the dry summer fields; 'rather dull, isn't it?' 'oui, monsieur.' 'don't you speak english?' 'yes, sir,' said zilda. this was not very interesting for gilby. he had about him a good deal of the modern restlessness that cannot endure one hour without work or amusement. he made further efforts to make up to the men; he asked them questions with patronising kindness, he gave them scraps of information upon all subjects of temporary interest, with a funny little air of pompous importance. when by mere force of habit they grew more familiar with him, he would strut up and engage them in long conversations, listen to all they said with consummate good nature, giving his opinion in return. he was wholly unconscious that he looked like a bantam crowing to a group of larger and more sleepy fowls, but the frenchmen perceived the likeness. as the months wore on he did them good. they needed waking up, those men who lounged at the station, and he had some influence in that direction; not much, of course, but every traveller has some influence, and his was of a lively, and, on the whole, of a beneficial sort. the men brought forth a mood to greet him which was more in correspondence with his own. when winter came the weather was very bleak; deep snow was all around. gilby disliked the closeness of the hotel, which was sealed to the outer air. 'whew!' he would say, 'you fellows, let us do something to keep ourselves warm.' and after much exercise of his will, which was strong, he actually had the younger men all jumping with him from a wood pile near the platform to see who could jump farthest. he was not very young himself; he was about thirty, and rather bald; the men who were with him were much younger, but he thought nothing of that. he led them on, and incited them to feats much greater than his own, with boisterous challenges and loud bravos. before he jumped himself he always made mock hesitation for their amusement, swinging his arms, and apparently bracing himself for the leap. perhaps the deep frost of the country made him frisky because he was not accustomed to it; perhaps it was always his nature to be noisy and absurd when he tried to be amusing. certain it was that it never once occurred to him that under the french politeness with which he was treated, under the sincere liking which they really grew to have for him, there was much quiet amusement at his expense. it was just as well that he did not know, for he would have been terribly affronted; as it was, he remained on the best of terms with them to the end. the feeling of amusement found vent in his absence in laughter and mimicry. zilda joined in this mimicry; she watched the frenchmen strut along the platform in imitation of gilby, and smiled when their imitation was good. when it was poor she cried, 'non, ce n'est pas comme ça,' and she came out from the doorway and showed them how to do it. her imitation was very good indeed, and excited much laughter. this showed that zilda had been waked into greater vivacity. six months before she could not have done so good a piece of acting. zilda's exhibition would go further than this. excited by success, she would climb the wood pile, large and heavy as she was, and, standing upon its edge, would flap her arms and flutter back in a frightened manner and brace herself to the leap, as gilby had done. she was aided in this representation by her familiarity with the habits of chickens when they try to get down from a high roost. the resemblance struck her; she would cry aloud to the men-- 'voici monsieur geelby, le poulet qui a peur de descendre!' the fact that at the thought of mimicking gilby zilda was roused to an unwarranted glow of excitement showed, had any one been wise enough to see it, that she felt some inward cause of pleasurable excitement at the mention of his name. a narrow nature cannot see absurdity in what it loves, but zilda's nature was not narrow. she had learnt to love little gilby in a fond, deep, silent way that was her fashion of loving. he had explained to her the principles of ventilation and why he disliked close waiting-rooms. zilda could not make her father learn the lesson, but it bore fruit afterwards when she came into power. gilby had explained other things to her, small practical things, such as some points in english grammar, some principles of taste in woman's dress, how to choose the wools for her knitting, how to make muffins for his tea. it was his kindly, conceited, didactic nature that made him instruct whenever he talked to her. zilda learned it all, and learned also to admire and love the author of such wisdom. it was not his fault; it was not hers. it was the result of his gorgeous watch-chain and his fine clothes and his worldly knowledge, and also of the fact that because of his strict notions and conceited pride it never occurred to him to be gallant or to make love to her. zilda, the hotel-keeper's daughter, was accustomed to men who offered her light gallantry. it was because she did not like such men that she learned to love--rather the better word might be, to adore--little john gilby. from higher levels of taste he would have been seen to be, in external notions, a common little man, but from zilda's standpoint, even in matters of outward taste he was an ideal; and zilda, placed as she was, quickly perceived, what those who looked down upon him might not have discovered, that the heart of him was very good. 'mon dieu, but he is good!' she would say to herself, which was simply the fact. all winter long gilby came regularly. zilda was happy in thinking of him when he was gone, happy in expecting him when he was coming, happy in making fun of him so that no one ever suspected her affection. all that long winter, when the snow was deep in the fields, and the engines carried snow-ploughs, and the loungers about the station wore buffalo coats, zilda was very happy. gilby wore a dogskin cap and collar and cuffs; zilda thought them very becoming. then spring came, and gilby wore an inverness cape, which was the fashion in those days. zilda thought that little gilby looked very fascinating therein, although she remarked to her father that one could only know he was there because the cape strutted. then summer came and gilby wore light tweed clothes. the frenchmen always wore their best black suits when they travelled. zilda liked the light clothes best. then there came a time when gilby did not come. no one noticed his absence at first but zilda. two weeks passed and then they all spoke of it. then some one in st. armand ascertained that gilby had had a rise in the firm in which he was employed, that he sat in an office all day and did not travel any more. zilda heard the story told, and commented upon, and again talked over, in the way in which such matters of interest are slowly digested by the country intellect. alas! then zilda knew how far she had travelled along a flowery path which, as it now seemed to her, led to nowhere. it was not that she had wanted to marry gilby; she had not thought of that as possible; it was only that her whole nature summed itself up in an ardent desire that things should be as they had been, that he should come there once a week, and talk politics with her father and other men, and set the boys jumping, and eat the muffins he had taught her to make for his tea. and if this might not be, she desired above all else to see him again, to have one more look at him, one more smile from him of which she could take in the whole value, knowing it to be the last. how carelessly she had allowed him to go, supposing that he would return! it was not her wish to express her affection or sorrow in any way; it was not her nature to put her emotions into words; but ah, holy saints! just to see him again, and at least take leave of him with her eyes! it was very sad that he should simply cease to come, yet that she knew was just what was natural; a man does not bid adieux to a railway station, and zilda knew that she was, as it were, only part of the station furniture. she resented nothing; she had nothing to resent. so the winter came again, and christmas, and again the days grew longer over the snowfields. zilda always looked for the sunsets now, for she had been taught that they were beautiful. she cultivated geraniums and petunias in pots at her windows, just as she had done for many winters, but she would stop oftener to admire the flowers now. the men had taken again to congregating in the hot close bar-room, or huddling together in their buffalo coats, smoking in the outer air. zilda looked at the wood pile, from which no one jumped now, with weary eyes. it had grown intolerable to her that now no one ever mentioned gilby; she longed intensely to hear his name or to speak it. she dared not mention him gravely, soberly, because she was conscious of her secret which no one suspected. but it was open to her to revive the mimicry. 'voici monsieur geelby,' she would cry, and pass along the station platform with consequential gait. a great laugh would break from the station loungers. 'encore,' they cried, and zilda gave the encore. there was only one other relief she found from the horrible silence which had settled down upon her life concerning the object of her affection. at times when she lay awake in the quiet night, or at such times as she found herself within the big stone church of st. armand, she prayed that the good st. anne would intercede for her, that she might see 'monsieur geelby' once more. this big church of st. armand has a great pointed roof of shining tin. it is a bright and conspicuous object always in that landscape; under summer and winter sun it glistens like some huge lighthouse reflector. ever since, whenever zilda goes out on the station platform, for a breath of air, for a moment's rest and refreshing, or, on business intent, to chide the loungers there, the roof of this church, at a half-mile's distance, twinkles brightly before her eyes, set in green fields or in a snow-buried world; and every time it catches her eye it brings to her mind more or less distinctly that she has in her own way tested religion and found it true, because the particular boon which she had demanded at this time was granted. it was a happy morn of may; the snow had just receded from the land, leaving it very wet, and spring was pushing on all the business she had to do with almost visible speed. the early train came in from montreal as usual, and who should step out of it but gilby himself! he was a little stouter, a little more bald, but he skipped down upon the platform, radiant as to smile and the breadth of his gold watch-chain, and attired in a check coat which zilda thought was the most perfect thing in costume which she had ever beheld. in a flash of thought it came to zilda that there would be more than a momentary happiness for her. 'ah, monsieur geelby, do you know that the river has cut into the line three miles away, and that this train can go no farther till it is mended.' gilby was distinctly annoyed; he had indeed left town by the earlier of the two morning trains in order to stop an hour and take breakfast at st. armand; he had been glad of the chance of doing that, of seeing chaplot and his daughter and the others; but to be stopped at st. armand a whole day--he made exhibition of his anger, which zilda took very meekly. why had the affair not been telegraphed? why were busy men like himself brought out of the city when they could not get on to do their work? there were other voices besides gilby's to rail; there were other voices besides zilda's to explain the disaster. in the midst of the babel zilda slipped away to make muffins hastily for gilby's breakfast. her heart was singing within her, but it was a tremulous song, half dazed with delight, half frightened, fearing that with his great cleverness he would see some way to proceed on his journey although she saw none. when she came out of the kitchen with the muffins in her hand her sunshine suddenly clouded. gilby, unconscious that a special breakfast was preparing for him, had hastily swallowed coffee and walked on to the site of the breakdown to see for himself how long the mending would take. it was as if one, looking through long hours for the ending of night, had seen the sunrise, only to see the light go out suddenly again in darkness. zilda felt that her heart was broken. her disappointment grew upon her for an hour, then she could no longer keep back the tears; because she had no place in which to weep, she began to walk away from the hotel down the line. there was no one to notice her going; she was as free to go and come as the wild canaries that hopped upon the budding bramble vines growing upon the railway embankment, or the blue-breasted swallows that sat on the telegraph wire. at first she only walked to hide her tears; then gradually the purpose formed within her to go on to the break in the road. there was no reason why she should not go to see the mishap. truly there had been many a breakdown on this road before and zilda had never stirred foot to examine them, but now she walked on steadily. her fear told her that gilby might find some means of getting on to the next station, some engine laden with supplies for the workmen from the other station might take him back with it. if so, what good would this her journey do? ah, but perhaps the good god would allow her to see him first, or--well, she walked on, reason or no reason. the sun was high, the blue of the sky seemed a hundred miles in depth, and not wisp or feather of cloud in it anywhere! where the flat fields were untilled they were very green, a green that was almost yellow, it was so bright. within the strip of railway land a tangle of young bushes grew, and on every twig buds were bursting. about a mile back from the road, on either side, fir woods stood, the trees in close level phalanx. everywhere over the land birds big and little were fluttering and flying. zilda did not notice any of these things; she had only learned to observe two things in nature, both of which gilby had pointed out to her--the red or yellow rose of the winter sunset, the depth of colour in the petals of her flowers. nature was to her like a language of which she had only been told the meaning of two words. in the course of the next month she learned the meaning of a few more; she never made further progress, but what she learned she learned. the river which, farther on, had done damage to the line, here ran close to it for some distance, consequently zilda came to the river before she reached the scene of the disaster. the river banks at this season were marshy, green like plush or velvet when it is lifted dripping from green vats of the brightest dye. there were some trees by the river bank, maples and elms, and every twig was tipped with a crimson gem. zilda did not see the beauty of the river bank either; she regarded nothing until she came to a place where a foot-track was beaten down the side of the embankment, as if apparently to entice walkers to stray across a bit of the meadow and so cut off a large curve of the line. at this point zilda heard a loud chirpy voice calling,'hi! hi! who's there? is any one there?' zilda did not know from whence the voice came, but she knew from whom it came. it was gilby's voice, and she stopped, her soul ravished by the music. all the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows had been singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking; everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of the canadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft whistling note. zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly with head bent, listening eager, enraptured. 'hi! hi!' called the voice again. 'is any one there?' zilda went down the bank halfway among the bushes and looked over. she saw gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water. she saw at once that something was wrong. his attitude was as natural as he could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when pain is chaining him in an awkward position, but zilda saw that he was injured. her heart gave a great bound of pleasure. ah! her bird was wounded in the wing; she had him now, for a time at least. 'you! mam'selle zilda,' he said in surprise; 'how came you here?' 'i wished to see the broken road, monsieur.' there was nothing in her voice or manner then or at any other time to indicate that she took a special interest in him. 'do you often take such long walks?' he asked with curiosity. zilda shrugged her shoulders. 'sometimes; why not?' she could not have told why she dissembled; it was instinct, just as it was the instinct of his proud little spirit to hate to own that he was helpless. 'look here,' he said, 'i slipped on the bank--and i--i think i have sprained my ankle.' 'oui, monsieur,' said zilda. her manner evinced no surprise; her stolidity was grateful to him. stooping down, she took his foot in her hand, gently, but as firmly as if it had been a horse's hoof. she straightened it, unlaced his muddy boot, and with strong hands tore the slit further open until she could take it off. 'look here,' he said, with a little nervous shout of laughter, 'do you not know you are hurting me?' it was the only wince he gave, although he was faint with pain. 'oui, monsieur'--with a smile as firm and gentle as her touch. she took off her hat, and, heedless of the ribbon upon it, filled it with water again and again and drenched the swollen leg. it was so great a relief to him that he hardly noticed that she stood ankle-deep in the river to do it. she wore a little red tartan shawl upon her shoulders, and she dipped this also in the river, binding it round and round the ankle, and tying it tight with her own boot-lace. 'thank you,' said he; 'you are really very good, mam'selle zilda.' she stood beside him; she was radiantly happy, but she did not show it much. she had him there very safe; it mattered less to her how to get him away; yet in a minute she said-- 'monsieur had better move a little higher up; he is very uncomfortable.' he knew that much better than she, but he had borne all the pain he could just then. he nodded as if in dismissal of the idea. 'presently. but, in the meantime, zilda, sit down and see what a beautiful place this is; you have not looked at it.' so she found a stone to sit on, and immediately her eyes were opened and she saw the loveliness around her. the river was not a very broad one, but ah! how blue it was, with a glint of gold on every wave. the trees that stood upon either bank cast a lacework of shadow upon the carpet of moss and violets beneath them. the buds of the maples were red. on a tree near them a couple of male canaries, bright gold in the spring season, were hopping and piping; then startled, they flew off in a straight line over the river to the other shore. 'see them,' said gilby; 'they look like streaks of yellow light!' 'i see,' said zilda, and she did see for the first time. now gilby had a certain capacity for rejoicing in the beauties of nature; it was overlaid with huge conceit in his own taste and discernment and a love of forcing his observations on other people, but the flaws in his character zilda was not in a position to see. the good in him awakened in her a higher virtue than she would otherwise have known; she was unconscious of the rest, just as eyes which can see form and not colour are unconscious of the bad blending of artificial hues. presently zilda rose up. 'i will make monsieur more comfortable,' she said, and she lifted him to a drier place upon the bank. this was mortifying to little gilby; his manner was quite huffy for some minutes after. zilda had her own ideas of what she would do. she presently left him alone and walked on swiftly to the place of the breakdown. there she borrowed a hand-car; it was a light one that could be worked easily by two men, and zilda determined to work it alone. while she was coming back along the iron road on the top of the narrow embankment, gilby could see her from where he sat--a stalwart young woman in homespun gown, stooping and rising with regular toilsome movement as she worked the rattling machine that came swiftly nearer. when the carriage thus provided for him was close at hand, the almost breathless zilda actually proposed to exert her strength to carry gilby up to it. he insisted upon hopping on one foot supported by her arm; he did not feel the slightest inclination to lean upon her more than was needful, he was too self-conscious and proud. even after she had placed him on the car, he kept up an air of offence for a long time just because she had proved her strength to be so much greater than his own. his little rudenesses of this sort did not disturb zilda's tranquillity in the least. gilby sat on the low platform of the hand-car. he looked like a bantam cock whose feathers were much ruffled. zilda worked at the handles of the machine; she was very large and strong, all her attitudes were statuesque. the may day beamed on the flat spring landscape through which they were travelling; the beam found a perfect counterpart in the joy of zilda's heart. so she brought gilby safely to the hotel and installed him in the best room there. the sprain was a very bad one. gilby was obliged to lie there for a month. sometimes his friends came out from the town to see him, but not very often, and they did not stay long. zilda cooked for him, zilda waited upon him, zilda conversed with him in the afternoons when he needed amusement. this month was the period of her happiness. when he was going home, gilby felt really very grateful to the girl. he had not the slightest thought of making love to her; he felt too strongly on the subject of his dignity and his principles for that; but although he haggled with chaplot over the bill, he talked in a bombastic manner about making zilda a present. it did not distress zilda that he should quarrel with her father's bill; she had no higher idea in character than that each should seek his own in all things; but when gilby talked of giving her a present she shrank instinctively with an air of offence. this air of offence was the one betrayal of her affection which he could observe, and he did not gather very much of the truth from it. 'i will give you a watch, zilda,' he said, 'a gold watch; you will like that.' 'no, monsieur.' zilda's face was flushed and her head was high in the air. 'i will give you a ring; you would like that--a golden ring.' 'no, monsieur; i would not like it at all.' gilby retired from the discussion that day feeling some offence and a good deal of consternation. he thought the best thing would be to have nothing more to do with zilda; but the next day, in the bustle of his departure, remembering all she had done for him, he relented entirely, and he gave her a kiss. afterwards, when the train was at the station, and chaplot and zilda had put his bags and his wraps beside him on a cushioned seat, gilby turned and with great politeness accosted two fine ladies who were travelling in the same carriage and with whom he had a slight acquaintance. his disposition was at once genial and vain; he had been so long absent from the familiar faces of the town that his heart warmed to the first townsfolk he saw; but he was also ambitious: he wished to appear on good terms with these women, who were his superiors in social position. they would not have anything to do with him, which offended him very much; they received his greeting coldly and turned away; they said within themselves that he was an intolerably vulgar little person. but all her life zilda chaplot lived a better and happier woman because she had known him. vii the syndicate baby some miles above the city of la motte, the blue merrian river widens into the lake of st. jean. in the canadian summer the shores of this lake are as pleasant a place for an outing as heart could desire. the inhabitants of the city build wooden villas there, and spend the long warm days in boats upon the water. the families that live in these wooden villas do not take boarders; that was the origin of 'the syndicate.' it consisted of some two dozen bachelors who were obliged to sit upon office stools all day in the hot city. 'if,' said they, 'we could live upon the lake, we could have our morning swim and our evening sail; and the trains would take us in and out of the city.' the one or two uncomfortable hotels of this region were already overcrowded, so these bachelors said to each other--'go to; we will put our pence together, and build us a boat-house with an upper story, and live therein.' they bought a bit of the beach for a trifle of money. they built a boat-house, of which the upper half was one long dormitory, with a great balcony at the end over the water which served as kitchen and dining-hall. the ground floor was the lake itself, and each man who could buy a boat tethered it there. the property, boats excepted, was in common. by and by they bought a field in which they grew vegetables; later they bought two cows and a pasture. the produce of the herd and the farm helped to furnish forth the table. this accretion of wealth took several years; some of the older men grew richer, and took to themselves wives and villas; the ranks were always filled up by more impecunious bachelors. the bachelors called themselves 'the syndicate.' the plan worked well, chiefly because of the fine air and the sunshine, the warm starry nights, and, above all, the witchery of the lake, which is to every man who has spent days and nights upon it like a mystical lady-love, ever changeful and ever charming. then, too, there was the contrast with the hot city; the sense of need fulfilled makes men good-natured. the one servant of the establishment, an old man who made the beds and the dinners, was not a professional cook; the meals were often indifferent; yet the syndicate did not quarrel among themselves. some outlet for temper perhaps was needful. at any rate they had one outside quarrel with an old welshman named johns, a farmer of great importance in the place, who had sold them the land and tried, in their opinion, to cheat them afterwards about the boundaries. their united rage waxed hot against johns, and he, on his side, did nothing to propitiate. the quarrel came to no end; it was a feud. 'esprit de corps,' like the fumes of wine, gives men a wholly unreasonable sense of complacence in themselves and their belongings, whatever the belongings may happen to be. the syndicate learned to cherish this feud as a valuable possession. the syndicate, as has been seen, had one house, one servant, and one enemy. it also had one baby. the baby was the youngest member of the community, a pretty boy who by some chance favour had obtained a bed in the dormitory at the hoyden age of nineteen. he had a tendency to chubbiness, and his moustache, when it did come, was merely a silken whisp, hardly visible. he did some fagging in return for the extraordinary favour of adoption. the baby from the first was entirely accustomed to being 'sat upon.' he had no unnecessary independence of mind. at twenty-one he still continued to be 'baby.' all the affairs of the syndicate flourished, including the feud with the neighbouring landowner. all went well with the men and their boats and the baby, until, at length, upon one fateful day for the latter, there came a young person to the locality who made an addition to the household of farmer johns. 'old johns has got a niece,' said the bachelors sitting at dinner, as if the niece had come fresh to the world as babies do, and had not held the same relation to old johns for twenty-five years. still, it was true she had never been in the old man's possession before, and now she had arrived at his house, a sudden vision of delight as seen from the road or on the verandah. now helen johns was a beauty; no one unbiassed by the party spirit of a time-honoured feud would have denied that. she was not, it is true, of the ordinary type of beauty, whose chief ornament is an effort at captivation. she did not curl her hair; she did not lift her eyes and smile when she was talking to men; she did not trouble herself to put on her prettiest gown when the evening train came in, bringing the bachelors from the city. she was tall--five foot eight in her stockings; all her muscles were well developed; there was nothing sylph-like about her waist, but all her motions had a strong, gentle grace of their own that bespoke health and dignity. she had a profession, too, which was much beneath most of the be-crimped and smile-wreathed maidens who basked in the favour of the bachelors. she had been to new york and had learned to teach gymnastics, the very newest sort; 'delsart' or 'emerson,' or some such name, attached to the rhythmic motions she performed. the syndicate had no opportunity to criticise the gymnastic performance, for they had not the honour of her acquaintance; they criticised everything else, the smooth hair, the high brow, the well-proportioned waist, the profession; they decided that she was not beautiful. there were, roughly speaking, two classes of girls in this summer settlement, each held in favour by the syndicate men according as personal taste might dispose. there were the girls who in a cheerful manner were ever to be found walking or boating in such hours and places as would assuredly bring them into contact with the happy bachelors, and there were those who would not 'for the world' have done such a thing, who sedulously shunned such paths, and had to be much sought after before they were found. now it chanced that helen johns was seen to row alone in her uncle's boat right across the very front of the syndicate boat-house, at the very hour when the assembled members were eating roast beef upon the verandah above and arriving at their decisions concerning her, and she did not look as if she cared in the least whether twenty-four pair of eyes were bent upon her or not. to be sure, it was her nearest way home from the post-office across the bay, and the post came in at this evening hour. no one could find any fault, not even any of the bachelors, but none the less did the affront sink deep into their hearts. it added a new zest to the old feud. 'we do not see that she is beautiful,' they cried over their dinner. 'we should not care for helen of troy if she looked like that.' the baby dissented; the baby actually had the 'cheek' to say, right there aloud at the banquet, that he might not be a man of taste, but, for his part, he thought she looked 'the jolliest girl' he had ever seen. in his heart he meant that he thought she looked like a goddess or an angel (for the baby was a reverent youth), but he veiled his real feeling under this reticent phrase. one and all they spoke to him, spoke loudly, spoke severely. 'baby,' they said, 'if you have any dealings with the niece of farmer johns we'll kick you out of this.' it was a romantic situation; love has proverbially thriven in the atmosphere of a family feud. the baby felt this, but he felt also that he could not run the risk of being kicked out of the syndicate. the baby did sums in a big hot bank all day; he had no dollars to spare, there was no other place upon the lake where he could afford to live, and he had a canoe of his own which his uncle had given him. hiawatha did not love the darling of his creation more than the baby loved his cedar-wood canoe. all this made him conceal carefully that mysterious sensation of unrestful delight which he experienced every time he saw miss helen johns. this, at least, in the first stage of his love-sickness. fate was hard; she led the baby, all cheerful and unsuspecting, to spend an evening at a picnic tea in a wood a mile or more from the shore. mischievous fate! she led him to flirt frivolously until long after dark with a girl that he cared nothing at all about, and then whispered in his ear that he would get home the quicker if in the obscurity he ran across the johns' farm. fate, laughing in her sleeve, led him to pass with noiseless footsteps quite near the house itself; then she was content to leave him to his own devices, for through the open window he caught sight of helen johns doing her gymnastics. her figure was all aglow with the yellow lamplight; she was happy in the poetry of her motions and in the delight that the family circle took in watching them. the baby was in the dark and the falling dew; he was uncomfortable, for he had to stand on tiptoe, but nothing would have induced him to ease his strained attitude. the pangs of a fierce discontent took possession of his breast. art was consulted in the gymnasium in which miss johns had studied; the theory was that only that which is beautiful is healthful. sometimes she poised herself on tiptoe with one arm waved toward heaven, an angel all ready, save the wings, for aerial flight. sometimes she seemed to hover above the ground like a running mercury. sometimes she stood, a hand behind her ear, listening as a maid might who was flying from danger in some enchanted land. often she waved her hands slowly as if weaving a spell. a spell was cast over the soul of the baby; he held himself against the extreme edge of a verandah; his mouth remained open as if he were drinking in the beams from the bright interior and all the beautiful pictures that they brought with them. it was only when the show was over that he noiselessly relaxed his strained muscles, and crept away over the dew-drenched grass, hiding under the shadow of maple boughs, guilty trespasser that he was. after that, one evening, farmer johns and his niece had an errand to run; at a house about two miles away on the other side of the bay there was a parcel which it was their duty to fetch. they had started out in the calm white light of summer twilight; a slight wind blew, just enough to take their sail creeping over the rippled water, no more. the lake within a mile of the shore was thickly strewn with small yachts, boats, and canoes. upon the green shore the colours of the gaily painted villas could still be seen among the trees, and most conspicuous of all the great barn-like boat-house of the syndicate, which was painted red. by and by the light grew dimmer and stars came out in the sky; then one could no longer distinguish the outline of the shore, but in every window a light twinkled, like a fallen star. helen sat in the side of the tiny ship as near the prow as might be; her uncle sat at the tiller and managed the sails. they were a silent pair, the one in a suit of tweeds with a slouch hat, the other in a muslin gown with a veil of black lace wrapped about her head. the sailing of the boat was an art which helen had not exerted herself to understand; she only knew that every now and then there was a minute of bluster and excitement when her uncle shouted to her, and she was obliged to cower while the beam and the sail swung over her head with a sound of fluttering wind. when she was allowed to take her seat after this little hurly-burly the two lighthouses upon the lake and all the lights upon the shore had performed a mysterious dance; they all lay in different places and in different relation to one another. she had not learned to know the different lights. when dusk came she was lost to her own knowledge. she only knew that the sweet air blew upon her face and that she trusted her uncle. the moonless night closed in. now and then, as they passed a friendly craft, evening greetings were spoken across the dark space. by the time they got to the place for which they were bound they were floating almost alone upon the black water. johns descended into a small boat and secured the sailing-boat to the buoy which belonged to the house whither he was going, or rather, he thought that he secured it. helen heard the plash of his oars until he landed. the shore was but twenty yards away, but she could hardly see it. the sail hung limp, wrinkled, and motionless. she began to sing, and there alone in the darkness she fell in love with her own voice, and sang on and on, thinking only of the music. her uncle was long in coming; she became conscious of movement in the water, like the swell of waves outside rolling into the cove. she heard the sound of swaying among all the trees on the shore. she looked up and saw that the stars of one half the sky were obscured, that the darkness was rolling onward toward those that were still shining. she stopped her own singing, and the song of the waters beneath her prow was curiously like the familiar sound when the boat was in motion. she strained her eyes, but could not see how far she was from the near shore. she looked on the other side and it seemed to her that the lights on the home-ward side of the bay were moving. that meant that she was moving, at what speed and in what direction she had no means of knowing. she stood up, lifted her arms in the air and shouted for help; again and again her shouts rang out, and she did not wait to hear an answer. she thought that the masters of other boats had seen the storm coming and gone into shore. she was out now full in the whistling wind and the boat was leaping. her throat was hoarse with calling, her eyes dazzled by straining. when she turned in despair from scanning the shore she saw a sight that was very strange. at the tiller where her uncle ought to have been, and just in the attitude in which he always stood, was a slight white figure. a new sort of fear took possession of helen; at first she could not speak or move, but kept her eyes wide open lest the ghostly thing should come near her unawares. this illusion might be a forerunner of the death to which she was hastening, the angel of death himself steering her to destruction! then in a strange voice came the familiar shout, the warning to hold down her head. the sail swung over in the customary way; every movement of the figure at the helm was so familiar and natural that comfort began to steal into her heart. plainly, whoever had taken command of the drifting craft knew his business; might it not be an angel of life, and not of death? now in plain sober reality, as her pulses ceased to dance so wildly, helen could not believe that her companion was angel or spirit. one does not believe in such companionship readily. she scrambled to her knees and steadied herself by the seat. 'who are you?' she asked. the figure made a gesture that seemed like a signal of peace, but no answer was given. the lights upon her own part of the shore were now not far distant. she looked above and saw breaks in the darkness that had hidden the stars; the clouds were passing over. the squall that was taking them upon their journey was still whistling and blowing, but she feared its force less as she realised that she was nearing home. she desired greatly to work herself along the boat and touch the sailor curiously with her hand, but she was afraid to do it, and that for two reasons: if he was a spirit she had reason for shrinking from such contact, and if he was a man--well, in that case she also saw objections. the man at the helm dropped the sail; for a minute or two he stood not far from helen as he busied himself with it. 'who are you?' she asked again, but she still had not courage to put out her hand and touch him. there was a little wooden wharf upon the shore, and to this the sailor held the boat while helen sprung out. her feet were no sooner safe upon it than the boat was allowed to move away. she saw the black mast and the white figure recede together and disappear in the darkness. johns had to walk home by the shore, and in no small anxiety. when he saw that his niece was safe he chuckled over her in burly fashion. 'then i suppose,' he said, 'that some fellow got aboard her between the puffs of wind. i hope it was none of those syndicate men; they're a fast lot. what was his name? what had he to say for himself?' 'she was flying far too fast for any one to get aboard,' asserted helen. 'i don't know what his name was; he didn't say anything; i don't know where he went to.' then the uncle suggested toddy in an undertone to his wife. the aunt looked over her spectacles with solicitude, and then arose and put her niece to bed. when helen was left alone she lay looking out at the stars that again were shining; she wondered and wondered; perhaps the reason that she came to no definite conclusion was that she liked the state of wonder better. helen was a modern girl; she had friends who were spiritualists, friends who were theosophists, friends who were 'high church' and believed in visions of angels. in the morning johns' boat was found tethered as usual to the buoy in front of his house. long before this the syndicate had suspected the baby's attachment. the strength of that attachment they did not suspect in the least; never having seen depths in the baby, they supposed there were none. they had fallen into the habit of taking the baby by the throat and asking him in trenchant tones, 'have you spoken to her?' the baby found it convenient to be able to give a truthful negative, not that he would have minded fibbing in the least, but in this case the fib would certainly have been detected; he could not expect his goddess to enter into any clandestine parley and keep his secret. had the baby taken the matter less to heart he would have been more rash in asserting his independence, but he meditated some great step and 'lay low.' what or when the irrevocable move was to be he had no definite idea, the thought of it was only as yet an exalted swelling of mind and heart. there was a period, after the affair of the boat, when he spent a good deal of time haunting the sacred precincts of the house where helen lived. the precincts consisted of a dusty lane, a flat, ugly fenced field where a cow and a horse grazed, and a place immediately about the house covered with thick grass and shaded by maple trees. there were some shrubs too, behind which one could hide if necessary, but they were prickly, uncomfortable to nestle against, and the unmown grass absorbed an immense quantity of dew. in imagination, however, the baby wandered on pastoral slopes and in classic shades. at first he paid his visits at night when the family were asleep, and he slipped about so quietly that no one but the horse and the cow need know where he went or what he did. at length, however, he grew more bold, and took his way across the maple grove going and coming from other evening errands. trespassing is not much of a fault at the lake of st. jean. the baby became expert in dodging hastily by, with his eyes upon the windows; the dream of his life was to see the gymnastics performed again; at length it was realised. the thing we desire most is often the thing that brings us woe. the baby caught sight of helen practising her beautiful attitudes. he hung on to a rail of the verandah, and gazed and gazed. then he took his life in his hand, as it were, and swung himself up on the verandah; he moved like a cat, for he supposed that the stalwart johns was within. from this better point of view, peeping about, he now surveyed the whole interior of the small drawing-room. what was his joy to find that there was no family circle of spectators; helen was exercising herself alone! he hugged to himself the idea that the gracious little spectacle was all his own. now, as it happened, the baby in his secret hauntings of this house had not been so entirely unseen as he supposed. certainly johns had never caught sight of him or he would have been made aware of it, but helen, since the night of the boating mystery, had more than once caught sight of a white figure passing among the maple shadows. these glimpses had added point and colour to all the mystical fancies that clustered round the helmsman of the yacht. she hardly believed that some guardian spirit was protecting her in visible semblance, or that some human prince charming, more kingly and wise than any man that she had yet seen, had chosen this peculiar mode of courting her; but her wish was the father of thoughts that fluttered between these two explanations, and hope was fed by the conviction that no man who could see her every day if he chose would behave in this romantic manner. so upon this evening it happened that when helen, poised upon her toes and beating the time of imaginary music with her waving hand, caught sight of the baby's white flannels through the dark window pane, she recognised the figure of her dreams and, having long ago made up her mind what to do when she had the chance, she ran to the french window without an instant's delay, and let herself out of it with graceful speed. the baby, panic-stricken, felt but one desire, that she might never know who had played the spy. he threw himself over the verandah rail with an acrobat's skill, and with head in front and nimble feet he darted off under the maple trees: but he had to reckon with an agile maiden. helen had grown tired of a fruitless dream. a crescent moon gave her enough light to pursue; lights of friendly houses on all sides assured her of safety. over the log fence into the pasture vaulted the baby, convinced now that he had escaped. vain thought! he had not considered the new education. over the fence vaulted helen as lightly: in a minute the baby heard her on his track. the cow and the horse had never before seen so pretty a chase. there was excitement in the air and they sniffed it; they were both young and they began to run too. the sound of heavy galloping filled the place. of the two sides of the field which lay farthest from the house, one looked straight over to the glaring syndicate windows, and one to the rugged bank that rose from the shore. the baby's one mad desire was to conceal his identity. he made for the dark shore. another fence, he thought, or the rocks of the bank, would surely deter her flying feet. they both vaulted the second fence. the baby still kept his distance ahead, but when he heard that she too sprang over, a fear for her safety darted across his excited brain. would those cantering animals jump after and crush her beneath their feet, or would she fall on the rocks of the shore which he was going to leap over? the baby intended to leap the shore and lose his identity by a swim in the black water. it was this darting thought of anxiety for helen that made him hesitate in his leap. too late to stop, the hesitation was fatal to fair performance. the baby came down on the shore with a groan, his leg under him and his head on the earth. he saw helen pause beside him, deliberately staring through the dim light. 'i'm not hurt,' said the baby, because he knew that he was. 'you are only the syndicate baby!' she exclaimed with interrogatory indignation. 'i'm going to cut the syndicate; i'll never have anything more to do with them, miss johns.' helen did not understand the significance of this eager assurance. the baby's brain became clear; he tried to rise, but could not. 'are you not hurt?' she asked. 'oh! no, not at all, miss johns' (he spoke with eager, youthful politeness); 'it's only--it's only that i've doubled my leg and can't quite get up.' the baby was pretty tough; a few bumps and breaks were matters of small importance to him; his employers had already bargained with him not to play football as he gained so many holidays in bandages thereby. just now he was quick enough to take in the situation: helen despised him, it was neck or nothing, he must do all his pleading once for all, and the compensation for a broken leg was this, that she could not have the inhumanity to leave him till he declared himself fit to be left. he pulled himself round, and straightened the leg before him as he sat. helen was not accustomed to falls and injuries; she was shocked and pitiful, but she was stern too; she felt that she had the right. 'i'm very sorry; i will go and get some one to help you, but you know it's entirely your own fault. what have you been behaving in this way for?' 'if you'd only believe me,' pleaded the baby, 'i--i--you really can have no idea, miss johns----' if she could have seen how white and earnest his young face was she might have listened to him, but the light was too dim. 'i want to know this' (severely), 'was it you who got on to our sailing boat that other night?' 'i thought you were alarmed, miss johns, and in a rather--rather dangerous situation.' the baby was using his prettiest tones, such as he used when he went out to a dance. if she could have known how heroic it was to utter these mincing accents over a broken leg she might have been touched; but she did not even know that the leg was broken. she went on rigidly, 'how could you get aboard when she was sailing so fast? where did you come from?' 'oh! it wasn't difficult at all, i assure you, miss johns; i only got on between the gusts of the wind. i swam from the syndicate boat. you know, of course, one of us must have gone when we heard you singing out for help, and i was only too happy, frightfully happy, i am sure--and it was nothing at all to do. if you were much here, and saw us swimming and boating, you'd see fellows do that sort of thing every day.' it was a delicate instinct that made him underrate the feat he had performed, for he would have been so glad to have her feel under the slightest obligation to him; but as far as her perceptions were concerned, the beauty of his sentiment was lost, for when he said that the thing that he had done was easy, she believed him. she still interrogated. 'why did you not speak and tell me who you were?' there had been an ostensible and a real reason for this conduct on the baby's part. the first was the order which his friends in the syndicate boat had called after him as he jumped into the water, the second he spoke out now for the first time to helen. 'i didn't speak, miss johns, because i--i _couldn't_. oh! you have no idea--really, you know, if you'd only believe me--i love you so much, miss johns, i couldn't say anything or i'd have said more than i ought, the sort of thing i'm saying now, you know.' 'tut!' said helen sharply, 'what rubbish!' 'oh! but miss johns--yes, i knew you would think it was all rot and that sort of thing; that was the reason i didn't say it in the boat, and that is the reason i've never dared to ask to be introduced to you, miss johns. it wasn't that i cared for the syndicate. you see, the worst of it is, i'm so confoundedly poor; they give me no sort of a screw at all at the bank, i do assure you. but, miss johns, my uncle is one of the directors; he's sure to give me a leg up before very long, and if you only knew--oh! really if you only knew----,' words failed him quite when he tried to describe the strength of his devotion. he only sat before her, supporting himself with both hands on the ground and looking up with a face that had no rounded outline now, but was white, passionate and pathetic; he could only murmur, 'really, really--if you only knew----' the darkness barred her vision and the extravagant words in the boyish voice sounded ridiculous to her. 'i will believe you,' she said, 'if you want me to, but it doesn't make any difference; i am sorry you are hurt, and sorry you have taken this fancy for me. i think you will find some other girl very soon whom you will like better; i hope you will. there isn't' (she was becoming vehement), 'there isn't the slightest atom of use in your caring for me.' 'isn't there?' asked the baby despairingly. 'i wish you would say that you will think over it, miss johns; i wish you would say that i might know you and come and see you sometimes. i'd cut the syndicate and make it up with your uncle.' 'it wouldn't be the slightest use,' she repeated excitedly. 'of course if you go on saying that, i sha'n't bore you any more, but do, miss johns, do, do just think a minute before you say it again.' a note in his voice touched her at last; she paused for the required minute and then answered gently; her gentleness carried conviction. 'i could never care for you. you are not at all the sort of man i could ever care for, and i am going back to new york in a few days, so you won't be troubled by seeing me any more.' when helen rushed breathless to the door of the syndicate boat-house and told of the accident, the bachelors went out in a body and bore the baby home. they petted him until he was on his feet again. they gained some vague knowledge of his interview with helen, and he kept a very distinct remembrance of it. both he and they believed that his first attempt at love had come to nothing, but that was a mistake. the baby had loved with some genuine fervour, and his grief made a man of him. viii witchcraft a young minister was walking through the streets of a small town in the island of cape breton. the minister was only a theological student who had been sent to preach in this remote place during his summer holiday. the town was at once very primitive and very modern. many log-houses still remained in it; almost all the other houses were built of wood. the little churches, which represented as many sects, looked like the churches in a child's dutch village. the town hall had only a brick facing. on the hillsides that surrounded the town far and wide were many fields, in which the first stumps were still standing, charred by the fires that had been kindled to kill them. there were also patches of forest still to be seen among these fields, where the land had not yet been cleared. in spite of all this, the town was very advanced, every improvement being of the newest kind because so recently achieved. upon huge ungainly tree-trunks roughly erected along the streets, electric lamps hung, and telephone wires crossed and recrossed one another from roof to roof. there was even an electric tram that ran straight through the town and some distance into the country on either side. the general store had a gaily dressed lay figure in its window,--a female figure,--and its gown was labelled 'the latest parisian novelty.' the theological student was going out to take tea. he was a tall, active fellow, and his long strides soon brought him to a house a little way out of the town, which was evidently the abode of some degree of taste and luxury. the house was of wood, painted in dull colours of red and brown; it had large comfortable verandahs under shingled roofs. its garden was not old-fashioned in the least; but though it aspired to trimness the grass had not grown there long enough to make a good lawn, so the ribbon flower-beds and plaster vases of flowers lacked the green-velvet setting that would have made them appear better. the student was the less likely to criticise the lawn because a very pretty, fresh-looking girl met him at the gate. she was really a fine girl. her dress showed rather more effort at fashion than was quite in keeping with her very rural surroundings, and her speech and accent betrayed a childhood spent among uneducated folk and only overlaid by more recent schooling. her face had the best parts of beauty: health and good sense were written there, also flashes of humour and an habitual sweet seriousness. she had chanced to be at the gate gathering flowers. her reception of the student was frank, and yet there was just a touch of blushing dignity about it which suggested that she took a special interest in him. the student also, it would appear, took an interest in her, for, on their way to the house, he made a variety of remarks upon the weather which proved that he was a little excited and unable to observe that he was talking nonsense. in a little while the family were gathered round the tea-table. the girl, miss torrance by name, sat at the head of the table. her father was a banker and insurance agent. he sat opposite his eldest daughter and did the honours of the meal with the utmost hospitality, yet with reserve of manner caused by his evident consciousness that his grammar and manners were not equal to those of his children and their guest. there were several daughters and two sons younger than miss torrance. they talked with vivacity. the conversation soon turned upon the fact that the abundant supply of cream to which the family were accustomed was not forthcoming. strawberries were being served with the tea; some sort of cold pudding was also on the table; and all this to be eaten without cream,--these young people might have been asked to go without their supper, so indignant they were. now, mr. torrance had been decorously trying to talk of the young minister's last sermon and of the affairs of the small scotch church of which he was an elder, and miss torrance was ably seconding his effort by comparing the sentiments of the sermon to a recent magazine article, but against her will she was forced to attend to the young people's clamour about the cream. it seemed that trilium, the cow, had recently refused to give her milk. mary torrance was about eighteen; she suddenly gave it as her opinion that trilium was bewitched; there was no other explanation, she said, no other possible explanation of trilium's extraordinary conduct. a flush mounted miss torrance's face; she frowned at her sister when the student was not looking. 'it's wonderful, the amount of witchcraft we have about here, mr. howitt,' said the master of the house tentatively to the minister. howitt had taken mary's words in jest. he gave his smooth-shaven face the twist that with him always expressed ideas wonderful or grotesque. it was a strong, thin face, full of intelligence. 'i never could have conceived anything like it,' said he. 'i come across witch tales here, there, everywhere; and the marvellous thing is, some of the people really seem to believe them.' the younger members of the torrance family fixed their eyes upon him with apprehensive stare. 'you can't imagine anything more degrading,' continued the student, who came from afar. 'degrading, of course.' mr. torrance sipped his tea hastily. 'the cape breton people are superstitious, i believe.' an expression that might have betokened a new resolution appeared upon the fine face of the eldest daughter. '_we_ are cape breton people, father,' she said, with dignified reproach. 'i hope'--here a timid glance, as if imploring support--'i hope we know better than to place any real faith in these degrading superstitions.' howitt observed nothing but the fine face and the words that appeared to him natural. torrance looked at them both with the air of an honest man who was still made somewhat cowardly by new-fashioned propriety. 'i never put much o' my faith in these things myself,' he said at last in broad accents, 'still,'--an honest shake of the head--'there's queer things happens.' 'it is like going back to the middle ages'--howitt was still impervious--'to hear some of these poor creatures talk. i never thought it would be my lot to come across anything so delightfully absurd.' 'perhaps for the sake of the ministry ye'd better be careful how ye say your mind about it,' suggested mr. torrance; 'in the hearing of the poor and uneducated, of course, i mean. but if ye like to make a study o' that sort of thing, i'd advise ye to go and have a talk with mistress betty m'leod. she's got a great repertory of tales, has mistress betty.' mary spoke again. mary was a young woman who had the courage of her opinions. 'and if you go to mistress m'leod, mr. howitt, will you just be kind enough to ask her how to cure poor trilium? and don't forget anything of what she says.' miss torrance gave her sister a word of reproof. there was still upon her face the fine glow born of a new resolution never again to listen to a word of witchcraft. as for howitt, there came across his clever face the whimsical look which denoted that he understood mary's fun perfectly. 'i will go to-morrow,' he cried. 'when the wise woman has told me who has bewitched trilium, we will make a waxen figure and stick pins in it.' the next day howitt walked over the hills in search of mistress betty m'leod. the lake of the bras d'or held the sheen of the western sun in its breast. the student walked upon green slopes far above the water, and watched the outline of the hills on the other side of the inlet, and thought upon many things. he thought upon religion and philosophy, for he was religious and studious; he thought upon practical details of his present work, for he was anxious for the welfare of the souls under his charge; but on whatever subject his thoughts dwelt, they came back at easy intervals to the fair, dignified face of his new friend, miss torrance. 'there's a fine girl for you,' he said to himself repeatedly, with boyish enthusiasm. he thought, too, how nobly her life would be spent if she chose to be the helpmeet of a christian minister. he wondered whether mary could take her sister's place in the home circle. yet with all this he made no decision as to his own course. he was discreet, and in minds like his decisions upon important matters are fruits of slow growth. he came at last to a farm, a very goodly farm for so hilly a district. it lay, a fertile flat, in a notch of the green hillside. when he reached the house yard he asked for mistress betty m'leod, and was led to her presence. the old dame sat at her spinning-wheel in a farm kitchen. her white hair was drawn closely, like a thin veil, down the sides of her head and pinned at the back. her features were small, her eyes bright; she was not unlike a squirrel in her sharp little movements and quick glances. she wore a small shawl pinned around her spare shoulders. her skirts fell upon the treadle of the spinning-wheel. the kitchen in which she sat was unused; there was no fire in the stove. the brick floor, the utensils hanging on the walls, had the appearance of undisturbed rest. doors and windows were open to the view of the green slopes and the golden sea beneath them. 'you come from canada,' said the old dame. she left her spinning with a certain interested formality of manner. 'from montreal,' said he. 'that's the same. canada is a terrible way off.' 'and now,' he said, 'i hear there are witches in this part of the land.' whereupon he smiled in an incredulous cultured way. she nodded her head as if she had gauged his thought. 'ay, there's many a minister believes in them if they don't let on they do. i mind----' 'yes,' said he. 'i mind how my sister went out early one morning, and saw a witch milking one of our cows.' 'how did you know she was a witch?' 'och, she was a neighbour we knew to be a witch real well. my sister didn't anger her. it's terrible unlucky to vex them. but would you believe it? as long as we had that cow her cream gave no butter. we had to sell her and get another. and one time--it was years ago, when donald and me was young--the first sacrament came round----' 'yes,' said he, looking sober. 'and all the milk of our cows would give hardly any butter for a whole year! and at house-cleaning time, there, above the milk shelves, what did they find but a bit of hair rope! cows' and horses' hair it was. oh, it was terrible knotted, and knotted just like anything! so then of course we knew.' 'knew what?' 'why, that the milk was bewitched. we took the rope away. well, that very day more butter came at the churning, and from that time on, more, but still not so much as ought by rights to have come. then, one day, i thought to unknot the rope, and i undid, and undid, and undid. well, when i had got it undone, that day the butter came as it should!' 'but what about the sacrament?' asked he. 'that was the time of the year it was. oh, but i could tell you a sad, sad story of the wickedness of witches. when donald and me was young, and had a farm up over on the other hill, well, there was a poor widow with seven daughters. it was hard times then for us all, but for her, she only had a bit of flat land with some bushes, and four cows and some sheep, and, you see, she sold butter to put meat in the children's mouths. butter was all she could sell. 'well, there came to live near her on the hill an awful wicked old man and woman. i'll tell you who their daughter is: she's married to mr. m'curdy, who keeps the store. the old man and his wife were awful wicked to the widow and the fatherless. i'll tell you what they did. well, the widow's butter failed. not one bit more could she get. the milk was just the same, but not one bit of butter. "oh," said she, "it's a hard world, and me a widow!" but she was a brave woman, bound to get along some way. so, now that she had nothing to sell to buy meal, she made curds of the milk, and fed the children on that. 'well, one day the old man came in to see her in a neighbouring way, and she, being a good woman,--oh, but she was a good woman!--set a dish of curds before him. "oh," said he, "these are very fine curds!" so he went away, and next day she put the rennet in the milk as usual, but not a bit would the curd come. "oh," said she, "but i must put something in the children's mouths!" she was a fine woman, she was. so she kept the lambs from the sheep all night, and next morning she milked the sheep. sheep's milk is rich, and she put rennet in that, and fed the children on the curd. 'so one day the old man came in again. he was a wicked one; he was dreadful selfish; and as he was there, she, being a hospitable woman, gave him some of the curd. "that's good curd," said he. next day, when she put the rennet in the sheep's milk, not a bit would the curd come. she felt it bitterly, poor woman; but she had a fine spirit, and she fed the children on a few bits of potato she had growing. 'well, one day, the eldest daughter got up very early to spin--in the twilight of the dawn it was--and she looked out, and there was the old woman coming from her house on the hill, with a shawl over her head and a tub in her arms. oh, but she was a really wicked one! for i'll tell you what she did. well, the girl watched and wondered, and in the twilight of the dawn she saw the old woman crouch down by one of the alder bushes, and put her tub under it, and go milking with her hands; and after a bit she lifted her tub, that seemed to have something in it, and set it over against another alder bush, and went milking with her hands again. so the girl said, "mother, mother, wake up, and see what the neighbour woman is doing!" so the mother looked out, and there, in the twilight of the dawn, she saw her four cows in the bit of land, among the alder bushes, and the old neighbour woman milking away at a bush. and then the old woman moved her tub likewise to another bush, and likewise, and likewise, until she had milked four bushes, and she took up her tub, and it seemed awful heavy, and she had her shawl over it, and was going up the hill. 'so the mother said to the girl, "run, run, and see what she has got in it." for they weren't up to the ways of witches, and they were astonished like. but the girl, she said, "oh, mother, i don't like." well, she was timid, anyway, the eldest girl. but the second girl was a romping thing, not afraid of anything, so they sent her. by this time the wicked old woman was high on the hill; so she ran and ran, but she could not catch her before she was in at her own door; but that second girl, she was not afraid of anything, so she runs in at the door, too. now, in those days they used to have sailing-chests that lock up; they had iron bars over them, so you could keep anything in that was a secret. they got them from the ships, and this old woman kept her milk in hers. so when the girl bounced in at the door, there she saw that wicked old woman pouring milk out of the tub into her chest, and the chest half full of milk, and the old man looking on! so then, of course they knew where the good of their milk had gone.' the story was finished. the old dame looked at the student and nodded her head with eyes that awaited some expression of formal disapproval. 'what did they know?' asked he. 'know! oh, why, that the old woman was an awful wicked witch, and she'd taken the good of their milk.' 'oh, indeed!' said the student; and then, 'but what became of the widow and the seven daughters?' 'well, of course she had to sell her cows and get others, and then it was all right. but that old man and his wife were that selfish they'd not have cared if she'd starved. and i tell you, it's one of the things witches can do, to take the good out of food, if they've an eye to it; they can take every bit of nouriture out of it that's in it. there were two young men that went from here to the states--that's boston, ye know. well, pretty soon one, that was named m'pherson, came back, looking so white-like and ill that nothing would do him any good. he drooped and he died. well, years after, the other, whose name was mcvey, came back. he was of the same wicked stock as the old folks i've been telling ye of. well, one day, he was in low spirits like, and he chanced to be talking to my father, and says he, "it's one of the sins i'll have to 'count for at the judgment that i took the good out of m'pherson's food till he died. i sat opposite to him at the table when we were at boston together, and i took the good out of his food, and it's the blackest sin i done," said he. 'oh, they're awful wicked people, these witches! one of them offered to teach my sister how to take the good out of food, but my sister was too honest; she said, "i'll learn to keep the good of my own, if ye like." however, the witch wouldn't teach her that because she wouldn't learn the other. oh, but i cheated a witch once. donald, he brought me a pound of tea. 'twasn't always we got tea in those days, so i put it in the tin box; and there was just a little over, so i was forced to leave that in the paper bag. well, that day a neighbour came in from over the hill. i knew fine she was a witch; so we sat and gossiped a bit; she was a real pleasant woman, and she sat and sat, and the time of day went by. so i made her a cup of tea, her and me; but i used the drawing that was in the paper bag. said she, "i just dropped in to borrow a bit of tea going home, but if that's all ye have"--oh, but i could see her eyeing round; so i was too sharp for her, and i says, "well, i've no more in the paper just now, but if ye'll wait till donald comes, maybe he'll bring some." so she saw i was too sharp for her, and away she went. if i'd as much as opened the tin, she'd have had every grain of good out of it with her eyes.' at first the student had had the grave and righteous intention of denouncing the superstition, but gradually he had perceived that to do so would be futile. the artistic soul of him was caught by the curious recital. he remembered now the bidding of mary torrance, and thought with pleasure that he would go back and repeat these strange stories to miss torrance, and smile at them in her company. 'now, for instance,' he said aloud, 'if a good cow, that is a great pet in the family, should suddenly cease to give her milk, how would you set about curing her?' the dame's small bright eyes grew keener. she moved to her spinning-wheel and gave it a turn. 'ay,' she said, 'and whose is the cow?' he was not without a genuine curiosity. 'what would you do for _any_ cow in that case?' 'and is it torrance's cow?' asked mistress betty. 'och, but i know it's torrance's cow that ye're speiring for.' the young minister was recalled to a sense of his duty. he rose up with brisk dignity. 'i only asked you to see what you would say. i do not believe the stories you have been telling me.' she nodded her head, taking his assertion as a matter of course. 'but i'll tell you exactly what they must do,' she said. 'ye can tell miss torrance she must get a pound of pins.' 'a pound of pins!' said he. 'ay, it's a large quantity, but they'll have them at the store, for it's more than sometimes they're wanted--a time here, a time there--against the witches. and she's to boil them in whatever milk the cow gives, and she's to pour them boiling hot into a hole in the ground; and when she's put the earth over them, and the sod over that, she's to tether the animal there, and milk it there, and the milk will come right enough.' while the student was making his way home along the hillside, through field and forest, the long arm of the sea turned to red and gold in the light of the clouds which the sun had left behind when it sank down over the distant region that the cape breton folk call canada. the minister meditated upon what he had heard, but not for long. he could not bring his mind into such attitude towards the witch-tales as to conceive of belief in them as an actual part of normal human experience. insanity, or the love of making a good story out of notions which have never been seriously entertained, must compose the warp and woof of the fabric of such strange imaginings. it is thus we account for most experiences we do not understand. the next evening the torrance family were walking to meeting. the student joined himself to miss torrance. he greeted her with the whimsical look of grave humour. 'you are to take a pound of pins,' he said. 'i do not believe it would do any good,' she interrupted eagerly. it struck him as very curious that she should assert her unbelief. he was too nonplussed to go on immediately. then he supposed it was part of the joke, and proceeded to give the other details. 'mr. howitt,'--a tremulous pause,--'it is very strange about poor trilium, she has always been such a good, dear cow; the children are very fond of her, and my mother was very fond of her when she was a heifer. the last summer before she died, trilium fed out of mother's hand, and now--she's in perfect health as far as we can see, but father says that if she keeps on refusing to give her milk he will be obliged to sell her.' miss torrance, who was usually strong and dignified, spoke now in a very appealing voice. 'couldn't you get an old farmer to look at her, or a vet?' 'but why do you think she has suddenly stopped giving milk?' persisted the girl. 'i am very sorry, but i really don't know anything about animals,' said he. 'oh, then if you don't know anything about them----' she paused. there had been such an evident tone of relief in her voice that he wondered much what would be coming next. in a moment she said, 'i quite agreed with you the other night when you said the superstition about witchcraft was degrading.' 'no one could think otherwise.' he was much puzzled at the turn of her thought. 'still, of course, _about animals_, old people like mistress betty m'leod may know something.' as they talked they were walking down the street in the calm of the summer evening to the prayer meeting. the student's mind was intent upon his duties, for, as they neared the little white-washed church, many groups were seen coming from all sides across the grassy space in which it stood. he was an earnest man, and his mind became occupied with the thought of the spiritual needs of these others who were flocking to hear him preach and pray. inside the meeting-room, unshaded oil lamps flared upon a congregation most serious and devout. the student felt that their earnestness and devotion laid upon him the greater responsibility; he also felt much hindered in his speech because of their ignorance and remote ways of thought. it was a comfort to him to feel that there was at least one family among his hearers whose education would enable them to understand him clearly. he looked with satisfaction at the bench where mr. torrance sat with his children. he looked with more satisfaction to where miss torrance sat at the little organ. she presided over it with dignity and sweet seriousness. she drew music even out of its squeaking keys. a few days after that prayer meeting the student happened to be in the post-office. it was a small, rough place; a wooden partition shut off the public from the postmistress and her helpers. he was waiting for some information for which he had asked; he was forced to stand outside the little window in this partition. he listened to women's voices speaking on the other side, as one listens to that which in no way concerns oneself. 'it's just like her, stuck up as she is since she came from school, setting herself and her family up to be better than other folks.' 'perhaps they were out of them at the store,' said a gentler voice. 'oh, don't tell me. it's on the sly she's doing it, and then pretending to be grander than other folks.' then the postmistress came to the window with the required information. when she saw who was there, she said something else also. 'there's a parcel come for miss torrance,--if you happen to be going up that way,' the postmistress simpered. the student became aware for the first time that his friendship with miss torrance was a matter of public interest. he was not entirely displeased. 'i will take the parcel,' he said. as he went along the sunny road, he felt so light-hearted that, hardly thinking what he did, he began throwing up the parcel and catching it again in his hands. it was not large; it was very tightly done up in thick paper, and had an ironmonger's label attached; so that, though he paid small attention, it did not impress him as a thing that could be easily injured. something, however, did soon make a sharp impression upon him; once as he caught the parcel he felt his hand deeply pricked. looking closely, he saw that a pin was working its way through the thick paper. after that he walked more soberly, and did not play ball. he remembered what he had heard at the post-office. the parcel was certainly addressed to miss torrance. it was very strange. he remembered with displeasure now the assumption of the postmistress that he would be glad to carry this parcel. he delivered the pound of pins at the door without making a call. his mind had never come to any decision with regard to his feeling for miss torrance, and now he was more undecided than ever. he was full of curiosity about the pins. he found it hard to believe that they were to be used for a base purpose, but suspicion had entered his mind. the knowledge that the eyes of the little public were upon him made him realise that he could not continue to frequent the house merely to satisfy his curiosity. he was destined to know more. that night, long after dark, he was called to visit a dying man, and the messenger led him somewhat out of the town. he performed his duty to the dying with wistful eagerness. the spirit passed from earth while he yet knelt beside the bed. when he was returning home alone in the darkness, he felt his soul open to the power of unseen spirit, and to him the power of the spiritual unseen was the power of god. walking on the soft, quiet road, he came near the house where he had lately loved to visit, and his eye was arrested by seeing a lantern twinkling in the paddock where trilium grazed. he saw the forms of two women moving in its little circle of light; they were digging in the ground. he felt that he had a right to make sure of the thing he suspected. the women were not far from a fence by which he could pass, and he did pass that way, looking and looking till a beam of the lantern fell full on the bending faces. when he saw that miss torrance was actually there, he went on without speaking. after that two facts became known in the village, each much discussed in its own way; yet they were not connected with each other in the common mind. one was that the young minister had ceased to call frequently upon miss torrance; the other, that trilium, the cow, was giving her milk. ix the girl who believed in the saints marie verine was a good girl, but she was not beautiful or clever. she lived with her mother in one flat of an ordinary-looking house in a small swiss town. had they been poorer or richer there might have been something picturesque about their way of life, but, as it was, there was nothing. their pleasures were few and simple; yet they were happier than most people are--but this they did not know. 'it is a pity we are not richer and have not more friends,' madame verine would remark, 'for then we could perhaps get marie a husband; as it is, there is no chance.' madame verine usually made this remark to the russian lady who lived upstairs. the russian lady had a name that could not be pronounced; she spoke many languages, and took an interest in everything. she would reply-- 'no husband! it is small loss. i have seen much of the world.' marie had seen little of the world, and she did not believe the russian lady. she never said anything about it, except at her prayers, and then she used to ask the saints to pray for her that she might have a husband. now, in a village about half a day's journey from the town where marie dwelt, there lived a young girl whose name was céleste. her mother had named her thus because her eyes were blue as the sky above, and her face was round as the round moon, and her hair and eyelashes were like sunbeams, or like moonlight when it shines in yellow halo through the curly edges of summer clouds. the good people of this village were a hard-working, hard-headed set of men and women. while céleste's father lived they had waxed proud about her beauty, for undoubtedly she was a credit to the place; but when her parents died, and left her needy, they said she must go to the town and earn her living. céleste laughed in her sleeve when they told her this, because young fernand, the son of the inn-keeper, had been wooing and winning her heart, in a quiet way, for many a day; and now she believed in him, and felt sure that he would speak his love aloud and take her home to his parents. to be sure, it was unknown in that country for a man who had money to marry a girl who had none; but fernand was strong to work and to plan; céleste knew that he could do what he liked. it was the time when the april sun smiles upon the meadow grass till it is very green and long enough to wave in the wind, and all amongst it the blue scilla flowers are like dewdrops reflecting the blue that hangs above the gnarled arms of the still leafless walnut trees. the cottage where céleste lived was out from the village, among the meadows, and to the most hidden side of it young fernand came on the eve of the day on which she must leave it for ever. very far off the snow mountains had taken on their second flush of evening red before he came, and céleste had grown weary waiting. 'good-bye,' said fernand. he was always a somewhat stiff and formal young man, and to-night he was ill at ease. 'but,' cried céleste--and here she wept--'you have made me love you. i love no one in the world but you.' 'you are foolish,' said he. 'it is, of course, a pity that we must part, but it cannot be helped. you have no dowry, not even a small one. it would be unthrifty for the son of an innkeeper to marry a girl without a sou. my parents would not allow me to act so madly!' and his manner added--'nor would i be so foolish myself.' next day céleste went up to the town, and went into the market-place to be hired as a servant. this was the day of the spring hiring. many servants were wanting work, and they stood in the market-place. all around were the old houses of the square; there was the church and the pastor's house, and the house and office of the notary, and many other houses standing very close together, with high-peaked roofs and gable windows. the sun shone down, lighting the roofs, throwing eaves and niches into strong shadow, gleaming upon yellow bowls and dishes, upon gay calicoes, upon cheese and sausages, on all bright things displayed on the open market-stalls, and upon the faces of the maid-servants who stood to be hired. many ladies of the town went about seeking servants: among them was madame verine, and the russian lady and marie were with her. when they came in front of céleste they all stopped. 'ah, what eyes!' said the russian lady--'what simple, innocent, trustful eyes! in these days how rare!' 'she is like a flower,' said marie. now, they quickly found out that céleste knew very little about the work she would have to do; it was because of this she had not yet found a mistress. 'i myself would delight to teach her,' cried the russian lady. 'and i,' cried marie. so madame verine took her home. they taught céleste many things. marie taught her to cook and to sew; the russian lady taught her to write and to cipher, and was surprised at the progress she made, especially in writing. céleste was the more interesting to them because there was just a shade of sadness in her eye. one day she told marie why she was sad; it was the story of fernand, how he had used her ill. 'what a shame!' cried marie, when the brief facts were repeated. 'it is the way of the country,' said the russian lady. 'these swiss peasants, who have so fair a reputation for sobriety, are mercenary above all: they have no heart.' céleste lived with madame verine for one year. at the end of that time madame verine arose one morning to find the breakfast was not cooked, nor the fire lit. in the midst of disorder stood céleste, with flushed cheeks and startled eyes, and a letter in her hand. 'ah, madam,' she faltered, 'what a surprise! the letter, it is from monsieur the notary, who lives in the market-place, and to me, madam--_to me_!' when madame verine took the letter she found told therein that an aunt of céleste, who had lived far off in the jura, was dead, and had left to céleste a little fortune of five thousand francs, which was to be paid to her when she was twenty-one, or on her marriage day. 'ah,' cried céleste, weeping, 'can it be true? can it be true?' 'of course, since monsieur the notary says so.' 'ah, madam; let me run and see monsieur the notary. let me just ask him, and hear from his lips that it is true!' so she ran out into the town, with her apron over her head, and marie made the breakfast. the russian lady came down to talk it over. 'the pretty child is distraught, and at _so small_ a piece of good fortune!' said she. but when céleste came in she was more composed. 'it is true,' she said, with gentle joy, and she stood before them breathless and blushing. 'it will be three years before you are twenty-one,' said madame verine; 'you will remain with me.' 'if you please, madam, no,' said céleste, modestly casting down her eyes; 'i must go to my native village.' 'how!' they cried. 'to whom will you go?' céleste blushed the more deeply, and twisted her apron. 'i have good clothes; i have saved my year's wages. i will put up at the inn. the wife of the innkeeper will be a mother to me now i can pay for my lodging.' at which madame verine looked at the russian lady, and that lady looked at her, and said behind her hand, 'such a baby, and so clever! it is the mere instinct of wisdom; it cannot be called forethought.' it is to be observed that, all the world over, however carefully a mistress may guard her maid-servant, no great responsibility is felt when the engagement is broken. madame verine shrugged her shoulders and got another servant. céleste went down to her village. after that, when marie walked in the market-place, she used to like to look at the notary's house, and at him, if she could espy him in the street. the house was a fine one, and the notary, in spite of iron-grey hair and a keen eye, good-looking; but that was not why marie was interested; it was because he and his office seemed connected with the romance of life--with céleste's good fortune. when summer days grew long, madame verine, her friend and daughter, took a day's holiday, and out of good nature they went to see céleste. 'céleste lives like a grand lady now,' cried the innkeeper's wife, on being questioned. 'she will have me take her coffee to her in bed each morning.' 'the wages she has saved will not hold out long,' said the visitors. 'when that is finished she gives us her note of hand for the money she will get when she is married. she has shown us the notary's letter. it is certainly a tidy sum she will have, and our son has some thoughts of marrying.' they saw céleste, who was radiant; they saw young fernand, who was paying his court to her. they returned home satisfied. it was not long after that when one morning céleste came into madame verine's house; she was weeping on account of the loss of some of her money. she had come up to town, she said, to buy her wedding clothes, for which the notary had been so good as to advance her a hundred francs, but her pocket had been picked in the train. the money was gone--quite gone--alas! so tearful was she that they lent her some money--not much, but a little. then she dried her eyes, and said she would also get some things on credit, promising to pay in a month, for it was then she was to be married. at the end of the day she came back gaily to show her treasures. 'when the rejoicings of your wedding are over,' said madame verine, 'and your husband brings you to town to claim the money, you may stay here in the upper room of this house--it is an invitation.' in a month came the wedding pair, joyful and blooming. the russian lady made them a supper. they lodged in an attic room that madame verine rented. in the morning they went out, dressed in their best, to see the notary. an hour later madame verine sat in her little salon. the floor was of polished wood; it shone in the morning light; so did all the polished curves of the chairs and cabinets. marie was practising exercises on the piano. they heard a heavy step on the stair. the bridegroom came into the room, agitated, unable to ask permission to enter. he strode across the floor and sat down weakly before the ladies. they thought he had been drinking wine, but this was not so, although his eye was bloodshot and his voice unsteady. 'can you believe it!' he cried, 'the notary never wrote letters to her; there was no aunt; there is no money!' 'it is incredible,' said madame verine, and then there was a pause of great astonishment. 'it is impossible!' cried the russian lady, who had come in. 'it is true,' said the bridegroom hoarsely; and he wept. and now céleste herself came into the house. she came within the room, and looked at the ladies, who stood with hands upraised, and at her weeping husband. if you have ever enticed a rosy-faced child to bathe in the sea, and seen it stand half breathless, half terrified, yet trying hard to be brave, you know just the expression that was on the face of the child-like deceiver. with baby-like courage she smiled upon them all. now the next person who entered the room was the notary himself. he was a gentleman of manners; he bowed with great gallantry to the ladies, not excepting céleste. 'she is a child, and has had no chance to learn the arts of cunning,' cried the russian lady, who had thought that she knew the world. the notary bowed to her in particular. 'madam, the true artist is born, not made.' then he looked at céleste again. there were two kinds of admiration in his glance--one for her face, the other for her cleverness. he looked at the weeping husband with no admiration at all, but the purpose in his mind was steady as his clear grey eye, unmoved by emotion. 'i have taken the trouble to walk so far,' said he, 'to tell this young man what, perhaps, i ought to have mentioned when he was at my office. happily, the evil can be remedied. it is the law of our land that if the fortune has been misrepresented, a divorce can be obtained.' céleste's courage vanished with her triumph. she covered her face. the husband had turned round; he was looking eagerly at the notary and at his cowering bride. 'ah, heaven!' cried the two matrons, 'must it be?' 'i have walked so far to advise,' said the notary. all this time marie was sitting upon the piano-stool; she had turned it half-way round so that she could look at the people. she was not pretty, but, as the morning light struck full upon her face, she had the comeliness that youth and health always must have; and more than that, there was the light of a beautiful soul shining through her eyes, for marie was gentle and submissive, but her mind and spirit were also strong; the individual character that had grown in silence now began to assert itself with all the beauty of a new thing in the world. marie had never acted for herself before. she began to speak to the notary simply, eagerly, as one who could no longer keep silence. 'it would be wrong to separate them, monsieur.' madame verine chid marie; the notary, no doubt just because he was a man and polite, answered her. 'this brave young fellow does not deserve to be thus fooled. i shall be glad to lend him my aid to extricate himself.' 'he does deserve it,' cried marie. 'long ago he pretended to have love for her, just for the pleasure of it, when he had not--that is worse than pretending to have money! and in any case, it is a _wicked_ law, monsieur, that would grant a divorce when they are married, and--look now--left to himself he will forgive her, but he is catching at what you say. you have come here to tempt him! you dare not go on, monsieur!' 'dare not, mademoiselle?' said the notary, with a superior air. 'no, monsieur. think of what the good god and the holy saints would say! this poor girl has brought much punishment on herself, but--ah, monsieur, think of the verdict of heaven!' 'mademoiselle,' said the notary haughtily, 'i was proposing nothing but justice; but it is no affair of mine.' and with that he went out brusquely--very brusquely for a gentleman of such polite manners. 'i am astonished at you, marie,' said madame verine. this was true, but it was meant as a reproach. 'she is beside herself with compassion,' said the russian lady; 'but that is just what men of the world despise most.' then marie went to her room weeping, and the two ladies talked to céleste till her soft face had hard lines about the mouth and her eyes were defiant. young fernand slipped out and went again to the market-place. 'i come to ask your aid, monsieur the notary.' 'i do not advise you.' 'but, monsieur, to whom else can i apply?' 'i am too busy,' said the notary. fernand and céleste walked back to their village, hand in hand, both downcast, both peevish, but still together. now the notary was not what might be called a bad man himself, but he believed that the world was very bad. he had seen much to confirm this belief, and had not looked in the right place to find any facts that would contradict it. this belief had made him hard and sometimes even dishonest in his dealings with men; for what is the use of being good in a world that can neither comprehend goodness nor admire it? on the whole, the notary was much better satisfied with himself than with human nature around him, although, if he had only known it, he himself had grown to be the reflex--the image as in a mirror--of what he thought other men were; it is always so. there was just this much truth in him at the bottom of his scorn and grumbling--he flattered himself that if he could see undoubted virtue he could admire it; and there was in him that possibility of grace. after he left madame verine's door he thought with irritation of the girl who had rebuked him. then he began to remember that she was only a woman and very young, and she had appealed to his heart--ah, yes, he had a heart. after all, he was not sure but that her appeal was charming. then he thought of her with admiration. this was not the result of marie's words--words in themselves are nothing; it is the personality of the speaker that makes them live or die, and personality is strongest when nourished long in virtue and silence and prayer. when it came to pass that the notary actually did the thing marie told him to do, he began to think of her even with tenderness in his heart. now a very strange thing happened. in about a week the notary called on madame verine a second time; he greeted her with all ceremony, and then he sat down on a little stiff chair and explained his business in his own brief, dry way. marie was not there. the little _salon_, all polished and shining, gave faint lights and shadows in answer to every movement of its inmates. madame verine, in a voluminous silk gown, sat all attention, looking at the notary; she thought he was a very fine man, quite a great personage, and undoubtedly handsome. 'madam,' began he, 'i am, as you know, at middle age, yet a bachelor, and the reason, to be plain with you, is that i have not believed in women. pardon me, i would not be rude, but i am a business man. i have no delusions left, yet it has occurred to me that a young woman who would make the lives of the saints her rule of life--i do not believe in such things myself, but--in short, madam, i ask for your daughter in marriage.' he said it as if he was doing quite a kind thing, as, indeed, he thought he was. madame verine thought so too, and with great astonishment, and even some apologies, gave away her daughter with grateful smiles. marie was married to the notary, and he made her very happy. at first she was happy because he had good manners and she had such a loving heart that she loved him. after a few years he found out that she was too good for him, and then he became a better man. x the paupers' golden day betty lamb was a comely girl; she was big to look at, being tall and strong. she was never plump; she was never well clothed, not even in the best days of her youth. she had been brought up in the work-house; after that she belonged to no one. her mind was a little astray: she had strong, rude, strange ideas of her own; she would not be humble and work day in, day out, like other folk, and for that reason she never throve in the world. she lived here and there, and did this and that. all the town knew her; she was just 'betty lamb'; no one expected aught of her. it was a small town in the west of scotland. on different sides of it long lanes of humble cottages straggled out into the fields; the cottages had grey stone walls and red tiled roofs. there were new grey churches in the town, and big buildings, and streets of shops. the people in those days thought these very fine; they thought less about the real glory of the town--a ruined abbey which stood upon an open heath just beyond the houses. three walls, two high gothic windows with the slender mullions unbroken, a few stately columns broken off at different heights from the ground, and one fragment of the high arch of the nave standing up against the sky in exquisite outline--these formed the ruin. it was built of the red sandstone that in its age takes upon it a delicate bloom of pink and white; it looked like a jewel in the breast of the grey hill country. furze grew within the ruin and for acres on all sides. sheep and goats came nibbling against the old altar steps. a fringe of wallflower and grass grew upon the top of the highest arch and down the broken fragments of the wall. all around the stately hills looked down upon the town and the ruin, and the sky that bent over was more often than not full of cloud, soft and grey. betty lamb was getting on to middle age, about thirty, when she had a baby. they had put her again in the poorshouse, but she rose when her baby was but a day old and went away from the place. it was summer time then; the sky relented somewhat; there was sunshine between the showers, and sometimes a long fair week of silvery weather, when a white haze of lifting moisture rose ever, like incense, from the hills, and the light shone white upon the yellow bloom of the furze. betty lamb found the ambry niche in the wall of the ruin at the side of the place where the altar had been. she laid her baby there. that was his cradle, and by sunlight and moonlight she was heard singing loud songs to him. the people were afraid of going too near her at that time. 'it is dangerous,' said they, 'to touch an animal when she has her young with her.' as years went on betty lamb and her little boy spent summer after summer upon the moor. the child was not christened, unless, indeed, the dew falling from the sacred stones and the pity of god for fatherless innocents had christened him. in this world, at least, his name was written in no book of life, for he had no name. he grew to be a little lithe lad. then it was that in every pickle of mischief where a little lad could be this elf-child, with his black eyes and curly auburn hair, was to be found. so maddening indeed were his naughty tricks that the townspeople spoke not so often of beating him, as they would have beaten a human child, but of wringing his neck like a young thing that had no right to live. yet it was more often in word than in deed that punishment of any sort was inflicted, for the preliminary stage was perforce, 'first catch your boy,' and that was far from easy. even when the catching was accomplished the beating did not always come. one day the minister of the kirk looked out upon his glebe. his favourite cow, with a bridle in her mouth, was being galloped at greatest speed around the field, betty's lad standing tip-toe upon her back. the minister, with the agility which unbounded wrath gave him, caught the boy' and swung his cane. 'i am going to thrash you,' said he. 'ay, ye maun do that.' the small face was drawn to the aspect of a grave judge--'ye maun do that; it's yer juty.' the minister, who had looked upon his intention rather in the light of natural impulse, felt the less inclination for the task. 'are you not afraid of being beaten?' he asked. 'aweel'--an air of profound reflection--'i'm thinking i can even it ony day wi' ridin' on a coo's back when she'll rin like yon.' the sunlight of habitual benevolence began to break through the cloud of wrath upon the good minister's face. 'if i let you off, laddie, what will you do for me in return?' an answering gleam of generosity broke upon the sage face of the child. 'i'll fair teach ye how to dae't ye'sel'.' the lad grew apace. the neighbours said that he showed 'a caring' for his mother, but no one held toward him a helping hand. they were so sure that no good could come of him or of her. the mother had taken to drink, and one day it was found that the lad was gone. just as he had often slipped from the grasp of one or other of the angry townsmen, dodged, darted, and disappeared for the moment, so now it seemed that he had slipped from the grasp of the town, run quickly and disappeared. no one knew why he had gone, or whither, or to what end. betty lamb remained in the town, a fine figure of a woman, but bowed in the shoulders, dirty, and clad in rags. at last, when her strong defiance of poverty and need would no longer serve her, she was seen to go about from door to door in the early dawn, raking among the ashes for such articles as she chose to put in an old sack and carry upon her back. the townsfolk honestly thought that all had been done that could be done to make a decent woman of her, and now in her old age she must needs go down to the gutter. one day a man came to the town with circus pictures and a bucket of paste. he pasted his pictures upon all the blank spaces of walls which he could find. great was the joy of the children who stood and stared, their little hearts made glad by novelty and colour. great was the surprise of the older folk, who said, 'it is a new thing in the world when so great a show as this comes out of the accustomed track of shows to erect its tent in our small town!' yet so it was; from some whim of the manager, or of some one who had the ear of the manager, the thing was decreed. upon these circus pictures there figured, in a series of many wonderful harlequin attitudes, a certain signor lambetti. very foreign was the curl of his hair and the waxen ends of his moustache; very magnificent was his physique; he wore the finest of silken tights and crimson small clothes, and medals were depicted hanging upon his breast. when at length the circus came for that one night's entertainment and the huge tent was set up upon the common not far from the old red ruin, all the town flocked to see the brilliant spectacle. the minister was there, and what was more, his wife and daughters too; they were far grander than he was, and wore silken furbelows and fringed shawls. the minister paid for the best seats for them to sit in. all the shopkeepers were there; every man, woman and child in all the town who could find as much as sixpence to pay for standing room was there. but the strangest circumstance was that before the show began a man went out from the brightly-lit doorway and called in a loud voice to the beggars and little ragged boys and girls who had come to survey the tent on the outside, and he brought them all in and gave them a good part of the tent to sit in, although they had not sixpence to pay, nor even a penny. ah! in those days it was a very grand sight. there were elephants who performed tricks, and camels who walked about with men and bundles on their backs just as they do in eastern deserts, and there were wonderful ladies who dressed and behaved like fairies, and who rode standing tip-toe on the backs of horses and jumped through swinging rings. but the crowd had not read the circus bills and the newspapers from all the neighbouring cities for nothing. they were a canny scotch crowd; they were not to be taken in by mere glitter, no, not the smallest barefoot boy nor the most wretched beggar, for they knew very well that the real crisis of the evening was to be the appearance of signor lambetti, and the word 'wonderful' was not to be spoken until his feats began to be performed. at length he came outside the curtain upon which all eyes had long been fixed. the curl of his hair and the waxed ends of his moustache proved him to be beyond doubt from foreign parts. he was indeed a most grand and handsome gentleman. his dress was, if anything, more superb than it had been in the pictures; all his well-formed muscles showed through the silken gauze that he wore. his velvet trappings were trimmed with gold lace and his medals shone like gold. he walked upon a tight rope away up in the peaked roof of the tent; he held a wand in his hand by which to balance himself and in the other hand a cup of tea which he drank in the very middle of his walk; tossing it off, bowing to the crowd below, and bringing the cup and saucer to the other end in safety. the crowd gave deep sighs, partly of satisfaction for being permitted to see so wonderful a sight, partly out of relief for the safety of the performer. 'ay me,' they said to one another, 'did ye ever see the licht o' that?' it meant more from them than the loudest clamour of applause, yet they applauded also. then signor lambetti, looking quite as fresh and jaunty as at first, ascended a small platform, standing out upon it in the full light of all the lamps. he made a little speech to the effect that he was now going to perform a feat which was so difficult and dangerous that hitherto he had kept it solely for the benefit of crowned heads, before whom on many occasions he had had the privilege of appearing. he said, in an airy way, that the reason he did the town the honour of beholding this most wonderful of all his feats was merely that he had taken a liking to the place. 'ay, but he's grond,' said the little barefoot boys to one another as they huddled against the front of the stand allotted to them. 'ay me, but he's grond'; and all the rest of the townsfolk said the same to themselves or each other, but they expressed it in all the different ways of that dignified caution common to the scotch. there was a series of swings, one trapeze fixed higher than another, like a line of gigantic steps, to the very pinnacle of the tent. 'the signor' announced that he was going to swing himself up upon these hanging bars until he reached the topmost, and from that he would leap through the air down, down into the lighted abyss below, and catch a rope that was stretched at the foot of the grand stand. merely to hear him tell what he was going to do made the crowd draw breath with thrills of joyful horror. up and up he went, swinging himself with lissome grace, raising each trapeze with the force of his swing until he could reach the one above it. he looked smaller as he travelled higher in his wonderful flying progress. the little boys had not breath left now even to say, 'ay me, but he's grond.' there was silence among all the crowd. to every one in all that crowd--to all except one--the spectacle was that of a strange man performing a strange feat; one poor woman present saw a different sight, one alone in all that crowd knew that the acrobat was not a stranger. in a corner of the beggars' gallery sat betty lamb. dirty and clothed in rags as she was, she held up her head at this hour with the old queenly defiance of her youthful days. her eyes, bleared and sunken, had descried her son; her mother's heart, mad though all pronounced her to be, had vibrated to the first sound of her son's voice. she knew him as certainly as if she had seen him standing before her again, the little lad of past years, or the infant cradled in the ambry of the ruined chancel. the monarchs of whom lambetti had been glibly speaking were not more noble in rank or more surrounded with glory in the thought of betty lamb than was this hero of the circus, and he her son! what constitutes glory? is it not made up of the glare of lamps and the wearing of shining clothes, the shout of a thousand voices in applause, the glance of a thousand eyes in admiration, and the renown that spreads into the newspapers? in the mind of betty lamb there was no room for gradations; she knew glory, she knew shame; she herself had sunk to shame; but now that was past, her son had attained to glory, and her soul went out, as it were, from the circumstances of her own degradation and accepted his glory as her own. they said (the townsfolk said) that betty lamb had not lacked opportunity. ah well, god knows better than we what to each soul may be its opportunity. betty lamb watched her son in his perilous upward flight, and, for the first time in her life, prayed that heaven would forgive her misdeeds. by some inborn instinct she assumed that it was this prayer she must pray in order to obtain that desire of her eyes, his safety. when he reached the highest swing, when he made his leap from that awful height and caught the lower rope, there had come a change in betty lamb's soul. it had seemed hours, nay, years to her, the space of time in which he was swinging himself up and leaping down. perhaps, half-witted as she had been, this was in reality her life, not the other that for sixty years she had been visibly living. she saw that his eye was fixed upon her; she knew that the kisses were thrown to her. she rose and walked erect, in her heart a new sense of responsibility and of the value of life. next day in betty lamb's cellar-room a shadow darkened the doorway, and her son stood before her. he did not kiss her--that had not been their way, even when he was an infant and she had sung her songs to him in the lonely ruin--but he bowed to her with all the foreign graces that he had learned, just as if she were one of the queens before whom he had performed. she feasted her eyes upon him. he looked round upon the cellar. 'you must not live here any longer,' said he. for the first time in her life humility reigned in her heart and she resigned her gypsy freedom. 'i'm thinking,' she replied modestly, 'that it's nae fit for the mither of sich as ye are noo.' with the minister lambetti left money that would defray the expenses of a decent habitation for his mother, and, to the wonder of all, from that day forth the mother lived in it decently. she was even charitable with her little store; she was even known to raise the fallen. when she was dead lambetti was dead too. he had lived his life fast, and, if gold be of worth, it seemed as if he had lived it to some purpose. lambetti left money to the town, money for two purposes which in due time the long-headed townsmen carried into effect. an asylum was built upon the moor; it is called 'betty lamb's home for the young and the aged.' the old abbey also was walled in; lawns and flower beds were spread about the broken stones, and where the walls might totter they were supported. the honour of this change too is ascribed to the famous son of betty lamb, who had no name but his mother's. xi the soul of a man chapter i a man was standing on one of the highroads in the south of gloucestershire. he was a man of science; his tools and specimens were in his hand, and he was leaning against the wayside paling, enjoying a well-earned rest. a long flock of birds fluttered over the autumn fields; beneath them a slow ploughman trudged with his horses, breaking the yellow stubble. the sky hung low, full of sunshine yet full of haze--an atmosphere of blue flame, and the earth was bright with the warm autumn colours of woods and hedgerow. just as the birds were flying past, a young woman came by upon the road, treading with quick powerful step upon the fallen leaves. she was a poor woman; her beauty, which would have been almost perfect in a simpler gown, was marred by garments cut in cheap conformity to fashionable dress. it could not be hidden, however, and her large symmetrical figure, swinging as she walked, attracted the attention of the man; as he stood there, leaning against the paling, he felt by no means disinclined to while away his hour of rest by a few soft words with the comely stranger. if he had put his thoughts into words, he would have held it as good luck that she had come to amuse his leisure, thinking very little about luck as it concerned her. his dog lying at his feet stirred to look at the woman, and the man, following the same instinct of nature, accosted her. 'can you tell me, my girl, what time it is?' she stopped short and looked at him. 'that i can't, sir,' she said in clear hearty tones, and turned to continue her walk. 'but tell me what time you think it is, my good girl; i am not good at reading the sun.' she turned again, and looked at him with a longer pause, but, if there was suspicion or disapproval in her thoughts, she expressed nothing in her face. 'yer a gent; i'd 'a thought ye'd 'a had a watch.' 'but mine is at the watchmaker's getting mended,' he said with a smile. he was neither young nor handsome, but he was clever, and that goes further than either in dealing with a woman. she still stood staring at him in rude independence. 'the shadows is longer 'an they was a while by; mebbe it's three.' he sighed and shifted his position wearily against the paling, as though faint with fatigue. 'you can't tell me of any place near where i can get something to eat? i have been working hard since daybreak, and now i am out of my reckoning, and tired and hungry.' he glanced down at his tools and earth-stained clothes. he won his wish; the woman, who would not have tarried a moment for selfish pleasure, remained out of generous pity. 'i've the piece mother put up, mebbe it's big enou' for we two.' 'but i could not think of taking your luncheon,' he exclaimed, with a gallantry that was meant to be impressive, but was quite lost on his practical companion. she proceeded to open her parcel and examine the contents to see whether or not there was enough for two. he also examined it critically with his eyes, in some alarm at her prompt response to his appeal, but the thick slices of bread and meat, if not dainty, were clean, and of excellent quality. she took the largest and thickest bit and thrust it into his hand, very much as a mother would feed her child with the portion she considered its fair share. ''ere, ye may 'ev that, fur i shan't want it.' 'you are very kind,' he said, with a touch of sarcasm too fine for her. it appeared that, having taken out the food, she thought well to make her own meal, for she went a few steps farther on, and, sitting down on the grass with her back to the paling, began to eat. a large tuft of weeds grew midway between him and her. truly we can foresee consequences but a very little way in our dealings with a fellow-creature, and this man, as he stood munching his bread, uncertain how to proceed in winning favour from the bold beauty, was hardly pleased with the result of his encounter. his dog went and laid its head upon her knee, and she fed it with crumbs; its master, after watching them a minute, stepped out on the road with the intention of sitting down between them and the weeds. as he did so he caught sight, as he thought, of a man seated in the very place he intended to occupy. so strong was the impression that he started and stared; but again, as before, there was no one to be seen. the sunshine was bright upon all things; the palings were so far apart that he could see everything in the fields behind; there was no one far or near but the ploughman at half a field's distance, and they two, and the dog. the woman turned coolly round and looked through the paling, as if she supposed he had seen something behind her. 'was't a haër?' she asked, eyeing him with interest; 'ye ain't feared o' the like o' that?' 'no, it was not a hare; i did not see a hare.' 'what was't ye seed then?' she asked, looking at him with bold determination. 'what did i see?' he repeated vaguely, 'i saw nothing.' 'thought ye looked as if ye'd seed something',' she remarked incredulously, and then went on eating and feeding the dog, as indifferent to his presence as she was to the presence of the weeds. 'are you going far to-night?' he asked at length, thinking he would make more progress toward friendship before he sat down. 'to th' town.' 'indeed, as far as that! which town, may i ask?' he said, with mechanical politeness, for his mind was running on what he had seen. 'yer a fool and noä mistake,' she replied with emphasis. 'there's but one town wi'in a walk.' 'on the contrary, i am considered a man of great learning,' he replied, with more eager self-assertion than he could hitherto have believed possible under the circumstances. 'is't larning ye've got?' she asked, with much greater interest than she had before evinced. 'yes; i am a man who spends his life seeking for knowledge.' 'are ye wiser ner parson?' 'very much wiser,' replied the man of science, with honest conviction. she looked much more impressed than he had hoped; and thinking that he had made himself sufficiently interesting, he began to speak about her own affairs, supposing they would please her better. 'you are not a married woman?' he said, looking at her ringless hand. 'married or no,' she replied, 'it's nowt to you.' 'i beg your pardon; everything which concerns such a beautiful woman must be of interest to me.' at that she laughed outright in hard derision, and went on eating her bread and meat. 'but won't you tell me if you are married or not?' he pleaded, pursuing a subject which he thought must interest her. he was surprised to see the sudden expression of womanly sorrow that came over her face, giving her eyes new depth and light. she answered him sadly, looking past him into the sunny distance-- 'no, nor like to be.' 'i must disagree with you there. if you are not married yet, i am sure you will be very soon. i never saw a more likely lassie than yourself.' manlike, he was quite unconscious of the consummate impertinence of the form this compliment had taken; but afterwards he realised it when his idle words recurred to his mind. she turned her eyes full upon him, and said with energy: 'ye know nowt at all about it;' and then added more meditatively, 'neither do parson.' she had been so absorbed in her thoughts for a few minutes that she had ceased to stroke the dog, and, resenting this, it raised its silky head from her lap and laid it upon her breast. thus reminded, she smiled down into the eyes of the dog and caressed it, pressing its head closer against her bosom. the man stood a few paces away, watching these two beautiful creatures as they sat in the hazy autumn sunlight, with their background of weeds and moss-grown paling. he felt baffled and perplexed, for he knew that he stood apart, excluded from their companionship by something he could not define. so intolerable did this feeling become that he resolved to break through it, and made a hasty movement to sit down beside them; but, as he stepped forward, he was suddenly aware that there was another man in the place he would have taken, embracing and protecting the girl. he swore a loud oath, and flung himself backwards to stand by the hedge on the opposite side of the road, that he might the better review the situation. it was all as it had been before--that quiet autumn landscape--only the woman appeared much interested in his sudden movements. 'what was't ye seed; was't a snaïke?' she inquired loudly, at the same time moving her skirts to look for that dangerous reptile. 'no,' he shouted, putting his whole energy into the word. 'what was't ye seed, cutting them capers as if ye was shot, an' saying o' words neyther fit fur heaven above nor earth beneath?' so loudly did she ask, and so resolutely did she wait for an answer, that he was forced into speech. 'i don't know,' he said, with another oath, milder than the first. 'well, sure enow,' she said, still speaking loudly, ''ere's somethin' awful queer, ye says yer a man that's got larning more ner parson, an' ye sees somethin', an' can't tell what ye's seed. that's twice this short while; are ye often took bad the like o' that?' the bold derision of this speech fell without effect upon its object, because he perceived a gleam of mischievous intelligence in her eyes which she had intended to conceal, but she was no adept in the art of concealment. the conviction that the woman knew perfectly what he had seen and did not in reality despise him for his conduct, took the sting from her jeers but did not make his position pleasanter. the repeated shock to his nerves had produced a chilly feeling of depression and almost fear, which he could not immediately shake off, and he stood back against the opposite hedge, with his half-eaten bread in his hand, conscious that he looked and felt more like a whipped schoolboy than, as he had fondly imagined when he first stopped the woman, the hero of a rural love scene. that was nothing; he was, as he had described himself, a man who devoted his life to the search for knowledge, and personal consciousness was almost lost in the intense curiosity which the circumstances had aroused in him. with the trained mind of one accustomed to investigation, he instantly perceived that his only clue to the explanation of the phenomenon lay in the personality of the woman. his one eager desire was to probe her thought through and through, but how was he to approach the interior portals of a mind guarded by a will as free and strong as his own? he would fain have bound down her will with strong cords and analysed the secrets of her mind with ruthless vivisection. but how? his tact, trained by all the subtleties of a life cast in cultured social relations, was unequal to the occasion, and, fearing to lose ground by a false step, he remained silent. the woman finished eating and shook herself free of the crumbs. he supposed, almost with a sense of desperation, that she was about to leave him before he could begin his inquiry, but instead of moving she motioned him to come near, and he went, and stood on the road in front of her. 'ye says yer a man o' larning, an' i b'lieves ye, she began. he was about to reply that he was only a seeker after truth, but he was checked by the knowledge that she would accept no answer she could not understand. he fell back on the truth as it was to her, and said simply, 'yes.' 'i wants to ask ye two questions; will ye answer like an honest man?' she had laid aside all her loud rudeness, and was speaking with intense earnestness--an earnestness that won his entire respect. 'i will indeed answer you honestly, if i can answer.' 'then tell me this--what's the soäl o' a man?' he stood with lips sealed, partly by surprise at the question, and partly by self-acknowledged ignorance of the answer. 'the soäl o' a man,' she repeated more distinctly, 'ye knows what i mean surely?' yes, he knew what she meant, but he knew also that his own most honest convictions hovered between a materialist philosophy and faith in the spiritual unseen. if at that moment he could have decided between the two he would gladly have done so, for the sake of the eager woman sitting at his feet, but he knew that he did not know which was the truth. she, still labouring under the impression that she had not made her meaning plain, endeavoured to explain. 'ye knows when a man dies, there's two parts to him; one they buries, and one goes--' she pointed upward with her thumb, not irreverently, but as merely wishing to indicate a fact without the expense of words. 'yes, i understand what you mean,' he said slowly, 'and under that theory, the soul----' 'under what?' she said sharply. 'i mean that if you say the soul is divided from the body at death----' 'but it is--ain't it?' she interrupted. 'yes, it is,' he said, feeling that it was better to perjure himself than to shake her faith. 'go on,' she said, 'for parson says the soäl is the thing inside that thinks; but when a man's luny, ye knows--off his head like--has he no soäl then? i've looked i' the catechis', an' i' bible, an' i' prayer-book, an' fur the life o' me, i doän't know.' 'i don't wonder at that,' he said, with mechanical compassion, casting about in his mind for some possible motive for her extraordinary vehemence. he felt as certain, standing there, that this was a true woman, true to all the highest attributes of her nature, as if he had been able to weigh all the acts of her life and find none of them wanting. in the midst of his perplexity he found time to ask himself whence he had this knowledge. did he read it in the lines of her face, or was it some unseen influence of her mind upon his own? he had only time to question, not to answer, for she looked up in his face with the trust and expectation of a child, awaiting his words. he spoke. 'you say when a man dies he is divided into two parts--the body that rots and the part "that lives elsewhere."' he was speaking very slowly and distinctly. 'if that part of a man which lives goes to heaven, where everything is quite different from this, he could have no use for most of his thoughts--what we call opinions, for they are formed on what he sees, and hears, and feels here. look here!'--he held out his arm and moved it up and down from the elbow--'there are nerves and muscles; behind them is something we call life--we don't know what it is. and behind your thoughts and feeling there is the same life--we don't know what it is. the part of you that you say goes to heaven must be that life. if you ask me what i think, i think the greater part of what you call mind is part of your body. if your body can live a spirit life, so can it; but it would need as much changing first.' it was most extraordinary to him to see the avidity with which she drank in his words, and also the intelligence with which she seemed to master them, for she cried-- 'what's i' the soäl then? when ye _will_ to do a thing agen all costs, is that i' the soäl?' 'certainly the spirit must be the self, and the will, as far as we know, is that self--more that self than anything else is.' he spoke in the pleased tone of a schoolmaster who finds that the mind beneath his touch is being moulded into the right shape; and besides he supposed he could question her next. 'i _knowed_ that,' she said, with an intensity of conviction that confounded her listener, 'i _knowed_ the soäl was will.' 'it must be intelligence, and will, and probably memory,' he said, beguiled into the idea that she was interested in the nicety of his theory, 'but not in any sense that activity of mind which shows itself in the opinions most men conceive so important.' but of this she took no heed. 'when a man's off his head or par'lysed, wi' no more life in him than babe unborn--yet when he's living and not dead--where's his soäl then? parson he says the soäl's sleeping inside him afore going to glory, like a grub afore it turns into a fly; but i asked him how he knowed, and he just said he knowed, an' i mun b'lieve, and that's no way to answer an honest woman.' 'he did not really know.' 'well, tell what you knows,' she said. 'indeed, i do not know anything about it.' 'ye doän't know!' 'i do not know.' the animation of hope slowly faded from her face, giving place to a look of bitter disappointment. it was as if a little child, suddenly denied some darling wish, should have strength to restrain its tears and mutely acquiesce in the inevitable. 'then there's nowt to say,' she said, rising, sullen in the first moment of pain. 'but you'll tell me why you have asked?' he begged; 'i am very sorry indeed that i cannot answer.' 'noä, i'll not tell ye, fur it's no concern o' yours; but thank ye kindly, sir, all the same. yer an honest man. good-day.' with that she walked resolutely away, nor would she accept his offer of payment for the food she had given. he stood and watched her, feeling checkmated, until he saw her exchange greetings with the ploughman, who reached the end of his furrow as she passed the side of the field. seeing this, he took up his specimens and walked slowly in the same direction, waiting for the ploughman's next return. as he stood at the hedge he noticed that the labourer, who appeared to be a middle-aged man of average intelligence, surveyed him with more than ordinary interest. 'good-day,' he said. 'good-day, sir.' there was a clank of the chains, a shout and groan to the horses, and they stopped beside the hedge. 'can you tell me the name of the young woman who passed down the road just now?' 'jen wilkes, sir; "jen o' the glen" they calls 'er, for she lives in the holler down there, a bit by on the town road, out of west chilton.' 'she has not lived here long, surely; she seems a north country woman by her speech.' 'very like, sir; it's a while by sin' she came with 'er mother to live i' chilton.' it was evident that the ploughman had much more to say, and that he wished to say it, but his words did not come easily. 'can you tell me anything more about her?' the man rubbed his coarse beard down upon his collar, and clanked his chains, and made guttural sounds to his horses, which possibly explained to them the meaning he did not verbally express. then he looked up and made a facial contortion, which clearly meant that there was more to be said concerning jen if any one could be found brave enough to say it. 'i feel assured she is everything that is good and respectable.' at this the ploughman could contain himself no longer, but heaving up one shoulder and looking round to see that there was no one to hear, he blurted out--''ave you seen 'er shadder, sir?' 'her what?' ''er shadder. i seen you so long with 'er on the road i thought maybe you'd tried to 'ave a kiss. gentlemen mostly thinks a sight of jen's looks; an' it ain't no harm as i knows on to kiss a tidy girl, if y'ain't married, or th' missus don't object.' 'and if i did, what has that to do with it? what do you mean by her shadow?' 'oh, i dunno; i h'ain't seen nothing myself; but they says, whenever any has tried to be friendly with 'er, they's seed something not just o' the right sort. they calls it 'er shadder--but i dunno, i h'ain't seen nothing myself.' when we are suddenly annoyed, by whatever cause, we are apt to vent our annoyance upon the person nearest to us; and at this unlooked-for corroboration of his unpleasant vision, the gentleman said rudely, 'you're not such a fool as to believe such confounded trash as that, are you?' 'no sir, i'm no fool,' said the ploughman sulkily, starting his horses to go up the furrow. in vain the other called out an attempted apology, and tried to delay him; the accustomed shout and clank of the chains was all he got in answer. the birds that had settled upon the field rose again at the return of the horses, and curveted in a long fluttering line above their heads. the man on the road turned reluctantly away, and, too perplexed almost for thought, walked off to catch his home-bound train. chapter ii the man of science, skelton by name, passed some seven days in business and pleasure at home among men of his own class, and then, impelled by an intolerable curiosity, he went to seek the home of the woman with whom he had so strange a meeting. concerning the mad delusion from which he had suffered in her presence, his mind would give him no rest. some further effort he must make to understand the cause of an experience which he could not reason from his memory. the effort might be futile; he could form no plan of action; yet he found himself again upon the highroad which led from the nearest station to the village of west chilton. the autumn leaf that had bedecked the trees was lying upon the ground, its brightness soiled and tarnished. the cloud rack hung above, a vault of gloom in which the upper winds coursed sadly. 'this is the field,' said skelton within himself. 'the ploughman has finished his work, but the crows are still flapping about it. i wonder if they are the same crows! that is the clump of weeds by which she sat; it was as red as flame then, but now it is colourless as the cinders of a fire that is gone out.' his words were like straws, showing the current of his thoughts. just then in the west the cloud masses in the horizon, being moved by the winds, rent asunder, exposing the land to the yellow blaze of the setting sun. the distant hills stood out against the glow in richer blue, and far and near the fields took brighter hues--warm brown of earth ready to yield the next harvest, yellow of stubble lands at rest, bright green of slopes that fed the moving cows. there were luminous shadows, too, that gathered instantly in the copses, as if they were the forms of dryads who could sport unseen in the murk daylight, but must fly under each shrub for refuge in the sudden sunshine. close at his feet lay the patch of cabbages--purple cabbages they were, throwing back from each glossy leaf and stalk infinite gradations of crimson light. parts of the leaves were not glossy but were covered with opaque bloom of tender blue, and here and there a leaf had been broken, disclosing scarlet veins. they were very beautiful--skelton stood looking down into their depth of colour. it had been difficult for him to conjecture a possible cause for the phantom he had thought he saw a week before, but one theory which had floated in his mind had been that from these cabbages, which had lain a trifle too long in sun and moisture; gases might have arisen which had disturbed his senses. it was true that his theory did not account for other instances of the same optical delusion to which the talk of the ploughman had seemed to point, but skelton could not bring himself to attach much importance to his words. he meditated on them now as he stood. 'i dare not go to the young woman and ask her to show me her "shadder." if she knew i was here she would only try to defeat my purpose. i _can_ only interview her neighbours; and this first rustic whom i questioned shut himself up like an oyster; if all the rest act in this way, what can i do? and if i can hear all the vulgar superstition there is to be heard, will there be in the whole of it the indication of a single fact?' so he mused by the road-side while the sun hung in the dream temple of fire made by the chasm of cloud. then the earth moved onward into the night, and he walked on upon his curious errand. the darkness of evening had already fallen, and he was still about a mile from the village when he discerned a woman coming towards him on the road. it was the very woman about whom his mind was occupied. there was a house at one side; the gate leading to it was close to him, and, not wishing to be recognised at the moment, he turned in through it to wait in the darkness of some garden shrubs till she had passed. but she did not pass. she came up, walking more and more slowly, till she stood on the road outside the gate. she looked up and down the road with a hesitating air, and then, clasping her hands behind her, leaned back against a heavy gate-post and composed herself to wait. there was light enough to see her, for there was a moon behind the clouds, and also what was left of the daylight in the west was glimmering full upon her. the house was close to the road--apparently an old farmstead--turning blank dark walls and roofs to them, so that it was evidently uninhabited or else inhabited only at the other side. the young woman looked up at it, apparently not without distrust, but even to her keen scrutiny there was no sign of life. for the rest, the road lay through a glen, the village was out of sight, and the hills around them were like the hills in hades--silent, shadowy and cold. it seemed an unearthly thing that she should have come there to stand and lean against the gate, as if to shut him into his self-sought trap; and there was no impatience about this woman--she stood quite still in that dark, desolate place, as though she was perfectly contented to wait and wait--for what? how long?--these were the questions he asked himself. was this dark house the abode of evil spirits with which she was in league? and if so, what result would accrue to him? there are circumstances which suggest fantastic speculations to the most learned man. at length he heard a footfall. he could not tell where at first, but, as it approached, he saw a countryman in a carter's blouse coming across the opposite field. he got through the hedge and came toward the gate. then the girl spoke in her strong voice and north-country accent, but skelton would hardly have known the voice again, it was so soft and sad. 'i've been waiting on ye, johnnie; some women thinks shame to be first at the trysting, but that's not me when i loves ye true.' at this skelton by an impulse of honour thought to pass out of ear-shot, and then another motive held him listening. he thought of the ghostly thing he had seen by this girl, of the wild tale the ploughman had told. the passion of investigation, which had grown lusty by long exercise, rose within him triumphing over his personal inclinations. too much was at stake to miss a chance like this. honour in this situation seemed like a flimsy sentiment. he waited for the answer of the girl's lover with breathless interest. the man was evidently a fine young fellow, tall and strong, and when he spoke it was not without a touch of manly indignation in his tone. 'if you love me true, jen, i can't think what the meaning of your doings is. it's two years since you came to live in the glen, and you can't say as you've not understood my meaning plain since the first i saw you; it's to take you to church and take care of you as a woman ought to be took care of by a man. and you know i could do it, jen, for my wages is good; but you've shied an' shied whenever you've seen me, and baulked an' baulked when you couldn't shy, so as no skittish mare is half so bad.' 'because, johnnie, i wouldn't ha' yer heart broke the way mine is. i loved ye too true for that.' 'but what's to hinder that we may be like other folks is? there's troubles comes to all, but we can bear them like the rest. what's to hinder? i thought there was some one else, an' that you didn't like. god knows, jen, if that 'ad been the way, i'd never 'ev troubled you again; but last night when we heard your mother was took bad, an' mother an' me stepped round to see what we could do, an' you let on as you did 'ave a caring for me, i says,--"let's be cried in the church," so as your mother could die happy, if die she must. but when you says, "no," and as you'd meet me here an' tell me why, i was content to wait an' come here; an' now what i want to know is--why? what's to hinder, jen?' 'ye knows as well as me the tales about me, johnnie.' 'tales!' said the young man passionately; 'what tales? all along i've knocked down any man as 'ud say a word against you.' 'ay, but the women, johnnie; ye couldn't knock them down; that's why a woman's tale's allus the worst.' 'an' what can they say? the worst is that if any man comes nigh you for a kiss or the like o' that--and no offence, jen, but you're an uncommon tidy girl to kiss--he sees another man betwixt himself an' you. fools they be to believe such trash! if you'd give me the leave--which i'm not the fellow to take without you say the word--i'd soon show as no shadder 'ud come betwixt.' he came a step nearer, reproachful in his frank respect, as if he would claim the liberty he asked; but she drew back, holding up her hand to ward him off. 'i believe you half believe the nonsense yourself, jen.' 'heaven knows, johnnie, i've reason to b'lieve it weel, none knows better ner me. it's that i've comed to tell ye to-night; an' there's nowt fur it but we mun part. an' if i trouble yer peace staying here i' the glen, i'll go away out o' yer sight. it wasn't a wish o' mine to bring ye trouble. none knows better ner me how hard trouble's to bear.' her voice trembled as if with some physical pain; he only answered by a sound of incredulous surprise. 'i'll tell ye the whole on't, johnnie. ye sees, we lived i' yarm--mother and me. mother, she sewed books fur a book-binding man; an' we'd a little coming in as father'd saved. well, mother, she was feared lest i'd fall into rough ways like, an' she kep' me in a good bit, an' there was a man as helped i' the book-binding----' she stopped, and then said half under her breath-- 'his name was dan'el, dan'el mcgair, it was.' 'go on, jen.' 'he was a leän man and white to look at. he was very pious, and knowed lots o' things. least, i don't know if he was pious, fur he didn't go to church, but he'd his own thoughts o' things, an' he was steady, an' kep' himself to himself. he niver telled me his thoughts o' things--he said it 'ud unsettle me like--but he taught me reading; an' mother, she liked his coming constant to see us. as fur as i knows, he was a good man; but i tell ye, johnnie, that man had a will--whatsoever thing dan'el mcgair wanted, that thing he mun have, if he died i' the getting. he was about forty, an' i was nigh on twenty; it was after he'd taught me reading, an' whenever i'd go out here or there, or do this or that he didn't like, he'd turn as white as snow, an' tremble like a tree-stem i' the wind, an' dare me to do anything as he didn't like. ye sees he allus had that power over mother to make her think like him, but i wouldn't give in to him. if i'd gived in--well, i doänt know what 'ud 'a comed. god knows what did come were bad enow.' she stopped speaking and toed the damp ground--crushing her boot into the frosty mud and drawing it backwards and forwards as she stood against the gate. 'go on, jen.' 'ye sees, what he willed to get, that he mun have, an' at the end he willed to have me--mind, body, an' soäl. he'd 'a had me, only i made a stand fur my life. mother, she was all on his side, only she didn't want fur me to do what i wouldn't; but she cried like, an' talked o' his goodness--an' dan'el, he wouldn't ask out an' out, or i could 'a told him my mind an' 'a done wi' it; but he went on giving us, an' paying things, an' mother she took it all, till i was fairly mad wi' the shame an' anger on't. i doänt say as i acted as i ought; i knowed i'd a power over him to drive him wild like wi' a smile or a soft word, an' power's awful dangerous fur a young thing--it's like as if god gave the wind a will o' its own, an' didn't howd it in his own hand. then i was feared o' dan'el's power over mother, an' give in times when i ought to 'a held my own. an' i liked to have him fur a sarvint to me, an' i led him on like. so it went on--he niver doubted i'd marry wi' him, an' i held out fur my life. then at th' end, some words we had made things worse. 'twas i' spring--i' march i think--he walked out miles an' miles on the bad roads to bring me the first flowers. i was book-binding then, out late at night, an' i comed home to find he'd left them fur me--snowdrops they was, an' moss wi' a glint o' green light on't, like sun shining through th' trees; an' there was a grey pigeon's feather he'd picked up somewheres, all clean and unroughed, like a bit o' the sky at th' dawn; an' there was a twig wi' a wee pink toädstood on't, all pink an' red. the sight o' them fairly made me mad. 'twas bad enow to buy me wi' munny an' the things munny can buy, but it seemed he'd take the very thoughts o' god a'mighty and use them to get his will. i were mad; but if he'd comed to our house i couldn't 'a spoke fur mother's being there; so i just took them bits o' spring i' my hand, an' went out i' the dark to his house, an' went into his room, an' threw 'em on the floor, an' stamped 'em wi' my foot, an' i told him how he'd sneaked round to bind me to him, an' as how i'd die first. i was mad, an' talked till i couldn't speak fur my voice give out, an' that wasn't soon. he just sat still hearing me, but he was white, an' shook like a man wi' the palsy. they said he'd had fits once an' that made him nervous, but i didn't think o' him like that. he was strong, fur he could make most all men do as he wanted. he was spoiling my life wi' his strength, an' i didn't think o' him as weakly. when i'd raged at him an' couldn't say more, i went out an' was going home i' the dark, howding by the wall, as weak as a baby; an' just afore i got home, i seed him stand just in front' o' me. i thought he'd runned after me--mebbe he did--but i've thought since, mebbe not, that his body mayn't 'a been there at all; but anyway i seed him stand just afore me, wi' his eyes large and like fire, an' him all white and trembling. he said, "i tell ye, jen, i will have ye mine, an' as long as i live no other man shall," an' wi' that i went past him into the house.' 'go on, jen,' said the carter. 'all i knows is that the word he spoke was a true word. next day they comed and telled us he was found all par'lysed in his chair, an' he couldn't move nor speak. from that time the doctors 'ud sometimes come from a long way off; they said as there was somethin' strange about his sickness. i doänt know what they said, i niver seed him again. there's part o' him lies i' the bed, an' the parish feeds him, an' the doctors they talk about him. i niver seed him again sin' that night, but i knows what he said was true, an' there's many a man as 'as seed him anear me sin' that day. i tell ye, johnnie, there's trouble to face i' this world worse ner death,--not worse ner our own death, fur that's most times a good thing, but worse ner the death o' them we love most true--an' worse ner parting i' this world, johnnie, an' worse _a'most_ than sin itself; but, thank god, not _quite_ worse ner sin. but i never knowed, lad, how bad my own trouble was--though it's a'most drove me hard at times, not recking much what i said or did--i niver knowed, my lad, how bad it was till i knowed it was yer trouble too.' the young carter stood quite silent. his blue blouse glimmered white in the darkness and flapped a little in the wind, but he stood still as a rock, with his strong arms crossed upon his breast, and the silence seemed filled with the expression of thoughts for which words would have been useless. it was evident that her strong emotion had brought to his mind a conviction of the truth of her words which could not have been conveyed by the words alone. so they stood there, he and she, in all the rugged power of physical strength, confronted with their life's problem. at last, after they had been silent a long time, and it seemed that he had said many things, and that she had answered him, he appeared suddenly to sum up his thoughts to their conclusion, and stretched out both his strong arms to take her and all her griefs into his heart. it seemed in the darkness as though he did clasp her and did not, for she gave a low terrible cry and fled from him--a cry such as a spirit might give who, having ascended to heaven's gate with toil and prayer, falls backward into hell; and she ran from him--it seemed that with only her human strength she could not have fled so fast. he followed her, dashing with all his strength into the darkness. they went towards the village, and in the mud their footfalls were almost silent. the listener came out of his hiding and went back on the road by which he had come. chapter iii next morning skelton travelled northward to yarm. after some difficulty he succeeded in discovering the paralytic whom he sought. the medical interest which had at first been aroused by the case appeared to have died away; and it was only after some time spent in interviewing officials that he at last found the man, daniel mcgair. a parish apothecary had him in charge. the apothecary was a coarse good-natured fellow, one of that class of ignorant men upon whose brains the dregs of a refined agnosticism have settled down in the form of arrogant assumption. he had enough knowledge of the external matters of science to know, upon receiving skelton's card, that he was receiving a visitor of distinction. 'yes, sir,' he said, leading the way out of the dispensary, 'i'll exhibit the case. i don't know that there's much that's remarkable about it. of course, to us who take an interest in science, all these things are interesting in their way.' it was quite clear he did not know in what way the most special interest accrued to this case. 'no sir, he ain't in the union; he saved, and bought his cottage before his stroke, so that's where he is. he ain't got no kith or kin, as far as we know.' it was bright noonday when they walked through the narrow streets of mean houses, passing among the numerous children which swarm in such localities. the sun was shining, the children were shouting, the women were gossiping at their doors, when the apothecary stopped at a low one-roomed cottage, the home of daniel mcgair. he opened the door with a key and went in, as though the house were empty. it was a plain bare room; there was no curtain on the window and the sun shone in. there was a smouldering fire in the grate, a bookshelf on one side, still holding its dusty and unused volumes; there was an arm-chair--was that the chair in which he had sat to see his love-gifts trampled down, in which he had received that mysterious stroke from the unseen enemy? there was also a table in the room, and a chest, and, in the corner, a pallet-bed, upon which lay the withered body of a man. that was all, except some prints that hung upon the wall, dusty and lifeless-looking. such changes do years of disuse make in dwellings which, when inhabited, have been replete with human interest. even yet there was abundant indication that the room had once been the abode of one who put much of his own personality into his surroundings. the chair and the chest were carved with a rude device--the devil grappling with the son of god. the prints were crude allegorical representations of life and death. the books were full of the violent polemic of the reformation. a flowerpot stood on the window-sill; perhaps ten years ago it had had a flower in it, but now it held the apothecary's empty phials. everything proclaimed the room tenantless. skelton walked to the bed and looked down upon it with profound curiosity. only the head lay above the coverlet; withered and shrunken it was, yet the brow was high, and it was plain that the features had been fine and strong, betokening the once keen and sensitive nerve--there was nothing sensitive now; all thought and feeling had for ever fled. the half-shut lids disclosed the vacant eyes; the hair lay clammy and matted on the wrinkled brow; there was nothing of life left but the breath. 'it's my opinion, sir, that he'll live out his natural time. it's a theory of mine that we are all born with a certain length of life in us, and, barring accident, that time we'll live. well, of course this man had the accident of his stroke, which by rights ought to have done for him, but by some fluke he weathered it, and now he'll live out his time. if one could find out his ancestors and see how long they each lived, with a little calculation i could tell you how long he'd lie there.' with that the apothecary poked his patient in the cheek, and jerked him by the arm, to show skelton how completely consciousness was gone. he would have treated a corpse with more respect: the lowest of us has some reverence for death. just then the door, which had been left ajar, was pushed open, and a slight, sweet-faced woman came in from the street. she was evidently a district bible-reader, but, although perceiving that she had entered a house where she was not needed, she advanced as far as the bed and looked down upon it with a passion of tenderness and pity depicted on her face. 'bless you, mum, he ain't suff'ring,' said the apothecary. 'i was thinking of his soul, not of his body,' she said. 'i was wondering if he had been prepared to meet his creator.' 'where do you suppose his soul is?' asked skelton curiously. he asked the question in all reverence; she was not a lady apparently, only a working woman, but there was about her the strong majesty of a noble life. 'he is not dead yet,' she replied with evident astonishment. 'lor, mum,' said the apothecary, 'his brain ain't in working order just at present, and as for his spirit apart from his body, that's an unknown quantity we scientific men don't deal in.' she looked at them both with a look of indescribable compassion, and went away. skelton would fain have followed the woman out into the sunny street, but he remained to pay that courtesy which was due to the brusque good nature of his companion. after examining the room and finding nothing more of interest, he went and talked over the physical circumstances of the case with the parish doctor. he did not gain much information about the patient's diseased body, and naturally none whatever concerning the whereabouts of his soul. the peculiar interest of the case he did not mention to any one. afterwards he went back to the neighbourhood by himself, and endeavoured, as quietly as possible, to find out what traces the man's past life had left upon the minds of his neighbours. ten years bring more change to any community than we are apt to suppose; and among the poor, where rude necessity rules rather than choice, there is more change than among the rich. there were a few who had seen mcgair moving up and down the streets, and knew him to have been a book-binder by trade. one or two remembered the widow wilkes and her daughter, and could affirm that they had been friends of mcgair and had moved away after his illness. whither they had gone no one knew. when there was nothing more to be seen or heard at yarm, skelton went home. again he threw himself into all the daily interests of his life in order that he might think the more dispassionately of the circumstances of this strange case. in truth it was not now entirely out of curiosity that he was tempted to think of it; his sympathy had been stirred by the courage and sorrow of the woman whom he had so idly accosted on that bright autumn day only a few weeks before. she had appealed to him because he had knowledge. was all his knowledge, then, powerless to help her? he believed that the shadowy appearance which dogged her footsteps could only be some projection of mind, whether or not its cause was the strong will of the paralytic transcending the ordinary limits of time and space, he could not tell. certainly no discussion as to its nature and origin could in any way aid its victim, and he could only fall back upon the comfort material kindness and sympathy could give. at last he went down once more to west chilton, this time for the express purpose of seeing jen. he found the cottage in the glen road near the village, and his knock was answered by jen herself. she recognised him instantly, but was too pre-occupied to take much interest in the fact of his coming. he learned that her mother had just died, and that the neighbours were in the house, keeping vigil during the few sad days preceding the burial. it was evident that there was little real sympathy between them and the bereaved daughter, so he easily persuaded her to come out and walk a bit up the road with him. she did so, evidently supposing that he had some business with her, but too deeply buried in her sorrow to inquire what it was. they came to the house by the roadside where he had last seen her and she had been unconscious of his presence. the place seemed to rouse her from the dulness of grief, and she suddenly raised her head, like a beautiful animal scenting some cause of excitement, and stood still, looking round with brightened eyes, taking long deep breaths in the pure frosty air. no doubt she had passed the same road many times since the tryst, but the mind which has lately stood face to face with death perceives more clearly the true relations of all things to itself; and, in this spot, among all life's shiftings of the things that seem and are not, she had stood and wrestled with the reality of her ghostly bondage. all about them the hills were covered with the year's first snow. how bright the light was upon their heights! how soft the shadows that gathered in their slopes! the fields were white also, and the hedgerows. above them the sky was veiled with snow clouds, soft and grey, except that at the verge of east and west there were faint metallic lines, such as one sees upon clouds across snowfields, like the pale reflections of a distant fire. jen had come to a full stop now. she raised her hands to her face and sobbed out like a little child. skelton stood by her, feeling his own feebleness. 'i know you are in great trouble,' he said. her sobs did not last long; she soon mastered them, not by any art of concealment but by rude force. then standing shame-faced, with half-averted head, she wiped her eyes with her apron. 'yes, sir, i'm in great trouble, greater ner ye can know, fur death's neither here nor there--it's living that's hard. parson, he speaks out about preparing to die, but to my mind it takes a sight more preparing to know how to go on living.' 'i know that you have greater trouble than your mother's death. i know that you love a young man who loves you, and also what it is that you think keeps you apart from him.' 'and how do you know that, sir?' she asked, still with averted face. then he confessed, humbly enough, just how he did know it, and all that he knew, and told her about his visit to yarm. when he spoke of yarm and his visit to daniel mcgair she turned and looked full at him, drinking in every word with hungry curiosity. 'yes, sir, we left the place, an' i haven't heard o' him this nine year, but i knowed he wasn't dead.' 'how did you know that, jen?' 'because, sir, when god a'mighty sees fit that he should die, i'll be free o' him, that's all.' 'and aren't you going to marry?' 'noä, sir. johnnie an' me has talked it over, an' he says as how he'll wait till such time as i'm free. an' i didn't say "no" to him, fur when one knows what it is to love true, sir, one knows well it's noä use to say as this thing's best or t'other, but just it's like being taken up like a leaf by the wind an' moved whether one will or no. there's just this diff'rence betwixt true love an' the common kind--the common kind o' love moves ye i' the wrong way, an' true love i' the right; fur it's a true word the blessed st. john said when he said that love is god.' 'did st. john say that?' said skelton. 'yes, sir, i read it to mother just afore she died. an' johnnie's gone across the sea, sir, wi' his mother; he got a right good chance to better hisself, an' i made him go. his ship sailed the day after christmas; an' i said, "johnnie, i'll bide here, an' god 'ull take care o' me as well as ye could yerself;" an' i said, "johnnie, i'll pray every day, night an' morning, that if ye can forget me, ye will; for if ye can forget, then yer love's not o' the right sort, as i could take, or god 'ud want ye to give; and if ye can't forget, then there's nowt to say but as i'll bide here." an' i said, sir, as he munna think as loving him made me sad, fur i was a big sight happier to love him, if he forgets or if he comes again.' 'will you live here; jen, where the neighbours distrust you?' 'it 'ud just be the same any other place, sir, an' here i can work i' the fields, spring and harvest, an' earn my own bread. i know the fields, sir, an' the hills--they's like friends to me now, an' i knows the dumb things about, an' they all knows me. it's a sight o' help one can get, sir, when one's down wi' the sorrow o' all the world lying on the heart, to have a kind look an' a word wi' the dogs an' cows when they comes down the hills fur the milking. an' the children they mostly lets come to me now, though they kep 'em from me at first. then he told her that he had come a long way on purpose to see if he could help her; that he felt ashamed of having listened to her story, and that it would give him happiness in some way or other to make her life more easy. he explained that he had a great deal of money and many friends, and could easily give her anything that these could procure. in saying this he did not disguise from himself for a moment that his motive was mixed, and that he desired to gain some hold over her, such as benevolence could give, that he might further examine the problem of her extraordinary misfortune. even as he spoke he marvelled at the strength of his respect for her, which could so outweigh his own interest as to make it impossible that he should interfere in her affairs otherwise than with all deference, as if she were a lady. when he had made it quite clear to her that he was able and willing to give her anything she should ask, she thought of his words a while, and then answered-- 'i thank ye, sir, but there's nowt ye can do o' that sort, fur if there was i'd take it from johnnie an' none other. but there's one thing i'll ask, sir, an' wi' all yer kind offers ye can't but agree to it, fur it's not much. ye've found out this tale o' my life; there's none else as knows it, save mother lying dead, an' johnnie i telled fur love's sake, an' him as lies palsied i' yarm--god a'mighty only knows, sir, what dan'el mcgair could tell on't--but this i ask, sir,--that ye'll keep all ye knows an' say nowt. i did dan'el a great wrong, for i smiled on him whiles for the sake o' power; not but what he did me a worse wrong, so far worse that whiles i think no woman has so sore a life as me; but i did do him wrong, sir, and fur that reason i'll not ha' his name blazed abroad, hanging on to a tale as 'ud buzz i' the ears o' all. to tell it 'ud not make _my_ life worse but better, fur now them as sees this thing says dark things, an' speaks o' the devil an' worse. the times ha' been when i cursed god an' prayed to die, but, thank heaven, when i learned what love was, i learned as god a'mighty can love us in spite o' our wrong-doing, an' the pain it brings. th' use o' such sore pain as mine, sir, isna fur us to say, or to think great things to bear it patient; but the use o' life, sir, to my thinking, is to keep all his creatures from pain if we can, an' to take god's love like the sunshine, an' be thankful. so i'll ask ye to keep what ye knows o' this tale an' not speak on't, an' go no more to yarm; an' if ye'll give me yer hand on that, sir, i'll thank ye kindly.' so he gave her his hand on it, and went away. xii a freak of cupid chapter i the earth was white, the firmament was white, the plumage of the wind was white. the wind flew between curling drift and falling cloud, brushing all comers with its feathers of light dry snow. at the sides of the road the posts and bars of log-fences stood above the drifts; on the side of the hill the naked maple trees formed a soft brush of grey; just in sight, and no more, the white tin roof and grey walls of a huge church and a small village were visible; all else was unbroken snow. the surface of an ice-covered lake, the sloping fields, the long straight road between the fences, were as pure, in their far-reaching whiteness, as the upper levels of some cloud in shadeless air. a young englishman was travelling alone through this region. he had set out from the village and was about to cross the lake. a shaggy pony, a small sleigh, a couple of buffalo-robes and a portmanteau formed his whole equipment. the snow was light and dry; the pony trotted, although the road was soft; the young man, wrapped in his fur-lined coat, had little to do in driving. in england no one would set out in such a storm; but this traveller had learned that in canada the snowy vast is regarded as a plaything, or a good medium of transit, or at the worst, an encumbrance to be plodded through as one plods through storms of rain. he had found that he was not expected to remain at an inn merely because it snowed, and, being a man of spirit, he had on this day, as on others, done what was expected of him. to-day, in the snow and wind, there was a slight difference from the storms of other days. the innkeeper, who had given him his horse an hour before by the walls of the great tin-roofed church, had looked at the sky and the snow, and asked if he knew the road well; but this had been accepted as an ignorant distrust of the foreign gentleman. having learned his lesson, that through falling snow he must travel, into the heart of this greater snowstorm he travelled, valiant, if somewhat doubtful. when he descended upon the ice of the lake he was no longer accompanied by the grey length of the log-fences. this road across the lake had been well tracked after former snowfalls, and so the untrodden snow rose high on either side; branches of fir and cedar, stuck at short intervals in these snow walls, marked out the way. the pony ceased to trot. the driver was only astonished that this cessation of speed had not come sooner. standing up in his sleigh and looking round he could see two or three other sleighs travelling across nearer the village. the village he could no longer see, scarcely even the hill, nor was there any communication over the deep untrodden snow between his road and that other on which there were travellers. another hour passed, and now, as he went on slowly up the length of the lake, all sound and sight of other sleighs were lost. the cloud was not dark; the snow fell in such small flakes that it did not seem that even an infinite number of them could bury the world; the wind drifting them together, though strong, was not boisterous; the march evening did not soon darken: and yet there was something in the determined action of cloud and wind and snow, making the certainty that night would come with no abatement, which caused even the inexperienced englishman to perceive that he was passing into the midst of a heavy storm. as is frequently the case with travellers, he had certain directions concerning the road which appeared to be adequate until he was actually confronted with that small portion of the earth's surface to which it was necessary to apply them. he was to take the first road which crossed his, running from side to side of the lake; but the first cross track appeared to him so narrow and so deeply drifted that he did not believe it to be the public road he sought. 'some farm, hidden in the level maple bush just seen through the falling snow, sends an occasional cart to the village by this by-path,' so he reassured himself; and the pony, who had spied the track first and paused to have time to consider it, at the word of command obediently plodded its continuous route. a quarter of a mile farther on the traveller saw something on the road in front; as the sound of his pony's jangling bells approached, a horse lifted its head and shook its own bells. the horse, the sleigh which it ought to have been drawing, were standing still, full in the centre of the road. the first thought, that it was cheering to come upon the trace of another wayfarer, was checked by the gloomy idea that some impassable drift must bar the way. the other sleigh was a rough wooden platform on runners. upon it a man, wrapped in a ragged buffalo-skin, lay prostrate. the englishman jumped to the ground and waded till he could lay his hand upon the recumbent figure. at the touch the man jumped fiercely, and shook himself from sleep. warm, luxurious sleep, only that, seemed to have enthralled him. his cheeks were red, his aquiline nose, red also, suggested some amount of strong drink; but his black eyes were bright, showing that the senses were wholly alive. he looked defiant, inquiring. he was a french-canadian, apparently a _habitant_, but he understood the english questions addressed to him. the curious thing was that he seemed to have no reason for stopping. when he had with difficulty made way for the gentleman to pass him on the road, he followed slowly, as it seemed reluctantly. a mile farther on the englishman, now far in front, suspected that the other had again stopped, and wondered much. the man's face had impressed him; the high cheek bones, the aquiline nose, the clearness of the eye and complexion--these had not expressed dull folly. now the englishman came to another cross road, wider but more deeply drifted than the track he was on. he turned into it and ploughed the drifts. when he reached the shore, where the land undulated, the drifts were still deeper. there were no trees here; he could see no house; there was hardly any evidence, except the evergreen branches stuck in the sides, that the road had ever been trodden. the march dusk had now fallen, yet not darkly. the full moon was beyond the clouds, and whatever wave of light came from declining day or rising night was held in by, and reflected softly from, the storm of pearl. after some debate he turned back to the lake and his former road. it must lead somewhere; he pressed steadily on toward the western end of the lake. the western shore was level; he hardly knew when he was upon the land. the glimmering night blinded the traveller; no ray of candle light was in sight. he began to think that he was destined to see his horse slowly buried, and himself to fight, as long as might be, a losing battle with the fiends of the air. at last the plodding pony stopped again resolutely. long lines of lombardy poplars here met the road. they were but as the ghosts of trees; their stately shape, their regular succession, inspired him with some sentiment of romance which he did not stay to define. he dimly discerned shrubs as if planted in a pleasure-ground. wading and fumbling he found a paling and a gate. the pony turned off the high road with renewed courage in its motion; the englishman, letting loose the rein, found himself drawn slowly up a long avenue of the ghostly poplar trees. the road was straight, the land was flat, the poplars were upright. the simplicity affected him with the notion that he was coming to an enchanted palace. the pony approached the door of a large house, dim to the sight; its huge pointed tin roof, its stone sides, mantled as they were with snowflakes and fringed with icicles at eaves and lintels, hardly gave a dark outline in the glimmering storm. the rays of light which twinkled through chinks of shutters might be analogous to the stars produced by a stunned brain; it seemed to the englishman that if he went up and tried to knock on the door the ghostly house, the ghostly poplar avenue, would vanish. the thought was born of the long monotony of a danger which had called for no activity of brain or muscle on his part. the pony knew better; it stopped before the door. the traveller stood in a small porch raised a step or two from the ground. the door was opened by a middle-aged frenchwoman clad in a peasant's gown of bluish-grey. behind her, holding a lamp a little above her head, stood a young girl, large, womanly in form, with dimpled softness of face, and dressed in a rich but quaint garment of amber colour. with raised and statuesque wrist she held the lamp aloft to keep the light from dazzling her eyes. she was looking through the doorway with the quiet interest of responsibility, nothing of which was expressed in the servant's furrowed countenance. 'is the master of the house at home?' 'there is no master.' the girl spoke with a mellow voice and with a manner of soft dignity; yet, having regarded the stranger, there leaped into her face, as it seemed to him, behind the outward calm of the dark eyes and dimpling curves, a certain excited interest and delight. the current of thought thus revealed contrasted with the calm which she instinctively turned to him, as the words which an actor speaks aside contrast with those which are not soliloquy. with more hesitation, more obvious modesty, he said-- 'may i speak to the mistress of the house?' 'i am the mistress.' he could but look upon her more intently. she could not have been more than eighteen years of age. her hair had the soft and loose manner of lying upon her head that is often seen in hair which has, till lately, been allowed to hang loose to the winds. her dress, folded over the full bosom and sweeping to the ground in ample curves, was, little as he could have described a modern fashion, even to his eyes evidently fantastic--such as a child might don at play. above all, as evidence of her youth, there was that inward quiver of delight at his appearance and presence, veiled perfectly, but seen behind the veil, as one may detect glee rising in the heart of a child even though it be upon its formal behaviour. 'can you tell me if there is any house within reach where i can stop for the night?' he gave a succinct account of his journey, the lost road, the increasing storm. 'my horse is dead tired, but it might go a mile or so farther.' the serving-woman, evincing some little curiosity, received from the girl an interpretation in low and rapid french. the woman expressed by her gestures some pity for man and beast. the girl replied with gentle brevity-- 'we know that the roads are snowed up. the next house is three miles farther on.' he hesitated, but his necessity was obvious. 'i am afraid i must beg for a night's shelter.' he had been wondering a good deal what she would say, how she would accede, and then he perceived that her dignity knew no circumlocution. 'i will send the man for your horse.' she said it with hardly a moment's pause. the woman gave him a small broom, an implement to the use of which he had grown accustomed, and disappeared upon the errand. the girl stood still in her statuesque pose of light-bearer. the young man busied himself in brushing the snow from cap and coat and boots. as he brushed himself he felt elation in the knowledge, not ordinarily uppermost, that he was a good-looking fellow and a gentleman. chapter ii 'my name is courthope.' the visitor, denuded of coat and cap, presented his card, upon which was written, 'mr. george courthope.' he began telling his hostess whence he came and what was his business. a quarry which a dead relative had bequeathed to him had had sufficient attraction to bring him across the sea and across this railless region. his few words of self-introduction were mingled with and followed by regrets for his intrusion, expressions of excessive gratitude. all the time his mind was questioning amazedly. by the time the speeches which he deemed necessary were finished, he had followed the girl into a spacious room, furnished in the large gay style of the fifties, brilliantly lit, as if for a festival, and warmed by a log fire of generous dimensions. having led him in, listening silently the while, and put her additional lamp upon the table, she now spoke, with no _empressement_, almost with a manner of _insouciance_. 'you are perfectly welcome; my father would never have wished his house to be inhospitable.' with her words his own apologies seemed to lose their significance; he felt a little foolish, and she, with some slight evidence of childish awkwardness, seemed to seek a pretext for short escape. 'i will tell my sister.' these words came with more abruptness, as if the interior excitement was working itself to the surface. the room was a long one. she went out by a door at the farther end, and, as with intense curiosity he watched her quickly receding form, he noticed that when she thought herself out of his sight she entered the other room with a skip. at that same end of the room hung a full-length portrait of a gentleman. it was natural that courthope should walk towards it, trying to become acquainted with some link in the train of circumstances which had raised this enchanted palace in the wilderness; he had not followed to hear, but he overheard. 'eliz, it's a _real_ young man!' 'no! you are only making up, and' (here a touch of querulousness) 'i've often told you that i don't like make-ups that one wants too much to be true. i'll only have the austens and sir charles and evelina and----' 'eliz! he's _not_ a make-up; the fairies have sent him to our party. isn't it just fairilly entrancing? he has a curly moustache and a nice nose. he's english, like father. he says "cawn't," and "shawn't," and "heah," and "theyah,"--genuine, no affectation. oh' (here came a little gurgle of joy), 'and to-night, too! it's the first _perfectly_ joyful thing that has _ever_ come to us.' courthope moved quietly back and stood before the blazing logs, looking down into them with a smile of pure pleasure upon his lips. it was not long before the door, which she had left ajar, was re-opened, and a light-wheeled chair was pushed into the room. it contained a slight, elfin-like girl, white-faced, flaxen-haired, sharp-featured, and arrayed in gorgeous crimson. the elder sister pushed from behind. the little procession wore an air of triumphant satisfaction, still tempered by the proprieties. 'this is my sister,' said the mistress of the house. 'i am very glad to see you, mr. courthope.' the tones of eliz were sharp and thin. she was evidently acting a part, as with the air of a very grand lady she held out her hand. he was somewhat dazzled. he felt it not inappropriate to ask if he had entered fairyland. eliz would have answered him with fantastic affirmative, but the elder sister, like a sensible child who knew better how to arrange the game, interposed. 'i'll explain it to you. eliz and i are giving a party to-night. there hasn't been any company in the house since father died four years ago, and we know he wouldn't like us to be dull, so when our stepmother went out, and sent word that she couldn't come back to-night, we decided to have a grand party. there are only to be play-people, you know; all the people in miss austen's books are coming, and the nice ones out of _sir charles grandison_.' she paused to see if he understood. 'are the _mysteries of udolpho_ invited?' he asked. 'no, the others we just chose here and there, because we liked them--evelina, although she was rather silly and we told her that we couldn't have lord ormond, and miss matty and brother peter out of _cranford_, and moses wakefield, because we liked him best of the family, and the portuguese nun who wrote the letters. we thought we would have liked to invite the young man in _maud_ to meet her, but we decided we should have to draw the line somewhere and leave out the poetry-people.' the girl, leaning her forearms slightly on the back of her sister's chair, gave the explanation in soft, business-like tones, and there was only the faintest lurking of a smile about the corners of her lips to indicate that she kept in view both reality and fantasy. 'i think that i shall have to ask for an introduction to the portuguese nun,' said courthope; 'the others, i am happy to say, i have met before.' a smile of approval leapt straight out of her dark eyes into his, as if she would have said: 'good boy! you have read quite the right sort of books!' eliz was not endowed with the same well-balanced sense of proportion; for the time the imaginary was the real. 'the only question that remains to be decided,' she cried, 'is what _you_ would prefer to be. we will let you choose--bingley, or darcy, or----' 'it would be fair to tell him,' said the other, her smile broadening now, 'that it's only the elderly people and notables who have been invited to dinner, the young folks are coming in after; so if you are hungry----' her soft voice paused, as if suspended in mid-air, allowing him to draw the inference. 'it depends entirely on who you are, who i would like to be.' he did not realise that there was undue gallantry in his speech; he felt exactly like another child playing, loyally determined to be her mate, whatever the character that might entail. 'i will even be the idiotic edward if you are eleanor dashwood.' her chin was raised just half-an-inch higher; the smile that had been peeping from eyes and dimples seemed to retire for the moment. 'oh, we,' she said, 'are the hostesses. my sister is eliz king and i am madge king, and i think you had better be a real person too; just a mr. courthope, come in by accident.' 'well, then, he can help us in the receiving and chatting to them.' eliz was quite reconciled. he felt glad to realise that his mistake had been merely playful. 'in that case, may i have dinner without growing grey?' he asked it of madge, and her smile came back, so readily did she forget what she had hardly consciously perceived. when the sharp-voiced little eliz had been wheeled into the dining-room to superintend some preparations there before the meal was ready, courthope could again break through the spell that the imaginary reception imposed. he came from his dressing-room to find madge at the housewifely act of replenishing the fire. filled with curiosity, unwilling to ask questions, he remarked that he feared she must often feel lonely, that he supposed mrs. king did not often make visits unaccompanied by her daughters. 'she does not, worse luck!' madge on her knees replied with childish audacity. 'i hope when she returns she may not be offended by my intrusion.' 'don't hope it,'--she smiled--'such hope would be vain.' he could not help laughing. 'is it dutiful then of you'--he paused--'or of me?' 'which do you prefer--to sleep in the barn, or that i should be undutiful and disobey my stepmother?' in a minute she gave her chin that lift in the air that he had seen before. 'you need not feel uncomfortable about mrs. king; the house is really mine, not hers, and father always had his house full of company. i am doing my duty to him in taking you in, and in making a feast to please eliz when the stepmother happens to be away and i can do it peaceably. and when she happens to be here i do my duty to him by keeping the peace with her.' 'is she unkind to you?' he asked, with the ready, overflowing pity that young men are apt to give to pretty women who complain. but she would have him know that she had not complained. there was no bitterness in her tone--her philosophy of life was all sweetness. 'no! bless her! god made her, i suppose, just as he made us; so, according to the way she is made, she packs away all the linen and silver, she keeps this room shut up for fear it will get worn out, and we never see any visitors. but to-day she went away to st. philippe to see a dying man--i think she was going to convert him or something; but he took a long time to die; and now we may be snowed up for days, and we are going to have a perfectly glorious time.' she added hospitably, 'you need not feel under the slightest obligation, for it gives us pleasure to have you, and i know that father would have taken you in.' courthope rose up and followed her glance, almost an adoring glance, to the portrait he had before observed. he went and stood again face to face with it. a goodly man was painted there, dressed in a judge's robe. courthope read the lineaments by the help of the living interpretation of the daughter's likeness. benevolence in the mouth, a love of good cheer and good friends in the rounded cheeks, a lurking sense of the poetry of life in the quiet eyes, and in the brow reason and a keen sense of right proportion dominant. he would have given something to have exchanged a quiet word with the man in the portrait, whose hospitality, living after him, he was now receiving. madge had been arranging the logs to her satisfaction, she would not accept courthope's aid, and now she told him who were going to dine with them. she had great zest for the play. 'mr. and mrs. bennett, of course, and we thought we might have mr. knightley, because he is a squire and not so very young, even though he is not yet married. miss bates, of course, and the westons. mrs. dashwood has declined, of which we are rather glad, but we are having mrs. jennings.' so she went on with her list. 'we could not help asking sir charles with lord and lady g----, because he is so important; but grandmamma shirley is "mortifying" at present. she wrote that she could not stand "so rich a regale." sir hargrave pollexfen will come afterwards with harriet, and i am thankful to say that lady clementina is not in england at present, so could not be invited.' she stopped, looking up at him freshly to make a comment. 'don't you detest lady clementina?' when they went into the dining-room, the choice spirits deemed worthy to be at the board were each introduced by name to the lady eliz, who explained that because of her infirmities she had been unable to have the honour of receiving them in the drawing-room. she made appropriate remarks, inquiring after the relatives of each, offering congratulations or condolences as the case demanded. it was cleverly done. courthope stood aside, immensely entertained, and when at last he too began to offer spirited remarks to the imaginary guests, he went up in favour so immensely that eliz cried, 'let mr. courthope take the end of the table. let mr. courthope be father. it's much nicer to have a master of the house.' she began at once introducing him to the invisible guests as her father, and madge, if she did not like the fancy, did not cross her will. there was in madge's manner a large good-humoured tolerance. the table was long, and amply spread with fine glass and silver; nothing was antique, everything was in the old-fashioned tasteless style of a former generation, but the value of solid silver was not small. the homely serving-woman in her peasant-like dress stood aside, submissive, as it seemed, but ignorant of how to behave at so large a dinner. courthope, who in a visit to the stables had discovered that this frenchwoman with her husband and one young daughter were at present the whole retinue of servants, wondered the more that such precious articles as the young girls and the plate should be safe in so lonely a place. madge was seated at the head of the table, courthope at the foot; eliz in her high chair had been wheeled to the centre of one side. madge, playing the hostess with gentle dignity, was enjoying herself to the full, a rosy, cooing sort of joy in the play, in the feast that she had succeeded in preparing, in her amusement at the literary sallies of eliz, and, above all perhaps, in the company of the new and unexpected playmate to whom, because of his youth, she attributed the same perfect sympathy with their sentiments which seemed to exist between themselves. courthope felt this--he felt that he was idealised through no virtue of his own; but it was a delightful sensation, and brought out the best that was in him of wit and pure joyfulness. to eliz the creatures of her imagination were too real for perfect pleasure; her face was tense, her eyes shot sparkles of light, her voice was high, for her the entertainment of the invisible guests involved real responsibility and effort. 'asides are allowed, of course?' said eliz, as if pronouncing a debatable rule at cards. 'of course,' said madge, 'or we could not play.' 'it's the greatest fun,' cried eliz, 'to hear sir charles telling mr. john knightley about the good example that a virtuous man ought to set. with "hands and eyes uplifted" he is explaining the duty he owes to his maker. it's rare to see john knightley's face. i seated them on purpose with only miss matty between them, because i knew she wouldn't interrupt.' courthope saw the smile in madge's eyes was bent upon him as she said softly, 'you won't forget that you have lady catherine de bourg at your right hand to look after. i can see that brother peter has got his eye upon her, and i don't know how she would take the "seraphim" story.' 'if she begins any of her dignified impertinence here,' he answered, 'i intend to steer her into a conversation with charlotte, lady g----.' courthope had a turkey to carve. he was fain to turn from the guests to ask advice as to its anatomy of madge, who was carving a ham and assuring mr. woodhouse that it was 'thrice baked, exactly as serle would have done it.' 'stupid!--it was apples that were baked,' whispered eliz. 'you see,' said madge, when she had told him how to begin upon the turkey, 'we wondered very much what a dinner of "two full courses" might be, and where the "corner dishes" were to be set. we did not quite know--do you?' 'you must not have asides that are not about the people,' cried eliz intensely. 'catherine moreland's mother is talking common sense to general tilney and sir walter eliot, and there'll be no end of a row in a minute if you don't divert their attention.' eliz had more than once to call the other two to account for talking privately adown the long table. 'what a magnificent ham!' he exclaimed. 'do you keep pigs?' madge had a frank way of giving family details. 'it was once a _dear_ little pig, and we wanted to teach it to take exercise by running after us when we went out, but the stepmother, like bunyan, "penned it"-- '"until at last it came to be, for length and breadth, the bigness which you see."' more than once he saw madge's quick wit twinkle through her booklore. when he was looking ruefully at a turkey by no means neatly carved, she gave the comforting suggestion, '"'tis impious in a good man to be sad."' 'i thought it one of the evidences of piety.' 'it is true that he was "young" who said it, but so are we; let us believe it fervently.' when madge swept across the drawing-room, with her amber skirts trailing, and eliz had been wheeled in, they received the after-dinner visitors. courthope could almost see the room filled with the quaint creations to whom they were both bowing and talking incessantly. 'mr. courthope--miss jane fairfax--i believe you have met before.' madge's voice dropped in a well-feigned absorption in her next guest; but she soon found time again to whisper to him a long speech which miss bates had made to eliz. soon afterwards she came flying to him in the utmost delight to repeat what she called a "lovely sneap" which lady g---- had given to mrs. elton; nor did she forget to tell him that emma woodhouse was explaining to the portuguese nun her reasons for deciding never to marry. 'out of sheer astonishment she appears to become quite tranquillised,' said madge, as if relating an important fact. his curiosity concerning this nun grew apace, for she seemed a favourite with both the girls. when it was near midnight the imaginary pageant suddenly came to an end, as in all cases of enchantment. eliz grew tired; one of the lamps smoked and had to be extinguished; the fire had burned low. madge declared that the company had departed. she went out of the room to call the servant, but in a few minutes she came back discomfited, a little pout on her lips. 'isn't it tiresome! mathilde and jacques morin have gone to bed.' 'it is just like them,' fretted eliz. at the fretful voice madge's face cleared. 'what does it matter?' she cried. 'we are perfectly happy.' she lifted the lamp with which he had first seen her, and commenced an inspection of doors and shutters. it was a satisfaction to courthope to see the house. it was a french building, as were all the older houses in that part of the country, heavily built, simple in the arrangements of its rooms. every door on the lower floor stood open, inviting the heat of a large central stove. insisting upon carrying the lamp while madge made her survey, he was introduced to a library at the end of the drawing-room, to a large house-place or kitchen behind the dining-room; these with his own room made the square of the lower story. a wing adjoining the further side was devoted to the morins. having performed her duty as householder, madge said good-night. 'we have enjoyed it ever so much more because you were here.' she held out her hand; her face was radiant; he knew that she spoke the simple truth. she lifted the puny eliz in her arms and proceeded to walk slowly up the straight staircase which occupied one half of the long central hall. the crimson scarfs hanging from eliz, the length of her own silk gown, embarrassed her; she stopped a moment on the second step, resting her burden upon one lifted knee to clutch and gather the gorgeous raiment in her hand. 'you see we put on mother's dresses, that have always been packed away in the garret.' very simply she said this to courthope, who stood holding a lamp to light them in their ascent. he waited until the glinting colours of their satins, the slow motion of the burden-bearer's form, reached the top and were lost in the shadows of an open door. chapter iii courthope opened the shutters of his window to look out upon the night; they were heavy wooden shutters clasped with an iron clasp. a french window he could also open; outside that a temporary double window was fixed in the casement with light hooks at the four corners. the wind was still blustering about the lonely house, and, after examining the twilight of the snow-clad night attentively, he perceived that snow was still falling. he thought he could almost see the drifts rising higher against the out-buildings. two large barns stood behind the house; from these he judged that the fields around were farmed. it was considerations concerning the project of his journey the next day which had made him look out, and also a restless curiosity regarding every detail of the _ménage_ whose young mistress was at once so child-like and so queenlike. while looking out he had what seemed a curious hallucination of a dark figure standing for a moment on the top of the deep snow. as he looked more steadily the figure disappeared. all the outlines at which he looked were chaotic to the sight, because of the darkness and the drifting snow, and the light which was behind him shimmering upon the pane. if half-a-dozen apparitions had passed in the dim and whirling atmosphere of the yards, he would have supposed that they were shadows formed by the beams of his lamp, being interrupted here and there by the eddying snow where the wind whirled it most densely. he did not close his shutters, he even left his inner window partially open, because, unaccustomed to a stove, he felt oppressed by its heat. when he threw himself down, he slept deeply, as men sleep after days among snowfields, when a sense of entire security is the lethargic brain's lullaby. he was conscious first of a dream in which the sisters experienced some imminent danger; he heard their shrieks piercing the night. he woke to feel snow and wind driving upon his face, to realise a half-waking impression that a man had passed through his room, to know that the screams of a woman's voice were a reality. as he sprang for his clothes he saw that the window was wide open, the whole frame of the outer double glass having been removed, but the screams of terror he heard were within the house. opening the door to the dark hall he ran, guided by the sound, to the foot of the staircase which the girls had ascended, then up its long straight ascent. he took its first steps in a bound, but, as his brain became more perfectly awake, confusion of thought, wonder, a certain timidity because now the screaming had ceased, caused him to slacken his pace. he was thus hesitating in the darkness when he found himself confronted by madge king. she stood majestic in grey woollen gown, candle in hand, and her dark eyes blazed upon him in terror, wrath and indignation. it seemed for a moment that she could not speak; some movement passed over the white sweep of her throat and the full dimpling lips, and then-- 'go down!' she would have spoken to a dog with the same authority, but never with such contemptuous wrath. 'go down at once! how dare you!' abashed, knowing not what he might have done to offend, courthope fell back a step against the wall of the staircase. from within the room eliz cried, 'is he there? come in and lock the door, madge, or he'll kill you!' the voice, sharp, high with terror, rose at the end, and burst into one of those piercing shrieks which seemed to fill the night, as the voices of some small insects have the power to make the welkin ring in response. before courthope could find a word to utter, another light was thrown upon him from a lamp at the foot of the stair. it was held by jacques morin, grey-haired, stooping, dogged. the morin family--man, wife and daughter--were huddling close together. they, too, were all looking at him, not with the wrath and contempt to which madge had risen, but with cunning desire for revenge, mingled with the cringing of fear. there was a minute's hush, too strong for expression, in which each experienced more intensely the shock of the mysterious alarm. it was madge who broke the silence. her voice rang clear, although vibrating. 'jacques morin, he came into our room to rob!' she pointed at courthope. the thin voice of eliz came in piercing parenthesis: 'i saw him in the closet, and when i screamed he ran.' madge began again. 'jacques morin, what part of the house is open? i feel the wind.' all the time madge kept her eyes upon courthope, as upon some wild animal whose spring she hoped to keep at bay. that she should appeal to this dull, dogged french servant for protection against him, who only desired to risk his life to serve her, was knowledge of such intense vexation that courthope could still find no word, and her fixed look of wrath did actually keep him at bay. it took from him, by some sheer physical power which he did not understand, the courage with which he would have faced a hundred morins. when jacques morin began to speak, his wife and daughter took courage and spoke also; a babel of french words, angry, terrified, arose from the group, whose grey night-clothes, shaken by their gesticulations, gave them a half-frenzied appearance. in the midst of their talking courthope spoke to madge at last. 'i ran up to protect you when i heard screams; i did not wake till you screamed. some one has entered the house. he has entered by the window in my room; i found it open.' with his own words the situation became clear to him. he saw that he must hunt for the house-breaker. he began to descend the stairs. the morin girl screamed and ran. morin, producing a gun from behind his back, pointed it at courthope, and madam, holding the lamp, squared up behind her husband with the courage of desperation. it was not this fantastic couple that checked courthope's downward rush, but madge's voice. 'keep still!' she cried, in short strong accents of command. eliz, becoming aware of his movement, shrieked again. courthope, now defiant and angry, turned towards madge, but, even as he waited to hear what she had to say, reflected that her interest could not suffer much by delay, for the thief, if he escaped, could make but small speed in the drifting storm over roads which led to no near place of escape or hiding. it was the judge's daughter which courthope now saw in madge--the desire to estimate evidence, the fearless judgment. 'we took you in last night, a stranger; and now we have been robbed, which never happened before in all our lives. my sister says it was you she saw in our room. as soon as i could get the candle lit i found you here, and jacques morin says that you have opened your window so that you would be able to escape at once. what is the use of saying that you are not a robber?' he made another defiant statement of his own version of the story. the girl had given some command in french to morin; to courthope she spoke again in hasty sentences, reiterating the evidence against him. her manner was a little different now--it had not the same straightforward air of command. he began to hope that he might persuade her, and then discovered suddenly that she had been deliberately riveting his attention while the command which he had not understood was being obeyed. a noose of rope was thrown round his arms and instantly tightened; with a nimbleness which he had not expected morin knotted it fast. courthope turned fiercely; for a moment he struggled with all his force, bearing down upon morin from his greater height, so that they both staggered and reeled to the foot of the stair. at his violence the voices of the morin women, joined by that of eliz, were lifted in such wild terror that a few moments were sufficient to bring courthope to reason. he spoke to madge with haughty composure. 'tell him to untie this rope at once. there is some villain about the house who may do you the greatest injury; you are mad to take from me the power of arresting him.' madam morin, seeing the prisoner secured, hastened with her lamp to his bedroom. madge, feeling herself safer now, came a little way down the stair with her candle. 'how can we tell what you would do next?' she asked. 'and i have the household to protect; it is not for myself that i am afraid.' the anger that he had felt toward her died out suddenly. it was not for herself that she was afraid! she stood a few steps above him; her little candle, flashing its rays into the darkness of the upper and lower halls, made walls and balustrades seem vast by its flickering impotence to oust the darkness. surely this girl, towering in her sweeping robe and queenly pose, was made to be loved of men and gods! hero, carrying her vestal taper in the temple recesses, before ever leander had crossed the wave, could not have had a larger or more noble form, a more noble and lovely face. well, if she chose to tie his arms he would have preferred to have them tied, were it not for the maddening thought that more miscreants than one might be within reach of her, and that they would, if skilled, find the whole household an easy prey. madam morin came back from the room with the open window, making proclamation in the most excited french. 'what do they say?' asked courthope of madge. the morin girl was following close to her mother, and jacques morin was eagerly discussing their information. madge passed courthope in silence. they all went to the window to see; courthope, following in the most absurd helplessness, trailing the end of his binding-cord behind him, brought up the rear of the little procession. madge walked straight on into his room, where madam morin was again opening the window-shutters. 'they say,' said madge to courthope, 'that you have had an accomplice, and that he is gone again; they saw his snow-shoe tracks.' he begged her to make sure that the man was gone, to let him look at the tracks himself and then to search the house thoroughly. outside the window the same chaotic sweep and whirl of the atmosphere prevailed. it was difficult, even holding a lantern outside, to see, but they did see that a track had come up to the window and again turned from it. after that they all searched the house, courthope allowed to be of the company, apparently because he could thus be watched. the thief of the night had come and gone; some silver and jewellery which had been stored in a closet adjoining the bedroom of the sisters had been taken. courthope understood very little of the talk that went on. at length, to his great relief, madge gave her full attention to him in parley. 'won't you believe that i know nothing whatever of the doings of this sneak-thief?' some of her intense excitement had passed away, succeeded by distress, discouragement, and perhaps perplexity, but that last she did not express to him. she leaned against the wall as she listened to him with white face. 'we never took in any one we didn't know anything about before, and we never were robbed before.' she added, 'we treated you kindly; how could you have done it? if you did it'--his heart leaped at the 'if' as at a beam of sunshine on a rainy day--'you must have known all about us, although i can't think how; you must have known where we kept things, and that mamma had taken our other man-servant away. you must have brought your accomplice to hide in the barn and do the work while you played the gentleman! that is what jacques morin says; he says no one but a child would have taken you in as i did, and that you might have murdered us all. they are very angry with me.' there was conflict in her manner; a few words would be said haughtily, as to some one not worthy of her notice, and then again a few words as to a friend. he saw that this conflict of her mind was increasing as she stood face to face with him, and with that consolation he submitted, at her request, to be more securely bound--the rope twisted round and round, binding his arms to his sides. it was a girl's device; he made no complaint. it seemed that morin had no thought of following the thief; his faithfulness was limited to such service as he considered necessary, and was of a cowardly rather than a valiant sort. courthope, when his first eagerness to seek passed off, was comforted by reflecting that, had he himself been free, it would have been futile for him to attempt such a quest while darkness lay over the land in which he was a stranger. he was allowed to rest on the settle in the large inner kitchen, securely locked in, and so near morin's room that his movements could be overheard. there, still in bonds, he spent the rest of the night. chapter iv when the march morning shone clear and white through the still-falling snow, and the morins began to bustle about their work for the day, the mental atmosphere in the kitchen seemed to have lost something of the excited alarm that had prevailed in the night. courthope arose; the garments which he had donned in the night with frantic speed clothed but did not adorn him; he knew that he must present a wild appearance, and the domestic clothes-line, bound round and round his arms, prevented him from so much as pushing back the locks of hair which straggled upon his brow. he was rendered on the whole helpless; however murderous might be his heart, a tolerably safe companion. he interested himself by considering how samson-like he could be in breaking the cords, or, even tied, how vigorously he could kick morin, if he were not a girl's prisoner. he reflected with no small admiration upon the quick resource and decision that she had displayed; how, in spite of her almost child-like frankness, she had beguiled him into turning his back to the noose when a supposed necessity pressed her. he meditated for a few minutes upon other girls for whom he had experienced a more or less particular admiration, and it seemed to him that the characters of these damsels became wan and insipid by comparison. he began to have a presentiment that love was now about to strike in earnest upon the harp of his life, but he could not think that the circumstances of this present attraction were propitious. what could he say to this girl, so adorably strong-minded, to convince her of his claim to be again treated as a man and a brother? letters? he had offered them to her last night, and she had replied that any one could write letters. should he show that he was not penniless? she might tell him in the same tone that it was wealth ill-gotten. it was no doubt her very ignorance of the world that, when suspicion had once occurred, made her reject as unimportant these evidences of his respectability, but he had no power to give her the eyes of experience. these thoughts tormented him as he stood looking out of the window at the ever-increasing volume of the snow. how long would he be detained a prisoner in this house, and, when the roads were free, how could he find for madge any absolute proof of his innocence? the track of the midnight thief was lost for ever in the snow; if he had succeeded in escaping as mysteriously as he had come--but here courthope's mind refused again to enter upon the problem of the fiend-like enemy and the impassable snowfields, which in the hours of darkness he had already given up, perceiving the futility of his speculation until further facts were known. courthope strolled through the rooms, the doors of which were now open. morin permitted this scant liberty chiefly, the prisoner thought, because of a wholesome fear of being kicked. in the library at the back of the drawing-room he found amusement in reading the titles of the books down one long shelf and up another. every book to which madge had had access had an interest for him. three cases were filled with books of law and history; there was but one from which the books had of late been frequently taken. it was filled with romance and poetry, nothing so late as the middle of the present century, nothing that had not some claim upon educated readers, and yet it was a motley collection. upon the front rim of the upper shelf some one, perhaps the dead father in his invalid days, had carved a motto with a knife, the motto that is also that of the british arms. it might have been done out of mere patriotism; it might have had reference to this legacy of books left to the child-maidens, for whom, it seemed, other companionship had not been provided. at length courthope realised that there was one book which he greatly desired to take from the shelf. the morin daughter was dusting in the room, and, with some blandishments, he succeeded in persuading her to lay it open upon the table where he could peruse it. to his great amusement he observed that she was very careful not to come within a yard or two of him, darting back when he approached, evidently thinking that the opening of the book might be a ruse to attack her by a sudden spring. at first the curious consciousness produced by this damsel's awkward gambols of fear so absorbed him that he could not fix his attention upon the book; flashes of amusement and of grave annoyance chased themselves through his mind like sunshine and shadow over mountains on a showery day; he knew not which was the more rational mood. then, attempting the book again, and turning each leaf with a good deal of contortion and effort, he became absorbed. it was the _letters of a portuguese nun_, and in the astonishment of its perusal he forgot the misfortune that had befallen the household, and his own discomfort and ignominy. the morin girl had left him in the room, shutting the door. an hour passed--it might have been about nine of the clock--when courthope began to be roused from his absorption in the book by a sound in the next room. it was a low uncertain sound, but evidently that of sobbing and tears. he stopped, listened; his heart was wrung with pity. it was not the sharp little eliz who cried like that! he knew such sobs did not come from the stormy and uncontrolled bosoms of the french servants. he was convinced that it was madge who was weeping, that she was in the long drawing-room, where the portrait of the judge hung near the door. he went nearer the door. his excited desire to offer her some sympathy, to comfort, or if possible to help, became intolerable. so conscious was he of a common interest between them that not for a moment did the sense of prying enter his mind. he heard then a few words whispered as if to the portrait: 'father, oh, father, we were so happy with him! it is almost the only time that we have been quite happy since you went away.' the sense of the broken whispers came tardily to courthope's understanding through the smothering door. the handle of the door was on a level with the hands that were bound to his sides; he turned himself in order to bring his fingers near it. before he touched it he heard madge sob and whisper again: 'i was so happy, father; i thought it was such fun he had come. i like gentlemen, and we never, never see any except the ones that come out of books.' to courthope it suddenly seemed that the whole universe must have been occupied with purpose to bring him here in order to put an end to her gloom and flood her life with sunshine; the universe could not be foiled in its attempt. young love argues from effect to cause, and so limitless seemed the strength of his sentiment that the simplicity of her mind and the susceptibility of her girlhood were to him like some epic poem which arouses men to passion and strong deeds. ignominiously bound as he was, his heart lightened; all doubt of his mission to love her and its ultimate success passed from him. he turned the handle and pushed the door half open. the long drawing-room was almost dark; the shutters had not been opened; the furniture remained as it had stood when the brilliant assembly of the previous evening had broken up; the large fireplace was full of ashes; the atmosphere was deadly cold. courthope stood in the streak of light which entered with him. upon the floor, crouching, her cheek leaning against the lower part of her father's picture, was madge king. she was dressed in a blanket coat; moccasins were upon her feet; a fur cap lay upon the ground beside her. at the instant of his entrance she lifted her bare head, and across the face flushed with tears and prayers there flashed the look of haughty intolerance of his presence. she had thought that he was locked up in one of the kitchens; she told him so, intensely offended that he should see her tears. it was for that reason that she did not rise or come to the light, only commanding and imploring him to be gone. 'i am quite helpless, even if i wanted to harm you.' he spoke reproachfully, knowing instinctively that if she pitied him she would accept his pity. 'you have harmed us enough already,' she sighed; 'all the rest of our silver, all my dear father's silver is gone. we found that out this morning, for what we had used for the feast had been put in a basket until we could store it away; it is all taken.' he was shocked and enraged to hear of this further loss. he did not attempt to reason with her; he had ceased to reason with himself. 'you trusted me when you let me in last night,' he said. 'don't you think that you would have had some perception of it last night if i had been entirely unworthy? think what an utter and abominable villain i must be to have accepted your hospitality--to have been so very happy with you----' so he went on appealing to her heart from the sentiments that arose in his own. madge listened only for a reasonable period; she rose to her feet. 'i must go,' she said. he found that she proposed to walk on snow-shoes three miles to the nearest house, which belonged to a couple of parish priests, where she would be certain of obtaining a messenger to carry the news of the robbery to the telegraph station. she could not be brought even to discuss the advisability of her journey; morin could not be sent, for the servants and eliz would go mad with terror if left alone. to courthope's imagination her journey seemed to be an abandonment of herself to the utmost danger. if between the two houses she failed to make progress over high drifts and against a heavy gale, what was to hinder her from perishing? then, too, there was that villain, who had seemed to stalk forth from the isolated house afar into the howling night as easily as the frankenstein demon, and might even now be skulking near--a dangerous devil--able to run where others must trudge toilsomely. madge, it seemed, had only come to that room to make her confession and invoke protection at the shrine of the lost father; she was ready to set forth without further delay. she would not, in spite of his most eloquent pleading, set courthope at liberty to make of him either messenger or companion. 'the evidence,' she said sadly, 'is all against you. i am very sorry.' a wilder unrest and vexation at his position returned upon his heart because of the lightening that had come with the impulse of love. that impulse still remained, an under-current of calm, a knowledge that his will and the power of the world were at one, such as men only feel when they yield themselves to some sudden conversion; but above this new-found faith the cross-currents of strife now broke forth again. thus he raged-- 'what was the use of my coming here? why should the fates have sent me here if i cannot go this errand for you, or if i cannot go with you to protect you? if this beast is walking about on snow-shoes, how do you know that he will not attack you as soon as you are out of sight of the house?' she seemed to realise that it was strange to be discussing her own safety with her prisoner. very curious was the conflict in her face; her strong natural companionableness, her suspicion of him, and her sense of the dignity which her situation demanded, contending together. it seemed easier for her to disregard his words than to give all the answers which her varying feelings would prompt. she was tying on a mink cap by winding a woollen scarf about her head. 'miss madge! miss king! it is perfectly intolerable! it--it is intolerable!' he stepped nearer as he spoke. a thought came over him that even the conventional title of 'miss' which he had given her was wholly inappropriate in a situation so strong--that he and she, merely as man and woman, as rational beings, were met together in a wilderness where conventions were folly. 'i cannot allow you to risk your life in this way.' there was a tense emphasis in his words; he felt the natural authority of the protector over the tender thing to be protected, the intimate authority which stress of circumstance may give. she dropped her hands from tying the scarf under her chin, returning for his words a look of mingled curiosity, indecision, and distrust. quick as she looked upon him, his mind's eye looked upon himself; there he stood in grotesque undress, bound around with the cords of an extraordinary disgrace. he blamed himself at the moment for not having had his hair cut more recently, for he knew that it stood in a wild shock above his head, and he felt that it dangled in his eyes. then a gust of emotion, the momentary desire for laughter or groans of vexation, rose and choked his utterance, and in the minute that he was mute the girl, sitting down upon a low stool, began tightening the strings of her moccasins, which, after the first putting on, had relaxed with the warmth of the feet. her business-like preparations for the road maddened him. 'don't you see,' he said, 'what disgrace you are heaping upon me? what right have you to deny to me, a gentleman and your guest, the right to serve and protect you? consider to what wretchedness you consign me if i am left here to think of you fighting alone with this dangerous storm, or attacked by blackguards who we know may not be far away!' she said in a quiet, practical, girlish way, 'it was i who was responsible for letting you in last night, and then this happened--this most unheard-of thing. we never heard of any but a petty theft ever committed in this whole region before. now i am bound to keep you here until we can hear where father's silver is.' 'you don't believe that i have done it! i am sure you do not' (he believed what he said). 'why haven't you the courage to act upon your conviction? you will never regret it.' 'eliz says that she saw you quite distinctly.' 'eliz is a little fool,' were the words that arose within him, but what he said was, 'your sister is excitable and nervous; she saw the thief undoubtedly, and by some miserable freak of fortune he may have resembled me.' 'does that seem at all likely?' 'well, then, there was no resemblance, and she fancied it.' she stood up, looking harassed, but without relenting. 'i must go--there is nothing else to be done. do you think i would stay here when a day might make all the difference in recovering the things which belonged to my father? do you think that i am going to lose the things that belonged to him just because i am too much of a coward to go out and give the alarm?' she walked away from him resolutely, but the thought of the lost treasures and all the dear memories that in her mind were identified with them seemed to overcome her. she drew her hand hastily across her eyes, and then, to his dismay, the sorrow for her loss emphasised her wavering belief in his guilt; for the first time he realised how strong that sorrow was. impelled by emotion she turned again and came shrinkingly back into his presence. 'i have not reproached you,' she said, 'because i thought it would be mean in case you had not done it; but it seems that you must have done it. won't you tell me where the other man has taken our things? they cannot be of any value to you compared with their value to us; and, oh, indeed i would much rather give you as much money as you could possibly make out of them, and more too, if you would only tell me which way this man has gone, and send word to him that he must give them back! i will pledge you my word of honour that----' for the first time he was offended with her. he stepped back with a gesture of pride, which in a moment he saw she had construed into unwillingness to give the booty up. 'i could promise to give you the money; i could promise that you should not be tracked and arrested. i have enough in the savings-bank of my own that i could get out without our lawyer or mamma knowing, and you don't know how dear, how very dear, everything that belonged to father is to eliz and me. if you wait here tied until my stepmother comes she will not give any money to get the things back; she would not care if you kept them, so long as she could punish you.' every word of her gentle pleading made the insult deeper and more gross, and the fact that she was who she was only made the hurt to his pride the sorer. he would not answer; he would not explain; he would let her think what she liked; it is the way of the injured heart. angry, and confirmed in her suspicion, she too turned proudly away. he saw her, as she crossed the hall, take up a pair of snow-shoes that she had left leaning against the wall, and without further farewell to any one turn toward the front door. he knew then what he must do. without inward debate, without even weighing what his act's ultimate consequences might be, he followed her. 'i will do what you ask. i give you my word of honour--and there is honour, you know, even among thieves--that i will do all in my power to bring back everything that has been stolen. give me snow-shoes. keep my horse and my watch and my luggage as surety that i mean what i say. i cannot promise that i can get back the silver from the other man, but i will do far more than you can do. i will do more than any one else could do. if it is within my power i will bring it back to you.' she considered for a little time whether she would trust him or not. it seemed, curiously enough, that from first to last she had never distrusted her first instinct with regard to his character, but that her child-like belief that in the unknown world all things were possible, allowed her to believe also in his criminality. now that he had, as she thought, made his confession and promised restitution, it was perhaps the natural product of her conflicting thoughts and feelings that she should trust to his oft-repeated vows, and make the paction with him. she did not consult the morins; perhaps she knew that she would only provoke their opposition, or perhaps she knew that they would only be too glad to get rid of the man they feared, caring for nothing but the actual safety of the lives in the household. she brought him his coat and cap and also a man's moccasins and snow-shoes. with a courage that, because somewhat shy and trembling, evoked all the more his admiration, she untied the first knot of his rope, unwound the coil, and then untied the last knot. the process was slow because of the trembling of her fingers, which he felt but could not see. she stood resolute, making him dress for the storm upon the threshold of the door. he did not know how to strap on the snow-shoes. she watched his first attempt with great curiosity; looking up, he was made the more determined to succeed with them by seeing the pain of incredulity returning to her eyes. 'how do you expect me to know how to manage things that i have never handled in my life before?' 'but if you don't know how to put them on how can you walk in them?' 'i have seen men walk in them, and there are a great many things we can do when something depends upon it.' she directed him how to cross and tie the straps; she continued to watch him, increasing anxiety betraying itself in her face. the snow was so light that even the snow-shoes sank some four or five inches. it was just below the porch that he had tied his straps, and when he first moved forward he trod with one shoe on the top of the other. he had not expected this; he felt that no further progress was within the bounds of possibility. for some half minute he stood, his back to the door, his face turned to the illimitable region of drifts and feathery air, unable to conceive how to go forward and without a thought of turning back. when his pulses were surging and tingling with the discomfort of her gaze, he heard the door shut sharply. perhaps she thought that he was shamming and was determined not to yield again; perhaps--and this seemed even worse--she had been overcome in the midst of her stern responsibility by the powers of laughter; perhaps, horrid thought, she had gone for morin to bid him again throw the noose over his treacherous shoulders. the last thought pricked him into motion. by means of his reason he discovered that if he was to make progress at all the rackets must not overlap one another as he trod; his next effort was naturally to walk with his feet so wide apart that the rackets at their broadest could not interfere. the result was that in a few moments he became like a miniature colossus of rhodes, fixed again so that he could not move, his feet upon platforms at either side of a harbour of snow. he heard the door open now again sharply, and he felt certain, yes, certain, that the lasso was on its way through the air; this time he was not going to submit. as men do unthinkingly what they could in no way do by thought, he found himself facing the door, his snow-shoes truly inextricably mixed with one another, but still he had turned round. there was no rope, no morin; madge was standing alone upon the outer step of the porch, her face aflame with indignation. 'this is either perfect folly or you have deceived me,' she cried. 'i shall learn how to use them in a minute,' he said humbly. he was conscious as he spoke that his twisted legs made but an unsteady pedestal, that the least push would have sent him headlong into the drift. 'how could you say that you would go?' she asked fiercely. he looked down at his feet as schoolboys do when chidden, but for another reason. the question as to whether or not he could get his snow-shoes headed again in the right direction weighed like lead upon his heart. 'i thought that i could walk upon these things,' he said, and he added, with such determination as honour flying from shame only knows, 'and i will walk on them and do your errand.' with that, by carefully untwisting his legs, he faced again in the right direction, but, having lifted his right foot too high in the untwisting process, he found that the slender tail of its snow-shoe stuck down in the snow, setting the shoe pointing skyward and his toe, tied by the thongs, held prisoner about a foot above the snow. he tried to kick, but the shoe became more firmly embedded. he lost his balance, and only by a wild fling of his body, in which his arms went up into the air, did he regain his upright position. the moment of calm which succeeded produced from him another remark. 'it seems to me that you have got me now in closer bonds than before.' as he spoke he turned his glance backward and saw that comment of his was needless. the girl had at last yielded to laughter. worn out, no doubt, by a long-controlled excitement, laughter had now entirely overcome her. leaning her head on her hand and her shoulders against a pillar of the porch, she was shaking visibly from head to foot, and the effort she made to keep the sound of her amusement within check only seemed to make its hold upon her more absolute. 'i don't wonder you laugh,' he said, feebly beginning to laugh himself a little. but she did not make the slightest reply. her face was crimson; the ripples of her laughter went over her form as ripples of wind over a young tree. he was forced to leave her thus. by a miracle of determination, as it seemed, he freed his right shoe and made slow and wary strides forward. he saw that he had exaggerated the width of his snow-shoes, but his progress now was still made upon the plan of keeping his feet wide apart, although not too wide for motion. he knew that this was not the right method; he knew that she peered at him between her fingers and was more convulsed with laughter at his every step. he was thankful to think that the falling flakes must soon begin to obscure his figure, but he did not dare to try another plan of walking while she watched, lest she should see him stop again. chapter v courthope had struck across to the main road at right angles to the poplar avenue. the poplars stood slim, upright, more like a stiff and regular formation of feathery seaweed growing out of a frozen ocean than like trees upon a plain. he was nearing a grove of elm and birch which he had not seen the evening before; by the almost hidden rails of the fence there were half-buried shrubs. so dry, so hard, so absolutely without bud or sere leaf was the interlacing outline of the trees and shrubs, that they too seemed to be some strange product of this new sort of ocean; they did not remind him of verdant glades. not that beauty was absent, nor charm, but the scene was strange, very strange; the domain of the laughing princess, on whom he had turned his back, was, in the daylight, more than ever an enchanted land which he could fancy to be unknown in story and until now unexplored by man. such ideas only came to him by snatches; the rest of him, mind and body, was summed up in a fierce determination to catch the thief and bring back his spoils. whether by this he would prove himself honest or guilty, he neither knew nor felt that he cared. gradually, as he thought less about his snow-shoes, he found that the wide lateral swing which he had been giving to his leg was unneeded. strange as it seemed, the large rackets did not interfere when he took an ordinary step. having made this pleasant discovery he quickened speed. he did not know whether the girl had stopped laughing and had gone into the house again, but he knew that the falling snow and the branches of the trees must now hinder her from seeing him distinctly. in a moment he was glad of this, for, becoming incautious, he fell. both arms, put out to save himself, were embedded to the very shoulder straight down in snow that offered no bottom to his touch; when his next impulse was to move knees and feet he found that the points of his snow-shoes were dug deep, and his toes, tied to them, held the soles of his feet in the same position. what cursed temerity had made him confess to a criminal act in order to be allowed to come on this fool's errand? fool, indeed, had he been to suppose that he could walk upon a frozen cloud without falling through! such were courthope's reflections. by degrees he got himself up, but only by curling himself round and taking off his snow-shoes. by degrees he got the snow-shoes put on again, and mounted out of the hole which he had made, with snow adhering to all his garments and snow melting adown his neck and wrists. he now realised that he had spent nearly half an hour in walking not a quarter of a mile. with this cheerless reflection as a companion he went doggedly on, choosing now the drifted main road for a path. having left behind him the skeleton forms of the trees, he was trudging across an open plain, flat almost as the surface of the lake which he had traversed yesterday. sometimes the fences at the side of the road were wholly hidden, more often they showed the top of their posts or upper bar; sometimes he could see cross-fences, as if outlining fields, so that he supposed he still walked through lands farmed from the lonely stone house, that he was still upon his lady's domain. he meditated upon her, judging that she was sweet beyond compare, although why he thought so, after her mistrust and derision, was one of those secrets which the dimpled cupid only could explain. he was forced to acknowledge the fact that thus he did think, because here he was walking, whither he hardly knew, how he hardly knew, battling with the gale, hustled roughly by its white wings, in danger at every turn of falling off the two small moving rafts of his shoes into a sea in which no man could swim very long. he wondered, should his snow-shoes break, if he would be able to flounder to the rim of the fence? how long could he sit there? certainly it would seem, looking north and south and east and west, that he would need to sit as long as the life in him might endure the frost. at length a shed or small barn met his eye. his own approach seemed to have been heard and answered from within; the neigh of a horse greeted him. at first he supposed that some horses belonging to the house were stabled here, and neglected because the roads were impassable; then he judged that so slight a shed could not be intended for a stable. he answered the animal's cry by seeking the door. against it the drift was not deep, for, as it opened on the sheltered side, he had only the snowfall to scrape away. the door, which had very recently been freed from its crust of frost, yielded easily. he found a brown shaggy horse tied within, and beside it a sleigh, such as he had frequently seen, a mere platform of wood upon runners. otherwise the shed was empty. courthope was quickly struck by the recognition of something which set his memory working. the old buffalo-skin on the sleigh was such as was common, but the way it was stretched upon a heap of sacks made him remember the sleigh that he had yesterday passed upon the river, and the keen sinister face of the driver, which had ill contrasted with his apparent sleep and stupidity. courthope tossed aside the skin with a jerk. a rum bottle, a small hoard of frozen bread and bacon, a heavy blanket folded beneath, all seemed to prove that the driver had made provision for a longer journey. the horse had no food before it; no blanket was upon its back. probably its driver had not intended to leave it here so long. where was the driver? this quickly became in courthope's mind the all-important question. why had he been skulking on the most lonely part of the lake? and now, recalling again the man's face, he believed that he had had an evil design. courthope pursued his way; for, whether the thief had gone farther or remained in this vicinity, it was evidently desirable to have help from the nearest neighbours to seek and capture him. courthope soon reached what seemed to be a dip or hollow in the plain; in this the wind had been very busy levelling the surface with the higher ground. at first he supposed that, for some reason, road and fences had come to an abrupt ending; then he discovered that he merely walked higher above the natural level. the thought came to him that if here he should break his snow-shoes there would not even be the neighbouring fence-top on which to perch and freeze. suddenly all his attention was concentrated upon a dark something, like a bit of cloth fallen in the snow. as he came close and touched the cloth he found it to be the covering of a basket almost buried; pushing away the snow-crusted covering and feeling with eager fingers among the icy contents, he quickly knew that this was no other than the stolen silver of which he was in quest. a thrill of gratitude to fortune for so kindly a freak had hardly passed through his mind before his eye sought a depression in the snow just beyond. he saw now that a man was lying there. the head resting upon an arm was but slightly covered with snow; the whole form had sunk by its own heat into a cavity like a grave. courthope lifted the head; the face was that of the man whom he had seen yesterday upon the river. the arms, when he raised them, fell again to the snow like lead, yet he perceived that life was not extinct. even in the frost the odour of rum was to be perceived, and breath, although so feeble as to be unseen, still passed in and out of the tightly-drawn nostrils. the touch, that would have been reverent to a corpse, was now rough. he shook the fallen man and shouted. he raised him to a sitting posture, but finding that, standing as he did upon soft snow, to lift him was impossible, he laid him again in the self-made grave. that posture at least would be most conducive to the continued motion of the heart. standing upon the other side of the body, courthope's shoe struck upon another hard object which he found to be a case, stolen locked as it was, which contained, no doubt, the other valuables whose loss madge had first discovered. the wretch, weighted by a burden in each hand, had apparently missed his way when endeavouring to return to the shed in which he had left his horse, and wandering in circles, perhaps for hours, had evidently succumbed to drink and to cold, caught as in a trap by the unusual violence of the storm. there was nothing to be done but return to the house for morin's aid, and, lifting the handles of basket and case in either hand, courthope doubled back upon his own track, thankful that he had already attained to some skill in snow-shoeing. as he neared the house his heart beat high at the excitement of seeing madge's delight. he closely scanned the windows, even the tiny windows in the pointed tin roof, but no eager eyes were on the look-out. loudly he thumped upon the heavy front door. there was somewhat of a bustle inside at the knock. the snow-bound household collected quickly at the welcome thought of a message from the outside world. when the door was opened madge and the morins were there to behold courthope carrying the plunder. he perceived at once that his guilt, if doubted before, was now proved beyond all doubt. there was a distinct measure of reserve in the satisfaction they expressed. madge especially was very grave, with a strong flavour of moral severity in her words and demeanour. courthope explained to her that the other man was dying in the snow, that if his life was to be saved no time must be lost. she repeated the story in french to morin, and thereupon arose high words from the frenchman. madge looked doubtfully at courthope, and then she interpreted. it seemed that the frenchman's desire was to put him out again and lock up the house, leaving the two accomplices to shift for themselves as best they might. courthope urged motives of humanity. he described the man and his condition. at length he prevailed. madge insisted that if morin did not go she would. in a few moments both she and morin were preparing to set out. it seemed useless for courthope to precede them; he went into the dining-room, demanding food of madam morin. he found that eliz had been carried down and placed in her chair in the midst of domestic activities. as soon as she spied him, being in a nervous, hysterical state, she opened her mouth and shrieked sharply; the shriek at this time had more the tone of a child's anger than of a woman's fear. with a strong sense of humour he sat down at the table, and she, realising that he was not immediately dangerous, railed upon him. 'viper in the bosom!' said eliz. courthope, almost famished, ate fast. 'daughter of the horse-leech crying "give," and sucking blood from the hand it gives!' she continued. 'sir charles grandison would never have kicked a man when he was down,' he said. 'he would have tried to do good even to the viper he had nourished.' the memory of sir charles's well-known method even with the most villainous, appeared to distract her attention for a moment. 'and then they all sent for him and confessed and made amends, just as i have done,' courthope went on; but the fact that a laugh was gleaming in his eyes enraged the little cripple. 'how dare you talk to me, sitting there pretending to be a gentleman!' 'i would rather be allowed to make a better toilet if my reputation were to rest upon a pretence. i never heard of a gentlemanly villain who went about without collar and cuffs, and had not been allowed access to his hair-brush.' 'a striped jacket and shaved head is generally what he goes about in after he's unmasked. if i had been madge i would not have let you off.' 'come, remember how sorry elizabeth bennett was when she found she had given way to prejudice. if i remember right she lay awake many nights.' 'are you adding insult to injury by insinuating that either of us might bestow upon you----?' 'oh! certainly not, i merely wish to suggest that a young lady possessing lively talents and "remarkably fine eyes" might yet make great mistakes in her estimate of the masculine character.' the cripple, who perhaps had never before heard her one beautiful feature praised by masculine lips, was obliged to harden herself. 'accomplished wretch!' she cried, in accents worthy of an irate pamela. 'do you suppose it was the last time i was serving my term in gaol that i read our favourite novels?' he asked. by this time morin had passed out of the door to put on his snow-shoes, and courthope, who had swallowed only as much food as was necessary to keep him from starvation, turned out to repeat the process of putting on his, this time more deftly. morin had a toboggan upon which were piled such necessaries as madge had collected. they began their march three abreast into the storm. they went a long way without conversation, and yet courthope found in this march keen enjoyment. his heart was absurdly light. to have performed so considerable a service for madge, now to be walking beside her on an errand of mercy, was as much joy as the present hour could hold. it was difficult for him to keep up with the others, yet in doing so there was the pleasure of the athlete in having acquired a new mastery over his muscles; and the fascination of being at home in the snow as a sea-bird is at home in the surf, which is the chief element of delight in all winter sports, was his for the first time. with the drunken wretch who was almost frozen he felt small sympathy, but he had the sense that all modern men have on such occasions, that he ought to be concerned, which kept him grave. the other two were not light-hearted. morin, dragging the toboggan behind him and walking with his grey head bent forward to the gale, was sullen at being driven in the service of thieves; afraid lest some sinister design was still intended, he cast constant glances of cunning suspicion at courthope. as for madge, she appeared grave and pre-occupied beyond all that was natural to her, suffering, he feared, from the pain of her first disillusionment. this was a suffering that he was hardly in a position to take seriously, and yet his heart yearned over her. he thought also that she was pondering over the problem of her next responsibility, and the evidence of this came sooner than he had expected. when they got to the place where his first track diverged straight to the shed, she and morin stopped to exchange remarks; they evidently perceived in this the clearest evidence of all against him. had he not gone straight to the place where the accomplice had agreed to wait? then madge fell back a little to where he was now plodding in the rear. she accosted him in the soft tones that had from the first so charmed him, contrasting with her sister's voice as the tones of a reed-pipe contrast with those from metal, or as the full voice of the cuckoo with the shrill chirp of the sparrow. the soft voice was very serious, the manner more than sedate, the words studied. 'i am afraid that nothing that i can say will persuade you to alter a way of life which you seem to have chosen, but it seems to me very sad that one of your ability should so degrade himself.' she stopped with a little gasp for breath, as if frightened at her own audacity. her manner and phrases were an evident imitation of the way in which she had heard advice bestowed upon vagrant or criminal by the benevolent judge whose memory she so tenderly cherished. it was second nature to her to act as she fancied he would have acted. courthope composed himself to receive the judicial admonition with becoming humility; his whole sympathy was with her, his mind was aglow with the quaint humour of it. 'you must know,' rebuked madge, 'how very wrong it is; and it is not possible that you could have difficulty in getting some honest employment.' 'it is very kind of you to interest yourself in me.' he kept his eyes upon the ground. 'i do not know, of course, what led you to begin a life of crime, or in what way you found out what houses in this country were worth robbing, but i fear you must have led a wicked life for a long time' (she was very severe now). 'you are young yet; why should you carry on your nefarious schemes in a new country, where, if you would, you could easily reform?' (again a little gasp for breath.) 'i have promised to let you go without giving you into the hands of the law. i am afraid i did a selfish and weak thing, because others may suffer from your crimes, and i wish you could take this opportunity, which my leniency gives you, and try to reform before you have lost your reputation as well as your character.' 'it is very kind of you,' he murmured again; and still as he walked he looked upon his feet. he had no thought now of again denying his guilt; having denied and, as she thought, confessed, he felt that to change once more would only evoke her greater scorn. 'let be,' his heart said. 'let come what will, i will not confuse her further to-day.' chapter vi they passed the shed, making a straight march, as swift as might be, for the fallen man; but before they reached him they saw some one coming, a black, increasing form in the snowy distance. morin hesitated. if the thief had arisen, strong and able-bodied, it was clear that they had again been tricked for an evil purpose. even madge looked alarmed, and they both raised a halloo in the _patois_ of the region. the answer that came across the reach of the storm cheered them. the new-comer, a messenger from the nearest village, became voluble as soon as he was within speaking distance. he addressed madge in broken english, but so quickly and with so strong a french accent that courthope only gathered part of his errand. he had come, it seemed, from the stepmother to tell something concerning a certain xavier, who had been sent to them the evening before. before he had finished calling, madge and morin had come to the place where the thief lay, and, looking down upon him, madge gave a little cry. the new-comer came up. he looked as if he might be of the grade of a notary's clerk or a country chemist. he did not seem surprised to see who the man was. he began at once with great activity to chafe his hands and face with handfuls of the snow. madge and morin were also active with the restoratives. the thief was lifted and laid upon the toboggan. they trod the snow all about to know that nothing remained, and found only a corkless flask containing a few drops of rum. they were all so busy that courthope had little to do; he stood aside, wondering above all at the way they rubbed the man with the snow, and at the astonishment that madge expressed. the stranger was very nimble and very talkative; pouring out words now in french to madge, he walked with her in all haste to the shed from which the horse again whinnied. morin, awakening to a sense of urgency, started at a trot, dragging the toboggan behind him; it sank heavily in snow so light. courthope lent a hand to the loop of rope by which it was drawn. he too essayed the trot of the canadian. he was growing proficient, and if he did not succeed in keeping up the running pace, he managed to go more quickly than before. they made fair progress. looking back, courthope saw madge and the stranger emerge upon the road with the little horse. he had not time to look back often to see how they helped it to make its way. they were still some distance behind when he and morin reached the house. the man called xavier was carried into the kitchen amid wild exclamations from the morin women. as they all continued the work of restoring him with a hearty goodwill and an experience of which courthope could not boast, he was glad to betake himself to his own room, wondering whether he was now a thief or a gentleman in the eyes of this small snow-bound world. there was, in any case, no one at leisure to prohibit him from making free with his own possessions. when he was dressed a certain shyness prohibited him from entering the dining-room in which he heard madge, eliz, and the stranger talking french together. he betook himself to the library, to the _letters of the portuguese nun_ and an easy-chair. they might oust him with severity, but it was as well to enjoy a short interval of luxury. the room was warmed with a stove; the book was in the old-fashioned type; an almost sleepless night was behind him; soon he slept. it was almost midday when he slept; the afternoon was advancing when he awakened. madam morin was standing beside him arranging a tray of food upon the table. 'eh!' she said, and smiled upon him. then she pointed to the food, and demanded in pantomime if it suited him. courthope concluded that he had ceased to be in disgrace. he would rather, much rather, have been summoned to a family meal, but that was not his lot. he had taken many things philosophically in the course of recent hours, and he took this also. what right had he to intrude himself? he ate his meal alone. his roving glance soon brought him pleasure, for he found that some one had tip-toed into the room while he slept and laid the choicest volumes of romance near his chair. the wind had dropped, the snow had ceased falling. before courthope had finished his luncheon the young man who looked like a notary's clerk came in, using his broken english. he remarked that the storm was over and that they were now going to get out a double team to plough through the road. he suggested that courthope should help him to drive it, and to transport the prisoner to the gaol in the village. one man must be left to protect the young ladies and the house; one man must help him with the team and its burden. the speaker shrugged his shoulders, suggesting that it would be more suitable for morin to remain, and said that for his part he would be much obliged and honoured if courthope would accompany him. here some plain and easy compliments were thrown in about courthope's strength and the generous activity he had displayed, but not a word concerning his temporary disgrace; if this man knew of it he did not regard it as of any importance. he was a matter-of-fact young man, not much interested in courthope as a stranger, immensely interested in the fact of the theft and all that concerned it. at the slightest question he poured out excited information. xavier had been a servant in the house. mrs. king, who was religious and zealous, had found in him a convert. he had become a protestant to please her. (at this point the narrator shrugged his shoulders again.) then xavier had asked higher wages; upon that there was a quarrel, and he had left. the speaker's scanty english was of the simplest. he said, 'xavier is a very bad man, much worse than our people usually are. this winter he went to the city and got his wits sharpened, and when he came back he made a scheme. he sent word to mrs. king that his old father was dying and would like to be converted too. mrs. king travels at once with a horse and the strongest servant-man. the old father takes a long time to die, so xavier comes here yesterday to say she will stay all night; but when he did not come back, his wife she got frightened, and she told that the old man was not going to die, that she was afraid there was a scheme. now we have xavier very safe. he may get five years.' upon courthope's inquiring after the health of the thief, he was told that beyond being severely frost-bitten he was little the worse. he was again drunk with the stimulants that the morins had poured down his throat. the visitor ended the interview by saying that if courthope would be good enough to drive the team through the drifts his own horse and sleigh would be sent after him the next day. courthope inquired what was the wish of the young mistress of the house. the other replied that mademoiselle approved of his plan. it was evident that poor madge was no longer the mistress; the clerk was an emissary of mrs. king's, and as such he had taken the control. still, as he was an amiable and capable person, courthope fell in with his suggestion, inwardly vowing that soon of some domain, if not of this one, madge should again be queen. courthope received a message to the effect that the young ladies wished to see him. there was something in the formal wording of this message, coming after his solitary meal, which made him know that they were ill at ease, that they had taken their mistake more deeply to heart than he would have wished. he had no sooner entered the room where madge stood than he wished he were well out of it again, so far did his sympathy with her discomfort transcend his own pleasure at being in her presence. madge stood, as upon the first night, behind her sister's chair. eliz looked frightened and excited, yet as half enjoying the novel excitement. madge, pale-faced and distressed, showed only too plainly that she had need of all the courage she possessed to lift her eyes to his. yet she was not going to shirk her duty; she was going to make her apology, and the apology of the household, just as the judge, her father, would have wished to have it made. it was a little speech, conned beforehand, which she spoke--a quaint mixture of her own girlish wording and the formal phrases which she felt the occasion demanded. courthope never knew precisely what she said. his feelings were up and in tumult, like the winds on a gusty day, and he was embarrassed for her embarrassment, while he smiled for the very joy of it all. madge confessed with grief that eliz had mistaken xavier for courthope. she said the man from the village had shown them what folly it was to suppose that the gentleman could be xavier's accomplice. she begged that same gentleman's pardon very humbly. at the end he heard some words faltered: she wished it was in their power 'to make any amends.' almost before she ceased speaking he took up the word, and his own voice sounded to him merry and bold in comparison with her soft distressful speech; but he could not help that, he must speak with such powers as nature gave him. 'there are two ways by which you can make amends, and first i would beg that none of our friends who were here last night should be told of it. i should not like to think that emma and elizabeth, and evelina or marianna alcoforado should ever hear that i was taken for a thief.' 'you are laughing at us,' said eliz sharply. 'we know that you will go away and make fun of us to all your friends.' 'if i do you will have one way of punishing me that would give me more pain than i could well endure, you can shut me out next time i come to ask for shelter.' 'oh, but you can't come again,' said eliz, with vibrating note of fierce discontent; 'our stepmother will be here.' he looked at madge. 'i was going to say that the other way in which you could make amends would be to give me leave to come back; and if _you_ give me leave i will come, even if it be necessary, to that end, to get an introduction from all the clergy in great britain, or from the royal family.' a ray of hope shot into madge's dark eyes, the first glimmer of a smile began to show through her distress. 'it is an old adage that "where there is a will there is a way," and did i not walk on your most impossible snow-shoes and bring back your silver?' madge looked down, a pretty red began to mantle her pale face, and, as if the angels who manage the winds and clouds did not wish that the blush of so dear a maiden should betray too much, a ray of scarlet light from the sinking sun just then came winging through the dispersing storm-clouds and caused all the white snow-world to redden, and dyed the frost-flowers on the window-pane, and, entering where the pane was bare, lit all the room with soft vermilion light. so, in the wondrous blush of the white world, the girl's cheeks glowed and yet did not confess too much. 'you will allow me to send in your compliments and inquire after mr. woodhouse as i pass?' this was courthope's farewell to eliz, and she called joyfully in reply:-- 'you need not send back his message, for we shall know that they are "all very indifferent."' into the scarlet shining of the western sun, an omen of fair weather and delight, courthope set forth again from the square tin-roofed house, 'leaving,' as the saying is, 'his heart behind him.' the large farm-horses, restive from long confinement and stimulated by the frost, shook their bells with energy. the morin women displayed such goodwill and even tenderness in their attentions to the comfort of the second prisoner, in whom they had found an old friend, that, tied in a blanket and lying full length on the straw of a box-sleigh, he looked content with himself and the world, albeit he had not as yet returned from the happy roving-places of the drunken brain. the talkative clerk was glad enough to give courthope the reins of the masterful horses; he sat on one edge of the blue-painted box and courthope on the other; thus they started, bravely plunging into the drifts between the poplars. the drifts were all tinged with pink; the poplars, intercepting the red light upon their slender upright boughs, cast, each of them, a clear shadow that seemed to lie in endless length athwart the glowing sward. courthope looked back at the house which had been so dim and phantom-like the night before; the red sun lit the icicles that hung from eaves and lintels, tinged the drifts, glowed upon the windows as if with light from within, and turned the steep tin roof into a gigantic rose; but all his glance was centred upon his lady-love, who stood, regardless of the cold, at the entrance of the drift-encircled porch and watched them as long as the sunlight lay upon the land. was she looking at the plunging sleigh and at its driver, or at the chasms of light in the rent cloud beyond? his heart told him, as he drove on into the very midst of the sunset which had embraced the glistening land, that the maid, although not regardless of the outer glory, only rejoiced in its beauty because the vision of her heart was focused upon him. his heart, in telling him this, taught him no pride, for had he not learned in the same small space of time only to count himself rich in what she gave? slow was the progress of the great horses; they passed the grove of high elms and birches that, dressed in the snowflakes that had lodged in boughs and branches when the wind dropped, stood up clear against the gulfs of blue that now opened above and beyond. then the house was hidden, and after that, by degrees, the light of the sunset passed away. the end. printed by r. & r. clark, limited, edinburgh * * * * * advertisements a man of honour. h. c. irwin. crown vo, cloth, price s. 'we have read many and many a story of the indian mutiny, but mr. irwin's tale has novelty all its own.'--_glasgow herald._ 'much good and careful work marks "a man of honour." h. c. irwin is a writer of thought and culture, who uses his experience of foreign travel to admirable purpose in an interesting book.'--_black and white._ 'all the characters are clearly presented, and you have no difficulty in knowing whether you like them or not; and that is a commendation in itself.'--_national observer._ 'the novel is well written, vigorous, and interesting, and will well repay reading, especially to those who like breezy, outdoor, active existence.'--_scotsman._ 'the interest is well sustained throughout, and once fairly embarked on the story, it requires no slight moral effort to lay down the book before finishing it.'--_literary world._ 'the description of indian politics and events during the mutiny years is well done, and the account of the battle of chillianwallah and the time immediately preceding it is excellent'--_standard._ 'the literary qualities of the book are high, and the story itself has great merit and power, and can be heartily recommended as a book very well worth reading.'--_aberdeen free press._ 'essentially interesting and well written.'--_british review._ 'a cleaner book, and one more free, in spite of its _motif_, from the trail of the sex-serpent, we scarcely remember to have read.... we need more such idealists ... to show us some of the good that is left in the world.'--_blackwood's magazine._ 'the picture furnished of india, of its people and their ways, and of the terrible experiences of the mutiny period, is an admirable bit of strong literary work.'--_belfast news letter._ 'it is a platitude that, to be worth reading, a mutiny story must be unquestionably good. the standard is high, but mr. irwin's book comes up to it, and fully satisfies the most exacting test'--_the pioneer, allahabad._ a. & c. black, soho square, london. * * * * * the lifeguardsman. adapted from schimmel's 'de kaptein van de lijfgarde.' crown vo, cloth, price s. 'it is a work of remarkable power and sustained interest. right to the end the interest is maintained, and it is not over-estimating the work to say that few historical novels published within recent years are superior to this adaptation of the dutchman's story.'--_scotsman._ 'it is primarily a romance, a story of thrilling adventure, and moves forward with dramatic spirit from point to point.'--_illustrated london news._ 'we have no other novel giving so intimate an account of how things fell out, and what obscure events and persons helped and hindered the overthrow of james ii. but the chief interest of the book turns round the private person, the lifeguardsman, not all a hero, mistaken, erring, unfortunate, yet a brave man, and of the kind that stirs our sympathies more than do immaculate heroes.'--_bookman._ 'the work is characterised by great dash and vigour, and the principal characters in the story are strongly drawn, while the incidents are woven so skilfully together that the reader is carried with absorbing interest to the close.'--_western times._ 'english readers are under a considerable debt of gratitude to the anonymous translator who has given them a version in the vernacular of schimmel's "de kaptein van de lijfgarde." "the lifeguardsman" is a historical novel of very unusual power and fidelity. in detail and habit the scenes and people of that troublous period are "reconstituted" here with remarkable skill.'--_belfast northern whig._ 'we do not often get the pleasure of handling such a lively and thrilling story, and can feel a due measure of gratitude for the anonymous "mere adapter" to whose discernment and enterprise we are indebted for having brought it to our notice.'--_literary world._ a. & c. black, soho square, london. * * * * * a japanese marriage by douglas sladen. fifth thousand. crown vo, boards, price s.; or in cloth, price s. d. i. zangwill, _pall mall magazine_, says: 'bryn, the heroine, is a charming creature, and some of the scenes with her half-crazed dying sister reveal strong imaginative power.' mrs lynn linton, in the _queen_, says: 'another little dear has for her main quality unselfishness, penetrated through and through by love. such a character is mary avon in douglas sladen's striking novel, "a japanese marriage."' silas k. hocking, in the _family circle_: 'the stupidity, not to say immorality, of the english law, which prevents marriage with the deceased wife's sister, has rarely been more strikingly illustrated than in mr. douglas sladen's clever novel, "a japanese marriage." i could wish the whole bench of bishops would read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest this sparkling and entertaining story.' helen mathers, in the _literary world_, writes: 'philip and bryn--these two are so interesting and so true to life, the japanese background against which they move in such noble but intensely human fashion is so exquisite, that the dullest of us must feel keen pleasure when we mingle intimately with the little people who have quite recently asserted their right to be reckoned with the greatest upon earth.' g. a., in the _westminster gazette_, says: 'mr. douglas sladen's first novel is a distinct success. to begin with, he has managed to capture a real live heroine, as charming and convincing a pretty girl as we have met with for years. her flesh-and-blood reality is quite undeniable. she imposes herself upon one from the very first; she is winning and genuine, and as fresh as a daisy.' gilbert burgess, in the _illustrated london news_: 'this time it is the woes of the deceased wife's sister which are brought before us in a narrative that is invariably picturesque, and, especially as to the latter half of the volume, is of considerable humour and pathos.' norman gale, in the _literary world_: 'bryn, a girl beautiful exceedingly, only a little past twenty years of age--"sweet and twenty" indeed!--loving philip purely, and purely loved by him in return, living alone with a young widower. the moment when bryn proves her love is a most exciting one, and shows that mr. sladen is a master of vivid recital.' jas. stanley little, in the _academy_: 'he writes with knowledge and freshness of a country and a people as full of interest as japan and the japanese.' marion hepworth dixon, in the _englishwoman_: 'a story strikingly told and animated with the doings of english residents in japan.' richard le gallienne, in the _star_: 'an exceedingly sprightly and readable novel.' a. & c. black, soho square, london. * * * * * mere stories. by mrs. w. k. clifford. crown vo, paper covers, in the style of a french novel, price s. 'mrs. w. k. clifford's "mere stories" is not only notable for the excellence and uniform interest of the stories it contains, but also for the novelty of its shape--that of the yellow french novel pure and simple. the innovation deserves encouragement. you do not want, at this time of day, an introduction to mrs. clifford's many good qualities. she has become one of those few writers of english fiction no one of whose books one can afford to leave unread.'--_review of reviews._ 'they are neatly and incisively written, with an unfailing strain of humour running through them. altogether, this is a volume to read, and we like its get-up--in paper covers on the french model, only neater and more substantial.'--_daily mail._ 'in type, make-up, and size, it is exactly the volume to buy at the book-stall and slip into such convenient receptacle as you may chance to carry with you in the railway carriage. it costs you no more than a few illustrated papers, and is more handy to bestow when you have read it. as for the contents, they are eight slight stories, in mrs. clifford's best manner. yet, simple and unpretending as they are, they contain the real novelist's touch. there is nature, drama, character, in these short histories, and, above all, that command of simple pathos which mrs. clifford has more than most writers. we do not know many living writers who could have done either so well.'--_st. james's gazette._ * * * * * uniform with 'mere stories,' the last touches. by mrs. w. k. clifford. 'much skill is devoted to the narration of all these stories.'--_saturday review._ 'many of them surpass even "aunt anne" and "mrs. keith's crime" in terseness and brilliant originality.'--_morning post._ 'one reads them from beginning to end enchanted.'--_national review._ 'there is some very pretty and delicate work in them, which the literary world would be the poorer for losing.'--_daily telegraph._ 'indeed, in every story there are touches of wonderful cleverness, signs of clear insight, of fresh and just observation.'--_speaker._ 'two or three of the stories reach an uncommon level of thought and expression.'--_standard._ 'but they are all good, all original, all distinctive, and we advise readers to take care not to miss them.'--_guardian._ a. & c. black, soho square, london. * * * * * the dream-charlotte. by m. betham-edwards. crown vo, cloth, price s. 'miss betham-edwards is on her own special ground in her new novel, which she calls "the dream-charlotte." provincial france of the revolution time she knows with a detailed knowledge few other english writers, if any, possess. it is a first-rate novel for youth, because of its irresistible, contagious youthfulness; and its wholesome enthusiasms.'--_the sketch._ 'an historical novel of a thoroughly legitimate kind, for the picture and the character are brought before us with sufficient vividness, yet mainly through the words and thoughts of the fictitious heroine, and through her close sympathy with her friend.'--_athenæum._ 'a tale of rare imaginative beauty. needless to say, the literary charm of the book is great, and the atmosphere of the story true to its historical setting.'--_dundee advertiser._ 'no living writer is so thoroughly at home in describing french life as miss edwards is, or better able to give a life-like picture of the social condition of france at the period of charlotte corday's daring deed.'--_hastings observer._ * * * * * the curb of honour. by m. betham-edwards. crown vo, cloth, price s. d. 'the descriptions of scenery in the pyrenees are very attractive, and the author has been most skilful in her delineations of the characters of the leading actors.'--_literary world._ 'the concluding chapter is a piece of masterly tragi-comedy. when i say that this scene is suggestive of balzac, i mean a high compliment.'--_academy._ 'miss betham-edwards is a popular favourite of longstanding. she loves to take her readers into some quiet corner of france, and her gift of picturesque description is such that her tales seldom fail to yield interest and recreation.'--_times._ a. & c. black, soho square, london. * * * * * an isle in the water. by katharine tynan (mrs. hinkson). author of 'oh, what a plague is love!' crown vo, cloth, price s. d. 'here, among the hosts of ladies who write with care and inelegance, comes a woman artist. "an isle in the water" is a collection of fifteen well-conceived and excellently-finished irish stories, for which it would be hard to find anything to say but praise. they are all extremely short for the force of their effect, and every touch tells; they are gracefully phrased without an appearance of artifice, subtly expressed without a suspicion of affectation.'--_saturday review._ 'i venture to assert that in any one of its fifteen tales there is a finer rendering of the very essence of irish life and character than in any half-dozen of the books which are responsible for the conception of the conventional pat or biddy which has had such a long and prosperous vogue on this side of the channel. the book owes its momentum to its fascinating and powerful rendering of the pathos and the tragedy of the simple lives with which the writer deals. but this fascination and power are far too obvious to stand in need of celebration.'--_new age._ 'any faults the book may have are redeemed by a page torn from the authoress's own heart. "changing the nurseries" is a chapter no woman, mother, or maid could read without a lump in her throat. the strong maternal element, which is the chief virtue of the irish, is rife in it, and the thousand and one little trivialities that our life is made up of are admirably commented upon.'--_st. james's budget._ * * * * * oh, what a plague is love! by katharine tynan (mrs. hinkson). crown vo, cloth, price s. d. 'this sparkling story has such freshness as suggests a draught new-drawn from paphian wells. it is, in fact, a vivacious little comedy, agreeably diversified with threatenings of tragedy, and radiant with humour from first to last.'--_daily chronicle._ 'mrs. hinkson is lively and pleasant in her domestic story--purely english this time--which relates the misgivings and manoeuvrings of a family of young grown-up people who are ever on the watch for the amorous proclivities of a light-hearted father.'--_national observer._ 'leigh hunt would have delighted in mrs. hinkson. he knew how to value high spirit in a writer, and the gaiety of this cheerful story would have charmed him immensely.'--_saturday review._ a. & c. black, soho square, london. [illustration: hindu script] [illustration: frontispiece] a digit of the moon [illustration: hindu script] _a hindoo love story_ translated from the original ms. by f. w. bain ninth edition methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london originally published by messrs. james parker & co. second edition ................................... third edition .................................... fourth edition ................................... fifth edition .................................... sixth edition .................................... first published by methuen & co. ltd. ....... june seventh edition ........................... august eighth edition ........................... january ninth edition ........................... november to my wife. prefatory note to second edition. the better to illustrate how, in hindoo mythology, the ideas of _a beautiful woman_, _the moon_, _and the sea_, dissolve and disappear into one another, i have placed on the fly-leaf of this edition a single stanza, drawn from another part of my ms., which characteristically exemplifies that _dissolving view_: subjoining here, for the benefit of the uninitiated, a literal translation: _o thou lovely incarnation of the nectar-dropping moon, come down from heaven to lighten our darkness: delight of the race of man: retaining in thy womanhood the dancing play of the waves of that sea of milk out of which thou wert originally churned by the gods: we the three worlds_ (_i.e. of childhood, manhood, and age_) _do worship the orb of thy bosom that possesses for us a threefold mystical feminine energy[ ] being a pitcher of milk for us, when we are born: a pillow for us, in the middle of the path of life: and a shrine, in which we take refuge to die at the last._ but we lose, in a literal prose version, the reverberation, and the echo of the sea, which undertones the meaning of the words like the accompaniment to a song. this _sound_ we might make some attempt to preserve, without doing violence to the _sense_, as follows; like a new mode's exquisite incarnation, in the ebb and flow of a surging sea, wave-breasted beauty, the whole creation wanes, and waxes, and rocks on thee! for we rise and fall on thy bosom's billow whose heaving swell is our home divine. our chalice at dawn, and our hot noon's pillow, our evening's shrine. _woolacombe bay, april_ , . [ ] the last lines contain recondite philosophical allusions to the creation, preservation, and destruction of the world, and other matters, in technical terms which defy translation. life in hindoo philosophy, as in that of the middle ages, carries about with it a perfume of death: there is in its atmosphere something melancholy, and even a little morbid, like the slow tolling of a bell. preface to first edition, a digit of the moon is the sixteenth part of a much longer work, entitled _the churning of the ocean of time_[ ]. a well-known hindoo legend recounts how the gods and antigods assembled to churn the ocean of milk[ ] for the nectar of immortality. after throwing in herbs of various kinds, they churned it with mount mandara, and obtained the nectar, with certain other things, one of which was the moon, who by the way is often called 'the lord of herbs.' but in sanskrit, the moon, like the sun, is a male. hindoo poets get over this difficulty, when they want a female moon, by personifying his attributes, or making a part do duty for the whole. thus, his disc is divided into sixteen parts, called '_streaks_' or '_digits_' and a beautiful woman is '_a digit of the moon_.' the whole work, then, called '_the churning of the ocean of time_,' is, like the moon, divided into sixteen parts, each named after one of the digits of the moon. the one now before the reader is called _a digit of the moon, turned red by the rays of the dawning sun_[ ]. the point lies in the play on the word red, which in the original also means '_enamoured_,' '_in love_.' that is to say, that the heroine of the story 'turns red,' _i.e._ falls in love with the hero, whose name, it will be found, is süryakánta, or 'sunstone.' * * * * * i little thought, ten years ago, that it would ever be my lot to play, as it were, the part of boccaccio, and bring forth meat from the eater, stories from a plague. yet here also the unexpected came about, in the following way. considering how recently europe has become aware of the very existence of a sanskrit literature, i had often wondered whether there might not be hidden away, here and there, in the vast ocean of india, literary treasures still undiscovered, which future 'churning' might bring up. but i did not expect that my question would ever receive a practical answer. however, a few years ago, when the plague was decimating the city of poona, carrying off its victims by hundreds a day, personal acquaintance with some of the officers appointed by government to cope with the enemy put it into my power to do a slight service to an old marátha brahman, whose name, by his own particular desire, i suppress. my 'service' was indeed a mere trifle, a thing of which no englishman would have thought twice. hindoos, however, look on these matters with very different eyes. an englishman's house may be his castle, but a hindoo's house is a shrine, a holy of holies, which for unhallowed footsteps to invade is desecration. i was amused to find that my old brahman regarded me almost as though i had preserved his family from nameless and everlasting infamy. and when he subsequently discovered that i was a humble student of the 'polished, sacred' language, and could make shift to admire his beloved kálidás in the original, his esteem for me rose to a degree almost embarrassing. he came two or three times to see me, and took an obvious pleasure in dilating on the beauties of his ancient authors to one who was at least a good listener. but it struck me as curious, that every time he went away he seemed as it were labouring to deliver himself of some important communication, which nevertheless he shrank from discovering to me; and he always eventually departed, with an air of some confusion, and his secret left untold. i thought at the time that he was only nerving himself to make some request of me, of which he doubted the reception, and was unable to screw his courage to the sticking-point. but i was mistaken. our interviews came to an abrupt conclusion. the plague stepped in and swept his family clean away, carrying off his wife, all his children, and various others of his kin, leaving him alone untouched--but not for long. one evening, when i came home late, having been out nearly all day, i found on my doorstep a messenger who had been waiting for me, with the inexhaustible patience of an oriental, for many hours. the plague had remembered my old brahman at last, and he had sent to ask me to come and see him, 'on business of importance.' i went off accordingly to a segregate camp, whither he had been removed, and, much to my relief, arrived in time to find him conscious: for he was a fine old gentleman, and when a brahman is a gentleman, he is a striking type of humanity. he confused me by thanking me, for the hundredth time, for my good offices, adding, however, that they had been, in a certain sense, wasted, as he was the only one left of his family, and now he also, he was glad to say, was going the same way. he said, that he had been anxious to see me before he died, because he had something of value to give me. hereupon he produced what the uninitiated might have taken for a packet of ladies' long six-button gloves, pressed together between two strips of wood about the size of a cheroot box, and tied round with string; but which from experience i knew to be a manuscript[ ]. he handed it to me, observing that it had been in the possession of his family from a time beyond memory, and that nothing would ever have induced him to part with it, had any of that family remained to possess it; but as they were all gone, and as, moreover, it would certainly be burned by the plague authorities as soon as he was dead, it was mine, if i cared to accept it. if not, he said, with an effort to smile, no matter: it could, like a faithful wife, enter the fire on the death of its owner: yet that would be a pity, for it was worth preserving. i accepted his present, and he bade me farewell. i took leave of the old man, not without emotion, for grief and approaching death had converted his face to the very incarnation of misery; and i learned on enquiry that he died, about thirty-six hours afterwards, in the early morning. notwithstanding the hints let fall by its former owner, i own i was dubious as to the value of my ms., for hindoos will admire anything in sanskrit. but when--after having redeemed it with difficulty from the ordeal of fire and the plague authorities by subjecting it to severe fumigations--i fell to examining it[ ], i apologised to the _manes_ of my old brahman for doubting his judgment, and blessed him for his present, which is, i will venture to say, unique in literature. but i will leave the reader to judge of it for himself[ ], warning him only that no language loses so much by translation as the sanskrit; and advising him, for his own sake, to read it consecutively through, or he will lose much[ ]. i cannot refrain from observing, however, that it differs from the general run of classical sanskrit productions in two very striking particulars--the simplicity of its style, and the originality of its matter. as to the last, every body knows that classical sanskrit authors have no originality. they do but rhetorically reset and embellish notorious themes: such originality as they exhibit lying, not in their subject, but its treatment. our author is an exception. whoever he was, he must have possessed the gift of imagination: for though the plan of the story was doubtless suggested by the _wétála-panchawimshatiká_, yet so novel and poetical is the use made of it that it may fairly claim to owe but little to its source, while all the particular stories are curious and original. the book differs, again, in a remarkable manner from other classical products of the hindoo muse in the simplicity of its style. the author would seem to have deliberately chosen the epic[ ] rather than the classic style as his model. we find here none of that artificiality, that straining and effort at style for its own sake, that perverse elaboration, those insipid intolerable _shléhas_ and interminable compounds which reach a climax in the appalling concatenations of e.g. the _kédambarí_. mature hindoo literature exhibits precisely the same tendency as its architecture: ornament is piled on ornament with aimless, tasteless extravagance, till the whole becomes nauseous, and all unity is smothered and annihilated under a load of rhetorical gewgaws. just as the rank and luxuriant growth of a creeper will sometimes drain of its juices, dry up, and destroy the tree it was designed to adorn, so the over development of gaudy rhetorical blossoms and effeminate literary prettinesses has desiccated and broken the spring of the hindoo mind. the best things in the literature are just those which are simplest, and therefore as a rule oldest. literary arabesque nearly always indicates and springs from the absence of anything to say; a poverty of creative ideas. but our author has really a story to tell, and can therefore afford to exhibit it in naked unadorned simplicity. finally, the words which stand as a motto on the title-page have a history of their own. they are the closing lines of the _shakuntalá_, and they mean, briefly: _o shiwa, grant that i may never be born again_. there is a _curiosa felicitas_ in their application to the conclusion of the story, where indeed i found them, scribbled in the margin by another hand; and though it cannot be proved, i am convinced that they were placed there by my old brahman himself (who had kálidás by heart), when he took his farewell of the ms., in an access of grief and despair at feeling his family annihilated and himself deprived of all that had made his life worth living, by the plague. let us hope that the old man has had his wish, and that '_the purple-tinted god_' has '_destroyed his rebirth_.' _mahábaleshwar_, . [ ] _sansára-ságara-manthanam_. [ ] for _milk_ the author has substituted a technical word which means _the world considered as the scene of never-ending transmigrations_. ('_o world! o life! o time!_') by this he implies that the _nectar_ of his work it the residuum of much churning of life and experience of the world, and that it is destined to be immortal. [ ] i have never experienced a stranger or more delightful sensation than when, as i was translating this work, i saw this very phenomenon on the ghauts at mahábaleshwar: a blood-red moon going down into the hills at early dawn, with the sun rising on the opposite peaks. only the redness which the poet ascribes to the sun was of course due to the haze of the atmosphere. [ ] though i make no attempt to assign a date to this ms., the reader should observe that in india printing has not superseded hand work. the hindoos have religious prejudices against printed books, and they will not use them in their temples, or for sacred purposes. [ ] a well written ms. in the _déwanágari_ character, is hardly if at all, inferior to print. [ ] at some future time i hope to translate the remainder, or part of it. [ ] its principal beauty lies in the skill of its climax, which is lost by neglecting the order. [ ] the poem is written in _shlókas_, or _anushtubh_, with occasional deviations (as e.g. the conclusion) into more elaborate metres. contents. [_for the convenience of the english reader i have drawn up this table. the original contains none._] introduction. the story of the creation of woman day . the story of _ganésha_ and the _chárwáka_ day . the story of the brahman's cows day . the story of the baby rájá day . the story of _bimba_ and _pratibimba_ day . the story of suwarnaskílá day . the story of the three queens day . the story of the false ascetic and the king's daughter day . the story of the pilgrim and the ganges day . the story of the repentant wife day . the story of the wrestler's pet day . the story of the domestic chaplain day . the story of the elephant and the ants day . the story of the mirage hunter day . the story of the red lips day . the story of the lotus and the bee day . the story of the gem in the snake's hood day . the story of the king's dream day . the story of love and death day . the story of _kritákrita_ day . the story of conclusion _note_.--the vignette is a rude sketch by the translator from an old bust of ganésha. he has only one tusk, and should have four arms, but they have got broken. his favourite vehicle is a mouse or rat, and his trunk is always considered to be smeared with vermilion. he is the god of success, and the remover of obstacles, and woe to the man who should neglect to conciliate him, at the opening of any undertaking! a digit of the moon introduction. invocation[ ]. _may the kindly three-eyed god[ ], who stained his throat deep-purple by the draught of deadly poison which he swallowed for the preservation of the world, preserve you. may the elephant-faced one[ ] sweep away with his trunk all impediments to my thoughts, and may wání[ ] inspire into my mind for every thought its proper word._ there lived formerly, in a certain country, a king, called súryakánta[ ]. and his armies, guided by valour and policy, had penetrated in all directions to the shore of the ocean, and his intellect had gone to the further shore of all the sciences, so that one thing only was unknown to him, woman, and the love of woman. he was, as it were, the very incarnation of the spirit of misogyny, beautiful exceedingly himself, to scorch with the hot rays of his glory the despairing hearts of all fair women who might chance to cast eyes upon him, yet himself cold as snow to their own melting glances. and as time went on, his ministers became full of concern for the future of the kingdom, for they said: the king has no son, and if he should die, everything will go to ruin for want of an heir. so they took counsel among themselves, and sending for them wherever they could find them, they threw in his way temptations in the form of beautiful women, raining on him as it were showers of the quintessence of all the female beauty in the world. but all was of no avail: for no matter what shape it took, the celestial loveliness of those ladies made no more impression on the king's mind than a forest leaf falling on the back of a wild elephant. then the ministers fell into despair, exclaiming: truly there is a point at which virtues become vices. it is well for a king to avoid the wiles of women; but out on this woman-hating king! the kingdom will be undone for him. and they took counsel again among themselves, and made representations to the king, exhorting him to marriage. but he would not listen to anything they could say. so being at their wits' end, they caused it to be bruited about without the king's knowledge, by means of their spies, that they would give a crore[ ] of gold pieces to any one who could produce a change in the mind of the king, and inspire him with an inclination for marriage. but though many charlatans presented themselves and performed incantations and other such devices, no one could be found able to effect the desired end. on the contrary, the king's hostility to the other sex increased so much, that he punished every woman who came within the range of his sight by banishing her from the kingdom. and in their fear lest the kingdom should be wholly deprived of its women, the ministers had to place spies about the king, who ran before him wherever he went, and made all the women keep out of his way. and this task was as difficult as standing on the edge of a sword, for all the women in the kingdom were drawn to see him by love and curiosity as if he were a magnet[ ] and they so many pieces of iron. then one day there came to the capital a certain painter[ ]. and he, as soon as he arrived, made enquiries as to the wonders of that city. then the people told him: the greatest wonder in our city is our king, súryakánta, himself. for though he is a king, nothing will induce him to have anything to do with women, from the peacock of whose beauty he flies as if he were a snake. and yet he is himself like a second god of love, so that here is the marvel: that one whom the fish-bannered god[ ] has created as a sixth weapon to cleave the hearts of the female sex should have no curiosity to exert his power. should the sun refuse to warm, or the wind to blow? but when the painter heard this he laughed, and said: i possess a charm that would act like the sun upon its gem[ ]. and one of the spies of the ministers heard him, and went and told them of his arrival and his brag. and they immediately summoned that painter and questioned him, telling him the whole state of the case, and promising him the reward if he could make his words good. and the painter said: contrive that the king shall send for me, and leave the rest to me. so the ministers went and told the king: sire, there has arrived in your capital a painter, whose equal in skill is not to be found in the three worlds. and when the king heard it he was delighted, for he was himself skilled in the art of painting and all other arts; and he caused the painter to be brought into his presence. but he, when he came, was amazed at the extraordinary beauty of the king, and he exclaimed: o king, you have caused me to obtain the fruit of my birth in bestowing on me the priceless boon of a sight of your incomparable beauty. and now only one more thing remains. i implore your majesty to let me make a copy of it, in order that in future i may never be without it. for the sun warms even when reflected in a poor mirror. then the king said: show me first specimens of your skill. but beware that you show me no women, otherwise it will be worse for you. so the painter showed him a collection of pictures of all the countries in the world, but among them he had secretly placed the portrait of a woman. and as the king was turning over the pictures, one by one, he suddenly came upon that portrait. but the moment he looked at it, he fell to the ground in a swoon. then the painter laughed, and said to the ministers: the cure is effected: pay the physician his fee. but they replied: we must first be sure that the patient is really cured. the painter replied: you will soon find that out. look to the king, and restore him, and see what he says when he comes to himself and finds that i am not here. for in the meanwhile i will go out of the room. then the ministers summoned attendants, who fanned the king with palm-leaves, and sprinkled him with water scented with sandal. and the king revived, and instantly looking round, exclaimed: the painter, the painter! the ministers said: sire, he is gone. but when the king heard that, he changed colour, and his voice trembled, and he said: if you have allowed him to escape, i will have you all trampled to death by elephants before the sun goes down. so they went out quickly and found the painter, and fetched him in again before the king. and he fell at the king's feet, saying: may the king forgive me! alas! my evil fortune must have mixed up that lady's portrait among my other pictures, to bring me to destruction. but the king said: o most admirable of all painters, past, present, or to come, know that you have conferred a benefit upon me by exhibiting that portrait to me, which i could not repay even with my whole kingdom. and beyond doubt, that lady must have been my wife in a previous existence, for emotions such as these point unmistakeably to a former life. now then, tell me, of what land is her father the king? for certain i am, that it is a portrait, for such beauty as hers could not have been conceived by any mortal brain. none but the creator himself could have fashioned her. then the painter smiled, and said: o king, be warned by me. dismiss this lady from your mind, and think of her no more; otherwise my carelessness may turn out to have been the cause of your ruin. but the king said: painter, no more. choose, either to tell me who she is, and be loaded with gold; or not; an i will load you with chains, and imprison you in a loathsome dungeon, with neither food nor water, till you do. then the painter said: king, since there is no help for it, and your fate will have it so, learn, that this is the portrait of anangarágá[ ], the daughter of a brother of the king of the nagas[ ], who lives by herself in a palace in the forest, two months' journey from here. and what her beauty is, you yourself partly know by personal experience of the effect which even in a picture it produced upon you: yet what picture could be equal to the reality? for every one that sees her instantly falls in love with her, and many swoon away, as you did, and there are some who have even died. and yet the creator, when he made her a casket of beauty so inimitably lovely, placed within it a heart of adamant, so hard, that it laughs at all the efforts of the flowery-arrowed god to pierce it. for innumerable suitors have sought her in marriage, coming from all the quarters of the world, and she receives them all with scornful indifference, yet entertains them magnificently for twenty-one days, on this condition, that every day they ask her a riddle[ ]. and if any suitor should succeed in asking her something that she cannot answer, then she herself is to be the prize; but if within the stipulated time he fails, then he becomes her slave, to be disposed of how she will. and no one has ever yet succeeded in asking her anything she cannot answer; for she is of superhuman intelligence, and learned in all the sciences; but of the countless suitors who have tried and failed, some she has sent away, and others she retains about her person as slaves, pitilessly showing them every day that beauty which is for ever unattainable to them, so that their lot is infinitely worse than that of beasts. and therefore, o king, i warned you, lest the same thing should happen also to you. o be wise, and shun her, before it is too late. for i think that no lot can be more wretched than that of those who are doomed to everlasting regret, for having lost what nevertheless they see ever before them, as it were within their reach. then king süryakánta laughed aloud, and he said: painter, your judgment is not equal to your skill in your own art. for there is a lot infinitely more miserable, and it is that of one who passes his whole life in regret for an object which, with daring and resolution, he might have attained. let me rather pine for ever miserable in the contemplation of such beauty, than weakly abandon my chance of enjoying it. then the king gave that painter three crores of gold pieces, as the price of the portrait of the princess, which he took away from him; and, after allowing him to paint his own portrait, dismissed him. and he said to his ministers: make all ready: for this very night i start in quest of the princess anangarágá. then his ministers deliberated together, and said to each other: certainly, if the king should fail in his object and never return, the kingdom will be ruined. yet, the same will be the case if he remains here, and scorning the society of all other women, never has a son. therefore it is better as it is. for of two evils, the least is a good. moreover, he may possibly succeed. so that very night, burning with the fierce fire of impatience, the king transferred the burden of his government to the shoulders of his ministers, and set out, with the portrait of his beloved, to win or lose her. and he would have taken nobody with him. but as he was preparing to depart, his boon companion, rasakósha[ ], said to him: sire, would you go alone? and the king said: my friend, i may fail, and never return. why should i drag others with me into the jaws of destruction? i will go by myself. then rasakósha said: king, what are you about? you leave yourself behind, if you leave me. that half of you which inhabits your own body is altogether gone upon[ ] the princess, and wholly intent upon her, so as to think of nothing else: then how will you baffle her, without that other half of you which lives in me, and is always ready for your service? and what am i to do without my better half? and even if you _do_ fail, what will you do without me? for even prosperity without a friend is tasteless[ ]: how much more adversity! then the king said: well, be it so. come, let us be off. but rasakósha said: did i not say that your mind was wandering? would you start on such a perilous adventure, without first securing the aid of wináyaka[ ]? who ever succeeded in anything that neglected him? and the king said: it is true. in my eagerness i had almost forgotten him. so he praised ganésha, saying: hail, o thou lord of the elephant face, whose trunk is uplifted in the dance! hail to thee, before whom obstacles melt away like the mists of night before the morning sun! hail to thee, aided by whom even the weak triumph over the strong! hail to thee, without whom all prudence is vain, and all wisdom, folly! hail, o thou whose basket ears flap like banners of victory in the wind! then they set out on their journey. and they fared on day and night through the forest, full of wild beasts, apes, and shabaras[ ] as the sea is of jewels: but the king in his preoccupation for many days neither spoke nor ate nor drank, living only on air and the portrait of the princess, which night and day he devoured with his eyes. then one day, as they rested at noon beneath the thick shade of a _kadamba_[ ] tree, the king gazed for a long time at the portrait of his mistress. and suddenly he broke silence, and said: rasakósha, this is a woman. now, a woman is the one thing about which i know nothing. tell me, what is the nature of women? then rasakósha smiled, and said: king, you should certainly keep this question to ask the princess; for it is a hard question. a very terrible creature indeed is a woman, and one formed of strange elements. _apropos_, i will tell you a story: listen. in the beginning, when twashtri[ ] came to the creation of woman, he found that he had exhausted his materials in the making of man, and that no solid elements were left. in this dilemma, after profound meditation, he did as follows. he took the rotundity of the moon, and the curves of creepers, and the clinging of tendrils, and the trembling of grass, and the slenderness of the reed, and the bloom of flowers, and the lightness of leaves, and the tapering of the elephant's trunk, and the glances of deer, and the clustering of rows of bees[ ], and the joyous gaiety of sunbeams, and the weeping of clouds, and the fickleness of the winds, and the timidity of the hare, and the vanity of the peacock, and the softness of the parrot's bosom, and the hardness of adamant, and the sweetness of honey, and the cruelty of the tiger, and the warm glow of fire, and the coldness of snow, and the chattering of jays, and the cooing of the _kókila_[ ], and the hypocrisy of the crane, and the fidelity of the _chakrawáka_; and compounding all these together, he made woman, and gave her to man. but after one week, man came to him, and said: lord, this creature that you have given me makes my life miserable. she chatters incessantly, and teases me beyond endurance, never leaving me alone: and she requires incessant attention, and takes all my time up, and cries about nothing, and is always idle; and so i have come to give her back again, as i cannot live with her. so twashtri said: very well: and he took her back. then after another week, man came again to him, and said: lord, i find that my life is very lonely since i gave you back that creature. i remember how she used to dance and sing to me, and look at me out of the corner of her eye, and play with me, and cling to me; and her laughter was music, and she was beautiful to look at, and soft to touch: so give her back to me again. so twashtri said: very well: and gave her back again. then after only three days, man came back to him again, and said: lord, i know not how it is; but after all, i have come to the conclusion that she is more of a trouble than a pleasure to me: so please take her back again. but twashtri said: out on you! be off! i will have no more of this. you must manage how you can. then man said: but i cannot live with her. and twashtri replied: neither could you live without her. and he turned his back on man, and went on with his work. then man said: what is to be done? for i cannot live either with or without her[ ]. and rasakósha ceased, and looked at the king. but the king remained silent, gazing intently at the portrait of the princess. and thus travelling on, day by day, through the forest, at length they drew near to the palace of the princess anangarágá. [ ] some such benedictory exordium as this is regarded as indispensable by every sanskrit author: yet it is remarkable that kálidás is careless of the rule; _e.g._ his _cloud_ and his _seasons_ begin at once without any invocation at all. [ ] shiwa. [ ] ganésha or ganapati. see day . [ ] saraswatí, the goddess of speech. [ ] _i.e._ 'sun-beloved;' the name of a fabulous gem 'sunstone' (cp. 'moonstone'), said to possess magical properties and exhibit them when acted upon by the rays of the sun. [ ] ten millions. [ ] a kind of play on the king's name: _lóhakánta_ means a loadstone. [ ] this method of bringing lovers together is part of a hindoo story-teller's romantic machinery. [ ] the hindoo cupid, who is said to possess five bewildering weapons. [ ] alluding to the king's name: see n. p. . [ ] _i.e._ 'the passion, or the rosy-blush, of love.' (pronounce the two first syllables to rhyme with 'among,' with a north-country g.) [ ] these nagas are beings of serpent nature, but often confounded with men: _e.g._ in kathá saritságara, i. , the nephew of the king of the nágas is said to be a brahman. their women are of inconceivable loveliness. [ ] very few of the stories are really riddles, but they all give the princess an opportunity of displaying her ready judgment and acumen. it will also be seen, that owing to the device with which the story concludes, there are really only nineteen days, instead of twenty-one. [ ] pronounce _russakósh_. the name refers to the part he will play in the story: it means both 'a ball of mercury,' and 'a treasury of taste, wit, literary sentiments or flavours,' a sort of walking encyclopædia. the king's companion is a salient figure in hindoo drama: he is a sort of sancho panza, _minus_ the vulgarity and the humour. [ ] this colloquialism is an exact facsimile of the sanskrit expression. [ ] a play upon his own name. [ ] ganésha, the god of obstacles and success. see day . [ ] an old name for bhíls and other wild tribes. [ ] 'a tree with orange-coloured fragrant blossoms.' [ ] the hindoo vulcan, sometimes, as here, used for the creator, _dhatri_ = plato's [greek: demiourgos]. sanskrit literature is the key to plato; much of his philosophy is only the moonlike reflection of hindoo mythology. [ ] hindoo poets see a resemblance between rows of bees and eye-glances. [ ] the indian cuckoo. the crane is a by-word for inward villainy and sanctimonious exterior. the chakrawáka, or brahmany drake, is fabled to pass the night sorrowing for the absence of his mate and she for him. [ ] the very echo of martial. day . then, when the towers of the palace rose over the trees, and gleamed like gold on their eyes in the beams of the morning sun, king süryakánta suddenly exclaimed: ha! i am undone. and rasakósha said: how is that? then the king said: alas! i have been absolutely possessed by the image of my beloved, night and day, waking and sleeping, so that i have thought of nothing in the world beside. and now here we are at the end of our journey, but at the beginning of difficulties. for as to what i shall ask the princess, i have not the shadow of an idea. and if the thought of her has such power to bewilder me at a distance, the sight of her will utterly deprive me of my reason, so that i am lost already. then rasakósha said: o king, this is exactly why the princess has hitherto baffled all her lovers. the spell of her beauty robs them of their intellect, and chains up their invention, and thus they fall an easy prey. but fortunate are you, that while your best half has been absent from its body, your other half[ ] has been watching over the empty case. be under no concern: but when we are introduced into the presence of the princess, tell her that you speak by my mouth, and leave all to me. so the king was relieved, and dismissing all other subjects from his mind, he again became wholly immersed in meditating on his mistress. then drawing nearer by degrees, at length they entered the precincts of the palace. and there they were met by warders, who enquired who they were. and they went and announced to the princess that king súryakánta had arrived as a suitor for her hand. so she sent chamberlains and others, who conducted the king to a pleasure-house of white marble in a garden beautiful with a lake and crystal baths, shady with trees, perfumed with breezes loaded with the fragrance of flowers, and musical with the songs of innumerable birds. there they passed the day. but the king, consumed with the fever of his burning desire to see the princess, had neither eyes nor ears for anything but the portrait. and when the sun set, king süryakánta and rasakósha went to the palace of the princess, and entered the hall of audience, whose floor, inlaid with slabs of dark-blue crystal, reflected their feet, and whose walls flashed back from the facets of their jewels the light of innumerable lamps. and there they saw anangarágá, sitting on a golden throne, clad in a robe of sea-green, and a bodice studded with coral, looking like lakshmi[ ] fresh from ocean. and her eyes were as long as a row of bees, and their lashes jet black with collyrium, and her lips were like freshly painted vermilion, and from her high bosom came the fragrance of sandal. and round her slender waist was a girdle of gold, and on her wrists and ankles gold bangles and anklets, and the soles of her little feet were red with lac, and in her black hair was a gold tiara in the form of a snake, with eyes of rubies, and a tongue of emerald. and in the radiance of her beauty she looked scornfully at the king, and, turning away her head, said, without waiting to be addressed: propose your question. but the king, struck by the thunderbolt of her stupefying loveliness, sank mute and trembling upon a couch opposite to her, and gazed at her like a bird fascinated by a serpent. then rasakósha came forward, and prostrated himself at her feet, and said: lady, this unworthy mortal is the king's mouth. is it permitted him to speak? so the princess said: proceed. then rasakósha rose up, and stood before her, and began: lady, there lived formerly, in a certain country, a chárwáka[ ], who was about to be married. and while he was making preparations for the ceremony, one of his friends came to him, and gave him advice, saying: propitiate genésha, in order that nothing untoward may occur to interfere with your marriage. then that chárwáka laughed in derision, and replied: my good sir, you are a fool. do i not know that knaves and fools invented the _wédas_, and instituted the sacrificial rites for their own advantage? all these foolish tales about the gods are merely the dreams of madmen, or the livelihood of rogues. as for this ganésha that you speak of, what is the use of him? or how can there be a man with the head of an elephant? and what has he to do with success? he, who forms his plans with prudence, and executes them with wisdom, may count on success. out on your ganésha! i will ensure my own success. so he spoke, but that lord of the elephant face heard him, and laughed to himself, gently waving his trunk. and the chárwáka went on with his preparations. but when all was ready, and the lucky day fixed, then on the morning of that day ganapati spoke to a certain cow that used to wander at will about the streets, saying: cow, go and drop your sacred excrement on that chárwáka's doorstep. and the cow went and did so. and when the chárwáka came forth from his house, he put his foot on the cow-dung, and slipped and fell, and broke his leg. so they took him up and carried him in again. and before his leg was cured, his bride died. then his friend came to him again, and said: see what comes of neglecting to worship ganapati. but the chárwáka answered: go to; you are an idiot. who could possibly foresee that a miserable cow would cast its dung on my doorstep? what has ganapati to do with it? does he, forsooth! look after and direct the excretions of all the cows in the world? a pleasant idea, to be sure! so saying, he drove his friend away, refusing to listen to him. and when his leg was well, he found another bride, and made preparations for another marriage. and he hired a band of sweepers to go before him and sweep all clean before his feet. but when the day came, ganapati sent for a crow that eat the daily offerings, and said to him: crow, there is a chárwáka going to be married to-day. now, there is an arch over a certain street, beneath which he will pass: and on it there is an image of myself, of stone, which is very old, and the rain and heat have loosened and cracked it, so that it is on the point of falling. do you watch, therefore, and when you see the chárwáka passing under, then seat yourself upon me, and i will fall. so the crow flew off, and watching his opportunity, seated himself upon the stone image of ganapati; and it fell on the chárwáka as he passed below, and broke his arm. so they took him up and carried him back to his house. and before his arm was well, his bride died. then his friend came once more to him and said: is this your wisdom? what did i tell you? is it not plain now, who it is that is thwarting your efforts? then the chárwáka flew into a rage, and said: enough of your babbling! i will get married in spite of ganapati. but what can be anticipated in this miserable city, whose cows befoul the streets, and whose buildings are tumble-down. i will provide against any similar accident happening again. so when he was well, he discovered another bride, and again made preparations for his wedding. and he arranged to go to the bride's house by a circuitous route outside the walls of the city, avoiding the streets altogether. but on the morning of the day, ganapati went to indra, and said: wajradhara[ ], there is a chárwáka going to get married to-day. but he must pass over a certain water-course, which is now dry. lend me your rain-clouds, for i must teach this infidel a lesson. so indra sent his clouds, and rained furiously on the hills. and as the chárwáka was passing over the water-course, the river rose suddenly, and swept down in torrents from the hills and carried him away and drowned him. and ganapati saw it and smiled. but on a sudden he wept violently. now tell me, princess, why did the lord of obstacles laugh and weep? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess answered: he laughed when he thought of the folly, blindness, and insolence of that miserable infidel. but suddenly great pity came over him, when he remembered the terrible punishment that awaited that foolish fellow in the future, and all those who like him prepare by their own actions a fearful retribution in other lives and another world: and so he wept[ ]. and when the princess had said this, she rose up and went out, dismissing the king without looking at him, with a wave of her hand: and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _i.e._ rasakósha himself. the allusion is to a power, possessed by adepts in yoga, of detaching the soul from the body. see day . [ ] the goddess of fortune and wealth, who was churned up out of the ocean, and according to some, appeared reclining on an open lotus. coral is one of the nine gems. [ ] _i.e._ an atheist. the opinions of this philosophical school may be found sketched in the sarwa-darshana-sangraha, § . [ ] 'wielder of the thunderbolt,' an epithet of indra, the god of rain. [ ] perhaps only a hindoo could appreciate the dexterity with which this story is placed first, and thus the favour of ganapati, as it were, secured for the rest. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, although the princess has answered your question, and you have lost me a day, yet i forgive you, for the sake of the wave of her hand which she made as she went away. oh! it resembled the bowing of a blossom-loaded spray of creeper in a breeze. but if it were not for the portrait, it would be utterly impossible for me to endure the torture of separation from her till to-morrow. and he passed the night in a state of intoxication[ ], drunk with the beauty of the princess, gazing incessantly at the portrait. and he said: certainly, this painter was master of his art. this is no picture, but a mirror. there is the very scorn on her lip. and when at last the sun rose, the king rose also, and passed the day with rasakósha in the garden, longing for the moment of reunion. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a red robe, with a bodice studded with pearls, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and the king trembled as she looked at him, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, gazing at her loveliness. then rasakósha came forward, and standing before her, began again: lady, once upon a time there lived, in the country of a king called dharmásana[ ], an old brahman who had three sons. and he possessed nothing in the world but nineteen cows. and when he was about to die, he called his sons around him, and said to them: my sons, i am in the mouth of death, therefore listen attentively to what i am going to say. all that i have to give you is these cows. divide them amongst you; and let the eldest of you take half of them; and the next, a quarter of them; and the youngest, a fifth part of them. but if there should be any remainder left over, you must all three of you eat it; if not, all the cows are to be given to the king, and my curse will rest upon you, for disobedience to my last wishes. and having said this, that old brahman died. and his sons performed his obsequies, and burned him in accordance with the rites. then they assembled together for the division of the property. and the eldest brother said: half of these cows, that is, nine cows and a half, are mine. and the next brother said: one quarter of these cows, that is, four cows and three-fourths of a cow, belong to me. then the youngest said: one-fifth of these cows, that is, three cows and four-fifths of a cow, are mine. then the eldest said: but the sum of all these, added together, amounts only to eighteen cows and a fraction. thus there will remain over a portion of the last cow. and in that case we must eat it. but how is it possible for brahmans to eat the flesh of a cow? or even, how are we to take various portions of any cow, and leave it still alive[ ]? but then, what is to be done? for unless we share in our due proportions, all the cows are to go to the king, and our father's curse will fall upon us. and yet what can have been the meaning of our father in placing us in so terrible a dilemma? thus they disputed among themselves, and the day passed away, but not the difficulty, and night found them still arguing without any solution of the matter. now, princess, tell me, how is this to be settled, so as to satisfy equally the father, the three brothers, and the king? and rasakósha ceased. but the princess bent down her head, and remained a moment in meditation, while the king's soul almost quitted his body. then after a while, raising her head, she replied: let the brothers borrow another cow. then of the twenty cows, let the eldest take half, or ten cows; the next, a quarter, or five cows; and the youngest, a fifth, or four cows. then let them return the borrowed cow. thus the nineteen cows will be exhausted without leaving a remainder, and the father satisfied: each brother will receive more than under their own division; and finally, the king will be pleased. for he was a just king: and what could displease such a king more than that, in his dominions, brahmans should kill and eat cows, or disregard their father's orders[ ]. rather would he lose, not nineteen cows, but ten millions[ ]. and when the princess had said this, she rose up and went out, casting a glance, as she went, at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] just as the clothes of the princess change colour every day, so does the state of the king's mind, which goes through a regular series of transitory emotions (wyabhichári). [ ] _i.e._ 'seat of justice.' the meaning is important, as the sequel shows. it does the princess credit that she notes and remembers it. [ ] to kill, let alone to eat, a cow, would be of course one of the most deadly sins of which a brahman could be guilty. [ ] see _manu_ ii., , _sqq._ [ ] i remember to have heard a very inferior version of this story from an old pundit with whom i read maráthi. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though the princess has answered your question, and yet another day has been lost, yet i forgive you, for the sake of the glance she gave me as she went away. oh! it was cooling to my burning soul as the drops of rain to the parched and thirsty earth. and but for the portrait, it is certain that my life could not last till the morning. thus the king lamented, and passed the night in a state of longing, gazing at the portrait of his beloved. and when at last the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with rasakósha in the garden, longing for the moment of reunion. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a yellow robe, and a bodice studded with diamonds, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked intently at the king, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, gazing at her loveliness. then rasakósha came forward, and stood before her, and began again: lady, in a former age there was a king who died of a fever. and his heir was a baby, too young to speak or walk. now that king had a brother, who desired the kingdom for himself. and in order to compass this object, he determined to make away with the little rájá, thinking to himself: there will be no difficulty in this, for he is but a baby, and can easily be put to death in a thousand ways. so one night he persuaded the child's attendants, by means of an immense bribe, to leave him alone in his room. and he hired an assassin to kill him, posting him in a secret place within the palace, and telling him: at such an hour, enter the king's room, where you will find him alone, and kill him. but this assassin was a rajpoot from the deccan, who had but just come to that city, and did not know who the king was. and expecting a man, at the appointed hour he entered the king's room, and saw nothing but a baby playing on the floor with a fruit. and the fruit, escaping from its hands, rolled to the feet of the assassin as he came in. and the little rájá put out his hand, and cried, _bhó, bhó_. so the assassin rolled it back, and the baby laughed and clapped its hands. thus they remained, playing with the fruit, till the guards came in and found that assassin. and when they asked him who he was, he said: i have a message from my master to the king. then they laughed, and said: the king is dead: there is the king. but he was amazed, and said: then i must return and tell the news to my master. for how can i deliver a message to one who cannot even speak? and they suffered him to depart, and he went out, and fearing for his own life, left that city without delay. then the king's brother, finding that his plot had failed, hired a whole band of robbers. and watching his opportunity, he posted them by the side of a road leading to a temple, and said: there will come by this road a baby, magnificently dressed, and ornamented with jewels, attended by servants. fall on them and plunder them, and if you please, kill them, but make sure that you kill the baby. but while they waited, in the meanwhile some other robbers, attracted by the richness of the little rájá's ornaments, set upon his retinue. and killing all his servants but one, who fled naked, they stripped the little rájá of all he had on him, but left him alone alive, saying: he cannot tell any one, let him live. so they hastily departed. then that fugitive crept back, and finding the baby in the road, picked it up, and wrapping it in a cloth, carried it home. and he passed before the eyes of the gang that was waiting to kill the baby rájá, but they thought that he was some beggar, and took no notice of him. and thus a second time the child escaped. then the king's brother bribed a cook, who put deadly poison into the little rájá's milk. and it was given to him in a crystal goblet. and he took it in both hands, and put it to his mouth, to drink; and at that instant, one of the attendants standing before him sneezed. and the little rájá dropped the goblet, and began to crow and clap his hands in delight; but the goblet fell to the ground and broke into a thousand pieces, and all its contents were spilled upon the floor. thus he escaped the third time. and before the king's brother could form another plot, he was himself slain by the husband of a woman of the kshatriya caste, whom he had carried off and dishonoured. now tell me, princess, how was it that the schemes of that villain could never succeed against the little king, being but a mere child? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: it was its very childhood that baffled him. for just as a stone, lying openly on the ground, is more secure than a costly jewel, though protected by adamantine bars, because it is worthless and arouses no cupidity; so is a thing so feeble that none would attack it more powerfully protected by its very feebleness than strength possessed of many enemies though defended by a thousand guards. no antidote so good, as the absence of poison: no virtue so good, as the absence of beauty: no fortification so good, as the absence of enemies: and no guard so potent as the helplessness of a child. for where are the enemies of the fragile lotus? and when the princess had said this, she rose up and went out, looking back as she went at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, your question was again answered by the princess, and of my days now three are gone, yet freely do i forgive you, for the sake of the glance she gave me as she went away. oh! it snared my soul as it were in a net. and but for the portrait to keep me alive during the period of separation, beyond question i should never see the light of day. so he passed the night in a state of lovelorn recollection[ ], an enemy to sleep, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow or other through the day, by the help of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a sable robe and a bodice studded with sapphires, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked kindly at the king, who sank trembling upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward, and standing before her, began again: lady, there lived formerly in a certain country two brothers, brahmans, called bimba and pratibimba[ ], who were twins. and i think that the creator, when he made one, had gone under water to make the other. for the moon does not more closely resemble her own image in a lake, nor one leaf on a branch another, than each of them did the other. between them, when they were children, the sole point of distinction was the charm tied for that purpose round their necks; and when they grew up, those who saw them together imagined that their own eyes had become enemies, and were each giving a separate reflection of the self-same object. and as their external forms, so were their voices, and their internal dispositions: they corresponded in every atom, from the extremity of the skin to the inmost recesses of the heart. now one day it happened that bimba saw a young woman[ ] at the spring festival. and she looked at him at the same moment. and then and there the god of love penetrated their hearts, employing their mutual glances as his weapon. so having discovered her family and place of residence, bimba used to go and visit her three days in every week. but in the excess of his own happiness, proud of the extraordinary beauty of his love, he could not contain himself, nor endure to keep the secret of his own good fortune. so he told his brother the whole story; and contriving a suitable opportunity, he exhibited to him his mistress, who was all unconscious of what he was doing. but pratibimba, being as he was but the double of his brother, instantly conceived an equally violent passion for her. and without scruple--for what has love to do with honour?--he used to go himself, on the other three days of the week, to visit her. but she in the meanwhile, believing him to be bimba himself, for she could not see any difference, only rejoiced in gaining as she thought the company of her lover twice as often as before. but when some time had passed by, it fell out that bimba, not being able to endure separation, went to visit his mistress on one of his brother's days. and when he got there, he saw pratibimba, who had arrived before him, and was lying asleep on a couch while his beloved fanned him with a palm leaf. but she, when she saw bimba come in, uttered a shriek of astonishment and terror, which woke pratibimba. and while she looked in amazement from one to the other, bimba rushed upon pratibimba, mad with jealousy and howling with rage, while pratibimba did the same to him. and grappling with one another, they rolled upon the floor, fighting and kicking each other, till, hearing the shrieks of the woman, the king's officers came in and separated them, and carried them all three to the judge. then bimba said: this man is my brother, and he has stolen my beloved from me. but pratibimba said: no, she is mine: it is you that are the thief. then bimba howled: i was first, and you are a villain. and pratibimba echoed his words[ ]. so the judge said to the woman: which of them is your lover? but she answered: sir, i cannot tell which is which, nor did i ever know that there were two till to-day. so now tell me, princess, how shall the judge distinguish between them? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: let him take all three apart, and ask each to describe in detail the circumstances under which he saw the woman first. for though the impostor may have heard that it was at the spring festival, yet the eye that saw, aided by the heart that remembers, will convict the ear that only heard. and when she had said this, the princess rose up and went out, smiling at the king over her shoulder, and she drew away the king's heart after her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _smara_ means both love and memory. [ ] both words mean _image, reflection_. [ ] the _hetæra_ plays in old hindoo stories a still larger part than she did in greek. [ ] there is an untranslateable play on the word here. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though my mistress guessed your question, and now four days have gone, yet i forgive you, for the sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. oh! it irradiated the gloom of my soul like as the moonlight illuminates the forest glades: and when she disappeared, darkness again prevailed. but for the portrait, i were a dead man before morning. and he passed the night in a state of impatience, gazing at the portrait. then when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day by the help of rasakósha and the garden. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a pale red[ ] robe, and a bodice studded with emeralds, and her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she dropped her eyes when she saw the king, who sank with a beating heart upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, in former times there was a king, who made war upon a neighbouring king, and went out and fought a great battle with him. now there was in his army a certain kshatriya, who, fighting all day long in that battle, after slaying multitudes of the enemy with his single arm, at length grew tired and faint from exhaustion. and perceiving this, many of the enemy set upon him at once, and overpowered him, and after mangling him with innumerable wounds, left him for dead upon the ground. but when the moon rose, that kshatriya recovered his senses, and as it were came back to life. and he dragged himself with difficulty as far as a neighbouring village. and then his strength failed, and sinking down exhausted at the door of a certain house, he struck one great blow upon it, and fell down senseless. now there lived in that house a brahman woman, whose husband was away from home. and she was beautiful as a jasmine blossom, and pure as snow, and her name was suwarnashílá[ ]. and hearing the knock, in the dead of night, she was frightened; but she looked out of a small round window, and saw in the bright moonlight a man lying still at her door. then she thought: this may be a snare. alas! the neighbours praise me for my beauty, and to whom is not beauty an object of cupidity? or how can beauty, like a great pearl, be safe when its guardian is away? then she looked again, and saw a dark stream trickling from the body along the white ground. and her heart was filled with compassion, and she thought: doubtless the man is wounded, and perhaps dying. the greater[ ] sin would be, to leave him to die at my door. so she summoned her maid, and went out, and took in the wounded man, and dressed his wounds and nursed him, keeping him in her house till he was well. then that kshatriya, seeing her daily, was burned to a cinder by the glory of her beauty, and he made evil proposals to her. but she stopped her ears, and would not listen to him, but said: what! would you repay benefits with treachery and ingratitude? know, that to a virtuous woman her husband is a god. depart, and let me alone. then finding that he could not prevail upon her, the kshatriya said to her: it is you, not your husband, that is the divinity. your beauty would turn even a holy ascetic from his penance. and though i owe you my life, yet you have robbed me of it again. and now i must depart quickly, otherwise my passion will master me, for love is stronger than gratitude. then he went away hurriedly, but with reluctance, somewhere else. but when the husband returned, a certain barber's wife, who was jealous of suwarnashílá for her beauty, met him and said: happy are those who possess treasures. in your absence another man has been wearing your crest-jewel. so the husband, burning with jealousy, went home and asked his wife. and she said: it is true, but listen; and she told him the whole story. but he would not believe her. then she extended her hand to the fire, and said: i appeal to the fire, if i have ever been faithless to you for a moment, even in a dream. and the fire shot up, and a bright flame licked the roof, and two tongues of flame crept out and kissed that saint, one on the mouth, and the other on the heart. but blinded with jealousy and rage, the husband said: this is a trick. and taking his sword, he said to his wife: follow me. so she said: as my lord pleases. then he led her away into the forest, and there he tied her to a tree, and cut off her hands and her feet, and her nose and her breasts, and went away and left her. and after a while she died alone in the forest, of cold and pain and loss of blood. but that kshatriya heard of what he had done. and filled with rage and despair, he went to that husband, and said to him: o fool, know, that you have murdered a saint. and but that i know that life will henceforth be a punishment to you worse than any death, i would slay you where you stand. but as it is, live, and may your guilt bring you death without a son. then the husband, learning the truth, and discovering the villainy of that lying barber's wife, was filled with remorse. and he abandoned the world, and went to the ganges to expiate his guilt. but the kshatriya killed himself with his own sword. so now tell me, princess, why does fate inflict such terrible punishment on the innocent[ ]? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: can emancipation be attained, save by those who are worthy of it? and how can gold[ ] be tested, save by fire? and suwarnashílá stood the test, and proved her nature: and doubtless she has her reward. for even death is not so sure as the consequences of even the minutest action. then a bodiless voice[ ] fell from the sky, and said aloud: well spoken, dear child. and the princess rose up and went out, looking at the king with glistening eyes, and the heart of the king went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _goura_ cannot mean white, because _dhawala_ comes on a later day. [ ] see below. [ ] _i.e._ to take him in, with her husband away, would be bad enough, but, &c. a hindoo even at the present day would murder his wife for a much smaller crime than this. [ ] this appalling question, which has puzzled the wise men of all ages, is answered by the princess as well as by any one else. [ ] an allusion to the name suwarnashílá, which means 'good as gold.' [ ] this is an everyday phenomenon in hindoo stories; and its appearance in the _golden ass_ of apuleius puts it beyond all doubt that his story came originally from india. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though your question was again answered by the princess, and now five days are lost, yet fully do i forgive you, for the sake of the tear that glistened in her eye as she went away. o! it was like a drop of dew in the blown flower of a blue lotus. it is beyond a doubt that but for the portrait my life would fail before the morning. and he passed the night in a state of stupefaction, gazing at the portrait of his mistress. then when the sun rose, he rose also, and got through the long hours of day with difficulty by the help of rasakósha and the garden. and when at length the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a blood-red robe and a bodice studded with opals, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she was looking for the king when he came in, and the king sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, there was once a king who had three queens, of such indescribable beauty, that at night in the light fortnight it was impossible to decide which of the four was the true moon. and one night, when the king was sleeping in the hot season on the terrace of his palace in the company of his queens, he woke up while they were asleep. and rising up, he stood in the moonlight looking down upon his sleeping queens. and he said to himself: various indeed is the form assumed by the beauty of woman. but i wonder which of my queens is the most beautiful of the three. so he went from one to the other, considering them attentively. and one queen lay on her back in the full light of the moon, with one arm over her head, and one breast raised, and every now and then a light breeze stirred and lifted her garment, disclosing it. and another lay in the shadow of the trellis-work with alternate stripes of shadow and light turning her into curves of ebony and ivory. and the third lay all in deep shadow, save that a single streak of moonlight fell softly on the shell of her little ear. so the king wandered all night from one to another, puzzling over his difficulty, thinking each queen to be the most beautiful till he came to another. and before he had decided it, the sun rose. then when, after performing his daily ceremonies, he was going to take his seat on his throne, his prime minister, named nayanétri[ ] said to him: o king, why are your royal eyes red with want of sleep? so the king said: nayanétri, last night it came into my head to ask myself, which of my three queens was the most beautiful. and i could not sleep for my perplexity, and even now i have not been able to solve the problem. then nayanétri said: o king, be content that you have queens between whom there is no distinction in beauty, and no cause of jealousy. idle curiosity destroys peace of mind and produces evil. but the king said: i am determined, at whatever cost, to settle this point. so finding that the king's heart was set upon the matter, nayanétri said to him: king, ministers are like riders: a horse which they cannot restrain they must at any rate guide, or it will be the worse for both. since it is absolutely necessary for you to decide between your queens in respect of beauty, listen to me. there has recently arrived in your capital a dissolute young brahman called kántígraha[ ], who is famous in the three worlds as a judge of female beauty. send for him, and let him see your queens, and he will certainly tell you which is the most beautiful. for a swan cannot more accurately separate milk from water[ ], than he can distinguish the shades of beauty. accordingly the king, much pleased, had kántígraha fetched; and as they stood conversing, he caused his three queens to pass in order through the room. and when the first queen passed, the brahman stood as if rooted to the ground. and when the second passed, he trembled slightly. and when the third passed, he changed colour. then when all had gone, the king said: brahman, tell me, for you are a judge, which of those three is the most beautiful? but kántígraha said to himself: if i tell the king, i may displease him, by slighting his favourite: moreover, the other two queens will certainly hear of it, and have me poisoned. so he bowed, and said: king, i must have time to decide: give me leave till to-morrow. so the king dismissed him. and kántígraha went quickly away, intending to quit that city before nightfall, yet with reluctance, for he said to himself: there is one of those queens i would give much to enjoy. but nayanétri, who could read the heart from the external signs, said to the king: king, this brahman means to give you the slip, for he is afraid, and will probably endeavour to leave the city before night. but i can tell you what to do, so as to discover his opinion. so the king did as his minister told him. and discovering which of his queens was the most beautiful, he loved her the best, so that the other two, being jealous, poisoned her. and the king, discovering it, put them to death. thus through curiosity he lost all his queens, as nayanétri predicted. so now tell me, princess, what did the king do to discover the opinion of kántígraha? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: he need not have done anything: the third queen was the most beautiful. for the first queen's beauty astounded that brahman; that of the second struck him with awe: but that of the third touched his heart. however, nayanétri wished to make sure. and so, knowing the character of kántígraha, he caused the king to send him false letters, one from each queen, feigning love and appointing a meeting, but all for the same hour. and he, being only one, would go to that queen whom he judged most beautiful, and be caught by the guards set to watch by the king. for the actions of men are a surer indication of their hearts than their words. and when the princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, with a look of regret at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] a master of policy. [ ] meaning both 'a connoisseur,' and 'a devourer of beauty,' with an allusion to _ráhu_, who causes eclipses by devouring the moon. [ ] a fabled power of swans, frequently alluded to in sanskrit poetry. day then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though the princess has again baffled you, and now six days are lost, yet i forgive you, for the sake of the opportunity that your story gave my beloved of exhibiting her wonderful intelligence. oh! she has the soul of brihaspati in a woman's body. but my heart was racked by the regret in her glance as she went away. and even with the portrait, i cannot understand how i shall endure the period of separation. so he passed the night in a state of restlessness, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and managed to get through the day, aided by rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of azure and a bodice studded with crystal, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she sighed when she saw the king, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady[ ], there was in former times a rogue, who had lost his all by gambling with other rogues like himself, and who became an ascetic in order to make a living by seeming piety. so he smeared his body with ashes, and matted his hair into a knot, and put on a yellow rag and a necklace of bones and a rosary, and went about hither and thither in the world practising hypocritical asceticism when anybody was looking at him, and begging. and one day, when he was sitting by the roadside, the daughter of the king of that country passed by on her elephant. and the wind blew aside the curtain of her _howdah_, and revealed her to his eyes. and she struck him with the fever of fierce desire, so that he uttered an ejaculation, and exclaimed: the fruit of my birth certainly lies in obtaining possession of that beauty. but how is it to be done? so after meditating profoundly on the matter for a long time, he went to a large tree just outside the king's palace, and hung himself up like a bat[ ], head downwards, from a branch. and thus he remained for hours, muttering to himself. and this he continued to do every day, so that the people came in crowds to see him. and news was carried to the king that a great ascetic had come, and was practising penance in a tree in front of his palace. so the king, much pleased, and thinking himself fortunate, went to examine him, and the ascetic blessed him, upside down, from the tree. then the king was delighted, and sent food and other offerings to the rogue. then one day it happened that the king's daughter, whose name was hasamúrtí[ ], came by on her elephant, and saw the ascetic hanging like a bat in the tree. and the sight tickled her and she laughed aloud; and the ascetic heard her. so getting down from the tree, he went to the king. and having effected an entrance, he said to him: king, your daughter laughs at me, thus disturbing my devotions in the tree. now in former times many great sages, irritated by scorn or neglect, have cursed the offenders, and inflicted terrible punishments on them. but i am long-suffering, and will spare your daughter. nevertheless, i am about to curse your kingdom, so that no rain will fall on it for twenty years. now the king was a great simpleton. and when he heard this, he was dreadfully alarmed: and he prayed so earnestly to the ascetic that the rogue, pretending to be mollified, said: well, for this time i will abandon my design of cursing your kingdom. only beware that it does not occur again. then he went back to his tree, and the king scolded his daughter in private. but the very next day the king's daughter passed again by the tree. and seeing the ascetic hanging, in spite of her promises to her father, her former hilarity returned upon her mind, and she laughed louder and longer than before. so the ascetic went again to the king, who, pale with terror, managed with difficulty and the most abject apologies once more to appease his wrath. and he returned to his tree, and the king again scolded his daughter, who promised never to offend again. then for two days hasamúrtí went and came by another road, to avoid the opportunity of giving offence to the ascetic. but on the third day she forgot, and once more came past the tree, and saw him hanging. and suddenly, as if inspired by shiwa himself[ ], she burst into a peal of laughter, and she continued to laugh as if she was mad, even after she had entered the palace. so the ascetic got down from the tree, and went to the king. and he said: o king, certainly your kingdom is doomed, and your daughter is possessed by an evil spirit. for she has laughed at me again, even worse than before, and cancelled years of my reward, by disturbing my meditations. now therefore, prepare to suffer the extremities of my vengeance. then the king, at his wits' end, said: holy man, is there absolutely no remedy? the ascetic replied: am i ever to be disturbed in my devotions? there is none; your daughter is clearly incurable. but the king said: can nothing be done to cure her? do you know no potent spell to conquer her malady? then that rogue, inwardly delighted, said: well, i will do this, out of mercy i will see your daughter, and perform incantations over her. and if i can drive out the evil spirit of unseasonable laughter that possesses her, it is well: but if not, nothing remains but the curse. so the king carried him to his daughter's apartments, and said to his daughter: my daughter, your laughter incessantly disturbs this holy man at his devotions. and now he has come, out of mercy, to exorcise the laughing demon that possesses you: otherwise, my kingdom, cursed by him, will perish for want of rain. then the ascetic said: let all others depart, and leave me in private with the king's daughter. but the king said aside to the ascetic: sir, my daughter must not be left alone with any man. then the ascetic replied: fear nothing on my account: i am not a man: it is many years since i sacrificed my manhood[ ] to the dweller in the windhya hills. but hasamúrtí heard him, and she said to herself: my father is a fool, and doubtless this man has some design against my honour. he shall find i can do more than laugh. so she said to her father: have no fear: this is a holy man. but she secretly stationed all her maids in readiness in the next room. then when the ascetic found himself alone with the king's daughter, his evil passion rose to such a pitch that he could scarcely contain himself. nevertheless he drew a circle, with trembling hands, and placing the king's daughter in it, he muttered awhile, and then said: my daughter, you must have the quarters of heaven for your only garments[ ], or the spell will not work. remove your clothes. but hasamúrtí said: reverend sir, it is impossible. then he caught hold of her. but she clapped her hands, and her maids ran in and seized him. and she said: examine this ascetic, and see whether he is a man or not. so they did so, and said, laughing: madam, he is very much a man indeed. then hasamúrtí said: take this knife, and deprive him of his manhood. and they did as she commanded them. then hasamúrtí said to him: now go, for the incantation is finished. and if you please, complain to the king, my father: i have the evidence to convict you. so the maids released that ascetic. but he, as soon as they let him go, began to laugh, and continued to laugh till he reached the king. and he said: o king, do not hinder me: we have successfully performed the incantation, and see, i have caught the laughing demon, and am carrying him away. and he went away laughing, with death in his heart. so now tell me, princess, why did that ascetic laugh? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess frowning slightly, replied: he laughed, in the cowardice of his soul, with exultation at having escaped from those maids as from the mouth of death: counting the failure of his scheme and the loss of his manhood as nothing, in comparison with the preservation of bare life. for cowards count the loss of life as the greatest of evils: but the great-souled esteem it as the least, and would forfeit it a thousand times, rather than fail in the object at which they aim. and when she had said this, the princess looked significantly at the king, and rose up and went out, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] should any reader be of opinion that i ought to have omitted or emasculated this story, i can only reply that i wish all bowdlerisers no worse fate than that of the ascetic in the tent. [ ] history repeats itself. m. rousselet, who travelled in india in the sixties, mentions, in his _l'inde des rajas_, a case that he saw in rájputána of a holy man who suspended himself in a tree 'like a ham.' [ ] _i.e._ 'laughter incarnate.' [ ] _attahasa_, 'loud laughter,' is a name of shiwa. kálidás (in his _cloud_, v. ) compares the snowy peaks of mount kailas to the laughter of shiwa 'rolled into a ball.' (note, that laughter is always _white_ in sanskrit poetry.) [ ] _spado factus sum_. the 'dweller' is párwatí, or durgá, shiwa's other half, in the strict sense of the term. [ ] _digambara, i.e._ you must be stark-naked, or in a state of nature. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though my beloved has answered your question, and now seven of my days are gone, yet i forgive you, not only for the sake of her frown--oh! it played on her face like a dark ripple over the surface of a lake--but still more for the sake of her words. for surely she meant to encourage me in my suit. oh! she is a paragon of wisdom, and yet it is just her wisdom that makes her inaccessible. even the portrait scarcely suffices to keep my soul alive during the long hours of separation. thus he passed the night in a state of trepidation, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow or other through the day by the help of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a saffron robe and a bodice studded with carbuncles, and her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she smiled at the king as he came in, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, there lived formerly in a certain country a very stupid brahman householder, who inadvertently committed a deadly sin. and his spiritual adviser told him, that his guilt could be cleansed and his sin atoned for, only by going and spending the remainder of his life bathing in the ganges. so he handed over his goods to his son, and set out, with his pot and staff, on his pilgrimage to the ganges. and after travelling for some days, he came to the bank of a small mountain streamlet, whose waters in the hot season were all but dry. and he said to himself: doubtless this is the sacred ganges. so he took up his abode on the banks of that stream, bathing every day in such water as he could find. and thus he remained for five years. then one day there passed by that way a páshupata[ ] ascetic. and he said to the brahman: my son, what are you doing here? so he replied: reverend sir, i am performing penance, for the expiation of sin, on the banks of the ganges. then the ascetic said: what has this miserable puddle to do with the ganges? and the brahman said: is this, then, not the ganges? and the ascetic laughed in his face, and said: truly, old as i am, i did not think that there had been folly like this in the world. wretched man, who has deluded you? the ganges is hundreds of miles away, and resembles this contemptible brook no more than mount méru resembles an ant hill. then the brahman said: reverend sir, i am much obliged to you. and taking his pot and staff, he went forward, till at length he came to a broad river. and he rejoiced greatly, saying: this must be the sacred ganges? so he settled on its bank, and remained there for five years bathing every day in its waters. then one day there came by a kápálika[ ], who said to him: why do you remain here, wasting precious time over a river of no account or sanctity, instead of going to the ganges? but the brahman was amazed, and said: and is this, then, not the ganges? then the kápálika replied: this the ganges! is a jackal a lion, or a chándála[ ] a brahman? sir, you are dreaming. then the brahman said sorrowfully: worthy kápálika, i am indebted to you. fortunate was our meeting. and taking his pot and staff, he went forward, till at length he came to the nermada. and thinking: here, at last, is the sacred ganges; he was overjoyed; and he remained on its banks for five years, bathing every day in its waters. but one day he observed on the bank near him, a pilgrim like himself, casting flowers into the river, and calling it by its name. so he went up to him and said: sir, what is the name of this river? and the pilgrim answered: is it possible that you do not know the holy nermada? then the brahman sighed deeply. and he said: sir, i am enlightened by you. and he took his pot and staff, and went forward. but he was now very old and feeble. and long penance had weakened his frame and exhausted his energies. and as he toiled on in the heat of the day over the burning earth, the sun beat on his head like the thunderbolt of indra, and struck him with fever. still he gathered himself together and struggled on, growing weaker and weaker day by day, till at last he could go no further, but fell down and lay dying on the ground. but collecting all his remaining strength, with a last desperate effort he dragged himself up a low hill in front of him. and lo! there before him rolled the mighty stream of ganges, with countless numbers of pilgrims doing penance on its banks and bathing in its stream. and in his agony he cried aloud: o mother ganges! alas! alas! i have pursued you all my life, and now i die here helpless in sight of you. so his heart broke, and he never reached its shore. but when he got to the other world, yama said to chitragupta[ ]; what is there down against him? and chitragupta said: i find against him a terrible sin. but that he has expiated by fifteen years' penance on the banks of ganges. then that brahman was amazed, and said: lord, you are mistaken. i never reached the ganges. and yama smiled. now tell me, princess, what did yama mean by his smile? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: yama is just, and cannot err: and chitragupta cannot be deceived. but what is this whole world but illusion! and just as penance performed in an improper spirit, even on the actual banks of ganges, would be no true penance, so that poor simple brahman's penance, performed in the belief that he had reached the ganges, was counted by that holy one as truly so performed. for men judge by the fallacious testimony of the senses, but the gods judge by the heart. and when the princess had said this, she rose up and went out, smiling at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] a particular follower of shiwa. [ ] another sect of shiwa worshippers. [ ] the lowest of all the castes, a synonym for all that is vile and impure, like the 'jew dog' of the middle ages. [ ] yama (pronounce yum) is the judge of the dead, and chitragupta his recorder, who keeps account of man's actions. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, the princess is again victorious, and now eight days are lost, yet i cannot but forgive you, for the sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. oh! it gleamed on my soul like the dazzling whiteness of a royal swan illuminated by the sun on the mánasa lake. alas! even the portrait will scarce enable me to live till the morning. and the king passed the night in a state of bewilderment, gazing sorrowfully at the portrait. then when the sun rose, he rose also, and got through the long day by the help of rasakósha and the garden. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a purple robe, with a bodice of burnished gold, and her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king with joy, and the king sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, in a certain city there was a wealthy merchant, who possessed a very beautiful wife; and he loved her more than his own soul. but she was of light conduct, and walked in a path independent of her husband[ ], and looked after other men, and her virtue under temptation was like a blade of grass in a forest conflagration. and though out of his great love for her, that merchant forgave her all her faults, she only despised him for it, and disliked him the more. and one day, she looked out of her window, and saw in the street a handsome young rajpoot. and smitten with passion, she instantly left her husband and her home, and ran away with him. but when he found that she had gone, that merchant, her husband, in his despair almost abandoned the body. but the hope that she would one day return kept him alive: hope alone binds those whom separation has made miserable to the world. nevertheless, from the day she departed, all other things became abominable in his eyes. and neglecting his business, he sank into poverty, and became an object of contempt and derision to his friends. and forsaking all occupation or pleasure, he remained alone in his empty house, with the image of his runaway wife in his heart, night and day. and thus he lived for three years, every hour of which seemed to him as long as a _kalpa_, in the black darkness of desolation. but she, in the meanwhile, after living with that rajpoot for some time, grew tired of him, and left him for another paramour, and him again for another, flitting from one to another like a bee from flower to flower. and it happened that one night, when she was living with a certain merchant's son, he, in the new ardour of his admiration for her beauty, suddenly stooped down to kiss her feet. but not being aware of his intention, she drew her foot abruptly away, and it caught on the jewel of a ring in his ear, and was torn. and even though it was cured, the scar remained. and one day, when three years had gone by, her husband, the merchant, was sitting by himself in his deserted house, gazing with the eye of his heart[ ] at the image of his wife, when there came a knock at the door. and as his servants had all long ago left him, for he had no money to give them, he went to open it himself. and when he did so, he looked, and there before him was his wife. she was worn, and old, and the flower of her beauty was gone, and she was clothed in rags and dusty with travel, and she looked at her husband with eyes dim with tears and shame and fear, as she leaned against the doorpost, faint from hunger and thirst and fatigue. but when he saw her, his heart stopped, and his hair stood on end, and he uttered an exclamation of wonder and joy. and taking her in his arms, he carried her in, and put her on the bed which she had abandoned and disgraced; and fetching food and water, with feet that stumbled from the ecstasy of his joy, he washed the dust off her, and dispelled her anxiety and fear, and revived her heart, and uttered no reproaches, but blessed her for her return, with laughter and tears; and it was as though she had never been away, even in a dream. and as he was gently cherishing her, and shampooing her all over to soothe her fatigue, his eye fell on the scar that had remained on her foot from the wound caused by the merchant's son. and putting his finger on it, he said to her with a smile of compassion: poor wounded foot, it has found a resting-place at last. but she looked at him silently, with large eyes, and suddenly she laughed, and then and there her heart broke and she died. and he, when he found that she was dead, fell down on the floor at her feet, and followed her. so now, tell me, princess, why did that woman's heart break? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: it broke with grief. for when she saw that her husband repaid her evil conduct with kindness, and remembered the occasion that had caused that wound upon her foot, repentance came suddenly and flowed into her, like a river too great for her heart to hold it, and it split and broke, and she died. and when she had spoken, the princess rose up and went out slowly, looking regretfully at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] an independent woman is a synonym for a harlot, in sanskrit. [ ] _smara_ means 'love' and also 'memory.' day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, now nine days are gone, and i begin to fear: and certainly, i never will forgive you if i lose my darling. for she looks at me now, not as she used to look, but kindly, as if she also felt the pang of separation. now, therefore, devise some cunning question that she cannot answer, while i endeavour by means of the portrait to keep my soul from parting from my body till to-morrow. so the king passed the night in a state of doubtful perplexity, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow through the day, aided by rasakósha and the garden. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of dazzling white, and a bodice studded with amethysts, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king and drew a long breath, and the king sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady[ ], there lived formerly in a certain village, a tawny-haired wrestler, who kept in his house a pet. and one day he returned home and found that it had gone out. so he ran out into the street to look for it. and seeing a man sitting at the corner of the street, he asked him: have you seen my pet? the man said: had it a string tied round its neck? the wrestler said: yes. then the man said: it went this way. so the wrestler went on, and enquired again. and one said: i saw it standing on two legs, endeavouring to climb that wall. then another said: and i saw it on all fours crawling along by the wall. and a third said: and i saw it, on three legs, scratching its head with the fourth. so going still further, he met a washerman, who told him: it came this way and made faces at its own face in the water. and going still further, he met a fruit-seller, who said: i saw it sitting under that tree, pulling out the feathers of a bleeding crow[ ], and i gave it a handful of monkey nuts. then going on, he met two men conversing together, and he asked them. and one said: i saw it with another of its own species searching for fleas in its hair. and the other said: what was the colour of the hair[ ]? the wrestler answered: the same as mine. so the other replied: it is over yonder in the tree, swinging on a branch. so now tell me, princess, what kind of creature was that wrestler's pet? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess smiled and said: it was no ape, but a child; perhaps his own son. and when she had said this, she rose up and went out, as if with difficulty, looking reproachfully at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] the point of this crafty little story almost evaporates in translation. it is artfully contrived to entrap the princess into saying 'an ape:' but she is too cunning. tawny-haired means, literally, 'ape-coloured.' [ ] the pun is untranslateable: it may mean also, 'tossing up its gory locks' (_kákapaksha_). [ ] this is the critical point. these words may also mean: what is the caste of the child? the wrestler's answer fits both. the searching for fleas, as applied to the child, will surprise no one who has been in india. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though the princess is still unconquered, and ten of my days are gone, yet i would have forgiven you, had you not made this day's story so short. for no sooner had it begun than it ended; and now not only is my delight cut short, but, like a thirsty man who has drunk insufficiently, i have not had enough to last me till i see my beloved again. at least endeavour to lengthen your stories, otherwise i am wholly undone. for now must i endure another night of separation, by the feeble aid of the portrait, which loses its power daily by contrast with the original. thus the king spent the night in a state of fearfulness, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly got through the day with the assistance of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of emerald hue, and a bodice studded with moonstones, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king affectionately, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her and began again: lady, there lived formerly, in a certain country, a king. and he had a domestic chaplain, who was smitten with an evil passion for another man's wife. and she was a wicked woman and returned his love. but owing to the watchful jealousy of her husband, they could find no opportunity for private interviews. so at last, finding himself unable to visit his beloved in his own person, that chaplain adopted the following scheme. he feigned great friendship for her husband, and paid him many attentions. and being an adept in yóga, he cultivated his goodwill by exhibitions of his superhuman power. and one day he said to him: i know by my art how to enter other people's bodies, and i can cause you to do the same, if you have any curiosity about it. than that foolish husband, not perceiving his intention, eagerly consented. so the chaplain took him away one night to the cemetery, and there by means of spells and magic power he caused both of them to abandon the body. but no sooner had the husband quitted his body than the chaplain entered it himself. and without losing a moment, he hurried away, rejoicing in the success of his stratagem, to the house of his beloved in the form of her husband. but the husband, finding himself deprived of his own body, exclaimed: alas! i am undone. but having no other resource he was obliged against his will to enter the body of the chaplain, which lay empty near him. and he returned slowly from the cemetery, full of grief, homewards. but as chance would have it, his mind being wholly occupied with other reflections, his feet led him as it were of their own accord to the house of the chaplain, whose body he was occupying. in the meantime, his wife, consumed by the fever of desire, and unable any longer to endure separation, seized the opportunity afforded by her husband's absence, and went like an _abhisáriká_[ ], to the house of her brahman lover. and so it happened, that when the chaplain arrived at her house, she was not there. so he remained there, cursing his fate, and devoured by impatience, all night long. but she on her part arrived at his house, just before her husband, in the form of the chaplain, came there also. and when he went in, he was astonished to see his own wife. but she, not recognising who he was, but imagining him to be her lover, ran towards him and threw her arms round his neck, exclaiming: at last i have you. and that foolish husband was so delighted, for for a long time his wife had treated him coldly, that he forgot everything in the joy of the moment, and remained with her all night, enjoying the company of his own wife. then in the morning she rose up early while he was still asleep, and went secretly back to her own house. and the chaplain, on his part, wearied out with waiting, and in a very bad humour, left her house before she arrived, and returned home. and when he got there, he saw, to his astonishment, the husband in his body, lying asleep on his bed. so he woke him and said angrily: what are you doing in my bed? then the husband replied: what do you mean by running away with my body? the chaplain said: enough of this! i have suffered the tortures of hell in your abominable body, and i have a good mind to burn it. so the husband trembled for fear, and said humbly: i had no body but yours to enter, and i was cold; give me back mine, and take your own as soon as possible. so the chaplain carried him away to the cemetery, and by his magic power caused them to quit their bodies, and each re-entered his own. but no sooner had the husband got back into his own body than he woke as it were from a dream, and remembered all: and he exclaimed: rogue of a brahman, it was you my wife embraced. but the chaplain replied: what have i had to do with your wife? but mad with rage, the husband laid hold of him, and dragged him to the king's officers. and he fetched his wife, and told the judge the whole story, and said: punish these wicked persons: for they have robbed me of my honour. then the chaplain said: i have not touched your wife. and she said: of what are you complaining? was it not yourself that i embraced[ ]? but the judge was puzzled, and did not know what to say. now, princess, decide for him. and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: the chaplain was a rogue, and intended wickedness, yet he was not amenable to the pains of law; for though he had planned, he had not executed, his scheme. and the woman, though she had done wrong, yet did it under the eye and sanction of her own husband, who acquiesced in and approved of her act. but that husband, whose passions were so little under control that he could aid and abet his wife in soiling his own honour, well knowing what he was about, deserves nothing but contempt and derision as the author of his own misfortune. therefore let all three be dismissed unpunished. and when the princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, reluctantly, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] a term, very common in sanskrit poetry, for _a woman who goes of her own accord to her lover_. [ ] it is not clear how she knew this, unless she heard him tell the judge. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, though i hear but little of your stories, for the beauty of my beloved holds me spellbound and stops my ears, yet methinks her intelligence must be more than human, for as yet even you have not succeeded in posing it. and now eleven of my days are gone, and only ten remain. never will i forgive you if i lose her. for day by day her looks grow kinder, and the moment of separation more appalling, and the efficacy of the portrait less potent to soothe me in her absence, so that it is doubtful whether i can live till to-morrow. and the king passed the night in a state of sickness gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with difficulty, aided by rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of rose colour, and a bodice studded with ox-eyes[ ], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she leaned eagerly forward to see the king come in, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, there was once a lordly elephant, the leader of a forest herd. and he rushed through the forest, like a thunderbolt of indra, and the rain of ichor poured down from his mighty temples in streams, as he broke down the bushes and young trees in his charge. and then, having sported to his heart's content, he marched slowly through the glades like a mountain, with his herd behind him. and coming to an ant-hill, he drove his tusks into it, and cast up the earth. and then going onward, he stood at rest in a little pool, and drenched his sides with clear water collected in his trunk: and running his tusks into a bank, he stood leaning against a lord of the forest[ ], swaying gently to and fro, with his eyes shut, and his basket-ears cocked, and his trunk hanging down. and the ivory of his tusks showed against his great dark-blue body like a double row of white swans against a thunder-cloud. but meanwhile, the ants were thrown into confusion by his destruction of their hill, which killed many thousands of them. and they said: what! are we to die for the wanton sport of this rogue of an elephant? so they determined to send a deputation to the elephant, to demand reparation. and they chose seven of the wisest among them, so the ambassadors went and crawled in a row up the bole of the great tree against which the king of the elephants was leaning, till they reached the level of his ear. then they delivered their message, saying: o king of the elephants, the ants have sent us to demand reparation from you for causing the death of great numbers of their caste. if not, there is no resource but war. but when the elephant heard this, he looked sideways out of the corner of his eye, and saw the row of ants upon the trunk of the tree. and he said to himself: this is a pleasant thing. what can these contemptible little ants do to us elephants? and taking water in his trunk, he discharged it with a blast against them, and destroyed them. but when the ants saw the destruction of their ambassadors, they were enraged. and waiting till night, they crept out of the ground in innumerable myriads while the elephants were asleep, and gnawed the skin of their toes and the soles of their feet, old and young[ ]. then when in the morning the elephants began to move, they found their feet so sore as to be almost useless. so trumpeting with rage and pain they rushed about the forest destroying the ant-hills. but they could not reach the ants, who crept into the earth, while the more they ran about the worse grew their feet. so finding all their efforts useless, they desisted: and fearing for the future, they resolved to conclude peace with the ants. but not being able to find any, they sent a mouse, who went underground, and carried their message to the ants. but the ants replied: we will make no peace with the elephants, unless they deliver up their king to be punished for slaying our ambassadors. so the mouse went back to the elephants, and told them. and seeing that there was no help for it, they submitted. then the king of the elephants came alone into the forest, with drooping ears, to deliver himself up to the ants. and the ants said to the shami[ ] creeper: bind this evil-doer, or we will gnaw your roots and destroy you. so the creeper threw its arms round the elephant, and bound him so tightly that he could not stir. and then the ants crawled out in myriads and buried him in earth, till he resembled a mountain. and the worms devoured his flesh, and nothing but his bones and his tusks remained. so the ants remained unmolested in the forest, and the elephants chose another king. so now tell me, princess, what is the moral[ ] of this story? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess pondered awhile and said: even united, the weak are not always stronger than the strong. for an elephant is still an elephant, and an ant but an ant. but the strength of the strong is to be estimated by their weakness[ ]. for if the elephants had known this, and protected their feet, they might have laughed at all that the ants could do to them, and even a single elephant would have been more than a match for all the ants in the world. and when the princess had said this, she rose up and went out slowly, looking sorrowfully at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] it is not clear what _goméda_ means. [ ] _i.e._ a tall tree. our idiom is the same. [ ] the author probably knew that the elephant's feet are very apt to go wrong and cause trouble: but whether 'white ants' or any other ants could produce the disease is a point for the natural historian to determine. [ ] famous in poetry for its extraordinary toughness. [ ] literally, what is the error of policy (_nítídósha_) in the story. [ ] _i.e._ 'a chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' the princess's answer is exceedingly clever: and there are few who would not have given the obvious answer which she rejects. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, unless i am blinded by love and egoism, the princess exhibits signs of a disposition to favour me. but alas! now twelve of my days are gone, and only nine remain. oh beware! lest you lose me my beloved. and even the portrait now brings me no relief, for day by day it grows less like her. it looks at me with scorn, but she with tenderness. even with it, i know not how i shall endure separation till the morning. so the king spent the night in a state of lassitude, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the long hours of day with the help of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in an orange-tawny robe, and a bodice studded with rubies, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and a shadow fled as it were from her face when she saw the king, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, once upon a time, the master of a caravan was crossing the great desert. and as he went along, he suddenly looked up, and saw before him in the distance the walls of a great city, with a beautiful lake of heavenly blue before it. and he was amazed; and with a soul on fire with longing for the nectar of that lake and that city, he urged on his camels in that direction. but he could not reach it: and suddenly it disappeared, and he found himself alone in the desert, with the sun and the sand, and no water and no city. then he said: this is a wonderful thing. i would not lose that city for all my wealth. then his followers said to him: sir, this is a delusion: it is the mirage: there is no such city and no water. but he would not believe them. and remaining where he was in the desert, he waited till next day. and at the same hour he saw it again. so he mounted his swiftest camel, and pursued it for hours far into the desert, but he could not overtake it: but as before, it disappeared. then he abandoned his journey and encamped in the desert. and day after day he gave chase to that beautiful city with its water, but never got any nearer to it. but the more he pursued it, the more his yearning to reach it grew upon him, so that at last he forgot everything else in the world. and meanwhile his affairs went to ruin through neglect. and hearing of his proceedings his relations came to him in the desert, and said: what is this that you are doing? what madness has smitten you? do you not know that this is the mirage, and that you are wasting your time in pursuing phantoms while your wealth goes to ruin? but he answered: what are words in comparison with the testimony of the eyes? do i not see the city and its water as i see you yourselves? then how can it be a delusion? then his relations flew into a rage, and said: you fool, it is the mirage. but he said: if it is nothing, then how can i see it? explain this to me. but they could not. so they abused him and laughed at him, and went away leaving him alone in the desert. and he remained there, spending his all in purchasing camels, and every day pursuing that city till it disappeared. and this he continued to do, till his wealth was exhausted, and his camels died, and he himself was lost and died in the desert, and the sun whitened his bones. then his story went abroad, and the people said: what difficulty is there in this? the sun of the desert made him mad. but his relations said: out on this madman! he has destroyed us with his folly. and a certain ascetic heard the story: and he laughed to himself, and said: _trashy trishy washy wishy_[ ]. says the pot to the pipkin: out on you, miserable clay! now tell me, princess, what did that ascetic mean? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: his relations blamed the madness of that caravan-leader, in that he took mirage for reality, not knowing that they were themselves no less mad, in taking this world and its perishable wealth for reality, and pursuing, as he did, phantoms. for what is this world but illusion? thus they resembled pots of clay abusing clay pipkins for being made of clay. and when the princess had spoken she rose up and went out slowly, looking at the king sadly, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] i have slightly modified the original jingle, which means: the thirst for delusion is the bane of the universe. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, this day also is lost, and now but eight days remain behind. and each day the moment of separation becomes more terrible, and the period of absence more insupportable: while the virtue of the portrait wanes, like the moon, threatening to leave my soul in total darkness. and yet what is a single night of separation to the whole of my life, if i lose her! so the king passed the night in a state of anxiety, gazing at the portrait. then when the sun rose, he rose also, and managed to get through the day with the help of rasakósha and the garden. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of cloth of silver, and a bodice studded with beryls, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and her bosom heaved when she saw the king, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, there was in former times a king, who collected rarities from all quarters, purchasing them at no matter what price: and his palace was the resort of merchants of every land, who flowed into it like the rivers into the sea. and one day there came a merchant, who said to him: o king, i bring you a thing which has not its peer for rarity or beauty in the three worlds. and i procured it for you, knowing your generosity, at the risk of my life. then he took from a chest a cup, made of the tusk of an elephant, white as snow, but round its rim ran a blood-red ring. and he said: this is the cup out of which bimboshthá[ ], the daughter of the king of lanka[ ], a rákshasi famous in the three worlds for her incomparable beauty, drank every day. so exquisitely is she formed that it seems as if the separate perfections of all other women have been collected together to make her members. but the apex and crest-jewel of all her charms is her mouth. the very soul of vermilion is pale compared with her lips; redder than blood themselves, they banish all blood from the faces of all who behold them, pallid with passion at the sight of them. and whatever she touches with them bears ever afterwards the stain, like the stain of fruit: and as you see, the edge of this cup has been turned by the touch of her lips to a colour which nothing in creation can parallel. and i bribed her doorkeeper to steal it, for an immense sum of money, and came away fearing for my life; and now it is a present to your majesty. then the king, overjoyed by the singularity and extraordinary beauty of that cup, ordered his treasurer to pay to the merchant ten times the amount he had given the doorkeeper, and dismissed him. but it happened that the king's son was present at their conversation, and heard what the merchant said. and an overpowering passion instantly came upon him for that lady of the ruddy lips. and thinking of nothing else, he went to bed at night, and fell asleep, and dreamed a dream. he thought that he mounted a horse, and rode without ceasing at full gallop, till he came to the shore of the sea. and there dismounting in haste, he entered a ship, and set sail for lanka. and the ship carried him swiftly over the sea, and on arriving, he leaped out, and ran quickly through the streets, till he came to the palace of the daughter of the rakshas. and as he reached it, that instant the sun set on one side of the sky, and the moon rose, like another sun, in the opposite quarter, and, lit up with his[ ] radiance all the front of the palace. and he looked, and lo! there on the terrace he saw before him that daughter of the rakshas, illuminated by the amorous moon, whom she rivalled in beauty; and on the yellow disc of her face her two lips shone like two leaves of fire. and the king's son, unable to bear the lustre of their beauty, fell down in a swoon. but in his swoon he saw before him those lips without intermission, and they swelled up till they became like two huge mountains, and then, breaking into innumerable pairs which filled the sky like the stars, they crowded in upon him, and he felt them gently kissing him all over. and on a sudden, he saw the palace again before him, and he entered it, and saw the daughter of the rakshas at the end of a long hall, and he ran up to her and sank down at her feet. but she, bending over him, approached her lips to his cheek. and as they came nearer and nearer, they suddenly became a pair of hideous jaws, with lips thin and green as a blade of grass, and a double row of teeth white as ivory and sharp as saws, and a black pit between. and as they loomed larger and larger upon him out of the darkness, he uttered a loud shriek--and awoke. so now tell me, princess, why did that king's son shriek? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said with a smile: he was afraid of being bitten. and when she had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking with longing eyes at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _i.e._ 'red lipped.' [ ] ceylon: reputed to be the home of a certain kind of demons called rakshasa. [ ] the moon is not feminine in sanskrit. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, that merchant was a liar; for no lips in the world could match the beauty of those of my beloved. alas! that the sweetness of her smile should be the means of conveying such bitterness to my soul, as she answers your questions with unerring dexterity, and so annihilates my hopes each day. and now but seven days remain, and the thought of losing her is like poison in the draught of nectar which i drink daily from her beauty. even the portrait is becoming hateful to me, for it mocks me with its scorn, and assuredly my life will be extinct before the morning. so the king passed the night in a state of wretchedness, gazing at the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow through the day, by the help of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a copper-coloured robe, and a bodice of burnished silver, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and her eyes sparkled when she saw the king, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, once upon a time a young and handsome bee, that had till then grown up at home and been fed by his parents, set out for the first time in his life on an expedition to fetch flower-nectar for the purpose of making honey. and attracted by its fragrance he flew to a red lotus, growing on a pool in the forest, and was about to drain her of her sweetness. but the lotus closed her flower, and would not let him enter, saying: o bee, you come here, after the manner of your _caste_, insolently pushing into me, and seeking to rob me of my nectar, expecting to get all for nothing. learn that you must buy my nectar of me. then the bee buzzed and said: what shall i give you for it? what is there that you can want? is it not enough for you to blow and bloom on this pool, scenting the air? then the lotus said: there is still something wanting. out upon you, foolish bee! you, a bee, not to know what i want! go away, and find out, and then come back to me, if you want any of my nectar. then the bee buzzed violently in anger, and flew away, to find out what the lotus wanted. and he saw a beetle busily grubbing in the earth at the foot of a tree. so he said: o beetle, tell me what the lotus wants. but the beetle answered: what is a lotus to me? go elsewhere; i have no leisure. so the bee flew off and saw a spider, building a web in a branch. and he asked him. and the spider said: what she wants is doubtless a fly. but the bee thought: it cannot be a fly. this spider judges others by himself. and seeing a cloud floating in the air above him, he flew up and asked it: o cloud, what does the lotus want? the cloud said: rain-drops. so the bee flew back and offered water to the lotus. but she said: i get that from the cloud and from the pool, not from you. try again. so he flew away, and saw a sunbeam playing on a blade of grass, and asked it what the lotus wanted. the sunbeam said: warmth. so the bee flew back bringing with him a fire-fly, and tried to warm the lotus. but she said: i get warmth from the sun, not from you. try again. then the bee flew off again, and saw an owl blinking in a tree; and he buzzed in his ear and roused him, and said: o owl, tell me what the lotus wants. the owl said: sleep. and the bee flew back, and said to the lotus: i will lull you to sleep by humming to you, and fanning you with my wings. but the lotus answered: i get sleep from the night, not from you. try again. then the bee in despair flew away, crying aloud: what in the world can this niggardly and capricious lotus want of me? and as fate would have it, his cry was overheard by an old hermit, who lived in the forest, and knew the language of all beasts and birds. and he called to the bee, and said: o thou dull-witted bee, this is what the lotus wants: and he told him then the bee was delighted, and flew away to the lotus, and gave her what she wanted and she opened her flower, and he went in and stole her nectar. now tell me, princess, what did the bee give the lotus? and rasakósha ceased. and the princess blushed[ ], and said: he gave her a kiss. and when she had spoken, she rose up and went out without looking at the king, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] this is not a strict translation. hindoo ladies, as far as my experience goes, do not blush: they 'exhibit shame.' but as the emotion is clearly the same, i have employed the english equivalent. day . then the king said to rasakósha in ecstasy and despair: my friend, though owing to the answer of the princess five days only now remain to me, yet i would not have had to-day's answer otherwise for all my kingdom; and freely do i forgive you. oh! her confusion when she spoke almost broke my heart in twain, and if i dared, i would venture to think that she does not view me with indifference. but alas! how am i to survive the period of separation! for all virtue has gone out of the portrait, and from snow to cool my fever, it has now become a fire to increase it. and the king passed the night in a state of apprehension, alternately gazing at and flinging aside the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly managed to get through the day with the aid of rasakósha and the garden. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of pearl-grey, and a bodice studded with agates, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked shyly at the king, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, outside the wall of a certain city there was an old sacred banian tree. and in its hollow root there lived a black cobra. and every day it used to come out and lie in the sun before the tree, coiled round upon itself, and the people brought it offerings of milk and sweetmeats. now in that city there lived a very rich jewel merchant, who had a very beautiful daughter. and she was very fond of gems and precious stones, of which she possessed a very great number. but there was one which she had not got, and that was the jewel in the head of a snake. and this she desired so much that she thought all her other jewels of no account in comparison with it. and she heard of the sacred cobra, and being filled with cupidity, she hired a man of the dómba caste to go by night and kill it, and bring her the gem in its hood. and when she had obtained it, she considered that she had obtained the fruit of her birth, and she valued it above all her other jewels, and wore it incessantly as a crest-jewel in her hair. but wásuki[ ] heard of the slaughter of his subject, and he was wroth, and determined to punish the criminal. so he assumed the form of a man, and went to that city. and he made enquiries, till at length he discovered that a certain merchant's daughter possessed the hood-gem of a snake. then the lord of snakes assumed the form of a young and handsome jewel merchant. and he hired a house, close to that of the jewel merchant, and giving out that he was travelling on business, he lived magnificently, and gave feasts and banquets to all whom he met. and becoming acquainted with that jewel merchant, he charmed him by his wealth and accomplishments, and gave him many rare and inestimable jewels. and finally, he asked him for the hand of his daughter in marriage. and the merchant joyfully consented, thinking that nowhere in the world could he find such another son-in-law. and when he told his daughter, she was beside herself with delight, for she had seen that young merchant from a window, and heard of his great wealth and accomplishments; and she thought she was going to get as it were the very ocean itself for a husband[ ]. then an auspicious day was chosen, and the preparations for the wedding went on: and every day the lord of snakes sent baskets of jewels to his bride, whose senses almost left her in her joy. and at last the day came, and the nuptial ceremony was over, and the bridegroom went with his bride into the nuptial chamber. and he lifted her on to the marriage bed, and called her by her name. and as she turned towards him, he approached her slowly, with a smile on his face. and she looked and saw, issuing from his mouth and disappearing alternately, a long tongue, thin, forked, and quivering like that of a snake. and in the morning the musicians played to waken the bride and bridegroom. but the day went on, and they never came forth. then the merchant, her father, and his friends, after waiting a long time, became alarmed, and went and broke the door, which was closed with a lock. and there they saw the bride lying dead in the bed, alone, and on her bosom were two small marks. and they saw no bridegroom. but a black cobra crept out of the bed, and disappeared through a hole in the wall[ ]. so now, princess, tell me, what was there in the snake's hood-jewel to make that merchant's daughter so desirous of it? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: the attraction lay not in the jewel itself, nor its magic properties. but in this that she had not got it. for this is the nature of women, that they make light of what they have, and sigh for what they have not got. and when the princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking at the king with a deep sigh, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] the king of the snakes. [ ] _i.e._ 'the mine, or receptacle of jewels,' a common appellation of the sea. [ ] the _dénouement_ of this story has a most singular resemblance to that of prosper merimée's _lokis_. but apparently he drew that admirable story (as he did his _carmen_ and his _venus_) from older sources, of lithuanian, gipsy, possibly even hindoo origin. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, all doubt is over: my doom is sealed: for the intellect of the princess is invincible. and yet unless my desire blinds me, she intended that sigh to point at me the significance of her words. oh! the fear of losing her almost deprives me of my reason, and breaking loose like a _must_ elephant from every restraint i shall destroy you, as he does his friend the _mahout_, by the most terrible of deaths. and yet my own lot will be worse than any death: for i shall die by inches, starving in the sight of food. out upon the portrait that has brought me to ruin, and on the painter that painted it! for now i see clearly that it is not in the least like her; for she is kind, and only compelled by destiny in the form of her own intellect to ruin hopes that she would perhaps otherwise encourage. so the king passed the night in a state of exhaustion, averting his gaze forcibly from the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with difficulty in the garden, aided by rasakósha. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of russet[ ] and a bodice studded with amber[ ], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king with eyes whose lids were red with want of sleep, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady[ ], there was once a king, who laughed at his kingly duties, and passed his time in evil courses, lying in bed, neglecting brahmans, drinking wine, hunting, and idling in the society of fair women. and whosoever ventured to remonstrate with him, him he straightway banished from his kingdom. and as time went on, he grew worse and worse, for dissatisfaction and satiety came over him, and the only refuge open to him from their torture lay in drowning reflection by still more abominable orgies. then it happened that one day he went a-hunting. and the ardour of the chase drew him far out of his way, so that when the sun fell, he was deep in the forest, far from his palace. and while he was considering where he should pass the night, he came upon the hut of an aged hermit. so leaving his followers in the forest, he remained in the hut of that hospitable hermit for the night. and after making his supper on roots and fruits, he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves and _kusha_ grass. and in his sleep he had a vision. he thought he found himself on the bank of a great river, lit up by the sun where he stood, but emerging from black darkness, and running into it again in a circle. and he held in his hand a seed. and digging a hole, he planted that seed, and watered it from the river, and it became a shoot, and grew rapidly into a tall tree. and the tree put forth leaves, and blossoms, and at last a single fruit. and the fruit grew larger and larger, till it was as big as a gourd: and it became green as an emerald, and then red as a ruby, and shone in the sun: and its weight caused it to sink down within reach of his hand. so he put out his hand, and plucked, and ate it. and in an instant he saw a colossal hand stretched out of the darkness, and it grasped him and whisked him away, and suspended him over an abyss by a slender string. and looking down, he gazed into unfathomable depths, and looking up, he saw a vulture pecking at the string with its beak; and an icy chill froze his heart, while burning fire tortured his extremities, and black darkness enveloped him: and it seemed to him that infinite ages passed in each instant of ineffable agony. then on a sudden he awoke with a cry, and saw only that old hermit standing in the moonlight that fell through the roof, meditating, and muttering to himself. then he lay down again on the bed, and slept and dreamed again. and again it seemed to him that he planted a seed, and watered it on the bank of that river: and again it became a tree, and put out leaves and blossoms and a fruit, which as before grew green and red, and sank down into his hand. and he plucked and ate it again. and in an instant, a feeling of inexpressible bliss flowed in upon his soul, and he sank into a deep sleep, and lay as if he were dead, till that old hermit roused him in the morning with the sun streaming in through the door of the hut. then that king went home and changed his ways. so now tell me, princess, why? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: he was afraid. for the tree was the tree of his own evil actions, and the eating of its fruit the ripening of their consequences, dooming him to a punishment of which the agony he endured in his dream was but a faint shadow. but had he lived otherwise, and accumulated virtue rather than vice, he would have obtained ultimately the bliss of emancipation, resembling the deep sleep which came upon him and obliterated his individuality, the second time he slept. and when the princess had spoken, she turned and looked at the king with tears in her eyes, and rose up and went out, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _kapisha_. [ ] _trinamani_, a gem that attracts grass. [ ] this story is only the embodiment of an idea familiar to every hindoo, but in the original it is very pithily told. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, now in very truth am i eating the fruit of my own crimes in a former birth, since four days only remain; and well did you say that i am suspended by the heels over an unfathomable abyss, with ice at my heart. for only too well do i see that the princess will stand the test, seeing that the sharp arrows of your cunning questions rebound from her as if, instead of a jewelled bodice, she was clad in a coat of mail. and the nectar of the portrait has become a poison, which will certainly put an end to me before morning. so the king passed the night in a state of despondency, with his back to the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly contrived to pass the day by the help of rasakósha and the garden. then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of indian red[ ], and a bodice studded with sea-gems, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king, and drooped her head like a flower, and the king sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again: lady, a certain lover was bewailing the death of his mistress, and he exclaimed: o death, thou art strong; but o love, thou art stronger. and it happened that yama[ ] heard him. so he said to the god who has a row of bees for a bowstring[ ]: hear what nonsense that foolish fellow is prattling. but kamadéwa replied: it is not nonsense, but the truth. i am the stronger. so a dispute arose between them, as to which of them was the stronger. and after a while, kamadéwa said: what is the use of talking? let us put the matter to the test, and make trial of our power. and yama said: so be it. and they chose for the subjects of their experiments three things: a hero, a _nyagródha_[ ] tree, and the heart of a sage. then yama went first to the tree, and smote its roots with death. but as fast as they died, the branches, inspired by káma, let down roots from above, and they struck into the earth, and became new trunks, and grew up and produced new branches, which did the same continually. so after a while yama was tired and stopped, and there was the tree as strong as ever. then kámadéwa said: see, i have conquered. but yama said: wait and see. and he went to the hero, and struck him down when he was fighting in the front of the battle, and he died. but smara[ ] inspired the people of that country; and they mourned for that hero, and built him a splendid pillar; and poets sang his glorious deeds, and mothers called their children by his name, and they worshipped him as an incarnation of deity in the temples. then kámadéwa said: see, again i have conquered. acknowledge that i am the stronger. but yama said: wait and see. and he went to the sage, as he was practising terrible austerities in the forest, and struck his heart and killed it. but even as he did so, desire sprang up in it[ ] again ever anew, and ever fresh attachments to the objects of sense, and so the battle went on continually in the heart of that sage, as it alternately became dead to the world, and then again alive, and subject to the influence of the pleasures of mundane existence. then kámadéwa said: see, once more i am proved to be the strongest. the victory is mine. confess that you are beaten. but yama said: for all that i am the stronger, and that lover was a babbler. and kámadéwa laughed at him and mocked him. so now tell me, princess, which is the stronger? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess turned very pale[ ], and said in a low voice: kámadéwa is cunning, and like a dishonest gambler, loaded his dice to win. for in particular instances and limited times, he appears to be the stronger. and therefore it was that he challenged yama, knowing very well that all instances must of necessity be limited to a place and time. but nevertheless yama is stronger than he. for he is unlimited, being time itself without beginning or end[ ], and that power, whose nature it is to be unsusceptible of bounds, can no more be exhibited by particular instances than the ceaseless flow of ganges can be contained in a single jar. and when the princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking at the king with eyes of sorrow, and the king's heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] lóhita. the sea-gem is perhaps some kind of pearl. [ ] the god of death (pronounce yum). [ ] káma, or kámadéwa, the god of love. his names are innumerable. [ ] 'down-grower,' the banian, which lets down roots from its branches. [ ] a name for love which also means memory. [ ] one of the common names of love is 'the mind-born.' [ ] she turned pale, possibly because she saw that her love for the king must have an end: but still more probably because she was afraid of offending the god of love by not deciding in his favour. [ ] kála, time, is another name for yama. the answer of the princess is clever in the extreme. day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, now i may offer water[ ] to my happiness, and this is the beginning of the end. for three days only now remain to me, and these will assuredly follow in the footsteps of their predecessors, and so shall i[ ]. then will my sun set for ever. alas! i read my fate in the sorrow that filled my beloved's eyes, as she looked at me like a frightened fawn. o that she were either less beautiful or less intelligent, for in the union of these two virtues lies my destruction. away with the portrait, which burns me like a fire. so the king passed the night in a state of delirium, paying no heed to the portrait. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day, half living and half dead, in the garden with rasakósha. and when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. and there they saw the princess, clad in a robe of cloth of gold and a bodice studded with turquoises, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. and she looked at the king with eyes in which joy and grief fought for the mastery: and the king sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. then rasakósha came forward and stood before her and began again: lady, there was once a brahman named kritákrita[ ], who neglected the study of the wédas, and walked in the black path, abandoning all his duties[ ], and associating with gamblers, harlots, and outcasts. and he frequented the cemeteries at night, and became familiar with ghosts and vampires and dead bodies, and impure and unholy rites and incantations. and one night, amid the flaming of funeral pyres and the reek of burning corpses, a certain vampire[ ] of his acquaintance said to him: i am hungry: bring me fresh meat to devour, or i will tear you in pieces. then kritákrita said: i will bring it, but not for nothing. what will you give me for it? the vampire replied: bring me a newly slain brahman, and i will teach you a spell for raising the dead. but kritákrita said: that is not enough. and they haggled in the cemetery about the price. at last that abandoned brahman said: throw in a pair of dice that will enable me always to win at play, and i will bring you the flesh you require. so the vampire said: be it so. then kritákrita went away, and knowing no other resource secretly murdered his own brother, and brought him to the cemetery at midnight. and the vampire kept his word, giving him the dice, and teaching him the spell. then some time afterwards, kritákrita said to himself: i will try the efficacy of this spell that the vampire has taught me. so he procured the body of a dead chandála[ ], and taking it at the dead of night to the cemetery, placed it on the ground, and began to recite the spell. but when he had got halfway through, he looked at the corpse, and saw its left arm, and leg, and eye moving horribly with life, the other half being still dead. and he was so terrified at the sight, that he utterly forgot the rest of the spell, and leaped up and ran away. but the corpse jumped up also, and a vampire entered its dead half, and it rushed rapidly after him, shuffling on one leg, and rolling its one eye, and yelling indistinctly: _underdone, overdone, undone_[ ]! but kritákrita fled at full speed to his house, and getting into bed lay there trembling. and after a while he fell asleep. and then suddenly he awoke, hearing a noise, and he looked and saw the door open, and the corpse of that dead chándála came in, and shuffled swiftly towards him on its left leg, rolling its left eye, with its dead half hanging down beside it, and crying in a terrible voice: _underdone, overdone, undone_! and kritákrita sprang out of bed, and ran out by another door, and mounting a horse, fled as fast as he could to another city a great way off. and there he thought: here i am safe. so he went day by day to the gambling hall, and playing with his dice, won great sums of money, and lived at his ease, feasting himself and others. but one night, when he was sitting among the gamblers in the gambling hall, throwing the dice, he heard behind him a noise of shuffling. and he looked round, and saw, coming swiftly towards him on one leg, the corpse of that dead chándála, with its dead half rotting and hanging down, and its left eye rolling in anger, and calling out in a voice of thunder: _underdone, overdone, undone_! and he rose up with a shriek, and leaped over the table, and fled away by an opposite door and left that city, and ran as fast as he could, constantly looking behind him through the forest for many days and nights, never daring to stop even to take breath, till he reached another city a long way off. and there he remained, disguised and concealed, as it were in a hole. but all the gamblers in that gambling saloon died of fear. and after some time he again accumulated wealth by gambling in that city, and lived in extravagance at his ease. but one night, when he was sitting with an _hetæra_ whom he loved, in the inner room of her house, he heard the noise of shuffling. and he looked round, and saw once more the corpse of that dead chándála coming swiftly towards him on one leg, with its dead half, from whose bones the flesh had rotted away, hanging down, and its left eye blazing with flames of rage, calling out with a voice like the scream of ráwana: _underdone, overdone, undone_! then that hetæra then and there abandoned the body in her terror. and kritákrita rose up, and ran out by a door, which led out upon the balcony, while the chándála hastened after him. and finding no other outlet, kritækrita flung himself down into the street, and was dashed to pieces, and died. so now tell me, princess, what did that corpse mean by his words? and rasakósha ceased. then the princess said: there is no difficulty in this. woe to the feeble souls that have not courage to carry through what they have the presumption to begin! they do indeed either too little or too much, and are themselves their own undoing. for the strong in virtue avoid sin altogether: while the daring in vice face the consequences of their own conduct: those attain heavenly rewards, and these the good things of this world; but the coward souls who are too weak to be either virtuous or vicious are punished by that very weakness in the form of their consciousness of guilt, and lose both worlds. and when the princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking and yet as it were not looking at the king, whose heart went with her. but the king and rasakósha returned to their own apartments. [ ] _i.e._ it is all over with me. water is offered to the spirits of departed ancestors. [ ] _i.e._ i shall fail in my suit, like the others. the following sentence is a play on his own name. [ ] 'done and not done.' [ ] achárabhrashta, an apostate or decasted person. see manu, i., . [ ] _wétála_, an uncanny being, generally possessing magic powers, given to occupying empty corpses and devouring human flesh. [ ] the lowest caste, whose very proximity was pollution to a brahman. [ ] this is all one word in the original, únádhikákritamkritam, 'what has been done is too little, too much, and not done at all.' day . then the king said to rasakósha: my friend, i have been bitten by the beauty of this incomparable woman as by a black cobra, and now the poison works. i have but two more days to live. for certain it is that her answer to your last question will be my sentence of death, and equally certain it is, that she will give that answer; for her intellect is like the edge of a sharp sword, which while it cuts the knot of the problem will at the same moment pierce me to the heart. and the king passed the night in a state of despair, leaving his bed untouched. and when the sun rose, he rose also, and went out alone into the garden and wandered about, dreading the setting of the sun yet longing for reunion with his beloved, till his soul was almost riven in twain with opposite emotions. and he reproached wináyaka, saying: o thou of the ruddy trunk, i have been deceived by thee: and instead of clearing my road to success, thou hast blocked it by an insurmountable obstacle in the form of this lady's piercing acuteness of understanding. and then he said: this is no time for despair. let me not, like kritákrita, leave my work half finished, but rather endeavour myself to discover some riddle that she cannot answer. and yet what hope is there that where rasakósha has failed, i should succeed? for the princess is not more skilful in answering his questions, than he in composing them, being as it were a very ocean of stories in human form. or rather, no mortal, but only a god, could pose the ingenuity of this lovely lady. then he prayed to saraswatí, saying: o goddess of speech, my only refuge is in thy favour. o befriend me, and either cloud the mind of my beloved with temporary bewilderment, or else reveal to me some puzzle which she will be unable to answer. truly, my puzzle is worse than hers. and on the instant, saraswatí put a thought into his heart. and he sprang up with a shout of joy, exclaiming: ha! i am favoured. victory to saraswatí. the princess is mine. and he ran quickly to find rasakósha, whom he discovered buried in profound meditation on a story for the coming evening, and said: my friend, away with meditation. [greek: eureka][ ]! i will myself propose a riddle to the princess this evening. then rasakósha said: o king, i congratulate you. but still, in a matter of such importance, let us risk nothing by presumptuous confidence. so propound your riddle to me first that we may make trial of its difficulty. then king súryakánta laughed in delight, and said: your very doubt shows that it is unanswerable. my own case is the very problem. i will go to the princess, and ask her what i ought to do. and if she tells me, then i will ask her to-morrow what she tells me to-day: and if she does not tell me, then she is mine according to the terms of the agreement, to-day: and so in either alternative, the bird[ ] is caged. then rasakósha said with a smile: victory to your majesty. truly wonderful is the power of love: like a stone it at once blunts and sharpens the edge of intellect. for it formerly blinded you to everything in the world, and now it has sharpened your sight so as to discover what has escaped us all this time, though lying as it were on the road before us. but unless i am deceived by the external signs, i predict that the god of love will also blind the princess; or rather, that she will throw herself gladly into the cage. for none are so easily caught as those who wish to be; and though the princess has been adamant to my questions, she will be soft as a flower to yours. then in his impatience the king could hardly endure the remainder of the day, burning with desire to put his question to the princess. but at last the sun set. then rasakósha said: o king, go you alone to the hall of audience. for my absence will do you more service to-day than my presence did before. there are cases, when a friend shows his friendship rather by his absence than his presence. _apropos_, i will tell you a story: listen. but the king said: my friend, this is no time for stories, even though told by you. and though i will go alone to-night, without you, yet know, that should i achieve success by the favour of saraswatí and the lord of obstacles, i shall nevertheless owe it to you rather than myself. for not only have you sustained my life daily, during the hours of separation, but your stories have been as it were a ladder, by which i have ascended step by step to the window of my beloved's chamber. and does not the lowest rung of the ladder contribute equally with the highest to the attainment of the summit of hope? then rasakósha laughed, and said: o king, it is well. now go, and though you have not heard my story, yet i have attained in some measure the end i had in view in proposing it. for you have kept the princess waiting, and expectation increases desire. good luck be with you! then the king left him and went very quickly by himself to the hall of audience. and his right arm throbbed as he drew near the door, and rejoicing at the omen, he went in. and there he saw anangarágá, clad in a robe of the hue of indigo[ ], and a bodice rainbow-hued like the neck of a pigeon, and studded with yellow sunstones, and her crown and other ornaments: but she had left her throne, and come towards the door, and was looking with anxiety for the king. but when she saw him she blushed[ ], and returned in confusion to her throne. and king súryakánta went up to her, and fell down before her and took her by the hand, and said: lady, there was once a king, who became suitor to a princess, lovely like thyself, on this condition, that if he could ask her a question that she could not answer, she should be his. now tell me, o thou lovely incarnation of wisdom, what should he ask her? and instantly the princess rose up quickly, and exclaimed in delight: o clever one, thou hast guessed. and she threw round his neck the necklace of her arms, and so chose him as her husband[ ]. and she said: see, thy image is reflected a thousand times in these gems that resemble thee; yet look in my eyes, and thou shalt see thyself through them reflected in my heart. then the king looked into her eyes, and saw himself reflected in them like the sun in a deep lake. and he whispered in the shell of her ear: thou hast robbed me of myself: give me back myself in thy form. then the princess said, in a low voice, looking down: would'st thou take my sweetness for nothing? what did the bee give the lotus? and the king trembled with passion, and putting his hand beneath her chin, he raised her face and kissed her on her ruby mouth. and in that moment he forgot everything, and he felt his life surging through him like a wave of the sea, and he became blind and deaf, and tottered on his feet. then anangarágá roused him from his stupor by saying: wert thou afraid of losing me? and he said: o my beloved, i am saved from the mouth of death. then she laughed low, and said: there was no cause for fear. for had i again answered a question to-day, i would have refused to answer to-morrow, even though thou hadst asked me nothing but my own name. but i could scarcely endure to wait till to-morrow, and it is better as it is. then the king said: and why, o thou rogue, didst thou not refuse to answer before, and save me from torture? and anangarágá said: it was torture also to me. and yet i know not why, but there was nectar in the poison, and know, o my lord, that this is the nature of women, that they love to torment their lover, and refuse him what they themselves most of all desire. then king súryakánta almost swooned away from excess of joy. and he said: come, let us leave this place, which is hateful to me as the scene of my sufferings, and let us return without delay to my capital. and the princess said: as my lord pleases. then the king sent rasakósha, with all the retinue of the princess, on before. but he himself set out at night alone with his bride. and they rode on slowly, side by side, through the forest in the moonlight, he on a white horse, and she on a black, looking like the beauty of day and night incarnate in mortal form. and at midnight they stopped to rest in the forest. and the king lifted anangarágá from her horse, and placed her in a bower of creepers under a great tree. and the moon shone with warm rays through the interstices of the leaves as through the marble trellis of a palace terrace. and there on a bed of leaves and flowers, he made her his wife by the gándharwa[ ] marriage rite. and he played with the nooses of her blue-black hair, through which her eyes shone like moonstones in the moonlight; and he wove red _ashóka_ flowers in her hair, and hung blue lotuses on her bosom, and put a girdle of white lotuses round her waist, and tied anklets of jasmine blossoms on her feet. and in the ecstasy of his passion, bewildered by her beauty, he exclaimed: well are thou called anangarágá, o my beloved; and yet a single name is insufficient to describe the infinite variety of thy thousand-rayed loveliness. thou art mrigalóchaná, for thine eyes are lustrous and frightened like the antelope's; and nílanaliní, for thy dark hair is like a pool for the lotuses of thine eyes; and madanalílálólatá, for those eyes dance with the tremulous light of love; and shashilékhá, for thou art fair and fragile as a digit of the moon; and bujalatá, for thy arms are curved and cling like creepers; and kusumayashtí, for thy body is straight and slender like the stalk of a flower; and kambukanthí, for thy neck is like a shell; and rajanícháyá, for the sheen of thy beauty is like that of the night; and láwanyamúrtí, for thou art the very incarnation of the perfection of loveliness: and manóháriní, for thou ravishest my soul; and madalaharí, for thou art a wave of the sea of intoxication; and alipriyá, for the bees resort to the honey of thy lips, mistaking them for a flower; and wajrasúchí, for thy intellect is like a diamond needle: and hémakumbhiní, for thy bosom resembles a pair of golden gourds; and pulinákrití, for the curves of thy hips are like the swell of a river bank; and nánárúpiní, for thy beauty is infinite; and bhrúkutíchalá, for the play of thy brows is like the lightning in the clouds; and yet all these names are powerless to paint thy celestial and overpowering fascination, which maddens me as i gaze at it. then anangarágá said, with a smile: o my lord, thou hast omitted, among all these names, the only one that really belongs to me. and the king said: what is that? then she said: thou art my deity, and i am possessed by thee in every particle of my being; and therefore call me nílírágá, for my devotion[ ] to thee shall be constant and indelible as the dye of indigo. and know, o sun of my soul, that without this all the beauty of women is but nectar-poison. then the king's heart almost broke in his joy, and he exclaimed: ha! i have obtained the fruit of my birth. all else is nothingness and futility. what can the future hold for me but this, or its absence, which would be worse than a thousand deaths? and he prayed to the all powerful and self-existent one[ ], saying: o mahéshwara, let this heaven continue for ever, and let the chain of my existence be broken at this point! or rather, let time be destroyed for me, and let me remain, beyond its influence, for evermore in this present, this moment of union with my beloved! and that moon-crested god heard him, and granted his wish. and he shot at that pair of lovers, as they slept in one another's arms in the moonlit creeper bower, a glance of his third eye, and reduced them to ashes. but he said: the chain of their existence cannot yet be broken, for they have not yet earned emancipation by penance and austerities. but they shall meet again, and be husband and wife, in another birth. [ ] literally, 'the object is attained.' [ ] here there is a pun. [ ] this has a meaning: see below. the sunstone is probably a topaz. [ ] see note, p. . [ ] this is an allusion to the _swayamwara_, an old ceremony by which a maiden chose her own husband by throwing a garland round his neck. [ ] see _manu_, iii. . though recognised as a legitimate marriage, especially for kshatriyas, it was simply the union of two lovers without any rites at all. this suits it admirably for fairy tale and romance, and makes it a great favourite with the poets. [ ] _bhakti_ is almost untranslateable. it means the absorbed and total love, faith, devotion of a worshipper for his god. [ ] shiwa. _printed by_ morrison & gibb limited edinburgh miss million's maid [illustration: "_why, she's going to ask me down there, too, to one of her week-end parties!_"] miss million's maid a romance of love and fortune by berta ruck (mrs. oliver onions) author of "his official fiancee," "in another girl's shoes," "the girls at his billet," etc. [illustration] with frontispiece by e. c. caswell a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangement with dodd, mead & company copyright, , by dodd, mead and company contents chapter page i the young man next door . . . . . . ii two girls in a kitchen . . . . . . iii a bolt from the blue . . . . . . . iv the lawyer's dilemma . . . . . . . v million leaves her place . . . . . . vi another rumpus! . . . . . . . . vii my departure . . . . . . . . . viii i become million's maid . . . . . . ix we move into new quarters . . . . . . x an orgy of shopping! . . . . . . . xi an old friend of the family . . . . . xii the day of the party . . . . . . . xiii my first "afternoon out" . . . . . . xiv cream and compliments . . . . . . xv a different kind of party . . . . . . xvi a word of warning . . . . . . . . xvii revelry by night . . . . . . . . xviii my first proposal . . . . . . . . xix waiting for the reveller . . . . . . xx where is she? . . . . . . . . . xxi an unexpected invasion . . . . . . . xxii her cousin to the rescue . . . . . . xxiii i start on the quest . . . . . . . xxiv we seek the "refuge" . . . . . . . xxv found! . . . . . . . . . . xxvi miss million in love . . . . . . . xxvii an unusual sort of beggar . . . . . . xxviii the crowded holiday . . . . . . . xxix locked up! . . . . . . . . . xxx out on bail . . . . . . . . . xxxi million bucks up . . . . . . . . xxxii wales forever! . . . . . . . . xxxiii miss million has an idea! . . . . . . xxxiv the fortunes of war . . . . . . . chapter i the young man next door my story begins with an incident that is bound to happen some time in any household that boasts--or perhaps deplores--a high-spirited girl of twenty-three in it. it begins with "a row" about a young man. my story begins, too, where the first woman's story began--in a garden. it was the back garden of our red-roofed villa in that suburban street, laburnum grove, putney, s.w. now all those eighty-five neat gardens up and down the leafy road are one exactly like the other, with the same green strip of lawn just not big enough for tennis, the same side borders gay with golden calceolaria, scarlet geranium, blue lobelia, and all the bright easy-to-grow london flowers. all the villas belonging to the gardens seem alike, too, with their green front doors, their white steps, their brightly polished door-knockers and their well-kept curtains. from the look of these typically english, cheerful, middle-class, not-too-well-off little homes you'd know just the sort of people who live in them. the plump, house-keeping mother, the season-ticket father, the tennis-playing sons, the girls in dainty blouses, who put their little newly whitened shoes to dry on the bathroom window-sill, and who call laughing remarks to each other out of the window. "i say, gladys! don't forget it's the theatre to-night!" "oh, rather not! see you up at the tennis club presently?" "no; i'm meeting vera to shop and have lunch in oxford street." "dissipated rakes! '_we don't have much money, but we do see life_,' eh?" yes! from what i see of them, they do get heaps of fun out of their lives, these young people who make up such a large slice of the population of our great london. there's laughter and good-fellowship and enjoyment going on all up and down our road. except here. no laughter and parties and tennis club appointments at no. , where i, beatrice lovelace, live with my aunt anastasia. no gay times _here_! when we came here six years ago (i was eighteen) aunt anastasia was _rigidly_ firm about our having absolutely nothing to do with the people of the neighbourhood. "they are not our kind," she said with her stately, rather thin grey-haired head in the air. "and though we may have come down in the world, we are still lovelaces, as we were in the old days when your dear grandfather had lovelace court. even if we do seem to have dropped out of our world, we need not associate with any other. better _no_ society than the wrong society." so, since "our" world takes no further notice of us, we have no society at all. i can't _tell_ you how frightfully, increasingly, indescribably dull and lonely it all is! i simply long for somebody fresh of my own age to talk to. and i see so many of them about here! "it's like starving in the midst of plenty," i said to myself this evening as i was watering the pinks in the side borders. the girls at no. , to the right of our garden, were shrieking with laughter together on their lawn over some family joke or other--i listened enviously to their merriment. i wondered which of them was getting teased, and whether it was the one with my own name, beatrice--i know some of them by name as well as i know them by sight, the pretty, good-humoured-looking girls who live in this road, the cheery young men! and yet, in all these years, i've never been allowed to have a neighbour or an acquaintance. i've never exchanged a single---- "good evening!" said a pleasant, man's voice into the midst of my reverie. startled, i glanced up. the voice came over the palings between our garden and that of no. . through the green trellis that my aunt had had set up over the palings ("so that we should be more private") i beheld a gleam of white flannel-clad shoulders and of smooth, fair hair. it was the young man who's lately come to live next door. i've always thought he looked rather nice, and rather as if he would like to say good morning or something whenever i've met him going by. i suppose i ought not to have noticed even that? and, of course, according to my upbringing, i ought certainly not to have noticed him now. i ought to have fixed a silent, medusa-like glare upon the trellis. i ought then to have taken my battered little green watering-can to fill it for the fourteenth time at the scullery-tap. then i ought to have begun watering the shirley poppies on the other side of the garden. but how often the way one's been brought up contradicts what one feels like doing! and alas! how very often the second factor wins the day! it won the evening, that time. i said: "good evening." and i thought that would be the end of it, but no. the frank and boyish voice (quite as nice a voice as my soldier-brother reggie's, far away in india!) took up quite quickly and eagerly: "er--i say, isn't it rather a long job watering the garden that way?" it was, of course. but we couldn't afford a hose. why, they cost about thirty shillings. he said: "do have the 'lend' of our hose to do the rest of them, won't you?" and thereupon he stretched out a long, white-sleeved arm over the railings and put the end of the hose straight into my hand. "oh, thank you; but i will not trouble you. good evening." of course, that would have been the thing to say, icily, before i walked off. unfortunately i only got as far as "oh, thank you----" and then my fingers must have fumbled the tap on or something. anyhow, a great spray of water immediately poured forth from out of the hose through the roses and the trellis, right on to the fair head and the face of the young man next door. "oh!" i cried, scarlet with embarrassment. "i beg your pardon----" "it's quite all right, thanks," he said. "most refreshing!" here i realised that i was still giving him a shower-bath all the time. then we both laughed heartily together. it was the first good laugh i'd had for months! and then i trained the hose off him at last and on to our border, while the young man, watching me from over the palings, said quickly: "i've been wanting to talk to you, do you know? i've been wanting to ask----" well, i suppose i shall never know now, what he wanted to ask. for that was the moment when there broke upon the peaceful evening air the sound of a voice from the back window of our drawing-room, calling in outraged accents: "beatrice! bee--atrice!" immediately all the laughter went out of me. "y--yes, aunt anastasia," i called back. in my agitation i dropped the end of the hose on to the ground, where it began irrigating the turf and my four-and-elevenpenny shoes at the same time. "beatrice, come in here instantly," called my aunt in a voice there was no gainsaying. so, leaving the hose where it lay, and without another glance at the trellis, in i dashed through the french window into our drawing-room. a queer mixture of a room it is. so like us; so typical of our circumstances! a threadbare carpet and the cheapest bamboo easy-chairs live cheek-by-jowl with a priceless chippendale cabinet from lovelace court, holding a few pieces of china that represent the light of other days. upon the faded cheap wallpaper there hangs the pride of our home, the gainsborough portrait of one chestnut-haired, slim-throated ancestress, lady anastasia lovelace, in white muslin and a blue sash, painted on the terrace steps at lovelace court. this was the background to the figure of my aunt anastasia, who stood, holding herself as stiff as a poker (she is very nearly as slim, even though she's fifty-three) in her three-year-old grey alpaca gown with the little eightpence-three-farthings white collar fastened by her pearl brooch with granny's hair in it. her face told me what to expect. a heated flush, and no lips. one of auntie's worst tempers! "beatrice!" she exclaimed in a low, agitated tone. "i am ashamed of you. i am ashamed of you." she could not have said it more fervently if i'd been found forging cheques. "after all my care! to see you hobnobbing like a housemaid with these people!" aunt anastasia always mentions the people here as who should say "the worms in the flower-beds" or "the blight upon the rambler-roses." "i wasn't hobnobbing, auntie," i defended myself. "er--he only offered me the hose to----" "the thinnest of excuses," put in my aunt, curling what was left visible of her lips. "you need not have taken the hose." "he put it right into my hand." "insufferable young bounder," exclaimed aunt anastasia, still more bitterly. i felt myself flushing hotly. "auntie, why do you always call everybody that who is not ourselves?" i ventured. "'honour bright,' the young man didn't do it in a bounder-y way at all. i'm sure he only meant to be nice and neighbourly and----" "that will do, beatrice. that will do," said my aunt majestically. "i am extremely displeased with you. after all that i have said to you on the subject of having nothing to do with the class of person among which we are compelled to live, you choose to forget yourself over--over a garden wall, and a hose, forsooth. "for the future, kindly remember that you are my niece"-- (impressively)--"that you are your poor father's child"--(more impressively)--"and that you are lady anastasia's great-granddaughter" --(this most impressively of all, with a stately gesture towards the gainsborough portrait hanging over the most rickety of bamboo tables). "our circumstances may be straitened now. we may be banished to an odious little hovel in the suburbs among people whom we cannot possibly know, even if the walls are so thin that we can hear them cleaning their teeth next door. there is no disgrace in being poor, beatrice. the disgrace lies in behaving as if you did not still belong to our family!" aunt anastasia always pronounces these last two words as if they were written in capital letters, and as if she were uttering them in church. "i am going to the library now to change my books," she concluded with much dignity. "during my absence you will occupy yourself by making the salad for supper." "yes, auntie," i said in the resigned tone that so often covers seething rebellion. then a sudden thought struck me, and i suggested: "hadn't i--hadn't i better return that hose? it is simply pouring itself out all over the lawn still----" "i will return the hose," said my aunt, in the tragic tones of mrs. siddons playing lady macbeth and saying "give me the dagger!" she stepped towards the back window. i didn't feel equal to seeing the encounter between aunt anastasia in her most icily formal mood and the young man with the nice voice, of whom i caught white-and-gold glimpses hovering about on the other side of the green trellis. i knew she'd be rude to him, as only "our families" can be rude to those whom they consider "bounders." he's nothing to me. i've never spoken to him before this evening. i oughtn't to mind what he thinks about those weird people who live at no. . i oughtn't to wonder what it was he was just going to say to me. so i fled out of the bamboo and heirloom furnished drawing-room, down the narrow little oil-clothed passage, and into the kitchen with its heartening smell of hot gooseberry tart and the cheerful society of million, our little maid-of-all-work. it's the custom of our family to call the maid by her surname. (at the same time i couldn't help wondering what that young man had been going to say.) chapter ii two girls in a kitchen little million, looking very cheery and trim in her black gown and her white apron, and the neat little cap perched upon her glossy black hair, smiled welcomingly upon me as i came into the kitchen. i like million's nice smile and her cockney chatter about the soldiers' orphanage where she was brought up and trained for domestic service, and about her places before she came here. aunt anastasia considers that it is so demoralising to gossip with the lower orders. but millions is the only girl of my own age in london with whom i have the chance of gossiping! she likes me, too. she considers that miss beatrice treats her as if she were a human being instead of a machine. she tossed the paper-covered celandine novelette that she had been reading into the drawer of the kitchen-table among the lead spoons and the skewers and the cooking-forks, and then she spread the table with a clean tea-cloth, and brought out the colander with the lettuce and the cucumber and the cress that i was going to cut up into salad; doing everything as if she liked helping me. "there, now! what a mercy i left the kitchen window open. now i haven't seen the new moon through the glass!" she exclaimed, as she put all ready before me--the hard-boiled egg, the mustard, sugar, pepper, salt, oil, and vinegar--for me to make the salad-dressing. "miss beatrice, look at it through the open window--there, just to the right of that little pink cloud--turn your money, and you'll get a wish." i peeped out of the window, and caught sight of that slender festoon of silver swung in the sky above the roses of the garden trellis. "i've no money to turn," i smiled ruefully, "never have." "turn some o' mine, miss," said million. "i've got four-and-six here that i'm going to put into the post office savings bank to-morrow." million is extraordinarily thrifty. "there you are. wished your wish, miss beatrice?" "oh, yes, i've wished it," i said. "always the same wish with me, you know, million. always a perfectly hopeless one. it's always, always that some millionaire may leave me a fortune one day, and that i shall be very rich, rolling in money." "d'you think so much of money, then, miss beatrice?" said million, bustling over the black-and-white chequered linoleum to the range, and setting the lid on to her saucepan full of potatoes. "rich people aren't always happy----" "that's their own fault for not knowing how to spend the money!" "ah, but i was readin' a sweetly pretty tale all about that just now. 'love or money,' that was the name of it," said million, nodding at the kitchen-table drawer in which she keeps her novelettes, "and it said these very words: 'money doesn't buy everythin'.'" "h'm! it would buy most of the things i want!" i declared as i sliced away at my cucumber. "the lovely country house where i'd have crowds of people, all kinds of paralysingly interesting people to stay with me! the heavenly times in london, going everywhere and seeing everything! the motors! and, oh, million"--i heard my voice shake with yearning as i pronounced the magic name of what every woman thinks of when she thinks of having money--"oh, million, the clothes i'd get! if i had decent clothes i'd be decent-looking. i know i should." "why, miss beatrice, i've always thought you was a very nice-looking young lady, anyhow," said our little maid staunchly. "and to-night you're really pretty; i was just passing the remark to myself when you came in. look at yourself in my little glass----" i looked at myself in the mirror from the sixpence-ha'penny bazaar. i saw a small, pink, heart-shaped face with large brown eyes, eyes set wide apart and full of impatience and eagerness for life. i saw a quantity of bright chestnut hair, done rather "anyhow." i saw a long, slender, white throat--just the throat of lady anastasia--sloping down into shoulders that are really rather shapely. only how can anything on earth look shapely under the sort of blouse that aunt anastasia gets for me? or the sort of serge skirt? or the shoes? i glanced down at those four-and-elevenpenny canvas abominations that were still sopping from the gardening hose, and i said with fervour: "if i had money, i'd have three pairs of new shoes for every day in the week. and each pair should cost as much as all my clothes have cost this year!" "fancy that, now. that's not the kind of thing as i'd care for myself. extravagant--that's a thing i couldn't be," declared million, in her cheerful, matter-of-fact little voice, sweeping up the hearth as she spoke. "legacies and rolling in money--and a maid to myself, and bein' called 'miss million,' and all that. that 'ud never be my wish!" "what was your wish, then?" i asked, beginning to tear up the crisp leaves of the lettuce into the glass salad-bowl. "i've told you mine, million. tell me yours." "sure, you won't let on to any one if i do?" returned our little maid, putting her black, white-capped head on one side like a little bird. "sure you won't go and make game of me afterwards to your aunt nasturtium--oh, lor'. hark at me, now!--to miss lovelace, i mean? if there's one thing that does make me feel queer it's thinking folks are making game of me." "i promise i won't. tell me the wish!" million laughed again, coloured, twiddled her apron. then, leaning over the deal table towards me, she murmured unexpectedly and bashfully: "i always wish that i could marry a gentleman!" "a gentleman?" i echoed, rather taken aback. "of course, i know," explained million, "that a young girl in my walk of life has plenty of chances of getting married. not like a young lady in yours, miss. without a young lady like you has plenty of money there's a very poor choice of husbands!" "there is, indeed," i sighed. the little maid went on: "so i could have some sort of young man any day, miss beatrice. there's the postman here--very inclined to be friendly--not to mention the policeman. and the young man who used to come round to attend to the gas at the orphanage when i was there. he writes to me still." "and do you write back to him?" "picture postcards of richmond park. that's all he's ever had from me. he's not the sort of young man i'd like. you see, miss, i've seen other sorts," said million. "where i was before i came here there was three sons of the house, and seein' so much of them gave me a sort of cri--terion, like. one was in the navy. oh, miss, he was nice. oh, the way he talked. it was better than 'the flag lieutenant.' it's a fact, i'd rather listen to his voice than any one's on the stage, d'you know. "the two others were at oxford college. and oh, their lovely ties, and the jolly, laughing sort of ways they had, and how they used to open the door for their mother, and to sing in the bathroom of a morning. well! i dunno what it was, quite. different," said little million vaguely, with her wistfully ambitious grey eyes straying out of the kitchen window again. "i did like it. and that's the sort of gentleman i'd like to marry." she turned to the oven again, and moved the gooseberry tart to the high shelf. i said, smiling at her: "million, any 'gentleman' ought to be glad to marry you for your pastry alone." "oh, lor', miss, i'm not building on it," said million brightly. "a sergeant's daughter? a girl in service? why, what toff would ever think of her? 'tisn't as if i was on the stage, where it doesn't seem to matter what you've been. or as if i was 'a lovely mill-hand,' like in those tales where they always marry the son of the owner of the works. so what's the good of me thinking? not but what i make up dreams in my head, sometimes," admitted million, "of what i'd do and say--if 'he' did and said!" "all girls have those dreams, million," i told her, "whether they're maids or mistresses." "think so, miss beatrice?" said our little maid. "well, i suppose i'm as likely to get my wish of marrying a gentleman as you are of coming in for a fortune. talking of gentlemen, have you noticed the tall, fair one who's come to live at no. ? him that plays the pianoler of an evening? in a city office he is, their girl told me. wanted to get into the army, but there wasn't enough money. well, he's one of the sort i'd a-liked. a real gentleman, i call him." and auntie calls him an insufferable young bounder! funny, funny world where people give such different names to the same thing! i can see it's going to take aunt anastasia a week before she forgives me the incident of the young man next door! supper this evening was deathly silent; except for the scrunching over my salad, just like footsteps on the gravel. after supper we sat speechless in the drawing-room. i darned my holey tan cashmere stockings. auntie read her last book from the library, "rambles in japan." she's always reading books of travel--"our trip to turkey," "a cycle in cathay," "round the world in a motor-boat," and so on. poor dear! she would so adore travelling! and she'll never get the chance except in print. once i begged her to sell the gainsborough portrait of lady anastasia, and take out the money in having a few really ripping tours. i thought she would have withered me with her look. she'll never do anything so desperately disrespectful to our family. she'll never do anything, in fact. nothing will ever happen. life will just go on and on, and we shall go on too, getting older, and shabbier, and more "select," and duller. they say that fortune knocks once in a lifetime at every one's door. but i'm sure there'll never be a knock at the door of no. laburnum grove, except---- "tot--tot!" ah! the postman. then million's quick step into the hall. then nothing further. no letters for us? the letter must have been for our little maid. perhaps from the young man who attended to the orphanage gas? happy million, to have even an unwanted young man to write to her! chapter iii a bolt from the blue oh! to think that fortune should have given its knock at the door of no. after all! to think that this is how it should have happened! of all the unexpected thunderbolts! and after that irresponsible talk about money and legacies and wishes this evening in the kitchen, and to think that destiny had even then shuffled the cards that she has just dealt! it was ten minutes after the postman had been that we heard a flurried tap on the drawing-room door, and million positively burst into the room. she was wide-eyed, scarlet with excitement. she held a letter out towards us with a gesture as if she were afraid it might explode in her hand. "what is this, million?" demanded my aunt, severely, over the top of her "rambles." "oh, miss lovelace!" gasped our little maid. "oh, miss beatrice! i don't rightly know if i'm standing on my head or my heels. i don't know if i've got the right hang of this at all. will you--will you please read it for me?" i took the letter. i read it through without taking any of it in, as so often happens when something startling meets one's eyes. million's little fluttered voice queried, "what do you make of that, miss?" "i don't know. wait a minute. i must read it over again," i gasped in turn. "may i read it aloud?" million, clutching her starched white apron, nodded. i read it aloud, this letter of destiny. it bore the address of a lawyer's office in chancery lane, and it began: "_to_ miss nellie million. "dear madam:--i am instructed to inform you that under the will of your late uncle, mr. samuel million, of chicago, u.s.a., you have been appointed heiress to his fortune of one million dollars. "i shall be pleased to call upon you and to await your instructions, if you will kindly acquaint me with your present address----" "that was sent to the orphanage," whispered million. "or i should be very pleased to meet you if you would make it convenient to come and call upon me here at my offices at any time which may suit you. i am, madam, "yours obediently, "josiah chesterton." there was silence in our drawing-room. million's little face turned, with a positively scared expression, from aunt anastasia to me. "d'you think it's true, miss?" "have you ever heard of this mr. samuel million before?" "only that he was poor dad's brother that quarrelled with him for enlisting. i heard he was in america, gettin' on well----" "that class," murmured my aunt anastasia with concentrated resentment, "always gets on!" that was horrid of her! i didn't know how to make it up to million. i put out both hands and took her little roughened hands. "million, i do congratulate you. i believe it's true," i said heartily, finding my voice at last. "you'll have heaps of money now. everything you want. a millionaire's heiress, that's what you are!" "me, miss?" gasped the bewildered-looking million. "me, and not you, that wanted money? me an heiress? oh, lor'! whatever next?" the next morning--the morning after that startling avalanche of news had been precipitated into the monotonous landscape of our daily lives--i accompanied million to the lawyer's office, where she was to hear further particulars of her unexpected, her breath-taking, her epic legacy. a million dollars! two hundred thousand pounds! and all for the little grey-eyed, black-haired daughter of a sergeant in a line regiment, brought up in a soldiers' orphanage to domestic service at £ a year! to think of it! i could see my aunt anastasia thinking of it--with bitterness, with envy. it was she who ought to have taken million to that office in chancery lane. but she--the mistress of the house--excused herself by saying it was her morning for doing the silver. we left her in the kitchen surrounded by what i am irreverent enough to call the relics of our family's grandeur--the queen anne tea service, the early georgian forks and spoons that have been worn and polished fragile and thin. indeed, one teaspoon is broken. aunt anastasia took to her bed on the day of that accident. and the maid we had before million scoured my grandfather's crimean medal so heartily that soon there would have been nothing left to see on it. since then my aunt has tended the relics with her own hands. we left her brooding darkly over the injustice that had brought fortune to a wretched little maid-of-all-work and poverty to our family; we hailed the big white motor-'bus at the top of the road by the subscription library, and dashed up the steps to the front seat. "there! bit of all right, this, ain't it, miss beatrice!" gasped million ecstatically. stars of delight shone in each grey eye as she settled herself down on the tilted seat. i thought that this change of expression was because she had thought over her marvellous good fortune during the night, and because she had begun to realise a little what it would all mean to her. but i was quite wrong. million, peering down over the side of the 'bus, exclaimed gleefully, "look at 'em! look at 'em!" "look at what?" "at all the girls down our road, there," explained million, with a wave of her tightly gloved hand. at almost every house in laburnum grove a maid, in pink or lilac print, with pail and floor-cloth, was giving the steps their matutinal wash. one was polishing the knocker, the bell-handles, and the brass plate of the doctor's abode. "and here am i, as large as life, a-ridin' on a 'bus the first thing in the morning!" enlarged million, clenching her fists and sitting bolt upright. "at half-past nine o'clock, if you please--first time i've ever done such a thing! i've often wondered what it was like, top of a 'bus on a fine summer's morning! i'll know now!" "you won't ever have to know again," i laughed as i sat there beside her. "you won't be going in any more 'buses or trams or tubes." "why ever not, miss?" asked million, startled. "why! because you'll have your own car to go about in directly, of course," i explained. "probably two or three cars----" "cars?" echoed million, staring at me. "why, of course. don't you see there's a new life beginning for you now? a rolls-royce instead of a motor-'bus, and everything on the same scale. you'll have to think in sovereigns now, million, where you've always thought in pennies----" "what? three pounds for a thrupenny ride to the bank, d'you mean, miss?" cried million, with a little shriek. "oh, my godfathers!" at that excited little squeal of hers another passenger on the 'bus had turned to glance at her across the gangway. i met his eyes; the clear, blue, boyish eyes of the young man from next door. he looked away again immediately. there was an expression on his face that seemed meant to emphasise, to underline, the announcement that he had never seen me before. no. apparently he had never set eyes on the small, chestnut-haired girl (myself) in the shabby blue serge coat and skirt and the straw hat that had been white last summer, and that was now home-dyed--rather unsuccessfully--to something that called itself black. so evidently aunt anastasia had been rude to him about yesterday evening. possibly she had forbidden him to speak to her niece and her dear brother's child, and lady anastasia's great-granddaughter ever again. this made my blood boil. why must she make us look so ridiculous? such--such futile snobs? without any apparent excuse for keeping ourselves so aloof, either! to put on "select" airs without any circumstances to carry them off with is like walking about in a motor-coat and goggles when you haven't got any motor, when you never will have any motor! it's million who will have those. anyhow, i felt i didn't want him to think i was as absurd as my aunt. i cleared my throat. i turned towards him. in quite a determined sort of voice i said "good morning!" hereupon the young man from next door raised his straw hat, and said "good morning" in a polite but distant tone. he glanced at million, then away again. in the blue eye nearest to me i think i surprised a far-away twinkle. how awful! possibly he was thinking, "h'm! so the dragon of an aunt doesn't let the girl out now without a maid as a chaperon to protect her! is she afraid that somebody may elope with her at half-past nine in the morning?" i was sorry i'd spoken. i looked hard away from the young man all the rest of the ride to chancery lane. here we got off. we walked half-way up the little busy, narrow thoroughfare, and in at a big, cool, cave-like entrance to some offices. "chesterton, brown, jones, and robinson. third floor," i read from the notice-board. "no lift. come along, million." the stars had faded out of million's eyes again. she looked scared. she clutched me by the arm. "oh, miss beatrice! i do hate goin' up!" "why, you little silly! this isn't the dentist's." "i know. but, oh, miss! if there is one thing i can't bear it's being made game of," said million, pitifully, half-way up the stairs. "this mr. chesterton--he won't half laugh!" "why should he laugh?" "at me, bein' supposed to have come in for all those dollars of me uncle's. do i look like an heiress?" she didn't, bless her honest, self-conscious little heart. from her brown hat, wreathed with forget-me-nots, past the pin-on blue velvet tie, past the brown cloth costume, down to the quite new shoes that creaked a little, our million looked the very type of what she was--a nice little servant-girl taking a day off. but i laughed at her, encouraging her for all i was worth, until we reached the third floor and the clerk's outer office of messrs. chesterton, brown, jones, and robinson. i knocked. million drew a breath that made the pin-on tie surge up and down upon the breast of her jap silk blouse. she was pulling herself together, i knew, taking her courage in both hands. the door was opened by a weedy-looking youth of about eighteen. "good morning, mr. chesterton. hope i'm not late," million greeted him in a sudden, loud, aggressive voice that i had never heard from her before; the voice of nervousness risen to panic. "i've come about that money of mine from my uncle in----" "name, miss, please?" said the weedy youth. "nellie mary million----" "miss million," i amended. "we have an appointment with mr. chesterton." "mr. chesterton hasn't come yet," said the weedy youth. "kindly take a seat in here." he went into the inner office. i sat down. million, far too nervous to sit down, wandered about the waiting-room. "my, it doesn't half want cleaning in here," she remarked in a flurried whisper, looking about her. "why, the boy hasn't even taken down yesterday's teacups. i wonder how often they get a woman in. look at those cobwebs! a shaving-mirror--well, i never!" she breathed on it, polishing it with her black moirette reticule. "some notice here about 'courts,' miss beatrice. don't it make you feel as if you was in the dock? i wonder what they keep in this little corner-cupboard." "the handcuffs, i expect. no, no, million, you mustn't look at them." here the weedy youth put in his head again. chapter iv the lawyer's dilemma "step this way, please," he said. with an imploring "you go first, miss," from the heiress we "stepped" into the inner office. it was a big, handsomely carpeted room, with leather chairs. around the walls were shelves with black-japanned deed-boxes bearing white-lettered names. i saw little million's eyes fly to these boxes. i know what she was wildly thinking--that one must be hers and must contain the million dollars of her new fortune. beside the large cleared desk there was standing a fatherly looking old gentleman. he had white hair, a shrewd, humorous, clean-shaven face, and gold-rimmed glasses. he turned, with a very pleasant smile, to me. "good morning, miss million," he said. "i am very glad to have the----" "this is miss million," i told him, putting my hand on her brown sleeve and giving her arm a little, heartening pat. million moistened her lips and drew another long breath as the fatherly old gentleman turned the eyes and their gold-rimmed glasses upon her small, diffident self. "ah! m'm--really! of course! how do you do, miss million?" "nicely--nicely, thanks!" breathed million huskily. "won't you sit down, ladies? yes. now, miss million----" and mr. chesterton began some sort of a congratulatory speech, while million smiled in a frightened sort of way, breathing hard. she was full of surprises to me that morning; and, i gathered, to her lawyer also. "thank you, i'm sure. thank you, sir," she said. then suddenly to me, "we didn't ought to--to--to keep this gentleman, did we, miss?" then to mr. chesterton again, "d'you mind me asking, sir, if we 'adn't better have a cab?" "a cab?" the lawyer repeated, in a startled tone. "what for?" "to take away the money, sir," explained little million gravely. "that money o' mine from me uncle. what i've called about." "ah--to take away----" began the lawyer. then he suddenly laughed outright. i laughed. but together we caught sight of little million's face, blushing and hurt, sensitive of ridicule. we stopped laughing at once. and then the old lawyer, looking and speaking as kindly as possible, began to explain matters to this ingenuous little heiress, as painstakingly as if he were making things clear to a child. "the capital of one million dollars, or of two hundred thousand pounds of english money, is at present not here; it is where it was--invested in the late mr. samuel million's sausage and ham-curing factory in chicago, u. s. a." here million's face fell. "not here. somehow, miss," turning to me, "i thought it never sounded as if it could be true. i thought there'd be some kind of a 'have,' sort of!" "and, subject to your approval always, i should be inclined to allow that capital to remain where it is," continued the old lawyer in his polished accent. "there remains, of course, the income from the capital. this amounts, at present, to ten thousand pounds a year in english money----" "what is that," breathed the new heiress, "what is that a quarter, sir? it seems more natural like that." "two thousand five hundred pounds, miss million." "lor'!" breathed the owner of this wealth. "and me that's been getting five pounds a quarter. that other's mine?" "after a few necessary formalities, from which i anticipate no difficulties," said the old gentleman. some discussion of these formalities followed. in the midst of it i saw million begin to fidget even more restlessly. i frowned at her. this drew the attention of the old gentleman upon me. million was murmuring something about, "very sorry. got to get back soon, miss. lunch to lay----" absurd million! as if she would ever have to lay lunch again as long as she lived! couldn't she realise the upheaval in her world? i gazed reproachfully at her. the lawyer said to me quite pleasantly: "may i ask if you are a relation of miss million?" hereupon miss million shot at him a glance of outrage. "a relation? her?" she cried. "the ideear!" little million's sense of "caste," fostered at the soldiers' orphanage, is nearly as strong as my aunt anastasia's. no matter if her secret day-dream has always been "to marry a gentleman." she was genuinely shocked that her old lawyer had not realised the relations between her little hard-working self and our family. so she announced with simple dignity: "this is miss lovelace, the young lady where i am in service." "were in service," i corrected her. million took me up sharply. "i haven't given notice, miss. i'm not leaving." "but, you absurd million, of course you are," i said. "you can't go on living in laburnum grove now. you're a rich man's heiress----" "will that stop me living where i want? i'm all alone in the world," faltered million, suddenly looking small and forlorn as she sat there by the big desk. "you're the only real friend i got in the world, miss beatrice. i always liked you. you always talked to me as if you was no more a young lady than what i was. d'you think----" her voice shook. she seemed to have forgotten the presence of old mr. chesterton. "d'you think i'd a-stopped so long with your aunt nasturtium if it hadn't been for not wantin' to leave where you was? i'd be lost without you. i shouldn't know where to put myself, miss. oh, miss!" there was a sob in her voice. "don't say i got to go away from you! what am i to do with myself and all that money?" there was a perplexed silence. million's lawyer glanced at me over his gold-rimmed glasses, and i glanced back above million's forget-me-not-wreathed hat. it is a problem. this little lonely, thrifty creature--brought up to such a different idea of life--what is to be done about her now? chapter v million leaves her place million has gone! she has left us, our little cheerful, and bonnie, and capable maid-of-all-work who has become a millionaire pork-butcher's heiress! never again will her trim, aproned figure busy itself about our small and shockingly inconvenient kitchen at no. . never again will she have to struggle with the vagaries of its range. never again will she "do out" our drawing-room with its disgraceful old carpet and its graceful old cabinet. never again will she quail under the withering rebuke with which my aunt anastasia was wont to greet her if she returned half a minute late from her evening out. never again will she entertain me with her stream of artless comments on life and love and her own ambition--"oh, miss, dear, i should like to marry a gentleman!" well, i suppose there's every probability now that this ambition may be gratified. plenty of hard-up young men about, even of the lovelace class, "our" class, who would be only too pleased to provide for themselves by marrying a million, in both senses of the word. laburnum grove, putney, s.w., will know her no more. and i, beatrice lovelace, who was born in the same month of the same year as this other more-favoured girl--i feel as if i'd lost my only friend. i also feel as if it were at least a couple of years since it all happened. yet it is only three days since million and i went down to chancery lane together to interview the old lawyer person on the subject of her new riches. i shall never forget that interview. i shall never be able to forget the radiant little face of million at the end of it all, when the kind old gentleman offered to advance her some of her own money "down on the nail," and did advance her five pounds in cash--five golden, gleaming, solid sovereigns! "my godfathers!" breathed million, as she tucked the coins into the palm of her brown-thread glove. she'd never had so much money at once before in the whole course of her twenty-three years of life. (i've _never_ had it, of course!) and the tangible presence of those heavy coins in her hand seemed to bring it home to million that she was rich, more than all the explanations of her old lawyer about investments and capital. i saw him look, half-amusedly, half-anxiously, at the little heiress's flushed face and the gesture with which she clenched that fist full of gold. and it was then that he began to urge upon us that "miss million" must find some responsible older person or persons, some ladies with whom she might live while she made her plans respecting the rearrangement of her existence. to cut a long story short, it was he, the old lawyer, who suggested and arranged for "miss million's" next step. it appears that he has sisters "of a reasonable age" (i suppose that means about a hundred and thirty-eight) who are on the committee of a hostelry for gentlewomen of independent means, somewhere in kensington. sure to be a "pussery" of some sort! "gentlewomen" living together generally relapse into spitefulness and feuds, and "means" can often be pronounced "mean"! still, as million's old lawyer said, the place would provide a haven _pro tem_. our millionairess went off there this morning. she wouldn't take a taxi. "what's the use o' wasting all that fare from here to kensington, good gracious?" said million. "there's no hurry about me getting there long before lunch, after all, miss beatrice. and as for me things, they can come by carter paterson a bit later. i'll put the card up now, if miss lovelace don't mind. there's only that tin trunk that i've had ever since the orphanage, and me straw basket with the strap round----" such luggage for an heiress! i couldn't help smiling at it as it waited in the kitchen entrance. and then the smile turned to a lump in my throat as million, in her hat and jacket, stumped down the wooden back stairs to say good-bye to me. "i said good-bye to your aunt nastur--to miss lovelace, before she went out, miss." (my aunt is lunching at the hotel of one of her few remaining old friends who is passing through london.) "can't say i shall breck my heart missin' her, miss beatrice," announced the candid million. "why, at the last she shook 'ands--hands as if i was all over black-lead and she was afraid of it coming off on her! but you--you've always been so different, as i say. you always seemed to go on as if"--million's funny little voice quivered--"as if gord had made us both----" "don't, million," i said chokily. "i shall cry if you go on like this. and tears are so unlucky to christen a new venture with." "is that what they say, miss?" rejoined the superstitious million, winking back the fat, shiny drops that were gathering in her own grey eyes. "aw right, then, i won't. 'keep smiling,' eh? always merry and bright, and cetrer. good-bye, miss. oh, lor'! i wish you was coming along with me to this place, instead of me going off alone to face all these strange females----" "i wish i were; only i shall have to stay and keep the house until my aunt comes back----" "drat 'er! i mean----excuse me, miss beatrice. i wish you hadn't a-got to live with her. thrown away on her, you are. it's you that ought to be clearing out of this place, not just me. you ought to have some sort of a big bust-up and then bunk!" "where to, million?" "anywheres! couldn't you come where i was? anyways, miss, will you drop me a line sometimes to say how you're keeping? and, miss, would you be offended if i said good-bye sort of properly. i know it's like my sorce, but----" "oh, million, dear!" i cried. i threw both my arms round her sturdy little jacketed figure. we kissed as heartily as if we had been twin sisters instead of ex-mistress and ex-maid. then million--miss million, the heiress--trotted off down laburnum grove towards the stopping-place of the electric trams. and i, beatrice lovelace, the pauper, the come-down-in-the-world, turned back into no. , feeling as if what laughter there had been in my life had gone out of it for ever! i suppose i'd better have lunch--million's laid it ready for me for the last time!--then sit in the drawing-room, finishing my darning, and waiting for my aunt's return. if million had been here i could have spent the afternoon with her in the kitchen. million gone! i feel lost without her. nothing else will happen to-day. there's a ring at the bell. how unlike aunt anastasia to forget her key! i must go.... (later.) i went. but it was not aunt anastatia's herring-slim figure that stood on the doorstep which million insisted on whitening for the last time this morning. it was the tall, broad-shouldered, active and manly-looking figure of the young man from next door. chapter vi another rumpus! "oh!" i said--and felt myself blushing scarlet at the memory of all the absurd little incidents that were between me and this stranger. the incident of the garden-hose, and of my giving him a shower-bath with it the other evening; and how aunt anastasia had poured added cold water over him in a metaphorical manner of speaking. then came the memory of how we had met the next morning on the top of the 'bus when i was chaperoning million to her lawyer's. and of how the young man, chastened by my aunt's best iced manner the night before, wouldn't even have said "good morning" unless i had addressed him. it was all very absurd, but confusing. he said, in that pleasant voice of his: "good afternoon! i wish to return some property of yours." "of mine?" i said, puzzled. i wondered whether a bit of lace of ours or something of that sort had blown out of the window of no. into the garden of no. . but the young man, putting his hand into his jacket pocket, took out and held in the palm of his hand the "property." it was an oval silver brooch, bearing in raised letters the name "nellie." the young man said, "i noticed it on the top of the 'bus just after you got off the other morning; you must have dropped it----" "oh! thank you so much," i began, taking the brooch. "it isn't mine, as a matter of fact, but----" "oh," he said pleasantly, "you are not 'nellie'?" then he hadn't heard aunt anastasia calling me in that very rasping voice the other evening. "no," i said, "'nellie' is our maid; at least she was our maid." "oh, really?" he said, very interested. he has a delightful face. i don't wonder million said he was just what she meant by "the sort of young gentleman" that she would like to marry. then a thought struck me. why not? men have married their pretty cooks before now. why shouldn't this nice young man be million's fate? he certainly did seem interested in her. it would be a regular king-cophetua-and-the-beggar-maid romance. only, owing to her riches, it would be million's rôle to play queen cophetua to this young man, who was too poor to go into the army. so, feeling quite thrilled by the prospect of looking on at this love story, i said: "would you like to send the brooch on to--to--er--to miss nellie million yourself?" you see, i thought if he knew where to take it, he would probably go at once to the hostelry for cats of independent means and see million, and find out about her being now a young lady of leisure--and--well, that might be the beginning of things! so i smiled at him and added in my most friendly voice, "would you like me to give you the address?" it was at this moment--this precise moment before he'd even had time to answer--that aunt anastasia, back from her visit to her friend, came up the tiny garden path behind him. yes, and this was the scene that met her gaze: her niece, her poor brother's child, lady anastasia's great-granddaughter (who had already been reproved for forgetting that she belonged to "our family"), standing at the front door of her abode to repeat the offence for which she had been taken to task--namely, "talking to one of the impossible people who live about here!" the way in which aunt anastasia stalked past the young man was more withering than the most annihilating glance she could have given him. to me she said, in a voice that matched her look: "beatrice, come into the house." i went into the drawing-room. she followed me. then the storm broke! of all the many "rows" i've had since i came to live with aunt anastasia, this did, as million would have said, "take the bun." "beatrice!" she threw my name at me as if it had been a glove thrown in my face. "beatrice! little cause as i have to think well of you, i did at least trust you!" "you've no reason, auntie," said i, holding myself as stiff as she did (which was pretty ramroddy). "you've no reason not to trust me." "what?" a bitter little laugh. "no sooner is my back turned, no sooner have i left you alone in the house, than you betray my confidence. how do i find you, after all that i said to you only the other evening on this same subject? standing there on the doorstep, just as if you'd been poor million, poor little gutter-bred upstart, preparing to receive----" "i wasn't 'preparing to receive' anybody!" hotly from me. "no?" with icy satire from aunt anastasia. "you were not even going to ask the young man in? you stood there, like a scullery-maid indulging in a vulgar flirtation with a policeman." "i wasn't, i wasn't." "i heard you giving him an address where he could write to you, doubtless?" "write to me? it was nothing of the kind," i took up, ready to stamp with rage. "it was--it was million's address i was going to give to that young man." "a likely story! million, indeed!" "you don't believe me? how dare you not, aunt anastasia? look! here's the proof!" and i held out to her the oval silver brooch with the raised "nellie" upon it. "look! this is million's brooch. she dropped it on the 'bus the other morning. and the young man from next door found it. and he came round to return it----" "yes. as soon as he had made certain, or had been assured, that you would be alone," declared my aunt anastasia, with unyielding accusation in every angle of her. "to return million's brooch! oh, beatrice, you must think me very unsophisticated!" the thin lips curled. "this is an excuse even thinner than that about the garden-hose the other evening. no doubt there have been others. how long have you been carrying on this underhand and odious flirtation with that unspeakable young cad?" "auntie!" i felt myself shaking all over with justifiable indignation. a flirtation? i? with that young man! why, why--when i'd such honourable intentions of securing him, as her "gentleman" lover, for our newly made heiress, million! i simply boiled over with righteous rage. i said, "you've no right to make such a suggestion." "beatrice! you forget to whom you are speaking." "i don't. but i'm twenty-three, and i don't think you need go on treating me as if i were a schoolgirl, refusing to listen to what i have to say. allowing me no liberty, no friends----" "friends! is that why you make your own in this hole-and-corner fashion?" "i shouldn't be to blame if i did!" i declared hotly. "you don't realise what my life is here with you. it's all very well for you to live in the past, pondering over the dear departed glories of our family. but at my age one doesn't care twopence for an illustrious past. what one wants is something to do, and to be--and to enjoy--in the present! i don't see why it should be enough for me to remember that, even if i am poor, i am still lady anastasia's great-granddaughter. it isn't enough! it's the most futile sort of existence in the whole world--living up to an old pedigree when you haven't even got money enough to buy yourself the right kind of shoes. you sneer at million for being what you call nouveau-riche. it isn't half as humiliating and ridiculous as being what we are--nouveau-pauvre!" "beatrice, i think you have gone mad, to say such things." "do you? i haven't. i've been thinking them inside me for months--years," i told her violently. the oval mirror on the opposite side of the wall from that gainsborough portrait of lady anastasia showed a queer picture; the picture of a tall, angular, grey-haired and aristocratic-looking spinster in steel-grey alpaca, coldly facing a small, rumpled-looking girl (myself) with the tense pose, the bright flush, and the clenched hands of anger. "and now i can't--i can't stand this sort of thing any longer----" "may i ask what you intend to do?" "to go!" i had only that instant thought of it. but once the words were out of my mouth i realised that it was the only thing in the world to do. hadn't million said so only this morning when she bade me good-bye? "you ought to clear out of this house.... you ought to have a fair old bust-up, miss beatrice. and then you ought to bunk!" well! "the fair old bust-up" i'd had, or was having. the next thing was "to bunk"! aunt anastasia regarded me with cold eyes and a still more contemptuous curl of the lip. "you will go, beatrice? but how? to what?" "to earn my own living----" "what? there is nothing that you can do." "i know," i admitted resentfully. "that's another grudge i have against our family. they never have had to 'come down into the market-place.' consequently they wouldn't adapt themselves to the new conditions and fit themselves for the market now. they'd rather stand aside and vegetate in a mental backwater on twopence a year, thinking, 'we are still lovelaces,' and learning nothing, nothing. talk about 'the idle rich'! they are not such cucumbers of the ground as 'the idle poor'! i've been trained to nothing. lots of the girls who live along this road have taken up typewriting, or county council cookery, or teaching--things that will give them independence. i have nothing of the sort to fall back upon. i might take care of little children, perhaps, but people like norland nurses at a hundred a year nowadays. or i might find a post as a lady's maid----" "what?" "well, you taught me to pack and to mend lace, auntie! and i can do hair--it's the only natural gift i've got," i said. "perhaps i might get them to give me a chance in some small hairdresser's to begin with." "you are talking nonsense, and you do not even mean what you say, child." "i mean every word of it, and i don't see why it should be nonsense," i persisted. "it isn't, when these other girls talk of making a career for themselves somehow. they can get on----" "they are not ladies." "it's a deadly handicap being what our family calls a lady," said i. "i'm going to stop being one and to have something like a life of my own at last." "i forbid you," said aunt anastasia, in her stoniest voice, "i forbid you to do anything that is unbefitting my niece, my brother's child, and lady anastasia's great-granddaughter!" "auntie, i am past twenty-one," i said quite quietly. "no one can 'forbid' my doing anything that is within the law! and i'm going to take the rest of my life into my own hands." chapter vii my departure i have been putting on all my outdoor things. for i feel desperate. and i must take advantage of this feeling. if i wait until to-morrow, when my rage and indignation and violent dissatisfaction with things-as-they-are have died down, and i'm normal again, well, then i shall get nothing done. i shall think: "perhaps life here with aunt anastasia at no. laburnum grove, isn't so bad after all, even if i do never have any parties or young friends or pretty frocks or anything that other happier, less-aristocratically connected girls look upon as a matter of course. anyhow, there's nothing for it but to go on in the same humdrum fashion that i've been doing----" ah, no! i mustn't let myself go back to thinking like that again. the secret of success is to get something done while you're in the mood for it! * * * * * in our hall with the unmended umbrella stand and the trophy of afghan knives i was stopped by aunt anastasia. "at least i insist upon knowing," she said, "where you are going now?" i said, quite gently and amiably: "i am going to see million." "million? the little object who was the servant here? your taste in associates becomes more and more deplorable, beatrice. you should not forget that even if she has happened to come into money"--my aunt spoke the very word as who should say "dross!"--and concluded: "she is scarcely a person of whom you can make a friend." "million has always been a very staunch little friend of mine ever since she came here," i said, not without heat. "but i am going to this hostel of hers to ask her about something that has nothing to do with 'friendship.' you have her address. you know that it's a deadly respectable place. i expect i shall stay the night there, aunt anastasia. good-bye." and off i went. i was full of my new plan--a plan that seemed to have flashed full-blown into my brain while i was putting on my boots. it had made me almost breathless with excitement and anticipation by the time i had rung the bell of the massive, maroon-painted door of the kensington address and had said to the bored-looking man-servant who opened it: "may i see miss million, please?" such a plan it was as i had to unfold to her! there was something odd and unfamiliar about the appearance of million when she ran in to greet me in her new setting--the very early victorian, plushy, marble-mantelpieced, glass-cased drawing-room of the ladies' hostelry in kensington. what was the unfamiliar note? she wore her sunday blouse of white jap silk; her brown cloth skirt that dipped a little at the back. but what was it that made her look so strange? ah! i knew. it was so funny to see our late maid-of-all-work in the house without a cap on! this incongruous thought dashed through my mind as quickly as million herself dashed over the crimson carpet towards me. "miss beatrice! lor'! doesn't it seem ages since i seen you, and yet it's only this very morning since i left your aunt's. well, this is a treat," she cried, holding out both of her little work-roughened hands. "it is nice, seein' some one you know, after the lot of old cats, and sketches, and freaks, and frosty-faces that live in this establishment!" and the new heiress gave herself a little shake as she glanced round the spacious, gloomy apartment that we had for the moment to ourselves. evidently million found the kensington "haven" recommended by her lawyer no change for the better from our putney villa. under the circumstances, and because of my plan, i felt rather glad of this. i said: "don't you like the place, then, million? what are the people like?" "only one word to describe 'em, miss beatrice. chronic. fair give you ther hump. none of 'em married, except one, who's a colonel's widow, and thinks she's everybody, and all of 'em about eighty-in-the-shade. and spiteful! and nosey!" enlarged million, as we sat down together on one of the massive red-plush covered sofas, under a large steel engraving of "lord byron and the maid of athens." she went on: "they wanted to know all about me, o' course. watchin' me every bite i put into my mouth at table, and me so nervous that no wonder i helped myself to peas into me glass of water! lookin' down their noses at me and mumbling to each other about me--not what i call very polite manners--and chance the ducks! i----" here the drawing-room door opened to admit one of the ladies, i suppose, of whom million had been complaining. she wore a grey woolly shoulder-shawl and myrtle-green hair--i suppose something had gone wrong with the brown hair-restorer. and this lady gave one piercing glance at me and another at million as she sidled towards a writing-table at the further end of the drawing-room and sat down with her back towards us. i'm sorry to say that million twisted her small face into a perfectly horrible grimace and stuck out her tongue at the back. then she, million, lowered her voice as she chattered on about her new surroundings. "cry myself to sleep every night, i should, if i was to try to stay on here," she said. "couldn't feel happy here, not if it was ever so! oh, i'd rather go back to the orphanage. something of me own 'age' there, anyhow! don't care if it is very tony and high-class and recommended. it's not my style.... i don't know where i'm going after, but, miss beatrice, i'm going to get out of this! i can't stay in a place that makes me feel as if i was in prison, so i'm going to hop it." "that's just how i felt, million. that's what i made up my mind to do," i told her. the new heiress gazed at me with all her bright grey eyes. "what? you, miss beatrice? you don't mean----" "that i'm not going on living at no. laburnum grove!" "what?" million raised her voice incautiously, and the myrtle-green-haired lady glanced around. "miss nosey parker," muttered million, and then "straight? you mean you've had a bust-up with your aunt nasturtium?" "rather," i nodded. "about that young gentleman, i lay?" said million. "him from next door." "how did you guess it was that? it was," i admitted. "he came to return this brooch of yours that you dropped on the 'bus--here it is--and my aunt chose to--to--to----" "oh, i know the way miss lovelace would 'choose'," said million, with gusto. "so you left her, miss beatrice! so you done a flit at last, like i always been saying you did ought to do! you done it! cheers! and now what are you thinking to do? coming to me, are you?" i smiled into the little affectionate rosy face that i was so accustomed to seeing under a white frilly cap with a black bow. i said: "yes, million. i'm coming to you if you'll have me." "ow! that's the style, miss----" "if i come, you won't have to call me 'miss' any more," i said firmly. "that'll be part of it." "part of what?" asked million, bewildered. "part of the arrangement i want to make with you," i said. and then, looking up, i beheld curiosity written in every line of the back of that woman at the writing-table. i said: "million, i can't talk to you here. get your hat on and come out. we'll discuss this in the park." and in the park, sitting side by side on two green wooden chairs, i unfolded to million my suddenly conceived plan. "now, listen," i began. "you're a rich girl--a young woman with a big fortune of her own----" "oh, miss, i don't seem to realise it one bit, yet----" "you'll have to realise it. you'll have to begin and adapt yourself to it all, quite soon. and the sooner you begin the sooner you'll feel at home in it all." "i don't feel as if i'd got a home, now," said million, with the forlorn look coming over her face. "i don't feel as if i should ever make anything out of it--of this here being an heiress, i mean." "million, you'll have to 'make something of it'. other people do. people who haven't been brought up to riches. it may not 'come natural' to them, at first. but they learn. they learn to live as if they'd always been accustomed to beautiful clothes, and to having houses, and cars, and all that sort of thing, galore. million, these are the things you've got to acquire now you're rich," i said quite threateningly. "even your dear old lawyer knew that this kensington place was only '_pro tem_'. you'll have to have an establishment, to settle where you'll live, and what you want to do with yourself." "i don't want to do nothing, miss beatrice," said little million helplessly. "don't talk nonsense. you know you told me yourself quite lately," i reminded her, "that you had one great wish." million's troubled little face lifted for a moment into a smile, but she shook her head (in that awful crimsony straw hat that she will wear "for best"). "you do remember that wish," i said. "you told me that you would so like to marry a gentleman. well, now, here you will have every chance of meeting and marrying one!" "oh, miss! but i'm reely--reely not the kind of girl that----" "so you'll have to set to and make yourself into the kind of girl that the kind of 'gentleman' you'd like would be wild to marry. you'll have to----well, to begin with," i said impressively, "you'll have to get a very good maid." "do you mean a girl to do the work about the house, miss?" "no, i don't. you'll have a whole staff of people to do that for you," i explained patiently. "i mean a personal maid, a lady's-maid. a person to do your hair and to marcel-wave, and to manicure, and to massage you! a person to take care of your beautiful clo----" "haven't got any beautiful clothes, miss." "you will have. your maid will take care of that," i assured her. "she'll go with you to all the best shops and tell you what to buy. she'll see that you choose the right colours," i said, with a baleful glance at the crimson floppy hat disfiguring million's little dark head. "she'll tell you how your things are to be made. she'll take care that you look like any other young lady with a good deal of money to spend, and some taste to spend it with. you don't want to look odd, million, do you, or to make ridiculous mistakes when you go about to places where you'd meet----" "oh, miss," said million, blenching, "you know that if there is one thing i can't stick it's havin' to think people may be making game of me!" "well, the good maid would save you from that." "i'd be afraid of her, then," protested million. i said: "no, you wouldn't. you've never been afraid of me." "ah," said million, "but that's different. you aren't a lady's-maid----" i said firmly a thing that made million's jaw drop and her eyes nearly pop out of her head. i said: "i want to be a lady's-maid. i want to come to you as your maid--miss million's maid." "miss bee--atrice! you're laughing." "i'm perfectly serious," i said. "here i am; i've left home, and i want to earn my own living. this is the only way i can do it. i can pack. i can mend. i can do hair. i have got 'the sense of clothes'--that is, i should have," i amended, glancing down at my own perfectly awful serge skirt, "if i had the chance of associating with anything worthy of the name of 'clothes.' and i know enough about people to help you in other ways. million, i should be well worth the fifty or sixty pounds a year you'd pay me as wages." "me pay you wages?" little million almost shrieked. "d'you mean it, miss beatrice?" "i do." "you mean for you, a young lady that's belonged to the highest gentry, with titles and what not, to come and work as lady's-maid to me, what's been maid-of-all-work at twenty-two pounds a year in your aunt's house?" "why not?" "but, miss----it's so--so--skew-wiff; too topsy-turvy, somehow, i mean," protested million, the soldier's orphan, in tones of outrage. i said: "life's topsy-turvy. one class goes up in the world (that's your millionaire uncle and you, my dear), while another goes down (that's me and my aunts and uncles who used to have lovelace court). won't you even give me a helping hand, million? won't you let me take this 'situation' that would be such a good way out of things for both of us? aren't you going to engage me as your maid, miss million?" and i waited really anxiously for her decision. chapter viii i become million's maid the impossible has happened. i am "miss million's maid." i was taken on--or engaged, or whatever the right term is--a week ago yesterday. i've surmounted all objections; the chief being million--i mean "miss million"--herself. her i have practically bullied into letting her ex-mistress come and work for her. after much talk and many protests, i said, finally, "million, you've got to." and million finally said: "very well, miss beatrice, if you will 'ave it so, 'ave it so you will. it don't seem right to me, but----" then there was my aunt anastasia, the controller of my destiny up to now. her i wrote to from that hostelry in kensington, which was million's first "move" from no. , the putney villa. and from aunt anastasia i received a letter of many sheets in length. here are a few of the more plum-like extracts: "when i received the communication of your insane plan, beatrice, i was forced to retire to the privacy of my own apartment"-- (not so very "private," when the walls are so thin that she can hear the girls in the adjoining room at no. rustling the tissue-paper of the box under the bed that they keep their nicest hats in!) "and to take no fewer than five aspirins before i was able to review the situation with any measure of calm." then-- "it is well that my poor brother, your father, is not here to see to what depths his only child has descended, and to what a milieu!" (the "descent" being from that potty little row of packing-cases in putney to the hotel cecil, where i am engaging a suite of rooms for miss million and her maid to-morrow!) "your dear great-grandmother, lady anastasia, would turn in her grave, did she ever dream that a miss lovelace, a descendant of the lovelaces of lovelace court," etc., etc. (but i am not a lovelace now. i have told million--i mean, i have requested my new employer--to call me "smith." nice, good, old, useful-sounding sort of name. and more appropriate to my present station!) then my aunt writes: "your fondness for associating with young men of the bounder class over garden walls and on doorsteps was already a sufficiently severe shock to me. as that particular young man appears to be still about here, poisoning the air of the garden with his tobacco smoke and obviously gazing through the trellis in search of you each evening, i suppose i must acquit him of any complicity in your actions." (i suppose that nice-looking young man at no. has been wondering when i was going to finish giving him million's address to return that brooch.) there's miles more of auntie's letter. it ends up with a majestically tearful supplication to me to return to my own kith and kin (meaning herself and the gainsborough portrait!) and to remember who i am. nothing will induce me to do so! i've felt another creature since i left no. , with the bamboo furniture and the heirlooms. and, oh, what fun i'm going to have over forgetting who i was. hurray for the new life of liberty and fresh experiences as miss million's maid! the first thing to do, of course, is to provide ourselves with means to go about, to shop, to arrange the preliminaries of our adventure! that five pounds which mr. chesterton advanced to his new client (smiling as he did so) will not do more than pay our bill at the home for independent cats, as million calls this kensington place. mr. chesterton not only smiled, he laughed outright when we presented ourselves at the chancery lane office together once more. i was again spokeswoman and i came to the point at once. "we want some more money, please." "not an uncommon complaint," said the old lawyer. "but, pardon me, i have no money of yours! you mean miss million wants some more money?" i hope he doesn't think i'm a parasite of a girl who clings on to little million because she's happened to inherit a fortune. rather angrily i said: "we both want it; because until miss million has some more she cannot pay me my salary!" he looked a little amazed at this, but he did not say anything about his surprise that i was in a salaried capacity to my little friend. he only said: "well! how much do you--and miss million--want? five pounds again? five hundred----" "oh, not five hundred all at once," gasped the awe-struck million; "i'd never feel i could go to sleep with it----" while i cut in abruptly: "yes, five hundred will do for us to arrange ourselves on." thereupon the old lawyer made the suggestion that was to be fraught with such odd consequences. "wouldn't it be more convenient," he said, "if an account could be opened in miss million's name at a bank?" "that will do," said miss million's maid (myself), while miss million gazed round upon the black dispatch-boxes of the office. ten minutes later, with a cheque for £ clutched tightly in miss million's hand, also a letter from mr. chesterton to mr. reginald brace, the manager, we found ourselves at the bank near ludgate circus that mr. chesterton had recommended. million was once more doddering with nervousness. once more miss million's new maid had to take it all upon herself. "mr. brace," i demanded boldly over the shoulder of an errand-lad who was handing in slips of paper with small red stamps upon them. one moment later and we were ushered into the manager's private room. yet another second, and that room seemed echoing with million's gleeful shriek of "why! miss beatrice! see who it is? if it isn't the gent from next door!" she meant the manager. i looked up and faced the astonished blue eyes in his nice sunburnt face. yes! it was the young man from no. laburnum grove; "the insufferable young bounder" on whose account i had got into those "rows" with aunt anastasia. so this was mr. reginald brace, the bank manager! this was where he took the silk hat i'd seen disappearing down the grove each morning at . . he recognised us. all three of us laughed! he was the first to be grave. indeed, he was suddenly alarmingly formal and ceremonious as he asked us to sit down and opened mr. chesterton's letter. i couldn't help watching his face as he read it, to enjoy the look of blank amazement that i thought would appear there when he found that the little maid-servant he had noticed at the kitchen window of the next-door villa to his own should be the young lady about whom he had received this lawyer's letter. no look of amazement appeared. you might just as well have expected a marble mantelpiece to look surprised that the chimney was smoking. he said presently: "i shall be delighted to do as mr. chesterton asks." then came a lot of business with the introduction of the chief cashier, with a pass-book, a paying-in-book, a cheque-book, and a big book for million's name and address (which she gave care of josiah chesterton, esq.). then, when the cashier man had gone out again, mr. brace's marble-mantelpiece manner vanished also. he smiled in a way that seemed to admit that he did remember there were such things as garden-hoses and infuriated aunts in the world. but he didn't seem to remember that it was not my business, but million's, that had brought us there. for it was to me that he turned as he said in that pleasant voice of his: "well! this does seem rather a long way round to a short way home, doesn't it?" at that there came into my mind again the plan i had for million's benefit. million should have her wish. she should marry "the sort of young gentleman she'd always thought of." i would bring these two together--the good-looking, young, pleasant-voiced bank manager and the little shy heiress, who would be extremely pretty and attractive by the time i'd been her maid for a month. so i said: "you know, miss million's 'home' is no longer at no. in your road." he said: "she seems to have some very good friends there, though." here the artless million broke in: "not me, sir! i never could bear that aunt of hers," with a nod at me, "and no more couldn't miss beatrice, after i left!" i tried to nudge million, but could scarcely do so just under that young man's interested blue eye. he looked up quickly to me. "then you have left?" i smiled and nodded vaguely, and we sat for a moment in silence, the tall, morning-coated young manager, and the two girls still so shabbily dressed, that you wouldn't have dreamt of connecting either of us with millions. i wasn't going to let him into the situation of mistress and maid just then. but i condescended to inform him: "miss million will be at the hotel cecil after to-morrow." he flashed me one brief, blue glance. i wondered if he guessed i'd a plan in my mind. anyhow, he fell in with it. for, as he shook hands for good-bye with both of us, he said to million: "will you allow me to call on you there?" million, looking overjoyed but flustered, turned to me. evidently i was to answer again. i said sedately: "i am sure miss million will be glad to let you call." "when?" said the young bank manager rather peremptorily. i made a rapid mental calculation. i ought to be able to get million suitably clad for receiving admirers-to-be in about--yes, four days. i said: "on thursday afternoon, at about five, if that suits you." "admirably," said the young man whom i have selected to marry million. "au revoir!" chapter ix we move into new quarters the hotel cecil, june, . i've taken the first step towards setting up my new employer, miss million, as a young lady of fortune. that first step was--new luggage! new clothes we could do without for a little longer (though not for much longer. i'm quite firm about that). but new, expensive-looking trunks miss million must have. it would be absolutely impossible for "miss million and maid" to make their appearance at a big london hotel with the baggage which had witnessed their exit from the putney villa. my brown canvas hold-all and her tin trunk with the rope about it--what did they make us look like? irish emigrants! "nice luggage is the mark of a lady," was one of my aunt anastasia's many maxims. so we spent the morning in bond street, buying recklessly and wildly at vuitton's and at that place where you get the "innovation" trunks that look like a glorified wardrobe--all hangers and drawers. i did all the ordering. million stood by and looked like a scared kitten. when the time came she signed the cheques and gasped, "lor', miss!" "million, you're not to say 'lor''," i ordered her in a stage whisper. i turned away from the polished shop assistants who, i should think, must have had the morning of their lives. i wonder what they made of their customers, the two young women (one with a strong cockney accent) who dressed as if from a country rectory jumble sale and who purchased trunks as if for a duchess's trousseau? "and you are not to say 'miss.' do remember, million," i urged her. "now we'll have a taxi. two taxis, i mean." one taxi was piled high with the new and princely pile of "leather goods." hat-boxes, dress-baskets, two innovation trunks, a week-end bag, and a dressing-case with crystal and ivory fittings. the other taxi bore off the small, "my-sunday-out"-looking figure of miss million and the equally small, almost equally badly dressed figure of miss million's maid. we drove first to the kensington hostelry and picked up the old luggage. by the side of the new it looked not even as respectable as an irish emigrant's; it looked like some kentish hop-picker's! we made the driver unstrap and open one of the large new dress-baskets. and into this we dumped the hold-all and the tin trunk that seemed to be labelled "my first place." then i ordered him to drive to the hotel cecil, and off we whirled again. our arrival at the cecil was marked by quite a dramatic little picture; like something on the stage, i thought. for as our taxi swept around the big circle of the courtyard of the hotel, as it glided up exactly opposite the middle door and a couple of gorgeously uniformed commissionaires stepped forward, the air was rent by the long, piercingly shrill notes of a posthorn. there was the staccato clatter of horses' hoofs, and there rattled and jingled up to the entrance a coach of lemon-yellow-and-black, with four magnificent white horses, driven by a very big and strongly built, ruddy-faced, white-toothed young man, wearing a tall white hat, a black-and-white check suit, yellow gloves, a hunting tie with a black pearl pin in it, and one large red rose. this gay and startling apparition took our eyes and our attention off everything else for a moment. million's grey eyes were indeed popping out of her head like hat-pegs as the young man leapt lightly down from the coach. she was staring undisguisedly at him. and i saw him turn and give one very hard, straight glance--not at million--not at me. his eyes, which were very blue and bright, were all for that taxi full of very imposing-looking new luggage just behind us. then he turned to his friends on the coach; several other young men, also dressed like solomon in all his glory, and a couple of ladies, very powdery, with cobalt-blue eyelashes, and smothers of golden hair, and pretty frocks that looked as if they'd got into them with the shoehorn. (i don't think skirts can possibly get any tighter than they are at this present moment of june, , unless we take to wearing one on each leg.) all these people were laughing and talking together very loudly and calling out christian names. "jim!" and "sunny jim!" seemed to be the big young man who had driven them up. then they all trooped off towards the palm court, calling out something about "rattlesnake cocktails"--and million and i came back with a start to our own business. a huge porter came along to take our luggage off the cab. he put a tremendous amount of force into hoisting one of the dress-baskets. it went up like a feather. the empty one! i do wonder what he thought.... we went into the central hall, crowded with people. (note.--i must teach million to learn to walk in front of me; she will sidle after me everywhere like a worm that doesn't know how to turn.) we marched up to the bureau. the man on the other side of the counter pushed the big book towards me. "will you sign the register, please." "yes--no. i mean it isn't me." i drew back and pinched my employer's arm. "you sign here, please, miss million," i said very distinctly. and million, breathing hard and flushing crimson, came forward, leant over the book, and slowly wrote in her soldiers' orphanage copybook hand, with downstrokes heavy and upstrokes light: "nellie mary million" (just as it had been written on her insurance-card). "miss," i dictated in a whisper, "miss nellie mary million and maid." "'ow, miss, don't you write your name?" breathed million gustily. "miss----" i trod on her foot. i saw several american visitors staring at us. the man said: "your rooms are forty-five, forty-six, and forty-seven, miss." "forty-five. ow! same number as at home," murmured million. "will you please tell me how we get?" it was one of the chocolate-liveried page-boys who showed us to our rooms--the two large, luxuriously furnished bedrooms and the sitting-room that seemed so extraordinarily palatial to eyes still accustomed to the proportions of no. laburnum grove. what a change! what other extraordinary changes and contrasts lie before us, i wonder? we were closely followed by the newly bought trunks; one filled with ancient baggage, like a large and beautiful nut showing a shrivelled kernel; the others an empty magnificence. million and i gazed upon them as they stood among the white-painted hotel furniture, filling the big room with the fragrance of costly leather. million said: "well! i shall never get enough things to fill all them, i don't s'pose." "won't you!" i said. "we go shopping again this very afternoon; shopping clothes! and the question is whether we've got enough boxes to hold them!" "miss!" breathed million. i turned from the tray, full of attractively arranged little boxes and shelves, of the dress-basket. quite sharply i said: "how often am i to tell you not to call me that?" "very sorry, miss beatrice. i mean--s--smith!" faltered million. her pretty grey eyes were full of tears. her small, bonnie face looked suddenly pinched and pale. she sat down with a dump on the edge of the big brass bedstead. very forlorn, she looked, the little heiress. "sorry i was cross," i said penitently, patting my employer's hand. "it's not that, miss," said million, relapsing again, "it's only--oh, haven't you got a sinkin'? i feel fair famished, i do; indeed, what with all the going about, and----" "i'm awfully hungry, too," i admitted. "we'll go down to the dining-room at once. come along. you go first. you are to!" "not to the dining-room here," objected million, terrified. "not in this grand place, with all these people. oh, miss, did you notice that young gentleman, him with the red rose, and all the ladies in their lovely dresses? i'd far rather just nip out and get a portion of steak-and-kidney pie and a nice cupper tea at an a.b.c. there is bound to be one close by here----" "well, we aren't going to it," i decreed firmly. "ladies with private incomes of a hundred and fifty pounds a week don't lunch at marble-topped tables. anyhow, their maids won't. but if you don't want to have luncheon here the first day, perhaps----" "i don't; oh, not me. i couldn't get anything down, i know i couldn't, and all these people dressed up so grand, looking at me! (did you see her with the cerise feather in her hat that the young gentleman called 'facie'?) oh, lor'!" the grey eyes filled again. so i made a compromise and said we would lunch out somewhere else; a good restaurant was near, where you do at least get a table-cloth. in the hall we saw again the young man who had driven up in the four-in-hand. he was talking to one of the porters, and his broad, black-and-white check back was towards us. i heard what he was saying, in a deep voice with a soft burr of irish brogue in it-- "--with all those lashins of new trunks?... million?... will she have anything to do with the chicago million, the sausage king, as they call him?" "i don't know, sir," said the porter. "find out for me, will you?" said the four-in-hand young man. then he turned round and saw me (again followed by my sidling employer) making my way towards the entrance. he raised his hat in a rather empresse manner as he allowed us to pass. "oh, miss--i mean, oh, smith! isn't he handsome?" breathed million as we got out into the strand. "did you notice what a lovely smile he'd got?" i said rather chillingly: "i didn't very much like the look of him." and i'm going to try and stop million from liking the look of that sort of young man. fortune-hunters, beware! chapter x an orgy of shopping! oh, what an afternoon we've had! talk about "one crowded hour of glorious life." well, million and i have had from two to six; that is, four crowded glorious hours of shopping! i scarcely know where we've been, except that they were all the most expensive places. any woman who reads this story will understand me when i say i made a bee-line for those shops that don't put very much in the show-window. just one perfect gown on a stand, perhaps, one filmy dream of a lingerie blouse, a pair of silk stockings that looked as if they'd been fashioned by the fairies out of spun sunset, and a french girl's name splashed in bold white letters across the pane--that was the sort of decoration of the establishments patronised by miss million and her maid. as before, the maid (myself) had to do all the ordering, while the heiress shrank and slunk and cowered in the background. for poor little million was really too overawed for words by those supercilious and slim young duchesses in black satin, the shop assistants who glided towards us with a haughty "what may i show you, moddom?" from "undies" (all silk) to corsets (supple perfection!), through ready-made costumes to afternoon frocks and blouses and hats and evening-gowns i made my relentless way. after the first few gasps from million of "oh, far too expensive.... oh, miss!... haven't they any cheaper than.... twenty? lor'! does she mean twenty shillings, miss beatrice? what! twenty pounds? oh, we can't----" i left off asking the prices of things. i simply selected the garments or the hats that looked the sweetest and harmonised the best with my new employer's black hair and bright grey frightened eyes. i heard myself saying with a new note of authority in my voice: "yes! that'll do. and the little shoes to match. and two dozen of these. and put that with the others. i will have them all sent together." what did money matter, when it came to ordering an outfit for a millionairess? i grew positively intoxicated with the mad joy of choosing clothes under these conditions. isn't it the day-dream of every human being who wears a skirt? isn't it "what every woman wants?" a free hand for a trousseau of all new things! to choose the most desirable, to materialise every vision she's ever had of the perfect hat, the blouse of blouses, and to think "never mind what it costs!" and this, at last, had fallen to my lot. i quite forgot that i was not the millionairess for whom all this many-coloured and soft perfection was to be sent "home"--"to the hotel cecil, i'll trouble you." i only remembered that i was the millionairess's maid when one of the black-satin duchesses, in the smartest hat shop, informed me that i "could perfectly wear" the little viennese hat with the flight of jewelled humming-birds, and i had had to inform her that the hat was intended for "the other lady." "we'll do a little shopping for me, now," i decided, when we left that hat-shop divinity with three new creations to pack up for miss million at the cecil. i said: "i'm tired of people not knowing exactly what i am. i'm going to choose a really 'finished' kit for a superior lady's-maid, so that everybody shall recognise my 'walk in life' at the first glance!" "miss! oh, miss beatrice, you can't," protested million, in shocked tones. "you're never going to wear--livery, like?" "i am," i declared. "a plain black gown, very perfectly cut, an exquisite muslin apron with a little bib, and a cap like----" "miss! you can't wear a cap," declared little million, standing stock still at the top of bond street and gazing at me as if i had planned the subversion of all law and order and fitness. "all very well for you to come and help me, as you might say, just to oblige, and to be a sort of companion to me and to call yourself my maid. but i never, never bargained for you, miss beatrice, to go about wearing no caps! why, there's plenty of young girls in my own walk of life--i mean in what used to be my own walk! plenty of young girls who wouldn't dream of being found drowned in such a thing as a cap! looks so menial, they said. several of the girls at the orphanage said they'd never put such a thing on their heads once they got away. and a lady's-maid, well, 'tisn't even the same as a parlour-maid! and you with such a nice head of hair of your own, miss beatrice!" million expostulated with almost tearful incoherence. "a reel lady's-maid isn't required to wear a cap, even if she does slip on an apron!" "you shut up," i gaily commanded the employer upon whom i now depend for my daily bread. "i am going to wear a cap. and to look rather sweet in it." and i did. for when i'd spent the two quarters' salary that i'd ordered million to advance to me, i looked at myself in a long glass at the establishment where they seem particularly great on "small stock sizes"--my size. i beheld myself a completely different shape from the lumpy little bunch of a girl that i'd been in blue serge that seemed specially designed to hide every decent line of her figure. i was really quite as graceful as the portrait of lady anastasia herself! this was thanks to the beautifully built, severely simple gown, fitted on over a pair of low-cut, glove-like, elastic french stays. the dead-black of it showed up my long, slim throat (my one inheritance from my great-grandmother!), which seemed as white as the small, impertinently befrilled apron that i tied about my waist. the cap was just a white butterfly perched upon the bright chestnut waves of my hair. and the general effect of miss million's maid at that moment was of something rather pretty and fetching in the stage-lady's maid line, from behind the footlights at daly's. i'm sorry to have to blow my own trumpet like this, but after all it was the first time i'd ever seen myself look so really nice. i thought it was quite a pity that there was no one but million and the girl in the "maids' caps department" to admire me! then, for some funny, unexplained reason, i thought of somebody else who might possibly catch a glimpse of me looking like this. i thought of the blue-eyed, tall, blonde manager of the bank where million has opened her account; mr. reginald brace, who lives next door to where we used to live; the honest, pleasant-voiced person whom i look upon as such a good match for million; the young man who's arranged to come and have tea with her at her hotel next thursday. he will be the very first caller she's had since she ceased to be little nellie million, the maid-of-all-work. chapter xi an old friend of the family i was _wrong_. she will have another caller first. in fact, she has had another caller. when we got back to our--i really must remember to say her--rooms at the cecil we were met, even as i unlocked the door, by a whiff of wonderful perfume, heady, intoxicating. the scent of carnations. a great sheaf of the flowers was laid on the table near the window. red carnations, carmen's carnations, the flowers that always seem to me to stand for something thrilling.... in the language of flowers it is "a red rose" that spells the eternal phrase, "i love you." but how much more appropriate would be one handful of the jagged petals of my favourite blood-red carnations! "lor'! ain't these beauties!" cried million, sniffing rapturously. "talk about doin' things in style! well, it's a pretty classy kind of hotel where they gives you cut flowers like this for your table decorations." "my dear million, you don't suppose the hotel provided these carnations," i laughed, "as it provided the palms downstairs?" "lor'! do i pay more money for 'em, then, miss--smith, i mean?" "pay? nonsense. the flowers have been sent in by some one," i said. "sent? who'd ever send flowers to me?" i thought i could guess. i considered it a very pretty attention of mr. reginald brace, million's only new friend so far, the young bank manager. i said: "look and see; isn't there a note with the flowers?" million took up the fragrant sheaf. something white was tucked in among the deep red blooms. "there is a card," she said. she took it out, and glanced at it. i heard her exclaim in a startled voice: "lor'! who may he be when he's at home?" i looked up quickly. "what?" i said. "don't you remember who mr. brace is?" "i remember mr. brace all right, miss--smith, i mean. but these here ain't from no mr. brace," said million, in a voice of amazement. "look at the card!" i took the card and read it. on one side was: "to miss million, with kindest greetings from an old friend of the family!" on the other side was the name: "the honourable james burke, ballyneck, ireland." "the honourable!" echoed million, breathing heavily on the h in "honourable." "now who in the wide world is the gentleman called all that, who thinks he's a friend of my family (and one that hasn't any family), whoever's he?" "it's very mysterious," i agreed, staring from the flowers to the card. "must be some mistake!" said million. an idea occurred to me. "ring the bell, million," i said. then, remembering my place, i crossed the room and rung the bell myself. "for the chamber-maid. she may be able to tell us something about this," i explained. "we'll ask her." more surprises! the rather prim-faced and middle-aged chamber-maid who appeared in answer to our summons had a startling announcement to make in answer to my query as to who was responsible for that sheaf of glorious carnations that we had found waiting. "the flowers, madam, yes. mr. burke gave them to me himself with orders that they were to be placed in miss million's room." "yes," i answered for miss million; "but who is this mr. burke? that is what we--i mean that is what miss million wants to know." the sandy eyebrows of the chamber-maid rose to the top of her forehead as she replied: "mr. burke? i understood, madam, that----" then she stopped and began again: "mr. burke is staying in the hotel just now, madam." a sudden presentiment chilled me. i glanced from the small, ill-clad figure of the new heiress sitting at the table with her carnations, through the open door into her bedroom with the pyramidal new trunks which had attracted their full share of glances this morning! then i looked back to the chamber-maid standing there so deferentially in front of the two worst-dressed people at the cecil. and i said quickly: "is he--is mr. burke the man who drove up in the four-in-hand this morning?" "yes, madam. a black-and-yellow coach with four white horses; that would be mr. burke's party." "lor'!" broke for the fiftieth time this day from the lips of million. "that young gentleman with all those grand people, and the trumpet" (this was the posthorn), "and what not? him with the red rose in his buttonhole?" million was as red as that rose in her flattered excitement, as she spoke. "well, i never! did you ever, miss--er--smith! did you ever? sending me in these beautiful flowers and all. whatever made him think he knew me?" "i can't say, madam," took up the chamber-maid, "but i certainly understood from mr. burke that he knew your family--in the states, i think he said." "would that be me uncle that i got my money from?" murmured the artless million to me. i thought of the confab that i'd overheard in the central hall between the hotel porter and that loudly dressed young man who had raised his hat as we passed. it had been ascertained for him, then, that miss million and "the sausage king" had something to do with each other! awful young man! million, looking visibly overcome, murmured: "fancy dad's own brother having such classy friends out there! a honourable! doesn't that mean being relations with some duke or earl?" "mr. burke is the second son of lord ballyneck, an irish peer, i believe, madam," the chamber-maid informed us--or rather me. i wish all these people wouldn't turn to me always, ignoring the real head of affairs, million. never mind. wait until i've got her into her new gowns, and myself into the cap and apron! there'll be a difference then! the chamber-maid added: "mr. burke left a message for miss million." "a message----" "yes, madam; he said he would give himself the pleasure of calling upon you to-morrow afternoon here at about four o'clock, to have a talk about mutual friends. i said that i would let miss million know." "glory!" ejaculated million, as the chamber-maid withdrew. "jer hear that, miss beatrice?" "i hear you calling me by my wrong name again," i said severely. "smith, i mean! d'you take it in that we're going to have that young gentleman coming calling here to-morrow to see us? oh, lor'! i shall be too nervous to open my mouth, i know.... which of me new dresses d'you think i'd better put on, m--smith? better be the very grandest i got, didn't it? oh! i shall go trembly all over when i see him again close to, i know i shall," babbled million, starry-eyed with excitement. "didn't i ought to drop him a line to thank him for them lovely flowers and to say i shall be so pleased to see him?" "certainly not!" i said firmly. "in the first place, i don't think you ought to see him at all." million gaped at me. "not see----but he's coming here to call!" my voice sounded as severe as aunt anastasia's own as i returned: "i don't think he seemed a very desirable sort of visitor." "not----but, miss, dear, you heard what the maid said. he's a honourable!" "i don't care if he's a serene highness. i didn't like the look of him." "i thought he looked lovely!" protested the little heiress, gazing half-timidly, half-reproachfully upon me. "look at the beautiful kind smile he'd got, and so good-lookin'! and even if he wasn't a lord's son, you could see at a glance that he was a perfect gentleman, used to every luxury!" "yes, i daresay," i began. "but--well! i don't know how to explain why i don't think we--you ought to get to know him, million. but i don't. for one thing, i heard him making inquiries about you as we went through this afternoon. i heard him tell the hall porter to find out if you had anything to do with mr. million, of chicago!" "very natural kind of remark to pass," said little million. "seeing new people come in, and knowing uncle's name. it's because of uncle, you see, that he wants to make friends." "because of uncle's money!" i blurted out rather brutally. "oh, miss--oh, smith!" protested million, all reproachful eyes. "what would he want with more money, a young gentleman like that? he's got no end of his own." "how do you know?" "but--w'y! look at him!" cried million. "look at his clothes! look at that lovely coach an' those horses----" "very likely not his own," i said, shaking my head at her. "my dear million--for goodness' sake remind me to practise calling you 'miss'; i'm always reminding you to practise not calling me it! my dear miss million, i feel in all my bones one sad presentiment. that young man is a fortune-hunter. i saw it in his bold and sea-blue eye. as it says in the advertisement, 'it's your money he wants.' i believe he's the sort of person who makes up to any one with money. (i expect all those other men he was with were rich enough.) and i don't think you ought to make friends with this mr. burke until we've heard a little more about him. certainly i don't think you ought to let him come and see you here without further preliminaries to-morrow afternoon!" "what am i goin' to do about it, then?" asked million in a small voice. her mouth drooped. her grey eyes gazed anxiously at me, to whom she now turns as her only guide, philosopher, and friend. she was evidently amazed that i didn't share her impressions of this "lovely" young "honourable." she had wanted to see him "close to"--a fearful joy! she had meant to dress up in her grandest new finery for the occasion. and now she was woefully disappointed. poor little soul! yes; evidently her eyes had already been dazzled by that vision this morning outside the cecil; that gay picture that had looked likesome brightly coloured smoking-room print. the brilliant, lemon-yellow-and-black coach, the postilion behind, the spanking white horses, the handsome, big, ruddy-faced young sportsman who was driving.... but it was my duty to see that only her eyes were caught. not her heart--as it probably would be if she saw much more of that very showy young rake! and not her fortune. i said, feeling suddenly more grown-up and sensible than i've ever been in my life: "you will have to leave word that you are not at home to-morrow afternoon." "very well, miss smith," said my employer blankly. she sat for a minute silent in the hotel easy-chair, holding the carnations. then her small, disappointed face lighted up a little. "but i shall be at home," she reminded me, with a note of hope in her tone. "got to be. it's thursday to-morrow." "what about that?" i said, wondering if million were again harking back to the rules of her previous existence. thursday is my aunt anastasia's "day" for the stair-rods and the fenders, and the whole of no. is wont to reek with brasso. could million have meant---- no. she took up: "don't you remember? thursday afternoon was when that other young gentleman was going to drop in. him from the bank. that mr. brace. he'll be coming. you said he might." "so he is," i said. "but that won't make any difference. you'll be 'at home' to him. not to mr. burke. that's all." "i can't be in two places at once, and they're both coming at four," argued the artless million. "how can i say i'm not at home, when----" "oh, million! it just shows you never could have been in service in very exalted situations," i laughed. "don't you know that 'not at home' simply means you don't wish to see that particular visitor?" little million's whole face was eloquent of the retort. "but i do wish to see him!" she did not say it. she gave a very hard sniff at the carnations in her hand, and suggested diffidently and rather shakily: "p'raps mr. brace might have liked to see another gentleman here? more company for him." i paused before i answered. a sudden thought had struck me. men are supposed to be so much better at summing up other men's characters at a glance than women are. in spite of what aunt anastasia has said about "insufferable young bounders," i believe that this mr. reginald brace is a thoroughly nice, clear-sighted sort of young man. i feel that one could rely upon his judgment of people. i'm sure that one could trust him to be sincere and fair. why not consult him about this new, would-be friend of million's? why not be guided by him? he was the only available man i could be guided by, after all. so i said: "well, million, on second thoughts, of course, if you have another man here, it isn't quite the same thing as receiving this mr. burke by himself. it puts him on a different footing. and----" "d'you mean i may have him here after all, miss?" cried million, lighting up again at once. "mr. burke, i mean." "oh, yes, have him," i said resignedly. "have both of them. we'll see what happens when they meet." chapter xii the day of the party to-day's the day! at four o'clock those two young men are coming to the hotel cecil, where for the first time it will be a case of "miss million at home." and to begin with miss million and her maid have had quite a fierce argument. i knew it was coming. i scented it afar off as soon as million had sent off her formal little note (dictated by me) to the hon. james burke at this hotel. as soon as we had settled which of all her new gowns the little hostess was going to wear for this event she turned to me. obviously suppressing the "miss beatrice," which still lingers on the tip of her tongue, million asked: "and what are you goin' to put on?" "put on?" i echoed with well-simulated surprise, for i knew perfectly what she meant. i braced myself to be firm, and took the bull by the horns. "i shan't have to 'put on' anything, you see," i explained. "i shall always be just as i am in this black frock and this darling little frilly apron, and the cap that i really love myself in. you can't say it doesn't suit me, mill----, miss million." the scandalised million stared at me as we stood there in her hotel bedroom; a sturdy, trim little dark-haired figure in her new princesse petticoat that showed her firmly developed, short arms, helping me to put away the drifts of superfluous tissue-paper that had enwrapped her trousseau. i myself had never been so well dressed as in this dainty black-and-white livery. she exclaimed in tones of horror: "but you can't sit down to afternoon tea with two young gentlemen in your cap and apron!" "of course not. i shan't be sitting down with them at all." "what?" "i shan't be having tea with you in the drawing-room," i explained. "naturally i shall not appear this afternoon." "wha--what'll you do, then?" "what does a good lady's-maid do? sit in her bedroom, sorting her mistress's new lingerie and sewing name-tapes on to her mistress's silk stockings----" "what! and leave me alone, here?" remonstrated my mistress shrilly. "me sit here by myself with those two young gentlemen, one of them a honourable and a perfect stranger to me, and me too nervous to so much as ask them if they like one lump or two in their cups of tea? oh, no! i couldn't do it----" "you'll have to," i said. "ladies'-maids do not entertain visitors with their employers." "but----'tisn't as if i was an ordinary employer! 'tisn't as if you was an ordinary lady's-maid!" "yes, it is, exactly." "but--they'll know you aren't. why, that young mr. reginald brace, him from the bank, he knows as well as you do who you are at home!" "that has nothing to do with him, or with your tea-party." "i don't want no tea-party if i'm goin' to be left all on me own, and nobody to help me talk to that honourable," million protested almost tearfully. "lor'! if i'd a known, i'd never have said the gentlemen could come!" "nonsense," i laughed. "you'll enjoy it." "'enjoy!' oh, miss--smith! enjoyment and me looks as if we was going to be strangers," declared million bitterly. "i don't see why you couldn't oblige a friend, and come in to keep the ball a-rollin', you that know the go of society, and that!" "i'm sure it's not the go of society to have in the lady's-maid to help amuse the visitors. not in the drawing-room, at all events." "but if i ask you----" "if you ask me to do things that are 'not my place,' miss million," i said firmly, "i shall give you notice. i mean it." this awful threat had its effect. million heaved one more gusty sigh, cast one more reproachful glance at her rebellious maid, and dropped the subject. thank goodness! i shall miss this weird and unparalleled party, but i shall hear all about it at second-hand after that amazingly contrasted couple of young men has departed. it's ten minutes to four now. i have "set the scene" perfectly for this afternoon's festivity. a hotel sitting-room can never look like a home room. but i've done my best with flowers, and new cushions, and a few pretty fashion journals littered about; also several new novels that i made million buy, because i simply must read them. yes, i've arranged the room. i've arranged the carnations. (i hope mr. burke will think they look nice.) i've arranged the tea; dainty nile-green cakes from gunter's, and chocolates and cigarettes. i've arranged the trembling little hostess. "good-bye, miss million," i said firmly, as i prepared to depart. "you needn't be nervous; you look very nice in the white french muslin with the broad grey-blue ribbon to match your best feature, your eyes. very successful." "looks so plain, to me," objected little million unhappily. "you might have let me put on something more elabyrinth. nobody'd ever believe i'd been and gone and given as much as fifteen guineas for this thing." "anybody would know, who knew anything," i consoled her. "and i'll tell you one thing. a man like mr. burke knows everything. give him my love--no. mind you don't!" "i shall be too scared to say a word to him," began million, whimpering. "you might----" i shut the door. i went into my room across the corridor and prepared to spend a quiet, useful, self-effacing afternoon with my work-basket and my employer's new "pretties." later. what a different afternoon it has turned out to be! i suppose it was about twenty minutes later, but scarcely had i embroidered the first white silken "m" on million's new crêpe-de-chine "nightie" than there was a light tap at my door. i thought it was my own tea. "come in," i called. enter the sandy-haired, middle-aged chamber-maid. she stood, looking mightily perplexed. well, i suppose we are rather a perplexing proposition! two girls of twenty-three, turning up at the hotel cecil with highly luxurious-looking but empty baggage, and clad as it were off a stall at some country rectory jumble sale! blossoming forth the next day into attire of the most chic and costly! one girl, with a voice and accent of what aunt anastasia still calls "the governing class," acting as maid to the other, whose accent is--well, different. i wonder what the chamber-maid thinks? she said: "oh, if you please--" (no "madam" this time, though she was obviously on the verge of putting it in!) "--if you please, miss million sent me to tell you that she wished her maid to come to her at once." good gracious! this was an unexpected move. an "s o s" signal, i supposed, from million in distress! my employer, utterly unable to cope with the situation and the "strange young gentlemen alone," had ordered up reinforcements! an order! yes, it was an order from mistress to maid! my first impulse was frankly to refuse. i wonder how many maids have felt it in their time over an unbargained-for order? "tell her i'm not coming." this was what i nearly said to the chamber-maid. then i remembered that one couldn't possibly say things like that. i sat for another second in disconcerted silence, my needle, threaded with white silk, poised above the nightie. then i said: "tell miss million, please, that i will be with her in a moment." at the time i didn't mean to go. i meant to sit on, quietly sewing, where i was until the visitors had gone. then i could "have it out" with million herself afterwards.... but before i put in three more stitches my heart misgave me again. poor little million! in agonies of nervousness! what a shame to let her down! and supposing that she, in her desperation, came out to fetch me in! i put aside my work and hastened across the corridor to my employer's sitting-room. as i opened the door i heard an unexpected sound. that sound seemed to take me right back to our tiny kitchen in putney, when aunt anastasia was out, and million and i were gossiping together. million's laugh! surely she couldn't be laughing now, in the middle of her nervousness! i went in. a charming picture met me; a picture that might have hung at the academy under the title of "two strings to her bow" or "the eternal trio," or something else appropriate to the grouping of two young men and a pretty girl. the girl (million), black-haired, white-frocked, and smiling, was sitting on a pink-covered couch, close to one of the young men--the bigger, more gorgeously dressed one. this was, of course, mr. james burke. he looked quite as effective as he had done in his coaching get-up. for now he wore a faultless morning-coat and the most george-alexandrian of perfectly creased trousers. his head was as smoothily and glossily black as his own patent-leather boots. "seen close to," as million puts it, he was showily good-looking, especially about the eyes, with which he was gazing into the little heiress's flushed face. they were of that death-dealing compound, deep blue, with thick, black lashes. what a pity that those eyes shouldn't have been bestowed by providence upon some deserving woman, like myself, instead of being wasted upon a mere man. but possibly the honourable james didn't consider them waste. he'd made good use of them and of his persuasive voice, and of his time generally, with miss million, the sausage king's niece! they were sitting there, leaving the other poor young man looking quite out of it, talking as if they were the greatest friends. as to million's nervous terror, i can only say, in her own phrase, that "nervousness and she were strangers!" that irishman had worked a miracle; he'd put million at ease in his presence! i came right in and stood looking as indescribably meek as i knew how. my employer looked up at me with an odd expression on her small face. for the first time there was in it a dash of "i-don't-care-what-you-think-i-shall-do-what-i-like!" and for the first time she addressed me without any hesitation by the name that i, beatrice lovelace, have taken as my _nom de guerre_. "oh, smith," said million--miss million, "i sent for you because i want you to pour out the tea for us. pourin' out is a thing i always did 'ate--hate." "yes, miss," i said. and i turned to obey orders at the tea-table. as meekly as if i'd been put into the world for that purpose alone, i began to pour out tea for miss million and her guests. the tea-table was set in the alcove of the big window, so that i had to turn my back upon the trio. but i could feel eyes upon my back. well! i didn't mind. it was a gracefully fitted back at last, in that perfectly cut, thin black gown, with white muslin apron-strings tied in an impertinent little bow. there was a silence in the room where the hostess had been laughing and the principal guest--i suppose she looked upon this mr. burke as the principal guest--had been purring away to her in that soft irish voice of his. i filled the cups and turned--to meet the honest sunburnt face of the other visitor, mr. reginald brace. he'd got up and taken a quick step towards me. i never saw anything quite so blankly bewildered as his expression as he tried hard not to stare at that little white muslin butterfly cap in my hair. of course! this was his first intimation that i, who had been million's mistress, was now miss million's maid! in a dazed voice he spoke to me: "can't i----do let me help you----" "oh, thank you," i said quietly and businesslikely. "will you take this to miss million, please?" he handed the cups to the others, and i followed and handed the cream, milk, and sugar. it felt like acting in a scene out of some musical comedy, at the gaiety, say. and i daresay it looked like it, what with the pretty, flower-filled sitting-room, and million's french white muslin with the grey-blue sash, and my stage-soubrette livery, and the glossily groomed mr. burke as the young hero! i surprised a very summing-up glance from those black-lashed blue eyes of his as i waited on him. how is it that every syllable spoken in a certain kind of irish voice seems to mean a compliment, even if it's only "thank you" for the sugar? i went back and stood as silent and self-effacing as a statue, or a really well-trained servant, by the tea-things, while the honourable james burke went on improving the shining hour with his millionaire hostess. this was the sort of conversation that had been going on, evidently, from the start: "isn't it an extraordinary thing, now, that i should be sitting here, cosily talking to you like this, when just at this same time last year, my dear miss million, i was sitting and talking to that dear old uncle of yours in chicago?" he said. "every afternoon i used to go and sit by his bedside----" "a year ago, was it?" put in million. "why, mr. burke, i never knew uncle had been poorly so long as that; i thought he was taken ill quite sudden." "oh, yes, of course. so he was," mr. burke put in quickly. "but you know he had an awful bad doing a good time before that. sprained his ankle, poor old boy, and had to lie up for weeks. awfully tedious for him; he used to get so ratty, if you don't mind my saying so, miss million. he used to flare up in his tempers like a match, dear old fellow!" "well, i never. i'm rather that way myself," from the delighted million, who was obviously hanging on every word that fell from the young fortune-hunter's improvising lips. "must be in the family!" "ah, yes; it always goes with that generous, frank, natural disposition. always hasty as well! so much better than sulking, i always think," from the irishman. "when it's over, it's over. why, as your dear old uncle used to say to me, 'jim,' he'd say--he always called me jim----" "did he really, now?" from million. "fancy!" yes, it was all "fancy," i thought. as i stood there listening to that glib west of ireland accent piling detail on detail to the account of the honourable jim's friendship with the old chicago millionaire a queer conviction strengthened in my mind. i didn't believe a word of it! "one of the best old chaps i ever knew. hard and crusty on the outside--a rough diamond, if you know what i mean--but one of nature's own gentlemen. i'm proud to think he had a good opinion of me----" all a make-up for the benefit of the ingenuous, ignorant little heiress to whom he was talking! he was brazenly "pulling" miss million's unsophisticated leg! honourable or not, he was an unscrupulous adventurer, this jim burke! and the other young man--the young bank manager, who sat there balancing a cup of tea in one hand and one of the pale-green gunter's cakes in the other? he hadn't a word to say. there he sat. i glanced at him. he looked wooden. but behind the woodenness there was disapproval, i could see. disapproval of the whole situation. ah! i shouldn't have to ask him what he thought of the honourable jim burke. i could read mr. brace's opinion of him written in every line of mr. brace's clean-shaven, honest face that somehow didn't look so handsome this afternoon. showiness such as that of the big, black-haired, blue-eyed irishman is enough to "put out" the light of any one else! why, why did i allow million to meet him? he'd take care that this was not the only time! he was taking care of that. i heard him saying something about taking miss million on the coach somewhere. i saw miss million clap her hands that are still rather red and rough from housework, manicure them as i will. "what, me! on a coach? what, with all them lovely white horses and that trumpeter?" cried million gleefully. "would i like it? oh, mr. burke!" mr. burke immediately began arranging dates and times for this expedition. he said, i think, "the day after to-morrow----" oh, dear! what am i going to do about this? forbid her to go? up to now everything that i have said has had such an immense influence upon little million. but now? what about that quite new gleam of defiance in her grey eyes? alas! the influence of one girl upon the actions of another girl may be as "immense" as you please, but wait until it is countermined by some newly appeared, attractive young scoundrel of a man! (i am sure he is a scoundrel.) i foresee heated arguments between my young mistress and myself, with many struggles ahead. meanwhile, i feel that my only hope lies in mr. brace. without a word passing between us, i felt that he understood something of my anxiety in this situation. he might be able to help me, though i think i should have thought more of him if he had tried to talk a little this afternoon instead of allowing the conversation to consist of a monologue by that irishman, punctuated by rapturous little cockney comments from miss million. he, mr. brace, left first. i glided away from my station at the table to open the door for him. "thank you," he said. "good afternoon, miss lovelace." i must see him again, or write to him, to ask for his help, i think! the honourable jim tore himself from million's side about five minutes later. "good-bye, miss million. i wish i could tell you how much it's meant to me, meeting my old friend's niece in this way," purred the golden voice, while the honourable jim held million's little hand in his and gazed down upon the enraptured face of her. one sees faces like that sometimes outlining the gallery railing at a theatre, while below the orchestra drawls out a phrase of some dreamy waltz and, on the stage, the matinée hero turns his best profile to the audience and murmurs thrillingly: "little girl! do you dream how different my life could be--with you?" it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the honourable jim had made up his mind to say something of the sort to million, quite soon! of course, his life would be "different" if he had heaps of money. somehow i can't help feeling that, in spite of his clothes and the dash he cuts, he hasn't a penny to his name. "good-bye. _a bientôt_," he said to million. oh, why did i ever bring her to the cecil? as the door closed behind her visitor million breathed a heavy sigh and said, just as those theatre-going girls say at the drop of a curtain: "wasn't he lovely?" then she threw herself down on to the couch, which bounced. something fell from it on to the floor. "there, if he hasn't left his walkin'-stick be'ind him!" exclaimed million, picking up a heavy ebony cane with a handsome gold top to it. i realised that here was an excuse, hatched up by that conscienceless young celt, to return shortly. million didn't see that. she exclaimed: "now i've got to run after him with it, i s'pose----" "no, you haven't, miss million. i will take it. it's the maid's place," i interposed. and quickly i took the cane and slipped out into the corridor with it. i caught up with the tall visitor just as he reached the lift. "you left your cane in miss million's room, sir," i said to him in a tone as stiff as that of a lady's-maid turned into a pillar of ice. the big irishman turned. but he did not put out his hand for the cane at once. he just said, "that's very kind of you," and smiled at me. smiled with all those bold blue eyes of his. then he said in a voice lower and more flattering even than he had used to the heiress herself: "i wanted a word with you, miss lovelace, i think they call you. it's just this----" he paused, smiled more broadly all over his handsome face, and added these surprising words: "what's your game, you two?" "game!--i beg your pardon!" i said haughtily. (i hope i didn't show how startled and confused i was. what could he mean by "our game"?) i gazed up at him, and he gave a short laugh. then he said: "is it because nothing suits a pretty woman better than that kit? is it just because you know the man's not born that can resist ye in a cap and apron?" i was too utterly taken aback to think of any answer. i thrust the cane into his hands, and fled back, down the corridor, into my mistress's room. and, as i went in, i think i heard the honourable jim still laughing. chapter xiii my first "afternoon out" "don't you think it's about time you went and had an afternoon out, smith?" this was the remark addressed to me by my employer the morning after the afternoon of her first tea-party. for a moment i didn't answer. the fact is i was too angry! this is absurd, of course. for days i've scolded million for forgetting our quick change of positions, and for calling me "miss" or "miss beatrice." and yet, now that the new heiress is beginning to realise our respective rôles and to call me, quite naturally, by the name which i chose for myself, i'm foolishly annoyed. i feel the stirring of a rebellious little thought. "what cheek!" this must be suppressed. "you know you did ought to have one afternoon a week," our once maid-of-all-work reminded me as she sat in a pale-blue glorified dressing-gown in front of the dressing-table mirror. i had drawn up a lower chair beside her, and was doing my best with the nails of one of her still coarse and roughened little hands, gently pushing the ill-treated skin away from the "half-moons." million's other hand was dipped into a clouded marble bowl full of warm, lemon-scented emollient stuff. "here you've been doin' for me for well over the week now, and haven't taken a minute off for yourself." "oh, i haven't wanted one, thanks," i replied rather absently. i wasn't thinking of what million was saying. i was pondering rather helplessly over the whole situation; thinking of million, of her childish ignorance and her money, of myself, of that flattering-tongued, fortune-hunting irishman who had asked me in the corridor what "our game" was, of that coach-drive that he intended to take million to-morrow, of what all this was going to lead to. "friday, this afternoon. i always had fridays off. you'd better take it," the new heiress said, with quite a new note of authority. "you can pop out dreckly after lunch, and i shan't want you back again until it's time for you to come and do me up for late dinner." miss million dines in her room; but she is, as she puts it, "breakin' in all her low-cut gowns while she's alone, so as to get accustomed to the feel of it." i looked at her. i thought, "why does she want me out of the way?" for i couldn't help guessing that this was at the bottom of miss million's offering her maid that afternoon out! i said: "oh, i don't think there's anywhere i want to go to, just yet." "better go, and have it settled, like. makes it more convenient to you, and more convenient to me, later on, if we know exactly how we stand about your times off," said million quite obstinately. "i shan't want you after two this afternoon." this she evidently meant quite literally. i shall have to go, and to leave her to her own devices. i wonder what they will be? perhaps an orgy of more shopping, without me, buying all the cerise atrocities that i wouldn't allow her to look at. garments and trimmings of cerise would be a pitfall to miss million but for her maid. so would what she calls "a very sweet shade of healiotrope." perhaps it's worse than that, though. perhaps she's having mr. burke to tea again, and wishes to keep it from the maid who said such disapproving things about him. i shall have to leave that, for the present.... i shall just have to take this afternoon out. i went out, wondering where i should go. my feet seemed of their own accord to take me westwards, through trafalgar square and pall mall. i walked along, seeing little of the sauntering summer crowds. my mind was full of my own thoughts, my own frettings. i'd cut myself off from my own people, and what was going to come of it? not the glorious independence i'd hoped for. no; a whole heap of new difficulties, and anything but a free hand wherewith to cope with them! i came out of this rather gloomy reflection to find myself in bond street. that narrow, aristocrat-of-all-the-thoroughfares has seen a good deal of miss million and her maid during the last couple of days. not much of a change for my afternoon off! i didn't want to do any more shopping; in fact, i shan't be able to do any more shopping for myself for the next six months, seeing that of the two quarters' salary that i asked miss million to advance me there remains about five shillings and sixpence. but i might give myself a little treat; say, tea in a nice place with a good band and a picture-gallery first. that might help me to forget, for an hour or so, the troubles and trials of being the lady's-maid to a millionairess. this was why i paid away one of my few remaining shillings at the turnstile of the fine art society, and sauntered into the small, cool gallery. there was rather an amusing picture-show on. drawings of things that i myself had been up to my eyes in for the last day or so; the latest fashions for nineteen-fourteen! drawings by french artists that made clothes, fashion-plates, look as fascinating and as bizarre as the most wonderful orchids. such curious titles, too, were given to these clever little pictures of feminine attire: "it is dark in the park"; "a rose amid the roses." there was one picture of a simple frock made not unlike miss million's white muslin with the blue sash, but how different frocks painted are from frocks worn! or was it that the french manikin in the design knew how to wear the---- my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a voice speaking above my shoulder, speaking to me: "ah! and is this where miss million's maid gathers her inspirations for dressing miss million?" i knew who this was, even before i turned from the pictures to face what looked like another very modern fashion-plate. a fashion-design for the attire of a young man about town, the honourable jim burke! so he wasn't calling on miss million again this afternoon, after all! that ought to be one weight off my mind; and yet it wasn't. i felt curiously nervous of this man. i don't know why. he raised his glossy hat and smiled down at me. he spoke in the courteous tone of one enchanted to meet some old acquaintance. "good afternoon, miss lovelace!" a maid may not cut her mistress's chosen friends, even on her afternoon out. i was obliged to say "good afternoon," which i did in a small and icy voice. then, in spite of myself, i heard myself saying: "my name is smith." the honourable jim said coolly: "oh, i think not?" i said, standing there, all in black, against the gay background of coloured french drawings: "smith is the name that i am known by as miss million's maid." "exactly," said the big young irishman gently, looking down at me and leaning on his ebony, gold-headed stick. he added, almost in a friendly manner: "you know, that's just what i've been wanting to have a little talk to you about." "a talk to me?" i said. "yes, to you, miss smith-lovelace," he nodded. "you do belong to the old lovelace court lovelaces, i suppose. the lady anastasia lot, that had to let the place. great pity! yes! i know all about you," said this alarming young man with those blue eyes that seemed to look through my face into the wall and out again into bond street. "let's see, in your branch there'll be only you and the one brother left, i believe? lovelace, reginald m., lieutenant alexandra's own, i.a. what does he think of this?" "of which?" i fenced, not knowing what else to say to this surprising and disconcerting person. "you seem to know a good deal about people's families, mr. burke." this i thought was a good way of carrying the war into the enemy's own country, "or to say you do." i added this with great emphasis. i meant him to realise that i saw through him. that i'd guessed it was all pure romancing what he had been murmuring yesterday to my unsuspecting little mistress about his friendship with her uncle. that would astonish this young fortune-hunter, thought i. that would leave him without a word to say for himself. and then he'd leave me. he'd turn and go, foiled. and even if he persisted in his attentions to the dazzled miss million, he would remain in a very wholesome state of terror of miss million's maid. this was what i foresaw happening in a flash. picture my astonishment, therefore, at what did happen. the young man took me up without a quiver. "ah, you mean that affecting little yarn about old man million, in chicago, don't you?" he said pleasantly. "very touching, you'll agree, the way i'd cling to his bedside and put up with his flares of temper, the dear old (nature's) gentleman----" i would have given yet another quarter's salary not to have done what i did at this moment. i laughed. that laugh escaped me--i don't know how. how awful! there i stood in the gallery, with only a sort of custodian and a couple of art-students about, laughing up at this well-dressed, showy, unprincipled irishman as if we were quite friends! i who disapproved of him so utterly! i who mean to do all in my power to keep him and million's money apart! he said: "didn't i know you had a sense of humour? let us continue this very interesting conversation among the polar landscapes downstairs. that's what i came in here to see. we'll sit and admire the groups of penguins among the icebergs while we talk." "no; i don't think we will," said i. i didn't mean to do anything this young man meant me to. i wasn't million, to be hypnotised by his looks and his clothes and his honeyed irish voice, forsooth. "i don't care to see those photographs. not a bit like the pole, probably. i am not coming down, mr. burke." "ah, come along," he persisted, smiling at me as he stood at the top of the stairs that led to the other exhibition. "be a good little girl and come, now!" "certainly not," i said, with considerable emphasis on the "not." i repeated steadily: "i am not coming. i have nothing to talk to you about. and, really, i think i have seen quite enough----" "of you!" was my unspoken ending to this sentence. these "asides" seem to sprinkle one's conversations with words written, as it were, in invisible ink. how seldom can one publish them abroad, these mental conclusions of one's remarks! no, no; life is quite complicated enough without that.... so i concluded, rather lamely, looking round the gallery with the drawings of orientalised europeans: "i have seen quite enough of this exhibition. so i am going----" "to have tea, of course. that is a very sound scheme of yours, miss lovelace," said mr. burke briskly but courteously. "you'll let me have the pleasure of taking you somewhere, won't you?" "certainly not," i said again. this time the emphasis was on the "certainly." then, as i was turning to leave the gallery, i looked again at this mr. burke. he may be what my far-away brother reggie would call "a wrong 'un." and i believe that he is. but he is certainly a very presentable-looking wrong 'un--far more presentable than i, beatrice lovelace, am--was, i mean. thank goodness, and my mistress's salary, there is absolutely no fault to be found with my entirely plain black outdoor things. and, proportionately, i have spent more of the money on my boots, gloves, and neckwear than on the other part of my turn-out. there's some tradition in our family of lady anastasia's having laid down this law. it is quite "sound," as mr. burke called it. now this presentable-looking but otherwise very discreditable mr. burke was quite capable of following me wherever i went. and if there is one thing i should loathe it is any kind of "fuss" in a public place. so, i thought swiftly, perhaps the best way of avoiding this fuss is to go quietly--but forbiddingly--to have tea. i needn't let him pay for it. so i said coldly to the big young man at my heels in the entrance: "i am going to blank's." "oh, no," said mr. burke pleasantly, "we are going to white's. don't you like white's?" i had never been there in my life, of course, but i did not tell him so. chapter xiv cream and compliments in a few minutes we were sitting opposite to each other at a pretty table in the upper room. we were close to the window and could look down on the bond street crowd of people and cars. in front of us was the daintiest little tea that i had ever seen. this young man is, of course, accustomed to ordering the sort of tea that women like? "and this is the second time that you have poured out tea for me, miss lovelace!" remarked the honourable jim burke, as he took the cup from my hand. "admirable little hostess that you are, remembering not to ask me whether i take sugar; storing up in your mind that what i like is a cupful of sugar with a little tea to moisten it!" this was quite true. i felt myself blush as i sat there. then i glared at him over the plate of delicious cakes. the young man smiled; a nice smile, that one must allow. "you look like a little angry black pigeon now. you've just the movements of a pigeon ready to peck at some one, and the plumage," he said, with a critical blue eye on my close-fitting black jacket. "all it lacks is just a touch of bright coral-red somewhere. a chain, now; a charm on the bangle; a flower. it's to you i ought to have sent those carnations, instead of to your----do you call her your mistress, that other girl? that one with the voice? mad idea, the whole arrangement, isn't it? just think it over for a moment, and tell me yourself. don't you think it's preposterous?" "i--er----" i didn't know what to say. i bit into one of the little cakes that seemed all chocolate and solidity outside. inside it was all cream and soft-heartedness and sherry flavouring, and it melted over on to the crisp cloth. "there, now, look what a mess you're making," commented the young irishman with the undeservedly pleasant voice. "try one of these almondy fellows that you can see what you're doing with. to return to you and your masquerade as miss million's maid----" "it is not a masquerade," i explained with dignity. "i don't know what you mean by your--i am in miss million's service. i am her maid!" "have some strawberries and cream. really fine strawberries, these," interpolated the honourable jim. "what was i saying--you her maid? wouldn't it be just as sensible if i myself were to go and get myself taken on as valet by that other young fellow that was sitting there at tea in her rooms yesterday--the bank manager, or whatever he was? curious idea to have a deaf-and-dumb chap as a manager." here i really had to bite my lips not to laugh again. certainly poor mr. brace had descended, like mr. toots, into a well of silence for the whole of that afternoon. i daresay he thought the more. "when i heard at the cecil that all those boxes and things belonged to the very young lady with her maid, naturally enough i thought i knew which of the two was the mistress," pursued the honourable jim in a sort of spoken reverie, eating strawberries and cream with the gusto of a schoolgirl. "then when i came up and saw the wrong one waiting on the other, and looking like a picture in her apron----" "please don't say those things to me," i interrupted haughtily. "why not?" "because i don't like it." "it's a queer disposition the lovelace women must be of, then. different from the others. to take offence? to shy at the sound of a man's voice saying how sweet they look in something they've got new to wear? i will remember that," said mr. burke, still in that tone of reverie. with every word he spoke i longed more ardently to feel very angry with this young man. yet every word seemed to make genuine anger more impossible. sitting there over his strawberries and cream, he looked like some huge, irresponsible, and quite likeable boy. i had to listen to him. he went on: "then when i saw you as the maid, i thought you'd just changed places for a joke. i made sure 'twas you that were miss million." "what?" i cried. for now i really was angry. it was the same kind of hot, unreasonable, snobbish anger that surged all over me when million (my mistress) began to lose her habit of saying "miss," and of speaking to me as if i'd come from some better world. utterly foolish and useless anger, in the circumstances. still, there it was. i flushed with indignation. i looked straight at the honourable jim burke as i said furiously: "then you really took me--me!--for the niece of that dreadful old--of that old man in chicago?" "i did. but, remember," said mr. burke, "i'd never set eyes on that old man." "ah! you admit that, then," i said triumphantly and accusingly, "in spite of all that long story to miss million. you admit yourself that it was all a make-up! what do you suppose miss million will say to that?" the young fortune-hunter looked at me with perfect calm and said: "who's to tell her that i admitted i'd never seen her old uncle?" "to tell her? why!" i took up. "her maid! supposing i go and tell her----" "ah, but don't you see? i'm not supposing any such thing," said mr. burke. "you'll never tell, miss lovelace." "how d'you know?" "i know," he said. "don't i know that you'd never sneak?" and, of course, this was so true. equally, of course, i was pleased and annoyed with him at the same time for knowing it. i frowned and stared away down bond street. then i turned to him again and said: "you said to me yesterday, 'what is your game?'" "so i did. but now that i've found out you're not the heiress herself, i know what your game is." "what?" "the same as mine," declared this amazing young fortune-hunter, very simply. "neither of us has a penny. so we both 'go where money is.' isn't that it, now?" "no, no!" i said hotly. "you are hatching up an introduction to miss million, deceiving her, laughing at her, plotting against her, i expect. i'm just an ordinary lady's-maid to her, earning my wages." "by the powers, they'll take some earning before you're done," prophesied the young irishman, laughing, "mark my words. you'll have your work cut out for you, minding that child let loose with its hands full of fireworks. i feel for you, you poor little girl. i do, indeed." "really. you--you don't behave as if you did. people like you won't make my 'work' any easier," i told him severely. "you know you are simply turning miss million's head, mr. burke." "oh, you wrong me there," he said solemnly. "i don't wrong you at all. i see through you perfectly," i said. and i did. his mouth might be perfectly grave, but blue imps were dancing in his eyes. "you are flattering and dazzling poor mi--my mistress, just because she has never met any one like you before!" "ah! you've met so many of us unprincipled men of the world!" sighed mr. burke. "i daren't hope to impose on your experience, miss lovelace. (we'll have two lemon water ices, please"--to the waitress.) "no, but you are imposing on her," i scolded him, "with your--your stories of knowing her uncle, and all that. and now you're----" "well, what are my other crimes?" i took breath and said: "you're asking her out for drives in that coach of yours----" "would to heaven it were my coach," sighed lord ballyneck's youngest son. "it belongs to my good pal leo rosencranz, that turn-out! i am merely----" "what i want to know is," i broke in very severely, "where is all this going to lead to?" he took the wafer off his ice before replying. then he said very mildly: "brighton, i thought." isn't an irishman the most hopeless sort of person to whom to try to talk sense? particularly angry sense! "i don't mean the coach-drive," i said crossly. "you knew that, mr. burke. i mean your acquaintance with my employer. where is that going to lead to?" "i hope it's going to lead to mutual benefits," announced the honourable jim briskly. "now, since you're asking me my intentions like this, i'll tell them to you. i've never before had the knife laid to my throat like this, and by a bit of a chestnut-haired girl, too! well, i intend to see a good deal of miss million. i shall introduce to her a lot of people who'll be useful, one way and another. haven't i sent two friends of mine to call on her this afternoon?" "have you?" i said. so that was the reason million insisted on my taking the afternoon off! she didn't intend me to see his friends! i wondered who they were. mr. burke went on: "between ourselves, i intend to be a sort of cook's guide through life to your young friend--your employer, miss million. a young woman in her position simply can't do without some philanthropist to show her the ropes. perhaps she began by thinking you might be able to do that, miss--smith?" he laughed softly. he said: "but i shall soon have her turning to me for guidance as naturally as a needle turns to the north. i tell you i'm the very man to help a forlorn orphan who doesn't know what to do with a fortune. money, by ishtar! how well i know where to take it! pity i never have a stiver of my own to do it with!" "you haven't?" i said. "child, i'm a pauper," he replied. "the descendant of irish kings; need i say more? there's not a page-boy at the cecil who hasn't more ordinary comforts in his home than i have. my father's the poorest peer in ireland. my brother's the poorest eldest son; and i--i tell you i can't afford to spend a week at ballyneck; the damp in the rooms would ruin my clothes; the sound of the rats rompin' up and down the tapestry would destroy my high spirits; and then where'd i be?" i looked at him. he, too, then, was of the nouveaux-pauvres, the class that is sinking down, down under the scrambling, upward-climbing feet of the successful. but he took the situation in a different spirit from the way in which my aunt anastasia took it. he frankly made what he could out of it. he hoisted the jolly roger and became a pirate on the very seas that had engulfed the old order. disgraceful of him.... one ought not to wish to listen to what he had to say. "champagne tastes on a beer income; that's bad. but here's this little--this little million girl with a champagne income and no tastes at all yet. i shall be worth half her income to her in consequence," he announced. "i shall be able to give her priceless tips. advice, you know, about--oh, where to buy all the things she'll want. the cars. the wines and cigars. (even a grown-up woman isn't often to be trusted about those.) the country house she'll have to take. what about lovelace court, miss lovelace? care to have her there, in case the people who have got it want to turn out? i've no doubt i could wangle that for you, if you liked." i said, feeling bewildered, and flurried, and amused all at once: "what is 'wangle'?" the honourable jim burke laughed aloud as he devoured his lemon water ice. "you'll know the meaning of that mystic verb before you have known me very long," he said. "it's the way i make my living." i looked at him, sitting there so debonair and showy in his expensive raiment, talking so cynically in that golden voice. so typically one of "our" world, as aunt anastasia prophetically calls it; yet so ready to rub shoulders with every other kind of world that there may be--jews, theatrical people, hotel porters, pork-butchers, heiresses! i asked, rather inquisitively: "make your living how? what do you do?" "people, mostly," said the honourable jim with a cheery grin. no; there's no getting any truth or any sense out of a man like that. just before we rose from the tea-table i said to him: "and the end of it all? i suppose you'll marry--i suppose you'll get miss million to marry you!" "marry?" said mr. burke with a little quick movement of his broad chest and shoulders. an odd movement! it seemed mixed up of a start, a shudder, and a shaking aside of something. "marry? a woman with a voice like that? and hands like that?" this touched my professional pride as manicurist and lady's-maid. i told him: "her hands are much better since i've been looking after them!" "they must have been pretty rough-hewn," said mr. burke, candidly, "before!" "of course, they were in a horrid state," i said unguardedly. "but yours would be red and rough if you'd had to scrub and to wash up and to black-lead fireplaces----" "what? had the little million been doing all that before she came into uncle's money?" cried the honourable jim, with delighted interest beaming all over his face. "truth is stranger than cinema films! tell me on, now; where was this dollar princess in service?" "with m----" i began. then i shut my lips with a snap. what was happening? this young man that i had meant to cross-examine was simply "pumping" me! not only that, but i was very nearly getting to the point of being ready to tell him anything he asked. how had this come about? anyhow, it must not be. i put on a very forbidding look and said: "i shall not tell you where miss million was." "haven't ye told me? she was with you or your relatives. if that isn't the grandest joke!" chuckled this unsuppressable young man. "don't attempt to deny it, for i see it all now. isn't it the finest bit of light opera? isn't it better than me wildest dreams? and how did she shape, the heiress? what sort of a character would you give her? was she an early riser--honest, obliging? could she wait at table? and is it a bit of her own she's getting back now, setting you to hand round the cups?" he laughed aloud. "can't i see it all now--the pride of her? she that was waiting on you, she's got you to skivvy for her now! oh, i wouldn't have missed this drama of the domestic servant problem! don't hope to keep me out of the stalls, miss lovelace, after this! it's in the front row i shall be in future for every performance!" with this alarming threat he finished his ice and laughed once more, joyously. while i was debating what to say, he took up the conversation again. "tell me, are you going to get miss million's hands to look exactly like yours?" he asked, fastening his eyes on my fingers. i clenched my fists and hid them away under the table. "ah, but i noticed them at once. and your voice? are you going to teach her to speak exactly as you do? because, when that happens----" he paused (at last). "well?" i said, beginning to put on my new gloves. "when that happens, what?" "why, then i shall certainly beg her to marry me," declared the irishman. "faith, i'll go down on my knees to the girl then." "not until then?" i suggested. i was really anxious to get through this baffling young man's nonsense. i wanted to find out what he really meant to do about all this. but he only shook his head with that mock-solemn air. he only said: "child, who knows what's going to happen to any of us, and when?" half the way back to the cecil (mr. burke had hailed a taxi for me and had then got into it with me) i was wondering what i am to say to my mistress, miss million, about the happenings of my afternoon out. how am i to break it to her that i spent nearly the whole of it in the society of a young man against whom i have been warning her--million--ever since he first sent in his card? "does your miss million allow flowers?" mr. burke said cheerfully as we whizzed down the haymarket. "to you, i mean?" it was an outrageous thing to say. but in that voice it somehow didn't sound outrageous, or even disrespectful. the voice of the celt, whether irish, highland-scottish, or welsh, does always seem to have the soft pedal down on it. and it's a most unfair advantage, that voice, for any man to possess. i said hastily: "really, i don't think you need speak to me as if i were a maid on her afternoon----" here i remembered that this was exactly what i was. and again i was forced into reluctant laughter. "you've no business to be taking the job on at all," said the young man at my side in the taxi, quite gravely this time. "was there nothing else you could do, miss lovelace?" "no; nothing." "what about woman's true sphere? you ought to get married." "very easy to say that, for a man," i said. "how could i get married?" really earnestly he replied: "have you tried?" "no! of course not!" "you should," he said. he looked down at me in a curious, kindly way. he said: "i've wangled things harder than that both for myself and my friends. men like a wife that can wear diamonds as if they belonged to her; a wife that can talk the same language as some of their best clients. well! here's a charming young girl, with looks, breeding, and a fine old name. can do!" he brought his flat hand down on the top of his ebony cane, and added, "have you a hatred of foreigners?" "foreigners?" i repeated, rather breathless again over the sudden conversational antics of a young man who can't be serious for two seconds together. "foreigners? what for?" "why, for a husband! supposing now that i were to introduce to you a fellow i knew, a fellow with 'a heart of gold' and pretty well everything else in metal to match it, like all these german jews----" i gasped: "you think i ought to marry a german jew?" "that's just the merest idea of mine. startled you, did it? we'll discuss it later, you and i. but it'll take time. lots of time--and, by jove! there isn't any too much of that now," he exclaimed, glancing at his wrist-watch as we passed the lions of trafalgar square, "if i'm to get back to your--to our miss million----" "is she expecting you," i asked rather sharply, "again?" "she is not. but here are these two friends of mine calling on her; and i'm bound to put in an appearance before they leave. rather so! i'm not turning them loose on any new heiresses, without keeping my eye on what they're up to," explained the honourable james burke with his usual bland frankness. "so here i stop the taxi." he got out. i saw him feel in all his pockets, and at last he took out half a sovereign. (the last, i daresay.) then he turned to me. "i'll give you three minutes' start, child, to get back to the hotel and into that cap and apron of yours. one more word.... go through the lounge, and you'll see the animals feeding. go on, man"--to the taxi driver: "the hotel cecil; fly!" chapter xv a different kind of party miss million and her callers were having tea in the bigger "lounge," or whatever they call the gilded hall behind the great glass doors which shut it off from the main entrance. now, this was the first time that my mistress had plucked up courage to take a meal downstairs since we had come to the cecil. i wondered how she'd been getting on. i must see! so, still in my outdoor things, i passed the glass doors. i walked into the big tea-room. there were palms, and much gilding, and sofas, and dark-eyed, weary-looking waiters wheeling round little carts spread with dainties, and offering the array of éclairs and flat apple-cakes to the different groups--largely made up of american visitors--who were sitting at the plate-glass-topped tables. i couldn't see million--miss million's party--anywhere at first! i looked about.... at the further end of the place a string band, half-hidden behind greenery, was playing "i shall dream of you the whole night." peals of light laughter and ripples of talk came from a gay-looking group of frocks--with just one man's coat amongst them--gathered around a table near the band. i noticed that the eyes of everybody within earshot were turning constantly towards this table. so i looked, too. at whom were they all staring? at a plump, bright-haired woman in all-white, who was obviously entertaining the party--to say nothing of the rest of the room. she had a figure that demanded a good deal of french lingerie blouse, but not much skirt. the upright feather in her hat was yellow; jewelled slides glittered in her brass-bright hair; her eyes were round and very black. she reminded me of a sulphur-crested, white cockatoo i had seen at the zoo. but where had i seen her before? she puzzled and fascinated me. i stood a little way off, forgetting my errand, watching this vivacious lady, the centre of the group. she was waving her cigarette to punctuate her remarks---- "oh, young jim's one of the best--the very best, my dears. tiptop family and all. who says blood doesn't tell, leo? ah! he's a good old pal o' mine, is the hon. jim burke, specially on fridays (treasury day, my dear); but it's the army i'm potty about myself. the captain (and dash the whiskers), that's the tiger that puts leo and his lot in the shade----" here followed a wave of the cigarette towards the only man of the party. he was stout and astrachan-haired; a jew even from the back view. "give me the military man, what, what," prattled on the cockatoo lady, whose cigarette seemed to spin a web about her of blue floating smoke wisps. "that's the boy that makes a hole in vi's virgin heart!" a fan-like gesture of her left hand, jewelled to the knuckles, upon the spread of the lady's embroidered blouse emphasised this declaration. "them's the fellers! sons of the empire--or of the alhambra!" wound up the cockatoo lady with a rollicking laugh. and as she laughed i caught her full face and the flash of a line of prominent, fascinatingly white teeth that lighted up her whole expression as a white wave lights up the whole shore. then i knew where i'd seen her before--in a hundred theatrical posters between the hotel cecil and the bond street tea-shop that i had just left. yes, i'd seen this lady's highly coloured portrait above the announcement: miss vi vassity, london's love. england's premier comedienne! so that was who she was! beside her on the couch a couple of younger girls, also rather "stagily" dressed, were hanging on every word that fell from the music-hall favourite's vermilioned lips. with her back to me, and with her chair drawn a little aside from the others, there sat yet another woman. she was enormously tall and slim, and eccentrically clad in oriental draperies of some sombre, richly patterned stuff. this gave her the air of some graceful snake. she turned and twisted the whole of her long, lissom person, now putting up a hand to smooth her slim throat, now stretching out a slender ankle; but all the time posing, and admiring the poses in the nearest mirror. she was scarcely listening to miss vi vassity's chatter. "tea? any more, anybody?" miss vassity's black eyes glanced about her. "baby? sybil? lady g.?" (the latter to the cobra-woman). "you, my dear?" turning to some one who was hidden behind her. "half a cup--oh, come on now. it'll have to be a whole cup; we don't break our china here, as my dear old mother used to say at baa-lamb. "you know i sprang from the suburbs, girls, don't you? better to spring than to sink, eh, miss millions--and trillions? here you are; i'll pour it out." the music-hall idol leant forward to the tea-tray. beyond her sumptuous shoulder i caught a glimpse at last of the woman who'd been hidden. i gasped with surprise. she was my miss million! yes! so these were the friends whom mr. burke had sent to call on her! and there she sat--or shrank--she who was supposed to be the hostess of the party! beneath her expensive new hat--quite the wrong one to wear with that particular frock, which she changed when i went out--her face was wide-eyed and dazed. she who had shown so much self-confidence at her last tea-party with just those two young men had lost it all in the midst of these other people. there she sat, silent, lips apart, bewildered eyes moving from one to the other. between the languid, posing cobra-woman and the gay, chattering, sulphur-crested cockatoo, she looked like a small hypnotised rabbit. i slipped up to her with my best professional manner on. "did you want me for anything, miss?" i asked in my lowest and most respectful tone. poor little million's face lighted up into a look of the most pathetic relief as she turned and beheld her one friend in that tea-room. "ow! s-smith! come in, have you?" she exclaimed, giggling nervously. then, turning to the music-hall artiste, she explained: "this is my lady's-maid!" "and very nice, too!" said miss vi vassity promptly, with one of those black-eyed glances that seemed to swing round from me to million, thence to the cobra-woman, the other girls, the stout young jew, all of whom were staring hard at me. she ended up in a lightning-quick wink and a quick turn to the long glass that stood beside her teacup which, i suppose, had contained what those people the other day called a rattlesnake cocktail. "i didn't send for you, smith, but never mind since you're here," my young mistress said, almost clinging to me in her nervousness. "you can pop upstairs and begin to put out my evening things, as usual----" "extra smart to-night, smith, extra smart; she's comin' on to a box at the palace to see little me in my great dazzling act," put in the actress. "got to be very dressy for that, old dear. gala night at the opera isn't in it. "the black pearl rope you'll wear, of course. and your diamond fender to wave your hand to me in, please!" "ow!" breathed the dismayed heiress. "well, i--i don't know as how i'd expected----" she hasn't acquired any ornaments at all as yet. and, somehow, i knew that this black-eyed, bright-haired actress knew that perfectly well. for some reason she was pulling poor million's leg just as mercilessly as her precious friend the honourable jim---- even as i was thinking this there strolled up the room to our group the cool, detached, and prosperous-looking figure of the honourable jim himself--the man who had just got out of my taxi at charing cross. miss vi jingled her gold mesh vanity-bag at him with its hanging cluster of gold charms, gold pencil, gold cigarette-case. "hi, sunny jim! you that know everything about 'what's worn, and where,'" she cried. "i'm just telling your friend miss million that nobody'd call on her again unless she puts on all the family diamonds for our little supper after the show to-night!" miss million looked anguished. she really believed that she was going to be "let down" before her much-admired mr. burke (scamp!) before the cobra-lady and the other theatrical lights. i knew how she felt! she would be covered with disgrace, she would be "laughed at behind her back" because she was a millionairess--without any diamonds.... they'd think she wasn't a real millionairess.... i had to come to the rescue. so i looked million steadily and reassuringly in the eye as i announced quite distinctly, but in my "quiet, respectful" voice: "i am afraid, miss, that there is scarcely time to get the diamonds for to-night. you remember that all the jewellery is at the bank." indescribable relief spread itself over million's small face. she felt saved. she didn't mind anything now, not even the loudness with which the bright-haired comedienne burst out laughing again. i wonder why that shrewd, vivacious woman comes to call on million? it's not the money this time, surely? miss vi vassity must draw the largest salary of any one on the halls? why does she sit beaming at my young mistress, drawing her out, watching her? and the other, the cobra-woman; what's she doing there in a world to which she doesn't seem to belong at all? and the jew they call leo? will they all be at the party they're taking miss million to to-night? they all burst into fresh chatter about it. under cover of the noise the honourable jim edged closer to me and murmured, without looking at me: "all her jewels at the bank, is it? that's not true, child, while she has a kohinoor--for a maid!" fearful impertinence again. but, thank goodness, none of the others heard it. and he, who's been drinking tea and chattering with me the whole afternoon, had the grace not to glance at me as i slipped away out of the tea-room and to the hall. here another surprise awaited me. miss million began to enjoy her tea-party tremendously--as soon as it was all over and she herself was safely back in her own bedroom with her maid. she didn't seem to realise that she had only then emerged from a state of shrinking and speechless panic! "jer see all those people, smith, that i was having such a fine old time with?" she exulted, as i began to unfasten her afternoon frock. "miss vi vassity, if you please! jer recanise her from the pictures? lor'! when i did use to get to a music-hall to hear her, once in a blue moon, little did i ever think i'd one day be sitting there as close to her as i am to you, talkin' away nineteen to the dozen to her, as if she was nobody! "wasn't that a sweet blouse she'd got on? i wonder what she's goin' to put on to-night after the theatre; you know we're having supper all together, her and me and the honourable mr. burke and lady golightly-long, that tall lady, and some other gentlemen and ladies that's coming on from somewhere. "and, smith! i don't think i'm going to wear that white frock you're putting out there," concluded my young mistress, rather breathlessly; "there don't seem to me to be enough style about it for the occasion; i'll wear me cerise evening one with the spangles." "cerise? but you haven't got a cerise evening frock," i began. "i didn't let you order that----" then i caught million's half-rueful, half-triumphant glance at a new white carton box on the wicker chair beside her bed. and i saw what had happened. no sooner was her maid's back turned than miss million had wired, or telephoned, or perhaps called at that shop, and secured that cherry-coloured creation. it would have looked daringly effective on--say, miss lee white in an alhambra burlesque. on little million it would have a vulgarity not to be described in words. i'd thought i'd guided her safely away from it! and now this! "yes, you see i thought better of buying that gown," said the heiress, flushed but defiant. "you see, you were wrong about those very bright shades not being the c'rect thing; why, look at what that lady golightly-long had got on her back! red and green and blue trimmings, and i don't know what all, all stuck on at once. and she ought to know what's what, if anybody did," million persisted, "c'nsidering she's a earl's cousin and one of the highest in the land!" "certainly one of the longest," i said, thinking of those unending lissom limbs swathed in the futurist draperies of that cobra-woman. million went on to inform me, impressively, that this lady, too, was "a perfeshional." does classic dancing, they call it. needn't do it for her living, of course. but she says she's 'wrapped up in the art of it.' likes to do what she likes, i s'pose she means. "she's got a lovely home of her own, miss vi vassity told me, in aberdeenshire. "not only that, but a big bungalow she has near the river. sometimes she has down parties of her own particular friends to watch her dancing on the lawn there, in the moonlight. and, smith!" here million gave a little skip out of her skirt, "what jer think?" "what?" i asked, as i drew the cerise frock from its wrappings. (worse, far worse than in the shop. still, i'd got to let her wear it, i suppose. and it may be drowned by miss vi vassity's voice at the supper-table.) "why, she's going to ask me down there, too, to one of her week-end parties! think o' that! an invitation to visit! some time when mr. burke's going. he often goes to the house. all most artistic, he told me; and a man-cook from vienna. fancy!" breathed miss million. "fancy me stayin' in a house like that!" i took up her ivory brushes and began to do her hair. "you're very quiet to-night," said million. "didn't you enjoy your afternoon out?" "oh, yes. quite, thank you," i said rather absently. i was longing to have the room to myself, with peace and quiet to put away miss million's things--and to think in. to think over "my afternoon out," with its unexpected encounter, its unexpected conversation! and to meditate over that other surprise that i'd found waiting for me at the end of it. at last miss million was dressed. i put the beautiful mother-o'-pearl, satin-lined wrap upon her shoulders, sturdily made against the flaring, flimsy, cerise-coloured ninon. "needn't wait up for me," said my mistress, bright-eyed as a child with tremulous excitement over this new expedition. "i'll wake you if i can't manage to undo myself. don't suppose i shall get back until 'the divil's dancin' hour,' as that mr. burke calls it. he'll be waitin' for me now, downstairs." really that young man lives a life of contrasts! tea with miss million's maid! dinner and supper with miss million herself! i wonder which he considers the more amusing bit of light opera? "pity i can't take you with me to-night, really ... seems so lonely-like for you, left in this great place and all," said the kind-hearted little million at the door. "got something to read, have you?" "oh, yes, thanks!" i laughed and nodded. "i have got something to read." chapter xvi a word of warning and as the door shut behind my mistress i took that "something to read" out of its hiding-place behind my belt and my frilly apron-bib. it's the letter that was waiting for me when i came in. i've hardly had time to grasp the contents of it yet. it's addressed in a small, precise, masculine hand: "to miss smith, "c/o miss million, "hotel cecil." but inside it begins: "my dear miss lovelace:--" and then it goes on: "i am putting another name on the envelope, because i think that this is how you wish to be addressed for business purposes. i hope you will not be offended, or consider that i am impertinent in what i am going to say." it sounds like the beginning of some scathing rebuke to the recipient of the letter, doesn't it? but i don't think it's that. the letter goes on: "am writing to ask you whether you will allow me the privilege of seeing you somewhere for a few minutes' private conversation? it is on a matter that is of importance." the last sentence is underlined, and looks most curiosity-rousing in consequence: "if you would allow me to know when i might see you, and where, i should be very greatly obliged. believe me, "yours very truly, reginald brace." that's the young manager, of course. that's the fair-haired young man who lives next door to us--to where we used to live in putney; the young man of the garden-hose and of the "rows" with my aunt anastasia, and of the bank that looks after miss million's money! is it about miss million's money matters that he wishes to have this "few minutes' private conversation"? scarcely. he wouldn't come to miss million's maid about that. but what can he want to see me about? "a matter of importance." what can this be? i can't guess.... for an hour now i have been sitting in miss million's room, with miss million's new possessions scattered about me, and the scent still heavy in the air of those red carnations sent in by the honourable--the disgraceful jim burke. opposite to the sofa on which i am sitting there hangs an oval mirror in a very twiggly-wiggly gilt frame, wreathed with golden foliage held by a little cupid, who laughs at me over a plump golden shoulder, and seems to point at my picture in the glass. it shows a small, rather prettily built girl in a delicious black frock and white apron, with her white butterfly-cap poised pertly on her chestnut hair, and on her face a look of puzzled amusement. it's really mysterious; but i can't make out the mystery. i shall have to wait until i can ask that young man himself what he means by it all. now, as to "when and where" i am to see him. not here. i am not miss million. i can't invite my acquaintances to tea and rattlesnake cocktails and gimlets and things in the cecil lounge. and i can scarcely ask her to let me have her own sitting-room for the occasion. outside the hotel, then. when? for at any moment i am, by rights, at miss million's beck and call. her hair and hands to do; herself to dress three times a day; her new trousseau of lovely garments to organise and to keep dainty and creaseless as if they still shimmered in bond street. i don't like the idea of "slipping out" in the evenings, even if my mistress is going to keep dissipated hours with cobras and sulphur-crested cockatoos. so--one thing remains to me. it's all that remains to so many girls as young and as pretty as i am, and as fond of their own way, but in the thrall of domestic service. oh, sacred right of the british maid-servant! oh, one oasis in the desert of subjection to another woman's wishes! the "afternoon off"! next friday i shall be free again. i must write to mr. brace. i must tell him that the "important matter" must wait until then.... but apparently it can't wait. for even as i was taking up my--or miss million's--pen, one of those little chocolate-liveried page-boys tapped at miss million's sitting-room door and handed in a card "for miss smith." i took it.... his card? mr. brace's card? and on it is written in pencil: "may i see you at once? it is urgent!" extraordinary! well, "urgent" messages can't wait a week! i shall have to see him. i said to the page-boy: "show the gentleman up." i don't know what can be said for a maid who, in her mistress's absence, uses her mistress's own pretty sitting-room to receive her--the maid's--own visitors. well, i couldn't help it. here the situation was forced upon me--i, in my cap and apron, standing on miss million's pink hearthrug in front of the fern-filled fireplace, and facing mr. brace, very blonde and grave-looking, in his "bank" clothes. "will you sit down?" i said, standing myself as if i never meant to depart from that attitude. he didn't sit down. "i won't keep you, miss lovelace," said the young bank manager, in a much more formal tone than i had heard from him before. "but i was obliged to call because, after i had sent off my note to you, i found i was required to leave town on business to-morrow morning early. consequently i should only be able to speak to you about the matter which i mentioned in my note if i came at once." "oh, yes," i said. "and the important matter was----" "it's about your friend, miss million." "my mistress," i reminded him, fingering my apron. the young man looked very uncomfortable. being so fair, he reddens easily. he looks much less grown-up and reliable than he had seemed that first morning at the bank. i wonder how this is. he looked at the apron and said: "well, if you must call her your mistress--i don't think it's at all--but, never mind that now--about miss million." "don't tell me all her money's suddenly lost!" i cried in a quick fright. the manager shook his fair head. "oh, nothing of that kind. no. something almost as difficult to tell you, though. but i felt i had to do it, miss lovelace." his fair face set itself into a sort of conscientious mask. "i turned to you instead of to her because--well, because for obvious reasons you were the one to turn to. "miss million is a young--a young lady who seems at present to have more money than friends. it is natural that, just now, she should be making a number of new acquaintances. it is also natural that she should not always know which of these acquaintances are a wise choice----" "oh, i know what you mean," i interposed, for i thought he was going on in that rather sermony style until million came home. "you're going to warn me that mr. burke, whom you met here, isn't a fit person for mill--for miss million to know." mr. brace looked relieved, yet uncomfortable and a little annoyed all at once. he said: "i don't know that i should have put it in exactly those words, miss lovelace." "no, but that's the gist of it all," i said rather shortly. men are so roundabout. they take ages hinting at things that can be put into one short sentence. then they're angry because some woman takes a short cut and translates. "isn't that what you mean, mr. brace?" "if i had a young sister," said this roundabout mr. brace, "i certainly do not think that i should care to allow her to associate with a man like that." "like what?" i said. "like this mr. burke." "why?" i asked. "i don't think he is a very desirable acquaintance for a young and inexperienced girl." "how well do you know him?" i asked. "oh! i don't know him at all. i don't wish to know him," said mr. brace rather stiffly. "i had only seen him once before i met him in miss million's room here the other day. i was really annoyed to find him here." i persisted. "why?" "because the man's not--well, not the sort of man your brother (if you have one) would be too pleased to find you making friends with, miss lovelace." "never mind all these brothers and sisters. they aren't here," i said rather impatiently. "what sort of man d'you mean you think mr. burke is that you want miss million warned against him?" "i think any man would guess at the kind of man he was--shady." "d'you mean," i said, "that he cheats at cards; that sort of thing?" "oh! i don't know that he'd do that----" "what does he do, then?" "ah! that's what one would like to know," said the young bank manager, frowning down at me. "what does he do? how does he live? apparently in one room in jermyn street, over a hairdresser's. "but he's never there. he's always about in the most expensive haunts in london, always with people who have money. pigeons to pluck. i don't believe the fellow has a penny of his own, miss lovelace." "is that a crime?" i said. "i haven't a penny myself." then i felt absolutely amazed with myself. here i was positively defending that young scamp and fortune-hunter who had this very afternoon admitted to me that he'd told million fibs, and that he got what he could out of everybody. another thing. here i was feeling quite annoyed with mr. brace for coming here with these warnings about this other man! yet it was only the other day that i'd made up my mind to ask mr. brace for his candid opinion on the subject of miss million's new friend! and now i said almost coldly: "have you anything at all definite to tell me against mr. burke's character?" "yes. as it happens, i have," said mr. brace quickly, standing there even more stiffly. "i told you that i had met the man once before. i'll tell you where it was, miss lovelace. it was at my own bank. he came to me with a sort of an introduction from a client of ours, a young cavalry officer. he, mr. burke, told me he'd be glad to open an account with us." "yes? so did miss million." "hardly in the same way," said mr. brace. "after a few preliminaries this man burke told me that at the moment he was not prepared to pay anything in to his account, but----" "--but what?" i took up as my visitor paused impressively, as if before the announcement of something almost unspeakably wicked. "this man burke actually had the assurance," said the young bank manager in outraged tones, "the assurance to suggest to me that the bank should thereupon advance to him, as a loan out of his 'account,' fifty pounds down!" "yes?" i said a little doubtfully, for i wasn't quite sure where the point of this came in. "and then what happened?" "what happened? why! i showed the new 'client' out without wasting any more words," returned my visitor severely. "don't you see, miss lovelace? he'd made use of his introduction to try to 'rush' me into letting him have ready-money to the tune of fifty pounds! do you suppose i should ever have seen them again? that," said the young bank manager impressively, "is the sort of man he is----" he broke off to demand: "why do you laugh?" it certainly was unjustifiable. but i couldn't help it. i saw it all! the room at the bank where million and i had interviewed the manager. the manager himself, with the formal manner that he "wears" like a new and not very comfortable suit of clothes, asking the visitor to sit down. then the honourable jim, in his gorgeously cut coat, with his daring yet wary blue eyes, smiling down at the other man (mr. brace is a couple of inches shorter). the honourable jim, calmly demanding fifty pounds "on account" (of what) in that insinuating, flattering, insidious, softly pitched celtic voice of his ..." "common robbery. i see no difference between that and picking a man's pocket!" declared the young manager. perfectly true, of course. if you come to think of it, the younger son of lord ballyneck is no better than a sort of twentieth-century highwayman. there's really nothing to be said for him. only why should mr. brace speak so rebukefully to me? it wasn't i who had tried to pick the pocket of his precious bank! "and yet you don't see," persisted the manager, "why a fellow of that stamp should not be admitted to friendly terms with you!" "with me? we're not talking about me at all!" i reminded this young man. and to drive this home i turned to the mirror and gave a touch or two to the white muslin butterfly of the cap that marked my place. "we're talking about my mistress. i am only miss million's maid----" "pshaw!" "i can't pretend to dictate to my mistress what friends she is to receive----" "oh!" said the young man impatiently. "that's in your own hands. you know it is. this maid business--well, if i were your brother i should soon put a stop to it, but, anyhow, you know who's really at the head of affairs. you know that you must have a tremendous influence over this--this other girl. she naturally makes you her mentor; models herself, or tries to, on you. if she thought that you considered anything or any one undesirable, she would very soon 'drop' it. what you say goes, miss lovelace." "does it, indeed!" i retorted. "nothing of the kind. it did once, perhaps. but this evening--do you know what? miss million has gone out in a frock that i positively forbade her to buy. a cerise horror that's not only 'undesirable,' as you call it, but makes her look----" "oh, a frock! why is it a woman can never keep to the point?" demanded this young mr. brace. "what's it got to do with the matter in hand what frock miss million chooses to go out in?" "why, everything! doesn't it just show what's happening," i explained patiently. "it means that miss million doesn't make an oracle of me any more. she'd rather model herself on some of the people she's going to supper with tonight. miss vi vassity, say----" "what! that awful woman on the halls?" broke in mr. brace, with as much disapproval in his voice and tone as there could have been in my aunt anastasia's if she had been told that any girl she knew was hobnobbing with "london's love," the music-hall artiste. "who introduced her to miss million, may i ask?" he went on. "no, i needn't ask; i can guess. that's this man burke. that's his crowd. music-hall women, german jews, disreputable racing men, young gilded idiots like the man in the cavalry who sent him to me." then (furiously): "that's the set of people he'll bring in to associate with you two inexperienced girls," said mr. brace. and now his face was very angry--quite pale with temper. he looked rather fine, i thought. he might have posed for a picture of one of cromwell's young ironsides, straight-lipped, uncompromisingly sincere, and "square," and shocked at everything. i simply couldn't help rather enjoying the mild excitement of seeing him so wrathful. surely he must be really _épris_ with million to be so roused over her knowing a few unconventional people. i've read somewhere that the typical young englishman may be considered to be truly in love as soon as he begins to resent some girl's other amusements. mr. brace went on: "and where has he taken miss million to this evening, may i ask?" i moved to put the cushions straight on the couch as i gave him the evening's programme. "they were dining at the carlton with a party, i think. then they were going on to see miss vi vassity's turn at the palace. then they were all to have supper at a place called the thousand and one----" "where?" put in mr. brace, in a voice so horrified that it made his remarks up till then sound quite pleased and approving. "the thousand and one club? he's taken miss million there? of all places on earth! you let her go there?" he spoke as if nothing more terrible could have happened.... chapter xvii revelry by night but why am i writing all this, in view of the really serious and terrible thing that has happened after all? yes. the most terrible thing has happened. miss million has disappeared. gone! and no trace of her! and i don't know where to look for her.... but to go back to the beginning of it all--to that fatal evening when mr. reginald brace stood there in her sitting-room, looking at me with that horrified face because i told him she'd gone to supper at the thousand and one club. five minutes after that young man's appalled-sounding "what? you let her go there?" i was sitting in a taxi, with him, whirling towards regent street. "yes; that's where she's gone," i told him, with a queer mix-up of feelings. there was defiance among them. what right had he to come and bully me because i couldn't keep miss million and her dollars and her new friends all under my thumb? there was anxiety.... supposing this thousand and one club were such an appallingly awful place that no young girl ought to set foot in it? there was a queer excitement.... well, anyhow, i might see and judge for myself. then i should be in a position to lecture miss million about it, if necessary, afterwards! so i said: "not only that, but i'm going there, too. to-night. now!" "impossible," said mr. brace. "madness. quite impossible. you go? to a night club? you? alone?" "no," i said on another impulse. "you'll come with me. i've got to have a man with me, i suppose. you'll take me, please." "i shall do nothing of the sort, miss lovelace," said the young bank manager, standing there in my mistress's sitting-room as if nothing would ever dislodge him from the spot. "take you to that place--it's not a place that i should ever let any sister of mine know by sight!" by this time i'd heard so much of this (non-existent) sister of his that i almost felt as if i knew her well (poor girl). i felt as if i were she. yes. mr. brace seemed to behave so exactly like the typical "nice" big brother; the man who shows his respect for women by refusing to let his own sisters see or do anything except, say, the darning of his own socks. however, in some way or other i managed to drive it home (this was when we were already in the taxi) that he need not look upon this as an evening's entertainment to which he was escorting either his own or anybody else's sister. this was part of the business of looking after miss million. we were at piccadilly circus when the young man at my side protested: "but we can't get in, you know! i'm not a member of this thing. i can't take you in, miss lovelace----" "i'm smith, the lady's-maid of one of the ladies who's in the club, and i've come to wait for my mistress," i told him. "that's perfectly simple. and i daresay it'll allow me to see something of what's going on!" here we drew up at a side street. it was half full of cars and taxis, half full with a rebuilding of scaffolding that made a tunnel over the basement. the door of the club was beyond the scaffolding and a tall commissionaire, with a breast glittering with medals, opened and closed it with the movements of a punkah-wallah. inside was red carpet and a blaze of lights and an inner glass door. in this vestibule there was a little knot of men in chauffeurs' liveries, with wet gleaming on the shoulders of their coats, for an unexpected shower had just come on. i was glad of it. this gave me, too, my excuse for waiting there, when one of the attendants slipped up to me and looked inquiringly down at me in my correct, outdoor black things. "i am to wait," i said, "for my mistress." "very good, miss. would you like a chair in the ladies' cloak-room?" "no. i don't think she will be very long, thank you," i said. and i heard mr. brace, behind me, saying in his embarrassed, stiff, young voice: "i am waiting with this lady." (the commissionaires and people must have thought that the little, chestnut-haired lady's-maid in black had got hold of a most superior sort of young man!) i stepped farther up the vestibule towards a long door with a bevelled, oval, glass-panelled top. evidently the door of the supper-room. from beyond it came the muffled crash and lilt of dance music that set my own foot tapping in time on the smooth floor. i looked through the glass panel that framed, as it were, the gayest of coloured moving pictures. the big room was a sort of papier-maché alhambra; all zigzaggy arches and gilded columns and decorations, towering above a spread of supper-tables. silver and white napery were blushing to pink under the glow of rosy-shaded electric candles innumerable. some chairs were turned up, waiting for parties. but there were plenty of people there already; a flower-bed of frocks, made more bright by the black-and-white border of the men's evening kit. the ladies were all sitting on the wall seats; their cavaliers sat with chairs slewed round, watching three or four couples one-stepping among the tables to the music of that string band, in cream-and-gold uniforms, who were packed away in a moorish niche at the top of the room. i got a burst of louder, madder music as a waiter with a tray pushed through the swung door; a waft of warmer air, made up of the smells of coffee, of cigarettes, of hot food, and of those perfumes of which you catch a whiff if you pass down the burlington arcade--oppoponax, lilac, russian violet, phul-nana--all blended together into one tepid, overpowering whole, and, most penetrating, most unmistakable of all the scents; the trèfle incarnat.... it reminded me that million would buy a great spray-bottle of mixed bouquet, and had drenched herself with it, heedless of my theory that a properly groomed woman needs very little added perfume. but where was miss million, in the middle of the noise and feasting? ah! there! i caught, in a cluster of other colours--green, white, rose, and gold--the unmistakable metaphorical shriek of the frock i'd begged her not to wear. "me cerise evening one." there it was; and there were million's sturdily built, rather square little shoulders, and her glossy black hair that i've learnt to do rather well. she was gazing about her with jewel-bright eyes and a flush on her cheeks that almost echoed the cherry-colour of her odious frock, and listening to the chatter of the golden-haired, sulphur-crested cockatoo, vi vassity; there she was; and there was the jew they called leo, and lady golightly-long in a fantastic oriental robe of sorts, and a cluster of others. there, too, towering above them all as he came steering his way across the room, and looking more like a magazine illustration than ever in evening-dress, was the honourable james burke. i saw million's mouth open widely to some lively greeting as he came up; they were all laughing and chattering together. but i didn't hear a word, of course. all was blent into an indistinguishable hubbub against the music. the loudest part of all seemed to be at a table next to miss million and her new friends. this other table was entertained by a vacuous young man with an eyeglass, who looked as if he'd already had quite as much bubbley as was good for him. he laughed incessantly; wrangling with the waiter, calling to friends across the room. as the honourable jim passed, this eyeglassed young man signalled wildly to him, and took up a paper "dart" into which he'd twisted his menu-card. he flung it--and missed. it stuck in the hair of one of the girls who was dancing. and then there was a little gale of laughter and protests and calls, and the eyeglassed young man put two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly to mr. burke, who strode over to him, laughing, and cuffed him on the side of the head. then they began a sort of mock fight, and a waiter came up and whispered and was pushed out of the way, and there was more laughter. the attention of the room was caught by the two skirmishing, ragging young men. they were for the moment the centre of the whirl and swirl of colour and noise and rowdy laughter. "there you are, miss lovelace. you see the kind of thing it is," said an austere voice behind me. i turned from the gay picture to a gloomy one--the face of mr. reginald brace, more than ever that of a young puritan soldier--a roundhead, in fact--left over from the reformation, and looking on at some feasting of the courtiers of charles ii. so far, i hadn't see anything very terrible in the giddy scene before us; it was loud, it was rowdy, rather silly, perhaps, but quite amusing (i thought) to watch! mr. brace evidently took it quite differently. he said: "will this convince you? by jove! how disgusting." mr. burke had now got the other young man down on the carpet. his glossily shod feet waved wildly in the air. people from the tables farthest away stood up to see what was happening. a slim american flapper of sixteen, with the black hair-ribbons bobbing behind her, skipped up on her chair to look. the honourable jim burke stepped back, showing his white teeth in his cheeriest grin, and one of the other youths at the table helped the eyeglassed one to struggle to his feet. "who is that? do you know?" i asked mr. brace. he answered morosely: "yes, i'm afraid i do. it was with his introduction that that fellow burke came to me. that's lord fourcastles." the noble lord seemed to have quite a fancy for throwing things about--for first he made his table-napkin into a rabbit and slung it at the waiter's head; and then he picked up a "serpentine" of gay tinsel, and with a falsetto shout of "play!" flung it across the supper-room. somebody there seemed to have a stock of the things. lord fourcastles was pelted back with them. presently the brilliant strings of colour were looped right across food, and flowers, and diners in a gaudy, giant web. i saw the honourable jim's merry face break through it as he caught at a scarlet streamer and pretended to use it as a lariat. then i saw him turn and take lord fourcastles by the arm and draw him towards his own table. evidently he was going to introduce this young peer to miss million. i caught a glimpse of million's excited little face, all aglow, turned towards the door through which i was peeping. if i'd gone a step nearer she might have seen me. i could have beckoned to her, made her come out to see what the matter was. then i could have insisted that it was time for her to come home, or something ... something! i believe i might have made her come! oh, why didn't i try to do this? why, why didn't i do it before it was too late? as the two neighbouring supper parties amalgamated into one the fun seemed to get even more fast and furious. it was deafeningly noisy now. and still the noise was rising as more guests came in. people flung themselves about in their chairs; the dancing became, if anything, more of a romp than before. i had a glimpse of the eyeglassed, young lord fourcastles stretching over the table to grab some pink flowers out of a silver bowl. he began sticking them in miss million's hair; i saw her toss her little dark head back, giggling wildly; i could imagine the shrill "ows" and "give overs" that were coming out of her pink "o" of a mouth. then i saw mr. burke spring up from his chair again, and put his arm round miss vi vassity's waist, dragging "london's love" round the tables in a mad prance that i suppose was intended for a one-step, she laughing so much that she could neither dance nor stand still, and giving a generous display of high-heeled, gilt cothurne and of old-gold silk stocking as she was steered and whirled along. "stand away from the door, there, miss. stand away, please," said one of the hurrying waiters. and i stood away, followed by my grave-faced escort, mr. brace. we retired further down the vestibule, among the little knot of attendants and of waiting chauffeurs. "have you seen enough of it, miss lovelace?" asked mr. brace. "i think so," i said. i was feeling suddenly rather tired, bored by the noise, dazzled by the blaze of pink lights and the whirl of colour. "i don't think i'll wait for miss million after all. i'll go home." i meant to think over the talking-to that i should give million when she returned. "i'll get you a taxi," began mr. brace. but i stopped him. "i don't want a taxi, thanks----" "please. i want to see you home." "oh! but i don't want you to," i said hastily. "i'll get the 'bus. it's such a short way. good-night." but he wouldn't say "good-night." he insisted on boarding the 'bus with me, and plumping himself down on the front seat beside me, under the fine drizzle that was still coming down. certainly it was only a short 'bus ride to the strand, but a good deal happened in it. in fact, that happened which is supposed to mark an unforgettable epoch in a girl's life--her first proposal of marriage. chapter xviii my first proposal we were alone on the top of the 'bus. mr. brace turned to me, settling the oil-cloth 'bus apron over my knees as if i were a very small and helpless child that must be taken great care of. then he said: "you didn't like it, did you? all that?" with a jerk of his head towards the side street from which the 'bus was lurching away. i said: "well! i don't think there seemed to be any real harm in that sort of frivolling. it's very expensive, though, i suppose----" "very," said mr. brace grimly. "but, of course, miss million has plenty of money to waste. still, it's rather silly--a lot of grown-up people behaving like that----" here i had another mental glimpse of mr. burke's reckless, merry, well-bred face, bending over miss vi vassity's common, good-humoured one, with its shrewd, black eyes, its characteristic flash of prominent white teeth; i saw his tall, supple figure whirling round her rather squat, overdressed little shape in that one-step. "'larking' about with all sorts of people they wouldn't otherwise meet, i suppose, and shrieking and 'ragging' like a lot of costers on hampstead heath. yes. really it was rather like a very much more expensive bank holiday crowd. it was only another way of dancing to organs in the street, and of flourishing 'tiddlers,' and of shrieking in swing-boats, and of changing hats. only all that seems to 'go' with costers. and it doesn't with these people," i said, thinking of mr. burke's clean-limbed, public-school, hunting-field look. "i shall tell mill--miss million that. and she won't like it," i chattered on, as mr. brace didn't seem to be going to say anything more. "i really think she's better away from those places, perhaps, after all. "late hours won't suit her, i know. why, she's never been out of bed after half-past ten before in her whole life. and she's never tasted those weird things they were having for supper; hot dressed crab and pastry with mushrooms inside it! as for champagne--well, i expect she'll have a horrid headache to-morrow. i shall have to give her breakfast in bed and look after her like a moth----" "miss lovelace! you must do nothing of the sort. that sort of thing must stop," the young man at my side blurted out. "you oughtn't to be doing that. it's too preposterous----" this was the second time to-day i'd heard that word applied to my working as miss million's maid. the first time the honourable jim burke had said it. now here was a young man who disagreed with the honourable jim on every other point, apparently working himself up into angry excitement over this. "that you--you--should be miss million's maid. good heavens! it's unthinkable!" "i suppose you mean," i said rather maliciously, "that you couldn't think of that sister of yours doing anything of the kind." he didn't seem to hear me. he said quite violently: "you must give it up. you must give it up at once." i laughed a little. i said: "give up a good, well-paid and amusing situation? why? and what could i do instead? go back to my aunt, i suppose----" "no," broke in the young bank manager, still quite violently, "come to me, couldn't you?" i was so utterly taken aback that i hadn't a word to reply. i thought i must have misunderstood what he said. there was a moment of jolting silence. then, in a tone of voice that seemed as if it had been jerked out of him, sentence by sentence, with the rolling of the 'bus, mr. brace went on: "miss lovelace! i don't know whether you knew it, but--i have always--if you only knew the enormous admiration, the reverence, that i have always had for you--i ought not to have said it so soon, i suppose. i meant not to have said it for some time yet. but if you could possibly--there is nothing that i would not do to try to make you happy, if you would consent to become my wife." "oh, good heavens!" i exclaimed, absolutely dazed. "i know," said young mr. brace rather hoarsely, "that it is fearful presumption on my part. i know i haven't got anything much to offer a girl like you." "oh," i said, coming out of my first shock of surprise, "oh, but i'm sure you have." i felt quite a lump in my throat. i was so touched at the young man's modesty. i said again: "oh, but i'm sure you have, mr. brace. heaps!" and i looked at his face in the light of the street lamp past which the 'bus was swinging. that radiance and the haze of lamp-lit raindrops made a sort of "glory" about him. he has a nice face, one can't deny it. a fair, frank, straight, conscientious, young face. so typically the best type of honourable, reliable, average young englishman. such a contrast to the wary, subtle, dare-devil celtic face, with the laughing, mocking eyes of mr. jim burke, for example. the next thing i knew was that mr. brace had got hold of my hand and was holding it most uncomfortably tight. "then, could you?" he said in that strained voice. "do you mean you could make me so tremendously proud and happy?" "oh, no! i'm afraid not," i said hastily. "i couldn't!" "oh, don't say that," he put in anxiously. "miss lovelace! if you only knew! i am devoted to you. nobody could be more so. if you could only try to care for me. of course, i see this must seem very abrupt." "oh, not at all," i put in hastily again. i did hate not to seem kind and nice to him, after he'd said he was devoted, even though it did sound--well--do i mean "stilted"? the next thing he said was also rather stilted and embarrassing. "but ever since i first saw you in putney i knew the truth. you are the one girl in the world for me!" "oh, no! there must be such crowds of them," i assured him. "really pretty ones; much nicer than me. i'm sure i'm not one bit as nice as you think me.... oh, heavens----" for here a wild jolt from the motor-'bus had nearly pitched me into his arms. the top of the 'bus is absolutely the worst place in the world to listen to a proposal, unless you're absolutely certain of accepting the young man. even so it must have its drawbacks. "i'm sure," i said, "that i should be bad-tempered, horrid to live with----" "miss lovelace----" "and here's the cecil. i must get off here," i said with some relief. "good-night. no! please don't get off with me. i'd so much rather you didn't." "may i see you again, then? soon?" he persisted, standing up on that horrible 'bus that rocked like a boat at anchor in a rough sea. "to-morrow?" "yes--no, not to-morrow----" "yes, to-morrow. i have so much to say to you. i must call. i'll write----" "good-night!" i called back ruefully. and feeling aghast and amused and a little elated all at once, miss million's maid, who had just had an offer of marriage from the manager of miss million's bank, entered miss million's hotel, and went upstairs to miss million's rooms to wait until her mistress came back from the thousand and one. when i had taken off my wet outdoor things and reassumed my cap and apron, i sat down on miss million's plump pink couch, stuffed one downy cushion into the curve of my back, another into the nape of my neck, put my slippered feet up on a _pouffe_, and prepared to wait up for her, dozing, perhaps.... chapter xix waiting for the reveller it was a very deep doze into which i sank. i roused myself with a start as the little gilt clock on the mantel-piece chimed four. i sprang up. had miss million come in without waking me? i tapped at the door of her bedroom. no reply. i went softly in, switching on the lights. there was no one there. all was in the apple-pie order in which i had left her pretty, luxurious room. she hadn't come in? at four o'clock? wondering and troubled, i went back to the couch and dozed again. it was five o'clock when next i woke. dawn struggled through the chinks of the blinds. no million. i waited, and waited. six o'clock in the morning. i threw aside the curtains.... bright daylight now. still no million! seven o'clock, and the cheery sounds of morning activity all around me. but million hadn't come in. out all night? what could be the meaning of it? from eight to nine-thirty this morning i have spent sitting at the telephone in my mistress's room; feverishly fluttering the leaves of the thick red telephone book, and calling up the numbers of people who i have imagined might know what has become of miss million, the heiress, and why she has not come home. i turned up first of all her hostess at the supper club. "london's love," she may be; but certainly not my love. it was she who asked million to that horrible party. "give me playfair, please.... is that miss vi vassity?... can i speak to miss vi vassity, please? it is something urgent----" a pert and cockney voice squeaked into my ear that miss vi vassity wasn't at home. that nobody knew when she was coming back. that the time to expect her was the time when she was seen coming in! charming trait! but why did the comedienne with the brass-bright hair choose to pass on that characteristic to my mistress? i tried another number. "nought, nought, nought gerrard, please. i want to speak to mr. burke." a rich brogue floated back to me across the wires. "what's attached to the charmin' girlish voice that's delighting my ears?" "this is miss--miss million's maid." "go on, darlin'," said the voice. i gasped. "is that mr. burke speaking?" "who should ut be? this is the great, the notorious burke himself." "i mean," i called flurriedly, "is that my mr. burke?" "i'd ask to be called nothing better!" declared the voice. "thry me!" i raged, flushing scarlet, and thanking heaven that those irrepressible blue irish eyes did not see my angry confusion. i called back: "this is important, mr. burke. i want to ask you about my mistress. miss million has not come back, and i want you to tell me if you know where she has gone." "is there anything i'd refuse a young lady? i'd tell you in one minute if i knew, me dear." "you don't know?" anxiously. "where did you last see her?" "isn't it my own black and bitter loss that i'll confide to ye now? miss million, d'ye say? faith, i've never seen her at all!" "not last night----" "not anny night. can't i come round and dhry those tears for her pretty maid?" demanded the voice that i now heard to be irish with a difference from the softly persuasive accent of the honourable jim. it went on: "sure, i can see from here the lovely gyrull you must be, from your attractive voice! where'r' ye speakin' from? will i call on ye this afternoon, or will ye come round to----" i broke in with severity: "do you mind telling me your other name?" "christian names already? with all the pleasure in life, dear," came back the eager answer. "here's a health to those that love me, and me name's julian!" with another gasp i hung up the receiver, cutting off this other, this unknown "j. burke," whom i had evoked in my flurry and the anxiety that caused the addresses in the telephone book to dance before my eyes. i got the number of the honourable james burke, and found myself speaking, i suppose, to somebody in the jermyn street hairdresser's shop, above which, as i'd heard from mr. brace, the honourable jim lived in a single room. "no, madam, i am afraid he is not in," was the answer here. "i am afraid i couldn't tell you, madam. i don't know at all. will you leave any message?" "no, thank you." it didn't seem worth while, for, as mr. brace said, he's never there. he's always to be found in some expensive haunt. next i rang up the abode in mount street of the cobra-woman, the classic dancer, lady golightly-long. her maid informed me, rebukefully, that her ladyship wasn't up yet; her ladyship wasn't awake. i left a message, and the maid will ring me up here.... there may be something to hope for from that, but i shall have to wait. i seem to have waited years! now, in desperation, i have got on to lord fourcastles's house. "no; his lordship has not been at home for several days." i suppose this is the man speaking. "no. i couldn't say where his lordship is likely to be found, i'm sure." oh, these people! these friends of the honourable jim's, who all seem to share his habit of melting into some landscape where they are not to be found! never mind any of them, though. the question is, miss million! where have they put her, among them? what have they done with my child-heiress of a mistress? i had hoped to receive some explanation of the mystery by this morning's post. nothing! nothing but a sheaf of circulars and advertisements and catalogues for miss million, and one grey note for miss million's maid. it was addressed to "miss smith." i sighed, half-resentfully, as i tore it open. under any other circumstances it would have marked such a red-letter day in my life. i knew what it was. the first love-letter i had ever received. of course, from mr. reginald brace. he writes from what used to be "next door," in putney, s.w. he says: "my dear miss lovelace:--i wanted to put 'beatrice,' since i know that is your beautiful name, but i did not wish to offend you. i am afraid that i was much too precipitate to-night when i told you of the feeling i have had for you ever since i first saw you. as i told you, i know this is the greatest presumption on my part. had it not been for the very exceptional circumstances i should not have ventured to say anything at all----" oh, dear! i wish this didn't remind me of the honourable jim's remark, "curious idea, to put in a deaf-and-dumb chap as manager of a bank!" for he is really so good and straight and frank. i call this such a nice letter. oh, dear, what am i to say to it? "but as it is" (he goes on) "i could do nothing but take my chance and beg you to consider if you could possibly care for me a little. may i say that i adore you, and that the rest of my life should be given up to doing anything in the world to secure your happiness? had i a sister----" good heavens! his non-existent sister is cropping up again! "had i a sister or a mother living, they would come over at once to wait on you; but i am a man literally alone in the world. i live with an old uncle who is practically an invalid. i hope you will not mind my calling upon you to-morrow, about lunch-time, when i hope so much that you in your sweetness and kindness may find it in your heart to give me another answer to the one i had to hear to-night. "yours ever devotedly, "reginald brace." yes! a charming letter, i call it. i do, indeed. and he--the writer of it--is charming--that is, he's good, and "white," as men call it, which is so much more, so much better than being "charming," which, i suppose, people can't help, any more than they can help having corncockle-blue eyes with black lashes--or whatever kind of eyes they may happen to possess. mr. brace's own eyes are very pleasant. so honest. it was horrid of me to be ruffled and snappy to him when he came last night; cattish of me to begin thinking of him as a puritan and a prude and a prig. he's nothing of the sort. it was only kind of him to come and try to warn me. and, as it turns out, mr. brace was perfectly right about all these people being no fit companions for a young and inexperienced girl.... which reminds me! only a few days ago i was considering this mr. brace as a possible suitor for million herself! why, i'd quite forgotten that. and now here he is lavishing offers of a life's devotion upon me, miss million's maid. i suppose i ought to be fearfully flattered. there's something in shakespeare about going down on one's knees and thanking heaven fasting for a good man's love. (i'm sure he is that.) and so i should be feeling most frightfully pleased and proud, if only i'd time! this morning i can think of nothing. not even of my first proposal and love-letter. only of miss million, whom i last saw at half-past eleven or so last night, sitting in her "cerise evenin'--one with the spangles"--at a thousand-and-one supper-table, with a crowd of rowdy people, and having pink flowers stuck in her hair by an over-excited-looking young man! million, of whom i can find no further trace! now, what is the next---- "prrrring-g!" ah, the telephone bell again. the message from lady golightly-long. she is speaking herself, in a deep, drawly voice. she tells me that she knows nothing of miss million's movements. "i left her there. i left them all there, at the thousand and one," she drawls. "i was the first to leave. miss million was there, with lord fourcastles and the rest of them when i left.... what?... the time? oh, i never know times. it wasn't very late. early, i mean. i left her there." and she rings off. so that's drawn a blank. well, now what am i to do next? i think i'd better go round to the club itself and make inquiries there about the missing heiress! i have just come back from making inquiries at the thousand and one club. the place looked strangely tawdry and make-believe this morning. rather like ballroom finery of the night before, seen in daylight. i interviewed a sallow-faced attendant in the vestibule, whence i had got those glimpses of the larking and frolicking in the supper-room last night. miss million? he didn't know anything about a lady of that name. with miss vi vassity's party, had she been? miss vi vassity always had a rare lot of friends with her. he'd seen her, of course, miss vi vassity, all right. several young ladies with her. "but a small, dark-haired young lady, in a bright cerise dress, with spangles on it?" i urged. "she was sitting--i'll show you her place at the table. there! don't you remember?" the sallow-faced attendant couldn't say he did. there was always a rare lot of bright-coloured frocks about. he beckoned to a waiter, who came up, glancing at me almost suspiciously out of his sunken eyes. "young lady in a bright, cherry-coloured frock, sitting at miss vi vassity's table? yes! now he came to go back in his mind, he had seemed to notice the young lady. she'd seemed a bit out of it at first. would that be the one?" "yes, yes," eagerly from me. "that would probably be miss million!" "afterwards," said the waiter, "she seemed to be having a good deal o' conversation with that young lord fo'castles, as they call him." "ah, yes," i said, thinking again of the glimpse i'd had of the rowdy, foolish-faced young man with the eyeglass, who had been grabbing pink flowers off the table and therewith scufflingly decorating million's little dark head. "laughing and talking together all the time they was afterwards," said the waiter, in his suspicious, weary voice. "i rec'lect the young pers--the young lady, now. you called to wait for her, didn't you, miss? you and a fair gent. last night. then you left before she come away." "when? when did she go?" i demanded quickly. "about an hour after you did, i should say." "and who with?" i asked again breathlessly. "who was miss million with when she left this place?" "ar!" said the waiter, "now you're arskin'!" he spoke more suspiciously than ever. and he looked sharply at me, with such disfavour that i felt quite guilty--though why, i don't know. of what should he suspect me? i am sure i looked nothing but what i was, a superior lady's-maid, well turned out in all-black; rather pale from my last night's vigil, and genuinely anxious because i could not find out what had become of my mistress. "want to know a lot, some of you," said the waiter, quite unpleasantly this time. and he turned away. he left me, feeling snubbed to about six inches shorter, standing, hesitating, on the red carpet of the corridor. horrid man! the attendant came up. "miss! about that young lady of yours," he began, in a low, confidential voice. "oh, yes? yes? you remember her now? you'll tell me who she went away with?" i said quite desperately. "do tell me!" "well, i couldn't say for certain, of course; but--since alfred there was telling you she was talking a lot with that young lord fourcastles, well! i see him go off in the small car, and there was a lady with him," the attendant told me. "that i did see. a young lady in some sort of a wrap----" "yes, but what sort of a wrap?" i cried impatiently. oh, the incomprehensible blindness of the masculine eye! woman dresses to please it. she spends the third of her means, the half of her time, and the whole of her thought on that object alone. and what is her reward? man--whether he's the restaurant attendant or the creature who's taken her out to dinner--merely announces: "i really couldn't say what sort of a wrap she had on." "was it a white one? at least you'll remember that?" i urged. i saw before my mind's eye million's restaurant coat of soft, creamy cloth, with the mother-o'-pearl satin lining. how little i'd dreamt, as i put it about my mistress's shoulders last night, that i should be trying to trace its whereabouts--and hers--at eleven o'clock this morning! "was it a light coat or a dark one that the lady had on who drove away with lord fourcastles? you can at least tell me that!" the sallow-faced attendant shook his head. afraid he "hadn't thought to notice whether the young lady's coat was white or black or what colour." blind bat! and as i turned away in despair i caught an amused grin on his sallow face under the peaked cap, and i heard him whistle through his teeth a stave of the music-hall song, "who were you with last night?" horrid, horrid man! it seems to me this morning that all men are perfectly horrid. what about this young lord fourcastles? that's the thought that's worrying me now as i walk up and down miss million's deserted sitting-room, unable to settle to anything; waiting, waiting.... yes, what about that eyeglassed, rowdy, fair-faced boy who was sticking flowers in her hair the last time i saw her? was it she who drove away from the thousand and one club in his car? was it? and where to? can he----awful thought! can he possibly have kidnapped miss million? run away with her? abducted her? after all, he must know she's an heiress---- pooh! absurd thought! this isn't the eighteenth century. people don't abduct heiresses any more. million is all right--somewhere. she's gone on with one of these people. they've made what they call "a night" of it, and they're having breakfast at greenwich, or somewhere in the country. yes, but why didn't my mistress wire or telephone from wherever she is to let her maid know? surely she'll want other clothes taken to her? i see visions of her still in that low-cut, cerise frock, with the june sunlight glinting on the spangles of it; her creamy restaurant coat still fastened about her sturdy bare shoulders, the wilting pink carnations still in her hair. how hideously uncomfortable for her, poor little thing.... chapter xx where is she? at mid-day! where is she? what have they done with her? and who are "they"? is it an idiotic joke on the part of that noisy, irrepressible lord fourcastles? is it for some bet that he has spirited the little heiress away? is it perhaps some bit of absurd skylarking got up between himself and the honourable jim? if there's a chance of this it mustn't go further. i shall have to keep my mouth shut. i can't go applying to the police--and then having miss million turning up and looking more than foolish! then scolding her maid for being such a fool! that stops my telling anybody else about my fearful anxiety--the mess i'm in! oh! won't i tell million what i think of her and her friends--all of them, fourcastles, the cobra-woman, "london's love," the giggling theatrical girls, and that unscrupulous nouveau-pauvre pirate, the honourable jim--as soon as she does condescend to reappear!... a tap at the door. i fly to open it.... only one of those little chocolate-liveried london sparrows, the cecil page-boys. he has a large parcel for miss million. from madame ellen's. (oh, yes, of course. the blush-rose pink that had to be let out.) carriage forward. "please have it paid and charge it to miss million's account," says miss million's maid, with great outward composure and an inward tremor. i've no money. three-and-six, to be exact. everything she has is locked up. what--what am i to do about the bills if she stays away like this? she seems to have been away a century. yet it's only half-past twelve now. in half an hour mr. brace will be calling on me for an answer to his proposal of marriage.... there's another complication! oh! why is life like this? long dull stretches of nothing at all happening for years and years. then, quite suddenly, "a crowded hour" of--no! not "glorious life" exactly. but one disturbing thing happening on the top of another, until---- "ppppring!" ah, the telephone again. perhaps this is some news. the cobra-lady may have heard where miss million went.... "yes?" it wasn't the cobra-lady. it was the rich, untrustworthy accent of the honourable james burke. ah! at last! at last! now, i thought, i should hear something; some hint of miss million's whereabouts. "yes?" i called eagerly. "yes! i know who that is," called the voice--how different, now that i heard it again, from that of the mr. j. burke i rang up earlier, by mistake. "that's the pearl of all ladies'-maids, isn't it? good morning, miss lovelace-smith!" "good morning, mr. burke," i called back grudgingly. aggravating young man! how was i to find out what i wanted to know without possibly giving my mistress away? perhaps he had been sent to ring me up to bring miss million's things to--wherever the party of them were. i began: "can i do anything for you--sir?" "certainly. call me that again!" "what?" snappishly. "call me 'sir' again, just like that," pleaded the honourable and exasperating jim. "i never heard any pet name sound so pretty!" i shook my head furiously at the receiver. teasing me like this, when i was deadly serious, and so anxious to get sense out of him for once! tormenting me from "under cover" of a telephone that didn't allow me to see his face or to know where he was. i said angrily: "where are you speaking from?" "i've paid--i mean i've had to get a trunk-call for these few minutes, so don't let them be spent in squabbling, child," said mr. burke sweetly. "i'm in brighton." "brighton----" ah! they were all down there probably. that was it! he'd whisked them away on his coach--on leo rosencranz's coach--just as he'd said he would! at last i'd know---- "brighton's looking fine this morning," took up the easy, teasing voice. "let me take you down here for a glimpse of the waves and the downs on your next afternoon out, miss maid. say you will? you've no engagement?" i began, quite savagely: "yes, i've----" "mr. brace!" announced one of the chocolate-liveried page-boys at the door. quickly i turned. and in my silly flurry i was idiotic enough to hang up the receiver again! horrors! that's done it! i've rung off before i've been able to ask that villain, the honourable jim, where i am to ring him up, or ring any of them up, in brighton! they may be anywhere there! i've missed my chance of getting them! yes; that's done it.... meanwhile here's this young man who proposed to me on the top of the 'bus last night coming in for his answer! in he came, looking rather tense and nervous. but after all my adventures of this morning what a relief it was to me to see a friend; a man who wasn't a suspicious waiter or an attendant who stared, or a teasing incorrigible who exasperated me from the other side of a telephone! i don't think i've ever been so glad to see anybody as i was to see mr. brace again! i said "good morning" most welcomingly. and then i was sorry. for he caught me by both hands and looked down into my face, while his own lighted up into the most indescribable joy. "beatrice!" he exclaimed. "it's 'yes,' then? oh, my dar----" "oh, please don't, please don't!" i besought him, snatching my hands away in sudden horror. "i didn't mean that. it isn't 'yes'----" he took a step back, and all the light went out of his face. very quietly he said: "it's 'no'?" i hate being "rushed." it seems to me everybody tries to rush me. i hate having to give answers on the spur of the moment! i said: "i don't know what it is! i haven't been thinking about what you said!" that seemed rather an ungracious thing to say to a man who had just offered one the devotion of his whole life. so i added what was the honest truth: "i haven't had time to think about it!" a scowl came over mr. brace's fair face. he said in tones of real indignation: "you're as pale as a little ghost this morning. you've been working too hard. you've been running yourself off your feet for that wretched little--for that mistress of yours!" so true, in one way! "it's got to stop," said mr. reginald brace firmly. "i won't have you slaving like this. i'm going to take you away out of it all. i'm going to tell miss million so now." "you can't," i said hastily. "why? isn't she up?" (disgustedly). "y--yes, i think so. i mean yes, of course. only just now she's out." "when will she be in, miss lovelace?" "i don't know in the very least," i said with perfect truth. "i haven't the slightest idea." but i realised that i had better keep any further details of my mistress's absence to myself. "there you are, you see. she treats you abominably. a girl like you!" declared the young bank manager wrathfully. "works you to death, and then goes off to enjoy herself, without even letting you know how long you may expect to have to yourself! shameful! but, look here, miss lovelace, you must leave her. you must marry me. i tell you----" and what he told me was just what he'd told me the night before, over and over again, about his adoration, his presumption, his leaving nothing in the world undone that could make me happy.... and so on, and so forth. all the things a girl loves to hear. or would love--provided she weren't distracted, as i was, by having something else on her mind the whole time! i am afraid my answers were fearfully "absent." thus: "no! of course, i don't find you 'distasteful.' why should i?" then to myself: "i wonder if mr. burke may ring me up again presently?" and: "no! of course there isn't anybody else that i care for. i've never seen anybody else!" and again, aside: "how would it be if i rang up every hotel in brighton, one after the other, until i came to one that knew something about mr. burke's party?" i decided to do this. then i began to fume impatiently. if only this nice, kind, delightful young man would go and let me get to the telephone! but there he stood, urging his suit, telling me that he was obliged to go off on business to paris early that afternoon; begging me to let him have his answer before he had to leave me. "how long shall you be in paris?" i asked him. "a week. possibly longer. it's such a long, long time----" "it isn't a long time to give any woman to make up her mind in," i told him desperately. i thought all the time: "supposing million took it into her head to stay wherever she is for a week without letting me know? horrors!" i went on: "i can't tell you now whether i want to marry you or not. just at this moment i don't feel i shall ever want to marry anybody! if you take your answer now it'll have to be 'no'!" so then, of course, he said that he would wait. he would wait until he came back from paris, hard as it would be to bear. and then there were a lot more kind and flattering things said about "a girl like me" and "the one girl in the world," and all that kind of thing. and then, at last--at last he went, kissing my hand and saying that he would write and tell me directly he knew when he was coming to see me again. he went, and i turned to the telephone. but before i had so much as unhooked the receiver the door of miss million's sitting-room opened after a brief tap, and there stood---- who but that power in a frock-coat, the manager of the hotel himself. "good morning, miss," he said to me, with quite an affable nod. but his eyes, i noticed, were glancing at every detail in the room, at the telephone book on the floor, at the new novels and magazines on the table, at the flowers and cushions, at the big carton from madame ellen's that i had not yet taken into the bedroom, at me and my tired face. "your young lady, miss million, hasn't returned yet, i understand?" "no," i said, as lightly as i could. "miss million is not yet back." "ah! time off for you, then," said the manager still very pleasantly. but i could not help thinking that there was a look in his eye that reminded me of that suspicious waiter at the club. "easy life, you young ladies have, it seems to me," said the manager. "comfortable quarters here, have you? that's right. how soon do you think that you may be expecting your young lady back, miss?" "oh, i'm not sure," said i very lightly, but with a curious sinking at my heart. what was the meaning of the manager's visit? was he only just looking in to pass the time of day with the maid of one of his patrons? or--horrible thought!--did he imagine that there was something not quite usual about miss million? had he, too, wondered over our arriving at the hotel with those old clothes and those new trunks? and now was he keeping an eye on whatever miss million meant to do? for all his pleasant manner, he did look as if he thought something about her were distinctly "fishy"! i said brightly: "she may stay away for a few days." "a little change into the country, i expect? do anybody good this stuffy weather," said the affable manager. "going down to join her, i expect, aren't you?" this was a poser, but i answered, i think, naturally enough. i said: "well, i'm waiting to hear from her first if she wants me!" and i nodded quite cheerily at the manager as he passed again down the corridor. i trust he hadn't even a suspicion of the uneasy anxiety that he had left behind him in the heart of miss million's maid! what a perfectly awful day this has been! quite the most awful that i've ever lived through in all my twenty-three years of life! i thought it was quite bad enough when all i had to bear was the gnawing anxiety over million's disappearance, and the suspense of waiting, waiting, waiting for news of her! living for the sound of the telephone bell ... sitting up here in her room, feeling as if three years had elapsed between each of my lonely hotel meals ... wondering, wondering over and over again what in the world became of her since i saw my young mistress at the supper club last night.... but now i've something worse to bear. something far more appalling has happened! i felt a presentiment that something horrible and unforeseen might occur, even before the first visit of the manager, with his suspicious glance, to miss million's room. for i'd wandered downstairs, in my loneliness, to talk to the girl in the telephone exchange. she's a bright-eyed, chatty creature who sits there all day under the big board with the lights that appear and disappear like glowworms twinkling on a lawn. she always seems to have a cup of tea and a plate of toast at her elbow. she also seems always to have five minutes for a chat. and she's taken a sort of fancy to me; already she's confided to me countless bits of information about the staff and the people who are staying or who have stayed in the hotel. "the things i've seen since i've been working here would fill a book," she told me blithely, when i drifted in to find companionship in her little room. "really, i think that if i'd only got time to sit down and write everything i'd come across in the way of the strange stories, and the experiences, and the different types of queer customers that one has come in one's way, well! i'd make my fortune. hall caine couldn't be in it. excuse me a minute." (this was a telephone interlude.) "the people you'd never think had anything odd about them," pursued the telephone girl, "and that turn out to be the absolute limit!" (i wondered, uneasily, if she thought that my absent mistress, miss million, belonged to this particular type.) so i went back to the subject next time i passed the telephone office. (this was after the manager had looked into my room with his kind inquiries after miss million.) "and, really," i said. i can't think what made me, beatrice lovelace, feel as guilty as if i were a pickpocket myself. perhaps it was because i had something to hide. namely, the fact that i was a maid whose mistress had left the hotel without a hint as to her destination or the date of her return! "that's a scotland yard man that's passing in the hall now," she added, dropping her voice. "no; not the one you're looking at," as i turned to glance at a very broad, light-grey back. "that's another of our american cousins. just come. a friend of mr. isaac rattenheimer; have you seen mrs. rattenheimer when she's going out in the evening? my dear! the woman blazes with jewels like a strand shooting-gallery with lights. you really ought to have a look at her. "come down into the lounge to-night; pretend you've got some note or something for your miss million. she'll be coming back to-night, i suppose?" she said. "oh, she may not. it all depends," i said vaguely, but with a desperate cheerfulness. i left the telephone girl to decide for herself what this mysterious thing might be that i had said "depended," and i drifted out again into the vestibule. here i passed the young man my friend had called an american cousin. he looked very american. his shoulders, which were broad enough in all conscience, seemed padded at least two inches broader. and the cut of his light-grey tweeds, and the shape of his shoes, and the way he'd parted his sleek, thick, mouse-coloured hair, were all unmistakably un-english. as i passed he stared; not rudely, but with a kind of boyish, naïve interest. i wondered what miss million would have thought of him. she's accustomed to giving me her impressions of every fresh person she sees; talking over each detail of their appearance while i'm doing her hair.... i mean that's what she used to be accustomed to! if only i knew when i should do her hair again! well, i walked upstairs, and the first hint of coming discomfort met me on our landing. it took the shape of our sandy-haired chamber-maid. she was whisking down the corridor, looking flushed and highly indignant over something or other. as i passed her she pulled up for a moment and addressed me. "your turn next, miss smith, i suppose!" she sniffed, with the air of one who feels that (like job) she does well to be angry. "you'd better be getting ready for it!" "getting ready for what?" i asked bewilderedly. but the sandy-haired one, with another little snort, had passed on. i think i heard her muttering something about "never had such a thing happen before! the ideear!" as she disappeared down the corridor. i was puzzled as i went back into miss million's room, that seems to have been empty for so long. what did the chamber-maid mean? what "thing" had happened? what was i to prepare for? and it was my "turn" for what? i was soon to know. chapter xxi an unexpected invasion! i had scarcely been in the room ten minutes. i was putting fresh water into the tall glass jar that held the sheaf of red carnations, when there came yet another tap at the white door that i have had to open several times already to-day, but never to any messenger with tidings of my missing mistress! this time, to my amazement, it was quite a group of men who asked for admittance to miss million's room! there was first the frock-coated manager; then a very stout and black-eyed and fleshy-nosed hebrew gentleman whom i hadn't seen before; then a quiet-looking man with a black tie whom i recognised as the one who had been pointed out to me by the telephone girl as a scotland yard plain-clothes detective; then the young american in the light-grey tweeds. i wondered if i were dreaming as this quartette proceeded to walk calmly in. such an invasion! what could they all want? the manager turned to me with a smile. he spoke in quite as pleasant a voice as he had spoken before; it was, indeed, quite conciliating! but there was an order behind it! "now, miss smith, i am very sorry to have to disturb you. we're all very sorry, i'm sure," with a glance at the other three men. the detective looked polite and blank; the jew man seemed fussing and fuming over something; the young american glanced interestedly about the room, taking everything in, down to the carnations in my hand. he smiled at me. he had a friendly face. "not at all," i said, wishing my heart would not beat with such unreasonable alarm. "is there anything--is it anything about my mistress?" "oh, no. miss smith. it's a mere formality we're asking you to submit to," said the manager. "all our own staff have complied, without raising any objection. and we think it advisable to apply the same thing to other--er--to other people employed about the place. it's as much for your own sake as for ours, you know?" "what is?" i asked, feeling distinctly more fluttered. "i am sure you're far too reasonable to make any demur," the manager went on soothingly. "the last young lady, our miss mackenzie, raised no objection at all." mackenzie is the sandy-haired chamber-maid. "objection to what?" i asked, with as much dignity as i could possibly summon up. "why, to having us go through her boxes, miss smith," said the manager with great suavity. "the fact is an article of value is missing from this hotel. the property of mr. rattenheimer here," with a turn towards the obese hebrew, "and it would be a satisfaction to him and to all of us to prove that no suspicious can be attached to anybody in the place. so----" so that was it! they wanted to search my things to see if i were a thief! yes, they actually wanted to search my trunks! just as if i were a suspected servant in a country house where one of the guests finds a diamond bar missing! here was a nice predicament for aunt anastasia's niece, and for my poor father's child, to say nothing of lady anastasia's great-granddaughter! it was so absurd that i nearly laughed. at all events, i suppose the anxious expression must have left my face for the moment. the manager rubbed his hands, and said in a pleased voice: "ah, i knew you were sensible, and would make no fuss! when people have clear consciences i don't suppose they mind who goes looking through their things. i am sure i should not mind anybody in the world knowing what was inside my boxes. now, miss smith, i think your room is no. , is it not? so if you will be kind enough to give me your keys, and----if you would not mind stepping with us across the corridor----" here i found voice. "you really mean it?" i said. "you want to search my trunks?" "merely as a matter of form," repeated the manager a little more insistently. "i am sure a young lady like you would not mind who knew what was in her trunks." i stood there, one hand still full of the red carnations that i was rearranging, the other gripping the end of the pink couch. i was thinking at lightning speed even as the frock-coated, shrewd-eyed, suave-voiced manager was speaking. my trunks? well, as far as that went, i had only one trunk to my name! for i had given mackenzie, the sandy-haired chamber-maid, all the luggage which had known me in putney. when she asked me what she was to do with it, i told her she could give it to the dustman to take away, or cut it up for lighting the fires with, or anything she liked. she had said, "very good" in a wooden tone that i knew masked surprise and wonderment unceasing over the inhabitants of nos. , , and . consequently i had, as i say, only one single trunk in the whole wide world. and that was the brand-new masterpiece of the trunkmaker's art, bought in bond street, and handed over to me for my use by miss million on the ill-fated day when we first arrived at the cecil. as for what was in it---- well, in one of miss million's own idioms, "it was full of emptiness"! there was not a thing in it but the incorporate air and the expensive-smelling perfume of very good new leather! as the luggage of a modest lady's-maid it was really too eccentric-looking to display to the suspicious eyes of the four men who waited there in miss million's sitting-room confronting me. i protested incoherently: "oh, i don't think i can let you----" "ah!" said the stout jewish gentleman, with a vicious glance from me to the scotland yard detective, "this don't seem a case of a very clear conscience!" the manager put up a deprecating hand. "a little quietly, sir, if you please. i am sure miss smith will see that it is quite as much for her own benefit to let us just give a bit of a look through her things." her "things!" there, again, was something rather embarrassing. the fact was i had so ridiculously few things. no dress at all but the well-cut, brand-new gown that i stood up in; one hat, one jacket, and two pairs of expensive shoes, three changes of underclothes, and silk stockings. all were good, but all so obviously just out of the shop! there was absolutely nothing about them to link their owner to any past before she came to the hotel! for the fact is that when i sent my boxes and hold-all away i had also repudiated every stitch of the very shabby clothing that had been mine while i was not miss million's maid, but her mistress. the ne'er-do-well serge skirts, the makeshift "jap" silk blouses with no "cut" about them, the underclothes, all darned and patched, the much-mended stockings, once black cashmere but now faded to a kind of myrtle-green--all, all had gone to swell two bulky parcels which i had put up and sent off to the little sisters of the poor! i had heaved a sigh of delight as i had handed those parcels over the post-office counter. it had been the fulfilment of the wish of years! i expect every hard-up girl knows that impulse, that mad longing that she could make a perfectly clean sweep of every single stitch she possesses to wear! how rapturously she would send it all, all away! oh, her joy if she might make an entirely new start--with all fresh clothes; good ones, pretty ones, becoming ones! clothes that she would enjoy wearing, even if there were only so very few of them! in my case they were so few that i really did not feel that they could support any sort of kit-inspection. especially under the eyes of mere male men, who never do understand anything that has to do with our attire. there i stood, in the only frock i had got, in the only other apron and cap (all exquisite of their kind, mind you!), and i said falteringly: "i am very sorry to be disobliging! but i cannot consent to let you search my things, or open my boxes." "looks very bad, indeed, that's all i can say," broke out the stout hebrew gentleman excitedly. "afraid we shall be obliged to do so, officer, whether this young woman wants to let us or not." "you can't," i protested. "nobody can search a person's box against their will!" i remember hearing from million, in the old days of heart-to-heart confidences about her "other situations," that this was "the law of the land." no mistress had the right of opening the trunk of a reluctant maid on her, the mistress's, own responsibility! "we might find ourselves obliged to do so, madam," put in the scotland yard man in a quiet, expressionless voice. "we might take steps to enable us to examine this young lady's belongings, if we find it necessary." "very well, then, charge me! get an order, or whatever it's called," i said quietly but firmly. i meditated swiftly. "getting an order" might take time, quite a lot of time! anything to do with "the law" seems to take such ages before it happens! in that time miss million would, i hope to goodness! have turned up again. if she were here i should not feel so helpless as i do now--a girl absolutely "on her own," with all her visible means of support (notably her heiress-mistress) taken from her! "oh, we hope that it will not be found necessary," persisted the manager, who, i suspect, thought he was being very nice about the affair. "i am sure miss smith will only have to think the matter over to see the reasonableness of what is being asked her. here we are, in this big hotel, all sorts of people coming and going----" "coming and going" rather described my absent mistress's procedure. "and we find suddenly that a piece of very valuable jewellery is missing." "the rattenheimer ruby! not another like it in the world!" cried the stout and excited jew. "i won't tell you how much i gave for that stone! my wife wears it as a pendant, unmounted, just pierced so as to hold on a gold chain.... i won't let that be lost, i can tell you! i will search everywhere, everything, everybody. i tell you, young woman, you need not imagine that you can get out of having your boxes overhauled, if it takes all scotland yard to do it!" here the pleasant, rather slow voice of the american with the unfamiliar note in boots and clothes and thick, mouse-coloured hair broke in upon the other man's yapping. "ca'm yourself, rats. ca'm yourself. you keep quite ca'm and easy. you won't get anything out of a young lady like this by your film-acting and your shouts!" "i tell her i'll have her searched." "not with my consent," i said, feeling absolutely determined now. "and to do it without my consent you have to wait." "i shall go through the other girl's things, then, first," snorted the excited jew. "what's the name of the girl this one's alleged to be working for?" in every look and tone the man voiced his conviction that poor little million and i were two notorious, practised jewel thieves in a new disguise. "this woman who calls herself million, i will go through her things." "you will not," i said stiffly. "my mistress is out. i will not allow any of her things to be touched during her absence. that is my duty." "that's so," said the young american softly. the excited jew man almost grimaced with rage. loudly he demanded: "out, is she? 'out'? where may that be?" how ardently i wished that i knew, myself! but all i said was: "i fail to see that it has got anything to do with you." "probably," said the manager soothingly, "probably when miss million returns she will persuade miss smith to be more reasonable." "they are in league together! it is a put-up job! these two girls ... half the hotel's talking about them.... there is something fishy about them. i will find out what it is," the fat jew was bubbling, while the young american took him by the arm and walked him quietly towards the door. the scotland yard man had already unobtrusively disappeared. last of all the manager went, with quite a pleasant nod and quite a friendly, "well, miss smith, i expect you will think better of it presently." i know that all four of them suspects me! they think that million and i know something about this wretched rattenheimer ruby, or whatever it is. perhaps they think that we are in communication with gangs of jewellery thieves all over europe? perhaps they imagine that i am left here to mount guard over some other loot while million has gone over for a trip to hamburg or rotterdam, or wherever it is that people do go with stolen jewels? and for all i know she may be doing something just as idiotic--the silly girl, getting her head turned and her hair decorated by moon-calves of young lords!... oh! i wish there was any one to whom i could turn for advice! there is not a soul. that nice, sensible, reliable mr. brace is by this time in paris. out of reach! as for mr. burke, he is gallivanting at brighton, and, of course, one could not depend upon him, anyhow! i feel i must go out. it's evening, which means that million has been away from the hotel for twenty-four hours. i have not left it except for that flying visit to the "thousand and one" club. get a breath of fresh air before dinner i simply must. my head seems whirling round and round, and my nerves feel as if something in them has snapped with a loud twang like a violin string. i shall go out--if they will let me, but i should not be at all surprised if the manager of the hotel and the rattenheimer creature between them did not mean to let me stir out of their sight. still, i shall try. i shall take a little turn on the embankment, and watch the barges on the river. that ought to have a soothing influence. how perfectly terrible if i am stopped in the vestibule!... i was not stopped. nobody seemed to see me go out. but when i got out into the strand, with its summer evening crowds of people, i happened to glance across the street, and beheld some one that i had just seen in my room--namely, the quiet-faced man from scotland yard. how awful! i was being shadowed! it was a horrible feeling. so horrible that i am sure it could not have been any worse if i had really taken the rattenheimer ruby, and had it fastened securely inside my black coat at the moment! i felt as if i had. i wondered if the man would come across and dog my footsteps! i turned down one of the little quiet streets on the right that lead to the river, and then i did hear footsteps behind me. they were following--positively following--me! "good evening!" said a quite friendly but un-english voice. it was not the scotland yard detective, then, after all. i turned. it was the young american. chapter xxii her cousin to the rescue "good evening," i said, coldly looking up at the young man, with a glance that said as plainly as possible, "what do you want?" "i hoped you might be kind enough to allow me to escort you on this little stroll of yours, miss smith," said the young american politely, lifting his grey felt hat. "see here, i guess i'd better introdooce myself. i'm hiram p. jessop, of chicago." "you are a detective, too, i suppose," i said, still more coldly. we were standing by the railings of the old london churchyard close to the river. the dark-green leaves of the plane-trees rustled above us. "i suppose you are following me to find out if i'm taking mr. rattenheimer's ruby to a pawnshop?" the young american smiled cheerfully down at me. "nix on the detective racket here," he said, in his queer, slow, pleasant accent. "you can cut out that about rats and his ruby, i guess. i don't care a row o' beans where his old ruby has gann to. what i wanted to ask you about was----" he concluded with a most unexpected two words-- --"my cousin!" i stared up at this big young stranger in the padded grey coat. "your cousin? but--i think you're making some mistake----" "i guess not," said the young american. "you're my cousin's maid all right, aren't you? you're miss million's maid?" "yes. yes, of course," i said, clinging on to that one straw of fact in an ocean of unexpectedness. "i'm her maid----" "and i'm her cousin," said the young american simply. "second cousin, or second, once removed--or something of that sort. you haven't heard of me?" "no, i never have heard of any of miss million's cousins," i said, shaking my head with a gesture of firm disbelief. for i summed up his claim to relationship with my mistress as being about as authentic as the honourable jim's alleged friendship with her uncle. only the fibbing of this second young man seemed rather more shameless! i said: "i didn't know that miss million had any cousins." "and you don't believe it now you hear it? is that so?" he said, still smiling cheerfully. "why, it's quite right to be on the side of caution. but you're overdoing it, miss smith. i'm related to old man million right enough. why, i'm at the boss-end of no end of his business. the sausage king. well, i've been the sausage prince. i see you looking at me as much as to say, 'you say so.' see here, d'you want some proofs? i've a wad of letters from the old man in my pocket now." he put his hand to the breast of the grey-tweed jacket. "maybe you think those aren't proofs, either? write myself a few billets-doux signed, 'yours cordially, sam million'--easy as falling off a horse, eh?" (of course, this was what i had thought.) "i guess i shall have to take you and my cousin along with me to our lawyers the next time i'm calling, that's all," concluded the young american with his cheerfully philosophical air. "chancery lane, messrs. chesterton, brown, jones, and robinson. that's the firm." "oh! you know mr. chesterton!" i exclaimed in accents of relief. i'd quite forgotten miss million's dear old family lawyer. that nice old gentleman! if i wanted advice or help of course there was mr. chesterton to fall back on! i hadn't thought of him before. "know mr. chesterton? sure thing," said the american. we had moved away from the churchyard railings and were strolling slowly towards the embankment now. "why, mr. chesterton and i had a long, long heart-to-heart talk this afternoon, before i came on in the great trunk-searching act! i was just coming in to leave a card on my cousin, miss nellie million, when i found myself one of the galaxy of beauty and talent that was going to make a thorough examination of you girls' things." "oh, were you?" i said lamely. i couldn't think what else to say. too many things had been happening all day long! i said: "miss million didn't know you were coming? "why, no! i guess she didn't suspect my existence, any more than i suspected hers until a few weeks ago," said miss million's cousin. (at last i found myself believing that he really was her cousin after all.) "horrible shock to me, i can tell you, that my uncle sam was cherishing the thought of this little english niece of his all this time! making up his mind to leave his pile to this girl. meantime hiram p. jessop," here he tapped the grey-tweed jacket again, "had been looking upon himself as the heir-apparent!" "oh! you thought all that money was coming to you?" i said, half-amused, half-pityingly, for this was certainly the frankest, most boyish sort of young man i'd ever come across. "and you've lost it all on account of my mistress?" "say, doesn't that sound the queerest ever? a daisy little girl like you talking about some other girl as her 'mistress'!" rejoined my companion in a wondering tone. "why, d'you know? when i saw you standing there in the sitting-room, in your black dress and that cute little apron and cap, i said to myself: 'if this isn't the image of some society girl of the english upper class playing the pretty domestic part in some private theatricals where they rush you a quarter's salary, i guess, for half a look and a programme!' i said, if you'll pardon me: 'it's just the accent, just the look, just the manner.'" "oh!" i said, rather vexed. i was annoyed that he should think there was any trace of "acting" about my appearance. i thought i'd had the art that conceals art. i thought i'd come to look such an irreproachable lady's-maid. "just typically the english young lady of the upper classes," pronounced this surprising young american, meditatively walking along by my side on the asphalt paths of the embankment gardens. "as typical as the westminster abbey, or those tea-shops.... real sweet-looking, real refined-looking, if i may say so. but cold! cold and stiff! 'do not dare to approach me, for all my family were here dying of old age when william the conqueror landed on these shores.' that's the way you'd impress one, miss smith. 'look through my trunks?'" here he adopted an extraordinary voice that i suppose was intended for an imitation of my own tones. then he pulled himself up and said gravely: "you'll pardon me if i'm too frank. but i'm always outspoken. it's my nature. i'm interested in types. i was interested in yours. noo to me. quite noo. the young lady that looks as if she ought to be standing to have her portrait painted on the grey-stone steps of some big english country house--the young lady that turns out to be paid maid to my own cousin! a noo thing." "really!" i said gravely. i couldn't help feeling amused at his puzzled face. we turned again down the asphalt path between the flower-beds of those gardens that are overshadowed by the big hotel. on a bench i caught sight again of the quiet figure that i had noticed on the other side of the strand. it was the scotland yard man. he seemed to be reading an evening paper. but i felt that he was watching, watching.... i didn't mind; even if he did think he was watching some one who knew what had become of the rattheimer ruby! i felt something comforting and trustworthy in the presence of this other young man; this peculiar cousin of million's, from whom one heard, quite unresentfully, remarks that one would not forgive in an englishman, for instance mr. brace. not that mr. brace would ever venture on such personalities ... the honourable jim now.... yes, but he's a celt. a celt is a person who takes, but cannot give, offence. most unfair, of course. the american pursued: "and this cousin of mine? there's another type i shall be interested to see. tell me about her, miss smith, will you? have you known her long?" "oh, yes," i said. "it's some years since i've known miss million." "and well, considering the difference in your positions, that is?" "oh, yes, fairly well," i said, thinking of the many artless confidences i'd listened to from miss million--then "million," of our disgracefully inconvenient little kitchen at putney. those far-away days seemed very pleasant and peaceful to me to-night! but they--those kitchen days--were no part of the business of the young man at my side. "d'you get on with her?" he said. "oh, yes, thank you." "you don't tell me much. it's this english reserve i'm always up against. it's a thing you'd need an ice-axe for, i guess, or a hundred years with your families living in the same village," complained the young american, laughing ruefully. "were you two girls raised together? school together?" "oh, no." he sighed and went off on another tack. "can't you tell me the way she looks, so as to prepare me some for when i see her?" he suggested. "does she resemble you, miss smith?" "i don't think so," i said, suppressing a foolish giggle. it was the first time i'd wanted to laugh at anything for the last twenty-four hours. "no; miss million is--well, she's about my height. but she's dark." "i've always admired the small brunette woman myself," admitted mr. hiram p. jessop, adding quickly and courteously: "not that i don't think it's perfectly lovely to see a blonde with the bright chestnut hair and the brown eyes that you have." "thank you," i said. "and how soon can i see this little dark-haired cousin of mine?" went on the american when we turned out of the gardens. unobtrusively the scotland yard man had risen also. "what time can i call around this evening?" "i--i don't know when she'll be in," i hesitated. "where's she gone to?" persisted the cousin of this missing heiress. "how long did she go for?" i fenced with this question until we arrived at the very doors of the cecil again. then an impulse seized me. all day long i had wrestled alone with this trouble of mine. i hadn't consulted mr. brace. i had kept it from the honorable jim. i had put up all sorts of pretences about it to the people at the hotel. but i felt now that it would have to come out. i couldn't stand it any longer. i turned to miss million's cousin. "mr. jessop, i must tell you," i said in a serious and measured voice. "the truth is i don't know!" "what?" he took up, startled. "are you telling me that you don't know where my cousin is at this moment?" i nodded. "i wish i did know," i said fervently. and as we stood, a little aside from the glass doors in the vestibule, i went on, in soft, rapid tones, to tell him the story of miss million's disappearance from my horizon since half-past eleven last night. i looked up, despairingly, into his startled, concerned face. "what has happened to her?" i said urgently. "what do you think? where do you think she is?" before he could say a word a messenger came up to me with a telegram. "for miss smith." i felt that this would be news at last. it must be. i seized the wire; i tore it open. i read---- "oh!" i cried quite loudly. one of the commissionaires glanced curiously over his shoulder at me. i dropped my voice as i said feverishly: "yes, it is! it's from her!" and i held the telegram out, blindly, towards the young american. the telegram which my mistress had sent ran simply and superbly thus: "why ever don't you bring my clothes? "miss million." there was no address. the wire had been handed in at half-past seven o'clock that evening at lewes. it left me silent for a moment with bewilderment and dismay. after waiting so long for a message! to receive one that told me nothing! "what is the meaning of this here?" said miss million's cousin, repeating, in the accent that makes all our english words sound something new and strange. "'why ever don't you bring my clothes?' well! i guess that sounds as if nothing very terrible had happened to her. her clothes! a woman's first thought, of course. where does she want you to 'bring' them to, miss smith?" "how on earth should i know?" i cried, in desperation. "when i still don't know where she is, or what she is doing!" "but this place, lewes. surely that's some guide to you?" "not the slightest," i said. "we don't know anybody at lewes! at least, i don't know that she knew anybody there! i don't know who on earth can have taken her there!" this with another nervous thought of young lord fourcastles. "i shall have to go at once--no, it's too late to-night. to-morrow i shall go. but---- "she may not be there at all. she may have been motoring through when she sent this absurd wire!" "maybe," said the american. "but it's a clue, for all that. lewes! the post-offices at lewes will tell you something about her." "why, why didn't she tell me something about herself?" i stormed softly. "here she is taking it for granted that i know exactly what's happened and where she's gone! does she imagine that she explained that to me last night before she went out? does she think she gave me any orders? here she is actually asking 'why?' to me!" i concluded, stammering with indignation. "she sounds quite furious because i haven't brought her clothes to her----somewhere in space!" "what clothes was she wearing, may i ask?" demanded the american cousin, in his simple, boyishly interested manner. and when i told him of the bright, cherry-coloured evening gown, and the creamy restaurant coat, and the little cerise satin shoes with jewelled heels that million had on, he put back his head and laughed gently. "poor little girl! poor little cousin nellie! i guess she must have been real mad with herself and you for letting her loose in that get-up," he said, "prancing about all day in the bright sunlight in that outfit. enough to jar any girl of taste in dress, i guess!" then his alert face grew grave again. he said, glancing over his shoulder at the groups that were coming and going in the vestibule: "well, we'll discuss this. come into the lounge, where we can talk quietly." we went into the lounge, where only yesterday i had perceived for the first time the sumptuous apparition of miss vi vassity pouring out tea for my now vanished mistress. it seemed to me that everybody there looked up at me as we passed in. i bit my lip and frowned a little. "you are right. this is no place for a quiet chat," said the american softly. "it will have to be my cousin's sitting-room again, i reckon." upstairs, in miss million's sitting-room, that i seemed to know as well now as a penal-servitude prisoner knows his cell, the american said to me gravely and quietly: "there is one thing, i daresay, which you have not thought of in connection with that----" he nodded his smooth, mouse-coloured head at the tantalising wire that i still held crushed in my hand. "now, i don't know much about your police system," said young mr. jessop, "but i reckon it won't be so very different from our own in a matter of this nature." he nodded again, and went on gravely: "that telegram will have been read all right! the people here, the manager and the scotland yard man, they will know what's in that." "know what's in it?" i gasped, staring at him. "why, how can they? do you mean," indignantly, "that they opened it?" "why, no! you saw for yourself the envelope was not opened when you got the thing. but that is not to say that they could not get it repeated, as easy as winking, at the post-office," said mr. hiram p. jessop, of chicago. "so i'd be ready to bet that everybody here knows what you're up to when you leave this hotel to-morrow. my old acquaintance, rats, and all of 'em. they'll know you're taking something to your young mistress--your confederate, they'll think her!--in sussex. you may be quite sure they're not going to allow you to take any trips into sussex--alone. nope. somebody will go with you, miss smith." "go with me? d'you mean," i said, "that i shall be shadowed all the way by that odious detective man?" "well, now, isn't it more than probable, miss smith?" said the young american shrewdly. "they'd their eye on you two girls from the start, it seems. you aren't a very usual couple. noo to me, you are. both of you seemed noo to them!" "i knew they gossiped about us!" i said ruefully. "sure thing; but don't say 'gossip' as if it was something nobody else did only the folks around this hotel!" protested the american, twinkling. "well, to-day after the great jewel steal you aroused considerable suspicion by refusing to let rats and the others do the custom house officer's act through your wardrobe. this wire will have raised more suspicion this evening. and to-morrow--d'you think they're going to let you quit without further notice taken? think!" i thought for a second. i saw that he was perfectly right. it was just what would happen. wherever i went to-morrow in search of that baffling mistress of mine i should have that scotland yard detective on my heels! that sort of thing made me terribly nervous and uneasy! but i could imagine the ingenuous million being forty times worse about it! if i did succeed in running her to earth at last, i could just imagine million's unconcealed and compromising horror at seeing me turn up with a companion who talked about "the necessary steps" and "the law!" million would be so overwhelmed that she would look as if she had a whole mine full of stolen rubies sewn into the tops of her corsets. she has a wild and baseless horror of anything to do with the police. (i saw her once, at home, when a strange constable called to inquire about a lost dog. it was i who'd had to go to the door. million had sat, shuddering, in the kitchen, her hand on her apron-bib, and her whole person suffering from what she calls "the palps.") so this was going to be awkward, hideously awkward. yet i couldn't go out in search of her! i said, desperately: "what am i to do about it?" "there is only one thing for it as far as i can see," said the young american thoughtfully; "you will have to let me go down with a suit-case full of lady's wearing apparel. you will have to let me make all the inquiries in lewes." "you? oh, no! that is quite impossible," i exclaimed firmly. "you could not." "why not? i tell you, miss smith, it seems to me just to meet the case," he said earnestly. "here's this little cousin of mine, that i have never yet seen, that i've got to make friends with. i am to be allowed to make her acquaintance by doing her a service. now, isn't that the real, old-fashioned anglo-saxon chivalry? it would just appeal to me." "i don't think it would appeal to miss million," i said, "to have a perfectly strange young man suddenly making his appearance in the middle of--wherever she is, with a box full of all sorts of her things, and saying he is her cousin! no, i shall have to go," i said. and then a sudden awful thought struck me. how far could i go on the money that was left to me? three and sixpence! "my goodness! what's the railway fare from victoria, or wherever you go to lewes from? i don't believe i have got it!" i turned to the young man with a resigned sigh of desperation. "i shall have to borrow from you," i said. "with great pleasure," said the young american promptly. then, with a twinkle, he added swiftly: "see here, miss smith. cut out the railroad business altogether. far better if you were to permit me to take you down by automobile. will you let me do that, now? i can hire an automobile and tear off a hundred miles or so of peaceful english landscape before anybody has had time to say 'how very extraordinary!' which is the thing they always are saying in england when any remark is put forward about what they do in the states. pack up my cousin's contraptions to-night, will you? to-morrow morning, at nine or eight or seven if you like, we'll buzz out of this little old town and play baseball with all the police traps between here and brighton! does this appeal to you?" i could not help feeling that this did very considerably appeal to me. if i went with this un-english, unconventional, but kind and helpful young man, i should at least not feel such a lone, lorn female, such a suspect in the eyes of the law! i could rise superior to the dogging of detectives, just as i had risen superior to them this evening in the embankment gardens. suffragists and college-educated girls and enlightened persons of that sort may say what they choose on the subject of woman becoming daily more self-reliant and independent of man. but i don't care. the fact remains that to the average girl-in-a-scrape the presence of man, sympathetic and efficient, does still appear the one and only and ideal prop! bless mr. hiram p. jessop, of chicago! i was only too thankful to accept the offer of his escort--and of his car! before he left me i had arranged to meet him at a certain garage at nine o'clock in the morning. "bright and early, as we may want to have the whole day before us," said the american as he went out. "till then, miss smith!" chapter xxiii i start on the quest and now to set about sorting out some of these "clothes," after which my young mistress inquires so peremptorily! it won't take me long, thanks to the apple-pie order in which i keep them all. (so much easier to be "tidy" with new and gorgeous garments than it is with a chest of drawers full of makeshifts!) i shall take her dressing-bag with the crystal-and-ivory fittings. that ought to impress even the fourcastles' ménage, assuming that lord fourcastles has carried her off to his people's. i wonder whose dressing things and whose dress miss million made use of to-day? for, seriously, of course, she can't have gone "prancing about" in "me cerise evenin'-one." she must have worn borrowed plumes for the day--plumes probably miles too long for the sturdy little barn-door chicken that million is! i wonder, i wonder from whom those plumes were borrowed? please heaven i shall know by this time to-morrow night!... here's her week-end case packed up. the choice of two costumes; the blue cloth and the tobacco-brown taffeta; blouses; a complete set of luxurious undies. even the slip petticoat was an "under-dress" according to the shops miss million patronised! shoes; a hat; a motor-veil and wrap. yes, that's all. that ought to do her--when we get the things to her! but now to bed and to sleep the sleep of exhaustion after quite the most crowded day of my whole life. to-morrow for lewes--and more adventure! we were shadowed on our lewes journey, though scarcely in the way that i had anticipated. however, to begin at the beginning. at nine o'clock this morning, in spite of all difficulties, i did find myself free of the "cecil" and away in a two-seater with my mistress's luggage, sitting beside my mistress's cousin and whirling through the dull and domesticated streets of south london. it was a gorgeous june day, just the very day for a quick flight out into the country. in spite of my anxiety about my mistress my spirits rose and rose. i could have sung aloud for joy as we left grimy london behind us and found ourselves whirling nearer the green heart of the country. "this is better than your first idea of the railroad trip, miss smith?" said the young american at my side. "oh, far more enjoyable," i agreed so eagerly that he laughed. "there is another thing about that," he said. "i suppose you haven't thought of what they would do if they saw you going off by train anywhere?" "what?" i asked, looking up at him with startled eyes. "why, they would wire to every station along the line to take notice where you got off before lewes, and to follow up all your movements, you real, artful, detective-dodging little diamond thief you," declared my companion teasingly. and i saw him simply shaking with laughter over the steering-wheel as he went on. "the brilliant idea of rats, and the manager, that you and my little cousin nellie should have gotten hold of his old ruby!" "you knew at once," i said, "that we hadn't!" and he laughed easily and said: "it didn't take much guessing when he had seen me and knew that nellie million was a relative of his and a niece of the old man's." "jewel thieves, not much!" he said in his quick, reassuring accent. i said: "well! i hope you put in a good word for us with that odious little jew man that lost the ruby." "not on your life! i just love to watch somebody who thinks they are too quick and clever to live go over-reaching themselves some," said the american good-humouredly. how funny it felt to be sitting there beside him, while the hedges whirled past--i, who had never set eyes on the young man before yesterday, now joining him in this wild quest of a cousin whom he had never yet seen! "oh, dear! i wonder if we shall find her!" i murmured. "why, i am determined not to close an eye to-night until we do, miss smith," said the missing heiress's cousin, gravely looking ahead at the sliding ribbon of white road. "it's a matter of some little importance to me that we find her soon. it is also no less important what i think of her when we do meet!" i was a little surprised to hear him speak so impressively. naturally, when one is going to meet a relative for the first time one wonders what sort of a mutual impression will be made. but why had this young man said so seriously that this was "important"? he seemed to read my thoughts, for, as we cleared a village and came out into a long stretch of wide and empty road, he turned to me and said: "you know, it is as a matter of business that i am coming to see this cousin of mine and this mistress of yours. i have got to have a little serious heart-to-heart talk with her on the subject of the old man's money." "why?" i asked, startled. "isn't it safe in that factory place where mr. chesterton said it had better be kept?" "oh, it is safe enough there," he said. "the question is, is all that money going to be allowed to remain in the hands of one little dark-haired girl without let or hindrance, as the lawyers say?" "allowed?" i echoed. "but who is to disallow it?" there was a moment's silence. then the young american said meditatively: "i might! that is, i might have a try. true, it mightn't come off. i don't say that it is bound to come off. but, between you and me, the old gentleman was remarkably queer in his head when he made that second will, leaving the whole pile to his niece, miss nellie million. the will he made a couple of years before, leaving everything to his nephew, hiram p. jessop, might be proved to be the valid one yet, if i liked to go setting things to work." at the sound of this a dark cloud seemed to blot out some of the june sunshine that was steeping the white roads and the hawthorn hedges and the emerald-green fields of corn "shot" with scarlet poppies. poor little unsuspecting million! wherever she was, she had not an idea of this--that the fortune which she had only just begun to enjoy might be yet snapped out of her hands, leaving no trace of it behind but the costly new trousseau of clothes, a gorgeous array of trunks, and an unpaid hotel bill! how terrible! it would be worse than if she had never had any money at all! for it is odd how quickly we women acclimatise ourselves to personal luxuries, even though we have not been brought up to them. for instance, already since i had had my own new things i felt that i could never bear to go back to lisle thread or cashmere stockings again. only silk were possible for miss million's maid! another awful thought. supposing miss million ceased to be an heiress? she would then cease to require the services of a lady's-maid. and then i should be indeed upon the rocks! again that weird young american seemed to read my thoughts. dryly he said: "you see yourself out of a job already, miss smith?" "no, indeed, i don't," i said with spirit. "you have not got the money yet, my mistress is still in possession of it." "and possession is nine-tenths of the law, you mean," he took up; "still i might choose to fight on the tenth point, mightn't i?" he put back his head and laughed. "perhaps i shan't have to fight. this entirely depends upon how nellie and i are going to fix it up when we do meet," he said cheerily. "we have got to find her first," i said, with a feeling of apprehension coming over me again. and this young american who may have control of our future (mine and miss million's) said cheerfully: "we are going to find her or know why, i guess. don't you get worrying." such an easy thing to say: "don't worry"! as if i hadn't had enough to worry me already! now this fresh apprehension! i felt my face getting longer and longer and more despondent inside the frame of the thin black motor-scarf with which i had wreathed my hat. the young american glanced at it and smiled encouragingly. "i guess you are starving with hunger," he said; "i'll wager you hadn't the horse sense to eat a decent breakfast before you started away from the 'cess'? tea and toast, what? i knew it. now, see here, we are going to climb right down and have a nice early lunch at the first hostelry that we come to, with honeysuckle and english roses climbing over the porch." it was hardly a mile further on that we came to a wayside inn such as he had described. there it was, a white-washed, low-roofed house, with roses and creepers, with a little bit of green in front of it, and a swinging painted sign, and a pond not far off, with a big white duck and a procession of little yellow ducklings waddling towards it across the road. it looked quite like a page out of a caldecott picture-book. the only twentieth-century detail in it was the other two-seater car that was drawn up just in front of the porch. this was a car very much more gorgeous than the hireling in which we were setting forth on our quest. she--this other car--appeared to be glitteringly new. the hedge-sparrow blue enamel and the brass work were a dazzlement to the eyes in the brilliant june sunshine. in front there was affixed the mascot, a beautiful copy of "the winged victory," modelled in silver. i wondered for a moment who the lucky owner of such a gem of cars might be. and then, even as i descended from the hireling, and entered the inner porch with my companion, i thought of the last time that i had heard a small car mentioned. that was lord fourcastles's! the gnarled-looking old woman who kept this decorative-looking inn shook her head doubtfully over the idea of being able to let us have lunch as early as all that. "mid-day dinner," she informed us rather reproachfully, "was at mid-day!" however, if bread and cheese and cider would do us those we could have. she had taken a tray with those on already to the gentleman who had driven up in a small car, if we wouldn't mind having it in the little coffee-room with him. thankfully enough i preceded mr. jessop into the coffee-room. it was long, and low-ceilinged, and dark from the screen of tangled ivy and honeysuckle and jasmine that grew up about the low window. inside was a framed picture of queen victoria as a blonde girl in a dressing-gown receiving the news of her accession to the english throne. another picture showed her in jubilee robes. there were also cases of stuffed birds and squirrels, padded chairs with woollen antimacassars. at the further table there loomed against the light the broad back of a man eating bread and cheese and reading a newspaper. from the look of him, he was the owner of that sumptuous car. my american friend exclaimed in delight. "well, now, if any one had told me there still existed anything so real old-fashioned and quaint right close up to the most sophisticated old town in europe i would never have believed them!" he ejaculated. "it takes old england to supply anything in the nature of a setting for romance. doesn't this look the exact parlour where the runaway couple would be fixing things up with the relenting pa on the way back from gretna green, miss smith?" i laughed as i said: "it is rather a long way from here to gret----" here there was a sudden noise of a man springing quickly to his feet. the guest, who had been sitting there over his bread and cheese and cider, swung swiftly round. "by the powers, but this is a delightful surprise!" he exclaimed. i stared up at him with eyes now grown accustomed to the dimness of the inn parlour. i beheld, handsomer and more débonnaire than ever, no less a person than the honourable jim burke! as i shook hands i wondered swiftly from whom this blue-eyed pirate had borrowed the brand-new, spick-and-span little car that stood outside there with her nose and the mascot that was its ornament turned towards london. i saw young mr. jessop staring with all his shrewd yet boyish eyes. i wondered what on earth he thought of my very conspicuous-looking friend; no, i can't call him "friend" exactly, my conspicuous-looking acquaintance to whom i hurriedly introduced him? "very happy to meet you," said the american, bowing. mr. burke, with the most extraordinary flavour of an american accent tinging his brogue, added: "delighted to make your acquaintance, mr. jessop." without my seeing how he did it exactly, mr. burke had arranged the chairs about his table so that we all sat at lunch there together. but he changed his seat so that it was mr. jessop who sat with his face to the light, opposite to the man i had known just a very little longer. really, it does seem odd to think that i am the same beatrice lovelace who used to live at no. laburnum grove! there, from year's end to year's end, i never exchanged a single word with anything that you could describe as a young man! and now, to parody the old story about the 'bus driver, "young men are no treat to me!" within forty-eight hours i have had one propose to me, one taking me out for a walk on the embankment and arranging to bring me for this motor expedition to-day, and a third having lunch with me and the second! it was a very funny lunch. and not a very comfortable one. the two men talked without ceasing about automobiles, and "makes," and garages, and speeds, and the difference between american and english workmen. (mr. burke really does seem to know something about america.) but i felt that the air of that shady coffee-room was simply quivering with the thoughts of both of them on very different subjects. mr. jessop was thinking: "now, see here! who's this young irish aristocrat? he seems to be on such perfectly friendly terms of equality with my cousin's maid. how's this?" mr. burke was thinking: "who the dickens is this fellow? how is it that miss million's maid seems to be let loose for the whole day without her mistress, and a young man and a car to herself?" the keynote of the next half-hour might be summed up in kipling's phrase, "man's timid heart is bursting with the things he dare not say!" my heart meanwhile was bursting with the wild longing to find out if mr. burke knew anything at all of the whereabouts of my mistress. i decided that he did not, for if he had wouldn't he have mentioned something to do with her? as it was, which i am sure was buzzing in all of our brains, the name million did not pass any of our lips! the men went out together, apparently on the most friendly terms, to pay the landlady and exchange inspection of the "automobiles." by some manoeuvring or other mr. burke contrived to come back first into the coffee-room where i stood alone before the mirror readjusting the black gauze scarf. he came behind and spoke to my reflection in the mirror, smiling into the eyes that met his own blue and unabashed ones in the glass. "child, a word with you," murmured the honourable jim in his flattering and confidential tones. "will you tell me something? does all this mean, now, that my good services are no longer required in the way of introducing to you with a view to matrimony the wealthy alien that i mentioned at that charming tea the day before yesterday, was it?" "what do you mean, mr. burke?" i said. "what do you mean by all this?" the honourable jim jerked his smooth black head towards the window, whence he could get a glimpse of the waiting cars. "i mean our friend, the american eaglet, who is so highly favoured that he doesn't even have to wait until friday afternoon off," said the honourable jim softly, watching my face, "for his flights with the little black-plumaged pigeon." naturally when one is watched one colours up. who could help it? the honourable jim said rather more loudly: "i'll tell you something. you have every symptom about you of a girl who has had a proposal of marriage in the last couple of days. didn't i see it at lunch? the way you held your head! the new pride in your voice! something in the very movement of the hand----" he caught me very gently by the wrist of my left hand as he spoke. i hadn't yet put on my gloves. "no ring there," said the honourable jim, dropping the hand again. "but--miss lovelace, child! will you deny to me that some one has not proposed to you since you and i had tea together?" at that i could not help thinking of poor mr. brace in paris. he would be coming over at the end of the week to receive the answer which i had not yet had time to think about. i was so amazed at mr. burke's perspicacity that i could not help reddening even deeper with pure surprise. the irishman said softly: "i am answered! tell me, when are you going over to the stars and stripes?" good heavens! what an idiotic mistake. he really imagined that the man who had proposed to me was not mr. brace, but mr. hiram p. jessop, of chicago! i protested incoherently: "why! i only met him last night." "what is time to love?" laughed mr. burke. "but don't be so ridiculous," i besought him. "this mr. jessop has nothing to do with me! he is----" here the conversation was stopped by the entrance of mr. jessop himself. i think mr. hiram p. jessop soon discovered that mr. burke had made up his mind about one thing. namely, that he meant to start first from the inn where we'd lunched! he rose to say good-bye, and to add that he must be "off" so very firmly, and just after he had helped me to another plateful of raspberries drowned in cream. we shook hands, and in a few seconds we heard him starting his motor--or rather, the super-car that i conclude he had borrowed, or "wangled," or whatever he calls it, from one of his many wealthy friends. through the window i caught a flashing glimpse of this hedge-sparrow-blue car with her silver mascot whizzing past--on the road to lewes. this was odd, i thought. for there was no doubt that when we pulled up at the inn, that car's nose had been towards home, and london. then we, too, started off for lewes, and the inquiries we had to make there. this was when i discovered that mr. jessop and i were, as i've said, "shadowed." mr. burke, in that gorgeous car of his, had evidently determined, for some obscure reason, not to lose sight of us. we overtook him, tooling leisurely along, a mile this side of uckfield. we waved; we caught a cheery gleam of his white teeth and black-lashed blue eyes. i thought that would be the last of him. oh, dear, no. a quarter of a mile further on he appeared to the right by some cross-road. and from then on he and the light-blue car kept appearing and disappearing in our field of vision. at one moment the light-blue and silver gleam of his motor would flash through the midsummer green of trees overshadowing some lane ahead of us. again he would appear a little behind and to the left. presently, again, to the right.... "that friend of yours seems to know the country considerable well," remarked the american to me. "looks like as if he was chasing butterflies all over it. is he a great nature-lover, miss smith?" "i couldn't tell you," i said vaguely, and feeling rather annoyed. "i don't know this mr. burke at all well." "is that so?" said the young american gravely. near lewes we lost sight of that glittering car; it seemed finally. i felt thoroughly relieved at that. he was a most embarrassing sort of travelling companion, the honourable jim! chapter xxiv we seek "the refuge" we (mr. jessop and i) drove slowly to the first post-office. there we both alighted. and i in my impatience fairly flung myself against the long counter with its wirework screen that fenced off the post-office girls. they stared curiously at the anxious-looking young woman in black and the grey-clad, unmistakably american young man, who both at once began to make inquiries about a certain telegram which had been handed in there at half-past seven o'clock the evening before. "are you the person to whom the telegram was addressed?" one of the girls asked almost suspiciously. "yes. i am miss smith. you see! here is an envelope addressed to me at the hotel cecil," i said, feverishly producing that envelope (it belonged to mr. brace's last note to me). "can you tell me who handed in this message?" "i couldn't, i'm sure," said the girl who had spoken suspiciously. "i was off last evening before six." "can you tell me who was here?" i demanded, fuming at the delay. the girls seemed blissfully unaware that this was a matter of life and death to me. "miss carfax was here, i believe," volunteered one of the other girls, in the "parcels" division of the long counter. i asked eagerly: "which is miss carfax, please?" "just gone to her lunch," the two girls replied at once. "won't be back until two o'clock." "oh, dear!" i fretted. then a third girl spoke up. "let's have a look at that wire, dear, will you?" she said to the parcels girl. "i think i remember miss carfax taking this in. yes. that's right. 'why ever don't you send my clothes, miss million?' i remember us passing the remark afterwards what an uncommon name 'million' was." "oh, do you! how splendid!" i said, all eagerness at once. "then you remember the young lady who telegraphed?" "yes----" "a small, rather stumpy young lady," i pursued. "nice-looking, with bright grey eyes and black hair? she was dressed in a cerise evening frock with a----" the post-office girl shook her head behind the wire screen. "no; that wasn't the one." "how stupid of me; no, of course, she wouldn't be still wearing the evening frock," i amended hastily. "but she was dark-haired, and short----" again the post-office girl shook her head. "shouldn't call her short," she said. "taller than me." "dark, though," i insisted. "black hair." "oh, no," said the post-office girl decidedly. "that wasn't her. red hair. distinctly red." "are you sure," i said, in dismay, "that you haven't made a mistake?" "oh, no," said the post-office girl, still more decidedly. "i've seen her about, often. i know the colour of her hair. you know, daisy," turning to another of the girls, "that one from the 'refuge.'" "there's so many from the 'refuge' come in here," said the maddening girl she had called daisy. "yes, but you know the one. rather strikingly dressed always. lots of scent, makes herself up. her with the hair. the one we call 'autumn tints.'" "'autumn tints'--oh, yes, i know her----" "yes, we know her," chorused the other girls, while i fidgeted, crumpling million's baffling wire in my hand. "that's the lady who sent off the telegram. i couldn't be mistaken." mr. hiram p. jessop, at my side, interposed. "well, now, will you young ladies be so kind as to tell us where she resides? the 'refuge'--what'll that be?" we had, it seemed, still some distance to go. we must take the road that went so, then turn to the right, then to the left again. then about a mile further down we'd see a red brick house in a clump of trees, with a big garden and green palings on to the road. it had "the refuge" painted up on a board nailed to a big oak tree in the garden. we shouldn't be able to mistake it, said the girls. "certainly you won't mistake it if you see any of the 'refugees' in the garden when you come up," hazarded the most talkative of the post-office girls. "it's a case of 'once seen, never to be forgotten,' there!" as we went out of the office i found myself wondering more and more anxiously what all this might mean. what sort of a place had million got herself into the middle of? "what do you think it all means?" i turned again appealingly to the young man who was driving me. he shook his grey-hatted head. his face was rather graver than before. mercy! what were we going to find? what did he think? evidently he wasn't going to tell me. only when we got clear of the straggling outskirts of lewes he crammed on speed. up the gradual hills we flew between the bare shoulders of the downs where the men and horses working in the fields afar off looked as small as mechanical toys. the whole country was gaunt and gigantic, and a little frightening, to me. perhaps this was because my nerves were already utterly overstrained and anxious. i could see no beauty in the wideswept sussex landscape, with the little obsolete-looking villages set down here and there, like a child's building of bricks, in the midst of a huge carpet. there seemed to me something uncanny and ominous in the tinkling of the sheep-bells that the fresh breeze allowed to drift to our ears. on we whizzed, and by what miracle we escaped police-traps i do not know.... we took the turns of our directions, and at last i heard a short, relieved sort of exclamation from mr. hiram p. jessop. "here we are. this'll be it, i guess." for here were the dark-green towers of elms set back from the road. a red roof and old-fashioned chimney-stacks showed among them. there was a garden in front, with tall mary-lilies and pink-and-white phlox and roses and carnations and thrift that grew down to the palings. and close up beside those palings there was drawn a pale-blue car that i knew well--too well! it was the car with the silver-winged victory as mascot! the car in which we'd been followed and shadowed for so much of our journey by the honourable jim burke. he was here, then! he was before us! what had he to do with the "refuge"? sounds of singing greeted us as we left the car, pushed open the green-palinged gate, and walked up the pebbled path between the flower-beds of the garden. some one behind the lilac bushes was singing, in a very clear, touching voice, a snatch of the ballad: "oh, ye'll tak' the high road and i'll tak' the low road, and i'll be in scotland before ye...." a turn in the garden path brought us full upon the singer. a wonderful apparition indeed she was! as tall as any woman i had seen (excepting the long-limbed cobra-lady), and the june sun shone on a head of hair that was as bright as a bed of marigolds--red hair, but not all the same kind of red. it was long and loose in the breeze, and it fell to the singer's waist in a shower of red-gold, covering her face and hiding most of her bodice, which appeared to be a sort of flimsy muslin dressing-jacket. her skirt was very makeshift and of brown holland. the stockings she wore were white thread, and her shoes were just navy-blue felt bedroom slippers, with jaeger turn-overs to them. in fact, her whole appearance was négligée in the extreme. who--what could she be? she looked a cross between a mermaid and a scarecrow. she was holding one hank of red-gold out against her arm, as a shop assistant measures silk, and she crunched along the garden path, still singing in that delicious voice: "but i and my true love will never meet again, on the bonny, bonny banks of loch lomond!" blinded by her hair and the stream of sunlight, she nearly walked straight into us before she discovered that there was any one there on the path at all. "i beg your pardon," began mr. hiram p. jessop with his usual politeness. "could you inform us----" the singing mermaid gave a little "ow" of consternation, and tossed back some of the hair from her face. it was a disappointing sight, rather, for what we saw was a round, full-mooney, rather foolish face, with a large pink mouth, but no other definite features. the eyes were pale blue, the cheeks were paler pink, and the eyebrows and eyelashes looked as if they had been washed away in a shower of rain. altogether, a thoroughly weird apparition it was who stared at us, and giggled, and said, in a very cockney accent: "oh, good gollywog! another man! there's no getting away from them in this place this morning. and there was i thinking i had found a quiet spot to dry my hair in!" "i am very sorry to intrude," said mr. hiram p. jessop in his most courteous voice. "could you inform me, madam, if this is the house they call the refuge?" "that's right," said the woman with the hair. and i found myself suddenly wondering if she were the lady that those post-office girls had nicknamed "autumn tints." it was most appropriate, with those reds and golds and bronzes of the hair that must have been sufficiently striking had it not been "treated" with henna, as it had. so i said eagerly, and without further preamble: "oh, then, could you tell me if miss million is here?" "i couldn't, dear, really," said the woman, who looked all washed-out excepting her hair. "there is such a lot of them that keep coming and going here! like a blessed beehive, isn't it? bothered if i can keep track of all their names!" she paused a moment before she went on. "miss million--now which would she be?" i felt a chill of despair creeping over my heart. what did she mean by saying that "so many of them" kept coming and going in this place? this, combined with the comments of those post-office girls at lewes, awoke in my mind one terrifying conclusion. this place with the peaceful garden and the pretty name----! there was something uncanny about it.... this place was a lunatic asylum! yes, i did not see what else on earth it could possibly be! and then this woman with the vacuous face and the wild hair, and still wilder kind of attire, she, without doubt, was one of the patients! what in the world was my poor little million doing in this galley, provided she was here at all? and who brought her here? and what was the honourable jim's car doing out there? could he have been so disgraceful as to have got her brought here for the purpose of rescuing her himself, and of earning her undying gratitude as well as the riches of her uncle? oh, what a horrible trick.... rather than that i felt that i would gladly see the money all go over to miss million's cousin! that big young man stood there looking as puzzled as i did, glancing doubtfully, almost apprehensively, at the woman with the wild attire. i attacked her again, with more firmness this time. "i think miss million must be here," i said. "she sent me a telegram, and they told me at the post-office place that it was----" "oh! her that sent the telegram, was it? that's the young lady you want? i know, i took the telegram myself," said the woman with the autumn-foliage hair. "it was a girl who turned up here with nothing but an evening gown and a light coat the day before yesterday; a dark girl, short." "that would be the one," i cried with the utmost eagerness. "is she----oh, is she still here?" "she's here, all right," said the woman with the hair. "my word! she wasn't half in a paddy, i can tell you, because she could not get her maid or whoever it was to send down her things from london. nothing but what she stood up in, and having to borrow, and no one with a thing to fit her! she is here, all right!" relieved, but not completely relieved until i should have heard more of million's adventures, i said: "i am her maid. i have brought down her things. would you be so kind as to tell me where i should find miss million?" "she will be in the house, having her dinner now," said the poor red-haired lunatic quite kindly. "you will excuse me coming in with you myself, dear, won't you? there is a strange gentleman in there come in that other car, and i have not had time to go and get myself dressed yet. i made sure i should have all the morning to myself to get my hair done. such a time it does take me," she added, shaking it out with an air of vanity, and, indeed, she had something to be vain of. "it isn't everybody i like to see me like this. i am never one to be careless about my appearance when there are gentlemen about. they never think any more of a girl" (poor creature, she was at least forty) "for things of that kind. i am sure i had no more idea that there was another gentleman coming in, and me with my hair like this! of course, as i always say, well! it's my own hair! not like some girls that have to have a haystack on their heads before they're fit to look at, as well as a switch all round...." it really seemed as if she was going on with this "mildly mental" chatter for as long as we chose to listen. so i gave one glance at miss million's cousin, meaning, "shall we go?" he nodded gravely back at me. then, leaving the red-haired lunatic on the path, shaking her tresses in the sun, we went on between the lilac bushes with their undergrowth of lilies and stocks and pinks until we came to the house. the house was a regular sussex farm sort of looking place that had evidently been turned into a more modern dwelling-house place. there were bright red curtains at all the white-sashed windows, which were wide open. there were window-boxes with lobelia and canary-creeper and geraniums. as i say, all the windows were flung wide open, and from out of them i heard issuing such a babble of mixed noises as i don't think i had ever heard since i was last in the parrot-house at the zoo. there were shrill voices talking; there was clattering of knives and forks against crockery. these sounds alternated with such bursts of unrestrained laughter that now i was perfectly certain that my suspicion outside in the garden had been a correct one. yes! this place could be nothing but some institution for the mentally afflicted. and this--and this was where million had been spirited off to! setting my teeth, and without another glance at the increasingly grave face of my companion, i ran up the two shallow stone steps to the big open front door, and rang the bell. the tinkling of it was quite drowned by the bursts of hysterical merriment that was issuing from the door on the left of us. "they can't hear us through that bedlam," was mr. jessop's very appropriate comment. "see here, miss smith, as it appears to be mostly ladies i shan't be wanted, i guess. supposing you go easy into the porch and knock on that door while i wait out here on the steps?" this i did. i knocked hard in my desperation. no answer but fresh bursts of laughter, fresh volumes of high-pitched talk. suddenly i seemed to catch through it a deep-voiced masculine murmur with an intonation that i knew--the caressing irish inflection of mr. james burke. "what divilment is he up to now, i wonder?" i thought exasperatedly, and my annoyance at the very thought of that man nerved me to knock really peremptorily on the sturdy panels of the door. then at last i got an answer. "don't stand knocking there like an idiot, come in," shrieked the highest-pitched of all the parrot voices. giving myself a mental shake, in i went. i found myself in a big brown distempered room, with a long white table running down the centre of it. the place seemed full to overflowing with two elements--one, the overpowering smell of dinner, i. e., pork and greens and boiled potatoes, and stout; two, a crowd of girls and women who looked to me absolutely numberless. they were all more or less pretty, these girlish faces. and they were all turned to me with wide-open eyes and parted lips. out of this sea of faces there appeared to be just two that i recognised as i gazed round. one was the laughing, devil-may-care face of the honourable jim, who sat with a long peg glass in front of him, at the bottom of the table. chapter xxv found! the other---- ah, yes! at last, at last! after all my anxiety and worry and fretting and search! there she was! i could have kissed the small, animated grey-eyed face of the girl who was sitting next to the honourable jim at the table. however she'd come there, i had at least found her. my long-lost mistress; miss million herself! "oh, it's her!" cried miss million's shrill cockney voice in a sudden cessation of the parrot-like shrieks of talk and laughter as i ran round the table. "oh, it's my miss--it's my miss smith!" she clapped her hands with impatience, jumping up in her chair. "have you brought them, smith?" she demanded eagerly. "have you got my clothes----" "oh, 'ark at her!" shrieked some one on the right of the table. "it's all her clothes! hasn't thought of anything else since she came down----" "better late than never----" the babble went on all around me, while i strove to make myself heard. "now we shall see a bit o' style----" "don't see anything wrong with the blouse the girl's got on, myself----" "fits where it touches, doesn't it----" indeed, the garment in which my young mistress's small form was enfolded appeared to be the sort of wrap which a hairdresser's assistant tucks about one when one is going to have a shampoo! "looks like a purser's jacket on a marling-spike!" sang out some one else; and then more laughter. well, if they were lunatics, they were at least the cheerful variety! i went up to miss million's chair, ignoring the blue glance of the man beside her, and said in my "professional," respectful murmur: "i have brought your dressing-bag and a suit-case, miss----" "why ever didn't you bring them down yesterday?" demanded million, all eyes and shrill cockney accent. "i didn't know, miss, where i was to bring them," i replied, feeling the amused gaze of the honourable jim upon me as i said it. "but, bless me! i gave the full address," vociferated miss million, "in that telegram!" all the lunatics (or whatever they were) were also listening with manifest enjoyment. "there was no address, miss," i said, as i handed her the wire, which i still kept in my hand. "yes! but this was the second one i sent!" protested my mistress loudly. "this was when i was at my wit's end and couldn't think why you didn't come! i sent off that first one first thing in the morning; you ought to have got it!" "i never did, miss," i began. then a robust, rollicking voice that i confusedly remembered broke in on the discussion. "there you are, you see! what do i always say? never trust anything except your lookin'-glass, and not that except it's in a cross light," cried the voice gaily. "certainly don't trust anything with trousers on! not even if they are ragged ones and tied up with lumps of string! not even if they do pitch you a tale about having served in the boer war!" still feeling as if i were in a weird dream, i turned towards the direction of the voice that enunciated these puzzling sentiments. it proceeded from---- ah! i knew her, too! i knew the brass-bright hair and the plump white-clad, sulphur-crested, cockatoo-like form across the table. "london's love," again! miss vi vassity herself! i'd seen her last where i last saw million--at that supper-table.... now what in the world was england's premier comedienne doing in this asylum--if an asylum it were? she went on in her high swift voice. "you won't catch me giving half-crowns to any more tramps to hand in a wire at the next post-office! no! not if they can sport a row of medals on their chests from here to east grinstead! i knew how it would be," declared miss vi vassity. "my kind heart's my downfall, but i'm going to sign the pledge to reform that. and you, my dear----"--to me-- "you sit down and have a bite of something to eat with us. your mistress don't mind. you don't mind, nellie, do you?"--this to miss million. "we all mess together in this place. i couldn't be worried with a servant's hall. make room for her there, irene, will you? the girl looks scared to death; it's all right, miss--smith, aren't you? sit down, child, sit down----" before i could say another word i found that a wooden chair had been pushed squeakingly under me by some one. knives and forks had been clattered down in front of me by some one else. and there was i, sitting almost in the lap of a very tiny, dark-eyed, gipsy-looking girl, in a blouse without a collar and a pink linen sun hat pulled well down over her small face. on the other side of me, a big, lazy-looking blonde in a sky-blue sports coat rocked her own chair a little away from mine, and said, in a drowsy, friendly sort of voice: "drop of ale, dear? or d'you take a glasser stout?" then the flood tide of talk and laughter seemed to flow on over my head so fast that i literally could not make myself heard. i expostulated that i had already had lunch, and that i didn't want anything to drink, thanks, and that a gentleman was waiting outside on the step--but it passed unheeded until my hostess caught my eye. "what's that, what's that?" ejaculated miss vi vassity, preening her white-linen-bedecked bust across the table, as she saw me trying vainly to say something against the uproar. "what's all that disturbance in the dress circle, bella?" the honey-blonde whom she called bella turned to me and said: "speak up, dear; no one can hear your lines!" then she made a trumpet of her plump white hands and bellowed across to miss vi vassity: "says she's got her best boy with her, and that he is having to wait outside on the steps!" here there was another general gale of laughter, in which my crimson-cheeked explanations were quite lost! in the middle of it all i saw the honourable jim rise from his seat, and stride into the hall and bring in mr. jessop. he appeared to be introducing him to london's love. miss vi vassity immediately made the new-comer sit down also, close to her at the top of the table. i have said it was a rather strange lunch that we had had earlier in the morning at the little honeysuckle-covered inn, where we three had taken cider and bread and cheese together. but it was nothing to the extraordinary unexpectedness, yes, the weirdness in every way of this second lunch, at the long table lined with all those strange types. already, as i sat down, i had given up the idea that it was a female lunatic asylum and rest cure combined. but what was it, this "refuge"? i simply couldn't think! and i did not find out until quite a long time afterwards. after dinner was finished, when million, i knew, was fuming for her boxes, she beckoned me to follow her away from the noisy crowd of girls, up the shallow, broad, old-fashioned staircase. there was one door on the landing which she tiptoed past, putting her finger on her lips. more mystery! i could hardly wait with my questions until the door was shut of the little, slanting-ceiling room with the snow-white, dimity-covered bed that represented miss million's new quarters. there were straw mats on the bare boards. on the little chest of drawers there was a jubilee mug full of the homeliest cottage flowers. this was a far cry from london and the hotel cecil! i turned with eagerness to my mistress. she had flung herself upon the suit-case that had now been brought up to her room. she had forgotten to wait until i should unpack for her, and, having snatched the keys from me, she began fishing out her blouses and other possessions with "ah's" of delight and recognition. "what on earth is this place, and what's the meaning of it all?" i began. but miss million laughed gleefully, evidently taking no small delight in my mystification. "lively, isn't it?" she said. "talk about the old orphanage! well, us girls used to enjoy life there, but it was a fool to this. i fair revel in it, i can tell you, smith, and be bothered to the old cecil. i don't see why we shouldn't stop on here. middle-day dinner and all. that's just my mark, and we can wire to that other place. here's plenty good enough for me, for the present----" "but, look here," i began. "i want to know----" my mistress took me up quickly. i hadn't seen her in such bubbling high spirits since some of the old kitchen-days at putney. "it's me that 'wants to know,' and i'm just going to begin asking questions about it," she declared, as she jumped up to allow me to fasten her into the skirt of the tobacco-brown taffeta. "look here, for a start! who's that nice-lookin' young fellow you came down with? i never! motorin' all over the country with strange young gentlemen. my word! there's behaviour!" giggled million, evidently with the delightful consciousness that her own behaviour was far more reprehensible than mine could ever be. "bringin' him in, as bold as brass; whatever do you think your auntie'd say to that, miss--there! i nearly called you miss beatrice again. after all this time! thinkin' of your aunt nasturtium, i suppose? but straight ... smith! where did you pick up that young man?" "pick him up? i didn't," i began, feeling that a long explanation was ahead of me. "as a matter of fact, he picked me up----" "oh, shockin'," said million, giggling more than before. "whoever said i was going to allow you to have followers?" this annoyed me. "followers!" i exclaimed quite violently. it really was exasperating. first the honourable jim! then the girl called "bella"! then my mistress! they were all taking it for granted! they were all foisting him upon me, this young american with the sleek, mouse-coloured hair and the upholstered shoulders! upon me! "his name is mr. hiram p. jessop----" "'tain't pretty, but what's in a name?" said million, as she held out her wrist for me to insert the microscopic pearl buttons into the fairy-silk loops that fastened her cuffs. "who is he?" "he's your cousin," i told her. and, of course, as i expected, it was some time before i was able to get my young mistress to believe this. "you're sure," she said at last, "that he's not having us on?" "i don't think so," i said rather sadly, for i thought again of what that cousinship might mean--the loss of all miss million's fortune! however, i'd leave that aspect of it for the present. let him explain that. they hadn't been introduced yet. i said: "he's extremely anxious to meet you, let me tell you. he thought of nothing else all the time that he was talking to me. be as nice to him as you can, won't you?" "well, i don't see why i should go out of my way," demurred million exasperatingly. i had hoped that she might appeal to the chivalrous side of the young american's nature; appeal to it so that he might give up his idea of fighting for his rights--if they are his rights! but if million is going to put her back up and become independent--well, they'll fight. and there'll be a catastrophe, and the downfall of million's prosperity, and general wretchedness for miss million and her maid--oh, dear, what a prospect! i began to coax her. "oh, yes, be nice. he's rather a dear, this cousin of yours. and he was so absurdly pleased, do you know, to hear that you had black hair. he admires brunettes." "very kind of him," said million quite flippantly. "you told him, i suppose, about me bein' dark." "he asked so many questions!" i said. "he really takes such an interest. you ought to be flattered, miss million." "i don't know that having interest taken in me by young gentlemen is any such a rarity, just now!" here she reddened rather prettily. i fastened the other cuff. million went on, in a gush of artless confidence: "to tell you the truth, smith, i haven't half been getting off lately. the other night, at the thousand and one club, who d'you suppose was making a fuss of me? a lord, my girl!" this she said, little dreaming that her maid had watched the whole of this scene. "and then, there's something else that's getting a bit more serious," said million, bridling. "turning up to-day, just because he'd guessed where i'd got to, and all!" "he? which he?" i asked, with a quick feeling of dismay. "it's what i call pointed," said million, "the way he's been going on ever since he's met me. even if he is uncle's old friend, it's not all on account of uncle that he makes hisself so agreeable. oh, no! marked, that's what i call it. you know who i mean." she nodded her dark head. she smiled as she spoke the name with a shyness that suited her rather well. "the honourable mr. burke!" "million!" i said anxiously, as i folded the borrowed blouse i'd taken off her, "miss million, do you like him?" miss million's grey eyes sparkled. she said: "who wouldn't like him?" a pang seized me. a pang of the old apprehension that my little heiress of a mistress might lose her heart to a graceless fortune-hunter! i said, with real anxiety in my tone: "oh, my dear, you don't think you are going to fall in love with this mr. burke, do you?" chapter xxvi miss million in love at last i have been allowed to get to the bottom of what this extraordinary place, the "refuge," really is! it is no more a lunatic asylum, of course, than it is a nunnery. it started life by being a big sussex farmhouse. then some truly enterprising person took it on as a lodging-house for summer visitors, also for a tea-garden for motorists. then it happened that england's premier comedienne, miss vi vassity, who was motoring through on her way from a week-end at brighton, saw the place. she fell in love with it as the fulfilment of one of her dreams. it appeared that she has always wanted to set up a lodging-house for hard-up theatrical girls who are what they call "resting," that is, out of a job for the moment. i have picked up from million and from the others that london's love has the kindest heart in all london for those members of her profession who have been less successful than she has. she has a hundred pensioners; she is simply besieged with begging-letters. it is a wonder that there is any of her own salary left for this bright-haired, sharp-tongued artiste to live on! well, to cut a long story short, she bought the place. here it is, crammed full of stage girls and women of one sort and another, mostly from the music-halls. the woman with the hair is miss alethea ashton, the "serio." the honey-blonde in the dressing-jacket, who sat at one side of me at dinner, is "marmora, the twentieth century hebe," who renders classic poses or "breathing marbles." the tiny, gipsy-looking one on my other side is miss verry verry, the boy impersonator, who appears in man-o'-war suits and sailor hats. there is a snake-charmer lady and a ventriloquist's assistant, and i have not yet been able to discover who all the others were. miss vi vassity lets those pay her who can. the others owe "until their ship comes in"; but the mistress of the place keeps a shrewd though kindly eye on all their doings, and she comes down at least once a week herself to make sure that all is well with "refuge" and "refugettes." the secret of her sudden pilgrimage into sussex the other night was that she had received a telephone message at the club of the thousand and one nights to inform her of still another arrival at the "refuge." this was the infant daughter of the ventriloquist's assistant, who is also the ventriloquist's wife. this event seems to have come off some weeks before it was expected. and at the time the "refuge" was short of domestic service; there was no one to wait on the nurse who had been hastily summoned. the house was at sixes and sevens.... in a fever of hurry miss vi vassity went down, taking with her a volunteer who said she loved little babies and would do anything to "be a bit of a help" in the house. this volunteer was the little heiress, who still kept, under all her new and silken splendour, the heart of the good-natured, helpful "little million" from the soldiers' orphanage and the putney kitchen. i might have spared myself all my nervous anxiety about lord fourcastles! it seems a bad dream now. she had motored off then and there with the head of the "refuge," without even waiting to wire from town. only when they neared their destination had she thought of sending off a message to me, with the address where i was to follow her. that message had probably been tossed into the hedgerow by the tramp to whom it had been hastily entrusted. hence my anxiety and suspense, which miss million declared had been nothing compared to her own! of course, people who have given terrible frights to their friends always insist upon it that it is they who have been the frightened ones! but all this, of course, was what i picked up by degrees, and in incoherent patches, later on. many things had happened before i really got to the rights of the story. one scene after another has been flicked on to the screen of my experiences ... but to take things in order. perhaps i had better go back to where i was unpacking million's things in the transformed farmhouse bedroom, and where i was confronted with a fresh anxiety. namely, that the wealthy and ingenuous and inexperienced million really had fallen in love with that handsome ne'er-do-weel, mr. james burke. "have you?" i persisted. "have you?" million gave a little admitting sigh. she sat there on the edge of the dimity bed, and watched me shake out that detested evening frock in which she had motored down. she has got it so crumpled that i shall make it the excuse never to let her wear it again. "the honourable mr. burke," said million, with a far-away look in her eyes, "is about the handsomest gentleman that i have ever seen." "i daresay," i said quite severely. "certainly there is no denying the honourable jim's good looks. part of his stock-in-trade! but you know, miss million"--here i brought out the eternal copy-book maxim--"handsome is as handsome does!" hereupon million voiced the sentiment that i had always cherished myself concerning that old proverb. "it may be true. but then, it always seems to me, somehow, as if it was neither here nor there!" i didn't know what to say. it seemed so very evident that million had set her innocent and affectionate heart on a young man who was good-looking enough in his celtic, sooty-haired, corn-cockle, blue-eyed way, but who really had nothing else to recommend him. everything to be said against him, in fact. insincere, unscrupulous, cynical, unreliable; everything that's bad, bad, bad! "you can't say he isn't a gentleman, now," put in million again, with a defiant shake of her little dark head. "that you can't say." "well, i don't know. it depends," i said, in a very sermonising voice. "it all depends upon what you call 'a gentleman.'" "no, it doesn't," contradicted miss million unexpectedly. "you know yourself it doesn't depend upon 'what you call' anything. either he is, or he isn't. that auntie of yours would ha' told you that. and stuck-up and stand-offish and a perfect terror as she was, she'd have been the first to admit that the honourable mr. burke was one of her own sort!" i couldn't help smiling a little. million had hit it. this would have been exactly aunt anastasia's attitude! "and don't you remember what my great wish always was? whenever there was a new moon, or anything," million reminded me, "you used to want money and nice clothes. but there was something i wanted--quite different. i wanted to marry a gentleman. i--i still want it!" her underlip quivered as she gazed out of the lattice-window at the peaceful bare sussex landscape. her grey eyes were full of tears and of dreams. as for me, i felt half-sorrowful for her, half-furious with the hon. jim; the person whom nobody but a perfect innocent, like million, would dream of liking or taking seriously!... reprobate! he ought to be horsewhipped! i remembered his whimsical horror in that tea-shop when he had exclaimed to me: "marry her? marry a girl with hands like that, or a voice like that?" yet he had made "a girl with a voice like that" dreamily in love with him. really my heart swelled quite passionately with resentment against him. i wondered how far he had been trifling with her honest heart, both yesterday night at the thousand and one club, and this morning at lunch at the "refuge." he was quite capable of doing one of two despicable things. either of flirting desperately and then riding away; or, of marrying her in spite of what he had said, and then neglecting everything about her but her income! which was he going to do, i wondered. "million! miss million," i said hastily. "do you mind telling me if mr. burke has proposed to you?" million looked down, showing the dark half-moons of her eyelashes on her cheeks in a way that i knew she had copied from one of the "cellandine novelettes" which used to be her favourite reading in putney. she heaved a deep sigh. and then she said: "well! between you and i, he hasn't spoken yet." "yet? do you mean--do you think he is going to?" i said sharply. a smile grew over million's small and bonny face. i must say i think she grows better-looking every day. why should the honourable jim have made that unkind remark about her hands? her face is prettier, probably, than those of half the wealthy girls he meets. especially when she dimples like that. she said demurely: "do you know, i don't think any one can expect any one not to notice when any one is getting really fond of any one!" this involved sentence meant, i knew, the worst. it meant that she thought the honourable jim was going to ask her to marry him! and she must have some good reason for thinking so! or he's an incorrigible flirt, one of the two! "if he does ask you to marry him," i pursued, feeling as if i were a mixture of a schoolmistress and million's own mother combined, "do you think you are going to say yes you will?" "do i think?" echoed million ardently. "i don't 'think' anything about it. i just know i will!" oh, dear! ever since i have been miss million's maid i have seemed to get from one difficulty into another. it is worse than ever now that i know for certain that the poor little thing imagines she is going to marry mr. burke. she won't ever be happy, even if he does marry her for her money. but, stop! there is another thing. her money? supposing her money does go? well, then, the handsome irishman will jilt her quite mercilessly. i know enough about him to know that! and i have a horrible presentiment that this is exactly what is going to happen. that shrewd-eyed young american downstairs, mr. hiram p. jessop, will bring an action to recover for himself all miss million's dollars. he will walk off with the fortune. and my mistress, poor little creature, will be left without either money or love! as for me, i shall lose my place. i, too, shan't know what to do--unless---- oh, yes. there is always one thing i can do. i shall marry. there is the proposal of mr. reginald brace, who begged me to say yes to him when he gets back from paris. thinking over it, i am pretty sure that that is what i shall say. really it will be a rest to turn to something as simple and straightforward as mr. reginald brace after all the complications with which my life has been beset up till now. so that disposes of me, beatrice lovelace. but what about nellie million? all these reflections passed through my mind in million's bedroom at the "refuge," all the time i was putting the finishing touches to her before she went down to meet her cousin (and incidentally the man who was going to rob her of her fortune), mr. hiram p. jessop. well, she looked bonny enough to make him feel some compunction about it, that i would say! the brown taffeta skirt and the new blouse, the leaf-brown suède shoes and the silk stockings that i had brought down with me, all suited her admirably. and besides being becomingly dressed, there was something still more potently attractive about million's appearance. it was that flush and glow and sparkle, that aura that seems to cling about a woman in love. i had heard before that there is no beauty culture in the world that can give a woman just that look and that it is absolutely the most unfailing beautifier. now i saw with my own dismayed eyes that it was but too true. nellie million, ex-maid-of-all-work, had fallen in love with lord ballyneck's graceless younger son. the result, so far, was to improve her looks as much as my hairdressing and the bond street shopping for her had done already. she was impatient to go down. this, i knew, was not on the new cousin's account. poor child, she wanted to rejoin the honourable jim! "but you've got to come with me, smith, you know," she said, as she reached the door. "yes, you have. you have got to introduce me, and be bothered to your only being my lady's-maid! there isn't much of that sort of thing at the 'refuge,' as i can tell you. see how nice and homely vi vassity was about having you sit down with all of us at dinner?" i suppressed a smile at the idea of this condescension. "besides, he seems to know you pretty well, does my cousin," said little miss million. "and i tell you, smith, you may be very useful. talking to him and keeping him out of the way when mr. burke might want to be having a few words with me, do you see?" i saw, and my heart sank with dismay. there were fearful complications ahead. i saw myself later on with miss million sobbing over a world that had crashed into disillusionment just as one of my aunt anastasia's priceless nankin bowls had once come to pieces in her hand! still, i thought, i had better go down and see with my own eyes as much of the tragedy as it was possible. i thought that the first act of it might be even rather humorous. both these young men trying to talk to million at once, and million herself giving all her attention to the young man who was the least good to her! we came down into the sitting-room of the "refuge." it seemed furnished chiefly with wicker chairs, and brilliant houseboat cushions and very stagey-looking photographs with huge autographs, put at right angles to everything else. when we came down to this retreat we found that it was occupied only by miss vi vassity, leaning back very comfortably in a deck-chair, and blowing smoke rings from the cigarette that was fastened into a tiny silver holder, while opposite to her there was seated, looking very conscientious and gravely interested, my mistress's american cousin, mr. hiram p. jessop himself. "why, where is mr. burke got to?" said million, with a note of unmistakable disappointment in her voice. i knew that the poor little thing had been overwhelmingly anxious to show herself off once more befittingly dressed before the blue, black-lashed eyes that had last beheld her in somebody else's far too voluminous garments. "i thought he was still with you, vi?" miss vi vassity gave a shrewd, amused laugh. "not here, not here, my child!" she quoted lazily. "our friend jim said he had got to push on up to london. he left plenty of messages and kind loves and so forth for you. and you needn't go bursting yourself with anxiety that he won't be turning up here again before we are any of us much older or younger (seeing the jobs some of us have got to keep off the enemy). he'll be down again presently all right. however, one off, another on. here is a new boy for you to play with, nellie. says he's a cousin of yours," with a wave of her cigarette towards mr. jessop, who had now risen to his very americanly booted feet. "i believe it's true, too," rattled on miss vassity. "he looks to me altogether too wide awake to work off an old wheeze like 'cousins' if it were not a true one. well, cheery-oh, children. i am just off to see if poor maudie upstairs has had her gruel. i will leave you to fall into each other's arms. come along, miss smith. i daresay i can get that nurse to let you have a look at the new little nipper if you are keen." i had been standing all this time, of course, examining the photographs inscribed "yours to a cinder, archie," and "to darling vi, from her faithful old pal, gertie." now i moved quickly towards the door which miss vi vassity had swung open. but my mistress, with a quick little movement, stopped me. "smith, don't you go. vi, i don't want her to go," she protested. "she can pop up and see that baby afterwards, when it is being bathed. i want her now to stop and talk to this mr. jessop with me. i shan't feel so nervous then," she added, with her little giggle. "please yourselves," said "london's love," with a laugh and a little nod for her exit. we three were left alone in the sitting-room. i really think it is wonderful the way americans will burst at once into a flood of friendliness that it will take the average young englishman at least three or four years of intimate acquaintance to achieve. and even then i doubt whether the average young englishman (take, for example, my prospective fiancé, mr. reginald brace) would ever be able to "let himself go" like they do! never had i heard such a stream of earnestly spoken compliments, accompanied by glances of such unmistakable admiration, as young mr. jessop immediately proceeded to lavish on miss million. he told her, if i can remember correctly the sequence of his remarks: "that he was real delighted to make her acquaintance; that he had somehow fixed it up in his mind already that she would be a real, sweet little girl when he got to know her, and that even he hadn't calculated what a little beaut she was going to turn out----" "oh, listen to him! if it isn't another of them!" exclaimed the artless million, all blushes and smiles as she turned to me; i felt as if i were a referee in some game of which i wasn't quite certain about the rules. mr. jessop went on to inform his cousin that she had the real, english, peach-bloom complexion that was so much admired in the states; only that she did her hair so much better than the way most english girls seemed to fix theirs. here i nearly dropped a little curtsey. the arrangement of million's dark, glossy hair stands to my credit! "there's a style about your dressing that i like, too. so real simple and girlish," approved mr. jessop, with his eyes on the faultlessly cut, tobacco-brown taffeta that had cost at least four times as much as the elaborately thought-out crime in cerise which should have been on million's conscience. "i must say you take my breath away with your pretty looks, cousin nellie; you do, indeed. if i may say so, you appear to be the sort of little girl that any one might be thankful to have to cherish as the regular little queen of the home." hereupon million glowed as pink as any of the roses that were spreading their sweetness abroad on the warm afternoon air outside the gaily curtained window. "doesn't that sound lovely!" she exclaimed. there was a wistfulness in her voice. i was afraid i knew only too well what that wistfulness portended if i could read million at all (and i really think i ought to be able to now). that wistfulness meant "how much lovelier it would be if the honourable jim burke had been the one to pay me that compliment about being the queen of the home!" then she added to the young american, whose boyish eyes were fixed unflinchingly upon her: "do you know, i am afraid you are an awful flatterer and deceiver. you are just trying to see how much i am going to take in about you thinking me nice-looking and all that!" if she could only have had these misgivings about mr. burke himself, instead of their being about the cousin who, i think, says very little that he does not really mean! always the wrong people get credit for insincerity! "i am not a flatterer, believe me," said mr. hiram p. jessop. "if you think that i don't mean anything i say nice to you, why! i am going to be very sad. i would like to have only nice things to say to you," he added regretfully, "and i tell you it is coming real hard on me--harder than i thought it would be, to have to say the difficult things i have gotten to say now, cousin nellie." so now he was coming to the business end of the interview! the part where he meant to tell million that her appreciative and gallant cousin was possibly going to walk off with that fortune of hers! i rose from my chair. i said respectfully: "shall i go, miss, if mr. jessop is going to talk family affairs?" chapter xxvii an unusual sort of beggar "i guess it's not any different 'business' from what i have told you, coming along in the car, miss smith," said the young american simply. "don't quit on my account." "no, nor on mine neither," said miss million, turning quite anxiously to me. "you stop on and hear the end of this, so that me and you can talk it over like, later. "now, then," turning to her cousin again, "what's it all about?" "to cut a long story short," said the young american, in that earnest way of his that is really rather lovable. "you see before you, cousin nellie, a man who is"--he paused impressively before he brought out half a dozen pregnant words--"very badly in want of money!" "gracious! i must say i should not have thought it," ejaculated million, with a note of the native shrewdness which i had suspected her of having left behind in our putney kitchen. "if you are poor"--here her bright grey eyes travelled up her cousin's appearance from his quite new-looking american shoes to his well-kept thick and glossy hair--"if you are poor, all i can say is your looks don't pity you!" "i need not point out to you that looks are a very poor proposition to go by when you are starting in on summing up a person's status," said the young american easily. "i may not look it, but money is a thing that i am desperate for." a sequence of emotions passed each other over million's little face. as i watched there were disbelief, impatience, helplessness, and the first symptoms of yielding. she said: "well, i don't know how it is that since i have come into uncle's money i have been meeting people one after the other who keep offering to show me what to do with it. you know, smith," turning to me. "haven't i had a fair bushel of begging letters from one person and another who is in need of cash? some of them was real enough to draw tears from the eyes of a stone! do you remember that one, smith, about the poor woman with the two babies, and the operation, and i don't know what all? well! she dried up quick since i suggested calling round to see the babies! a fine take-in that was, i expect"--this to me, with her eye on the well-set-up young man sitting before her. "still"--this was where the yielding began to come in--"you are my cousin, when all is said. and so, i suppose, i have got to remember that blood is thicker than water, and----" she turned to me. "did you bring my cheque-book down, smith, in my dressing-bag?" "yes, miss, i did," i said gravely enough, though i was laughing ruefully within myself. "well, just pop upstairs and get it for me," said miss million. then, again turning to her cousin, she said: "i can't say that i myself would have cared particularly to start borrowing money off some one the first time i set eyes on them, cousin or no cousin! unusual sort of begging i call it! still, i daresay i could spare you" (here i saw her making a rapid mental calculation) "five pounds, if that is of any good to you." here, at the very door, i stopped. i had been checked by the hearty laugh of real boyish amusement that broke from mr. hiram p. jessop at her last words. "five pounds!" he echoed in his crisp, un-english accent. "five? any good to me? my dear cousin nellie, that's no more good to me than a tissue-paper sunshade would be under a waterspout. no, five pounds would be most emphatically not any good to me. nor ten pounds. nor twenty pounds. i am not asking for a day's carfare and luncheon ticket. i tell you, my dear little girl, it is _money_ i want!" miss million stared at him rather indignantly this time. i didn't dream of leaving her at this juncture. i waited and i watched, without troubling to conceal my interest from these two young people. i felt i had to listen to what would happen next. "money?" repeated miss million, the heiress. "however much do you want, then?" "thousands of dollars," announced the young american in his grave, sober voice. there came into the bright grey eyes of miss nellie million an angry look that i had once seen there when an unwise milk-boy had tried to convince our thrifty little maid-of-all-work that he had given her sixpennyworth instead of the bare threepennyworth that filled the little cardboard vessel which she held in her hand! for i believe that at the bottom of her heart "little million" is still as thrifty, still as careful, still as determined that she won't be "done"! in the matter of clothes she has, of course, allowed herself for once to loose her firmly screwed-on little dark head. but now that the trousseau of new clothes is bought the brief madness had left her. she is again the same million who once said to me at home: "extravagant! that is a thing i could never be!" in a voice of the old million she demanded sharply of the quite prosperous-looking, well-dressed and well-fed young man in front of her: "whatever in the wide world would you do with all that money, supposing you had it?" "well, i should not waste it, i guess," retorted the young man. "in fact, it would be put to a considerably bigger purpose than what it would if you had kept it, to buy yourself candies and hair-ribbon and whatever you girls do with money when it gets into your little hands. i want that money," here his voice grew more serious than before, "for an object!" "i want that money for an object," repeated miss million's american cousin. and then he went on, at last, to tell us what "the object" was. it took a long time. it was very complicated. it was full of technical terms that were absolute greek to me, as well as to million. there she sat in the big basket-chair, with the coloured cushions behind her dark head; her grey eyes wide open, and fixed, defensively, upon the face of this young man with a story to tell. to cut it short, it was this. about a year ago mr. hiram p. jessop had left off being manager of the pork factory belonging to the late samuel million because of his other work. he was, he said, "no factory boss by nature." he was an inventor. he had invented a machine--yes! this was where the technical terms began raining thick and fast upon our bewildered ears--a machine for dropping bombs from aeroplanes---- "bombs? good heavens alive!" interrupted miss million, with a look of real horror on her little face. "d'you mean them things that go off?" "why, i guess i hope they'd go off," returned the young man with the shrewd and courteous smile. "certainly that would be the idea of them--to go off! why, yes!" "then--are you," said million, gazing reproachfully upon him, "one of these here anarchists?" he shook his mouse-coloured head. "do i look like one, cousin nellie? nothing further from my thoughts than anarchy. the last thing i'd stand for." "then whatever in the wide world d'you want to go dropping bombs for?" retorted my young mistress. "dropping 'em on who, i should like to know?" "on the enemy, i guess." "enemy?" "sure thing. i wouldn't want to be dropping them on our own folks now, would i?" said the young american in his pleasant, reasonable voice; while i, too, gazed at him in wonder at the unexpected things that came from his firm, clean-shaven lips. he began again to explain. "now you see, cousin nellie and miss smith, i am taking the aeroplane as it will be. absolutely one of the most important factors in modern warfare----" "but who's talking about war?" asked the bewildered million. "i am," said the young american. "war?" repeated his cousin. "but gracious alive! where is there any, nowadays?" the glimpse of english landscape outside the window seemed to echo her question. there seemed to be no memory of such a terrible and strenuous thing as war among those gently sloping sussex downs, where the white chalk showed in patches through the close turf, and where the summer haze, dancing above that chalk, made all the distances deceptive. from the top of those downs the country, i knew, must look flat as coloured maps. they lay spread out, those squares and oblongs of pearl-grey chalk, of green corn, of golden hay, with "the king's peace over all, dear boys, the king's peace over all," as kipling said. the whole country seemed as if the events that had come and gone since the reign, say, of king john had left no more impression upon it than the cloud shadows that had rolled and passed, rolled and passed. as it was in the beginning, so it was in the late june of nineteen fourteen. and so it looked as if it must ever remain. yet----here was an extraordinarily unexpected young man bringing into the midst of all this sun-lit peace the talk of war! war as it had never yet been waged; war not only on the land and under the waves, but war that dropped death from the very clouds themselves! "i think you're talking silly," said miss million severely. "no doubt there's always a certain amount of warring and fighting going on in india, where poor dad was. out-of-the-way places like that, where there aren't any only black people to fight with, anyhow.... but any other sort of fighting came to an end with the bo'r war, where dad was outed. "and i don't see what it's got to do with you, or why you should think it so fearfully important to go inventing your bomb-droppers and what-nots for things what--what aren't going to happen!" the young american smiled in a distant sort of way. "so you're one of the people that think war isn't going to happen again? well! i guess you aren't lonely. plenty think as you do," he told his cousin. "others think as i do. they calculate that sooner or later it's bound to come. and that if it comes fortune will favour those that have prepared for the idea of it. aren't you a soldier's daughter, cousin nellie?" the little dark head of sergeant million's orphan went up proudly. "rather!" "well, then, you'll take a real live interest," said her cousin, "in something that might make all the difference in the world to your country, supposing she did come to grips with another country. that's the difference that would be made by machines like mine. not that there is another machine just like my own, i guess. let me tell you about her----" again he went on talking about his new bomb-dropper in words that i don't pretend to understand. i understood the tone, though. that was unmistakable. it was the rapt and utterly serious tone which a person speaks in of something that fills his whole heart. i suppose a painter would speak thus of his beloved art, or a violinist of his music, or a mother of her adored and only baby boy. i saw the young american's face light up until it was even as something inspired. this machine of his, for dropping bombs from the clouds upon the heads of some enemy that existed if only in his imagination was "his subject." this was his all. this he lived for. yes, that was plain to both of us. i saw miss million give an understanding nod of her little dark head as she said: "yes, you haven't half set your mind on this thing, have you?" "i guess you've hit it," said the american. then miss million asked: "and where does the money part of it come in?" then he explained to us that, having invented the thing (it was all a pure joy apparently), now began the hard work. he had to sell the machine! he had to get it "taken up," to have it experimented with. all this would run him into more money than he had got. he concluded simply: "that's where the million dollars would come in so useful! and, cousin nellie, i am simply bound to try and get them!" i watched my mistress's face as he made this announcement. miss million, i saw, was so interested that for the moment she had forgotten her own obsession, her infatuation for the honourable jim burke. as well as the interest, though, there was "fight" in the grey eyes of the soldier's orphan who used to wear a blue-print uniform frock and a black straw hat with a scarlet ribbon about it. she said: "i see what you mean. me give you my money to play with! and what if i don't hold with investing any of uncle's money in this harum-scarum idea of yours? i am none so sure that i do hold----" "maybe i might have to do a little of the holding myself, cousin nellie," broke in the quiet, firm voice of her american cousin. "see here! what if i were to put up a tussle to get all that money away from you, whether you wanted to give it up to me to play with it or not?" and then he began quickly to explain to her what he had explained to me coming down in the car. he went over the possibilities of his contesting mr. samuel million's will. i don't think i shall ever forget that funny little scene in the bungalow-furnished room with all those theatrical photographs papering the walls, and with the windows opening on to the sussex garden where the bees boomed in the roses, and the lazy sound mingled with the chirping of the starlings, and with the shriller chatter of two of the "refuge" girls lying in deck-chairs in the shadow of the lilacs. inside, these two cousins, young american and young englishwoman, who might be going to fight for a fortune, stared at each other with a measuring glance that was not at all unfriendly. in the eyes of both i read the same question. "now, what are you going to do about it? what are you going to do about it?" after a pause miss million said: "well, this'll mean a lot of worry and noosance, i suppose. going to lawr! never thought i should come to that sort of thing. courts, and lawyers, an' all that----" she looked straight at the young american, who nodded. "yes, i guess that's what fighting this thing out will mean," he agreed. miss million knit her brows. "lawr," she said reflectively, voicing the sentiment of our whole sex on this vexed subject. "lawr always seems to be ser _silly_! it lets a whole lot o' things go on that you'd think ought to 'a' been stopped hundreds of years ago by ack of parliament. then again, it drops on you like one o' them bombs of yours for something that doesn't make twopennyworth of difference to anybody, and there you are with forty shillings fine, at least. an' as for getting anything done with going to lawr about it, well, it's like i used to say to the butcher's boy at putney when he used to ask me to give him time to get that joint brought round: 'time! it isn't time you want, it's eternity!' "going to lawr! what does it mean? paying away pots o' money to a lot o' good-for-nothing people for talking to you till you're silly, and writing letters to you that you can't make head nor tail of, and then nothing settled until you're old and grey. if then!" "that's quite an accurate description of my own feelings towards the business," said the other candidate for miss million's fortune. "i'm not breaking my neck or straining myself any to hand over to the lawyers any of the precious dollars that i want for the wedding-portion of my machine." "go to law----no, that's not a thing i want to do," repeated the present owner of the precious dollars. "same time, i'm not going to lose any of the money that's mine by right if i can possibly keep hold on it--that's only sense, that is!" and she turned to me, while again i felt as if i were a referee. "what do you say, smith?" i was deadly puzzled. i ventured: "but if you've both made up your minds you must have the money, there doesn't seem anything for it but to go to law, does there?" "wait awhile," said the young american slowly. "there does appear to me to be an alternative. now, see here----" he leant towards miss million. he held out his hand, as if to point out the alternative. he said: "there is another way of fixing it, i guess. we needn't fight. i'd feel real mean, fighting a dear little girl like you----" "you won't get round me," said miss million, quite as defensively as if she were addressing a tradesman's boy on a doorstep. "no getting round me with soft soap, young man!" "i wasn't meaning it that way," he said, "the way i meant would let us share the money and yet let's both have the dollars and the glory of the invention and everything else!" "i don't know how you mean," declared miss million. i, sitting there in my corner, had seen what was coming. but i really believe miss million herself received the surprise of her life when her cousin gave his quiet reply. "supposing," he said, "supposing we two were to get married?" "marry?" cried miss million in her shrillest putney-kitchen voice. "me? you?" she flung up her little, dark head and let loose a shriek of laughter--half-indignant laughter at that. then, recovering herself, she turned upon the young man who had proposed to her in this quite unconventional fashion and began to--well! there's no expression for it but one of her own. she began to "go for him." "i don't call it very funny," she declared sharply, "to go making a joke of a subject like that to a young lady you haven't known above a half an hour hardly." "i wasn't thinking about the humourousness of the proposition, cousin nellie!" protested mr. hiram p. jessop steadily. "i meant it perfectly seriously." miss million gazed at him from the chair opposite. her cousin met that challenging, distrustful gaze unflinchingly. and in his own grey eyes i noticed a mixture of obstinacy and of quite respectful admiration. certainly the little thing was looking very pretty and spirited. every woman has her "day." it's too bad that this generally happens at a time when nobody calls and there's not a soul about to admire her at her best. the next evening, when she's got to wear a low-cut frock and go out somewhere, the chances are a hundred to one that it will be her "day off," and that she will appear a perfect fright, all "salt-cellars" and rebellious wisps of hair. but to proceed with miss million, who was walking off with one man's admiration by means of the added good looks she had acquired by being in love with another man. such is life. "you mean it seriously?" she repeated. "i do," he said, nodding emphatically. "i certainly do." miss million said: "you must be barmy!" "barmy?" echoed her american cousin. "you mean----" "off your onion. up the pole. wrong in your 'ead--head," explained miss million. "that's what you must be. why, good gracious alive! the idea! proposing to marry a girl the first time you ever set eyes on her. smith, did you ever----" "i never had to sit in the room before while another girl was being proposed to," i put in uncomfortably. "if you don't mind, miss, i think i had better go now, and allow you and mr. jessop to talk this over between yourselves." "nothing of the kind, miss smith, nothing of the kind," put in the suitor, turning to me as i stood ready to flee to scenes less embarrassing. "you're a nice, well-balanced, intell'gent sort of a young lady yourself. i'd just like to have your point of view about this affair of my cousin arranging to marry me----" "i'm not arranging no such thing," cried miss million, "and don't mean to!" "see here; you'd far better," said mr. hiram p. jessop, in his kindly, reasonable, shrewd, young voice. "look at the worry and discomfort and argument and inconvenience about the money that she'd avoid"--again turning to miss million's maid--"if she agreed to do so." "then, again," he went on, "what a much more comfortable situation for a young lady of her age and appearance if she could go travelling around with a husky-looking sort of husband, with a head on his shoulders, rather than be trapesing about alone, with nothing but a young lady of a lady's-maid no older or fitter to cope with the battles of life than she is herself. a husband to keep away the sordid and disagreeable aspects of life----" here i remembered suddenly the visit of that detective who wanted to search miss million's boxes at the cecil. i thought to myself: "yes! if we only had a husband. i mean if she had! it would be a handy sort of thing to be able to call in next time we were suspected of having taken anybody's rubies!" and then i remembered with a shock that i hadn't yet had time to break it to my mistress that we had been suspected--were probably still suspected--by that awful rattenheimer person! meanwhile miss million's cousin and would-be husband was going on expatiating on the many advantages, to a young lady in her position, of having a real man to look after her interests---- "all very true. but i don't know as i'm exactly hard up for a husband," retorted miss million, with a little simper and a blush that i knew was called up by the memory of the blue, black-lashed eyes of a certain irish scamp and scaramouch who ought to be put in the stocks at charing cross as an example to all nice girls of the kind of young man whom it is desirable to avoid and to snub. miss million added: "i don't know that i couldn't get married any time i wanted to." "sure thing," agreed her cousin gravely. "but the question is, how are you going to know which man's just hunting you for the sake of uncle sam's dollars? making love to the girl, with his eyes on the pork factory?" "well, i must say i think that comes well from you!" exclaimed miss million. "you to talk about people wanting to marry me for my money, when you've just said yourself that you've set your heart on those dollars of uncle sam's for your old aeroplane machine! you're a nice one!" "i'm sincere," said the young american, in a voice that no one could doubt. "i want the dollars. but i wouldn't have suggested marrying them--if i hadn't liked the little girl that went with them. i told you right away when i came into this room, cousin nellie, that i think you're a little peach. as i said, i like your pretty little frank face and the cunning way you fix yourself up. i like your honesty. no beating about the bush." he paused a second or so, and then went on. "'you must be barmy,' says you. it appeared that way to you, and you said it. that's my own point of view. if you mean a thing, say it out. you do. i like that. i revere that. and in a charming little girl it's rare," said the american simply. "i like your voice----" here i suppressed a gasp, just in time. he liked million's voice! he liked that appalling cockney accent that has sounded so much more ear-piercing and nerve-rasping since it has been associated with the clothes that--well, ought to have such a very much prettier sort of tone coming out of them! he liked it. oh, he must be in love at first sight--at first sound! "plenty of these young english girls talk as if it sprained them over each syllable. you're brisk and peart and alive," he told her earnestly. "i think you've a lovely way of talking." miss million was taking it all in, as a girl does take in compliments, whether they are from the right man or from the wrong one. that is, she looked as if every word were cream to her. only another woman could have seen which remark she tossed aside in her own mind as "just what he said," and which tribute she treasured. i saw that what appealed to miss million was "the lovely way of talking" and "the cunning way she'd fixed herself up." in fact, the two compliments she deserved least. oh, how i wished she'd say "yes, thank you," at once to a young man who would certainly be the solution of all my doubts and difficulties as far as my young mistress was concerned! he'd look after her. he'd spoil her, as these americans do spoil their adored womenkind! all her little ways would be so "noo," as he calls it, to him, that he wouldn't realise which of them were--were--were the kind of thing that would set the teeth on edge of, say, the honourable jim burke. he--mr. hiram p. jessop--would make an idol and a possession of his little english wife. that conscienceless celt would make a banking-account of her--nothing else. oh, yes! how i wished she'd take her cousin and be thankful---- but here was miss million shaking her little dusky head against the gay-coloured cushions. "i'm sure it's very kind of you to say all this," she told him in a rather mollified tone of voice, "but i'm afraid we can't arrange things the way you'd like. a girl can't sort of make herself like people better than other people, just because it might 'appen to be convenient." "other people," repeated the young american quickly. "am i to take it that there is some one else that you prefer, cousin nellie?" his cousin nellie's very vivid blush seemed to be enough answer for him. he rose, saying slowly: "why, that's a pity. that makes me feel real out of it. still----" he shrugged the broad shoulders under the light-grey padded coat. "as you say, it can't be helped. i congratulate whoever it is that----" "ow, stop! gracious alive, there isn't any one to be congratulated yet," broke in miss million. "me and--the gentleman haven't gone and definitely made up our minds about anything, up to now; but--well. as you say, it's better to have anything 'out.'" "if you haven't definitely made up your mind," said the young american, just as he took his leave, "i shan't definitely take 'no' for my own answer." and he's gone off now to put up at an hotel in lewes, so that he can come over to call at the "refuge" each day of the week that miss million says we are going to stay here. he thinks, i know, that after all he will "get round her" to like him. as if, poor fellow! he had any chance at all against a man like the honourable jim! well! he'll soon see, that's all! chapter xxviii the crowded holiday we have now been staying for two crowded days at the "refuge." it has certainly been the most extraordinary holiday of my life. a quite indescribable one, too! for when i try to put down in words my impression of what has been happening, i find in my mind nothing but the wildest jumble of things. there's a background of sun-lit, open country, wide blue sky patrolled by rolling white clouds, green downs strewn with loose flint, chalk wastes on which a patch of scarlet poppies stands out like a made-up mouth on a dead white face of a pierrot, glimpses of pale cliff beyond the downs, and of silver-grey channel further still. these things are blurred in a merry chaos with so many new faces! there's the drowsy, good-natured, voluptuous face of "marmora, the breathing statue-girl," as she lounged in the deck-chair in the shadow of the lilacs, crunching mackintosh's toffee-de-luxe and reading "the rosary." the tiny, vivacious face of the boy-impersonator. the shrewd face of vi vassity, the mistress of the "refuge," melting into unexpected tenderness as she bends over the new baby that belongs to the ventriloquist's wife, the little bundle with the creasy pink face and the hands that are just clusters of honeysuckle buds.... so many sounds, too, are mixed up with this jumble of fresh impressions! rustling of sea winds in the immemorial elm trees. buzzing of bees in the tall limes all hung with light-green fragrant tassels! twittering of birds! comfortable, crooning noises of plump poultry in the back yard of the "refuge." through all these sound the chatter and loud laughter of the "resting" theatrical girls with their eternal confidences that begin, "i said to him just like this," and their "excuse me, dears," and their sudden bursts of song. how the general rush, and whirl, and glitter, and clatter of them would make my aunt anastasia feel perfectly faint! eight or ten aspirins, i should think, would not be enough to restore her, could she but have a glimpse of the society into which lady anastasia's great-granddaughter is now plunged. and in such an "infra dig." position, too! for i am not "an artist," as they all are! i am distinctly quite below them! i am in domestic service. a "dresser" of the girl whom all of them call "nellie" when they are not using the generic "dears" and "darlings" to her. and yesterday i heard the serio-singer with the autumn-foliage hair telling the stout lady (whose place in life seems to be swinging on a trapeze in emerald-green tights and with a parrakeet perched on each wrist) "that that little smith was quite a nice, refined sort of little thing, very different from the usual run of girls of that class. they're so common, as a rule. but this one--well! she's the sort of girl you didn't mind sitting down with, or saying anything in front of. "her and nellie million seemed to be more like two sisters than mistress and maid, what i can see of it," said the washed-out-looking serio, who "makes up," million says, with dark brows and well-defined scarlet lips until she must be quite effective, "on." "there's something very queer about those two girls, and the way they are together," added the serio. (one really can't help overhearing these theatrical voices, and all the windows were wide open.) "there's that gentleman cousin of nellie's, who always calls the other girl 'miss' smith. d'you notice, emmie? he treats her for all the world as if she were a duchess in disguise! it might be her he was after, instead of the other one?" "with americans," said the green-tights-and-parrakeets lady impressively, "it's a fair puzzle to know what they are 'after'!" she, i know, has toured a good deal in the states. so she ought to know what she is talking about. but mr. hiram p. jessop is the only american of whom i can say that i have seen very much. each day he has driven over from lewes, that drowsy old town with one pricked-up ear of a castle on a hill; and he spends hours and hours talking to the little cousin whom i really think he sincerely likes. "and, mind you! i am not saying that i don't like him," miss million confided to me last night as i was brushing her hair. "maybe i might have managed to get myself quite fond of him, if--if," she sighed--"i hadn't happened to meet somebody else first. i don't see any manner of use in getting engaged to one young man when it is another that you fancy. simply asking for trouble, that is. haven't i read tales and tales about that sort of thing?" i sighed as i tied a bit of pink ribbon round the ends of miss million's dark plaits. if only she hadn't happened ever to meet that incorrigible jim burke! "you haven't heard from him, miss million?" i suggested. "you haven't seen anything of him since he went off after lunch the day i came over with your cousin?" "i tell you what it is, smith. you have got a down on him! always had, for some reason," said miss million quite fretfully. she got up from the chair in front of the looking-glass and stood, a defiant little sturdy figure in the new crepe-de-chine nightie with the big silken "m" that i had embroidered just over her honest heart. "you are always trying to make out that the hon. mr. burke is not to be trusted, or somethink. i am sure you are wrong." "what makes you so sure of that?" i asked rather ruefully. "well, it isn't likely i should take a fancy to any one i didn't think i could trust," said miss million firmly. "and as for his not having been here this last day or two, well! i don't think anything of that. a gentleman has got his business to attend to, whatever it may be. hasn't he?" i said nothing. "i am not fretting one bit just because he has not been to see me," maintained miss million stoutly, in a way that convinced me only too well how her whole heart was set upon the next time she should see the hon. jim. "it would not surprise me at all if he just turned up for that picnic on the cliffs that we are all going to to-morrow. i know vi told him he could come to that. i bet he will come. and in those tales," added miss million, "it is very often at a picnic that the hero chooses to go and ask the young lady to marry him!" she concluded with an inflection of hope in the voice that mr. hiram p. jessop had said was so pretty. poor mr. jessop! he may win million's fortune for his aeroplane invention. but good-bye to his chances of the heiress herself if the hon. jim does turn up to-morrow. the hon. jim burke did turn up. but not at the picnic, exactly.... let me tell you about it from the beginning. the picnic was to take place on the cliffs near rottingdean. some of the "refugettes" walked, looking like a band of brightly dressed, buoyant-spirited schoolgirls on a holiday. two of the party, namely, mr. jessop and his cousin, my mistress, motored in the little two-seater car that he had kept on to stay with him in lewes. others had hired donkeys, "for the fun of the thing." marmora, the twentieth-century hebe, and her friend, the boy-impersonator, had been very sweet and friendly in their offers to me to join the donkey-riding party. but for some reason i felt i wanted to be quiet. i had one of those "aloof" moods which i suppose everybody knows. one feels not "out of tune" with one's surroundings, and disinclined for conversation. the girls and miss vi vassity and my mistress and the one man at the picnic, namely, mr. jessop, all seemed to me like gaily coloured pictures out of some vivacious book. something to look at! after the noisy, laughing lunch, when the party had broken up into chattering groups of twos and threes, and were walking farther down the cliffs, i felt as if i were glad that for a few minutes this gay and amusing book could be closed. i didn't go with any of them. i pleaded tiredness. i said i would stay behind and have a little rest on the turf, in the shadow of miss vi vassity's bigger car that had brought over the luncheon things. the party melted away. i watched them disappear in a sort of moving frieze between the thymy turf and the hot, blue sky. then i made a couch for myself of one of the motor-rugs and a gay-coloured cushion or two. i had taken off my black hat and i curled myself up comfortably in a long reverie. my thoughts drifted at last towards that subject which they accuse girls' thoughts (quite unjustly!) of never leaving. the subject of getting married! was i or was i not going to get married? should i say "yes" or "no" to mr. brace when that steady and reliable and desirable young englishman returned from paris, and came to me for his answer? probably "yes." there seemed no particular reason why it should not be "yes." i quite like him, i had always rather liked him. as for him, he adored me in his honest way. i could hear again the unmistakable earnestness in his voice as he repeated the time-honoured sentiment, "you are the one girl in the world for me!" why should i even laugh a little to myself because he used a rather "obvious" expression?--an expression that "everybody" uses. if you come to that, nobody else has ever used it to me! and i don't believe that he, mr. reginald brace, has ever used it before. it would not surprise me at all if he had never made love, real, respectful, with-a-view-to-matrimony love, to any other girl but me. very likely he's scarcely even flirted with anybody else. something tells me that i should be the very first woman in this man's life. now isn't that a beautiful idea? no other woman in the world will have taught him how to make love. any girl ought to be pleased with a husband like that! she would not have to worry her head about "where" he learnt to be so attractive, and sympathetic, and tactful, and companionable, and to give all the right sort of little presents and to say all the right kind of pretty things. she would not have to feel that he must have been "trained" through love affairs of every kind, class and age. she would not have to catch, in his speech, little "tags" of pointed, descriptive, feminine expression; she wouldn't have to wonder: what girl used he to hear saying that? ah, no! the wife of a man like mr. reginald brace wouldn't be made to feel like purring with pleasure over the deft way he tied the belt of her sports coat and pinned in her collar at the back or put her wrap about her shoulders at the end of the second act--she wouldn't have to remember: "some woman must have taught him to be so nice in these 'little ways' that make all the difference to us women...." there'd be none of all this about mr. brace. i should be the first--the one--the only love! oughtn't that thought to be enough to please and gratify any girl? and i am gratified.... i must be gratified. if i haven't been feeling gratified all this time, it's simply because i've been so "rushed" with the worry of miss million's disappearance, and of all that business about the detective, and the missing ruby. (i wonder, by the way, if we have heard the last of all that business?) anybody would like a young man like mr. brace! even aunt anastasia, when she came to know him. even she would rather i were a bank manager's wife than that i went on being a lady's-maid for the rest of my life.... "and, besides, i'm not like poor million, who's allowed her affections to get all tangled up in the direction of the sort of young man who'd make the worst husband in the world," i thought, idly, as i turned my head more comfortably on the cushion. "poor dear! if she married mr. jessop, it would be better for her. but still, she would be giving her hand to one man, while her heart had been--well, 'wangled,' we'll say, by another. how dreadful to have to be in love with a man like that mercenary scapegrace of a jim burke! how any girl could be so foolish as to give him one serious thought----" here i gave up thinking at all. with my eyes shut i just basked, to the tune of the bees booming in the scented thyme about me and the waves washing rhythmically at the foot of the tall white cliff on the top of which our noisy party had been feasting. it was nice to be alone here now, quite alone.... the washing of the waves seemed presently to die away in my ears. the booming of the bees in those pink cushions of thyme seemed to grow fainter and fainter.... then these sounds began to increase again in a sweet, and deep, and musical crescendo. very pretty, that chorus of the bees! i kept my eyes shut and i listened. the refrain seemed actually to grow into a little rhythmic tune. then--surely those were words that were fitted to the tune? yes! i caught the words of that tender old elizabethan cradle song: "gol-den slum-bers kiss your eyes!" for a second i imagined that the serio-girl had stolen up, and, thinking i was asleep, had begun to sing me awake. then i realised that it was a man's voice that crooned so close behind my ear. quickly i opened my eyes and turned. i found myself looking straight into those absurdly brilliant, dark-blue eyes, fringed by those ridiculously long black lashes of miss million's adored, the hon. jim. so he'd come! hastily i sat up, with my hands to my hair. "it looks very nice as it is, miss lovelace," said the hon. jim gravely, with a curious twitch at the corners of his firmly cut mouth. "tell me, now. do you consider it a fair dispensation of providence that all the domestic virtues should be of less avail to a girl in a sea-breeze than the natural kink in the chestnut hair of her?" it is ridiculous, the way this young man always starts a conversation with some silly question to which there is absolutely no answer! the only thing to be done was to ignore it! so i rose to my feet as primly as i could, and said: "good afternoon! they will all be sorry that you came too late for the picnic. i believe miss vi vassity has gone down there, to the left"--here i pointed towards the grey-blue sweep of distance cut by the mast of a wireless station somewhere near. "and miss million is with her." the hon. jim said gently: "i was not really asking which way they had gone. what i really wanted to know is----" here he looked hard at me----"what has happened to--" here his voice changed again--"to the gentleman from the new, young, and magnificent country, where the girls are all peaches, and their lovers are real, virile, red-blooded, clean-limbed, splendid specimens of what the almighty intended the young man to be, i guess?" try as i would, i could not keep my lips from quivering with laughter at the perfect imitation which mr. burke gave of the young man who was certainly worth ten of him in every way, even if he does not speak with the accent of those who have "come down" (and a good long way, too) from the kings of ireland. "if you mean mr. jessop," i said distantly, "i think he went off with miss vassity and his cousin." "ah!" said the hon. jim, on a long-drawn note. "oh! the cousin of the little million, is he? is that it? does that account for it?" "account for what?" i said rather snappishly; and then, feeling rather afraid that he might answer with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand, i went on hastily: "i don't think they can have gone more than about ten minutes. they will be so glad to see you! you will easily catch them up if you hurry, mr. burke----" mr. burke allowed all the noble reproach of a hunger-striking suffragist to appear in those blue eyes of his as he looked down at me. "child, have you the heart of a stone?" he asked seriously. "'hurry,' says she! hurry! to a starving man who has walked from the refuge here on his flat feet, without so much as a crumb of lunch or the memory of a drink to fortify him! hurry? is that all you can think of?" well, then, of course---- one can't let a man starve, can one? so---- i was simply forced to do what i could for this undeserving late-comer in the way of feeding him after his tramp across the downs. i gave him a seat on the rug. i foraged in the re-packed luncheon baskets, and got him a clean plate, knives, forks, glass.... i brought out all that was left by the "refuge" party of the hunter's beef, the cold chicken, the ham, the steak-and-kidney pie, and the jam pasty that had been made by the serio-girl, who is in her "off" moments a particularly good cook. the honourable jim did appreciate the meal! also he seems to enjoy having a woman to wait hand and foot upon him. in fact he "made errands" for me among the devastated luncheon baskets in the shadow of the car. he demanded pepper (which had been forgotten). he wanted more claret (when all had been finished). finally he demanded whole-meal bread instead of the ordinary kind. "there isn't any," i said. "why not?" he demanded, aggrieved. i laughed at him across the big table-napkin that i had spread as a cloth, pinning it down with four of the irregular, sun-heated flints that lay loose on the turf all about us. i said: "i suppose you're accustomed to have everything 'there' that you happen to want?" "i am not," said the honourable jim. "but i'm accustomed to getting it 'there' one way or another." "i see. is there anything else that i ought to do for you that i've forgotten?" "there is. you haven't called me 'sir,'" said the honourable jim. "i like you to call me 'sir.'" immediately i made up my mind that the word should never pass my lips to him again. but he went on eating heartily, chattering away between the mouthfuls.... i scarcely know what the man said! but i suppose all kinds of worthless people have that gift of making themselves "at home" in any company they like, and of carrying on that flow of talk that they contrive to make sound amusing, although it looks perfectly silly written down.... one can't imagine anybody really sterling (like my mr. brace, for example) exploiting a characteristic of this sort. the honourable jim is "at" it the whole time. just to keep his hand in, of course! (i never cease to see through him.) at last he finished lunching. he pulled out a very pretty platinum cigarette-case. (i wondered who he had "wangled" that out of.) "miss lovelace, you don't smoke?" "no, thank you. i don't." "ah! that's another pleasing thing about you, is it?" this made me sorry i hadn't taken one of his horrid fat cigarettes. i said: "i suppose you would think it unwomanly of me if i smoked?" he laughed. "child," he said, "you have the prettiest obsolete vocabulary to be got anywhere outside fielding. 'unwomanly,' is it, to smoke? i don't know; i only know that nine out of ten women do it so badly i want to take the cigarette out of their fingers and pitch it into the grate for them! clouds of smoke they puff out straight into your face till you'd think 'twas a fiery-breathing dragon in the room! and staining their fingers to the knuckle as if they'd dipped them in egg. and smothering themselves with the smell of it in a way no man manages to do--why, by the scent you'd scarcely tell if it was hair they'd got on their heads or the stuffing out of the smoking-room cushions! i can't ever understand how they get any man to want to----" here he went off at a tangent. "don't let your young mistress learn the cigarette habit, will you? by the way, you've contrived to improve the little million in several ways since last i saw you." oh! so possibly he really had been paying serious court to the heiress. yes; again i had the foreboding shudder. complications ahead; what with the honourable jim and the determined jessop, and the enamoured million--to say nothing of the bomb-dropping machine and the fortune that may be lost! "you look thoughtful, miss lovelace," said the fortune-hunter who doesn't know there may be no fortune in it. "mayn't i congratulate you----" "what?" i said, quickly looking up from the luncheon basket that i was repacking. i wondered where he might have heard anything about my mr. brace. "congratulate me?" "why, on your achievements as a lady's-maid." "oh! oh, yes. very kind of you to say i had effected 'improvements,'" i said as bitingly as i could. "i suppose you mean miss million's hands that you were so severe about?" here my glance fell upon mr. burke's own hands, generally gloved. they gave me a shock. they were so surprisingly out of keeping with the rest of his otherwise well-groomed and expensive appearance, for the nails were rough and worn; the fingers stumpy and battered and hard, the palms horny as those of a navvy. the honourable jim saw my look. "yes! you think my own hands are no such beauties. faith, you're right, child," he said, carelessly flicking the ash from his cigarette off against a flint. "i never could get my hands fit to be seen again after that time i came across as a stoker." "a stoker?" i repeated, staring at the young man. "what on earth were you doing as a stoker?" "working my passage across home from canada one time," he told me. "you know i was sent out to canada by the old man with about five bob a week to keep up the old family traditions and found a new family fortune. oh, quite so." "what did you do?" i asked. one couldn't help being a little interested in the gyrations of this rolling stone that has acquired polish and nothing else. "do? nothing. a bit of everything. labourer, farm hand. on a ranch, finally," he said, "where they wouldn't give me anything to eat until i'd 'made good.' yes, they were harder than you are, little black pigeon-girl that i thought had the heart of a stone under the soft black plumage of her. and by 'making good' they meant taking a horse--a chestnut, same coloured coat as your hair, child--that nobody else could ride. i had to stick on her for three hours, and i stuck on. i told myself i'd rather die than come off. and i didn't come off, nor yet did i die, as you may perceive," laughed the honourable jim, tossing the end of the cigarette over the cliff, above which the gulls were wheeling and calling in voices as shrill as those of the "refuge" girls. "but they had to carry us both home--the horse and myself." "why carry you?" "the pair of us were done," he said. "but it was a grand afternoon we had, miss lovelace, i can tell you. i wish you'd been there, child, looking on." it was very odd that he should say this. for at that very instant i had found myself wishing that i could have seen him mastering the vicious chestnut. i should have loved to have watched that elemental struggle between man and brute with the setting of the prairie and the wide sky. however much of "a bad hat" and a "waster" he is, he has at least lived a man's life, doing the things a man should do before he drifted to that attic in jermyn street and those more expensive town haunts where anybody else pays. impulsively i looked up at the big, expensively dressed young loiterer with the hands that bear those ineradicable marks of strenuous toil. and, impulsively, i said: "why didn't you stay where you were? oh, what a pity you ever came back!" there was a pause before he laughed. and then we had what was very like a squabble! he said, in a not-very-pleased voice: "you'd scorn to say flattering things, perhaps?" "well," i said, "i'm not a celt----" "you mean that," he said sharply, "to stand for everything that's rather contemptible. i know! you think i'm utterly mercenary----" "well! you practically told me that you were that!" "and you believe some of the things i tell you, and not others. you pick out as gospel the ones that are least to my credit," the honourable jim accused me. "how like your sex!" how is it that these four words never fail to annoy our sex? i said coldly: "i don't see any sense or use in our standing here quarrelling like this, all about nothing, on such a lovely afternoon, and all. hadn't you better find your hostess?" "perhaps i had," said mr. burke, without moving. i was determined he should move! i said: "i will come a little of the way with you." "and what about the rugs and things here?" "i shan't lose sight of them." "oh." in silence we moved off over the turf. and, ridiculous as it was, each of us kept up that resentful silence until, far off on the green downs, we saw moving towards us three specks of colour: a light grey speck between a pink and a blue speck. "there they are," i told him. "miss vassity and my mistress and her cousin." "give me your moral support, then; don't run away till i've said good afternoon to them," mr. burke said, as if in an agony of shyness. and then the blue imps came back to sweep the resentment out of his eyes. he looked down at me and said: "child! think me all that's bad, if you want to. enlarge upon the affecting 'pity' of it that i didn't stay out day-labouring in canada, instead of wangling my keep out of fools at home, to whom i'm well worth all the cash i cost 'em! go on despising me. but listen. give me credit for one really high-principled action, miss lovelace!" "what is it?" i demanded rather scornfully. "when have you shown me any kind of high principledness?" "this afternoon," he retorted. "just now. just when i came upon the sleeping beauty on the cliffs!" "what do you mean?" "i mean that it's not every man who would have woke her up with just a snatch of song. and i that am so--so hard up for a pair of decent new gloves!" he concluded, laughing. and then he caught my eyes with his own, his insolent, devil-may-care blue ones. he looked down, straight down into them for a long moment. i felt myself crimsoning under his regard. i felt--yes, i don't know how it happened, but i did feel exactly as if he had done what he had, after all, had the decency to leave undone. there's very little difference, apparently, between a look like that--and a tangible caress.... and yet i couldn't say a word! i couldn't accuse him--of anything! maddening young scamp! i stood as straight as the wireless mast on the downs. i glared out towards the steely glitter of the english channel. "ah, now, why should you be angry?" protested that ineffably gentle irish voice beside me. "sure i'm only just pointing out how differently an unscrupulous fellow might have behaved. i never kissed you, child." i couldn't think of a crushing retort. all i could find to say was, of course, the very last thing i really meant. "i shall never forgive you!" "what?" took up the honourable jim swiftly and merrily. "never forgive me for what?" to this i didn't have to reply, for the other three people had come quickly up to us. miss million came up first, holding out both hands to the honourable jim. "at last! well, you are a stranger, and no mistake!" she declared, panting a little with the haste she had made. "i have been looking out for you all the morning----" surely this is an attitude that mr. burke ought to approve of in "our sex"! "and i did hope," said miss million quite touchingly, "i did hope you was going to come over to see me!" i'm not quite sure whether i'm glad or sorry that i happened to be present at that meeting on the sun-lit, wind-swept downs between my mistress and the young irishman, to whom she presently introduced her cousin, mr. hiram p. jessop. really it was a most embarrassing moment. i think nine out of ten women would have found it so! for none of us really enjoy seeing a man "caught out" before our eyes. and this was practically what happened to the honourable james burke. it served him right! it certainly was no more than he deserved! and yet--and yet i couldn't help feeling, as i say, sorry for him! it happened thus. miss million, flushed and sparkling with the delight of seeing her hero, mr. jim burke, again after three days of separation, put on a pretty little air of hostess-ship and began: "oh, here's some one i want you to know, mr. burke. a relative of mine. my cousin, mr. jessop----" "i have already had the pleasure of making mr. burke's acquaintance," said the young american, with that bow of his, to which miss million, standing there between the two young men, exclaimed: "there now! to think of that! i thought you hadn't had a word together, that day at lunch----" "it was before then, i think," began the honourable jim, with his most charming smile. whereupon miss million interrupted once more. "oh, i see! yes, of course. that must have been in america, mustn't it? how small the world is, as my poor dad used to say. i s'pose you two met while you was both attending to poor uncle, did you?" miss million's cousin gave one of those quick, shrewd glances of his at the other young man. "why, no, cousin nellie," he said slowly. "i hadn't the pleasure of seeing mr. burke in the states. and i wasn't aware that he was acquainted with our uncle." this was where miss million rushed in where any other woman might have guessed it was better not to tread. "oh, lor', yes!" she exclaimed gleefully. "mr. burke was a great friend of our uncle sam's. he told me so the first time we met; in fac', that's how i come to know him, wasn't it, mr. burke?" she ran on, without waiting for any answer: "uncle used to call him 'jim,' and to say he looked forward to his coming every day that time when he had to lay up for two months with that sprained ankle of his----" "when was that, cousin nellie, if i may ask?" put in the young american quietly. "why, that was just a twelvemonth ago, mr. burke told me; didn't you, mr. burke?" ran on the unsuspecting miss million, while i, standing still in the background as a well-trained lady's-maid should do, permitted myself one glance at the face of that young pretender. it was blank as a stone mask. i looked at mr. jessop. his grave, penetrating eyes were fixed upon that mask. as for miss vi vassity, to whom i also turned, i saw her common, clever, vivacious face lighted up with a variety of expressions: amusement, curiosity, irony. she knew, as well as i did, what was happening. she was keener than i to see what would happen next. in far less time than it takes to tell all this miss million had rattled on: "oh, yes; mr. burke was with uncle in chicago pretty near every day all the last year of his life, wasn't you, mr. burke? shows how well he used to know him, doesn't it? and then when he heard my name at the hotel sizzle! "soon as he heard that i was related to mr. samuel million, his old friend, he came round and chummed up at once. it is funny, isn't it," concluded miss million, "the queer way you get to know people that you've never dreamt about?" "yes, it's real funny, i guess, that i haven't happened to have gotten to know mr. burke while he was on the other side," broke in the voice of the american, speaking quietly but very distinctly as it "gave away" the pretensions of the honourable jim in two simple sentences. "i guess there wasn't a day in the last two years that i wasn't visiting the old man. and i never heard anything about a sprained ankle, nor yet about his having had any mr. burke to come around and see him." after this revelation there was a pause that seemed to last for ever. but i suppose it couldn't have been as long as that. for i, turning my eyes from the quartette on the turf, was watching a big white seagull wheeling and swooping above the cliff. its long wings had only flapped, slowly, twice, before the hearty voice of miss vi vassity broke the silence that i felt to be quite nerve-racking. "well! are these biographical notes going to keep us busy for the whole afternoon, or are we going to get on to the spirit-kettle and the cakes? "i'm fair dying for a drop to drink, i can tell you. talkin' does it. and i never can bear those flasks. don't trust 'em. some careless hussy forgets to give 'em a proper clean-out once in a way, and the next time you take your cup o' tea out of the thing where are you? poisoned and a week in a nursing-home. miss vi vassity, 'london's love,' has been sufferin' from a severe attack of insideitis, with cruel remarks from _snappy bits_ on the subject. give me hot water out of the kettle. "come on, jim, you shall get it going; you're a handy man with your feet--fingers, i mean; come on, miss smith. the other girls seem to have lost themselves somewhere; always do when there's a bit of housework and women's sphere going on, i notice. we'll spread the festive board. nellie'll bring on the cousin--i can see they've got secrets to talk. s'long!" she kept up this babble during the whole of tea in the lee of that motor on the downs where mr. burke had come upon me as i drowsed after lunch. the tea was even noisier and gayer than the lunch had been. we had this flow of comment-on-nothing from london's love, and a couple of songs from our serio, and american tour reminiscences from our lady acrobat. also a loud and giggling squabble between that lady and the boy-impersonator about which of them looked her real age. also an exhibition of the blandishments of our twentieth-century hebe, who sat on the turf next to the honourable jim. she was doing her utmost to flirt with him; putting her lazy blonde head on one side to cast languishing glances at him, invoking his pity for a midge-bite that she said she had discovered on her upper arm. "look," she murmured, holding out the sculptured limb. "does it show?" that softly curved, white-skinned, blue-veined and bare arm could have been his to hold for a nearer inspection of that imperceptible wound if he had chosen. i made sure he'd catch hold of it ... it would have been just like him to laugh and suggest kissing it to make it well. i'm sure that's what the "breathing statue girl" meant him to do. they're just a pair of silly flirtatious bohemians---- rather to my surprise the irishman merely gave a matter-of-fact little nod and returned in a practical tone of voice: "yes; you've certainly got glorious arms of your own, miss marmora; pity to let 'em get sunburnt and midge-bitten. it'll show on the stage if you aren't careful. i'd keep my sleeves down if i were you----" "'and that's _that_!'" the boy-impersonator wound up with george robey's tag. and in the midst of all the laughter and chatter no one seemed to notice that two of the party were absolutely silent and almost too absent-minded to drink their tea--namely, the american cousin and miss nellie million, the heiress. i hardly dared to look at her. i thought i was in for a terrible flood of tears and misery as soon as we got home to the "refuge." for evidently mr. hiram p. jessop had been getting in quite a long talk with his cousin before tea, and i am sure he had explained to her just the sort of gay deceiver that her admired and honourable jim was! oh, the disillusionment of that! to find out that he had made that dead set at knowing her from the beginning only because of her uncle's money! and that, so far from there having been any of that family friendship of which she was so proud, he had never set eyes on old mr. million! i was afraid she would be utterly heart-broken, shaken with sobs over the perfidy of that handsome impostor whom she must always love.... how little i knew her kind! i was undeceived on the way home to the "refuge." miss million clutched me by the arm, holding me back until every other member of the party, those who walked, those who rode on donkeys, and those who motored, had got well ahead. "i'm walking back alone with you, smith," she announced firmly. "let all of them get on, hiram and vi and all. i want to speak to you. i'm fair bursting to have a talk about all this." i pressed the sturdy short arm in my own with as much sympathy as i could show. "my dear! my dear miss million," i murmured, "i am so dreadfully sorry about it all----" "sorry? how d'you mean sorry, smith?" my unexpected little mistress turned sharply upon me. "y'orter to be glad, i should think!" "glad?" "yes! about me being 'put wise,' as hiram calls it, to something that i might have been going on and on getting taken in about," went on miss million as we started off to find the road over the downs. "if it hadn't ha' bin for my cousin and him meeting face to face, and him not able to deny what he'd said, i might ha' been to the end of the chapter believing every word i was told by that mr. burke. did you ever know anything like him and the lies he's been stuffing me up with?" i stared at the real and righteous and dry-eyed anger that was incarnate in million's little face as we walked along. i positively gasped over the--well, there's nothing for it but to call it the distaste and dislike of the one in which she pronounced those three words: "that mr. burke." "whatcher looking so surprised at?" she asked. "you," i said. "why--only yesterday you told me that you were so much--that you liked mr. burke so much!" "yesterday. o' course," said million. "yesterday i hadn't been put wise to the sort of games he was up to!" "but----you liked him enough to say you--you were ready to marry him!" "yes! and there'd have been a nice thing," retorted the indignant million. "fancy if i had a married him. a man like that, who stuffed me up with all those fairy tales! a nice sort of husband for anybody! i can't be grateful enough to hiram for telling me." i was too puzzled to say anything. i could only give little gasps at intervals. "isn't it a mercy," said miss million with real fervour, "that i found him out in time? why ever d'you look at me like that? it is a mercy, isn't it?" "yes. yes, of course. only i'm so surprised at your thinking so," i hesitated. "you see, as you really liked mr. burke----" "well, but i couldn't go on likin' him after i found him out. how could i?" demanded million briskly. "would any girl?" i said: "i should have thought so. i can imagine a girl who, if she really cared for a man, would go on caring----" "after she found out the sort he was?" "yes. she might be very unhappy to find out. but it wouldn't make any other difference----" "what?" cried million, looking almost scandalised. "i don't believe you can mean what you say!" "i do mean what i say," i persisted, as we walked along. "i think that if one really cared for a man, the 'caring' would go on, whatever one found him out in. he might be a murderer. or a forger. or he might be in the habit of making love to every pretty woman he saw. or--or anything bad that one can think of. and one might want to give up being fond of him. but one wouldn't be able to. i shouldn't." "ah, well, there's just the difference between you and i," said miss million, in such a brisk, practical, matter-of-fact voice that one could hardly realise that it belonged to the girl whose eyes had grown so dreamy as she had spoken, only yesterday, of the honourable jim. "now, i'm like this. if i like a person, i like 'em. i'd stick to anybody through thick and thin. do anything for 'em; work my fingers to the bone! but there's one thing they've got to do," said miss million impressively. "they've got to be straight with me. i've got to feel i can trust 'em, smith. once they've deceived me--it's all over. see?" "yes, i see," i said, feeling more puzzled than ever over the difference between one person's outlook and another's. as far as i was concerned, i felt that "trusting" and "liking" could be miles apart from each other. i shouldn't change my whole opinion of a man because he had deceived me about knowing my uncle, and because he had spun me a lot of "yarns" about that friendship. men were deceivers ever. i, in miss million's place, should have shrugged my shoulders over the unmasking of this particular deceiver, and i should have said: "what can one expect of a man with that voice and those eyes?" evidently in this thing million, whom i've tried to train in so many of the little ways that they consider "the mark of a lady," is more naturally fastidious than i am myself. she said: "i don't mind telling you i thought a lot o' that mr. burke. i thought the world of him. but that's----" she gave a sort of little scattering gesture with her hands. "why, i can't begin to tell you the yards of stuff he's been telling me about uncle and the friends they was! and now here it's all a make-up from the beginning. he hadn't a word to say for himself. 'jer notice that, smith?" said miss million. "i expect he was ashamed to look any one in the face, after the way he'd bin going on. pretty silly i expect he felt, having us know at last that it was all a put-up job." i had to bite my lips to keep back a smile. for as miss million and i swung along the road that, widening, led away from the downs and between hedges and sloping fields, i remembered something. i remembered that tea at charbonnels with the honourable jim. it was there that he admitted to me, quite shamelessly, that he had never, in the whole of his chequered career, set eyes upon the late samuel million. it was then that he calmly remarked to me: "you'll never tell tales." so that it's quite a time that i've known the whole discreditable story.... yes; i confess that in some ways miss million must have been born much more scrupulous and fastidious than lady anastasia's great-granddaughter! "no self-respecting girl would want to look at him again, i shouldn't think," concluded my young mistress firmly, as we passed the first thatched cottages of a village. i ought to feel inexpressibly relieved. for now all my fears regarding the honourable jim are at rest for evermore. he won't marry her for her fortune, for the simple reason that she won't have him! and she won't break her heart and make herself wretched over this perfidy of his, because a perfidious man ceases to have any attraction for her honest heart. that sort of girl doesn't, "while she hates the sin, love the poor sinner." what a merciful dispensation! it's too utterly ridiculous to feel annoyed with million for turning her coat like this. it's inconsistent. i mustn't be inconsistent. i must trample down this feeling of being a little sorry for the blue-eyed pirate who has been forced to strike his flag and to flee before the gale of miss nellie million's wrath. i ought, if anything, to be still feeling angry with mr. james burke on my own account: teasing me about ... pairs of gloves and all that nonsense! anyhow, there's one danger removed from the path. and now i think i see clearly enough what must come. miss million, having found that she's been deceived in smooth talk and charming flattery and celtic love-making, will turn to the sincerity of that bomb-dropping american cousin of hers. they'll marry--oh, yes; they'll marry without another hitch in the course of the affair. and i----yes, of course, i shall marry, too. i shall marry that other honest and sincere young man--the english one--mr. reginald brace. but i must see million--miss million--married first. i must dress her for her wedding. i must arrange the veil over her glossy little dark head; i must order her bouquet of white heather and lilies; i must be her bridesmaid, or one of them, even if she does have a dozen other girls from the "refuge" as well! and who'll give her away? mr. chesterton, the old lawyer, will, i suppose, take the part of the bride's father. miss vi vassity is sure to make some joke about being the bride's mother. she is sure to be the life and soul of that wedding-party--wherever it is. it's sure to be a delightfully gay affair, the wedding of nellie million to her cousin, hiram p. jessop! i'm looking forward to it most awfully---- these were the thoughts with which i was harmlessly and unsuspectingly amusing myself as miss million and i walked along down the white sussex highroad in the golden evening light. and in the middle of this maiden meditation, in the middle of the peaceful evening and the drowsy landscape of rose-wreathed cottages and distant downs, there dropped, as if from one of mr. jessop's machines, a positive bomb! the unexpected happened once more. the unexpected took the form, this time, of an unobtrusive-looking man on a bicycle. when we met him, slipping along on the road coming from the direction of miss vi vassity's "refuge," i really hardly noticed that we had passed a cyclist. miss million, apparently, had noticed; she straightened her back with a funny little jerky gesture that she has when she means to be very dignified. she turned to me and said: "well! he'll know us next time he sees us, that's one thing! he didn't half give us a look!" "did he?" i said absently. then we turned up the road to the "refuge." neither of us realised that the man on the bicycle had turned his machine, and had noiselessly followed us down the road again. we reached the white gate of the "refuge," under its dark green cliffs of elm. i had my hand on the latch when i heard the quiet voice of the cyclist almost in my ear. "miss smith----" i turned with a little jump. i gave a quick look up at the man's face. it was the sort of quiet, neutral-tinted, clean-shaven, self-contained ordinary face that one would not easily remember, as a rule. yet i remembered it. i'd seen quite enough of it already. it was burnt in on my memory with too unpleasant an association for me to have forgotten it. i heard myself give a little gasp of dismay as, through the gathering dusk, i recognised the face of the man who had wanted to search my trunks at the hotel cecil; the man who had afterwards shadowed me down the strand and into the embankment garden; the man from scotland yard. mercy! what could he want? "miss million----" he said. and miss million, too, stared at him, and said: "whatever on earth is the meaning of this?" there was a horrified little quaver in her voice as she said it, for she'd guessed what was afoot. i had already told her of the manager's visit to her rooms the day before i came down from london, and she had been really appalled at the event until miss vi vassity had come in to cheer her with the announcement that she was sure this was the last that would ever be heard by us of anything to do with having our belongings looked at. and now, after three or four days only, this!... here we stood on the dusty road under the elms, with the man's bicycle leaning up against the white palings. we were a curious trio! the young mistress in a pink linen frock, the young lady's-maid in black, and the "plain-clothes man" giving a quick glance from one to the other as he announced in his clear but quiet and expressionless voice: "i have to arrest you ladies----" "arrest!" gasped miss million, turning white. i grasped her hand. "don't be silly, my dear," i said as reassuringly as i could, though my voice sounded very odd in my own ears. million looked the picture of guilt found out, and i felt that there was a fatal quiver in my own tone. i said: "it's quite all right!" "i have to arrest you ladies," repeated the man with the bicycle, in his wooden tone, "on the charge of stealing mr. julius rattenheimer's ruby pendant from the hotel cecil----" "oh, i never! i never done it!" from million, in anguished protest. "you can ask anybody at the orphanage what sort of a----" "i have to warn you that anything you say now will be used in evidence against you," concluded the man from scotland yard, "and my orders are to take you back with me to london at once." chapter xxix locked up! who could ever have anticipated this? who would have dreamt, a night or two ago, of where miss million, the american sausage-king's heiress, and her aristocratically connected lady's-maid would have had to spend last night? i can hardly believe it myself, even yet. i sit on this perfectly ghastly little bed, narrow and hard as any stone tomb in a church. i gaze round at the stone walls, and at the tiny square window high up; at the tin basin, chained as if they were afraid it might take flight somehow; at the door with the sliding panel; the ominous-looking door that is locked upon me! and i say to myself, "vine street police-station!" that's where i am. i, beatrice lovelace, poor father's only daughter, and lady anastasia's great-granddaughter! i've been taken up, arrested! i'm a prisoner. i've slept--that is, i've not been able to sleep--in a cell! i've been put in prison like a pickpocket, or a man who's been drunk and disorderly, or a window-smashing suffragette! only, of course, the suffragette does her best to get into prison. she doesn't mind. it's a glory to her. she comes out and "swanks" about in a peculiarly hideous brooch that's been specially designed to show that she's been sentenced to "one month," or whatever it was. she's proud of it. oh, how can she be? proud of having spent so much time in a revolting place like this! "i think," gazing round hopelessly once more--"oh, i don't believe i shall ever be able to get the disgusting, bleak, sordid look of it out of my mind, or the equally sordid, bleak, disgusting smell of it out of my skirts and my hair!" and i clasp my hands in my lap and close my eyes to shut out the look of those awful walls and that fearful door. i go over again the scene yesterday down at the "refuge," when we were arrested by that scotland yard man, and when i had just enough presence of mind to ask him to allow us, before we went off with him, to leave word with our friends. a group of our friends were already gathered on the gravel path outside the house under the lilacs. and there came running out at my call miss vi vassity, half a dozen of her refugette girls, miss million's american cousin, and--though i thought he must have taken his departure!--the disgraced mr. burke. in the kind of nightmare of explanations that ensued i remember most clearly the high-pitched laugh of "london's love" as she exclaimed, "charging them, are you, officer? i suppose that means i've got to come round and bail them out in the morning, eh? not the first time that vi has had that to do for a pal of hers? but, mind you, it's about the first time that there's been all this smoke without any fire. pinching rubies? go on. go on home! who says it? rubies! who's got it?" she rattled on, while everybody stared at us. the group looked like a big poster for some melodrama on at the lyceum, with three central figures and every other person in the play gaping in the background. "oh, of course it's miss smith that collared rats's old ruby," went on miss vi vassity encouragingly. "sort of thing she would do. brought it down here to the other little gal, my friend, miss nellie million, i presume? and what am i cast for in this grand finale? receiver of stolen goods, eh? bring out some more glasses, emmie, will you?"--this to the acrobat lady. "what's yours, sherlock holmes?" to the detective. then to miss million, who was deathly pale and trembling: "a little drop of something short will do you no harm, my girl. you shall have the car to 'go quietly' in, in a minute or two----" here the american accent of mr. hiram p. jessop broke in emphatically. "there'll be no 'going' at all, miss vassity. i don't intend to have any nonsense of this kind regarding a young lady who's my relative, and another young lady who is a friend of hers--and mine. see here, officer. the very idea of charging 'em--why, it's all poppycock! miss million is my cousin. "steal rubies--why on earth should she steal rubies? couldn't she buy up all the rubies in little old london if she fancied 'em? hasn't she the means to wear a ruby as big as that of mr. rattenheimer's on every finger of her little hands if she chose? see here, officer----" here the young american caught the scotland yard man by the upper arm, and sought to draw him gently but firmly out of that lyceum poster group. "see here. as you must have noticed at the cecil, mr. julius rattenheimer's a friend of mine. i know him. i know him pretty well, i guess. i'll go to him right now, and explain to him that it's absolutely preposterous, the mere idea of sending down to arrest a pair of delicately nurtured, sensitive, perfectly lovely young girls who'd as soon think of thieving jewels as they would of--well, i can't say what. here's where words fail me. but i guess i'll have fixed up how to put it when i get to rats himself. i'll come along right now to him with you. i've got my car here. i'll fix it up. "don't you worry----" here i seemed to detect a movement of mr. hiram p. jessop's hand towards his breast-pocket. was it? yes! he drew out a pigskin leather pocketbook. swiftly, but quietly, he took out notes.... "heavens!" this sincere and well-meaning citizen of no mean country was making an unapologised-for attempt to bribe scotland yard! their backs were towards me now; i do wish i had seen the detective's face! "see here, officer----ah, you're proud? well, that's all right. i've got my car here, i say. you and i'll buzz up to mr. rattenheimer's, i guess. we'll leave these young ladies here with miss vassity----" "very sorry, sir, but that's quite impossible," declared the even, expressionless voice of the scotland yard man. "these ladies have to return to london at once with me." "but i tell you it's prepos----" "those are my orders, sir. very sorry. if the car is ready"--turning to miss vi vassity--"i'll drive her, i'll take these ladies now." "all alone, with you? faith, and that you won't," declared the honourable jim burke, stepping forward from where he had been standing, hastily finishing the drink that had been poured out for him by the handsome white hands of marmora, the breathing statue. "i'll go up with you, and see where you're taking the ladies----" "and i'll accompany you, if you'll permit me," from mr. hiram p. jessop. "room in the car for six. pity i can't leave maudie, or i'd come. but young olive must get her night's rest to-night, so i'm doing nurse and attending to the midget ventriloquist myself," declared the cheerful voice of england's premier comedienne. "see you to-morrow in court, girls. don't look like that, nellie! you've got a face on you like a blessed bridegroom; there's nothing to get scared about. lor'! no need to fret like that if you'd just been given ten years!... got plenty o' rugs, miss smith? i'd lend one of you my best air-cushion to sleep on, full of the sighs of me first love. but if i did they'd only pinch it at the station. i know their tricks at that hole. so long, ah-sayn lupang!" again to the detective: "you ought to be at the top of your profession, you ought; got such an eye for character. cheery-ho!" and we were off; the detective, the two arrested criminals (ourselves), the cousin of one of the "criminals" and the honourable jim burke. in what character this young man was supposed to be travelling with us i'm sure i don't know. i only know that but for him that motor drive through sussex up to the london police court would have been a nightmare. it was the honourable jim who managed to turn it into something of a joke. for all the way along the gleaming white roads, with our headlights casting brilliant moving moons upon the hedges, the persuasive, mocking irish voice of the honourable jim laughed and talked to the detective who was driving us to our fate. and the conversation of the honourable jim ran incessantly upon just one theme. the mistakes that have been made by the police in tracking down those suspected of some breach of the law! as thus. "were you in that celebrated case, officer, of the downshire diamonds? another jewel robbery, miss smith! curious how history repeats itself. they'd got every bit of circumstantial evidence to show that the tiara had been stolen and broken up by a young maid-servant in the house. the 'tecs were hanging themselves all over with whatever's their equivalent for the d.s.o., for having got her, when the butler owned up and showed where he'd put the thing, untouched and wrapped up in a workman's red handkerchief, in an old dhry well in the grounds. mustn't it make a man feel he ought to sing very small when he's been caught out in a little thing like that?" "that's so," said mr. hiram p. jessop, with a tone in his voice of positive gratitude. gratitude, to the man whom he'd been blackening and showing up, this very afternoon! together they seemed to be making common cause against the detective, who was rushing miss million up to town and to durance vile! the detective said less than any man with whom i've ever spent the same length of time. but i believe he took it all in! "then there were the ballycool murders, when they were as near as dash it to hanging the wrong man," pursued mr. james burke. "of course, that was when my grandfather was a boy. so that particular show-up would be before your time, officer, possibly." "eighteen sixty-two, sir," said the detective briefly. "ah, yes, i remember," mused the honourable jim, who, i suppose, must have been born about eighteen hundred and eighty-seven himself. "ah, yes; but then, some aspects of life, and love, and law don't seem to alter much, do they?" "that's correct, mr. burke," said mr. hiram p. jessop again in his most empressé american. "then," pursued the ineffable irish voice as we whizzed along, "there's that case of the indian tray that was missing from that wealthy bachelor's rooms--but i misremember the exact end of that story. "plenty of them on record in this country as well as america. i daresay you agree with me, jessop?" mr. jessop, sitting there in the hurrying car, seemed to be agreeing with everything that mr. burke chose to say. the young american, from what glimpses i caught of his firm, short, dana-gibson-like profile against the blue night sky, was full of the tenderest and most rueful concern for the little cousin who was involved in this pretty kettle of fish. his broad, though padded, form was sitting very close to the minute, dejected figure of miss million, who had gradually ceased to shudder and to whimper "oh, lor'! oh, my! oh, whatever is going to happen to us now!" as she had done at the beginning of the journey. she was, i realised, a little cheered and encouraged now. from a movement that i had noticed under miss vi vassity's sable motor-rug i guessed that mr. jessop had taken his cousin's hand, and that he was holding it as we drove. well, after all, why shouldn't he? they are cousins. also it's quite on the cards that she may accept him yet (if we ever get out of this atrocious muddle about the stolen ruby) as her husband! these two facts make all the difference.... and i should have said so to the honourable jim had we been alone. it didn't really surprise me that he, in his turn, attempted to hold a girl's hand under that rug. men always seem to do what they notice some other man doing first. that must have been it. except, of course, that it wasn't miss million's hand that mr. burke tried to take. it was the hand of miss million's maid. i was determined that he shouldn't. firmly i drew my hand out of his clasp--it was a warm and strong and comforting clasp enough, very magnetic; but what of that? then i clasped my own hands tightly together, as i am doing now, and left them on my lap, outside the rug. the honourable jim seemed to tire, at last, of "batting" the detective who was driving us. he leant back and began to sing, in a sort of musical whisper.... really, it's unfair that a man who has the gift of such a speaking voice should have been granted the gift of song into the bargain. they were just little snatches that he crooned, the sort of scraps of verse with which he'd woken me up on the cliff that same afternoon--bits of an irish song called "the snowy-breasted pearl," that begins: "oh, she is not like the rose that proud in beauty blows----" and goes on something about: "and if 'tis heaven's decree that mine she may not be----" so sweet, so tuneful, so utterly tender and touching that--well, i know how i should have felt about him had i been miss million, who three days ago considered herself truly in love with the owner of this calling, calling tenor voice! had i been miss million, i could not have sat there with my hand firmly and affectionately clasped in the hand of another man, ignoring my first attraction. no; if i had been my mistress instead of just myself, i could not have remained so stolidly pointing out to the honourable jim that all was indeed over. i could not have refused him a glance, a turn of the head in the direction of the voice that crooned so sweetly through the purring rush of the car. however, this was all--as million herself would say--neither here nor there. apart from this scotland yard complication, she was miss million, the heiress, drifting slowly but surely in the direction of an eligible love affair with her american cousin. i had nothing whatever to do with her rejected admirer, or how he was treated. i was merely miss million's maid, beatrice lovelace, alias smith, with an eligible love affair of her own on hand. how i wished my mr. reginald brace could have been anywhere get-at-able! he would have been so splendid, so reliable! he would have--well, i don't know what he could have done, exactly. i suppose that even he could scarcely have interfered with the carrying out of the law! still, i felt that it would have been a great comfort to have had him there in that car. and, as i am going to be engaged to him, there would have been nothing incorrect in allowing him to hold my hand. in fact, i should have done so. i hadn't got any gloves with me, and the night air was now chill. "why, your little hands are as cold as ice, miss smith," murmured mr. james burke to me as the car stopped at last outside what are called the grim portals of justice. (plenty of grimness about the portals, anyway!) "you ought to have kept----" even at that awful moment he made me wonder if he were really going to say, boldly out before the detective and everybody: "you ought to have kept your hands in mine as i wanted you to!" but no. he had the grace to conclude smoothly and conventionally: "you ought to have kept the rug up about you!" then came "good-nights"--rather a mockery under the circumstances--and the departure of the two young men, with a great many parting protests from mr. hiram p. jessop about the "prepassterousness" of the whole procedure. then we arrested "prisoners" were taken down a loathsome stone corridor and handed over to a---- words fail me, as they failed mr. hiram p. jessop. i can't think of words unpleasant enough to describe the odiousness of that particular wardress into whose charge we were given. the only excuse for her was that she imagined--why, i don't know, for surely she could have seen that there was nothing of that type about either miss million or miss smith--she imagined that we were militant suffragettes! and she certainly did make herself disagreeable to us. the one mercy about this was that it braced miss million up to abstain from shedding tears--which she seemed inclined to do when we were separated. words didn't fail her! i heard the ex-maid-servant's clearest kitchen accent announcing exactly what she thought of "that" wardress and "that" detective, and "that there old rattenheimer" until stone walls and heavy doors shut her from earshot.... i only hope that her rage has kept up all night, that it's prevented her from relapsing into the misery and terror in which she started away from the shelter of vi vassity's wing at the "refuge"! for then, i know, she was perfectly convinced that what we were setting out for was, at the very least, ten years' penal servitude! evidently miss million hasn't the slightest touch of faith in the ultimate triumph of all innocence. to her, because that rattenheimer ruby is stolen, and she and her maid are suspected of being the thieves, it means that it's impossible for us to be cleared! i don't feel that; but i do feel the humiliation and the discomfort of having been put in prison! how many nights like the last, i wonder dismally, am i to spend in this horrible little cell? well! i suppose this morning will show us. this morning, in about an hour's time, i suppose we are to go before the magistrate of this court, and to answer the "serious charge" that has been brought against us by mr. julius rattenheimer. chapter xxx out on bail there! the much-dreaded ordeal is over. that is, it is over for the present. for we have been committed for trial, and that trial is still to come. we shall have to go on living somehow under a cloud of the blackest suspicion. but there's one ray of comfort that i find among the inky gloom of my (mental) surroundings. at least, there isn't going to be any more prison cell for us to-night! at least, i shall have a long and perfect and much-needed sleep in my delightfully luxurious white bed at the hotel cecil. for that's where we've returned for the day, to pack up a few more things before we accept miss vi vassity's kindly invitation and return to the "refuge"--a refuge indeed! it's too good of her to welcome two suspect characters such as my young mistress and me among her professional friends. the breathing statue, the boy-impersonator, the serio, the emerald-green-tighted acrobat lady--these all dwell on the heights of respectability as far as their private characters are concerned. of course, marmora, the twentieth-century hebe, is an arrant flirt, but a girl may be that and a model of propriety at the same time. this touch of nature never fails to exasperate, for some reason, any of the men who know her. the ventriloquist's wife and the understudy to "cigarette" in the number eleven company of "under two flags," there isn't a single word to be said against any of them! but what are we? two alleged jewel thieves, out on bail! and even then mrs. rattenheimer protested loudly in court against "those two young women" being given bail at all! by that time miss million and i were so utterly crushed by all that had gone before that i verily believe neither of us felt that we deserved to be let out at large--no, not even though three of our friends were sureties for us to the tune of £ each! i have come to the conclusion that it takes a born criminal to act and look like a perfectly innocent person when charged with a crime! it's the perfectly innocent person who looks the picture of guilt! at least i know that's what poor little miss million looked like as she stood beside me in the dock this morning. her little face was as white as her handkerchief, her grey eyes were shrunk and red with crying and want of sleep. her hair was "anyhow." her small figure seemed more insignificant than ever. all the confidence with which she'd faced the wardress last night seemed to have evaporated in those hours of wakeful tossing on that vilely uncomfortable prison bed. she trembled and shook. she held on to the bar of the dock just as a very sea-sick passenger holds on to the steamer rail. she picked at her gloves, she nervously smoothed the creases in her pink, bond street tub-frock. when the magistrate addressed her she started and gulped, and murmured "sir" in the most utterly stricken voice i ever heard. altogether, if ever a young woman did look as if her sins had found her out, miss nellie million, charged with stealing a valuable ruby pendant, the property of mr. julius rattenheimer, looked the part at that moment. i don't wonder the magistrate rasped at her. as for me, i don't think i looked quite as frightened. you can't be at the same moment frightened and very angry. i felt like murder; whom i should have wished to murder i don't quite know--the owner of the ruby alone would not have been enough for me. i was inwardly foaming with rage over having been forced into this idiotic position; also for having been made, not only mentally, but physically and acutely uncomfortable. this is only one detail of the discomfort, but this may serve to sum up the rest; for the very first time in the whole of my life i'd had to go without my morning bath, and to stand fully dressed, but with the consciousness of being untubbed and unscrubbed, facing the world! there was such a horrible lot of the world to face, too, in that awful police-court, where the windows were steaming and opaque, and the walls clammy as those of an uncared-for country vestry! the place seemed crowded with all sorts and conditions of men and women, lumped together, so to speak, in fate's lucky-bag. and it was only after i'd given two or three resentful glances about that stuffy cave of a place that i recognised among all the strangers the faces of the people who'd come to back up miss million and me. first and foremost, of course, there sat, as close to us as she could manage to get herself placed, the sumptuous, peg-top-shaped, white-clad figure of london's love, miss vi vassity, with her metallic hair. she kissed her plump hand to us with effusion, waving encouragingly to us with her big gold mesh bag and all its glittering, clashing attachments: the cigarette case, the lip-salve tube, the gold pencil, the memorandum tablets, the darin powder-box, the card-case, the swastika, the lucky pig, the touchwood, the gold-tipped coral charm, the threepenny bit, and all the other odd things that rattled and jingled together like a pedlar's cart, making an unearthly stir in court. from where i stood i could see two men sketching the owner of all this clatter! close beside her sat mr. hiram p. jessop, very boyish, very grave; his well-cut dana-gibson mouth seeming to be permanently set into the exclamation, "preppassterous!" and his serious eyes fastened on his trembling little cousin in the dock. the honourable james burke sat behind them. all the policemen and officials, i noticed, were being as pleasant and deferential to that young scamp as if he were at least a judge, instead of a person who ought by rights to be locked up in the interests of the public! to the right of him sat the author of all our troubles, mr. julius rattenheimer. i suppose all german jews aren't odious! i suppose all german jews aren't thick-nosed and oily skinned, with eyes like two blackberries sunk very deep in a pan of dough! i suppose they don't all run to "bulges" inside their waistcoats and over their collars, and above and below their flashing rings? i suppose they don't all talk with their hands? no, i suppose it isn't fair to judge the whole race by one specimen. he became wildly excited during the proceedings. four or five times he interrupted the reading of the charge. he gesticulated, pointing at miss million, and crying: "yes! yes! she's in the pay of this udder one. do you see? this girl smith, that we find out has an assumed name, vot? easy to see who is the head of the firma---- "yes; she is the beauty vot would not have her boxes looked at. coming to a hotel mit empty boxes, vot does that look like, yes? two young girls, very shabby, and presently tog demselves out in the most sexbensive clothes. how they get them, no?" the magistrate broke in severely with something about "what mr. rattenheimer had to say would be attended to presently." "i say get the girl, and do not let her to be at large whoever say they will pay for her. get this woman lovelace; she is the one we want," vociferated the awful little hebrew; a little later on i think it was, but the whole police-court scene is one hideous confusion to me now. "don't let her to esgabe through our hands, this girl, beatrice lovelace----" my name, my real name, seemed to echo and resound all through that dreadful place. i didn't know before that i had always, at the bottom of my heart, been proud of the old name. yes! even if it has been brought down to belonging to a family of nouveaux-pauvres, who are neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. even if it is like having a complete motoring-kit, and no earthly chance of ever possessing a motor to wear it in! even so, it's a name that belonged to generation after generation of brave fighters; men who have served under nelson and wellington, clive and roberts! it's their blood, theirs and that of the women who loved them, that ran hot and angry in my veins to-day, flushing my cheeks with scarlet fury to hear that name profaned in the mouth of a little stuttering, jewel-grabbing alien, who's never had a sword, or even a rifle, in his hand! i turned my indignant eyes from him. and my eyes met, across the court, the eyes of another woman who wears the name of lovelace! heavens! there was my aunt anastasia, sitting bolt upright in the gallery and listening to the case. her face was whiter than million's, and her lips were an almost imperceptible line across it! how did she know? how had she come there? i didn't at that moment realise the truth--namely, that the scotland yard officials had been busy with their inquiries, not only at what miss million calls the hotel "sizzle," but also at what used to be my home at no. laburnum grove, putney, s.w. poor aunt anastasia, hearing that her niece was "wanted by the police" for robbery, must have received a shock forty times worse than that of my letter informing her that i had become our ex-servant's maid! but, as i say, here she was in court ... seeing the pair of us in the dock, listening to the account of the circumstances that really did look black against us. oh, that unfortunate flight of miss million's into sussex! that still more unfortunate flight of her maid's after her, leaving no address! aunt anastasia, in pale horror, was listening to it all. that was the last straw. it seemed to me nothing after that when, from where i stood tense in the dock, i recognised in the blurred pink speckle of faces against the grimy walls of the court the face of another person that i knew. a blonde, manly face, grave as that of the young american, but with a less unself-conscious gravity. the face of mr. reginald brace, the manager of miss million's bank, who wants to be the manager of me--no! i mustn't make these cheap jokes about the steady and sterling and utterly english character of the young man who loves me and who wishes--still wishes!--to marry me. for he has behaved in a way that ought to take any wish to make jokes about him away from any girl! he has been so splendid--so "decent"! you know, when bail was asked for, he stepped forward--he who is usually so deliberate in his movements!--quite as quickly as the honourable jim. how he--the honourable jim--had £ to dispose of at a moment's notice is one of these mysteries that i suppose i never shall solve. still, he is one of the sureties for us, and my mr. brace is another. the third is miss vi vassity, who produced, "to dazzle the old boy," a rustling sheaf of notes and a sliding, gleaming handful of sovereigns from the gold mesh bag, as well as her blue cheque-book and a smile that was a perfect guarantee of opulence. let me see, what came next? we were "released," of course, and i remember standing on the pavement outside the doors of that detestable place, i still holding miss million mechanically by the arm and finding ourselves the centre of a group of our friends. the group surrounding us two criminals on the pavement outside the police-court consisted of miss vi vassity, who was very showy, cheery, and encouraging; mr. hiram p. jessop, very protective of his cousin; the honourable james burke; mr. brace, and one or two theatrical people who had recognised london's love, and had come over to exchange loud greetings with her. on the outskirts of this talking, gesticulating crowd of people there appeared a tall, rigidly erect feminine figure in grey tweed, and a black hat that managed to be at the same time unutterably frumpy and "the hat of a lady." it was, of course, the hat of my aunt anastasia. over the upholstered shoulder of miss million's american cousin i caught her eye. i then saw her thin lips pronouncing my name: "beatrice." i moved away from mr. burke, who was standing very close to me, and went up to her. what to say to her i did not know. but she spoke first, in the very quiet, very concentrated tone of voice that she always used in the old days when i was "in for a row." "beatrice, you will come home with me at once." it was not so much an order as a stated fact. people who put their wishes in that way are not accustomed to be disobeyed. my aunt anastasia didn't think for one moment that i should disobey her. she imagined that i should at once leave this crowd of extraordinary people, for i saw her glance of utter disapproval sweeping them all! she imagined that i should return with her to the little nouveau-pauvre villa at putney and listen like a lamb to all she had to say. six months ago i should have done this, of course. but now--too much had happened in between. i had seen too many other people, too many aspects of life that was not the tiny stereoscopic view of things as they appear to the aunt anastasias of this world. i realised that i was a woman, and that this other woman, who had dominated me for so long, had no claim upon me now. i said gently and quietly, but quite firmly: "i am very sorry, aunt anastasia, but i can't come just now." "what do you mean, beatrice?" this icily. "you don't seem to see that you are singularly fortunate in having a home still open to you," said my aunt. "after the disgrace that you have brought, this morning, upon our family----" "what's all this? what's all this?" broke in the cheerful, unabashed voice of miss vi vassity. that lady had broken away from her theatrical friends--young men with soft hats and clean-cut features--and, accompanied by her usual inevitable jingle of gold hanging charms and toys and knick-knacks--had turned to me. she caught my arm in her plump, white-gloved hand and beamed good-naturedly upon my frozen aunt. "who's your lady friend, smithie, my dear?" demanded london's love, who had never looked more showily vulgar. the grimy background of street and police-court walls seemed to throw up the sudden ins-and-outs of her sumptuous, rather short-legged figure, topped by that glittering hair and finished off by a pair of fantastically high-heeled french boots of the finest and whitest kid. no wonder my fastidious aunt gazed upon her with that petrified look! london's love didn't seem to see it. she went on gaily: "didn't half fill the stalls, our party this morning, what, what? might have been 'some' divorce case! now for a spot of lunch to wash it all down. we're all going on to the cecil. come on, jim," to mr. burke. "come on--i didn't catch your boy's name, miss smith--yours, i mean," tapping the arm of mr. reginald brace, who looked very nearly as frozen as my aunt herself. "still, you'll come. and you, dear?" this to no less a person than miss anastasia lovelace. "this is my aunt, miss lovelace," i put in hurriedly. "aunt anastasia, this is miss vassity, who, as you said, was kind enough to--to go bail for us just now in court----" the bend of my aunt's neck and frumpy hat towards miss vi vassity was something more crushingly frigid than the cut direct would have been. still london's love took it all in good part; holding out that plump white paw of hers, and taking my aunt's untendered hand warmly into her own. "pleased to meet you," she said heartily. "your little niece here is a great pal o' mine. i was sorry to see her in a mess. shockin' naughty girl, though, isn't she? nickin' rubies. tut, tut. why didn't you bring her up better, eh?" suggested england's premier comedienne. there are absolutely no words to describe the deepening of the horror on poor aunt anastasia's face as she looked and listened and "took in" generally the society in which her only niece found herself! miss vi vassity's loud, gay tones seemed to permeate that group and that situation just as a racing wave ripples over pebbles and seaweed and sand-castles alike. "girls will be girls! i never intend to be anything else myself," announced the artiste joyously. "you're coming along with her, miss--lovelace, is it? pretty stage name that 'ud make, boys. 'miss love lace,' eh? look dandy on the bills. you'll sit next your young niece here, and see she don't go slipping any of the spoons off the table inside her camisole. you never know what's going to go next with these kleptomaniacs. er--hur!" she gave a little exaggerated cough. "i'll have to keep my own eye on the other jewel thief, nellie million--d'you know her?" here i saw my aunt's cold, grey eye seeming to go straight through the face and form of the girl who used to be her maid-of-all-work. miss million, in her rather crushed but very "good"-looking pink linen gown, held her small head high and glared back defiantly at the woman who used to take her to task for having failed to keep a wet clean handkerchief over the butter-dish. she (my mistress) seemed to gain confidence and poise as soon as she stood near the large, grey-clad figure of her american cousin. all through this the voice of miss vi vassity rippled on. "i'd better introduce the gentleman. this is mr. hiram p. jessop, the inventor. i don't mean 'liar.' one o' those is enough in a party, eh, jim? this is the honourable mr. james burke, of ballyneck castle. this is mr. brace. now we're all here; come along----" "thank you very much, but i think i will say 'good morning,'" broke in my aunt's most destructively polite tones. "come, beatrice. i am taking my niece with me." here there occurred that of which i am sure miss million has often dreamed, both when she was a little, twenty-pound-a-year maid-of-all-work and lately, since she's been the heiress of a fortune. she struck! she, once dependent upon every order from those thin, aristocratic lips of miss anastasia lovelace's, gave her own order to her own ex-mistress. "very sorry, miss lovelace, but i can't spare your niece to go with you just now," she announced, in her "that-settles-it" sounding cockney accent. "i want her to change me for luncheon. "friday is her afternoon out," enlarged miss million, encouraging herself with an upward glance into the grave, boyish, american face of her cousin, and speaking more authoritatively still. "i can't have her gallivanting off to you nor to any one else just this minute. it's not convenient. she's my maid now, you see----" my aunt's glance was that of a basilisk, her tone like the cut of a whip, as she retorted coldly: "my niece has nothing more to do with you. she will leave you at once. she is no longer in your--your grotesque service." "my service is as good as yours was, and a fat lot better, i can tell you, miss lovelace," riposted my mistress, becoming suddenly shrill and flushed. "i give the girl sixty pounds a year, and take her about with me to all my own friends, same as if she was my sister. "yes. you needn't look like that because i do. ask her. the first time in her life she's ever had a good time is now, since she's been working for some one that does realise that a girl's got to have her bit of fun and liberty same as everybody else, be she duchess or be she lady's-maid!" "she is a lady's-maid no longer," said my aunt anastasia, in a voice that shook. the others looked fearfully uncomfortable, all except miss vi vassity, who seemed to be hanging with the keenest enjoyment upon every syllable that fell from the lips of the two "opposing parties." "my niece is no longer a lady's-maid," repeated aunt anastasia. "she leaves your service here and now." "not without notice," said the stubborn million, in a voice that brought the whole of our inconvenient little putney kitchen before my mental gaze. verily she had recovered from her bad attack of stage-fright in court just before. "a girl's got to give her month's notice or to give up a month's wages," said my aunt anastasia with a curling lip. "that is easily settled. my niece is in no need of a month's wages from some one who is--charged with common theft----" "why, she's 'charged' herself, as far as that goes!" million gave back quickly. "if i've taken that old ruby, my maid knows all about it, and she's in it with me! you heard for yourself, miss lovelace, what that old rattenheimer said in there just now. it's her he suspects--your niece! it's her he didn't want to let go, bail or no bail!" what a wrangle! it was a most inappropriate place for a wrangle, i know. but there they still stood and wrangled in the open street outside the police-station, ex-mistress and ex-maid, while passers-by stared curiously at them, and i and the three young men stood by, wondering what in the world would be said next. "a month's wages, too!" repeated my young mistress, with the snorting laugh with which she used to rout the butcher-boys of putney. "it's a fat lot more than a month's wages that's doo from your niece to me, miss lovelace, and so i tell you! two quarters' salary. that's what i've advanced my maid, so's she could get herself the sort of rig-out that she fancied. first time in her life the girl's been turned out like a young lady." here miss million waved a hand towards my perfectly cut black, taking in every detail from the small hat to the delight-giving silk stockings and suède shoes. "yes, for all her aristocratic relations they never done that for her--why, you know what a pretty girl you said she was, vi"--turning upon london's love, who nodded appreciatively. "well, you wouldn't ha' known her if you'd seen her in any old duds like she used to have to wear when she was only 'my niece'"--here a vindictive and quite good imitation of my aunt anastasia's voice. "now there's some shape in her"--this is good, from million, who's picked up everything about clothes from me!--"and who's she got to thank for it? me, and my good wages," concluded my mistress, with unction. "me, and my thirty pounds that i advanced her in the first week. she can't go----" "i don't want to!" i put in, but miss million grimaced me into silence. she meant to have her say, her own, long-deferred say, out. "she can't go without she pays up what's owing to me first," declared my mistress triumphantly. "so what's she going to do?" this certainly was a "poser" to poor aunt anastasia. full well i knew that she had not thirty pounds in the world that she could produce at a moment's or even at a month's notice. her tiny income is so tied up that she cannot touch the capital. and i know that, careful as she is, there is never more than twelve pounds between herself and a pauper's grave, so to speak. i saw her turn a little whiter where she stood. she darted at me a glance of the deadliest reproach. i had brought her to this! to being worsted by a little jumped-up maid-servant! million, i must say, made the most of the situation. "there y'are, you see," she exulted. "your niece has gone and spent all that money. and you haven't got it to reimburse it. you can't pay up! ar! those that give 'emselves the airs of being the prince of wales and all the royal family, and there's nothing they can't do--they ought to make sure that they have something to back it up with before they start!" so true! so horribly true--poor aunt anastasia! she said in her controlled voice: "the money shall certainly be paid. i will write." i saw her face a mask of worry, and then she turned away. as she walked down the street towards the strand again, i saw her sway once, a little. "oh," i exclaimed involuntarily, "she ought not to walk. i don't believe she's well. she ought not to be alone, perhaps----" and i turned to the young man to whom i suppose i have a right to turn, since he has asked me to marry him. at that moment i felt that it was such a comfort he was there; steady and reliable and conscientious. "mr. brace!" i appealed to him a little shyly. "if you would be so kind! i wonder if you would mind--i'm afraid i shall have to ask you to take my aunt home?" "oh--er--yes, i should be delighted," said mr. brace quickly, but flushing all over his blonde face and looking suddenly and acutely miserable. it was a great astonishment to me that the young man wasn't off to carry out this wish of mine before it had finished leaving my lips. still, it wasn't his fault at all. oh, no; i see his point of view quite well. "that is--do you think, perhaps, that your aunt might not find it distasteful to be addressed by me? you see the last time she spoke to me, it was--er--not on the friendliest terms, and--er----" "aw, look here, mr. brace, don't you worry!" broke in the joyously, matter-of-fact voice of london's love. "you stay with your young lady and come on to lunch. her aunt's being attended to all right without you. look at that!" "that" was certainly an unexpected scene towards which miss vi vassity waved her tightly gloved hand. i gazed in wonder in that direction. there, on the pavement at the end of the turning into the strand, stood the scraggy, erect, grey-clad, frumpily hatted figure of my aunt anastasia. and beside her, close beside her, was the honourable james burke! he must have broken away from the group almost at the moment that she did, and gone up to her. what could he have said? the "cheek" of that man! is there anybody that he wouldn't mind tackling? for he was leaning confidentially towards my so forbidding aunt. he was talking fluently to her about something. he was smiling down at her--i caught the curve of his cheek in profile. and--could it be true?--my aunt anastasia actually didn't mind him! i only saw her back; but you know how expressive backs can be. and the usually rigid, flat shoulders with the victorian corset-ridge, and the lady-like waist and scarcely existent hips of my aunt were positively expressing mollification, friendliness, gratification! "the old girl's all right with jim to look after her," said miss vi vassity, cheerfully to me, adding, with a large wink: "what worked the trick with her was the cue 'ballyneck castle,' i bet you. me and nellie and the rest of us weren't quite class enough for her ladyship. but you can't go wrong with these old irish kings! so little known about 'em. eh, hiram? there! milord has got a taxi for auntie lovelace"--which was surprisingly true. "got off with her, hasn't he?" laughed london's love. "s'prised at her at her time o' life. still, there's no fool like an old fool. i ought to know; nothing at can resist little me. now, then, lunch at last. i guess you're all fairly perishing." we were. but there was one picture that remained with me even after we all got to the cecil and the whole party--including miss million's maid--were sitting greedily concentrating upon the menu at one of the round tables in the big dining-room. this was the picture of my aunt anastasia whirling towards putney in that taxi--she who never, never can afford the luxury of a cab!--accompanied by the honourable james burke! what would that drive be like? what would that unscrupulous young irishman say to her, and she to him? would she ask him into no. ? and--would he go? would she ask questions about her niece, miss million's maid, and would he answer them? oh! how i long to know these things! my wish for that is so keen that it causes me to forget even the black fog of suspicion under which my mistress and i will have to move while we are still "on bail." how i wish the honourable jim would hurry up and come back, just so that i could hear all about his tête-à-tête with my aunt! but as it is, there's plenty to occupy me. a delicious lunch before me to make up for no dinner the night before, and a prison breakfast this morning! at the head of the table miss vi vassity, with her stream of comment as cheering and bright as the bubbley in our glasses, which she insisted on standing all round! beside me my very eligible and nice would-be fiancé, mr. reginald brace, a young man that any girl ought to be glad to be sitting next. i don't mean "ought," of course. i mean "would." i was, i know. mr. brace was so kind, and tried all the time to be so sympathetic and helpful. i shall never forget his goodness. and he was really most apologetic about not having rushed to help aunt anastasia the minute i said anything about it. "you see, i really think she would have preferred not to speak to me," he said. then anxiously: "you are not annoyed with me, miss lovelace? you don't feel i could have done anything else?" "of course, you couldn't," i said. "it seems too bad, the first time you asked me to do anything," he muttered over his plate. "i who want so to do things for you." "oh, please don't," i said quickly. he said: "i am afraid you are a little annoyed with me, beatrice----" "indeed i'm not," i protested through all the racket of vi vassity's talk above the pretty flowery table, "only----" "only what?" "well, i don't think i said you might call me that," i said, colouring. he lowered his voice and said earnestly: "are you going to say i may? i know it's not yet quite a week since i asked you. but couldn't i have my answer before that? i want so to take you away from all these people." there was an expression of the most ungrateful disgust on his fair, puritan sort of face as he turned it for a moment from me to that of the bubbling-over music-hall artiste who was his hostess. "none of these people are fit," he declared resentfully, "to associate with you." "you forget that plenty of people might not think i was fit to associate with! a girl who is arrested for jewel robbery!" "your own fault, miss lovelace, if i may say so! if you hadn't been here with miss million"--another ungrateful glance--"this suspicion wouldn't have touched you." "if i hadn't brought miss million here, it wouldn't have touched her!" "that has nothing to do with it," he said quite fretfully. men generally are fretful, i notice, when women score a point in common sense. it's so unexpected. "the question still is--are you going to make me the happiest man in the world by marrying me?" it's odd what a difference there is between one's first proposal of marriage--and one's second! yes! even if they are from the same man, as mine were. the first time is much the better. a girl is prouder, more touched by it. she is possessed by the feeling "ah, i am really not worth all this! i don't deserve to have a really splendid young man thinking as much of me as dick, or tom, or harry, or reginald, or whoever it is does." i am only an ordinary sort of girl. i'm not one quarter as pretty, or as nice, or as sweet-tempered, or as affectionate, or as domesticated, or as good with my needle, or as likely to make a good wife as thousands of other girls who would be only too glad to have him! yet it's me he chooses. it's me he loves. it's me he called "the one girl in the world for him." that may be a little obvious, but, oh, how wonderful! even if a girl didn't want to say "yes" the first minute she was asked, she simply couldn't help feeling pleased and flattered and uplifted to the seventh heaven by the mere fact that he'd proposed. some girls never get a proposal at all. i'm really fearfully lucky to have him look at me! that's the first time, my dears. as for the second time--well! i can only go by my own feelings with regard to mr. reginald brace. and these are: well! he must like me dreadfully much to have proposed to me so soon again. he must adore me! i suppose i must be rather nice to look at, since he thinks i am "beautiful." it's very nice and kind of him to want to marry me at once; very gratifying. but why does he want to take me away from the society of a whole lot of amusing friends, because he thinks they are "not good enough" for me? is he so much better? is he? he may have a less cockney voice, and a less flamboyant style of good looks than miss vi vassity and her theatrical friends. but he can't have a kinder heart. nobody could. and he hasn't any quicker wits--that i've seen for myself. it was magnificent of him to come to the court and to go bail for miss million and me directly he heard that we were suspected of robbery. but, still----he must have known that we were innocent. miss million is a client of his, and he knows all about my people. i think a good deal of him for sticking to us. but i should have despised him if he hadn't. i like him. but, after all, when a girl says she'll marry a man, she means, or ought to mean, that he appeals to her more than any man she's ever met in her life. it means she's sure she never will meet a man she could like more. it means he's the type of looks she likes, the kind of voice she loves to listen to, all the mental and physical qualities that call, softly, to something in her, saying: "here! come to me. come! it may be to settle down for life in a tiny suburban villa with one bed of calceolarias in the back garden and the kitchen range continually out of sorts. it may be to a life of following the drum from one outpost of the empire to another. it may be to a country rectory, or to a ranch in canada--" i don't know what put the idea of a canadian ranch into my head. but lots of people do marry into them. "--or to a house in park lane, or to a bungalow in india. but wherever it is, wherever i am, that's home! come!" at least, ought one to feel like that, or oughtn't one? i don't know. life and love are very complicated and confusing matters--especially love. i told mr. brace so. this was just as we were rising from the luncheon-table. i said hurriedly: "i can't answer you. i really must have more time to think it over." his fair puritan's face fell at this, and he looked at me reproachfully. "more time?" he said discontentedly. "more time still?" "yes. i--i'm sure it's most important," i said earnestly. "everybody ought to have lots and lots of time to think it over before they dream of getting engaged. i'm sure that's the right thing." and then our party broke up, for miss vi vassity was going on to a theatrical garden fête to sell boxes of nougat with a signed photograph of herself on the lid, and mr. hiram p. jessop wanted to take his cousin out into the park for a long talk about his aerial bomb-dropper, he said, and mr. brace had to get back to the bank. miss million said i could go out for a breath of air if i wanted, but i had to return to miss million's rooms upstairs and to set things a little bit in order there, as well as packing up for our next flight to the "refuge." perhaps the honourable jim may call and tell me how he got on with my aunt anastasia? no! there has been no sign of him all the afternoon. it has gone quietly and slowly. my talkative friend, the telephone girl, threw me a smile and a glance only a little sharper than usual as i crossed the hall. the hurrying page-boys in brown, the porters look just the same as usual; the coming and going of the american visitors is the same. life here in the big hotel seems resumed for me exactly where it was broken off the day that miss million's disappearance coincided with the disappearance of the celebrated rattenheimer ruby. ugh!... except for my ineffaceable memories of last night and this morning in the police-court there's nothing to remind me that my mistress and i are still in that horrible and extraordinary situation, "out on bail." chapter xxxi million bucks up miss million has returned, her troubles for the moment forgotten; her small face rosy from the sunshine and the outdoor air; also as radiant as if no assizes loomed before us in a few weeks' time. "you'll be glad to hear, smith, that i've settled what to do about all that fuss and botheration about the money," she told me as i knelt beside her on the carpet, unfastening her grey suède shoes. "me and my cousin have fixed that up." "have you?" i said, delightedly glancing up at her, and pausing with one of her small but dumpy feet in my hand. "have you really settled it with mr. jessop? oh, i am so glad! i hope," here i gave an affectionate little squeeze to that grey, silk-sheathed foot, "i do hope you'll be very happy." "well, he will, that's pretty certain," said miss million in her most matter-of-fact tone of voice; "but whether i will is another matter. "all depends upon whether this here bomb-dropper turns out a good investment or a wild-goose chase. 'twouldn't surprise me a bit if it did that. still! he's been talking to me again about it this afternoon, explaining it all while we sat on two green wooden chairs under the trees on the grass, as grave as two judges. and i'm taking the chance." "i think you're so right!" i said enthusiastically. "i'm quite sure he's exactly the sort of husband for you----" "husbands?" echoed miss million, and gazed at me stonily. "who's talking of husbands?" "why----aren't you?" i exclaimed, utterly taken aback. "don't you mean----when you said you'd fixed it up with mr. jessop didn't you mean you'd said you'd marry him?" "ow! now!" ejaculated million in her cockniest voice, vigorously shaking her little dark head. "marry him? not much! when i said i'd fixed it up i meant i was going to 'come in' with the money to float this here invention of his. no going to lawr at all. i shall just pay him over so much. "we'll get old mr. chesterton to arrange about that, and let him do the best he can. we're goin' shares, and we're going to share profits in what he makes over the thing--if anything. he seems to me just like a boy we sor in kensington gardens when we was out; a boy with a model yacht, mad with joy over the machinery of it, and the what-not! "that's just like my cousin hiram. men are kids!" added miss million with a profound smile. i looked at her with surprise as i fetched her little indoor slippers. "and you're giving him the money to play with this yacht of his?" "yes. he talked me round to that," said my mistress. "but talk me round into marrying him into the bargain was a thing he couldn't do." "why not?" i ventured. "you like him. he's nice----" "yes. but marriage! not for me," said miss million, again shaking her dark head. "i've been thinking it well out, and that's what i've come to. i'm better single. i've plenty of money, even after i've paid hiram all he wants for the blessed machine--sounds like a sewing machine on the hire system, don't it? "as i am, i'm my own mistress," said our little ex-maid-servant exultantly. "go where i like, do what i like----" "except for being arrested and put into prison," i put in ruefully. "ow! that about the old ruby. hiram'll fix that yet, see if he don't," said miss million, in tones of pride--family pride, i suppose. "but, as i was saying, while i'm single i can go about as i choose, nobody saying a word to me. and nobody can twit me with being an old maid, neither, for when a lady's got money there's no such thing! so there's one reason gone why she should worry to get married. after all, what does a gel get married for, mostly?" i waited expectantly. "home of her own," went on miss million oracularly. "and i can get that any day of the week. two or three i can get. i've been looking at some o' these illustrated ad-verts in the papers. "and, smith, d'you know there's a place down in wales that u'd suit me down to the ground if i want a bit of a change, furnished and all. i always liked the idea of wales. i'll ask hiram's advice about that house." this reminded me of another young man who had once hoped to have his advice asked for on subjects of this nature by the little heiress before me. poor mr. burke, once hero-worshipped by this funny little dollar princess! i couldn't understand her. i had to remind her gently: "it isn't only a home of her own, surely, that a girl's thinking of when she gets married. i--i never thought you thought so, either, miss million. what about--what about being in love with the man?" hereupon my young mistress, sitting there on the corner of the pink hotel couch, proceeded to give me some (changed) views of her own on the subject of love. "it's all very well, but love is not what it's cracked up to be in those tales out of the celandine novelettes that i used ter be so fonder readin'," she said decidedly. "the fack is, i've had some. look how gone i was on that mr. burke. fair sloppin' over with love, as they call it." "miss million, dear, do try not to talk quite so--err--quite like that," i ventured mildly. but my mistress was no longer to be guided by what i thought suitable or unsuitable expressions to come from the mouth of a young lady of fortune. "hiram thinks i talk lovely, and what's good enough for him ought to be good enough for the rest of the people i'm likely to meet, so i'm not goin' to break my neck no more trying to talk like your aunt nasturtium," announced million defiantly. "i'm goin' to talk straight, the way it comes natchrul to me. now about this love. as i say, i been let down once with it. and once bit, twice shy. i'm not goin' to let myself get buzzed, as vi calls it, no second time. s'no use any more good-lookin' young gentlemanly men comin' round to try and get on the soft side of nellie million, and fillin' her up with a lot of tales of hoffmann jest because she happens to have a bit of her own. that was a shock to me, smith, that was. that about the honourable mr. burke being such a liar. it's a good job, in a way. because it's put me off love for life!" "i wonder," i said, standing there, and looking thoughtfully down at the well-dressed, sturdy little figure with the black hair that i can still see looking neat and glossy under a cap. "if it has done that, it may, as you say, be 'a good job.' but it might be--a great pity!" "ar, go on. don't you believe that, miss kid," returned my mistress with a funny little echo of england's premier comedienne in her voice. "love's all right for anybody that hasn't got anything else to hope for, and that's about as much as you can say for it. but what about yourself, smith?" here my mistress's bright grey eyes gave me a very straight glance. "what about our young mr. brace, him from the bank? i sor him in court, and it wasn't at me he was looking at all. then there was at lunch to-day. several times vi has passed the remark about him and you being very thick----" i repressed a wish to check this expression. after all, if "hiram" considers it lovely, and it comes "natchrul" to miss million, why should i worry any longer about her flowers of speech? she then put a "straight" question: "has that young gentleman bin makin' up to you?" i answered her in a "straight" manner: "yes. he has. he's asked me to marry him." "oh! good for you!" exclaimed my young mistress delightedly. "marry you, already? that would be a step up for you, wouldn't it, smith? from being my maid to being a bank manager's wife! something like, that is. i always liked him--always thought him a very nice, gentlemanly, superior sort of looking young feller. and so did you, miss beat--so did you, smith! in the old days at putney, with his garden-hose and all! (artful!) well! of course, it'll be a bit strange for me at first, having to have somebody fresh to do for me, after getting accustomed to you. but i've got my clothes now; and i'm sort of used to things. i shan't feel quite so lorst as i should at first. i shall be sorry to say good-bye to you, o' course. you and me have always hit it, smith, some'ow, whether when you was the maid--or i was," concluded my young mistress simply, looking up at me with genuine affection in her eyes. "and i shall always remember you, wherever you are, and i hope you'll come round and have a cup o' tea sometimes when you're mrs. brace, and i hope you'll accept that two quarters' salary from me now as a wedding present--not that i won't try and find you some sort of a little resermenter when it comes to the day! how soon 'ull him and you be getting married, do you suppose?" she was at the end of this long and kind-hearted speech before i could find breath to interrupt. i said hastily: "oh, but now you're making the same mistake that i did about you! i may not have to leave you at all, miss million. i don't know if i shall ever be 'mrs. brace.' i don't know if i've made up my mind to marry him--i told him i must think it over----" "better 'ook him while you can, dear. young men are fearful ones for chopping and changing, once you leave 'em to go off the coil, so ter speak," miss million advised me in a friendly, motherly little tone. "not too much of your thinkin' it over. you're suited; well, you tell him so!" i said nothing. i didn't know what to say. "or," pursued miss million, "if you reely think he's the sort to think more of you for 'keeping him guessing,' as hiram calls it, well, i tell you what. me and you'll go down to my country house----" "where?" i asked, astounded. i had forgotten miss million's new plan of campaign. "where will we go?" "why, to this plass or plarse, or whatever they call it, in wales, that i'm thinking of takin'," said miss million, rustling the glossy leaves of the _country life_ with the advertisement that had taken her fancy. "we'll go there, smith, and chance the ducks. if the perlice want us again----" she gave a little shiver. "well, they can come and fetch us from there, same as they did from the 'refuge.' any'ow, we'll have a bit of peace and quiet there first. i always did like the idear of scenery, and there's lots of that there. and we'll have down people to stay with us, so as to liven things up a bit," enlarged miss million, wetting her finger to turn over the pages of the magazine. "vi vassity we'll have; must have her, after her bein' so decent to us. a friend in need, that's what i call her. and mrs. flukes----" (this is the ventriloquist's wife.) "we'll have her," planned the future mistress of the country house. "give her a bit of a change, and get her strength up again after that baby. we'll take them down with us after we've been at the 'refuge' for a few days; and the nurse. and then we'll ask this mr. brace of yours to come down, smith, after a week or so. y'orter be able to give him word, one way or another, after all that time, didn't you?" "yes--i ought," i said. "well, there you are," said miss million complacently, getting up from the couch. "i'll dress for late dinner now. did you think to have me cerise ironed out a bit?" "no; and i'm afraid it's too crushed for you to wear," i said, with a great show of penitence. "i'm afraid i shall have to dress you in the cream, instead." she was ready dressed in the cream-coloured frock, with the little golden shoes; she was just going down to join her cousin in the big dining-room when she turned with a last word to put in on mr. brace's account. she said: "your auntie would be pleased about it now." i said: "i don't suppose i shall hear anything more about what my aunt would like me to do." i was wrong. for by this morning's post there has arrived a note from my aunt at putney. not for me. for my mistress! the note is short enough. it is signed only "anastasia lovelace," and all it says is: "enclosed find notes to the amount of thirty pounds, being the sum advanced by you as salary to miss beatrice lovelace. she will now return to putney, bringing your receipt." "will," again. will she? and the notes! both miss million and i have been gazing in amazement upon the rustling sheaf that my mistress took out of the registered envelope. where, in the name of all that's unaccountable, did aunt anastasia "raise" all that money, and in such a short time? when could she ever have put her hands upon thirty pounds of english money? borrowed--pooh! who has she to borrow from? beg--so like her! steal--i'm the only member of her family who's ever been accused of that! surely--oh, surely, she can't have got the money from the honourable jim? i can't think how else she can have got it, though. there's only one thing i know. i'm not going back to be aunt anastasia's niece any more! i'm going on being miss million's maid; i shall go to this new place in wales with her! chapter xxxii wales forever! well, here we are again, as the clown says in the harlequinade. once more the lives of miss million and her maid have been set amidst scenes until now quite unfamiliar to us. after the noise and bustle of the strand about the hotel in july, the quiet, leafy depths of a remote welsh valley. after the glaring london sunshine on the baked pavements, the soft welsh rain that has been weeping ever since our arrival over the wooded hills and the tiny, stone-fenced fields, and the river that prattles over its slaty bed and swirls into deep, clear pools a stone's-throw below this furnished country house that miss million has taken for three months. at present the house party consists of miss million, miss vi vassity, mrs. flukes, the ventriloquist's wife, her baby and her monthly nurse. mr. jessop, who wrote all the business letters with regard to the taking of the house, is to come down later, i believe. so is mr. reginald brace. in the meantime we have the place to ourselves, also the staff left behind by the people of the house, consisting of one fat cook, two housemaids who speak soft welsh-english, and a knives and boots boy who appears to say nothing at all but "ur?" meaning "i beg your pardon?" i, the lady's-maid, have meals with the staff in the big, slate-floored kitchen. this i insisted upon, just as i insisted upon travelling third-class down from euston, while my young mistress "went first." "we've simply got to behave more like real mistress and maid, now that you've taken a country house for the summer," i told her. "this isn't the 'refuge'----" "it's nowhere so lively, if you ask me," said miss million, looking disconsolately out of the dining-room window. "look at that view!" the "view" shows a rain-soaked lawn, stretching down to a tall rhododendron hedge, also dripping with rain. beneath the hedge is spread a dank carpet of fallen pink blooms. beyond the hedge is a brook that was once a lane, leading down to a river that was once a brook. beyond this come a flooded field and the highroad that is a network of puddles. in the distance there rises like a screen against the sky a tall hill, wooded almost to the top, and set half-way up this hill we can descry, faintly through the driving rain, a long white house, with gables and a veranda overgrown with red roses. and above all is a strip of grey sky, from which the white rain falls noiselessly, ceaselessly. "here's a place!" says miss million disgustedly. "unless something happens to make it a bit different, i shan't stay no three months, nor three weeks. it fair gives me the pip, and i wish i was back in good old london!" "cheer up. the rain may leave off one of these days," i say, "or some of the people of the neighbourhood may come to call." this afternoon both my prognostications were fulfilled. the rain did leave off, and the valley in which this house is set became a green and smiling paradise, scented with the fragrance of wet pine trees, and of sweet peas and honeysuckle, and suddenly pregnant with that other flavour which is new to me--part scent, part sight, part sound. "the flavour of wales"--some quality quite indescribable; some wild native atmosphere richer, sadder, sweeter, more "original" than any that i had breathed in those flat, smiling garden plots that are described as "rural england." no wonder i've always heard that welsh people who have left their country suffer at times from such poignant longings, such "hiræth" or home-sickness as is unknown to the colonising, conquering saxon! even miss million and miss vi vassity are more inclined to approve of the scenery now! and this afternoon "the neighbourhood" called on the new tenant of this place. "the neighbourhood" seems to comprise any other house within an afternoon's walk, or even motor-drive. i heard the car drive up, from my attic bedroom, and i flew down to the front door. for cook was baking, and both of what she calls "them girls" had taken their departure. it was the legitimate afternoon out of maggie-mary, the first housemaid. and blodwen, the other, had asked special permission to attend a funeral in the next valley. i had said i would be housemaid in her place, so she had sallied forth, all new black and gratified grins. i found myself opening the door to three heterogeneous parties of people at once, and ushering them into the faded, pretty, pot-pourri-scented drawing-room. it was empty. my mistress and her guests had suddenly fled! they--miss million, vi vassity, and mrs. flukes--had betaken themselves into the bedroom that has been given over to the baby's nursery, and were sitting over the fire there gossiping with the young, mauve-clad monthly nurse. "must i go down? oh, what a nuisance; now i'll have to change," began my mistress, but i was firm. "you'll go down in your garden tweeds and your brown boots as you are," i said, "so as not to keep the people waiting." "what style of people are they? what do they look like, dear?" put in vi vassity eagerly. she has been strangling yawns all the morning, and i am sure she was only too delighted at the idea of seeing a fresh face. "any nice boys with them?" "no. no men at all----" "never are, in the country. yet people wonder nobody takes any notice of being told to get back to the land!" said london's love, rising to her tiny kid-shod feet, and refastening a suspender through the slit in her skirt. "what are the women like? country rectory?" "yes, one lot were," i reported. "the others that came in the motor wore sort of very french hats and feather boas, and look as if they never walked." "charity matinée," commented england's premier comedienne, bustling to the door. "it's a shame not to dress for 'em. i shan't be long, nellie. you and ag go down first." "how can i go down to the company until i've given my little basil his four o'clock feed?" protested the ventriloquist's wife. she held out her arms for the long white bundle of shawls that olive, the young nurse, lifted from the cradle set on two chairs in the corner of the room. "nellie'll have to make her entrance alone." and she did. the confidence in herself that was first inspired by the honourable jim has been greatly fostered by mr. hiram p. jessop. so i was not afraid that miss million would be really overpoweringly shy, even on entering a drawing-room full of strange callers. i left her at the drawing-room door, and was hastening kitchenwards again to bring out the tea when the front-door bell rang once more. i opened it to two very tall girls in burberry mackintoshes. they were both young; one had a long black plait down her back. both of them wore the same expression of suppressed and gleeful, giggling excitement as i told them that miss million was at home. "then, now for it!" breathed the flapper with the plait, in a gale of a whisper, as i took her mackintosh. both girls were in blue serge underneath, of a cut more chastened than their arrogantly young voices. "i wonder what on earth she's going to be like!" "alice! do shut up!" muttered the elder girl angrily. then, turning to me: "are there crowds of other people here already?" "yes, miss," i answered demurely. but i felt a sudden warm sympathy with the two young things in the hall. we had, i suspected, the same kind of voice, the same carriage of the head, we had had the same sort of clothes. we'd been "raised," as mr. jessop puts it, with much the same outlook. we had a class in common, the class of the nouveaux-pauvres! our eyes flashed understanding as they met. then the younger girl exclaimed: "wait a minute. i _must_ finish laughing before we go in!" and she stood for a full minute, quivering and swaying and rocking with perfectly silent mirth. then she pulled herself together and said gravely: "right. i've finished now. say the miss owens, please." i rather wanted to have a good silent laugh to myself as i solemnly announced the two girls. they came, i afterwards gleaned, from the long white house that faces us across the valley. who the other people were who were filling the chintz-covered couch and easy-chairs in the drawing-room i didn't gather. i haven't "disentangled" the different hats and faces and voices and costumes; i suppose i shall do so in due course, and shall be able to give a clear description of each one of these callers "from the neighbourhood" upon miss million. i knew she would be an object of curiosity to any neighbourhood to which she came! and i wonder how many of these people know that she is one of the heroines of the rattenheimer ruby case, that hangs over our heads like a veritable sword of damocles the whole time! but to get on to the principal excitement of the afternoon--the utterly unlooked-for surprise that awaited me in the kitchen! the typically welsh kitchen in this newly acquired place of miss million's is to me the nicest room in the house. i love its spaciousness and its slate floor, and the ponderous oak beams that bisect its smoke-blackened ceiling and are hung with bunches of dried herbs and with hams. i love its dresser, full of willow-pattern china, and its two big china dogs that face each other on the high mantelpiece. the row of bright brass candlesticks appeals to me, and the grandfather's clock, with the sun, moon, and stars on its face, and the smooth-scrubbed white deal kitchen-table pitted with tiny worm-holes, and the plants in the window, and everything about it. miss million declares she never saw such a kitchen "in all her puff." putney was inconvenient enough, the dear knows, but the putney kitchen was a joke to this one, where the kitchen range you can only describe "as a fair scandal," and nothing else! if she means to take the landlord's offer, later on, and to take this place as it stands, she's going to have everything pretty different. i should be sorry if she did; i like the place to be an utter anachronism in our utilitarian twentieth century, just as it is. i don't mind the honeycomb of draughts. i can put up with the soft, cave-like gloom of it---- it was this gloom that prevented me from seeing, at first, that there was anybody in the kitchen but cook, who was busily beating up batter for light cakes in a big, yellow, white-lined bowl. "is the tea made?" i said. it was not; the silver teapot, with the tea in it, was being heated on the hob. i moved to take up the singing kettle. it was then that a tall man's form that had been sitting on a settle on the other side of the fire rose and came towards me. the red glow of the fire through the bars shone on the silver buttons and on the laurel-green cloth and on the high boots of a chauffeur's livery. of course! this was the man who had driven over the people who had come in the car. but above the livery a voice spoke, a voice that i knew, a voice that i could hardly believe was speaking to me here. "allow me," said this softly inflected irish voice. and the kettle was gently but firmly taken out of my hand by the hand of--the honourable james burke. i gave such a start of surprise that it is a mercy i did not jolt against that kettle and send a stream of scalding hot water over the laurel-green-cloth-clad knees of the man before me. and i said exactly what people always say in meloramas when they are surprised at meeting anybody--thus showing that melodrama is not always so utterly unlike real life. i cried "you!" "myself," announced the honourable jim, smiling down at me as he deftly took the silver teapot from me and filled first that and then the hot-water jug on the tray that was already laid on the big table. "and what is all this emotion at the sight of me? is it too much to hope that it's pleasure? or is it just amazement?" "i--i certainly never expected to s-see you," i spoke falteringly in my great surprise, "or--or like this!" i glanced at the gleam of the livery buttons. "may i ask what in the world you are doing in those clothes?" "is it my livery you mean? don't you think it's rather neat?" suggested the honourable jim ingratiatingly. "don't you consider that it suits me almost as well as the black gown and the apron and the doaty little cap suit miss million's maid?" "but----" i gasped in amazement. "but why are you wearing a chauffeur's livery?" "isn't the reason obvious? because i've taken a chauffeur's job." "you, mr. burke?" "yes, i, miss lovelace!" he laughed. "is there any reason you have to give against that, as you have against every other mortal thing that the unfortunate jim burke does?" "i----look here, i can't wait here talking," i told him, for just at this minute i caught the surprised glance of cook upon us both. the spoon with which she beat up the batter was poised in mid-air as she listened to everything that this superior-looking lady's-maid and still more superior-looking chauffeur had to say to each other. "i must take the tea into the drawing-room." he opened the kitchen door for me as i hastened away with the tray. gentleman-adventurer, bronco-buster, stoker, young gentleman of leisure, chauffeur! what next will be the rôle that the honourable and extraordinary jim will take it into his head to play? chauffeur, of all things! why chauffeur? my head was still buzzing with the surprise of it all, when i heard the other buzz--the shrill, insistent, worrying buzz that is made by women's voices when a lot of them are gathered together in a strange house, and are all talking at once; "made" talk, small talk, weather talk, the talk that is--as miss vassity, for instance, would put it--"enough to drive any one to drink." in the drawing-room where these callers were grouped i just caught a scrap here and a scrap there as i moved about with the tea-things. this sort of thing: "and what do you think of this part of the country, miss million? are you intending to make a long stay----" "she seemed such a nice girl! came to me with such a good character from her----" "never touch it. it doesn't suit me. in coffee i like just a very little, and my daughter's the same. but my husband"--(impressively)--"my husband is just the reverse. he won't touch it in coff----" --"hope you intend to patronise our little sale of work, miss million, on the twenty-sixth? oh, you must all come. and i'm still asking everybody for contributions to my----" "do shut up, alice!" (fierce whisper from the young girl in navy-blue). "now we've got this new chauffeur we may hope for a little peace!" this languidly, from the lady in the uncountrified-looking hat. she, i suppose, is the honourable jim's employer. "quite an efficient man, as far as one can judge, but----" "quite right, quite right. far too many trees about the place. i like a good view. plenty of space around a house.... of course, you've only ten bedrooms here, miss million; ah, eleven? quite right. but at home.... of course, i had a most lovely home in the----" wearisome gabble! i thought. i caught an ineffable grimace on miss million's small, shrewd face behind the silver teapot. i bent down to add hot water to it. under cover of my ministrations she murmured: "you see, i don't have to bust myself talkin' polite to this lot; nothing'll stop 'em. i say! does that cook know enough to give a nice cup o' tea to the shaveer of her that came in the car, smith?" "i think the chauffeur knows enough to get one!" i murmured dryly. "or anything else he----" here i found i was the only person in the room who was talking. a suddenly deathly silence had fallen upon the roomful of talking women, who all knew each other, even if they had never met their little hostess before. something had "stopped 'em." the chatter and buzz of small talk left off with a click. and that quite definite "click" was the opening of the drawing-room door upon an apparition such as none of them, i am certain, had ever seen in a drawing-room before. its brightly fair hair seemed to have "sprouted" not so much a hat as a grotesque halo of black, long, feathery wisps that surrounded a face with black eyes and a complexion "made-up" to be dazzlingly pink. its transparent corsage gave glimpses of fair and sumptuous shoulders and of much lingerie ribbon. the frock was layer upon layer of folded ninon in different yellows, shading down from bright lemon yellows through chrome yellow and mustard colour to a kind of marigold tint at the hem, under which appeared scarlet silk stockings and tall, gilt boots with heels so high that the wearer was practically walking on her toes, à la genée, as she made her startling entrance. it was, of course, miss vi vassity, in one of her most successful stage get-ups; the frock in which she sings her topical song-- "they've been there a long time now!" with the usual verses about courting couples, and the gorgonzola, and the present government. and she beamed round upon this gathering of natives of a quiet country neighbourhood with the same dazzling, prominent-toothed smile as she flashes from her friends in the front row of the stalls to her equally devoted gallery boys. "no need for introductions, eh?" uttered london's love, lightly, to the petrified-looking assembly. i felt that i would have sacrificed another quarter's salary rather than have missed the look on the face of the acidulated lady who came in the car as miss vi vassity perched herself lightly on the arm of the couch where she was sitting, and called to nellie for the love of anything to give her a nice cup of tea. "does one good to see a few faces around me once again!" prattled on the artiste, while the two girls from the other side of the valley leant forward and devoured every detail of her appearance with gluttonous brown eyes. pure ecstasy was painted all over the plain ironic face of the tall girl with the thick black plait. i saw from the look of the hussy that she was "taking in" everything to reproduce it at home, in that white house on the hill. and presently there was plenty to reproduce. for one of the rectoryish-looking party plucked up courage to ask miss vassity "what she thought of this place." that opened the floodgates! perched on the arm of the couch, england's premier comedienne proceeded to "hold the house" with her views on this mansion and its furniture. "not what i'd call a lively spot; still, there's always the pheasant and her little 'uns walking about on the lawn at three g.m., if you're fond of geology, and the rabbit on the tennis-court at eight o'clock sharp. that's about all the outdoor entertainment in this place," she rattled on. "indoors, of course, is a fair museum of curiosities. continuous performance, eh, nellie? the oil-lamps everywhere, with the collection of midges on all the bowls; those are very fine. "couldn't beat those at the tower of london! and the back kitchen, with the water from the stand-pipe outside overflowing into the middle of the floor. talk about glimpses into the middle ages! "what takes my fancy is the girls clinkin' to and from the scullery in those pattens they wear. makes the floor look like nothing on earth but a bar-counter where glasses have been set down, doesn't it?"--this to the rector's wife. "and the paint, too. and the wall-papers. oo-er! and all the window-cords broken," enlarged the beaming apparition in all-yellow, whose personality invaded the room like a burst of brilliant sunshine through a thunder-cloud. "not to mention all the doors having to be propped open! no complete set of china anywhere. wedges bitten out of every--er--blessed egg-cup! pick up a bit of real dresden, and the seccotined piece comes off in your hand. "as for the furniture, well, half of it looks as if it had bin used for harry tate to play about with in a screaming new absurdity, entitled 'moving,' or 'spring-cleaning,' or something like----" here the acidulated voice of the lady who'd come in the motor broke in with some very rebukeful remark. something to the effect that she had always considered everything so delightful that the dear price-vaughans had in the house---- "pr'aps the dear what-price-vaughans," retorted the comedienne, "can get along with their delightful style of bathroom?" "oh, do tell us," implored the girl with the black plait, "what's the matter with that?" "the bath, kiddy? absolutely imposs!" decreed london's love. "water comes in at the rate of a south-eastern dead-stop. turn one tap on and you turn the other off. not to speak of there only being one bath, and that five sizes too small, dear. the not-at-any-price-vaughans must be greyhound built for slimness, if you ask me. it don't seem to fit our shrinking violet, as you can imagine. why, look at her!" quite an unnecessary request, as the fascinated, horrified eyes of the whole party had not yet left her sumptuous and bedizened person. "call it a bath?" she concluded, with her largest and most unabashedly vulgar wink. "i'd call it a----" we weren't privileged to hear what she could call it, for at this moment the lady with the very towny hat rose with remarkable suddenness, and asked in a concise and carrying voice that her man might be told to bring round miss davis's car. i slipped out to the kitchen and to miss davis's man, who, as i expected, had finished an excellent tea and the subjugation of cook at the same time. "your mistress would like the car round at once, please," i said, with a frantic effort not to smile as i caught the mischievous, black-framed, blue eyes of the honourable jim burke. he rose. "good afternoon, ma'am, and thank you for one of the most splendid teas i've ever had in my life," he said in that flattering voice of his to cook, as she bustled out, beaming upon him as she went into the scullery. "good afternoon, miss smith"--to me. "you've never shaken hands with me yet. but i suppose this is scarcely the moment to remind you, when i've taken on a job several pegs below what i was when i saw you last----" of course, at that i had to give him my hand. i said: "but why are you miss davis's chauffeur?" "because i couldn't get a job with miss million," he told me simply. "she hasn't got a car of her own yet. not that she'd have me, in any case--a man she'd found out deceiving her about her own relatives!" "but why 'the job,' anyhow?" "i must earn my living--honestly if possible," said the honourable jim with his wickedest twinkle. "also i'd made up my mind a little change of air in wales would do me good just now, and i'd no friends who happened to be coming to these parts. it was these parts i'd set my heart on. "the mountain scenery! can you beat it? and when i saw the advertisement of that old trout upstairs there--i mean that elegant maiden lady with private means and a nice house and a car of her own--i jumped at answering it. the country round about is so romantic. that drew me, miss lovelace.... well, i suppose i must be tooting her home." he turned to the back entrance. then he turned to me once more and launched his most audacious bit of nonsense yet. he said, softly laughing: "ah! you know well enough why i'm here. it's to be near you, child." what a good thing it is that i know exactly how to take this laughing, blarneying, incorrigible irishman! what a blessing that i am not as poor little miss million was, who was utterly taken in by any blatantly insincere compliment that this young--well, i can say no worse than "this young celt" chose to toss off! so i just said lightly, "too flattered!" and hurried away to hand the callers their wraps and umbrellas in the hall. i'm glad i was in time to witness another rather priceless scene. namely, the entrance of miss vi vassity into the hall with the other ladies, and her recognition of the big young man in the laurel-green livery, with the handsome face so stolidly set under the peaked chauffeur's cap. "jim!" exclaimed the comedienne, in a piercing treble. "well, whatever next? if it isn't my pal jim burke!" "just the sort of person one would expect her to have for a 'pal,' as she calls it," came in a not-too-soft aside from the owner of the car, then, haughtily, "home, burke." "yes, miss," said the new chauffeur, as respectfully as i could have said it myself, and he touched his peaked cap to his mistress with a kind of side-effect of "cheery o, vi," to the brilliant figure standing gasping with astonishment upon the top step. chapter xxxiii miss million has an idea! "whatever in the wide world is young jim up to now!" exclaimed london's love, when at last the heavy hall door was closed upon the motoring ladies, the rectory party, and the two girls from across the valley. miss million's face was rather more serious than usual. "'ere! i have an idea about that, vi," she said. "and you, smith, listen. it's just occurred to me." she glanced about the darkened hall with the stags' heads and the suit of armour. "you know i shall never be able to trust that mr. burke again. he let me down. now what if he's lettin' all of us down? "f'rinstance, a young man like that, with heaps of friends with plenty of money, and always able to do as he likes up to now, what's he mean by suddenly taking on a situation as a common shoveer?" "ar!" responded england's premier comedienne, who has often made the stalls rock with laughter over the concentrated meaning which she can infuse into that one monosyllable long-drawn-out. "ar!" she turned upon me the wink that delights the gallery, then said dryly: "what's _your_ idea, nellie?" "why, i believe he's no more nor less than a common robber and burglar! a sort of raffles, like in that play," declared miss million in a soft, excited whisper. "'twouldn't surprise me a bit if he'd disguised himself like that, and gone into service with that frosty-face, stuck-up miss davis that was calling just because he wanted to get his footing in a wealthy house where there was heaps of valuables, and cetrer. "here's this miss davis got more than a bit of her own, evident! and did you notice the string o' pearls? she'll have more of those sort of things at home, i bet you," said million, adding with impressive hoarseness, "i believe that's what he's after. jewels!!" "what? jim?" miss vi vassity gave a slow, enjoying laugh. "him? likerly!" "ah, he's got round you, vi. i believe you've got a soft corner for him in your heart still, however much of a rotter the man is, but i'm off, dead off. "more than that, it wouldn't surprise me," continued my mistress, still in her impressive tone, "if i'm not far off guessing who took the rattenheimer ruby that me and smith's in this fix about!" "ah, go on!" said miss vi vassity, striking a match for her cigarette against the minnow-shaped sole of her gilt boot. "are you goin' to go and believe that my pal jim sneaked that and then saw you and her in trouble for it? do you believe that, smithie?" "i don't," i said, without hesitation. miss million said defiantly: "think it over! think it over! he was always in and out of the hotel, was that mr. burke. he was hobnobbing with the rattenheimers and one and another all day long. "and he wanted the money. we've proof of that! and he's none too particular about how he gets it! why, you yourself, vi. you know he owes you pounds and pounds and pounds at this minute that he's 'borrowed,' and goodness knows how he intends to pay you back! "you know he's got the cheek of the old gentleman himself! and," concluded my young mistress, with a look of shrewdness on her face that i imagine must have been inherited from the late mr. samuel million, "if he isn't the one who stole the ruby, who is?" a violent ring at the hall-door bell made the finish to this peroration. i opened the door to a small, freckle-faced telegraph boy. "for miss smith," he said in the pretty, up-and-down welsh accent that is such a rest after cockney. i took the wire. i wondered if it was aunt anastasia again. it wasn't. it was something very much more exciting. the wire was signed "reginald brace," and it said: "i am coming down by the nine o'clock train to-night. jewel mystery cleared up." oh, how can it have been cleared up? what is the solution of the mystery? to think that at least four and a half hours must elapse before we know! really, i do think mr. reginald brace might have had pity on our burning curiosity and anxiety! i do think he might have given some hint, in this wire of his, as to who did really steal that wretched ruby! "well, s'long as it's all cleared up that it wasn't us that done it, that ought to be comfort enough to us," said my mistress philosophically, as i was fastening her into the blush-pink tea-gown for dinner. we've put dinner on an hour late since our visitor is coming down so late. "though, mark my words, smith," she continued, "it wouldn't surprise me one bit if that young gentleman of yours from the bank brought down that mute-of-a-funeral from scotland yard to tell miss davis's new shoveer that _he_ was wanted by the police this time!" "we'll see," i said, smiling. for the honourable jim's faults may be as thick and as black as the hairs of the honourable jim's head. but of this other thing i feel he could not be capable. "it used to be me that thought you was too hard on that mr. burke, smith. now here you are turning round and won't hear a word against the man," said my mistress, half laughing. "you're as pigheaded as vi about it! and, talking about vi, here's this packet of golden hairpins she's left in here; she was lookin' all over for them this afternoon. better take them in to her now." it was on this errand that i entered the spare room that has been assigned to london's love. she was sitting in a cerulean-blue dressing-jacket in front of the looking-glass, drawing a tiny brush, charged with lamp-black, across her eyelashes, and using "language," as she calls it, over the absence of electric lights by which to dress. "i shall look a perfect sketch at dinner, see if i don't. not that it matters a twopenny dash, me not being the bill-topper in any sense in this revue," said england's premier comedienne cheerily. "it's the pretty little lady's-maid's charming scena with the young bank manager. tell me, smithie----" here she turned abruptly round and looked at me sharply. "been thinking over his proposal, have you? going to take him, are you?" "i--er----" "i--er--shouldn't if i was you!" "you wouldn't?" i said interestedly. "why not?" london's love put down the make-up brush and scanned her own appearance in the glass. then she got up as if to fetch a frock out of the wardrobe. but she paused, put a small, highly manicured but capable-looking hand on each of my shoulders, and said, holding me so: "you don't like him, kiddy." "oh! but i do! so much!" i protested. "i think mr. brace is everything nice ... i think he would make such a splendid husband! he's so steady, and honourable, and sterling, and straight, and kind, and simple-minded, and reliable, and----" "ah! poppycock!" cried the comedienne, with her loud, indulgent laugh. "you're just stringing off a list of aggravating things that a girl might put up with in a man if--if, mind you!--she was head over ears in love with him as well. but, great pip! fancy marrying a man for those things! "why, what d'you suppose it would be like? i ought to know," she answered herself before i, rather surprised, could say anything. "one of those 'sterling' young men that never gave his mother an hour's anxiety; one of those reliable, simple-minded fellers that you always knew what he was goin' to say an' do next; always came home to tea on the dot, and 'never cared to wander from his own fireside'--that's what i was talked into marryin' by my aunts when i was a kid of eighteen," said miss vi vassity quite bitterly. "oh, were you?" i cried, astonished. "i never knew----" "yes, that was my first husband. answered to the name of bert--albert. very good position in the waterworks in our town at home," said london's love. "a real good husband he was. lor', how he did used to aggravate me! it's a good many years ago, smithie, and i've almost forgotten what he looked like. i can just call to mind the way he used to snuffle when he had a cold in the head; shocking colds he used to catch, but he would always get up and light the kitchen fire to get me an early cup o' tea, no matter what the weather was. that i will say for him. the man i remember, though--he was pretty different!" there was a silence in the countrified-looking bedroom that the music-hall artiste had filled with the atmosphere of a theatrical dressing-room. then england's premier comedienne went on in a softer, more diffident voice than i had ever heard from her. "he was the young man that jilted vi vassity a good deal later on. a trick cyclist he was.... small, but beautifully built fellow, supple as a cat. bad-tempered as a cat, too! and shifty, and mean in little ways! a cruel little devil, too, but----" she sighed. "i fair doted on him!" concluded the star simply. "much i cared what sort of a rotter he was! it's the way a woman's got to feel about a man once in a lifetime. if she doesn't, she's been done out of the best that's going." "but," i suggested, "she misses a good deal of pain?" "yes, and of everything else. nothing else is worth it, smithie. you can't understand what it was to me just the way his hair grew," said the comedienne who'd loved the trick cyclist. "cropped close, of course, and black. looked as if a handful of soot had been rubbed over his head. but soft as velvet to your lips. i used to tell him that. never a one for talking much himself. he'd a trick of speaking almost as if he grudged you the words; curious, and shy, and my word! wasn't it fascinatin'? then he'd give a little laugh in the middle of a sentence sometimes. that used to go to my heart, straight as a pebble into a pool. yes, and it'd stay there, with the ripple stirring above it. anybody would have loved his voice.... "but! bless my soul alive!" she broke off into her loud, jovial, everyday tone again. "about time i left off maunderin' about when--other--lips, and threw some glad-rags on to me natural history! i'll wear the marmalade-coloured affair with the dangles.... well! 'marry the man you fancy,' as it says in the song, and don't let me go puttin' you off any of 'em, miss smith----" but whether the star did "put me off" by her reminiscences of her trick cyclist with the charming, reluctant voice, or whether it is that i've slowly been coming round to the conclusion subconsciously in my own mind, i find that, however estimable he may be, i shall never be able to marry mr. reginald brace. no! not if i have to go on being miss million's or somebody else's lady's-maid until i'm old and grey. i somehow realised that with the first moment that i opened the door to the tall, mackintoshed figure--it was raining again, of course, outside--miss million, very pretty and flushed and eager in her rose-pink tea-gown, followed close upon my heels as i let mr. brace in, and behind her came miss vi vassity, sumptuous in the orange satin that she calls "the marmalade-coloured affair." and all three of us, without even bidding the young bank manager "good evening," chorused together: "tell us, for goodness' sake, tell us at once! who did steal the rattenheimer ruby?" "nobody!" replied mr. reginald brace, in his pleasant but rather precise voice, and with his steady grey eyes fixed on me as i, in my inevitable cap and apron, waited to take his coat. we all gasped "nobody? what----why----" "the rattenheimer ruby has not been stolen at all," replied mr. reginald brace, smiling encouragingly upon us. and then, while we all gaped and gazed upon him, and kept the poor wretched man waiting for his dinner, he went on to tell us the full history of the celebrated ruby. it appears that an exquisite paste copy has been made of the priceless pendant, which the german-jewish owners have kept by them to delude possible jewel thieves. and now it is they themselves who have been deluded by the same wonderful replica of the celebrated gem! for mrs. rattenheimer, it appears, imagined that it was the replica that reposed in her jewel-case, from which the original was missing after that fatal ten minutes of carelessness during which she left that jewel-case and her bedroom door at the cecil unlocked. but upon sending that replica to the experts to supplement the description of the missing ruby, she was told that an absurd mistake had been made. this, the supposed "copy," was none other than the celebrated ruby itself! "and she didn't know her own property?" vi vassity's loud, cheerful voice resounded through the hall. "why, the old girl will be the laughing-stock of london!" "yes. i think mrs. rattenheimer realises that herself," said mr. reginald brace. "that is why she and her husband now intend to hush the matter up as much as possible; they do not mean to prosecute inquiries as to who took the replica." "don't they think we done that, then?" asked miss million loudly. "they are dropping all inquiries," said mr. brace. "then i've a good mind to sue 'em for libel for the inquiries they made already," said million heatedly. "i shall consult my----" here there was another ring at the bell. "talk of angels!" exclaimed my young mistress, as i opened the door to a second masculine figure in a dripping rain-coat, "why here he is, just the very person i was going to pass the remark about! it's my cousin hiram!" and it was that young american who strode into the feeble light of the oil-lamps in the hall. "i guess i must have been just a few yards behind you before i took the wrong turning to these antediluvian river-courses that they call roads," said mr. hiram p. jessop to mr. brace, while he held million's little hand with great tenderness. "good evening, cousin nellie and everybody. if i may shed this damp macintaw, i've a few pieces of startling news----" "for the sake of lloyd george himself, come into the dinin'-room and let's have 'em while we're feeding," suggested miss vassity. she grabbed an arm of each young man, and ran them into the room to the right that always smells of country churches. "part of the news concerns miss smith," added mr. jessop, over the upholstery of his shoulder. "then in the name of the insurance act let's all sit down together and hear it. not so much nonsense about 'the maid.' we'll pretend we're at the 'refuge,' and stretch for ourselves," decreed vi vassity, positively pushing me, in my cap and apron, down into the dining-room chair next to mr. reginald brace in his correct tweeds. "now! one mouthful of tomato soup, and out with it--the news, i mean." "to begin with, i guess they've found the jewel thief," announced mr. hiram p. jessop. "that is, she's owned up. so real disgusted, i guess, to find she hadn't secured the genu-ine ruby. "i've come straight on from rats himself, who gave me the whole story. she brought round the other one with her own hands, and said she'd taken it for a bet. she always was eccentric. "well, i calculate you've got to believe a lady of title," concluded the young american between two spoonfuls of soup. "if you can't rely upon your old aristocracy to tell the truth in this country, who can you rely on?" "better ask the honourable jim!" laughed miss vi vassity. "and now tell us who's the lady." "another acquaintance of yours, miss vassity," announced mr. jessop, giving the title with an air. "lady haye-golightly!" another little buzz of comment greeted the name of the lady whom i had always called "the cobra-woman." and then mr. jessop turned from this surprising theme to something that seemed nearer still to his heart. "well, and, cousin nellie, here's a bit of good news. i guess that bomb-dropper of mine is a cinch. your authorities over here are taking it up all right. they're going to use it all right!" "oh, are they, hiram?" said my young mistress in the indulgent tone of a grown-up person discussing its toys with some child. she always adopts this tone towards her cousin's invention. "and what do they think they're goin' to use it for, eh?" the young american looked round the table at each of the faces turned towards him. then, in a detached tone, he made the announcement of that which was to make all the difference in the world to all of us. "i guess they'll use it--in this coming war!" well, of course we'd seen "rumours of wars" in the day-old papers that had reached us in our wet welsh valley. but a houseful of women recks little of newspaper news--or did reck little. it all seemed as far away, as little to do with us as, say, the report of some railway accident in northern china! now the young inventor's simple words brought it home to us! chapter xxxiv the fortunes of war war--european war was at our very doors, and it seemed more than likely that england was going to join in, mr. jessop said. he went on, quite quietly, to inform us that it would find him ready, he guessed. he'd sent in his application early to the royal flying corps, and he guessed that next time we saw him he'd be an army aviator all right, in training for using his own bomb-dropper---- here his young cousin dropped her soup-spoon with a clatter. "what?" cried miss million sharply. "you? if there is any war, shall you start fighting the germans?" "i should say so!" smiled mr. hiram p. jessop. "why, yes!" "but you're american! why ever on earth should you fight?" demanded miss million rather shrilly. "nothing to do with you! you aren't english; you aren't belgium! you belong to a--what's it?--a neutral nation!" "i guess i'm not going to let that stand in my way any," said mr. hiram p. jessop, "if there's a chance of getting in at those hounds!" and i saw a curious change come over my mistress's small, bonny face as she regarded this man who--under no obligation to fight--felt he could not merely look on at a struggle between right and might. it was not the sentimental, girlish adoration that she had turned upon her first fancy, the honourable jim. it was the look of a real woman upon the man who pleases her. this was not the only quick change which the war made. for instance, who would have thought that those german jews, the rattenheimers, would ever have had to be interned in a camp in the middle of england, away from all their friends and all their jewel-collecting pursuits? and who would have thought that mr. hiram p. jessop--i beg his pardon! i mean flight-lieutenant h. p. jessop, of the royal flying corps, was responsible for the prompt and uncompromising manner in which that alien couple were "dropped upon" by the authorities. well! i should like to hope that their imprisonment was at least half as uncomfortable as that night which my mistress and i passed--thanks to them--at vine street police-station! but no, i suppose that's too much to expect. then there's the change that has been brought about by the war in my young mistress herself. at a time when all uniform is glorious, she herself has gone back to uniform, to her old, cast-aside livery of the print frock, the small white cap, the apron of domestic service! i gasped when i first heard what she intended to take up, namely, the position of "ward-maid" in a big london house that has been turned into a hospital for wounded officers. "i must do something for them," she told me. "i feel i must!" "well, but why this particular thing?" i demurred. "if you wanted to you could take up nursing----" "nursin', nothing!" she retorted, in an idiom which she had borrowed from the flight-lieutenant. "to begin with, i've no gift that way. i know i haven't; a girl can feel that in her bones. secondly, i ain't no training for it. i'm not one of these that imagine because it goes to their heart to see a pore fellow with a bandage round his head, well, they're a born nurse!" "with your money," i told her, "you could provide that hospital with any number of indoor maids to do the work!" "yes. and how'd they do it? not as i should," maintained the soldier's-orphanage-trained girl very proudly. "i know the ways o' some o' these townified maids; haven't i watched 'em all down laburnum grove? i'm going to make my 'bit' another way!" from morn until dewy eve the girl who was once miss million, the heiress, works harder than ever she worked when she was my aunt anastasia's maid-of-all-work. thursday is her afternoon off; thursday sees her motoring in the park, exquisitely got up in a frock and furs that were bought during the "shopping orgy" of the first week of her wealth. and---- she has thought it over once again, and she has promised to marry her aviator on his very first leave. "seemed to make all the difference, him being a soldier; seems to make anybody just twice the man they was before. and him just three times, seeing he'd no real call to go and fight, only he wanted to!" she admitted to me, when we were all packing up to come away from the house in wales, where we had left the ventriloquist's wife in charge. so that, if all's well, i shall yet have the task of attiring miss nellie million in her shimmering bridal-gown and her filmy veil for that wedding of hers on which i had set my heart from the beginning. only--her bridesmaids will have to be marmora, the breathing statue girl, and the lively little boy-impersonator. vi vassity and i will be debarred from that function, because we're both married women. yes! i am married, too! but not to mr. reginald brace. for when he persisted, "why are you so sure you could never care?" i said frankly, "i hate to hurt you. but--reginald, i don't like the way your hair grows." he looked at me in utter bewilderment through the darkness-made-visible of those welsh lamps. he said: "but a man can't help the way his hair grows!" "no. and a woman can't help the way she feels about it," i told him sadly but resolutely. he saw at last that i meant i wasn't going to take him. he went--after saying all those things about remembering me as the sweetest girl he'd ever met, and if ever i wanted a friend, et cetera--all the pathetic, well-meant, useless things that i suppose a rejected man finds some comfort in. he went back to a whirl of business at his bank, and he has stayed there ever since, "carrying on" his usual everyday job (the only sort of "carrying on" he knows, as vi vassity would say). in his way he is "on active service" too; doing his duty by his country. there is something the matter with his heart--besides his crossed-in-love affair, i mean--something that prevents him from enlisting. very hard lines on him, to be quite young and otherwise fit, but doomed to remain a civilian. of course there have to be some people as civilians still. we couldn't get on without any civilians at all, could we? my lover joined as a trooper the day before war was officially declared. and he came over to miss million's house in wales to tell us of his plans the morning after mr. brace had gone off to town. he--the other man--was still in the laurel-green chauffeur's kit that he was so soon going to change for his majesty's drab-coloured but glorious livery. and i was in my maid's black, with cap and apron, when i opened the door to him. "where's your mistress? in the drawing-room? then come into the library, child," said the honourable jim burke, "for it's you i've come to call upon." "i've only a minute to spare you," i said forbiddingly, as i showed him into the square, rather mouldy-smelling library, with its wall of unread books and its family-portraits of dead and gone price-vaughans. "and besides, i don't think a chauffeur ought to come to the front door and----" "i shall not be a chauffeur a minute longer than it takes me to get out of this dashed kit," said the honourable jim. then he told me about his enlisting for active service. "it won't be much time i shall have before that regiment gets its orders," he said. "time enough, though----" he paused and looked hard at me. so hard that i felt myself colouring, and turned away. he took a step after me. i felt him give a little pull at my apron-strings to make me look round. "time enough to get married, darling of my heart," said jim burke, laughing softly. and he took me into his arms and kissed me; at first very gently, then eagerly, fiercely, as if to make up for time already lost and for all that time yet to come when we must be apart from each other. this, if you please, was all the proposal that ever i had from the young man. i know all his faults. unscrupulous; he doesn't care how many duller and stodgier people he uses to his own advantage. insincere; except to his wife. to me he shows his heart! vain--well, with his attractions, hasn't he cause for it? unstable as water, he shall not excel; except in the moment of stress and the tight corner where a hundred more trusted men might fail, as they did the day he won the military cross, when he took that german trench single-handed, and was found with the enemy, aghast, surrendering in heaps around him! his dare-devil gaiety and recklessness are given value now by the conditions of this war. and i feel that he will come back to me unscratched at the end of the struggle, his career assured. it will be luck, his unfailing luck as usual--no merit of his! meanwhile i wait hopefully. i feed my heart's hunger, as do so many other women, on pencilled scraps of letters scrawled across the envelope "on active service." as for my living, i haven't gone back to aunt anastasia, nor have i yet solved the weighty problem of how a woman of my class and requirements is to live on the separation allowance. now that miss million has gone back to her old work mrs. james burke has taken another job; well paid, and to a kindly mistress. miss vi vassity's "dresser" gave notice because she had been offered higher wages by a french dancer. and london's love, who, she says, hates "to see any strange face putting the liquid white on her shoulders," offered the post to "little smithie." i accepted. i live the queer, garish, artificially lighted life of the theatres now. i dress the hair and change the paris frocks, and lace the corsets, and mend the pink silk fleshings of england's premier comedienne. i am in her dressing-room now, busily folding and putting away her scattered, scented garments. even from here i can catch the roar of applause that goes up from every part of the theatre as she comes on in that dainty, impertinent travesty of a highlander's uniform to sing her latest recruiting song, "the london skittish." to the right of her making-up mirror there stands a massively framed, full-length photograph of a slim lad's figure in black tights. it's the picture of that worthless trick cyclist, who was the love of vi vassity's life. ah, vi! do you think he is the only man whose cropped dark hair has felt like velvet beneath a woman's lips? the only man whose laugh has pierced a woman's heart "straight as a pebble drops into a pool"? the woman knows better. i know some one who---- * * * * * suddenly i saw his dark head, his laughing face in the mirror before me. jim! i thought i must be dreaming. i turned; i met his black-lashed blue gaze. his broad-shouldered, khaki-clad form filled up the narrow doorway of vi vassity's dressing-room. "child," he called in the inexpressibly soft irish voice. he held out his arms. it was he--my husband. i ran to him.... "gently," he said, wincing ever so little. "mind my shoulder, now. it's smashed--more or less completely." i cried out, seeing now that the jacket hung like a dolman upon his shoulder. i faltered the thought that would come to any woman. yes! however brave she was, however glad to let her man go out to do "his bit," there is a limit to what she is willing to lose ... and there are still young and strong and able-bodied civilians in england, untouched even by a zeppelin bomb! i said: "you can't--you can't be sent out again?" "bad cess to it, no," frowned my husband. "don't look so relieved now, or i'll have to feel ashamed of you, lady ballyneck----" "what d'you call me?" i asked, not comprehending. it was some minutes before i did understand what he said about his dad and his brother terence, both "outed" the same day at neuve chapelle. "and ourselves saddled with the god-forsaken castle and the estate, save the mark," said my husband, lord ballyneck, ruefully. "what we'll do with it until we let it to miss million at a princely rental (as i mean to) the dear only knows! it's a fine match you've made for yourself, child, though, when all's said. a title, at all events. sure i might have done better for myself," he concluded, with his blue eyes, alive with mirth and tenderness, feasting on my face. "i might have done better for myself than miss million's maid!" the end popular copyright novels _at moderate prices_ ask your dealer for a complete list of a. l. burt company's popular copyright fiction =abner daniel.= by will n. harben. =adventures of gerard.= by a. conan doyle. =adventures of a modest man.= by robert w. chambers. =adventures of sherlock holmes.= by a. conan doyle. =adventures of jimimie dale, the.= by frank l. packard. =after house, the.= by mary roberts rinehart. =alisa paige.= by robert w. chambers. =alton of somasco.= by harold bindloss. =a man's man.= by ian hay. =amateur gentleman, the.= by jeffery farnol. =andrew the glad.= by maria thompson daviess. =ann boyd.= by will n. harben. =anna the adventuress.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =another man's shoes.= by victor bridges. =ariadne of allan water.= by sidney mccall. =armchair at the inn, the.= by f. hopkinson smith. =around old chester.= by margaret deland. =athalie.= by robert w. chambers. =at the mercy of tiberius.= by augusta evans wilson. =auction block, the.= by rex beach. =aunt jane.= by jeanette lee. =aunt jane of kentucky.= by eliza c. hall. =awakening of helena richie.= by margaret deland. =bambi.= by marjorie benton cooke. =bandbox, the.= by louis joseph vance. =barbara of the snows.= by harry irving green. =bar .= by clarence e. mulford. =bar days.= by clarence e. mulford. =barrier, the.= by rex beach. =beasts of tarzan, the.= by edgar rice burroughs. =beechy.= by bettina von hutten. =bella donna.= by robert hichens. =beloved vagabond, the.= by wm. j. locke. =beltane the smith.= by jeffery farnol. =ben blair.= by will lillibridge. =betrayal, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =better man, the.= by cyrus townsend brady. =beulah.= (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. =beyond the frontier.= by randall parrish. =black is white.= by george barr mccutcheon. =blind man's eyes, the.= by wm. macharg & edwin balmer. =bob hampton of placer.= by randall parrish. =bob, son of battle.= by alfred ollivant. =britton of the seventh.= by cyrus townsend brady. =broad highway, the.= by jeffery farnol. =bronze bell, the.= by louis joseph vance. =bronze eagle, the.= by baroness orczy. =buck peters, ranchman.= by clarence e. mulford. =business of life, the.= by robert w. chambers. =by right of purchase.= by harold bindloss. =cabbages and kings.= by o. henry. =calling of dan matthews, the.= by harold bell wright. =cape cod stories.= by joseph c. lincoln. =cap'n dan's daughter.= by joseph c. lincoln. =cap'n eri.= by joseph c. lincoln. =cap'n warren's wards.= by joseph c. lincoln. =cardigan.= by robert w. chambers. =carpet from bagdad, the.= by harold macgrath. =cease firing.= by mary johnson. =chain of evidence, a.= by carolyn wells. =chief legatee, the.= by anna katharine green. =cleek of scotland yard.= by t. w. hanshew. =clipped wings.= by rupert hughes. =coast of adventure, the.= by harold bindloss. =colonial free lance, a.= by chauncey c. hotchkiss. =coming of cassidy, the.= by clarence e. mulford. =coming of the law, the.= by chas. a. seltzer. =conquest of canaan, the.= by booth tarkington. =conspirators, the.= by robt. w. chambers. =counsel for the defense.= by leroy scott. =court of inquiry, a.= by grace s. richmond. =crime doctor, the.= by e. w. hornung. =crimson gardenia, the, and other tales of adventure.= by rex beach. =cross currents.= by eleanor h. porter. =cry in the wilderness, a.= by mary e. waller. =cynthia of the minute.= by louis jos. vance. =dark hollow, the.= by anna katharine green. =dave's daughter.= by patience bevier cole. =day of days, the.= by louis joseph vance. =day of the dog, the.= by george barr mccutcheon. =depot master, the.= by joseph c. lincoln. =desired woman, the.= by will n. harben. =destroying angel, the.= by louis joseph vance. =dixie hart.= by will n. harben. =double traitor, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =drusilla with a million.= by elizabeth cooper. =eagle of the empire, the.= by cyrus townsend brady. =el dorado.= by baroness orczy. =elusive isabel.= by jacques futrelle. =empty pockets.= by rupert hughes. =enchanted hat, the.= by harold macgrath. =eye of dread, the.= by payne erskine. =eyes of the world, the.= by harold bell wright. =felix o'day.= by f. hopkinson smith. = - or fight.= by emerson hough. =fighting chance, the.= by robert w. chambers. =financier, the.= by theodore dreiser. =flamsted quarries.= by mary e. waller. =flying mercury, the.= by eleanor m. ingram. =for a maiden brave.= by chauncey c. hotchkiss. =four million, the.= by o. henry. =four pool's mystery, the.= by jean webster. =fruitful vine, the.= by robert hichens. =get-rich-quick wallingford.= by george randolph chester. =gilbert neal.= by will n. harben. =girl from his town, the.= by marie van vorst. =girl of the blue ridge, a.= by payne erskine. =girl who lived in the woods, the.= by marjorie benton cook. =girl who won, the.= by beth ellis. =glory of clementina, the.= by wm. j. locke. =glory of the conquered, the.= by susan glaspell. =god's country and the woman.= by james oliver curwood. =god's good man.= by marie corelli. =going some.= by rex beach. =gold bag, the.= by carolyn wells. =golden slipper, the.= by anna katharine green. =golden web, the.= by anthony partridge. =gordon craig.= by randall parrish. =greater love hath no man.= by frank l. packard. =greyfriars bobby.= by eleanor atkinson. =guests of hercules, the.= by c. n. & a. m. williamson. =halcyone.= by elinor glyn. =happy island.= (sequel to uncle william). by jeannette lee. =havoc.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =heart of philura, the.= by florence kingsley. =heart of the desert, the.= by honoré willsie. =heart of the hills, the.= by john fox, jr. =heart of the sunset.= by rex beach. =heart of thunder mountain, the.= by elfrid a. bingham. =heather-moon, the.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =her weight in gold.= by geo. b. mccutcheon. =hidden children, the.= by robert w. chambers. =hoosier volunteer, the.= by kate and virgil d. boyles. =hopalong cassidy.= by clarence e. mulford. =how leslie loved.= by anne warner. =hugh wynne, free quaker.= by s. weir mitchell, m.d. =husbands of edith, the.= by george barr mccutcheon. =i conquered.= by harold titus. =illustrious prince, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =idols.= by william j. locke. =indifference of juliet, the.= by grace s. richmond. =inez.= (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. =infelice.= by augusta evans wilson. =in her own right.= by john reed scott. =initials only.= by anna katharine green. =in another girl's shoes.= by berta ruck. =inner law, the.= by will n. harben. =innocent.= by marie corelli. =insidious dr. fu-manchu, the.= by sax rohmer. =in the brooding wild.= by ridgwell cullum. =intrigues, the.= by harold bindloss. =iron trail, the.= by rex beach. =iron woman, the.= by margaret deland. =ishmael.= (ill.) by mrs. southworth. =island of regeneration, the.= by cyrus townsend brady. =island of surprise, the.= by cyrus townsend brady. =japonette.= by robert w. chambers. =jean of the lazy a.= by b. m. bower. =jeanne of the marshes.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =jennie gerhardt.= by theodore dreiser. =joyful heatherby.= by payne erskine. =jude the obscure.= by thomas hardy. =judgment house, the.= by gilbert parker. =keeper of the door, the.= by ethel m. dell. =keith of the border.= by randall parrish. =kent knowles: quahaug.= by joseph c. lincoln. =king spruce.= by holman day. =kingdom of earth, the.= by anthony partridge. =knave of diamonds, the.= by ethel m. dell. =lady and the pirate, the.= by emerson hough. =lady merton, colonist.= by mrs. humphrey ward. =landloper, the.= by holman day. =land of long ago, the.= by eliza calvert hall. =last try, the.= by john reed scott. =last shot, the.= by frederick n. palmer. =last trail, the.= by zane grey. =laughing cavalier, the.= by baroness orczy. =law breakers, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =lighted way, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =lighting conductor discovers america, the.= by c. n. & a. n. williamson. =lin mclean.= by owen wister. =little brown jug at kildare, the.= by meredith nicholson. =lone wolf, the.= by louis joseph vance. =long roll, the.= by mary johnson. =lonesome land.= by b. m. bower. =lord loveland discovers america.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =lost ambassador.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =lost prince, the.= by frances hodgson burnett. =lost road, the.= by richard harding davis. =love under fire.= by randall parrish. =macaria.= (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. =maids of paradise, the.= by robert w. chambers. =maid of the forest, the.= by randall parrish. =maid of the whispering hills, the.= by vingie e. roe. =making of bobby burnit, the.= by randolph chester. =making money.= by owen johnson. =mam' linda.= by will n. harben. =man outside, the.= by wyndham martyn. =man trail, the.= by henry oyen. =marriage.= by h. g. wells. =marriage of theodora, the.= by mollie elliott seawell. =mary moreland.= by marie van vorst. =master mummer, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =max.= by katherine cecil thurston. =maxwell mystery, the.= by caroline wells. =mediator, the.= by roy norton. =memoirs of sherlock holmes.= by a. conan doyle. =mischief maker, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =miss gibbie gault.= by kate langley bosher. =miss philura's wedding gown.= by florence morse kingsley. =molly mcdonald.= by randall parrish. =money master, the.= by gilbert parker. =money moon, the.= by jeffery farnol. =motor maid, the.= by c. n and a. m. williamson. =moth, the.= by william dana orcutt. =mountain girl, the.= by payne erskine. =mr. bingle.= by george barr mccutcheon. =mr. grex of monte carlo.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =mr. pratt.= by joseph c. lincoln. =mr. pratt's patients.= by joseph c. lincoln. =mrs. balfame.= by gertrude atherton. =mrs. red pepper.= by grace s. richmond. =my demon motor boat.= by george fitch. =my friend the chauffeur.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =my lady caprice.= by jeffery farnol. =my lady of doubt.= by randall parrish. =my lady of the north.= by randall parrish. =my lady of the south.= by randall parrish. =ne'er-do-well, the.= by rex beach. =net, the.= by rex beach. =new clarion.= by will n. harben. =night riders, the.= by ridgwell cullum =night watches.= by w. w. jacobs. =nobody.= by louis joseph vance. =once upon a time.= by richard harding davis. =one braver thing.= by richard dehan. =one way trail, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =otherwise phyllis.= by meredith nicholson. =pardners.= by rex beach. =parrott & co.= by harold macgrath. =partners of the tide.= by joseph c. lincoln. =passionate friends, the.= by h. g. wells. =patrol of the sun dance trail, the.= by ralph connor. =paul anthony, christian.= by hiram w. hayes. =perch of the devil.= by gertrude atherton. =peter ruff.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =people's man, a.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =phillip steele.= by james oliver curwood. =pidgin island.= by harold macgrath. =place of honeymoon, the.= by harold macgrath. =plunderer, the.= by roy norton. =pole baker.= by will n. harben. =pool of flame, the.= by louis joseph vance. =port of adventure, the.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =postmaster, the.= by joseph c. lincoln. =power and the glory, the.= by grace mcgowan cooke. =prairie wife, the.= by arthur stringer. =price of love, the.= by arnold bennett. =price of the prairie, the.= by margaret hill mccarter. =prince of sinners.= by a. e. phillips oppenheim. =princes passes, the.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =princess virginia, the.= by c. n. and a. n. williamson. =promise, the.= by j. b. hendryx. =purple parasol, the.= by geo. b. mccutcheon. =ranch at the wolverine, the.= by b. m. bower. =ranching for sylvia.= by harold bindloss. =real man, the.= by francis lynde. =reason why, the.= by elinor glyn. =red cross girl, the.= by richard harding davis. =red mist, the.= by randall parrish. =redemption of kenneth galt, the.= by will n. harben. =red lane, the.= by holman day. =red mouse, the.= by wm. hamilton osborne. =red pepper burns.= by grace s. richmond. =rejuvenation of aunt mary, the.= by anne warner. =return of tarzan, the.= by edgar rice burroughs. =riddle of night, the.= by thomas w. hanshew. =rim of the desert, the.= by ada woodruff anderson. =rise of roscoe paine, the.= by j. c. lincoln. =road to providence, the.= by maria thompson daviess. =robinetta.= by kate douglas wiggin. =rocks of valpré, the.= by ethel m. dell. =rogue by compulsion, a.= by victor bridges. =rose in the ring, the.= by george barr mccutcheon. =rose of the world.= by agnes and egerton castle. =rose of old harpeth, the.= by maria thompson daviess. =round the corner in gay street.= by grace s. richmond. =routledge rides alone.= by will l. comfort. =st. elmo.= (ill. ed.) by augusta j. evans. =salamander, the.= by owen johnson. =scientific sprague.= by francis lynde. =second violin, the.= by grace s. richmond. =secret of the reef, the.= by harold bindloss. =secret history.= by c. n. & a. m. williamson. =self-raised.= (ill.) by mrs. southworth. =septimus.= by william j. locke. =set in silver.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =seven darlings, the.= by gouverneur morris. =shea of the irish brigade.= by randall parrish. =shepherd of the hills, the.= by harold bell wright. =sheriff of dyke hole, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =sign at six, the.= by stewart edw. white. =silver horde, the.= by rex beach. =simon the jester.= by william j. locke. =siren of the snows, a.= by stanley shaw. =sir richard calmady.= by lucas malet. =sixty-first second, the.= by owen johnson. =slim princess, the.= by george ade. =soldier of the legion, a.= by c. n. and a. m. williamson. =somewhere in france.= by richard harding davis. =speckled bird, a.= by augusta evans wilson. =spirit in prison, a.= by robert hichens. =spirit of the border, the.= by zane grey. =splendid chance, the.= by mary hastings bradley. =spoilers, the.= by rex beach. =spragge's canyon.= by horace annesley vachell. =still jim.= by honoré willsie. =story of foss river ranch, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =story of marco, the.= by eleanor h. porter. =strange disappearance, a.= by anna katherine green. =strawberry acres.= by grace s. richmond. =streets of ascalon, the.= by robert w. chambers. =sunshine jane.= by anne warner. =susan clegg and her friend mrs. lathrop.= by anne warner. =sword of the old frontier, a.= by randall parrish. =tales of sherlock holmes.= by a. conan doyle. =taming of zenas henry, the.= by sara ware bassett. =tarzan of the apes.= by edgar r. burroughs. =taste of apples, the.= by jennette lee. =tempting of tavernake, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =tess of the d'urbervilles.= by thomas hardy. =thankful inheritance.= by joseph c. lincoln. =that affair next door.= by anna katharine green. =that printer of udell's.= by harold bell wright. =their yesterdays.= by harold bell wright. =the side of the angels.= by basil king. =throwback, the.= by alfred henry lewis. =thurston of orchard valley.= by harold bindloss. =to m. l. g.; or, he who passed.= by anon. =trail of the axe, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =trail of yesterday, the.= by chas. a. seltzer. =treasure of heaven, the.= by marie corelli. =truth dexter.= by sidney mccall. =t. tembarom.= by frances hodgson burnett. =turbulent duchess, the.= by percy j. brebner. =twenty-fourth of june, the.= by grace s. richmond. =twins of suffering creek, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =two-gun man, the.= by charles a. seltzer. =uncle william.= by jeannette lee. =under the country sky.= by grace s. richmond. =unknown mr. kent, the.= by roy norton. ="unto caesar."= by baronett orczy. =up from slavery.= by booker t. washington. =valiants of virginia, the.= by hallie erminie rives. =valley of fear, the.= by sir a. conan doyle. =vane of the timberlands.= by harold bindloss. =vanished messenger, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =vashti.= by augusta evans wilson. =village of vagabonds, a.= by f. berkley smith. =visioning, the.= by susan glaspell. =wall of men, a.= by margaret h. mccarter. =wallingford in his prime.= by george randolph chester. =wanted--a chaperon.= by paul leicester ford. =wanted--a matchmaker.= by paul leicester ford. =watchers of the plains, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =way home, the.= by basil king. =way of an eagle, the.= by e. m. dell. =way of a man, the.= by emerson hough. =way of the strong, the.= by ridgwell cullum. =way of these women, the.= by e. phillips oppenheim. =weavers, the.= by gilbert parker. =west wind, the.= by cyrus t. brady. =when wilderness was king.= by randolph parrish. =where the trail divides.= by will lillibridge. =where there's a will.= by mary r. rinehart. =white sister, the.= by marion crawford. =white waterfall, the.= by james francis dwyer. =who goes there?= by robert w. chambers. =window at the white cat, the.= by mary roberts rinehart. =winning of barbara worth, the.= by harold bell wright. =winning the wilderness.= by margaret hill mccarter. =with juliet in england.= by grace s. richmond. =witness for the defense, the.= by a. e. w. mason. =woman in question, the.= by john reed scott. =woman haters, the.= by joseph c. lincoln. =woman thou gavest me, the.= by hall caine. =woodcarver of 'lympus, the.= by mary e. waller. =woodfire in no. , the.= by f. hopkinson smith. =wooing of rosamond fayre, the.= by berta ruck. =you never know your luck.= by gilbert parker. =younger set, the.= by robert w. chambers. transcriber's notes passages in bold are indicated by =equal signs=. passages in italics are indicated by _underscores_. small caps have been replaced with all caps. throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors in punctuations were not corrected unless otherwise noted below: on the title page, "in another girls shoes" was replaced with "in another girl's shoes". on page , "to topsy-turvy" was replaced with "too topsy-turvy." on page , "is not her" was replaced with "is not here". on page , a quotation mark was placed before "look at the card!". on page , a period was added after "i will take it". on page , the quotation mark was removed from before "then, in spite of myself". on page , a quotation mark was placed after "a perfeshional.". on page , a quotation mark was placed after "but----". on page , the quotation mark was removed after "what is the next----". on page , the double quotation mark before "yours cordially" was replaced with a single quotation mark. on page , "reasssuring" was replaced with "reassuring". on page , the [oe] ligature was replaced with "oe". on page , "what he stood up in" was replaced with "what she stood up in". on page , a quotation mark was placed before "certainly there". on page , the quotation mark was removed after "certain about the rules." on page , a quotation mark was placed after "for an object!". on page , a quotation mark was placed after "she agreed to do so". on page , "who who" was replaced with "who". on page , a quotation mark was placed before "heavens!". on page , a quotation mark was placed after "whoever it is does." on page , the double quotation marks around "refuge." was replaced with single quotation marks. on page , the double quotation marks around "refuge." was replaced with single quotation marks. in the ads at the end of the book, a period was added at the end of the titles and authors, where they were missing. also, the repeated headers were removed in the ads. daisy brooks; or, a perilous love. by laura jean libbey, author of "parted on her bridal tour," or "miss middleton's lover," "when his love grew cold," "he loved, but was lured away," "when lovely maiden stoops to folly," "the crime of hallow e'en," "lovers once, but strangers now," etc., etc. copyright , by george munro. copyright , by j. s. ogilvie publishing company. dramatic rights reserved by laura jean libbey-stillwell. new york: j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street. daisy brooks. chapter i. a warm day in the southern part of west virginia was fast drawing to a close; the heat during the day had been almost intolerable under the rays of the piercing sun, and the night was coming on in sullen sultriness. no breath of cooling air stirred the leafy branches of the trees; the stillness was broken only by the chirping of the crickets, and the fire-flies twinkled for a moment, and were then lost to sight in the long grasses. on one of the most prosperous plantations in that section of the country there was a great stir of excitement; the master, basil hurlhurst, was momentarily expected home with his bride. the negroes in their best attire were scattered in anxious groups here and there, watching eagerly for the first approach of their master's carriage on the white pebbled road. the curtains of whitestone hall were looped back, and a cheerful flood of light shone out on the waving cotton fields that stretched out as far as the eye could reach, like a field of snow. the last touches had been given to the pillars of roses that filled every available nook and corner, making the summer air redolent with their odorous perfumes. mrs. corliss, who had maintained the position of housekeeper for a score of years or more, stood at the window twisting the telegram she held in her hand with ill-concealed impatience. the announcement of this home-coming had been as unexpected as the news of his marriage had been quite a year before. "let there be no guests assembled--my reasons will be made apparent to you later on," so read the telegram, which puzzled the housekeeper more than she cared to admit to the inquisitive maid, who stood near her, curiously watching her thoughtful face. "'pears to me it will rain afore they get here, hagar," she said, nervously, and, as if in confirmation of her words, a few rain-drops splashed against the window-pane. both stood gazing intently out into the darkness. the storm had now commenced in earnest. the great trees bent to and fro like reeds before the wind; the lightning flashed, and the terrific crash of roaring thunder mingled with the torrent of rain that beat furiously against the casement. it seemed as if the very flood-gates of heaven were flung open wide on this memorable night of the master's return. "it is a fearful night. ah! happy is the bride upon whose home-coming the sunlight falls," muttered mrs. corliss under her breath. hagar had caught the low-spoken words, and in a voice that sounded strange and weird like a warning, she answered: "yes, and unhappy is the bride upon whose home-coming rain-drops fall." how little they knew, as they stood there, of the terrible tragedy--the cruelest ever enacted--those grim, silent walls of whitestone hall were soon to witness, in fulfillment of the strange prophecy. hagar, the maid, had scarcely ceased speaking ere the door was flung violently open, and a child of some five summers rushed into the room, her face livid with passion, and her dark, gleaming eyes shining like baneful stars, before which the two women involuntarily quailed. "what is this i hear?" she cried, with wild energy, glancing fiercely from the one to the other. "is it true what they tell me--my father is bringing home his bride?" "pluma, my child," remonstrated mrs. corliss, feebly, "i--" "don't pluma me!" retorted the child, clutching the deep crimson passion-roses from a vase at her side, and trampling them ruthlessly beneath her feet. "answer me at once, i say--has he _dared_ do it?" "p-l-u-m-a!" mrs. corliss advances toward her, but the child turns her darkly beautiful, willful face toward her with an imperious gesture. "do not come a step nearer," cried the child, bitterly, "or i shall fling myself from the window down on to the rocks below. i shall never welcome my father's wife here; and mark me, both of you, i hate her!" she cried, vehemently. "she shall rue the day that she was born!" mrs. corliss knew but too well the child would keep her word. no power, save god, could stay the turbulent current of the ungovernable self-will which would drag her on to her doom. no human being could hold in subjection the fierce, untamed will of the beautiful, youthful tyrant. there had been strange rumors of the unhappiness of basil hurlhurst's former marriage. no one remembered having seen her but once, quite five years before. a beautiful woman with a little babe had suddenly appeared at whitestone hall, announcing herself as basil hurlhurst's wife. there had been a fierce, stormy interview, and on that very night basil hurlhurst took his wife and child abroad; those who had once seen the dark, glorious, scornful beauty of the woman's face never forgot it. two years later the master had returned alone with the little child, heavily draped in widower's weeds. the master of whitestone hall was young; those who knew his story were not surprised that he should marry--he could not go through life alone; still they felt a nameless pity for the young wife who was to be brought to the home in which dwelt the child of his former wife. there would be bitter war to the end between them. no one could tell on which side the scales of mercy and justice would be balanced. at that instant, through the raging of the fierce elements, the sound of carriage wheels smote upon their ears as the vehicle dashed rapidly up the long avenue to the porch; while, in another instant, the young master, half carrying the slight, delicate figure that clung timidly to his arm, hurriedly entered the spacious parlor. there was a short consultation with the housekeeper, and basil hurlhurst, tenderly lifting the slight burden in his strong, powerful arms, quickly bore his wife to the beautiful apartments that had been prepared for her. in the excitement of the moment pluma was quite forgotten; for an instant only she glanced bitterly at the sweet, fair face resting against her father's shoulder, framed in a mass of golden hair. the child clinched her small hands until she almost cried aloud with the intense pain, never once deigning a glance at her father's face. in that one instant the evil seeds of a lifetime were sown strong as life and more bitter than death. turning hastily aside she sprung hurriedly down the long corridor, and out into the darkness and the storm, never stopping to gain breath until she had quite reached the huge ponderous gate that shut in the garden from the dense thicket that skirted the southern portion of the plantation. she laughed a hard, mocking laugh that sounded unnatural from such childish lips, as she saw a white hand hurriedly loop back the silken curtains of her father's window, and saw him bend tenderly over the golden-haired figure in the arm-chair. suddenly the sound of her own name fell upon her ear. "pluma," whispered a low, cautious voice; and in the quick flashes of lightning she saw a white, haggard woman's face pressed close against the grating, and two white hands were steadily forcing the rusty lock. there was no fear in the fiery, rebellious heart of the dauntless child. "go away, you miserable beggar-woman," she cried, "or i shall set the hounds on you at once. do you hear me, i say?" "who are you?" questioned the woman, in the same low, guarded voice. the child threw her head back proudly, her voice rising shrilly above the wild warring of the elements, as she answered: "know, then, i am pluma, the heiress of whitestone hall." the child formed a strange picture--her dark, wild face, so strangely like the mysterious woman's own, standing vividly out against the crimson lightning flashes, her dark curls blown about the gypsy-like face, the red lips curling scornfully, her dark eyes gleaming. "pluma," called the woman, softly, "come here." "how dare _you_, a beggar-woman, call me!" cried the child, furiously. "pluma--come--here--instantly!" there was a subtle something in the stranger's voice that throbbed through the child's pulses like leaping fire--a strange, mysterious influence that bound her, heart and soul, like the mesmeric influence a serpent exerts over a fascinated dove. slowly, hesitatingly, this child, whose fiery will had never bowed before human power, came timidly forward, step by step, close to the iron gate against which the woman's face was pressed. she stretched out her hand, and it rested for a moment on the child's dark curls. "pluma, the gate is locked," she said. "do you know where the keys are?" "no," answered the child. "they used to hang behind the pantry door--a great bunch of them. don't they hang there now?" "ye--es." "i thought so," muttered the woman, triumphantly. "now, listen, pluma; i want you to do exactly as i bid you. i want you to go quickly and quietly, and bring me the longest and thinnest one. you are not to breathe one word of this to any living soul. do you understand, pluma--i command you to do it." "yes," answered the child, dubiously. "stay!" she called, as the child was about to turn from her. "why is the house lighted up to-night?" again the reckless spirit of the child flashed forth. "my father has brought home his bride," she said. "don't you see him bending over her, toward the third window yonder?" the woman's eyes quickly followed in the direction indicated. was it a curse the woman muttered as she watched the fair, golden-haired young girl-wife's head resting against basil hurlhurst's breast, his arms clasped lovingly about her? "go, pluma!" she commanded, bitterly. quickly and cautiously the child sped on her fatal errand through the storm and the darkness. a moment later she had returned with the key which was to unlock a world of misery to so many lives. "promise me, pluma, heiress of whitestone hall, never to tell what you have done or seen or heard to-night. you must never dare breathe it while you live. say you will never tell, pluma." "no," cried the child, "i shall never tell. they might kill me, but i would never tell them." the next moment she was alone. stunned and bewildered, she turned her face slowly toward the house. the storm did not abate in its fury; night-birds flapped their wings through the storm overhead; owls shrieked in the distance from the swaying tree-tops; yet the child walked slowly home, knowing no fear. in the house lights were moving to and fro, while servants, with bated breath and light footfalls, hurried through the long corridors toward her father's room. no one seemed to notice pluma, in her dripping robe, creeping slowly along by their side toward her own little chamber. it was quite midnight when her father sent for her. pluma suffered him to kiss her, giving back no answering caress. "i have brought some one else to you, my darling," he said. "see, pluma--a new mamma! and see who else--a wee, dimpled little sister, with golden hair like mamma's, and great blue eyes. little evalia is your sister, dear. pluma must love her new mamma and sister for papa's sake." the dark frown on the child's face never relaxed, and, with an impatient gesture, her father ordered her taken at once from the room. suddenly the great bells of whitestone hall ceased pealing for the joyous birth of basil hurlhurst's daughter, and bitter cries of a strong man in mortal anguish rent the air. no one had noticed how or when the sweet, golden-haired young wife had died. with a smile on her lips, she was dead, with her tiny little darling pressed close to her pulseless heart. but sorrow even as pitiful as death but rarely travels singly. dear heaven! how could they tell the broken-hearted man, who wept in such agony beside the wife he had loved so well, of another mighty sorrow that had fallen upon him? who was there that could break the news to him? the tiny, fair-haired infant had been stolen from their midst. they would have thanked god if it had been lying cold in death upon its mother's bosom. slowly throughout the long night--that terrible night that was never to be forgotten--the solemn bells pealed forth from the turrets of whitestone hall, echoing in their sound: "unhappy is the bride the rain falls on." most truly had been the fulfillment of the fearful prophecy! "merciful god!" cried mrs. corliss, "how shall i break the news to my master? the sweet little babe is gone!" for answer hagar bent quickly over her, and breathed a few words in her ear that caused her to cry out in horror and amaze. "no one will ever know," whispered hagar; "it is the wisest course. the truth will lie buried in our own hearts, and die with us." * * * * * six weeks from the night his golden-haired wife had died basil hurlhurst awoke to consciousness from the ravages of brain-fever--awoke to a life not worth the living. quickly mrs. corliss, the housekeeper, was sent for, who soon entered the room, leaning upon hagar's arm. "my wife is--" he could not say more. "buried, sir, beneath yonder willow." "and the babe?" he cried, eagerly. "dead," answered hagar, softly. "both are buried in one grave." basil hurlhurst turned his face to the wall, with a bitter groan. heaven forgive them--the seeds of the bitterest of tragedies were irrevocably sown. chapter ii. one bright may morning some sixteen years later, the golden sunshine was just putting forth its first crimson rays, lighting up the ivy-grown turrets of whitestone hall, and shining upon a little white cottage nestling in a bower of green leaves far to the right of it, where dwelt john brooks, the overseer of the hurlhurst plantation. for sixteen years the grand old house had remained closed--the plantation being placed in charge of a careful overseer. once again whitestone hall was thrown open to welcome the master, basil hurlhurst, who had returned from abroad, bringing with him his beautiful daughter and a party of friends. the interior of the little cottage was astir with bustling activity. it was five o'clock; the chimes had played the hour; the laborers were going to the fields, and the dairy-maids were beginning their work. in the door-way of the cottage stood a tall, angular woman, shading her flushed and heated face from the sun's rays with her hand. "daisy, daisy!" she calls, in a harsh, rasping voice, "where are you, you good-for-nothing lazy girl? come into the house directly, i say." her voice died away over the white stretches of waving cotton, but no daisy came. "here's a pretty go," she cried, turning into the room where her brother sat calmly finishing his morning meal, "a pretty go, indeed! i promised miss pluma those white mulls should be sent over to her the first thing in the morning. she will be in a towering rage, and no wonder, and like enough you'll lose your place, john brooks, and 'twill serve you right, too, for encouraging that lazy girl in her idleness." "don't be too hard on little daisy, septima," answered john brooks, timidly, reaching for his hat. "she will have the dresses at the hall in good time, i'll warrant." "too hard, indeed; that's just like you men; no feeling for your poor, overworked sister, so long as that girl has an easy life of it. it was a sorry day for _me_ when your aunt taiza died, leaving this girl to our care." a deep flush mantled john brooks' face, but he made no retort, while septima energetically piled the white fluted laces in the huge basket--piled it full to the brim, until her arm ached with the weight of it--the basket which was to play such a fatal part in the truant daisy's life--the life which for sixteen short years had been so monotonous. over the corn-fields half hid by the clover came a young girl tripping lightly along. john brooks paused in the path as he caught sight of her. "poor, innocent little daisy!" he muttered half under his breath, as he gazed at her quite unseen. transferred to canvas, it would have immortalized a painter. no wonder the man's heart softened as he gazed. he saw a glitter of golden curls, and the scarlet gleam of a mantle--a young girl, tall and slender, with rounded, supple limbs, and a figure graceful in every line and curve--while her arms, bare to the elbow, would have charmed a sculptor. cheek and lips were a glowing rosy red--while her eyes, of the deepest and darkest blue, were the merriest that ever gazed up to the summer sunshine. suddenly from over the trees there came the sound of the great bell at the hall. daisy stood quite still in alarm. "it is five o'clock!" she cried. "what shall i do? aunt septima will be so angry with me; she promised miss pluma her white dresses should be at the hall by five, and it is that already." poor little daisy! no wonder her heart throbbed painfully and the look of fear deepened in her blue eyes as she sped rapidly up the path that led to the little cottage where septima grimly awaited her with flushed face and flashing eyes. "so," she said, harshly, "you are come at last, are you? and a pretty fright you have given me. you shall answer to miss pluma _herself_ for this. i dare say you will never attempt to offend her a second time." "indeed, aunt septima, i never dreamed it was so late," cried conscious daisy. "i was watching the sun rise over the cotton-fields, and watching the dewdrops glittering on the corn, thinking of the beautiful heiress of whitestone hall. i am so sorry i forgot about the dresses." hastily catching up the heavy basket, she hurried quickly down the path, like a startled deer, to escape the volley of wrath the indignant spinster hurled after her. it was a beautiful morning; no cloud was in the smiling heavens; the sun shone brightly, and the great oak and cedar-trees that skirted the roadside seemed to thrill with the song of birds. butterflies spread their light wings and coquetted with the fragrant blossoms, and busy humming-bees buried themselves in the heart of the crimson wild rose. the basket was very heavy, and poor little daisy's hands ached with the weight of it. "if i might but rest for a few moments only," she said to herself, eying the cool, shady grass by the roadside. "surely a moment or two will not matter. oh, dear, i am so tired!" she set the basket down on the cool, green grass, flinging herself beside it beneath the grateful shade of a blossoming magnolia-tree, resting her golden head against the basket of filmy laces that were to adorn the beautiful heiress of whom she had heard so much, yet never seen, and of whom every one felt in such awe. she looked wistfully at the great mansion in the distance, thinking how differently her own life had been. the soft, wooing breeze fanned her cheeks, tossing about her golden curls in wanton sport. it was so pleasant to sit there in the dreamy silence watching the white fleecy clouds, the birds, and the flowers, it was little wonder the swift-winged moments flew heedlessly by. slowly the white lids drooped over the light-blue eyes, the long, golden lashes lay against the rosy cheeks, the ripe lips parted in a smile--all unheeded were the fluted laces--daisy slept. oh, cruel breeze--oh, fatal wooing breeze to have infolded hapless daisy in your soft embrace! over the hills came the sound of baying hounds, followed by a quick, springy step through the crackling underbrush, as a young man in close-fitting velvet hunting-suit and jaunty velvet cap emerged from the thicket toward the main road. as he parted the magnolia branches the hound sprang quickly forward at some object beneath the tree, with a low, hoarse growl. "down, towser, down!" cried rex lyon, leaping lightly over some intervening brushwood. "what kind of game have we here? whew!" he ejaculated, surprisedly; "a young girl, pretty as a picture, and, by the eternal, fast asleep, too!" still daisy slept on, utterly unconscious of the handsome brown eyes that were regarding her so admiringly. "i have often heard of fairies, but this is the first time i have ever caught one napping under the trees. i wonder who she is anyhow? surely she can not be some drudging farmer's daughter with a form and face like that?" he mused, suspiciously eying the basket of freshly laundered laces against which the flushed cheeks and waving golden hair rested. just then his ludicrous position struck him forcibly. "come, towser," he said, "it would never do for you and me to be caught staring at this pretty wood-nymph so rudely, if she should by chance awaken just now." tightening the strap of his game-bag over his shoulder, and readjusting his velvet cap jauntily over his brown curls, rex was about to resume his journey in the direction of whitestone hall, when the sound of rapidly approaching carriage-wheels fell upon his ears. realizing his awkward position, rex knew the wisest course he could possibly pursue would be to screen himself behind the magnolia branches until the vehicle should pass. the next instant a pair of prancing ponies, attached to a basket phaeton, in which sat a young girl, who held them well in check, dashed rapidly up the road. rex could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise as he saw the occupant was his young hostess, pluma hurlhurst of whitestone hall. she drew rein directly in front of the sleeping girl, and rex lyon never forgot, to his dying day, the discordant laugh that broke from her red lips--a laugh which caused poor daisy to start from her slumber in wild alarm, scattering the snowy contents of the basket in all directions. for a single instant their eyes met--these two girls, whose lives were to cross each other so strangely--poor daisy, like a frightened bird, as she guessed intuitively at the identity of the other; pluma, haughty, derisive, and scornfully mocking. "you are the person whom miss brooks sent to whitestone hall with my mull dresses some three hours since, i presume. may i ask what detained you?" poor daisy was quite crestfallen; great tear-drops trembled on her long lashes. how could she answer? she had fallen asleep, wooed by the lulling breeze and the sunshine. "the basket was so heavy," she answered, timidly, "and i--i--sat down to rest a few moments, and--" "further explanation is quite unnecessary," retorted pluma, sharply, gathering up the reins. "see that you have those things at the hall within ten minutes; not an instant later." touching the prancing ponies with her ivory-handled whip, the haughty young heiress whirled leisurely down the road, leaving daisy, with flushed face and tear-dimmed eyes, gazing after her. "oh, dear, i wish i had never been born," she sobbed, flinging herself down on her knees, and burying her face in the long, cool grass. "no one ever speaks a kind word to me but poor old uncle john, and even he dare not be kind when aunt septima is near. she might have taken this heavy basket in her carriage," sighed daisy, bravely lifting the heavy burden in her delicate arms. "that is just what i think," muttered rex lyon from his place of concealment, savagely biting his lip. in another moment he was by her side. "pardon me," he said, deferentially raising his cap from his glossy curls, "that basket is too heavy for your slender arms. allow me to assist you." in a moment the young girl stood up, and made the prettiest and most graceful of courtesies as she raised to his a face he never forgot. involuntarily he raised his cap again in homage to her youth, and her shy sweet beauty. "no; i thank you, sir, i have not far to carry the basket," she replied, in a voice sweet as the chiming of silver bells--a voice that thrilled him, he could not tell why. a sudden desire possessed rex to know who she was and from whence she came. "do you live at the hall?" he asked. "no," she replied, "i am daisy brooks, the overseer's niece." "daisy brooks," said rex, musingly. "what a pretty name! how well it suits you!" he watched the crimson blushes that dyed her fair young face--she never once raised her dark-blue eyes to his. the more rex looked at her the more he admired this coy, bewitching, pretty little maiden. she made a fair picture under the boughs of the magnolia-tree, thick with odorous pink-and-white tinted blossoms, the sunbeams falling on her golden hair. the sunshine or the gentle southern wind brought rex no warning he was forging the first links of a dreadful tragedy. he thought only of the shy blushing beauty and coy grace of the young girl--he never dreamed of the hour when he should look back to that moment, wondering at his own blind folly, with a curse on his lips. again from over the trees came the sound of the great bell from the hall. "it is eight o'clock," cried daisy, in alarm. "miss pluma will be so angry with me." "angry!" said rex; "angry with you! for what?" "she is waiting for the mull dresses," replied daisy. it was a strange idea to him that any one should dare be angry with this pretty gentle daisy. "you will at least permit me to carry your basket as far as the gate," he said, shouldering her burden without waiting for a reply. daisy had no choice but to follow him. "there," said rex, setting the basket down by the plantation gate, which they had reached all too soon, "you must go, i suppose. it seems hard to leave the bright sunshine to go indoors." "i--i shall soon return," said daisy, with innocent frankness. "shall you?" cried rex. "will you return home by the same path?" "yes," she replied, "if miss pluma does not need me." "good-bye, daisy," he said. "i shall see you again." he held out his hand and her little fingers trembled and fluttered in his clasp. daisy looked so happy yet so frightened, so charming yet so shy, rex hardly knew how to define the feeling that stirred in his heart. he watched the graceful, fairy figure as daisy tripped away--instead of thinking he had done a very foolish thing that bright morning. rex lighted a cigar and fell to dreaming of sweet little daisy brooks, and wondering how he should pass the time until he should see her again. while daisy almost flew up the broad gravel path to the house, the heavy burden she bore seemed light as a feather--no thought that she had been imprudent ever entered her mind. there was no one to warn her of the peril which lay in the witching depths of the handsome stranger's glances. all her young life she had dreamed of the hero who would one day come to her, just such a dream as all youthful maidens experience--an idol they enshrine in their innermost heart, and worship in secret, never dreaming of a cold, dark time when the idol may lie shattered in ruins at their feet. how little knew gentle daisy brooks of the fatal love which would drag her down to her doom! chapter iii. in an elegant boudoir, all crimson and gold, some hours later, sat pluma hurlhurst, reclining negligently on a satin divan, toying idly with a volume which lay in her lap. she tossed the book aside with a yawn, turning her superb dark eyes on the little figure bending over the rich trailing silks which were to adorn her own fair beauty on the coming evening. "so you think you would like to attend the lawn fête to-night, daisy?" she asked, patronizingly. daisy glanced up with a startled blush, "oh, i should like it so much, miss pluma," she answered, hesitatingly, "if i only could!" "i think i shall gratify you," said pluma, carelessly. "you have made yourself very valuable to me. i like the artistic manner you have twined these roses in my hair; the effect is quite picturesque." she glanced satisfiedly at her own magnificent reflection in the cheval-glass opposite. titian alone could have reproduced those rich, marvelous colors--that perfect, queenly beauty. he would have painted the picture, and the world would have raved about its beauty. the dark masses of raven-black hair; the proud, haughty face, with its warm southern tints; the dusky eyes, lighted with fire and passion, and the red, curved lips. "i wish particularly to look my very best to-night, daisy," she said; "that is why i wish you to remain. you can arrange those sprays of white heath in my hair superbly. then you shall attend the fête, daisy. remember, you are not expected to take part in it; you must sit in some secluded nook where you will be quite unobserved." pluma could not help but smile at the ardent delight depicted in daisy's face. "i am afraid i can not stay," she said, doubtfully, glancing down in dismay at the pink-and-white muslin she wore. "every one would be sure to laugh at me who saw me. then i would wish i had not stayed." "suppose i should give you one to wear--that white mull, for instance--how would you like it? none of the guests would see you," replied pluma. there was a wistful look in daisy's eyes, as though she would fain believe what she heard was really true. "would you really?" asked daisy, wonderingly. "you, whom people call so haughty and so proud--you would really let me wear one of your dresses? i do not know how to tell you how much i am pleased!" she said, eagerly. pluma hurlhurst laughed. such rapture was new to her. the night which drew its mantle over the smiling earth was a perfect one. myriads of stars shone like jewels in the blue sky, and not a cloud obscured the face of the clear full moon. hurlhurst plantation was ablaze with colored lamps that threw out soft rainbow tints in all directions as far as the eye could reach. the interior of whitestone hall was simply dazzling in its rich rose bloom, its lights, its fountains, and rippling music from adjoining ferneries. in an elegant apartment of the hall basil hurlhurst, the recluse invalid, lay upon his couch, trying to shut out the mirth and gayety that floated up to him from below. as the sound of pluma's voice sounded upon his ear he turned his face to the wall with a bitter groan. "she is so like--" he muttered, grimly. "ah! the pleasant voices of our youth turn into lashes which scourge us in our old age. 'like mother, like child.'" the lawn fête was a grand success; the _élite_ of the whole country round were gathered together to welcome the beautiful, peerless hostess of whitestone hall. pluma moved among her guests like a queen, yet in all that vast throng her eyes eagerly sought one face. "where was rex?" was the question which constantly perplexed her. after the first waltz he had suddenly disappeared. only the evening before handsome rex lyon had held her jeweled hand long at parting, whispering, in his graceful, charming way, he had something to tell her on the morrow. "why did he hold himself so strangely aloof?" pluma asked herself, in bitter wonder. ah! had she but known! while pluma, the wealthy heiress, awaited his coming so eagerly, rex lyon was standing, quite lost in thought, beside a rippling fountain in one of the most remote parts of the lawn, thinking of daisy brooks. he had seen a fair face--that was all--a face that embodied his dream of loveliness, and without thinking of it found his fate, and the whole world seemed changed for him. handsome, impulsive rex lyon, owner of several of the most extensive and lucrative orange groves in florida, would have bartered every dollar of his worldly possessions for love. he had hitherto treated all notion of love in a very off-hand, cavalier fashion. "love is fate," he had always said. he knew pluma loved him. last night he had said to himself: the time had come when he might as well marry; it might as well be pluma as any one else, seeing she cared so much for him. now all that was changed. "i sincerely hope she will not attach undue significance to the words i spoke last evening," he mused. rex did not care to return again among the throng; it was sweeter far to sit there by the murmuring fountain dreaming of daisy brooks, and wondering when he should see her again. a throng which did not hold the face of daisy brooks had no charm for rex. suddenly a soft step sounded on the grass; rex's heart gave a sudden bound; surely it could not be--yes, it was--daisy brooks. she drew back with a startled cry as her eyes suddenly encountered those of her hero of the morning. she would have fled precipitately had he not stretched out his hand quickly to detain her. "daisy," cried rex, "why do you look so frightened? are you displeased to see me?" "no," she said. "i--i--do not know--" she looked so pretty, so bewildered, so dazzled by joy, yet so pitifully uncertain, rex was more desperately in love with her than ever. "your eyes speak, telling me you _are_ pleased, daisy, even if your lips _refuse_ to tell me so. sit down on this rustic bench, daisy, while i tell you how anxiously i awaited your coming--waited until the shadows of evening fell." as he talked to her he grew more interested with every moment. she had no keen intellect, no graceful powers of repartee, knew little of books or the great world beyond. daisy was a simple, guileless child of nature. rex's vanity was gratified at the unconscious admiration which shone in her eyes and the blushes his words brought to her cheeks. "there is my favorite waltz, daisy," he said, as the music of the irresistible "blue danube" floated out to them. "will you favor me with a waltz?" "miss pluma would be so angry," she murmured. "never mind her anger, daisy. i will take all the blame on _my_ shoulders. they are unusually broad, you see." he led her half reluctant among the gay throng; gentlemen looked at one another in surprise. who is she? they asked one of the other, gazing upon her in wonder. no one could answer. the sweet-faced little maiden in soft, floating white, with a face like an angel's, who wore no other ornament than her crown of golden hair, was a mystery and a novelty. in all the long years of her after life daisy never forgot that supremely blissful moment. it seemed to her they were floating away into another sphere. rex's arms were around her, his eyes smiling down into hers; he could feel the slight form trembling in his embrace, and he clasped her still closer. with youth, music, and beauty--there was nothing wanting to complete the charm of love. leaning gracefully against an overarching palm-tree stood a young man watching the pair with a strange intentness; a dark, vindictive smile hovered about the corners of his mouth, hidden by his black mustache, and there was a cruel gleam in the dark, wicked eyes scanning the face of the young girl so closely. "ah! why not?" he mused. "it would be a glorious revenge." he made his way hurriedly in the direction of his young hostess, who was, as usual, surrounded by a group of admirers. a deep crimson spot burned on either cheek, and her eyes glowed like stars, as of one under intense, suppressed excitement. lester stanwick made his way to her side just as the last echo of the waltz died away on the air, inwardly congratulating himself upon finding rex and daisy directly beside him. "miss pluma," said stanwick, with a low bow, "will you kindly present me to the little fairy on your right? i am quite desperately smitten with her." several gentlemen crowded around pluma asking the same favor. with a smile and a bow, what could rex do but lead daisy gracefully forward. those who witnessed the scene that ensued never forgot it. for answer pluma hurlhurst turned coldly, haughtily toward them, drawing herself up proudly to her full height. "there is evidently some mistake here," she said, glancing scornfully at the slight, girlish figure leaning upon rex lyon's arm. "i do not recognize this person as a guest. if i mistake not, she is one of the hirelings connected with the plantation." if a thunderbolt had suddenly exploded beneath rex's feet he could not have been more thoroughly astounded. daisy uttered a piteous little cry and, like a tender flower cut down by a sudden, rude blast, would have fallen at his feet had he not reached out his arm to save her. "miss hurlhurst," cried rex, in a voice husky with emotion, "i hold myself responsible for this young lady's presence here. i--" "ah!" interrupts pluma, ironically; "and may i ask by what right you force one so inferior, and certainly obnoxious, among us?" rex lyon's handsome face was white with rage. "miss hurlhurst," he replied, with stately dignity, "i regret, more than the mere words express, that my heedlessness has brought upon this little creature at my side an insult so cruel, so unjust, and so bitter, in simply granting my request for a waltz--a request very reluctantly granted. an invited guest among you she may not be; but i most emphatically defy her inferiority to any lady or gentleman present." "rex--mr. lyon," says pluma, icily, "you forget yourself." he smiled contemptuously. "i do not admit it," he said, hotly. "i have done that which any gentleman should have done; defended from insult one of the purest and sweetest of maidens. i will do more--i will shield her, henceforth and forever, with my very life, if need be. if i can win her, i shall make daisy brooks my wife." rex spoke rapidly--vehemently. his chivalrous soul was aroused; he scarcely heeded the impetuous words that fell from his lips. he could not endure the thought that innocent, trusting little daisy should suffer through any fault of his. "come, daisy," he said, softly, clasping in his own strong white ones the little fingers clinging so pitifully to his arm, "we will go away from here at once--our presence longer is probably obnoxious. farewell, miss hurlhurst." "rex," cried pluma, involuntarily taking a step forward, "you do not, you can not mean what you say. you will not allow a creature like that to separate us--you have forgotten, rex. you said you had something to tell me. you will not part with me so easily," she cried. a sudden terror seized her at the thought of losing him. he was her world. she forgot the guests gathering about her--forgot she was the wealthy, courted heiress for whose glance or smiles men sued in vain--forgot her haughty pride, in the one absorbing thought that rex was going from her. her wild, fiery, passionate love could bear no restraint. "rex," she cried, suddenly falling on her knees before him, her face white and stormy, her white jeweled hands clasped supplicatingly, "you must not, you shall not leave me so; no one shall come between us. listen--i love you, rex. what if the whole world knows it--what will it matter, it is the truth. my love is my life. you loved me until she came between us with her false, fair face. but for this you would have asked me to be your wife. send that miserable little hireling away, rex--the gardener will take charge of her." pluma spoke rapidly, vehemently. no one could stay the torrent of her bitter words. rex was painfully distressed and annoyed. fortunately but very few of the guests had observed the thrilling tableau enacted so near them. "pluma--miss hurlhurst," he said, "i am sorry you have unfortunately thus expressed yourself, for your own sake. i beg you will say no more. you yourself have severed this night the last link of friendship between us. i am frank with you in thus admitting it. i sympathize with you, while your words have filled me with the deepest consternation and embarrassment, which it is useless longer to prolong." drawing daisy's arm hurriedly within his own, rex lyon strode quickly down the graveled path, with the full determination of never again crossing the threshold of whitestone hall, or gazing upon the face of pluma hurlhurst. meanwhile pluma had arisen from her knees with a gay, mocking laugh, turning suddenly to the startled group about her. "bravo! bravo! miss pluma," cried lester stanwick, stepping to her side at that opportune moment. "on the stage you would have made a grand success. we are practicing for a coming charade," explained stanwick, laughingly; "and, judging from the expressions depicted on our friend's faces, i should say you have drawn largely upon real life. you will be a success, miss pluma." no one dreamed of doubting the assertion. a general laugh followed, and the music struck up again, and the gay mirth of the fête resumed its sway. long after the guests had departed pluma sat in her boudoir, her heart torn with pain, love, and jealousy, her brain filled with schemes of vengeance. "i can not take her life!" she cried; "but if i could mar her beauty--the pink-and-white beauty of daisy brooks, which has won rex from me--i would do it. i shall torture her for this," she cried. "i will win him from her though i wade through seas of blood. hear me, heaven," she cried, "and register my vow!" pluma hastily rung the bell. "saddle whirlwind and tempest at once!" she said to the servant who answered her summons. "it is after midnight, miss pluma. i--" there was a look in her eyes which would brook no further words. an hour later they had reached the cottage wherein slept daisy brooks, heedless of the danger that awaited her. "wait for me here," said pluma to the groom who accompanied her--"_i will not be long!_" chapter iv. "daisy," said rex, gently, as he led her away from the lights and the echoing music out into the starlight that shone with a soft, silvery radiance over hill and vale, "i shall never forgive myself for being the cause of the cruel insult you have been forced to endure to-night. i declare it's a shame. i shall tell pluma so to-morrow." "oh, no--no--please don't, mr. rex. i--i--had no right to waltz with you," sobbed daisy, "when i knew you were pluma's lover." "don't say that, daisy," responded rex, warmly. "i am glad, after all, everything has happened just as it did, otherwise i should never have known just how dear a certain little girl had grown to me; besides, i am not pluma's lover, and never shall be now." "you have quarreled with her for my sake," whispered daisy, regretfully. "i am so sorry--indeed i am." daisy little dreamed, as she watched the deep flush rise to rex's face, it was of her he was thinking, and not pluma, by the words, "a certain little girl." rex saw she did not understand him; he stopped short in the path, gazing down into those great, dreamy, pleading eyes that affected him so strangely. "daisy," he said, gently, taking her little clinging hands from his arm, and clasping them in his own, "you must not be startled at what i am going to tell you. when i met you under the magnolia boughs, i knew i had met my fate. i said to myself: 'she, and no other, shall be my wife.'" "your wife," she cried, looking at him in alarm. "please don't say so. i don't want to be your wife." "why not, daisy?" he asked, quickly. "because you are so far above me," sobbed daisy. "you are so rich, and i am only poor little daisy brooks." oh, how soft and beautiful were the eyes swimming in tears and lifted so timidly to his face! she could not have touched rex more deeply. daisy was his first love, and he loved her from the first moment their eyes met, with all the strength of his boyish, passionate nature; so it is not strange that the thought of possessing her, years sooner than he should have dared hope, made his young blood stir with ecstasy even though he knew it was wrong. "wealth shall be no barrier between us, daisy," he cried. "what is all the wealth in the world compared to love? do not say that again. love outweighs everything. even though you bid me go away and forget you, daisy, i could not do it. i can not live without you." "do you really love me so much in so short a time?" she asked, blushingly. "my love can not be measured by the length of time i have known you," he answered, eagerly. "why, daisy, the strongest and deepest love men have ever felt have come to them suddenly, without warning." the glamour of love was upon him; he could see no faults in pretty little artless daisy. true, she had not been educated abroad like pluma, but that did not matter; such a lovely rosebud mouth was made for kisses, not grammar. rex stood in suspense beside her, eagerly watching the conflict going on in the girl's heart. "don't refuse me, daisy," he cried, "give me the right to protect you forever from the cold world; let us be married to-night. we will keep it a secret if you say so. you must--you _must_, daisy, for i can not give you up." rex was so eager, so earnest, so thoroughly the impassioned lover! his hands were clinging to her own, his dark, handsome face drooped near hers, his pleading eyes searching her very soul. daisy was young, romantic, and impressible; a thousand thoughts rushed through her brain; it would be so nice to have a young husband to love her and care for her like rex, so handsome and so kind; then, too, she would have plenty of dresses, as fine as pluma wore, all lace and puffs; she might have a carriage and ponies, too; and when she rolled by the little cottage, septima, who had always been so cruel to her, would courtesy to _her_, as she did when pluma, the haughty young heiress, passed. the peachy bloom on her cheeks deepened; with daisy's thoughtless clinging nature, her craving for love and protection, her implicit faith in rex, who had protected her so nobly at the fête--it is not to be wondered rex won the day. shyly daisy raised her blue eyes to his face--and he read a shy, sweet consent that thrilled his very soul. "you shall never regret this hour, my darling," he cried, then in the soft silvery twilight he took her to his heart and kissed her rapturously. his mother's bitter anger, so sure to follow--the cold, haughty mother, who never forgot or forgave an injury, and his little sister birdie's sorrow were at that moment quite forgotten--even if they had been remembered they would have weighed as naught compared with his lovely little daisy with the golden hair and eyes of blue looking up at him so trustingly. daisy never forgot that walk through the sweet pink clover to the little chapel on the banks of the lonely river. the crickets chirped in the long green grass, and the breeze swayed the branches of the tall leafy trees, rocking the little birds in their nests. a sudden, swift, terrified look crept up into daisy's face as they entered the dim shadowy parlor. rex took her trembling chilled hands in his own; if he had not, at that moment, daisy would have fled from the room. "only a little courage, daisy," he whispered, "then a life of happiness." then as if in a dream she stood quite still by his side, while the fatal ceremony went on; in a confused murmur she heard the questions and responses of her lover, and answered the questions put to her; then rex turned to her with a smile and a kiss. poor little thoughtless daisy--it was done--in a moment she had sown the seeds from which was to spring up a harvest of woe so terrible that her wildest imagination could not have painted it. "are we really married, rex?" she whispered, as he led her out again into the starlight; "it seems so much like a dream." he bent his handsome head and kissed his pretty child-bride. daisy drew back with a startled cry--his lips were as cold as ice. "yes, you are my very own now," he whispered. "no one shall ever have the right to scold you again; you are mine now, daisy, but we must keep it a secret from every one for awhile, darling. you will do this for my sake, won't you, daisy?" he asked. "i am rich, as far as the world knows, but it was left to me under peculiar conditions. i--i--do not like to tell you what those conditions were, daisy." "please tell me, rex," she said, timidly; "you know i am your--your--wife--now." daisy blushed so prettily as she spoke. rex could not refrain from catching her up in his arms and kissing her. "you _shall_ know, my darling," he cried. "the conditions were i should marry the bride whom my mother selected for me. i was as much startled as you will be, daisy, when you hear who it was--pluma hurlhurst, of whitestone hall." "but you can not marry her now, rex," whispered the little child-bride, nestling closer in his embrace. "no; nor i would not if i could. i love you the best, my pretty wild flower. i would not exchange you, sweet, for all the world. i have only told you this so you will see why it is necessary to keep our marriage a secret--for the present, at least." daisy readily consented. "you are very wise, rex," she said. "i will do just as you tell me." by this time they had reached daisy's home. "i will meet you to-morrow at the magnolia-tree, where first i found my little wood-nymph, as i shall always call you. then we can talk matters over better. you will be sure to come while the dew sparkles on your pretty namesakes?" he asked, eagerly. before she had time to answer the cottage door opened and septima appeared in the door-way. rex was obliged to content himself with snatching a hasty kiss from the rosy lips. the next moment he was alone. he walked slowly back through the tangled brushwood--not to whitestone hall, but to an adjoining hostelry--feeling as though he were in a new world. true, it _was_ hard to be separated from his little child-bride. but rex had a clever brain; he meant to think of some plan out of the present difficulty. his face flushed and paled as he thought of his new position; it seemed to him every one must certainly read in his face he was a young husband. meanwhile daisy flitted quickly up the broad gravel path to the little cottage, wondering if it were a dream. "well!" said septima, sharply, "this is a pretty time of night to come dancing home, leaving me all alone with the baking! if i hadn't my hands full of dough i'd give your ears a sound boxing! i'll see you're never out after dark again, i'll warrant." for a moment daisy's blue eyes blazed, giving way to a roguish smile. "i wonder what she would say if she knew i was daisy brooks no longer, but mrs. rex lyon?" she thought, untying the blue ribbons of her hat. and she laughed outright as she thought how amazed septima would look; and the laugh sounded like the ripple of a mountain brook. "now, aunt seppy," coaxed daisy, slipping up behind her and flinging her plump little arms around the irate spinster's neck, "please don't be cross. indeed i was very particularly detained." stptima shook off the clinging arms angrily. "you can't coax _me_ into upholding you with your soft, purring ways. i'm not brother john, to be hoodwinked so easily. detained! a likely story!" "no," laughed daisy; "but you are dear old uncle john's sister, and i could love you for that, if for nothing else. but i really was detained, though. where's uncle john?" "he's gone to the hall after you, i reckon. i told him he had better stop at home--you were like a bad penny, sure to find your way back." a sudden terror blanched daisy's face. "when did he go, aunt seppy?" she asked, her heart throbbing so loudly she was sure septima would hear it. "an hour or more ago." daisy hastily picked up her hat again. "where are you going?" demanded septima, sharply. "i--i--am going to meet uncle john. please don't stop me," she cried, darting with the speed of a young gazelle past the hand that was stretched out to stay her mad flight. "i--i--must go!" chapter v. "i say you shall not," cried septima, planting herself firmly before her. "you shall not leave this house to-night." "you have no right to keep me here," panted daisy. "i am--i am--" the words died away on her lips. rex had told her she must not tell just yet. "you are a rash little fool," cried septima, wrathfully. "you are the bane of my life, and have been ever since that stormy winter night john brought you here. i told him then to wash his hands of the whole matter; you would grow up a willful, impetuous minx, and turn out at last like your mother." daisy sprung to her feet like lightning, her velvet eyes blazing, her breath coming quick and hot. "speak of me as lightly as you will, aunt septima," she cried, "but you must spare my poor mother's name! oh, mother, mother!" she cried, flinging herself down on her knees, and sobbing piteously, "if you had only taken me with you, down into the dark cruel waters!" "i only wish to heaven she had!" fervently ejaculated septima. at that moment a quick, hurried step sounded on the gravel path without, and john brooks hastily entered the room. "ah! thank god! here you are, daisy. i was over at the hall for you, and they told me you had left some hours before. i knew you had not been home, and i was sorely afraid something had happened you." ah! how little he knew! something had happened to her, the darkest and cruelest shadow that had ever darkened a girl's life was slowly gathering above her innocent head, and was soon to break, carrying in its turbulent depths a sorrow more bitter than death to bear. john brooks glanced inquiringly from the one to the other, intuitively guessing he must have interrupted a scene. daisy had struggled up from her knees to a sitting posture, putting her hair, curled into a thousand shining rings, away from her flushed face. "have you been scolding daisy again, septima?" he asked, angrily, taking the panting little damsel from the floor and seating her upon his knee, and drawing her curly head down to his rough-clad shoulder, and holding it there with his toil-hardened hand. "what have you been saying to my little daisy that i find her in tears?" "i was telling her if she did not mend her willful ways she might turn out like her moth--" "hush!" exclaimed john brooks, excitedly. "i shouldn't have thought you would have dared say that. what does daisy know of such things?" he muttered, indignantly. "don't let your senses run away with you, septima." "don't let your senses run away with you, john brooks. haven't you the sense to know daisy is getting too big for you to take on your knee and pet in that fashion? i am really ashamed of you. daisy is almost a woman!" snapped septima, scornfully--"quite sixteen." john brooks looked at his sister in amazement, holding little daisy off and gazing into the sweet little blooming face, and stroking the long fluffy golden curls as he replied: "ah, no, septima; daisy is only a child. why, it seems as though it were but yesterday i used to take her with me through the cotton-fields, and laugh to see her stretch her chubby hands up, crying for the bursting blossoms, growing high above her curly golden head. pshaw! septima, daisy is only a merry, frolicsome, romantic child yet." daisy nestled her tell-tale face closer on his broad shoulder to hide the swift blushes that crept up to cheek and brow. "look up, pet," he said, coaxingly, "i have news for you." "what--what is it?" gasped daisy, wondering if he could possibly have heard of her romantic marriage with rex, turning white to the very lips, her blue eyes darkening with suspense. "come, come, now," laughed, john, good-humoredly, "don't get excited, pet, it will take me just as long to tell it anyhow; it is something that will please you immensely." he drew from his breast pocket as he spoke a thick, yellow envelope, which contained several printed forms with blank spaces which were to be filled up. there was something in his voice which made daisy look at him, but her eyes fell and her cheeks flushed hotly as she met his glance. daisy was not used to keeping a secret locked up in her truthful little heart. she longed to throw her arms around his neck and whisper to him of her mad, romantic marriage, and of the handsome young husband who loved her so fondly. daisy knew so little of real life, and less of love and marriage, up to the time she had met rex! her heroes had been imaginary ones, her ideas of love only girlish, romantic fancies. it was all very exciting and charming. she was very fond of handsome rex, but she had yet to learn the depths of love which, sooner or later, brightens the lives of lovable women. daisy looked at the envelope with a wistful glance. "i am going to make a lady of you, my little sunbeam. i am going to send you off to boarding-school. that's what you have always wanted; now i am going to humor your whim." "but i--i do not want to go now, uncle john. i--i have changed my mind." "what!" "i--i don't want to go off to boarding-school now. i had rather stay here with you." john brooks laid down the pipe he was just lighting in genuine surprise. "why, it's only last week you were crying those pretty eyes of yours out, teasing to be sent to school. i--well, confound it--i don't understand the ways of women. i always thought you were different from the rest, little daisy, but i see you are all the same. never two days of the same mind. what is the reason you've changed your mind, pet?" "indeed, i don't want to go now, uncle john. please don't talk about it any more. i--i am happier here than i can tell you." john brooks laughed cheerily. "it's too late for you to change your mind now, little one. i have made arrangements for you to start bright and early to-morrow morning. the stage will be here by daylight, so you had better start off to bed at once, or there will be no roses in these checks to-morrow." he never forgot the expression of the white, startled face daisy raised to his. for once in her life daisy was unable to shake him from his purpose. "i know best, little one," he said. "i mean to make a lady of you. you have no fortune, little daisy, but your pretty face. it will be hard to lose my little sunbeam, but it is my duty, daisy. it is too late to back out now; for once i am firm. you must start to-morrow morning." "oh, dear, oh, dear!" sobbed daisy, throwing herself down on her little white bed when she had reached her own room, "what shall i do? i can't go without seeing rex. i never heard of a girl that was married being sent off to school. i--i dare not tell uncle john i am somebody's wife. oh, if i could only see rex!" daisy springs out of bed and crosses over to the little white curtained window, gazing out into the still calm beauty of the night. "if i only knew where to find rex," she mused, "i would go to him now. surely he would not let me be sent away from him." she turned away from the window with a sigh. "i must see rex to-morrow morning," she said, determinedly. and the weary little golden head, tired out with the day which had just died out, sunk restfully down upon the snowy pillow in a dreamless sleep, the happiest, alas! that poor little girl-bride was to know for long and weary years. a dark, dreamy silence wraps the cottage in its soft embrace, the moon, clear and full, sails tranquilly through the star-sown heavens, and the sweet scent of distant orange groves is wafted through the midnight breeze. yet the dark-cloaked figure that walks quickly and softly up the graveled walk sees none of the soft, calm beauty of the still summer night. she raises the brass knocker with a quick, imperative touch. after a wait of perhaps ten minutes or so septima answers the summons, but the candle she holds nearly drops from her hands as she beholds the face of her midnight visitor in the dim, uncertain flickering glare of the candle-light. "miss pluma," she exclaims, in amazement, "is there any one ill at the hall?" "no!" replies pluma, in a low, soft, guarded whisper. "i wished to see you--my business is most important--may i come in?" "certainly," answered septima, awkwardly. "i beg your pardon, miss, for keeping you standing outside so long." as pluma took the seat septima placed for her, the dark cloak she wore fell from her shoulders, and septima saw with wonder she still wore the shimmering silk she had in all probability worn at the fête. the rubies still glowed like restless, leaping fire upon her perfect arms and snowy throat, and sprays of hyacinth were still twined in her dark, glossy hair; but they were quite faded now, drooping, crushed, and limp among her curls; there was a strange dead-white pallor on her haughty face, and a lurid gleam shone in her dark, slumbrous eyes. pluma had studied well the character of the woman before her--who made no secret of her dislike for the child thrust upon their bounty--and readily imagined she would willingly aid her in carrying out the scheme she had planned. slowly one by one the stars died out of the sky; the pale moon drifted silently behind the heavy rolling clouds; the winds tossed the tops of the tall trees to and fro, and the dense darkness which precedes the breaking of the gray dawn settled over the earth. the ponies which the groom had held for long hours pawed the ground restlessly; the man himself was growing impatient. "she can be up to no good," he muttered; "all honest people should be in their beds." the door of the cottage opened, and pluma hurlhurst walked slowly down the path. "all is fair in love's warfare," she mutters, triumphantly. "fool! with your baby face and golden hair, you shall walk quickly into the net i have spread for you; he shall despise you. ay, crush with his heel into the earth the very flowers that bear the name of _daisy_." chapter vi. under the magnolia-tree, among the pink clover, rex lyon paced uneasily to and fro, wondering what could have happened to detain daisy. he was very nervous, feverish, and impatient, as he watched the sun rising higher and higher in the blue heavens, and glanced at his watch for the fifth time in the space of a minute. "pshaw!" he muttered, whisking off the tops of the buttercups near him with his ebony walking-stick. "i am not myself at all. i am growing as nervous as a woman. i think i'll read little sister birdie's letter over again to occupy my mind until my sweet little daisy comes." he sighed and smiled in one breath, as he threw himself down at full length on the green grass under the trees. taking from his pocket a little square white envelope, addressed in a childish hand to "mr. rexford lyon, allendale, west virginia, care of miss pluma." rex laughed aloud, until the tears started to his eyes, as they fell on the words "_care of miss pluma_," heavily underlined in the lower corner. "that is just like careless little romping birdie," he mused. "she supposes, because _she_ knows who _miss pluma_ is, every one else must certainly be aware of the same fact." he spread out the letter on his knee, trying hard to while away time in perusing its pages. rex looked so fresh and cool and handsome in his white linen suit, lying there under the shady trees that summer morning, his dark curls resting on his white hand, and a smile lighting up his pleasant face, it is not to be wondered at he was just the kind of young fellow to win the love of young romantic girls like daisy and pluma--the haughty young heiress. slowly rex read the letter through to the end. the morning stage whirled rapidly past him on its way to meet the early train. yet, all unconscious that it bore away from him his treasure, he never once glanced up from the letter he was reading. again rex laughed aloud as he glanced it over, reading as follows: "dear brother rex,--we received the letter you wrote, and the picture you sent with it, and my heart has been so heavy ever since that i could not write to you because big tears would fall on the page and blot it. now, dear old brother rex, don't be angry at what your little birdie is going to say. mamma says you are going to marry and bring home a wife, and she showed me her picture, and said you was very much in love with her, and i must be so too. but i can't fall in love with her, brother rex; indeed, i've tried very hard and i can't; don't tell anybody, but i'm awfully afraid i sha'n't like her one bit. she looks stylish, and her name pluma sounds real stylish too, but she don't look kind. i thought, perhaps, if i told you i did not like her you might give her up and come home. i forgot to tell you the blue room and the room across the hall is being fixed up for you just lovely, and i am to have your old one. "p.s.--and we received a letter from mr. lester stanwick, too. he says he will be passing through here soon and wishes to call. when are you coming home, rex? don't bring any one with you. "your loving little sister, "birdie." "there's no fear of my bringing pluma home now," he laughed, whistling a snatch of "the pages' chorus." "birdie won't have anything to fear on that score. i do wish mother hadn't set my heart on my marrying pluma. parents make a mistake in choosing whom their children shall marry and whom they shall not. love goes where it is sent." he looked at his watch again. "by george!" he muttered, turning very pale upon seeing another hour had slipped away, "i can not stand this a minute longer. i _must_ see what has happened to daisy." with a nameless fear clutching at his heart--a dark, shadowy fear--like the premonition of coming evil, rex made his way rapidly through the tangled underbrush, cutting across lots to john brooks' cottage. he had determined to call for daisy upon some pretext. it was rather a bold undertaking and might cause comment, still rex was reckless of all consequences; he _must_ see daisy at all hazards; and when rex made up his mind to do anything he usually succeeded; he was as daring and courageous as he was reckless and handsome. once, twice, thrice he knocked, receiving no answer to his summons. "that's strange," he mused, "exceedingly strange." hardly knowing what prompted him to do it, rex turned the knob; it yielded to the touch, swinging slowly back on its creaking hinges. "good heavens!" he ejaculated, gazing wildly about him and as pale as death, "daisy is gone and the cottage is empty!" he leaned against the door-way, putting his hand to his brow like one who had received a heavy blow; and the bare walls seemed to take up the cry and echo, mockingly, "gone!" the blow was so sudden and unexpected he was completely bewildered; his brain was in a whirl. he saw a laborer crossing the cotton-fields and called to him. "i was looking for john brooks," said rex. "i find the cottage empty. can you tell me where they have gone?" "gone!" echoed the man, surprisedly. "i don't understand it; i was passing the door a few hours since, just as the stage drove off with john brooks and daisy. 'good-bye, neighbor,' he called out to me, 'i am off on an extended business trip. you must bring your wife over to see septima; she will be lonely, i'll warrant.' there was no sign of him moving then. i--i don't understand it." "you say he took daisy with him," asked rex, with painful eagerness. "can you tell me where they went?" the man shook his head and passed on. rex was more mystified than ever. "what can it all mean?" he asked himself. "surely," he cried, "daisy--dear little innocent blue-eyed daisy--could not have meant to deceive me; yet why has she not told me?" the hot blood mounted to his temples. perhaps daisy regretted having married him and had fled from him. the thought was so bitter it almost took his breath away. rex loved her so madly, so passionately, so blindly, he vowed to himself he would search heaven and earth to find her. and in that terrible hour the young husband tasted the first draught of the cup of bitterness which he was to drain to the very dregs. poor rex! he little knew this was but the first stroke of pluma hurlhurst's fatal revenge--to remove her rival from her path that she might win him back to his old allegiance. * * * * * early that morning there had been great bustle and stir in the brooks' cottage. in vain daisy had attempted to steal quietly away into her own little room and write a hasty line to rex, which, if all other means failed her, she could send to him by one of the men employed in the fields, begging him to come to her at once. septima would not leave her to herself for a single instant. even her writing-desk, which had stood on the bureau in the corner for years, was gone. poor little daisy cried out to herself--fate was against her. "i should like to say good-bye to the old familiar scenes, septima," she said, making a desperate effort to meet rex by some means. "i should like to see the old magnolia-tree down in the glade just once before i go." "nonsense," replied septima, sharply, a malicious smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. "i guess the trees and the flowers won't wither and die of grief if you don't bid them good-bye; it's too late now, anyhow. see, here is the stage coming already," she cried, glancing out of the window, "and here comes john with his valise and umbrella. make haste, daisy; where's your gloves and satchel?" for one brief instant daisy stood irresolute; if she had only dared cry out to them "i am a bride; it is cruel to send me away from rex," what a world of misery might have been spared her! but her lips were sealed. "well, well," cried john brooks, hurriedly entering the room; "not ready yet, little girlie? we must be off at once or we will miss the train." in vain daisy protested brokenly she could not go, and the agony in those blue uplifted eyes would have touched a heart of stone. still john brooks believed it would be a sin to comply with her request. go to school she must, for heaven had intended a cultured mind should accompany so beautiful a face. half lifting, half carrying the slight figure in his powerful arms, daisy was borne, half fainting and sobbing as though her heart would break, to the vehicle which stood in waiting. on through the fragrant stillness of that sunshiny summer morning the jolting stage rolled rapidly on its way, crossing the little bridge where she had lingered only the night before with rex, her husband; they would soon reach the alder bushes that skirted the pool. the next bend in the road would bring her in sight of the magnolia-tree where rex would be awaiting her. ah, thank heaven, it was not too late! she could fling out her arms, and cry out: "rex, my love, my darling, they are bearing me from you! save me, rex, my darling, save me!" john brooks sat quietly by her side silently wondering what had come over little daisy--sweet, impulsive little daisy--in a single night. "she is only a child," he muttered to himself, "full of whims and caprices; crying her eyes out last week because she could not go off to school, and now crying because she's got to go." swiftly the stage rolled down the green sloping hill-side; in another moment it had reached the alder bushes and gained the curve of the road, and she saw rex lying on the green grass waiting for her. the sunlight drifting through the magnolia blossoms fell upon his handsome, upturned, smiling face and the dark curls pushed back from his white forehead. "rex! rex!" she cried, wringing her white hands, but the words died away on her white lips, making no sound. then the world seemed to close darkly around her, and poor little daisy, the unhappy girl-bride, fell back in the coach in a deadly swoon. chapter vii. "poor little daisy!" cried john brooks, wiping away a suspicious moisture from his eyes with his rough, toil-hardened hand, "she takes it pretty hard now; but the time will come when she will thank me for it. heaven knows there's nothing in this world more valuable than an education; and she will need it, poor little, motherless child!" as the stage drove up before the station daisy opened her blue eyes with a sigh. "i can at least write to rex at once," she thought, "and explain the whole matter to him." daisy smiled as she thought rex would be sure to follow on the very next train. john brooks watched the smile and the flush of the rosy face, and believed daisy was beginning to feel more reconciled about going to school. "i hope we will get there by noon," said john, anxiously, taking the seat beside her on the crowded train. "if we missed the train at the cross-roads it would be a serious calamity. i should be obliged to send you on alone; for i _must_ get to new york by night, as i have some very important business to transact for the plantation which must be attended to at once." "alone!" echoed daisy, tremblingly. "why, uncle john, i was never away from home alone in my life!" "that's just the difficulty," he answered, perplexedly. "i have always guarded my little flower from the world's cruel blasts, and you are unused to the rough side of life." "still, i _could_ go on alone," persisted daisy, bravely. john brooks laughed outright. "you would get lost at the first corner, my girlie! then i should have to fly around to these newspaper offices, advertising for the recovery of a little country daisy which was either lost, strayed, or stolen. no, no, little one!" he cried; "i would not trust you alone, a stranger in a great city. a thousand ills might befall a young girl with a face like yours." "no one would know i was a stranger," replied daisy, innocently. "i should simply inquire the way to madame whitney's, and follow the directions given me." "there! didn't i tell you you could never find the way?" laughed john until he was red in the face. "you suppose a city is like our country lanes, eh?--where you tell a stranger: 'follow that path until you come to a sign-post, then that will tell you which road leads to the village.' ha! ha! ha! why, my dear little daisy, not one person in a hundred whom you might meet ever heard of madame whitney! in cities people don't know their very neighbors personally. they are sure to find out if there's any scandal afloat about them--and that is all they do know about them. you would have a lively time of it finding madame whitney's without your old uncle john to pilot you through, i can tell you." daisy's last hope was nipped in the bud. she had told herself, if she were left alone, she could send a telegram back at once to rex, and he would join her, and she would not have to go to school--school, which would separate a girl-bride from her handsome young husband, of whom she was fast learning to be so fond. "i could have sent you under the care of mr. stanwick," continued john, thoughtfully. "he started for the city yesterday--but i did not receive madame whitney's letter in time." he did not notice, as he spoke, that the occupant in the seat directly in front of them gave a perceptible start, drawing the broad slouch hat he wore, which concealed his features so well, still further over his face, while a cruel smile lingered for a moment about the handsome mouth. the stranger appeared deeply interested in the columns of the paper he held before him; but in reality he was listening attentively to the conversation going on behind him. "i shall not lose sight of this pretty little girl," said lester stanwick to himself, for it was he. "no power on earth shall save her from me. i shall win her from him--by fair means or foul. it will be a glorious revenge!" "madame whitney's seminary is a very high-toned institution," continued john, reflectively; "and the young girls i saw there wore no end of furbelows and ribbons; but i'll warrant for fresh, sweet beauty you'll come out ahead of all of 'em, pet." "you think so much of me, dear good old uncle," cried daisy, gratefully. "i--i wonder if any one in the world could ever--could ever care for me as--as you do?" whispered daisy, laying her soft, warm cheek against his rough hand. "no one but a husband," he responded, promptly. "but you are too young to have such notions in your head yet awhile. attend to your books, and don't think of beaus. now that we are on the subject, i might as well speak out what i've had on my mind some time back. i don't want my little daisy to fall in love with any of these strangers she happens to meet. you are too young to know anything about love affairs. you'll never rightly understand it until it comes to you. i must know all about the man who wants my little daisy. whatever you do, little one, do upright and honestly. and, above all, never deceive me. i have often heard of these romantic young school-girls falling in love with handsome strangers, and clandestine meetings following, ending in elopements; but, mark my words, no good comes of these deceptions--forewarned is forearmed. daisy, you'll always remember my words, and say to yourself: 'he knows what is best.' you will remember what i say, won't you, pet?" he wondered why the fair, sweet face grew as pale as a snow-drop, and the cold little fingers trembled in his clasp, and the velvety eyes drooped beneath his earnest gaze. "yes," whispered daisy; "i shall remember what you have said." in spite of her efforts to speak naturally and calmly the sweet voice would tremble. "bal--ti--more!" shouted the brakeman, lustily. "twenty minutes for breakfast. change cars for the north and west!" "ah, here we are!" cried john, hastily gathering up their satchels and innumerable bundles. "we must make haste to reach the uptown omnibus to get a seat, or we shall have to stand and cling to the strap all the way up. i'm an old traveler, you see. there's nothing like knowing the ins and outs." "have a coach uptown, sir? take you to any part of the city. coach, sir?" cried innumerable hackmen, gathering about them. daisy tightened her hold on john's arm. she quite believed they intended to pick her up and put her in the coach by main force. one of them was actually walking off with her reticule. "hold there, young man," cried john, quickly, recovering the satchel. "don't make yourself uneasy on our account. we would be pleased to ride in your conveyance if you don't charge anything. we have no money." the loquacious hackmen fell back as if by magic. daisy was blushing like a rose, terribly embarrassed. john brooks laughed long and heartily. "that's the quickest way in the world to rid yourself of those torments," he declared, enjoying his little joke hugely. "why, daisy, if you had come on alone some of those chaps would have spirited you away without even saying so much as 'by your leave.'" mme. whitney's seminary for young ladies was a magnificent structure, situated in the suburbs of baltimore. on either side of the pebbled walk which led to the main entrance were tall fountains tossing their rainbow-tinted sprays up to the summer sunshine. the lawn in front was closely shaven, and through the trees in the rear of the building could be seen the broad rolling chesapeake dancing and sparkling in the sunlight. the reputation of this institution was second to none. young ladies were justly proud of being able to say they finished their education at mme. whitney's establishment. as a natural consequence, the school was composed of the _élite_ of the south. clang! clang! clang! sounded the great bell from the belfry as daisy, with a sinking, homesick feeling stealing over her, walked slowly up the paved walk by john brooks' side toward the imposing, aristocratic structure. poor little daisy never forgot that first day at boarding-school; how all the dainty young girls in their soft white muslins glanced in surprise at her when mme. whitney brought her into the school-room, but she could have forgiven them for that if they had not laughed at her poor old uncle john, in his plain country garb, and they giggled behind their handkerchiefs when she clung to his neck and could not say good-bye through her tears, but sunk down into her seat, leaning her head on her desk, bravely trying to keep back the pearly drops that would fall. when recess came daisy did not leave her seat. she would have given the world to have heard rex's voice just then; she was beginning to realize how much his sheltering love was to her. she would even have been heartily glad to have been back in the little kitchen at the cottage, no matter how much septima scolded her. all the girls here had the same haughty way of tossing their heads and curling their lips and looking innumerable things out of their eyes, which reminded daisy so strongly of pluma hurlhurst. most of the girls had left the school-room, dividing off into groups and pairs here and there. daisy sat watching them, feeling wretchedly lonely. suddenly a soft white hand was laid lightly on her shoulder, and a sweet voice said: "we have a recess of fifteen minutes, won't you come out into the grounds with me? i should be so pleased to have you come." the voice was so gentle, so coaxing, so sweet, daisy involuntarily glanced up at the face of the young girl bending over her as she arose to accompany her. she put her arm around daisy's waist, school-girl fashion, as they walked down the lone halls and out to the green grassy lawn. "my name is sara miller," she said; "will you tell me yours?" "daisy brooks," she answered, simply. "what a pretty name!" cried her new-found friend, enthusiastically, "and how well it suits you! why, it is a little poem in itself." daisy flushed as rosy as the crimson geraniums near them, remembering rex, her own handsome rex, had said the same thing that morning he had carried her heavy basket to the gates of whitestone hall--that morning when all the world seemed to change as she glanced up into his merry brown eyes. "we are to be room-mates," explained sara, "and i know i shall like you ever so much. do you think you will like me?" "yes," said daisy. "i like you now." "thank you," said miss sara, making a mock courtesy. "i am going to love you with all my might, and if you don't love me you will be the most ungrateful creature in the world. i know just how lonesome you must be," continued sara. "i remember just how lonesome i was the first day i was away from mamma, and when night set in and i was all alone, and i knew i was securely locked in, i was actually thinking of tearing the sheets of my bed into strips and making a rope of them, and letting myself down to the ground through the window, and making for home as fast as i could. i knew i would be brought back the next day, though," laughed sara. "mamma is so strict with me. i suppose yours is too?" "i have no mother--or father," answered daisy. "all my life i have lived with john brooks and his sister septima, on the hurlhurst plantation. i call them aunt and uncle. septima has often told me no relationship at all existed between us." "you are an orphan, then?" suggested the sympathetic sara. "is there no one in all the world related to you?" "yes--no--o," answered daisy, confusedly, thinking of rex, her young husband, and of the dearest relationship in all the world which existed between them. "what a pity," sighed sara. "well, daisy," she cried, impulsively, throwing both her arms around her and giving her a hearty kiss, "you and i will be all the world to each other. i shall tell you all my secrets and you must tell me yours. there's some girls you can trust, and some you can't. if you tell them your secrets, the first time you have a spat your secret is a secret no longer. every girl in the school knows all about it; of course you are sure to make up again. but," added sara, with a wise expression, "after you are once deceived, you can never trust them again." "i have never known many girls," replied daisy. "i do not know how others do, but i'm sure you can always trust my friendship." and the two girls sealed their compact with a kiss, just as the great bell in the belfry rang, warning them they must be at their lessons again--recess was over. chapter viii. in one of the private offices of messrs. tudor, peck & co., the shrewd baltimore detectives, stood rex, waiting patiently until the senior member of the firm should be at leisure. "now, my dear sir, i will attend you with pleasure," said mr. tudor, sealing and dispatching the note he had just finished, and motioning rex to a seat. "i shall be pleased if you will permit me to light a cigar," said rex, taking the seat indicated. "certainly, certainly; smoke, if you feel so inclined, by all means," replied the detective, watching with a puzzled twinkle in his eye the fair, boyish face of his visitor. "no, thank you," he said, as rex tendered him an havana; "i never smoke during business hours." "i wish to engage your services to find out the whereabouts of--of--of--my wife," said rex, hesitatingly. "she has left me--suddenly--she fled--on the very night of our marriage!" it hurt rex's pride cruelly to make this admission, and a painful flush crept up into the dark rings of hair lying on his white forehead. mr. tudor was decidedly amazed. he could not realize how any sane young woman could leave so handsome a young fellow as the one before him. in most cases the shoe was on the other foot; but he was too thoroughly master of his business to express surprise in his face. he merely said: "go on, sir; go on!" and rex did go on, never sparing himself in describing how he urged daisy to marry him on the night of the fête, and of their parting, and the solemn promise to meet on the morrow, and of his wild grief--more bitter than death--when he had found the cottage empty. "it reads like the page of a romance," said rex, with a dreary smile, leaning his head on his white hand. "but i must find her!" he cried, with energy. "i shall search the world over for her. if it takes every cent of my fortune, i shall find daisy!" rex looked out of the window at the soft, fleecy clouds overhead, little dreaming daisy was watching those self-same clouds, scarcely a stone's throw from the very spot where he sat, and at that moment he was nearer daisy than he would be for perhaps years again, for the strong hand of fate was slowly but surely drifting them asunder. for some moments neither spoke. "perhaps," said mr. tudor, breaking the silence, "there was a previous lover in the case?" "i am sure there was not!" said rex, eagerly. still the idea was new to him. he adored daisy with a mad, idolatrous adoration, almost amounting to worship, and a love so intense is susceptible to the poisonous breath of jealousy, and jealousy ran in rex's veins. he could not endure the thought of daisy's--his daisy's--eyes brightening or her cheek flushing at the approach of a rival--that fair, flower-like face, sweet and innocent as a child's--daisy, whom he so madly loved. "well," said mr. tudor, as rex arose to depart, "i will do all i can for you. leave your address, please, in case i should wish to communicate with you." "i think i shall go back to allendale, remaining there at least a month or so. i have a strong conviction daisy might come back, or at least write to me there." mr. tudor jotted down the address, feeling actually sorry for the handsome young husband clinging to such a frail straw of hope. in his own mind, long before rex had concluded his story, he had settled his opinion--that from some cause the young wife had fled from him with some rival, bitterly repenting her mad, hasty marriage. "i have great faith in your acknowledged ability," said rex, grasping mr. tudor's outstretched hand. "i shall rest my hopes upon your finding daisy. i can not, will not, believe she is false. i would as soon think of the light of heaven playing me false as my sweet little love!" * * * * * the dark mantle of night had folded its dusky wings over the inmates of the seminary. all the lights were out in the young ladies' rooms--as the nine-o'clock call, "all lights out!" had been called some ten minutes before--all the lights save one, flickering, dim, and uncertain, from daisy's window. "oh, dear!" cried daisy, laying her pink cheek down on the letter she was writing to rex, "i feel as though i could do something _very_ desperate to get away from here--and--and--back to rex. poor fellow!" she sighed, "i wonder what he thought, as the hours rolled by and i did not come? of course he went over to the cottage," she mused, "and septima must have told him where i had gone. rex will surely come for me to-morrow," she told herself, with a sweet, shy blush. she read and reread the letter her trembling little hands had penned with many a heart-flutter. it was a shy, sweet little letter, beginning with "dear mr. rex," and ending with, "yours sincerely, daisy." it was just such a dear, timid letter as many a pure, fresh-hearted loving young girl would write, brimful of the love which filled her guileless heart for her handsome, debonair rex--with many allusions to the secret between them which weighed so heavily on her heart, sealing her lips for his dear sake. after sealing and directing her precious letter, and placing it in the letter-bag which hung at the lower end of the corridor, daisy hurried back to her own apartment and crept softly into her little white bed, beside sara, and was soon fast asleep, dreaming of rex and a dark, haughty, scornful face falling between them and the sunshine--the cold, mocking face of pluma hurlhurst. mme. whitney, as was her custom, always looked over the out-going mail early in the morning, sealing the letters of which she approved, and returning, with a severe reprimand, those which did not come up to the standard of her ideas. "what is this?" she cried, in amazement, turning the letter daisy had written in her hand. "why, i declare, it is actually sealed!" without the least compunction she broke the seal, grimly scanning its contents from beginning to end. if there was anything under the sun the madame abominated it was love-letters. it was an established fact that no tender _billets-doux_ found their way from the academy; the argus-eyed madame was too watchful for that. with a lowering brow, she gave the bell-rope a hasty pull. "jenkins," she said to the servant answering her summons, "send miss brooks to me here at once!" "poor little thing!" cried the sympathetic jenkins to herself. "i wonder what in the world is amiss now? there's fire in the madame's eye. i hope she don't intend to scold poor little daisy brooks." jenkins had taken a violent fancy to the sweet-faced, golden-haired, timid young stranger. "it must be something terrible, i'm sure!" cried sara, when she heard the madame had sent for daisy; while poor daisy's hand trembled so--she could scarcely tell why--that she could hardly bind up the golden curls that fell down to her waist in a wavy, shining sheen. daisy never once dreamed her letter was the cause of her unexpected summons, until she entered mme. whitney's presence and saw it opened--yes, opened--her own sacred, loving letter to rex--in her hand. daisy was impulsive, and her first thought was to grasp her precious letter and flee to her own room. how dared the madame open the precious letter she had intended only for rex's eyes! "miss brooks," began madame, impressively, "i suppose i am right in believing this epistle belongs to you?" a great lump rose in daisy's throat. "yes, madame," answered daisy, raising her dark-blue eyes pleadingly to the stern face before her. "and may i ask by what right you dared violate the rules and regulations of this establishment by sending a sealed letter to--a man? your guardian strictly informed me you had no correspondents whatever, and i find this is a--i blush to confess it--actually a love-letter. what have you to say in reference to your folly, miss brooks?" "i'm sure i don't know," sobbed daisy. "you don't know?" repeated madame, scornfully. "not a very satisfactory explanation. well, miss brooks, i have fully determined what steps i shall take in the matter. i shall read this letter this morning before the whole school; it will afford me an excellent opportunity to point out the horrible depths to which young girls are plunged by allowing their minds to wander from their books to such thoughts as are here expressed. what do you mean by this secret to which you allude so often?" she asked, suddenly. "please do not ask me, madame," sobbed daisy; "i can not tell you--indeed i can not. i dare not!" an alarming thought occurred to madame. "speak, girl!" she cried, hoarsely, grasping her firmly by the shoulder. "i must know the meaning of this secret which is so appalling. you fear to reveal it! does your guardian know of it?" "no--o!" wailed daisy; "i could not tell him. i must keep the secret." poor little innocent daisy! her own words had convicted her beyond all pardon in the eyes of shrewd, suspicious mme. whitney, who guessed, as is usually the case, wide of the mark, as to the cause of the secret daisy dare not to reveal to her guardian or herself. "my duty is plain in this case," said madame. "i shall read this as a terrible warning to the young ladies of this institution; then i will send for mr. john brooks, your guardian, and place this letter in his hands." "oh, no, madame, in pity's name, no!" sobbed daisy, wildly, kneeling imploringly at her feet, her heart beating tumultuously, and her hands locked convulsively together. "do not, madame, i pray you; anything but that; he would cast me out of his heart and home, and i--i could not go to rex, you see." but madame did not see. she laughed a little hard, metallic laugh that grated, oh, so cruelly, on daisy's sensitive nerves. when one woman's suspicions are aroused against another, heaven help the suspected one; there is little mercy shown her. "man's inhumanity to man" is nothing compared to woman's inhumanity to woman. mme. whitney had discovered a capital way to score a hit in the direction of morality. "no," she said, laying the letter down on the table before her. "arise from your knees, miss brooks. your prayers are useless. i think this will be a life-long lesson to you." "oh, madame, for the love of heaven!" cried daisy, rocking herself to and fro, "spare me, i beseech you! can nothing alter your purpose?" "well," said madame, reflectively, "i may not be quite so severe with you if you will confess, unreservedly, the whole truth concerning this terrible secret, and what this young man rex is to you." "i can not," wailed daisy, "i can not. oh, my heart is breaking, yet i dare not." "very well," said madame, rising, indicating the conversation was at an end, "i shall not press you further on the subject. i will excuse you now, miss brooks. you may retire to your room." still daisy rocked herself to and fro on her knees at her feet. suddenly a daring thought occurred to her. the letter which had caused her such bitter woe lay on the table almost within her very grasp--the letter, every line of which breathed of her pure, sacred love for rex--her rex--whom she dared not even claim. she could imagine madame commenting upon every word and sentence, ridiculing those tender expressions which had been such rapturous joy to her hungry little heart as she had penned them. and, last of all, and far the most bitter thought, how dear old john brooks would turn his honest eyes upon her tell-tale face, demanding to know what the secret was--the secret which she had promised her young husband she would not reveal, come what would. if his face should grow white and stern, and those lips, which had blessed, praised, and petted, but never scolded her--if those lips should curse her, she would die then and there at his feet. in an instant she had resolved upon a wild, hazardous plan. quick as a flash of lightning daisy sprung to her feet and tore the coveted letter from madame's detaining grasp; the door stood open, and with the fleetness of a hunted deer she flew down the corridor, never stopping for breath until she had gained the very water's edge. mme. whitney gave a loud shriek and actually fainted, and the attendant, who hurried to the scene, caught but a glimpse of a white, terrified, beautiful face, and a cloud of flying golden hair. no one in that establishment ever gazed upon the face of daisy brooks again! chapter ix. "where is miss brooks?" cried mme. whitney, excitedly, upon opening her eyes. "jenkins," she cried, motioning to the attendant who stood nearest her, "see that miss brooks is detained in her own room under lock and key until i am at liberty to attend to her case." the servants looked at one another in blank amazement. no one dared tell her daisy had fled. the torn envelope, which daisy had neglected to gain possession of, lay at her feet. with a curious smile mme. whitney smoothed it out carefully, and placed it carefully away in her private desk. "rex lyon," she mused, knitting her brow. "ah, yes, that was the name, i believe. he must certainly be the one. daisy brooks shall suffer keenly for this outrage," cried the madame, grinding her teeth with impotent rage. "i shall drag her pride down to the very dust beneath my feet. how dare the little rebel defy my orders? i shall have her removed to the belfry-room; a night or two there will humble her pride, i dare say," fumed the madame, pacing up and down the room. "i have brought worse tempers than hers into subjection; still i never dreamed the little minx would dare openly defy _me_ in that manner. i shall keep her in the belfry-room, under lock and key, until she asks my pardon on her bended knees; and what is more, i shall wrest the secret from her--the secret she has defied me to discover." * * * * * on sped daisy, as swift as the wind, crushing the fatal letter in her bosom, until she stood at the very edge of the broad, glittering chesapeake. the rosy-gold rays of the rising sun lighted up the waves with a thousand arrowy sparkles like a vast sea of glittering, waving gold. daisy looked over her shoulder, noting the dark forms hurrying to and fro. "they are searching for me," she said, "but i will never go back to them--never!" she saw a man's form hurrying toward her. at that moment she beheld, moored in the shadow of a clump of alders at her very feet, a small boat rocking to and fro with the tide. daisy had a little boat of her own at home; she knew how to use the oars. "they will never think of looking for me out on the water," she cried, triumphantly, and quickly untying it, she sprung into the little skiff, and seizing the oars, with a vigorous stroke the little shell shot rapidly out into the shimmering water, daisy never once pausing in her mad, impetuous flight until the dim line of the shore was almost indistinguishable from the blue arching dome of the horizon. "there," she cried, flushed and excited, leaning on the oars; "no one could possibly think of searching for me out here." her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes danced like stars, while the freshening breeze blew her bright shining hair to and fro. many a passing fisherman cast admiring glances at the charming little fairy, so sweet and so daring, out all alone on the smiling, treacherous, dancing waves so far away from the shore. but if daisy saw them, she never heeded them. "i shall stay here until it is quite dark," she said to herself; "they will have ceased to look for me by that time. i can reach the shore quite unobserved, and watch for sara to get my hat and sacque; and then"--a rosy flush stole up to the rings of her golden hair as she thought what she would do then--"i shall go straight back to rex--my husband!" she knew john brooks would not return home for some time to come, and she would not go back to septima. she made up her mind she would certainly go to rex. she would wait at the depot, and, if rex did not come in on the early train, she would go back at once to allendale. her purse, with twenty dollars in it--which seemed quite a fortune to daisy--was luckily in her pocket, together with half of an apple and a biscuit. the healthful exercise of rowing, together with the fresh, cool breeze, gave daisy a hearty appetite, and the apple and biscuit afforded her quite a pleasant lunch. poor daisy! the pretty little girl-bride had no more thought of danger than a child. she had no premonition that every moment the little boat, drifting rapidly along with the tide, was bearing her rapidly onward toward death and destruction. daisy paid little heed to the dark rolling clouds that were slowly obscuring the brilliant sunshine, or the swirl and dash of the waves that were rocking her little boat so restlessly to and fro. the hours seemed to slip heedlessly by her. the soft gloaming seemed to fall about her swiftly and without warning. "i must turn my boat about at once!" cried daisy, in alarm. "i am quite a long way from the shore!" at that moment the distant rumbling roar of thunder sounded dismally over the leaden-gray, white-capped water; and the wind, rising instantly into a fierce gale, hurled the dark storm-clouds across the sky, blotting the lurid glow of sunset and mantling the heavens above her in its dusky folds. daisy was brave of heart, but in the face of such sudden and unlooked-for danger her courage failed her. the pretty rose-bloom died away from her face, and her beautiful blue eyes expanded wide with terror. she caught her breath with a sob, and, seizing the oar with two soft, childish hands, made a desperate attempt to turn the boat. the current resisted her weak effort, snapping the oar in twain like a slender twig and whirling it from her grasp. "rex! rex!" she cried out, piteously, stretching out her arms, "save me! oh, i am lost--lost! heaven pity me!" the night had fallen swiftly around her. out, alone, on the wild, pitiless, treacherous waves--alone with the storm and the darkness! the storm had now commenced in earnest, beating furiously against the little boat, and lashing the mad waves into seething foam as they dashed high above the terrified girl. no sound could be heard above the wild warring of the elements--the thunder's roar, the furious lashing of the waves and the white, radiant lightning blazing across the vast expanse of water, making the scene sublime in its terrible grandeur. "rex! my love, my life!" she cried, in the intense agony of despair, "you will never know how well i loved you! i have faced death rather than betray the sweet, sad secret--i am your wife!" was it the wild flashing of the lightning, or was it a red light she saw swinging to and fro, each moment drawing rapidly nearer and nearer? heaven be praised! it was a barge of some kind; help was within her reach. "help!" cried daisy, faintly. "help! i am alone out on the water!" she held out her arms toward the huge vessel which loomed up darkly before her, but the terrified voice was drowned by the fierce beating of the storm. suddenly her little boat spun round and round, the swift water was drawing her directly in the path of the barge; another moment and it would be upon her; she beat the air with her white hands, gazing with frozen horror at the fatal lights drawing nearer and nearer. "rex, my love, good-bye!" she wailed, sinking down in the bottom of the boat as one end of the barge struck it with tremendous force. * * * * * leaning over the railing, evidently unmindful of the fierce fury of the storm that raged around him, stood a young man, gazing abstractedly over the wild dashing waves. a dark smile played about the corners of his mouth, and his restless eyes wore a pleased expression, as though his thoughts were in keeping with the wild, warring elements. suddenly, through the terrible roar of the storm, he heard a piteous appeal for help, and the voice seemed to die away over the angry, muttering waves. he leaned over the railing breathless with excitement. the thunder crashed almost incessantly, and there came a stunning bolt, followed by a blinding blaze of lightning. in that one instant he had seen a white, childish face, framed in a mass of floating golden hair, turned toward him. one instant more and she would be swept beneath the ponderous wheel, beyond all mortal power of help; then the dark, hungry waters closed cruelly over her, but in that one instantaneous glance the man's face had turned deadly pale. "great god!" he shrieked, hoarsely, "it is daisy brooks!" chapter x. on the evening which followed the one just described in our last chapter, pluma hurlhurst sat in her luxuriant boudoir of rose and gold, deeply absorbed in the three letters which she held in her lap. to one was appended the name of septima brooks, one was from rex's mother, and the last--and by far the most important one--bore the signature of lester stanwick. once, twice, thrice she perused it, each time with growing interest, the glittering light deepening in her dark, flashing eyes, and the red lips curling in a scornful smile. "this is capital!" she cried, exultingly; "even better than i had planned. i could not see my way clear before, but now everything is clear sailing." she crossed over to the mirror, looking long and earnestly at the superb figure reflected there. "i am fair to look upon," she cried, bitterly. "why can not rex love me?" ah! she was fair to look upon, standing beneath the softened glow of the overhanging chandelier, in her dress of gold brocade, with a pomegranate blossom on her bosom, and a diamond spray flashing from the dark, glossy curls, magnificently beautiful. "i was so sure of rex," she said, bitterly; "if any one had said to me, 'rex prefers your overseer's niece, daisy brooks, with her baby face and pink-and-white beauty,' i would have laughed them to scorn. prefers her to me, the haughty heiress of whitestone hall, for whose love, or even smile, men have sued in vain! i have managed the whole affair very cleverly!" she mused. "john brooks does not return before the coming spring, and septima is removed from my path most effectually, and if lester stanwick manages his part successfully, i shall have little to fear from daisy brooks! how clever lester was to learn rex had been to the detective agency! how he must have loved that girl!" she cried, hotly, with a darkening brow. "ah, rex!" she whispered, softly (and for an instant the hard look died out of her face), "no one shall take you from me. i would rather look upon your face cold in death, and know no one else could claim you, than see you smile lovingly upon a rival. there is no torture under heaven so bitter to endure as the pangs of a love unreturned!" she cried, fiercely. she threw open the window and leaned far out into the radiant starlight, as the great clock pealed the hour of seven. "rex has received my note," she said, "with the one from his mother inclosed. surely he will not refuse my request. he will come, if only through politeness!" again she laughed, that low, mocking laugh peculiar to her, as she heard the peal of the bell. "it is rex," she whispered, clasping her hands over her beating heart. "to-night i will sow the first seeds of distrust in your heart, and when they take root you shall despise daisy brooks a thousand-fold more than you love her now. she shall feel the keen thrust of a rival's bitter vengeance!" casting a last lingering glance (so woman-like!) at the perfect face the mirror reflected, to give her confidence in herself for the coming ordeal, pluma hurlhurst glided down to the parlor, where rex awaited her. it would have been hard to believe the proud, willful, polished young heiress could lend herself to a plot so dark and so cruel as the one she was at that moment revolving in her fertile brain. rex was standing at the open window, his handsome head leaning wearily against the casement. his face was turned partially toward her, and pluma could scarcely repress the cry of astonishment that rose to her lips as she saw how pale and haggard he looked in the softened light. she knew but too well the cause. he was quite unaware of pluma's presence until a soft, white, jeweled hand was laid lightly on his arm, and a low, musical voice whispered, "i am so glad you have come, rex," close to his elbow. they had parted under peculiar circumstances. he could fancy her at that moment kneeling to him, under the glare of the lamp-light, confessing her love for him, and denouncing poor little clinging daisy with such bitter scorn. his present position was certainly an embarrassing one to rex. "i am here in accordance with your request, miss hurlhurst," he said, simply, bowing coldly over the white hand that would cling to his arm. "you are very kind," she said, sweetly, "to forget that unpleasant little episode that happened at the fête, and come to-night. i believe i should never have sent for you," she added, archly, smiling up into his face, "had it not been at the urgent request of your mother, rex." pluma hesitated. rex bit his lip in annoyance, but he was too courteous to openly express his thoughts; he merely bowed again. he meant pluma should understand all thoughts of love or tenderness must forever more be a dead letter between them. "my mother!" he repeated, wonderingly; "pardon me, i do not understand." for answer she drew his mother's letter from her bosom and placed it in his hands. he ran his eyes quickly over the page. the postscript seemed to enlighten him. "the course of true love never runs smooth," it ran, "and i beseech you, pluma dear, if anything should ever happen, any shadow fall upon your love, i beseech you send for rex and place this letter in his hands. it would not be unwomanly, pluma, because i, his mother, so earnestly request it; for, on your love for each other hangs my hopes of happiness. rex is impulsive and willful, but he will respect his mother's wishes." no thought of treachery ever crossed rex's mind as he read the lines before him; he never once dreamed the ingeniously worded postscript had been so cleverly imitated and added by pluma's own hand. it never occurred to him for an instant to doubt the sincerity of the words he read, when he knew how dearly his mother loved the proud, haughty heiress before him. "i heard you were going away, rex," she said, softly, "and i--i could not let you go so, and break my own heart." "in one sense, i am glad you sent for me," said rex, quietly ignoring her last remark. "i shall be much pleased to renew our friendship, miss pluma, for i need your friendship--nay, more, i need your sympathy and advice more than i can express. i have always endeavored to be frank with you, pluma," he said, kindly. "i have never spoken words which might lead you to believe i loved you." he saw her face grow white under his earnest gaze and the white lace on her bosom rise and fall convulsively, yet she made him no answer. "please permit me to tell you why, pluma," he said, taking her hand and leading her to a sofa, taking a seat by her side. "i could not," he continued, "in justice to either you or myself; for i never knew what love was," he said, softly, "until the night of the fête." again he paused; but, as no answer was vouchsafed him, he went on: "i never knew what love meant until i met daisy--little daisy brooks." "rex!" cried pluma, starting to her feet, "you know not what you say--surely you do not know! i would have warned you, but you would not listen. i saw you drifting toward a yawning chasm; i stretched out my arms to save you, but you would not heed me. you are a stranger to the people around here, rex, or they would have warned you. sin is never so alluring as in the guise of a beautiful woman. it is not too late yet. forget daisy brooks; she is not a fit companion for noble rex lyon, or pure enough to kiss an honest man's lips." "for god's sake, miss hurlhurst, what do you mean?" cried rex, slowly rising from his seat and facing her, pale as death. "in heaven's name, explain the accusations you have just uttered, or i shall go mad! if a man had uttered those words, i would have--" the words died away on his lips; he remembered he was talking to a woman. rex's eyes fairly glowed with rage as he turned on his heel and strode rapidly up and down the room. "rex," said pluma, softly advancing a step toward him, "it always grieves a true woman to admit the error of a fallen sister--they would shield her if such a thing were possible." "i do not believe it," retorted rex, impetuously. "women seem to take a keen delight in slandering one another, as far as i can see. but you might as well tell me yonder moon was treacherous and vile as to tell me daisy brooks was aught but sweet and pure--you could not force me to believe it." "i do not attempt to force you to believe it. i have told you the truth, as a loving sister might have done. none are so blind as those who will not see," she said, toying with the jewels upon her white fingers. "daisy brooks is as pure as yonder lily," cried rex, "and i love her as i love my soul!" his quivering, impassioned voice thrilled pluma to her heart's core, and she felt a keen regret that this wealth of love was withheld from her own hungry heart. rex had never appeared so noble, so handsome, so well worth winning, in her eyes, as at that moment. "i am sorry for you, rex," sobbed pluma, artfully burying her face in her lace kerchief, "because she can never return your love; she does not love you, rex." "yes, she does love me," cried rex. "i have settled it beyond a doubt." "she has settled it beyond a doubt--is not that what you mean, rex?" she asked, looking him squarely in the face, with a peculiar glitter in her sparkling dark eyes. "there is something you are keeping from me, pluma," cried rex, seizing both of her hands, and gazing anxiously into the false, fair, smiling, treacherous face. "you know where daisy has gone--in heaven's name, tell me! i can not endure the suspense--do not torture me, pluma! i will forget you have spoken unkindly of poor little daisy if you will only tell me where she has gone." "sit down, rex," she said, soothingly; "i will not dare tell you while you look at me with such a gleaming light in your eyes. promise not to interrupt me to the end." a nameless dread was clutching at his heart-strings. what could she mean? he asked himself, confusedly. what did this foul mystery mean? he must know, or he would go mad! "you may speak out unreservedly, miss pluma," he said, hoarsely. "i give you my word, as a gentleman, i shall not interrupt you, even though your words should cause me a bitter heart-pang." he stood before her, his arms folded across his breast, yet no pang of remorse crept into pluma hurlhurst's relentless heart for the cruel blow she was about to deal him. "i must begin at the time of the lawn fête," she said. "that morning a woman begged to see me, sobbing so piteously i could not refuse her an audience. no power of words could portray the sad story of suffering and wrong she poured into my ears, of a niece--beautiful, young, passionate, and willful--and of her prayers and useless expostulations, and of a handsome, dissolute lover to whom the girl was passionately attached, and of elopements she had frustrated, alas! more than once. ah! how shall i say it!--the lover was not a marrying man." pluma stopped short, and hid her face again in her kerchief as if in utter confusion. "go on--go on!" cried rex, hoarsely. "'lend me money,' cried the woman, 'that i may protect the girl by sending her off to school at once. kind lady, she is young, like you, and i beg you on my knees!' i gave the woman the required amount, and the girl was taken to school the very next day. but the end was not there. the lover followed the girl--there must have been a preconcerted plan between them--and on the morning after she had entered school she fled from it--fled with her lover. that lover was lester stanwick--gay, fascinating, perfidious lester--whom you know but too well. can you not guess who the girl was, rex?" the dark eyes regarding her were frozen with horror, his white lips moved, but no sound issued from them. she leaned nearer to him, her dark, perfumed hair swept across his face as she whispered, with startling effect: "the girl was daisy brooks, and she is at this moment in company with her lover! heaven pity you, rex; you must learn to forget her." chapter xi. when daisy brooks opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a white bed, and in a strange apartment which she never remembered having seen before. for one brief instant she quite imagined the terrible ordeal through which she had passed was but a dream. then it all came back to her with cruel distinctness. "where am i?" she cried, struggling up to a sitting posture, and putting back the tangled golden hair from her face. "how came i here? who saved me from the terrible dark water?" "i did," answered a young man, rising from his seat by the open window. "i saved your life at the risk of my own. look up into my face, daisy, and see if you do not remember me." she lifted her blue eyes to the dark, handsome, smiling face before her. yes, she had seen that face before, but she could not remember where. he laughed, disclosing his handsome white teeth. "you can not guess, eh?" he said. "then it is certainly evident i did not make much of an impression upon you. i am disappointed. i will not keep you in suspense, however. we met at whitestone hall, on the night of the lawn fête, and my name is lester stanwick." ah, she _did_ remember him, standing beneath a waving palm-tree, his bold, dark eyes following her every motion, while she was waltzing with rex. he saw the flash of recognition in her eyes, and the blush that mantled her fair, sweet face. "i am very grateful to you, sir, for saving me. but won't you take me home, please? i don't want to go back to madame whitney's." "of course not," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, "when you left it in such a remarkable manner as running away." "how did you know i ran away?" asked daisy, flushing hotly. "madame whitney has advertised for you," he responded, promptly. although he well knew what he uttered was a deliberate falsehood, he merely guessed the little wild bird had grown weary of the restraint, and had flown away. "did she do that?" asked daisy, thoroughly alarmed, her great blue eyes dilating with fear. "oh, mr. stanwick, what shall i do? i do not want to go back. i would sooner die first." "there is no occasion for you to do either," he replied. "you are in good hands. stay here until the storm blows over. in all probability the madame has sent detectives out in all directions searching for you." daisy was so young, so unsuspecting, so artless, and knew so little of the ways of the world or its intriguing people that she quite believed his assertion. "oh, what shall i do?" she sobbed, covering her face with her hands. "oh, i _must_ go back to uncle john, and--to--to--" stanwick had no idea she meant rex. he took it for granted she meant john brooks and septima. "it is quite uncertain when john brooks returns to allendale," he said; "and i suppose you are aware his sister has also left the place--gone, no one knows whither--the brookses' cottage on the brow of the hill stands empty." "gone!" cried daisy, catching her breath swift and hard, "did you say, sir? aunt septima has gone--no one lives in the cottage?" poor daisy quite believed she was losing her senses. "yes," said stanwick, smothering a low, malicious laugh, "that is what i said; but i am quite surprised that it is news to you. you are all alone in the world, you see. of course you could not go back to allendale. you can do no better than stay in your present quarters for at least a week or so, until you fully recover from your mad frolic on the water and gain a little strength." * * * * * "where am i?" asked daisy, "and how did i get here? and who lives here?" "one question at a time, if you please," laughed stanwick, gazing admiringly at the beautiful, questioning, eager face. "i suppose," he began, with provoking coolness, "you have been filling that little head of yours with romantic ideas of running away from school, and sailing far out to sea, and straight into the arms of some handsome hero who would save you, and would carry you off to some castle, and turn out to be a prince in disguise! that's the way they usually turn out, isn't it? but you found the theory did not work very well in real life, and your little romance came near costing you your life--eh, miss daisy? as for the second question, i rescued you, just in the nick of time, by jumping into the turbulent waves and bearing you out of harm's way and keeping that little romantic head of yours above water until the barge could be stopped, and you were then brought on board. i recognized you at once," he continued; "and to prevent suspicion and inquiry, which would have been sure to follow, i claimed you--as my wife! do not be alarmed," he said, as a sharp, horrified cry rose to the red lips. "i simply did that in order to protect you from being returned at once in bitter disgrace to madame whitney's. not knowing what else to do with you when the boat landed, i brought you here, and here you have been ever since, quite unconscious up to date." "was it last night you brought me here?" asked daisy. "you are not good at guessing. you have been here two nights and two days." "but who lives here?" persisted daisy. "is this your house?" "oh, dear, no," laughed stanwick. "upon my honor, you are not very complimentary to my taste," he said, glancing around the meagerly furnished apartment. "as near as i can understand it, the house is occupied by three grim old maids. each looks to be the twin of the other. this was the first shelter i could find, and i had carried you all the way from the boat in my arms, and under the circumstances, after much consulting, they at last agreed to allow you to remain here. now you have the whole story in a nutshell." "why did they not send to septima to come to me?" she asked presently. "because they thought you were with your best protector--your husband." "did you tell them that here, too?" asked daisy, growing white and ill with a dizzy horror. "oh, mr. stanwick, send for them at once, and tell them it is not so, or i must!" she added, desperately. "you must do nothing of the kind, you silly child. do you suppose they would have sheltered you for a single instant if they had not believed you were my wife? you do not know the ways of the world. believe me, it was the only course i could pursue, in that awkward dilemma, without bringing disgrace and detection upon you." as if in answer to the question that was trembling upon daisy's lips, he continued: "i am stopping at a boarding-place some little distance from here. this is not baltimore, but a little station some sixty miles from there. when you are well and strong you may go where you please, although i frankly own the situation is by no means an unpleasant one for me. i would be willing to stay here always--with you." "sir!" cried daisy, flushing as red as the climbing roses against the window, her blue eyes blazing up with sudden fire, "do you mean to insult me?" "by no means," responded lester stanwick, eagerly. "indeed, i respect and honor you too much for that. why, i risked my life to save yours, and shielded your honor with my name. had i been your husband in very truth i could not have done more." daisy covered her face with her hands. "i thank you very much for saving me," she sobbed, "but won't you please go away now and leave me to myself?" _roué_ and villain as lester stanwick was, he could not help feeling touched by the innocence and beauty of little daisy, and from that instant he loved her with a wild, absorbing, passionate love, and he made a vow, then and there, that he would win her. from their boyhood up rex and lester had been rivals. at college rex had carried off the honors with flying colors. pluma hurlhurst, the wealthy heiress, had chosen rex in preference to himself. he stood little chance with bright-eyed maidens compared with handsome, careless, winning rex lyon. quite unobserved, he had witnessed the meeting between rex and daisy at the fountain, and how tenderly he clasped her in his arms as they waltzed together in the mellow light, to the delicious strains of the "blue danube," and knowing rex as well as he did, he knew for the first time in life rex's heart was touched. "it would be a glorious revenge," stanwick had muttered to himself, "if i could win her from him." then a sordid motive of revenge alone prompted him--now he was beginning to experience the sweet thrillings of awakened love himself. yes, he had learned to love daisy for her own sweet self. he smiled as he thought of the last words pluma hurlhurst had said to him: "revenge is sweet, lester, when love is turned to bitter hatred. help me to drag rex lyon's pride as low as he has this night dragged mine, and you shall have my hand as your reward. my father is an invalid--he can not live much longer--then you will be master of whitestone hall." as he had walked down the broad gravel path, running his eye over the vast plantation stretching afar on all sides, like a field of snow, as the moonlight fell upon the waving cotton, he owned to himself it was a fair domain well worth the winning. but as he stood there, gazing silently down upon little daisy's face--how strange it was--he would have given up twenty such inheritances for the hope of making sweet little daisy brooks his wife. it was well for daisy brooks he little dreamed of the great barrier which lay between them, shutting him out completely from all thoughts of love in daisy's romantic heart. chapter xii. "please go away," sobbed daisy. "leave me to myself, and i will get up." "very well," said stanwick, involuntarily raising her little white hands courteously to his lips; "and remember, i warn you, for your own sake, not to dispute the assertion i have made--that you are my wife." "why?" asked daisy, wistfully. "they will forgive me when i tell them how it all came about." "you do not know women's ways," he replied. "they would hand you over at once to the authorities; you would bring disgrace and ruin upon your own head, and bitter shame to john brooks's heart. i know him well enough to believe he would never forgive you. on the other hand, when you feel well enough to depart, you can simply say you are going away with your husband. no one will think of detaining you; you will be free as the wind to go where you will. it will cost you but a few words. remember, there are occasions when it is necessary to prevaricate in order to prevent greater evils--this is one of them." daisy could not dispute this specious logic, and she suffered herself to be persuaded against her will and better judgment. she was dreadfully homesick, poor little soul! and to go back to allendale, to rex, was the one wish of her heart. but would he clasp her in his arms if a shadow of disgrace blotted her fair name? she would go back to him and kneel at his feet, and tell him why she had left mme. whitney's. she certainly meant to tell him of all that followed, and, with her little, warm cheek pressed close to his, ask him if she had done right. at that moment the door of an adjoining room opened, and lester observed the three ladies standing in a row in the door-way. he knew that three pairs of eyes were regarding him intently through as many pairs of blue glasses. "good-bye, my little wife," he said, raising his voice for their benefit; "i'm off now. i shall see you again to-morrow;" and, before daisy had the least idea of his intentions, he had pressed a kiss upon her rosy lips and was gone. the three ladies quickly advanced to the couch upon which daisy reclined. "we are very glad to find you are so much better this morning," they exclaimed, all in a breath. "your husband has been almost demented about you, my dear." they wondered why the white face on the pillow turned so pink, then faded to a dead white, and why the tear-drops started to her beautiful blue eyes. "i was telling my sisters," pursued one of the ladies, softly, "you were so young to be married--hardly more than a child. how old are you, my dear--not more than sixteen, i suppose?" "sixteen and a few months," answered daisy. "how long have you been married, my dear?" questioned another of the sisters. a great sob rose in daisy's throat as she remembered it was just a week that very day since she had stood in the dim old parlor at the rectory, while rex clasped her hands, his handsome, smiling eyes gazing so lovingly down upon her, while the old minister spoke the words that bound them for life to each other. it almost seemed to daisy that long years had intervened, she had passed through so much since then. "just a week to-day, madame," she made answer. "why, you are a bride, then," they all chorused. "ah! that accounts for your husband's great anxiety about you. we all agreed we had never seen a husband more devoted!" daisy hid her face in the pillow. she thought she would go mad upon being so cruelly misunderstood. oh! if she had only dared throw herself into their arms and sob out her heartaches on their bosoms. yes, she was a bride, but the most pitifully homesick, weary, disheartened little girl-bride that ever the sun shone on in the wide, wild world. they assisted daisy to arise, brushing out her long, tangled, golden curls, declaring to one another the pretty little creature looked more like a merry, rosy-cheeked school-girl than a little bride-wife, in her pink-and-white dotted muslin, which they had in the meantime done up for her with their own hands. they wondered, too, why she never asked for her husband, and she looked almost ready to faint when they spoke of him. "there seems to be something of a mystery here," remarked one of the sisters when the trio were alone. "if that child is a bride, she is certainly not a happy one. i do not like to judge a fellow-creature--heaven forbid! but i am sorely afraid all is not right with her. twice this afternoon, entering the room quietly, i have found her lying face downward on the sofa, crying as if her heart would break! i am sorely puzzled!" and the flame of suspicion once lighted was not easily extinguished in the hearts of the curious spinsters. "'won't you tell me your sorrow, my dear?' i said. "'no, no; i dare not!' she replied. "'will you not confide in me, mrs. stanwick?' i asked. "she started up wildly, throwing her arms about my neck. "'won't you please call me daisy?' she sobbed, piteously; 'just daisy--nothing else.' "'certainly, my dear, if you wish it,' i replied. 'there is one question i would like to ask you, daisy--you have told me your mother is dead?' "'yes,' she said, leaning her golden head against the window, and watching the white clouds overhead in the blue sky--'my poor, dear mother is dead!' "'then will you answer me truthfully the question i am about to ask you, daisy, remembering your mother up in heaven hears you.' "she raised her blue eyes to mine. "'i shall answer truthfully any question you may put to me,' she said; 'if--if--it is not about mr. stanwick.' "'it is about yourself, daisy,' i said, gravely. 'tell me truthfully, child, are you really a wife?' "she caught her breath with a hard, gasping sound; but her blue eyes met mine unflinchingly. "'yes, madame, i am, in the sight of god and man; but i am such an unhappy one. i can not tell you why. my heart is breaking. i want to go back to allendale!' "'is that where you live, daisy?' "'yes,' she said; 'i am going to start to-morrow morning.'" "how strange!" echoed the two sisters. "the strangest part of the affair is yet to come. the little creature drew from her pocket a twenty-dollar bill. "'you have been kind and good to me,' she said. i must take enough to carry me back to allendale. you shall have all the rest, madame.' "'put your money back into your pocket, daisy,' i replied. 'your husband has already paid your bill. he begged me to accept it in advance on the night you came.' "she gave a great start, and a flood of hot color rushed over her face. "'i--i--did not know,' she said, faintly, 'how very good mr. stanwick has been to me.'" the three sisters looked at one another in silent wonder over the rims of their spectacles and shook their heads ominously. * * * * * dear reader, we must return at this period to rex--poor, broken-hearted rex--whom we left in the company of pluma hurlhurst in the spacious parlor of whitestone hall. "daisy brooks is at this moment with lester stanwick! you must learn to forget her, rex," she repeated, slowly. a low cry escaped from rex's lips, and he recoiled from her as though she had struck him a heavy blow. his heart seemed fairly stifled in his bosom, and he trembled in every limb with repressed excitement. "here is a letter from madame whitney," she continued. "read it for yourself, rex. you see, she says: 'daisy fled. it has been since ascertained she went to elmwood, a station some sixty miles from here, where she now is, at the cottage of the burton sisters, in company with her lover. i shall not attempt to claim her--her retribution must come from another source.'" the words seemed to stand out in letters of fire. "oh, my little love," he cried, "there must be some terrible mistake! my god! my god! there must be some horrible mistake--some foul conspiracy against you, my little sweetheart, my darling love!" he rose to his feet with a deep-drawn sigh, his teeth shut close, his heart beating with great strangling throbs of pain. strong and brave as rex was, this trouble was almost more than he could bear. "where are you going, rex?" said pluma, laying a detaining hand upon his arm. "i am going to elmwood," he cried, bitterly, "to prove this accusation is a cruel falsehood. daisy has no lover; she is as sweet and pure as heaven itself! i was mad to doubt her for a single instant." "judge for yourself, rex--seeing is believing," said pluma, maliciously, a smoldering vengeance burning in her flashing eyes, and a cold, cruel smile flitting across her face, while she murmured under her breath: "go, fond, foolish lover; your fool's paradise will be rudely shattered--ay, your hopes crushed worse than mine are now, for your lips can not wear a smile like mine when your heart is breaking. good-bye, rex," she said, "and remember, in the hour when sorrow strikes you keenest, turn to me; my friendship is true, and shall never fail you." rex bowed coldly and turned away; his heart was too sick for empty words, and the heavy-hearted young man, who slowly walked down the graveled path away from whitestone hall in the moonlight, was as little like the gay, handsome rex of one short week ago as could well be imagined. there was the scent of roses and honeysuckles in the soft wind; and some sweet-voiced bird awakened from sleep, and fancying it was day, swung to and fro amid the green foliage, filling the night with melody. the pitying stars shone down upon him from the moonlighted heavens; but the still, solemn beauty of the night was lost upon rex. he regretted--oh! so bitterly--that he had parted from his sweet little girl-bride, fearing his mother's scornful anger, or through a sense of mistaken duty. "had they but known little daisy is my wife, they would have known how impossible was their accusation that she was with lester stanwick." he shuddered at the very thought of such a possibility. the thought of daisy, his little girl-bride, being sent to school amused him. "poor little robin!" he murmured. "no wonder she flew from her bondage when she found the cage-door open! how pleased the little gypsy will be to see me!" he mused. "i will clasp the dear little runaway in my arms, and never let her leave me again! mother could not help loving my little daisy if she were once to see her, and sister birdie would take to her at once." the next morning broke bright and clear; the sunshine drifted through the green foliage of the trees, and crimson-breasted robins sung their sweetest songs in the swaying boughs of the blossoming magnolias; pansies and buttercups gemmed the distant hill-slope, and nature's fountain--a merry, babbling brook--danced joyously through the clover banks. no cloud was in the fair, blue, smiling heavens; no voice of nature warned poor little daisy, as she stood at the open window drinking in the pure, sweet beauty of the morning of the dark clouds which were gathering over her innocent head, and of the storm which was so soon to burst upon her in all its fury. daisy turned away from the window with a little sigh. she did not see a handsome, stalwart figure hurrying down the hill-side toward the cottage. how her heart would have throbbed if she had only known rex (for it was he) was so near her! with a strangely beating heart he advanced toward the little wicket gate, at which stood one of the sisters, busily engaged pruning her rose-bushes. "can you tell me, madame, where i can find the misses burton's cottage?" he asked, courteously lifting his hat. "this is the burton cottage," she answered, "and i am ruth burton. what can i do for you?" "i would like to see daisy brooks, if you please. she is here, i believe?" he said, questioningly. "may i come in?" rex's handsome, boyish face and winning smile won their way straight to the old lady's heart at once. "perhaps you are the young lady's brother, sir? there is evidently some mistake, however, as the young lady's name is stanwick--daisy stanwick. her husband, lester stanwick--i believe that is the name--is also in elmwood." all the color died out of rex's handsome face and the light from his brown eyes. he leaned heavily against the gate-post. the words seemed shrieked on the air and muttered on the breeze. "daisy is _not_ his wife! my god, madame!" he cried, hoarsely, "she _could not_ be!" "it is very true," replied the old lady, softly. "i have her own words for it. there may be some mistake, as you say," she said, soothingly, noting the death-like despair that settled over the noble face. "she is a pretty, fair, winsome little creature, blue-eyed, and curling golden hair, and lives at allendale. she is certainly married. i will call her. she shall tell you so herself. daisy--mrs. stanwick--come here, dear," she called. "i am coming, miss ruth," answered a sweet, bird-like voice, which pierced poor rex's heart to the very core as a girlish little figure bounded through the open door-way, out into the brilliant sunshine. "god pity me!" cried rex, staggering forward. "it _is_ daisy--my wife!" chapter xiii. rex had hoped against hope. "daisy!" he cried, holding out his arms to her with a yearning, passionate cry. "my god! tell me it is false--you are _not_ here with stanwick--or i shall go mad! daisy, my dear little sweetheart, my little love, why don't you speak?" he cried, clasping her close to his heart and covering her face and hair and hands with passionate, rapturous kisses. daisy struggled out of his embrace, with a low, broken sob, flinging herself on her knees at his feet with a sharp cry. "daisy," said the old lady, bending over her and smoothing back the golden hair from the lovely anguished face, "tell him the truth, dear. you are here with mr. stanwick; is it not so?" the sudden weight of sorrow that had fallen upon poor, hapless daisy seemed to paralyze her very senses. the sunshine seemed blotted out, and the light of heaven to grow dark around her. "yes," she cried, despairingly; and it almost seemed to daisy another voice had spoken with her lips. "this mr. stanwick claims to be your husband?" asked the old lady, solemnly. "yes," she cried out again, in agony, "but, rex, i--i--" the words died away on her white lips, and the sound died away in her throat. she saw him recoil from her with a look of white, frozen horror on his face which gave place to stern, bitter wrath. slowly and sadly he put her clinging arms away from him, folding his arms across his breast with that terrible look upon his face such as a hero's face wears when he has heard, unflinchingly, his death sentence--the calm of terrible despair. "daisy," he said, proudly, "i have trusted you blindly, for i loved you madly, passionately. i would as soon believe the fair smiling heavens that bend above us false as you whom i loved so madly and so well. i was mad to bind you with such cruel, irksome bonds when your heart was not mine but another's. my dream of love is shattered now. you have broken my heart and ruined and blighted my life. god forgive you, daisy, for i never can! i give you back your freedom; i release you from your vows; i can not curse you--i have loved you too well for that; i cast you from my heart as i cast you from my life; farewell, daisy--farewell forever!" she tried to speak, but her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. oh, pitying heaven, if she could only have cried out to you and the angels to bear witness and proclaim her innocence! the strength to move hand or foot seemed suddenly to have left her. she tried hard, oh! so hard, to speak, but no sound issued from her white lips. she felt as one in a horrible trance, fearfully, terribly conscious of all that transpired around her, yet denied the power to move even a muscle to defend herself. "have you anything to say to me, daisy?" he asked, mournfully, turning from her to depart. the woful, terrified gaze of the blue eyes deepened pitifully, but she spoke no word, and rex turned from her--turned from the girl-bride whom he loved so madly, with a bursting, broken heart, more bitter to bear than death itself--left her alone with the pitying sunlight falling upon her golden hair, and her white face turned up to heaven, silently praying to god that she might die then and there. oh, father above, pity her! she had no mother's gentle voice to guide her, no father's strong breast to weep upon, no sister's soothing presence. she was so young and so pitifully lonely, and rex had drifted out of her life forever, believing her--oh, bitterest of thoughts!--believing her false and sinful. poor little daisy was ignorant of the ways of the world; but a dim realization of the full import of the terrible accusation brought against her forced its way to her troubled brain. she only realized--rex--her darling rex, had gone out of her life forever. daisy flung herself face downward in the long, cool, waving green grass where rex had left her. "daisy," called miss burton, softly, "it is all over; come into the house, my dear." but she turned from her with a shuddering gasp. "in the name of pity, leave me to myself," she sobbed; "it is the greatest kindness you can do me." and the poor old lady who had wrought so much sorrow unwittingly in those two severed lives, walked slowly back to the cottage, with tears in her eyes, strongly impressed there must be some dark mystery in the young girl's life who was sobbing her heart out in the green grass yonder; and she did just what almost any other person would have done under the same circumstances--sent immediately for lester stanwick. he answered the summons at once, listening with intense interest while the aged spinster briefly related all that had transpired; but through oversight or excitement she quite forgot to mention rex had called daisy his wife. "curse him!" he muttered, under his breath, "i--i believe the girl actually cares for him." then he went out to daisy, lying so still and lifeless among the pink clover and waving grass. poor daisy! poor, desperate, lonely, struggling child! all this cruel load of sorrow, crushing her girlish heart, and blighting her young life, and she so innocent, so entirely blameless, yet such a plaything of fate. "daisy," he said, bending over her and lifting the slight form in his arms, "they tell me some one has been troubling you. who has dared annoy you? trust in me, daisy. what is the matter?" lester stanwick never forgot the white, pitiful face that was raised to his. "i want to die," she sobbed. "oh, why did you not leave me to die in the dark water? it was so cruel of you to save me." "do you want to know why i risked my life to save you, daisy? does not my every word and glance tell you why?" the bold glance in his eyes spoke volumes. "have you not guessed that i love you, daisy?" "oh, please do not talk to me in that way, mr. stanwick," she cried, starting to her feet in wild alarm. "indeed you must not," she stammered. "why not?" he demanded, a merciless smile stirring beneath his heavy mustache. "i consider that you belong to me. i mean to make you my wife in very truth." daisy threw up her hands in a gesture of terror heart-breaking to see, shrinking away from him in quivering horror, her sweet face ashen pale. "oh, go away, go away!" she cried out. "i am growing afraid of you. i could never marry you, and i would not if i could. i shall always be grateful to you for what you have done for me, but, oh, go away, and leave me now, for my trouble is greater than i can bear!" "you would not if you could," he repeated, coolly, smiling so strangely her blood seemed to change to ice in her veins. "i thank you sincerely for your appreciation of me. i did not dream, however, your aversion to me was so deeply rooted. that makes little difference, however. i shall make you my wife this very day all the same; business, urgent business, calls me away from elmwood to-day. i shall take you with me as my wife." she heard the cruel words like one in a dream. "rex! rex!" she sobbed, under her breath. suddenly she remembered rex had left her--she was never to look upon his face again. he had left her to the cold mercies of a cruel world. poor little daisy--the unhappy, heart-broken girl-bride--sat there wondering what else could happen to her. "god has shut me out from his mercy," she cried; "there is nothing for me to do but to die." "i am a desperate man, daisy," pursued stanwick, slowly. "my will is my law. the treatment you receive at my hands depends entirely upon yourself--you will not dare defy me!" his eyes fairly glowed with a strange fire that appalled her as she met his passionate glance. then daisy lifted up her golden head with the first defiance she had ever shown, the deathly pallor deepening on her fair, sweet, flower-like face, and the look of a hunted deer at bay in the beautiful velvety agonized eyes, as she answered: "i refuse to marry you, mr. stanwick. please go away and leave me in peace." he laughed mockingly. "i shall leave you for the present, my little sweetheart," he said, "but i shall return in exactly fifteen minutes. hold yourself in readiness to receive me then; i shall not come alone, but bring with me a minister, who will be prepared to marry us. i warn you not to attempt to run away," he said, interpreting aright the startled glance she cast about her. "in yonder lane stands a trusty sentinel to see that you do not leave this house. you have been guarded thus since you entered this house; knowing your proclivity to escape impending difficulties, i have prepared accordingly. you can not escape your fate, my little wild flower!" "no minister would marry an unwilling bride--he could not. i would fling myself at his feet and tell him all, crying out i was--i was--" "you will do nothing of the kind," he interrupted, a hard, resolute look settling on his face. "i would have preferred winning you by fair means, if possible; if you make it impossible i shall be forced to a desperate measure. i had not intended adopting such stringent measures, except in an extreme case. permit me to explain what i shall do to prevent you from making the slightest outcry." as he spoke he drew from his pocket a small revolver heavily inlaid with pearl and silver. "i shall simply hold this toy to your pretty forehead to prevent a scene. the minister will be none the wiser--he is blind? do you think," he continued, slowly, "that i am the man to give up a thing i have set my heart upon for a childish whim?" "believe me," cried daisy, earnestly, "it is no childish whim. oh, mr. stanwick, i want to be grateful to you--why will you torture me until i hate you?" "i will marry you this very day, daisy brooks, whether you hate me or love me. i have done my best to gain your love. it will come in time; i can wait for it." "you will never make me love you," cried daisy, covering her face with her hands; "do not hope it--and the more you talk to me the less i like you. i wish you would go away." "i shall not despair," said stanwick, with a confident smile. "i like things which i find it hard to obtain--that was always one of my characteristics--and i never liked you so well as i like you now, in your defiant anger, and feel more determined than ever to make you my own." suddenly a new thought occurred to him as he was about to turn from her. "why, how stupid of me!" he cried. "i could not bring the parson here, for they think you my wife already. i must change my plan materially by taking you to the parsonage. we can go from here directly to the station. i shall return in exactly fifteen minutes with a conveyance. remember, i warn you to make no outcry for protection in the meantime. if you do i shall say you inherited your mother's malady. i am well acquainted with your history, you see." he kissed his finger-tips to her carelessly. "_au revoir_, my love, but not farewell," he said, lightly, "until we meet to be parted nevermore," and, with a quick, springy step lester stanwick walked rapidly down the clover-bordered path on his fatal errand. in the distance the little babbling brook sung to her of peace and rest beneath its curling, limpid waters. "oh, mother, mother," she cried, "what was the dark sorrow that tortured your poor brain, till it drove you mad--ay, mad--ending in death and despair? why did you leave your little daisy here to suffer so? i feel such a throbbing in my own poor brain--but i must fly anywhere, anywhere, to escape this new sorrow. god has forgotten me." she took one step forward in a blind, groping, uncertain way. "my last ray of hope has died out," she cried as the memory of his cruel words came slowly back to her, so mockingly uttered--"the minister would be none the wiser--he is blind." chapter xiv. when lester stanwick returned to the cottage he found that quite an unexpected turn of events had transpired. miss burton had gone out to daisy--she lay so still and lifeless in the long green grass. "heaven bless me!" she cried, in alarm, raising her voice to a pitch that brought both of the sisters quickly to her side. "matilda, go at once and fetch the doctor. see, this child is ill, her cheeks are burning scarlet and her eyes are like stars." at that opportune moment they espied the doctor's carriage proceeding leisurely along the road. "dear me, how lucky," cried ruth, "doctor west should happen along just now. go to the gate, quick, matilda, and ask him to stop." the keen eyes of the doctor, however, had observed the figure lying on the grass and the frantic movements of the three old ladies bending over it, and drew rein of his own accord to see what was the matter. he drew back with a cry of surprise as his eyes rested on the beautiful flushed face of the young girl lying among the blue harebells at his feet. "i am afraid this is a serious case," he said, thoughtfully, placing his cool hand on her burning forehead; "the child has all the symptoms of brain fever in its worst form, brought on probably through some great excitement." the three ladies looked at one another meaningly. "she must be taken into the house and put to bed at once," he continued, authoritatively, lifting the slight figure in his strong arms, and gazing pityingly down upon the beautiful flushed face framed in its sheen of golden hair resting against his broad shoulders. the doctor was young and unmarried and impressible; and the strangest sensation he had ever experienced thrilled through his heart as the blue, flaring eyes met his and the trembling red lips incoherently beseeched him to save her, hide her somewhere, anywhere, before the fifteen minutes were up. a low muttered curse burst from stanwick's lips upon his return, as he took in the situation at a single glance. as daisy's eyes fell upon stanwick's face she uttered a piteous little cry: "save me from him--save me!" she said, hysterically, growing rapidly so alarmingly worse that stanwick was forced to leave the room, motioning the doctor to follow him into the hall. "the young lady is my wife," he said, with unflinching assurance, uttering the cruel falsehood, "and we intend leaving elmwood to-day. i am in an uncomfortable dilemma. i must go, yet i can not leave my--my wife. she must be removed, doctor; can you not help me to arrange it in some way?" "no, sir," cried the doctor, emphatically; "she can not be removed. as her physician, i certainly would not give my consent to such a proceeding; her very life would pay the forfeit." for a few moments lester stanwick paced up and down the hall lost in deep thought; his lips were firmly set, and there was a determined gleam in his restless black eyes. suddenly he stopped short directly before the doctor, who stood regarding him with no very agreeable expression in his honest gray eyes. "how long will it be before the crisis is past--that is, how long will it be before she is able to be removed?" "not under three weeks," replied the doctor, determinedly. "good heavens!" he ejaculated, sharply. "why, i shall have to--" he bit his lip savagely, as if he had been on the point of disclosing some guarded secret. "fate is against me," he said, "in more ways than one; these things can not be avoided, i suppose. well, doctor, as i am forced to leave to-day i shall leave her in your charge. i will return in exactly two weeks. she has brain fever, you say?" the doctor nodded. "you assure me she can not leave her bed for two weeks to come?" he continued, anxiously. "i can safely promise that," replied the doctor, wondering at the strange, satisfied smile that flitted like a meteor over his companion's face for one brief instant. "this will defray her expenses in the meantime," he said, putting a few crisp bank-notes into the doctor's hand. "see that she has every luxury." he was about to re-enter the room where daisy lay, but the doctor held him back. "i should advise you to remain away for the present," he said, "your presence produces such an unpleasant effect upon her. wait until she sleeps." "i have often thought it so strange people in delirium shrink so from those they love best; i can not understand it," said stanwick, with an odd, forced laugh. "as you are the doctor, i suppose your orders must be obeyed, however. if the fever should happen to take an unfavorable turn in the meantime, please drop a line to my address, 'care of miss pluma hurlhurst, of whitestone hall, allendale,'" he said, extending his card. "it will be forwarded to me promptly, and i can come on at once." again the doctor nodded, putting the card safely away in his wallet, and soon after lester stanwick took his departure, roundly cursing his luck, yet congratulating himself upon the fact that daisy could not leave elmwood--he could rest content on that score. meanwhile the three venerable sisters and the young doctor were watching anxiously at daisy's bedside. "oh, my poor little dear--my pretty little dear!" sobbed ruth, caressing the burning little hands that clung to her so tightly. "won't you hide me?" pleaded daisy, laying her hot cheek against the wrinkled hand that held hers. "hide me, please, just as if i were your own child; i have no mother, you know." "god help the pretty, innocent darling!" cried the doctor, turning hastily away to hide the suspicious moisture that gathered in his eyes. "no one is going to harm you, little one," he said, soothingly; "no one shall annoy you." "was it so great a sin? he would not let me explain. he has gone out of my life!" she wailed, pathetically, putting back the golden rings of hair from her flushed face. "rex! rex!" she sobbed, incoherently, "i shall die--or, worse, i shall go mad, if you do not come back to me!" the three ladies looked at one another questioningly, in alarm. "you must not mind the strange ravings of a person in delirium," said the doctor, curtly; "they are liable to imagine and say all sorts of nonsense. pay no attention to what she says, my dear ladies; don't disturb her with questions. that poor little brain needs absolute rest; every nerve seems to have been strained to its utmost." after leaving the proper medicines and giving minute instructions as to how and when it should be administered, dr. west took his departure, with a strange, vague uneasiness at his heart. "pshaw!" he muttered to himself, as he drove briskly along the shadowy road, yet seeing none of its beauty, "how strange it is these young girls will fall in love and marry such fellows as that!" he mused. "there is something about his face that i don't like; he is a scoundrel, and i'll bet my life on it!" the doctor brought his fist down on his knee with such a resounding blow that poor old dobbin broke into a gallop. but, drive as fast he would, he could not forget the sweet, childish face that had taken such a strong hold upon his fancy. the trembling red lips and pleading blue eyes haunted him all the morning, as though they held some secret they would fain have whispered. all the night long daisy clung to the hands that held hers, begging and praying her not to leave her alone, until the poor old lady was quite overcome by the fatigue of continued watching beside her couch. rest or sleep seemed to have fled from daisy's bright, restless eyes. "don't go away," she cried; "everybody goes away. i do not belong to any one. i am all--all--alone," she would sigh, drearily. again she fancied she was with rex, standing beneath the magnolia boughs in the sunshine; again, she was clinging to his arm--while some cruel woman insulted her--sobbing pitifully upon his breast; again, she was parting from him at the gate, asking him if what they had done was right; then she was in some school-room, begging piteously for some cruel letter; then out on the waves in the storm and the on-coming darkness of night. the sisters relieved one another at regular intervals. they had ceased to listen to her pathetic little appeals for help, or the wild cries of agony that burst from the red feverish lips as she started up from her slumbers with stifled sobs, moaning out that the time was flying; that she must escape anywhere, anywhere, while there were still fifteen minutes left her. she never once mentioned stanwick's name, or septima's, but called incessantly for rex and poor old uncle john. "who in the world do you suppose rex is?" said matilda, thoughtfully. "that name is continually on her lips--the last word she utters when she closes her eyes, the first word to cross her lips when she awakes. that must certainly be the handsome young fellow she met at the gate. if he is rex i do not wonder the poor child loved him so. he was the handsomest, most noble-looking, frank-faced young man i have ever seen; and he took on in a way that made me actually cry when i told him she was married. he would not believe it, until i called the child and she told him herself it was the truth. i was sorry from the bottom of my heart that young fellow had not won her instead of this stanwick, they were so suited to each other." "ah," said ruth, after a moment's pause, "i think i have the key to this mystery. she loves this handsome rex, that is evident; perhaps they have had a lovers' quarrel, and she has married this one on the spur of the moment through pique. oh, the pretty little dear!" sighed ruth. "i hope she will never rue it." chapter xv. slowly the days came and went for the next fortnight. the crisis had passed, and dr. west said she would soon recover. the beautiful, long, golden hair had been shorn from the pretty little head, and the rose-bloom had died out of the pretty cheeks, but the bright, restless light never left the beautiful blue eyes--otherwise there was but little change in daisy. it had been just two weeks that morning, they told her, as she opened her eyes to consciousness, since she had first been stricken down. "and i have been here ever since?" she inquired, wonderingly. "yes, my dear," replied ruth burton, softly patting the thin white cheeks; "of course you have been here ever since. i am afraid we are going to lose you soon, however. we have received a letter from your husband, saying he will be here some time to-morrow. shall you be pleased to see him, dear?" in one single instant all the dim, horrible past rushed back to daisy's mind. she remembered flinging herself down in the clover-scented grass, and the world growing dark around her, as the terrible words of stanwick rang in her ears--he would be back in just fifteen minutes to claim her. ah, bonny little daisy, tossing on your pillow, babbling empty nothings, better would it have been for you, perhaps, if you had dropped the weary burden of your life into the kindly arms of death then and there than to struggle onward into the dark mystery which lay entombed in your future. "shall you be glad to see mr. stanwick, dear?" repeated the old lady, and, unconscious of any wrong, she placed the letter he had written in daisy's hands. like one in a terrible dream, daisy read it quite through to the end. "you see, he says he incloses fifty dollars extra for you, dear. i have placed it with the twenty safe in your little purse." "oh, miss ruth, you are so very kind to me. i shall never forget how good you have all been to me," said daisy, softly, watching the three peaceful-faced old ladies, who had drawn their rocking-chairs, as was their custom, all in a row, and sat quietly knitting in the sunshine, the gentle click of their needles falling soothingly upon daisy's poor, tired brain. "we shall miss you sadly when you go," said ruth, knitting away vigorously. "you have been like a ray of sunshine in this gloomy old house. we have all learned to love you very dearly." "you love me?" repeated daisy, wonderingly. "i was beginning to believe every one hated me in the whole world, every one has been so bitter and so cruel with me, except poor old uncle john. i often wonder why god lets me live--what am i to do with my life! mariana in the moated grange, was not more to be pitied than i. death relieved her, but i am left to struggle on." "heaven hear her!" cried ruth. "one suffers a great deal to lose all interest in life. you are so young, dear, you could not have suffered much." "i have lost all i hold dear in life," she answered, pathetically, lifting her beautiful, childish blue eyes toward the white fleecy clouds tinted by the setting sun. their hearts ached for the pretty, lonely little creature. they believed she was thinking of her mother. so she was--and of rex, the handsome young husband whom she so madly idolized in her worshipful childish fashion, who was worse than dead to her--the husband who should have believed in her honor and purity, though the world had cried out to him that she was false. he had thrust aside all possibility of her writing to him; cast her out from his life; left her to be persecuted beyond all endurance; bound by a vow she dare not break to keep her marriage with rex a secret. though he was more cruel than death, she loved rex with a devotion that never faltered. daisy lay there, thinking of it all, while the soft, golden sunlight died out of the sky, and the deep dusk of twilight crept softly on. then the old ladies arose from their chairs, folded their knitting, and put it away. dusk was their hour for retiring. they were discussing which one should sit up with daisy, when she summoned them all to her bedside. "i want you all to go to bed and never mind me," coaxed daisy, with a strange light in her eyes. "take a good sleep, as i am going to do. i shall be very happy to-morrow--happier than i have ever been before!" she clasped her white arms about their necks in turn, clinging to them, and sobbing as though she was loath to part with them. ruth's hand she held last and longest. "please kiss me again," she sobbed. "clasp your arms tight around me, and say 'good-night, daisy.' it will be so nice to dream about." with a cheery laugh the old lady lovingly complied with her request. "you must close those bright little eyes of yours, and drift quickly into the land of nod, or there will be no roses in these cheeks to-morrow. good-night, my pretty little dear!" "good-night, dear, kind ruth!" sighed daisy. and she watched the old lady with wistful, hungry eyes as she picked up her shaded night-lamp, that threw such a soft, sweet radiance over her aged face, as she quietly quitted the room. a sudden change came over daisy's face as the sound of her footsteps died away in the hall. "oh, god! help me!" she cried, piteously, struggling to her feet. "i must be far away from here when daylight breaks." she was so weak she almost fell back on her bed again when she attempted to rise. the thought of the morrow lent strength to her flagging energies. a strange mist seemed rising before her. twice she seemed near fainting, but her indomitable courage kept her from sinking, as she thought of what the morrow would have in store for her. quietly she counted over the little store in her purse by the moon's rays. "seventy dollars! oh, i could never use all that in my life!" she cried. "besides, i could never touch one cent of stanwick's money. it would burn my fingers--i am sure it would!" folding the bill carefully in two she placed it beneath her little snowy ruffled pillow. then catching up the thick, dark shawl which lay on an adjacent table, she wrapped it quickly about her. she opened the door leading out into the hall, and listened. all was still--solemnly still. daisy crept softly down the stairs, and out into the quiet beauty of the still, summer night. "rex," she wailed, softly, "perhaps when i am dead you will feel sorry for poor little daisy, and some one may tell you how you have wronged me in your thoughts, but you would not let me tell you how it happened!" in the distance she saw the shimmer of water lying white and still under the moon's rays, tipped by the silvery light of the stars. "no, not that way," she cried, with a shudder; "some one might save me, and i want to die!" in the distance the red and colored gleaming lights of an apothecary's shop caught her gaze. "yes, that way will be best," she said, reflectively. she drew the shawl closer about her, pressing on as rapidly as her feeble little feet would carry her. how weak she was when she turned the knob and entered--the very lights seemed dancing around her. a small, keen-eyed, shrewd little man stepped briskly forward to wait upon her. he started back in horror at the utter despair and woe in the beautiful young face that was turned for a moment toward him, beautiful in all its pallor as a statue, with a crown of golden hair such as pictures of angels wear encircling the perfect head. "what can i do for you, miss?" queried the apothecary, gazing searchingly into the beautiful dreamy blue eyes raised up to his and wondering who she could possibly be. "i wish to purchase some laudanum," daisy faltered. "i wish it to relieve a pain which is greater than i can bear." "toothache, most probably?" intimated the brisk little doctor. "i know what it is. lord bless you! i've had it until i thought i should jump through the roof. laudanum's a first-class thing, but i can tell you of something better--jerk 'em out, that's my recipe," he said, with an odd little smile. "of course every one to their notion, and if you say laudanum--and nothing else--why it's laudanum you shall have; but remember it's powerful. why, ten drops of it would cause--death." "how many drops did you say?" asked daisy, bending forward eagerly. "i--i want to be careful in taking it." "ten drops, i said, would poison a whole family, and twenty a regiment. you must use it very carefully, miss. remember i have warned you," he said, handing her the little bottle filled with a dark liquid and labeled conspicuously, "laudanum--a poison." "please give me my change quickly," she said, a strange, deadly sickness creeping over her. "certainly, ma'am," assented the obliging little man, handing her back the change. daisy quite failed to notice that he returned her the full amount she had paid him in his eagerness to oblige her, and he went happily back to compounding his drugs in the rear part of the shop, quite unconscious he was out the price of the laudanum. he was dreaming of the strange beauty of the young girl, and the smile deepened on his good-humored face as he remembered how sweetly she had gazed up at him. meanwhile daisy struggled on, clasping her treasure close to her throbbing heart. she remembered ruth had pointed out an old shaft to her from her window; it had been unused many years, she had said. "the old shaft shall be my tomb," she said; "no one will think of looking for me there." poor little daisy--unhappy girl-bride, let heaven not judge her harshly--she was sorely tried. "mother, mother!" she sobbed, in a dry, choking voice, "i can not live any longer. i am not taking the life god gave me, i am only returning it to him. this is the only crime i have ever committed, mother, and man will forget it, and god will forgive me. you must plead for me, angel-mother. good-bye, dear, kind uncle john, your love never failed me, and rex--oh, rex--whom i love best of all, you will not know how i loved you. oh, my love--my lost love--i shall watch over you up there!" she moaned, "and come to you in your dreams! good-bye, rex, my love, my husband!" she sobbed, holding the fatal liquid to her parched lips. the deep yawning chasm lay at her feet. ten--ay, eleven drops she hastily swallowed. then with one last piteous appeal to heaven for forgiveness, poor, helpless little daisy closed her eyes and sprung into the air. chapter xvi. a strong hand drew daisy quickly back. "rash child! what is this that you would do?" cried an eager, earnest voice, and, turning quickly about, speechless with fright, daisy met the stern eyes of the apothecary bent searchingly, inquiringly upon her. "it means that i am tired of life," she replied, desperately. "my life is so full of sadness it will be no sorrow to leave it. i wanted to rest quietly down there, but you have held me back; it is useless to attempt to save me now. i have already swallowed a portion of the laudanum. death must come to relieve me soon. it would be better to let me die down there where no one could have looked upon my face again." "i had no intention to let you die so easily," said the apothecary, softly. "i read your thoughts too plainly for that. i did not give you laudanum, but a harmless mixture instead, and followed you to see if my surmise was correct. you are young and fair--surely life could not have lost all hope and sunshine for you?" "you do not know all," said daisy, wearily, "or you would not have held me back. i do not know of another life so utterly hopeless as my own." the good man looked at the sweet, innocent, beautiful face, upon which the starlight fell, quite bewildered and thoughtful. "i should like to know what your trouble is," he said, gently. "i could tell you only one half of it," she replied, wearily. "i have suffered much, and yet through no fault of my own. i am cast off, deserted, condemned to a loveless, joyless life; my heart is broken; there is nothing left me but to die. i repeat that it is a sad fate." "it is indeed," replied the apothecary, gravely. "yet, alas! not an uncommon one. are you quite sure that nothing can remedy it?" "quite sure," replied daisy, hopelessly. "my doom is fixed; and no matter how long i live, or how long he lives, it can never be altered." the apothecary was uncomfortable without knowing why, haunted by a vague, miserable suspicion, which poor daisy's words secretly corroborated; yet it seemed almost a sin to harbor one suspicion against the purity of the artless little creature before him. he looked into the fresh young face. there was no cloud on it, no guilt lay brooding in the clear, truthful blue eyes. he never dreamed little daisy was a wife. "why did he not love her?" was the query the apothecary asked himself over and over again; "she is so young, so loving, and so fair. he has cast her off, this man to whom she has given the passionate love of her young heart." "you see you did wrong to hold me back," she said, gently. "how am i to live and bear this sorrow that has come upon me? what am i to do?" she looked around her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way, with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the bank of safety has been withdrawn. hope was dead, and the past a blank. "no matter what your past has been, my poor child, you must remember there is a future. take up the burden again, and bear it nobly; go back to your home, and commence life anew." "i have no home and no friends," she sighed, hopelessly. "poor child," he said, pityingly, "is it as bad as that?" a sudden idea seemed to occur to him. "you are a perfect stranger to me," he said, "but i believe you to be an honorable girl, and i should like to befriend you, as i would pray heaven to befriend a daughter of mine if she were similarly situated. if i should put you in a way of obtaining your own living as companion to an elderly lady in a distant city, would you be willing to take up the tangled threads of your life again, and wait patiently until god saw fit to call you--that is, you would never attempt to take your life into your own hands again?" he asked, slowly. "remember, such an act is murder, and a murderer can not enter the kingdom of heaven." he never forgot the startled, frightened glance that swept over the beautiful face, plainly discernible in the white moonlight, nor the quiver of the sweet, tremulous voice as daisy answered: "i think god must have intended me to live, or he would not have sent you here to save me," she answered, impulsively. "twice i have been near death, and each time i have been rescued. i never attempted to take my own life but this once. i shall try and accept my fate and live out my weary life." "bravely spoken, my noble girl," replied her rescuer, heartily. "i must go far away from here, though," she continued, shuddering; "i am sorely persecuted here." the old man listened gravely to her disconnected, incoherent words, drawing but one conclusion from them--"the lover who had cast her off was pursuing the child, as her relentless foe, to the very verge of death and despair." "it is my sister who wants a companion," he said. "she lives in the south--in florida. do you think you would like to go as far away as that?" "yes," said daisy, mechanically. "i should like to go to the furthest end of the world. it does not matter much where i go!" how little she knew where fate was drifting her! rex had not told her his home was in florida; he meant to tell her that on the morning he was to have met her. "it will be a long, wearisome journey for you to undertake, still i feel sure you are brave enough to accomplish it in safety." "i thank you very much for your confidence in me, sir," said daisy, simply. "tut, tut, child!" exclaimed the old man, brusquely. "that innocent little face of yours ought to be a passport to any one's confidence. i don't think there's any doubt but what you will get on famously with maria--that's my sister mrs. glenn--but she's got three daughters that would put an angel's temper on edge. they're my nieces--more's the pity, for they are regular tartars. mrs. glenn sent for my daughter alice to come down there; but, lord bless you, i wouldn't dare send her! there would be a raging quarrel before twenty-four hours! my alice has got a temper of her own. but, pshaw! i ought not to frighten you, my dear; they could not help but love _you_." and thus it was daisy's fate was unchangeably settled for her. "there is one thing i would like you to promise me," she said, timidly, "and that is never to divulge my whereabouts to any one who might come in search of me. i must remain dead to the world forever; i shall never take up the old life again. they must believe me dead." argument and persuasion alike were useless; and, sorely troubled at heart, the apothecary reluctantly consented. poor little daisy impulsively caught him by both hands, and gratefully sobbed out her thanks. the arrangements were soon completed, and before the gray dawn pierced the darkness of the eastern sky poor little daisy was whirling rapidly away from elmwood. the consternation and excitement which prevailed at the burton cottage when daisy's absence was discovered can better be imagined than described; or the intense anger of stanwick upon finding daisy had eluded him. "checkmated!" he cried, white to the very lips. "but she shall not escape me; she shall suffer for this freak. i am not a man to be trifled with. she can not have gone far," he assured himself. "in all probability she has left elmwood; but if by rail or by water i can easily recapture my pretty bird. ah, daisy brooks!" he muttered, "you can not fly away from your fate; it will overtake you sooner or later." some hours after stanwick had left the cottage, an old man toiled wearily up the grass-grown path. "oh, poor little daisy," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his old red and white cotton kerchief; "no matter what you have done i will take you back to my heart--that i will!" he clutched the letter mme. whitney had written him close in his toil-hardened hand. the letter simply told him daisy had fled from the seminary, and she had every reason to believe she was now in elmwood. he had received the letter while in new york, and hastily proceeded to elmwood, the station indicated, at once, without stopping over at allendale to acquaint septima with the news. "she shall never be sent off to school again," he commented; "but she shall stop at home. poor little pet, she was always as happy as the day was long; she sha'n't have book-learning if she don't want it. i am too hard, i s'pose, with the child in sending her off among these primpy city gals, with their flounces and furbelows, with only three plain muslin frocks. the dickens fly away with the book-learnin'; i like her all the better just as she is, bless her dear little heart! i'm after little daisy brooks," he said, bowing to the ladies who met him at the door. "i heard she was here--run away from school, you see, ma'am--but i'll forgive the little gypsy. tell her old uncle john is here. she'll be powerful glad to see me." slowly and gently they broke to him the cruel story. how the dark, handsome stranger had brought her there in the storm and the night; and they could not refuse her shelter; the gentleman claimed her to be his wife; of her illness which culminated in her disappearance. they never forgot the white, set face turned toward them. the veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and the perspiration rolled down his pallid cheeks in great quivering beads. this heart-rending, silent emotion was more terrible to witness than the most violent paroxysms of grief. strangely enough they had quite forgotten to mention rex's visit. "you don't know how i loved that child," he cried, brokenly. "she was all i had to love in the whole world, and i set such store by her, but stanwick shall pay dearly for this," he cried, hoarsely. "i shall never rest day or night until my little daisy's honor is avenged, so help me god! you think she is dead?" he questioned, looking brokenly from the one to the other. they only nodded their heads; they could not speak through their sobs. at that moment several of the neighbors who were assisting in the search were seen coming toward the cottage. they gathered in a little knot by the garden wall. with a heart heavier than lead in his bosom john brooks went forward to meet them. "you haven't got any track of my little daisy?" he asked, despondingly. the men averted their faces. "for god's sake speak out, my men!" he cried, in agony; "i can't stand this suspense." "there are footprints in the wet grass down yonder," one of them replied; "and they lead straight down to the old shaft. do you think your girl has made away with herself?" a gray, ghastly pallor settled over john brooks' anguished face. "the lord knows! all of you stay here while i go down there and look. if i should find anything there i'd rather be alone." there was a depth of agony in the man's voice that touched his hearers, and more than one coat-sleeve was drawn hastily across sympathetic eyes as they whispered one to the other he would surely find her there. john brooks had reached the very mouth of the pit now, and through the branches of the trees the men saw him suddenly spring forward, and stoop as if to pick up something, and bitter cries rent the stillness of the summer morning. "daisy! oh, daisy! my child, my child!" then they saw him fall heavily to the ground on the very brink of the shaft. "i guess he's found her!" cried the sympathizing men. "let us go and see." they found john brooks insensible, lying prone on his face, grasping a tiny little glove in one hand, and in the other a snowy little handkerchief, which bore, in one corner, worked in fanciful design, the name of "daisy." chapter xvii. glengrove was one of the most beautiful spots in the south of florida. the house--similar to many in the south in style of architecture--stood in the midst of charming grounds which were filled with flowers. to the left of the house was a large shrubbery which opened on to a wide carriage-drive leading to the main road, but the principal attraction of glengrove was its magnificent orange grove, where the brilliant sunshine loved to linger longest among the dark-green boughs, painting the luscious fruit with its own golden coloring--from green to gold. a low stone wall divided it from the beach which led to the sea. it was early morning. in an elegant boudoir, whose oriel window overlooked the garden, sat three young ladies, respectively, bessie glenn, two-and-twenty; gertie glenn, twenty; and eve glenn, eighteen--all dark-eyed, dark-haired, and handsome, yet each of a distinct different type. "i declare, bess," cried gertie, indignantly, twisting the telegram she held in her hand into a wisp, "it's from uncle jet! guess what he says!" "i couldn't possibly," yawns bess, from the depths of her easy-chair; "it's too much trouble." "is it about alice?" questioned eve, maliciously. "yes," replied gertie; "but you are to try and guess what it is." "why, i suppose some stranger has chanced to flutter down into the quiet little village of elmwood, and alice thinks it her duty to stay there and capture him." "that isn't it at all," snapped gertie. "uncle jet says alice can not come; but he has taken the liberty of sending another young lady in her stead, and hopes miss daisy brooks will be the right person in the right place. she will arrive on the twentieth, at nine a. m." eve jumped to her feet in actual astonishment, and even bessie dropped her novel, with widely opened eyes. "just fancy some tall, gaunt old maid of a companion, with such a name!" she cried, raising her eyebrows and picking up her book again. "i think you will find the daisy a rather ancient and faded flower." "she couldn't be anything else," assented gertie. "wouldn't it be fun if she should turn out to be young and pretty, and take the shine off both of you?" laughed eve, puckering up her mouth. "i would enjoy it immensely!" "eve, will you hold your tongue?" commanded bessie, sharply. "you'd better hold your temper!" retorted eve. "pshaw! what's the use of being so silly as to quarrel over a miss nobody?" cried gertie, stamping her pretty slippered foot. "guess what else is the news." "haven't i told you i despise guessing?" cried bess, angrily. "it is not good form to insist upon a person's guessing--please remember it." "write it down on ice," said eve, _sotto voce_, mimicking her elder sister's tone. "well," said gertie, with a look of triumph, "i drove over to mrs. lyon's yesterday to see how everything was progressing for that contemplated marriage, and, lo! she informs me the wedding is postponed for the present, and rex--handsome rex--is coming home alone." "no--o!" cried both the sisters in chorus. bess sat bolt upright, and eve danced around the room clapping her hands. "i don't think much of a marriage which has been postponed," said bess, a bright spot glowing on both of her cheeks. "who knows but what one of us may have a chance of winning handsome rex lyon, after all? he is certainly a golden prize!" "'don't count the chickens,' etc.," quoted eve, saucily. "gertrude!" said bess, severely, "you will learn after awhile never to speak before eve. she is as liable to do mischief as her namesake was in the garden of eden." "you ought never to go back on your own sex," retorted eve, banging the door after her as she quitted the room, rover, an ugly-looking mastiff, closely following at her heels. "that is certainly an astonishing piece of news," said bess, reflectively, smoothing out the folds of her white cashmere morning wrapper. "now, here's a plan for you, gertie. find out his address in some way, and we will write to him on some pretext or other. rex has probably quarreled with the haughty heiress of whitestone hall, and one of us ought certainly to catch his heart in the rebound. send him an invitation to your birthday party, gertie." "i would be more likely to succeed than you, bess," said gertie, rocking complacently to and fro, and looking maliciously at her sister. "you remember he once remarked he did not like tall ladies, and you are certainly tall, bess." "well, i'd rather be tall and willowy and graceful, than short and fat and dumpy," jerked out bess, spitefully. "what! at swords' points yet, eh? ha, ha, ha!" cried eve, suddenly, popping her head in at the door. "i'll be back after awhile to see which one of you gets the best of it." before either of the sisters had time to reply, the family carriage dashed suddenly up to the porch, and a moment later a slight, dark-robed little figure was ushered into their presence. "this is miss brooks, mum," said jim, the coachman, addressing the elder sister. "i'd like to know why you have brought her in here?" cried bess, angrily. "why did you not take her into the servants' hall or into the kitchen?" but jim had disappeared. "well, now that you are here, you might sit down," suggested gertie, wondering what kind of a face was hid behind the long, thick, clinging veil. "you may lay aside your bonnet and veil." trembling and sick at heart with the cold greeting which had been given her, daisy did as she was bid. "why, i declare, you are younger than i am!" cried eve, impulsively. "we were all expecting to see a wrinkled, dried-up old maid. why, you'd make a much better companion for me than for mother." "e--v--e!" cried the elder miss glenn, severely, "be kind enough to leave the room." "i sha'n't go one step until i have had my say out," cried eve, planting herself firmly down on a hassock in the middle of the floor. "nobody likes me because i'm rude and free-spoken," declared eve, addressing daisy; "but i believe in letting people know just what i am to begin with. i'm not one of these sleek, smooth, tigery creatures that hide their claws under velvet-paws. we are three model sisters," she went on, recklessly; "we have tremendous spats--when we are here alone; but if a visitor happens in we all sit with our arms around one another, 'just to have the appearance' of affection, you know." the elder miss glenn arose with dignity, motioning daisy to follow her. "papa will see you later, eve, dear," she said, with a baleful glitter in her sloe-black eyes; and as daisy followed her she could not help but compare her with pluma hurlhurst, with that treacherous, mocking smile playing about her full, red lips--and quite unconsciously poor little daisy fell to thinking. "rex will go back to pluma hurlhurst now," she thought, with a bitter sigh. "he has cast me out of his life; he will go back and marry her." poor, innocent daisy, how little she knew of life or the insurmountable barrier which lay between the haughty, scheming heiress and rex--her husband! "i was asking you if you resided in elmwood, miss brooks," said bess, raising her voice. "i have asked you twice." "i beg your pardon; please forgive me," said daisy, flushing painfully. "i--i was not aware you had spoken. no, i lived near elmwood--between there and baltimore." daisy was sorely afraid miss glenn would ask her to name the exact location. she did not, however, much to daisy's relief. by this time they had reached the door of mrs. glenn's room, and as it was slightly ajar bessie pushed it open without further ceremony and entered. "has miss brooks come yet?" asked a thin, querulous voice. "yes," answered bessie; "here she is, mamma." the room was so dark daisy could scarcely distinguish the different objects for a moment or so. she saw, however, a dark figure on a couch and a white jeweled hand waving a fan indolently to and fro. a sudden impulse came over daisy to turn and run away, but by a great effort she controlled her feelings. "step forward, if you please, miss brooks. i can not observe you well at such a distance; do not tread on the poodle on the rug or brush against the bric-à-brac placed indiscriminately about the room." "oh, dear, if there were only a light," thought daisy, in dismay. she was afraid of taking a single step for fear some of the bric-à-brac mentioned, either at the right or left of her, should come crashing down under her blundering little feet. "i always exclude the broad glare of early morning light, as i find it especially trying." as she spoke she threw back one of the shutters with the end of her fan, and a warm flood of invigorating sunshine poured into the room. "dear me," she cried, staring hard at the beautiful little face before her. "why, you are a child, scarcely older than my eve. what could that stupid brother of mine mean by sending you to me? i have a notion to send you back again directly." "oh, please do not, madame," cried daisy, piteously. "only try me first; i will do my very best to please you." "but i did not want a young person," expostulated mrs. glenn. "but you sent for alice, his daughter, and--and he thought i would do as well," faltered daisy, timidly. "alice jet is over forty, and you are not more than sixteen, i should judge. how did you happen to think you could do as well as she?" the color came and went on daisy's pretty flower-like face, and her heart throbbed pitifully. "i am not so very wise or learned," she said, "but i should try so hard to please you, if you will only let me try." "i suppose, now that you are here, we will have to make the best of it," replied mrs. glenn, condescendingly. the fair beauty of the young girl's face did not please her. "i have always dreaded fair women," she thought to herself, "they are the most dangerous of rivals. if she stays at glengrove i shall see she is kept well in the background." while in the morning-room below the three girls were discussing the new turn of affairs vigorously. "i am determined she shall not remain here," bessie glenn was saying. "i heartily indorse your opinion," said gertie, slowly. and for once in her life the tongue of reckless eve was silent. she looked thoughtfully out of the window. chapter xviii. the first week of daisy's stay at glengrove passed quickly. she was beginning to feel quite at home with mrs. glenn and eve, but bessie and gertie held aloof from her. she was beginning to believe she never would be able to win her way to their hearts. eve--warm-hearted, impulsive eve--took to her at once. "you are just the kind of a girl i like, daisy," said eve, twirling one of her soft gold curls caressingly around her finger; "and if i were a handsome young man, instead of a girl, i should fall straightway in love with you. why, what are you blushing so for?" cried eve. "don't you like to talk about love and lovers?" "no," said daisy, in a low voice, a distressed look creeping into her blue eyes. "if you please, eve, i'd rather not talk about such things." "you are certainly a funny girl," said eve, wonderingly. "why, do you know all the handsome young fellows around here have fallen deeply in love with you, and have just been besieging both bess and gertie for an introduction to you." no laughing rejoinder came from daisy's red lips. there was an anxious look in her eyes. ah! this, then, accounted for the growing coldness with which the two sisters greeted her. "you do not seem enough interested to even ask who they are," said eve, disappointedly. "i suppose you have never heard we have some of the handsomest gentlemen around here to be met with in the whole south--or in the north either, for that matter," said eve, enthusiastically. "wait until you have seen some of them." how little she knew the girl's heart and soul was bound up in rex, whom she told herself she was never again to see. "do you see that large gray, stone house yonder, whose turrets you can just see beyond those trees?" asked eve, suddenly, a mischievous light dancing in her merry hazel eyes. "yes," replied daisy. "i have a fine view of it from my window upstairs. i have seen a little child swinging to and fro in a hammock beneath the trees. poor little thing, she uses a crutch. is she lame?" "yes," replied eve, "that's little birdie; she's lame. i do not want to talk about her but about her brother. oh, he is perfectly splendid!" declared eve, enthusiastically, "and rich, too. why, he owns i don't know how many cotton plantations and orange groves, and he is--oh--so handsome! you must take care you do not fall in love with him. all the girls do. if you did not, you would be a great exception; you could scarcely help caring for him, he is so winning and so nice," said eve, blushing furiously. how poor little daisy's heart longed for sympathy and consolation! oh, if she only dared tell eve the great hidden sorrow that seemed eating her heart away! she felt that she must unburden her heart to some one, or it must surely break. "eve," she said, her little hands closing softly over the restless brown one drumming a tattoo on the window-sill, and her golden head drooping so close to eve's, her curls mingled with her dark locks, "i could never love any one in this world again. i loved once--it was the sweetest, yet the most bitter, experience of my life. the same voice that spoke tender words to me cruelly cast me from him. yet i love him still with all my heart. do not talk to me of love, or lovers, eve, i can not bear it. the world will never hold but one face for me, and that is the face of him who is lost to me forever." "oh, how delightfully romantic!" cried eve. "i said to myself over and over again there was some mystery in your life. i have seen such strange shadows in your eyes, and your voice often had the sound of tears in it. i do wish i could help you in some way," said eve, thoughtfully. "i'd give the world to set the matter straight for you. what's his name, and where does he live?" "i can not tell you," said daisy, shaking her golden curls sadly. "oh, dear! then i do not see how i can help you," cried eve. "you can not," replied daisy; "only keep my secret for me." "i will," she cried, earnestly. and as they parted, eve resolved in her own mind to bring this truant lover of daisy's back to his old allegiance; but the first and most important step was to discover his name. eve went directly to her own room, her brain whirling with a new plan, which she meant to put into execution at once, while daisy strolled on through the grounds, choosing the less frequented paths. she wanted to be all alone by herself to have a good cry. somehow she felt so much better for having made a partial confidante of eve. the sun was beginning to sink in the west; still daisy walked on, thinking of rex. a little shrill piping voice falling suddenly upon her ears caused her to stop voluntarily. "won't you please reach me my hat and crutch? i have dropped them on your side of the fence." daisy glanced around, wondering in which direction the voice came from. "i am sitting on the high stone wall; come around on the other side of that big tree and you will see me." the face that looked down into daisy's almost took her breath away for a single instant, it was so like rex's. a bright, winning, childish face, framed in a mass of dark nut-brown curls, and the brownest of large brown eyes. "certainly," said daisy, stooping down with a strange unexplainable thrill at her heart and picking up the wide-brimmed sun-hat and crutch, which was unfortunately broken by the fall. a low cry burst from the child's lips. "oh, my crutch is broken!" she cried, in dismay. "what shall i do? i can not walk back to the house. i am lame!" "let me see if i can help you," said daisy, scaling the stone wall with the grace of a fawn. "put your arms around my neck," she said, "and cling very tight. i will soon have you down from your high perch; never mind the crutch. i can carry you up to the porch; it is not very far, and you are not heavy." in a very few moments daisy had the child down safely upon _terra firma_. "thank you," said the child. "i know you are tired; we will rest a moment, please, on this fallen log." the touch of the little girl's hands, the glance of the soft brown eyes, and the tone of her voice seemed to recall every word and glance of rex, and hold a strange fascination for her. "i shall tell my mother and my brother how good you have been to me, and they will thank you too. my name is birdie; please tell me yours." "my name is daisy brooks," she answered. poor little girl-bride, there had been a time when she had whispered to her heart that her name was daisy lyon; but that bright dream was over now; she would never be aught else than--daisy brooks. "is your name really daisy?" cried the little girl in a transport of delight, scarcely catching the last name. "why, that is the name my brother loves best in the world. you have such a sweet face," said the child, earnestly. "i would choose the name of some flower as just suited to you. i should have thought of lily, rose, pansy, or violet, but i should never have thought of anything one half so pretty as daisy; it just suits you." all through her life daisy felt that to be the sweetest compliment ever paid her. daisy laughed--the only happy laugh that had passed her lips since she had met rex that morning under the magnolia-tree. "shall i tell you what my brother said about daisies?" "yes, you may tell me, if you like," daisy answered, observing the child delighted to talk of her brother. "he has been away for a long time," explained birdie. "he only came home last night, and i cried myself to sleep, i was so glad. you see," said the child, growing more confidential, and nestling closer to daisy's side, and opening wide her great brown eyes, "i was crying for fear he would bring home a wife, and mamma was crying for fear he wouldn't. i wrote him a letter all by myself once, and begged him not to marry, but come home all alone, and you see he did," cried the child, overjoyed. "when he answered my letter, he inclosed a little pressed flower, with a golden heart and little white leaves around it, saying: 'there is no flower like the daisy for me. i shall always prize them as pearls beyond price.' i planted a whole bed of them beneath his window, and i placed a fresh vase of them in his room, mingled with some forget-me-nots, and when he saw them, he caught me in his arms, and cried as though his heart would break." if the white fleecy clouds in the blue sky, the murmuring sea, or the silver-throated bobolink swinging in the green leafy bough above her head, had only whispered to daisy why he loved the flowers so well which bore the name of daisy, how much misery might have been spared two loving hearts! the gray, dusky shadows of twilight were creeping up from the sea. "oh, see how late it is growing," cried birdie, starting up in alarm. "i am afraid you could not carry me up to the porch. if you could only summon a servant, or--or--my brother." for answer, daisy raised the slight burden in her arms with a smile. "i like you more than i can tell," said birdie, laying her soft, pink, dimpled cheek against daisy's. "won't you come often to the angle in the stone wall? that is my favorite nook. i like to sit there and watch the white sails glide by over the white crested waves." "yes," said daisy, "i will come every day." "some time i may bring my brother with me; you must love him, too, won't you?" "i should love any one who had you for a sister," replied daisy, clasping the little figure she held still closer in her arms; adding, in her heart: "you are so like him." birdie gave her such a hearty kiss, that the veil twined round her hat tumbled about her face like a misty cloud. "you must put me down while you fix your veil," said birdie. "you can not see with it so. there are huge stones in the path, you would stumble and fall." "so i shall," assented daisy, as she placed the child down on the soft, green grass. at that instant swift, springy footsteps came hurriedly down the path, and a voice, which seemed to pierce her very heart, called: "birdie, little birdie, where are you?" "here, brother rex," called the child, holding out her arms to him with eager delight. "come here, rex, and carry me; i have broken my crutch." for one brief instant the world seemed to stand still around poor, hapless daisy, the forsaken girl-bride. the wonder was that she did not die, so great was her intense emotion. rex was standing before her--the handsome, passionate lover, who had married her on the impulse of the moment; the man whom she loved with her whole heart, at whose name she trembled, of whom she had made an idol in her girlish heart, and worshiped--the lover who had vowed so earnestly he would shield her forever from the cold, cruel world, who had sworn eternal constancy, while the faithful gleaming stars watched him from the blue sky overhead. yes, it was rex! she could not see through the thick, misty veil, how pale his face was in the gathering darkness. oh, heaven! how her passionate little heart went out to him! how she longed, with a passionate longing words could not tell, to touch his hand, or rest her weary head on his breast. her brain whirled; she seemed, to live ages in those few moments. should she throw herself on her knees, and cry out to him, "oh, rex, rex, my darling! i am _not_ guilty! listen to me, my love. hear my pleading--listen to my prayer! i am more sinned against than sinning. my life has been as pure as an angel's--take me back to your heart, or i shall die!" "she has been so good to me, rex," whispered birdie, clinging to the veil which covered daisy's face. "i broke my crutch, and she has carried me from the stone wall; won't you please thank her for me, brother?" daisy's heart nearly stopped beating; she knew the eventful moment of her life had come, when rex, her handsome young husband, turned courteously toward her, extending his hand with a winning smile. chapter xix. on the day following rex's return home, and the morning preceding the events narrated in our last chapter, mrs. theodore lyon sat in her dressing-room eagerly awaiting her son; her eyebrows met in a dark frown and her jeweled hands were locked tightly together in her lap. "rex is like his father," she mused; "he will not be coerced in this matter of marriage. he is reckless and willful, yet kind of heart. for long years i have set my heart upon this marriage between rex and pluma hurlhurst. i say again it must be!" mrs. lyon idolized her only son. "he would be a fitting mate for a queen," she told herself. the proud, peerless beauty of the haughty young heiress of whitestone hall pleased her. "she and no other shall be rex's wife," she said. when rex accepted the invitation to visit whitestone hall she smiled complacently. "it can end in but one way," she told herself; "rex will bring pluma home as his bride." quite unknown to him, his elegant home had been undergoing repairs for months. "there will be nothing wanting for the reception of his bride," she said, viewing the magnificent suites of rooms which contained every luxury that taste could suggest or money procure. then came rex's letter like a thunderbolt from a clear sky begging her not to mention the subject again, as he could never marry pluma hurlhurst. "i shall make a flying trip home," he said, "then i am going abroad." she did not notice how white and worn her boy's handsome face had grown when she greeted him the night before, in the flickering light of the chandelier. she would not speak to him then of the subject uppermost in her mind. "retire to your room at once, rex," she said, "your journey has wearied you. see, it is past midnight already. i will await you to-morrow morning in my boudoir; we will breakfast there together." she leaned back against the crimson velvet cushions, tapping her satin quilted slipper restlessly on the thick velvet carpet, ever and anon glancing at her jeweled watch, wondering what could possibly detain rex. she heard the sound of a quick, familiar footstep in the corridor; a moment later rex was by her side. as she stooped down to kiss his face she noticed, in the clear morning light, how changed he was. her jeweled hands lingered on his dark curls and touched his bright, proud face. "what had come over this handsome, impetuous son of hers?" she asked herself. "you have been ill, rex," she said, anxiously, "and you have not told me." "i have not, indeed, mother," he replied. "not ill? why, my dear boy, your face is haggard and worn, and there are lines upon it that ought not to have been there for years. rex," she said, drawing him down on the sofa beside her, and holding his strong white hands tightly clasped in her own, "i do not want to tease you or bring up an unpleasant subject, but i had so hoped, my boy, you would not come alone. i have hoped and prayed, morning and night, you would bring home a bride, and that bride would be--pluma hurlhurst." rex staggered from her arms with a groan. he meant to tell her the whole truth, but the words seemed to fail him. "mother," he said, turning toward her a face white with anguish, "in heaven's name, never mention love or marriage to me again or i shall go mad. i shall never bring a bride here." "he has had a quarrel with pluma," she thought. "rex," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking down into his face, "tell me, has pluma hurlhurst refused you? tell me what is the matter, rex. i am your mother, and i have the right to know. the one dream of my life has been to see pluma your wife; i can not give up that hope. if it is a quarrel it can be easily adjusted; 'true love never runs smooth,' you know." "it is not that, mother," said rex, wearily bowing his head on his hands. then something like the truth seemed to dawn upon her. "my son," she said, in a slight tone of irritation, "pluma wrote me of that little occurrence at the lawn fête. surely you are not in love with that girl you were so foolishly attentive to--the overseer's niece, i believe it was. i can not, i will not, believe a son of mine could so far forget his pride as to indulge in such mad, reckless folly. remember, rexford," she cried, in a voice fairly trembling with suppressed rage, "i could never forgive such an act of recklessness. she should never come here, i warn you." "mother," said rex, raising his head proudly, and meeting the flashing scorn of her eyes unflinchingly, "you must not speak so; i--can not listen to it." "by what right do you forbid me to speak of that girl as i choose?" she demanded, in a voice hard and cold with intense passion. once or twice rex paced the length of the room, his arms folded upon his breast. suddenly he stopped before her. "what is this girl to you?" she asked. with white, quivering lips rex answered back: "she is my wife!" the words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they echoed like thunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves, over and over again, during the moment of utter silence that ensued. rex had told his pitiful secret, and felt better already, as if the worst was over; while his mother stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon him with a baleful light in her eyes. he had dashed down in a single instant the hopes she had built up for long years. "let me tell you about it, mother," he said, kneeling at her feet. "the worst and bitterest part is yet to come." "yes, tell me," his mother said, hoarsely. without lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which was strangely sad and low, rex told his story--every word of it: how his heart had went out to the sweet-faced, golden-haired little creature whom he found fast asleep under the blossoming magnolia-tree in the morning sunshine; how he protected the shrinking, timid little creature from the cruel insults of pluma hurlhurst; how he persuaded her to marry him out in the starlight, and how they had agreed to meet on the morrow--that morrow on which he found the cottage empty and his child-bride gone; of his search for her, and--oh, cruelest and bitterest of all!--where and with whom he found her; how he had left her lying among the clover, loving her too madly to curse her, yet praying heaven to strike him dead then and there. daisy--sweet little, blue-eyed daisy was false; he never cared to look upon a woman's face again. he spoke of daisy as his wife over and over again, the name lingering tenderly on his lips. he did not see how, at the mention of the words, "my wife," his mother's face grew more stern and rigid, and she clutched her hands so tightly together that the rings she wore bruised her tender flesh, yet she did not seem to feel the pain. she saw the terrible glance that leaped into his eyes when he mentioned stanwick's name, and how he ground his teeth, like one silently breathing a terrible curse. then his voice fell to a whisper. "i soon repented of my harshness," he said, "and i went back to elmwood; but, oh, the pity of it--the pity of it--i was too late; little daisy, my bride, was dead! she had thrown herself down a shaft in a delirium. i would have followed her, but they held me back. i can scarcely realize it, mother," he cried. "the great wonder is that i do not go insane." mrs. lyon had heard but one word--"dead." this girl who had inveigled her handsome son into a low marriage was dead. rex was free--free to marry the bride whom she had selected for him. yet she dare not mention that thought to him now--no, not now; she must wait a little. no pity lurked in her heart for the poor little girl-bride whom she supposed lying cold and still in death, whom her son so wildly mourned; she only realized her darling rex was free. what mattered it to her at what bitter a cost rex was free? she should yet see her darling hopes realized. pluma should be his wife, just as sure as they both lived. "i have told you all now, mother," rex said, in conclusion; "you must comfort me, for heaven knows i need all of your sympathy. you will forgive me, mother," he said. "you would have loved daisy, too, if you had seen her; i shall always believe, through some enormous villainy, stanwick must have tempted her. i shall follow him to the ends of the earth. i shall wring the truth from his lips. i must go away," he cried--"anywhere, everywhere, trying to forget my great sorrow. how am i to bear it? has heaven no pity, that i am so sorely tried?" at that moment little birdie came hobbling into the room, and for a brief moment rex forgot his great grief in greeting his little sister. "oh, you darling brother rex," she cried, clinging to him and laughing and crying in one breath, "i told them to wake me up sure, if you came in the night. i dreamed i heard your voice. you see, it must have been real, but i couldn't wake up; and this morning i heard every one saying: 'rex is here, rex is here,' and i couldn't wait another moment, but i came straight down to you." rex kissed the pretty little dimpled face, and the little chubby hands that stroked his hair so tenderly. "why, you have been crying, rex," she cried out, in childish wonder. "see, there are tear-drops on your eyelashes--one fell on my hand. what is the matter, brother dear, are you not happy?" birdie put her two little soft white arms around his neck, laying her cheek close to his in her pretty, childish, caressing way. he tried to laugh lightly, but the laugh had no mirth in it. "you must run away and play, birdie, and not annoy your brother," said mrs. lyon, disengaging the child's clinging arms from rex's neck. "that child is growing altogether too observing of late." "child!" cried birdie. "i am ten years old. i shall soon be a young lady like bess and gertie, over at glengrove." "and eve," suggested rex, the shadow of a smile flickering around his mouth. "no, not like eve," cried the child, gathering up her crutch and sun-hat as she limped toward the door; "eve is not a young lady, she's a tom-boy; she wears short dresses and chases the hounds around, while the other two wear silk dresses with big, big trains and have beaus to hold their fans and handkerchiefs. i am going to take my new books you sent me down to my old seat on the stone wall and read those pretty stories there. i don't know if i will be back for lunch or not," she called back; "if i don't, will you come for me, brother rex?" "yes, dear," he made answer, "of course i will." the lunch hour came and went, still birdie did not put in an appearance. at last rex was beginning to feel uneasy about her. "you need not be the least alarmed," said mrs. lyon, laughingly, "the child is quite spoiled; she is like a romping gypsy, more content to live out of doors in a tent than to remain indoors. she is probably waiting down on the stone wall for you to come for her and carry her home as you used to do. you had better go down and see, rex; it is growing quite dark." and rex, all unconscious of the strange, invisible thread which fate was weaving so closely about him, quickly made his way through the fast-gathering darkness down the old familiar path which led through the odorous orange groves to the old stone wall, guided by the shrill treble of birdie's childish voice, which he heard in the distance, mingled with the plaintive murmur of the sad sea-waves--those waves that seemed ever murmuring in their song the name of daisy. even the subtle breeze seemed to whisper of her presence. chapter xx. "i am very grateful to you for the service you have rendered my little sister," said rex, extending his hand to the little veiled figure standing in the shade of the orange-trees. "allow me to thank you for it." poor daisy! she dared not speak lest the tones of her voice should betray her identity. "i must for evermore be as one dead to him," she whispered to her wildly beating heart. rex wondered why the little, fluttering, cold fingers dropped so quickly from his clasp; he thought he heard a stifled sigh; the slight, delicate form looked strangely familiar, yet he could see it was neither eve, gerty, nor bess. she bowed her head with a few low-murmured words he scarcely caught, and the next instant the little figure was lost to sight in the darkness beyond. "who was that, birdie?" he asked, scarcely knowing what prompted the question. alas for the memory of childhood! poor little birdie had quite forgotten. "it is so stupid of me to forget, but when i see her again i shall ask her and try and remember it then." "it is of no consequence," said rex, raising the little figure in his arms and bearing her quickly up the graveled path to the house. as he neared the house rex observed there was great confusion among the servants; there was a low murmur of voices and lights moving to and fro. "what is the matter, parker?" cried rex, anxiously, of the servant who came out to meet him. "mrs. lyon is very ill, sir," he answered, gravely; "it is a paralytic stroke the doctor says. we could not find you, so we went for doctor elton at once." it seemed but a moment since he had parted from his mother in the gathering twilight, to search for birdie. his mother very ill--dear heaven! he could scarcely realize it. "oh, take me to mother, rex!" cried birdie, clinging to him piteously. "oh, it can not, it cannot be true; take me to her, rex!" the sound of hushed weeping fell upon his ears and seemed to bring to him a sense of what was happening. like one in a dream he hurried along the corridor toward his mother's boudoir. he heard his mother's voice calling for him. "where is my son?" she moaned. he opened the door quietly and went in. her dark eyes opened feebly as rex entered, and she held out her arms to him. "oh, my son, my son!" she cried; "thank heaven you are here!" she clung to him, weeping bitterly. it was the first time he had ever seen tears in his mother's eyes, and he was touched beyond words. "it may not be as bad as you think, mother," he said; "there is always hope while there is life." she raised her face to her son's, and he saw there was a curious whiteness upon it. the large, magnificent room was quite in shadow; soft shadows filled the corners; the white statuettes gleamed in the darkness; one blind was half drawn, and through it came the soft, sweet moonlight. a large night-lamp stood upon the table, but it was carefully shaded. faint glimmers of light fell upon the bed, with its costly velvet hangings, and on the white, drawn face that lay on the pillows, with the gray shadow of death stealing softly over it--the faint, filmy look that comes only into eyes that death has begun to darken. his mother had never been demonstrative; she had never cared for many caresses; but now her son's love seemed her only comfort. "rex," she said, clinging close to him, "i feel that i am dying. send them all away--my hours are numbered--a mist rises before my face, rex. oh, dear heaven! i can not see you--i have lost my sight--my eyes grow dim." a cry came from rex's lips. "mother, dear mother," he cried, "there is no pain in this world i would not undergo for your dear sake!" he cried, kissing the stiffening lips. she laid her hands on the handsome head bent before her. "heaven bless you, my son," she murmured. "oh, rex, my hope and my trust are in you!" she wailed. "comfort me, calm me--i have suffered so much. i have one last dying request to make of you, my son. you will grant my prayer, rex? surely heaven would not let you refuse my last request!" rex clasped her in his arms. this was his lady-mother, whose proud, calm, serene manner had always been perfect--whose fair, proud face had never been stained with tears--whose lips had never been parted with sighs or worn with entreaties. it was so new to him, so terrible in its novelty, he could hardly understand it. he threw his arms around her, and clasped her closely to his breast. "my dearest mother," he cried, "you know i would die for you if dying would benefit you. why do you doubt my willingness to obey your wishes, whatever they may be? whatever i can do to comfort you i will surely do it, mother." "heaven bless you, rex!" she cried, feebly caressing his face and his bands. "you make death a thousand-fold more easy to bear, my darling, only son!" "my dear sir," said the doctor, bending over him gently, "i must remind you your mother's life hangs on a thread. the least excitement, the least agitation, and she will be dead before you can call for help. no matter what she may say to you, listen and accede." rex bent down and kissed the pale, agitated face on the pillow. "i will be careful of my dearest mother. surely you may trust me," he said. "i do," replied the doctor, gravely. "your mother's life, for the present, lies in your hands." "is it true, rex, that i must die?" she gasped. the look of anguish on his face answered her. "rex," she whispered, clinging like a child to his strong white hands, "my hope and trust are in you, my only son. i am going to put your love to the test, my boy. i beseech you to say 'yes' to the last request i shall ever make of you. heaven knows, rex, i would not mention it now, but i am dying--yes, dying, rex." "you need not doubt it, mother," he replied, earnestly, "i can not refuse anything you may ask! why should i?" but, as he spoke, he had not the faintest idea of what he would be asked to do. as he spoke his eyes caught the gleam of the moonlight through the window, and his thoughts traveled for one moment to the beloved face he had seen in the moonlight--how fair and innocent the face was as they parted on the night they were wed! the picture of that lonely young girl-wife, going home by herself, brought tears to his eyes. "was there ever a fate so cruel?" he said to himself. "who ever lost a wife on his wedding-day?" surely there had never been a love-dream so sweet, so passionate, or so bright as his. surely there had never been one so rudely broken. poor little daisy--his wife--lying cold and still in death. even his mother was to be taken from him. the feeble pressure of his mother's hands recalled his wandering thoughts. "listen, rex," she whispered, faintly, "my moments are precious." he felt his mother's arms clasp closely round his neck. "go on, mother," he said, gently. "rex, my son," she whispered, gaspingly, "i could not die and leave the words unspoken. i want my race to live long generations after me. your poor little lame sister will go unmarried to the grave; and now all rests with you, my only son. you understand me, rex; you know the last request i have to ask." for the first time a cry came to rex's lips; her words pierced like a sword in his heart. "surely, mother, you do not mean--you do not think i could ever--" the very horror of the thought seemed to completely unman him. "you will marry again," she interrupted, finishing the sentence he could not utter. "remember, she whom you loved is dead. i would not have asked this for long years to come, but i am dying--i must speak now." "my god, mother!" he cried out in agony, "ask anything but that. my heart is torn and bleeding; have pity on me, have pity!" great drops of agony started on his brow; his whole frame shook with agitation. he tried to collect himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, to realize the full import of the words she had spoken. marry again! heaven pity him! how could he harbor such a thought for a single instant, when he thought of the pale, cold face of little daisy--his fair young bride--whom he so madly loved, lying pale and still in death, like a broken lily, down in the dark, bottomless pit which never yielded up its terrible secrets! "rex," wailed his mother, feebly, gazing into his eyes with a suspense heart-breaking to witness, "don't refuse me this the first prayer i had ever made. if you mean to refuse it would be kinder far to plunge a dagger into my heart and let me die at once. you can not refuse." one trembling hand she laid on his breast, and with the other caressed his face. "you are good and gentle of heart, rex; the prayers of your dying mother will touch you. answer me, my son; tell me my proud old race shall not die with you, and i will rest calmly in my grave." the cold night-wind fanned his pallid brow, and the blood coursed through his veins like molten lead. he saw the tears coursing down her pale, withered cheeks. ah, god! was it brave to speak the words which must bring despair and death to her? was it filial to send his mother to her grave with sorrow and sadness in her heart? could he thrust aside his mother's loving arms and resist her dying prayer? heaven direct him, he was so sorely tried. "comfort me, rex," she whispered, "think of how i have loved you since you were a little child, how i used to kiss your rosy little face and dream what your future would be like. it comes back to me now while i plead to you with my fast-fleeting breath. oh, answer me, rex." all the love and tenderness of the young man's impulsive heart was stirred by the words. never was a man so fearfully tried. rex's handsome face had grown white with emotion; deep shadows came into his eyes. ah, what could it matter now? his hopes were dead, his heart crushed, yet how could he consent? "oh, heaven, rex!" she cried, "what does that look on your face mean? what is it?" the look of terror on her face seemed to force the mad words from his lips, the magnetic gaze seemed to hold him spellbound. he bent over hie mother and laid his fresh, brave young face on the cold, white face of his dying mother. "promise me, rex," she whispered. "i promise, mother!" he cried. "god help me; if it will make your last moments happier, i consent." "heaven bless you, my noble son!" whispered the quivering voice. "you have taken the bitter sting from death, and filled my heart with gratitude. some day you will thank me for it, rex." they were uttered! oh, fatal words! poor rex, wedded and parted, his love-dream broken, how little he knew of the bitter grief which was to accrue from that promise wrung from his white lips. like one in a dream he heard her murmur the name of pluma hurlhurst. the power of speech seemed denied him; he knew what she meant. he bowed his head on her cold hands. "i have no heart to give her," he said, brokenly. "my heart is with daisy, my sweet little lost love." poor rex! how little he knew daisy was at that self-same moment watching with beating heart the faint light of his window through the branches of the trees--daisy, whom he mourned as dead, alas! dead to him forever, shut out from his life by the rash words of that fatally cruel promise. chapter xxi. one thought only was uppermost in daisy's mind as she sped swiftly down the flower-bordered path in the moonlight, away from the husband who was still so dear to her. "he did not recognize me," she panted, in a little quivering voice. "would he have cursed me, i wonder, had he known it was i?" down went the little figure on her knees in the dew-spangled grass with a sharp little cry. "oh, dear, what shall i do?" she cried out in sudden fright. "how could i know she was his sister when i told her my name?" a twig fell from the bough above her head brushed by some night-bird's wing. "he is coming to search for me," she whispered to herself. a tremor ran over her frame; the color flashed into her cheek and parted lips, and a startled, wistful brightness crept into the blue eyes. ah! there never could have been a love so sweetly trustful and child-like as little daisy's for handsome rex, her husband in name only. poor, little, innocent daisy! if she had walked straight back to him, crying out, "rex, rex, see, i am daisy, your wife!" how much untold sorrow might have been spared her. poor, little, lonely, heart-broken child-bride! how was she to know rex had bitterly repented and come back to claim her, alas! too late; and how he mourned her, refusing to be comforted, and how they forced him back from the edge of the treacherous shaft lest he should plunge headlong down the terrible depths. oh, if she had but known all this! if rex had dropped down from the clouds she could not have been more startled and amazed at finding him in such close proximity away down in florida. she remembered he had spoken to her of his mother, as he clasped her to his heart out in the starlight of that never-to-be-forgotten night, whispering to her of the marriage which had been the dearest wish of his mother's heart. she remembered how she had hid her happy, rosy, blushing face on his breast, and asked him if he was quite sure he loved her better than pluma hurlhurst, the haughty, beautiful heiress. "yes, my pretty little sweetheart, a thousand times better," he had replied, emphatically, holding her off at arm's-length, watching the heightened color that surged over the dainty, dimpled face so plainly discernible in the white, radiant starlight. daisy rested her head on one soft, childish hand, and gazed thoughtfully up at the cold, brilliant stars that gemmed the heavens above her. "oh, if you had only warned me, little stars!" she said. "i was so happy then; and now life is so bitter!" a sudden impulse seized her, strong as her very life, to look upon his face again. "i would be content to live my weary life out uncomplainingly then," she said. without intent or purpose she walked hurriedly back through the pansy-bordered path she had so lately traversed. the grand old trees seemed to stretch their giant arms protectingly over her, as if to ward off all harm. the night-wind fanned her flushed cheeks and tossed her golden curls against her wistful, tear-stained face. noiselessly she crept up the wide, graveled path that led to his home--the home which should have been hers. was it fancy? she thought she heard rex's voice crying out: "daisy, my darling!" how pitifully her heart thrilled! dear heaven! if it had only been true. it was only the restless murmur of the waves sighing among the orange-trees. a light burned dimly in an upper window. suddenly a shadow fell across the pale, silken curtains. she knew but too well whose shadow it was; the proud, graceful poise of the handsome head, and the line of the dark curls waving over the broad brow, could belong to no one but rex. there was no one but the pitying moonlight out there to see how passionately the poor little child-bride kissed the pale roses on which that shadow had fallen, and how she broke it from the stem and placed it close to her beating heart--that lonely, starved little heart, chilled under the withering frost of neglect, when life, love and happiness should have been just bursting into bloom for her. "he said i had spoiled his life," she sighed, leaning her pale face wearily against the dark-green ivy vines. "he must have meant i had come between him and pluma. will he go back to her, now that he believes me dead?" one question alone puzzled her: had birdie mentioned her name, and would he know it was she, whom every one believed lying so cold and still in the bottomless pit? she could not tell. "if i could but see birdie for a moment," she thought, "and beseech her to keep my secret!" birdie had said her brother was soon going away again. "how could i bear it?" she asked herself, piteously. it was not in human nature to see the young husband whom she loved so well drifting so completely away from her and still remain silent. "i will watch over him from afar; i will be his guardian angel; i must remain as one dead to him forever," she told herself. afar off, over the dancing, moonlighted waters she saw a pleasure-boat gliding swiftly over the rippling waves. she could hear their merry laughter and gay, happy voices, and snatches of mirthful songs. suddenly the band struck up an old, familiar strain. poor little daisy leaned her head against the iron railing of the porch and listened to those cruel words--the piece that they played was "love's young dream." love's young dream! ah! how cruelly hers had ended! she looked up at the white, fleecy clouds above her, vaguely wondering why the love of one person made the earth a very paradise, or a wilderness. as the gay, joyous music floated up to her the words of the poet found echo in her heart in a passionate appeal: "no one could tell, for nobody knew, why love was made to gladden a few; and hearts that would forever be true, go lone and starved the whole way through," oh, it was such a blessed relief to her to watch that shadow. rex was pacing up and down the room now, his arms folded and his head bent on his breast. poor, patient little daisy, watching alone out in the starlight, was wondering if he was thinking of her. no thought occurred to her of being discovered there with her arms clasped around that marble pillar watching so intently the shadow of that graceful, manly figure pacing to and fro. no thought occurred to her that a strange event was at that moment transpiring within those walls, or that something unusual was about to happen. how she longed to look upon his face for just one brief moment! estrangement had not chilled her trusting love, it had increased it, rather, tenfold. surely it was not wrong to gaze upon that shadow--he was her husband. in that one moment a wild, bitter thought swept across her heart. did rex regret their marriage because she was poor, friendless, and an orphan? would it have been different if she had been the heiress of whitestone hall? she pitied herself for her utter loneliness. there was no one to whom she could say one word of all that filled her heart and mind, no face to kiss, no heart to lean on; she was so completely alone. and this was the hour her fate was being decided for her. there was no sympathy for her, her isolation was bitter. she thought of all the heroines she had ever read of. ah, no one could picture such a sad fate as was hers. a bright thought flashed across her lonely little heart. "his mother is there," she sighed. "ah, if i were to go to her and cry out: 'love me, love me! i am your son's wife!' would she cast me from her? ah, no, surely not; a woman's gentle heart beats in her breast, a woman's tender pity. i will plead with her on my knees--to comfort me--to show me some path out of the pitiful darkness; i can love her because she is his mother." daisy drew her breath quickly; the color glowed warmly on her cheek and lips; she wondered she had not thought of it before. poor child! she meant to tell her all, and throw herself upon her mercy. her pretty, soft blue eyes, tender with the light of love, were swimming with tears. a vain hope was struggling in her heart--rex's mother might love her, because she worshiped her only son so dearly. would she send her forth from that home that should have sheltered her, or would she clasp those little cold fingers in rex's strong white ones, as she explained to him, as only a mother can, how sadly he had misjudged poor little daisy--his wife? no wonder her heart throbbed pitifully as she stole silently across the wide, shadowy porch, and, quivering from head to foot, touched the bell that echoed with a resounding sound through the long entrance-hall. "i would like to see mrs. lyon," she said, hesitatingly, to the servant who answered her summons. "please do not refuse me," she said, clasping her little white hands pleadingly. "i must see her at once. it is a question of life or death with me. oh, sir, please do not refuse me. i must see her at once--and--all alone!" chapter xxii. in the beautiful drawing-room at whitestone hall sat pluma hurlhurst, running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. she arose listlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon the wide, cool, rose-embowered porch. the sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the white frost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty of her southern face. "miss pluma," called mrs. corliss, the housekeeper, entering the room, "there is a person down-stairs who wishes to see you. i have told her repeatedly it is an utter impossibility--you would not see her; but she declares she will not go away until she does see you." pluma turns from the window with cold disdain. "you should know better than to deliver a message of this kind to me. how dare the impertinent, presuming beggar insist upon seeing me! order the servants to put her out of the house at once." "she is not young," said the venerable housekeeper, "and i thought, if you only would--" "your opinion was not called for, mrs. corliss," returned the heiress, pointing toward the door haughtily. "i beg your pardon," the housekeeper made answer, "but the poor creature begged so hard to see you i did feel a little sorry for her." "this does not interest me, mrs. corliss," said pluma, turning toward the window, indicating the conversation was at an end--"not in the least." "the lord pity you, you stony-hearted creature!" murmured the sympathetic old lady to herself as the door closed between them. "one word wouldn't have cost you much, heaven knows, it's mightly little comfort poor old master takes with you! you are no more like the bonny race of hurlhursts than a raven is like a white dove!" and the poor old lady walked slowly back to the dark-robed figure in the hall, so eagerly awaiting her. "there was no use in my going to my young mistress; i knew she would not see you. but i suppose you are more satisfied now." "she utterly refuses to see me, does she," asked the woman, in an agitated voice, "when you told her i wished to see her particularly?" the housekeeper shook her head. "when miss pluma once makes up her mind to a thing, no power on earth could change her mind," she said; "and she is determined she won't see you, so you may as well consider that the end of it." without another word the stranger turned and walked slowly down the path and away from whitestone hall. "fool that i was!" she muttered through her clinched teeth. "i might have foreseen this. but i will haunt the place day and night until i see you, proud heiress of whitestone hall. we shall see--time will tell." meanwhile mrs. corliss, the housekeeper, was staring after her with wondering eyes. "i have heard that voice and seen that face somewhere," she ruminated, thoughtfully; "but where--where? there seems to be strange leaks in this brain of mine--i can not remember." a heavy, halting step passed the door, and stopped there. "what did that woman want, mrs. corliss?" she started abruptly from her reverie, replying, hesitatingly. "she wanted to see miss pluma, sir." "was pluma so busily engaged she could not spare that poor creature a moment or so?" he inquired, irritably. "where is she?" "in the parlor, sir." with slow, feeble steps, more from weakness than age, basil hurlhurst walked slowly down the corridor to the parlor. it was seldom he left his own apartments of late, yet pluma never raised her superb eyes from the book of engravings which lay in her lap as he entered the room. a weary smile broke under his silver-white mustache. "you do not seem in a hurry to bid me welcome, pluma," he said, grimly, throwing himself down into an easy-chair opposite her. "i congratulate myself upon having such an affectionate daughter." pluma tossed aside her book with a yawn. "of course i am glad to see you," she replied, carelessly; "but you can not expect me to go into ecstasies over the event like a child in pinafores might. you ought to take it for granted that i'm glad you are beginning to see what utter folly it is to make such a recluse of yourself." he bit his lip in chagrin. as is usually the case with invalids, he was at times inclined to be decidedly irritable, as was the case just now. "it is you who have driven me to seek the seclusion of my own apartments, to be out of sight and hearing of the household of simpering idiots you insist upon keeping about you," he cried, angrily. "i came back to whitestone hall for peace and rest. do i get it? no." "that is not my fault," she answered, serenely. "you do not mingle with the guests. i had no idea they could annoy you." "well, don't you suppose i have eyes and ears, even if i do not mingle with the chattering magpies you fill the house up with? why, i can never take a ramble in the grounds of an evening without stumbling upon a dozen or more pair of simpering lovers at every turn. i like darkness and quiet. night after night i find the grounds strung up with these chinese lanterns, and i can not even sleep in my bed for the eternal brass bands at night; and in the daytime not a moment's quiet do i get for these infernal sonatas and screeching trills of the piano. i tell you plainly, i shall not stand this thing a day longer. i am master of whitestone hall yet, and while i live i shall have things my own way. after i die you can turn it into a pandemonium, for all i care." pluma flashed her large dark eyes upon him surprisedly, beginning to lose her temper, spurred on by opposition. "i am sure i do not mean to make a hermit of myself because you are too old to enjoy the brightness of youth," she flashed out, defiantly; "and you ought not to expect it--it is mean and contemptible of you." "pluma!" echoed basil hurlhurst, in astonishment, his noble face growing white and stern with suppressed excitement, "not another word." pluma tossed her head contemptuously. when once her temper arose it was quite as impossible to check it as it was when she was a willful, revengeful, spoiled child. "another man as rich as you are would have taken their daughter to washington for a season, and in the summer to long branch or newport--somewhere, anywhere, away from the detestable waving cotton-fields. when you die i shall have it all set on fire." "pluma!" he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet and drawing his stately, commanding figure to its full height, "i will not brook such language from a child who should at least yield me obedience, if not love. you are not the heiress of whitestone hall yet, and you never may be. if i thought you really contemplated laying waste these waving fields that have been my pride for long years--and my father's before me--i would will it to an utter stranger, so help me heaven!" were his words prophetic? how little she knew the echo of these words were doomed to ring for all time down the corridors of her life! how little we know what is in store for us! "i am your only child," said pluma, haughtily; "you would not rob me of my birthright. i shall be forced to submit to your pleasure--while you are here--but, thank heaven, the time is not far distant when i shall be able to do as i please. 'the mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine,'" she quoted, saucily. "thank heaven the time is not far distant when i shall be able to do as i please." he repeated the words slowly after her, each one sinking into his heart like a poisoned arrow. "so you would thank heaven for my death, would you?" he cried, with passion rising to a white heat. "well, this is no better than i could expect from the daughter--of such a mother." he had never intended speaking those words; but she goaded him on to it with her taunting, scornful smile, reminding him so bitterly of the one great error of his past life. he was little like the kind, courteous master of whitestone hall, whom none named but to praise, as he stood there watching the immovable face of his daughter. all the bitterness of his nature was by passion rocked. no look of pain or anguish touched the dark beauty of that southern face at the mention of her mother's name. "you have spoken well," she said. "i am her child. you speak of love," she cried, contemptuously. "have you not told me, a thousand times, you never cared for my mother? how, then, could i expect you to care for me? have you not cried out unceasingly for the golden-haired young wife and the babe you lost, and that you wished heaven had taken you too? did i ever hear my mother's name upon your lips except with a sneer? do you expect these things made that mother's child more fond of you, were you twenty times my father?" she stood up before him, proudly defiant, like a beautiful tragedy queen, the sunlight slanting on the golden vines of her amber satin robe, on the long, dark, silken curls fastened with a ruby star, and on the deep crimson-hearted passion-roses that quivered on her heaving breast. there was not one feature of that gloriously dark face that resembled the proud, cold man sitting opposite her. he knew all she had said was quite true. he had tried so hard to love this beautiful queenly girl from her infancy up. he was tender of heart, honest and true; but an insurmountable barrier seemed ever between them; each year found them further apart. basil hurlhurst lived over again in those few moments the terrible folly that had cursed his youth, as he watched the passion-rocked face before him. "youth is blind and will not see," had been too bitterly true with him. it was in his college days, when the world seemed all gayety, youth and sunshine to him, he first met the beautiful face that was to darken all of his after life. he was young and impulsive; he thought it was love that filled his heart for the beautiful stranger who appeared alone and friendless in that little college town. he never once asked who or what she was, or from whence she came, this beautiful creature with the large, dark, dreamy eyes that thrilled his heart into love. she carried the town by storm; every young man at the college was deeply, desperately in love. but basil, the handsomest and wealthiest of them all, thought what a lark it would be to steal a march on them all by marrying the dark-eyed beauty then and there. he not only thought it, but executed it, but it was not the lark that he thought it was going to be. for one short happy week he lived in a fool's paradise, then a change came over the spirit of his dreams. in that one week she had spent his year's income and all the money he could borrow, then petulantly left him in anger. for two long years he never looked upon her face again. one stormy night she returned quite unexpectedly at whitestone hall, bringing with her their little child pluma, and, placing her in her father's arms, bitter recriminations followed. bitterly basil hurlhurst repented that terrible mistake of his youth, that hasty marriage. when the morning light dawned he took his wife and child from whitestone hall--took them abroad. what did it matter to him where they went? life was the same to him in one part of the world as another. for a year they led a weary life of it. heaven only knew how weary he was of the woman the law called his wife! one night, in a desperate fit of anger, she threw herself into the sea; her body was never recovered. then the master of whitestone hall returned with his child, a sadder and wiser man. but the bitterest drop in his cup had been added last. the golden-haired young wife, the one sweet love whom he had married last, was taken from him; even her little child, tiny image of that fair young mother, had not been spared him. how strange it was such a passionate yearning always came over him when he thought of his child! when he saw a fair, golden-haired young girl, with eyes of blue, the pain in his heart almost stifled him. some strange unaccountable fate urged him to ever seek for that one face even in the midst of crowds. it was a mad, foolish fancy, yet it was the one consolation of basil hurlhurst's weary, tempest tossed life. no wonder he set his teeth hard together as he listened to the cold words of the proud, peerless beauty before him, who bore every lineament of her mother's dark, fatal beauty--this daughter who scornfully spoke of the hour when he should die as of some happy, long-looked-for event. those waving cotton-fields that stretched out on all sides as far as the eye could reach, like a waving field of snow, laid waste beneath the fire fiend's scorching breath! never--never! then and there the proud, self-conscious young heiress lost all chances of reigning a regal queen, by _fair_ means, of whitestone hall. chapter xxiii. the servant who opened the door for daisy looked earnestly at the fair, pleading young face, framed in rings of golden hair, so pure and spiritual that it looked like an angel's with the soft white moonlight falling over it. "you will not refuse me," she repeated, timidly. "i must speak to mrs. lyon." "you have come too late," he replied, gently; "mrs. lyon is dead." the man never forgot the despairing look of horror that deepened in the childish blue eyes raised to his. "rex's mother dead!" she repeated, slowly, wondering if she had heard aright. "oh, my poor rex, my poor rex!" how she longed to go to him and comfort him in that terrible hour, but she dared not intrude upon him. "if there is any message you would like to leave," said the kind-hearted parker, "i will take it to mr. rex." "no," said daisy, shaking her head, "i have no message to leave; perhaps i will come again--after this is all over," she made answer, hesitatingly; her brain was in a whirl; she wanted to get away all by herself to think. "please don't say any one was here," she said, quickly; "i--i don't want any one to know." the sweet, plaintive voice, as sweet as the silvery note of a forest bird, went straight to his heart. whatever the mission of this beautiful, mysterious visitor, he would certainly respect her wishes. "i shall not mention it if you do not wish it," he said. "thank you," she replied, simply; "you are very kind. my life seems made up of disappointments," she continued, as she walked slowly home under the restless, sighing green branches. it seemed so indeed. she was so young and inexperienced to be thrown so entirely upon the cold, pitiless world--cut off so entirely from all human sympathy. she entered the house quite unobserved. eve--bright, merry, dashing eve--was singing like a lark in the drawing-room, making the old house echo with her bright young voice. "how happy she is!" thought daisy, wistfully. "she has home, friends, and love, while i have nothing that makes life worth the living." like a shadow, she flitted on through the dim, shadowy hall, toward her own little room. she saw gertie's door was ajar as she passed it, and the sound of her own name caused her to pause voluntarily. it was very natural for daisy to pause. how many are there who would have passed on quietly, with no desire to know what was being said of themselves, when they heard their own names mentioned in such a sneering manner? daisy certainly meant no harm by it; she paused, thoughtfully and curiously, as any one would have done. "i am sure i don't like it," gertie was saying, spitefully. "it is an actual shame allowing daisy brooks to remain here. uncle jet was a mean old thing to send her here, where there were three marriageable young ladies. i tell you he did it out of pure spite." "i believe it," answered bess, spiritedly. "every one of my beaus either hints for an introduction or asks for it outright." "what do you tell them?" questions gertie, eagerly. "tell them! why, i look exceedingly surprised, replying: 'i do not know to whom you refer. we have no company at the house just now.' 'i mean that beautiful, golden-haired little fairy, with the rosy cheeks and large blue eyes. if not your guest, may i ask who she is?' i am certainly compelled to answer so direct a thrust," continued bess, angrily; "and i ask in well-feigned wonder: 'surely you do not mean daisy brooks, my mother's paid companion?'" "what do they say to that?" asked gertie, laughing heartily at her elder sister's ingenuity, and tossing her curl papers until every curl threatened to tumble down. "that settles it, doesn't it?" "mercy, no!" cried bess, raising her eyebrows; "not a bit of it. the more i say against her--in a sweet way, of course--the more they are determined to form her acquaintance." "i don't see what every one can see in that little pink-and-white baby-face of hers to rave over so!" cried gertie, hotly. "i can't imagine where in the world people see her. i have as much as told her she was not expected to come into the parlor or drawing-room when strangers were there, and what do you suppose she said?" "cried, perhaps," said bess, yawning with ennui. "she did nothing of the kind," retorted gertie. "she seized my hand, and said: 'oh, miss gertrude, that is very kind of you, indeed! i thank you ever so much!'" "pshaw!" cried bess, contemptuously. "that was a trick to make you believe she did not want to be observed by our guests. she is a sly, designing little creature, with her pretty face and soft, childish ways." "but there is one point that seriously troubles me," said gertie, fastening the pink satin bow on her tiny slipper more securely, and breaking off the thread with a nervous twitch. "i am seriously afraid, if rex were to see her, that would be the end of our castle in the air. daisy brooks has just the face to attract a handsome, debonair young fellow like rex." "you can depend upon it he shall never see her," said bess, decidedly. "where there's a will there's a way." "i have never been actually jealous of anyone before," said gertie, flushing furiously, as she acknowledged the fact; "but that daisy has such a way of attracting people toward her they quite forget your presence when she is around. 'when one rival leaves the field, another one is sure to come to the fore.' that's a true saying," said gertie, meditatively. "you see, he did not marry the heiress of whitestone hall. so he is still in the market, to be captured by some lucky girl." "well, if i am the lucky one, you must forgive me, gertie. all is fair in love and war, you know. besides, his wealth is too tempting to see slip quietly by without a struggle." before she could reply eve popped in through the long french window that opened out on the porch. "oh, i'm so tired of hearing you two talk of lovers and riches!" she cried, throwing herself down on the sofa. "i do hate to hear love weighed against riches, as if it were a purchasable article. according to your ideas, if a fellow was worth a hundred thousand, you would love him moderately; but if he was worth half a million, you could afford to love him immensely." "you have got a sensible idea of the matter," said bess, coolly. "for shame!" cried eve, in a hot fury. "it's an actual sin to talk in that way. if a handsome young man loves you, and you love him, why, you ought to marry him if he hadn't a dollar in the world!" gertie and the worldly-wise bess laughed at their younger sister's enthusiasm. "now, there's rex lyon, for instance," persisted eve, absolutely refusing to be silenced. "i would wager a box of the best kid gloves either one of you would marry him to-morrow, if he were to ask you, if he hadn't a penny in his pocket." "pshaw!" reiterated gertie, and bess murmured something about absurd ideas; but nevertheless both sisters were blushing furiously to the very roots of their hair. they well knew in their hearts what she said was perfectly true. "eve," said bess, laying her hand coaxingly on the young rebel's arm, "gertie and i want you to promise us something. come, now, consent that you will do as we wish, that's a good girl." "how can i promise before i know what you want?" said eve, petulantly. "you might want the man in the moon, after you've tried and failed to get his earthly brethren, for all i know!" "eve, you are actually absurd!" cried bess, sharply. "this is merely a slight favor we wish you to do." "if you warn her not to do a thing, that is just what she will set her heart upon doing," said gertie, significantly. by this time eve's curiosity was well up. "you may as well tell me anyhow," she said; "for if you don't, and i ever find out what it is, i'll do my very worst, because you kept it from me." "well," said gertie, eagerly, "we want you to promise us not to give daisy brooks an introduction to rex lyon." a defiant look stole over eve's mischievous face. "if he asks me, i'm to turn and walk off, or i'm to say, 'no, sir, i am under strict orders from my marriageable sisters not to.' is that what you mean?" "eve," they both cried in chorus, "don't be unsisterly; don't put a stumbling-block in our path; rather remove it!" "i shall not bind myself to such a promise!" cried eve. "you are trying to spoil my pet scheme. i believe you two are actually witches and guessed it. what put it into your heads that i had any such intentions anyhow?" "then you were actually thinking of going against our interest in that way," cried gertie, white to the very lips, "you insolent little minx!" "i don't choose to remain in such polite society," said eve, with a mocking courtesy, skipping toward the door. "i may take a notion to write a little note to mr. rex, inviting him over here to see our household fairy, just as the spirit moves me." this was really more than gertie's warm, southern temper could bear. she actually flew at the offending eve in her rage; but eve was nimble of foot and disappeared up the stairway, three steps at a bound. "what a vixen our gertie is growing to be!" she cried, pantingly, as she reached the top step. she saw a light in daisy's room, and tapped quietly on the door. "is that you, eve?" cried a smothered voice from the pillows. "yes," replied eve; "i'd like very much to come in. may i?" for answer, daisy opened the door, but eve stood quite still on the threshold. "what's the matter, daisy, have you been crying?" she demanded. "why, your eyelids are red and swollen, and your eyes glow like the stars. has gertie or bess said anything cross to you?" she inquired, smoothing back the soft golden curls that clustered round the white brow. "no," said daisy, choking down a hard sob; "only i am very unhappy, eve, and i feel just--just as if every one in the world hated me." "how long have you been up here in your room?" asked eve, suspiciously, fearing daisy had by chance overheard the late conversation down-stairs. "quite an hour," answered daisy, truthfully. "then you did not hear what i was talking about down-stairs, did you?" she inquired, anxiously. "no," said daisy, "you were playing over a new waltz when i came upstairs." "oh," said eve, breathing freer, thinking to herself, "she has not heard what we said. i am thankful for that." "you must not talk like that, daisy," she said, gayly, clasping her arms caressingly around the slender figure leaning against the casement; "i predict great things in store for you--wonderful things. do not start and look at me so curiously, for i shall not tell you anything else, for it is getting dangerously near a certain forbidden subject. you know you warned me not to talk to you of love or lovers. i intend to have a great surprise for you. that is all i'm going to tell you now." eve was almost frightened at the rapture that lighted up the beautiful face raised to her own. "has any one called for me, eve?" she asked, piteously. "oh, eve, tell me quickly. i have hoped against hope, almost afraid to indulge so sweet a dream. has any one inquired for me?" eve shook her head, sorely puzzled. "were you expecting any one to call?" she asked. she saw the light die quickly out of the blue eyes and the rich peachlike bloom from the delicate, dimpled cheeks. "i know something is troubling you greatly, little daisy," she said, "and i sympathize with you even if i may not share your secret." "every one is so cold and so cruel to me, i think i should die if i were to lose your friendship, eve," she said. eve held the girl's soft white hand in hers. "you will never die, then, if you wait for that event to happen. when i like a person, i like them for all time. i never could pretend a friendship i did not feel. and i said to myself the first moment i saw you: 'what a sweet littly fairy! i shall love her, i'm sure.'" "and do you love me?" asked daisy. "yes," said eve; "my friendship is a lasting one. i could do almost anything for you." she wondered why daisy took her face between her soft little palms and looked so earnestly down into her eyes, and kissed her lips so repeatedly. poor daisy! if she had only confided in eve--reckless, impulsive, warm-hearted, sympathetic eve--it might have been better for her. "no matter what you might hear of me in the future, no matter what fate might tempt me to do, promise me, eve, that you, of all the world, will believe in me, you will not lose your faith in me." the sweet voice sounded hollow and unnatural. "there are dark, pitiful secrets in many lives," she said, "that drive one to the very verge of madness in their woe. if you love me, pray for me, eve. my feet are on the edge of a terrible precipice." in after years eve never forgot the haunted look of despair that crossed the fair face of daisy brooks, as the words broke from her lips in a piteous cry. chapter xxiv. the announcement of mrs. lyon's sudden and unexpected death caused great excitement and consternation the next morning at glengrove. "oh, dear!" cried gertie, "how provokingly unfortunate for her to die just now! why couldn't she have waited until after our birthday party? of course rex wouldn't be expected to come now; and this whole matter was arranged especially for him; and my beautiful lilac silk is all made, and so bewitchingly lovely, too!" "what can't be cured must be endured, you know," said bess; "and now the best thing to be done is to send a note of condolence to him, extending our deepest sympathy, and offering him any assistance in our power; and be sure to add: 'we would be very pleased to have birdie come over here until you can make other arrangements for her.'" "have birdie here!" flashed gertie, angrily. "i actually think you have gone crazy!" "well, there is certainly a method in my madness," remarked bess. "aren't you quick-witted enough to understand that would be a sure way of bringing rex over here every day?--he would come to see his sister--and that is quite a point gained." "you are rather clever, bess; i never thought of that." and straightway the perfumed little note was dispatched, bearing gertie's monogram and tender-worded sympathy to the handsome young heir, who sat all alone in that darkened chamber, wondering why heaven had been so unkind to him. an hour later bess and gertie were in the library arranging some new volumes on the shelves. mrs. glenn sat in a large easy-chair superintending the affair, while daisy stood at an open window, holding the book from which she had been reading aloud in her restless fingers, her blue eyes gazing earnestly on the distant curling smoke that rose up lazily from the chimneys of rex's home, and upon the brilliant sunshine that lighted up the eastern windows with a blaze of glory--as if there was no such thing as death or sorrow within those palatial walls--when rex's answer was received. "it is from rex!" cried gertie, all in a flutter. "shall i read it aloud, mamma?" she asked, glancing furtively at daisy, who stood at the window, her pale, death-like face half buried in the lace curtains. "it is certainly not a personal letter," said bess, maliciously glancing at the superscription. "don't you see it is addressed to 'mrs. glenn and daughters.'" "in a time like that people don't think much of letters," commented mrs. glenn, apologetically. "read the letter aloud, of course, my dear." it read: "dear ladies,--i thank you more than i can express for your kind sympathy in my present sad bereavement. i would gladly have accepted your offer of bringing my dear little orphan sister to you, had i not received a telegram this morning from miss pluma hurlhurst, of whitestone hall, west virginia, announcing her intention of coming on at once, accompanied by mrs. corliss, to take charge of little birdie. "again thanking you for the courtesy and kindness shown me, i am "yours very truly, "rexford lyon." there was a low, gasping, piteous cry; and the little figure at the window slipped down among the soft, billowy curtains in a deadly swoon; but the three, so deeply engrossed in discussing the contents of the note, did not notice it. at last daisy opened her eyes, and the blue eyes were dazed with pain. she could hear them coupling the names of rex and pluma hurlhurst. rex--her husband! daisy was blind and stupefied. she groped rather than walked from the library--away from the three, who scarcely noticed her absence. who cared that her heart was broken? who cared that the cruel stab had gone home to her tender, bleeding heart; that the sweet young face was whiter than the petals of the star-bells tossing their white plumes against the casement? slowly, blindly, with one hand grasping the balusters, she went up the broad staircase to her own room. she tried to think of everything on the way except the one thing that had taken place. she thought of the story she had read, of a girl who was slain by having a dagger plunged into her breast. the girl ran a short distance, and when the dagger was drawn from the wound, she fell down dead. in some way she fancied she was like that girl--that, when she should reach her own room and stand face to face with her own pain, she should drop down dead. the door was closed, and she stood motionless, trying to understand and realize what she had heard. "have my senses deceived me?" she said the words over and over to herself. "did i dream it? can it even be possible pluma hurlhurst is coming here, coming to the home where i should have been? god help me. coming to comfort rex--my husband!" she could fancy the darkly beautiful face bending over him; her white jeweled hands upon his shoulder, or, perhaps, smoothing back the bonny brown clustering curls from his white brow. "my place should have been by his side," she continued. it hurt and pained her to hear the name of the man she loved dearer than life mentioned with the name of pluma hurlhurst. "oh, rex, my love, my love!" she cried out, "i can not bear it any longer. the sun of my life has gone down in gloom and chill. oh, rex, my husband, i have not the strength nor the courage to bear it. i am a coward. i can not give you up. we are living apart under the blue, smiling sky and the golden sun. yet in the sight of the angels, i am your wife." suddenly, the solemn bells from rex's home commenced tolling, and through the leafy branches of the trees she caught a glimpse of a white face and bowed head, and of a proud, cold face bending caressingly over it, just as she had pictured it in her imagination. dear heaven! it was rex and pluma! she did not moan. she did not cry out, nor utter even a sigh. like one turned to marble she, the poor little misguided child-wife, stood watching them with an intentness verging almost into madness. she saw him lift his head wearily from his white hands, rise slowly, and then, side by side, both disappeared from the window. after that daisy never knew how the moments passed. she remembered the tidy little waiting-maid coming to her and asking if she would please come down to tea. she shook her head but no sound issued from the white lips, and the maid went softly away, closing the door behind her. slowly the sun sunk in the west in a great red ball of fire. the light died out of the sky, and the song birds trilled their plaintive good-night songs in the soft gloaming. still daisy sat with her hands crossed in her lap, gazing intently at the window, where she had seen pluma standing with rex, her husband. a hand turned the knob of her door. "oh, dear me," cried gertie, "you are all in the dark. i do not see you. are you here, daisy brooks?" "yes," said daisy, controlling her voice by a violent effort. "won't you sit down? i will light the gas." "oh, no, indeed!" cried gertie. "i came up to ask you if you would please sew a little on my ball dress to-night. i can not use it just now; still, there is no need of putting it away half finished." sew on a ball dress while her heart was breaking! oh, how could she do it? quietly she followed gertie to her pretty little blue and gold boudoir, making no remonstrance. she was to sew on a ball dress while the heiress of whitestone hall was consoling her young husband in his bitter sorrow? the shimmering billows of silk seemed swimming before her eyes, and the frost-work of seed-pearls to waver through the blinding tears that would force themselves to her eyes. eve was not there. how pitifully lonely poor daisy felt! the face, bent so patiently over the lilac silk, had a strange story written upon it. but the two girls, discussing the events of the day, did not glance once in her direction; their thoughts and conversation were of the handsome young heiress and rex. "for once in your life you were wrong," said bess. "the way affairs appear now does not look much like a broken-off marriage, i can assure you." "those who have seen her say she is peculiarly beautiful and fascinating, though cold, reserved, and as haughty as a queen," said gertie. "cold and reserved," sneered bess. "i guess you would not have thought so if you had been at the drawing-room window to-day and seen her bending over rex so lovingly. i declare i expected every moment to see her kiss him." the box which held the seed-pearls dropped to the floor with a crash, and the white, glistening beads were scattered about in all directions. "why, what a careless creature you are, daisy brooks!" cried gertie, in dismay. "just see what you have done! half of them will be lost, and what is not lost will be smashed, and i had just enough to finish that lily on the front breadth and twine among the blossoms for my hair. what do you suppose i'm going to do now, you provoking girl? it is actually enough to make one cry." "i am so sorry," sighed daisy, piteously. "sorry! will that bring back my seed-pearls? i have half a mind to make mamma deduct the amount from your salary." "you may have it all if it will only replace them," said daisy, earnestly. "i think, though, i have gathered them all up." a great, round tear rolled off from her long, silky eyelashes and into the very heart of the frosted lily over which she bent, but the lily's petals seemed to close about it, leaving no trace of its presence. bessie and gertie openly discussed their chagrin and keen disappointment, yet admitting what a handsome couple rex and pluma made--he so courteous and noble, she so royal and queenly. "of course we must call upon her if she is to be rex's wife," said gertie, spitefully. "i foresee she will be exceedingly popular." "we must also invite her to glengrove," said bess, thoughtfully. "it is the least we can do, and it is expected of us. i quite forgot to mention one of their servants was telling jim both rex and little birdie intend to accompany miss hurlhurst back to whitestone hall as soon after the funeral as matters can be arranged." "why, that is startling news indeed! why, then, they will probably leave some time this week!" cried gertie. "most probably," said bess. "you ought certainly to send over your note this evening--it is very early yet." "there is no one to send," said gertie. "jim has driven over to natchez, and there is no one else to go." "perhaps daisy will go for you," suggested bess. there was no need of being jealous _now_ of daisy's beauty in that direction. gertie gladly availed herself of the suggestion. "daisy," she said, turning abruptly to the quivering little figure, whose face drooped over the lilac silk, "never mind finishing that dress to-night. i wish you to take a note over to the large gray stone house yonder, and be sure to deliver it to mr. rex lyon himself." chapter xxv. gertie glenn never forgot the despairing cry that broke from daisy's white lips as she repeated her command: "i wish you to deliver this note to mr. rex lyon himself." "oh, miss gertie," she cried, clasping her hands together in an agony of entreaty, "i can not--oh, indeed i can not! ask anything of me but that and i will gladly do it!" both girls looked at her in sheer astonishment. "what is the reason you can not?" cried gertie, in utter amazement. "i do not comprehend you." "i--i can not take the note," she said, in a frightened whisper. "i do not--i--" she stopped short in utter confusion. "i choose you shall do just as i bid you," replied gertie, in her imperious, scornful anger. "it really seems to me you forget your position here, miss brooks. how dare you refuse me?" opposition always strengthened gertie's decision, and she determined daisy should take her note to rex lyon at all hazards. the eloquent, mute appeal in the blue eyes raised to her own was utterly lost on her. "the pride of these dependent companions is something ridiculous," she went on, angrily. "you consider yourself too fine, i suppose, to be made a messenger of." gertie laughed aloud, a scornful, mocking laugh. "pride and poverty do not work very well together. you may go to your room now and get your hat and shawl. i shall have the letter written in a very few minutes. there will be no use appealing to mamma. you ought to know by this time we overrule her objections always." it was too true, mrs. glenn never had much voice in a matter where bess or gertie had decided the case. like one in a dream daisy turned from them. she never remembered how she gained her own room. with cold, tremulous fingers she fastened her hat, tucking the bright golden hair carefully beneath her veil, and threw her shawl over her shoulders, just as gertie approached, letter in hand. "you need not go around by the main road," she said, "there is a much nearer path leading down to the stone wall. you need not wait for an answer: there will be none. the servants over there are awkward, blundering creatures--do not trust it to them--you must deliver it to rex himself." "i make one last appeal to you, miss gertie. indeed, it is not pride that prompts me. i could not bear it. have pity on me. you are gentle and kind to others; please, oh, please be merciful to me!" "i have nothing more to say upon the subject--i have said you were to go. you act as if i were sending you to some place where you might catch the scarlet fever or the mumps. you amuse me; upon my word you do. rex is not dangerous, neither is he a bluebeard; his only fault is being alarmingly handsome. the best advice i can give you is, don't admire him too much. he should be labeled, 'out of the market.'" gertie tripped gayly from the room, her crimson satin ribbons fluttering after her, leaving a perceptible odor of violets in the room, while daisy clutched the note in her cold, nervous grasp, walking like one in a terrible dream through the bright patches of glittering moonlight, through the sweet-scented, rose-bordered path, on through the dark shadows of the trees toward the home of rex--her husband. a soft, brooding silence lay over the sleeping earth as daisy, with a sinking heart, drew near the house. her soft footfalls on the green mossy earth made no sound. silently as a shadow she crept up to the blossom-covered porch; some one was standing there, leaning against the very pillar around which she had twined her arms as she watched rex's shadow on the roses. the shifting moonbeams pierced the white, fleecy clouds that enveloped them, and as he turned his face toward her she saw it was rex. she could almost have reached out her hand and touched him from where she stood. she was sorely afraid her face or her voice might startle him if she spoke to him suddenly. "i do not need to speak," she thought. "i will go up to him and lay the letter in his hand." then a great intense longing came over her to hear his voice and know that he was speaking to her. she had quite decided to pursue this course, when the rustle of a silken garment fell upon her ear. she knew the light tread of the slippered feet but too well--it was pluma. she went up to him in her usual caressing fashion, laying her white hand on his arm. "do you know you have been standing here quite two hours, rex, watching the shadows of the vine-leaves? i have longed to come up and ask you what interest those dancing shadows had for you, but i could not make up my mind to disturb you. i often fancy you do not know how much time you spend in thought." pluma was wondering if he was thinking of that foolish, romantic fancy that had come so near separating them--his boyish fancy for daisy brooks, their overseer's niece. no, surely not. he must have forgotten her long ago. "these reveries seem to have grown into a habit with me," he said, dreamily; "almost a second nature, of late. if you were to come and talk to me at such times, you would break me of it." the idea pleased her. a bright flush rose to her face, and she made him some laughing reply, and he looked down upon her with a kindly smile. oh! the torture of it to the poor young wife standing watching them, with heart on fire in the deep shadow of the crimson-hearted passion-flowers that quivered on the intervening vines. the letter she held in her hand slipped from her fingers into the bushes all unheeded. she had but one thought--she must get away. the very air seemed to stifle her; her heart seemed numb--an icy band seemed pressing round it, and her poor forehead was burning hot. it did not matter much where she went, nobody loved her, nobody cared for her. as softly as she came, she glided down the path that led to the entrance-gate beyond. she passed through the moonlighted grounds, where the music and fragrance of the summer night was at its height. the night wind stirred the pink clover and the blue-bells beneath her feet. her eyes were hot and dry; tears would have been a world of relief to her, but none came to her parched eyelids. she paid little heed to the direction she took. one idea alone took possession of her--she must get away. "if i could only go back to dear old uncle john," she sighed. "his love has never failed me." it seemed long years back since she had romped with him, a happy, merry child, over the cotton fields, and he had called her his sunbeam during all those years when no one lived at whitestone hall and the wild ivy climbed riotously over the windows and doors. even septima's voice would have sounded so sweet to her. she would have lived over again those happy, childish days, if she only could. she remembered how septima would send her to the brook for water, and how she sprinkled every flower in the path-way that bore her name; and how septima would scold her when she returned with her bucket scarce half full; and how she had loved to dream away those sunny summer days, lying under the cool, shady trees, listening to the songs the robins sang as they glanced down at her with their little sparkling eyes. how she had dreamed of the gallant young hero who was to come to her some day. she had wondered how she would know him, and what were the words he first would say! if he would come riding by, as the judge did when "maud muller stood in the hay-fields;" and she remembered, too, the story of "rebecca at the well." a weary smile flitted over her face as she remembered when she went to the brook she had always put on her prettiest blue ribbons, in case she might meet her hero. oh, those sweet, bright, rosy dreams of girlhood! what a pity it is they do not last forever! those girlish dreams, where glowing fancy reigns supreme, and the prosaic future is all unknown. she remembered her meeting with rex, how every nerve in her whole being thrilled, and how she had felt her cheeks grow flaming hot, just as she had read they would do when she met the right one. that was how she had known rex was the right one when she had shyly glanced up, from under her long eyelashes, into the gay, brown hazel eyes, fixed upon her so quizzically, as he took the heavy basket from her slender arms, that never-to-be-forgotten june day, beneath the blossoming magnolia-tree. poor child! her life had been a sad romance since then. how strange it was she was fleeing from the young husband whom she had married and was so quickly parted from! all this trouble had come about because she had so courageously rescued her letter from mme. whitney. "if he had not bound me to secrecy, i could have have cried out before the whole world i was his wife," she thought. a burning flush rose to her face as she thought how cruelly he had suspected her, this poor little child-bride who had never known one wrong or sinful thought in her pure, innocent young life. if he had only given her the chance of explaining how she had happened to be there with stanwick; if they had taken her back she must have confessed about the letter and who rex was and what he was to her. even stanwick's persecution found an excuse in her innocent, unsuspecting little heart. "he sought to save me from being taken back when he called me his wife," she thought. "he believed i was free to woo and win, because i dared not tell him i was rex's wife." yet the thought of stanwick always brought a shudder to her pure young mind. she could not understand why he would have resorted to such desperate means to gain an unwilling bride. "not yet seventeen. ah, what a sad love-story hers had been. how cruelly love's young dream had been blighted," she told herself; and yet she would not have exchanged that one thrilling, ecstatic moment of rapture when rex had clasped her in his arms and whispered: "my darling wife," for a whole lifetime of calm happiness with any one else. on and on she walked through the violet-studded grass, thinking--thinking. strange fancies came thronging to her overwrought brain. she pushed her veil back from her face and leaned against the trunk of a tree; her brain was dizzy and her thoughts were confused; the very stars seemed dancing riotously in the blue sky above her, and the branches of the trees were whispering strange fancies. suddenly a horseman, riding a coal-black charger, came cantering swiftly up the long avenue of trees. he saw the quiet figure standing leaning against the drooping branches. "i will inquire the way," he said to himself, drawing rein beside her. "can you tell me, madame, if this is the most direct road leading to glengrove and that vicinity? i am looking for a hostelry near it. i seem to have lost my way. will you kindly direct me?" he asked, "or to the home of mr. rex lyon?" the voice sounded strangely familiar to daisy. she was dimly conscious some one was speaking to her. she raised her face up and gazed at the speaker. the cold, pale moonlight fell full upon it, clearly revealing its strange, unearthly whiteness, and the bright flashing eyes, gazing dreamily past the terror-stricken man looking down on her, with white, livid lips and blanched, horror-stricken face. his eyes almost leaped from their sockets in abject terror, as lester stanwick gazed on the upturned face by the roadside. "my god, do i dream?" he cried, clutching at the pommel of his saddle. "is this the face of daisy brooks, or is it a specter, unable to sleep in the depths of her tomb, come back to haunt me for driving her to her doom?" chapter xxvi. rex and pluma talked for some time out in the moonlight, then rex excused himself, and on the plea of having important business letters to write retired to the library. for some minutes pluma leaned thoughtfully against the railing. the night was still and clear; the moon hung over the dark trees; floods of silvery light bathed the waters of the glittering sea, the sleeping flowers and the grass, and on the snowy orange-blossoms and golden fruit amid the green foliage. "i shall always love this fair southern home," she thought, a bright light creeping into her dark, dazzling eyes. "i am fortune's favorite," she said, slowly. "i shall have the one great prize i covet most on earth. i shall win rex at last. i wonder at the change in him. there was a time when i believed he loved me. could it be handsome, refined, courteous rex had more than a passing fancy for daisy brooks--simple, unpretentious daisy brooks? thank god she is dead!" she cried, vehemently. "i would have periled my very soul to have won him." even as the thought shaped itself in her mind, a dark form stepped cautiously forward. she was not startled; a passing wonder as to who it might be struck her. she did not think much about it; a shadow in the moonlight did not frighten her. "pluma!" called a low, cautious voice, "come down into the garden; i must speak with you. it is i, lester stanwick." in a single instant the soft love-light had faded from her face, leaving it cold, proud, and pitiless. a vague, nameless dread seized her. she was a courageous girl; she would not let him know it. "the mad fool!" she cried, clinching her white jeweled hands together. "why does he follow me here? what shall i do? i must buy him off at any cost. i dare not defy him. better temporize with him." she muttered the words aloud, and she was shocked to see how changed and hoarse her own voice sounded. "women have faced more deadly peril than this," she muttered, "and cleverly outwitted ingenious foes. i _must_ win by stratagem." she quickly followed the tall figure down the path that divided the little garden from the shrubbery. "i knew you would not refuse me, pluma," he said, clasping her hands and kissing her cold lips. he noticed the glance she gave him had nothing in it but coldness and annoyance. "you do not tell me you are pleased to see me, pluma, and yet you have promised to be my wife." she stood perfectly still leaning against an oleander-tree. "why don't you speak to me, pluma?" he cried. "by heaven! i am almost beginning to mistrust you. you remember your promise," he said, hurriedly--"if i removed the overseer's niece from your path you were to reward me with your heart and hand." she would have interrupted him, but he silenced her with a gesture. "you said your love for rex had turned to bitter hatred. you found he loved the girl, and that would be a glorious revenge. i did not have to resort to abducting her from the seminary as we had planned. the bird flew into my grasp. i would have placed her in the asylum you selected, but she eluded me by leaping into the pit. i have been haunted by her face night and day ever since. i see her face in crowds, in the depths of the silent forest, her specter appears before me until i fly from it like one accursed." she could not stay the passionate torrent of his words. "lester, this is all a mistake," she said; "you have not given me a chance to speak." her hands dropped nervously by her side. there were fierce, rebellious thoughts in her heart, but she dare not give them utterance. "what have i done to deserve all this?" she asked, trying to assume a tender tone she was far from feeling. "what have you done?" he cried, hoarsely. "why, i left you at whitestone hall, feeling secure in the belief that i had won you. returning suddenly and unexpectedly, i found you had gone to florida, to the home of rex lyon. do you know what i would have done, pluma, if i had found you his wife and false to your trust?" "you forget yourself, lester," she said; "gentlemen never threaten women." he bit his lip angrily. "there are extreme cases of desperation," he made reply. "you must keep your promise," he said, determinedly. "no other man must dare speak to you of love." she saw the angry light flame into his eyes, and trembled under her studied composure; yet not the quiver of an eyelid betrayed her emotion. she had not meant to quarrel with him; for once in her life she forgot her prudence. "suppose that, by exercise of any power you think you possess, you could really compel me to be your wife, do you think it would benefit you? i would learn to despise you. what would you gain by it?" the answer sprung quickly to his lips: "the one great point for which i am striving--possession of whitestone hall;" but he was too diplomatic to utter the words. she saw a lurid light in his eyes. "you shall be my wife," he said, gloomily. "if you have been cherishing any hope of winning rex lyon, abandon it at once. as a last resort, i would explain to him how cleverly you removed the pretty little girl he loved from his path." "you dare not!" she cried, white to the very lips. "you have forgotten your own share in that little affair. who would believe you acted upon a woman's bidding? you would soon be called to account for it. you forget that little circumstance, lester; you dare not go to rex!" he knew what she said was perfectly true. he had not intended going to rex; he knew it would be as much as his life was worth to encounter him. he was aware his name had been coupled with daisy's in the journals which had described her tragic death. he knew rex had fallen madly, desperately in love with little daisy brooks, but he did not dream he had made her his wife. "you have not given me time to explain why i am here." "i have heard all about it," he answered, impatiently; "but i do not understand why they sent for you." "mrs. lyon requested it," she replied, quietly. "rex simply obeyed her wishes." "perhaps she looked upon you as her future daughter-in-law," sneered lester, covertly. "i have followed you to florida to prevent it; i would follow you to the ends of the earth to prevent it! a promise to me can not be lightly broken." not a feature of that proud face quivered to betray the sharp spasm of fear that darted through her heart. "you should have waited until you had cause to reproach me, lester," she said, drawing her wrap closer about her and shivering as if with cold. "i must go back to the house now; some one might miss me." he made no reply. the wind bent the reeds, and the waves of the sea dashed up on the distant beach with a long, low wash. he was wondering how far she was to be trusted. "you may have perfect confidence in me, lester," she said; "my word ought to be sufficient," as if quite divining his thoughts. "you need have no fear; i will be true to you." "i shall remain away until this affair has blown over," he replied. "i can live as well in one part of the country as another, thanks to the income my father left me." he laid great stress on the last sentence; he wanted to impress her with the fact that he had plenty of money. "she must never know," he told himself, "that he had so riotously squandered the vast inheritance that had been left him, and he was standing on the verge of ruin." a marriage with the wealthy heiress would save him at the eleventh hour. "i will trust you, pluma," he continued. "i know, you will keep your vow." the false ring of apparent candor did not deceive her; she knew it would be a case of diamond cut diamond. "that is spoken like your own generous self, lester," she said, softly, clasping his hands in her own white, jeweled ones. "you pained me by your distrust." he saw she was anxious to get away from him, and he bit his lip with vexation; her pretty, coaxing manner did not deceive him one whit, yet he clasped his arms in a very lover-like fashion around her as he replied: "forget that it ever existed, my darling. where there is such ardent, passionate love, there is always more or less jealousy and fear. do you realize i am making an alien of myself for your sweet sake? i could never refuse you a request. your slightest will has been my law. be kind to me, pluma." she did try to be more than agreeable and fascinating. "i must remove all doubts from his mind," she thought. "i shall probably be rex's wife when we meet again. then his threats will be useless; i will scornfully deny it. he has no proofs." she talked to him so gracefully, so tenderly, at times, he was almost tempted to believe she actually cared for him more than she would admit. still he allowed it would do no harm to keep a strict watch of her movements. "good-bye, pluma, dearest," he said, "i shall keep you constantly advised of my whereabouts. as soon as matters can be arranged satisfactorily, i am coming back to claim you." another moment and she was alone, walking slowly back to the house, a very torrent of anger in her proud, defiant heart. "i must hurry matters up, delays are dangerous," she thought, walking slowly up the broad path toward the house. * * * * * slowly the long hours of the night dragged themselves by, yet daisy did not return to glengrove. the hours lengthened into days, and days into weeks, still there was no trace of her to be found. gertie's explanation readily accounted for her absence. "she preferred to leave us rather than deliver my note," she said, angrily; "and i for one am not sorry she has gone." "rex did not mention having received it," said bess, "when he came with birdie to bid us good-bye." "she probably read it and destroyed it," said gertie, "well, there was nothing in it very particular. toward the last of it i mentioned i would send the note over by daisy brooks, my mother's companion. more than likely she took umbrage at that." "that was a very unkind remark," asserted eve. "you had no business to mention it at all; it was uncalled for." "well, she would not have known it if she had not read it," replied gertie. "you must admit that." mrs. glenn felt sorely troubled. in the short time daisy had been with her she had put unlimited confidence in her. no one thought of searching for her; they all accepted the facts as the case presented itself to them. daisy had certainly left them of her own free will. eve alone felt distressed. "i know everything looks that way, but i shall never believe it," she cried. she remembered the conversation she had so lately had with daisy. how she had clasped her loving little arms about her neck, crying out: "pray for me, eve. i am sorely tried. my feet are on the edge of a precipice. no matter what i may be tempted to do, do not lose faith in me, eve; always believe in me." poor little daisy! what was the secret sorrow that was goading her on to madness? would she ever know? where was she now? ah, who could tell? a curious change seemed to come over romping, mischievous, merry eve; she had grown silent and thoughtful. "i could never believe any one in this world was true or pure again if i thought for one moment deceit lay brooding in a face so fair as little daisy brooks's." chapter xxvii. the months flew quickly by; the cold winter had slipped away, and the bright green grass and early violets were sprinkling the distant hill-slopes. the crimson-breasted robins were singing in the budding branches of the trees, and all nature reminded one the glorious spring had come. rex lyon stood upon the porch of whitestone hall gazing up at the white, fleecy clouds that scudded over the blue sky, lost in deep thought. he was the same handsome, debonair rex, but ah, how changed! the merry, laughing brown eyes looked silent and grave enough now, and the lips the drooping brown mustache covered rarely smiled. even his voice seemed to have a deeper tone. he had done the one thing that morning which his mother had asked him to do with her dying breath--he had asked pluma hurlhurst to be his wife. the torture of the task seemed to grow upon him as the weeks rolled by, and in desperation he told himself he must settle the matter at once, or he would not have the strength to do it. he never once thought what he should do with his life after he married her. he tried to summon up courage to tell her the story of his marriage, that his hopes, his heart, and his love all lay in the grave of his young wife. poor rex, he could not lay bare that sweet, sad secret; he could not have borne her questions, her wonder, her remarks, and have lived; his dead love was far too sacred for that; he could not take the treasured love-story from his heart and hold it up to public gaze. it would have been easier for him to tear the living, beating heart from his breast than to do this. he had walked into the parlor that morning, where he knew he should find pluma. she was standing before the fire. although it was early spring the mornings were chilly, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate, throwing a bright, glowing radiance over the room and over the exquisite morning toilet of white cashmere, with its white lace frills, relieved here and there with coquettish dashes of scarlet blossoms, which pluma wore, setting off her graceful figure to such queenly advantage. rex looked at her, at the imperious beauty any man might have been proud to win, secretly hoping she would refuse him. "good-morning, rex," she said, holding out her white hands to him. "i am glad you have come to talk to me. i was watching you walking up and down under the trees, and you looked so lonely i half made up my mind to join you." a lovely color was deepening in her cheeks, and her eyes drooped shyly. he broke right into the subject at once while he had the courage to do it. "i have something to say to you, pluma," he began, leading her to an adjacent sofa and seating himself beside her. "i want to ask you if you will be my wife." he looked perhaps the more confused of the two. "i will do my best to make you happy," he continued. "i can not say that i will make a model husband, but i will say i will do my best." there was a minute's silence, awkward enough for both. "you have asked me to be your wife, rex, but you have not said one word of loving me." the remark was so unexpected rex seemed for a few moments to be unable to reply to it. looking at the eager, expectant face turned toward him, it appeared ungenerous and unkind not to give her one affectionate word. yet he did not know how to say it; he had never spoken a loving word to any one except daisy, his fair little child-bride. he tried hard to put the memory of daisy away from him as he answered: "the question is so important that most probably i have thought more of it than of any words which should go with it." "oh, that is it," returned pluma, with a wistful little laugh. "most men, when they ask women to marry them, say something of love, do they not?" "yes," he replied, absently. "you have had no experience," laughed pluma, archly. she was sorely disappointed. she had gone over in her own imagination this very scene a thousand times, of the supreme moment he would clasp his arms around her, telling her in glowing, passionate words how dearly he loved her and how wretched his life would be without her. he did nothing of the kind. rex was thinking he would have given anything to have been able to make love to her--anything for the power of saying tender words--she looked so loving. her dark, beautiful face was so near him, and her graceful figure so close, that he could have wound his arm around her, but he did not. in spite of every resolve, he thought of daisy the whole time. how different that other love-making had been! how his heart throbbed, and every endearing name he could think of trembled on his lips, as he strained daisy to his heart when she had bashfully consented to be his wife! that love-making was real substance; this one only the shadow of love. "you have not answered my question, pluma. will you be my wife?" pluma raised her dark, beautiful face, radiant with the light of love, to his. "if i consent will you promise to love me better than anything else or any one in the wide world?" "i will devote my whole life to you, study your every wish," he answered, evasively. how was she to know he had given all his heart to daisy? she held out her hands to him with a charming gesture of affection. he took them and kissed them; he could do neither more nor less. "i will be your wife, rex," she said, with a tremulous, wistful sigh. "thank you, pluma," he returned, gently, bending down and kissing the beautiful crimson lips; "you shall never regret it. you are so kind, i am going to impose on your good nature. you have promised me you will be my wife--when may i claim you, pluma?" "do you wish it to be soon?" she asked, hesitatingly, wondering how he would answer her. "yes," he said, absently; "the sooner it is over the better i shall be pleased." she looked up into his face, at a loss how to interpret the words. "you shall set the day, rex," she replied. "i have your father's consent that it may take place just as soon as possible, in case you promised to marry me," he said. "suppose it takes place in a fortnight, say--will that be too soon for you?" she gave a little scream of surprise. "as soon as that?" she murmured; but ended by readily consenting. he thanked her and kissed her once more. after a few quiet words they parted--she, happy in the glamour of her love-dream; he, praying to heaven from the depths of his miserable heart, to give him strength to carry out the rash vow which had been wrung from his unwilling lips. in his heart rex knew no one but daisy could ever reign. dead, he was devoted to her memory. his life was narrowing down. he was all kindness, consideration and devotion; but the one supreme magnet of all--love--was wanting. in vain pluma exerted all her wondrous powers of fascination to win him more completely. how little he dreamed of the depths of love which controlled that passionate heart, every throb of which was for him--that to have won from him one token of warm affection she would have given all she held dear in this world. "how does it happen, rex," she asked, one evening, "you have not asked me to sing to you since you have asked me to be your wife? music used to be such a bond of sympathy between us." there was both love and reproach in her voice. he heard neither. he had simply forgotten it. "i have been thinking of other things, i presume. allow me to make up for it at once, however, by asking you if you will sing for me now." the tears came to her dark, flashing eyes, but she forced them bravely back. she had hoped he would clasp her in his arms, whispering some sweet compliment, then say to her "darling, won't you sing to me now?" she swept toward the piano with the air of a queen. "i want you to sit where i can see you, rex," she demanded, prettily; "i like to watch your face when i sing you my favorite songs." rex drew his chair up close to the piano, laying his head back dreamily against the crimson cushions. he would not be obliged to talk; for once--just once--he would let his fancies roam where they would. he had often heard pluma sing before, but never in the way she sung to-night. a low, thrilling, seductive voice full of pleading, passionate tenderness--a voice that whispered of the sweet irresistible power of love, that carried away the hearts of her listeners as a strong current carries a leaflet. was it a dream, or was it the night wind breathing the name of daisy? the tears rose in his eyes, and he started to his feet, pale and trembling with agitation. suddenly the music ceased. "i did not think such a simple little melody had power to move you," she said. "is it a new song?" he asked. "i do not remember having heard it before. what is the title of it?" he did not notice her face had grown slightly pale under the soft, pearly light of the gleaming lamps, as she held the music out toward him. "it is a pretty title," she said, in her low, musical voice, "'daisies growing o'er my darling's grave.'" in the terrible look of agony that swept over his handsome face, pluma read the secret of his life; the one secret she had dreaded stood as clearly revealed to her as though it had been stamped in glowing letters upon his brow. she would have stood little chance of being rex's wife if daisy brooks had lived. who would have dreamed the beautiful, proud young heiress could have cursed the very memory of the young girl whom she believed to be dead--lying all uncared for in a neglected, lonely grave? rex felt sorely disturbed. he never remembered how the remainder of the evening passed. ah, heavens! how his mind wandered back to that sweet love-dream so cruelly broken. a mist as of tears spread before his eyes, and shut the whole world from him as he glanced out of the window and up at the star-gemmed sky--that was his daisy's home. "i hope my little song has not cast a gloom over you, rex?" she said, holding out her hands to him as she arose to bid him good-night--those small white hands upon one of which his engagement-ring glowed with a thousand prismatic hues. "why should it?" he asked, attempting to laugh lightly. "i admired it perhaps more than any other i have ever heard you sing." pluma well knew why. "it was suggested to me by a strange occurrence. shall i relate it to you, rex?" he made some indistinct answer, little dreaming of how wofully the little anecdote would affect him. "i do not like to bring up old, unpleasant subjects, rex. but do you remember what the only quarrel we ever had was about, or rather _who_ it was about?" he looked at her in surprise; he had not the least idea of what she alluded to. "do you remember what a romantic interest you once took in our overseer's niece--the one who eloped with lester stanwick from boarding-school--the one whose death we afterward read of? her name was daisy--daisy brooks." if she had suddenly plunged a dagger into his heart with her white jeweled hands he could not have been more cruelly startled. he could have cried aloud with the sharp pain of unutterable anguish that memory brought him. his answer was a bow; he dared not look up lest the haggard pain of his face should betray him. "her uncle (he was no relation, i believe, but she called him that) was more fond of her than words can express. i was driving along by an unfrequented road to-day when i came across a strange, pathetic sight. the poor old man was putting the last touches to a plain wooden cross he had just erected under a magnolia-tree, which bore the simple words: 'to the memory of daisy brooks, aged sixteen years.' around the cross the grass was thickly sown with daisies. "'she does not rest here,' the old man said, drawing his rough sleeve across his tear-dimmed eyes; 'but the poor little girl loved this spot best of any.'" pluma wondered why rex took her just then in his arms for the first time and kissed her. he was thanking her in his heart; he could have knelt to her for the kind way she had spoken of daisy. a little later he was standing by the open window of his own room in the moonlight. "my god!" he cried, burying his face in his hands, "this poor john brooks did what i, her husband, should have done; but it is not too late now. i shall honor your memory, my darling; i shall have a costly marble monument erected to your memory, bearing the inscription: 'sacred to the memory of daisy, beloved wife of rex lyon, aged sixteen years.' not daisy brooks, but daisy lyon. mother is dead, what can secrecy avail now?" he would not tell pluma until the last moment. straightway he ordered a magnificent monument from baltimore--one of pure unblemished white, with an angel with drooping wings overlooking the tall white pillar. when it arrived he meant to take pluma there, and, reverently kneeling down before her, tell her all the story of his sweet, sad love-dream with his face pressed close against the cold, pulseless marble--tell her of the love-dream which had left him but the ashes of dead hope. he sealed the letter and placed it with the out-going morning mail. "darling, how i wish i had not parted from you that night!" he sighed. how bitterly he regretted he could not live that one brief hour of his past life over again--how differently he would act! chapter xxviii. while rex was penning his all-important letter in his room, pluma was walking restlessly to and fro in her boudoir, conning over in her mind the events of the evening. rex had asked her to be his wife, but she stood face to face with the truth at last--he did not love her. it was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her affection, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could possibly have received. to think that she, the wealthy, petted heiress, who counted her admirers by the score, should have tried so hard to win the love of this one man and have failed; that her beauty, her grace, her wit, and her talent had been lavished upon him, and lavished in vain. "was that simple girl, with her shy, timid, shrinking manner, more lovable than i?" she asked herself, incredulously. she could not realize it--she, whose name was on the lips of men, who praised her as the queen of beauty, and whom fair women envied as one who had but to will to win. it seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she, who had everything the world could give--beauty and fortune--should ask but this one gift, and that it should be refused her--the love of the man who had asked her to be his wife. was it impossible that he should learn to love her? she told herself that she should take courage, that she would persevere, that her great love must in time prevail. "i must never let him find me dull or unhappy," she thought. "i must carefully hide all traces of pique or annoyance." she would do her best to entertain him, and make it the study of her life to win his love. she watched the stars until they faded from the skies, then buried her face in her pillow, falling into an uneasy slumber, through which a beautiful, flower-like, girlish face floated, and a slight, delicate form knelt at her feet holding her arms out imploringly, sobbing out: "do not take him from me--he is my world--i love him!" and with a heart racked by terrible jealousy, pluma turned uneasily on her pillow and opened her eyes. the stars were still glimmering in the moonlighted sky. "is the face of daisy brooks ever to haunt me thus?" she cried out, impatiently. "how was i to know she was to die?" she muttered, excitedly. "i simply meant to have stanwick abduct her from the seminary that rex might believe him her lover and turn to me for sympathy. i will not think of it," she cried; "i am not one to flinch from a course of action i have marked out for myself, no matter what the consequences may be, if i only gain rex's love." and pluma, the bride soon to be, turned her flushed face again to the wall to dream again of daisy brooks. she little dreamed rex, too, was watching the stars, as wakeful as she, thinking of the past. then he prayed heaven to help him, so that no unworthy thought should enter his mind. after that he slept, and one of the most painful days of his life was ended. the days at whitestone hall flew by on rapid wings in a round of gayety. the hall was crowded with young folks, who were to remain until after the marriage. dinner parties were followed by may-pole dances out on the green lawns, and by charades and balls in the evening. the old hall had never echoed with such frolicsome mirth before. rex plunged into the excitement with strange zest. no one guessed that beneath his winning, careless smile his heart was almost breaking. one morning pluma was standing alone on the vine-covered terrace, waiting for rex, who had gone out to try a beautiful spirited horse that had just been added to the stables of whitestone hall. she noticed he had taken the unfrequented road the magnolia-trees shaded. that fact bore no significance, certainly; still there was a strong feeling of jealousy in her heart as she remembered that little wooden cross he would be obliged to pass. would he stop there? she could not tell. "how i love him--and how foolish i am!" she laughed, nervously. "i have no rival, yet i am jealous of his very thoughts, lest they dwell on any one else but myself. i do not see how it is," she said, thoughtfully, to herself, "why people laugh at love, and think it weakness or a girl's sentimental folly. why, it is the strongest of human passions!" she heard people speak of her approaching marriage as "a grand match"--she heard him spoken of as a wealthy southerner, and she laughed a proud, happy, rippling laugh. she was marrying rex for love; she had given him the deepest, truest love of her heart. around a bend in the terrace she heard approaching footsteps and the rippling of girlish laughter. "i can not have five minutes to myself to think," she said to herself, drawing hastily back behind the thick screen of leaves until they should pass. she did not feel in the humor just then to listen to miss raynor's chatter or pretty grace alden's gossip. "of course every one has a right to their own opinion," grace was saying, with a toss of her pretty nut-brown curls, "and i, for one, do not believe he cares for her one whit." "it is certainly very strange," responded miss raynor, thoughtfully. "every one can see she is certainly in love with rex; but i am afraid it is quite a one-sided affair." "yes," said grace, laughing shyly, "a _very_ one-sided affair. why, have you ever noticed them together--how pluma watches his face and seems to live on his smiles? and as for rex, he always seems to be looking over her head into the distance, as though he saw something there far more interesting than the face of his bride-to-be. that doesn't look much like love or a contented lover." "if you had seen him this morning you might well say he did not look contented," replied miss raynor, mysteriously. "i was out for a morning ramble, and, feeling a little tired, i sat down on a moss-covered stone to rest. hearing the approaching clatter of a horse's hoofs, i looked up and saw rex lyon coming leisurely down the road. i could not tell you what prompted me to do it, but i drew quietly back behind the overhanging alder branches that skirted the brook, admiring him all unseen." "oh, dear!" cried grace, merrily, "this is almost too good to keep. who would imagine dignified miss raynor peeping admiringly at handsome rex, screened by the shadows of the alders!" "now don't be ridiculous, grace, or i shall be tempted not to tell you the most interesting part," returned miss raynor, flushing hotly. "oh, that would be too cruel," cried grace, who delighted on anything bordering on mystery. "do tell it." "well," continued miss raynor, dropping her voice to a lower key, "when he was quite opposite me, he suddenly stopped short and quickly dismounted from his horse, and picked up from the roadside a handful of wild flowers." "what in the world could he want with them?" cried grace, incredulously. "want with them!" echoed miss raynor. "why, he pressed them to his lips, murmuring passionate, loving words over them. for one brief instant his face was turned toward me, and i saw there were tears standing in his eyes, and there was a look on his face i shall never forget to my dying day. there was such hopeless woe upon it--indeed one might have almost supposed, by the expression of his face, he was waiting for his death-sentence to be pronounced instead of a marriage ceremony, which was to give him the queenly heiress of whitestone hall for a bride." "perhaps there is some hidden romance in the life of handsome rex the world does not know of," suggested grace, sagely. "i hope not," replied miss raynor. "i would hate to be a rival of pluma hurlhurst's. i have often thought, as i watched her with rex, it must be terrible to worship one person so madly. i have often thought pluma's a perilous love." "do not speak so," cried grace. "you horrify me. whenever i see her face i am afraid those words will be ringing in my ears--a perilous love." miss raynor made some laughing rejoinder which pluma, white and trembling behind the ivy vines, did not catch, and still discussing the affair, they moved on, leaving pluma hurlhurst standing alone, face to face with the truth, which she had hoped against hope was false. rex, who was so soon to be her husband, was certainly not her lover. her keen judgment had told her long ago all this had come about through his mother's influence. every word those careless lips had uttered came back to her heart with a cruel stab. "even my guests are noticing his coldness," she cried, with a hysterical little sob. "they are saying to each other, 'he does not love me'--i, who have counted my triumphs by the scores. i have revealed my love in every word, tone and glance, but i can not awaken one sentiment in his proud, cold heart." when she remembered the words, "he pressed them to his lips, murmuring passionate, loving words over them," she almost cried aloud in her fierce, angry passion. she knew, just as well as though she had witnessed him herself, that those wild flowers were daisies, and she knew, too, why he had kissed them so passionately. she saw the sun shining on the trees, the flower-beds were great squares and circles of color, the fountains sparkled in the sunlight, and restless butterflies flitted hither and thither. for pluma hurlhurst, after that hour, the sunshine never had the same light, the flowers the same color, her face the same smile, or her heart the same joyousness. never did "good and evil" fight for a human heart as they struggled in that hour in the heart of the beautiful, willful heiress. all the fire, the passion, and recklessness of her nature were aroused. "i will make him love me or i will die!" she cried, vehemently. "the love i long for shall be mine. i swear it, cost what it may!" she was almost terribly beautiful to behold, as that war of passion raged within her. she saw a cloud of dust arising in the distance. she knew it was rex returning, but no bright flush rose to her cheek as she remembered what miss raynor had said of the wild flowers he had so rapturously caressed--he had given a few rank wild flowers the depths of a passionate love which he had never shown to her, whom he had asked to be his wife. she watched him as he approached nearer and nearer, so handsome, so graceful, so winning, one of his white hands carelessly resting on the spirited animal's proudly arched, glossy neck, and with the other raising his hat from his brown curls in true courtly cavalier fashion to her, as he saw her standing there, apparently awaiting him on the rose-covered terrace. he looked so handsome and lovable pluma might have forgotten her grievance had she not at that moment espied, fastened to the lapel of his coat, a cluster of golden-hearted daisies. that sight froze the light in her dark, passionate eyes and the welcome that trembled on her scarlet lips. he leaped lightly from the saddle, and came quickly forward to meet her, and then drew back with a start. "what is the matter, pluma?" he asked, in wonder. "nothing," she replied, keeping her eyes fastened as if fascinated on the offending daisies he wore on his breast. "i left you an hour ago smiling and happy. i find you white and worn. there are strange lights in your eyes like the slumbrous fire of a volcano; even your voice seems to have lost its tenderness. what is it, pluma?" she raised her dark, proud face to his. there was a strange story written on it, but he could not tell what it was. "it--it is nothing. the day is warm, and i am tired, that is all." "you are not like the same pluma who kissed me when i was going away," he persisted. "since i left this house something has come between you and me. what is it, pluma?" she looked up to him with a proud gesture that was infinitely charming. "is anything likely to come between us?" she asked. "no; not that i know of," he answered, growing more and more puzzled. "then why imagine it?" she asked. "because you are so changed, pluma," he said. "i shall never perhaps know the cause of your strange manner toward me, but i shall always feel sure it is something which concerns myself. you look at me as though you were questioning me," he said. "i wish you would tell me what is on your mind?" "i do not suppose it could make the least difference," she answered, passionately. "yes, i will tell you, what you must have been blind not to notice long ago. have you not noticed how every one watches us with a peculiar smile on their lips as we come among them; and how their voices sink to a whisper lest we should overhear what they say? what is commented upon by my very guests, and the people all about us? listen, then, it is this: rex lyon does not love the woman he has asked to be his wife. the frosts of iceland could not be colder than his manner toward her. they say, too, that i have given you the truest and deepest love of my heart, and have received nothing in return. tell me that it is all false, my darling. you do care for me, do you not, rex? tell me," she implored. "good heavens!" cried rex, almost speechless in consternation; "do they dare say such things? i never thought my conduct could give rise to one reproach, one unkind thought." "tell me you do care for me, rex," she cried. "i have been almost mad with doubt." there was something in the lovely face, in the tender, pleading eyes, and quivering, scarlet mouth, that looked as if it were made for kisses--that rex would have had to have been something more than mortal man to have resisted her pleading with sighs and tears for his love, and refuse it, especially as she had every reason to expect it, as he had asked her to be his wife. there was such a look of unutterable love on her face it fairly bewildered him. the passion in her voice startled him. what was he to do with this impetuous girl? rex looked as if he felt exceedingly uncomfortable. he took her in his arms and kissed her mechanically; he knew that was what she wanted and what she expected him to do. "this must be my answer, dear," he said, holding her in a close embrace. in that brief instant she had torn the daisies from the lapel of his coat with her white, jeweled fingers, tossed them to the earth, and stamped her dainty feet upon them, wishing in the depths of her soul she could crush out all remembrance from his heart of the young girl for whose memory this handsome lover of hers wore these wild blossoms on his breast. as rex looked down into her face he missed them, and quickly unclasped his arms from around her with a little cry. stooping down he instantly recovered his crushed treasures and lifted them reverently in his hand with a sigh. "i can not say that i admire your taste, rex," she said, with a short, hard laugh, that somehow grated harshly on her lover's ears. "the conservatories are blooming with rare and odorous flowers, yet you choose these obnoxious plants; they are no more or less than a species of weeds. never wear them again, rex--i despise them--throw them away, and i will gather you a rare bouquet of white hyacinths and starry jasmine and golden-rod bells." the intense quiver in her voice pained him, and he saw her face wore the pallor of death, and her eyes were gleaming like restless fire. "i will not wear them certainly if you dislike them, pluma," he said, gravely, "but i do not care to replace them by any other; daisies are the sweetest flowers on earth for me." he did not fasten them on his coat again, but transferred them to his breast-pocket. she bit her scarlet lips in impotent rage. in the very moment of her supreme triumph and happiness he had unclasped his arms from about her to pick up the daisies she had crushed with her tiny heel--those daisies which reminded him of that other love that still reigned in his heart a barrier between them. chapter xxix. "i do think it is a perfect shame those horrid glenn girls are to be invited up here to rex's wedding," cried little birdie lyon, hobbling into the room where mrs. corliss sat, busily engaged in hemming some new table-linen, and throwing herself down on a low hassock at her feet, and laying down her crutch beside her--"it is perfectly awful." "why," said mrs. corliss, smoothing the nut-brown curls back from the child's flushed face, "i should think you would be very pleased. they were your neighbors when you were down in florida, were they not?" "yes," replied the little girl, frowning, "but i don't like them one bit. bess and gertie--that's the two eldest ones, make me think of those stiff pictures in the gay trailing dresses in the magazines. eve is nice, but she's a tom-boy." "a wh--at!" cried mrs. corliss. "she's a tom-boy, mamma always said; she romps, and has no manners." "they will be your neighbors when you go south again--so i suppose your brother thought of that when he invited them." "he never dreamed of it," cried birdie; "it was miss pluma's doings." "hush, child, don't talk so loud," entreated the old housekeeper; "she might hear you." "i don't care," cried birdie. "i don't like her anyhow, and she knows it. when rex is around she is as sweet as honey to me, and calls me 'pretty little dear,' but when rex isn't around she scarcely notices me, and i _hate_ her--yes, i do." birdie clinched her little hands together venomously, crying out the words in a shrill scream. "birdie," cried mrs. corliss, "you _must not_ say such hard, cruel things. i have heard you say, over and over again, you liked mr. hurlhurst, and you must remember pluma is his daughter, and she is to be your brother's wife. you must learn to speak and think kindly of her." "i never shall like her," cried birdie, defiantly, "and i am sure mr. hurlhurst don't." "birdie!" ejaculated the good lady in a fright, dropping her scissors and spools in consternation; "let me warn you not to talk so again; if miss pluma was to once hear you, you would have a sorry enough time of it all your after life. what put it into your head mr. hurlhurst did not like his own daughter?" "oh, lots of things," answered birdie. "when i tell him how pretty every one says she is, he groans, and says strange things about fatal beauty, which marred all his young life, and ever so many things i can't understand, and his face grows so hard and so stern i am almost afraid of him." "he is thinking of pluma's mother," thought mrs. corliss--but she made no answer. "he likes to talk to me," pursued the child, rolling the empty spools to and fro with her crutch, "for he pities me because i am lame." "bless your dear little heart," said mrs. corliss, softly stroking the little girl's curls; "it is seldom poor old master takes to any one as he has to you." "do i look anything like the little child that died?" questioned birdie. a low, gasping cry broke from mrs. corliss's lips, and her face grew ashen white. she tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat. "he talks to me a great deal about her," continued birdie, "and he weeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her. why, only last night he dreamed a beautiful, golden-haired young girl came to him, holding out her arms, and crying softly: 'look at me, father; i am your child. i was never laid to rest beneath the violets, in my young mother's tomb. father, i am in sore distress--come to me, father, or i shall die!' of course it was only a dream, but it makes poor mr. hurlhurst cry so; and what do you think he said?" the child did not notice the terrible agony on the old housekeeper's face, or that no answer was vouchsafed her. "'my dreams haunt me night and day,' he cried. 'to still this wild, fierce throbbing of my heart i must have that grave opened, and gaze once more upon all that remains of my loved and long-lost bride, sweet evalia and her little child.' he was--" birdie never finished her sentence. a terrible cry broke from the housekeeper's livid lips. "my god!" she cried, hoarsely, "after nearly seventeen years the sin of my silence is about to find me out at last." "what is the matter, mrs. corliss? are you ill?" cried the startled child. a low, despairing sob answered her, as mrs. corliss arose from her seat, took a step or two forward, then fell headlong to the floor in a deep and death-like swoon. almost any other child would have been terrified, and alarmed the household. birdie was not like other children. she saw a pitcher of ice-water on an adjacent table, which she immediately proceeded to sprinkle on the still, white, wrinkled face; but all her efforts failed to bring the fleeting breath back to the cold, pallid lips. at last the child became fairly frightened. "i must go and find rex or mr. hurlhurst," she cried, grasping her crutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room. the door leading to basil hurlhurst's apartments stood open--the master of whitestone hall sat in his easy-chair, in morning-gown and slippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books. "oh, mr. hurlhurst," cried birdie, her little, white, scared face peering in at the door, "won't you please come quick? mrs. corliss, the housekeeper, has fainted ever so long ago, and i can't bring her to!" basil hurlhurst hurriedly arose and followed the now thoroughly frightened child quickly to the room where the old housekeeper lay, her hands pressed close to her heart, the look of frozen horror deepening on her face. quickly summoning the servants, they raised her from the floor. it was something more than a mere fainting fit. the poor old lady had fallen face downward on the floor, and upon the sharp point of the scissors she had been using, which had entered her body in close proximity to her heart. the wound was certainly a dangerous one. the surgeon, who was quickly summoned, shook his head dubiously. "the wound is of the most serious nature," he said. "she can not possibly recover." "i regret this sad affair more than i can find words to express," said basil hurlhurst, gravely. "mrs. corliss's whole life almost has been spent at whitestone hall. you tell me, doctor, there is no hope. i can scarcely realize it." every care and attention was shown her; but it was long hours before mrs. corliss showed signs of returning consciousness, and with her first breath she begged that basil hurlhurst might be sent for at once. he could not understand why she shrunk from him, refusing his proffered hand. "tell them all to leave the room," she whispered. "no one must know what i have to say to you." wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes, sending them all from the room. "now, mrs. corliss," he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by the bedside, "what is it? you can speak out without reserve; we are all alone." "is it true that i can not live?" she asked, eagerly scanning his face. "tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?" "yes," he said, sympathetically, "i--i--am afraid it is." he saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. "do not speak," he said, gently; "it distresses you. you need perfect rest and quiet." "i shall never rest again until i make atonement for my sin," she cried, feebly. "oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me, but i have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. when you hear what i have to say you will curse me. oh, how can i tell it! yet i can not sleep in my grave with this burden on my soul." he certainly thought she was delirious, this poor, patient, toil-worn soul, speaking so incoherently of sin; she, so tender-hearted--she could not even have hurt a sparrow. "i can promise you my full pardon, mrs. corliss," he said, soothingly; "no matter on what grounds the grievance may be." for a moment she looked at him incredulously. "you do not know what you say. you do not understand," she muttered, fixing her fast-dimming eyes strangely upon him. "do not give yourself any uneasiness upon that score, mrs. corliss," he said, gently; "try to think of something else. is there anything you would like to have done for you?" "yes," she replied, in a voice so hoarse and changed he could scarcely recognize it was her who had spoken; "when i tell you all, promise me you will not curse me; for i have sinned against you so bitterly that you will cry out to heaven asking why i did not die long years ago, that the terrible secret i have kept so long might have been wrung from my lips." "surely her ravings were taking a strange freak," he thought to himself; "yet he would be patient with her and humor her strange fancy." the quiet, gentle expression did not leave his face, and she took courage. "master," she said, clasping her hands nervously together, "would it pain you to speak of the sweet, golden-haired young girl-bride who died on that terrible stormy night nearly seventeen years ago?" she saw his care-worn face grow white, and the lines of pain deepen around his mouth. "that is the most painful of all subjects to me," he said, slowly. "you know how i have suffered since that terrible night," he said shudderingly. "the double loss of my sweet young wife and her little babe has nearly driven me mad. i am a changed man, the weight of the cross i have had to bear has crushed me. i live on, but my heart is buried in the grave of my sweet, golden-haired evalia and her little child. i repeat, it is a painful subject, still i will listen to what you have to say. i believe i owe my life to your careful nursing, when i was stricken with the brain fever that awful time." "it would have been better if i had let you die then, rather than live to inflict the blow which my words will give you. oh, master!" she implored, "i did not know then what i did was a sin. i feared to tell you lest the shock might cost you your life. as time wore on, i grew so deadly frightened i dared not undo the mischief my silence had wrought. remember, master, when you looked upon me in your bitterest, fiercest moments of agony, what i did was for _your_ sake; to save your bleeding heart one more pang. i have been a good and faithful woman all my life, faithful to your interests." "you have indeed," he responded, greatly puzzled as to what she could possibly mean. she tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her strength failed her, and she sunk back exhausted on the pillow. "listen, basil hurlhurst," she said, fixing her strangely bright eyes upon his noble, care-worn face; "this is the secret i have carried in this bosom for nearly seventeen years: 'your golden-haired young wife died on that terrible stormy night you brought her to whitestone hall;' but listen, basil, '_the child did not!_' it was stolen from our midst on the night the fair young mother died." chapter xxx. "my god!" cried basil hurlhurst, starting to his feet, pale as death, his eyes fairly burning, and the veins standing out on his forehead like cords, "you do not know what you say, woman! my little child--evalia's child and mine--not dead, but stolen on the night its mother died! my god! it can not be; surely you are mad!" he shrieked. "it is true, master," she moaned, "true as heaven." "you knew my child, for whom i grieved for seventeen long years, was stolen--not dead--and dared to keep the knowledge from me?" he cried, passionately, beside himself with rage, agony and fear. "tell me quickly, then, where i shall find my child!" he cried, breathlessly. "i do not know, master," she moaned. for a few moments basil hurlhurst strode up and down the room like a man bereft of reason. "you will not curse me," wailed the tremulous voice from the bed; "i have your promise." "i can not understand how heaven could let your lips remain silenced all these long, agonizing years, if your story be true. why, yourself told me my wife and child had both died on that never-to-be-forgotten night, and were buried in one grave. how could you dare steep your lips with a lie so foul and black? heaven could have struck you dead while the false words were yet warm on your lips!" "i dared not tell you, master," moaned the feeble voice, "lest the shock would kill you; then, after you recovered, i grew afraid of the secret i had dared to keep, and dared not tell you." "and yet you knew that somewhere in this cruel world my little child was living--my tender, little fair-haired child--while i, her father, was wearing my life out with the grief of that terrible double loss. oh, woman, woman, may god forgive you, for i never can, if your words be true." "i feared such anger as this; that is why i dared not tell you," she whispered, faintly. "i appeal to your respect for me in the past to hear me, to your promise of forgiveness to shield me, to your love for the little child to listen calmly while i have strength to speak." he saw she was right. his head seemed on fire, and his heart seemed bursting with the acute intensity of his great excitement. he must listen while she had strength to tell him of his child. "go on--go on!" he cried, hoarsely, burying his face in the bed-clothes; "tell me of my child!" "you remember the terrible storm, master, how the tree moaned, and without against the western wing--where your beautiful young wife lay dead, with the pretty, smiling, blue-eyed babe upon her breast?" "yes, yes--go on--you are driving me mad!" he groaned. "you remember how you fell down senseless by her bedside when we told you the terrible news--the young child-bride was dead?" she knew, by the quivering of his form, he heard her. "as they carried you from the room, master, i thought i saw a woman's form gliding stealthily on before, through the dark corridors. a blaze of lightning illumined the hall for one brief instant, and i can swear i saw a woman's face--a white, mocking, gloriously beautiful face--strangely like the face of your first wife, master, pluma's mother. i knew it could not be her, for she was lying beneath the sea-waves. it was not a good omen, and i felt sorely afraid and greatly troubled. when i returned to the room from which they had carried you--there lay your fair young wife with a smile on her lips--but the tiny babe that had slumbered on her breast was gone." "oh, god! if you had only told me this years ago," cried the unhappy father. "have you any idea who could have taken the child? it could not have been for gain, or i should have heard of it long ago. i did not know i had an enemy in the wide world. you say you saw a woman's face?" he asked, thoughtfully. "it was the ghost of your first wife," asserted the old housekeeper, astutely. "i never saw her face but once; but there was something about it one could not easily forget." basil hurlhurst was not a superstitious man, yet he felt a strange, unaccountable dread stealing over him at the bare mention of such a thing. it was more than he could endure to hear the name of the wife he had loved, and the wife who slept beneath the wild sea-waves, coupled in one breath--the fair young wife he had idolized, and the dark, sparkling face of the wife who had brought upon him such wretched folly in his youth! "have you not some clew to give me?" he cried out in agony--"some way by which i can trace her and learn her fate?" she shook her head. "this is unbearable!" he cried, pacing up and down the room like one who had received an unexpected death-blow. "i am bewildered! merciful heaven! which way shall i turn? this accounts for my restlessness all these years, when i thought of my child--my restless longing and fanciful dreams! i thought her quietly sleeping on evalia's breast. god only knows what my tender little darling has suffered, or in what part of the world she lives, or if she lives at all!" it had been just one hour since basil hurlhurst had entered that room, a placid-faced, gray-haired man. when he left it his hair was white as snow from the terrible ordeal through which he had just passed. he scarcely dared hope that he should yet find her--where or how he should find her, if ever. in the corridor he passed groups of maidens, but he neither saw nor heard them. he was thinking of the child that had been stolen from him in her infancy--the sweet little babe with the large blue eyes and shining rings of golden hair. he saw pluma and rex greeting some new arrivals out on the flower-bordered terrace, but he did not stop until he had reached his own apartments. he did not send for pluma, to divulge the wonderful discovery he had made. there was little sympathy or confidence between the father and daughter. "i can never sleep again until i have some clew to my child!" he cried, frantically wringing his hands. hastily he touched the bell-rope. "mason," he said to the servant who answered the summons, "pack my valise at once. i am going to take the first train to baltimore. you have no time to lose." he did not hear the man's ejaculation of surprise as his eyes fell on the face of the master who stood before him with hair white as snow--so utterly changed in one short hour. "you couldn't possibly make the next train, sir; it leaves in a few moments." "i tell you you _must_ make it!" cried basil hurlhurst. "go and do as i bid you at once! don't stand there staring at me; you are losing golden moments. fly at once, i tell you!" poor old mason was literally astounded. what had come over his kind, courteous master? "i have nothing that could aid them in the search," he said to himself, pacing restlessly up and down the room. "ah! stay!--there is evalia's portrait! the little one must look like her mother if she is living yet!" he went to his writing-desk and drew from a private drawer a little package tied with a faded ribbon, which he carefully untied with trembling fingers. it was a portrait on ivory of a beautiful, girlish, dimpled face, with shy, upraised blue eyes, a smiling rosebud mouth, soft pink cheeks, and a wealth of rippling, sunny-golden hair. "she must look like this," he whispered. "god grant that i may find her!" "mr. rex lyon says, please may he see you a few moments, sir," said mason, popping his black head in at the door. "no; i do not wish to see any one, and i will not see any one. have you that satchel packed, i say?" "yes, sir; it will be ready directly, sir," said the man, obediently. "don't come to me with any more messages--lock everybody out. do you hear me, mason? i _will_ be obeyed!" "yes, sir, i hear. no one shall disturb you." again basil hurlhurst turned to the portrait, paying little attention to what was transpiring around him. "i shall put it at once in the hands of the cleverest detectives," he mused; "surely they will be able to find some trace of my lost darling." seventeen years! ah, what might have happened her in that time? the master of whitestone hall always kept a file of the baltimore papers; he rapidly ran his eye down the different columns. "ah, here is what i want," he exclaimed, stopping short. "messrs. tudor, peck & co., experienced detectives, ---- street, baltimore. they are noted for their skill. i will give the case into their hands. if they restore my darling child alive and well into my hands i will make them wealthy men--if she is dead, the blow will surely kill me." he heard voices debating in the corridor without. "did you tell him i wished particularly to see him?" asked rex, rather discomfited at the refusal. "yes, sir," said mason, dubiously. "miss pluma, his daughter, wishes me to speak with him on a very important matter. i am surprised that he so persistently refuses to see me," said rex, proudly, wondering if pluma's father had heard that gossip--among the guests--that he did not love his daughter. "i do not know that i have offended the old gentleman in any way," he told himself. "if it comes to that," he thought, "i can do no more than confess the truth to him--the whole truth about poor little daisy--no matter what the consequences may be." fate was playing at cross-purposes with handsome rex, but no subtle warning came to him. chapter xxxi. the preparations for the wedding went steadily on. it was to be a magnificent affair. inside and outside of whitestone hall fairly glowed with brilliancy and bloom. rex's deportment toward his promised bride was exemplary; he did his best to show her every possible attention and kindness in lieu of the love which should have been hers. there seemed to be no cloud in pluma hurlhurst's heaven. she had no warning of the relentless storm-cloud that was gathering above her head and was so soon to burst upon her in all its fury. she walked among her guests with a joyous, happy smile and the air of a queen. why should she not? on the morrow she would gain the prize she coveted most on earth--she would be rex's wife. her father had gone unexpectedly to baltimore, and the good old housekeeper had been laid to rest, but in the excitement and bustle attending the great coming event these two incidents created little comment. mirth and gayety reigned supreme, and the grim old halls resounded with laughter and song and gay young voices from morning until night. pluma, the spoiled, petted, willful heiress, was fond of excitement and gay throngs. "our marriage must be an event worthy of remembrance, rex," she said, as they walked together through the grounds the morning before the wedding. "we must have something new and novel. i am tired of brilliant parlors and gas-light. i propose we shall have a beautiful platform built, covered with moss and roses, beneath the blossoming trees, with the birds singing in their boughs, upon which we shall be united. what do you think of my idea--is it not a pretty one?" "your ideas are always poetical and fanciful," said rex, glancing down into the beautiful brilliant face beside him. "my thoughts are so dull and prosy compared with yours, are you not afraid you will have a very monotonous life-companion?" "i am going to try my best to win you from that cold reserve. there must not be one shadow between us; do you know, rex, i have been thinking, if anything should ever happen to take your love from me i should surely die. i--i am jealous of your very thoughts. i know i ought not to admit it, but i can not help it." rex flushed nervously; it was really embarrassing to him, the tender way in which she looked up to him--her black eyelids coyly drooping over her dark, slumbrous eyes, inviting a caress. he was certainly wooed against his will, but there was no help for it; he was forced to take up his part and act it out gracefully. "you need not be jealous of my thoughts, pluma," he replied, "for they were all of you." "i wonder if they were pleasant thoughts?" she asked, toying with the crimson flower-bells she holds in her white hands. "i have heard you sigh so much of late. are you quite happy, rex?" she inquired, hesitatingly. the abruptness of the question staggered him: he recovered his composure instantly, however. "how can you ask me such a question, pluma?" he asked, evasively; "any man ought to be proud of winning so peerless a treasure as you are. i shall be envied by scores of disappointed lovers, who have worshiped at your shrine. i am not as demonstrative as some might be under similar circumstances, but my appreciation is none the less keen." she noticed he carefully avoided the word--love. in after years rex liked to remember that, yielding to a kindly impulse, he bent down and kissed her forehead. it was the first time he had caressed her voluntarily; it was not love which prompted the action--only kindness. "perhaps you will love me some day with your whole heart, rex?" she asked. "you seem quite sure that i do not do that now?" he remarked. "yes," she said, clasping his arm more closely, "i often fear you do not, but as time passes you will give me all your affection. love must win love." other young girls could not have made such an open declaration without rosy blushes suffusing their cheeks; they would have been frightened at their free-spoken words, even though the morrow _was_ their wedding-day. she stood before him in her tall, slim loveliness, as fair a picture as any man's eyes could rest on. she wore a most becoming dress, and a spring blossom was in her hair. almost any other man's heart would have warmed toward her as she raised her dark eyes to his and the white fingers trembled on his arm. rex was young, impulsive, and mortal; tender words from such lovely lips would have intoxicated any man. yet from that faithful heart of his the words did not take one thought that belonged to daisy; he did his utmost to forget that sunny, golden memory. to pluma, handsome, courtly rex was an enigma. in her own mind she liked him all the better because he had not fallen down and worshiped her at once. most men did that. for several moments they walked along in utter silence--until they had reached the brink of the dark pool, which lay quite at the further end of the inclosure. pluma gave a little shuddering scream: "i did not mean to bring you here," she cried. "i always avoid this path; the waters of the pool have always had a great dread for me." "it should be filled up," said rex, "or fenced around; it is certainly a dangerous locality." "it can not be filled up," she returned, laughingly; "it is said to be bottomless. i do not like to think of it; come away, rex." the magnificent bridal costume, ordered expressly from paris, had arrived--perfect even to the last detail. the bride-maids' costumes were all ready; and to everything in and about the hall the last finishing touches had been given. all the young girls hovered constantly around pluma, in girl-fashion admiring the costume, the veil, the wreath, and above all the radiantly beautiful girl who was to wear them. even the glenn girls and grace alden were forced to admit the willful young heiress would make the most peerless bride they had ever beheld. little birdie alone held aloof, much to rex's amusement and pluma's intense mortification. "little children often take such strange freaks," she would say to rex, sweetly. "i really believe your little sister intends never to like me; i can not win one smile from her." "she is not like other children," he replied, with a strange twinkle in his eye. "she forms likes and dislikes to people from simply hearing their name. of course i agree with you it is not right to do so, but birdie has been humored more or less all her life. i think she will grow to love you in time." pluma's lips quivered like the lips of a grieving child. "i shall try so hard to make her love me, because she is your sister, rex." he clasped the little jeweled hands that lay so confidingly within his own still closer, saying he knew she could not help but succeed. the whole country-side was ringing with the coming marriage. no one could be more popular than handsome rex lyon, no one admired more than the young heiress of whitestone hall. the county papers were in ecstasies; they discussed the magnificent preparations at the hall, the number of bride-maids, the superb wedding-presents, the arrangements for the marriage, and the ball to be given in the evening. the minister from baltimore who was to perform the ceremony was expected to arrive that day. that all preparations might be completed for the coming morrow, rex had gone down to meet the train, and pluma strolled into the conservatory, to be alone for a few moments with her own happy thoughts. out on the green lawns happy maidens were tripping here and there, their gay laughter floating up to her where she stood. every one seemed to be making the most of the happy occasion. lawn-tennis parties here and croquet-parties there, and lovers strolling under the blossoming trees or reclining on the rustic benches--it was indeed a happy scene. pluma leaned her dark head against the fragrant roses. the breeze, the perfume of the flowers, all told one story to the impassioned girl--the story of her triumph and her mad, reckless love. she gathered a spray of the fairest flowers, and fastened them in the bodice of her dress. "to-morrow i shall have won the one great prize i covet," she murmured, half aloud. "after to-morrow i can defy lester stanwick to bring one charge against me. i shall be rex's wife--it will avail him nothing." "speaking of angels, you often hear 'the rustle of their wings.' i believe there is an old adage of that sort, or something similar," said a deep voice beside her, and turning around with a low cry she saw lester stanwick himself standing before her. for one moment her lips opened as though to utter a piercing cry, but even the very breath seemed to die upon them, they were so fixed and still. the flowers she held in her hand fell into the fountain against which she leaned, but she did not heed them. like one fascinated, her eyes met the gaze of the bold, flashing dark ones bent so steadily upon her. "you thought you would escape me," he said. "how foolish and blind you are, my clever plotter. did you think i did not see through your clever maneuverings? there shall be a wedding to-morrow, but you shall marry me, instead of handsome, debonair rex. you can not fly from your fate." she set her lips firmly together. she had made a valiant struggle. she would defy him to the bitter end. she was no coward, this beautiful, imperious girl. she would die hard. alas! she had been too sanguine, hoping lester stanwick would not return before the ceremony was performed. the last hope died out of that proud, passionate heart--as well hope to divert a tiger from its helpless prey as expect lester stanwick to relinquish any plans he had once formed. "i have fought my fight," she said to herself, "and have failed on the very threshold of victory, still, i know how to bear defeat. what do you propose to do?" she said, huskily. "if there is any way i can buy your silence, name your price, keeping back the truth will avail me little now. i love rex, and no power on earth shall prevent me from becoming his wife." lester stanwick smiled superciliously--drawing from his pocket a package of letters. "money could not purchase these charming _billets-doux_ from me," he said. "this will be charming reading matter for the honorable rex lyon, and the general public to discuss." she raised her flashing eyes unflinchingly to his face, but no word issued from her white lips. "a splendid morsel for the gossips to whisper over. the very refined and exclusive heiress of whitestone hall connives to remove an innocent rival from her path, by providing money for her to be sent off secretly to boarding-school, from which she is to be abducted and confined in a mad-house. your numerous letters give full instructions; it would be useless to deny these accusations. i hold proof positive." "that would not screen you," she said, scornfully. "i did not carry out your plans. no matter what the intentions were, the points in the case are what actually happened. i can swear i refused to comply with your nefarious wishes, even though you promised me your hand and fortune if i succeeded," he answered, mockingly. "will not money purchase your silence?" she said, with a deep-drawn breath. "i do not plead with you for mercy or compassion," she said, haughtily. lester stanwick laughed a mocking laugh. "do not mistake me, miss pluma," he said, making no attempt at love-making; "i prefer to wrest you from rex lyon. i have contemplated with intense satisfaction the blow to his pride. it will be a glorious revenge, also giving me a charming bride, and last, but not least, the possession at some future day of whitestone hall and the hurlhurst plantations. a pleasing picture, is it not, my dear?" chapter xxxii. pluma hurlhurst never quailed beneath the cold, mocking glance bent upon her. there was no hope for her; disgrace and ruin stared her in the face; she would defy even fate itself to the bitter end with a heroism worthy of a better cause. in that hour and that mood she was capable of anything. she leaned against a tall palm-tree, looking at him with a strange expression on her face, as she made answer, slowly: "you may depend upon it, i shall never marry you, lester stanwick. if i do not marry rex i shall go unmarried to the grave. ah, no!" she cried desperately; "heaven will have more mercy, more pity than to take him from me." "what mercy or pity did you feel in thrusting poor little daisy brooks from his path?" asked stanwick, sarcastically. "your love has led you through dangerous paths. i should call it certainly a most perilous love." she recoiled from him with a low cry, those words again still ringing in her ears, "a perilous love." she laughed with a laugh that made even stanwick's blood run cold--a horrible laugh. "i do not grieve that she is dead," she said. "you ought to understand by this time i shall allow nothing to come between rex and me." "you forget the fine notions of honor your handsome lover entertains; it may not have occurred to you that he might object at the eleventh hour." "he will not," she cried, fiercely, her bosom rising and falling convulsively under its covering of filmy lace and the diamond brooch which clasped it. "you do not know the indomitable will of a desperate woman," she gasped. "i will see him myself and confess all to him, if you attempt to reveal the contents of those letters. he will marry me and take me abroad at once. if i have rex's love, what matters it what the whole world knows or says?" she spoke rapidly, vehemently, with flushed face and glowing eyes; and even in her terrible anger stanwick could not help but notice how gloriously beautiful she was in her tragic emotion. "i have asked you to choose between us," he said, calmly, "and you have chosen rex regardless of all the promises of the past. the consequences rest upon your own head." "so be it," she answered, haughtily. with a low bow stanwick turned and left her. "_au revoir_, my dear pluma," he said, turning again toward her on the threshold. "not farewell--i shall not give up hope of winning the heiress of whitestone hall." for several moments she stood quite still among the dark-green shrubs, and no sound told of the deadly strife and despair. would he see rex and divulge the crime she had planned? ah! who would believe she, the proud, petted heiress had plotted so cruelly against the life of an innocent young girl because she found favor in the eyes of the lover she had sworn to win? ah! who could believe she had planned to confine that sweet young life within the walls of a mad-house until death should release her? what if the plan had failed? the intention still remained the same. she was thankful, after all, the young girl was dead. "i could never endure the thought of rex's intense anger if he once imagined the truth; he would never forgive duplicity," she cried, wildly. the proud, beautiful girl, radiant with love and happiness a short time since, with a great cry flung herself down among the ferns, the sunlight gleaming on the jewels, the sumptuous morning dress, the crushed roses, and the white, despairing face. any one who saw pluma hurlhurst when she entered the drawing-room among her merry-hearted guests, would have said that she had never shed a tear or known a sigh. could that be the same creature upon whose prostrate figure and raining tears the sunshine had so lately fallen? no one could have told that the brightness, the smiles, and the gay words were all forced. no one could have guessed that beneath the brilliant manner there was a torrent of dark, angry passions and an agony of fear. it was pitiful to see how her eyes wandered toward the door. hour after hour passed, and still rex had not returned. the hum of girlish voices around her almost made her brain reel. grace alden and miss raynor were singing a duet at the piano. the song they were singing fell like a death-knell upon her ears; it was "'he cometh not,' she said." eve glenn, with birdie upon her lap, sat on an adjoining sofa flirting desperately with the two or three devoted beaus; every one was discussing the prospect of the coming morrow. her father had returned from baltimore some time since. she was too much engrossed with her thoughts of rex to notice the great change in him--the strange light in his eyes, or the wistful, expectant expression of his face, as he kissed her more fondly than he had ever done in his life before. she gave appropriate answers to her guests grouped around her, but their voices seemed afar off. her heart and her thoughts were with rex. why had he not returned? what was detaining him? suppose anything should happen--it would kill her now--yet nothing could go wrong on the eve of her wedding-day. she would not believe it. stanwick would not dare go to rex with such a story--he would write it--and all those things took time. with care and caution and constant watching she would prevent rex from receiving any communications whatever until after the ceremony; then she could breathe freely, for the battle so bravely fought would be won. "if to-morrow is as bright as to-day, pluma will have a glorious wedding-day," said bessie glenn, smiling up into the face of a handsome young fellow who was fastening a rosebud she had just given him in the lapel of his coat with one hand, and with the other tightly clasping the white fingers that had held the rose. he did not notice that pluma stood in the curtained recesses of an adjoining window as he answered, carelessly enough: "of course, i hope it will be a fine, sunshiny day, but the indications of the weather don't look exactly that way, if i am any judge." "why, you don't think it is going to rain, do you? why, it will spoil the rose-bower she is to be married in and all the beautiful decoration. oh, please don't predict anything so awfully horrible; you make me feel nervous; besides, you know what everybody says about weddings on which the rain falls." "would you be afraid to experiment on the idea?" asked the impulsive young fellow, who always acted on the spur of the moment. "if to-morrow were a rainy day, and i should say to you, 'bess, will you marry me to-day or never?' what would your answer be?" "i should say, just now, i do not like 'ifs and ands.' supposing a case, and standing face to face with it, are two different things. i like people who say what they mean, and mean what they say." pluma saw the dazzling light flame into the bashful young lover's eyes as he bent his head lower over the blushing girl who had shown him the right way to capture a hesitating heart. "_that_ is love," sighed pluma. "ah, if rex would only look at me like that i would think this earth a heaven." she looked up at the bright, dazzling clouds overhead; then she remembered the words she had heard--"it looked like rain on the morrow." could those white, fleecy clouds darken on the morrow that was to give her the only treasure she had ever coveted in her life? she was not superstitious. even if it did rain, surely a few rain-drops could not make or mar the happiness of a lifetime. she would not believe it. "courage until to-morrow," she said, "and my triumph will be complete. i will have won rex." the little ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour of five. "heavens!" she cried to herself, "rex has been gone over two hours. i feel my heart must be bursting." no one noticed pluma's anxiety. one moment hushed and laughing, the queen of mirth and revelry, then pale and silent, with shadowed eyes, furtively glancing down the broad, pebbled path that led to the entrance gate. yet, despite her bravery, pluma's face and lips turned white when she heard the confusion of her lover's arrival. perhaps pluma had never suffered more suspense in all her life than was crowded into those few moments. had he seen lester stanwick? had he come to denounce her for her treachery, in his proud, clear voice, and declare the marriage broken off? she dared not step forward to greet him, lest the piercing glance of his eyes would cause her to fall fainting at his feet. "a guilty conscience needs no accuser." most truly the words were exemplified in her case. yet not one pang of remorse swept across her proud heart when she thought of the young girl whose life she had so skillfully blighted. what was the love of daisy brooks, an unsophisticated child of nature, only the overseer's niece, compared to her own mighty, absorbing passion? the proud, haughty heiress could not understand how rex, polished, courteous and refined, could have stooped to such a reckless folly. he would thank her in years to come for sparing him from such a fate. these were the thoughts she sought to console herself with. she stood near the door when he entered, but he did not see her; a death-like pallor swept over her face, her dark eyes had a wild, perplexing look. she was waiting in terrible suspense for rex to call upon her name; ask where she was, or speak some word in which she could read her sentence of happiness or despair in the tone of his voice. she could not even catch the expression of his face; it was turned from her. she watched him so eagerly she hardly dared draw her breath. rex walked quickly through the room, stopping to chat with this one or that one a moment; still, his face was not turned for a single instant toward the spot where she stood. was he looking for her? she could not tell. presently he walked toward the conservatory, and a moment later eve glenn came tripping toward her. "oh, here you are!" she cried, flinging her arms about her in regular school-girl _abandon_, and kissing the cold, proud mouth, that deigned no answering caress. "rex has been looking for you everywhere, and at last commissioned me to find you and say he wants to speak to you. he is out on the terrace." how she longed to ask if rex's face was smiling or stern, but she dared not. "where did you say rex was, miss glenn?" "i said he was out on the terrace; but don't call me miss glenn, for pity's sake--it sounds so freezingly cold. won't you please call me eve," cried the impetuous girl--"simply plain eve? that has a more friendly sound, you know." another girl less proud than the haughty heiress would have kissed eve's pretty, piquant, upturned, roguish face. "what did rex have to say to her?" she asked herself, in growing dread. the last hope seemed withering in her proud, passionate heart. she rose haughtily, and walked with the dignity of a queen through the long drawing-room toward the terrace. her heart almost stopped beating as she caught sight of rex leaning so gracefully against the trunk of an old gnarled oak tree, smoking a cigar. that certainly did not look as if he meant to greet her with a kiss. she went forward hesitatingly--a world of anxiety and suspense on her face--to know her fate. the color surged over her face, then receded from it again, as she looked at him with a smile--a smile that was more pitiful than a sigh. "rex," she cried, holding out her hands to him with a fluttering, uncertain movement that stirred the perfumed laces of the exquisite robe she wore, and the jewels on her white, nervous hands--"rex, i am here!" chapter xxxiii. we must now return to daisy, whom we left standing in the heart of the forest, the moonlight streaming on her upturned face, upon which the startled horseman gazed. he had not waited for her to reply, but, touching his horse hastily with his riding-whip, he sped onward with the speed of the wind. in that one instant daisy had recognized the dark, sinister, handsome face of lester stanwick. "they have searched the pit and found i was not there. he is searching for me; he has tracked me down!" she cried, vehemently, pressing her little white hands to her burning head. faster, faster flew the little feet through the long dew-damp grasses. "my troubles seem closing more darkly around me," she sobbed. "i wish i had never been born, then i could never have spoiled rex's life. but i am leaving you, my love, my darling, so you can marry pluma, the heiress. you will forget me and be happy." poor little, neglected, unloved bride, so fair, so young, so fragile, out alone facing the dark terrors of the night, fleeing from the young husband who was wearing his life out in grief for her. ah, if the gentle winds sighing above her, or the solemn, nodding trees had only told her, how different her life might have been! "no one has ever loved me but poor old uncle john!" she bent her fair young head and cried out to heaven: "why has no mercy been shown to me? i have never done one wrong, yet i am so sorely tried. oh, mother, mother!" she cried, raising her blue eyes up to the starry sky, "if you could have foreseen the dark, cruel shadows that would have folded their pitiless wings over the head of your child, would you not have taken me with you down into the depths of the seething waters?" she raised up her white hands pleadingly as though she would fain pierce with her wrongs the blue skies, and reach the great white throne. "i must be going mad," she said. "why did rex seek me out?" she cried, in anguish. "why did heaven let me love him so madly, and my whole life be darkened by living apart from him if i am to live? i had no thought of suffering and sorrow when i met him that summer morning. are the summer days to pass and never bring him? are the flowers to bloom, the sun to shine, the years to come and go, yet never bring him once to me? i can not bear it--i do not know how to live!" if she could only see poor old, faithful john brooks again she would kneel at his feet just as she had done when she was a little child, lay her weary head down on his toil-hardened hand, tell him how she had suffered, and ask him how she could die and end it all. she longed so hungrily for some one to caress her, murmuring tender words over her. she could almost hear his voice saying as she told him her pitiful story: "come to my arms, pet, my poor little trampled daisy! you shall never want for some one to love you while poor old uncle john lives. bless your dear little heart!" the longing was strongly upon her. no one would recognize her--she _must_ go and see poor old john. she never thought what would become of her life after that. at the station she asked for a ticket for allendale. no one seemed to know of such a place. after a prolonged search on the map the agent discovered it to be a little inland station not far from baltimore. "we can sell you a ticket for baltimore," he said, "and there you can purchase a ticket for the other road." and once again poor little daisy was whirling rapidly toward the scene of her first great sorrow. time seemed to slip by her unheeded during all that long, tedious journey of two nights and a day. "are you going to baltimore?" asked a gentle-faced lady, who was strangely attracted to the beautiful, sorrowful young girl, in which all hope, life, and sunshine seemed dead. "yes, madame," she made answer, "i change cars there; i am going further." the lady was struck by the peculiar mournful cadence of the young voice. "i beg your pardon for my seeming rudeness," she said, looking long and earnestly at the fair young face; "but you remind me so strangely of a young school-mate of my youth; you are strangely like what she was then. we both attended madame whitney's seminary. perhaps you have heard of the institution; it is a very old and justly famous school." she wondered at the beautiful flush that stole into the girl's flower-like face--like the soft, faint tinting of a sea-shell. "she married a wealthy planter," pursued the lady, reflectively; "but she did not live long to enjoy her happy home. one short year after she married evalia hurlhurst died." the lady never forgot the strange glance that passed over the girl's face, or the wonderful light that seemed to break over it. "why," exclaimed the lady, as if a sudden thought occurred to her, "when you bought your ticket i heard you mention allendale. that was the home of the hurlhursts. is it possible you know them? mr. hurlhurst is a widower--something of a recluse, and an invalid, i have heard; he has a daughter called pluma." "yes, madame," daisy made answer, "i have met miss hurlhurst, but not her father." how bitterly this stranger's words seemed to mock her! did she know pluma hurlhurst, the proud, haughty heiress who had stolen her young husband's love from her?--the dark, sparkling, willful beauty who had crossed her innocent young life so strangely--whom she had seen bending over _her_ husband in the pitying moonlight almost caressing him? she thought she would cry out with the bitterness of the thought. how strange it was! the name, evalia hurlhurst, seemed to fall upon her ears like the softest, sweetest music. perhaps she wished she was like that young wife, who had died so long ago, resting quietly beneath the white daisies that bore her name. "that is madame whitney's," exclaimed the lady, leaning forward toward the window excitedly. "dear me! i can almost imagine i am a young girl again. why, what is the matter, my dear? you look as though you were about to faint." the train whirled swiftly past--the broad, glittering chesapeake on one side, and the closely shaven lawn of the seminary on the other. it was evidently recess. young girls were flitting here and there under the trees, as pretty a picture of happy school life as one would wish to see. it seemed to poor hapless daisy long ages must have passed since that morning poor old john brooks had brought her, a shy, blushing, shrinking country lassie, among those daintily attired, aristocratic maidens, who had laughed at her coy, timid mannerism, and at the clothes poor john wore, and at his flaming red cotton neckerchief. she had not much time for further contemplation. the train steamed into the baltimore depot, and she felt herself carried along by the surging crowd that alighted from the train. she did not go into the waiting-room; she had quite forgotten she was not at the end of her journey. she followed the crowds along the bustling street, a solitary, desolate, heart-broken girl, with a weary white face whose beautiful, tender eyes looked in vain among the throngs that passed her by for one kindly face or a sympathetic look. some pushed rudely by her, others looked into the beautiful face with an ugly smile. handsomely got-up dandies, with fine clothes and no brains, nodded familiarly as daisy passed them. some laughed, and others scoffed and jeered; but not one--dear heaven! not one among the vast throng gave her a kindly glance or a word. occasionally one, warmer hearted than the others, would look sadly on that desolate, beautiful, childish face. a low moan she could scarcely repress broke from her lips. a handsomely dressed child, who was rolling a hoop in front of her, turned around suddenly and asked her if she was ill. "ill?" she repeated the word with a vague feeling of wonder. what was physical pain to the torture that was eating away her young life? ill? why, all the illness in the world put together could not cause the anguish she was suffering then--the sting of a broken heart. she was not ill--only desolate and forsaken. poor daisy answered in such a vague manner that she quite frightened the child, who hurried away as fast as she could with her hoop, pausing now and then to look back at the white, forlorn face on which the sunshine seemed to cast such strange shadows. on and on daisy walked, little heeding which way she went. she saw what appeared to be a park on ahead, and there she bent her steps. the shady seats among the cool green grasses under the leafy trees looked inviting. she opened the gate and entered. a sudden sense of dizziness stole over her, and her breath seemed to come in quick, convulsive gasps. "perhaps god has heard my prayer, rex, my love," she sighed. "i am sick and weary unto death. oh, rex--rex--" the beautiful eyelids fluttered over the soft, blue eyes, and with that dearly loved name on her lips, the poor little child-bride sunk down on the cold, hard earth in a death-like swoon. "oh, dear me, harvey, who in the world is this?" cried a little, pleasant-voiced old lady, who had witnessed the young girl enter the gate, and saw her stagger and fall. in a moment she had fluttered down the path, and was kneeling by daisy's side. "come here, harvey," she called; "it is a young girl; she has fainted." mr. harvey tudor, the celebrated detective, threw away the cigar he had been smoking, and hastened to his wife's side. "isn't she beautiful?" cried the little lady, in ecstasy. "i wonder who she is, and what she wanted." "she is evidently a stranger, and called to consult me professionally," responded mr. tudor; "she must be brought into the house." he lifted the slight, delicate figure in his arms, and bore her into the house. "i am going down to the office now, my dear," he said; "we have some important cases to look after this morning. i will take a run up in the course of an hour or so. if the young girl should recover and wish to see me very particularly, i suppose you will have to send for me. don't get me away up here unless you find out the case is imperative." and with a good-humored nod, the shrewd detective, so quiet and domesticated at his own fireside, walked quickly down the path to the gate, whistling softly to himself--thinking with a strange, puzzled expression in his keen blue eyes, of daisy. through all of his business transactions that morning the beautiful, childish face was strangely before his mind's eye. "confound it!" he muttered, seizing his hat, "i must hurry home and find out at once who that pretty little creature is--and what she wants." chapter xxxiv. the sunny summer days came and went, lengthening themselves into long weeks before daisy brooks opened her eyes to consciousness. no clew could be found as to who the beautiful young stranger was. mr. tudor had proposed sending her to the hospital--but to this proposition his wife would not listen. "no, indeed, harvey," she exclaimed, twisting the soft, golden curls over her white fingers, "she shall stay here where i can watch over her myself, poor little dear." "you amaze me, my dear," expostulated her husband, mildly. "you can not tell who you may be harboring." "now, harvey," exclaimed the little woman, bending over the beautiful, still, white face resting against the crimson satin pillow, "don't insinuate there could be anything wrong with this poor child. my woman's judgment tells me she is as pure as those lilies in yonder fountain's bed." "if you had seen as much of the world as i have, my dear, you would take little stock in the innocence of beautiful women; very homely women are rarely dangerous." "there is no use in arguing the point, harvey. i have determined she shall not be sent to the hospital, and she shall stay here." mrs. tudor carried the point, as she always did in every argument. "well, my dear, if any ill consequences arise from this piece of folly of yours, remember, i shirk all responsibility." "'when a woman will, she will, you may depend on't, and when she won't--she won't, and there's an end on't,'" he quoted, dryly. "i sincerely hope you will not rue it." "now, you would be surprised, my dear, to find out at some future time you had been entertaining an angel unawares." "i should be _extremely_ surprised; you have put it mildly, my dear--nay, i may say dumbfounded--to find an angel dwelling down here below among us sinners. my experience has led me to believe the best place for angels is up above where they belong. i am glad that _you_ have such pretty little notions, though, my dear. it is not best for women to know too much of the ways of the world." "harvey, you shock me!" cried the little lady, holding up her hands in horror at her liege lord's remarks. still she had her own way in the matter, and daisy stayed. every day the detective grew more mystified as to who in the world she could be. one thing was certain, she had seen some great trouble which bid fair to dethrone her reason. at times she would clasp his hands, calling him uncle john, begging him piteously to tell her how she could die. and she talked incoherently, too, of a dark, handsome woman's face, that had come between her and some lost treasure. then a grave look would come into the detective's face. he had seen many such cases, and they always ended badly, he said to himself. she had such an innocent face, so fair, so childish, he could not make up his mind whether she was sinned against or had been guilty of a hidden sin herself. love must have something to do with it, he thought, grimly. whenever he saw such a hopeless, despairing look on a young and beautiful face he always set it down as a love case in his own mind, and in nine cases out of ten he was right. "ah! it is the old, old story," he muttered. "a pretty, romantic school-girl, and some handsome, reckless lover," and something very much like an imprecation broke from his lips, thorough man of the world though he was, as he ruminated on the wickedness of men. two days before the marriage of rex and pluma was to be solemnized, poor little daisy awoke to consciousness, her blue eyes resting on the joyous face of mrs. tudor, who bent over her with bated breath, gazing into the upraised eyes, turned so wonderingly upon her. "you are to keep perfectly quiet, my dear," said mrs. tudor, pleasantly, laying her hands on daisy's lips as she attempted to speak. "you must not try to talk or to think; turn your face from the light, and go quietly to sleep for a bit, then you shall say what you please." daisy wondered who the lady was, as she obeyed her like an obedient, tired child--the voice seemed so motherly, so kind, and so soothing, as she lay there, trying to realize how she came there. slowly all her senses struggled into life, her memory came back, her mind and brain grew clear. then she remembered walking into the cool, shady garden, and the dizziness which seemed to fall over her so suddenly. "i must have fainted last night," she thought. she also remembered pluma bending so caressingly over her young husband in the moonlight, and that the sight had almost driven her mad, and, despite her efforts to suppress her emotion, she began to sob aloud. mrs. tudor hurried quickly to the bedside. she saw at once the ice from the frozen fountain of memory had melted. "if you have any great sorrow on your mind, my dear, and wish to see mr. tudor, i will call him at once. he is in the parlor." "please don't," sobbed daisy. "i don't want to see anybody. i must go home to uncle john at once. have i been here all night?" "why, bless your dear little heart, you have been here many a night and many a week. we thought at one time you would surely die." "i wish i had," moaned daisy. in the bitterness of her sorely wounded heart she said to herself that providence had done everything for her without taking her life. "we thought," pursued mrs. tudor, gently, "that perhaps you desired to see my husband--he is a detective--upon some matter. you fainted when you were just within the gate." "was it your garden?" asked daisy, surprisedly. "i thought it was a park!" "then you were not in search of mr. tudor, my dear?" asked his wife, quite mystified. "no," replied daisy. "i wanted to get away from every one who knew me, or every one i knew, except uncle john." "i shall not question her concerning herself to-day," mrs. tudor thought. "i will wait a bit until she is stronger." she felt delicate about even asking her name. "she will seek my confidence soon," she thought. "i must wait." mrs. tudor was a kind-hearted little soul. she tried every possible means of diverting daisy's attention from the absorbing sorrow which seemed consuming her. she read her choice, sparkling paragraphs from the papers, commenting upon them, in a pretty, gossiping way. nothing seemed to interest the pretty little creature, or bring a smile to the quivering, childish lips. "ah! here is something quite racy!" she cried, drawing her chair up closer to the bedside. "_a scandal in high life._ this is sure to be entertaining." mrs. tudor was a good little woman, but, like all women in general, she delighted in a spicy scandal. a handsome stranger had married a beautiful heiress. for a time all went merry as a marriage-bell. suddenly a second wife appeared on the scene, of which no one previously knew the existence. the husband had sincerely believed himself separated by law from wife number one, but through some technicality of the law, the separation was pronounced illegal, and the beautiful heiress bitterly realized to her cost that she was no wife. "it must be a terrible calamity to be placed in such a predicament," cried mrs. tudor, energetically. "i blame the husband for not finding out beyond a doubt that he was free from his first wife." a sudden thought seemed to come to daisy, so startling it almost took her breath away. "supposing a husband left his wife, and afterward thought her dead, even though she were not, and he should marry again, would it not be legal? supposing the poor, deserted wife knew of it, but allowed him to marry that some one else, because she believed he was unhappy with herself, would it not be legal?" she repeated in an intense voice, striving to appear calm. "i can scarcely understand the question, my dear. i should certainly say, if the first wife knew her husband was about to remarry, and she knew she was not separated from him by law or death, she was certainly a criminal in allowing the ceremony to proceed. why, did you ever hear of such a peculiar case, my dear?" "no," replied daisy, flushing crimson. "i was thinking of enoch arden." "why, there is scarcely a feature in enoch arden's case resembling the one you have just cited. you must have made a mistake?" "yes; you are right. i have made a mistake," muttered daisy, growing deadly pale. "i did not know. i believed it was right." "you believed what was right?" asked mrs. tudor, in amazement. "i believed it was right for the first wife to go out of her husband's life if she had spoiled it, and leave him free to woo and win the bride he loved," replied daisy, pitifully embarrassed. "why, you innocent child," laughed mrs. tudor, "i have said he would _not_ be free as long as the law did not separate him from his first wife, and she was alive. it is against the law of heaven for any man to have two wives; and if the first wife remained silent and saw the sacred ceremony profaned by that silence, she broke the law of heaven--a sin against god beyond pardon. did you speak?" she asked, seeing daisy's white lips move. she did not know a prayer had gone up to god from that young tortured heart for guidance. had she done wrong in letting rex and the whole world believe her dead? was it ever well to do a wrong that good should come from it? and the clear, innocent, simple conscience was quick to answer, "no!" poor daisy looked at the position in every possible way, and the more she reflected the more frightened she became. poor, little, artless child-bride, she was completely bewildered. she could find no way out of her difficulty until the idea occurred to her that the best person to help her would be john brooks; and her whole heart and soul fastened eagerly on this. she could not realize she had lain ill so long. oh, heaven, what might have happened in the meantime, if rex should marry pluma? she would not be his wife because _she_--who was a barrier between them--lived. chapter xxxv. daisy had decided the great question of her life. yes, she would go to john brooks with her pitiful secret, and, kneeling at his feet, tell him all, and be guided by his judgment. "i can never go back to rex," she thought, wearily. "i have spoiled his life; he does not love me; he wished to be free and marry pluma." "you must not think of the troubles of other people, my dear," said mrs. tudor, briskly, noting the thoughtful expression of the fair young face. "such cases as i have just read you are fortunately rare. i should not have read you the scandals. young girls like to hear about the marriages best. ah! here is one that is interesting--a grand wedding which is to take place at whitestone hall, in allendale, to-morrow night. i have read of it before; it will be a magnificent affair. the husband-to-be, mr. rexford lyon, is very wealthy; and the bride, miss pluma hurlhurst, is quite a society belle--a beauty and an heiress." poor daisy! although she had long expected it, the announcement seemed like a death-blow to her loving little heart; in a single instant all her yearning, passionate love for her handsome young husband awoke into new life. she had suddenly awakened to the awful reality that her husband was about to marry another. "oh, pitiful heaven, what shall i do?" she cried, wringing her hands. "i will be too late to warn them. yet i must--i must! it must not be!" she cried out to herself; "the marriage would be wrong." if she allowed it to go on, she would be guilty of a crime; therefore, she must prevent it. pluma was her mortal enemy. yet she must warn her that the flower-covered path she was treading led to a precipice. the very thought filled her soul with horror. she wasted no more time in thinking, she must act. "i can not go to poor old uncle john first," she told herself. "i must go at once to pluma. heaven give me strength to do it. rex will never know, and i can go quietly out of his life again." the marriage must not be! say, think, argue with herself as she would, she could not help owning to herself that it was something that must be stopped at any price. she had not realized it in its true light before. she had had a vague idea that her supposed death would leave rex free to marry pluma. that wrong could come of it, in any way, she never once dreamed. the terrible awakening truth had flashed upon her suddenly; she might hide herself forever from her husband, but it would not lessen the fact; she, and she only, was his lawful wife before god and man. from heaven nothing could be hidden. her whole heart seemed to go out to her young husband and cling to him as it had never done before. "what a fatal love mine was!" she said to herself; "how fatal, how cruel to me!" to-morrow night! oh, heaven! would she be in time to save him? the very thought seemed to arouse all her energy. "why, what are you going to do, my dear?" cried mrs. tudor, in consternation, as daisy staggered, weak and trembling, from her couch. "i am going away," she cried. "i have been guilty of a great wrong. i can not tell you all that i have done, but i must atone for it if it is in my power while yet there is time. pity me, but do not censure me;" and sobbing as if her heart would break, she knelt at the feet of the kind friend heaven had given her and told her all. mrs. tudor listened in painful interest and amazement. it was a strange story this young girl told her; it seemed more like a romance than a page from life's history. "you say you must prevent this marriage at whitestone hall." she took daisy's clasped hands from her weeping face, and holding them in her own looked into it silently, keenly, steadily. "how could you do it? what is rexford lyon to you?" lower and lower drooped the golden bowed head, and a voice like no other voice, like nothing human, said: "i am rex lyon's wife, his wretched, unhappy, abandoned wife." mrs. tudor dropped her hands with a low cry of dismay. "you will keep my secret," sobbed daisy; and in her great sorrow she did not notice the lady did not promise. in vain mrs. tudor pleaded with her to go back to her husband and beg him to hear her. "no," said daisy, brokenly. "he said i had spoiled his life, and he would never forgive me. i have never taken his name, and i never shall. i will be daisy brooks until i die." "daisy brooks!" the name seemed familiar to mrs. tudor, yet she could not tell where she had heard it before. persuasion was useless. "perhaps heaven knows best," sighed mrs. tudor, and with tears in her eyes (for she had really loved the beautiful young stranger, thrown for so many long weeks upon her mercy and kindness) she saw daisy depart. "may god grant you may not be too late!" she cried, fervently, clasping the young girl, for the last time, in her arms. too late! the words sounded like a fatal warning to her. no, no; she could not, she must not, be too late! * * * * * at the very moment daisy had left the detective's house, basil hurlhurst was closeted with mr. tudor in his private office, relating minutely the disappearance of his infant daughter, as told him by the dying housekeeper, mrs. corliss. "i will make you a rich man for life," he cried, vehemently, "if you can trace my long-lost child, either dead or alive!" mr. tudor shook his head. "i am inclined to think there is little hope, after all these years." "stranger things than that have happened," cried basil hurlhurst, tremulously. "you must give me hope, mr. tudor. you are a skillful, expert detective; you will find her, if any one can. if my other child were living," he continued, with an effort, "you know it would make considerable difference in the distribution of my property. on the night my lost child was born i made my will, leaving whitestone hall and the hurlhurst plantations to the child just born, and the remainder of my vast estates i bequeathed to my daughter pluma. i believed my little child buried with its mother, and in all these years that followed i never changed that will--it still stands. my daughter pluma is to be married to-morrow night. i have not told her of the startling discovery i have made; for if anything should come of it, her hopes of a lifetime would be dashed. she believes herself sole heiress to my wealth. i have made up my mind, however," he continued, eagerly, "to confide in the young man who is to be my future son-in-law. if nothing ever comes of this affair, pluma need never know of it." "that would be a wise and safe plan," assented the detective. "wealth can have no influence over him," continued the father, reflectively; "for mr. rex lyon's wealth is sufficient for them, even if they never had a single dollar from me; still, it is best to mention this matter to him." rex lyon! ah! the detective remembered him well--the handsome, debonair young fellow who had sought his services some time since, whose wife had died such a tragic death. he remembered how sorry he had been for the young husband; still he made no comment. he had little time to ruminate upon past affairs. it was his business now to glean from mr. hurlhurst all the information possible to assist him in the difficult search he was about to commence. if he gave him even the slightest clew, he could have had some definite starting point. the detective was wholly at sea--it was like looking for a needle in a hay-stack. "you will lose no time," said basil hurlhurst, rising to depart. "ah!" he exclaimed, "i had forgotten to leave you my wife's portrait. i have a fancy the child, if living, must have her mother's face." at that opportune moment some one interrupted them. mr. tudor had not time to open the portrait and examine it then, and, placing it securely in his private desk, he courteously bade mr. hurlhurst good-afternoon; adding, if he _should_ find a possible clew, he would let him know at once, or, perhaps, take a run up to whitestone hall to look around a bit among the old inhabitants of that locality. it was almost time for quitting the office for the night, when the detective thought of the portrait. he untied the faded blue ribbon, and touched the spring; the case flew open, revealing a face that made him cry out in amazement: "pshaw! people have a strange trick of resembling each other very often," he muttered; "i must be mistaken." yet the more he examined the fair, bewitching face of the portrait, with its childish face and sunny, golden curls, the more he knit his brow and whistled softly to himself--a habit he had when thinking deeply. he placed the portrait in his breast-pocket, and walked slowly home. a brilliant idea was in his active brain. "i shall soon see," he muttered. his wife met him at the door, and he saw that her eyes were red with weeping. "what is the commotion, my dear?" he asked, hanging his hat and coat on the hat-rack in the hall. "what's the difficulty?" "our protégée has gone, harvey; she--" "gone!" yelled the detective, frantically, "where did she go? how long has she been gone?" down from the rack came his hat and coat. "where are you going, harvey?" "i am going to hunt that girl up just as fast as i can." "she did not wish to see you, my dear." "i haven't the time to explain to you," he expostulated. "of course, you have no idea where she went, have you?" "wait a bit, harvey," she replied, a merry twinkle in her eye. "you have given me no time to tell you. i do know where she went. sit down and i will tell you all about it." "you will make a long story out of nothing," he exclaimed, impatiently; "and fooling my time here may cost me a fortune." very reluctantly mr. tudor resumed his seat at his wife's earnest persuasion. "skim lightly over the details, my dear; just give me the main points," he said. like the good little wife she was, mrs. tudor obediently obeyed. it was not often the cool, calculating detective allowed himself to get excited, but as she proceeded he jumped up from his seat, and paced restlessly up and down the room. he was literally astounded. "rex lyon's wife," he mused, thoughtfully. "well, in all the years of my experience i have never come across anything like this. she has gone to whitestone hall, you say, to stop the marriage?" he questioned, eagerly. "yes," she replied, "the poor child was almost frantic over it. you seem greatly agitated, harvey. have you some new case connected with her?" "yes," he answered, grimly. "i think i have two cases." mr. tudor seldom brought his business perplexities to his fireside. his little wife knew as little of business matters as the sparrows twittering on the branches of the trees out in the garden. he made up his mind not to mention certain suspicions that had lodged in his mind until he saw his way clearly out of the complicated affair. he determined it would do no harm to try an experiment, however. suiting the action to the thought, he drew out the portrait from his pocket. "i do not think i shall have as much trouble with this affair as i anticipated." mrs. tudor came and leaned over his shoulder. "whose picture have you there, harvey? why, i declare," she cried, in amazement, "if it isn't daisy brooks!" "mrs. rex lyon, you mean," said the detective, with a sly twinkle in his eye. "but for once in your life you are at sea--and far from shore; this portrait represents a different person altogether. come, come, wife, get me a cup of tea--quick--and a biscuit," he cried, leading the way to the kitchen, where the savory supper was cooking. "i haven't time to wait for tea, i must overtake that girl before she reaches whitestone hall." chapter xxxvi. the shade of night was wrapping its dusky mantle over the earth as daisy, flushed and excited, and trembling in every limb, alighted from the train at allendale. whitestone hall was quite a distance from the station; she had quite a walk before her. not a breath of air seemed to stir the branches of the trees, and the inky blackness of the sky presaged the coming storm. since dusk the coppery haze seemed to gather itself together; great purple masses of clouds piled themselves in the sky; a lurid light overspread the heavens, and now and then the dense, oppressive silence was broken by distant peals of thunder, accompanied by great fierce rain-drops. daisy drew her cloak closer about her, struggling bravely on through the storm and the darkness, her heart beating so loudly she wondered it did not break. poor child! how little she knew she was fast approaching the crisis of her life! she remembered, with a little sob, the last time she had traversed that road--she was seated by john brooks's side straining her eyes toward the bend in the road, watching eagerly for the first glimpse of the magnolia-tree, and the handsome young husband waiting there. coy blushes suffused daisy's cheeks as she struggled on through the pouring rain. she forgot she was a wretched, unpitied, forsaken little bride, on a mission of such great importance. she was only a simple child, after all, losing sight of all the whole world, as her thoughts dwelt on the handsome young fellow, her husband in name only, whom she saw waiting for her at the trysting-place, looking so cool, so handsome and lovable in his white linen suit and blue tie; his white straw hat, with the blue-dotted band around it, lying on the green grass beside him, and the sunshine drifting through the green leaves on his smiling face and brown, curling hair. "if rex had only known i was innocent, he could not have judged me so harshly. oh, my love--my love!" she cried out. "heaven must have made us for each other, but a fate more cruel than death has torn us asunder. oh, rex, my love, if you had only been more patient with me!" she crept carefully along the road through the intense darkness and the down-pouring rain. she knew every inch of the ground. she could not lose her way. she reached the turn in the road which was but a few feet distant from the magnolia-tree where first she had met rex and where she had seen him last--a few steps more and she would reach it. a blinding glare of lightning lighted up the scene for one brief instant; there was the tree, but, oh! was it only a fancy of her imagination? she thought she saw a man's figure kneeling under it. "who was he, and what was he doing there?" she wondered. she stood rooted to the spot. "perhaps he had taken refuge there from the fury of the storm." daisy was a shrinking, timid little creature; she dared not move a step further, although the golden moments that flitted by were as precious as her life-blood. she drew back, faint with fear, among the protecting shadows of the trees. another flash of light--the man was surely gathering wild flowers from the rain-drenched grass. "surely the man must be mad," thought daisy, with a cold thrill of horror. her limbs trembled so from sheer fright they refused to bear her slight weight, and with a shudder of terror she sunk down in the wet grass, her eyes fixed as one fascinated on the figure under the tree, watching his every movement, as the lurid lightning illumined the scene at brief intervals. the great bell from the turret of whitestone hall pealed the hour of seven, and in the lightning's flash she saw the man arise from his knees; in one hand he held a small bunch of flowers, the other was pressed over his heart. surely there was something strangely familiar in that graceful form; then he turned his face toward her. in that one instantaneous glance she had recognized him--it was rex, her husband--as he turned hastily from the spot, hurrying rapidly away in the direction of whitestone hall. "why was rex there alone on his wedding-night under the magnolia-tree in the terrible storm?" she asked herself, in a strange, bewildered way. "what could it mean?" she had heard the ceremony was to be performed promptly at half past eight, it was seven already. "what could it mean?" she had been too much startled and dismayed when she found it was rex to make herself known. ah, no, rex must never know she was so near him; it was pluma she must see. "why had he come to the magnolia-tree?" she asked herself over and over again. a moment later she had reached the self-same spot, and was kneeling beneath the tree, just as rex had done. she put out her little white hand to caress the grass upon which her husband had knelt, but it was not grass which met her touch, but a bed of flowers; that was strange, too. she never remembered flowers to grow on that spot. there was nothing but the soft carpet of green grass, she remembered. one or two beneath her touch were broken from the stem. she knew rex must have dropped them, and the poor little soul pressed the flowers to her lips, murmuring passionate, loving words over them. she did not know the flowers were daisies; yet they seemed so familiar to the touch. she remembered how she had walked home from the rectory with rex in the moonlight, and thought to herself how funny it sounded to hear rex call her his wife, in that rich melodious voice of his. septima had said it was such a terrible thing to be married. she had found it just the reverse, as she glanced up into her pretty young husband's face, as they walked home together; and how well she remembered how rex had taken her in his arms at the gate, kissing her rosy, blushing face, until she cried out for mercy. a sudden, blinding flash of lightning lighted up the spot with a lurid light, and she saw a little white cross, with white daisies growing around it, and upon the cross, in that one meteoric flash, she read the words, "sacred to the memory of daisy brooks." she did not faint, or cry out, or utter any word. she realized all in an instant why rex had been there. perhaps he felt some remorse for casting her off so cruelly. if some tender regret for her, whom he supposed dead, was not stirring in his heart, why was he there, kneeling before the little cross which bore her name, on his wedding-night? could it be that he had ever loved her? she held out her arms toward the blazing lights that shone in the distance from whitestone hall, with a yearning, passionate cry. surely, hers was the saddest fate that had ever fallen to the lot of a young girl. a great thrill of joy filled her heart, that she was able to prevent the marriage. she arose from her knees and made her way swiftly through the storm and the darkness, toward the distant cotton fields. she did not wish to enter the hall by the main gate; there was a small path, seldom used, that led to the hall, which she had often taken from john brooks's cottage; that was the one she chose to-night. although the storm raged in all its fury without, the interior of whitestone hall was ablaze with light, that streamed with a bright, golden glow from every casement. strains of music, mingled with the hum of voices, fell upon daisy's ear, as she walked hurriedly up the path. the damp air that swept across her face with the beating rain was odorous with the perfume of rare exotics. the path up which she walked commanded a full view of pluma hurlhurst's boudoir. the crimson satin curtains, for some reason, were still looped back, and she could see the trim little maid arranging her long dark hair; she wore a silver-white dressing-robe, bordered around with soft white swan's-down and her dainty white satin-slippered feet rested on a crimson velvet hassock. "how beautiful she is!" thought the poor little child-wife, wistfully gazing at her fair, false enemy. "i can not wonder rex is dazzled by her peerless, royal beauty. i was mad to indulge the fatal, foolish dream that he could ever love me, poor, plain little daisy brooks." daisy drew her cloak closer about her, and her thick veil more securely over her face. as she raised the huge brass knocker her heart beat pitifully, yet she told herself she must be brave to the bitter end. one, two, three minutes passed. was no one coming to answer the summons? yes--some one came at last, a spruce little french maid, whom daisy never remembered having seen before. she laughed outright when daisy falteringly stated her errand. "you are mad to think mademoiselle will see you to-night," she answered, contemptuously. "do you not know this is her wedding-night?" "she is not married _yet_?" cried daisy, in a low, wailing voice. "oh, i must see her!" with a quizzical expression crossing her face the girl shrugged her shoulders, as she scanned the little dark, dripping figure, answering mockingly: "the poor make one grand mistake, insisting on what the rich must do. i say again, my lady will not see you--you had better go about your business." "oh, i _must_ see her! indeed, i must!" pleaded daisy. "your heart, dear girl, is human, and you can see my anguish is no light one." her courage and high resolve seemed to give way, and she wept--as women weep only once in a lifetime--but the heart of the french maid was obdurate. "mademoiselle would only be angry," she said; "it would be as much as my place is worth to even mention you to her." "but my errand can brook no delay," urged daisy. "you do not realize," she gasped, brokenly, while her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, and the hot tears fell like rain down her face. "all that you say is useless," cried the girl, impatiently, as she purposely obstructed the passage-way, holding the doorknob in her hand; "all your speech is in vain--she will not see you, i say--i will not take her your message." "then i will go to her myself," cried daisy, in desperate determination. "what's the matter, marie?" cried a shrill voice from the head of the rose-lighted stairway; "what in the world keeps you down there so long? come here instantly." daisy knew too well the handsome, impatient face and the imperious, commanding voice. "miss hurlhurst," she called out, piteously, "i must see you for a few minutes. i shall die if you refuse me. my errand is one of almost life and death; if you knew how vitally important it was you would not refuse me," she panted. pluma hurlhurst laughed a little hard laugh that had no music in it. "what would a hundred lives or deaths matter to me?" she said, contemptuously. "i would not listen to you ten minutes to-night if i actually knew it was to save your life," cried the haughty beauty, stamping her slippered foot impatiently. "it is for your own sake," pleaded daisy. "see, i kneel to you, miss hurlhurst. if you would not commit a crime, i implore you by all you hold sacred, to hear me--grant me but a few brief moments." "not an instant," cried pluma, scornfully; "shut the door, marie, and send that person from the house." "oh, what shall i do!" cried daisy, wringing her hands. "i am driven to the very verge of madness! heaven pity me--the bitter consequence must fall upon your own head." she turned away with a low, bitter cry, as the maid slammed the heavy oaken door in her face. "there is no other way for me to do," she told herself, despairingly, "but to see rex. i do not know how i am going to live through the ordeal of entering his presence--listening to his voice--knowing i bring him such a burden of woe--spoiling his life for the second time." she did not hear the door quietly reopen. "i have heard all that has just passed, young lady," said a kind voice close beside her. "i am extremely sorry for you--your case seems a pitiful one. i am sorry my daughter refused to see you; perhaps i can be of some assistance to you. i am miss hurlhurst's father." chapter xxxvii. for a moment daisy stood irresolute. "follow me into my study, and tell me your trouble. you say it concerns my daughter. perhaps i can advise you." ah, yes! he above all others could help her--he was pluma's father--he could stop the fatal marriage. she would not be obliged to face rex. without another word daisy turned and followed him. although daisy had lived the greater portion of her life at john brooks' cottage on the hurlhurst plantation, this was the first time she had ever gazed upon the face of the recluse master of whitestone hall. he had spent those years abroad; and poor daisy's banishment dated from the time the lawn fête had been given in honor of their return. daisy glanced shyly up through her veil with a strange feeling of awe at the noble face, with the deep lines of suffering around the mouth, as he opened his study door, and, with a stately inclination of the head, bade her enter. "his face is not like pluma's," she thought, with a strange flutter at her heart. "he looks good and kind. i am sure i can trust him." daisy was quite confused as she took the seat he indicated. mr. hurlhurst drew up his arm-chair opposite her, and waited with the utmost patience for her to commence. she arose and stood before him, clasping her trembling little white hands together supplicatingly. he could not see her face, for she stood in the shadow, and the room was dimly lighted; but he knew that the sweet, pathetic voice was like the sound of silvery bells chiming some half-forgotten strain. "i have come to tell you this wedding can not--must not--go on to-night!" she cried, excitedly. basil hurlhurst certainly thought the young girl standing before him must be mad. "i do not understand," he said, slowly, yet gently. "why do you, a stranger, come to me on my daughter's wedding-night with such words as these? what reason can you offer why this marriage should not proceed?" he could not tell whether she had heard his words or not, she stood before him so silent, her little hands working nervously together. she looked wistfully into his face, and she drew her slender figure up to its full height, as she replied, in a low, passionate, musical voice: "mr. lyon can not marry your daughter, sir, for he has a living wife." "mr. lyon has a wife?" repeated basil hurlhurst, literally dumbfounded with amazement. "in heaven's name, explain yourself!" he cried, rising hastily from his chair and facing her. the agitation on his face was almost alarming. his grand old face was as white as his linen. his eyes were full of eager, painful suspense and excitement. with a violent effort at self-control he restrained his emotions, sinking back in his arm-chair like one who had received an unexpected blow. daisy never remembered in what words she told him the startling truth. he never interrupted her until she had quite finished. "you will not blame rex," she pleaded, her sweet voice choking with emotion; "he believes me dead." basil hurlhurst did not answer; his thoughts were too confused. yes, it was but too true--the marriage could not go on. he reached hastily toward the bell-rope. "you will not let my--rex know until i am far away," she cried, piteously, as she put her marriage certificate in mr. hurlhurst's hand. "i am going to send for rex to come here at once," he made answer. with a low, agonized moan, daisy grasped his outstretched hand, scarcely knowing what she did. "oh, please do not, mr. hurlhurst," she sobbed. "rex must not see me; i should die if you sent for him; i could not bear it--indeed, i could not." she was looking at him, all her heart in her eyes, and, as if he felt magnetically the power of her glance, he turned toward her, meeting the earnest gaze of the blue, uplifted eyes. the light fell full upon her fair, flushed face, and the bonnet and veil she wore had fallen back from the golden head. a sudden mist seemed to come before his eyes, and he caught his breath with a sharp gasp. "what did you say your name was before you were married?" he asked, in a low, intense voice. "i--i--did not quite understand." "daisy brooks, your overseer's niece," she answered, simply. she wondered why he uttered such a dreary sigh as he muttered, half aloud, how foolish he was to catch at every straw of hope. carefully he examined the certificate. it was too true. it certainly certified rexford lyon and daisy brooks were joined together in the bonds of matrimony nearly a year before. and then he looked at the paper containing the notice of her tragic death, which daisy had read and carefully saved. surely no blame could be attached to rex, in the face of these proofs. he was sorry for the beautiful, haughty heiress, to whom this terrible news would be a great shock; he was sorry for rex, he had grown so warmly attached to him of late, but he felt still more sorry for the fair child-bride, toward whom he felt such a yearning, sympathetic pity. the great bell in the tower slowly pealed the hour of eight, with a dull, heavy clang, and he suddenly realized what was to be done must be done at once. "i must send for both rex and pluma," he said, laying his hands on the beautiful, bowed head; "but, if it will comfort you to be unobserved during the interview, you shall have your wish." he motioned her to one of the curtained recesses, and placed her in an easy-chair. he saw she was trembling violently. it was a hard ordeal for him to go through, but there was no alternative. he touched the bell with a shaking hand, thrusting the certificate and paper into his desk. "summon my daughter pluma to me at once," he said to the servant who answered the summons, "and bid mr. lyon come to me here within half an hour." he saw the man held a letter in his hand. "if you please, sir," said the man, "as i was coming to answer your bell i met john brooks, your overseer, in the hall below. a stranger was with him, who requested me to give you this without delay." basil hurlhurst broke open the seal. there were but a few penciled words, which ran as follows: "mr. hurlhurst,--will you kindly grant me an immediate interview? i shall detain you but a few moments. "yours, hastily, "harvey tudor, "of tudor, peck & co, detectives, baltimore." the man never forgot the cry that came from his master's lips as he read those brief words. "yes, tell him to come up at once," he cried; "i will see him here." he forgot the message he had sent for pluma and rex--forgot the shrinking, timid little figure in the shadowy drapery of the curtains--even the gay hum of the voices down below, and the strains of music, or that the fatal marriage moment was drawing near. he was wondering if the detective's visit brought him a gleam of hope. surely he could have no other object in calling so hurriedly on this night above all other nights. a decanter of wine always sat on the study table. he turned toward it now with feverish impatience, poured out a full glass with his nervous fingers, and drained it at a single draught. a moment later the detective and john brooks, looking pale and considerably excited, were ushered into the study. for a single instant the master of whitestone hall glanced into the detective's keen gray eyes for one ray of hope, as he silently grasped his extended hand. "i see we are alone," said mr. tudor, glancing hurriedly around the room--"we three, i mean," he added. suddenly basil hurlhurst thought of the young girl, quite hidden from view. "no," he answered, leading the way toward an inner room, separated from the study by a heavy silken curtain; "but in this apartment we shall certainly be free from interruption. your face reveals nothing," he continued, in an agitated voice, "but i believe you have brought me news of my child." basil hurlhurst had no idea the conversation carried on in the small apartment to which he had conducted them could be overheard from the curtained recess in which daisy sat. but he was mistaken; daisy could hear every word of it. she dared not cry out or walk forth from her place of concealment lest she should come suddenly face to face with rex. as the light had fallen on john brooks' honest face, how she had longed to spring forward with a glad little cry and throw herself into his strong, sheltering arms! she wondered childishly why he was there with mr. tudor, the detective, whose voice she had instantly recognized. "i have two errands here to-night," said the detective, pleasantly. "i hope i shall bring good news, in one sense; the other we will discuss later on." the master of whitestone hall made no comments; still he wondered why the detective had used the words "one sense." surely, he thought, turning pale, his long-lost child could not be dead. like one in a dream, daisy heard the detective go carefully over the ground with basil hurlhurst--all the incidents connected with the loss of his child. daisy listened out of sheer wonder. she could not tell why. "i think we have the right clew," continued the detective, "but we have no actual proof to support our supposition; there is one part still cloudy." there were a few low-murmured words spoken to john brooks. there was a moment of silence, broken by her uncle john's voice. for several moments he talked rapidly and earnestly, interrupted now and then by an exclamation of surprise from the master of whitestone hall. every word john brooks uttered pierced daisy's heart like an arrow. she uttered a little, sharp cry, but no one heard her. she fairly held her breath with intense interest. then she heard the detective tell them the story of rex lyon's marriage with her, and he had come to whitestone hall to stop the ceremony about to be performed. basil hurlhurst scarcely heeded his words. he had risen to his feet with a great, glad cry, and pushed aside the silken curtains that led to the study. as he did so he came face to face with daisy brooks, standing motionless, like a statue, before him. then she fell, with a low, gasping cry, senseless at basil hurlhurst's feet. chapter xxxviii. pluma hurlhurst received her father's summons with no little surprise. "what can that foolish old man want, i wonder?" she soliloquized, clasping the diamond-studded bracelets on her perfect arms. "i shall be heartily glad when i am rex lyon's wife. i shall soon tell him, then, in pretty plain words, i am not at his beck and call any longer. come to him instantly, indeed! i shall certainly do no such thing," she muttered. "did you speak, mademoiselle?" asked the maid. "no," replied pluma, glancing at the little jeweled watch that glittered in its snow-white velvet case. she took it up with a caressing movement. "how foolish i was to work myself up into such a fury of excitement, when rex sent for me to present me with the jewels!" she laughed, softly, laying down the watch, and taking up an exquisite jeweled necklace, admired the purity and beauty of the soft, white, gleaming stones. the turret-bell had pealed the hour of eight; she had yet half an hour. she never could tell what impulse prompted her to clasp the shining gems around her white throat, even before she had removed her dressing-robe. she leaned back dreamily in her cushioned chair, watching the effect in the mirror opposite. steadfastly she gazed at the wondrous loveliness of the picture she made, the dark, lustrous eyes, gleaming with unwonted brilliancy, with their jetty fringe; the rich, red lips, and glowing cheeks. "there are few such faces in the world," she told herself triumphantly. those were the happiest moments proud, peerless pluma hurlhurst was ever to know--"before the hour should wane the fruition of all her hopes would be attained." no feeling of remorse stole over her to imbitter the sweets of her triumphant thoughts. she had lived in a world of her own, planning and scheming, wasting her youth, her beauty, and her genius, to accomplish the one great ultimatum--winning rex lyon's love. she took from her bosom a tiny vial, containing a few white, flaky crystals. "i shall not need this now," she told herself. "if lester stanwick had intended to interfere he would have done so ere this; he has left me to myself, realizing his threats were all in vain; yet i have been sore afraid. rex will never know that i lied and schemed to win his love, or that i planned the removal of daisy brooks from his path so cleverly; he will never know that i have deceived him, or the wretched story of my folly and passionate, perilous love. i could not have borne the shame and the exposure; there would have been but one escape"--quite unconsciously she slid the vial into the pocket of her silken robe--"i have lived a coward's life; i should have died a coward's death." "it is time to commence arranging your toilet, mademoiselle," said the maid, approaching her softly with the white glimmering satin robe, and fleecy veil over her arm. "my fingers are deft, but you have not one moment to spare." pluma waved her off with an imperious gesture. "not yet," she said. "i suppose i might as well go down first as last to see what in the world he wants with me; he should have come to me if he had wished to see me so very particularly;" and the dutiful daughter, throwing the train of her dress carelessly over her arm, walked swiftly through the brilliantly lighted corridor toward basil hurlhurst's study. she turned the knob and entered. the room was apparently deserted. "not here!" she muttered, with surprise. "well, my dear, capricious father, i shall go straight back to my apartments. you shall come to me hereafter." as she turned to retrace her steps a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a woman's voice whispered close to her ear: "i was almost afraid i should miss you--fate is kind." pluma hurlhurst recoiled from the touch, fairly holding her breath, speechless with fury and astonishment. "you insolent creature!" she cried. "i wonder at your boldness in forcing your presence upon me. did i not have you thrust from the house an hour ago, with the full understanding i would not see you, no matter who you were or whom you wanted." "i was not at the door an hour ago," replied the woman, coolly; "it must have been some one else. i have been here--to whitestone hall--several times before, but you have always eluded me. you shall not do so to-night. you shall listen to what i have come to say to you." for once in her life the haughty, willful heiress was completely taken aback, and she sunk into the arm-chair so lately occupied by basil hurlhurst. "i shall ring for the servants, and have you thrown from the house; such impudence is unheard of, you miserable creature!" she made a movement toward the bell-rope, but the woman hastily thrust her back into her seat, crossed over, turned the key in the lock, and hastily removed it. basil hurlhurst and john brooks were about to rush to her assistance, but the detective suddenly thrust them back, holding up his hand warningly. "not yet," he whispered; "we will wait until we know what this strange affair means. i shall request you both to remain perfectly quiet until by word or signal i advise you to act differently." and, breathless with interest, the three, divided only by the silken hanging curtains, awaited eagerly further developments of the strange scene being enacted before them. pluma's eyes flashed like ebony fires, and unrestrained passion was written on every feature of her face, as the woman took her position directly in front of her with folded arms, and dark eyes gleaming quite as strangely as her own. pluma, through sheer astonishment at her peculiar, deliberate manner, was hushed into strange expectancy. for some moments the woman gazed into her face, coolly--deliberately--her eyes fastening themselves on the diamond necklace which clasped her throat, quivering with a thousand gleaming lights. "you are well cared for," she said, with a harsh, grating laugh, that vibrated strangely on the girl's ear. "you have the good things of life, while i have only the hardships. i am a fool to endure it. i have come to you to-night to help me--and you must do it." "put the key in that door instantly, or i shall cry out for assistance. i have heard of insolence of beggars, but certainly this is beyond all imagination. how dare you force your obnoxious presence upon me? i will not listen to another word; you shall suffer for this outrage, woman! open the door instantly, i say." she did not proceed any further in her breathless defiance of retort; the woman coolly interrupted her with that strange, grating laugh again, as she answered, authoritatively: "i shall not play at cross-purposes with you any longer; it is plainly evident there is little affection lost between us. you will do exactly as i say, pluma; you may spare yourself a great deal that may be unpleasant--if you not only listen but quietly obey me. otherwise--" pluma sprung wildly to her feet. "obey you! obey you!" she would have screamed the words in her ungovernable rage, had not a look from this woman's eyes, who used her name with such ill-bred familiarity, actually frightened her. "be sensible and listen to what i intend you shall hear, and, as i said and repeat, obey. you have made a slight mistake in defying me, young lady. i hoped and intended to be your friend and adviser; but since you have taken it into your head to show such an aversion to me, it will be so much the worse for you, for i fully intend you shall act hereafter under my instructions; it has spoiled you allowing you to hold the reins in your own hands unchecked." "oh, you horrible creature! i shall have you arrested and--" the woman interrupted her gasping, vindictive words again, more imperiously than before. "hush! not another word; you will not tell any one a syllable of what has passed in this room." "do you dare threaten me in my own house," cried pluma, fairly beside herself with passion. "i begin to believe you are not aware to whom you are speaking. you shall not force me to listen. i shall raise the window and cry out to the guests below." "very well, then. i find i am compelled to tell you something i never intended you should know--something that, unless i am greatly mistaken in my estimate of you, will change your high and mighty notions altogether." the woman was bending so near her, her breath almost scorched her cheek. "i want money," she said, her thin lips quivering in an evil smile, "and it is but right that you should supply me with it. look at the diamonds, representing a fortune, gleaming on your throat, while i am lacking the necessaries of life." "what is that to me?" cried pluma, scornfully. "allow me to pass from the room, and i will send my maid back to you with a twenty-dollar note. my moments are precious; do not detain me." the woman laughed contemptuously. "twenty dollars, indeed!" she sneered, mockingly. "twenty thousand will not answer my purpose. from this time forth i intend to live as befits a lady. i want that necklace you are wearing, as security that you will produce the required sum for me before to-morrow night." the coarse proposal amazed pluma. "i thought whitestone hall especially guarded against thieves," she said, steadily. "you seem to be a desperate woman; but i, pluma hurlhurst, do not fear you. we will pass over the remarks you have just uttered as simply beyond discussion." with a swift, gliding motion she attempted to reach the bell-rope. again the woman intercepted her. "arouse the household if you dare!" hissed the woman, tightening her hold upon the white arm upon which the jewels flashed and quivered. "if basil hurlhurst knew what i know you would be driven from this house before an hour had passed." "i--i--do not know what you mean," gasped pluma, her great courage and fortitude sinking before this woman's fearlessness and defiant authority. "no, you don't know what i mean; and little you thank me for carrying the treacherous secret since almost the hour of your birth. it is time for you to know the truth at last. you are not the heiress of whitestone hall--you are not basil hurlhurst's child!" pluma's face grew deathly white; a strange mist seemed gathering before her. "i can not--seem--to--grasp--what you mean, or who you are to terrify me so." a mocking smile played about the woman's lips as she replied, in a slow, even, distinct voice: "i am your mother, pluma!" chapter xxxix. at the self-same moment that the scene just described was being enacted in the study rex lyon was pacing to and fro in his room, waiting for the summons of pluma to join the bridal-party in the corridor and adjourn to the parlors below, where the guests and the minister awaited them. he walked toward the window and drew aside the heavy curtains. the storm was beating against the window-pane as he leaned his feverish face against the cool glass, gazing out into the impenetrable darkness without. try as he would to feel reconciled to his marriage he could not do it. how could he promise at the altar to love, honor, and cherish the wife whom he was about to wed? he might honor and cherish her, but love her he could not, no matter for all the promises he might make. the power of loving was directed from heaven above--it was not for mortals to accept or reject at will. his heart seemed to cling with a strange restlessness to daisy, the fair little child-bride, whom he had loved so passionately--his first and only love, sweet little daisy! from the breast-pocket of his coat he took the cluster of daisies he had gone through the storm on his wedding-night to gather. he was waiting until the monument should arrive before he could gather courage to tell pluma the sorrowful story of his love-dream. all at once he remembered the letter a stranger had handed him outside of the entrance gate. he had not thought much about the matter until now. mechanically he picked it up from the mantel, where he had tossed it upon entering the room, glancing carelessly at the superscription. his countenance changed when he saw it; his lips trembled, and a hard, bitter light crept into his brown eyes. he remembered the chirography but too well. "from stanwick!" he cried, leaning heavily against the mantel. rex read the letter through with a burning flush on his face, which grew white as with the pallor of death as he read; a dark mist was before his eyes, the sound of surging waters in his ears. "old college chum,"--it began,--"for the sake of those happy hours of our school-days, you will please favor me by reading what i have written to the end. "if you love pluma hurlhurst better than your sense of honor this letter is of no avail. i can not see you drifting on to ruin without longing to save you. you have been cleverly caught in the net the scheming heiress has set for you. it is certainly evident she loves you with a love which is certainly a perilous one. there is not much safety in the fierce, passionate love of a desperate, jealous woman. you will pardon me for believing at one time your heart was elsewhere. you will wonder why i refer to that; it will surprise you to learn, that one subject forms the basis of this letter. i refer to little daisy brooks. "you remember the night you saw little daisy home, burning with indignation at the cut direct--which pluma had subjected the pretty little fairy to? i simply recall that fact, as upon that event hangs the terrible sequel which i free my conscience by unfolding. you had scarcely left the hall ere pluma called me to her side. "'do not leave me, lester,' she said; 'i want to see you; remain until after all the guests have left.' "i did so. you have read the lines: "'heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned'? "they were too truly exemplified in the case of pluma hurlhurst when she found you preferred little golden-haired daisy brooks to her own peerless self. 'what shall i do, lester,' she cried, 'to strike his heart? what shall i do to humble his mighty pride as he has humbled mine?' heaven knows, old boy, i am ashamed to admit the shameful truth. i rather enjoyed the situation of affairs. 'my love is turned to hate!' she cried, vehemently. 'i must strike him through his love for that little pink-and-white baby-faced creature he is so madly infatuated with. remove her from his path, lester,' she cried, 'and i shall make it worth your while. you asked me once if i would marry you. i answer _now_: remove that girl from his path, by fair means or foul, and i give you my hand as the reward, i, the heiress of whitestone hall.' "she knew the temptation was dazzling. for long hours we talked the matter over. she was to furnish money to send the girl to school, from which i was shortly to abduct her. she little cared what happened the little fair-haired creature. before i had time to carry out the design fate drifted her into my hands. i rescued her, at the risk of my own life, from a watery grave. i gave out she was my wife, that the affair might reach your ears, and you would believe the child willfully eloped with me. i swear to you no impure thought ever crossed that child's brain. i gave her a very satisfactory explanation as to why i had started so false a report. in her innocence--it seemed plausible--she did not contradict my words. "then you came upon the scene, charging her with the report and demanding to know the truth. "at that moment she saw the affair in its true light. heaven knows she was as pure as a spotless lily; but appearances were sadly against the child, simply because she had not contradicted the report that i had circulated--that she was my wife. her lips were dumb at the mere suspicion you hurled against her, and she could not plead with you for very horror and amazement. "when you left her she was stricken with a fever that was said to have cost her her life. she disappeared from sight, and it was said she had thrown herself into the pit. "i give you this last and final statement in all truth. i was haunted day and night by her sad, pitiful face; it almost drove me mad with remorse, and to ease my mind i had the shaft searched a week ago, and learned the startling fact--it revealed no trace of her ever having been there. "the shaft does not contain the remains of daisy brooks, and i solemnly affirm (although i have no clew to substantiate the belief) that daisy brooks is not dead, but living, and pluma hurlhurst's soul is not dyed with the blood which she would not have hesitated to shed to remove an innocent rival from her path. i do not hold myself guiltless, still the planner of a crime is far more guilty than the tool who does the work in hope of reward. "the heiress of whitestone hall has played me false, take to your heart your fair, blushing bride, but remember hers is a perilous love." * * * * * the letter contained much more, explaining each incident in detail, but rex had caught at one hope, as a drowning man catches at a straw. "merciful heaven!" he cried, his heart beating loud and fast. "was it not a cruel jest to frighten him on his wedding-eve? daisy alive! oh, just heaven, if it could only be true!" he drew his breath, with a long, quivering sigh, at the bare possibility. "little daisy was as pure in thought, word and deed as an angel. god pity me!" he cried. "have patience with me for my harshness toward my little love. i did not give my little love even the chance of explaining the situation," he groaned. then his thoughts went back to pluma. he could not doubt the truth of the statement stanwick offered, and the absolute proofs of its sincerity. he could not curse her for her horrible deceit, because his mother had loved her so, and it was done through her blinding, passionate love for him; and he buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly. it was all clear as noonday to him now why daisy had not kept the tryst under the magnolia-tree, and the cottage was empty. she must certainly have attempted to make her escape from the school in which they placed her to come back to his arms. "oh, dupe that i have been!" he moaned. "oh, my sweet little innocent darling!" he cried. "i dare not hope heaven has spared you to me!" now he understood why he had felt such a terrible aversion to pluma all along. she had separated him from his beautiful, golden-haired child-bride. his eyes rested on the certificate which bore pluma's name, also his own. he tore it into a thousand shreds. "it is all over between us now," he cried. "even if daisy were dead, i could never take the viper to my bosom that has dealt me such a death-stinging blow. if living, i shall search the world over till i find her; if dead, i shall consecrate my life to the memory of my darling, my pure, little, injured _only_ love." he heard a low rap at the door. the servant never forgot the young man's haggard, hopeless face as he delivered basil hurlhurst's message. "ah, it is better so," cried rex to himself, vehemently, as the man silently and wonderingly closed the door. "i will go to him at once, and tell him i shall never marry his daughter. heaven help me! i will tell him all." hastily catching up the letter, rex walked, with a firm, quick tread, toward the study, in which the strangest tragedy which was ever enacted was about to transpire. * * * * * "i am your mother, pluma," repeated the woman, slowly. "look into my face, and you will see every lineament of your own mirrored there. but for me you would never have enjoyed the luxuries of whitestone hall, and this is the way you repay me! is there no natural instinct in your heart that tells you you are standing in your mother's presence?" "every instinct in my heart tells me you are a vile impostor, woman. i wonder that you dare intimate such a thing. you are certainly an escaped lunatic. my mother was lost at sea long years ago." "so every one believed. but my very presence here is proof positive such was not the case." pluma tried to speak, but no sound issued from her white lips. the very tone of the woman's voice carried positive conviction with it. a dim realization was stealing over her that this woman's face, and the peculiar tone of her voice, were strangely mixed up with her childhood dreams; and, try as she would to scoff at the idea, it seemed to be gaining strength with every moment. "you do not believe me, i see," pursued the woman, calmly. "there is nothing but the stern facts that will satisfy you. you shall have them. they are soon told: years ago, when i was young and fair as you are now, i lived at the home of a quiet, well-to-do spinster, taiza burt. she had a nephew, an honest, well-to-do young fellow, who worshiped me, much to the chagrin of his aunt; and out of pique one day i married him. i did not love the honest-hearted fellow, and i lived with him but a few brief months. i hated him--yes, hated him, for i had seen another--young, gay and handsome--whom i might have won had it not been for the chains which bound me. he was a handsome, debonair college fellow, as rich as he was handsome. this was basil hurlhurst, the planter's only son and heir. our meeting was romantic. i had driven over to the village in which the college was situated, on an errand for taiza. basil met me driving through the park. he was young, reckless and impulsive. he loved me, and the knowledge of his wealth dazzled me. i did not tell him i was a wife, and there commenced my first sin. my extreme youth and ignorance of the world must plead for me--my husband or the world would never know of it. i listened to his pleading, and married him--that is, we went through the ceremony. he had perfect faith in its sincerity. i alone knew the guilty truth. yet enormous as was my crime, i had but a dim realization of it. "for one brief week i was dazzled with the wealth and jewels he lavished upon me; but my conscience would not let me rest when i thought of my honest-hearted husband, from whom i had fled and whom i had so cruelly deceived. "my love for basil was short lived; i was too reckless to care much for any one. my conscience bade me fly from him. i gathered up what money and jewels i could, and fled. a few months after you were born; and i swear to you, by the proofs i can bring you, beyond all shadow of a doubt, you were my lawful husband's child, not basil's. "soon after this event a daring thought came to me. i could present you, ere long, with myself, at whitestone hall. basil hurlhurst would never know the deception practiced upon him; and you, the child of humble parentage, should enjoy and inherit his vast wealth. my bold plan was successful. we had a stormy interview, and it never occurred to him there could be the least deception--that i was not his lawful wife, or you his child. "i found basil had learned to despise even more fiercely than he had ever loved me. "he took us abroad, refusing to speak or look upon my face, even though he escorted us. in a fit of desperation i threw myself into the sea, but i was rescued by another vessel. a strong inclination seized me to again visit whitestone hall and see what disposition he had made of you. years had passed; you were then a child of five years. "one terrible stormy night--as bad a night as this one--i made my way to the hall. it was brilliantly lighted up, just as it is to-night. "i saw the gate was locked; and through the flashes of lightning i saw a little girl sobbing wildly, flung face downward in the grass, heedless of the storm. "i knew you, and called you to me. i questioned you as to why the house was lighted, and learned the truth. basil hurlhurst had remarried; he had been abroad with his wife, and to-night he was bringing home his young wife. "my rage knew no bounds. i commanded you to bring me the key of the gate. you obeyed. that night a little golden-haired child was born at whitestone hall, and i knew it would live to divide the honors and wealth of whitestone hall with you--my child. "the thought maddened me. i stole the child from its mother's arms, and fled. i expected to see the papers full of the terrible deed, or to hear you had betrayed me, a stranger, wanting the key of the gate." "my surprise knew no bounds when i found it was given out the child had died, and was buried with its young mother. i never understood why basil hurlhurst did not attempt to recover his child. "i took the child far from here, placing it in a basket on the river brink, with a note pinned to it saying that i, the mother, had sinned and had sought a watery grave beneath the waves. i screened myself, and watched to see what would become of the child, as i saw a man's form approaching in the distance. "i fairly caught my breath as he drew near. i saw it was my own husband, whom i had so cruelly deserted years ago--your father, pluma, who never even knew or dreamed of your existence. "carefully he lifted the basket and the sleeping babe. how he came in that locality i do not know. i found, by some strange freak of fate, he had taken the child home to his aunt taiza, and there the little one remained until the spinster died. "again, a few years later, i determined to visit whitestone hall, when a startling and unexpected surprise presented itself. since then i have believed in fate. all unconscious of the strange manner in which these two men's lives had crossed each other, i found basil hurlhurst had engaged my own husband, and your father, john brooks, for his overseer." pluma gave a terrible cry, but the woman did not heed her. "i dared not betray my identity then, but fled quickly from whitestone hall; for i knew, if all came to light, it would be proved without a doubt you were not the heiress of whitestone hall. "i saw a young girl, blue-eyed and golden-haired, singing like a lark in the fields. one glance at her face, and i knew she was basil hurlhurst's stolen child fate had brought directly to her father's home. i questioned her, and she answered she had lived with taiza burt, but her name was daisy brooks." "it is a lie--a base, ingenious lie!" shrieked pluma. "daisy brooks the heiress of whitestone hall! even if it were true," she cried, exultingly, "she will never reign here, the mistress of whitestone hall. she is dead." "not exactly!" cried a ringing voice from the rear; and before the two women could comprehend the situation, the detective sprung through the silken curtains, placing his back firmly against the door. "you have laid a deep scheme, with a cruel vengeance; but your own weapons are turned against you. bring your daughter forward, mr. hurlhurst. your presence is also needed, mr. brooks," he called. chapter xl. not a muscle of pluma hurlhurst's face quivered, but the woman uttered a low cry, shrinking close to her side. "save me, pluma!" she gasped. "i did it for your sake!" basil hurlhurst slowly put back the curtain, and stepped into the room, clasping his long-lost daughter to his breast. daisy's arms were clinging round his neck, and her golden head rested on his shoulder. she was sobbing hysterically, john brooks, deeply affected, following after. like a stag at bay, the woman's courage seemed to return to her, as she stood face to face after all those years with the husband whom she had so cruelly deceived--and the proud-faced man who stood beside him--whose life she had blighted with the keenest and most cruel blow of all. basil hurlhurst was the first to break the ominous silence. "it is unnecessary to tell you we have heard all," he said, slowly. "i shall not seek redress for your double crime. leave this locality at once, or i may repent the leniency of my decision. i hold you guiltless, pluma," he added, gently. "you are not my child, yet i have not been wanting in kindness toward you. i shall make every provision for your future comfort with your father," he said, indicating john brooks, who stood pale and trembling at his side. "pluma, my child," cried john brooks, brokenly, extending his arms. but the scornful laugh that fell from her lips froze the blood in his veins. "your child!" she shrieked, mockingly; "do not dare call me that again. what care i for your cotton fields, or for whitestone hall?" she cried, proudly, drawing herself up to her full height. "you have always hated me, basil hurlhurst," she cried, turning haughtily toward him. "this is your triumph! within the next hour i shall be rex lyon's wife." she repeated the words with a clear, ringing laugh, her flaming eyes fairly scorching poor little daisy's pale, frightened face. "do you hear me, daisy brooks!" she screamed. "you loved rex lyon, and i have won him from you. you can queen it over whitestone hall, but i shall not care. i shall be queen of rex's heart and home! mine is a glorious revenge!" she stopped short for want of breath, and basil hurlhurst interrupted her. "i have to inform you you are quite mistaken there," he replied, calmly. "mr. rexford lyon will not marry you to-night, for he is already married to my little daughter daisy." he produced the certificate as he spoke, laying it on the table. "rex thought her dead," he continued, simply. "i have sent for him to break the startling news of daisy's presence, and i expect him here every moment." "pluma," cried daisy, unclasping her arms from her father's neck, and swiftly crossing over to where her rival stood, beautifully, proudly defiant, "forgive me for the pain i have caused you unknowingly. i did not dream i was--an--an--heiress--or that mr. hurlhurst was my father. i don't want you to go away, pluma, from the luxury that has been yours; stay and be my sister--share my home." "my little tender-hearted angel!" cried basil hurlhurst, moved to tears. john brooks hid his face in his hands. for a single instant the eyes of these two girls met--whose lives had crossed each other so strangely--daisy's blue eyes soft, tender and appealing, pluma's hard, flashing, bitter and scornful. she drew herself up to her full height. "remain in your house?" she cried, haughtily, trembling with rage. "you mistake me, girl: do you think i could see you enjoying the home that i have believed to be mine--see the man i love better than life itself lavish caresses upon you--kiss your lips--and bear it calmly? live the life of a pauper when i have been led to believe i was an heiress! better had i never known wealth than be cast from luxury into the slums of poverty," she wailed out, sharply. "i shall not touch a dollar of your money, basil hurlhurst. i despise you too much. i have lived with the trappings of wealth around me--the petted child of luxury--all in vain--all in vain." basil hurlhurst was struck with the terrible grandeur of the picture she made, standing there in her magnificent, scornful pride--a wealth of jewels flashing on her throat and breast and twined in the long, sweeping hair that had become loosened and swept in a dark, shining mass to her slender waist, her flashing eyes far outshining the jewels upon which the softened gas-light streamed. not one gleam of remorse softened her stony face in its cruel, wicked beauty. her jeweled hand suddenly crept to the pocket of her dress where she had placed the vial. "open that door!" she commanded. the key fell from her mother's nerveless grasp. the detective quietly picked it up, placed it in the lock, and opened the door. and just at that instant, rex lyon, with the letter in his hand, reached it. pluma saw him first. "rex!" she cried, in a low, hoarse voice, staggering toward him; but he recoiled from her, and she saw stanwick's letter in his hands; and she knew in an instant all her treachery was revealed; and without another word--pale as death--but with head proudly erect, she swept with the dignity of a princess from the scene of her bitter defeat, closely followed by her cowering mother. rex did not seek to detain her; his eyes had suddenly fallen upon the golden-haired little figure kneeling by basil hurlhurst's chair. he reached her side at a single bound. "oh, daisy, my darling, my darling!" he cried, snatching her in his arms, and straining her to his breast, as he murmured passionate, endearing words over her. suddenly he turned to mr. hurlhurst. "i must explain--" "that is quite unnecessary, rex, my boy," said mr. tudor, stepping forward with tears in his eyes; "mr. hurlhurst knows all." it never occurred to handsome, impulsive rex to question what daisy was doing there. he only knew heaven had restored him his beautiful, idolized child-bride. "you will forgive my harshness, won't you, love?" he pleaded. "i will devote my whole life to blot out the past. can you learn to love me, sweetheart, and forget the cloud that drifted between us?" a rosy flush suffused the beautiful flower-like face, as daisy shyly lifted her radiantly love-lighted blue eyes to his face with a coy glance that fairly took his breath away for rapturous ecstasy. daisy's golden head nestled closer on his breast, and two little soft, white arms, whose touch thrilled him through and through, stole round his neck--that was all the answer she made him. john brooks had quietly withdrawn from the room; and while basil hurlhurst with a proudly glowing face went down among the waiting and expectant guests to unfold to them the marvelous story, and explain why the marriage could not take place, the detective briefly acquainted rex with the wonderful story. "i sought and won you when you were simple little daisy brooks, and now that you are a wealthy heiress in your own right, you must not love me less." daisy glanced up into her handsome young husband's face as she whispered, softly: "nothing can ever change my love, rex, unless it is to love you more and more." and for answer rex clasped the little fairy still closer in his arms, kissing the rosy mouth over and over again, as he laughingly replied he was more fortunate than most fellows, being lover and husband all in one. the announcement created an intense _furor_ among the fluttering maidens down in the spacious parlors. nobody regretted pluma's downfall, although basil hurlhurst carefully kept that part of the narrative back. "oh, it is just like a romance," cried eve glenn, rapturously; "but still we must not be disappointed, girls; we must have a wedding all the same. rex and daisy must be married over again." every one was on the tiptoe of expectancy to see the beautiful little heroine of a double romance. eve glenn, followed by birdie, found her out at once in the study. "oh, you darling!" cried eve, laughing and crying in one breath, as she hugged and kissed daisy rapturously; "and just to think you were married all the time, and to rex, too; above all other fellows in the world, he was just the one i had picked out for you." rex was loath to let daisy leave him even for a moment. eve was firm. "i shall take her to my room and convert her in no time at all into a veritable cinderella." "she is the pretty young girl that carried me from the stone wall, and i have loved her so much ever since, even if i couldn't remember her name," cried birdie, clapping her hands in the greatest glee. in the din of the excitement, pluma hurlhurst shook the dust of whitestone hall forever from her feet, muttering maledictions at the happy occupants. she had taken good care to secure all the valuables that she could lay her hands on, which were quite a fortune in themselves, securing her from want for life. she was never heard from more. * * * * * eve glenn took daisy to her own room, and there the wonderful transformation began. she dressed daisy in her own white satin dress, and twined deep crimson passion-roses in the golden curls, clapping her hands--at daisy's wondrous beauty--kissing her, and petting her by turns. "there never was such a little fairy of a bride!" she cried, exultantly leading daisy to the mirror. "true, you haven't any diamonds, and i haven't any to loan you; but who would miss such trifles, gazing at such a bewitching, blushing face and eyes bright as stars? oh, won't every one envy rex, though!" "please don't, eve," cried daisy. "i'm so happy, and you are trying to make me vain." a few moments later there was a great hush in the vast parlors below, as daisy entered the room, leaning tremblingly on rex's arm, who looked as happy as a king, and basil hurlhurst, looking fully ten years younger than was his wont, walking proudly beside his long-lost daughter. the storm had died away, and the moon broke through the dark clouds, lighting the earth with a silvery radiance, as rex and daisy took their places before the altar, where the ceremony which made them man and wife was for the second time performed. heaven's light never fell on two such supremely happy mortals as were rex and his bonny blushing bride. outside of whitestone hall a motley throng was gathering with the rapidity of lightning--the story had gone from lip to lip--the wonderful story of the long-lost heiress and the double romance. cheer after cheer rent the air, and telegraph wires were busy with the startling revelations. the throng around the hall pressed forward to catch a glimpse of the pretty little bride. young girls laughed and cried for very joy. mothers, fathers, and sweethearts fervently cried: "god bless her!" all night long the bells rang from the church belfries, bonfires were lighted on all the surrounding hills. a telegram was sent to a baltimore marble firm countermanding a certain order. all night long the young people danced to the chime of merry music, and all night long the joy-bells pealed from the turrets of whitestone hall, and they seemed to echo the chorus of the people. "god bless sweet little daisy lyon, the long-lost heiress of whitestone hall!" the end laura jean libbey's books bound in cloth. if you like to read fascinating love stories we are sure you will want to read this popular author's writings, and call your special attention to the following list of her best books. the alphabet of love.--a thrilling romance portraying the strange adventures of a beautiful young girl. a beautiful coquette.--sought by many but finally won by a strong, masterful love. the crime of hallow e'en.--surrounded with the mysticism of that occasion, relating the adventures of the heiress of graystone hall. daisy brooks.--the story of a perilous love. daisy gordon's folly.--the world lost for love's sake. concealment of her love affairs wrought great havoc. dora miller.--"there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream." flirtations of a beauty.--a fascinating story of a lovely belle's summer romance at newport. a forbidden marriage.--and what followed a mother's statement to her daughter's lover: "i would rather see my daughter dead than give her to you." gilberta the beauty.--a romance of a girls' fashionable boarding-school. he loved, but was lured away.--in love and war the _occasion_ is everything, but when true love enters the heart it conquers. junie's love test.--sorely tried and deceived by circumstances, even to the extent of divorce proceedings, intense and whole-hearted love is finally rewarded. little leafy.--the cloakmaker's beautiful daughter. a romantic story of a lovely working girl in the city of new york. little rosebud's lovers.--a south carolina story of a cruel revenge. the above books contain to pages each, printed on best grade antique wove book paper, with beautiful lithograph inlay in colors, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of price cents, or any books for $ . . ask your dealer for them, or send your order direct to us. j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street, new york. laura jean libbey's books bound in cloth if you like to read fascinating love stories we are sure you will want to read this popular author's writings, and call your special attention to the following list of her best books. little romp edda.--a story of the great world's fair at chicago, and what befell a mischievous maid. lyndall's temptation; or, blinded by love.--a story of fashionable life at lenox. to love and be loved is the grand dream of life.--the hand of fate.--what might have been.--i must forget you, dear.--the tragedy.--who is guilty? do you regret the past? a master workman's oath; or, coralie the unfortunate.--a love story portraying the life, romance and strange fate of a beautiful new york working girl. love at first sight.--a marriage in haste.--to learn to forget will be bitter.--the abduction.--fate marks her destiny.--the rival lovers. miss middleton's lover; or, parted on her bridal tour. a story of london. the banker's niece.--it would have been better had she died.--a convict's bride.--fate settles the matter.--the serpent enters the garden of eden.--the price of my lady's secret.--a great temptation.--i would not forgive her.--without love the world is a desert. pretty freda's lovers; or, married by mistake.--a thrilling romance of a beautiful young school girl. the spoiled darling.--mad folly.--my promised bride.--freda's fate.--the quarrel.--the smoke of scandal.--the elopement.--forgotten.--humbled.--freda's test and flight.--learned to love me at last. when his love grew cold.--a love story full of trials and struggles of lover and loved one. willful gaynell.--a romantic story of the life and love of a lovely working girl. a rescue.--the grand ball.--the duel.--the heiress.--an abduction.--defiance.--a thrilling adventure.--vengeance.--temptation.-- gay decides her fate.--the rivals meet.--would you break our betrothal?-- gay found at last. the above books contain to pages each, printed on best grade antique wove book paper, with beautiful lithograph inlay in colors, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of price cents, or any books for $ . . ask your dealer for them, or send your order direct to us. j. s. ogilvie publishing company, rose street, new york. the big noise! the loud scream! the tall holler! you will laugh, you will yell, you will scream at the blunders of a bashful man, the world's champion funny book. read it! read it! read it! it eradicates wrinkles, banishes care, and by its laughter-compelling mirth and irresistible humor rejuvenates the whole body. whether you are a bashful man or not, you should read the blunders of a bashful man. in this screamingly funny volume the reader follows with rapt attention and hilarious delight, the mishaps, mortifications, confusions, and agonizing mental and physical distresses of a self-conscious, hypersensitive, appallingly bashful young man, in a succession of astounding accidents, and ludicrous predicaments, that convulse the reader with cyclonic laughter, causing him to hold both sides for fear of exploding from an excess of uproarious merriment. all records beaten as a fun-maker, rib-tickler, and laugh-provoker. this marvellous volume of merriment proves melancholy an impostor, and grim care a joke. with joyous gales of mirth it dissipates gloom and banishes trouble. you want it! you cannot do without it! better than drugs! better than vaudeville! a whole circus in itself! the time, the place, the opportunity is here! buy it now! the blunders of a bashful man contains solid pages of reading matter, illustrated, is bound in heavy lithographed paper covers, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address on receipt of price, cents. address orders to j. s. ogilvie publishing company, p.o. box . rose street, new york. the model letter writer. a comprehensive and complete guide and assistant for those who wish to become perfect correspondents. this book contains sample letters of compliment, inquiry, and congratulation; letters of recommendation, letters of business, advice and excuse, and gives rules for punctuation, postscripts, and styles of addressing, etc. it also contains love letters, giving the correspondence between a young man and a young lady, on love, courtship and marriage, and should prove indispensable to all young people. you cannot afford to be without this book, as you do not know at what time you may have to write a particularly important letter. if you have a book of this kind on hand to consult, it may be the means of bringing to a successful end matters of great moment, and upon which may depend your entire future happiness, well-being, and success in life. the book contains pages, is bound in paper covers with handsome illustration in two colors, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address upon receipt of cents in u.s. stamps or postal money order. address all orders to j.s. ogilvie publishing company, p.o. box . rose street, new york. laugh! yell! scream! read it! read it! read it! a bad boy's diary by "little georgie," the laughing cyclone. the funniest book ever written! in this matchless volume of irresistible, rib-tickling fun, the bad boy, an incarnate but lovable imp of mischief, records his daily exploits, experiences, pranks and adventures, through all of which you follow him with an absorbing interest that never flags, stopping only when convulsions of laughter and aching sides force the mirth-swept body to take an involuntary respite from a feast of fun, stupendous and overwhelming. in the pages of this excruciatingly funny narrative can be found the elixir of youth for all man and womankind. the magic of its pages compel the old to become young, the care-worn gay, and carking trouble hides its gloomy head and flies away on the blithesome wings of uncontrollable laughter. it makes you a boy again! it makes life worth while! for old or young it is a tonic and sure cure for the blues. the bad boy's diary is making the whole world scream with laughter. get in line and laugh too. buy it to-day! it contains solid pages of reading matter, illustrated, is bound in lithographed paper covers, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address on receipt of price, cents. address all orders to j. s. ogilvie publishing company, p.o. box . rose street, new york. the housewife's treasure! the home-keeper's delight! peerless! unequalled! the everyday cook book saves money, saves labor. makes cooking pleasurable, easy and delightful. without previous experience or instruction, by the aid of this magic volume, the busy housewife can quickly learn to make hundreds of savory, appetizing, nourishing dishes, plain or fancy, dainty or substantial. easy! practical! economical! concise! the everyday cook book is the aladdin's lamp that converts the kitchen into fairy land, and the stove, oven and range into magic producers of appetizing and delicious edibles. two thousand favorite recipes for cooking every known variety of food. dishes that tickle the palate, satisfy the appetite, aid digestion, promote health and prolong life. the magic portal to a world of toothsome delights. it tells you how! it shows you how! makes poor cooks good cooks! converts drudgery into pleasure, toil into delight! it tells you what to eat! when to eat! how to eat! what to buy! when to buy! how to buy! every recipe has been thoroughly tried and tested, and pronounced by numerous housewives to be _par excellence_, not only as to pleasant results, but also in regard to the _small cost_ involved. also contains scores of immensely valuable household hints and information on every subject of interest to the cook, housewife and home-keeper. a cook book and home encyclopedia all in one! invaluable for the kitchen! unequalled for the home! you want it! you cannot do without it! buy it now! the book contains pages, size x inches, is bound in heavy paper cover, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon receipt of only cents in stamps or silver. j.s. ogilvie publishing company, p.o. box . rose street, new york two hundred old-time songs. this volume contains the _words and music_ of choicest gems of the old and familiar songs we used to sing when we were young. it has been arranged with great care and we have no hesitation in saying that it is the best book of the kind published. read the following partial table of contents. the book contains songs besides the ones mentioned here and would cost $ in sheet music form. annie laurie. auld lang syne. angel's whisper, the. black eyed susan. billy boy. baby mine. bell brandon. bonnie dundee. ben bolt. bingen on the rhine. comrades. comin' thro' the rye. caller herrin'. do they miss me at home? don't you go, tommy. flee as a bird. in the gloaming. john anderson, my joe. katie's letter. little annie rooney. larboard watch. life on the ocean wave, a. low backed car, the. mollie, put the kettle on. meet me by moonlight. nancy lee. o, boys carry me 'long. oh! susannah. our flag is there. o had i wings like a dove. old oaken bucket, the. o come, come away. rocked in the cradle of the deep. rock me to sleep, mother. sparkling and bright. there was an old woman. 'tis the last rose of summer. willie, we have missed you. wait for the wagon. oh dear! what can the matter be. oh why do you tease me. oh, would i were a bird. oh, would i were a boy again. over the garden wall. pilgrim fathers, the. pat malloy. pauper's drive, the. paddle your own canoe. robin adair. robinson crusoe. rose of allandale. star spangled banner, the. saint patrick was a gentleman. see saw, margery daw. sing a song of sixpence. see, the conquering hero comes. stop dat knockin'. sally in our alley. scots, what ha'e wi' wallace bled. sword of bunker hill, the. spider and the fly, the. shells of ocean. steal away. take back the heart. three fishers went sailing. ten little niggers. 'tis the last rose of summer. ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay. thou art gone from my gaze. there is a green hill far away. there was a jolly miller. this book of pages containing the above entire list of songs and many others, _words and music_, will be sent by mail postpaid upon receipt of price. paper cover, cents. address all orders to j. s. ogilvie publishing co., rose street, new york. old witches' dream book and complete fortune teller. you dream like everyone else does, but can you interpret them--do you understand what your dream portends? if you wish to know what it means, you should buy this book, which contains the full and correct interpretation of all dreams and their lucky numbers. this book is also the most complete fortune teller on the market. we give herewith a partial list of the contents: dreams and their interpretations. palmistry, or telling fortunes by the lines of the hand. fortune telling by the grounds in a tea or coffee cup. how to read your fortune by the white of an egg. how to determine the lucky and unlucky days of any month in the year. how to ascertain whether you will marry soon. fortune telling by cards, including the italian method. the book contains pages, set in new, large, clear type, and will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address upon receipt of cents in u. s. stamps or postal money order. address all orders to j.s. ogilvie publishing company, p.o. box . rose street, new york sacred and profane love a novel in three episodes by arnold bennett to my friend eden phillpotts the novelist for whom man and nature are inseparable with profound respect for the classical dignity of his aim and equal admiration for the austere splendour of his performance contents part i in the night part ii three human hearts part iii the victory _'how i have wept, the long night through, over the poor women of the past, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet, whose arms have opened for the kiss, and who are dead! the kiss--it is immortal! it passes from lip to lip, from century to century, from age to age. men gather it, give it back, and die.'_--guy de maupassant. sacred and profane love part i in the night i for years i had been preoccupied with thoughts of love--and by love i mean a noble and sensuous passion, absorbing the energies of the soul, fulfilling destiny, and reducing all that has gone before it to the level of a mere prelude. and that afternoon in autumn, the eve of my twenty-first birthday, i was more deeply than ever immersed in amorous dreams. i, in my modern costume, sat down between two pairs of candles to the piano in the decaying drawing-room, which like a spinster strove to conceal its age. a generous fire flamed in the wide grate behind me: warmth has always been to me the first necessary of life. i turned round on the revolving stool and faced the fire, and felt it on my cheeks, and i asked myself: 'why am i affected like this? why am i what i am?' for even before beginning to play the fantasia of chopin, i was moved, and the tears had come into my eyes, and the shudder to my spine. i gazed at the room inquiringly, and of course i found no answer. it was one of those rooms whose spacious and consistent ugliness grows old into a sort of beauty, formidable and repellent, but impressive; an early victorian room, large and stately and symmetrical, full--but not too full--of twisted and tortured mahogany, green rep, lustres, valances, fringes, gilt tassels. the green and gold drapery of the two high windows, and here and there a fine curve in a piece of furniture, recalled the empire period and the deserted napoleonic palaces of france. the expanse of yellow and green carpet had been married to the floor by two generations of decorous feet, and the meaning of its tints was long since explained away. never have i seen a carpet with less individuality of its own than that carpet; it was so sweetly faded, amiable, and flat, that its sole mission in the world seemed to be to make things smooth for the chairs. the wall-paper looked like pale green silk, and the candles were reflected in it as they were reflected in the crystals of the chandelier. the grand piano, a collard and collard, made a vast mass of walnut in the chamber, incongruous, perhaps, but still there was something in its mild and indecisive tone that responded to the furniture. it, too, spoke of evangelicalism, the christian year, and a dignified reserved confidence in christ's blood. it, too, defied the assault of time and the invasion of ideas. it, too, protested against chopin and romance, and demanded thalberg's variations on 'home, sweet home.' my great-grandfather, the famous potter--second in renown only to wedgwood--had built that georgian house, and my grandfather had furnished it; and my parents, long since dead, had placidly accepted it and the ideal that it stood for; and it had devolved upon my aunt constance, and ultimately it would devolve on me, the scarlet woman in a dress of virginal white, the inexplicable offspring of two changeless and blameless families, the secret revolutionary, the living lie! how had i come there? i went to the window, and, pulling the curtain aside, looked vaguely out into the damp, black garden, from which the last light was fading. the red, rectangular house stood in the midst of the garden, and the garden was surrounded by four brick walls, which preserved it from four streets where dwelt artisans of the upper class. the occasional rattling of a cart was all we caught of the peaceable rumour of the town; but on clear nights the furnaces of cauldon bar ironworks lit the valley for us, and we were reminded that our refined and inviolate calm was hemmed in by rude activities. on the east border of the garden was a row of poplars, and from the window i could see the naked branches of the endmost. a gas-lamp suddenly blazed behind it in acre lane, and i descried a bird in the tree. and as the tree waved its plume in the night-wind, and the bird swayed on the moving twig, and the gas-lamp burned meekly and patiently beyond, i seemed to catch in these simple things a glimpse of the secret meaning of human existence, such as one gets sometimes, startlingly, in a mood of idle receptiveness. and it was so sad and so beautiful, so full of an ecstatic melancholy, that i dropped the curtain. and my thought ranged lovingly over our household--prim, regular, and perfect: my old aunt embroidering in the breakfast-room, and rebecca and lucy ironing in the impeachable kitchen, and not one of them with the least suspicion that adam had not really waked up one morning minus a rib. i wandered in fancy all over the house--the attics, my aunt's bedroom so miraculously neat, and mine so unkempt, and the dark places in the corridors where clocks ticked. i had the sense of the curious compact organism of which my aunt was the head, and into which my soul had strayed by some caprice of fate. what i felt was that the organism was suspended in a sort of enchantment, lifelessly alive, unconsciously expectant of the magic touch which would break the spell, and i wondered how long i must wait before i began to live. i know now that i was happy in those serene preliminary years, but nevertheless i had the illusion of spiritual woe. i sighed grievously as i went back to the piano, and opened the volume of mikuli's chopin. just as i was beginning to play, rebecca came into the room. she was a maid of forty years, and stout; absolutely certain of a few things, and quite satisfied in her ignorance of all else; an important person in our house, and therefore an important person in the created universe, of which our house was for her the centre. she wore the white cap with distinction, and when an apron was suspended round her immense waist it ceased to be an apron, and became a symbol, like the apron of a freemason. 'well, rebecca?' i said, without turning my head. i guessed urgency, otherwise rebecca would have delegated lucy. 'if you please, miss carlotta, your aunt is not feeling well, and she will not be able to go to the concert to-night.' 'not be able to go to the concert!' i repeated mechanically. 'no, miss.' 'i will come downstairs.' 'if i were you, i shouldn't, miss. she's dozing a bit just now.' 'very well.' i went on playing. but chopin, who was the chief factor in my emotional life; who had taught me nearly all i knew of grace, wit, and tenderness; who had discovered for me the beauty that lay in everything, in sensuous exaltation as well as in asceticism, in grief as well as in joy; who had shown me that each moment of life, no matter what its import, should be lived intensely and fully; who had carried me with him to the dizziest heights of which passion is capable; whose music i spiritually comprehended to a degree which i felt to be extraordinary--chopin had almost no significance for me as i played then the most glorious of his compositions. his message was only a blurred sound in my ears. and gradually i perceived, as the soldier gradually perceives who has been hit by a bullet, that i was wounded. the shock was of such severity that at first i had scarcely noticed it. what? my aunt not going to the concert? that meant that i could not go. but it was impossible that i should not go. i could not conceive my absence from the concert--the concert which i had been anticipating and preparing for during many weeks. we went out but little, aunt constance and i. an oratorio, an amateur operatic performance, a ballad concert in the bursley town hall--no more than that; never the hanbridge theatre. and now diaz was coming down to give a pianoforte recital in the jubilee hall at hanbridge; diaz, the darling of european capitals; diaz, whose name in seven years had grown legendary; diaz, the liszt and the rubenstein of my generation, and the greatest interpreter of chopin since chopin died--diaz! diaz! no such concert had ever been announced in the five towns, and i was to miss it! our tickets had been taken, and they were not to be used! unthinkable! a photograph of diaz stood in a silver frame on the piano; i gazed at it fervently. i said: 'i will hear you play the fantasia this night, if i am cut in pieces for it to-morrow!' diaz represented for me, then, all that i desired of men. all my dreams of love and freedom crystallized suddenly into diaz. i ran downstairs to the breakfast-room. 'you aren't going to the concert, auntie?' i almost sobbed. she sat in her rocking-chair, and the gray woollen shawl thrown round her shoulders mingled with her gray hair. her long, handsome face was a little pale, and her dark eyes darker than usual. 'i don't feel well enough,' she replied calmly. she had not observed the tremor in my voice. 'but what's the matter?' i insisted. 'nothing in particular, my dear. i do not feel equal to the exertion.' 'but, auntie--then i can't go, either.' 'i'm very sorry, dear,' she said. 'we will go to the next concert.' 'diaz will never come again!' i exclaimed passionately. 'and the tickets will be wasted.' 'my dear,' my aunt constance repeated, 'i am not equal to it. and you cannot go alone.' i was utterly selfish in that moment. i cared nothing whatever for my aunt's indisposition. indeed, i secretly accused her of maliciously choosing that night of all nights for her mysterious fatigue. 'but, auntie,' i said, controlling myself, 'i must go, really. i shall send lucy over with a note to ethel ryley to ask her to go with me.' 'do,' said my aunt, after a considerable pause, 'if you are bent on going.' i have often thought since that during that pause, while we faced each other, my aunt had for the first time fully realized how little she knew of me; she must surely have detected in my glance a strangeness, a contemptuous indifference, an implacable obstinacy, which she had never seen in it before. and, indeed, these things were in my glance. yet i loved my aunt with a deep affection. i had only one grievance against her. although excessively proud, she would always, in conversation with men, admit her mental and imaginative inferiority, and that of her sex. she would admit, without being asked, that being a woman she could not see far, that her feminine brain could not carry an argument to the end, and that her feminine purpose was too infirm for any great enterprise. she seemed to find a morbid pleasure in such confessions. as regards herself, they were accurate enough; the dear creature was a singularly good judge of her own character. what i objected to was her assumption, so calm and gratuitous, that her individuality, with all its confessed limitations, was, of course, superior--stronger, wiser, subtler than mine. she never allowed me to argue with her; or if she did, she treated my remarks with a high, amused tolerance. 'wait till you grow older,' she would observe, magnificently ignorant of the fact that my soul was already far older than hers. this attitude naturally made me secretive in all affairs of the mind, and most affairs of the heart. we took in the county paper, the _staffordshire recorder,_ and the _rock_ and the _quiver_. with the help of these organs of thought, which i detested and despised, i was supposed to be able to keep discreetly and sufficiently abreast of the times. but i had other aids. i went to the girls' high school at oldcastle till i was nearly eighteen. one of the mistresses there used to read continually a red book covered with brown paper. i knew it to be a red book because the paper was gone at the corners. i admired the woman immensely, and her extraordinary interest in the book--she would pick it up at every spare moment--excited in me an ardent curiosity. one day i got a chance to open it, and i read on the title-page, _introduction to the study of sociology_, by herbert spencer. turning the pages, i encountered some remarks on napoleon that astonished and charmed me. i said: 'why are not our school histories like this?' the owner of the book caught me. i asked her to lend it to me, but she would not, nor would she give me any reason for declining. soon afterwards i left school. i persuaded my aunt to let me join the free library at the wedgwood institution. but the book was not in the catalogue. (how often, in exchanging volumes, did i not gaze into the reading-room, where men read the daily papers and the magazines, without daring to enter!) at length i audaciously decided to buy the book. i ordered it, not at our regular stationer's in oldcastle street, but at a little shop of the same kind in trafalgar road. in three days it arrived. i called for it, and took it home secretly in a cardboard envelope-box. i went to bed early, and i began to read. i read all night, thirteen hours. o book with the misleading title--for you have nothing to do with sociology, and you ought to have been called _how to think honestly_--my face flushed again and again as i perused your ugly yellowish pages! again and again i exclaimed: 'but this is marvellous!' i had not guessed that anything so honest, and so courageous, and so simple, and so convincing had ever been written. i am capable now of suspecting that spencer was not a supreme genius; but he taught me intellectual courage; he taught me that nothing is sacred that will not bear inspection; and i adore his memory. the next morning after breakfast i fell asleep in a chair. 'my dear!' protested aunt constance. 'ah,' i thought, 'if you knew, aunt constance, if you had the least suspicion, of the ideas that are surging and shining in my head, you would go mad--go simply mad!' i did not care much for deception, but i positively hated clumsy concealment, and the red book was in the house; at any moment it might be seized. on a shelf of books in my bedroom was a novel called _the old helmet_, probably the silliest novel in the world. i tore the pages from the binding and burnt them; i tore the binding from spencer and burnt it; and i put my treasure in the covers of _the old helmet_. once rebecca, a person privileged, took the thing away to read; but she soon brought it back. she told me she had always understood that _the old helmet_ was more, interesting than that. later, i discovered _the origin of species_ in the free library. it finished the work of corruption. spencer had shown me how to think; darwin told me what to think. the whole of my upbringing went for naught thenceforward. i lived a double life. i said nothing to my aunt of the miracle wrought within me, and she suspected nothing. strange and uncanny, is it not, that such miracles can escape the observation of a loving heart? i loved her as much as ever, perhaps more than ever. thank heaven that love can laugh at reason! so much for my intellectual inner life. my emotional inner life is less easy to indicate. i became a woman at fifteen--years, interminable years, before i left school. i guessed even then, vaguely, that my nature was extremely emotional and passionate. and i had nothing literary on which to feed my dreams, save a few novels which i despised, and the bible and the plays and poems of shakespeare. it is wonderful, though, what good i managed to find in those two use-worn volumes. i knew most of the song of solomon by heart, and many of the sonnets; and i will not mince the fact that my favourite play was _measure for measure_. i was an innocent virgin, in the restricted sense in which most girls of my class and age are innocent, but i obtained from these works many a lofty pang of thrilling pleasure. they illustrated chopin for me, giving precision and particularity to his messages. and i was ashamed of myself. yes; at the bottom of my heart i was ashamed of myself because my sensuous being responded to the call of these masterpieces. in my ignorance i thought i was lapsing from a sane and proper ideal. and then--the second miracle in my career, which has been full of miracles--i came across a casual reference, in the _staffordshire recorder_, of all places, to the _mademoiselle de maupin_ of théophile gautier. something in the reference, i no longer remember what, caused me to guess that the book was a revelation of matters hidden from me. i bought it. with the assistance of a dictionary, i read it, nightly, in about a week. except _picciola_, it was the first french novel i had ever read. it held me throughout; it revealed something on nearly every page. but the climax dazzled and blinded me. it was exquisite, so high and pure, so startling, so bold, that it made me ill. when i recovered i had fast in my heart's keeping the new truth that in the body, and the instincts of the body, there should be no shame, but rather a frank, joyous pride. from that moment i ceased to be ashamed of anything that i honestly liked. but i dared not keep the book. the knowledge of its contents would have killed my aunt. i read it again; i read the last pages several times, and then i burnt it and breathed freely. such was i, as i forced my will on my aunt in the affair of the concert. and i say that she who had never suspected the existence of the real me, suspected it then, when we glanced at each other across the breakfast-room. upon these apparent trifles life swings, as upon a pivot, into new directions. i sat with my aunt while lucy went with the note. she returned soon with the reply, and the reply was: 'so sorry i can't accept your kind invitation. i should have liked to go awfully. but fred has got the toothache, and i must not leave him.' the toothache! and my very life, so it seemed to me, hung in the balance. i did not hesitate one second. 'hurrah!' i cried. 'she can go. i am to call for her in the cab.' and i crushed the note cruelly, and threw it in the fire. 'tell him to call at ryleys',' i said to rebecca as she was putting me and my dress into the cab. and she told the cabman with that sharp voice of hers, always arrogant towards inferiors, to call at ryleys.' i put my head out of the cab window as soon as we were in oldcastle street. 'drive straight to hanbridge,' i ordered. the thing was done. ii he was like his photograph, but the photograph had given me only the most inadequate idea of him. the photograph could not render his extraordinary fairness, nor the rich gold of his hair, nor the blue of his dazzling eyes. the first impression was that he was too beautiful for a man, that he had a woman's beauty, that he had the waxen beauty of a doll; but the firm, decisive lines of the mouth and chin, the overhanging brows, and the luxuriance of his amber moustache, spoke more sternly. gradually one perceived that beneath the girlish mask, beneath the contours and the complexion incomparably delicate, there was an individuality intensely and provocatively male. his body was rather less than tall, and it was muscular and springy. he walked on to the platform as an unspoilt man should walk, and he bowed to the applause as if bowing chivalrously to a woman whom he respected but did not love. diaz was twenty-six that year; he had recently returned from a tour round the world; he was filled full of triumph, renown, and adoration. as i have said, he was already legendary. he had become so great and so marvellous that those who had never seen him were in danger of forgetting that he was a living human being, obliged to eat and drink, and practise scales, and visit his tailor's. thus it had happened to me. during the first moments i found myself thinking, 'this cannot be diaz. it is not true that at last i see him. there must be some mistake.' then he sat down leisurely to the piano; his gaze ranged across the hall, and i fancied that, for a second, it met mine. my two seats were in the first row of the stalls, and i could see every slightest change of his face. so that at length i felt that diaz was real, and that he was really there close in front of me, a seraph and yet very human. he was all alone on the great platform, and the ebonized piano seemed enormous and formidable before him. and all around was the careless public--ignorant, unsympathetic, exigent, impatient, even inimical--two thousand persons who would get value for their money or know the reason why. the electric light and the inclement gaze of society rained down cruelly upon that defenceless head. i wanted to protect it. the tears rose to my eyes, and i stretched out towards diaz the hands of my soul. my passionate sympathy must have reached him like a beneficent influence, of which, despite the perfect self-possession and self-confidence of his demeanour, it seemed to me that he had need. i had risked much that night. i had committed an enormity. no one but a grown woman who still vividly remembers her girlhood can appreciate my feelings as i drove from bursley to hanbridge in the cab, and as i got out of the cab in the crowd, and gave up my ticket, and entered the glittering auditorium of the jubilee hall. i was alone, at night, in the public places, under the eye of the world. and i was guiltily alone. every fibre of my body throbbed with the daring and the danger and the romance of the adventure. the horror of revealing the truth to aunt constance, as i was bound to do--of telling her that i had lied, and that i had left my maiden's modesty behind in my bedroom, gripped me at intervals like some appalling and exquisite instrument of torture. and yet, ere diaz had touched the piano with his broad white hand, i was content, i was rewarded, and i was justified. the programme began with chopin's first ballade. there was an imperative summons, briefly sustained, which developed into an appeal and an invocation, ascending, falling, and still higher ascending, till it faded and expired, and then, after a little pause, was revived; then silence, and two chords, defining and clarifying the vagueness of the appeal and the invocation. and then, almost before i was aware of it, there stole forth from under the fingers of diaz the song of the soul of man, timid, questioning, plaintive, neither sad nor joyous, but simply human, seeking what it might find on earth. the song changed subtly from mood to mood, expressing that which nothing but itself could express; and presently there was a low and gentle menace, thrice repeated under the melody of the song, and the reply of the song was a proud cry, a haughty contempt of these furtive warnings, and a sudden winged leap into the empyrean towards the eternal spirit. and then the melody was lost in a depth, and the song became turgid and wild and wilder, hysteric, irresolute, frantically groping, until at last it found its peace and its salvation. and the treasure was veiled in a mist of arpeggios, but one by one these were torn away, and there was a hush, a pause, and a preparation; and the soul of man broke into a new song of what it had found on earth--the magic of the tenderness of love--an air so caressing and so sweet, so calmly happy and so mournfully sane, so bereft of illusions and so naïve, that it seemed to reveal in a few miraculous phrases the secret intentions of god. it was too beautiful; it told me too much about myself; it vibrated my nerves to such an unbearable spasm of pleasure that i might have died had i not willed to live.... it gave place momentarily to the song of the question and the search, but only to return, and to return again, with a more thrilling and glorious assurance. it was drowned in doubt, but it emerged triumphantly, covered with noble and delicious ornaments, and swimming strongly on mysterious waves. and finally, with speed and with fire, it was transformed and caught up into the last ecstasy, the ultimate passion. the soul swept madly between earth and heaven, fell, rose; and there was a dreadful halt. then a loud blast, a distortion of the magic, an upward rush, another and a louder blast, and a thunderous fall, followed by two massive and terrifying chords.... diaz was standing up and bowing to his public. what did they understand? did they understand anything? i cannot tell. but i know that they felt. a shudder of feeling had gone through the hall. it was in vain that people tried to emancipate themselves from the spell by the violence of their applause. they could not. we were all together under the enchantment. some may have seen clearly, some darkly, but we were equal before the throne of that mighty enchanter. and the enchanter bowed and bowed with a grave, sympathetic smile, and then disappeared. i had not clapped my hands; i had not moved. only my full eyes had followed him as he left the platform; and when he returned--because the applause would not cease--my eyes watched over him as he came back to the centre of the platform. he stood directly in front of me, smiling more gaily now. and suddenly our glances met! yes; i could not be mistaken. they met, and mine held his for several seconds.... diaz had looked at me. diaz had singled me out from the crowd. i blushed hotly, and i was conscious of a surpassing joy. my spirit was transfigured. i knew that such a man was above kings. i knew that the world and everything of loveliness that it contained was his. i knew that he moved like a beautiful god through the groves of delight, and that what he did was right, and whom he beckoned came, and whom he touched was blessed. and my eyes had held his eyes for a little space. the enchantment deepened. i had read that the secret of playing chopin had died with chopin; but i felt sure that evening, as i have felt sure since, that chopin himself, aristocrat of the soul as he was, would have received diaz as an equal, might even have acknowledged in him a superior. for diaz had a physique, and he had a mastery, a tyranny, of the keyboard that chopin could not have possessed. diaz had come to the front in a generation of pianists who had lifted technique to a plane of which neither liszt nor rubinstein dreamed. he had succeeded primarily by his gigantic and incredible technique. and then, when his technique had astounded the world, he had invited the world to forget it, as the glass is forgotten through which is seen beauty. and diaz's gift was now such that there appeared to intervene nothing between his conception of the music and the strings of the piano, so perfected was the mechanism. difficulties had ceased to exist. the performance of some pianists is so wonderful that it seems as if they were crossing niagara on a tight-rope, and you tremble lest they should fall off. it was not so with diaz. when diaz played you experienced the pure emotions caused by the unblurred contemplation of that beauty which the great masters had created, and which diaz had tinted with the rare dyes of his personality. you forgot all but beauty. the piano was not a piano; it was an arabian magic beyond physical laws, and it, too, had a soul. so diaz laid upon us the enchantment of chopin and of himself. mazurkas, nocturnes, waltzes, scherzos, polonaises, preludes, he exhibited to us in groups those manifestations of that supreme spirit--that spirit at once stern and tender, not more sad than joyous, and always sane, always perfectly balanced, always preoccupied with beauty. the singular myth of a chopin decadent, weary, erratic, mournful, hysterical, at odds with fate, was completely dissipated; and we perceived instead the grave artist nourished on bach and studious in form, and the strong soul that had dared to look on life as it is, and had found beauty everywhere. ah! how the air trembled and glittered with visions! how melody and harmony filled every corner of the hall with the silver and gold of sound! how the world was changed out of recognition! how that which had seemed unreal became real, and that which had seemed real receded to a horizon remote and fantastic!... he was playing the fifteenth prelude in d flat now, and the water was dropping, dropping ceaselessly on the dead body, and the beautiful calm song rose serenely in the dream, and then lost itself amid the presaging chords of some sinister fate, and came again, exquisite and fresh as ever, and then was interrupted by a high note like a clarion; and while diaz held that imperious, compelling note, he turned his face slightly from the piano and gazed at me. several times since the first time our eyes had met, by accident as i thought. but this was a deliberate seeking on his part. again i flushed hotly. again i had the terrible shudder of joy. i feared for a moment lest all the five towns was staring at me, thus singled out by diaz; but it was not so: i had the wit to perceive that no one could remark me as the recipient of that hurried and burning glance. he had half a dozen bars to play, yet his eyes did not leave mine, and i would not let mine leave his. he remained moveless while the last chord expired, and then it seemed to me that his gaze had gone further, had passed through me into some unknown. the applause startled him to his feet. my thought was: 'what can he be thinking of me?... but hundreds of women must have loved him!' in the interval an attendant came on to the platform and altered the position of the piano. everybody asked: 'what's that for?' for the new position was quite an unusual one; it brought the tail of the piano nearer to the audience, and gave a better view of the keyboard to the occupants of the seats in the orchestra behind the platform. 'it's a question of the acoustics, that's what it is,' observed a man near me, and a woman replied: 'oh, i see!' when diaz returned and seated himself to play the berceuse, i saw that he could look at me without turning his head. and now, instead of flushing, i went cold. my spine gave way suddenly. i began to be afraid; but of what i was afraid i had not the least idea. i fixed my eyes on my programme as he launched into the berceuse. twice i glanced up, without, however, moving my head, and each time his burning blue eyes met mine. (but why did i choose moments when the playing of the piece demanded less than all his attention?) the berceuse was a favourite. in sentiment it was simpler than the great pieces that had preceded it. its excessive delicacy attracted; the finesse of its embroidery swayed and enraptured the audience; and the applause at the close was mad, deafening, and peremptory. but diaz was notorious as a refuser of encores. it had been said that he would see a hall wrecked by an angry mob before he would enlarge his programme. four times he came forward and acknowledged the tribute, and four times he went back. at the fifth response he halted directly in front of me, and in his bold, grave eyes i saw a question. i saw it, and i would not answer. if he had spoken aloud to me i could not have more clearly understood. but i would not answer. and then some power within myself, hitherto unsuspected by me, some natural force, took possession of me, and i nodded my head.... diaz went to the piano. he hesitated, brushing lightly the keys. 'the prelude in f sharp,' my thought ran. 'if he would play that!' and instantly he broke into that sweet air, with its fateful hushed accompaniment--the trifle which chopin threw off in a moment of his highest inspiration. 'it is the thirteenth prelude,' i reflected. i was disturbed, profoundly troubled. the next piece was the last, and it was the fantasia, the masterpiece of chopin. in the fantasia there speaks the voice of a spirit which has attained all that humanity may attain: of wisdom, of power, of pride and glory. and now it is like the roll of an army marching slowly through terrific defiles; and now it is like the quiet song of royal wanderers meditating in vast garden landscapes, with mossy masonry and long pools and cypresses, and a sapphire star shining in the purple sky on the shoulder of a cypress; and now it is like the cry of a lost traveller, who, plunging heavily through a virgin forest, comes suddenly upon a green circular sward, smooth as a carpet, with an antique statue of a beautiful nude girl in the midst; and now it is like the oratory of richly-gowned philosophers awaiting death in gorgeous and gloomy palaces; and now it is like the upward rush of winged things that are determined to achieve, knowing well the while that the ecstasy of longing is better than the assuaging of desire. and though the voice of this spirit speaking in the music disguises itself so variously, it is always the same. for it cannot, and it would not, hide the strange and rare timbre which distinguishes it from all others--that quality which springs from a pure and calm vision, of life. the voice of this spirit says that it has lost every illusion about life, and that life seems only the more beautiful. it says that activity is but another form of contemplation, pain but another form of pleasure, power but another form of weakness, hate but another form of love, and that it is well these things should be so. it says there is no end, only a means; and that the highest joy is to suffer, and the supreme wisdom is to exist. if you will but live, it cries, that grave but yet passionate voice--if you will but live! were there a heaven, and you reached it, you could do no more than live. the true heaven is here where you live, where you strive and lose, and weep and laugh. and the true hell is here, where you forget to live, and blind your eyes to the omnipresent and terrible beauty of existence.... no, no; i cannot--i cannot describe further the experiences of my soul while diaz played. when words cease, music has scarcely begun. i know now--i did not know it then--that diaz was playing as perhaps he had never played before. the very air was charged with exquisite emotion, which went in waves across the hall, changing and blanching faces, troubling hearts, and moistening eyes.... and then he finished. it was over. in every trembling breast was a pang of regret that this spell, this miracle, this divine revolution, could not last into eternity.... he stood bowing, one hand touching the piano. and as the revolution he had accomplished in us was divine, so was he divine. i felt, and many another woman in the audience felt, that no reward could be too great for the beautiful and gifted creature who had entranced us and forced us to see what alone in life was worth seeing: that the whole world should be his absolute dominion; that his happiness should be the first concern of mankind; that if a thousand suffered in order to make him happy for a moment, it mattered not; that laws were not for him; that if he sinned, his sin must not be called a sin, and that he must be excused from remorse and from any manner of woe. the applauding multitude stood up, and moved slightly towards the exits, and then stopped, as if ashamed of this readiness to desert the sacred temple. diaz came forward three times, and each time the applause increased to a tempest; but he only smiled--smiled gravely. i could not see distinctly whether his eyes had sought mine, for mine were full of tears. no persuasions could induce him to show himself a fourth time, and at length a middle-aged man appeared and stated that diaz was extremely gratified by his reception, but that he was also extremely exhausted and had left the hall. we departed, we mortals; and i was among the last to leave the auditorium. as i left the lights were being extinguished over the platform, and an attendant was closing the piano. the foyer was crowded with people waiting to get out. the word passed that it was raining heavily. i wondered how i should find my cab. i felt very lonely and unknown; i was overcome with sadness--with a sense of the futility and frustration of my life. such is the logic of the soul, and such the force of reaction. gradually the foyer emptied. iii 'you think i am happy,' said diaz, gazing at me with a smile suddenly grave; 'but i am not. i seek something which i cannot find. and my playing is only a relief from the fruitless search; only that. i am forlorn.' 'you!' i exclaimed, and my eyes rested on his, long. yes, we had met. perhaps it had been inevitable since the beginning of time that we should meet; but it was none the less amazing. perhaps i had inwardly known that we should meet; but, none the less, i was astounded when a coated and muffled figure came up swiftly to me in the emptying foyer, and said: 'ah! you are here! i cannot leave without thanking you for your sympathy. i have never before felt such sympathy while playing.' it was a golden voice, pitched low, and the words were uttered with a very slight foreign accent, which gave them piquancy. i could not reply; something rose in my throat, and the caressing voice continued: 'you are pale. do you feel ill? what can i do? come with me to the artists' room; my secretary is there.' i put out a hand gropingly, for i could not see clearly, and i thought i should reel and fall. it touched his shoulder. he took my arm, and we went; no one had noticed us, and i had not spoken a word. in the room to which he guided me, through a long and sombre corridor, there was no sign of a secretary. i drank some water. 'there, you are better!' he cried. 'thank you,' i said, but scarcely whispering. 'how fortunate i ventured to come to you just at that moment! you might have fallen'; and he smiled again. i shook my head. i said: 'it was your coming--that--that--made me dizzy!' 'i profoundly regret--' he began. 'no, no,' i interrupted him; and in that instant i knew i was about to say something which society would, justifiably, deem unpardonable in a girl situated as i was. 'i am so glad you came'; and i smiled, courageous and encouraging. for once in my life--for the first time in my adult life--i determined to be my honest self to another. 'your voice is exquisitely beautiful,' he murmured. i thrilled. of what use to chronicle the steps, now halting, now only too hasty, by which our intimacy progressed in that gaunt and echoing room? he asked me no questions as to my identity. he just said that he would like to play to me in private if that would give me pleasure, and that possibly i could spare an hour and would go with him.... afterwards his brougham would be at my disposal. his tone was the perfection of deferential courtesy. once the secretary came in--a young man rather like himself--and they talked together in a foreign language that was not french nor german; then the secretary bowed and retired.... we were alone.... there can be no sort of doubt that unless i was prepared to flout the wisdom of the ages, i ought to have refused his suggestion. but is not the wisdom of the ages a medicine for majorities? and, indeed, i was prepared to flout it, as in our highest and our lowest moments we often are. moreover, how many women in my place, confronted by that divine creature, wooed by that wondrous personality, intoxicated by that smile and that voice, allured by the appeal of those marvellous hands, would have found the strength to resist? i did not resist, i yielded; i accepted. i was already in disgrace with aunt constance--as well be drowned in twelve feet of water as in six! so we drove rapidly away in the brougham, through the miry, light-reflecting streets of hanbridge in the direction of knype. and the raindrops ran down the windows of the brougham, and in the cushioned interior we could see each other darkly. he did his best to be at ease, and he almost succeeded. my feeling towards him, as regards the external management, the social guidance, of the affair, was as though we were at sea in a dangerous storm, and he was on the bridge and i was a mere passenger, and could take no responsibility. who knew through what difficult channels we might not have to steer, and from what lee-shores we might not have to beat away? i saw that he perceived this. when i offered him some awkward compliment about his good english, he seized the chance of a narrative, and told me about his parentage: how his mother was scotch, and his father danish, and how, after his father's death, his mother had married emilio diaz, a spanish teacher of music in edinburgh, and how he had taken, by force of early habit, the name of his stepfather. the whole world was familiar with these facts, and i was familiar with them; but their recital served our turn in the brougham, and, of course, diaz could add touches which had escaped the _staffordshire recorder_, and perhaps all other papers. he was explaining to me that his secretary was his stepfather's son by another wife, when we arrived at the five towns hotel, opposite knype railway station. i might have foreseen that that would be our destination. i hooded myself as well as i could, and followed him quickly to the first-floor. i sank down into a chair nearly breathless in his sitting-room, and he took my cloak, and then poked the bright fire that was burning. on a small table were some glasses and a decanter, and a few sandwiches. i surmised that the secretary had been before us and arranged things, and discreetly departed. my adventure appeared to me suddenly and over-poweringly in its full enormity. 'oh,' i sighed, 'if i were a man like you!' then it was that, gazing up at me from the fire, diaz had said that he was not happy, that he was forlorn. 'yes,' he proceeded, sitting down and crossing his legs; 'i am profoundly dissatisfied. what is my life? eight or nine months in the year it is a homeless life of hotels and strange faces and strange pianos. you do not know how i hate a strange piano. that one'--he pointed to a huge instrument which had evidently been placed in the room specially for him--'is not very bad; but i made its acquaintance only yesterday, and after to-morrow i shall never see it again. i wander across the world, and everybody i meet looks at me as if i ought to be in a museum, and bids me make acquaintance with a strange piano.' 'but have you no friends?' i ventured. 'who can tell?' he replied. 'if i have, i scarcely ever see them.' 'and no home?' 'i have a home on the edge of the forest of fontainebleau, and i loathe it.' 'why do you loathe it?' 'ah! for what it has witnessed--for what it has witnessed.' he sighed. 'suppose we discuss something else.' you must remember my youth, my inexperience, my lack of adroitness in social intercourse. i talked quietly and slowly, like my aunt, and i know that i had a tremendous air of sagacity and self-possession; but beneath that my brain and heart were whirling, bewildered in a delicious, dazzling haze of novel sensations. it was not i who spoke, but a new being, excessively perturbed into a consciousness of new powers. i said: 'you say you are friendless, but i wonder how many women are dying for love of you.' he started. there was a pause. i felt myself blushing. 'let me guess at your history,' he said. 'you have lived much alone with your thoughts, and you have read a great deal of the finest romantic poetry, and you have been silent, especially with men. you have seen little of men.' 'but i understand them,' i answered boldly. 'i believe you do,' he admitted; and he laughed. 'so i needn't explain to you that a thousand women dying of love for one man will not help that man to happiness, unless he is dying of love for the thousand and first.' 'and have you never loved?' the words came of themselves out of my mouth. 'i have deceived myself--in my quest of sympathy,' he said. 'can you be sure that, in your quest of sympathy, you are not deceiving yourself tonight?' 'yes,' he cried quickly, 'i can.' and he sprang up and almost ran to the piano. 'you remember the d flat prelude?' he said, breaking into the latter part of the air, and looking at me the while. 'when i came to that note and caught your gaze'--he struck the b flat and held it--'i knew that i had found sympathy. i knew it! i knew it! i knew it! do you remember?' 'remember what?' 'the way we looked at each other.' 'yes,' i breathed, 'i remember.' 'how can i thank you? how can i thank you?' he seemed to be meditating. his simplicity, his humility, his kindliness were more than i could bear. 'please do not speak like that,' i entreated him, pained. 'you are the greatest artist in the world, and i am nobody--nobody at all. i do not know why i am here. i cannot imagine what you have seen in me. everything is a mystery. all i feel is that i am in your presence, and that i am not worthy to be. no matter how long i live, i shall never experience again the joy that i have now. but if you talk about thanking me, i must run away, because i cannot stand it--and--and--you haven't played for me, and you said you would.' he approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and i glanced up through a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on his forehead. 'the most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most lasting things,' he said softly, 'are often mysterious and inexplicable and sudden. and let me tell you that you do not know how lovely you are. you do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of your gestures. but time and man will teach you. what shall i play?' he was very close to me. 'bach,' i ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano. i fancied that bach would spread peace abroad in my soul. he resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys. 'another thing that makes me more sure that i am not deceiving myself to-night,' he said, taking his fingers off the keys, but staring at the keyboard, 'is that you have not regretted coming here. you have not called yourself a wicked woman. you have not even accused me of taking advantage of your innocence.' and ere i could say a word he had begun the chromatic fantasia, smiling faintly. and i had hoped for peace from bach! i had often suspected that deep passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the apparent calm of bach's music, but the full force of it had not been shown to me till this glorious night. diaz' playing was tenfold more impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in the great hall. the chromatic fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence of life as that other fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier. instead of peace i had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot; instead of the poppy an alarming potion. the rendering was masterly to the extreme of masterliness. when he had finished i rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he did not stir. 'do you always play like that?' i asked at length. 'no,' he said; 'only when you are there. i have never played the chopin fantasia as i played it to-night. the chopin was all right; but do not be under any illusion: what you have just heard is bach played by a chopin player.' then he left the piano and went to the small table where the glasses were. 'you must be in need of refreshment,' he whispered gaily. 'nothing is more exhausting than listening to the finest music.' 'it is you who ought to be tired,' i replied; 'after that long concert, to be playing now.' 'i have the physique of a camel,' he said. 'i am never tired so long as i am sure of my listeners. i would play for you till breakfast to-morrow.' the decanter contained a fluid of a pleasant green tint. he poured very carefully this fluid to the depth of half an inch in one glass and three-quarters of an inch in another glass. then he filled both glasses to the brim with water, accomplishing the feat with infinite pains and enjoyment, as though it had been part of a ritual. 'there!' he said, offering me in his steady hand the glass which had received the smaller quantity of the green fluid. 'taste.' 'but what is it?' i demanded. 'taste,' he repeated, and he himself tasted. i obeyed. at the first mouthful i thought the liquid was somewhat sinister and disagreeable, but immediately afterwards i changed my opinion, and found it ingratiating, enticing, and stimulating, and yet not strong. 'do you like it?' he asked. i nodded, and drank again. 'it is wonderful,' i answered. 'what do you call it?' 'men call it absinthe,' he said. 'but--' i put the glass on the mantelpiece and picked it up again. 'don't be frightened,' he soothed me. 'i know what you were going to say. you have always heard that absinthe is the deadliest of all poisons, that it is the curse of paris, and that it makes the most terrible of all drunkards. so it is; so it does. but not as we are drinking it; not as i invariably drink it.' 'of course,' i said, proudly confident in him. 'you would not have offered it to me otherwise.' 'of course i should not,' he agreed. 'i give you my word that a few drops of absinthe in a tumbler of water make the most effective and the least harmful stimulant in the world.' 'i am sure of it,' i said. 'but drink slowly,' he advised me. i refused the sandwiches. i had no need of them. i felt sufficient unto myself. i no longer had any apprehension. my body, my brain, and my soul seemed to be at the highest pitch of efficiency. the fear of being maladroit departed from me. ideas--delicate and subtle ideas--welled up in me one after another; i was bound to give utterance to them. i began to talk about my idol chopin, and i explained to diaz my esoteric interpretation of the fantasia. he was sitting down now, but i still stood by the fire. 'yes, he said, 'that is very interesting.' 'what does the fantasia mean to you?' i asked him. 'nothing,' he said. 'nothing!' 'nothing, in the sense you wish to convey. everything, in another sense. you can attach any ideas you please to music, but music, if you will forgive me saying so, rejects them all equally. art has to do with emotions, not with ideas, and the great defect of literature is that it can only express emotions by means of ideas. what makes music the greatest of all the arts is that it can express emotions without ideas. literature can appeal to the soul only through the mind. music goes direct. its language is a language which the soul alone understands, but which the soul can never translate. therefore all i can say of the fantasia is that it moves me profoundly. i _know how_ it moves me, but i cannot tell you; i cannot even tell myself.' vistas of comprehension opened out before me. 'oh, do go on,' i entreated him. 'tell me more about music. do you not think chopin the greatest composer that ever lived? you must do, since you always play him.' he smiled. 'no,' he said, 'i do not. for me there is no supremacy in art. when fifty artists have contrived to be supreme, supremacy becomes impossible. take a little song by grieg. it is perfect, it is supreme. no one could be greater than grieg was great when he wrote that song. the whole last act of _the twilight of the gods_ is not greater than a little song of grieg's.' 'i see,' i murmured humbly. '_the twilight of the gods_--that is wagner, isn't it?' 'yes. don't you know your wagner?' 'no. i--' 'you don't know _tristan_?' he jumped up, excited. 'how could i know it?' i expostulated. 'i have never seen any opera. i know the marches from _tannhäuser_ and _lohengrin_, and "o star of eve!"' 'but it is impossible that you don't know _tristan_!' he exclaimed. 'the second act of _tristan_ is the greatest piece of love-music--no, it isn't.' he laughed. 'i must not contradict myself. but it is marvellous--marvellous! you know the story?' 'yes,' i said. 'play me some of it.' 'i will play the prelude,' he answered. i gulped down the remaining drops in my glass and crossed the room to a chair where i could see his face. and he played the prelude to the most passionately voluptuous opera ever written. it was my first real introduction to wagner, my first glimpse of that enchanted field. i was ravished, rapt away. 'wagner was a great artist in spite of himself,' said diaz, when he had finished. 'he assigned definite and precise ideas to all those melodies. nothing could be more futile. i shall not label them for you. but perhaps you can guess the love-motive for yourself.' 'yes, i can,' i said positively. 'it is this.' i tried to hum the theme, but my voice refused obedience. so i came to the piano, and played the theme high up in the treble, while diaz was still sitting on the piano-stool. i trembled even to touch the piano in his presence; but i did it. 'you have guessed right,' he said; and then he asked me in a casual tone: 'do you ever play pianoforte duets?' 'often,' i replied unsuspectingly, 'with my aunt. we play the symphonies of beethoven, mozart, schubert, haydn, and overtures, and so on.' 'awfully good fun, isn't it?' he smiled. 'splendid!' i said. 'i've got _tristan_ here arranged for pianoforte duet,' he said. 'tony, my secretary, enjoys playing it. you shall play part of the second act with me.' 'me! with you!' 'certainly.' 'impossible! i should never dare! how do you know i can play at all?' 'you have just proved it to me,' said he. 'come; you will not refuse me this!' i wanted to leave the vicinity of the piano. i felt that, once out of the immediate circle of his tremendous physical influence, i might manage to escape the ordeal which he had suggested. but i could not go away. the silken nets of his personality had been cast, and i was enmeshed. and if i was happy, it was with a dreadful happiness. 'but, really, i can't play with you,' i said weakly. his response was merely to look up at me over his shoulder. his beautiful face was so close to mine, and it expressed such a naïve and strong yearning for my active and intimate sympathy, and such divine frankness, and such perfect kindliness, that i had no more will to resist. i knew i should suffer horribly in spoiling by my coarse amateurishness the miraculous finesse of his performance, but i resigned myself to suffering. i felt towards him as i had felt during the concert: that he must have his way at no matter what cost, that he had already earned the infinite gratitude of the entire world--in short, i raised him in my soul to a god's throne; and i accepted humbly the great, the incredible honour he did me. and i was right--a thousand times right. and in the same moment he was like a charming child to me: such is always in some wise the relation between the creature born to enjoy and the creature born to suffer. 'i'll try,' i said; 'but it will be appalling.' i laughed and shook my head. 'we shall see how appalling it will be,' he murmured, as he got the volume of music. he fetched a chair for me, and we sat down side by side, he on the stool and i on the chair. 'i'm afraid my chair is too low,' i said. 'and i'm sure this stool is too high,' he said. 'suppose we exchange.' so we both rose to change the positions of the chair and the stool, and our garments touched and almost our faces, and at that very moment there was a loud rap at the door. i darted away from him. 'what's that?' i cried, low in a fit of terror. 'who's there?' he called quietly; but he did not stir. we gazed at each other. the knock was repeated, sharply and firmly. 'who's there?' diaz demanded again. 'go to the door,' i whispered. he hesitated, and then we heard footsteps receding down the corridor. diaz went slowly to the door, opened it wide, slipped out into the corridor, and looked into the darkness. 'curious!' he commented tranquilly. 'i see no one.' he came back into the room and shut the door softly, and seemed thereby to shut us in, to enclose us against the world in a sweet domesticity of our own. the fire was burning brightly, the glasses and the decanter on the small table spoke of cheer, the curtains were drawn, and through a half-open door behind the piano one had a hint of a mysterious other room; one could see nothing within it save a large brass knob or ball, which caught the light of the candle on the piano. 'you were startled,' he said. 'you must have a little more of our cordial--just a spoonful.' he poured out for me an infinitesimal quantity, and the same for himself. i sighed with relief as i drank. my terror left me. but the trifling incident had given me the clearest perception of what i was doing, and that did not leave me. we sat down a second time to the piano. 'you understand,' he explained, staring absently at the double page of music, 'this is the garden scene. when the curtain goes up it is dark in the garden, and isolda is there with her maid brangaena. the king, her husband, has just gone off hunting--you will hear the horns dying in the distance--and isolda is expecting her lover, tristan. a torch is burning in the wall of the castle, and as soon as she gives him the signal by extinguishing it he comes to her. you will know the exact moment when they meet. then there is the love-scene. oh! when we arrive at that you will be astounded. you will hear the very heart-beats of the lovers. are you ready?' 'yes.' we began to play. but it was ridiculous. i knew it would be ridiculous. i was too dazed, and artistically too intimidated, to read the notes. the notes danced and pranced before me. all i could see on my page was the big black letters at the top, 'zweiter aufzug.' and furthermore, on that first page both the theme and the accompaniment were in the bass of the piano. diaz had scarcely anything to do. i threw up my hands and closed my eyes. 'i can't,' i whispered, 'i can't. i would if i could.' he gently took my hand. 'my dear companion,' he said, 'tell me your name.' i was surprised. memories of the bible, for some inexplicable reason, flashed through my mind. 'magdalen,' i replied, and my voice was so deceptively quiet and sincere that he believed it. i could see that he was taken aback. 'it is a holy name and a good name,' he said, after a pause. 'magda, you are perfectly capable of reading this music with me, and you will read it, won't you? let us begin afresh. leave the accompaniment with me, and play the theme only. further on it gets easier.' and in another moment we were launched on that sea so strange to me. the influence of diaz over me was complete. inspired by his will, i had resolved intensely to read the music correctly and sympathetically, and lo! i was succeeding! he turned the page with the incredible rapidity and dexterity of which only great pianists seem to have the secret, and in conjunction with my air in the bass he was suddenly, magically, drawing out from the upper notes the sweetest and most intoxicating melody i had ever heard. the exceeding beauty of the thing laid hold on me, and i abandoned myself to it. i felt sure now that, at any rate, i should not disgrace myself.' 'unless it was chopin,' whispered diaz. 'no one could ever see two things at once as well as wagner.' we surged on through the second page. again the lightning turn of the page, and then the hunters' horns were heard departing from the garden of love, receding, receding, until they subsided into a scarce-heard drone, out of which rose another air. and as the sound of the horns died away, so died away all my past and all my solicitudes for the future. i surrendered utterly and passionately to the spell of the beauty which we were opening like a long scroll. i had ceased to suffer. the absinthe and diaz had conjured a spirit in me which was at once feverish and calm. i was reading at sight difficult music full of modulations and of colour, and i was reading it with calm assurance of heart and brain. deeper down the fever raged, but so separately that i might have had two individualities. enchanted as i was by the rich and complex concourse of melodies which ascended from the piano and swam about our heads, this fluctuating tempest of sound was after all only a background for the emotions to which it gave birth in me. naturally they were the emotions of love--the sense of the splendour of love, the headlong passion of love, the transcendent carelessness of love, the finality of love. i saw in love the sole and sacred purpose of the universe, and my heart whispered, with a new import: 'where love is, there is god also.' the fever of the music increased, and with it my fever. we seemed to be approaching some mighty climax. i thought i might faint with ecstasy, but i held on, and the climax arrived--a climax which touched the limits of expression in expressing all that two souls could feel in coming together. 'tristan has come into the garden,' i muttered. and diaz, turning his face towards me, nodded. we plunged forward into the love-scene itself--the scene in which the miracle of love is solemnized and celebrated. i thought that of all miracles, the miracle which had occurred that night, and was even then occurring, might be counted among the most wondrous. what occult forces, what secret influences of soul on soul, what courage on his part, what sublime immodesty and unworldliness on mine had brought it about! in what dreadful disaster would it not end! ... i cared not in that marvellous hectic hour how it would end. i knew i had been blessed beyond the common lot of women. i knew that i was living more intensely and more fully than i could have hoped to live. i knew that my experience was a supreme experience, and that another such could not be contained in my life.... and diaz was so close, so at one with me.... a hush descended on the music, and i found myself playing strange disturbing chords with the left hand, irregularly repeated, opposing the normal accent of the bar, and becoming stranger and more disturbing. and diaz was playing an air fragmentary and poignant. the lovers were waiting; the very atmosphere of the garden was drenched with an agonizing and exquisite anticipation. the whole world stood still, expectant, while the strange chords fought gently and persistently against the rhythm. 'hear the beating of their hearts,' diaz' whisper floated over the chords. it was too much. the obsession of his presence, reinforced by the vibrating of his wistful, sensuous voice, overcame me suddenly. my hands fell from the keyboard. he looked at me--and with what a glance! 'i can bear no more,' i cried wildly. 'it is too beautiful, too beautiful!' and i rushed from the piano, and sat down in an easy-chair, and hid my face in my hands. he came to me, and bent over me. 'magda,' he whispered, 'show me your face.' with his hands he delicately persuaded my hands away from my face, and forced me to look on him. 'how dark and splendid you are, magda!' he said, still holding my hands. 'how humid and flashing your eyes! and those eyelashes, and that hair--dark, dark! and that bosom, with its rise and fall! and that low, rich voice, that is like dark wine! and that dress--dark, and full of mysterious shadows, like our souls! magda, we must have known each other in a previous life. there can be no other explanation. and this moment is the fulfilment of that other life, which was not aroused. you were to be mine. you are mine, magda!' there is a fatalism in love. i felt it then. i had been called by destiny to give happiness, perhaps for a lifetime, but perhaps only for a brief instant, to this noble and glorious creature, on whom the gods had showered all gifts. could i shrink back from my fate? and had he not already given me far more than i could ever return? the conventions of society seemed then like sand, foolishly raised to imprison the resistless tide of ocean. nature, after all, is eternal and unchangeable, and everywhere the same. the great and solemn fact for me was that we were together, and he held me while our burning pulses throbbed in contact. he held me; he clasped me, and, despite my innocence, i knew at once that those hands were as expert to caress as to make music. i was proud and glad that he was not clumsy, that he was a master. and at that point i ceased to have volition.... iv when i woke up, perplexed at first, but gradually remembering where i was, and what had occurred to me, the realistic and uncompromising light of dawn had commenced its pitiless inquiry, and it fell on the brass knob, which i had noticed a few hours before, from the other room, and on another brass knob a few feet away. my eyes smarted; i had disconcerting sensations at the back of my head; my hair was brittle, and as though charged with a dull electricity; i was conscious of actual pain, and an incubus, crushing but intangible, lay heavily, like a physical weight, on my heart. after the crest of the wave the trough--it must be so; but how profound the instinct which complains! i listened. i could hear his faint, regular breathing. i raised myself carefully on one elbow and looked at him. he was as beautiful in sleep as in consciousness; his lips were slightly parted, his cheek exquisitely flushed, and nothing could disarrange that short, curly hair. he slept with the calmness of the natural innocent man, to whom the assuaging of desires brings only content. i felt that i must go, and hastily, frantically. i could not face him when he woke; i should not have known what to say; i should have been abashed, timid, clumsy, unequal to myself. and, moreover, i had the egoist's deep need to be alone, to examine my soul, to understand it intimately and utterly. and, lastly, i wanted to pay the bill of pleasure at once. i could never tolerate credit; i was like my aunt in that. therefore, i must go home and settle the account in some way. i knew not how; i knew only that the thing must be done. diaz had nothing to do with that; it was not his affair, and i should have resented his interference. ah! when i was in the bill-paying mood, how hard i could be, how stony, how blind! and that morning i was like a malay running amok. think not that when i was ready to depart i stopped and stooped to give him a final tender kiss. i did not even scribble a word of adieu or of explanation. i stole away on tiptoe, without looking at him. this sounds brutal, but it is a truth of my life, and i am writing my life--at least, i am writing those brief hours of my existence during which i lived. i had always a sort of fierce courage; and as i had proved the courage of my passion in the night, so i proved the courage of my--not my remorse, not my compunction, not my regret--but of my intellectual honesty in the morning. proud and vain words, perhaps. who can tell? no matter what sympathies i alienate, i am bound to say plainly that, though i am passionate, i am not sentimental. i came to him out of the void, and i went from him into the void. he found me, and he lost me. between the autumn sunset and the autumn sunrise he had learnt to know me well, but he did not know my name nor my history; he had no clue, no cord to pull me back. i passed into the sitting-room, dimly lighted through the drawn curtains, and there was the score of _tristan_ open on the piano. yes; and if i were the ordinary woman i would add that there also were the ashes in the cold grate, and so symbolize the bitterness of memory and bring about a pang. but i have never regretted what is past. the cinders of that fire were to me cinders of a fire and nothing more. in the doorway i halted. to go into the corridor was like braving the blast of the world, and i hesitated. possibly i hesitated for a very little thing. only the women among you will guess it. my dress was dark and severe. i had a simple, dark cloak. but i had no hat. i had no hat, and the most important fact in the universe for me then was that i had no hat. my whole life was changed; my heart and mind were in the throes of a revolution. i dared not imagine what would happen between my aunt and me; but this deficiency in my attire distressed me more than all else. at the other end of the obscure corridor was a chambermaid kneeling down and washing the linoleum. ah, maid! would i not have exchanged fates with you, then! i walked boldly up to her. she seemed to be surprised, but she continued to wring out a cloth in her pail as she looked at me. 'what time is it, please?' i asked her. 'better than half-past six, ma'am,' said she. she was young and emaciated. 'have you got a hat you can lend me? or i'll buy it from you.' 'a hat, ma'am?' 'yes, a hat,' i repeated impatiently. and i flushed. 'i must go out at once, and i've--i've no hat and i can't--' it is extraordinary how in a crisis one's organism surprises one. i had thought i was calm and full of self-control, but i had almost no command over my voice. 'i've got a boat-shaped straw, ma'am, if that's any use to you,' said the girl kindly. what she surmised or what she knew i could not say. but i have found out since in my travels, that hotel chambermaids lose their illusions early. at any rate her tone was kindly. 'get it me, there's a good girl,' i entreated her. and when she brought it, i drew out the imitation pearl pins and put them between my teeth, and jammed the hat on my head and skewered it savagely with the pins. 'is that right?' 'it suits you better than it does me, ma'am, i do declare,' she said. 'oh, ma'am, this is too much--i really couldn't!' i had given her five shillings. 'nonsense! i am very much obliged to you,' i whispered hurriedly, and ran off. she was a good girl. i hope she has never suffered. and yet i would not like to think she had died of consumption before she knew what life meant. i hastened from the hotel. a man in a blue waistcoat with shining black sleeves was moving a large cocoa-nut mat in the hall, and the pattern of the mat was shown in dust on the tiles where the mat had been. he glanced at me absently as i flitted past; i encountered no other person. the square between the hotel and the station was bathed in pure sunshine--such sunshine as reaches the five towns only after a rain-storm has washed the soot out of the air. i felt, for a moment, obscene in that sunshine; but i had another and a stronger feeling. although there was not a soul in the square, i felt as if i was regarding the world and mankind with different eyes from those of yesterday. then i knew nothing; to-day i knew everything--so it seemed to me. it seemed to me that i understood all sorts of vague, subtle things that i had not understood before; that i had been blind and now saw; that i had become kinder, more sympathetic, more human. what these things were that i understood, or thought i understood, i could not have explained. all i felt was that a radical change of attitude had occurred in me. 'poor world! poor humanity! my heart melts for you!' thus spoke my soul, pouring itself out. the very stone facings of the station and the hotel seemed somehow to be humanized and to need my compassion. i walked with eyes downcast into the station. i had determined to take the train from knype to shawport, a distance of three miles, and then to walk up the hill from shawport through oldcastle street to bursley. i hoped that by such a route at such an hour, i should be unlikely to meet acquaintances, of whom, in any case, i had few. my hopes appeared to be well founded, for the large booking-hall at the station was thronged with a multitude entirely strange to me--workmen and workwomen and workgirls crowded the place. the first-class and second-class booking-windows were shut, and a long tail of muscular men, pale men, stout women, and thin women pushed to take tickets at the other window. i was obliged to join them, and to wait my turn amid the odour of corduroy and shawl, and the strong odour of humanity; my nostrils were peculiarly sensitive that morning. some of the men had herculean arms and necks, and it was these who wore pieces of string tied round their trousers below the knee, disclosing the lines of their formidable calves. the women were mostly pallid and quiet. all carried cans, or satchels, or baskets; here and there a man swung lightly on his shoulder a huge bag of tools, which i could scarcely have raised from the ground. everybody was natural, direct, and eager; and no one attempted to be genteel or refined; no one pretended that he did not toil with his hands for dear life. i anticipated that i should excite curiosity, but i did not. the people had a preoccupied, hurried air. only at the window itself, when the ticket-clerk, having made me repeat my demand, went to a distant part of his lair to get my ticket, did i detect behind me a wave of impatient and inimical interest in this drone who caused delay to busy people. it was the same on the up-platform, the same in the subway, and the same on the down-platform. i was plunged in a sea of real, raw life; but i could not mingle with it; i was a bit of manufactured lace on that full tide of nature. the porters cried in a different tone from what they employed when the london and manchester expresses, and the polite trains generally, were alongside. they cried fraternally, rudely; they were at one with the passengers. i alone was a stranger. 'these are the folk! these are the basis of society, and the fountain of _our_ wealth and luxury!' i thought; for i was just beginning, at that period, to be interested in the disquieting aspects of the social organism, and my ideas were hot and crude. i was aware of these people on paper, but now, for the first time, i realized the immense rush and sweep of their existence, their nearness to nature, their formidable directness. they frightened me with their vivid humanity. i could find no first-class carriage on the train, and i got into a compartment where there were several girls and one young man. the girls were evidently employed in the earthenware manufacture. each had her dinner-basket. most of them were extremely neat; one or two wore gloves. from the young man's soiled white jacket under his black coat, i gathered that he was an engineer. the train moved out of the station and left the platform nearly empty. i pictured the train, a long procession of compartments like ours, full of rough, natural, ungenteel people. none of my companions spoke; none gave me more than a passing glance. it was uncanny. still, the fundamental, cardinal quality of my adventure remained prominent in my being, and it gave me countenance among these taciturn, musing workgirls, who were always at grips with the realities of life. 'ah,' i thought, 'you little know what i know! i may appear a butterfly, but i have learnt the secret meaning of existence. i am above you, beyond you, by my experience, and by my terrible situation, and by the turmoil in my heart!' and then, quite suddenly, i reflected that they probably knew all that i knew, that some of them might have forgotten more than i had ever learnt. i remembered an absorbing correspondence about the manners of the five towns in the columns of the _staffordshire recorder_--a correspondence which had driven aunt constance to conceal the paper after the second week. i guessed that they might smile at the simplicity of my heart could they see it. meaning of existence! why, they were reared in it! the naturalness of natural people and of natural acts struck me like a blow, and i withdrew, whipped, into myself. my adventure grew smaller. but i recalled its ecstasies. i dwelt on the romantic perfection of diaz. it seemed to me amazing, incredible, that diaz, the glorious and incomparable diaz, had loved me--_me_! out of all the ardent, worshipping women that the world contained. i wondered if he had wakened up, and i felt sorry for him. so far, i had not decided how soon, if at all, i should communicate with him. my mind was incapable of reaching past the next few hours--the next hour. we stopped at a station surrounded by the evidences of that tireless, unceasing, and tremendous manufacturing industry which distinguishes the five towns, and i was left alone in the compartment. the train rumbled on through a landscape of fiery furnaces, and burning slag-heaps, and foul canals reflecting great smoking chimneys, all steeped in the mild sunshine. could the toil-worn agents of this never-ending and gigantic productiveness find time for love? perhaps they loved quickly and forgot, like animals. thoughts such as these lurked sinister and carnal, strange beasts in the jungle of my poor brain. then the train arrived at shawport, and i was obliged to get out. i say 'obliged,' because i violently wished not to get out. i wished to travel on in that train to some impossible place, where things were arranged differently. the station clock showed only five minutes to seven. i was astounded. it seemed to me that all the real world had been astir and busy for hours. and this extraordinary activity went on every morning while aunt constance and i lay in our beds and thought well of ourselves. i shivered, and walked quickly up the street. i had positively not noticed that i was cold. i had scarcely left the station before fred ryley appeared in front of me. i saw that his face was swollen. my heart stopped. of course, he would tell ethel.... he passed me sheepishly without stopping, merely raising his hat, and murmuring the singular words: 'we're both very, very sorry.' what in the name of heaven could they possibly know, he and ethel? and what right had he to ...? did he smile furtively? fred ryley had sometimes a strange smile. i reddened, angry and frightened. the distance between the station and our house proved horribly short. and when i arrived in front of the green gates, and put my hand on the latch, i knew that i had formed no plan whatever. i opened the right-hand gate and entered the garden. the blinds were still down, and the house looked so decorous and innocent in its age. my poor aunt! what a night she must have been through! it was inconceivable that i should tell her what had happened to me. indeed, under the windows of that house it seemed inconceivable that the thing had happened which had happened. inconceivable! grotesque! monstrous! but could i lie? could i rise to the height of some sufficient and kindly lie? a hand drew slightly aside the blind of the window over the porch. i sighed, and went wearily, in my boat-shaped straw, up the gravelled path to the door. rebecca met me at the door. it was so early that she had not yet put on an apron. she looked tired, as if she had not slept. 'come in, miss,' she said weakly, holding open the door. it seemed to me that i did not need this invitation from a servant. 'i suppose you've all been fearfully upset, wondering where i was,' i began, entering the hall. my adventure appeared fantastically unreal to me in the presence of this buxom creature, whom i knew to be incapable of imagining anything one hundredth part so dreadful. 'no, miss; i wasn't upset on account of you. you're always so sensible like. you always know what to do. i knew as you must have stopped the night with friends in hanbridge on account of the heavy rain, and perhaps that there silly cabman not turning up, and them tramcars all crowded; and, of course, you couldn't telegraph.' this view that i was specially sagacious and equal to emergencies rather surprised me. 'but auntie?' i demanded, trembling. 'oh, miss!' cried rebecca, glancing timidly over her shoulder, 'i want you to come with me into the dining-room before you go upstairs.' she snuffled. in the dining-room i went at once to the window to draw up the blinds. 'not that, not that!' rebecca appealed, weeping. 'for pity's sake!' and she caught my hand. i then noticed that lucy was standing in the doorway, also weeping. rebecca noticed this too. 'lucy, you go to your kitchen this minute,' she said sharply, and then turned to me and began to cry again. 'miss peel--how can i tell you?' 'why do you call me miss peel?' i asked her. but i knew why. the thing flashed over me instantly. my dear aunt was dead. 'you've got no aunt,' said rebecca. 'my poor dear! and you at the concert!' i dropped my head and my bosom on the bare mahogany table and cried. never before, and never since, have i spilt such tears--hot, painful drops, distilled plenteously from a heart too crushed and torn. 'there, there!' muttered rebecca. 'i wish i could have told you different--less cruel; but it wasn't in me to do it.' 'and she's lying upstairs this very moment all cold and stiff,' a wailing voice broke in. it was lucy, who could not keep herself away from us. 'will you go to your kitchen, my girl!' rebecca drove her off. 'and the poor thing's not stiff either. her poor body's as soft as if she was only asleep, and doctor says it will be for a day or two. it's like that when they're took off like that, he says. oh, miss carlotta--' 'tell me all about it before i go upstairs,' i said. i had recovered. 'your poor aunt went to bed just as soon as you were gone, miss,' said rebecca. 'she would have it she was quite well, only tired. i took her up a cup of cocoa at ten o'clock, and she seemed all right, and then i sends lucy to bed, and i sits up in the kitchen to wait for you. not a sound from your poor aunt. i must have dropped asleep, miss, in my chair, and i woke up with a start like, and the kitchen clock was near on one. thinks i, perhaps miss carlotta's been knocking and ringing all this time and me not heard, and i rushes to the front door. but of course you weren't there. the porch was nothing but a pool o' water. i says to myself she's stopping somewhere, i says. and i felt it was my duty to go and tell your aunt, whether she was asleep or whether she wasn't asleep.... well, and there she was, miss, with her eyes closed, and as soft as a child. i spoke to her, loud, more than once. "miss carlotta a'n't come," i says. "miss carlotta a'n't come, ma'am," i says. she never stirred. thinks i, this is queer this is. and i goes up to her and touches her. chilly! then i takes the liberty of pushing back your poor aunt's eyelids, and i could but see the whites of her eyes; the eyeballs was gone up, and a bit outwards. yes; and her poor dear chin was dropped. thinks i, here's trouble, and miss carlotta at the concert. i runs to our bedroom, and i tells lucy to put a cloak on and fetch dr. roycroft. "who for?" she says. "never you mind who for!" i says, says i. "you up and quick. but you can tell the doctor it's missis as is took." and in ten minutes he was here, miss. but it's only across the garden, like. "yes," he said, "she's been dead an hour or more. failure of the heart's action," he said. "she died in her sleep," he said. "thank god she died in her sleep if she was to die, the pure angel!" i says. i told the doctor as you were away for the night, miss. and i laid her out, miss, and your poor auntie wasn't my first, either. i've seen trouble--i've--' and rebecca's tears overcame her voice. 'i'll go upstairs with you, miss,' she struggled out. one thought that flew across my mind was that doctor roycroft was very intimate with the ryleys, and had doubtless somehow informed them of my aunt's death. this explained fred ryley's strange words and attitude to me on the way from the station. the young man had been too timid to stop me. the matter was a trifle, but another idea that struck me was not a trifle, though i strove to make it so. my aunt had died about midnight, and it was at midnight that diaz and i had heard the mysterious knock on his sitting-room door. at the time i had remarked how it resembled my aunt's knock. occasionally, when the servants overslept themselves, aunt constance would go to their rooms in her pale-blue dressing-gown and knock on their door exactly like that. could it be that this was one of those psychical manifestations of which i had read? had my aunt, in passing from this existence to the next, paused a moment to warn me of my terrible danger? my intellect replied that a disembodied soul could not knock, and that the phenomenon had been due simply to some guest or servant of the hotel who had mistaken the room, and discovered his error in time. nevertheless, the instinctive part of me--that part of us which refuses to fraternize with reason, and which we call the superstitious because we cannot explain it--would not let go the spiritualistic theory, and during all my life has never quite surrendered it to the attacks of my brain. there was a long pause. 'no,' i said; 'i will go upstairs alone;' and i went, leaving my cloak and hat with rebecca. already, to my hypersensitive nostrils, there was a slight odour in the darkened bedroom. what lay on the bed, straight and long and thin, resembled almost exactly my aunt as she lived. i forced myself to look on it. except that the face was paler than usual, and had a curious transparent, waxy appearance, and that the cheeks were a little hollowed, and the lines from the nose to the corners of the mouth somewhat deepened, there had been no outward change.... and _this_ once was she! i thought, where is she, then? where is the soul? where is that which loved me without understanding me? where is that which i loved? the baffling, sad enigma of death confronted me in all its terrifying crudity. the shaft of love and the desolation of death had struck me almost in the same hour, and before these twin mysteries, supremely equal, i recoiled and quailed. i had neither faith nor friend. i was solitary, and my soul also was solitary. the difficulties of being seemed insoluble. i was not a moral coward, i was not prone to facile repentances; but as i gazed at that calm and unsullied mask i realized, whatever i had gained, how much i had lost. at twenty-one i knew more of the fountains of life than aunt constance at over sixty. poor aged thing that had walked among men for interminable years, and never _known_! it seemed impossible, shockingly against nature, that my aunt's existence should have been so! i pitied her profoundly. i felt that essentially she was girlish compared to me. and yet--and yet--that which she had kept and which i had given away was precious, too--indefinably and wonderfully precious! the price of knowledge and of ecstasy seemed heavy to me then. the girl that had gone with diaz into that hotel apartment had come out no more. she had expired there, and her extinction was the price, oh, innocence! oh, divine ignorance! oh, refusal! none knows your value save her who has bartered you! and herein is the woman's tragedy. there in that mausoleum i decided that i must never see diaz again. he was fast in my heart, a flashing, glorious treasure, but i must never see him again. i must devote myself to memory. on the dressing-table lay a brown-paper parcel which seemed out of place there. i opened it, and it contained a magnificently-bound copy of _the imitation of christ_. upon the flyleaf was written: 'to dearest carlotta on attaining her majority. with fondest love. c.p.' it was too much; it was overwhelming. i wept again. soul so kind and pure! the sense of my loss, the sense of the simple, proud rectitude of her life, laid me low. v train journeys have too often been sorrowful for me, so much so that the conception itself of a train, crawling over the country like a snake, or flying across it like a winged monster, fills me with melancholy. trains loaded with human parcels of sadness and illusion and brief joy, wandering about, crossing, and occasionally colliding in the murk of existence; trains warmed and lighted in winter; trains open to catch the air of your own passage in summer; night-trains that pierce the night with your yellow, glaring eyes, and waken mysterious villages, and leave the night behind and run into the dawn as into a station; trains that carry bread and meats for the human parcels, and pillows and fountains of fresh water; trains that sweep haughtily and wearily indifferent through the landscapes and the towns, sufficient unto yourselves, hasty, panting, formidable, and yet mournful entities: i have understood you in your arrogance and your pathos. that little journey from knype to shawport had implanted itself painfully in my memory, as though during it i had peered too close into the face of life. and now i had undertaken another, and a longer one. three months had elapsed--three months of growing misery and despair; three months of tedious familiarity with lawyers and distant relatives, and all the exasperating camp-followers of death; three months of secret and strange fear, waxing daily. and at last, amid the expostulations and the shrugs of wisdom and age, i had decided to go to london. i had little energy, and no interest, but i saw that i must go to london; i was driven there by my secret fear; i dared not delay. and not a soul in the wide waste of the five towns comprehended me, or could have comprehended me had it been so minded. i might have shut up the house for a time. but no; i would not. always i have been sudden, violent, and arbitrary; i have never been able to tolerate half-measures, or to wait upon occasion. i sold the house; i sold the furniture. yes; and i dismissed my faithful rebecca and the clinging lucy, and they departed, god knows where; it was as though i had sold them into slavery. again and again, in the final week, i cut myself to the quick, recklessly, perhaps purposely; i moved in a sort of terrible languor, deaf to every appeal, pretending to be stony, and yet tortured by my secret fear, and by a hemorrhage of the heart that no philosophy could stanch. and i swear that nothing desolated me more than the strapping and the labelling of my trunks that morning after i had slept, dreamfully, in the bed that i should never use again--the bed that, indeed, was even then the property of a furniture dealer. had i wept at all, i should have wept as i wrote out the labels for my trunks: 'miss peel, passenger to golden cross hotel, london. euston via rugby,' with two thick lines drawn under the 'euston.' that writing of labels was the climax. with a desperate effort i tore myself up by the roots, and all bleeding i left the five towns. i have never seen them since. some day, when i shall have attained serenity and peace, when the battle has been fought and lost, i will revisit my youth. i have always loved passionately the disfigured hills and valleys of the five towns. and as i think of oldcastle street, dropping away sleepily and respectably from the town hall of bursley, with the gold angel holding a gold crown on its spire, i vibrate with an inexplicable emotion. what is there in oldcastle street to disturb the dust of the soul? i must tell you here that diaz had gone to south america on a triumphal tour of concerts, lest i forget! i read it in the paper. so i arrived in london on a february day, about one o'clock. and the hall-porter at the golden cross hotel, and the two pale girls in the bureau of the hotel, were sympathetic and sweet to me, because i was young and alone, and in mourning, and because i had great rings round my eyes. it was a fine day, blue and mild. at half-past three i had nothing in the world to do. i had come to london without a plan, without a purpose, with scarcely an introduction; i wished simply to plunge myself into its solitude, and to be alone with my secret fear. i walked out into the street, slowly, like one whom ennui has taught to lose no chance of dissipating time. i neither liked nor disliked london. i had no feelings towards it save one of perplexity. i thought it noisy, dirty, and hurried. its great name roused no thrill in my bosom. on the morrow, i said, i would seek a lodging, and perhaps write to ethel ryley. meanwhile i strolled up into trafalgar square, and so into charing cross road. and in charing cross road--it was the curst accident of fate--i saw the signboard of the celebrated old firm of publishers, oakley and dalbiac. it is my intention to speak of my books as little as possible in this history. i must, however, explain that six months before my aunt's death i had already written my first novel, _the jest_, and sent it to precisely oakley and dalbiac. it was a wild welter of youthful extravagances, and it aimed to depict london society, of which i knew nothing whatever, with a flippant and cynical pen. oakley and dalbiac had kept silence for several months, and had then stated, in an extremely formal epistle, that they thought the book might have some chance of success, and that they would be prepared to publish it on certain terms, but that i must not expect, etc. by that time i had lost my original sublime faith in the exceeding excellence of my story, and i replied that i preferred to withdraw the book. to this letter i had received no answer. when i saw the famous sign over a doorway the impulse seized me to enter and get the manuscript, with the object of rewriting it. soon, i reflected, i might not be able to enter; the portals of mankind might be barred to me for a space.... i saw in a flash of insight that my salvation lay in work, and in nothing else. i entered, resolutely. a brougham was waiting at the doors. after passing along counters furnished with ledgers and clerks, through a long, lofty room lined with great pigeon-holes containing thousands of books each wrapped separately in white paper, i was shown into what the clerk who acted as chamberlain called the office of the principal. this room, too, was spacious, but so sombre that the electric light was already burning. the first thing i noticed was that the window gave on a wall of white tiles. in the middle of the somewhat dingy apartment was a vast, square table, and at this table sat a pale, tall man, whose youth astonished me--for the firm of oakley and dalbiac was historic. he did not look up exactly at the instant of my entering, but when he did look up, when he saw me, he stared for an instant, and then sprang from his chair as though magically startled into activity. his age was about thirty, and he had large, dark eyes, and a slight, dark moustache, and his face generally was interesting; he wore a dark gray suit. i was nervous, but he was even more nervous; yet in the moment of looking up he had not seemed nervous. he could not do enough, apparently, to make me feel at ease, and to show his appreciation of me and my work. he spoke enthusiastically of _the jest_, begging me neither to suppress it nor to alter it. and, without the least suggestion from me, he offered me a considerable sum of money in advance of royalties. at that time i scarcely knew what royalties were. but although my ignorance of business was complete, i guessed that this man was behaving in a manner highly unusual among publishers. he was also patently contradicting the tenor of his firm's letter to me. i thanked him, and said i should like, at any rate, to glance through the manuscript. 'don't alter it, miss peel, i beg,' he said. 'it is "young," i know; but it ought to be. i remember my wife said--my wife reads many of our manuscripts--by the way--' he went to a door, opened it, and called out, 'mary!' a tall and slim woman, extremely elegant, appeared in reply to this appeal. her hair was gray above the ears, and i judged that she was four or five years older than the man. she had a kind, thin face, with shining gray eyes, and she was wearing a hat. 'mary, this is miss peel, the author of _the jest_--you remember. miss peel, my wife.' the woman welcomed me with quick, sincere gestures. her smile was very pleasant, and yet a sad smile. the husband also had an air of quiet, restrained, cheerful sadness. 'my wife is frequently here in the afternoon like this,' said the principal. 'yes,' she laughed; 'it's quite a family affair, and i'm almost on the staff. i distinctly remember your manuscript, miss peel, and how very clever and amusing it was.' her praise was spontaneous and cordial, but it was a different thing from the praise of her husband. he obviously noticed the difference. 'i was just saying to miss peel--' he began, with increased nervousness. 'pardon me,' i interrupted. 'but am i speaking to mr. oakley or mr. dalbiac?' 'to neither,' said he. 'my name is ispenlove, and i am the nephew of the late mr. dalbiac. mr. oakley died thirty years ago. i have no partner.' 'you expected to see a very old gentleman, no doubt,' mrs. ispenlove remarked. 'yes,' i smiled. 'people often do. and frank is so very young. you live in london?' 'no,' i said; 'i have just come up.' 'to stay?' 'to stay.' 'alone?' 'yes. my aunt died a few months ago. i am all that is left of my family.' mrs. ispenlove's eyes filled with tears, and she fingered a gold chain that hung from her neck. 'but have you got rooms--a house?' 'i am at a hotel for the moment.' 'but you have friends?' i shook my head. mr. ispenlove was glancing rapidly from one to the other of us. 'my dear young lady!' exclaimed his wife. then she hesitated, and said: 'excuse my abruptness, but do let me beg you to come and have tea with us this afternoon. we live quite near--in bloomsbury square. the carriage is waiting. frank, you can come?' 'i can come for an hour,' said mr. ispenlove. i wanted very much to decline, but i could not. i could not disappoint that honest and generous kindliness, with its touch of melancholy. i could not refuse those shining gray eyes. i saw that my situation and my youth had lacerated mrs. ispenlove's sensitive heart, and that she wished to give it balm by being humane to me. we seemed, so rapid was our passage, to be whisked on an arabian carpet to a spacious drawing-room, richly furnished, with thick rugs and ample cushions and countless knicknacks and photographs and delicately-tinted lampshades. there was a grand piano by steinway, and on it mendelssohn's 'songs without words.' the fire slumbered in a curious grate that projected several feet into the room--such a contrivance i had never seen before. near it sat mrs. ispenlove, entrenched behind a vast copper disc on a low wicker stand, pouring out tea. mr. ispenlove hovered about. he and his wife called each other 'dearest.' 'ring the bell for me, dearest.' 'yes, dearest.' i felt sure that they had no children. they were very intimate, very kind, and always gently sad. the atmosphere was charmingly domestic, even cosy, despite the size of the room--a most pleasing contrast to the offices which we had just left. mrs. ispenlove told her husband to look after me well, and he devoted himself to me. 'do you know,' said mrs. ispenlove, 'i am gradually recalling the details of your book, and you are not at all the sort of person that i should have expected to see.' 'but that poor little book isn't _me_,' i answered. 'i shall never write another like it. i only--' 'shall you not?' mr. ispenlove interjected. 'i hope you will, though.' i smiled. 'i only did it to see what i could do. i am going to begin something quite different.' 'it appears to me,' said mrs. ispenlove--'and i must again ask you to excuse my freedom, but i feel as if i had known you a long time--it appears to me that what you want immediately is a complete rest.' 'why do you say that?' i demanded. 'you do not look well. you look exhausted and worn out.' i blushed as she gazed at me. could she--? no. those simple gray eyes could not imagine evil. nevertheless, i saw too plainly how foolish i had been. i, with my secret fear, that was becoming less a fear than a dreadful certainty, to permit myself to venture into that house! i might have to fly ignominiously before long, to practise elaborate falsehood, to disappear. 'perhaps you are right,' i agreed. the conversation grew fragmentary, and less and less formal. mrs. ispenlove was the chief talker. i remember she said that she was always being thrown among clever people, people who could do things, and that her own inability to do anything at all was getting to be an obsession with her; and that people like me could have no idea of the tortures of self-depreciation which she suffered. her voice was strangely wistful during this confession. she also spoke--once only, and quite shortly, but with what naïve enthusiasm!--of the high mission and influence of the novelist who wrote purely and conscientiously. after this, though my liking for her was undiminished, i had summed her up. mr. ispenlove offered no commentary on his wife's sentiments. he struck me as being a reserved man, whose inner life was intense and sufficient to him. 'ah!' i reflected, as mrs. ispenlove, with an almost motherly accent, urged me to have another cup of tea, 'if you knew me, if you knew me, what would you say to me? would your charity be strong enough to overcome your instincts?' and as i had felt older than my aunt, so i felt older than mrs. ispenlove. i left, but i had to promise to come again on the morrow, after i had seen mr. ispenlove on business. the publisher took me down to my hotel in the brougham (and i thought of the drive with diaz, but the water was not streaming down the windows), and then he returned to his office. without troubling to turn on the light in my bedroom, i sank sighing on to the bed. the events of the afternoon had roused me from my terrible lethargy, but now it overcame me again. i tried to think clearly about the ispenloves and what the new acquaintance meant for me; but i could not think clearly. i had not been able to think clearly for two months. i wished only to die. for a moment i meditated vaguely on suicide, but suicide seemed to involve an amount of complicated enterprise far beyond my capacity. it amazed me how i had managed to reach london. i must have come mechanically, in a heavy dream; for i had no hope, no energy, no vivacity, no interest. for many weeks my mind had revolved round an awful possibility, as if hypnotized by it, and that monotonous revolution seemed alone to constitute my real life. moreover, i was subject to recurring nausea, and to disconcerting bodily pains and another symptom. 'this must end!' i said, struggling to my feet. i summoned the courage of an absolute disgust. i felt that the power which had triumphed over my dejection and my irresolution and brought me to london might carry me a little further. leaving the hotel, i crossed the strand. innumerable omnibuses were crawling past. i jumped into one at hazard, and the conductor put his arm behind my back to support me. he was shouting, 'putney, putney, putney!' in an absent-minded manner: he had assisted me to mount without even looking at me. i climbed to the top of the omnibus and sat down, and the omnibus moved off. i knew not where i was going; putney was nothing but a name to me. 'where to, lady?' snapped the conductor, coming upstairs. 'oh, putney,' i answered. a little bell rang and he gave me a ticket. the omnibus was soon full. a woman with a young child shared my seat. but the population of the roof was always changing. i alone remained--so it appeared to me. and we moved interminably forward through the gas-lit and crowded streets, under the mild night. occasionally, when we came within the circle of an arc-lamp, i could see all my fellow-passengers very clearly; then they were nothing but dark, featureless masses. the horses of the omnibus were changed. a score of times the conductor came briskly upstairs, but he never looked at me again. 'i've done with you,' his back seemed to say. the houses stood up straight and sinister, thousands of houses unendingly succeeding each other. some were brilliantly illuminated; some were dark; and some had one or two windows lighted. the phenomenon of a solitary window lighted, high up in a house, filled me with the sense of the tragic romance of london. why, i cannot tell. but it did. london grew to be almost unbearably mournful. there were too many people in london. suffering was packed too close. one can contemplate a single affliction with some equanimity, but a million griefs, calamities, frustrations, elbowing each other--no, no! and in all that multitude of sadnesses i felt that mine was the worst. my loneliness, my fear, my foolish youth, my inability to cope with circumstance, my appalling ignorance of the very things which i ought to know! it was awful. and yet even then, in that despairing certainty of disaster, i was conscious of the beauty of life, the beauty of life's exceeding sorrow, and i hugged it to me, like a red-hot iron. we crossed a great river by a great bridge--a mysterious and mighty stream; and then the streets closed in on us again. and at last, after hours and hours, the omnibus swerved into a dark road and stopped--stopped finally. 'putney!' cried the conductor, like fate. i descended. far off, at the end of the vista of the dark road, i saw a red lamp. i knew that in large cities a red lamp indicated a doctor: it was the one useful thing that i did know. i approached the red lamp, cautiously, on the other side of the street. then some power forced me to cross the street and open a wicket. and in the red glow of the lamp i saw an ivory button which i pushed. i could plainly hear the result; it made me tremble. i had a narrow escape of running away. the door was flung wide, and a middle-aged woman appeared in the bright light of the interior of the house. she had a kind face. it is astounding, the number of kind faces one meets. 'is the doctor in?' i asked. i would have given a year of my life to hear her say 'no.' 'yes, miss,' she said. 'will you step in?' events seemed to be moving all too rapidly. i passed into a narrow hall, with an empty hat-rack, and so into the surgery. from the back of the house came the sound of a piano--scales, played very slowly. the surgery was empty. i noticed a card with letters of the alphabet printed on it in different sizes; and then the piano ceased, and there was the humming of an air in the passage, and a tall man in a frock-coat, slippered and spectacled, came into the surgery. 'good-evening, madam,' he said gruffly. 'won't you sit down?' 'i--i--i want to ask you--' he put a chair for me, and i dropped into it. 'there!' he said, after a moment. 'you felt as if you might faint, didn't you?' i nodded. the tears came into my eyes. 'i thought so,' he said. 'i'll just give you a draught, if you don't mind.' he busied himself behind me, and presently i was drinking something out of a conical-shaped glass. my heart beat furiously, but i felt strong. 'i want you to tell me, doctor,' i spoke firmly, 'whether i am about to become a mother.' 'ah?' he answered interrogatively, and then he hummed a fragment of an air. 'i have lost my husband,' i was about to add; but suddenly i scorned such a weakness and shut my lips. 'since when--' the doctor began. * * * * * 'no,' i heard him saying. 'you have been quite mistaken. but i am not surprised. such mistakes are frequently made--a kind of auto-suggestion.' 'mistaken!' i murmured. i could not prevent the room running round me as i reclined on the sofa; and i fainted. but in the night, safely in my room again at the hotel, i wondered whether that secret fear, now exorcised, had not also been a hope. i wondered.... part ii three human hearts i and now i was twenty-six. everyone who knows jove knows the poignant and delicious day when the lovers, undeclared, but sure of mutual passion, await the magic moment of avowal, with all its changeful consequences. i resume my fragmentary narrative at such a day in my life. as for me, i waited for the avowal as for an earthquake. i felt as though i were the captain of a ship on fire, and the only person aware that the flames were creeping towards a powder magazine. and my love shone fiercely in my heart, like a southern star; it held me, hypnotized, in a thrilling and exquisite entrancement, so that if my secret, silent lover was away from me, as on that fatal night in my drawing-room, my friends were but phantom presences in a shadowy world. this is not an exaggerated figure, but the truth, for when i have loved i have loved much.... my drawing-room in bedford court, that night on which the violent drama of my life recommenced, indicated fairly the sorts of success which i had achieved, and the direction of my tastes. the victim of diaz had gradually passed away, and a new creature had replaced her--a creature rapidly developed, and somewhat brazened in the process under the sun of an extraordinary double prosperity in london. i had soon learnt that my face had a magic to win for me what wealth cannot buy. my books had given me fame and money. and i could not prevent the world from worshipping the woman whom it deemed the gods had greatly favoured. i could not have prevented it, even had i wished, and i did not wish, i knew well that no merit and no virtue, but merely the accident of facial curves, and the accident of a convolution of the brain, had brought me this ascendancy, and at first i reminded myself of the duty of humility. but when homage is reiterated, when the pleasure of obeying a command and satisfying a caprice is begged for, when roses are strewn, and even necks put down in the path, one forgets to be humble; one forgets that in meekness alone lies the sole good; one confuses deserts with the hazards of heredity. however, in the end fate has no favourites. a woman who has beauty wants to frame it in beauty. the eye is a sensualist, and its appetites, once aroused, grow. a beautiful woman takes the same pleasure in the sight of another beautiful woman as a man does; only jealousy or fear prevents her from admitting the pleasure. i collected beautiful women.... elegance is a form of beauty. it not only enhances beauty, but it is the one thing which will console the eye for the absence of beauty. the first rule which i made for my home was that in it my eye should not be offended. i lost much, doubtless, by adhering to it, but not more than i gained. and since elegance is impossible without good manners, and good manners are a convention, though a supremely good one, the society by which i surrounded myself was conventional; superficially, of course, for it is the business of a convention to be not more than superficial. some persons after knowing my drawing-room were astounded by my books, others after reading my books were astounded by my drawing-room; but these persons lacked perception. given elegance, with or without beauty itself, i had naturally sought, in my friends, intellectual courage, honest thinking, kindness of heart, creative talent, distinction, wit. my search had not been unfortunate.... you see heaven had been so kind to me! that night in my drawing-room (far too full of bric-a-brac of all climes and ages), beneath the blaze of the two empire chandeliers, which vicary, the musical composer, had found for me in chartres, there were perhaps a dozen guests assembled. vicary had just given, in his driest manner, a description of his recent visit to receive the accolade from the queen. it was replete with the usual quaint vicary details--such as the solemn warning whisper of an equerry in vicary's ear as he walked backwards, '_mind the edge of the carpet';_ and we all laughed, i absently, and yet a little hysterically--all save vicary, whose foible was never to laugh. but immediately afterwards there was a pause, one of those disconcerting, involuntary pauses which at a social gathering are like a chill hint of autumn in late summer, and which accuse the hostess. it was over in an instant; the broken current was resumed; everybody pretended that everything was as usual at my receptions. but that pause was the beginning of the downfall. with a fierce effort i tried to escape from my entrancement, to be interested in these unreal shadows whose voices seemed to come to me from a distance, and to make my glance forget the door, where the one reality in the world for me, my unspoken lover, should have appeared long since. i joined unskilfully in a conversation which vicary and mrs. sardis and her daughter jocelyn were conducting quite well without my assistance. the rest were chattering now, in one or two groups, except lord francis alcar, who, i suddenly noticed, sat alone on a settee behind the piano. here was another unfortunate result of my preoccupation. by what negligence had i allowed him to be thus forsaken? i rose and went across to him, penitent, and glad to leave the others. there are only two fundamental differences in the world--the difference between sex and sex, and the difference between youth and age. lord francis alcar was sixty years older than me. his life was over before mine had commenced. it seemed incredible; but i had acquired the whole of my mundane experience, while he was merely waiting for death. at seventy, men begin to be separated from their fellow-creatures. at eighty, they are like islets sticking out of a sea. at eighty-five, with their trembling and deliberate speech, they are the abstract voice of human wisdom. they gather wisdom with amazing rapidity in the latter years, and even their folly is wise then. lord francis was eighty-six; his faculties enfeebled but intact after a career devoted to the three most costly of all luxuries--pretty women, fine pictures, and rare books; a tall, spare man, quietly proud of his age, his ability to go out in the evening unattended, his amorous past, and his contributions to the history of english printing. as i approached him, he leaned forward into his favourite attitude, elbows on knees and fingertips lightly touching, and he looked up at me. and his eyes, sunken and fatigued and yet audacious, seemed to flash out. he opened his thin lips to speak. when old men speak, they have the air of rousing themselves from an eternal contemplation in order to do so, and what they say becomes accordingly oracular. 'pallor suits you,' he piped gallantly, and then added: 'but do not carry it to extremes.' 'am i so pale, then?' i faltered, trying to smile naturally. i sat down beside him, and smoothed out my black lace dress; he examined it like a connoisseur. 'yes,' he said at length. 'what is the matter?' lord francis charged this apparently simple and naïve question with a strange intimate meaning. the men who surround a woman such as i, living as i lived, are always demanding, with a secret thirst, 'does she really live without love? what does she conceal?' i have read this interrogation in the eyes of scores of men; but no one, save lord francis, would have had the right to put it into the tones of his voice. we were so mutually foreign and disinterested, so at the opposite ends of life, that he had nothing to gain and i nothing to lose, and i could have permitted to this sage ruin of a male almost a confessor's freedom. moreover, we had an affectionate regard for each other. i said nothing, and he repeated in his treble: 'what is the matter?' 'love is the matter!' i might have passionately cried out to him, had we been alone. but i merely responded to his tone with my eyes. i thanked him with my eyes for his bold and flattering curiosity, senile, but thoroughly masculine to the last. and i said: 'i am only a little exhausted. i finished my novel yesterday.' it was my sixth novel in five years. 'with you,' he said, 'work is simply a drug.' 'lord francis,' i expostulated, 'how do you know that?' 'and it has got such a hold of you that you cannot do without it,' he proceeded, with slow, faint shrillness. 'some women take to morphia, others take to work.' 'on the contrary,' i said, 'i have quite determined to do no more work for twelve months.' 'seriously?' 'seriously.' he faced me, vivacious, and leaned against the back of the settee. 'then you mean to give yourself time to love?' he murmured, as it were with a kind malice, and every crease in his veined and yellow features was intensified by an enigmatic smile. 'why not?' i laughed encouragingly. 'why not? what do you advise?' 'i advise it,' he said positively. 'i advise it. you have already wasted the best years.' 'the best?' 'one can never afterwards love as one loves at twenty. but there! you have nothing to learn about love!' he gave me one of those disrobing glances of which men who have dedicated their existence to women alone have the secret. i shrank under the ordeal; i tried to clutch my clothes about me. the chatter from the other end of the room grew louder. vicary was gazing critically at his chandeliers. 'does love bring happiness?' i asked lord francis, carefully ignoring his remark. 'for forty years,' he quavered, 'i made love to every pretty woman i met, in the search for happiness. i may have got five per cent. return on my outlay, which is perhaps not bad in these hard times; but i certainly did not get even that in happiness. i got it in--other ways.' 'and if you had to begin afresh?' he stood up, turned his back on the room, and looked down at me from his bent height. his knotted hands were shaking, as they always shook. 'i would do the same again,' he whispered. 'would you?' i said, looking up at him. 'truly?' 'yes. only the fool and the very young expect happiness. the wise merely hope to be interested, at least not to be bored, in their passage through this world. nothing is so interesting as love and grief, and the one involves the other. ah! would i not do the same again!' he spoke gravely, wistfully, and vehemently, as if employing the last spark of divine fire that was left in his decrepit frame. this undaunted confession of a faith which had survived twenty years of inactive meditation, this banner waved by an expiring arm in the face of the eternity that mocks at the transience of human things, filled me with admiration. my eyes moistened, but i continued to look up at him. 'what is the title of the new book?' he demanded casually, sinking into a chair. '_burning sappho_,' i answered. 'but the title is very misleading.' 'bright star!' he exclaimed, taking my hand. 'with such a title you will surely beat the record of the good dame.' 'hsh!' i enjoined him. jocelyn sardis was coming towards us. the good dame was the sobriquet which lord francis had invented to conceal--or to display--his courteous disdain of the ideals represented by mrs. sardis, that pillar long established, that stately dowager, that impeccable _doyenne_ of serious english fiction. mrs. sardis had captured two continents. her novels, dealing with all the profound problems of the age, were read by philosophers and politicians, and one of them had reached a circulation of a quarter of a million copies. her dignified and indefatigable pen furnished her with an income of fifteen thousand pounds a year. jocelyn sardis was just entering her mother's world, and she had apparently not yet recovered from the surprise of the discovery that she was a woman; a simple and lovable young creature with brains amply sufficient for the making of apple-pies. as she greeted lord francis in her clear, innocent voice, i wondered sadly why her mother should be so anxious to embroider the work of nature. i thought if jocelyn could just be left alone to fall in love with some average, kindly stockbroker, how much more nearly the eternal purpose might be fulfilled.... 'yes, i remember,' lord francis was saying. 'it was at st. malo. and what did you think of the breton peasant?' 'oh,' said jocelyn, 'mamma has not yet allowed us to study the condition of the lower classes in france. we are all so busy with the new settlement.' 'it must be very exhausting, my dear child,' said lord francis. i rose. 'i came to ask you to play something,' the child appealed to me. 'i have never heard you play, and everyone says--' 'jocelyn, my pet,' the precise, prim utterance of mrs. sardis floated across the room. 'what, mamma?' 'you are not to trouble miss peel. perhaps she does not feel equal to playing.' my blood rose in an instant. i cannot tell why, unless it was that i resented from mrs. sardis even the slightest allusion to the fact that i was not entirely myself. the latent antagonism between us became violently active in my heart. i believe i blushed. i know that i felt murderous towards mrs. sardis. i gave her my most adorable smile, and i said, with sugar in my voice: 'but i shall be delighted to play for jocelyn.' it was an act of bravado on my part to attempt to play the piano in the mood in which i found myself; and that i should have begun the opening phrase of chopin's first ballade, that composition so laden with formidable memories--begun it without thinking and without apprehension--showed how far i had lost my self-control. not that the silver sounds which shimmered from the broadwood under my feverish hands filled me with sentimental regrets for an irrecoverable past. no! but i saw the victim of diaz as though i had never been she. she was for me one of those ladies that have loved and are dead. the simplicity of her mind and her situation, compared with my mind and my situation, seemed unbearably piteous to me. why, i knew not. the pathos of that brief and vanished idyll overcame me like some sad story of an antique princess. and then, magically, i saw the pathos of my present position in it as in a truth-revealing mirror. my fame, and my knowledge and my experience, my trained imagination, my skill, my social splendour, my wealth, were stripped away from me as inessential, and i was merely a woman in love, to whom love could not fail to bring calamity and grief; a woman expecting her lover, and yet to whom his coming could only be disastrous; a woman with a heart divided between tremulous joy and dull sorrow; who was at once in heaven and in hell; the victim of love. how often have i called my dead carlotta the victim of diaz! let me be less unjust, and say that he, too, was the victim of love. what was diaz but the instrument of the god? jocelyn stood near me by the piano. i glanced at her as i played, and smiled. she answered my smile; her eyes glistened with tears; i bent my gaze suddenly to the keyboard. 'you too!' i thought sadly, 'you too!... one day! one day even you will know what life is, and the look in those innocent eyes will never be innocent again!' then there was a sharp crack at the other end of the room; the handle of the door turned, and the door began to open. my heart bounded and stopped. it must be he, at last! i perceived the fearful intensity of my longing for his presence. but it was only a servant with a tray. my fingers stammered and stumbled. for a few instants i forced them to obey me; my pride was equal to the strain, though i felt sick and fainting. and then i became aware that my guests were staring at me with alarmed and anxious faces. mrs. sardis had started from her chair. i dropped my hands. it was useless to fight further; the battle was lost. 'i will not play any more,' i said quickly. 'i ought not to have tried to play from memory. excuse me.' and i left the piano as calmly as i could. i knew that by an effort i could walk steadily and in a straight line across the room to vicary and the others, and i succeeded. they should not learn my secret. 'poor thing!' murmured mrs. sardis sympathetically. 'do sit down, dear.' 'won't you have something to drink?' said vicary. 'i am perfectly all right,' i said. 'i'm only sorry that my memory is not what it used to be.' and i persisted in standing for a few moments by the mantelpiece. in the glass i caught one glimpse of a face as white as milk, jocelyn remained at her post by the piano, frightened by she knew not what, like a young child. 'our friend finished a new work only yesterday,' said lord francis shakily. he had followed me. 'she has wisely decided to take a long holiday. good-bye, my dear.' these were the last words he ever spoke to me, though i saw him again. we shook hands in silence, and he left. nor would the others stay. i had ruined the night. we were all self-conscious, diffident, suspicious. even vicary was affected. how thankful i was that my silent lover had not come! my secret was my own--and his. and no one should surprise it unless we chose. i cared nothing what they thought, or what they guessed, as they filed out of the door, a brilliant procession of which i had the right to be proud; they could not guess my secret. i was sufficiently woman of the world to baffle them as long as i wished to baffle them. then i noticed that mrs. sardis had stayed behind; she was examining some lustre ware in the further drawing-room. 'i'm afraid jocelyn has gone without her mother,' i said, approaching her. 'i have told jocelyn to go home alone,' replied mrs. sardis. 'the carriage will return for me. dear friend, i want to have a little talk with you. do you permit?' 'i shall be delighted,' i said. 'you are sure you are well enough?' 'there is nothing whatever the matter with me,' i answered slowly and distinctly. 'come to the fire, and let us be comfortable. and i told emmeline palmer, my companion and secretary, who just then appeared, that she might retire to bed. mrs. sardis was nervous, and this condition, so singular in mrs. sardis, naturally made me curious as to the cause of it. but my eyes still furtively wandered to the door. 'my dear co-worker,' she began, and hesitated. 'yes,' i encouraged her. she put her matron's lips together: 'you know how proud i am of your calling, and how jealous i am of its honour and its good name, and what a great mission i think we novelists have in the work of regenerating the world.' i nodded. that kind of eloquence always makes me mute. it leaves nothing to be said. 'i wonder,' mrs. sardis continued, 'if you have ever realized what a power _you_ are in england and america to-day.' 'power!' i echoed. 'i have done nothing but try to write as honestly and as well as i could what i felt i wanted to write.' 'no one can doubt your sincerity, my dear friend,' mrs. sardis said. 'and i needn't tell you that i am a warm admirer of your talent, and that i rejoice in your success. but the tendency of your work--' 'surely,' i interrupted her coldly, 'you are not taking the trouble to tell me that my books are doing harm to the great and righteous anglo-saxon public!' 'do not let us poke fun at our public, my dear,' she protested. 'i personally do not believe that your books are harmful, though their originality is certainly daring, and their realism startling; but there exists a considerable body of opinion, as you know, that strongly objects to your books. it may be reactionary opinion, bigoted opinion, ignorant opinion, what you like, but it exists, and it is not afraid to employ the word "immoral."' 'what, then?' 'i speak as one old enough to be your mother, and i speak after all to a motherless young girl who happens to have genius with, perhaps, some of the disadvantages of genius, when i urge you so to arrange your personal life that this body of quite respectable adverse opinion shall not find in it a handle to use against the fair fame of our calling.' 'mrs. sardis!' i cried. 'what do you mean?' i felt my nostrils dilate in anger as i gazed, astounded, at this incarnation of mediocrity who had dared to affront me on my own hearth; and by virtue of my youth and my beauty, and all the homage i had received, and the clear sincerity of my vision of life, i despised and detested the mother of a family who had never taken one step beyond the conventions in which she was born. had she not even the wit to perceive that i was accustomed to be addressed as queens are addressed?... then, as suddenly as it had flamed, my anger cooled, for i could see the painful earnestness in her face. and mrs. sardis and i--what were we but two groups of vital instincts, groping our respective ways out of one mystery into another? had we made ourselves? had we chosen our characters? mrs. sardis was fulfilling herself, as i was. she was a natural force, as i was. as well be angry with a hurricane, or the heat of the sun. 'what do you mean?' i repeated quietly. 'tell me exactly what you mean.' i thought she was aiming at the company which i sometimes kept, or the freedom of my diversions on the english sabbath. i thought what trifles were these compared to the dilemma in which, possibly within a few hours, i should find myself. 'to put it in as few words as possible,' said she, 'i mean your relations with a married man. forgive my bluntness, dear girl.' 'my--' then my secret was not my secret! we were chattered about, he and i. we had not hidden our feeling, our passions. and i had been imagining myself a woman of the world equal to sustaining a difficult part in the masque of existence. with an abandoned gesture i hid my face in my hands for a moment, and then i dropped my hands, and leaned forward and looked steadily at mrs. sardis. her eyes were kind enough. 'you won't affect not to understand?' she said. i assented with a motion of the head. 'many persons say there is a--a liaison between you,' she said. 'and do you think that?' i asked quickly. 'if i had thought so, my daughter would not have been here to-night,' she said solemnly. 'no, no; i do not believe it for an instant, and i brought jocelyn specially to prove to the world that i do not. i only heard the gossip a few days ago; and to-night, as i sat here, it was borne in upon me that i must speak to you to-night. and i have done so. not everyone would have done so, dear girl. most of your friends are content to talk among themselves.' 'about me? oh!' it was the expression of an almost physical pain. 'what can you expect them to do?' asked mrs. sardis mildly. 'true,' i agreed. 'you see, the circumstances are so extremely peculiar. your friendship with her--' 'let me tell you'--i stopped her--'that not a single word has ever passed between me and--and the man you mean, that everybody might not hear. not a single word!' 'dearest girl,' she exclaimed; 'how glad i am! how glad i am! now i can take measures to--. 'but--' i resumed. 'but what?' in a flash i saw the futility of attempting to explain to a woman like mrs. sardis, who had no doubts about the utter righteousness of her own code, whose rules had no exceptions, whose principles could apply to every conceivable case, and who was the very embodiment of the vast stolid london that hemmed me in--of attempting to explain to such an excellent, blind creature why, and in obedience to what ideal, i would not answer for the future. i knew that i might as well talk to a church steeple. 'nothing,' i said, rising, 'except that i thank you. be sure that i am grateful. you have had a task which must have been very unpleasant to you.' she smiled, virtuously happy. 'you made it easy,' she murmured. i perceived that she wanted to kiss me; but i avoided the caress. how i hated kissing women! 'no more need be said,' she almost whispered, as i put my hand on the knob of the front-door. i had escorted her myself to the hall. 'only remember your great mission, the influence you wield, and the fair fame of our calling.' my impulse was to shriek. but i merely smiled as decently as i could; and i opened the door. and there, on the landing, just emerging from the lift, was ispenlove, haggard, pale, his necktie astray. he and mrs. sardis exchanged a brief stare; she gave me a look of profound pain and passed in dignified silence down the stairs; ispenlove came into the flat. 'nothing will convince her now that i am not a liar,' i reflected. it was my last thought as i sank, exquisitely drowning, in the sea of sensations caused by ispenlove's presence. ii without a word, we passed together into the drawing-room, and i closed the door. ispenlove stood leaning against the piano, as though intensely fatigued; he crushed his gibus with an almost savage movement, and then bent his large, lustrous black eyes absently on the flat top of it. his thin face was whiter even than usual, and his black hair, beard, and moustache all dishevelled; the collar of his overcoat was twisted, and his dinner-jacket rose an inch above it at the back of the neck. i wanted to greet him, but i could not trust my lips. and i saw that he, too, was trying in vain to speak. at length i said, with that banality which too often surprises us in supreme moments: 'what is it? do you know that your tie is under your ear?' and as i uttered these words, my voice, breaking of itself and in defiance of me, descended into a tone which sounded harsh and inimical. 'ah!' he murmured, lifting his eyes to mine, 'if you turn against me to-night, i shall--' 'turn against you!' i cried, shocked. 'let me help you with your overcoat!' and i went near him, meaning to take his overcoat. 'it's finished between mary and me,' he said, holding me with his gaze. 'it's finished. i've no one but you now; and i've come--i've come--' he stopped. we read one another's eyes at arm's length, and all the sorrow and pity and love that were in each of us rose to our eyes and shone there. i shivered with pleasure when i saw his arms move, and then he clutched and dragged me to him, and i hid my glowing face on his shoulder, in the dear folds of his overcoat, and i felt his lips on my neck. and then, since neither of us was a coward, we lifted our heads, and our mouths met honestly and fairly, and, so united, we shut our eyes for an eternal moment, and the world was not. such was the avowal. i gave up my soul to him in that long kiss; all that was me, all that was most secret and precious in me, ascended and poured itself out through my tense lips, and was received by him. i kissed him with myself, with the entire passionate energy of my being--not merely with my mouth. and if i sighed, it was because i tried to give him more--more than i had--and failed. ah! the sensation of his nearness, the warmth of his face, the titillation of his hair, the slow, luxurious intake of our breaths, the sweet cruelty of his desperate clutch on my shoulders, the glimpses of his skin through my eyelashes when i raised ever so little my eyelids! pain and joy of life, you were mingled then! i remembered that i was a woman, and disengaged myself and withdrew from him. i hated to do it; but i did it. we became self-conscious. the brilliant and empty drawing-room scanned us unfavourably with all its globes and mirrors. how difficult it is to be natural in a great crisis! our spirits clamoured for expression, beating vainly against a thousand barred doors of speech. there was so much to say, to explain, to define, and everything was so confused and dizzily revolving, that we knew not which door to open first. and then i think we both felt, but i more than he, that explanations and statements were futile, that even if all the doors were thrown open together, they would be inadequate. the deliciousness of silence, of wonder, of timidity, of things guessed at and hidden.... 'it makes me afraid,' he murmured at length. 'what?' 'to be loved like that.... your kiss ... you don't know.' i smiled almost sadly. as if i did not know what my kiss had done! as if i did not know that my kiss had created between us the happiness which brings ruin! 'you _do_ love me?' he demanded. i nodded, and sat down. 'say it, say it!' he pleaded. 'more than i can ever show you,' i said proudly. 'honestly,' he said, 'i can't imagine what you have been able to see in me. i'm nothing--i'm nobody--' 'foolish boy!' i exclaimed. 'you are you.' the profound significance of that age-worn phrase struck me for the first time. he rushed to me at the word 'boy,' and, standing over me, took my hand in his hot hand. i let it lie, inert. 'but you haven't always loved me. i have always loved _you_, from the moment when i drove with you, that first day, from the office to your hotel. but you haven't always loved me.' 'no,' i admitted. 'then when did you--? tell me.' 'i was dull at first--i could not see. but when you told me that the end of _fate and friendship_ was not as good as i could make it--do you remember, that afternoon in the office?--and how reluctant you were to tell me, how afraid you were to tell me?--your throat went dry, and you stroked your forehead as you always do when you are nervous--there! you are doing it now, foolish boy!' i seized his left arm, and gently pulled it down from his face. oh, exquisite moment! 'it was brave of you to tell me--very brave! i loved you for telling me. you were quite wrong about the end of that book. you didn't see the fine point of it, and you never would have seen it--and i liked you, somehow, for not seeing it, because it was so feminine--but i altered the book to please you, and when i had altered it, against my conscience, i loved you more.' 'it's incredible! incredible!' he muttered, half to himself. 'i never hoped till lately that you would care for me. i never dared to think of such a thing. i knew you oughtn't to! it passes comprehension.' 'that is just what love does,' i said. 'no, no,' he went on quickly; 'you don't understand; you can't understand my feelings when i began to suspect, about two months ago, that, after all, the incredible had happened. i'm nothing but your publisher. i can't talk. i can't write. i can't play. i can't do anything. and look at the men you have here! i've sometimes wondered how often you've been besieged--' 'none of them was like you,' i said. 'perhaps that is why i have always kept them off.' i raised my eyes and lips, and he stooped and kissed me. he wanted to take me in his arms again, but i would not yield myself. 'be reasonable,' i urged him. 'ought we not to think of our situation?' he loosed me, stammering apologies, abasing himself. 'i ought to leave you, i ought never to see you again.' he spoke roughly. 'what am i doing to you? you who are so innocent and pure!' 'i entreat you not to talk like that,' i gasped, reddening. 'but i must talk like that,' he insisted. 'i must talk like that. you had everything that a woman can desire, and i come into your life and offer you--what?' 'i _have_ everything a woman can desire,' i corrected him softly. 'angel!' he breathed. 'if i bring you disaster, you will forgive me, won't you?' 'my happiness will only cease with your love,' i said. 'happiness!' he repeated. 'i have never been so happy as i am now; but such happiness is terrible. it seems to me impossible that such happiness can last.' 'faint heart!' i chided him. 'it is for you i tremble,' he said. 'if--if--' he stopped. 'my darling, forgive me!' how i pitied him! how i enveloped him in an effluent sympathy that rushed warm from my heart! he accused himself of having disturbed my existence. whereas, was it not i who had disturbed his? he had fought against me, i knew well, but fate had ordained his defeat. he had been swept away; he had been captured; he had been caught in a snare of the high gods. and he was begging forgiveness, he who alone had made my life worth living! i wanted to kneel before him, to worship him, to dry his tears with my hair. i swear that my feelings were as much those of a mother as of a lover. he was ten years older than me, and yet he seemed boyish, and i an aged woman full of experience, as he sat there opposite to me with his wide, melancholy eyes and restless mouth. 'wonderful, is it not,' he said, 'that we should be talking like this to-night, and only yesterday we were mr. and miss to each other?' 'wonderful!' i responded. 'but yesterday we talked with our eyes, and our eyes did not say mr. or miss. our eyes said--ah, what they said can never be translated into words!' my gaze brooded on him like a caress, explored him with the unappeasable curiosity of love, and blinded him like the sun. could it be true that heaven had made that fine creature--noble and modest, nervous and full of courage, impetuous and self-controlled, but, above all things, fine and delicate--could it be true that heaven had made him and then given him to me, with his enchanting imperfections that themselves constituted perfection? oh, wonder, wonder! oh, miraculous bounty which i had not deserved! this thing had happened to me, of all women! how it showed, by comparison, the sterility of my success and my fame and my worldly splendour! i had hungered and thirsted for years; i had travelled interminably through the hot desert of my brilliant career, until i had almost ceased to hope that i should reach, one evening, the pool of water and the palm. and now i might eat and drink and rest in the shade. wonderful! 'why were you so late to-night?' i asked abruptly. 'late?' he replied absently. 'is it late?' we both looked at the clock. it was yet half an hour from midnight. 'of course it isn't--not _very_,' i said. i was forgetting that. everybody left so early.' 'why was that?' i told him, in a confusion that was sweet to me, how i had suffered by reason of his failure to appear. he glanced at me with tender amaze. 'but i am fortunate to-day,' i exclaimed. 'was it not lucky they left when they did? suppose you had arrived, in that state, dearest man, and burst into a room full of people? what would they have thought? where should i have looked?' 'angel!' he cried. 'i'm so sorry. i forgot it was your evening. i must have forgotten. i forgot everything, except that i was bound to see you at once, instantly, with all speed.' poor boy! he was like a bird fluttering in my hand. millions of women must have so pictured to themselves the men who loved them, and whom they loved. 'but still, you _were_ rather late, you know,' i smiled. 'do not ask me why,' he begged, with an expression of deep pain on his face. 'i have had a scene with mary. it would humiliate me to tell you--to tell even you--what passed between us. but it is over. our relations in the future can never, in any case, be more than formal.' a spasm of fierce jealousy shot through me--jealousy of mary, my friend mary, who knew him with such profound intimacy that they could go through a scene together which was 'humiliating.' i saw that my own intimacy with him was still crude with the crudity of newness, and that only years could mellow it. mary, the good, sentimental mary, had wasted the years of their marriage--had never understood the value of the treasure in her keeping. why had they always been sad in their house? what was the origin of that resigned and even cheerful gloom which had pervaded their domestic life, and which i had remarked on my first visit to bloomsbury square? were these, too, mysteries that i must not ask my lover to reveal? resentment filled me. i came near to hating mary, not because she had made him unhappy--oh no!--but because she had had the priority in his regard, and because there was nothing about him, however secret and recondite, that i could be absolutely sure of the sole knowledge of. she had been in the depths with him. i desired fervently that i also might descend with him, and even deeper. oh, that i might have the joy and privilege of humiliation with him! 'i shall ask you nothing, dearest,' i murmured. i had risen from my seat and gone to him, and was lightly touching his hair with my fingers. he did not move, but sat staring into the fire. somehow, i adored him because he made no response to the fondling of my hand. his strange acceptance of the caress as a matter of course gave me the illusion that i was his wife, and that the years had mellowed our intimacy. 'carlotta!' he spoke my name slowly and distinctly, savouring it. 'yes,' i answered softly and obediently. 'carlotta! listen! our two lives are in our hands at this moment--this moment while we talk here.' his rapt eyes had not stirred from the fire. 'i feel it,' i said. 'what are we to do? what shall we decide to do?' he slowly turned towards me. i lowered my glance. 'i don't know,' i said. 'yes, you do, carlotta,' he insisted. 'you do know.' his voice trembled. 'mary and i are such good friends,' i said. 'that is what makes it so--' 'no, no, no!' he objected loudly. his nervousness had suddenly increased. 'don't, for god's sake, begin to argue in that way! you are above feminine logic. mary is your friend. good. you respect her; she respects you. good. is that any reason why our lives should be ruined? will that benefit mary? do i not tell you that everything has ceased between us?' 'the idea of being false to mary--' 'there's no question of being false. and if there was, would you be false to love rather than to friendship? between you and me there is love; between mary and me there is not love. it isn't her fault, nor mine, least of all yours. it is the fault of the secret essence of existence. have you not yourself written that the only sacred thing is instinct? are we, or are we not, to be true to ourselves?' 'you see,' i said, 'your wife is so sentimental. she would be incapable of looking at the affair as--as we do; as i should in her place.' i knew that my protests were insincere, and that all my heart and brain were with him, but i could not admit this frankly. ah! and i knew also that the sole avenue to peace and serenity, not to happiness, was the path of renunciation and of obedience to the conventions of society, and that this was precisely the path which we should never take. and on the horizon of our joy i saw a dark cloud. it had always been there, but i had refused to see it. i looked at it now steadily. 'of course,' he groaned, 'if we are to be governed by mary's sentimentality--' 'dear love,' i whispered, 'what do you want me to do?' 'the only possible, honest, just thing. i want you to go away with me, so that mary can get a divorce.' he spoke sternly, as it were relentlessly. 'does she guess--about me?' i asked, biting my lip, and looking away from him. 'not yet. hasn't the slightest notion, i'm sure. but i'll tell her, straight and fair.' 'dearest friend,' i said, after a silence. 'perhaps i know more of the world than you think. perhaps i'm a girl only in years and situation. forgive me if i speak plainly. mary may prove unfaithfulness, but she cannot get a decree unless she can prove other things as well.' he stroked his forehead. as for me, i shuddered with agitation. he walked across the room and back. 'angel!' he said, putting his white face close to mine like an actor. 'i will prove whether your love for me is great enough. i have struck her. i struck her to-night in the presence of a servant. and i did it purposely, in cold blood, so that she might be able to prove cruelty. ah! have i not thought it all out? have i not?' a sob, painfully escaping, shook my whole frame. 'and this was before you had--had spoken to me!' i said bitterly. not myself, but some strange and frigid force within me uttered those words. 'that is what love will do. that is the sort of thing love drives one to,' he cried despairingly. 'oh! i was not sure of you--i was not sure of you. i struck her, on the off chance.' and he sank on the sofa and wept passionately, unashamed, like a child. i could not bear it. my heart would have broken if i had watched, without assuaging, my boy's grief an instant longer than i did. i sprang to him. i took him to my breast. i kissed his eyes until the tears ceased to flow. whatever it was or might be, i must share his dishonour. 'my poor girl!' he said at length. 'if you had refused me, if you had even judged me, i intended to warn you plainly that it meant my death; and if that failed, i should have gone to the office and shot myself.' 'do not say such things,' i entreated him. 'but it is true. the revolver is in my pocket. ah! i have made you cry! you're frightened! but i'm not a brute; i'm only a little beside myself. pardon me, angel!' he kissed me, smiling sadly with a trace of humour. he did not understand me. he did not suspect the risk he had run. if i had hesitated to surrender, and he had sought to move me by threatening suicide, i should never have surrendered. i knew myself well enough to know that. i had a conscience that was incapable of yielding to panic. a threat would have parted us, perhaps for ever. oh, the blindness of man! but i forgave him. nay, i cherished him the more for his childlike, savage simplicity. 'carlotta,' he said, 'we shall leave everything. you grasp it?--everything.' 'yes,' i replied. 'of all the things we have now, we shall have nothing but ourselves.' 'if i thought it was a sacrifice for you, i would go out and never see you again.' noble fellow, proud now in the certainty that he sufficed for me! he meant what he said. 'it is no sacrifice for me,' i murmured. 'the sacrifice would be not to give up all in exchange for you.' 'we shall be exiles,' he went on, 'until the divorce business is over. and then perhaps we shall creep back--shall we?--and try to find out how many of our friends are our equals in moral courage.' 'yes,' i said. 'we shall come back. they all do.' 'what do you mean?' he demanded. 'thousands have done what we are going to do,' i said. 'and all of them have thought that their own case was different from the other cases.' 'ah!' 'and a few have been happy. a few have not regretted the price. a few have retained the illusion.' 'illusion? dearest girl, why do you talk like this?' i could see that my heart's treasure was ruffled. he clasped my hand tenaciously. 'i must not hide from you the kind of woman you have chosen,' i answered quietly, and as i spoke a hush fell upon my amorous passion. 'in me there are two beings--myself and the observer of myself. it is the novelist's disease, this duplication of personality. when i said illusion, i meant the supreme illusion of love. is it not an illusion? i have seen it in others, and in exactly the same way i see it in myself and i see it in you. will it last?--who knows? none can tell.' 'angel!' he expostulated. 'no one can foresee the end of love,' i said, with an exquisite gentle sorrow. 'but when the illusion is as intense as mine, as yours, even if its hour is brief, that hour is worth all the terrible years of disillusion which it will cost. darling, this precious night alone would not be too dear if i paid for it with the rest of my life.' he thanked me with a marvellous smile of confident adoration, and his disengaged hand played with the gold chain which hung loosely round my neck. 'call it illusion if you like,' he said. 'words are nothing. i only know that for me it will be eternal. i only know that my one desire is to be with you always, never to leave you, not to miss a moment of you; to have you for mine, openly, securely. carlotta, where shall we go?' 'we must travel, mustn't we?' 'travel?' he repeated, with an air of discontent. 'yes. but where to?' 'travel,' i said. 'see things. see the world.' 'i had thought we might find some quiet little place,' he said wistfully, and as if apologetically, where we could be alone, undisturbed, some spot where we could have ourselves wholly to ourselves, and go walks into mountains and return for dinner; and then the long, calm evenings! dearest, our honeymoon!' our honeymoon! i had not, in the pursuit of my calling, studied human nature and collected documents for nothing. with how many brides had i not talked! how many loves did i not know to have been paralyzed and killed by a surfeit in the frail early stages of their existence! inexperienced as i was, my learning in humanity was wiser than the experience of my impulsive, generous, magnanimous lover, to whom the very thought of calculation would have been abhorrent. but i saw, i felt, i lived through in a few seconds the interminable and monotonous length of those calm days, and especially those calm evenings succeeding each other with a formidable sameness. i had watched great loves faint and die. and i knew that our love--miraculously sweet as it was--probably was not greater than many great ones that had not stood the test. you perceive the cold observer in me. i knew that when love lasted, the credit of the survival was due far more often to the woman than to the man. the woman must husband herself, dole herself out, economize herself so that she might be splendidly wasteful when need was. the woman must plan, scheme, devise, invent, reconnoitre, take precautions; and do all this sincerely and lovingly in the name and honour of love. a passion, for her, is a campaign; and her deadliest enemy is satiety. looking into my own heart, and into his, i saw nothing but hope for the future of our love. but the beautiful plant must not be exposed to hazard. suppose it sickened, such a love as ours--what then? the misery of hell, the torture of the damned! only its rich and ample continuance could justify us. 'my dear,' i said submissively, 'i shall leave everything to you. the idea of travelling occurred to me; that was all. i have never travelled further than cannes. still, we have all our lives before us.' 'we will travel,' he said unselfishly. 'we'll go round the world--slowly. i'll get the tickets at cook's to-morrow.' 'but, dearest, if you would rather--' 'no, no! in any case we shall always have our evenings.' 'of course we shall. dearest, how good you are!' 'i wish i was,' he murmured. i was glad, then, that i had never allowed my portrait to appear in a periodical. we could not prevent the appearance in american newspapers of heralding paragraphs, but the likelihood of our being recognised was sensibly lessened. 'can you start soon?' he asked. 'can you be ready?' 'any time. the sooner the better, now that it is decided.' 'you do not regret? we have decided so quickly. ah! you are the merest girl, and i have taken advantage--' i put my hand over his mouth. he seized it, and kept it there and kissed it, and his ardent breath ran through my fingers. 'what about your business?' i said. 'i shall confide it to old tate--tell him some story--he knows quite as much about it as i do. to-morrow i will see to all that. the day after, shall we start? no; to-morrow night. to-morrow night, eh? i'll run in to-morrow and tell you what i've arranged. i must see you to-morrow, early.' 'no,' i said. 'do not come before lunch.' 'not before lunch! why?' he was surprised. but i had been my own mistress for five years, with my own habits, rules, privacies. i had never seen anyone before lunch. and to-morrow, of all days, i should have so much to do and to arrange. was this man to come like an invader and disturb my morning? so felt the celibate in me, instinctively, thoughtlessly. that deep-seated objection to the intrusion of even the most loved male at certain times is common, i think, to all women. women are capable of putting love aside, like a rich dress, and donning the _peignoir_ of matter-of-fact dailiness, in a way which is an eternal enigma to men.... then i saw, in a sudden flash, that i had renounced my individual existence, that i had forfeited my habits and rules, and privacies, that i was a man's woman. and the passionate lover in me gloried in this. 'come as soon as you like, dearest friend,' i said. 'nobody except mary will know anything till we are actually gone,' he remarked. 'and i shall not tell her till the last thing. afterwards, won't they chatter! god! let 'em.' 'they are already chattering,' i said. and i told him about mrs. sardis. 'when she met you on the landing,' i added, 'she drew her own conclusions, my poor, poor boy!' he was furious. i could see he wanted to take me in his arms and protect me masculinely from the rising storm. 'all that is nothing,' i soothed him. 'nothing. against it, we have our self-respect. we can scorn all that.' and i gave a short, contemptuous laugh. 'darling!' he murmured. 'you are more than a woman.' 'i hope not.' and i laughed again, but unnaturally. he had risen; i leaned back in a large cushioned chair; we looked at each other in silence--a silence that throbbed with the heavy pulse of an unutterable and complex emotion--pleasure, pain, apprehension, even terror. what had i done? why had i, with a word--nay, without a word, with merely a gesture and a glance--thrown my whole life into the crucible of passion? why did i exult in the tremendous and impetuous act, like a martyr, and also like a girl? was i playing with my existence as an infant plays with a precious bibelot that a careless touch may shatter? why was i so fiercely, madly, drunkenly happy when i gazed into those eyes? 'i suppose i must go,' he said disconsolately. i nodded, and the next instant the clock struck. 'yes,' he urged himself, 'i must go.' he bent down, put his hands on the arms of the chair, and kissed me violently, twice. the fire that consumes the world ran scorchingly through me. every muscle was suddenly strained into tension, and then fell slack. my face flushed; i let my head slip sideways, so that my left cheek was against the back of the chair. through my drooping eyelashes i could see the snake-like glitter of his eyes as he stood over me. i shuddered and sighed. i was like someone fighting in vain against the sweet seduction of an overwhelming and fatal drug. i wanted to entreat him to go away, to rid me of the exquisite and sinister enchantment. but i could not speak. i shut my eyes. this was love. the next moment i heard the soft sound of his feet on the carpet. i opened my eyes. he had stepped back. when our glances met he averted his face, and went briskly for his overcoat, which lay on the floor by the piano. i rose freed, re-established in my self-control. i arranged his collar, straightened his necktie with a few touches, picked up his hat, pushed back the crown, which flew up with a noise like a small explosion, and gave it into his hands. 'thank you,' he said. 'to-morrow morning, eh? i shall get to know everything necessary before i come. and then we will fix things up.' 'yes,' i said. 'i can let myself out,' he said. i made a vague gesture, intended to signify that i could not think of permitting him to let himself out. we left the drawing-room, and passed, with precautions of silence, to the front-door, which i gently opened. 'good-night, then,' he whispered formally, almost coldly. i nodded. we neither of us even smiled. we were grave, stern, and stiff in our immense self-consciousness. 'too late for the lift,' i murmured out there with him in the vast, glittering silence of the many-angled staircase, which disappeared above us and below us into the mysterious unseen. he nodded as i had nodded, and began to descend the broad, carpeted steps, firmly, carefully, and neither quick nor slow. i leaned over the baluster. when the turns of the staircase brought him opposite and below me, he stopped and raised his hat, and we exchanged a smile. then he resolutely dropped his eyes and resumed the descent. from time to time i had glimpses of parts of his figure as he passed story after story. then i heard his tread on the tessellated pavement of the main hall, the distant clatter of double doors, and a shrill cab-whistle. this was love, at last--the reality of love! he would have killed himself had he failed to win me--killed himself! with the novelist's habit, i ran off into a series of imagined scenes--the dead body, with the hole in the temples and the awkward attitude of death; the discovery, the rush for the police, the search for a motive, the inquest, the rapid-speaking coroner, who spent his whole life at inquests; myself, cold and impassive, giving evidence, and mary listening to what i said.... but he lived, with his delicate physical charm, his frail distinction, his spiritual grace; and he had won me. the sense of mutual possession was inexpressibly sweet to me. and it was all i had in the world now. when my mind moved from that rock, all else seemed shifting, uncertain, perilous, bodeful, and steeped in woe. the air was thick with disasters, and injustice, and strange griefs immediately i loosed my hold on the immense fact that he was mine. 'how calm i am!' i thought. it was not till i had been in bed some three hours that i fully realized the seismic upheaval which my soul had experienced. iii i woke up from one of those dozes which, after a sleepless night, give the brief illusion of complete rest, all my senses sharpened, and my mind factitiously active. and i began at once to anticipate frank's coming, and to arrange rapidly my plans for closing the flat. i had determined that it should be closed. then someone knocked at the door, and it occurred to me that there must have been a previous knock, which had, in fact, wakened me. save on special occasions, i was never wakened, and emmeline and my maid had injunctions not to come to me until i rang. my thoughts ran instantly to frank. he had arrived thus early, merely because he could not keep away. 'how extremely indiscreet of him!' i thought. 'what detestable prevarications with emmeline this will lead to! i cannot possibly be ready in time if he is to be in and out all day.' nevertheless, the prospect of seeing him quickly, and the idea of his splendid impatience, drenched me with joy. 'what is it?' i called out. emmeline entered in that terrible mauve dressing-gown which i had been powerless to persuade her to discard. 'so sorry to disturb you,' said emmeline, feeling her loose golden hair with one hand, 'but mrs. ispenlove has called, and wants to see you at once. i'm afraid something has happened.' '_mrs_. ispenlove?' my voice shook. 'yes. yvonne came to my room and told me that mrs. ispenlove was here, and was either mad or very unwell, and would i go to her? so i got up at once. what shall i do? perhaps it's something very serious. not half-past eight, and calling like this!' 'let her come in here immediately,' i said, turning my head on the pillow, so that emmeline should not see the blush which had spread over my face and my neck. it was inevitable that a terrible and desolating scene must pass between mary ispenlove and myself. i could not foresee how i should emerge from it, but i desperately resolved that i would suffer the worst without a moment's delay, and that no conceivable appeal should induce me to abandon frank. i was, as i waited for mrs. ispenlove to appear, nothing but an embodied and fierce instinct to guard what i had won. no consideration of mercy could have touched me. she entered with a strange, hysterical cry: 'carlotta!' i had asked her long ago to use my christian name--long before i ever imagined what would come to pass between her husband and me; but i always called her mrs. ispenlove. the difference in our ages justified me. and that morning the difference seemed to be increased. i realized, with a cruel justice of perception quite new in my estimate of her, that she was old--an old woman. she had never been beautiful, but she was tall and graceful, and her face had been attractive by the sweetness of the mouth and the gray beneficence of the eyes; and now that sweetness and that beneficence appeared suddenly to have been swallowed up in the fatal despair of a woman who discovers that she has lived too long. gray hair, wrinkles, crow's-feet, tired eyes, drawn mouth, and the terrible tell-tale hollow under the chin--these were what i saw in mary ispenlove. she had learnt that the only thing worth having in life is youth. i possessed everything that she lacked. surely the struggle was unequal. fate might have chosen a less piteous victim. i felt profoundly sorry for mary ispenlove, and this sorrow was stronger in me even than the uneasiness, the false shame (for it was not a real shame) which i experienced in her presence. i put out my hands towards her, as it were, involuntarily. she sprang to me, took them, and kissed me as i lay in bed. 'how beautiful you look--like that!' she exclaimed wildly, and with a hopeless and acute envy in her tone. 'but why--' i began to protest, astounded. 'what will you think of me, disturbing you like this? what will you think?' she moaned. and then her voice rose: 'i could not help it; i couldn't, really. oh, carlotta! you are my friend, aren't you?' one thing grew swiftly clear to me: that she was as yet perfectly unaware of the relations between frank and myself. my brain searched hurriedly for an explanation of the visit. i was conscious of an extraordinary relief. 'you are my friend, aren't you?' she repeated insistently. her tears were dropping on my bosom. but could i answer that i was her friend? i did not wish to be her enemy; she and frank and i were dolls in the great hands of fate, irresponsible, guiltless, meet for an understanding sympathy. why was i not still her friend? did not my heart bleed for her? yet such is the power of convention over honourableness that i could not bring myself to reply directly, 'yes, i am your friend.' 'we have known each other a long time,' i ventured. 'there was no one else i could come to,' she said. her whole frame was shaking. i sat up, and asked her to pass my dressing-gown, which i put round my shoulders. then i rang the bell. 'what are you going to do?' she demanded fearfully. 'i am going to have the gas-stove lighted and some tea brought in, and then we will talk. take your hat off, dear, and sit down in that chair. you'll be more yourself after a cup of tea.' how young i was then! i remember my naïve satisfaction in this exhibition of tact. i was young and hard, as youth is apt to be--hard in spite of the compassion, too intellectual and arrogant, which i conceived for her. and even while i forbade her to talk until she had drunk some tea, i regretted the delay, and i suffered by it. surely, i thought, she will read in my demeanour something which she ought not to read there. but she did not. she was one of the simplest of women. in ten thousand women one is born without either claws or second-sight. she was that one, defenceless as a rabbit. 'you are very kind to me,' she said, putting her cup on the mantelpiece with a nervous rattle; 'and i need it.' 'tell me,' i murmured. 'tell me--what i can do.' i had remained in bed; she was by the fireplace. a distance between us seemed necessary. 'you can't do anything, my dear,' she said. 'only i was obliged to talk to someone, after all the night. it's about frank.' 'mr. ispenlove!' i ejaculated, acting as well as i could, but not very well. 'yes. he has left me.' 'but why? what is the matter?' even to recall my share in this interview with mary ispenlove humiliates me. but perhaps i have learned the value of humiliation. still, could i have behaved differently? 'you won't understand unless i begin a long time ago,' said mary ispenlove. 'carlotta, my married life has been awful--awful--a tragedy. it has been a tragedy both for him and for me. but no one has suspected it; we have hidden it.' i nodded. i, however, had suspected it. 'it's just twenty years--yes, twenty--since i fell in love,' she proceeded, gazing at me with her soft, moist eyes. 'with--frank,' i assumed. i lay back in bed. 'no,' she said. 'with another man. that was in brixton, when i was a girl living with my father; my mother was dead. he was a barrister--i mean the man i was in love with. he had only just been called to the bar. i think everybody knew that i had fallen in love with him. certainly he did; he could not help seeing it. i could not conceal it. of course i can understand now that it flattered him. naturally it did. any man is flattered when a woman falls in love with him. and my father was rich, and so on, and so on. we saw each other a lot. i hoped, and i kept on hoping. some people even said it was a match, and that i was throwing myself away. fancy--throwing myself away--me!--who have never been good for anything! my father did not care much for the man; said he was selfish and grasping. possibly he was; but i was in love with him all the same. then i met frank, and frank fell in love with me. you know how obstinate frank is when he has once set his mind on a thing. frank determined to have me; and my father was on his side. i would not listen. i didn't give him so much as a chance to propose to me. and this state of things lasted for quite a long time. it wasn't my fault; it wasn't anybody's fault.' 'just so,' i agreed, raising my head on one elbow, and listening intently. it was the first sincere word i had spoken, and i was glad to utter it. 'the man i had fallen in love with came nearer. he was decidedly tempted. i began to feel sure of him. all i wanted was to marry him, whether he loved me a great deal or only a little tiny bit. i was in that state. then he drew away. he scarcely ever came to the house, and i seemed never to be able to meet him. and then one day my father showed me something in the _morning post_. it was a paragraph saying that the man i was in love with was going to marry a woman of title, a widow and the daughter of a peer. i soon found out she was nearly twice his age. he had done it to get on. he was getting on very well by himself, but i suppose that wasn't fast enough for him. carlotta, it nearly killed me. and i felt so sorry for him. you can't guess how sorry i felt for him. i felt that he didn't know what he had missed. oh, how happy i should have made him! i should have lived for him. i should have done everything for him. i should have ... you don't mind me telling you all this?' i made an imploring gesture. 'what a shame!' i burst out. 'ah, my dear!' she said, 'he didn't love me. one can't blame him.' 'and then?' i questioned, with an eagerness that i tried to overcome. 'frank was so persevering. and--and--i _did_ admire his character. a woman couldn't help admiring his character, could she? and, besides, i honestly thought i had got over the other affair, and that i was in love with him. i refused him once, and then i married him. he was as mad for me as i had been for the other one. yes, i married him, and we both imagined we were going to be happy.' 'and why haven't you been?' i asked. 'this is my shame,' she said. 'i could not forget the other one. we soon found that out.' 'did you _talk_ about it, you--and frank?' i put in, amazed. 'oh _no_!' she said. 'it was never mentioned--never once during fifteen years. but he knew; and i knew that he knew. the other one was always between us--always, always, always! the other one was always in my heart. we did our best, both of us; but it was useless. the passion of my life was--it was invincible. i _tried_ to love frank. i could only like him. fancy his position! and we were helpless. because, you know, frank and i are not the sort of people that go and make a scandal--at least, that was what i thought,' she sighed. 'i know different now. well, he died the day before yesterday.' 'who?' 'crettell. he had just been made a judge. he was the youngest judge on the bench--only forty-six.' 'was _that_ the man?' i exclaimed; for crettell's character was well known in london. 'that was the man. frank came in yesterday afternoon, and after he had glanced at the paper, he said: "by the way, crettell's dead." i did not grasp it at first. he repeated: "crettell--he's dead." i burst into tears. i couldn't help it. and, besides, i forgot. frank asked me very roughly what i was crying for. you know, frank has much changed these last few months. he is not as nice as he used to be. excuse me talking like this, my dear. something must be worrying him. well, i said as well as i could while i was crying that the news was a shock to me. i tried to stop crying, but i couldn't. i sobbed. frank threw down the paper and stamped on it, and he swore. he said: "i know you've always been in love with the brute, but you needn't make such a damn fuss about it." oh, my dear, how can i tell you these things? that angered me. this was the first time in our married life that crettell had been even referred to, and it seemed to me that frank put all the hatred of fifteen years into that single sentence. why was i angry? i didn't know. we had a scene. frank lost his temper, for the first time that i remember, and then he recovered it. he said quietly he couldn't stand living with me any more; and that he had long since wanted to leave me. he said he would never see me again. and then one of the servants came in, and--' 'what?' 'nothing. i sent her out. and--and--fran didn't come home last night.' there was a silence. i could find nothing to say, and mary had hidden her face. i utterly forgot myself and my own state in this extraordinary hazard of matrimony. i could only think of mary's grief--a grief which, nevertheless, i did not too well comprehend. 'then you love him now?' i ventured at length. she made no reply. 'you love him--is that so?' i pursued. 'tell me honestly.' i spoke as gently as it was in me to speak. 'honestly!' she cried, looking up. 'honestly! no! if i loved him, could i have been so upset about crettell? but we have been together so long. we are husband and wife, carlotta. we are so used to each other. and generally he is so good. we've got on very well, considering. and now he's left me. think of the scandal! it will be terrible! terrible! a separation at my age! carlotta, it's unthinkable! he's mad--that's the only explanation. haven't i tried to be a good wife to him? he's never found fault with me--never! and i'm sure, as regards him, i've had nothing to complain of.' 'he will come back,' i said. 'he'll think things over and see reason.' and it was just as though i heard some other person saying these words. 'but he didn't come _home_ last night,' mary insisted. 'what the servants are thinking i shouldn't like to guess.' 'what does it matter what the servants think?' i said brusquely. 'but it _does_ matter. he didn't come _home_. he must have slept at a hotel. fancy, sleeping at a hotel, and his home waiting for him! oh, carlotta, you're too young to understand what i feel! you're very clever, and you're very sympathetic; but you can't see things as i see them. wait till you've been married fifteen years. the scandal! the shame! and me only too anxious to be a good wife, and to keep our home as it should be, and to help him as much as i can with my stupid brains in his business!' 'i can understand perfectly,' i asserted. 'i can understand perfectly.' and i could. the futility of arguing with mary, of attempting to free her ever so little from the coils of convention which had always bound her, was only too plainly apparent. she was--and naturally, sincerely, instinctively--the very incarnation and mouthpiece of the conventionality of society, as she cowered there in her grief and her quiet resentment. but this did not impair the authenticity of her grief and her resentment. her grief appealed to me powerfully, and her resentment, almost angelic in its quality, seemed sufficiently justified. i knew that my own position was in practice untenable, that logic must always be inferior to emotion. i am intensely proud of my ability to see, then, that no sentiment can be false which is sincere, and that mary ispenlove's attitude towards marriage was exactly as natural, exactly as free from artificiality, as my own. can you go outside nature? is not the polity of londoners in london as much a part of nature as the polity of bees in a hive? 'not a word for fifteen years, and then an explosion like that!' she murmured, incessantly recurring to the core of her grievance. 'i did wrong to marry him, i know. but i _did_ marry him--i _did_ marry him! we are husband and wife. and he goes off and sleeps at a hotel! carlotta, i wish i had never been born! what will people say? i shall never be able to look anyone in the face again.' 'he will come back,' i said again. 'do you think so?' this time she caught at the straw. 'yes,' i said. 'and you will settle down gradually; and everything will be forgotten.' i said that because it was the one thing i could say. i repeat that i had ceased to think of myself. i had become a spectator. 'it can never be the same between us again,' mary breathed sadly. at that moment emmeline palmer plunged, rather than came, into my bedroom. 'oh, miss peel--' she began, and then stopped, seeing mrs. ispenlove by the fireplace, though she knew that mrs. ispenlove was with me. 'anything wrong?' i asked, affecting a complete calm. it was evident that the good creature had lost her head, as she sometimes did, when i gave her too much to copy, or when the unusual occurred in no matter what form. the excellent emmeline was one of my mistakes. 'mr. ispenlove is here,' she whispered. none of us spoke for a few seconds. mary ispenlove stared at me, but whether in terror or astonishment, i could not guess. this was one of the most dramatic moments of my life. 'tell mr. ispenlove that i can see nobody,' i said, glancing at the wall. she turned to go. 'and, emmeline,' i stopped her. 'do not tell him anything else.' surely the fact that frank had called to see me before nine o'clock in the morning, surely my uneasy demeanour, must at length arouse suspicion even in the simple, trusting mind of his wife! 'how does he know that i am here?' mary asked, lowering her voice, when emmeline had shut the door; 'i said nothing to the servants.' i was saved. her own swift explanation of his coming was, of course, the most natural in the world. i seized on it. 'never mind how,' i answered. 'perhaps he was watching outside your house, and followed you. the important thing is that he has come. it proves,' i went on, inventing rapidly, 'that he has changed his mind and recognises his mistake. had you not better go back home as quickly as you can? it would have been rather awkward for you to see him here, wouldn't it?' 'yes, yes,' she said, her eyes softening and gleaming with joy. 'i will go. oh, carlotta! how can i thank you? you are my best friend.' 'i have done nothing,' i protested. but i had. 'you are a dear!' she exclaimed, coming impulsively to the bed. i sat up. she kissed me fervently. i rang the bell. 'has mr. ispenlove gone?' i asked emmeline. 'yes,' said emmeline. in another minute his wife, too, had departed, timorously optimistic, already denying in her heart that it could never be the same between them again. she assuredly would not find frank at home. but that was nothing. i had escaped! i had escaped! 'will you mind getting dressed at once?' i said to emmeline. 'i should like you to go out with a letter and a manuscript as soon as possible.' i got a notebook and began to write to frank. i told him all that had happened, in full detail, writing hurriedly, in gusts, and abandoning that regard for literary form which the professional author is apt to preserve even in his least formal correspondence. 'after this,' i said, 'we must give up what we decided last night. i have no good reason to offer you. the situation itself has not been changed by what i have learnt from your wife. i have not even discovered that she loves you, though in spite of what she says, which i have faithfully told you, i fancy she does--at any rate, i think she is beginning to. my ideas about the rights of love are not changed. my feelings towards you are not changed. nothing is changed. but she and i have been through that interview, and so, after all, everything is changed; we must give it all up. you will say i am illogical. i am--perhaps. it was a mere chance that your wife came to me. i don't know why she did. if she had not come, i should have given myself to you. supposing she had written--i should still have given myself to you. but i have been in her presence. i have been with her. and then the thought that you struck her, for my sake! she said nothing about that. that was the one thing she concealed. i could have cried when she passed it over. after all, i don't know whether it is sympathy for your wife that makes me change, or my self-respect--say my self-pride; i'm a proud woman. i lied to her through all that interview. 'oh, if i had only had the courage to begin by telling her outright and bluntly that you and i had settled that i should take her place! that would have stopped her. but i hadn't. and, besides, how could i foresee what she would say to me and how she would affect me? no; i lied to her at every point. my whole attitude was a lie. supposing you and i had gone off together before i had seen her, and then i had met her afterwards, i could have looked her in the face--sorrowfully, with a heart bleeding--but i could have looked her in the face. but after this interview--no; it would be impossible for me to face her with you at my side! don't i put things crudely, horribly! i know everything that you will say. you could not bring a single argument that i have not thought of. 'however, arguments are nothing. it is how i feel. fate is against us. possibly i have ruined your life and mine without having done anything to improve hers; and possibly i have saved us all three from terrible misery. possibly fate is with us. no one can say. i don't know what will happen in the immediate future; i won't think about it. if you do as i wish, if you have any desire to show me that i have any influence over you, you will go back to live with your wife. where did you sleep last night? or did you walk the streets? you must not answer this letter at present. write to me later. do not try to see me. i won't see you. we _mustn't_ meet. i am going away at once. i don't think i could stand another scene with your wife, and she would be sure to come again to me. 'try to resume your old existence. you can do it if you try. remember that your wife is no more to blame than you are, or than i am. remember that you loved her once. and remember that i act as i am acting because there is no other way for me. _c'est plus fort que moi,_ i am going to torquay. i let you know this--i hate concealment; and anyway you would find out. but i shall trust you not to follow me. i shall trust you. you are saying that this is a very different woman from last night. it is. i haven't yet realized what my feelings are. i expect i shall realize them in a few days. i send with this a manuscript. it is nothing. i send it merely to put emmeline off the scent, so that she shall think that it is purely business. now i shall _trust_ you.--c. p.' i commenced the letter without even a 'dear frank,' and i ended it without an affectionate word. 'i should like you to take these down to mr. ispenlove's office,' i said to emmeline. 'ask for him and give them to him yourself. there's no answer. he's pretty sure to be in. but if he isn't, bring them back. i'm going to torquay by that eleven-thirty express--isn't it?' 'eleven-thirty-five,' emmeline corrected me coldly. when she returned, she said she had seen mr. ispenlove and given him the letter and the parcel. iv i had acquaintances in torquay, but i soon discovered that the place was impossible for me. torquay is the chosen home of the proprieties, the respectabilities, and all the conventions. nothing could dislodge them from its beautiful hills; the very sea, as it beats primly, or with a violence that never forgets to be discreet, on the indented shore, acknowledges their sway. aphrodite never visits there; the human race is not continued there. people who have always lived within the conventions go there to die within the conventions. the young do not flourish there; they escape from the soft enervation. since everybody is rich, there are no poor. there are only the rich, and the servitors, who get rich. these two classes never mix--even in the most modest villas they live on opposite sides of the house. the life of the town is a vast conspiracy on the part of the servitors to guard against any danger of the rich taking all their riches to heaven. you can, if you are keen enough, detect portions of this conspiracy in every shop. on the hills each abode stands in its own undulating grounds, is approached by a winding drive of at least ten yards, is wrapped about by the silence of elms, is flanked by greenhouses, and exudes an immaculate propriety from all its windows. in the morning the rich descend, the servitors ascend; the bosky and perfectly-kept streets on the hills are trodden with apologetic celerity by the emissaries of the servitors. the one interminable thoroughfare of the town is graciously invaded by the rich, who, if they have not walked down for the sake of exercise, step cautiously from their carriages, enunciate a string of orders ending with the name of a house, and cautiously regain their carriages. each house has a name, and the pride of the true servitor is his ability to deduce instantly from the name of the house the name of its owner and the name of its street. in the afternoon a vast and complicated game of visiting cards is played. one does not begin to be serious till the evening; one eats then, solemnly and fully, to the faint accompaniment of appropriate conversation. and there is no relief, no surcease from utmost conventionality. it goes on night and day; it hushes one to sleep, and wakes one up. on all but the strongest minds it casts a narcotizing spell, so that thought is arrested, and originality, vivacity, individuality become a crime--a shame that must be hidden. into this strange organism i took my wounded heart, imagining that an atmosphere of coma might help to heal it. but no! within a week my state had become such that i could have cried out in mid union street at noon: 'look at me with your dead eyes, you dead who have omitted to get buried, i am among you, and i am an adulteress in spirit! and my body has sinned the sin! and i am alive as only grief can be alive. i suffer the torture of vultures, but i would not exchange my lot with yours!' and one morning, after a fortnight, i thought of monte carlo. and the vision of that place, which i had never seen, too voluptuously lovely to be really beautiful, where there are no commandments, where unconventionality and conventionality fight it out on even terms, where the adulteress swarms, and the sin is for ever sinned, and wounded hearts go about gaily, where it is impossible to distinguish between virtue and vice, and where toleration in fine clothes is the supreme social goddess--the vision of monte carlo, as a place of refuge from the exacerbating and moribund and yet eternal demureness of torquay, appealed to me so persuasively that i was on my way to the riviera in two hours. in that crisis of my life my moods were excessively capricious. let me say that i had not reached exeter before i began to think kindly of torquay. what was torquay but an almost sublime example of what the human soul can accomplish in its unending quest of an ideal? i left england on a calm, slate-coloured sea--sea that more than any other sort of sea produces the reflective melancholy which makes wonderful the faces of fishermen. how that brief voyage symbolized for me the mysterious movement of humanity! we converged from the four quarters of the universe, passed together an hour, helpless, in somewhat inimical curiosity concerning each other, and then, mutually forgotten, took wing, and spread out into the unknown. i think that as i stood near the hot funnel, breasting the wind, and vacantly staring at the smooth expanse that continually slipped from under us, i understood myself better than i had done before. my soul was at peace--the peace of ruin after a conflagration, but peace. sometimes a little flame would dart out--flame of regret, revolt, desire--and i would ruthlessly extinguish it. i felt that i had nothing to live for, that no energy remained to me, no interest, no hope. i saw the forty years of probable existence in front of me flat and sterile as the sea itself. i was coldly glad that i had finished my novel, well knowing that it would be my last. and the immense disaster had been caused by a chance! why had i been born with a vein of overweening honesty in me? why should i have sacrificed everything to the pride of my conscience, seeing that consciences were the product of education merely? useless to try to answer the unanswerable! what is, is. and circumstances are always at the mercy of character. i might have been wrong, i might have been right; no ethical argument could have bent my instinct. i did not sympathize with myself--i was too proud and stern--but i sympathized with frank. i wished ardently that he might be consoled--that his agony might not be too terrible. i wondered where he was, what he was doing. i had received no letter from him, but then i had instructed that letters should not be forwarded to me. my compassion went out after him, followed him into the dark, found him (as i hoped), and surrounded him like an alleviating influence. i thought pityingly of the ravage that had been occasioned by our love. his home was wrecked. our lives were equally wrecked. our friends were grieved; they would think sadly of my closed flat. even the serio-comic figure of emmeline touched me; i had paid her three months' wages and dismissed her. where would she go with her mauve _peignoir_? she was over thirty, and would not easily fall into another such situation. imagine emmeline struck down by a splinter from our passionate explosion! only yvonne was content at the prospect of revisiting france. '_ah! qu'on est bien ici, madame_!' she said, when we had fixed ourselves in the long and glittering _train de grand luxe_ that awaited us at calais. once i had enjoyed luxury, but now the futility of all this luxurious cushioned arrogance, which at its best only corresponded with a railway director's dreams of paradise, seemed to me pathetic. could it detain youth, which is for ever flying? could it keep out sorrow? could it breed hope? as the passengers, so correct in their travelling costumes, passed to and fro in the corridors with the subdued murmurs always adopted by english people when they wish to prove that they are not excited, i thought: 'does it matter how you and i go southwards? the pride of the eye, and of the palate, and of the limbs, what can it help us that this should be sated? we cannot leave our souls behind.' the history of many of these men and women was written on their faces. i wondered if my history was written on mine, gazing into the mirrors which were everywhere, but seeing nothing save that which i had always seen. then i smiled, and yvonne smiled respectfully in response. was i not part of the immense pretence that riches bring joy and that life is good? on every table in the restaurant-cars were bunches of fresh flowers that had been torn from the south, and would return there dead, having ministered to the illusion that riches bring joy and that life is good. i hated that. i could almost have wished that i was travelling southwards in a slow, slow train, third class, where sorrow at any rate does not wear a mask. great grief is democratic, levelling--not downwards but upwards. it strips away the inessential, and makes brothers. it is impatient with all the unavailing inventions which obscure the brotherhood of mankind. i descended from the train restlessly--there were ten minutes to elapse before the departure--and walked along the platform, glimpsing the faces in the long procession of windows, and then the flowers and napery in the two restaurant-cars: wistful all alike, i thought--flowers and faces! how fanciful, girlishly fanciful, i was! opposite the door of the first car stood a gigantic negro in the sober blue and crimson livery of the international sleeping car company. he wore white gloves, like all the servants on the train: it was to foster the illusion; it was part of what we paid for. 'when is luncheon served?' i asked him idly. he looked massively down at me as i shivered slightly in my furs. he contemplated me for an instant. he seemed to add me up, antipathetically, as a product of western civilization. 'soon as the train starts, madam,' he replied suavely, in good american, and resumed nonchalantly his stare into the distance of the platform. 'thank you!' i said. i was glad that i had encountered him on that platform and not in the african bush. i speculated upon the chain of injustice and oppression that had warped his destiny from what it ought to have been to what it was. 'and he, too, is human, and knows love and grief and illusion, like me,' i mused. a few yards further on the engine-driver and stoker were busy with coal and grease. 'five minutes hence, and our lives, and our correctness, and our luxury, will be in their grimy hands,' i said to myself. strange world, the world of the _train de grand luxe_! but a world of brothers! i regained my carriage, exactly, after all, as the inhabitants of torquay regained theirs. then the wondrous self-contained microcosm, shimmering with gilt and varnish and crystal, glorious in plush and silk, heavy with souls and all that correct souls could possibly need in twenty hours, gathered itself up and rolled forward, swiftly, and more swiftly, into the wide, gray landscapes of france. the vibrating and nerve-destroying monotony of a long journey had commenced. we were summoned by white gloves to luncheon; and we lunched in a gliding palace where the heavenly dreams of a railway director had received their most luscious expression--and had then been modestly hidden by advertisements of hotels and brandy. the southern flowers shook in their slender glasses, and white gloves balanced dishes as if on board ship, and the electric fans revolved ceaselessly. as i was finishing my meal, a middle-aged woman whom i knew came down the car towards me. she had evidently not recognised me. 'how do you do, miss kate?' i accosted her. it was the younger of vicary's two maiden sisters. i guessed that the other could not be far away. she hesitated, stopped, and looked down at me, rather as the negro had done. 'oh! how do you do, miss peel?' she said distantly, with a nervous simper; and she passed on. this was my first communication, since my disappearance, with the world of my london friends and acquaintances. i perceived, of course, from miss kate's attitude that something must have occurred, or something must have been assumed, to my prejudice. perhaps frank had also vanished for a time, and the rumour ran that we were away together. i smiled frigidly. what matter? in case miss vicary should soon be following her sister, i left without delay and went back to my coupé; it would have been a pity to derange these dames. me away with frank! what folly to suppose it! yet it might have been. i was in heart what these dames probably took me for. i read a little in the _imitation of christ_ which aunt constance had meant to give me, that book which will survive sciences and even christianity itself. 'think not that thou hast made any progress,' i read, 'unless thou feel thyself inferior to all ... behold how far off thou art yet from true charity and humility: which knows not how to be angry or indignant, with any except one's self.' night fell. the long, illuminated train roared and flashed on its invisible way under a dome of stars. it shrieked by mysterious stations, dragging furiously its freight of luxury and light and human masks through placid and humble villages and towns, of which it ignored everything save their coloured signals of safety. ages of oscillation seemed to pass. in traversing the corridors one saw interior after interior full of the signs of wearied humanity: magazines thrown aside, rugs in disorder, hair dishevelled, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed, limbs in the abandoned attitudes of fatigue--here and there a compartment with blinds discreetly drawn, suggesting the jealous seclusion of love, and here and there a group of animated tatlers or card-players whose nerves nothing could affect, and who were incapable of lassitude; on every train and every steamer a few such are to be found. more ages passed, and yet the journey had but just begun. at length we thundered and resounded through canyons of tall houses, their façades occasionally bathed in the cold, blue radiance of arc-lights; and under streets and over canals. paris! the city of the joy of life! we were to see the muddied skirts of that brilliant and sinister woman. we panted to a standstill in the vast echoing cavern of the gare du nord, stared haughtily and drowsily at its bustling confusion, and then drew back, to carry our luxury and our correctness through the lowest industrial quarters. belleville, menilmontant, and other names of like associations we read on the miserable, forlorn stations of the ceinture, past which we trailed slowly our disgust. we made a semicircle through the secret shames that beautiful paris would fain hide, and, emerging, found ourselves in the deserted and stony magnificence of the gare de lyon, the gate of the south. here, where we were not out of keeping, where our splendour was of a piece with the splendour of the proudest terminus in france, we rested long, fretted by the inexplicable leisureliness on the part of a _train de grand luxe_, while gilded officials paced to and fro beneath us on the platforms, guarding in their bureaucratic breasts the secret of the exact instant at which the great express would leave. i slept, and dreamed that the misses vicary had brought several pairs of white gloves in order to have me dismissed from the society of the train. a hand touched me. it was yvonne's. i awoke to a renewal of the maddening vibration. we had quitted paris long since. it was after seven o'clock. '_on dit que le diner est servi, madame_ said yvonne. i told her to go, and i collected my wits to follow her. as i was emerging into the corridor, miss kate went by. i smiled faintly, perhaps timidly. she cut me completely. then i went out into the corridor. a man was standing at the other end twirling his moustaches. he turned round. it was frank. he came towards me, uncertainly swaying with the movement of the swaying train. 'good god!' he muttered, and stopped within a yard of me. i clung convulsively to the framework of the doorway. our lives paused. 'why have you followed me, frank?' i asked gloomily, in a whisper. i had meant to be severe, offended. i had not meant to put his name at the end of my question, much less to utter it tenderly, like an endearment. but i had little control over myself. i was almost breathless with a fatal surprise, shaken with terrible emotion. 'i've not followed you,' he said. 'i joined the train at paris. i'd no idea you were on the train till i saw you in the corner asleep, through the window of the compartment. i've been waiting here till you came out.' 'have you seen the vicarys?' 'yes,' he answered. 'ah! you've been away from london all this time?' 'i couldn't stay. i couldn't. i've been in belgium and holland. then i went to paris. and now--you see me.' 'i'm going to mentone,' i said. 'i had thought of monte carlo first, but i changed my mind. where are you going to?' 'mentone,' he said. we talked in hard, strained tones, avoiding each other's eyes. a string of people passed along the car on their way to dinner. i withdrew into my compartment, and frank flattened himself against a window. 'come in here a minute,' i said, when they were gone. he entered the compartment and sat down opposite to me and lifted his hand, perhaps unconsciously, to pull the door to. 'no,' i said; 'don't shut it. leave it like that.' he was dressed in a gray tourist suit. never before had i seen him in any but the formal attire of london. i thought he looked singularly graceful and distinguished, even romantic, in that loose, soft clothing. but no matter what he wore, frank satisfied the eye. we were both extremely nervous and excited and timid, fearing speech. 'carlotta,' he said at last--i had perceived that he was struggling to a resolution--'this is the best thing that could have happened. whatever we do, everybody will believe that we are running off together.' 'i think they have been believing that ever since we left london,' i said; and i told him about miss kate's treatment of me at lunch. 'but how can that affect us?' i demanded. 'mary will believe it--does believe, i'm sure. long before this, people will have enlightened her. and now the vicarys have seen us, it's all over. our hand is forced, isn't it?' 'frank,' i said, 'didn't you think my letter was right?' 'i obeyed it,' he replied heavily. 'i haven't even written to you. i meant to when i got to mentone.' 'but didn't you think i was right?' 'i don't know. yes--i suppose it was.' his lower lip fell. 'of course i don't want you to do anything that you--' 'dinner, please,' said my negro, putting his head between us. we both informed the man that we should not dine, and i asked him to tell yvonne not to wait for me. 'there's your maid, too,' said frank. 'how are we going to get out of it? the thing's settled for us.' 'my dear, dear boy!' i exclaimed. 'are we to outrage our consciences simply because people think we have outraged them?' 'it isn't my conscience--it's yours,' he said. 'well, then--mine.' i drew down my veil; i could scarcely keep dry eyes. 'why are you so hard, carlotta?' he cried. 'i can't understand you. i never could. but you'll kill me--that's what you'll do.' impulsively i leaned forward; and he seized my hand. our antagonism melted in tears. oh the cruel joy of that moment! who will dare to say that the spirit cannot burn with pleasure while drowning in grief? or that tragedy may not be the highest bliss? that instant of renunciation was our true marriage. i realize it now--a union that nothing can soil nor impair. 'i love you; you are fast and fast in my heart,' i murmured. 'but you must go back to mary. there is nothing else.' and i withdrew my hand. he shook his head. 'you've no right, my dearest, to tell me to go back to mary. i cannot.' 'forgive me,' i said. 'i have only the right to ask you to leave me.' 'then there is no hope?' his lips trembled. ah! those lips! i made a sign that there was no hope. and we sat in silence, overcome. a servant came to arrange the compartment for sleeping, and we were obliged to assume nonchalance and go into the corridor. all the windows of the corridor were covered with frost traceries. the train with its enclosed heat and its gleaming lamps was plunging through an ice-gripped night. i thought of the engine-driver, perched on his shaking, snorting, monstrous machine, facing the weather, with our lives and our loves in his hand. 'we'll leave each other now, frank,' i said, 'before the people begin to come back from dinner. go and eat something.' 'but you?' 'i shall be all right. yvonne will get me some fruit. i shall stay in our compartment till we arrive.' 'yes. and when we do arrive--what then? what are your wishes? you see, i can't leave the train before we get to mentone because of my registered luggage.' he spoke appealingly. the dear thing, with his transparent pretexts! 'you can ignore us at the station, and then leave mentone again during the day.' 'as you wish,' he said. 'good-night!' i whispered. 'good-bye!' and i turned to my compartment. 'carlotta!' he cried despairingly. but i shut the door and drew the blinds. yvonne was discretion itself when she returned. she had surely seen frank. no doubt she anticipated piquant developments at mentone. all night i lay on my narrow bed, with yvonne faintly snoring above me, and the harsh, metallic rattle of the swinging train beneath. i could catch the faint ticking of my watch under the thin pillow. the lamp burnt delicately within its green shade. i lay almost moveless, almost dead, shifting only at long intervals from side to side. sometimes my brain would arouse itself, and i would live again through each scene of my relationship with frank and mary. i often thought of the engine-driver, outside, watching over us and unflinchingly dragging us on. i hoped that his existence had compensations. v early on the second morning after that interview in the train i sat on my balcony in the hôtel d'�cosse, full in the tremendous sun that had ascended over the mediterranean. the shore road wound along beneath me by the blue water that never receded nor advanced, lopping always the same stones. a vivid yellow electric tram, like a toy, crept forward on my left from the direction of vintimille and italy, as it were swimming noiselessly on the smooth surface of the road among the palms of an intense green, against the bright blue background of the sea; and another tram advanced, a spot of orange, to meet it out of the variegated tangle of tinted houses composing the old town. high upon the summit of the old town rose the slim, rose-coloured cupola of the church in a sapphire sky. the regular smiting sound of a cracked bell, viciously rung, came from it. the eastern prospect was shut in by the last olive-clad spurs of the alps, that tread violently and gigantically into the sea. the pathways of the hotel garden were being gently swept by a child of the sun, who could not have sacrificed his graceful dignity to haste; and many peaceful morning activities proceeded on the road, on the shore, and on the jetty. a procession of tawny fishing-boats passed from the harbour one after another straight into the eye of the sun, and were lost there. smoke climbed up softly into the soft air from the houses and hotels on the level of the road. the trams met and parted, silently widening the distance between them which previously they had narrowed. and the sun rose and rose, bathing the blue sea and the rich verdure and the glaring white architecture in the very fluid of essential life. the whole azure coast basked in it like an immense cat, commencing the day with a voluptuous savouring of the fact that it was alive. the sun is the treacherous and tyrannical god of the south, and when he withdraws himself, arbitrary and cruel, the land and the people shiver and prepare to die. it was such a morning as renders sharp and unmistakable the division between body and soul--if the soul suffers. the body exults; the body cries out that nothing on earth matters except climate. nothing can damp the glorious ecstasy of the body baptized in that air, caressed by that incomparable sun. it laughs, and it laughs at the sorrow of the soul. it imperiously bids the soul to choose the path of pleasure; it shouts aloud that sacrifice is vain and honour an empty word, full of inconveniences, and that to exist amply and vehemently, to listen to the blood as it beats strongly through the veins, is the end of the eternal purpose. ah! how easy it is to martyrize one's self by some fatal decision made grandly in the exultation of a supreme moment! and how difficult to endure the martyrdom without regret! i regretted my renunciation. my body rebelled against it, and even my soul rebelled. i scorned myself for a fool, for a sentimental weakling--yes, and for a moral coward. every argument that presented itself damaged the justice of my decision. after all, we loved, and in my secret dreams had i not always put love first, as the most sacred? the reality was that i had been afraid of what mary would think. true, my attitude had lied to her, but i could not have avoided that. decency would have forbidden me to use any other attitude; and more than decency--kindness. ought the course of lives to be changed at the bidding of mere hazard? it was a mere chance that mary had called on me. i bled for her grief, but nothing that i could do would assuage it. i felt sure that, in the impossible case of me being able to state my position to her and argue in its defence, i could force her to see that in giving myself to frank i was not being false to my own ideals. what else could count? what other consideration should guide the soul on its mysterious instinctive way? frank and i had a right to possess each other. we had a right to be happy if we could. and the one thing that had robbed us of that right was my lack of courage, caused partly by my feminine mentality (do we not realize sometimes how ignobly feminine we are?), and partly by the painful spectacle of mary's grief.... and her grief, her most intimate grief, sprang not from thwarted love, but from a base and narrow conventionality. thus i declaimed to myself in my heart, under the influence of the seductive temptations of that intoxicating atmosphere. 'come down,' said a voice firmly and quietly underneath me in the orange-trees of the garden. i started violently. it was frank's voice. he was standing in the garden, his legs apart, and a broad, flat straw hat, which i did not admire, on his head. his pale face was puckered round about the eyes as he looked up at me, like the face of a person trying to look directly at the sun. 'why,' i exclaimed foolishly, glancing down over the edge of the balcony, and shutting my white parasol with a nervous, hurried movement, 'have--have you come here?' he had disobeyed my wish. he had not left mentone at once. 'come down,' he repeated persuasively, and yet commandingly. i could feel my heart beating against the marble parapet of the balcony. i seemed to be caught, to be trapped. i could not argue with him in that position. i could not leave him shouting in the garden. so i nodded to pacify him, and disappeared quickly from the balcony, almost scurrying away. and in the comparative twilight of my room i stopped and gave a glance in the mirror, and patted my hair, and fearfully examined the woman that i saw in the glass, as if to discern what sort of woman she truly was, and what was the root of her character. i hesitated and snatched up my gloves. i wanted to collect my thoughts, and i could not. it was impossible to think clearly. i moved in the room, dazed. i stood by the tumbled bed, fingering the mosquito curtains. they might have been a veil behind which was obscured the magic word of enlightenment i needed. i opened the door, shut it suddenly, and held the knob tight, defying an imagined enemy outside. 'oh!' i muttered at last, angry with myself, 'what is the use of all this? you know you must go down to him. he's waiting for you. show a little common-sense and go without so much fuss.' and so i descended the stairs swiftly and guiltily, relieved that no one happened to see me. in any case, i decided, nothing could induce me to yield to him after my letter and after what had passed in the train. the affair was beyond argument. i felt that i could not yield, and that though it meant the ruin of happiness by obstinacy, i could not yield. i shrank from yielding in that moment as men shrink from public repentance. he had not moved from his post in the garden. we shook hands. a band of italian musicians wandered into the garden and began to sing verdi to a vigorous thrumming of guitars. they sang as only italians can sing--as naturally as they breathed, and with a rich and overflowing innocent joy in the art which nature had taught them. they sang loudly, swingingly, glancing full of naive hope up at the windows of the vast, unresponsive hotel. 'so you are still in mentone,' i ventured. 'yes,' he said. 'come for a walk.' 'but--' 'come for a walk.' 'very well,' i consented. 'as i am?' 'as you are. i saw you all in white on the balcony, and i was determined to fetch you out.' 'but could you see who it was from the road?' 'of course i could. i knew in an instant.' we descended, he a couple of paces in front of me, the narrow zigzag path leading down between two other hotels to the shore road. 'what will happen now?' i asked myself wildly. my head swam. it seemed that nothing would happen. we turned eastwards, walking slowly, and i began to resume my self-control. only the simple and the humble were abroad at that early hour: purveyors of food, in cheerfully rattling carts, or hauling barrows with the help of grave and formidable dogs; washers and cleaners at the doors of highly-decorated villas, amiably performing their tasks while the mighty slept; fishermen and fat fisher-girls, industriously repairing endless brown nets on the other side of the parapet of the road; a postman and a little policeman; a porcelain mender, who practised his trade under the shadow of the wall; a few loafers; some stable-boys exercising horses; and children with adorable dirty faces, shouting in their high treble as they played at hopscotch. i felt very closely akin to these meek ones as we walked along. they were so human, so wistful. they had the wonderful simplicity of animals, uncomplicated by the disease of self-consciousness; they were the vital stuff without the embroidery. they preserved the customs of their ancestors, rising with the sun, frankly and splendidly enjoying the sun, looking up to it as the most important thing in the world. they never attempted to understand what was beyond them; they troubled not with progress, ideals, righteousness, the claims of society. they accepted humbly and uninquiringly what they found. they lived the life of their instincts, sometimes violent, often kindly, and always natural. why should i have felt so near to them? a calm and gentle pleasure filled me, far from intense, but yet satisfying. i determined to enjoy the moment, or, perhaps, without determination, i gave myself up, gradually, to the moment. i forgot care and sorrow. i was well; i was with frank; i was in the midst of enchanting natural beauty; the day was fair and fresh and virgin. i knew not where i was going. shorewards a snowy mountain ridge rose above the long, wide slopes of olives, dotted with white dwellings. a single sail stood up seawards on the immense sheet of blue. the white sail appeared and disappeared in the green palm-trees as we passed eastwards. presently we left the sea, and we lost the hills, and came into a street of poor little shops for simple folk, that naïvely exposed their cheap and tawdry goods to no matter what mightiness should saunter that way. and then we came to the end of the tram-line, and it was like the end of the world. and we saw in the distance abodes of famous persons, fabulously rich, defying the sea and the hills, and condescending from afar off to the humble. we crossed the railway, and a woman ran out from a cabin with a spoon in one hand and a soiled flag in the other, and waved the flag at a towering black engine that breathed stertorously in a cutting. already we were climbing, and the road grew steeper, and then we came to custom-houses--unsightly, squalid, irregular, and mean--in front of which officials laughed and lounged and smoked. we talked scarcely at all. 'you were up early this morning,' he said. 'yes; i could not sleep.' 'it was the same with me.' we recovered the sea; but now it was far below us, and the footprints of the wind were marked on it, and it was not one blue, but a thousand blues, and it faded imperceptibly into the sky. the sail, making mentone, was much nearer, and had developed into a two-masted ship. it seemed to be pushed, rather than blown, along by the wind. it seemed to have rigidity in all its parts, and to be sliding unwillingly over a vast slate. the road lay through craggy rocks, shelving away unseen on one hand, and rising steeply against the burning sky on the other. we mounted steadily and slowly. i did not look much at frank, but my eye was conscious of his figure, striding leisurely along. now and then, when i turned to glance behind, i saw our shadows there diagonally on the road, and again i did not care for his hat. i had not seen him in a straw hat till that morning. we arrived at a second set of french custom-houses, deserted, and then we saw that the gigantic side of the mountain was cleft by a fissure from base to summit. and across the gorge had been thrown a tiny stone bridge to carry the road. at this point, by the bridge, the face of the rock had been carved smooth, and a great black triangle painted on it. and on the road was a common milestone, with 'france' on one side and 'italia' on the other. and a very old man was harmlessly spreading a stock of picture postcards on the parapet of the bridge. my heart went out to that poor old man, whose white curls glinted in the sunlight. it seemed to me so pathetic that he should be just there, at that natural spot which the passions and the blood of men long dead had made artificial, tediously selling postcards in order to keep his worn and creaking body out of the grave. 'do give him something,' i entreated frank. and while frank went to him i leaned over the other parapet and listened for the delicate murmur of the stream far below. the split flank of the hill was covered with a large red blossom, and at the base, on the edge of the sea, were dolls' houses, each raising a slanted pencil of pale smoke. then we were in italy, and still climbing. we saw a row of narrow, slattern cottages, their backs over the sea, and in front of them marched to and fro a magnificent soldier laced in gold, with chinking spurs and a rifle. suddenly there ran out of a cottage two little girls, aged about four years and eight years, dirty, unkempt, delicious, shrill, their movements full of the ravishing grace of infancy. they attacked the laced soldier, chattering furiously, grumbling at him, intimidating him with the charming gestures of spoilt and pouting children. and he bent down stiffly in his superb uniform, and managed his long, heavy gun, and talked to them in a deep, vibrating voice. he reasoned with them till we could hear him no more. it was so touching, so exquisitely human! we reached the top of the hill, having passed the italian customs, equally vile with the french. the terraced grounds of an immense deserted castle came down to the roadside; and over the wall, escaped from the garden, there bloomed extravagantly a tangle of luscious yellow roses, just out of our reach. the road was still and deserted. we could see nothing but the road and the sea and the hills, all steeped, bewitched, and glorious under the sun. the ship had nearly slid to mentone. the curving coastline of italy wavered away into the shimmering horizon. and there were those huge roses, insolently blooming in the middle of winter, the symbol of the terrific forces of nature which slept quiescent under the universal calm. perched as it were in a niche of the hills, we were part of that tremendous and ennobling scene. long since the awkward self-consciousness caused by our plight had left us. we did not use speech, but we knew that we thought alike, and were suffering the same transcendent emotion. was it joy or sadness? rather than either, it was an admixture of both, originating in a poignant sense of the grandeur of life and of the earth. 'oh, frank,' i murmured, my spirit bursting, 'how beautiful it is!' our eyes met. he took me and kissed me impetuously, as though my utterance had broken a spell which enchained him. and as i kissed him i wept, blissfully. nature had triumphed. vi we departed from mentone that same day after lunch. i could not remove to his hotel; he could not remove to mine, for this was mentone. we went to monte carlo by road, our luggage following. we chose monte carlo partly because it was the nearest place, and partly because it has some of the qualities--incurious, tolerant, unprovincial--of a capital city. if we encountered friends there, so much the better, in the end. the great adventure, the solemn and perilous enterprise had begun. i sent yvonne for a holiday to her home in laroche. why? ah, why? perhaps for the simple reason that i had not the full courage of my convictions. we seldom have--_nous autres_. i felt that, if she had remained, yvonne would have been too near me in the enterprise. i could not at first have been my natural self with her. i told the astonished and dissatisfied yvonne that i would write to her as soon as i wanted her. yet in other ways i had courage, and i found a delicious pleasure in my courage. when i was finally leaving the hotel i had frank by my side. i behaved to him as to a husband. i publicly called him 'dear.' i asked his advice in trifles. he paid my bill. he even provided the money necessary for yvonne. my joy in the possession of this male creature, whose part it now was to do for me a thousand things that hitherto i had been forced to do for myself, was almost naive. i could not hide it. i was at last a man's woman. i had a protector. yes; i must not shrink from the equivocal significance of that word--i had a protector. frank was able to get three rooms at the hotel de paris at monte carlo. i had only to approve them. we met in our sitting-room at half-past three, ready to go out for a walk. it would be inexact to say that we were not nervous. but we were happy. he had not abandoned his straw hat. 'don't wear that any more,' i said to him, smiling. 'but why? it's quite new.' 'it doesn't suit you,' i said. 'oh, that doesn't matter,' he laughed, and he put it on. 'but i don't like to see you in it,' i persisted. 'well, you'll stand it this afternoon, my angel, and i'll get another to-morrow.' 'haven't you got another one here?' i asked, with discontent. 'no,' and he laughed again. 'but, dear--' i pouted. he seemed suddenly to realize that as a fact i did not like the hat. 'come here,' he said, charmingly grave; and he led me by the hand into his bedroom, which was littered with clothes, small parcels, boots, and brushes. one chair was overturned. 'heavens!' i muttered, pretending to be shocked at the disorder. he drew, me to a leather box of medium size. 'you can open it,' he said. i opened it. the thing was rather a good contrivance, for a man. it held a silk hat, an opera hat, a bowler hat, some caps, and a soft panama straw. 'and you said you had no others!' i grumbled at him. 'well, which is it to be?' he demanded. 'this, of course,' i said, taking the bowler. i reached up, removed the straw hat from his head, and put the bowler in its place. 'there!' i exclaimed, satisfied, giving the bowler a pat--there!' he laughed, immensely content, enraptured, foolishly blissful. we were indeed happy. before opening the door leading to the corridor we stopped and kissed. on the seaward terrace of the vast, pale, floriated casino, so impressive in its glittering vulgarity, like the bride-cake of a stockbroker's wedding, we strolled about among a multifarious crowd, immersed in ourselves. we shared a contempt for the architecture, the glaring flower-beds, and the false distinction of the crowd, and an enthusiasm for the sunshine and the hills and the sea, and whatever else had escaped the hands of the casino administration. we talked lightly and freely. care seemed to be leaving us; we had no preoccupations save those which were connected with our passion. then i saw, standing in an attitude of attention, the famous body-servant of lord francis alcar, and i knew that lord francis could not be far away. we spoke to the valet; he pointed out his master, seated at the front of the terrace, and told us, in a discreet, pained, respectful voice, that our venerable friend had been mysteriously unwell at monte carlo, and was now taking the air for the first time in ten days. i determined that we should go boldly and speak to him. 'lord francis,' i said gently, after we had stood some seconds by his chair, unremarked. he was staring fixedly at the distance of the sea. he looked amazingly older than when i had last talked with him. his figure was shrunken, and his face rose thin and white out of a heavy fur overcoat and a large blue muffler. in his eyes there was such a sadness, such an infinite regret, such a profound weariness as can only be seen in the eyes of the senile. he was utterly changed. 'lord francis,' i repeated, 'don't you know me?' he started slightly and looked at me, and a faint gleam appeared in his eyes. then he nodded, and took a thin, fragile alabaster hand out of the pocket of his overcoat. i shook it. it was like shaking hands with a dead, starved child. he carefully moved the skin and bone back into his pocket. 'are you pretty well?' i said. he nodded. then the faint gleam faded out of his eyes; his head fell a little, and he resumed his tragic contemplation of the sea. the fact of my presence had dropped like a pebble into the strange depths of that aged mind, and the waters of the ferocious egotism of senility had closed over it, and it was forgotten. his rapt and yet meaningless gaze frightened me. it was as if there was more desolation and disillusion in that gaze than i had previously imagined the whole earth to contain. useless for frank to rouse him for the second time. useless to explain ourselves. what was love to him, or the trivial conventions of a world which he was already quitting? we walked away. from the edge of the terrace i could see a number of boats pulling to and fro in the water. 'it's the pigeon-shooting,' frank explained. 'come to the railings and you'll be able to see.' i had already heard the sharp popping of rifles. i went to the railings, and saw a number of boxes arranged in a semicircle on a green, which was, as it were, suspended between the height of the terrace and the sea. suddenly one of the boxes collapsed with a rattle, and a bird flew out of the ruin of it. there were two reports of a gun; the bird, its curving flight cut short, fell fluttering to the grass; a dog trotted out from the direction of the gun unseen beneath us, and disappeared again with the mass of ruffled feathers in its mouth. then two men showed themselves, ran to the collapsed box, restored it, and put in it a fresh victim, and disappeared after the dog. i was horrified, but i could not remove my eyes from the green. another box fell flat, and another bird flew out; a gun sounded; the bird soared far away, wavered, and sank on to the surface of the sea, and the boats converged towards it in furious haste. so the game proceeded. i saw a dozen deaths on the green; a few birds fell into the sea, and one escaped, settling ultimately on the roof of the casino. 'so that is pigeon-shooting,' i said coldly, turning to frank. 'i suppose it goes on all day?' he nodded. 'it's just as cruel as plenty of other sports, and no more,' he said, as if apologizing for the entire male sex. 'i presume so,' i answered. 'but do you know, dear, if the idea once gets into my head that that is going on all day, i shan't be able to stop here. let us have tea somewhere.' not until dinner did i recover from the obsession of that continual slaughter and destruction of beautiful life. it seemed to me that the casino and its gorgeous gardens were veritably established on the mysterious arched hollow, within the high cliff, from which death shot out all day and every day. but i did recover perfectly. only now do i completely perceive how violent, how capricious and contradictory were my emotions in those unique and unforgettable hours. we dined late, because i had deprived myself of yvonne. already i was almost in a mind to send for her. the restaurant of the hotel was full, but we recognised no one as we walked through the room to our table. 'there is one advantage in travelling about with you,' said frank. 'what is it?' i asked. 'no matter where one is, one can always be sure of being with the most beautiful woman in the place.' i was content. i repaid him by being more than ever a man's woman. i knew that i was made for that. i understood why great sopranos have of their own accord given up even the stage on marriage. the career of literature seemed to me tedious and sordid in comparison with that of being a man's woman. in my rich black dress and my rings and bracelets i felt like an eastern empress; i felt that i could adequately reward homage with smiles, and love with fervid love. and i felt like a cat--idle, indolently graceful, voluptuously seeking warmth and caresses. i enveloped frank with soft glances, i dazed him with glances. he ordered a wine which he said was fit for gods, and the waiter brought it reverently and filled our glasses, with a ritual of precautions. later during the dinner frank asked me if i would prefer champagne. i said, 'no, of course not.' but he said, 'i think you would,' and ordered some. 'admit,' he said, 'that you prefer champagne.' 'well, of course,' i replied. but i drank very little champagne, lest i should be too happy. frank's wonderful face grew delicately flushed. the room resounded with discreet chatter, and the tinkle of glass and silver and porcelain. the upper part of it remained in shadow, but every table was a centre of rosy light, illuminating faces and jewels and napery. and in my sweet illusion i thought that every face had found the secret of joy, and that even the old had preserved it. pleasure reigned. pleasure was the sole goddess. and how satisfying then was the worship of her! life had no inconveniences, no dark spots, no pitfalls. the gratification of the senses, the appeasing of appetites that instantly renewed themselves--this was the business of the soul. and as the wine sank lower in the bottles, and we cooled our tongues with ices, and the room began to empty, expectation gleamed and glittered in our eyes. at last, except a group of men smoking and talking in a corner, we were the only diners left. 'shall we go?' frank said, putting a veil of cigarette smoke between us. i trembled. i was once more the young and timid girl. i could not speak. i nodded. in the hall was vicary, talking to the head-porter. he saw us and started. 'what! vicary!' i murmured, suddenly cooled. 'i want to speak to you,' said vicary. 'where can we go?' 'this way,' frank replied. we went to our sitting-room, silent and apprehensive. 'sit down,' said vicary, shutting the door and standing against it. he was wearing a tourist suit, with a gray overcoat, and his grizzled hair was tumbling over his hard, white face. 'what's the matter?' frank asked. 'anything wrong?' 'look here, you two,' said vicary, 'i don't want to discuss your position, and i'm the last person in this world to cast the first stone; but it falls to me to do it. i was coming down to nice to stay with my sisters, and i've come a little further. my sisters wired me they had seen you. i've been to mentone, and driven here from there. i hoped i should get here earlier than the newspapers, and i have done, it seems.' 'earlier than the newspapers?' frank repeated, standing up. 'try to keep calm,' vicary continued. 'your wife's body was found in the thames at seven o'clock last night. the doctors say it had been in the water for forty-eight hours. your servants thought she had gone to you. but doubtless some thoughtful person had told her that you two were wandering about europe together.' '_my wife_' cried frank. and the strange and terrible emphasis he put on the word 'wife' proved to me in the fraction of a second that in his heart i was not his wife. a fearful tragedy had swept away the structure of argument in favour of the rights of love which he had built over the original conventionality of his mind. poor fellow! he fell back into his chair and covered his eyes. 'i thank god my mother didn't live to see this!' he cried. and then he rushed to his bedroom and banged the door. 'my poor girl!' said vicary, approaching me. 'what can i--i'm awfully--' i waved him away. 'what's that?' he exclaimed, in a different voice, listening. i ran to the bedroom, and saw frank lifting a revolver. 'you've brought me to this, carlotta!' he shouted. i sprang towards him, but it was too late. part iii the victory i when i came out of the house, hurried and angrily flushing, i perceived clearly that my reluctance to break a habit and my desire for physical comfort, if not my attachment to the girl, had led me too far. i was conscious of humiliation. i despised myself. the fact was that i had quarrelled with yvonne--yvonne, who had been with me for eight years, yvonne who had remained sturdily faithful during my long exile. now the woman who quarrels with a maid is clumsy, and the woman who quarrels with a good maid is either a fool or in a nervous, hysterical condition, or both. possibly i was both. i had permitted yvonne too much liberty. i had spoilt her. she was fidelity itself, goodness itself; but her character had not borne the strain of realizing that she had acquired power over me, and that she had become necessary to me. so that morning we had differed violently; we had quarrelled as equals. the worst side of her had appeared suddenly, shockingly. and she had left me, demonstrating even as she banged the door that she was at least my mistress in altercation. all day i fought against the temptation to eat my pride, and ask her to return. it was a horrible, a deplorable, temptation. and towards evening, after seven hours of solitude in the hotel in the avenue de kleber, i yielded to it. i knew the address to which she had gone, and i took a cab and drove there, hating myself. i was received with excessive rudeness by a dirty and hag-like concierge, who, after refusing all information for some minutes, informed me at length that the young lady in question had quitted paris in company with a gentleman. the insolence of the concierge, my weakness and my failure, the bitter sense of lost dignity, the fact that yvonne had not hesitated even a few hours before finally abandoning me--all these things wounded me. but the sharpest stab of all was that during our stay in paris yvonne must have had secret relations with a man. i had hidden nothing from her; she, however, had not reciprocated my candour. i had imagined that she lived only for me.... well, the truth cannot be concealed that the years of wandering which had succeeded the fatal night at monte carlo had done little to improve me. what would you have? for months and months my ears rang with frank's despairing shout: '_you've_ brought me to this, carlotta!' and the profound injustice of that cry tainted even the sad sweetness of my immense sorrow. to this day, whenever i hear it, as i do still, my inmost soul protests, and all the excuses which my love found for him seem inadequate and unconvincing. i was a broken creature. (how few know what it means to be broken--to sink under a tremendous and overwhelming calamity! and yet who but they can understandingly sympathize with the afflicted?) as for my friends, i did not give them the occasion to desert me; i deserted them. for the second time in my career i tore myself up by the roots. i lived the nomad's life, in the usual european haunts of the nomad. and in five years i did not make a single new friend, scarcely an acquaintance. i lived in myself and on myself, nursing grief, nursing a rancour against fate, nursing an involuntary shame.... you know, the scandal of which i had been the centre was appalling; it touched the extreme. it must have nearly killed the excellent mrs. sardis. i did not dare to produce another novel. but after a year or so i turned to poetry, and i must admit that my poetry was accepted. but it was not enough to prevent me from withering--from shrivelling. i lost ground, and i was still losing it. i was becoming sinister, warped, peculiar, capricious, unaccountable. i guessed it then; i see it clearly now. the house of the odious concierge was in a small, shabby street off the boulevard du montparnasse. i looked in vain for a cab. even on the wide, straight, gas-lit boulevard there was not a cab, and i wondered why i had been so foolish as to dismiss the one in which i had arrived. the great, glittering electric cars floated horizontally along in swift succession, but they meant nothing to me; i knew not whence they came nor whither they went. i doubt if i had ever been in a tram-car. without a cab i was as helpless and as timid as a young girl, i who was thirty-one, and had travelled and lived and suffered! never had i been alone in the streets of a large city at night. and the september night was sultry and forbidding. i was afraid--i was afraid of the men who passed me, staring at me. one man spoke to me, and i literally shook with fear as i hastened on. what would i have given to have had the once faithful yvonne by my side! presently i came to the crossing of the boulevard raspail, and this boulevard, equally long, uncharitable, and mournful with the other, endless, stretching to infinity, filled me with horror. yes, with the horror of solitude in a vast city. oh, you solitary, you who have felt that horror descending upon you, desolating, clutching, and chilling the heart, you will comprehend me! at the corner, of the two boulevards was a glowing cafe, the café du dome, with a row of chairs and little tables in front of its windows. and at one of these little tables sat a man, gazing absently at a green glass in a white saucer. i had almost gone past him when some instinct prompted me to the bravery of looking at him again. he was a stoutish man, apparently aged about forty-five, very fair, with a puffed face and melancholy eyes. and then it was as though someone had shot me in the breast. it was as if i must fall down and die--as if the sensations which i experienced were too acute--too elemental for me to support. i have never borne a child, but i imagine that the woman who becomes a mother may feel as i felt then, staggered at hitherto unsuspected possibilities of sensation. i stopped. i clung to the nearest table. there was ice on my shuddering spine, and a dew on my forehead. 'magda!' breathed the man. he had raised his eyes to mine. it was diaz, after ten years. at first i had not recognised him. instead of ten, he seemed twenty years older. i searched in his features for the man i had known, as the returned traveller searches the scene of his childhood for remembered landmarks. yes, it was diaz, though time had laid a heavy hand on him. the magic of his eyes was not effaced, and when he smiled youth reappeared. 'it is i,' i murmured. he got up, and in doing so shook the table, and his glass was overturned, and scattered itself in fragments on the asphalte. at the noise a waiter ran out of the cafe, and diaz, blushing and obviously making a great effort at self-control, gave him an order. 'i should have known you anywhere,' said diaz to me, taking my hand, as the waiter went. the ineptitude of the speech was such that i felt keenly sorry for him. i was not in the least hurt. my sympathy enveloped him. the position was so difficult, and he had seemed so pathetic, sitting there alone on the pavement of the vast nocturnal boulevard, so weighed down by sadness, that i wanted to comfort him and soothe him, and to restore him to all the brilliancy of his first period. it appeared to me unjust and cruel that the wheels of life should have crushed him too. and so i said, smiling as well as i could: 'and i you.' 'won't you sit down here?' he suggested, avoiding my eyes. and thus i found myself seated outside a cafe, at night, conspicuous for all montparnasse to see. we never know what may lie in store for us at the next turning of existence. 'then i am not much changed, you think?' he ventured, in an anxious tone. 'no,' i lied. 'you are perhaps a little stouter. that's all.' how hard it was to talk! how lamentably self-conscious we were! how unequal to the situation! we did not know what to say. 'you are far more beautiful than ever you were,' he said, looking at me for an instant. 'you are a woman; you were a girl--then.' the waiter brought another glass and saucer, and a second waiter followed him with a bottle, from which he poured a greenish-yellow liquid into the glass. 'what will you have?' diaz asked me. 'nothing, thank you,' i said quickly. to sit outside the cafe was already much. it would have been impossible for me to drink there. 'ah! as you please, as you please,' diaz snapped. 'i beg your pardon.' 'poor fellow!' i reflected. 'he must be suffering from nervous irritability.' and aloud, 'i'm not thirsty, thank you,' as nicely as possible. he smiled beautifully; the irritability had passed. 'it's awfully kind of you to sit down here with me,' he said, in a lower voice. 'i suppose you've heard about me?' he drank half the contents of the glass. 'i read in the papers some years ago that you were suffering from neurasthenia and nervous breakdown,' i replied. 'i was very sorry.' 'yes,' he said; 'nervous breakdown--nervous breakdown.' 'you haven't been playing lately, have you?' 'it is more than two years since i played. and if you had heard me that time! my god!' 'but surely you have tried some cure?' 'cure!' he repeated after me. 'there's no cure. here i am! me!' his glass was empty. he tapped on the window behind us, and the procession of waiters occurred again, and diaz received a third glass, which now stood on three saucers. 'you'll excuse me,' he said, sipping slowly. 'i'm not very well to-night. and you've--why did you run away from me? i wanted to find you, but i couldn't.' 'please do not let us talk about that,' i stopped him. 'i--i must go.' 'oh, of course, if i've offended you--' 'no,' i said; 'i'm not at all offended. but i think--' 'then, if you aren't offended, stop a little, and let me see you home. you're sure you won't have anything?' i shook my head, wishing that he would not drink so much. i thought it could not be good for his nerves. 'been in paris long?' he asked me, with a slightly confused utterance. 'staying in this quarter? many english and americans here.' then, in setting down the glass, he upset it, and it smashed on the pavement like the first one. 'damn!' he exclaimed, staring forlornly at the broken glass, as if in the presence of some irreparable misfortune. and before i could put in a word, he turned to me with a silly smile, and approaching his face to mine till his hat touched the brim of my hat, he said thickly: 'after all, you know, i'm the greatish pianist in the world.' the truth struck me like a blow. in my amazing ignorance of certain aspects of life i had not suspected it. diaz was drunk. the ignominy of it! the tragedy of it! he was drunk. he had fallen to the beast. i drew back from that hot, reeking face. 'you don't think i am?' he muttered. 'you think young what's-his-name can play ch--chopin better than me? is that it?' i wanted to run away, to cease to exist, to hide with my shame in some deep abyss. and there i was on the boulevard, next to this animal, sharing his table and the degradation! and i could not move. there are people so gifted that in a dilemma they always know exactly the wisest course to adopt. but i did not know. this part of my story gives me infinite pain to write, and yet i must write it, though i cannot persuade myself to write it in full; the details would be too repulsive. nevertheless, forget not that i lived it. he put his face to mine again, and began to stammer something, and i drew away. 'you are ashamed of me, madam,' he said sharply. 'i think you are not quite yourself--not quite well,' i replied. 'you mean i am drunk.' 'i mean what i say. you are not quite well. please do not twist my words.' 'you mean i am drunk,' he insisted, raising his voice. 'i am not drunk; i have never been drunk. that i can swear with my hand on my heart. but you are ashamed of being seen with me.' 'i think you ought to go home,' i suggested. 'that is only to get rid of me!' he cried. 'no, no,' i appealed to him persuasively. 'do not wound me. i will go with you as far as your house, if you like. you are too ill to be alone.' at that moment an empty open cab strolled by, and, without pausing for his answer, i signalled the driver. my heart beat wildly. my spirit was in an uproar. but i was determined not to desert him, not to abandon him to a public disgrace. i rose from my seat. 'you're very good,' he said, in a new voice. the cab had stopped. 'come!' i entreated him. he rapped uncertainly on the window, and then, as the waiter did not immediately appear, he threw some silver on the table, and aimed himself in the direction of the cab. i got in. diaz slipped on the step. 'i've forgotten somethin',' he complained. 'what is it? my umbrella--yes, my umbrella--_pépin_ as they say here. 'scuse me moment.' his umbrella was, in fact, lying under a chair. he stooped with difficulty and regained it, and then the waiter, who had at length arrived, helped him into the cab, and he sank like a mass of inert clay on my skirts. 'tell the driver the address,' i whispered. the driver, with head turned and a grin on his face, was waiting. 'rue de douai,' said diaz sullenly. 'what number?' the driver asked. 'does that regard you?' diaz retorted crossly in french. 'i will tell you later.' 'tell him now,' i pleaded. 'well, to oblige you, i will. twenty-seven. but what i can't stand is the impudence of these fellows.' the driver winked at me. 'just so,' i soothed diaz, and we drove off. i have never been happier than in unhappiness. happiness is not joy, and it is not tranquillity. it is something deeper and something more disturbing. perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realization of one's secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence. as i crossed paris with the drunken diaz leaning clumsily against my shoulder, i was profoundly unhappy. i was desolated by the sight of this ruin, and yet i was happier than i had been since frank died. i had glimpses and intimations of the baffling essence of our human lives here, strange, fleeting comprehensions of the eternal wonder and the eternal beauty.... in vain, professional writer as i am, do i try to express myself. what i want to say cannot be said; but those who have truly lived will understand. we passed over the seine, lighted and asleep in the exquisite parisian night, and the rattling of the cab on the cobble-stones roused diaz from his stupor. 'where are we?' he asked. 'just going through the louvre,' i replied. 'i don't know how i got to the other s-side of the river,' he said. 'don't remember. so you're coming home with me, eh? you aren't 'shamed of me?' 'you are hurting me,' i said coldly, 'with your elbow.' 'oh, a thousand pardons! a thous' parnds, magda! that isn't your real name, is it?' he sat upright and turned his face to glance at mine with a fatuous smile; but i would not look at him. i kept my eyes straight in front. then a swerve of the carriage swung his body away from me, and he subsided into the corner. the intoxication was gaining on him every minute. 'what shall i do with him?' i thought. i blushed as we drove up the avenue de l'opera and across the grand boulevard, for it seemed to me that all the gay loungers must observe diaz' condition. we followed darker thoroughfares, and at last the cab, after climbing a hill, stopped before a house in a street that appeared rather untidy and irregular. i got out first, and diaz stumbled after me, while two women on the opposite side of the road stayed curiously to watch us. hastily i opened my purse and gave the driver a five-franc-piece, and he departed before diaz could decide what to say. i had told him to go. i did not wish to tell the driver to go. i told him in spite of myself. diaz, grumbling inarticulately, pulled the bell of the great door of the house. but he had to ring several times before finally the door opened; and each second was a year for me, waiting there with him in the street. and when the door opened he was leaning against it, and so pitched forward into the gloom of the archway. a laugh--the loud, unrestrained laugh of the courtesan--came from across the street. the archway was as black as night. 'shut the door, will you?' i heard diaz' voice. 'i can't see it. where are you?' but i was not going to shut the door. 'have you got a servant here?' i asked him. 'she comes in the mornings,' he replied. 'then there is no one in your flat?' 'not a shoul,' said diaz. 'needn't be 'fraid.' i'm not afraid,' i said. 'but i wanted to know. which floor is it?' 'third. i'll light a match.' then i pushed to the door, whose automatic latch clicked. we were fast in the courtyard. diaz dropped his matches in attempting to strike one. the metal box bounced on the tiles. i bent down and groped with both hands till i found it. and presently we began painfully to ascend the staircase, diaz holding his umbrella and the rail, and i striking matches from time to time. we were on the second landing when i heard the bell ring again, and the banging of the front-door, and then voices at the foot of the staircase. i trembled lest we should be over-taken, and i would have hurried diaz on, but he would not be hurried. happily, as we were halfway between the second and third story, the man and the girl whose voices i heard stopped at the second. i caught sight of them momentarily through the banisters. the man was striking matches as i had been. '_c'est ici_,' the girl whispered. she was dressed in blue with a very large hat. she put a key in the door when they had stopped, and then our matches went out simultaneously. the door shut, and diaz and i were alone on the staircase again. i struck another match; we struggled on. when i had taken his key from diaz' helpless hand, and opened his door and guided him within, and closed the door definitely upon the outer world, i breathed a great sigh. every turn of the stair had been a station of the cross for me. we were now in utter darkness. the classical effluvium of inebriety mingled with the classical odour of the furnished lodging. but i cared not. i had at last successfully hidden his shame. no one could witness it now but me. so i was glad. neither of us said anything as, still with the aid of matches, i penetrated into the flat. silently i peered about until i perceived a pair of candles, which i lighted. diaz, with his hat on his head and his umbrella clasped tightly in his hand, fell into a chair. we glanced at each other. 'you had better go to bed,' i suggested. 'take your hat off. you will feel better without it.' he did not move, and i approached him and gently took his hat. i then touched the umbrella. 'no, no, no!' he cried suddenly; 'i'm always losing this umbrella, and i won't let it out of my sight.' 'as you wish,' i replied coldly. i was standing by him when he got up with a surprising lurch and put a hand on my shoulder. he evidently meant to kiss me. i kept him at arm's length, feeling a sort of icy anger. 'go to bed,' i repeated fiercely. 'it is the only place for you.' he made inarticulate noises in his throat, and ultimately achieved the remark: 'you're very hard, magda.' then he bent himself towards the next room. 'you will want a candle,' i said, with bitterness. 'no; i will carry it. let me go first.' i preceded him through a tiny salon into the bedroom, and, leaving him there with one candle, came back into the first room. the whole place was deplorable, though not more deplorable than i had expected from the look of the street and the house and the stairs and the girl with the large hat. it was small, badly arranged, disordered, ugly, bare, comfortless, and, if not very dirty, certainly not clean; not a home, but a kennel--a kennel furnished with chairs and spotted mirrors and spotted engravings and a small upright piano; a kennel whose sides were covered with enormous red poppies, and on whose floor was something which had once been a carpet; a kennel fitted with windows and curtains; a kennel with actually a bed! it was the ready-made human kennel of commerce, which every large city supplies wholesale in tens of thousands to its victims. in that street there were hundreds such; in the house alone there were probably a score at least. their sole virtue was their privacy. ah the blessedness of the sacred outer door, which not even the tyrant concierge might violate! i thought of all the other interiors of the house, floor above floor, and serried one against another--vile, mean, squalid, cramped, unlovely, frowsy, fetid; but each lighted and intensely alive with the interplay of hearts; each cloistered, a secure ground where the instincts that move the world might show themselves naturally and in secret. there was something tragically beautiful in that. i had heard uncomfortable sounds from the bedroom. then diaz called out: 'it's no use. can't do it. can't get into bed.' i went directly to him. he sat on the bed, still clasping the umbrella, one arm out of his coat. his gloomy and discouraged face was the face of a man who retires baffled from some tremendously complicated problem. 'put down your umbrella,' i said. 'don't be foolish.' 'i'm not foolish,' he retorted irritably. 'don't want to loosh thish umbrella again.' 'well then,' i said, 'hold it in the other hand, and i will help you.' this struck him as a marvellous idea, one of those discoveries that revolutionize science, and he instantly obeyed. he was now very drunk. he was nauseating. the conventions which society has built up in fifty centuries ceased suddenly to exist. it was impossible that they should exist--there in that cabin, where we were alone together, screened, shut in. i lost even the sense of convention. i was no longer disgusted. everything that was seemed natural, ordinary, normal. i became his mother. i became his hospital nurse. and at length he lay in bed, clutching the umbrella to his breast. nothing had induced him to loose it from both hands at once. the priceless value of the umbrella was the one clearly-defined notion that illuminated his poor devastated brain. i left him to his inanimate companion. ii i should have left then, though i had a wish not to leave. but i was prevented from going by the fear of descending those sinister stairs alone, and the necessity of calling aloud to the concierge in order to get out through the main door, and the possible difficulties in finding a cab in that region at that hour. i knew that i could not have borne to walk even to the end of the street unprotected. so i stayed where i was, seated in a chair near the window of the larger room, saturating myself in the vague and heavy flood of sadness that enwraps the fretful, passionate city in the night--the night when the commonest noises seem to carry some mystic message to the listening soul, the night when truth walks abroad naked and whispers her secrets. a gas-lamp threw its radiance on the ceiling in bars through the slits of the window-shutters, and then, far in the middle wilderness of the night, the lamp was extinguished by a careful municipality, and i was left in utter darkness. long since the candles had burnt away. i grew silly and sentimental, and pictured the city in feverish sleep, gaining with difficulty inadequate strength for the morrow--as if the city had not been living this life for centuries and did not know exactly what it was about! and then, sure as i had been that i could not sleep, i woke up, and i could see the outline of the piano. dawn had begun. and not a sound disturbed the street, and not a sound came from diaz' bedroom. as of old, he slept with the tranquillity of a child. and after a time i could see the dust on the piano and on the polished floor under the table. the night had passed, and it appeared to be almost a miracle that the night had passed, and that i had lived through it and was much the same carlotta still. i gently opened the window and pushed back the shutters. a young woman, tall, with a superb bust, clothed in blue, was sweeping the footpath in long, dignified strokes of a broom. she went slowly from my ken. nothing could have been more prosaic, more sane, more astringent. and yet only a few hours--and it had been night, strange, voluptuous night! and even now a thousand thousand pillows were warm and crushed under their burden of unconscious dreaming souls. but that tall woman must go to bed in day, and rise to meet the first wind of the morning, and perhaps never have known the sweet poison of the night. i sank back into my chair.... there was a sharp, decisive sound of a key in the lock of the entrance-door. i jumped up, fully awake, with beating heart and blushing face. someone was invading the flat. someone would catch me there. of course it was his servant. i had entirely forgotten her. we met in the little passage. she was a stout creature and appeared to fill the flat. she did not seem very surprised at the sight of me, and she eyed me with the frigid disdain of one who conforms to a certain code for one who does not conform to it. she sat in judgment on my well-hung skirt and the rings on my fingers and the wickedness in my breast, and condemned me to everlasting obloquy. 'madame is going?' she asked coldly, holding open the door. 'no, madame,' i said. 'are you the _femme de ménage_ of monsieur?' 'yes, madame.' 'monsieur is ill,' i said, deciding swiftly what to do. 'he does not wish to be disturbed. he would like you to return at two o'clock.' long before two i should have departed. 'monsieur knows well that i have another _ménage_ from twelve to two,' protested the woman. 'three o'clock, then,' i said. _bien_, madame,' said she, and, producing the contents of a reticule: 'here are the bread, the butter, the milk, and the newspaper, madame.' 'thank you, madame.' i took the things, and she left, and i shut the door and bolted it. in anticipation, the circumstances of such an encounter would have caused me infinite trouble of spirit. 'but after all it was not so very dreadful,' i thought, as i fastened the door. 'do i care for his _femme de ménage_?' the great door of the house would be open now, and the stairs no longer affrighting, and i might slip unobserved away. but i could not bring myself to leave until i had spoken with diaz, and i would not wake him. it was nearly noon when he stirred. i heard his movements, and a slight moaning sigh, and he called me. 'are you there, magda?' how feeble and appealing his voice! for answer i stepped into his bedroom. the eye that has learned to look life full in the face without a quiver of the lid should find nothing repulsive. everything that is is the ordered and calculable result of environment. nothing can be abhorrent, nothing blameworthy, nothing contrary to nature. can we exceed nature? in the presence of the primeval and ever-continuing forces of nature, can we maintain our fantastic conceptions of sin and of justice? we are, and that is all we should dare to say. and yet, when i saw diaz stretched on that wretched bed my first movement was one of physical disgust. he had not shaved for several days. his hair was like a doormat. his face was unclean and puffed; his lips full and cracked; his eyes all discoloured. if aught can be vile, he was vile. if aught can be obscene, he was obscene. his limbs twitched; his features were full of woe and desolation and abasement. he looked at me heavily, mournfully. 'diaz, diaz!' said my soul. 'have you come to this?' a great and overmastering pity seized me, and i went to him, and laid my hand gently on his. he was so nervous and tremulous that he drew away his hand as if i had burnt it. 'oh, magda,' he murmured, 'my head! there was a piece of hot brick in my mouth, and i tried to take it out. but it was my tongue. can i have some tea? will you give me some cold water first?' strange that the frank and simple way in which he accepted my presence there, and assumed my willingness to serve him, filled me with a new joy! he said nothing of the night. i think that diaz was one of the few men who are strong enough never to regret the past. if he was melancholy, it was merely because he suffered bodily in the present. i gave him water, and he thanked me. 'now i will make some tea,' i said. and i went into the tiny kitchen and looked around, lifting my skirts. 'can you find the things?' he called out. 'yes,' i said. 'what's all that splashing?' he inquired. 'i'm washing a saucepan,' i said. 'i never have my meals here,' he called. 'only tea. there are two taps to the gas-stove--one a little way up the chimney.' yes, i was joyous, actively so. i brought the tea to the bedroom with a glad smile. i had put two cups on the tray, which i placed on the night-table; and there were some biscuits. i sat at the foot of the bed while we drank. and the umbrella, unperceived by diaz, lay with its handle on a pillow, ludicrous and yet accusing. 'you are an angel,' said diaz. 'don't call me that,' i protested. 'why not?' 'because i wish it,' i said. 'angel' was ispenlove's word. 'then, what shall i call you?' 'my name is carlotta peel,' i said. 'not magdalen at all.' it was astounding, incredible, that he should be learning my name then for the first time. 'i shall always call you magda,' he responded. 'and now i must go,' i stated, when i had explained to him about the servant. 'but you'll come back?' he cried. no question of his coming to me! i must come to him! 'to a place like this?' i demanded. unthinkingly i put into my voice some of the distaste i felt for his deplorable apartments, and he was genuinely hurt. i believe that in all honesty he deemed his apartments to be quite adequate and befitting. his sensibilities had been so dulled. he threw up his head. 'of course,' he said, 'if you--' 'no, no!' i stopped him quickly. 'i will come here. i was only teasing you. let me see. i'll come back at four, just to see how you are. won't you get up in the meantime?' he smiled, placated. 'i may do,' he said. 'i'll try to. but in case i don't, will you take my key? where did you put it last night?' 'i have it,' i said. he summoned me to him just as i was opening the door. 'magda!' 'what is it?' i returned. 'you are magnificent,' he replied, with charming, impulsive eagerness, his eyes resting upon me long. he was the old diaz again. 'i can't thank you. but when you come back i shall play to you.' i smiled. 'till four o'clock,' i said. 'magda,' he called again, just as i was leaving, 'bring one of your books with you, will you?' i hesitated, with my hand on the door. when i gave him my name he had made no sign that it conveyed to him anything out of the ordinary. that was exactly like diaz. 'have you read any of them?' i asked loudly, without moving from the door. 'no,' he answered. 'but i have heard of them.' 'really!' i said, keeping my tone free from irony. 'well, i will not bring you one of my books.' 'why not?' i looked hard at the door in front of me. 'for you i will be nothing but a woman,' i said. and i fled down the stairs and past the concierge swiftly into the street, as anxious as a thief to escape notice. i got a fiacre at once, and drove away. i would not analyze my heart. i could not. i could but savour the joy, sweet and fresh, that welled up in it as from some secret source. i was so excited that i observed nothing outside myself, and when the cab stopped in front of my hotel, it seemed to me that the journey had occupied scarcely a few seconds. do you imagine i was saddened by the painful spectacle of diaz' collapse in life? no! i only knew that he needed sympathy, and that i could give it to him with both hands. i could give, give! and the last thing that the egotist in me told me before it expired was that i was worthy to give. my longing to assuage the lot of diaz became almost an anguish. iii i returned at about half-past five, bright and eager, with vague anticipations. i seemed to have become used to the house. it no longer offended me, and i had no shame in entering it. i put the key into the door of diaz' flat with a clear, high sense of pleasure. he had entrusted me with his key; i could go in as i pleased; i need have no fear of inconveniencing him, of coming at the wrong moment. it seemed wonderful! and as i turned the key and pushed open the door my sole wish was to be of service to him, to comfort him, to render his life less forlorn. 'here i am!' i cried, shutting the door. there was no answer. in the smaller of the two tiny sitting-rooms the piano, which had been closed, was open, and i saw that it was a pleyel. but both rooms were empty. 'are you still in bed, then?' i said. there was still no answer. i went cautiously into the bedroom. it, too, was empty. the bed was made, and the flat generally had a superficial air of tidiness. evidently the charwoman had been and departed; and doubtless diaz had gone out, to return immediately. i sat down in the chair in which i had spent most of the night. i took off my hat and put it by the side of a tiny satchel which i had brought, and began to wait for him. how delicious it would be to open the door to him! he would notice that i had taken off my hat, and he would be glad. what did the future, the immediate future, hold for me? a long time i waited, and then i yawned heavily, and remembered that for several days i had had scarcely any sleep. i shut my eyes to relieve the tedium of waiting. when i reopened them, dazed, and startled into sudden activity by mysterious angry noises, it was quite dark. i tried to recall where i was, and to decide what the noises could be. i regained my faculties with an effort. the noises were a beating on the door. 'it is diaz,' i said to myself; 'and he can't get in!' and i felt very guilty because i had slept. i must have slept for hours. groping for a candle, i lighted it. 'coming! coming!' i called in a loud voice. and i went into the passage with the candle and opened the door. it was diaz. the gas was lighted on the stairs. between that and my candle he stood conspicuous in all his details. swaying somewhat, he supported himself by the balustrade, and was thus distant about two feet from the door. he was drunk--viciously drunk; and in an instant i knew the cruel truth concerning him, and wondered that i had not perceived it before. he was a drunkard--simply that. he had not taken to drinking as a consequence of nervous breakdown. nervous breakdown was a euphemism for the result of alcoholic excess. i saw his slow descent as in a vision, and everything was explained. my heart leapt. 'i can save him,' i said to myself. 'i can restore him.' i was aware of the extreme difficulty of curing a drunkard, of the immense proportion of failures. but, i thought, if a woman such as i cannot by the lavishing of her whole soul and body deliver from no matter what fiend a man such as diaz, then the world has changed, and the eternal aphrodite is dead. 'i can save him!' i repeated. oh, heavenly moment! 'aren't you coming in?' i addressed him quietly. 'i've been waiting for you.' 'have you?' he angrily replied. 'i waited long enough for you.' 'well,' i said, 'come in.' 'who is it?' he demanded. 'i inzizt--who is it?' 'it's i,' i answered; 'magda.' 'that's no' wha' i mean,' he went on. 'and wha's more--you know it. who is it addrezzes you, madame?' 'why,' i humoured him, 'it's you, of course--diaz.' there was the sound of a door opening on one of the lower storeys, and i hoped i had pacified him, and that he would enter; but i was mistaken. he stamped his foot furiously on the landing. 'diaz!' he protested, shouting. 'who dares call me diaz? wha's my full name?' 'emilio diaz,' i murmured meekly. 'that's better,' he grumbled. 'what am i?' i hesitated. 'wha' am i?' he roared; and his voice went up and down the echoing staircase. 'i won't put foot ev'n on doormat till i'm told wha' i am here.' 'you are the--the master,' i said. 'but do come in.' 'the mas'r! mas'r of wha'?' 'master of the pianoforte,' i answered at once. he smiled, suddenly appeased, and put his foot unsteadily on the doormat. 'good!' he said. 'but, un'stan', i wouldn't ev'n have pu' foot on doormat--no, not ev'n on doormat--' and he came in, and i shut the door, and i was alone with my wild beast. 'kiss me,' he commanded. i kissed him on the mouth. 'you don't put your arms roun' me,' he growled. so i deposited the candle on the floor, and put my arms round his neck, standing on tip-toe, and kissed him again. he went past me, staggering and growling, into the sitting-room at the end of the passage, and furiously banged down the lid of the piano, so that every cord in it jangled deafeningly. 'light the lamp,' he called out. 'in one second,' i said. i locked the outer door on the inside, slipped the key into my pocket, and picked up the candle. 'what were you doing out there?' he demanded. 'nothing,' i said. 'i had to pick the candle up.' he seized my hat from the table and threw it to the floor. then he sat down. 'nex' time,' he remarked, 'you'll know better'n to keep me waiting.' i lighted a lamp. 'i'm very sorry,' i said. 'won't you go to bed?' 'i shall go to bed when i want,' he answered. 'i'm thirsty. in the cupboard you'll see a bottle. i'll trouble you to give it me, with a glass and some water.' 'this cupboard?' i said questioningly, opening a cupboard papered to match the rest of the wall. 'yes.' 'but surely you can't be thirsty, diaz?' i protested. 'must i repea' wha' i said?' he glared at me. 'i'm thirsty. give me the bottle.' i took out the bottle nearest to hand. it was of a dark green colour, and labelled 'extrait d'absinthe. pernod fils.' 'not this one, diaz?' 'yes,' he insisted. 'give it me. and get a glass and some water.' 'no,' i said firmly. 'wha'? you won't give it me?' 'no.' he jumped up recklessly and faced me. his hat fell off the back of his head. 'give me that bottle!' his breath poisoned the room. i retreated in the direction of the window, and put my hand on the knob. 'no,' i said. he sprang at me, but not before i had opened the window and thrown out the bottle. i heard it fall in the roadway with a crash and scattering of glass. happily it had harmed no one. diaz was momentarily checked. he hesitated. i eyed him as steadily as i could, closing the while the window behind me with my right hand. 'he may try to kill me,' i thought. my heart was thudding against my dress, not from fear, but from excitement. my situation seemed impossible to me, utterly passing belief. yesterday i had been a staid spinster, attended by a maid, in a hotel of impeccable propriety. today i had locked myself up alone with a riotous drunkard in a vile flat in a notorious parisian street. was i mad? what force, secret and powerful, had urged me on?... and there was the foul drunkard, with clenched hands and fiery eyes, undecided whether or not to murder me. and i waited. he moved away, inarticulately grumbling, and resumed with difficulty his hat. 'ver' well,' he hiccupped morosely, 'ver' well; i'm going. tha's all.' he lurched into the passage, and then i heard him fumbling a long time with the outer door. he left the door and went into his bedroom, and finally returned to me. he held one hand behind his back. i had sunk into a chair by the small table on which the lamp stood, with my satchel beside it. 'now!' he said, halting in front of me. 'you've locked tha' door. i can't go out.' 'yes,' i admitted. 'give me the key.' i shook my head. 'give me the key,' he cried. 'i mus' have the key.' i shook my head. then he showed his right hand, and it held a revolver. he bent slightly over the table, staring down at me as i stared up at him. but as his chin felt the heat rising from the chimney of the lamp, he shifted a little to one side. i might have rushed for shelter into some other room; i might have grappled with him; i might have attempted to soothe him. but i could neither stir nor speak. least of all, could i give him the key--for him to go and publish his own disgrace in the thoroughfares. so i just gazed at him, inactive. 'i s'll kill you!' he muttered, and raised the revolver. my throat became suddenly dry. i tried to make the motion of swallowing, and could not. and looking at the revolver, i perceived in a swift revelation the vast folly of my inexperience. since he was already drunk, why had i not allowed him to drink more, to drink himself into a stupor? drunkards can only be cured when they are sober. to commence a course of moral treatment at such a moment as i had chosen was indeed the act of a woman. however, it was too late to reclaim the bottle from the street. i saw that he meant to kill me. and i knew that previously, during our encounter at the window, i had only pretended to myself that i thought there was a risk of his killing me. i had pretended, in order to increase the glory of my martyrdom in my own sight. moreover, my brain, which was working with singular clearness, told me that for his sake i ought to give up the key. his exposure as a helpless drunkard would be infinitely preferable to his exposure as a murderer. yet i could not persuade myself to relinquish the key. if i did so, he would imagine that he had frightened me. but i had no fear, and i could not bear that he should think i had. he fired. my ears sang. the room was full of a new odour, and a cloud floated reluctantly upwards from the mouth of the revolver. i sneezed, and then i grew aware that, firing at a distant of two feet, he had missed me. what had happened to the bullet i could not guess. he put the revolver down on the table with a groan, and the handle rested on my satchel. 'my god, magda!' he sighed, pushing back his hair with his beautiful hand. he was somewhat sobered. i said nothing, but i observed that the lamp was smoking, and i turned down the wick. i was so self-conscious, so irresolute, so nonplussed, that in sheer awkwardness, like a girl at a party who does not know what to do with her hands, i pushed the revolver off the satchel, and idly unfastened the catch of the satchel. within it, among other things, was my sedative. i, too, had fallen the victim of a habit. for five years a bad sleeper, i had latterly developed into a very bad sleeper, and my sedative was accordingly strong. a notion struck me. 'drink a little of this, my poor diaz!' i murmured. 'what is it?' he asked. 'it will make you sleep,' i said. with a convulsive movement he clutched the bottle and uncorked it, and before i could interfere he had drunk nearly the whole of its contents. 'stop!' i cried. 'you will kill yourself!' 'what matter!' he exclaimed; and staggered off to the darkness of the bedroom. i followed him with the lamp, but he had already fallen on the bed, and seemed to be heavily asleep. i shook him; he made no response. 'at any cost he must he roused,' i said aloud. 'he must be forced to walk.' there was a knocking at the outer door, low, discreet, and continuous. it sounded to me like a deliverance. whoever might be there must aid me to waken diaz. i ran to the door, taking the key out of my pocket, and opened it. a tall woman stood on the doormat. it was the girl that i had glimpsed on the previous night in the large hat ascending the stairs with a man. but now her bright golden head was uncovered, and she wore a blue _peignoir_, such as is sold ready made, with its lace and its ribbons, at all the big paris shops. we both hesitated. 'oh, pardon, madame,' she said, in a thin, sweet voice in french. 'i was at my door, and it seemed to me that i heard--a revolver. nothing serious has passed, then? pardon, madame.' 'nothing, thank you. you are very amiable, madame,' i replied stiffly. 'all my excuses, madame,' said she, turning away. 'no, no!' i exclaimed. 'i am wrong. do not go. someone is ill--very ill. if you would--' she entered. 'where? what is it?' she inquired. 'he is in the bedroom--here.' we both spoke breathlessly, hurrying to the bedroom, after i had fetched the lamp. 'wounded? he has done himself harm? ah!' 'no,' i said, 'not that.' and i explained to her that diaz had taken at least six doses of my strong solution of trional. i seized the lamp and held it aloft over the form of the sleeper, which lay on its side cross-wise, the feet projecting a little over the edge of the bed, the head bent forward and missing the pillow, the arms stretched out in front--the very figure of abandoned and perfect unconsciousness. and the girl and i stared at diaz, our shoulders touching, in the kennel. 'he must be made to walk about,' i said. 'you would be extremely kind to help me.' 'no, madame,' she replied. 'he will be very well like that. when one is alcoholic, one cannot poison one's self; it is impossible. all the doctors will tell you as much. your friend will sleep for twenty hours--twenty-four hours--and he will waken himself quite re-established.' 'you are sure? you know?' 'i know, madame. be tranquil. leave him. he could not have done better. it is perfect.' 'perhaps i should fetch a doctor?' i suggested. 'it is not worth the pain,' she said, with conviction. 'you would have vexations uselessly. leave him.' i gazed at her, studying her, and i was satisfied. with her fluffly locks, and her simple eyes, and her fragile face, and her long hands, she had, nevertheless, the air of knowing profoundly her subject. she was a great expert on males and all that appertained to them, especially their vices. i was the callow amateur. i was compelled to listen with respect to this professor in the professor's garb. i was impressed, in spite of myself. 'one might arrange him more comfortably,' she said. and we lifted the senseless victim, and put him on his back, and straightened his limbs, as though he had been a corpse. 'how handsome he is!' murmured my visitor, half closing her eyes. 'you think so?' i said politely, as if she had been praising one of my private possessions. 'oh yes. we are neighbours, madame. i have frequently remarked him, you understand, on the stairs, in the street.' 'has he been here long?' i asked. 'about a year, madame. you have, perhaps, not seen him since a long time. an old friend?' 'it is ten years ago,' i replied. 'ah! ten years! in england, without doubt?' 'in england, yes.' 'ten years!' she repeated, musing. 'i am certain she has a kind heart,' i said to myself, and i decided to question her: 'will you not sit down, madame?' i invited her. 'ah, madame! it is you who should sit down,' she said quickly. 'you must have suffered.' we both sat down. there were only two chairs in the room. 'i would like to ask you,' i said, leaning forward towards her, 'have you ever seen him--drunk--before?' 'no,' she replied instantly; 'never before yesterday evening.' 'be frank,' i urged her, smiling sadly. 'why should i not be frank, madame?' she said, with a grave, gentle appeal. it was as if she had said: 'we are talking woman to woman. i know one of your secrets. you can guess mine. the male is present, but he is deaf. what reason, therefore, for deceit?' 'i am much obliged to you,' i breathed. 'not at all,' she said. 'decidedly he is alcoholic--that sees itself,' she proceeded. 'but drunk--no!... he was always alone.' 'always alone?' 'always.' her eyes filled. i thought i had never seen a creature more gentle, delicate, yielding, acquiescent, and fair. she was not beautiful, but she had grace and distinction of movement. she was a parisienne. she had won my sympathy. we met in a moment when my heart needed the companionship of a woman's heart, and i was drawn to her by one of those sudden impulses that sometimes draw women to each other. i cared not what she was. moreover, she had excited my curiosity. she was a novelty in my life. she was something that i had heard of, and seen--yes, and perhaps envied in secret, but never spoken with. and she shattered all my preconceptions about her. 'you are an old tenant of this house?' i ventured. 'yes,' she said; 'it suits me. but the great heats are terrible here.' 'you do not leave paris, then?' 'never. except to see my little boy.' i started, envious of her, and also surprised. it seemed strange that this ribboned and elegant and plastic creature, whose long, thin arms were used only to dalliance, should be a mother. 'so you have a little boy?' 'yes; he lives with my parents at meudon. he is four years old. 'excuse me,' i said. 'be frank with me once again. do you love your child, honestly? so many women don't, it appears.' 'do i love him?' she cried, and her face glowed with her love. 'i adore him!' her sincerity was touching and overwhelming. 'and he loves me, too. if he is naughty, one has only to tell him that he will make his _petite mère_ ill, and he will be good at once. when he is told to obey his grandfather, because his grandfather provides his food, he says bravely: "no, not grandpapa; it is _petite mère_!" is it not strange he should know that i pay for him? he has a little engraving of the queen of italy, and he says it is his _petite mère_. among the scores of pictures he has he keeps only that one. he takes it to bed with him. it is impossible to deprive him of it.' she smiled divinely. 'how beautiful!' i said. 'and you go to see him often?' 'as often as i have time. i take him out for walks. i run with him till we reach the woods, where i can have him to myself alone. i never stop; i avoid people. no one except my parents knows that he is my child. one supposes he is a nurse-child, received by my parents. but all the world will know now,' she added, after a pause. 'last monday i went to meudon with my friend alice, and alice wanted to buy him some sweets at the grocer's. in the shop i asked him if he would like _dragées_, and he said "yes." the grocer said to him, "yes who, young man?" "yes, _petite mère_," he said, very loudly and bravely. the grocer understood. we all lowered our heads.' there was something so affecting in the way she half whispered the last phrase, that i could have wept; and yet it was comical, too, and she appreciated that. 'you have no child, madame?' she asked me. 'no,' i said. 'how i envy you!' 'you need not,' she observed, with a touch of hardness. 'i have been so unhappy, that i can never be as unhappy again. nothing matters now. all i wish is to save enough money to be able to live quietly in a little cottage in the country.' 'with your child,' i put in. 'my child will grow up and leave me. he will become a man, and he will forget his _petite mère.'_ 'do not talk like that,' i protested. she glanced at me almost savagely. i was astonished at the sudden change in her face. 'why not?' she inquired coldly. 'is it not true, then? do you still believe that there is any difference between one man and another? they are all alike--all, all, all! i know. and it is we who suffer, we others.' 'but surely you have some tender souvenir of your child's father?' i said. 'do i know who my child's father is?' she demanded. 'my child has thirty-six fathers!' 'you seem very bitter,' i said, 'for your age. you are much younger than i am.' she smiled and shook her honey-coloured hair, and toyed with the ribbons of her _peignoir_. 'what i say is true,' she said gently. 'but, there, what would you have? we hate them, but we love them. they are beasts! beasts! but we cannot do without them!' her eyes rested on diaz for a moment. he slept without the least sound, the stricken and futile witness of our confidences. 'you will take him away from paris soon, perhaps?' she asked. 'if i can,' i said. there was a sound of light footsteps on the stair. they stopped at the door, which i remembered we had not shut. i jumped up and went into the passage. another girl stood in the doorway, in a _peignoir_ the exact counterpart of my first visitor's, but rose-coloured. and this one, too, was languorous and had honey-coloured locks. it was as though the mysterious house was full of such creatures, each with her secret lair. 'pardon, madame,' said my visitor, following and passing me; and then to the newcomer: 'what is it, alice?' 'it is monsieur duchatel who is arrived.' 'oh!' with a disdainful gesture. '_je m'en fiche._ let him go.' 'but it is the nephew, my dear; not the uncle.' 'ah, the nephew! i come. _bon soir, madams, et bonne nuit_.' the two _peignoirs_ fluttered down the stairs together. i returned to my diaz, and seeing his dressing-gown behind the door of the bedroom, i took it and covered him with it. iv his first words were: 'magda, you look like a ghost. have you been sitting there like that all the time?' 'no,' i said; 'i lay down.' 'where?' 'by your side.' 'what time is it?' 'tea-time. the water is boiling. 'was i dreadful last night?' 'dreadful? how?' 'i have a sort of recollection of getting angry and stamping about. i didn't do anything foolish?' 'you took a great deal too much of my sedative,' i answered. 'i feel quite well,' he said; 'but i didn't know i had taken any sedative at all. i'm glad i didn't do anything silly last night.' i ran away to prepare the tea. the situation was too much for me. 'my poor diaz!' i said, when we had begun to drink the tea, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes full of sleep, his chin rough, and his hair magnificently disarranged, 'you did one thing that was silly last night.' 'don't tell me i struck you?' he cried. 'oh no!' and i laughed. 'can't you guess what i mean?' 'you mean i got vilely drunk.' i nodded. 'magda,' he burst out passionately, seeming at this point fully to arouse himself, to resume acutely his consciousness, 'why were you late? you said four o'clock. i thought you had deceived me. i thought i had disgusted you, and that you didn't mean to return. i waited more than an hour and a quarter, and then i went out in despair.' 'but i came just afterwards,' i protested. 'you had only to wait a few more minutes. surely you could have waited a few more minutes?' 'you said four o'clock,' he repeated obstinately. 'it was barely half-past five when i came,' i said. 'i had meant never to drink again,' he went on. 'you were so kind to me. but then, when you didn't come--' 'you doubted me, diaz. you ought to have been sure of me.' 'i was wrong.' 'no, no!' i said. 'it was i who was wrong. but i never thought that an hour and a half would make any difference.' there was a pause. 'ah, magda, magda!'--he suddenly began to weep; it was astounding--'remember that you had deserted me once before. remember that. if you had not done that, my life might have been different. it _would_ have been different.' 'don't say so,' i pleaded. 'yes, i must say so. you cannot imagine how solitary my life has been. magda, i loved you.' and i too wept. his accent was sincerity itself. i saw the young girl hurrying secretly out of the five towns hotel. could it be true that she had carried away with her, unknowing, the heart of diaz? could it be true that her panic flight had ruined a career? the faint possibility that it was true made me sick with vain grief. 'and now i am old and forgotten and disgraced,' he said. 'how old are you, diaz?' 'thirty-six,' he answered. 'why,' i said, 'you have thirty years to live.' 'yes; and what years?' 'famous years. brilliant years.' he shook his head. 'i am done for--' he murmured, and his head sank. 'are you so weak, then?' i took his hand. 'are you so weak? look at me.' he obeyed, and his wet eyes met mine. in that precious moment i lived. 'i don't know,' he said. 'you could not have looked at me if you had not been strong, very strong,' i said firmly. 'you told me once that you had a house near fontainebleau. have you still got it?' 'i suppose so.' 'let us go there, and--and--see.' 'but--' 'i should like to go,' i insisted, with a break in my voice. 'my god!' he exclaimed in a whisper, 'my god!' i was sobbing violently, and my forehead was against the rough stuff of his coat. v and one morning, long afterwards, i awoke very early, and the murmuring of the leaves of the forest came through the open window. i had known that i should wake very early, in joyous anticipation of that day. and as i lay he lay beside me, lost in the dreamless, boyish, natural sleep that he never sought in vain. he lay, as always, slightly on his right side, with his face a little towards me--his face that was young again, and from which the bane had passed. it was one of the handsomest, fairest faces in the world, one of the most innocent, and one of the strongest; the face of a man who follows his instincts with the direct simplicity of a savage or a child, and whose instincts are sane and powerful. seen close, perfectly at rest, as i saw it morning after morning, it was full of a special and mysterious attraction. the fine curves of the nostrils and of the lobe of the ear, the masterful lines of the mouth, the contours of the cheek and chin and temples, the tints of the flesh subtly varying from rose to ivory, the golden crown of hair, the soft moustache. i had learned every detail by heart; my eyes had dwelt on them till they had become my soul's inheritance, till they were mystically mine, drawing me ever towards them, as a treasure draws. gently moving, i would put my ear close, close, and listen to the breath of life as it entered regularly, almost imperceptibly, vivifying that organism in repose. there is something terrible in the still beauty of sleep. it is as though the spiritual fabric hangs inexplicably over the precipice of death. it seems impossible, or at least miraculous, that the intake and the expulsion upon which existence depends should continue thus, minute by minute, hour by hour. it is as though one stood on the very confines of life, and could one trace but one step more, one single step, one would unveil the eternal secret. i would not listen long; the torture was too sweet, too exquisite, and i would gently slide back to my place.... his hand was on the counterpane, near to my breast--the broad hand of the pianist, with a wrist of incredible force, and the fingers tapering suddenly at the end to a point. i let my own descend on it as softly as snow. ah, ravishing contact! he did not move. and while my small hand touched his i gazed into the spaces of the bedroom, with its walls of faded blue tapestry and its white curtains, and its marble and rosewood, and they seemed to hold peace, as the hollows of a field hold dew; they seemed to hold happiness as a great tree holds sunlight in its branches; and outside was the murmuring of the leaves of the forest and the virginal freshness of the morning. surely he must wake earlier that day! i pursed my lips and blew tenderly, mischievously, on his cheek, lying with my cheek full on the pillow, so that i could watch him. the muscles of his mouth twitched, his inner being appeared to protest. and then began the first instinctive blind movement of the day with him. his arms came forward and found my neck, and drew me forcibly to him, and then, just before our lips touched, he opened his eyes and shut them again. so it occurred every morning. ere even his brain had resumed activity his heart had felt its need of me. this it was that was so wonderful, so overpowering! and the kiss, languid and yet warm, heavy with a human scent, with the scent of the night, honest, sensuous, and long--long! as i lay thus, clasped in his arms, i half closed my eyes, and looked into his eyes through my lashes, smiling, and all was a delicious blur.... it was the summit of bliss! no! i have never mounted higher! i asked myself, astounded, what i had done that i should receive such happiness, what i had done that existence should have no flaw for me. and what _had_ i done? i know not, i know not. it passes me. i am lost in my joy. for i had not even cured him. i had anticipated painful scenes, interminable struggles, perhaps a relapse. but nothing of the kind. he had simply ceased at once the habit--that was all. we never left each other. and his magnificent constitution had perfectly recovered itself in a few months. i had done nothing. 'magda,' he murmured indistinctly, drawing his mouth an inch away from mine, 'why can't your dark hair always be loose over your shoulders like that? it is glorious!' 'what ideas you have!' i murmured, more softly than he. 'and do you know what it is to-day?' 'no.' 'you've forgotten?' i pouted. 'yes.' 'guess.' 'no; you must tell me. not your birthday? not mine?' 'it's just a year since i met you,' i whispered timidly. our mouths met again, and, so enlocked, we rested, savouring the true savour of life. and presently my hand stole up to his head and stroked his curls. every morning he began to practise at eight o'clock, and continued till eleven. the piano, a steinway in a hundred steinways, was in the further of the two drawing-rooms. he would go into the room smoking a cigarette, and when he had thrown away the cigarette i would leave him. and as soon as i had closed the door the first notes would resound, slow and solemn, of the five-finger exercises with which he invariably commenced his studies. that morning, as often, i sat writing in the enclosed garden. i always wrote in pencil on my knee. the windows of the drawing-room were wide open, and diaz' music filled the garden. the sheer beauty of his tone was such that to hear him strike even an isolated note gave pleasure. he created beauty all the time. his five-finger exercises were lovely patterns of sound woven with exact and awful deliberation. it seemed impossible that these should be the same bald and meaningless inventions which i had been wont to repeat. they were transformed. they were music. the material in which he built them was music itself, enchanting the ear as much by the quality of the tone as by the impeccable elegance of the form. to hear diaz play a scale, to catch that measured, tranquil succession of notes, each a different jewel of equal splendour, each dying precisely when the next was born--this was to perceive at last what music is made of, to have glimpses of the divine magic that is the soul of the divinest art. i used to believe that nothing could surpass the beauty of a scale, until diaz, after writing formal patterns in the still air innumerably, and hypnotizing me with that sorcery, would pass suddenly to the repetition of fragments of bach. and then i knew that hitherto he had only been trying to be more purely and severely mechanical than a machine, and that now the interpreter was at work. i have heard him repeat a passage fifty times--and so slowly!--and each rendering seemed more beautiful than the last; and it was more beautiful than the last. he would extract the final drop of beauty from the most beautiful things in the world. washed, drenched in this circumambient ether of beauty, i wrote my verse. perhaps it may appear almost a sacrilege that i should have used the practising of a diaz as a background for my own creative activity. i often thought so. but when one has but gold, one must put it to lowly use. so i wrote, and he passed from bach to chopin. usually he would come out into the garden for five minutes at half-past nine to smoke a cigarette, but that morning it had struck ten before the music ceased. i saw him. he walked absent-minded along the terrace in the strange silence that had succeeded. he was wearing his riding-breeches, for we habitually rode at eleven. and that morning i did not hide my work when he came. it was, in fact, finished; the time had arrived to disclose it. he stopped in front of me in the sunlight, utterly preoccupied with himself and his labours. he had the rapt look on his face which results from the terrible mental and spiritual strain of practising as he practised. 'satisfied?' i asked him. he frowned. 'there are times when one gets rather inspired,' he said, looking at me, as it were, without seeing me. 'it's as if the whole soul gets into one's hands. that's what's wanted.' 'you had it this morning?' 'a bit.' he smiled with candid joy. 'while i was listening--' i began. 'oh!' he broke in impulsively, violently, 'it isn't you that have to listen. it's i that have to listen. it's the player that has to listen. he's got to do more than listen. he's got to be _in_ the piano with his inmost heart. if he isn't on the full stretch of analysis the whole blessed time, he might just as well be turning the handle of a barrel-organ.' he always talked about his work during the little 'recess' which he took in the middle of the morning. he pretended to be talking to me, but it was to himself that he talked. he was impatient if i spoke. 'i shall be greater than ever,' he proceeded, after a moment. and his attitude towards himself was so disengaged, so apart and aloof, so critically appreciative, that it was impossible to accuse him of egoism. he was, perhaps, as amazed at his own transcendent gift as any other person could be, and he was incapable of hiding his sensations. 'yes,' he repeated; 'i think i shall be greater than ever. you see, a chopin player is born; you can't make him. with chopin it's not a question of intellect. it's all tone with chopin--_tone_, my child, even in the most bravura passages. you've got to get it.' 'yes,' i agreed. he gazed over the tree-tops into the blue sky. 'i may be ready in six months,' he said. 'i think you will,' i concurred, with a judicial air. but i honestly deemed him to be more than ready then. twelve months previously he had said: 'with six hours' practice a day for two years i shall recover what i have lost.' he had succeeded beyond his hopes. 'are you writing in that book?' he inquired carelessly as he threw down the cigarette and turned away. 'i have just finished something,' i replied. 'oh!' he said, 'i'm glad you aren't idle. it's so boring.' he returned to the piano, perfectly incurious about what i did, self-absorbed as a god. and i was alone in the garden, with the semicircle of trees behind me, and the façade of the old house and its terrace in front. and lying on the lawn, just under the terrace, was the white end of the cigarette which he had abandoned; it breathed upwards a thin spiral of blue smoke through the morning sunshine, and then it ceased to breathe. and the music recommenced, on a different plane, more brilliantly than before. it was as though, till then, he had been laboriously building the bases of a tremendous triumphal arch, and that now the two wings met, dazzlingly, soaringly, in highest heaven, and the completed arch became a rainbow glittering in the face of the infinite. he played two of his great concert pieces, and their intricate melodies--brocaded, embroidered, festooned--poured themselves through the windows into the garden in a procession majestic and impassioned, perturbing the intent soul of the solitary listener, swathing her in intoxicating sound. it was the unique virtuoso born again, proudly displaying the ultimate sublime end of all those slow-moving exercises to which he had subdued his fingers. not for ten years had i heard him play so. when we first came into the house i had said bravely to myself: 'his presence shall not deter me from practising as i have always done.' and one afternoon i had sat down to the piano full of determination to practise without fear of him, without self-consciousness. but before my hands had touched the keys shame took me, unreasoning, terror-struck shame, and i knew in an instant that while he lived i should never more play the piano. he laughed lightly when i told him, and i called myself silly. yet now, as i sat in the garden, i saw how right i had been. and i wondered that i should ever have had the audacity even to dream of playing in his house; the idea was grotesque. and he did not ask me to play, save when there arrived new orchestral music arranged for four hands. then i steeled myself to the ordeal of playing with him, because he wished to try over the music. and he would thank me, and say that pianoforte duets were always very enjoyable. but he did not pretend that i was not an amateur, and he never--thank god!--suggested that we should attempt _tristan_ again.... at last he finished. and i heard distantly the bell which he had rung for his glass of milk. and, remembering that i was not ready for the ride, i ran with guilty haste into the house and upstairs. the two bay horses were waiting, our english groom at their heads, when i came out to the porch. diaz was impatiently tapping his boot with his whip. he was not in the least a sporting man, but he loved the sensation of riding, and the groom would admit that he rode passably; but he loved more to strut in breeches, and to imitate in little ways the sporting man. i had learnt to ride in order to please him. 'come along,' he exclaimed. his eyes said: 'you are always late.' and i was. some people always know exactly what point they have reached in the maze and jungle of the day, just as mariners are always aware, at the back of their minds, of the state of the tide. but i was not born so. diaz helped me to mount, and we departed, jingling through the gate and across the road into a glade of the forest, one of those long sandy defiles, banked on either side, and over-shadowed with tall oaks, which pierce the immense forest like rapiers. the sunshine slanted through the crimsoning leafwork and made irregular golden patches on the dark sand to the furthest limit of the perspective. and though we could not feel the autumn wind, we could hear it in the tree-tops, and it had the sound of the sea. the sense of well-being and of joy was exquisite. the beauty of horses, timid creatures, sensitive and graceful and irrational as young girls, is a thing apart; and what is strange is that their vast strength does not seem incongruous with it. to be above that proud and lovely organism, listening, apprehensive, palpitating, nervous far beyond the human, to feel one's self almost part of it by intimate contact, to yield to it, and make it yield, to draw from it into one's self some of its exultant vitality--in a word, to ride--yes, i could comprehend diaz' fine enthusiasm for that! i could share it when he was content to let the horses amble with noiseless hoofs over the soft ways. but when he would gallop, and a strong wind sprang up to meet our faces, and the earth shook and thundered, and the trunks of the trees raced past us, then i was afraid. my fancy always saw him senseless at the foot of a tree while his horse calmly cropped the short grass at the sides of the path, or with his precious hand twisted and maimed! and i was in agony till he reined in. i never dared to speak to him of this fear, nor even hint to him that the joy was worth less than the peril. he would have been angry in his heart, and something in him stronger than himself would have forced him to increase the risks. i knew him! ... ah! but when we went gently, life seemed to be ideal for me, impossibly perfect! it seemed to contain all that i could ever have demanded of it. i looked at him sideways, so noble and sane and self-controlled. and the days in paris had receded, far and dim and phantom-like. was it conceivable that they had once been real, and that we had lived through them? and was this diaz, the world-renowned darling of capitals, riding by me, a woman whom he had met by fantastic chance? had he really hidden himself in my arms from the cruel stare of the world and the insufferable curiosity of admirers who, instead of admiring, had begun to pity? had i in truth saved him? was it i who would restore him to his glory? oh, the astounding romance that my life had been! and he was with me! he shared my life, and i his! i wondered what would happen when he returned to his bright kingdom. i was selfish enough to wish that he might never return to his kingdom, and that we might ride and ride for ever in the forest. and then we came to a circular clearing, with an iron cross in the middle, where roads met, a place such as occurs magically in some ballade of chopin's. and here we drew rein on the leaf-strewn grass, breathing quickly, with reddened cheeks, and the horses nosed each other, with long stretchings of the neck and rattling of bits. 'so you've been writing again?' said diaz, smiling quizzically. 'yes,' i answered. 'i've been writing a long time, but i haven't let _you_ know anything about it; and just to-day i've finished it.' 'what is it--another novel?' 'no; a little drama in verse.' 'going to publish it?' 'why, naturally.' diaz was aware that i enjoyed fame in england and america. he was probably aware that my books had brought me a considerable amount of money. he had read some of my works, and found them excellent--indeed, he was quite proud of my talent. but he did not, he could not, take altogether seriously either my talent or my fame. i knew that he always regarded me as a child gracefully playing at a career. for him there was only one sort of fame; all the other sorts were shadows. a supreme violinist might, perhaps, approach the real thing, in his generous mind; but he was incapable of honestly believing that any fame compared with that of a pianist. the other fames were very well, but they were paste to the precious stone, gewgaws to amuse simple persons. the sums paid to sopranos struck him as merely ridiculous in their enormity. he could not be called conceited; nevertheless, he was magnificently sure that he had been, and still was, the most celebrated person in the civilized world. certainly he had no superiors in fame, but he would not admit the possibility of equals. of course, he never argued such a point; it was a tacit assumption, secure from argument. and with that he profoundly reverenced the great composers. the death of brahms affected him for years. he regarded it as an occasion for universal sorrow. had brahms condescended to play the piano, diaz would have turned the pages for him, and deemed himself honoured--him whom queens had flattered! 'did you imagine,' i began to tease him, after a pause, 'that while you are working i spend my time in merely existing?' 'you exist--that is enough, my darling,' he said. 'strange that a beautiful woman can't understand that in existing she is doing her life's work!' and he leaned over and touched my right wrist below the glove. 'you dear thing!' i murmured, smiling. 'how foolish you can be!' 'what's the drama about?' he asked. 'about la vallière,' i said. 'la vallière! but that's the kind of subject i want for my opera!' 'yes,' i said; 'i have thought so.' 'could you turn it into a libretto, my child?' 'no, dearest.' 'why not?' 'because it already is a libretto. i have written it as such.' 'for me?' 'for whom else?' and i looked at him fondly, and i think tears came to my eyes. 'you are a genius, magda!' he exclaimed. 'you leave nothing undone for me. the subject is the very thing to suit villedo.' 'who is villedo?' 'my jewel, you don't know who villedo is! villedo is the director of the opéra comique in paris, the most artistic opera-house in europe. he used to beg me every time we met to write him an opera.' 'and why didn't you?' 'because i had neither the subject nor the time. one doesn't write operas after lunch in hotel parlours; and as for a good libretto--well, outside wagner, there's only one opera in the world with a good libretto, and that's _carmen_.' diaz, who had had a youthful operatic work performed at the royal school of music in london, and whose numerous light compositions for the pianoforte had, of course, enjoyed a tremendous vogue, was much more serious about his projected opera than i had imagined. he had frequently mentioned it to me, but i had not thought the idea was so close to his heart as i now perceived it to be. i had written the libretto to amuse myself, and perhaps him, and lo! he was going to excite himself; i well knew the symptoms. 'you wrote it in that little book,' he said. 'you haven't got it in your pocket?' 'no,' i answered. 'i haven't even a pocket.' he would not laugh. 'come,' he said--'come, let's see it.' he gathered up his loose rein and galloped off. he could not wait an instant. 'come along!' he cried imperiously, turning his head. 'i am coming,' i replied; 'but wait for me. don't leave me like that, diaz.' the old fear seized me, but nothing could stop him, and i followed as fast as i dared. 'where is it?' he asked, when we reached home. 'upstairs,' i said. and he came upstairs behind me, pulling my habit playfully, in an effort to persuade us both that his impatience was a simulated one. i had to find my keys and unlock a drawer. i took the small, silk-bound volume from the back part of the drawer and gave it to him. 'there!' i exclaimed. 'but remember lunch is ready.' he regarded the book. 'what a pretty binding!' he said. 'who worked it?' 'i did.' 'and, of course, your handwriting is so pretty, too!' he added, glancing at the leaves. '"la vallière, an opera in three acts."' we exchanged a look, each of us deliciously perturbed, and then he ran off with the book. he had to be called three times from the garden to lunch, and he brought the book with him, and read it in snatches during the meal, and while sipping his coffee. i watched him furtively as he turned over the pages. 'oh, you've done it!' he said at length--'you've done it! you evidently have a gift for libretto. it is neither more nor less than perfect! and the subject is wonderful!' he rose, walked round the table, and, taking my head between his hands, kissed me. 'magda,' he said, 'you're the cleverest girl that was ever born.' 'then, do you think you will compose it?' i asked, joyous. 'do i think i will compose it! why, what do you imagine? i've already begun. it composes itself. i'm now going to read it all again in the garden. just see that i'm not worried, will you?' 'you mean you don't want me there. you don't care for me any more.' it amused me to pretend to pout. 'yes,' he laughed; 'that's it. i don't care for you any more.' he departed. 'have no fear!' i cried after him. 'i shan't come into your horrid garden!' his habit was to resume his practice at three o'clock. the hour was then half-past one. i wondered whether he would allow himself to be seduced from the piano that afternoon by the desire to compose. i hoped not, for there could be no question as to the relative importance to him of the two activities. to my surprise, i heard the piano at two o'clock, instead of at three, and it continued without intermission till five. then he came, like a sudden wind, on to the terrace where i was having tea. diaz would never take afternoon tea. he seized my hand impulsively. 'come down,' he said--'down under the trees there.' 'what for?' 'i want you.' 'but, diaz, let me put my cup down. i shall spill the tea on my dress.' 'i'll take your cup.' 'and i haven't nearly finished my tea, either. and you're hurting me.' 'i'll bring you a fresh cup,' he said. 'come, come!' and he dragged me off, laughing, to the lower part of the garden, where were two chairs in the shade. and i allowed myself to be dragged. 'there! sit down. don't move. i'll fetch your tea.' and presently he returned with the cup. 'now that you've nearly killed me,' i said, 'and spoilt my dress, perhaps you'll explain.' he produced the silk-bound book of manuscript from his pocket and put it in my unoccupied hand. 'i want you to read it to me aloud, all of it,' he said. 'really?' 'really.' 'what a strange boy you are!' i chided. then i drank the tea, straightened my features into seriousness, and began to read. the reading occupied less than an hour. he made no remark when it was done, but held out his hand for the book, and went out for a walk. at dinner he was silent till the servants had gone. then he said musingly: 'that scene in the cloisters between louise and de montespan is a great idea. it will be magnificent; it will be the finest thing in the opera. what a subject you have found! what a subject!' his tone altered. 'magda, will you do something to oblige me?' 'if it isn't foolish.' 'i want you to go to bed.' 'out of the way?' i smiled. 'go to bed and to sleep,' he repeated. 'but why?' 'i want to walk about this floor. i must be alone.' 'well,' i said, 'just to prove how humble and obedient i am, i will go.' and i held up my mouth to be kissed. wondrous, the joy i found in playing the decorative, acquiescent, self-effacing woman to him, the pretty, pouting plaything! i liked him to dismiss me, as the soldier dismisses his charmer at the sound of the bugle. i liked to think upon his obvious conviction that the libretto was less than nothing compared to the music. i liked him to regard the whole artistic productivity of my life as the engaging foible of a pretty woman. i liked him to forget that i had brought him alive out of paris. i liked him to forget to mention marriage to me. in a word, he was diaz, and i was his. and as i lay in bed i even tried to go to sleep, in my obedience, because i knew he would wish it. but i could not easily sleep for anticipating his triumph of the early future. his habits of composition were extremely rapid. it might well occur that he would write the entire opera in a few months, without at all sacrificing the piano. and naturally any operatic manager would be loath to refuse an opera signed by diaz. villedo, apparently so famous, would be sure to accept it, and probably would produce it at once. and diaz would have a double triumph, a dazzling and gorgeous re-entry into the world. he might give his first recital in the same week as the _première_ of the opera. and thus his shame would never be really known to the artistic multitude. the legend of a nervous collapse could be insisted on, and the opera itself would form a sufficient excuse for his retirement.... and i should be the secret cause of all this glory--i alone! and no one would ever guess what diaz owed to me. diaz himself would never appreciate it. i alone, withdrawn from the common gaze, like a woman of the east, diaz' secret fountain of strength and balm--i alone should be aware of what i had done. and my knowledge would be enough for me. i imagine i must have been dreaming when i felt a hand on my cheek. 'magda, you aren't asleep, are you?' diaz was standing over me. 'no, no!' i answered, in a voice made feeble by sleep. and i looked up at him. 'put something on and come downstairs, will you?' 'what time is it?' 'oh, i don't know. one o'clock.' 'you've been working for over three hours, then!' i sat up. 'yes,' he said proudly. 'come along. i want to play you my notion of the overture. it's only in the rough, but it's there.' 'you've begun with the overture?' 'why not, my child? here's your dressing-gown. which is the top end of it?' i followed him downstairs, and sat close by him at the piano, with one limp hand on his shoulder. there was no light in the drawing-rooms, save one candle on the piano. my slipper escaped off my bare foot. as diaz played he looked at me constantly, demanding my approval, my enthusiasm, which i gave him from a full heart. i thought the music charming, and, of course, as he played it...! 'i shall only have three motives,' he said. 'that's the la vallière motive. do you see the idea?' 'you mean she limps?' 'precisely. isn't it delightful?' 'she won't have to limp much, you know. she didn't.' 'just the faintest suggestion. it will be delicious. i can see morenita in the part. well, what do you think of it?' i could not speak. his appeal, suddenly wistful, moved me so. i leaned forward and kissed him. 'dear girl!' he murmured. then he blew out the candle. he was beside himself with excitement. 'diaz,' i cried, 'what's the matter with you? do have a little sense. and you've made me lose my slipper.' 'i'll carry you upstairs,' he replied gaily. a faint illumination came from the hall, so that we could just see each other. he lifted me off the chair. 'no!' i protested, laughing. 'and my slipper.... the servants!' 'stuff!' i was a trifle in those arms. vi the triumphal re-entry into the world has just begun, and exactly as diaz foretold. and the life of the forest is over. we have come to paris, and he has taken paris, and already he is leaving it for other shores, and i am to follow. at this moment, while i write because i have not slept and cannot sleep, his train rolls out of st. lazare. last night! how glorious! but he is no longer wholly mine. the world has turned his face a little from my face.... it was as if i had never before realized the dazzling significance of the fame of diaz. i had only once seen him in public. and though he conquered in the jubilee hall of the five towns, his victory, personal and artistic, at the opera comique, before an audience as exacting, haughty, and experienced as any in europe, was, of course, infinitely more striking--a victory worthy of a diaz. i sat alone and hidden at the back of a _baignoire_ in the auditorium. i had drawn up the golden grille, by which the occupants of a _baignoire_ may screen themselves from the curiosity of the _parterre_. i felt like some caged eastern odalisque, and i liked so to feel. i liked to exist solely for him, to be mysterious, and to baffle the general gaze in order to be more precious to him. ah, how i had changed! how he had changed me! it was thursday, a subscription night, and, in addition, all paris was in the theatre, a crowded company of celebrities, of experts, and of perfectly-dressed women. and no one knew who i was, nor why i was there. the vogue of a musician may be universal, but the vogue of an english writer is nothing beyond england and america. i had not been to a rehearsal. i had not met villedo, nor even the translator of my verse. i had wished to remain in the background, and diaz had not crossed me. thus i gazed through the bars of my little cell across the rows of bald heads, and wonderful coiffures, and the waving arms of the conductor, and the restless, gliding bows of the violinists, and saw a scene which was absolutely strange and new to me. and it seemed amazing that these figures which i saw moving and chanting with such grace in a palace garden, authentic to the last detail of historical accuracy, were my la vallière and my louis, and that this rich and coloured music which i heard was the same that diaz had sketched for me on the piano, from illegible scraps of ruled paper, on the edge of the forest. the full miracle of operatic art was revealed to me for the first time. and when the curtain fell on the opening act, the intoxicating human quality of an operatic success was equally revealed to me for the first time. how cold and distant the success of a novelist compared to this! the auditorium was suddenly bathed in bright light, and every listening face awoke to life as from an enchantment, and flushed and smiled, and the delicatest hands in france clapped to swell the mighty uproar that filled the theatre with praise. paris, upstanding on its feet, and leaning over balconies and cheering, was charmed and delighted by the fable and the music, in which it found nothing but the sober and pretty elegance that it loves. and paris applauded feverishly, and yet with a full sense of the value of its applause--given there in the only french theatre where the claque has been suppressed. and then the curtain rose, and la vallière and louis tripped mincingly forward to prove that after all they were morenita and montfériot, the darlings of their dear paris, and utterly content with their exclusively parisian reputation. three times they came forward. and then the applause ceased, for paris is not naples, and it is not madrid, and the red curtain definitely hid the stage, and the theatre hummed with animated chatter as elegant as diaz' music, and my ear, that loves the chaste vivacity of the french tongue, was caressed on every side by its cadences. 'this is the very heart of civilization,' i said to myself. 'and even in the forest i could not breathe more freely.' i stared up absently at benjamin constant's blue ceiling, meretricious and still adorable, expressive of the delicious decadence of paris, and my eyes moistened because the world is so beautiful in such various ways. then the door of the _baignoire_ opened. it was diaz himself who appeared. he had not forgotten me in the excitements of the stage and the dressing-rooms. he put his hand lightly on my shoulder, and i glanced at him. 'well?' he murmured, and gave me a box of bonbons elaborately tied with rich ribbons. and i murmured, 'well?' the glory of his triumph was upon him. but he understood why my eyes were wet, and his fingers moved soothingly on my shoulder. 'you won't come round?' he asked. 'both villedo and morenita are dying to meet you.' i shook my head, smiling. 'you're satisfied?' 'more than satisfied,' i answered. 'the thing is wonderful.' 'i think it's rather charming,' he said. 'by the way, i've just had an offer from new york for it, and another from rome.' i nodded my appreciation. 'you don't want anything?' 'nothing, thanks,' i said, opening the box of bonbons, 'except these. thanks so much for thinking of them.' 'well--' and he left me again. in the second act the legend--has not the tale of la vallière acquired almost the quality of a legend?--grew in persuasiveness and in magnificence. it was the hour of la vallière's unwilling ascendancy, and it foreboded also her fall. the situations seemed to me to be poignantly beautiful, especially that in which la vallière and montespan and the queen found themselves together. and morenita had perceived my meaning with such a sure intuition. i might say that she showed me what i had meant. diaz, too, had given to my verse a voice than which it appeared impossible that anything could be more appropriate. the whole effect was astonishing, ravishing. and within me--far, far within the recesses of my glowing heart--a thin, clear whisper spoke and said that i, and i alone, was the cause of that beauty of sight and sound. not morenita, and not montfériot, not diaz himself, but magda, the self-constituted odalisque, was its author. i had thought of it; i had schemed it; i had fashioned it; i had evoked the emotion in it. the others had but exquisitely embroidered my theme. without me they must have been dumb and futile. on my shoulders lay the burden and the glory. and though i was amazed, perhaps naively, to see what i had done, nevertheless i had done it--i! the entire opera-house, that complicated and various machine, was simply a means to express me. and it was to my touch on their heartstrings that the audience vibrated. with all my humility, how proud i was--coldly and arrogantly proud, as only the artist can be! i wore my humility as i wore my black gown. even diaz could not penetrate to the inviolable place in my heart, where the indestructible egoism defied the efforts of love to silence it. and yet people say there is nothing stronger than love. at the close of the act, while the ringing applause, much more enthusiastic than before, gave certainty of a genuine and extraordinary success, i could not help blushing. it was as if i was in danger of being discovered as the primal author of all that fleeting loveliness, as if my secret was bound to get about, and i to be forced from my seclusion in order to receive the acclamations of paris. i played nervously and self-consciously with my fan, and i wrapped my humility closer round me, until at length the tumult died away, and the hum of charming, eager chatter reassured my ears again. diaz did not come. the entr'acte stretched out long, and the chatter lost some of its eagerness, and he did not come. perhaps he could not come. perhaps he was too much engaged, too much preoccupied, to think of the gallantry which he owed to his mistress. a man cannot always be dreaming of his mistress. a mistress must be reconciled to occasional neglect; she must console herself with chocolates. and they were chocolates from marquis's, in the passage des panoramas.... then he came, accompanied. a whirl of high-seasoned, laughing personalities invaded my privacy. diaz, smiling humorously, was followed by a man and a cloaked woman. 'dear lady,' he said, with an intimate formality, 'i present mademoiselle morenita and monsieur villedo. they insisted on seeing you. mademoiselle, monsieur--mademoiselle peel.' i stood up. 'all our excuses,' said villedo, in a low, discreet voice, as he carefully shut the door. 'all our excuses, madame. but it was necessary that i should pay my respects--it was stronger than i.' and he came forward, took my hand, and raised it to his lips. he is a little finicking man, with a little gray beard, and the red rosette in his button-hole, and a most consummate ease of manner. 'monsieur,' i replied, 'you are too amiable. and you, madame. i cannot sufficiently thank you both.' morenita rushed at me with a swift, surprising movement, her cloak dropping from her shoulders, and taking both my hands, she kissed me impulsively. 'you have genius,' she said; 'and i am proud. i am ashamed that i cannot read english; but i have the intention to learn in order to read your books. our diaz says wonderful things of them.' she is a tall, splendidly-made, opulent creature, of my own age, born for the footlights, with an extremely sweet and thrilling voice, and that slight coarseness or exaggeration of gesture and beauty which is the penalty of the stage. she did not in the least resemble a la vallière as she stood there gazing at me, with her gleaming, pencilled eyes and heavy, scarlet lips. it seemed impossible that she could refine herself to a la vallière. but that woman is the drama itself. she would act no matter what. she has always the qualities necessary to a rôle. and the gods have given her green eyes, so that she may be la vallière to the very life. i began to thank her for her superb performance. 'it is i who should thank you,' she answered. 'it will be my greatest part. never have i had so many glorious situations in a part. do you like my limp?' she smiled, her head on one side. success glittered in those orbs. 'you limp adorably,' i said. 'it is my profession to make compliments,' villedo broke in; and then, turning to morenita, '_n'est-ce pas, ma belle créature_? but really'--he turned to me again--'but very sincerely, all that there is of most sincerely, dear madame, your libretto is made with a virtuosity astonishing. it is _du théâtre_. and with that a charm, an emotion...! one would say--' and so it continued, the flattering stream, while diaz listened, touched, and full of pride. 'ah!' i said. 'it is not i who deserve praise.' an electric bell trembled in the theatre. morenita picked up her cloak. '_mon ami_,' she warned villedo. 'i must go. diaz, _mon petit_! you will persuade mademoiselle peel to come to the room of the directeur later. madame, a few of us will meet there--is it not so, villedo? we shall count on you, madame. you have hidden yourself too long.' i glanced at diaz, and he nodded. as a fact, i wished to refuse; but i could not withstand the seduction of morenita. she had a physical influence which was unique in my experience. 'i accept,' i said. '_a tout à l'heure_, then,' she twittered gaily; and they left as they had come, villedo affectionately toying with morenita's hand. diaz remained behind a moment. 'i am so glad you didn't decline,' he said. 'you see, here in this theatre morenita is a queen. i wager she has never before in all her life put herself out of the way as she has done for you to-night.' 'really!' i faltered. and, indeed, as i pondered over it, the politeness of these people appeared to be marvellous, and so perfectly accomplished. villedo, who has made a european reputation and rejuvenated his theatre in a dozen years, is doubtless, as he said, a professional maker of compliments. in his position a man must be. but, nevertheless, last night's triumph is officially and very genuinely villedo's. while as for morenita and diaz, the mere idea of these golden stars waiting on me, the librettist, effacing themselves, rendering themselves subordinate at such a moment, was fantastic. it passed the credible.... a diaz standing silent and deferential, while an idolized prima donna stepped down from her throne to flatter me in her own temple! all that i had previously achieved of renown seemed provincial, insular. but diaz took his own right place in the spacious salon of villedo afterwards, after all the applause had ceased, and the success had been consecrated, and the enraptured audience had gone, and the lights were extinguished in the silent auditorium. it is a room that seems to be furnished with nothing but a grand piano and a large, flat writing-table and a few chairs. on the walls are numberless signed portraits of singers and composers, and antique playbills of the opéra comique, together with strange sinister souvenirs of the great fires which have destroyed the house and its patrons in the past. when diaz led me in, only villedo and the principal artists and pouvillon, the conductor, were present. pouvillon, astonishingly fat, was sitting on the table, idly swinging the electric pendant over his head; while morenita occupied villedo's armchair, and villedo talked to montfériot and another man in a corner. but a crowd of officials of the theatre ventured on diaz' heels. and then came monticelli, the _première danseuse_, in a coat and skirt, and then some of her rivals. and as the terrible director did not protest, the room continued to fill until it was full to the doors, where stood a semicircle of soiled, ragged scene-shifters and a few fat old women, who were probably dressers. who could protest on such a night? the democracy of a concerted triumph reigned. everybody was joyous, madly happy. everybody had done something; everybody shared the prestige, and the rank and file might safely take generals by the hand. diaz was then the centre of attraction. it was recognised that he had entered that sphere from a wider one, bringing with him a radiance brighter than he found there. he was divine last night. all felt that he was divine. he spoke to everyone with an admirable modesty, gaily, his eyes laughing. several women kissed him, including morenita. not that i minded. in the theatre the code is different, coarser, more banal. he alone raised this crowd above its usual level and gave it distinction. someone suggested that, as the piano was there, he should play, and the demand ran from mouth to mouth. villedo, appreciating its audacity, made a gesture to indicate that such a thing could not be asked. but diaz instantly said that, if it would give pleasure, he would play with pleasure. and he sat down to the piano, and looked round, smiling, and the room was hushed in a moment, and each face was turned towards him. 'what?' he ejaculated. and then, as no definite recommendation was offered, he said: 'do you wish that i improvise?' the idea was accepted with passionate, noisy enthusiasm. a cold perspiration broke out over my whole body. i must have turned very pale. 'you are not ill, madame?' asked that ridiculous fop, montfèriot, who had been presented to me, and was whispering the most fatuous compliments. 'no, i thank you.' the fact was that diaz, since his retirement, had not yet played to anyone except myself. this was his first appearance. i was afraid for him. i trembled for him. i need not have done. he was absolutely master of his powers. his fingers announced, quite simply, one of the most successful airs from _la vallière_, and then he began to decorate it with an amazing lacework of variations, and finished with a bravura display such as no pianist could have surpassed. the performance, marvellous in itself, was precisely suited to that audience, and it electrified the audience; it electrified even me. diaz fought his way through kisses and embraces to villedo, who stood on his toes and wept and put his arms round diaz' neck. '_cher maître_,' he cried, 'you overwhelm us!' 'you are too kind, all of you,' said diaz. 'i must ask permission to retire. i have to conduct mademoiselle peel to her hotel, and there is much for me to do during the night. you know i start very early to-morrow.' '_hélas!_ morenita sighed. i had blushed. decidedly i behaved like a girl last night. but, indeed, the new, swift realization, as diaz singled me out of that multitude, that after all he utterly belonged to me, that he was mine alone, was more than i could bear with equanimity. i was the proudest woman in the universe. i scorned the lot of all other women. the adieux were exchanged, and there were more kisses. '_au revoir! bon voyage_! much success over there.' the majority of these good, generous souls were in tears. villedo opened a side-door, and we escaped into a corridor, only morenita and one or two others accompanying us to the street. and on the pavement a carpet had been laid. the electric brougham was waiting. i gathered up my skirt and sprang in. diaz followed, smiling at me. he put his head out of the window and said a few words. morenita blew a kiss. villedo bowed profoundly. the carriage moved in the direction of the boulevard.... i had carried him off. oh, the exquisite dark intimacy of the interior of that smooth-rolling brougham! when, after the theatre, a woman precedes a man into a carriage, does she not publish and glory in the fact that she is his? is it not the most delicious of avowals? there is something in the enforced bend of one's head as one steps in. and when the man shuts the door with a masculine snap-- i wondered idly what morenita and villedo thought of our relations. they must surely guess. we went down the boulevard and by the rue royale into the place de la concorde, where vehicles flitted mysteriously in a maze of lights under the vast dome of mysterious blue. and paris, in her incomparable toilette of a june night, seemed more than ever the passionate city of love that she is, recognising candidly, with the fearless intellectuality of the latin temperament, that one thing only makes life worth living. how soft was the air! how languorous the pose of the dim figures that passed us half hidden in other carriages! and in my heart was the lofty joy of work done, definitely accomplished, and a vista of years of future pleasure. my happiness was ardent and yet calm--a happiness beyond my hopes, beyond what a mortal has the right to dream of. nothing could impair it, not even diaz' continued silence as to a marriage between us, not even the imminent brief separation that i was to endure. 'my child,' said diaz suddenly, 'i'm very hungry. i've never been so hungry.' 'you surely didn't forget to have your dinner?' i exclaimed. 'yes, i did,' he admitted like a child; 'i've just remembered.' 'diaz!' i pouted, and for some strange reason my bliss was intensified, 'you are really terrible! what can i do with you? you will eat before you leave me. i must see to that. we can get something for you at the hotel, perhaps.' 'suppose we go to a supper restaurant?' he said. without waiting for my reply, he seized the dangling end of the speaking-tube and spoke to the driver, and we swerved round and regained the boulevard. and in the private room of a great, glittering restaurant, one of a long row of private rooms off a corridor, i ate strawberries and cream and sipped champagne while diaz went through the entire menu of a supper. 'your eyes look sad,' he murmured, with a cigar between his teeth. 'what is it? we shall see each other again in a fortnight.' he was to resume his career by a series of concerts in the united states. a new york agent, with the characteristic enterprise of new york agents, had tracked diaz even into the forest and offered him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for forty concerts on the condition that he played at no concert before he played in new york. and in order to reach new york in time for the first concert, it was imperative that he should catch the _touraine_ at havre. i was to follow in a few days by a hamburg-american liner. diaz had judged it more politic that we should not travel together. in this he was undoubtedly right. i smiled proudly. 'i am both sad and happy,' i answered. he moved his chair until it touched mine, and put his arm round my neck, and brought my face close to his. 'look at me,' he said. and i looked into his large, splendid eyes. 'you mustn't think,' he whispered, 'that, because i don't talk about it, i don't feel that i owe everything to you.' i let my face fall on his breast. i knew i had flushed to the ears. 'my poor boy,' i sobbed, 'if you talk about that i shall never forgive you.' it was heaven itself. no woman has ever been more ecstatically happy than i was then. he rang for the bill. we parted at the door of my hotel. in the carriage we had exchanged one long, long kiss. at the last moment i wanted to alter the programme, go with him to his hotel to assist in his final arrangements, and then see him off at early morning at the station. but he refused. he said he could not bear to part from me in public. perhaps it was best so. just as i turned away he put a packet into my hand. it contained seven banknotes for ten thousand francs each, money that it had been my delight to lend him from time to time. foolish, vain, scrupulous boy! i knew not where he had obtained-- * * * * * it is now evening. diaz is on the sea. while writing those last lines i was attacked by fearful pains in the right side, and cramp, so that i could not finish. i can scarcely write now. i have just seen the old english doctor. he says i have appendicitis, perhaps caused by pips of strawberries. and that unless i am operated on at once--and that even if--he is telephoning to the hospital. diaz! no; i shall come safely through the affair. without me diaz would fall again. i see that now. and i have had no child. i must have a child. even that girl in the blue _peignoir_ had a--chance is a strange-- _extract translated from 'le temps,' the paris evening paper_. obsequies of miss pell (_sic_). the obsequies of mademoiselle pell, the celebrated english poetess, and author of the libretto of _la vallière_, were celebrated this morning at eleven o'clock in the church of st. honoré d'eylau. the chief mourners were the doctor who assisted at the last moments of mademoiselle pell, and m. villedo, director of the opéra-comique. among the wreaths we may cite those of the association of dramatic artists, of madame morenita, of the management of the opéra-comique, and of the artists of the opéra-comique. mass was said by a vicar of the parish, and general absolution given by m. le curé marbeau. during the service there was given, under the direction of m. lêtang, chapel-master, the _funeral march_ of beethoven, the _kyrie_ of neidermeyer, the _pie jesu_ of stradella, the _ego sum_ of gounod, the _libera me_ of s. rousseau. m. deep officiated at the organ. after the ceremony the remains were transported to the cemetery of père-lachaise and cremated. file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. the love story of abner stone the love story of abner stone _by_ edwin carlile litsey new york a. s. barnes and company mcmii _copyright, _ by a. s. barnes and company _published june, _ all rights reserved reprinted july, university press · john wilson and son · cambridge, u. s. a. to her preface it seems a little strange that i, abner stone, now verging upon my seventieth year, should bring pen, ink, and paper before me, with the avowed purpose of setting down the love story of my life, which i had thought locked fast in my heart forever. a thing very sacred to me; of the world, it is true, yet still apart from it, the blessed memory of it all has abode in my breast with the unfading distinctness of an old picture done in oils, and has brightened the years i have thus far lived on the shadowed slope of life. and now has come the firm belief that the world may be made better by the telling of this story--as my life has been made better by having lived it--and so i shall essay the brief and simple task before my fingers have grown too stiff to hold the pen, trusting that some printer of books will be good enough to put my story into a little volume for all who would care to read. and i, as i pursue the work which i have appointed unto myself, shall again stroll through the meadows and forests of dear kentucky, shall tread her dusty highways under the spell of a bygone june, and shall sit within the portals of an old home whose floors are now pressed by an alien foot. now, ere i have scarce begun, the recollections come upon me like a flood, and this page becomes blurred to my failing sight. o memory! memory! and the visions of thine! the love story _of_ abner stone i it is a long path which stretches from forty-five to seventy. a path easy enough to make, for each day's journey through life is a part of it, but very difficult to retrace. when we turn at that advanced mile-stone and look back, things seem misty. for there is many a twist and angle in the highway of a life, and often the things which we would forget stand out the clearest. but i would not drive from my brain this quiet afternoon the visions which enfold it,--the blessed recollections of over a score of years ago. for the sweet voice which speaks in my ear as i write i have never ceased to hear; the face which the mirror of my mind ever reflects before my eyes i have looked upon with never-tiring eagerness, and the tender hand which i can imagine betimes creeping into my own, is the chiefest blessing of a life nearly spent. there is no haunting memory of past misdeeds to shadow the quiet rest of my last days. as i bid my mind go back over the path which my feet have trod, no ghost uprises to confront it; no voice cries out for retribution or justice; not even does a dumb animal whine at a blow inflicted, nor a worm which my foot has wantonly pressed, appear. i would show forth no self-praise in this, but rather a devout thankfulness unto the creator who made me as i am, with a heart of mercy for all living things, and a reverent love for all his wonderful works. the beauty of tree, and flowering plant, and lowly creeper abides with me as an everlasting joy, and the song of the humblest singer the forest shelters finds a response in my heart. without my window now, as i sit down to make a history of part of my life, a brown-coated english sparrow is chattering in a strange jargon to his mate on the limb of an early harvest apple tree, and i pause a moment to listen to his shrill little voice, and to watch the black patch under his throat puff up and down. it is the fall of the year, and the afternoon is gray. at times an arrow of sunlight breaks through the shields of clouds, and kisses the brown earth with a quivering spot of light. across the sloping, unkept lawn, about midway between the house and the whitewashed gate leading from the yard, a rabbit hops, aimlessly, his back humped up, and his white tail showing plainly amid his sombre surroundings. i can see the muscles about his nostrils twitching, as he stops now and again to nibble at a withered tuft of grass. a lonely jay flits from one tree to another; a cardinal speeds by my window, a line of color across a dark background; and one by one the dry leaves drop noiselessly down, making thicker the soft covering which nature is spreading over the breast of mother earth. it may be that i shall not see the resurrection of another spring. each winter that has passed for the last few years has grown a little harder for me, and my breathing becomes difficult in the damp, cold weather. perhaps my eyes shall not again behold the glorious flood of light and color which follows the footsteps of spring; perhaps when the earth is wrapped once more in its mantle of leaves they shall lie over my breast as well. for man's years upon this earth are measured in holy writ as threescore and ten, and come december fourth next, i shall have lived my allotted time. my ways have not all been ways of pleasantness, nor all my paths peace. but i am glad to have lived; to have known the hopes of youth and the trials of manhood. to have felt within my soul that emotion which rules the earth and the universes, and which is heaven's undefiled gift to man. from books i have gained knowledge; from the lessons of life i have learned wisdom; from love i have found the way which leads to life eternal. old age is treacherous, and it comes to me now that maybe i have delayed my work too long. for the mind of age does not move with the nimbleness of a young colt, but rather with the labored efforts of a beast of burden whose limbs are stiff from a life of toil. but this i know, that there is a period in my existence which the years cannot dim. i have lived it over again and again, winter and summer, summer and winter, here in my quiet country home among the hills. there has been nothing to my life but that; first, the living of it, and then the memory of it. it is my love story. ii in the spring of , i was a lodger in a respectable boarding-house on chestnut street, in louisville. my father--god rest his soul--had passed away ten years before, and i was able to live comfortably upon the income of my modest inheritance, as i was his sole child, and my dear mother was to me but an elusive memory of childhood. sometimes, in still evenings just before i lit my student's lamp, and i sat alone musing, i would catch vague glimpses of a sweet, pure face with calm, gray eyes--but that was all. no figure, no voice, not even her hair, but sometimes my mind would picture an aureole around her head. i have often wondered why she was taken from me before i could have known her, but i have also striven not to be rebellious. but she must have been an unusual woman, for my father never recovered from her loss, and to the day of his death he wore a tress of her hair in a locket over his heart. i have it now, and i wear it always. i was of a timid disposition, and retiring nature, and so my acquaintances were few, and of close friends i had not one. my mornings and evenings were spent with my books, and in the afternoons i took solitary walks, often wandering out into the country, if the weather was fine, for the blue sky had a charm for me, and i loved to look at the distant hills,--the hazy and purple undulations which marked the horizon. and nature was never the same to me. always changing, always some beauty before undiscovered bursting on my sight, and her limitless halls were full of paintings and of songs of which i would never tire. then, as evening closed in, and i would reluctantly turn back to my crowded quarters, the sordid streets and the cramped appearance of everything would fret me, and almost make me envious of the sparrow perched on the telegraph wire over my head. for he, at least, was lifted above this thoughtless, hurrying throng among which i was compelled to pass, and the piteous, supplicating voice of the blind beggar at the corner did not remind him that even thus he might some day become. and thus, when my feet brought me to the line of traffic, as i returned home, i would unconsciously hasten my steps, for the moil and toil of a city's strife i could not bear. in the spring of , these long walks to the country became more frequent. i had been cooped up for four rigorous months, a predisposition to taking cold always before me as a warning that i must be careful in bad weather. and the confines of a fourteen by eighteen room naturally become irksome after weeks and weeks of intimate acquaintance. it is true there were two windows to my apartment. a glance from one only showed me the side of a house adjoining the one in which i stayed, but the other gave me a view of a thoroughfare, and by this window i sat through many a bleak winter day, watching the passers-by. one night there was a sleet, and when i looked out the next morning, everything was covered in a gray coat of ice. a young maple grew directly under my window, and its poor head was bent over as though in sorrow at the treatment it had to endure, and its branches hung listlessly in their icy case, with a frozen raindrop at the end of each twig. the sidewalks were treacherous, and i found some amusement in watching the pedestrians as they warily proceeded along the slippery pavement, most of them treading as though walking on egg-shells. there went an old gentleman who must have had business down town, for i had seen him pass every day. this morning he carried a stick in his hand, and i discovered that it was pointed with some sharp substance that would assist him, for every time he lifted it up, it left a little white spot in the coating of ice. there went a schoolboy, helter-skelter, swinging his books by a strap, running and sliding along the pavement in profound contempt for its dangers. a jaunty little miss with fur wraps and veiled face, but through the thin obstruction i could plainly see two rosy cheeks, and a pair of dancing eyes. her tiny feet, likewise, passed on without fear, and she disappeared. heaven grant they may rest as firm on every path through life! next came an aged woman, who moved with faltering feet, and always kept one hand upon the iron fence enclosing the small yard, as a support. each step was taken slowly, and with trepidation, and i wished for the moment that i was beside her, to lend her my arm. some errand of mercy or dire necessity called her forth on such a perilous venture, and i felt that, whatever the motive be, it would shield her from mishap. and so they passed, youth and age, as the day wore on. in the afternoon the old gentleman re-passed, and i saw that his back was a little more stooped, and he leaned heavier on his stick. for each day adds weight to the shoulders of age. and now a miserable cur came sniffing along the gutter on the opposite side of the street. his ribs showed plainly through his dirty yellow coat, the scrubby hair along his back stood on end, and his tail was held closely between his legs. and so he tipped along, half-starved, vainly seeking some morsel of food. he stopped and looked up, shivering visibly as the cold wind pierced him through and through, then trotted to the middle of the street, and began nosing something lying there. a handsome coupé darted around the corner, taking the centre of the road. the starving cur never moved, so intent was he on obtaining food, and thus it happened that a pitiful yelp of pain reached my ears, muffled by the closed window. the coupé whirled on its journey, and below, in the chill, desolate grayness of a winter afternoon, an ugly pup sat howling at the leaden skies, his right foreleg upheld, part of it dangling in a very unnatural manner. a pang of compassion for the dumb unfortunate stirred in my breast, but i sat still and watched. he tried to walk, but the effort was a failure, and again he sat down and howled, this time with his meagre face upturned to my window. the street was empty, as far as i could see, for twilight was almost come, and cheery firesides were more tempting than slippery pavements and stinging winds. the muffled tones of distress became weaker and more despairing, and i could endure them no longer. i quickly arose and cast off my dressing-gown and slippers. in less than a minute i had on shoes, coat, and great-coat, and was quietly stealing down the stairs. tenderly i took the shivering, whining form up in my arms, casting my eyes around and breathing a sigh of relief that no one had seen, and thanking my stars, as i entered my room, that i had not encountered my landlady, who had a great aversion to cats and dogs. it was little enough of surgery i knew, veterinary or otherwise, but a simpleton could have seen that a broken leg was at least one of the injuries my charge had suffered. i laid the dirty yellow object down on the heavy rug before the fire, and he stopped the whining, and his trembling, too, as soon as the soothing heat began to permeate his half-frozen body. i knew there was a pine board in my closet, and from this i made some splints and bound up the broken limb as gently as i could, but my fingers were not very deft nor my skill more than ordinary, and as a consequence a few fresh howls were the result. but at last it was done, and then i made an examination of the other limbs, finding them as nature intended they should be, with the exception of a few scars and their unnatural boniness. so i got one of my old coats and made a bed on the corner of the hearth, to which i proceeded to transfer my rescued cur. he was grateful, as dogs ever are for a kindness, and licked my hands as i put him down. and he found strength somehow to wag his tail in token of thankfulness, so i felt repaid for my act of mercy, and very well satisfied. a surreptitious visit to the dining-room resulted in a purloined chunk of cold roast beef, and two or three dry, hard biscuits, which i found in the corner of a cupboard. thus laden with my plunder, i started back, and in the hall came face to face with my boarding-house mistress. "why, mr. stone, what in the world!" she began, before i could open my mouth or put my hands behind my back. "i--that is--mrs. moss, i have a friend with me to-night who is very eccentric. he has been out in the cold quite a while, and he dislikes meeting strangers, so that i thought i would let him thaw out in my room while i came down and got us a little bite. you needn't expect us at supper, for i have enough here for both." "if it pleases you, mr. stone, i have no objections. but i should be glad to send your meals to your room as long as your friend remains." i had reached the foot of the stair, and was now going up it. "he leaves to-morrow, mrs. moss,--i think. thank you for your kindness," and i dodged into my room and shut the door. my charge was waiting where i had left him, with bright eyes of anticipation. i took a newspaper and spread it on the floor close up to him, and depositing the result of my foraging expedition on this, i stood up and watched him attack the beef with a vigor i did not suppose he possessed. "enjoy it, you little wretch!" i muttered, as he bolted one mouthful after another. "i came nearer telling a lie for you, than i ever did in my life before." then i made myself comfortable again, drew up my easy-chair, and lit my lamp, and with pipe and book beguiled the hours till bed-time. iii i named him fido, after much deliberation and great hesitancy. my principal objection to this name was that nearly every diminutive dog bore it, but then it was old fashioned, and i had a weakness for old-fashioned things, if this taste could be spoken of in such a manner. i had really intended setting him adrift after his leg was strong, but during the days of his convalescence i became so strongly attached to him that i completely forgot my former idea. he was great company for me, and after i had given him several baths, and all he could eat every day, he wasn't such a bad-looking dog, after all. the hair on his back lay down now, and his pinched body rounded out till i began to fear obesity, while his tail took on a handsome curl. altogether, i was rather proud of him. but the result of my crude attempt at surgery became manifest when i finally removed the splints. the limb had grown together, it is true, but it was dreadfully crooked, and a large knot appeared where the fracture had been. when he tried to walk, i discovered that this leg was a trifle shorter than its mate, and poor fido limped a little, but i believe this only added to my affection. winter held on till march, and then reluctantly gave way before the approach of spring. the wind blew; the sun shone at intervals; the ice began to melt, and muddy rivulets formed in the streets. when the ground dried up a little, i began my afternoon walks, fido limping cheerfully along beside me. one day my commiseration for his affliction almost vanished. we had strolled away out past the streets, and had been walking along a pike, when the refreshing green of a clover meadow on my left caused me to climb the fence and seek a closer acquaintance. fido wriggled through a crack at the bottom, and as i sat on the top rail for a moment, the little rascal suddenly gave tongue and shot out across the meadow after a young rabbit, which was making good time through the low clover. that lame leg didn't impede my yellow pup's running qualities, and i had to call him severely by name before he gave up the chase. he came panting back to me with his dripping tongue hanging out, and with as innocent a look on his face as one could imagine. i felt that he needed a gentle chastising, but there was nothing lying around wherewith to administer it, and i did not search for the necessary switch. but i wasted no more sympathy on that crooked right leg. i became interested in the view before me, and forgot that time was passing. the clover meadow stretched away to a low bluff, at the base of which i could see the shining surface of a small stream. far to my right a field was being broken up for corn. the fresh scent of the newly turned earth came to my nostrils like perfume. on the farther side of the field a patient mule was plodding along, dragging his burden, a plough, behind him, and i heard the guiding cries of the driver as he spoke in no gentle voice to the animal which was wearing its life away for its master's gain. a meadow lark arose a little to one side. i noticed his yellow vest, sprinkled with dark spots, as he flew with drooping tail for a few rods, then sank down again in the clover. from somewhere in the distance a bob white's clear notes welled up through the silence. a flutter of wings near by, and i turned my head to see a bluebird flit gently to the top of a stake in the fence-corner not far away. they were abroad, these harbingers of spring, and i knew that balmy breezes and bursting buds came quickly in their wake. how sweet it was to know that earth's winding-sheet had been rent from her breast once more; that the shackles had been torn from her streams and the fetters loosed from her trees; to feel that where there had been barren desolation and lifeless refuse of last year's math would soon appear green shoots of grass, and growing flowers; that the tender leaves of the trees would whisper each to each in a language which we cannot understand, but which we love to hear. especially at eventide, when the heat of the day is softened by twilight shadows, and a gentle breeze comes wandering along, touching with fairy fingers the careworn face and tired hands. the sun had sunk below the horizon. as i now directed my gaze to the western sky, one of those rarely beautiful phenomena which sometimes accompany sunset in early spring, was spread before me. spanning the clear sky, stretching from western horizon to zenith, and from zenith to eastern horizon, was a narrow, filmy band of cloud. and by some subtle reflection of which we do not know, the whole had caught the golden sheen of the hidden sun, and glowed, pale gold and pink and saffron. the sky was clear but for this encircling cloud-band, and my fancy saw it as a ring girding the earth with celestial glory,--a fitting path for spirit feet when they tread the upward heights. i watched it pale, with upturned face, its changing tints in themselves a miracle, and thought of the wonders which lay beyond it, which we are taught to seek. thought of what was on the other side of that steadily purpling curtain stretched above me which no human eye might pierce. groves of peace and endless song and light which never paled; my mother's face-- a star blossomed out in the tranquil depths above me, white and pure as a thought of god; some dun-colored boats were drifting in an azure sea out in the west, and a whippoorwill's plaintive wail sounded through the dusk from adown the fence-row. up from the still earth there floated to my nostrils the incense of a dew-drenched landscape,--fresh, odorous, wonderfully sweet,--and a fire-fly's zigzag lantern came travelling towards me across the darkening meadow. everything had become very still. it was that magic hour when the voices of the things of the day are hushed, and the things of the night have not yet awakened. only at intervals the whippoorwill's call arose, like a pulse of pain. the voice of the ploughman in the adjoining field came no more to my ears; a respite from labor had come to both man and beast. the birds were still. there was no flutter of wings, no piping cry. the earth rested for a spell, and a solemn quietude stole over the scented fields. i knew that i ought to be going--that i ought to have gone long ago, but still i sat on the topmost rail of the fence, which stretched away like a many-horned worm on either side of me. supper was already cold, but i had been a little late on several occasions before, and mrs. moss had very kindly laid something aside for me. i was one whom she called "a queer man who saw nothing outside of his books," and while this was not altogether true, inasmuch as i was even now missing both supper and books for another delight in which my soul revelled, still she bore with my eccentricities, and i was thankful to her. "you should fall in love, mr. stone," she said to me one day, half jestingly, "and that would get you out of some of your staid ways." i replied with a smile that, as she did not take young ladies to board, there was small chance of that, and had thought of her remark no more. but now, in the tender gloaming of an april day, i felt that i did love, and with as ardent a passion as any man ever owned. i loved the rich sunlight, which i had watched fade away, but which still lingered in my breast. i loved the greening of nature, and the yellowing of her harvest. i loved the soul-expanding influence of sky and air, and the far-reaching, billowy fields. all things that grew, and all things that moved in this, god's kingdom, i loved. what else was there to love? a woman? yes; but they lived for me only in the pages of history and romance, and it was not likely that i, a bookworm bachelor of forty-five, would ever meet the one to stir my heart. and i feared them, a little. out here, under the sky, with no one to hear but fido and the dumb silence, i can make this confession. i knew she lived, somewhere, the one to whom my heart would cry, because this is the plan of the creator, but i was glad that our lines of life had not crossed. so please him, thus would i live content. iv the last bright streamer had disappeared, but still there remained a faint, chaste glow above the dark line of hills. an unseen hand had sown the sky thickly with stars, and more fell to their appointed places as the moments passed. a bull-frog boomed out his guttural note, and fido began to whine and gnaw at the rail just below my feet. he was getting hungry, and i acquiesced to his wordless plea to go home. night had now come, and the air was chilly, so i buttoned my coat close up to my chin, and moved briskly. we were some distance from home, but the lights of the city were reflected in the sky, and besides, it was not dark, because of the stars, and the road over which we went had but one end. i ate in quiet satisfaction the lunch which mrs. moss had saved for me, but when i tried to interest myself in emerson, a few minutes later, i found that one of my favorites bored me. this sudden lack of appreciation of the great essayist annoyed me, and i forced my eyes to traverse line after line, hoping that the pleasing charm which they had always held for me would return. but this policy proved futile, so at length i quietly closed the book and put it down on the table, disgusted with myself. perhaps my mind required something in lighter vein, and there was my bookcase, with its glass doors open, as they usually were. but the delightful metre of the "lady of the lake" seemed halting and tame to me that night, and this volume i did not close as gently as i had the former one, but flung it carelessly on the table and walked nervously to the window and raised the sash. for a moment--only a moment--i stood there, trying to find a few stars through the curtain of factory smoke which hung overhead, and letting the cool air blow about me. then i put the window down, and came back to my easy-chair, satisfied, for i had solved the riddle of my unrest. that afternoon's walk had showed me of what i was depriving myself. it dawned upon me in that moment that the pastoral joys which i had known that day were dearer to my soul than printed pages and the mind-narrowing captivity of four walls. out there were unbounded possibilities for the mind and soul, lessons to be learned, pages to be read, secrets to discover,--a message in each soft gurgle of the brook; a whisper from each stirring leaf; a hidden story in the dreamy face of each flower. all of these became voices in my ears; i could listen to their singing and sighing for hours. what an awakening it was! i had been dreaming for over half my life, and with a sigh i looked at the well-worn tomes in my bookcase, which must now take second place in my heart. they had served me well. true and tried friends, into whose faces i had looked in both joy and sorrow, and never failed of consolation or delight. i would never desert them--god forbid! they were grappled to my soul with hooks which would neither bend nor break, and which could not fall away. still would i come to them and caress them with loving fingers as i held them in my lap; still would i ask their advice and store my mind of their knowledge, for they had lightened too many hours of my life to be forsaken now,--it would be like giving up a friend of twoscore years for one newly found. and i loved them none the less,--in the full flush of the secret which i had discovered i knew this, and i walked over to where the long rows stood like phalanxes, and ran my hands lovingly over the sheepskin and vellum backs. and, 'pon my soul, they seemed to respond to my fingers, as though i had touched hands with a friend! they may have been dumb, but they were not lifeless; for the spirits of their creators still lingered between the leaves, and made them live--for me. good friends, rest easy on your shelves; one by one each of you shall come down, as you have always done, and commune with me. when nature sleeps, then we shall revel. i sat down again, and stretched my feet out towards the low fire. with pipe newly filled, i caressed it between my joined hands, and thought. after a half hour of smoking and ruminating, i came to a conclusion. i would move to the country for the summer! what a dolt i had been all these years! the matter of board need not be considered, for that was cheaper in the country than in town. when winter came again, i could return to my present quarters, if i chose. what i wanted was a quiet old farmhouse with as few people in it as possible, and located in the blue-grass region of the state. then life would be one endless delight,--days afield, and peaceful, noiseless nights. to be awakened in the morning by the matin song of the thrush; to breathe the intoxicating odor of honeysuckle and jessamine; to step out into the dew-washed grass, instead of upon the hard pavement, and to receive the countless benedictions of the outstretched arms of the trees as i walked beneath them. where had my mind been a-wandering all of these years that i had not thought of this before? but i was too sensible to mar my present joy with useless regrets. the future was bright with anticipation and rich with promise, and my heart grew light. and fido--poor fido--would be glad of the change, too, for i am sure it must have taxed his love for me to stay in the goods-box which i had converted into a kennel and placed in the small backyard. mrs. moss,--honest soul,--when giving her reluctant consent to this, consoled herself by thinking that she was only yielding to another of my vagaries. there was no one else to consider, and so i put the thing down in my mind as settled. i would leave this soul-dwarfing, cramped, smoke-hung atmosphere, and take up my abode where the air was pure, and where the sun could shine. mrs. moss would lose a good, quiet boarder, it is true; but my consideration for mrs. moss's feelings would not cause me to sacrifice myself. some one else would come and take the room which had been mine for ten years, and i would soon be forgotten. the revelation which i had experienced put me in such high spirits at the glorious prospects before me that i could not think of going to bed when eleven o'clock sounded from the mantel-tree. instead, i believe i actually chuckled, as i slipped my hand into the pocket of my dressing-gown for my tobacco-pouch, and proceeded to fill my pipe again. method had always been the rule of my life, but that night i put it by for a space. the question paramount was--where should i go? certainly most any farm housewife would give me a room upstairs for a small money consideration a month, but i was a little particular, and wanted to live and move among _folks_, for which i was fitted by birth and education. i knew that blood as blue and as genteel flowed through country veins as through city arteries; but how was i to find these people out? i didn't know a dozen persons in louisville outside of my boarding-house. the hands of the clock were getting dangerously near together at the top of the dial before a solution came. suddenly i bethought me of reuben walker, that staid, long-headed fellow who had graduated with me back in forty. the nearest approach i ever had to a friend. he had gone to practise law in springfield, down there in washington county, and had made something of a name for himself, too. i hadn't seen him since forty-five, hadn't written to him since fifty, but he was the only man living i knew who could help me. so i forthwith indited a note to reuben walker, esq., attorney-at-law, reminding him of our former intimacy, regretting that we had allowed ourselves to drift apart, and asking if he knew of a quiet country home where i might spend the summer. i reasoned that it was a country lawyer's business to know everybody in his county, and i hoped that reuben remembered me well enough to refer me only to the kind with whom i would care to affiliate. i did not write letters often, my correspondence averaging perhaps a half dozen epistles a year, and so i signed my name to this one before reading it over. then i recollected one of the earliest injunctions of my father: "be very careful what you sign your name to," so i deliberately reread the missive before me. it was all right; i had said all that was necessary, but just as i was bending the sheet to fold it i stopped, spread it out again, and, taking up my quill, wrote as a postscript: "i much prefer a home where there are _no_ young ladies." v in due time an answer came. it was with considerable anxiety that i broke the seal, but there was a smile upon my face when i finished reading the short, friendly letter which he had sent me. he knew a place that would suit me exactly. mr. and mrs. grundy were an elderly couple who lived about eight miles north of springfield. they belonged to the aristocracy of the county, and lived in a two-story brick house on a magnificent farm. they were warm friends of reuben's, and he felt no hesitancy in declaring that they would board me throughout the summer and fall. so positive was he of this fact that he wrote me to come whenever i pleased, and he would have everything arranged by the time i got there. he added a postscript, in answer to mine, stating that his friends were childless, and he did not think i would be bothered by any young ladies. my elation at the success of my plans thus far was so apparent that it was openly remarked upon at the tea-table that evening. and so i told them all then and there of the change i was about to make. of course there was a chorus of regrets that i was to leave, which i could not believe genuine, since i was so unsociable. but meeting mrs. moss in the hall as i started to my room, i explained to her that my health demanded an immediate change of air, and that for no other reason would i have gone. this the good lady accepted smilingly, and wished me much happiness in my new home. there were not many preparations for me to make. my books and my wardrobe packed, my landlady paid, a modest demand on my bankers, and i was ready. it was in the latter part of april, in the midst of a steady downpour of rain, that i took my seat in the four-horse coach, with fido between my feet. i remember the feeling which came to me when the huge vehicle started. i felt that i was almost leaving the earth, despite the rumbling and the jolting, when i thought of my destination. the heavy clouds and the swishing rain held no gloom for me. for above the clouds was the broad, blue sky, with the sun somewhere in it, and somewhere beyond the curtain of the rain was light and warmth and blooming fields. my heart was beating riotously, for this trip was really an adventure to me, who had not been anywhere for nearly twenty years. the coach was empty but for us, fido and me, and it will seem queer to some when i say that i was very thankful for this. but i did not care to talk to people who were nothing to me, and who i might never see again. i much preferred to be in solitude, and muse upon all that my new life would hold for me. the rain stopped all at once, so suddenly that i would have been surprised had it not been april, and through the soiled glass of the coach door, now thickly streaked where the raindrops had run down it, came a blunted arrow of sunshine. my trip would have been a tiresome one under ordinary circumstances, but i did not feel the least fatigue during all the long journey. i shall never forget the morning we rolled into springfield, and drew up before a small frame building opposite the court square. a plain board suspended above the doorway of this building bore the simple inscription, "reuben walker, attorney-at-law." here was the place where my friend gave legal counsel in exchange for legal money. i caught sight of his broad, humorous face ere the coach had given its final jolt as it came to a standstill. directly in front of the office before which we stopped were two large locust-trees, and under these trees that bright spring morning quite a little company had gathered. there was a sudden explosion of laughter as the stage-driver descended from his perch and opened the door for me to alight, and a quick glance showed me that some joker had reached the climax of his narrative just at that moment. before i could rise from my seat, the coach door was darkened by a figure, a strong hand was thrust into mine, and i was fairly dragged into the arms of reuben walker, who gave me hearty greeting. to this i responded quite as heartily. fido had whisked out of his narrow quarters, and had begun to stretch himself in many wild contortions. i proceeded to reckon with my stage-driver, then reuben took me by the hand, and leading me up to the men whom he had just left, he made me acquainted with each and every one. most of them i have forgotten, for they went out of my life as speedily as they entered it; but one i remember yet, for he was afterwards governor of our beloved commonwealth. this was proctor knott, and he it was who had exploded the joke just as i arrived. i quietly joined the company, and listened to some more of this gifted young lawyer's yarns. the ringing of the court-house bell soon after caused a dispersion of the crowd. some of them went with the lawyers to the court-room, others strolled down town, and reuben and i were left alone. "come in, come in, abner," he said, bluffly, and he led the way into his office. a square table covered with green baize stood in the centre of the room. a box filled with sawdust sat upon the floor to serve as a cuspidor; three or four splint-bottomed chairs completed the office furniture. one of these i occupied, placing my hat upon the table, and reuben took another, stretching out his short, fat legs, and crossing his hands over his bulging front. "i'm glad to see you, abner, 'pon my honor," he began, smiling so that his rubicund visage glowed with good feeling. "how did you take a notion to come to the woods?" "i was cramped," i answered truthfully. "the city's smoke was stifling me, and i wanted a breath of fresh air." "you'll get enough of that down at henry grundy's. that's the only cool place in the county in midsummer. and if you'll take my advice and straddle one of his thoroughbreds once a day, you'll get some color in your face. i've fixed everything for you. you're to have a front room on the ground floor, and pay twelve dollars a month. that's cheaper than stealing it. but you don't want to make a hermit of yourself when you get down there. come up and spend a week or two with me. miss 'pheme [his wife] will be mighty glad to see you. she makes me walk chalk, but she'll be easy on you. you're going to be with mighty fine folks,--the cream of the county. they were very particular at first, but i vouched for you, and that settled it. henry said he'd be in this morning after you. he's a presbyterian and a democrat, and talks to you as though you were deaf, but he's harmless. why don't you tell me 'bout yourself?" i saw at once that my good friend still insisted on doing all the talking,--one of the traits of his young manhood,--and when i told him that he hadn't drawn breath for five minutes, he seemed surprised. "there's not much to tell about myself, reuben," i replied. "i've been living alone,--reading, smoking, and thinking a little. then i fancied that i'd like the country, and here i am." "where'd you get that?" he jerked one squat thumb toward my crippled retainer. "picked him up out of the street several months ago, after he'd been run over by a carriage." "same soft heart as ever, abner. remember when one of the boys at school poked that nest of damned little english sparrows out of the gutter? there was about sixteen of 'em, and you gathered the ugly little devils up into your new hat and tried to raise 'em. don't--you--re-member, abner?" his fat sides shook, as he ejaculated the last sentence with difficulty. "yes," i answered, smiling. "my efforts were useless, for the little fellows all died. i felt sorry for them." "i wish they were all in--hello! yonder's henry, by jolly!" i looked out of the window, and saw an old-fashioned rockaway draw up beside the curbing. the horse which drew it was a high-headed bay; the harness and the vehicle were spotless. a negro lad of near twenty, black as the night before creation, sat on the front seat, and on the rear seat was a man worth looking at twice. as the negro hastily scrambled down and opened the door, this gentleman alighted. he was a trifle over six feet tall; his face was wrinkled and kindly; his brows were gray and shaggy, and his eyes were gray. a patriarchal white beard flowed down over his breast, and his suit was of black broadcloth. such an evident air of gentility sat upon him, that i mentally congratulated myself that i was to be associated with him. an instant later i heard his stentorian voice in the hall. "walker! walker! is that fellow stone here yet? i can't wait all morning for him, for there's plenty of ploughin', and plenty of lazy niggers back at the farm! hello! why, is this stone?" and the hand that closed over mine was strong with the strength of the soil. vi "i must get some things for the boss, then we'll start home," announced mr. grundy, after we were seated side by side in the rockaway. i noticed with gratification that his voice had sunk a few notes. he had looked askance at my yellow pup when i lifted him to a place at our feet, but had only queried, "is that part of your baggage?" and had not demurred. his next speech was rather mystifying, for i had understood from reuben that this man was certainly lord of his manor, and presided in a lordly way. "the boss?" i asked, with a puzzled look, whereat he burst into a laugh that hurt my ears. "bless me! i forgot that you were a bachelor," he replied, when his risibles had subsided sufficiently for him to talk. "if you ever marry, you'll find out who's boss. the niggers call me boss and marse, but _sallie's_ boss of our plantation!" we drove about town for perhaps half an hour, purchasing a supply of groceries, then our horse's head was turned towards the open country. "antony'll take us home in less than an hour," said mr. grundy, eyeing with pride the easy, far-reaching strides of the big bay. "that's the best horse in my stables, stone; there can't anything in the county catch him. i've taken premiums with him at every fair in the circuit ever since he was a yearling. it's a day's work for a nigger to drive him to town and back, for he pulls on the lines every inch of the way, and it takes good muscles to hold him in." my companion did most of the talking on the road home. i addressed a few polite questions, then fell to viewing the country through which we were being whirled. the world was waking after its annual nap. the odor and charm of spring pervaded the air. tree-buds were bursting, and tender leaves were spreading their tiny hands to the gentle sky. immense expanses of green wheat waved by the roadside, and each small blade bowed its head to me in welcome. a pair of bluebirds flitted from stake to stake of a rail fence at our right. yonder two gentle undulations prepared for corn swelled and fell away. wherever i looked was freshness and verdure, and the starting into life of green things beneath the magic wand of spring. she holds the key to earth's resurrection, and she alone can unlock the myriad gateways of the sod. and what a host comes forth when her luring breath falls upon the barren ground!--cereals, flowers, mosses, vines, and the thousand little things which have no name. forth they come exulting,--the nightshade and the lily, the thistle and the rose. and on the broad bosom of their mother there is room for each, and from her breast each draws its life. a gray turret surrounded by evergreens drew my eyes to the left. i pointed to it with the question, "can you tell me what that is?" "st. rose,--a convent founded by the dominicans in the early part of the century. we'll drive over some day and take a look at it. that's the church you see,--a fine piece of masonry." then i grew silent again, becoming absorbed in the changing landscape. the road now led along the margin of a creek, bounded on the farther side by densely wooded hills. we had been gradually descending for several miles, and had now reached a great basin, wherein lay the fertile lands of my host. a sudden turn to the right, and a beautiful valley stretched before us. part of it had yielded to the plough, and the brown, friable soil bespoke richness and boundless possibilities for corn. farther on were meadows, reaching like green carpets close up to the whitewashed fences. and in the distance--behold my future home! it sat upon the crest of a gentle eminence back of those verdant lowlands, and was almost hidden by elms and oaks. these trees filled the big yard, too, and some were burdened with tangled grape-vines. leaving the highway, a curving road led us up to the yard gate. as we drove slowly up the avenue to the large two-story brick house, a sense of unexpected happiness and quiet stole over me. here was the mecca of my vague desires. here, in the midst of pastoral beauty, a kind providence had sent me, and here, with the blue-grass all around, and peace in my heart, i would be happy. "mother!" the powerful voice at my elbow made me jump. by the time we reached the ground, the double front doors were open, and standing there was one of the sweetest-looking old women i had ever seen. she was clad in dignified black, with a white kerchief at her throat, and her gray hair drawn smoothly back from a kind, broad brow. hat in hand, i mounted the huge stone steps which led to the porch, while that big voice came from below. "this is stone, mother! show him his room and make him comfortable! i'm off to see 'bout the young lambs that came last night!" it was a hospitable, friendly greeting which i received from the mistress of the house. her voice was low and pleasant to the ear, and there was culture in every tone. the room into which she ushered me was delightfully cool and shadowy. the ceiling was high, the windows broad and deep, with green slat-curtains. the rocking-chair and the sofa near one of the windows were covered with haircloth. the centre-table was a beautiful piece of mahogany; sitting in the middle of it was a vase of jonquils. in one corner was a bookcase, empty--ready for my treasures. everything was as it should be. i at once expressed my thanks and my satisfaction, and the good lady retired, saying that i was doubtless weary, and needed to rest a little. left alone, i stood still a moment, and looked about me. the paper upon the walls represented red-top clover in bloom, and i was glad of this. hanging about the room were some old-time portraits in gilt frames, and some pictures representing historical events. some dried-up cat-tails lifted their brown heads from another vase on one end of the tall mantel. a screen covered with wall-paper stood before the fireplace. hastily i lifted it aside, and there--yes, there was the blackened chimney, the andirons, and the stone-laid hearth. if i have a weak point, it is an old-fashioned fireplace. dinner came just as i finished my toilet, and i followed mrs. grundy out into the broad hall, onto a latticed porch, and into the dining-room. the good things that were piled upon that table would have fed a regiment, but all who sat down were my host and hostess, and myself. mr. grundy asked a blessing, and his voice was just as loud as though he were hallooing to one of his negroes across a field. surely the lord heard that petition. in two minutes my plate was heaped high, and i had to put back other dishes till a later moment. when he had fairly settled himself to the business of eating, my host began to talk. "walker tells me that you're not used to mixing with people much, stone, but i'm afraid it'll be lonely for you 'way out here. we don't have much company, and of course the niggers don't count. you can ride about the farm with me if you want to, and mother can hold her own at talking. when s'lome gets back, things'll be different. she's a whole houseful herself." i almost dropped the piece of ham i was conveying to my mouth. had reuben betrayed me! what did this talk of "mother" and "salome" mean? when he first spoke the word "mother," i had paid no particular attention to it; but when coupled with that other name, it took a deeper meaning. "i--i--i understood you had no children," i said, trying to conceal my dismay by bending over my plate. "quite true, quite true, stone. we've never had a child born to us. i got in the habit of calling the boss mother, from s'lome." "who is salome?" i asked, but my voice was so weak that it scarcely conveyed the question. "bless me! didn't walker tell you? i'll wring the rascal's neck for forgettin' s'lome. why, man, she's the pride of this farm, and the queen of every heart on it! s'lome? who's s'lome? ask any nigger or dog in the county, and they'll tell you. she's our 'dopted daughter, man, off to bellwood for her second year, and'll be home the fifth of june, god bless her!" vii like most country folks, my new friends went to bed shortly after sundown. about nine o'clock, i took my pipe and my tobacco-pouch, and crept noiselessly out to the front porch. i had noticed a quaint settee there upon my arrival that morning, and i had no trouble in finding it now, for a ghostly moonlight had settled over everything. my mind was confronted by a question of decidedly more moment than any under which it had at any time before labored, and i had to think it out before i could sleep. if my cherished and faithful pipe, together with solitude and the wondrous silence of a night in spring, could not bring a solution to me, then the question was certainly beyond me. "--and'll be home the fifth of june, god bless her!" i think they were the last distinct words i heard at that meal. i remember mumbling something about the pleasure in store for me, and while my tongue pronounced this statement, my conscience denounced me as a liar. it would be no pleasure. an upstart of a boarding-school girl, with her airy ways, her college slang and her ear-piercing laughter, tearing around the house like a young cyclone, having girl friends and boy friends hanging around continually,--the thought was not encouraging, and i groaned in spirit, and puffed away, setting misty shallops afloat upon the sea of moonlight. and these little shallops must have borne away as cargo my fretting and my fears, for presently i fell into a philosophic mood, and the future looked brighter. one thing was sure--i could not run away. that would be cowardice, as well as an affront to hospitality. and did the worthy man snoring in a near-by room once know that i thought of leaving because his idol was coming, he would doubtless hasten my departure by turning loose upon me the pack of fox-hounds i had heard clamoring for their supper a few hours before. and, too, there were five weeks yet before this wonderful being would arrive. during this time i would walk, and accustom myself to riding, and when this paragon did come, i would leave her in full and free possession of the house throughout the day. it was not near so bad as it had looked at first. by eleven o'clock i felt able to sleep, if not entirely reconciled to the new order of things. "sufficient unto the day--" i thought, with a sigh, and knocking the ashes from my cold pipe into the palm of my hand, i threw them over the railing of the porch, and went to bed. the days passed for me now like a procession of pleasant dreams. the more i became acquainted with my host and hostess, the more i identified myself with their way of living, and the more i realized that i had fallen among people of exceedingly gentle blood. they were aristocratic, and perhaps a little too high headed for their near neighbors, and had but few callers, and no visitors. the practically limitless farm was under the direct general supervision of old henry grundy, and he was consequently a very busy man, and seldom at home except at meal-times. i soon learned that the slaves all loved him, for he was slow to anger, and always just. out of the thirty negroes on the place, i was given a youth of perhaps eighteen to be my body-servant. he was to black my boots, keep my clothes dusted, hold my stirrup, take care of my horse, and do anything else i wanted him to do. this negro i dubbed inky, in deference to his pronounced color. i was allowed to sleep late in the morning,--a privilege for which i was grateful. often i would accompany the master on his tours of inspection, riding a dapple-gray gelding which was placed at my disposal, and which was exceedingly well behaved, as became an animal of his good breeding. then solitary walks became part of my daily routine. accompanied only by fido, and carrying a walking-stick of stout hickory, i explored the hills and valleys which stretched for miles in every direction. oftentimes i was gone all day, and the good people whom i had begun almost to love were very indulgent to me, never complaining when i was late to a meal, or when my roving spirit kept me out till after nightfall. i had a key to the front door, and was careful to enter noiselessly on these occasions. i had never been back to springfield, and so had had no opportunity to upbraid reuben for his treachery. but, indeed, upon rereading his letter, i saw that he had told me the truth, and at the same time had made me the victim of a joke. these people had no children, and my friend had simply forbore mentioning the adopted daughter. salome,--a beautiful name and an unusual one. i found myself thinking upon it one afternoon, as i lay stretched upon a bed of moss in one of the deepest recesses of the hills. i had never heard it before out of the scriptures. she who wore it ought to be a beautiful girl. "salome, salome," i caught myself murmuring, gazing dreamily up through the lace-like young foliage above me to where two fluffy clouds were wandering arm in arm along the pathways of the air. what would she look like, this salome? would she be fair or dark, and would her ways be gentle or tomboyish? a sudden realization of the trend of my thoughts made my cheeks tingle ever so slightly, and i brought my eyes to bear upon fido. this ever-restless canine had chased a timid little ground-squirrel into a hole when we first arrived at this spot, and had subsequently torn up enough leaves and dirt to fill a moderate-size grave in his efforts to dislodge his quarry. he did not know that i was watching him, and his antics were therefore perfectly natural. he had dug a slanting ditch perhaps a foot deep in the soft loam, and when my eyes fell upon him had stopped for a moment to get his wind. he stood planted firmly on his four short legs, his tail vibrating incessantly, like the pendulum of a clock. his muzzle was grimy with soil; his head cocked on one side, and his ears pricked, while his beady little eyes narrowly watched the hole before him. his lolling tongue was dripping, and he was panting like a lizard. and i thought to myself, if men would attack an obstacle like that dumb brute, there would be fewer failures in life. all at once, and without warning, the pup leaped to the attack once more, and the way he worked would have done credit to a galley slave. his shoulders undulated with the ferocity of his movements, and dirt flew in a shower from between his hind legs. now and again he would pause, and thrust his nose as far up in the hole as he could get it. a moment thus, while the wagging tail still moved, then he would draw back, snort the dirt from his nostrils, and with an eager whine renew his efforts. with the deepening shadows came the thought that i was several miles from home, so i arose reluctantly, picked up my stick, and, with fido limping at my heels, walked slowly back through the enchanted aisles of nature. the saturday night following, a week before her arrival, i heard the story of salome. i was on the old settee after supper, as usual. here i always came to smoke my pipe after the evening meal. somewhat to my surprise, mr. grundy came out and sat down beside me. frequently he and his wife came out for a short time in the early evening, but this night it was nearly nine o'clock when i heard the old gentleman's heavy step in the hall. i made room for him when i saw that it was his intention to sit down, and offered him my tobacco, for i saw that he held a cob pipe in his hands,--another unusual thing. he took my tobacco in silence, and in silence filled his pipe and lit it. i felt that he had something to say to me, so i waited patiently, and we both puffed away. "s'lome's comin' a week from to-night," he said, at last. his voice was softer than i had ever heard it, and a caressing note lurked in it. "seems a long time to us since she went away last september. s'lome's comin' home," he repeated, as though the very sentence brought joy. "it's right for me to tell you 'bout her, stone, since you're to be one of us for quite a spell. it's a sort o' sad story, but me an' mother've tried to make her forget the beginning of her life. it may be that you don't like young girls much, seein' that you've never married, but there'll be a kind spot in your heart for s'lome when you hear 'bout her. you see, it began away back yonder when i was a young fellow at school. bob summerton was a classmate of mine, and my best friend. his one prevailin' weakness was a woman's pretty face. he was a poor fellow, and had no business marryin' when he did. his wife, highly connected, but without any near relations, was killed in a railway accident. their little girl, who had been born six months before, escaped unhurt. bob was a kentuckian, from the soles of his feet up, and one day, when s'lome was only three years old, he was shot by a coward for defending a woman's good name. he telegraphed me to come, and i reached him in time for him to consign to my keepin' the child soon to be orphaned again. it nearly broke my heart, stone,"--the strong man choked back something in his throat,--"but even at that tender age the young thing's grief was pitiful. i brought her here, and me and mother--well, we've done what we could to make her happy--god bless her!" the last words were in a husky whisper, and i knew that tears which had started from the heart were glistening in the eyes of that grand old gentleman. "she's not so big, and she's not so little," he went on, presently, for i knew of nothing to say at this juncture. "just kind o' medium size, and as sweet as the lord's blessed sunshine. she ain't ashamed to keep the house clean, and help mother, either. it's always may-time 'bout the old place when she's here, stone. she's tender-hearted as a lamb, and'll nuss a chicken with the gapes for half a day. but the horse don't run on this farm that she's afraid to ride. and when me or mother are ailin', she'll sit by us night and day--says she's 'fraid to trust a nigger with medicine. and she's got our hearts so 't they'd almost stop beatin' if she told 'em to. she's ridden on a load o' hay many a time, and has gone to the wheat-field to help us with the thrashin'. and she's comin' home next saturday, stone." he stopped again, and i knew that he was thinking. presently he arose, and stretched his arms with a yawn. "you'll like her, stone, if you're a human. good-night." "good-night," i answered, and his heavy boots thumped across the porch to the hall door. that night, for the first time in my life, a girl's face crept into my dreams. viii the next week passed more swiftly than any of its predecessors had done since i came to this idyllic spot. house-cleaning began on monday, and under mrs. grundy's experienced eye the half-dozen negresses employed in the work moved with alacrity and precision. but what with beating carpets, scrubbing floors, and turning things topsy-turvy in general, the task was not accomplished with any considerable despatch. a man is a cumbrous article at house-cleaning time, as any housewife will aver, and mr. grundy, recognizing this fact, betook himself to the neighboring little beach river to fish, and let "the boss" tear up things to her heart's content. his request that i should accompany him was almost a warning, so i assented, for my room was not to be spared in the general overhauling. inky and jim--mr. grundy's factotum--went along to pitch our tent and attend to the cooking. i was not a disciple of walton, and as a consequence my success was anything but extraordinary; still i derived a hearty enjoyment from the outing. did you ever lazy along a river-bank in may, and just live, and fish, and smoke, and do nothing else? if you have not, you have missed a very great pleasure. if you fail to catch many fish, it doesn't matter much. there is a certain spell in the air which defies _ennui_, and a kind of tonic steals into your blood which makes it tingle through your veins, much as the rising sap in the young trees, i imagine. you rise in the morning and bathe your eyes open in a near-by spring, whose crystal cool water is like the touch of a healing hand. then comes breakfast of bacon, coffee, and good, light bread. then your pipe comes as naturally as a deep breath of the forest-scented air, and you take your rod and minnows and wander up the bank through the weeds and the dewy grass. under the shadow of that old, half-sunken log is where the bass stay. the water is deep and clear, and your hook sinks with a low gurgle, like an infant's laughter. what matters it whether a bite comes at once, or not? you sit in a hollow formed by a curving tree-root, rest your back against the tree-trunk, and are very contented. the other side of the stream is lined with endless stretches of trees,--sycamore, elm, dogwood with their starry eyes peering in innate vanity over the bank into the mirror beneath them, and underbrush of all descriptions. where the tide has once been, and receded, is a stretch of yellow clay, now glistening from the dews of night. after a while the sun strikes this, and the wet surface glows like gold. then your wandering eye--for you have forgotten your cork--observes a bubble as it rises and bursts midway across the stream, and you idly watch the widening circle which radiates from it. then in the centre of the circle the tiniest dark spot appears, which gradually assumes the shape of a black, shining head. it remains stationary for a while, then slowly moves to the opposite bank. a disc-like shell is lifted, two broad feet dig their claws into the mud, and mr. turtle drags himself up high and dry for a sunning. the delightful silence is suddenly broken by the harshest of chattering, and a crested kingfisher descends like a shot from some dead limb high up in the very tree under which you are sitting, and, skimming low over the surface of the water, finally disappears without his prey. then the pole is almost jerked from your careless hands, and, if you have luck, a fine bass is floundering at your feet in a few moments. then another spell of sitting and dreaming, while you lay your pipe aside for a while, and look up to where a squadron of fleecy argosies are drifting calmly along to some unknown bourn, bearing, mayhap, behind their filmy bulwarks the simple prayers of trusting children. dinner-time comes too quickly, but it is over soon, and you seek a new haunt, and stretch your legs out, and thank the lord that you are alive. above you and around you is the fragrant new life of blooming things, and the odor of the woods is as rare and sweet as some strange perfume. as the sun goes down slowly, the shadows lengthen across the river. the little wood violets nod on their slender stems by your side, and dusk creeps upon you like a caress. the bird notes grow still, and a gentle rustling comes from the leaves, and falls upon you like a benediction from nature. after supper you lie upon your bunk in the tent, and drowsily watch the stars wink at you through the open door. then the bull-frogs' lullaby begins, and you drift into dreamland listening to that deep chorus from the river banks. i passed four days like this,--elysian days to me. friday we went back home, and the next day she came. the household was astir very early that morning, as was natural and proper that it should be, considering the event which was to happen. contrary to my custom, i was up before the sun, and i smiled, in an amused way, at the extra touches which i almost unconsciously put to my dress. i actually halted over my necktie, but decided at last upon a black string, as most becoming to my age and quiet habits. the gray streaks about my temples seemed to show more plainly than usual, as i carefully brushed my hair. i put on some clean cuffs, too, though the ones i had been wearing were not soiled. at breakfast everybody was happy. mrs. grundy beamed from behind the tea-urn, and put three spoonfuls of sugar into my tea instead of two. mr. grundy succeeded in upsetting his cup of black coffee, and laughed at it as though it were a joke, and even the mulatto maid who moved deftly about the table wore a broad grin. one thing was on the mind of each: salome was coming home. the carriage was waiting at the front door when breakfast was over. two darkies had been rubbing on it for an hour, and not a speck could be seen anywhere. there were two horses hitched to it this time, as fitted the occasion. a span of high-strung blacks, with white feet, and they gave the negro at their heads all he could do to keep them from going. they chafed their bits, and stamped, and fretted at the delay, their tiny feet eager to be speeding away. the master was going alone to meet his darling. springfield had no railway, and salome was to arrive at lebanon, eighteen miles distant, by noon. mr. grundy came out arrayed in his best, as though he was going to meet the queen of england. his strong old face was alight with a great happiness, as he bent and kissed his wife, then leaped down the steps like a school-boy. he shouted back his adieus to each of us; the negro on the front seat gathered up his lines, and braced his feet; the negro standing at the head of the team loosened his hold, and stepped swiftly to one side. there was a prancing of slender limbs, a tossing of two black heads, and they were gone. there were tears of joy in the eyes of the good woman at my side when i looked at her. "she's coming, mr. stone, and we're all so happy!" that was all she could say. her voice broke, and with a smile on her sweet old face she turned away into the house to hide her emotion. the day was a restless one for me. i took a book, and went down to a rustic seat under an elm tree. but the book lay open on my crossed knees without my eyes ever seeking its pages. i was thinking of salome--of the wonderful charm which made every one love her. elderly women, married women, i had known and liked, but school-girls were my especial abomination. truth to tell, i had never known any, and i did not want to know any. even this paragon i would have gladly escaped had there been a way. but flight was impossible, and since i must meet her, it was quite natural to wonder what she was like, and to brood upon the mystery of her ensnaring all about her. i was ashamed of my restlessness. the rustic chair grew uncomfortable, and i paced up and down. the damp grass deadened the shine of my boots, and i walked back to the house and summoned inky to put them in shape again. even this african's face was beaming like a freshly polished stove, and i became almost irritated. "what are you grinning about?" i demanded, as he bent to his work with blacking and brush. "miss s'lome's comin' home, marse," he panted, rolling his white eyes at me in ecstasy. "are you very glad?" i continued. "yas,'r, i is. miss salome's jes' so sweet that honey can't tech 'er. she picked a br'ar out 'n my foot once, marse; out 'n my ugly, black foot. an' she hel' it in her lap, too, an' it nuvver hurt a speck." i did not say anything more. i knew now why the birds were singing so sweetly that morning, and why the squirrels in the yard were frisking so gayly. everything was glad because she was coming home. the big bell on the tall pole behind the house rang at eleven that day instead of half past. and away out in the fields hearts were quickened in black bosoms. the slaves left the plough in the furrow, and the corn undropped, and hurried home. the summons at this unusual hour meant that something out of the ordinary had happened. it was the master's order, and as they all came trooping in with inquiring faces, and stood grouped near the back porch, mrs. grundy appeared, and told them briefly that their young mistress was coming that afternoon, and that there would be no more work that day. they cheered the news with many a lusty shout, and the pickaninnies rolled over each other, and the youths turned handsprings, while upon each face was a look of high good humor. about four o'clock mrs. grundy and i repaired to the settee to watch the road, which could be seen for perhaps a mile, winding through the valley. then around the corner of the house began to appear the vassals of this kentucky lord. the stain of the soil had been washed from their hands and faces, and their cotton shirts were clean, though patched and worn. the negresses, also, appeared, with their kinky hair done up in multitudes of "horns," and tied with bits of the most extravagant-colored ribbon that their wearers possessed. every one was attired in his best, as though on a holiday occasion, which, in truth, this was. "dar dey come!" a six-year-old piece of midnight suddenly made this announcement in a shrill treble key, and all eyes were turned at once towards the highway. a carriage and a span of blacks were sweeping up the road. mrs. grundy gave some orders in a low, yet positive tone, and in a trice two rows of slaves were standing along each side of the avenue. they were going to give her a royal welcome. mrs. grundy stood upon the lowest step, and i modestly remained upon the porch, leaning against one of the massive pillars. i can scarcely describe my feelings at that time now, but i think my nerves were in a condition similar to that of the small boy when he makes his first speech at school. they had reached the meadow, and were coming up the slow incline. i could see nothing as yet but a straw hat, a white blur beneath it, and a brown travelling suit. through the wide-open yard gate they rolled. then those who had been called together to welcome her gave cheer after cheer, and waved their hands and hats above their heads. "hi, miss s'lome!" from a sturdy field hand. "hi, baby!" from an old mammy. "howdy, missus!" from a housemaid. "hi, mi' 'ome!" from a pickaninny in arms. and so the welcome greetings fell upon her. and from out the pandemonium a high, sweet voice thrilled into my ears. "hello, sambo! here's aunt cynthy! look how 'lindy has grown!" it was almost like the confused panorama of a dream. the horses stopped; a lithe figure leaped, unaided, to the ground; i heard that dear word "mother,"--and salome was home. ix i descended the steps, and stood at a respectful distance. i saw a gray head and a brown one side by side, and caught faintly the whispered love of youth and age. arms were at length unclasped, and mrs. grundy presented me. a sudden up-flashing of dark eyes was the first impression i received from the face turned towards me. she made me a low courtesy, and held out her hand, and i took it and bowed over it with the best grace of which i was master. "i am glad to see you, miss salome," i said, truthfully, for my feelings had undergone a wonderful revulsion, despite my indifference of that morning. sometimes a moment is long enough to change one's whole being. "i am so pleased to find you here." her voice was low, well bred, and modulated. "mother and father are very lonely after i go away. they love me far more than i deserve," and she smiled back at them as they stood hand in hand watching us. "now, if you will excuse me, i will shake hands with all of these good friends." she nodded pleasantly in response to my bow, and moved away with a certain gliding step. straight to an old black mammy she went, and threw herself into the good creature's arms. then right and left she turned, while they crowded around her, shaking hands with all. some horny hands she took could have crushed hers like a flower; but everywhere were expressions of love and respect. and she was the gladdest thing there. the genuine affection she felt for all the negroes was shown in her cordial greetings. the carriage was driven away, the blacks dispersed, and the rest of us retired to "mother's room," which was situated back of mine. the two old people hovered about their returned darling like parent birds over a strayed fledgeling which had come back to the nest. i took a seat apart, and, joining in the conversation but rarely, studied the girl who sat in a large rocking chair, and who talked as volubly and as entertainingly as any one could have wished. she was, as mr. grundy had said, of medium build. her form was youthful, but possessed of that subtle roundness which betokens the approach of womanhood. two dainty feet darted in and out beneath her skirt as she rocked to and fro. her face was not beautiful, but the features were delicate and fine. her lips were as red as rich blood could make them, the upper one pouting ever so slightly, and the soft brown hair was parted in the middle and drawn back from an exquisite forehead. the dark brown eyes were the girl's chief charm. they danced and sparkled in impish mischief, and had a way of shooting sudden glances which made themselves felt as keenly as arrows. and crowning it all was a sweet grace and womanliness which was good to see. from that hour my opinion of a school-girl changed. after supper all of us gathered on the front porch. mr. and mrs. grundy occupied the settee; salome and i sat upon the porch at the top of the steps, she leaning against one pillar, and i against the other, across from her. of course she did the talking, and while most of it was about the things which had happened at school, i found myself listening with increasing interest. i soon discovered that it was the music of her voice which held me,--soft, rich, speaking in perfect accents. her narrative was frequently interrupted by bursts of bubbling laughter, as some amusing incident was remembered and related. very suddenly she stopped. "listen!" she said, and turned her head sideways, holding up one finger. through the silence which followed came the twanging notes of a banjo. "it's uncle zeb!" she announced, in a loud whisper. then to me, impulsively, "don't _you_ like music, mr. stone?" she leaned towards me, as though it was a vital question which she had propounded. "very dearly," i answered promptly. "this is the first that i have heard since coming here." "it's a jig, and he's playing it for me--the old darling! i must go to him, or he would be hurt." she arose swiftly, and gathered up her skirts. "will you come, mr. stone, since you love music? we won't stay long." i mumbled something, and got up, a trifle confused. such perfect candor and lack of artificiality was a revelation to me. she placed her disengaged hand upon my arm at the bottom of the steps. "uncle zeb almost raised me," she explained, as we took our way around the house towards the darkey cabins. "he's taken me to the fields with him many a time, and i was brought up on that tune you hear him playing. he always plays it when i come home--look at them now!" the cabins were all built in a locust grove to the rear of the house. to-night the negroes had lighted a bonfire, and were making merry in the old-time, ante-bellum way. seated upon broken-down chairs, or strewn upon the grass in various attitudes, these dusky children of misfortune watched the performance of an exceedingly black old uncle, who, sitting upon a bench before his cabin, was picking the strings of a banjo almost as old as himself. his bald head, surrounded by a fringe of gray wool, shone brightly in the firelight, he was rocking his body rhythmically backwards and forwards, and keeping time with one foot upon the hard earth. as we came into the circle of firelight we were discovered, and there was a quick movement, and a deferential giving way. my companion took her hand from my arm, and the action seemed to draw me much nearer the earth than i had been for the past two or three minutes. the musician stopped playing when he became aware of our presence. "bress de lawd, honey chile! am dat you? 'pears to me a' angel mus' 'a' drapped down frum de sky!" "this is your little child, uncle zeb," she answered with feeling, "and i have come out here to listen to you play." "de ol' man can't play 'less de feet's a-goin'," he replied, shaking his head solemnly. "you know you's al'ays danced fur ol' zeb." a darker color came to her cheeks, and she turned smilingly to me. "uncle zeb taught me a jig when i was a wee thing in pinafores. he will never play for me unless i dance for him. you know he thinks i am still a child of eight or ten. if you think it's not--real nice, i won't ask you to stay." the roguish upcasting of starry eyes, and the deprecating little manner, tied my tongue for the instant. "i shall be glad to stay, if you will permit me." this much i managed to utter, and as she bowed assent, i went and leaned against the cabin wall, by the side of uncle zeb. this was done partly to give her all the room she needed, and partly to secure a support for myself, for a strange weakness had begun to assail my limbs. there was an eager, anticipative move on the part of the negroes. they nudged each other, and whispered, grinned broadly, and shifted their positions to where they could obtain an unobstructed view. salome stood bareheaded, with arms akimbo, waiting for the music. the travelling suit had been discarded, and she was dressed in a simple blue dimity frock which showed the perfect curves of her figure to charming advantage. uncle zeb, with characteristic leisure, was in no hurry to begin. he twisted the screws and thrummed the strings in a very wise manner. at length the instrument was tuned to his satisfaction, and then his claw-like fingers began to move with astonishing rapidity. i looked at salome. she was standing perfectly still. then, as the music quickened, i saw her supple body begin to sway, like a lily's stem when a zephyr breathes upon it. her hands dropped to her sides, and daintily lifting her gown above her feet, she began to dance. gently at first, and with such ease that she barely moved. then the step receded, advanced, and grew faster. her tiny feet twinkled, and tapped the earth in perfect time and rhythm. such living grace i had never looked upon! the bending form, the flushed face, and the dancing feet, the grouped negroes and the old musician,--the picture was burned into my memory like painting is burned upon china in a kiln. my breath came quicker, and my face grew hot. i scarcely knew when she stopped, but for the wild cheers of the spectators. then, flushed and laughing, she came and cast herself upon the bench by uncle zeb. "yo' do it better eb'ry time, chile!" declared the old fellow, highly delighted that she had danced to his playing. "and you gave it better than ever before! did i shock you, mr. stone?" she turned to me with a look of deep contrition. i sat down beside her, and spoke my mind. "i never saw anything like it. but don't fear that you shocked me. i wish that i could see the same thing every evening." "you're good not to mind it. mother and father think it sweet, and i dance for them sometimes. now, if you don't mind, we will go back. i'm a little tired to-night from my journey. good-night, uncle zeb," she patted the old man's hand. "good-night, lindy, jane, dinah, sambo, tom--all of you!" she waved her hand, and, to a chorus of answering good-nights, we moved away. x the grandfather's clock which stood in the hall struck twelve. my eyes seemed loath to close in sleep. it is true i had not gone to bed till half-past eleven, but usually sleep sat upon my pillow, and proceeded to blindfold me a few minutes after my going to bed. to-night, upon reaching my room, i had read and smoked, and smoked and read, until my nerves had been brought back to their normal state. it fretted me not a trifle to know that a girl from boarding-school had upset me. but the ingenuous frankness of this young being, the unaffectedness which waited upon her every movement, had wrought such demolition to my theories that i was slow in recovering my equipoise of thought. at length i strolled through a mazy vista to oblivion, surrounded by a dancing throng of seraphs. my rest was untroubled, and when i threw open my window-shutter the next morning, and gazed out with sleep-blurred eyes, my first impression was that things had become topsy-turvy, and that a soft sky studded with stars lay before me. but as reason swiftly dominated my brain, i saw that instead of the phenomenon which had at first seemed apparent, there was only the bluegrass lawn thickly sown with dandelions, as though some prodigal croesus had strown his wealth of gold broadcast. perhaps the lowly, modest yellow flowers were but imitating the glittering orbs which had looked down upon them throughout the night--who knows? for is not reasoning man oftentimes just as vain, when he seeks to clothe himself with a majesty which is not for mortals? for several days i adhered to the plans which i had laid out before the coming of salome. i rode with the master about the farm, took my solitary walks with fido, as usual, and spent most of each evening in my room, alone. if left to the dictates of my own will, there is no telling how long this would have continued. but one morning, at breakfast, my host surprised me with the words: "stone, you remember the old st. rose church you spoke of? it's worth looking at, but the lord knows when i'll have a chance to go with you. s'lome's a great favorite with the sisters over at st. catherine's, which is about a half mile from st. rose, and i heard her tell mother yesterday that she was going to ride over to pay her respects this morning. me and my folks are presbyterians, but nearly all of our neighbors are catholics, and good people, and we like them. now if you'd like to go 'long, i don't s'pect s'lome'd mind showin' you 'bout the place." he looked at the daintily clad figure at my side with an interrogative smile. "it would be a great favor to me," i put in hastily. "i had been thinking of late i would have to go alone, but if miss salome would not object, i should be pleased to go with her." "of course you may," she answered readily. "i love both places very much, and the sisters are so sweet. sister hyacintha is my favorite,--a dear old nun with the face of a saint. do you like old-timey, quiet places, mr. stone? st. rose church is perhaps the oldest building in the county. st. catherine's is not half a mile from it, and the sisters conduct a boarding-school there. had i been a catholic, i doubtless would have received my education at that place." i quickly assured her that i looked forward with much pleasure to our little trip, and asked her if we were to go horseback, or in the carriage. "oh, horseback!" she exclaimed, with the delight of a child. "i believe you are a good horseman," she added archly. "only fair," i responded, smiling. "still i would much prefer to go that way. i enjoy the exercise so much." and so it was arranged. i had no dress for this sort of thing, and i felt a trifle out of place when she joined me on the porch arrayed in a complete riding habit of black. from her gauntlets to her silver-handled whip, her attire was complete. i flushed. "you know i am not accustomed to riding--will you pardon my appearance?" "it makes no difference whatever!" she laughed merrily. "the feathers don't make the bird, and i am perfectly satisfied." my mount was the same animal i had been used to, and the horse which had been led out for her was a wiry, dapple-gray mare of impatient blood. i knew the correct thing to do, and while i feared that i could not perform the service successfully, i determined to try. so as she walked towards the fretful mare which a negro was with difficulty restraining, i stepped forward, doffed my hat, and with "permit me, miss salome," i bent, and hollowed my hand for the reception of her foot. with the naturalness and grace of a queen she placed the sole upon my palm, and i lifted her to the spring as though she had been a feather, and she sank into the saddle and grasped the reins, which she proceeded to draw taut with no uncertain hold. with my cheeks burning slightly--i was not used to waiting upon women--i sought my saddle, and we cantered away. how well the poet knew when he sang-- "what is so rare as a day in june?" the bright morning sun blessed us with a benison of light; the sweet, cool, scented air laid its thousand tiny hands lightly upon our faces, and the green stretches of country all around us spoke of an earthly paradise. for a while we said nothing, for that sorceress, june, had thrown her web about us, and we were moving as through the vistas of a dream. once i glanced at my companion, and i saw such a peaceful, happy, yet thoroughly unconscious look upon her face that i stayed the casual remark upon my tongue which i felt that courtesy required. then it dawned upon me with the suddenness of a revelation that her nature was attuned to mine, and all at once i knew that the sylvan sounds and scenes which were the delight of my soul were as manna to hers as well. and i had shunned her! "i fear you will think me a poor escort," she said at length, smiling at me with a trace of sadness. "but i have been away so long, and all these meadows, and trees, and brooks are friends--you don't know how i love them. i have lived with them and in them since i could walk, and it is like seeing dear ones in the flesh to come back and be with them, and hold silent communion with them. does this sound strange to you?" "no." and yet i looked at her half perplexedly. my idols were being shattered one by one. "no, it is not strange to me that such feelings exist, for they are my own. that was why i sought this old-fashioned kentucky home. i lived in louisville until i came here, and my soul was being crushed out of me between four brick walls. i have been happy here; i did not know what happiness was until i came here--except that derived from books. but that sort of happiness you feel; this sort you live, and your being is broadened by it. but you--i confess it sounds strange to me to hear you say such things." "why should i not know them as well as you? my opportunities have been greater." "i don't know; i have no reason to give. in my ignorance and selfishness i had thought that i was alone in this; that no one could listen to nature's secrets but myself. i have been wrong, and i am glad that i have been undeceived." the congeniality which became quickly established between us made our seven-mile ride very short. our horses were in good mettle, and the road was fine. before i knew where we were, we turned into a by-road bordered by locust trees, and cantered down to st. catherine's academy. the lawn before the three-story brick building was beautifully kept. i hitched our horses, and as we strolled up the pavement towards the entrance, i saw two or three figures moving about the premises, clad in the becoming black-and-white garb of the order. presently one sister espied us, and immediately started our way. she was very old, and moved with slow, short steps. salome ran to her with a little cry of joy, bent down and kissed the wrinkled face, and, as i came up, introduced me to sister hyacintha. i shall never forget the patient, joyful, almost heavenly look on the face of this good woman. she led us to the porch, and gave us chairs, and she and salome talked, while i listened. as it was nearing the noon hour, we were prevailed upon to stay and take lunch. in the afternoon we were shown through the building, and took a walk over the grounds. time slipped by stealthily, and the sun was hovering above the western horizon when salome remembered that st. rose was yet to be seen. a short ride over a narrow dirt road winding through masses of verdure brought us to the confines of the old church, which, perched upon a hill, reared its turret aloft in the purple air. i fastened our horses to some of the numerous hitching-posts placed along the roadside for the use of worshippers, and we turned to the iron gate leading into the premises. as this clanged behind us we both felt keenly the jar it created, for everything was so still and peaceful that the slightest noise was irrelevant, and we felt bound to talk in whispers. we found ourselves upon a gravel walk bordered by cedars; to our left was the road, to our right the white stones of a vast burying ground rose up like spectral sentinels of the tomb. salome put her hand upon my arm. the path was steep, and i should have offered her assistance, but i had not thought of it. not a word was spoken until we had reached the end of the path. here the brow of the hill curved around in the form of a semicircle, and was studded with cedars, like emeralds in a crown. before us, not a dozen steps away, rose the ancient edifice we had come to view. it was made of solid masonry, and seemed good for hundreds of years to come. "here we are." salome was panting a little as she said this, in a barely audible voice. i looked at the gray pile in silent contemplation. its style suggested massiveness, although the building was not of any great size. the part comprising the vestibule and bell-tower was octagon in shape, and the turret was at least a hundred feet in air. behind this were the ivy-covered walls of the body of the church. it was at that time when the earth grows still before drawing her night robes about her. in the western sky the sun's last streamers flared out like a gorgeous fan, and on their tips some shy diamonds glittered evasively. from the fields around us came the sweet breath of the spring, smelling of the richer fragrance of early summer. the birds were still; the stamping of our horses in the road below was the only sound. "shall we go in?" i started, although the tones were low and like the music of rippling water. when i turned my head, the brown eyes looking into mine had a mournful expression. the impressiveness of it all was upon her, too. there must have been a certain look of inquiry upon my face, for she went on, in the same wonderful voice: "it's never locked, you know. i like that custom about a catholic church. so often the soul would enter into a holy place and be alone in prayer. shall we enter? i think there is enough light for us to see." in reply, i drew closer to her, and held out my arm. she took it lightly, and in the deepening twilight we walked to the broad, wooden door. it yielded reluctantly to the pressure of my hand, on account of its size and weight, and together we entered the shadows of the sacred place. xi the door settled heavily into place behind us, and we were in almost complete darkness. somewhere in front of us was a glimmer of light. i felt the slight figure at my side drawing me forward, and i put myself under her guidance. crossing the vestibule, we passed into the room beyond. although we trod lightly, the bare floor sent up sounds which echoed loudly, it seemed to us. a ghostly light filled the chamber into which we had come, and made it look much larger than it really was. the roof was lost above us, but there, before us, were the plain, brown, wooden benches forming the pews, and the nave leading down to the altar railing. along this a worn strip of carpet was placed. slowly we went forward, awed by the silent majesty of a place of worship. all at once there came to me a realization of the peculiar position in which i was placed--walking down a church aisle with a beautiful girl upon my arm--and my face grew red. i could tell it by the hot tingling at my neck and temples, but the gloom was deep enough to hide it from her. the sudden force of what such a proceeding as this might mean made my heart--my staid, old, methodical heart--throb unwontedly. i hoped that the gloved hand resting so near to it did not feel its throbbings, although they sounded in my ears like a hammer on an anvil. we had reached the railing. before us rose the altar, with its images and its unlit tapers, its cloth of gold, and its silver appurtenances. a stretch of carpeted floor lay between it and us. directly this side the railing was a narrow ledge. salome suddenly bent her knees and rested them upon this, placed her elbows upon the railing and bent her head in her hands. for a moment i gazed at the black bowed figure, then found myself imitating her attitude. in the stillness of the old church we knelt alone. around us was utter silence, and the paling light of a dead day. perhaps in the dark corners the ghosts of confessed sins were lurking; above the spot where we knelt many a "_benedicite_" had fallen upon humble hearts waiting to receive it. she was praying. perhaps confessing to the great absolver the sinless sins which bore no crimson stain, and praying his favor for the ones she loved. as well might a flower of the fields bow down and breathe out tales of grave misdeeds, for her heart was like a flower--yea, like the closed cup of a lily at night, garbed in purity as white as holiness. i watched her through the fingers i had placed over my face. this surely was no sin, for my own heart was not still enough for prayer. she was very still, and only her small ear and a portion of her cheek were visible. what did this half-stifling feeling mean which rose up in my throat? i had never seen a woman in prayer, alone. away back through the dimly lit aisles which led to a distant boyhood my mind had sometimes strayed, and viewed a small white figure kneeling at its mother's side at bedtime. that was myself, and her petitions were doubtless sent up by the little cot where i lay asleep. a young girl praying! it is as sacred as the miracle of birth. and by this simple act, this girl had placed in me a greater trust than words could speak. she deemed me good enough to be by her side when she approached her creator--and was i worthy? i knew i was not. and though my life had been free from those polluting sins which glow like rubies in the souls of some men, i felt that here i had no fitting place, that her prayers would be clogged by the unholiness of my presence. she knelt, immovable as the statued christ which hung almost over our heads. the glow in the stained-glass windows to our left had turned to a gray blur; the outlines of her figure were growing indistinct. as suddenly and as quickly as she had knelt, she arose, and with the freedom of a child took my arm as we retraced our steps. a young moon was tilted over in the sky near the horizon as we gained the open. the limitless depths above us were aglow with millions of sparkling stars. we stood for a moment before going down to our horses. "we'll be a little late getting back." again it was my companion who broke the silence. "i'm sorry, for it will be because of me." she laughed,--the bubbling notes so like the falling of a forest rivulet over a low rock ledge. "it will not matter, unless we count the loss of sleep. mother and father know how i love the night, and when they know where i am, and whom i am with, they are not concerned." "i would gladly lose a night's rest for an experience like this. you have made me very much your debtor. how solemn and beautiful it all is!" my eyes took in all visible things in a comprehensive glance. "do you come here often?" "no; i only care to come at the close of day, and my parents are getting too old to be dragged around to humor my whims. it is too far to come alone, and so i miss it." "then did i really perform some sort of service for you in accompanying you here? i had imagined the favor all on your side." "let's call it square," she smiled. "i showed you the place, and you acted as my protector and escort. a very even bargain, i think. we had better go now. we will have a fine ride home." it was very dark on the cedar-bordered walk down which we went, and while i longed to offer assistance, i refrained. when we came to the road, however, we found that there was enough light. the horses were restless at their posts, and we mounted with considerable difficulty after i had unhitched them. but salome, peerless horsewoman that she was, quickly had hers in hand, and mine soon became tractable of its own accord. we proceeded at a smart canter until we reached the turnpike. there salome suggested a gallop, and i could do nothing but assent, although fast riding was something to which i was not accustomed. but i gradually accommodated myself to the long, undulating leaps of my mount, and then began to enjoy it. it was highly exhilarating as well as novel. salome sat as though part of the animal she managed so well, and as we swept along i kept my eyes upon her in a kind of wonder. it was so new to me, and the skill with which her small hand managed her mettled horse was nothing short of a marvel. we did not talk much during this part of our ride. occasionally she would fling a remark across at me above the thud of the hammering feet, but i think the beauty of the night and the wonderful silence sat upon our minds, and made our tongues unwilling for speech. sometimes the road was open and clear, and then i could see her eyes, like veiled stars. and around and about us were fields of growing corn and ripening wheat, and infolding us close, as in a filmy garment, was that indescribable odor of green things and of dew-wet turf. then the pike would sweep around a curve, like the stretch of a winding river, and bordering each side of the highway were clumps and rows of gigantic forest-trees. oftentimes their boughs would intertwine above, and what seemed to be the black mouth of a tunnel would confront us. into this apparent pit of darkness we would dash, but the horses never shied. they knew well the ground their fleet hoofs were spurning, and they knew that farther on was home,--a good stall, and a rack full of musky clover hay. under the trees i could not see salome. now and again some sparks of fire would shoot out when a hoof struck a stone. then out into the open again. the pace our steeds had assumed of their own free will was no mean one, and when scarcely an hour had gone we were riding slowly through the meadow to the big whitewashed gate giving entrance to the yard. the young moon had grown weary, and tumbled out of the sky; but the stars seemed brighter--they looked as though the dew which sparkled on the grass below us had washed their tiny faces on its way to earth. the milky way appeared as a phantom lace curtain stretched across the sky. i opened the gate from my horse, and held it back for salome to pass through. when she had done this, i followed, and the gate clanged back. the noise of its shutting notified inky and jim of our arrival, for they were waiting sleepily as we came up to the fine stone steps of the old home, and at once took charge of the horses. i helped salome up the steps by placing my hand beneath her elbow. we stood for a moment on the edge of the porch. "we must move around gently," i suggested. "the old folks have doubtless been asleep an hour." "bless their dear hearts!" she answered with earnest fervor. "mother says you move like a mouse," she resumed, and i could see the faint glint of her teeth as she smiled. "my room is upstairs, and i am not so likely to disturb them. have you enjoyed your day?" "it has been _very_ pleasant," i answered warmly. "i feel more grateful to you than i can say for being so nice to a stranger who happens to be a guest in your home. but i love the woods, and the fields, and the pure, fresh air which blows straight down from heaven. this much we have in common. will you let me go with you again--sometimes? i would not bore you, nor presume too much." in my great earnestness i had come closer to her. "i am out of doors a great deal, and you may go with me often, if you wish. i enjoyed having you to-day." this was said just as seriously as my question had been put. then, in one of those rare changes of which her nature was capable, she added: "you know i need a protector in my various rambles, and you shall be my esquire when i go forth in state to see my flower subjects scattered all over the farm. my knight-errant, too, to espouse my cause should snake, or dog, or an enraged animal of the pastures seek to do me harm." "gladly, your majesty," i answered gallantly, falling into the spirit which her words betokened, and bowing low. "behold your vassal; command me when you will." a whispered "good-night," a faint echo of that enchanting laugh, and she had slipped through the door and was gone. i did not tarry long, for the beauty of the night had suddenly paled. everything had grown darker, and, by habit, i thought of my easy-chair and pipe, and went in also. salome was standing at the farther end of the long, broad hall, with a lighted candle in her hand. her hat had been removed, and her tangled hair was half down. the riding habit had also disappeared, and she was robed in some sort of a loose house gown which fell away into a train. her back was towards me, and she had one foot on the first step of the curved stairway which went up from that point. she heard me turn the key in the lock, and looked back. i went towards her; why, i do not know. she waited until i had come quite close. "i haven't anything very particular to say," i began, i fear very confusedly. but my foolish feet had led me to her, obedient to the dictates of a foolish mind, and i had to speak first. "i have been in mother's room," she answered, opening her eyes very wide, as a child does when it hears a sound in the dark. "i went for this wrapper, and would you believe it, i did not waken either of them! mother sleeps very lightly, too!" "you have performed quite a feat," i assured her, at once put at ease by her genuineness. "have you planned anything for to-morrow?" "father has some sheep on the lower farm that are sick, and i am going to take them some salt, because that is good for their blood." "may i help you salt the sheep? i'll carry the salt, if you will let me go." she turned her head sideways, with a slight uplifting of the brows, as though hesitating. "ye-e-e-s, i guess so," she replied at last, doubtfully. "do you know anything about sheep?" "nothing more than i have read. they are very docile, i believe, and a great many of our clothes come from their backs." "but that isn't all." there was the wisdom of solomon on the fresh young face, shadowed by disarranged tresses. "some of them have horns, like a cow, only they grow back instead of out. and they'll run you sometimes, when they take a notion. can you run, mr. stone?" the picture which came to my mind of the staid and dignified abner stone flying across a meadow with coat-tails streaming, and an irate ram at his heels, brought a broad smile to my face. "yes; i _can_ run. but i promise not to desert you if danger comes." "then be ready in the morning. i will say good-night again, for i know you must tell this day's doings to your pipe before you retire." our entire conversation at the foot of the stair had been in low whispers, and i whispered back her good-night, and turned to go. then, like lot's wife, i looked behind me. she had reached the first landing, where the stairway curved. she saw me, and peered forward, holding the candle above her head. the loose sleeve of her dress fell back with the motion, and the bare symmetry of her rounded forearm gleamed upon the blackness like ivory upon ebony. i waved my hand; she waved hers, then was gone. i sank into a chair and bowed my head in my hands, my soul torn by the pangs of a new birth. xii only a few old negroes were astir when i stepped from the house the next morning. even the master had not arisen. the stars and the sun's forerunners were having a battle on the broad field overhead; one by one the stars were vanquished and their lamps extinguished. i stood upon the lowest step of the flight in front of the house, and watched the misty, uncertain shapes of trees and bushes gradually evolve themselves into distinguishable outlines. the process was slow, because a kind of vapor lay upon everything, and it resisted strenuously the onslaught of the sun. but it gave way, as darkness ever must before light, and, as if by magic, the curtain which night had placed was rolled away, and little by little the landscape was revealed. along the creek, which ran just beyond the pike, and parallel with it, hung a dense wall of fog, against which it seemed the arrows of day fell, blunted. the air was cool and fresh, and i drew it deep down into my lungs, feeling the sluggish blood start afresh with each draught. with the dawning of that day came the dawning of a new life for me. i realized that i had been living in a darkened room, and that a window had suddenly been thrown open, letting in upon me a shower of golden light, with the songs of birds and the incense of flowers. my old life had been a contented one, had known the pleasures to be derived from association with books and god's great out-door miracles. the new life, whose silver dawn was beginning to tip my soul with a strange radiance, held untold joys which belong rightly to heaven, and which numbed my mind as i strove blindly after comprehension. i was as a little child left all at once alone upon the world. i stood, helpless, trying to centralize my disordered thoughts, with a strange oppressed feeling in my breast which deep respirations could not drive away. i was deeply, deeply troubled, and my mind was in a maze. but one idea possessed me, and that doggedly asserted itself, overriding the tumult in my brain. i was longing, madly longing, to see again her whom i _loved_. the word in my mind was like the touch of a white-hot iron, and i started as if stung, and fell to pacing nervously up and down. it could not be; it could not be! that child of nineteen,--i a man of forty-five! the idea was monstrous! what an old fool i had been! i did not know my own mind, that was all. i would be all right in a day or two. but still that sinking feeling weighed above my heart, and my usually calm pulse was rioting with something other than exercise. "let it be love!" i cried at last, in my troubled soul. "the painful bliss of this half hour's experience is worth the cost of denial, for she shall never know!" thus did i, poor worm, commune in my fool's heaven, recking not, nor knowing, that i was setting at naught the plans of my creator. at breakfast i was myself, although my hand trembled when i conveyed food to my mouth, and i felt my cheeks coloring when she came in a little late, arrayed in a pink-flowered, flowing gown, and looking as fresh as though she had just risen, bathed in dew, from the blue-and-crimson cup of a morning-glory. "how did you rest after your night ride?" she smiled, sitting by me and resting her elbows on the edge of the table, then pillowing her round chin in her pink palms. "i slept better for my outing," i answered promptly, lying with the ease of a schoolboy. the truth was, my sleep had been broken and poor. "it's a good thing for stone that you're back," thundered mr. grundy. "you're so everlastingly fond of running over all creation, and he has the rovingest disposition i ever saw. goin' down to salt those sheep this mornin', s'lome?" "yes, sir. i made a compact with mr. stone last night to act as my esquire on all my expeditions. you've often said i should have some one to go along with me." "don't let her impose on you, stone," responded the old gentleman, throwing a quick wink in my direction. "she's young, you know, and don't know as much as mother. she'll have you climbing an oak tree to get a young hawk out of its nest likely as not." salome laughed, while i boldly assured them that i would make the effort should she desire such a thing. mrs. grundy was quiet, as usual. she contented herself listening to the conversation of the others, and seldom took her eyes off the girl it was plain to see she worshipped. "get ready for a walk this morning, mr. stone!" called salome, a short time after breakfast, peeping over the balustrades at the top of the stair. "the lower farm is about two miles, and the walk will be good for us." "i'll get my hat and stick; are you coming now?" "as soon as i can get in another dress. i'll meet you in the locust grove. tell tom to get you the salt, and i'll be there before you have missed me." she was gone with a pattering of little feet. i went into my room for my stick and hat with a grim smile upon my face. the steady ground which i had thought beneath me was becoming shifting sand. i went slowly around the house to the negro quarters with bowed head, briefly gave tom his mistress' orders, and stood apathetically while the darky hastened away to obey. a quick scurrying in the grass, and the pressure of two small paws upon my trousers' leg brought me to myself, and i bent down to pat the yellow head of fido, who had espied me, and instantly besought recognition. "you poor, dumb, faithful thing," i apostrophized, looking at the bright eyes which shone love into mine. "you are spared this agony of soul, and the futile efforts to solve problems which cannot be known. you love me, and i love you; why could we both not be content?" "is fido going, too?" i composed my face with an effort, and straightened up as the cheery voice hailed me. she was coming towards me like a woodland sprite, floating, it seemed to me, for her gliding step was so free from any pronounced undulation. her dress of blue checked gingham just escaped the ground, and she wore a gingham sunbonnet with two long strings, which she held in either hand. the sunbonnet was tilted back, and her laughing face, with its rich, delicate under-color of old wine, was fit for a god to kiss. "yes, we will take him along if you do not object. he was the companion of my rambles before you came. we will make a congenial three." tom approached with a bucket of salt, which, after an exaggerated scrape of the foot and a pull at his forelock, he handed to me, and we set out. our way led through the orchard at the back of the house, where grew, i think, all sorts of apples known to man. each bough was freighted with its burden of round, green fruit, and here and there an early harvest tree was spattered with golden patches, where the ripened apples hung in their green bower. beyond the orchard lay a woods pasture, formed of a succession of gentle swells, the heavy bluegrass turf soft as an oriental carpet to the feet, while scattered about were hundreds of magnificent trees, mostly oak and poplar. dotting the sward were numerous little white balls on long stems,--dandelions gone to seed. these salome plucked constantly, and, filling her cheeks with wind, would blow like boreas, until her face was purple. when i inquired the purpose of this queer performance, i was shyly informed that it was to tell if her sweetheart loved her. if she blew every one of the pappus off at one breath, he loved her; if she didn't, he didn't love her. she was certainly very much concerned about the matter, for every ball she came to she plucked and blew. sometimes all the pappus disappeared, and sometimes they didn't, and so she never reached a decided conclusion. the pasture crossed, a rail fence rose up before us. i at once stepped forward to let down a gap, but salome halted me. "the idea!" she declared. "i don't mind that at all. you stand just where you are, and turn your back; i'll call you when i'm over." i blushed, and obeyed. a wheat-field of billowy gold stretched before us when i joined her. a narrow path ran through it, curving sinuously, as a path made by chance will. this we followed, salome going in front. the wheat was ready for the reaper, and the full heads were swelled to bursting. salome gathered some, threshed them between her hands, blew out the chaff, and offered me part of the grain, eating the other herself. it was pasty, but not unpleasant, and i ate it because it was her gift. we were walking peacefully along, through the waist-high grain, when salome gave a little scream and jumped back, plump into my arms. even in my excitement i saw the tail of a black snake vanishing across the path. i released her quickly, of course, but the touch of her figure was like wine in my veins. "i beg your pardon!" she said humbly; "but the ugly thing frightened me. it darted out so quickly, and i almost stepped upon it. you couldn't get one of the negroes to follow this path any farther. they are very superstitious, you know, and are firm believers in signs." "i'm sorry you were startled so; perhaps i had better go in front," i ventured. "no; you sha'n't. i'm not really afraid of snakes, except when i run upon one unexpectedly. i kill them when i get a chance." and so she started out again in advance of me, and began telling the various beliefs of the negroes. i learned from her that their lives were almost governed by "signs," and that some very trivial thing would deter them from a certain course of action. there were ways to escape the spell of witches, to avoid snakes, and to keep from being led into a morass by jack-o'-lanterns. this folk-lore of the darkies was exceedingly interesting to me, told in the charming manner which characterized the speech of my companion. the wheat-field ended at the pike, and here another fence was passed in the same manner as the first one. then we swung down the dusty road together, side by side. to the right and left of us dog-fennel was blooming, and the "jimpson" weed flared its white trumpets in a brave show. occasionally a daisy lifted its yellow, modest head, and salome took great delight in getting me to tell her which was daisy and which was fennel. my ignorance caused many a blunder, to her high amusement; but at last i discovered that the daisy's head was larger than that of its humble brother. a half-mile's walk along the pike brought us to an old sagging gate, which i pushed open, and we went through. a grassy hill was before us, sloping down to a cool hollow where a spring bubbled out from beneath a moss-grown old rock. there were trees and bushes, and a soft green bank, and we joined hands and ran like two school-children till we reached the spring. of course she must have a drink, so down she knelt, and plunged her pouting lips into the cool water. her hair, tangled and loosened by our run, fell in wavy strands about her face. when she had drunk her fill, it was my turn, and so i stretched out full length, and carefully put my lips just where hers had been. never had water tasted so sweet! i was taking it in, in long, cool swallows, when a sudden pressure on the back of my head bobbed my face deep into the spring. i turned my head with a smile, to find her standing back and laughing like a child at the trick she had played. "you rascal!" i fumed good-naturedly, "i'll pay you back!" another peal of laughter was her only answer, caused, no doubt, by my wet face and the water dripping from my chin. "yonder come the sheep," she said. "get up, and let's salt them." i arose and picked up the bucket. coming slowly up the hollow were five or six shabby-looking sheep. their wool stood on them in patches, and they seemed scarcely able to walk. "what's the matter with them?" i queried. "see how rusty the poor things look!" her voice told of deep concern. "father says they have the scab, and it must be a dreadful disease, like leprosy. let's go meet them, and save them the trouble of walking so far." i could not help smiling at the tender heart this speech betrayed, but i went with her. as we neared the sorry-looking group, salome took a handful of salt and placed it upon a large flat stone. they rushed at it eagerly, despite their weakened state, and lapped it with their tongues. we put out more salt, at a dozen different places, so that all might have enough, then went back to the bank by the spring, and while she sat down in the shade and held her bonnet in her lap, i reclined by her side, and looked up at her, content. xiii "do you love the country as much as you seem to?" she asked, gazing blissfully up at the dense foliage of the elm tree under which we were resting. "i could not love it more; it is a wonder which never ends, and an enduring delight. if i could think that paradise was like this day, and this place, i would not care when death came." "i'm so glad," she answered, with the simplicity and directness of a child. "i have been in cities, and i don't see how a soul can live there. it seems to me that mine would cramp and dwindle until it died if i had to live in a big town. even the large and beautiful places of worship speak more of the human than of the divine. it seems that men go because they must, and that women go to show their clothes. this is my religion and my temple." she smiled in real joy as she waved her hand about her in a gesture comprehending everything bounded by the horizon. "look at the roof of my temple. was there ever one so high built by mortals, and was there ever a pigment mixed that could give it the tint which mine holds? and it is not always the same. to-day it is a pale blue, marked with delicate lines of cloud. at twilight it will darken to azure; to-night it will be studded with a million gems. and no prayer falls back from that roof upon the head of the sender, for the stars are the portholes through which they go to heaven. do you never think that way?" i shook my head slowly. "it is very beautiful," i said, "and equally true, no doubt, but i had never thought of it in just that way. i love this life because i can't help but love it. the forests, the meadows, the fields, and the brooks are what my soul craves; yet if you ask me why, i cannot tell you. i have been happier the few short weeks i have spent in your home than i was all the rest of my life. since you have come, my happiness has deepened." i dared not look up, but kept my eyes on the four-leaf clover i was plucking to pieces. "i'm glad i've helped make your visit pleasant." her voice was in the same low sweet tones which she had before employed, and i knew by this she attached no particular significance to my last sentence. "when mother wrote me that you had come to board with us, i was a little displeased, for i was jealous of the sweet accord in which we all dwelt, and did not want it marred. but when she told me all about you, and your habits, my feelings changed. i do not wish to draw any unjust comparisons, but there are very few people with tastes and inclinations like yours and mine,--don't you think so?" this naïve frankness almost amused me. "i think you are right. i never knew any one who would care for just the things we do, and they are certainly the most innocent pleasures which the world affords." a sudden darkening of the landscape and a breath of cool air accentuated the silence which fell at this point. we both looked up, and saw the edge of a blue-black cloud peeping over the shoulder of a northwestern hill. "i'm afraid we'll get wet," said salome, rising hastily, and surveying her airy garments dubiously. "there isn't even a cabin between here and home. i wouldn't care a fig, but mother always hates for me to be out in a storm. we can only do our best, and walk rapidly." with the salt bucket in my left hand, and her hand in my right, i helped her up the hill the best i could. fido limped behind. he had been lost nearly all the time since we started,--chasing rabbits, doubtless,--and had only made his appearance a few moments before the cloud startled us. we gained the pike directly, and as we hurried towards the wheat-field the cloud grew with alarming rapidity, and a scroll-work of flame began to show about its outer edges. "isn't it beautiful?" whispered salome. "but we're going to catch it." and we did. half-way across the wheat-field the first big drops splashed against our faces, blown by strong gusts of wind. i gazed around helplessly for shelter. a few yards to our right rose the cumbersome shape of a last year's straw-rick; it was better than nothing. "come!" i said, taking her arm firmly. "i'll find you shelter." she consented silently, and i crushed a path for her through the ripe grain until we reached the rick. the rain was beginning to pelt us sharply. furiously i went to work, tearing out straw by the handfuls, armfuls, and in a few seconds i had excavated a hole large enough for salome to enter in a crouching posture. "get in!" i commanded. i think she little liked the tone of authority i had assumed, for if there ever was a petted being, it was she, yet she obeyed, and cuddled up in her refuge out of reach of the driving rain. i sat down by the side of her covert, and rested my back against the rick. i also turned up my coat-collar, and pulled my hat well down upon my head; but i soon saw that a good soaking was in store for me. "why don't you come in, too?" she asked in guileless innocence. "i can make room for you, and you will surely get wet out there. aren't you afraid of rheumatism? father has it if he gets his toe damp." "i'll get along all right," i replied. "there doesn't much rain strike me, and i never had the rheumatism in my life." i didn't tell her of the trouble with my breathing, and the attack that would be almost sure to follow this exposure. we both grew quiet after this, and listened to the swish of the rain and the mighty howling of the wind. it had grown very dark, and the air was chilly. the lightning was incessant, and traced zigzag pathways of fire across the sombre heavens. the thunder was terrific, and often shook the solid earth. i asked salome if she was not afraid, but she laughed from her snug retreat, and said she loved it all. what manner of girl was this, who feared nothing, and who loved nature even when she was at war with herself? the strife of the elements ceased as suddenly as it had begun. the thunder rumbled away in the east; the rain stopped falling, and a rift of blue showed through the dun masses overhead. this was followed by a broad shaft of sunlight, which struck on the golden sea around us with a shimmering radiance. i jokingly called salome a "hayseed" when she emerged from her shelter, for her brown hair was sprinkled with wisps of straw. she ignored the epithet in her solicitation for my welfare, and proceeded straightway to place her hand upon my shoulders and back to see if i was wet. "you're soaking!" she declared in genuine alarm. "you must have a hot whiskey toddy and six grains of quinine the minute you get home!" i made a wry face; but she only shook her head in a determined way, and announced that she would see to it in person. as for herself, she was as dry as a butterfly which had just emerged from a chrysalis, and i congratulated myself upon the care i had taken of her. but before we reached home she was in a plight almost equal to my own, for the wind had blown the wheat across the path, and it was impossible for me to remove it entirely. as a consequence, her ladyship was at once hustled off to bed by good mrs. grundy, and treated to the same remedy she had prescribed for me. i took a rather stiff toddy, and changed my clothes, and felt no ill effects from my experience. after the first wild flush which had attended the discovery of the awakening of my affection for this girl had subsided, i became, in a degree, calmer. but it was there, deep in my soul, and i could feel it growing, growing, as steadily as my heart was beating. and i was old enough to know that in time it would conquer me, and drag me to her feet like a fettered slave before his master. my will seemed, in a measure, paralyzed, and i made no effort to escape. something warned me that it would be useless. and so i drifted, living in a careless sort of lotos dream, which i could have wished would last forever. now there were scented, joyful days, when we strolled through dales and wooded hollows, listening to nature's great orchestra as it played its never-ending symphony. perfect nights, when the heavy air would be redolent of the honeysuckles' wafted souls and the breath of sleepy roses. from the cabins in the locust grove would float the tinkling of the banjo, the untrained guffaw of the negro men, and the wild, half-barbaric notes of an old-time melody. and the stars would shine in glory above us, and we would sit on the steps and talk of the things we both loved. the old folks on the settee would get sleepy and go in, and we would sit there by the hour, and still my secret was my own. i think she guessed it, but this blissful existence was too sweet to be ended by some foolish words which had better remain forever in my heart, even though they ate it out. xiv august came. it was half gone ere i realized that she would go back to bellwood early in september. how and where the days had gone i could not tell. week after week had slipped by, and, forgetting that time was passing, i lived in my fool's paradise, and gave no thought to the days that were speeding away on silken wings. harvest had come and gone; the fierce heat of a kentucky summer made the days sultry, but the nights were good to live. i had lived through it all as in a kind of waking dream. but in the worship-chamber of my heart i had built an altar, and on it was placed the first and only love of my life. the fire which glowed there was as pure as easter dawn, yet it was as intense as the still white heat you may see in a furnace. and the time was coming when she would go away. one night i wandered, restless, down into the tree-grown yard. we had sat together that night, as usual, but my lips had been mute. the time had come when there was but one thing to say, and i had resolved not to say it. and so she had left me early, saying, in her impetuous way, that i was unsociable. back and forth the long avenue i paced, thinking of the day she came home, of the many, many times we had been together; thinking of the pure, unselfish, christian womanhood which crowned her with its consecrating light. back and forth, back and forth, and her sweet young face burned itself into my mind with every step i took. down the avenue, then up, and i leaned against the corrugated trunk of an oak, and fastened my eyes upon the windows of her room. the blinds were drawn, but she was up, for a light showed through them. salome! salome!--that was the one thought of my mind, the one bitter cry from my aching heart. there was a shadow on the curtain; a bare, uplifted arm was silhouetted against it. god bless you, salome! my salome! good-night! the next day i kept to my room, sending word that my head was troubling me. in the afternoon i went out and sat upon the porch, turning my troubled face towards the peaceful west. the sun was sinking, swathed in purple robes. far stretching on either side were azure seas, with dun-colored islands dotting their broad expanses. below me wound the dusty pike, like a yellow ribbon, flanked on one side by the half-dry creek, and on the other by a field of tasselled corn. a crow sat upon the dead limb of a sycamore, and cawed, and cawed, in noisy unrest. the weight which had been placed upon my breast two months before seemed like a millstone now. the consciousness of hopelessness made it heavier than before. "has your headache gone, mr. stone?" she had come to the doorway without my knowledge, and now advanced towards me with a tender, questioning look upon her face. "yes," i answered in quiet desperation, turning my face from her. "the pain has gone to my heart." she stood beside me, silently, and i felt the muscles hardening in my cheeks, as i shut my jaws tight to keep back the flood of words which rushed to my lips, and clamored for utterance. presently i felt that i could speak rationally. "how long before you return to school?" "three weeks; i wish i did not have to go." "let's walk down to the grape-vine swing," i proposed abruptly, turning to her with set face. she held her sunbonnet in her hand,--the same bonnet she always wore out of doors about the farm,--and she settled it on her brown, fluffy hair as i arose. the swing was in one corner of the yard, quite away from the house, and it had come to be one of our favorite resorts at twilight. this afternoon she occupied it, as was her custom, and i sat at the base of a walnut tree close by her. something had fallen upon her usually gay spirits, and checked the outpourings of her mind. she sat silent, holding to the arms of her swing, and looking with earnest eyes out over the varied landscape. i watched her, while the fierce pulsings of my temples blurred my eyes, and made her seem as in a sea of mist. the noises of the day had lulled to echoes. the peace of a summer twilight was stealing stealthily over all the land. from a far-off pasture came the silvery tinkle of a sheep-bell; the unutterably mournful cooing of a dove was borne from the forest. the whispering leaves above us rustled gently before the approach of the angel of the dusk. the sylvan solitude became as an enchanted spot where none were living but she and i. why--oh, why could it not last forever, just as it was that moment! but time does not halt for love or hate, and she was going away,--out of my life, to leave it as a barren rock in a burning desert. the intense longing of my gaze caused her to turn towards me. she dropped her eyes, while her cheeks grew rosy as the sunset. "salome!" the sweet name fell in trembling accents from my lips. she caught her breath quickly, but did not look up. i arose and stood before her, with my hands clasped in front of me. "i love you, salome!" i said in husky tones, for my voice would barely come. "you have called into life that love which god has given every man. it possesses me as utterly as the winds of heaven possess the earth. it has made me as weak as a child, and, like a child, i have told you. i was not strong enough to keep it from you. should you detest me for giving way as i have, i would not blame you. i am a middle-aged man; you are a little girl, and i have no right to ask anything from you. your life is before you; mine is over half spent. but i love you, and i would die for you, salome--salome, my precious one!" i turned from her, and set my teeth upon my lip, for my confession had shaken my soul to its uttermost depths. not for the earth, nor for heaven would i have touched her white hand. through the swirling blood which benumbed my consciousness i felt a presence near me,--her presence. i turned with a low cry. she was standing there, close to me. her bonnet had fallen off, and in the deep twilight her brown hair glowed like an aureole about a saint. one swift, hurt, appealing glance from her uplifted eyes, and she sank, quivering, upon my breast, sobbing, "abner! abner!" god of mercy, i thank thee! i thank thee! * * * * * once more we sat on the steps. the bewitching beauty of the august night lay around us. the yellow harvest moon sailed on as calmly as though it were used to beholding lovers. i held her hand in a kind of stupefied satisfaction, feeling as though under the spell of some powerful opiate. she was so close to me!--the skirt of her gingham gown had fallen over one of my feet. i touched her hair, so tenderly, and smoothed it back from her pure forehead. how could it be? this young creature, so full of life and health, encompassed with all that wealth and love could give--to love me!--me, a simple bookworm and lover of nature, who had come into her life by chance. the golden hours of that enchanted night still glow like letters of fire upon the web of memory. it was the one perfect period in my quiet and uneventful existence,--the one brief time when life was full, and i held to my lips the cup of all earthly happiness. and the changing years cannot rob me of the recollection. xv the next day salome was seized with a severe headache. she did not leave the house, and of course i did not see her, as she stayed in her room upstairs. we felt no especial concern, although she was not accustomed to such attacks, and with the coming of night her head grew easier. i went out after supper to pace up and down the avenue, to smoke my pipe, and to watch the windows of her room. i remained in the yard till nearly eleven, and the light was still burning when i went in. the next morning mrs. grundy told me that salome had some fever, and that a doctor had been sent for. i heard the news in silent fear, and my heart sank. i longed to tell this good old woman what her daughter was to me; but salome had said nothing about it, and i could not speak without her consent. the doctor came, an important-looking young fellow whom i felt inclined to kick off the porch the moment he set foot on it. when he descended from the sick room he pompously announced that it was only an ordinary cold, which would quickly disappear before the remedies which he had left. but the days went by, and she grew no better, and i never saw her. how my heart hungered for a glance of her sweet face; how my eyes longed to look into the clear, brown depths of hers. one morning i was told that a leading physician from louisville had been summoned. dr. yandel came--and stayed. typhoid fever is a grim foe which requires vigilance as well as medical skill. i went about like one distraught with a cold hand gripping my heart. it was then she asked to see me. i went to her room for a few moments, and came out with my face gray, and a pitiful, broken prayer to god. two weeks--and one night they came for me. like a broken, shattered lily she lay, but her lips smiled with their last breath, and whispered--"abner." blinded and weak, i groped my way out into the night, and sat down. my yellow dog found me, and crept, whining, between my knees. when i lifted my stricken face to the sky, i thought i saw a misty shallop touch the strand of heaven, and a slender white figure with brown hair step onto the plains of paradise. * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page : "hard biscuit" changed to "hard biscuits". page : "give her royal welcome" changed to "give her a royal welcome". the laurel bush an old-fashioned love story by dinah maria mulock craik author of _john halifax, gentleman_, &c., &c., &c. chapter . it was a very ugly bush indeed; that is, so far as any thing in nature can be really ugly. it was lopsided--having on the one hand a stunted stump or two, while on the other a huge heavy branch swept down to the gravel-walk. it had a crooked gnarled trunk or stem, hollow enough to entice any weak-minded bird to build a nest there--only it was so near to the ground, and also to the garden gate. besides, the owners of the garden, evidently of practical mind, had made use of it to place between a fork in its branches a sort of letter-box--not the government regulation one, for twenty years ago this had not been thought of; but a rough receptacle, where, the house being a good way off, letters might be deposited, instead of; as hitherto, in a hole in the trunk--near the foot of the tree, and under shelter of its mass of evergreen leaves. this letter-box; made by the boys of the family at the instigation and with the assistance of their tutor, had proved so attractive to some exceedingly incautious sparrow that during the intervals of the post she had begun a nest there, which was found by the boys. exceedingly wild boys they were, and a great trouble to their old grandmother, with whom they were staying the summer, and their young governess--"misfortune," as they called her, her real name being miss williams--fortune williams. the nickname was a little too near the truth, as a keener observer than mischievous boys would have read in her quiet, sometimes sad, face; and it had been stopped rather severely by the tutor of the elder boys, a young man whom the grandmother had been forced to get, to "keep them in order!" he was a mr. robert roy, once a student, now a teacher of the "humanities," from the neighboring town--i beg its pardon--city; and a lovely old city it is!--of st. andrews. thence he was in the habit of coming to them three and often four days in the week, teaching of mornings and walking of afternoons. they had expected him this afternoon, but their grandmother had carried them off on some pleasure excursion; and being a lady of inexact habits--one, too, to whom tutors were tutors and nothing more--she had merely said to miss williams, as the carriage drove away, "when mr. roy comes, tell him he is not wanted till tomorrow." and so miss williams had waited at the gate, not wishing him to have the additional trouble of walking up to the house, for she knew every minute of his time was precious. the poor and the hard-working can understand and sympathize with one another. only a tutor and only a governess: mrs. dalziel drove away and never thought of them again. they were mere machines--servants to whom she paid their wages, and so that they did sufficient service to deserve these wages, she never interfered with them, nor, indeed, wasted a moment's consideration upon them or their concerns. consequently they were in the somewhat rare and peculiar position of a young man and young woman (perhaps mrs. dalziel would have taken exception to the words "young lady and young gentleman") thrown together day after day, week after week--nay, it had now become month after month--to all intents and purposes quite alone, except for the children. they taught together, there being but one school-room; walked out together, for the two younger boys refused to be separated from their older brothers; and, in short, spent two-thirds of their existence together, without let or hindrance, comment or observation, from any mortal soul. i do not wish to make any mystery in this story. a young woman of twenty-five and a young man of thirty, both perfectly alone in the world--orphans, without brother or sister--having to earn their own bread, and earn it hardly, and being placed in circumstances where they had every opportunity of intimate friendship, sympathy, whatever you like to call it: who could doubt what would happen? the more so, as there was no one to suggest that it might happen; no one to watch them or warn them, or waken them with worldly-minded hints; or else to rise up, after the fashion of so many wise parents and guardians and well-intentioned friends, and indignantly shut the stable door _after_ the steed is stolen. no. that something which was so sure to happen had happened; you might have seen it in their eyes, have heard it in the very tone of their voices, though they still talked in a very commonplace way, and still called each other "miss williams" and "mr. roy." in fact, their whole demeanor to one another was characterized by the grave and even formal decorum which was natural to very reserved people, just trembling on the verge of that discovery which will unlock the heart of each to the other, and annihilate reserve forever between the two whom heaven has designed and meant to become one; a completed existence. if by any mischance this does not come about, each may lead a very creditable and not unhappy life; but it will be a locked-up life, one to which no third person is ever likely to find the key. whether such natures are to envied or pitied is more than i can say; but at least they are more to be respected than the people who wear their hearts upon their sleeves for daws to peck at, and very often are all the prouder the more they are pecked at, and the more elegantly they bleed; which was not likely to be the case with either of these young folks, young as they were. they were young, and youth is always interesting and even comely; but beyond that there was nothing remarkable about either. he was scotch; she english, or rather welsh. she had the clear blue welsh eye, the funny _retrousee_ welsh nose; but with the prettiest little mouth underneath it--firm, close, and sweet; full of sensitiveness, but a sensitiveness that was controlled and guided by that best possession to either man or woman, a good strong will. no one could doubt that the young governess had, what was a very useful thing to a governess, "a will of her own;" but not a domineering or obnoxious will, which indeed is seldom will at all, but merely obstinacy. for the rest, miss williams was a little woman, or gave the impression of being so, from her slight figure and delicate hands and feet. i doubt if any one would have called her pretty, until he or she had learned to love her. for there are two distinct kinds of love, one in which the eye instructs the heart, and the other in which the heart informs and guides the eye. there have been men who, seeing an unknown beautiful face, have felt sure it implied the most beautiful soul in the world, pursued it, worshiped it, wooed and won it, found the fancy true, and loved the woman forever. other men there are who would simply say, "i don't know if such a one is handsome or not; i only know she is herself--and mine." both loves are good; nay, it is difficult to say which is best. but the latter would be the most likely to any one who became attached to fortune williams. also, perhaps to robert roy, though no one expects good looks in his sex; indeed, they are mostly rather objectionable. women do not usually care for a very handsome man; and men are prone to set him down as conceited. no one could lay either charge to mr. roy. he was only an honest-looking scotchman, tall and strong and manly. not "red," in spite of his name, but dark-skinned and dark-haired; in no way resembling his great namesake, rob roy macgregor, as the boys sometimes called him behind his back--never to his face. gentle as the young man was, there was something about him which effectually prevented any one's taking the smallest liberty with him. though he had been a teacher of boys ever since he was seventeen--and i have heard one of the fraternity confess that it is almost impossible to be a school-master for ten years without becoming a tyrant--still it was a pleasant and sweet-tempered face. very far from a weak face, though; when mr. roy said a thing must be done, every one of his boys knew it _must_ be done, and there was no use saying any more about it. he had unquestionably that rare gift, the power of authority; though this did not necessarily imply self-control; for some people can rule every body except themselves. but robert roy's clear, calm, rather sad eye, and a certain patient expression about the mouth, implied that he too had enough of the hard training of life to be able to govern himself. and that is more difficult to a man than to a woman. "all thy passions, matched with mine, are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine." a truth which even fortune's tender heart did not fully take in, deep as was her sympathy for him; for his toilsome, lonely life, lived more in shadow than in sunshine, and with every temptation to the selfishness which is so apt to follow self-dependence, and the bitterness that to a proud spirit so often makes the sting of poverty. yet he was neither selfish nor bitter; only a little reserved, silent, and--except with children--rather grave. she stood watching him now, for she could see him a long way off across the level links, and noticed that he stopped more than once to look at the golf-players. he was a capital golfer himself, but had never any time to play. between his own studies and the teaching by which he earned the money to prosecute them, every hour was filled up. so he turned his back on the pleasant pastime, which seems to have such an extraordinary fascination for those who pursue it, and came on to his daily work, with that resolute deliberate step, bent on going direct to his point and turning aside for nothing. fortune knew it well by this time; had learned to distinguish it from all others in the world. there are some footsteps which, by a pardonable poetical license, we say "we should hear in our graves," and though this girl did not think of that, for death looked far off, and she was scarcely a poetical person, still, many a morning, when, sitting at her school-room window, she heard mr. roy coming steadily down the gravel-walk, she was conscious of--something that people can not feel twice in a life-time. and now, when he approached with that kind smile of his, which brightened into double pleasure when he saw who was waiting for him, she was aware of a wild heartbeat, a sense of exceeding joy, and then of relief and rest. he was "comfortable" to her. she could express it in no other way. at sight of his face and at sound of his voice all worldly cares and troubles, of which she had a good many, seemed to fall off. to be with him was like having an arm to lean on, a light to walk by; and she had walked alone so long. "good-afternoon, miss williams." "good-afternoon, mr. roy." they said no more than that, but the stupidest person in the world might have seen that they were glad to meet, glad to be together. though neither they nor any one else could have explained the mysterious fact, the foundation of all love stories in books or in life--and which the present author owns, after having written many books and seen a great deal of life, is to her also as great a mystery as ever--why do certain people like to be together? what is the inexplicable attraction which makes them seek one another, suit one another, put up with one another's weaknesses, condone one another's faults (when neither are too great to lessen love), and to the last day of life find a charm in one another's society which extends to no other human being. happy love or lost love, a full world or an empty world, life with joy or life without it--that is all the difference. which some people think very small, and that does not matter; and perhaps it does not--to many people. but it does to some, and i incline to put in that category miss williams and mr. roy. they stood by the laurel bush, having just shaken hands more hastily than they usually did; but the absence of the children, and the very unusual fact of their being quite alone, gave to both a certain shyness, and she had drawn her hand away, saying, with a slight blush: "mrs. dalziel desired me to meet you and tell you that you might have a holiday today. she has taken her boys with her to elie. i dare say you will not be sorry to gain an hour or two for yourself; though i am sorry you should have the trouble of the walk for nothing." "for nothing?"--with the least shadow of a smile, not of annoyance, certainly. "indeed, i would have let you know if i could, but she decided at the very last minute; and if i had proposed that a messenger should have been sent to stop you, i am afraid--it would not have been answered." "of course not;" and they interchanged an amused look--these fellow-victims to the well-known ways of the household--which, however, neither grumbled at; it was merely an outside thing, this treatment of both as mere tutor and governess. after all (as he sometimes said, when some special rudeness--not himself, but to her--vexed him), they were tutor and governess; but they were something else besides; something which, the instant their chains were lifted off, made them feel free and young and strong, and comforted them with comfort unspeakable. "she bade me apologize. no, i am afraid, if i tell the absolute truth, she did not bid me, but i do apologize." "what for, miss williams?" "for your having been brought out all this way just to go back again." "i do not mind it, i assure you." "and as for the lost lesson--" "the boys will not mourn over it, i dare say. in fact, their term with me is so soon coming to an end that it does not signify much. they told me they are going back to england to school next week. do you go back too?" "not just yet--not till next christmas. mrs. dalziel talks of wintering in london; but she is so vague in her plans that i am never sure from one week to another what she will do." "and what are your plans? _you_ always know what you intend to do." "yes, i think so," answered miss williams, smiling. "one of the few things i remember of my mother was hearing her say of me, that 'her little girl was a little girl who always knew her own mind.' i think i do. i may not be always able to carry it out, but i think i know it." "of course," said mr. roy, absently and somewhat vaguely, as he stood beside the laurel bush, pulling one of its shiny leaves to pieces, and looking right ahead, across the sunshiny links, the long shore of yellow sands, where the mermaids might well delight to come and "take hands"--to the smooth, dazzling, far-away sea. no sea is more beautiful than that at st. andrews. its sleepy glitter seemed to have lulled robert roy into a sudden meditation, of which no word of his companion came to rouse him. in truth, she, never given much to talking, simply stood, as she often did, silently beside him, quite satisfied with the mere comfort of his presence. i am afraid that this fortune williams will be considered a very weak-minded young woman. she was not a bit a coquette, she had not the slightest wish to flirt with any man. nor was she a proud beauty desirous to subjugate the other sex; and drag them triumphantly at her chariot wheels. she did not see the credit, or the use, or the pleasure of any such proceeding. she was a self-contained, self-dependent woman. thoroughly a woman; not indifferent at all to womanhood's best blessing; still she could live without it if necessary, as she could have lived without anything which it had pleased god to deny her. she was not a creature likely to die for love, or do wrong for love, which some people think the only test of love's strength, instead of its utmost weakness; but that she was capable of love, for all her composure and quietness, capable of it, and ready for it, in its intensest, most passionate, and most enduring form, the god who made her knew, if no one else did. her time would come; indeed, had come already. she had too much self-respect to let him guess it, but i am afraid she was very fond of--or, if that is a foolish phrase, deeply attached to--robert roy. he had been so good to her, at once strong and tender, chivalrous, respectful, and kind; and she had no father, no brother, no other man at all to judge him by, except the accidental men whom she had met in society, creatures on two legs who wore coats and trousers, who had been civil to her, as she to them, but who had never interested her in the smallest degree, perhaps because she knew so little of them. but no; it would have been just the same had she known them a thousand years. she was not "a man's woman," that is, one of those women who feel interested in any thing in the shape of a man, and make men interested in them accordingly, for the root of much masculine affection is pure vanity. that celebrated scottish song, "come deaf, or come blind, or come cripple, o come, ony ane o' them a'! far better be married to something, than no to be married ava," was a rhyme that would never have touched the stony heart of fortune williams. and yet, let me own it once more, she was very, very fond of robert roy. he had never spoken to her one word of love, actual love, no more than he spoke now, as they stood side by side, looking with the same eyes on the same scene. i say the same eyes, for they were exceedingly alike in their tastes. there was no need ever to go into long explanations about this or that; a glance sufficed, or a word, to show each what the other enjoyed; and both had the quiet conviction that they were enjoying it together. now as that sweet, still, sunshiny view met their mutual gaze, they fell into no poetical raptures, but just stood and looked, taking it all in with exceeding pleasure, as they had done many and many a time, but never, it seemed, so perfectly as now. "what a lovely afternoon!" she said at last. "yes. it is a pity to waste it. have you any thing special to do? what did you mean to employ yourself with, now your birds are flown?" "oh, i can always find something to do." "but need you find it? we both work so hard. if we could only now and then have a little bit of pleasure!" he put it so simply, yet almost with a sigh. this poor girl's heart responded to it suddenly, wildly. she was only twenty-five, yet sometimes she felt quite old, or rather as if she had never been young. the constant teaching, teaching of rough boys too--for she had had the whole four till mr. roy took the two elder off her hands--the necessity of grinding hard out of school hours to keep herself up in latin, euclid, and other branches which do not usually form a part of a feminine education, only having a great natural love of work, she had taught herself--all these things combined to make her life a dull life, a hard life, till robert roy came into it. and sometimes even now the desperate craving to enjoy--not only to endure, but to enjoy--to take a little of the natural pleasures of her age--came to the poor governess very sorely, especially on days such as this, when all the outward world looked so gay, so idle, and she worked so hard. so did robert roy. life was not easier to him than to herself; she knew that; and when he said, half joking, as if he wanted to feel his way, "let us imitate our boys, and take a half holiday," she only laughed, but did not refuse. how could she refuse? there were the long smooth sands on either side the eden, stretching away into indefinite distance, with not a human being upon them to break their loneliness, or, if there was, he or she looked a mere dot, not human at all. even if these two had been afraid of being seen walking together--which they hardly were, being too unimportant for any one to care whether they were friends or lovers, or what not--there was nobody to see them, except in the character of two black dots on the yellow sands. "it is low water; suppose we go and look for sea-anemones. one of my pupils wants some, and i promised to try and find one the first spare hour i had." "but we shall not find anemones on the sands." "shells, then, you practical woman! we'll gather shells. it will be all the same to that poor invalid boy--and to me," added he, with that involuntary sigh which she had noticed more than once, and which had begun to strike on her ears not quite painfully. sighs, when we are young, mean differently to what they do in after-years. "i don't care very much where i go, or what i do; i only want--well, to be happy for an hour, if providence will let me." "why should not providence let you?" said fortune, gently. "few people deserve it more." "you are kind to think so; but you are always kind to every body." by this time they had left their position by the laurel bush, and were walking along side by side, according as he had suggested. this silent, instinctive acquiescence in what he wished done--it had happened once or twice before, startling her a little at herself; for, as i have said, miss williams was not at all the kind of person to do every thing that every body asked her, without considering whether it was right or wrong. she could obey, but it would depend entirely upon whom she had to obey, which, indeed, makes the sole difference between loving disciples and slavish fools. it was a lovely day, one of those serene autumn days peculiar to scotland--i was going to say saint andrews; and any one who knows the ancient city will know exactly how it looks in the still, strongly spiritualized light of such an afternoon, with the ruins, the castle, cathedral, and st. regulus's tower standing out sharply against the intensely blue sky, and on the other side--on both sides--the yellow sweep of sand curving away into the distance, and melting into the sunshiny sea. many a time, in their prescribed walks with their young tribe, miss williams and mr. roy had taken this stroll across the links and round by the sands to the mouth of the eden, leaving behind them a long and sinuous track of many footsteps, little and large, but now there were only two lines--"foot-prints on the sands of time," as he jestingly called them, turning round and pointing to the marks of the dainty feet that walked so steadily and straightly beside his own. "they seem made to go together, those two tracks," said he. why did he say it? was he the kind of man to talk thus without meaning it? if so, alas! she was not exactly the woman to be thus talked to. nothing fell on her lightly. perhaps it was her misfortune, perhaps even her fault, but so it was. robert roy did not "make love;" not at all. possibly he never could have done it in the ordinary way. sweet things, polite things were very difficult to him either to do or to say. even the tenderness that was in him came out as if by accident; but, oh! how infinitely tender he could be! enough to make any one who loved him die easily, quietly, if only just holding his hand. there is an incident in dickens's touching _tale of two cities_, where a young man going innocent to the guillotine, and riding on the death-cart with a young girl whom he had never before seen, is able to sustain and comfort her, even to the last awful moment, by the look of his face and the clasp of his hand. that man, i have often thought, must have been something not unlike robert roy. such men are rare, but they do exist; and it was fortune's lot, or she believed it was, to have found one. that was enough. she went along the shining sands in a dream of perfect content, perfect happiness, thinking--and was it strange or wrong that she should so think?--that if it were god's will she should thus walk through life, the thorniest path would seem smooth, the hardest road easy. she had no fear of life, if lived beside him; or of death--love is stronger than death; at least this sort of love, of which only strong natures are capable, and out of which are made, not the lyrics, perhaps, but the epics, the psalms, or the tragedies of our mortal existence. i have explained thus much about these two friends--lovers that may be, or might have been--because they never would have done it themselves. neither was given to much speaking. indeed, i fear their conversation this day, if recorded, would have been of the most feeble kind--brief, fragmentary, mere comments on the things about them, or abstract remarks not particularly clever or brilliant. they were neither of them what you would call brilliant people; yet they were happy, and the hours flew by like a few minutes, until they found themselves back again beside the laurel bush at the gate, when mr. roy suddenly said: "do not go in yet. i mean, need you go in? it is scarcely past sunset; the boys will not be home for an hour yet; they don't want you, and i--i want you so. in your english sense," he added, with a laugh, referring to one of their many arguments, scholastic or otherwise, wherein she had insisted that to want meant _anglice_, to wish or to crave, whereas in scotland it was always used like the french _manquer_, to miss or to need. "shall we begin that fight over again?" asked she, smiling; for every thing, even fighting, seemed pleasant today. "no, i have no wish to fight; i want to consult you seriously on a purely personal matter, if you would not mind taking that trouble." fortune looked sorry. that was one of the bad things in him (the best man alive have their bad things), the pride which apes humility, the self-distrust which often wounds another so keenly. her answer was given with a grave and simple sincerity that ought to have been reproach enough. "mr. roy, i would not mind any amount of trouble if i could be of use to you; you know that." "forgive me! yes, i do know it. i believe in you and your goodness to the very bottom of my heart." she tried to say "thank you," but her lips refused to utter a word. it was so difficult to go on talking like ordinary friends, when she knew, and he must know she knew, that one more word would make them--not friends at all--something infinitely better, closer, dearer; but that word was his to speak, not hers. there are women who will "help a man on"--propose to him, marry him indeed--while he is under the pleasing delusion that he does it all himself; but fortune williams was not one of these. she remained silent and passive, waiting for the next thing he should say. it came: something the shock of which she never forgot as long as she lived; and he said it with his eyes on her face, so that, if it killed her, she must keep quiet and composed, as she did. "you know the boys' lessons end next week. the week after i go--that is, i have almost decided to go--to india." "to india!" "yes, for which, no doubt, you think me very changeable, having said so often that i meant to keep to a scholar's life, and be a professor one day, perhaps, if by any means i could get salt to my porridge. well, now i am not satisfied with salt to my porridge; i wish to get rich." she did not say, "why?" she thought she had not looked it; but he answered: "never mind why. i do wish it, and i will be rich yet, if i can. are you very much surprised?" surprised she certainly was; but she answered, honestly, "indeed, you are the last person i should suspect of being worldly-minded." "thank you; that is kind. no, just; merely just. one ought to have faith in people; i am afraid my own deficiency is want of faith. it takes so much to make me believe for a moment that any one cares for me." how hard it was to be silent--harder still to speak! but she did not speak. "i can understand that; i have often felt the same. it is the natural consequence of a very lonely life. if you and i had had fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, we might have been different." "perhaps so. but about india. for a long time--that is, for many weeks--i have been casting about in my mind how to change my way of life, to look out for something that would help me to earn money, and quickly, but there seemed no chance whatever. until suddenly one has opened." and then he explained how the father of one of one of his pupils, grateful for certain benefits, which mr. roy did not specify, and noticing certain business qualities in him--"which i suppose i have, though i didn't know it," added he, with a smile--had offered him a situation in a merchant's office at calcutta: a position of great trust and responsibility, for three years certain, with the option of then giving it up or continuing it. "and continuing means making a fortune. even three years means making something, with my 'stingy' habits. only i must go at once. nor is there any time left me for my decision; it must be yes or no. which shall it be?" the sudden appeal--made, too, as if though it was nothing--that terrible yes or no, which to her made all the difference of living or only half living, of feeling the sun in or out of the world. what could she answer? what could she answer? trembling violently, she yet answered, in a steady voice, "you must decide for yourself. a woman can not understand a man." "nor a man a woman, thoroughly. there is only one thing which helps both to comprehend one another." one thing! she knew what it was. surely so did he. but that strange distrustfulness of which he had spoken, or the hesitation which the strongest and bravest men have at times, came between. "oh, the little more, and how much it is! oh, the little less, and what worlds away!" if, instead of looking vaguely out upon the sea, he had looked into this poor girl's face; if, instead of keeping silence, he had only spoken one word! but he neither looked nor spoke, and the moment passed by. and there are some moments which people would sometimes give a whole lifetime to recall and use differently; but in vain. "my engagement is only for three years," he resumed; "and, if alive, i mean to come back. dead or alive, i was going to say, but you would not care to see my ghost, i presume? i beg your pardon: i ought not to make a joke of such serious things." "no, you ought not." she felt herself almost speechless, that in another minute she might burst into sobs. he saw it--at least he saw a very little of it, and misinterpreted the rest. "i have tired you. take my arm. you will soon be at home now." then, after a pause, "you will not be displeased at any thing i have said? we part friends? no, we do not part; i shall see you every day for a week, and be able to tell you all particulars of my journey, if you care to hear." "thank you, yes--i do care." they stood together, arm in arm. the dews were falling; a sweet, soft lilac haze had begun to creep over the sea--the solemn; far-away sea that he was so soon to cross. involuntarily she clung to his arm. so near, yet so apart! why must it be? she could have borne his going away, if it was for his good, if he wished it; and something whispered to her that this sudden desire to get rich was not for himself alone. but, oh! if he would only speak! one word--one little word! after that, any thing might come--the separation of life, the bitterness of death. to the two hearts that had once opened each to each, in the full recognition of mutual love, there could never more be any real parting. but that one word he did not say. he only took the little hand that lay on his arm and pressed it, and held it--years after, the feeling of that clasp was as fresh on her fingers as yesterday--the hearing the foot of some accidental passer-by, he let it go, and did not take it again. just at this moment the sound of distant carriage wheels was heard. "that must be mrs. dalziel and the boys." "then i had better go. good-by" the daydream was over. it had all come back again--the forlorn, dreary, hard-working world. "good-by, mr. roy." and they shook hands. "one word," he said hastily. "i shall write to you--you will allow me?--and i shall see you several times, a good many times before i go?" "i hope so." "then, for the present, good-by. that means," he added, earnestly, "'god be with you!' and i know he always will." in another minute fortune found herself standing beside the laurel bush, alone, listening to the sound of mr. roy's footsteps down the road--listening, listening, as if, with the exceeding tension, her brain would burst. the carriage came, passed by; it was not mrs. dalziel's after all. she thought he might discover this, and come back again; so she waited a little--five minutes, ten--beside the laurel bush. but he did not come. no footstep, no voice; nothing but the faint, far-away sound of the long waves washing in upon the sands. it was not the brain that felt like to burst now, but the heart. she clasped her hands above her head. it did not matter; there was no creature to see or hear that appeal--was it to man or god?--that wild, broken sob, so contrary to her usual self-controlled and self-contained nature. and then she learned her forehead against the gate, just where robert roy had accidentally laid his hand in opening it, and wept bitterly. chapter . the "every day" on which mr. roy had reckoned for seeing his friend, or whatsoever else he considered miss williams to be, proved a failure. her youngest pupil fell ill, and she was kept beside him, and away from the school-room, until the doctor could decide whether the illness was infectious or not. it turned out to be very trifling--a most trivial thing altogether, yet weighted with a pain most difficult to bear, a sense of fatality that almost overwhelmed one person at least. what the other felt she did not know. he came daily as usual; she watched him come and go, and sometimes he turned and they exchanged a greeting from the window. but beyond that, she had to take all passively. what could she, only a woman, do or say or plan? nothing. women's business is to sit down and endure. she had counted these days--tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday--as if they had been years. and now they were all gone, had fled like minutes, fled emptily away. a few fragmentary facts she had had to feed on, communicated by the boys in their rough talk. "mr. roy was rather cross today." "not cross, dick--only dull." "mr. roy asked why david did not come in to lessons, and said he hoped he would be better by saturday." "mr. roy said good-by to us all, and gave us each something to remember him by when he was out in india. did miss williams know he was going out to india? oh, how jolly!" "yes, and he sails next week, and the name of his ship is the _queen of the south_, and he goes by liverpool instead of southampton, because it costs less; and he leaves st. andrews on monday morning." "are you sure he said monday morning?" for that was saturday night. "certain, because he has to get his outfit still. oh, what fun it must be!" and the boys went on, greatly excited, and repeating everything mr. roy had told them--for he had made them fond of him, even in those few months--expatiating with delight on his future career, as a merchant or something, they did not quite know what; but no doubt it would be far nicer and more amusing than stopping at home and grinding forever on horrid books. didn't miss williams think so? miss williams only smiled. she knew how all his life he had loved "those horrid books," preferring them to pleasure, recreation, almost to daily bread; how he had lived on the hope that one day he--born only a farmer's son--might do something, write something. "i also am of arcadia." he might have done it or not--the genius may or may not have been there; but the ambition certainly was. could he have thrown it all aside? and why? not for mere love of money; she knew him too well for that. he was a thorough book-worm, simple in all his tastes and habits--simple almost to penuriousness; but it was a penuriousness born of hard fortunes, and he never allowed it to affect any body but himself. still, there was no doubt he did not care for money, or luxury, or worldly position--any of the things that lesser men count large enough to work and struggle and die for. to give up the pursuits he loved, deliberately to choose others, to change his whole life thus, and expatriate himself, as it were, for years--perhaps for always--why did he do it, or for whom? was it for a woman? was it for her? if ever, in those long empty days and wakeful nights, this last thought entered fortune's mind, she stifled it as something which, once to have fully believed and then disbelieved would have killed her. that she should have done the like for him--that or any thing else involving any amount of heroism or self-sacrifice--well, it was natural, right; but that he should do it for her? that he should change his whole purpose of life that he might be able to marry quickly, to shelter in his bosom a poor girl who was not able to fight the world as a man could, the thing--not so very impossible, after all--seemed to her almost incredible! and yet (i am telling a mere love story, remember--a foolish, innocent love story, without apologizing for either the folly or the innocence) sometimes she was so far "left to herself," as the scotch say, that she did believe it: in the still twilights, in the wakeful nights, in the one solitary half hour of intense relief, when, all her boys being safe in bed, she rushed out into the garden under the silent stars to sob, to moan, to speak out loud words which nobody could possibly hear. "he is going away, and i shall never see him again. and i love him better than any thing in all this world. i couldn't help it--he couldn't help it. but, oh! it's hard--hard!" and then, altogether breaking down, she would begin to cry like a child. she missed him so, even this week, after having for weeks and months been with him every day; but it was less like a girl missing her lover--who was, after all, not her lover--than a child mourning helplessly for the familiar voice, the guiding, helpful hand. with all the rest of the world fortune williams was an independent, energetic woman, self-contained, brave, and strong, as a solitary governess had need to be; but beside robert roy she felt like a child, and she cried for him like a child, "and with no language but a cry." so the week ended and sunday came, kept at mrs. dalziel's like the scotch sundays of twenty years ago. no visitor ever entered the house, wherein all the meals were cold and the blinds drawn down, as if for a funeral. the family went to church for the entire day, st. andrews being too far off for any return home "between sermons." usually one servant was left in charge, turn and turn about; but this sunday mrs. dalziel, having put the governess in the nurse's place beside the ailing child, thought shrewdly she might as well put her in the servant's place too, and let her take charge of the kitchen fire as well as of little david. being english, miss williams was not so exact about "ordinances" as a scotch woman would have been; so mrs. dalziel had no hesitation in asking her to remain at home alone the whole day in charge of her pupil. thus faded, fortune thought, her last hope of seeing robert roy again, either at church--where he usually sat in the dalziel pew, by the old lady's request, to make the boys "behave"--or walking down the street, where he sometimes took the two eldest to eat their "piece" at his lodgings. all was now ended; yet on the hope--or dread--of this last sunday she had hung, she now felt with what intensity, till it was gone. fortune was the kind of woman who, were it given her to fight, could fight to the death, against fate or circumstances; but when her part was simply passive, she could also endure. not, as some do, with angry grief or futile resistance, but with a quiet patience so complete that only a very quick eye would have found out she was suffering at all. little david did not, certainly. when hour after hour, she sat by his sofa, interesting him as best she could in the dull "good" books which alone were allowed of sundays, and then passing into word-of-mouth stories--the beautiful bible stories over which her own voice trembled while she told them--ruth, with her piteous cry, "whither thou goest, i will go; where thou diest, i will die, and there will i be buried;" jonathan, whose soul "clave to the soul of david, and jonathan loved him as his own soul"--all these histories of passionate fidelity and agonized parting--for every sort of love is essentially the same--how they went to her heart. oh, the awful quietness of that sunday, that sabbath which was not rest, in which the hours crawled on in sunshiny stillness, neither voices nor steps nor sounds of any kind breaking the death-like hush of everything. at length the boy fell asleep; and then fortune seemed to wake up for the first time to the full consciousness of what was and what was about to be. all of a sudden she heard steps on the gravel below; then the hall bell rang through the silent house. she knew who it was even before she opened the door and saw him standing there. "may i come in? they told me you were keeping house alone, and i said i should just walk over to bid you and davie good-by." roy's manner was grave and matter-of-fact--a little constrained, perhaps, but not much--and he looked so exceedingly pale and tired that; without any hesitation, she took him into the school-room, where they were sitting, and gave him the arm-chair by davie's sofa. "yes, i own to being rather overdone; i have had so much to arrange, for i must leave here tomorrow, as i think you know." "the boys told me." "i thought they would. i should have done it myself, but every day i hoped to see you. it was this fellow's fault, i suppose," patting davie's head. "he seems quite well now, and as jolly as possible. you don't know what it is to say 'good-by,' david, my son." mr. roy, who always got on well with children, had a trick of calling his younger pupils "my son." "why do you say 'good-by' at all, then!" asked the child, a mischievous but winning young scamp of six or seven, who had as many tricks as a monkey or a magpie. in fact, in chattering and hiding things he was nearly as bad as a magpie, and the torment of his governess's life; yet she was fond of him. "why do you bid us good-by, mr. roy? why don't you stay always with miss williams and me?" "i wish to god i could." she heard that, heard it distinctly, though it was spoken beneath his breath; and she felt the look, turned for one moment upon her as she stood by the window. she never forgot either--never, as long as she lived. some words, some looks, can deceive, perhaps quite unconsciously, by being either more demonstrative than was meant, or the exaggeration of coldness to hide its opposite; but sometimes a glance, a tone, betrays, or rather reveals, the real truth in a manner that nothing afterward can ever falsify. for one instant, one instant only, fortune felt sure, quite sure, that in some way or other she was very dear to robert roy. if the next minute he had taken her into his arms, and said or looked the words which, to an earnest-minded, sincere man like him, constitute a pledge for life, never to be disannulled or denied, she could have hardly have felt more completely his own. but he did not say them; he said nothing at all; sat leaning his head on his hand, with an expression so weary, so sad, that all the coaxing ways of little davie could hardly win from him more than a faint smile. he looked so old, too, and he was but just thirty. only thirty--only twenty-five; and yet these two were bearing, seemed to have borne for years, the burden of life, feeling all its hardships and none of its sweetnesses. would things ever change? would he have the courage (it was his part, not hers) to make them change, at least in one way, by bringing about that heart-union which to all pure and true natures is consolation for every human woe? "i wonder," he said, sitting down and taking david on his knee--"i wonder if it is best to bear things one's self, or to let another share the burden?" easily--oh, how easily!--could fortune have answered this--have told him that, whether he wished it or not, two did really bear his burdens, and perhaps the one who bore it secretly and silently had not the lightest share. but she did not speak: it was not possible. "how shall i hear of you miss williams?" he said, after a long silence. "you are not likely to leave the dalziel family?" "no," she answered; "and if i did, i could always be heard of, the dalziels are so well known hereabouts. still, a poor wandering governess easily drops out of people's memory." "and a poor wandering tutor too. but i am not a tutor any more, and i hope i shall not be poor long. friends can not lose one another; such friends as you and i have been. i will take care we shall not do it, that is, if--but never mind that. you have been very good to me, and i have often bothered you very much, i fear. you will be almost glad to get rid of me." she might have turned upon him eyes swimming with tears--woman's tears--that engine of power which they say no man can ever resist; but i think, if so, a woman like fortune would have scorned to use it. those poor weary eyes, which could weep oceans alone under the stars, were perfectly dry now--dry and fastened on the ground, as she replied, in a grave steady voice, "you do not believe that, else you would never have said it." her composure must have surprised him, for he looked suddenly up, then begged her pardon. "i did not hurt you, surely? we must not part with the least shadow of unkindness between us." "no." she offered her hand, and he took it--gently, affectionately, but only affectionately. the one step beyond affection, which leads into another world, another life, he seemed determined not to pass. for at least half an hour he sat there with david on his knee, or rising up restlessly to pace the room with david on his shoulder; but apparently not desiring the child's absence, rather wishing to keep him as a sort of barrier. against what?--himself? and so minute after minute slipped by; and miss williams, sitting in her place by the window, already saw, dotting the links, group after group of the afternoon church-goers wandering quietly home--so quietly, so happily, fathers and mothers and children, companions and friends--for whom was no parting and no pain. mr. roy suddenly took out his watch. "i must go now; i see i have spent all but my last five minutes. good-by, david, my lad; you'll be a big man, maybe, when i see you again. miss williams" (standing before her with an expression on his face such as she had never seen before), "before i go there was a question i had determined to ask you--a purely ethical question which a friend of mine has been putting to me, and i could not answer; that is, i could from the man's side, the worldly side. a woman might think differently." "what is it?" "simply this. if a man has not a half-penny, ought he to ask a woman to share it? rather an irish way of putting the matter," with a laugh, not without bitterness, "but you understand. ought he not to wait till he has at least something to offer besides himself: is it not mean, selfish, cowardly, to bind a woman to all the chances or mischances of his lot, instead of fighting it out alone like a man: my friend thinks so, and i--i agree with him." "then why did you ask me." the words, though low and clear, were cold and sharp--sharp with almost unbearable pain. every atom of pride in her was roused. whether he loved her and would not tell her so, or loved some other woman and wished her know it, it was all the same. he was evidently determined to go away free and leave her free; and perhaps many sensible men or women would say he was right in so doing. "i beg your pardon," he said, almost humbly. "i ought not to have spoken of this at all. i ought just to have said 'good-by,' and nothing more." and he took her hand. there was on it one ring, not very valuable, but she always liked to wear it, as it had belonged to her mother. robert roy drew it off, and put it deliberately into his pocket. "give me this; you shall have it back again when i am dead, or you are married, whichever happens first. do you understand?" putting david aside (indeed, he seemed for the first time to forget the boy's presence), he took her by the two hands and looked down into her face. apparently he read something there, something which startled him, almost shocked him. irresolute, alas! too late; for just then all the three dalziel boys rushed into the house and the school-room, followed by their grandmother. the old lady looked a good deal surprised, perhaps a little displeased, fro on to the other. mr. roy perceived it, and recovered himself in an instant, letting go fortune's hands and placing himself in front of her, between her and mrs. dalziel. long afterward she remembered that trivial act--remembered it with the tender gratitude of the protected toward the protector, if nothing more. "you see, i came, as i told you i should, if possible, to bid miss williams good-by, and wee davie. they both kindly admitted me, and we have had half an hour's merry chat, have we not davie? now, my man, good-by." he took up the little fellow and kissed him, and then extended his hand. "good-by, miss williams. i hope your little pupils will value you as you deserve." then, with a courteous and formal farewell to the old lady, and a most uproarious one from the boys, he went to the door, but turned round, saying to the eldest boy, distinctly and clearly--though she was at the farther end of the room, she heard, and was sure he meant her to hear every word: "by-the-by, archy, there is something i was about to explain to miss williams. tell her i will write it. she is quite sure to have a letter from me tomorrow--no, on tuesday morning." and so he went away, bravely and cheerily, the boys accompanying him to the gate, and shouting and waving their hats to him as he crossed the links, until their grandmother reprovingly suggested that it was sunday. "but mr. roy does not go off to india every sunday. hurrah! i wish we were all going too. three cheers for mr. roy." "mr. roy is a very fine fellow, and i hope he will do well," said mrs. dalziel, touched by their enthusiasm; also by some old memories, for, like many st. andrews folk, she was strongly linked with india, and had sent off one-half of her numerous family to live or die there. there was something like a tear in her old eyes, though not for the young tutor; but it effectually kept her from either looking at or thinking of the governess. and she forgot them both immediately. they were merely the tutor and the governess. as for the boys, they chattered vehemently all tea-time about mr. roy, and their envy of the "jolly" life he was going to; then their minds turned to their own affairs, and there was silence. the kind of silence, most of us know it, when any one belonging to a household, or very familiar there, goes away on a long indefinite absence. at first there is little consciousness of absence at all; we are so constantly expecting the door to be opened for the customary presence that we scarcely even miss the known voice, or face, or hand. by-and-by, however, we do miss it, and there comes a general, loud, shallow lamentation which soon cures itself, and implies an easy and comfortable forgetfulness before long. except with some, or possibly only one, who is, most likely the one who has never been heard to utter a word of regret, or seen to shed a single tear. miss williams, now left sole mistress in the school room, gave her lessons as usual there that monday morning, and walked with all four boys on the links all afternoon. it was a very bright day, as beautiful as sunday had been, and they communicated to her the interesting facts, learned at golfing that morning, that mr. roy and his portmanteau had been seen at leuchars on the way to burntisland, and he would likely have a good crossing, as the sea was very calm. there had lately been some equinoctial gales, which had interested the boys amazingly, and they calculated with ingenious pertinacity whether such gales were likely to occur again when mr. roy was in the bay of biscay, and, if his ship were wrecked, what he would be supposed to do. they were quite sure that he would conduct himself with great heroism, perhaps escape on a single plank, or a raft made by his own hands, and they consulted miss williams, who of course was peripatetic cyclopedia of all scholastic information, as to which port in france of spain he was likely to be drifted to, supposing this exciting event did happen. she answered their questions with her usual ready kindliness. she felt like a person in a dream, yet a not unhappy dream, for she still heard the voice, still felt the clasp of the strong, tender, sustaining hands. and tomorrow would be tuesday. tuesday was a wet morning. the bright days were done. soon after dawn fortune had woke up and watched the sunrise, till a chill fog crept over the sea and blotted it out; then gradually blotted out the land also, the links, the town, every thing. a regular st. andrews "haar;" and st. andrews people know what that is. miss williams had seen it once or twice before, but never so bad as this--blighting, penetrating, and so dense that you could hardly see your hand before you. but fortune scarcely felt it. she said to herself, "today is tuesday," which meant nothing to any one else, every thing to her. for she knew the absolute faithfulness, the careful accuracy, in great things and small, with which she had to do. if robert roy said, "i will write on such a day," he was as sure to write as that the day would dawn; that is, so far as his own will went; and will, not circumstance, is the strongest agent in this world. therefore she waited quietly for the postman's horn. it sounded at last. "i'll go," cried archy. "just look at the haar! i shall have to grope my way to the gate." he came back, after what seemed an almost endless time, rubbing his head and declaring he had nearly blinded himself by running right into the laurel bush. "i couldn't see for the fog. i only hope i've left none of the letters behind. no, no; all right. such a lot! it's the indian mail. there's for you, and you, boys." he dealt them out with a merry, careless hand. there was no letter for miss williams--a circumstance so usual that nobody noticed it or her, as she sat silent in her corner, while the children read noisily and gaily the letters from their far-away parents. _her_ letter--what had befallen it? had he forgotten to write? but robert roy never forgot any thing. nor did he delay any thing that he could possibly do at the time he promised. he was one of the very few people in this world who in small things as in great are absolutely reliable. it seemed so impossible to believe he had not written, when he said he would, that as a last hope, she stole out with a plaid over her head and crept through the sidewalks of the garden, almost groping her way through the fog, and, like archy, stumbling over the low boughs of the laurel bush to the letter-box it held. her trembling hands felt in every corner, but no letter was there. she went wearily back; weary at heart, but patient still. a love like hers, self-existent and sufficient to itself, is very patient, quite unlike the other and more common form of the passion; not love, but a diseased craving to be loved, which causes a thousand imaginary miseries and wrongs. sharp was her pain, poor girl; but she was not angry, and after her first stab of disappointment her courage rose. all was well with him; he had been seen cheerily starting for edinburgh; and her own temporary suffering was a comparatively a small thing. it could not last: the letter would come tomorrow. but it did not, nor the next day, nor the next. on the fourth day her heart felt like to break. i think, of all pains not mortal, few are worse than this small silent agony of waiting for the post; letting all the day's hope climax upon a single minute, which passes by, and the hope with it, and then comes another day of dumb endurance, if not despair. this even with ordinary letters upon which any thing of moment depends. with others, such as this letter of robert roy's--let us not speak of it. some may imagine, others may have known, a similar suspense. they will understand why, long years afterward, fortune williams was heard to say, with a quiver of the lip that could have told its bitter tale, "no; when i have a letter to write, i never put off writing it for single day." as these days wore on--these cruel days, never remembered without a shiver of pain, and of wonder that she could have lived through them at all--the whole fabric of reasons, arguments, excuses, that she had built up, for him and herself, gradually crumbled away. had she altogether misapprehended the purport of his promised letter? was it just some ordinary note, about her boys and their studies perhaps, which, after all, he had not thought it worthwhile to write? yet surely it was worth while, if only to send a kindly and courteous farewell to a friend, after so close an intimacy and in face of so indefinite a separation. a friend? only a friend? words may deceive, eyes seldom can. and there had been love in his eyes. not mere liking, but actual love. she had seen it, felt it, with that almost unerring instinct that women have, whether they return the love or not. in the latter case, they seldom doubt it; in the former, they often do. "could i have been mistaken?" she thought, with a burning pang of shame. "oh, why did he not speak--just one word? after that, i could have borne any thing." but he had not spoken, had not written. he had let himself drop out of her life as completely as a falling star drops out of the sky, a ship sinks down in mid-ocean, or--any other poetical simile, used under such circumstances by romantic people. fortune williams was not romantic; at least, what romance was in her lay deep down, and came out in act rather than word. she neither wept nor raved nor cultivated any external signs of a breaking heart. a little paler she grew, a little quieter, but nobody observed this: indeed, it came to be one of her deepest causes of thankfulness that there was nobody to observe any thing--that she had no living soul belonging to her, neither father, mother, brother, nor sister, to pity her or to blame him; since to think him either blamable or blamed would have been the sharpest torture she could have known. she was saved that and some few other things by being only a governess, instead of one of fate's cherished darlings, nestled in a family home. she had no time to grieve, except in the dead of night, when "the rain was on the roof." it so happened that, after the haar, there set in a season of continuous, sullen, depressing rain. but at night-time, and for the ten minutes between post hour and lesson hour--which she generally passed in her own room--if her mother, who died when she was ten-years old, could have seen her, she would have said, "my poor child." robert roy had once involuntarily called her so, when by accident one of her rough boys hurt her hand, and he himself bound it up, with the indescribable tenderness which the strong only know how to show or feel. well she remembered this; indeed, almost every thing he had said or done came back upon her now--vividly, as we recall the words and looks of the dead--mingled with such a hungering pain, such a cruel "miss" of him, daily and hourly, his companionship, help, counsel, every thing she had lacked all her life, and never found but with him and from him. and he was gone, had broken his promise, had left her without a single farewell word. that he had cared for her, in some sort of way, she was certain; for he was one of those who never say a word too large--nay, he usually said much less than he felt. whatever he had felt for her--whether friendship, affection, love--must have been true. there was in his nature intense reserve, but no falseness, no insincerity, not an atom of pretense of any kind. if he did not love her, why not tell her so? what was there to hinder him? nothing, except that strange notion of the "dishonorableness" of asking a woman's love when one has nothing but love to give her in return. this, even, he had seemed at the last to have set aside, as if he could not go away without speaking. and yet he did it. perhaps he thought she did not care for him? he had once said a man ought to feel quite sure of a woman before he asked her. also, that he should never ask twice, since, if she did not know her own mind then, she never would know it, and such a woman was the worst possible bargain a man could make in marriage. not know her own mind! alas, poor soul, fortune knew it only too well. in that dreadful fortnight it was "borne in upon her," as pious people say, that though she felt kindly to all human beings, the one human being who was necessary to her--without whom her life might be busy, indeed, and useful, but never perfect, an endurance instead of joy--was this young man, as solitary as herself, as poor, as hard-working; good, gentle, brave robert roy. oh why had they not come together, heart to heart--just they two, so alone in the world--and ever after belonged to one another, even though it had been years and years before they were married? "if only he had love me, and told me so!" was her bitter cry. "i could have waited ever so hardly, and quite alone, if only i might have had a right to him, and been his comfort, as he was mine. but now--now--" yet still she waited, looking forward daily to that dreadful post hour; and when it had gone by, nerving herself to endure until tomorrow. at last hope, slowly dying, was killed outright. one day at tea-time the boys blurted out, with happy carelessness, their short-lived regrets for him being quite over, the news that mr. roy had sailed. "not for calcutta, but shanghai, a much longer voyage. he can't be heard of for a year at least, and it will be many years before he comes back. i wonder if he will come back rich. they say he will: quite a nabob, perhaps, and take a place in the highlands, and invite us all--you too, miss williams. i once asked him, and he said, 'of course.' stop, you are pouring my tea over into the saucer." this was the only error she made, but went on filling the cups with a steady hand, smiling and speaking mechanically, as people can sometimes. when the tea was quite over, she slipped away into her room, and was missing for a long time. so all was over. no more waiting for that vague "something to happen." nothing could happen now. he was far away across the seas, and she must just go back to her old monotonous life, as if it had never been any different--as if she had never seen his face nor heard his voice, never known the blessing of his companionship, friendship, love, whatever it was, or whatever he had meant it to be. no, he could not have loved her; or to have gone away would have been--she did not realize whether right or wrong--but simply impossible. once, wearying herself with helpless conjectures, a thought, sudden and sharp as steel, went through her heart. he was nearly thirty; few lives are thus long without some sort of love in them. perhaps he was already bound to some other woman, and finding himself drifting into too pleasant intimacy with herself, wished to draw back in time. such things had happened, sometimes almost blamelessly, though most miserably to all parties. but with him it was not likely to happen. he was too clear sighted, strong, and honest. he would never "drift" into anything. what he did would be done with a calm deliberate will, incapable of the slightest deception either toward others or himself. besides, he had at different times told her the whole story of his life, and there was no love in it; only work, hard work, poverty, courage, and endurance, like her own. "no, he could never have deceived me, neither me nor any one else," she often said to herself, almost joyfully, though the tears were running down. "what ever it was, it was not that. i am glad--glad. i had far rather believe he never loved me than that he had been false to another woman for my sake. and i believe in him still; i shall always believe in him. he is perfectly good, perfectly true. and so it does not much matter about me." i am afraid those young ladies who like plenty of lovers, who expect to be adored, and are vexed when they are not adored, and most nobly indignant when forsaken, will think very meanly of my poor fortune williams. they may console themselves by thinking she was not a young lady at all--only a woman. such women are not too common, but they exist occasionally. and they bear their cross and dree their weird (i.e., endure); but their lot, at any rate, only concerns themselves, and has one advantage, that it in no way injures the happiness of other people. humble as she was, she had her pride. if she wept, it was out of sight. if she wished herself dead, and a happy ghost, that by any means she might get near him, know where he was, and what he was doing, these dreams came only when her work was done, her boys asleep. day never betrayed the secrets of the night. she set to work every morning at her daily labors with a dogged persistence, never allowing herself a minute's idleness wherein to sit down and mourn. and when, despite her will, she could not conquer the fits of nervous irritability that came over her at times--when the children's innocent voices used to pierce her like needles, and their incessant questions and perpetual company were almost more than she could bear--still, even then, all she did was to run away and hide herself for a little, coming back with a pleasant face and a smooth temper. why should she scold them, poor lambs? they were all she had to love, or that loved her. and they did love her, with all their boyish hearts. one day, however--the day before they all left st. andrews for england, the two elder to go to school, and the younger ones to return with her to their maternal grand-mother in london--david said something which wounded her, vexed her, made her almost thankful to be going away. she was standing by the laurel bush, which somehow had for her a strange fascination, and her hand was on the letter-box which the boys and mr. roy had made. there was a childish pleasure in touching it or any thing he had touched. "i hope grandmamma won't take away that box," said archy. "she ought to keep it in memory of us and mr. roy. how cleverly he made it! wasn't he clever now, miss williams?" "yes," she answered and no more. "i've got a better letter-box than yours," said little davie, mysteriously. "shall i show it to you, miss williams? and perhaps," with a knowing look--the mischievous lad! and yet he was more loving and lovable than all the rest, mr. roy's favorite, and hers--"perhaps you might even find a letter in it. cook says she has seen you many a time watching for a letter from your sweetheart. who is he?" "i have none. tell cook she should not talk such nonsense to little boys," said the governess, gravely. but she felt hot from head to foot, and turning, walked slowly in-doors. she did not go near the laurel bush again. after that, she was almost glad to get away, among strange people and strange places, where robert roy's name had never been heard. the familiar places--hallowed as no other spot in this world, could ever be--passed out of sight, and in another week her six months' happy life at st. andrews had vanished, "like a dream when one awaketh." had she awaked? or was her daily, outside life to be henceforth the dream, and this the reality? chapter . what is a "wrecked" life? one which the waves of inexorable fate have beaten to pieces, or one that, like an unseaworthy ship, is ready to go down in any waters? what most destroy us? the things we might well blame ourselves for, only we seldom do, our follies, blunders, errors, not counting actual sins? or the things for which we can blame nobody but providence--if we dared--such as our losses and griefs, our sicknesses of body and mind, all those afflictions which we call "the visitation of god?" ay, and so they are, but not sent in wrath, or for ultimate evil. no amount of sorrow need make any human life harmful to man or unholy before god, as a discontented, unhappy life must needs be unholy in the sight of him who in the mysterious economy of the universe seems to have one absolute law--he wastes nothing. he modifies, transmutes, substitutes, re-applies material to new uses; but apparently by him nothing is ever really lost, nothing thrown away. therefore, i incline to believe, when i hear people talking of a "wrecked" existence, that whosoever is to blame, it is not providence. nobody could have applied the term to fortune williams, looking at her as she sat in the drawing-room window of a house at brighton, just where the gray of the esplanade meets the green of the downs--a ladies' boarding-school, where she had in her charge two pupils, left behind for the holidays, while the mistress took a few weeks' repose. she sat watching the sea, which was very beautiful, as even the brighton sea can be sometimes. her eyes were soft and calm; her hands were folded on her black silk dress, her pretty little tender-looking hands, unringed, for she was still miss williams, still a governess. but even at thirty-five--she had now reached that age, nay, passed it--she was not what you would call "old-maidish." perhaps because the motherly instinct, naturally very strong in her, had developed more and more. she was one of those governesses--the only sort who ought ever to attempt to be governesses--who really love children, ay, despite their naughtinesses and mischievousnesses and worrying ways; who feel that, after all, these little ones are "of the kingdom of heaven," and that the task of educating them for that kingdom somehow often brings us nearer to it ourselves. her heart, always tender to children, had gone out to them more and more every year, especially after that fatal year when a man took it and broke it. no, not broke it, but threw it carelessly away, wounding it so sorely that it never could be quite itself again. but it was a true and warm and womanly heart still. she had never heard of him--robert roy--never once, in any way, since that sunday afternoon when he said, "i will write tomorrow," and did not write, but let her drop from him altogether like a worthless thing. cruel, somewhat, even to a mere acquaintance--but to her? well, all was past and gone, and the tide of years had flowed over it. whatever it was, a mistake, a misfortune, or a wrong, nobody knew any thing about it. and the wound even was healed, in a sort of a way, and chiefly by the unconscious hands of these little "ministering angels," who were angels that never hurt her, except by blotting their copy-books or not learning their lessons. i know it may sound a ridiculous thing that a forlorn governess should be comforted for a lost love by the love of children; but it is true to nature. women's lives have successive phases, each following the other in natural gradation--maidenhood, wifehood, motherhood: in not one of which, ordinarily, we regret the one before it, to which it is nevertheless impossible to go back. but fortune's life had had none of these, excepting, perhaps, her one six months' dream of love and spring. that being over, she fell back upon autumn days and autumn pleasures--which are very real pleasures, after all. as she sat with the two little girls leaning against her lap--they were indian children, unaccustomed to tenderness, and had already grown very fond of her--there was a look in her face, not at all like an ancient maiden or a governess, but almost motherly. you see the like in the faces of the virgin mary, as the old monks used to paint her, quaint, and not always lovely, but never common or coarse, and spiritualized by a look of mingled tenderness and sorrow into something beyond all beauty. this woman's face had it, so that people who had known miss williams as a girl were astonished to find her, as a middle-aged woman, grown "so good-looking." to which one of her pupils once answered, naively, "it is because she looks so good." but this was after ten years and more. of the first half of those years the less that is said, the better. she did not live; she merely endured life. monotony without, a constant aching within--a restless gnawing want, a perpetual expectation, half hope, half fear; no human being could bear all this without being the worse for it, or the better. but the betterness came afterward, not first. sometimes her cravings to hear the smallest tidings of him, only if he were alive or dead, grew into such an agony that, had it not been for her entire helplessness in the matter, she might have tried some means of gaining information. but from his sudden change of plans, she was ignorant even of the name of the ship he had sailed by, the firm he had gone to. she could do absolutely nothing, and learn nothing. here was something like the "affliction of margaret," that poem of wordsworth's which, when her little pupils recited it--as they often did--made her ready to sob out loud from the pang of its piteous reality: "i look for ghosts, but none will force their way to me: 'tis falsely said that there was ever intercourse betwixt the living and the dead: for surely then i should have sight of him i wait for day and night with love and longings infinite." still, in the depth of her heart she did not believe robert roy was dead; for her finger was still empty of that ring--her mother's ring--which he had drawn off, promising its return "when he was dead or she was married." this implied that he never meant to lose sight of her. nor, indeed, had he wished it, would it have been very difficult to find her, these ten years having been spent entirely in one place, an obscure village in the south of england, where she had lived as governess--first in the squire's family, then the rector's. from the dalziel family, where, as she had said to mr. roy, she hoped to remain for years, she had drifted away almost immediately; within a few months. at christmas old mrs. dalziel had suddenly died; her son had returned home, sent his four boys to school in germany, and gone back again to india. there was now, for the first time for half a century, not a single dalziel left in st. andrews. but though all ties were broken connecting her with the dear old city, her boys still wrote to her now and then, and she to them, with a persistency for which her conscience smote her sometimes, knowing it was not wholly for their sakes. but they had never been near her, and she had little expectation of seeing any of them ever again, since by this time she had lived long enough to find out how easily people do drift asunder, and lose all clue to one another, unless some strong firm will or unconquerable habit of fidelity exists on one side or the other. since the dalziels she had only lived in the two families before named, and had been lately driven from the last one by a catastrophe, if it may be called so, which had been the bitterest drop in her cup since the time she left st. andrews. the rector--a widower, and a feeble, gentle invalid, to whom naturally she had been kind and tender, regarding him with much the same sort of motherly feeling as she had regarded his children--suddenly asked her to become their mother in reality. it was a great shock and a pang: almost a temptation; for they all loved her, and wished to keep her. she would have been such a blessing, such a brightness, in that dreary home. and to a woman no longer young, who had seen her youth pass without any brightness in it, god knows what an allurement it is to feel she has still the power of brightening other lives. if fortune had yielded--if she had said yes, and married the rector--it would have been hardly wonderful, scarcely blamable. nor would it have been the first time that a good, conscientious, tender-hearted woman has married a man for pure tenderness. but she did not do it; not even when they clung around her--those forlorn, half-educated, but affectionate girls--entreating her to "marry papa, and make us all happy." she could not--how could she? she felt very kindly to him. he had her sincere respect, almost affection; but when she looked into her own heart, she found there was not in it one atom of love, never had been, for any man alive except robert roy. while he was unmarried, for her to marry would be impossible. and so she had the wisdom and courage to say to herself, and to them all, "this can not be;" to put aside the cup of attainable happiness, which might never have proved real happiness, because founded on an insincerity. but the pain this cost was so great, the wrench of parting from her poor girls so cruel, that after it miss williams had a sharp illness, the first serious illness of her life. she struggled through it, quietly and alone, in one of those excellent "governesses' homes," where every body was very kind to her--some more than kind, affectionate. it was strange, she often thought, what an endless amount of affection followed her wherever she went. she was by no means one of those women who go about the world moaning that nobody loves them. every body loved her, and she knew it--every body whose love was worth having--except robert roy. still her mind never changed; not even when, in the weakness of illness, there would come vague dreams of that peaceful rectory, with its quiet rooms and green garden; of the gentle, kindly hearted father, and the two loving girls whom she could have made so happy, and perhaps won happiness herself in the doing of it. "i am a great fool, some people would say," thought she, with a sad smile; "perhaps rather worse. perhaps i am acting absolutely wrong in throwing away my chance of doing good. but i can not help it--i can not help it." so she kept to her resolution, writing the occasional notes she had promised to write to her poor forsaken girls, without saying a word of her illness; and when she grew better, though not strong enough to undertake a new situation, finding her money slipping away--though, with her good salaries and small wants, she was not poor, and had already begun to lay up for a lonely old age--she accepted this temporary home at miss maclachlan's, at brighton. was it--so strange are the under-currents which guide one's outward life--was it because she had found a curious charm in the old lady's scotch tongue, unheard for years? that the two little pupils were indian children, and that the house was at the seaside?--and she had never seen the sea since she left st. andrews. it was going back to the days of her youth to sit, as now, watching the sunshine glitter on the far-away ocean. the very smell of the sea-weed, the lap-lap of the little waves, brought back old recollections so vividly--old thoughts, some bitter, some sweet, but the sweetness generally over-coming the bitterness. "i have had all the joy that the world could bestow; i have lived--i have loved." so sings the poet, and truly. though to this woman love had brought not joy, but sorrow, still she had loved, and it had been the main-stay and stronghold of her life, even though to outsiders it might have appeared little better than a delusion, a dream. once, and by one only, her whole nature had been drawn out, her ideal of moral right entirely satisfied. and nothing had ever shattered this ideal. she clung to it, as we cling to the memory of our dead children, who are children forever. with a passionate fidelity she remembered all robert roy's goodness, his rare and noble qualities, resolutely shutting her eyes to what she might have judged severely, had it happened to another person--his total, unexplained, and inexplicable desertion of herself. it was utterly irreconcilable with all she had ever known of him; and being powerless to unravel it, she left it, just as we have to leave many a mystery in heaven and earth, with the humble cry, "i can not understand--i love." she loved him, that was all; and sometimes even yet, across that desert of despair, stretching before and behind her, came a wild hope, almost a conviction, that she would meet him again, somewhere, somehow. this day, even, when, after an hour's delicious idleness, she roused herself to take her little girls down to the beach, and sat on the shingle while they played, the sound and sights of the sea brought old times so vividly back that she could almost have fancied coming behind her the familiar step, the pleasant voice, as when mr. roy and his boys used to overtake her on the st. andrews shore--robert roy, a young man, with his life all before him, as was hers. now she was middle-aged, and he--he must be over forty by this time. how strange! stranger still that there had never occurred to her one possibility--that he "was not," that god had taken him. but this her heart absolutely refused to accept. so long as he was in it, the world would never be quite empty to her. afterward--but, as i said, there are some things which can not be faced and this was one of them. all else she had faced long ago. she did not grieve now. as she walked with her children, listening to their endless talk with that patient sympathy which made all children love her, and which she often found was a better help to their education than dozens of lessons, there was on her face that peaceful expression which is the greatest preservative of youth, the greatest antidote to change. and so it was no wonder that a tall lad, passing and re-passing on the esplanade with another youth, looked at her more than once with great curiosity, and advanced with hesitating politeness. "i beg your pardon, ma'am, if i mistake; but you are so like a lady i once knew, and am now looking for. are you miss williams?" "my name is williams, certainly; and you"--something in the curly light hair, the mischievous twinkle of the eye, struck her--"you can not be, it is scarcely possible--david dalziel?" "but, i am, though," cried the lad, shaking her hand as if he would shake it off. "and i call myself very clever to have remembered you, though i was such a little fellow when you left us, and i have only seen your photograph since. but you are not a bit altered--not one bit. and as i knew by your last letter to archy that you were at brighton, i thought i'd risk it and speak. hurra! how very jolly!" he had grown a handsome lad, the pretty wee davie, an honest-looking lad too, apparently, and she was glad to see him. from the dignity of his eighteen years and five feet ten of height, he looked down upon the governess, and patronized her quite tenderly--dismissing his friend and walking home with her, telling her on the way all his affairs and that of his family with the volubility of little david dalziel at st. andrews. "no, i've not forgotten st. andrews one bit, though i was so small. i remember poor old grannie, and her cottage, and the garden, and the links, and the golfing, and mr. roy. by-the-by, what has become of mr. roy?" the suddenness of the question, nay, the very sound of a name totally silent for so many years, made fortune's heart throb till its beating was actual pain. then came a sudden desperate hope, as she answered: "i can not tell. i have never heard any thing of him. have you?" "no--yet, let me see. i think archy once got a letter from him, a year or so after he went away; but we lost it somehow, and never answered it. we have never heard any thing since." miss williams sat down on one of the benches facing the sea, with a murmured excuse of being "tired." one of her little girls crept beside her, stealing a hand in hers. she held it fast, her own shook so; but gradually she grew quite herself again. "i have been ill," she explained, "and can not walk far. let us sit down here a little. you were speaking about mr. roy, david?" "yes. what a good fellow he was! we called him rob roy, i remember, but only behind his back. he was strict, but he was a jolly old soul for all that. i believe i should know him again any day, as i did you. but perhaps he is dead; people die pretty fast abroad, and ten years is a long time, isn't it?" "a long time. and you never got any more letters?" "no; or if they did come, they were lost, being directed probably to the care of poor old grannie, as ours was. we thought it so odd, after she was dead, you know." thus the boy chattered on--his tongue had not shortened with his increasing inches--and every idle word sank down deep in his old governess's heart. then it was only her whom robert roy had forsaken. he had written to his boys, probably would have gone on writing had they answered his letter. he was neither faithless nor forgetful. with an ingenuity that might have brought to any listener a smile or a tear, miss williams led the conversation round again till she could easily ask more concerning that one letter; but david, remembered little or nothing, except that it was dated from shanghai, for his brothers had had a discussion whether shanghai was in china or japan. then, boy-like, they had forgotten the whole matter. "yes, by this time every body had forgotten him," thought fortune to herself, when having bidden david good-by at her door and arranged to meet him again--he was on a visit at brighton before matriculating at oxford next term--she sat down in own room, with a strangely bewildered feeling. "mine, all mine," she said, and her heart closed itself over him, her old friend at least, if nothing more, with a tenacity of tenderness as silent as it was strong. from that day, though she saw, and was determined henceforward to see, as much as she could of young david dalziel, she never once spoke to him of mr. roy. still, to have the lad coming about her was a pleasure, a fond link with the past, and to talk to him about his future was a pleasure too. he was the one of all the four--mr. roy always said so--who had "brains" enough to become a real student; and instead of following the others to india, he was to go to oxford, and do his best there. his german education had left him few english friends. he was an affectionate, simple-hearted lad, and now that his mischievous days were done, was taking to thorough hard work. he attached himself to his old governess with an enthusiasm that a lad in his teens often conceives for a woman still young enough to be sympathetic, and intelligent enough to guide without ruling the errant fancy of that age. she, too, soon grew very fond of him. it made her strangely happy, this sudden rift of sunshine out of the never-forgotten heaven of her youth, now almost as far off as heaven itself. i have said she never spoke to david about mr. roy, nor did she; but sometimes he spoke, and then she listened. it seemed to cheer her for hours, only to hear that name. she grew stronger, gayer, younger. every body said how much good the sea was doing her, and so it was; but not exactly in the way people thought. the spell of silence upon her life had been broken, and though she knew all sensible persons would esteem her in this, as in that other matter, a great "fool," still she could not stifle a vague hope that some time or other her blank life might change. every little wave that swept in from the mysterious ocean, the ocean that lay between them two, seemed to carry a whispering message and lay it at her feet, "wait and be patient, wait and be patient." she did wait, and the message came at last. one day david dalziel called, on one of his favorite daily rides, and threw a newspaper down at her door, where she was standing. "an indian paper my mother has just sent. there's something in it that will interest you, and--" his horse galloped off with the unfinished sentence; and supposing it was something concerning his family, she put the paper in her pocket to read at leisure while she sat on the beach. she had almost forgotten it, as she watched the waves, full of that pleasant idleness and dreamy peace so new in her life, and which the sound of the sea so often brings to peaceful hearts, who have no dislike to its monotony, no dread of those solemn thoughts of infinitude, time and eternity, god and death and love, which it unconsciously gives, and which i think is the secret why some people say they have "such a horror of the sea-side." she had none; she loved it, for its sights and sounds were mixed up with all the happiness of her young days. she could have sat all this sunshiny morning on the beach doing absolutely nothing, had she not remembered david's newspaper; which, just to please him, she must look through. she did so, and in the corner, among the brief list of names in the obituary, she saw that of "roy." not himself, as she soon found, as soon as she could see to read, in the sudden blindness that came over her. not himself. only his child. "on christmas-day, at shanghai, aged three and a half years, isabella, the only and beloved daughter of robert and isabella roy." he was alive, then. that was her first thought, almost a joyful one, showing how deep had been her secret dread of the contrary. and he was married. his "only and beloved daughter?" oh! how beloved she could well understand. married, and a father; and his child was dead. many would think it strange (it would be in most women, but it was not in this woman) that the torrent of tears which burst forth, after her first few minutes of dry-eyed anguish, was less for herself, because he was married and he had lost him, than for him, because he had had a child and lost it--he who was so tender of heart, so fond of children. the thought of his grief brought such a consecration with it, that her grief--the grief most women might be expected to feel on reading suddenly in a newspaper that the man they loved was married to another--did not come. at least not at once. it did not burst upon her, as sorrow does sometimes, like a wild beast out of a jungle, slaying and devouring. she was not slain, not even stunned. after a few minutes it seemed to her as if it had happened long ago--as if she had always known it must happen, and was not astonished. his "only and beloved daughter!" the words sung themselves in and out of her brain, to the murmur of the sea. how he must have loved the child! she could almost see him with the little one in his arms, or watching over her bed, or standing beside her small coffin. three years and a half old! then he must have been married a good while--long and long after she had gone on thinking of him as no righteous woman ever can go on thinking of another woman's husband. one burning blush, one shiver from head to foot, one cry of piteous despair, which nobody heard but god--and she was not afraid of his hearing--and the struggle was over. she saw robert roy, with his child in his arms with his wife by his side, the same and yet a totally different man. she, too, when she rose up, and tried to walk, tried to feel that it was the same sea, the same shore, the same earth and sky, was a totally different woman. something was lost, something never to be retrieved on this side the grave, but also something was found. "he is alive," she said to herself, with the same strange joy; for now she knew where he was, and what had happened to him. the silence of all these years was broken, the dead had come to life again, and the lost, in a sense, was found. fortune williams rose up and walked, in more senses than one; went round to fetch her little girls, as she had promised, from that newly opened delight of children, the brighton aquarium; staid a little with them, admiring the fishes; and when she reached home, and found david dalziel in the drawing-room, met him and thanked him for bringing her the newspaper. "i suppose it was on account of that obituary notice of mr. roy's child," said she, calmly naming the name now. "what a sad thing! but still i am glad to know he is alive and well. so will you be. shall you write to him?" "well, i don't know," answered the lad, carelessly crumpling up the newspaper and throwing it on the fire. miss williams made a faint movement to snatch it out, then disguised the gesture in some way, and silently watched it burn. "i don't quite see the use of writing. he's a family man now, and must have forgotten all about his old friends. don't you think so?" "perhaps; only he was not the sort of person easily to forget." she could defend him now; she could speak of him, and did speak more than once afterward, when david referred to the matter. and then the lad quitted brighton for oxford, and she was left in her old loneliness. a loneliness which i will not speak of. she herself never referred to that time. after it, she roused herself to begin her life anew in a fresh home, to work hard, not only for daily bread but for that humble independence which she was determined to win before the dark hour when the most helpful become helpless, and the most independent are driven to fall a piteous burden into the charitable hands of friends or strangers--a thing to her so terrible that to save herself from the possibility of it, she who had never leaned upon any body, never had any body to lean on, became her one almost morbid desire. she had no dread of a solitary old age but an old age beholden to either public or private charity was to her intolerable; and she had now few years left her to work in--a governess's life wears women out very fast. she determined to begin to work again immediately, laying by as much as possible yearly against the days when she could work no more; consulted miss maclachlan, who was most kind; and then sought and was just about going to another situation, with the highest salary she had yet earned, when an utterly unexpected change altered every thing. chapter . the fly was already at the door, and miss williams, with her small luggage, would in five minutes have departed, followed by the good wishes of all the household, from miss maclachlan's school to her new situation, when the postman passed and left a letter for her. "i will put it in my pocket and read it in the train," she said, with a slight change of color. for she recognized the handwriting of that good man who had loved her, and whom she could not love. "better read it now. no time like the present," observed miss maclachlan. miss williams did so. as soon as she was fairly started and alone in the fly, she opened it, with hands slightly trembling, for she was touched by the persistence of the good rector, and his faithfulness to her, a poor governess, when he might have married, as they said in his neighborhood, "anybody." he would never marry any body now--he was dying. "i have come to feel how wrong i was," he wrote, "in ever trying to change our happy relations together. i have suffered for this--so have we all. but it is now too late for regret. my time has come. do not grieve yourself by imagining it has come the faster through any decision of yours, but by slow, inevitable disease, which the doctors have only lately discovered. nothing could have saved me. be satisfied that there is no cause for you to give yourself one moment's pain." (how she sobbed over those shaky lines, more even than over the newspaper lines which she had read that sun-shiny morning on the shore!) "remember only that you made me very happy--me and all mine--for years; that i loved you, as even at my age a man can love; as i shall love you to the end, which can not be very far off now. would you dislike coming to see me just once again? my girls will so very glad, and nobody knows any thing. besides, what matter? i am dying. come, if you can within a week or so; they tell me i may last thus long. and i want to consult with you about my children. therefore i will not say good-by now, only good-night, and god bless you." but it was good-by, after all. though she did not wait the week; indeed, she waited for nothing, considered nothing, except her gratitude to this good man--the only man who had loved her--and her affection for the two girls, who would soon be fatherless; though she sent a telegram from brighton to say she was coming, and arrived within twenty-four hours, still--she came too late. when she reached the village she heard that his sufferings were all over; and a few yards from his garden wall, in the shade of the church-yard lime-tree, the old sexton was busy re-opening, after fourteen years, the family grave, where he was to be laid beside his wife the day after to-morrow. his two daughters, sitting alone together in the melancholy house, heard miss williams enter, and ran to meet her. with a feeling of nearness and tenderness such as she had scarcely ever felt for any human being, she clasped them close, and let them weep their hearts out in her motherly arms. thus the current of her whole life was changed; for when mr. moseley's will was opened, it was found that, besides leaving miss williams a handsome legacy, carefully explained as being given "in gratitude for her care of his children," he had chosen her as their guardian, until they came of age or married, entreating her to reside with them, and desiring them to pay her all the respect due to "a near and dear relative." the tenderness with which he had arranged every thing, down to the minutest points, for them and herself, even amidst all his bodily sufferings, and in face of the supreme hour--which he had met, his daughters said, with a marvelous calmness, even joy--touched fortune as perhaps nothing had ever touched her in all her life before. when she stood with her two poor orphans beside their father's grave, and returned with them to the desolate house, vowing within herself to be too them, all but in name, the mother he had wished her to be, this sense of duty--the strange new duty which had suddenly come to fill her empty life--was so strong, that she forgot every thing else--even robert roy. and for months afterward--months of anxious business, involving the leaving of the rectory, and the taking of a temporary house in the village, until they could decide where finally to settle--miss williams had scarcely a moment or a thought to spare for any beyond the vivid present. past and future faded away together, except so far as concerned her girls. "whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might," were words which had helped her through many a dark time. now, with all her might, she did her motherly duty to the orphan girls; and as she did so, by-and-by she began strangely to enjoy it, and to find also not a little of motherly pride and pleasure in them. she had not time to think of herself at all, or of the great blow which had fallen, the great change which had come, rendering it impossible for her to let herself feel as she had used to feel, dream as she used to dream, for years and years past. that one pathetic line "i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin," burned itself into her heart, and needed nothing more. "my children! i must only love my children now," was her continual thought, and she believed she did so. it was not until spring came, healing the girls' grief as naturally as it covered their father's grave with violets and primroses, and making them cling a little less to home and her, a little more to the returning pleasures of their youth, for they were two pretty girls, well-born, with tolerable fortunes, and likely to be much sought after--not until the spring days left her much alone, did fortune's mind recur to an idea which had struck her once, and then been set aside--to write to robert roy. why should she not? just a few friendly lines, telling him how, after long years, she had seen his name in the papers; how sorry she was, and yet glad--glad to think he was alive and well, and married; how she sent all kindly wishes to his wife and himself, and so on. in short the sort of letter that any body might write or receive, whatever had been the previous link between them. and she wrote it on an april day, one of those first days of spring which make young hearts throb with a vague delight, a nameless hope; and older ones--but is there any age when hope is quite dead? i think not, even to those who know that the only spring that will ever come to them will dawn in the world everlasting. when her girls, entering, offered to post her letter, and miss williams answered gently that she would rather post it herself, as it required a foreign stamp, how little they guessed all that lay underneath, and how, over the first few lines, her hand had shaken so that she had to copy it three times. but the address, "robert roy, shanghai"--all she could put, but she had little doubt it would find him--was written with that firm, clear hand which he had so often admired, saying he wished she could teach his boys to write as well. would he recognize it? would he be glad or sorry, or only indifferent? had the world changed him? or, if she could look at him now, would he be the same robert roy--simple, true, sincere, and brave--every inch a man and a gentleman? for the instant the old misery came back; the sharp, sharp pain; but she smothered it down. his dead child, his living, unknown wife, came between, with their soft ghostly hands. he was still himself; she hoped absolutely unchanged; but he was hers no more. yet that strange yearning, the same which had impelled mr. moseley to write and say, "come and see me before i die," seemed impelling her to stretch a hand out across the seas--"have you forgotten me: i have never forgotten you." as she passed through the church-yard on her way to the village, and saw the rector's grave lie smiling in the evening sunshine, fortune thought what a strange lot hers had been. the man who had loved her, the man whom she had loved, were equally lost to her; equally dead and buried. and yet she lived still--her busy, active, and not unhappy life. it was god's will, all; and it was best. another six months went by, and she still remained in the same place, though talking daily of leaving. they began to go into society again, she and her girls, and to receive visitors now and then: among the rest, david dalziel, who had preserved his affectionate fidelity even when he went back to college, and had begun to discover somehow that the direct road from oxford to every where was through this secluded village. i am afraid miss williams was not as alive as she ought to have been to this fact, and to the other fact that helen and janetta were not quite children now, but she let the young people be happy, and was happy with them, after her fashion. still, hers was less happiness than peace; the deep peace which a storm-tossed vessel finds when kindly fate has towed it into harbor; with torn sails and broken masts, maybe, but still safe, never needing to go to sea any more. she had come to that point in life when we cease to be "afraid of evil tidings," since nothing is likely to happen to us beyond what has happened. she told herself that she did not look forward to the answer from shanghai, if indeed any came; nevertheless, she had ascertained what time the return mail would be likely to bring it. and, almost punctual to the day, a letter arrived with the postmark, "shanghai." not his letter, nor his handwriting at all. and, besides, it was addressed to "_mrs._ williams." a shudder of fear, the only fear which could strike her now--that he might be dead--made fortune stand irresolute a moment, then go up to her own room before she opened it. "madam,--i beg to apologize for having read nearly through your letter before comprehending that it was not meant for me, but probably for another mr. robert roy, who left this place not long after i came here, and between whom and myself some confusion arose, till we became intimate, and discovered that we were most likely distant, very distant cousins. he came from st. andrews, and was head clerk in a firm here, doing a very good business in tea and silk, until they mixed themselves up in the opium trade, which mr. roy, with one or two more of our community here, thought so objectionable that at last he threw up his situation and determined to seek his fortunes in australia. it was a pity, for he was in a good way to get on rapidly, but everybody who knew him agreed it was just the sort of thing he was sure to do, and some respected him highly for doing it. he was indeed what we scotch call 'weel respeckit' wherever he went. but he was a reserved man; made few intimate friends, though those he did make were warmly attached to him. my family were; and though it is now five years since we have heard anything of or from him, we remember him still." five years! the letter dropped from her hands. lost and found, yet found and lost. what might not have happened to him in five years? but she read on, dry-eyed: women do not weep very much or very easily at her age. "i will do my utmost, madam, that your letter shall reach the hands for which i am sure it was intended; but that may take some time, my only clue to mr. roy's whereabouts being the branch house at melbourne. i can not think he is dead, because such tidings pass rapidly from one to another in our colonial communities, and he was too much beloved for his death to excite no concern. "i make this long explanation because it strikes me you may be a lady, a friend or relative of mr. roy's, concerning whom he employed me to make some inquiries, only you say so very little--absolutely nothing--of yourself in your letter, that i can not be at all certain if you are the same person. she was a governess in a family named dalziel, living at st. andrews. he said he had written to that family repeatedly, but got no answer, and then asked me, if any thing resulted from my inquiries, to write to him to the care of our melbourne house. but no news ever came, and i never wrote to him, for which my wife still blames me exceedingly. she thanks you, dear madam, for the kind things you say about our poor child, though meant for another person. we have seven boys, but little bell was our youngest, and our hearts' delight. she died after six hours' illness. "again begging you to pardon my unconscious offense in reading a stranger's letter, and the length of this one, i remain your very obedient servant, r. roy "p.s.--i ought to say that this mr. robert roy seemed between thirty-five and forty, tall, dark-haired, walked with a slight stoop. he had, i believe, no near relatives whatever, and i never heard of his having been married." unquestionably miss williams did well in retiring to her chamber and locking the door before she opened the letter. it is a mistake to suppose that at thirty-five or forty--or what age?--women cease to feel. i once was walking with an old maiden lady, talking of a character in a book. "he reminded me," she said, "of the very best man i ever knew, whom i saw a good deal of when i was a girl." and to the natural question, was he alive, she answered, "no; he died while he was still young." her voice kept its ordinary tone, but there came a slight flush on the cheek, a sudden quiver over the whole withered face--she was some years past seventy--and i felt i could not say another word. nor shall i say a word now of fortune williams, when she had read through and wholly taken in the contents of this letter. life began for her again--life on a new and yet on the old basis; for it was still waiting, waiting--she seemed to be among those whose lot it is to "stand and wait" all their days. but it was not now in the absolute darkness and silence which it used to be. she knew that in all human probability robert roy was alive still some where, and hope never could wholly die out of the world so long as he was in it. his career, too, if not prosperous in worldly things, had been one to make any heart that loved him content--content and proud. for if he had failed in his fortunes, was it not from doing what she would most have wished him to do--the right, at all costs? nor had he quite forgotten her, since even so late as five years back he had been making inquiries about her. also, he was then unmarried. but human nature is weak, and human hearts are so hungry sometimes. "oh, if he had only loved me, and told me so!" she said, sometimes, as piteously as fifteen years ago. but the tears which followed were not, as then, a storm of passionate despair--only a quiet sorrowful rain. for what could she do? nothing. now as ever, her part seemed just to fold her hands and endure. if alive, he might be found some day; but now she could not find him--oh, if she could! had she been the man and he the woman--nay, had she been still herself, a poor lonely governess, having to earn every crumb of her own bitter bread, yet knowing that he loved her, might not things have been different? had she belonged to him, they would never have lost one another. she would have sought him, as evangeline sought gabriel, half the world over. and little did her two girls imagine, as they called her down stairs that night, secretly wondering what important business could make "auntie" keep tea waiting fully five minutes, and set her after tea to read some "pretty poetry," especially longfellow's, which they had a fancy for--little did they think, those two happy creatures, listening to their middle-aged governess, who read so well that sometimes her voice actually faltered over the line, how there was being transacted under their very eyes a story which in its "constant anguish of patience" was scarcely less pathetic than that of acadia. for nearly a year after that letter came the little family of which miss williams was the head went on in its innocent quiet way, always planning, yet never making a change, until at last fate drove them to it. neither helen nor janetta were very healthy girls, and at last a london doctor gave as his absolute fiat that they must cease to live in their warm inland village, and migrate, for some years at any rate, to a bracing sea-side place. whereupon david dalziel, who had somehow established himself as the one masculine adviser of the family, suggested st. andrews. bracing enough it was, at any rate: he remembered the winds used almost cut his nose off. and it was such a nice place too, so pretty, with such excellent society. he was sure the young ladies would find it delightful. did miss williams remember the walk by the shore, and the golfing across the links? "quite as well as you could have done, at the early age of seven," she suggested, smiling. "why are you so very anxious we should go to live at st. andrews?" the young fellow blushed all over his kindly eager face, and then frankly owned he had a motive. his grandmother's cottage, which she had left him, the youngest and her pet always, was now unlet. he meant, perhaps, to go and live at it himself when--he was of age and could afford it; but in the mean time he was a poor solitary bachelor, and--and-- "and you would like me to keep your nest warm for you till you can claim it? you want us for your tenants, eh, davie?" "just that. you've hit it. couldn't wish better. in fact, i have already written to my trustees to drive the hardest bargain possible." which was an ingenious modification of the truth, as she afterward found; but evidently the lad had set his heart upon the thing. and she? at first she shrank back from the plan with a shiver almost of fear. it was like having to meet face to face something--some one--long dead. to walk among the old familiar places, to see the old familiar sea and shore, nay, to live in the very same house, haunted, as houses are sometimes, every room and every nook, with ghosts--yet with such innocent ghosts--could she bear it? there are some people who have an actual terror of the past--who the moment a thing ceases to be pleasurable fly from it, would willingly bury it out of sight forever. but others have no fear of their harmless dead--dead hopes, memories, loves--can sit by a grave-side, or look behind them at a dim spectral shape, without grief, without dread, only with tenderness. this woman could. after a long wakeful night, spent in very serious thought for every one's good, not excluding her own--since there is a certain point beyond which one has no right to forget one's self, and perpetual martyrs rarely make very pleasant heads of families--she said to her girls next morning that she thought david dalziel's brilliant idea had a great deal of sense in it; st. andrews was a very nice place, and the cottage there would exactly suit their finances, while the tenure upon which he proposed they should hold it (from term to term) would also fit in with their undecided future; because, as all knew, wherever helen or janetta married, each would take her fortune and go, leaving miss williams with her little legacy, above want certainly, but not exactly a millionaire. these and other points she set before them in her practical fashion, just as if her heart did not leap--sometimes with pleasure, sometimes with pain--at the very thought of st. andrews, and as if to see herself sit daily and hourly face to face with her old self, the ghost of her own youth, would be a quite easy thing. the girls were delighted. they left all to auntie, as was their habit to do. burdens naturally fall upon the shoulders fitted for them, and which seem even to have a faculty for drawing them down there. miss williams's new duties had developed in her a whole range of new qualities, dormant during her governess life. nobody knew better than she how to manage a house and guide a family. the girls soon felt that auntie might have been a mother all her days, she was so thoroughly motherly and they gave up every thing into her hands. so the whole matter was settled, david rejoicing exceedingly, and considering it "jolly fun," and quite like a bit out of a play, that his former governess should come back as his tenant, and inhabit the old familiar cottage. "and i'll take a run over to see you as soon as the long vacation begins, just to teach the young ladies golfing. mr. roy taught all us boys, you know; and we'll take that very walk he used to take us, across the links and along the sands to the eden. wasn't it the river eden, miss williams? i am sure i remember it. i think i am very good at remembering." other people were also "good at remembering." during the first few weeks after they settled down at st. andrews the girls noticed that auntie became excessively pale, and was sometimes quite "distrait" and bewildered-looking, which was little wonder, considering all she had to do and arrange. but she got better in time. the cottage was so sweet, the sea so fresh, the whole place so charming. slowly, miss williams's ordinary looks returned--the "good" looks which her girls so energetically protested she had now, if never before. they never allowed her to confess herself old by caps or shawls, or any of those pretty temporary hindrances to the march of time. she resisted not; she let them dress her as they please, in a reasonable way, for she felt they loved her; and as to her age, why, _she_ knew it, and knew that nothing could alter it, so what did it matter? she smiled, and tried to look as nice and as young as she could for her girls' sake. i suppose there are such things as broken or breaking hearts, even at st. andrews, but it is certainly not a likely place for them. they have little chance against the fresh, exhilarating air, strong as new wine; the wild sea waves, the soothing sands, giving with health of body wholesomeness of mind. by-and-by the busy world recovered its old face to fortune williams--not the world as she once dreamed of it, but the real world, as she had fought it through it all these years. "i was ever a fighter, so one fight more!" as she read sometimes in the "pretty" poetry her girls were always asking for--read steadily, even when she came to the last verse in that passionate "prospice:" "till, sudden, the worst turns the best to the brave, the black minute's at end: and the elements rage, the fiend voices that rave shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy, then a light--then thy breast, o thou soul of my soul! i shall clasp thee again, and with god be the rest!" to that life to come, during all the burden and heat of the day (no, the afternoon, a time, faded, yet hot and busy still, which is often a very trying bit of woman's life) she now began yearningly to look. to meet him again, even in old age, or with death between, was her only desire. yet she did her duty still, and enjoyed all she could, knowing that one by one the years were hurrying onward, and the night coming, "in which no man can work." faithful to his promise, about the middle of july david dalziel appeared, in overflowing spirits, having done very well at college. he was such a boy still, in character and behavior; though--as he carefully informed the family--now twenty-one and a man, expecting to be treated as such. he was their landlord too, and drew up the agreement in his own name, meaning to be a lawyer, and having enough to live on--something better than bread and salt--"till i can earn a fortune, as i certainly mean to do some day." and he looked at janetta, who looked down on the parlor carpet--as young people will. alas! i fear that the eyes of her anxious friend and governess were not half wide enough open to the fact that these young folk were no longer boy and girls, and that things might happen--in fact, were almost certain to happen--which had happened to herself in her youth--making life not quite easy to her, as it seemed to be to these two bright girls. yet they were so bright, and their relations with david dalziel were so frank and free--in fact, the young fellow himself was such a thoroughly good fellow, so very difficult to shut her door against, even if she had thought of so doing. but she did not. she let him come and go, "miserable bachelor" as he proclaimed himself, with all his kith and kin across the seas, and cast not a thought to the future, or to the sad necessity which sometimes occurs to parents and guardians--of shutting the stable door _after_ the steed is stolen. especially, as not long after david appeared, there happened a certain thing to all but her, and yet to her it was, for the time being, utterly overwhelming. it absorbed all her thoughts into one maddened channel, where they writhed and raved and dashed themselves blindly against inevitable fate. for the first time in her life this patient woman felt as if endurance were _not_ the right thing; as if wild shrieks of pain, bitter outcries against providence, would be somehow easier, better: might reach his throne, so that even now he might listen and hear. the thing was this. one day, waiting for some one beside the laurel bush at her gate--the old familiar bush, though it had grown and grown till its branches, which used to drag on the gravel, now covered the path entirely--she overheard david explaining to janetta how he and his brothers and mr. roy had made the wooden letter-box, which actually existed still, though in very ruinous condition. "and no wonder, after fifteen years and more. it is fully that old, isn't it miss williams? you will have to superannuate it shortly, and return to the old original letter-box--my letter-box, which i remember so well. i do believe i could find it still." kneeling down, he thrust his hand through the thick barricade of leaves into the very heart of the tree. "i've found it; i declare i've found it; the identical hole in the trunk where i used to put all my treasures--my 'magpie's nest,' as they called it, where i hid every thing i could find. what a mischievous young scamp i was!" "very," said miss williams, affectionately, laying a gentle hand on his curls--"pretty" still, though cropped down to the frightful modern fashion. secretly she was rather proud of him, this tall young fellow, whom she had had on her lap many a time. "curious! it all comes back to me--even to the very last thing i hid here, the day before we left, which was a letter." "a letter!"--miss williams slightly started--"what letter?" "one i found lying under the laurel bush, quite hidden by its leaves. it was all soaked with rain. i dried it in the sun, and then put it in my letter-box, telling nobody, for i meant to deliver it myself at the hall door with a loud ring--an english postman's ring. our scotch one used to blow his horn, you remember?" "yes," said miss williams. she was leaning against the fatal bush, pale to the very lips, but her veil was down--nobody saw. "what sort of a letter was it, david? who was it to? did you notice the handwriting?" "why, i was such a little fellow," and he looked up in wonder and slight concern, "how could i remember? some letter that somebody had dropped, perhaps, in taking the rest out of the box. it could not matter--certainly not now. you would not bring my youthful misdeeds up against me, would you?" and he turned up a half-comical, half-pitiful face. fortune's first impulse--what was it? she hardly knew. but her second was that safest, easiest thing--now grown into the habit and refuge of her whole life--silence. "no, it certainly does not matter now." a deadly sickness came over her. what if this letter were robert roy's, asking her that question which he said no man ought ever to ask a woman twice? and she had never seen it--never answered it. so, of course, he went away. her whole life--nay, two whole lives--had been destroyed, and by a mere accident, the aimless mischief of a child's innocent hand. she could never prove it, but it might have been so. and, alas! alas! god, the merciful god, had allowed it to be so. which is the worst, to wake up suddenly and find that our life has been wrecked by our own folly, mistake, or sin, or that it has been done for us either directly by the hand of providence, or indirectly through some innocent--nay, possibly not innocent, but intentional--hand? in both cases the agony is equally sharp--the sharper because irremediable. all these thoughts, vivid as lightning, and as rapid, darted through poor fortune's brain during the few moments that she stood with her hand on david's shoulder, while he drew from his magpie's nest a heterogeneous mass of rubbish--pebbles, snail shells, bits of glass and china, fragments even of broken toys. "just look there. what ghosts of my childhood, as people would say! dead and buried, though." and he laughed merrily--he in the full tide and glory of his youth. fortune williams looked down on his happy face. this lad that really loved her would not have hurt her for the world, and her determination was made. he should never know any thing. nobody should ever know any thing. the "dead and buried" of fifteen years ago must be dead and buried forever. "david," she said, "just out of curiosity, put your hand down to the very bottom of that hole, and see if you can fish up the mysterious letter." then she waited, just as one would wait at the edge of some long-closed grave to see if the dead could possibly be claimed as our dead, even if but a handful of unhonored bones. no, it was not possible. nobody could expect it after such a lapse of time. something david pulled out--it might be paper, it might be rags. it was too dry to be moss or earth, but no one could have recognized it as a letter. "give it me," said miss williams, holding out her hand. david put the little heap of "rubbish" therein. she regarded it a moment, and then scattered it on the gravel--"dust to dust," as we say in our funeral service. but she said nothing. at the moment the young people they were waiting for came, to the other side of the gate, clubs in hand. david and the two miss moseleys had by this time become perfectly mad for golf, as is the fashion of the place. the proceeded across the links, miss williams accompanying them, as in duty bound. but she said she was "rather tired," and leaving them in charge of another chaperon--if chaperons are ever wanted or needed in those merry links of st. andrews--came home alone. chapter "shall sharpest pathos blight us, doing no wrong?" so writes our greatest living poet, in one of the noblest poems he ever penned. and he speaks truth. the real canker of human existence is not misery, but sin. after the first cruel pang, the bitter wail; after her lost life--and we have here but one life to lose!--her lost happiness, for she knew now that though she might be very peaceful, very content, no real happiness ever had come, ever could come to her in this world, except robert roy's love--after this, fortune sat down, folded her hands, and bowed her head to the waves of sorrow that kept sweeping over her, not for one day or two days, but for many days and weeks--the anguish, not of patience, but regret--sharp, stinging, helpless regret. they came rolling in, those remorseless billows, just like the long breakers on the sands of st. andrews. hopeless to resist, she could only crouch down and let them pass. "all thy waves have gone over me." of course this is spoken metaphorically. outwardly, miss williams neither sat still nor folded her hands. she was seen every where as usual, her own proper self, as the world knew it; but underneath all that was the self that she knew, and god knew. no one else. no one ever could have known, except robert roy, had things been different from what they were--from what god had apparently willed them to be. a sense of inevitable fate came over her. it was now nearly two years since that letter from mr. roy of shanghai, and no more tidings had reached her. she began to think none ever would reach her now. she ceased to hope or to fear, but let herself drift on, accepting the small pale pleasures of every day, and never omitting one of its duties. one only thought remained; which, contrasted with the darkness of all else, often gleamed out as an actual joy. if the lost letter really was robert roy's--and though she had no positive proof, she had the strongest conviction, remembering the thick fog of that tuesday morning, how easily archy might have dropped it out of his hand, and how, during those days of soaking rain, it might have lain, unobserved by any one, under the laurel branches, till the child picked it up and hid it as he said--if robert roy lad written to her, written in any way, he was at least not faithless. and he might have loved her then. afterward, he might have married, or died; she might never find him again in this world, or if she found him, he might be totally changed: still, whatever happened, he had loved her. the fact remained. no power in earth or heaven could alter it. and sometimes, even yet, a half-superstitious feeling came over her that all this was not for nothing--the impulse which had impelled her to write to shanghai, the other impulse, or concatenation of circumstances, which had floated her, after so many changes, back to the old place, the old life. it looked like chance, but was it? is any thing chance? does not our own will, soon or late, accomplish for us what we desire? that is, when we try to reconcile it to the will of god. she had accepted his will all these years, seeing no reason for it; often feeling it very hard and cruel, but still accepting it. and now? i am writing no sensational story. in it are no grand dramatic points; no _deus ex machina_ appears to make all smooth; every event--if it can boast of aught so large as an event--follows the other in perfectly natural succession. for i have always noticed that in life there are rarely any startling "effects," but gradual evolutions. nothing happens by accident; and, the premises once granted, nothing happens but what was quite sure to happen, following those premises. we novelists do not "make up" our stories; they make themselves. nor do human beings invent their own lives; they do but use up the materials given to them--some well, some ill; some wisely, some foolishly; but, in the main, the dictum of the preacher is not far from the truth, "all things come alike to all." a whole winter had passed by, and the spring twilights were beginning to lengthen, tempting miss williams and her girls to linger another half hour before they lit the lamp for the evening. they were doing so, cozily chatting over the fire, after the fashion of a purely feminine household, when there was a sudden announcement that a gentleman, with two little boys, wanted to see miss williams. he declined to give his name, and said he would not detain her more than a few minutes. "let him come in here," fortune was just about to say, when she reflected that it might be some law business which concerned her girls, whom she had grown so tenderly anxious to save from any trouble and protect from every care. "no, i will go and speak to him myself." she rose and walked quietly into the parlor, already shadowed into twilight: a neat, compact little person, dressed in soft gray homespun, with a pale pink bow on her throat, and another in her cap--a pretty little fabric of lace and cambric, which, being now the fashion, her girls had at last condescended to let her wear. she had on a black silk apron, with pockets, into one of which she had hastily thrust her work, and her thimble was yet on her finger. this was the figure on which the eyes of the gentleman rested as he turned around. miss williams lifted her eyes inquiringly to his face--a bearded face, thin and dark. "i beg your pardon, i have not the pleasure of knowing you; i--" she suddenly stopped. something in the height, the turn of the head, the crisp dark hair, in which were not more than a few threads of gray, while hers had so many now, reminded her of--someone, the bare thought of whom made her feel dizzy and blind. "no," he said, "i did not expect you would know me; and indeed, until i saw you, i was not sure you were the right miss williams. possibly you may remember my name--roy, robert roy." faces alter, manners, gestures; but the one thing which never changes is a voice. had fortune heard this one--ay, at her last dying hour, when all worldly sounds were fading away--she would have recognized it at once. the room being full of shadow, no one could see any thing distinctly; and it was as well. in another minute, she had risen, and held out her hand. "i am very glad to see you, mr. roy. how long have you been in england? are these your little boys?" without answering, he took her hand--a quiet friendly grasp, just as it used to be. and so, without another word, the gulf of fifteen--seventeen years was overleaped, and robert roy and fortune williams had met once more. if anybody had told her when she rose that morning what would happen before night, and happen so naturally, too, she would have said it was impossible. that, after a very few minutes, she could have sat there, talking to him as to any ordinary acquaintance, seemed incredible, yet it was truly so. "i was in great doubts whether the miss williams who, they told me, lived here was yourself or some other lady; but i thought i would take the chance. because, were it yourself, i thought, for the sake of old times, you might be willing to advise me concerning my two little boys, whom i have brought to st. andrews for their education." "your sons, are they?" "no. i am not married." there was a pause, and then he told the little fellows to go and look out of the window, while he talked with miss williams. he spoke to them in a fatherly tone; there was nothing whatever of the young man left in him now. his voice was sweet, his manner grave, his whole appearance unquestionably "middle-aged." "they are orphans. their name is roy, though they are not my relatives, or so distant that it matters nothing. but their father was a very good friend of mine, which matters a great deal. he died suddenly, and his wife soon after, leaving their affairs in great confusion. hearing this, far up in the australian bush, where i have been a sheep-farmer for some years, i came round by shanghai, but too late to do more than take these younger boys and bring them home. the rest of the family are disposed of. these two will be henceforward mine. that is all." a very little "all", and wholly about other people; scarcely a word about himself. yet he seemed to think it sufficient, and as if she had no possible interest in hearing more. cursorily he mentioned having received her letter, which was "friendly and kind;" that it had followed him to australia, and then back to shanghai. but his return home seemed to have been entirely without reference to it--or to her. so she let all pass, and accepted things as they were. it was enough. when a ship-wrecked man sees land--ever so barren a land, ever so desolate a shore--he does not argue within himself, "is this my haven?" he simply puts into it, and lets himself be drifted ashore. it took but a few minutes more to explain further what mr. roy wanted--a home for his two "poor little fellows." "they are so young still--and they have lost their mother. they would do very well in their classes here, if some kind woman would take them and look after them. i felt, if the miss williams i heard of were really the miss williams i used to know, i could trust them to her, more than to any woman i ever knew." "thank you." and then she explained that she had already two girls in charge. she could say nothing till she had consulted them. in the mean time-- just then the bell sounded. the world was going on just as usual--this strange, commonplace, busy, regardless world! "i beg your pardon for intruding on your time so long," said mr. roy, rising. "i will leave you to consider the question, and you will let me know as soon as you can. i am staying at the hotel here, and shall remain until i can leave my boys settled. good evening." again she felt the grasp of the hand: that ghostly touch, so vivid in dreams for these years, and now a warm living reality. it was too much. she could not bear it. "if you would care to stay," she said--and though it was too dark to see her, he must have heard the faint tremble in her voice--"our tea is ready. let me introduce you to my girls, and they can make friends with your little boys." the matter was soon settled, and the little party ushered into the bright warm parlor, glittering with all the appendages of that pleasant meal--essentially feminine--a "hungry" tea. robert roy put his hand over his eyes as if the light dazzled him, and then sat down in the arm-chair which miss williams brought forward, turning as he did so to look up at her--right in her face--with his grave, soft, earnest eyes. "thank you. how like that was to your old ways! how very little you are changed!" this was the only reference he made, in the slightest degree, to former times. and she? she went out of the room, ostensibly to get a pot of guava jelly for the boys--found it after some search, and then sat down. only in her store closet, with her house-keeping things all about her. but it was a quiet place, and the door was shut. there is, in one of those infinitely pathetic old testament stories, a sentence--"and he sought where to weep: and he entered into his chamber and wept there." she did not weep, this woman, not a young woman now: she only tried during her few minutes of solitude to gather up her thoughts, to realize what had happened to her, and who it was that sat in the next room--under her roof--at her very fireside. then she clasped her hands with a sudden sob, wild as any of the emotions of her girlhood. "oh, my love, my love, the love of all my life! thank god!" the evening passed, not very merrily, but peacefully; the girls, who had heard a good deal of mr. roy from david dalziel, doing their best to be courteous to him, and to amuse his shy little boys. he did not stay long, evidently having a morbid dread of "intruding," and his manner was exceedingly reserved, almost awkward sometimes, of which he seemed painfully conscious, apologizing for being "unaccustomed to civilization and to ladies' society," having during his life in the bush sometimes passed months at a time without ever seeing a woman's face. "and women are your only civilizers," said he. "that is why i wish my motherless lads to be taken into this household of yours, miss williams, which looks so--so comfortable," and he glanced round the pretty parlor with something very like a sigh. "i hope you will consider the matter, and let me know as soon as you have made up your mind." "which i will do very soon," she answered. "yes, i know you will. and your decision once made, you never change." "very seldom. i am not one of those who are 'given to change.'" "nor i." he stood a moment, lingering in the pleasant, lightsome warmth, as if loath to quit it, then took his little boys in either hand and went away. there was a grand consultation that night, for miss williams never did any thing without speaking to her girls; but still it was merely nominal. they always left the decision to her. and her heart yearned over the two little roys, orphans, yet children still; while helen and janetta were growing up and needing very little from her except a general motherly supervision. besides, _he_ asked it. he had said distinctly that she was the only woman to whom he could thoroughly trust his boys. so--she took them. after a few days the new state of things grew so familiar that it seemed as if it had lasted for months, the young roys going to and fro to their classes and their golf-playing, just as the young dalziels had done; and mr. roy coming about the house, almost daily, exactly as robert roy had used to do of old. sometimes it was to fortune williams the strangest reflex of former times; only--with a difference. unquestionably he was very much changed. in outward appearance more even than the time accounted for. no man can knock about the world, in different lands and climates, for seventeen years, without bearing the marks of it. though still under fifty, he had all the air of an "elderly" man, and had grown a little "peculiar" in his ways, his modes of thought and speech--except that he spoke so very little. he accounted for this by his long lonely life in australia, which had produced, he said, an almost unconquerable habit of silence. altogether, he was far more of an old bachelor than she was of an old maid, and fortune felt this: felt, too, that in spite of her gray hairs she was in reality quite as young as he--nay, sometimes younger; for her innocent, simple, shut-up life had kept her young. and he, what had his life been, in so far as he gradually betrayed it? restless, struggling; a perpetual battle with the world; having to hold his own, and fight his way inch by inch--he who was naturally a born student, to whom the whirl of a business career was especially obnoxious. what had made him choose it? once chosen, probably he could not help himself; besides, he was not one to put his shoulder to the wheel and then draw back. evidently, with the grain or against the grain, he had gone on with it; this sad, strange, wandering life, until he had "made his fortune," for he told her so. but he said no more; whether he meant to stay at home and spend it, or go out again to the antipodes (and he spoke of those far lands without any distaste, even with a lingering kindliness, for indeed he seemed to have no unkindly thought of any place or person in all the world), his friend did not know. his friend. that was the word. no other. after her first outburst of uncontrollable emotion, to call robert roy her "love," even in fancy, or to expect that he would deport himself in any lover-like way, became ridiculous, pathetically ridiculous. she was sure of that. evidently no idea of the kind entered his mind. she was miss williams, and he was mr. roy--two middle-aged people, each with their different responsibilities, their altogether separate lives; and, hard as her own had been, it seemed as if his had been the harder of the two--ay, though he was now a rich man, and she still little better than a poor governess. she did not think very much of worldly things, but still she was aware of this fact--that he was rich and she was poor. she did not suffer herself to dwell upon it, but the consciousness was there, sustained with a certain feeling called "proper pride." the conviction was forced upon her in the very first days of mr. roy's return--that to go back to the days of their youth was as impossible as to find primroses in september. if, indeed, there were any thing to go back to. sometimes she felt, if she could only have found out that, all the rest would be easy, painless. if she could only have said to him, "did you write me the letter you promised? did you _ever_ love me"? but that one question was, of course, utterly impossible. he made no reference whatever to old things, but seemed resolved to take up the present a very peaceful and happy present it soon grew to be--just as if there were no past at all. so perforce did she. but, as i think i have said once before, human nature is weak, and there were days when the leaves were budding, and the birds singing in the trees, when the sun was shining and the waves rolling in upon the sands, just as they rolled in that morning over those two lines of foot-marks, which might have walked together through life; and who knows what mutual strength, help, and comfort this might have proved to both?--then it was, for one at least, rather hard. especially when, bit by bit, strange ghostly fragments of his old self began to re-appear in robert roy: his keen delight in nature, his love of botanical or geological excursions. often he would go wandering down the familiar shore for hours in search of marine animals for the girls' aquarium, and then would come and sit down at their tea-table, reading or talking, so like the robert roy of old that one of the little group, who always crept in the background, felt dizzy and strange, as if all her later years had been a dream, and she were living her youth over again, only with the difference aforesaid: a difference sharp as that between death and life--yet with something of the peace of death in it. sometimes, when they met at the innocent little tea parties which st. andrews began to give--for of course in that small community every body knew every body, and all their affairs to boot, often a good deal better than they did themselves, so that there was great excitement and no end of speculation over mr. roy--sometimes meeting, as they were sure to do, and walking home together, with the moonlight shining down the empty streets, and the stars out by myriads over the silent distant sea, while the nearer tide came washing in upon the sands--all was so like, so frightfully like, old times that it was very sore to bear. but, as i have said, miss williams was miss williams, and mr. roy mr. roy, and there were her two girls always besides them; also his two boys, who soon took to "auntie" as naturally as if they were really hers, or she theirs. "i think they had better call you so, as the others do," said mr. roy one day. "are these young ladies really related to you?" "no; but i promised their father on his death-bed to take charge of them. that is all." "he is dead, then. was he a great friend of yours?" she felt the blood flashing all over her face, but she answered, steadily: "not a very intimate friend, but i respected him exceedingly. he was a good man. his daughters had a heavy loss when he died, and i am glad to be a comfort to them so long as they need me." "i have no doubt of it." this was the only question he ever asked her concerning her past life, though, by slow degrees, he told her a good deal of his own. enough to make her quite certain, even if her keen feminine instinct had not already divined the fact, that whatever there might have been in it of suffering, there was nothing in the smallest degree either to be ashamed of or to hide. what robert roy of shanghai had written about him had continued true. as he said one day to her, "we never stand still. we either grow better or worse. you have not grown worse." nor had he. all that was good in him had developed, all his little faults had toned down. the robert roy of today was slightly different from, but in no wise inferior to, the robert roy of her youth. she saw it, and rejoiced in the seeing. what he saw in her she could not tell. he seemed determined to rest wholly in the present, and take out of it all the peace and pleasantness that he could. in the old days, when the dalziel boys were naughty, and mrs. dalziel tiresome; and work was hard, and holidays were few, and life was altogether the rough road that it often seems to the young, he had once called her "pleasantness and peace." he never said so now; but sometimes he looked it. many an evening he came and sat by her fireside, in the arm-chair, which seemed by right to have devolved upon him; never staying very long, for he was still nervously sensitive about being "in the way," but making himself and them all very cheerful and happy while he did stay. only sometimes, when fortune's eyes stole to his face--not a young man's face now--she fancied she could trace, besides the wrinkles, a sadness, approaching to hardness, that never used to be. but again, when interested in some book or other (he said it was delicious to take to reading again, after the long fast of years), he would look around to her for sympathy, or utter one of his dry drolleries, the old likeness, the old manner and tone would come back so vividly that she started, hardly knowing whether the feeling it gave her was pleasure or pain. but beneath both, lying so deep down that neither he nor any one could ever suspect its presence, was something else. can many waters quench love? can the deep sea drown it? what years of silence can wither it? what frost of age can freeze it down? god only knows. hers was not like a girl's love. those two girls sitting by her day after day would have smiled at it, and at its object. between themselves they considered mr. roy somewhat of an "old fogy;" were very glad to make use of him now and then, in the great dearth of gentlemen at st. andrews, and equally glad afterward to turn him over to auntie, who was always kind to him. auntie was so kind to every body. kind? of course she was, and above all when he looked worn and tired. he did so sometimes: as if life had ceased to be all pleasure, and the constant mirth of these young folks was just a little too much for him. then she ingeniously used to save him from it and them for a while. they never knew--there was no need for them to know--how tenfold deeper than all the passion of youth is the tenderness with which a woman cleaves to the man she loves when she sees him growing old. thus the days went by till easter came, announced by the sudden apparition, one evening, of david dalziel. that young man, when, the very first day of his holidays, he walked in upon his friends at st. andrews, and found sitting at their tea-table a strange gentleman, did not like it at all--scarcely even when he found out that the intruder was his old friend, mr. roy. "and you never told me a word about this," said he, reproachfully, to miss williams. "indeed, you have not written to me for weeks; you have forgotten all about me." she winced at the accusation, for it was true. beyond her daily domestic life, which she still carefully fulfilled, she had in truth forgotten every thing. outside people were ceasing to affect her at all. what _he_ liked, what _he_ wanted to do, day by day--whether he looked ill or well, happy or unhappy, only he rarely looked either--this was slowly growing to be once more her whole world. with a sting of compunction, and another, half of fear, save that there was nothing to dread, nothing that could affect any body beyond herself--miss williams roused herself to give young dalziel an especially hearty welcome, and to make his little visit as happy as possible. small need of that; he was bent on taking all things pleasantly. coming now near the end of a very creditable college career, being of age and independent, with the cozy little fortune that his old grandmother had left him, the young fellow was disposed to see every thing _couleur de rose_, and this feeling communicated itself to all his friends. it was a pleasant time. often in years to come did that little knot of friends, old and young, look back upon it as upon one of those rare bright bits in life when the outside current of things moves smoothly on, while underneath it there may or may not be, but generally there is, a secret or two which turns the most trivial events into sweet and dear remembrances forever. david's days being few enough, they took pains not to lose one, but planned excursions here, there, and every where--to dundee, to perth, to elie, to balcarras--all together, children, young folks, and elders: that admirable _melange_ which generally makes such expeditions "go off" well. theirs did, especially the last one, to the old house of balcarras, where they got admission to the lovely quaint garden, and janetta sang "auld robin gray" on the spot where it was written. she had a sweet voice, and there seemed to have come into it a pathos which fortune had never remarked before. the touching, ever old, ever new story made the young people quite quiet for a few minutes; and then they all wandered away together, helen promising to look after the two wild young roys, to see that they did not kill themselves in some unforeseen way, as, aided and abetted by david and janetta, they went on a scramble up balcarras hill. "will you go too?" said fortune to robert roy. "i have the provisions to see to; besides, i can not scramble as well as the rest. i am not quite so young as i used to be." "nor i," he answered, as, taking her basket, he walked silently on beside her. it was a curious feeling, and all to come out of a foolish song; but if ever she felt thankful to god from the bottom of her heart that she had said "no," at once and decisively, to the good man who slept at peace beneath the church-yard elms, it was at that moment. but the feeling and the moment passed by immediately. mr. roy took up the thread of conversation where he had left it off--it was some bookish or ethical argument, such as he would go on with for hours; so she listened to him in silence. they walked on, the larks singing and the primroses blowing. all the world was saying to itself, "i am young; i am happy;" but she said nothing at all. people grow used to pain; it dies down at intervals, and becomes quite bearable, especially when no one see it or guesses at it. they had a very merry picnic on the hilltop, enjoying those mundane consolations of food and drink which auntie was expected always to have forth-coming, and which those young people did by no means despise, nor mr. roy neither. he made himself so very pleasant with them all, looking thoroughly happy, and baring his head to the spring breeze with the eagerness of a boy. "oh, this is delicious! it makes me feel young again. there's nothing like home. one thing i am determined upon: i will never quit bonnie scotland more." it was the first clear intimation he had given of his intentions regarding the future, but it thrilled her with measureless content. if only he would not go abroad again, if she might have him within reach for the rest of her days--able to see him, to talk to him, to know where he was and what he was doing, instead of being cut off from him by those terrible dividing seas--it was enough! nothing could be so bitter as what had been; and whatever was the mystery of their youth, which it was impossible to unravel now--whether he had ever loved, or loved her and crushed it down and forgotten it, or only felt very kindly and cordially to her, as he did now, the past was--well, only the past!--and the future lay still before her, not unsweet. when we are young, we insist on having every thing or nothing; when we are older, we learn that "every thing" is an impossible and "nothing" a somewhat bitter word. we are able to stoop meekly and pick up the fragments of the children's bread, without feeling ourselves to be altogether "dogs". fortune went home that night with a not unhappy, almost a satisfied, heart. she sat back in the carriage, close beside that other heart which she believed to be the truest in all the world, though it had never been hers. there was a tremendous clatter of talking and laughing and fun of all sorts, between david dalziel and the little roys on the box, and the misses moseley sitting just below them, as they had insisted doing, no doubt finding the other two members of the party a little "slow." nevertheless mr. roy and miss williams took their part in laughing with their young people, and trying to keep them in order; though after a while both relapsed into silence. one did at least, for it had been a long day and she was tired, being, as she had said, "not so young as she had been." but if any of these lively young people had asked her the question whether she was happy, or at least contented, she would have never hesitated about her reply. young, gay, and prosperous as they were, i doubt if fortune williams would have changed lots with any one of them all. chapter as it befell, that day at balcarras was the last of the bright days, in every sense, for the time being. wet weather set in, as even the most partial witness must allow does occasionally happen in scotland, and the domestic barometer seemed to go down accordingly. the girls grumbled at being kept in-doors, and would willingly have gone out golfing under umbrellas, but auntie was remorseless. they were delicate girls at best, so that her watch over them was never-ceasing, and her patience inexhaustible. david dalziel also was in a very trouble-some mood, quite unusual for him. he came and went, complained bitterly that the girls were not allowed to go out with him; abused the place, the climate, and did all those sort of bearish things which young gentlemen are sometimes in the habit of doing, when--when that wicked little boy whom they read about at school and college makes himself known to them as a pleasant, or unpleasant, reality. miss williams, whom, i am afraid, was far too simple a woman for the new generation, which has become so extraordinarily wise and wide-awake, opened her eyes and wondered why david was so unlike his usual self. mr. roy, too, to whom he behaved worse than to any one else, only the elder man quietly ignored it all, and was very patient and gentle with the restless, ill-tempered boy--mr. roy even remarked that he thought david would be happier at his work again; idling was a bad thing for young fellows at his age, or any age. at last it came out, the bitterness which rankled in the poor lad's breast; with another secret, which, foolish woman that she was, miss williams had never in the smallest degree suspected. very odd that she had not, but so it was. we all find it difficult to realize the moment when our children cease to be children. still more difficult is it for very serious and earnest natures to recognize that there are other natures who take things in a totally different way, and yet it may be the right and natural way for them. such is the fact; we must learn it, and the sooner we learn it, the better. one day, when the rain had a little abated, david appeared, greatly disappointed to find the girls had gone out, down to the west sands with mr. roy. "always mr. roy! i am sick of his very name," muttered david, and then caught miss williams by the dress as she was rising. she had a gentle but rather dignified way with her of repressing bad manners in young people, either by perfect silence, or by putting the door between her and them. "don't go! one never can get a quiet word with you, you are always so preternaturally busy." it was true. to be always busy was her only shield against--certain things which the young man was never likely to know, and would not understand if he did know. "do sit down, if you ever can sit down, for a minute," said he, imploringly; "i want to speak to you seriously, very seriously." she sat down, a little uneasy. the young fellow was such a good fellow; and yet he might have got into a scrape of some sort. debt, perhaps, for he was a trifle extravagant; but then life had been all roses to him. he had never known a want since he was born. "speak, then, david; i am listening. nothing very wrong, i hope!" said she, with a smile. "nothing at all wrong, only--when is mr. roy going away"? the question was so unexpected that she felt her color changing a little; not much, she was too old for that. "mr. roy leaving st. andrews, you mean? how can i tell? he has never told me. why do you ask?" "because until he gone, i stay," said the young man, doggedly. "i'm not going back to oxford leaving him master of the field. i have stood him as long as i possibly can, and i'll not stand him any longer." "david! you forget yourself." "there--now you are offended; i know you are, when you draw yourself up in that way, my dear little auntie. but just hear me. you are such an innocent woman, you don't know the world as men do. can't you see--no, of course you can't--that very soon all st. andrews will be talking about you?" "about me?" "not about you exactly, but about the family. a single man--a marrying man, as all the world says he is, or ought to be, with his money--can not go in and out, like a tame cat, in a household of women, without having, or being supposed to have--ahem!--intentions. i assure you"--and he swung himself on the arm of her chair, and looked into her face with an angry earnestness quite unmistakable--"i assure you, i never go into the club without being asked, twenty times a day, which of the miss moseleys mr. roy is going to marry." "which of the miss moseleys mr. roy is going to marry!" she repeated the words, as if to gain time and to be certain she heard them rightly. no fear of her blushing now; every pulse in her heart stood dead still; and then she nerved herself to meet the necessity of the occasion. "david, you surely do not consider what you are saying. this is a most extraordinary idea." "it is a most extraordinary idea; in fact, i call it ridiculous, monstrous: an old battered fellow like him, who has knocked about the world, heaven knows where, all these years, to come home, and, because he has got a lot of money, think to go and marry one of these nice, pretty girls. they wouldn't have him, i believe that; but nobody else believes it; and every body seems to think it the most natural thing possible. what do you say?" "i?" "surely you don't think it right, or even possible? but, auntie, it might turn out a rather awkward affair, and you ought to take my advice, and stop it in time." "how?" "why, by stepping him out of the house. you and he are great friends: if he had any notion of marrying, i suppose he would mention it to you--he ought. it would be a cowardly trick to come and steal one of your chickens from under your wing. wouldn't it? do say something, instead of merely echoing what i say. it really is a serious matter, though you don't think so." "yes, i do think so," said miss williams, at last; "and i would stop it if i thought i had any right. but mr. roy is quite able to manage his own affairs; and he is not so very old--not more than five-and-twenty years older than--helen." "bother helen! i beg her pardon, she is a dear good girl. but do you think any man would look at helen when there was janetta?" it was out now, out with a burning blush over all the lad's honest face, and the sudden crick-crack of a pretty indian paper-cutter he unfortunately was twiddling in his fingers. miss williams must have been blind indeed not to have guessed the state of the case. "what! janetta? oh, david!" was all she said. he nodded. "yes, that's it, just it. i thought you must have found it out long ago: though i kept myself to myself pretty close, still you might have guessed." "i never did. i had not the remotest idea. oh, how remiss i have been! it is all my fault." "excuse me, i can not see that it is any body's fault, or any body's misfortune, either," said the young fellow, with a not unbecoming pride. "i hope i should not be a bad husband to any girl, when it comes to that. but it has not come; i have never said a single word to her. i wanted to be quite clear of oxford, and in a way to win my own position first. and really we are so very jolly together as it is. what are you smiling for?" she could not help it. there was something so funny in the whole affair. they seemed such babies, playing at love; and their love-making, if such it was, had been carried on in such an exceedingly open and lively way, not a bit of tragedy about it, rather genteel comedy, bordering on farce. it was such a contrast to--certain other love stories that she had known, quite buried out of sight now. gentle "auntie"--the grave maiden lady, the old hen with all these young ducklings who would take to the water so soon--held out her hand to the impetuous david. "i don't know what to say to you, my boy: you really are little more than a boy, and to be taking upon yourself the responsibilities of life so soon! still, i am glad you have said nothing to her about it yet. she is a mere child, only eighteen." "quite old enough to marry, and to marry mr. roy even, the st. andrews folks think. but i won't stand it. i won't tamely sit by and see her sacrificed. he might persuade her; he has a very winning way with him sometimes. auntie, i have not spoken, but i won't promise not to speak. it is all very well for you; you are old, and your blood runs cold, as you said to us one day--no, i don't mean that; you are a real brick still, and you'll never be old to us, but you are not in love, and you can't understand what it is to be a young fellow like me to see an old fellow like roy coming in and just walking over the course. but he sha'nt do it! long ago, when i was quite a lad, i made up my mind to get her; and get her i will, spite of mr. roy or any body." fortune was touched. that strong will which she too had had, able, like faith, to "remove mountains," sympathized involuntarily with the lad. it was just what she would have said and done, had she been a man and loved a woman. she gave david's hand a warm clasp, which he returned. "forgive me," said he, affectionately. "i did not mean to bother you; but as things stand, the matter is better out than in. i hate underhandedness. i may have made an awful fool of myself, but at least i have not made a fool of her. i have been as careful as possible not to compromise her in any way; for i know how people do talk, and a man has no right to let the girl he loves be talked about. the more he loves her, the more he ought to take care of her. don't you think so?" "yes." "i'd cut myself up into little pieces for janetta's sake," he went on, "and i'd do a deal for helen too, the sisters are so fond of one another. she shall always have a home with us, when we are married." "then," said miss williams, hardly able again to resist a smile, "you are quite certain you will be married? you have no doubt about her caring for you?" david pulled his whiskers, not very voluminous yet, looked conscious, and yet humble. "well, i don't exactly say that. i know i'm not half good enough for her. still, i thought, when i had taken my degree and fairly settled myself at the bar, i'd try. i have a tolerably good income of my own too, though of course i am not as well off as that confounded roy. there he is at this minute meandering up and down the west sands with those two girls, setting every body's tongue going! i can't stand it. i declare to you i won't stand it another day." "stop a moment," and she caught hold of david as he started up. "what are you going to do?" "i don't know and i don't care, only i won't have my girl talked about--my pretty, merry, innocent girl. he ought to know better, a shrewd old fellow like him. it is silly, selfish, mean." this was more than miss williams could bear. she stood up, pale to the lips, but speaking strongly, almost fiercely: "you ought to know better, david dalziel. you ought to know that mr. roy had not an atom of selfishness or meanness in him--that he would be the last man in the world to compromise any girl. if he chooses to marry janetta, or any one else, he has a perfect right to do it, and i for one will not try to hinder him." "then you will not stand by me any more?" "not if you are blind and unfair. you may die of love, though i don't think you will; people don't do it nowadays" (there was a slightly bitter jar in the voice): "but love ought to make you all the more honorable, clear-sighted, and just. and as to mr. roy--" she might have talked to the winds, for david was not listening. he had heard the click of the garden gate, and turned round with blazing eyes. "there he is again! i can't stand it, miss williams. i give you fair warning i can't stand it. he has walked home with them, and is waiting about at the laurel bush, mooning after them. oh, hang him!" before she had time to speak the young man was gone. but she had no fear of any very tragic consequences when she saw the whole party standing together--david talking to janetta, mr. roy to helen, who looked so fresh, so young, so pretty, almost as pretty as janetta. nor did mr. roy, pleased and animated, look so very old. that strange clear-sightedness, that absolute justice, of which fortune had just spoken, were qualities she herself possessed to a remarkable, almost a painful, degree. she could not deceive herself, even if she tried. the more cruel the sight, the clearer she saw it; even as now she perceived a certain naturalness in the fact that a middle-aged man so often chooses a young girl in preference to those of his own generation, for she brings him that which he has not; she reminds him of what he used to have; she is to him like the freshness of spring, the warmth of summer, in his cheerless autumn days. sometimes these marriages are not unhappy--far from it; and robert roy might ere long make such a marriage. despite poor david's jealous contempt, he was neither old nor ugly, and then he was rich. the thing, either as regarded helen, or some other girl of helen's standing, appeared more than possible--probable; and if so, what then? fortune looked out once, and saw that the little group at the laurel bush were still talking; then she slipped up stairs into her own room and bolted the door. the first thing that she did was to go straight up and look at her own face in the glass--her poor old face, which had never been beautiful, which she had never wished beautiful, except that it might be pleasant in one man's eyes. sweet it was still, but the sweetness lay in its expression, pure and placid, and innocent as a young girl's. but she saw not that; she saw only its lost youth, its faded bloom. she covered it over with both her hands, as if she would fain bury it out of sight; knelt down by her bedside, and prayed. "mr. roy is waiting below ma'am--has been waiting some time; but he says if you are busy he will not disturb you; he will come to-morrow instead." "tell him i shall be very glad to see him to-morrow." she spoke through the locked door, too feeble to rise and open it; and then lying down on her bed and turning her face to the wall, from sheer exhaustion fell fast asleep. people dream strangely sometimes. the dream she dreamt was so inexpressibly soothing and peaceful, so entirely out of keeping with the reality of things, that it almost seemed to have been what in ancient times would be called a vision. first, she thought that she and robert roy were little children--mere girl and boy together, as they might have been from the few years' difference in their ages--running hand in hand about the sands of st. andrews, and so fond of one another--so very fond! with that innocent love a big boy often has for a little girl, and a little girl returns with the tenderest fidelity. so she did; and she was so happy--they were both so happy. in the second part of the dream she was happy still, but somehow she knew she was dead--had been dead and in paradise for a long time, and was waiting for him to come there. he was coming now; she felt him coming, and held out her hands, but he took and clasped her in his arms; and she heard a voice saying those mysterious words: "in heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of god." it was very strange, all was very strange, but it comforted her. she rose up, and in the twilight of the soft spring evening she washed her face and combed her hair, and went down, like king david after his child was dead, to "eat bread." her young people were not there. they had gone out again; she heard, with mr. dalziel, not mr. roy, who had sat reading in the parlor alone for upward of an hour. they were supposed to be golfing, but they staid out till long after it was possible to see balls or holes; and miss williams was beginning to be a little uneasy, when they all three walked in, david and janetta with a rather sheepish air, and helen beaming all over with mysterious delight. how the young man had managed it--to propose to two sisters at once, at any rate to make love to one sister while the other was by--remained among the wonderful feats which david dalziel, who had not too small an opinion of himself, was always ready for, and generally succeeded in; and if he did wear his heart somewhat "on his sleeve," why, it was a very honest heart, and they must have been ill-natured "daws" indeed who took pleasure in "pecking at it." "wish me joy, auntie!" he cried, coming forward, beaming all over, the instant the girls had disappeared to take their hats off. "i've been and gone and done it, and it's all right. i didn't intend it just yet, but he drove me to it, for which i'm rather obliged to him. he can't get her now. janetta's mine!" there was a boyish triumph in his air; in fact, his whole conduct was exceedingly juvenile, but so simple, frank, and sincere as to be quite irresistible. i fear miss williams was a very weak-minded woman, or would be so considered by a great part of the world--the exceedingly wise and prudent and worldly-minded "world." here were two young people, one twenty-two, the other eighteen, with--it could hardly be said "not a half-penny," but still a very small quantity of half-pennies, between them--and they had not only fallen in love, but engaged themselves to married! she ought to have been horrified, to have severely reproached them for their imprudence, used all her influence and, if needs be, her authority, to stop the whole thing; advising david not to bind himself to any girl till he was much older, and his prospects secured; and reasoning with janetta on the extreme folly of a long engagement, and how very much better it would be for her to pause, and make some "good" marriage with a man of wealth and position, who could keep her comfortably. all this, no doubt, was what a prudent and far-seeing mother or friend ought to have said and done. miss williams did no such thing, and said not a single word. she only kissed her "children"--helen too, whose innocent delight was the prettiest thing to behold--then sat down and made tea for them all, as if nothing had happened. but such events do not happen without making a slight stir in a family, especially such a quiet family as that at the cottage. besides, the lovers were too childishly happy to be at all reticent over their felicity. before david was turned away that night to the hotel which he and mr. roy both inhabited, every body in the house knew quite well that mr. dalziel and miss janetta were to be married. and every body had of course suspected it long ago, and was not in the least surprised, so that the mistress of the household herself was half ashamed to confess how very much surprised _she_ had been. however, as every body seemed delighted, for most people have a "sneaking kindness" toward young lovers, she kept her own counsel; smiled blandly over her old cook's half-pathetic congratulations to the young couple, who were "like the young bears, with all their troubles before them," and laughed at the sympathetic forebodings of the girls' faithful maid, a rather elderly person, who was supposed to have been once "disappointed," and who "hoped mr. dalziel was not too young to know his own mind." still, in spite of all, the family were very much delighted, and not a little proud. david walked in, master of the position now, directly after breakfast, and took the sisters out for a walk, both of them, declaring he was as much encumbered as if he were going to marry two young ladies at once, but bearing his lot with great equanimity. his love-making indeed was so extraordinarily open and undisguised that it did not much matter who was by. and helen was of that sweet negative nature that seemed made for the express purpose of playing "gooseberry." directly they had departed, mr. roy came in. he might have been a far less acute observer than he was not to detect at once that "something had happened" in the little family. miss williams kept him waiting several minutes, and when she did come in her manner was nervous and agitated. they spoke about the weather and one or two trivial things, but more than once fortune felt him looking at her with that keen, kindly observation which had been sometimes, during all these weeks now running into months, of almost daily meeting, and of the closest intimacy--a very difficult thing to bear. he was exceedingly kind to her always; there was no question of that. without making any show of it, he seemed always to know where she was and what she was doing. nothing ever lessened his silent care of her. if ever she wanted help, there he was to give it. and in all their excursions she had a quiet conviction that whoever forgot her or her comfort, he never would. but then it was his way. some men have eyes and ears for only one woman, and that merely while they happen to be in love with her; whereas robert roy was courteous and considerate to every woman, even as he was kind to every weak or helpless creature that crossed his path. evidently he perceived that all was not right; and, though he said nothing, there was a tenderness in his manner which went to her heart. "you are not looking well to-day; should you not go out?" he said. "i met all your young people walking off to the sands: they seemed extraordinarily happy." fortune was much perplexed. she did not like not to tell him the news--him, who had so completely established himself as a friend of the family. and yet to tell him was not exactly her place; besides, he might not care to hear. old maid as she was, or thought herself, miss williams knew enough of men not to fall into the feminine error of fancying they feel as we do--that their world is our world, and their interest our interest. to most men, a leader in the _times_, an article in the _quarterly_, or a fall in the money market is of far more importance than any love affair in the world, unless it happens to be their own. why should i tell him? she thought, convinced that he noticed the anxiety in her eyes, the weariness at her heart. she had passed an almost sleepless night, pondering over the affairs of these young people, who never thought of any thing beyond their own new-born happiness. and she had perplexed herself with wondering whether in consenting to this engagement she was really doing her duty by her girls, who had no one but her, and whom she was so tender of, for their dead father's sake. but what good was it to say any thing? she must bear her own burden. and yet-- robert roy looked at her with his kind, half-amused smile. "you had better tell me all about it; for, indeed, i know already." "what! did you guess it?" "perhaps. but dalziel came to my room last night and poured out everything. he is a candid youth. well, and am i to congratulate?" greatly relieved, fortune looked up. "that's right," he said; "i like to see you smile. a minute or two ago you seemed as if you had the cares of all the world on your shoulders. no, that is not exactly the truth. always meet the truth face to face, and don't be frightened by it." ah, no. if she had had that strong heart to lean on, that tender hand to help her through the world, she never would have been "frightened" at any thing. "i know i am very foolish," she said; "but there are many things which these children of mine don't see, and i can't help seeing." "certainly; they are young, and we are--well, never mind. sit down here, and let you and me talk the matter quietly over. on the whole, are you glad or sorry?" "both, i think. david is able to take care of himself; but poor little janetta--my janetta--what if he should bring her to poverty? he is a little reckless about money, and has only a very small certain income. worse; suppose being so young, he should by-and-by get tired of her, and neglect her, and break her heart?" "or twenty other things which may happen, or may not, and of which they must take the chance, like their neighbors. you do not believe very much in men, i see, and perhaps you are right. we are a bad lot--a bad lot. but david dalziel is as good as most of us, that i can assure you." she could hardly tell whether he was in jest or earnest; but this was certain, he meant to cheer and comfort her, and she took the comfort, and was thankful. "now to the point," continued mr. roy. "you feel that, in a worldly point of view, these two have done a very foolish thing, and you have aided and abetted them in doing it?" "not so," she cried, laughing; "i had no idea of such a thing till david told me yesterday morning of his intentions." "yes, and he explained to me why he told you, and why he dared not wait any longer. he blurts out every thing, the foolish boy! but he has made friends with me now. they do seem such children, do they not, compared with old folks like you and me?" what was it in the tone or the words which made her feel not in the least vexed, nor once attempt to rebut the charge of being "old?" "i'll tell you what it is," said robert roy, with one of his sage smiles, "you must not go and vex yourself needlessly about trifles. we should not judge other people by ourselves. every body is so different. dalziel may make his way all the better for having that pretty creature for a wife, not but what some other pretty creature might soon have done just as well. very few men have tenacity of nature enough, if they can not get the one woman they love, to do without any other to the end of their days. but don't be disappointed yourself about your girl. david will make her a very good husband. they will be happy enough, even though not very rich." "does that matter much?" "i used to think so. i had so sore a lesson of poverty in my youth, that it gave me an almost morbid terror of it, not for myself, but for any woman i cared for. once i would not have done as dalziel has for the world. now i have changed my mind. at any rate, david will not have one misfortune to contend with. he has a thoroughly good opinion of himself, poor fellow! he will not suffer from that horrible self-distrust which makes some men let themselves drift on and on with the tide, instead of taking the rudder into their own hands and steering straight on--direct for the haven where they would be. oh, that i had done it." he spoke passionately, and then sat silent. at last, muttering something about "begging her pardon," and "taking a liberty," he changed the conversation into another channel, by asking whether this marriage, when it happened--which, of course could not be just immediately--would make any difference to her circumstances. some difference, she explained, because the girls would receive their little fortunes whenever they came of age or married, and the sisters would not like to be parted; besides, helen's money would help the establishment. probably, whenever david married, he would take them both away; indeed, he had said as much. "and then shall you stay on here?" "i may, for i have a small income of my own; besides, there are your two little boys, and i might find two or three more. but i do not trouble myself much about the future. one thing is certain, i need never work as hard as i have done all my life." "have you worked so very hard, then, my poor--" he left the sentence unfinished; his hand, half extended, was drawn back, for the three young people were seen coming down the garden, followed by the two boys, returning from their classes. it was nearly dinner-time, and people must dine, even though in love; and boys must be kept to their school work, and all the daily duties of life must be done. well, perhaps, for many of us, that such should be! i think it was as well for poor fortune williams. the girls had come in wet through, with one of those sudden "haars" which are not uncommon at st. andrews in spring, and it seemed likely to last all day. mr. roy looked out of the window at it with a slightly dolorous air. "i suppose i am rather _de trop_ here, but really i wish you would not turn me out. in weather like this our hotel coffee-room is just a trifle dull, isn't it, dalziel? and, miss williams, your parlor looks so comfortable. will you let me stay?" he made the request with a simplicity quite pathetic. one of the most lovable things about this man--is it not in all men?--was, that with all his shrewdness and cleverness, and his having been knocked up and down the world for so many years, he still kept a directness and simpleness of character almost child-like. to refuse would have been unkind, impossible; so miss williams told him he should certainly stay if he could make himself comfortable. and to that end she soon succeeded in turning off her two turtle-doves into a room by themselves, for the use of which they had already bargained, in order to "read together, and improve their minds." meanwhile she and helen tried to help the two little boys to spend a dull holiday indoors--if they were ever dull beside uncle robert, who had not lost his old influence with boys, and to those boys was already a father in all but the name. often fortune watched them, sitting upon his chair, hanging about him as he walked, coming to him for sympathy in every thing. yes, every body loved him, for there was such an amount of love in him toward every mortal creature, except-- she looked at him and his boys, then turned away. what was to be had been, and always would be. that which we fight against in our youth as being human will, human error, in our age we take humbly, knowing it to be the will of god. by-and-by in the little household the gas was lighted, the curtains drawn, and the two lovers fetched in for tea, to behave themselves as much as they could like ordinary mortals, in general society, for the rest of the evening. a very pleasant evening it was, spite of this new element; which was got rid of as much as possible by means of the window recess, where janetta and david encamped composedly, a little aloof from the rest. "i hope they don't mind me," said mr. roy, casting an amused glance in their direction, and then adroitly maneuvering with the back of his chair so as to interfere as little as possible with the young couple's felicity. "oh no, they don't mind you at all," answered helen, always affectionate, if not always wise. "besides, i dare say you yourself were young once, mr. roy." evidently helen had no idea of the plans for her future which were being talked about in st. andrews. had he? no one could even speculate with such an exceedingly reserved person. he retired behind his newspaper, and said not a single word. nevertheless, there was no cloud in the atmosphere. every body was used to mr. roy's silence in company. and he never troubled any body, not even the children, with either a gloomy look or a harsh word. he was so comfortable to live with, so unfailingly sweet and kind. although there was a strange atmosphere of peace in the cottage that evening, though nobody seemed to do any thing or say very much. now and then mr. roy read aloud bits out of his endless newspapers--he had a truly masculine mania for newspapers, and used to draw one after another out of his pockets, as endless as a conjurer's pocket-handkerchiefs. and he liked to share their contents with any body that would listen; though i am afraid nobody did listen much to-night except miss williams, who sat beside him at her sewing, in order to get the benefit of the same lamp. and between his readings he often turned and looked at her, her bent head, her smooth soft hair, her busy hands. especially after one sentence, out of the "varieties" of some fife newspaper. he had begun to read it, then stopped suddenly, but finished it. it consisted only of a few words: _"'young love is passionate, old love is faithful; but the very tenderest thing in all this world is a love revived.'_ that is true." he said only those three words, in a very low, quiet voice, but fortune heard. his look she did not see, but she felt it--even as a person long kept in darkness might feel a sunbeam strike along the wall, making it seem possible that there might be somewhere in the earth such a thing as day. about nine p.m. the lovers in the window recess discovered that the haar was all gone, and that it was a most beautiful moonlight night; full moon, the very night they had planned to go in a body to the top of st. regulus tower. "i suppose they must," said mr. roy to miss williams; adding, "let the young folks make the most of their youth; it never will come again." "no." "and you and i must go too. it will be more _comme il faut_, as people say." so, with a half-regretful look at the cozy fire, mr. roy marshaled the lively party, janetta and david, helen and the two boys; engaging to get them the key of that silent garden of graves over which st. regulus tower keeps stately watch. how beautiful it looked, with the clear sky shining through its open arch, and the brilliant moonlight, bright as day almost, but softer, flooding every alley of that peaceful spot! it quieted even the noisy party who were bent on climbing the tower, to catch a view, such as is rarely equaled, of the picturesque old city and its beautiful bay. "a 'comfortable place to sleep in,' as some one once said to me in a melbourne church-yard. but 'east or west, home is best.--i think, bob, i shall leave it in my will that you are to bury me at st. andrews.'" "nonsense, uncle robert! you are not to talk of dying. and you are to come with us up to the top of the tower. miss williams, will you come too?" "no, i think she had better not," said uncle robert, decisively. "she will stay here, and i will keep her company." so the young people all vanished up the tower, and the two elders walked silently side by side the quiet graves--by the hearts which had ceased beating, the hands which, however close they lay, would never clasp one another any more. "yes, st. andrews is a pleasant place," said robert roy at last. "i spoke in jest, but i meant in earnest; i have no wish to leave it again. and you," he added, seeing that she answered nothing--"what plans have you? shall you stay on at the cottage till these young people are married?" "most likely. we are all fond of the little house." "no wonder. they say a wandering life after a certain number of years unsettles a man forever; he rests nowhere, but goes on wandering to the end. but i feel just the contrary. i think i shall stay permanently at st. andrews. you will let me come about your cottage, 'like a tame cat,' as that foolish fellow owned he had called me--will you not?" "certainly." but at the same time she felt there was a strain beyond which she could not bear. to be so near, yet so far; so much to him, and yet so little. she was conscious of a wild desire to run away somewhere--run away and escape it all; of a longing to be dead and buried, deep in the sea, up away among the stars. "will those young people be very long, do you think?" at the sound of her voice he turned to look at her, and saw that she was deadly pale, and shivering from head to foot. "this will never do. you must 'come under my plaidie,' as the children say, and i will take you home at once. boys!" he called out to the figures now appearing like jackdaws at the top of the tower, "we are going straight home. follow us as soon as you like. yes, it must be so," he answered to the slight resistance she made. "they must all take care of themselves. i mean to take care of you." which he did, wrapping her well in the half of his plaid, drawing her hand under his arm and holding it there--holding it close and warm at his heart all the way along the scores and across the links, scarcely speaking a single word until they reached the garden gate. even there he held it still. "i see your girls coming, so i shall leave you. you are warm now, are you not?" "quite warm." "good-night, then. stay. tell me"--he spoke rapidly, and with much agitation--"tell me just one thing, and i will never trouble you again. why did you not answer a letter i wrote to you seventeen years ago?" "i never got any letter. i never had one word from you after the sunday you bade me good-by, promising to write." "and i did write," cried he, passionately. "i posted it with my own hands. you should have got it on the tuesday morning." she leaned against the laurel bush, that fatal laurel bush, and in a few breathless words told him what david had said about the hidden letter. "it must have been my letter. why did you not tell me this before?" "how could i? i never knew you had written. you never said a word. in all these years you have never said a single word." bitterly, bitterly he turned away. the groan that escaped him--a man's groan over his lost life--lost, not wholly through fate alone--was such as she, the woman whose portion had been sorrow, passive sorrow only, never forgot in all her days. "don't mind it," she whispered--"don't mind it. it is so long past now." he made no immediate answer, then said, "have you no idea what was in the letter?" "no." "it was to ask you a question, which i had determined not to ask just then, but i changed my mind. the answer, i told you, i should wait for in edinburgh seven days; after that, i should conclude you meant no, and sail. no answer came, and i sailed." he was silent. so was she. a sense of cruel fatality came over her. alas! those lost years, that might have been such happy years! at length she said, faintly, "forget it. it was not your fault." "it was my fault. if not mine, you were still yourself--i ought never to have let you go. i ought to have asked again; to have sought through the whole world till i found you again. and now that i have found you--" "hush! the girls are here." they came along laughing, that merry group--with whom life was at its spring--who had lost nothing, knew not what it was to lose! "good-night," said mr. roy, hastily. "but--to-morrow morning?" "yes." "there never is night to which comes no morn," says the proverb. which is not always true, at least as to this world; but it is true sometimes. that april morning fortune williams rose with a sense of strange solemnity--neither sorrow nor joy. both had gone by; but they had left behind them a deep peace. after her young people had walked themselves off, which they did immediately after breakfast, she attended to all her household duties, neither few nor small, and then sat down with her needle-work beside the open window. it was a lovely day; the birds were singing, the leaves budding, a few early flowers making all the air to smell like spring. and she--with her it was autumn now. she knew it, but still she did not grieve. presently, walking down the garden walk, almost with the same firm step of years ago--how well she remembered it!--robert roy came; but it was still a few minutes before she could go into the little parlor to meet him. at last she did, entering softly, her hand extended as usual. he took it, also as usual, and then looked down into her face, as he had done that sunday. "do you remember this? i have kept it for seventeen years." it was her mother's ring. she looked up with a dumb inquiry. "my love, did you think i did not love you?--you always, and only you?" so saying, he opened his arms; she felt them close round her, just as in her dream. only they were warm, living arms; and it was this world, not the next. all those seventeen bitter years seemed swept away, annihilated in a moment; she laid her head on his shoulder and wept out her happy heart there. * * * * * * the little world of st. andrews was very much astonished when it learned that mr. roy was going to marry, not one of the pretty miss moseleys, but their friend and former governess, a lady, not by any means young, and remarkable for nothing except great sweetness and good sense, which made every body respect and like her; though nobody was much excited concerning her. now people had been excited about mr. roy, and some were rather sorry for him; thought perhaps he had been taken in, till some story got wind of its having been an "old attachment," which interested them of course; still, the good folks were half angry with him. to go and marry an old maid when he might have had his choice of half a dozen young ones! when, with his fortune and character, he might, as people say--as they had said of that other good man, mr. moseley--"have married any body!" they forgot that mr. roy happened to be one of those men who have no particular desire to marry "any body;" to whom _the_ woman, whether found early or late--alas! in this case found early and won late--is the one woman in the world forever. poor fortune--rich fortune! she need not be afraid of her fading cheek, her silvering hair; he would never see either. the things he loved her for were quite apart from any thing that youth could either give or take away. as he said one, when she lamented hers, "never mind, let it go. you will always be yourself--and mine." this was enough. he loved her. he had always loved her: she had no fear but that he would love her faithfully to the end. theirs was a very quiet wedding, and a speedy one. "why should they wait? they had waited too long already," he said, with some bitterness. but she felt none. with her all was peace. mr. roy did another very foolish thing which i can not conscientiously recommend to any middle-aged bachelor. besides marrying his wife, he married her whole family. there was no other way out of the difficulty, and neither of them was inclined to be content with happiness, leaving duty unfulfilled. so he took the largest house in st. andrews, and brought to it janetta and helen, till david dalziel could claim them; likewise his own two orphan boys, until they went to oxford; for he meant to send them there, and bring them up in every way like his own sons. meantime, it was rather a heterogeneous family; but the two heads of it bore their burden with great equanimity, nay, cheerfulness; saying sometimes, with a smile which had the faintest shadow of pathos in it, "that they liked to have young life about them." and by degrees they grew younger themselves; less of the old bachelor and old maid, and more of the happy middle-aged couple to whom heaven gave, in their decline, a st. martin's summer almost as sweet as spring. they were both too wise to poison the present by regretting the past--a past which, if not wholly, was partly, at least, owing to that strange fatality which governs so many lives, only some have the will to conquer it, others not. and there are two sides to every thing: robert roy, who alone knew how hard his own life had been, sometimes felt a stern joy in thinking no one had shared it. still, for a long time there lay at the bottom of that strong, gentle heart of his a kind of remorseful tenderness, which showed itself in heaping his wife with every luxury that his wealth could bring; better than all, in surrounding her with that unceasing care which love alone teaches, never allowing the wind to blow on her too roughly--his "poor lamb," as he sometime called her, who had suffered so much. they are sure, humanly speaking, to "live very happy to the end of their days." and i almost fancy sometimes, if i were to go to st. andrews, as i hope to do many a time, for i am as fond of the aged city as they are, that i should see those two, made one at last after all those cruel divided years, wandering together along the sunshiny sands, or standing to watch the gay golfing parties; nay, i am not sure that robert roy would not be visible sometimes in his red coat, club in hand, crossing the links, a victim to the universal insanity of st. andrews, yet enjoying himself, as golfers always seem to do, with the enjoyment of a very boy. she is not a girl, far from it; but there will always be a girlish sweetness in her faded face till its last smile. and to see her sitting beside her husband on the green slopes of the pretty garden--knitting, perhaps while he reads his eternal newspapers--is a perfect picture. they do not talk very much; indeed, they were neither of them ever great talkers. but each knows the other is close at hand, ready for any needful word, and always ready with that silent sympathy which is so mysterious a thing, the rarest thing to find in all human lives. these have found it, and are satisfied. and day by day truer grows the truth of that sentence which mrs. roy once discovered in her husband's pocket-book, cut out of a newspaper--she read and replaced it without a word, but with something between a smile and tear--_"young love is passionate, old love is faithful; but the very tenderest thing in all this world is a love revived."_ available by internet archive (https://archive.org) more: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/loveincloudcomed bate love in a cloud a comedy in filigree by arlo bates boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, , by arlo bates all rights reserved to mrs. e. l. homans contents chapter page i. the mischief of a maid ii. the madness of a man iii. the babble of a tea iv. the tickling of an author v. the blazing of rank vi. the mischief of a widow vii. the counsel of a mother viii. the test of love ix. the mischief of a gentleman x. the business of a clubman xi. the game of cross-purposes xii. the wasting of requests xiii. the wile of a woman xiv. the concealing of secrets xv. the mischief of a letter xvi. the duty of a son xvii. the business of a lover xviii. the mischief of men xix. the cruelty of love xx. the faithfulness of a friend xxi. the mischief of a fiancÉ xxii. the cooing of turtle-doves xxiii. the business of a muse xxiv. the mischief of a cad xxv. the waking of a spinster xxvi. the wooing of a widow xxvii. the climax of comedy xxviii. the unclouding of love love in a cloud i the mischief of a maid "no, my dear may, i positively will not hear another word about 'love in a cloud.' i am tired to death of the very sound of its stupid name." "oh, mrs. harbinger," may calthorpe responded, eagerly defensive, "it isn't a stupid name." mrs. harbinger settled herself back into the pile of gay cushions in the corner of the sofa, and went on without heeding the interruption:-- "i have heard nothing but 'love in a cloud,' 'love in a cloud,' until it gives me a feeling of nausea. nobody talks of anything else." may nodded her head triumphantly, a bright sparkle in her brown eyes. "that only shows what a perfectly lovely book it is," she declared. mrs. harbinger laughed, and bent forward to arrange a ribbon at may's throat. "i don't care if it is the loveliest book ever written," she responded; "i won't have it stuffed down my throat morning, noon, and night. why, if you'll believe it, my husband, who never reads novels, not only read it, but actually kept awake over it, and after that feat he'll talk of it for months." pretty may calthorpe leaned forward with more animation than the mere discussion of an anonymous novel seemed to call for, and caught one of her hostess's hands in both her own. "oh, did mr. harbinger like it?" she asked. "i am so interested to know what he thinks of it." "you never will know from me, my dear," was the cool response. "i've forbidden him to speak of it. i tell you that i am bored to death with the old thing." may started up suddenly from the sofa where she had been sitting beside mrs. harbinger. with rather an offended air she crossed to the fireplace, and began to arrange her hat before the mirror over the mantel. mrs. harbinger, smiling to herself, gave her attention to setting in order the cups on the tea-table before her. the sun of the april afternoon came in through the window, and from the polished floor of the drawing-room was reflected in bright patches on the ceiling; the brightness seemed to gather about the young, girlish face which looked out from the glass, with red lips and willful brown hair in tendrils over the white forehead. yet as she faced her reflection, may pouted and put on the look of one aggrieved. "i am sorry i mentioned the book if you are so dreadfully against it," she observed stiffly. "i was only going to tell you a secret about the author." mrs. harbinger laughed lightly, flashing a comical grimace at her visitor's back. "there you go again, like everybody else! do you suppose, may, that there is anybody i know who hasn't told me a secret about the author? why, i'm in the confidence of at least six persons who cannot deny that they wrote it." may whirled around swiftly, leaving her reflection so suddenly that it, offended, as quickly turned its back on her. "who are they?" she demanded. "well," the other answered quizzically, "mrs. croydon, for one." "mrs. croydon! why, nobody could dream that she wrote it!" "but they do. it must have been written by some one that is inside the social ring; and there is a good deal in the style that is like her other books. i do wish," she went on, with a note of vexation in her voice, "that graham would ever forget to mix up my two tea-services. he is a perfect genius for forgetting anything he ought to remember." she walked, as she spoke, to the bell, and as she passed may the girl sprang impulsively toward her, catching both her hands. "oh, mrs. harbinger!" she cried breathlessly. "i must tell you something before anybody comes." "good gracious, may, what is it now? you are as impulsive as a pair of bellows that could blow themselves." the butler came ponderously in, in reply to her ring as she spoke, and the two women for the moment suspended all sign of emotion. "graham," mrs. harbinger said, with the air of one long suffering and well-nigh at the end of her patience, "you have mixed the teacups again. take out the tray, and bring in the cups with the broad gold band." graham took up the tray and departed, his back radiating protest until the portière dropped behind him. when he was gone mrs. harbinger drew may down to a seat on the sofa, and looked at her steadily. "you evidently have really something to tell," she said; "and i have an idea that it's mischief. out with it." may drew back with heightened color. "oh, i don't dare to tell you!" she exclaimed. "is it so bad as that?" "oh, it isn't bad, only--oh, i don't know what in the world you will think!" "no matter what i think. i shan't tell you, my dear. no woman ever does that." may regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and wistfulness in her look. "you are talking that way just to give me courage," she said. "well, then," the other returned, laughing, "take courage, and tell me. what have you been doing?" "only writing letters." "only! good gracious, may! writing letters may be worse than firing dynamite bombs. women's letters are apt to be double-back-action infernal-machines; and girls' letters are a hundred times worse. whom did you write to?" "to the author of 'love in a cloud.'" "to the author of 'love in a cloud'? how did you know him?" miss calthorpe cast down her eyes, swallowed as if she were choking, and then murmured faintly: "i don't know him." "what? don't know him?" her friend demanded explosively. "only the name he puts on his book: christopher calumus." "which of course isn't his name at all. how in the world came you to write to him?" the air of mrs. harbinger became each moment more judicially moral, while that of may was correspondingly humble and deprecatory. in the interval during which the forgetful graham returned with the teacups they sat silent. the culprit was twisting nervously a fold of her frock, creasing it in a manner which would have broken the heart of the tailor who made it. the judge regarded her with a look which was half impatient, but full, too, of disapproving sternness. "how could you write to a man you don't know," insisted mrs. harbinger,--"a man of whom you don't even know the name? how could you do such a thing?" "why, you see," stammered may, "i thought--that is--well, i read the book, and--oh, you know, mrs. harbinger, the book is so perfectly lovely, and i was just wild over it, and i--i--" "you thought that being wild over it wasn't enough," interpolated the hostess in a pause; "but you must make a fool of yourself over it." "why, the book was so evidently written by a gentleman, and a man that had fine feelings," the other responded, apparently plucking up courage, "that i--you see, i wanted to know some things that the book didn't tell, and i--" "you wrote to ask!" her friend concluded, jumping up, and standing before her companion. "oh, for sheer infernal mischief commend me to one of you demure girls that look as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouths! if your father had known enough to have you educated at home instead of abroad, you'd have more sense." "oh, a girl abroad never would dare to do such a thing," may put in naïvely. "but you thought that in america a girl might do what she pleases. why, do you mean to tell me that you didn't understand perfectly well that you had no business to write to a man that you don't know? i don't believe any such nonsense." may blushed very much, and hung her head. "but i wanted so much to know him," she murmured almost inaudibly. mrs. harbinger regarded her a moment with the expression of a mother who has reached that stage of exasperation which is next halting-place before castigation. then she turned and walked vehemently up the drawing-room and back, a quick sprint which seemed to have very little effect in cooling her indignation. "how long has this nonsense been going on?" she demanded, with a new sternness in her voice. "for--for six weeks," answered may tearfully. then she lifted her swimming eyes in pitiful appeal, and proffered a plea for mercy. "of course i didn't use my own name." "five or six weeks!" cried mrs. harbinger, throwing up her hands. "but at first we didn't write more than once or twice a week." the other stared as if may were exploding a succession of torpedoes under her very nose. "but--but," she stammered, apparently fairly out of breath with amazement, "how often do you write now?" may sprang up in her turn. she faced her mentor with the truly virtuous indignation of a girl who has been proved to be in the wrong. "i shan't tell you another word!" she declared. mrs. harbinger seized her by the shoulders, and fairly pounced upon her in the swoop of her words. "how often do you write now?" she repeated. "tell me before i shake you!" the brief defiance of may vanished like the flare of a match in a wind-storm. "every day," she answered in a voice hardly audible. "every day!" echoed the other in a tone of horror. her look expressed that utter consternation which is beyond any recognition of sin, but is aroused only by the most flagrant breach of social propriety. again the culprit put in what was evidently a prayer for pity, couched in a form suggested by instinctive feminine cunning. "oh, mrs. harbinger, if you only knew what beautiful letters he writes!" "what do i care for his beautiful letters? what did you want to drag me into this mess for? now i shall have to do something." "oh, no, no, mrs. harbinger!" cried may, clasping her hands. "don't do anything. you won't have to do anything. i had to tell you when he is coming here." mrs. harbinger stared at the girl with the mien of one who is convinced that somebody's wits are hopelessly gone, and is uncertain whether they are those of herself or of her friend. "coming here?" she repeated helplessly. "when?" "this afternoon. i am really going to meet him!" may ran on, flashing instantly from depression into smiles and animation. "oh, i am so excited!" mrs. harbinger seized the girl again by the shoulder, and this time with an indignation evidently personal as well as moral. "have you dared to ask a strange man to meet you at my house, may calthorpe?" the other cringed, and writhed her shoulder out of the clutch of her hostess. "of course not," she responded, taking in her turn with instant readiness the tone of just resentment. "he wrote me that he would be here." the other regarded may in silence a moment, apparently studying her in the light of these new revelations of character. then she turned and walked thoughtfully to a chair, leaving may to sit down again on the sofa by which they had been standing. mrs. harbinger was evidently going over in her mind the list of possible authors who might be at her afternoon tea that day. "then 'love in a cloud' was written by some one we know," she observed reflectively. "when did you write to him last?" "when i was here yesterday, waiting for you to go to the matinée." "do you expect to recognize this unknown paragon?" asked mrs. harbinger with an air perhaps a thought too dispassionate. a charming blush came over may's face, but she answered with perfect readiness:-- "he asked me to give him a sign." "what kind of a sign?" "he said he would wear any flower i named if i would--" "would wear one, too, you minx! that's why you have a red carnation at your throat, is it? oh, you ought to be shut up on bread and water for a month!" may showed signs of relapsing again into tears. "i declare, i think you are just as horrid as you can be," she protested. "i wish i hadn't told you a word. i'm sure there was no need that i should. i--" the lordly form of graham the butler appeared at the drawing-room door. "mrs. croydon," he announced. ii the madness of a man while mrs. harbinger was receiving from may calthorpe the disjointed confession of that young woman's rashness, her husband, tom harbinger, was having a rather confused interview with a client in his down-town office. the client was a middle-aged man, with bushy, sandy hair, and an expression of invincible simplicity not unmixed with obstinacy. tom was evidently puzzled how to take his client or what to do with him. he had, as they talked, the air of being uncertain whether mr. barnstable was in earnest, and of not knowing how far to treat him seriously. "but why do you come to me?" he asked at length, looking at his client as one regards a prize rebus. "of course 'love in a cloud,' like any other book, has a publisher. why don't you go there to find out who wrote it?" the other shook his head wearily. he was a chunky man, seeming to be made largely of oleaginous material, and appearing to be always over-worn with the effort of doing anything with muscles and determination hopelessly flabby despite his continual persistence. "i've been to them," he returned; "but they won't tell." "then why not let the matter pass? it seems to me--" the other set his square jaw the more firmly amid its abundant folds of flabby flesh. "let it pass?" he interrupted with heavy excitement. "if something isn't done to stop the infernal impudence of these literary scribblers there will be no peace in life. there is nothing sacred! they ought to be punished, and i'll follow this rascal if it costs me every dollar i'm worth. i came to you because i thought you'd sympathize with me." mr. harbinger moved uneasily in his chair like a worm on a hook. "why, really, barnstable," he said, "i feel as you do about the impudence of writers nowadays, and i'd like to help you if i could; but--" the other broke in with a solemn doggedness which might well discourage any hope of his being turned from his purpose by argument. "i mean to bring suit for libel, and that's the whole of it." "perhaps then," the lawyer responded with ill concealed irritation, "you will be good enough to tell me whom the suit is to be against." "who should it be against? the author of 'love in a cloud,' of course." "but we don't know who the author of that cursed book is." "i know we don't know; but, damme, we must find out. get detectives; use decoy advertisements; do anything you like. i'll pay for it." mr. harbinger shrugged his shoulders, and regarded his client with an expression of entire hopelessness. "but i'm not in the detective business." the other gave no evidence of being in the least affected by the statement. "of course a lawyer expects to find out whatever is necessary in conducting his clients' business," he remarked, with the air of having disposed of that point. "there must be a hundred ways of finding out who wrote the book. an author ought not to be harder to catch than a horse-thief, and they get those every day. when you've caught him, you just have him punished to the extent of the law." harbinger rose from his chair and began to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. the other watched him in silence, and for some moments nothing was said. at length the lawyer stopped before his client, and evidently collected himself for a final effort. "but consider," he said, "what your case is." "my case is a good case if there is any justice in the country. the man that wrote that book has insulted my wife. he has told her story in his confounded novel, and everybody is laughing over her divorce. it is infamous, harbinger, infamous!" he so glowed and smouldered with inner wrath that the folds of his fat neck seemed to soften and to be in danger of melting together. his little eyes glowed, and his bushy hair bristled with indignation. he doubled his fist, and shook it at harbinger as if he saw before him the novelist who had intruded upon his private affairs, and he meant to settle scores with him on the spot. "but nobody knew that you had a wife," harbinger said. "you came here from chicago without one, and we all thought that you were a bachelor." "i haven't a wife; that's just the trouble. she left me four years ago; but i don't see that that makes any difference. i'm fond of her just the same; and i won't have her put into an anonymous book." harbinger sat down again, and drew his chair closer to that in which the other seethed, molten with impotent wrath. "just because there's a divorced woman in 'love in a cloud,'" he said, "you propose to bring a suit for libel against the author. if you will pardon me, it strikes me as uncommon nonsense." barnstable boiled up as a caldron of mush breaks into thick, spluttering bubbles. "oh, it strikes you as uncommon nonsense, does it? damme, if it was your wife you'd look at it differently. isn't it your business to do what your clients want done?" "oh, yes; but it's also my business to tell them when what they want is folly." "then it's folly for a man to resent an insult to his wife, is it? the divorce court didn't make a pawnee indian of me. my temper may be incompatible, but, damme, harbinger, i'm human." harbinger began a laugh, but choked the bright little bantling as soon as it saw the light. he leaned forward, and laid his hand on the other's knee. "i understand your feelings, barnstable," he said, "and i honor you for them; but do consider a little. in the first place, there is no probability that you could make a jury believe that the novelist meant you and your wife at all. think how many divorce suits there are, and how well that story would fit half of them. what you would do would be to drag to light all the old story, and give your wife the unpleasantness of having everything talked over again. you would injure yourself, and you could hardly fail to give very serious pain to her." barnstable stared at him with eyes which were full of confusion and of helplessness. "i don't want to hurt her," he stammered. "what do you want to do?" the client cast down his eyes, and into his sallow cheeks came a dull flush. "i wanted to protect her," he answered slowly; "and i wanted--i wanted to prove to her that--that i'd do what i could for her, if we were divorced." the face of the other man softened; he took the limp hand of his companion and shook it warmly. "there are better ways of doing it than dragging her name before the court," he said. "i tell you fairly that the suit you propose would be ridiculous. it would make you both a laughing-stock, and in the end come to nothing." the square jaw was still firmly set, but the small eyes were more wistful than ever. "but i must do something," barnstable said. "i can't stand it not to do anything." harbinger rose with the air of a man who considers the interview ended. "there is nothing that you can do now," he replied. "just be quiet, and wait. things will come round all right if you have patience; but don't be foolish. a lawyer learns pretty early in his professional life that there are a good many things that must be left to right themselves." barnstable rose in turn. he seemed to be trying hard to adjust his mind to a new view of the situation, but it was evident enough that his brain was not of the sort to yield readily to fresh ideas of any kind. he examined his hat carefully, passing his thumb and forefinger round the rim as if to assure himself that it was all there; then he cleared his throat, and regarded the lawyer wistfully. "but i must do something," he repeated, with an air half apologetic. "i can't just let the thing go, can i?" "you can't do anything but let it go," was the answer. "some time you will be glad that you did let it be. take my word for it." barnstable shook his head mournfully. "then you take away my chance," he began, "of doing something--" he paused in evident confusion. "of doing something?" repeated harbinger. "why, something, you know, to please--" "oh, to please your wife? well, just wait. something will turn up sooner or later. speaking of wives, i promised mrs. harbinger to come home to a tea or some sort of a powwow. what time is it?" "yes, a small tea," barnstable repeated with a queer look. "pardon me, but is it too intrusive in me to ask if i may go home with you?" harbinger regarded him in undisguised amazement; and quivers of embarrassment spread over barnstable's wavelike folds of throat and chin. "of course it seems to you very strange," the client went on huskily; "and i suppose it is etiquettsionally all wrong. do you think your wife would mind much?" "mrs. harbinger," the lawyer responded, his voice much cooler than before, "will not object to anybody i bring home." the acquaintance of the two men was no more than that which comes from casual meetings at the same club. the club was, however, a good one, and membership was at least a guarantee of a man's respectability. "i happen to know," barnstable proceeded, getting so embarrassed that there was reason to fear that in another moment his tongue would cleave to the roof of his mouth and his husky voice become extinct altogether, "that a person that i want very much to see will be there; and i will take it as very kind--if you think it don't matter,--that is, if your wife--" "oh, mrs. harbinger won't mind. come along. wait till i get my hat and my bag. a lawyer's green bag is in boston as much a part of his dress as his coat is." the lawyer stuffed some papers into his green bag, rolled down the top of his desk, and took up his hat. the visitor had in the meantime been picking from his coat imaginary specks of lint and smoothing his unsmoothable hair. "i hope i look all right," barnstable said nervously. "i--i dressed before i came here. i thought perhaps you would be willing--" "oh, ho," interrupted harbinger. "then this whole thing is a ruse, is it? you never really meant to bring a suit for libel?" the face of the other hardened again. "yes, i did," was his answer; "and i'm by no means sure that i've given it up yet." iii the babble of a tea the entrance of mrs. croydon into mrs. harbinger's drawing-room was accompanied by a rustling of stuffs, a fluttering of ribbons, and a nodding of plumes most wonderful to ear and eye. the lady was of a complexion so striking that the redness of her cheeks first impressed the beholder, even amid all the surrounding luxuriance of her toilet. her eyes were large and round, and of a very light blue, offering to friend or foe the opportunity of comparing them to turquoise or blue china, and so prominent as to exercise on the sensitive stranger the fascination of a deformity from which it seems impossible to keep the glance. mrs. croydon was rather short, rather broad, extremely consequential, and evidently making always a supreme effort not to be overpowered by her overwhelming clothes. she came in now like a yacht decorated for a naval parade, and moving before a slow breeze. mrs. harbinger advanced a step to meet her guest, greeting the new-comer in words somewhat warmer than the tone in which they were spoken. "how do you do, mrs. croydon. delighted to see you." "how d' y' do?" responded the flutterer, an arch air of youthfulness struggling vainly with the unwilling confession of her face that she was no longer on the sunny side of forty. "how d' y' do, miss calthorpe? delighted to find you here. you can tell me all about your cousin alice's engagement." miss calthorpe regarded the new-comer with a look certainly devoid of enthusiasm, and replied in a tone not without a suggestion of frostiness:-- "on the contrary i did not know that she was engaged." "oh, she is; to count shimbowski." "count shimbowski and alice endicott?" put in mrs. harbinger. "is that the latest? sit down, mrs. croydon. really, it doesn't seem to me that it is likely that such a thing could be true, and the relatives not be notified." she reseated herself as she spoke, and busied herself with the tea-equipage. may rather threw herself down than resumed her seat. "certainly it can't be true," the latter protested. "the idea of alice's being engaged and we not know it!" "but it's true; i have it direct," insisted mrs. croydon; "miss wentstile told mr. bradish, and he told me." may sniffed rather inelegantly. "oh, miss wentstile! she thinks because alice is her niece she can do what she likes with her. it's all nonsense. alice has always been fond of jack neligage. everybody knows that." mrs. croydon managed somehow to communicate to her innumerable streamers and pennants a flutter which seemed to be meant to indicate violent inward laughter. "oh, what a child you are, miss calthorpe! i declare, i really must put you into my next novel. i really must!" "may is still so young as to be romantic, of course," mrs. harbinger remarked, flashing at her young friend a quick sidewise glance. "besides which she has been educated in a convent; and in a convent a girl must be either imaginative or a fool, or she'll die of ennui." "i suppose you never were romantic yourself," put in may defensively. "oh, yes, my dear; i had my time of being a fool. why, once i even fell violently in love with a man i had never seen." the swift rush of color into the face of miss calthorpe might have arrested the attention of mrs. croydon, but at that moment the voice of graham interrupted, announcing:-- "mr. bradish; mr. neligage." the two men who entered were widely different in appearance. that mr. bradish was considerably the elder was evident from his appearance, yet he came forward with an eager air which secured for him the first attention. he was lantern-jawed, and sanguine in color. near-sight glasses unhappily gave to his eyes an appearance of having been boiled, and distorted his glance into an absurd likeness to a leer. a shadow of melancholy, vague yet palpable, softened his face, and was increased by the droop of his don quixote like yellow mustaches. the bald spot on his head and the stoop in his shoulders betrayed cruelly the fact that harry bradish was no longer young; and no less plainly upon everything about him was stamped the mark of a gentleman. jack neligage, on the other hand, came in with a face of irresistible good nature. there was a twinkle in his brown eyes, a spark of humor and kindliness which could evidently not be quenched even should there descend upon him serious misfortune. his face was still young enough hardly to show the marks of dissipation which yet were not entirely invisible to the searching eye; his hair was crisp and abundant; his features regular and well formed. he was a young fellow so evidently intended by nature for pleasure that to expect him to take life seriously would have seemed a sort of impropriety. an air of youth, and of jocund life, of zest and of mirthfulness came in with jack, inevitably calling up smiles to meet him. even disapproval smiled on jack; and it was therefore not surprising if he evaded most of the reproofs which are apt to be the portion of an idle pleasure-seeker. he moved with a certain languid alertness that was never hurried and yet never too late. this served him well on the polo-field, where he was deliberately swift and swiftly deliberate in most effective fashion. he came into the drawing-room now with the easy mien of a favorite, yet with an indifference which seemed so natural as to save him from all appearance of conceit. he had the demeanor of the conscious but not quite spoiled darling of fortune. "you are just in time for the first brewing of tea," mrs. harbinger said, when greetings had been exchanged. "this tea was sent me by a russian countess who charged me to let nobody drink it who takes cream. it is really very good if you get it fresh." "to have the tea and the hostess both fresh," mr. bradish responded, "will, i fear, be too intoxicating." "never mind the tea," broke in mrs. croydon. "i am much more interested in what we were talking about. mr. bradish, you can tell us about count shimbowski and alice endicott." jack neligage turned about with a quickness unusual in him. "the count and miss endicott?" he demanded. "what about them? who's had the impertinence to couple their names?" mrs. croydon put up her hands in pretended terror, a hundred tags of ribbon fluttering as she did so. "oh, don't blame me," she said. "i didn't do it. they're engaged." neligage regarded her with a glance of vexed and startled disfavor. then he gave a short, scornful laugh. "what nonsense!" he said. "nobody could believe that." "but it's true," put in bradish. "miss wentstile herself told me that she had arranged the match, and that i might mention it." neligage looked at the speaker an instant with a disbelieving smile on his lip; and tossing his head went to lean his elbow on the mantel. "arranged!" he echoed. "good heavens! is this a transaction in real estate?" "marriage so often is, mr. neligage," observed mrs. harbinger, with a smile. bradish began to explain with the solemn air which he had. he was often as obtuse and matter-of-fact as an englishman, and now took up the establishment of the truth of his news with as much gravity as if he were setting forth a point of moral doctrine. he seemed eager to prove that he had at least been entirely innocent of any deception, and that whatever he had said must be blamelessly credible. "of course it's extraordinary, and i said so to miss wentstile. she said that as the count is a foreigner, it was very natural for him to follow foreign fashions in arranging the marriage with her instead of with alice." "and she added, i've no doubt," interpolated mrs. harbinger, "that she entirely approved of the foreign fashion." "she did say something of that sort," admitted bradish, with entire gravity. mrs. harbinger burst into a laugh, and trimmed the wick of her tea-lamp. neligage grinned, but his pleasant face darkened instantly. "miss wentstile is an old idiot!" said he emphatically. "oh, come, mr. neligage," remonstrated his hostess, "that is too strong language. we must observe the proprieties of abuse." "and say simply that she is miss wentstile," suggested mrs. croydon sweetly. the company smiled, with the exception of may, whose face had been growing longer and longer. "i don't care what she says," the girl burst out indignantly; "i don't believe alice will listen to such a thing for one minute." "perhaps she won't," bradish rejoined doubtfully, "but miss wentstile is famous for having her own way. i'm sure i shouldn't feel safe if she undertook to marry me off." "she might take you for herself if she knew her power, mr. bradish," responded mrs. croydon. "no more tea, my dear, thank you." "for heaven's sake don't mention it then," he answered. "it's enough to have jack here upset. the news is evidently too much for him." "what news has upset my son, mr. bradish?" demanded a crisp voice from the doorway. "i shall disown him if he can't hide his feelings." past graham, who was prepared to announce her, came a little woman, bright, vivacious, sparkling; with clear complexion and mischievous dimples. a woman trimly dressed, and in appearance hardly older than the son she lightly talked of disowning. the youthfulness of mrs. neligage was a constant source of irritation to her enemies, and with her tripping tongue and defiant independence she made enemies in plenty. her gypsyish beauty and clear skin were offenses serious enough; but for a woman with a son of five and twenty to look no more than that age herself was a vexation which was not to be forgiven. some had been spiteful enough to declare that she preserved her youth by being entirely free from feeling; but since in the same breath they were ready to charge the charming widow with having been by her emotions carried into all sorts of improprieties, the accusation was certainly to be received with some reservations. certainly she was the fortunate possessor of unfailing spirits, of constant cleverness, and delightful originality. she had the courage, moreover, of daring to do what she wished with the smallest possible regard for conventions; and it has never been clearly shown how much independence of conventionality and freedom of life may effect toward the preservation of a woman's youth. she evidently understood the art of entering a room well. she came forward swiftly, yet without ungraceful hurry. she nodded brightly to the ladies, gave bradish the momentary pleasure of brushing her finger-tips with his own as she passed him, then went forward to shake hands with mrs. harbinger. without having done anything in particular she was evidently entire mistress of the situation, and the rest of the company became instantly her subordinates. mrs. croydon, almost twice her size and so elaborately overdressed, appeared suddenly to have become dowdy and ill at ease; yet nothing could have been more unconscious or friendly than the air with which the new-comer turned from the hostess to greet the other lady. there are women to whom superiority so evidently belongs by nature that they are not even at the trouble of asserting it. "oh, mrs. neligage," mrs. croydon said, as she grasped at the little glove which glanced over hers as a bird dips above the water, "you have lived so much abroad that you should be an authority on foreign marriages." "just as you, having lived in chicago, should be an authority on un-marriages, i suppose. well, i've had the fun of disturbing a lot of foreign marriages in my day. what marriage is this?" "we were speaking of miss wentstile's proposing to marry alice to count shimbowski," explained mrs. harbinger. "then," returned mrs. neligage lightly, "you had better speak of something else as quickly as possible, for alice and her aunt are just behind me. let us talk of mrs. croydon's anonymous novel that's made such a stir while i've been in washington. what is it? 'cloudy love'! that sounds tremendously improper. my dear, if you don't wish to see me fall in a dead faint at your feet, do give me some tea. i'm positively worn out." she seated herself near mrs. croydon, over whose face during her remarks had flitted several expressions, none of them over-amiable, and watched the hostess fill her cup. "come, mrs. neligage," protested bradish with an air of mild solicitation. "you are really too bad, you know. it isn't 'cloudy love,' but 'love in a cloud.' i didn't know that you confessed to writing it, mrs. croydon." "oh, i don't. i only refuse to deny it." "oh, well, now; not to deny is equivalent to a confession," he returned. "not in the least," mrs. neligage struck in. "when you are dealing with a woman, mr. bradish, it isn't safe even to take things by contraries." iv the tickling of an author the entrance of miss wentstile and her niece alice endicott made the company so numerous that it naturally broke up into groups, and the general conversation was suspended. miss wentstile was a lady of commanding presence, whose youth was with the snows of yester year. she had the eye of a hawk and the jaw of a bulldog; nor was the effect of these rather formidable features softened by the strong aquiline nose. her hair was touched with gray, but her color was still fresh and too clear not to be natural. she was richly dressed in dark green and fur, her complexion making the color possible in spite of her years. she was a woman to arouse attention, and one, too, who was evidently accustomed to dominate. she cast a keen glance about her as she crossed the room to her hostess, sweeping her niece along with her not without a suggestion that she dragged the girl as a captive at her chariot-wheel. jack neligage stepped forward as she passed him, evidently with the intention of intercepting the pair, or perhaps of gaining a word with alice endicott. "how do you do, miss wentstile," he said. "i am happy to see you looking so well." "there is no reason why i should not look well, mr. neligage," she responded severely. "i never sit up all night to smoke and drink and play cards." neligage smiled his brightest, and made her a bow of mock deference. "indeed, miss wentstile," he responded, "i am delighted to know that your habits have become so correct." she retorted with a contemptuous sniff, and by so effectually interposing between him and her niece that miss endicott could only nod to him over her aunt's shoulder. jack made a grimace more impertinent than courtly, and for the time turned away, while the two ladies went on to mrs. harbinger. "well, alice," mrs. harbinger said, "i am glad you have come at last. i began to think that i must appoint a substitute to pour in your place." "i am sorry to be so late," miss endicott responded, as she and her hostess exchanged places. "i was detained unexpectedly." "i kept her," miss wentstile announced with grim suddenness. "i have been talking to her about--" "aunt sarah," interposed alice hurriedly, "may i give you some tea?" "don't interrupt me, alice. i was talking to her about--" mrs. harbinger looked at the crimsoning cheeks of alice, and meeting the girl's imploring glance, gave her a slight but reassuring nod. "my dear miss wentstile," she said, "i know you will excuse me; but here are more people coming." miss wentstile could hardly finish her remarks to the air, and as mrs. harbinger left her to greet a new arrival the spinster turned sharply to may calthorpe, who had snuggled up to alice in true school-girl fashion. "ah, may," miss wentstile observed, "what do you settle down there for? don't you know that now you have been brought out in society you are expected to make your market?" "no, miss wentstile," may responded; "if my market can't make itself, then it may go unmade." the elder turned away with another characteristic sniff, and alice and may were left to themselves. people were never tired of condemning miss wentstile for her brusque and naked remarks; but after all society is always secretly grateful for any mortal who has the courage to be individual. the lady was often frank to the verge of rudeness; she was so accustomed to having her own way that one felt sure she would insist upon it at the very judgment seat; she said what she pleased, and exacted a deference to her opinions and to her wishes such as could hardly under existing human conditions be accorded to any mortal. miss wentstile must have been too shrewd not to estimate reasonably well the effect of her peculiarities, and no human being can be persistently eccentric without being theatrical. it was evident enough that she played in some degree to the gallery; and undoubtedly from this it is to be argued that she was not without some petty enjoyment in the notoriety which her manners produced. should mankind be destroyed, the last thing to disappear would probably be human vanity, which, like the grin of the cheshire cat in "alice," would linger after the race was gone. vanity in the individual is nourished by the notice of others; and if miss wentstile became more and more confirmed in her impertinences, it is hardly to be doubted that increase of vanity was the cause most active. she outwardly resented the implication that she was eccentric; but as she contrived continually and even complacently to become steadily more so, society might be excused for not thinking her resentment particularly deep. dislike for notoriety perhaps never cured any woman of a fault; and certainly in the case of miss wentstile it was not in the least corrective. the relations between miss wentstile and alice endicott were well known. alice was the doubly orphaned daughter of a gallant young officer killed in a plucky skirmish against superior force in the indian troubles, and of the wife whose heart broke at his loss. at six alice was left, except for a small pension, practically penniless, and with no nearer relative than miss wentstile. that lady had undertaken the support of the child, but had kept her much at school until the girl was sixteen. then the niece became an inmate of her aunt's house, and outwardly, at least, the mere slave of the older lady's caprices. miss wentstile was kind in her fashion. in all that money bought she was generous. alice was richly dressed, she might have what masters she wished, be surrounded by whatever luxuries she chose. as if the return for these benefits was to be implicit obedience, miss wentstile was impatient of any show toward herself of independence. if alice could be imagined as bearing herself coldly and haughtily toward the world in general,--a possibility hardly to be conceived of,--miss wentstile might be pictured glorying in such a display of proper spirit; but toward her aunt the girl was expected to be all humility and concession. as neither was without the pride which belonged to the wentstile blood, it is easy to see that perfect harmony was not to be looked for between the pair. alice had all the folly of girlhood, which is so quick to refuse to be bullied into affection; which is so blind as not to perceive that an elder who insists upon its having no will of its own is providing excellent lessons in the high graces of humility and meekness. clever observers--and society remains vital chiefly in virtue of its clever observers--detected that miss wentstile chafed with an inward consciousness that the deference of her niece was accorded as a courtesy and not as a right. the spinster had not the tact to avoid betraying her perception that the submission of alice was rather outward than inward, and the public sense of justice was somewhat appeased in its resentment at her domineering treatment by its enjoyment of her powerlessness either to break the girl's spirit or force her into rebellion. the fondness of alice for jack neligage was the one tangible thing with which miss wentstile could find fault; and this was so intangible after all that it was difficult to seize upon it. nobody doubted that the two were warmly attached. jack had never made any effort to hide his admiration; and while alice had been more circumspect, the instinct of society is seldom much at fault in a matter of this sort. for miss wentstile to be sure that her niece favored the man of all others most completely obnoxious, and to bring the offense home to the culprit were, however, matters quite different. now that miss wentstile had outdone herself in eccentricity by boldly adopting the foreign fashion of a _mariage de convenance_, there was every reason to believe that the real power of the spinster would be brought to the test. nobody doubted that behind this absurd attempt to make a match between alice and count shimbowski lay the determination to separate the girl from jack neligage; and it was inevitable that the struggle should be watched for with eager interest. the first instant that there was opportunity for a confidential word, may calthorpe rushed precipitately upon the subject of the reported engagement. "oh, alice," she said, in a hurried half-whisper, "do you know that miss wentstile says she has arranged an engagement between you and that horrid hungarian count." alice turned her long gray eyes quickly to meet those of her companion. "has she really told of it?" she demanded almost fiercely. "they were all talking of it before you came in," may responded. her voice was deepened, apparently by a tragic sense of the gravity of the subject under discussion; yet she was a bud in her first season, so that it was impossible that there should not also be in her tone some faint consciousness of the delightfully romantic nature of the situation. an angry flush came into the cheek of miss endicott. she was not a girl of striking face, although she had beautiful eyes; but there was a dignity in her carriage, an air of birth and breeding, which gave her distinction anywhere. she possessed, moreover, a sweet sincerity of character which made itself subtly felt in her every tone and movement. now she knit her forehead in evident perplexity and resentment. "but did they believe it?" she asked. "oh, they would believe anything of miss wentstile, of course," may replied. "we all know aunt sarah too well not to know that she is capable of the craziest thing that could be thought of." she picked out a fat bonbon as she spoke, and nibbled it comfortably, as if thoroughly enjoying herself. "but what can i do?" demanded alice pathetically. "i can't stand up here and say: 'ladies and gentlemen, i really have no idea of marrying that foreign thing aunt sarah wants to buy for me.'" whatever reply may might have made was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman with an empty teacup. the new-comer was richard fairfield, a young man of not much money but of many friends, and of literary aspirations. as he crossed the drawing-room mrs. neligage carelessly held out to him her cup and saucer. "as you are going that way, richard," she said without preface of salutation, "do you mind taking my cup to the table?" "delighted, of course," he answered, extending his hand for it. "if mrs. neligage will permit me," broke in mr. bradish, darting forward. "i beg ten thousand pardons for not perceiving--" "but mrs. neligage will not permit you, mr. bradish," she responded brightly. "i have already commissioned richard." fairfield received the cup, and bore it away, while bradish cast upon the widow a glance of reproach and remonstrance. "you women all pet a rising author," he said. "i suppose it's because you all hope to be put in his books." "oh, no. on the contrary it is because we hope to be left out." "i don't see," he went on with little apparent relevancy, "why you need begrudge me the pleasure of doing you a small favor." "i don't wish you to get too much into the habit of doing small favors," she responded over her shoulder, as she turned back to the group with which she had been chatting. "i am afraid that if you do, you'll fail when i ask a great one." fairfield made his way to the table where alice was dispensing tea. he was by her welcomed cordially, by may with a reserve which was evidently absent-minded regret that he should break in upon her confidences with her cousin. he exchanged with alice the ordinary greetings, and then made way for a fresh arrival who wished for tea. may responded rather indifferently to his remarks as he took a chair at the end of the sofa upon which she was seated, seeming so absorbed that in a moment he laughed at some irrelevant reply which she gave. "you did not understand what i said," he remarked. "i didn't mean--" "i beg your pardon," she interrupted, turning toward him. "i was thinking of something i was talking about with alice, and i didn't mind what you did say." "i am sorry that i interrupted." "oh, everybody interrupts at an afternoon tea," she responded, smiling. "that is what we are here for, i suppose. i was simply in a cloud--" fairfield returned her smile with interest. "is that an allusion?" may flushed a little, and put her hand consciously to the carnation at her throat. "oh, no," she answered, with a little too much eagerness. "i can talk of something beside that book. though of course," she added, "i do think it is a perfectly wonderful story. there is so much heart in it. why, i have read it so much that i know parts of it almost word for word." "then you don't think it is cynical?" "oh, not the least in the world! how can anybody say that? i am ashamed of you, mr. fairfield." "i didn't mean that i thought it cynical; but lots of folk do, you know." may tossed her hands in a girlish gesture of disdain. "i hate people that call everything cynical. it is a thing that they just say to sound wise. 'love in a cloud' is to me one of the truest books i ever read. why, you take that scene where she tells him she cares for him just the same in spite of his disgrace. it brings the tears into my eyes every time i read it." a new light came into the young man's face as she spoke in her impulsive, girlish fashion. he was a handsome fellow, with well-bred face. he stroked his silky mustache with an air not unsuggestive of complacency. "it is delightful," said he, "to find somebody who really appreciates the book for what is best in it. of course there are a great many people who say nice things about it, but they don't seem to go to the real heart of it as you do." "oh, the story has so much heart," she returned. then she regarded him quizzically. "you speak almost as if you had written it yourself." "oh, i--that is--why, you see," he answered, in evident confusion, "i suppose that my being an embryo literary man myself makes it natural for me to take the point of view of the author. most readers of a novel, you know, care for nothing but the plot, and see nothing else." "oh, it is not the plot," may cried enthusiastically. "i like that, of course, but what i really care for is the feeling in the book." jack neligage, with his eyes on alice endicott, had made his way over to the tea-table, and came up in time to hear this. "the book, miss calthorpe?" he repeated. "oh, you must be talking of that everlasting novel. i wish i had had the good luck to write it." "oh, i should adore you if you had, mr. neligage." "by jove, then i'll swear i did write it." fairfield regarded the girl with heightened color. "you had better be careful, miss calthorpe," he commented. "the real author might hear you." she started in pretty dismay, and covered with her hand the flower nestling under her chin. "oh, he is not here!" she cried. "how do you know that?" demanded jack laughingly. she sank back into the corner of the sofa with a blush far deeper than could be called for by the situation. "oh, i just thought so," she said. "who is there here that could have written it?" "why, dick here is always scribbling," neligage returned, with a chuckle. "perhaps you have been telling him what you thought of his book." the face of fairfield grew suddenly sober. "come, jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of you." he was seized at that moment by mrs. harbinger, who presented him to miss wentstile. fairfield had been presented to miss wentstile a dozen times in the course of the two winters since he had graduated at harvard and settled in boston; but since she never seemed to recognize him, he gave no sign of remembering her. "miss wentstile," the hostess said, "don't you know mr. fairfield? he is one of our literary lights now, you know." "a very tiny rushlight, i am afraid," the young man commented. miss wentstile examined him with critical impertinence through her lorgnette. "are you one of the baltimore fairfields?" she asked. "no; my family came from connecticut." "indeed!" she remarked coolly. "i do not remember that i ever met a person from connecticut before." the lips of the young man set themselves a little more firmly at this impertinence, and there came into his eyes a keen look. "i am pleased to be the humble means of increasing your experience," he said, with a bow. miss wentstile had the appearance of being anxious to quarrel with somebody, a fact which was perhaps due to the conversation which she had had with her niece as they came to the house. alice had been ordered to be especially gracious to count shimbowski, and had respectfully but succinctly declared her intention to be as cold as possible. miss wentstile had all her life indulged in saying whatever she felt like saying, little influenced by the ordinary restraints of conventionality and not at all by consideration for the feelings of others. she had gone about the room that afternoon being as disagreeable as possible, and her rudeness to fairfield was milder than certain things which were at that very moment being resented and quoted in the groups which she had passed. she glared at the young man now as if amazed that he had dared to reply, and unfortunately she ventured once more. "thank you," she said. "even the animals in the zoo increase one's experience. it is always interesting to meet those that one has heard chattered about." he made her a deeper bow. "i know," he responded with a manner coolly polite. "i felt it myself the first half dozen times i had the honor to be presented to you; but even the choicest pleasures grow stale on too frequent repetition." miss wentstile glared at him for half a minute, while he seemed to grow pale at his own temerity. then a humorous smile lightened her face, and she tapped him approvingly on the shoulder with her gold lorgnette. "come, come," she said briskly but without any sharpness, "you must not be impertinent to an old woman. you will hold your own, i perceive. come and see me. i am always at home on wednesdays." miss wentstile moved on looking less grim, but her previous sins were still to be atoned for, and mrs. neligage, who knew nothing of the encounter between the spinster and fairfield, was watching her opportunity. miss wentstile came upon the widow just as a burst of laughter greeted the conclusion of a story. "and his wife is entirely in the dark to this day," mrs. neligage ended. "that is--ha, ha!--the funniest thing i've heard this winter," declared mr. bradish, who was always in the train of mrs. neligage. "i think it's horrid!" protested mrs. croydon, with an entirely unsuccessful attempt to look shocked. "i declare, miss wentstile, they are gossiping in a way that positively makes me blush." "so you see that the age of miracles is not past after all," put in mrs. neligage. "mrs. neligage has lived abroad so much," miss wentstile said severely, "that i fear she has actually forgotten the language of civility." "not to you, my dear miss wentstile," was the incorrigible retort. "my mother taught me to be civil to you in my earliest youth." and all that the unfortunate lady, thus cruelly attacked, could say was,-- "i wish you remembered all your mother taught you half as well!" v the blazing of rank the usual mass of people came and went that afternoon at mrs. harbinger's. it was not an especially large tea, but in a country where the five o'clock tea is the approved method of paying social grudges there will always be a goodly number of people to be asked and many who will respond. the hum of talk rose like the clatter of a factory, the usual number of conversations were begun only to end as soon as they were well started; the hostess fulfilled her duty of interrupting any two of her guests who seemed to be in danger of getting into real talk; presentations were made with the inevitable result of a perfunctory exchange of inanities; and in general the occasion was very like the dozen other similar festivities which were proceeding at the same time in all the more fashionable parts of the city. as time wore on the crowd lessened. many had gone to do their wearisome duty of saying nothing at some other five o'clock; and the rooms were becoming comfortable again. the persons who had come early were lingering, and one expert in social craft might have detected signs that their remaining so long was not without some especial reason. "if he is coming," mrs. neligage observed to mr. bradish, "i wish he would come. it is certainly not very polite of him not to arrive earlier if he is really trying to pass as the slave of alice." "oh, he is always late," bradish answered. "if you had not been in washington you would have heard how he kept miss wentstile's dinner waiting an hour the other day because he couldn't make up his mind to leave the billiard table." mrs. neligage laughed rather mockingly. "how did dear miss wentstile like that?" asked she. "it is death for any mortal to dare to be late at her house, and she does not approve of billiards." "she was so taken up with berating the rest of us for his tardiness that when he appeared she had apparently forgotten all about his being to blame in anything." "she loves a title as she loves her life," mrs. neligage commented. "she would marry him herself and give him every penny she owns just to be called a countess for the rest of her life." a stir near the door, and the voice of graham announcing "count shimbowski" made them both turn. a brief look of intelligence flashed across the face of the widow. "it is he," she murmured as if to herself. "do you know him?" demanded bradish. "oh, i used to see him abroad years ago," was her answer. "very likely he will have forgotten me." "that," bradish declared, with a profound bow, "is impossible." the count made his way across the drawing-room with a jaunty air not entirely in keeping with the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. he was tall and wiry, with sandy hair and big mustaches. he showed no consciousness that he was being stared at, but with admirable self-possession saluted his hostess. "how do you do, count?" mrs. harbinger greeted him. "we began to think you were not coming." "ah, how do, mees harbeenger. not to come eet would be to me too desolate. _bon jour_, my deear mees wentsteele. i am so above-joyed to encountair you'self here. my deear mees endeecott, i kees your feengair." "beast!" muttered jack neligage to fairfield. "i should like to cram a fistful of his twisted-up sentences down his snaky throat!" "he must open his throat with a corkscrew in the morning," was the reply. miss wentstile was smiling her most gracious. "how do you feel to-day, count?" she asked. "does our spring weather affect you unpleasantly?" the count made a splendid gesture with both his hands, waving in the right the monocle which he more often carried than wore. "oh, what ees eet de weder een one land w'ere de peoples so heavenly keent ees?" he demanded oratorically. "only eet ees mees endeecott do keel me wid her so great cheelleeness." miss endicott looked up from her seat at the tea-table beside which the group stood. her air was certainly sufficiently cold to excuse the count for feeling her chilliness; and she answered without a glimmer of a smile. "i'm not cruel," she said. "i wouldn't hurt a worm." "but," the count responded, shaking his head archly, "eet ees dat i be not a worm." "i thought that all men were worms of the dust," mrs. harbinger observed. the count bowed his tall figure with finished grace. "and all de weemens," he declared, "aire angles!" "it is our sharpness, then, that is to be admired," alice commented. "of course, alice," miss wentstile corrected vixenishly, "the count means angels." "so many men," alice went on without showing other sign of feeling than a slight flush, "have turned a woman from an angel into an angle." "i do comprehend not," the count said. "it is no matter, count," put in the hostess. "she is only teasing you, and being rude into the bargain. you will take tea? alice, pour the count some tea." alice took up a cup. "how many lumps?" she asked. "loomps? loomps? oh, eet weel be sugaire een de tea. tree, eef you weel be so goot weedeen eet." just as the count, with profuse expressions of overwhelming gratitude to have been permitted so great an honor, had received his tea from the hand of miss endicott, and miss wentstile was clearing her throat with the evident intention of directing toward him some profound observation, mrs. neligage came briskly forward with outstretched hand. "it would be generous of you, count," she said, "to recognize an old friend." he stared at her with evident astonishment. "_ciel!_" he exclaimed. "ah, but eet weel be de _belle_ madame neleegaze!" she laughed as she shook hands, her dark eyes sparkling with fun. "as gallant as ever, count. it is good of you to remember me after so many years." the count regarded her with a look so earnest that he might easily be supposed to remember from the past, whatever and whenever it had been, many things of interest. miss wentstile surveyed the pair with an expression of keen suspicion. "louisa," she demanded, "where did you know the count?" the count tried to speak, but mrs. neligage was too quick for him. "it was at--where was it, count? my memory for places is so bad," she returned mischievously. "yees," he said eagerly. "eet weel have been paris _certainement_, ees eet not?" she laughed more teasingly yet, and glanced swiftly from him to miss wentstile. she was evidently amusing herself, though the simple question of the place of a former meeting might not seem to give much opportunity. "that doesn't seem to me to have been the place," she remarked. "paris? let me see. i should have said that it was--" the remark was not concluded, for down went the count's teacup with a splash and a crash, with startings and cries from the ladies, and a hasty drawing away of gowns. miss endicott, who had listened carefully to the talk, took the catastrophe coolly enough, but with a darkening of the face which seemed to show that she regarded the accident as intentional. the count whipped out his handkerchief, and went down on his knee instantly to wipe the hem of miss wentstile's spattered frock; while mrs. neligage seemed more amused than ever. "oh, i am deesconsolate forever!" the count exclaimed, in tones which were pathetic enough to have made the reputation of an actor. "i am broken een de heart, mees wentsteele." "it is no matter," miss wentstile said stiffly. a ring of the bell brought graham to repair the damage as far as might be, and in the confusion the count moved aside with the widow. "that was not done with your usual skill, count," she said mockingly. "it was much too violent for the occasion." "but for what you speak of monaco here?" he demanded fiercely. "de old mees wentsteele say dat to play de card for money ees villain. she say eet is murderous. she say she weel not to endure de man dat have gamboled." "and you have gamboled in a lively manner in your time, count. it's an old pun, but it would be new to you if you could understand it." "i don't understand," he said savagely in french. "no matter. it wasn't worth understanding," she answered, in the same tongue. "but you needn't have been afraid. i'm no spoil-sport. i shouldn't have told." "she is an old prude," he went on, smiling, and showing his white teeth. "if she knew i had been in a duel, she would know me no more." "she will not know from me." "as lovely and as kind as ever," he responded. "ah, when i remember those days, when i was young, and you were just as you are now--" "old, that is." "oh, no; young, always young as when i knew you first. when i was at your feet with love, and your countryman was my rival--" mrs. neligage began to look as if she found the tables being turned, and that she had no more wish to have the past brought up than had the count. she turned away from her companion. then she looked back over her shoulder to observe, still in french, as she left him:-- "i make it a point never to remember those days, my friend." vi the mischief of a widow there were now but ten guests left, the persons who have been named, and who seemed for the most part to be lingering to observe the count or alice endicott. may calthorpe had all the afternoon kept near alice, and only left her place when the sopping up of the count's tea made it necessary for her to move. mrs. harbinger took her by the arm, and looked into her face scrutinizingly. "well," she asked, "did your unknown author come?" "nobody has come with a carnation. oh, i am so disappointed!" "i am glad of it, my dear." "but he said he would come if i'd give him a sign, and i wrote to him while i was waiting for you yesterday." "so you told me." "well," may echoed dolefully; "i think you might be more sympathetic." "what did you do with the letter?" asked mrs. harbinger. "i gave it to graham to post." "then very likely no harm is done. graham never in his life posted a letter under two days." "oh, do you think so?" may asked, brightening visibly at the suggestion. "you don't think he despised me, and wouldn't come?" mrs. harbinger gave her a little shake. "you hussy!" she exclaimed, with too evident an enjoyment of the situation to be properly severe. "how was it addressed?" "just to christopher calumus, in care of the publishers." "well, my dear," the hostess declared, "your precious epistle is probably in the butler's pantry now; or one of the maids has picked it up from the kitchen floor. i warn you that if i can find it i shall read it." "oh, you wouldn't!" exclaimed may in evident distress. "um! wouldn't i, though? the way you take the suggestion shows that it's time somebody looked into your correspondence with this stranger." may opened her lips to protest again, but the voice of graham was heard announcing mr. barnstable, and mrs. harbinger turned to greet the late-coming stranger. the gentleman's hair had apparently been scrubbed into sleekness, but had here and there broken through the smooth outer surface as the stuffing of an old cushion breaks through slits in the covering. his face was red, and his air full of self-consciousness. when he entered the drawing-room mr. harbinger was close behind him, but the latter stopped to speak with bradish and mrs. neligage, and barnstable advanced alone to where mrs. harbinger stood with may just behind her. "heavens, may," the hostess said over her shoulder. "here is your carnation. i hope you are pleased with the bearer." barnstable stood hesitating, looking around as if to discover the hostess. on the face of mrs. croydon only was there sign of recognition. she bowed at him rather than to him, with an air so distant that no man could have spoken to her after such a frigid salutation. the stranger turned redder and redder, made a half step toward mrs. croydon, and then stopped. fortunately mr. harbinger hastened up, and presented him to the hostess. that lady greeted him politely, but she had hardly exchanged the necessary commonplaces, before she put out her hand to where may stood watching in dazed surprise. "let me present you to miss calthorpe," she said. "mr. barnstable, may." she glided away with a twinkle in her eye which must have implied that she had no fear in leaving the romantic girl with a lover that looked like that. may and barnstable stood confronting each other a moment in awkward silence, and then the girl tossed her head with the air of a young colt that catches the bit between his teeth. "i had quite given you up," she said in a voice low, but distinct. "eh?" he responded, with a startled look. "given me up?" "i have been watching for the carnation all the afternoon." "carnation?" he echoed, trying over his abundant chins to get a glimpse of the flower in his buttonhole. "oh, yes; i generally wear a carnation. they keep, don't you know; and it was always the favorite flower of my wife." "your wife?" demanded miss calthorpe. her cheeks grew crimson, and she drew herself up haughtily. "yes," barnstable replied, looking confused. "that is, of course, she that was my wife." "i should never have believed," may observed distantly, "that 'love in a cloud' could have been written by a widower." barnstable began to regard her as if he were in doubt whether she or he himself had lost all trace of reason. "'love in a cloud,'" he repeated, "'love in a cloud'? do you know who wrote that beastly book?" her color shot up, and the angry young goddess declared itself in every line of her face. her pose became instantly a protest. "how dare you speak of that lovely book in that way?" she demanded. "it is perfectly exquisite!" "but who wrote it?" he demanded in his turn, growing so red as to suggest awful possibilities of apoplexy. "didn't you?" she stammered. "are you running it down just for modesty?" "i! i! i write 'love in a cloud'?" cried barnstable, speaking so loud that he could be heard all over the room. "you insult me, miss--miss calthump! you--" his feelings were evidently too much for him. he turned with rude abruptness, and looking about him, seemed to become aware that the eyes of almost everybody in the room were fixed on him. he cast a despairing glance to where mrs. harbinger and mrs. croydon were for the moment standing together, and then started in miserable flight toward the door. at the threshold he encountered graham the butler, who presented him with a handful of letters. "will you please give the letters to mrs. harbinger?" graham said, and vanished. barnstable looked after the butler, looked at the letters, looked around as if his head were swimming, and then turned back into the drawing-room. he walked up to the hostess, and held out the letters in silence, his fluffy face a pathetic spectacle of embarrassed woe. "what are these?" mrs. harbinger asked. he shook his head, as if he had given up all hope of understanding anything. "the butler put them in my hands," he murmured. "upon my word, mrs. harbinger," spoke up mrs. croydon, seeming more offended than there was any apparent reason for her to be, "you have the most extraordinary butler that ever existed." mrs. harbinger threw out her hands in a gesture by which she evidently disclaimed all responsibility for graham and his doings. "extraordinary! why, he makes my life a burden. there is no mistake he cannot make, and he invents fresh ones every day. really, i know of no reason why the creature is tolerated in the house except that he makes a cocktail to suit tom." "dat ees ver' greet veertue," count shimbowski commented genially. "i do not agree with you, count," miss wentstile responded stiffly. the spinster had been hovering about the count ever since his accident with the teacup, apparently seeking an opportunity of snubbing him. "oh, but i die but eef mees wentsteele agree of me!" the count declared with his hand on his heart. mrs. croydon in the meanwhile had taken the letters from the hand of barnstable, and was looking at them with a scrutiny perhaps closer than was exactly compatible with strict good-breeding. "why, here is a letter that has never been posted," she said. mr. harbinger took the whole bundle from her hand. "i dare say," was his remark, "that any letter that's been given to graham to mail in the last week is there. why, this letter is addressed to christopher calumus." may calthorpe moved forward so quickly that mrs. harbinger, who had extended her hand to take the letters from her husband, turned to restrain the girl. mrs. croydon swayed forward a little. "that is the author of 'love in a cloud,'" she said with a simper of self-consciousness. mrs. neligage, who was standing with bradish and alice at the moment, made a grimace. "she'll really have the impudence to take it," she said to them aside. "now see me give that woman a lesson." she swept forward in a flash, and deftly took the letter out of tom harbinger's hand before he knew her intention. flourishing it over her head, she looked them all over with eyes full of fun and mischief. "honor to whom honor is due," she cried. "ladies and gentlemen, be it my high privilege to deliver this to its real and only owner. count," she went on, sweeping him a profound courtesy, "let your light shine. behold in count shimbowski the too, too modest author of 'love in a cloud.'" there was a general outburst of amazement. the count looked at the letter which had been thrust into his hand, and stammered something unintelligible. "_vraiment_, madame neleegaze," he began, "eet ees too mooch of you--" "oh, don't say anything," she interrupted him. "i have no other pleasure in life than doing mischief." mrs. croydon looked from the count to mrs. neligage with an expression of mingled doubt and bewilderment. her attitude of expecting to be received as the anonymous author vanished in an instant, and vexation began to predominate over the other emotions visible in her face. "well," she said spitefully, "it is certainly a day of wonders; but if the letter belongs to the count, it would be interesting to know who writes to him as christopher calumus." mrs. harbinger answered her in a tone so cold that mrs. croydon colored under it. "really, mrs. croydon," she said, "the question is a little pointed." "why, it is only a question about a person who doesn't exist. there isn't any such person as christopher calumus. i'm sure i'd like to know who writes to literary men under their assumed names." may was so pale that only the fact that everybody was looking at mrs. harbinger could shield her from discovery. the hostess drew herself up with a haughty lifting of the head. "if it is of so great importance to you," she said, "it is i who wrote the letter. who else should write letters in this house?" she extended her hand to the count as she spoke, as if to recover the harmless-looking little white missive which was causing so much commotion, but the count did not offer to return it. tom harbinger stood a second as if amazement had struck him dumb. then with the air of a puppet pronouncing words by machinery he ejaculated:-- "you wrote to the count?" his wife turned to him with a start, and opened her lips, but before she could speak a fresh interruption prevented. barnstable in the few moments during which he had been in the room had met with so many strange experiences that he might well be bewildered. he had been greeted by may as one for whom she was waiting, and then had been hailed as the author of the book which he hated; the eccentric graham had made of him a sort of involuntary penny-post; he had been in the midst of a group whisking a letter about like folk in the last act of a comedy; and now here was the announcement that the count was the anonymous libeler for whom he had been seeking. he dashed forward, every fold of his chins quivering, his hair bristling, his little eyes red with excitement. he shook his fist in the face of the count in a manner not often seen in a polite drawing-room. "you are a villain," he cried. "you have insulted my wife!" bradish and mr. harbinger at once seized him, and between them he was drawn back gesticulating and struggling. the ladies looked frightened, but with the exception of mrs. croydon they behaved with admirable propriety. mrs. croydon gave a little yapping screech, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. more complete confusion could hardly have been imagined, and mrs. neligage, who looked on with eyes full of laughter, had certainly reason to congratulate herself that if she loved making mischief she had for once at least been most instantly and triumphantly successful. vii the counsel of a mother if an earthquake shook down the house in which was being held a boston function, the persons there assembled would crawl from the ruins in a manner decorous and dignified, or if too badly injured for this would compose with decency their mangled limbs and furnish the addresses of their respective family physicians. the violent and ill-considered farce which had been played in mrs. harbinger's drawing-room might elsewhere have produced a long-continued disturbance; but here it left no trace after five minutes. mr. barnstable, babbling and protesting like a lunatic, was promptly hurried into confinement in the library, where mr. harbinger and bradish stood guard over him as if he were a dangerous beast; while the other guests made haste to retire. they went, however, with entire decorum. mrs. croydon was, it is true, a disturbing element in the quickly restored serenity of the party, and was with difficulty made to assume some semblance of self-control. graham, being sent to call a carriage, first caught a forlorn herdic, which was prowling about like a deserted tomcat, and when the lady would none of this managed to produce a hack which must have been the most shabby in the entire town. the count was taken away by miss wentstile, who in the hour of his peril dropped the stiffness she had assumed at his recognition of mrs. neligage. she dragged alice along with them, but alice in turn held on to may, so that the count was given no opportunity to press his suit. they all retired in good order, and however they talked, they at least behaved beautifully. as neligage took his hat in the hall fairfield caught him by the arm. "jack," he said under his breath, "do you believe mrs. harbinger wrote me those letters?" "of course not," jack responded instantly. "not if they are the sort of letters you said. letty harbinger is as square as a brick." "then why did she say she did?" jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "the letter was evidently written here," he said. "she must know who did write it." "ah, i see!" exclaimed the other. "she was shielding somebody." jack regarded him with sudden sternness. "there was nobody that it could be except--" he broke off abruptly, a black look in his face, and before another word could be exchanged mrs. neligage called him. he went off with his mother, hastily telling his friend he would see him before bedtime. mrs. neligage was hardly up to her son's shoulder, but so well preserved was she that she might easily have been mistaken for a sister not so much his senior. she was admirably dressed, exquisitely gloved and booted, to the last fold of her tailor-made frock entirely correct, and in her manner provokingly and piquantly animated. "who in the world was that horror that made the exhibition of himself?" she asked. "i never saw anything like that at the harbingers' before." "i know nothing about him except that his name is barnstable, and that he came from the west somewhere. he's joined the calif club lately. how he got in i don't understand; but he seems to have loads of money." "he is a beast," mrs. neligage pronounced by way of dismissing the subject. "what did mrs. harbinger mean by thanking you for arranging something with the count? what have you to do with him?" "oh, that is a secret." "then if it is a secret tell it at once." "i'll tell you just to disappoint you," jack returned with a grin. "it is only about some etchings that the count brought over. mrs. harbinger has bought a couple as a present for tom." "she had better be careful," mrs. neligage observed. "tom thinks more of the collection now than he does of anything else in the world. but what are you mixed up in the count's transactions for?" "she asked me to fix it, and besides the poor devil needed to sell them to raise the wind. i'm too used to being hard up myself not to feel for him." "but you wrote me that you detested the count." "so i do, but you can't help doing a fellow a good turn, can you, just because you don't happen to like him?" she laughed lightly. "you are a model of good nature. i wish you'd show it to may calthorpe." her son looked down at her with a questioning glance. "she is always at liberty to admire my virtues, of course; but she can't expect me to put myself out to make special exhibitions for her benefit." the faces of both mother and son hardened a little, as if the subject touched upon was one concerning which they had disagreed before. the change of expression brought out a subtle likeness which had not before been visible. jack neligage was usually said to resemble his father, who had died just as the boy was entering his teens, but when he was in a passion--a thing which happened but seldom--his face oddly took on the look of his mother. the change, moreover, was not entirely to his disadvantage, for as a rule jack showed too plainly the easy-going, self-indulgent character which had been the misfortune of the late john neligage, and which made friends of the family declare with a sigh that jack would never amount to anything worth while. mother and son walked on in silence a moment, and then the lady observed, in a voice as dispassionate as ever:-- "she is a silly little thing. i believe even you could wind her round your finger." "i haven't any intention of trying." "so you have given me to understand before; but now that i am going away you might at least let me go with the consolation of knowing you'd provided for yourself. you must marry somebody with money, and she has no end of it." he braced back his shoulders as if he found it not altogether easy not to reply impatiently. "where are you going?" he asked. "oh, to europe. anywhere out of the arctic zone of the new england conscience. i've had as long a spell of respectability as i can stand, my boy." something in her manner evidently irritated him more and more. she spoke with a little indefinable defiant swagger, as if she intended to anger him. he looked at her no longer, but fixed his gaze on the distance. "when you talk of giving up respectability," he remarked in an aggrieved tone, "i should think you might consider me." her eyes danced, as if she were delighted to see him becoming angry. "oh, i do, jack, i assure you; but i really cannot afford to be respectable any longer. respectability is the most expensive luxury of civilization; and how can i keep it up when i'm in debt to everybody that'll trust me." "then you might economize." "economize! ye gods! this from you, jack! where did you hear the word? i'm sure you know nothing of the thing." he laughed in evident self-despite. "we are a nice pair of ruffianly adventurers," he responded; "a regular pair of genteel paupers. but we've both got to pull up, i tell you." "oh, heavens!" was his mother's reply. "don't talk to me of pulling up. what fun do i have as it is but quarreling with miss wentstile and snubbing harry bradish? i've got to keep up my authority in our set, or i should lose even these amusements." jack flashed her a swift, questioning look, and with a new note in his voice, a note of doubt at once and desperation, blurted out a fresh question. "how about flirting with sibley langdon?" mrs. neligage flushed slightly and for a brief second contracted her well-arched eyebrows, but in an instant she was herself again. "oh, well," she returned, with a pretty little shrug, "that of course is a trifle better, but not much. sibley really cares for himself so entirely that there's very little to be got out of him." "but you know how you make folks talk." "oh, folks always talk. there is always as much gossip about nothing as about something." "but he puts on such a damnable air of proprietorship," jack burst out, with much more feeling than he had thus far shown. "i know i shall kick him some time." "that is the sort of thing you had better leave to the barnstable man," she responded dryly. "sibley only has the air of owning everything. that's just his nature. he's really less fun than good old harry bradish. but such as he is, he is the best i can do. if that stuffy old invalid wife of his would only die, i think i'd marry him out of hand for his money." jack threw out his arm with an angry gesture. "for heaven's sake, mother," he said, "what are you after that you are going on so? you know you drive me wild when you get into this sort of a talk." "or i might elope with him as it is, you know," she continued in her most teasing manner; but watching him intently. "what in the deuce do you talk to me like that for!" he cried, shaking himself savagely. "you're my mother!" mrs. neligage grew suddenly grave. she drew closer to her son, and slipped her hand through his arm. "so much the worse for us both, isn't it, jack? come, we may as well behave like rational beings. of course i was teasing you; but that isn't the trouble. it's yourself you are angry with." "what have i to be angry with myself about?" "you are trying to make up your mind that you're willing to be poor for the sake of marrying alice endicott; but you know you wouldn't be equal to it. if i thought you would, i'd say go ahead. do you think you'd be happy in a south end apartment house with the washing on a line between the chimneys, and a dry-goods box outside the window for a refrigerator?" jack mingled a groan and a laugh. "you can't pay your debts as it is," she went on remorselessly. "we are a pair of paupers who have to live as if we were rich. you see what your father made of it, starting with a fortune. you can't suppose you'd do much better when you've nothing but debts." "i think i'll enlist, or run away to sea," jack declared, tugging viciously at his mustache. "no, you'll accept your destiny. you'll like it better than you think, when you're settled down to it. you'll stay here and marry may calthorpe." "you must think i'm a whelp to marry a girl just for her money." "oh, you must fall in love with her. any man is a wretch who'd marry a girl just for her money, but a man's a fool that can't fall in love with a pretty girl worth half a million." jack dropped his mother's hand from his arm with more emphasis than politeness, and stopped to face her on the corner of the street. "the very old boy is in you to-day, mother," he said. "i won't listen to another word." she regarded him with a saucy, laughing face, and put out her hand. "well, good-night then," she said. "come in and see me as soon as you can. i have a lot of things to tell you about washington. by the way, what do you think of my going there, and setting up as a lobbyist? they say women make no end of money that way." he swung hastily round, and left her without a word. she went on her way, but her face turned suddenly careworn and haggard as she walked in the gathering twilight toward the little apartment where she lived in fashionable poverty. viii the test of love one of the distinctive features of "good society" is that its talk is chiefly of persons. less distinguished circles may waste precious time on the discussion of ideas, but in company really select such conversation is looked upon as dull and pedantic. one of the first requisites for entrance into the world of fashion is a thorough knowledge of the concerns of those who are included in its alluring round; and not to be informed in this branch of wisdom marks at once the outsider. it follows that concealment of personal affairs is pretty nearly impossible. humanity being frail, it frequently happens that fashionable folk delude themselves by the fond belief that they have escaped the universal law of their surroundings; but the minute familiarity which each might boast of all that relates to his neighbors should undeceive them. that of which all the world talks is not to be concealed. everybody in their set knew perfectly well that jack neligage had been in love with alice endicott from the days when they had paddled in the sand on the walks of the public garden. the smart nursery maids whose occupation it was to convey their charges thither and keep them out of the fountains, between whiles exchanging gossip about the parents of the babies, had begun the talk. the opinions of fashionable society are generally first formed by servants, and then served up with a garnish of fancifully distorted facts for the edification of their mistresses; and in due time the loves of the public garden, reported and decorated by the nursery maids, serve as topics for afternoon calls. master jack was known to be in love with miss alice before either of them could have written the word, and in this case the passion had been so lasting that it excited remark not only for itself as an ordinary attachment, but as an extraordinary case of unusual constancy. society knew, of course, the impossibility of the situation. it was common knowledge that neither of the lovers had anything to marry on. jack's handsome and spendthrift father had effectually dissipated the property which he inherited, only his timely death preserving to mrs. neligage and her son the small remnant which kept them from actual destitution. alice was dependent upon the bounty of her aunt, miss wentstile. miss wentstile, it is true, was abundantly able to provide for alice, but the old lady seriously disapproved of jack neligage, and of his mother she disapproved more strongly yet. everybody said--and despite all the sarcastic observations of that most objectionable class, the satirists, what everybody says nobody likes to disregard--that if jack and alice were so rash as to marry they would never touch a penny of the aunt's money. jack, moreover, was in debt. nobody blamed him much for this, because he was a general favorite, and all his acquaintance recognized how impossible it was for a young man to live within an income so small as from any rational point of view to be regarded as much the same thing as no income at all; but of course it was recognized also that it is not well in the present day to marry nothing upon a capital of less than nothing. it has been successfully done, it is true; but it calls for more energy and ingenuity than was possessed by easy-going jack neligage. in view of all these facts, frequently discussed, society was unanimously agreed that jack and alice could never marry. this impossibility excited a faint sort of romantic sympathy for the young couple. they were invited to the same houses and thrown together, apparently with the idea that they should play with fire as steadily and as long as possible. the unphrased feeling probably was that since the culmination of their hopes in matrimony was out of the question, it was only common humanity to afford them opportunities for getting from the ill-starred attachment all the pleasure that was to be had. society approves strongly of romance so long as it stops short of disastrous marriages; and since jack and alice were not to be united, to see them dallying with the temptation of making an imprudent match was a spectacle at once piquant and diverting. on the evening of the day when the news of alice's pseudo-engagement had been discussed at mrs. harbinger's tea, jack called on her. she received him with composure, coming into the room a little pale, perhaps, but entirely free from self-consciousness. alice was not considered handsome by her friends, but no one could fail to recognize that her face was an unusual one. the count, in his distorted english, had declared that miss endicott "have een her face one madonna," and the description was hardly to be bettered. the serene oval countenance, the dark, clear skin, the smooth hair of a deep chestnut, the level brows and long lashes, the high, pure forehead, all belonged to the madonna type; although the sparkle of humor which now and then gleamed in the full, gray eyes imparted a bewitching flavor of humanity. to-night she was very grave, but she smiled properly, the smile a well-instructed girl learns as she learns to courtesy. she shook hands in a way perhaps a little formal, since she was greeting so old an acquaintance. "sit down, please," she said. "it is kind of you to come in. i hardly had a chance to say a word to you this afternoon." jack did not return her greeting, nor did he accept her invitation to be seated. he stooped above the low chair into which she sank as she spoke. "what is this amazing story that you are engaged to count shimbowski?" he demanded abruptly. she looked up to him with a smile which was more conventional than ever. "what right have you to ask me a question like that?" she returned. he waved his hand as if to put aside formalities. "but is it true?" he insisted. "what is it to you, jack, if it were?" she grew visibly paler, and her fingers knit themselves together. he, on the contrary, flushed and became more commanding in his manner. "do you suppose," he answered, "that i should be willing to see a friend of mine throw herself away on that old roué? he is old enough to be your father." "but you know," said she, assuming an air of raillery which did not seem to be entirely genuine, "that the proverb says it's better to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave." jack flung himself into a chair with an impatient exclamation, and immediately got up again to walk the floor. "i wouldn't have believed it of you, alice. how can you joke about a thing like that!" "why, jack; you've told me a hundred times that the only way to get through life comfortably is to take everything in jest." "oh, confound what i've told you! that's good enough philosophy for me, but it's beneath you to talk so." "what is sauce for the goose--" "keep still," he interrupted. "if you can't be serious--" "you are so fond of being serious," she murmured, interrupting in her turn. "but i am serious now. haven't we always been good friends enough for me to speak to you in earnest without your treating me as if i was either impertinent or a fool?" he stopped his restless walk to stand before her again. she was silent a moment with her glance fixed on the rug. then she raised her eyes to his, and her manner became suddenly grave. "yes, jack," she said, "we have always been friends; but has any man, simply because he is a friend, a right to ask a girl a question like that?" "you mean--" "i mean no more than i say. there are other men with whom i've been friends all my life. is there any one of them that you'd think had a right to come here to-night and question me about my engagement?" "i'd break his head if he did!" jack retorted savagely. "then why shouldn't he--whoever he might be--break yours?" he flung himself into his chair again, his sunny face clouded, and his brows drawn down. he met her glance with a look which seemed to be trying to fathom the purpose of her mood. "why, hang it," he said; "with me it's different. you know i've always been more than a common friend." "you have been a good friend," she answered with resolute self-composure; "but only a friend after all." "then you mean that i cannot be more than a friend?" she dropped her eyes, a faint flush stealing up into her pale cheeks. "you do not wish to be; and therefore you have no right--" he sprang up impulsively and seized both her hands in his. "good god, alice," he exclaimed, "you drive me wild! you know that if i were not so cursedly poor--" she released herself gently, and with perfect calmness. "i know," she responded, "that you have weighed me in the balance against the trouble of earning a living, and you haven't found me worth the price. in the face of a fact like that what is the use of words?" he thrust his empty hands into his pockets, and glowered down on her. "you know i love you, alice. you know i've been in love with you ever since i began to walk; and you--you--" she rose and faced him proudly. "well, say it!" she cried. "say that i was foolish enough to love you! that i knew no better than to believe in you, and that i half broke my heart when you forced me to see that you weren't what i thought. say it, if you like. you can't make me more ashamed of it than i am already!" "ashamed--alice?" "yes, ashamed! it humiliates me that i should set my heart on a man that cared so little for me that he set me below his polo-ponies, his bachelor ease, his miserable little self-indulgences! oh, jack," she went on, her manner suddenly changing to one of appeal, and the tears starting into her eyes, "why can't you be a man?" she put her hand on his arm, and he covered it affectionately with one of his while she hurried on. "do break away from the life you are living, and do something worthy of you. you are good to everybody else; there's nothing you won't do for others; do this for yourself. do it for me. you are throwing yourself away, and i have to hear them talk of your debts, and your racing and gambling, and how reckless you are! it almost kills me!" the full sunniness of his smile came back as he looked down into her earnest face, caressing her hand. "dear little woman," he said; "are you sure you have got entirely over being fond of me?" "i couldn't get over being fond of you. you know it. that's what makes it hurt so." he raised her hand tenderly, and kissed it. then he dropped it abruptly, and turned away. "you must get over it," he said, so brusquely that she started almost as if from a blow. she sank back into her seat, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, while he walked back to his chair and sat down with an air of bravado. "it's no use, alice," he said, "i'm not worth a thought, and it isn't in me to--well, the fact is that i know myself too well. i know that if i promised you to-night that to-morrow i'd begin better fashions, i'm not man enough to live up to it. i couldn't involve you in--oh, don't, don't!" he broke off to turn to toy with some of the ornaments on the table. in a moment alice had suppressed her sobs, and he spoke again, but without meeting her look. his voice was hard and flippant. "you see i have such a good time that i wouldn't give it up for the world. i think i'd better keep on as i'm going. the time makes us, and we have to abide by the fashion of the time." "if that is the way you feel," she said coldly, "it is i who have presumed on old friendship." he shrugged his shoulders, and laughed harshly. "we have both been a little unnecessarily tragic, it seems to me," was his rejoinder. "love isn't for a poor man unless he'll take it on the half-shell without dressing; and i fancy neither of us would much care for it that way. my bank-account is a standing reason why i shouldn't marry anybody." "the sentiment does credit to mr. neligage's head if not to his heart," commented the sneering voice of miss wentstile, who at that moment came through the portières from the library. "i hope i don't intrude?" "certainly not," alice answered with spirit. "mr. neligage was giving me a lesson in the social economics of matrimony; but i knew before all he has to tell." "then, my dear," her aunt said, "i trust he will excuse you. it is time we went to mrs. wilson's. i promised the count that we would be there early." ix the mischief of a gentleman the goddess of misfortune sometimes capriciously takes a spite against an entire family, so that all of its members are at the same time involved in one misadventure or another. she shows a malicious impulse to wreak her disfavor on all of a connection at once, apparently from a knowledge that misery begets misery, and that nothing so completely fills to overflowing the cup of vexation as the finding that those from whom sympathy would naturally be expected are themselves in a condition to demand rather than to give it. she apparently amuses herself in mere wantonness of enjoyment of the sufferings of her victims when no one of them is in a condition to cheer the others. she illustrated this unamiable trait of her celestial character next day in her dealing with the neligages, mother and son. it was a beautiful spring day, not too warm in the unseasonable fashion which often makes a new england april so detestable, but with a fresh air full of exhilaration. even in the city the cool, invigorating morning was refreshing. it provoked thoughts of springing grass and swelling buds, it suggested the marsh-marigolds preparing their gold down amid the roots of rushes, it teased the sense with vague yet disquieting desires to be in the open. the sun called to mind the amethystine foliage, half mist and half leaves, which was beginning to appear in the woods, as if trailing clouds had become entangled among the twig-set branches. the wind brought a spirit of daring, as if to-day one could do and not count the cost; as if adventures were the normal experience of man, and dreams might become tangible with the foliage which was condensing out of the spring air. it was one of those rare days which put the ideal to shame. the windows of mrs. neligage's little parlor were open, and the morning air with all its provoking suggestions was floating in softly, as she rose to welcome a caller. he was not in the first springtime of life, yet suggested a season which was to spring what indian summer is to autumn. a certain brisk jauntiness in face, dress, and manner might mean that he had by sheer determination remained far younger than his years. he had a hard, handsome face, with cleanly cut features, and side whiskers which were perhaps too long and flowing. his hair was somewhat touched with gray, but it was abundant, and curled attractively about his high, white forehead. his dress was perfection, and gave the impression that if he had moral scruples--about which his hard, bright eyes might raise a doubt--it would be in the direction of being always perfectly attired. his manner as he greeted mrs. neligage was carefully genial, yet the spring which was in the air seemed in his presence to be chilled by an untimely frost. "how bright you are looking this morning, louise," mr. sibley langdon said, kissing her hand with an elaborate air of gallantry. "you are really the incarnation of the spring that is upon us." she smiled languidly, drawing away her hand and moving to a seat. "you know i am getting old enough to like to be told i am young, sibley," was her answer. "sit down, and tell me what has happened in the month that i've been in washington." "nothing can happen while you are away," he responded, with a smile. "we only vegetate, and wait for your return. you don't mind if i smoke?" "certainly not. how is mrs. langdon?" he drew out a cigarette-case of tortoise-shell and gold, helped himself to a cigarette, and lighted it before he answered. "mrs. langdon is as usual," he replied. "she is as ill and as pious as ever." "for which is she to be pitied the more?" "oh, i don't know that she is to be pitied for either," langdon responded, in his crisp, well-bred voice. "both her illness and her piety are in the nature of occupations to her. one must do something, you know." mrs. neligage offered no reply to this, and for half a moment the caller smoked in silence. "tell me about yourself," he said. "you cruelly refuse to write to me, so that when you are away i am always in the dark as to what you are doing. i've no doubt you had all washington at your feet." "oh, there were a few unimportant exceptions," mrs. neligage returned, her voice a little hard. "i don't think that if you went on now you'd find the capital draped in mourning over my departure." langdon knocked the ashes from his cigarette with the deliberation which marked all his movements. then he looked at his hostess curiously. "you don't seem to be in the best of spirits this morning, louise," he said. "has anything gone wrong?" she looked at him with contracting brows, and ignored his question as she demanded abruptly:-- "what did you come to say to me?" "to say to you, my dear? i came as usual to say how much i admire you, of course." she made an impatient gesture. "what did you come to say?" she repeated. "do you think i don't know you well enough to see when you have some especial purpose in mind?" sibley langdon laughed lightly,--a sort of inward, well-bred laugh,--and again with care trimmed his cigarette. "you are a person of remarkable penetration, and it is evidently of no use to hope to get ahead of you. i really came for the pleasure of seeing you, but now that i am here i may as well mention that i have decided to go abroad almost at once." "ah," mrs. neligage commented. "does mrs. langdon go with you?" he laughed outright, as if the question struck him as unusually droll. "you really cannot think me so selfish as to insist upon her risking her fragile health by an ocean voyage just for my pleasure." "i suspected that you meant to go alone," she said dryly. "but, my dear child," he answered with no change of manner, "i don't mean to go alone." she changed color, but she did not pursue the subject. she took up from the table a little japanese ivory carving, and began to examine it with close scrutiny. "you do not ask whom i hope to take with me," langdon said. she looked at him firmly. "i have no possible interest in knowing," she responded. "you are far too modest, louise. on the contrary you have the greatest. i had hoped--" he half hesitated over the sentence, and she interrupted him by rising and moving to the open window. "it is so nice to have the windows open again," she said. "i feel as if i were less alone when there is nothing between me and the world. that big fat policeman over there is a great friend of mine." "we are all your slaves, you see," langdon responded, rising languidly and joining her. "by the way, i had a letter from count marchetti the other day." mrs. neligage flushed and paled, and into her eye came a dangerous sparkle. she moved away from him, and went back to her seat, leaving him to follow again. she did not look at him, but she spoke with a determined manner which showed that she was not cowed. "before i go to bed to-night, sibley," she said, "i shall write to the countess the whole story of her necklace. i was a fool not to do it before." he smiled indulgently. "oh, did i call up that old unpleasantness?" he observed. "i really beg your pardon. but since you speak of it, what good would it do to write to her now? it would make no difference in facts, of course; and it wouldn't change things here at all." she sprang up and turned upon him in a fury. "sibley langdon," she cried, "you are a perfect fiend!" he laughed and looked at her with admiration so evident that her eyes fell. "you have told me that before, and you are so devilish handsome when you say it, louise, that i can't resist the temptation sometimes of making you repeat it. come, don't be cross. we are too wise if not too old to talk melodrama." "i shall act melodrama if you keep on tormenting me! what did you come here for this morning? say it, and have done." "if you take it that way," returned he, "i came only to say good-morning." his coolness was unshaken, and he smiled as charmingly as ever. "tell me," he remarked, flinging his cigarette end into the grate and taking out his case again, "did you see the kanes in washington?" he lighted a fresh cigarette, and for half an hour talked of casual matters, the people of their set in washington, the new buildings there, the decorations, and the political scandals. his manner became almost deferential, and mrs. neligage as they chatted lost gradually all trace of the excitement which she had shown. at length the talk came round to their neighbors at home. "i met count shimbowski at the club the other day," langdon remarked, "and he alluded to the old days at monte carlo almost with sentiment. it is certainly amusing to see him passed round among respectable boston houses." "he is respectable enough according to his standards," she responded. "it is funny, though, to see how much afraid he is that miss wentstile should know about his past history." "i suppose there's no doubt he's to marry alice endicott, is there?" "there is alice herself," mrs. neligage answered. "i should call her a pretty big doubt." "at any rate," her companion observed, "jack can't marry her. miss wentstile would never give them a penny." "i have never heard jack say that he wished to marry her," mrs. neligage responded coolly. "you are quite right about miss wentstile, though; she regards jack as the blackest sheep imaginable." langdon did not speak for a moment or two, and when he did break silence his manner was more decided than before. "what line do you like best to cross by?" he asked. "i have been on so many," she answered, "that i really can't tell." "it is safe to say then that you like a fast boat." she made no reply, and only played nervously with the clever carving in her hand, where little ivory rats were stealing grain with eternal motionless activity. "of course if you were going over this spring," langdon said, "we should be likely to meet somewhere on the other side; paris, very possibly. it is a pity that people gossip so, or we might go on the same steamer." she looked him squarely in the face. "i am not going abroad this summer," she said distinctly. "oh, my dear louise," returned he half mockingly, half pleadingly, "you really can't mean that. europe would be intolerably dull without you." she looked up, pale to the eyes. "my son would be dull here without me," she said. "oh, jack," returned the other, shrugging his shoulders, "he'll get on very well. if you were going, you know, you might leave him something--" she started to her feet with eyes blazing. "you had better go," she said in a low voice. "i have endured a good deal from you, sibley; and i've always known that the day would come when you'd insult me. it will be better for us both if you go." he rose in his turn, as collected as ever. "insult you, my dear louise? why, i wouldn't hurt your feelings for anything in the world. i give you leave to repeat every word that i have said to any of your friends,--to miss wentstile, or letty harbinger, or to jack--" "if i repeated them to jack," she interrupted him, "he'd break every bone in your body!" "would he? i doubt it. at any rate he would have to hear me first; and then--" mrs. neligage, all her brightness quenched, her face old and miserable, threw out her hands in despairing supplication. "go!" she cried. "go! or i shall do something we'll both be sorry for! go, or i'll call that policeman over there." he laughed lightly, but he moved toward the door. "gad!" he ejaculated. "that would make a pretty item in the evening papers. well, if you really wish it, i'll go; but i hope you'll think over what i've said, or rather think over what i haven't said, since you haven't seemed pleased with my words. i shall come at one to drive you to the county club." he bade her an elaborate good-morning, and went away, as collected, as handsome, as debonaire as ever; while mrs. neligage, the hard, bright little widow who had the reputation of being afraid of nothing and of having no feelings, broke down into a most unusual fit of crying. x the business of a clubman the first game of polo for the season at the county club was to be played that saturday. the unusually early spring had put the turf in condition, and the men had had more or less practice. it was too soon, of course, for a match, but there was to be a friendly set-to between the county club team and a team from the oracle club. it was not much more than an excuse for bringing the members out, and for having a mild gala, with fresh spring toilettes and spring buoyancy to add to the zest of the day. amusement is a business which calls for a good deal of brains if it is to be carried on successfully. of course only professionals can hope to succeed in a line so difficult, and in america there are few real professionals in the art of self-amusement. most men spoil their chances of complete success by dallying more or less with work of one sort or another; and this is fatal. only he who is sincere in putting amusement first, and to it sacrifices all other considerations, can hope for true preëminence in this calling. jack neligage was one of the few men in boston entirely free from any weakness in the way of occupation beyond that of pleasure-seeking; and as a consequence he was one of the few who did it well. all forms of fashionable play came easily and naturally to jack, and in them all he bore a part with tolerable grace. he was sufficiently adept at tennis in its day; and when that had passed, he was equally adroit in golf and in curling; he could lead a german better than anybody else; nobody so well managed assemblies and devised novel surprises in the way of decorations; nobody else so well arranged coaching trips or so surely made the life of a house party. all these things were part of his profession as a pleasure-seeker, and they were all done with a quick and merry spirit which gave to them a charm not to be resisted. it was on the polo-field, however, that jack was at his best. no man who hopes to keep up with the fashions can afford to become too much interested in any single sport, for presently the fad will alter, and he must perforce abandon the old delights; but polo held its own very well, and it was evidently the thing in which jack reveled most. he was the leading player not of his club only, but of all the clubs about. his stud of polo-ponies was selected with more care than has often gone to the making of a state constitution, for the matters that are really important must be attended to with zeal, while public politics may be expected more or less to take care of themselves. his friends wondered how neligage contrived to get hold of ponies so valuable, or how he was able to keep so expensive an outfit after he had obtained it; but everybody was agreed that he had a most wonderful lot. the question of how he managed might have been better understood by any one who had chanced to overhear a conversation between jack and dr. wilson, which took place just before luncheon that day. dr. wilson was chairman of the board of managers of the club. he was a man who had come into the club chiefly as the husband of mrs. chauncy wilson, a lady whose stud was one of the finest in the state, and he was somewhat looked down upon by the men of genuine old family. he was good-humored, however; shrewd if a little unrefined; and he had been rich long enough to carry the burden of his wife's enormous fortune without undue self-consequence. to-day it became his duty to talk to jack on an unpleasant matter of business. "jack," he said, "i've got to pitch into you again." "the same old thing, i suppose." "same old thing. sometimes i've half a mind to resign from the club, so as to get rid of having to drub you fellows about your bills." jack gnawed his mustache, twisting his cigar in his fingers in a way that threatened to demolish it altogether. "i've told you already that i can't do anything until--" "oh, i know it," wilson broke in. "i'm satisfied, but the committee is getting scared. the finances of the club are in an awful mess; there's no denying that. some of the men on the committee, you see, are afraid of being blamed for letting the credits run on so." jack did not take advantage of the pause which gave him an opportunity to speak, and the other went on again. "i'm awfully sorry, old man; but there's got to be an end somewhere, and nobody's been given the rope that you have." "i can resign, of course," jack said shortly. "oh, dry up that sort of talk! nobody'd listen to your resigning. everybody wants you here, and we couldn't spare you from the polo team." "but if i can't pay up, what else can i do?" "but you can't resign in debt, man." jack laughed with savage amusement. "what the devil am i to do? i can't stay, and i can't leave. that seems to be about the size of it." dr. wilson looked at his companion keenly, and there was in his tone some hesitation as he replied. "you might sell--" "sell my ponies!" broke in neligage excitedly. "when i do i'll give up playing." "oh, nonsense! don't be so infernally stubborn. harbinger'll buy one, and i'll buy a couple, and the others it doesn't matter about. you've always had twice as many as you need." "so you propose that i shouldn't have any." "you could use them just the same." jack swore savagely. "thank you," he returned. "i may be a beggar, but i won't be a beat." wilson laughed with his oily, chuckling laugh. "i don't see," he observed with characteristic brusqueness, "why it is any worse to take a favor from a friend that offers it than to get it out of a club that can't help itself." jack's cheeks flushed, and he began an angry reply. then he restrained himself. "i won't quarrel with you for doing your official duty, wilson," he said stiffly. "i'll fix things somehow or get out." "oh, hang it, man," returned the doctor good-naturedly, "you mustn't talk of getting out. i'll lend you what you need." "thank you, but you know i can't pay you." "that's no matter. something will turn up, and you may pay me when you get ready." "no; i'm deep enough in the mire as it is. i won't make it worse by borrowing. that's the only virtue that i ever had,--that i didn't sponge on my friends. i'm just as much obliged to you; but i can't do it." they had been sitting in the smoking-room before the fireplace where a smouldering log or two took from the air its spring chill. jack as he spoke flung the stub of his cigar into the ashes, and rose with an air of considering the conversation definitely ended. wilson looked up at him, his golden-brown eyes more sober than usual. "of course it is just as you say, old man," he remarked; "but if you change your mind, you've only to let me know." jack moved off with a downcast air unusual to him, but by the time he had encountered two or three men who were about the club-house, and had exchanged with them a jest or a remark about the coming game, his face was as sunny as ever. people were now arriving rather rapidly, and soon the stylish trap of sibley langdon came bowling up the driveway in fine style, with mrs. neligage sitting beside the owner. jack was on the front piazza when they drove up, and his mother waved her hand to him gayly. "gad, jack," one of the men said, "your mother is a wonder. she looks younger than you do this minute." "i don't think she is," jack returned with a grin; "but you're right. she is a wonderfully young woman to be the mother of a great cub like me." not only in her looks did mrs. neligage give the impression of youth, but her movements and her unquenchable vivacity might put to a disadvantage half of the young girls. she tripped up the steps as lightly as a leaf blown by the wind, her trim figure swaying as lithely as a willow-shoot. as she came to jack she said to him in a tone loud enough to be heard by all who were on the piazza:-- "oh, jack, come into the house a moment. i want to show you a letter." she dropped a gay greeting here and there as she led the way, and in a moment they were alone inside the house. mrs. neligage turned instantly, with a face from which all gayety had vanished as the color of a ballet-dancer's cheek vanishes under the pall of a green light. "jack," she said hastily, "i am desperate. i am in the worst scrape i ever was in, in my life. can you raise any money?" he looked at her a moment in amazed silence; then he laughed roughly. "money?" he retorted. "i am all but turned out of the club to-day for want of it. this is probably my last game." "you are not in earnest?" she demanded, pressing closer to him, and putting her hand on his arm. "you are not really going to leave the club?" "what else can i do? the committee think it isn't possible to let things go any longer." she looked into his face, her own hardening. she studied him with a keen glance, which he met firmly, yet with evident effort. "jack," she said at length, her voice lower, "there is only one way out of it. last night you wouldn't listen to me; but you must now. you must marry may calthorpe. if you were engaged to her it would be easy enough to raise money." "you talk as if she were only waiting for me to say the word, and she'd rush into my arms." "she will, she must, if you'll have her. you wouldn't take her for your own good, but you've got to do it for mine. you can't let me be ruined just through your obstinacy." "ruined? what under the canopy do you mean, mother? you are trying to scare me to make me go your way." "i'm not, jack; upon my word i'm not! i tell you i'm in an awful mess, and you must stand by me." jack turned away from her and walked toward the window; then he faced her again with a look which evidently questioned how far she was really in earnest. there had been occasions when mrs. neligage had used her histrionic powers to get the better of her son in some domestic discussion, and the price of such success is inevitably distrust. now she faced him boldly, and met his look with a nod of perfect comprehension. "yes, i am telling you the truth, jacky. there is nothing for it but for us both to go to smash if you won't take may." "take may," he echoed impatiently, "how you do keep saying that! how can i take her? she doesn't care a straw about me anyway, and i've no doubt she looks on me as one of the old fellows." "she being eighteen and you twenty-five," his mother answered, smiling satirically. "but somebody is coming. i can't talk to you now; only this one thing i must say. play into my hands as you can if you will, and you'll be engaged to may before the week's over." he broke into a roar of laughter which had a sound of being as much nerves as amusement. "is this a comic opera?" he demanded. "yes, dear jacky," his mother retorted, resuming her light manner, "that's just what it is. don't you miss your cue." she left him, and went gayly forward to greet the new-comers, ladies who had just driven up, and jack followed her lead with a countenance from which disturbance and bewilderment had not entirely vanished. xi the game of cross-purposes mrs. neligage escaped from her friends speedily, with that easy swiftness which is in the power of the socially adroit, and returned to the piazza by a french window which opened at the side of the house, and so was not in sight from the front of the club. there she came upon count shimbowski comfortably seated in a sunny corner, smoking and meditating. "ah, count," she said, as he rose to receive her, "this is unexpected pleasure. are you resting from the strain of continual adulation?" "what you say?" he responded. then he dropped into his seat with a despairing gesture. "dis eengleesh," he said; "eet ees eemposseeble eet to know. i have told mees wentsteele dat she ees very freesh, and--" he ended with a groan, and a snug little hungarian oath under his breath. "fresh!" echoed mrs. neligage, with a laugh like a redbird whisking gayly from branch to branch. "my dear count, she is anything but fresh. she is as stale as a last year's love-affair. but she ought to be pleased to be told she is fresh." "oh, i say: 'you be so freesh, mees wentsteele,' and she, she say: 'freesh, count shimbowski? you result me!' den day teel me freesh mean fooleesh, _sotte_. what language ees dat?" "oh, it isn't so bad as you think, count. it is only _argot_ anyway, and it doesn't mean _sotte_, but _naïve_. besides, she wouldn't mind. she is enough of a woman to be pleased that you even tried to tell her she was young." "but no more ees she young." "no more, count. we are all of us getting to be old enough to be our own grandmothers. miss wentstile looks as if she was at the flood and forgot to go in when it rained." the count looked more puzzled than amused at this sally, but his politeness came to his rescue. a compliment is always the resource of a man of the world when a lady puzzles him. "eet ees only madame neleegaze to what belong eemortal youth," he said with a bow. she rose and swept him a courtesy, and then took from her dress one of the flowers she was wearing, which chanced to be very portly red carnations. "you are as gallant as ever, count," she said, "so that your english doesn't matter. besides that, you have a title; and american women love a title as a moth loves a candle." she stuck the carnation into his buttonhole as she spoke, and returned to her seat, where she settled herself with the air of one ready for a serious chat. "it is very odd to see you on this side of the atlantic, count," she remarked. "tell me, what are you doing in this country,--besides taking the town by storm, that is?" "i weell range my own self;--say you een eengleesh 'arrange my own self'?" "when it means you are going to marry, count, it might be well to say that you are going to arrange yourself and derange somebody else. is the lady miss endicott?" "eet ees mees endeecott. ees she not good for me?" "she is a thousand times too good for you, my dear fellow; but she is as poor as a church mouse." "ah, but her aunt, mees wentsteele, she geeve her one _dot_: two thousand hundred dollar. eet weell be a meellion francs, ees eet not?" "so you get a million francs for yourself, count. it is more than i should have thought you worth." "but de teettle!" "oh, the title is worth something, but i could buy one a good deal cheaper. if i remember correctly i might have had yours for nothing, count." the count did not look entirely pleased at this reminiscence, but he smiled, and again took refuge in a compliment. "to one so _ravissante_ as madame all teettles are under her feet." "i wish you would set up a school for compliments here in boston, count, and teach our men to say nice things. really, a boston man's compliments are like molasses candy, they are so home-made. but why don't you take the aunt instead of the niece? miss wentstile is worth half a million." "dat weell be mouche," responded the count with gravity; "but she have bones." the widow laughed lightly. the woman who after forty can laugh like a girl is one who has preserved her power over men, and she is generally one fully aware of the fact. mrs. neligage had no greater charm than her light-hearted laugh, which no care could permanently subdue. she tossed her head, and then shook it at the count. "yes," she responded, "you are unfortunately right. she has bones. by the way, do you happen to have with you that letter i gave you at mrs. harbinger's yesterday?" "yes," he answered, drawing from his pocket the note addressed to christopher calumus, "i have eet." "i would like to see it," mrs. neligage said, extending her hand. the count smiled, and held it up. "you can see eet," said he, "but eet ees not permeet you weedeen de hand to have eet." she leaned forward and examined it closely, studying the address with keen eyes. "it is no matter," was her remark. "i only wanted to make sure." "do you de handwrite know?" he demanded eagerly. "and if i do?" "you do know," he broke out in french. "i can see it in your face. tell me who wrote it." she shook her head, smiling teasingly. then she rose, and moved toward the window by which she had come from the house. "no, count," was her answer. "it doesn't suit my plan to tell you. i didn't think quickly enough yesterday, or i wouldn't have given it to you. it was in your hands before i thought whose writing it was." the count, who had risen, bowed profoundly. "after all," he said, "i need not trouble you. mrs. harbinger acknowledged that she wrote it." mrs. neligage flashed back at him a mocking grimace as she withdrew by the window. "i never expected to live to see you believe a thing because a woman said it," she laughed. "you must have been in strange hands since i used to know you!" left alone, the count thoughtfully regarded the letter for a moment, then with a shrug he restored it to his pocket, and turned to go around the corner of the house to the front piazza. sounds of wheels, of voices, of talking, and of laughter told of the gathering of pleasure-seekers; and scarcely had the count passed the corner than he met mr. bradish face to face. there were groups of men and women on the piazza and on the lawn, with the horses and dogs in sight which are the natural features in such a picture at an out-of-town club. the count heeded none of these things, but stepped forward eagerly. "ah, count, you have come out to the games like everybody else, i see," bradish said pleasantly. "eet ees extreme glad to see me, mr. bradeesh," the count returned, shaking him by the hand. "do you weelleengly come wid us a leettle, for dat i say to you ver' particle?" bradish, with his usual kindly courtesy, followed the count around the corner of the house, out of sight of the arriving company. "something particular to say to me, count?" he observed. "you do me too much honor." "eet weell be of honor dat i weell to you speak," the count responded. "weell you for myself de condescension to have dat you weell be one friend to one _affaire d'honneur_?" bradish stared at him in undisguised amazement. "an _affaire d'honneur_?" he echoed. "surely you don't mean that you are going to fight? you can't mean a duel?" "oh, _oui, oui_; eet weell be a duel dat eet calls you." bradish stared harder than ever, and then sat down as if overcome. "but, my dear count, you can't fight duels in america." "for what weell not een amereeca fight? he have result me! me, count ernst shimbowski! weell i not to have hees blood?" "i'm afraid you won't," bradish responded, shaking his head. "that isn't the way we do things here. but who is it has insulted you?" the count became more and more excited as he spoke of his wrongs, and with wide gestures he appealed to the whole surrounding region to bear him out in his rage and his resolution. he stood over bradish like an avenging and furious angel, swaying his body by way of accent to his words. "you deed see! de ladies day deed see! all de world weell have heard dat he result--he eensult me! de shimbowski name have been eensult'! deed he not say 'veelaine! veelaine!' oh, _sacré nom de mon père_! 'veelaine! veelaine!' eet weell not but only blood to wash dat eensult!" how an american gentleman should behave when he is seriously asked to act as a second in a duel in this land and time is a question which has probably never been authoritatively settled, and which might be reasoned upon with very curious arguments from different points of view. it is safe to say that any person who finds himself in such a position could hardly manage to incur much risk of running into danger, or even of doing violence to any moral scruples with which he may chance to be encumbered. he must always feel that the chances of a duel's actually taking place are so ridiculously small that the whole matter can be regarded only as food for laughter; and that no matter how eager for fight one or both of the possible combatants might be, the end will be peace. so far from making the position of a second more easy, however, this fact perhaps renders it more difficult. it is harder to face the ridiculous than the perilous. if there were any especial chance that a duel would proceed to extremes, that principals would perhaps come to grief and seconds be with them involved in actual danger, even though only the ignoble danger of legal complications, a man might feel that honor called upon him not to fail his friend in extremity. when it is merely a question of becoming more or less ridiculous according to the notoriety of the affair, the matter is different. the demand of society is that a gentleman shall be ready to brave peril, but there is nothing in the social code which goes so far as to call upon him to run the chance of making himself ridiculous. society is founded upon the deepest principles of human nature, and if it demanded of man the sacrifice of his vanity the social fabric would go to pieces like a house of cards in a whirlwind. bradish might have been called upon to risk his life at the request of the count, although they were in reality little more than acquaintances; but he certainly cannot be held to have been under any obligations to give the world a right to laugh at him. bradish regarded the count with a smile half amused and half sympathetic, while the hungarian poured out his excited protest, and when there came a pause he said soothingly:-- "oh, sit down and talk it over, my dear count. i see you mean that stupid dunce of a barnstable. you can't fight him. everybody would laugh at the very idea. besides, he isn't your equal socially. you can't fight him." "you do comprehend not!" cried the count. "de shimbowski name weell eet to have blood for de eensult!" "but--" the count drew himself up with an air of hauteur which checked the words on bradish's lips. "eet ees not for a shimbowski to beg for favors," he said stiffly. "eef eet ees you dat do not serve me--" "oh, i assure you," interrupted bradish hastily, "i am more than willing to serve you; but i wanted to warn you that in america we look at things so differently--" "een amereeca even," the count in his turn interrupted with a superb gesture, "dare weell be gentlemans, ees eet not?" in the face of that gesture there was nothing more to be said in the way of objection. time and the chapter of accidents must determine what would come of it, but no man of sensibility and patriotism, appealed to in that grand fashion in the name of the honor of america, could have held out longer. least of all was it to be expected that harry bradish, kindest-hearted of living men, and famous for never being able to refuse any service that was asked of him, could resist this last touch. he rose as if to get out of the interview as speedily as possible. "very well then," he said, "if you persist in going on, i'll do what i can for you, but i give you fair warning once more that it'll come to nothing more than making us both ridiculous." the count shook hands warmly, but his response was one which might be said to show less consideration than might have been desired for the man who was making a sacrifice in his behalf. "de shimbowski name," he declared grandiloquently, yet with evident sincerity, "ees never reedeeculous." there followed some settling of details, in all of which bradish evinced a tendency to temporize and to postpone, but in which the ardor of the count so hurried everything forward that had barnstable been on the spot the duel might have been actually accomplished despite all obstacles. it was evident, however, that one side cannot alone arrange a meeting of honor, and in the end little could be done beyond the count's receiving a promise from bradish that the latter would communicate with barnstable as soon as possible. this momentous and blood-curdling decision having been arrived at, the two gentlemen emerged from their retirement on the side piazza, and once more joined the gay world as represented by the now numerous gathering assembled to see the polo at the county club. xii the wasting of requests the exhilaration of the spring day, the pleasure of taking up once more the outdoor life of the warm season, the little excitement which belongs to the assembling of merry-makers, the chatter, the laughter, all the gay bustle combined to fill the county club with a joyous atmosphere. before the front of the house was a sloping lawn which merged into an open park, here and there dotted with groups of budding trees and showing vividly the red of golf flags. the driveway wound in curves of carefully devised carelessness from the country road beyond the park to the end of the piazza, and all arrivals could be properly studied as they approached. the piazza was wide and roomy, so that it was not crowded, although a considerable number of men and women were there assembled; and from group to group laughter answered laughter. mrs. harbinger in the capacity of chaperone had with her alice endicott and may calthorpe. the three ladies stood chatting with dick fairfield, tossing words back and forth like tennis-balls for the sheer pleasure of the exercise. "oh, i insist," fairfield said, "that spring is only a season when the days are picked before they are ripe." "you say that simply in your capacity of a literary man, mr. fairfield," alice retorted; "but i doubt if it really means anything." "i am afraid it doesn't mean much," he responded laughing, "but to insist that an epigram must mean something would limit production dreadfully." "then we are to understand," mrs. harbinger observed, "that what you literary men say is never to be taken seriously." "oh, you should make a distinction, mrs. harbinger. what a literary man says in his professional capacity you are at liberty to believe or not, just as you choose; but of course in regard to what is said in his personal capacity it is different." "there, i suppose," she retorted, "he is simply to be classed with other men, and not to be believed at all." "bless me, what cynicism! where is mr. harbinger to defend his reputation?" "he is so absorbed in getting ready for the game that he has forgotten all about any reputation but that of a polo-player," mrs. harbinger returned. "and that reminds me that i haven't seen his new pony. come, alice, you appreciate a horse. we must go and examine this new wonder from canada." "we are not invited apparently," may said, seating herself in a piazza chair. "it is evidently your duty, mr. fairfield, to stay here and entertain me while they are gone." "i remain to be entertained," he responded, following her example. mrs. harbinger and alice went off to the stables, and the pair left behind exchanged casual comments upon the day, the carriages driving up, the smart spring gowns of the ladies, and that sort of verbal thistledown which makes up ordinary society chit-chat. a remark which fairfield made on the attire of a dashing young woman was the means of bringing the talk around again to the subject which had been touched upon between them on the previous afternoon. "i suppose," miss calthorpe observed, "that a man who writes stories has to know about clothes. you do write stories, i am sure, mr. fairfield." he smiled, and traced a crack in the piazza floor with his stick. "which means, of course," he said, "that you have never read any of them. that is so far lucky for me." "why is it lucky?" "because you might not have liked them." "but on the other hand i might have liked them very much." "well, perhaps there is that chance. i don't know, however, that i should be willing to run the risk. what kind of a story do you like?" "i told you that yesterday, mr. fairfield. if you really cared for my opinion you would remember." "you said that you liked 'love in a cloud.' is that what you mean?" "then you do remember," she remarked with an air of satisfaction. "perhaps it was only because you liked the book yourself." "why not believe that it was because i put so much value on your opinion?" "oh, i am not so vain as that, mr. fairfield," she cried. "if you remember, it was not on my account." he laughed without replying, and continued the careful tracing of the crack in the floor as if the occupation were the pleasantest imaginable. may watched him for a moment, and then with the semblance of pique she turned her shoulder toward him. the movement drew his eyes, and he suddenly stopped his occupation to straighten up apologetically. "i was thinking," he said, "what would be the result of your reading such stories of mine as have been published--there have been a few, you know, in the magazines--if you were to test them by the standard of 'love in a cloud.' i'm afraid they might not stand it." she smiled reassuringly, but perhaps with a faint suggestion of condescension. "one doesn't expect all stories to be as good as the best," she observed. fairfield turned his face away for a quick flash of a grin to the universe in general; then with perfect gravity he looked again at his companion. "i am afraid," he said, "that even the author of 'love in a cloud' wouldn't expect so much of you as that you should call his story the best." "i do call it the best," she returned, a little defiantly. "don't you?" "no," he said slowly, "i couldn't go so far as that." "but you spoke yesterday as if you admired it." "but that isn't the same thing as saying that there is nothing better." miss calthorpe began to tap her small foot impatiently. "that is always the way with men who write," she declared. "they always have all sorts of fault to find with everything." "have you known a great many literary men?" he asked. there are few things more offensive in conversation, especially in conversation with a lady, than an insistence upon logic. to ask of a woman that she shall make only exact statements is as bad as to require her to be always consistent, and there is small reason for wonder if at this inquiry miss calthorpe should show signs of offense. "i do not see what that has to do with the matter," she returned stiffly. "of course everybody knows about literary men." the sun of the april afternoon smiled over the landscape, and the young man smiled under his mustache, which was too large to be entirely becoming. he glanced up at his companion, who did not smile in return, but only sat there looking extremely pretty, with her flushed cheeks, her dark hair in pretty willful tendrils about her temples, and her dark eyes alight. "perhaps you have some personal feeling about the book," he said. "you know that it is claimed that a woman's opinion of literature is always half personal feeling." she flushed more deeply yet, and drew herself up as if he were intruding upon unwarrantable matters. "i don't even know who wrote the book," she replied. "then it is only the book itself that you admire, and not the author?" "of course it is the book. haven't i said that i don't even know who the author is? i can't see," she went on somewhat irrelevantly, "why it is that as soon as there is anything that is worth praising you men begin to run it down." he looked as if he were a trifle surprised at her warmth. "run it down?" he repeated. "why, i am not running it down. i said that i admired the novel, didn't i?" "but you said that you didn't think it was one of the best," she insisted. "but you might allow a little for individual taste, miss calthorpe." "oh, of course there is a difference in individual tastes, but that has to do with the parts of the story that one likes best. it's nothing at all to do with whether one isn't willing to confess its merits." he broke into a laugh of so much amusement that she contracted her level brows into a frown which made her prettier than ever. "now you are laughing at me," she said almost pouting. "it is so disappointing to find that i was deceived. of course i know that there is a good deal of professional jealousy among authors, but i shouldn't have thought--" she perhaps did not like to complete her sentence, and so left it for him to end with a fresh laugh. "i wish i dared tell you how funny that is!" he chuckled. she made no reply to this, but turned her attention to the landscape. there was a silence of a few moments, in which fairfield had every appearance of being amused, while she equally showed that she was offended. the situation was certainly one from which a young author might derive a good deal of satisfaction. it is not often that it falls to the lot of a writer to find his work so sincerely and ardently admired that he is himself taken to task for being jealous of its success. such pleasure as comes from writing anonymous books must be greatly tempered by the fact that in a world where it is so much more easy to blame than to praise the author is sure to hear so much more censure of his work than approbation. to be accused by a young and pretty girl of a fault which one has not committed and from which one may be clear at a word is in itself a pleasing pastime, and when the imaginary fault is that of not sufficiently admiring one's own book, the titillation of the vanity is as lively as it is complicated. the spirit which miss calthorpe had shown, her pretty vehemence, and her marked admiration for "love in a cloud" might have seemed charming to any man who had a taste for beauty and youthful enthusiasm; upon the author of the book she praised it was inevitable that they should work mightily. the pair were interrupted by the return of mrs. harbinger and alice, who reported that there were so many men about the stables, and the ponies were being so examined and talked over by the players, that it was plainly no place for ladies. "it was evident that we weren't wanted," mrs. harbinger said. "i hope that we are here. ah, here comes the count." the gentleman named, fresh from his talk with harry bradish, came forward to join them, his smile as sunny as that of the day. "see," may whispered tragically to mrs. harbinger as the hungarian advanced, "he has a red carnation in his buttonhole." "he must have read the letter then," mrs. harbinger returned hastily. "hush!" to make the most exciting communication and to follow it by a command to the hearer to preserve the appearance of indifference is a characteristically feminine act. it gives the speaker not only the last word but an effective dramatic climax, and the ever-womanly is nothing if not dramatic. the complement of this habit is the power of obeying the difficult order to be silent, and only a woman could unmoved hear the most nerve-shattering remarks with a manner of perfect tranquillity. "ah, eet ees so sweet loovly ladies een de landscape to see," the count declared poetically, "where de birds dey twatter een de trees and things smell you so mooch." "thank you. count," mrs. harbinger responded. "that is very pretty, but i am afraid that it means nothing." "what i say to you, madame," the count responded, with his hand on his heart, "always eet mean mooch; eet ees dat eet mean everyt'ing!" "then it is certainly time for me to go," she said lightly. "it wouldn't be safe for me to stay to hear everything. come, girls: let's walk over to the field." the sitters rose, and they moved toward the other end of the piazza. "it is really too early to go to the field," may said, "why don't we walk out to the new golf-holes first? i want to see how they've changed the drive over the brook." "very well," mrs. harbinger assented. "the shortest way is to go through the house." they passed in through a long window, and as they went alice endicott lingered a little with the count. that part of the piazza was at the moment deserted, and so when before entering the house she dropped her parasol and waited for her companion to pick it up for her, they were practically alone. "thank you, count," she said, as he handed her the parasol. "i am sorry to trouble you." "nodings what eet ees dat i do for mees endeecott ees trouble." "is that true?" she asked, pausing with her foot on the threshold, and turning back to him. "if i could believe it there are two favors that i should like to ask." "two favors?" he repeated. "ah, i weell be heavenlee happee eef eet ees dat i do two favors." "one is for myself," she said, "and the other is for miss wentstile. i'm sure you won't refuse me." "who could refuse one ladee so loovlaie!" "the first is," alice went on, paying no heed to the count's florid compliments, "that you give me the letter mrs. neligage gave you yesterday." "but de ladee what have wrote eet--" "the lady that wrote it," alice interrupted, "desires to have it again." "den weell i to her eet geeve," said the count. "but she has empowered me to receive it." "but dat eet do not empower me eet to geeve." "then you decline to let me have it, count?" "ah, i am desolation, mees endeecott, for dat i do not what you desaire; but i weell rather to do de oder t'ing what you have weesh." "i am afraid, count, that your willingness to oblige goes no farther than to let you do what you wish, instead of what i wish. i only wanted to know where you have known mrs. neligage." "ah," he exclaimed, "dat is what mees wentsteele have ask. my dear young lady, eet ees not dat you can be jealous dat once i have known madame neleegaze?" she faced him with a look of astonishment so complete that the most simple could not misunderstand it. then the look changed into profound disdain. "jealous!" she repeated. "i jealous, and of you, count!" her look ended in a smile, as if her sense of humor found the idea of jealousy too droll to admit of indignation, and she turned to go in through the window, leaving the count hesitating behind. xiii the wile of a woman before the count had recovered himself sufficiently to go after miss endicott despite her look of contempt and her yet more significant amusement, jack neligage came toward him down the piazza, and called him by name. "oh, count shimbowski," jack said. "i beg your pardon, but may i speak with you a moment?" the count looked after miss endicott, but he turned toward neligage. "i am always at your service," he said in french. "i wanted to speak to you about that letter that my mother gave you yesterday. she made a mistake." "a mistake?" the count echoed, noncommittally. "yes. it is not for you." "well?" "will you give it to me, please?" jack said. "but why should i give it to you? are you christopher calumus?" "perhaps," answered jack, with a grin. "at least i can assure you that it is on the authority of the author of 'love in a cloud' that i ask for the letter." "but i've already refused that letter to a lady." "to a lady?" "to miss endicott." "miss endicott!" echoed jack again, in evident astonishment. "why should she want it?" "she said that she had the authority of the writer, as you say that you have the authority of the man it was written to." "did you give it to her?" "no; but if i did not give it to her, how can i give it to you?" neligage had grown more sober at the mention of miss endicott's name; he stood looking down, and softly beating the toe of his boot with his polo mallet. "may i ask," he said at length, raising his glance to the count's face, "what you propose to do with the letter?" the other waved his hands in a gesture which seemed to take in all possible combinations of circumstances, while his shrug apparently expressed his inner conviction that whichever of these combinations presented itself count shimbowski would be equal to it. "at least," he returned, "as mrs. harbinger has acknowledged that she wrote it, i could not give it up without her command." neligage laughed, and swung his mallet through the air, striking an imaginary ball with much deftness and precision. "she said she wrote it, i know; but i think that was only for a lark, like mother's part in the play. i don't believe mrs. harbinger wrote it. however, here she comes, and you may ask her. i'll see you again. i must have the letter." he broke into a lively whistle, and went off down the walk, as mrs. harbinger emerged through the window which a few moments before she had entered. "i decided that i wouldn't go down to the brook," she said. "it is too warm to walk. besides, i wanted to speak to you." "madame harbeenger do to me too mooch of _honneur_," the count protested, with his usual exuberance of gesture. "eet ees to be me at her sarveece." she led the way back to the chairs where her group had been sitting shortly before, and took a seat which placed her back toward the only other persons on the piazza, a couple of men smoking at the other end. "sit down, count," she said, waving her hand at a chair. "somebody will come, so i must say what i have to say quickly. i want that letter." the count smiled broadly, and performed with much success the inevitable shrug. "you dat lettaire weesh; madame neleegaze dat lettaire weesh; mr. neleegaze dat lettaire weesh; everybody dat lettaire weesh. count shimbowski dat lettaire he keep, weell eet not?" "mrs. neligage and jack want it?" mrs. harbinger exclaimed. "what in the world can have set them on? did they ask you for it?" "eet ees dat they have ask," the count answered solemnly. "i cannot understand that," she pursued thoughtfully. "certainly they can't know who wrote it." "ees eet not dat you have said--" "oh, yes," mrs. harbinger interrupted him, with a smile, "i forgot that they were there when i confessed to it." the count laid his hand on his heart and rolled up his eyes,--not too much. "i have so weesh' to tell you how dat i have dat beauteous lettaire adore," he said. "i have wear de lettaire een de pocket of my heart." this somewhat startling assertion was explained by his pushing aside his coat so that the top of a letter appeared peeping out of the left pocket of his waistcoat as nearly over his heart as the exigencies of tailoring permitted. "i shouldn't have let you know that i wrote it," she said. "but eet have geeve to me so joyous extrodinaire eet to know!" she regarded him shrewdly, then dropping her eyes, she asked:-- "was it better than the other one?" "de oder?" he repeated, evidently taken by surprise. "ah, dat alone also have i treasured too mooch." mrs. harbinger broke out frankly into a laugh. "come," she said, "i have caught you. you know nothing about any other. we might as well be plain with each other. i didn't write that letter and you didn't write 'love in a cloud,' or you'd know about the whole correspondence." "ah, from de eden_garten_," cried the count, "de weemens ees too mooch for not to fool de man. madame ees for me greatly too clevaire." "thank you," she said laughingly. "then give me the letter." he bowed, and shrugged, and smiled deprecatingly; but he shook his head. "so have mees endeecott say. eef to her i geeve eet not, i can geeve eet not to you, desolation as eet make of my heart." "miss endicott? has she been after the letter too? is there anybody else?" "madame neleegaze, mr. neleegaze, mees endeecott, madame harbeenger," the count enumerated, telling them off on his fingers. "dat ees all now; but eef i dat lettaire have in my heart-pocket she weell come to me dat have eet wrote. ees eet not so? eet ees to she what have eet wrote dat eet weell be to geeve eet. i am eenterest to her behold." "then you will not give it to me?" mrs. harbinger said, rising. he rose also, a mild whirlwind of apologetic shrugs and contortions, contortions not ungraceful, but as extraordinary as his english. "eet make me desolation een de heart," he declared; "but for now eet weell be for me to keep dat lettaire." he made her a profound bow, and as if to secure himself against farther solicitation betook himself off. mrs. harbinger resumed her chair, and sat for a time thinking. she tapped the tip of her parasol on the railing before her, and the tip of her shoe on the floor, but neither process seemed to bring a solution of the difficulty which she was pondering. the arrivals at the club were about done, and although it still wanted some half hour to the time set for the polo game, most of those who had been about the club had gone over to the polo-field. the sound of a carriage approaching drew the attention of mrs. harbinger. a vehicle easily to be recognized as belonging to the railway station was advancing toward the club, and in it sat mr. barnstable. the gentleman was landed at the piazza steps, and coming up, he stood looking about him as if in doubt what to do next. his glance fell upon mrs. harbinger, and the light of recognition flooded his fluffy face as moonlight floods the dunes of a sandy shore. he came forward abruptly and awkwardly. "beg pardon, mrs. harbinger," he said. "i came out to find your husband. do you know where i can see him?" "he is all ready to play polo now, mr. barnstable," she returned. "i don't think you can see him until after the game." she spoke rather dryly and without any cordiality. he stood with his hat in his two hands, pulling nervously at the brim. "you are very likely angry with me, mrs. harbinger," he blurted out abruptly. "i ought to apologize for what i did at your house yesterday. i made a fool of myself." mrs. harbinger regarded him curiously, as if she could hardly make up her mind how such a person was to be treated. "it is not customary to have scenes of that kind in our parlors," she answered, smiling. "i know it," he said, with an accent of deep despair. "it was all my unfortunate temper that ran away with me. but you don't appreciate, mrs. harbinger, how a man feels when his wife has been made the subject of an infamous libel." "but if you'll let me say so, mr. barnstable, i think you are going out of your way to find trouble. you are not the only man who has been separated from his wife, and the chances are that the author of 'love in a cloud' never heard of your domestic affairs at all." "but he must have," protested barnstable with growing excitement, "why--" "pardon me," she interrupted, "i wasn't done. i say that the chance of the author of that book knowing anything about your affairs is so small as to be almost impossible." "but there were circumstances so exact! why, all that scene--" "really, mr. barnstable," mrs. harbinger again interrupted, "you must not go about telling what scenes are true. that is more of a publishing of your affairs than any putting them in a novel could be." his eyes stared at her from the folds and undulations of his face like two remarkably large jellyfish cast by the waves among sand heaps. "but--but," he stammered, "what am i to do? how would you feel if it were your wife?" she regarded him with a glance which gave him up as incorrigible, and half turned away her head. "i'm sure i can't say," she responded. "i never had a wife." barnstable was too much excited to be restrained by the mild jest, and dashed on, beginning to gesticulate in his earnestness. "and by such a man!" he ran on. "why, mrs. harbinger, just look at this. isn't this obliquitous!" he pulled from one pocket a handful of letters, dashed through them at a mad speed, thrust them back and drew another handful from a second pocket, scrabbled through them, discarded them for the contents of a third pocket, and in the end came back to the first batch of papers, where he at last hit upon the letter he was in search of. "only this morning i got this letter from a friend in new york that knew the count in europe. he's been a perfect rake. he's a gambler and a duelist. there, you take it, mrs. harbinger, and read it. you'll see, then, how i felt when that sort of a man scandaled my wife." "but i thought that you received the letter only this morning," suggested mrs. harbinger, with a smile. her companion was too thoroughly excited to be interrupted, and dashed on. "you take the letter, mrs. harbinger, and read it for yourself. then you show it to your friends. let people know what sort of a man they are entertaining and making much of. damme--i beg your pardon; my temper's completely roused up!--it makes me sick to see people going on so over anything that has a title on it. why, damme--i beg your pardon, mrs. harbinger; i really beg your pardon!--in america if a man has a title he can rob henroosts for a living, and be the rage in society." mrs. harbinger reached out her hand deliberately, and took the letter which was thus thrust at her. she had it safe in her possession before she spoke again. "i shall be glad to see the letter," she said, "because i am curious to know about count shimbowski. that he is what he pretends to be in the way of family i am sure, for i have seen his people in rome." "oh, he is a count all right," barnstable responded; "but that doesn't make him any better." "as for the book," she pursued calmly, "you are entirely off the track. the count cannot possibly have written it. just think of his english." "i've known men that could write english that couldn't speak it decently." "besides, he hasn't been in the country long enough to have written it. if he did write it, mr. barnstable, how in the world could he know anything about your affairs? it seems to me, if i may say so, that you might apply a little common sense to the question before you get into a rage over things that cannot be so." "i was hasty," admitted barnstable, an expression of mingled penitence and woe in his face. "i'm afraid i was all wrong about the count. but the book has so many things in it that fit, things that were particular, why, of course when mrs.--that lady yesterday--" "mrs. neligage." "when she said the count wrote it, i didn't stop to think." "that was only mischief on her part. you might much better say her son wrote it than the count." "her son?" repeated barnstable, starting to his feet. "that's who it is! why, of course it was to turn suspicion away from him that his mother--" "good heavens!" mrs. harbinger broke in, "don't make another blunder. jack neligage couldn't--" "i see it all!" barnstable cried, not heeding her. "mr. neligage was in chicago just after my divorce. i heard him say he was there that winter. oh, of course he's the man." "but he isn't a writer," mrs. harbinger protested. she rose to face barnstable, whose inflammable temper had evidently blazed up again with a suddenness entirely absurd. "that's why he wrote anonymously," declared the other; "and that's why he had to put in real things instead of making them up! oh, of course it was mr. neligage." "mr. barnstable," she said with seriousness, "be reasonable, and stop this nonsense. i tell you mr. neligage couldn't have written that book." he glared at her with eyes which were wells of obstinacy undiluted. "i'll see about that," he said. without other salutation than a nod he walked away, and left her. she gazed after him with the look which studies a strange animal. "well," she said softly, aloud, "of all the fools--" xiv the concealing of secrets where a number of persons are in the same place, all interested in the same matter, yet convinced that affairs must be arranged not by open discussion but by adroit management, the result is inevitable. each will be seeking to speak to some other alone; there will be a constant shifting and rearranging of groups as characters are moved on and off the stage in the theatre. life for the time being, indeed, takes on an artificial air not unlike that which results from the studied devices of the playwright. the most simple and accurate account of what takes place must read like the arbitrary conventions of the boards; and the reader is likely to receive an impression of unreality from the very closeness with which the truth has been followed. at the county club that april afternoon there were so many who were in one way or another interested in the fate of the letter which in a moment of wild fun mrs. neligage had handed over to the count, that it was natural that the movements of the company should have much the appearance of a contrived comedy. no sooner, for instance, had barnstable hastened away with a new bee in his bonnet, than mrs. harbinger was joined by fairfield. he had come on in advance of the girls, and now at once took advantage of the situation to speak about the matter of which the air was full. "i beg your pardon," he said, "but i left the young ladies chatting with mrs. staggchase, and they'll be here in a minute. i wanted to speak to you." she bestowed the letter which she had received from barnstable in some mysterious recess of her gown, some hiding-place which had been devised as an attempted evasion of the immutable law that in a woman's frock shall be no real pocket. "go on," she said. "i am prepared for anything now. after mr. barnstable anything will be tame, though; i warn you of that." "mr. barnstable? i didn't know you knew him till his circus last night." "i didn't. he came to me here, and i thought he was going to apologize; but he ended with a performance crazier than the other." "what did he do?" asked fairfield, dropping into the chair which barnstable had recently occupied. "he must be ingenious to have thought of anything madder than that. he might at least have apologized first." "i wasn't fair to him," mrs. harbinger said. "he really did apologize; but now he's rushing off after jack neligage to accuse him of having written that diabolical book that's made all the trouble." "jack neligage? why in the world should he pitch upon him?" "apparently because i mentioned jack as the least likely person i could think of to have written it. that was all that was needed to convince mr. barnstable." "the man must be mad." "we none of us seem to be very sane," mrs. harbinger returned, laughing. "i wonder what this particular madman will do." "i'm sure i can't tell," answered fairfield absently. then he added quickly: "i wanted to ask you about that letter. of course it isn't you that's been writing to me, but you must know who it is." she stared at him in evident amazement, and then burst into a peal of laughter. "well," she said, "we have been mad, and no mistake. why, we ought to have known in the first place that you were christopher calumus. how in the world could we miss it? it just shows how we are likely to overlook the most obvious things." fairfield smiled, and beat his fist on the arm of his chair. "there," he laughed, "i've let it out! i didn't mean to tell it." "what nonsense!" she said, as if not heeding. "to think that it was you that may wrote to after all!" "may!" cried fairfield. "do you mean that miss calthorpe wrote those letters?" the face of mrs. harbinger changed color, and a look of dismay came over it. "oh, you didn't know it, of course!" she said. "i forgot that, and now i've told you. she will never forgive me." he leaned back in his chair, laughing gayly. "a roland for an oliver!" he cried. "good! it is only secret for secret." "but what will she say to me?" "say? why should she say anything? you needn't tell her till she's told me. she would have told me sometime." "she did tell you in that wretched letter; or rather she gave you a sign to know her by. how did you dare to write to any young girl like that?" the red flushed into his cheeks and his laughter died. "you don't mean that she showed you my letters?" "oh, no; she didn't show them to me. but i know well enough what they were like. you are a pair of young dunces." fairfield cast down his eyes and studied his finger-nails in silence a moment. when he looked up again he spoke gravely and with a new firmness. "mrs. harbinger," he said, "i hope you don't think that i meant anything wrong in answering her letters. i didn't know who wrote them." "you must have known that they were written by a girl that was young and foolish." "i'm afraid i didn't think much about that. i had a letter, and it interested me, and i answered it. it never occurred to me that--" "it never occurs to a man that he is bound to protect a girl against herself," mrs. harbinger responded quickly. "at least now that you do know, i hope that there'll be no more of this nonsense." fairfield did not reply for a moment. then he looked out over the landscape instead of meeting her eyes. "what do you expect me to say to that?" he asked. "i don't know that i expect anything," she returned dryly. "hush! they are coming." he leaned forward, and spoke in a hurried whisper. "does she know?" he demanded. "of course not. she thinks it's the count, for all i can tell." the arrival of alice and may put an end to any further confidential discourse. fairfield rose hastily, looking dreadfully conscious, but as the two girls had some interesting information or other to impart to mrs. harbinger, he had an opportunity to recover himself, and in a few moments the party was on its way to the polo-field. with the game this story has nothing in particular to do. it was not unlike polo games in general. the playing was neither especially good nor especially bad. jack neligage easily carried off the honors, and the men pronounced his playing to be in remarkable form for so early in the season. fairfield sat next to miss calthorpe, but he was inclined to be quiet, and to glance at mrs. harbinger when he spoke, as if he expected her to be listening to his conversation. now and then he fixed his attention on the field, but when the game was over, and the clever plays were discussed, he showed no signs of knowing anything about them. to him the game had evidently been only an accident, and in no way a vital part of the real business of the day. there was afternoon tea at the club-house,--groups chatted and laughed on the piazza and the lawn; red coats became more abundant on the golf links despite the lateness of the hour; carriages were brought round, one by one took their freights of pleasure-seekers, and departed. fairfield still kept in the neighborhood of miss calthorpe, and although he said little he looked a great deal. mrs. harbinger did not interfere, although for the most part she was within ear-shot. fairfield was of good old family, well spoken of as a rising literary man, and may had money enough for two, so that there were no good grounds upon which a chaperone could have made herself disagreeable, and mrs. harbinger was not in the least of the interfering sort. before leaving the county club mrs. harbinger had a brief talk with mrs. neligage. "i wish you'd tell me something about the count's past," she said. "you knew him in europe, didn't you?" "yes, i met him in rome one winter; and after that i saw a good deal of him for a couple of seasons." "was he received?" "oh, bless you, yes. he's real. his family tree goes back to the tree in the garden of eden." "perhaps his ancestor then was the third person there." mrs. neligage laughed, and shook her head. "come, letty," she said, "that is taking an unfair advantage. but really, the count is all right. he's as poor as a church mouse, and i've no doubt he came over here expressly to marry money. that is a foreign nobleman's idea of being driven to honest toil,--to come to america and hunt up an heiress." mrs. harbinger produced the letter which she had received from barnstable earlier in the afternoon. "that crazy mr. barnstable that made an exhibition of himself at my house yesterday has given me a letter about the count. i haven't read much of it; but it's evidently an attack on the man's morals." "oh, his morals," mrs. neligage returned with a pretty shrug; "nobody can find fault with the count's morals, my dear, for he hasn't any." "is he so bad then?" inquired mrs. harbinger with a sort of dispassionate interest. "bad, bless you, no. he's neither good nor bad. he's what all his kind are; squeamishly particular on a point of honor, and with not a moral scruple to his name." mrs. harbinger held the letter by the corner, regarding it with little favor. "i'm sure i don't want his old letter," she observed. "i'm not a purveyor of gossip." "why did he give it to you?" "he wanted me to read it, and then to show it to my friends. he telegraphed to new york last night, tom said, to find out about the count, and the letter must have come on the midnight." "characters by telegraph," laughed mrs. neligage. "the times are getting hard for adventurers and impostors. but really the count isn't an impostor. he'd say frankly that he brought over his title to sell." "that doesn't decide what i am to do with this letter," mrs. harbinger remarked. "you'd better take it." "i'm sure i don't see what i should do with it," mrs. neligage returned; but at the same time she took the epistle. "perhaps i may be able to make as much mischief with this as i did with that letter yesterday." the other looked at her with serious disfavor expressed in her face. "for heaven's sake," she said, "don't try that. you made mischief enough there to last for some time." xv the mischief of a letter the meditations of mrs. neligage in the watches of the night which followed the polo game must have been interesting, and could they be known might afford matter for amusement and study. it must be one of the chief sources of diversion to the father of evil to watch the growth in human minds and hearts of schemes for mischief. he has the satisfaction of seeing his own ends served, the entertainment of observing a curious and fascinating mental process, and all the while his vanity may be tickled by the reflection that it is he who will receive the credit for each cunningly developed plot of iniquity. that the fiend had been agreeably entertained on this occasion was to be inferred from the proceedings of mrs. neligage next morning, when the plans of the night were being carried into effect. as early in the day as calling was reasonably possible, mrs. neligage, although it was sunday, betook herself to see may calthorpe. may, who had neither father nor mother living, occupied the family house on beacon street, opposite the common, having as companion a colorless cousin who played propriety, and for the most part played it unseen. the dwelling was rather a gloomy nest for so bright a bird as may. respectability of the most austere new england type pervaded the big drawing-room where mrs. neligage was received. the heavy old furniture was as ugly as original sin, and the pictures might have ministered to the puritan hatred for art. little was changed from the days when may's grandparents had furnished their abode according to the most approved repulsiveness of their time. only the brightness of the warm april sun shining in at the windows, and a big bunch of dark red roses in a crystal jug, lightened the formality of the stately apartment. when may came into the room, however, it might have seemed that she had cunningly retained the old appointments as a setting to make more apparent by contrast her youthful fresh beauty. with her clear color, her dark hair, and sparkling eyes, she was the more bewitching amid this stately, sombre furniture, and in this gloomy old lofty room. "my dear," mrs. neligage said, kissing her affectionately, "how well you look. i was dreadfully afraid i should find you worried and unhappy." may returned her greeting less effusively, and seemed somewhat puzzled at this address. "but why in the world should i look worried?" she asked. mrs. neligage sat down, and regarded the other impressively in silence a moment before replying. "oh, my dear child," she said dramatically, "how could you be so imprudent?" may became visibly paler, and in her turn sank into a chair. "i don't know what you mean," she faltered. "if you had lived in society abroad as much as i have, may," was the answer, delivered with an expressive shake of the head, "you would know how dreadfully a girl compromises herself by writing to a strange gentleman." may started up, her eyes dilating. "oh, how did you know?" she demanded. "the count thinks the most horrible things," the widow went on mercilessly. "you know what foreigners are. it wouldn't have been so bad if it were an american." poor may put her hands together with a woeful gesture as if she were imploring mercy. "oh, is it the count really?" she cried. "i saw that he had a red carnation in his buttonhole yesterday, but i hoped that it was an accident." "a red carnation?" repeated mrs. neligage. "yes; that was the sign by which i was to know him. i said so in that letter." it is to be doubted if the recording angel at that moment wrote down to the credit of mrs. neligage that she regretted having by chance stuck that flower in the count's coat at the county club. "you poor child!" she murmured with a world of sympathy in her voice. the touch was too much for may, who melted into tears. she was a simple-hearted little thing or she would never have written the unlucky letters to christopher calumus, and in her simplicity she had evidently fallen instantly into the trap set for her. she dabbed resolutely at her eyes with her handkerchief, but the fountain was too free to be so easily stanched. "it will make a horrid scandal," mrs. neligage went on by way of comfort. "oh, i do hate those dreadful foreign ways of talking about women. it used to make me so furious abroad that i wanted to kill the men." may was well on the way to sobs now. "such things are so hard to kill, too," pursued the widow. "everybody here will say there is nothing in it, but it will be repeated, and laughed about, and it will never be forgotten. that's the worst of it. the truth makes no difference, and it is almost impossible to live a thing of that sort down. you've seen laura seaton, haven't you? well, that's just what ruined her life. she wrote some foolish letters, and it was found out. it always is found out; and she's always been in a cloud." mrs. neligage did not mention that the letters which the beclouded miss seaton had written had been to a married man and with a full knowledge on her part who her correspondent was. "oh, mrs. neligage," sobbed may. "do you suppose the count will tell?" "my dear, he showed me the letter." "oh, did he?" moaned the girl, crimson to the eyes. "did you read it?" "read it, may? of course not!" was the answer, delivered with admirable appearance of indignation; "but i knew the handwriting." may was by this time so shaken by sobs and so miserable that her condition was pitiful. mrs. neligage glided to a seat beside her, and took the girl in her arms in a fashion truly motherly. "there, there, may," said she soothingly. "don't give way so. we must do something to straighten things out." "oh, do you think we could?" demanded may, looking up through her tears. "can't you get that letter away from him?" "i tried to make him give it to me, but he refused." it really seemed a pity that the widow was not upon the stage, so admirably did she show sympathy in voice and manner. she caressed the tearful maiden, and every tone was like an endearment. "somebody must get that letter," she went on. "it would be fatal to leave it in the count's possession. he is an old hand at this sort of thing. i knew about him abroad." she might have added with truth that she had herself come near marrying him, supposing that he had a fortune to match his title, but that she had luckily discovered his poverty in time. "but who can get it?" asked may, checking her tears as well as was possible under the circumstances. "it must be somebody who has the right to represent you," mrs. neligage responded with an air of much impressiveness. "anybody may represent me," declared may. "couldn't you do it, mrs. neligage?" "my dear," the other answered in a voice of remonstrance, "a lady could hardly go to a man on an errand like that. it must be a man." may dashed her hands together in a burst of impatience and despair. "oh, i don't see what you gave it to him for," she cried in a lamentable voice. "you might have known that i wouldn't have written it if i'd any idea that that old thing was christopher calumus." "and i wouldn't have given it to him," returned mrs. neligage quietly, "if i'd had any idea that you were capable of writing to men you didn't know." may looked as if the tone in which this was said or the words themselves had completed her demoralization. she was bewitching in her misery, her eyes swimming divinely in tears, large and pathetic and browner than ever, her hair ruffled in her agitation into tiny rings and pliant wisps all about her temples, her cheeks flushed and moist. her mouth, with its trembling little lips, might have moved the sternest heart of man to compassion and to the desire at least of consoling it with kisses. the more firm and logical feminine mind of mrs. neligage was not, however, by all this loveliness of woe turned away from her purpose. "at any rate," she went on, "the thing that can't be altered is that you have written the letter, and that the count has it. i do pity you terribly, may; and i know count shimbowski, so i know what i'm saying. i came in this morning to say something to you, to propose something, that is; but i don't know how you'll take it. it is a way out of the trouble." "if there's any way out," returned may fervently, "i'm sure i don't care what it is; i'm ready for it, if it's to chop off my fingers." "it isn't that, my dear," mrs. neligage assured her with a suggestion of a laugh, the faint suggestion of a laugh, such as was appropriate to the direful situation only alleviated by the possibility which was to be spoken. "the fact is there's but one thing to do. you must let jack act for you." "oh, will he, mrs. neligage?" cried may, brightening at once. it has been noted by more than one observer of life that in times of trouble the mere mention of a man is likely to produce upon the feminine mind an effect notably cheering. whether this be true, or a mere fanciful calumny of those heartless male writers who have never been willing to recognize that the real glory of woman lies in her being able entirely to ignore the existence of man, need not be here discussed. it is enough to record that at the sound of jack's name may did undoubtedly rouse herself from the abject and limp despair into which she was completely collapsing. she caught at the suggestion as a trout snaps at the fisherman's fly. "he will be only too glad to," said mrs. neligage, "if he has the right." she paused and looked down, playing with the cardcase in her hands. she made a pretty show of being puzzled how to go on, so that the most stupid observer could not have failed to understand that there was something of importance behind her words. may began to knit her white forehead in an evident attempt to comprehend what further complication there might be in the affair under discussion. "i must be plain," the widow said, after a slight, hesitating pause. "what i have to say is as awkward as possible, and of course it's unusual; but under the circumstances there's no help for it. i hope you'll understand, may, that it's only out of care for you that i'm willing to come here this morning and make a fool of myself." "i don't see how you could make a fool of yourself by helping me," may said naïvely. the visitor smiled, and put out a trimly gloved hand to pat the fingers of the girl as they lay on the chair-arm. "no, that's the truth, may. i am trying to help you, and so i needn't mind how it sounds. well, then; the fact is that there's one thing that makes this all very delicate. whoever goes to the count must have authority." "well, i'm ready to give jack authority." "but it must be the authority of a betrothed, my dear." "what! oh, mrs. neligage!" may sat bolt upright and stiffened in her chair as if a wave of liquid air had suddenly gone over her. "to send a man for the letters under any other circumstances would be as compromising as the letters in the first place. besides, the count wouldn't be bound to give them up except to your _fiancé_." "that horrid count!" broke out may with vindictive irrelevancy. "i wish it was just a man we had to deal with!" "now jack has been in love with you for a long time, my dear," pursued jack's mother. "jack! in love with me? why, he's fond of alice." "oh, in a boy and girl way they've always been the best of friends. it's nothing more. he's in love with you, i tell you. what do you young things know about love anyway, or how to recognize it? i shouldn't tell you this if it weren't for the circumstances; but jack is too delicate to speak when it might look as if he were taking advantages. he is furious about the letter." "oh, does he know too?" cried poor may. "does everybody know?" her tears began again, and now mrs. neligage dried them with her own soft handkerchief, faintly scented with the especial eastern scent which she particularly affected. doubtless a mother may be held to know something of the heart and the opinions of her only son, but as jack had not, so far as his mother had any means of knowing, in the least connected may calthorpe with the letter given to count shimbowski, it is perhaps not unfair to conclude that her maternal eagerness and affection had in this particular instance led her somewhat far. it is never the way of a clever person to tell more untruths than are actually needed by the situation, and it was perhaps by way of not increasing too rapidly her debit account on the books of the recording angel that mrs. neligage replied to this question of may's with an evasion,--an evasion, it is true, which was more effective than a simple, direct falsehood would have been. "oh, may dear, you don't know the horrid way in which those foreign rakes boast of what they call their conquests!" the idea of being transformed from a human, self-respecting being into a mere conquest, the simple, ignominious spoils of the chase, might well be too much for any girl, and may became visibly more limp under it. "the simple case is here," proceeded the widow, taking up again her parable with great directness. "jack is fond of you; he is too delicate to speak of it, and he knows that this is a time when nobody but a _fiancé_ has a right to meddle. if you had a brother, of course it would be different; but you haven't. something must be done, and so i came this morning really to beg you, for jack's sake and your own, to consent to an engagement." "did jack send you?" demanded may, looking straight into the other's eyes. mrs. neligage met the gaze fairly, yet there was a little hesitation in her reply. it might be that she considered whether the risk were greater in telling the truth or in telling a lie; but in the end it was the truth that she began with. before she had got half through her sentence she had distorted it out of all recognition, indeed, but it is always an advantage to begin with what is true. it lends to any subsequent falsifying a moral support which is of inestimable value. "he knows nothing of it at all," she confessed. "he is too proud to let anybody speak for him, just as under the circumstances he is too proud to speak for himself. besides, he is poor, and all your friends would say he was after your money. no, nothing would induce him to speak for himself. he is very unhappy about it all; but he feels far worse for you than for himself. dear jack! he is the most generous fellow in the world." "poor jack!" may murmured softly. "poor jack!" the widow echoed, with a deep-drawn sigh. "it frightens me so to think what might happen if he hears the count boasting in his insolent way. foreigners always boast of their conquests! why, may, there's no knowing what he might do! and the scandal of it for you! and what should i do if anything happened to jack?" perhaps an appeal most surely touches the feminine heart if it be a little incoherent. a pedant might have objected that mrs. neligage in this brief speech altered the point of view with reckless frequency, but the pedant would by the effect have been proved to be wrong. the jumble of possibilities and of consequences, of woe to jack, harm to may, and of general inconsolability on the part of the mother finished the conquest of the girl completely. she was henceforth only eager to do whatever mrs. neligage directed, and under the instigation of her astute counsellor wrote a note to the young man, accepting a proposal which he had never heard of, and imploring him as her accepted lover to rescue from the hands of count shimbowski the letter addressed to christopher calumus. it is not every orator, even among the greatest, who can boast of having achieved a triumph so speedy and so complete as that which gladdened the heart of mrs. neligage when, after consoling and cheering her promised daughter-in-law, she set out to find her son. xvi the duty of a son simple were this world if it were governed by frankness, albeit perchance in some slight particulars less interesting. certainly if straightforwardness ruled life, mrs. neligage would have fared differently in her efforts that morning. she would have had no opportunity in that case of displaying her remarkable astuteness, and she would have left the life-threads of divers young folk to run more smoothly. knots and tangles in the lives of mortals are oftener introduced by their fellows than by the unkindly fingers of the fates, although the blame must be borne by the weird sisters. the three might well stand aghast that forenoon to see the deftness with which mrs. neligage wrought her mischief. a fisherman with his netting-needle and a kitten playing with the twine together produce less complication of the threads than the widow that day brought about by the unaided power of her wits. jack neligage had chambers with fairfield in a semi-fashionable apartment-house. both the young men had a certain position to maintain, and neither was blessed with means sufficient to do it without much stretching. fairfield was industrious and neligage was idle, which in the end was more favorable to the reputation of the former and to the enjoyment of the latter. jack fared the better in material things, because the man who is willing to run into debt may generally live more expensively than he who strives to add to an inadequate income by the fruit of his toil. on this particular morning dick had gone to church in the vain hope of seeing may calthorpe, while jack was found by his mother smoking a cigarette over the morning paper. he had just finished his late breakfast, and opened his letters. the letters lay on the uncleared breakfast table in various piles. the largest heap was one made of bills torn to bits. jack made it a matter of principle to tear up his bills as soon as they came. it saved trouble, and was, he said, a business-like habit. the second heap was composed of invitations to be answered; while advertisements and personal letters made the others. jack received his mother with his usual joyous manner. it had been said of him that his continual good nature was better than an income to him. it certainly made him a favorite, it procured for him many an invitation, and it had even the effect of softening the hard heart of many a creditor. he was in appearance no less cheerful this morning for his talk with wilson at the county club or for the mysterious hints of ill which his mother had given him. it was all confoundedly awkward, he had commented to fairfield before retiring on the previous night, but hang it, what good would it do to fret about it? "good-morning, mater," he greeted her. "you must have something mighty important on your mind to come flying round here at this time in the day." "i have," she said, "and i want you to try for once in your life to take things seriously." "seriously!" was his answer. "don't i always take things seriously? or if i don't, it can't be in me, for i'm sure i have enough to make me serious. look at that pile of bills there." mrs. neligage walked to the table, inspected first the invitations, which she looked over with truly feminine attention, and then began to pick up pieces of the torn-up bills. "how in the world, jack, do you ever know what you owe?" she asked. "know what i owe? gad! i wouldn't know that for the world. sit down, and tell me what disagreeable thing brought you here." "why is it necessarily disagreeable?" she demanded, seating herself beside the table, and playing with the torn paper. "you said yesterday that you were in a mess." "yes," she replied slowly; "but that was yesterday." "does that mean that you are out of it? so much the better." mrs. neligage clasped her hands in her lap, and regarded her son with a strong and eager look. "jack," she began, "i want you to listen to me, and not interrupt. you must hear the whole thing before you begin to put in your word. in the first place, you are engaged to may calthorpe." the exclamation and the laugh which greeted this piece of information were so nearly simultaneous that jack might be given the benefit of the doubt and so evade the charge of swearing before a lady. "why in the world, mother," he said, "must you come harping on that string again? you know it's of no use." "you are engaged now, jack, and of course that makes a difference." "oh, bother! do speak sensibly. what are you driving at?" the widow regarded him with a serene face, and settled herself more comfortably in her chair. "i came to congratulate you on your engagement to miss may calthorpe," she said, with all possible coolness and distinctness. "indeed? then i am sorry to tell you that you have wasted your labor. i haven't even seen may since we left the county club yesterday." "oh, i knew that." "what in the world are you driving at, mother? perhaps you don't mind telling me who told you of the engagement." "oh, not in the least. may told me." "may calthorpe!" it was not strange that jack should receive the announcement with surprise, but it was evident that there was in his mind more bewilderment. he stared at his mother without further word, while she pulled off her gloves and loosened her coat as if to prepare herself for the explanation which it was evident must follow. "come, jack," she remarked, when she had adjusted these preliminaries, "we may as well be clear about this. i made an offer in your name to may, and she has accepted it." jack rose from his seat, and stood over her, his sunny face growing pale. "you made an offer in my name?" he demanded. "sit down," she commanded, waving her hand toward his chair. "there is a good deal to be said, and you'll be tired of standing before i tell it all. is there any danger that mr. fairfield may come in?" jack walked over to the door and slipped the catch. "he is not likely to come," he said, "but it's sure now. fire away." he spoke with a seriousness which he used seldom. there were times when lazy, good-tempered jack neligage took a stubborn fit, and those who knew him well did not often venture to cross him in those moods. the proverb about the wrath of a patient man had sometimes been applied to him. when these rare occasions came on which his temper gave way he became unusually calm and self-possessed, as he was now. it could not but have been evident to his mother that she had to do with her son in one of the worst of his rare rages. perhaps the vexations of the previous days, the pile of torn bills on the table, the icy greeting alice endicott had given him yesterday, all had to do with the sudden outbreak of his anger, but any man might have been excused for being displeased by such an announcement as had just been made to jack. "i'm not going into your financial affairs, jack," mrs. neligage remarked, with entire self-possession, "only that they count, of course." "i know enough about them," he said curtly. "we'll take them for granted." "very well then--we will talk about mine. you've hinted once or twice that you didn't like the way i flirted with sibley langdon. i owe him six thousand dollars." if the widow had been planning a theatrical effect in her coolly pronounced words, she had no reason to be disappointed at the result. jack started to his feet with an oath, and glared at her with angry eyes. "more than that," she went on boldly, though she cast down her glance before his, "the money was to save me from the consequences of--" her voice faltered and the word died on her lips. jack stood as if frozen, staring with a hard face and lips tightly shut. "oh, jack," she burst out, "why do you make me shame myself! why can't you understand? i'm no good, jack; but i'm your mother." actual tears were in her eyes, and her breath was coming quickly. it is always peculiarly hard to see a self-contained, worldly woman lose control of herself. the strength of emotion which is needed to shake such a nature is instinctively appreciated by the spectator, and affects him with a pain that is almost too cruel to be borne. jack neligage, however, showed no sign of softening. "you must tell me the whole now," he said in a hard voice. the masculine instinct of asserting the right to judge a woman was in his tone. she wiped away her tears, and choked back her sobs. a little tremor ran over her, and then she began again, speaking in a voice lower than before, but firmly held in restraint. "it was at monte carlo five years ago," she said. "i was there alone, and the countess marchetti came. i'd known her a little for years, and we got to be very intimate. you know how it is with two women at a hotel. i'd been playing a little, just to keep myself from dying of dullness. count shimbowski was there, and he made love to me as long as he thought i had money, but he fled when i told him i hadn't. well, one day the countess had a telegram that her husband had been hurt in hunting. she had just half an hour to get to the train, and she took her maid and went. of course she hadn't time to have things packed, and she left everything in my care. just at the last minute she came rushing in with a jewel-case. her maid had contrived to leave it out, and she wouldn't take it. the devil planned it, of course. i told her to take it, but she wouldn't, and she didn't; and i played, and i lost, and i was desperate, and i pawned her diamond necklace for thirty thousand francs." "and of course you lost that," jack said in a hard voice, as she paused. "oh, jack, don't speak to me like that! i was mad! i know it! the worst thing about the whole devilish business was the way i lost my head. i look back at it now, and wonder if i'm ever safe. it makes me afraid; and i never was afraid of anything else in my life. i'm not a 'fraid-cat woman!" he gave no sign of softening, none of sympathy, but still sat with the air of a judge, cold and inexorable. "what has all this to do with sibley langdon?" he asked. "he came there just when the countess sent for her things. i was wild, and i went all to pieces at the sight of a home face. it was like a plank to a shipwrecked fool, i suppose. i broke down and told him the whole thing, and he gave me the money to redeem the necklace. he was awfully kind, jack. i hate him--but he was kind. i really think i should have killed myself if he hadn't helped me." "and you have never paid him?" "how could i pay him? i've been on the ragged edge of the poorhouse ever since. i don't know if the poorhouse has a ragged edge," she added, with something desperately akin to a smile, "but if it has edges of course they must be ragged." few persons have ever made a confession, no matter how woeful the circumstances, without some sense of relief at having spoken out the thing which was festering in the secret heart. shame and bitter contrition may overwhelm this feeling, but they do not entirely destroy it. mrs. neligage would hardly have been likely ever to tell her story save under stress of bitter necessity, but there was an air which showed that the revelation had given her comfort. "has he ever spoken of it?" asked jack, unmoved by her attempted lightness. "never directly, and never until recently has he hinted. jack," she said, her color rising, "he is a bad man!" he did not speak, but his eyes plainly demanded more. "the other day,--jack, i've known for a long time that it was coming. i've hated him for it, but i didn't know what to do. it was partly for that that i went to washington." "well?" mrs. neligage was not that day playing a part which was entirely to be commended by the strict moralist. certainly in her interview with may she had left much to be desired on the score of truthfulness and consideration for others. hard must be the heart, however, which might not have been touched by the severity of the ordeal which she was now undergoing. jack's clear brown eyes dominated hers with all the force of the man and the judge, while hers in vain sought to soften them; and the pathos of it was that it was the son judging the mother. "i give you my word, jack," she said, leaning toward him and speaking with deep earnestness, "that he has never said a word to me that you might not have heard. silly compliments, of course, and fool things about his wife's not being to his taste; but nothing worse. only now--" ruthless is man toward woman who may have violated the proprieties, but cruel is the son toward his mother if she may have dimmed the honor which is his as well as hers. "now?" he repeated inflexibly. "now he has hinted, he has hardly said it, jack, but he means for me to join him in europe this summer." the red leaped into jack's face and the blaze into his eyes. he rose deliberately from his chair, and stood tall before her. "are you sure he meant it?" he asked. "he put in nasty allusions to the countess, and--oh, he did mean it, jack; and it frightened me as i have never been frightened in my life." "i will horsewhip him in the street!" she sprang up, and caught him by the arm. "for heaven's sake, jack, think of the scandal! i'd have told you long ago, but i was afraid you'd make a row that would be talked about. when i came home from europe, and realized that all my property is in the hands of trustees so that i couldn't pay, i wanted to tell you; but i didn't know what you'd do. i'm afraid of you when your temper's really up." he freed himself from her clasp and began to pace up and down, while she watched him in silence. suddenly he turned to her. "but this was only part of it," he said. "what was that stuff you were talking about my being engaged?" she held out to him the note that may had written, and when he had read it explained as well as she could the scene which had taken place between her and may. she did not, it is true, present an account which was without variations from the literal facts, but no mortal could be expected to do that. she at least made it clear that she had bargained with the girl that the letter should be the price of an engagement. jack heard her through, now and then putting in a curt question. when he had heard it all, he laughed angrily, and threw the letter on the floor. "you have brought me into it too," he said. "we are a pair of unprincipled adventurers together. i've been more or less of a beat, but i've never before been a good, thorough-paced blackguard!" she flashed upon him in an outburst of anger in her turn. "do you mean that for me?" she demanded. "the word isn't so badly applied to a man that can talk so to his mother! haven't i been saving you as well as myself? as to may, any girl will love a husband that has character enough to manage her and be kind to her." he was silent a moment, and when he spoke he waived the point. "do i understand," he said, "that you expect me to go to count shimbowski and announce myself as may's representative, and demand her letter?" "not at all," she answered, a droll expression of craftiness coming over her face. "sit down, and let me tell you." she resumed her own seat, and jack, after whirling his chair around angrily, sat down astride of it, with his arms crossed on the back. "there are letters and letters," mrs. neligage observed with a smile. "when mrs. harbinger gave me this one last night i began to see that it might be good for something. you are to exchange this with the count. you needn't mention may's name." jack took the letter, and looked at it. "this is to barnstable," he said. "yes; he gave it to letty to be shown to people. barnstable is the silliest fool that there is about." "and you think the count would give up that letter for this?" "i am sure he would if he thought there was any possibility that this might fall into the hands of miss wentstile." "if it would send the damned adventurer about his business," growled jack, "i'd give it to miss wentstile myself." "oh, don't bother about that. i can stop that affair any time," his mother responded lightly. "i've only to tell sarah wentstile what i've seen myself, and that ends his business with her." "then you'd better do it, and stop his tormenting alice." "i'll do anything you like, jack, if you'll be nice about may." he got up from his seat and walked back and forth a few turns, his head bowed, and his manner that of deep thought. then he went to his desk and wrote a couple of notes. he read them over carefully, and filled out a check. he lit a cigarette, and sat pondering over the notes for some moments. at last he brought them both to his mother, who had sat watching him intently, although she had turned her face half away from him. jack put the letters into her hand without a word. the first note was as follows:-- dear may,--my mother has just brought me your note, and i am going out at once to find the count. i hope to bring you the letter before night. i need not tell you that i am very proud of the confidence you have shown in me and of the honor you do me. until i see you it will, it seems to me, be better that you do not speak of our engagement. very sincerely yours, john t. neligage. the second note was this:-- sibley langdon, esq. _sir_,--i have just heard from my mother that she is indebted to you for a loan of $ . i inclose check for that amount with interest at four per cent. as mrs. neligage has doubtless expressed her gratitude for your kindness i do not know that it is necessary for me to add anything. john t. neligage. "you are right, of course," he said. "i can't show him that i know his beastly scheme without a scandal that would hurt you. he'll understand, though. but why in the world you've let him browbeat you into receiving his attentions i cannot see." "i felt so helpless, jack. i didn't know what he would do; and he could tell about the necklace, you see. he's been a millstone round my neck. he's never willing i should do anything with anybody but himself." jack ground his teeth, and held out his hand for the letters. "but, jack," mrs. neligage cried, as if the thought had just struck her. "you can't have $ in the bank." "i shall have when he gets that check," jack returned grimly. "if father hadn't put all our money into the hands of trustees--" "we should neither of us have anything whatever," his mother interrupted, laughing. "it is bad enough as it is, but it would have been worse if we'd had our hands free." her spirits were evidently once more high; she seemed to have cast off fear and care alike. "well," she said, rising, "i must go home. you want to go and find the count, of course." she went up to her son, and put her hands on his shoulders. "dear boy," she said, "i'm not really so bad as i seem. i was a fool to gamble, but i never did anything else that was very bad. oh, you don't know what a weight it is off my shoulders to have that note paid. of course it will be hard on you just now, but we must hurry on the marriage with may, and then you'll have money enough." he smiled down on her with a look in which despite its scrutiny there was a good deal of fondness. worldly as the neligages were, there was still a strong bond of affection between them. "all right, old lady," he said, stooping forward to kiss her forehead. "i'm awfully sorry you've had such a hard time, but you're out of it now. only there's one thing i insist on. you are to tell nobody of the engagement till i give you leave." she studied his face keenly. "if i don't announce it," she said frankly, "i'm afraid you'll squirm out of it." he laughed buoyantly. "you are a born diplomat," he told her. "what sort of a concession do you want to make you hold your tongue?" "jack," she said pleadingly, changing her voice into earnestness, "won't you marry may? if you only knew how i want you to be rich and taken care of." "mr. frostwinch has offered me a place in the bank, mater, with a salary that's about as much as i've paid for the board of one of my ponies." "what could you do on a salary like that? you won't break the engagement when you see may this afternoon, will you? promise me that." "she may break it herself." "she won't unless you make her. promise me, jack." he smiled down into her face as if a sudden thought had come to him, and a gleam of mischief lighted his brown eyes. "the engagement, such as it is," he returned, "may stand at present as you've fixed it, if you'll give me your word not to mention it or to meddle with it." "i promise," she said rapturously, and pulled him down to kiss him fervently before departing. then in the conscious virtue of having achieved great things mrs. neligage betook herself home to dress for a luncheon. xvii the business of a lover jack's first care, after his mother had left him, was to dispatch a messenger to may with his note. then he set out in search of dr. wilson. after a little hunting he discovered the latter lunching at the club. jack came straight to his business without any beating about the bush. "wilson," he said, "i've come on an extraordinary errand. i want you to lend me $ on the spot." the other whistled, and then chuckled as was his good-humored wont. "that's a good round sum," he answered. "i know that a deuced sight better than you do," neligage returned. "i've had more experience in wanting money. i'm in a hole, and i ask you to help me out of it. of course i'm taking a deal of advantage of your good nature yesterday; and you may do as you like about letting me have the money. all the security i can give is to turn over to you the income of the few stocks i have. they 're all in the hands of trustees. my father left'em so." "gad, he knew his son," was the characteristic comment. "you are right. he did. can you let me have the money?" the other considered a moment, and then said with his usual bluntness:-- "i suppose it's none of my business what you want of it?" jack flushed. "it may be your business, wilson, but i can't tell you." the other laughed. "oh, well," he said, "if you've been so big a fool that you can't bear to tell of it, i'm not going to insist. i can't do anything better than to send you a check to-morrow. i haven't that amount in the bank." jack held out his hand. "you're a trump, wilson," he said. "i'd tell you the whole thing if it was my secret, but it isn't. of course if you lose anything by moving the money, i'll be responsible for it. besides that i want you to buy starbright, if you care for him. of course if you don't i can sell him easily enough. he's the best of the ponies." "then you're going to sell?" "clean out the whole thing; pay my debts, and leave the club." "oh, you mustn't do that." "i'm going into a bank, and of course i shan't have any time to play." wilson regarded him with an amused and curious smile, playing with his fork meanwhile. wilson was not by birth of jack's world, having come into social position in boston by his marriage with elsie dimmont, the richest young woman of the town. he and jack had never been especially intimate, but jack had always maintained that despite traces of coarseness in manner wilson was sound at heart and essentially a good fellow. perhaps the fact that in times past neligage had not used his opportunities to patronize wilson had something to do with the absence of anything patronizing in the doctor's manner now. "well," wilson said at length, "don't do anything rash. your dues for the whole year are paid,--or will be when you square up, and you might as well get the worth of them. we need you on the team, so you mustn't go back on us if you can help it." matters being satisfactorily arranged both in relation to the loan and to the sale of the pony, jack left wilson, and departed in search of count shimbowski. him he ultimately found at another club, and at once asked to speak with him alone on business. "count," he began when they were in one of the card-rooms, "i want to add a word to what i said to you yesterday." "each one word of mr. neleegaze eet ees treasured," the count responded with a polite flourish of his cigarette. "since you wouldn't give me that letter," pursued jack, acknowledging the compliment with a grin and a bow, "perhaps you'll be willing to exchange it." "exchange eet?" repeated the hungarian. "for what weell eet be exchange'?" jack produced barnstable's letter. "i thought that you'd perhaps be willing to exchange it for this letter that's otherwise to be read and passed about. i fancy that the person who got it had miss wentstile particularly in mind as likely to be interested in it." the touch showed jack to be not without some of the astuteness of his mother. "what weell eet be?" inquired the count. "i haven't read it," answered jack, slowly drawing it from the envelope. "it is said to contain a full account of the life of count shimbowski." "_sacré!_" "exactly," acquiesced jack. "it's a devilish shame that things can't be forgotten when they're done. i've found that out myself." "but what weell be weetheen dat lettaire?" jack ran his eye down a page. "this seems to be an account of a duel at monaco," he returned. "on the next page--" the count stretched out his hand in protest. "eet ees not needed dat you eet to read," he said. "eet ees leeklie lees." "oh, very likely it is lies. no story about a fellow is ever told right; but the worst things always get believed; and miss wentstile is very particular. she's deucedly down on me for a lot of things that never happened." "oh, but she ees extr'ordeenaire particle!" exclaimed the count, with a shrug and a profane expletive. "she does not allow dat money be play for de card, she have say eet to me. she ees most extr'ordeenaire particle!" "then i am probably right, count, in thinking you wouldn't care to have her read this letter?" the count twisted his silky mustache, looking both angry and rather foolish. "eet ees not dat eet ees mooch dat i have done," he explained. "you know what eet ees de leefe. a man leeves one way. but she, she ees so particle damned!" jack burst into a laugh that for the moment threatened to destroy the gravity with which he was conducting the interview; but he controlled his face, and went on. "since she is so damned particular," said he, "don't you think you'd better let me have the other letter for this? of course i hate to drive you to a bargain, but i must have that other letter. i don't mind telling you that i'm sent after it by the one who wrote it." "den you weell know who have wrote eet?" "yes, of course i know, but i'm not going to tell." the count considered for a moment, and then slowly drew out the letter addressed to christopher calumus. he looked at it wistfully, with the air of a man who is reluctantly abandoning the clue to an adventure which might have proved enchanting. "but eet weell look what i was one great villaine dat fear," he said. "nonsense," returned neligage, holding out the letter of barnstable for exchange. "we know both sides of the business. all there is to it is that we both understand what a crochety old maid miss wentstile is." count shimbowski smiled, and the exchange was effected. jack turned may's letter over in his hand, and found it unopened. "you're a gentleman, count," he said, offering his hand. "of de course," the other replied, with an air of some surprise. "i am one shimbowski." "well, i'm obliged to you," observed jack, putting the letter in his pocket. "i'll try to keep gossip still." "oh, eet ees very leek," shimbowski returned, waving his hand airily, "dat when i have read heem i geeve eet to mees wentsteele for one's self. eet ees very leekly." "all right," jack laughed. "i'd like to see her read it. so long." with the vigor which belongs to an indolent man thoroughly aroused, jack hunted up tom harbinger before the day was done, and sold to him his second best pony. then he went for a drive, and afterward dined at the club with an appetite which spoke a conscience at ease or not allowed to make itself heard. he did not take the time for reflection which might have been felt necessary by many men in preparation for the interview with may calthorpe which must come before bedtime. indeed he was more than usually lively and busy, and as he had a playful wit, he had some difficulty in getting the men at the club to let him go when soon after eight in the evening he set out for may's. he had kept busy from the moment his mother had left him in the morning, and on his way along beacon street, he hummed to himself as if still resolved to do anything rather than to meditate. may came into the sombre drawing-room looking more bewitchingly pretty and shy than can be told in sober prose. she was evidently frightened, and as she came forward to give her hand to neligage the color came and went in her cheeks as if she were tremblingly afraid of the possibilities of his greeting. jack's smile was as sunny as ever when he stepped forward to take her hand. he simply grasped it and let it go, a consideration at which she was visibly relieved. "well, may," jack said laughingly, "i understand that we are engaged." "yes," she returned faintly. "won't you sit down?" she indicated a chair not very near to that upon which she took her own seat, and jack coolly accepted the invitation, improving on it somewhat by drawing his chair closer to hers. "i got the letter from the count," he went on. she held out her hand for it in silence. he took the letter from his pocket, and held it as he spoke again, tapping it on his knee by way of emphasis. "before i give it to you, may," he remarked in a voice more serious than he was accustomed to use, "i want you to promise me that you will never do such a thing again as to write to a stranger. you are well out of this--" she lifted her eyes with a quick look of fear in them, as if it had flashed into her mind that if she were out of the trouble over the letter she had escaped this peril only to be ensnared into an engagement with him. the thought was so plain that jack burst into a laugh. "you think that being engaged to me isn't being well out of anything, i see," he observed merrily and mercilessly; "but there might be worse things than that even. we shall see. you'll be awfully fond of me before we are through with this." the poor girl turned crimson at this plain reading of her thought. she was but half a dozen years younger than jack, but he had belonged to an older set than hers, and under thirty half a dozen years seems more of a difference in ages than appears a score later in life. it was not to be expected that she would be talkative in this strange predicament in which she found herself, but what little command she had of her tongue might well vanish if jack was to read her thoughts in her face. she rallied her forces to answer him. "i know that for doing so foolish a thing," she said, "i deserved whatever i get." "even if it's being engaged to me," responded he with a roar. "well, to be honest, i think you do. i don't know what the count might have done if he had read the letter, but--" "oh," cried may, clasping her hands with a burst of sunshine in her face, "didn't he read it? oh, i'm so glad!" "no," jack answered, "the count's too much of a gentleman to read another man's letters when he hasn't been given leave. but what have you to say about my reading this letter?" "oh, you can't have read it!" may cried breathlessly. "not yet; but as we are engaged of course you give me leave to read it now." she looked for a moment into his laughing eyes, and then sprang up from her chair with a sudden burst of excitement. "oh, you are too cruel!" she cried. "i hate you!" "come," he said, not rising, but settling himself back in his chair with a pose of admiring interest, "now we are getting down to nature. have you ever played in amateur theatricals, may?" she stood struck silent by the laughing banter of his tone, but she made no answer. "because, if you ever do," he continued in the same voice, "you'll do well to remember the way you spoke then. it'll be very fetching in a play." the color faded in her cheeks, and her whole manner changed from defiance to humiliation; her lip quivered with quick emotion, and an almost childish expression of woe made pathetic her mobile face. she dropped back into her chair, and the tears started in her eyes. "oh, i don't think you've any right to tease me," she quavered in a voice that had almost escaped from control. "i'm sure i feel bad enough about it." jack's face sobered a little, although the mocking light of humor did not entirely vanish from his eyes. "there, there," he said in a soothing voice; "don't cry, may, whatever you do. the modern husband hates tears, but instead of giving in to them, he gets cross and clears out. don't cry before the man you marry, or," he added, a fresh smile lighting his face, "even before the man you are engaged to." "i didn't mean to be so foolish," may responded, choking down her rebellious emotions. "i'm all upset." "i don't wonder. now to go back to this letter. of course i shouldn't think of reading it without your leave, but i supposed you'd think it proper under the circumstances to tell me to read it. i thought you'd say: 'dearest, i have no secrets from thee! read!' or something of that sort, you know." he was perhaps playing now to cheer may up, for he delivered this in a mock-heroic style, with an absurd gesture. at least the effect was to evoke a laugh which came tear-sparkling as a lark flies dew-besprent from a hawthorn bush at morn. she rallied a little, and spoke with more self-command. "oh, that was the secret of a girl that wasn't engaged to you," she said, "and had no idea of being; no more," she added, dimpling, "than i had." jack showed his white teeth in what his friends called his "appreciative grin." "perhaps you're right," he returned. "by the way, do you know who christopher calumus really is?" she colored again, and hung her head. "yes," she murmured, in a voice absurdly low. "mrs. harbinger told me last night. he told her yesterday at the county club." "does he know who wrote to him?" her cheeks became deeper in hue, and her voice even lower yet. "yes, he found out from mrs. harbinger." "well, i must say i thought that letty harbinger had more sense!" "she didn't mean to tell him." "no woman ever meant to tell anything," he retorted in good-humored sarcasm; "but they always do tell everything. then if you and dick both know all about it, perhaps i had better give the letter to him." he offered to put the letter into his pocket, but she held out her hand for it beseechingly. "oh, don't give it to anybody else," she begged. "let me put it into the fire, and be through with it. it's done mischief enough!" "it may have done some good too," he said enigmatically. "i hope nothing worse will ever happen to you, may, than to be engaged to me. i give you my word that, as little as you imagine it, it's your interest and not my own i'm looking after. however, that's neither here nor there." he put the letter into his pocket without farther comment, disregarding her imploring look. then he rose, and held out his hand. "good-night," he said. "some accepted lovers would ask for a kiss, but i'll wait till you want to kiss me. you will some time. good-night. you'll remember what i wrote you about mentioning our engagement." she had at the mention of kisses become more celestial rosy red than in the whole course of that blushful interview, but at his last word her color faded as quickly as it had come. "oh, i am so sorry," she said, "i had told one person before your note came. she won't tell though." "being a 'she,'" he retorted mockingly. "oh, it was only alice," may explained, "and of course she can be trusted." it was his turn to become serious, and in the cloud on his sunny face there was not a little vexation. "good heavens!" he exclaimed. "of all the women in boston why must you pick out the one that i was most particular shouldn't know! you girls have an instinct for mischief." "but i wrote to her as soon as your note came; besides, she has promised not to say anything. she won't tell." "no; she won't tell," he echoed moodily. "what did she say?" may cast down her eyes in evident embarrassment. "oh, it's no matter," jack went on. "she wouldn't say half as hard things as she must think. however, it's all one in the end. good-night." with this abrupt farewell he left his betrothed, and went hastily out into the spring night, with its velvety darkness and abundant stars. the mention of alice endicott had robbed him of the gay spirits in which he had carried on his odd interview with may. the teasing jollity of manner was gone as he walked thoughtfully back to his chambers. he found fairfield in their common parlor. "dick," he said without preface, "congratulate me. i'm engaged." "engaged!" exclaimed the other, jumping up and extending his hand. "congratulations, old fellow. of course it's alice endicott." "no," his friend responded coolly; "it's may calthorpe." "what!" cried fairfield, starting back and dropping his hand before neligage had time to take it. "miss calthorpe? what do you mean?" "just as i say, my boy. the engagement is a secret at present, you understand. i thought you'd like to know it, though; and by the way, it'll show that i've perfect confidence in you if i turn over to you the letter that may wrote to you before we were engaged. that one to christopher calumus, you know." "but," stammered his chum, apparently trying to collect his wits, scattered by the unexpected news and this strange proposition, "how can you tell what's in it?" "tell what's in it, my boy? it isn't any of my business. that has to do with a part of her life that doesn't belong to me, you know. it's enough for me that she wrote the letter for you to have, and so here it is." he put the envelope into the hands of dick, who received it as if he were a post-box on the corner, having no choice but to take any missive thrust at him. "good-night," jack said. "i'm played out, and mean to turn in. thanks for your good wishes." and he ended that eventful day, so far as the world of men could have cognizance, by retiring to his own room. xviii the mischief of men barnstable seemed bound to behave like a bee in a bottle, which goes bumping its idiotic head without reason or cessation. on monday morning after the polo game he was ushered into the chambers of jack and dick, both of whom were at home. he looked more excited than on the previous day, and moved with more alacrity. the alteration was not entirely to his advantage, for mr. barnstable was one of those unfortunates who appear worse with every possible change of manner. "good-morning, mr. fairfield," was the visitor's greeting. "damme if i'll say good-morning to you, mr. neligage." jack regarded him with languid astonishment. "well," he said, "that relieves me of the trouble of saying it to you." barnstable puffed and swelled with anger. "damme, sir," he cried, "you may try to carry it off that way, but--" "good heavens, mr. barnstable," interrupted fairfield, "what in the world do you mean?" "is it your general custom," drawled jack, between puffs of his cigarette, "to give a wild west show at every house you go into?" dick flashed a smile at his chum, but shook his head. "come, mr. barnstable," he said soothingly, "you can't go about making scenes in this way. sit down, and if you've anything to say, say it quietly." mr. barnstable, however, was not to be beguiled with words. he had evidently been brooding over wrongs, real or fancied, until his temper had got beyond control. "anything to say?" he repeated angrily,--"i've this to say: that he has insulted my wife. i'll sue you for libel, damme! i've a great mind to thrash you!" jack grinned down on the truculent barnstable from his superior height. barnstable stood with his short legs well apart, as if he had to brace them to bear up the enormous weight of his anger; jack, careless, laughing, and elegant, leaned his elbow on the mantle and smoked. "there, mr. barnstable," fairfield said, coming to him and taking him by the arm; "you evidently don't know what you're saying. of course there's some mistake. mr. neligage never insulted a lady." "but he has done it," persisted barnstable. "he has done it, mr. fairfield. have you read 'love in a cloud'?" "'love in a cloud'?" repeated dick in manifest astonishment. "you must know the book, dick," put in jack wickedly. "it's that rubbishy anonymous novel that's made so much talk lately. it's about a woman whose husband's temper was incompatible." "it's about my wife!" cried barnstable. "what right had you to put my wife in a book?" "pardon me," neligage asked with the utmost suavity, "but is it proper to ask if it was your temper that was incompatible?" "shut up, jack," said dick hastily. "you are entirely off the track, mr. barnstable. neligage didn't write 'love in a cloud.'" "didn't write it?" stammered the visitor. "i give you my word he didn't." barnstable looked about with an air of helplessness which was as funny as his anger had been. "then who did?" he demanded. "if mr. barnstable had only mentioned sooner that he wished me to write it," jack observed graciously, "i'd have been glad to do my best." "shut up, jack," commanded dick once more. "really, mr. barnstable, it does seem a little remarkable that you should go rushing about in this extraordinary way without knowing what you are doing. you'll get into some most unpleasant mess if you keep on." "or bring up in a lunatic asylum," suggested jack with the most unblushing candor. barnstable looked from one to the other with a bewildered expression as if he were just recovering his senses. he walked to the table and took up a glass of water, looked around as if for permission, and swallowed it by uncouth gulps. "perhaps i'd better go," he said, and turned toward the door. "oh, by the way, mr. barnstable," jack observed as the visitor laid his hand on the door-knob, "does it seem to you that it would be in good form to apologize before you go? if it doesn't, don't let me detain you." the strange creature turned on the rug by the door, an abject expression of misery from head to feet. "of course i'd apologize," he said, "if it was any use. when my temper's up i don't seem to have any control of what i do, and what i do is always awful foolish. this thing's got hold of me so i don't sleep, and that's made me worse. of course you think i'm a lunatic, gentlemen; and i suppose i am; but my wife--" the redness of his face gave signs that he was not far from choking, and out of his fishy eyes there rolled genuine tears. jack stepped forward swiftly, and took him by the hand. "i beg your pardon, mr. barnstable," he said. "of course i'd no idea what you were driving at. will you believe me when i tell you something? i had nothing to do with writing 'love in a cloud,' but i do know who wrote it. i can give you my word that the author didn't have your story in mind at all." "are you sure?" stammered barnstable. "of course i'm sure." "then there is nothing i can do," barnstable said, shaking his head plaintively. "i've just made a fool of myself, and done nothing for her." the door closed behind barnstable, and the two young men looked at each other a moment. neither laughed, the foolish tragedy of the visitor's last words not being mirth-provoking. "well, of all the fools i've seen in my life," jack commented slowly, "this is the most unique specimen." "i'm afraid i can't blame the divorced mrs. barnstable," responded dick; "but there's something pathetic about the ass." it seemed the fate of barnstable that day to afford amusement for jack neligage. in the latter part of the afternoon jack sauntered into the calif club to see if there were anything in the evening papers or any fresh gossip afloat, and there he encountered the irascible gentleman once more. scarcely had he nodded to him than tom harbinger and harry bradish came up to them. "hallo, jack," the lawyer said cordially. "anything new?" "not that i know of," was the response. "how are you, bradish?" "how are you?" replied bradish. "mr. barnstable, i've called twice to-day at your rooms." "i am sorry that i was out," barnstable answered with awkward politeness. "i have been here since luncheon." "i'm half sorry to find you now," bradish proceeded, while harbinger and jack looked on with some surprise at the gravity of his manner. "i've got to do an errand to you that i'm afraid you'll laugh at." "an errand to me?" barnstable returned. bradish drew out his pocket-book, and with deliberation produced a note. he examined it closely, as if to assure himself that there was no mistake about what he was doing, and then held out the missive to barnstable. "yes," he said, "i have the honor to be the bearer of a challenge from the count shimbowski, who claims that you have grossly insulted him. will you kindly name a friend? there," he concluded, looking at harbinger and neligage with a grin, "i think i did that right, didn't i?" "gad!" cried jack. "has the count challenged him? what a lark!" "nonsense!" harbinger said. "you can't be serious, bradish?" "no, i'm not very serious about it, but i assure you the count is." "challenged me?" demanded barnstable, tearing open the epistle. "what does the dago mean? he says--what's that word?--he says his honor ex--expostulates my blood. of course i shan't fight." bradish shook his head, although he could not banish the laughter from his face. "blood is what he wants. he says he shall have to run you through in the street if you won't fight." "oh, you'll have to fight!" put in jack. "the count's a regular fire-eater," declared tom. "you wouldn't like to be run through in the street, barnstable." barnstable looked from one to another as if he were unable to understand what was going on around him. "curse it!" he broke out, his face assuming its apoplectic redness. "curse those fellows that write novels! here i've got to be assassinated just because some confounded scribbler couldn't keep from putting my private affairs in his infernal book! it's downright murder!" "and the comic papers afterward," murmured jack. "but what are you going to do about it?" asked tom. "you might have the count arrested and bound over to keep the peace," suggested bradish. "that's a nice speech for the count's second!" cried jack with a roar. "what am i going to do?" repeated barnstable. "i'll fight him!" he struck himself on the chest, and glared around him, while they all stood in astonished silence. "my wife has been insulted," he went on with fresh vehemence, "and i had a right to call the man that did it a villain or anything else! i owe it to her to fight him if he won't take it back!" "gad!" said jack, advancing and holding out his hand, "that's melodrama and no mistake; but i like your pluck! i'll back you up, barnstable!" "does that mean that you'll be his second, jack?" asked harbinger, laughing. "there, tom," was the retort, "don't run a joke into the ground. when a man shows the genuine stuff, he isn't to be fooled any longer." bradish followed suit, and shook hands with barnstable, and harbinger after him. "you're all right, barnstable," bradish observed; "but what are we to do with the count?" "oh, that ass!" jack responded. "i'd like to help duck him in a horse-pond; but of course as he didn't write the book, mr. barnstable won't mind apologizing for a hasty word said by mistake. any gentleman would do that." "of course if you think it's all right," barnstable said, "i'd rather apologize; but i'd rather fight than have any doubt about the way i feel toward the whelp that libelized my wife." jack took him by the shoulder, and spoke to him with a certain slow distinctness such as one might use in addressing a child. "do have some common sense about this, barnstable," he said. "do get it out of your head that the man who wrote that book knew anything about your affairs. i've told you that already." "i told him too," put in harbinger. "i suppose you know," barnstable replied, shaking his head; "but it is strange how near it fits!" bradish took barnstable off to the writing room to pen a suitable apology to the count, and jack and harbinger remained behind. "extraordinary beggar," observed jack, when they had departed. "yes," answered the other absently. "jack, of course you didn't write 'love in a cloud'?" "of course not. what an idiotic idea!" "fairfield said barnstable had been accusing you of it, but i knew it couldn't be anything but his crazy nonsense. of course the count didn't write it either?" jack eyed his companion inquiringly. "look here, tom," he said, "what are you driving at? of course the count didn't write it. you are about as crazy as barnstable." "oh, i never thought he was the man; but who the deuce is it?" "why should you care?" harbinger leaned forward to the grate, and began to pound the coal with the poker in a way that bespoke embarrassment. suddenly he turned, and broke out explosively. "i should think i ought to care to know what man my wife is writing letters to! you heard her say she wrote that letter to christopher calumus." jack gave a snort of mingled contempt and amusement. "you old mutton-head," he said. "your wife didn't write that letter. i know all about it, and i got it back from the count." "you did?" questioned harbinger with animation. "then why did letty say she wrote it?" "she wanted to shield somebody else. now that's all i shall tell you. see here, are you coming the othello dodge?" tom gave a vicious whack at a big lump which split into a dozen pieces, all of which guzzled and sputtered after the unpleasant fashion of soft coal. "there's something here i don't understand," he persisted. jack regarded him curiously a moment. then he lighted a fresh cigarette, and lay back in his chair, stretching out his legs luxuriously. "it's really too bad that your wife's gone back on you," he observed dispassionately. "what?" cried tom, turning violently. "such a nice little woman as letty always was too," went on jack mercilessly. "i wouldn't have believed it." "what in the deuce do you mean?" tom demanded furiously, grasping the poker as if he were about to strike with it. "do you dare to insinuate--" jack sat up suddenly and looked at him, his sunny face full of earnestness. "what the deuce do you mean?" he echoed. "what can a man mean when he begins to distrust his wife? heavens! i'm beastly ashamed of you, tom harbinger! to think of your coming to the club and talking to a man about that little trump of a woman! you ought to be kicked! there, old man," he went on with a complete change of manner, "i beg your pardon. i only wanted to show you how you might look to an unfriendly eye. you know you can't be seriously jealous of letty." the other changed color, and looked shame-facedly into the coals. "no, of course not, jack," he answered slowly. "i'm as big an idiot as barnstable. i do hate to see men dangling about her, though. i can't help my disposition, can i?" "you've got to help it if it makes a fool of you." "and that infernal count with his slimy manners," tom went on. "if he isn't a rascal there never was one. i'm not really jealous, i'm only--only--" "only an idiot," concluded jack. "if i were letty i'd really flirt with somebody just to teach you the difference between these fool ideas of yours and the real thing." "don't, jack," tom said; "the very thought of it knocks me all out." xix the cruelty of love what might be the result of such a match as that of may calthorpe and jack neligage must inevitably depend largely upon the feelings of one or the other to another love. if either were constant to a former flame, only disaster could come of the _mariage de convenance_ which mrs. neligage had adroitly patched up. if both left behind forgotten the foolish flares of youthful passion, the married pair might arrange their feelings upon a basis of mutual liking comfortable if not inspiring. what happened to jack in regard to alice and to may's silly attraction toward the unknown christopher calumus was therefore of much importance in influencing the future. since alice endicott knew of the engagement of may and jack it was not to be supposed that the malicious fates would fail to bring her face to face with her former lover. the meeting happened a couple of days after. jack was walking down beacon street, and alice came out of may's just in front of him. he quickened his steps and overtook her. "good-morning," he said; "you've been in to may's, i see. how is she to-day?" the tone was careless and full of good-nature, and his face as sunny as the bright sky overhead. alice did not look up at him, but kept her eyes fixed on the distance. to one given to minute observation it might have occurred that as she did not glance at him when he spoke she must have been aware of his approach, and must have seen him when she came out from the house. that she had not shown her knowledge of his nearness was to be looked upon as an indication of something which was not indifference. "good-morning," she answered. "may didn't seem to be in particularly good spirits." "didn't she? i must try to find time to run in and cheer her up. i'm not used to being engaged, you see, and i'm not up in my part." he spoke with a sort of swagger which was obviously intended to tease her, and the heightened color in her cheeks told that it had not missed the mark. "i have no doubt that you will soon learn it," she returned. "you were always so good in amateur theatricals." he laughed boisterously, perhaps a little nervously. "'praise from sir hubert,'" he quoted. "and speaking of engagements, is it proper to offer congratulations on yours?" she turned to him with a look of indignant severity. "you know i am not engaged, and that i don't mean to be." "oh, that's nothing. i didn't mean to be the other day." "i am not in the market," she said cuttingly. "neither am i any more," jack retorted coolly. "i've sold myself. that's what they mean, i suppose, by saying a girl has made her market." alice had grown more and more stern in her carriage as this talk proceeded. jack's tone was as flippant as ever, and he carried his handsome head as jauntily as if they were talking of the merriest themes. his brown eyes were full of a saucy light, and he switched his walking-stick as if he were light-heartedly snapping off the heads of daisies in a country lane. the more severe alice became the more his spirits seemed to rise. as they halted at a corner to let a carriage pass alice turned and looked at her companion, the hot blood flushing into her smooth cheek. "there is nothing in the world more despicable than a fortune-hunter!" she declared with emphasis. "oh, quite so," jack returned, apparently full of inward laughter. "theoretically i agree with you entirely. practically of course there are allowances to be made. the count has been brought up so, and you mustn't be too hard on him." "you know what i mean," she said, unmoved by the cunning of his speech. "yes, of course i can make allowances for you. you mean, i suppose, that as long as you know he's really after you and not your money you can despise public opinion; but naturally it must vex you to have the count misjudged. everybody will think miss wentstile hired him to marry you." she parted her lips to speak, then restrained herself, and altered her manner. she turned at bay, but she adopted jack's own tactics. "you are right," she said. "i understand that the count is only acting according to the standards he's been brought up to. may hasn't that consolation. i'm sure i don't see, if you don't mind my saying so, on what ground she is going to contrive any sort of an excuse for her husband." "she'll undoubtedly be so fond of him," jack retorted with unabashed good-nature, "that it won't occur to her that he needs an excuse. may hasn't your puritanical notions, you know. really, i might be afraid of her if she had." it was a game in which the man is always the superior of the woman. women will more cleverly and readily dissemble to the world, but to the loved one they are less easily mocking and insincere than men. alice, however, was plucky, and she made one attempt more. "of course may might admire you on the score of filial obedience. it isn't every son who would allow his mother to arrange his marriage for him." "no," jack responded with a chuckle, "you're right there. i am a model son." she stopped suddenly, and turned on the sidewalk in quick vehemence. "oh, stop talking to me!" she cried. "i will go into the first house i know if you keep on this way! you've no right to torment me so!" the angry tears were in her eyes, and her face was drawn with her effort to sustain the self-control which had so nearly broken down. his expression lost its roguishness, and in his turn he became grave. "no," he said half-bitterly, "perhaps not. of course i haven't; but it is something of a temptation when you are so determined to believe the worst of me." she regarded him in bewilderment. "determined to believe the worst?" she echoed. "aren't you engaged to may calthorpe?" he took off his hat, and made her a profound and mocking bow. "i apparently have that honor," he said. "then why am i not to believe it?" he looked at her a moment as if about to explain, then with the air of finding it hopeless he set his lips together. "if you will tell me what you mean," alice went on, "i may understand. as it is i have your own word that you are engaged; you certainly do not pretend that you care for may; and you know that your mother made the match. you may be sure, jack," she added, her voice softening a little only to harden again, "that if there were any way of excusing you i should have found it out. i'm still foolish enough to cling to old friendship." his glance softened, and he regarded her with a look under which she changed color and drew away from him. "dear alice," he said, "you always were a brick." she answered only by a startled look. then before he could be aware of her intention she had run lightly up the steps of a house and rung the bell. he looked after her in amazement, then followed. "alice," he said, "what are you darting off in that way for?" "i have talked with you as long as i care to," she responded, the color in her cheeks, and her head held high. "i am going in here to see mrs. west. you had better go and cheer up may." before he could reply a servant had opened the door. jack lifted his hat. "good-by," said he. "remember what i said about believing the worst." then the door closed behind her, and he went on his way down the street. that the course of true love never ran smooth has been said on such a multitude of occasions that it is time for some expert in the affections to declare whether all love which runs roughly is necessarily genuine. the supreme prerogative of young folk who are fond is of course to tease and torment each other. alice and jack had that morning been a spectacle of much significance to any student in the characteristics of love-making. youth indulges in the bitter of disagreement as a piquant contrast to the sweets of the springtime of life. true love does not run smooth because love cannot really take deep hold upon youth unless it fixes attention by its disappointments and woes. smooth and sweet drink quickly cloys; while the cup in which is judiciously mingled an apt proportion of acid stimulates the thirst it gratifies. if jack was to marry may it was a pity that he and alice should continue thus to hurt each other. xx the faithfulness of a friend the friendship between jack neligage and dick fairfield was close and sincere. for a man to say that the friendships of men are more true and sure than those of women would savor of cynicism, and might be objected to on the ground that no man is in a position to judge on both sides of the matter. it might on the other hand be remarked that even women themselves give the impression of regarding masculine comradeship as a finer product of humanity than feminine, but comparisons of this sort have little value. it is surely enough to keep in mind how gracious a gift of the gods is a genuine affection between two right-hearted men. the man who has one fellow whom he loves, of whose love he is assured; one to whom he may talk as freely as he would think, one who understands not only what is said but the things which are intended; a friend with whom it is possible to be silent without offense or coldness, against whom there need be no safeguards, and to whom one may turn alike in trouble and in joy--the man who has found a friend like this has a gift only to be outweighed by the love of her whose price is far above rubies and whose works praise her in the gates. such a friendship is all but the most precious gift of the gods. to evoke and to share such a friendship, moreover, marks the possession of possibilities ethically fine. a man may love a woman in pure selfishness; but really to love his male friend he must possess capabilities of self-sacrifice and of manliness. it is one of the charms of comradeship that it frankly accepts and frankly gives without weighing or accounting. in the garden of such a friendship may walk the soul of man as his body went in eden before the fall, "naked and not ashamed." he cannot be willing to show himself as he is if his true self have not its moral beauties. it may be set down to the credit both of dick and of jack that between them there existed a friendship so close and so trustful. even in the closest friendships, however, there may be times of suspension. perhaps in a perfect comradeship there would be no room for the faintest cloud; but since men are human and there is nothing perfect in human relations, even friendship may sometimes seem to suffer. for some days after the announcement of jack's engagement there was a marked shade between the friends. jack, indeed, was the same as ever, jolly, careless, indolent, and apparently without a trouble in the world. dick, on the other hand, was at times absent, constrained, or confused. to have his friend walk in and coolly announce an engagement with the girl whose correspondence had fired dick's heart was naturally trying and astonishing. dick might have written a bitter chapter about the way in which women spoiled the friendships of men; and certain cynical remarks which appeared in his next novel may be conceived of as having been set down at this time. more than a week went by without striking developments. the engagement had not been announced, nor had it, after the first evening, been mentioned between the two friends. that there should be a subject upon which both must of necessity reflect much, yet of which they did not speak, was in itself a sufficient reason for a change in the mental atmosphere of their bachelor quarters, which from being the cheeriest possible were fast becoming the most gloomy. one morning as dick sat writing at his desk, jack, who since breakfast had been engaged in his own chamber, came strolling in, in leisurely fashion, smoking the usual cigarette. "i hope i don't disturb you, old man," he said, "but there's something i'd like to ask you, if you don't mind." dick, whose back was toward the other, did not turn. he merely held his pen suspended, and said coldly:-- "well?" jack composed himself in a comfortable position by leaning against the mantel, an attitude he much affected, and regarded his cigarette as if it had some close connection with the thing he wished to say. "you remember perhaps that letter that i gave you from may?" dick laid his pen down suddenly, and sat up, but he did not turn. "well?" he said again. "and the other letters before it?" "well?" "it has occurred to me that perhaps i ought to ask for them,--demand them, don't you know, the way they do on the stage." dick said nothing. by keeping his back to his chum he missed sight of a face full of fun and mischief. "of course i don't want to seem too bumptious, but now i'm engaged to miss calthorpe--" he paused as if to give fairfield an opportunity of speaking; but still dick remained silent. "well," observed jack after a moment, "why the dickens don't you say something? i can't be expected to carry on this conversation all alone." "what do you want me to say?" fairfield asked, in a tone so solemn that it was no wonder his friend grinned more than ever. "oh, nothing, if that's the way you take it." "you knew about those letters when i got them," fairfield went on. "i read them to you before i knew where they came from." "oh, my dear fellow, hold on. you never read me any but the first one." "at any rate," rejoined dick, obviously disturbed by this thrust, "i told you about them." "oh, you did? you told me very little about the second, and nothing about the third. i didn't even know how many you had." fairfield rose from his seat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace up and down the room. jack smoked and watched. "look here, jack," dick said, "we've been fencing round this thing for a week, and it's got to be talked out." "all right; heave ahead, old man." fairfield stopped in his walk and confronted his friend. "are you really fond of miss calthorpe, jack?" "oh, i don't object to her; but of course the marriage is for purely business reasons." "you're not in love with her?" "not the least in the world, old man," jack responded cheerfully, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it intently as it sailed toward the ceiling. "but then she doesn't love me, so there's no bother of pretending on either side." the color mounted in dick's cheeks. "do you think it's the square thing to marry a young girl like that, and tie her up for life when she doesn't know what she's doing?" "oh, girls never know what they are doing. how should they know about marriage in any case? the man has to think for both, of course." "but suppose she shouldn't be happy." "oh, i'll be good to any girl i marry. i'm awfully easy to live with. you ought to know that." "but suppose," dick urged again, "suppose she--" "suppose she what?" "why, suppose she--suppose she--she liked somebody else?" jack looked shrewdly at dick's confused face, and burst into a laugh. "i guessed those letters were pretty fair," he burst out, "but they must have been much worse than i even suspected!" "what do you mean?" stammered dick. "mean? oh, nothing,--nothing in the world. by the way, as the matter relates to my _fiancée_, i hope you won't mind my asking if she's written to you since our engagement." "why--" "then she has written," pronounced jack, smiling more than ever at the confusion of his friend. "you haven't the cheek to bluff a baby, dick. i should hate to see you try to run a kelter through." "she only wrote to say that she was glad the count didn't write 'love in a cloud,' and a few things, you know, that she wanted to say." jack flung the end of his cigarette away and stepped swiftly forward to catch his chum by the shoulders behind. he whirled dick about like a teetotum. "oh, dick, you old fool," he cried, "what an ass you are! do you suppose i'm such a cad as really to propose to marry may when she's fond of you and you're fond of her? it doesn't speak very well of your opinion of me." dick stared at him in half-stupefied amazement for an instant; then the blood came rushing into his cheeks. "you don't mean to marry her?" he cried amazedly. "never did for a minute," responded jack cheerfully. "don't you know, old man, that i've sold my polo ponies, and taken a place in the bank?" "taken a place in the bank!" exclaimed dick, evidently more and more bewildered. "then what did you pretend to be engaged to her for?" "confound your impudence!" laughed jack, "i was engaged to her, you beast! i am engaged to her now, and if you're n't civil i'll keep on being. you can't be engaged to her till i break my engagement!" "but, jack, i don't understand what in the deuce you mean." "mean? i don't know that i meant anything. i was engaged to her without asking to be, and when a lady says she is engaged to you you really can't say you're not. besides, i thought it might help you." "help me?" "of course, my boy. there is nothing to set a girl in the way of wishing to be engaged to the right man like getting engaged to the wrong one." dick wrung his friend's hand. "jack," he said, "i beg your pardon. you're a trump!" "oh, i knew that all the time," responded jack. "it may comfort you a little to know that it hasn't been much of an engagement. i've been shamefully neglectful of my position. now of course an engaged man is supposed to show his ardor, to take little liberties, and be generally loving, you know." dick grew fiery red, and shrank back. jack laughed explosively. "jealous, old man?" he demanded provokingly. "well, i won't tease you any more. i haven't so much as kissed her hand." dick's rather combative look changed instantly into shamefacedness, and he shook hands again. he turned away quickly, but as quickly turned back again once more to grasp the hand of his chum. "jack neligage," he declared, "you're worth more than a dozen of my best heroes, and a novelist can't say more than that!" "gad! you'd better put me in a novel then," was jack's response. "they won't believe i'm real though; i'm too infernally virtuous." a knock at the door interrupted them, and proved to be the summons of the janitor, who announced that a lady wished to see mr. fairfield. "don't let her stay long," jack said, retreating to his room. "i can't get out till she is gone, and i want to go down town. i've got to order the horses to take my _fiancée_ out for a last ride. it's to break my engagement, so you ought to want it to come off." xxi the mischief of a fiancÉ the lady proved to be alice endicott. she came in without shyness or embarrassment, with her usual air of quiet refinement, and although she must have seen the surprise in dick's face, she took no notice of it. alice was one of those women so free from self-consciousness, so entirely without affectations, yet so rare in her simple dignity, that it was hard to conceive her as ever seeming to be out of place. she was so superior to surroundings that her environment did not matter. "good-morning, mr. fairfield," she said. "i should apologize for intruding. i hope i am not disturbing your work." "good-morning," he responded. "i am not at work just now. sit down, please." she took the chair he offered, and came at once to her errand. "i came from miss calthorpe," she said. "miss calthorpe?" he repeated. "yes. she thought she ought not to write to you again; and she asked me to come for her letters; those she wrote before she knew who you were." "but why shouldn't she write to me for them?" "you forget that she is engaged, mr. fairfield." "i--of course, i did forget for the minute; but even if she is, i don't see why so simple a thing as a note asking for her letters--" alice rose. "i don't think that there is any need of my explaining," she said. "if i tell you that she didn't find it easy to write, will that be sufficient? of course you will give me the letters." "i must give them if she wishes it; but may i ask one question first? doesn't she send for them because she's engaged?" "isn't that reason enough?" "it is reason enough," dick answered, smiling; "but it isn't a reason here. she isn't engaged any more. that is, she won't be by night." alice stared at him in astonishment. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "i mean that jack never meant to marry her, and that he is going to release her from her engagement." "how do you know that?" "he told me himself." they stood in silence a brief interval looking each other in the face. fairfield was radiant, but miss endicott was very pale. "i beg your pardon," she said presently. "is mr. neligage in the house?" "yes; he's in his room." "will you call him, please?" fairfield hesitated a little, but went to call his chum. "miss endicott wants to speak to you," he said abruptly. "what does she want?" "i haven't any idea." "what have you been telling her?" the necessity of answering this question dick escaped by returning to the other room; and his friend followed. "jack," alice cried, as soon as he appeared, "tell me this moment if it's true that you're not to marry may!" he faced her stiff and formal in his politeness. "pardon me if i do not see that you have any right to ask me such a question." "why, i came to ask mr. fairfield for may's letters because she is engaged to you, and he told me--" she broke off, her habitual self-control being evidently tried almost beyond its limit. "i took the liberty, jack," spoke up fairfield, "of saying--" "don't apologize," neligage said. "it is true, miss endicott, that circumstances have arisen which make it best for may to break the engagement. i shall be obliged to you, however, if you don't mention the matter to her until she brings it up." alice looked at him appealingly. "but i thought--" "we are none of us accountable for our thoughts, miss endicott, nor perhaps for a want of faith in our friends." she moved toward him with a look of so much appeal that dick discreetly turned his back under pretense of looking for something on his writing-table. "at least," she said, her voice lower than usual, "you will let me apologize for the way in which i spoke to you the other morning." "oh, don't mention it," he returned carelessly. "you were quite justified." he turned away with easy nonchalance, as if the matter were one in which he had no possible interest. "at least," she begged, "you'll pardon me, and shake hands." "oh, certainly, if you like," answered he; "but it doesn't seem necessary." her manner changed in the twinkling of an eye. indignation shone in her face and her head was carried more proudly. "then it isn't," she said. "good-morning, mr. fairfield." she went from the room as quickly as a shadow flits before sunlight. the two young men were so taken by surprise that by the time dick reached the door to open it for his departing caller, it had already closed behind her. the friends stared a moment. then jack made a swift stride to the door; but when he flung it open the hall without was empty. "damn it, dick," he ejaculated, coming back with a face of anger, "what did you let her go off like that for?" "how in the world could i help it?" was all that his friend could answer. jack regarded dick blackly for the fraction of a second; then he burst into a laugh, and clapped him on the shoulder. "i beg your pardon, old man," he said, as cheerily as ever. "i'm going off my nerve with all these carryings on. if you hadn't written that rotten old novel of yours, we shouldn't have had these continual circuses." he went for his hat as he spoke, and without farther adieu took his way down town. men in this peculiar world are to be envied or pitied not so much for their fortunes as for their dispositions; and if outward indications were to be trusted, jack neligage was one of those enviable creatures who will be cheerful despite the blackest frowns of fate. from indifference or from pluck, from caring little for the favors of fortune or from despising her spite, jack took his way through life merrily, smiling and sunny; up hill or down dale as it chanced he followed the path, with a laugh on his lip and always a kindly greeting for his fellow travelers. this morning, as he walked out into the sunlight, handsome, well-groomed, debonaire, and jocund, certainly no one who saw him was likely to suspect that the world did not go smoothly with him. least of all could one suppose that his heart or his thought was troubled concerning the favor or disfavor of any woman whatsoever. jack in the afternoon took may for a drive. the engagement had thus far been a somewhat singular one. jack had been to see may nearly every day, it is true, but either by the whimsical contrivance of fate or by his own cunning he had seldom seen her alone. she either had callers or was out herself; and as no one but mrs. neligage and alice knew of the engagement there was no chance for that sentiment which makes callers upon a lady feel it necessary to retreat as speedily as possible upon the appearance of her acknowledged lover. so well settled in the public mind was the conviction that jack was in love with alice endicott, that nobody took the trouble to notice that he was calling on may calthorpe or to get out of his way that he might be alone with her. this afternoon, in the face of all the world, in a stylish trap, on the open highway, they were at last together without other company. had not the mind of may been provided with an object of regret and longing in the person of fairfield, there might have been danger that jack would engage her fancy by sheer indifference. any girl must be puzzled, interested, piqued, and either exasperated or hurt according to her nature, when the man to whom she is newly betrothed treats her as the most casual of acquaintances. if nothing else moved her there would be the bite of unsatisfied curiosity. to be engaged without even being able to learn by experience what being engaged consists in may well wear on the least inquisitive feminine disposition. the _fiancé_ who does not even make pretense of playing the lover is an object so curious that he cannot fail to attract attention, to awake interest, and the chances are largely in favor of his developing in the breast of his fair the determination to see him really aroused and enslaved. many a woman has succumbed to indifference who would have been proof against the most ardent wooing. "well, may," jack said, smiling upon her as they drove over the mill dam, "how do you like being engaged?" she looked at him with a sparkle in her eyes which made her bewitching. "i don't see that it's very different from not being engaged," she said. "it will be if you keep on looking so pretty," he declared. "i shall kiss you right here in the street, and that would make folks talk." the color came into her cheeks in a way that made her more charming still. "now you color," jack went on, regarding her with a teasing coolness, "you are prettier yet. gad! i shall have to kiss you!" his horses shied at something at that instant, and he was forced to attend to them, so that may had a moment's respite in which to gather up her wits. when he looked back, she took the aggressive. "it is horrid in you to talk that way," she remarked. "besides, you said that i needn't kiss you until i wanted to." "well, i didn't promise not to kiss you, did i?" "how silly you are to-day!" she exclaimed. "isn't there anything better to talk about than kissing?" jack regarded her with a grin; a grin in which, it must be confessed, there was something of the look with which a boy watches a kitten he is teasing. "anything better?" repeated he. "when you've had more experience, may, perhaps you won't think there is anything better." may began to look sober, and even to have the appearance of feeling that the conversation was becoming positively improper. "i think you are just horrid!" she declared. "i do wish you'd behave." he gave her a respite for some moments, and they drove along through the sunlight of the april afternoon. the trees as they came into the country were beautiful with the buds and promise of nearing summer; the air soft with that cool smoothness which is a reminder that afar the breeze has swept fragments of old snowdrifts yet unmelted; the sky moist with the mists of snow-fields that have wasted away. all the landscape was exquisite with delicate hues. the supreme color-season of new england begins about the middle of march, and lasts--at the very latest--until the middle of may. its climax comes in late april, when pearly mists hover among the branches that are soon to be hidden by foliage. glowing tints of amethyst, luminous gray, tender green, coral, and yellow white, make the woods a dream of poetic loveliness beside which the gorgeous and less varied hues of autumn are crude. something dreamlike, veiled, mysterious, is felt in these tints, this iridesence of the woods in spring; as if one were looking at the luminous, rosy mists within which, as venus amid the rainbow-dyed foam of the sea, is being shaped to immortal youth and divine comeliness the very goddess of spring. the red of the maple-buds shows from afar; the russet leaflets of the ash, the vivid green, the amber, the pearl, and the tawny of the clustering hardwood trees, set against the heavy masses of the evergreens, are far more lovely than all the broad coloring of summer or the hot tints of autumn. under the afternoon sun the woods that day were at their best, and presently may spoke of the colors which spread down the gentle slopes of the low hills not far away. "isn't it just too lovely for anything!" she said. "just look at that hill over there. it is perfectly lovely." jack glanced at the hill, and then looked at her teasingly. "that's right," he remarked. "of course spoony people ought to talk about spring, and how perfectly lovely everything is." "i didn't say that because we're engaged," returned may, rather explosively. "i really meant it." "of course you did. that shows that you are in the proper frame of mind. now i'm not. i don't care a rap to talk about the whole holy show. it's pretty, of course; but i'm not going in for doing the sentimental that way." she looked up with mingled indignation and entreaty. "now you are going to be horrid again," she protested. "why can't you stop talking about our being engaged?" "stop talking about it? why, good heavens, we're expected to talk about it. i never was engaged before, but i hope i know my business." "but i don't want to talk about it!" "oh, you really do, only you are shy about owning it." "but i won't talk about it!" "oh, yes, you will, my dear; for if i say things you can't help answering 'em." "i won't say another word!" "i'll bet you a pair of gloves that the next thing i say about our being engaged you'll not only answer, but you'll answer in a hurry." "i'll take your bet!" cried may with animation. "i won't answer a word." jack gave a wicked chuckle, and flicked his horses into a brisk run. in a moment or two he drew them down to an easy trot, and turned to may with a matter-of-fact air. "of course now we have been engaged a week," he said, "i am at liberty to read that letter you wrote to christopher calumus?" "read it!" she cried. "oh, i had forgotten that you kept it! oh, you mustn't read it! i wouldn't have you read it for the world." "would you have me read it for a pair of gloves?" inquired jack wickedly. "you've lost your bet." "i don't care anything about my bet," she retorted, with an earnestness so great as to suggest that tears were not so far behind. "i want that letter." "i'm sorry you can't have it," was his reply; "but the truth is, i haven't got it." "haven't got it? what have you done with it?" "delivered it to the one it was addressed to,--christopher calumus." "delivered it? do you mean you gave it to mr. fairfield?" "just that. you wrote it to him, didn't you?" poor may was now so pale and miserable that a woman would have taken her in her arms to be kissed and comforted, but jack, the unfeeling wretch, continued his teasing. "i didn't want you to think i was a tyrant," he went on. "of course i'm willing you should write to anybody that you think best." "but--but i wrote that letter to mr. fairfield before i knew who he was!" gasped may. "well, what of it? anything that you could say to a stranger, of course you could say to a man you knew." for reply may put up one hand to her eyes, and with the other began a distressing and complicated search for a handkerchief. jack bent forward to peer into her face and instantly assumed a look of deep contrition. "oh, i say," he remonstrated, "it's no fair to cry. besides, you'll spoil your gloves, and now you've got to pay me a pair you can't afford to be so extravagant." the effect of this appeal was to draw from may a sort of hysterical gurgle, a sound indescribably funny, and which might pass for either a cry of joy or of woe. "i think you are too bad," she protested chokingly. "you know i didn't want mr. fairfield to have that letter when i was engaged to you!" "oh, is that all?" he returned lightly. "then that's easily fixed. let's not be engaged any more, and then there'll be no harm in his having it." apparently astonishment dried her tears. she looked at him in a sort of petrified wonder. "i really mean it, my dear," he went on with a paternal air which was exceedingly droll in jack neligage. "i'll say more. i never meant for a minute to marry you. i knew you didn't want to have me, and i'd no notion of being tied to a dragooned wife." "a dragooned wife?" may repeated. she was evidently so stupefied by the turn things had taken that she could not follow him. "a woman dragooned into marrying me," jack explained, with a jovial grin; "one that was thinking all the time how much happier she would be with somebody else." "and you never meant to marry me? then what did you get engaged to me for?" "i didn't. you wrote me that you were engaged to me, and of course as a gentleman i couldn't contradict a lady, especially on a point so delicate as that." may flushed as red as the fingers of dawn. "your mother--" she began; but he interrupted her. "isn't it best that we don't go into that?" he said in a graver voice. "i confess that i amused myself a little, and i thought that you needed a lesson. there were other things, but no matter. i never was the whelp you and alice thought me." "oh, alice!" cried may, with an air of sudden enlightenment. "well, what about her?" jack demanded. "nothing," replied may, smiling demurely to herself, "only she will be glad that the engagement is broken. she said awfully hard things about you." "i am obliged to her," he answered grimly. "oh, not really awful," may corrected herself quickly, "and anyway it was only because she was so fond of you." to this he made no reply, and for some time they drove on in silence. then jack shook off his brief depression, and apparently set himself to be as amusing as he could. he aroused may to a condition of mirth almost wildly joyous. they laughed and jested, told each other stories, and the girl's eyes shone, her dimples danced in and out like sun-flecks flashing on the water, the color in her cheeks was warm and delightful. not a word more was said on personal matters until jack deposited her at her own door once more. "i never had such a perfectly lovely ride in my life!" she exclaimed, looking at him with eyes full of animation and gratitude. "then you see what you are losing in throwing me over," he returned. "oh, you've had your chance and lost it!" she laughed brightly, and held out her hand. "but you see," she said mischievously, "the trouble is that the best thing about the ride was just that loss!" "i like your impudence!" he chuckled. "well, you're welcome. good-by. i'll send fairfield round to talk with you about the letter." and before she could reply he was away. xxii the cooing of turtle-doves there is nothing like the possibility of loss to bring a man to his bearings in regard to a woman. dick fairfield had told jack that of course he was not a marrying man, that he could not afford to marry a poor woman, and that nothing would induce him to marry a rich one; he had even set down in his diary on the announcement of jack's engagement that he could never have offered his hand to a girl with so much money; what his secret thought may have been no sage may say, but he had all the outward signs of a man who has convinced himself that he has no idea of trying to secure the girl he loves. now that the affair had shaped itself so that may was again free, he hurried to her with a precipitation which had in it a choice flavor of comedy. may always told him afterward that he did not even do her the honor to ask her for her hand, but that he coolly walked in and took up the engagement of jack neligage where it had been dropped. it was at least true that by nine o'clock that very evening they were sitting side by side as cosy and as idiotically blissful as a young couple newly betrothed should be. however informally the preliminaries had been conducted, the conclusion seemed to be eminently satisfactory. "to think that this is the result of that little letter that i found on my table one rainy night last february," dick observed rapturously. "i remember just how it looked." "it was horrid of me to write it," may returned, with a demure look which almost as plainly as words added: "contradict me!" "it was heavenly of you," dick declared, rising to the occasion most nobly. "it was the nicest valentine that ever was." some moments of endearments interesting to the participants but not edifying in narration followed upon this assertion, and then the little stream of lover-talk purled on again. "oh, mr. fairfield," may began with utter irrelevancy, "i--" "you promised not to call me that," he interrupted. "but it's so strange to say dick. well, dick, then--" the slight interruption of a caress having been got over, she went on with her shattered observation. "what was i going to say? you put me all out, with your 'dick'--i do think it's the dearest name!--stop! i know what i was going to say. i was frightened almost to death when mrs. neligage said the count wrote 'love in a cloud.' oh, i wanted to get under the tea-table!" "but you didn't really think he wrote my letters?" "i couldn't believe it; but i didn't know what to think. then when he wore a red carnation the next day, i thought i should die. i thought anyway he'd read the letter; and that's what made me so meek when mrs. neligage took hold of me." "but you never suspected that i wrote the book?" fairfield asked. "oh, i don't know. sometimes it seems to me as if i really did know all the time. don't you remember how we talked about the book at mrs. harbinger's tea?" "that's just your intuition," dick returned. "i know i didn't suspect you, for it troubled me tremendously that i cared so much for you when i thought i was in love with my unknown correspondent. it didn't seem loyal." "but of course it was, you know, because there was only one of us." dick laughed, and bestowed upon her an ecstatic little hug. "you dear little paddy! that's a perfect bull!" she drew herself away, and pretended to frown with great dignity. "i don't care if it is a bull!" protested she. "i won't be called a paddy!" dick's face expressed a consternation and a penitence so marked that she burst into a trill of laughter and flung herself back into his arms. "i was just teasing," she said. "the truth is that jack neligage has teased me so awfully that i've caught it like the measles." the tender follies which make up the talk of lovers are not very edifying reading when set down in the unsympathetic blackness of print. they are to be interpreted, moreover, with the help of many signs, trifling in themselves but essential to a correct understanding. looks, caresses, sighs, chuckles, giggles, pressures and claspings, intonations which alter or deny the word spoken, a thousand silly becks, and nods, and wreathèd smiles, all go to make up the conversation between the pair, so that what may be put into print is but a small portion of the ecstatic whole. may calthorpe and dick fairfield were not behind in all the enchanting idiocy which belongs to a wooing, where each lover, secure in being regarded as perfection, ventures for once in a lifetime to be frankly childish, to show self without any mask of convention. "oh, i knew you were a man of genius the very first time i saw you," may cried, in an entirely honest defiance of all facts and all evidence. "i wish i were for your sake," dick replied, with an adoring glance, and a kiss on the hand which he held. "and to think that this absurdly small hand wrote those beautiful letters." "you didn't suppose i had an amanuensis, did you?" laughed may. then dick laughed, and together they both laughed, overpowered by the exquisite wit of this fine jest. "really, though," dick said, "they came to me like a revelation. i never had such letters before!" may drew away her hand, and sat upright with an air of offended surprise. "well, i should hope you never did!" she cried. "the idea of any other woman's daring to write to you!" "but you were writing to a stranger; some other woman--" "now, richard," declared may resolutely, "this has got to be settled right here. if you are going to twit me all my life with having written to you--" he effectually stopped her speech. "i'll never speak of it again," he said; "or at least only just often enough so that it shan't be entirely forgotten." "you are horrid!" declared she with a pout. "you mean to tease me with--" "tease you, may? heavens, how you mistake! i only want all my life to be kept your slave by remembering--" the reader is at liberty from experience to supply as many hours of this sort of talk as his taste calls for. there were, however, some points of real interest touched upon in the course of the evening. dick confided to may the fact that jack neligage had sold his ponies, was paying his debts, and had accepted a place in a bank. mr. frostwinch, a college friend of jack's father, had offered the situation, and although the salary was of course not large it gave neligage something to live on. "oh, i'll tell that to alice to-morrow," may said. "she will be delighted to know that jack is going to do something. alice is awfully fond of him." the conversation had to be interrupted by speculations upon the relative force of the attachment between alice and jack and the love which may and dick were at that moment confirming; and from this the talk drifted away to considerations of the proper manner of disclosing the engagement. may's guardian, mr. frostwinch, dick knew well, and there was no reason to expect opposition from him unless on the possible ground of a difference of fortune. it was decided that dick should see him on the morrow, and that there should be no delay in announcing the important news. "it will take us two or three days to write our notes, of course," may said, with a pretty air of being very practical in the midst of her sentiment. "we'll say next wednesday." dick professed great ignorance of the social demands of the situation, and of course the explanation had to be given with many ornamental flourishes in the way of oscular demonstrations. may insisted that everything should be done duly and in order; told him upon whom of her relatives he would have to call, to whom write, and so many other details that dick accused her of having been engaged before. "you horrid thing!" she pouted. "i've a great mind to break the engagement now. i have been engaged, though," she added, bursting into a laugh of pure glee. "you forget that i woke up this morning engaged to one man and shall go to sleep engaged to another." "dear old jack!" fairfield said fervently. "well, i must go home and find him. i want to tell him the news. heavens! i had no idea it was so late!" "it isn't late," may protested, after the fashion of all girls in her situation, both before and since; but when dick would go, she laughingly said: "you tell jack if he were here i'd kiss him. he said i'd want to some time." and after half an hour of adieus and a brisk walk home, dick delivered the message. xxiii the business of a muse the decadence of literature began insensibly with the invention of printing, and has been proceeding ever since. how far it has proceeded and whether literature yet exists at all are questions difficult if not impossible to answer at the present time, because of the multitude of books. no living man can have more than a most superficial knowledge of what is being done in what was formerly the royalty and is now the communism of letters. a symphony played in the midst of a battle would stand much the same chance of being properly appreciated as would to-day a work of fine literary worth sent forth in the midst of the innumerous publications of the age. men write, however, more than ever. there is perhaps a difference, in that where men of the elder day deluded themselves or hoped to delude others with impressive talk about art and fame and other now obsolete antiquities, the modern author sets before him definite and desirable prizes in the shape of money and of notoriety which has money's worth. the muse of these days is confronted on the door of the author with a stern "no admittance except on business," and she is not allowed to enter unless she bring her check-book with her. the ideal of art is to-day set down in figures and posted by bankers' clerks. men once foolishly tried to live to write; now they write to live. if men seek for pegasus it is with a view to getting a patent on him as a flying-machine; and the really progressive modern author has much the same view of life as the rag-picker, that of collecting any sort of scraps that may be sold in the market. dick fairfield had much the attitude of other writers of his day and generation. he had set out to make a living by writing, because he liked it, and because, in provincial boston at least, there is still a certain sense of distinction attached to the profession of letters, a legacy from the time when the public still respected art. fairfield had been for years struggling to get a foothold of reputation sufficiently secure to enable him to stretch more vigorously after the prizes of modern literary life, where notoriety commands a price higher than genius could hope for. he had done a good deal of hack work, of which that which he liked least, yet which had perhaps as a matter of training been best for him, had been the rewriting of manuscripts for ambitious authors. a bureau which undertakes for a compensation to mend crude work, to infuse into the products of undisciplined imagination or incompetency that popular element which shall make a work sell, had employed fairfield to reconstruct novels which dealt with society. in this capacity he had made over a couple of flimsy stories of which mrs. croydon claimed the credit, on the strength of having set down the first draught from events which had happened within her own knowledge. so little of the original remained in the published version, it may be noted in passing, that she might have been puzzled to recognize her own bantlings. the success of these books had given dick courage to attempt a society novel for himself; and by one of those lucky and inexplicable flukes of fortune, "love in a cloud" had gained at least the success of immediate popularity. fairfield had published the novel anonymously partly from modesty, partly from a business sense that it was better to have his name clear than associated with a failure. he had been deterred from acknowledging the book after its success by the eagerness with which the public had set upon his characters and identified each with some well known person. if the scene of a novel be laid in a provincial city its characters must all be identified. that is the first intellectual duty of the readers of fiction. to look at a novel from a critical point of view is no longer in the least a thing about which any reader need concern himself; but it would be an omission unpardonably stupid were he to remain unacquainted with some original under the disguise of every character. a single detail is sufficient for identification. if a man in a tale have a wart on his nose, the intelligent reader should not rest until he think of a dweller in the town whose countenance is thus adorned. that single particular must thenceforth be held to decide the matter. if the man in the novel and the man in the flesh differ in every other particular, physical and mental, that is to be held as the cunning effort of the writer to disguise his real model. the wart decides it, and the more widely the copy departs in other characteristics from the chosen person the more evident is it that the novelist did not wish his original to be known. the more striking therefore is the shrewdness which has penetrated the mystery. the reader soddens in the consciousness of his own penetration as the sardine, equally headless, soaks in oil. fairfield was now waiting for this folly of identification to pass before he gave his name to the novel, and in the mean time he was tasting the delight of a first literary success where the pecuniary returns allowed his vanity to glow without rebuke from his conscience. fairfield was surprised, one morning not long after the polo game, by receiving a call from mrs. croydon. he knew her slightly, having met her now and then in society, and his belief that she was entirely ignorant of his share in her books might naturally invest her with a peculiar interest. she was a western woman who had lived in the east but a few years, and her blunders in regard to eastern society as they appeared in her original manuscripts had given him a good deal of quiet amusement. why she should now have taken it upon herself to come to his chambers could only become evident by her own explanation. "you are probably surprised to see me here, mr. fairfield," she began, settling herself in a chair with the usual ruffling of rag-tag-and-bobbery without which she never seemed able to move. "i naturally should not have been vain enough to foresee that i should have such an honor," he responded, with his most elaborate society manner. she smirked, and nodded. "that is very pretty," she said. "well, i'll tell you at once, not to keep you in suspense. i came on business." "business?" repeated he. "yes, business. you see, i have just come from the cosmopolitan literary bureau." fairfield did not look pleased. he had kept his connection with that factory of hack-work a secret, and no man likes to be reminded of unpleasant necessities. "they have told me," she went on, "that you revised the manuscript of my novels. i must say that you have done it very satisfactorily. we women of society are so occupied that it is impossible for us to attend to all that mere detail work, and it is a great relief to have it so well done." fairfield bowed stiffly. "i am glad that you were satisfied," he replied; "but it is a violation of confidence on the part of the bureau." "oh, you are one of us now," mrs. croydon observed with gracious condescension. "it isn't as if they had told anybody else. they told me, you see, that you wrote 'love in a cloud.'" "that is a greater violation of confidence still," fairfield responded. "indeed, it was a most un-gentlemanly thing of mr. cutliff. he only knew it because a stupid errand boy carried him the manuscript by mistake. he had no right to tell that. i shall give him my opinion of his conduct." mrs. croydon accomplished a small whirlwind of ribbon ends, and waved her plump hand in remonstrance. "oh, i beg you won't," she protested. "it will get me into trouble if you do. he especially told me not to let you know." fairfield smiled rather sardonically. "the man who betrays a confidence is always foolish enough to suppose his confidence will be sacred. i think this is an outrageous breach of good faith on mr. cutliff's part." mrs. croydon gave a hitch forward as if she were trying to bring her chair closer to that of fairfield. "as i was saying," she remarked, "we society women have really so little time to give to literature, and literature needs just our touch so much, that it has been especially gratifying to find one that could carry out my ideas so well." the young man began to regard her with a new expression in his face. as a literary woman she should have recognized the look, the expression which tells of the author on the scent of material. whether fairfield ever tried his hand at painting mrs. croydon or not, that look would have made it plain to any well-trained fellow worker that her peculiarities tempted his literary sense. any professional writer who listens with that gleam in his eyes is inevitably examining what is said, the manner of its saying, the person who is speaking, in the hope that here he has a subject for his pen; he is asking himself if the reality is too absurd to be credible; how much short of the extravagance of the original he must come to keep within the bounds of seeming probability. fairfield was confronted with a subject which could not be handled frankly and truthfully. nobody would believe the tone of the woman or her remarks to be anything but a foolish exaggeration; if she had had the genuine creative instinct, the power of analysis, the recognition of human peculiarities, mrs. croydon must have seen in his evident preoccupation the indication that he was deliberating how far toward the truth it would in fiction be possible to go. "it is very kind of you," he murmured vaguely. "oh, don't mention it," responded she, more graciously than ever. "you are really one of us now, as i said; and i always feel strongly the ties of the literary guild." "the guild owes you a great deal," fairfield observed blandly. mrs. croydon waved her hand engagingly in return for this compliment, incidentally with a waving of various adornments of her raiment which gave her the appearance in little of an army with banners. "i didn't come just for compliments," she observed with much sweetness. "i am a business woman, and i know how to come to the point. my father left me to manage my own property, and so i've had a good deal of experience. when i see how women wander round a thing without being able to get at it, it makes me ashamed of them all. i don't wonder that men make fun of them." "you are hard on your sex." "oh, no harder than they deserve. why, in chicago there are a lot of women that do business in one way or another, and i never could abide 'em. i never could get on with them, it was so hard to pin them down." "i readily understand how annoying it must have been," fairfield observed with entire gravity. "did you say that you had business with me?" "yes," she answered. "i suppose that i might have written, but there are some things that are so much better arranged by word of mouth. don't you think so?" "oh, there's no doubt of it." "besides," she went on, "i wanted to tell you how much i like your work, and it isn't easy to express those things on paper." it would be interesting to know whether to fairfield at that moment occurred the almost inevitable reflection that for mrs. croydon it was hard, if her manuscripts were the test, to express anything on paper. "you are entirely right," he said politely. "it is easy enough to put facts into words, but when it comes to feelings such as you express, it is different, of course." he confided to jack neligage later that he wondered if this were not too bold a flout, but mrs. croydon received it as graciously as possible. "there is so complete a difference," she observed with an irrelevance rather startling, "between the mental atmosphere in boston and that i was accustomed to in chicago. here there is a sort of--i don't know that i can express it exactly; it's part of an older civilization, i suppose; but i don't think it pays so well as what we have in chicago." "pays so well?" he repeated. "i don't think i understand." "it doesn't sell so well in a book," she explained. "i thought that it would be better business to write stories of the east for the west to buy; but i've about made up my mind that it'll be money in my pocket to write of the west for the eastern market." fairfield smiled under his big mustache, playing with a paper-knife. "pardon my mentioning it," he said, "but i thought you wrote for fame, and not for money." "oh, i don't write for money, i assure you; but i was brought up to be a business woman, and if i'm going to write books somebody ought to pay for them. now i wanted to ask you what you will sell me your part in 'love in a cloud' for." whether this sudden introduction of her business or the nature of it when introduced were the more startling it might have been hard to determine. certain it is that fairfield started, and stared at his visitor as if he doubted his ears. "my part of it?" he exclaimed. "why, i wrote it." "yes," she returned easily, "but so many persons have supposed it to be mine, that it is extremely awkward to deny it; and you have become my collaborateur, of course, by writing on the other novels." "i hadn't realized that," dick returned with a smile. "you've put so much of your style into my other books," she pursued, "that it's made people attribute 'love in a cloud' to me, and i think you are bound now not to go back on me. i don't know as you see it as i do, but it seems to me that since you took the liberty of changing so much in my other stories you ought to be willing to bear the consequences of it, especially as i'm willing to pay you well." "but as long as you didn't write the book," dick observed, "i should think you'd feel rather queer to have it said you did." "i've thought of that," mrs. croydon said, nodding, with a flutter of silken tags, "but i reason that the ideas are so much my own, and the book is so exactly what i would have written if social duties hadn't prevented, that that ought not to count. the fact that so many folks think i wrote it shows that i might have written it." "but after all you didn't write it," fairfield objected. "that seems to make it awkward." "why, of course it would have been better if i had given you a sketch of it," mrs. croydon returned, apparently entirely unmoved; "but then of course you got so much of the spirit of 'love in a cloud' out of my other books--" this was perhaps more than any author could be expected to endure, and least of all a young author in the discussion of his first novel. "why, how can you say that?" he demanded indignantly. "do you suppose," she questioned with a benign and patronizing smile, "that so many persons would have taken your book for mine in the first place if you hadn't imitated me or taken ideas from my other books?" dick sprang to his feet, and then sat down, controlling himself. "well," he said coldly, "it makes no difference. it is too late to do anything about it now. an edition of 'love in a cloud' with my name on the title-page comes out next wednesday. if folks say too much about the resemblance to your books, i can confess, i suppose, my part in the others." she turned upon him with a burst of surprise and indignation which set all her ribbon-ends waving in protest. "that," she said, "is a professional secret. no man of honor would tell it." she rose as she spoke, her face full of indignation. "you have not treated me fairly," she said bitterly. "you must have seen that the book was attributed to me, and you knew the connection between 'love in a cloud' and my other books--" "other books!" exclaimed dick. mrs. croydon waved him into silence with a magnificent gesture, but beyond that took no notice of his words. "you saw how everybody looked at me that day at mrs. harbinger's," she went on. "if you were going to give your name to the book why didn't you do it then?" "i didn't think of you at all," was his answer. "i was too much amused in seeing that absurd barnstable make a fool of himself with count shimbowski. did you know that the count actually challenged him?" wrath of celestial goddesses darkened the face of mrs. croydon as a white squall blackens the face of the sky. her eyes glared with an expression as fierce if not as bright as the lightning. "what do you say?" she screamed. "challenge my husband?" "your husband!" ejaculated dick, a staring statue of surprise. "yes, my husband," she repeated vehemently. "he didn't make a fool of himself that day! a man can't come to the defense of a woman but you men sneer at him. do you mean that that beastly foreign ape dared to challenge him for that? i'd like to give him my opinion of him!" when a man finds himself entertaining a wildcat unawares he should either expel the beast or himself take safety in flight. dick could apparently do neither. he stood speechless, gazing at the woman before him, who seemed to be waxing in fury with every moment and every word. she swept across the short space between them in a perfect hurricane of streamers, and almost shook her fists in his face. "i understand it all now," she said. "you were in it from the beginning! i suppose that when you worked on my books you took the trouble to find out about me, and that's where your material came from for your precious 'love in a cloud.' oh, my husband will deal with you!" fairfield looked disconcerted enough, as well he might, confronted with a woman who was apparently so carried away by anger as to have lost all control of herself. "mrs. croydon," he said, with a coldness and a dignity which could not but impress her, "i give you my word that i never knew anything about your history. that was none of my business." "of course it was none of your business!" she cried. "that's just what makes it so impertinent of you to be meddling with my affairs!" fairfield regarded her rather wildly. "sit down, please," he said beseechingly. "you mustn't talk so, mrs. croydon. of course i haven't been meddling with your affairs, and--" "and not to have the courage to say a word to prevent my husband's being dragged into a duel with that foreigner! oh, it does seem as if i couldn't express my opinion of you, mr. fairfield!" "my dear mrs. croydon--" "and as for erastus barnstable," she rushed on to say, "he's quick-tempered, and eccentric, and obstinate, and as dull as a post; he never understood me, but he always meant well; and i won't have him abused." "i hadn't any idea of abusing him," dick pleaded humbly. "really, you are talking in an extraordinary fashion." she stopped and glared at him as if with some gleam of returning reason. her face was crimson, and her breath came quickly. women of society outside of their own homes so seldom indulge in the luxury of an unbecoming rage that dick had perhaps never before seen such a display. any well-bred lady knows how to restrain herself within the bounds of personal decorum, and to be the more effective by preserving some appearance of calmness. mrs. croydon had evidently lacked in her youth the elevating influence of society where good manners are morals. it was interesting for dick, but too extravagantly out of the common to be of use to him professionally. "i hope you are proud of your politeness this morning," mrs. croydon ended by saying; and without more adieu she fluttered tumultuously to the door. xxiv the mischief of a cad the fierce light of publicity which nowadays beats upon society has greatly lessened the picturesqueness of life. there is no longer the dusk favorable to crime, and the man who wishes to be wicked, if careful of his social standing, is constantly obliged to be content with mere folly, or, if desperate, with meanness. it is true that from time to time there are still those, even in the most exclusive circles, who are guilty of acts genuinely criminal, but these are not, as a rule, regarded as being in good form. the days when the borgias invited their enemies to dinner for the express purpose of poisoning them, or visited nobles rich in money or in beautiful wives and daughters with the amiable intent to rob them of these treasures, are over, apparently forever. in the sixteenth century--to name a time typical--success made an excuse more than adequate for any moral obliquity; and the result is that the age still serves thrillingly the romantic dramatist or novel-writer. to-day success is held more than to justify iniquity in politics or commerce, but the social world still keeps up some pretext of not approving. there is in the best society really a good deal of hesitation about inviting to dinner a man who has murdered his grandmother or run away with the wife of his friend. society is of course not too austere in this respect; it strives to be reasonable, and it recognizes the principle that every transaction is to be judged by the laws of its own class. in the financial world, for instance, conscience is regulated by the stock market, and society assumes that if a crime has been committed for the sake of money its culpability depends chiefly upon the smallness of the amount actually secured. conservative minds, however, still object to the social recognition of a man who has notoriously and scandalously broken the commandments. he who has not the skill or the good taste to display the fruits of his wickedness without allowing the process by which they were obtained to be known, is looked at askance by these prudish souls. in all this state of things is great loss to the romancer, and not a little disadvantage to bold and adventurous spirits. were the latter but allowed the freedom which was enjoyed by their forerunners of the sixteenth century, they would do much to relieve the tedium under which to-day the best society languishes. this tendency of the age toward the suppression of violent and romantic transgressions in good society was undoubtedly largely responsible for the course taken by sibley langdon. foiled in his plan of blackmailing mrs. neligage into being his companion on a european tour, he attempted revenge in a way so petty that even the modern novelist, who stops at nothing, would have regarded the thing as beneath invention. mr. langdon had sent mrs. neligage her canceled note, with a floridly worded epistle declaring that its real value, though paid, was lost to him, since it lay in her signature and not in the money which the document represented. this being done, he had called once or twice, but the ignominy of living at the top of a speaking-tube carries with it the advantage of power to escape unwelcome callers, and he never found mrs. neligage at home. when they met in society mrs. neligage treated him with exactly the right shade of coolness. she did not give rise to any gossip. the infallible intuition of her fellow women easily discovered, of course, that there was an end of the old intimacy between the widow and mr. langdon, but nobody had the satisfaction of being able to perceive anything of the nature of a quarrel. they met one evening at a dinner given by mrs. chauncy wilson. the dinner was not large. there were mr. and mrs. frostwinch, mrs. neligage, alice endicott, count shimbowski, and mr. langdon. the company was somewhat oddly assorted, but everybody understood that mrs. wilson did as she pleased, leaving social considerations to take care of themselves. she had promised miss wentstile, who still clung to the idea of marrying alice to the count, that she would ask the pair to dinner; and having done so, she selected her other guests by some principle of choice known only to herself. the dinner passed off without especial incident. the count took in alice, and was by her treated with a cool ease which showed that she had come to regard him as of no consequence whatever. she chatted with him pleasantly enough at the proper intervals, but more of her attention was given to mr. frostwinch, her neighbor on the other side. she would never talk with the count in french, although she spoke that tongue with ease, and his wooing, such as it was, had to be carried on in his joint-broken english. the engagement of may calthorpe and dick fairfield, just announced, and the appearance of "love in a cloud" with the author's name on the title-page, were the chief subjects of conversation. the company were seated at a round table, so that the talk was for the most part general, and each person had something to add to the little ball of silken-fibred gossip as it rolled about. mr. frostwinch was may's guardian, and a man of ideas too old-fashioned to discuss his ward or her affairs in any but the most general way; yet even he did now and then add a word or a hint. "they say," mrs. wilson observed, "that there's some kind of a romantic story behind the engagement. mrs. neligage, you ought to know--is it true that richard fairfield got jack to go and propose for him?" "if he did," was the answer, "neither you nor i will ever know it from jack. he's the worst to get anything out of that i ever knew. i think he has some sort of a trap-door in his memory to drop things through when he doesn't want to tell them. i believe he contrives to forget them himself." "you can't conceive of his holding them if he did remember them, i suppose," chuckled dr. wilson. "of course he couldn't. no mortal could." "that's as bad as my husband," observed mrs. frostwinch, with a billowy motion of her neck, a movement characteristic and perhaps the result of unconscious cerebration induced by a secret knowledge that her neck was too long. "i tried to get out of him what mr. fairfield said when he came to see him about may; and i give you my word that after i'd worn myself to shreds trying to beguile him, i was no wiser than before." "i tell you so entirely all my own secrets, anna," her husband answered, "that you might let me keep those of other people." "indeed, i can't help your keeping them," was her reply. "that's what i complain of. if i only had a choice in the matter, i shouldn't mind." "if jack neligage is in the way of proposing," langdon observed in his deliberate manner, "i should think he'd do it for himself." "oh, bless you," mrs. neligage responded quickly, "jack can't afford to marry. i've brought him up better than to suppose he could." "happy the man that has so wise a mother," was langdon's comment. "if you don't believe in marriages without money, mrs. neligage," asked mrs. wilson, "what do you think of ethel mott and thayer kent?" "just think of their marrying on nothing, and going out to live on a cattle ranch," put in mrs. frostwinch. "i wonder if ethel will have to milk?" dr. wilson gave a laugh full of amusement. "they don't milk on cattle ranches," he corrected. "she may have to mount a horse and help at a round-up, though." "well, if she likes that kind of a burial," mrs. neligage said, "it's her own affair, i suppose. i'd rather be cremated." "oh, it isn't as bad as that," mr. frostwinch observed genially. "they'll have a piano, and that means some sort of civilization." "i suppose she'll play the _ranz des vaches_ on the piano," mrs. wilson laughed. "of course it's madness," langdon observed, "but they'll like it for a while. i can't understand, though, how miss mott can be so foolish. i always supposed she was rather a sensible girl." "does this prove that she isn't?" asked alice. "don't you think a girl that leaves civilization, and goes to live in the wilderness just to follow a man, shows a lack of cleverness?" the seriousness of the tone in which alice had asked her question had drawn all eyes in her direction, and it might easily be that the knowledge of the interest which she was supposed to have in penniless jack neligage would in any case have given to her words especial mark. "that depends on what life is for," alice answered now, in her low, even voice. "if she is happier with thayer kent on a cattle ranch than she would be anywhere else without him, i think she shows the best kind of sense." "but think what a stupid life she'll lead," langdon persisted. "she doesn't know what she's giving up." "eet ees _très romanesque_," declared the count, "but eet weel to be _triste_. weell she truthfully ride de cow?" politely veiled laughter greeted this sally, except from dr. wilson, who burst into an open guffaw. "she'll be worth seeing if she does!" he ejaculated. mrs. frostwinch bent toward alice with undulating neck. "you are romantic, of course, alice," she remarked, "and you look at it like a girl. it's very charming to be above matter-of-fact considerations; but when the edge is worn off--" she sighed, and shook her head as if she were deeply versed in all the misfortunes resulting from an impecunious match; her manner being, of course, the more effective from the fact that everybody knew that she had never been able to spend her income. "but what is life for?" alice said with heightened color. "if people are happy together, i don't believe that other things matter so much." "for my part," mrs. wilson declared, "i think it will be stunning! i wish i were going out to live on a ranch myself, and ride a cow, as the count says. chauncy, why don't we buy a ranch? think how i'd look on cow-back!" she gave the signal to rise, and the ladies departed to the drawing-room, where they talked of many things and of nothing until the gentlemen appeared. mr. langdon placed himself so that he faced mrs. neligage across the little circle in which the company chanced to arrange itself. "we've been talking of adventures," he said, "and mr. frostwinch says that nobody has any nowadays." "i only said that they were uncommon," corrected mr. frostwinch. "of course men do have them now and then, but not very often." "men! yes, they have them," mrs. wilson declared; "but there's no chance nowadays for us poor women. we never get within sight of anything out of the common." "you're enough out of the common to do without it, elsie," laughed her husband. "madame weelson ees an adventure eetself," the count put in gallantly. mr. langdon raised his head deliberately, and looked over to mrs. neligage. "you could tell them differently, mrs. neligage," he said. "your experience at monte carlo, now; that was far enough out of the common." her color went suddenly, but she met his eyes firmly enough. "my adventures?" she returned. "i never had an adventure. i'm too commonplace a person for that." "you don't do yourself justice," langdon rejoined. "you haven't any idea how picturesque you were that night." telepathy may or may not be established on a scientific basis, but it is certain that there exists some occult power in virtue of which intelligence spreads without tangible means of communication. there was nothing in the light, even tones of langdon to convey more intimation than did his words that mischief was afoot, yet over the group in mrs. wilson's drawing-room came an air of intentness, of alert suspense. no observer could have failed to perceive the general feeling, the perception that langdon was preparing for some unusual stroke. the atmosphere grew electric. mr. frostwinch and his wife became a shade more grave than was their wont. they were both rather proper folk, and proper people are obliged to be continually watching for indecorums, lest before they are aware their propriety have its fine bloom brushed away. the count moved uneasily in his chair. the unpleasant doubts to which he had been exposed as to how his own past would affect a boston public might have made him the more sympathetic with mrs. neligage, and the fact that he had seen her at the tables at monte carlo could hardly fail to add for him a peculiar vividness to langdon's words. doctor and mrs. wilson were both openly eager. alice watched mrs. neligage intently, while the widow faced langdon with growing pallor. "madame neleegaze ees all teemes de peecture," declared count shimbowski gallantly. "when more one teeme eet ees de oder?" "she was more picturesque that time than another," laughed langdon, by some amazing perception getting at the count's meaning. "i'm going to tell it, mrs. neligage, just to show what you are capable of. i never admired anything more than i did your pluck that night. it's nonsense to say that women have less grit than men." "less grit!" cried mrs. wilson. "they have a hundred times more. if men had the spunk of women or women had the strength of men--" "then amen to the world!" broke in her husband. "don't interrupt. i want to hear langdon's story." alice endicott had thus far said nothing, but as langdon smiled as if to himself, and parted his lips to begin, she stopped him. "no," she said, "he shan't tell it. if it is mrs. neligage's adventure, she shall tell it herself." mrs. neligage flashed a look of instant comprehension, of gratitude, to alice, and the color came back into her cheeks. she had been half cowering before the possibility of what langdon might be intending to say, but this chance of taking matters into her own hands recalled all her self-command. her eyes brightened, and she lifted her head. "it isn't much to tell," she began, "and it isn't at all to my credit." "i protest," interpolated langdon. "of course she won't tell a story about herself for half its worth." "be quiet," alice commanded. the eyes of all had been turned toward mrs. neligage at her last words, but now everybody looked at alice. it was not common to see her take this air of really meaning to dominate. in her manner was a faint hint of the commanding manner of her aunt, although without any trace of miss wentstile's arrogance. she was entirely cool and self-possessed, although her color was somewhat brighter than usual. the words that had been spoken were little, yet the hearer heard behind them the conflict between herself and langdon. "i am not to be put down so," he persisted. "i don't care much about telling that particular story, but i can't allow you to bully me so, miss endicott." "go on, mrs. neligage, please," alice said, quite as if she were mistress of ceremonies, and entirely ignoring langdon's words except for a faint smile toward him. "my adventure, as mr. langdon is pleased to call it," mrs. neligage said, "is only a thing i'm ashamed of. he is trying to make me confess my sins in public, apparently. he came on me one night playing at monte carlo when i lost a lot of money. he declares he watched me an hour before i saw him, but as i didn't play more than half that time--" "i told you she would spoil the story," interrupted langdon, "i--" "you shall not interrupt, mr. langdon," alice said, as evenly and as commandingly as before. "oh, everybody he play at monte carlo," put in the count. "not to play, one have not been dere." "i've played," mrs. wilson responded. "i think it's the greatest fun in the world. did you win, mrs. neligage?" "win, my dear," returned the widow, who had recovered perfectly her self-command; "i lost all that i possessed and most that i didn't. i wonder i ever got out of the place. the truth is that i had to borrow from mr. langdon to tide me over till i could raise funds. was that what you wanted to tell, mr. langdon? you were the real hero to lend it to me, for i might have gone to playing again, and lost that too." langdon was visibly disconcerted. to have the tables so turned that it seemed as if he were seeking a chance to exploit his own good deeds left him at the mercy of the widow. mrs. neligage had told in a way everything except the matter of the necklace, and no man with any pretense of being a gentleman could drag that in now. it might have been slid picturesquely into the original story, whether that were or were not mr. langdon's intention; but now it was too late. "i don't see where the pluck came in," pronounced dr. wilson. "oh, i suppose that was the stupid way in which i kept on losing," mrs. neligage explained. "i call it perfect folly." "again i say that i knew she'd spoil the story," langdon said with a smile. the announcement of carriages, and the departure of the frostwinches brought the talk to an end. when mrs. neligage had said good-night and was leaving the drawing-room, langdon stood at the door. "you got out of that well," he said. she gave him a look which should have withered him. "it is a brave man that tries to blacken a woman's name," she answered; and went on her way. in the dressing-room was alice, who had gone a moment before. mrs. neligage went up to her and took her by the arms. "how did you know that i needed to have a plank thrown to me?" she demanded. "did i show it so much?" alice flushed and smiled. "if i must tell the truth," she answered, "you looked just as i saw jack look once in a hard place." mrs. neligage laughed, and kissed her. "then it was jack's mother you wanted to help. you are an angel anyhow. i had really lost my head. the story was horrid, and i knew he'd tell it or hint it. it wasn't so bad," she added, as alice half shrank back, "but that i'll tell it to you some time. jack knows it." xxv the waking of a spinster miss wentstile was as accustomed to having her way as the sun is to rising. she had made up her mind that alice was to marry count shimbowski, and what was more, she had made her intention perfectly plain to her friends. it is easily to be understood that her temper was a good deal tried when it became evident that she could not force her niece to yield. miss wentstile commanded, she remonstrated, she tried to carry her will with a high hand by assuming that alice was betrothed, and she found herself in the end utterly foiled. "then you mean to disobey me entirely," she said to alice one day. "i have tried all my life to do what you wanted, aunt sarah," was the answer, "but this i can't do." "you could do it if you chose." alice was silent; and to remain silent when one should offer some sort of a remark that may be disputed or found fault with or turned into ridicule is one of the most odious forms of insubordination. "why don't you speak?" demanded miss wentstile sharply. "haven't i done enough for you to be able to get a civil answer out of you?" "what is there for me to say more, aunt sarah?" "you ought to say that you would not vex and disobey me any more," declared her aunt. "here i have told everybody that i should pass next summer at the count's ancestral castle in hungary, and how can i if you won't marry him?" "you might marry him yourself." her aunt glared at her angrily, and emitted a most unladylike snort of contempt. "you say that to be nasty," she retorted; "but i tell you, miss, that i've thought of that myself. i'm not sure i shan't marry him." alice regarded her in a silence which drew forth a fresh volley. "i suppose you think that's absurd, do you? why don't you say that i'm too old, and too ugly, and too ridiculous? why don't you say it? i can see that you think it; and a nice thing it is to think, too." "if you think it, aunt sarah," was the demure reply, "there's no need of my saying it." "i think it? i don't think it! i'm pleased to know at last what you think of me, with your meek ways." the scene was more violent than usually happened between aunt and niece, as it was the habit of alice to bear in silence whatever rudeness it pleased miss wentstile to inflict. not that the spinster was accustomed to be unkind to the girl. so long as there was no opposition to her will, miss wentstile was in her brusque way generous and not ill-natured. now that her temper was tried to the extreme, her worst side made itself evident; and alice was wise in attempting to escape. she rose from the place where she had been sewing, and prepared to leave the room. "go to your room by all means," the spinster said bitterly, regarding her with looks of marked disfavor. "all i have to say is this: if i do marry the count, and you find yourself without a home, you'll have nobody but yourself to thank for it. i'm sure you've had your chance." whether the antique heart of the spinster had cherished the design of attempting to glide into the place in the count's life left vacant by the refusal of her niece is a fact known only to her attendant angels, if she had any. certain it is that within twenty-four hours she had summoned that nobleman to her august presence. "count," she said to him, "i can't express to you how distressed i am that my niece has put such a slight on you. she is absolutely determined not to marry." the count as usual shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in mangled english that in america there was no authority; and that in his country the girl would not have been asked whether she was determined to marry or not. her determination would have made no difference. "that is the way it should be here," miss wentstile observed with feeling; "but it isn't. the young people are brought up to have their own way, no matter what their elders wish." "then she weell not to marry wid me?" he asked. "no, there's no hope of it. she is as obstinate as a rock." there was a brief interval of silence in which the count looked at miss wentstile and miss wentstile looked at the floor. "count shimbowski," she said at last, raising her eyes, "of course it doesn't make much difference to you who it is you marry if you get the money." he gave a smile half of deprecation, and spread out his hands. "one shimbowski for de _dot_ marries," he acknowledged, "but eet ees not wid all weemeens. dat ees not honor." "oh, of course i mean if your wife was a lady." "eet ees for de _dot_ only one shimbowski would wid all amereecans marry," he returned with simple pride. miss wentstile regarded him with a questioning look. "i am older than my niece," she went on, "but my _dot_ would be half a million." the whole thing was so entirely a matter of business that perhaps it was not strange that she spoke with so little sign of emotion. most women, it is true, would hardly come so near to proposing to a man without some frivolous airs of coquetry; but miss wentstile was a remarkable and exceptional woman, and her air was much that in which she might have talked of building a new house. "ees eet dat de wonderful mees wentsteele would marry wid me for all dat _dot_?" miss wentstile took him up somewhat quickly. "i don't say that i would, count," she returned; "but since you've been treated so badly by my niece, i thought i would talk with you to see how the idea struck you." "oh, eet weell be heavenly sweet to know what we weell be mine for all dat _dot_," the count asserted, bowing with his hand on his heart. she smiled somewhat acidly, and yet not so forbiddingly as to daunt him. "if we are yours what is there left for me?" she asked. "ah," the count sighed, with a shake of his head, "dat engleesh--" "never mind," she interrupted, "i understand that if i do marry you i get the name and not much else." "but de name!" he cried with fervor. "de shimbowski name! oh, eet ees dat de name weell be older dan dere was any mans een dees country." "i dare say that is true," she responded, smiling more pleasantly. "my sentiments for the name are warm enough." "de _sentiments_ of de esteemfully mees wentsteele ees proud for me," he declared, rising to bow. "ees eet dat we weell marry wid me? mees wentsteele ees more detracteeve for me wid her _dot_ dan mees endeecott. eet ees mooch more detracteeve." "well," miss wentstile said, rising also, "i thought i would see how the idea struck you. i haven't made up my mind. my friends would say i was an old fool, but i can please myself, thank heaven." the count took her hand and bowed over it with all his courtly grace, kissing it respectfully. "ah," he told her, echoing her words with unfortunate precision, "one old fool ees so heavenly keend!" miss wentstile started, but the innocence of his intention was evident, and she offered no correction. she bade him good-by with a beaming kindness, and for the rest of the day carried herself with the conscious pride of a woman who could be married if she would. for the next few days there was about miss wentstile a new atmosphere. she snubbed her niece with an air of pride entirely different from her old manner. she dropped hints about there being likely to be a title in the family after all, and as there could be no mystery what she must mean she attempted mystification by seeming to know things about the count and his family more magnificent than her niece had ever dreamed of. she sent to a school of languages for an instructor in hungarian, and when none was to be found at once, she purchased a grammar, and ostentatiously studied it before alice. altogether she behaved as idiotically as possible, and whether she really intended to go to the extreme of marrying count shimbowski and endowing him with her fortune or not, she at least contrived to make her friends believe that she was prepared to go to any length in her absurdity. the announcement of the engagement of dick fairfield and may calthorpe, which was made at once, of course produced the usual round of congratulatory festivities. may, as it is the moral duty of every self-respecting bostonian to be, was related to everybody who was socially anybody, and great were the number of dinners which celebrated her decision to marry. it was too late in the season for balls, but that was of little consequence when she and her betrothed could have dined in half a dozen places on the same night had the thing been physically possible. the real purpose of offering multitudinous dinners to a couple newly engaged has never been fully made clear. on first thought it might seem as if kindness to young folk newly come to a knowledge of mutual love were best shown by letting them alone to enjoy the transports inevitable to their condition. society has decided otherwise, and keeps them during the early days of their betrothal as constantly as possible in the public eye. whether this custom is the result of a fear lest the lovers, if left to themselves, might too quickly exhaust their store of fondness, or of a desire to enhance for each the value of the other by a display of general appreciation, were not easy to decide. a cynic might suggest that older persons feel the wisdom of preventing the possibility of too much reflection, or that they give all publicity to the engagement as a means of lessening the chances of any failure of contract. more kindly disposed reasoners might maintain that these abundant festivities are but testimony to the truth of emerson's declaration that "all the world loves a lover." philosophy, in the mean time, leaning neither to cynicism on the one hand nor to over-optimism on the other, can see in these social functions at least the visible sign that society instinctively recognizes in the proposed union a contract really public, since while men and women love for themselves they marry for the state. alice endicott and jack neligage were naturally asked to many of these dinners, and so it came about that they saw a good deal of each other during the next few weeks. their recent disagreement at first bred a faint coolness between them, but jack was too good-natured long to keep up even the pretense of malice, and alice too forgiving to cherish anger. the need, too, of hiding from the public all unpleasantness would in any case have made it necessary for them to behave as usual, and it is one of the virtues of social conventions that the need of being outwardly civil is apt to blunt the edge of secret resentments. of course a healthy and genuine hate may be nourished by the irksomeness of enforced suavity, but trifling pique dies a natural death under outward politeness. alice and jack were not only soon as friendly as ever, but either from the reaction following their slight misunderstanding or from the effect of the sentimental atmosphere which always surrounds an engaged couple, their attitude became more confidential and friendly than ever. they sat side by side at a dinner in which the harbingers were officially testifying their satisfaction in the newly announced engagement. jack had been doing his duty to the lady on the other side, and turned his face to alice. "what is worrying you?" he asked, his voice a little lowered. she looked at him with a smile. "what do you mean by that?" she asked. "i was flattering myself that i'd been particularly frolicsome all the evening." "you have; that's just it." "what do you mean by that?" "i mean that you've had to try." "you must have watched me pretty closely," she remarked, flushing a little, and lowering her glance. "oh, i know you so well that i don't need to; but to be sure i have kept my eyes on you." she played with her fork as if thinking, while his look was fixed on her face. "i didn't think i was so transparent," she said. "do you suppose other people noticed me?" "oh, no," he responded. "you don't give me credit for my keenness of perception. but what's the row?" "nothing," was her answer, "only--well, the truth is that i've had a talk with aunt sarah that wasn't very pleasant. jack, i believe she's going to marry the count." "i'm glad of it," was his laughing response. "he'll make her pay for all the nasty things she has done. he'll be a sort of public avenger." alice became graver. she shook her head, smiling, but with evident disapproval. "you promised me long ago that you wouldn't say things against aunt sarah." "no, i never did," he declared impenitently. "i only said that i'd try not to say things to you about her that would hurt your feelings." "well, weren't you saying them then?" "that depends entirely upon your feelings; but if they are so sensitive, i'll say i am delighted that the 'venerated mees wentsteele,' as the count calls her, is at last to be benefited by the discipline of having a master." alice laughed in spite of herself. "she won't enjoy that," she declared. "poor aunt sarah, she's been very kind to me, jack. she's really good-hearted." "you can't tell from the outside of a chestnut burr what kind of a nut is inside of it," retorted he; "but if you say she is sound, it goes. she's got the outside of the burr all right." the servant with a fresh course briefly interrupted, and when they had successfully dodged his platter jack went back to the subject. "is it proper to ask what there was in your talk that was especially unpleasant,--not meaning that she was unpleasant, of course, but only that with your readiness to take offense you might have found something out of the way." alice smiled faintly as if the question was too closely allied to painful thoughts to allow of her being amused. "she is still angry with me," she said. "for giving her a husband? she's grateful." "no, it isn't that. she can't get over my not doing what she wanted." "you've done what she wanted too long. she's spoiled. she thinks she owns you." "of course it's hard for her," alice murmured. "hard for her? it's just what she needed. what is she going to do about it i'd like to know?" alice looked at him with a wistful gravity. "if i tell you a secret," she said in a low tone, "can i trust you?" "of course you can," was the answer. "i should think that by this time, after may's engagement, you'd know i can keep still when i've a mind to." jack's chuckle did not call a smile to her face now. she had evidently forgotten for the moment the need of keeping up a smiling appearance in public; her long lashes drooped over cheeks that had little color in them, and her mouth was grave. "she was very severe to-night," alice confided to her companion. "she said--oh, jack, what am i to do if she goes away and leaves me without a home? she said that as of course i shouldn't want to go with her to hungary, she didn't know what would become of me. she wanted to know if i could earn my living." "the infernal old--" began jack; then he checked himself in time, and added: "you shall never want a home while--" but an interruption stopped him. "jack," called tom harbinger from the other end of the table, "didn't the count say: 'stones of a feather gather no rolls'?" the society mask slipped in a flash over the faces of alice and jack. the latter had ready instantly a breezy laugh which might have disarmed suspicion if any of the company had seen his recent gravity. "oh, tom," he returned, "it wasn't so bad as that. he said: 'birds of one feder flock to get eet.' i wish i had a short-hand report of all his sayings." "he told me at the club," put in mrs. harbinger, improving on the fact by the insertion of an article, "that miss wentstile was 'an ext'rdeenaire particle.' i hope you don't mind, alice?" "nothing that the count says could affect me," was the answer. having the eyes of the ladies in her direction, mrs. harbinger improved the opportunity to give the signal to rise, and the talk between alice and jack was for that evening broken off. xxvi the wooing of a widow "jack," mrs. neligage observed one morning when her son had dropped in, "i hope you won't mind, but i've decided to marry harry bradish." jack frowned slightly, then smiled. probably no man is ever greatly pleased by the idea that his mother is to remarry; but jack was of accommodating temper, and moreover was not without the common sense necessary for the acceptance of the unpalatable. he trimmed the ashes from the cigarette he was smoking, took a whiff, and sent out into the air an unusually neat smoke-ring. he sat with his eyes fixed upon the involving wreath until it was shattered upon the ceiling and its frail substance dissolved in air. "does bradish know it?" he inquired. "oh, he doesn't suspect it," answered she. "he'll never have an idea of such a thing till i tell him, and then he won't believe it." jack laughed, blew another most satisfactory smoke-ring, and again with much deliberation watched it ascend to its destruction. "then you don't expect him to ask you?" he propounded at length. "ask me, jack? he never could get up the courage. he'd lie down and die for me, but as for proposing--no, if there is to be any proposing i'm afraid i should have to do it; so we shall have to get on without." "it wouldn't be decorous for me to ask how you mean to manage, i suppose." "oh, ask by all means if you want to, jacky dear; but never a word shall i tell you. all i want of you is to say you aren't too much cut up at the idea." "i've brought you up so much to have your own way," jack returned in a leisurely fashion, "that i'm afraid it's too late to begin now to try to control you. i wish you luck." they were silent for some minutes. mrs. neligage had been mending a glove for her son, and when she had finished it, she rose and brought it to him. she stood a minute regarding him with an unwonted softness in her glance. "dear boy," she said, with a tender note in her voice, "i haven't thanked you for the money you sent langdon." he threw his cigarette away, half turning his face from her as he did so. "it's no use to bring that up again," he said. "i'm only sorry i couldn't have the satisfaction of kicking him." she shook her head. "i've wanted you to a good many times," returned she, "but that's a luxury that we couldn't afford. it would cost too much." she hesitated a moment, and added: "it must have left you awfully hard up, jack." "oh, i'm going into the bank. i'm a reformed man, you know, so that doesn't matter. if i can't play polo what good is money?" his mother sighed. "i do wish providence would take my advice about giving the money round," she remarked impatiently. "things would be a great deal better arranged." "for us they would, i've no doubt," he assented with a grin. "when do you go into that beastly old bank?" she asked. "first of the month. after all it won't be so much worse than being married." "you must be awfully hard up," she said once more regretfully. "oh, i'm always hard up. don't bother about that." she stooped forward and kissed him lightly, an unusual demonstration on her part, and stood brushing the crisp locks back from his forehead. he took her hand and pulled her down to kiss her in turn. "really, mater," he observed, still holding her hand, "we're getting quite spoony. does the idea of marrying harry bradish make you sentimental?" she smiled and did not answer, but withdrew her hand and returned to her seat by the window. she took up a bit of sewing, and folded down on the edge of the lawn a tiny hem. "when i am married," she observed, the faint suspicion of a blush coming into her cheek, "i can pay that money back to you. harry is rich enough, and generous enough." jack stopped in the lighting of a fresh cigarette, and regarded her keenly. "mother," he said in a voice of new seriousness, "are you marrying him to get that money for me?" "i mean to get it for you," she returned, without looking up. again he began to send rings of smoke to break on the ceiling above, and meanwhile she fixed her attention on her sewing. the noise of the carriages outside, the profanity of the english sparrows quarreling on the trees, and the sound of a distant street-organ playing "cavalleria" came in through the open window. "mother," he said, "i won't have it." "won't have what?" "i won't have you marry harry bradish." "why not?" "do you think," he urged, with some heat, "that i don't see through the whole thing? you are bound to help me out, and i won't have you do it." the widow let her sewing fall into her lap, and turned her face to the window. "how will you help it?" she asked softly. "i'll stop it in one way or another. i tell you--" but she turned toward him a face full of confusion and laughter. "oh, jack, you old goose, i've been fond of harry bradish for years, only i didn't dare show it because--" "because what?" "because sibley langdon was so nasty if i did," she returned, her tone hardening. "you don't know," she went on, the tone changing again like a flute-note, "what a perfect dear harry is. i've teased him, and snubbed him, and bullied him, and treated him generally like a fiend, and he's been as patient, and as sweet--why, jack, he's a saint beside me! he's awkward, and as stupid as a frog, but he's as good as gold." jack's face had darkened at the mention of langdon, but it cleared again, and his sunny smile came back once more. he sent out a great cloud of smoke with an entire disregard of the possibilities of artistic ring-making which he sacrificed, and chuckled gleefully. "all right, mater," he said, "if that's the state of things i've nothing more to say. you may even fleece him for my benefit if you want to." he rose as he spoke, and went over to where his mother was sitting. with heightened color, she had picked up her sewing, and bent over it so that her face was half hidden. "who supposed there was so much sentiment in the family," he remarked. "well, i must go down town. good-by. i wish you joy." they kissed each other with a tenderness not customary, for neither was much given to sentimental demonstrations; and jack went his way. it has been remarked by writers tinged with cynicism that a widow who wishes to remarry is generally able to do a large part of whatever wooing is necessary. in the present case, where the lady had frankly avowed her intention of doing the whole, there was no reason why the culmination should be long delayed. one day soon after the interview between mrs. neligage and her son, the widow and harry bradish were at the county club when they chanced to come into the parlor just in time to discover may calthorpe and dick fairfield, when the lover was kissing his lady's hand. mrs. neligage was entirely equal to the situation. "yes, mr. bradish," she observed, looking upward, "you were right, this ceiling is very ugly." "i didn't say anything about the ceiling," he returned, gazing up in amazement, while dick and may slipped out at another door. she turned to him with a countenance of mischief. "then you should have said it, stupid!" she exclaimed. "didn't you see dick and may?" "i saw them go out. what of it?" "really, harry," she said, falling into the name which she had called him in her girlhood, "you should have your wits about you when you stumble on young lovers in a sentimental attitude." "i didn't see what they were doing. i was behind you." "oh, he had her hand," explained she, extending hers. bradish took it shyly, looking confused and mystified. the widow laughed in his face. "what are you laughing at?" he asked. "what do you suppose he was doing?" mrs. neligage demanded. "now you have my hand, what are you going to do with it?" he dropped her hand in confusion. "i--i just took it because you gave it to me," he stammered. "i was only going--i was going to--" "then why in the world didn't you?" she laughed, moving quickly away toward the window which opened upon the piazza. "but i will now," he exclaimed, striding after. "oh, now it is too late," she declared teasingly. "a woman is like time. she must be taken by the forelock." "but, mrs. neligage, louisa, i was afraid of offending you!" "nothing offends a woman so much as to be afraid of offending her," was her oracular reply, as she flitted over the sill. all the way into town that sunny april afternoon harry bradish was unusually silent. while mrs. neligage, in the highest spirits, rattled on with jest, or chat, or story, he replied in monosyllables or in the briefest phrases compatible with politeness. he was evidently thinking deeply. the very droop of his yellow mustaches showed that. the presence of the trig little groom at the back of the trap was a sufficient reason why bradish should not then deliver up any confidential disclosures in regard to the nature of his cogitations, but from time to time he glanced at the widow with the air of having her constantly in his thoughts. bradish was the most kindly of creatures, and withal one of the most self-distrustful. he was so transparent that there was nothing surprising in the ease with which one so astute as mrs. neligage might read his mood if she were so disposed. he cast upon her looks of inquiry or doubt which she gave no sign of perceiving, or now and then of bewilderment as if he had come in his thought to a question which puzzled him completely. during the entire drive he was obviously struggling after some mental adjustment or endeavoring to solve some deep and complicated problem. the day was enchanting, and in the air was the exciting stir of spring which turns lightly the young man's fancy to thoughts of love. whether bradish felt its influence or not, he had at least the air of a man emotionally much stirred. mrs. neligage looked more alert, more provoking, more piquant, than ever. she had, it is true, an aspect less sentimental than that of her companion, but nature had given to harry bradish a likeness to don quixote which made it impossible for him ever to appear mischievous or sportive, and if he showed feeling it must be of the kindly or the melancholy sort. the widow might be reflecting on the effectiveness of the turnout, the fineness of the horses, the general air of style and completeness which belonged to the equipage, or she might be ruminating on the character of the driver. she might on the other hand have been thinking of nothing in particular except the light things she was saying,--if indeed it is possible to suppose that a clever woman ever confines her thoughts to what is indicated by her words. bradish, however, was evidently meditating of her. when he had brought the horses with a proper flourish to mrs. neligage's door, bradish descended and helped her out with all his careful politeness of manner. he was a man to whom courtesy was instinctive. at the stake he would have apologized to the executioner for being a trouble. he might to-day be absorbed and perplexed, but he was not for that less punctiliously attentive. "may i come in?" he asked, hat in hand. "by all means," mrs. neligage responded. "come in, and i'll give you a cup of tea." bradish sent the trap away with the satisfactory groom, and then accompanied his companion upstairs. they were no sooner inside the door of her apartment than he turned to the widow with an air of sudden determination. "louisa," he said with awkward abruptness, "what did you mean this afternoon?" he grasped her hands with both his; his hat, which he had half tossed upon the table, went bowling merrily over the floor, but he gave it no heed. "good gracious, harry," she cried, laughing up into his face, "how tragic you are! pick up your hat." he glanced at the hat, but he did not release her hands. he let her remark pass, and went on with increasing intensity which was not unmixed with wistfulness. "i've been thinking about it all the way home," he declared. "you've always teased me, louisa, from the days we were babies, and of course i'm an old fool; but--were you willing i should kiss your hand?" he stopped in speechless confusion, the color coming into his cheeks, and looked pathetically into her laughing face. "lots of men have," she responded. he dropped her hands, and grew paler. "but to-day--" he stammered. "but what to-day?" she cried, moving near to him. "i thought that to-day--louisa, for heaven's sake, do you care for me?" "not for heaven's sake," she murmured, looking younger and more bewitching than ever. some women at forty-five are by providence allowed still to look as young as their children, and mrs. neligage was one of them. her airs would perhaps have been ridiculous in one less youthful in appearance, but she carried them off perfectly. bradish was evidently too completely and tragically in earnest to see the point of her quip. he looked so disappointed and abashed that it was not strange for her to burst into a peal of laughter. "oh, harry," she cried, "you are such a dear old goose! must i say it in words? well, then; here goes, despite modesty! take me!" he stared at her as if in doubt of his senses. "do you mean it?" he stammered. "i do at this minute, but if you're not quick i may change my mind!" then harry bradish experienced a tremendous reaction from the excessive shyness of nearly half a century, and gathered her into his arms. xxvii the climax of comedy society has always a kindly feeling toward any person who furnishes material for talk. even in those unhappy cases where the matter provided to the gossips is of an iniquitous sort, it is not easy utterly to condemn evil which has added a pleasant spice to conversation. it is true that in word the sinner may be entirely disapproved, but the disapproval is apt to be tempered by an evident feeling of gratitude for the excitement which the sin has provided to talkers. in lighter matters, where there is no reason to regard with reprobation the course discussed, the friendliness of the gossips is often covered with a sauce piquant of doubtful insinuation, of sneer, or of ridicule, but in reality it is evident that those who abuse do so, like lady teazle, in pure good nature. to be talked about in society is really to be awarded for the time being such interest as society is able to feel; and the interest of society is its only regard. the engagement of mrs. neligage to harry bradish naturally set the tongues of all their acquaintances wagging, and many pretty things were said of the couple which were not entirely complimentary. the loves of elderly folk always present to the eyes of the younger generation an aspect somewhat ludicrous, and the buds giggled at the idea of nuptials which to their infantine minds seemed so venerable. the women pitied bradish, who had been captured by the wiles of the widow, and the men thought it a pity that so gifted and dashing a woman as mrs. neligage should be united to a man so dull as her prospective husband. the widow did not wear her heart on her sleeve, so that daws who wished to peck at it found it well concealed behind an armor of raillery, cleverness, and adroitness. bradish, on the other hand, was so openly adoring that it was impossible not to be touched by his beaming happiness. on the whole the match was felt to be a suitable one, although mrs. neligage had no money; and from the mingled pleasure of gossiping about the pair, and nominally condemning the whole business on one ground or another, society came to be positively enthusiastic over the marriage. the affairs of jack neligage might in time be influenced by his mother's alliance with a man of wealth, but they were little changed at first. it is true that by some subtile softening of the general heart at the thought of matrimony in the concrete, as presented by the spectacle of the loves of mrs. neligage and bradish, his social world was moved to a sort of toleration of the idea of his marrying alice endicott in spite of his poverty. people not in the least responsible, who could not be personally affected by such a match, began to wonder after all whether there were not some way in which it might be arranged, and to condemn miss wentstile for not making possible the union of two lovers so long and so faithfully attached. society delights in the romantic in other people's families, and would have rolled as a sweet morsel under its tongue an elopement on the part of jack and alice, or any other sort of extravagant outcome. the marriage of his mother gave him a new consequence both by keeping his affairs in the public mind and by bringing about for him a connection with a man of money. miss wentstile was not of a character which was likely sensitively to feel or easily to receive these beneficent public sentiments. she was a woman who was entirely capable of originating her own emotions, a fact which in itself distinguished her as a rarity among her sex. no human being, however, can live in the world without being affected by the opinions of the world; and it is probable that miss wentstile, with all her independence, was more influenced by the thought of those about her than could be at all apparent. mrs. neligage declared to jack that she meant to be very civil to the spinster. "she's a sort of cousin of harry's, you know," she remarked; "and it isn't good form not to be on good terms with the family till after you're married." "but after the wedding," he responded with a lazy smile, "i suppose she must look out." mrs. neligage looked at him, laughing, with half closed eyes. "i should think that after the marriage she would do well to remember her place," was her reply. "i shall have saved her from the count by that time, too; and that will give her a lesson." but providence spared mrs. neligage the task of taking the initiative in the matter of the count. one day in the latter part of april, just before the annual flitting by which all truly patriotic bostonians elude the first of may and the assessors, the widow went to call on her prospective relative. miss wentstile was at home in the drawing-room with alice and the count. tea had been brought in, and alice was pouring it. "i knew i should be just in time for tea," mrs. neligage declared affably; "and your tea is always so delicious, miss wentstile." "how do you do, louisa," was miss wentstile's greeting. "i wish you'd let me know when you are at home. i wouldn't have called yesterday if i'd supposed you didn't know enough to stay in to be congratulated." "i had to go out," mrs. neligage responded. "i was sorry not to see you." "there was a horrid dog in the hall that barked at me," miss wentstile continued. "you ought not to let your visitors be annoyed so." "it isn't my dog," the widow replied with unusual conciliation in her manner. "it belongs to those stearnses who have the apartment opposite." "i can't bear other people's dogs," miss wentstile declared with superb frankness. "fido was the only dog i ever loved." "where is fido?" asked the widow. "i haven't heard his voice yet." miss wentstile drew herself up stiffly. "i have met with a misfortune. i had to send dear fido away. he would bark at the count." whatever the intentions of mrs. neligage to conciliate, providence had not made her capable of resisting a temptation like this. "how interesting the instinct of animals is," she observed with an air of the most perfect ingenuousness. "they seem to know doubtful characters by intuition." "doubtful characters?" echoed miss wentstile sharply. "didn't fido always bark at you, louisa?" "yes," returned the caller as innocently as ever. "that is an illustration of what i was saying." "oh, madame neleegaze ees so continuously to be _drôle_!" commented the count, with a display of his excellent teeth. "so she have to marry, ees eet not?" "do you mean those two sentences to go together, count?" alice asked, with a twinkle of fun. he stood apparently trying to recall what he had said, in order to get the full meaning of the question, when the servant announced mrs. croydon, who came forward with a clashing of bead fringes and a rustling of stiff silk. she was ornamented, hung, spangled, covered, cased in jet until she might not inappropriately have been set bodily into a relief map to represent whitby. she advanced halfway across the space to where miss wentstile sat near the hearth, and then stopped with a dramatic air. she fixed her eyes on the count, who, with his feet well apart, stood near miss wentstile, stirring his tea, and diffusing abroad a patronizing manner of ownership. "i beg your pardon, miss wentstile," mrs. croydon said in a voice a little higher than common, "i will come to see you again when you haven't an assassin in your house." there was an instant of utter silence. the remark was one well calculated to produce a sensation, and had mrs. croydon been an actress she might at that instant have congratulated herself that she held her audience spellbound. it was but for a flash, however, that miss wentstile was paralyzed. "what do you mean?" exclaimed the spinster, recovering the use of her tongue. "i mean," retorted mrs. croydon, extending her bugle-dripping arm theatrically, and pointing to the count, "that man there." "me!" cried the count. "the count?" cried miss wentstile an octave higher. "ah!" murmured mrs. neligage very softly, settling herself more comfortably in her chair. "he tried to murder my husband," went on mrs. croydon, every moment with more of the air of a stage-struck amateur. "he challenged him!" "your husband?" the count returned. "eet ees to me thees teeme first know what you have one husband, madame." "i thought your husband was dead, mrs. croydon," miss wentstile observed, in a voice which was like the opening of an outside door with the mercury below zero. mrs. croydon was visibly confused. her full cheeks reddened; even the tip of her nose showed signs of a tendency to blush. her trimmings rattled and scratched on the silk of her gown. "i should have said mr. barnstable," she corrected. "he was my husband once when i lived in chicago." the count, perfectly self-possessed, smiled and stirred his tea. "ees eet dat de amiable mrs. croydon she do have a deeferent husband leek a sailor mans een all de harbors?" he asked with much deference. mrs. neligage laughed softly, leaning back as if at a comedy. alice looked a little frightened. miss wentstile became each moment more stern. "mr. barnstable and i are to be remarried immediately," mrs. croydon observed with dignity. "it was for protecting me from the abuse of an anonymous novel that he offended you. you would have killed him for defending me." the count waved his teaspoon airily. "he have eensult me," he remarked, as if disposing of the whole subject. "then he was one great cowherd. he have epilogued me most abject." mrs. neligage elevated her eyebrows, and turned her glance to mrs. croydon, who stood, a much overdressed goddess of discord, still in the middle of the floor. "that is nonsense, mrs. croydon," she observed honeyedly. "mr. barnstable behaved with plenty of pluck. the apology was jack's doing, and wasn't at all to your--your _fiancé's_ discredit." miss wentstile turned with sudden severity to mrs. neligage. "louisa," she demanded, "do you know anything about this affair?" "of course," was the easy answer. "everybody in boston knew it but you." the count put his teacup on the mantelpiece. he had lost the jauntiness of his air, but he was still dignified. "eet was one _affaire d'honneur_," he said. "but why was i not told of this?" miss wentstile asked sharply. "you?" mrs. croydon retorted with excitement. "everybody supposed--" mrs. neligage rose quickly. "really," she said, interrupting the speaker, "i must have another cup of tea." the interruption stopped mrs. croydon's remark, and miss wentstile did not press for its conclusion. "count," the spinster asked, turning to that gentleman, who towered above her tall and lowering, "have you ever fought a duel?" the count shrugged his shoulders. "all shimbowski ees _hommes d'honneur_." she made him a frigid bow. "i have the honor to bid you good day," she said, with a manner so perfect that the absurdity of the situation vanished. the count drew himself up proudly. then he in his turn bowed profoundly. "you do eet too much to me honor," he said, with a dignity which was worthy of his family. "ladies, _votre serviteur_." he made his exit in a manner to be admired. mrs. croydon feigned to shrink aside as he passed her, but mrs. neligage looked at her with so open a laugh at this performance that confusion overcame the dame of bugles, and she moved forward disconcerted. she had not yet gained a seat, when miss wentstile faced her with all her most unrestrained fashion. "i shouldn't think, mrs. croydon, that you, with the stain of a divorce court on you, were in position to throw stones at count shimbowski. he has done nothing but follow the customs to which he's been brought up." "perhaps that's true of mrs. croydon too," murmured mrs. neligage to alice. "if you wanted to tell me," miss wentstile went on, "why didn't you tell me when he was not here? no wonder foreigners think we are barbarians when a nobleman is insulted like that." "i didn't mean to tell you," mrs. croydon stammered humbly. "it just came out." "why didn't you mean to tell me?" demanded miss wentstile, whose anger had evidently deprived her for the time being of all coolness. "why, i thought you were engaged to him!" blurted out mrs. croydon, fairly crimson from brow to chin. "engaged!" echoed miss wentstile, half breathless with indignation. mrs. neligage came to the rescue, cool and collected, entirely mistress of herself and of the situation. "really, mrs. croydon," she suggested, smiling, "don't you think that is bringing western brusqueness home to us in rather a startling way? we don't speak of engagements until they are announced, you know." "but miss wentstile told me the other day that she might announce one soon," persisted mrs. croydon, into whose flushed face had come a look of baffled obstinacy. mrs. neligage threw up her hands in a graceful little gesture. she played private theatricals infinitely better than mrs. croydon. there was in their art all the difference between the work of the most clumsy amateur and a polished professional. "there is nothing to do but to tell it," she said, as if appealing to miss wentstile and alice. "the engagement was that of miss endicott and my son. miss wentstile never for a moment thought of marrying the count. she knew from me that he gambled and was a famous duelist." alice put out her hand suddenly, and caught that of the widow. "oh, mrs. neligage!" she cried. the widow patted the girl's fingers. the face of miss wentstile was a study for a novelist who identifies art with psychology. "of course i ought not to have told, alice," mrs. neligage went on; "but i'm sure mrs. croydon is to be trusted. it isn't fair to your aunt that this nonsensical notion should be abroad that she meant to marry the count." mrs. croydon was evidently too bewildered to understand what had taken place. she awkwardly congratulated alice, apologized to miss wentstile for having made a scene, and somehow got herself out of the way. "what an absolutely incredible woman! with the talent both she and mr. barnstable show for kicking up rows in society," observed mrs. neligage, as soon as the caller had departed, "i should think they would prevent any city from being dull. i trust they will pass the time till their next divorce somewhere else than here." xxviii the unclouding of love miss wentstile sat grimly silent until they heard the outer door downstairs close behind the departing guest. then she straightened herself up. "i thank you, louisa," she said gravely; "you meant well, but how dared you?" "oh, i had to dare," returned mrs. neligage lightly. "i'm coming into the family, you know, and must help keep up its credit." "humph!" was the not entirely complimentary rejoinder. "if you cared for the credit of the family why didn't you tell me about the count sooner? is he really a fast man?" "he's been one of the best known sports in europe, my dear miss wentstile." "why didn't you tell me then?" "why should i? i wasn't engaged to harry then, and if the count wanted to reform and settle down, you wouldn't have had me thwart so virtuous an inclination, would you?" "i thought you wanted him to marry alice!" "i only wanted alice out of the way of jack," the widow confessed candidly. "why?" miss wentstile asked. the spinster was fond of frankness, and appreciated it when it came in her way. "because i hated to have jack poor, and i knew that if alice married him you'd never give them a cent to live on." alice, her face full of confusion and pain, moved uneasily, and put her hand on the arm of mrs. neligage once more, as if to stop her. the widow again patted the small hand reassuringly, but kept her eyes fixed full on those of the aunt. "you took a different turn to-day," the spinster observed suspiciously. "i had to save you to-day," was the ready answer; "and besides i can't do anything with jack. he's bound to marry alice whether you and i like it or not, and he's going to work in a bank in the most stupid manner." to hear the careless tone in which this was said nobody could have suspected that this speech was exactly the one which could most surely move the spinster, and that the astute widow must have been fully aware of it. "so you are sure i won't give alice anything if she marries jack, are you?" miss wentstile said. "well, alice, you are to marry jack neligage to save me from the gossips." "it seems to me," alice said, blushing very much, "that if i can't have any voice in the matter, jack might be considered." "oh, my dear," returned mrs. neligage quickly, "do you suppose that if i made an alliance for jack, he would be so undutiful as to object?" alice burst into a laugh, but miss wentstile, upon whom, in her ignorance of the engagement between jack and may, the point was lost, let it pass unheeded. "well," she said, "i think i'll surprise you for once, louisa. if jack will stick faithfully to his place in the bank for a year, i'll give him and alice the _dot_ i promised the count." mrs. neligage got away from miss wentstile's as soon as possible, leaving alice to settle things with her aunt, and taking a carriage at the next corner, drove to jack's lodgings. she burst into his room tumultuously, fortunately finding him at home, and alone. "oh, jack," she cried, "i didn't mean to, but i've engaged you again!" he regarded her with a quizzical smile. "matchmaking seems to be a vice which develops with your age," he observed. "i got out of the other scrape easily enough, and i won't deny that it was rather good fun. i hope that this isn't any worse." "but, jack, dear, this time it's alice!" "alice!" he exclaimed, jumping up quickly. "yes, it's alice, and you ought to be grateful to me, for she's going to have a fortune, too." with some incoherency, for she was less self-contained than usual, mrs. neligage told him what had happened. "see what it is to have a mother devoted to your interests," she concluded. "you'd never have brought miss wentstile to terms. you ought to adore me for this." "i do," he answered, laughing, but kissing her with genuine affection. "i hope you'll be as happy as alice and i shall be." "i only live for my child," returned she in gay mockery. "for your sake i'm going to be respectable for the rest of my life. what sacrifices we parents do make for our children!" * * * * * late that evening jack was taking his somewhat extended adieus of alice. "after all, jack," she said, "the whole thing has come out of the novel. we'll have a gorgeously bound copy of 'love in a cloud' always on the table to remind us--" "to remind us," he finished, taking the words out of her mouth with a laugh, "that our love has got out of the clouds." * * * * * the riverside press printed by h. o. houghton & co. cambridge, mass. u.s.a. * * * * * books by arlo bates. love in a cloud. a novel. the puritans. a novel. the philistines. a novel. the pagans. a novel. patty's perversities. a novel. prince vance. the story of a prince with a court in his box. by arlo bates and eleanor putnam. a lad's love. under the beech-tree. poems. talks on writing english. talks on the study of literature. houghton, mifflin & co. boston and new york. flora adair; or, love works wonders. _by a. m. donelan._ "in funiculis adam traham eos, in vinculis charitatis." _osee_ xi. . in two volumes. vol. i. london: chapman and hall, , piccadilly. . flora adair. chapter i. in rome, on a bright sunny morning in the month of march, -, two ladies were seated in a drawing-room, the windows of which looked upon the corso. mother and daughter they evidently were; and, as they play a prominent part in this story, we may be permitted to devote a short time to describing them. as a mark of respect to age, we shall give the elder lady precedence. although she was dressed in black, and seated at a table working, one could judge that her figure was tall and elegant. in her youth she had been a great beauty; yet it could not be said that strong traces of that beauty still lingered over those thin, worn features, for "sorrows, nor few, nor light," had set their mark upon them. but neither time nor grief had destroyed the calm, gentle expression of that countenance, ever ready to light up with a cheerful smile and look happy in the happiness of others. her character may be expressed in a single word--devotedness. as daughter, sister, wife, and mother, her whole life had been one almost unbroken act of self-sacrifice. most of those whom she loved had been taken from her while she was still in the bloom of life; her children alone remained. the two elder--a son and a daughter--were married, and therefore, in some degree, lost to her, so that flora, her second daughter, was the only one really left; and in this, her youngest child, was centred mrs. adair's every hope and thought. their affection was mutual: flora adair believed herself to be blessed indeed in her mother. and now let us turn to the young lady. we are obliged to confess that, although she is considered to be like her mother, it is a resemblance not boasting of much physical beauty. a sad drawback this, doubtless, to a heroine; but, according to the old saying, "what can't be cured must be endured." her figure, however, was really good; she was about the middle height, with tiny hands and feet, a broad forehead, blue eyes--fairly large and dark--a small but well-formed nose, round cheeks, a large mouth, with a tolerably good, but an over-crowded, range of teeth; a complexion far from bright or clear, and a profusion of dark brown hair brushed off her forehead, and twisted round the back of her head in thick plaits. such is our heroine's picture--not a very attractive one, it may be said, and of this no one was more fully conscious than flora adair herself. as to her character, she was generally looked upon as cold, and somewhat haughty, yet she was really rather indifferent than haughty; but how often is indifference of manner called haughtiness in the world! her seeming coldness in a great measure came from a shrinking dread of forcing herself upon others. it is true she cared but little for society, and found a young lady's life weary and objectless; her constant thought was how to make the hours go faster. had any one asked her why she found them so long, she would probably have borrowed her answer from shakespeare, and have said-- "not having that, which, having, makes them short." something of all this could be seen in her listless air, as she sat there near the window, not reading, but with a book in her hand, gazing out vacantly, as if to ask, "how shall i get through to-day? will it be anything more interesting than usual?" better, perhaps, had it not been so, some would say--better had the blank been left unfilled, as she was now but negatively unhappy, the unhappiness arising from her own disposition, ever yearning for something more, something deeper, than she had yet known; and also because she had not yet learned that "the first principle of wisdom is to be satisfied with that which is;" or "in the state in which she was therewith to be content." which is the better lot:--a short spell of deep happiness and after misery, or an even life, unmarked by great joy or great sorrow? flora adair would answer, "give me, were it only for a short time, intense happiness, at any cost; no price is too great for it, or it would be worth nothing!" so that had the choice been offered to her she would have taken the very lot which was destined for her. there was another member of their little circle, a young lady of about flora's age, named lucy martin, who was travelling with the adairs, and who was absent for a few days on a visit to some friends at albano: as she shortly afterwards returned home, it is needless to describe her more fully. mrs. adair looked at her watch, and said, "half-past ten, flora; and the eltons are to call for us at eleven. we had better get ready." flora followed her mother out of the room, letting her book fall, rather than placing it, upon the table. soon after, the carriage came, and away they drove with their friends to frascati, where they were to have a croquet match, and an _al-fresco_ dinner given by mrs. elton. their party now consisted of that lady herself, her son and younger daughter, and the adairs. at the place of rendezvous--the villa torlonia--they were to meet the rest of their friends. it was a soft, balmy day, such as, in the middle of march, can only be enjoyed in italy; the hot, bright sun tempered by the fresh breeze of early spring, and the air perfumed by the fragrance of the wild flowers, which so abound in southern lands. out of the porta san giovanni and along the via tusculum lies the road to frascati, bounded on one side by the alban hills, and on the other by the desert campagna. the desultory conversation which was carried on during the drive consisted of the usual subjects talked of among strangers in rome, and during lent:--"how do you like rome? what have you seen? have you obtained tickets for all the ceremonies of holy week?" the horrors of crushing at these ceremonies--histories told of ladies having had their veils torn off, their prayer-books dashed from their hands, and, as a climax, fainting--as, on a memorable occasion, when a stalwart english lady called out to the crowd ruthlessly pressing upon a falling victim, "take her up--take her up! for if she is killed we shall all be shut out from the cena!" in the course of the drive, helena elton said suddenly to flora, "have you happened to meet with a mr. earnscliffe who is here now?" "no. what of him? is he anything out of the common?" "rather," rejoined miss helena, who slightly indulged in mild slang, and generally answered in a prolonged, emphasised manner, "rather," when she meant to say "very much," "exceedingly," &c. "then tell me something of him. what is he like?" asked flora. "like something very tall, strong, handsome, and aristocratic in appearance; in manner, proud and distant, certainly not a lady-worshipper." "and very rich," interposed mrs. elton. "i knew his parents most intimately, but they both died when he was quite a child, and i had lost sight of the family altogether, until by chance we met him abroad a short time ago. earnscliffe court is a magnificent place." "a capital speculation, helena," said flora, with a smile. "do you enter the lists? as you seem to think the conquest a difficult one, it might be worth a struggle." "oh! he is not in my line at all--i should be afraid of him; but if you think so much of the prize you should enter the lists yourself." "no, no, helena, i am not so foolish as to risk a defeat for what i do not value; besides, i am neither pretty nor fascinating. how, then, could i catch this modern childe harold, as you describe him? moreover, i hate a _bon parti_. i shall never marry, unless i meet with one whom i can admire and love beyond all the world!" the conversation did not seem to please mrs. elton, who cut it short by saying, "it is all very well to read about desperate love in novels; but, believe me--and i have seen a great deal of the world--marriages based upon calm respect and affection are far happier than your ardent love matches. you will understand this, dear child, when you are a little older." helena shrugged her shoulders, and murmured in an under tone, meant only for flora's ear, "oh, have i not heard enough of all this!" "well, mrs. elton," replied flora, "i am not such a child after all! i am more than one-and-twenty, and can vouch for it that _i_ will never have anything to say to a marriage based upon 'calm respect and affection!'" mrs. adair--who had remained silent, quietly amused at this animated discussion--now thought that it was going a little too far, and managed to change the conversation. shortly afterwards they arrived at the entrance to the villa torlonia, where they alighted, and the coachman drove to the hotel in frascati to await their order to return. the villa is but a stone's-throw from the town: a magnificent terrace leads to the large, rambling, white building, in which one could well imagine half-a-dozen families living with separate households. the view from the front is grand indeed. beneath the windows, and across the high road before them, is the casino, with its pretty gardens; beyond this, and far below, stretches out the great campagna, and rome, with her countless domes and steeples gleaming in the sun. the grounds of the villa are, in their style, very beautiful and extensive, although to our english eyes somewhat stiff and formal, cut up as they are by broad avenues, with their majestic lines of trees. across the centre, and leading from the grand terrace, a wide opening shows an artificial grotto, cascade, and basin; a flight of covered steps on either side of the abundant stream of falling water winds under this cascade, and leads to a terrace above, from behind which spreads out a beautiful bosquet, the bounds of which are entirely hidden by thick foliage. the outer walls of these steps are so overgrown by luxuriant vegetation as to be completely masked, so that, on approaching, these apertures look like entrances to subterranean caverns. this picturesque cascade was the place of rendezvous; towards it, therefore, our friends were proceeding, when charles elton, who had for a moment or two been watching a figure moving among the trees, exclaimed, "by jove, there's earnscliffe!" "how delightful!" rejoined mrs. elton. "now he cannot avoid making one of our party. go quickly, charles, and overtake him: we will follow." charles soon captured the retreating mr. earnscliffe, who had just seen the eltons, and was making a desperate, but vain, effort to escape. he could not pretend that he did not hear charles, so with a tolerably good grace he turned and surrendered. "where on earth were you going so fast?" said charles, nearly out of breath. "here is my mother, who is determined on making you join our party!" "indeed!" accompanied by anything but a look of pleasure. mrs. elton advanced to meet him with outstretched hands. "how charming to find you here, mr. earnscliffe; you cannot well refuse to join us, see the croquet, and partake of a cold dinner. i would have written to invite you, but that i so feared a refusal, feeling certain that you would not think our croquet party worth the loss of a day from rome's immortal ruins. i do so wish i could prevail upon you to accompany us to some of them; how delightful it would be to have _such_ a guide!" "pray be undeceived, mrs. elton; i should be but a very poor guide for you; believe me, 'murray' would be much more instructive, and would enable you to talk far more learnedly about those things than i could." was there not a covert sneer in those words? the lady, however, did not see it, or appeared not to do so. as a possible husband for one of her daughters, many things must be pardoned in him which would not be passed over in a poor younger son. she replied with a smile, "well, we can arrange that at some other time; for the present, having caught you here, we may of course count upon your remaining with us." taking his answer for granted, she continued, "allow me to present my friends, mrs. and miss adair." mr. earnscliffe bowed to the adairs, shook hands with helena, and then walked on with mrs. elton towards the cascade. mrs. elton opened the conversation with that very original question, "how do you like rome, mr. earnscliffe?" "in what way do you mean?--as she was once, the mistress of the world, and her people a nation of kings; or as she is now, the decrepid representative of all the superstitions of bygone ages?" mrs. elton laughed approvingly; but flora, who was walking close behind with charles elton, said, in a slightly subdued tone, "see what prejudice will do! i _do_ wonder how persons, otherwise noble and generous, can say such things simply for the pleasure of abusing what they do not understand, and therefore dislike!" "oh! miss adair, he might have heard you," exclaimed charles elton. "_n'importe!_" said flora, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. almost at the same moment, mr. earnscliffe, who, notwithstanding mrs. elton's efforts to drown flora's voice, had heard every word, turned and bowed to her, saying, with rather a scornful smile, "bravo, miss adair, you are quite an apostle, and i, according to you, am something very like a simpleton!" "i did not say that," she answered, blushing; "it would have been rude and untrue; but, were you to think of it, i am sure you will admit that what i _did_ say is true." he smiled, returned to mrs. elton, and said, "adair!--a scotch name?" "an irish name, also; my friends are irish." "indeed, one might have guessed it, from the spirit of the young lady's observations." "mamma," interrupted helena, "there they are all at the cascade waiting for us; and i see thomas, too, with the croquet boxes." "well, my dear, we are going to them; don't be impatient." this injunction was given in vain. helena had already darted off to her friends at the cascade. they consisted of mr. and mrs. penton,--both young; the lady, tall, slight, and dark,--very elegant, but apparently haughty, and evidently accustomed to be admired; the gentleman, a large and rather an unwieldy figure, with a sandy complexion, and a heavy, although good expression of countenance; mary elton, helena's sister, and somewhat like her, but in manner as grave and sedate as the other was gay and thoughtless; mr. mainwaring, and mr. caulfield,--the latter, a good-looking, bright, laughing irishman; the former, an englishman, and particularly grave and solemn. helena was received with marked pleasure. her great liveliness made her a general favourite. she was soon in deep conversation with mary and the gentlemen about the selection of the croquet ground, while the pentons turned to greet the others who had just come up. mrs. elton announced, in a delighted tone, that they had been fortunate enough to meet and capture mr. earnscliffe. "what an addition to our party, is it not, mary?" turning to her eldest daughter. "yes," mary replied, quickly; "we are all, i am sure, very happy to see mr. earnscliffe. does he condescend to play croquet?" "i have never played," said he; "but i have seen people knocking balls about with things like long-handled mallets. that is croquet, i believe?" "oh, mr. earnscliffe," exclaimed helena, "what a description to give of playing croquet! but whatever you may think of it, i find it very jolly fun, and mean to lose no time before setting to work." "to play, you mean, miss elton!" said a voice behind her; and on turning round she found that mr. caulfield was the corrector, whereupon she at once gaily attacked him. "i never heard of such audacity, mr. caulfield; you, a hibernian, to venture to correct me, a true briton, in the use of my own language! take care that you don't get a defeat at croquet for this!" "i am sure it will not be _your_ fault, miss elton, if i do not"--in an aside, meant only for her ear--"but have you not conquered already, though not, perhaps, at croquet?" she got a little red, and said quickly, "this is all waste of time! mary, you said you had seen a place that would do beautifully for us; so, lead on. i will go and see that thomas has all the things right." mary did as she was desired, while her sprightly sister, followed by mr. caulfield, ran back to the servant to see that all was in order. helena and her companion were enjoying themselves greatly, if loud laughter is a sign of enjoyment. at length they came running after the others to a broad grassy alley, bordered and overhung by wide-spreading trees. this was the place which mary had spoken of, and, fortunately, it met with helena's approval. "oh, yes, mary, this will do, capitally," she said; "and there is shade, too, under these trees. mark out the ground, place the arches and the balls, and give me a croquet-stick!" "yes, miss," replied thomas, who seemed quite an adept at arranging the playground. having done this to his young mistress's satisfaction, he approached mrs. elton and asked where the dinner was to be laid. "it is true, we have not chosen where we shall dine. caroline," to mrs. adair, "will you come with me and seek a nice place for our repast, while the young people begin their game? we can trust them to mrs. penton's chaperoning for a few moments, although she is too young and too pretty for such a post." mrs. penton laughed, and said, "you may very safely trust them to me, and i will give you a good account of my stewardship when you return. so you may go in peace." mr. caulfield, who helped helena to arrange the game, now struck his "mallet," as mr. earnscliffe had named it, three times on one of the balls in order to attract attention; and called out, "who will play? will you, mrs. penton?" "not just yet. i will sit down and look on for the present; later, perhaps, i may take a turn." "then the players are, the misses elton, miss adair, penton, mainwaring, elton?" "nay," interrupted charles, "i am quite unable to play to-day." "mr. earnscliffe?" continued mr. caulfield, inquiringly. "i know nothing of the game, and i should not like to make my first essay among such proficients as, i presume, you all are." "then there only remains my humble self to make up the party. now for the division; you ladies should draw lots for choosing sides." "i dare say flora is as willing as i am to yield this to helena," said mary. "if so, we need not take the trouble of drawing lots." flora smiled assent, when helena exclaimed, "very green of you both. however, it is your affair, not mine; and as i am decidedly the gainer by it, i ought not to object. first, then, i choose flora; secondly, mr. mainwaring. i leave mary to manage mr. penton and mr. caulfield; no easy matter, i can answer for it, with regard to the latter gentleman." "how cruel not to choose me as one of your subjects," he said in a light tone, yet looking a little annoyed. "choose you for a subject! not for worlds. i shall delight in croqueting you; and this, of course, i could not do if you were on my side. but as my enemy, you shall be well croqueted!" and as her foot rested upon one of the balls near her, she looked laughingly at him, and struck the ball lightly with her "mallet." the elder ladies now returned; the gentlemen placed stools for them near to mrs. penton; and, after some jesting about the conduct of her charge during their absence, the game commenced. for a considerable time the contest continued with varied success, helena and mr. caulfield seeming to think more of croqueting each other than of anything else, so that they were frequently called to order by their respective sides. flora had become quite animated, and intent on victory, if only to disappoint mr. penton, who said, when they were beginning, "oh! our party is certain to win, two gentlemen and a lady against two ladies and one gentleman. i really think we might give them odds!" a suggestion which was indignantly spurned by the players of the opposite side, who declared that skill and not strength was the thing required, and, therefore, they had not the slightest fear of losing. flora devoted all her energies to making good the boast, and she was well seconded by mr. mainwaring, whose steady, cautious game counteracted helena's wild, though at times brilliant, play. towards the end of the game the excitement grew very great; four had gained the goal, and all now turned on mr. caulfield and helena; she had only the last arch to make, and he had two arches, but it was his turn to play; so, if he could manage to send his ball straight through the two arches, and on to the starting-point, the game would be his. his ball was badly placed, however, in a diagonal line from the first arch, so that it would require great skill to make it pass through that and go straight to the other; yet he sometimes made very skilful hits, and it was a moment of intense interest to his adversaries. he struck the ball; but, instead of sending it through the first arch, it grazed the side of it and stopped short. this gave helena a fair opportunity for trying to croquet him; the safe play was not to do it, but to make the last arch at once and ensure the game, yet it was a strong temptation--how charming for helena to send his ball far away and distance him! on the other hand, it was of course possible that she might not croquet him well, and then the chances were that he would win. she looked at her partners as if to ask permission to risk the game. "very well," said flora, smiling; "on your head be it if we lose!" "how can you give your sanction to such recklessness, miss adair?" exclaimed mr. mainwaring. "pray, miss elton, consider for a moment; if you will play rationally we are sure to win, but if you persist in croqueting we shall probably lose--at least we should deserve it." "just the contrary! 'nothing venture nothing win.' oh! how can a _man_ be so cautious? it is a blessing for you, mr. mainwaring, that you are not a lover of mine, or i should play such pranks to rouse you into something like rashness as would 'make the angels weep.' hurrah, then, for daring and a good croquet! now, mr. caulfield!" and with an ominous shake of the head she raised her "mallet" to strike, amidst much laughter at her attack upon poor mr. mainwaring, who, although he did his best to join in the merriment at his own expense, evidently winced under it. down came the mallet with a sharp ring upon her own ball, on which her foot was firmly planted, and away bounded the other to the very end of the last line of arches. "bravo! bravo, miss elton!" arose from all sides, as she stood looking triumphantly at mr. mainwaring, and saying, "now, mr. caution, i shall not only win the game for you, but distance one of our adversaries!" "not so fast, if you please, miss helena," interposed mr. caulfield. "i might save my distance yet." "might! but you are not equal to it, fair sir; only _do_ play quickly, i am all impatience to hear our side proclaimed victorious, after mr. penton's contemptuous boast that _his_ side could afford to give us odds, because, forsooth, it numbers two of the precious male sex, and ours has only one of them! but, to the proof; we are losing time!" mr. caulfield made a good attempt at saving his distance, but he failed; so helena came in in full triumph, amidst loud acclamations. mrs. elton immediately proposed that they should take a stroll before their repast, which was ordered for two o'clock. if they were to drive back by grotto ferrata, she said, they must start, at latest, by four. "but," objected helena, "we have had but one game of croquet; and mrs. penton and mr. earnscliffe have not played at all! poor charles cannot; so it is not a matter of any interest for him." "as for me, helena, foregoing a game will not render me _tout à fait desolée_; and i think i may answer too for mr. earnscliffe." he bowed, and mrs. penton continued, "so it would be a pity to lose the beautiful drive by grotto ferrata for the sake of another round of croquet. it is much better to follow mrs. elton's suggestion." the young lady saw that there was nothing to be done but to submit, whilst her mother said, "come, helena, let thomas carry away those things. we are going to walk." and they all went on, excepting helena, flora, and mr. caulfield; the two latter waiting for helena, as she lingered, looking, with an expression of comic resignation, at thomas "bagging the balls," as she expressed it; then, turning away, she said with a sigh, "it is too bad not to give poor crestfallen mr. caulfield a chance of revenge!" "shure and niver mind, cushla machree," he answered, imitating the brogue of the irish peasantry. "i'll have it some other time. whin did you iver know an irishman be bate in ginerosity?" "may i ask, mr. caulfield, if you irish call revenge 'ginerosity?'" she exclaimed in a mocking tone; then she added, more seriously, "please to let us get on quickly, or we shall lose our friends; and oh, flora, what a lecture we should get for separating ourselves from the rest!" the party was soon overtaken; and flora observed, to her great amusement, that mrs. elton had succeeded in getting mary and mr. earnscliffe together. for about half-an-hour they wandered about the grounds, when mrs. elton led the way to their _al fresco_ banqueting-hall--a grassy plateau, so surrounded by trees as to be shaded from the afternoon sun; and here the servants had laid out the dinner. they had spread a tablecloth, fastened down by pegs; in the centre were baskets of flowers and fruits, surrounded by tempting sweet dishes, and next by the more substantial delicacies. mrs. elton had planned this pic-nic, priding herself justly on her catering for these occasions. in this case her task was comparatively an easy one, as spillman--the gunter of rome--had a branch establishment at frascati, whence the feast was supplied. "really this is quite a banquet of pleasure!" said mrs. penton; "all the delicacies of a grand dinner, without its heat, boredom, and ceremony. we certainly owe you a vote of thanks, mrs. elton!" "well," replied mrs. elton, with a complacent smile, "i do think that spillman has carried out my orders very fairly; and the most acceptable vote of thanks you can award me is to let me see you do justice to the repast; so let us begin at once; the ground must serve for seats. i told thomas to bring all the shawls from the carriages in case any one should like to make cushions of them." for some time the principal sound to be heard was the clatter of knives and forks. gradually this grew fainter, and was succeeded by the clatter of tongues. champagne was freely quaffed, healths were drunk, and much laughter was excited by mr. caulfield, who rose and made a speech,--such as only an irishman could make, with credit to himself--concluding it by asserting that his highest ambition was to be permitted the honour of proposing a toast to miss helena elton, as the queen of croquet players, and by expressing a hope that she would return thanks for the toast herself. he remained standing, with his glass in his hand; and when the laughter had subsided a little, helena, looking round the table, said, "i appeal to you all: can a gentleman refuse to act as a lady's deputy in returning thanks, if she requests him to do so for her?" the answer was unanimous: "certainly not?" "then, mr. caulfield," said she, with a graceful bow to him, "i hope you will do me the favour to return thanks for the toast which is about to be drunk in my honour!" with one accord the gentlemen rose, applauding her, and claiming the toast. mr. caulfield made a profound inclination to helena, and after a few more flowery words, proposed the toast, proclaiming her "the queen of croquet players and repartee." it was drunk with great enthusiasm; and all sat down, not excepting mr. caulfield, who seemed quite unconscious of the wondering looks directed towards him. after a few moments, however, he stood up again, and commenced with the utmost gravity:-- "ladies and gentlemen,--i rise to return thanks to the gentleman who gave the last toast, which we all drank with such unusual pleasure. miss helena elton has done me the honour of calling upon me to act as her deputy on this occasion, an honour i so highly appreciate that i consider myself more favoured by fortune than any gentleman in this worshipful company, save the one who had the happiness of proposing a toast so admirably adapted to my fair client." he was interrupted by calls of "hear, hear," "bravo," and much laughter; and after continuing for some time in an amusing strain, he sat down "amidst loud applause." to mrs. elton it seemed as if the hilarity would never end. at length she said, "i am very sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, but we must think of getting home. and see how the day has changed! i do not think it will be wise to extend our drive by grotto ferrata." but the younger portion of the company would not hear of any danger from change of weather; true, there was a black cloud in the direction of the town, but it would probably drift away, they said, and, at all events, there would only be a shower, which, as helena (who was in wild spirits) declared, would but add to the beauty of their drive through the fine old wood of grotto ferrata. the green of the trees would look so bright and fresh, sparkling with rain-drops. she could not conceive any necessity for haste, or for shortening their drive home. mrs. elton persisted in thinking that there was immediate danger of rain, and suggested that they should seek refuge in the cascade steps, where, at least, they would find shelter. in this, too, she was over-ruled; all consented, however, to have the carriages ordered. there was a little more drinking of wine, eating of fruit, laughing, and merry talk, when, suddenly, a large drop of rain fell upon the table-cloth, followed by another and another, dropping slowly and heavily, "one by one, like the first of a thunder-shower." the gentlemen started to their feet, helped up the ladies, urging them to run quickly to the cascade steps, as it was evident that there was heavy rain approaching. helena looked a little discomfited as she caught her mother's reproachful glance fixed upon her; but she carried it off with a laugh, and "well! it will only be a shower. you'll see that i shall be right after all!" "come, come," called out mr. penton; "you ladies must wrap yourselves up in whatever shawls there are, and get to shelter as fast as possible, or you will be drenched with rain. in the meantime, i will go to the hotel and send any other wrappings that i can find. you will be sure to take cold if you sit there upon those damp steps." "why can't you send one of spillman's men, george?" said his wife. "my dear, don't you see that they have already as much as they can possibly do to get those things away before the storm comes on?" "oh, as you like, my dear george; i only wished to save you trouble," languidly replied mrs. penton. as they hastened to the cascade, the large drops fell faster and faster; then they suddenly ceased. the quickness with which thunder-storms come on in southern climes is proverbial. less than an hour before, the sun was shining brightly in an azure sky, and a light breeze gave freshness to the air. now, that azure sky was all overcast; the air was heavy and sultry; there was a dead stillness all around; and the very leaves of the trees seemed to be weighed down, drooping under some unseen pressure. it was indeed the lull before the storm. hardly had they got into shelter, and mr. penton, accompanied by charles elton, had started for the hotel, when there arose a hurricane of wind,--whistling, tearing through the trees, waving the largest and strongest of them in its wild grasp, like the merest reeds; whirling into clouds the gravel of the walks, and rushing with unchecked fury through the covered passages wherein our party had taken refuge. then, back again it came with unabated vigour; and across the black, lowering sky darted a vivid flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a clap of thunder which seemed to burst over the cascade. it is curious to watch how differently a violent thunder-storm affects people, and ladies in particular. many make themselves quite foolish on such occasions, indulging in the most silly demonstrations of terror, clinging to each other, hiding their faces, uttering little shrieks to manifest their fears; others, although evidently frightened, have the good sense to remain quiet, and, if they are pious, begin to pray; others, again, seem to take delight in it,--it excites them,--they watch its course with riveted attention, and become lost, so to say, in admiration of its grand yet awful beauty; looking as if they would fain say, with the poet, "let me be a sharer in thy fierce and far delight, a portion of the tempest and of thee!" among our friends there were examples of the three classes. mrs. penton and helena were of the first; mrs. elton, mrs. adair, and mary, of the second; and flora, of the third. she left the rest, and mounted to the opening at the top, where she stood leaning against the wall, watching the storm. the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and burst over her, and there she stood alone for some time, until she was startled by a voice close behind her, saying-- "miss adair is, i see, not only an apostle, but also a braver of storms; quite free from feminine weakness both in speech and action." she looked round and saw mr. earnscliffe, whose words seemed to jar upon her ear; yet there was nothing in them at which she could take offence, so she answered-- "i do not think i am a coward in any sense of the word, and i would brave the storm were there any reason for doing so; but now there is none, and standing here is not braving it. why you say 'braver of storms,' i know not. i merely came here because it is pleasanter to feel the wind blowing against one and see the vivid lightning than to sit below on a damp step in a dark passage, listening to senseless exclamations of fear." "in which you do not share?" "certainly not." "well then, was i not right in calling you a braver of storms?" at this moment the sky opened and sent forth a bright forked streak of light, which darted in a serpent-like form through the air, and struck straight into the ground beneath them; with it came the deafening thunder, and, as it died away rumbling in the distance, he said, looking fixedly at her-- "are you still quite free from fear?" "from fear--yes; but it was a grand, a solemn sight,--one that none could witness without feeling their own littleness and helplessness; yet we know that no harm can reach us without the consent of him who rules the storms." "yet these storms are very dangerous!" he replied. "visible danger does but bring the idea of death more forcibly before us, therefore it always seems to me that all should preserve their calmness in moments like these; not christians only, but even fatalists,--those because they know that they must submit to the will of god and should make the only preparation then in their power; these, because they think it vain to cry out against fate. it is said that every one finds it difficult to part with life, but i do not believe it. i am sure it is often more difficult to be resigned to live than to be resigned to die!" "it is!" was the emphatic answer; but as flora turned to look at him, she saw his lip curling with the same contemptuous smile which she had seen in the morning, and, getting very red, she said-- "now you are ridiculing me; how foolish it was of me to speak in this way, and to a man! we never know when you are talking seriously, or only drawing us out in order to laugh at us." "this is not half so difficult for you as it is for us to know when women are true or false," he retorted quickly; but, seeing her look of wonder, he at once added-- "pardon me. i did not mean to offend you; experience teaches us hard lessons! still i will try to believe with byron, "that two, or one, are almost what they seem, that goodness is no dream, and happiness no name." "we have got into rather a gloomy train of conversation," said flora. "let us change it to something else, or to silence if you prefer it." he _did_ remain silent, but the expression of his face was so changed, so softened, that flora wondered why she had ever thought it stern. the storm appeared to be abating; the rain had almost ceased, but there were still occasional flashes of lightning, and the thunder murmured in the distance; it was evident that the weather was not settled. mary came up to say that they were to go at once, as the carriages were ready and it was thought better to make no delay, for heavy rain would probably come on again. mr. earnscliffe awoke from his fit of abstraction and said-- "quite right, the sooner we start the better; but first come out and look at the cascade; all is so bright and fresh. it is very delightful after the oppressive sultriness which preceded the storm. we can cross over and go down by the opposite flight of steps." the girls followed him and stood for a moment looking at the waters falling into the basin underneath. as they were turning away flora's foot slipped upon the wet moss, and she would have fallen had she not caught hold of mary's arm, who exclaimed-- "i hope you are not hurt, flora!" "what is it?" asked mr. earnscliffe, turning back quickly. "i slipped," replied flora, "and my ankle pains me slightly. i dare say it will be over in a moment." "not a sprain, i hope, miss adair," he said, looking anxiously at her; "if so, how shall i forgive myself for being the cause of it? i see you are in pain; pray take my arm, it will give you more support than miss elton's." "there is nothing to forgive or to be annoyed about" (taking his arm); "even if my ankle should be sprained, it is not your fault. i might have slipped anywhere else!" "nay, had it not been for me you would not have walked upon stones covered with wet moss; i cannot avoid blaming myself!" helena's voice was now heard calling, "mary! flora! what can you be about? mamma is so impatient to be off; we are going, come on quickly!" mary turned to flora: "can you get down? or will you wait a little, and i or mr. earnscliffe will go and tell them?" "i would rather go at once; and, with mr. earnscliffe's kind help, i shall get down the steps very well." "then let me really be of some assistance to you; lean heavily on me." and with the greatest care he helped her down the steps. "thank you," she said, as they reached the flat ground below; "it was so kind of you to let me lean on you as i did; now, i think, i can get on alone, and need not encumber you any longer." she drew away her arm from his. "it was anything but an encumbrance, miss adair," and he smiled as she had scarcely thought he could smile; "to help you was a most pleasing reparation for the mischief i have caused. do take my arm again!" "yes, i will do so, though not to give you a means of making reparation, since there is nothing to do that for, but because i find that i cannot walk as well as i thought i could. and now let us try to overtake the others." as soon as they reached the party helena exclaimed, "flora, what is the matter? you look so pale!" "i have sprained my ankle, i believe, and it hurts me a little." "_quel malheur!_ then you will not be able to dance to-night. a loss to you gentlemen, i can tell you. flora was pronounced to be the best dancer at the wiltons' ball!" "we are all aware of miss adair's superior dancing," rejoined mr. caulfield, "except perhaps mr. earnscliffe; and, being her countryman, as the painter before a celebrated masterpiece said, '_anch' io son pittore!_' i can say, 'i, too, am irish!'" "but," said flora, laughing, "there is a slight difference between the two arts. one of my mistresses at school remarked, on hearing dancing praised, 'yes, dancing is certainly a great accomplishment; dogs can be taught to do it so well!' we have yet to learn that dogs can be taught to paint." to poor flora's great comfort, the gate and the carriages beyond it now came in sight. mrs. adair and mrs. elton were already seated. as the former saw flora limping and leaning on mr. earnscliffe's arm, she said, "my child, what has happened?" flora answered that she had hurt her ankle a little, and then she got into the carriage, kindly and skilfully helped by mr. earnscliffe, who, as he shook hands with mrs. adair, asked permission to call on the next day to inquire after the invalid, which request was of course granted. mrs. elton pressed him to come to them in the evening; he refused politely, but firmly; accepting, however, mrs. penton's offer of a seat in their carriage back to rome. and so ended the croquet party at frascati. chapter ii. easter tuesday had arrived, and all the excitement of easter in rome was over. our friends had joined in the grand ceremonies of holy week; they had heard the silver trumpets sound forth the alleluias on easter morn, and on the evening of the same great day they had looked upon the glorious illumination of _san pietro_; on the next day they had seen the _girandola_, or fireworks, on the pincio; and easter, with all its festivities, had become bygone things. before we proceed we surely ought to ask how flora adair had got over her accident at frascati. on the day after it happened mr. earnscliffe called, as he had said, to inquire for her; and, considering himself in some degree as the cause of the mishap, he was quite distressed to find that it was so serious as to give her a good deal of pain, and keep her from walking for some time. it was so tiresome, he said, to be obliged to lie upon a sofa in such lovely weather--and in rome, too! would that he could do anything to make amends for the mischief he had caused! he exerted himself to the utmost to amuse and interest her during the time of his visit; and so well did he succeed, that before he left her she had become quite animated, and seemed to have forgotten her ailment. when he stood up to take leave, he said, "i hope, mrs. adair, that you will allow me to call again to see how the invalid progresses?" "certainly, we shall always be happy to see you, and, now that flora cannot go out, society is particularly desirable for her. the interest of conversation will make her forget her suffering--for a time, at least." "thank you! then i shall indeed avail myself of your permission; i shall be _so_ glad to think that i can in any degree lessen, even for half an hour, the weariness of that imprisonment of which, i must repeat, i feel i am the remote cause." thus he went constantly, and flora found a charm in conversing with him which she had never known before. they often disagreed and looked at things each from a different point of view, yet their _way_ of thinking seemed the same; there was sympathy even where they least appeared to agree. as she recovered, and when the excitement of easter was over, she began to feel the blank caused by the cessation of those long and looked-for visits. there remained nothing to expect from day to day with hope and pleasure. she enjoyed his society as she had never enjoyed that of any other person, and did not at all like the prospect of being obliged to do without it, or indeed without much of it, for the future. there are women who centre every delight in the object of their affections, and this, to a certain degree, even in friendship; but in love alone is it fully shown. to love, for such, is to centre everything in the beloved; they have no fits of great ardour followed by calmness--theirs is one unbroken act of love. should there be no obstacles to their love, it is to them a source of happiness undreamed of by many, for their world is full. they have attained happiness, as far as it can be attained on earth from earthly things--for the human heart is made for the infinite, and nothing finite can ever _fully_ satisfy it. these do not stop to calculate whether loving another will be for their own advantage; they call that, egotism--the very opposite of love. "_non amate dio per voi_" is for them the expression of perfect love; and is not the love of god the model, ay, and the motor too, of all true human love? when love is pure and disinterested it wants not its due reward, but it obtains so much the greater recompense the less it seeks. but should such obstacles arise, should they be separated from the object of their love, their misery is correspondingly great. like a native of some sunny clime banished in the noonday of life to a northern land, clouded in chilly mists, it is vain to surround him with all that should cheer his heart; vain to strive--how tenderly soever it may be--to beguile his weariness; he pines for the beloved sun of other days, and sighs hopelessly for the glowing brightness of his home. so is the sun of _their_ life beclouded,--he who was their sun, he who threw a halo over all, is gone; the chilly mist is ever upon their hearts, and they know in this life something of that terrible torture--the pain of loss. but another pang is often reserved for them, and it is of all the most bitter; it comes when they have to choose between love and conscience, and when, in obeying the dictates of the latter, they have to bear the reproach of not loving truly, whilst, as they know but too well, they love so fully that few understand or realise it. to feel all this, and yet to be powerless to prove their love, is torture so great that they must indeed be watched over from above if they get safely through the ordeal. flora adair thought and dreamed of the truest love to be found on earth, and without it life seemed to her but a sunless sojourn. could she but have soared high enough so to love god, without the intervention of any creature, how great would have been her happiness! no struggle, no doubting, no separation possible! to this, however, she felt unequal,--she rested on a less lofty height, yet it was still a _height_, since all love, in order, is homage to god! was this great enjoyment of mr. earnscliffe's society the dawning of her dream of day? we can only answer that she herself did not so think about it; she only felt that he pleased her more than any other had ever done, and that she wished her ankle had not got well so quickly, that she might still have had the pleasure of meeting him frequently. to dissipate the weariness which she felt to be stealing upon her, she proposed to her mother and lucy to go to the blakes, as mina blake had said something about going on that day to the novitiate house of one of the teaching orders, to see madame ely, an old and intimate friend of theirs, who was an inmate of that convent, and had asked if they would like to go also. flora said that she would be delighted to meet madame ely again in order to see if the warm poetic south had softened that apt pupil of the frigid discipline of her order, or if she were still the same icy being as before in their northern climes. mrs. adair agreed to the proposal, but lucy declined, pleading that she had a pretty novel and would rather stay at home to finish it than go to see such a prim old lady as flora described madame ely to be. accordingly, lucy was left to her novel, and mrs. adair and flora set off for the piazza di venezia, where the blakes lived. of "the blakes" there were only the mother and daughter then in rome, mr. blake had not been able to accompany his wife and their only child, mina, to italy. mrs. blake was very lady-like, clever, and agreeable. mina and flora had been school companions and were great friends; there were some traits of similarity between the two girls--both were habitually reserved and undemonstrative in manner, although enthusiastic enough when they liked any one very much; but they were not easily attracted, and their apparent indifference made them somewhat unpopular. the arrival of the adairs was greeted by many expressions of pleasure, especially from mina, who exclaimed, "oh, flora! i am so glad that you have come, because you and mrs. adair will, perhaps, join miss lecky and me in going to the convent,--you remember i spoke of it the other day. mamma has got a cold and cannot come, so i was in despair at the prospect of an afternoon's drive _tête-à-tête_ with old lecky. we are to go to the doria villa afterwards--_do_ come." "i shall be delighted," answered flora; "and mamma, will you not come also?" mrs. adair assented, and mina said she would go and get ready, as they were to call at the hotel for "old lecky" at four, and it was then half-past three. she soon returned dressed for the expedition, and the adairs took leave of mrs. blake. when they reached the piazza they called one of the open carriages which are so common in rome, and drove to the hotel d'amerique, where miss lecky was staying. she did not keep them waiting many minutes, so they reached the convent a little after four. they were shown into a small square room, the walls of which were white-washed; rows of cane chairs and a table in the centre completed its furniture. there was a glass door standing open leading into a garden which looked so fresh and green in the bright sunshine that mina said it would be a blessed change from that little cold, prim room; she hoped that madame ely would ask them to walk in it, so that they might mount the rising ground at the back and see from it the celebrated view of rome. this hope, however, was not destined to be gratified by madame ely, who made her appearance just as mina ceased speaking. she was tall and slight, with finely cut, sharp features, dark brown piercing eyes, thin lips, and a firmly closed mouth; she looked as rigid as ever, and her manner was as freezing. flora saw at a glance that not even italian suns had succeeded in melting that block of ice. she whispered to mina, "byron says-- 'the deepest ice which ever froze, can only o'er the surface close;' but i scarcely think he could say so here, as he would see some which had frozen far beneath the surface, or else there never was anything to freeze over: perhaps it is so." during the conversation with mrs. adair, madame ely named a madame hird, whom, as it turned out, mrs. adair had known very well. she now expressed a wish to see her, which request was granted, and madame hird came down. she was the very opposite of madame ely--short in stature and of drooping carriage; she had small, delicate features, soft blue eyes with a most gentle expression, and, if she also was somewhat cold, it was merely a conventual coldness,--it could easily be seen that, in her, the ice had indeed "only o'er the surface" closed. she remembered mrs. adair quite well, and they talked of former days and old acquaintances till mrs. adair thought it was time to say adieu, and she asked madame hird if they could take any commands for her to paris, or indeed to ireland, whither they were eventually going. "i thank you, no," she answered; but after a momentary pause she continued, "yet you could indeed do me a great service, if it would not be asking too much. it is to take charge of a little _protégée_ of mine as far as paris,--instead of _protégée_ i should rather have said one who has been particularly recommended to my care by a dear friend, madame de st. severan, a countrywoman, but, as her name proclaims, married to a frenchman, colonel de st. severan." mrs. adair said she would be most happy to oblige her old friend madame hird. "well, then," answered the latter, "you must allow me to hand over to you a sketch of my little charge's history, which madame de st. severan sent to me. you can take it with you and read it at your leisure; then come again and tell me if you are still willing to take charge of marie. she is the daughter of an arab chief,--but all that you will see in madame de st. severan's account of her. i will go and fetch it." she left the room, but returned quickly with the packet. mrs. adair thanked her for it, said they would call again in a few days, and then the whole party stood up to take their leave. when they got to the door, mrs. adair said, "come, flora, we must get home as quickly as possible; it is already past five." "oh, mrs. adair," exclaimed mina, "please not to take flora away; let her take a drive with us and spend the evening; you know mamma is always delighted to have her, and as miss lecky lives in your neighbourhood, she can see her home." "but she has not dined, child, and you have!" mina looked imploringly at flora and glanced with dismay at miss lecky. flora understood the mute appeal, and said-- "really, mamma, i could not eat any dinner as i made such a very good luncheon, therefore _that_ need not keep me from going with mina!" "and we shall have a 'thick tea' when we get home," added mina; "so, mrs. adair, you will not be so cruel as to refuse to let her come with us;--but why will you not come also?" "oh! i am too rational to leave my dinner for a drive; besides, lucy would be waiting for us. i must go home, but if my fair daughter chooses to go without her dinner she may do so." "i thank you _so_ much, mrs. adair," answered mina: "but you will let us take you home?" "indeed i can allow no such thing,--it would make you far too late for the villa doria. i will say good-bye, now; and, flora, pray come home in good time." "you may depend upon my leaving her at home in good time, mrs. adair; i never stay out late," said miss lecky. just then one of the little open carriages passed; mrs. adair called it and drove home; the other three ladies then started for the villa doria. but we have not yet presented miss lecky to the reader,--she has only been heard of as "old lecky." it is true she was no longer young or interesting, yet a few words must be said, not of her appearance so much as of her character. she was, then, a desperate saint and a church-haunter, but, at the same time, indefatigable in running about to all the profane sights. in the galleries of painting and statuary she evinced the most rigid modesty in turning away her head and looking down when any undraped figure--of which there is no lack in italian galleries--caught her eye, and this to the great amusement of the girls, who, whenever they went with her to any of these places, took the greatest delight in pointing out to her on the catalogue objects which were particularly to be observed, and afterwards watching the poor old lady's start of horror at such representations; being short-sighted, moreover, she did not see anything until she was quite near to it. for the rest she was a good-natured, kind-hearted old creature, yet a little wearisome withal to our young friends. as they drove to the villa doria the task of entertaining her fell principally upon mina, as her mother's friend and guest. flora sat silently enjoying the delicious italian evening; she might have been accused of looking a little abstracted, as, with eyes apparently fixed on vacancy, she leaned back in the carriage. perhaps there were floating before them visions of other and yet more delicious evenings, when she lay upon a sofa near an open window and listened to a voice and words very different from old lecky's! they drove out of the porta san pancrazio, a little distance beyond which are the grounds of the doria pamfili villa, one of the most extensive and park-like places to be found on the continent, and although somewhat disfigured by avenues, terraces, and fountains, it is an enchanting spot, especially in the gorgeous roman spring-time. such it was on the evening when our party entered its gates. had they come to see the fashionable world it was rather late; already the carriages were disappearing, for the sun was declining rapidly towards its setting in the west, and the romans are far too careful of their health to brave the dangerous half-hour which, it is said, precedes and follows sunset. our friends, however, did not come to see the _monde_, and the lateness of the hour only enhanced the beauty of the grounds. as for the health question, the young ladies simply ignored it, and miss lecky probably did not know anything about it, or _she_ would not have been so recklessly indifferent to it as her companions were. one of the chief objects of interest is the _columbarium_. perhaps, for the advantage of our readers who have not been to rome and have not studied murray, we ought to say that columbarium is a name given to certain sepulchral buildings from their likeness to a modern pigeon-house with its tiers of little niches; and in these were deposited in former days urns containing the ashes of the dead, whose names are inscribed on marble tablets above. in one of the _columbaria_ on the appian way there is a curious record placed by a lady over the ashes of a favourite dog; his portrait accompanies the inscription, and he is designated as the delight--"_delicium_"--of his mistress!... the _columbarium_ in the grounds of the villa doria consists of one large chamber and several smaller ones; it contains a great number of urns, but few inscriptions, and none of any great interest, so the inspection of it detained our friends only for a few minutes. they then drove to the monument erected by prince doria to the memory of the french who fell there in the year , when general oudinot forced garibaldi and his republicans from the casino and grounds, where they had taken up a strong position. it is situated at the end of one of the great avenues of evergreen oaks, and is an octagonal temple, supported by four columns of white marble, on which is placed a statue of the blessed virgin, and on the pedestal are the names of those who fell in defence of the villa. this is a beautiful object seen from the other end of the avenue,--the white marble contrasting so well with the dark green of the majestic oaks. it was now high time for them to think of returning, as the gates of the villa were about to be closed; but the evening was still so lovely that mina declared it would be a sin to go home so soon. miss lecky agreed with her, and asked if there were any church which they could see on their way back. mina answered, "yes, _santa sabina_; we shall pass close to the _bocca della verità_, which is very near to it; one of the fathers of the dominican convent is my cousin, so i can ask to see him." miss lecky said that she would be delighted to go, as she had never seen that church. mina whispered to flora that she would not see much of it, unless she had cat's eyes and could see in the dark; but it was a good joke to storm the convent after the _ave maria_, and astonish the monks by the sight of three women at that hour. accordingly they drove to santa sabina, or rather, to the foot of mount aventine, on the summit of which it stands. the driver begged them to walk up as "the hill was so steep," and, the light fading, he was afraid that his horses might stumble and fall on their way down; so they got out and went up on foot, the carriage waiting below for them. on reaching the convent they rang at the door, which was quickly opened by a lay-brother, who looked wonder-struck on seeing the three ladies. mina ignored the look of surprise, and calmly asked if she could see "_il padre_ osmondo." the lay-brother said he would inquire, and showed them into the parlour. it was already so dark that they could see but indistinctly, and suddenly it appeared to dawn upon miss lecky that it was somewhat of an unseemly hour for a visit to a monastery. mina and flora could hardly suppress their laughter at the thought that the old lady should only then have arrived at the knowledge of that long evident fact. just then the door opened, and in came father osmond. he shook hands with mina, who introduced her friends, and laughingly apologised for the lateness of their visit, saying that as they were passing at the foot of the hill, and miss lecky was so anxious to see the church before she left rome, they had ventured to call at that hour, fearing they would have no other opportunity. father osmond was a tall, fat, good-natured-looking irishman, with ruddy cheeks and laughing blue eyes. he answered, in a rich brogue, "shure inough, miss blake, i'd niver doubt you to be me counthry-woman--to come and see a place in the dark; but as you are here, i suppose i must bring you into the church, and thry if a candle will help you to see sassoferrato's sweet virgin." "thank you," replied mina, as they followed him to the church door, where he begged them to wait a moment while he went to get a candle. he quickly returned, with a lighted one in his hand, and led them to the chapel where is sassoferrato's beautiful madonna, a picture unsurpassed, perhaps, in sweetness of expression, by any in rome. the scene was indeed a strange one; the large dark church, with the glimmer of a small lamp in one of the side chapels the three female figures standing there, staring up at the picture, and the dominican in his white habit moving the candle from side to side. the girls were keenly alive to it, and the twinkle in father osmond's eye showed that he too was not insensible to its absurdity. at last he said-- "well, miss lecky, i think you'd do as well to come some _day_ to see the church, for shure you can't judge of anything by this miserable candlelight." "you are right," she answered; "i must manage to come some day to see the church, and have a look at this beautiful picture. now we had better think of getting home." father osmond led the way back to the reception-room, and said he would call the lay-brother to let them out, adding, "your carriage is at the door, i suppose." "no," replied miss lecky,--the girls did not trust themselves to speak,--"the driver asked us to walk up; the hill, he said, was so very steep for the horses." "you don't mean to say that you came up by yourselves! shure thin i don't know how you'll iver git down again! why this hill is so lonely and dangerous a place after nightfall that one of the lay-brothers would not go out alone, and you three ladies are going to walk down alone as late as this! no, that can't be!" the spirit of mischief must have taken possession of the two girls, for, as they saw poor miss lecky grow pale with terror, and heard her exclaim, "oh! father osmond, what shall we do?" they laughed outright. father osmond looked at them with a half-amused, half-impatient expression, and said, "it is all very well to laugh, young ladies, but may be it's the wrong side of your mouth you'd laugh if you walked down that hill alone to-night. but that you'll not do. shure i couldn't sleep aisy in me bed for thinking of what might happen to you. i'll go and get somebody to go down with you." so saying he left the room. poor miss lecky expressed the most ardent wishes that they had never left the carriage, and that they were safe back in it again, and the young ladies tried to regain a little gravity. in a few minutes father osmond came back and said that the man who took care of the garden would take a lantern and see them safe to the carriage. they thanked father osmond warmly for all his kindness, and as mina shook hands with him she begged him in a low voice to excuse this wild freak of theirs, and forgive all their laughing. "you're young, me children, you're young, and shure it's not meself that would find fault with you for being merry; long may you remain so;--and now, good-night, and may god bless you both." they followed miss lecky, who was impatiently waiting for them at the door, and trying to make out something of what the man with the lantern was saying, which, as she knew very little italian, seemed rather a hopeless task; and she looked as much afraid of him as of anything else. in truth, he was rather a formidable-looking personage, with his tall, gaunt figure wrapped up in a long dark cloak, a large slouched hat covering his brows so that nothing of his face could be seen but two fierce black eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. he did indeed look rather bandit-like. as the girls came out he said, "_andiamo presto, signorine_," and started off at a brisk pace with the lantern. mina could not resist the temptation of drawing out poor old lecky's fear of their protector, and giving flora a sign to follow the lead, she said, "don't you think, miss lecky, that the man looks to be a very suspicious character? suppose he was to be an accomplice of those dangerous people we hear of, and that, when we are half way down the hill, they should dart out from some dark corner! he might pretend that he was frightened by their number, and run away, leaving us in their hands." "but surely you don't think the fathers would employ such a person, do you?" "of course not, if they knew it," said flora, gravely; "but you know italians are so cunning that they easily deceive poor monks, and _that_ man certainly is like the descriptions which we read of bandits." "well, do you know," began miss lecky, in a trembling tone, "it struck me as soon as i saw him, but i did not like to say anything, fearing----" "what's that!" interrupted mina, as a low whistle was heard; "it is the signal perhaps!" "my god! there they are!" exclaimed the poor old lady, as she convulsively caught hold of flora's arm, "and he is speaking to the leader. oh! let us run away!" mina laughed aloud, flora at the same time trying to keep from following her example, and to calm poor miss lecky's fears by telling her that it was only a flock of goats, and the terrible leader a peaceable herdsman, with his crook, to whom their attendant spoke a few words. miss lecky, as we have already learned, was a good-humoured creature, so she laughed heartily at her own mistake, and said she was so ridiculously short-sighted that she could not distinguish anything at a distance; but how she wished they were safe in the carriage! the girls felt that it would be carrying a joke to ill-nature to teaze her any more, so they changed their tone, and began to reassure her by telling her that they were nearly at the foot of the hill, and then all cause of fear would be at an end. it was almost too much for them to keep from bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of the poor goats and their herdsman being taken for a party of bandits with their leader. at length they reached the end of their walk, without any further adventures than passing now and then dark-looking individuals enveloped in cloaks, who stared curiously at them, but went on their way without speaking. the girls, however, _did_ afterwards admit that it would not have been pleasant for them to have been alone. the moment when they came in sight of the carriage miss lecky made a rush towards it, and got in. mina thanked their cavalier and gave him a couple of pauls, when he took off his hat, courteously wished them _buon viaggio e felice notte_, and returned to the convent. they told the coachman to drive back fast to the piazza di venezia, and when they got home they found mrs. blake expecting them rather anxiously, as it was so late. as mina had said, she appeared delighted to see flora, and told them that tea would be ready for them in a moment. mina hoped that there was plenty of good substantial eatables, particularly for poor flora, who had not dined; but flora declared that she did not deserve to be pitied, since she had enjoyed the drive far more than she would have enjoyed dinner. a little after nine miss lecky left flora at her home. as soon as she got into the drawing-room she threw herself into an armchair, and then proceeded to give an account of their adventures. chapter iii. we must now turn our attention to some of our other friends of the croquet party, and especially to one about whom, as we have already seen, flora adair's thoughts were not a little occupied, namely, mr. earnscliffe, in order to endeavour to learn something of his appearance and his mode of life. he lived in the piazza di trajana, in a handsome and thoroughly italian apartment on the second floor--or, as it is more properly called, _secondo piano_--of a house situated at the lower end of the piazza, nearly opposite to the church of santa maria di loretto. he was seated in an armchair by a table covered with books and writing materials,--to all appearance he had been reading. his tall and strongly-built form seemed made for activity and energy, and in keeping therewith was the well-shaped hand, which rested upon the arm of his chair,--a hand full of vigour, one of those which show at a glance that its support could be trusted to in any trial or danger. his brown, yet almost auburn, hair was brushed off from a high forehead, but one marked with many a line,--too many for a man of six-and-thirty. byron speaks of "those furrows which the burning share of sorrow ploughs untimely there;" and so, perhaps, was it with mr. earnscliffe. his large blue eyes had a strangely stern expression in them, "_pour les doux yeux bleus_," but at times, when moved by even a momentary feeling of enthusiasm, there beamed in them a winning softness which looked far more natural to him than that strange sternness. it may be, however, that this was "a light of other days." his slightly aquiline nose, and his somewhat full lips closed firmly over an unbroken and even range of strong teeth, and his firm and resolute mouth betokened an ardent, passionate nature. a beard and moustache, of nearly the same colour as his hair, covered the lower part of his face, which was naturally fair, but somewhat bronzed by southern suns. he was dressed in a dark morning suit, without any _recherche_; but in a peasant's costume there would have been that same air of ease and high breeding which so strikingly distinguished him,--that distinction of nature which no outward adornment of wealth or fashion, or even birth with all its advantages, could give. "it is the soul," says the great christian doctor and philosopher, "which is the form of the body and which gives its beauty to it." we have heard from mrs. elton that mr. earnscliffe was rich. why then did he live in this unfashionable quarter? probably because it _was_ unfashionable, and out of the way of his sight-seeing, gaiety-hunting country people, who congregate about the corso and the piazza di spagna; probably also because in the piazza di trajana, where the houses look down upon the remains of that once magnificent forum and the unrivalled column which still stands there, he lived in some degree in the rome of old, "the mistress of the world, whose people were a nation of kings," as he had said on that day at frascati, and not in the modern rome, which to his clouded vision appeared so despicable. if the pride of human reason, which was so strong in him, would have permitted him to endeavour to pierce that cloud, he would have seen how much more glorious is her diadem now than it then was. then her sovereignty rested on material force alone,--she was the capital of the peoples whom she had conquered for her cæsars by the force of arms, and her government was the lower one--the government of _power_; now her sovereignty is a moral sovereignty,--she is the capital of christendom, of the nations which she has won to god by the power of persuasion, and her government is the highest of all--the government of _love_! but these things were hidden from mr. earnscliffe,--he "did not believe, and therefore he could not understand." upon the table beside him lay nibbi's "_roma antica e moderna_," "_les catacombes de rome_," by louis perret, an open volume of plato, bulwer's "zanoni" and "godolphin." it was a small but somewhat miscellaneous collection, and formed a fair index to the mind of him who sat in the armchair. there were few men who had read or thought more than he had done in his own way; but the more he read and the more he thought, the more baseless everything seemed to him. at times he would sit with an open volume beside him, and, ceasing to read, bitterly ask himself what he gained by all his study and thought? it only isolated him, he would say, from the generality of people, and left him tossing without a rudder upon the unstable waters of human opinion, to which there seemed to be no attainable shore.... yet the shore was close to him, only he _would_ not see it. there had just risen up before him a vision of years long past and gone, when he dreamed of love, of the unutterable delight of conferring happiness upon another; and for a moment his blue eyes regained their natural soft expression--but for a moment only; the next it had passed away; and throwing his head back impatiently, as if he would shake off "those spectres whom no exorcism can bind," he exclaimed, "what nonsense all this is! do i not know by experience the hollowness of love? the best of women are but the best of actresses--for they are all so more or less--and would i sigh again for aught so worthless? a thousand times, no. i made my choice long ago; i determined to be self-sufficing, true and virtuous for my own sake, and to prove what man can be of himself alone! ay, plato," and he drew the book towards him, "thou art my best friend, my only master! but even thou dost not teach enough! yet come, thou canst teach me more than any other!" and, with the old stern look in his face, he began to read again. will his proud spirit of self-reliance, his iron will, ever be humbled? will he ever learn to kiss the rod under which he writhes? if so, it must indeed be after a deadly struggle with his mortal enemy, himself. he did not go much into society, and rather avoided that of ladies, although he could make himself most pleasing to them when he chose to do so, as indeed he had proved in regard to flora adair. his sense of justice was unusually strong, and therefore it was that he had broken through his rule of rarely visiting by going so often to the adairs; he considered it as a sort of moral debt to render the time of flora's imprisonment as little wearisome as possible, having been, as he said, the remote cause of her accident. as that obligation was now over, he tried to persuade himself that he was delighted at it; yet many things which had happened during their conversations were constantly recurring to him; he wished he had said this, or that,--something, in short, which he had not said. he thought, moreover, that he should like to be able to study flora adair more closely, but merely to find her out, as no doubt she was an actress like the rest of her sex. he was generous too, ever ready to give money to relieve others, and, notwithstanding his assumed stoicism, his tell-tale eyes would light up with a passing glow whenever he felt that he had been the means of doing good to a suffering creature, or given any pleasure to others. to his servants he was a kind master, although habitually reserved and distant, but never to them was he proud and scornful, as he often was to his equals. for the rest, his character must develop itself. we shall not now be astonished at acts of apparent inconsistency caused by that perpetual warfare between the two natures, the real and the acquired. thus flashes of the enthusiastic spirit of his youth would every now and then dart athwart the sombre hues of the philosopher and fatalist of later years. on this day there certainly seemed to be something very wrong with mr. earnscliffe, for he could not as usual, by the mere force of his will, fix his attention to the book before him. closing it with a jerk, he said to himself, "what on earth has come over me? what has called up so many memories which i thought buried for ever--memories of days when i was not the cold lonely being i now am? have i not found out the hollowness of all things? have i not sought in vain for proofs even of the creator's goodness, about which one hears so much cant? i can see only human beings endowed with sensitive powers, and thrown into the world for the greater part to be tortured, and all left without any certain guide, the sport of their own wayward minds! and then, indeed, people talk about the consolations of religion! what are those consolations? what is religion? a helpless human being in the bright morning of this deceptive life is suddenly struck down by a blow which not only strikes at him, but at his faith in all goodness and truth; he turns to religion and asks for its consolations, and religion turns out to be a collection of rules and maxims laid down by one or more men of different sects, who call themselves ministers of god, and its consolations are certain texts of scripture interpreted by them as they please, each giving a different meaning, whilst they are united in nothing save in hating and attacking the oldest and most dominant of their creeds: and this perhaps is the best feature about them, as it proves that even they have an instinctive horror of deceit and superstition. _Ã� propos_, i wonder how flora adair believes in it; for although she too is an actress, she is capable of thinking. however, i believe it is supposed to be right for ladies to be religious. ah! that's it, is it? yet she _did_ seem to speak from conviction at frascati. i wish i could unravel her! she would be rather a new and interesting study,--she takes a different _rôle_ from young ladies in general. i don't know that it would be a bad plan to try to unearth her,--it would be something new to think about, at all events; so, young lady, if you come in my way i shall try to find out all the _dessous les cartes_. as for religions, i am surely not going to fall back to thinking about them and seeking that _ignis fatuus_, certainty! reason is the only power which i can recognise, and plato is reason's highest, noblest disciple. how is it, then, that to-day i cannot find in him food to satisfy--nay, he never _satisfies_--but to stay the mind's craving? well, it seems to be an unsolvable riddle. i only know that i cannot solve it; so, for dream-land! bulwer is a good magician, and however unreal may be the visions which he conjures up, it is a relief to forget one's self in them even for a time." he threw himself back into his chair and took up "godolphin," which he opened at about the middle of the volume. his eyes grew bright, and a slight colour came into his face as he read. was it his only goddess, reason, which thus moved him? we will leave it to those of our readers who know "godolphin,"--and who does not?--to answer the question for themselves. having discovered as much of mr. earnscliffe as we can now see, we will transport ourselves to a more fashionable quarter--to the via babuino--where the eltons lived. their apartment differed essentially from mr. earnscliffe's; his was italian, theirs was english in everything,--an english servant opened the door and ushered visitors into a handsome drawing-room luxuriously furnished _à l'anglaise_, with a rich soft carpet, couches, and lounging chairs of various kinds. mrs. elton was still in her room; being an invalid, she seldom made her appearance much before one o'clock, and it had but just struck twelve. mary elton was seated at a table, writing; her younger sister, helena, lolling rather gracefully on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, from which, however, her thoughts seemed to wander not a little, and her restless eyes were fixed oftener on her sister than on the page before her. she seemed to be meditating--if such a word could ever be applied _justly_ to one who was so thoughtless and impulsive--something in regard to mary, and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently as she watched the incessant motion of her sister's pen and her close attention to what she was doing. we must not pass over in silence the appearance of these two young ladies, who were said, indeed, to be very much admired. mary's figure was tall, rather full and stately; she moved quietly and with a certain degree of dignity; while helena was not much above the middle height, and slighter than her sister; there was a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless movements, which was very attractive. never were there greater contrasts, in appearance as in all the rest, than these two sisters. they had both red--some called it auburn--hair, but in truth it was scarcely auburn; both had brilliantly fair complexions and hazel eyes, but there the resemblance ceased. mary's eyes were large and round; they looked at one with a calm, _steady_ gaze; they could burn at times, and when they did, it was with no mere flash, but a fierce steady flame. helena's were smaller and more almond-shaped,--sparkling, dancing, laughing eyes they were indeed! mary had a broad and rather high forehead, a straight, almost grecian, nose and a well-cut but large mouth. helena's forehead was low and very narrow, her nose was slightly _retroussé_, and her mouth small, with red pouting lips. the expression of one of these faces was constantly changing; that of the other was habitually calm and thoughtful,--a face which changed but seldom, but when it did change it was no april sunshine, or cloud, or summer storm that passed over it. helena could bear the monotonous scratching of mary's pen no longer, and exclaimed, "for goodness' sake, mary, do stop writing, and give up looking so intensely interested in that stupid letter to our saint of an aunt! i know it must bore you dreadfully!" "because you are bored yourself, helena; is it not so? but mamma wishes this letter to go to-day, so i _must_ write it, in any case." "yes, of course, you dear delightful child; but there is plenty of time, and i want you to talk to me now. tell me, are you coming to the catacombs this afternoon? you know that we have tickets, and can join a party of which cardinal de reisac is to be the cicerone." "the catacombs? no! what could have put such an idea into your head? surely you are not thinking of going?" "surely i am, though!" "and, in the name of all that is wonderful, for what? you would not tell me that such a madcap as you are can care to go poking about in those damp underground passages, listening to an old cardinal's fabulous legends of this roman nonsense? a little poetic association with the past is very telling for them, no doubt; but you are never going for all this, helena?" "no, not i! but, my precious matter-of-fact sister, can you not imagine any one going to the catacombs for any other motive than that of seeing them and listening to tiresome old histories? 'poking about in those damp underground passages,' as you most irreverently designate visiting the last home of the saints, the persecuted, the martyrs!" mary could not help smiling as helena went on with mock gravity. "venturing to repeat your profane mode of speaking, my dear mary, i beg to say that 'poking about in those damp underground passages' might be made very pleasant indeed, and one might hear there something far more agreeable than the twaddling of a reverend monsignore." "pray be sensible, if you can, helena. i suppose you have discovered that mr. caulfield is to be of the party, and that is, no doubt, your motive for going." "with your usual wisdom you have divined it, o 'most potent, grave, and reverend' lady!" "how silly you are! but i am sure i don't know why you have told me your motive for going, since you know it is one of which i cannot approve. it would be mistaken kindness, indeed, were i to encourage you in this wild fancy which you have taken for mr. caulfield. you will not be allowed to marry him, therefore all these meetings will but make you unhappy!" "most admirably reasoned! only you seem to ignore the existence of that tender passion called love, which is not remarkable for its obedience to reason, as far as i know. i love harry caulfield, so the mischief--if mischief it be--is done; therefore, whether i am allowed to marry him or not, it is too late to think of saving me from unhappiness by preventing me from seeing him. now listen to me, mary, and i will be as serious as you like; i repeat i love him,--not perhaps in the way that flora adair----" (a strange expression passed over mary's face as this name was uttered; helena's quick eye caught it, but she continued without making any observation) "and her friend mina blake talk about,--a feeling into which everything is merged, concentrated into the one thought, can i make him happy? how amused i have been when listening to them; you know they say that a woman's happiness consists not in the least in doing what _she_ likes, but in the happiness of the man she loves! where they learnt such notions i cannot conceive!" "nor can i see what their ideas on the subject can have to do with your reasons for making me your confidant, which was what i wished to know." "nothing on earth, most lawyer-like of young ladies; but i could not help telling you _en passant_ how flora and her friend talk about love." had helena really no other motive for bringing in flora's name? mary shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and said, "to the point, helena, if you please." "shure now, you wouldn't be for hurrying and flusthering a poor young crature!" answered helena, with provoking trifling; but, seeing that mary looked really annoyed, she added in a more sober tone, "well, i said i would be serious, and so i will; please, mary, do have a little patience with me. my reasons, then, are threefold: first, i wanted a confidant; secondly, i chose you because i know that, after all, you are fond of your madcap sister, and can help her so much if you choose to do so; thirdly, i could repay your kindness by telling you something which you would be glad to hear." "helena!" interrupted mary, whilst an angry flush spread itself over her face. "nay, mary, hear me out; i did not mean to speak of this as a bribe; i know you too well to imagine that you would be induced to help me to a little enjoyment for the sake of any self-gratification; for that i depend on your affection; yet, as i said before, it is pleasant to feel that i can repay you; or, if you will not help me, you shall have my information gratis." "i don't in the least know what you mean, helena," rejoined mary, in her coldest manner. "of course not, you never knew a young lady who was considered a model of sense, held up as a pattern to an incorrigibly wild younger sister, who was always at some mischief or other, flirting--what not? well, this young lady did really seem to be a model one, and an immovable rock of sense; to possess those treasures, a well-regulated mind, and a heart which, like a good watch, but ticked slow or fast according to the regulator; and to have far too much dignity, self-respect, proper pride, and all the rest of it, ever to care the least for any man until he had formally proposed, and was accepted with the full approbation of her family; when--would you believe it, mary?--all----" "nonsense, helena, i shall not stay to hear any more of this." mary stood up looking flushed and angry. "let me go, please," she continued, as helena held her dress; but helena held on, saying-- "mary, you must sit down again, and let me say what i have to say, or i shall be obliged to describe the model young lady to somebody else, and see if they can recognise the original." she put her arms round her sister's waist, and, pulling her down upon the sofa, seated herself on the ground at her feet; then she went on, "when you interrupted me, mary, i was just going to ask you if you could believe it, that all of a sudden this compound of dignity, self-respect, and maidenly reserve fell in love with a man who didn't care a pin for her"--mary winced--"and this was not all: she became furiously jealous of a young lady friend who did seem to interest him, a supposed woman-hater, not a little. a few glances and unheeded words betrayed it all to the giddy girl, who immediately felt a new well of love spring up in her heart for that apparently immovable sister, whom she had discovered to be something more than the well-regulated timepiece she had before seemed to be. she saw her suffer silently; she saw tears, all unbidden, start into her eyes; she longed to throw her arms round her, and win her to tell her pain, and thus lessen its sting; to help her, perhaps, and give her hope. mary, my sister, let me comfort you as well as i can; further secresy is useless,--i have seen it all. love makes us wondrously keen-sighted. had i not known something of the little god's wiles myself, i might not have been so sharp. confide in me, mary; i am generally thoughtless, it is true, and talk at random, but i can be silent as the grave where i love, and i love my sister." poor mary could bear it no longer; the slowly-gathering tears fell, at last, as helena looked up fondly and pleadingly at her. and the sisters changed _rôles_: the calm reserved mary sobbed passionately, and helena endeavoured to soothe and comfort her. mary elton was not one who--young-lady-like--"enjoyed a good cry;" tears were rather a pain than a relief to her, and seldom were they forced from her save by a sudden shock, such as her sister's discovery, and the laying bare of the secret which she believed to be hidden deep in the recesses of her own heart. after a few minutes her sobs ceased, and she became calmer; drawing back a little from helena's arms, she said, coldly-- "you have stolen into my confidence, helena, so i have no power to give or to refuse it!" "oh, mary!" and helena's tone told how much her sister's coldness pained her. mary felt it, and suddenly bending over her, she kissed her fondly, saying, "foolish child, do not think that i am not grateful for all your affection, or that i do not return it. ah, helena, you don't know how i love your frank, impulsive nature, and how i envy you your light-heartedness, your power of forgetting, in the enjoyment of the hour, all pain and sorrow; but i cannot be tender now; tenderness would unnerve me, would break down the barrier of self-restraint. child, you don't know what it is when we habitually calm people burst the bonds of the so-called principles which had before guided us; all seems to give way around us, and the passion by which we are possessed becomes fearful. yes, you are right,--i do love this man, who cares not for me, and i hate her who, though it be for a moment, seems to interest him; and dear, surpassingly dear as he is to me, i would rather see him dead than loving and beloved by her. i would plunge into the fiercest fire that ever raged to tear her from him!" she paused and sat with her head erect, and her teeth clenched, glaring before her as if, in imagination at least, she saw her yet unconscious rival by his side. this burst of passion so amazed helena that she could not utter a word, and before she had recovered from her astonishment mary continued in a calmer tone, "i trust you fully, helena, and shall gratefully--yes, i have fallen low enough for that--gratefully accept any help you can give me. but all this time i have not answered your question as to whether i will forward _your_ wishes as to mr. caulfield. first tell me clearly how the case stands, and what you wish me to do." "the case stands thus, mary: mr. caulfield has asked me over and over again to let him speak to mamma, but were he to do so i should probably only be forbidden to see him, and i love him too dearly to let him risk the refusal which i know he would get. so, as i have already told you, it is too late to think of sparing me pain by preventing my meeting him; it would but take away from me all the happiness i can now have--that of seeing him occasionally. what i want you to do, mary, is to help me in this, and still further, to try to incline mamma more favourably towards him, and you have great influence with her. if you will do this i will promise not to marry him for a year, at all events, without her consent; but if you drive me to desperation, if you deprive me of the delight of being with him sometimes, i cannot answer for myself." helena had grown serious enough, and her voice and manner borrowed some of her sister's determination, as she continued, "and as for mamma's rich favourite, mr. mainwaring, nothing on earth could induce me to marry him! it is all very well for calm, quiet people to marry from respect and esteem, as they call it, but were i to do it, i know i should run away before a year had gone by. mary, you would not like to see me wretched, and i am sure that you would do more to save me from being so than any one else, therefore have i asked you to help me now, and you will?" helena laid her head upon her sister's knee, and her arm tightened its clasp around her waist. mary remained silent for a moment or two; then she said, "yes, i will help you, poor child, as far as i can, for i see that in your bright sunny way you do love mr. caulfield. the cold, calculating code under which we have been schooled could never be yours. i, being of a less easily excited nature, accepted what i was told, and i was fast becoming what you described as the model young lady. i met mr. earnscliffe, and thought of him first as eligible, in obedience to what i knew were mamma's wishes; but suddenly i found that something, the existence of which i dreamed not of, had taken possession of me, and mastered me. what had become of all the trite rules and maxims of which i had heard so much, and which until then i had obeyed? they were all swept away by that rush of feeling which forced upon me the conviction of their emptiness and falsehood, that there was no real principle in any of them; the reaction carried all before it, and left nothing but this wild reckless passion, goaded as it is by the mortification of loving unloved.... but he _shall_ love me, or, at least, he shall not be another's!" again she had become excited, and helena seemed half frightened at her vehemence; but the next moment she added, with a complete change of manner, "enough of myself. thank heaven you are not like me, helena! did you not ask me to go somewhere with you to-day?" "yes, to the catacombs; if you come, mamma will not think it necessary to send my aunt to guard me. we can go with mrs. penton; i half promised her that we would join her, and she said she would call for us at two o'clock if i sent her word that we wished to go; so, if you consent, i will send to her now." "as you like!" helena accepted the somewhat ungracious assent, and stood up to ring for the servant; as she reseated herself on the ground by mary, one of her old malicious little smiles played over her face. was she thinking that perhaps she could change mary's indifference into eagerness, equal to if not greater than her own? the servant appeared at the door, and was told to go to mrs. penton's, and say that the misses elton would be ready for her at the appointed hour. as soon as the door was closed helena said, "can you not be natural, mary, and say that you are dying to hear the information which i said i could give you, and which you would be glad to know? i am sure you are, only you are too dignified to say so." "too dignified! why, child, that word and i have parted company for ever. was it dignified, think you, to betray such a secret as mine? when and how did you guess it?" "at frascati, during that thunder-storm, when i was so frightened. you remember that i hid my face in your lap; suddenly i felt you tremble, and, not seeing any lightning, i looked up at you to learn the cause. mr. earnscliffe was gone, but his voice could be heard speaking to flora adair, and your eyes were fixed in the direction from which the voice came. their expression was so strange that i kept looking at you in wonder. then came a flash of lightning; you covered up your face with your hands, and kept them there long after the flash had passed. when you did at last take them down, your eyes were red, and i felt sure that hot tears had been standing in them, tears which only your strong will had kept from falling; you looked so inexpressibly sad and sorrowful as you turned away and leaned your head upon your hand, that it came to me at once, 'mary loves that man!' since then i have watched you, noticed your eyes flashing when you heard of his attention to flora during her illness, and now, this very day, how irritable you became when i spoke of her ideas of love. how i have pitied you, sister, and wanted to be allowed to comfort you!" "fool that i have been! i thought myself less demonstrative." "you _are_ undemonstrative, surely, mary, and i should never have guessed anything of this but for that trembling at frascati. had you even trembled opportunely, when there was a flash of lightning, i should have supposed it was on that account. but, mary, is it not better so?--better to talk to me of it sometimes, than for ever to brood over it alone? and you know that you can trust me; you have even said so." "that i can, and do, helena; forgive me if i seem ungenerous. as i said before, it is a sort of barrier with which i am obliged to fence in my heart, in order to enable me to keep up appearances; but, believe me, i am most grateful for all your affection, even when i may the least appear to value it." helena caressed her hand as she said, "listen to my news. there is somebody else going to the catacombs, besides mr. caulfield." "of course there is; i did not suppose that mrs. penton, ourselves, and that redoubtable gentleman were to compose the whole party." "well, if you choose to be obtuse, mary, and then a wee bit impatient, i suppose i had better speak as plainly as possible. mr. earnscliffe is going!" "mr. earnscliffe!" mary's indifference had vanished. "how do you know it? he hates parties of that kind; he likes going to such places alone, or merely with another man." "all the same, he _is_ going to-day. harry was by when some grand personage, meaning to compliment him, introduced him to the cardinal, who asked him if he would like to join their party to the catacombs to-day. harry says that mr. earnscliffe did not look enchanted at the good cardinal's condescension, yet he bowed acceptance, probably because he knew that it would be a breach of etiquette to refuse a prince of the church. now, is not that news worth hearing? what a reward for your goodness in consenting to go for my sake! but i have other news for you, and which you will like still better, as it may be of lasting advantage to you: harry told me that that rich mr. lyne is going to marry flora adair!" "ah, helena! is it true?" exclaimed mary, eagerly. "if i were to answer as i think myself, i would say, no. she evidently does not care for him, so it could only be as a _bon parti_ that she would accept him, and that is not like flora. harry says, however, that mr. lyne is quite certain of success." "well, you know, helena, that it would be the height of folly for her to reject him; she has no provision whatever; everything dies with her mother, and a petted darling as she has been could never bear the life of a governess. penniless girls cannot afford to refuse such an offer as mr. lyne's, merely because they do not love in the desperate way of which, you say, flora talks. how hard we try to persuade ourselves that that which we wish to be true is true." "i can scarcely think flora false." "no, not false; i am sure she thought all that she said when you heard her speak; but that was in the abstract; when it comes to a question of choosing between wealth and position, and poverty and humiliation, what girl would rather take the latter than marry a man whom she does not love intensely? if mr. lyne was strikingly plain, ungentlemanly, or disagreeable in any way, it might be so; but, as it is, there are numbers of girls with fortunes who would be very glad to get the chance. what signifies the probabilities, however, if mr. lyne is sure of her? and of course he could not be so without some reason. how does mr. caulfield know it?" "from mr. lyne himself; he likes harry very much, and talks to him quite confidentially, and harry innocently told it to me as a piece of good fortune for our friend. he thinks mr. lyne an excellent fellow, and flora a most lucky girl. they are of the same religion too, so that is a great point in his favour." "everything is in his favour," answered mary, quickly; "but i hear mamma coming, helena; are there any traces of tears upon my face?" "none to speak of, none that will be observed if you sit with your back to the light; the place where you were sitting before will do perfectly." mary quickly changed her place to the writing-table, and mrs. elton's entrance put a stop to all further conversation on the subject about which the young ladies had been discussing so eagerly. mrs. elton was handsomely and appropriately dressed, for a person of her age, although, perhaps, a little too much in the extreme of fashion. her hair, or, at least, that part of it which her _coiffure_ of ribbon and lace allowed to be seen, was of a lightish brown colour, and braided over a high, broad forehead, like mary's. she had bright--but coldly bright--brown eyes, a straight nose, and thin drawn lips; her habitual expression was placid and determined, and it must be acknowledged that, for a lady of fifty-five, she was remarkably _bien conservée_, although she had altered a good deal of late, and at times looked much worn. as to character, she was a strange mixture. we have heard what her ideas on marriage were, yet she herself married a comparatively poor barrister, against the consent of all her family. every worldly thing prospered with them; he succeeded in his profession, and she was left large sums of money by her relations, so that eventually they became very rich. she was a devoted wife; and when, after they had been married about fifteen years, her husband died, her grief was deep but undemonstrative. thus she became a widow at seven or eight and thirty, and being wealthy, good-looking, and elegant, she did not want for suitors, but none of them could tempt her to be faithless to her husband's memory, although, after the usual time for mourning, she wore colours again, dressed richly, and seemed to study the becoming. she never--widow-fashion--made any professions of not marrying again; but she did it not. she would speak of her husband calmly, but her cold, bright eyes would fill with tears as she named "william;" and in speaking of her daughters, of her dread of their falling a prey to fortune-hunters, she would betray deep emotion; and yet, notwithstanding all this, she was, as we have seen, a determined enemy to love-marriages, and was sternly immovable towards helena's predilection for mr. caulfield, merely because he had not a large fortune. nevertheless mrs. elton's life proved that her only object on earth was her children's happiness, however enigmatical it may appear to be. "you don't look well to-day, mamma," said mary, as mrs. elton seated herself close to the fire, although one would have thought that fire in the room even was quite unnecessary. "nor do i feel very well," replied mrs. elton; "but luncheon and a drive afterwards will, i dare say, do me good. your aunt is coming at two." "i'm glad of that, as you will, perhaps, spare helena and me to go to the catacombs with mrs. penton. she asked helena several days ago, but that giddy child forgot to tell of it until to-day; and now she wants me to go with her, as she says you do not always like her to go alone with mrs. penton." "helena is quite right; mrs. penton is too young and too handsome for a chaperone, particularly to one so thoughtless as helena. you are far steadier than either of them, and i can very well spare you to-day;--indeed, if you did not go, i would ask your aunt alicia to accompany helena. but of course it is pleasanter for her to have you." "r-a-t-h-e-r, i should say," observed that young lady. "well, then, it is just one," said mary, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece; "we lunch at half-past one, and mrs. penton is to call for us at two, so i will go and get ready." perhaps mary was very glad of an excuse to get away, but helena exclaimed, "mary, you don't mean to say that you count upon taking half an hour to get ready, half an hour for luncheon, so as to be prepared to stand on the step of the door at two waiting for mrs. penton. how awfully punctual you are to be sure; if you had not me as a counterpoise it would be quite dreadful; you would be the terror of all your acquaintance!" "on the contrary, helena, it would be well if you would follow your sister's example in that as in everything else." "indeed!" and helena gave a sly glance at mary as the latter left the room. mary blushed slightly, and closing the door quickly, went into her own room; but instead of getting ready, she threw herself into an armchair before the dressing-table, speaking to herself in an undertone--"follow her sister's example; indeed, god forbid! i do wish that mamma would let her marry mr. caulfield and be happy; it is enough that one of us should be miserable! mamma, doubtless, has nothing to do with my unhappiness, save in having tried to make me what helena calls a well-regulated timepiece, and in having taught me to look upon every rich man as a possible husband. but she must never know my secret; it would drive me mad to hear her talk and reason calmly on this wild love which is consuming me. lena has discovered it, but no one else ever shall; none other must know that i have loved him, until he is mine. flora adair, would that you had not crossed my path! i liked--i like you still, but stand in my way you shall not. i do not think that he really cares for you yet, but he certainly likes you better than any other woman; therefore you must be lowered in his estimation, and i have the means now in my hands." an expression of disgust settled upon her face as she spoke these words. having heretofore been true and honourable, she hated herself for thus acting towards one whom she liked, and whom she had called her friend; but the master-passion must be gratified at any cost. "yes," she continued, "i have the means in my own hands, although it is base and mean to resort to it. i hardly believe that what i have heard is true, but it has been told to me, and it shall serve my purpose now. mr. earnscliffe shall hear from me to-day that flora adair is going to sell herself to mr. lyne, and, thinking as he does about women, he will seize upon it at once, and so will be dispelled that sort of latent unacknowledged idea, which i _felt_ he had, that she is something different from and superior to the generality of women. i will try to induce him to come to our ball on friday. he will see them there together, and will probably inquire no further. i shall have gained one victory, i shall have got her out of his way; for the rest, god knows how it will end! why, why am i not what i was taught to be, a well-dressed automaton, a stone, anything but what i am? what bitter mortification it is to feel that i love this man so much that i can stoop to do what my nature abhors, and even plan and scheme in order to gain his love!..." she lay back in the chair with closed eyes, and so remained for a few minutes, then, starting up, she exclaimed, "this will not do, i must be calm and ready before luncheon or lena will give me no peace." again she looked at her watch and found that it wanted but five minutes to the time. then she set about dressing as quickly as possible, first bathing her face with cold water to remove any traces of emotion which might still remain. the luncheon bell rang a moment or two afterwards; she descended to the dining-room, where she found her mother and sister already seated at table. as she entered helena expressed a hope that mary was "got up" to her own satisfaction, as she certainly had been long enough about it! chapter iv. as soon as luncheon was over helena went to dress, and mrs. elton and mary returned to the drawing-room; the latter seated herself in the window, and gazed out abstractedly, until mrs. elton said, "what has bewitched helena, that she should want to go to the catacombs? they are not much in her line." mary answered as near to the truth as she could do without betraying confidence: "not the least in the world; but if she likes the people who form the party, it does as well as anything else." "then it is for the people that she is going, and not for the catacombs? i thought there must be some such motive. mr. caulfield will not be there, i hope. helena flirts far too much with him. i do not know how far it has gone, but i have told her that there must be an end of it. i would never allow her to accept him! he is not rich enough to marry a girl of her position and fortune, yet she goes on encouraging him and preventing that most eligible mr. mainwaring from coming forward, although he evidently likes her." "but, mamma, are lena's feelings not to be taken into any account? perhaps she does not like mr. mainwaring, and does like mr. caulfield." "she should check that liking then, when i tell her that i disapprove of it." "surely, mamma, the liking may be a stronger one than can be checked so easily, merely because you do not think him rich enough; that is hardly a sufficient reason to induce us to give up one whom we love." "love, mary? i am amazed at you! have i not always impressed on your mind that a girl properly brought up should never allow herself to love any man until she is regularly engaged to him; and that, too, with the consent of her friends?" "nonsense!" exclaimed mary; then, blushing at her own vehemence and rudeness, she added quietly, "i beg your pardon, mamma, for speaking so hastily. you know that i am not romantic, but one cannot love or be indifferent at word of command. at first you only laughed at lena and mr. caulfield; now you tell her to give him up all at once, merely because he has not a very large rent-roll: if you can give her a _good_ reason, i am sure she will try to obey you!" "i really can scarcely believe that it is you who are speaking, mary--you who, as i thought, understood how completely a girl should have all her feelings under control"--mary smiled bitterly--"and that the happiest marriages are those formed upon equality of position and fortune, accompanied by mutual respect and calm esteem! i should be very sorry indeed to advocate that a girl should marry a person whom she disliked; but she ought not to take unreasonable dislikes. if a man be good, gentlemanly, and in every way suited to her, is she to dislike and refuse to marry him because, forsooth, she has taken a passing fancy to some ineligible person? and _you_, mary, defend this! what has come over you? i suppose that you, too, imagine yourself to be in love with some poor esquire, who, in reality, loves your fortune rather than any other thing?" mary looked her mother full in the face as she answered, with heightened colour, "i do not love any poor esquire, nor does any poor esquire love me. lena is more fortunate, if she loves and is beloved: you need not fear for me, i shall never seek to obtain your consent to marry a poor man." she said this in an odd, determined tone, and then continued pleadingly, "but if lena really cares for mr. caulfield, let her be happy in her own way, mamma. he is not rich, it is true, but he has quite enough for a gentleman's condition, and for happiness; and with her fortune there is no reason why she should marry for money." "i can't say how much you amaze me, mary; though you do possess a remnant of sense for _yourself_." "sense!" replied mary immediately. "yes, indeed; but----here is mrs. penton! i must call lena." "and pray, mary, if mr. caulfield should be one of the party, do not let her be much with him." mary left the room without answering; but as she closed the door she murmured to herself, "no, i cannot be a kill-joy!" then she called out, "come, lena, here is the carriage"--a loud ringing of the bell having announced that mrs. penton was waiting. lena came out of her room busily occupied in getting on a pair of the palest lavender kid gloves: the young lady had small hands, and liked to do them justice. mrs. penton was alone. "her husband," she said, "had so often seen those places that he did not care to go again;" so away they drove to the catacomb of st. calixtus, on the appian way. in the vigna ammendola--at the entrance to the catacomb--our friends loitered for some time waiting for the cardinal, who, although it was somewhat past the appointed time, had not yet arrived. they found many there before them, but all were strangers except mr. caulfield and a signor lanzi, both of whom they met near the gate on entering. signor lanzi--as his name denotes--was an italian, but he had been in england, spoke english with a certain ease, and was particularly fond of showing it off. he was one of mrs. penton's most devoted admirers; and, through her, had become rather intimate with mr. caulfield and the eltons. it must not be supposed that there was anything reprehensible in mrs. penton's conduct because we speak of her having admirers. she was what is called a beauty, and was accustomed to be admired and followed. her husband and herself were on the best of terms, and never seemed to pull in different directions; on the contrary, they appeared fond of one another in a calm sort of way, yet it could not be said that there was anything very ideal in their happiness. it is true, they were not quite a type of union in thought and feeling; perhaps neither of them was capable of such love; nevertheless, theirs was not a lot to be despised, and they were quite content with it, and with each other. as soon as mrs. penton and the elton girls appeared at the gate the two young men joined them, and they took a few turns up and down the walk leading to the catacomb. mary then proposed sitting on the wall near the gate, "as," she said, "they would have walking enough underground, and they had better not tire themselves beforehand;" and there they waited for the cardinal's arrival. in a few minutes the sound of carriages was heard; the gate was opened, and in came cardinal reisac, and with him three or four priests. mrs. penton at once went forward and spoke to his eminence, being personally acquainted with him. during this interval the gate opened again, and at last mary's watching was rewarded--mr. earnscliffe entered. mary was nearest to the gate, so he could not avoid speaking to her, and even walking with her, as the cardinal quickly moved on, and all followed him. mary felt that she must not lose this opportunity of saying something to excite mr. earnscliffe's curiosity about flora; he would, she thought, naturally try to hear more, if he were not indifferent to her--and it would be a good test;--so, as they were lighting the tapers, she said, "i hope we shall not have any falls or spraining of ankles to-day. do you remember miss adair's accident at frascati?" "surely i should be the last to forget it, having induced you both to go upon the wet, slippery moss; but she is quite well now, i believe?" "quite well; and, report says, going to be married to that rich mr. lyne." "mr. lyne!" "yes; you know him, don't you? he is very rich, very good, quite a saint, indeed; rather slow, they say; but then poor flora has no fortune, so it would be an excellent thing for her. but we must not stand here talking about her, or we shall be left behind;" and mary suddenly became most anxious to follow close to the cardinal. a flight of steps leads down from the vineyard into a sort of vestibule, in the walls of which are numerous graves, and in the spaces between rude inscriptions, supposed to have been made by pilgrims who came to visit the last resting-places of the saints and martyrs. the guide went first with a large torch, then the cardinal, the ecclesiastics, and the lay visitors, each carrying a light. there were about fifteen in all; so they formed rather a long procession in the narrow galleries or passages, where two can hardly walk abreast--not two ladies, certainly, in those days of crinoline. from the vestibule a long gallery leads to the chapel of the popes, and passes by one of the sepulchral chapels which occur at intervals in nearly all these passages. in many of the larger of the crypts or chapels there are altars upon which the divine sacrifice was offered during the persecutions of the first centuries, when armed force vainly strove to put down the religion of the cross inaugurated on calvary. long afterwards, when that cross had established its time-enduring reign in rome's high places, these crypts were resorted to by the faithful for purposes of devotion, as hallowed places consecrated by the sanctity and martyrdom of those who lay entombed in them. as soon as the whole party was assembled in the chapel of the popes, the cardinal began to explain the different monuments, and pointed out the graves of the four popes of the third century buried there, according to the inscriptions in greek characters which are still distinctly to be seen and read by those who understand them. from the chapel of the popes they proceeded to that of st. cecilia, and thence to the others of less note, the cardinal explaining the different inscriptions and paintings on the walls of the galleries and chapels. perhaps none of these are more interesting than the curious paintings representing the celebration of mass in those early days of christianity. the priest turned towards the people with his hands stretched out in blessing; the vestments almost the same as those now used, and numberless details proving the identity of the past with the present. these striking evidences of the early christian practices had often puzzled mr. earnscliffe before. "if such outward ceremonials then existed," he would ask himself, "how can they be a human invention?... human things pass away; even the greatest dynasties of earth run their course and disappear to give place to new orders of things.... was immortality to be found here only?"... he could not comprehend it, could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind; but, as he had often done before, he turned aside this train of thought by saying to himself, "it can make no difference how far christianity in this or that form can be dated; even should it be shown that, as a religion, it was one with that of moses and the patriarchs,--a progressive divine revelation, first by oral tradition, then by the written law of moses, and now, as they call it, by the reign of truth, the dogmas of an infallible church; christianity itself is but one of many pretenders to the governance of mankind." in the midst of these contending thoughts his mind turned to flora adair, and once more he asked himself, "can she really believe in all this?" then flashed upon him mary elton's words, "she is going to be married to that rich mr. lyne." was it true? he himself had heard her call him "a good-natured bore." he determined to hear more about it, and with this intention he turned to look for mary elton, whom he had not seen since they had entered the catacomb. helena, who had candidly acknowledged that she was not going to the catacombs solely to see them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her ears gladdened by the sound of a voice whose tones were music to her, took care to keep in the rear of the party, and condescendingly informed mr. caulfield that he might talk to her if he would do so quietly, so as not to attract attention. sad to say, these irreverent young people only thought of how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, as they found them not at all inconvenient for their pleasant little love passages and whispered conversations. the numerous chapels were certainly rather annoying interruptions, as they were of course obliged to be silent there, and, apparently at least, to attend to the cardinal's explanations. yet an ordinary observer could have seen that their eyes were more occupied with each other than with the paintings and monuments so carefully pointed out to them. as they got back into those "dear" galleries, after visiting one of the chapels, mr. caulfield succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty little hands, about the gloving of which their possessor had been so particular. perhaps she expected that some such notice might be taken of them; but, be that as it may, mr. caulfield had got the little hand prisoner, and pressed it tightly in his own as he said, "lena,"--he had learned the pet name by which her sister generally called her, and appeared to have a particular affection for it,--"i can't bear this uncertainty any longer; you must let me speak to your dragoness!" "harry, you are very impertinent," and the little hand made a feint to get itself free, but it was only a feint. "you must not call mamma my dragoness; i will not allow it, sir; nor must you speak to her unless you want to be off; if you do, rush up early to-morrow morning and request an interview with mrs. elton; then formally demand the hand of miss helena, her daughter, and be as formally refused. you will be politely begged not to repeat your visit; in other words, you will be forbidden the house; and when you have ranted a little and finally bowed yourself out, your poor victim, helena, will be sent for to be coldly lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, and solemnly commanded by her obedience as a child never to see or speak to you again, save as the merest acquaintance. in fine, a distinct _fiat_ would be pronounced against mr. caulfield, who does not, perhaps, know how determined a person mrs. elton is; but her daughter does know it, and but too well. if you speak to mamma _we_ are done for, harry." that "_we_" and that "harry" sounded very sweetly indeed in mr. caulfield's ears, yet he answered indignantly-- "but you don't mean to say that you would submit to all this, helena?"... he could not afford to call her lena now, it was not impressive enough. "you are mine by right of conquest, and what authority has your mother to keep you from me?" "for shame, harry! has a mother no voice in the disposal of her child? not that i think a parent should refuse to allow a daughter to marry one whom she loves, unless she had good reason for so doing; nevertheless, i could scarcely marry in defiance of her express command. harry, do not _brusquer les choses_, and force her to pronounce that command; have a little patience, and time may do a great deal. mary has promised to use her influence to gain mamma's consent, and she will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. is she not a darling, harry?" "yes," he replied, but in a much less enthusiastic tone; then he went on eagerly, "it's all very well for you, lena, to talk about having patience, and the wonders that time may work; you have a pleasant home, and this darling mary to pet you; but it is quite otherwise for poor me. there i am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless and miserable, and unable to get out of my head tantalizing visions of the happiness i might enjoy if i could only have my little cricket with me." and there was a very sensible pressure of the imprisoned hand. "oh, come now, harry; it is too absurd to see you trying to do the romantic. you know very well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself thoroughly. who would believe in your sitting at home conjuring up visions, and becoming miserable because you cannot realise them! there is nothing _grandiose_ about _us_, you know. just imagine our attempting a _grande passion_, and declaring that out of each other's presence the world is but a desert to us! no, no, that is not at all in cricket's line, harry. all the same----" and her eyes drooped, "i am sure that horrid hotel _is_ very dull and lonely." perhaps had there been a convenient turning in the passage to separate them for a moment from the rest of the party, that charming little speech might have been rewarded; but fate was not so propitious. the passage appeared interminably long and straight, so there could not be any warmer expression of gratitude than words could give. after a few moments helena said again--"now, harry, you are to be very good and quiet, and if you are so, i will give you a reward in the shape of an invitation to our ball on this day week; but perhaps that is too far off. a cricket who goes about chirping from hearth to hearth might, you know, forget." "how wicked you are, lena!" "wicked, am i? then, master cricket, you shan't have an invitation from me, and if you wait till you get one from mrs. elton, you'll wait for ever." "then the cricket will appear without one." "will he indeed! to be handed out by the servants! but i am going to be serious now, and please to be rational for a few minutes and listen to me. the invitations are only to be sent out to-morrow; mamma was not well enough to permit us to send them before; indeed we were beginning to fear that the ball would not come off at all. it would be vain to expect that mamma would send you an invitation, but mary shall ask you to-day, and when we return home she can say that she has done so, and mamma will not be able to help it then. how good i am to plan all this for you, considering that it is quite indifferent to me whether you are there or not. i hope you are fully sensible of my disinterested goodness towards you, mr. caulfield." "if i had but the opportunity, would i not make you pay for all this, lena!" she looked up innocently at him, and asked in a most apparently unconscious tone, "how, harry?" what a temptation was that upturned smiling face! and, with a sigh for the _bonne bouche_ which he was obliged to relinquish, he said, "i declare, lena, it is cruelty to torment a man so; but my time will come----" she withdrew her hand hurriedly, exclaiming, "here is a chapel; now we must be demure," and she followed the others with the air of a little puritan, which tried harry's gravity sadly. a glance from mary told helena that she had flirted enough for that day, and, not being at all dissatisfied with the day's adventure, she determined to obey the glance; accordingly, as they were leaving the chapel, she glided past harry, and whispered, "good-bye, cricket; i am going to talk to mary." poor cricket looked rather woeful at this intelligence; but there was no help for it, so, making a vain attempt to seize her little hand again, he let her glide away from him. we left mr. earnscliffe looking round for mary elton, in order to obtain some information about "that lyne affair;" and, a moment later, mary heard a voice beside her saying-- "well, miss elton, are you deeply interested in the catacombs?" as she listened to those words, she felt as if a sharp knife were cutting away the hope she had begun to cherish, that he was indifferent to flora adair; for she felt certain that it was from the desire to hear more of what she had said about flora and mr. lyne that he came to her. there could be no doubt, she thought, that the catacombs would otherwise have been far more attractive to him than a conversation with her; nevertheless an answer must be given, and she said, "not particularly so. i have scarcely read or thought enough about the catacombs to be greatly interested in them. indeed, it was to please my sister that i came to-day." "your sister! does she then take greater interest in these things than you do? i should hardly have supposed it." his tone, even more than his words, made her laugh,--the idea of helena's being interested in the catacombs for their own sake, was certainly very amusing; so she replied-- "well, no; lena is not particularly devoted to antiquarian researches, but she thought it would be a pleasant party, and begged me so earnestly to accompany her that i did not like to refuse." "ah! i understand." a silence ensued, while mary thought, "poor man! he does not know how to get at the subject which he is so longing to talk about; he thinks it beneath him to let any one see that he could feel curiosity about a young lady's proceedings, and i have a great mind to make him pay for his dignity, and not help him over the dilemma. this i could do, but that it would defeat my own purpose of crushing any incipient fancy which he may have taken to flora. yet how mean it is! were i but sure that she is really going to marry mr. lyne, i should not feel so false as i do now. but what is the use of all this self-reproach? if i am to do it at all there must be no looking back; yet would it not be better to give it up altogether, and let things take their natural course? yes, it would indeed be truer, nobler, better to do so; but----" the silence continued, and she walked on like one in a dream; yet there was not much of dreaming in the hard struggle which was going on within her between her better nature and passion. the former had almost triumphed; she felt it was too base to try to rob another--one, too, whom she liked--of a man's love; for, with the quickness of jealousy, she _felt_ that he loved flora, even unknown to himself. but, whilst good and evil thus hung in the balance, there occurred one of those chances which so often seem to decide a question. she was suddenly roused from her reverie by mr. earnscliffe's laying his hand upon her arm and saying-- "miss elton, do you not see the flight of steps before you? what a fall you might have had!" she drew back with a start and looked at him--the good angel was vanquished. that touch upon her arm--that voice--that countenance, to which circumstances lent a momentary interest in her favour, were more than she could withstand. she murmured to herself, "no, i cannot give him up--i will die rather than see him another's." then she calmly answered, "thank you, mr. earnscliffe; had it not been for you i might indeed have had a bad fall, so _you_ have saved me." had he done so? did it not rather appear to be the contrary? a moment before good was in the ascendant; had she not been thus saved from a fall good might have triumphed, but that saving seemed to give the palm to evil. when they had descended those steps mary said, "now, mr. earnscliffe, i am going to ask a favour of you; and one which, i hope, you will not refuse to grant." he had quite resumed his cold indifferent manner as he answered-- "let me hear the request, for i can make no guess as to what i can possibly have it in my power to grant or refuse you." "undoubtedly it is in your power to grant it; whether you _will_ do so is another matter. we are to have some friends with us on friday, this day week, and mamma would be so pleased if you will come also." "friday?--let me see----" "do not try to improvise an engagement, or say, 'parties are not much in my way.' i know that it is so; but surely for once you might condescend to come; particularly as we are going away on the following monday, so that--by us, at least--you could not be importuned any more. we shall have some good music, of which i know that you are fond." and now to throw out her bait without letting it appear that she thought it was one: "and--only i suppose you would not care about that--you would have an opportunity of seeing flora adair perfectly recovered from her sprain, for our evening is to wind up with a dance, and, as you heard at frascati, she is a great dancer. mr. lyne will also be there, so we shall see how he plays the lover's part." she had watched him narrowly while she spoke, and saw by the change of his countenance that the bait had taken, and so she was not deceived as to the motive of his accepting when he replied-- "asked thus as a favour and a farewell, i cannot do otherwise than say in the recognised form, 'i shall be most happy to accept mrs. elton's kind invitation.'" "very well, then, it is agreed that you will come. of course you will receive a formal invitation, but you need not answer it, as i shall tell mamma that you have already accepted. and now, mr. earnscliffe, as you are almost an _habitué_ of these underground regions, perhaps you can tell me if we have nearly _done_ them?" "well, i have not been paying much attention, but from the time we have been here"--looking at his watch--"i should say yes. i see we are coming to a chapel, probably that of st. cornelius, which is generally the last." it was the chapel of st. cornelius, as he had said, and there it was that helena received the glance from mary, which she rightly understood to be an intimation that her flirting had better come to an end for that day. when they were once more in the passage, helena succeeded in getting close to her sister and whispered, "you are an angel, mary!" "don't be silly, lena," answered mary, almost roughly. perhaps the being called an angel just then, when she knew how much the reverse of it she was, irritated her. "but you are indeed an angel, and i know you will carry your angelic sisterly charity a little farther by asking harry to our ball; then, when you tell mamma that you _have_ asked him, it will be too late for her to object. you will ask him, mary, will you not?" "yes," was the curt reply; and she added, "and now do be quiet; surely you have talked enough to-day." "not nearly enough, you dear _dame sagesse_. i am quite ready to begin again." "then i beg you will not do so; and be pleased, lena, to give up that absurd habit of calling me such names as angel and _sagesse_--you ought to know how inapplicable those terms are to me, and they annoy me." helena began a warm denial of this, but mary interrupted her by saying, "that's enough, lena; do cease talking--my head aches. thank goodness, i see the daylight, so i suppose we shall soon get into the open air again!" no wonder that her head ached and that she longed for rest, even for the rest of lying back silently in the carriage. a few minutes more and they were in the vineyard, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, which still shone brightly in the clear blue sky. mrs. penton, having kissed the cardinal's ring, received his blessing, and thanked him for all his kindness, bade him farewell, and turning to her own party, said-- "will either of you three gentlemen take the vacant seat in the carriage? we are going to take a turn on the pincio." she looked at mr. earnscliffe, but he answered-- "thank you, mrs. penton; i think i must have a walk in this clear fresh air, after the darkness and damp of the catacombs." "then signor lanzi, may we hope that _he_ will escort us?" "to escort la signora penton is alway de most high honour for me; but i did ride here, also la signora must have de goodness to allow me to accompany her on horse." mrs. penton bowed, and smiled slightly as she said, "well, mr. caulfield, i left you for the last as you are the youngest; what say you to coming with us?" "that i shall be delighted to go with you, mrs. penton." "with my company, rather, _non è vero_, mr. caulfield? and now let us start; it is late enough as it is." mr. earnscliffe accompanied them to the carriage; and, as he took leave of mary, she said, "remember friday night." he bowed, and, raising his hat, left them. mary immediately turned, and asked mr. caulfield and signor lanzi for the same night. they accepted; and signor lanzi having mounted his horse, the party proceeded to the pincio, and thence to their respective homes. chapter v. flora's mind was filled with interest in the young lady of whom madame hird had spoken. on the morning after their visit to the villa ianthe she read all the papers which madame hird had given them about their little _protégée_. they consisted, first, of a letter from madame de st. severan; next, of the manuscript containing marie's history. they were as follows:-- "although, dear madame hird, we have lost sight of each other for many years, and you would not recognise, under my present name, the caroline murray of our merry school days, yet i am sure that you, like myself, remember those days. i venture, therefore, to ask you to interest yourself in a young lady who will soon be an inmate of your convent, and who is dear to me because she is so to my husband. "for some time i have been in correspondence with your superioress, and have obtained permission for our little friend to be received at the villa ianthe, and placed especially under your care. we are very anxious that she should spend a few months in a convent in europe before making her _entrée_ into the _beau monde_ of paris, and knowing that you are in rome, i have made every exertion to have her confided to your care; and in this i have fortunately succeeded. will you, then, dear friend, kindly undertake this charge, and direct her studies? "a good priest will protect her from algiers to rome. as i am writing to you i know that i need not say, be very kind to her. she is, by all accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is now in great grief at being separated from the guardians of her childhood. "i have compiled a little sketch of her history, which i now send you. the first part of it is drawn from my husband's account of his african experience; the rest from the joint accounts of marie and the good nuns who had charge of her...." here the remainder of the letter was torn off, not relating, as flora supposed, to the little arab girl. she next took up the manuscript, which ran thus:-- "after the battle in the plain of cheliff, where the duc d'aumale and his little army so bravely captured abd-el-kader's encampment, many of the officers left their tents in the evening and wandered over the scene of their late conflict. among them was colonel, then captain de st. severan. he had strayed to some distance beyond the rest, following the direction which the fugitives had taken, and was about to return, when, standing for a moment gazing back upon the battle-field, he was startled by the sound of a half-smothered cry. a few paces before him lay the body of an arab; he approached it, and as he shook the cloak which nearly covered it, the cry was repeated. within the folds of the _bernous_ there was a little child, whose large black eyes were wide open with fright, and little hands stretched out, as if to ward off some coming danger. with no slight effort he drew the child from the dead arab, and tried to quiet its cries by caresses and marks of endearment. after taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent, and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he related his adventures, adding that he had determined to adopt the child as his own, and confiding it to her care. "having been wounded in one of the later skirmishes, captain de st. severan was sent back to algiers with a detachment of troops, when he took care that the woman to whom he had entrusted the little foundling was to accompany them. the child was a little girl of about two or three years old, and was christened marie. day by day she became a greater darling--the pet, indeed, of the whole brigade--and was in danger of being completely spoiled, when her protector was ordered again on active service. of course, he could not take little marie with him, so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, and, stipulating that she should learn her father's language, placed her under the good guardianship of the french nuns at algiers. "it so happened that he never returned to algiers, save to pass through it almost in a dying state on his way home. after a long and tedious illness in paris, which left great depression of spirits upon him, a friend, mr. molyneux, induced him to accept an invitation to the family seat of mr. molyneux's father in england, and try there the invigorating tonic of english country life. at this house i met him, and the sequel of that meeting was, that a few months afterwards i became madame de st. severan. "i need scarcely say that i heard many stories of algiers, and of marie. we had agreed to send for her as soon as we should get to france, but, on our arrival in paris, my husband was offered an important post in one of the colonies, and thought he could not well refuse it without retiring from the army, which he did not wish to do, therefore he consented to go; in consequence, marie was left at the convent in algiers. we remained away nearly ten years, and only returned to paris last winter, when we wrote at once to request that marie should be sent to us; being doubly anxious to have her, as we had, alas! lost our own dear ones. but the answer received from the superioress caused us the greatest pain and anxiety. she said, that shortly before our last letter arrived marie had been missed one evening from prayers at church, when it was found that she had obtained permission to walk in the grounds, as she was suffering from headache, and that, on search being made for her, a door in the garden was discovered to have been forced open from without, and a scarf, which had been worn by marie, found on the ground there. these, with other facts, left no doubt that she had been carried off by some arabs, who had before been seen about the place. "three months passed without any tidings of poor marie. at length a letter came containing the joyful news that she had been safely restored to the convent, and was suffering only from weakness and exhaustion. "marie's account of what occurred tells us that, having obtained permission, she went out alone and sought shade and repose in a summer-house at the far end of the grounds--a favourite retreat of hers. she supposes that she had been asleep, when she was roused by feeling something thrown over her head and twisted tightly across her mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. she was then carried for a short distance, placed upon a horse by some one, who got up behind her and galloped away. save the rapid movement through the air, marie remembers nothing until she found herself lying on a bed of moss in what appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. as she awoke the bright rays of the sun were pouring in upon her, and for a moment she thought she must have dreamed some fearful dream. an old man in a white _bernous_ then entered the cavern, and all the terrible reality was revealed to her. he came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 'oh, sir, take me back! what injury have i ever done you that you should steal me away from all those whom i love? only take me back and you shall have as much money as you like.' "'money!' he sorrowfully repeated. 'can money buy me back my beautiful, my brave children whom the hateful roumi killed? can money make the old man young again, and give him new sons to perpetuate his race?' "'i pity you very much, sir; but what have i to do with your misfortunes? why revenge upon a poor weak girl like me the death of those who were dear to you?' "'what have you to do with my misfortunes? are you not the child of my firstborn, his only one? did they not tear you from his dead body, to which you clung with all your baby strength? did i not see it all? yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries roused me from the almost death swoon into which i had fallen, and i saw you taken away from him. i vowed then to the prophet, that if i recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. during all those weary years i never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures did but urge me to new exertions. at last the great prophet rewarded my fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my misfortunes? child, i have told you.' "he stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in seeming anger. poor marie could not repress the shudder which crept over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. visions of what her fate would be with him, and still worse as the slave--for what else is an arab's wife?--of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes and filled her with horror. "at length the old man went out, and marie, being left alone, rose from her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix--it was colonel de st. severan's parting gift--and prayed earnestly to him who had died for her, that he would save her now from worse than death, and restore her to the care of his true followers. hearing a step she rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to see what would happen next. she had come to the conclusion that the best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and, as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. this seemed to please him greatly. "as soon as she had finished he said, 'now we must start again, for we have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' he gave her an old cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready. again he went away and left poor marie alone. her heart began to sink. that night they were to reach the tribe. what hope was there now for her. "journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. then he related stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father especially. he told her that her mother was a frenchwoman whom the arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and married. he spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill, and died shortly before the battle on the river tanguin. "at last, after a long and, to marie, a terrible day's ride, they came to the encampment. as soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared, but remained at their occupations. many questions were asked of the old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted marie almost tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for support and protection. at this moment a witch-like looking woman came and asked, 'is this the lost child of thy brave son, ben arbi?' "'it is, masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of her; she is weary, and, as i fear, ill?' "the old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent marie saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. masaouda knelt down beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her to repose. "marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that ben arbi had said to her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to crowd around, driving her to despair. this, she says, is the last thing that she remembers of that night. "when next she awoke to consciousness it was broad day-light, and she saw ben arbi and masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. she felt strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as soon as she opened them, yet not before ben arbi had seen that one returning ray. approaching her, he asked in a low anxious tone-- "'does my child know me?' "again she looked up for a moment; he saw that she had recognised him, and exclaimed-- "'allah be praised! she may live now!' "by degrees ben arbi's presence and masaouda's recalled her sad history to her. soon she was able to connect all the links of that chain so coiled around her. one day as she lay with closed eyes thinking over her forlorn condition she heard masaouda and ben arbi talking together. from their conversation she learned that she had been more than three weeks ill, and that at one time they had almost despaired of her recovery. he spoke much of his anxiety that she should get well quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished her to be married before it broke out, otherwise it might be impossible for some time. "how marie's heart bounded as she heard these words! and how she prayed that god would not permit her to get well until this, for her, blessed war should have begun! she determined to speak as little as possible and to avoid giving any signs of returning strength. accordingly, day after day she resisted all the efforts made to rouse her, and refused much of the nourishing things which they constantly brought to her, and thus she endeavoured to retard this dreaded recovery. nevertheless, she felt that she _was_ rapidly improving, and every day it became more difficult to repress the natural restlessness of convalescence. "time passed on slowly, and nothing more was said of the war; she was beginning to lose hope, when one evening she heard masaouda come into the tent with ben arbi, who was questioning her eagerly about his child's health; he asked if it would be possible for her to be married in a week from that time, as the war had been determined upon, and the chiefs would depart. 'it is impossible,' the old woman answered; 'the child is too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her death.' ben arbi sighed deeply, but made no reply; while marie felt that she could have fallen at masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speaking these words. she knew, however, that she must remain silent, and from the depths of her heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to god. she was not yet saved, but this was a respite, and whilst it lasted might not her friends find and rescue her? it was a renewal of hope, and that is almost a renewal of life. "at length the happy day arrived when the greater portion of the tribe set out for the scene of war, and from that day forward marie improved rapidly. she devoted herself completely to ben arbi, vaguely hoping that if she could make him very fond of her she might perhaps be able to induce him to take her back to algiers. she succeeded to her heart's content in exciting his tender affection for her, but he would not hear a word about taking her back, and appeared to be as intent as ever upon her marrying. "marie observed that his strength seemed to decline, and he himself said frequently that the old man's course was nearly run, and that if he could live to see his child married the object of his life would be gained, and he would be glad to sleep in peace with his brave sons. "about two months from the time when the chiefs set out for the war, the survivors returned in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting up his countenance, ben arbi told marie that her husband elect was waiting to see her. she fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, besought him not to force her to marry, if he would not see her die of grief, as her poor mother had died. he sternly repulsed her, and left the tent in anger. it was a rude shock to marie's hopes, and now, for the first time, she felt despair. "passively she submitted; she heard them agree that her marriage should take place in a few days, and even this did not rouse her. ben arbi tried to caress her and win her from this deep sadness, but she shook off his hand roughly, as she exclaimed, 'do not touch me,--do not add hypocrisy to your cruelty. is it not enough for you to force me to do that which will be to me a living death, without making false professions of affection for me? as you killed my mother, so will you kill me!' she stopped her ears and would not listen to a word from him. "a few days before the fatal one named for marie's wedding, ben arbi said that he must go to visit some holy shrine, to which there was then a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on the day of the wedding. they were to be married, as is the arab custom, in the evening. "early on the morning of this eventful day an old man tottered across the encampment and entered ben arbi's tent. marie was already out, and was sitting at a little distance from it in a state of mute despair, yet she recognised her grandfather's form, and followed him into the tent. he had fallen upon the ground, and was lying there moaning as if in mortal agony. a feeling of sickness came over marie as she looked at him, and she leaned against the side of the tent for support. "at this moment the whole camp seemed roused, and were gathering round the tent, and he to whom she was betrothed implored her to come to him, saying that they must lose no time in departing from a place which was cursed by the plague. "'what!' she cried; 'you would leave the old man here to die alone? go; i will remain with him!' "'are you mad, girl!' exclaimed her betrothed. 'come before you are yourself infected--before you have touched him!' "he advanced a little way into the tent and took hold of her arm, but she shook him off, and springing to her grandfather's side, she laid her hand upon him and said-- "'now come and take me away if you will, but with me take this fell disease!' "one and all they stood as if spell-bound, gazing at her; then slowly and silently they withdrew. "at last, marie, and the sufferer by whose side she knelt, heard the heavy tramping of men and flocks, as the caravan moved away from the presence of the plague-stricken. marie turned and kissed the old man's forehead. "that kiss seemed to thrill through him. he raised himself up, and looking intently at her, he exclaimed-- "'my child!--i have never wrought thee aught but evil. i stole thee from those who were dear and kind to thee. i spurned thy prayers and tears, entreating to be taken back to them; and even this very day i was about to force thee into a marriage against thy inclinations. nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery thou remainest with me, whom all others have abandoned! child, who taught thee to act thus?' "'grandfather, it was the lesson which our god came down from heaven to teach us. he died to save those who most cruelly injured him. his doctrine and example are summed up in this one sentence--"love thy god above all things, and thy neighbour as thyself!" and it was he who said, "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me!" and i have only done to you as i would that you should have done to me were i struck with this terrible disease, whilst i know that in thus attending to you i am ministering to him.' "the old man bowed his head, and said, 'thy god shall be my god! the religion that could make thee act as thou hast done must be divine. child, make me what thou art.' "marie clasped her hands together in deep but silent thankfulness; then she exclaimed, 'would that some one were here to teach you; yet i can baptize you and make you a christian. oh, how happy you have made me! i can even thank you now for having stolen me from my dear convent!' "'do not say thou canst not teach me, child; for thou hast taught me so great a lesson that nothing could surpass it. make me what thou art, and i shall die in peace. but what is to become of thee, my poor child! if thou shouldst survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou wilt not escape them. would that thou wert in safety with thy christian friends!' "marie trembled; yet a moment after she smiled brightly, and said, 'fear not for me, grandfather; god is with us, and he will protect me. i no longer fear for myself; but say, are we far from algiers?' "'not more than a good day's journey on foot. i brought thee by a longer route, in order to elude pursuit. but what does that avail; there is no one to send thither!' "'it is all in the hands of god, and all will be well; do not let us think any more about me, but about yourself.' and when she had done all she could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and talked to him about the loving saviour, whose follower he wished to become; and related to him as much as she could remember of the touching gospel histories. "towards evening he fell into a light sleep, then marie went out to breathe the fresh air, and was thinking of the happiness it would be to her if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the convent, who would baptize her grandfather, and, if he lived, find means to have him as well as herself removed to algiers. whilst she was musing, a sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and looking up, she saw coming towards her a poor, half-witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. he was leading a goat; and, as soon as he saw her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought the goat for her that she might have some milk to drink. "marie took his hand, and pressing it within her own, thanked him warmly for thus thinking of her. the boy blushed, and laughed sillily; then he asked if he could do anything for her. "'yes,' she answered quickly; 'if you would go to algiers, and bring back something--some medicine--for my grandfather, i shall love you so much.' the boy assented gladly; and then she asked him to wait until she had obtained the necessary instructions. "finding ben arbi asleep, marie had to wait some time before she could speak to him; then she told him that god had sent them in the poor boy a messenger to algiers, and asked him if he knew any arab there to whom she could entrust a message to the convent. the old man thought for a few moments, and said he knew one who was under great obligations to him, and in whom he could trust. 'then all is well,' she answered; 'only tell me how i am to describe the place where we are?' she had her little pocket-book still with her; and what a treasure it proved to her now, since it gave her the means of communicating with her friends! "the old man having given her the necessary directions, dictated a few lines to the arab, to desire him to give the messenger a little phial containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose no time in conveying marie's packet to its destination. "when all this was done, and the messenger had departed, ben arbi seemed inclined to sleep again, and she began her night-watch; a lonely one indeed would it have been had not the bright star of hope shone through all its gloom. "slowly passed the hours until the next day, when, about noon, the faithful messenger appeared again. he gave her the phial, and told her that the arab desired him to say that ben arbi's wishes should be executed. marie could have cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor boy was far greater than she could express. it was necessary, however, to send him away; and this cost her a severe pang, as she thought of when he would return and find the place deserted by them. "every feeling was, however, soon merged in an intense longing for the arrival of the good chaplain. her grandfather was sinking rapidly, and she began to think that père de la roche would not be there in time to baptize him; and how she shuddered at the thought of being left there alone with the dead. evening came, and twilight waned into night, but no père de la roche; and poor marie's heart began to droop again. perhaps he had not received the note, and, if so, what was she to do? she almost shrieked aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn condition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had not long to live,--he had said so more than once; and during the whole day he had been tormenting himself about what was to become of her if no one came from algiers. "the old man had fallen asleep; the bright light of the moon showed marie that his eyes were closed. in her anxious hope she went out of the tent and climbed up a tree which stood near, to gaze across that vast plain; but nothing appeared. she then determined to descend, and baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he awoke. one last yearning look, however, brought before her something which made her heart throb almost aloud. it was but a small spot; but it seemed to move, and to draw nearer to her. at last she could see that it was a man on horseback. there was no arab dress; it must be, it was père de la roche! she almost sprang from the tree, and ran towards him. "père de la roche and marie hastened to the tent, and marie went in to announce the glad tidings. the old man was lying with his eyes wide open, and looked at marie fondly and sadly as she entered; but when she told him that père de la roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, and he exclaimed, 'then thou art happy. i can now die in peace, and thou wilt go back to those whom thou lovest! but go, child, and send him to me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' marie went out and led père de la roche into the tent. she left him there, and waited without for him. "she was roused by the good father, whose hand lightly shook her. 'come, my child,' said he; 'thy grandfather would see thee again before he dies. he is now a christian, and will be with his god before many minutes have passed. ah! what a great work thy faith has wrought!' "hardly were ben arbi's eyes closed in his happy death, when the sound of horses caused marie once more to tremble. père de la roche reassured her by saying that it was probably a detachment of cavalry from algiers, sent to guard their safe return. taking her by the hand, he led her out of the tent, and there she saw again the beloved french uniforms. this second shock of joy, and the death scene she had just witnessed, were too much for her. she sank down quite overcome; and they laid her upon the long grass, where they left her to slumber, whilst they hurriedly performed the last rites to ben arbi. "when all was done, they gently awoke her; and placing her on horseback, they returned to algiers. poor marie was carried exhausted into the convent just as the bell was tolling for matins. the nuns came gathering round their lost child, now restored to them, to their great joy." chapter vi. the adairs were doubly anxious to know marie and to have her with them, after reading the papers which madame hird had given them; moreover, she would, they thought, so well supply lucy's place, and be a companion to flora. accordingly, when the day arrived which had been fixed for lucy's departure, and they had confided her to the care of the friends with whom she was to travel to england, they determined to drive straight to the convent. they got into an open carriage, but the driver looked wonders when he was told that their destination was the villa ianthe, on the lungara--a long distance indeed from the piazza dei termini. he tried to console himself, however, by driving as slowly as possible, being too truly italian to trouble himself as to whether, in so doing, he lost other fares or not. what true italian does not prefer the _dolce far niente_ to gain? fortunately it was a matter of indifference to the adairs; they were not pressed for time, and that slow motion through the soft, hazy air of rome was far from disagreeable, so they let him _gang his ain gate_. even their slow pace brought them, at length, to the convent, and once more they were shown into the little square room, with its prim air--that room which not even the sun of italy could cheer or warm. madame hird came down quickly, and when the usual greetings were over, and they were all seated, mrs. adair gave back the papers, and said, "these have interested us so much that we are longing to make the acquaintance of the little heroine, and to have her with us. when can she come? we leave rome on tuesday week, and should like it to be as soon as possible, that she may get accustomed to us before we set out on our journey." "you can see her now, if you wish," replied madame hird, "but the superioress will say when she can go to you. i had a letter from madame de st. severan yesterday; she is greatly pleased to hear that marie is to travel with you, and that you intend to make some _détour_; a little travelling with you and your daughter will, she thinks, be of great advantage to marie. i wrote to her of you from what i knew of you in former days, and of mademoiselle i said, that as far as i could judge in a visit, she would be an admirable companion for my young charge." "we are most grateful for your good opinion," answered mrs. adair, "and shall do our best to merit it, by making marie as happy as we can while she is with us." "i have no doubt that she will be very happy, and the new and varied scenes which she will visit with you will delight her. i will go and tell her that you wish to see her,--she may be a little shy at first, as she is so unaccustomed to meet strangers." "very naturally, poor child; but she will soon get over that with us, i trust." "then i will go to announce your visit." after a short time madame hird returned, with a tall, and rather an imposing-looking nun, whom she introduced as "madame la supérieure." the lady was french, but she spoke english tolerably well, and at once addressed mrs. adair in that language. "mademoiselle marie will have the honour to salute you in a few instants. madame hird tells me that you have the goodness to permit her to make the voyage to paris with you, and that you desire to know when she can go _chez vous_. it is to-day friday; shall we then say monday next? madame de st. severan has sent me a sum of money, which she prayed me to give you, should it be decided that mademoiselle marie was to travel with you; it is for her voyage. shall i give it to you now, or when you come for her on monday?" "then, if you please, since i can have a receipt ready to give you. you know, madame, that it is better to do these things _en règle_; it prevents misunderstandings." "just as you like. at what hour will you come on monday?" "would five o'clock suit you, madame?" "it is equal to me, and marie shall be ready for you at that hour. i am astonished that she has not come down to be presented to you. and now that all our arrangements are made, i will ask you to give me permission to retire, as i am very much occupied. i will send marie to you at once. adieu, madame,--adieu, mademoiselle." and making a formal curtsey to each of them, she left the room. flora drew a long breath as the door closed, and had not madame hird remained in the room, we should probably have heard her utter a fervent "_deo gratias!_" madame hird smiled slightly and said, "marie will get a reprimand for dilatoriness, but in reality it is timidity which has prevented her from coming sooner. i hear a step,--i will go and meet the poor child; she would never have courage to come in herself." she went into the passage and returned immediately, leading in a young lady dressed in a black silk frock. she was very short, but she had a well-formed, plump figure, large liquid black eyes, full red lips, a clear olive complexion covered with blushes, and black hair curling round her head in short curls. a pretty little creature she certainly was, and she looked so innocent and clinging that from the first moment it was hardly possible not to be fond of her. madame hird presented her to mrs. adair and said, "this is the lady who is so kind as to take charge of you to paris, marie; and to whom i am sure you will be very grateful." marie made a shy curtsey and muttered something in french; but mrs. adair took her hand and kissed her, saying, "oh, this is quite too formal; ... we must be friends, marie--or must i call you mademoiselle?" "_oh non, madame_," and she blushed more than ever. flora now came and kissed her also, as she said, "come and talk to me, marie." she drew her to the window and made her sit down beside her. meanwhile madame hird devoted herself to mrs. adair, and they wisely left the young people to themselves. "you must not be shy with me, marie; i do not appear very terrible, do i?" "_mais non, mademoiselle_," answered marie, with a smile. "well then, you must call me flora, and not _mademoiselle_. i call you marie." "_quel joli nom vous avez._" "you like it!--then you must show me that you do by using it. but you speak english they say; i see that you understand it well." "_oui, je le comprends très bien, made_----" flora looked at her and shook her head. marie smiled, hesitated for a moment, and then said, coyly, "_flore_." "wonderful!" exclaimed flora, "there is a victory already gained! but you were going to say-- "_mais je ne le parle pas bien, et j'ai peur de vous._" marie turned, and for the first time looked up fully in flora's face. "but you are not much afraid of me, marie, after all?" "_mais vous, vous parlez français,--c'est très heureux pour moi!_" "well, i must say that i do not quite see that, marie; perhaps you can explain it to me?" "_oui, et très bien même. je n'aime pas à parler une langue étrangère avec vous, parceque j'ai peur de vous, mais vous n'avez pas peur de moi!_" and she laughed merrily, as if she thought it an absurd idea that any one could be afraid of her. it made flora laugh also, and the laughing seemed to set marie more at her ease,--very soon all fear of the formidable flora appeared to have vanished. after some little time mrs. adair said, "i am glad, marie, to see that you and flora are becoming friends." "_oui, madame, et je n'ai plus peur d'elle!_" "so i perceive, nor must you be afraid of me, either. now we must leave you, but only until monday. flora has told you, i suppose, that the superioress has given you leave to come to us then." "_oui, madame, et ce sera un bonheur pour moi de faire ce voyage avec vous et avec mademoiselle votre fille!_" "i hope you may find it so. good-bye, then, for a few days." she kissed her, and then turned to bid madame hird adieu. "only four o'clock! it is too early for us to go home," said flora, looking up from her watch as they got into the street. "is there anything near that we have not seen?" "the farnese palazzo is quite close, but if the king and queen are not away it is only shown to visitors on sundays at five in the evening." "let us try, at all events; they may perhaps be absent." as the two ladies turned off the lungara into the _via del ponte_, they met mr. lyne coming down the _via delle fornaci_. "mrs. adair! who would have thought of seeing you here?" and he shook hands with her and with flora. "we are returning from the villa ianthe," answered mrs. adair. "and i," rejoined mr. lyne, "from the beautiful fontana paolina. are you going to walk home?" "yes; or rather we are going first to the palazzo farnese to try if we can see it. flora says it is quite near." "so it is, and i think you _can_ see it. i know that the royal family were absent yesterday, and they may not have returned. may i have the pleasure of accompanying you, mrs. adair?" he addressed mrs. adair, but he looked at flora, who replied, "well, i suppose you may, as i dare say your coming will not prevent our seeing the pictures." "i should think not," added mrs. adair, smiling. so they went on together. ah! flora, could you have known the past events of the day before, or the coming ones of that day, how different would have been your answer when mr. lyne asked to accompany you to the farnese palace! mr. lyne was about the middle height and rather slight; he had regular, well-cut features, brown eyes, and dark hair. he was certainly gentleman-like in appearance, and was generally called handsome, being so, indeed, to those who think more of form than of expression; not that his expression was wanting in goodness or even in intelligence, but it was devoid of animation or energy. he was essentially what is called a good young man,--one who fulfilled every duty with the greatest exactitude, who always did just what was expected of him. his ideas and conversation on most subjects were just, calm, and deliberate, but never original, and he was perfectly guiltless of ever allowing himself to be carried away by feeling or enthusiasm. no one ever heard of his doing a startling act of kindness, self-devotion, or generosity; but on the other hand he was invariably kind in a general way, a sincere friend, too, and moderately generous. we have heard that he was going to be married to flora adair, or at least that he intended to propose for her, and felt no doubt about being accepted. this was true, and his courtship and love were quite in keeping with the other features of his character. as his mother was french, and he had been brought up chiefly in france, he had acquired much of the french ideas about marriage. the adairs were old friends of his family; so much so, indeed, that mrs. adair always called him george; and he was aware that a marriage between him and flora would be agreeable to his own and to her friends. it was just the connection which his parents wished for, but he was not a person ready to marry any girl who was pointed out to him as eligible; on the contrary, he was determined never to marry any one whom he did not _like_ very much. if he could like one an alliance with whom would please his family, he thought it would be a most desirable thing, and therefore he cultivated an intimate acquaintance with the adairs. flora, strange to say, did inspire him with a feeling as nearly akin to love as it was in his nature to feel, and she treated him with a friendly, cordial manner, as the son of a very old friend of her mother's, never for a moment supposing that he could think of wishing to marry her, feeling, as she did, that their characters were too essentially different for anything like union between them. thus she innocently encouraged him to believe that she liked him, and he did not understand the different symptoms of love and liking, otherwise her friendly but indifferent manner would have driven him to despair. her real opinion of him was that he was a good-natured "bore," very obliging, gentlemanly, and quite capable of taking his place creditably in conversation; better informed, indeed, than the majority of those around him, but tiresome withal. and this was the man whom mary elton had told mr. earnscliffe that she was going to marry! when they got to the palazzo they found--as mr. lyne had said--that the royal family had not returned. they were told that the _custode_ had gone upstairs a moment before with a gentleman. they hurried on and overtook them just as the door of the gallery was opened. the gentleman turned to let them pass before him,--it was mr. earnscliffe! the unexpected meeting of those whom we esteem greatly is a delicious sensation, and this flora then felt. had she known all that had passed between mary and mr. earnscliffe, how different would have been her feelings! the adairs were in advance when mr. earnscliffe turned, and his expression seemed to light up a little as he saw them, but it grew dark again as he caught sight of their companion, and he appeared to be in one of his haughtiest moods as he shook hands with them and mr. lyne. "this is a fortunate day for me," said the latter; "as i was returning from a walk to the fontana paolina, i met mrs. and miss adair, who kindly permitted me to accompany them here, and now we meet you who are such a connoisseur in painting, our visit will be doubly instructive." "i believe the _custode_ undertakes to point out everything of note," replied mr. earnscliffe, stiffly. "it is usually so when one goes round with visitors in such places. but we are keeping the man waiting." he motioned him on, and they all followed. it would have been too harsh had he not asked flora if she felt perfectly recovered from her sprain; and in formal politeness mr. earnscliffe was scrupulously exact; so he said in a cold tone, "i hope, miss adair, that you do not feel any lingering inconvenience from your sprain?" "none in the least, i thank you, as you will see by my dancing at mrs. elton's on friday night. helena told me that we were to have the pleasure of meeting you there." "yes, i promised miss elton to go; she said it was a farewell." "so it is; they leave rome on the monday after. we met them yesterday evening on the pincio after their visit to the catacombs." "indeed!" he turned away, and seemed intent upon looking at the frescoes and listening to the guide's remarks about them. flora was gazing abstractedly at domenichino's deliverance of prometheus, as she leaned back against the wall opposite. she could not rid herself of the chill which she felt from the moment that mr. earnscliffe had shaken hands with her, and yet had she been asked why, she could not have given a very clear answer. but who does not know that vague sensation of unhappiness which the manner of one dear to us sometimes causes us to feel, although there may not be any positive or, at least, any definable change in it such as an indifferent person could see? how well she remembered what mr. earnscliffe had said to her about this farnese palazzo. all that he had told her of its founder, alessandro farnese, afterwards paul iii.; of its architecture, of its frescoes; how it had descended to the royal family of naples, and eventually become their refuge and dwelling-place in exile. but how different he was on this day. he hardly noticed or spoke to her, save those few words of ordinary civility about her accident. she thought it was too provoking of him to be so changeable, but the next moment she felt indignant against herself for harbouring even a suspicion against him, and thought it was but natural that a clever man like him should not care greatly to talk in such a place to one like herself. when she was a prisoner it was otherwise; then he thought himself in some measure bound to try to amuse her; but that was all past, and his manner to her now was just what she ought to have expected. nevertheless, flora wished that they had not come there then. suddenly it struck her that it was all that tiresome mr. lyne's fault; if he had not met them and said that the king and queen were away, perhaps they might not have come. the _custode_ seemed at length to think that they had spent sufficient time in admiring the frescoes, and he led them into the two large halls looking on the piazza, where there are a few remnants of the fine collection of statues which this palace once contained. mr. lyne appeared to be much struck with the gigantic group hewn out of the stone taken from the basilica of constantine, and representing alessandro farnese crowned by victory. he was most anxious to hear all about moschino, whose work it is, and expressed his wonder that he had never heard of it before. mr. lyne will, doubtless, be considered to be a very strange lover, since he was so occupied with the statues whilst in the company of his beloved; but it should be remembered that mr. lyne never allowed himself to be carried away by feeling, that he always did the right thing at the right time; and he considered that in visiting celebrated places and galleries of art the object was to learn as much as he could; afterwards he could afford to please himself, and be devoted to the lady of his choice. at last his questionings came to an end, and the guide, seeing that the rest of the party were quite ready to go, moved towards the door. would mr. earnscliffe walk home with them? this was a question upon which flora had been pondering for the last ten minutes, and she would have given a great deal to have had it satisfactorily answered. when they got into the piazza she said, "mamma, we can return by the gesù, and inquire for our friend there who has been so ill." "that was a happy thought, flora. i am delighted to call to-day, as i fear that to-morrow we may not have time to do so. do we say good-bye to you here, mr. earnscliffe?" "no, as far as the corso my way is the same as yours," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. "then come, george," said mrs. adair, turning to mr. lyne; "let us lead, and you must be my guide, for i do not know the way." they went on, and mr. earnscliffe and flora followed. she wondered whether he would now talk to her as he used to do, or remain in his silent mood. she need not to have feared; he was far too well bred to make a lady feel any such _gène_ while walking with him, but she hoped in vain that he would be the same towards her as he had been three weeks before. he spoke of the topics of the day, of the ceremonies of holy week, and of the easter rejoicings. it was very dull work; and when she saw that he was determined not to glide into their former intercourse, she gave up making any effort to sustain the conversation. she knew that he took no pleasure in speaking of ceremonies and illuminations, and as _she_ certainly did not, why, she thought, should she bore him or herself with such things? nor was he slow to discover that she did not care to continue their conversation, and, as is so often the case, he fixed upon a wrong motive as the cause of her silence. he supposed that she was thinking of the change which was about to take place in her life. he did not see how different his own manner was to her, but concluded that all he had seen on that day was proof of what mary elton had told him; and flora's seeming indifference towards mr. lyne only made him think still less kindly of her, as it showed that she had not the grace even to pretend that she loved him, although she was ready to marry him. what a run of ill-luck there was against flora on that day! everything seemed to confirm what he had heard; yet how different was the reality! when they reached the gesù, she said, "i suppose you have had a very dull walk. i know i was very silent, but you must feel that it was _your_ fault. i saw that you did not care to talk.... here we are, however, at our destination, so good-bye." she held out her hand, and as he took it he answered, "i do not quite understand what you mean?" flora smiled, turned away, and went up the steps as mrs. adair and mr. lyne wished him good-day. he stood for a moment until he saw them go into the convent, and then walked slowly away murmuring to himself, "what could she have meant by saying, 'you must feel that it was _your_ fault?'... the look, too, which accompanied those words seemed to ask some question.... but what is all this to me?" he quickened his pace, and soon arrived at his apartments in the piazza di trajana. chapter vii. on friday morning--the morning of the eltons' _soirée_--marie arbi, who had been with the adairs since the monday before, was in a state of great excitement, mingled with no little terror, about her first ball. flora could but laugh at the timid fears of the world's novice, for she knew that her prettiness and simplicity would amply cover any want of self-possession, and, indeed, render her doubly attractive. one moment marie was in ecstasies of delight with her dress and wreath; the next she would rush into the drawing-room to flora and ask a score of questions. then she would declare that she knew she should be horribly _gauche_, and looked half ready to cry over her anticipated awkwardness. but a word from flora about her toilette would set her off again into a rapture of admiration, and, with all a frenchwoman's delight in the details of dress, she would descant on each particular of it. all this made flora think of her own first ball, and of how comparatively indifferent she was about it, although she really was fond of dancing; but she had never possessed any of that almost childish gaiety which characterised marie. a few minutes before nine o'clock the important business of dressing was satisfactorily completed, and the young ladies went into the drawing-room to mrs. adair, who was already dressed. both the girls were in white. marie's dress was trimmed with lily of the valley and pink convolvulus; she wore a wreath to match this trimming, and necklace and earrings of topaz. flora's was looped up with bunches of scarlet geraniums, and a spray or two of the same flowers gleamed through the masses of her hair; she wore a band of pearls round her neck, and earrings to correspond. marie was, according to all rule, by far the prettier of the two, as she stood there with her black eyes dancing merrily, and her full red lips parted in eager expectation; her short plump figure harmonised, too, so well with the child-like expression of her face. flora looked well also, and her slighter and more delicately formed figure gave to her a grace which was quite her own. "i hear the carriage!" flora exclaimed, "so let us put on our cloaks. mrs. elton said that the music was to begin exactly at nine, and it is striking that now; so we shall not be too early at all events." at the door of the brilliantly lighted saloon they were received by mrs. elton and mary. did the latter feel a qualm of conscience as she greeted flora, after she had been plotting so against her? no change of countenance betrayed any such feeling. she looked as usual, calm and dignified, as she motioned to her to pass on, saying, "a little farther on in the room you will meet charles and helena, who will find seats for you." the entrance of the adair party was followed by that of mr. and mrs. penton. she looked queen-like in her training dress of black velvet, which well displayed her majestic bearing; and the smallness of her head was rendered especially remarkable by the way in which her hair was dressed. it was combed back plainly from her forehead, plaited up tightly at the back, and surmounted by a magnificent tiara of pearls. her fair round-faced husband looked the character of a gentleman farmer quite as well as she did that of a queen. immediately afterwards came a number of gentlemen, and among them were signor lanzi, mr. mainwaring, mr. caulfield, mr. lyne, and mr. earnscliffe. the music-room, which was rather small, was quite full, and the room next to it nearly so, when helena went to ask her mother if she wished the music to begin. on her way, however, she discreetly managed to pass close to mr. caulfield, and to exchange a few words with him. he cast a questioning glance towards the place where mrs. elton stood, as if to ask if there was any hope of her looking favourably on him. helena shook her head and turned away. in a few moments she returned with her mother and mary, and the music began. there were but short intervals between the pieces, so by a little after ten, as the last notes of one of beethoven's sonatas died away, they were answered from the other end of the room by the inspiriting tones of the overland mail galop. this was a special favourite of helena's, and she had asked the leader of the band to commence with it; accordingly a few bars of it were played; then there was a pause in order to give the couples time to form. what a scene of confusion there was at that moment! the girls looking anxiously to see if the _right_ one was coming to them; the gentlemen rushing about seeking for those to whom they were, or wished to be, engaged. gradually the ladies and their partners paired off into the dancing-room, so that single couples could easily be distinguished. mr. lyne, in his usual deliberate way, waited until the first rush was over, and then he went up to flora and asked for the honour of her hand for this galop. "i am not engaged," she answered; "but you will oblige me very much if you will dance with my friend instead of with me. she is a little shy, as it is her first ball, so it would be pleasant for her to begin by dancing with one whom she has met before. you will do this, will you not?" and she looked up smilingly at him. "i would do much more than that to oblige miss adair," replied mr. lyne, and he offered his arm to marie. she hesitated to accept flora's partner, but the latter insisted. as they went into the dancing-room flora looked after them with an expression of amusement at mr. lyne's answer, which she supposed was meant to be very complimentary, but which was in reality just the contrary; implying as it did, that to give up a dance with her was a very slight sacrifice indeed. meanwhile mary and helena elton went about to see if all their friends had partners. they did not adopt the fashionable style of leaving people to get on as well as they can whether they know any one or not. mr. caulfield was watching helena with longing eyes. she had told him that she could not give him the first dance, so he felt half inclined to do the _doloroso_, by not dancing it at all, and he really thought that he could have refrained had the band played anything but that "overland mail." to stand still during such a galop was more than nature could bear, so as he saw helena going towards flora with a man "in tow," as he expressed it, to be introduced to her, he hastened in the same direction, and said in a low voice as he passed her, "well, if i can't have you, i'll have the best dancer in the room," and the next minute he was making his bow to flora. "why did you not say, 'miss adair, i want you to dance with me _faute de mieux_?'" she said laughingly, as she took his arm. "by jove, miss adair, i would rather have you for a partner than _almost_ any one in the room; you do go the pace to such perfection!" she blushed as she felt how humbling it was to be told by mr. caulfield that he had chosen her for such a reason; but she knew that he meant it as a very great compliment, and therefore she thought it was unreasonable to be annoyed at it, so she answered lightly, "well, let us begin." mary had asked mr. earnscliffe if he would allow her to get him a partner, but he replied, "thank you, i very seldom dance; especially these dances." he bowed, turned away, and joined some gentlemen who were talking in another part of the room. mary looked annoyed, and murmured to herself, "he might at least have asked me to dance a quadrille, if only from mere politeness. ah! i see that i shall never succeed, but, at least, i need no longer to fear a rival in flora adair. my plan is working well," and a sinister expression came into her eyes as flora passed with mr. caulfield. the dancing continued with unflagging spirit until supper was announced, and even then it ceased only because the musicians went away to take some refreshments. helena, however, considered that it would be too sad to lose such a delightful opportunity of dancing and flirting with mr. caulfield, so she managed to induce some obliging lady to sit down to the piano and play a valse. in a moment his arm was round her waist and away they twirled, enjoying intensely the pleasure of stealing a march on the "dragoness," as mr. caulfield irreverently persisted in calling mrs. elton. their example was at once followed by all the lovers of dancing, who always prefer the supper dances to any others. marie seemed to have got over her shyness, and was quite a focus of attraction; her _naïveté_, and even her blunders in english, attracted every one, and she became a general favourite. "time flies when it should linger most," and mr. caulfield thought that this was the truest of all things, as mary came to tell them that the people were coming back from supper. there was a deep recess in one of the rooms, in which was an ottoman. here they had seated themselves, and were making plans for bright hours to come. for the moment they appeared to have forgotten the existence of a "dragoness" who might possibly prevent the realisation of visions so fair, but it was forcibly called to their recollection by mary, who exclaimed, "helena, how can you be so imprudent? in another moment mamma would have caught you!" "not while i have such a dear, thoughtful prig of a sister to guard me," replied helena, as she jumped up and kissed her; then waving her hand to mr. caulfield, she glided away humming, "_addio del passato bei sogni sorridenti_." a few minutes afterwards she was seen walking into the supper-room leaning on mr. mainwaring, and looking as demure as possible. to mary's surprise and delight mr. earnscliffe came and asked her to dance the next quadrille with him. as she took his arm she saw mr. lyne and flora adair coming towards them, and said, "let us ask them to form part of our set." he bowed and led her to them, but he did not speak. mary said, "i am so glad that i chanced to see you, flora; will you be our _vis-à-vis_?" the stereotyped answer, "with pleasure," was given, and they took the places opposite to each other. how often in the world are these two words uttered mechanically and untruly. mary was looking unusually pleased and animated. not so was flora. she felt puzzled about mr. lyne. his marked attention to her during the whole evening, and his--for him--devoted manner, made her wonder if so wild an idea as his imagining himself in love with her could have got into his head; but she rejected such a supposition as absurd, and persuaded herself that his increasing attention to her might be the effect of champagne, which would quickly wear off, and that it would be best to treat it lightly, so she tried to appear gay and amused. she little knew how closely she was watched, and how false an interpretation was given to whatever she did. in taking the usual promenade after the dance, they passed the recess where mary found helena and mr. caulfield after supper. pointing to the seat, mr. lyne said to her-- "will you rest here a little, miss adair?" "thank you; i would rather rejoin mamma." "nay, miss adair, i beg you to grant me a few moments." she did not see how she could well refuse, so she allowed him to take her to the ottoman. she seated herself, and he took the place beside her. how she wished to say to him, "if you are going to propose to me, i pray you not to do so, and it will save us both pain." but of course she could say nothing of the kind, and must leave him to take his own course; she had already done all that she could to avoid the threatened conversation. he did not keep her long in suspense, but plainly and directly asked her to be his wife. "oh, mr. lyne!" she answered, "i am so sorry that this should have occurred; for although i feel deeply gratified by your preference, i would much rather not have had that gratification than be obliged, as i am, to inflict the pain of a refusal upon you." "pray hear me for a moment, miss adair," he exclaimed, eagerly, "before you give so decided an answer. your mother has given her full approbation to my suit, and my family would be enchanted to receive you among them; for myself, i can truly say that i have the highest possible respect and admiration for you, and you have always appeared to like me. i would do everything to make you happy--agree to anything you could desire. what obstacle, then, is there to your marrying me?" she looked at him in amazement, and was on the point of giving him rather a sharp answer; but remembering that more or less a refusal must give him pain, she felt that it would be unwomanly not to make hers as gentle as she could; therefore she determined to restrain herself, and after a little hesitation she said-- "there is one grand objection, mr. lyne. i feel no love for you, and i could not do you the wrong of marrying you without loving." "oh! if that's all, i'll forgive you the wrong. i will try to win your love, and i am too sensible to want that sort of romantic love about which some people rave. indeed, i do not think it in the least necessary to the happiness of marriage." this was too much for flora; she forgot all her good resolutions, and retorted with heightened colour, "i dare say _you_ do not; you probably think, as i have heard good people in france say, that _l'amour n'est rien dans le mariage, c'est une affection--un dévouement chrétien, qui doit exister entre les époux, et_ cet _amour ne vient qu'après le mariage_. perhaps you would be satisfied with that sort of thing!" no sooner had the words escaped her than she felt heartily ashamed of herself, and she added, humbly, "forgive me; i have been rude and ungrateful. i have no excuse to offer save that i was carried away by momentary excitement. this is a subject upon which i feel very strongly, and i cannot, as i know many estimable people do, look upon marriage as a sort of half religious, half social duty, for which suitable position and fortune, without any prominent incompatibility of disposition, are the only requisites. if i have ever misled you as to my sentiments towards you, believe me, mr. lyne, that it was unintentional. i never thought of you in any other way than as a friend, and, until this evening, i never imagined that you otherwise regarded me--surely we are too unsuited to each other for anything more." "yes, i do feel now that we _are_ unsuited to each other; yet i never admired you more than i do at this moment. as to your having misled me, the fault, if any, was all my own. i might have seen how reluctant you were to grant me these few minutes, and yet i would persevere, so you are perfectly free from blame. whatever pain you may have caused me i freely forgive. remember also, miss adair, that should you ever want a friend you will find a true one in me." "of that i am sure." he looked gratified, pressed her hand, and murmured, "god bless you!" and then left her. flora felt so unhappy that it was difficult for her to prevent the tears which stood in her eyes from falling. she had fortunately refused to engage herself for the dance which was now beginning, pleading a wish to rest before the cotillon which was to follow it, so she had a little time to recover herself. this conversation was not long in passing, yet, short as it was, mr. earnscliffe had observed it,--he saw the parting, and the tears in her eyes afterwards, yet he never doubted that she had accepted mr. lyne, and he thought to himself, "what! even in the first moments, is she bewailing the sale which she has made of herself, and the wrong she is doing to him? i suppose she is not quite hardened as yet in her _rôle_, and that it costs her a few tears to act it--soon enough it will become a second nature to her!... what soulless things women are! and i was once so silly as to worship them; but i was cured of that folly long ago. this is only another proof of their worthlessness; and that, too, in one of whom i felt half inclined to believe better things. how she excited my curiosity as we walked home the other day from the farnese palace! i could not comprehend her.... well, at all events i will go and say good-bye to her, since we may perhaps never meet again." as soon as he got close to where she was sitting he said, "i am come to bid you farewell, miss adair. i leave rome to-morrow." she started as she heard his voice, for she had been leaning her head upon her hand, and had not seen him approach, and now, as he took the vacant place beside her, she looked rather confused, and felt very much at a loss for something to say, so she repeated, "leaving rome to-morrow?" "yes, i am going to the neighbourhood of naples; it is so beautiful there in spring." "i should imagine so; spring is beautiful everywhere, and in southern italy it must be doubly so." he did not answer, and, to break the silence, she added, "we go in the very opposite direction--northwards. i am longing to see venice." "but you do not go immediately," he rejoined; looking at her inquiringly, "you remain here some time longer, and then you begin _your_ travels?" he laid a slight stress on _your_. "no, we go at once. what should we remain here for when all our friends are gone? new scenes give variety, and--for the time at least--interest." her tone was sad and listless as she said this, and again he fixed his full blue eyes on her face with a meditative and a questioning gaze. she wondered what he meant by looking at her thus, as if he would read her very thoughts, and feeling that it was most unpleasant to be gazed at in this way, she exclaimed, "mr. earnscliffe!" he was on the point of saying, "and mr. lyne goes with you, of course?" when the sound of his name, uttered by flora, arrested his words: had they been spoken, he must have discovered his mistake; but, alas! they were not, and she continued, "will you take me to mamma?" this annoyed him, yet he stood up at once and offered her his arm. as they went she said, "i must thank you once more and for the last time, as we say good-bye to-night, for all your kindness to me when my ankle was sprained,--it was so good-natured of you to condescend to come and lighten my close imprisonment. i cannot say how grateful i feel to you." "there is no cause for gratitude, miss adair; i did nothing for you beyond what i was bound in justice to do." it was now her turn to feel annoyed. "besides, i enjoyed those hours very much." "wonderful! i thought you hated women too much to derive pleasure from their society?" "hate them, miss adair!--ah! i should do anything but that if i could only trust them. how different this life would be if they were only true! if they were not, as the best of them are--even those to whom it costs a pang to act so--ever ready to sell themselves for wealth and position." flora became scarlet. mr. earnscliffe noted that vivid flush, and considered it to be caused by consciousness of guilt, whilst in reality it was from a sense of injured innocence. a few minutes before she had been called upon to decide between wealth and possible dependence and humiliation--humiliation in the eyes of the world--and she had chosen the latter; but it was useless as a proof of the falseness of that sweeping accusation--in honour she was bound not to speak of it. she waited until the rush of excited feeling had subsided a little, and then said quietly-- "i _know_ that you are wrong, mr. earnscliffe--we are not _all_ ready to sell ourselves; there are many women who would refuse any man, no matter what advantages he could offer them, if they did not really love him." his eyes flashed and he exclaimed, "you!" but he stopped suddenly, changed his tone, and added in his usual cold, polite manner, "here is mrs. adair; but i see that she is speaking to some one, so i will not interrupt her; and now allow me to wish you _addio, e felice viaggio_!" he held her hand for a moment, whilst he looked at her again with one of those searching glances which had annoyed her before. mrs. adair turned round just as he left her, and said, "why, flora, how tired you look! here is marie as fresh and gay as ever!" the gentlemen now came to claim them for the cotillon. marie was engaged to dance with charles elton, and flora with mr. caulfield; but mrs. adair said to him, "i really think that flora ought not to dance any more, she appears to be so tired." flora saw mr. caulfield's look of annoyance, and answered with a smile--although it was rather a weary one if the truth must be told--"not so much so, mamma, that i cannot fulfil my engagement," and she took mr. caulfield's arm. at last the cotillon came to an end, and it was with a feeling of relief at not being obliged to talk or dance any more that flora followed her mother down the stairs and got into their carriage, marie declaring that she wished the ball was going to begin again. chapter viii. the eltons' ball, that ball to which our friends flora adair, marie arbi, and the two elton girls had looked forward with so much eagerness, was over. had it brought them pleasure or pain? to helena and marie it had brought pleasure; but to flora and mary, pain. mary felt that, although she had succeeded in prejudicing mr. earnscliffe against flora, she had not advanced one step towards winning his admiration for herself; and when helena congratulated her on his having danced with her--that being an honour which he did not often confer on any one--she answered bitterly, "you mistake, helena; mr. earnscliffe danced with his hostess's eldest daughter, and not with mary elton!" yet the more the attainment of the object upon which she had set her heart seemed remote, the more wildly did she long for it. to gain mr. earnscliffe's love, or even to hinder another from possessing it, she would stoop to any, even the most unworthy, means. hers was a powerful passion, but it was a passion for evil rather than for good; it was not a passion of devotedness but of selfishness; she would sacrifice his happiness to her love, and not her love to his happiness. evidently she did not know that a woman's happiness consists "in another's love become her own." the song of solomon represents the love of the saviour and his church under the type of human love;--the christian marriage ceremony says, "let a woman be subject to her husband in all things, as the church is subject to christ;" and saint paul tells "wives" to "be subject to their husbands as unto god!" it is in such submission, and in such alone, that a woman's happiness consists. short-sighted people call this bondage, but it is that bondage in which alone is true liberty!... to serve truly is indeed to reign! "what?" we hear young ladies, ay, and old ones too, exclaim--"are we never to do what we like,--never to think of pleasing ourselves? a curious notion of happiness indeed!" nevertheless it is the only true one. woman was created to be "a help meet for man;" her ministry in the world is one of love, and she can never be really happy save in fulfilling the end for which she was created. a mere preference, accompanied by calm affection and esteem, will never enable a woman to be to her husband what the church is to her lord. it must be a feeling such as leibnitz speaks of when he says, "to love, is to place our happiness in the happiness of another;"--and as an illustrious french writer beautifully describes it, so beautifully that we would not venture to translate it, and must be pardoned for quoting somewhat at length in a foreign tongue--"l'amour ne s'arrête pas à l'acte de choix, il exige le dévouement à l'être choisi. choisir, c'est préférer un être à tous les autres; se dévouer, c'est le préférer à soi-même. le dévouement, c'est l'immolation de soi à l'objet aimé. quiconque ne va pas jusque là n'aime pas. la préférence toute seule n'implique en effet qu'un goût de l'âme qui a besoin de s'epancher dans la cause d'où il sort, goût honorable et prècieux sans doute, mais qui se bornant là n'aboutit qu'à se rechercher soi-même dans un autre que soi. si beaucoup d'affections s'arrêtent à ce point, c'est que beaucoup d'affections ne sont qu'un egoïsme deguisé, on eprouve un attrait, on s'y abandonne, on croit aimer, on a peut-être des lueurs de l'amour veritable, mais l'heure du dévouement arrivée, on reconnait à l'impuissance du sacrifice la vanité du sentiment qui nous préoccupait sans nous posséder." when a woman loves, she creates happiness, so to say, for herself and for those around her, and obtains so much the greater recompense the less she seeks it. in this submission she is immeasurably more free than if she had no law but that of her own will, just as a true christian is more free than those who follow their own opinions, for "where the law is, there is liberty." all this was indeed a sealed fountain to mary elton; her idea of happiness was not centred in "another's happiness become her own," but in the triumph of her own unbridled will. yet she was rather to be pitied than blamed. the too popular code, alas! now-a-days is, that anything like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed down. in this she was educated, and, being of a less impulsive disposition than her sister, she succumbed more to this training. she was like a vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it should grow in a particular form, quite regardless of the one which nature intended it to take, and for this purpose had bound and constrained it with what he thought to be strong bands; but one day a strange hand cut one of those bands, and at once all the others gave way: the tree then rebounded from its constraint, and took a more natural form, and the trainer found with dismay that it had grown wild and unmanageable. he had but produced deformity; had he helped to develop the plant, and not tried to force it from its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty of its own unity: under his hands it had become a deformed and an unsightly thing! such, too, was mary elton. her mother had tried to swathe her mind and heart in bands of unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a time she seemed to have succeeded. mr. earnscliffe was the strange hand which chanced to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the others to give way; then her natural strength of feeling burst forth, rank and untrained. had her mother carefully directed and not endeavoured to crush this, it would have made her character as beautiful as it was strong. unfortunately mrs. elton had not done so, and the result was, that in all probability nothing less powerful than that religion of which mary knows nothing could show her the difference between a "disguised egotism," in which one only seeks one's self in another, and love, which is an immolation of one's self to the beloved object. we must leave her alone with her gloomy retrospections, which were not the less dark and unpleasing from the partial success which had attended her planning. she was haunted by the consciousness of having acted falsely as well as meanly towards flora; for she as well as mr. earnscliffe had seen the parting between her and mr. lyne, and she judged it more truly than he had done. since then she felt certain--if indeed she ever doubted it--that mr. lyne would never be more than a friend to flora; yet she had done all she could to make mr. earnscliffe believe that they were to be married, and she knew that in this she had been successful. helena's remembrances of the ball were as bright as mary's were dark. she dwelt with heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it had afforded her, and, as mary listened to her, her smile grew brighter and more genial than usual. her protecting affection for her sister was the one virtue amidst many faults--the one feeling from which she could draw unalloyed pleasure. a contrast not altogether dissimilar might have been witnessed between flora and marie. the latter was all animation, and related with infinite zest her adventures of the previous night; while the former spoke but little, and appeared tired and weary. she could not help feeling that she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards mr. lyne. she was angry with herself for not having sooner seen that he meant to propose, and that she had not taken care to prevent his doing so; still, were she in a palace of truth, she would probably have been obliged to confess that it was not the remembrance of the pain which she had inflicted on mr. lyne that weighed most heavily upon her spirits, but rather mr. earnscliffe's conduct to herself. save to shake hands with her in the beginning of the evening, he had not approached her until just before the cotillon when his manner and words appeared so unaccountable to her. we have already said that there is no greater pang than that of being misunderstood by one whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang increases with the strength of our affection. thus flora felt most bitterly the injustice to herself which mr. earnscliffe implied when he said how different it would be if women were not--as even the best of them are--ready to sell themselves to the first man who asks them to marry him, if he can give them wealth or position. it was certainly not a pleasant farewell, and she sighed as she thought that probably she would never know again such pleasure as she had felt in his society. even the memory of it was more to her than any other actual enjoyment had been; nevertheless she did not deem herself in love. a day after a ball seemed to possess a fatality for flora; she found this day a very sad one, yet the time may come when, by comparison with others, she may perhaps think it had brought her happiness. fortunately for her their approaching departure from rome, and the preparations necessary for it, did not leave her much time for brooding. as usual, the week after easter saw rome thinning rapidly. some of our acquaintances were going to the south, others to the north: for the former were bound the eltons, pentons, mr. lyne, mr. caulfield and mr. earnscliffe, and for the latter the blakes and the adairs. on the tuesday after the ball, at seven in the morning, a large travelling carriage stood before the door of the adairs' apartments. it was open, and in it was seated mrs. blake. mina was in the cabriolet, and her uncle, mr. vincent blake, who had joined them a few days before on his way from the east, and who was to return with them to ireland, was standing on the flags inspecting the packing of the luggage. the adairs were to complete the party; and as soon as they came down, mr. blake hurried them into the carriage with mrs. blake--that is, mrs. adair and marie. flora was to go in the cabriolet with mina; and having handed her up, and taken his own seat beside the coachman, he gave the word to start; the whip was flourished, and off they went, the wheels rattling noisily over the pavement to the merry accompaniment of the bells round the horses' necks. at the porta del popolo they were obliged to halt, in order to have their passports examined. mr. blake got down, and went into the office. during the delay which this caused, mina and flora stood up to take "one last long look" at rome, that city which, it is said, few--even of those who have suffered there--ever leave without a feeling of regret and a desire to return. it is a strange fascination which rome possesses even for those who are aliens within her walls! we know how one of the most celebrated of these apostrophises her:-- "o rome! my country! city of the soul! the orphans of the heart must turn to thee, lone mother of dead empires! and control in their shut breasts their petty misery." if rome is so dear to those who regard her only as a standing record of a mighty past, what must she be to those to whom she is not merely a "lone mother of dead empires," but a living mother of a living world--the heart, the centre, the capital of christendom itself! mina and flora were fond of rome for both of these reasons. flora loved it especially as the scene of the happiest hours she had ever known, and so she could not leave it without a feeling of sadness and a longing to return. how often do we yearn to revisit places where we have been happy, even when all around us has changed! "cari luoghi, io vi trovai ma quei dì non trovo più!" after a few moments mr. blake reappeared with the passports all in order. a _scudo_ has a particularly accelerating effect on the movements of roman officials. at length they bade adieu to rome, yet not to its memories and associations, for their route lay along the far-famed flaminian way. there is surely no such pleasant travelling for pleasant people as vetturino! when it is through a beautiful country, in fine weather, and with intimate friends, it is truly delightful. the irregular meals, furnished from the contents of capacious baskets, the ever-changing scene, the never-ending variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of all around, the expectation of coming events, the evenings at country inns, where the very "roughing" gives zest to a life so different from the regularity of ordinary existence; the unflagging chatter, the buoyant spirits,--these, yes, and a thousand other charms, tend to make such happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the pilgrimage of life. as for the cabriolet, if a pair of lovers could only get possession of it, it would be the perfection of human enjoyment--a sort of moving elysium. ah! this is a picture upon which we must not dwell, or we might be teased by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine of stay-at-home days. our new friend, mr. blake, was tall, stout, and nearly sixty, but withal strong and healthy in appearance. his fair, florid complexion, large features, and light blue eyes, and, indeed, the whole expression of his countenance, gave strong indications of good-humour and benevolence; nor was there any visible want in it of intellectual power. he proved a most amusing and instructive companion, having travelled over this route more than once before. he pointed out to mina and flora the objects of note and of classic interest, quoted scraps from the latin poets, which he rendered into extempore english for them. the position of civitta castellana called forth his loudest praises, and he talked much of the days when it was the proud capital of the valisci, who dared to contend with rome herself, even in the days of her warlike glory; and he made them laugh heartily over the story of camillus and the schoolmaster. some years before, mr. blake had spent a few days at civitta castellana, exploring the beautiful neighbourhood with some friends, and he related many anecdotes of their excursions, declaring that there were few things more enjoyable than such excursions made in agreeable company. the girls assured him that it was not necessary to impress _that_ upon their minds, as they could easily believe how delightful it would be so to wander about in such beautiful scenery. to make it perfect, they said, there should be a valerie de ventadour, and an ernest maltravers to re-people each scene for her with the heroes and legends of old, to unroll before her the lore of the ancient historians and poets, and thus to light it up again with a light once its own. and flora laughingly added-- "now, mr. blake, you will be obliged to play ernest maltravers to one of us." "indeed, young lady! and do you mean to imply that 're-peopling some lonely scene for you, with the heroes and legends of old, unrolling before you the lore of the ancients, and thus lighting it up with a light once its own,' would be at all the same thing done by a rough, grey-headed old man, as by an ernest maltravers? if so, i am afraid i must say that you are a sad deceiver. now, i'll lay a wager on it you are thinking of some one who could play ernest maltravers to your valerie de ventadour, very much to your satisfaction?" mr. blake chuckled with delight as he saw flora get red and turn away her head. thus the day passed quickly away, and about five in the evening they arrived at civitta castellana, where they were to sleep on the first night of their journey. it took them about six days to travel from rome to florence by this route. were we to follow them step by step, we should be writing a guide-book and not a story. nevertheless, we cannot pass by in silence two such spots as the falls of terni and assisi. byron says that the view of the falls either from above or below is worth that of all the cascades and torrents of switzerland put together. the staubach, reichenfels, are rills in comparative appearance. who could forget his description of the contrast between the "giant element leaping from rock to rock with delicious bound," and the lovely smiling valley by which the falls are surrounded? it is indeed "love, watching madness with unutterable mien." then the church of assisi, with all its wealth of interest! to the lover of the picturesque, of art, or of religion, it has special attractions. dante sings the loveliness of its site; cimabue and giotto's works adorn its walls, and mark the progress of painting; and saint francis throws over it a halo which dims the glory of poet and artist, and makes assisi--for those who know and love his life--another holy land. such is the creative power of charity or love. centuries ago, saint francis died in self-imposed poverty and privation, barely covered with the cloak of another; yet hardly had the grave closed over him, when a structure, matchless even in italy, was built in his honour, and the precious germs of love and self-sacrifice which he planted in the hearts of his spiritual children went on fructifying until his order spread itself throughout christendom, and now blesses the world almost in spite of itself. our friends thought that if this route could boast of assisi alone, it would have been almost unrivalled; but assisi was only its crowning point. it traverses a track of country, for upwards of two hundred miles, where beauty, history, and poetry combine to give a charm to all around. the vale of clitumnus and its stream-- "haunt of river nymph!" the lake of thrasimene, where hannibal and his swarthy hosts revelled in their sanguinary victory over the brave flaminius; the towns perched on mountain-tops, and surrounded by deep romantic ravines, where still stand a ruined arch or pier to tell of the massive bridges which once spanned them--the colossal works of the mighty romans. it was altogether so delightful a journey, that to some at least of our party it caused a feeling of regret when about six o'clock on sunday evening they reached the top of the hill of san donato, and for the first time looked upon _firenze la bella_, and the beautiful view over the valley of the arno. they quickly descended to the porta san nicolo, by which they entered the city--crossed the ponte alle grazie, drove along the lung' arno, passing the arcades of the uffizi, and the piazza di santa trinita, and drew up at one of the hotels which face the river. and here, in beautiful florence, let us leave them to repose. chapter ix. on the morning after their arrival our travellers--the younger ones especially--were all impatience to see something of the fair city of florence, so famed, moreover, for the beauty of its position; and the scene, as they looked from the windows of the hotel, inclined them to join in singing its praises. the fine quay of the lung' arno; the river itself flowing along calmly, and glittering beneath the sun's bright rays; the hill on the opposite side with its olive-trees and gardens, relieved here and there by an imposing building, were all beautiful seen from a distance. the narrow dusty roads between high walls, the faded and dried-up appearance of all around, are then hidden; but a closer view raises a sigh for the lovely lanes with their flowery hedges, and the fresh green verdure of our own dear country, or even of the neighbourhood of rome, where the dampness of the climate counteracts the effect of the scorching sun, and prevents, in some degree, the washed-out look which is so striking everywhere about florence. when our friends come to explore that which looks so pretty from the hotel windows, they may, perhaps, be tempted to think that the beauty of the country round florence has been overrated, and, were it not rash to say so, even to prefer the charms of some of the other towns which they passed through on their way from rome. they must, however, visit the "lions" within the gates before they extend their excursions beyond them; and although it is very possible that they may be slightly disappointed with the latter, they certainly cannot be with the former. with such treasures as those which adorn her galleries of the uffizi, the pitti, and the belle arti, surely florence could afford to be surnamed _la brutta_ instead of _la bella_! yes, she might well dispense with all exterior loveliness, and pointing to the long line of celebrated men to whom she has given birth, say, in the words of the mother of the gracchi, "here are my jewels!" as it is, nature too has been bountiful to florence, for she has undoubtedly given her a large share of beauty in addition to all the rest. their first visit was to the uffizi, and in the far-famed tribune they saw, with wondering eyes, mr. and mrs. penton, and her brother, mr. barkley. as they shook hands with mrs. penton, and expressed some surprise at seeing them there, since they supposed them to be in naples, she replied, "we did go to naples on the evening after mrs. elton's ball, and we spent a week there; then edmund"--looking towards mr. barkley, who was in another part of the room--"came to us from sicily; we sailed direct to leghorn, and arrived here yesterday." "you certainly have lost no time," said mrs. adair; "for we came straight from rome, and yet we only arrived yesterday. we travelled however by the perugia route, which is a long one, but oh, how beautiful!" "so every one says. we were, however, pressed for time, and therefore we had to get over the ground as quickly as possible; but how we shall ever tear edmund away from florence is more than i can say. you know my brother, do you not?" "yes,--that is, flora and i know him, but the blakes have never met him; he would, i am sure, find mr. blake a delightful companion; he knows florence so well, and is quite an enthusiastic admirer of its works of art; in fact, he is a most desirable guide to them." "then please to ask him if i may introduce my brother; to make his acquaintance would be quite a _trouvaille_ for edmund." mrs. penton was one of those who like to introduce french words into their conversation. "gerald and i, not being such worshippers of painting, should be quite exhausted if we attempted to keep pace with him; it is so fatiguing to look up at pictures for any length of time. we have been here more than an hour already, and i do not want to be tired before the afternoon, when we intend to drive in the cascine to see the _beau monde_ of florence; so it will be an excellent thing if we can get edmund and mr. blake together, and then i can make gerald take me home." accordingly mrs. adair turned to mr. blake, who was near to them, examining a picture, and said that mrs. penton wished to introduce him to her brother; and mrs. penton added, "edmund will have a double pleasure in making your acquaintance, as mrs. adair tells me you are a _connaisseur_ here." "it is indeed true that i am a warm admirer of the great treasures which florence contains, but i have no claim to the title of _connaisseur_. i shall be most happy, however, to be introduced to your brother, and to give him any information i possess about the florentine galleries,--they are old acquaintances of mine, but strangers, i suppose, to him." "yes, it is our first visit to florence; we only arrived yesterday. let us go to edmund!" they crossed to mr. barkley, and his sister--laying her hand upon his shoulder--said, "edmund, i have just met mrs. adair, her daughter, and some friends of theirs, whom i had the pleasure of meeting in rome. mr. blake knows florence _à coeur_, i believe, and he kindly says that this knowledge is at your service: mr. blake--my brother, mr. barkley." they bowed, and mr. barkley said, "i am most grateful for your kind offer, mr. blake, and shall gladly avail myself of it." after a few moments of conversation mrs. penton said, "you must speak to the adairs, edmund; but first tell me, where is gerald?" "i think he went into that room," pointing to the door on the left side of the tribune. "will you then take me to my husband, mr. blake, while edmund goes to the adairs?" mrs. penton made this request in the manner and tone of voice of one who feels certain that any man--even an old one--would be pleased at being asked to walk with her. mr. barkley was like mrs. penton, but handsomer, and, apparently, of superior intelligence. his complexion was dark--if black hair, eyebrows, and moustache, with grey eyes and a pale face, constitute the dark style; his well-formed forehead was almost ivory-like in its whiteness, his nose straight and finely cut, and his mouth small and sufficiently expressive, without, however, being very remarkable for that distinctive quality. he was just the sort of man that the greatest number of women rave about,--quite a _héros de roman_, with his tall, straight figure, and air of refinement. nevertheless there was something wanting; it was not a face which gave one the idea that its possessor was a man of courage--we mean _moral_ courage, or fortitude; nor did his fair and delicately-moulded hands redeem his face: they were not hands formed for a firm grasp, or to hold on steadfastly through time and difficulty. he was, however, generally considered to be quite an adonis, a lady-killer. of this he was fully conscious, but he had far too keen a sense of what is really worthy to be admired ever to betray this consciousness in his manner or conversation; and towards women he was almost chivalrous in his courtesy and deference,--another reason, doubtless, why he was so great a favourite with them. meanwhile he went to speak to the adairs, and was introduced to mrs. blake, mina, and marie. mrs. penton returned in a few moments with her husband and mr. blake, and, addressing her brother, she said, "edmund, gerald and i are going; but i suppose you will not come with us?" "nay; here is something more attractive," answered mr. barkley, with a smile and a bow towards the three girls who were standing together. "but you will come to drive in the cascine, will you not? there will, i suppose, be plenty of attraction for you there, in the youth and beauty of florence." "then you may depend upon me." did mrs. penton divine what her brother's wishes were? for she turned to mrs. adair, and said, "we shall have a vacant seat in the carriage; will you allow one of your young ladies to accompany us?" "with pleasure." "then i will call at a little after four. but which of them am i to have the honour of chaperoning?" "marie," replied flora, quickly. "mina and i are great walkers, and shall probably go for a walk in the country with mr. blake." mr. and mrs. penton left the tribune, but the rest of the party remained. mr. blake and mr. barkley agreed to go on the following day to the accademia delle belle arti and also to san marco. "i know a good little padre there," said mr. blake, "who will show us everything. he and i are the best of friends, although i cannot help regretting his blindness in matters of faith. and i dare say he has the same sort of feeling towards me." "no doubt he has," replied mr. barkley, laughingly; "and i, as you probably know, side with the padre." "oh, yes,--i know that you do; so i must be upon my guard, as you will be two to one. but the ladies have gone on; we had better follow them." they left the tribune, and went into the small rooms on the right-hand side of it, and there they found the ladies. marie and flora were standing together,--the former talking eagerly of the goodness of flora in wishing her to drive with the pentons instead of herself. to all of which flora answered-- "i deserve no praise whatever, for i really do not care to go. i shall be quite as much pleased to have a nice long walk, which would only tire you. you don't know, mignonne, how often an appearance of goodness may spring from indifference. you may indeed enjoy your drive without imagining that i have made any sacrifice whatsoever in not going." just then mr. barkley joined them, and asked what they were talking about so earnestly? "my share in the conversation," said flora, "consisted in trying to persuade marie that i am not making any sacrifice in giving her my place for the drive this afternoon,--indeed, as i have already told her, i shall prefer a walk to driving up and down a public promenade, with nothing but fashion to look at." it is probable that an adonis like mr. barkley found it rather difficult to believe that any girl should prefer a walk with other ladies, or, at least, with an old gentleman, to a drive in _his_ society; and he said, with a smile, "it is fortunate for our vanity that at least one of you wishes to come out with us. we shall do everything in our power to make it an agreeable drive to mademoiselle----i have not caught her name." "arbi," replied flora. "thank you;" then turning to marie, he continued--"then, mademoiselle arbi, we may expect to have the pleasure of your company this afternoon?" "_oui, monsieur_," replied marie, blushing. whenever she was eager about anything, or particularly shy, as she was at that moment, she spoke french. flora now moved on after the others, who had gone into the next room, and marie followed her as closely as possible, in terror at the thought of having to keep up a _tête-à-tête_ talk with mr. barkley. the conversation now became general, and naturally turned upon painting; so, between talking of, and admiring, the many beautiful works contained in the uffizi, the hours sped on until past two o'clock. it was then decided that they should go home for luncheon, and take a rest before the fatigues of the afternoon began. after leaving the gallery, they stopped to _flâner_ a little in the arcades. mr. barkley had succeeded very fairly in dispelling marie's shyness of him. he made her laugh merrily at his account of some of his adventures in sicily, and his ridiculous mistakes in the language, which he then knew but slightly. his french, however, was perfect; and this was to marie a great boon. he purposely lingered at one of the stalls, explaining something which he had pointed out to her, until the others had got into the piazza della signoria; and having thus managed that she should walk home with him, he exclaimed, "i declare they are half way across the piazza! what a hurry they are in! but do not tire yourself; we shall easily keep them in sight, and that is all we require. but that we _must_ do, or we should not find our way to our hotels." he took care, however, not to overtake them before they reached the hotel, at the door of which they had to wait a minute or two for marie. when she and her cavalier did come up, mr. blake said, "can you find the road to your abode, mr. barkley; or shall i accompany you?" "thank you, it is so near that i cannot mistake my way. good morning." chapter x. at breakfast on tuesday morning the plans for the day were talked over. mr. blake began by saying, "i suppose you know, ladies, that i am engaged to go with mr. barkley to the accademia at eleven; but in the afternoon i shall be at your service." "which is a polite intimation, uncle," said mina, "that our company is not wished for in the morning." "really, i never thought about your coming with us, for after we have been to the accademia we are to go to san marco; and you know that ladies are not permitted to pass the outer cloister. there's one of your pretty roman rules for you!" "not badly turned, uncle. i suppose that closing observation was intended to excite our indignation, and so make us forget the truth that you do not want us to go with you. but don't be afraid,--we shall have no design upon you; indeed, before we came down we had agreed to go to the pitti." "then the morning is disposed of; and what do you mean to do in the afternoon?" "mamma and marie are going to drive with the pentons," answered flora, "and as for the rest of us, we have not thought about what we shall do." "then you two girls had better come with me to san miniato. the church is well worth a visit, and the walk round the hill upon which it stands is most lovely. will you come also, agatha?" "perhaps," replied his sister-in-law; "if i am not very tired after the pitti. _my_ going, however, is not a matter of any importance; the girls can go with you whether i do or not." "well then, young ladies, i shall be ready for you at any time after three; and now, adieu for the present." the ladies remained some time longer at the breakfast table laughing at marie's animated description of the people whom she saw on the cascine on the day before, and at the theatre in the evening. she was most enthusiastic in her praise of mrs. penton and her brother's kindness, and asked naively if englishmen--meaning natives of the united kingdom--were generally as handsome and as charming as mr. barkley, adding that there were not any so nice at mrs. elton's ball. "you think so, mignonne, do you?" said flora. "well, i should say that, had he been at mrs. elton's, he would not have been unrivalled, or perhaps unsurpassed." "but who den, flore, was so seducing (_séduisant_) as he?" "oh! _i_ should say _this_ person; somebody else would say _that_ person; it is all an affair of taste, you know," answered flora, smiling at the question itself, and also at the _very_ literal translation of _séduisant_, as she stood up and went to look out of the window. marie jumped up and followed her, put her arm round her waist, and leaning her little curly head upon flora's shoulder, she looked up coaxingly at her and said, "flore, will you not tell your mignonne who it is dat you have found better than mr. barkley _chez_ madame elton?" "what a little goose you are, marie. i did not speak of any one in particular. i only said that he would not have been unrivalled. you know--as i also said--that it is all a matter of taste. helena elton, i dare say, would prefer mr. caulfield." "mr. caulfield! but you are not of her advice, flore?" "_opinion_ you mean, mignonne, and not _advice_, which is the english for _conseil_. for your satisfaction i am glad to be able to say that i do not agree with helena; and as you are going again to enjoy this afternoon the society of the person who suits _your_ taste best, i consider that you are a most enviable little being. but see, they are all gone,--we must go also." marie held up her fair face for a kiss, which was cordially given, and then they left the room. the difference in their characters, as shown in their manner, was most striking. marie was shy in the simple acceptation of the word, but she was not reserved. she knew nothing of flora's bugbear--that dread of importuning or wearying others. as soon as marie had got over the childish timidity which she always felt on a first acquaintance, she was demonstratively affectionate. it never crossed her simple little mind that her caresses might bore any one; so that whilst flora would stand at a distance from those whom she liked, longing to be near them, yet afraid to go to them without a word or look which seemed to call her, marie would at once run to _her_ favourites, throw her arms round their necks, and tell them how much she loved them, without stopping to think whether they wanted her or not. how flora envied this simplicity, and wished that she had a little more of it. it would have saved her so much pain; but it is one of those things which cannot be acquired, at least by a person like flora, who could not summon up sufficient courage even to touch the hand of any one whom she liked extremely, unless she were unmistakably made to feel that it would give pleasure. flora had said after reading marie's history, "we shall be such contrasts!" and so they were; but this difference of disposition only seemed to make them greater friends. but it is time for us to leave the ladies, and follow the two gentlemen to the accademia. as it was mr. barkley's first visit to florence, he had still most of beato angelico's masterpieces to see. he had indeed seen his works, on the day before, at the uffizi, and the "crowning of the blessed virgin," in the louvre, was an old familiar friend to him; but another treat was now in store for him, for beato angelico was his master-painter. on their way they talked of the different subjects from his pencil which they were about to see, and especially of the "descent from the cross" and the "last judgment." mr. barkley said that he meant to keep these for a _bonne bouche_, and begged to be taken straight to il beato's "poem in painting," the "life of our lord." mr. blake could not help rallying his friend a little about his desperate enthusiasm for the _frate_, which he thought somewhat extravagant. "but here we are," he exclaimed, "so you will soon be gratified. i shall, as you wish, take you straight to the 'life of our lord,' and then leave you to your ecstasies for a time. when i come back, be pleased to impart some of them to me." accordingly mr. blake left him to the contemplation of this august history, and did not join him again for a considerable time, which he spent in paying long visits to his favourite pictures. he was not at a loss for occupation during this time, as a most varied experience and a fair share of study had rendered him capable of really enjoying fine paintings. when he did at length return to mr. barkley, he found him at the closing subject--the "last judgment;" not the great picture on that subject, but an older one, and asked, "well?" "well!" echoed mr. barkley, "this _is_ art indeed! here we see that the painter had a higher aim in view than that of displaying his own talent in originality of design, or even correctness of outline. these indeed have not been neglected, but they have been used only as means to a great end, and that end was to teach a sublime lesson. each of these thirty-eight compartments is a study in itself, a study in which the mind of the angelic painter speaks to us through his works, causing us to know, and by knowing, to love something of 'the splendour of unity'--the beautiful itself. to produce this--you will agree with me--is the highest triumph of art. where this is not, what do we see but the works of copyists, who portray, more or less well, what they see with their mortal eyes?" "i quite agree with you that we cannot rightly call anything a work of real art which is not in some degree a creation, and a teacher, whose purpose it is to draw us from the lower and material world to the contemplation of higher things. but we must have a standard of truth, and therefore i cannot altogether share in your admiration of angelico's 'history of our lord,' as there are many things represented in it for which we have no authority, and in some places the meaning is obscure and unintelligible. much of it seems to be inspired rather by the mystic imagination of a pious monk than by the grand and simple written record of our saviour's life upon earth, the beauty of which these paintings ought only to illustrate. when your favourite keeps to this he is truly great, as in the 'descent from the cross,' for instance." "ah, true! will you forgive me if i say that you can hardly seize _all_ the speaking beauty depicted in this great history? i do not say this, as you will believe, in any way to depreciate your judgment, but in regard only to the _extent_ of your belief." "i do not quite catch your meaning. have we not an unerring standard to direct us here?" "the _letter_ of scripture, no doubt?... yes, you have _that_, but you have it surely without the spirit. moreover, you have, so to say, dislocated yourselves from the family traditions of christianity--from the memory of christendom; and having lost this, and therewith all traditional intercourse with the past, you hopelessly seize upon our first written records, and in them alone have you any knowledge or faith. the living voice which from age to age has handed down every detail of the glory of christ and his saints, is silent for you. you are strangers here, and these family records, which to us are so precious, are the objects of your suspicion, are even rejected by you as unworthy of belief; it is thus, i mean, that you are unable to seize _all_ the speaking beauty depicted here." "would you have us then to accept as truth the wild fantasies of individual painters?... it is far too much." "most assuredly not; that would, i should say, be to fall into another snare like the very one which has already caught you. when i said that you can hardly seize _all_ the beauty of il beato's poem on our lord, my meaning was, that having rejected the recognised sources of sacred tradition, you can receive nothing but what is written; although, by the way, even there it is said that 'there are also many other things which jesus did, which if they were written the whole world itself could not contain the books that should be written.' think for a moment: if you so confine the works of art to the text of scripture, how greatly you limit and narrow their field, and how many great pictures, which through ages christendom has honoured as its family heirlooms, you will be forced to condemn as false. you object to the touching scene of saint veronica--to this exquisite painting of jesus carrying his cross and meeting his blessed mother on her way to calvary. scripture does not say that he _did_ meet her; therefore, to you it appears to be a deviation from truth; but these facts are household words in christendom, resting upon the highest of all moral certainty--christian tradition. the spoken testimony of his chosen companions and the dogmas of our faith, in harmony with the loving memory of christendom, hand down these family records to us with holy and unerring care. you would hardly believe how jealous we are of any mutilation of them. numberless, however, would be the great pictures which must thus seem to you to be false or unintelligible, whilst to us they are rich in truth and supernatural meaning. i love saint paul's cry, '_be ye enlarged!_' you know not how much you lose even of scripture itself;--the very parables of our lord, which, you will remember, are not so to those 'to whom it is given to know,' are parables indeed, or at very best but beautiful histories, to _you_." "you are too hard upon us. i grant you that the principle of limitation, in our sense, fully admitted and carried into practice, would go far to strip our galleries of their treasures, and leave us without connection with the past. i am a sincere lover of art, and i am old enough to have the courage to confess to you that the consequences of the proper application of such a principle terrify me. i frankly acknowledge that it would hardly leave a monument standing of more than a few centuries old, and how few, i fear even to say. i comfort myself by the hope that the great storm has already past, and there i rest, with the principle still in my belief, that you must not venture into the work of god--scripture itself,--there all is holy, because all is divine. the parables are far more to us--believe me--than beautiful histories." "let me explain what i have expressed with, i hope, pardonable enthusiasm. it is not a question, as you seem to suppose, of _criticising_ the divine work, but of _appreciating_ it in a greater or lesser degree. you will grant us, i think, the larger comprehension of what was intended to be, to some, simply parables or riddles. in the parable of the prodigal son, for instance, _we_ learn how god receives repentant sinners. the young man leaves his father's house, and, in a far country, wastes his substance in wrong-doing; he soon feels the want of the _spiritual life_ which he has squandered away, and of which there is a famine in that country. still he cleaves to one of the chief citizens there, who sends him to feed swine; but his hunger is unappeased. at last he resolves to return to his father and confess his error and his sin. his father runs to meet him while he is yet a great way off, and falls upon his neck and kisses him. then he says _to his servants_, 'clothe him quickly with the robe of innocence, put the ring of adoption upon his finger, the shoes of safe direction upon his feet, offer the holy sacrifice, and feed him with the food of life, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found!' here, we have dogma, tradition, and scripture, harmoniously illustrating this, as indeed all the other parables. to us they are neither riddles nor beautiful histories, but sublime declarations and proofs of the divinity of our faith, since to us--by our divine teaching--'it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of god.' now how would one of your painters portray this? were he merely to represent it as scripture relates it, it would be simply a riddle; or did he attempt a higher meaning, there would be evident discrepancy between the truth of scripture and your belief and practice. so that should he aim at anything beyond drawing graceful figures and giving dramatic effect to his picture, he would be forced to abandon the subject altogether, or turn to us for its true illustration. so it is, and it is a very momentous fact that no country fallen away from christian unity ever produces real artists; it may even outstrip all the rest in material discoveries and progress--'the children of this world,' you know, 'are wiser _in their generation_ than the children of light'--but it has lost the divine power of creation. like mirabeau to barnave, we may indeed say to each of them, 'there is no divinity in thee!' you may find painters who can copy a dog to a hair, a blade of grass, a battle, anything that the eye of man can see and measure; but you will never find an angelico where 'the evidence, the light, the splendour of unity' is no longer intact." "i have listened to you with all the admiration of an artist, although with some patience, since i cannot admit your starting-point--namely, that you have an unerring source of tradition and knowledge. there are few subjects, however, in which i feel so wide an interest: so let us return to it again on another occasion. we have forgotten time: it is already one o'clock, and we ought to be with the padre in half-an-hour, as that is the best time for seeing the convent; and i suppose you would not be willing to leave this gallery without having a look at the two pictures which you said you would keep for a '_bonne bouche_?'" "certainly not. i must have a look, as you say--if nothing more. let us go to them." if mr. barkley was pleased with the "last judgment," which closes the "life of our lord," what must have been his delight with that later one, and with the "descent from the cross?" after a little time spent in admiring these two masterpieces, our friends proceeded to san marco, and found the padre at home. he received them most graciously, and took them over the convent, sparing no trouble in showing mr. barkley everything of interest, and especially the matchless frescoes of il beato. when they had made the tour of the convent, they were shown the relics of savonarola, the church, and its exquisitely illuminated choir books. having now seen all san marco's treasures, they thanked the good padre for the great pleasure he had afforded them, and took an affectionate leave of him. as they walked home, mr. blake said-- "you will confess, i suppose, that the relics of savonarola rightly belong to us; that soaring spirit, who could not submit to injustice and tyranny in the person of alexander vi., and so became the forerunner of the great emancipation of mind which was brought about a century later. savonarola is truly one of our most illustrious forerunners and martyrs." "his brother--our kind friend, the padre--would not like to hear you so slander him! the whole life of our great dominican,--all his teaching,--his public acknowledgment of the supremacy of the pope, accepting his absolution on the way to death,--all will rise up against you. we have no lack of reformers of morals; but we have no reformers of divine dogmas amongst us. the life of the illustrious savonarola has yet to be written; but if you will read one, published not long ago by villari, and which is already in english, you will hardly have the courage to talk of savonarola as one of your 'forerunners and martyrs.' he died as he lived, in the unity of the christian faith." mr. blake looked at his watch, and exclaimed-- "i declare it is three o'clock! and i promised to be at home by that time. i had no idea it was so late!" "nor had i. so it seems that all our battling only made the time fly?" "indeed it did. i have seldom spent a shorter or a pleasanter morning." "thanks. then i hope you will feel inclined to spend another in the same way very soon." "shall it be to-morrow?" "most willingly! at the same time as to-day?" "if you please. and now i must say good-bye, and hasten home to keep my appointment with the young ladies." "with many thanks." chapter xi. loitering amidst the artistic haunts of _firenze la bella_, we seem to have forgotten some of our roman acquaintances, who, when leaving the eternal city, took the southern instead of the northern direction. we know already that naples, or its neighbourhood, was the eltons' destination; it was also that of the three gentlemen who played so prominent a part at their ball. how strange it is that such a _trio_ should have fixed on going to the same place, each moved by motives so unlike those of the others! mr. earnscliffe went there because he wanted change of scene, and thought naples the most interesting;--mr. lyne, because it was a part of his plan to visit the south of italy before returning to france; had flora adair accepted him, he would have done so with her, as his bride; now he would do so alone, for he was far too methodical to allow a disappointment to interfere with any of his arrangements;--mr. caulfield's motive was to meet the eltons, and he wished to get there before them, in order that the "dragoness" might not be able to say he had followed them. mr. earnscliffe chose capri. he liked boating excessively, and would sometimes spend hours alone in his little craft, accompanied by a poor fisherman called paolo, whom he had engaged as his boatman, and who interested him greatly by his free and amusing tattle. mr. earnscliffe was fond of mixing in this way with the people in foreign countries. thereby he learned their habits and thoughts; and although among his equals he was considered as haughty and proud, such thoughts were never entertained of him by his inferiors. with them his generosity and readiness to help any one in real distress, combined with an evident determination not to let himself be imposed upon, caused him to be truly liked and respected. he thought about difference of position and inequality of fortune just in the same way as he did of the creation around him--namely, that all was full of inexplicable mystery. reason told him that when he and paolo came into the world there was no real distinction between them; it appeared unaccountable why the one was born in a wretched hovel and was only to have rags to cover him, whilst the other first saw light in a luxurious chamber, and servants waiting ready to serve him. he would often sit looking at paolo, as he lolled with careless grace in some part of the boat, singing or reciting something with all the characteristic animation of his country, and wondered what each would have been had their conditions been reversed,--had paolo been the highly-born rich man, and he the poor lowly fisherman. this train of thought would often lead him to ask, "why do these inexplicable contrasts exist?" then, with a gesture of impatience, he would begin sometimes to row vigorously, much to the wonder of the indolent italian, who saw no cause for this sudden display of energy. mr. earnscliffe's equals in the social scale were not unjust when they called him haughty and overbearing; so he was, to them: an open scoffer, indeed, at many of their opinions, and even at their faith; but to the poor he was all gentleness, he respected their religion, and even their superstitions he refrained from ridiculing. intolerance towards persons of his own rank, or above it, was a marked feature in his character; if one of these had not cultivated his mind--if he were not all that _he_ thought a man ought to be, he looked upon him with contempt, and considered himself merely obliged to treat him with cold politeness. to the poor, on the contrary, he was most indulgent, because he felt that fortune had denied to them all the advantages which she had given to the rich. the poor are forced to toil incessantly to gain their daily bread, they have scarcely any means of acquiring knowledge, of seeing and knowing what is good and true, and therefore it was that he, who in his own sphere would turn into ridicule the most solemn observances of christianity, never even smiled at any practices, or cast a shadow of ridicule towards the feelings, of these poor capri fisherpeople. one day an acquaintance of his came to capri, and he proposed that they should go out in his boat. as they got to the shore they found paolo there playing with a beautiful little girl of about nine years old, who, as soon as she saw them coming, ran towards mr. earnscliffe. he caught her up in his arms, seated her on his shoulder, and carried her back to paolo, who, with a gratified look, said, "_come è buono sua eccellenza!_" and then turned to get the boat ready. "you will come with us, paolo," said mr. earnscliffe. "_bene, signore_; but would their excellencies wait a moment while i take _la ragazzina_ to her mother; she is so precious!" "certainly," answered mr. earnscliffe, "i would not for worlds expose my little anina to any danger." he bent down and kissed her, saying, "_addio, carina!_" as paolo and anina turned away, mr. earnscliffe's companion, mr. elliot, said, "well, you do appear in a new character here, earnscliffe!" "i was not aware that you did me the honour of studying my character so well as to know what is old or new in it," was the reply, with a haughty look; "but is not anina a beautiful little creature?" "yes, very much so indeed; but what did the man mean by saying, 'she is so precious,' and at the same time looking up to heaven in that strange manner." "ask paolo to tell you; the story will sound far better from his lips than from mine." paolo returned, and they all got into the boat. soon after they were fairly afloat, mr. earnscliffe said, "paolo, my friend wants to know why you said that anina was so precious--will you tell him?" "with pleasure, _illustrissimo_," and his eyes looked the pleasure which his words expressed, for he was always happy and proud to talk of anina; "but," he added, "perhaps it will weary his excellency, as he knows it all so well." "not at all--i never tire of hearing about her." the father's face lit up with pleasure as he said, "the _signor_ must know, then, that last year there was great distress in our poor island--so much so that the poorer fishermen, like myself, were hardly able to live. in the month of april our great trial fell upon us: our eldest child, a boy about a year older than anina, sickened and died. our little anina herself began to fade too; she grew weaker and weaker, and lay in the sun all day hardly moving or speaking. one day the doctor happened to pass, and my wife asked him for charity's sake to examine _la poverina_. he did so, and said, 'she is sinking from weakness, and i fear in this time of distress there is but little hope for her.' "that evening, as we sat outside looking at the child's little pale face and closed eyes, lying as she was in her mother's arms, we shuddered to think how soon those eyes might be closed, like our other darling's, never, alas! to open again. all at once maria, my wife, exclaimed, 'take me to sorrento to-morrow, paolo, that we may go to the shrine there and pray to the madonna to save our child.' "'_via!_ maria, _via!_ have i not already prayed to the madonna and the saints, as only a despairing father could pray, and all in vain,' was my answer. "'hush! _marito mio_,' she cried, 'if thou speakest so we are lost--only take me to sorrento, and thou shalt see what the madonna will do for us. she _must_ hear me. take me, paolo! oh take me!' "i could not refuse poor maria, although i thought it all fruitless--_santissima madre di dio mi perdoni_." paolo took off his cap and crossed himself; but he did not see mr. elliot's smile, and he continued-- "accordingly we started for sorrento the next morning. a neighbour had promised to look after the child, so we were not uneasy at leaving her for the time. "as we went up to the church my wife was full of hope, but i was gloomy and dejected. we heard mass, and then i said to maria, 'i am going into the town, but i will come back for thee.' "i had determined to try to get a small loan from some of those to whom i was in the habit of selling fish, but they all talked of the bad times, and bestowed only their pity upon me. "i went back for my wife, and we returned to the boat; then i exclaimed, 'fine things thy madonna has done for us! i have been to every one whom i know in the town, and i have not got a carlino.' "maria answered me gently that she was sure the madonna would not fail us if i would only have trust and patience. i heard it all in silence. when we reached the shore i did not follow her out of the boat. she turned and asked, 'paolo, art thou not coming? the little one will miss her father--_il babbo_.' "'why should i go?' i retorted. 'to see the child die? i'd rather trust to the waves than to thy madonna. i'll put out to sea.' "'if she is to die, then must i see her die all alone? art thou going to desert me, paolo?' "poor maria! these words made me feel how cruel i had been to her; and jumping out of the boat, i joined her, saying, 'come then, we will watch her together.' "when we got near to the house, we saw our good neighbour leaning over _la bambina_, and clasping her hands. i grasped my wife's arm, and exclaimed, '_è morta!_' "with a cry, maria darted forward, calling, '_maddalena, maddalena, dica di grazia non è morta mia bambina!_' "'_morta!_ no. see what the madonna has given her!' and maddalena held up two gold pieces. "maria gave me one look of joy and triumph; then she knelt down by her child and covered her with kisses. as for me, no words could express my remorse. i fell upon my knees and asked forgiveness of _iddio e sua santissima madre_. "after a little time, and when we had all become a little calm again, anina told us that a beautiful lady with golden hair came to her and asked her what was the matter with her? she answered that she had long been ill, and was dying like her little brother, because her parents were too poor to get what was necessary for her; and they had gone to sorrento to pray to the madonna that she might get well again. the lady kissed her, and, putting the two gold pieces into her hand, said, 'tell _il babbo e la madre_ that the madonna sent these to them.' and then she went away. 'i felt so happy,' added the little one, 'because i knew then that it was the madonna herself who had been with me!' "you will not be surprised to hear, _eccellenza_, that we all wept for joy over the precious child whom the madonna had visited and saved to us!" mr. elliot laughed, and said, "that is an exceedingly well made up story, my good man; but you don't expect me to believe----" "stop," interrupted mr. earnscliffe, in a tone of indignation; "it is the action of a coward to laugh at a man who neither in words nor action has the power to answer you!" "earnscliffe, you insult me!" "if i do, i am ready to answer for it. all that, however, is not for the present time; now, the least you can do is to allow me to explain away, as well as i can, your ill-timed merriment. shall i do so?" mr. elliot quailed before his haughty gaze, and muttered, "as you like; the fellow is not worth so many words between gentlemen." "the 'fellow,' as you call him, is, perhaps, the superior of the two gentlemen;" his lips did not say "of one of them, certainly," but his eyes looked it; and without giving mr. elliot time to make any rejoinder, he turned to paolo, and said-- "this gentleman wished to test the truth of what you have related by appearing to ridicule it. but i have explained to him how undoubtedly true it is, and he begs that you will finish the story." the conversation between the two gentlemen had been carried on in english; but paolo had watched their faces, and had rightly interpreted their different expressions. so he answered, "_come piace a sua eccellenza_," looking pointedly at mr. earnscliffe, and laying a strong emphasis on the singular pronoun. he then went on to relate anina's story. "the child quickly recovered with the good things we were able to obtain for her. the first time that she followed me down to the boat, as she used to do when her poor brother and i were going out to fish, i felt beside myself with happiness; and you may be sure, _illustrissimo_, that a morning or evening never passes without my returning thanks to the _santissima madonna_, who has been so good to us, and that after the wicked things which i had said of her. "a year went by, and the eve of the day in which our _bambina_ had that blessed vision, maria said to me, 'paolo, thou must take us to sorrento to-morrow.' "'with all my heart,' i answered; for had i not learned to have as much trust in our blessed patroness as my wife? the winter had been hard again, and we were very poor; but the child was well, and how could we complain? god knows what is best for us! so the next morning we set out for sorrento with our little favoured one; and who shall be able to say how happy we were, as we thought of our trouble there on the same day a year before! "after our return, on the evening of that same day, about the ave maria, my wife and i were sitting outside our door, and the child had wandered away among the rocks, when suddenly we heard her voice, and, looking up, we saw her in the arms of _sua eccellenza_. he gave her to my wife, and said that as he walked along, he heard a sound of crying, and saw at a little distance a child seated on a rock, and holding one foot in her hand. he asked her what ailed her, and she answered by taking away her hand from her foot; and he saw that it was cut, and bleeding fast. she had slipped, and fallen on a sharp piece of rock! god reward _sua eccellenza_! he bound up her wounded foot, and carried her, while she pointed out the way, to my cottage. _sua eccellenza_ then turned to me, and asked if i knew any one from whom he could hire a boat, and said that he also wanted a boatman to manage and take care of it for him. i replied that he could not do a greater act of charity than to take me, and that he could have my boat, too, only it was rather old and weather-beaten for _un gran signore_ like him. he said that the boat being old did not signify, as he would probably buy one if he remained at capri; and that he would take me on trial. and he has been graciously pleased to keep me in his service ever since. _o santissima madre di dio!_ how much do we owe thee! when our precious _bambina_ was dying from want, you came from heaven and gave her the gold which saved her life, and on the anniversary of that happy day you sent us a good angel, _sua eccellenza_!" paolo ceased speaking; but, with all the impetuosity of an italian, he seized one of mr. earnscliffe's hands and pressed it to his lips. mr. earnscliffe flushed. he _felt_ that mr. elliot was laughing at this scene; and one of his weak points was a horror of ridicule even from those whom he despised. yet he would not hurt paolo by showing that his demonstrative gratitude annoyed him; so he said gently, "_grazie, amico, ritorneremo adesso!_" mr. elliot exclaimed in a bantering tone, "why, you are the eighth wonder of the world, earnscliffe; and what a fool i was to be angry with you just now, when you were so ready to strangle me for laughing at that wretched fisherman's absurd story about the _madonna_. you must confess, however, that you are about the last person whom one could have expected to act so. i myself have heard you hold up to scorn the worship of idols before dignitaries of the romish church,--before men whose position, one might have thought, would have prevented you from attempting to ridicule their creed in their presence. yet you were ready to fight with me for venturing to laugh at the same thing in this fisherman!" an expression of unutterable contempt was visible in mr. earnscliffe's face as he replied-- "can you not understand that one should laugh at anything so false and absurd as this species of idolatry in those who ought to know better, and yet respect it, yes, religiously, in a man to whom has been denied the means of knowing what is and what is not true? if you cannot, i pity you; but it is vain to answer you. all i can say is that i would rather have died than have acted as you have done to-day." "upon my word, earnscliffe, if ever any man had a right to quarrel with another, i have that right now." "then use it by all means, if you like, although i cannot see what you would gain by it." "i believe you are right there, and you are so strange a mortal that one may as well let you alone. i declare it would not astonish me to hear you say that you considered that fellow there to be a more respectable personage than monseigneur n----, brother to an english earl, and covered with honours and distinctions!" "of course i do,--_one_ of them is respectable, because he is true; the _other_ is not, because he is a hypocrite." here appeared mr. earnscliffe's ill-formed intolerance. he could not understand that men of education and great intelligence could sincerely believe what appeared to him to be folly, and therefore it was hypocrisy. in the world around him he saw so much falseness and self-interestedness, that he became a harsh judge of his fellows. had he exercised towards them only a small portion of the indulgence which he extended to the untaught and to the poor, he would have seen many virtues which in his sweeping severity he overlooked. when they reached the shore they saw a party from sorrento disembarking, and mr. elliot recognised some intimate friends of his. they begged him to join them, but he pleaded his engagement to dine with his friend earnscliffe. "even so," they answered; "could you not stroll with us a little before you dine?" "excuse me for a moment then;" and turning to mr. earnscliffe he said, "i believe my absence would be more agreeable to you than my company until dinner time, and, perhaps, even then you would rather dispense with it!" "nay," he rejoined, laughing, "i am not quite so bad as that. i do not ask people to dine with me and then wish to get rid of them. my invited guest shall always find a welcome at my table if he chooses to accept it. do we say _adieu_ then, or _au revoir_?" "_au revoir,--se piace a sua eccellenza_," and with a gay glance at paolo he turned and followed his friends. the dinner had been ordered for two, but mr. earnscliffe now determined to add another guest in the person of the resident doctor, with whom he had a slight acquaintance. a little before the time appointed mr. elliot returned from his walk in high spirits, and was introduced to doctor molini, who spoke english; so they conversed generally in that language. as they sipped their coffee and had lighted their cigars after dinner, mr. earnscliffe alluded to the story which they had heard in the morning, and said that dr. molini was the gentleman of whom paolo had spoken as having seen the child in her illness; upon which mr. elliot exclaimed, "then, dr. molini, perhaps, you can tell us the truth as to how they got that money, instead of the story that paolo related about a beautiful golden-haired lady, dressed in white, appearing to the child and giving it to her?" "signore, i can only confirm what he said; it is all perfectly true." "you surely cannot mean to tell me that the madonna brought down the gold pieces from heaven!" "de facts are, as i said before, all true, but not de inference which dese poor people draw, dat it was de madonna who appeared to anina. i happened to walk dat way; i saw a beautiful lady in white and wid golden hair speak to de child, kiss her, den go away. i was curious,--i did follow her until i saw her run to a _signore_ and lean upon his shoulder, as he sat on a rock drawing. i knew dey were english, and raising de hat, i said dat i hoped _il signore et la signora_ were pleased wid our poor island. _il signore_ said, 'yes, very much.' den _la signora_ asked if i could tell her anything about a lovely little child she had just seen. i said i was de doctor of capri and knew de child, but dat i feared she would die from weakness, her parents being very poor, and de bad time had made it hard for dem to live. _la signora_ said she was glad to learn it, and as i was a doctor, perhaps, i would look at de child sometimes and see her cared for, and she put money into my hand. it was not wonderful for de child to call her de madonna, she was so beautiful; her hat and cloak were on a rock by de _signore_, and her hair sparkled like bright gold in de sun. i suppose she was his bride,--i tink so. he told me dey must return to naples, and wished me _buon giorno_, and _la signora_ said, 'please not to forget de pretty child, and i shall be grateful to you.' i answered, putting my hand on my heart, dat it was a happiness to me to serve so gracious a lady. _il signore_ looked impatient, and as if he did not want me to stay, so i left dem, but i have never forgotten her or de charge she left to my care." mr. elliot laughed at this specimen of foreign forwardness and english reserve as he answered, "well, we shall not quarrel with you for having been a little curious, as it has procured us the pleasure of learning the truth about the story, which is really a most interesting and remarkable one. but"--turning to mr. earnscliffe--"i must leave you now, for, as you know, my time is running close." "stay a moment, i will get my hat and walk down to the shore with you; perhaps dr. molini will accompany us?" "i should like it very much but i have a call to make, so i must wish you _felice notte_ now." the good little doctor took his departure after much bowing, and mr. earnscliffe and his friend set out on their walk. after some desultory chat the former asked, "are there many english at sorrento now?" "yes," replied the other, "the hotels are said to be very full;--by the way, there were two acquaintances of yours staying at my hotel in naples, which i only left the day before yesterday,--mr. caulfield and mr. lyne." "mr. lyne! is it possible that he is in naples? are you quite sure of it?" "very possible indeed, my dear friend. i saw him there two days ago." "you amaze me: but is he not going back to rome? is he not going to be married?" "married! i should say not; and he certainly is not returning to rome, since he starts in a few days for sicily." they had reached the shore, and mr. elliot added-- "do you wish to know if there is any probability of his being married; he seems to interest you so much?" "thank you, no; he does not interest me in the least. i was merely astonished to hear of his being in naples, for in rome he was said to be on the eve of marriage with an english lady there." "_addio_ then. come and see me at sorrento some day,--it will be a change for you." "you are very kind, but i do not want change; i like my island solitude. good-bye." and mr. earnscliffe turned immediately away as the boatman pushed off. chapter xii. the next morning found mr. earnscliffe still wondering how it was that mr. lyne came to be in naples, and what had become of flora adair. was it possible that she had refused mr. lyne? he felt a little startled at finding how much these thoughts occupied his mind; but, as he had often done before, he tried to persuade himself that he was quite indifferent to her proceedings _personally_, and that it was merely for the sake of the possible good of human nature in woman that he wished to know if she had been true and high-minded enough to reject this offer. what delicious self-deception! had mr. earnscliffe said to himself, "if mary elton, instead of flora adair, were in question, should i be so interested in the possible good of human nature in woman, and care so very much to discover how she had acted?" but he asked himself no such question. it would have been an unsatisfactory way of putting the case; whereas, by placing it under the head of a laudable desire to acquire knowledge of human nature, it was quite another matter, and in that light he felt himself free to dwell upon it, and even actively to endeavour to unravel the mystery. yet he could not succeed in finding a clear starting point for his investigations. he wandered about without any settled object, or sat upon a rock with a book in his hand; but its pages remained unturned, and not even anina, who well knew his favourite rocky perch, and seldom failed to join him there, could win from him now anything more than an absent smile; and having exhausted all her pretty little wiles to attract his attention, she at last went and stood beside him and asked, "is _il caro signore_ ill?" the child's question roused him, and, drawing her to him, he said, "no, _carina_, i am not ill, i was only thinking." "thinking, _signore_," repeated anina slowly, as if that word gave her the idea of a very mystic operation indeed. "yes, thinking, little lady; and would she like to know about what?" "_di grazie, signore._" "well, then, i was thinking of going to napoli." "_a napoli?_ but _il mio caro signore_ will return; he is not going away?" "no, _carissima_, i am not going away; i will take _il babbo_ with me, and we shall be back again to-night if possible. will your _eccellenzina_ give me leave to go?" "yes," she answered, laughing merrily at the new title which he gave her; "_il signore_ may go, as he says he will be home to-night, and"--like a true child, in italy or elsewhere--"perhaps he will bring anina something pretty from napoli." "it is _not_ impossible that he might do so. what would her _eccellenzina_ be pleased to wish for?" "there are beautiful _madonne_ at napoli, _signore_," she said timidly, "and the one i have is _bruttissima_,--unworthy of the madonna who has done so much for me." mr. earnscliffe pretended to be very intent on the examination of a flower which was growing at a little distance from him. he did not know how to answer the child. he felt that it was too much, not only to tolerate superstition, but actually to encourage it by giving anina an image: and yet he did not like to disappoint her. he raised his eyes, and they met her soft liquid ones, so earnestly and pleadingly fixed on his face, that he could not bear to pain her, and he said, "you shall have your madonna, _carissima_." she threw her arms round his neck, declaring that never was anybody so good as he was, and "was he not also very fond of the madonna?" this was going from bad to worse, and he thought that the only thing to be done was to put an end to the conversation, so, without answering her question, he said, "come, _carina_, we must go and tell _il babbo_ to get ready." "but is not _il signore_ very fond of the madonna?" she repeated with childish persistence.... how constantly he was tempted to tell her that all this was false, and try to teach her something nearer to truth, but he was always stopped by the thought that he himself could not explain clearly to her what truth was, and that when he left capri he would only have rendered her unhappy, and different from all her own people; thus her faith in the madonna and the saints remained untarnished. surely his good angel must have been whispering in his ear when he refrained from saying a disparaging word upon a subject which naturally irritated him, and which was so often brought before him by anina in her lively affection for the madonna. after a few moments' hesitation he replied, "we must ever love all that is good and beautiful, just as one loves you, _carina_, as long as you are such a dear, good little child...." "but _il signore_ will go away some day, and then he will forget anina," she said, looking up gravely at him. "ah, _carina_, you will be more likely to forget than i shall. you will have other and dearer ones to love you, while i----," he stopped suddenly, and muttered in english, "what a fool i am making of myself!" letting go anina's hand, he walked on quickly, saying, "here is _il babbo_." she stood still for a moment looking at him with a puzzled air, then away she ran to tell her mother that _il signore_ had promised to bring her a beautiful madonna from napoli. mr. earnscliffe told paolo to have the boat ready in about half an hour, as he wished to go to naples, and as the wind was so fair he preferred to sail rather than to take the steamer. in this visit to naples he had no fixed plan of action; he had not even determined whether he would call on any of his acquaintances there, yet he had a vague notion that in some way or other he would see mr. lyne, although at the same time he had not the slightest idea of how he was to gain any information from him. he could not ask him a single question about what was uppermost within him, yet he could not rest without making an effort in that direction. suddenly it occurred to him that the eltons might know something about it. he recalled the day at the catacombs, thought of mary elton's eagerness to tell him that flora was going to be married to mr. lyne; perhaps she might now be equally ready to tell him why the marriage had not taken place. it was possible that she might not know, but it was a chance, and so he would try to find out their address and call upon them. as soon as he arrived in naples he went to the _hotel de la grande bretagne_, and asked if mr. caulfield and mr. lyne were staying there. "yes," answered the waiter, "but they are out. will the _signore_ leave a card?" "it is unnecessary," replied mr. earnscliffe, "as i shall probably meet them; but perhaps you can give me some information about an english family of the name of elton, who have been in naples for the last two or three weeks?" the waiter repeated the name with tolerable correctness, and after thinking for a few moments he said, _una signora e due signorine_ had stopped there for a few days, and had afterwards taken a villa in the neighbourhood,--did the _signore_ think that these were his friends? mr. earnscliffe remembered having heard that charles elton was obliged to return to his regiment when his mother and sisters were going to naples, therefore it most probably was mrs. elton and the two young ladies of whom the waiter spoke; so he asked to see the visitors' book, and found that his supposition was correct. the address of their present residence was written after their names; and, having gained all the information he required, he rewarded the waiter's services, and desired him to call a carriage, in which he then drove to the villa. having reached the gate, mr. earnscliffe alighted, saying that he would walk up; and discharging the man, he entered. the villa was situated about half way up one of the hills which rise behind naples, and which command so lovely a view. our friend stood still for a moment gazing upon it; as he did so he thought he heard a sound of voices, and looked round in the direction whence the sound seemed to come. he saw nothing, however, but a thick hedge; but on approaching it he discovered that it bordered a pretty secluded walk, which it shaded effectually from the sun. it looked very inviting, and he followed it, until he came to a spot where the hedge formed a sort of bow, and there, sitting on a stone bench, he saw mary elton. there was a table before her, and she leaned upon it with crossed arms and her head bent upon them. by her side knelt helena, who had thrown one arm round her sister's waist, and with the other hand she tried to draw away the crossed arms which hid her face. did mary hear mr. earnscliffe's step, or did she _feel_ that _he_ was looking at her? however that may be, she raised her head suddenly and saw him standing before her. starting to her feet, the blood rushed to her face, crimsoning it all over; but it receded as quickly, and left her as pale almost as marble as she exclaimed, "mr. earnscliffe!" and then stood looking at him in silent amazement. he smiled, and putting out his hand to her he said, "i came to call upon mrs. elton, but as i entered the gate i thought i heard voices in this direction, and that the sound of my own name caught my ear, so i took this walk instead of going direct to the house. i hope i have not intruded." "surely you need not fear to be looked upon as an intruder here," answered mary, with a slightly faltering voice; "mamma will be delighted to see you." "of course she will," added helena, shaking hands with him; "but where have you come from, mr. earnscliffe? i declare you appeared before us in so ghost-like a manner that mary and i have not yet recovered from the shock." "i see that i have startled miss elton very much," he replied, looking fixedly at mary, who was still very pale; "yet i should have thought that she was less afraid of ghostly apparitions than you. but on this occasion you have shown more courage." "nevertheless," answered mary, quietly, "i am less afraid of such things than helena, and at all events, as i need scarcely say, i did not look upon your sudden appearance as supernatural; but i have been suffering from a nervous headache all day, and anything unexpected would have startled me for the moment." "then i regret having given you a start," he said, still looking inquiringly at her, as if he did not think that the effect was quite justified by the cause assigned. "pray do not say a word more about it, now that it is over. i dare say the start may do me good--as an electric shock. let us go to the house." "but all this time, mr. earnscliffe," interposed helena, "you have not answered my question as to where you came from. to me it seemed as if you had dropped from the clouds." "i did not drop from the clouds, but a friendly wind wafted me across the sea, and a chariot bore me through the air to the gate of your villa." "why you must be a demi-god, to have winds and chariots in attendance to bear you where you will. are you a magician, mr. earnscliffe?" "neither, miss helena; but surely this is no more wonderful than dropping from the clouds as you suggested, and, as in politeness bound, i answered you in your own language." "what a provoking man you are! you always manage to make it appear that you are right whether you are or not. but now please to answer me rationally." "well, then, i came from capri, where i have been staying since i left rome, intending to spend an afternoon in naples. i heard that you were residing in the neighbourhood, and asked at the _hotel de la grande bretagne_ if they knew your address, and as you may judge by seeing me here, my question was answered in the affirmative." mary turned aside her head in order to hide the flush of pleasure which she could not keep down at hearing this proof of his anxiety to see them, and helena said, "how wonderfully condescending it was of you to take the trouble to seek us out!" "nay, i could not well spend a day in naples and not call upon you, for i had not time to do so in rome after your ball." "there is more of your provokingness. you will never allow one to imagine that you pay a compliment." "surely the misses elton must be surfeited with compliments, and therefore could not care for, or expect any, from a half-hermit like myself." "oh! a compliment is always acceptable when one can flatter one's self that it is true, and _you_, i suppose, would not deign to say anything which was not strictly so." "certainly not." he turned to mary and said somewhat abruptly, "i hear that mr. lyne is here. was it then a groundless _on dit_ that he was going to marry miss adair?" poor mary! what a blow this was to all her rising hopes, founded on the fact of his having shown anxiety to find them out. this question revealed to her the true motive of his visit. the revulsion of feeling was too great to allow her to speak at once, and helena said, "oh no, but flora would not----" "helena!" interrupted mary, sharply; "you are treading on my dress," and she laid her hand heavily on her sister's arm. helena looked astonished, but remained silent, and mr. earnscliffe said-- "you were saying, miss helena, that miss adair 'would not----' pray finish the sentence." "helena ought to have said," returned mary, without giving her sister time to speak, "that flora could not have _afforded_ to refuse such an offer as mr. lyne's; so perhaps she is engaged to him." "that is not very probable, miss elton, as they have gone in contrary directions," answered mr. earnscliffe, drily; whilst he said to himself, "there is some motive here for trying to make me believe in this marriage, and it is evident i am not to be allowed to hear the truth about it, or why was the sister hindered from speaking? but i _will_ know what the mystery is." his face assumed so stern and determined an expression that helena exclaimed, "why, mr. earnscliffe, you look as if you were struggling with some imaginary enemy, whom you are resolved to conquer!" "it must, indeed, have been an imaginary one," he answered, smiling, but the smile was not a pleasant one, "as in reality i am walking with two young ladies, neither of whom could be supposed to be my enemy, or the enemy of anybody, i suppose; but you are right in thinking that were there any such struggle, i should be resolved to conquer. i am not so easily turned aside from any purpose, whatsoever it may be"--and his eyes rested for an instant on mary. she felt uneasy under the scrutiny; but fortunately for her they had reached the steps, and running up, she threw open both sides of the glass-door, saying, in imitation of helen's gay, mocking manner-- "welcome to bel vedere, o mighty conqueror!" "that is a bad edition of me, mary," said helena, "and does not suit you at all,--does it, mr. earnscliffe?" "we are unaccustomed to it in miss elton," he replied; "while in you it appears as if it could not be otherwise." "_you_ think so, of course. in your estimation i know that i am a mere butterfly, and incapable of any deeper feeling than the amusement of the moment." "such _you_ say is my opinion; i cannot be so rude as to contradict you, however. i certainly never said or implied anything of the kind. but we are keeping miss elton waiting." they had remained standing at the foot of the steps during this little skirmish of words; then they followed mary into the deliciously cool stone-paved hall, and from it into the drawing-room. there, too, it was equally cool, for the floor was of marble; the furniture was of a pale amber, so that the light which pierced through the closely-shut _persiennes_ was tinged with a soft golden hue; bouquets of roses gave a delicate perfume to the air; and through the open windows there came every now and then a slight breeze, laden with the scent of orange flowers. even mr. earnscliffe felt the charm of that room creeping over him. how strongly at that moment did he feel the refining power of woman's presence!--and involuntarily he sighed. mrs. elton came down quickly. she seemed delighted to see him, and begged that he would partake of their four-o'clock refreshments, which were about to be served, and drive with them afterwards on the riviera, and hear the band in the villa reale. "thank you. i shall be very happy to do so," he replied, thinking that he might chance to see mr. lyne there. shortly afterwards came coffee, cakes, fruit, creams, and light wines; and as soon as they had partaken of these, the ladies went to get ready for their drive. chapter xiii. we left mr. earnscliffe alone in the drawing-room waiting for the return of the ladies, and during their absence that unfinished sentence of helena's--"flora would not--" occupied his thoughts. "did she mean to say that flora adair would not accept mr. lyne?" his heart beat strangely fast as the conviction that it was so began to dawn upon him, and again he felt startled at his own feelings. but he would not stop to examine them now: he must first discover the whole truth. and once again he thought, "what can mary elton's motive be in not letting her sister speak?" he remembered her extraordinary agitation upon seeing him, and wondered what could have caused it. it was not possible to suppose that mary wanted him as a desirable match for herself, as with her beauty and ample fortune he knew that a suitable marriage could be no difficulty for her. why, then, should she waste her energies in trying to catch him?... evidently it could not be that; yet he could think of no other reason for her extraordinary conduct. he was not a vain man: so it never occurred to him that the cause of all this was love for himself; besides, he hardly believed that women ever acted from any but interested motives,--thus he missed the solution of the riddle. his musings were interrupted by the entry into the room of the subject of them. mary came in and threw herself into an armchair, and as she lay back in it she looked so weary that mr. earnscliffe said-- "you look tired, miss elton." "tired? yes. tell me--you who are said to be a philosopher--have you found life to be so pleasant a thing that you have never been tired of it?" she did not give him time to answer, but went on hurriedly, "is it not, on the contrary, made up of struggles which wear one out;--of vain efforts to win some longed-for object? and how great is the weariness which follows these struggles, when one sees that object slipping from one's grasp, and about to fall into the hands of one who has, perhaps, never fought for it!" he looked at her in amazement as he exclaimed-- "you speak almost with the bitterness of experience, miss elton!" "i speak of life in general. is it not what i have said?" "yes, perhaps it is so,--at least, until we have learned that there is nothing in it worth struggling for!" "but i do not think it true that there is nothing in life worth struggling for; nor in reality do _you_. ay, there are things worth struggling for, and at this very moment you feel that there are!" "miss elton!" "i know that i astonish you greatly. you cannot understand that i should speak thus,--i, who am generally so calm and quiet. but there are times when one forgets conventionality, and everything else;--times when life becomes a burden, and one envies the pagans, who saw no crime in laying it down voluntarily. we are given too much or too little light and faith--enough to prevent us from choosing between life and death, as they did, but not enough to prevent us from longing that we, too, had the power so to choose.... ah! if one did not believe in eternal happiness or misery!" at this moment, mrs. elton and helena came in, and there would have been an awkward pause, had not mary continued, with perfect coolness-- "yes, as i was saying, happiness and misery--or rather, prosperity and misery--come into such close contact in italy;--the palace and the hovel lean one against the other; the lady in costly velvets and the beggar-woman in rags walk side by side. indeed, it is in southern lands alone that you see them thus face to face." "that is quite true," observed mrs. elton. "in england the proper distinction of classes is admirably well marked." "the carriage, ma'am," announced thomas, opening the door. "what a strange girl that is!" thought mr. earnscliffe, as he looked at mary, who was seated opposite to him in the carriage. "she was speaking with all the earnestness of excited feeling when her mother entered the room, and at once she changed her tone and manner so completely, that one could scarcely believe it to be the same person who, a moment before, was talking bitterly and eagerly, with flashing eyes and hands twitching nervously...." when they reached the riviera they found it already crowded with gay equipages. no sooner, however, had they taken their place among the other carriages than helena exclaimed, "how i should like to get out and walk in the villa reale; then i could see the programme of the music, and one enjoys listening to a band so much more when one knows what it is playing." "and why do you not gratify your desire? i need scarcely say that i should be most happy to escort you," said mr. earnscliffe. "thank you! thomas, open the door." "i will go with you," said mary. "but," interposed mrs. elton, "you surely will not leave me quite alone; you may as well stay with me now, mary, and when helena comes back you can take a turn, if mr. earnscliffe should not be tired of handing young ladies about." "on the contrary, miss elton may count upon my being ready to accompany her." mary felt that she could not persist, so she reseated herself, saying, "thank you, but i dare say that by the time helena returns i may not feel inclined to trespass upon your readiness to oblige. you know that it is a woman's privilege to change her mind as often as she likes, and we have so few privileges that it would be unwise not to avail ourselves of them." he merely smiled as he handed helena out of the carriage, and offering her his arm, he led her into the villa in order to see the programme, which was posted up close to where the band was playing. mary soon lost sight of them amidst the crowd. before they had come out she had given helena a lecture upon her thoughtless way of speaking, and cited as an example of this what she was about to say on that very morning about mr. lyne and flora adair, declaring that even if she positively knew--which she could not--that flora had refused mr. lyne, it was not right of her to speak of it. "you are mistaken, mary," answered helena, "in saying that i could not know it. i _do_ know it, for harry's answers were so confused and contradictory when i asked him about his friend, that it was just as plain to me that he had been refused as if harry had admitted it in so many words. poor harry! he thinks that it would be betraying his friend to tell even me; but with all his determination he has 'let the cat out of the bag'--he would have done much better to have told me in confidence; i should then be bound in honour not to divulge it." "it matters not--you ought not to speak of it. what would mr. lyne think if he should hear it said that flora adair had refused him, and that the misses elton had said so? so please, lena, to be more cautious in future." "i will not speak of it, mary, because it would, i see, annoy you; but why not have said candidly, 'do not tell _mr. earnscliffe_,' for you know that it is not my saying generally that mr. lyne has been rejected which displeases you." "what possible advantage could it be to me, helena, that mr. earnscliffe should not know this? do you suppose that it would make him like me any better? absurd! but we must not get the character of being _mauvaises langues_. you said you would not speak of it again, and therefore i am sure you will not." so saying she left the room. even to helena she could not bring herself to acknowledge to what meanness she could descend in order to keep mr. earnscliffe away from flora adair, and it was after this conversation that she went into the drawing-room looking so weary. as she saw mr. earnscliffe and helena leave the carriage together she thought, "what lena said of mr. caulfield--that his very determination not to speak betrayed the secret--will be her own case now. she will mean to keep her word, yet mr. earnscliffe will know it, for he is determined to know as much as possible." she was right: mr. earnscliffe was determined to find out the truth, yet he felt awkward about asking helena; so by way of introduction he led the conversation back to rome, and their ball, and chance favoured him. helena inadvertently disclosed all that he wished to know. he exerted all his power to be agreeable in order to amuse her, and drew such laughable caricatures of the different people there that helena forgot all restraint, and yielding to her natural delight in ridicule, she added many an absurd feature to mr. earnscliffe's pictures, until, carried away by the subject, she exclaimed, "but the hero of the night was mr. lyne. his air of confidence and triumph as he danced that last quadrille before the cotillon with flora was delicious; then afterwards the poor rejected creature looked so crestfallen as he sneaked away that i could not help laughing at him. i met him near the door, and was so tempted to cut off his retreat and make him dance with me for the fun of teazing him; but i took pity upon him and let him escape." "then he did propose for flo----, for miss adair, and she refused him?" said mr. earnscliffe, in a low thrilling tone. "i said nothing about mr. lyne's proposing to flora adair," retorted helena eagerly, and blushing deeply as she felt how imprudent she had been--that she had told the very thing which she had been desired not to tell. "it is quite needless to make any explanations about it, miss elton. i am aware that you did not _say_ that mr. lyne had been refused by miss adair," he answered, smiling. helena grew still more flushed as she cried out hotly, "you are unkind, ungenerous, man----" she was going to say manoeuvring, but she stopped suddenly, feeling that getting angry about it was only betraying herself still further. "how many more evil qualities have i displayed, miss elton?" he replied, with a slight laugh. "but here are two friends of yours." she looked up and saw mr. lyne and mr. caulfield standing before her, the latter gazing at her with somewhat of a displeased air. a lover is not often particularly well pleased to see his beloved walking alone with another, and that a handsome, man! helena understood it all at a glance; it quite restored her gaiety, and for the time being made her forget her vexation with herself and mr. earnscliffe. as she shook hands with the new-comers she thought to herself, "so you are jealous, master harry, are you?--then i shall have grand fun in teazing you." she had drawn her arm from mr. earnscliffe's, and stood with downcast eyes before mr. caulfield. mr. earnscliffe proposed that they should return to the carriage, but helena objected, saying, "surely it is pleasanter to walk about a little longer; and now that these gentlemen have joined us, one of them i dare say will allow me to walk with him, so that you, mr. earnscliffe, will be freed from the wearisome task of _making me talk_." she emphasised the latter words, and again an expression of annoyance passed over her features. "it was not a wearisome task i assure you, miss elton,--very far from it; your conversation was most interesting to me." "true, i suppose you did find it interesting for once." she turned away impatiently, and said in a low tone to mr. caulfield, "come." he required no second summons to join her, and they walked on together, mr. lyne and mr. earnscliffe following. from what helena had said mr. earnscliffe felt certain that flora had refused mr. lyne, yet he wanted to have assurance made doubly sure; he longed to hear mr. lyne himself confirm it, for he found it very difficult to believe that a woman had acted so disinterestedly, and at the same time he wished ardently to be compelled to believe that _flora adair_ had done so. but the difficulty was to make mr. lyne speak--how indirectly soever it might be--on the subject.... again chance favoured him. an italian lady with her two daughters passed them and bowed to mr. lyne. turning to his companion, he said, "did you observe the plainer of those two girls? she has just returned from a convent for her month of probation before she enters as a nun." "indeed! poor girl! so she is to be a victim to this horrible custom in your catholic countries of sending plain or portionless girls into a convent! yet, after all, i don't know that it is a great deal worse than our own system of selling women in marriage, save inasmuch as that we use no force. but then--alas that it should be so!--it is not necessary for us to use force,--our women are only too ready to be sold if the bidding be but high enough, too ready to become the property of any man who can give them wealth or position, with or without love on their sides. to me, this appears to be the lowest of all degradation, and the sanction which the world's rules gives to it can make no real difference. it is merely _legitimatized_ degradation, yet i half believe that _all_ women are capable of submitting to it." "surely you are mistaken," answered mr. lyne earnestly; "there are many women far above anything of that kind. you must not forget that, on principle, many persons disapprove of ardent love as an ill-regulated feeling; therefore women often marry without what is called _love_, but they would not for worlds accept one whom they did not respect and look up to; and these surely are not to be condemned. there are others again whom no possible advantage would induce to marry without that intense love of which they dream." "this is all very well in theory, but does not experience teach us the contrary? could we name one woman out of all those whom we know who would really act so? lives there the girl who, without an independence of her own, ever refused a rich man merely because she did not love him intensely? you know you could not point out one." "pardon me, i could." "really? truly?"--exclaimed mr. earnscliffe, laying his hand upon mr. lyne's arm. "as really, as truly, as that i am walking with you." "thank you, lyne, you don't know how much good you have done me; you have restored my belief in the truth and beauty of woman's nature, for even one true woman is sufficient to redeem the sex from general contempt.... yet god knows i had reason to distrust them." "still you ought not to distrust all because some are unworthy." "i feel that you are right, and again i thank you for having given back to me one of the old feelings of my youth." to mr. lyne's calm, passionless temperament this lively gratitude seemed uncalled for, and he made no answer. after a few moments' silence mr. earnscliffe said, "we must return to the carriage. mrs. elton will think i have eloped with her daughter." quickening his pace, he joined mr. caulfield and helena, saying, "miss elton, i regret to break in upon a conversation which seems to engross you so much, but i really think we ought to return to mrs. elton." "very well," answered helena in an impatient tone. mr. earnscliffe fell back to his place by mr. lyne, but before they got within sight of the carriage helena and her cavalier stopped apparently to examine a flower, and when the others came up she said, "mr lyne, i believe you are a good botanist, so come and tell me the name of this flower; and i also want to hear about your proposed tour in sicily." it was easy to see that the object of all this was to change the order of the procession, accordingly mr. earnscliffe walked on with mr. caulfield, while helena and mr. lyne were occupied with the flower. when they reached the carriage neither mrs. elton nor mary seemed pleased at the addition to their party in the persons of mr. caulfield and mr. lyne. the two gentlemen, however, appeared not to observe it, and went up and shook hands with them. mr. earnscliffe handed helena into the carriage, then said to mary, "now, miss elton, shall we have our walk?" "thank you, not now; i do not feel inclined to walk; but if you will return to dinner with us we can have a stroll in the evening." "you are very kind," he replied, "and i shall be delighted to do so, if you will permit me to say adieu for the present. i must see my boatman and tell him at what hour to be ready for me." "could not thomas do that?" "no. i must go myself, for i promised to buy a present for my boatman's little daughter." "well then, _au revoir_! we dine at half-past six to-day, on account of some national fête to which our cook wants to go, so you have not too much time to spare." "nevertheless i shall be punctual--adieu." mrs. elton turned to mary and asked, "is mr. earnscliffe gone?" "for the present, yes; but he will return to dinner." "oh, that is all right," answered mrs. elton, without taking the trouble of lowering her voice so as to prevent the other gentlemen from hearing that mr. earnscliffe was going to dine with her; indeed she was rather glad to make mr. caulfield feel that he was in the way; had it not been for him she would have asked mr. lyne to dine, but, as it was, she could not ask him and leave his friend uninvited; it would have been _too_ much. at six the band went away, and the eltons immediately afterwards.... when they reached home mrs. elton told thomas that mr. earnscliffe was coming to dinner, and desired that as soon as he arrived he should be shown into a dressing-room. the ladies then disappeared. helena dreaded the dressing beyond measure, for she was sure that mary would at once ask her about her walk, and what could she answer? in fear and trembling she entered her own and her sister's room; but mary asked no questions: the mischief, she instinctively felt, had been done, and it was useless to reproach helena. she dressed herself in silence; but her varying colour, and the trembling of her hands, showed how excited she was. helena looked on with dismay. she found this silence worse than any scolding could have been, yet she was afraid to break it. to her great relief the bell rang for dinner, and she hastened downstairs. mary followed her in a few moments, but went direct to the dining-room, and there she found the rest of the party. it is said that "drowning people will catch at straws." mary caught at the shred of a hope that, perhaps, after all, mr. earnscliffe was not quite lost to her, since he had accepted _her_ invitation to dinner; especially as he had, no doubt, gained all the information he required; and, moreover, as he generally disliked society so much, there must be some motive for his staying.... it was a straw, indeed! what would she have said if she had known that mr. earnscliffe only stayed from curiosity as to what her motive could be in trying to conceal from him the truth about flora, as he thought it possible that during the evening something might occur to throw light upon it? after dinner the girls proposed going out, to which their guest gladly assented. mrs. elton said she would remain in the house, as she felt a little tired. at the foot of the steps they met a peasant girl with bouquets, and helena stopped to speak to her, as she had a shrewd suspicion that the bouquet girl did not come unsent. mr. earnscliffe and mary went on and strolled into the alley where they had met in the morning. mary looked very handsome. the blue opera cloak which she had thrown round her shoulders showed off to advantage her brilliantly fair skin and auburn hair; and she could not help thinking, as she looked at herself in a glass on passing out, "how strange that _he_ should prefer flora adair to me!... i am far more beautiful than she is. what _can_ i do to keep him from her?" with this question ringing in her ears she went out as we have said. she broke the silence after they entered the alley by saying "are you going to remain at capri?" "i think not--i shall probably start in a day or two." "and where do you intend to go?" "i have not fixed upon any place as yet, but southern italy is becoming too hot." "and venice, i suppose, will be cooler!" she answered, bitterly. "i did not say that i was going to venice?" "of course you did not--you did not wish to acknowledge that you were going to meet the _adairs_!" "really, miss elton, for the third time to-day you astound me more than i can say; but as you _have_ named the adairs, will you tell me why you took such trouble to make me believe that mr. lyne was to be married to miss adair,--and, of course, you knew as well as your sister that she had refused him?" "are you blind, that you do not see what has urged me to this?"--she had evidently lost all self-control, as she stopped walking, and stood opposite to him with her flashing eyes fixed on his face. what more she might have said or done, had not the sound of an approaching step caught her ear, it would be difficult to tell. she added hurriedly, "go now to flora adair, and win her love if you can; but in the hour when you feel most sure of her, or when you only wait for religious rites to make her yours for ever, may she be torn from you--more, may _she_ play you false--may her hand strike the blow which shall crush your heart, even as mine has been crushed to-day! now go!" she seized his hand, and for an instant her fingers closed upon it like a vice; then she let it go with a start as if it had burned her, and, turning away, she darted down a side walk. mr. earnscliffe stood like one transfixed, until the step which had been heard in the distance now sounded close to him. looking round, he saw helena elton, who exclaimed, in a frightened tone, "mr. earnscliffe! what does all this mean? where is mary?" "go to her as quickly as you can," was his answer,--"she left me in a state of fearful agitation; but believe me that, intentionally, i would not have caused her a moment's pain." he put out his hand absently: helena understood that he meant to take leave of her, and placing hers in it, she said, "i do believe it, mr. earnscliffe, and do not judge poor mary harshly; _you_ at least should be indulgent towards her." "fear not, miss elton; as you say, _i_ at least can never use her harshly." he pressed helena's hand and left her. she went to seek her sister, while he walked slowly back to the house. that day had been a day of revelations to him, and pain and pleasure were so strangely mingled in those revelations, that he preserved his calmness only with a strong effort. he entered the drawing-room to say good-bye to mrs. elton, but she was not there; then he rang for the servant, and said, "will you be so good as to tell mrs. elton that i came in to say good-night to her as i am obliged to go at once; but as she is not downstairs i do not wish to disturb her." "please, sir, let me tell mrs. elton that you are going." "thank you, no, i cannot wait." so saying, he walked into the hall. thomas opened the door, and as it closed behind him, he felt that he had crossed the eltons' threshold for the last time. the carriage was at the gate, and he drove direct to the shore. chapter xiv. the stars were crowding fast into the clear sky, and the moon was shedding forth her pale rays, when mr. earnscliffe reached the boat. such a scene must be witnessed to be understood. to those who have seen the bay of naples on such a night memory will hold up her mirror, and they will see again the dim outline of the gracefully-curving shore, vesuvia's dark and awe-inspiring shadow, and the deep blue waters upon which the moonbeams glance like silvery darts; and to those who have not seen it imagination will paint a no less vivid picture--but to them is unknown the balmy air, the charm, the beauty of an italian night, and nowhere, perhaps, as well as in naples and venice, is it so completely seen and felt in all its unrivalled beauty. it is lovely, too, in its inland scenes: how lovely those can truly say who have known what it is to stand upon a balcony at "the witching hour," and look down upon a woody dell with myriads of busy fire-flies gleaming through the dark foliage, every branch, every twig covered with those brilliant and living lamps,--'tis nature's illumination, and in what does she not excel? o italy! thy beauty, thy poetry, thy loving memories are surely more than adequate to counterbalance the many great but material disadvantages which one meets with in thee.... but we have drifted away from the subject of our chapter, and deserted mr. earnscliffe, to whom we must now return. he got into the boat--the sails were filling, for with the fall of day the wind had veered round, and promised them a quiet and favourable passage--threw himself upon the cushions, and took off his hat, as if he felt that he could more thoroughly enjoy the lovely night when there was nothing between him and the starry world above. paolo saw that he looked strangely pale, and asked the same question which his little daughter had done in the morning, "is _sua eccellenza_ ill?" "_grazie, amico, sto benissimo_," told a different tale from the listless abstracted one with which he replied to anina. that smile, and a certain softness in the tone of mr. earnscliffe's voice, made paolo feel that _sua eccellenza_ came back a happier man than when he set out for naples. and so he was, although pain and pleasure were closely mingled in his sensations; but, at least, the future was no longer quite a blank to him; there was something to hope for--something, as mary elton had said to him, worth struggling for. he did not consider himself in love with flora adair, but he felt that she _did_ occupy his thoughts almost exclusively, that everything connected with her interested him deeply, and he could not help smiling as he remembered all the ingenious arguments which he made use of to account to himself for that interest. then, too, came the remembrance of the delight which he felt when he heard that she had refused mr. lyne, and he murmured to himself, "yes, i will go to venice, try to meet the adairs, and if----" ah! what visions rose after that if?... they were like mental lullabies, and under their soft influence he fell asleep and dreamed. he dreamed of winning flora's love, of the happy life which was to begin for him with her at his side; ... but suddenly a change came over the picture--mary elton seemed to stand between him and flora, with a countenance full of passionate anger and yet of triumph, as she cried out, "i warned you!"... he made a movement to clasp flora, but she seemed to shrink away from him and fall. this startled and awoke him, but so real was the impression which the dream left upon his mind that he exclaimed in italian, "catch her, paolo--she will be drowned!" "what does _sua eccellenza_ mean? there is nobody drowning." "thank god!" he muttered, with a long-drawn breath of relief as he reseated himself. then he said to paolo, "you see i have been dreaming, _amico_." "but not _un sogno sinistro, eccellenza_? that would be a bad omen indeed, at this hour of the night, and by moonlight too," answered paolo, eagerly. "it was probably the sleeping with the moon shining full upon my face which caused me to dream," he replied, without saying whether the dream was a sinister one or not. paolo did not seem to be satisfied with this answer, and said gravely, "oh _eccellenza_, it is very unlucky!... may you be preserved from all evil!" mr. earnscliffe smiled, but he would have preferred that paolo had dwelt less upon his fears about the dream; for although not generally superstitious, he could not shake off the gloomy impression which it left upon him. all his bright visions had vanished, and in their place came painful reminiscences of poor mary elton. he would have given much to have been able to feel sure that she would forget him and be happy again; but something whispered to him that it would not be so--that, whether in good or evil, she was not one likely to change, and she had given proof of how strong a woman's feelings can be. perhaps, also, there was mixed up in his pity for her a latent, almost a superstitious dread of her as he had seen her in his dream. then he thought of anina--of how he was to tell her that he intended to leave capri immediately, and the thought of the child's grief made him shrink from facing it; yet he felt that it would be cruel in him to go away without telling her: no, that could not be--and then it was that he felt _how_ fond he had become of the beautiful child. beauty in women had naturally a most powerful attraction for him, yet for years he had been shut out from the enjoyment of it by his blighting belief in their falseness. this, in his estimation, overclouded all their loveliness. "beauty in a woman," he would say, "being so overclouded, is less worthy of admiration in her than in a statue; in this, at least, there is no deception--we find here all that we can expect, namely, regularity of outline and one fixed expression." but in anina he saw living beauty combined with perfect artlessness, and it won his heart at once; then, too, her ardent affection for himself and desire to be with him had its own charm for the lonely rich man. she had been quite a companion to him in his wanderings about the island; he had taught her to read, and with a feeling of sadness he recalled the pretty lighting-up of her expressive face whenever he praised her; and again, how charmingly penitent she used to look when he chid her for inattention. and he had to tell her that there must be an end to all this, and doubted that even the beautiful present which he was going to give her would console her for his departure. he felt that her grief would probably not be of very long duration, but he feared that it would be sharp and violent, and it pained him to think that he was to be the cause of it. all this brought him to the conclusion that the sooner the leave-taking was over the better; so he resolved to go the next day. it was very late when they touched capri. as mr. earnscliffe wished paolo good-night, he desired him to come to the hotel in the morning at six, and to bring anina with him. but two hours remained before sunrise, yet even for that short time mr. earnscliffe could not rest; his head was tossing about upon his pillow until about four, when he got up--no unusual hour in italy during the fine season--and ordering his coffee at half-past five, he went out and bathed. soon after his return, and by the time he had finished his light breakfast, paolo and anina had arrived--he had learned from his master that anti-italian virtue, punctuality. mr. earnscliffe told paolo that he wanted to speak with him; as the child left the room, he said, "paolo, i asked you to come to me this morning in order to tell you that i mean to give you my boat----" paolo looked delighted and exclaimed, "_sua eccellenza, è troppo buono_." but mr. earnscliffe went on without noticing the interruption--"and if you will name any means by which you can be permanently advanced in your trade, it shall be done; but for this, perhaps, you would like a little time for consideration--if so you can speak to dr. molini, and he will communicate with me.... i am obliged to leave capri to-day." "_o eccellenza, questo maladetto sogno_--i knew it was the sign of coming misfortune." "not so, _amico_; the dream has nothing to do with my going away, and it shall not be a misfortune to you--you shall not lose by it." "it is not that, _eccellenza_, which i meant by misfortune. it was the blessed madonna herself who sent you to us; and now that you are going, we shall feel as if she were taking something precious from us; besides, what could ever be the same to me as being in your service? you have treated me--the poorest fisherman in capri--almost as your equal; and that day when the _signore_ laughed at my story bound me to you for ever. i felt that i could die for you, _eccellenza_. _dio_, how shall i tell _la moglie e la bambina_?" mr. earnscliffe, with an englishman's dislike to any show of feeling, turned away his head to hide any traces of emotion which might have been seen on his countenance, for he was deeply touched by paolo's sorrow. after a few moments' silence he said, "believe me, paolo, i value your affection more than i can say, and i would do anything to make you happy." "then, _signore_," interrupted paolo eagerly, "let us go and live near you in napoli?"--poor paolo never thought of anything beyond naples--"and i can be your boatman still." "but, _amico_, i am not going to live in naples; i am going to travel." paolo's head drooped, and mr. earnscliffe continued kindly, "but i promise you that you shall see me again if i live. and now, paolo, go to maria and consult with her about what you would wish me to do for you." "ah! _signore_, we could not consult about anything to-day; we can only think that the madonna is taking one of her best blessings away from us." "well, as i said before, you can speak to dr. molini after i am gone, and he will write to me." paolo saw that mr. earnscliffe meant this to terminate the interview, and he asked at what hour _sua eccellenza_ would want the boat; but mr. earnscliffe answered that he would not require it, as he was going by the steamer. "then i shall never row _sua eccellenza_ again," exclaimed paolo, giving way to violent demonstrations of grief.... this was all extremely painful to mr. earnscliffe, and so contrary to all his natural, or, rather, national, notions of what grief ought to be; yet he could not be _brusque_ to paolo, for he saw that, although it appeared most unseemly to him, it was real and natural in the excitable italian, but he said gravely-- "paolo, it is a man's part to be strong, and not to give way to feeling as women do, and for my sake you must subdue all this. think how you grieve me by making me thus feel that i give you pain. now _addio_, i must go to the _bambina_." "but i shall see _sua eccellenza_ again, surely? he will come to say _addio_ to maria?" "yes, but i shall expect you both to be very calm,--_al rivedersi dunque!_" mr. earnscliffe gently turned away, and taking the case which contained the statue for anina, he left the room. paolo slowly followed him. at the hall door they met the child, and taking her by the hand mr. earnscliffe drew her on quickly so that she might not see her father's emotion. after a short walk along a pretty rocky path they came to a kind of creek formed by the rocks, so as to be completely shaded from the sun; here he sat down and opened the box, displaying to anina's longing eyes a little white temple; the roof was arched and supported by four columns, round which ran scrolls of lilies painted on a blue ground and bordered with gold; inside, on a pedestal, was a small, but, for its size, beautiful figure of the madonna, draped in a blue cloak starred with gold. mr. earnscliffe looked upon the madonna as being nothing more than a good woman to whom superstition had given an undue and almost a divine celebrity; but, in imagination, no one could form a more poetical idea than he did of the purity and beauty surrounding the mother of an incarnate god; therefore, he had chosen the best representation of this idea that he could find. anina's delight was unbounded. she literally danced round it, repeating, "_come è bella, bellissima!_" then throwing her arms round mr. earnscliffe, she half smothered him with her gratitude. "listen to me, _carina_," he said, gently unfolding her arms from his neck. his grave tone made her look up wonderingly at him, and he went on. "i want you to give me a reward for having brought you the madonna. will my little one give it to me?" "oh, _signore_!" and her little face was nestled on his shoulder. "then you _will_ give it to me, _carina_. but i am going to ask a great deal. it is to promise that you will not fret very much if i tell you that something you love dearly is to be taken from you." "but what is it, _signore_, that you are going to take from me? not the madonna?" "not the madonna, certainly; but you have not given me the promise. will you not be very good, and not cry too much?" "_si, signore._" "then, _carissima_, you must remember that promise when i tell you that i am going away to-day." alas for promises! anina's answer was to burst out crying as though her little heart would break, and then through her sobs she murmured, "_no, no, non va via il caro signore_; he told me so yesterday?" "yes, _carina_, but afterwards i heard something which obliges me to go. this is not keeping your promise, my child. i hoped that your beautiful madonna would console you, and i will come back some day, _anina mia, sia buona_." he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, but she hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed so violently that he saw it was vain to attempt to quiet her now, and that all he could do was to take her home and leave her; time he knew would calm this violence of childish grief. with his disengaged hand he put the little temple into the box, and said, "come, my child, take your madonna, and let us go home." but anina made no movement to take it, and he said, "then you do not care for her. i may throw her into the sea." "oh, give her to me, _signore_," she cried, stretching out her hand for it. "i will pray to her every day for you, and perhaps she will send you back to me." he had not told her before, and now he could not tell her, how worse than useless he thought those prayers; yet her affection for himself, mingled as it was with her devotion for the madonna, touched him almost in spite of himself, and giving her the box silently, he took her by the hand and led her home. it was the same path down which he had carried her when first he saw her; and her parents, too, were sitting at the door as on that evening; but now sorrow, instead of joy, was to be seen in their faces as they rose to receive him. maria threw herself at his feet, crying and muttering a great deal, in which _la madonna_ and _dolore_ were the only words that could be distinctly heard. "maria," exclaimed mr. earnscliffe, "you are surely not going to give _la bambina_ such a bad example!" and, turning to anina, he added, "show your madonna to _la madre_, my child." the trembling little hands began to undo the lid, and mr. earnscliffe said in a low tone, "i must wish you _addio_ now, _amici, siate felici_." he pressed a hand of each; then bent down and gave anina a hurried kiss, and said, "take her, paolo." he turned and walked away as fast as he could. paolo held anina, who struggled to get free and run after mr. earnscliffe, whilst maria knelt down, and in an excited tone called on the _santissima madre di dio_ to guard and protect him in life, and after death to lead him to her divine son in the bright heavens above. mr. earnscliffe heard it, and for the moment their lively faith in the influence of a mother, even over a divine son, appeared to him to be strangely beautiful. that scene often recurred to his memory, and he scoffed not at it, but his heart yearned towards the poor superstitious capri fisherpeople. two hours later the steamer was bearing him swiftly away from their island.... chapter xv. to the piazza san marco, in all its beauty and grandeur,--the richest jewel of the adriatic's bride,--we must now turn. it is about nine at night; and beneath the long lines of arcades the gay shops and _caffès_ are brilliantly lighted up. their illumination--for, indeed, it is like one--contrasts well with the darkness of the great piazza upon which they give; for, although from the centre of every arch--and there are in all nearly a hundred--there juts out a gracefully-curved branch, bearing a lighted lamp, they are but as faint glimmers in that vast space, making mysterious solemn shade of all around, especially, as now, when there is no moon to be seen in the deep blue and star-spangled vault above. the dark mass of san marco's basilica, the _campanile_, the adjoining piazzetta, with the ducal palace, the two columns of oriental marble, surmounted by the bronze lion of st. mark and the statue of st. george, still guarding that port where, in days of old, so many proud galleys sailed in triumph; and opposite, across the grand canal's dark watery road, rising as if from the water's midst, the dim outlines of san giorgio in maggiore and santa maria di salute:--it is, indeed, a combination unrivalled in the world! in the centre of the piazza an austrian band is playing; and round the _caffès_ are seated crowds of people sipping coffee or eating ices. among them are mrs. adair, flora, and marie arbi. when last we saw them they were in florence with the blakes and pentons; but now they are alone, and their friends far on their way towards england. during the time they spent there, mr. barkley was much attracted by marie, and was constantly at her side; that is, as constantly as he could be without rendering his attentions marked. he invariably tried to keep either with her or with flora, on the principle, it may be supposed, that if one cannot be with the especial favourite, the next best thing is to be with her intimate friend; at all events, it prevented observations being made. had there appeared to be anything serious in his manner, mrs. adair would naturally have considered herself obliged to interfere, as marie must be given up to the de st. severans free from any entanglement; but mr. barkley managed so well that it would have been difficult to say which he liked best, flora or marie, although they were nearly three weeks in florence, and met almost every day. but what were mr. barkley's real feelings? was he only amusing himself, or was it something deeper? yes, it was something deeper; he loved marie as he had never loved before or would ever love again, even though he should not marry her, which was very probable, as there would be many difficulties in the way, and he was one who was more likely to succumb to difficulties than to bear up against and conquer them. he was the only son of an irish nobleman, who--as unfortunately so many do in the sister island--had lived beyond his income, got his property deeply into debt, and trusted to his son's making a rich marriage in order to clear it. edmund barkley himself, in a vague way, gave in to this idea. he thought that fortune would be a most desirable addition to the charms of the future lady of his choice; but, being fastidious to a fault, he had hitherto found all the heiresses of his acquaintance unattractive, and answered the parental urgings to his marrying quickly with, "time enough, father; the right heiress has not appeared yet. and if she should not appear at all,--well, i suppose, as a _pis aller_, i must take one of those whom you have named; but to make up my mind to that will require a good long run of freedom." so he kept his liberty, and went from flower to flower until he met marie, and--never imagining that the little unsophisticated african girl could really touch his world-proved heart--he dashed into a brisk general flirtation with her; when, one day, to his great dismay, a sad truth dawned upon him. he caught himself dreaming day-dreams of marie presiding in his ancestral halls, and charming everybody around her with her _naïve_ grace, and her sweet, wild voice warbling her simple ballads, which she sang with such feeling that all who love music rather as the highest expression of language than of harmonised and learned combinations--as speaking to the heart rather than the judgment--would prefer her singing to that of the finished pupil of a fashionable london master. marie's history, too, had taken a strong hold of his imagination; and even more,--although, perhaps, unknown to himself,--there was a feeling that this little creature, so unequal to himself in intelligence and education, had acted with a degree of strength and heroism of which he was incapable; so that, almost involuntarily, he looked up to her as something above him, loving her at the same time with the protecting love of a man for gentleness and innocence. this discovery set him thinking:--"marie has no position, and of course not much fortune; she is not even st. severan's child, so he may not give her anything.... it will never do for me; i must think no more about her in this way. adieu, then, sweet marie; would that it could be otherwise, but it cannot. so, once more adieu, my bright little fairy!" after these musings he took up a novel which lay on the table; but marie would not be dismissed from his thoughts in this summary manner. he saw her face multiplied in the pages of the book instead of its printed characters. he closed it and thought he would try a little music. he went into the saloon, where there was a piano, and began to play some of his favourite reveries; but insensibly he glided into the melodies which marie used to sing, and which he knew so well. then the sound of her soft voice began to ring in his ear; and he ceased to play that he might better listen to those clear young tones which were sounding, not on his ear, but in his heart.... "devil take it!" he exclaimed aloud, and starting up from the piano; "i have never allowed myself to be really caught by this little wilding! yet it looks horribly like it.... i see i must keep away from her!" he shut down the piano, and went back to his own room; then he took up the novel again, muttering, "novels must certainly be gone to the bad when they can't amuse a man for half-an-hour! i remember the time when i could sit for hours over them." mr. barkley did not seem to remember that he, perhaps, was changed rather than the novels. there came a knock at the door. he lazily drawled out, "_entrate_." in came his sister with her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an armchair in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his hand, she exclaimed-- "what are you about, edmund? are you not coming?" "where, may i ask?" "you cannot have forgotten that the adair and blake party have got permission to see san donato--demidoff's villa--and have asked us to go with them? we are to call for one of the girls at eleven. you know, the laying out of the grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the house itself gorgeous. there are collections of paintings, statues, and i know not what, to say nothing of the charms of _living statues_, master edmund--eh?" here was a test for his newly-formed resolution of avoiding marie. what a pleasant vista his sister's words had called up, of wandering in the grounds of san donato with marie--getting purposely separated from the others, and only finding them after a needlessly long search; but it was just what he ought to keep clear of; and he felt irritated with mrs. penton for thus putting the temptation before him. however, he would be strong--he would sternly resist it--and in accordance with this determination he answered gruffly-- "i can't go and expose myself to such a sun as this. i have a headache." mrs. penton turned round from the survey which she had been making of herself in the glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said-- "what's up now, edmund? have the little african's charms palled already?" "damn it!" he muttered, with uncontrollable irritation. "damn what, edmund?" asked his sister, laughing more than ever. "san donato or me? or perhaps the little african?" "how tiresome you are, maria! i told you that i could not go because i had a headache, and the sun is so awfully strong to-day." "of which i believe as much as you do. you were quite well an hour ago. the headache is nothing but a sham. perhaps you have got some new _innamorata_; but come: the little african is not so bad after all. she will do once in a way; and you know at first you certainly were a little _épris_ in that quarter." "for pity's sake, maria, go to san donato, and leave me in peace! how teasing women can be! what a happy fellow i am not to have a wife!" "it strikes me, my dear sir, that you are anything but a _happy_ fellow this morning. now i am going; but tell me first, what has made you so bearish?" "if i am bearish, i think the best thing you can do is to get out of my way at once." "i quite agree with you. you might tear me to pieces if i remained much longer in your den; but i daresay, when this fit has passed over, you will regret that you did not come with us. indeed, i should not be astonished if you were to follow us, if only for the pleasure such a vain creature would take in seeing the little african's bright eyes look brighter still when you appear." mrs. penton retreated after this sally, but called out from the door-- "good-bye, dear! i hope some kind fairy will soon transform you back to a man! shall i send the little african to you? and then you and she could play 'beauty and the beast' over again?" she closed the door as mr. barkley dashed his book into the opposite corner of the room, and began to walk up and down in a state of laughable irritation, declaring that women were the plagues of a man's life, and that he wished they were all kept locked up and out of the way, as in the east. having given utterance to this charitable wish towards the fair sex, he threw off his dressing-gown, dragged on a coat, and, seizing his hat, he went out and walked to the belle arti, quite forgetful of his asserted headache and dread of the sun. beato angelico, at least, could not fail to absorb his attention. alas for il beato! his pictures could teach no grand lessons to his admirer to-day. his beautiful angels, lovingly leading the enfranchised spirits of their earthly charges over flower-clad meadows to the heavenly jerusalem, only suggested to mr. barkley how delightful it would be to be wandering thus in the shady alleys of san donato with marie; and he felt more than half inclined to curse his folly in having refused to go.... at last, tired even of beato angelico, he left the accademia; and as he walked home, he began to think seriously that he had behaved like a fool. "after all," said he to himself, "st. severan might give her a fortune, and then i don't see why i should not marry her! why should not an african chief be as good as an irish one? and that's all my father is, i suppose. in any case, the birth question would easily be got over, if it were not for that damned money; and if it were not for my father, i would marry her, fortune or no fortune. but that is all for the future: there is no good in making one's self miserable about it now. 'sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.'... if i thought that maria would not tease me unmercifully, i declare i would do as she said--follow them to san donato. by-the-bye, though, the sun has got all clouded over, and dread of its heat was my excuse for not going; now that it has disappeared, i can go without any sacrifice of dignity, and i am glad to see that maria does not think i really care for little marie; if she did, she would try to keep me away from her, instead of laughing at me about her.... and so here goes for a pleasant day." he called a carriage, and drove to san donato. thus ended mr. barkley's resolution to avoid marie, and thenceforth he struggled no more against the stream, but let himself float gently down, enjoying the present, and, as far as possible, shutting out all thought of the future. the spoiled child of his family and of the world, he was too much accustomed to self-indulgence to refrain from pleasing himself because of the possible pain which he might inflict on others,--in fact, he never thought about it. intentionally, he would not render any one unhappy,--how much less marie; yet he was in a very fair way of so doing by this thoughtless gratification of his own wishes.... at length arrived the last evening of their stay in florence. the adairs and the blakes spent it at the pentons'. marie, as usual, sang a good deal; but she remained seated at the piano after she had ceased singing, until flora went over to say that it was time to go away, when the latter saw to her astonishment that marie's eyes were full of tears, and mr. barkley--he had been standing by her all the time trifling with the music--was looking down at her with a very unmistakable expression of intense interest. he tried to say something light about the pain of leave-taking in general; but as flora raised her eyes from the tearful marie, and looked earnestly at him, he coloured, and exclaimed in a low tone-- "forgive me, miss adair! i know that i ought to have kept away, and i tried--indeed, i did!--but it was too strong for me!" "i do not know what all this means, mr. barkley," answered flora, gravely; "but it appears to me difficult to explain satisfactorily. mignonne, dry up those tell-tale tears, we are going now." "oh, flore!"--and marie leaned her head against flora as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "for your own sake, marie, try not to let it be seen that this leave-taking affects you so much," whispered flora, and, turning to mr. barkley, she spoke to him for a few moments on some indifferent subject, so as to give marie time to recover herself; then, seeing that she had dried up the tears and only looked pale and dejected, she said, "come now, mignonne," and they joined the others who were wishing the pentons good-bye. mr. barkley said he would walk home with them, and took care to get flora to himself. he then told her that he had yielded to the temptation of being with marie, persuading himself that perhaps he might be able to marry her after all; and as a salve to his conscience, he had determined not to utter one word of love to her. the last evening, however, had been too much for him, he forgot all but his love and his yearning desire to know if it were returned. he now bitterly blamed himself for not having had the strength to go away at first, and, more than all, for his conduct on that evening. "it was particularly reprehensible in you, mr. barkley," answered flora, "to speak to marie as you have done, knowing that she is not with her own friends." "i know it, miss adair, and, until this evening, i assure you that i scrupulously avoided"--and this was literally true--"anything like love-making." "even so, mr. barkley, your determination not to _speak_ of love to her was only a splitting of hairs; you felt that you loved her, and were not without hope that she might respond to that feeling; nevertheless, although you know that you could--_would_ is perhaps the more fitting word--not ask her to marry you now, you continued to seek her society. was it honourable?" "i can only say again, i know but too well how much i am to blame, but will you make no excuse for the power of temptation?... believe me, i would give worlds to marry her." "you would give worlds to marry her," replied flora, with a bitter smile, "yet there is no real impediment; surely there is a strange inconsistency in this? god knows how far _i_ would go in excusing any yielding to strong temptation, but i _cannot_ excuse any one for inflicting pain on another when it only requires a resolute act of his will to avoid it." "by heavens, miss adair, it is true that i would give worlds to many marie--i beg your pardon--miss arbi; and i would do so, fortune or no fortune, were i my own master, but my father would disinherit me if i married in opposition to his wishes; he has already told me so, and i could not ask any one to marry me on nothing." "i don't believe that your father would disinherit you, mr. barkley, you, his only son, his idol, and the future lord. but pray do not imagine that i want you to marry marie. i only speak thus because it is laughable to hear a _man_ say that he cannot ask one whom he professes to love, to marry him unless she has a certain number of thousands, because, forsooth, his father will disinherit him! but as far as regards marie, i would greatly prefer that you did not marry her, unless it be that her affections are very deeply engaged, and this i hope there is no great fear of. you have not treated her well, mr. barkley, and i do not think that you are suited to each other. i doubt if your happiness would be of very long duration." "oh, miss adair!" "spare me a lover's rhapsody, please, and take a word of advice from me: try to forget marie, as i trust and believe she will forget you;--but here we are at the hotel, so good-bye." "you are dreadfully hard upon me, miss adair, but it is no use to talk of forgetting. i love marie, and shall ever love her, truly!" "then act like a man gifted with a free will," answered flora, as she entered the hotel. flora and marie slept in the same room, so, before going to bed, the former heard a tearful confession of love and sorrow from poor gentle little marie. the wretched weakness of her lover's conduct seemed to have no effect upon her, although to flora it appeared despicable, and she thought to herself, "such an one would not do for me; he whom i shall love must be strong and great, even in his faults. he must be one of whom i could say 'he was a man, take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again.' however, it must be my work now to comfort poor mignonne." she endeavoured to rouse her by talking of her dear papa, monsieur de st. severan; of how grieved he would be if she were to return to him after so many years, looking pale and melancholy, when he expected to see her in the bloom of youth and happiness; and urged her, for his sake--and for all their sakes--to struggle against this, her first experience of love's trials. at length marie said--speaking french, as she invariably did when very earnest, but we will give the substance in the vernacular--"yes, flora, i know it is very wrong to grieve so, to repine at what i suppose god sees is good for me. i know that i ought to be content to be unhappy if he wills it, but it is very hard at first, flora...." "hard? oh how hard, first or last! but you bear it like a saint, mignonne! _i_ could not bear it as you do; it would be a hard struggle with me to submit to the power which deprived me of the person i loved best, even before i had known the bliss of being his companion." "ah! it is very nice to be happy," murmured marie through her tears, "but, if _le bon dieu_ sees that it is better for us not to be so, we ought to be satisfied, ought we not?" "ay, and it is comparatively easy for a little angel like you to be so, but for me it would be a fierce battle...." were flora's words prophetic? "however, that has nothing to do with the present hour, the duty of which is for you to go to bed, dearest." marie's tears broke out afresh, but she allowed flora to unfasten her gown and help to undress her. when she was in bed flora kissed her and said good-night. marie clasped her arms round her, and drawing her face down to her own, murmured, "flore, what should i do without you?" "better, perhaps, than with me, mignonne," answered flora, somewhat brusquely, in order to hide the inclination which she herself felt to cry. marie's gentleness in her sorrow was so plaintive. "i am not saint enough to know how to console you with religion as another might do, i can only feel for and with you, darling, so good-night again." at last marie sobbed herself to sleep like a tired child, and next morning the hurry and fuss of departure prevented her sad face and red eyes from being observed. it was not a pleasant morning to flora; she was losing her friend maria blake, and she knew that she should miss her sadly. on marie she looked as one does on a pretty, loving child, but she could not make a companion of her as of mina,--and how great is the loss of one with whom we can talk on the different subjects that most occupy our thoughts,--one with whom we can really have an interchange of ideas!... this marie certainly could not be to flora, for she did not think much on any subject, or read much except of light literature. she had no lack of intelligence and quickness, but she was by nature averse to application; she worked beautifully and was very fond of it,--it did not hinder her from giving vent to all her innocent gaiety of disposition in chattering about all sorts of little nothings. these were the things which made flora think that marie was not suited to mr. barkley; she would be to him a little attendant, loving, laughing sprite, ready to work for him, to do anything for him, in short, but to be a real companion to him; and flora feared that when the first charm of marie's beauty and caressing manner had become familiar to him, he would tire of living without one who could interest herself in, and, as it were, take part in, his pursuits, and that by degrees he would begin to leave her alone, and seek elsewhere that interchange of ideas which he could not have with her. thus, after they left florence, it was rather a gloomy time for both girls, but the various sights of bologna, parma, milan, and padua--in each of which towns they made a short stay on their way to venice--were good distractions, and marie's light, buoyant nature was not one to which the absence of a loved one rendered everything sunless, so that sometimes she would be as gay as possible, although at others large tears might have been seen rolling slowly down her cheeks, as on the lovely night when she sat in the piazza san marco. the band was playing a beautiful though somewhat sad serenade,--all conduced to a soft melancholy which was deeply felt by flora as well as marie; but her own name--"miss adair!"--pronounced by a voice whose music she loved, perhaps, too well, sent the blood flushing to her cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle as she exclaimed, "mr. earnscliffe!" how inexpressibly sweet she thought his smile was as he shook hands with her. then he turned to speak to mrs. adair and marie. she felt too astonished, yet delighted, to speak, but mrs. adair said, "well, this _is_ a surprise! we thought you were in naples." "so i was, but as i have not any ties to any one, or to any place, my movements are often sudden and changeable. i began to find it rather hot, so i determined not to spend the summer in italy, but i wished, before leaving it, to have another look at venice,--it is so beautiful. is it not, miss adair?" "yes, this piazza alone contains a world of beauty and interest." "quite true, it has indeed been the scene of stirring deeds. we have but to look upon that gorgeous ducal palace to recall them, and with a shudder we think of the fearful dungeons with which it is connected by the fatal bridge of sighs, and half expect to see the terrible state barge gliding swiftly and noiselessly to the dark lagunes where some poor wretch is about to be consigned to a watery grave.... oh, venice is one vast romance!" he looked at flora as if he expected that she would continue the conversation; but she did not want to speak, she only wanted to be allowed to sit there and silently enjoy the luxury of listening to him. finding that she did not answer, he said, "how strange it was that on the very night of my arrival i should chance to see you!" these words recalled to her the night when she had last seen him, and she replied with a smile, "i wonder that you stopped to speak to us, as we are all ladies. do you remember the harsh condemnation which you pronounced upon women in general at mrs. elton's ball? and i have not seen you since!" "so, miss adair, you have not then forgotten my unfortunate speech to you?" "i could not forget it, it was so sweeping and severe upon us." "i fear i was very rude. will you forgive me?" "personally, i have nothing to forgive, but as one of the sex, i must repeat, you were very unjust to us." "i believe so _now_, sincerely; at least i know that there are exceptions to what i then said, as _you_"--his voice was lowered so that there should be no possibility of its reaching any other ears than hers--"proved on that very night; therefore, you, personally, have a great deal to forgive." flora blushed deeply as she looked up at him in wonder. "what can he have heard?" she asked herself.... just then the band stopped playing and went away, so that this _sotto voce_ conversation could not be continued. the loiterers in the piazza now began to disperse. mrs. adair stood up as if she wished to go home, but flora said, "how i should like to see the lagunes at night!" "then let us go now," said mr. earnscliffe; "there could not be a better night for seeing them than this dark and starry one, and my gondola is at the steps of the piazzetta. shall it be so, mrs. adair?" "the girls would like it," answered mrs. adair, "so i suppose we must go." ... what a happy closing to the evening did flora find in that row in the gondola! how vividly did mr. earnscliffe's language call up the past,--the far-famed doges of other days; the hapless marino faliero, the father of the foscari; great "blind old dondolo."... byron and shakespeare lent their aid; shylock and antonio seemed to walk again on the rialto; ... bravos lurked behind dark buttresses for the coming of their victims; ... lovers fled in the close-curtained _gondole_ from cruel guardians to some freer shore.... mr. earnscliffe did indeed make venice "one vast romance" to flora, the spell of which was hardly broken by his taking leave of them on the steps of the hotel zucchese. chapter xvi. what a delightful yet wakeful night did flora spend in thinking over the events of the evening!... when mr. earnscliffe's voice fell upon her ear she was musing sadly on the weariness of life, and the emptiness of its ordinary pleasures. and if perchance one did get a glimpse of something like real enjoyment, it came, she thought, only to vanish. but the vibration of that voice put to flight all her blue devils, or rather transformed them into bright airy spirits with rosy wings.... and now as she lay awake in bed, she kept repeating over to herself all that she could remember of that last hour's conversation. it was a habit of hers this repeating over to herself conversations which had given her great pleasure: it recalled the tones and look which accompanied the words; it was a clinging to, and an effort to reproduce that which had filled her heart with delight. unfortunately for flora, she did not love religion so as to find in it a centre round which all her thoughts and actions could revolve; and without such a centre--as we have seen--she found existence wearisome. for a while, indeed, her faith had been a little tottering; but, happily, this momentary wavering had been conquered. from the time when she first began to think upon such subjects, she felt that there could be no medium between mere rationalism and faith in a divine teaching authority upon earth, or christianity in all its fulness.... she thought and read, until reason itself--aided by god's grace--showed her that the authority which had existed and grown with the growth of mankind--like all life, of which god alone can be the author--must necessarily be divine; ... that religion--or the tie which re-unites fallen man to god--had been revealed by god from the beginning; ... that it is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; ... that this divine word, spoken to the patriarchs--written by moses--in the fulness of time became incarnate, and left the spirit of truth itself to lead that divine teaching authority into all truth, and will so lead it until the end of time.... in this faith she now believed with unshaken firmness, yet she had none of the practical piety of marie. most applicable to flora are lady georgiana fullerton's beautiful words in "lady bird."... speaking of characters in whom a craving for excitement is a disease, she says--"there is but one cure for it, call it what you will: self-education, not for this world, but for the next. the work of life understood; perfection conceived and resolutely aimed at; the dream of human happiness resigned, and in the same hour its substance regained; the capital paid into the other world, and the daily unlooked-for interest received in this."... but to "resign the dream of human happiness" is just what flora finds it so hard to do, especially on that night when lying with unclosed eyelids, and a happy smile hovering about her lips, she whispered over the words which had been such music to her during the evening, and then added, "how nice it would be if i could die now before this brightness has faded out of my life, as it will do so soon!... what a mercy it would be not to have to go back to the old, weary, objectless life again!" you see, reader, how faulty a character our heroine is: she could toil patiently for anything which she prized highly, and at no self-denial would she hesitate in order to attain the goal; but passive submission to suffering, or even to the absence of happiness, tried her sorely. byron says strongly, but truly-- "quiet to quick bosoms is a hell;" and so, indeed, did flora find it, although as yet she only knows what the "absence of happiness" is; ... the suffering has yet to come. by half-past nine the next morning she and marie were walking up and down the terrace walk which gives on the grand canal. they were talking eagerly, and the subject was an interesting one, to marie at least.... flora was sorry to find that marie loved mr. barkley more deeply than she at first imagined; for although she believed that if marie were never to see him again she would bear it patiently, be apparently contented, and perhaps even marry any one whom the de st. severans chose, yet she felt that all the bright joyousness of her youth and character would be gone--buried in the grave of her first love. flora was sorry for it--very sorry; but as it was so, she thought it would be cruel, as well as unwise, not to let her talk of him: it would do her less harm than to brood silently over the past. then, in speaking of him--of his tastes and inclinations--flora found an opportunity of naming books upon different subjects which interested him; and because they were connected with him, marie would listen to what flora said of them, ask questions, and generally end by declaring that she would read them.... they had been talking in this way to-day, when suddenly, and looking up inquiringly, marie said-- "you do not think me good enough--clever enough--for mr. barkley, flore?" "you not _good_ enough for him, mignonne!" answered flora, smiling. "why, you are a little angel, and he is a very weak mortal; and you could be _clever_ enough for him, too, if you chose to exert yourself a little. i know that study does not suit my mignonne's african indolence, or french _esprit volage_. nevertheless, everything is comparatively easy when done for those whom we like. but remember, marie, there is scarcely any hope that you and he will ever come together; so, for the sake of your own peace, try not to think so much of him: study, because it will be an occupation to you and a _resource_, rather than to please one who may never be more to you than he is now. you know how it pains me to say these things to you, dearest; but it is to save you, if possible, from any more suffering." "i _do_ know it, flore, and i will try to do as you say, and not think too much of him; but----" she broke off with a sigh, and added in a different tone--"there is the gondola." "then i must go to tell mamma. i hope she is ready!" and away flew flora. what would she not rather lose than one of the precious moments which awaited her at the belle arti? for they were to meet mr. earnscliffe there. scarcely had they started from the hotel steps when flora descried a gondola coming from the opposite direction; and although the features of its occupant were not distinguishable as he reclined beneath the awning, she knew from the first that it was mr. earnscliffe as well as when he got out at the accademia, and waited to hand them on shore. "at what time shall we desire the gondola to come for us?" asked mrs. adair. "do not desire it to come at all, mrs. adair," said mr. earnscliffe, before flora had time to answer. "allow me to take you home in mine, and my gondolier shall sing for you: he has a very fine voice." "thank you," rejoined mrs. adair, and she dismissed their gondola. this was not a first visit to the accademia for any of the party; and to mr. earnscliffe it was as familiar as such a little world of paintings could be to any one who did not habitually live in its vicinity. this gallery is perhaps richer than that of any other city in italy in the works of titian, domenichino, jacobo tintoretto, and the two palmas; and besides these, it is enriched by the productions of many of the most celebrated names in the history of painting, belonging to foreign schools, as well as to italy's own. so our friends spent a most agreeable time there, and only regretted that it was a farewell visit. when they came out, mr. earnscliffe said-- "do you wish to go back at once to your hotel, mrs. adair? or shall we row to the lido and bid the adriatic adieu? it is such a lovely day, and your last in venice, that it would be a pity not to spend as much of it as you can in these delightful _gondole_." the proposal was accepted. flora wondered what could have come over mr. earnscliffe to make him thus seek to be with them. she thought of the last time that they had looked at pictures together,--it was at the farnese palace. how disappointed she had been on that day, and now, how more than realised were all her dreams of the pleasure of visiting such places with one like him. "must you really go to-morrow, mrs. adair?" he asked. "yes, it is all arranged; we go to-morrow to verona, thence to botzen; we shall spend a little time at meran, and then cross the brenner to innsbruck." "and how will you cross? will you take a carriage?" "that would be the most agreeable way, but as we are three ladies, without even a courier, i suppose it would not do; ... we must take the _coupé_ of the public conveyance,--there is always protection in numbers, you know." "if it is only the want of an escort which prevents your enjoying the convenience of travelling by a private carriage," said mr. earnscliffe, after a moment's hesitation, "i can supply that deficiency, if you will permit me to join you." "it is very kind of you, indeed, to offer to hamper yourself with us, particularly as--according to what flora says--you have such a sovereign contempt for women, without exception." "_without exception!_ does miss adair say so?" he asked, looking intently at her. "could i think or speak otherwise of your sentiments towards us, after that night at mrs. elton's?" she replied, blushing. "perhaps not, but will you never forget that night?... can i make _you_ no sufficient atonement, miss adair?" "you _have_ made more than sufficient atonement by offering to travel with three of us; it is really quite heroic and saint-like, thus voluntarily to impose such a penance upon yourself; i declare, notwithstanding all your hatred to rome, you would make an excellent catholic." "if _such_ were the only penances practised by your saints, and the only objection to rome, i admit i should make an excellent catholic." "well, perhaps you may some day." "i should say not, miss adair.... no doubt an hour sometimes works wonderful revolutions, breaks down even the convictions of years; but, unless you can make me believe that black is white, i see no possibility of such a change as that." "alas! i am not an enchantress, but if i were one i should only have to touch your mental vision with a wand to make 'the scales fall' from it, and instead of making you believe that 'black is white'--which would be false--you would be enabled to see the snowy white of the mountain above you, whose very brilliancy before had dazzled you so that you called it black!" "this is all very pretty and poetic, miss adair; more so, i fear, than true," he answered with a smile. then turning to mrs. adair, he said, "but we have not arranged about the journey--where shall we meet?" "ah!" thought flora, "i see he is determined to have as little of us as possible; he will not come _with_ us now, but only meet us and see us across the pass; it is a sort of reparation for his speech at mrs. elton's; and yet, at times, he almost makes me think that it is something more, that he really likes to be with _me_; but of course it is not so, he merely prefers talking to me instead of to marie, whom he considers a child. however, be his motive what it may, i should be content if the present could only last." she was so occupied with these thoughts that she scarcely heard her mother's answer: "then if you will come and spend the evening with us, we can make all our plans comfortably." "with pleasure," replied mr. earnscliffe; "and now would you like to have some singing? although byron says-- 'in venice tasso's echoes are no more, and songless rows the silent gondolier,' memory is not quite dead; there are some who still love and remember those echoes." they all expressed the great pleasure which they would have in hearing the songs, and mr. earnscliffe said to the foremost man, "paolo,--jacobo, i mean,--will you sing something for the ladies?" then he added, "i am always calling him paolo; it was the name of my favourite boatman at capri. there is quite a story about his little child,--i must tell it to you some day, miss adair." notwithstanding all flora's sage reasoning about his merely preferring to talk to her rather than to marie, she felt a glow of pleasure steal over her as she observed that he almost always addressed her. "thank you," she rejoined, "i shall be so glad to hear about naples and its neighbourhood, particularly as i never expect to see it." "_chi lo sa?_ miss adair, ... and you would admire capri so much!... but i see that jacobo is waiting for us to be silent." jacobo sang of the past glories of venice, his countenance changing with every varying feeling as he kept time to the melody with his oar and the easy graceful motion of his body; now and then his companion joined in, and the two voices seemed to blend together and float away over the waters--the rich swelling tones of jacobo's tenor and the deep bass notes of the other. reader, have you ever known what it is to recline in a gondola, shaded from the sun by its curtained roof, and the gentle motion, and the soft sound of the oars as they rise and fall, lulling you into dreamland? if at the same time you have heard rich voices poured forth in song whilst you basked in the presence of one dear to you, you have known a luxury of enjoyment!... how feeble are words to tell what its delight to flora was. more than once she felt that mr. earnscliffe's eyes rested upon her, although she did not look up; she dreaded that even a movement might break the spell, and so she sat there immovably with half-closed eyes, drinking in all the sweetness of the hour.... jacobo sang song after song until they reached the mouth of the adriatic, and then he asked if they would like to go out upon the open sea. flora--who only thought of how she could prolong the time--answered eagerly in the affirmative, and complimented jacobo on his singing,--said that they were really delighted with it. after they had gone a short way on the adriatic and enjoyed the fresh breeze which then blew over it, mrs. adair proposed that they should return, saying that it would be tolerably advanced in the afternoon before they got home, and they had all their preparations to make for to-morrow's journey. at their hotel stairs mr. earnscliffe wished them good-bye until the evening, and as his gondola sped down the canal, the girls stood watching it as they leaned over the balustrade, till mrs. adair said-- "well, young ladies, are you going to stand there, not star--but, water-gazing all day? at this rate we shall have packed but little before evening." she entered the hotel, followed by the girls; and now we shall leave them to that most interesting of occupations--packing, but revisit them with mr. earnscliffe in the evening. about eight o'clock, then, as they sat in one of the arbours, where they had ordered tea to be served, they heard the sound of a serenade. "it is jacobo's voice!" exclaimed flora, and she walked quickly to the railing to look for the expected gondola. in a few minutes more mr. earnscliffe stood beside her, and she said--"what a sweet serenade! it is certainly a very poetic way of announcing one's approach to friends!" "yes," he answered, smiling, "although in olden days--and above all, in italy--it was scarcely to _friends_ that one's approach was so announced." it struck flora forcibly at this moment how much pleasanter it would be to stand there talking to mr. earnscliffe about the poetry of serenades, than to join the others and take tea; but she knew that it could not be, and so, with a half-smothered sigh, she said-- "you see mamma and marie in the arbour, mr. earnscliffe? will you go to them whilst i desire tea to be brought up?" "cannot i spare you that trouble? i can order it." "thank you. i think i had better go myself. the hotel people do not know you. please to go to the arbour." "i obey," he rejoined, as he smilingly raised his hat, and went towards the arbour. flora was not a second absent, and as soon as tea, and the ices by which it was followed, were finished, the travelling plans were discussed. the adairs expected to get to meran about the fourth day after they left venice; and it was agreed that mr. earnscliffe should meet them there, at the post hotel, and then they could engage the carriage for crossing the brenner. by the time that all this was settled it was past nine. marie complained of having a headache, and went to bed, and mr. earnscliffe said-- "how beautiful the scene is from the terrace on such a night as this, miss adair." "yes; it is most lovely," she replied, rising, and going towards the walk spoken of. he followed her, and they leaned over the balustrade as he named to her the different buildings by which they were surrounded, and which she, being less familiar with venice than he was, failed to recognise, shrouded as they now were in the dark hues of night. he ceased speaking, and for a few moments they remained silent, until flora said, "now, mr. earnscliffe, tell me about capri and your favourite boatman there." they walked up and down, as he described to her capri, its rocky heights, its views, and the celebrated blue grotto. then he told her anina's story. he passed lightly over the episode with mr. elliot in the morning, but detailed fully the good doctor's history after dinner. he dwelt upon the picture of the englishman sitting on the rocks sketching, and the young wife leaning her little hands on his shoulders, and looking down so fondly at him, that even the old man envied him. mr. earnscliffe stopped, and flora felt that _he_ was now looking down on her; she did not dare to believe that it was "fondly;" nevertheless, there crept over her a delicious sensation of happiness. it was not a picture that a girl could well contemplate unmoved, when held up to her by the man whom she loved, as she walked by his side in the starlight; and now, if never before, flora admitted to herself that she did love mr. earnscliffe. after a momentary pause he continued, describing anina's asking for the madonna, her delight with the statue, then her passionate grief at his departure. suddenly he changed the subject, and said, "i have not told you that i saw your friends, the eltons, at naples; indeed, i dined with them the day before i left capri. i also saw another friend of _yours_ at naples--mr. lyne!" how grateful she felt to the night whose darkness hid the bright blush which this name called up; and she wondered if mr. earnscliffe could have heard that she had refused him, and if that could in any way be the cause of the great change in his manner to her. his words on the night of his arrival, about the individual injustice to her of which he had been guilty, seemed to imply something of the kind. ah! if this were the case, she had, indeed, cause to hope! she found it somewhat difficult to steady her voice, as she answered, "indeed! and how are the eltons?" "quite well, i believe," he rejoined hurriedly; for at that moment there recurred to him the memory of mary elton, as she stood before him that evening in the shrubbery, with flashing eyes, and also as she appeared to him afterwards in his dream; and he quite shuddered. "are you cold, mr. earnscliffe?" asked flora, in a tone of surprise. "no. it was one of those unaccountable shudders which sometimes come over one.... but i am keeping you and mrs. adair up; it must be nearly ten, and of course you would like to go to bed early to-night. i will go and wish mrs. adair good-night." he left her; and again she leaned over the balustrade, and thought that going to bed was the last thing in the world that she would like to do. his voice, sounding close beside her, startled her, as he said, "good-bye, miss adair! will you believe it? it is half-past ten. how unconscionably i have kept you up." "no, indeed, you have not. it is my last night in venice, and i would not have had it shortened for anything.... good-bye." he took her hand and held it in his, as he said, "this is better than the night at mrs. elton's." "that it is," she returned heartily. "that night was not a pleasant one to me; nor was your parting speech a pleasant one to hear." "i am sorry that i annoyed you; did i _really_ do so?" "of course you did; you were so unjust, as i have said before." "i was horribly so, to _you_. and so, once more, miss adair, i ask you to forgive me."... he let go her hand, sprang down the stairs and into his gondola, in which he stood waving his hat to her as jacobo pushed off, and again sang a serenade. as the sound of the voice came fainter and fainter over the water, and at last died away, flora murmured, "venice!... now indeed art thou to me 'as a fairy city of the heart.'" flora went to the arbour, where mrs. adair was putting up her work; and they both returned to their rooms.... here was another wakeful night for flora. she could not sleep; for a soft voice seemed to whisper every now and then the words, "he loves you." but flora was determined to be wise, and not believe so flattering a whisper; and she said to herself, "what nonsense all this is. the proud, clever mr. earnscliffe love me, indeed! i know too well that i have no beauty, no brilliancy in conversation, no liveliness,--nothing, in short, which could win the love of such a man. i always felt that it would be so; that one whom i could love would be so superior to me that he could not care for me.... he is the world,--life,--everything to me; and what could i be to him? nothing, of course."... but the voice whispered on, and, listening to it, she at last fell asleep. by two o'clock the next day they were standing in the amphitheatre of verona, and flora finally silenced the whisper with--"if it were anything of love he would be here now, and not in venice." end of vol. i. transcriber's notes: italic text is represented by underscores. oe ligatures have been expanded. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. errors in foreign language segments have not been corrected. inconsistent and archaic spelling choices have been preserved (including hyphenation, use of both -ise and -ize, "teaze"/"tease", "secresy" and "decrepid"). page , "look" changed to "looked" (mina looked imploringly) page , "to" added (go to the catacombs) page , "women" changed to "woman" (a witch-like looking woman) page , removed "the" (things which jesus did, -the- which) page , "absord" changed to "absorb" (could not fail to absorb) silver pitchers: and independence, a centennial love story. by louisa m. alcott, author of "little women," "an old-fashioned girl," "little men," "eight cousins," "work," "hospital sketches," etc. boston: roberts brothers. . _copyright_, by louisa m. alcott. . university press: john wilson & son, cambridge. contents silver pitchers anna's whim transcendental wild oats the romance of a summer day my rococo watch by the river letty's tramp scarlet stockings independence: a centennial love story silver pitchers. chapter i. _how it began._ "we can do nothing about it except show our displeasure in some proper manner," said portia, in her most dignified tone. "_i_ should like to cut them all dead for a year to come; and i'm not sure that i won't!" cried pauline, fiercely. "we _ought_ to make it impossible for such a thing to happen again, and i think we _might_," added priscilla, so decidedly that the others looked at her in surprise. the three friends sat by the fire "talking things over," as girls love to do. pretty creatures, all of them, as they nestled together on the lounge in dressing-gowns and slippers, with unbound hair, eyes still bright with excitement, and tongues that still wagged briskly. usually the chat was of dresses, compliments, and all the little adventures that befall gay girls at a merry-making. but to-night something of uncommon interest absorbed the three, and kept them talking earnestly long after they should have been asleep. handsome portia looked out from her blonde locks with a disgusted expression, as she sipped the chocolate thoughtful mamma had left inside the fender. rosy-faced pauline sat staring indignantly at the fire; while in gentle priscilla's soft eyes the shadow of a real sorrow seemed to mingle with the light of a strong determination. yes, something had happened at this thanksgiving festival which much offended the three friends, and demanded grave consideration on their part; for the "sweet p's," as portia, pris, and polly were called, were the belles of the town. one ruled by right of beauty and position, one by the power of a character so sweet and strong that its influence was widely felt, and one by the wit and winsomeness of a high yet generous spirit. it had been an unusually pleasant evening, for after the quilting bee in the afternoon good squire allen had given a bountiful supper, and all the young folks of the town had joined in the old-fashioned games, which made the roof ring with hearty merriment. all would have gone well if some one had not privately introduced something stronger than the cider provided by the squire,--a mysterious and potent something, which caused several of the young men to betray that they were decidedly the worse for their libations. that was serious enough; but the crowning iniquity was the putting of brandy into the coffee, which it was considered decorous for the young girls to prefer instead of cider. who the reprobates were remained a dead secret, for the young men laughed off the dreadful deed as a joke, and the squire apologized in the handsomest manner. but the girls felt much aggrieved and would not be appeased, though the elders indulgently said, "young men will be young men," even while they shook their heads over the pranks played and the nonsense spoken under the influence of the wine that had been so slyly drank. now what should be done about it? the "sweet p's" knew that their mates would look to them for guidance at this crisis, for they were the leaders in all things. so they must decide on some line of conduct for all to adopt, as the best way of showing their disapproval of such practical jokes. when pris spoke, the others looked at her with surprise; for there was a new expression in her face, and both asked wonderingly, "how?" "there are several ways, and we must decide which is the best. one is to refuse invitations to the sociable next week." "but i've just got a lovely new dress expressly for it!" cried portia, tragically. "then we might decline providing any supper," began pris. "that wouldn't prevent the boys from providing it, and i never could get through the night without a morsel of something!" exclaimed polly, who loved to see devoted beings bending before her, with offerings of ice, or struggling manfully to steer a glass of lemonade through a tumultuous sea of silk and broadcloth, feeling well repaid by a word or smile from her when they landed safely. "true, and it _would_ be rather rude and resentful; for i am sure they will be models of deportment next time," and gentle pris showed signs of relenting, though that foolish joke bad cost her more than either of the others. for a moment all sat gazing thoughtfully at the fire, trying to devise some awful retribution for the sinners, no part of which should fall upon themselves. suddenly polly clapped her hands, crying with a triumphant air,-- "i've got it, girls! i've got it!" "what? how? tell us quick!" "we _will_ refuse to go to the first sociable, and that will make a tremendous impression, for half the nice girls will follow our lead, and the boys will be in despair. every one will ask why we are not there; and what can those poor wretches say but the truth? won't that be a bitter pill for my lords and gentlemen?" "it will certainly be one to us," said portia, thinking of the "heavenly blue dress" with a pang. "wait a bit; our turn will come at the next sociable. to this we can go with escorts of our own choosing, or none at all, for they are free and easy affairs, you know. so we need be under no obligation to any of those sinners, and can trample upon them as much as we please." "but how about the games, the walks home, and all the pleasant little services the young men of our set like to offer and we to receive?" asked portia, who had grown up with these "boys," as polly called them, and found it hard to turn her back on the playmates who had now become friends or lovers. "bless me! i forgot that the feud might last more than one evening. give me an idea, pris," and polly's triumph ended suddenly. "i will," answered pris, soberly; "for at this informal sociable we can institute a new order of things. it will make a talk, but i think we have a right to do it, and i'm sure it will have a good effect, if we only hold out, and don't mind being laughed at. let us refuse to associate with the young men whom we know to be what is called 'gay,' and accept as friends those of whose good habits we are sure. if they complain, as of course they will, we can say their own misconduct made it necessary, and there we have them." "but, pris, who ever heard of such an idea? people will say all sorts of things about us!" said portia, rather startled at the proposition. "let them! i say it's a grand plan, and i'll stand by you, pris, through thick and thin!" cried polly, who enjoyed the revolutionary spirit of the thing. "we can but try it, and give the young men a lesson; for, girls, matters are coming to a pass, when it is our _duty_ to do something. i cannot think it is right for us to sit silent and see these fine fellows getting into bad habits because no one dares or cares to speak out, though we gossip and complain in private." "do you want us to begin a crusade?" asked portia, uneasily. "yes, in the only way we girls can do it. we can't preach and pray in streets and bar-rooms, but we may at home, and in our own little world show that we want to use our influence for good. i know that you two can do any thing you choose with the young people in this town, and it is just that set who most need the sort of help you can give, if you will." "you have more influence than both of us put together; so don't be modest, pris, but tell us what to do, and i'll do it, even if i'm hooted at," cried warm-hearted polly, won at once. "you must do as you think right; but _i_ have made up my mind to protest against wine-drinking in every way i can. i know it will cost me much, for i have nothing to depend upon but the good opinion of my friends; nevertheless, i shall do what seems my duty, and i may be able to save some other girl from the heart-aches i have known." "you won't lose our good opinion, you dear little saint! just tell us how to begin and we will follow our leader," cried both portia and polly, fired with emulation by their friend's quiet resolution. pris looked from one to the other, and, seeing real love and confidence in their faces, was moved to deepen the impression she had made, by telling them the sad secret of her life. pressing her hands tightly together, and drooping her head, she answered in words that were the more pathetic for their brevity,-- "dear girls, don't think me rash or sentimental, for i _know_ what i am trying to do, and you will understand my earnestness better when i tell you that a terrible experience taught me to dread this appetite more than death. it killed my father, broke mother's heart, and left me all alone." as she paused, poor pris hid her face and shrank away, as if by this confession she had forfeited her place in the respect of her mates. but the girlish hearts only clung the closer to her, and proved the sincerity of their affection by sympathetic tears and tender words, as portia and polly held her fast, making a prettier group than the marble nymphs on the mantelpiece; for the christian graces quite outdid the heathen ones. polly spoke first, and spoke cheerfully, feeling, with the instinct of a fine nature, that priscilla's grief was too sacred to be talked about, and that they could best show their appreciation of her confidence by proving themselves ready to save others from a sorrow like hers. "let us be a little society of three, and do what we can. i shall begin at home, and watch over brother ned; for lately he has been growing away from me somehow, and i'm afraid he is beginning to be 'gay.' i shall get teased unmercifully; but i won't mind if i keep him safe." "i have no one at home to watch over but papa, and he is in no danger, of course; so i shall show charley lord that i am not pleased with him," said portia, little dreaming where her work was to be done. "and you will set about reforming that delightful scapegrace, phil butler?" added polly, peeping archly into the still drooping face of pris. "i have lost my right to do it, for i told him to-night that love and respect must go together in my heart," and pris wiped her wet eyes with a hand that no longer wore a ring. portia and polly looked at one another in dismay, for by this act pris proved how thoroughly in earnest she was. neither had any words of comfort for so great a trouble, and sat silently caressing her, till pris looked up, with her own serene smile again, and said, as if to change the current of their thoughts,-- "we must have a badge for the members of our new society, so let us each wear one of these tiny silver pitchers. i've lost the mate to mine, but portia has a pair just like them. you can divide, then we are all provided for." portia ran to her jewel-case, caught up a pair of delicate filigree ear-rings, hastily divided a narrow velvet ribbon into three parts, attached to each a silver pitcher, and, as the friends smilingly put on these badges, they pledged their loyalty to the new league by a silent good-night kiss. chapter ii. _a declaration of independence._ great was the astonishment of their "set" when it was known that the "sweet p's" had refused all invitations to the opening sociable. the young men were in despair, the gossips talked themselves hoarse discussing the affair, and the girls exulted; for, as polly predicted, the effect of their first step was "tremendous." when the evening came, however, by one accord they met in portia's room, to support each other through that trying period. they affected to be quite firm and cheerful; but one after the other broke down, and sadly confessed that the sacrifice to principle was harder than they expected. what added to their anguish was the fact that the judge's house stood just opposite the town-hall, and every attempt to keep away from certain windows proved a dead failure. "it is _so_ trying to see those girls go in with their dresses bundled up, and not even know what they wear," mourned portia, watching shrouded figures trip up the steps that led to the paradise from which she had exiled herself. "they must be having a capital time, for every one seems to have gone. i wonder who phil took," sighed pris, when at length the carriages ceased to roll. "girls! i wish to be true to my vow, but if you don't hold me i shall certainly rush over there and join in the fun, for that music is too much for me," cried polly, desperately, as the singing began. it was an endless evening to the three pretty pioneers, though they went early to bed, and heroically tried to sleep with that distracting music in their ears. slumber came at last, but as the clocks were striking twelve a little ghost emerged from portia's room, and gliding to the hall window vanished among the heavy damask curtains. presently another little ghost appeared from the same quarter, and stealing softly to the same window was about to vanish in the same capacious draperies, when a stifled cry was heard, and portia, the second sprite, exclaimed in an astonished whisper,-- "why, pris, are you here, too? i saw polly creep away from me, and came to take her back. how dare you go wandering about and startling me out of my wits in this way?" "i was only looking to see if it was all over," quavered pris, meekly, emerging from the right-hand curtain. "so was i!" laughed polly, bouncing out from the left-hand one. there was a sound of soft merriment in that shadowy hall for a moment, and then the spirits took a look at the world outside, for the moon was shining brightly. yes, the fun was evidently over, for the lamps were being extinguished, and several young men stood on the steps exchanging last words. one wore a cloak theatrically thrown over the shoulder, and polly knew him at once. "that's ned! i _must_ hear what they are saying. keep quiet and i'll listen," she whispered, rolling herself in the dark folds of the curtain and opening the window a crack, so that a frosty breeze could blow freely into her left ear. "you'll get your death," murmured portia, shivering in her quilted wrapper. "o, never mind!" cried pris, who recognized the tallest man in the group, and was wild to catch a word from "poor phil." "they think they've done a fine thing; but, bless their little hearts, we'll show that we can do without them by not asking them to the next sociable, or taking notice of them if they go. that will bring them round without fail," said one masculine voice, with a jolly laugh. "many thanks for letting us know your plots, mr. lord. now we can arrange a nice little surprise for _you_," and portia made a scornful courtesy in the dark. "faith! i don't blame the girls much, for that was a confoundedly ungentlemanly trick of yours, and i'll thank you not to lay any of the blame of it on me; i've got as much as i can carry without that," said the tall figure, stalking away alone. "i'm _so_ glad to know that phil had nothing to do with it!" breathed pris, gratefully. "come on, charley! i must get home as soon as possible, or polly will be down on me, for she has taken a new tack lately, and holds forth on the error of my ways like a granny." "won't i give ned an extra lecture for that speech, the rascal!" and polly shook a small fist at him as her brother passed under the window, blissfully unconscious of the avenging angels up aloft. "'tis well; let us away and take sweet counsel how we may annihilate them," added polly, melodramatically, as the three ghosts vanished from the glimpses of the moon. every one turned out to the sociables, for they were town affairs, and early hours, simple suppers, and games of all sorts, made it possible for old and young to enjoy them together. on the night of the second one there was a goodly gathering, for the public rebuke administered to the young men had made a stir, and everybody was curious to see what the consequences would be when the parties met. there was a sensation, therefore, when a whisper went round that the "sweet p's" had come, and a general smile of wonder and amusement appeared when the girls entered, portia on the arm of her father, polly gallantly escorted by her twelve-year-old brother will, and pris beside belinda chamberlain, whose five feet seven made her a capital cavalier. "outwitted!" laughed charley lord, taking the joke at once as he saw portia's gray-headed squire. "i _knew_ polly was plotting mischief, she has been so quiet lately," muttered ned, eying his little brother with lofty scorn. phil said nothing, but he gave a sigh of relief on seeing that pris had chosen an escort of whom it was impossible to be jealous. the judge seldom honored these gatherings, but portia ruled papa, and when she explained the peculiar state of things, he had heroically left his easy chair to cast himself into the breach. master will was in high feather at his sudden promotion, and bore himself gallantly, though almost as much absorbed by his wristbands as mr. toots; for polly had got him up regardless of expense, with a gay tie, new gloves, and, o, crowning splendor! a red carnation in his button-hole. buxom belinda was delighted with the chance to play cavalier, and so get her fair share of all the fun going, for usually she stood in a corner smiling at an unappreciative world, like a patient sunflower. the faces of the young men were a study as the games began, and the three girls joined in them with the partners they had chosen. "the judge is evidently on his mettle, but he can't stand that sort of thing long, even to please portia; and then her majesty will have to give in, or condescend to some one out of our set," thought charley lord, longing already to be taken into favor again. "polly will have to come and ask me to lead, if she wants to sing her favorite songs; for i'll be hanged if i do it till she has humbled herself by asking," said ned, feeling sure that his sister would soon relent. "if it was any one but belinda, i don't think i could stand it," exclaimed phil, as he watched his lost sweetheart with wistful eyes; for, though he submitted to the sentence which he knew he deserved, he could not relinquish so much excellence without deep regret. but the young men underrated the spirit of the girls, and overrated their own strength. the "sweet p's" went on enjoying themselves, apparently quite indifferent to the neglect of their once devoted friends. but to the outcasts it was perfectly maddening to see stately portia promenading with stout major quackenboss, who put his best foot foremost with the air of a conquering hero; also to behold sweet pris playing games with her little pupils in a way that filled their small souls with rapture. but the most aggravating spectacle of all was captivating polly, chatting gayly with young farmer brown, who was evidently losing both head and heart in the light of her smiles. "it's no use, boys; i _must_ have one turn with portia, and you may hang me for a traitor immediately afterward," cried charley at last, recklessly casting both pride and promise to the winds. "o, very well; if you are going to give in, we may as well all eat humble pie 'together,'" and ned imitated his weak-minded friend, glad of an excuse to claim the leadership of the little choir who led off the weekly "sing." phil dared not follow their example as far as pris was concerned, but made his most elegant bow to belinda, and begged to have the honor of seeing her home. his chagrin may be imagined when the lofty wall-flower replied, with a significant emphasis that made his face burn,-- "no, thank you. i need a very _steady_ escort, for i shouldn't take a fall into a snow-bank as lightly as pris did not long ago." charley met with a like fate at portia's hands, for she outraged established etiquette by coldly declining his meek invitation to promenade, and two minutes later graciously accepting that of an unfashionable young man, who was known to belong to a temperance lodge. but ned's repulse was the most crushing of all, for in reply to his condescending hint,-- "i suppose people won't be satisfied unless we give them our favorites, hey, polly?" he received a verbal box on the ear in the sharp answer,-- "we don't want _you_, for i intend to lead myself, and introduce a new set of songs which won't be at all to your taste." then, to his utter amazement and confusion, miss polly began to sing one of the good old temperance songs, the burden whereof was,-- "o, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful, o, that will be joyful, when young men drink no more!" it was taken up all over the hall, and the chorus rang out with an energy that caused sundry young men to turn red and dodge behind any capacious back they could find, for every one understood polly's motive, and looked approvingly upon her as she stood singing, with an occasional quiver in the voice that usually was as clear and sweet as a blackbird's. this unexpected manoeuvre on the part of the fair enemy produced direful perplexity and dismay in the opposing camp, whither the discomfited trio fled with tidings of their defeat. none of them dared try again in that quarter, but endeavored to console themselves by flirting wildly with such girls as still remained available, for, sad to relate, many of the most eligible took courage and followed the example of the "sweet p's." this fact cast added gloom over the hapless gentlemen of the offending set, and caused them to fear that a social revolution would follow what they had considered merely a girlish freak. "shouldn't wonder if they got up a praying-band after this," groaned ned, preparing himself for the strongest measures. "portia had better lead off, then, for the first time i indulged too freely in the 'rosy' was at her father's house," added charley, laying all the blame of his expulsion from eden upon eve, like a true adam. "look here, boys, we ought to thank, not blame them, for they want to help us, i'm sure, and some of us need help, god knows!" sighed phil, with a look and tone that made his comrades forget their pique in sudden self-reproach; for not one of them could deny his words, or help feeling that the prayers of such innocent souls would avail much. chapter iii. _what portia did._ "i know your head aches, mamma, so lie here and rest while i sit in my little chair and amuse you till papa comes in." as portia bent to arrange the sofa-cushions comfortably, the tiny silver pitcher hanging at her neck swung forward and caught her mother's eye. "is it the latest fashion to wear odd ear-rings instead of lockets?" she asked, touching the delicate trinket with an amused smile. "no, mamma, it is something better than a fashion; it is the badge of a temperance league that pris, polly, and i have lately made," answered portia, wondering how her mother would take it. "dear little girls! god bless and help you in your good work!" was the quick reply, that both surprised and touched her by its fervency. "then you don't mind, or think us silly to try and do even a very little towards curing this great evil?" she asked, with a sweet seriousness that was new and most becoming to her. "my child, i feel as if it was a special providence," began her mother, then checked herself and added more quietly, "tell me all about this league, dear, unless it is a secret." "i have no secrets from you, mother," and nestling into her low chair portia told her story, ending with an earnestness that showed how much she had the new plan at heart. "so you see polly is trying to keep ned safe, and pris prays for phil; not in vain, i think, for he has been very good lately, they tell me. but _i_ have neither brother nor lover to help, and i cannot go out to find any one, because i am only a girl. now what _can_ i do, mamma, for i truly want to do my share?" the mother lay silent for a moment, then, as if yielding to an irresistible impulse, drew her daughter nearer, and whispered with lips that trembled as they spoke,-- "you can help your father, dear." "mamma, what can you mean?" cried portia, in a tone of indignant surprise. "listen patiently, child, or i shall regret that your confidence inspired me with courage to give you mine. never think for one moment that i accuse my husband of any thing like drunkenness. he has always taken his wine like a gentleman, and never more than was good for him till of late. for this there are many excuses; he is growing old, his life is less active than it was, many of the pleasures he once enjoyed fail now, and he has fallen into ways that harm his health." "i know, mamma; he doesn't care for company as he used to, or business, either, but seems quite contented to sit among his papers half the morning, and doze over the fire half the evening. i've wondered at it, for he is not really old, and looks as hale and handsome as ever," said portia, feeling that something hovered on her mother's lips which she found it hard to utter. "you are right; it is _not_ age alone that makes him so unlike his once cheerful, active self; it is--bend lower, dear, and never breathe to any one what i tell you now, only that you may help me save your father's life, perhaps." startled by the almost solemn earnestness of these words, portia laid her head upon the pillow, and twilight wrapt the room in its soft gloom, as if to shut out all the world, while the mother told the daughter the danger that threatened him whom they both so loved and honored. "papa has fallen into the way of taking more wine after dinner than is good for him. he does not know how the habit is growing upon him, and is hurt if i hint at such a thing. but dr. hall warned me of the danger after papa's last ill turn, saying that at his age and with his temperament apoplexy would be sure to follow over-indulgence of this sort." "o mamma, what can i do?" whispered portia, with a thrill, as the words of pris returned to her with sudden force, "it killed my father, broke mother's heart, and left me all alone." "watch over him, dear, amuse him as you only can, and wean him from this unsuspected harm by all the innocent arts your daughterly love can devise. i have kept this to myself, because it is hard for a wife to see any fault in her husband; still harder for her to speak of it even to so good a child as mine. but my anxiety unfits me to do all i might, so i need help; and of whom can i ask it but of you? my darling, make a little league with mother, and let us watch and pray in secret for this dear man who is all in all to us." what portia answered, what comfort she gave, and what further confidences she received, may not be told, for this household covenant was too sacred for report. no visible badge was assumed, no audible vow taken, but in the wife's face, as it smiled on her husband that night, there was a tenderer light than ever, and the kiss that welcomed papa was the seal upon a purpose as strong as the daughter's love. usually the ladies left the judge to read his paper and take his wine in the old-fashioned way, while they had coffee in the drawing-room. as they rose, portia saw the shadow fall upon her mother's face, which she had often seen before, but never understood till now; for _this_ was the dangerous hour, this the moment when the child must stand between temptation and her father, if she could. that evening, very soon after the servant had cleared the table of all but the decanters, a fresh young voice singing blithely in the parlor made the judge put down his glass to listen in pleased surprise. presently he stepped across the hall to set both doors open, saying, in a half reproachful tone,-- "sing away, my lark, and let papa hear you, for he seldom gets a chance nowadays." "then he must stay and applaud me, else i shall think that speech only an empty compliment," answered portia, as she beckoned with her most winsome smile. the judge never dreamed that his good angel spoke; but he saw his handsome girl beaming at him from the music stool, and strolled in, meaning to go back when the song ended. but the blue charmer in the parlor proved more potent than the red one in the dining-room, and he sat on, placidly sipping the excellent coffee, artfully supplied by his wife, quite unconscious of the little plot to rob him of the harmful indulgence which too often made his evenings a blank, and his mornings a vain attempt to revive the spirits that once kept increasing years from seeming burdensome. that was the beginning of portia's home mission; and from that hour she devoted herself to it, thinking of no reward, for such "secret service" could receive neither public sympathy nor praise. it was not an easy task, as she soon found, in spite of the stanch and skilful ally who planned the attacks she dutifully made upon the enemy threatening their domestic peace. when music ceased to have charms, and the judge declared he _must_ get his "forty winks" after dinner, portia boldly declared that she would stay and see that he had them comfortably. so papa laughed and submitted, took a brief nap, and woke in such good-humor that he made no complaint on finding the daughter replacing the decanter. this answered for a while; and when its effacacy seemed about to fail, unexpected help appeared; for mamma's eyes began to trouble her, and portia proposed that her father should entertain the invalid in the evening, while she served her through the day. this plan worked capitally, for the judge loved his good wife almost as much as she deserved, and devoted himself to her so faithfully that the effort proved a better stimulant than any his well-stocked cellar could supply. dr. hall prescribed exercise and cheerful society for his new patient, and in seeing that these instructions were obeyed the judge got the benefit of them, and found no time for solitary wine-bibbing. "i do believe i'm growing young again, for the old dulness is quite gone, and all this work and play does not seem to tire me a bit," he said, after an unusually lively evening with the congenial guests portia took care to bring about him. "but it must be very stupid for you, my dear, as we old folks have all the fun. why don't you invite the young people here oftener?" he added, as his eye fell on portia, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "i wish i dared tell you why," she answered wistfully. "afraid of your old papa?" and he looked both surprised and grieved. "i won't be, for you are the kindest father that ever a girl had, and i know you'll help me, as you always do, papa. i don't dare ask my young friends here because i'm not willing to expose some of them to temptation," began portia, bravely. "what temptation? this?" asked her father, turning her half-averted face to the light, with a smile full of paternal pride. "no, sir; a far more dangerous one than ever i can be." "then i should like to see it!" and the old gentleman looked about him for this rival of his lovely daughter. "it is these," she said, pointing to the bottles and glasses on the side-board. the judge understood her then, and knit his brows but before he could reply portia went steadily on, though her cheeks burned, and her eyes were bent upon the fire again. "father, i belong to a society of three, and we have promised to do all we can for temperance. as yet i can only show bravely the faith that is in me; therefore i can never offer any friend of mine a drop of wine, and so i do not ask them here, where it would seem most uncourteous to refuse." "i trust no gentleman ever had cause to reproach me for the hospitality i was taught to show my guests," began the judge, in his most stately manner. but he got no further, for a soft hand touched his lips, and portia answered sorrowfully,-- "one man has, sir; charley lord says the first time he took too much was in this house, and it has grieved me to the heart, for it is true. o papa, never let any one have the right to say that again of us! forgive me if i seem undutiful, but i _must_ speak out, for i want my dear father to stand on my side, and set an example which will make me even fonder and prouder of him than i am now." as portia paused, half frightened at her own frankness, she put her arms about his neck, and hid her face on his breast, still pleading her cause with the silent eloquence so hard to resist. the judge made no reply for several minutes, and in that pause many thoughts passed through his mind, and a vague suspicion that had haunted him of late became a firm conviction. for suddenly he seemed to see his own weakness in its true light, to understand the meaning of the watchful love, the patient care that had so silently and helpfully surrounded him; and in portia's appeal for younger men, he read a tender warning to himself. he was a proud man, but a very just one; and though a flush of anger swept across his face at first, he acknowledged the truth of the words that were so hard to speak. with his hand laid fondly on the head that was half-hidden, lest a look should seem to reproach him, this brave old gentleman proved that he loved his neighbor better than himself, and honestly confessed his own shortcomings. "no man shall ever say again that _i_ tempted him." then as portia lifted up a happy face, he looked straight into the grateful eyes that dimmed with sudden tears, and added tenderly,-- "my daughter, i am not too proud to own a fault, nor, please god, too old to mend it." chapter iv. _what polly did._ since their mother's death, polly had tried to fill her place, and take good care of the boys. but the poor little damsel had a hard time of it sometimes; for ned, being a year or two older, thought it his duty to emancipate himself from petticoat government as rapidly as possible, and do as he pleased, regardless of her warnings or advice. yet at heart he was very fond of his pretty sister. at times he felt strongly tempted to confide his troubles and perplexities to her, for since the loss of his mother he often longed for a tender, helpful creature to cheer and strengthen him. unfortunately he had reached the age when boys consider it "the thing" to repress every sign of regard for their own women-folk, sisters especially; so ned barricaded himself behind the manly superiority of his twenty years, and snubbed polly. will had not yet developed this unpleasant trait, but his sister expected it, and often exclaimed, despairingly, to her bosom friends,-- "when _he_ follows ned's example, and begins to rampage, what _will_ become of me?" the father--a learned and busy man--was so occupied by the duties of his large parish, or so absorbed in the abstruse studies to which his brief leisure was devoted, that he had no time left for his children. polly took good care of him and the house, and the boys seemed to be doing well, so he went his way in peace, quite unconscious that his eldest son needed all a father's care to keep him from the temptations to which a social nature, not evil propensities, exposed him. polly saw the danger, and spoke of it; but mr. snow only answered absently,-- "tut, tut, my dear; you are over-anxious, and forget that young men all have a few wild oats to sow." while ned silenced her with that other familiar and harmful phrase, "i'm only seeing life a bit, so don't you fret, child," little dreaming that such "seeing life" too often ends in seeing death. so polly labored in vain, till something happened which taught them all a lesson. ned went on a sleighing frolic with the comrades whom of all others his sister dreaded most. "do be careful and not come home as you did last time, for father will be in, and it would shock him dreadfully if i shouldn't be able to keep you quiet," she said anxiously. "you little granny, i wasn't tipsy, only cheerful, and that scared you out of your wits. i've got my key, so don't sit up. i hate to have a woman glowering at me when i come in," was ned's ungracious reply; for the memory of that occasion was not a pleasant one. "if a woman had not been sitting up, you'd have frozen on the door-mat, you ungrateful boy," cried polly, angrily. ned began to whistle, and was going off without a word, when polly's loving heart got the better of her quick temper, and, catching up a splendid tippet she had made for him, she ran after her brother. she caught him just as he opened the front door, and, throwing both her arms and her gift about his neck, said, with a kiss that produced a sensation in the sleigh-full of gentlemen at the gate,-- "ah, do be friends, for i can't bear to part so." now if no one had been by, ned would have found that pleasant mingling of soft arms and worsted a genuine comforter; but masculine pride would not permit him to relent before witnesses, and the fear of being laughed at by "those fellows" made him put both sister and gift roughly aside, with a stern,-- "i won't be molly-coddled! let me alone and shut the door!" polly did let him alone, with a look that haunted him, and shut the door with a spirited bang, that much amused the gentlemen. "i'll never try to do any thing for ned again! it's no use, and he may go to the bad for all i care!" said polly to herself, after a good cry. but she bitterly repented that speech a few hours later, when her brother was brought back, apparently dead, by such of the "cheerful" party as escaped unhurt from a dangerous upset. there was no concealing this sad home-coming from her father, though poor ned was quiet enough now, being stunned by the fall, which had wounded his head and broken his right arm. it _was_ a shock, both to the man and the minister; and, when the worst was over, he left polly to watch her brother, with eyes full of penitential tears, and went away, to reproach himself in private for devoting to ancient fathers the time and thought he should have given to modern sons. ned was very ill, and when, at last, he began to mend, his helplessness taught him to see and love the sweetest side of polly's character; for she was in truth his right hand, and waited on him with a zeal that touched his heart. not one reproach did she utter, not even by a look did she recall past warnings, or exult in the present humiliation, which proved how needful they had been. every thing was forgotten except the fact that she had the happy privilege of caring for him almost as tenderly as a mother. not quite, though, and the memory of her whose place it was impossible to fill seemed to draw them closer together; as if the silent voice repeated its last injunctions to both son and daughter, "take care of the boys, dear;" "be good to your sister, ned." "i've been a regular brute to her, and the dear little soul is heaping coals of fire on my head by slaving over me like an angel," thought the remorseful invalid, one day, as he lay on the sofa, with a black patch adorning his brow, and his arm neatly done up in splints. polly thought he was asleep, and sat quietly rolling bandages till a head popped in at the door, and will asked, in a sepulchral whisper,-- "i've got the book ned wanted. can i come and give it to you?" polly nodded, and he tiptoed in to her side, with a face so full of good-will and spirits that it was as refreshing as a breath of fresh air in that sick room. "nice boy! he never forgets to do a kindness and be a comfort to his polly," she said, leaning her tired head on his buttony jacket, as he stood beside her. will wasn't ashamed to show affection for "his polly," so he patted the pale cheeks with a hand as red as his mittens, and smiled down at her with his honest blue eyes full of the protecting affection it was so pleasant to receive. "yes, _i'm_ going to be a tiptop boy, and never make you and father ashamed of me, as you were once of somebody we know. now don't you laugh, and i'll show you something; it's the best i could do, and i wanted to prove that i mean what i say; truly, truly, wish i may die if i don't." as he spoke, will pulled out of his vest-pocket a little pewter cream-pot, tied to a shoe-string, and holding it up said, with a funny mixture of boyish dignity and defiance,-- "i bought it of nelly hunt, because her tea-set was half-smashed up. folks may laugh at my badge, but i don't care; and if you won't have me in your society i'll set up all alone, for i'm going into the temperance business, any way!" polly hugged him on the spot, and made his youthful countenance glow with honest pride by saying solemnly,-- "william g. snow, i consider our league honored by the addition of so valuable a member; for a boy who can bear to be laughed at, and yet stick to his principles, is a treasure." "the fellows _do_ laugh at me, and call me 'little pitcher;' but i'd rather be that than 'champagne charlie,' as ned called mr. lord," said will, stoutly. "bless the little pitchers!" cried polly, enthusiastically surveying both the pewter pot and its wearer. a great tear was lying on her cheek, checked in its fall by the dimple that came as she looked at her brother's droll badge. will caught it dexterously in the tiny cup, saying, with a stifled laugh,-- "now you've baptized it, polly, and it's as good as silver; for your tear shines in there like a great big diamond. wonder how many it would take to fill it?" "you'll never make me cry enough to find out. now go and get my little silver chain, for that dear pewter pot deserves a better one than an old shoe-string," said polly, looking after him with a happy face, as the small youth gave one ecstatic skip and was off. "i'm afraid we've waked you up," she added, as ned stirred. "i was only day-dreaming; but i mean this one shall come true," and ned rose straight up, with an energy that surprised his sister. "come and have your lunch, for it's time. which will you take, mrs. neal's wine-jelly or my custard?" asked polly, settling him in his big chair. to her astonishment, ned pitched the little mould of amber jelly into the fire, and tried to eat the custard with his left hand. "my dear boy, have you lost your senses?" she ejaculated. "no; i've just found them," he answered, with a flash of the eye, that seemed to enlighten polly without more words. taking her usual seat on the arm of the chair, she fed her big nursling in silence, till a sigh made her ask tenderly,-- "isn't it right? i put in lots of sugar because you like it sweet." "all the sugar in the world won't sweeten it to me, polly; for there's a bitter drop at the bottom of all my cups. will said your tear shone like a diamond in his little pitcher, and well it might. but you can't cry happy tears over me, though i've made you shed enough sad ones to fill the big punch-bowl." ned tried to laugh, but somehow the custard choked him; and polly laid the poor, cropped head on her shoulder for a minute, saying softly,-- "never mind, dear, i wouldn't think about the old troubles now." she got no farther, for with a left-handed thump that made all the cups dance wildly on the table, ned cried out,-- "but i _will_ think about the old troubles, for i don't intend to have any new ones of that sort! do you suppose i'll see that snip of a boy standing up for what is right, and not have the pluck to do the same? do you suppose i'll make my own father ashamed of me more than once? or let the dearest little girl in the world wear herself out over me, and i not try to thank her in the way she likes best? polly, my dear, you can't be as proud of your elder brother as you are of the younger, but you shall never have cause to blush for him again; _never_, sir, _never_!" ned lifted his hand for another emphatic thump, but changed his mind, and embraced his sister as closely as one arm could do it. "i ought to have a badge if i'm going to belong to your select society; but i don't know any lady who will give me an ear-ring or a cream-pot," said ned, when the conversation got round again to the cheerful side of the question. "i'll give you something better than either," answered polly, as she transferred a plain locket from her watch-guard to the one lying on the table. ned knew that a beloved face and a lock of gray hair were inside; and when his sister added, with a look full of sweet significance, "for her sake, dear," he answered manfully,-- "i'll try, polly!" chapter v. _what pris did._ priscilla, meantime, was racking her brain to discover how she could help philip; for since she had broken off her engagement no one spoke of him to her, and she could only judge of how things were going with him by what she saw and heard as she went about her daily task. pris kept school, and the road which she must take twice a day led directly by the office where phil was studying medicine with old dr. buffum. formerly she always smiled and nodded as she passed, or stopped to chat a moment with the student, who usually chanced to be taking a whiff of fresh air at that instant. little notes flew in and out, and often her homeward walk was cheered by a companion, who taught the pretty teacher lessons she found it very easy to learn. a happy time! but it was all over now, and brief glimpses of a brown head bent above a desk near that window was the only solace poor pris had. the head never turned as she went by, but she felt sure that phil knew her step, and found that moment, as she did, the hardest of the day. she longed to relent, but dared not yet. he longed to show that he repented, but found it difficult without a sign of encouragement. so they went their separate ways, seldom meeting, for phil stuck to his books with dogged resolution, and pris had no heart for society. of course the affair was discussed with all the exasperating freedom of a country town, some blaming pris for undue severity, some praising her spirit, and some, friends,--not gossips,--predicting that both would be the better for the trial, which would not separate them long. of this latter class were portia and polly, who felt it their duty to lend a hand when matters reached a certain point. "pris, dear, may i tell you something that i think you'd be glad to know?" began polly, joining her friend one afternoon, as she went home weary and alone. "_you_ may tell me any thing," and pris took her arm as if she felt the need of sympathy. "you know dr. buffum let phil help with ned, so we have seen a good deal of him, and that is how i found out what i've got to tell you." "he spoke of me, then?" whispered pris, eagerly. "not a word till ned made him. my boy is fond of your boy, and they had confidences which seem to have done them both good. of course ned didn't tell me all about it, as _we_ tell things (men never do, they are so proud and queer), but he said this,-- "'look here, polly, you must be very kind to phil, and stand by him all you can, or he will go down. he is doing his best, and will hold on as long as he can, but a fellow _must_ have comfort and encouragement of some sort, and if he don't get the right kind he'll try the wrong.'" "o polly! you will stand by him?" "i have; for i just took phil in a weakish moment, and found out all i wanted to know. ned is right and you are wrong, pris,--not in giving back the ring, but in seeming to cast him off entirely. he does not deserve that, for he was not to blame half so much as you think. but he won't excuse himself, for he feels that you are unjust; yet he loves you dearly, and you could do any thing with him, if you chose." "i do choose, polly; but how _can_ i marry a man whom i cannot trust?" began pris, sadly. "now, my child, i'm going to talk to you like a mother, for i've had experience with boys, and i know how to manage them," interrupted polly, with such a charmingly maternal air that pris laughed in spite of her trouble. "be quiet and listen to the words of wisdom," continued her friend, seriously. "since i've taken care of ned, i've learned a great deal, for the poor lad was so sick and sorry he couldn't shut his heart against me any more. so now i understand how to help and comfort him, for hearts are very much alike, pris, and all need lots of love and patience to keep them good and happy. ned told me his troubles, and i made up my mind that as _we_ don't have so many temptations as boys, we should do all we can to help them, and make them the sort of men we can both love and trust." "you are right, polly. i've often thought how wrong it is for us to sit safe and silent while we know things are going wrong, just because it isn't considered proper for us to speak out. then when the harm is done we are expected to turn virtuously away from the poor soul we might perhaps have saved if we had dared. god does not do so to us, and we ought not to do so to those over whom we have so much power," said pris, with a heart full of sad and tender memories. "we won't!" cried polly, firmly. "we began in play, but we will go on in earnest, and use our youth, our beauty, our influence for something nobler than merely pleasing men's eyes, or playing with their hearts. we'll help them to be good, and brave, and true, and in doing this we shall become better women, and worthier to be loved, i know." "why, polly, you are quite inspired!" and pris stopped in the snowy road to look at her. "it isn't all _my_ wisdom. i've talked with father as well as ned and phil, and they have done me good. i've discovered that confidence is better than compliments, and friendship much nicer than flirting; so i'm going to turn over a new leaf, and use my good gifts for higher ends." "dear thing, what a comfort you are!" said pris, pressing polly's hands, and looking into her bright face with grateful eyes. "you have given me courage to do my duty, and i'll follow your example as fast as i can. don't come any farther, please: i'd better be alone when i pass phil's window, for i'm going to nod and smile, as i used to in the happy time. then he will see that i don't cast him off and leave him to 'go down' for want of help, but am still his friend until i dare be more." "now, pris, that's just lovely of you, and i know it will work wonders. smile and nod away, dear, and try to do your part, as i'm trying to do mine." for an instant the little gray hat and the jaunty one with the scarlet feather were bent close together; but what went on under the brims, who can say? then polly trotted off as fast as she could go, and pris turned into a certain street with a quicker step and a brighter color than she had known for weeks. she was late, for she had lingered with polly, and she feared that patient watcher at the window would be gone. no; the brown head was there, but it lay wearily on the arms folded over a big book, and the eyes that stared out at the wintry sky had something tragic in them. poor phil did need encouragement, and was in the mood to take the worst sort if the best failed him, for life looked very dark just then, and solitude was growing unbearable. suddenly, between him and the ruddy sunset a face appeared,--the dearest and the loveliest in the world to him. not half averted now, nor set straightforward, cold and quiet as a marble countenance, but bent towards him, with a smile on the lips, and a wistful look in the tender eyes that made his heart leap up with sudden hope. then it vanished; and when he sprung to the window nothing could be seen but the last wave of a well-known cloak, fluttering round the corner. but priscilla's first effort was a great success; for the magic of a kind look glorified the dingy office, and every bottle on the shelves might have been filled with the elixir of life, so radiant did phil's face become. the almost uncontrollable desire to rush away and recklessly forget his loneliness in the first companionship that offered was gone now, for a happy hope peopled his solitude with helpful thoughts and resolutions; the tragic look left the eyes, that still saw a good angel instead of a tempting demon between them and the evening sky; and when phil shut up the big book he had been vainly trying to study, he felt that he had discovered a new cure for one of the sharpest pains the heart can suffer. next morning pris unconsciously started for school too soon, so when she passed that window the room was empty. resolved that phil should not share her disappointment, she lifted the sash and dropped a white azalea on his desk. she smiled as she did it, and then whisked away as if she had taken instead of left a treasure. but the smile remained with the flower, i think, and phil found it there when he hurried in to discover this sweet good-morning waiting for him. he put it in the wine-glass which he had sworn never should be filled again with any thing but water, and sitting down before it listened to the little sermon the flower preached; for the delicate white azalea was pris to him, and the eloquence of a pure and tender heart flowed from it, working miracles. one of them was that when sunset came it shone on two faces at the window, and the little snow-birds heard two voices breaking a long silence. "god bless you, pris!" "god help you, phil!" that was all, but from that hour the girl felt her power for good, and used it faithfully; and from that hour the young man worked bravely to earn the respect and confidence without which no love is safe and happy. "we are friends now," they said, when they were seen together again; and friends they remained, in spite of shrugs and smiles, ill-natured speeches, and more than one attempt to sow discord between them, for people did not understand the new order of things. "i trust him," was the only answer pris gave to all warnings and criticisms. "i _will_ be worthy of her," the vow that kept phil steady in spite of the ridicule that is so hard to bear, and gave him courage to flee from the temptation he was not yet strong enough to meet face to face. portia and polly stood by them stanchly; for having made her father's house a safe refuge, portia offered phil all the helpful influences of a happy home. polly, with ned to lend a hand, gave his comrade many a friendly lift; and when it was understood that the judge, the minister, and the "sweet p's" indorsed the young m. d., no one dared cast a stone at him. all this took time, of course, but phil got his reward at last, for one night a little thing happened which showed him his own progress, and made pris feel that she might venture to wear the ring again. at a party phil was graciously invited to take wine with a lady, and refused. it was a very hard thing to do, for the lady was his hostess, a handsome woman, and the mother of a flock of little children, who all preferred the young doctor to the old one; and, greatest trial of all, several of his most dreaded comrades stood by to laugh at him, if he dared to let principle outweigh courtesy. but he did it, though he grew pale with the effort to say steadily,-- "will mrs. ward pardon me if i decline the honor? i am"-- there he stopped and turned scarlet, for a lie was on his lips,--a lie so much easier to tell than the honest truth that many would have forgiven its utterance at that minute. his hostess naturally thought ill health was his excuse, and, pitying his embarrassment, said, smiling,-- "ah! you doctors don't prescribe wine for your own ailments as readily as for those of your patients." but phil, angry at his own weakness, spoke out frankly, with a look that said more than his words,-- "i cannot even accept the kind excuse you offer me, for i am not ill. it may be my duty to order wine sometimes for my patients, but it is also my duty to prescribe water for myself." a dreadful little pause followed that speech; but mrs. ward understood now, and though she thought the scruple a foolish one, she accepted the apology like a well-bred woman, and, with a silent bow that ended the matter, turned to other guests, leaving poor phil to his fate. not a pleasant one, but he bore it as well as he could, and when his mates left him stranded in a corner, he said, half aloud, with a long breath, as if the battle had been a hard one,-- "yes, i suppose i _have_ lost my best patient, but i've kept my own respect, and that ought to satisfy me." "let me add mine, and wish you health and happiness, dear phil," said a voice behind him, and turning quickly he saw pris standing there with two goblets of water, and a smile full of love and pride. "you know what that toast means for me?" he whispered, with sudden sunshine in his face, as he took the offered glass. "yes; and i drink it with all my heart," she answered, with her hand in his. chapter vi. _how it ended._ the leaven dropped by three girls in that little town worked so slowly that they hardly expected to do more than "raise their own patty-cakes," as polly merrily expressed it. but no honest purpose is ever wasted, and by-and-by the fermentation began. several things helped it amazingly. the first of these was a temperance sermon, preached by parson snow, which produced a deep impression, because in doing this he had the courage, like brutus, to condemn his own son. the brave sincerity, the tender earnestness of that sermon, touched the hearts of his people as no learned discourse had ever done, and bore fruit that well repaid him for the effort it cost. it waked up the old people, set the young ones to thinking, and showed them all that they had a work to do. for those who were down felt that they might be lifted up again, those who were trifling ignorantly or recklessly with temptation saw their danger, and those who had longed to speak out now dared to do it because he led the way. so, warned by the wolf in his own fold, this shepherd of souls tried to keep his flock from harm, and, in doing it, found that his christianity was the stronger, wiser, and purer for his humanity. another thing was the fact that the judge was the first to follow his pastor's example, and prove by deeds that he indorsed his words. it was hard for the hospitable old gentleman to banish wine from his table, and forego the pleasant customs which long usage and many associations endeared to him; but he made his sacrifice handsomely, and his daughter helped him. she kept the side-board from looking bare by filling the silver tankards with flowers, offered water to his guests with a grace that made a cordial of it, and showed such love and honor for her father that he was a very proud and happy man. what the judge did was considered "all right" by his neighbors, for he was not only the best-born, but the richest man in town, and with a certain class these facts had great weight. portia knew this, and counted on it when she said she wanted him on her side; so she exulted when others followed the new fashion, some from principle, but many simply because he set it. at first the young reformers were disappointed that every one was not as enthusiastic as themselves, and as ready to dare and do for the cause they had espoused. but wiser heads than those on their pretty shoulders curbed their impetuosity, and suggested various ways of gently insinuating the new idea, and making it so attractive that others would find it impossible to resist; for sunshine often wins when bluster makes us wrap our prejudices closer around us, like the traveller in the fable. portia baited _her_ trap with roman parties,--for she had been abroad,--and made them so delightful that no one complained when only cake and tea was served (that being the style in the eternal city), but went and did likewise. artful polly set up a comic newspaper, to amuse ned, who was an invalid nearly all winter, and in it freed her mind on many subjects in such a witty way that the "pollyanthus," as her brother named it, circulated through their set, merrily sowing good seed; for young folks will remember a joke longer than a sermon, and this editor made all hers tell. pris was not behindhand in her efforts, but worked in a different way, and got up a branch society among her little pupils, called "the water babies." that captivated the mothers at once, and even the fathers found it difficult to enjoy their wine with blue eyes watching them wistfully over the rims of silver mugs; while the few topers of the town hid themselves like night-birds flying from the sun, when, led by their gentle general, that little army of innocents marched through the streets with banners flying, blithe voices singing, rosy faces shining, and childish hearts full of the sweet delusion that _they_ could save the world. of course the matrons discussed these events at the sewing-circle, and much talk went on of a more useful sort than the usual gossip about servants, sickness, dress, and scandal. mrs. judge waxed eloquent upon the subject, and, being president, every one listened with due respect. mrs. ward seconded all her motions, for this lady had much surprised the town, not only by installing phil as family physician, but by coming out strong for temperance. somebody had told her all about the girls' labor of love, and she had felt ashamed to be outdone by them; so, like a conscientious woman, she decided to throw her influence into the right scale, take time by the forelock, and help to make the town a safer place for her five sons to grow up in than it was then. these two leading ladies kept the ball rolling so briskly that others were soon converted and fell into rank, till a dozen or so were heartily in earnest. and then the job was half done; for in a great measure women make society what they choose to have it. "we are told that home is our sphere, and advised to keep in it; so let us see that it is what it should be, and then we shall have proved our fitness for larger fields of labor, if we care to claim them," said mrs. judge, cutting out red flannel with charitable energy, on one occasion. "most of us will find that quite as much as we can accomplish, i fancy," answered mrs. ward, thinking of her own riotous lads, who were probably pulling the house about their ears, while she made hoods for mrs. flanagan's bare-headed lasses. "'pears to me we hain't no call to interfere in other folks's affairs. this never was a drinkin' town, and things is kep' in fustrate order, so _i_ don't see the use of sech a talk about temperance," remarked miss simmons, an acid spinster, whose principal earthly wealth consisted of a choice collection of cats. "if your tabbies took to drinking, you _would_ see the use, i'm sure," laughed polly, from the corner, which was a perfect posy-bed of girls. "thank goodness, _i've_ no men folks to pester myself about," began miss simmons, with asperity. "ah, but you should; for if you refuse to make them happy, you ought at least to see that they console themselves in ways which can work them no further woe," continued polly, gravely, though her black eyes danced with fun. "well, that wouldn't be no more than fair, i'm free to confess; but, sakes alive, i couldn't attend to 'em all!" said miss simmons, bridling with a simper that nearly upset the whole bevy of girls. "do make the effort, and help us poor things who haven't had your experience," added pris, in her most persuasive voice. "i declare i will! i'll have hiram stebbins in to tea; and when he's as good-natured as muffins and pie can make him, i'll set to and see if i can't talk him out of his attachment to that brandy bottle," cried miss simmons, with a sudden yearning towards the early sweetheart, who had won, but never claimed her virgin affections. "i think you'll do it; and, if so, you will have accomplished what no one else could, and you shall have any prize you choose," cried portia, smiling so hopefully that the faded old face grew almost young again, as miss simmons went home with something better to do than tend her tabbies. "we've bagged that bird," said polly, with real satisfaction. "that's the way we set people to work," added portia, smiling. "she will do what we can't, for her heart is in it," said pris, softly; and it was pleasant to see the blooming girls rejoice that poor old hiram was in a fair way to be saved. so the year went round, and thanksgiving came again, with the home jollity that makes a festival throughout the land. the day would not be perfect if it did not finish with a frolic of some sort, and for reasons of their own the young gentlemen decided to have the first sociable of the year an unusually pleasant one. "everybody is going, and ned says the supper is to be water-ice and ice-water," said polly, taking a last look at herself in the long mirror, when the three friends were ready on that happy evening. "i needn't sigh now over other girls' pretty dresses, as i did last year;" and portia plumed herself like a swan, as she settled charley's roses in her bosom. "and i needn't wonder who phil will take," added pris, stopping, with her glove half on, to look at the little ring back again from its long banishment in somebody's waistcoat pocket. never had the hall looked so elegant and gay, for it was charmingly decorated; couches were provided for the elders, mirrors for the beauties, and music of the best sounded from behind a thicket of shrubs and flowers. every one seemed in unusually good spirits; the girls looked their loveliest, and the young men were models of propriety; though a close observer might have detected a suspicious twinkle in the eyes of the most audacious, as if they plotted some new joke. the girls saw it, were on the watch, and thought the secret was out when they discovered that the gentlemen of their set all wore tiny pitchers, hanging like orders from the knots of sweet-peas in their button-holes. but, bless their innocent hearts! that was only a ruse, and they were taken entirely by surprise when, just before supper, the band struck up, "drink to me only with thine eyes;" and every one looked smilingly at the three girls who were standing together near the middle of the hall. they looked about them in pretty confusion, but in a moment beheld a spectacle that made them forget themselves; for the judge, in an impressive white waistcoat, marched into the circle gathered about them, made a splendid bow, and said, with a smile that put the gas to shame,-- "young ladies! i am desired by the gentlemen now present to beg your acceptance of a slight token of their gratitude, respect, and penitence. as the first man who joined the society which has proved a blessing to our town, mr. william snow will now have the honor of presenting the gift." then appeared mr. william snow, looking as proud as a peacock; and well he might, for on the salver which he bore stood a stately silver pitcher. a graceful little hebe danced upon the handle, three names shone along the fretted brim, and three white lilies rose from the slender vase,--fit emblems of the maiden founders of the league. arriving before them, master will nearly upset the equilibrium of his precious burden in attempting to make a bow equal to the judge's; but recovered himself gallantly, and delivered the following remarkable poem, which the public was expected to believe an emanation of his own genius:-- "hebe poured the nectar forth when gods of old were jolly, but graces three _our_ goblets fill, fair portia, pris and polly. their draughts make every man who tastes happier, better, richer; so here we vow ourselves henceforth knights of the silver pitcher." anna's whim. "now just look at that!" cried a young lady, pausing suddenly in her restless march to and fro on one of the wide piazzas of a seaside hotel. "at what?" asked her companion, lazily swinging in a hammock. "the difference in those two greetings. it's perfectly disgraceful!" was the petulant reply. "i didn't see any thing. do tell me about it," said clara, opening her drowsy eyes with sudden interest. "why, young barlow was lounging up the walk, and met pretty miss ellery. off went his hat; he gave her a fine bow, a gracious smile, a worn-out compliment, and then dawdled on again. the next minute joe king came along. instantly barlow woke up, laughed out like a pleased boy, gave him a hearty grip of the hand, a cordial 'how are you, old fellow? i'm no end glad to see you!' and, linking arms, the two tramped off, quite beaming with satisfaction." "but, child, king is barlow's best friend; kitty ellery only an acquaintance. besides, it wouldn't do to greet a woman like a man." "yes, it would, especially in this case; for barlow adores kate, and might, at least, treat her to something better than the nonsense he gives other girls. but, no, it's proper to simper and compliment; and he'll do it till his love gets the better of 'prunes and prisms,' and makes him sincere and earnest." "this is a new whim of yours. you surely wouldn't like to have any man call out 'how are you, anna?' slap you on the shoulder, and nearly shake your hand off, as barlow did king's, just now," said clara, laughing at her friend. "yes, i would," answered anna, perversely, "if he really meant it to express affection or pleasure. a good grip of the hand and a plain, hearty word would please me infinitely better than all the servile bowing down and sweet nonsense i've had lately. i'm not a fool; then, why am i treated like one?" she continued, knitting her handsome brows and pacing to and fro like an angry leopardess. "why don't men treat me like a reasonable being?--talk sense to me, give me their best ideas, tell me their plans and ambitions, let me enjoy the real man in them, and know what they honestly are? i don't want to be a goddess stuck up on a pedestal. i want to be a woman down among them, to help and be helped by our acquaintance." "it wouldn't do, i fancy. they wouldn't like it, and would tell you to keep to your own sex." "but my own sex don't interest or help me one bit. women have no hope but to be married, and that is soon told; no ideas but dress and show, and i'm tired to death of both; no ambition but to outshine their neighbors, and i despise that." "thank you, love," blandly murmured clara. "it is true, and you know it. there _are_ sensible women; but not in my set. and i don't seem to find them. i've tried the life set down for girls like me, and for three years i've lived and enjoyed it. now i'm tired of it. i want something better, and i mean to have it. men _will_ follow, admire, flatter, and love me; for i please them and they enjoy my society. very well. then it's fair that i should enjoy theirs. and i should if they would let me. it's perfectly maddening to have flocks of brave, bright fellows round me, full of every thing that is attractive, strong, and helpful, yet not be able to get at it, because society ordains twaddle between us, instead of sensible conversation and sincere manners." "what shall we do about it, love?" asked clara, enjoying her friend's tirade. "_you_ will submit to it, and get a mental dyspepsia, like all the other fashionable girls. i won't submit, if i can help it; even if i shock mrs. grundy by my efforts to get plain bread and beef instead of confectionery." anna walked in silence for a moment, and then burst out again, more energetically than ever. "oh! i do wish i could find one sensible man, who would treat me as he treats his male friends,--even roughly, if he is honest and true; who would think me worthy of his confidence, ask my advice, let me give him whatever i have that is wise and excellent, and be my friend in all good faith." "ahem!" said clara, with a significant laugh, that angered anna. "you need not try to abash me with your jeers. i know what i mean, and i stand by my guns, in spite of your 'hems.' i do _not_ want lovers. i've had dozens, and am tired of them. i will not marry till i know the man thoroughly; and how _can_ i know him with this veil between us? they don't guess what i really am; and i want to prove to them and to myself that i possess brains and a heart, as well as 'heavenly eyes,' a 'queenly figure,' and a 'mouth made for kissing.'" the scorn with which anna uttered the last words amused her friend immensely, for the petulant beauty had never looked handsomer than at that moment. "if any man saw you now, he'd promise whatever you ask, no matter how absurd. but don't excite yourself, dear child; it is too warm for heroics." anna leaned on the wide baluster a moment, looking thoughtfully out upon the sea; and as she gazed a new expression stole over her charming face, changing its disdainful warmth to soft regret. "this is not all a whim. i know what i covet, because i had it once," she said, with a sigh. "i had a boy friend when i was a girl, and for several years we were like brother and sister. ah! what happy times we had together, frank and i. we played and studied, quarrelled and made up, dreamed splendid dreams, and loved one another in our simple child fashion, never thinking of sex, rivalry, or any of the forms and follies that spoil maturer friendships." "what became of him? did he die angelically in his early bloom, or outgrow his platonics with round jackets?" asked clara. "he went to college. i went abroad, to be 'finished off;' and when we met a year ago the old charm was all gone, for we were 'in society' and had our masks on." "so the boy and girl friendship did not ripen into love and end the romance properly?" "no, thank heaven! no flirtation spoilt the pretty story. frank was too wise, and i too busy. yet i remember how glad i was to see him; though i hid it properly, and pretended to be quite unconscious that i was any thing but a belle. i got paid for my deceit, though; for, in spite of his admiration, i saw he was disappointed in me. i should not have cared if i had been disappointed in him; but i was quick to see that he was growing one of the strong, superior men who command respect. i wanted to keep his regard, at least; and i seemed to have nothing but beauty to give in return. i think i never was so hurt in my life as i was by his not coming to see me after a week or two, and hearing him say to a friend, one night, when i thought i was at my very best, 'she is spoilt, like all the rest.'" "i do believe you loved him, and that is why you won't love any one else," cried clara, who had seen her friend in her moods before; but never understood them, and thought she had found a clew now. "no," said anna, with a quiet shake of the head. "no, i only wanted my boy friend back, and could not find him. the fence between us was too high; and i could not climb over, as i used to do when i leaped the garden-wall to sit in a tree and help frank with his lessons." "has the uncivil wretch never come back?" asked clara, interested in the affair. "never. he is too busy shaping his life bravely and successfully to waste his time on a frivolous butterfly like anna west." an eloquent little gesture of humility made the words almost pathetic. kind-hearted clara was touched by the sight of tears in the "heavenly eyes," and tumbling out of the hammock she embraced the "queenly figure" and warmly pressed the "lips that were made for kissing," thereby driving several approaching gentlemen to the verge of distraction. "now don't be tragical, darling. you have nothing to cry for, i'm sure. young, lovely, rich, and adored, what more _can_ any girl want?" said clara, gushingly. "something besides admiration to live for," answered anna, adding, with a shrug, as she saw several hats fly off and several manly countenances beam upon her, "never mind, my fit is over now; let us go and dress for tea." miss west usually took a brisk pull in her own boat before breakfast; a habit which lured many indolent young gentlemen out of their beds at unaccustomed hours, in the hope that they might have the honor of splashing their legs helping her off, the privilege of wishing her "_bon voyage_," or the crowning rapture of accompanying her. on the morning after her "fit," as she called the discontent of a really fine nature with the empty life she led, she was up and out unusually early; for she had kept her room with a headache all the evening, and now longed for fresh air and exercise. as she prepared the "gull" for a start, she was idly wondering what early bird would appear eager to secure the coveted worm, when a loud and cheerful voice was heard calling,-- "hullo, anna!" and a nautically attired gentleman hove in sight, waving his hat as he hailed her. she started at the unceremonious salute and looked back. then her whole face brightened beautifully as she sprang up the bank, saying, with a pretty mixture of hesitation and pleasure,-- "why, frank, is that you?" "do you doubt it?" and the new-comer shook both her hands so vigorously that she winced a little as she said, laughing,-- "no, i don't. that is the old squeeze with extra power in it." "how are you? going for a pull? take me along and show me the lions. there's a good soul." "with pleasure. when did you come?" asked anna, settling the black ribbon under the sailor collar which set off her white throat charmingly. "last night. i caught a glimpse of you at tea; but you were surrounded then and vanished immediately afterward. so when i saw you skipping over the rocks just now, i gave chase, and here i am. shall i take an oar?" asked frank, as she motioned him to get in. "no, thank you. i prefer to row myself and don't need any help," she answered, with an imperious little wave of the hand; for she was glad to show him she could do something besides dance, dress, and flirt. "all right. then i'll do the luxurious and enjoy myself." and, without offering to help her in, frank seated himself, folded his arms, stretched out his long legs, and placidly remarked,-- "pull away, skipper." anna was pleased with his frank and friendly greeting, and, feeling as if old times had come again, sprang in, prepared to astonish him with her skill. "might i suggest that you"--began frank, as she pushed off. "no suggestions or advice allowed aboard this ship. i know what i'm about, though i _am_ a woman," was the severe answer, as the boat glided from the wharf. "ay, ay, sir!" and frank meekly subsided, with a twinkle of amusement in the eyes that rested approvingly on the slender figure in a blue boating suit and the charming face under the sailor hat. anna paddled her way dexterously out from among the fleet of boats riding at anchor in the little bay; then she seated herself, adjusted one oar, and looked about for the other rowlock. it was nowhere visible; and, after a silent search, she deigned to ask,-- "have you seen the thing anywhere?" "i saw it on the bank." "why didn't you tell me before?" "i began to, but was quenched; so i obeyed orders." "you haven't forgotten how to tease," said anna, petulantly. "nor you to be wilful." she gave him a look that would have desolated most men; but only made frank smile affably as she paddled laboriously back, recovered the rowlock and then her temper, as, with a fine display of muscle, she pulled out to sea. getting into the current, she let the boat drift, and soon forgot time and space in the bewildering conversation that followed. "what have you been doing since i saw you last?" she asked, looking as rosy as a milkmaid, as she stopped rowing and tied up her wind-tossed hair. "working like a beaver. you see"--and then, to her utter amazement, frank entered into an elaborate statement of his affairs, quite as if she understood all about it and her opinion was valuable. it was all greek to anna, but she was immensely gratified; for it was just the way the boy used to tell her his small concerns in the days when each had firm faith in the other's wisdom. she tried to look as if she understood all about "investments, percentage, and long credit;" but she was out of her depth in five minutes, and dared say nothing, lest she should betray her lamentable ignorance on all matters of business. she got out of the scrape by cleverly turning the conversation to old times, and youthful reminiscences soon absorbed them both. the faint, far-off sound of a gong recalled her to the fact that breakfast was nearly ready; and, turning the boat, she was dismayed to see how far they had floated. she stopped talking and rowed her best; but wind and tide were against her, she was faint with hunger, and her stalwart passenger made her task doubly hard. he offered no help, however; but did the luxurious to the life, leaning back, with his hat off, and dabbling his hands in the way that most impedes the progress of a boat. pride kept anna silent till her face was scarlet, her palms blistered, and her breath most gone. then, and not till then, did she condescend to say, with a gasp, poorly concealed by an amiable smile,-- "do you care to row? i ought to have asked you before." "i'm very comfortable, thank you," answered frank. then, as an expression of despair flitted over poor anna's face, he added bluntly, "i'm getting desperately hungry, so i don't care if i do shorten the voyage a bit." with a sigh of relief, she rose to change seats, and, expecting him to help her, she involuntarily put out her hands, as she passed. but frank was busy turning back his cuffs, and never stirred a finger; so that she would have lost her balance and gone overboard if she had not caught his arm. "what's the matter, skipper?" he asked, standing the sudden grip as steadily as a mast. "why didn't you help me? you have no more manners than a turtle!" cried anna, dropping into the seat with the frown of a spoiled beauty, accustomed to be gallantly served and supported at every step. frank only added to his offence by laughing, as he said carelessly,-- "you seemed so independent, i didn't like to interfere." "so, if i had gone overboard, you would not have fished me out, unless i asked you to do it, i suppose?" "in that case, i'm afraid i shouldn't have waited for orders. we can't spare you to the mermen yet." something in the look he gave her appeased anna's resentment; and she sat silently admiring the strong swift strokes that sent the "gull" skimming over the water. "not too late for breakfast, after all," she said graciously, as they reached the wharf, where several early strollers stood watching their approach. "poor thing! you look as if you needed it," answered frank. but he let her get out alone, to the horror of messrs. barlow, king, & co.; and, while she fastened the boat, frank stood settling his hatband, with the most exasperating unconsciousness of his duty. "what are you going to do with yourself this morning?" she asked, as she walked up the rocky path, with no arm to lean upon. "fish. will you come along?" "no, thank you. one gets so burnt. i shall go to my hammock under the pine," was the graciously suggestive reply of the lady who liked a slave to fan or swing her, and seldom lacked several to choose from. "see you at dinner, then. my room is in the cottage. so by-by for the present." and, with a nod, frank strolled away, leaving the lovely miss west to mount the steps and cross the hall unescorted. "the dear fellow's manners need polish. i must take him in hand, i see. and yet he is very nice, in spite of his brusque ways," thought anna, indulgently. and more than once that morning she recalled his bluff "hullo, anna!" as she swung languidly in her hammock, with a devoted being softly reading tennyson to her inattentive ears. at dinner she appeared in unusual spirits, and kept her end of the table in a ripple of merriment by her witty and satirical sallies, privately hoping that her opposite neighbor would discover that she could talk well when she chose to do so. but frank was deep in politics, discussing some new measure with such earnestness and eloquence that anna, pausing to listen for a moment, forgot her lively gossip in one of the great questions of the hour. she was listening with silent interest, when frank suddenly appealed to her to confirm some statement he had just made; and she was ignominiously obliged to confess she knew too little about the matter to give any opinion. no compliment ever paid her was more flattering than his way of turning to her now and then, as if including her in the discussion as a matter of course; and never had she regretted any thing more keenly than she did her ignorance on a subject that every man and woman should understand and espouse. she did her best to look intelligent; racked her brain to remember facts which she had heard discussed for weeks, without paying any attention to them; and, thanks to her quick wit and womanly sympathy, she managed to hold her own, saying little, but looking much. the instant dinner was over, she sent a servant to the reading-room for a file of late papers, and, retiring to a secluded corner, read up with a diligence that not only left her with clearer ideas on one subject, but also a sense of despair at her own deficiencies in the knowledge of many others. "i really must have a course of solid reading. i do believe that is what i need; and i'll ask frank where to begin. he always was an intelligent boy; but i was surprised to hear how well he talked. i was actually proud of him. i wonder where he is, by the way. clara wants to be introduced, and i want to see how he strikes her." leaving her hiding-place, anna walked forth in search of her friends, looking unusually bright and beautiful, for her secret studies had waked her up and lent her face the higher charm it needed. clara appeared first. the new-comer had already been presented to her, and she professed herself "perfectly fascinated." "such a personable man! quite distinguished, you know, and so elegant in his manners! devoted, graceful, and altogether charming." "you like his manners, do you?" and anna smiled at clara's enthusiasm. "of course i do; for they have all the polish of foreign travel, with the indescribable something which a really fine character lends to every little act and word." "frank has never been abroad, and if i judged his character by his manners i should say he was rather a rough customer," said anna, finding fault because clara praised. "you are so fastidious, nothing ever suits you, dear. i didn't expect to like this old friend of yours. but i frankly confess i do immensely; so, if you are tired of him, i'll take him off your hands." "thank you, love. you are welcome to poor frank, if you can win him. men are apt to be more loyal to friendship than women; and i rather fancy, from what i saw this morning, that he is in no haste to change old friends for new." anna spoke sweetly, but at heart was ill pleased with clara's admiration of her private property, as she considered "poor frank," and inwardly resolved to have no poaching on her preserves. just then the gentleman in question came up, saying to anna, in his abrupt way,-- "every one is going to ride, so i cannot get the best horses; but i've secured two, and now i want a companion. will you come for a good old-time gallop?" anna thought of her blistered hands, and hesitated, till a look at clara's hopeful face decided her to accept. she did so, and rode like an amazon for several hours, in spite of heat, dust, and a hard-mouthed horse, who nearly pulled her arms out of the sockets. she hoped to find a chance to consult frank about her course of useful reading; but he seemed intent on the "old-time gallop," and she kept up gallantly till the ride was over, when she retired to her room, quite exhausted, but protesting with heroic smiles that she had had a delightful time. she did not appear at tea; but later in the evening, when an informal dance was well under way, she sailed in on the arm of a distinguished old gentleman, "evidently prepared to slay her thousands," as young barlow said, observing the unusual brilliancy of her eyes and the elaborate toilette she had made. "she means mischief to-night. who is to be the victim, i wonder?" said another man, putting up his glass for a survey of the charmer. "not the party who came last evening. he is only an old friend," she says. "he might be her brother or her husband, judging by the cavalier way in which he treats her. i could have punched his head this morning, when he let her pull up that boat alone," cried a youthful adorer, glaring irefully at the delinquent, lounging in a distant doorway. "if she said he was an old friend, you may be sure he is an accepted lover. the dear creatures all fib in these matters; so i'll lay wagers to an enormous amount that all this splendor is for the lord and master, not for our destruction," answered barlow, who was wise in the ways of women and wary as a moth should be who had burnt his wings more than once at the same candle. clara happened to overhear these pleasing remarks, and five minutes after they were uttered she breathed them tenderly into anna's ear. a scornful smile was all the answer she received; but the beauty was both pleased and annoyed, and awaited with redoubled interest the approach of the old friend, who was regarded in the light of a successful lover. but he seemed in no haste to claim his privileges, and dance after dance went by, while he sat talking with the old general or absently watching the human teetotums that spun about before him. "i can't stand this another moment!" said anna to herself, at last, and beckoned the recreant knight to approach, with a commanding gesture. "why don't you dance, sir?" "i've forgotten how, ma'am." "after all the pains i took with you when we had lessons together, years ago?" "i've been too busy to attend to trifles of that sort." "elegant accomplishments are not trifles, and no one should neglect them who cares to make himself agreeable." "well, i don't know that i do care, as a general thing." "you ought to care; and, as a penance for that rude speech, you must dance this dance with me. i cannot let you forget all your accomplishments for the sake of business; so i shall do my duty as a friend and take you in hand," said anna, severely. "you are very kind; but is it worth the trouble?" "now, frank, don't be provoking and ungrateful. you know you like to give pleasure, to be cared for, and to do credit to your friends; so just rub up your manners a bit, and be as well-bred as you are sensible and brave and good." "thank you, i'll try. may i have the honor, miss west?" and he bowed low before her, with a smile on his lips that both pleased and puzzled anna. they danced the dance, and frank acquitted himself respectably, but relapsed into his objectionable ways as soon as the trial ended; for the first thing he said, with a sigh of relief, was,-- "come out and talk; for upon my life i can't stand this oven any longer." anna obediently followed, and, seating herself in a breezy corner, waited to be entertained. but frank seemed to have forgotten that pleasing duty; for, perching himself on the wide baluster of the piazza, he not only proceeded to light a cigarette, without even saying, "by your leave," but coolly offered her one also. "how dare you!" she said, much offended at this proceeding. "i am not one of the fast girls who do such things, and i dislike it exceedingly." "you used to smoke sweet-fern in corn-cob pipes, you remember; and these are not much stronger," he said, placidly restoring the rejected offering to his pocket. "i did many foolish things then which i desire to forget now." "and some very sweet and sensible ones, also. ah, well! it can't be helped, i suppose." anna sat silent a moment, wondering what he meant; and when she looked up, she found him pensively staring at her, through a fragrant cloud of smoke. "what is it?" she asked, for his eyes seemed seeking something. "i was trying to see some trace of the little anna i used to know. i thought i'd found her again this morning in the girl in the round hat; but i don't find her anywhere to-night." "indeed, frank, i'm not so much changed as i seem. at least, to you i am the same, as far as i can be. do believe it, and be friends, for i want one very much?" cried anna, forgetting every thing but the desire to reestablish herself in his good opinion. as she spoke, she turned her face toward the light and half extended her hand, as if to claim and hold the old regard that seemed about to be withdrawn from her. frank bent a little and scanned the upturned face with a keen glance. it flushed in the moonlight and the lips trembled like an anxious child's; but the eyes met his with a look both proud and wistful, candid and sweet,--a look few saw in those lovely eyes, or, once seeing, ever forgot. frank gave a little nod, as if satisfied, and said, with that perplexing smile of his,-- "most people would see only the beautiful miss west, in a remarkably pretty gown; but i think i catch a glimpse of little anna, and i am very glad of it. you want a friend? very good. i'll do my best for you; but you must take me as i am, thorns and all." "i will, and not mind if they wound sometimes. i've had roses till i'm tired of them, in spite of their sweetness." as he spoke, frank had taken the hand she offered, and, having gravely shaken it, held the "white wonder" for an instant, glancing from the little blisters on the delicate palm to the rings that shone on several fingers. "are you reading my fortune?" asked anna, wondering if he was going to be sentimental and kiss it. "after a fashion; for i am looking to see if there is a suspicious diamond anywhere about. isn't it time there was one?" "that is not a question for you to ask;" and anna caught away her hand, as if one of the thorns he spoke of had suddenly pricked. "why not? we always used to tell each other every thing; and, if we are to go on in the old friendly way, we must be confidential and comfortable, you know." "you can begin yourself then, and i'll see how i like it," said anna, aroused and interested, in spite of her maidenly scruples about the new arrangement. "i will, with all my heart. to own the truth, i've been longing to tell you something; but i wasn't sure that you'd take any interest in it," began frank, eating rose-leaves with interesting embarrassment. "i can imagine what it is," said anna, quickly, while her heart began to flutter curiously, for these confidences were becoming exciting. "you have found your fate, and are dying to let everybody know how happy you are." "i think i have. but i'm not happy yet. i'm desperately anxious, for i cannot decide whether it is a wise or foolish choice." "who is it?" "never mind the name. i haven't spoken yet, and perhaps never shall; so i may as well keep that to myself,--for the present, at least." "tell me what you like then, and i will ask no more questions," said anna, coldly; for this masculine discretion annoyed her. "well, you see, this dear girl is pretty, rich, accomplished, and admired. a little spoilt, in fact; but very captivating, in spite of it. now, the doubt in my mind is whether it is wise to woo a wife of this sort; for i know i shall want a companion in all things, not only a pretty sweetheart or a graceful mistress for my house." "i should say it was _not_ wise," began anna, decidedly; then hastened to add, more quietly: "but perhaps you only see one side of this girl's character. she may have much strength and sweetness hidden away under her gay manner, waiting to be called out when the right mate comes." "i often think so myself, and long to learn if i am the man; but some frivolous act, thoughtless word, or fashionable folly on her part dampens my ardor, and makes me feel as if i had better go elsewhere before it is too late." "you are not madly in love, then?" "not yet; but i should be if i saw much of her, for when i do i rather lose my head, and am tempted to fall upon my knees, regardless of time, place, and consequences." frank spoke with sudden love and longing in his voice, and stretched out his arms so suggestively that anna started. but he contented himself with gathering a rose from the clusters that hung all about, and anna slapped an imaginary mosquito as energetically as if it had been the unknown lady, for whom she felt a sudden and inexplicable dislike. "so you think i'd better not say to my love, like the mad gentleman to mrs. nickleby, 'be mine, be mine'?" was frank's next question, as he sat with his nose luxuriously buried in the fragrant heart of the rose. "decidedly not. i'm sure, from the way you speak of her, that she is not worthy of you; and your passion cannot be very deep if you can quote dickens's nonsense at such a moment," said anna, more cheerfully. "it grows rapidly, i find; and i give you my word, if i should pass a week in the society of that lovely butterfly, it would be all over with me by saturday night." "then don't do it." "ah! but i want to desperately. do say that i may, just for a last nibble at temptation, before i take your advice and go back to my bachelor life again," he prayed beseechingly. "don't go back, love somebody else, and be happy. there are plenty of superior women in the world who would be just the thing for you. i am sure you are going to be a man of mark, and you _must_ have a good wife,--not a silly little creature, who will be a clog upon you all your life. so _do_ take my advice, and let me help you, if i can." anna spoke earnestly, and her face quite shone with friendly zeal; while her eyes were full of unspoken admiration and regard for this friend, who seemed tottering on the verge of a precipice. she expected a serious reply,--thanks, at least, for her interest; and great was her surprise to see frank lean back against the vine-wreathed pillar behind him, and laugh till a shower of rose-leaves came fluttering down on both their heads. "i don't see any cause for such unseemly merriment," was her dignified reproof of this new impropriety. "i beg your pardon. i really couldn't help it, for the comical contrast between your sage counsels and your blooming face upset me. your manner was quite maternal and most impressive, till i looked at you in your french finery, and then it was all up with me," said frank, penitently, though his eyes still danced with mirth. the compliment appeased anna's anger; and, folding her round white arms on the railing in front of her, she looked up at him with a laugh as blithe as his own. "i dare say i was absurdly sober and important; but you see it is so long since i have had a really serious thought in my head or felt a really sincere interest in any one's affairs but my own that i overdid the matter. if you don't care for my advice, i'll take it all back; and you can go and marry your butterfly as soon as you like." "i rather think i shall," said frank, slowly. "for i fancy she _has_ got a hidden self, as you suggested, and i'd rather like to find it out. one judges people so much by externals that it is not fair. now, you, for instance, if you won't mind my saying it, don't show half your good points; and a casual observer would consider you merely a fashionable woman,--lovely, but shallow." "as you did the last time we met," put in anna, sharply. if she expected him to deny it, she was mistaken for he answered, with provoking candor,-- "exactly. and i quite grieved about it; for i used to be very fond of my little playmate and thought she'd make a fine woman. i'm glad i've seen you again; for i find i was unjust in my first judgment, and this discovery gives me hope that i may have been mistaken in the same way about my--well, we'll say sweetheart. it's a pretty old word and i like it." "if he only _would_ forget that creature a minute and talk about something more interesting!" sighed anna to herself. but she answered, meekly enough: "i knew you were disappointed in me, and i did not wonder for i am not good for much, thanks to my foolish education and the life i have led these last few years. but i do sincerely wish to be more of a woman, only i have no one to tell me how. everybody flatters me and"-- "i don't!" cried frank, promptly. "that's true." and anna could not help laughing in the middle of her confessions at the tone of virtuous satisfaction with which he repelled the accusation. "no," she continued, "you are honest enough for any one; and i like it, though it startles me now and then, it is so new." "i hope i'm not disrespectful," said frank, busily removing the thorns from the stem of his flower. "oh, no! not that exactly. but you treat me very much as if i was a sister or a--masculine friend." anna meant to quote the expression clara had reported; but somehow the word "wife" was hard to utter, and she finished the sentence differently. "and you don't like it?" asked frank, lifting the rose to hide the mischievous smile that lurked about his mouth. "yes, i do,--infinitely better than the sentimental homage other men pay me or the hackneyed rubbish they talk. it does me good to be a little neglected; and i don't mind it from you, because you more than atone for it by talking to me as if i could understand a man's mind and had one of my own." "then you don't quite detest me for my rough ways and egotistical confidences?" asked frank, as if suddenly smitten with remorse for the small sins of the day. "no, i rather fancy it, for it seems like old times, when you and i played together. only then i could help you in many ways, as you helped me; but now i don't seem to know any thing, and can be of no use to you or any one else. i should like to be; and i think, if you would kindly tell me what books to read, what people to know, and what faculties to cultivate, i might become something besides 'a fashionable woman, lovely but shallow.'" there was a little quiver of emotion in anna's voice as she uttered the last words that did not escape her companion's quick ear. but he only smiled a look of heartfelt satisfaction to the rose, and answered soberly: "now that is a capital idea, and i'll do it with pleasure. i have often wondered how you bright girls _could_ be contented with such an empty sort of life. we fellows are just as foolish for a time, i know,--far worse in the crops of wild oats we sow; but we have to pull up and go to work, and that makes men of us. marriage ought to do that for women, i suppose; but it doesn't seem to nowadays, and i do pity you poor little things from the bottom of my heart." "i'm ready now to 'pull up and go to work.' show me how, frank, and i'll change your pity into respect," said anna, casting off her lace shawl, as if preparing for immediate action; for his tone of masculine superiority rather nettled her. "come, i'll make a bargain with you. i'll give you something strong and solid to brace up your mind, and in return you shall polish my manners, see to my morals, and keep my heart from wasting itself on false idols. shall we do this for one another, anna?" "yes, frank," she answered heartily. then, as clara was seen approaching, she added playfully, "all this is _sub rosa_, you understand." he handed her the flower without a word, as if the emblem of silence was the best gage he could offer. many flowers had been presented to the beauty; but none were kept so long and carefully as the thornless rose her old friend gave her, with a cordial smile that warmed her heart. a great deal can happen in a week, and the seven days that followed that moonlight _tête-à-tête_ seemed to anna the fullest and the happiest she had ever known. she had never worked so hard in her life; for her new tutor gave her plenty to do, and she studied in secret to supply sundry deficiencies which she was too proud to confess. no more novels now; no more sentimental poetry, lounging in a hammock. she sat erect upon a hard rock and read buckle, mill, and social science reports with a diligence that appalled the banished dawdlers who usually helped her kill time. there was early boating, vigorous horse exercise, and tramps over hill and dale, from which she returned dusty, brown, and tired, but as happy as if she had discovered something fairer and grander than wild flowers or the ocean in its changeful moods. there were afternoon concerts in the breezy drawing-rooms, when others were enjoying siestas, and anna sang to her one listener as she had never sung before. but best of all were the moonlight _séances_ among the roses; for there they interchanged interesting confidences and hovered about those dangerous but delightful topics that need the magic of a midsummer night to make the charm quite perfect. anna intended to do her part honorably; but soon forgot to correct her pupil's manners, she was so busy taking care of his heart. she presently discovered that he treated other women in the usual way; and at first it annoyed her that she was the only one whom he allowed to pick up her own fan, walk without an arm, row, ride, and take care of herself as if she was a man. but she also discovered that she was the only woman to whom he talked as to an equal, in whom he seemed to find sympathy, inspiration, and help, and for whom he frankly showed not admiration alone, but respect, confidence, and affection. this made the loss of a little surface courtesy too trifling for complaint or reproof; this stimulated and delighted her; and, in striving to deserve and secure it, she forgot every thing else, prouder to be one man's true friend than the idol of a dozen lovers. what the effect of this new league was upon the other party was less evident; for, being of the undemonstrative sex, he kept his observations, discoveries, and satisfaction to himself, with no sign of especial interest, except now and then a rapturous allusion to his sweetheart, as if absence was increasing his passion. anna tried to quench his ardor, feeling sure, she said that it was a mistake to lavish so much love upon a person who was so entirely unworthy of it. but frank seemed blind on this one point; and anna suffered many a pang, as day after day showed her some new virtue, grace, or talent in this perverse man, who seemed bent on throwing his valuable self away. she endeavored to forget it, avoided the subject as much as possible, and ignored the existence of this inconvenient being entirely. but as the week drew to an end a secret trouble looked out at her eyes, a secret unrest possessed her, and every moment seemed to grow more precious as it passed, each full of a bitter sweet delight never known before. "i must be off to-morrow," said frank, on the saturday evening, as they strolled together on the beach, while the sun set gloriously and the great waves broke musically on the sands. "such a short holiday, after all those months of work!" answered anna, looking away, lest he should see how wistful her tell-tale eyes were. "i may take a longer holiday, the happiest a man can have, if somebody will go with me. anna, i've made up my mind to try my fate," he added impetuously. "i have warned you, i can do no more." which was quite true, for the poor girl's heart sunk at his words, and for a moment all the golden sky was a blur before her eyes. "i won't be warned, thank you; for i'm quite sure now that i love her. nothing like absence to settle that point. i've tried it, and i can't get on without her; so i'm going to 'put my fortune to the touch and win or lose it all.'" "if you truly love her, i hope you will win, and find her the wife you deserve. but think well before you put your happiness into any woman's hands," said anna, bravely trying to forget herself. "bless you! i've hardly thought of any thing else this week! i've enjoyed myself, though; and am very grateful to you for making my visit so pleasant," frank added warmly. "have i? i'm so glad!" said anna, as simply as a pleased child; for real love had banished all her small coquetries, vanities, and affectations, as sunshine absorbs the mists that hide a lovely landscape. "indeed, you have. all the teaching has not been on my side, i assure you; and i'm not too proud to own my obligation to a woman! we lonely fellows, who have neither mother, sister, nor wife, need some gentle soul to keep us from getting selfish, hard, and worldly; and few are so fortunate as i in having a friend like little anna." "oh, frank! what have i done for you? i haven't dared to teach one so much wiser and stronger than myself. i've only wanted to, and grieved because i was so ignorant, so weak, and silly," cried anna, glowing beautifully with surprise and pleasure at this unexpected revelation. "your humility blinded you; yet your unconsciousness was half the charm. i'll tell you what you did, dear. a man's moral sense gets blunted knocking about this rough-and-tumble world, where the favorite maxim is, 'every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.' it is so with me; and in many of our conversations on various subjects, while i seemed to be teaching you, your innocent integrity was rebuking my worldly wisdom, your subtle instincts were pointing out the right which is above all policy, your womanly charity softening my hard judgments, and your simple faith in the good, the beautiful, the truly brave was waking up the high and happy beliefs that lay, not dead, but sleeping, in my soul. all this you did for me, anna, and even more; for, in showing me the hidden side of your nature, i found it so sweet and deep and worshipful that it restores my faith in womankind, and shows me all the lovely possibilities that may lie folded up under the frivolous exterior of a fashionable woman." anna's heart was so full she could not speak for a moment; then like a dash of cold water came the thought, "and all this that i have done has only put him further from me, since it has given him courage to love and trust that woman." she tried to show only pleasure at his praise; but for the life of her she could not keep a tone of bitterness out of her voice as she answered gratefully,-- "you are too kind, frank. i can hardly believe that i have so many virtues; but if i have, and they, like yours, have been asleep, remember you helped wake them up, and so you owe me nothing. keep your sweet speeches for the lady you go to woo. i am contented with honest words that do not flatter." "you shall have them;" and a quick smile passed over frank's face, as if he knew what thorn pricked her just then, and was not ill pleased at the discovery. "only, if i lose my sweetheart, i may be sure that my old friend won't desert me?" he asked, with a sincere anxiety that was a balm to anna's sore heart. she did not speak, but offered him her hand with a look which said much. he took it as silently, and, holding it in a firm, warm grasp, led her up to a cleft in the rocks, where they often sat to watch the great breakers thunder in. as she took her seat, he folded his plaid about her so tenderly that it felt like a friendly arm shielding her from the fresh gale that blew up from the sea. it was an unusual attention on his part, and coming just then it affected her so curiously that, when he lounged down beside her, she felt a strong desire to lay her head on his shoulder and sob out,-- "don't go and leave me! no one loves you half as well as i, or needs you half so much!" of course, she did nothing of the sort; but began to sing, as she covertly whisked away a rebellious tear. frank soon interrupted her music, however, by a heavy sigh; and followed up that demonstration with the tragical announcement,-- "anna, i've got something awful to tell you." "what is it?" she asked, with the resignation of one who has already heard the worst. "it is so bad that i can't look you in the face while i tell it. listen calmly till i am done, and then pitch me overboard if you like, for i deserve it," was his cheerful beginning. "go on." and anna prepared herself to receive some tremendous shock with masculine firmness. frank pulled his hat over his eyes, and, looking away from her, said rapidly, with an odd sound in his voice.-- "the night i came i was put in a room opening on the back piazza; and, lying there to rest and cool after my journey, i heard two ladies talking. i knocked my boots about to let them know i was near; but they took no notice, so i listened. most women's gabble would have sent me to sleep in five minutes; but this was rather original, and interested me, especially when i found by the names mentioned that i knew one of the parties. i've been trying your experiment all the week. anna, how do you like it?" she did not answer for a moment, being absorbed in swift retrospection. then she colored to her hat-brim, looked angry, hurt, amused, gratified, and ashamed, all in a minute, and said slowly, as she met his laughing eyes,-- "better than i thought i should." "that's good! then you forgive me for my eavesdropping, my rudeness, and manifold iniquities? it was abominable; but i could not resist the temptation of testing your sincerity. it was great fun; but i'm not sure that i shall not get the worst of it, after all," said frank, sobering suddenly. "you have played so many jokes upon me in old times that i don't find it hard to forgive this one; though i think it rather base in you to deceive me so. still, as i have enjoyed and got a good deal out of it, i don't complain, and won't send you overboard yet," said anna, generously. "you always were a forgiving angel." and frank settled the plaid again more tenderly than before. "it was this, then, that made you so brusque to me alone, so odd and careless? i could not understand it and it hurt me at first; but i thought it was because we had been children together and soon forgot it, you were so kind and confidential, so helpful and straightforward. it _was_ 'great fun,' for i always knew you meant what you said; and that was an unspeakable comfort to me in this world of flattery and falsehood. yes, you may laugh at me, frank, and leave me to myself again. i can bear it, for i've proved that my whim was a possibility. i see my way now, and can go on alone to a truer, happier life than that in which you found me." she spoke out bravely, and looked above the level sands and beyond the restless sea, as if she had found something worth living for and did not fear the future. frank watched her an instant, for her face had never worn so noble an expression before. sorrow as well as strength had come into the lovely features, and pain as well as patience touched them with new beauty. his own face changed as he looked, as if he let loose some deep and tender sentiment, long held in check, now ready to rise and claim its own. "anna," he said penitently, "i've got one other terrible confession to make, and then my conscience will be clear. i want to tell you who my sweetheart is. here's her picture. will you look at it?" she gave a little shiver, turned steadily, and looked where he pointed. but all she saw was her own astonished face reflected in the shallow pool behind them. one glance at frank made any explanation needless; indeed, there was no time for her to speak before something closer than the plaid enfolded her, something warmer than tears touched her cheek, and a voice sweeter to her than wind or wave whispered tenderly in her ear,-- "all this week i have been studying and enjoying far more than you; for i have read a woman's heart and learned to trust and honor what i have loved ever since i was a boy. absence proved this to me: so i came to look for little anna, and found her better and dearer than ever. may i ask her to keep on teaching me? will she share my work as well as holiday, and be the truest friend a man can have?" and anna straightway answered, "yes." transcendental wild oats. a chapter from an unwritten romance. on the first day of june, --, a large wagon, drawn by a small horse and containing a motley load, went lumbering over certain new england hills, with the pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, and hail. a serene man with a serene child upon his knee was driving, or rather being driven, for the small horse had it all his own way. a brown boy with a william penn style of countenance sat beside him, firmly embracing a bust of socrates. behind them was an energetic-looking woman, with a benevolent brow, satirical mouth, and eyes brimful of hope and courage. a baby reposed upon her lap, a mirror leaned against her knee, and a basket of provisions danced about at her feet, as she struggled with a large, unruly umbrella. two blue-eyed little girls, with hands full of childish treasures, sat under one old shawl, chatting happily together. in front of this lively party stalked a tall, sharp-featured man, in a long blue cloak; and a fourth small girl trudged along beside him through the mud as if she rather enjoyed it. the wind whistled over the bleak hills; the rain fell in a despondent drizzle, and twilight began to fall. but the calm man gazed as tranquilly into the fog as if he beheld a radiant bow of promise spanning the gray sky. the cheery woman tried to cover every one but herself with the big umbrella. the brown boy pillowed his head on the bald pate of socrates and slumbered peacefully. the little girls sang lullabies to their dolls in soft, maternal murmurs. the sharp-nosed pedestrian marched steadily on, with the blue cloak streaming out behind him like a banner; and the lively infant splashed through the puddles with a duck-like satisfaction pleasant to behold. thus these modern pilgrims journeyed hopefully out of the old world, to found a new one in the wilderness. the editors of "the transcendental tripod" had received from messrs. lion & lamb (two of the aforesaid pilgrims) a communication from which the following statement is an extract:-- "we have made arrangements with the proprietor of an estate of about a hundred acres which liberates this tract from human ownership. here we shall prosecute our effort to initiate a family in harmony with the primitive instincts of man. "ordinary secular farming is not our object. fruit, grain, pulse, herbs, flax, and other vegetable products, receiving assiduous attention, will afford ample manual occupation, and chaste supplies for the bodily needs. it is intended to adorn the pastures with orchards, and to supersede the labor of cattle by the spade and the pruning-knife. "consecrated to human freedom, the land awaits the sober culture of devoted men. beginning with small pecuniary means, this enterprise must be rooted in a reliance on the succors of an ever-bounteous providence, whose vital affinities being secured by this union with uncorrupted field and unworldly persons, the cares and injuries of a life of gain are avoided. "the inner nature of each member of the family is at no time neglected. our plan contemplates all such disciplines, cultures, and habits as evidently conduce to the purifying of the inmates. "pledged to the spirit alone, the founders anticipate no hasty or numerous addition to their numbers. the kingdom of peace is entered only through the gates of self-denial; and felicity is the test and the reward of loyalty to the unswerving law of love." this prospective eden at present consisted of an old red farm-house, a dilapidated barn, many acres of meadow-land, and a grove. ten ancient apple-trees were all the "chaste supply" which the place offered as yet; but, in the firm belief that plenteous orchards were soon to be evoked from their inner consciousness, these sanguine founders had christened their domain fruitlands. here timon lion intended to found a colony of latter day saints, who, under his patriarchal sway, should regenerate the world and glorify his name for ever. here abel lamb, with the devoutest faith in the high ideal which was to him a living truth, desired to plant a paradise, where beauty, virtue, justice, and love might live happily together, without the possibility of a serpent entering in. and here his wife, unconverted but faithful to the end, hoped, after many wanderings over the face of the earth, to find rest for herself and a home for her children. "there is our new abode," announced the enthusiast, smiling with a satisfaction quite undamped by the drops dripping from his hat-brim, as they turned at length into a cart-path that wound along a steep hillside into a barren-looking valley. "a little difficult of access," observed his practical wife, as she endeavored to keep her various household gods from going overboard with every lurch of the laden ark. "like all good things. but those who earnestly desire and patiently seek will soon find us," placidly responded the philosopher from the mud, through which he was now endeavoring to pilot the much-enduring horse. "truth lies at the bottom of a well, sister hope," said brother timon, pausing to detach his small comrade from a gate, whereon she was perched for a clearer gaze into futurity. "that's the reason we so seldom get at it, i suppose," replied mrs. hope, making a vain clutch at the mirror, which a sudden jolt sent flying out of her hands. "we want no false reflections here," said timon, with a grim smile, as he crunched the fragments under foot in his onward march. sister hope held her peace, and looked wistfully through the mist at her promised home. the old red house with a hospitable glimmer at its windows cheered her eyes; and, considering the weather, was a fitter refuge than the sylvan bowers some of the more ardent souls might have preferred. the new-comers were welcomed by one of the elect precious,--a regenerate farmer, whose idea of reform consisted chiefly in wearing white cotton raiment and shoes of untanned leather. this costume, with a snowy beard, gave him a venerable, and at the same time a somewhat bridal appearance. the goods and chattels of the society not having arrived, the weary family reposed before the fire on blocks of wood, while brother moses white regaled them with roasted potatoes, brown bread and water, in two plates, a tin pan, and one mug; his table service being limited. but, having cast the forms and vanities of a depraved world behind them, the elders welcomed hardship with the enthusiasm of new pioneers, and the children heartily enjoyed this foretaste of what they believed was to be a sort of perpetual picnic. during the progress of this frugal meal, two more brothers appeared. one a dark, melancholy man, clad in homespun, whose peculiar mission was to turn his name hind part before and use as few words as possible. the other was a bland, bearded englishman, who expected to be saved by eating uncooked food and going without clothes. he had not yet adopted the primitive costume, however; but contented himself with meditatively chewing dry beans out of a basket. "every meal should be a sacrament, and the vessels used should be beautiful and symbolical," observed brother lamb, mildly, righting the tin pan slipping about on his knees. "i priced a silver service when in town, but it was too costly; so i got some graceful cups and vases of britannia ware." "hardest things in the world to keep bright. will whiting be allowed in the community?" inquired sister hope, with a housewife's interest in labor-saving institutions. "such trivial questions will be discussed at a more fitting time," answered brother timon, sharply, as he burnt his fingers with a very hot potato. "neither sugar, molasses, milk, butter, cheese, nor flesh are to be used among us, for nothing is to be admitted which has caused wrong or death to man or beast." "our garments are to be linen till we learn to raise our own cotton or some substitute for woollen fabrics," added brother abel, blissfully basking in an imaginary future as warm and brilliant as the generous fire before him. "haou abaout shoes?" asked brother moses, surveying his own with interest. "we must yield that point till we can manufacture an innocent substitute for leather. bark, wood, or some durable fabric will be invented in time. meanwhile, those who desire to carry out our idea to the fullest extent can go barefooted," said lion, who liked extreme measures. "i never will, nor let my girls," murmured rebellious sister hope, under her breath. "haou do you cattle'ate to treat the ten-acre lot? ef things ain't 'tended to right smart, we shan't hev no crops," observed the practical patriarch in cotton. "we shall spade it," replied abel, in such perfect good faith that moses said no more, though he indulged in a shake of the head as he glanced at hands that had held nothing heavier than a pen for years. he was a paternal old soul and regarded the younger men as promising boys on a new sort of lark. "what shall we do for lamps, if we cannot use any animal substance? i do hope light of some sort is to be thrown upon the enterprise," said mrs. lamb, with anxiety, for in those days kerosene and camphene were not, and gas unknown in the wilderness. "we shall go without till we have discovered some vegetable oil or wax to serve us," replied brother timon, in a decided tone, which caused sister hope to resolve that her private lamp should be always trimmed, if not burning. "each member is to perform the work for which experience, strength, and taste best fit him," continued dictator lion. "thus drudgery and disorder will be avoided and harmony prevail. we shall rise at dawn, begin the day by bathing, followed by music, and then a chaste repast of fruit and bread. each one finds congenial occupation till the meridian meal; when some deep-searching conversation gives rest to the body and development to the mind. healthful labor again engages us till the last meal, when we assemble in social communion, prolonged till sunset, when we retire to sweet repose, ready for the next day's activity." "what part of the work do you incline to yourself?" asked sister hope, with a humorous glimmer in her keen eyes. "i shall wait till it is made clear to me. being in preference to doing is the great aim, and this comes to us rather by a resigned willingness than a wilful activity, which is a check to all divine growth," responded brother timon. "i thought so." and mrs. lamb sighed audibly, for during the year he had spent in her family brother timon had so faithfully carried out his idea of "being, not doing," that she had found his "divine growth" both an expensive and unsatisfactory process. here her husband struck into the conversation, his face shining with the light and joy of the splendid dreams and high ideals hovering before him. "in these steps of reform, we do not rely so much on scientific reasoning or physiological skill as on the spirit's dictates. the greater part of man's duty consists in leaving alone much that he now does. shall i stimulate with tea, coffee, or wine? no. shall i consume flesh? not if i value health. shall i subjugate cattle? shall i claim property in any created thing? shall i trade? shall i adopt a form of religion? shall i interest myself in politics? to how many of these questions--could we ask them deeply enough and could they be heard as having relation to our eternal welfare--would the response be 'abstain'?" a mild snore seemed to echo the last word of abel's rhapsody, for brother moses had succumbed to mundane slumber and sat nodding like a massive ghost. forest absalom, the silent man, and john pease, the english member, now departed to the barn; and mrs. lamb led her flock to a temporary fold, leaving the founders of the "consociate family" to build castles in the air till the fire went out and the symposium ended in smoke. the furniture arrived next day, and was soon bestowed; for the principal property of the community consisted in books. to this rare library was devoted the best room in the house, and the few busts and pictures that still survived many flittings were added to beautify the sanctuary, for here the family was to meet for amusement, instruction, and worship. any housewife can imagine the emotions of sister hope, when she took possession of a large, dilapidated kitchen, containing an old stove and the peculiar stores out of which food was to be evolved for her little family of eleven. cakes of maple sugar, dried peas and beans, barley and hominy, meal of all sorts, potatoes, and dried fruit. no milk, butter, cheese, tea, or meat, appeared. even salt was considered a useless luxury and spice entirely forbidden by these lovers of spartan simplicity. a ten years' experience of vegetarian vagaries had been good training for this new freak, and her sense of the ludicrous supported her through many trying scenes. unleavened bread, porridge, and water for breakfast; bread, vegetables, and water for dinner; bread, fruit, and water for supper was the bill of fare ordained by the elders. no tea-pot profaned that sacred stove, no gory steak cried aloud for vengeance from her chaste gridiron; and only a brave woman's taste, time, and temper were sacrificed on that domestic altar. the vexed question of light was settled by buying a quantity of bayberry wax for candles; and, on discovering that no one knew how to make them, pine-knots were introduced, to be used when absolutely necessary. being summer, the evenings were not long, and the weary fraternity found it no great hardship to retire with the birds. the inner light was sufficient for most of them. but mrs. lamb rebelled. evening was the only time she had to herself, and while the tired feet rested the skilful hands mended torn frocks and little stockings, or anxious heart forgot its burden in a book. so "mother's lamp" burned steadily, while the philosophers built a new heaven and earth by moonlight; and through all the metaphysical mists and philanthropic pyrotechnics of that period sister hope played her own little game of "throwing light," and none but the moths were the worse for it. such farming probably was never seen before since adam delved. the band of brothers began by spading garden and field; but a few days of it lessened their ardor amazingly. blistered hands and aching backs suggested the expediency of permitting the use of cattle till the workers were better fitted for noble toil by a summer of the new life. brother moses brought a yoke of oxen from his farm,--at least, the philosophers thought so till it was discovered that one of the animals was a cow; and moses confessed that he "must be let down easy, for he couldn't live on garden sarse entirely." great was dictator lion's indignation at this lapse from virtue. but time pressed, the work must be done; so the meek cow was permitted to wear the yoke and the recreant brother continued to enjoy forbidden draughts in the barn, which dark proceeding caused the children to regard him as one set apart for destruction. the sowing was equally peculiar, for, owing to some mistake, the three brethren, who devoted themselves to this graceful task, found when about half through the job that each had been sowing a different sort of grain in the same field; a mistake which caused much perplexity, as it could not be remedied; but, after a long consultation and a good deal of laughter, it was decided to say nothing and see what would come of it. the garden was planted with a generous supply of useful roots and herbs; but, as manure was not allowed to profane the virgin soil, few of these vegetable treasures ever came up. purslane reigned supreme, and the disappointed planters ate it philosophically, deciding that nature knew what was best for them, and would generously supply their needs, if they could only learn to digest her "sallets" and wild roots. the orchard was laid out, a little grafting done, new trees and vines set, regardless of the unfit season and entire ignorance of the husbandmen, who honestly believed that in the autumn they would reap a bounteous harvest. slowly things got into order, and rapidly rumors of the new experiment went abroad, causing many strange spirits to flock thither, for in those days communities were the fashion and transcendentalism raged wildly. some came to look on and laugh, some to be supported in poetic idleness, a few to believe sincerely and work heartily. each member was allowed to mount his favorite hobby and ride it to his heart's content. very queer were some of the riders, and very rampant some of the hobbies. one youth, believing that language was of little consequence if the spirit was only right, startled new-comers by blandly greeting them with "good-morning, damn you," and other remarks of an equally mixed order. a second irrepressible being held that all the emotions of the soul should be freely expressed, and illustrated his theory by antics that would have sent him to a lunatic asylum, if, as an unregenerate wag said, he had not already been in one. when his spirit soared, he climbed trees and shouted; when doubt assailed him, he lay upon the floor and groaned lamentably. at joyful periods, he raced, leaped, and sang; when sad, he wept aloud; and when a great thought burst upon him in the watches of the night, he crowed like a jocund cockerel, to the great delight of the children and the great annoyance of the elders. one musical brother fiddled whenever so moved, sang sentimentally to the four little girls, and put a music-box on the wall when he hoed corn. brother pease ground away at his uncooked food, or browsed over the farm on sorrel, mint, green fruit, and new vegetables. occasionally he took his walks abroad, airily attired in an unbleached cotton _poncho_, which was the nearest approach to the primeval costume he was allowed to indulge in. at midsummer he retired to the wilderness, to try his plan where the woodchucks were without prejudices and huckleberry-bushes were hospitably full. a sunstroke unfortunately spoilt his plan, and he returned to semi-civilization a sadder and wiser man. forest absalom preserved his pythagorean silence, cultivated his fine dark locks, and worked like a beaver, setting an excellent example of brotherly love, justice, and fidelity by his upright life. he it was who helped overworked sister hope with her heavy washes, kneaded the endless succession of batches of bread, watched over the children, and did the many tasks left undone by the brethren, who were so busy discussing and defining great duties that they forgot to perform the small ones. moses white placidly plodded about, "chorin' raound," as he called it, looking like an old-time patriarch, with his silver hair and flowing beard, and saving the community from many a mishap by his thrift and yankee shrewdness. brother lion domineered over the whole concern; for, having put the most money into the speculation, he was resolved to make it pay,--as if any thing founded on an ideal basis could be expected to do so by any but enthusiasts. abel lamb simply revelled in the newness, firmly believing that his dream was to be beautifully realized, and in time not only little fruitlands, but the whole earth, be turned into a happy valley. he worked with every muscle of his body, for _he_ was in deadly earnest. he taught with his whole head and heart; planned and sacrificed, preached and prophesied, with a soul full of the purest aspirations, most unselfish purposes, and desires for a life devoted to god and man, too high and tender to bear the rough usage of this world. it was a little remarkable that only one woman ever joined this community. mrs. lamb merely followed wheresoever her husband led,--"as ballast for his balloon," as she said, in her bright way. miss jane gage was a stout lady of mature years, sentimental, amiable, and lazy. she wrote verses copiously, and had vague yearnings and graspings after the unknown, which led her to believe herself fitted for a higher sphere than any she had yet adorned. having been a teacher, she was set to instructing the children in the common branches. each adult member took a turn at the infants; and, as each taught in his own way, the result was a chronic state of chaos in the minds of these much-afflicted innocents. sleep, food, and poetic musings were the desires of dear jane's life, and she shirked all duties as clogs upon her spirit's wings. any thought of lending a hand with the domestic drudgery never occurred to her; and when to the question, "are there any beasts of burden on the place?" mrs. lamb answered, with a face that told its own tale, "only one woman!" the buxom jane took no shame to herself, but laughed at the joke, and let the stout-hearted sister tug on alone. unfortunately, the poor lady hankered after the flesh-pots, and endeavored to stay herself with private sips of milk, crackers, and cheese, and on one dire occasion she partook of fish at a neighbor's table. one of the children reported this sad lapse from virtue, and poor jane was publicly reprimanded by timon. "i only took a little bit of the tail," sobbed the penitent poetess. "yes, but the whole fish had to be tortured and slain that you might tempt your carnal appetite with that one taste of the tail. know ye not, consumers of flesh meat, that ye are nourishing the wolf and tiger in your bosoms?" at this awful question and the peal of laughter which arose from some of the younger brethren, tickled by the ludicrous contrast between the stout sinner, the stern judge, and the naughty satisfaction of the young detective, poor jane fled from the room to pack her trunk, and return to a world where fishes' tails were not forbidden fruit. transcendental wild oats were sown broadcast that year, and the fame thereof has not yet ceased in the land; for, futile as this crop seemed to outsiders, it bore an invisible harvest, worth much to those who planted in earnest. as none of the members of this particular community have ever recounted their experiences before, a few of them may not be amiss, since the interest in these attempts has never died out and fruitlands was the most ideal of all these castles in spain. a new dress was invented, since cotton, silk, and wool were forbidden as the product of slave-labor, worm-slaughter, and sheep-robbery. tunics and trowsers of brown linen were the only wear. the women's skirts were longer, and their straw hat-brims wider than the men's, and this was the only difference. some persecution lent a charm to the costume, and the long-haired, linen-clad reformers quite enjoyed the mild martyrdom they endured when they left home. money was abjured, as the root of all evil. the produce of the land was to supply most of their wants, or be exchanged for the few things they could not grow. this idea had its inconveniences; but self-denial was the fashion, and it was surprising how many things one can do without. when they desired to travel, they walked, if possible, begged the loan of a vehicle, or boldly entered car or coach, and, stating their principles to the officials, took the consequences. usually their dress, their earnest frankness, and gentle resolution won them a passage; but now and then they met with hard usage, and had the satisfaction of suffering for their principles. on one of these penniless pilgrimages they took passage on a boat, and, when fare was demanded, artlessly offered to talk, instead of pay. as the boat was well under way and they actually had not a cent, there was no help for it. so brothers lion and lamb held forth to the assembled passengers in their most eloquent style. there must have been something effective in this conversation, for the listeners were moved to take up a contribution for these inspired lunatics, who preached peace on earth and good-will to man so earnestly, with empty pockets. a goodly sum was collected; but when the captain presented it the reformers proved that they were consistent even in their madness, for not a penny would they accept, saying, with a look at the group about them, whose indifference or contempt had changed to interest and respect, "you see how well we get on without money;" and so went serenely on their way, with their linen blouses flapping airily in the cold october wind. they preached vegetarianism everywhere and resisted all temptations of the flesh, contentedly eating apples and bread at well-spread tables, and much afflicting hospitable hostesses by denouncing their food and taking away their appetites, discussing the "horrors of shambles," the "incorporation of the brute in man," and "on elegant abstinence the sign of a pure soul." but, when the perplexed or offended ladies asked what they should eat, they got in reply a bill of fare consisting of "bowls of sunrise for breakfast," "solar seeds of the sphere," "dishes from plutarch's chaste table," and other viands equally hard to find in any modern market. reform conventions of all sorts were haunted by these brethren, who said many wise things and did many foolish ones. unfortunately, these wanderings interfered with their harvest at home; but the rule was to do what the spirit moved, so they left their crops to providence and went a-reaping in wider and, let us hope, more fruitful fields than their own. luckily, the earthly providence who watched over abel lamb was at hand to glean the scanty crop yielded by the "uncorrupted land," which, "consecrated to human freedom," had received "the sober culture of devout men." about the time the grain was ready to house, some call of the oversoul wafted all the men away. an easterly storm was coming up and the yellow stacks were sure to be ruined. then sister hope gathered her forces. three little girls, one boy (timon's son), and herself, harnessed to clothes-baskets and russia-linen sheets, were the only teams she could command; but with these poor appliances the indomitable woman got in the grain and saved food for her young, with the instinct and energy of a mother-bird with a brood of hungry nestlings to feed. this attempt at regeneration had its tragic as well as comic side, though the world only saw the former. with the first frosts, the butterflies, who had sunned themselves in the new light through the summer, took flight, leaving the few bees to see what honey they had stored for winter use. precious little appeared beyond the satisfaction of a few months of holy living. at first it seemed as if a chance to try holy dying also was to be offered them. timon, much disgusted with the failure of the scheme, decided to retire to the shakers, who seemed to be the only successful community going. "what is to become of us?" asked mrs. hope, for abel was heart-broken at the bursting of his lovely bubble. "you can stay here, if you like, till a tenant is found. no more wood must be cut, however, and no more corn ground. all i have must be sold to pay the debts of the concern, as the responsibility rests with me," was the cheering reply. "who is to pay us for what we have lost? i gave all i had,--furniture, time, strength, six months of my children's lives,--and all are wasted. abel gave himself body and soul, and is almost wrecked by hard work and disappointment. are we to have no return for this, but leave to starve and freeze in an old house, with winter at hand, no money, and hardly a friend left, for this wild scheme has alienated nearly all we had. you talk much about justice. let us have a little, since there is nothing else left." but the woman's appeal met with no reply but the old one: "it was an experiment. we all risked something, and must bear our losses as we can." with this cold comfort, timon departed with his son, and was absorbed into the shaker brotherhood, where he soon found that the order of things was reversed, and it was all work and no play. then the tragedy began for the forsaken little family. desolation and despair fell upon abel. as his wife said, his new beliefs had alienated many friends. some thought him mad, some unprincipled. even the most kindly thought him a visionary, whom it was useless to help till he took more practical views of life. all stood aloof, saying: "let him work out his own ideas, and see what they are worth." he had tried, but it was a failure. the world was not ready for utopia yet, and those who attempted to found it only got laughed at for their pains. in other days, men could sell all and give to the poor, lead lives devoted to holiness and high thought, and, after the persecution was over, find themselves honored as saints or martyrs. but in modern times these things are out of fashion. to live for one's principles, at all costs, is a dangerous speculation; and the failure of an ideal, no matter how humane and noble, is harder for the world to forgive and forget than bank robbery or the grand swindles of corrupt politicians. deep waters now for abel, and for a time there seemed no passage through. strength and spirits were exhausted by hard work and too much thought. courage failed when, looking about for help, he saw no sympathizing face, no hand outstretched to help him, no voice to say cheerily,-- "we all make mistakes, and it takes many experiences to shape a life. try again, and let us help you." every door was closed, every eye averted, every heart cold, and no way open whereby he might earn bread for his children. his principles would not permit him to do many things that others did; and in the few fields where conscience would allow him to work, who would employ a man who had flown in the face of society, as he had done? then this dreamer, whose dream was the life of his life, resolved to carry out his idea to the bitter end. there seemed no place for him here,--no work, no friend. to go begging conditions was as ignoble as to go begging money. better perish of want than sell one's soul for the sustenance of his body. silently he lay down upon his bed, turned his face to the wall, and waited with pathetic patience for death to cut the knot which he could not untie. days and nights went by, and neither food nor water passed his lips. soul and body were dumbly struggling together, and no word of complaint betrayed what either suffered. his wife, when tears and prayers were unavailing, sat down to wait the end with a mysterious awe and submission; for in this entire resignation of all things there was an eloquent significance to her who knew him as no other human being did. "leave all to god," was his belief; and in this crisis the loving soul clung to this faith, sure that the all-wise father would not desert this child who tried to live so near to him. gathering her children about her, she waited the issue of the tragedy that was being enacted in that solitary room, while the first snow fell outside, untrodden by the footprints of a single friend. but the strong angels who sustain and teach perplexed and troubled souls came and went, leaving no trace without, but working miracles within. for, when all other sentiments had faded into dimness, all other hopes died utterly; when the bitterness of death was nearly over, when body was past any pang of hunger or thirst, and soul stood ready to depart, the love that outlives all else refused to die. head had bowed to defeat, hand had grown weary with too heavy tasks, but heart could not grow cold to those who lived in its tender depths, even when death touched it. "my faithful wife, my little girls,--they have not forsaken me, they are mine by ties that none can break. what right have i to leave them alone? what right to escape from the burden and the sorrow i have helped to bring? this duty remains to me, and i must do it manfully. for their sakes, the world will forgive me in time; for their sakes, god will sustain me now." too feeble to rise, abel groped for the food that always lay within his reach, and in the darkness and solitude of that memorable night ate and drank what was to him the bread and wine of a new communion, a new dedication of heart and life to the duties that were left him when the dreams fled. in the early dawn, when that sad wife crept fearfully to see what change had come to the patient face on the pillow, she found it smiling at her, saw a wasted hand outstretched to her, and heard a feeble voice cry bravely, "hope!" what passed in that little room is not to be recorded except in the hearts of those who suffered and endured much for love's sake. enough for us to know that soon the wan shadow of a man came forth, leaning on the arm that never failed him, to be welcomed and cherished by the children, who never forgot the experiences of that time. "hope" was the watchword now; and, while the last logs blazed on the hearth, the last bread and apples covered the table, the new commander, with recovered courage, said to her husband,-- "leave all to god--and me. he has done his part; now i will do mine." "but we have no money, dear." "yes, we have. i sold all we could spare, and have enough to take us away from this snow-bank." "where can we go?" "i have engaged four rooms at our good neighbor, lovejoy's. there we can live cheaply till spring. then for new plans and a home of our own, please god." "but, hope, your little store won't last long, and we have no friends." "i can sew and you can chop wood. lovejoy offers you the same pay as he gives his other men; my old friend, mrs. truman, will send me all the work i want; and my blessed brother stands by us to the end. cheer up, dear heart, for while there is work and love in the world we shall not suffer." "and while i have my good angel hope, i shall not despair, even if i wait another thirty years before i step beyond the circle of the sacred little world in which i still have a place to fill." so one bleak december day, with their few possessions piled on an ox-sled, the rosy children perched atop, and the parents trudging arm in arm behind, the exiles left their eden and faced the world again. "ah, me! my happy dream. how much i leave behind that never can be mine again," said abel, looking back at the lost paradise, lying white and chill in its shroud of snow. "yes, dear; but how much we bring away," answered brave-hearted hope, glancing from husband to children. "poor fruitlands! the name was as great a failure as the rest!" continued abel, with a sigh, as a frostbitten apple fell from a leafless bough at his feet. but the sigh changed to a smile as his wife added, in a half-tender, half-satirical tone,-- "don't you think apple slump would be a better name for it, dear?" the romance of a summer day. "what shall we do about rose? we have tried saratoga, and that failed to cheer her up; we tried the sea-shore, and that failed; now we have tried the mountains, and they are going to fail, like the rest. see if your woman's wit can't devise something to help the child, milly." "time and tenderness will work the cure; and she will be all the better for this experience, i hope." "so do i. but i don't pretend to understand these nervous ailments; so, if air, exercise, and change of scene don't cure the vapors, i give it up. girls didn't have such worries in my day." and the old gentleman shook his head, as if modern ills perplexed him very much. but milly smiled the slow, wise smile of one who had learned much from experience; among other things, the wisdom of leaving certain troubles to cure themselves. "has the child expressed a wish for any thing? if so, out with it, and she shall be gratified, if it can be done," began uncle ben, after a moment of silence, as they sat watching the moonlight, that glorified the summer night. "the last wish is one that we can easily gratify, if you don't mind the fatigue. the restless spirit that possesses her keeps suggesting new things. much exercise does her good, and is an excellent way to work off this unrest. she likes to tire herself out; for then she sleeps, poor dear." "well, well, what does the poor dear want to do?" asked uncle ben, quickly. "she said to-day that, instead of going off on excursions, as we have been doing, she would like to stroll away some pleasant morning, and follow the road wherever it led, finding and enjoying any little adventures that might come along,--as richter's heroes do." "yes, i see: white butterflies, morning red, disguised counts, philosophic plowmen, and all the rest of the romantic rubbish. bless the child, does she expect to find things of that sort anywhere out of a german novel?" "plenty of butterflies and morning-glories, uncle, and a girl's imagination will supply the romance. perhaps we can get up some little surprise to add flavor to our day's adventures," said milly, who rather favored the plan, for much romance still lay hidden in that quiet heart of hers. "where shall we go? what shall we do? i don't know how this sort of thing is managed." "do nothing but follow us. let her choose her road; and we will merely see that she has food and rest, protection, and as much pleasure as we can make for her out of such simple materials. having her own way will gratify her, and a day in the open air do her good. shall we try it, sir?" "with all my heart, if the fancy lasts till morning. i'll have some lunch put up, and order jim to dawdle after us with the wagon full of waterproofs, and so on, in case we break down. i rather like the idea, now i fairly take it in." and uncle ben quite beamed with interest and good-will; for a kinder-hearted man never breathed, and, in spite of his fifty years, he was as fond of adventures as any boy. "then, as we must be up and away very early, i'll say good-night, sir," and milly rose to go, looking well satisfied with the success of her suggestion. "good-night, my dear," and uncle ben rose also, flung away his cigar, and offered his hand with the old-fashioned courtesy which he always showed his niece's friend; for milly only called him uncle to please him. "you are sure this wild whim won't be too much for _you_? you are such a self-sacrificing soul, i'm afraid my girl will wear you out," he said, looking down at her with a fatherly expression, very becoming to his comely countenance. "not a bit, sir. i like it, and would gladly do any thing to please and help rose. i'm very fond of her, and love to pet and care for her. i'm so alone in the world i cling to my few friends, and feel as if i couldn't do enough for them." something in milly's face made uncle ben hold her hand close in both of his a moment, and look as if he was going to stoop and kiss her. but he seemed to think better of it; for he only shook the soft hand warmly, and said, in his hearty tone,-- "i don't know what we should do without you, my dear. you are one of the women born to help and comfort others, and ask no reward but love." as the first streaks of dawn touched the eastern sky, three faces appeared at three different windows of the great hotel. one was a masculine face, a ruddy, benevolent countenance, with kind eyes, grayish hair cheerfully erect upon the head, and a smile on the lips, that softly whistled the old air of "a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning." the second was one of those serene, sweet faces, possessing an attraction more subtle than beauty; eyes always full of silent sympathy, a little wistful sometimes, but never sad, and an expression of peace and patience that told of battles fought and victories won. a happy, helpful soul shone from that face and made it lovely, though its first bloom was past and a solitary future lay before it. the third was rich in the charms that youth and health lend any countenance. but, in spite of the bloom on the rounded cheeks, the freshness of the lips, and the soft beauty of the eyes, the face that looked out from the bonny brown hair, blowing in the wind, was not a happy one. discontent, unrest, and a secret hunger seemed to sadden and sharpen all its outlines, making it pathetic to those who could read the language of an unsatisfied heart. poor little rose was waiting, as all women must wait, for the good gift that brightens life; and, while she waited, patience and passion were having a hard fight in the proud silence of her heart. "it will be a capital day, girls," called uncle ben, in his cheery voice. "i thought it would be," answered milly, nodding back, with a smile. "i know it will pour before night," added rose, who saw every thing just then through blue spectacles. "breakfast is ready for us. come on, girls, or you'll miss your morning red," called uncle ben, retiring, with a laugh. "i lost mine six months ago," sighed rose, as she listlessly gathered up the brown curls, that were once her pride. "hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings," sounded from milly's room, in her blithe voice. "tiresome little bird! why don't he stay in his nest and cheer his mate?" muttered rose, refusing to be cheered. "now lead on, my dear, we'll follow till we drop," said uncle ben, stoutly, as they stood on the piazza, half an hour later, with no one but a sleepy waiter to watch and wonder at the early start. "i have always wondered where that lonely road went to, and now i shall find out," answered rose, with an imperious little gesture, as she led the way. the others followed so slowly that she felt alone, and enjoyed it, in spite of herself. it was the most eloquent hour of the day, for all was beautiful, all was fresh; nothing was out of order, nothing disturbed eye or ear, and the world seemed to welcome her with its morning face. the road wound between forests full of the green gloom no artist can ever paint. pines whispered, birches quivered, maples dropped grateful shadows, and a little river foamed and sparkled by, carrying its melodious message from the mountains to the sea. glimpses of hoary peaks broke on her now and then, dappled with shadows or half-veiled in mists, floating and fading like incense from altars fit for a cathedral not built with hands. leafy vistas opened temptingly on either side, berries blushed ripely in the grass, cow-bells tinkled pleasantly along the hillsides, and that busy little farmer, the "peabody bird," cried from tree to tree, "sow your wheat, peabody! peabody! peabody!" with such musical energy one ceased to wonder that fields were wrested from the forest, to wave like green and golden breast-knots on the bosoms of the hills. the fresh beauty and the healthful peace of the hour refreshed the girl like dew. the human rose lifted up her drooping head and smiled back at the blithe sunshine, as if she found the world a pleasant place, in spite of her own thorns. presently a yellow butterfly came wandering by; and she watched it as she walked, pleasing herself with the girlish fancy that it was a symbol of herself. at first it fluttered idly from side to side, now lighting on a purple thistle-top, then away to swing on a dewy fern; now vanishing among the low-hanging boughs overhead, then settling in the dust of the road, where a ray of light glorified its golden wings, unmindful of its lowly seat. "little psyche is looking for her cupid everywhere, as i have looked for mine. i wonder if she ever found and lost him, as i did? if she does find him again, i'll accept it as a good omen." full of this fancy, rose walked quickly after her airy guide, leaving her comrades far behind. some tenderhearted spirit surely led that butterfly, for it never wandered far away, but floated steadily before the girl, till it came at last to a wild rose-bush, full of delicate blossoms. above it a cloud of yellow butterflies were dancing in the sun; and from among them one flew to meet and welcome the new-comer. together they fluttered round the rosy flowers for a moment, then rose in graceful circles, till they vanished in the wood. rose followed them with eyes that slowly dimmed with happy tears, for the innocent soul accepted the omen and believed it gratefully. "he will come," she said softly to herself, as she fastened a knot of wild roses in her bosom and sat down to rest and wait. "tired out, little girl?" asked uncle ben, coming up at a great pace, rather amazed at this sudden burst of energy, but glad to see it. "no, indeed! it was lovely!" and rose looked up with a brighter face than she had worn for weeks. "upon my word, i think we have hit upon the right thing at last," said uncle ben, aside, to milly. "what have you been doing to get such a look as that?" he added aloud. "chasing butterflies," was all the answer rose gave; for she could not tell the foolish little fancy that had comforted her so much. "then, my dear, i beg you will devote yourself to that amusement. i never heard it recommended, but it seems to be immensely beneficial; so keep it up, rosy, keep it up." "i will, sir," and on went rose, as if in search of another one. for an hour or two she strolled along the woody road, gathering red raspberries, with the dew still on them, garlanding her hat with fragrant linnæea wreaths, watching the brown brooks go singing away into the forest, and wishing the little wood creatures good-morrow, as they went fearlessly to and fro, busy with their sylvan housekeeping. at every turn of the road rose's wistful eyes looked forward, as if hoping to see some much-desired figure approaching. at every sound of steps she lifted her head like a deer, listening and watching till the stranger had gone by; and down every green vista she sent longing looks, as if memory recalled happy hours in green nooks like those. presently the road wound over a bridge, below which flowed a wide, smooth river, flecked with alternate sun and shadow. "how beautiful it is! i must float down this stream a little way. it is getting warm and i am tired, yet don't want to stop or turn back yet," said rose; adding, as her quick eye roved to and fro: "i see a boat down there, and a lazy man reading. i'll hire or borrow it; so come on." away she went into the meadow, and, accosting the countryman, who lay in the shade, she made her request. "i get my livin' in summer by rowin' folks down to the falls. it ain't fur. will you go, miss?" he said, smiling all over his brown face, as he regarded the pretty vision that so suddenly appeared beside him. rose accepted the proposition at once; but half regretted it a minute after, for, as the man rose, she saw that he had a wooden leg. "i'm afraid we shall be too heavy a load for you," she began, as he stumped about, preparing his boat. the young fellow laughed and squared his broad shoulders, with a quick look, that thanked her for the pitiful glance she gave him, as he answered, in a bluff, good-natured tone,-- "don't be afraid. i could row a dozen of you. i look rather the worse for wear; but my old mother thinks i'm about the strongest man in the state. now, then, give us your hand, miss, and there you are." with that he helped her in. the others obediently followed their capricious leader, and in a moment they were floating down the river, with a fresh wind cooling their hot faces. "you have been in the army, i take it?" began uncle ben, in his social way, as he watched the man pulling with long, easy strokes. "pretty nigh through the war, sir," with a nod and a glance at the wooden leg. uncle ben lifted his hat, and rose turned with a sudden interest from the far-off bend of the river to the honest face before her. "oh! tell us about it. i love to hear brave men fight their battles over," she cried, with a look half pleading, half commanding, and wholly charming. "sho! it ain't much to tell. no more than the rest of 'em; not so much as some. i done my best, lost my leg, got a few bullets here and there, and ain't much use any way now." a shadow passed over the man's face as he spoke; and well it might, for it was hard to be disabled at twenty-five with a long life of partial helplessness before him. uncle ben, who was steering, forgot his duty in his sympathy, and regarded the wooden leg with silent interest. milly showed hers by keeping the mosquitoes off him by gently waving a green bough, as she sat behind him. but rose's soft eyes shone upon him full of persuasive interest, and a new tone of respect was in her voice as she said, with a martial salute,-- "please tell about your last battle. i had a cousin in the war, and feel as if every soldier was my friend and comrade since then." "thanky, miss. i'll tell you that with pleasure, though it ain't much, any way." and, pushing back his hat, the young man rested on his oars, as he rapidly told his little tale. "my last battle was----," naming one of the latest and bloodiest of the war. "we were doing our best, when there came a shell and scattered half-a-dozen of us pretty lively. i was knocked flat. but i didn't feel hurt, only mad, and jumped up to hit 'em agin; but just dropped, with an awful wrench, and the feeling that both my legs was gone." "did no one stop to help you?" cried rose. "too busy for that, miss. the boys can't stop to pick up their mates when there are rebs ahead to be knocked down. i knew there was no more fighting for me; and just laid still, with the balls singing round me, and wondering where they'd hit next." "how did you feel?" questioned the girl, eagerly. "dreadful busy at first; for every thing i'd ever said, seen, or done, seemed to go spinning through my head, till i got so dizzy trying to keep my wits stiddy that i lost 'em altogether. i didn't find 'em again till some one laid hold of me. two of our boys were luggin' me along back; but they had to dodge behind walls and cut up and down, for the scrimmage was going on all round us. one of the fellers was hit in the shoulder and the other in the face, but not bad; and they managed to get me into a sort of a ravine, out of danger. there i begged 'em to leave me. i thought i was bleeding to death rapid, and just wanted to die in peace." "but they didn't leave you?" and rose's face was all alive with interest now. "guess they didn't," answered the man, giving a stroke or two, and looking as if he found it pleasant to tell his story to so winsome a listener. "just as they were at their wit's end what to do with me, we come upon a young surgeon, lurking there to watch the fight or to hide,--don't know which. there he was any way, looking scared half to death. tom hunt, my mate, made him stop and look at me. my leg was smashed, and ought to come off right away, he said. 'do it, then!' says tom. he was one of your rough-and-readys, tom was; but at heart as kind as a--well, as a woman." and the boatman gave a smile and a nod at the one opposite him. "thanks; but do tell on. it is so interesting." and rose let all her flowers stray down into the bottom of the boat, as she clasped her hands and leaned forward to listen. "don't know as i'd better tell this part. it ain't pleasant," began the man. "you must. i want it all. dreadful things do me good, and other people's sufferings teach me how to bear my own," said rose, in her imperious way. "you don't look as if you ought to have any." and the man's eyes rested on the delicate face opposite, full of a pleasant blending of admiration, pity, and protection. "i have; but not like yours. go on, please." "well, if you say so, here goes. the surgeon was worried, and said he couldn't do nothing,--hadn't got his instruments, and so on. 'yes, you have. out with em,' says tom, rapping on a case he sees in the chap's breast-pocket. 'can't do it without bandages,' he says next. 'here they are, and more where they came from,' says tom; and off came his shirt-sleeves, and was stripped up in a jiffy. 'i must have help,' says that confounded surgeon, dawdling round, and me groaning my life out at his feet. 'here's help,--lots of it,' says tom, taking my head on his arm; while parkes tied up his wounded face and stood ready to lend a hand. seeing no way out of it, the surgeon went to work. good lord, but that _was_ awful!" the mere memory of it made the speaker shut his eyes with a shiver, as if he felt again the sharp agony of shattered bones, rent flesh, and pitiless knife. "never mind that. tell how you got comfortable again," said milly, shaking her head at rose. "i wasn't comfortable for three months, ma'am. don't mind telling about it, 'cause tom done so well, and i'm proud of him," said the rower, with kindling eyes. "things of that sort are hard enough done well, with chloroform and every thing handy. but laying on the bare ground, with nothing right, and a scared boy of a surgeon hacking away at you, it's torment and no mistake. i never could have stood it, if it hadn't been for tom. he held me close and as steady as a rock; but he cried like a baby the whole time, and that did me good. don't know why; but it did. as for parkes, he gave out at once and went off for help. i'll never forget that place, if i live to be a hundred. seems as if i could see the very grass i tore up; the muddy brook they laid me by; the steep bank, with parkes creeping up; tom's face, wet and white, but so full of pity; the surgeon, with his red hands; and all the while such a roar of guns i could hardly hear myself groaning for some one to shoot me and put me out of my misery." "how did you get to the hospital?" asked uncle ben, anxious to get over this part of the story, for rose was now as pale as if she actually saw the scene described. "don't know, sir. there come a time when i couldn't bear any more, and what happened then i've never been very clear about. i didn't know much for a day or two; then i was brought round by being put in a transport. i was packed with a lot of poor fellows, and was beginning to wish i'd stayed queer, till i heard tom's voice saying, 'never mind, boys; put me down anywheres, and tend to the others. i can wait.' that set me up. i sung out, and they stowed him alongside. it was so dark down there i could hardly see his face; but his voice and ways were just as hearty and comforting as ever, and he kept up my spirits wonderful that day. i was pretty weak, and kept dozing off; but whenever i woke i felt for tom, and he was always there. he told me, when parkes came with help, he saw me off, and then went back for another go at the rebs; but got a ball in the breast, and was in rather a bad way, he guessed. he couldn't lay down; but sat by me, leaning back, with his hand on my pillow, where i could find it easy. he talked to me all he could, till his voice give out; for he got very weak, and there was a dreadful groaning all around us." "i know, i know. i went aboard one of those transports to help; but couldn't stay, it was so terrible," said uncle ben, with a groan at the mere memory of it. "that was a long day, and i thought it was my last; for when night came i felt so gone i reckoned i was 'most over jordan. i gave my watch to tom as a keepsake, and told him to say good-by to the boys for me. i hadn't any folks of my own, so it wasn't hard to go. tom had a sweetheart, an old mother, and lots of friends; but he didn't repine a word,--only said: 'if you do pull through, joel, just tell mother i done my best, and give hetty my love.' i promised, and dropped asleep, holding on to tom as if he was my sheet-anchor. so he was; but i can't tell all he done for me in different ways." for a minute joel rowed in silence, and no one asked a question. then he pushed up his old hat again, and went on, as if anxious to be done. "soon's ever i woke, next morning, i looked round to thank tom, for his blanket was over me. he was sitting as i left him, his hand on my pillow, his face toward me, so quiet and happy-looking i couldn't believe he was gone. but he was, and i have had no mate since." "where did he live?" asked rose, as softly as if speaking of one she had known and loved. "over yonder." and joel pointed to a little brown house on the hillside. "are his mother and hetty there?" "hetty married a number of years ago; but the old lady is there." "and you are visiting her?" "i live with her. you see tom was all she had; and, when hetty left, it was only natural that i tried to take tom's place. can't never fill it of course; but i do what i can, and she's comfortable." "so _she_ is the 'old mother' who thinks so much of you? well she may," said rose, giving him her brightest smile. "yes, she's all i've got now. couldn't do no less, could i, seein' how much tom done for me?" answered the man, with a momentary quiver of emotion in his rough voice. "you're a trump!" said uncle ben, emphatically. "thanky, sir. starboard, if you please. i don't care to get into the rapids just here." joel seemed to dislike telling this part of the story; but the three listeners beamed upon him with such approving faces that he took to his oars in self-defence, rowing with all his might, till the roar of the fall was faintly heard. "now, where shall i land you, sir?" "let us lunch on the island," proposed rose. "i see a tent, and fancy some one is camping there," said milly. "a lot of young fellows have been there this three days," said joel. "then we will go on, and take to the grove above the fall," ordered uncle ben. alas! alas! for rose. that decision delayed her happiness a whole half day; for on that island, luxuriously reading "the lotus eaters," as he lay in the long grass, was the gabriel this modern evangeline was waiting for. she never dreamed he was so near. and the brown-bearded student never lifted up his head as the boat floated by, carrying the lady of his love. "i want to give him more than his fare. so i shall slip my cigar-case into the pocket of this coat," whispered uncle ben, as joel was busy drawing up the boat and getting a stone or two to facilitate the ladies' landing dryshod. "i shall leave my book for him. he was poring over an old newspaper, as if hungry for reading. the dash and daring of 'john brent' will charm him; and the sketch of winthrop's life in the beginning will add to its value, i know." and, hastily scribbling his name in it, rose slipped the book under the coat. but milly, seeing how old that coat was, guessed that joel gave his earnings to the old woman to whom he dutifully played a son's part. writing on a card "for tom's mother and mate," she folded a five-dollar bill round it, fastened it with a little pearl cross from her own throat, and laid it in the book. then all landed, and, with a cordial hand-shake and many thanks, left joel to row away, quite unconscious that he was a hero in the pretty girl's eyes, till he found the tokens of his passengers' regard and respect. "now that is an adventure after my own heart," said rose, as they rustled along the grassy path toward the misty cloud that hung over the fall. "we have nothing but sandwiches and sherry for lunch, unless we find a house and add to our stores," said uncle ben, beginning to feel hungry and wondering how far his provisions would go. "there is a little girl picking berries. call her and buy some," suggested milly, who had her doubts about the state of the sandwiches, as the knapsack had been sat upon. a shout from uncle ben caused the little girl to approach,--timidly at first; but, being joined by a boy, her courage rose, and when the idea of a "trade" was impressed upon their minds fear was forgotten and the yankee appeared. "how much a quart?" "eight cents, sir." "but that birch-bark thing is not full." "now it is," and the barefooted, tow-headed lad filled the girl's pannier from his own. "here's chivalry for you," said rose, watching the children with interest; for the girl was pretty, and the boy evidently not her brother. "you don't pick as fast as she does," said milly, while uncle ben hunted up the money. "he's done his stent, and was helpin' me. i'll have to pick a lot before i git my quarter," said the girl, defending her friend, in spite of her bashfulness. "must you each make a quarter?" "yes'm. we don't have to; but we wanter, so we can go to the circus that's comin' to-morrer. he made his'n ketchin' trout; so he's helpin' me," explained the girl. "where do you get your trout?" asked uncle ben, sniffing the air, as if he already smelt them cooking. "in the brook. i ain't sold mine yet. want to buy 'em? six big ones for a quarter," said the boy, seeing hunger in the good man's eye and many greenbacks in the corpulent purse. "yes, if you'll clean them." "but, uncle, we can't cook them," began milly. "_i_ can. let an old campaigner alone for getting up a gipsy lunch. you wanted a surprise; so i'll give you one. now, billy, bring on your fish." "my name is daniel webster butterfield brown," returned the boy, with dignity; adding, with a comical change of tone: "them fish _is_ cleaned, or you'd a got 'em cheaper." "very well. hand them over." off ran the boy to the brook; and the girl was shyly following, when rose said,-- "will you sell me that pretty bark pannier of yours? i want one for my flowers." "no'm. i guess i'd ruther not." "i'll give you a quarter for it. then you can go to the circus without working any more." "dan made this for me, real careful; and i couldn't sell it, no way. he wouldn't go without me. and i'll pick stiddy all day, and git my money. see if i don't!" answered the child, hugging her treasure close. "here's your romance in the bud," said uncle ben, trying not to laugh. "it's beautiful!" said rose, with energy. "what is your name, dear?" "gusty medders, please'm." "dan isn't your brother?" "no'm. he lives to the poor-house. but he's real smart, and we play together. and him and me is going to the show. he always takes care o' me; and my mother thinks a sight of him, and so do i," returned the child, in a burst of confidence. "happy little gusty!" said rose, to herself. "thrice happy dan," added uncle ben, producing the fat pocket-book again, with the evident intention of bestowing a fortune on the small couple. "don't spoil the pretty little romance. don't rob it of its self-sacrifice and simplicity. let them earn their money. then they will enjoy it more," cried milly, holding his hand. uncle ben submitted, and paid dan his price, without adding a penny. "the lady wanted to buy my basket. but i didn't sell it, danny; 'cause you give it as a keepsake," they heard gusty say, as the children turned away. "good for you, gus; but i'll sell mine." and back came dan, to dispose of his for the desired quarter. "now we're fixed complete, and you needn't pick a darned berry. we've got fifty cents for the show, and eight, over for peanuts and candy. won't we have a good time, though?" with which joyful remark dan turned a somersault, and then the little pair vanished in the wood, with shining faces, to revel in visions of the splendors to come. "now you have got your elephant, what are you going to do with him?" asked rose, as they went on again,--she with her pretty basket of fruit, and he with a string of fish wrapped in leaves. "come on a bit, and you will see." uncle ben led them to the shade of a great maple, on a green slope, in sight of the noisy fall, leaping from rock to rock, till the stream went singing away through wide, green meadows below. "now rest and cool yourselves, while i cook the dinner." and away bustled the good man, on hospitable thoughts intent. plenty of dry drift-wood lay about the watercourse, and soon a brisk fire burned on the rocks not far away. shingles for plates, with pointed sticks for forks, seemed quite in keeping with the rustic feast; and when the edibles were set forth on leaves the girls were charmed, and praised the trout, as it came hot from the coals, till even the flushed cook was satisfied. "i'd like to live so always. it is so interesting to pick up your food as you go, and eat it when and where you like. i think i could be quite happy leading a wild life like this," said rose, as she lay in the grass, dropping berries one by one into her mouth. "you would soon tire of it, miss caprice; but, if it amuses for a single day, i am satisfied," answered milly, with her motherly smile, as she stroked the bright head in her lap, feeling sure that happiness was in store for so much youth and beauty. lulled by the soft caress, and the song of the waterfall, rose fell asleep, and for an hour dreamed blissfully, while the maple dropped its shadows on her placid face, and all the wholesome influences of the place worked their healing spell on soul and body. "a thunder-shower is rolling up in the west, my dears. we must be getting toward some shelter, unless we are to take a drenching as part of the day's pleasure," said uncle ben, rising briskly after his own nap. "i see no house anywhere; but a big barn down in the intervale, and a crowd of people getting in their hay. let us make for that, and lie on the sweet haycocks till the shower comes," proposed milly. as they went down the steep path, rose began to sing; and at the unwonted sound her uncle and friend exchanged glances of satisfaction, for not a note had she sung for weeks. a happy mood seemed to have taken possession of her; and when they reached the intervale she won the old farmer's heart by catching up a rake and working stoutly, till the first heavy drops began to fall. then she rode up to the barn on a fragrant load, and was so charmed with the place that she declined his invitation to "come up and see the old woman and set a spell," and declared that she depended on enjoying the thunder-storm where she was. the farmer and his men went their way, and rose was just settling herself at the upper window, where the hay had been pitched in, when a long line of gay red vans came rattling down the road, followed by carriages and gilded cars, elephants and camels, fine horses and frisky ponies, all more or less excited by the coming storm. "it's the circus! how i wish gusty and dan could see it!" cried rose, clapping her hands like a child. "i do believe they are coming here. now that will be charming, and the best adventure of all," she added, as a carriage and several vans turned into the grassy road leading to the barn. a pair of elephants slowly lumbered after, with a camel or two, and the finest gilded car. the rest rattled on, hoping to reach the town in time. in a moment the quiet country scene was changed, and the big barn transformed into a theatrical babel. our party retreated to a loft, and sat looking down on the show, enjoying it heartily; especially rose, who felt as if suddenly translated into an eastern tale. the storm came on dark and wild, rain poured, thunder rolled, and lightning gave lurid glimpses of the strange surroundings. the elephants placidly ate hay; the tired camels lay down with gusty sighs and queer groanings; but the lion in his lonely van roared royally at intervals, and the tigers snarled and tore about their cage like restless demons. the great golden car lit up the gloom; and in it sat, or lay, the occupants of the carriage,--a big, dark man, and a little blonde creature, with a pretty, tired, painted face. rose soon found herself curiously attracted to this pair, for they were evidently lovers; and there was a certain frank, melodramatic air about them that took her fancy. the dark man lay on the red cushion, smoking tranquilly; while the girl hovered about him with all manner of small attentions. presently he seemed to drop asleep, undisturbed by the thunder without or the clamor within. then the small creature smoothed her gay yet shabby dress, and braided up her hair, as composedly as if in her own room. that done, she looked about her for amusement; and, spying rose's interested face peering down at her from above, she nodded, and called out, in a saucy voice,-- "how do you like us? shall i come up and make you a visit?" "i beg you will," answered rose, in spite of a warning touch from milly. up sprang the little circus-rider; and, disdaining the ladder, skipped to the gilded dome of the car, and then took a daring leap on to the loft, landing near them with a laugh. for a minute she eyed the others with a curious mixture of coolness and hesitation, as if it suddenly struck her that they were not country girls, to be dazzled by her audacity. milly saw and understood the pause, liked the girl for it, and said, as courteously as if to a lady in her own parlor,-- "there is plenty of room for us all. pray sit down and enjoy this fine view with us. the storm is passing over now, and it will soon be fair." "thank you!" said the girl, dropping on to the hay, with her bold, bright eyes, full of admiration, fixed on rose, who smiled, and said quickly,-- "you belong to the troop, i suppose?" "first lady rider," replied the girl, with a toss of the head. "it must be very romantic to lead such a life, and go driving from place to place in this way." "it's a hard life, any way; and not much romance, you'd better believe." "not even for _you_." and rose glanced at the sleeper below. the girl smiled. her bold eyes turned to him with a softened look, and the natural color deepened on her painted cheeks, as she said, in a lower voice,-- "yes, joe does make a difference for me. we've only been married three weeks." "what does he do?" "he's the lion-tamer." and the girl gave them a glance of wifely pride in her husband's prowess. "oh! tell me about it!" cried rose. "i admire courage so much." "you ought to see him do daniel in the lion's den, then. or his great tiger act, where he piles four of 'em up, and lays on top. it's just splendid!" "but very dangerous! does he never fear them? and do they never hurt him?" "he don't fear any thing in the world," said the girl, entirely forgetting herself, in enthusiastic praise of her husband. "cæsar, the lion, loves him like a dog; and joe trusts him as he does me. but them tigers are deceitful beasts, and can't be trusted a minute. judas went at joe once, and half killed him. he seems tame enough now; but i hate him, for they say that if a tiger once tastes a man's blood he's sure to kill him sooner or later. so i don't have a minute's peace when joe is in that cage." and the little woman shivered with very genuine anxiety at the thought of her husband's danger. "and, knowing this, he runs the risk every day! what a life!" said uncle ben, looking down at the unconscious joe. "a brave life, uncle, and full of excitement. the minutes in that cage must be splendid. i wish i could see him once!" cried rose, with the restless look in her eyes again. "he'd do it, if he had his things here. he'll do any thing _i_ ask him," said the girl, evidently proud of her power over the lion-tamer. "we will come and see him to-morrow. can't you tell us how he manages to subdue these wild animals? i always wanted to know about it," said rose, wondering if she could not get some hints for the taming of men. "joe'll tell you." and, calling from her perch, the girl waked the sleeper and ordered him up to amuse the gentle-folk. the big man came, with comical meekness; and, lounging on the hay, readily answered the questions showered upon him. rose enjoyed that hour intensely; for the tales joe told were full of wild adventure, hair-breadth escapes, and feats of strength or skill, that kept his listeners half breathless with interest. the presence of the little wife gave an added charm to these stories; for it was evident that the tamer of lions was completely subdued by the small woman. his brown, scarred face softened as it turned to her. while he talked, the strong hands that clutched lions by the throat were softly stroking the blonde head at his side; and, when he told of the fierce struggle with judas, he grew so eloquent over the account of kitty's nursing him that it was plain to see he was prouder of the conquest of her girl's heart than of his hard-won victory over the treacherous tiger. the man's courage lent romance to his vulgar life, and his love ennobled his whole nature for a time. kitty ate peanuts while he thrilled his hearers with his feats; but her face was so full of pride and affection all the while that no one minded what she did, and even milly forgave the painted cheeks and cotton velvet dress for the sake of the womanly heart underneath. the storm passed, the circus people bestirred themselves, and in a few minutes were on their way again. joe and kitty said "good-by" as heartily as if that half-hour had made them friends; and, packing themselves into the little carriage drawn by the calico tandem, dashed away as gayly as if their queer honeymoon journey had just begun. like parts of a stage pageant, the gilded car, the elephants and camels, frisky ponies, and gay red vans vanished along the winding road, leaving the old barn to silence and the scandalized swallows twittering among the rafters. "i feel as if i'd been to an arabian night's entertainment," said rose, as they descended and turned toward home. "it was very interesting, and i do hope that brave joe won't get eaten up by the tigers. what would poor kitty do?" returned milly, warmly. "it would be sad and dreadful; but she would have the comfort of knowing how much he loved her. some women don't even have that," added rose, under her breath. "a capital fellow and a nice little woman. we'll go and see them to-morrow; though i fancy i shall not like mrs. kitty half so well in gauze and spangles, jumping through hoops and over banners on horseback, as i did on the hayloft. and i shall be desperately anxious till joe is safely out of the tiger's cage," said uncle ben, who had been as interested as a boy in the wild tales told them. for an hour they walked back along the river-side, enjoying the wood odors brought out by the shower, the glories of the sunset sky, and the lovely rainbow that arched overhead,--a bow of promise to those who seemed passing under it from the old life to a new one, full of tender promise. "i see a nice old woman in that kitchen, and i want to stop and ask for some new milk. perhaps she will give us our supper, and then we can go on by moonlight," said rose, as they came to a weather-beaten farm-house, standing under an ancient elm, with its door hospitably open, and a grandmotherly figure going to and fro within. rose's request was most graciously received, for the old woman seemed to regard them as most welcome cheerers of her solitude, and bustled about with an infectious cordiality that set them at their ease directly. "do tell! caught in the shower? it come so suddin', i mistrusted some folks would get a duckin'. you kin hev supper jest as wal as not. 'tain't a mite o' trouble, ef you don't mind plain vittles. enos and me lives alone, and he ain't no gret of an eater; but i allers catle'ate to hev a good store of pervision on hand this time a year, there's such a sight of strangers round the mountains. the table's all set; and i'll jest add a pinch of tea and a couple of pies, and there we be. now draw right up, and do the best you kin." the cheery old soul was so hospitable that her presence gave a grace to her homely table and added flavor to her plain fare. uncle ben's eyes twinkled when he saw dainty rose eating brown-bread and milk out of a yellow bowl, with the appetite of a dairymaid; and milly rejoiced over the happy face opposite; wishing that it might always wear that self-forgetful look. enos was a feeble, bed-ridden, old man, who lay in a small room opening from the kitchen. a fretful invalid he seemed to be, hard to suit and much given to complaint. but the tender old wife never lost patience with him; and it was beautiful to see how cheerfully she trotted to and fro, trying to gratify every whim, without a reproachful word or thought of weariness. after tea, as rose wanted to wait till moonrise, uncle ben went in to chat with the invalid, while milly insisted on wiping the cups for the old lady; and rose sat on the doorstep, listening to their chat, and watching twilight steal softly up the valley. presently her attention was fixed by something the old lady said in answer to milly's praises of the quaint kitchen. "yes, dear, i've lived here all my days. was born in that bed-room; and don't ask no better than to die there when my time comes." "most people are not fortunate enough to keep their old home when they marry. it must be very dear to you, having spent both your maiden and married life here," said milly, interested in her hostess. "wal, you see my maiden life lasted sixty year; and my married life ain't but jest begun," answered the old lady, with a laugh as gay as a girl's. seeing curiosity in the quick glance rose involuntarily gave her, the chatty old soul went on, as if gossip was dear to her heart, and her late-coming happiness still so new that she loved to tell it. "i s'pose that sounds sing'lar to you young things; but, you see, though me and enos was engaged at twenty or so, we warn't married till two year ago. things was dreadful con'try, and we kep a waitin' and a waitin', till i declare for't i really did think i should die an old maid." and she laughed again, as if her escape was the best joke in the world. "and you waited forty years?" cried rose, with her great eyes full of wonder. "yes, dear. i had other chances; but somehow they didn't none of them suit, and the more unfort'nate enos was the more i kinder held on to him. he was one of them that's allers tryin' new things, and didn't never seem to make a fortin out of any on 'em. he kept a tryin' because he had nothin', and would'nt marry till he was wal off. my mother was dead, and left a family to be took care on. i was the oldest gal, and so i nat'rally kept house for father till he died, and the children grew up and married off. so i warn't idle all them years, and got on first-rate, allers hopin' enos's luck would turn. but it didn't (them cups goes in the right-hand corner, dear); and so i waited and waited, and hoped and hoped." "oh! how could you?" sighed rose, from the soft gloom of the doorway. "'pears to me strength is give us most wonderful to bear trials, if we take 'em meek. i used to think i couldn't bear it no way when i was left here alone, while enos was in californy; and i didn't know for seven year whether he was dead or alive. his folks give him up; but i never did, and kept on hopin' and prayin' for him till he come back." "how happy you were then!" cried rose, as if she could sympathize heartily with that joy. "no, i warn't, dear. that was the hardest part on't; for enos was married to a poor, shiftless thing, that was a burden to him for ten year." "that _was_ hard," and rose gave a groan, as if a new trouble had suddenly come upon her. "i done my best for 'em, in their ups and downs, till they went west. then i settled down to end my days here alone. my folks was all dead or fur away, and it was uncommon lonesome. but i kinder clung to the old place, and had it borne in upon me strong that enos would turn up agin in time. i wanted him to find me here, ready to give him a helpin' hand whenever and however he come." "and he did, at last?" asked rose, with a sympathetic quiver in her voice that went to the old woman's heart. "yes, my deary; he did come at last," she said, in a voice full of a satisfaction that was almost solemn in its intensity. "ruther mor'n two years ago he knocked at that door, a poor, broken-down old man, without wife, or child, or money, or home,--nothin' in the wide world but me. he didn't think i'd take him in, he was so mis'able. but, lord love him, what else had i been a waitin' for them forty year? it warn't the enos that i loved fust; but that didn't matter one mite. and when he sat sobbin' in that chair, and sayin' he had no friend but me, why i just answered back: 'my home is your'n, enos; and i give it jest as hearty as i did when you fust pupposed, under the laylock bushes, in the back gardin. rest here, my poor dear, and let becky take care on you till she dies.'" "so he stayed?" said milly, with tears in her voice, for rose's head was down on her knees, so eloquent had been the pathos of that old voice, telling its little tale of faithful love. "certin. and we was married, so no one need make no talk. folks said it was a dreadful poor match, and took on about my doin' on't; for i'm wal off, and enos hadn't a cent. but we was satisfied, and i ain't never repented of that day's work; for he took to his bed soon after, and won't quit it, the doctor says, till he's took to his grave." "you dear soul, i must kiss you for that lovely deed of yours, and thank you from my heart for this lesson in fidelity." and, obeying an irresistible impulse, rose threw her arms round the old lady's neck, kissing the wrinkled cheek with real reverence and tenderness. "sakes alive! wal, i never did see sech a softhearted little creter. why, child, what i done warn't nothin' but a pleasure. we women are such queer things, we don't care how long we wait, ef we only hev our way at last." as she spoke, the old woman hugged the blooming girl with a motherly warmth, most sweet and comfortable to see; yet the longing look, the lingering touch, betrayed how much the tender old heart would have loved to pillow there a child of its own. just then uncle ben appeared, and the early moon peeped over the mountain-top, plainly hinting that it was time for the wanderers to turn homeward. bidding their hospitable hostess good night, they came again into the woody road, now haunted with soft shadows and silvery with falling dew. the brown brooks were singing lullabies, the pines whispering musically in the wind, the mellow moonlight was falling everywhere, and the world was full of the magical beauty of a midsummer's night. "go on, please, and let me follow alone. i want to think over my pleasant day, and finish it with waking dreams, as i go through this enchanted wood," said rose, whose mind was full of sweet yet sober thoughts; for she had gathered herbs of grace while carelessly pulling wayside flowers, and from the simple adventures of the day had unconsciously received lessons that never were forgotten. the other walked on, and the girl followed, living over again the happy winter during which she had learned to know and love the young neighbor who had become the hero of her dreams. she had felt sure he loved her, though the modest youth had never told her so, except with eloquent glances and tender devotion. she believed in him, loved him truly, and waited with maidenly patience to hear the words that would unseal her lips. they did not come, and he had left her with no hope but such as she could find in the lingering pressure of his hand and the warmly uttered "i shall see you again." since then, no line, no word; and all through the lovely spring she had looked and waited for the brown-bearded student,--looked and waited in vain. then unrest took possession of her, anxiety tormented her, and despair made her young face pathetic. only the sad, simple old story, but as bitter to live through now as in poor dido's day; more bitter, perhaps, because we cannot erect funeral pyres and consume the body with a flame less fierce than that which burns away the soul unseen. now in the silence of that summer night a blessed peace seemed to fall on the girl's unquiet heart, as she trod thoughtfully along the shadowy road. courage and patience seemed to spring up within her. to wait and hope and love without return became a possibility; and, though a few hot tears rolled down the cheeks, that had lost their roses, the eyes that shed them were more tender for the tears, and the heart that echoed the old wife's words--"strength is given us to bear our trials, if we take them meekly"--was worthier of life's best blessing, love, because of its submission. as she paused a moment to wipe away the tell-tale drops, before she joined the others, the sound of far-off music came on the wings of the wind,--a man's voice, singing one of the love-lays that are never old. as if spell-bound, rose stood motionless in the broad streak of light that fell athwart the road. she knew the voice, the sweet old song seemed answering her prayer, and now it needed no golden butterfly to guide her to her lover. nearer and nearer came the singer, pouring out his lay as if his heart was in it. brighter and brighter glowed the human rose, as the featherless nightingale told his tale in music, unconsciously approaching the happy sequel with each step. out from the gloom he came, at last; saw her waiting for him in the light; seemed to read the glad truth in her face, and stretched both hands to her without a word. she took them; and what followed who shall say? for the moon, best friend of lovers, discreetly slipped behind a cloud, and the pines whispered their congratulations as they wrapped the twain in deepest shadow. when, half an hour later, they joined the other pair (who, strange to say, had quite forgotten their charge), uncle ben exclaimed, as he welcomed the new-comer with unusual cordiality: "why, rose! you look quite glorified in this light and as well as ever. we must try this cure again." "no need, sir. i have done with the heartache, and here is my physician," answered rose, with a look at her lover which told the story better than the best chosen words. "and here is mine," echoed milly, leaning on uncle ben's arm as if it belonged to her; as it did, for the moonlight had been too much for the old bachelor, and, in spite of his fifty years, he had wooed and won milly as ardently as any boy. so the lonely future she had accepted so cheerfully suddenly bloomed with happy hopes; and the older couple looked as blissfully content as the young pair, who greeted with the blithest laughter that ever woke the echoes of the wood, this fit ending to the romance of a summer day. my rococo watch. all three of us were inspired with an intense desire to possess one of these quaint watches, the moment we saw one hanging at the side of a certain lovely woman at a party where it created a great sensation. imitations we would not have, and the genuine article could not be found even in geneva, the paradise of time-pieces. my sisters soon ceased to pine for the impossible, and contented themselves with other antique gauds. fan rejoiced in a very ugly cinque-cento ring like a tiny coffin, and mary was the proud possessor of a roman necklace composed of gods and goddesses. i, however, remained true to my first love and refused to be satisfied with any thing but a veritable rococo watch, for that, i maintained, united the useful and the beautiful. resisting the temptations of rome, paris, and geneva, i skilfully lured my unsuspecting party into all sorts of out-of-the-way places under pretence of studying up the old french cathedrals. the girls did the churches faithfully, but i shirked them and spent my shining hours poking about dirty streets and staring in at the windows of ancient jewelry shops, patiently seeking for the watch of my dreams. i was rallied unmercifully upon my mania, and many jokes were played upon me by the frolicksome girls, who more than once sent me posting off by reports of some remarkable trinket in some almost unattainable place. but, nothing daunted, i continued my vain search all through france, and never relinquished my hope till we left st. malo on our way to brest, whence we were to sail for home. then i despaired, and, having nothing more to toil for, began to enjoy myself with a free mind, and then it was that capricious fortune chose to smile upon me and reward my long quest. finding that we had a day before us, we explored the queer old town, and, as our tastes varied, each went a different way. i roamed about the narrow streets, seeking some odd souvenir to carry away, and was peering into a dark lane, attracted by some fine shells, when suddenly i was arrested by a sight which caused me to pause in the middle of a puddle, exclaiming dramatically, "at last! at last!" yes, there, in the dusty window of a pawnbroker's shop, hung the most enchanting watch, crystal ball, silver chains, enamelled medallions, and cluster of charms, all encrusted with pearls, garnets, and turquoises set in the genuine antique style. one long gaze, one rapturous exclamation, and i skipped from the puddle to the doorstep, bent on securing the prize at all costs. bouncing in upon a withered little man, who was taking coffee in a shadowy recess, i demanded the price of the watch. of course the little man was on the alert at once, and began by protesting that it was not for sale; but i saw the fib in his eye, and sweetly insisted that i must have it. then he improvised a mournful tale about a family of rank reduced by misfortune and forced to dispose of their cherished relics in some private manner. i affected to believe the touching romance, and offered a handsome sum for the watch, which, on closer inspection, struck me as rather more antique than even i desired. instantly the little man clasped his hands and protested that it was an insult to propose such a paltry price for so beautiful and perfect a treasure. double the sum might be a temptation, but not a sou less. this was so absurd that i tried to haggle a little; but i never succeeded in that line, so my attempt ended in both of us getting angry, when the little man tore the watch from my hands, and i left the shop as precipitately as i entered it. retiring to the square to cool my indignation, i was reposing on a bench, when i beheld the little man approaching with the blandest expression, and, bowing profoundly, he resumed the subject as if we had parted amicably. "if madame would allow him to consult the owner of this so charming watch, the affair might yet be arranged in a satisfactory manner. if madame would leave her address, he would report to her in a few hours, and have the happiness of obliging the dear lady." i consented, but preferred to return to his shop later in the day, for i wished to astonish the girls by producing my prize at some opportune moment, and i much feared if i told them of my discovery that the bargain would never be made. i suffered agonies of suspense for hours, but basely attributed my restlessness to the heat and weariness. five o'clock and dinner, but i declined going down, and slipped away to my tryst with the little old man. he was ready for me with another romance of the noble owner's reluctance to part with an heirloom for less than the price he had named. in vain i talked, wheedled, and protested; the crafty little man saw that i meant to have that watch, and was firm. at last i pretended to give it up, and, thanking him for his trouble, retired mournfully, hoping he would follow me again, for i had told him that i should leave in the steamer expected next day. but the evening passed, and no little man appeared, although i sat on the balcony till the moon rose. morning came, and with it the steamer, but still no watch arrived, as other coveted articles had often done, when we firmly refused to be imposed upon. my secret agitation increased, and my temptation waxed stronger and stronger as the hour of departure approached. the girls thought me nervous about the voyage, but were too busy to heed my preoccupation, while i was too much ashamed of my infatuation to confess it and ask advice. fifteen minutes before we started for the wharf, i gave in, and muttering something about looking up the carriage, i flew round the corner, demanded the watch, paid an abominable price for it, and sneaked back, knowing i had been cheated by the sly old fellow, who had evidently expected me, and whom i left chuckling over his bargain, as well he might, the rascal! the moment the deed was done my spirits returned, and i beamed upon my sisters as benignly as if i carried a boundless supply of good humor in my pocket instead of that costly watch packed up in a shabby little box. we sailed, and for several days i forgot every thing but my own woe; then came a calm, and then choosing a moment when the girls were comparing their treasures with those of other returning voyagers, i proudly produced my watch. the effect was superb. cries of admiration greeted it from all but my sisters, who looked at one another in comic dismay and burst into fits of laughter. "we saw it and tried to get it, but it cost so much we gave it up, and never told lest penelope should be tempted beyond her strength. we might have spared our pains, for it was to be, and it is vain to fight against fate, only do tell us if you paid that shylock what he asked us?" said mary, naming a smaller sum than my first handsome offer. "i did not pay that, and i shall never tell what it cost, for you wouldn't believe me if i did. it was a good bargain, i assure you--for shylock," i added to myself, and kept my secret jealously, knowing i never should hear the last of it if the awful truth was known. my treasure was so much admired that i was afraid it would be ravished from me, and i hid it in all sorts of places, like a magpie with a stolen spoon. i never went on deck without taking it with me for safe keeping. i never woke in the morning without burrowing under my mattress to see if it was safe, and never turned in for the night without seeing that i was prepared for shipwreck by having my life-preserver handy and half-a-dozen ship biscuits, a bottle of water, and the precious box lashed firmly together, for with that dearly bought watch i was resolved to sink or swim, live or die. being permitted to reach land in safety, i prepared to eclipse fan's ring and mary's necklace with my rich and rare rococo watch. but i found it impossible to set it going, though i tried all the keys in the house, so i took it to an experienced watchmaker and left it to be regulated. every one knows what that means, and can imagine my impatience as week after week went by and still that blessed thing was not done. it came at last, however, and with it a bill that startled me; but i could not dispute it, for the job was a difficult one, owing to the antiquity of the works and the skill required to set a watch going that probably had not been wound up for half a century. it went for a week, and then stopped for ever; for the general verdict was that no modern tinkering would restore its tone, since the springs of life were broken and the venerable wheels at a dead lock. "well, it is ornamental if not useful, only i am sorry i gave away my good old watch, thinking this would be all i needed," i said, making the best of what i alone knew to be a desperately bad bargain. so i hung the silent thing to my girdle and went forth to awaken the envy and admiration of all beholders. but, alas! the second time i wore it, one of the medallions was lost, could not be found, and its place had to be filled with a modern one, entirely out of keeping with the others. bill the second was paid with much lamentation, and again i tried to enjoy my watch. but the fates seemed to be against me, for presently it was stolen by a maid who admired mediæval jewelry as well as her mistress. what a state of excitement we were in then, to be sure! cousin dick took the matter in hand, and searched for the lost watch with the patience, if not the skill, of a detective. mysterious men came to examine the servants, dreadful questions as to its value were put to me, and, worst of all, i knew that this sort of hide-and-go-seek was a fearfully expensive game, and of course i wasn't going to let dick pay for it. it was found at last, and restored to me somewhat the worse for the rough handling of curious admirers. bill the third was paid with the calmness of despair, for i really began to think some evil spell was hidden in that crystal ball; a spell which attracted, then infatuated, and now controlled me, leading me slowly and surely, through tribulation after tribulation, to the poor-house in the end. the accidents that befell that fatal watch would fill a chapter, and the narrow escapes it had would make a thrilling tale. babies half choked themselves with the charms, little tommy was discovered trying to divest it of all incumbrances that he might use it as a "jolly big marble." it was always falling off, catching in buttons, or bobbing wildly about when i danced, and more than once i was cut to the soul by hearing benighted people wonder at miss pen's bad taste in wearing salom jewelry. salom, be it known to the ignorant, is an excellent man who deals in mock ornaments of great brilliancy and cheapness. soon the jewels began to fall out, and i scattered pearls about me like the young lady in the fairy tale. then the chain broke, and the charms were lost. in one of the many falls, the crystal got cracked; the silver tarnished till it looked like dingy lead, and at last no beauty remained to reconcile me to its utter uselessness. my poor watch was the standing joke of the family, and kept every one merry but its owner. to me it was a disgrace, and i suffered endless disappointments and delays by having no trusty time-keeper at hand. pride prevented my applying to others, and bitterly i mourned in secret for the true old friend i had deserted when the false new one came. i ceased to wear the hollow mockery, and hoped people would forget it, but the girls still displayed their more successful ornaments; and i was forced to tell the sad tale of my mortifying failure in reply to the natural question,-- "and what charming old trinket did pen get?" but this was not the worst of it. like little rosamond in the moral tale, i had to wear my old shoes when the purple jar proved a delusion and a snare. i had overrun my allowance by that rash purchase, and had to economize just when i most wished to be fine. "beauty unadorned," and that sort of thing, is all nonsense when a woman burns to look her loveliest in the eyes of certain persons, and the anguish i endured when i looked at that rubbishy old watch, and thought what sweet things could have been bought with the money recklessly lavished upon it, can better be imagined than described. fain would i have sold my treasure for a quarter what i gave for it, but who would buy the ruined relic now? and the mere idea of having it even partially repaired made my blood run cold. so i laid it away as a warning example of woman's folly, and began to save up, that i might replace it by a modern watch with all the improvements procurable for money. i was effectually cured of my passion for antiquities, and hated the sound of the word _rococo_. nothing could be too new for me now, and i privately studied up on watches, being bound never to buy another, which, though it might last to all eternity, yet had no connection with time. slowly the memory of that temptation and fall seemed to fade from all minds but my own; slowly my little hoard increased at the expense of many an ungratified whim, inviting bargain, or girlish vanity, and slowly i decided what sort of watch would most entirely combine the solid virtues and modest graces i desired to possess in the new one i intended to choose so wisely and well. but just as my hundred dollars was nearly completed, i discovered that dick's younger brother, geordie, had got himself into a boyish scrape, and was planning to run away to sea as the best means of settling the difficulty. i was immediately possessed with an intense desire to help the poor lad, and, having won his confidence in a desponding moment, i offered my little hoard as a loan, to be paid in time, if he would accept it on no other condition. i really don't think i could have done it for any one but dick's brother, and i did not desire any praise for it, since i made the boy take a solemn vow that it should be a secret between us for ever. it was reward enough to know that i had spared dear dick another care, and done something to be more worthy of him, though it was only a little sacrifice like this. so geordie was a free man again, and my devoted slave from that day forth, causing much merry wonderment in the family, and actually making dick jealous by his grateful gallantry. my sacrifice cost me something more than the loss of my watch, however, for with a part of the money i had planned to get a fine christmas gift for some one, and now i was obliged to content myself with such a poor little offering that the girls called me mean, and nearly broke my heart by insisting that i did not care for somebody who cared a great deal for me. i bore it all and kept geordie's secret faithfully; but i will confess that, in a paroxysm of anger with myself, i clashed that hateful rococo watch upon the floor and trampled on it as the only adequate vent for the conflicting emotions which possessed me. but the good fairies who fly about at christmas time set every thing right, and broke the evil spell cast over me by the breton magician in his gloomy cell. as we sat about the breakfast-table, talking over our gifts on the morning of that happy day, dick and geordie came in to see how we were after the fatigues of a grand family frolic the night before. "here's a new conundrum; guess it, girls," said geordie, who had the dundreary fever upon him just at that time. "i was sent to india and stopped there; i came back because i did not go there. now what was it?" we puzzled over it, but gave it up at last, and when geordie answered, "a watch," there was a general laugh, for since my ruinous speculation that word always produced a sensation among us. "the place mentioned should have been brittany, not india, hey, pen?" said dick, with a wicked twinkle of the eye. "don't," i began, pathetically, as the girls giggled, and mary added, with mock sympathy, "hush, boys, and let that sacred sorrow be for ever hidden in pen's own breast." "watch and pray, dear, watch and pray, for i'm sure you have need of both," cried fan, seeing my rising wrath. "put your hands before your face but don't strike, i beg of you," cut in geordie, trying to be witty. "it is a sad case, but i think i have a key that will wind up the affair and set all going right," began dick, still twinkling with fun. to have him join the enemy was too much for me, because he had always been very careful to avoid that tender point. "if you say another word, i'll throw the horrid thing into the fire, for i'm sick to death of hearing bad jokes made on it," i cried, feeling a strong desire to shake them all round. "no doubt; give it to me, and you shall never see or hear of it again. i like old trinkets, and i'll never tell the story of that one, on my honor as a gentleman," said dick, in a tone that appeased my wrath at once. "do you really want it?" i asked, pleased and surprised, yet still a little suspicious of some new joke. "i do, because, although it will never go again, it will always remind me of some of the happiest hours and minutes of my life, pen." there was no fun in dick's eyes as he said that, and i was glad to hide the sudden color in my cheeks by running away to get the poor old watch. but i found there _was_ a surprise, and a very pleasant one, in store for me; for, as i thrust the shabby box into dick's pocket, he handed me a little parcel prettily tied up with white ribbons, saying in his most captivating way, "fair exchange is no robbery, you know, so you must take this, and then we shall be square." "it looks like wedding cake," i said, surveying it with curiosity, and wondering why geordie and the girls did not stop to see the mystery unfolded. "no, that comes later, dear," answered dick, in a tone that made me devote myself to the white ribbons with sudden zeal. a blue velvet case appeared, and i could not resist saying, in a voice more tender than reproachful, "you extravagant man! i know it is something costly and beautiful in return for the disgracefully mean gift i gave you." "bless your innocent heart, did you think you could hide any thing from me? geordie couldn't keep a secret, and i'm only paying his debt, pen dear, with the sort of interest women like," dick answered, with an audacious arm around my waist and a brown beard close to my cheek. as i did not refuse the offered interest, he added, in a softer tone, "my own debt i never can settle unless with all my worldly goods i thee endow; my heart you have had for years. say yes, dear, and be my little _châtelaine_." never mind what i said, but i assure you if it had not been for dick's arm i should have gone under the table, when, a few minutes later, i lifted the blue velvet lid and saw a dainty watch luxuriously lying on its white satin bed. by the river. a legend of the assabet. chapter i. in the shadow of the bridge a boy lay reading on the grass,--a slender lad, broad-browed and clear-eyed, barefooted and clad in homespun, yet happy as a king; for health sat on his sunburned cheeks, a magic book lay open before him, and sixteen years of innocence gave him a passport to the freshest pleasures life can offer. "nat! nat! come here and see!" cried a shrill voice from among the alders by the river-side. but nat only shook his head as if a winged namesake had buzzed about his ears, and still read on. presently a twelve-years child came scrambling up the bank, dragging a long rod behind her with a discontented air. "i wish you'd come and help me. the fish won't bite and my line is in a grievous snarl. don't read any more. i'm tired of playing all alone." "i forgot you, ruthy, and it was ill done of me. sit here and rest while i undo the tangle," and nat looked up good-naturedly at the small figure before him, with its quaint pinafore, checked linen gown, and buckled shoes; for this little maid lived nearly a hundred years ago and this lad had seen washington face to face. "now tell me a story while i wait. not out of that stupid play-book you are always reading, but about something that really happened, with naughty children and nice folks in it, and have it end good," said ruth, beginning a dandelion chain; for surely it is safe to believe that our honored grandmothers enjoyed that pretty pastime in their childhood. nat lay in the grass, dreamily regarding the small personage who ruled him like a queen and whom he served with the devotion of a loyal heart. now the royal command was for a story, and, stifling a sigh, this rustic gentleman closed the book, whose magic had changed the spring morning to a midsummer night's dream for an hour, and set himself to gratify the little damsel's whim. "you liked the last tale about the children who were lost. shall i tell one about a child who was found? it really happened, and you never heard it before," he asked. "yes; but first put your head in my lap, for there are ants in the grass and i like to see your eyes shine when you spin stories. tell away." "once upon a time there was a great snow-storm," began nat, obediently pillowing his head on the blue pinafore. "whereabouts?" demanded ruth. "don't spoil the story by interrupting. it was in this town, and i can show you the very house i'm going to tell about." "i like to know things straight along, and not bounce into a snow-storm all in a minute. i'll be good. go on." "well, it snowed so hard that people stayed indoors till the storm had beat and blown itself away. right in the worst of it, as a farmer and his wife sat by the fire that night, they heard a cry at the door. you see they were sitting very still, the man smoking his pipe and the woman knitting, both thinking sorrowfully of their only son, who had just died." "don't have it doleful, nat," briskly suggested ruth, working busily while the narrator's hands lay idle, and his eyes looked as if they actually saw the little scene his fancy conjured up. "no, i won't; only it really was like that," apologized nat, seeing that sentiment was not likely to suit his matter-of-fact auditor. "when the cry came a second time, both of these people ran to the door. no one was to be seen, but on the wide step they saw a little mound not there an hour before. brushing off the snow, they found a basket; and, when they opened it, there lay a little baby, who put out its arms with a pitiful cry, that went to their hearts. the woman hugged it close, fed it, and hushed it to sleep as if it had been her own. her husband let her do as she liked, while he tried to find where it came from; but no trace appeared, and there was no name or mark on the poor thing's clothes." "did they keep it?" asked ruth, tickling nat's nose with a curly dandelion stem, to goad him on, as he lay silent for a moment. "yes, they kept it; for their hearts were sore and empty, and the forlorn baby seemed to fill them comfortably. the townsfolk gossiped awhile, but soon forgot it; and it grew up as if it had been born in the farmer's house. i've often wondered if it wasn't the soul of the little son who died, come back in another shape to comfort those good people." "now don't go wandering off, nat; but tell me if he was a pretty, nice, smart child," said ruth, with an eye to the hero's future capabilities. "not a bit pretty," laughed nat, "for he grew up tall and thin, with big eyes and a queer brow. he wasn't 'nice,' either, if you mean good, for he got angry sometimes and was lazy; but he tried,--oh! yes, he truly tried to be a dutiful lad. he wasn't 'smart,' ruth; for he hated to study, and only loved story books, ballads, and plays, and liked to wander round alone in the woods better than to be with other boys. people laughed at him because of his queersome ways; but he couldn't help it,--he was born so, and it would come out." "he was what aunt becky calls shiftless, i guess. she says you are; but i don't mind as long as you take care of me and tell me stories." the boy sighed and shook his head as if a whole swarm of gnats were annoying him now. "he was grateful, anyhow, this fellow i'm telling about; for he loved the good folks and worked on the farm with all his might to pay them for their pity. he never complained; but he hated it, for delving day after day in the dirt made him feel as if he was nothing but a worm." "we are all worms," deacon hurd says; "so the boy needn't have minded," said ruth, trying to assume a primly pious expression, that sat very ill upon her blooming little face. "but some worms can turn into butterflies, if they get a chance; so the boy did mind, ruthy." and nat looked out into the summer world with a longing glance, which proved that he already felt conscious of the folded wings and was eager to try them. "was he a god-fearing boy?" asked ruth, with a tweak of the ear; for her friend showed signs of "wandering off" again into a world where her prosaic little mind could not follow him. "he didn't _fear_ god; he loved him. perhaps it was wrong; but somehow he couldn't believe in a god of wrath when he saw how good and beautiful the world was and how kind folks were to him. he felt as if the lord was his father, for he had no other; and when he was lonesomest that thought was right comfortable and helpful to him. was it wrong?" asked nat of the child. "i'm afraid aunt becky would think so. she's awful pious, and boxed my ears with a psalm-book last sabbath, when i said i wished the lions would bite daniel in the den, i was so tired of seeing them stare and roar at him. she wouldn't let me look at the pictures in the big bible another minute, and gave me a long hymn to learn, shut up in the back bed-room. she's a godly woman, deacon hurd says; but i think she's uncommon strict." "shall i tell any more, or are you tired of this stupid boy?" said nat, modestly. "yes, you may as well finish. but do have something happen. make him grow a great man, like whittington, or some of the story-book folks, it's so nice to read about," answered ruth, rather impatiently. "i hope he did something better than trade cats and be lord mayor of london. but that part of the story hasn't come yet; so i'll tell you of two things that happened, one sad and one merry. when the boy was fourteen, the good woman died, and that nearly broke his heart; for she had made things easy for him, and he loved her dearly. the farmer sent for his sister to keep house, and then the boy found it harder than ever to bear his life; for the sister was a notable woman, well-meaning, but as strict as aunt becky, and she pestered the lad as aunt pesters me. you see, ruthy, it grew harder every year for him to work on the farm, for he longed to be away somewhere quiet among books and learned folk. he was not like those about him, and grew more unlike all the time, and people often said: 'he's come of gentle blood. that's plain to see.' he loved to think it was true,--not because he wanted to be rich and fine, but to find his own place and live the life the lord meant him to. this feeling made him so unhappy that he was often tempted to run away, and would have done it but for the gratitude that kept him. "lack-a-daisy! what a bad boy, when he had good clothes and victuals and folks were clever to him! but did he ever find his grand relations?" asked ruth, curiosity getting the better of the reproof she thought it her duty to administer. "i don't know yet. but he did find something that made him happier and more contented. listen now; for you'll like this part, i know. one night, as he came home with the cows, watching the pretty red in the sky, hearing the crickets chirp, and picking flowers along the way, because he liked to have 'em in his room, he felt uncommon lonesome, and kept wishing he'd meet a fairy who'd give him all he wanted. when he got to the house, he thought the fairy had really come; for there on the door-stone stood a little lass, looking at him. a right splendid little lass, ruth, with brown hair long upon her shoulders, blue eyes full of smiles, and a face like one of the pink roses in madam barrett's garden." "did she have good clothes?" demanded ruth, eagerly, for this part of the tale did interest her, as nat foretold. "let me see. yes, nice clothes; but sad-colored, for the riding-cloak that hung over her white dimity frock was black. yet she stood on a pair of the trimmest feet ever seen, wearing hose with fine clocks, and silver buckles in the little shoes. you may believe the boy stared well, for he had never seen so pretty a sight in all his days, and before he knew it he had given her his nosegay of sheepsbane, fern, and honeysuckle. she took it, looking pleased, and made him as fine a courtesy as any lady; whereat he turned red and foolish, being shy, and hurried off into the barn. but she came skipping after, and peeped at him as he milked, watched how he did it for a bit, and then said, like a little queen, 'boy, get up and let me try.' that pleased him mightily; so, taking little madam on his knee, he let her try. but something went amiss, for all at once brindle kicked over the pail, away went the three-legged stool, and both the milkers lay in the dirt." "why, nat! why, nat! that was you and i," cried ruth, clapping her hands delightedly, as this catastrophe confirmed the suspicions which had been growing in her mind since the appearance of the child. "hush! or i'll never tell how they got up," said nat, hurrying on with a mirthful face. "the boy thought the little maid would cry over her bruised arm or go off in a pet at sight of the spoilt frock. but no; she only laughed, patted old brindle, and sat down, saying stoutly, 'i shall try again and do it right.' so she did, and while she milked she told how she was an orphan and had come to be uncle dan's girl all her life. that was a pleasant hearing for the lad, and he felt as if the fairy had done better by him than he had hoped. they were friends at once, and played cat's cradle on the kitchen settle all the evening. but, when the child was put to bed in a strange room, her little heart failed her, and she fell a-sobbing for her mother. nothing would comfort her till the boy went up and sang her to sleep, with her pretty hand in his and all her tears quite gone. that was nigh upon two years ago; but from that night they were fast friends, and happier times began for the boy, because he had something to love and live for besides work. she was very good to him, and nowhere in all the world was there a dearer, sweeter lass than nat snow's little maid." during the latter part of this tale "founded upon fact," ruth had been hugging her playmate's head in both her chubby arms, and when he ended by drawing down the rosy face to kiss it softly on the lips it grew a very april countenance, as she exclaimed, with a childish burst of affection, curiosity, and wonder,-- "dear nat, how good you were to me that night and ever since! did you really come in a basket, and don't you know any thing about your folks? good lack! and to think you may turn out a lord's son, after all!" "how could i help being good to you, dear? yes, i'll show you the very basket, if aunt becky has not burnt it up as rubbish. i know nought about my folk, and have no name but snow. uncle dan gave me that because i came in the storm, and the dear mother added nathaniel, her own boy's name, since i was sent to take his place, she said. as for being a lord's son, i'd rather be a greater man than that." and nat rose up with sudden energy in his voice, a sudden kindling of the eyes, that pleased ruth, and made her ask, with firm faith in the possibility of his being any thing he chose,-- "you mean a king?" "no, a poet!" "but that's not fine at all!" and ruth looked much disappointed. "it is the grandest thing in the world! look now, the man who wrote this play was a poet, and, though long dead, he is still loved and honored, when the kings and queens he told about would be forgotten but for him. who cares for them, with all their splendor? who does not worship william shakespeare, whose genius made him greater than the whole of them!" cried nat, hugging the dingy book, his face all aglow with the beautiful enthusiasm of a true believer. "was master shakespeare rich and great?" asked ruth, staring at him with round eyes. "never rich or great in the way you mean, or even famous, till after he was dead." "then i'd rather have you like major wild, for he owns much land, lives in a grand house, and wears the finest-laced coat in all the town. will you be like him, please, nat?" "no, i won't!" answered the lad, with emphatic brevity, as the image of the red-faced, roystering major passed before his mind's eye. his bluntness ruffled his little sovereign's temper for a moment, and she asked with a frown,-- "what do you think aunt becky said yesterday, when we found ever so many of your verses hidden in the clothes-press, where we went to put lavender among the linen?" "something sharp, and burnt the papers, i'll warrant," replied nat, with the resignation of one used to such trials. "no, she kept 'em to cover jam-pots with, and she said you were either a fool or a genus. is a genus very bad, nat?" added ruth, relenting as she saw his dreamy eyes light up with what she fancied was a spark of anger. "aunt becky thinks so; but i don't, and, though i may not be one, sooner or later folks shall see that i'm no fool, for i feel, i know, i was not born to hoe corn and feed pigs all my life." "what will you do?" cried ruth, startled by the almost passionate energy with which he spoke. "till i'm twenty-one i'll stay to do my duty. when the time comes, i'll break away and try my own life, for i shall have a right to do it then." "and leave me? nay, i'll not let you go." and ruth threw her dandelion chain about his neck, claiming her bondsman with the childish tyranny he found so sweet. he laughed and let her hold him, seeing how frail the green links were; little dreaming how true a symbol it was of the stronger tie by which she would hold him when the time came to choose between liberty and love. "five years is a long time, ruthy. you will get tired of my odd ways, and be glad to have me go. but never fret about it; for, whatever happens, i'll not forget you." quite satisfied with this promise, the little maid fell to sticking buttercups in the band of the straw hat her own nimble fingers had braided, as if bent on securing one crown for her friend. but nat, leaning his head upon his hand, sat watching the sunshine glitter on the placid stream that rippled at his feet, with such intentness that ruth presently disturbed him by demanding curiously,-- "what is it? a kingfisher or a turtle?" "it's the river, dear. it seems to sing to me as it goes by. i always hear it, yet i never understand what it says. do you?" ruth fixed her blue eyes on the bluer water, listened for an instant, then laughed out blithely, and sprung up, saying,-- "it sings: 'come and fish, nat. come and fish!'" the boy's face fell, the dreamy look faded, and, with a patient sort of sigh, he rose and followed her, leaving his broken dream with his beloved book among the buttercups. but, though he sat by ruth in the shadow of the alder-bushes, his rod hung idly from his hand, for he was drawing bright fancies from a stream she never saw, was dimly feeling that he had a harder knot to disentangle than his little friend's, and faintly hearing a higher call than hers, in the ripple of the river. chapter ii. five years later ruth was in the dairy making up butter, surrounded by tier above tier of shining pans, whence proceeded a breath as fresh and fragrant as if the ghosts of departed king-cups and clover still haunted the spot. standing before a window where morning-glories rung their colored bells in the balmy air, she was as pleasant a sight as any eye need wish to see upon a summer's day; for the merry child had bloomed into a sprightly girl, rich in rustic health and beauty. all practical virtues were hers; and, while they wore so comely a shape, they possessed a grace that hid the lack of those finer attributes which give to womanhood its highest charm. the present was all in all to ruth. its homely duties were her world, its petty griefs and joys her life, and her ambition was bounded by her desire to show her mates the finest yarn, the sweetest butter, the gayest cardinal, and the handsomest sweetheart, in the town. an essentially domestic character, cheery as the blaze upon the hearth, contented as the little kettle singing there, and so affectionate, discreet, and diligent that she was the model damsel of the town, the comfort of uncle daniel's age, the pride of aunt becky's heart, the joy of nat's life, and the desire of his eyes. unlike as ever, the pair were still fast friends. nay, more, for the past year had been imperceptibly transforming that mild sentiment into a much warmer one by the magic of beauty, youth, and time. year after year nat had patiently toiled on, for gratitude controlled ambition, and ruth's presence made his life endurable. but nature was stronger than duty or love, and as the boy ripened into the man he looked wistfully beyond the narrow present into the great future, which allures such as he with vague, sweet prophecies, hard to be resisted. silently the struggle went on, steadily the inborn longing strengthened, and slowly the resolution was fixed to put his one gift to the test and learn if it was a vain delusion or a lovely possibility. each year proved to himself and those about him that their world was not his world, their life his life; for, like andersen's young swan, the barnyard was no home to him, and when the other fowls cackled, hissed, and scolded, he could only put his head under his wing and sigh for the time when he should join "the beautiful white birds among the rushes of the stream that flowed through the poet's garden, where the sun shone and the little children played." ruth knew his dreams and desires; but, as she could not understand them, she tried to cure them by every innocent art in her power, and nursed him through many a fit of the heart-sickness of hope deferred as patiently as she would have done through any less occult disease that flesh is heir to. she was thinking of him as she worked that day, and wishing she could mould his life as easily as she did the yellow lumps before her, stamping them with her own mark, and setting them away for her own use. she felt that some change was about to befall nat, for she had listened to the murmur of voices as the old man and the young sat talking far into the night. what the result had been was as yet unknown; for uncle daniel was unusually taciturn that morning, and nat had been shut up in his room since breakfast, though spring work waited for him all about the farm. an unwonted sobriety sat on ruth's usually cheerful face, and she was not singing as she worked, but listening intently for a well-known step to descend the creaking stairs. presently it came, paused a moment in the big kitchen, where aunt becky was flying about like a domestic whirlwind, and ruth heard nat ask for her with a ring in his voice that made her heart begin to flutter. "she's in the dairy. but for landsake where are you a-going, boy? i declare for't, you look so fine and chirk i scursely knew yer," answered the old lady, pausing in her work to stare at the astonishing spectacle of nat in his sunday best upon a week day. "i'm going to seek my fortune, aunty. won't you wish me luck?" replied nat, cheerily. aunt becky had a proverb for every occasion, and could not lose this opportunity for enriching the malcontent with a few suited to his case. "yes, child, the best of lucks; but it's my opinion that, if we 'get spindle and distaff ready, the lord will send the flax,' without our goin' to look for't. 'every road has its puddle,' and 'he that prieth into a cloud may get struck by lightenin'.' god bless you, my dear, and remember that 'a handful of good life is wuth a bushel of learnin'.'" "i will, ma'am; and also bear in mind that 'he who would have eggs must bear the cackling of hens,'" with which return shot nat vanished, leaving the old lady to expend her energies and proverbs upon the bread she was kneading with a vigor that set the trough rocking like a cradle. why ruth began to sing just then, and why she became so absorbed in her oleaginous sculpture as to seem entirely unconscious of the appearance of a young man at the dairy door, are questions which every woman will find no difficulty in answering. actuated by one of the whims which often rule the simplest of the sex, she worked and sang as if no anxiety had ruffled her quiet heart; while nat stood and watched her with an expression which would have silenced her, had she chosen to look up and meet it. the years that had done much for ruth had been equally kind to nat, in giving him a generous growth for the figure leaning in the doorway seemed full of the vigor of wholesome country life. but the head that crowned it was such as one seldom sees on a farmer's shoulders; for the brown locks, gathered back into a ribbon, after the fashion of the time, showed a forehead of harmonious outline, overarching eyes full of the pathos and the passion that betray the presence of that gift which is divine when young. the mouth was sensitive as any woman's, and the lips were often folded close, as if pride controlled the varying emotions that swayed a nature ardent and aspiring as a flame of fire. few could read the language of this face, yet many felt the beauty that it owed to a finer source than any grace of shape or color, and wondered where the subtle secret lay. "ruth, may i tell you something?" "of course you may. only don't upset the salt-box or sit down upon the churn." nat did neither, but still leaned in the doorway and still watched the trim figure before him, as if it was very pleasant to his eyes; while ruth, after a brief glance over her shoulder, a nod and a smile, spatted away as busily as ever. "you know i was one-and-twenty yesterday?" "i'm not like to forget it, after sewing my eyes out to work a smart waistcoat as a keepsake." "nor i; for there's not such another in the town, and every rosebud is as perfect as if just pulled from our bush yonder. see, i've put it on as knights put on their armor when they went to fight for fortune and their ladies' love." as he spoke, nat smilingly thrust his hands into the pockets of a long-flapped garment, which was a master-piece of the needlework in vogue a century ago. ruth glanced up at him with eyes full of hearty admiration for the waistcoat and its wearer. but something in those last words of his filled her with a trouble both sweet and bitter, as she asked anxiously,-- "are you going away, nat?" "for a week only. uncle has been very kind, and given me a chance to prove which road it's best for me to take, since the time has come when i must choose. i ride to boston this afternoon, ruth, carrying my poems with me, that i may submit them to the criticism of certain learned gentlemen, who can tell me if i deceive myself or not. i have agreed to abide by their decision, and if it is in my favor--as god grant it be--uncle leaves me free to live the life i love, among my books and all that makes this world glorious. think, ruth,--a poet in good truth, to sing when i will, and delve no more! will you be pleased and proud if i come back and tell you this?" "indeed, i will, if it makes you happy. and yet"--she paused there, looking wistfully into his face, now all aglow with the hope and faith that are so blissful and so brief. "what is it, lass? speak out and tell me all that's in your heart, for i mean to show you mine," he said in a commanding tone seldom heard before, for he seemed already to have claimed the fair inheritance that makes the poet the equal of the prince. ruth felt the change with a thrill of pride, yet dared suggest the possibility of failure, as a finer nature would have shrunk from doing in such a happy, hopeful hour as that. "if the learned gentlemen decide that the poems have no worth, what then?" he looked at her an instant, like one fallen from the clouds, then squared his shoulders, as if resettling the burden put off for a day, and answered bravely, though a sudden shadow crossed his face, "then i give up my dream and fall to work again,--no poet, but a man, who will do his best to be an honest one. i have promised uncle to abide by this decision, and i'll keep my word." "will it be very hard, nat?" and ruth's eyes grew pitiful, for in his she read how much the sacrifice would cost him. "ay, lass, very hard," he said briefly; then added, with an eloquent change in voice and face, "unless you help me bear it. sweetheart, whichever road i take, i had no thought to go alone. will you walk with me, ruth? god knows i'll make the way as smooth and pleasant as a faithful husband can." the busy hands stopped working there, for nat held them fast in his, and all her downcast eyes could see were the gay flowers her needle wrought, agitated by the beating of the man's heart underneath. her color deepened beautifully and her lips trembled, in spite of the arch smile they wore, as she said half-tenderly, half-wilfully,-- "but i should be afeared to marry a poet, if they are such strange and delicate creatures as i've heard tell. 'twould be like keeping house for a butterfly. i tried to cage one once; but the poor thing spoilt its pretty wings beating against the bars, and when i let it go it just dropped down and died among the roses there." "but if i be no poet, only a plain farmer, with no ambition except how i may prosper and make my wife a happy woman, what answer then, ruth?" he asked, feeling as the morning-glories might have felt if a cold wind had blown over them. "dear lad, it's this!" and, throwing both arms about his neck, the honest little creature kissed his brown cheek heartily. after that no wonder if ruth forgot her work, never saw an audacious sunbeam withering the yellow roses she had caused to bloom, never heard the buzz of an invading fly, nor thought to praise the labor of her hands, though her plump cheek was taking off impressions of the buttons on the noble waistcoat. while to nat the little dairy had suddenly become a paradise, life for a moment was all poetry, and nothing in the wide world seemed impossible. "ruth! ruth! the cat's fell into the pork-kag, and my hands is in the dough. for massy sake, run down suller and fish her out!" that shrill cry from aunt becky broke the spell, dissolved the blissful dream, for, true to her instincts, ruth forgot the lover in the housewife, and vanished, leaving nat alone with his love--and the butter-pats. chapter iii. he rode gallantly away to boston that afternoon, and ten days later came riding slowly home again, with the precious manuscript still in his saddle-bag. "what luck, boy?" asked uncle dan, with a keen glance from under his shaggy brows, as the young man came into the big kitchen, where they all sat together when the day's work was done. "pretty much what you foretold, sir," answered nat, trying to smile bravely as he took his place beside ruth on the settle, where she sat making up cherry-colored breast-knots by the light of one candle. "fools go out to shear and come home shorn," muttered aunt becky from the chimney-corner, where she sat reeling yarn and brooding over some delectable mess that simmered on the coals. nat did not hear the flattering remark; for he was fingering a little packet that silently told the story of failure in its dog-eared leaves, torn wrappers, and carelessly knotted string. "yes," he said rapidly, as if anxious to have a hard task over, "i showed my poems to sundry gentlemen, as i proposed. one liked them much, and said they showed good promise of better things; but added that it was no time for such matters now, and advised me to lay them by till i was older. a very courteous and friendly man this was, and i felt much beholden to him for his gracious speeches. the second criticized my work sharply, and showed me how i should mend it. but, when he was done, i found all the poetry had gone out of my poor lines, and nothing was left but fine words; so i thanked him and went away, thinking better of my poems than when i entered. the third wise man gave me his opinion very briefly, saying, as he handed back the book, 'put it in the fire.'" "nay! but that was too harsh. they are very pretty verses, nat, though most of them are far beyond my poor wits," said ruth, trying to lighten the disappointment that she saw weighed heavily on her lover's spirit. "in the good gentleman's study, i had a sight of some of the great poets of the world, and while he read my verses i got a taste of milton, spenser, and my own shakespeare's noble sonnets. i saw what mine lacked; yet some of them rang true, so i took heart and trimmed them up in the fashion my masters set me. let me read you one or two, ruth, while you tie your true lover's knots." and, eagerly opening the beloved book, nat began to read by the dim light of the tallow candle, blind to the resigned expression ruth's face assumed, deaf to aunt becky's muttered opinion that "an idle brain is the devil's workshop," and quite unconscious that uncle dan spread a checked handkerchief over his bald pate, ready for a nap. absorbed in his delightful task, the young poet went on reading his most perfect lines, with a face that brightened blissfully, till, just as he was giving a love-lay in his tenderest tone, a mild snore checked his heavenward flight, and brought him back to earth with a rude shock. he started, paused, and looked about him, like one suddenly wakened from a happy dream. uncle dan was sound asleep, aunt becky busily counting her tidy skeins, and ruth, making a mirror of one of the well-scoured pewter platters on the dresser, was so absorbed in studying the effect of the gay breast-knots that she innocently betrayed her inattention by exclaiming, with a pretty air of regret,-- "and that's the end?" "that is the end," he answered, gently closing the book which no one cared to hear, and, hiding his reproachful eyes behind his hand, he sat silent, till uncle dan, roused by the cessation of the melodious murmur that had soothed his ear, demanded with kindly bluntness,-- "well, boy, which is it to be, moonshine or money? i want you to be spry about decidin', for things is gittin' behindhand, and i cattle'ate to hire if you mean to quit work." "sakes alive! no man in his senses would set long on the fence when there's a good farm and a smart wife a-waitin' on one side and nothin' but poetry and starvation on the other!" ejaculated aunt becky, briskly clattering the saucepan-lid, as if to add the savory temptations of the flesh to those of filthy lucre. ruth said nothing, but looked up at nat with the one poetic sentiment of her nature shining in her eyes and touching her with its tender magic, till it seemed an easy thing to give up liberty for love. the dandelion chain the child wove round the boy had changed to a flowery garland now, but the man never saw the thorns among the roses, and let the woman fetter him again; for, as he looked at her, nat flung the cherished book into the fire with one hand, and with the other took possession of the only bribe that could win him from that other love. "i decide as you would have me, sir. not for the sake of the farm you promise me, but for love of her who shall one day be its happy mistress, please god." "now that's sensible and hearty, and i'm waal pleased, my boy. you jest buckle to for a year stiddy and let your ink-horn dry, and we'll have as harnsome a weddin' as man could wish,--always providin' ruth don't change her mind," said uncle dan, beaming benignantly at the young pair through a cloud of tobacco smoke; while aunt becky poked the condemned manuscript deeper into the coals, as if anxious to exorcise its witchcraft by fire, in the good old fashion. but even in ruth's arms nat cast one longing, loving glance at his first-born darling on its funeral-pyre; then turned his head resolutely away, and whispered to the girl,-- "never doubt that i love you, sweetheart, since for your sake i have given up the ambition of my life. i don't regret it, but be patient with me till i learn to live without my 'moonshine,' as you call it." "sunshine is better, and i'll make it for you, if i can. so cheer up, dear lad, fall to work like a man, and you'll soon forget your pretty nonsense," answered ruth, with firm faith in the cure she proposed. "i'll try." and, folding his wings, pegasus bent his neck to the yoke and fell to ploughing. nat kept his word and did try manfully, working early and late, with an energy that delighted uncle dan, made aunt becky bestir herself to bleach her finest webs for the wedding outfit, and caused ruth to believe that he had forgotten the "pretty nonsense;" for the pen lay idle and he gave all his leisure to her, discussing house-gear and stock with as deep an interest as herself apparently. all summer long he toiled like one intent only on his crops; all winter he cut wood and tended cattle, as if he had no higher hope than to sell so many cords and raise likely calves for market. outwardly he was a promising young farmer, with a prosperous future and a notable wife awaiting him. but deep in the man's heart a spark of the divine fire still burned, unquenched by duty, love, or time. the spirit that made light in milton's darkness, walked with burns beside the plough, and lifted shakespeare higher than the royal virgin's hand, sang to nat in the airy whisper of the pines, as he labored in the wintry wood, smiled back at him in every ox-eyed daisy his scythe laid low along the summer fields, and solaced him with visions of a fairer future than any buxom ruth could paint. it would not leave him, and he learned too late that it was the life of his life, a gift that could not be returned, a blessing turned into a curse; for, though he had burned the little book, from its ashes rose a flame that consumed him, since it could find no vent. even the affection, for which he had made a costlier sacrifice than he knew, looked pale and poor beside the loftier loveliness that dawned upon him in the passionate struggle, ripening heart and soul to sudden manhood; and the life that lay before him seemed very bleak and barren when he returned from playing truant in the enchanted world imagination opens to her gifted children. ruth vaguely felt the presence of this dumb despair, dimly saw its shadow in the eyes that sometimes wore a tragic look, and fancied that the hand working so faithfully for her was slipping from her hold, it grew so thin and hot with the inward fever, which no herb in all her garden could allay. she vainly tried to rise to his level; but the busy sparrow could not follow the aspiring lark, singing at heaven's gate. it could only chirp its little lay and build its nest, with no thought beyond a straw, a worm, and the mate that was to come. nat never spoke of the past, and ruth dared not, for she grew to feel that he did "regret it" bitterly, though too generous for a word of reproach or complaint. "i'll make it up to him when we are married; and he will learn to love the farm when he has little lads and lasses of his own to work for," she often said to herself, as she watched her lover sit among them, after his day's work, listening to their gossip with a pathetic sort of patience, or, pleading a weariness there was no need to feign, lie on the old settle, lost in thoughts that made his face shine like one who talked with angels. so the year rolled round, and may came again. uncle dan was well satisfied, aunt becky's preparations were completed, and ruth had not "changed her mind." "settle about the weddin' as soon as you like, my girl, and i'll see that it is a merry one," said the old man, coming in from work, as ruth blew the horn from the back porch one night at sunset. "nat must decide that. where is he, uncle?" asked the girl, looking out upon the quiet landscape, touched with spring's tenderest green. "down in the medder, ploughin'. it's a toughish bit, and he'll be late, i reckon; for he took a long noon-spell, and i give him a piece of my mind about it, so i'll venter to say he won't touch a bit of victuals till the last furrow is laid," answered uncle dan, plodding away to wash his hands at the horse-trough. "nay, uncle, it is his birthday, and surely he had a right to a little rest, for he works like a slave, to please us, though far from well, i'm thinking." and, waiting for no reply, ruth hurried in, filled a tankard with cider, and tripped away to bring her lover home, singing as she went, for nat loved to hear her voice. down the green lane toward the river the happy singer stepped, thinking in what sweet words she could give the old man's message. but the song died on her lips and the smiling eyes grew wistful suddenly; for, passing by the willow-trees, she saw the patient oxen standing in the field alone. "nat is hunting violets for me," she thought, with a throb of pleasure; for she was jealous of a viewless rival, and valued every token of fidelity her lover gave her. but as she drew nearer ruth frowned; for nat lay beside the river, evidently quite forgetful of scolding, supper, and sweetheart. no, not of the latter; for a little nosegay of violets lay ready near the paper on which he seemed to be writing a song or sonnet to accompany the gift. seeing this, the frown faded, as the girl stole noiselessly across the grass, to peep over his shoulder, with a soft rebuke for his imprudence and delay. alas for ruth! one glance at the placid face, pillowed on his arm, told her that this birthday was nat's last; for the violets were less white than the cheek they touched, the pencil had fallen from nerveless fingers, and death's hand had written "finis" to both life and lay. with a bitter cry, she gathered the weary head into her arms, fearing she had come too late to say good-by. but the eyes that opened were so tranquil, and the pale lips that answered wore such a happy smile, she felt that tears would mar his peace, and hushed her sobs, to listen as he whispered brokenly, with a glance that brightened as it turned from the wide field where his last hard day's work lay finished, to the quiet river, whose lullaby was soothing him to sleep. "tell uncle i did not stop till the job was done, nor break my promise; for the year is over now, and it was so sweet to write again that i forgot to go home till it was too late." "o nat, not too late. you shall work no more, but write all day, without a care. we have been too hard upon you, and you too patient with our blindness. dear lad, forgive us, and come home to live a happier year than this has been," cried ruth, trying with remorseful tenderness to keep the delicate spirit that was escaping from her hold, like the butterfly that died among her roses with broken wings. but nat had no desire to stay; for he _was_ going home, to feel hunger, thirst, and weariness no more, to find a love ruth could not give, and to change earth's prose to heaven's immortal poetry. yet he lingered on the threshold to look back and whisper gently: "it is better so, sweetheart. there was no place for me here, and i was homesick for my own friends and country. i'm going to find them, and i'm quite content. forget me and be happy; or remember me only in the springtime, when the world is loveliest and my birthday comes. see, this is all i had to give you; but my heart was in it." he tried to lift the unfinished song and give it to her; but it fluttered down upon his breast, and the violets dropped after, lying there unstirred by any breath, for with the words a shadow deeper than that twilight laid upon the fields stole over the face on ruth's bosom, and all the glory of the sunset sky could only touch it with a pathetic peace, as the poet lay asleep beside the river. he lies there still, the legend says, under the low green mound, where violets bloom earliest, where the old willows drop their golden tassels in the spring, and blackbirds fill the air with their melodious ecstasy. no song of his lived after him; no trace of him remains, except that nameless grave; and few ever heard of one who came and went like the snow for which they christened him. yet it seems as if his gentle ghost still haunted those sunny meadows, still listened to the enchanted river, and touched with some mysterious charm the places that knew him once. for strangers find a soft attraction in the quiet landscape; lovers seek those green solitudes to tell the story that is always new; and poets muse beside the shadowy stream, hearing, as he heard, a call to live the life that lifts them highest by unwavering fidelity to the gift heaven sends. letty's tramp. letty sat on the doorstep one breezy summer day, looking down the road and wishing with all her heart that something pleasant would happen. she often did this; and one of her earliest delights when a lonely child was to sit there with a fairy book upon her knee, waiting and watching in all good faith for something wonderful to happen. in those days, cinderella's golden coach dashing round the corner to carry her away was the favorite dream; but at eighteen one thinks more of the prince than either golden coach or splendid ball. but no prince as yet had cut his way through the grove of "laylocks" round the gate, and the little beauty still dreamed waking dreams on the doorstep, with her work forgotten in her lap. behind her in the quaint, quiet room aunt liddy dozed in her easy chair, the clock ticked, the bird chirped, old bran snapped lazily at the flies, and nothing else broke the hush that brooded over the place. it was always so, and letty often felt as if an earthquake would be a blessed relief to the dreadful monotony of her life. to-day it was peculiarly trying, for a slight incident had ruffled the calm; and, though it lasted but a moment, it had given letty a glimpse into that lovely "new world which is the old." a carriage containing a gay young couple on their honeymoon trip had stopped at the gate, for the bride had a fancy for a draught from the mossy well, and the bridegroom blandly demanded that her whim be gratified. letty served them, and while one pretty girl slaked her thirst the other watched her with admiring eyes and a tender interest, touched by envy. it was all over in a minute. then bonny bride and enamoured bridegroom rolled away on that enchanted journey which is taken but once in a lifetime, leaving a cloud of dust behind and a deeper discontent in letty's heart. with a long sigh she had gone back to her seat, and, closing her eyes upon a world that could offer her so little, fell a-dreaming again, till a rough voice startled her wide awake. "i say, miss, can you give a poor fellow a bite and a sup?" opening her eyes, she saw a sturdy tramp leaning over the low gate, so ragged, dusty, worn, and weary that she forgave the look of admiration in the bold black eyes which had been fixed on her longer than she knew. before she could answer, however, aunt liddy, a hospitable old soul, called out from within,-- "certin, certin. set right down on the doorstep and rest a spell, while we see what we can do about vittles." letty vanished into the pantry, and the man threw himself down in the shady porch, regardless of bran's suspicious growl. he pulled off his hat, stretched out his tired limbs, and leaned his rough head back among the woodbine leaves, with a long breath, as if nearly spent. when letty brought him a plate of bread and meat, he took it from her so eagerly and with such a ravenous look that she shrank back involuntarily. seeing which he said, with a poor attempt at a laugh,-- "you needn't be afraid. i look like a rough customer; but i won't hurt you. "lawful sakes! we ain't no call to be afraid of no one, though we be lone women; for bran is better'n a dozen men. a lamb to them he knows; but let any one try to pester letty, and i never see a fercer beast," said aunt liddy, as the girl went back for more food, seeing the stranger's need. "he knows _i'm_ all right, and makes friends at once, you see," answered the tramp, with a satisfied nod, as bran, after a brief investigation, sat down beside him, with a pacific wag of the tail. "well, i never! he don't often do that to strangers. guess you're fond of dumb critters," said aunt liddy, much impressed by bran's unusual condescension. "they've been my best friends, and i don't forget it," returned the man, giving the dog a bone, though half-starved himself. something in the tone, the act, touched letty's tender heart, and made her own voice very sweet and cordial as she said,-- "please have some milk. it's nice and cold." the tramp put up both hands to take the bowl, and as he did so looked into a face so full of compassion that it seemed like an angel's leaning down to comfort a lost and weary soul. hard as life had been to the poor fellow, it had not spoiled him yet, as was plainly proved by the change that softened his whole face like magic, and trembled in the voice that said, as if it were a sort of grace, "god bless you, miss," as he bent his head and drank. only a look of human sympathy and human gratitude; yet, in the drawing of a breath, it cast out letty's fear, and made the stranger feel as if he had found friends, for it was the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. every one seemed to feel its influence. bran turned his benevolent eyes approvingly from his mistress to his new friend: the girl sat down confidingly; and the old lady began to talk, for, being fond of chat, she considered a stranger as a special providence. "where be you travellin'?" "nowhere in particular." "where did you come from, then?" continued aunt liddy, undaunted by the short answer. "california." "do tell! guess you've been one of the rovin' sort, ain't you?" "haven't done much else." "it don't appear to have agreed with you remarkable well," said the blunt old lady, peering at him over her spectacles. "if i hadn't had the devil's own luck, i'd have been a rich man, instead of a beggar," answered the tramp, with a grim look and an ireful knitting of his black brows. "been unfort'nate, have you? i'm sorry for that; but it 'pears to me them as stays to home and works stiddy does better than them that goes huntin' after luck," observed aunt liddy, feeling it her duty to give a word of advice. "shouldn't wonder if you were right, ma'am. but some folks haven't got any home to stay in; and fellows of my sort have to hunt after luck, for it won't come to 'em." "ain't you got no friends, young man?" "not one. lost the last yesterday." "took suddin, i suppose?" and the old lady's face was full of interest as she put the question. "drowned." "merciful sakes! how did it happen?" "got hurt, couldn't be cured, so i drowned him, and"-- "what!" shrieked aunt liddy, upsetting her footstool with a horrified start. "only a dog, ma'am. i couldn't carry him, wouldn't leave him to suffer; so put him out of pain and came on alone." the tramp had ceased eating, and sat with his head on his hand in a despondent attitude, that told his story better than words. his voice was gruffer than ever as he spoke of his dog; but the last word was husky, and he put his hand on bran's head with a touch that won the good creature's heart entirely, and made him lick the downcast face, with a little whine of sympathy and satisfaction. letty's eyes were full, and aunt liddy took snuff and settled her footstool, feeling that something must be done for one who showed signs of being worth the saving. "poor creter! and you was fond of him?" she said in a motherly tone; for the man of five or six and twenty was but a boy to her. "i'd have been a brute if i wasn't fond of him, for he stuck to me when all the other fellows cut me, and tried to drag himself along with a broken leg, rather than leave me. talk about friends! give me a dumb animal if you want one worth having." a bitter tone was in the man's voice and a wrathful spark kindled in his eyes, as if wrong as well as want had made him what he was. "rest a little, and tell us about california. a neighbor went there, and we like to hear news of that great, splendid place." letty spoke, and the half-eager, half-timid voice was very winning, especially to one who seldom heard such now. seeing her kindly interest, and glad to pay for his meal in the only way he could, the man told some of his adventures in brief but graphic words, while the old woman plied him with questions and the young one listened with a face so full of pretty wonder that the story-teller was inspired to do his best. aunt liddy's cap-frills stood erect with horror at some of the hair-breadth escapes recounted; but to letty it was better than any romance she had ever read to listen to tales full of danger and hardship, told by a living voice and face to face with the chief actor in them all, who unconsciously betrayed that he possessed many of the manly attributes women most admire. "after adventures like these, i don't wonder it seems hard to settle down, as other folks do," she said warmly, when the man stopped short, as if ashamed of talking so much of his own affairs. "i wouldn't mind trying it, though," he answered, as he glanced about the sunny little room, so home-like and reposeful, and so haunted by all the sweet influences that touch men's hearts when most forlorn. "you'd better," said aunt liddy, decidedly. "git work and stick to it; and, if luck don't come, bread and butter will, and in a world of woe mebby that's about as much as any one on us ought to expect." "i have tried to get it. but i'm such a hard-looking chap no one wants me; and i don't blame 'em. look at that hat, now! ain't that enough to spoil a man's chance, let alone his looks?" the young fellow held up a battered object with such a comical mixture of disgust and indignation that letty could not help laughing; and the blithe sound was so contagious that the wanderer joined in it, cheered already by rest and food and kindly words. "it's singular what store men-folks do set by their hats. my moses couldn't never read his paper till he'd put on his'n, and as for drivin' a nail bare-headed, in doors or out, he'd never think of such a thing," said aunt liddy, with the air of one well versed in the mysterious ways of men-folks. but letty clapped her hands, as if a brilliant idea had flashed upon her, and, running to the back entry, returned with a straw hat, brown and dusty, but shady, whole, and far more appropriate to the season than the ragged felt the man was eying hopelessly. "it isn't very good; but it might do for a time. we only keep it to scare folks, and i don't feel afraid now. would you mind if i gave it to you?" stammered letty, coloring up, as she tried to offer her poor gift courteously. "mind! i guess i'd be glad to get it, fit or no fit," and, dropping the old hat, the tramp clapped on the new one, making his mirror of the bright eyes before him. "it does nicely, and you're very welcome," said the girl, getting rosier still, for there was something beside gratitude in the brown face that had lost the dogged, dangerous look it wore at first. "now, if you was to wash up and smooth that hair of yourn a trifle, you'd be a likely-looking young man; and, if you're civil-spoken and willin' to lend a hand anywheres, you'll git work, i ain't a doubt," observed aunt liddy, feeling a growing interest in the wayfarer, and, womanlike, acknowledging the necessity of putting the best foot foremost. letty ran for basin and towel, and, pointing to the well, modestly retired into the kitchen, while aunt liddy watched the vigorous scrubbing that went on in the yard; for the tramp splashed the water about like a newfoundland dog, and bran assisted at the brief toilet with hospitable zeal. it seemed as if a different man came out from that simple baptism; for the haggard cheek had a glow upon it, the eyes had lost their hopelessness, and something like courage and self-respect shone in the face that looked in at the door as the stranger gave back basin and towel, saying, with a wave of the old straw hat,-- "i'm heartily obliged, ma'am. would you kindly tell me how far it is to the next big town?" "twenty miles. the cars will take you right there, and the deepo ain't fur," answered aunt liddy, showing the way. the man glanced at his ragged shoes, then squared his broad shoulders, as if bracing himself for the twenty long hot miles that his weary feet must carry him, since his pockets were empty, and he could not bring himself to ask for any thing but food enough to keep life in him. "good-by, ma'am, and god bless you." and, slouching the hat over his eyes, he limped away, escorted to the gate by bran. at the turn of the road he stopped and looked back as wistfully as ever letty had done along the shadowy road, and as he looked it seemed as if he saw a younger self setting off with courage, hope, and energy upon the journey, which alas! had ended here. his eye went to the old well, as if there had been some healing in its water; then turned to the porch, where he had been fed and comforted, and lingered there as if some kindly memory warmed his solitary heart. just then a little figure in blue gingham ran out and came fluttering after him, accompanied by bran, in a state of riotous delight. rosy and breathless, letty hurried to him, and, looking up with a face full of the innocent compassion that never can offend, she said, offering a parcel neatly folded up,-- "aunt liddy sends you some dinner; and this, so that you needn't walk, unless you like, you are so lame." as if more touched than he cared to show, the man took the food, but gently put away the little roll of greenbacks, saying quickly,-- "thank you for this; but i can't take your money." "we ain't rich, but we love to help folks. so you needn't be proud about it." and letty looked ruffled at his refusal. "i'll take something else, if you don't mind," said the tramp, pulling off his hat, with a sudden smile that made his face look young and comely. "what is it?" and letty looked up so innocently that it was impossible to resist the impulse of a grateful heart. his answer was to stoop and kiss the blooming cheek, that instantly grew scarlet with girlish shame and anger as she turned to fly. catching her by the hand, he said penitently,-- "i couldn't help it, you're so good to me. don't begrudge me a kiss for luck. i need it, god knows!" the man's real destitution and despair broke out in these words, and he grasped the little hand as if it was the only thing that kept him from the manifold temptations of a desperate mood. it thrilled the girl like a cry for help, and made her forget everything except that a fellow-creature suffered. she shook the big hand warmly, and said, with all her heart,-- "you're welcome, if it helps you. good-by and good luck to you!" and ran away as fast as she had come. the man stood motionless, and watched her till she vanished, then turned and tramped sturdily on, muttering to himself, with a suspicious gruffness in his voice,-- "if i had a little mate like that alongside, i know my luck would turn." chapter ii. a wild december night, with bitter wind and blinding snow, reigned outside the long, rude building, lighted only by furnace fires, that went roaring up the tall chimneys, whence poured clouds of smoke and showers of sparks, like beacons through the storm. no living thing appeared in that shadowy place except a matronly gray cat, sitting bolt upright upon an old rug spread over a heap of sand near one of the fires. a newspaper and a tin pail were beside her, and she seemed to have mounted guard, while the watchman of the foundry went his rounds. a door stood half-open upon the sheltered side of the building; and suddenly, as if blown thither like a storm-driven bird, a little figure came fluttering in, breathless, half-frozen, and quite bewildered by a long struggle with the pitiless gale. feebly brushing away the snow that blinded her, the poor thing looked about her with frightened eyes; and, seeing no one but the cat, seemed to take courage and crept toward the fire, as if suffering for the moment conquered fear. "oh! pussy, let me warm myself one minute, for i'm perished with the cold," she whispered, stretching two benumbed hands to the blaze. the cat opened her yellow eyes, and, evidently glad to meet one of her own sex, began to purr hospitably as she rustled across the newspaper to greet her guest. there was something inexpressibly comforting in the sound; and, reassured by it, the girl pushed back her drenched hat, shook her snowy garments, and drew a long breath, like one nearly spent. yet, even while she basked in the warmth that was salvation, her timid eyes glanced about the great, gloomy place, and her attitude was that of one ready to fly at a moment's warning. presently a step sounded on a flight of stairs leading to some loft above. the wanderer started like a hare, and, drawing nearer to the door, paused as if to catch a glimpse of the approaching face before she fled away into the storm, that howled just then with a violence which might well daunt a stouter heart. a tall man, in a rough coat, with grizzled hair and beard under an old fur cap, came slowly down the steps, whistling softly to himself, as he swung his lantern to and fro. "an old man, and the cat is fond of him. i guess i'll dare to ask my way, or i'll never get home," thought the girl, as her eye scanned the new-comer with a woman's quickness. an involuntary rustle of her dress caught his ear, and, lifting the lantern, he saw her at once; but did not speak, as if afraid of frightening her still more, for her pale face and the appealing gesture of the outstretched hand told her fear and need better than her hurried words,-- "oh! please, i've lost my way and am nearly frozen. could i warm myself a bit and find out where i am?" "of course, you may. why, bless your heart, i wouldn't turn a dog out such a night as this, much less a poor little soul like you," answered the man, in a hearty tone, that rang true on the listening ear of the girl. then he hung up the lantern, put a stool nearer the fire, and beckoned her to approach. but even the kindly words and act failed to win the timid creature; for she drew back as he advanced, gave a glance at the door, and said, as if appealing to the best instincts of the man, whom she longed yet feared to trust,-- "thank you; but it's getting late, and i ought to be getting on, if i knew the way. perhaps you've got some girls of your own, so you can understand how scared i am to be lost at night and in such a strange place as this." the man stared, then laughed, and, shaking the snow from his curly hair and beard, showed himself to be a young and pleasant-looking fellow, with a merry eye, an honest brown face, and a hearty voice. "you thought i was an old chap, did you? wish i was, if it would be any comfort to you. i've got no little girls, neither, more's the pity; but you needn't be afraid of me, though it is late and lonely. why, lord love you, child, i'm not a brute! sit down and thaw out, while you tell me where you want to go." the half-indignant tone of the man made his guest feel as if she had insulted him; and she obeyed with a docility which appeased his anger at once. seating herself upon the stool, she leaned toward the fire with an irrepressible shiver, and tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she told her little story. "i want work badly, and went a long way, hoping to get some. but i didn't find it, and that discouraged me very much. i had no money, so had to walk, and the storm got so bad i lost my way. then i was scared and half-frozen, and so bewildered i think i'd have died if i hadn't seen the light and come in here." "i guess you would. and the best thing you can do now is to stop till the storm lifts. shouldn't wonder if it did about midnight," said the man, stirring up the red embers, as if anxious to do something for her comfort. "but that is so late, and i must be ever so far away from home; for i came over the wrong bridge. oh, me! what shall i do?" and the poor thing wrung her hands in dismay. "won't your folks go to look for you?" "i haven't any one in the world to care for me. the woman where i board won't trouble herself; or she'll think i've run away, because i owe her money. i might be dead in the river, and no one would mind!" sighed the girl, leaning her head on her hands, while some bright, dishevelled hair fell over her face, as if to hide its youth and innocence from a world that seemed to have no shelter for either. "that's hard! but don't you be down-hearted, child. things often mend when they seem worst. i know; for i've been through the mill, and had friends raised up to me when i'd about done with living, as a bad job. i can't leave here till sunrise; but i'll do the best i can for you till then. sam will be along early, and he'll see to you, if you can't trust me; for he is as gray as a badger, and he's got six girls of his own, if that's a recommendation. i've got nothing but a cat; and she trusts me. don't you, old sally?" as he spoke, the man sat down upon the sand-heap, and sally leaped to his knee, rubbing her head against his cheek, with a soft sound of confidence and contentment which seemed to afford her friend great satisfaction. the girl smiled faintly, and said, in an apologetic tone, for there had been something like reproach in the man's voice, as he asked the dumb animal to vouch for his character,-- "i don't believe i'd have dared to come in here if i hadn't seen pussy. but i thought anyone who was good to her would be good to me; and now i'm sure of it." "that's right. you see, i'm a lonesome sort of a chap and like something to pet. so i took old sally, and we get on capitally. she won't let the other fellows touch her, but always comes and sits with me when i am alone here nights. and it's surprising what good company she is." he laughed as he spoke, as if half-ashamed of the amiable weakness, yet anxious to put his guest at her ease. he evidently succeeded; for she stretched two shabby little boots toward the fire and leaned her head against a grimy beam, saying, with a sigh of weariness,-- "it is very comfortable; but the heat makes me feel queer and dizzy." "you're just about used up; and i'm going to give you a cup of hot coffee. that'll bring you round in a jiffy. it's time for supper. hey, sally?" as he spoke, the man set his pail in the hot ashes, unfolded a parcel of bread and meat, and, laying a rude sandwich on a clean bit of paper, offered it with a hospitable-- "have a bit. do, now. you've had a hard pull and need something to set you up." leaning forward to give and take, two faces came into the clear red glow of the furnace-fire, and a look of recognition flashed into each so suddenly that it startled both man and maid into involuntary frankness of expression. "why, it's little letty!" "and you are my tramp!" a change so rapid as to be almost ludicrous came over the pair in the drawing of a breath. she smoothed back her hair and hid the shabby boots, yet sat more erect upon the stool, as if she had a right there and felt no longer any fear. he pulled off his cap, with a pleasant mixture of respect, surprise, and satisfaction in his manner, as he said, in a half-proud, half-humble tone,-- "no, miss; for, thanks to you, i'm a decent man now." "then you did find work and get on?" she exclaimed, with a bright, wistful look, that touched him very much. "didn't you get my letter?" he asked eagerly. "i sent you the first dollar i earned, and told you and the old lady i was all right." letty shook her head, and all the light passed out of her face, leaving it pathetic in its patient sorrow. "aunt liddy died a week after you were there, so suddenly that every thing was in confusion, and i never got the letter. i wish _she_ had known of it, because it would have pleased her so. we often talked about you and hoped you'd do well. we led such quiet lives, you see, that any little thing interested us for a long time." "it was a little thing to you, i dare say; but it was salvation to me. not the money or the food only, but the kindness of the old lady, and--and the look in your sweet face, miss. i'd got so far down, through sickness and bad luck, that there didn't seem any thing left for me but deviltry or death. that day it was a toss-up between any bad job that came along first and drowning, like my dog. that seemed sort of mean, though; and i felt more like being revenged somehow on the world, that had been so hard on me." he stopped short, breathing hard, with a sudden spark in his black eyes and a nervous clenching of the strong hands that made letty shrink; for he seemed to speak in spite of himself, as if the memory of that time had left its impress on his life. "but you didn't do any thing bad. i'm sure you didn't; for aunt liddy said there was the making of a man in you, because you were so quick to feel a little bit of kindness and take good advice." the soft, eager voice of the girl seemed to work the miracle anew, for a smile broke over his face, the angry spark was quenched, and the clenched hand opened to offer again all it had to give, as he said, with a characteristic mingling of fun and feeling in his voice,-- "i don't know much about angels; but i felt as if i'd met a couple that day, for they saved me from destruction. you cast your bread upon the waters, and it's come back when, maybe, you need it 'most as much as i did then. 'tisn't half as nice as yours; but perhaps a blessing will do as well as butter." letty took the brown bread, feeling that he had said the best grace over it; and while she ate he talked, evidently moved to open his heart by the memory of the past, and eager to show that he had manfully persisted in the well-doing his angels had advised. "that was nearly two years ago, you know, and i've been hard at it ever since. i took any thing that come along, and was glad to get it. the hat did that, i firmly believe." and he laughed a short laugh, adding soberly, "but i didn't take to work at first, for i'd been a rover and liked it; so it took a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together before i settled down steady. the hat and the"--he was going to say "kiss;" but a look at the lonely little creature sitting there so confidingly made him change the word to--"the money seemed to bring me luck; and i followed the advice of the good old lady, and stuck to my work till i got to liking it. i've been here more than a year now, and am getting on so well i shall be overseer before long. i'm only watchman for a short time. old sam has been sick, and they wanted some one they could trust, so they chose me." it was good to see him square his broad shoulders and throw back his head as he said that; and pretty to see letty nod and smile with sincerest pleasure in his success, as she said,-- "it looks dark and ugly now; but i've seen a foundry when they were casting, and it was splendid to watch the men manage the furnaces and do wonderful things with great hammers and moulds and buckets of red-hot melted iron. i like to know you do such things, and now i'm not afraid. it seems sort of romantic and grand to work in this place, where every one must be strong and brave and skilful to get on." "that's it. that's why i like it; don't you see?" he answered, brightening with pleasure at her artless praise. "you just come some casting day, and i'll show you sights you won't forget in a hurry. if there wasn't danger and noise and good hard work wrastling with fire and iron, and keeping a rough set of fellows in order, i shouldn't stay; for the restless fit comes on sometimes, and i feel as if i must cut away somewhere. born so, and can't help it. maybe i could, if i had something to anchor me; but, as you say, 'nobody would care much if i was in the river,' and that's bad for a chap like me." "sally would care," said the girl, quite soberly; for she sympathized now with the man's loneliness as she could not have done two years ago. "so she would; but i'll take her with me when i leave--not for the river, mind you. i'm in no danger of that nonsense now. but, if i go on a tramp (and i may, if the fit gets too strong for me), she shall go too; and we'll be dick whittington and his cat over again." he spoke in a devil-may-care tone, and patted the plump tabby with a curious mixture of boyish recklessness and a man's sad knowledge of life in his face. "don't go," pleaded letty, feeling that she had a certain responsibility in the matter. "i should mind, as well as sally; for, if aunt liddy and i helped put you in a good way, it would be a disappointment to have you go wrong. please stop here, and i'll try and come to see you work some day, if i can get time. i'm likely to have plenty of it, i'm afraid." she began eagerly, but ended with a despondent droop of the whole figure, that made her new friend forget himself in interest for her. "i'll stop, honor bright. and you come and look after me now and then. that'll keep me steady. see if it don't. but tell me how you are getting on? little down on your luck just now, i guess? come, i've told my story, you tell yours, and maybe i can lend a hand. i owe you a good turn, you know; and i'm one that likes to pay his debts, if he can." "you did pay yours; but i never got the letter, for i came away after aunty died. you see i wasn't her own niece,--only sort of a distant relation; and she took me because my own people were gone. her son had all she left,--it wasn't much; and she told him to be good to me. but i soon saw that i was a burden, and couldn't bear to stay. so i went away, to take care of myself. i liked it at first; but this winter, times are so hard and work so scarce, i don't get on at all." "what do you do, miss?" asked whittington, with added respect; because in her shabby dress and altered face he read the story of a struggle letty was too proud to tell. "i sew," she answered briefly, smoothing out her wet shawl with a hand so thin and small it was pathetic to see, when one remembered that nothing but a needle in those slender fingers kept want and sin at bay. the kindly fellow seemed to feel that; and, as his eye went from his own strong right arm to the sledge-hammer it often swung, the instinct of protection so keen in manly men made him long to stand between poor letty and the hard world he knew so well. the magnetism of sympathy irresistibly attracted iron to steel, while little needle felt assured that big hammer would be able to beat down many of the obstacles which now seemed insurmountable, if she only dared to ask for aid. but help came without the asking. "been after work, you say? why, we could give you heaps of it, if you don't mind it's being coarse and plain. this sort of thing, you know," touching his red shirt with a business-like air. "our men use 'em altogether, and like 'em strong in the seams. some ain't, and buttons fly off just looking at 'em. that makes a fellow mad, and swearing comes easy." but letty shook her head, though she couldn't help smiling at his sober way of explaining the case and its sad consequences. "i've tried that work, and it doesn't pay. six cents for a shirt, and sometimes only four, isn't enough to earn one's board and clothes and fire, even if one made half a dozen a day. _you_ can't get them for that, and somebody grows rich while _we_ starve. "hanged if i ever buy another! see here, you make me enough for a year, and we'll have a fair bargain between us. that is, if you can't do better and don't mind," he added, suddenly abating his warmth and looking almost bashful over the well-meant proposal. "i'd love to do it. only you mustn't pay too much," said letty, glad of any thing to keep her hands and thoughts busy, for life was very bare and cold just then. "all right. i'll see to it directly, and nobody be the wiser," returned her new employer, privately resolving to order a bale of red flannel on the morrow, and pay fabulous prices for the work of the little friend who had once kept him from worse than starvation. it was not much to offer, and red flannel was not a romantic subject of conversation; but something in the prompt relief and the hearty good-will of the man went to letty's heart, already full to overflowing with many cares and troubles. she tried to thank him, but could only cover up her face and sob. it was so sweet and comfortable to find any one who cared enough for her to lift her out of the slough of despond, which was to her as dangerous a mood as the desperate one he had known. there were hands enough to beckon the winsome creature to the wrong side of the quagmire, where so many miss the stepping-stones; but she felt that this was the right side, and the hand an honest one, though rough and grimy with hard work. so the tears were glad and grateful tears, and she let them flow, melting the fatal frost that had chilled her hope and faith in god and man. but the causer of them could not bear the sight, for the contrast between this forlorn girl and the blithe, blooming letty of that memorable day was piteous. manlike, he tried to express his sympathy in deeds as well as words, and, hastily filling a tin cup from the coffee-can, pressed it upon her with a fatherly stroke of the bent head and a soothing,-- "now, my dear, just take a sip of this, and don't cry any more. we'll straighten things out. so cheer up, and let me lend a hand anywhere, anyhow." but hunger and fear, weariness and cold, had been too much for poor letty; and, in the act of lifting up her wet face to thank him, the light left her eyes, and she would have slipped to the ground, if he had not caught her. in a minute she was herself again, lying on the old rug, with snow upon her forehead and some one fanning her with a newspaper. "i thought i was going to die," she whispered, looking about her in a dazed sort of way. "not a bit of it! you're going to sleep. that's what you want, and old sally's going to sit by while you do it. it's a hardish pillow; but i've put my handkerchief over it, and, being monday, its spick-and-span clean." letty smiled as she turned her cheek to the faded silk handkerchief laid over the rolled-up coat under her head, for pussy was nestling close beside her, as if her presence was both a comfort and defence. yet the girl's eyes filled even while she smiled, for, when most desolate, a friend had been raised up to her; and, though the face bending over her was dark and shaggy, there was no fear in her own, as she said half-appealingly, half-confidingly,-- "i don't believe i could go if i tried, i'm so worn out. but you'll take care of me, and in the morning show me the way home?" "please god, i will!" he answered, as solemnly as if taking an oath, adding, as he stepped back to the stool she had left: "i shall stay here and read my paper. nothing shall scare you; so make yourself comfortable, and drop off with an easy mind." sitting there, he saw her lay her hands together, as if she said some little prayer; then, turning her face from the light, she fell asleep, lulled by the drowsy purr of the humble friend to whom she clung even in her dreams. he only looked a minute, for something that was neither the shimmer of firelight nor the glitter of snow-dust made the quiet group dance mistily before his eyes; and, forgetting his paper, he fell to drying letty's hat. it was both comical and pleasant to see how tenderly he touched the battered thing, with what interest he surveyed it, perched on his big hand, and how carefully he smoothed out the ribbons, evidently much bewildered as to which was the front and which the back. giving up the puzzle, he hung it on the handle of the great hammer, and, leaning his chin on his hand, began to build castles in the air and watch the red embers, as if he saw in them some vision of the future that was very pleasant. hour after hour struck from the city clocks across the river; the lantern burned itself out, untrimmed; the storm died away; and a soft, white silence followed the turmoil of the night. still letty slept like a tired child, still old sally, faithful to her trust, lay in the circle of the girl's arm; and still the watchman sat before the fire, dreaming waking dreams, as he had often done before; but never any half so earnest, sweet, and hopeful as those that seemed to weave a tender romance about the innocent sleeper, to whom he was loyally paying a debt of gratitude with such poor hospitality as he could show. dawn came up rosy and clear along the east; and the first level ray of wintry sunlight, as it struck across the foundry walls, fell on letty's placid face, with the bright hair shining like a halo round it. feeling very much as if he had entertained an angel unaware, the man stood enjoying the pretty picture, hesitating to wake her, yet fearing that a gruff hallo from old sam might do it too suddenly. somehow he hated to have her go; for the gloomy foundry seemed an enchanted sort of place this morning, with a purer heaven and earth outside, and within the "little mate" whom he felt a strong desire to keep "always alongside," for something better than luck's sake. he was smiling to himself over the thought, yet half ashamed to own how it had grown and strengthened in a night, when letty opened wide a pair of eyes full of the peace sleep brings and the soft lustre that comes after tears. involuntarily the man drew back, and waited silently for her to speak. she looked bewildered for a moment, then remembered, and sprang up, full of the relief and fresh gratitude that came with her first waking thought. "how long i've slept! how very kind you were to me! i can go now, if you will start me right." "you are heartily welcome! i can take you home at once, unless you'd rather wait for sam," he answered, with a quick look toward the door, as if already jealous of the venerable samuel. "i'd rather go before any one comes. but perhaps you ought not to leave yet? i wouldn't like to take you from your duty," began letty, looking about her for her hat. "duty be--hanged! i'm going to see you safe home, if you'll let me. here's your hat. i dried it; but it don't look quite shipshape somehow." and taking the shabby little object from the nail where it hung, he presented it with such respectful care that a glimmer of the old mirthfulness came into letty's face, as she said, surveying it with much disfavor,-- "it is almost as bad as the one i gave you; but it must do." "i've got that old thing up at my place now. keep it for luck. wish i had one for you. hold on! here's a tippet--nice and warm. have it for a hood. you'll find it cold outside." he was so intent on making her comfortable that letty could not refuse, and tied on the tippet, while he refilled the cup with hot coffee, carefully saved for her. "little red riding hood! blest if you ain't!" he exclaimed admiringly, as he turned to her again, and saw the sweet face in its new head-gear. "but you are not the wolf," she answered, with a smile like sunshine, bending to drink from the cup he held. as she lifted her head, the blue eyes and the black exchanged again the subtle glance of sympathy that made them friends before; only now the blue ones looked up full of gratitude, and the black ones looked down soft with pity. neither spoke; but letty stooped, and, gathering old sally in her arms, kissed the friendly creature, then followed her guide to the door. "how beautiful!" she cried, as the sun came dazzling down upon the snow, that hid all dark and ugly things with a veil of purity. "looks kind of bridal, don't it?" said the man, taking a long breath of the frosty air, and straightening himself up, as if anxious to look his best by daylight. he never had looked better, in spite of the old coat and red shirt; for the glow of the furnace-fire still seemed to touch his brown face, the happy visions of the night still shone in his eyes, and the protective kindliness of a generous nature gave dignity to the rough figure, as he strode into the snow and stretched his hand to letty, saying cheerily,-- "pretty deep, but hold on to me, and i'll get you through. better take my hand; i washed it a-purpose." letty did take it in both her little ones; and they went away together through the deserted streets, feeling as if they were the only pair alive in the still white world that looked so lovely in the early sunshine. the girl was surprised to find how short the way seemed; for, in spite of drifts, she got on bravely, with a strong arm to help and a friendly voice to encourage her. yet when she reached the last corner she stopped, and said, with a sudden shyness which he understood and liked,-- "i'd best go on alone now. but i'm very grateful to you! please tell me your name. i'd love to know who my friend is, though i never shall forget his kindness." "nor i yours. joe stone is my name. but i'd rather you called me your tramp till we get something better," he answered, with a laugh in his eyes, as he bent toward her for a hearty shake of the slender hand that had grown warm in his. "i will! good-by, good-by!" and, suddenly remembering how they parted before, letty blushed like a rose, and ran away as fast as the drifts would let her. "and i'll call you my letty some day, if i'm not much mistaken," joe said to himself, with a decided nod, as he went back to the foundry, feeling that the world looked more "sort of bridal" than ever. he was not mistaken; for, when spring budded, his dream came true, and in the little sewing-girl, who bound him with a silken thread so soft and strong it never broke, he found an anchor that held him fast to happiness and home. to letty something wonderful happened at last. the prince came when most she needed him; and, though even when the beggar's rags fell off his only crown was the old hat, his royal robes red flannel and fustian, his sceptre a sledge-hammer, she knew and loved him, for "the man was a man for a' that." scarlet stockings. chapter i. _how they walked into lennox's life_ "come out for a drive, harry?" "too cold." "have a game of billiards?" "too tired." "go and call on the fairchilds?" "having an unfortunate prejudice against country girls, i respectfully decline." "what will you do, then?" "nothing, thank you." and, settling himself more luxuriously upon the couch, lennox closed his eyes, and appeared to slumber tranquilly. kate shook her head, and stood regarding her brother despondently, till a sudden idea made her turn toward the window, exclaiming abruptly,-- "scarlet stockings, harry!" "where?" and, as if the words were a spell to break the deepest day-dream, lennox hurried to the window, with an unusual expression of interest in his listless face. "i thought that would succeed! she isn't there, but i've got you up, and you are not to go down again," laughed kate, taking possession of the sofa. "not a bad manoeuvre. i don't mind: it's about time for the one interesting event of the day to occur, so i'll watch for myself, thank you," and lennox took the easy chair by the window with a shrug and a yawn. "i'm glad any thing does interest you," said kate, petulantly. "i don't think it amounts to much, for, though you perch yourself at the window every day to see that girl pass, you don't care enough about it to ask her name." "i've been waiting to be told." "it's belle morgan, the doctor's daughter, and my dearest friend." "then, of course, she is a blue-belle?" "don't try to be witty or sarcastic with her, for she will beat you at that." "not a dumb-belle, then?" "quite the reverse: she talks a good deal, and very well, too, when she likes." "she is very pretty: has anybody the right to call her 'ma belle'?" "many would be glad to do so, but she won't have any thing to say to them." "a canterbury belle, in every sense of the word, then?" "she might be, for all canterbury loves her; but she isn't fashionable, and has more friends among the poor than among the rich." "ah, i see, a diving-bell, who knows how to go down into a sea of troubles, and bring up the pearls worth having." "i'll tell her that, it will please her. you are really waking up, harry," and kate smiled approvingly upon him. "this page of 'belle's life' is rather amusing, so read away," said lennox, glancing up-the street, as if he awaited the appearance of the next edition with pleasure. "there isn't much to tell; she is a nice, bright, energetic, warm-hearted dear; the pride of the doctor's heart, and a favorite with every one, though she is odd." "how odd?" "does and says what she likes, is very blunt and honest, has ideas and principles of her own, goes to parties in high dresses, won't dance round dances, and wears red stockings, though mrs. plantagenet says it's fast." "rather a jolly little person, i fancy. why haven't we met her at some of the tea-fights and muffin-worries we've been to lately?" "it may make you angry, but it will do you good, so i'll tell. she didn't care enough about seeing the distinguished stranger to come; that's the truth." "sensible girl, to spare herself hours of mortal dulness, gossip, and dyspepsia," was the placid reply. "she has seen you, though, at church, and dawdling about town, and she called you 'sir charles coldstream,' on the spot. how does that suit?" asked kate, maliciously. "not bad; i rather like that. wish she'd call some day, and stir us up." "she won't; i asked her, but she said she was very busy, and told jessy tudor she wasn't fond of peacocks." "i don't exactly see the connection." "stupid boy! she meant you, of course." "oh, i'm peacocks, am i?" "i don't wish to be rude, but i really do think you _are_ vain of your good looks, elegant accomplishments, and the impression you make wherever you go. when it's worth while, you exert yourself, and are altogether fascinating; but the 'i come-see-and-conquer' air you put on spoils it all for sensible people." "it strikes me that miss morgan has slightly infected you with her oddity, as far as bluntness goes. fire away! it's rather amusing to be abused when one is dying of ennui." "that's grateful and complimentary to me, when i have devoted myself to you ever since you came. but every thing bores you, and the only sign of interest you've shown is in those absurd red hose. i _should_ like to know what the charm is," said kate, sharply. "impossible to say; accept the fact calmly as i do, and be grateful that there is one glimpse of color, life, and spirit in this aristocratic tomb of a town." "you are not obliged to stay in it!" fiercely. "begging your pardon, my dove, but i am. i promised to give you my enlivening society for a month, and a lennox keeps his word, even at the cost of his life." "i'm sorry i asked such a sacrifice; but i innocently thought that, after being away for five long years, you might care to see your orphan sister," and the dove produced her handkerchief with a plaintive sniff. "now, my dear creature, don't be melodramatic, i beg of you!" cried her brother, imploringly. "i wished to come, i pined to embrace you, and, i give you my word, i don't blame you for the stupidity of this confounded place." "it never was so gay as since you came, for every one has tried to make it pleasant for you," cried kate, ruffled at his indifference to the hospitable efforts of herself and friends. "but you don't care for any of our simple amusements, because you are spoilt by the flattery, gayety, and nonsense of foreign society. if i didn't know it was half affectation, i should be in despair, you are so _blasé_ and absurd. it's always the way with men: if one happens to be handsome, accomplished, and talented, he puts on as many airs, and is as vain as any silly girl." "don't you think if you took breath you'd get on faster, my dear?" asked the imperturbable gentleman, as kate paused with a gasp. "i know it's useless for me to talk, as you don't care a straw what i say; but it's true, and some day you'll wish you had done something worth doing all these years. i was so proud of you, so fond of you, that i can't help being disappointed to find you with no more ambition than to kill time comfortably, no interest in any thing but your own pleasures, and only energy enough to amuse yourself with a pair of scarlet stockings." pathetic as poor kate's face and voice were, it was impossible to help laughing at the comical conclusion of her lament. lennox tried to hide the smile on his lips by affecting to curl his moustache with care, and to gaze pensively out as if touched by her appeal. but he wasn't,--oh, bless you, no! she was only his sister, and, though she might have talked with the wisdom of solomon and the eloquence of demosthenes, it wouldn't have done a particle of good. sisters do very well to work for one, to pet one, and play confidante when one's love affairs need feminine wit to conduct them; but when they begin to reprove, or criticise, or moralize, it won't do, and can't be allowed, of course. lennox never snubbed anybody, but blandly extinguished them by a polite acquiescence in all their affirmations, for the time being, and then went on in his own way as if nothing had been said. "i dare say you are right; i'll go and think over your very sensible advice," and, as if roused to unwonted exertion by the stings of an accusing conscience, he left the room abruptly. "i do believe i've made an impression at last! he's actually gone out to think over what i've said. dear harry, i was sure he had a heart, if one only knew how to get at it!" and with a sigh of satisfaction kate went to the window to behold the "dear harry" going briskly down the street after a pair of scarlet stockings. a spark of anger kindled in her eyes as she watched him, and when he vanished she still stood knitting her brows in deep thought, for a grand idea was dawning upon her. it _was_ a dull town; no one could deny that, for everybody was so intensely proper and well-born that nobody dared to be jolly. all the houses were square, aristocratic mansions with revolutionary elms in front and spacious coach-houses behind. the knockers had a supercilious perk to their bronze or brass noses, the dandelions on the lawns had a highly connected air, and the very pigs were evidently descended from "our first families." stately dinner-parties, decorous dances, moral picnics, and much tea-pot gossiping were the social resources of the place. of course, the young people flirted, for that diversion is apparently irradicable even in the "best society," but it was done with a propriety which was edifying to behold. one can easily imagine that such a starched state of things would not be particularly attractive to a travelled young gentleman like lennox, who, as kate very truly said, _had_ been spoilt by the flattery, luxury, and gayety of foreign society. he did his best, but by the end of the first week ennui claimed him for its own, and passive endurance was all that was left him. from perfect despair he was rescued by the scarlet stockings, which went tripping by one day as he stood at the window, planning some means of escape. a brisk, blithe-faced girl passed in a gray walking suit with a distracting pair of high-heeled boots and glimpses of scarlet at the ankle. modest, perfectly so, i assure you, were the glimpses; but the feet were so decidedly pretty that one forgot to look at the face appertaining thereunto. it wasn't a remarkably lovely face, but it was a happy, wholesome one, with all sorts of good little dimples in cheek and chin, sunshiny twinkles in the black eyes, and a decided yet lovable look about the mouth that was quite satisfactory. a busy, bustling little body she seemed to be, for sack-pockets and muff were full of bundles, and the trim boots tripped briskly over the ground, as if the girl's heart were as light as her heels. somehow this active, pleasant figure seemed to wake up the whole street, and leave a streak of sunshine behind it, for every one nodded as it passed, and the primmest faces relaxed into smiles, which lingered when the girl had gone. "uncommonly pretty feet,--she walks well, which american girls seldom do,--all waddle or prance,--nice face, but the boots are french, and it does my heart good to see them." lennox made these observations to himself as the young lady approached, nodded to kate at another window, gave a quick but comprehensive glance at himself and trotted round the corner, leaving the impression on his mind that a whiff of fresh spring air had blown through the street in spite of the december snow. he didn't trouble himself to ask who it was, but fell into the way of lounging in the bay-window at about three p.m., and watching the gray and scarlet figure pass with its blooming cheeks, bright eyes, and elastic step. having nothing else to do, he took to petting this new whim, and quite depended on the daily stirring up which the sight of the energetic damsel gave him. kate saw it all, but took no notice till the day of the little tiff above recorded; after that she was as soft as a summer sea, and by some clever stroke had belle morgan to tea that very week. lennox was one of the best-tempered fellows in the world, but the "peacocks" did rather nettle him, because there was some truth in the insinuation; so he took care to put on no airs or try to be fascinating in the presence of miss belle. in truth, he soon forgot himself entirely, and enjoyed her oddities with a relish, after the prim proprieties of the other young ladies who had simpered and sighed before him. for the first time in his life, the "crusher," as his male friends called him, got crushed; for belle, with the subtle skill of a quick-witted, keen-sighted girl, soon saw and condemned the elegant affectations which others called foreign polish. a look, a word, a gesture from a pretty woman, is often more eloquent and impressive than moral essays or semi-occasional twinges of conscience; and in the presence of one satirical little person sir charles coldstream soon ceased to deserve the name. belle seemed to get over her hurry and to find time for occasional relaxation, but one never knew in what mood he might find her, for the weathercock was not more changeable than she. lennox liked that, and found the muffin-worries quite endurable with this _sauce piquante_ to relieve their insipidity. presently he discovered that he was suffering for exercise, and formed the wholesome habit of promenading the town about three p.m.; kate said, to follow the scarlet stockings. chapter ii. _where they led him._ "whither away, miss morgan?" asked lennox, as he overtook her one bitter cold day. "i'm taking my constitutional." "so am i." "with a difference," and belle glanced at the blue-nosed, muffled-up gentleman strolling along beside her with an occasional shiver and shrug. "after a winter in the south of france, one does not find arctic weather like this easy to bear," he said, with a disgusted air. "i like it, and do my five or six miles a day, which keeps me in what fine ladies call 'rude health,'" answered belle, walking him on at a pace which soon made his furs a burden. she was a famous pedestrian, and a little proud of her-powers; but she outdid all former feats that day, and got over the ground in gallant style. something in her manner put her escort on his mettle; and his usual lounge was turned into a brisk march, which set his blood dancing, face glowing, and spirits effervescing as they had not done for many a day. "there! you look more like your real self now," said belle, with the first sign of approval she had ever vouch-safed him, as he rejoined her after a race to recover her veil, which the wind whisked away over hedge and ditch. "are you sure you know what my real self is?" he asked, with a touch of the "conquering hero" air. "not a doubt of it. i always know a soldier when i see one," returned belle, decidedly. "a soldier! that's the last thing i should expect to be accused of," and lennox looked both surprised and gratified. "there's a flash in your eye and a ring to your voice, occasionally, which made me suspect that you had fire and energy enough if you only chose to show it, and the spirit with which you have just executed the 'morgan quickstep' proves that i was right," returned belle, laughing. "then i am not altogether a 'peacock'?" said lennox, significantly, for during the chat, which had been as brisk as the walk, belle had given his besetting sins several sly hits, and he couldn't resist one return shot, much as her unexpected compliment pleased him. poor belle blushed up to her forehead, tried to look as if she did not understand, and gladly hid her confusion behind the recovered veil without a word. there was a decided display both of the "flash" and the "ring," as lennox looked at the suddenly subdued young lady, and, quite satisfied with his retaliation, gave the order, "forward, march!" which brought them to the garden-gate breathless, but better friends than before. the next time the young people met, belle was in such a hurry that she went round the corner with an abstracted expression which was quite a triumph of art. just then, off tumbled the lid of the basket she carried; and lennox, rescuing it from a puddle, obligingly helped readjust it over a funny collection of bottles, dishes, and tidy little rolls of all sorts. "it's very heavy, mayn't i carry it for you?" he asked, in an insinuating manner. "no, thank you," was on belle's lips; but, observing that he was dressed with unusual elegance to pay calls, she couldn't resist the temptation of making a beast of burden of him, and took him at his word. "you may, if you like. i've got more bundles to take from the store, and another pair of hands won't come amiss." lennox lifted his eyebrows, also the basket; and they went on again, belle very much absorbed in her business, and her escort wondering where she was going with all that rubbish. filling his unoccupied hand with sundry brown paper parcels, much to the detriment of the light glove that covered it, belle paraded him down the main street before the windows of the most aristocratic mansions, and then dived into a dirty back-lane, where the want and misery of the town was decorously kept out of sight. "you don't mind scarlet fever, i suppose?" observed belle, as they approached the unsavory residence of biddy o'brien. "well, i'm not exactly partial to it," said lennox, rather taken aback. "you needn't go in if you are afraid, or speak to me afterwards, so no harm will be done--except to your gloves." "why do _you_ come here, if i may ask? it isn't the sort of amusement i should recommend," he began, evidently disapproving of the step. "oh, i'm used to it, and like to play nurse where father plays doctor. i'm fond of children and mrs. o'brien's are little dears," returned belle, briskly, threading her way between ash-heaps and mud-puddles as if bound to a festive scene. "judging from the row in there, i should infer that mrs. o'brien had quite a herd of little dears." "only nine." "and all sick?" "more or less." "by jove! it's perfectly heroic in you to visit this hole in spite of dirt, noise, fragrance, and infection," cried lennox, who devoutly wished that the sense of smell if not of hearing were temporarily denied him. "bless you, it's the sort of thing i enjoy, for there's no nonsense here; the work you do is pleasant if you do it heartily, and the thanks you get are worth having, i assure you." she put out her hand to relieve him of the basket, but he gave it an approving little shake, and said briefly,-- "not yet, i'm coming in." it's all very well to rhapsodize about the exquisite pleasure of doing good, to give carelessly of one's abundance, and enjoy the delusion of having remembered the poor. but it is a cheap charity, and never brings the genuine satisfaction which those know who give their mite with heart as well as hand, and truly love their neighbor as themselves. lennox had seen much fashionable benevolence, and laughed at it even while he imitated it, giving generously when it wasn't inconvenient. but this was a new sort of thing entirely; and in spite of the dirt, the noise, and the smells, he forgot the fever, and was glad he came when poor mrs. o'brien turned from her sick babies, exclaiming, with irish fervor at sight of belle,-- "the lord love ye, darlin, for remimberin us when ivery one, barrin' the doctor, and the praste, turns the cowld shouldther in our throuble!" "now if you really want to help, just keep this child quiet while i see to the sickest ones," said belle, dumping a stout infant on to his knee, thrusting an orange into his hand, and leaving him aghast while she unpacked her little messes, and comforted the maternal bird. with the calmness of desperation, her aid-de-camp put down his best beaver on the rich soil which covered the floor, pocketed his gloves, and, making a bib of his cambric handkerchief, gagged young pat deliciously with bits of orange whenever he opened his mouth to roar. at her first leisure moment, belle glanced at him to see how he was getting on, and found him so solemnly absorbed in his task that she went off into a burst of such infectious merriment that the o'briens, sick and well, joined in it to a man. "good fun, isn't it?" she asked, turning down her cuffs when the last spoonful of gruel was administered. "i've no doubt of it, when one is used to the thing. it comes a little hard at first, you know," returned lennox, wiping his forehead, with a long breath, and seizing his hat as if quite ready to tear himself away. "you've done very well for a beginner; so kiss the baby and come home," said belle approvingly. "no, thank you," muttered lennox, trying to detach the bedaubed innocent. but little pat had a grateful heart, and, falling upon his new nurse's neck with a rapturous crow, clung there like a burr. "take him off! let me out of this! he's one too many for me!" cried the wretched young man in comic despair. being freed with much laughter, he turned and fled, followed by a shower of blessings from mrs. o'brien. as they came up again into the pleasant highways, lennox said, awkwardly for him,-- "the thanks of the poor _are_ excellent things to have, but i think i'd rather receive them by proxy. will you kindly spend this for me in making that poor soul comfortable?" but belle wouldn't take what he offered her; she put it back, saying earnestly,-- "give it yourself; one can't buy blessings,--they must be _earned_ or they are not worth having. try it, please, and, if you find it a failure, then i'll gladly be your almoner." there was a significance in her words which he could not fail to understand. he neither shrugged, drawled, nor sauntered now, but gave her a look in which respect and self-reproach were mingled, and left her, simply saying, "i'll try it, miss morgan." "now isn't she odd?" whispered kate to her brother, as belle appeared at a little dance at mrs. plantagenet's in a high-necked dress, knitting away on an army-sock, as she greeted the friends who crowded round her. "charmingly so. why don't you do that sort of thing when you can?" answered her brother, glancing at her thin, bare shoulders, and hands rendered nearly useless by the tightness of the gloves. "gracious, no! it's natural to her to do so, and she carries it off well; i couldn't, therefore i don't try, though i admire it in her. go and ask her to dance, before she is engaged." "she doesn't dance round dances, you know." "she is dreadfully prim about some things, and so free and easy about others: i can't understand it, do you?" "well, yes, i think i do. here's forbes coming for you, i'll go and entertain belle by a quarrel." he found her in a recess out of the way of the rushing and romping, busy with her work, yet evidently glad to be amused. "i admire your adherence to principle, miss belle; but don't you find it a little hard to sit still while your friends are enjoying themselves?" he asked, sinking luxuriously into the lounging chair beside her. "yes, very," answered belle with characteristic candor. "but father does not approve of that sort of exercise, so i console myself with something useful till my chance comes." "your work can't exactly be called ornamental," said lennox, looking at the big sock. "don't laugh at it, sir; it is for the foot of the brave fellow who is going to fight for me and his country." "happy fellow! may i ask who he is?" and lennox sat up with an air of interest. "my substitute: i don't know his name, for father has not got him yet; but i'm making socks, and towels, and a comfort-bag for him, so that when found he may be off at once." "you really mean it?" cried lennox. "of course i do; i can't go myself, but i _can_ buy a pair of strong arms to fight for me, and i intend to do it. i only hope he'll have the right sort of courage, and be a credit to me." "what do you call the right sort of courage?" asked lennox, soberly. "that which makes a man ready and glad to live or die for a principle. there's a chance for heroes now, if there ever was. when do you join your regiment?" she added, abruptly. "haven't the least idea," and lennox subsided again. "but you intend to do so, of course?" "why should i?" belle dropped her work. "why should you? what a question! because you have health, and strength, and courage, and money to help on the good cause, and every man should give his best, and not _dare_ to stay at home when he is needed." "you forget that i am an englishman, and we rather prefer to be strictly neutral just now." "you are only half english; and for your mother's sake you should be proud and glad to fight for the north," cried belle warmly. "i don't remember my mother,--" "that's evident!" "but, i was about to add, i've no objection to lend a hand if it isn't too much trouble to get off," said lennox indifferently, for he liked to see belle's color rise, and her eyes kindle while he provoked her. "do you expect to go south in a bandbox? you'd better join one of the kid-glove regiments; they say the dandies fight well when the time comes." "i've been away so long, the patriotic fever hasn't seized me yet; and, as the quarrel is none of mine, i think perhaps i'd better take care of kate, and let you fight it out among yourselves. here's the lancers, may i have the honor?" but belle, being very angry at this lukewarmness, answered in her bluntest manner,-- "having reminded me that you are a 'strictly neutral' englishman, you must excuse me if i decline; _i_ dance only with loyal americans," and, rolling up her work with a defiant flourish, she walked away, leaving him to lament his loss and wonder how he could retrieve it. she did not speak to him again till he stood in the hall waiting for kate; then belle came down in a charming little red hood, and going straight up to him with her hand out, a repentant look and a friendly smile, said frankly,-- "i was very rude; i want to beg pardon of the english, and shake hands with the american, half." so peace was declared, and lasted unbroken for the remaining week of his stay, when he proposed to take kate to the city for a little gayety. miss morgan openly approved the plan, but secretly felt as if the town was about to be depopulated, and tried to hide her melancholy in her substitute's socks. they were not large enough, however, to absorb it all; and, when lennox went to make his adieu, it was perfectly evident that the doctor's belle was out of tune. the young gentleman basely exulted over this, till she gave him something else to think about by saying gravely: "before you go, i feel as if i ought to tell you something, since kate won't. if you are offended about it please don't blame her; she meant it kindly, and so did i." belle paused as if it was not an easy thing to tell and then went on quickly, with her eyes upon her work. "three weeks ago kate asked me to help her in a little plot; and i consented, for the fun of the thing she wanted something to amuse and stir you up, and, finding that my queer ways diverted you, she begged me to be neighborly and let you do what you liked. i didn't care particularly about amusing you, but i did think you needed rousing; so for her sake i tried to do it, and you very good-naturedly bore my lecturing. i don't like deceit of any kind, so i confess; but i can't say i'm sorry, for i really think you are none the worse for the teasing and teaching you've had." belle didn't see him flush and frown as she made her confession, and when she looked up he only said, half gratefully, half reproachfully,-- "i'm a good deal the better for it, i dare say, and ought to be very thankful for your friendly exertions. but two against one was hardly fair, now, was it?" "no, it was sly and sinful in the highest degree, but we did it for your good; so i know you'll forgive us, and as a proof of it sing one or two of my favorites for the last time." "you don't deserve any favor; but i'll do it, to show you how much more magnanimous men are than women." not at all loth to improve his advantages, lennox warbled his most melting lays _con amore_, watching, as he sung, for any sign of sentiment in the girlish face opposite. but belle wouldn't be sentimental; and sat rattling her knitting-needles industriously, though "the harbor bar was moaning" dolefully, though "douglas" was touchingly "tender and true," and the "wind of the summer night" sighed romantically through the sitting-room. "much obliged. must you go?" she said, without a sign of soft confusion as he rose. "i must; but i shall come again before i leave the country. may i?" he asked, holding her hand. "if you come in a uniform." "good night, belle," tenderly.--"good-by, sir charles," with a wicked twinkle of the eye, which lasted till he closed the hall-door, growling irefully,-- "i thought i'd had some experience, but one never _can_ understand these women!" canterbury did become a desert to belle after her dear friend had gone (of course the dear friend's brother had nothing to do with the desolation); and as the weeks dragged slowly belle took to reading poetry, practising plaintive ballads, and dawdling over her work at a certain window which commanded a view of the railway station and hotel. "you're dull, my dear; run up to town with me to-morrow, and see your young man off," said the doctor one evening, as belle sat musing with a half-mended red stocking in her hand. "my young man?" she ejaculated, turning with a start and a blush. "your substitute, child. stephens attended to the business for me, and he's off to-morrow. i began to tell you about the fellow last week, but you were wool-gathering, so i stopped." "yes, i remember, it was all very nice. goes to-morrow, does he? i'd like to see him; but do you think we can both leave home at once? some one might come you know, and i fancy it's going to snow," said belle, putting her face behind the curtain to inspect the weather. "you'd better go, the trip will do you good; you can take your things to tom jones, and see kate on the way: she's got back from philadelphia." "has she? i'll go, then; it will please her, and i do need change. you are a dear, to think of it;" and, giving her father a hasty glimpse of a suddenly excited countenance, belle slipped out of the room to prepare her best array, with a most reckless disregard of the impending storm. it did not snow on the morrow, and up they went to see the --th regiment off. belle did not see "her young man," however, for while her father went to carry him her comforts and a patriotic nosegay of red and white flowers, tied up with a smart blue ribbon, she called on kate. but miss lennox was engaged, and sent an urgent request that her friend would call in the afternoon. much disappointed and a little hurt, belle then devoted herself to the departing regiment, wishing she was going with it, for she felt in a warlike mood. it was past noon when a burst of martial music, the measured tramp of many feet, and enthusiastic cheers announced that "the boys" were coming. from the balcony where she stood with her father, belle looked down upon the living stream that flowed by like a broad river, with a steely glitter above the blue. all her petty troubles vanished at the sight; her heart beat high, her face glowed, her eyes filled, and she waved her handkerchief as zealously as if she had a dozen friends and lovers in the ranks below. "here comes your man; i told him to stick the posy where it would catch my eye, so i could point him out to you. look, it's the tall fellow at the end of the front line," said the doctor in an excited tone, as he pointed and beckoned. belle looked and gave a little cry, for there, in a private's uniform, with her nosegay at his button-hole, and on his face a smile she never forgot, was lennox! for an instant she stood staring at him as pale and startled as if he were a ghost; then the color rushed into her face, she kissed both hands to him, and cried bravely, "good-by, good-by; god bless you, harry!" and immediately laid her head on her father's shoulder, sobbing as if her heart was broken. when she looked up, her substitute was lost in the undulating mass below, and for her the spectacle was over. "was it really he? why wasn't i told? what does it all mean?" she demanded, looking bewildered, grieved, and ashamed. "he's really gone, my dear. it's a surprise of his, and i was bound over to silence. here, this will explain the joke, i suppose," and the doctor handed her a cocked-hat note, done up like a military order. "a roland for your oliver, mademoiselle! i came home for the express purpose of enlisting, and only delayed a month on kate's account. if i ever return, i will receive my bounty at your hands. till then please comfort kate, think as kindly as you can of 'sir charles,' and sometimes pray a little prayer for "your unworthy "substitute." belle looked very pale and meek when she put the note in her pocket, but she only said, "i must go and comfort kate;" and the doctor gladly obeyed, feeling that the joke was more serious than he had imagined. the moment her friend appeared, miss lennox turned on her tears, and "played away," pouring forth lamentations, reproaches, and regrets in a steady stream. "i hope you are satisfied now, you cruel girl!" she began, refusing to be kissed. "you've sent him off with a broken heart to rush into danger and be shot, or get his arms and legs spoiled. you know he loved you and wanted to tell you so, but you wouldn't let him; and now you've driven him away, and he's gone as an insignificant private with his head shaved, and a heavy knapsack breaking his back, and a horrid gun that will be sure to explode: and he _would_ wear those immense blue socks you sent, for he adores you, and you only teased and laughed at him, my poor, deluded, deserted brother!" and, quite overwhelmed by the afflicting picture, kate lifted up her voice and wept again. "i _am_ satisfied, for he's done what i hoped he would; and he's none the less a gentleman because he's a private and wears my socks. i pray they will keep him safe, and bring him home to us when he has done his duty like a man, as i know he will. i'm proud of my brave substitute, and i'll try to be worthy of him," cried belle, kindling beautifully as she looked out into the wintry sunshine with a new softness in the eyes that still seemed watching that blue-coated figure marching away to danger, perhaps death. "it's ill playing with edged tools; we meant to amuse him, and we may have sent him to destruction. i'll never forgive you for your part, never!" said kate, with the charming inconsistency of her sex. but belle turned away her wrath by a soft answer, as she whispered, with a tender choke in her voice,-- "we both loved him, dear; let's comfort one another." chapter iii. _what became of them._ private lennox certainly _had_ chosen pretty hard work, for the --th was not a "kid-glove" regiment by any means; fighting in mid-winter was not exactly festive, and camps do not abound in beds of roses even at the best of times. but belle was right in saying she knew a soldier when she saw him, for, now that he was thoroughly waked up, he proved that there was plenty of courage, energy, and endurance in him. it is my private opinion that he might now and then have slightly regretted the step he had taken, had it not been for certain recollections of a sarcastic tongue and a pair of keen eyes, not to mention the influence of one of the most potent rulers of the human heart; namely, the desire to prove himself worthy the respect, if nothing more, of somebody at home. belle's socks did seem to keep him safe, and lead him straight in the narrow path of duty. belle's comfort-bag was such in very truth, for not one of the stout needles on the tri-colored cushion but what seemed to wink its eye approvingly at him; not one of the tidy balls of thread that did not remind him of the little hand he coveted, and the impracticable scissors were cherished as a good omen, though he felt that the sharpest steel that ever came from sheffield couldn't cut his love in twain. and belle's lessons, short as they had been, were not forgotten, but seemed to have been taken up by a sterner mistress, whose rewards were greater, if not so sweet, as those the girl could give. there was plenty of exercise nowadays, and of hard work that left many a tired head asleep for ever under the snow. there were many opportunities for diving "into the depths and bringing up pearls worth having" by acts of kindness among the weak, the wicked, and the suffering all about him. he learned now how to earn, not buy, the thanks of the poor, and unconsciously proved in the truest way that a private _could_ be a gentleman. but best of all was the steadfast purpose "to live and die for a principle," which grew and strengthened with each month of bitter hardship, bloody strife, and dearly bought success. life grew earnest to him, time seemed precious, self was forgotten, and all that was best and bravest rallied round the flag on which his heart inscribed the motto, "love and liberty." praise and honor he could not fail to win, and had he never gone back to claim his bounty he would have earned the great "well done," for he kept his oath loyally, did his duty manfully, and loved his lady faithfully, like a knight of the chivalrous times. he knew nothing of her secret, but wore her blue ribbon like an order, never went into battle without first, like many another poor fellow, kissing something which he carried next his heart, and with each day of absence felt himself a better man, and braver soldier, for the fondly foolish romance he had woven about the scarlet stockings. belle and kate did comfort one another, not only with tears and kisses, but with womanly work which kept hearts happy and hands busy. how belle bribed her to silence will always remain the ninth wonder of the world; but, though reams of paper passed between brother and sister during those twelve months, not a hint was dropped on one side in reply to artful inquiries from the other. belle never told her love in words; but she stowed away an unlimited quantity of the article in the big boxes that went to gladden the eyes and--alas for romance!--the stomach of private lennox. if pickles could typify passion, cigars prove constancy, and gingerbread reveal the longings of the soul, then would the above-mentioned gentleman have been the happiest of lovers. but camp-life had doubtless dulled his finer intuitions: for he failed to understand the new language of love, and gave away these tender tokens with lavish prodigality. concealment preyed a trifle on belle's damask cheek, it must be confessed, and the keen eyes grew softer with the secret tears that sometimes dimmed them; the sharp tongue seldom did mischief now, but uttered kindly words to every one, as if doing penance for the past; and a sweet seriousness toned down the lively spirit, which was learning many things in the sleepless nights that followed when the "little prayer" for the beloved substitute was done. "i'll wait and see if he is all i hope he will be, before i let him know. i shall read the truth the instant i see him, and if he has stood the test i'll run into his arms and tell him every thing," she said to herself, with delicious thrills at the idea; but you may be sure she did nothing of the sort when the time came. a rumor flew through the town one day that lennox had arrived; upon receipt of which joyful tidings, belle had a panic and hid herself in the garret. but when she had quaked, and cried, and peeped, and listened for an hour or two, finding that no one came to hunt her up, she composed her nerves and descended to pass the afternoon in the parlor and a high state of dignity. all sorts of reports reached her: he was mortally wounded; he had been made a major or a colonel or a general, no one knew exactly which; he was dead, was going to be married, and hadn't come at all. belle fully expiated all her small sins by the agonies of suspense she suffered that day, and when at last a note came from kate, begging her "to drop over to see harry," she put her pride in her pocket and went at once. the drawing-room was empty and in confusion, there was a murmur of voices upstairs, a smell of camphor in the air, and an empty wine-glass on the table where a military cap was lying. belle's heart sunk, and she covertly kissed the faded blue coat as she stood waiting breathlessly, wondering if harry had any arms for her to run into. she heard the chuckling biddy lumber up and announce her, then a laugh, and a half-fond, half-exulting, "ah, ha, i thought she'd come!" that spoilt it all; belle took out her pride instanter, rubbed a quick color into her white cheeks, and, snatching up a newspaper, sat herself down with as expressionless a face as it was possible for an excited young woman to possess. lennox came running down. "thank heaven, his legs are safe!" sighed belle, with her eyes glued to the price of beef. he entered with both hands extended, which relieved her mind upon another point; and he beamed upon her, looking so vigorous, manly, and martial, that she cried within herself, "my beautiful brown soldier!" even while she greeted him with an unnecessarily brief, "how do you do, mr. lennox?" the sudden eclipse which passed over his joyful countenance would have been ludicrous, if it hadn't been pathetic; but he was used to hard knocks now, and bore this, his hardest, like a man. he shook hands heartily; and, as belle sat down again (not to betray that she was trembling a good deal), he stood at ease before her, talking in a way which soon satisfied her that he _had_ borne the test, and that bliss was waiting for her round the corner. but she had made it such a very sharp corner she couldn't turn it gracefully, and while she pondered how to do so he helped her with a cough. she looked up quickly, discovering all at once that he was very thin, rather pale in spite of the nice tan, and breathed hurriedly as he stood with one hand in his breast. "are you ill, wounded, in pain?" she asked, forgetting herself entirely. "yes, all three," he answered, after a curious look at her changing color and anxious eyes. "sit down--tell me about it--can i do any thing?" and belle began to plump up the pillows on the couch with nervous eagerness. "thank you, i'm past help," was the mournful reply accompanied by a hollow cough which made her shiver. "oh, don't say so! let me bring father; he is very skilful. shall i call kate?" "he can do nothing; kate doesn't know this, and i beg you won't tell her. i got a shot in the breast and made light of it, but it will finish me sooner or later. i don't mind telling you, for you are one of the strong, cool sort, you know, and are not affected by such things. but kate is so fond of me, i don't want to shock and trouble her yet awhile. let her enjoy my little visit, and after i'm gone you can tell her the truth." belle had sat like a statue while he spoke with frequent pauses and an involuntary clutch or two at the suffering breast. as he stopped and passed his hand over his eyes, she said slowly, as if her white lips were stiff,-- "gone! where?" "back to my place. i'd rather die fighting than fussed and wailed over by a parcel of women. i expected to stay a week or so, but a battle is coming off sooner than we imagined, so i'm away again to-morrow. as i'm not likely ever to come back, i just wanted to ask you to stand by poor kate when i'm finished, and to say good-by to you, belle, before i go." he put out his hand, but, holding it fast in both her own, she laid her tearful face down on it, whispering imploringly,-- "oh, harry, stay!" never mind what happened for the next ten minutes; suffice it to say that the enemy having surrendered, the victor took possession with great jubilation and showed no quarter. "bang the field-piece, toot the fife, and beat the rolling drum, for ruse number three has succeeded. come down, kate, and give us your blessing!" called lennox, taking pity on his sister, who was anxiously awaiting the _dénouement_ on the stairs. in she rushed, and the young ladies laughed and cried, kissed and talked tumultuously, while their idol benignantly looked on, vainly endeavoring to repress all vestiges of unmanly emotion. "and you are not dying, really, truly?" cried belle, when fair weather set in after the flurry. "bless your dear heart, no! i'm as sound as a nut, and haven't a wound to boast of, except this ugly slash on the head." "it's a splendid wound, and i'm proud of it," and belle set a rosy little seal on the scar, which quite reconciled her lover to the disfigurement of his handsome forehead. "you've learned to fib in the army, and i'm disappointed in you," she added, trying to look reproachful and failing entirely. "no, only the art of strategy. you quenched me by your frosty reception, and i thought it was all up till you put the idea of playing invalid into my head. it succeeded so well that i piled on the agony, resolving to fight it out on that line, and if i failed again to make a masterly retreat. you gave me a lesson in deceit once, so don't complain if i turned the tables and made your heart ache for a minute, as you've made mine for a year." belle's spirit was rapidly coming back, so she gave him a capital imitation of his french shrug, and drawled out in his old way,-- "i have my doubts about that, _mon ami_." "what do you say to this--and this--and this?" he retorted, pulling out and laying before her with a triumphant flourish a faded blue ribbon, a fat pincushion with a hole through it, and a daintily painted little picture of a pretty girl in scarlet stockings. "there, i've carried those treasures in my breast-pocket for a year, and i'm firmly convinced that they have all done their part toward keeping me safe. the blue ribbon bound me fast to you, belle; the funny cushion caught the bullet that otherwise might have finished me; and the blessed little picture was my comfort during those dreadful marches, my companion on picket-duty with treachery and danger all about me, and my inspiration when the word 'charge!' went down the line, for in the thickest of the fight i always saw the little gray figure beckoning me on to my duty." "oh, harry, you won't go back to all those horrors, will you? i'm sure you've done enough, and may rest now and enjoy your reward," said kate, trying not to feel that "two is company, and three is none." "i've enlisted for the war, and shall not rest till either it or i come to an end. as for my reward, i had it when belle kissed me." "you are right, i'll wait for you, and love you all the better for the sacrifice," whispered belle. "i only wish i could share your hardships, dear, for while you fight and suffer i can only love and pray." "waiting is harder than working to such as you; so be contented with your share, for the thought of you will glorify the world generally for me. i'll tell you what you _can_ do while i'm away: it's both useful and amusing, so it will occupy and cheer you capitally. just knit lots of red hose, because i don't intend you to wear any others hereafter, mrs. lennox." "mine are not worn out yet," laughed belle, getting merry at the thought. "no matter for that; those are sacred articles, and henceforth must be treasured as memorials of our love. frame and hang them up; or, if the prejudices of society forbid that flight of romance, lay them carefully away where moths can't devour nor thieves steal them, so that years hence, when my descendants praise me for any virtues i may possess, any good i may have done, or any honor i may have earned, i can point to those precious relics and say proudly,-- "my children, for all that i am, or hope to be, you must thank your honored mother's scarlet stockings." independence: a centennial love story. chapter i. _miss dolly._ "stupid-looking old place! dare say i shall have to waste half an hour listening to centennial twaddle before i get what i want! the whole thing is a bore, but i can't quarrel with my bread and butter, so here goes;" and, with an air of resignation, the young man applied himself to the rusty knocker. "rather a nice old bit; maybe useful, so i'll book it;" and, whipping out a sketch-book, the stranger took a hasty likeness of the griffin's head on the knocker. "deaf as posts; try, try, try again;" and, pocketing his work, the artist gave an energetic rat, tat, tat, that echoed through the house. having rashly concluded that the inhabitants of the ancient mansion were proportionately aged, he assumed a deferential expression as steps approached, and prepared to prefer with all due respect the request which he had come many miles to make. the door opened with unexpected rapidity, but the neatly arranged speech did not glide glibly off the young man's tongue, and the change which came over him was comically sudden; for, instead of an old woman, a blooming girl stood upon the threshold, with a petulant expression on her charming face, which only made it more charming still. "what did you wish, sir?" asked the rosy mouth, involuntarily relaxing from a vain attempt to look severe, while the hazel eyes softened with a mirthful gleam as they rested on the comely, but embarrassed countenance before her. "beg pardon for making such a noise. i merely wished to inquire if the famous chair in which washington sat when he visited the town is here," replied the stranger, clutching off his hat with a very different sort of respect from that which he had intended to show, and feeling as if he had received a shock of some new and delightful sort of electricity. "yes;" and the girl began to close the door, as if she knew what question was coming next. "could i be allowed to sketch it for 'the weekly portfolio'? all such relics are so valuable this year that we venture to ask many favors, and this is such a famous affair i've no doubt you are often troubled by requests of this sort," continued the artist, with the persuasive tone of one accustomed to make his way everywhere. "this is the fifth time this week," replied the damsel, demurely; though her lips still struggled not to smile. "it's very good of you, i'm sure, to let us fellows in, but the public demand is immense just now, and we only obey orders, you know," began the fifth intruder, fervently hoping the other four had been refused. "but mrs. hill never does let artists or reporters in," was the gentle quencher which arrested him, as he was industriously wiping his feet on the door-mat. "never?" he asked, stopping short, while an expression of alarm changed suddenly to one of satisfaction. "never," answered the damsel, like a sweet-voiced echo. "then the other fellows lost their chance, and that makes the old thing doubly valuable. if i could see mrs. hill for a moment, i've no doubt she will allow _me_ to sketch the chair." "she is not at home." "so much the better; for, when i tell you that i've come fifty miles to pick up antiquities in this town, i know you _won't_ have the heart to send me away without the gem of the collection," replied the artist, nothing daunted; for his quick eye read the artless face before him, and saw a defiant expression come over it, which made him suspect that there had been a falling out between mistress and maid, if such they were. he was sure of it when the girl threw open the door with a decisive gesture, saying briefly,-- "walk in, if you please; she won't be home for an hour." "what a little beauty!" thought the young man, admiring her spirit, and feeling that the "stupid old place" contained unexpected treasures, as he followed her into the room where the ubiquitous father of his country was reported to have dried his august boots, and drunk a mug of cider some hundred years ago. it seemed as if the ghosts of many of the homely household articles used then had come back to celebrate the anniversary of that thrilling event; for there was nothing modern in the little room but the girl and her guest, who stared about him at the tall andirons on the hearth, the bright, brass candlesticks above it, the spinning-wheel on one side, a dresser on the other strewn with pewter platters, porringers, and old china, while antique garments hung over the settle by the fire. "bless my soul, what a capital old place!" he ejaculated, taking it all in with an artist's keen appreciation. "i feel as if i'd gone back a century, and the general might come in at any minute." "_that_ is the chair he used, and _this_ the tankard he drank from," answered the girl, pointing out the sacred objects with a reverential air which warned her visitor that he must treat the ancient and honorable relics with due respect. then feeling that this was an unusual stroke of luck, he hastened to make the most of it, by falling to work at once, saying, as he took a seat, and pointed his pencils,-- "there is such a lot of treasures here that i don't know where to begin. i hope i shall not be very much in your way." "oh, no! if you don't mind my going on with my work; for i can't leave it very well. all these things are to be sent away to-morrow, that's why the place is in such confusion," replied the girl, as she fell to polishing up a brass snuffer-tray. "here's richness!" thought the artist, with a sigh of satisfaction, as he dashed at his work, feeling wonderfully inspired by his picturesque surroundings. the dull winter sky gloomed without, and a chilly wind sighed through the leafless elms; but within the little room fairly glowed with the ruddy firelight that shone in the bright brasses, glimmered over the tarnished silver of the quaint vests on the settle, and warmed the artist's busy hand, as if it liked to help him in his task. but the jolly flames seemed to dance most lovingly about their little mistress; bathing the sweet face with a softer bloom, touching the waves of brown hair with gold, peeping under the long lashes at the downcast eyes that peeped back again half arch, half shy; glorifying the blue apron that seemed to clasp the trim waist as if conscious of its advantages, and showing up the dimples in the bare arms working so briskly that even the verdigris of ages yielded to their persuasive touch. "who can this pretty priscilla be? i must make her talk and find out. never shall get the eyes right, if she doesn't look up," thought the artist, who, instead of devoting himself to the historical chair, was basely sketching the girl whose youth and beauty were wonderfully enhanced by the antiquity around her. "mrs. hill is a rich woman, if all these treasures have a history. even if they haven't, they would bring a good price; for things of this sort are all the rage now, and the older the better," he said aloud in a sociable tone, as he affected to study the left arm of the famous chair. "they are not hers to sell, for they belonged to the first mrs. hill, who was a quincy, and had a right to be proud of them. the present mrs. hill doesn't value them a bit; but _she_ was a smith, so _her_ family relics are nothing to boast of," answered the girl, using her bit of wash-leather as if the entire race of smith ought to be rubbed out of existence. "and she is going to sell all these fine old things, is she?" asked the artist, with an eye to bargains. "no, indeed! they belong to--to the first mrs. hill's daughter, named after her, dorothy quincy," the girl began impetuously, but checked herself, and ended very quietly with a suddenly averted head. "a fine name, and i shouldn't think she would be in haste to change it," said the artist, wondering if miss dorothy quincy was before him. "not much hope of that, poor thing," with a shake of the head that made several brown curls tumble out of the net which tried to confine a riotous mass of them. "ah, i see, a spinster?" and the young man returned to his work with greatly abated interest in the subject. the bright eyes glanced quickly up, and when they fell the snuffer-tray reflected a merry twinkle in them, as their owner answered gravely,-- "yes, a spinster." "is she one of the amiable sort?" "oh, dear, no! very quick in her temper and sharp with her tongue. but then she has a good deal to try her, as i happen to know." "sorry for that. spinsterhood _is_ trying, i fancy, so we should be patient with the poor old ladies. why i asked was because i thought i might induce miss dolly to let me have some of her relics. do you think she would?" he asked, holding his sketch at arm's length, and studying it with his head on one side. "i'm very sure she won't, for these old things are all she has in the world, and she loves them dearly. people used to laugh at her for it, but now they are glad to own her and her 'duds,' as they called them. the smiths are looking up every thing they can find of that sort, even poor relations. all these things are going down to a fair to-morrow, and miss dolly with them." "as one of the relics?" suggested the artist, glancing at a green calash and a plum-colored quilted petticoat lying on the settle. "exactly," laughed the girl, adding with a touch of bitterness in her voice, "poor miss dolly never got an invitation before, and i'm afraid it's foolish of her to go now, since she is only wanted to show off the old-fashioned things, and give the smiths something to boast of." "you are fond of the old lady in spite of her temper, i see." "she is the only friend i've got;" and the speaker bent over the tray as if to hide emotion of some sort. "i shall probably have to 'do' that fair for our paper; if so, i'll certainly pay my respects to miss dolly. why not? is she so very awful?" he asked quickly, as the girl looked up with a curious mixture of mirth and malice in her face. "very!" with a lifting of the brows and a pursing up of the lips delightful to behold. "you think i won't dare address the peppery virgin? i never saw the woman yet whom i was afraid of, or the man either for that matter, so i give you my word i'll not only speak to miss dolly, but win her old heart by my admiration for her and her ancestral treasures, said the artist, accepting the challenge he read in the laughing eyes. "we shall see, for i'm going with her. i do the spinning, and it's great fun," said the girl, prudently changing the conversation, though she evidently enjoyed it. "i never saw it done. could you give me an idea of the thing, if it is not asking too much?" proposed the artist in his most persuasive tone, for somehow play of this sort was much more interesting than the study of old furniture. with amiable alacrity the girl set the big wheel buzzing, and deftly drew out the yarn from the spindle, stepping briskly to and fro, twirling and twisting with an ease and grace which convinced the admiring observer that the best thing ever invented to show off a round arm, a pretty foot, a fine figure, and a charming face, was a spinning-wheel. this opinion was so plainly expressed upon his own countenance that the color deepened in the girl's cheeks as she looked over her shoulder to see how he liked it, and dropping the thread she left the wheel still whirling, and went back to her work without a word. "thank you very much; it's beautiful! don't see how in the world you do it," murmured the young man, affecting to examine the wheel, while his own head seemed to whirl in sympathy, for that backward glance had unconsciously done great execution. a moon-faced clock behind the door striking eleven recalled the idler to his task, and resuming his seat he drew silently till the chair was done; then he turned a page, and looked about for the next good bit. "rather warm work," he said, smiling, as he shook the hair off his forehead, and pushed his chair back from the hearth. "this is what makes the place so hot. i've been learning to make old-fashioned dishes for the fair, and this batch is going down to show what i can do." as she spoke, the girl threw open the door of a cavernous oven, and with an air of housewifely pride displayed a goodly array of brown loaves round as cannon-balls, earthen crocks suggestive of baked beans and indian pudding, and near the door a pan of spicy cakes delectable to smell and see. these she drew forth and set upon the table, turning from the oven after a careful inspection of its contents with the complexion of a damask rose. "delicious spectacle!" exclaimed the artist, with his eyes upon the pretty cook, while hers were on her handiwork. "you shall taste them, for they are made from a very old receipt and are called sweethearts," said the innocent creature, setting them forth on a large platter, while a smile went dimpling round her lips. "capital name! they'll sell faster than you can make them. but it seems to me you are to have all the work, and miss dolly all the credit," added this highly appreciative guest, subduing with difficulty the rash impulse to embrace miss dolly's rosy handmaid on the spot. she seemed to feel the impending danger, and saying hastily, "you must have some cider to go with your cake: that's the correct thing, you know," she tripped away with hospitable zeal. "upon my soul, i begin to feel like the prince of the fairy tale in this quiet place where every thing seems to have been asleep for a hundred years. the little beauty ought to have been asleep too, and given me a chance to wake her. more of a cinderella than a princess, i fancy, and leads a hard life of it between miss dolly and the second mrs. hill. wonder what happy fellow will break the spell and set her free?" and the young man paced the kitchen, humming softly,-- "and on her lover's arm she leant, and round her waist she felt it fold; and far across the hills they went, in that new world which is the old," till the sound of a light step made him dart into a chair, saying to himself with a sudden descent from poetry to prose, "bless her little heart, i'll drink her cider if it's as sour as vinegar." in came the maid, bearing a tankard on a salver; and, adding several sweethearts, she offered the homely lunch with a curtsey and a smile that would have glorified even pork and beans. "you are sitting in the general's chair, and here is the tankard he used; you can drink his health, if you like." "i'd rather drink that of the maker of sweethearts;" and, rising, the artist did so, gallantly regardless of consequences. but the cider was excellent, and subsiding into the immortal chair he enjoyed his lunch with the hearty appetite of a boy, while the damsel began to fold up the garments airing on the settle, and lay them into a chest standing near; the one quite unconscious that he was drinking draughts of a far more potent liquor than apple-juice, the other that she had begun to spin a golden thread instead of yarn when she turned the great wheel that day. an eloquent sort of silence filled the room for a moment, and a ray of sunshine glanced from the silver tankard to the bright head bent over the chest, as if to gild the first page of the romance which is as fresh and sweet to-day as when the stately george wooed his beloved martha. a shrill voice suddenly broke that delicious pause, exclaiming, as a door opened with a bang,-- "not packed yet! i won't have this rubbish cluttering round another minute--" there the voice abruptly fell, and the stranger had time to see a withered, yellow face in a pumpkin hood stare sharply at him before it vanished with an exclamation of unmistakable disapproval. "miss dolly seems more afraid of me than i of her, you see," began the young man, much amused at the retreat of the enemy; for such he regarded any one who disturbed this delightful _tête-à-tête_. "she has only gone to put her cap on, and when she comes back you can pay your respects to--mrs. hill;" and the girl looked over the lid of the chest with dancing eyes. "then i'd better be off, since reporters and artists are not allowed on the premises," exclaimed the visitor, rising with more haste than dignity. "don't hurry; she is only a woman, and you are not afraid, you know." "i'm afraid _you_ will get a scolding," began the artist, pocketing his sketch-book, and grasping his hat. "i'm used to that," answered the girl, evidently enjoying the rout with naughty satisfaction. but the sharp, black eyes and the shrill voice had effectually broken the pleasant day-dream; and mrs. hill in a pumpkin hood was quite enough for his nerves, without a second appearance in one of the awe-inspiring caps such ladies affect. "i couldn't think of repaying your kindness by intruding any longer, now that i've got my sketch. a thousand thanks; good-morning;" and, opening the first door he came to, the dismayed man was about to plunge into the buttery, when the girl arrested his flight and led him through the long hall. on the steps he took breath, returned thanks again with grateful warmth, and pulling out a card presented it, as if anxious to leave some token behind which should prevent being forgotten by one person at least. "john hancock harris" read the card, and glancing up from it, with sudden interest in her eyes, the girl exclaimed impulsively,-- "why, then you must be a relation of--" "no, i regret to say i'm not related to the famous governor, only named for him to please my father. i've always been contented with a modest initial until now; but this year every one does their best to hang on to the past, so i've got proud of my middle name, and find it useful as well as ornamental," hastily explained the honest young fellow, though just then he would have liked to claim kinship with every member of the continental congress. "i hope you will be worthy of it," answered the damsel with a little bow, as if saluting the man for his name's sake. "i try to be," he said soberly, adding with that engaging smile of his, "may i ask to whom i am indebted for this very profitable and agreeable call?" instantly the sweet sobriety vanished, and every feature of the pretty face shone with mirthful malice as the girl answered sweetly,-- "miss dolly. good-morning," and closed the door, leaving him to stare blankly at the griffin on the knocker, which appeared to stare back again with a derisive grin. chapter ii. _a cinder and a spark._ one of the few snow-storms of the memorably mild winter of was coming quietly down, watched with lazy interest by the passengers in a certain train that rumbled leisurely toward the city. without it was cold and wintry enough, but within as hot as an oven; for, with the usual american disregard of health, there was a roaring fire in the stove, every ventilator shut, and only one man in the crowded car had his window open. toward this reckless being many a warning or reproachful glance was cast by rheumatic old gentlemen or delicate women who led the lives of hot-house flowers. but the hearty young fellow sat buried in his newspapers, regardless alike of these expressive glances and the fresh wind that blew in an occasional snow-flake to melt upon his shoulder, hair, or beard. if his face had not been obscured by the great sheet held before it, an observer might have watched with interest the varying expressions of amusement, contempt, indignation, and disgust which passed over it as he read; for it was a very expressive face, and too young yet to have put on the mask men so soon learn to wear. he was evidently one of the strong, cheery, sympathetic sort of fellows who make their way everywhere, finding friends as they go from the simple fact that they are so full of courage and good-will it is impossible to resist them. this had been proved already; for during that short journey three old ladies had claimed his services in one way or another, a shy little girl had sat upon his knee for half an hour and left him with a kiss, and an obstreperous irish baby had been bribed to hold its tongue by the various allurements he devised, to the great amusement, as well as gratitude, of his neighbors. just now, however, he looked rather grim, knit his brows as he read, and finally kicked his paper under the seat with an expression which proved that he had as much energy as kindliness in his composition, and no taste for the sorrowful record of scandal, dishonesty, and folly daily offered the american public. "upon my word, if this sort of thing goes on much longer, the country won't be fit for a decent man to live in," he said to himself, taking a mouthful of fresh air, and letting his eyes wander over the faces of his fellow-travellers as if wondering which of the eminently respectable gentlemen about him would next startle the world by some explosion of iniquity. even the women did not escape the scrutiny of the keen blue eyes, which softened, however, as they went from one possible delilah to another; for john harris had not yet lost his reverence for womankind. suddenly his wandering glance was arrested, a look of recognition brightened his whole countenance, and an involuntary "hullo!" rose to his lips, instead of the romantic "ha, 'tis she!" with which novel heroes are supposed to greet the advent of the charmer. the object which wrought so swift and pleasant a change in the young man's mood and manner was a girl's face seen in profile some seats in front of him. a modest little hat with a sweeping feather rested easily on a mass of wavy hair, which was not spoilt by any fashionable device, but looped up in a loose sort of braid from which rebellious tendrils here and there escaped to touch her white throat or shade her temples. one particularly captivating little curl twined round her ear and seemed to be whispering some pleasant secret, for the blooming cheek dimpled now and then, the soft lips smiled, and the eyes were full of a dreamy thoughtfulness. a book lay in her lap, but her own fancies seemed more interesting, and she sat watching the snow-flakes flutter down, lost in one of the delightful reveries girls love, quite unconscious of the admiration of her neighbors, or the fixed stare of the young man behind her. "miss dolly, by all that's good!" he said to himself, suddenly forgetting the sins of his native land, and finding it quite possible to stop a little longer in it. "she said she was going to town with the old things, and there she is, prettier than ever. if it hadn't been for those provoking papers, i should have seen her when she got in, and might have secured a seat by her. that stout party evidently doesn't appreciate his advantages. i can't order him out, but i'll watch my chance, for i really ought to apologize for my stupidity yesterday. wonder if she has forgotten all about it?" and john fell into a reverie likewise, for he was in just the mood to enjoy any thing so innocent and fresh and sweet as the memory of little dolly at her spinning-wheel. it all came back to him with a redoubled charm, for there was a home-like warmth and simplicity about it that made the recollection very pleasant to a solitary fellow knocking about the world with no ties of any sort to keep him safe and steady. he felt the need of them, and was all ready to give away his honest heart, if he could find any amiable creature who could be satisfied with that alone, for he had nothing else to offer. he was rather fastidious, however, having an artist's refined taste in the matter of beauty, and a manly man's love of the womanliness which shows itself in character, not clothes. but he had few opportunities to discover his ideal woman, and no desire to worship a fashion plate, so here was an excellent heart to let, and no one knew it, unless they had the skill to read the notice in the window. the reveries of both young people were rudely disturbed by the "stout party," who having finished his paper, and taken a comprehensive survey of his thoughtful little neighbor, suddenly began to talk as if he did "appreciate his advantages," and meant to make the most of them. john watched this performance with deep interest, and it soon became rather exciting; for miss dolly's face was a tell-tale, and plainly betrayed the rapid transitions of feeling through which she passed. the respectful attention she at first gave in deference to the age of the speaker changed to surprise, then to annoyance, lastly to girlish confusion and distress; for the old gentleman was evidently of the pecksniffian order, and took advantage of his gray hairs to harass the pretty damsel with his heavy gallantry. poor miss dolly looked vainly about her for any means of escape, but every seat was full, and she was quite unconscious that an irate young man behind her was burning to rush to the rescue if he had only known how. as no way appeared, john was forced to content himself with directing such fiery glances at the broad back of the ancient beau it was a wonder they did not act like burning-glasses and set that expanse of broadcloth in a blaze. a crisis soon arrived, and woman's wit turned the tables capitally; for when the old gentleman confiscated her book under pretence of looking at it, and then, laying his arm over the back of the seat, went on talking with a fat smile that exasperated her beyond endurance, dolly gave him one indignant glance and opened her window, letting in a blast of cold air that made her tormentor start and shiver as if she had boxed his ears. "good! if that does not rout the enemy, i'm much mistaken," said john to himself, enjoying it all with the relish of a young man who sees an old one usurping his privileges. the enemy was not routed, but his guns were silenced; for, having expostulated with paternal solicitude, he turned up his coat-collar and retired behind his paper, evidently much disgusted at finding that two could play at the game of annoyance, though the girl had to call the elements to her aid. "if i dared, i'd offer to change seats with him; not because he is suffering agonies at the idea of getting tic-douloureux or a stiff neck, that would only serve him right, but because _she_ will get the worst of it. there, she has already! confound that cinder! why didn't it go into his eye instead of hers?" added john, as he saw the girl shrink suddenly, and begin to wink and rub her eye with distressful haste, while the "stout party" took advantage of the mishap to close the window with an expression of vengeful satisfaction on his rubicund visage. he offered no help, for his first rebuff still rankled in his memory, but placidly twirled his thumbs, with a sidelong glance now and then at his companion, who, finding all her winking and rubbing in vain, shrouded her face in a veil, and sat a pathetic picture of beauty in distress, with an occasional tear rolling over her cheek and her dear little nose reddening rapidly with the general inflammation caused by that fatal cinder. this affecting spectacle was too much for john, who not only felt the chivalrous desire of a man to help the gentle sex, but remembered that he owed the girl a good turn for her hospitality the day before, not to mention the apology he quite burned to make. knowing that the train would soon stop a few minutes for the passengers to lunch, he resolved then and there to cast himself into the breach and deliver the doubly afflicted damsel at all costs. happily the station was reached before any great damage was done to the girl's features, or the young man's impatience became uncontrollable. the instant the stout gentleman rose to seek refreshment john dived for his valise, and, cleaving his way through the crowded aisle, presented himself beside the empty place, asking, with an attempt to look and speak like a stranger, which would not have deceived dolly a bit, had she not been half-blind, "is this seat engaged, madam?" "no, sir," she answered, unveiling to discover what new affliction fate had sent her. it was delightful to see the one wistful eye light up with a look of recognition, the one visible cheek flush with pleasure, and the lips smile as they added, with the impulsive frankness of a tormented girl, "oh, please take it quickly, or that dreadful man will come back!" quite satisfied with his welcome, john slipped into the coveted place, resolving to keep it in spite of a dozen stout gentlemen. "thanks, now what else can i do for you?" he asked, with such an evident desire to lend a hand somewhere that it was impossible to decline his services. "_could_ you take this thing out of my eye? it hurts dreadfully, and i shall be a spectacle by the time i get to aunt maria's," answered dolly, with a little moan that rent the hearer's susceptible heart. "that is just what i want to do, and you may trust me; for i've been a great traveller, and have had much experience in the extraction of cinders," said john, adding, as he produced a pencil in a capable sort of way, "now open your eye wide, and we'll have it out in a jiffy." dolly obeyed with a courage and confidence most flattering, and john peered into the suffering eye with an intensity which it was impossible for the most artful cinder to escape. "i see it!" he cried, and turning back the lid over his pencil he delicately removed the black atom with a corner of dolly's veil. it was all over in an instant, and both displayed great nerve and coolness during the operation; but, as soon as it was done, dolly retired into her handkerchief, and john found himself as flushed and breathless as if he had faced some great danger, instead of merely looking into a girl's eye. ah! but it was a very eloquent eye in spite of the cinder,--large and soft, tearful and imploring, and the instant during which he had bent to examine it had been a most exciting one; for the half-open lips were so near his own their hurried breath fanned his cheek, the inquisitive little curl tumbled over her ear to touch his wrist as he held up the eyelid, and a small hand had unconsciously clutched softly at his arm during the inspection. bless you! the famous scene between uncle toby and the widow wadman was entirely surpassed on this occasion, because the actors were both young and neither artful. "such relief!" sighed dolly, emerging from a brief retirement, with a face so full of gratitude that it was like a burst of sunshine after an eclipse. "let me see if it is all right;" and john could not resist another look into the clear depths through which he seemed to catch delicious glimpses of an innocent young heart before maiden modesty drew the curtain and shut him out. as the long lashes fell, a sudden color in her cheeks seemed to be reflected upon his, and with a hasty,-- "it is a good deal inflamed, so i'm going to prescribe a wet bandage for a few minutes, if you can spare your handkerchief,"--he hurried away to the water tank near by. "that's very comforting. thank you so much!" and dolly patted her invalid eye assiduously; while john, feeling that he had earned his place, planted his valise on the seat with a defiant glance over his shoulder, then turned to dolly, saying, "you must have some lunch," and waiting for no denial dashed out of the car as if on an errand of life and death. he was gone but a moment or two; but in that time dolly had smoothed her hair, retied her hat, whisked a nicer pair of gloves out of her pocket, and taken a rapid survey of herself in a tiny glass concealed from other eyes in the recesses of her bag. she had just time to close and cast the aforesaid bag recklessly upon the floor as her knight came up, bearing a cup of tea and a block of cake, saying in the pleasantly protecting way all women like,-- "dr. harris prescribes refreshment after the operation, and this is the best he can find. your aged admirer was at the counter, eating against time and defying apoplexy," he added with a laugh, as dolly gratefully sipped the tea, which, by the way, was as weak as that made at the famous boston tea-party, when, as every one knows, water was liberally used. "you saw him, then, when he was plaguing me?" "i did, and longed to throw him out of the window." "thanks. did you recognize me before you spoke?" "of course i did, and wanted to approach, but didn't dare till the cinder gave me an excuse." "the idea of being afraid of _me_!" "how could i help being afraid, when you told me miss dolly was 'awful'?" asked john, twinkling with fun, as he sat on the arm of a seat sociably eating a sandwich, which under other circumstances would have struck him as being a remarkable combination of sawdust and sole-leather. before dolly could reply except by a guilty blush, a bell rang, and john hurried away with the empty cup. a moment or two later the stout gentleman appeared, wiping his mouth, evidently feeling in a better humor, and ready to make up with his pretty neighbor. smiling blandly, he was about to remove the valise, when miss dolly laid her hand upon it, saying with great dignity, "this seat is engaged, sir. there are plenty of others now, and i wish this for my friend." here john, who was just behind, seeing his prize in danger, gave a gentle shove to several intervening fellow-beings, who in turn propelled the "stout party" past the disputed place, which the young man took with an air of entire satisfaction, and a hearty "thank you!" which told dolly he had overheard her little speech. she colored beautifully, but said with grateful frankness,-- "it wasn't a fib: a friend in need is a friend indeed, and in return for the cinder i'm glad to give you a seat." "blessed be the cinder, then!" murmured john, feeling at peace with all mankind. then taking advantage of the propitious moment, he added in a penitential tone,-- "i want to apologize for my stupidity and unintentional rudeness yesterday." "about what?" asked dolly, innocently, though her eyes began to sparkle with amusement. "why, taking it into my head that miss hill must be oldish, and going on in that absurd way about spinsters." "well, i _am_ a spinster, and not so young as i have been. _i_ ought to apologize for not telling you who i was; but it was so very funny to hear you go on in that sober way to my face, i couldn't spoil it," said the girl, with a look that upset john's repentant gravity; and they laughed together as only the young and happy can. "it is very good of you to take it so kindly, but i assure you it weighed upon my conscience, and it is a great relief to beg pardon," he said, feeling as if they had been friends for years. "have you been sketching old things ever since?" asked dolly, changing the conversation with womanly tact. "yes: i went to several places further on, but didn't find any thing half so good as your chair and tankard. i suppose you are taking the relics to town now?" "all but one." "which is that?" "the pumpkin hood. it is the only thing my step-mother admires among my treasures, and she would not give it up. you rather admired it, didn't you?" asked dolly, with her demurest air. "i deserve to be laughed at for my panic," answered john, owning up manfully; then pulled out his sketch-book, with an eye to business even in the middle of a joke. "see here! i tried to get that venerable hood into my sketch, but couldn't quite hit it. perhaps you can help me." "let me see them all," said dolly, taking possession of the book with a most flattering air of interest. "nothing there but queer or famous things, all a hundred years old at least," began john, quite forgetting his stolen sketch of a pretty girl cleaning a snuffer-tray, which he had worked up with great care the night before. perhaps this made the book open at that particular page, for, as the words left his lips, dolly's eyes fell on her own figure, too well done to be mistaken, even if the artist's face had not betrayed him. "what 'queer' or 'famous' _old_ person of the last century is that, please?" she asked, holding it off, and looking at it through her hand, while her lips broke into a smile in spite of her efforts to look unconscious. knowing that a pretty woman will easily forgive a liberty of that sort, john got out of the scrape handsomely by answering with mock gravity,-- "oh, that's madam hancock, when a girl. did you never see the famous portrait at portsmouth?" "no. the dress is rather modern, and not quite in keeping with the antique chair she is sitting in," observed the girl, critically. "that's to be added later. i have to work up things, you know,--a face here, a costume there, and so on: all artists do." "so i see. there's the hood; but it wants a cape," and dolly turned the leaf, as much amused at his quickness as flattered by his compliment. there were not many sketches as yet, but she admired them all, and, when the book was shut, chatted on about antiquities, feeling quite friendly and comfortable; for there was respect, as well as admiration, in the honest blue eyes, and the young man did not offend as the old one had done. "as you are interested in curiosities, perhaps you may like to see some that i have here in my bag. i am very fond and proud of them, because they are genuine, and have histories of old times attached to them," she said presently. "i shall feel much honored by being allowed to look at them," replied the artist, remembering that "people used to laugh at poor miss dolly and her 'duds.'" "this little pin, made of two hearts in diamonds and rubies, with a crown above, used to be worn by my mother's great aunt, madam hancock. she was a quincy, you know. and this long garnet buckle fastened the governor's stock," began dolly, displaying her store with a gentle pride pleasant to see. "most interesting! but i can't help feeling grateful that this j. h. doesn't have to wear a stock requiring a foot-long buckle like that," answered john, picturing himself in the costume of the past century, and wondering if it would suit his manly face and figure. "now don't laugh at this relic, for it is very curious, though _you_ won't appreciate it as a woman would;" and dolly unfolded an old-fashioned housewife of red velvet, lined with faded yellow damask. "that was made by my dear mother out of a bit of the velvet lining of the governor's state-coach, and the coverlet that a french comte tore with his spurs." "come, that sounds well! i appreciate coaches and spurs, if i'm not up to brooches and needle-books. tell the story, please," besought john, who found it the most delightful thing in the world to sit there, following the pretty motions of the small hands, the changeful expression of the winsome face, and enjoying the companionship of the confiding creature beside him. "well, you see, when madam married captain scott many of the governor's things were taken from her, among them the state-coach. by the way, it is said to be in existence now, stored away in somebody's barn down in portland. you had better go and sketch it," began dolly, smoothing out the old housewife, and evidently glad to tell the little story of the ancestress whom she was said to resemble, though she modestly refrained from mentioning a fact of which she was immensely proud. "i will!" and john soberly made a memorandum to visit the ancient coach. "when my great-great aunt was told she must give up the carriage, she ripped out the new velvet lining, which had been put in at her expense, and gave the bits to her various nieces. mother made a spencer of hers, and when it was worn out kept enough for this needle-book. the lining is a scrap of the yellow damask counterpane that was on the bed in which the frenchman should have slept when he came with lafayette to visit madam, only he was so tipsy he laid on the outside, and tore the fine cover with his spurs. there's a nice comte for you!" "i'd like to see the spurs, nevertheless. any more treasures?" and john peered into the bag, as if he thirsted for more antiquarian knowledge. "only one, and this is the most valuable of all. stoop down and look: i'm afraid i may be robbed, if i display my things carelessly." john obediently bent till the sweeping feather of her hat touched his cheek, to the great annoyance of the banished peri, who viewed these pleasant passages from afar with much disfavor. "this is said to be madam's wedding ring. i like to think so, and am very proud to be named for her, because she was a good woman as well as a"-- "beauty," put in john, as the speaker paused to open a faded case in which lay a little ring of reddish gold. "i was going to say--as well as a brave one; for i need courage," added the girl, surveying the old-fashioned trinket with such a sober face that the young man refrained from alluding to the remarkable coincidence of another john and dolly looking at the wedding ring together. she seemed to have forgotten all about her companion for a moment, and be busy with her own thoughts, as she put away her treasures with a care which made it a pleasure to watch her tie knots, adjust covers, repack her little bag, and finally fold her hands over it, saying gravely,-- "i love to think about those times; for it seems as if people were better then,--the men more honest, the women more womanly, and every thing simpler and truer than now. does it ever seem so to you?" "indeed it does; for this very day, as i read the papers, i got quite low-spirited, thinking what a shameful state things have got into. money seems to be the one idea, and men are ready to sell their souls for it," answered john, as soberly as she. "money is a good thing to have, though;" and dolly gave a little sigh, as she drew her scarf over the worn edges of her jacket. "so it is!" echoed john, with the hearty acquiescence of a man who had felt the need of it. "my name and these old treasures are all my fortune, and i used to be contented with it; but i'm not now, dependence is so hateful!" added the girl, impulsively; then bit her lip, as if the words had escaped in spite of her. "and this is all mine," said john, twirling the pencil which he still held; giving confidence for confidence, and glad to do it, if it made them better friends, for he pitied little miss dolly, suspecting what was true, that her home was not a happy one. she thanked him mutely for the kind look he gave her, and said prettily,-- "skill is money; and it must be a very pleasant life to go about drawing beautiful or curious things." "so it is sometimes,--yesterday, for instance," he answered, laughing. "_i_ have no modern accomplishments to earn a living by. mine are all old-fashioned; and no one cares for such nowadays, except in servants. i may be very glad of them, though; for playing lady doesn't seem half so honest as going out to service, when one has nothing but an empty pair of hands," she said with a wistful yet courageous look at the wintry world outside, which made her companion feel a strong desire to counsel and protect this confiding young columbus, who knew so little of the perils which would beset her voyage in search of a woman's el dorado. "come to me for a recommendation before you try it. i can vouch for your cooking, you know. but i'd advise you to play lady till you discover a good safe place. i don't believe you'll find it hard, for the world is likely to be very kind to such as you," he answered, so cheerily that she brightened like a flower to which a stray sunbeam is very welcome. a shrill whistle announced that the journey was over, and everybody began at once to fuss and fumble. john got up to take his valise from the rack, and dolly began to struggle into her rubbers. she was still bending down to do this, with as little damage as possible to her best gloves, when she heard a sounding slap and a hearty voice cry out,-- "hullo, john!" then add in a lower tone, "so there _is_ a mrs. harris, you sly dog, you?" "hush! there isn't. how are you, george?" returned another voice, beginning in a hurried whisper and ending in an unnecessarily loud salutation. what happened for a minute or two after that dolly did not know; for the rubbers proved so refractory that she only rose from the encounter flushed and hurried, as the train entered the station. "let me make myself useful in looking after your baggage," said her self-constituted escort, handing her out with great respect and care. "thank you: all my things come by express, so i've nothing to do but get into a carriage." "then allow me to see you safely there, for the sake of the treasures, if nothing else;" and john led her away, utterly ignoring the presence of "george," who stood looking after them, with a face full of good-humored interest and amusement. "i'm very much obliged. good-by," said dolly, from the coach window. "not good-by: i'm coming to the fair, you know," answered john, lingering at the door as if loath to lose sight of his little friend. "i forgot all about it!" "i didn't; for i depend on the cakes and ale and all the other good things promised me." "you will find them there," with a smile, and then a sudden blush as she remembered that he had not only agreed to speak to "miss dolly," but to "win her old heart." he remembered also, and laughed as he bowed with the same audacious look he had worn when he made that rash vow. "i wonder if he _will_ come?" thought the girl, as she drove away. "as if _i_ should forget!" said john to himself, as he trudged through the snow, quite regardless of his waiting friend; for from the little cinder had been kindled a spark of the divine fire that moves one of the great engines which transport mankind all the world over. chapter iii. _confidential._ john harris promised to "do" the fair, and kept his word handsomely; for he was there every day for a week, lunching in the old-fashioned kitchen, and then, in his official capacity, sketching every relic he could lay his eyes on. such punctuality caused the pretty waiters to smile affably upon this faithful devourer of primitive viands, and the matrons to predict great things from the young artist's application to his work. little guessed the girls and the gossips that love was ravaging their generous patron's heart more persistently than he did their tables, and that nature not art caused his devotion to modern beauty rather than ancient ugliness. for all john saw in the crowd that filled the place was dolly, tripping to and fro tray in hand, spinning at her wheel, or resting beside aunt maria, twin sister of mrs. hill, in an imposing cap instead of the pumpkin hood. pretty dolly was the belle of the kitchen; for she alone of all the dozen damsels on duty looked her part, and was in truth a country girl, rich in the old-fashioned gifts and graces of health, modesty, housewifely skill, and the sweet maidenliness which girls who come out at sixteen soon lose for ever. her dress, too, was wonderfully complete and becoming, though only a pink and white chintz, a mob-cap, and an uncompromising apron, with the pin-ball, scissors, keys, and linen pocket hanging at the side. the others looked like stage soubrettes, and acted like coquettish young ladies who knew nothing about their work. but dolly was genuine throughout, so she proved a great success; and aunt maria took all the credit of it to herself, felt that she had done a good thing in bringing so much youth, energy, and loveliness to market, and expressed her satisfaction by talking a great deal about "our family," which, as she was a smith, was certainly large enough to furnish endless gossip. another person watched, admired, and hovered about the girl like a blue-bottle fly about a rose; and that was mr. aaron parker, a dapper little man of fifty, who, having made a snug fortune, was now anxious to marry and settle. aunt maria was evidently his confidant and friend; and it was soon apparent that aunt maria intended to make a match between her niece and this amiable gentleman, who set about his wooing with old-fashioned formality and deliberation. all this john saw, heard, or divined with the keenness of a lover, while he watched the events of that week; for he very soon made up his mind that he adored "miss dolly," as he always called her to himself. the short time which had elapsed between the car episode and the opening of the fair seemed endless to him; and, when he came beaming into the kitchen the very first day, his heart sang for joy at sight of that bonny face once more. she welcomed him so kindly, served him so prettily, and showed such frank and friendly pleasure at meeting him again, that the lonely fellow felt as if he had suddenly found a large and attached family, and yielded to the charm without a struggle. she seemed to belong to him somehow, as if he had discovered her, and had the first right to admire, help, and love her; for he alone of all the men there had seen her at home, had looked deepest into the shy, bright eyes, and heard her call him "friend." this delightful state of things lasted for a few days, during which he felt as if quaffing nectar and tasting ambrosia, while he drank the promised cider and ate the spicy "sweethearts" which dolly always brought him with a smile that went directly to his head, and produced a delicious sort of intoxication. he never could have but a word or two, she was so busy; but, as he sat apart, pretending to sketch, he was living over those brief, blissful moments, and concocting wonderfully witty, wise, or tender speeches for the morrow. well for him that no one looked over his shoulder at such times, for his portfolio would have betrayed him, since it was a wild jumble of andirons and mob-caps, antique pepper-pots and pretty profiles, spinning-wheels, and large eyes with a profusion of lash; while a dainty pair of feet in high-heeled slippers seemed to dance from page after page, as if the artist vainly sought to exorcise some persistent fancy by booking it over and over again. suddenly a change appeared both in the man and in his work; for parker had arrived, and clouds began to gather on the horizon which was rosy with the dawn of love. now john discovered that the cider was sour and the cake stale, for the calls of a voracious rival cruelly abbreviated his moments of bliss. now he glared and brooded in corners where once he had revelled in dreams of a dim but delightful future. now the pages of his sketch-book bore grotesque likenesses of a round, snub-nosed countenance in all sorts of queer places, such as a clock-face, under a famous cocked hat, or peeping out of a memorable warming-pan; while a dapper figure was seen in various trying attitudes, the most frequent being prone before the dancing feet, one of which was usually spurning a fat money-bag, with contempt in every line of the pretty slipper. at this stage, the fair ended, and aunt maria bore the charmer away, leaving john to comfort himself with the memory of a parting look of regret from behind governor hancock's punch-bowl, which dolly embraced with one arm, while the other guarded madam's best china tea-pot. maddening was it to haunt the street before aunt maria's door, and hear a gay voice singing inside fit to melt a paving stone, to say nothing of a young man's heart. more maddening still to catch occasional glimpses of the girl shut up in a carriage with the dragon, or at concerts and theatres under the escort of mr. parker. but most maddening of all was the frequent spectacle of this enamoured gentleman trotting up the street, simpering to himself as he went, and freely entering at the door which shut the younger lover out of paradise. at such trying periods, john (now very far gone indeed, for love feeds on air) would feel a wild desire to knock the little man down, storm aunt maria's mansion, and carry his dolly away from what he felt assured was an irksome bondage to the girl. but, alas! where could he carry the dear creature when he had got her? for all the home he possessed was one room in a dull boarding-house, and his only fortune the salary his pencil earned him. then, as he groaned over these sad facts, a great temptation would assail him; for he remembered that with a word he could work the miracle which would give him half a million, and make all things possible but the keeping of his own self-respect. hard times just then for john harris; and for some weeks he went about his daily duties with such a divided mind and troubled spirit that the stoniest heart might have pitied him. but comfort came when least expected, and in trying to help another he got help himself and hope beside. one gusty march morning he arrayed himself in his best, put a posy in his button-hole, and went gallantly away to aunt maria's door, bound to make a call in spite of her frowns at the fair, and evident desire to ignore his existence since. boldly ringing the forbidden bell, he inquired for the ladies. both were engaged; and, as if nothing should be wanting to his chagrin, as he went down the steps mr. parker, bearing a suggestive bouquet, went up and was instantly admitted. it was too much for poor john, who rushed away into the park, and pulling his hat over his eyes tramped wrathfully down the mall, muttering to himself,-- "it's no use; i _must_ give in; for with a fortune in my pocket i could carry all before me,--bribe aunt maria, outbid aaron, and win my dolly, if i'm not much mistaken." just then a sharp yelp roused him from his excited reverie, and looking up he found that he had kicked a fat poodle, who was waddling slowly along, while some way before him went a little figure in a gray hat, at sight of which john's heart gave a leap. here was bliss! dolly alone at last, and he could defy the dragon and all her machinations. parker and his fine bouquet were nowhere; harris and his button-hole posy had the best of it now; and, leaving the fat poodle to whine and waddle at its own sweet will, the happy man hurried forward to make the most of this propitious moment. as he drew near, he observed that a handkerchief went more than once to the face which drooped in a thoughtful way as the feet paced slowly on. "bless her heart! she is catching cold, and dreaming dreams, here all alone," thought john, as, stepping to her side, he said gently, that he might not startle her, "good-morning, miss dolly." he did startle her, nevertheless, and himself as well; for, as she turned quickly, he saw that her face was bathed in tears. instantly all his own troubles took wing; and, with no thought but how to comfort her, he said impetuously,-- "i beg pardon, but do tell me what is the matter?" he came upon her so suddenly that there was no time to hide the tell-tale tears. he looked so eager, kind, and helpful, she could not be offended at his words; and just then she needed a friend so much, it was hard to resist confiding in him. yet, womanlike, she tried to hide her little worries, to make light of her girlish grief, and turn a brave face to the world. so she brushed the drops from her eyes, put on a smile, and answered stoutly,-- "it was very foolish of me to cry, but it is so dull and lonely here i think i was a little homesick." "then perhaps you won't mind if i walk on a bit with you and apologize for kicking your little dog?" said john, artfully availing himself of this excuse. "no, indeed. he is aunt maria's dog; but how came you to do it?" asked the girl, plainly showing that a human companion was very welcome. "i was in a brown study, and did it by accident. he's so fat it didn't hurt him much," answered the young man, assuming his gayest manner for her sake. then he added, with an excuse which did not deceive her a bit,-- "the fact is, i'd ventured to call on you to see if i could get a sketch of the punch-bowl; but you were engaged, the girl said, and i was rather disappointed." "what a fib! i'm sorry i was out; but the house was gloomy and aunt rather cross, so i ran away under pretence of giving old tip an airing." "ah, you don't know what you lost! mr. parker went in as i came out, with such a nosegay!--for aunt maria, i suppose?" and john tried to look quite easy and gay as he spoke. dolly's face darkened ominously, and a worried look came into her eyes as she glanced behind her, then quickened her steps, saying, with a little groan that was both comic and pathetic,-- "it does seem as if it was my doom to be tormented by old gentlemen! i wish you'd get rid of this one as you did of the other." "nothing would give me greater pleasure," answered john, with such heartiness that a sudden color dried dolly's wet cheeks, as she remembered that he had got rid of tormentor number one by taking his place. cheered by the knowledge that a champion was ready to defend her, she ventured to show him a safer way in which to serve her, saying very soberly,-- "i think i may be glad of the recommendation you once promised me. should you mind giving it?" "are you tired of 'playing lady' so soon?" he asked anxiously. "so tired that i felt to-day as if i'd like to run away and take service with the first person who would engage me." "don't!" exclaimed john, with such energy that the fat poodle barked shrilly and made a feeble charge at his boots, feeling that something was wrong somewhere. "run away home, if you must run, but pray don't get discouraged and do any thing rash," he went on with great earnestness; for he saw by her face that she was in some real trouble. "i haven't even a home to run to; for mrs. hill agrees with aunt that it's time i ceased to be a burden. it's very hard, when i only ask a safe corner in the world, and am willing to work for it," cried the girl, with an irrepressible sob; for the trials of many weeks had grown unbearable, and a kind word made the full heart overflow. neither spoke for a minute, then john said with a respectful earnestness which touched her very much,-- "miss dolly, you once called me a friend, and i was very proud to be so honored. forget that i am any thing else, and, if you have no one wiser and older to consult, trust me, and let me help you. i've knocked about the world enough to know how hard it is for a man to get an honest living, doubly hard for a woman, especially one as young and beautiful as you are. there are safe corners, i am sure; but it takes time to find them, so pray be patient and do nothing without care." "i called you a friend in need, and so you are; for, strange as it may seem, there is no one to whom i can go for disinterested advice. i know so little of the world that i'm afraid to trust my own judgment, yet i am driven to decide between dependence of a sort i despise, or to stand alone and take care of myself. _will_ you advise me?" and she looked up with an appealing glance, which read such a reassuring answer in the honest eyes full of sincerest sympathy that she was comforted before he spoke. "indeed i will! for what are we all here for, if not to help one another? do you know i think there is a sort of fate about these things, and it's no use to struggle against it. we seem to be two 'lone, lorn' creatures thrown together in queer ways, so let's agree to be old friends and stand by each other. come, is it a bargain?" he seemed so firmly convinced of the inevitability of this fate that the girl felt relieved from farther scruples, and agreed in all good faith. "now about the troubles?" began john, trying to look old, reliable, and wise; for he guessed the one she was most reluctant to tell. "i suppose marrying for an establishment or earning their bread is a question most poor girls have to settle sooner or later," observed dolly, in a general sort of way, as an opening; for, in spite of his praiseworthy efforts, her young counsellor did not succeed in looking like a sage. "if pretty, yes; if plain, no. we needn't discuss the latter class, but go on to the question," returned john, keeping to the subject in hand with masculine pertinacity. "i'd rather be an old man's housekeeper than his wife; but people won't believe it, and laugh at me for being what they call so foolish," said the girl, petulantly; for she did not seem to be getting on well with her confidences. "i thought from what i saw at the fair that parker seemed ready to offer both situations for your acceptance." john could not help saying that, for a jealous pang assailed him at the mere idea. he feared that he had spoilt the _rôle_ he was trying to play; but it happened to be the best thing he could have done, for the introduction of that name made things much easier for dolly, as she proved by kindling up as suddenly as if the word had been a match to fire a long train of grievances. "he did; and aunt scolds me from morning till night, because i won't accept the fine establishment he offers me. that's what i was sent here for! my step-mother wants me out of the way, aunt maria hands me over to mr. parker, and he takes me because i know how to cook and nurse. i might as well be put up at auction and sold to the highest bidder!" she cried, with eyes flashing through indignant tears. "it's abominable!" echoed john, with equal indignation, though the words "highest bidder" rung in his ears, as he thought of the fortune waiting for him, and the youth which would tell so strongly in the race against "old parker," as he irreverently called the little man; for fifty seems a patriarchal age to four-and-twenty. "i know that sort of thing is done every day, and thought quite right; but i am so old-fashioned it seems terrible to marry merely for a home. yet i'm very tired of being poor, and i _should_ like a taste of ease and pleasure while i can enjoy them," added dolly, with a very natural longing for the bright and happy side of life. "and i could give her all she wants," thought john, with the temptation getting stronger every minute. but he only said a little bitterly, "you'd better give in, if you want ease and pleasure, for money can buy any thing." "no, it can't buy love, and that is better than all the splendor in the world," answered the girl, in a tone that thrilled her hearer to the heart. "what _i_ call love seems to have gone out of fashion; and that is what troubles me; because, if there _isn't_ any such thing, i may as well take the next best, and try to be contented. no one seems to value love for itself alone, to feel the need of it as much as light and air, to miss it when it goes, or try to earn and keep it as the most precious thing in the world. money and position are every thing, and men work and women marry for these, as if they had no other hope or end; and i'm frightened at the things i see and hear in what is called society." "poor child, i don't wonder; but i assure you there _is_ an ocean of love in the world, only it gets put out of sight in the rush, wasted on those who don't deserve it, or dammed up by adverse circumstances. it exists though, the real genuine article, waiting for a market. _do_ believe it, and wait for it, and i'm sure it will come in time." john was so divided between a rash impulse to prove his point by a declaration then and there, and the conviction that it would be altogether premature, his metaphors got rather mixed, and he had to pull himself up abruptly. but dolly thought it a beautiful speech, was glad to believe every word of it, and accepted this piece of advice with admirable docility. "i'll wait, and meantime be looking about for the safe corner to run to when aunt maria gets tired of me, because i don't mean to go home again to be a burden." then, as if anxious to slip away from a too interesting topic, she asked with a very winning expression of interest and good-will,-- "now what can i do for you? i'm sure you have worries as well as i, and, though not very wise, perhaps i might advise in my turn." "you are very good, but i couldn't think of troubling you;" and the young man looked both pleased and flurried by the girl's offer. "we agreed to help one another, you remember; and i must do my part, or the bargain won't be a fair one. tell me what the brown study was about, and i'll forgive the kick poor tip got," persisted dolly; for her feminine instinct told her that a heavy cloud of some sort had been lifted to let sunshine through for her. john did long to know her opinion on a certain matter, but a man's pride would not let him speak as freely as the girl had done, so he took refuge in a mild subterfuge, and got advice on false pretences. "it was only a quandary i was in about a friend of mine. he wants my judgment in a case something like yours, and perhaps you _could_ help me with an opinion; for women are very wise in such matters sometimes." "please tell me, if you may. i should so love to pay my debts by being of some use;" and dolly was all attention, as she pushed back her vail as if to get a clear and impartial view of the case about to be submitted. fixing his eyes on the sparrows who were disporting themselves among the budding elm-boughs, john plunged abruptly into his story, never once looking at his hearer and speaking so rapidly that he was rather red and breathless when he got through. "you see, jack was plodding along after a fashion all by himself, his people being dead, when an old friend of his father's took it into his head to say, 'come and be a son to me, and i'll leave you a handsome fortune when i die.' a capital thing it seemed, and jack accepted, of course. but he soon found that he had given up his liberty, and was a slave to a very tyrannical master, who claimed him soul and body, heart and mind. that didn't suit jack, and he would have broken away; but, as you say, he was 'tired of being poor, and wanted a little ease and pleasure in his life.' the old man was failing, and the money would soon be his, so he held on, till he suddenly discovered that this fortune for which he was waiting was not honest money, but, like many another great fortune, had been ground out of the poor, swindled out of honest men, or stolen from trusting friends, and hoarded up for a long lifetime, to be left to jack with the curse of dishonesty upon it. would you advise him to take it?" "no," answered the girl, without a moment's hesitation. "well, he didn't, but turned his back on the ill-gotten money, and went to work again with clean but empty hands," added john, still looking away, though his face wore a curiously excited expression under its enforced composure. "i'm glad, very glad he did! wasn't it noble of him?" asked dolly, full of admiring interest in this unknown jack. "it was very hard; for you see he loved somebody, and stood a poor chance of winning her without a penny in his pocket." "all the nobler in him then; and, if she was worth winning, she'd love him the more for the sacrifice," said dolly, warmly; for the romance of the story took her fancy, though it was poorly told. "think so? i'll mention that to jack: it will cheer him up immensely, for he's afraid to try his fate with nothing to offer but his earnings." "what's his business?" asked dolly suddenly. "connected with newspapers,--fair salary, good prospects,--not ashamed to work," answered john, staring hard at the sparrows, and wiping his forehead, as if he found the bleak day getting too warm for him. "is the girl pretty?" "the most captivating little creature i ever beheld!" cried john, rapturously. "oh, indeed," and dolly glanced at him sharply, while a shadow passed over her face, as she asked with redoubled interest, "is she rich?" "has nothing but her sweet face and good name i believe." "isn't that enough?" "indeed it is! but jack wants to make life beautiful and easy for her, and he can by saying a word. he is awfully tempted to say it; for the old man is dying, has sent for him to come back, and there is yet time to secure a part of the fortune. he won't take it all, but has a fancy that, if he leaves half to charity, it would be a sort of purification to the other half; and he might enjoy it with his love. don't you think so?" "no, it would spoil the whole thing. why cannot they be contented to begin with nothing but love, and work up together, earning every clean and honest penny they spend. it would be a comfort to see such a pair in this mercenary world, and i do hope they will do it," said the girl, heartily, though a slightly pensive tone had come into her voice, and she stifled a small sigh, as she put down her vail as if there was nothing worth seeing in the landscape. "i think they _will_ try it!" answered john, with decision, as he smiled sympathetically at a pair of sparrows chirping together at the door of one of the desirable family mansions provided for their use. here tip ended the dangerous dialogue by sitting down before dolly with a howl of despair, which recalled her to her duty. "the poor old thing is tired, and must go in. good-morning, and many thanks," she said, turning toward the steps, which they would have passed unseen but for the prudent poodle's hint. "good-by, and a thousand pardons for boring you with my affairs," began john, with a penitent, yet very grateful glance. "by the way, i've been so interested in jack's affairs that i've forgotten exactly what your advice was to me," she added, pausing on the upper step for a last word. with his hat in his hand and his heart in his eyes, john looked up and answered in a tone that made few words necessary,-- "don't sell yourself for a home." and dolly answered back with a sweet, shrewd smile that made him flush guiltily,-- "don't smother your conscience with a fortune." chapter iv. _april fools._ tip's constitutionals were taken with praiseworthy regularity about that time, and the poor asthmatic animal was nearly walked off his legs by the vigor with which his little mistress paraded the park at unfashionable hours. a robust young man, who did not look as if he needed early walks, was continually meeting dolly by accident as it were, till on the fourth _rencontre_ they both burst out laughing, gave up all further subterfuge, and felt that it was vain to struggle against fate. the next time they met, both looked very sober; and john said, watching her face as he spoke,-- "it is all over with me, miss dolly. the old man is dead, and my chance is lost for ever." "you look so solemn, i'm afraid he left you something, after all." "not a penny. all went to various charities, and i have nothing but my salary and these two hands." "i'm glad of that! i'd like to shake those honest hands, and wish them all success. may i?" she said, putting out her own with such cordial approval in voice and eyes that john lost his head, and, holding both the small hands fast in his, answered all in one fervently incoherent burst,-- "may you? let me keep them, and then i _shall_ succeed! dearest dolly, you said you didn't want any thing but love; and here's a whole heart full, aching to be poured out. you said you'd like to see jack and his wife working their way up together, contented to be poor. here's jack and the wife he wants, if she cares enough for him to try that beautiful experiment. you said you hadn't any home to run to when those cruel women called you a burden. run to me, my darling, and be the pride and joy and comfort of my life!" no one saw what dolly did but tip, who sat lolling out his tongue in an imbecile manner; and no one heard what she said but some bright-faced crocuses blooming early in that lonely corner of the park. but from what took place afterward, it was evident that her reply had not been entirely unpropitious; for her hand lay on john's arm, her face was in an april state between smiles and tears, and to her eyes midsummer warmth and radiance seemed to have fallen suddenly upon the earth. it is hardly necessary to mention that the other party in this little transaction looked as if _he_ owned the entire world, was yearning to embrace all mankind, and had nothing more to ask of heaven in the way of happiness. "you don't regret saying yes, like an angel," asked this unreasonable lover, five minutes after he had surprised her into uttering that momentous monosyllable. "not yet." "you know that it is very selfish of me to ask you, when i've nothing to give; and very unwise in you to take me, because you have much to lose." "why, what?" "the devoted parker and his plump pocket-book." it was good to hear dolly laugh at that, and to see john glance defiantly at an elderly gentleman in the distance, as if all that harmless portion of the race ought to be exterminated, to leave room for happy young fellows like himself. "he will believe now that, when i say 'no,' i mean it," answered dolly, with an assumption of dignity, which changed with comic suddenness to one of dismay, as she added, "oh, my heart, what _will_ aunt maria say!" "don't tell her just yet, or she will shut you up, whisk you away, or do some awful thing to part us. keep this delicious secret for a little while, and we can enjoy many happy minutes in peace." "yes, john," with a docility that was altogether captivating to the new commander-in-chief. "i must look about me, and be getting ready to take you into my home as well as my heart, when the storm breaks. there is sure to be one, i fancy; and, for my part, i rather relish the idea. the air will be clearer and things more settled after it." "i don't know what they will say and do to me, but i shall not mind, now i have you to take care of me;" and dolly's other hand went to join the one on john's arm, with a confiding gesture which glorified the old coat-sleeve, in his eyes, more than any badge it could have worn. "i suppose we _must_ live somewhere, and eat occasionally, since we are mortal. love certainly _is_ the best capital to start on, but a trifle of cash is necessary likewise; so we must take a little thought for the morrow. wish the city would provide us with a house rent free, and board thrown in, as it does our feathery confidants here," observed the husband elect, eying the sparrows with a vague sense of domestic cares already stealing over his masculine mind. "don't think of all those worries yet. just love and be happy for a time, and things will settle themselves somehow," cried dolly, whose womanly nature would not be so soon defrauded of the sweet romance which comes but once in a lifetime. "very well. we'll give a month to clear bliss, and then talk about the honeymoon." but, with the charming inconsistency of her sex, no sooner had she forbidden a subject than she felt an intense desire to talk about it; and after a moment's pause, during which her lover had been looking down at her thoughtful face in silent rapture, dolly emerged from a brief reverie, clapping her hands and exclaiming,-- "john, i've got the most delicious idea that ever was. now don't laugh and say, 'it isn't practical,' for i know it is; and it would be so new and appropriate and economical, and altogether nice, that i hope you'll approve. we shall want a home by and by, shall we not?" "i want it now, if you've no objection." "be serious. well, a room or two must content us at first, and we want them to be decent, not to say pretty and comfortable, don't we?" "they can't help being all three, if you are there, my dolly." "no, john, not in public! now answer me this: won't you have to save up a long time, to get enough to buy furniture and things, no matter how simple?" "i'm afraid i should; for at present my housekeeping stock is about as large and varied as that of tommy traddles. his consisted of a bird-cage and a toasting-fork, i believe; mine, of an easel and a boot-jack. wouldn't they do to begin with?" "please don't joke, but listen; for _this_ is the new idea. take my dear old relics and furnish our nest with them! what _could_ be more economical, picturesque, and appropriate for this centennial year?" dolly stopped short to see how this amazing proposal struck her lord and master. it seemed to take him off his legs; for he sat suddenly down upon a seat that fortunately was behind him, and looked up at the beaming little woman with an expression of admiration and contentment, which answered her question so emphatically that she nestled down beside him with all her doubts laid at rest. "i thought you'd like it! now let's plan it all out, and see what we've got. every thing is as old as the hills, you know; but still so good and strong we can get years of wear out of it. we don't have such well-made furniture nowadays," she went on, happily blind to the deficiencies of the time-worn chairs, clumsy tables, and cracked china, which were all her store. "my blessing on every stick of it! i wasn't thinking about the furniture, though. i was rejoicing over the fact that, if i needn't save up for that sort of thing, we could be married all the sooner. that's the beauty of the idea, don't you see?" and john regarded the originator thereof with unmitigated satisfaction. "so we can; but _do_ think about the furniture, because you ought to be interested in helping me make an artistic home," said dolly, knowing that the word "artistic" would arrest his attention, and keep him to the subject in hand; for as yet the other idea was too new to bear much discussion. "i will. in fact, i see it now, all complete. two or three rooms in an old house, if possible,--they are always the cheapest, my love; so don't look as if you saw cobwebs and blue mould, and felt black beetles running over your feet. in one room we'll have that spider-legged table on which you cleaned the snuffer tray, and the claw-footed chairs: there were three, i think,--one for each of us, and the third for a friend. then on the dresser we'll put all the porringers out of which we are to eat mush and milk, and the pewter platters for an occasional 'biled dish,'--that's the proper name for the mess, isn't it? likewise the dear fat tea-pots, the red china cups, all cracked, the green-handled knives and forks, the wooden spoons, funny pepper-pots, and all the rest of the droll rattletraps." "don't forget _the_ tankard," cried dolly, as john paused for breath in the middle of his rhapsody. "that will be in our parlor, set forth in state on the little stand i used to have my lunch at during the fair. i'm afraid i scratched your initials all over it, that being a trick of mine about that time." "i thought you did it! never mind, but go on, please." "we shall put flowers in the immortal mug, and i shall paint them, earn sums, and grow famous, such will be the inspiration of my surroundings. for, while i sit in the general's chair at my delightful work, you in the pretty chintz gown and the fly-away cap,--promise me to wear it, or i won't go on?" "i'll wear any thing you like, in the house, and can have a water-proof and a linen duster for the street. artists' wives usually do have to make guys of themselves, i believe." "thank you, dear. well, you will always be doing one of three things, making sweethearts, spinning, or looking over my shoulder. i prefer the latter occupation on the whole, and when i'm at home that will be your mission. during my absence, you can attend to the housework you love so well, and do so prettily. never did i see such brilliant candlesticks in my life; and as for the copper tea-kettle, it was like a mirror. i saw you steal peeps at it more than once, little vanity, that day as i sat stealing a sketch of you." "then you think it can be done, john?" ignoring the accusation. "it not only _can_, but it _shall_ be done, and i shouldn't wonder if we set the fashion of furnishing bridal bowers with relics of all sorts, throwing in a glue-pot gratis, to mend up the old things when they tumble to pieces. i'm great at that, and can get my living as a cabinetmaker when art fails." "i do believe you can do every thing, john!" "no, i couldn't cure pneumonia, if you should get it by sitting in this chilly wind. now i've got you, i intend to take great care of you, my little treasure." it was so sweet to dolly to be cared for, and so delightful to john to do it, that they forgot all about poor tip till he tumbled into the pond, and was with difficulty fished out by his ears and tail, being too fat to do any thing but float. this catastrophe shortened an interview which might otherwise have been prolonged till nightfall, for "lightly falls the foot of time that only treads on flowers." "why, john, do you know that this is the first of april?" asked dolly, as they went homeward, with tip forlornly dripping in the rear. "a very fitting day for such an imprudent couple as we are to begin their journey," she added, enjoying the idea immensely. "so it is! never mind! we'll prove that we are no fools, though a mercenary world may call us so," returned john, as blithe as she. alas, poor things! they thought their troubles were all over, now they had found each other; whereas a cruel fate was laughing at them round the corner. chapter v. _the declaration of independence._ unfortunately for these deluded young persons, their month of bliss turned out to be the most tempestuous one they had ever passed; for, before the first week was over, some malignant imp inspired aunt maria to spy, from a certain end window which commanded a corner of the park, the lingering adieux of the lovers, and then it was all up with them. a single stormy debate, during which john manfully claimed his dolly, she stoutly defended her right to love whom she chose, and aunt maria thundered and lightened unavailingly, resulted in the banishment of the claimant, the strict seclusion of the damsel, and the redoubled devotion of the decorous but determined parker, who, cheered on by his ally, still besieged the rebellious heart, undaunted by the reinforcements lately received. the prospect was certainly not a hopeful one; but the young people never lost courage, rather enjoyed it on the whole, and revolved endless schemes in their busy brains, which they confided to one another by means of notes slipped under tip's collar when he took his solitary airings on the steps. for a time persecution lent its zest to their love; but presently separation grew unbearable, and they were ready for revolt. "i _must_ see you," wrote john, in note number . "you _shall_," answered dolly, and bade him meet her at one of the many centennial balls which afflicted the world in - . to hear was to obey; and though said ball was to be eminently select, thanks to a skilful use of his middle name, john was able to keep the appointed tryst, well knowing that there is no solitude like that to be found in a crowd. costumes were in order; and there was a general resurrection of ancient finery, which made the handsome hall look as if time had rolled back a hundred years. every one who had a hair powdered it, and those who had not made up the deficiency by imposing wigs. spindle-legged gentlemen affected top-boots and spurs; those blessed with a manly development of calf pranced in silk stockings and buckled shoes. british and continental uniforms amicably marched shoulder to shoulder; dimity and brocade mingled prettily together; and patriotic ardor animated the hearts under the lace stomachers and embroidered waistcoats as warmly as of old, for the spirit of ' was all alive again. aunt maria looked like a parrot of the most brilliant plumage; for the good lady burned to distinguish herself, and had vainly tried to wear a suit of madam hancock's belonging to dolly. fortunately, madam was a small woman, and aunt maria quite the reverse; so she was forced to give it up, and content herself with being one of many martha washingtons who filled the dowagers' corner. so dolly bloomed into the sweetest little old-time lady ever seen, and was in truth by nature as by name a dorothy quincy. not as the matron, but as the maid, with all her curly locks turned over a roller before they fell on her white neck, where shone the jewelled hearts she prized so much. lilies of the valley embroidered her white gown, and nestled among the lace that rose and fell upon her bosom. from under her quilted satin petticoat "her little feet stole in and out," wearing madam's wedding-shoes, so high in the heels and so pointed at the toes that dolly suffered martyrdom with a smiling face, and danced at the risk of her life. long gloves, with lafayette's likeness stamped on the back, kept splitting at the time-worn seams, so plump were the arms inside. a quaint scent-bottle hung at her waist; and she hid her blushes behind a great fan, whose dim mirror had reflected faces history has made immortal. "you are simply perfect, miss hill, and nothing could be added," whispered the still hopeful parker, who was on duty and much elated by the fact; for the girl was unusually friendly that evening for reasons of her own. "except the governor," she answered, peeping over her fan with eyes full of anxiety as well as merriment; for john had not yet appeared, and the little man beside her was very funny in a voluminous white neckcloth, furred coat-collar, and square-toed shoes, carefully kept in the "first position." he had longed to personate the character she suggested. stature forbade, however; and he had contented himself with personating benjamin franklin, flattering himself that his placid countenance and neat legs would be remarkably effective, also the fact that he had been connected with the printing interest in early life. "if you had only told me, i would have attempted it for your sake: you have but to express a wish, and i am charmed to gratify it," murmured the enamoured benjamin, with a tenderly reproachful sigh, which stirred his rampant shirt-frill like a passing breeze. at that moment, as if a wish _had_ brought him, a veritable john hancock stood before them, looking comelier than ever, in a velvet suit, as he laid his cocked hat upon his heart and asked, with a bow so deep that it afforded a fine view of the garnet buckle in his stock,-- "may i have the honor, madam?" glad to hide a traitorously happy face, dolly made him a splendid curtsey, and took his arm with a hasty-- "excuse me, mr. parker. please tell aunt i'm going to dance." "but--but--but--my dear miss, i promised not to lose sight of you," stammered the defrauded franklin, turning red with helpless rage, as the full audacity of the lovers burst upon him. "well, you needn't. wait for me here till my dance is over, then aunt won't know any thing about it," laughed wilful dolly over her shoulder, as she was swept away into the many-colored whirlpool that circled round the hall to the entrancing music of a waltz. while it lasted, words were needless; for eyes did the talking, smiles proud or tender telegraphed volumes of poetry, the big hand held the little one so close that it burst quite out of the old glove rosy with the pressure, and the tall head was often so near the short one that the light locks powdered the dark ones. "a heavenly waltz!" panted dolly, when it ended, feeling that she could go on for ever, blind to the droll despair of poor parker, as, heroically faithful to his trust, he struggled frantically to keep the happy pair in sight. "now we'll have a still more heavenly promenade in the corridor. ben is busy apologizing to half a dozen ladies whose trains he has walked up in his mad career after us, so we are safe for a time," answered john, ready to brave the wrath of many aunt marias; for the revolutionary spirit was high within him, and he had quite made up his mind that resistance to tyrants _was_ obedience to the little god he served just then. "oh, john, how glad i am to see you after all this worry, and how nice it was of you to come in such grand style to-night! i was so afraid you couldn't manage it," said dolly, hanging on his arm and surveying her gallant governor with pardonable pride. "my blessed girl, there was nothing i couldn't manage with the prospect of meeting you before me. hasn't it been hard times for both of us? you've had the hardest, i'm afraid, shut up with the dragon and no refuge from daily nagging and parker's persecution. if you hadn't the bravest little heart in the world, you'd have given up by this;" and, taking advantage of a shadowy corner, john embraced his idol, under pretence of drawing her cloak about her. "i'll never give up the ship!" cried the girl, quoting lawrence of the "chesapeake," with a flash of the eye good to see. "stand to your guns, and we'll yet say, 'we've met the enemy, and they are ours,'" answered john, in the words of brave perry, and with a ring to his voice which caused a passing waiter to pause, fancying he was called. beckoning to him, john gave dolly a glass of lemonade, and, taking one himself, said with a look that made the toast a very eloquent one to both of them,-- "the love of liberty--and--the liberty of love." they drank it silently, then paced on again, so intent upon their own emotions that neither saw a flushed and agitated countenance regard them from a doorway, and then vanish, smiling darkly. "governor!" "dearest madam!" "things have come to a crisis, and i've taken a resolution," began dolly, remembering that time was short. "so have i." "this is mine,--i'm going to philadelphia." "no!" "yes." "how? when? why?" "be calm and listen. aunt has given me just three days to choose between accepting p. and being sent home in disgrace. i don't intend to do either, but take matters into my own hands, and cease to be a burden." "hear! hear! but how?" "at the fair the kitchen was a success, and there is to be a grand one at the exposition. girls are wanted to wait there as here; they are taken care of, and all expenses paid while they serve. i know some nice people who are going for fun, and i'm to join them for a month at least. that gives me a start, and afterward i certainly can find something to do in the city of brotherly love." "the knowledge that _i'm_ to be there on duty had nothing to do with this fine plan of yours, hey, my dolly?" and john beamed at her with such a rapturous expression she had to turn him round, lest an advancing couple should fancy he had been imbibing something stronger than lemonade and love. "why, of course it had," she answered with adorable candor. "don't you see how lovely it will be to meet every day and talk over our prospects in peace, while we are working away together till we have earned enough to try the experiment we planned in the park?" stopping short, john grasped the hand that lay on his arm, looking as if suddenly inspired, and exclaimed in a solemn yet excited tone,-- "_i've_ got a plan, a superb plan, only it may startle you a bit at first. why not marry and go together?" before dolly could find breath to answer this momentous question, a bomb-shell, in the shape of aunt maria, exploded before them, and put an end to the privy conspiracy and rebellion. "you will _not_ go anywhere together, for my niece is in the care of this gentleman. i did think we should be free from annoyance here, but i see i was mistaken. mr. parker, will you oblige me by taking dolly home at once?" every feather in the old lady's gray wig trembled with ire, as she plucked the girl from one lover and gave her to the charge of the other, in whom the conflicting emotions of triumph and trepidation were so visible that the contrast between his countenance and costume was more comical than ever. "but, aunt, it isn't time to go yet," protested dolly, finding submission very hard after her taste of freedom. "it is quite time for persons who don't know how to behave with propriety in public. not a word! take my wrap, and go at once. mr. parker, please leave her in mrs. cobb's care, and return to enjoy yourself. there is no reason why _your_ evening should be spoilt;" and aunt maria bundled poor dolly into an ugly shawl, which made her look like a lovely tea-rose done up in brown paper. this sudden fall from the height of happiness to the depths of helpless indignation left john speechless for an instant, during which he with difficulty resisted a strong desire to shake aunt maria, and spit benjamin franklin on the sword that hung at his side. the sight of his dolly reft from him, and ruthlessly led away from the gayety she loved, reminded him that discretion was the better part of valor, and for her sake he tried to soften the dragon by taking all the blame upon himself, and promising to go away at once. but, while he was expostulating, the wary parker carried off the prize; and, when john turned to say good-night, she had vanished, and aunt maria stalked away, with a grim laugh at his defeat. that laugh made him desperate; and, rushing downstairs, he was about to walk away in the rain, regardless of the damage to his costly suit, when the sound of a voice checked his reckless flight, and, looking back, he saw dolly pausing on the stairs to say, with a glance from the ancestral shoes to the wet pavement outside, "i don't mind wetting my feet, but i cannot spoil these precious slippers. please get my overshoes from the dressing-room: i'll wait for you here." "certainly, certainly; and my coat also: we must be prudent after such heat and excitement," replied mr. parker, glad to guard himself against the rheumatism twinges which already began to afflict his lightly clad extremities. as he hurried back, a voice whispered, "dolly!" and, regardless of the perilously high heels, she ran down to join a black velvet gentleman below, who said in her ear, as he led her toward the door,-- "i _must_ have a word more. let me take you home; any carriage will do, and it's our last chance." "yes, john, yes; but oh, my shoes!" and for one instant dolly lingered, as reverence for her relics contended with love for her governor. but he was equal to the occasion, and, having no cloak to lay under his queen's feet, just took her in his arms, and before she knew it both were in the coach, an order given, and they were off. "oh, john, how could you?" was all she said, casting away the big shawl, to put both hands on the powdery shoulders before her; for her escort was on his knees, quite in the style of the days when sir charles willoughby carried evelina off in his chariot. how he did it john never knew; but there he was, as unconscious of his long limbs as if he had been a cherub, so intent was he on improving this precious moment. "i'd like to do a great deal more than that, but not to-night, though i'm sorely tempted to run away with you, dolly," he answered, feeling as if it would be impossible to relinquish the little bundle of silk and swan's down his arm enclosed. "oh, john, please don't! how could i in this dress, and no place to go to, or any thing?" "don't be frightened, dear: i won't be rash. but, seriously, it must come to that, and the sooner the better; so make up your mind to it, and i'll manage all the rest. this is my plan, and yours will make it all the easier. we _will_ go to philadelphia; but we'll be married first, and that shall be our wedding journey." "but i'm not ready; we haven't any money; and only three days! i couldn't, john, i couldn't!" and dolly hid her face, glad, yet half-frightened, at this prospect of such a release from all her woes. "i knew it would startle you at first; but getting married is the easiest thing in life when you set about it. you don't want any wedding finery, i've got money enough, and can borrow more if i need it; and three days is plenty of time to pack your trunk, have a farewell fight with aunt maria, and run away to be the happiest little wife that ever was. say yes, darling; trust every thing to me, and, please god, you never shall regret it." dolly had doubted the existence of genuine love nowadays, and john had assured her that there were oceans of it. there certainly seemed to be that night; and it was impossible to doubt the truth of his assertion while listening to the tender prayers and plans and protestations he poured into her ear, as they rolled on, regardless of the avenging furies behind, and the untried fate before them. storms raged without, but peace reigned within; for dolly showed signs of yielding, though she had not consented when the run-away ride ended. as john set her down in the hall, he added as a last appeal,-- "remember, there were 'daughters of liberty,' as well as sons, in the old times you love so well. be one, and prove yourself worthy of your name, as you bid me be of mine. come, sweetheart, resist tyranny, face poverty, love liberty, and declare your independence as bravely as they did." "i will!" and dolly signed the declaration her hancock headed, by giving him her hand and sealing the oath with a kiss. "one word more," he said hurriedly, as the clatter of an approaching carriage sounded through the street: "i may not be able to see you again, but we can each be getting ready, and meet on monday morning, when you leave for '_home_' in good truth. put a lamp in the end window the last thing sunday night as the bells ring nine, then i shall be sure that all is right, and have no delay in the morning." "yes, john." "good-night, and god bless you!" there was no time for more; and as distracted parker burst out of one carriage, and aunt maria "came tumbling after," happy john harris stepped into the other, with a wave of the cocked hat, and drove away in triumph. chapter vi. _peace is declared._ the age of miracles is not over yet, and our young people wrought several during those three days; for in love's vocabulary there is no such word as fail. dolly "stood to her guns" womanfully, and not only chose to go "home," but prepared for her banishment with an outward meekness and an inward joy which made each hour memorable. aunt maria had her suspicions and kept a vigilant watch, she and her maid cobb mounting guard by turns. parker, finding that "no surrender" was the countersign, raised the siege and retreated in good order, though a trifle demoralized in dignity when he looked back during the evacuation and saw tip bolt upright in the end window, with the rebel flag proudly displayed. john meanwhile was circulating briskly through the city, and showing such ardent interest in the approaching exposition that his mates christened him "centennial harris;" while the higher powers felt that they had done a good thing in giving him the job, and increased his salary to make sure of so excellent a servant. other arrangements of a private but infinitely more interesting nature were successfully made; and he went about smiling to himself, as if the little parcel done up in silver paper, which he was constantly feeling for in his vest pocket, had been a talisman conferring all good gifts upon its happy owner. when the third night came, he was at his post long before the time, so great was his impatience; for the four-footed traitor had been discovered and ordered into close confinement, where he suffered, not the fate of andré, but the pangs of indigestion for lack of exercise after the feast of tidbits surreptitiously administered by one who never forgot all she owed to her "fat friend." it seemed as if nine o'clock would never come; and, if a policeman ever was where he should be, the guardian of that beat would have considered john a suspicious character as he paced to and fro in the april starlight. at last the bells began to chime, promptly the light appeared, and, remembering how the bell of the old state house rang out the glad tidings a hundred years ago, john waved his cherished parcel, joyfully exclaiming, "independence is declared! ring! ring! ring!" then raced across the park like another paul revere when the signal light shone in the steeple of the old north church. next morning at an early hour a carriage drove to aunt maria's door, and with a stern farewell from her nightcapped relative dolly was sent forth to banishment, still guarded by the faithful cobb. the mutinous damsel looked pale and anxious, but departed with a friendly adieu and waved her handkerchief to tip, disconsolate upon the door-mat. the instant they turned the corner, however, a singular transformation took place in both the occupants of that carriage; for dolly caught cobb round the neck and kissed her, while smiles broke loose on either face, as she said gleefully,-- "you dear old thing, what _should_ i have done without you? am i all right? i do hope it's becoming. i had to give up every thing else, so i was resolved not to be married without a new bonnet." "it's as sweet as sweet can be, and not a bit the worse for being smuggled home in a market-basket," returned the perjured cobb, surveying with feminine pride and satisfaction the delicate little bonnet which emerged from the thick veil by which its glories had been prudently obscured. "here's a glass to see it in. such a nice carriage, with white horses, and a tidy driver; so appropriate you know. it's a happy accident, and i'm so pleased," prattled the girl, looking about her with the delight of an escaped prisoner. "bless your heart, miss, it's all mr. harris's doings: he's been dodging round the corner ever since daylight; and there he is now, i do declare. i may as well go for a walk till your train is off, so good-by, and the best of lucks, my dear." there was barely time for this brief but very hearty congratulation, when a remarkably well-dressed highwayman stopped the carriage, without a sign of resistance from the grinning driver. cobb got out, the ruffian, armed not with a pistol, but a great bouquet of white roses, got in, and the coach went on its way through the quiet streets. "may day, and here are your flowers, my little queen." "oh, john!" a short answer, but a very eloquent one, when accompanied with full eyes, trembling lips, and a face as sweet and lovely as the roses. it was quite satisfactory to john; and, having slightly damaged the bridal bonnet without reproof, he, manlike, mingled bliss and business, by saying, in a tone that made poetry of his somewhat confused remarks,-- "heaven bless my wife! we ought to have had the governor's coach to-day. isn't cobb a trump to get us off so nicely? never saw a woman yet who could resist the chance of her helping on a wedding. remembered every thing i told her. that reminds me. wasn't it lucky that your relics were boxed up in dear aunt maria's shed, so all cobb had to do was to alter the directions and send them off to philadelphia instead of home?" "i've been in a tremble for three days, because it seemed as if it couldn't be possible that so much happiness was coming to me. are you quite sure you want me, john?" asked dolly, careless for once of her cherished treasures; for she had been busy with hopes and fears, while he was attending to more material affairs. "so sure, that i've got something here to bind you with. do you mind trying it on to see if it fits, for i had to guess at the size," answered john, producing his talisman with all a bridegroom's pride and eagerness. "please let me wear that as a guard, and use this one to be married with. i've a superstition about it, for it suits us and the year better than any other;" and dolly laid the little ring of reddish gold beside the heavier one in john's palm. "so it does, and you shall have it as you like. do you know, when you showed it to me three months ago, i had a fancy that it would be the proper thing for me to put it on your finger; but i didn't dream i ever should. are you very certain that you don't regret the advice you gave my friend jack?" asked the young man, thinking with fond solicitude of the great experiment that lay before them; for he knew by experience how hard this world's ways sometimes are, and longed to smooth the rough places for the confiding little creature at his side. "do i look as if i did?" she answered simply, but with a face so full of a true woman's instinctive faith in the power of love to lighten labor, sweeten poverty, and make a heaven of the plainest home, that it was impossible to doubt her courage or fear her disloyalty. quite satisfied, john pocketed the rings and buttoned dolly's gloves, saying, while she buttoned his, both marvellously enjoying this first service for each other, "almost there now, and in less than half an hour we shall be so safe that all the aunt marias in christendom can't part us any more. george has stood by me like a man and a brother, and promised that every thing should be all right. the church will look a trifle empty, i dare say, with only five of us to fill it; but i shall like it better than being made a spectacle of; so will you, i fancy." "the church? i thought runaways were married in an office, by a justice, and without much ceremony to make it solemn. i'm very glad it isn't so, for i shall never have but one wedding, and i'd love to have it in a sacred place," faltered dolly, as a sudden sense of all it meant came over her, filling her girlish heart with tender awe. "i knew that, dear, and so i did my best to make you feel no lack of love, as i could not give you any splendor. i wish i had a mother to be with you to-day; but george has lent me his, so there will be a woman's arms to cry in, if you want to drop a tear; and fatherly old dr. king will give you to the happiest man alive. well, well, my dolly, if you'd rather, cry here, and then let me dry your tears, as, please heaven, i will do all your life." "so kind, john, so very kind! i can't thank you in words, but i'll show by deeds how much i honor, trust, and love my husband;" and nobly dolly kept her word. no one saw them as they went in, but the early sunshine made a golden path for them to tread, and the may wind touched them with its balmy kiss. no congratulatory clamor greeted them as they came out; but the friendly sparrows twittered a wedding march, and the jovial george sent them merrily away, by saying, as he gave john's hand a parting grasp,-- "i was right, you see, and there _is_ a mrs. harris?" if any one doubts it, let him look well about him, and he may discover the best thing america could send to her exposition: an old-fashioned home, and in it an ambitious man who could not be bought, a beautiful woman who would not be sold; a young couple happy in their love and labor, consecrating this centennial year, by practising the old-fashioned virtues, honesty and thrift, independence and content. [illustration: meeting of theobald and arnold.--see chapter iii.] theobald, the iron-hearted; or, love to enemies. from the french of rev. cesar malan. contents chapter i. gottfried and erard--pursuit of a horseman--rescue of the wounded chevalier chapter ii trappings of the horse--midnight arrival--character of the wounded man discovered--his narrative--family worship chapter iii theobald's account of his conflict with arnold the lion--hatred of enemies--distress of the family chapter iv. kindness to an enemy--arnold arrives alive, but wounded--theobald's amazement at the kindness he receives chapter v. arnold's narrative of the battle and what followed--hildegarde and theobald's children chapter vi. anxieties of theobald--worship of mary--theobald informed where he is chapter vii. arnold informed of what has taken place--his joyful surprise--absence of gottfried chapter viii. friendly meeting of the warriors--mutual forgiveness--theobald's desire for instruction--return of gottfried--the bible--lesson of love to enemies theobald, the iron-hearted. * * * * * chapter i. gottfried and erard--pursuit of a horseman--rescue of the wounded chevalier in the long and bloody war which followed the martyrdom of john huss and jerome of prague,[ ] two hostile armies met, in , in one of the most beautiful valleys of bohemia. the battle commenced towards the close of day, and continued until after sunset. it was then that old gottfried, accompanied by erard, his grandson, climbed to the summit of a steep hill, from the edge of which might be perceived, in the depth of the valley, behind a wood, some troops still fighting. the old man and the child, (erard was scarcely nine years of age,) were sad and silent. they both looked towards the plain, and it was with a profound sigh that erard at last said, "o, how good is the lord, if he has preserved my father!" "the lord can preserve him!" said gottfried, with solemnity, "arnold belongs to him; yes, my son, your father is one of his dear children!" "but, grandpapa," resumed erard, looking at the old man, "do not christians also die in battle? god does not preserve them all." "if my son has laid down his life for the lord," continued gottfried, "he is not dead: his soul has gone from this world to be with his saviour." "to be with my good mamma!" said the child. "in heaven with the angels, is it not, dear grandpapa?" "to be with thy mother, my son," replied the old man, drawing the child towards him. "yes, in the heaven of the blessed! it is there that all those who love jesus go, and your mother was his faithful servant." erard sighed, and exclaimed, "o, how good will god be if he has preserved my father, my good father! o, grandpapa, why did you let him go?" "erard," replied the old christian, "your father would rather not have fought, he has so much patience and in his heart; but then he also has courage: he has been surnamed----" "grandpapa," interrupted the child, with agitation, and pointing with his hand towards the plain, under the declivity of the hill, and in a narrow passage between the rocks and woods, "do you see those three horsemen?" in fact, three armed warriors were hastening, at the utmost speed of their horses, towards a thick coppice, which they entered, and disappeared. the first seemed to be flying before the two others, who appeared to be in furious pursuit. gottfried listened, but no sound was heard; and, a few moments afterwards, he distinctly saw two of the warriors come out of the wood and hasten towards the plain, repassing the defile. "alas!" said the old man, groaning, "they have killed him! they have dipped their hands in the blood of their brother!" "they have killed him! do you say so, grandpapa? whom have they killed? is it my father?" "no, my son; the first warrior was not arnold. but it was a man, and those are men who have killed him! o lord, when wilt thou teach them to love one another? but let us go to him," added the old man. "to the dead man!" exclaimed erard with affright. "grandpapa, see! it is already night." "come, my child," said gottfried, "and fear not. perhaps he is not yet dead; and if god sends us to his assistance, will you not be happy?" "but, grandpapa, the wood is so dark, that i don't see how we shall find our way." "well, erard, i will wait here. run to the house, and return immediately with ethbert and matthew. tell them that i have sent for them, and let them bring a torch and the long hand-barrow. make haste!" erard was soon out of sight, and only a short time had elapsed before he returned with the two domestics, who held each a flambeaux and brought the litter. the child trembled while they descended, over the rocks and through the woods. it seemed to him that he was about to step in the blood or fall over the body of the dead man. the flame of the torches, which wavered in the evening breeze, now struck a projection of the rock, which seemed to assume the form of a man, now penetrated behind the trunks of the pines, which appeared like ranks of soldiers. the imagination of erard was excited: he scarcely breathed, and felt his heart sink when ethbert, who was walking before, exclaimed, "here he is! he is dead!" it was a chevalier and a nobleman; whom gottfried immediately recognized by the form of his casque and the golden scarf to which was suspended the scabbard of his sword. the visor of the casque was closed. gottfried raised it, and saw the pale and bloody countenance of a man, still young, whose features expressed courage and valor. he had fallen under his horse, in whose side was found the point of a lance which had killed him; and the whole body of his steed had covered and crushed one of his limbs. the right hand of the chevalier still grasped the handle of a sword of which the blade was broken. gottfried and his servants looked on some moments. the light of the torches shone on the rich armor of the chevalier and on the gold-embroidered housing of his horse, and it seemed as if its brilliancy must open his closed eyes and re-animate his motionless limbs. erard kept close to his grandfather and a little behind him. he wept gently, but not with fear--it was with grief and sorrow,--and he repeated, in a low voice, "they have killed him! the wicked men!" "perhaps he still lives," said gottfried, kneeling and placing his ear to the chevalier's mouth. "raise him! loose him!" exclaimed he, rising hastily. "he is not dead!" "he is not dead! he is not dead!" repeated erard; and he began with all his little force to push the body of the dead horse, which the three men raised, and from beneath which they at last disengaged the leg of the chevalier. it was bruised against a stone which had torn the flesh, and the blood was flowing from it copiously. "water!" cried gottfried, unlacing the armor of the chevalier and taking off his casque, which one of the domestics took that he might fill it with water from the foot of the rocks. meanwhile the benevolent old man had laid the chevalier on the ground, upon the housing of his horse and his own garment, which he had taken off; he supported his head with one hand, and with the other lightly rubbed his breast, to revive the beating of his heart. at last the servant brought water. gottfried bathed and cooled with it the face and head of the chevalier, who, after a few moments, sighed, and half-opened his eyes. "almighty god," exclaimed gottfried, "thou hast revived him! o, may it be for thy glory!" "amen!" said his servants. footnotes: [footnote : both were burned alive at constance, by order of the council held in that city: the first on the th of july, ; the second on the th of may, .] chapter ii. trappings of the horse--midnight arrival--character of the wounded man discovered--his narrative--family worship. the dear and sensible erard was delighted. he laughed, he wept, he looked at the chevalier, whose cheeks had recovered some color, and asked him, softly, whether he lived, and whether he heard and saw them. "where am i?" asked the chevalier, faintly, turning his eyes towards one of the torches. "with god and with your brethren!" replied gottfried, taking one of his hands. "but say no more now, and may god aid us!" it was necessary to transport the warrior to the dwelling of gottfried, and the passage was long and difficult. gottfried first spread upon the litter some light pine-branches, over which he placed the housing of the horse and his own outer garments, those of his servants, and even that of erard, who begged him to take this also; then, after the old man had bound up the bruised limb between strong splinters of pine, which he had cut with the blade of the chevalier's sword, and which he tied with his scarf, he laid the warrior on the branches, while two robust servants carefully raised and bore the litter towards the summit of the hill. "and the poor horse!" said erard, at the moment when his grandpapa, who bore the flambeaux and the sword of the chevalier, began his march. "you will return to-morrow morning," said gottfried to his servants, "and take off the trappings. as to the body, the eagles and the crows must devour it. come, and may god guard and strengthen us!" the chevalier had recovered his senses. he saw himself in the hands of friends, and doubted not that the old man was a supporter of the cause he had himself defended. it was not until midnight that the convoy reached the house of gottfried. the journey was made slowly, and more than once the master had desired his servants to rest. the bed of the old man himself received the wounded knight, on whom gottfried, who was no stranger to the art of healing wounds and fractures, bestowed the most judicious cares, and beside whom this devoted christian passed the remainder of the night. "go and take some rest," said he to erard and the domestics, "and may our god and saviour keep your souls while his goodness gives you sleep!" erard embraced his grandfather, ethbert and matthew bent before him respectfully, and gottfried remained alone, in silence, near the bed, which was lighted by a little lamp, through a curtain which concealed it. "you have saved me!" said the chevalier to the old man, when all was quiet in the house. "may the holy virgin recompense you." "it is then one of our enemies!" said gottfried to himself, as he heard this prayer. "o god!" said he in his heart, "make thy charity to abound in me!" "i am your friend," replied the old man, affectionately, "and god himself has granted me the blessing of being useful to you. but, i pray you, remain silent, and, if possible, sleep a few moments." gottfried needed to collect his thoughts, and to ask god for his spirit of peace and love. he had already supposed, at sight of the chevalier's shield, that he belonged to the army of the enemy; but he had just received the certainty of it, and "perhaps, perhaps," said he to himself, "i have before me one who may have killed my son!" the old man therefore spent the moments not employed beside the chevalier in praying to god and in reading his gospel of grace. the knight slept peacefully towards morning, and on awaking showed that he was refreshed. "if it were not," said he, "for my bruised limb, i would ask for my arms. o, why am i not at the head of my men?" gottfried sighed, and as he gave the warrior some drink, said, in a low voice, "why do men hate and kill each other, invoking the name of him who died to save them?" "but," exclaimed the warrior, in a deep voice, "are those who despise and fight against the holy church christians?" at this moment erard half opened the door, and showed his pretty curly head, saying, "grandpapa, has the wounded man been able to sleep? i have prayed god for him." "much obliged, my child," said the chevalier, extending his hand to him. "come! do not fear; approach. o, how you resemble my second son! what is your age and name?" "i am called erard," replied the child, giving his hand to the chevalier, "and i shall soon be nine years old." "that is also the age of my rodolph," pursued the chevalier. "alas! they will think me dead! those villains! those cowards! did they not see that i had no lance, and that my sword was broken?" "go, my child," said gottfried. "let the table and the books be prepared, i will soon come and pray to god with you. call all the servants." "will you also pray for me?" asked the chevalier, "if you will, pray also for my dear hildegarde and our five children. o, when shall my eyes see them again?" "is it long since you left them?" asked gottfried. "it is a week," replied the chevalier, with firmness. "i learned that the intrepid arnold----" "what arnold?" asked gottfried, with anxiety. "arnold the lion, as he is called," said the warrior, "and one of the chiefs of these rebels." (_gottfried turned pale and raised his eyes to heaven_.) "i learned that this audacious arnold had joined his camp, and i felt that my duty called me immediately to the field. i therefore left my family and my house, and have shown the rebels that my arm and my heart are as strong as ever," "have you encountered this arnold?" asked gottfried, hardly daring to ask this question. "have i encountered him!" cried the chevalier. "and who but myself could have----?" "they are waiting for prayers," said erard, opening the door. "dear grandpapa, will you come?" the old man followed the child, and his tearful eyes soon rested on the book of god. "grandpapa, you are weeping!" said erard, approaching the old man. "what is the matter? are you suffering?" "listen to the word of consolation," said gottfried, making the child sit down; "and may the spirit of jesus himself address it to our hearts." he read then from the book of psalms, and said a few words on resignation to the will of god, and in his humble prayer supplicated god to remember the chevalier and his family, and to bless him in the house whither he had been brought in his mercy. "amen! amen!" repeated all the servants. chapter iii. theobald's account of his conflict with arnold the lion--hatred op enemies--distress of the family. "you are pious people," said the chevalier to gottfried, in the afternoon of the same day, and while erard was present. "religion is a good thing." "one who loves jesus is always happy," said the child. "let them love jesus!" replied the warrior. "but this is what i heard last evening, when i was about to fight the lion." "i pray you," said gottfried, do not talk any more now; it will increase your sufferings." "i do not suffer," replied the chevalier, "this leg is very painful, it is true; but it is only a leg," added he, smiling. "ought i to make myself uneasy about it?" "you fought with a lion, then, last evening?" asked erard, with curiosity, "was he very large and strong?" gottfried would have sent erard away, for he feared for him the story of the chevalier; but the latter asked that he might be allowed to remain. "erard must become a man," added he. "my children know what a battle is. let erard then not be afraid at what i am about to say. "my name is theobald," continued the chevalier, "and from my earliest youth i was surnamed _the iron-hearted_, because i never cried at pain, and never knew what it was to be afraid. my father, one of the powerful noblemen of bohemia, accustomed me, from my earliest years, to despise cold, hunger, thirst and fatigue; and i was scarcely erard's age when i seized by the throat and strangled a furious dog that was springing upon one of my sisters. "war has always been my life. this has now lasted nearly four years, and my sword has not been idle. the hussites and the calixtans[ ] have felt it." at these words erard, who was sitting beside the bed of the chevalier, rose and went to a window, at the farther end of the room. "i had spent some weeks with my family, when i learned that the enemy was approaching, and that one of their principal chiefs had just joined them. this chief was the lion." _erard, rising_. grandpapa, perhaps it was----. "be silent, my son," said gottfried. "our camps had been in sight of each other two days," continued theobald, "when we decided at last to attack them; and last evening the combat took place. "it had lasted more than three hours, when i caused a retreat to be sounded, in order to suspend, if possible, the conflict, and myself to terminate the day by a single combat with the most valiant of the enemy's chieftains. "our troops stopped, retired, and i challenged the lion, who, without delay, left the ranks and advanced alone to meet me." (_gottfried leans against a table, and rests his head on his hand_.) he was a man younger than myself, and of noble appearance. his sword was attached to a scarf of silver and azure, and from beneath his casque, the visor of which was raised, escaped curls of light hair. "grandpapa!" exclaimed erard, running towards gottfried, "was it not--?" "be quiet, erard," said his grandfather, ordering him to sit down. "should a child interrupt an older person who is speaking?" "this chevalier," resumed theobald, "advanced towards me, who had also left the ranks, and when all was ready, stopped his horse, and said to me, mildly, but with a deep and manly voice, 'jesus has shed his blood for us: why would you shed mine? i will defend myself,' added he, pulling down his visor and holding out his shield, 'but i will not strike.'" "these words affected me, i confess, and i was on the point of withdrawing, when, fixing my eyes on the shield which he presented, i saw that golden chalice." "it was he! yes, it was he!" exclaimed erard, sobbing and flying from the room. "this boy," said theobald, "is still a child, and the idea of bloodshed inspires him with fear." "ah!" said gottfried, "his father is also in the army, and this narrative gives him anxiety on his account. you did not then spare this warrior?" "i have told you: the sight of the chalice awoke my fury, and exclaiming, defend thyself, i took my sword with both hands, and with a single blow dashed aside his shield and cleft his helmet. "but my sword broke; and at the moment when the lion fell----" _gottfried, with terror_. did arnold then fall? was arnold killed? "so perish all who hate the holy church! (_gottfried conceals his face in his hands_.) but as soon as i had struck him, his soldiers precipitated themselves upon ours, and five of their chevaliers threw themselves upon me and surrounded me. i had no arms: i had laid down my lance to combat with the lion, and my sword was broken. i could yet, with the fragment that remained, repulse and strike down three men; but i was alone, my people were themselves surrounded, and i saw that i must perish. it was then that i fled. (o, how i regret it! but the cowards! they did not give me even a sword!) yes, i fled towards the forest, hoping to find there a branch with which i could arm and defend myself; but my horse stumbled over the roots, in consequence of which i fell and fainted. "the rest you know. i owe my life to you; and you have taken care of me like a father." "arnold is then dead!" cried gottfried, without perceiving that the chevalier had finished his narrative. "do not regret it," replied theobald. "he was an enemy of our faith; one of those ferocious taborites,[ ] who deny the holy father and demolish sacred places." "and it was you," continued gottfried, "it was you yourself who struck him, when he refused to draw his sword against you!" "it was not i, it was the holy virgin, who overthrew him! it was she to whom i had devoted my sword, and it was in her service that it was broken. it is thus she consecrated it. may she bless you also,--you who, for love of her, receive me as a son!" gottfried had nothing to say in reply. he wished to pour out his tears before the lord, and left the chevalier, to whom he sent the faithful and prudent ethbert. "sit down," said theobald to the domestic, and tell me who is this prince of peace, of whom you spoke to me, last night. "was it not you who bore me hither with another servant, and who, leaning towards me, when we passed the threshold of this house, said to me: may the prince of peace himself receive you? who is this prince? is it thy master, this venerable and mild old man?" "jesus is the prince of peace," replied ethbert; "for he is love, and love does not war against any one." "jesus! did you say, is the prince of peace! but is he not with us who support his cause, and who yet fight valiantly?" _ethbert_. the cause of jesus is the gospel of his grace. his cause is not supported by the sword and lance; but is defended by truth and love. _theobald, surprised_. your words, ethbert, are sermons. where do they come from? _ethbert_. he who is acquainted with god speaks the word of god; and god is love. god will not revenge and kill with hatred. god pardons and bestows grace. _theobald, agitated_. you would say, perhaps, that god is not with me, because i avenge myself of my enemies. have they not deserved my hatred? _ethbert_. "love your enemies," saith god to those who know him. "avenge not yourselves," he says again to his beloved. _theobald, still more astonished_. your words trouble me. is it then a crime to destroy an adversary? _ethbert_. cain rose up against his brother abel; and it was because the works of his brother were good, but his own were evil. the christian does not hate. the christian does not avenge himself. _theobald_. am i then not a christian? _ethbert, mildly and respectfully_. he who is of christ, walks as christ himself walked. christ went from place to place doing good; and it is christ himself, who says to his church: "love one another. he who loveth is of god." theobald was silent. these words: "he who loveth is of god," had touched his heart, and he was affected and humbled. ethbert was also silent, secretly asking of god to enlighten and soften the heart of the chevalier, for which matthew and himself had already prayed more than once. at last theobald said, slowly, "it is not, then, like christians, for men to hate and war with each other? and yet these impious men deserve to be burned; and are not those who imitate them the enemies of god and of the church?" "it is no christian," replied ethbert, "who kindles the fire that consumes a friend of jesus; and this huss and jerome, who were delivered to the flames, loved jesus." _theobald_. but did they not blaspheme the holy church? _ethbert_. he who loves jesus does not blaspheme his name; and the name of jesus is written on the church of jesus. no, no: the christian does not hate or revenge himself; and he blasphemes neither his god nor the church of god! "it is enough!" said theobald to the servant. "leave me--i have need of repose and silence:" and the servant went out. meanwhile gottfried had retired into his room, and, like david, wept and sobbed before the lord, repeating, with bitterness, "arnold! my son arnold! thou art no more! thy father will never more see thee on earth!" footnotes: [footnote : those who followed the doctrine of john huss against the church of rome. the calixtans, in particular, maintained that in the sacrament the cup or _chalice_ should be given to the people.] [footnote : a name assumed by the hussites, under the command of john ziska, after having built a fortress which they called tabor, near the city of bechin, in bohemia.] chapter iv. kindness to an enemy--arnold arrives alive, but wounded--theobald's amazement at the kindness he receives. erard heard the voice of his grandfather, and ran to throw himself in his arms, exclaiming, "the wicked man! the wicked man!--he has killed my father! god has not preserved him, grandpapa! my father is dead!" "adore god, my son!" said gottfried, overcoming his grief, "and do not murmur! especially, my son, do not grow angry, and do not hate!" "but, grandpapa," replied erard, with anguish, "it was he who was struck! it was my father whom he killed!" "no, my son; the warrior killed one whom he fancied an enemy, erard! theobald believed himself serving god, and doing a holy work, in killing a calixtan." "he then does not love jesus--this poor chevalier!" exclaimed the pious child. "o, grandpapa, how unhappy he must be!" "yes, my son--very unhappy!" replied gottfried. "do not hate him, therefore, but pray to god for him. was it not god who conducted him hither--and was it not that we might speak to him of jesus, and that we might love him--yes, erard, that we might love him, for the sake of our saviour?" "but," exclaimed the old man, rising and advancing towards the window of his room, "what is this? what do i see in the distance, toward the rocks, at the entrance to the wood?" erard looked also, and was sure that he saw men. "yes--soldiers!" exclaimed he; "for i see their helmets glisten. there are many of them, grandpapa! are they coming to kill us also, because we love jesus?" "yes," continued the old man, without replying to the child; "they are, indeed, soldiers. but they are marching slowly, and it would seem---- ah, my child! they are our own warriors; and it is my son--it is the body of your father--that they are bearing. o god of mercy, support us at this hour!" "i dare not see him!" exclaimed erard, running after the old man, who hastened to the road. "grandpapa, hide me! hide me, i pray you!" "here is some one coming to us," said gottfried: and at the same time, and in the opposite direction, matthew and ethbert ran out of the house, from which they had perceived the convoy; and all together hastened to meet a warrior, who advanced, waving a scarf, and exclaiming, "praise god! arnold is living!" gottfried staggered, and his servants received him in their arms, where he remained weak and motionless. erard embraced him, sobbing. the soldier, all out of breath, reached them, and taking the cold hands of the old man, said, "joy, my dear lord! bless god! your son is living! here he is! come, come; he desires your presence--he calls for you!" "grandpapa, he is calling for you!" repeated erard, approaching the pale countenance of the old man. "do not weep any more. come, come quickly, and embrace him!" "o the kindness of god! the mercy of jesus!" said gottfried, as he recovered; arnold is living! he is restored to me!"--and leaning on the arms of his servants, he walked to meet the approaching troops. "my father!--my son!" was soon heard. "let us bless god! i am restored to you. he has preserved my life!" this was arnold--who had just perceived his father and his child, and was making an effort to glorify the lord with them. he was lying on five lances tied together, which ten warriors sustained by five other lances passed across beneath. a shield and some cloaks supported the head of arnold, while a company of soldiers followed and guarded their chief. gottfried embraced his son, and blessed the name of the lord: but after erard had also manifested his tenderness, the strength of the chief did not allow him to speak any more; and it was in quiet and in silence that arnold was borne into the house, then laid in a chamber adjoining that in which theobald was. the latter had fallen asleep, after ethbert left him; and when he awoke, all was tranquil around him. the warriors, after having taken some nourishment, had returned to their camp, and arnold was sleeping beneath the eyes of his happy father, and of erard, who repeated incessantly, in a low voice, "o, how good the lord is! he has preserved my father!" "this is a singular house," thought theobald. "what kindness, what benevolence, and, at the same time, what seriousness and solemnity, even down to this child! how they speak of god, of jesus, and of heaven! but, am i mistaken? no: not one among them has named either the holy virgin or the saints! "can it be possible!" added he, after long reflection. "perhaps i am in the family of a hussite, one of those calixtans whom i abhor. no, no! they would hate me also--for they know now who i am--and perhaps i shall see no more of the love and interest they have shown me. "but," said he again, "there is something here that i cannot comprehend. i must inquire and inform myself." gottfried had returned. his countenance was serene; and it was with affectionate cordiality that he inquired of the chevalier if he was refreshed by his sleep. "i am as quiet as possible," replied theobald; "though this limb pains me some, and i am slightly feverish. o, if i could only learn the welfare of my family! what keen anxiety must torment my wife and my dear children! for it will be published in the two camps that the iron-hearted has been killed!" "reassure yourself!" said gottfried. "i have attended to that. i have caused the army to be informed that you are living and comfortable. but they are ignorant of your retreat. we shall also have, as soon as to-morrow, certain intelligence of your family. do not agitate yourself, therefore; but be patient, and await the lord's will--for he alone reigneth." in fact, gottfried, at the moment of the departure of the soldiers, had placed in the hands of their captain, a letter, to be read on the way, in which, under the seal of secrecy, he confided to him all that concerned theobald, and charged him to send the intelligence to his family; but concealing the place where he was. he also requested of the captain that a messenger might bring back some reply from the family, as soon as possible. "angel of goodness!" exclaimed theobald, with profound emotion, which he was almost ashamed to display, "your love confounds me! i have never seen such up to this day. whence do you derive it? who gives it to you all?--for you all have the same love." "god is love!" said gottfried. "and if we know him, if he has revealed his love to us, ought we not also to love one another? is it not in this, before everything else, that his image consists?" _theobald_. his image! the image of god! these words were never before spoken in my ears. i have never thought that i myself might bear the image of god. who has suggested to you this unheard-of and sublime idea? _gottfried_. was it not for this that the son of god purchased us by his blood? was it not that his spirit might renew and sanctify us, to the resemblance of god our father? _theobald_, (_leaning his forehead on one of his hands._) purchased by his blood! renewed by his spirit! what does that mean? these are, i am sure, the things of god, of heaven; but they are hid from my eyes. i do not understand them. repeat them, i pray you. _gottfried_. is it possible that the sacrifice of jesus can be unknown to you? do you not know, then, that the saviour has shed his blood on the cross? at this question, theobald drew from beneath his tunic of fine linen, a little crucifix, which was suspended from his neck by a chain of gold, and after having kissed it, showed it to gottfried. "well, then," said the old man, "since you wear upon your person a representation of this sacrifice, why do you not rejoice in what he has done for us? yes; why do you not glorify him who loved us with such a love?" "but i have not yet merited it," said theobald, casting down his head, and coloring. "merited it!" exclaimed gottfried. "is jesus, think you, a saviour, if his salvation is not a gift?" theobald looked at the old man a long time in silence, and at last said, "this thought has never before occurred to me. if jesus is a saviour, you say his salvation is a gift. what a faith! is that your religion?" _gottfried_. i am by nature a wicked man, like all others, but my soul reposes upon jesus; and i desire to love him, because he has loved me, even unto dying for my sins. his blood has washed my soul; i therefore know that i am saved. can i love him enough for such grace----?" "some one knocks at the door," said theobald; and on the permission to enter, ethbert announced that the hour for supper approached, and that his master was expected to attend prayers. "you will not forget me!" said theobald, extending his hand to gottfried. "go! and may god himself be with me as he is with you! i have much, much to think of." chapter v. arnold's narrative of the battle and what followed--hildegarde and theobald's children. prayers were held in arnold's room. his wound was severe, but not dangerous, and his heart needed to hear his father thank god for the great deliverance which he had granted him. it was carefully concealed from the two wounded men, that they were so near each other. the father did not, therefore, pray for theobald, to whom neither himself nor any person made the least allusion. it was from arnold that his father was to learn all that concerned him; and it was not until the next day, and in the afternoon, that gottfried, having summoned erard and ethbert, listened with them to the narrative of his son. matthew remained with the chevalier. "you know, my father," said arnold, "that i went forth against my will. ah, what a denial of faith, to make war in the name of the religion of jesus! but i thought my presence would control certain spirits, and that i might, perhaps, even prevent a conflict between the two parties. "i communicated my sentiments to some true friends of the saviour, who had repaired to the camp with the same intentions as myself; and we often assembled together, in my tent, to arrange our plans, and especially to pray to god. "but the number in favor of peace and forgiveness of injuries was too small, and all our efforts were useless. the only thing we could obtain was, that we should not be the first to attack, and that, at the first signal of truce, we should cease fighting. "for myself and brethren, we had pledged ourselves before god to limit ourselves to defense, and to use our arms only to protect our own lives, but not to strike our enemies. "we had learned that theobald, one of their chieftains, the lord of rothenwald, a strong castle in the neighborhood, and who, for his indomitable courage, as well as the inflexible firmness of his manners, has been surnamed 'the iron-hearted,' had arrived at their camp, breathing only retaliation and revenge. we knew, besides, that his wife, the lady of the castle, named hildegarde, was very hostile to the cause of the gospel, and had even treated harshly two of our brethren, who had been taken prisoners by theobald, in a preceding action, and to whom the hatred of his wife had been cruelly manifested. "nevertheless, my brethren and myself had all a sincere desire to pray to god fervently for the welfare of theobald and his men. alas, he has been killed! he is dead! he has gone to give an account of his soul to god. poor, poor theobald!" here erard, who was seated beside his grandfather, laid his hand on his knee and looked at him with a knowing expression. his grandfather placed his finger on erard's lips, and kept it there, as if to enjoin upon the child the greatest secrecy; and erard, with a sigh, turned his eyes again upon his father. "but it was he, it was theobald, who commenced the combat. he ordered his troops forward; and, himself advancing in front of ours, who had also formed themselves in battle array, he provoked us, calling us heretics and infidels, whom heaven had already cursed, and whom the holy virgin, he said, was about to crush beneath her feet. "we did not reply; and the conflict which then took place, soon became terrific. we were almost equal in number, and well armed. but neither of us had that powder of sulphur and fire which strikes and kills the most valiant, even by the most cowardly hand. "we, therefore, fought hand to hand; and those of us who only defended ourselves, disabled several men, by the extreme fatigue which we caused them in warding off all their blows. "i do not know whether the iron-hearted perceived this; but toward evening, about sunset, he sounded a retreat. at that instant, our army, according to our decision, paused, and we thought the conflict was over; but it was only suspended, that theobald might send me a challenge to fight single-handed. "i immediately advanced, and heard my brethren say, 'arnold, may god preserve thee! we pray for thee!' "theobald, with closed visor, approached me. our horses neighed, while the two armies each uttered a cry, only a space necessary for the combat being left between them. "i advanced, and in the profound silence which surrounded us, said aloud to theobald, 'jesus has shed his blood for us. he sees us from heaven; he bids us love one another. why, theobald, will you not hear him? why will you shed my blood, and, if you can, take my life?' "'perish the infidels!' replied the iron-hearted, approaching me and brandishing an enormous sword. "'well, then, i am ready for you,' i exclaimed, drawing down my visor also. 'let god be our judge!' i will defend myself--but i will not strike.' "on saying these words, i held up my shield and fixed myself firmly in the stirrups of my saddle. we had both laid down our lances, and were armed only with a sword--mine was still in its scabbard. "it seemed to me that theobald trembled, when i spoke to him of the love of jesus; but as soon as i had raised my shield, he became furious, and seizing his sword with both hands, he urged his horse against mine, and struck me on the head with all his force, so that i was overthrown and my casque cleft by the blow. "see in this, my father, the hand of god; for it was thus that he saved my life. when i came to myself, i was in a cottage, in the midst of a wood, and surrounded by three of my brethren, who had transported me thither. my wound was stanched; i did not suffer much, and my soul was in perfect peace. i was able to sleep a little towards the latter part of this night--alas, so fatal for the unfortunate theobald and his men!" "to his men also?" asked gottfried, almost betraying the secret of his heart. "ah! the vengeance of our soldiers, i was told, was terrible! as soon as they saw me fall, they threw themselves furiously upon the enemy. theobald, they said, was overwhelmed by numbers and killed in a thick wood, whither he had fled. his troops were repulsed and routed, and many lives lost; and about midnight a soldier came from one of the chieftains, to tell us that they were about to seize on the fort of rothenwald. "then my heart was moved. i thought of the wife and children of the unfortunate theobald, and i entreated one of my brethren, a captain, in great favor with his chieftain, to bear to the latter a letter which i wrote, notwithstanding my great weakness, in which i earnestly requested, as a personal favor, that he would allow the wife and family of theobald to be conducted safely from the chateau. i told him that their lives were precious to me; and that, since i could not myself be their protector, i committed this charge to him, in the name of the lord jesus. "my friend immediately set out, after having received from me particular instructions as to the house to which he should himself conduct the lady of the castle and her children; and towards day-break, i received from this brother the message, that my wishes had been received and regarded as commands, and that the whole family of theobald was in safety." "dear papa," said erard, taking his father's hand and covering it with kisses, "you have done as the saviour commanded--'do good to them that hate you.'" "my son," replied arnold, "it was my duty, and i glorify god for having made it easy for me. rothenwald is now only a smoking ruin. it was pillaged, then burnt. o, my poor soldiers, how deluded they have been! o, how far are they still from comprehending that religion of jesus which they professed to defend!" "but, my dear arnold," asked gottfried, "how were you restored to me? who brought you here?" "it was, truly, the hand of god, my father. i was in the cabin of the wood-cutter, with the two friends who never left me, when the wood-cutter's daughter came running in, alarmed, to tell us that a numerous company of soldiers were advancing towards the wood, and appeared to be in search of the house where i was concealed. 'here they are!' she exclaimed. 'they are coming to kill you! o, may god save you!' "but these soldiers were of our own party, and came to carry me to some other place. their captain was known to me: he was a man who feared god and protected his servants. i expressed to him the ardent desire i had to be with you, my father; and my request was granted. the wood-cutter wished to make me a litter; but the soldiers cried, 'our lances and our arms are the lion's!' and you have seen how these brave people accomplished their work of love and honor. "my two brethren insisted upon accompanying me: i opposed them. 'go!' said i; 'hasten to your own families: for many hearts are in anguish on your account.' they embraced me; they committed me to the care of the faithful captain, and to our god; and our god himself has preserved me, and brought me to you." "and hildegarde, and her children?" asked gottfried, with lively interest. "thanks to god, i have been able to send them to the house of your sister, my worthy and pious aunt, at waldhaus. her dwelling is at a safe distance; and her heart has received this unfortunate mother and her five orphans, as you, my father, would have welcomed them yourself. a messenger from my aunt reached me, while i was on my way hither, and i know that all is well. alas! as well as it can be for a widow, suddenly driven from her home, despoiled of all her property, and who, i fear, knows not yet the peace and strength which are from god." "the thoughts of the almighty," said gottfried, rising, "are not our thoughts, and his ways are not our ways! his mercies are over all his works, and his judgments are a great deep! remain quiet, then, beneath his hand, and let his spirit teach you to wait. he can 'make the wilderness a pool of water, and the dry land springs of water,' so his holy word declares; and this word, saith jesus, is truth." thereupon the old man embraced his son. "i have received thee from god, the second time, dear arnold," said he, "and it is a new and great joy to my heart. happy the son," added he, with emotion, "who has been to his father only a subject of gratitude to god." arnold pressed the hand of his father, who went out with erard. ethbert was left with arnold, and upon gottfried's order, revealed to him cautiously all which concerned theobald, to whose room the old man now went. chapter vi. anxieties of theobald--worship of mary--- theobald informed where he is. "no news yet?" asked the chevalier, sadly; "and the night has come, and a long day has also passed! matthew led me to hope the speedy arrival of the express; but he does not come: and i know not why, i experience in my heart oppression and anguish. o, who will tell me what has become of hildegarde and my children? but what have i to fear? rothenwald is impregnable, and should all our enemies surround it, is it not under the protection of our lady? who shall conquer it?" "he who dwelleth in the secret place of the most high," said gottfried, "shall abide under the shadow of the almighty. happy is the man who makes his refuge in the shadow of his wings, until his calamity be overpast." "your confidence is then in god alone!" replied theobald. "you do not even name the holy virgin!" "it is because she did not create me, nor does she keep me alive. this woman, blessed as she has been, did not purchase me with her blood, and is only a creature of god. what dependence can i place upon a creature?" "but," said theobald, "if god made the queen of heaven and the angels, and if all power has been given them----" "chevalier!" exclaimed gottfried, "it is jesus--it is the eternal son of the father--it is the king, sitting on the holy mount of zion--who says these words, applying them to himself, 'all power has been given to me in heaven and on earth.' beware then, for the love of your soul, of attributing this authority to a woman, to whom, when she forgot that she was in the presence of her son, jesus said, reproachfully, 'woman! what have i to do with thee?'" upon this, gottfried approached theobald, whom he looked at affectionately, as he pressed his hand, saying, "may god himself be with you, and strengthen your heart! to-morrow, certainly, we shall have news of your family, and we know it will be good news, since it will be the will of god: and god, theobald, is love." gottfried went out, and matthew came to sit with the chevalier, whom he was to take care of during the night, and to whom he had orders to say a few words about arnold and his arrival. the night rolled away, and theobald could not sleep. he was suffering, and sometimes groaned, and the name of hildegarde was continually on his lips. matthew did not cease to pray to god in his heart, that he would visit this soul in mercy; and as the chevalier exclaimed, "o, how my heart aches!" matthew approached him, and said, "my lord is suffering. what can i do for him?" "ah, matthew!" replied theobald, "it is my heart that suffers. it seems to me that it will break." "if my lord," said matthew, gently, "could weep, it would surely relieve him." "weep!" exclaimed theobald, looking at matthew; "weep, do you say? i do not know what it is. i have never wept. shall the iron-hearted become a woman?" "'jesus wept!' is written in the gospel," replied matthew. "and our good saviour is our pattern in all things." "you weep, then, here?" said the chevalier, with visible interest; "for here you do in all things like jesus?" _matthew, (humbly.)_ at least, we desire to. our pious lord-- _theobald_. gottfried is then a nobleman? _matthew_. my master is the count of winkelthal. _theobald, (with agitation.)_ the count of winkelthal, matthew? arnold, the lion, was then his son? am i then, indeed, in the house of his father? _matthew_. arnold is the only son of my master; and he is not dead! "not dead!" exclaimed theobald, extending his hands to the domestic. "tell me, matthew, are you sure of this?" _matthew_. arnold is living. god has preserved him, and he is here; he is near you--yes, in the room adjoining! "now i can weep!" said theobald, putting his hands over his face, and sobbing aloud. matthew approached him with emotion, and theobald, passing his arm around the neck of the servant, leaned his head upon his bosom, weeping abundantly, and saying, "have pity on me, matthew. my soul is overwhelmed!" "o, my lord!" said the christian to him, "it is god himself who has visited you and who calls you. fear not; and let your tears flow before him." "matthew! dear matthew!" said theobald, clasping his hands; "pray to god for me!" matthew knelt beside the bed of the chevalier, and poured out his soul in prayer. theobald was still weeping when the servant rose; and it was only by degrees that he became composed, and at last fell asleep. chapter vii. arnold informed of what has taken place--his joyful surprise--absence of gottfried. so passed the night in the chamber of theobald. arnold had slept quietly. ethbert did not at first speak of theobald; and it was not until morning, after his master had awakened and had with ethbert lifted his soul to god in prayer, that the servant pronounced the name of rothenwald, lamenting the ruin of that beautiful and splendid dwelling. "it is the lord!" replied arnold: "'he casteth down and he raiseth up, and his judgments are over all the earth.' but what bitterness for the wife, alas! for the widow of the unfortunate theobald! imprudent man! why did he flee? would it not have been better for him to have submitted to numbers, and been taken prisoner? he would now be living, and his house would not have been burned!" "did his pursuers say," asked ethbert, "that he was dead?" _arnold_. they were two of our chevaliers; and i was informed, that their intention was to seize him; that they called to him repeatedly, and at last, in the wood, pierced his horse with a lance, that they might be able to take him prisoner; but they declared that, in falling, the horse had crushed his rider, who had been killed immediately by striking his head against a rock. such was their account. the lord knows whether it was so; but theobald has perished. poor widow! sorrowful and feeble orphans! "my lord would then have defended him," said ethbert, feelingly, "had he been able?" _arnold, (with warmth.)_ i would have preserved his life at the peril of my own. _ethbert_. the life of your enemy? _arnold_. does ethbert forget the word of his god? or, does he not yet know that "if we love those who love us," we act only like publicans and men of the world? _ethbert_. arnold, the lion, will, therefore, bless the lord, when he learns that the iron-hearted was not killed, and that he was taken, a living man, from the spot where he fell. "ethbert! is that the truth?" said arnold, seizing the arm of his servant. "it was i, my lord, who held the torch which illuminated the dark forest, and it was between the trunks of the oaks and pines that i saw first a horse extended on the motionless body of a warrior." _arnold_. and this warrior---- _ethbert_. was theobald! yes, my lord, it was he who had just, as he thought, struck your death-blow. _arnold_. and who directed your steps thither, at night? _ethbert_. god, himself. o, what a work of his wonderful love! yes, god himself guided your noble father and your son to the stag cliffs at the moment when theobald, flying before the two chevaliers, passed through the defile of the wood; and your father summoned matthew and myself to descend there with him. _arnold, (with adoration.)_ my father! sent from god to the murderer of his son? how wonderful are the ways of the most high! but, ethbert, did you not say that he was dead? _ethbert_. we thought so. but your pious and benevolent father, my lord, knelt, touched the supposed, corpse, and exclaimed, "he is not dead!" and aided by our hands, disengaged him. he extended him on the mossy ground, called for water, bathed and refreshed the pale countenance of the chevalier; his life returned, and your father glorified god. "theobald is living!" said arnold, lifting towards heaven his eyes filled with tears. "o, who will make it known to his wife and children?" _ethbert_. your father, my lord, commissioned the captain who brought you here, to inform them of his safety; but she is still ignorant of the asylum of her husband. "and where is he?" asked arnold. ethbert turns, and pointing to one side of the chamber, says, "behind that wall, my lord--theobald is in your father's bed." arnold clasped his hands, praying, and blessing god. erard, who had just entered softly, approached him, and said to him, with tenderness, "good papa, have you slept well? it is i, papa!--it is your little erard! will you not embrace me?" "o, my son," said arnold, placing one hand upon the shoulder of his child, "if you knew how good the lord is!" "o, yes, dear papa," said erard; "god is good--since he has preserved you." "and he has also preserved theobald," added the father. "theobald, papa!--the cavalier who was dead! and whom grandpapa, by the goodness of god restored! do you know him?" erard looked at ethbert, as if to know whether he might continue; and his father, who saw this look, said to him, "yes, dear child--i know him; and i know that god has confided him to our care. o, erard, remember that even an enemy has a claim on our love." "yes, dear papa," continued the child, "and, like the good samaritan, we should love him and bind up his wounds. papa, that is what grandpapa did the other night, in the wood. o, if you knew how afraid i was at first! think, papa--a dead man!--blood! "but now this chevalier is so good to me! i have just been to see him with matthew; and he wept as he embraced me." "theobald wept, and embraced you, my son!" asked the father. _erard_. yes, dear papa; and even said to me, placing his hand on my head, "may the god of thy father bless thee, and make thee resemble him!" _arnold, (much affected.)_ erard, did he say that to you? _erard_. yes, dear papa; and when i was coming away, he called me back, and giving me this flower, said to me, "erard, go to your father and tell him that theobald sent this:" and he wept much. here it is, dear papa. i did not dare to give it to you at first, because i did not know whether ethbert---- "embrace me, my child," said arnold; "and go, and tell my good father, that i entreat him to come to me." _erard_. o, dear papa, grandpapa would have come before--but he went away in the night, with two servants, in a carriage. _arnold_. my father went away in the night, erard! and do you know, and can you tell me where he is gone? _erard_. no, papa. only he said, when he set out--for i was awake and heard him--"go by way of the heath." "he is then gone to waldhaus," said ethbert; "since the heath is on the direct road to the chateau." these are the fruits of christian love! it is active, fervent, and does not put off until to-morrow the good that may be done to-day. sure and powerful consolation was necessary for the heart of the wife and mother whom god had afflicted, and the servant of the "god of consolation" was hastening, in his name, to hildegarde, whom he hoped to bring to him whose death she was deploring. chapter viii. friendly meeting of the warriors--mutual forgiveness--theobald's desire for instruction--return of gottfried--the bible--lesson of love to enemies. arnold did not at first reply to ethbert. his mind was troubled; but having sent away his son, he said to the servant, "ethbert, god has given you wisdom. go, therefore, now, to the chevalier, and bear him, in the name of the lord, the salutation of arnold. you will also say to him, that my great desire, my true and cordial desire, is to come to him. but say nothing of my father." ethbert entered the chamber of theobald, who said to him, as soon as he saw him, "ethbert, i have not yet seen your master to-day. is he sick?" "my master," said ethbert, "is not now in the castle. but, my lord, you must know that god is now displaying his goodness--" _theobald_. to me, you would say, ethbert. i know that arnold is living; that he is here; that he is near me. _ethbert_. and my lord knows also that a disciple of christ can love even an enemy? _theobald_. i was ignorant of it; but i have learned it here. ethbert, do not fear to tell me all. do you know whether erard carried to his father a flower? _ethbert_. i know that his father blessed god when he received it, and that the desire of his soul is that the baron of rothenwald---- _theobald_. say, simply, theobald--and you may also say, his friend, his humbled and repentant friend. _ethbert, (respectfully.)_ the father of erard says to the chevalier theobald, that the cordial desire of his heart is to visit him, without delay. "arnold! arnold!" exclaimed the chevalier; "do you hear my voice? o, why can i not come to you, and ask your pardon?" "theobald," was heard through the partition, "i am coming! ethbert! ethbert!" the domestic immediately went out, and theobald remained, with his eyes fixed on the door, until he heard the steps of arnold and of his servant. then his heart failed him, and he covered his face with his hands, while arnold entered, and approached the bed, beside which he sat down, saying, "o, theobald! i must give way to my joy! it is beyond my strength. may god support us at this hour!" at these words ethbert left the room, saying, "amen." "it was i--it was i who struck you!" exclaimed theobald, bathing with tears the hands with which he had covered his face. "arnold, it was my sword that made this still bleeding wound! pardon! pardon! in the name of god alone! arnold, forgive! o forgive one who would have been your murderer!" "and let our tears and our hearts mingle," said arnold, rising, and embracing theobald, "to bless this great god who sees us and who has brought me to you!" "to me!" exclaimed theobald, looking at arnold, and coloring. "ah, that bandage! that wound!"--and he began again to weep. "but for this wound," replied arnold, with energy, "would you be here, and would theobald ever have been my friend?" "yes, thy friend, noble and charitable soul!" repeated theobald. "you said to me, arnold, when i advanced to kill you, 'why would you shed my blood and take my life?' to-day, here is my blood and my life! it belongs to you. i call god, who now hears me, to witness." "o, how wonderful are his ways!" said arnold. "what an admirable providence has united us--you, the iron-hearted, and me, the lion!" added he, smiling. "did the baron of rothenwald think, three days since, that he would be lying in the bed of the earl of winkelthal, and peacefully smiling at the words of a calixtan?" theobald reddened: this last word had surprised and disturbed him; and it was only by controlling the secret indignation of his soul, that he said, "i did not know that peace and charity entered these lofty towers and innumerable battlements. i had been told, arnold--and i believed it--that impiety alone made its dwelling here." "no, theobald--it is not impiety; it is the word of the lord, and the love of jesus, we trust, which directs and consoles our hearts." _theobald_. yours! yes: i believe it; for i see it hourly. but these taborites, arnold--this ferocious and cruel ziska--do they know the name of jesus--they who persecute the holy church? _arnold_. you have seen them only at a distance, theobald; and you do not even suspect that it was for the cause of jesus and for his holy gospel that john huss ended his days at the stake. _theobald, (surprised.)_ were not this huss and his friend jerome infidels? _arnold_. ah, theobald! was that john huss an infidel, who, when the sentence that condemned him to be burned was read to him, immediately threw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "o, lord jesus, pardon my enemies! pardon them, for the love of thy great mercy and goodness?" _theobald, (affected.)_ arnold! did john huss, indeed, speak thus? _arnold_. he did! john huss knew jesus, and, like jesus, prayed for his murderers. no, theobald; he who loves--who loves unto death, and who can pray for his executioners--is not an infidel. "o, hildegarde! hildegarde!" exclaimed theobald, groaning; "what hast thou done, and what have i done! poor prisoners! what injustice!" _arnold_. your heart is oppressed, theobald; some sorrowful remembrance distresses you. the chevalier was about to reply, when a noise was heard at the door, which was opened by gottfried, holding erard by the hand. "here they both are!" said the old man to the child. "look, erard, and see whether the chevalier hates thy father. see, if what ethbert told me was not true! "this dear child," added he, "had some fears for his father: for he knows all, theobald." _theobald, (with tenderness.)_ come, then, erard, and give me your hand. come, my child, and also pardon me. o, how i need pardon from every heart here! say, erard, will you not forgive me? _erard, (giving his hand to the chevalier.)_ i love you much, since my father loves you. "well, my son!" said gottfried. "go now to ethbert, and tell him to be in readiness to accompany me." _theobald_. shall you leave us again? will it be for many hours? _gottfried_. it is on your behalf, chevalier, that i must now act. the express which we expected, did not come, and i feared that my message had not reached your dear hildegarde. i, therefore, went myself to tell her of your welfare. _theobald_. is it possible! o, tell me if all is well with her! _gottfried_. thanks to god, hildegarde and her precious children are well--very well. she has been very anxious until last night. my message did not reach her until then; and her express, who did not start until day-break, was detained on the way. i met him, and bring you more than he would have said himself. _theobald_. she knows, then, that her husband is---- with the count of winkelthal? _gottfried_. hildegarde knows that her husband is with his friends, and she blesses god with us. "theobald," added gottfried, "there should be no difference between us. jesus will unite us by his grace." _theobald_. as he has already done, has he not? the old father, after having bound up with his trembling hands the wounds of a stranger--of an enemy--afterwards to bestow all the treasures of his kindness, and more than paternal charity, on him whose hands he supposed to be stained with the blood of his son! o, may this jesus, who makes us love, reveal himself in my soul also! arnold, my dear arnold! teach me to know him! "theobald," replied arnold, "he who desires to know jesus is no longer a stranger to his love." _theobald_. and yet, my true friends, how far am i still from that charity which flows in your hearts like a river! you have pardoned even me; and you can love, pity, succor, and console your enemies! arnold, it is to hildegarde that your father is going--to her who, shall i tell you? caused the eyes of two of your brethren to be put out! _arnold_. no, theobald, no; you could not have done that! _theobald, (with a groan.)_ o, what was our injustice!--our cruelty! (_he weeps._) and when their eyes were pierced, they stretched out their hands on all sides, saying, "where are you, lord of rothenwald, that we may take your hand and pardon you in the name of jesus!" _gottfried, (with solemnity.)_ theobald, these two blind men are now with me; they knew, last evening, who was the chevalier brought here from the forest, and they have already prayed god for you many times! they have even asked ethbert to assure you of their sincere love, before god their saviour. _theobald_. o, withdraw from me!--leave me! i am stained with blood! god of heaven, how severely hast thou punished me! _arnold_. is that to say, theobald, that you believe us to be better and more charitable than god? rash and blind man that you are! you see, that, by his grace in our hearts, we can forget and forgive an injury--an offence; and through the same grace of the same god, show mercy and love to our enemies,--you see that, you are affected by it, you admire it; then, when you look towards that god who teaches his children to be charitable or merciful, you see only an angry judge--an implacable avenger--an enemy, about to strike you! theobald, do you comprehend your mistake? "but, arnold," resumed theobald, with humility, "by what right, wicked as i am, can i ask god to pardon me?" "by the right," replied gottfried, taking from among his books a bible, which he placed on theobald's bed, "yes, by the right that every man, every sinner has, who reads and believes the word of god, to receive its precious invitations and promises." _theobald, (laying his hand on the bible.)_ tell me, my friends, is it by reading and believing this bible that you learned to love your enemies? _gottfried and arnold, (together.)_ yes, theobald. _theobald_. i will then read it also; and, if god enables me, i will believe it: for, if men have called me the iron-hearted, i need now that god should soften my heart and make me his child--his ransomed one; and that his spirit should teach me, like you, my noble friends, to imitate jesus, in pardoning injuries and loving those who hate me! the end. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: the scarlet house of sin.] death to the inquisitive! a story of sinful love. by lurana w. sheldon, "_nay, do not ask-- in pity from the task forbear: smile on--nor venture to unmask man's heart, and view the hell that's there._" new york w. d. rowland, publisher chambers street copyright, by w. d. rowland. contents chap. page. i. the whitechapel mystery ii. a suicidal attempt iii. rescued by thieves iv. the shame-born child v. maurice sinclair vi. a painful reminiscence vii. the breath of passion viii. a midnight crime ix. maurice sinclair escapes with his victim x. the scarlet house of sin xi. julia webber lays plans for revenge xii. a sinful love xiii. the contract broken xiv. in central park xv. death xvi. a deer hunt in newfoundland xvii. by the ashes of a guilty house xviii. stella is restored to her lover xix. safe in the arms of love xx. dr. seward's experiment xxi. a perfect union xxii. "queen liz" xxiii. elizabeth finds friends xxiv. stella confides in her husband xxv. the captain's story xxvi. sorrow and rejoicing xxvii. the marriage certificate xxviii. too late xxix. the home in new york xxx. sam lee discovers a faro game xxxi. cleverly caught xxxii. face to face xxxiii. "i have no name" xxxiv. the lady van tyne will fight for her honor xxxv. stella and elizabeth xxxvi. a last escape xxxvii. five years after [illustration: miss lurana w. sheldon.] death to the inquisitive. a story of sinful love. chapter i. the whitechapel mystery. hark! it is a woman's cry echoing thro' the unhallowed place:-- forward, to her rescue, fly-- see the suffering in her face. a piercing shriek echoed throughout the entire length and breadth of the gloomy passage, hushed as it was in the brief hour of repose that usually intervened between the vice-rampant hour of midnight and the ever reluctant dawn. it seemed as if the very light shrank from penetrating the loathsome windings of that wretched quarter of london, and as to pure air, it simply refused to enter such illy ventilated nooks and crevices, while the poisoned vapors that filled the narrow precincts were always trying to escape and failing through their own over-weight of reeking odors. the scream of the dying woman was carried indistinctly to the ears of the sleeping inmates simply because the air was too heavy with vile tobacco and whiskey, stale beer fumes, and the exhalations of festering garbage heaps to transmit anything in other than a confused and indistinct manner. nevertheless there was something so extraordinarily frightful in the shriek that it did succeed in reaching the ears of nearly every habitue of the place, who, shrieking in their turn aroused the others, and one by one frowzeled heads and wrinkled faces issued from broken windows and rapidly, with shuffling footsteps, men and women crawled from innumerable dark passages and darker doorways, and with suspicious glances at each other, sneaked in and out through the slime and rubbish, in a half curious, half frightened search for a glimpse of that horrible tragedy. i say _sneaked_ about, and i use the word advisedly as the lawyers say, inasmuch as these degraded members of the human family,--these de-humanized fag ends of the genius homo, did not walk, run, or perform any other specified motion in their perambulations. on the contrary, they hugged the walls and the gutters; they were distrustful of the laws of gravitation and equilibrium, preferring to lean more or less heavily on walls and other supports, with bodies bent and faces averted, while the rapidity with which they appeared and disappeared was best appreciated by the police who were supposed to guard this particular section of whitechapel, but who religiously confined their guardianship to the outer walls, while the denizens of the multitudinous alleys or passages were free to perpetrate their murders, ply their nefarious trades and revel and rot in the stench of their own degradations. one by one these creatures crawled from their hiding places. men were seen clutching the rags of their scanty clothing while their bleared eyes scanned every inch of the broken pavements. women, with odd garments thrown carelessly about their shoulders, joined in the search, and for a brief time no word was spoken. finally an old creature, dirtier if possible than the rest, bent in form, and with one long brown fang extending down over her shrunken chin, hobbled from a gloomy doorway and in a strident, nasal tone gave her opinion to these searchers of iniquity. "hit's queen liz thet's done fer, hi knowed 'er yell; you'll find 'er somewheres down by the chinaman's shanty. hi spects 'e's knifed 'er." "good enough for 'er, the stuck hup 'uzzy," exclaimed one of the wretched beings that followed closely at the woman's heels. "to think of 'er livin' 'ere for two years hand not speakin' to no one but that greasy yaller-skin. hi knowed 'e'd get sick of 'er 'fore long." "s'pose you think hit's your turn next," snapped up another bedraggled female, whereupon a vicious battle ensued between the two while the men and women halted in their search to watch, what to them was the very essence of life,--a fight. but the old crone who had first spoken crawled on until she reached the chinaman's quarters, and there sure enough, a mongolian, swarthy and greasy, his beady eyes blazing with excitement, was bending over and trying with poor success to withdraw a villainous looking weapon, half knife, half dagger, from the breast of an apparently dying woman. the victim was a familiar figure in the alley, and her clean, handsome face with its "hands-off" expression had long since won her the name of "queen liz." while her failure to mingle with the other women or receive the beastly attentions of the men had made her an object of hatred to all concerned, still she had won their respect by her evident ability to defend herself at all times and in all circumstances, while the love she plainly bore her beautiful babe, a child of about two years, was a never ceasing source of wonderment and ridicule to these hardened mortals. it was true that queen liz spent much time in the quarters of this particular mongolian while there were many more eligible parties of her own nationality in the passage, but queen liz was evidently above her station, and as the mongolian in question was possessed of more worldly goods than were his neighbors, it was reasonably supposed that she sought the comforts and luxuries of chinese fans and oolong in preference to the other shanties with their ever prevalent aroma of stale beer. nevertheless queen liz was not wholly overwhelmed by the wealth of sam hop lee, because it was rumored that at certain intervals a gentleman from the outside world; a member of actual london society was seen going in and out of the narrow passage, liz always accompanying him on these exits and entrances, for protection, it was generally supposed. the sight of the stranger in their own lawful precincts brought always a mixture of sentiments to the thieves and sharpers who infested these gloomy byways. here was an excellent opportunity for operations in their own particular line of business, but here also was a woman armed with the usual weapons of the alley, ready and anxious to meet in mortal combat any and all that should dare lay hands upon herself or guest. thus queen liz was let pretty severely alone by all, and her life past and present was a mystery too obscure to be in any danger of being solved by the beer muddled brains of her neighbors. but now queen liz was lying in the slime and mud of the alley with the deadly knife sticking firmly in her side, and as this uncanny assemblage of human scavengers drew nearer, sam lee gave one more vigorous pull at the weapon, and withdrawing it, turned its blade to the light of a flickering tallow dip, and instantly, in the eyes of each and every one present, he was acquitted of the horrible deed. the knife was of a make unknown in the alley and only to be found in the possession of a man to whom money is no object and who could well afford to follow his own fancies in the design of his favorite paper cutter, for such the weapon evidently was. long, narrow and sharply pointed, the blade was of finest silver, handsomely engraved, and the ebony handle shone resplendent with gems, so placed as to form on the polished surface the initials m. s. in dazzling characters. chapter ii. a suicidal attempt. have pity, reader,'twas the fire of human passion in her brain,-- first, youth's impulsive, mad desire, then love, and love's devouring pain. some two years previous to the incidents of our opening chapter, in a quiet house situated on g--st., in the vicinity of belmont square, an aged couple sat quietly talking, while the shadows fell longer and darker about the room, and the increased tread of passing feet spoke plainly of the end of another day of that weary labor that fell to the lot of the large number of tradespeople who lived in this row of modest houses. the aged couple mentioned were occupying the two narrow windows that faced the crowded thoroughfare, and the two faces were pressed anxiously against the glass, while the old eyes peered eagerly up and down, over and across in a careful search for the one of whom they had been quietly speaking. there was silence for a little while and then the old man leaned back in his chair and, while wiping the moisture from his glasses with a generous square of cambric, said querulously: "it is mighty strange, marthy, where lizzie is. she ought to be home before this." "i know it, father," responded his wife meekly. "she's been acting very strange of late, staying away from home and coming in at all hours as dragged out as if she had been walking the streets for miles." "maybe that's what she does," snapped the old man, and then, as if ashamed of his hasty words, he added in a softer tone: "though why she should do that i can't see. she's got a good home here with us and has had ever since our poor mary died and left us our grandchild in the place of our child to care for and protect." "and we've done both, father," said the old lady, gently. "lizzie has no need to seek pleasure outside her own home, what, with the rooms to look after, her books, her piano and her needle work, she ought to be pretty well contented." "that's so, marthy, but she evidently is not. now ever since that young man rented our two back rooms and began to spend his evenings here--" "you don't think she is in love with him, do you father?" interrupted his wife quickly. "can't say, marthy, you women can judge better of that. i only know she acts uncommonly unhappy lately. let's see, the young fellow has been gone a week now, hasn't he?" "yes, that is so, and lizzie has seemed all broke down ever since. i was asking her yesterday to see mr. jeller, but she turned as white as anything. "'no, no, grandma,' she said, 'i'll not see any doctors. there's nothing the matter with me, nothing!' "but there was a hard look came into her eyes, and the idea went through my mind that perhaps that gentlemanly looking fellow was just playing with her after all, and she had only found it out after her heart was gone from her." here the old lady stopped to wipe the tears from her faded eyes, while the blood of his youth flushed her husband's face and, with cane uplifted, he muttered fiercely: "if i thought that, i'd cane him, old as i am! lizzie's a good girl and has been as well raised and as well educated as the best of them, and if her father and grandfather before him were tradespeople, they were honest and respectable, and i don't know what better dowry a woman can need than her own virtues and accomplishments and a record behind her of generations of honorable people." here the old man again sank back in his chair, overcome by the violence of his emotions, while his wife, re-adjusting her glasses, moved aside the curtain and again peered out into the fast darkening street. there was silence for a few moments and then her husband resumed his position at the other window, while the ticking of the clock echoed, painfully distinct, through the silent room, and the sound of passing feet grew fainter and fainter, and darkness, mingling with the impenetrable vapors of a london fog, settled heavily down upon the earth. certainly no girl could have a more happy home or two more tender, loving companions than had elizabeth merril. but discontent is bred in the bone and needs no outward influence or surroundings to foster its soul destroying germs. elizabeth had grown into womanhood, beautiful in form and feature, loyal in heart and spotless in her maidenly purity, but the seeds of discontent, inherited or otherwise, sprang up in her heart and took from every pleasure that fullness of joy which is so necessary to perfect happiness. it was her suggestion to rent the superfluous rooms thereby adding to the family exchequer and at the same time increasing her household duties. the logic was excellent, but the impulse of a dissatisfied mind prompted the suggestion and evil impulses, however logical, are rarely productive of good results. this particular instance was a most conclusive proof of the veracity of such reasoning. for a few brief weeks elizabeth's heart was filled with content and peace. with her additional labor came renewed ambition and the results seemed highly satisfactory to all concerned. then, as time passed on and the young man who occupied the rooms found many and varied excuses for seeking her presence, the roses on elizabeth's cheeks deepened into carnation, her eyes flashed with a new born glory, and from morn till night the tender song of the nightingale burst joyously from her lips. the young man had occupied the rooms for nearly a year and his devotion to their grandchild had been constantly growing more marked. but for the past few months the song had ceased on elizabeth's lips and the rosy cheeks were growing steadily paler. in vain the aged couple watched and questioned, but elizabeth's feminine tact and spirit outwitted them. she fulfilled her duties patiently, as of yore, but would seize upon every possible pretext for remaining away from home, and now, during the week that her lover failed to appear at his cosy apartments, they had hardly seen her for more than a few moments each day. thus it was no wonder that to-night they watched and waited at their narrow windows while the hours stole by and still the wandering girl returned not to her pleasant home. back and forth over the great london bridge she was walking; her head bent low; her blue eyes fixed and glaring; her pale lips compressed in bitter agony, while over and over again she paused and looked eagerly down into the sluggish water. the bridge was jammed as usual with hurrying pedestrians and jostling carts, and few turned to look at the solitary figure. now and then a watchful "bobby" stopped and stared into her face and more than one of these experienced officers read the signs of coming trouble in her pallid features. but it was not their duty to ask her business or order her away. she was doing no harm and surely it would be but a meddlesome act on their part to try and avert the danger which they so plainly foresaw. still she walked on and on until the crowd was lessened and fewer officers remained on duty. just as the fog, rising from the river below and the smoke falling from the chimneys above, met and mingled in a pall of gloom and obscurity, she turned again, paused, looked once more into the darkness below, then vaulting suddenly to the massive rail, sprang lightly forward through the mists and down into the awful waters. chapter iii. rescued by thieves. and these are men,--these creatures bold, who live to plunder and to kill; formed in the great creator's mold but subject to the devil's will. if all committers of this deed of questionable cowardice would choose so opportune a moment for their rashness as did elizabeth, they would probably live to see the error of their ways and to realize that the things we know are better than the things we know not of, but it is rarely that one so determined as she to terminate a wretched existence is thwarted in that desire by the presence of rescuers, but such was the case in this instance. two men of the type commonly known in london as wharf "rats" or dock and river thieves, were slowly sculling along under cover of the intense fog on the lookout for plunder of any and every sort. naturally, when elizabeth's body struck the water not ten feet from their craft, they stopped sculling and quickly investigated the nature of the prey that had so literally fallen into their hands. elizabeth was pulled into the boat apparently lifeless, and in less time than it takes to chronicle the event, was shorn of her pretty rings, purse and outer garments. a folded paper pinned securely to the lining of her waist was also promptly removed by the thief and thrust carelessly into the outer pocket of his coat as he doubtless thought it of little consequence, and only confiscated it through a natural impulse of greed and robbery. then the younger of the two proceeded to fasten a heavy lead around her waist, and lifting her carefully in his arms was about to lower the body once more into the silent river whose waters had already swallowed up and forever concealed innumerable secrets of like nature, when a flash from his partner's lantern falling upon elizabeth's upturned face revealed to him her exceeding loveliness and awoke within him an instinct, whether brutal or humane, we shall shortly determine. "oh, oiy soiy, bill, this 'ere lass is too bloomin' 'ansome tew feed de fishes wid," he said, "and she ben't derd, nurther," he added, as he noticed elizabeth's breath returning in short, faint gasps. "ben't hoften we picks hup such fine goods as dese," he continued, while a fiendish expression passed over his swarthy face. "blowed if oiy doesn't think oiy'll confiscate dis fer m' hown use," and he drew elizabeth's still senseless form across his knee. "put'er down, jemmy! cawn't you wait till you gets to de dock or does yer want ter stay hout 'n dis 'ere fog hall night?" said the older man gruffly, adding authoritatively: "cover de gal hup in de bottom, she'll keep! oiy'm wet tew de' ide. come, scull along hor we wont get 'ome till midnight." whether it was the fragments of original humanity that made him refuse to witness the desecration of helplessness, or whether he possessed sufficient of the brute instinct to enjoy with keener relish the struggles of a frenzied woman in the hands of an unprincipled and determined villain, we can not tell;-- at any rate elizabeth was allowed to lie quietly under an old sail in the bottom of the boat, returning slowly, but with such perfect control to acute consciousness that she allowed no sound of either fear or suffering to escape her lips. she overheard enough of their conversation, during the row down the river to show her who her rescuers were and what her ultimate fate would be unless she could escape from their clutches. she realized that even her unfortunate condition would give her no mercy in their hands and might rather be a source of more intense gratification to their fiendish and inhuman desires. reason told her to remain perfectly passive, as it was evident they only awaited her return to consciousness for the furtherance of their diabolical plans. even when the boat bumped heavily against the wharf, turned back and veered about in a most extraordinary manner and the damp fog of the river was exchanged for the foul stench of sewer gas and garbage floats, and she realized, with a feeling of horror, that they were gliding, not by, but under the dock, still she made no sound. at last they stopped by a rotten ladder; the boat was tied and the younger man sprang hastily up the slippery steps and thrust open, with his shoulder, a heavy trap door. then the older of the two raised elizabeth from the boat and passed her up through the narrow opening to the man above. he then followed and after a hasty consultation between the two she was left, as the young "rat" expressed it, "soif fer de present," on a pile of rags in the corner of the cellar. then, apparently regardless whether she lived or died, they ascended another rickety ladder and the sullen gleam of their lantern was soon lost to sight in the darkness above. elizabeth waited until the sound of their footsteps had passed away, then rising hastily, she began groping about in the darkness for the ladder which she had so dimly discerned by the light of the smoking lantern. now every thing was dark, and the knowledge of that yawning trap-door and perhaps more just like it under her very feet, made her almost insane with fear. all desire for a watery death had vanished from her mind. her lungs were so filled with nauseous gases that it was with a feeling of almost frantic joy she touched the rungs of the worm-eaten ladder and prepared to climb to the landing above. the upper hall was narrow, dirty and perfectly dark. elizabeth groped her way carefully along, holding firmly to the wall, but could see no outlet or glimmer of light either before her or above, but knowing that to turn back would be but rushing to a fate far worse than death, she pressed eagerly forward, peering into the impenetrable darkness, while occasionally a great, slimy rat scampered across her foot, or a loathsome bat, with a sudden rush, passed so near her face that she turned sick with horror and held to the heavy walls with all her strength. chapter iv. the shame-born child. calm death,--thou comest not to such as these,-- their griefs affright thee,--their sad faces fail to please. probably the length of time that elapsed (which seemed like an eternity to elizabeth,) was, in reality, not more than half an hour before a ray of light greeted her eyes, coming through a ragged chink in the crumbling masonry of the heavy walls. creeping cautiously forward she put her eye to the crevice and looked eagerly into the inner room. the scene she witnessed was well calculated to chill the blood of an able bodied man, but to a delicate woman, still trembling from the effects of her awful plunge into the river;--hampered by dripping garments and nearly frantic with the fear of momentary violence, the sight was more than doubly horrible. the room was nothing more than a large vault or closet built into the solid walls, probably for no definite purpose, but so well adapted to its present use that one would think its designer must have foreseen its ultimate fate. several battered and smoking lanterns hung on nails, which had been wedged firmly between loose bricks in the decaying walls, their outlines appearing to her excited imagination not unlike the red eye balls and smoke begrimed faces of the score of beings upon whom their dismal glimmer fell. this score of individuals, representing a class of monsters, born in the slime of cellars; nourished on the odors of decomposition and trained to accomplishments of vice and evil, were busy at the ghoulish work of robbing two human bodies, whose swollen and livid members plainly proclaimed them trophies from the river's unfailing supply. ragged females with bloated faces and keen eyes were squabbling like cats over the articles which had been removed from the dead woman's body, while the males cursed and struck at each other in a frantic struggle for the watch and jewels which the other water-soaked victim had worn. the scene was horrible, pile upon pile of rubbish was heaped about the room, and one and all seemed interested in claiming and getting possession of as much plunder as they could, by fair means or foul. elizabeth plainly identified her rescuers who were among the most quarrelsome of the lot, but, even in her bewilderment, she noticed that there was no mention made of _their_ evenings work or of her body, which, of course, they supposed was safe in the recesses of that loathsome cellar. at this instant a vague thought flitted through her mind as to what booty her body had afforded them. she felt for her rings, but they were gone. she thrust her hand into the bosom of her dress for her watch, and her lips grew white as ashes, while a new horror, passing through her brain, overcame for the moment all fear of personal violence. the paper which had been safe in her bosom when she sprang from the bridge was not there. she had determined that the secret which it held should die with her, but now that her plan for death had failed, the recovery of that treasured paper must be the whole aim and purpose of her life. again the miserable creature who had rescued her from death became the unknowing instrument of her good fortune. the young thief, whom she recognized as "bill," became violently angry over the unequal distribution of the jewels and, throwing off his coat, struck wildly at his partner, while the others proceeded with their individual bickerings, apparently unconscious of the pugilistic encounter. the coat in falling obscured, in a measure, elizabeth's view of the inner room. she had lost all thought of fear in her wild determination to secure the missing paper. pushing her hand cautiously into the hole in the masonry she dislodged a portion of brick with little trouble, then forcing her white arm carefully through the opening she touched the coat and pulled it gently aside. her idea was simply to gain another unobstructed view of the room, but accidently her fingers touched the edge of a folded paper protruding from the pocket, and quick as flash elizabeth closed her fingers upon it and drew it toward her through the hole. she could not see it, but the familiarity of touch and feeling convinced her that it was her bosom companion for the past ten months, and even in the excitement and danger of the situation she stood motionless for a moment while she pressed it fervently to her lips. then, taking advantage of a particularly noisy scuffle, elizabeth slipped softly by the door. the terrors of nightmare were upon her. she imagined she heard them pursuing her but could not run for fear of falling in the darkness; pitching down some hidden trap or making some accidental sound that would tell them of her presence. at last, after almost innumerable windings, a glimmer of electric light came down upon her through a cellar grating which opened directly upon the street. a little further on and another flight of worm eaten steps were before her. up these she climbed, and raised, with all her strength a heavy grating, then, feeling once more the pure air upon her brow and the sense of freedom in her soul, she reeled and fell heavily forward, like an inanimate body, upon the damp, gray curb stone. how long she lay there she could not tell, but the bell of a distant cathedral, tolling the hour of midnight, aroused her, and she crawled along until her strength in a measure returned, then, rising, she walked as quickly as possible away from this terrible neighborhood. on and on she went, her strength failing her at every step, until once more exhausted she sank down before the gateway of a large building, which, fortunately for her, proved to be a hospital. here she was found by a resident physician on his return from the opera in the early morning hours. some time during the following day an employee of the hospital discovered a soiled and water-stained marriage certificate, which the wind had evidently blown behind the massive gates. the certificate was placed in the physician's private desk for safe keeping, but no connection between it and the suffering woman was ever suspected. elizabeth was placed immediately in the ward, and every care given her, but for four weeks she hovered between life and death, raving of murder, robbery, suicide and all such frightful happenings, until the anxious physician feared for her reason as well as for her life. it was not until her child was born, a month after her entrance, that she gained, either mentally or physically, but after another four weeks of excellent nursing she was discharged from the hospital as needing no further treatment. she had given the authorities a false name in an almost involuntary effort toward self-protection and the concealment of her degradation, receiving at their hands that disinterested and strictly impartial attention bestowed upon all their patients. she was to them but one of thousands who drift on the shoals of sin and are left to perish, or are floated off by the tide of life to a longer struggle and a fiercer death on the ragged rocks of crime, therefore it was only natural that her case elicited no special comment from the busy officials. thus, sick at heart, homeless, friendless, with no money, and with her shame-born child resting heavily upon her arm, elizabeth went forth once more into the streets of london. chapter v. maurice sinclair. the storm that tears the human heart with deepest furrows, leaves its trace like shadows from a passing cloud upon the mirror of the face. passing through portland place, at about the hour of eleven, on that damp, foggy night, it would have been impossible not to notice the most attractive of the many beautiful houses, for there emanated from its windows such a blaze of light that even the dense vapor that obscured all objects in its near vicinity was penetrated by the brilliancy for some distance. the carriages that stopped before its portals loomed up through the mist like phantoms, while the guests that entered the spacious door only lost their ghastliness as they emerged into the full glare of the inner hall during the brief moment of transit. it was very evident that a ball of more than ordinary magnificence was in progress, and one glance at the face of the hostess, mrs. archibald sinclair, would have shown any intelligent observer that, to mrs. sinclair, at least, the necessity for making this particular entertainment a glorious success was so urgent that it destroyed, in a measure, her own enjoyment. yet, with the innate tact of a woman born to receive, to entertain, and to genuinely please her guests, all trace of anxiety was carefully concealed, all nervousness overcome, and only affability and satisfaction were allowed reflection upon her expressive countenance. however, in spite of her complacent demeanor, there were few mothers present at that reception but could readily appreciate her feelings and who did not, in their inmost hearts, admire her diplomatic tact during so trying an ordeal. not a few carefully modulated voices signified to each other their opinion and approval of her manner, for the gossips were out in full force that evening. they knew by long anticipation that food for their insatiable appetites would be furnished on this occasion in the person, manner and language of maurice sinclair, their hostess' enigmatical son, who had so lately returned from the great desert of gobi or some other equally undesirable quarter of the earth's surface. true, rumor had it that this eccentric young man had been seen in and about the city at intervals during the past year, but as any allusion made to the widow, his mother, on this subject, met with unapproachable silence, the matter was prudently dropped, and the information derived from newspapers and casual observers accepted or rejected according to the minds of the hearers, in the absence of better authority. many of the matrons present this evening recalled, only too accurately, the days when maurice sinclair's boyish pranks refused for him admission to one school after another. his wrong doings were always of a nature too delicate for public mention and, after a more than usually disgraceful affair while he was only fifteen years of age, he suddenly vanished, and, but a month later, archibald sinclair, his disappointed father, was laid to rest in the family plot, leaving behind a sorrowing wife and a nearly heart-broken mother. at last, after five years had elapsed, mrs. sinclair, tired of the great house, and the wealth and splendor which she could never enjoy in solitude, adopted a distant relative, a beautiful girl of sixteen, and upon her she lavished the love of her true womanly heart and the wealth that flowed so abundantly into her coffers from many sources. stella ives, or stella sinclair as she was afterwards called, was one of those peculiarly beautiful women, combining that which is most rarely seen, beauty of face and form, with great depth of character and unusual mental precocity. now, at the age of twenty-one, stella stood peerless among her companions. her wavy yellow hair fell low over a broad white forehead. her hazel eyes shone with the clear light of a brilliant intellect. her mouth was large, but shapely and sweet, and, in laughing, disclosed a set of faultless teeth that were at once the envy and admiration of all. stella was a little above medium height, plump and graceful, and withal a girl whom all could admire, but whose natural reserve held aloof from her shrine the many lovers who would gladly pay their homage to so fair a divinity. ten years had passed since maurice disappeared and now, like one risen from the dead, he had returned and, in a brief but affectionate note, stated his intention to assist in entertaining her guests on this particular evening. he explained his non-appearance since reaching london as due to sensitiveness about meeting the mother whom he had so deeply grieved, but having heard of his adopted sister's "coming out" reception, he could control himself no longer and would throw himself humbly and unreservedly upon her mercy. only an hour before the time for her guests to arrive mrs. sinclair called stella to her luxurious dressing-room and, passing her arm around the young girl's form, said fondly: "stella dear, look your best to-night. you know we expect a large contingent of lords and baronets, and nothing fills my old heart with more exquisite pleasure than to witness the admiration which they bestow upon my beautiful daughter." stella laughed softly, but no blush of foolish vanity rose in her face at her foster-mother's tender words. she only pressed the matronly arm affectionately and replied, "all right, mamma, i will do my best. but you are sure it is because of the 'lords and baronets' that you wish me to look my best? confess now," she continued archly, "is it not because you wish the first glimpse of his adopted sister to be a satisfactory one to maurice that you take this violent interest?" a little disconcerted by the young girl's reading of her secret, mrs. sinclair could only laugh and push her gently from the room. after stella had gone, mrs. sinclair sank down on the sofa by the heavily draped window to hold brief communion with herself as was her wont when questions or thoughts of more than usual importance arose in her mind. there was only a few moments in which to thus commune, but mrs. sinclair possessed that distinctly feminine ability to evolve various extraordinary theories on a given subject and yet deduct therefrom a logical conclusion in about half the time it would take a less intuitive brain to lose itself completely in an inextricable tangle of reasons and vagaries. "the past is past," was her conclusion. "my son will to-night be under my roof; i must begin at the beginning; there shall be no reproaches. i shall offer him love, money, home, influence and a fair chance of winning a beautiful wife. if he refuses these, there is nothing more." so saying, she rose, and with a hopeful look in her eyes, passed, in her own stately and gracious manner, down the wide staircase and on into the spacious parlors of her beautiful home, now doubly attractive to her by the anticipated happiness of her son's return. for, although there was little doubt but that the erratic maurice had been in london for many months, yet he had not seen fit to gladden his mother's heart with the sight of his almost forgotten face until just in time to give stella's birthday reception a double significance. chapter vi. a painful reminiscence. how few look back upon a past of spotless purity,--and who would dare absolve with prayer and fast the deeds they've done--the deeds they do; whatever may be the prejudice existing against the customary shams, deceptions and hypocrisies of society, certainly the sugar coating which good breeding and etiquette throw over the many bitter and disagreeable ingredients that go to make up our daily lives, is very palatable and pleasing. suspicions may be aroused; curiosity be on the _qui vive_, anxiety and interest waging violent warfare in the human heart, yet the restrictions and obligations of courtesy demand self-control and affable manners, while gentle words make smooth many sharp and jagged corners in life's mental conflict, that uncovered would oftentimes cause friction and discomfort. in vain the gossips looked and listened for some fragment of food for their customary _menu_, but neither mrs. sinclair or stella showed by look or word that this particular reception was fraught with more than the usual interest, and as to the long lost son, his sojourn among the heathen nations of the earth, seemed to both foster and expand his naturally courteous disposition. his meeting with his mother had been cordial in the extreme. there was no time for lavish demonstration of affection, as he only arrived a brief ten minutes before the earliest guest. his presentation to his adopted sister, however, was marked by a change of demeanor that was plainly observed by all, yet, no person present, so far overcame the feeling of wonder that his manner generated, as to even boast of an approximate guess regarding its cause. the look that came into his wide, gray eyes when they first fell upon the beautiful girl, was one of amazement, and the gossips instantly concluded that beautiful women had been rare in his experience. then a lurid light gleamed in his eyeballs; the lines of his face became drawn and tense, and hatred, and envy, were instantly ascribed to him. but as he touched her hand in greeting, a look so plainly indicative of carnal passion gleamed in every feature of his now diabolical face, that cold shivers and sensations of horror, swept through the sympathetic natures present, and doubtless, the maids and matrons, would have risen _en-masse_ and called for their carriages, had not the sudden withdrawal of stella's hand, brought back, as if by magic, the winning smile to the young man's countenance and transformed him again, in an instant, into the hero of the evening. the dowagers reasoned that their lorgnettes were dimmed and their visions contorted thereby, while the maidens, serene in their innocence, forgot in a brief time the glimpse they had, or fancied they had, into man's inmost nature, and vied with each other in their efforts to win the approval of so distinguished and withal so mysterious a parti. possibly a vague thought of this young scion's probable inheritance brought favorable influence to bear upon the stricter morals of the scheming mammas, as social position and wealth have heretofore and probably always will weigh successfully in the balance against questionable character and immorality. nevertheless, so strong was the momentary resemblance between this fascinating young man and the numerous likenesses of the mythical beelzebub, that the lady van tyne assured her family physician, in a strictly confidential interview the next morning, that, "for an instant it seemed as if the very curls of auburn hair stood up on his temples like horns, and she was sure that almost countless numbers of hooked and venomous claws protruded from his dainty patent leather boots, while as to his face,"--here she shuddered with a convulsive, reminiscent spasm, "it was the face of satan himself!" the good doctor listened and sympathized; prescribed a pleasing tonic and rendered a modest bill, but he was afterward heard to say to his assistant, quite unprofessionally, of course. "it's wonderful what champagne will do. if the ladies would only stick to bass, now!" the lady van tyne and her family physician were on the very best of terms, however. it had been remarked by many that dr. seward was the only human being whom the wilful lady feared or felt disposed in any particular to obey. but both the physician and his proud patron still bore in undying remembrance a little episode of early days, and for reasons of mutual interest, their friendship remained firm and unimpeachable. thirty years before, lady van tyne was a plump, pretty brunette of eighteen, or rather, such was the charming isabel montfort, for the wealthy sir casper van tyne had not as yet secured her for his bride, and dr. seward was but a beginner in the fascinating science which later brought him fame and fortune. now, whenever he saw the lady van tyne, his thoughts involuntarily wandered back to the summer day when, with consternation in her face, lady montfort had called upon him with the vivacious isabel to secure his immediate and most careful services. the good lady readily accepted his verdict and in all innocence prepared her daughter for the immediate journey to america, which the imperative physician prescribed. little did the good woman realize that all her elaborate preparations were smiled at, more or less sadly, by her daughter and the clever physician. for, instead of the extended trip across the ocean, miss isabel betook herself quietly to the private residence of the physician, and there for three months she remained under the careful surveillance of doctor and nurse. the ruse was more than successful, inasmuch as miss isabel was restored to her mother, and sir casper's eager arms, in rapidly improving health, while the young physician's somewhat astounding fee was quietly paid by a gentleman of excellent social standing who was, moreover, the husband of one of the most charming and estimable ladies of dr. seward's acquaintance. the secret had been well guarded. now and then a dull pang of self-reproach was experienced by the physician when he remembered how indifferent he had been to the fate of the child after he had secured a home and guardianship for it. he watched it more or less interestedly for about ten years, as he also watched that other boy so singularly alike in feature but so widely different in parentage and social prospects. the boys, at ten and eleven respectively, were as near alike as brothers, but from that time on there were changes in the adopted parents mode of life, and the child of unsanctified love vanished from his gaze forever. into the lives of all physicians there come many and varied episodes of private nature, but probably of all the secret games indulged in by unscrupulous human beings, that one is best remembered wherein they hold so prominent a hand. it was little wonder, in the light of such reflections, that dr. seward evinced not only a slight irritability regarding his patient's hallucination, but also a most extraordinary desire to see this young man whose personal appearance was so suggestive of the infernal regions. chapter vii. the breath of passion. the torch-light of passion, how fierce is its power-- it wakens, it burns, it consumes in an hour; accursed is the mortal who feels its hot breath, for the end is destruction--destruction and death. unfortunately for the fate of her future, stella did not see the extraordinary expression on the young man's face that caused such mental consternation among her guests. the thrill which vibrated through her entire being at the touch of his firm hand rendered her incapable for the moment of meeting his eyes. so strong was the current of magnetism that passed between them that the mingled sensations of fear and bewilderment forced her to withdraw her hand with so much vehemence that she was obliged, from an innate sense of courtesy, to make a trifling remark to cover the seeming rudeness of her action. so swift was the transformation in his face, that, when her eyes were finally raised to his, only the sweetest of smiles wreathed his proud, passionate lips, and the glance he bent upon her, was one of mingled reverence and admiration. in vain the dowagers angled and the maidens blushed and simpered. maurice sinclair moved about among the guests, always charming and attentive, but his expressive eyes followed stella in her every motion and seemed to devour her beauty with an intensity so deep as to render him unconscious even to his own enchantment. only one of the gentlemen present had noticed particularly the greeting between maurice and stella, or if they had, man-like, they had attached no significance to the expression whatsoever, and would undoubtedly have reasoned, had their opinions been asked on the subject, that a man's face often expresses sentiments foreign to his nature, and that a fellow could hardly be called to account for the idiosyncrasies and caprices of unruly features. but sir frederic atherton had, for reasons of his own, been a keen observer of maurice's face, and a look of loathing crossed his own noble countenance as he muttered, almost audibly, a word that sounded singularly like "cur." but as he noted the magical effect on stella, he drew a long sigh which was as promptly checked with a firm closing of the lips, and stepping quickly forward actually stood between the two, then offering his arm to stella with a laughing remark, he led her away, from a glance, which in his honorable soul, seemed like desecration. sir frederic was nearly forty years of age; a man marvelously blessed by nature, in that he possessed not only a magnificent bearing; a face grand in its determination and strength; but a mental calibre as well, unequaled by another of his associates. to these he had added integrity and justice; winning the confidence of all by his honorable dealings both in social and business relations. women worshiped and followed him; yea, they even flung themselves at his very feet, but thus far in life sir frederic had remained "heart whole and fancy free," while the memory of a good mother and a faithful sister saved him from being, like the majority of men whom women flatter, a chronic disbeliever in the chastity of their sex. always courteous and gentle, it was no wonder that women and children loved and trusted him. strong and honorable, it was only natural for men to give him confidence and respect, and he whom his fellow-men regard is sure to be of all men the most trustworthy. the love of woman may be but the consequence of perfect features, manly proportions or a musical voice, but the regard of man for man comes only as the result of sterling worth. for some time sir frederic had been questioning himself regarding the quality of his affection for mrs. sinclair's beautiful adopted daughter, but not until he saw her, a delicate flower, exposed if only for a second to the baneful light of an evil eye, did he realize how deeply and dearly he loved stella. the truth stabbed him like a knife, but after the first sharp pain, and as he felt her hand upon his arm, a joy surged through his being that the forty well spent years of his life had hitherto failed to bring him. after a moment's conversation with mrs. sinclair, stella was again led away by one of her majesty's officers for a sprightly polka, and sir frederic glad to commune for a moment with his somewhat excited heart, moved a heavy chair farther into the shadow and sat down, while _his_ eyes also watched the graceful movements of stella, but with very different emotions from those which were rushing through maurice sinclair's brain at the same time. stella had danced with one after another of her guests and was seated for a moment's rest on a wide turkish divan in a shaded corner of the room. it was only a moment, but maurice's restless glance sought her out, and smiling his excuses into the baby face of lady isabel van tyne's youngest daughter, he, much to her disappointment, strolled across the room and stood before stella with the subdued light of a chandelier brightening his wavy hair into glittering rings about his well shaped head. "may i call you stella?" he whispered abruptly, as he bent slightly toward her and rested one shapely white hand on a pot of rare exotics that helped to shade the sofa on which she rested. mrs. sinclair was passing at that moment and the ring on maurice's finger caught her eye. with a tender smile she laid her hand upon his and whispered softly, "how well i remember that ring, maurice." it was puzzling to stella that he should appear so confused at this simple remark of his mother and withdraw his hand so rudely from her gentle clasp, but mrs. sinclair had passed quietly on, and remembering that his question remained unanswered she controlled her thoughts and responded frankly, "certainly, maurice, i should feel awkward enough to call you mr. sinclair after hearing and speaking the name of maurice so frequently for so many years. i think, really, i almost consider you my own brother," she continued shyly, although a passing blush and an almost imperceptible hesitancy in her speech gave the pretty avowal an appearance of untruthfulness. to the many eager observers of this momentary by-play, the avowal, judged by the eye alone, seemed almost a confession of a dearer sentiment than the sisterly affection to which she had so frankly laid claim. notwithstanding her words of platonic friendship maurice smiled as if well pleased, not only with the words but their silent contradiction. he sank gracefully upon the divan by her side and in so doing his hand accidently touched hers and in an instant there came again that expression of consuming passion that had darkened his face at their first meeting. again the mesmeric spell of his presence was upon her. a sensation, this time wholly indescribable, passed over her frame and as before she was powerless to raise her eyes until the cloud was lifted and once more the calm of a summer sky was mirrored on his exquisite face. just at that instant a slight crash was heard near by and both started involuntarily from their momentary forgetfulness to ascertain the cause. chapter viii. a midnight crime. how oft men use the gifts of god to aid their plans and cloak their sins; at nightfall, silence reigns above and deviltry on earth begins. the noise was merely the shivering to atoms of a small venetian vase which stood on a diminutive ebony table not far from the divan on which stella was seated. mrs. sinclair had accidently struck the table, and the gossips declared afterward, in the privacy of their own boudoirs, that she was watching her son at the very time when his accidental touching of stella's hand had wrought so fearful a change upon his features, and, quite naturally, they argued that an intuitive fear for her adopted daughter's future made her hand unsteady. at any rate, she had turned suddenly pale and grasped the slender table for support with the result already mentioned. maurice sprang promptly forward, and motioning to a servant to remove the fragments of glass, offered his arm gracefully to his mother and passed up the room to where the countess martinet was sitting with her angular daughter. stella took this opportunity to join the misses huntington on a neighboring sofa and again the strains of music floated through the spacious parlors and partners were soon whirling gaily about in the witcheries of a glorious waltz. never had stella looked so superbly beautiful as to-night, with the graceful folds of her exquisite white satin draperies clinging about her charming figure. the gold of her hair scintillated in myriad iridescent rays about her broad forehead and snowy neck, while the gleaming diamond star that shown upon her bosom vied with the sparkling lustre of her eye, and in the opinions of the gentlemen, at least, paled woefully in the comparison. before this enjoyable ball was over it was no wonder that hearts, adoration and homes were silently or in hurried, eager whispers, laid humbly upon the altar of love, and many an ardent lover went home that night to dream of heavenly raptures or exactly the reverse. to stella, however, the sentiment of all absorbing passion was, as yet unknown. life was at its best and brightest with her, and the brief, inexplicable sensation of fear which she had felt at maurice's touch, was the only cloud, small and visionary as it was, that in any way darkened the skies of her perfect happiness. the fog was still resting heavily upon the earth when the last carriage rolled away and maurice walked with his mother up the broad stairs to spend his first night in ten years beneath the parental roof. some way stella lingered longer than usual that night over her adieux to sir frederic atherton, but the fault, if fault it was, could not be laid at her door. his carriage was the last and if he held her hand a moment longer than usual, she reasoned that, it was only because he had known her from childhood and now, at her debut into the world of womanly duties and pleasures, it was only natural that he should feel a desire to congratulate and perhaps advise her for her future welfare. it was with this idea in mind that she let her hand rest quietly in his and raised her eyes so confidently to his face. what she saw there was neither the courteous smile of congratulation or the benign bearing of one about to offer sage admonition. instead, she saw a look of such ineffable tenderness bent upon her, that to her inmost soul there came an instantaneous sense of security, protection and sacred confidence, and tears suffused her lovely eyes in a blinding flood of gratitude which she was powerless to control. another instant and his lips had touched her golden hair, and the sound of the departing carriage told her he was gone. with a curious feeling of loneliness and amazement thereat, she followed, almost in a dream, to mrs. sinclair's door. stella said good night as soon as possible, thinking that in all probability mother and son would wish to converse on many topics of interest, but as she passed from the room she turned and smiling sweetly, said, "i am sorry to usurp your old quarters in the west wing, maurice, but we thought i had better not change as the south room might be more grateful to your warm country tastes." with this slightly saucy allusion to his mysterious past, stella kissed her finger tips to mrs. sinclair and closed the door softly behind her. after stella had gone maurice seemed suddenly fatigued. the light vanished from his eyes and his tones grew languid, while a certain nervousness of manner betrayed to mrs. sinclair's acute perceptions the fact that, for some reason, her son felt ill at ease in his mother's presence. kissing him fondly she made haste to say, "now darling, you had better go right to your room. we shall have plenty of time to talk in the future, for i am an old woman now and i trust my son will never feel like leaving me again." "how old is stella, mother?" was his somewhat irrelevant remark when she had finished speaking. "she is twenty-one to day, my son, and i think you will agree that a sweeter, truer woman could hardly be imagined," responded his mother warmly. "she is very beautiful," maurice began, but checking himself, he said abruptly, "i have spent the last three years of my life wandering about in the heart of the great desert of shamo, and some times i fancy the sulphurous fumes and heat of its burning lakes have impregnated my blood and tainted my whole system with a substance, which, although capable of overcoming other impurities, is but a poor choice between the natural and the acquired evil." here, seeing his mother's look of complete mystification, he paused and added playfully, "ah, mother, i have frightened and perplexed you all ready: i must retire and to-morrow you shall say whether i am brute or human, for in truth, some times i can hardly tell." with these words he laughed a low, musical and extraordinarily joyous laugh that had attracted her once before that evening, then touching his mother's cheek lightly with his lips, went hurriedly from the room, through the hall and up the wide staircase. on reaching the hall above he paused for a moment as if in doubt and then turned abruptly toward the west wing and, notwithstanding stella's parting words, passed swiftly on until he reached the door of his "old quarters," then he drew a small, odd looking vial from his pocket and with it still in his hand, turned the handle and without word or warning, quietly entered the room. chapter ix. maurice sinclair escapes with his victim. in the darkness of the night, when the sun has lost command, wrong walks side by side with right-- sin and truth go hand in hand. mrs. sinclair rose late the next morning. a sleepless night had been followed by hours of heavy slumber which extended far into the forenoon. she awoke as she had retired, burdened with a trouble for which she could find no tangible form. here was her only son, resembling his father in face and manner,--a young man exemplary to all appearances, the knowledge of whose safe return, after long years of sorrowful separation, had overflowed her heart with gratitude and mother love, but whose actual presence thrilled her, not with unspeakable affection, but with an indefinable sensation of perplexity and apprehension. she blamed herself for the restraint which so evidently existed between maurice and herself, and in this self accusing mood she rose and prepared earnestly to explore the seemingly inaccessible paths to her son's estranged affections. breakfast, was the first suggestion of her sensible mind. she smiled, even in her perplexity, at this prompting of the flesh, but obeying the practical impulse, she rang for the butler and assured herself that everything in this particular department was in its customary, excellent condition. she was indeed perplexed and the limit of her logical nature was reached when she undertook the herculean task of lifting the cloud which hung so heavily over her son's individuality. she saw no inherited trait, neither could she account for the developing of those peculiarities which so early in life branded her only son with the marks of evil associations and morbid desires. true, his faults at fifteen years were but the outcome of boyish adventures and experiments, but a nature like his, impulsive and so prone to investigation, had caused her, even in his childhood days, to look forward to serious, inevitable results unless added years brought more than the average amount of judgment to balance the opposing inclinations. living, as he evidently had, in ignorant and brutal mongolian habitations, the seeds of vice, she reasoned, could easily have been fostered, yet why she should so persistently associate vice with every thought of this almost faultless young man, was a mystery she could not solve with all her reasoning. she feared him intuitively, and with this thought of fear there came, strangely enough, a thought of stella, and obeying an impulse which she could not resist, she went to the young girl's room to awake her for the breakfast hour. she knocked repeatedly at stella's door, but there was no response. she called her name excitedly, then trembling with torturing apprehension, pushed open the door and entered the apartment. stella was not there. the bed was undisturbed, so also was each and every article about the room. almost unconsciously she bent and picked up a small vial from the floor, and thrusting it into her pocket, rushed wildly into the hall and straight on to the rooms designed for her son's occupancy, and turning the latch without ceremony, stepped breathlessly in, only to find _that_ also vacant and everything in perfect order. running frantically about the house, for a few moments the bewildered woman forgot all self control and in agonizing tones enlisted every member of her household in a search for the missing ones. all in vain: stella and maurice had disappeared in the blackness of the night, and the impenetrable fog had swallowed up their footsteps and obliterated every trace by which the direction of their flight could be determined. chapter x. the scarlet house of sin. the sinner stands with tearless eye and looks on virtue's lovely grace:-- too late, her soul's repentant cry the brand of sin is on her face at the very hour in the morning when mrs. sinclair and her servants were searching every nook and corner of the elegant residence, away over on the surrey side of the great bridge, in a large brick house, standing far back from the street, two people, a man and a woman, were bending over a delicate form, clad in an evening dress of pure white satin that looked strangely out of place in this scarlet hued harem of unchastity. the very hangings blushed in rose red symphonies for the sins and impurities of the inmates. the heavy carpet was one unbroken stain of blood red coloring. the daylight peered through the rich window drapings and crimsoned the entire apartment with its guilty glances within. the exterior of the house was dull, dark and uninviting, but within, the glare of crimson, of dull red and deeper garnet, blended in every article of furniture and garnished walls, ceilings and windows in bewildering and feverish arrangement. even the glasses on the small jasper table by the couch were red with the evil light of their intoxicating contents. the woman's dress was opened low at the throat and her jet black hair and clear olive skin were in sombre contrast to the clinging, reddish garment. that the man had carefully disguised both voice and raiment was plainly evident, but that he was no stranger to the house or its extraordinary mistress, was also a self evident fact. there were few who knew of this curious habitation, whose only furnishings were draperies and divans, small jasper tables and luxuriant couches, but the few who did were well content to contribute most generously for its maintenance, and more for the occupants of its numerous apartments, whose only glimpse of daylight was that which fell through the shamefaced windows and rested, like the hands of a bashful lover, upon charms, half strange and half familiar to his touch. julia webber the mistress of this peculiar mansion, bent for a moment over the silent form, then she raised her eyes and looked with a strange, unseeing expression, into the wall beyond, as was her habit when addressing any one. the voice was low and distinct, but as cold and unsympathetic as steel, as she said with hardly a movement of the lips, "well what are your orders, monsieur?" the man at her side turned his eyes from the quiet face upon the couch and looked haughtily down upon her as he answered sharply, "the same as usual. why do you ask?" for an instant he caught the gleam of fire through her half closed, panther like eyes as she gave him a searching side glance to note the effect of her brief question. "you decline my offer, then," she asked, even more coldly, more distinctly than before. "what do i want with you?" the man exclaimed fiercely in excellent english. "have i not told you, julia, that my brief infatuation ended the hour that it began? ah, she awakes!" he exclaimed suddenly, and bent lower over the prostrate girl. over julia webber's face there crept an ominous, ashen pallor. her eyes blazed with the fury of a woman scorned, while her slender, jeweled fingers clutched the folds of her lurid garments with the grasp of a dying agony. another moment and her emotions were controlled. the vindictive gleam in her eyes was unnoticed by the man, for at that moment his whole thought and attention was given to the white robed figure. stella, for it was she, opened her eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room in utter bewilderment. then her gaze rested upon the young man's face, but without a shadow of recognition in the face. with a smile of astonishing sweetness he bent gently over her and whispered softly, "do not be frightened, stella. you are safe with me. rest a little and i will explain all." then, as her eyes closed once more in response to the powerful drug which he had administered, he turned roughly upon the woman at his side and bade her watch and wait upon this girl, then adding with a significant expression, "i make you responsible for her; i shall be back this evening;" he abruptly left the house. when the door closed upon her companion, julia webber stood beside the couch, immovable as marble. her flowing garments slipped from her sloping shoulders until one half her bosom was exposed. the lines of her face were rigid, but the swelling bosom rose and fell in gasps that were almost convulsive. hatred, envy and revenge gleamed in her scintillating eye balls while she gazed upon the pure and beautiful features of stella. at last, through her tightly closed teeth she muttered, hoarsely, "so this is why he scorns me! for this girl of twenty. it is not her pretty face or perfect form in which lies her attraction for monsieur, for i am equally beautiful, but it is her very virtue, her purity, that draws his passions like a powerful magnet and holds him her slave until the smirch of his own contamination is branded on her brow. pah! these inconstant fiends; they mold us to their own ideals, then scorn the creature of their own admiring handiwork. but enough of this! my revenge must be as sweet as my disappointment is bitter. i am mistress here, and perhaps my gallant monsieur, some other _more agreeable_ connoisseur may sip the dew from your budding rose before you again enhale its fragrance. "ah, captain, you here," she exclaimed as a stranger unceremoniously entered the apartment. "how could i remain from your presence, my beautiful julia?" responded the newcomer gallantly, then catching sight of the couch and its occupant he added, hastily, "my god! how beautiful! who is she and where did you get her?" "not so fast, captain," said julia, laughing quietly. curiously enough the handsome captain's evident admiration for stella evoked no jealousy in her heart, but was a source of satisfaction on the contrary. here was the opportunity for revenge on the man she loved, and she was not the woman to lose it, through any such foolish sentiment as that of jealousy. revenge and love go hand in hand in such natures as julia webber's. her life had been one long succession of conquests, but to one man only had she offered constancy. only those who are caught in the whirlpool of lascivious temptations can realize or appreciate the difficulty in fulfiling such a promise, but, julia webber, in spite of her evil life, was truer to a given word than many of her more righteous sisters. her love had been accepted with alacrity, and spurned with contempt and loathing almost from the hour of consummation. now, as this thought again flitted through her mind, she turned to the destingue individual by her side, and answered playfully, "you know we tell no secrets here, captain; she is here, and here to stay, that should be sufficient. she is slightly indisposed just now," she added, with a meaning smile, "but if you wish to see her--" "i certainly do, julia," and he also smiled significantly, as he eagerly awaited her reply. the woman hesitated a moment, and then, apparently changing the subject, said archly, "by the way, captain, there is a lovely crimson, velvet robe in robinson's window--" "you shall have it to-morrow, and then?" asked the captain, anxiously-- "ah, thank you, and, come in again to-morrow, captain, i think i can arrange this little matter for you." then she closed the door upon him, and again the panther-like gleam of her eye balls crept stealthily out between her half closed lids, but the smile that parted the thin red lips melted away in a heavy sigh, as she turned once more to look long and earnestly upon stella's sleeping face. chapter xi. julia webber lays plans for revenge. how poor the love that blindly seeks to avenge the scorn its presence wakes,-- 'tis only smarting pride that speaks a requiem, for its own mistakes. stella remained unconscious throughout the night, but she was carefully watched by julia webber, who would allow no one to enter the room where she lay. she was bewildered and frightened when she awoke the next morning in such strange surroundings. during the night her dress had been removed and she was amazed to find herself robed in a long, comfortable garment of soft red silk, and by her side a slender table with a tempting breakfast on a dainty silver tray awaiting her pleasure. when julia webber entered the room she went immediately to stella's side and bending gracefully over her, touched her lips to stella's brow, saying with the sweetest of smiles, "my dear child, i am so glad you are feeling better. i beg of you not to talk or distress yourself by fears regarding your safety, for i have already notified your friends of your whereabouts and you may be sure i will take the best of care of you until they arrive." this falsehood fell so smoothly from the woman's lips that stella, innocent and unsuspicious, actually smiled up into the lying face and whispered gratefully, "i know you will, my dear madam, and i shall trust you implicitly. i cannot understand what has happened but i throw myself wholly upon your mercy and protection, and i know that i shall be safe in your hands." julia webber's face was turned from the couch as she answered in a strange unnatural voice, "try and sleep now and i will come in again soon," and as stella obediently closed her eyes she went hurriedly from the room. although far better acquainted with her own remarkable nature than are mortals ordinarily, still julia webber could hardly understand her own emotions at this instant. was it possible that she was considering for a moment a withdrawal of her schemes for revenge? she had promised this girl protection just as she had promised scores before, but the word protection had suddenly assumed a new definition in her mind. hitherto it had simply signified safety from personal violence, from starvation or physical discomfort. now it was suddenly assuming a new condition,--safety for chastity and virtue. had she promised this? no! that was purely a personal matter, and what was more, she only allowed the temptation, she insisted upon nothing. but then, again, her methods admitted of no alternative. her guests, as she had told the captain, came "to stay," and time, temptation and constant warfare will win the bravest battle and conquer the most stubborn resistance. communing thus, she again returned to stella's room and, standing silently by the couch, looked earnestly upon the girlish face. shouts of coarse laughter and snatches of careless song, together with the chink of glasses, reached her ear at intervals as she stood immovable in the quiet room, and involuntarily, with minute distinctness, the details of other admissions to her household were paraded slowly before her mental vision. she recalled the innocence of those rioting voices when they first fell upon her ear,--in nearly every instance uttering a prayer for their speedy return to home and loved ones, or casting themselves in supplicating despair upon her mercy. her brain was filled to bursting with questions before unanswered, with possibilities before unconsidered, and moments sped rapidly by while she remained, mute and motionless, by the sleeping girl. not a quiver of the eyelids betrayed the storm that was raging in her breast, but after a time she turned and walked noiselessly from the room. she had decided,--and with julia webber to decide meant to act. chapter xii. a sinful love. so closely love and passion blend-- their limits we can not define-- one hardly knows they've reached the end until they've passed beyond the line. to mrs. sinclair, stella was lost indeed. almost insane with grief, the good woman placed the matter in the competent hands of scotland yard, and closing her house to all visitors, gave herself up to a grief more bitter far than that which would be felt at death itself. she had at last discovered beyond dispute that her son had frequented the clubs and theatres of london for a year past, under different names and often in the company of a young girl, who, although evidently from the middle classes, was still sufficiently beautiful to attract the attention of casual observers and win the attention and preference of one so (presumably) fastidious as maurice sinclair. this girl, she also learned, lived quietly with her grandparents on g--st., and was in all respects a most estimable young woman. obtaining this information some two months after the disappearance of maurice and stella, mrs. sinclair went in person to the address given to ascertain, if possible, some further facts regarding her son's unrighteous past. the house in g--st. looked deserted when mrs. sinclair's carriage stopped before its unpretending portals, but she was promptly admitted by a neat maid servant, to the presence of elizabeth's aged grandparents. she found them mourning in pitiful grief the loss of their idolized grandchild, who they said had, according to newspaper accounts, committed suicide by jumping from the london bridge on the very date corresponding to maurice's appearance at his mother's home. they had identified the shawl which she had dropped from her shoulders, before taking the awful plunge into the river, and that was the only proof they had ever received, that their dear one's fate was the sleep that knows no waking. finding in mrs. sinclair a tearful, sympathetic listener, they gladly told her of elizabeth's quiet, happy life with them; of her beauty and virtue, and from this emanated the story of lawrence maynard, the young lodger, and their belief that it was her unrequited love for him that drove her to the fatal act. the young man was clever and handsome, the aged woman said. he wore a close cropped auburn beard, but his hair grew long, and lay in large, loose curls upon his forehead. he seemed quiet and steady, and seldom remained away from his rooms at night, particularly, after his apparent fondness for elizabeth had been observed by them. no one had ever called upon him except a queer chinese peddler who, he said, brought him rare and expensive substances for his chemical experiments. between this man and himself, there was evidently a most satisfactory understanding. they had met first in china, and elizabeth frequently stood and listened to their comical gibberish, while the mongolian's beady eyes watched her with never failing interest. there were times even when she fancied he looked anxiously at her, and once, when mr. maynard was absent, he tried with poor success to tell her something, but what that mysterious something was she could never ascertain. mr. maynard had frequently warned them all against touching any of the test tubes, flasks, retorts and crucibles in his room, but evening after evening he called elizabeth to watch the changing colors in the delicate fluids, or the crystillization of rare substances while he instructed her, so they honestly supposed, by many scientific and wonderful experiments. this was all mrs. sinclair could learn from the aged mourners, and weary at heart she returned once more to her now cheerless home. she felt certain that this lawrence maynard and her son were one and the same person, but little did she dream of the actual facts that remained untold in the aged woman's innocent recital. it was in this cleverly improvised laboratory that elizabeth merril, unknown to her feeble grandparents, passed the few deliriously happy hours of her otherwise unromantic life. she had entered in the full possession of her womanly dignity and virtue, only to become faint from the exhalations of tempting perfumes and intoxicated by the fascinations of the tempter's smile and passionate pleadings. long and fiercely she struggled with her new born passion, but her lover's first, warm kiss drew her very heart from her bosom and almost insane with love and fear she twined her white arms around his neck and pleaded for his dear protection. at last, in a moment of reckless passion, he consented to a private marriage only insisting on concealment of the same until he should give her permission to announce it. a private marriage is but a compromise with virtue in every instance, but elizabeth was young and inexperienced. she trusted her lover implicitly, and although the affair was not as she in her girlish fancies desired, still it was a bondage of love and she would willingly have submitted to its chains until death if her lover had so commanded. it was only the insurmountable difficulty of her condition that at last counteracted the mental and moral poison of his presence and broke completely the spell that his impassioned caresses had thrown so fatally about her. when the truth burst upon her that concealment was no longer possible, she fled to his apartments and fell on her knees before him. "oh, lawrie, lawrie," she sobbed, "you must tell grandma of our marriage, you must, or i am ruined!" and she wept as if her heart would break. then an awful fear seized upon her as she noticed the stern, defiant look that crept into his face at her words. "get up lizzie" he answered, brutally. "you should have thought of this before. there," he exclaimed, throwing a paper at her feet, "there is your marriage certificate. it is false every word of it; our marriage was a mockery from beginning to end. show the paper to your grandparents and clear yourself if you can,--i can do nothing for you." white as death, elizabeth staggered slowly to her feet, but no word escaped her lips. for a moment man and woman looked into each other's eyes, then with a mocking smile lawrence maynard, her lover, her idol, her perjured husband, passed rapidly from the room. like one in a dream she bent and raised the paper from the ground, then with head erect and steady step she walked to her own small room and locking the door behind her, fell heavily upon the bed with the lying certificate clasped closely in her rigid hand. she awoke to the realization that he had wronged her, and before she could fairly endure that knowledge she realized that he had also deserted her, and from that time forth her misery was complete. too proud to tell her weakness now in the hour of shame, she reasoned that death alone would erase the stain upon her character, and with this sole purpose forming in her half crazed brain she fled to the sluggish river and took the frightful plunge into its awful depths. the fate of her supposed suicide had been chronicled, first by the descriptive reports of the bridge officers, at their respective stations, and secondly by the busy newspaper scribes who haunt police stations for the necessary matter to fill their allotted space in the columns of the various dailies. elizabeth, holding her babe on her arm, read the report of her supposed entrance to the great unknown world, on the very night of mrs. sinclair's visit to her grandparents and her own discharge from the hospital, and smiling bitterly, she muttered to herself, "yes, that is true. i am dead, dead and buried. now nothing remains but the walking ghost of lizzie merril and"--here she looked sadly down upon the face of the sleeping child and added, "the mother of this innocent babe." then she wrapped the shawl a nurse had given her, closer around the infant and hurried onward through the gloomy night:--whither she did not know. almost at that moment a young man turned the corner of the street and brushed past her, so near that his arm accidentally touched her shoulder. for a moment she stood perfectly still, then with a piercing cry, woman and child fell heavily forward and were caught in maurice sinclair's arms. chapter xiii. the contract broken. the weapon tempts her--see--she feels its edge-- then breaks the contract--and returns the pledge. the man whom julia webber addressed by the french appellation, monsieur, returned that evening, true to his word. he was received with smiles by the mistress of the house, who told him, in all sincerity, of stella's still unconscious condition, and urged him to wait a little before presenting himself to the bewildered girl. steeped in the ways of evil and deceit as he was, still he discovered no treachery in julia webber's words, and departed somewhat reluctantly, but in perfect faith as to his ultimate success. julia webber's desire for revenge was being fulfilled almost upon the hour of its conception. it was now nearly noon of the day following stella's entrance to her house, and yet the fascination of her new guest's presence was still strong upon her. she had decided upon her course of action during that period of outward calm and inward perturbation, while she stood beside the sleeper's unconscious form. the silver clock in her private dressing-room was still tinkling the hour of noon when a maid entered and handed her a large parcel which had just arrived. "wait a moment, jennie," her mistress said, and the extremely attractive maid, nothing loth to view the contents of the box, waited while the wrappings were removed and the magnificent robe of crimson velvet held admiringly to the light. "ask the young ladies to come in," was the next extraordinary command, and while she donned the exquisite garment, some seven or eight young women, strikingly beautiful in face and figure, filed noisily into the room, and threw themselves in graceful, negligent positions, upon the numerous couches and divans. the robe was beautiful, and fitted her voluptuous form to perfection. after it had been duly admired and removed, the enthusiastic young women were horrified to see julia webber hold it from her at arms length while she lighted in succession a half dozen waxen matches and applied them in spots to the costly fabric. the velvet writhed and twisted, beneath the flame-like human flesh, whilst almost suffocating fumes pervaded every inch of the apartment. she held it thus in her hands, until it was completely ruined, leaving only enough uninjured, to show the original shape and beauty, then refolding it as best she could, she tied the wrappings again with her own hands and writing in large, clear letters across the package, "the pledge of a broken contract," ordered her maid to return it at once, to captain carlisle, hotel victoria. then she dismissed the wondering women and went once more to the room that had become so strangely interesting. a moment later she stood beside the couch holding in her hand a cluster of delicious grapes, while stella listened and ate with the expression of bewilderment gradually fading from her features. "i wish you would tell me of yourself, freely and unreservedly," julia webber said, and stella, realizing at last some degree of truth regarding this woman and her surroundings, was clever enough to know that innocence and helplessness were by far the best weapons with which to fight her cause. in treachery and deceit, stella was little versed, but as an intelligent and observing member of society, she knew only too well that they existed, and feeling altogether unequal to such a combat, she chose ignorance as the surest safeguard from further trouble. it was julia webber's request, that she would not ask to leave this particular apartment, that first opened her eyes to the nature of her surroundings. she shuddered involuntarily as the knowledge forced itself upon her, but she noted, sadly, that in spite of that promise, the key was softly turned on the outside whenever her hostess left the room. after a little thought, stella concluded to tell her name, and the circumstances of her abduction as nearly as she could recall them, but it was only when she identified her abductor as maurice sinclair, and mentioned her relations towards himself and his lovely mother, that julia webber's face in any way betrayed her interest in the narrative. "you say that you reside in this maurice sinclair's home," she repeated, excitedly. "yes," stella answered. "and he will inherit great wealth, unless you stand between him and his mother's affection, i infer," she continued more quietly. "ah, i had not thought of that," exclaimed stella suddenly. "you must be right, that only could have been his motive for this awful deed. but i fear, so great is her love for me, that his plans will fail, unless i am safely restored to her." "you shall return in safety," was the decided answer, while her listener's eyes blazed with the excitement of a new ambition. here was her chance, and almost instantly her mode of action was decided. she had become sick and weary of her sinful life ever since that strange infatuation sprang up within her heart, and for one man's honest love, she would gladly have forsworn the admiration and homage of the world, but too late, she realized that man would never credit such as she, with honest love, and the scorn her tender sentiments evoked, filled her whole soul with bitterness and longing for revenge. now, through stella's innocent and unsuspecting friendship, she felt the way was open for a more subtle and satisfying vengeance, and subduing her excitement with marvelous control, she continued seriously, "miss sinclair, the subject of my life and surroundings is not one that i should broach to you, but you have given me your confidence in a measure, and, believe me, you shall never regret it. now it may be a bold thing for me to do, but i am going to ask you a question, and upon your answer will depend much more than you imagine. have i your permission?" "certainly," was stella's wondering reply. "i wish to ask, miss sinclair, if i were to leave this place; abandon the life that i have led for ten years past and obey in future every regulation and restriction of respectable society, would you call me your friend and allow me to visit you at your home?" for a moment only, stella hesitated, then holding out her hand to this extraordinary woman, she responded sincerely, "forgive me for thinking of myself, but come with me from this terrible place and so long as your conscience can honestly claim my sisterly regard, it shall be yours." the tears trembled on her long, dark lashes as she raised her eyes to julia's face, but at that instant a rap sounded on the outer door and without replying, her companion rose and passed swiftly out into the hall. the man whom she had known for several months only as "monsieur" was standing in the wide, crimson draped hall, but the hangings were so thick that it was impossible to have overheard the conversation that had been carried on in low tones between the two. placing her hand upon his arm, julia webber led him without a word into the spacious parlor which was also draped, even more luxuriously than the other apartments, in costly fabrics of vivid scarlet. here she paused before him, looking into his eyes with orbs that blazed with anger, and through her tight drawn lips she fairly hissed the words, "maurice sinclair, your adopted sister has told me all. this is my house and beneath its roof you and she will never meet again." then, while he stood apparently amused at this new freak of a peculiar woman, she moved to a dainty desk, and filling out a check for many thousand pounds, signed it, and once more stepping before him, thrust it into his hand, saying calmly, "there is the amount which i have received from you. now, go! and believe me, if you escape punishment at all other hands for your cowardly sins, the revenge of a woman's scorned devotion will at some time find you out." then, before he could utter a word of protest or amazement, he was left alone in the fiery glow of the blood-red parlor. he looked mechanically at the paper in his hand, tore it in half, and dropping it upon the rug at his feet, turned like one in a trance, and slowly left the house. chapter xiv. in central park. this life is a drama, its plot strange and deep-- we laugh at the farce--at the tragedy, weep:-- the acts are surprises--no waits intervene and only the author stands back of the scene. for two months sir frederic atherton had hardly eaten or slept, so great was his grief at stella's disappearance. no stone had been left unturned by him in the search for maurice sinclair and his beautiful victim. no shadow of doubt as to stella's unspotted purity, crossed his noble soul, and in despair he sat down to a hasty breakfast at the club, while he ransacked his brain to find, if possible, some untried scheme for maurice's capture. his eyes roved absently about the richly appointed place, and almost instantly, associated in his mind with these very surroundings, came the recollection of a former breakfast, at the same place some months previous. he was breakfasting with a friend who had just returned from america, and in relating the news of their mutual acquaintances, mentioned the approaching reception of mrs. sinclair's adopted daughter. almost simultaneous with the mention of her name, a young man rose from another table and took a seat nearer the ones occupied by his friend and himself. the young man was slight, but athlete in build, and his face, although dark and sunburned, would have been extremely pleasing, but for a suspiciously unnatural moustache, that drooped heavily over his mouth, completely hiding that feature and thereby seriously injuring the amiability of his expression. the young man was evidently interested in their conversation, but sir frederic at the time gave it little thought, and the matter slipped from his mind a moment after. the occurrence returning to his memory so vividly at just this time, impressed him strangely. could this young man have been maurice sinclair, disguised and under an assumed name, masquerading about london, in search of information regarding his mother's household before returning thereto? then another idea, relative to the flight of maurice and stella, occurred to him, and suddenly springing to his feet he exclaimed excitedly, "i'll try it. it can do no harm." a week later he embarked _incog._ on a transatlantic steamer bound for new york. something seemed to tell him that maurice sinclair, hunted as he was by every police officer and detective in london, was sure, sooner or later, to fly to america for protection. of course, the usual information had been cabled to american ports, but detection could be so easily avoided, that sir frederic felt that maurice would take the risk as a choice between two evils. then again he reasoned, that a man familiar, as maurice was, with the ports of hong kong and calcutta (and his blood ran cold at the very thought), would naturally return thereto if circumstances forced his departure from london. but obeying the whisper that had so plainly suggested america to his mind, he found himself, after a rapid passage, safely landed in new york, and shortly after, comfortably situated in the brunswick, one of its most spacious hotels. to a man like sir frederic, the encumbrance of an assumed name was a never ceasing annoyance. his was a nature wholly antagonistic to deception of any sort, but he knew that in this manner only could he outwit so clever a rascal as the one he was pursuing. fortunately, he found one true and tried friend before he had been in the city long, and together they worked and waited for clues that should lead to his loved one's speedy recovery. weeks went by while he patiently searched, and four months after the disappearance of stella, sir frederic, disgusted with his foolish chase across the water, was sadly preparing to return. on the last sunday afternoon of his stay he went with his friend for a farewell drive through the magnificent boulevards of central park. the day was perfect, and carriages of every description, from the private liveried turnout to the hired cab and rustic country wagon, were ambling along, filled with men, women and children, all bent on securing as much pure air and sunshine as was obtainable during the short afternoon. suddenly, at a sharp turn of the carriage-road, the vehicle containing the two men came side to side with a light phaeton, whose diminutive pony was ably guided by an extremely stylish young lady, and there, sitting by her side in evident favor, was the man for whom sir frederic was searching and for whose apprehension all london was desirous. chapter xv. death. death overtakes us, one and all-- oft times when life is at its best: before its fatal blade we fall to deep and never ending, rest. the two men recognized each other instantly, for maurice, in his fancied security, had neglected the habitual disguise. quick as flash he snatched the lines from his companion's hands and struck the spirited pony a sharp blow with the slender whip. moments elapsed, however, before sir frederic could explain the situation to his friend and their stupid driver. vehicles were constantly passing and when they were finally in readiness to pursue, the pony phaeton had vanished. the necessary papers were secured after much trouble and expense and a description of maurice sinclair, as he now appeared, furnished the detective bureau, but all to no purpose. maurice had again evaded capture. the lady was readily found in one of the most fashionable homes on fifth avenue, but her information was limited. she denied that her companion was maurice sinclair, but that was of little consequence as it was more than probable he had adhered to the precaution of an assumed name, if nothing more. for fear of further publicity, the parents of the young lady removed her promptly from the city, and another two months passed while chicago, st. louis and even the pacific slope were thoroughly searched for the missing man. at the end of that time sir frederic was forced to return to london by family matters and the search for his loved one was extended at every spare moment of his time. meanwhile, stella was still a prisoner in that quiet house with its scarlet furnishings. in the entire time of her confinement she had never passed the threshold of her door or seen the faces of the other inmates whose voices reached her so indistinctly through the heavy hangings. julia webber gave her every care and attention, but every entreaty for liberty was met with the same gentle but decided answer, "wait, miss sinclair,--you and i will leave this place together, but my house must be empty, first." tired of questions that received no answers and prayers that were unavailing, stella waited patiently and sadly for the hour of her release. at last it came. julia webber entered her room just at dusk one cold, foggy day and seating herself by her side, said seriously, "miss sinclair, i shall take you home to-night. we are alone now and i can close the house forever. do not be surprised at my change in costume when i leave this place for it will never do for you to be seen in public with such as i. your honor has been saved, now you must let me guard appearances as well." leaving stella overcome with gratitude and happiness she left the room and going at once to her own boudoir, selected the poorest and plainest of her clothing and dressed herself modestly in a quiet grey gown, laying out at the same time another unassuming but far more costly robe for stella's use. this she took to stella's room. after stella was dressed for her long anticipated journey, she waited quietly in the spacious parlor while julia webber passed, for the last time, through the apartments of this magnificent, but extraordinary abode. everything was in perfect order. opening a secret drawer in her dressing-case, she took therefrom a folded paper and thrust it carelessly into a small leather bag that was suspended from her waist by a delicate silver chain. her money and jewels had been safely placed in the bank some days before, and now she opened the wardrobe door and glanced curiously at the row of silken and velvet gowns, all costly and elaborately made, but each of some startling shade of lurid red. for a moment only, she hesitated, then she closed and locked the door, turning her back resolutely upon it while she muttered bitterly, "i am done forever with that cursed color. what care i for man's homage, while my heart is breaking with the shame of unrequited love?" then, as her eyes roved restlessly about the rooms, old associations arose within her, and obeying a sudden impulse of her reckless nature, she again had recourse to the waxen matches. this time it was the heavy hangings that she touched with the blazing tapers, and when she felt confident that the deed was safely done, she closed the door behind her and returning to stella with a curious smile upon her lips, led her hastily from the house without a backward glance. "let us walk a little," she said to stella. "it will do you good and we can take a hansom at the square," and so saying the two women walked rapidly along the foggy street while stella's heart beat joyfully with this long desired accession to liberty and friends. they had only gone a few blocks when an engine dashed wildly past them, its bell clanging frightfully, while the cry of "fire" was echoed frantically from every side. julia webber smiled sadly and hurried on, almost dragging stella in her haste to leave the excitement of whose origin she alone was cognizant, but as they rushed thus heedlessly, across the slippery street, a span of powerful black horses, frenzied by the clanging bell, rushed upon them in the darkness, and before the sturdy driver could control their maddened fury, both women were lying prostrate beneath the heavy hoofs. chapter xvi. a deer hunt in newfoundland. how grandly beautiful the scene where ocean wrestles with its prey;-- the rugged rocks all fringed with green-- the iceberg glittering and serene-- and ocean, wearing both, away. away up on the northern coast of newfoundland, in the month of september, a group of pleasure seeking tourists were idly lounging about a roaring fire, smoking and telling pleasing stories, while the aroma of good coffee, and an occasional whiff of savory venison steak wetted their appetites, and made them well pleased with themselves, the world in general and newfoundland in particular. only a short distance across the water they could see the smoke from the mining village of pilley's island, and hear the shrill whistle that called the swarthy miners to and from their labors in the cavernous drifts of an enormous mine of iron ore. sharks swam recklessly near their anchored craft, and seals protruded their shiny heads within easy vision. three pairs of enormous antlers spoke of their two days' sport, thus far, and enthusiasm was at its wildest among the merry hunters. only one man of the six who composed the party, seemed indifferent to the wild, untrammeled country; the possibilities of boundless wealth in the forbidden rocks, and the abundance of trout, seals, otter and deer that was to be had with little labor. this man was maurice sinclair. he had left london to save his liberty;--he had fled from new york on this pretext of pleasure for the same purpose, and now, while the others planned with great volubility the _modus operandi_ of the day's sport, he was moodily thinking of the possibilities of life for him in the wilds of this half explored country. mining villages he dreaded, inasmuch as there was always danger of encountering some delegate from civilization--as the mining fraternity are of a nomadic tendency--and there was also the fear of the periodical steamer that conveyed the products of their labor to the states or canadian markets. true, his sin had been that of abduction only, so far as the world knew, but "a guilty conscience needs no accusing," and maurice sinclair, although cleverly disguised, lived in daily fear of another and a worse crime being laid at his sinful door. under such mental strain it was not unnatural that the wondrous handiwork of nature, and the limitless possibilities for human advancement in this grandly beautiful region failed to excite his admiration or interest. the beauty of landscape; the sublimity of sky and ocean, inspired no sentiments of awe or appreciation in his debased and guilty soul. at last all was in readiness for the anticipated sail up the picturesque bays, and tommy tully, a native hunter, whose services they had secured as guide and general entertainer, tapped him lightly on the arm while he stared with undisguised astonishment at so unenthusiastic a sportsman. "it be your turn to-day, sir," tommy was saying, and taking the extended rifle, maurice sprang lightly into the boat and with a smile accepted his position of honor in the prow. according to newfoundland game laws each stranger was allowed to shoot eight deer for the trifling sum of two hundred dollars, and as this amount, _per capita_, had been conscientiously paid down at the crown office in st. johns, each sportsman took his turn at whatever game presented itself. tommy tully was in himself a character typical of newfoundland's choicest hunters. tommy's experience dated back to the days when coraling deer was no unusual circumstance, and tommy, in his own peculiar dialect, told them of once meeting an unusually large buck, face to face, in a woodland path, unarmed and unexpectedly. "he were too skeert to run an' so were i," said tommy in conclusion. knowing the newfoundlander's adherence to superstitious faiths, the young men asked him with all gravity to relate some of the time honored traditions and prevailing beliefs regarding the uncanny "fetch" and his nocturnal antics, and tommy, nothing loth, regaled them with blood curdling recitals of white robed figures, half fish, half human, that skimmed the surface of the bay at midnight, searching with spirit lanterns for belated victims, and dropping his voice to a husky whisper, he continued, "jest over dis very spot, sir, one night last summer, i stopped rowin' fer a bit to light my pipe and somet'in' riz my feet right up an' turned me clare roun' in de punt, jest hind side afore, sir, never knowed what did it." just at that instant tommy's eyes, which had, all through his narrative, been carefully scanning the opposite bank, glowed with excitement: his nostrils quivered and expanded like those of a keen scented animal, while with hardly a perceptible movement of the body he slackened the speed of the dainty craft, and then in a short, sharp, but carefully modulated voice, exclaimed "see him? straight ahead,--now! fire!" but no report followed the order. the huge antlers of the deer that had been plainly seen protruding from the dense thicket on the neighboring bank, trembled for a second as if their owner was undecided what course to pursue, then suddenly disappeared, and only the sound of crackling underbrush told of his enormous bounds through the apparently impenetrable forest. the young men looked savagely at maurice, as by an effort he threw off the spell that so completely enthralled him, and laughing pleasantly he passed the rifle to the next in turn, saying brightly, "don't scold, boys. the truth is, that fellow rattled me. i've lost my turn." "and we've lost our supper, perhaps," they growled, rather savagely. but another look at tommy's face silenced them. every muscle was alert with expectancy. with skilful hand he guided the boat along, through narrow passes and wider openings, scanning the overgrown bank, and soon again his low toned order sent the excited blood tingling through their veins. "now! fire!" this time a shot rang out sharp and clear upon the frosty air. a crash was heard in the thicket and rapidly bringing the boat as near an open space in the bank as possible, tommy sprang ashore and dragged to the water's edge the most magnificent specimen of caribeau they had thus far encountered. "i knowed he'd hanker fer anudder look at us," muttered tommy, gleefully. "dere's a lot of springs in dem bushes and dose boys always knows where dere's good water." having acquired much expertness in their previous experiences, the _post mortem_ operations were rapidly performed, and stowing away the desirable portions of the carcass in the "cuddy" the young men, now in thoroughly jovial mood, proceeded on their delightful excursion. the obliging manner in which that particular deer had walked into rifle range was being joyfully discussed when an exclamation of delight broke from the lips of one of their number. they were just crossing "long tickle," a narrow passage between two enormous hills of stone, and gazing outward the blue waters of the mighty ocean caught the eye, while far away on the very horizon there arose, seemingly to the azure heavens, a gigantic pyramid of ice, dazzling in its whiteness and reflecting with a thousand rays the glory of the morning sun. the young men shivered involuntarily and drew their hunting jackets closer about them. they understood now the source of frosty breezes in the midst of genial sunlight and verdant foliage. at "hall's bay head" a wider glimpse of ocean was obtained, and tommy noted with careful eye the "set" of the restless currents, while he told them of many instances where miners, rowing to their homes from the distant mining villages, had been caught in the treacherous tides at this place and carried far out to certain death upon the ocean, while the lights from their cottage homes were plainly visible on the rocky shore. chapter xvii. by the ashes of a guilty house. the voiceless ashes speak no word, from the ruined walls no sound is heard, but a cry of terror is in his ears, and, lo, the ghost of his sin appears. restless and ill at ease, maurice proved but a poor companion for those fun loving tourists. they had invited him, a chance acquaintance, on the strength of his gentlemanly exterior and genial bearing, but the change in his manner after they were fairly off, not only disappointed them, but in great measure dampened the ardor of what would otherwise have been a joyfully, hilarious party. therefore, it was with a feeling of positive relief that the unsuspecting youths saw him embark a little later, via halifax, for his native shore. they had visited the quaint little ports of carbonear and harbor grace; crossed the turbulent waters of the gulf, and after a brief stop at prince edward's island continued their quest for pleasure through that most picturesque of all sections, the brasd'or lakes and historic arcadia, where the original home of evangeline was pointed out to them by the ever patriotic natives. yet the oppression of an opposing influence was upon them and although maurice's was but the sin of taciturnity and indifference, still it clouded their perfect enjoyment and threw a feeling of restraint over all their merriment. for how can one be gay and joyful when one's companions are seemingly prostrate beneath the weight of unspoken anxieties? it was a risky thing to do, to walk almost into the trap as maurice was doing, but his was a nature that courted dangers and risks, a brief season of caution was always followed by some deed of extraordinary daring. still, in this instance, maurice had laid his plans with more than ordinary precaution. it was now nearly eight months since the abduction, and maurice knew well that even crime received but a brief share of attention in so vice laden a city as london. nevertheless, he landed at queenstown, and spent some time wandering about ireland before he dared to brave the scrutiny of the lynx-eyed scotland yard detectives. his first step on leaving queenstown, was to secure a suitable disguise, and as his skin was tanned by exposure, and he now wore a heavy beard in place of the well shaven chin, he felt that he had little to fear. he reached london early in the evening, and proceeded at once to secure modest quarters in a quiet street. from thence he sauntered out and was soon rattling over the stones in a hired hansom on his way to the well remembered house in surrey. whether he expected to find stella and julia still there, would be hard to guess, for his was a nature uninfluenced by surprises, but when he found, instead of the dark, unassuming house, nothing but a hideous pile of burnt and blackened timbers, a look of consternation _did_ show itself upon his usually unruffled features. what had been the fate of the beautiful girl whom he had left in perfect health and strength within these walls? had she escaped, or were her ashes now mingling with the gruesome mass upon which the moon was casting such a melancholy light? he hardly knew what had prompted him to take this dismal drive, for he had not even dreamed of again entering julia webber's door. he knew, too well, that crimes committed beneath her roof were never allowed further circulation, and within julia webber's veins ran the blood of that hot-headed nation, where the vendetta is perpetuated with true, religious zeal. no, he had not dreamed of entering those forbidden precincts, and now, contempt for his own morbid curiosity filled his mind, and with a hasty order to the driver, he sank back once more upon the cushions of the comfortable conveyance. back to london he drove, looking out idly over the water as he crossed the bridge, but little dreaming that but for accidental aid, a human being would now be sleeping in the cold embrace of the sluggish river, and _that_ crime, like many others, would be charged to his account in the day of divine reckoning. it is probable that if he had known and fully realized that fact, its realization would have made his expression none the less confident, or his indifference to his ultimate fate no whit less thorough. men like maurice sinclair, who chance the gravest issues of life, are more than glad to "trust to luck" their final venture into the great unknown, and the "fear and trembling" with which we are told "each to work out his own salvation," are conditions totally unknown to natures like theirs. if he argued the matter at all, it was merely to say that the power that created the "inclinations of a man's heart evil from his youth" was also the power upon which all responsibility consequent upon those evil inclinations, should rest. probably, he added, moreover, that a power capable of implanting evil in the heart of man could as readily have sown the seeds of good, and if evil was the seed, evil must have been the harvest sought. thus, leaving out the human labor decreed for the gaining of salvations, he, like many others, shifted all responsibility and the possibilities of a mistaken theory never occurred to him. he had not seen elizabeth since the night when she and her child--her child and his--had fallen so unceremoniously into his arms on a windy street corner. he remembered, without a blush, how he had cursed her when she begged for shelter, but finally, fearing she would follow and annoy him, he had taken her away down into whitechapel, with whose vilest passages he was marvelously well acquainted, and there secured for her a miserable room, which she, being weary and sick at heart and having no alternative, was only too thankful to accept. another reason for this choice of location for elizabeth's future home was due to the fact that a certain mongolian, whose friendship he valued, was living in that particular vicinity. this person he had known during his stay in china, but whether it was love or fear that bound them in such close alliance, would have been hard to determine from their conversation. at any rate the doings of each seemed well known to the other and each was equally pleased that it should so continue. the mention of whitechapel brought no terror to elizabeth's heart, for, in the bitterness of her misery, uncongenial surroundings were of little consequence. strangely enough, the erring woman fears friends rather than strangers in the hour of her degradation. whether it is that friendship rarely stands the test of sorrow and shame or any blow to its so-called pride, or whether the desperate courage which self abasement wakens in a woman's heart is a better safeguard for her broken spirit than the pity of her associates, i know not, but in nearly every instance an unfortunate woman will choose poverty and complete estrangement from the friends of her happier days rather than bear the scorn or their self righteous censure. to the man who had so irretrievably wronged her, she clung with the pitiful persistency so frequently seen in those of her sex and now, as a passing thought of her fate entered maurice's wandering mind, he suddenly became desirous of seeing her again. just then the hansom, which had been rolling along briskly over the smoother streets, came to a stop and "cabby" leaning over, said briefly, "'ere's the 'ouse you was haskin' for, sir." maurice bent forward and once more found himself gazing upon mrs. sinclair's home in portland place. the windows were dark and not a sign of life was visible. "strange," he muttered; "she would certainly have returned here if she had escaped." but during the full ten minutes that he remained before the house no sound within reached his ears, or no ray of light from its many windows told him of a living presence. convinced now that stella's body rested beneath that hideous mass of blackened timbers and voiceless ashes, he sank back nervelessly upon the cushions and in a trembling, husky whisper, ordered the thoroughly puzzled driver to hurry on. his last determination was to visit elizabeth and to whitechapel he was carried, with all the speed the overworked horses were capable of affording. chapter xviii. stella is restored to her lover. when love illumines all the day in which we changeful mortals live-- how swift our rancors pass away-- how doubly easy to forgive. during the brief moment that the sturdy english driver succeeded in holding back that span of frightened horses, sir frederic atherton sprang from the carriage and by almost superhuman strength, drew from under the threatening hoofs, one of the prostrate women. a stalwart pedestrian ran to his assistance, but before the rescued woman could be placed out of harm's way, the other motionless form had been stamped upon and trodden into the earth by the infuriated brutes. as soon as they could be controlled, sir frederic and the unknown man raised the slender form, but one glance into her quiet face showed plainly that her life was ended, and that death, even in so horrible a manner, had brought her peace and rest. by this time, lady laura trevor, sir frederic's sister, had alighted from the carriage, and learning the terrible circumstances, assisted her brother as best she could to place the two apparently lifeless forms within the carriage. not until sir frederic had taken the delicate form of stella into his arms, did he receive any intimation of her identity. but as he laid her head carefully upon his shoulder, an indescribable feeling of fear and trembling passed over his manly form. it seemed as if the pain, the horror, and even the unconsciousness of the helpless girl was shared, by him. _her_ misfortune, for the instant racked _his_ nerves with agony, and subsiding, dulled his senses almost to complete oblivion, and it was only with a vague feeling of amazement that he heard his sister's sudden exclamation. the light of the carriage lamp had fallen on stella's face, and although worn and pale from months of anxiety and imprisonment, it was readily recognized by lady trevor. her voice sounded afar off in sir frederic's ears, but pulling himself together with a great effort, he looked eagerly down into the pallid face. for a moment happiness overcame him and he held her to his heart in a perfect ecstasy of joy and gratitude, but in another instant, fear for the result of her injuries, usurped the place of joy and leaning from the window he ordered his man to drive directly to the home of his sister, which was near at hand. the glow from the burning house reddened their way for some distance and fell with fitful glare upon the still, cold face that rested so heavily against lady trevor's arm. never was the sterling sense and philosophy of mrs. sinclair's nature put to severer test than when sir frederic led her, some hours later, into lady trevor's magnificent parlors, and she beheld, stretched upon ready sofas, the lifeless form of julia webber, and the apparently lifeless form of her long lost darling, stella. controlling herself by a mighty will, mrs. sinclair watched and waited for the verdict of the famous physician, which should bring to her sorrowing heart renewed distress or unspeakable rejoicing. at last it came. stella had raised her lustrous eyes to the physician's face, and then smiling faintly at mrs. sinclair, called her name, she nestled her hand in hers and fell back upon the pillow in a calm, recuperating sleep. meanwhile the dead girl had been laid with tender care in an adjoining room. in removing her tasteful garments mrs. sinclair unfastened the silver girdle and examined the contents of the leather bag to find, if possible, some clue to her identity. the folded paper proved to be a memorandum of little consequence, but a brief statement of money deposited in a certain bank, gave them their only grain of information. this clue was acted upon at once, and both the body and the handwriting authentically identified thereby. it was further ascertained that in this same bank the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, had been placed by her, and here also was found a will, drawn up and signed in perfectly valid form, bequeathing her entire property, in case of sudden death, to a prominent home for fallen women in the city. with reverent hands they laid her in a velvet casket, and both sir frederic and lady trevor followed her to the tomb, while mrs. sinclair bent with joyful heart over the bedside of her cherished daughter. nothing was known at the bank of the character of julia webber's business. the money had been deposited, little by little, for ten years, and left undisturbed until it reached a goodly figure, but during the ten years of her depositing they had never, in a single instance, cashed her check, and the eccentricity of their fair depositor, had caused much comment among the usually silent clerks. it remained for stella to reveal the evil of this woman's life and the source of her illgotten revenue. but woman's fame can never suffer in the hands of the innocent: only from evil thoughts, come evil speech, and in stella's loving heart none but the kindest thoughts were ever entertained, and the sad death of julia webber, erased from her mind the last dark shadow of suspicion, and kept her memory forever faithful. chapter xix. safe in the arms of love. love, sacred love, how sweet thy will-- how perfect thy entrancing bliss-- what purer joy our hearts could thrill-- what rapture soothe our souls like this? in a common cause of suffering or rejoicing, social distinction is frequently forgotten,--thus, over stella's safe return friends, relatives and servants vied with one another in expressions of joy and gratitude, and even touched each other's hands in an outburst of heartfelt congratulation. to mrs. sinclair, stella related every detail of her most astonishing experience, and the tears she shed over julia webber's awful death were the proofs of genuine love and tender remembrance. it is true that julia webber had insisted upon her imprisonment for eight long months, but from what had she not saved her! of maurice's whereabouts she knew as little as did mrs. sinclair, and after the first recital his name was never mentioned between them. to her faithful friend, sir frederic atherton, mrs. sinclair repeated stella's story, but between the two no mention of the matter was ever made. in her perfect innocence, it never occurred to stella that her imprisonment in julia webber's house was anything more than unfortunate and humiliating, and if any more disagreeable thought entered sir frederic's mind it was promptly banished as an unworthy suggestion of a worldly education. during the weeks of convalescence through which stella passed after the shock of that evening's disaster, mrs. sinclair scarcely left her side. the two were inseparable, and during the long winter evenings they would sit before the blazing, open fire, which was always to be found in mrs. sinclair's cosy sitting-room on chilly nights, mrs. sinclair in the comfortable rocker with stella's golden head pillowed lovingly upon her knee, while the young girl sat in graceful comfort on the heavy hearth-rug, or a convenient ottoman. the sorrowful days had left their traces on mrs. sinclair's raven locks, and in the shadows about her eyes, but an expression of supreme thankfulness shone on her face as her eyes rested lovingly on stella's wavy hair. only now and then when silence fell upon the air, the sweet mouth curved in lines of sadness, and her motherly eyes seemed trying to pierce the clouds of uncertainty and apprehension that closed around her at every unfamiliar step or voice. it was as if she looked and listened for a nameless something while she dreaded its coming with a mighty dread. even now, when a card was handed her by the servant, her hand shook perceptibly as she took it from the salver. a look reassured her, and smiling into stella's upturned face, she said, "it is sir frederic, love, shall we have him right up here?" "certainly, mamma if you wish," was the simple response, but in some way the face that a moment before was demure and white as the lily, is now flushed and brimming with joy like the heart of an opening rose. rising, she had only time to seat herself decorously on the comfortable sofa when sir frederic entered. "ah, sir frederic, i am more than glad to see you this evening," said mrs. sinclair, as she gave him her hand in greeting. "and i," responded he, "have been counting the moments since dinner in my eagerness to come and yet not presume upon your hospitality by the earliness of my appearance." then turning, he continued with a sudden rush of tenderness in his tones, "and you, miss stella, are glad to see me?" he was so absorbed in the contemplation of her face and his eagerness to hear her answer, that mrs. sinclair's somewhat unceremonious exit from the room was unnoticed. stella smiled, and giving him her hand, said softly, "i am very glad, sir frederic, it is always a pleasure to see you, but to-night,"--here her eyes filled with tears, "is the anniversary of all our trouble, and you have been our best and dearest friend, mamma's and mine. i don't know what we should have done without you," here her voice grew fainter as she continued, brokenly, "i don't know what i,"-- she could not go on, and sir frederic, placing his arm tenderly about her, pillowed her head upon his breast while he whispered gently, "you shall never do without me again, little one, for indeed i cannot live longer without you. i may not tell my love prettily, stella, for i am little versed in that pleasing art, but if a life of untiring devotion can speak my love, i will gladly give you that. look up dear heart, and tell me that you will give yourself to me forever." but stella did not look up. instead, she nestled her head deeper in his arms, but as his lips touched her shining hair, he murmured with a satisfied and radiant smile, "my darling, my wife." to a man of forty who has lived his life unsinged by passion's blaze, and unblinded by young love's delusion, the blessing of a woman's love brings peace and happiness, almost too great for human understanding. all the currents of his soul go out to her, and the restless rivers of his mighty nature find peace at last in the unfathomable ocean of her love. thus it was during the first sweet hour of their betrothal. in sir frederic's heart the calm of a great joy followed like a summer cloud upon the path of a sorrowful tempest. not so with stella, however, for with the first great rush of joy on knowing that she was so beloved, her very identity, past, present and future, seemed lost in his. a glorious panorama of heavenly sights and entrancing music burst upon her vision. self was lost in the whirlpool of future joys and duties, and the only object that stood clear before her eyes was the form of her heart's beloved, and to him she clung with all the fond abandon of her simple trusting nature. body and soul she gave herself to her lover, as woman can only give herself once in the period of her existence, and in deeply reverential spirit, sir frederic received the precious gift and cherished it forever. it was mrs. sinclair's voice at the door that at last recalled the lovers to a vague consideration of things earthly. the eyes of an indifferent observer could hardly have misunderstood the situation, and mrs. sinclair only glanced into stella's face and in another second her darling was in her arms and both were laughing and crying in true woman fashion. chapter xx. dr. seward's experiment. our bodies are only an instrument clever by which the soul works out a phase of existence-- each member responds when the soul moves the lever unless overcome by abnormal resistance. ever since the morning that lady van tyne confided her belief in maurice sinclair's satanic individuality to her family physician, the remorseful dr. seward was imbued with an undying curiosity to learn more of this human phenomenon. but the abduction of stella, coming so suddenly upon them, made it almost impossible to indulge his interest in that direction. naturally he would not care to mention the subject to the grief tortured mother, and as to lady van tyne, her excitement rendered her totally incoherent whenever the subject was broached. another reason for sensitiveness on the part of dr. seward, when in the presence of mrs. sinclair, may have lain in the knowledge of his guilty secret, the unburdening of which, would have been to press the dregs of shame to lady van tyne's lips and pierce the devoted mourner of archibald sinclair where her love and faith were tenderest. thus it was not until after the restoration of stella to her foster mother's arms that the impatient physician learned ought of the young man in whom he had taken so unaccountable an interest. it was now some time after stella's recovery and dr. seward was sitting, for a brief social call, with mrs. sinclair in her pleasant parlor. dr. seward had been a faithful friend for years and now that her darling was safe, mrs. sinclair told him freely of stella's unfortunate experience and of the information which she received of her son during her brief call upon elizabeth merril's grandparents. the old physician was deeply interested in the narrative and made occasional notes on one of his visiting cards in reference to the matter. the names of lawrence maynard and elizabeth merril were heavily underscored and the card placed carefully in his pocket. the doctor laid great weight upon the absence of intuitive, motherly affection in mrs. sinclair's case at her son's appearance when she had clearly explained her feelings to her old adviser, but she only saw in his rigid cross questioning the life long habit of scientific analysis and gave little thought to the problem which the physician was trying, in his clever brain, to solve. more interested than he cared to admit, dr. seward only waited a few days before going to g---- st., as had mrs. sinclair before him. the aged couple, burdened with sorrow, were only waiting the hour when, hand in hand, they should enter the dark valley of the shadow of death, even as they had walked through the many checkered paths of a life of nearly four score years. perhaps it was a mercy that their trusting hearts were spared the actual knowledge of elizabeth's fate, as the sweet memory of her childhood and girlish days was always a solace even in their moments of grief. could they have seen her at any time during the year that had now elapsed since her disappearance, the misery and squalor of her surroundings and the shame of her one error, would have occasioned their virtuous souls far more anguish than the awful death which they supposed to have been her fate. calmly, and with unvarying precision, the white haired woman related to dr. seward the only crumbs of information it had been her lot to gain, and from another room she brought a small, oddly shaped vial, containing a dark brown powder, which she said she had found in his apartments when her eccentric, young lodger had left. the vial was without a label and heedful of mr. maynard's frequent warnings the cork had never been removed. it took but a glance to show dr. seward that it was an exact counterpart of the one found in stella's room the morning after her abduction, and placing it carefully in his pocket he took kindly leave of the aged people, and not wholly dissatisfied with his morning's work, returned speedily to his private office. it was about three in the afternoon when he seated himself in his easy chair, and adjusting his glasses prepared to examine, from a purely analytical standpoint, the brownish powder contained in the little vial. he held it to the light, but it was opaque, dull and uninteresting. he shook it, but the agitated particles fell back as indifferently as possible to their original positions. then, true to his vocation, he removed the stopper gingerly between his first and middle fingers and raised the vial cautiously to a respectful distance from his nose. the first sniff was entirely non-committal. the next was a little stronger effort and he thought he detected a faint, sickish odor. shaking the bottle again gently, he drew it nearer and took a bold inspiration immediately over its contents. almost instantly his hand fell to his side; the vial fell upon the heavy carpet, spilling most of its contents, and these, as they came in contact with the air, ignited and burnt, while the sickening, penetrating fumes arose like incense and completely filled the spacious apartment. for one hour by the clock he sat there, motionless as death, but fully cognizant of all that passed about him. he longed, with true scientific fervor, to rescue the vial with its remaining contents, but his members were benumbed and motionless. he heard the signs of life in and about the house, but was powerless to raise his voice. he even fancied, in his speculative manner, that he was experiencing the sensations of a disembodied soul after the resurrection, and his scepticism regarding spiritualism and theosophy, was shaken to its very foundation. there was no terror in the situation and almost from force of long trained habit, he noted every symptom of his condition with great precision and detail. he saw the hands move slowly on the clock before him, and felt the draught from a half closed door blowing softly upon his back. this trifling matter amused him, coming to his mind, as it did, in the midst of grave, spiritualistic meditations, and the mental smile which accompanied the amusement was another proof of the absolute uselessness of the fleshy body for all demonstrations of like nature. it seemed strange to him that he had never before realized how useless an encumbrance the body was, after all. he could see, hear, smell and think, and his mind conveyed him wheresoever he willed, so that really only the power of speech was denied him. suddenly it occurred to him that speech also was possible, but it must necessarily be a communion of similar disembodied souls rather than intercourse with ordinary mortals, and while he was longing with all the zeal of his investigatory nature for an opportunity to test his mental vocabulary, a tingling sensation began in his extremities and passed, almost like an electric current, through all his members. his living death was ended, and concentrating all his energies, he staggered from the chair. the fumes from the burning powder were now exhausted, and bending unsteadily, he secured the half emptied vial and corking it firmly, concealed it once more in his pocket. then touching an electric bell, he sent a peal vibrating through the house, and a moment later, when the frightened assistant hurriedly entered, it was only to find the good physician stretched in apparently dreamless slumber upon the office sofa. chapter xxi. a perfect union. a happy marriage is, in truth, a lovely thing-- a forest of perfect joy from which all virtues spring. the months of another year flew swiftly by and still nothing was heard of maurice sinclair. it was finally concluded by all that he had escaped to some foreign port and the search was finally abandoned. in her new joy, stella overlooked the past as only youth can overlook its sorrows, but in mrs. sinclair's heart there was always a bitter pain and a mother's prayer for her erring boy. it was the second anniversary of that never to be forgotten ball, but it was stella's wish that the crowning happiness of her life should take place on the recurrence of that night which brought them all so much of grief and misery, and, although torn with varied emotions, mrs. sinclair was well content that it should be. thus, in the grand drawing room of her foster mother's home, stella and sir frederic were married. the ceremony was strictly private, as the shadow of sin and sorrow still hung heavily above their heads. but to stella it was as the glorious dawn of another life, whose anticipated pleasures were far in excess of any she had heretofore experienced. peace and joy spread their white wings about her and the haven of her husband's love seemed the very portals of heaven itself. for this night also, the shadows were lifted from mrs. sinclair's face, and banishing with a resolute will, the fears and anxieties of the past, she entertained the few guests with her old time gracious stateliness. as for sir frederic, it mattered little to him that the world was full of sorrow; that every pleasure came attended with more or less of grief and pain; that rogues and rascals exceeded by far the honest members of society and all on earth was vanity and vexation of spirit. into his life had come a bliss, capable in itself of turning bitter, sweet; of overcoming evil with good and changing all the darker passions of life, chameleon like, beneath the rays of his rosy lenses. it was stella's own wish that they, mrs. sinclair, her husband and herself, should visit america on their wedding journey, and sir frederic, thinking it would be best for them all to leave for a time the scenes of so much sorrow, readily acceded to her wish. not but that he would have consented just as readily to a trip across the sahara or to some unexplored region in the mountains of the moon, but america was her wish, and to america they sailed on the first cunarder that left liverpool after their marriage. stella's marriage to sir frederic, although a quiet and unostentatious event, brought, both to stella and mrs. sinclair, a sense of security and protection that was very grateful after the anxieties and excitement of the past. women may prate of independent self reliance, and scorn the assistance of man during their hours of success and pleasure, but seldom it is in the darker days, when danger threatens and the weakness of a delicate organism assumes alarming proportions, that the willing hand and steady head of an honorable man, goes unappreciated. goodly numbers there be, whose only claim to manliness lies in body and garments, from the weakness of whose intellects, brave women turn with ill concealed disgust, but an unwomanly woman it is that does not value true masculine strength and bravery and turn with grateful heart to the protecting arm that is proffered so gladly in each and every disaster of life. it seemed to stella that forever and ever she was safe from the temptations and evils of life, and upon the rock of her husband's protection she threw herself with that tender helplessness so dear to an adoring husband's heart. woman has done much to increase man's femininety by her persistency in doing his duties for him, and if now her "lord and master" sits calmly by while she labors for the support of the family, the responsibility of this deplorable result rests, in nearly every instance, upon herself or some other self-sufficient member of her short sighted sisterhood. mrs. sinclair had been an almost worshiping wife, but her independent nature responded to the touch of necessity, and in the time of required bravery no woman could have acted with greater courage and judgment. thus, in stella's childlike trust, sir frederic recognized the germs of noble womanhood, and respect and reverence blended deeply with his tender love and passion. when at last the service was ended and man and wife were clasped in each other's arms, that measure of perfect and enduring love was felt by them that is rarely known in this world of thoughtless and misguided unions. little did they dream that on the very night of their perfect happiness, another terrible tragedy was being enacted, with maurice sinclair in the villain's role and elizabeth merril again the victim. chapter xxii. "queen liz." a cry in the darkness--a crime in the night.-- with the blood of the victim the sharp blade is wet; in silence we gaze on the horrible sight-- the dark deed is done--but the end is not yet. it was on this very night that the habitues of that particular passage in the whitechapel section, gazed with sentiments of mingled awe and curiosity, as sam hop lee withdrew the bloody weapon from the prostrate body of "queen liz." elizabeth's reputation in the passage was pretty clearly defined in our opening chapter. her ability to defend herself and friends against her pugilistic and plundering neighbors had been the eventual outcome of fear, desperation and the first law of nature. she shunned their society from the first, and acting on the advice of one who knew the ways of rogues and rascals from long association, she demonstrated her skill in the use of "protecting irons" at the very first provocation. jealousy and envy surrounded her, yet so great was their fear of genuine bravery that elizabeth managed to live pretty much as she wished in her own wretched room. she guarded her beautiful baby girl with the ferocious affection of a tigress. not an instant, day or night, was the child allowed out of her sight so great was her distrust of those by whom she was surrounded. but in some way from the first, sam lee had in many ways befriended her. he had given the baby queer little chop sticks to play with and not infrequently an odd looking paper of curious tasting tea was slipped into her hand by the beady-eyed mongolian. recognizing him at once as mr. maynard's mysterious peddler, elizabeth was inclined to be suspicious of his friendship, but as days and weeks rolled by she found herself going oftener and oftener to his quarters, and never in a single instance did he abuse her neighborly advances. she tried hard to teach him the english language, but in spite of his earnest efforts he proved but an indifferent scholar. soon it was noticed that the genteel looking stranger who spent so much time with queen liz, became also much at home in the chinaman's shanty, and they were frequently heard conversing in that peculiarly abbreviated language that was so bewildering to those who listened. the genteel stranger was always arrayed in a heavy coat with a jaunty cape and a soft felt hat slouched suspiciously over his eyes. his beard was red and closely cropped, while a tawny moustache completely concealed his mouth. he was seldom seen during the day, but partook strongly of the habits of the other residents in his nocturnal goings and comings. queen liz always escorted him safely to the street, and it was observed by the more curious that her face wore a happier expression after one of his visits, and her whole manner betokened a lighter heart. she would fondle and caress the baby, which she always kept spotlessly clean, and occasionally her voice was heard as she sang some plaintive air to the uncertain accompaniment of a clanging chinese cymbal. but to-night it was all over, and as sam lee withdrew the glittering knife from her bleeding side, a terrible frown darkened his brow; chinese curses and lamentations followed one upon another, and to the bewildered spectators it seemed as if, in his own heathenish method, sam lee was swearing vengeance on the murderer, whom he had evidently recognized by the weapon. at any rate, he removed the woman and the child, and the inmates, nothing loth, resigned all claim upon them both, and soon the episode, like many others of similar nature, was forgotten. only a week later the chinaman's shanty was closed and no one of the trio, queen liz, the child or their benefactor, was ever again seen by the inhabitants of the passage. chapter xxiii. elizabeth finds friends. he who has suffered knows the pain, that other sufferers bear; and from the torn and bleeding heart, flows balm for every care. the first day at sea was fair and uneventful, but on the second day a curious episode occurred upon the deck. an under-officer, young and with a frank, boyish face, came quietly, hat in hand, to where mrs. sinclair, sir frederic and stella were sitting, and in a respectful manner requested permission to address the ladies in behalf of a poor woman and her child who had shipped in the steerage. the woman, he said, was refined in her appearance, and was very seriously ill while her sufferings were necessarily aggravated by her incommodious surroundings. with a modest blush he went on to say that ever since he discovered her wretched condition he had been scanning the faces of the passengers in search of a kindly heart and had finally decided upon their party as the one most liable to assist him in his humane undertaking. she was being cared for, in a measure, by a kind hearted mongolian, but his sympathies were won, not so much by the woman as by the baby, who seemed almost entirely neglected. he had learned that the woman was a victim of intended murder, and the chinaman whose name was registered among the steerage lists as sam hop lee, had taken both woman and child and gone forth unaided and unasked, in search of the murderer whose face he knew and who he had good reason to believe, was now in new york. the story seemed plausible, and the memory of their own bitter sorrows fresh in their minds, made their hearts ache with sympathy in the poor woman's behalf, still, quite naturally, the ladies hesitated before taking upon themselves so great a responsibility. but the young officer, with a shrewd knowledge of women's hearts, ran forward, and as quickly returned with one of the "sweetest, cunningest babies in the world." at least, that was the verdict of both ladies on the very instant of the little girl's appearance. the baby settled the matter, as the young officer almost knew she would. she looked into stella's lovely face and smiled, but she opened her little arms to mrs. sinclair and nestled her curly head in her motherly arms and no coaxing or inducements could alter her decision. fortunately, a berth was secured for the invalid, but no one ever guessed that it was the young officer's own stateroom that was so promptly offered for her acceptance. sir frederic made many attempts to gain more information regarding the unfortunate woman and her child from sam hop lee, but his limited english so confused and muddled him that there was little satisfaction to be gained. the young officer succeeded better through a slight knowledge of the chinese tongue, but whether sam lee did not sufficiently understand or whether he had some reason for remaining silent it was difficult to determine. however it was, nothing definite was learned through repeated conversations with him, and he gradually slipped back to his position in the steerage and the ladies saw no more of him during the voyage. the woman was suffering, not only from an incisive cut in the side, just over the lower rib, but also from an obstinate attack of pleurisy from exposure and lack of care, so that conversation with her was, at the time, impossible. the little girl was sweet and affectionate and soon made friends with all on deck, much to the satisfaction of the young officer who, apparently, looked upon her as a sort of protégé. little did stella and mrs. sinclair dream of the disclosures that time was destined to reveal regarding this innocent child and her unhappy young mother. but before another day had passed, a story was brought to their wondering ears that made them forget for a time the sorrows of others in the extraordinary development of their own life tragedy. chapter xxiv. stella confides in her husband. the sky is dark with storm and cloud-- the ocean's face is cold and drear-- but deep within two loving hearts the light of faith burns ever clear. the steamer was now about half way across the atlantic, and this was the first disagreeable weather she had encountered. to-night the wind blew heavily; the waves rolled high and few of the many passengers remained on deck after the "dog watch" was set. mrs. sinclair felt a slight sensation of that much dreaded and truly awful malady which bears the mild, delusive name of sea-sickness, and remained quietly in her berth, but stella, clinging to her husband's arm, reached a somewhat sheltered spot on deck, and there, with his arm about her, sir frederic sat and looked about over the fast darkening ocean. clouds, black and threatening, were rolling heavily across the sky, while the winds howled angrily through the rigging, and the white capped waves threw themselves against the steamer's sides as though enraged at her stubborn resistance of their destroying wills. truly, sky and ocean, air and space, seemed joining powers in a mighty effort to overthrow the universe, and were only lashed into greater fury at the defiance cast in their very teeth by the handiwork of man. yet the steamer advanced steadily forward, coquetting with the gentler waves and breasting the more determined ones with dogged persistence. but to stella, the confusion of the elements brought only a feeling of greater security in her husband's love. she looked to him and trusted; she clung to him and was safe,--for come weal or woe, they were together, and death by whatever manner could bring no terror, so that it found her in his arms. after a few moments of silent contemplation, stella raised her eyes and whispered softly, "dearest, there is something i would like to tell you, in fact, i should have done so before but i was so happy i dreaded to revive old memories,--but now, i feel that i would like to tell you, of that night--" "no, darling," sir frederic interrupted, quickly. "do not speak of it stella. try and forget all that is past, and live only in the joys of the present and future," and he pressed her closer to his side as if the joy of _his_ present was sufficient to eradicate all memories of unpleasant nature. "but i think i would feel easier if i could tell you, dear," she pleaded. "it was all so strange, but neither you or mamma ever asked me and some way i have never felt like mentioning it myself until to-night. do let me tell you, frederic," she entreated. "stella, dear, if you wish to, certainly my love, only do not let your memory dwell upon so painful a subject." "it is about that night," stella said softly. "i had gone to my room to retire, after telling maurice plainly which room i was to occupy. i closed my door and threw open the window for a moment while i stood, injudiciously you will say, and let the damp mists cool my face. i did not hear my door open, neither did i hear his step, but suddenly a most peculiar odor stifled me. i turned quickly to see from whence it came, and there was maurice standing by my side. the expression on his face was horrible. i opened my lips, involuntarily, to scream, but no sound came. instead, my throat and lungs seemed instantly filled to suffocating with the stifling odor. i grew dizzy and would have fallen but he caught me in his arms. then he wrapped my cloak about me,--put my traveling cap on my head, and, frederic, i walked out of the room with his aid, through the hall to the side door and actually entered a cab, knowing all the time exactly as well what i was doing as i know now, but it was impossible for me to speak or think connectedly. i could not move without his aid. so it was throughout that long and dreadful ride; i could neither speak or move but i heard and understood every word that he addressed to me. he evidently knew the exact nature of the drug that he had employed for he talked to me all the way, telling me his plans, and the awful fate that awaited me if i did not yield to his wishes. but this i must say to his credit, that in no way did he molest me and i was as free from the pollution of his touch when i left the carriage as when i entered it." here stella's voice died away as a specially vindictive gust swept by their sheltered nook, and sir frederic, after pressing a tender kiss upon her lips, sprang to his feet and wrapping her closer in his ample rug, almost carried her across the deck and down to the comfortable stateroom, then leaving her with mrs. sinclair, he climbed the stairs once more, and walked back and forth across the slippery planks, trying to calm, if possible, the tumult of indignation and sorrow, that stella's recital aroused within his breast. soon two other passengers joined him in his solitary walk, and it was evident to him by the peculiar roll of the body, that one of the newcomers at least, was well accustomed to pacing slippery decks and encountering heavy seas. sure enough, he was the old "sea dog" whose genial, brown face had won the hearts of all at the captain's table. he was commander of some ship now on dry dock, and was taking this opportunity to try a voyage with his friend, the captain of the cunarder. to-night, he had succeeded in enticing a particularly timid young man on deck to "try the weather and brace him up a bit," as he good-naturedly explained it. but now that he was once more walking the deck in the teeth of a "rattling breeze," 'his cup of pleasure overflowed and he proceeded to terrify the young man nearly out of his wits by a thrilling sea yarn of earlier days. sir frederic, realizing that a story told on deck is common property, linked his arm in the young man's unoccupied one and catching step as best he could, walked on, while he listened somewhat absently to the captain's narrative. chapter xxv. the captain's story. what manner of mankind is he who dares impersonate the dead? alas! the doom of treachery must some day fall upon his head. "it was twelve years ago," the captain was saying, "and i was in charge of the 'water sprite,' running from liverpool to calcutta. she was a rakish little craft, with a slippery keel,--quick to mind her helm and would carry sail to the last, but we'd had a long, rough voyage and all hands was pretty nigh used up, but when we was about three days from the eastern port we was struck, almost unawares, by a terrible gale. i say unawares, but i must own we was in pretty good shape for squalls all the time, but on this partic'lar night i staid below more'n i should if it hadn't been that one of the young chaps that shipped 'tween decks in the cargo at liverpool, was a dyin' out of pure out and out sea sickness. "well, as i was sayin; the first officer was on the bridge and i was sittin' below with young sinclair, when"-- "excuse me, captain,--sinclair, did you say?" exclaimed sir frederic, suddenly aroused to interest by the familiar name. "aye, aye, sir, maurice sinclair, a lad of about fifteen years. he said he'd got into some scrape at home and had just started out on his own hook, and"-- "maurice sinclair,--twelve years ago,--did he die?" sir frederic almost screamed in the old captain's ear as a howling blast swept by, nearly driving their feet from under them. the old man steadied him with a powerful hand but his ire was rising at these frequent interruptions to his favorite yarn, and he answered somewhat snappishly, "die? yes, poor lad. he died in my arms that very night in the height of the gale, when the rigging was swept away and the waves was washing the upper deck--" "can you prove that?" demanded sir frederic, excitedly. "prove what? that the rigging was swept away?" thundered the old salt, now thoroughly angry. "no! no!--that maurice sinclair died in your arms, twelve years ago." well i ruther guess i can, seein' as i've got the young chap's partin' letter to his mother in london and a picter of the old lady herself"-- "let me see it, quick," said sir frederic, then in a measure controlling himself, he told him as briefly as possible of maurice sinclair's return to his mother's house a little over two years ago and of the crime for which he was wanted by the city authorities. the old captain was inclined to be incredulous, but before sir frederic had finished his story, his ire had vanished, so also had all recollection of the yarn he had been about to spin, and leaving the timid young man to return as best he could, he laid his hand on sir frederic's arm and hurried him down the companion way while he muttered spitefully between his teeth: "it's a lie. maurice sinclair is dead, and that rascal, whoever he is, is a damned imposter!" chapter xxvi. sorrow and rejoicing. the pain of death hath bitterness too deep for man to name-- but, ah! the poignant sting of grief accompanied with shame! words can hardly convey the feelings of wonder, sorrow and relief that followed each other in rapid succession through mrs. sinclair's mind at the old captain's story. she looked upon the undeniable proof of her own photograph with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, while the last repentant words of her only child, brought pain too deep for utterance or demonstration. it seemed that two lads of about the same age, strangers to each other, became inspired with the mutual desire to run away from parental authority and try their luck upon the ocean. neither of the lads dreamed for an instant that their unexpected entree into the captain's family, when they were safely out of port, would be greeted with less than cheers and congratulations, or that other than ease and glory would be their portion for the remainder of the voyage. fortunately, for the success of their expectations, the commander of the "water sprite" had a gentle heart under his rough exterior, and moreover, had boys of his own at home, so he only insisted on their earning their glory by keeping the brass work shining and allowed them to eat their fill at the second table. the boys were singularly alike in feature but widely different in expression and disposition, maurice being mischievous and happy, while jack fenton, the other lad, was ill-natured and vicious in his dealings with his companion in the adventure. on the day preceding the terrible storm, maurice was taken violently ill, and notwithstanding all was done that could be under such limited circumstances, he passed away almost at the very moment, when, rudderless and with her rigging swept away, the "water sprite" drifted helplessly at the mercy of wind and wave. they were all saved through the timely assistance of an outgoing steamer, but maurice's dead body was left to find a watery grave, through sheer inability to remove it. the other lad was safely landed in calcutta, and the captain soon lost track of him in the press of his many duties. to the old captain, maurice had told much of his home surroundings and the letter to his mother, on the day of his death, was written at his instigation, when his experienced eye saw that the black shadow was fast settling down upon the frail lad's features. before he died he gave his ring, his clothing and the few other trifles that he had managed to conceal about him when leaving home, to his comrade, jack fenton. afterward the captain regretted that he had not retained these treasures with the photograph and letter, but years passed by and in the varied excitements and dangers of his adventurous life the incident was only remembered in connection with the terrible disaster to his favorite vessel, but the letter and picture had traveled about with him for twelve long years, so safely hidden in the case of his miniature pocket compass that their very existence was forgotten until the moment of sir frederic's astounding revelation. the night was far spent before he had finished his narrative and answered the almost innumerable questions of his excited hearers. they little heeded the violence of the storm, so great was the tempest of sorrow and rejoicing that raged within their hearts. when morning broke, the ladies were more composed, and a peaceful smile rested upon mrs. sinclair's face. truly, the grief for a loved one whom death has taken from our hearts and homes, is nothing in comparison to the shame and sorrow for one upon whom evil deeds have left an ineffaceable stigma. a load seemed lifted from her heart and although sorrow fell like a pall around her, still the bitterness had been removed and even in her bereavement she could find great cause for heartfelt thankfulness. the sick woman was slowly recovering and the little elsa was like a ray of sunshine, lighting up each grief darkened heart with her merry prattle. promptly upon their arrival in new york the suffering woman was placed in the wards of st. luke's hospital, but the little girl was gladly retained under the watchful eye of motherly mrs. sinclair. some way, in the bustle and confusion of disembarking, sam lee was totally forgotten, but the beady eyes of the mongolian watched their every movement and in his own quiet way he soon discovered the destination of both the woman and the little girl. it was not long before sir frederic secured the lease of a handsomely furnished house, and removed, not only mrs. sinclair and stella, but also the now convalescent woman and her child, to this beautiful, although transient, home. chapter xxvii. the marriage certificate. the chain goes on in endless round, its motions slow or fast-- but every link is firmly bound twixt present and the past. for several days after his experiment with that little vial dr. seward was too ill to more than raise his head from the pillow. he was a large, portly man and the continued nausea from that sickish odor completely prostrated him. he would not disclose the cause of his illness to any one, consequently the wildest rumors floated about among his friends and patients and almost every affliction in the calendar, from apoplexy to measles, was ascribed to him. weeks passed and, although fully restored to health, the sensations he had experienced could never be quite erased from his memory, and although he frequently awoke in the morning with the grim determination to again examine that brownish powder, night invariably found him as ignorant of its constituents as a good, wholesome fear could make him. in a moment of almost unprecedented mischief he labeled the bottle with the words "death to the inquisitive" and laid it carefully away in a private drawer. but now that stella and sir frederic was married and they and mrs. sinclair were so happily settled over across the water, his desire to penetrate the mystery of maurice sinclair's identity returned with all its force. the bottle was his only clue and that a very unsatisfactory one, as the one found in stella's room was empty when discovered. he could not compare the contents, so what was the use of risking another journey to the land of spirits, he argued. but at last science prevailed, and determined not to again defy the enemy alone, he put the vial in his pocket and ordering his carriage drove swiftly to guy's hospital to ask the assistance of his friend, the superintendent of that institution, in his perilous undertaking. dr. seward related to his friend the particulars of his first experiment and with the unassuming vial between them, they consulted long and earnestly on the best method of attack. the powder was inflammable in air and must therefore be protected. the first step was to test its solubility, so drawing a small quantity of water from the burette into an erhlenmeyer flask, dr. seward carefully removed the cork and placing the necks of the two bottles together succeeded in shaking a small quantity of the powder into the water. then the vial was recorked and set carefully away. the powder did not dissolve and the experimenter waved the flask gently back and forth over the flame of a bunsen burner while his friend retired to another room to complete a little experiment that he was working on when dr. seward arrived. a moment after, he reentered holding a smoking tube in each hand. "well how is it?" he enquired, interestedly, as he looked about anxiously for a stand to place his test tubes in. "insoluble in water," was the answer as dr. seward held the flask to the light and scrutinized the particles which were floating, apparently uninjured, in the almost boiling water. "see here, doctor," said the superintendent desperately, "you have more hands than i, just now; do you mind stepping into the office and bringing me that paper on reactions? you will find it right in my desk." dr. seward rose immediately and passed into the office. standing by the open desk with the flask raised high in one hand, with the other he turned over a pile of papers in the somewhat disordered receptacle. at last he saw one, wrinkled and stained, and feeling sure that its demoralized condition was received through the spatters from an evaporating dish or the careless handling of re-agents, only, he unfolded it, and shaking his glasses down upon his nose by a clever movement of the head, glanced carefully over its contents. "can't you find it?" called his friend from the laboratory. but dr. seward did not answer. the superintendent found his tube stand, and depositing his work in safety, started for the office to assist in the search for the required paper. the two men met in the doorway. for an instant the amazed superintendent thought his staid and venerable friend had taken leave of his senses, or that the unknown substance he was analyzing had developed some heretofore undiscovered ingredient and the excitement of dr. seward's face was promptly reflected on his own. "what is it?" he asked excitedly,--"what has happened?" "where did you get that?" was the doctor's extraordinary reply as he held before his eyes a stained and wrinkled marriage certificate. "that?" said the superintendent, "let's see, where did i get that?" and he took the paper in his hand and glanced thoughtfully over its contents. "ah,--i remember, the gardener found it by the front gate a year or two ago and i saved it thinking i would try and find the owner, but some way, it has slipped my mind altogether. but why are you so interested?" he asked, suddenly. "do you know the parties?" "i think i do," was dr. seward's reply. "let me take this for a day or two, doctor," he said, "and i may be able to clear up a sad mystery by means of it." "certainly, but come, tell me about it. you have aroused my curiosity." thinking there could be no harm, the physician told him the entire story only leaving out his suspicions and lady van tyne's name from the narrative altogether. the superintendent was greatly interested, and as the same gardener was still employed on the premises, he sent for him and requested the particulars of the discovery and the date as near as he could recall it. fortunately, as another matter of more importance to the gardener occurred on the very day of his finding the paper, he was able to readily supply the exact date, and reference to the hospital books showed plainly that a young women, enceinte and unconscious, had been found by dr. jennings and admitted to the wards that same morning. one of the nurses recalled her perfectly and mentioned the fact of her being drenched to the skin when found. her description of the young woman tallied exactly with the picture of elizabeth merril which the doctor had seen at the house in g---- st. remembering that the only clue upon which the supposed suicide had been identified, was the finding of her shawl upon the bridge, he questioned the nurse further and ascertained the fact that the suffering woman was without a shawl and that the nurse had herself provided one on the afternoon of the patient's departure. satisfied that elizabeth merril was not only an injured wife and mother, but a living, suffering woman, the now thoroughly interested physician took possession of the paper, and after ascertaining the whereabouts of the officiating clergyman by means of a directory, drove immediately to his address. the analysis of the brownish powder was for the time forgotten. dr. seward had little difficulty in finding the reverend gentleman of his search, and as briefly as possible he explained his errand, then laying the water stained paper before him, he waited with almost bated breath for the proof of its validity. chapter xxviii. too late. too late--their sorrow now is o'er-- their trusting hearts have ceased to beat; beyond the clouds their spirits soar to heaven's beautiful retreat. the clergyman was gray and bent with age, and it was some time before his feeble sight could discover a corresponding entry in his private memorandum book of marriages. at last he found it, and dr. seward stooped and read, in the old rector's handwriting, the brief statement of a marriage contract between one lawrence maynard and elizabeth louisa merril, the date corresponding to the one on the wrinkled certificate. to make matters even surer, the two walked slowly across the street and entering the gloomy doorway of a small, stone paved chapel, passed on into the vestry and carefully examined the record of events occurring within its walls. again their search was successful. elizabeth merril had been a lawful, wedded wife for nearly three years, and deep in thought as to what course it was best to pursue, dr. seward took leave of the venerable churchman and proceeded slowly on his way to the home of the aged couple in g---- st. he was as undecided how to act when he at last stood before the quiet house as he had been when he left the chapel, but as he ascended the steps an exclamation of dismay escaped his lips. from the old fashioned brass knocker on the door there fell an ominous fold of black crepe, and before he could fairly recover from the shock of its appearance, the door was opened from the inside and a prominent lawyer of his acquaintance extended his hand and drew him into the narrow hall. "just in time, dr. seward," said the lawyer in a subdued voice. "i was about to send for you; mrs. merril has passed away and her husband is fast following her. i have just drawn up his will and appointed you joint administrator with myself in the settlement of his small estate. he begged me to suggest some one and you were the first to enter my mind. don't refuse, old fellow, for the man is dying and there is no time to look further if the matter is to be arranged before his death." confused, regarding his duty in the matter, dr. seward entered the chamber of death, but his practiced eye saw plainly that the information regarding elizabeth came too late to be understood by the suffering man. the will was rapidly signed and sealed, and as if only waiting to complete this final act, the grey haired man turned feebly on his pillow and closing his eyes, passed painlessly from life to death, as had his devoted companion a few short hours before. the funeral service was ended, and with uncovered heads, both dr. seward and the friendly lawyer stood beside the new made graves in the little cemetery. their duty to the dead was over, and now, as arm in arm they retraced their steps to the silent house, dr. seward again related the particulars of elizabeth merril's disappearance and his subsequent discoveries, while the astute lawyer, bristling with legal eagerness, listened and drew silent conclusions from the physician's limited stock of information. the purport of the simple will was as follows:-- the sum of five thousand pounds, together with the house in g---- st., with its furnishings, were to be kept in trust for their missing granddaughter, elizabeth merril, in case the reports of her death should prove unfounded, but if at the end of ten years no trace of her could be discovered, both house and money were subject to the wills and dispositions of the worthy lawyer and physician who were made joint administrators by this last will and testament of the deceased. almost certain that elizabeth merril or maynard still lived, the lawyer promptly undertook the difficult matter of finding and restoring her, as rightful heir, to the modest possessions of her lamented grandparents. meanwhile, dr. seward, acting upon a much desired plan, made prompt arrangements for an extended vacation, and great was the surprise in his mechanical household when he announced his intention of visiting america. he felt that sir frederic and mrs. sinclair should be consulted at once regarding the secret marriage, so placing the valuable paper in his steamer trunk, he boarded the fleetest greyhound and was soon far away upon his long anticipated journey across the atlantic. chapter xxix. the home in new york. 'tis woman's best and sweetest claim to bear the honored name of wife-- but oh, how often is that name her bitterest trial throughout life. it was evening, and the cosy parlor was bathed in rosy light, the curtains were drawn, and true to their old time customs mrs. sinclair and stella were seated in easy chairs before a glowing fire. stella did not sit at mrs. sinclair's feet as she did a few months ago; oh, no, now she sat in the matronly dignity of her months of wifehood in the rocker by mrs. sinclair's side, while her husband, quite forgetful of his newly acquired position, was well content to lie at her feet on the heavy rug and look admiringly up at her lovely face, while little elsa romped and tumbled about the room and turned things generally topsy-turvy in the exuberance of her spirits. mrs. morris, little elsa's sweet faced mother, seldom sat with the family during these peaceful evenings, although both stella and mrs. sinclair had frequently urged her to do so. she had insisted on performing the lighter duties of the house, and mrs. sinclair, appreciating her sensitiveness on the subject, persuaded stella to allow her this as the surest means of keeping her beneath their care and influence. not a question had been asked her regarding the past, as in mrs. sinclair's just opinions, the sin of inquisitiveness overbalances in nearly every instance the blessing of charity. with tears in her eyes she had requested them to call her mrs. morris, admitting that it was not her name, but before she could say more, stella had placed her arm about her and whispered encouragingly, "you need tell us nothing; trust in us as we shall in you, and try and feel happy in our home and i know there will be better days to come. i, too, have suffered, but you see how radiantly happy i am now," and laughing from the very overflowing of her joyous heart, stella kissed her tenderly and bade her speak no more on the subject. dr. seward's arrival surprised them greatly, and now, as they sat around the blazing fire they listened eagerly for the news which he hastened to relate. he told them of his visit to g---- st. and his examination of the powder, describing his feelings as nearly as possible while under the control of that peculiar drug; and now that stella had so thoroughly overcome her horror of the subject, she also described her experience and corroborated the physician's vivid description in every particular. not until he told them of lawrence maynard's secret marriage, did they relate in turn, the details of maurice sinclair's death as revealed to them by the story of the old commander. the physician was completely overwhelmed for a moment at this seeming verification of his own suspicions. he had felt instinctively from the first that the man who so completely upset the lady van tyne's composure on the evening of his first appearance, was not the son of mrs. archibald sinclair, yet now, in the presence of the unsuspecting woman, the bewildered doctor was speechless and disturbed. at last he felt it necessary to continue the recital, and rallying his wits he congratulated them sincerely on their fortunate information and the proof that had so stubbornly denied all possibility of error. with sorrow for the misguided girl, they glanced curiously over the certificate and stella, rising a moment later to adjust the shade, laid the paper carefully upon the nearest table. while they were still talking, the portieres dividing the double parlors were pulled gently aside and mrs. morris entered in search of the little one, as it was long after her usual hour for retiring. stella immediately introduced them, but for a moment dr. stewart nearly forgot his manners in the piercing scrutiny of his glance. somewhere he had seen that face before, or one resembling it closely, but ransack his memory as he would, he could not recall the circumstances. turning quickly from the physician's searching gaze, mrs. morris said softly, "come elsa, come to mamma; it is high time little girls were safely in bed!" but elsa was hiding beside mrs. sinclair's chair, and that good lady, with a face as demure as possible, was aiding the little culprit in her mischief by holding a fold of her gown about the tiny figure. mrs. morris saw the playful ruse and stepped across the room to pull the little one from her hiding place, but in doing so she had to pass the table and quite accidentally her glance fell upon the paper which stella had just laid down. for a moment she stood and stared as if she could hardly believe her senses, then with a sudden bound, she seized the paper, crying, "oh, my certificate, my certificate! where did you find it?" it was several seconds before any one spoke. the little one crept from her hiding place and looked with wondering eyes upon her mother, while the woman, realizing that now all secrecy was over, turned pale and looked from one to the other with an expression of piteous pleading in her eyes. it was mrs. sinclair who was first to recover from the painful surprise. rising hastily, she placed her arm about the trembling woman, saying in tones of sympathy and tenderness,--"my dear child, is it possible that you are lawrence maynard's wife?" "no, no," almost screamed the woman, as she shrank from mrs. sinclair's gentle touch. "i was not his wife, but do pray believe me, i honestly thought i was!" and she fell upon the floor, cowering at mrs. sinclair's feet in the humiliation of her shame. not till her words of self immolation reached their ears, did any one present dream of the possibility of her ignorance regarding the validity of her marriage, but now dr. seward sprang to his feet and lifted her tenderly from the carpet to a sofa, while he explained as clearly as possible, the result of his investigations. "my poor girl," he said gently, "why are you so distressed? is it possible that you have been deceived in this matter? you are indeed the lawful wife of lawrence maynard. i have proven the validity of that marriage by the clergyman himself. there is no reason why you should not look us all in the face, and with your help we shall soon be able to probe this matter to the bottom." for a few moments elizabeth could hardly believe the welcome words. she looked eagerly from one to the other for confirmation of the blessed fact, then, as her eyes rested finally upon her baby's face, she fell upon her knees at mrs. sinclair's feet and sobbed for very happiness. as quietly as possible, stella rose, and taking little elsa in her arms, carried her gently from the room and out of the sound of her mother's hysterical weeping. chapter xxx. sam lee discovers a faro game. a hard thing it is to recall to another the seeds of wrong doing our brother has sown but harder it is, our proud spirits to smother and confess to a harvest so largely our own. it was long past midnight before the ladies thought of retiring, so great was the excitement consequent upon the evening's revelations. but at last the doctor and sir frederic were left alone. the fire was growing dim, but neither of the gentlemen thought to have it replenished. the physician's mind was so intent upon the identity of lawrence maynard that it seemed at last to react with unconscious cerebration upon the thoughts of sir frederic, for he paced the room thoughtfully a few moments, then pausing directly before his companion, said anxiously, "dr. seward, have you any theory whatever regarding this man,--this imposter?" like one confronted by the utterance of his own private thoughts dr. seward started and was for a moment embarrassed, but controlling himself, he said briefly, "yes, sir frederic, i have a theory, but it is so vague and so intensely disagreeable that i dread to give it utterance." then, as sir frederic turned away without further questioning, he too, rose excitedly and began pacing the floor. "sir frederic i _will_ tell you my suspicion," he said suddenly, after a short silence. "it may be but a foolish fancy, yet i cannot shake it off." then he told him fully, but with deep remorse, of the episode in his early life in which the lady van tyne figured so conspicuously, but with the determination to shield his patient to the last, he told the entire story without mentioning a name, still to make his theory well founded, he was obliged to state that the two boys were as alike as brothers, and sir frederic, with a sinking heart, gave a shrewd guess as to the children's parentage. he was only a few years younger than the lady van tyne and he now recalled many instances of her imprudent demeanor when a girl, but the reflection cast upon archibald sinclair's morality by the doctor's story, was a source of deep regret when he thought of the patient, still worshiping, wife. in another moment his mode of action was decided, and placing his hand upon dr. seward's shoulder, he said sadly, "doctor, i will respect your story as i have no doubt as to the truth of the facts you have stated, but unless this matter can be handled without one word of her husband's treachery coming to mrs. sinclair's ears, i shall quietly withdraw from the search and allow that masquerading rascal to go 'scot free,' so far as i am personally concerned." "and i will gladly close my lips," answered dr. seward, "if you so advise, but find him, we must, for it is more than possible that my suspicions are unfounded and i can never rest until the matter is settled." sir frederic had no time to reply, for after a hurried rap upon the door, the portly butler, red with excitement, entered, and beckoning sir frederic aside, said apologetically: "there's a chinaman down at the basement door that says 'e must see you hat once, sir! i hordered 'im away, but 'twas no use. 'e says 'e's bound and determined to see you!" sir frederic had not seen sam lee since the day of his arrival in the city, but he recalled him instantly, and feeling sure that _his_ was an errand of importance, he dismissed the indignant butler and listened with great eagerness for what the mongolian had to say. sam lee had improved his time while in new york and could now communicate quite fluently in his funny, broken english, but now, in the intensity of his emotions, his newly acquired learning forsook him and for at least five minutes he poured forth a succession of abbreviated words and sentences that were positively maddening to a man so seriously interested as was sir frederic. but at last he seemed to comprehend the situation, and ceasing his voluble chatter, repeated, over and over again the words, "me find him! me find him! melican man come klick,--chinaman show way!" sir frederic, sure that the words were true, motioned for sam lee to wait and then ran back to the parlor where he hurriedly explained the news to the physician and requested him to act his pleasure about accompanying him on so disagreeable an errand. dr. seward was eager to go, and in a few seconds both men were ready for the street. thinking stella might be alarmed at his protracted absence, sir frederic mounted the stairs and turned the latch of her sleeping room as softly as possible. the light was burning dimly, and as he surmised, his wife was far in the land of dreams. her fair hair fell upon the pillow, while the coverlid, slipping from her shoulders, exposed her tender loveliness, and almost with tears in his eyes, sir frederic bent and touched his lips to a wandering curl while he covered the dimpled shoulders, and then with another look at the beautiful, childish face, turned and passed noiselessly from the room. the thought that his fair and innocent darling had once been held within the power of this unprincipled villain, sent his blood tingling through his veins, and with a sudden thirst for vengeance in his soul, he quickly rejoined the others, and following closely upon the heels of the excited chinaman, was, an hour later, in the actual presence of the man who for nearly three years had succeeded in evading justice and escaping the penalty of his guilty deeds. chapter xxxi. cleverly caught. the game of chance is played by all-- the rich, the poor, the great, the small; fate's hand the wheel of fortune drives, and marks the epoch of our lives. the street was one of the shortest in the city, extending only the one block from broadway to the bowery, and the house itself was plain, dark and unattractive, but sam lee led the way with an ease that betokened much familiarity with the neighborhood. sir frederic had thought it best to enlist the services of a detective and now the four men entered the narrow hall and ascended a flight of stairs as noiselessly as possible. sam lee was still ahead, and arriving at the door above, he gave three short, sharp raps, following these with a peculiar double knock that could hardly be mistaken if once heard. evidently the signal was so well given that the wary watchman within did not doubt the friendship of the executor and neglected to open the wicket as was his usual custom before admitting any one. instead, he opened the door a tiny bit while he put his eye cautiously to the crack, but before he could get a satisfactory glimpse of the new comers, sam lee's heavy, cork soled shoe was forced into the narrow opening and four stalwart, determined shoulders were braced against the door with a force that sent the careless watchman spinning backward across the dimly lighted passage. there were seven or eight men in the inner room when they entered, but in less time than it takes to tell they had all disappeared but one, and he, too, would have vanished had not sam lee darted into his very arms and screamed like a parrot in his unintelligible gibberish. as quick as flash, sir frederic and the detective grasped the rambler's arms, but after the first wild rush, he made no attempt to escape but stood silently before them as if surprised, but in no way alarmed, at their somewhat extraordinary proceedings. "this can not be the man," said sir frederic, doubtfully. "yes! yes! me know him!" yelled sam lee, over and over, while he held to the victim's coat tails with a grasp of vengeance. "we will soon see," said the detective, grimly, as without ceremony he pulled both hat and hair from his prisoner's head. with a movement as quick as lightning the man's hand flew back to his pistol pocket and in another moment the detective would, in all probability, have fallen, shot through the heart, had not sam lee, who was still holding fast to the coat observed the rapid movement and seized the would be murderer's arm with his wiry fingers. an awful struggle followed. as if knowing well it was his last chance for life and liberty, the man fought fiercely, with the strength of a lion, but he was finally held and the all conquering irons snapped upon his wrists. then the false beard was removed and once more sir frederic looked upon the face of maurice sinclair as he had seen him upon the evening of that memorable reception. older and more haggard he looked beneath the light of the rusty chandelier, and rascal though he was, sir frederic felt a thrill of pity for the reckless nature that should bring its owner to such bitter degradation. sir frederic was the last to leave the room and, as he reached the door, he looked again to note more accurately the nature of the place. faro, seemed to be the inducement, and that the game was well patronized was evident by the quantity of bills and silver strewn recklessly about the floor during the precipitate retreat of the players. not a soul was visible when they descended the narrow stairs, and save for the perpetual chatter of sam lee, no word was spoken during the short walk that brought the prisoner within the protecting walls of police headquarters. whether or no the mongolian's chatter was understood by the silent prisoner could not be determined, for once only, did he betray the slightest interest in his talk. sam lee had evidently referred to some incident of the past, as the word "calcutta" was plainly recognized, and although the look accompanying his words was dark and threatening, the effect upon the handcuffed man was only to make him throw his head back and laugh long and heartily, as if well pleased at the untimely recollection. not until he heard that laugh did sir frederic really believe in his prisoner's identity. he had heard that musical, ringing laugh once before in mrs. sinclair's parlor and now he was certain there was no mistake. after seeing their charge safely guarded, sir frederic and dr. seward left their cards and promised to supply all further information the following day. sam lee's dark face was still contorted with painful memories, and as the three men rode slowly homeward, sir frederic tried to ascertain the wrong which he felt positive the chinaman had suffered at the hands of the man they had just left. he learned enough from the broken english to prove his vague surmise correct, for the words, "calcutta sister," and "revenge" were only too suggestive of the nature of sam lee's grievance. "sam lee wait and wait," he said, "some time get revenge," and then with the same warning shadow upon his face, he bade them set him down at a quiet corner, and the two friends, sympathizing deeply with his unmistakable sorrow, shook his taper fingers and drove rapidly homeward. chapter xxxii. face to face. is it cruel remorse that now palsies his members. and burns in his eye balls like fierce, glowing embers-- or is it the shadow of shame that falls o'er him? ah, no! 'tis the spectre of vengeance, before him. it was a trying ordeal for all concerned, but full and undeniable identification was absolutely necessary before further proceedings could be made in this important case. after their first surprise, the ladies, true to their sex, realized the necessity for self control and made ready for their disagreeable errand with all possible speed. they entered a private room at police headquarters and, one by one, were ushered into the presence of the prisoner and put through the category of questions necessary to his identification, after which, they were allowed to sit and await the routine of examination until the last informer's signature was affixed to the information given. sir frederic was the first, and as his stern glance rested upon the strangely attenuated form of the wretched young man, he felt that degree of sympathy which borders on contempt for one so weak--so dwarfed in soul and withal so miserable in his weakness,--and briefly stating what he knew of the prisoner and his crimes, he stepped aside and waited anxiously for the entrance of mrs. sinclair and stella. when the former entered the room the man who had called himself her son, rose suddenly from his seat, drawing his still boyish form to its full height, while his fearless eyes looked boldly into hers as if trying hard to force into her mind the thoughts that were evidently at that moment surging through his own. slowly a look of bewilderment, perplexity and seeming recognition crept into her face as she gazed, and seeing sir frederic standing near, she turned appealingly to him as if requesting aid in the solving of this difficult mystery. but sir frederic's expression only bewildered her more, for it was one of painful consternation. it was only when the first question was asked regarding her knowledge of the man before her, that she regained composure, and not until some time later did she mention the extraordinary resemblance which she again detected between the prisoner and the husband she still so loved and mourned. during the entire period of stella's presence in the room, the accused man leaned jauntily back in his chair and bravely assumed an air of indifferent composure, while his eyes roved admiringly over her innocent face, and much of the old time passion flushed his cheek as he noted with greedy eye the grace and beauty of her finely developed figure. while his senses vibrated with the magnetic thrill of her presence, the lustre returned to his wide, gray eyes and a smile of pleasure curved his flexible lips, and not even the words of condemnation in her quiet statement were sufficient to counteract the enjoyment which the simple witnessing of her beauty brought him. he had thought her dead on that memorable night when he stood by the ashes of julia webber's ruined home, but her marriage to sir frederic brought her name so prominently before the public that the error of his supposition was promptly corrected and the few twinges of remorse which he had felt at that time were contemptuously laughed to scorn. now he was living over again the few brief hours in which she had rested beneath his absolute control, and in the memory of that circumstance, the present was forgotten. his eyes followed her as she hastened to her husband's side after affixing her signature to the imposing paper, but a moment later a gentle rustle at the door aroused him, and turning suddenly, he found himself face to face with the woman he had stabbed and left for dead, in the gloomy passage of whitechapel so many months ago. thoroughly surprised and with genuine alarm now stamped on every feature, he looked wildly about as if to fly, while his cheeks and lips grew white at this unlooked for apparition. he had supposed elizabeth dead, and thus far no knowledge of his being suspected of the murder had ever reached him, for he reasoned that the crimes committed in that wretched quarter of london were so numerous and so almost untraceable, that he, like many other red handed assassins, had escaped through a fortunate choice in the location of the deed. so great was the sudden revulsion of thought and theory, that his reason wavered for an instant as he gazed upon the delicate, black robed figure. the words of julia webber's warning were ringing in his ears, and before he could fairly comprehend the terrible situation, the white faced woman extended her arms and with a piercing cry of "lawrie! lawrie! my darling, my husband!" threw herself upon his breast, and then for want of a supporting arm, sank helplessly upon the floor at her destroyer's feet. chapter xxxiii. "i have no name." what possession more awful that mortal can name than the stigma of passion--the birthright of shame-- the cloud of abasement grows deep and more dense till the soul is deformed in its darkness, intense. it was only for a moment that elizabeth crouched thus on the floor, for before sir frederic could reach her side she had staggered to her feet and confronting the trembling man with eyes grown suddenly haggard like his own, she exclaimed brokenly:-- "oh, lawrie! lawrie! you won my love when my heart was innocent of sin; you deceived me and denied our marriage; you left your child to be born in dishonor and your lawful wife without protection,--but i will gladly forgive it all if you will only right the wrong that you have done our little one by giving her, even at this late hour, her rightful name!" throughout her tearful, passionate appeal, the man she called her husband shrank back with lowered lids and hands upraised before his face as if to avert the torrent of reproaches that fell from her long silent lips; but now as she forgot her wrongs and only begged the rightful heritage of her child, the blood rushed violently to his face and rising, he bent unsteadily toward her as with blazing eyes and husky tones he exclaimed excitedly:-- "name? my god! how can i give that which i never had?" then turning almost savagely to the wondering witnesses, he said bitterly, "coward and cur i may be, but that is my only legacy,--my only inheritance from the parents who brought me into a world of sin and left me, nameless and alone,--an outcast upon society and a leper among those who boast their proud morality." then as his gaze rested once more upon his grief stricken wife, he lowered his tones to almost gentleness as he added: "i saved your honor by a legal marriage, but shame for the one honorable act of my life made me deny it:-- "i tried to kill you," he continued recklessly, but elizabeth, realizing the awful consequences of the dreadful admission, sprang forward, crying sharply, "no! no! lawrie,--not that! do not say that!" but he thrust her wildly aside and went on as if no interruption had occurred: "that was the second honorable impulse of my life. i knew the misery and shame of your surroundings was worse than death and as i had no name to offer you i tried to end your wretchedness"-- before he could say more the hand of the law was upon him, and a stern but kindly intentioned voice, said briefly, "hush, man,--you are closing the door of a prison cell upon yourself by your talking; come, answer me and be brief,--are you or are you not maurice sinclair?" "i am not," was the husky answer. "are you or are you not, lawrence maynard?" at this question elizabeth leaned heavily forward on mrs. sinclair's arm, straining every nerve in her eagerness to catch his answer. "i am not," was again the faint reply. then the officer turned to the excited group before him and with an attempt to shorten the trying scene, said curtly, "do any of you know this man, and if so, by what name do you know him?" there was a moment's silence, then a stranger stepped forward from behind the others and almost simultaneously the two men looked into each other's eyes and exclaimed: "dr. seward!" "jack fenton!" then the younger of the two, forgetful of his weaker frame, sprang angrily forward and grasping the physician's shoulder, hissed fiercely between his teeth, "you called me jack fenton, but you know that name is false. you, and you only, can tell my father's name; speak, man, and clear the mystery of my birth, or by the god above--" but the effort was too much for his feeble strength and he sank helplessly to the floor. worn out by months and years of intense excitement and threatened danger; dependent upon the uncertain issues of chance and speculation for his maintenance and haunted by a morbid thirst for the avenging of that shame and secrecy that dwelt upon his birth, it was little wonder that the shock of present circumstances benumbed his senses. when at last the room was cleared, dr. seward bent above the prostrate man and deep in his own heart the pain of a life's remorse sprang up and nearly overcame him. how much the young man knew of his part in the awful tragedy, he did not know, but deep in his own heart he felt that the responsibility of this wretched mortal's sins and miseries rested in great measure upon his shrinking shoulders, and satisfied now, beyond a doubt, that this was the child whose parentage he had so long concealed, he turned over and over in his mind the possibilities of yet undoing the wrong which he assisted, so materially, to do, thereby removing from his own accusing conscience the secret that so long had been its burden. but for mrs. sinclair's sake the words must yet remain unspoken. the prisoner would be speedily returned to london, and upon lady van tyne he depended for aid in securing for her son, not only all that could possibly be done to make his trial speedy and his condemnation light, but the deathless silence which should save one noble woman from the knowledge of a loved one's treachery. would lady van tyne do this? dr. seward hardly knew, but he trusted that a mother's love would brave the scorn of public censure, and that human sympathy for a suffering sister would raise a shield of silence for the trusting wife's defence. the lady van tyne was vain and worldly, still it was his only hope, and win or fail, it was for him to put it to the test. to sir frederic, only, he told his plans, then acting upon their mutual decision, he returned at once to england, leaving the unhappy young man safe in the custody of american law and justice. chapter xxxiv. the lady van tyne will fight for her honor. a woman's mercy is a bark set forth on life's broad sea to ride,-- its course ordained, yet veered about by every shifting wind and tide. the lady van tyne was standing before the long pier-glass arranging the final touches of her elaborate coiffure when dr. seward was announced. the excitement caused by his sudden departure for america had hardly subsided when it was again aroused by his unexpected return. even lady van tyne, revolving as she was in the whirlpool of social duties and pleasures, stopped long enough to express some wonder at the eccentricities of her staid and venerable physician. but her eagerness to greet him now as he entered her private sanctum did not deter her from once more altering the position of a jeweled pin in her abundant hair and turning again, glass in hand, to note the effect of her artistic alteration. "ah, doctor," she exclaimed, as she laid the costly glass carefully upon the dressing-case, "i heard that you had returned but i hardly expected you would so soon honor me with a call;--but what is the matter? you look ill" she said as she noted the unusual pallor of his face. "no not ill," was his reply, as he stood looking down upon her while his hands toyed nervously with a heavy walking stick. then making a determined effort as if to have it over as soon as possible, he said abruptly, "lady van tyne, forgive me, but for nearly thirty years i have kept silence upon this subject, but to-day i must speak. i have found your son, and if ever man needed a mother's love, he does. i beg you to hear his story and then let us try together to undo the sin committed so many years ago." the physician's face was flushed with shame and eagerness when he had finished speaking, but the wave of violent anger that swept across his hearer's features left her with blazing eyes and tightly compressed lips, and for a moment he wondered vaguely what the outcome of her emotions was to be. it was only an instant's wonderment, for with swift and decided movement she withdrew the heavy portieres, and motioned him to enter a more secluded room, then following, she came close beside him and clutching his arm, exclaimed fiercely, "how dare you speak of this to me? were you not paid for silence as well as for assistance in the matter?" the physician winced beneath her words but she continued angrily, "learn what you will of this child, but remember, please, that i will hear no word regarding him or his whereabouts. you undertook his concealment,--see you to it that it is continued, at least, so far as i am concerned," and she drew herself to her stateliest carriage before the shrinking form of the unhappy man. "but he is your first born, dear lady van tyne,--have you no love in your heart for the child of your happy days? no feeling of remorse for the crime committed against humanity? no pity for the unfortunate boy, thrust nameless and alone upon the careless mercy of this cruel, heartless world?" "you plead well, dr. seward," she sneered as the physician wiped the beads of sweat from his heated brow. "you plead for the very child whose abandonment you first suggested, have you forgotten that?" "alas, no," said dr. seward, sadly. "i have forgotten nothing. i humbly admit the sin which youth and thoughtlessness permitted, but believe me, i have suffered greatly for that error and now when i have found the innocent babe, grown to full manhood, with his nature cramped and dwarfed by bitterness of spirit; his hand turned fiercely against himself and every man's hand against him, i feel that it is our duty, yours and mine, to come forth boldly in his cause and help if possible to redeem from death and eternal condemnation, the human soul we have so inexpressibly wronged. "it can not be that you, his mother, will refuse to aid me in this undertaking?" he questioned pleadingly. but the lady van tyne was weary of the subject. the self control that at first deserted her had now returned, and curving her lips in a disdainful smile, she said distinctly, "dr seward, i have valued your advice for many years but it seems to me that now your judgment is deserting you. if this is true that you have found the child, i can only say, do what you please regarding the matter, but depend upon it, i shall deny your accusations and defend my position before the world with the unlimited means that you well know are at my disposal. i have the dignity of my family to sustain and the claims of unwelcome offspring shall never interfere between lady van tyne and her social position, so"--she continued, as she drew aside the heavy curtains, "if you are determined to play the fool we may as well shake hands and consider our acquaintance at an end forever." but dr. seward did not touch the jeweled fingers that were extended to him so graciously. he merely bowed his head and passed silently out of her presence, feeling in all humility that the sorrow of the moment was but another expiation of the never forgotten error of his youthful days. after he had gone the lady van tyne returned again to her mirror and took a long survey of herself in the polished glass, but some way the reflection of her person was not as pleasing as it had been an hour before and she jerked the lace awkwardly about her throat, while wrinkles hitherto unnoticed crept stealthily about her eyes and the wave of fine grey hair upon her brow looked singularly old and unbecoming. she had not deceived herself by her apparent calmness of demeanor during the physician's strange entreaty, and now that she was alone her courage forsook her entirely and she sank heavily upon the sofa in a paroxysm of fear and trembling while she felt the foundations of her respectability shaking beneath her feet and pictured her humiliating position if the truth should ever be revealed. not a thought of her son's surroundings entered her mind, and, as she finally controlled herself for the evening's pleasure, a prayer for her own protection was the one vague sentiment of her selfish, worldly heart. it was late that night before dr. seward retired to his private office for an hour with his books and drugs, for he had extended his ride after leaving lady van tyne's residence and called upon his friend at the hospital across the bridge. here his scientific curiosity returned and he again became possessor of the little vial of brownish powder. that night in the privacy of his professional den, he again investigated the mysterious contents. over and over again the breakfast bell was rung in the early morning, but not until the household was thoroughly alarmed at his continued absence, did any one think to try the handle of the office door. there they found him, cold and breathless upon the well worn sofa, while by his side upon the carpet was a curious shaped vial, empty, and bearing on one side a label whereupon was written in dr. seward's own handwriting, the extraordinary warning, "death to the inquisitive." chapter xxxv. stella and elizabeth. how pure the passion of a woman's love-- how innocent the heart that bleeds; the wretch is worshiped like the saints above in spite of weaknesses and guilty deeds. the news of dr. seward's mysterious death fell like a thunder bolt upon the household he had left so recently across the water. mrs. sinclair mourned sincerely for the loss of a life long friend, and stella, for a fatherly counsellor. for hours after the arrival of the cablegram announcing the physician's death, sir frederic paced the floor of his apartments, pondering deeply on a secret which he felt must be shared by none. he was thinking of dr. seward's suspicions as to the parentage of the young man now safely guarded within the ponderous walls of the "tombs." it had been only a suspicion and now the one human being who knew aught of the matter was silent in the sleep of death. it was left for him to speak the words which should wound mrs. sinclair's faithful heart and destroy forever the sacred memory which was a part of her very being. it was plain to him that the unhappy prisoner knew nothing of his birth and only suspected dr. seward of knowledge on the subject through some recollection of old associations. if this was the case there could be no harm in remaining altogether silent on the subject, but then, when this conclusion was reached, he thought of lady van tyne and her probable knowledge and realized how impossible it would be to conceal the identity of her son from his mother when the question of his parentage was raised, as it must be, during his trial by english law. whether dr. seward had succeeded in obtaining an interview with lady van tyne before his death, sir frederic did not know, and although greatly distressed, he determined to defer the matter as long as possible as mrs. sinclair and stella were happier now than they had been for many days, not only in their freedom from all supposed relationship to the guilty man, but in the anticipation of a new joy that had recently crept mysteriously within their hearts. elizabeth's sorrow was pitiful to behold, but the winds of grief were tempered with kindness, in the fact of her lawful wifehood and the love of her baby girl she found much happiness and comfort. it was a pleasure to them all one chilly evening as they gathered about the roaring fire, the butler entered and unceremoniously ushered into their presence the jolly old commander whose story of maurice sinclair's death brought them sorrow and rejoicing, and the kindly young officer of the cunarder whose interest had been the means of so much prosperity to elizabeth and her child. "ha, ha," laughed the bronzed old captain as he tossed little elsa high in the air; "you don't look much as you did on the steamer, little one. i guess you've anchored in a pleasant port, ay?" "indeed we have sir," responded elizabeth, softly, as she gave her hand to him in greeting. "well, well," he continued, looking appreciatively at her rounded cheeks. "'pon my soul, i never expected to see you looking like this. here, mate, look at her red cheeks," he continued gaily, turning to the young officer. the young man blushed like a girl, for all his manly proportions, as he took elizabeth's timid hand and bent his head modestly as she said, "i have _you_ to thank for my home and happiness, mr. moore. you were the first to think of me when i was lying sick in that dreadful place." "indeed, madam," he answered hurriedly, "it was the chinaman that mentioned the matter to me, you must not forget him." "that is so, what became of the ching chong, sir frederic?" asked the captain as he lowered himself slowly into the massive rocker by mrs. sinclair's side. sir frederic told him briefly of his last interview with sam lee and the capture of the imposter, touching as lightly as possible on the facts of the case in deference to elizabeth's presence, and both men sat silently and listened with great interest to the recital. when it was ended the captain asked anxiously, "did he give his name or any clue to his identity?" "he said that jack fenton was not his name, although he had been called by that, and only knew himself as an illegitimate child, cast off by his parents and reared by those who were equally ignorant of his birth with himself. "there is no doubt in my mind, captain, but that he is the other lad in your story, but you shall see him yourself to-morrow and that will remove the last suspicion of doubt regarding his identity." "and this chinaman," continued the captain, "you say he conversed with him in that heathenish tongue, that in spite of a dozen stops in chinese ports, i could never make head or tail out of, does he give him a name or know anything of his past?" here, elizabeth rose quietly and making some trivial excuse, passed hastily from the room, but not so quickly but that stella, who had both felt and seen her uneasiness, immediately joined her outside the door. "oh, lady atherton," elizabeth cried as stella drew her closely to her side in mute sympathy when they were alone. "how dreadful it all is. to think that the man i loved and trusted; the father of my darling child, should be nameless, friendless and alone, with sin upon his soul and no one to breathe a word of sympathy in his hour of need. oh, lawrie!" she sobbed, "if i could only come to you." "but, dear lizzie," whispered stella, "you must think of yourself and elsa first of all. you have suffered enough and it can do no possible good for you to go to him. wait, lizzie, wait until he is penitent and expresses a wish for his wife's forgiveness." "yes, i know that he does not care," cried elizabeth, "but my heart aches for him and i would gladly forgive all if he would only say that he loved me. oh, my husband. you were merciful,--you spared my honor and gave my child a stainless birth when, body and soul, i would have been your slave. yes, i too, will be merciful," she continued suddenly with a determined voice as she raised her streaming eyes to stella's face. "let me go to him, dear lady atherton, my place is at my husband's side. let me plead for him at his trial and bear with him the penalty of his sins." "do you love him so dearly, lizzie?" asked stella sadly. "i loved him once--yes, yes i love him now," she added,--then facing stella she asked abruptly, "would you not do the same? would you not cling to him and work for him, if the man you loved was trembling on the verge of awful danger?" "i don't know," said stella, doubtfully. then a proud smile curved her lips and her dark eyes flashed as she added, slowly, "i am afraid, dear, that my love would never stand the test of sin and crime in one i loved. weakness and error i would shield; i would face danger and bear humiliation, but i feel that i could never endure to blush with shame for a loved one's infamy or drink the dregs of degradation, although pressed to my lips by my husband, himself. no! lizzie," she said decidedly, "when my lover falls from his pedestal of honor and virtue and descends to the crimes and vices of this earth, i shall cease to love him, and though it tore the weak, fleshy heart from my bosom, i would never voluntarily look upon his face again." there was silence for several moments between the two when she finished speaking, but at last stella rose and said gently, "wait here a little and compose yourself, dear, while i return to our friends and when you join us again there shall be nothing said to distress you, for i know," she added roguishly, "the young officer has not come to see either mamma or me and you know elsa is hardly old enough to receive young gentlemen callers without her mother to act as chaperone." when stella returned to the parlor it was as she thought. her husband had made his guests familiar with elizabeth's story and she was a little surprised to see the young officer holding elsa carefully on his knee while his eyes blazed and his features were set in a look of stern resolve that boded no good for the villain of the narrative, should he by any chance cross his path. chapter xxxvi. a last escape. death frees his body, but his soul goes on to its predestined state:-- but who are we that we should judge-- or name an erring brother's fate; the wheels of the law moved slowly but steadily forward until but one short day remained before the extradition of the nameless prisoner to the legal guardianship of his native country. much interest had been excited in his case and great scope given the imagination of the curious regarding his identity, but all to no avail. the cloud upon his birth pursued him and now that dr. seward was dead there seemed little fear of its ever being lifted. none but the idly inquisitive seekers after morbid sensations called upon him in his prison home until the day before his anticipated departure, when a mongolian, wearing the full regalia of his country, begged a brief audience with the carefully guarded man. no one knew what was said during that short interview as the conversation baffled the linguistic ability of the irish guard, but when it was over he was promptly ushered out by the son of erin who had listened with open mouthed astonishment to their unintelligible chatterings. it was only a brief five minutes that the guard remained away, but when he returned to his post, after seeing the celestial visitor safely outside the building, he thought he detected an unusual odor, and going immediately to his prisoner's door demanded to know "what koind of shmell the grasy yaller shkin had lift behoind him, to be shure!" but there was no answer to his inquiry and promptly opening the door he was horrified to find that in spite of all his vigilance his prisoner had escaped him. not by disappearance of body, for the still cold form remained, but by flight of soul, instantaneous and complete, while the sickish odor of some unknown drug spoke only too plainly of the method employed for his escape from earthly bondage. for a moment the horrified guard was speechless with concern, then closing the door silently, he repaired to the warden's office, and in a few short hours all new york was ringing with the news of the mysterious death and clamoring wildly for the capture of the prisoner's only visitor. chapter xxxvii. five years after. and after all perhaps 'tis best to make no mention of the past; the clouds have vanished and to all the peaceful days have come at last. five years have passed away since that death in the lonely prison cell, but from that day, sam lee disappeared as completely from the gaze of man as if he, too, had journeyed to the world from whence there is no returning. search was unavailing and inquiry and investigation alike, fruitless. the autopsy made upon the dead man's body revealed nothing other than asphyxiation by an unknown drug, but whether administered by his own or other hands, was never ascertained. men reasoned, argued and theorized, and at last lost interest. for elizabeth's sake, sir frederic saw that the body was decently interred and then made haste to return once more to portland place, as it was stella's ardent wish that her child should be born in the home so dear to her own youthful associations. little archie is now nearly five years old and baby millie just turned one, but they have thus early demonstrated their importance in the atherton family, and no one dreams for a moment of denying their claims to attention and worship. mrs. sinclair is radiantly happy. little archie is her husband's namesake, and on him she lavishes so much of her tender love that stella often wonders if baby millie will not some day look with jealous eyes upon her grandma's preference. the children are frequent visitors at the house in g--st., where elsa watches carefully over their frolics with the conscious dignity of her mature years. elizabeth thought at first that she could not endure to live again beneath the walls that had been the scenes of her perilous infatuation, but of late a peaceful smile lights up her lovely features and the old house has been turned completely upside down with her tasteful renovations. perhaps little elsa explains matters somewhat when she grasps mr. morris' extended hand and leading him gaily to her playmates, says confidentially, "this is my new papa, archie, mamma says so!" and "mamma," who has entered at that moment, comes blushingly forward to be held for a moment in her young husband's arms, while the first deep feeling of perfect love thrills her long sorrowing heart with joy unspeakable. as for sir frederic, he has watched carefully for any signs of knowledge on the part of lady van tyne regarding the suspicions which dr. seward so conscientiously revealed to him, but the years go by and there is no word. the lady van tyne sits calmly on her pedestal of virtue, and although its foundations are of gold, still there is enough of that precious metal to secure her position for many years to come, and positive that no word of hers will ever destroy her social prominence, sir frederic locks the guilty secret in his heart and turning to the sweet faced women whom he loves, breathes silently a solemn vow of "death to the inquisitive." the end. findler & wibel, stationers and blank book manufacturers, drawing materials, printing and lithographing, nassau street, opposite times building, new york. the pearl of lima. by anne t. wilbur. _graham's american monthly magazine of literature, art, and fashion ( - )_; apr ; vol. xlii., no. ; aps pg. the pearl of lima. a story of true love. translated from the french of m. jules verne. by anne t. wilbur. transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. inconsistent hyphenation and spellings have been standardised, whilst variant and unique spellings remain as printed. for the reader's ease, although not present in the original text, a brief table of contents has been included below: i. the plaza-mayor. ii. evening in the streets of lima. iii. the jew every where a jew. iv. a spanish grandee. v. the hatred of the indians. vi. the betrothal. vii. all interests at stake. viii. conquerors and conquered. ix. the cataracts of the madeira. chapter i. the plaza-mayor. the sun had disappeared behind the snowy peaks of the cordilleras; but the beautiful peruvian sky long retains, through the transparent veil of night, the reflection of his rays; the atmosphere is impregnated with a refreshing coolness, which in these burning latitudes affords freedom of breath; it is the hour in which one can live a european life, and seek without on the verandas some cooling gentle zephyr; it seems as if a metallic roof was then interposed between the sun and the earth, which, retaining the heat and suffering only the light to pass, offers beneath its shelter a reparative repose. this much desired hour had at last sounded from the clock of the cathedral. while the earliest stars were rising above the horizon, the numerous promenaders were traversing the streets of lima, wrapped in their light mantles, and conversing gravely on the most trivial affairs. there was a great movement of the populace on the plaza-mayor, that forum of the ancient city of kings; artisans were profiting by the coolness to quit their daily labors; they circulated actively among the crowd, crying their various merchandise; the ladies of lima, carefully enveloped in the mantillas which mask their countenances, with the exception of the right eye, darted stealthy glances on the surrounding masses; they undulated through the groups of smokers, like foam at the will of the waves; other señoras, in ball costume, _coiffed_ only with their abundant hair or some natural flowers, passed in large calêches, throwing on the _caballeros_ nonchalant regards. but these glances were not bestowed indiscriminately upon the young cavaliers; the thoughts of the noble ladies could rest only on aristocratic heights. the indians passed without lifting their eyes upon them, knowing themselves to be beneath their notice; betraying by no gesture or word, the bitter envy of their hearts. they contrasted strongly with the half-breeds, or mestizoes, who, repulsed like the former, vented their indignation in cries and protestations. the proud descendants of pizarro marched with heads high, as in the times when their ancestors founded the city of kings; their traditional scorn rested alike on the indians whom they had conquered, and the mestizoes, born of their relations with the natives of the new world. the indians, on the contrary, were constantly struggling to break their chains, and cherished alike aversion toward the conquerors of the ancient empire of the incas and their haughty and insolent descendants. but the mestizoes, spanish in their contempt for the indians, and indian in their hatred which they had vowed against the spaniards, burned with both these vivid and impassioned sentiments. a group of these young people stood near the pretty fountain in the centre of the plaza-mayor. clad in their _poncho_, a piece of cloth or cotton in the form of a parallelogram, with an opening in the middle to give passage to the head, in large pantaloons, striped with a thousand colors, _coiffed_ with broad-brimmed hats of guayaquil straw, they were talking, declaiming, gesticulating. "you are right, andré," said a very obsequious young man, whom they called milleflores. this was the friend, the parasite of andré certa, a young mestizo of swarthy complexion, whose thin beard gave a singular appearance to his countenance. andré certa, the son of a rich merchant killed in the last _émeute_ of the conspirator lafuente, had inherited a large fortune; this he freely scattered among his friends, whose humble salutations he demanded in exchange for handfuls of gold. "of what use are these changes in government, these eternal _pronunciamentos_ which disturb peru to gratify private ambition?" resumed andré, in a loud voice; "what is it to me whether gambarra or santa cruz rule, if there is no equality." "well said," exclaimed milleflores, who, under the most republican government, could never have been the equal of a man of sense. "how is it," resumed andré certa, "that i, the son of a merchant, can ride only in a calêche drawn by mules? have not my ships brought wealth and prosperity to the country? is not the aristocracy of piasters worth all the titles of spain?" "it is a shame!" resumed the young mestizo. "there is don fernand, who passes in his carriage drawn by two horses! don fernand d'aiquillo! he has scarcely property enough to feed his coachman and horses, and he must come to parade himself proudly about the square. and, hold! here is another! the marquis don vegal!" a magnificent carriage, drawn by four fine horses, at that moment entered the plaza-mayor; its only occupant was a man of proud mien, mingled with sadness; he gazed, without seeming to see them, on the multitude assembled to breathe the coolness of the evening. this man was the marquis don vegal, knight of alcantara, of malta, and of charles iii. he had a right to appear in this pompous equipage; the viceroy and the archbishop could alone take precedence of him; but this great nobleman came here from ennui and not from ostentation; his thoughts were not depicted on his countenance, they were concentrated beneath his bent brow; he received no impression from exterior objects, on which he bestowed not a look, and heard not the envious reflections of the mestizoes, when his four horses made their way through the crowd. "i hate that man," said andré certa. "you will not hate him long." "i know it! all these nobles are displaying the last splendors of their luxury; i can tell where their silver and their family jewels go." "you have not your entrée with the jew samuel for nothing." "certainly not! on his account-books are inscribed aristocratic creditors; in his strong-box are piled the wrecks of great fortunes; and in the day when the spaniards shall be as ragged as their cæsar de bazan, we will have fine sport." "yes, we will have fine sport, dear andré, mounted on your millions, on a golden pedestal! and you are about to double your fortune! when are you to marry the beautiful young daughter of old samuel, a limanienne to the end of her nails, with nothing jewish about her but her name of sarah?" "in a month," replied andré certa, proudly, "there will be no fortune in peru which can compete with mine." "but why," asked some one, "do you not espouse some spanish girl of high descent?" "i despise these people as much as i hate them." andré certa concealed the fact of his having been repulsed by several noble families, into which he had sought to introduce himself. his interlocutor still wore an expression of doubt, and the brow of the mestizo had contracted, when the latter was rudely elbowed by a man of tall stature, whose gray hairs proclaimed him to be at least fifty, while the muscular force of his firmly knit limbs seemed undiminished by age. this man was clad in a brown vest, through which appeared a coarse shirt with a broad collar; his short breeches, striped with green, were fastened by red garters to stockings of clay-color; on his feet were sandals made of _ojotas_, ox-hide prepared for this purpose; beneath his high-pointed hat gleamed large ear-rings. his complexion was dark. after having jostled andré certa, he looked at him fixedly, but with no particular expression. "miserable indian!" exclaimed the mestizo, raising his hand upon him. his companions restrained him. milleflores, whose face was pale with terror, exclaimed: "andré! andré! take care." "a vile slave! to presume to elbow me!" "it is a madman! it is the _sambo_!" the _sambo_, as the name indicated, was an indian of the mountains; he continued to fix his eyes on the mestizo, whom he had intentionally jostled. the latter, whose anger was unbounded, had seized a poignard at his girdle, and was about to have rushed on the impassable aggressor, when a guttural cry, like that of the _cilguero_, (a kind of linnet of peru,) re-echoed in the midst of the tumult of promenaders, and the sambo disappeared. "brutal and cowardly!" exclaimed andré. "control yourself," said milleflores, softly. "let us leave the plaza-mayor; the limanienne ladies are too haughty here." as he said these words, the brave milleflores looked cautiously around to see whether he was not within reach of the foot or arm of some indian in the neighborhood. "in an hour, i must be at the house of jew samuel," said andré. "in an hour! we have time to pass to the _calle del peligro_; you can offer some oranges or ananas to the charming _tapadas_ who promenade there. shall we go, gentlemen?" the group directed their steps toward the extremity of the square, and began to descend the street of danger, where milleflores hoped his good looks would be appreciated; but it was nightfall, and the young limaniennes merited better than ever their name of _tapadas_ (hidden), for they drew their mantles more closely over their countenances. the plaza-mayor was all alive; the cries and the tumult were redoubled; the guards on horseback, stationed before the central portico of the viceroy's palace, situated on the north side of the square, could scarcely maintain their position amid the shifting crowd; there were merchants for all customers and customers for all merchants. the greatest variety of trades seemed to be congregated there, and from the _portal de escribanos_ to the _portal de botoneros_, there was one immense display of articles of every kind, the plaza-mayor serving at once as promenade, bazaar, market and fair. the ground-floor of the viceroy's palace is occupied by shops; along the first story runs an immense gallery where the crowd can promenade on days of public rejoicing; on the east side of the square rises the cathedral, with its steeples and light balustrades, proudly adorning its two towers; the basement story of the edifice being ten feet high, and containing warehouses full of the products of tropical climates. in the centre of this square is situated the beautiful fountain, constructed in , by the orders of the viceroy, the comte de salvatierra. from the top of the pillar, which rises in the middle of the fountain and is surmounted with a statue of fame, the water falls in sheets, and is discharged into a basin beneath through the mouths of lions. it is here that the water-carriers (_aguadores_) load their mules with barrels, attach a bell to a hoop, and mount behind their liquid merchandise. this square is therefore noisy from morning till evening, and when the stars of night rise above the snowy summits of the cordilleras, the tumult of the _élite_ of lima equals the matinal hubbub of the merchants. nevertheless, when the _oracion_ (evening _angelus_) sounds from the bell of the cathedral, all this noise suddenly ceases; to the clamor of pleasure succeeds the murmur of prayer; the women pause in their walk and put their hands on their rosaries, invoking the virgin mary. then, not a merchant dares sell his merchandise, not a customer thinks of buying, and this square, so recently animated, seems to have become a vast solitude. while the limanians paused and knelt at the sound of the _angelus_, a young girl, carefully surrounded by her discreet mantle, sought to pass through the praying multitude; she was followed by a mestizo woman, a sort of duenna, who watched every glance and step. the duenna, as if she had not understood the warning bell, continued her way through the devout populace: to the general surprise succeeded harsh epithets. the young girl would have stopped, but the duenna kept on. "do you see that daughter of satan?" said some one near her. "who is that _balarina_--that impious dancer?" "it is one of the carcaman women." (a reproachful name bestowed upon europeans.) the young girl at last stopped, blushing and confused. suddenly a _gaucho_, a merchant of mules, seized her by the shoulder, and would have compelled her to kneel; but he had scarcely laid his hand upon her when a vigorous arm rudely felled him to the ground. this scene, rapid as lightning, was followed by a moment of confusion. "save yourself, miss," said a gentle and respectful voice in the ear of the young girl. the latter turned, pale with terror, and saw a young indian of tall stature, who, with his arms tranquilly folded, was awaiting with firm foot the attack of his adversary. "we are lost!" exclaimed the duenna; "_niña, niña_, let us go, for the love of god!" and she seized the arm of the young girl, who disappeared, while the crowd rose and dispersed. the _gaucho_ had risen, bruised with his fall, and thinking it not prudent to seek revenge, rejoined his mules, muttering threats. chapter ii. evening in the streets of lima. night had succeeded, almost without intervening twilight, the glare of day. the two women quickened their pace, for it was late; the young girl, still under the influence of strong emotion, maintained silence, while the duenna murmured some mysterious paternosters--they walked rapidly through one of the sloping streets leading from the plaza-mayor. this place is situated more than four hundred feet above the level of the sea, and about a hundred and fifty rods from the bridge thrown over the river rimac, which forms the diameter of the city of lima, arranged in a semicircle. the city of lima lies in the valley of the rimac, nine leagues from its mouth; at the north and east commence the first undulations of ground which form a part of the great chain of the andes: the valley of lungaucho, formed by the mountains of san cristoval and the amancaës, which rise behind lima, terminates in its suburbs. the city lies on one bank of the river; the other is occupied by the suburb of san lazaro, and is united to the city by a bridge of five arches, the upper piers of which are triangular to break the force of the current; while the lower ones present to the promenaders circular benches, on which the fashionables may lounge during the summer evenings, and where they can contemplate a pretty cascade. the city is two miles long from east to west, and only a mile and a quarter wide from the bridge to the walls; the latter, twelve feet in height, ten feet thick at their base, are built of _adobes_, a kind of brick dried in the sun, and made of potter's clay mingled with a great quantity of chopped straw: these walls are calculated to resist earthquakes; the enclosure, pierced with seven gates and three posterns, terminates at its south-east extremity by the little citadel of santa caterina. such is the ancient city of kings, founded in by pizarro, on the day of epiphany; it has been and is still the theatre of constantly renewed revolutions. lima, situated three miles from the sea, was formerly the principal storehouse of america on the pacific ocean, thanks to its port of callao, built in , in a singular manner. an old vessel, filled with stones, sand, and rubbish of all sorts, was wrecked on the shore; piles of the mangrove-tree, brought from guayaquil and impervious to water, were driven around this as a centre, which became the immovable base on which rose the mole of callao. the climate, milder and more temperate than that of carthagena or bahia, situated on the opposite side of america, makes lima one of the most agreeable cities of the new world: the wind has two directions from which it never varies; either it blows from the south-east, and becomes cool by crossing the pacific ocean; or it comes from the south-west, impregnated with the mild atmosphere of the forests and the freshness which it has derived from the icy summits of the cordilleras. the nights beneath tropical latitudes are very beautiful and very clear; they mysteriously prepare that beneficent dew which fertilizes a soil exposed to the rays of a cloudless sky--so the inhabitants of lima prolong their nocturnal conversations and receptions; household labors are quietly finished in the dwellings refreshed by the shadows, and the streets are soon deserted; scarcely is some _pulperia_ still haunted by the drinkers of _chica_ or _quarapo_. these, the young girl, whom we have seen, carefully avoided; crossing in the middle of the numerous squares scattered about the city, she arrived, without interruption, at the bridge of the rimac, listening to catch the slightest sound--which her emotion exaggerated, and hearing only the bells of a train of mules conducted by its _arriero_, or the joyous _stribillo_ of some indian. this young girl was called sarah, and was returning to the house of the jew samuel, her father; she was clad in a _saya_ of satin--a kind of petticoat of a dark color, plaited in elastic folds, and very narrow at the bottom, which compelled her to take short steps, and gave her that graceful delicacy peculiar to the limanienne ladies; this petticoat, ornamented with lace and flowers, was in part covered with a silk mantle, which was raised above the head and enveloped it like a hood; stockings of exquisite fineness and little satin shoes peeped out beneath the graceful _saya_; bracelets of great value encircled the arms of the young girl, whose rich toilet was of exquisite taste, and her whole person redolent of that charm so well expressed by the spanish word _donaire_. milleflores might well say to andré certa that his betrothed had nothing of the jewess but the name, for she was a faithful specimen of those admirable señoras whose beauty is above all praise. the duenna, an old jewess, whose countenance was expressive of avarice and cupidity, was a devoted servant of samuel, who paid her liberally. at the moment when these two women entered the suburb of san lazaro, a man, clad in the robe of a monk, and with his head covered with a cowl, passed near them and looked at them attentively. this man, of tall stature, possessed a countenance expressive of gentleness and benevolence; it was padre joachim de camarones; he threw a glance of intelligence on sarah, who immediately looked at her follower. the latter was still grumbling, muttering and whining, which prevented her seeing any thing; the young girl turned toward the good father and made a graceful sign with her hand. "well, señora," said the old woman, sharply, "is it not enough to have been insulted by these christians, that you should stop to look at a priest?" sarah did not reply. "shall we see you one day, with rosary in hand, engaged in the ceremonies of the church?" the ceremonies of the church--_las funciones de iglesia_--are the great business of the limanian ladies. "you make strange suppositions," replied the young girl, blushing. "strange as your conduct! what would my master samuel say, if he knew what had taken place this evening?" "am i to blame because a brutal muleteer chose to address me?" "i understand, señora," said the old woman, shaking her head, "and will not speak of the _gaucho_." "then the young man did wrong in defending me from the abuse of the populace?" "is it the first time the indian has thrown himself in your way?" the countenance of the young girl was fortunately sheltered by her mantle, for the darkness would not have sufficed to conceal her emotion from the inquisitive glance of the duenna. "but let us leave the indian where he is," resumed the old woman, "it is not my business to watch him. what i complain of is, that in order not to disturb these christians, you wished to remain among them! had you not some desire to kneel with them? ah, señora, your father would soon dismiss me if i were guilty of such apostasy." but the young girl no longer heard; the remark of the old woman on the subject of the young indian had inspired her with sweeter thoughts; it seemed to her that the intervention of this young man was providential; and she turned several times to see if he had not followed her in the shadow. sarah had in her heart a certain natural confidence which became her wonderfully; she felt herself to be the child of these warm latitudes, which the sun decorates with surprising vegetation; proud as a spaniard, if she had fixed her regards on this man, it was because he had stood proudly in the presence of her pride, and had not begged a glance as a reward of his protection. in imagining that the indian was near her, sarah was not mistaken; martin paz, after having come to the assistance of the young girl, wished to ensure her safe retreat; so when the promenaders had dispersed, he followed her, without being perceived by her, but without concealing himself; the darkness alone favoring his pursuit. this martin paz was a handsome young man, wearing with unparalleled nobility the national costume of the indian of the mountains; from his broad-brimmed straw hat escaped fine black hair, whose curls harmonized with the bronze of his manly face. his eyes shone with infinite sweetness, like the transparent atmosphere of starry nights; his well-formed nose surmounted a pretty mouth, unlike that of most of his race. he was one of the noblest descendants of manco-capac, and his veins were full of that ardent blood which leads men to the accomplishment of lofty deeds. he was proudly draped in his _poncho_ of brilliant colors; at his girdle hung one of those malay poignards, so terrible in a practiced hand, for they seem to be riveted to the arm which strikes. in north america, on the shores of lake ontario, martin paz would have been a great chief among those wandering tribes which have fought with the english so many heroic combats. martin paz knew that sarah was the daughter of the wealthy samuel; he knew her to be the most charming woman in lima; he knew her to be betrothed to the opulent mestizo andré certa; he knew that by her birth, her position and her wealth she was beyond the reach of his heart; but he forgot all these impossibilities in his all-absorbing passion. it seemed to him that this beautiful young girl belonged to him, as the llama to the peruvian forests, as the eagle to the depths of immensity. plunged in his reflections, martin paz hastened his steps to see the _saya_ of the young girl sweep the threshold of the paternal dwelling; and sarah herself, half-opening then her mantilla, cast on him a bewildering glance of gratitude. he was quickly joined by two indians of the species of _zambos_, pillagers and robbers, who walked beside him. "martin paz," said one of them to him, "you ought this very evening to meet our brethren in the mountains." "i shall be there," coldly replied the other. "the schooner _annonciation_ has appeared in sight from callao, tacked for a few moments, then, protected by the point, rapidly disappeared. she will undoubtedly approach the land near the mouth of the rimac, and our bark canoes must be there to relieve her of her merchandise. we shall need your presence." "you are losing time by your observations. martin paz knows his duty and he will do it." "it is in the name of the sambo that we speak to you here." "it is in my own name that i speak to you." "do you not fear that he will find your presence in the suburb of san lazaro at this hour unaccountable?" "i am where my fancy and my will have brought me." "before the house of the jew?" "those of my brethren who are disposed to find fault can meet me to-night in the mountain." the eyes of the three men sparkled, and this was all. the _zambos_ regained the bank of the rimac, and the sound of their footsteps died away in the darkness. martin paz had hastily approached the house of the jew. this house, like all those of lima, had but two stories; the ground floor, built of bricks, was surmounted with walls formed of canes tied together and covered with plaster; all this part of the building, constructed to resist earthquakes, imitated, by a skillful painting, the bricks of the lower story; the square roof, called _asoetas_, was covered with flowers, and formed a terrace full of perfumes and pretty points of view. a vast gate, placed between two pavilions, gave access to a court; but as usual, these pavilions had no window opening upon the street. the clock of the parish church was striking eleven when martin paz stopped before the dwelling of sarah. profound silence reigned around; a flickering light within proved that the saloon of the jew samuel was still occupied. why does the indian stand motionless before these silent walls? the cool atmosphere woos him with its transparency and its perfumes; the radiant stars send down upon the sleeping earth rays of diaphanous mildness; the white constellations illumine the darkness with their enchanting light; his heart believes in those sympathetic communications which brave time and distance. a white form appears upon the terrace amid the flowers to which night has only left a vague outline, without diminishing their delicious perfumes; the dahlias mingle with the mentzelias, with the helianthus, and, beneath the occidental breeze, form a waving basket which surrounds sarah, the young and beautiful jewess. martin paz involuntarily raises his hands and clasps them with adoration. suddenly the white form sinks down, as if terrified. martin paz turns, and finds himself face to face with andré certa. "since when do the indians pass their nights in contemplation?" andré certa spoke angrily. "since the indians have trodden the soil of their ancestors." "have they no longer, on the mountain side, some _yaravis_ to chant, some _boleros_ to dance with the girls of their caste?" "the _cholos_," replied the indian, in a high voice, "bestow their devotion where it is merited; the indians love according to their hearts." andré certa became pale with anger; he advanced a step toward his immovable rival. "wretch! will you quit this place?" "rather quit it yourself," shouted martin paz; and two poignards gleamed in the two right hands of the adversaries; they were of equal stature, they seemed of equal strength, and the lightnings of their eyes were reflected in the steel of their arms. andré certa rapidly raised his arm, which he dropped still more quickly. but his poignard had encountered the malay poignard of the indian; at the fire which flashed from this shock, andré saw the arm of martin paz suspended over his head, and immediately rolled on the earth, his arm pierced through. "help, help!" he exclaimed. the door of the jew's house opened at his cries. some mestizoes ran from a neighboring house; some pursued the indian, who fled rapidly; others raised the wounded man. he had swooned. "who is this man?" said one of them. "if he is a sailor, take him to the hospital of spiritu santo; if an indian, to the hospital of santa anna." an old man advanced toward the wounded youth; he had scarcely looked upon him when he exclaimed: "let the poor young man be carried into my house. this is a strange mischance." this man was the jew samuel; he had just recognized the betrothed of his daughter. martin paz, thanks to the darkness and the rapidity of his flight, may hope to escape his pursuers; he has risked his life; an indian assassin of a mestizo! if he can gain the open country he is safe, but he knows that the gates of the city are closed at eleven o'clock in the evening, not to be re-opened till four in the morning. he reaches at last the stone bridge which he had already crossed. the indians, and some soldiers who had joined them, pursue him closely; he springs upon the bridge. unfortunately a patrol appears at the opposite extremity; martin paz can neither advance nor retrace his steps; without hesitation he clears the parapet and leaps into the rapid current which breaks against the corners of the stones. the pursuers spring upon the banks below the bridge to seize the swimmer at his landing. but it is in vain; martin paz does not re-appear. chapter iii. the jew every where a jew. andré certa, once introduced into the house of samuel, and laid in a bed hastily prepared, recovered his senses and pressed the hand of the old jew. the physician, summoned by one of the domestics, was promptly in attendance. the wound appeared to be a slight one; the shoulder of the mestizo had been pierced in such a manner that the steel had only glided among the flesh. in a few days, andré certa might be once more upon his feet. when samuel was left alone with andré, the latter said to him: "you would do well to wall up the gate which leads to your terrace, master samuel." "what fear you, andré?" "i fear lest sarah should present herself there to the contemplation of the indians. it was not a robber who attacked me; it was a rival, from whom i have escaped but by miracle!" "by the holy tables, it is a task to bring up young girls!" exclaimed the jew. "but you are mistaken, señor," he resumed, "sarah will be a dutiful spouse. i spare no pains that she may do you honor." andré certa half raised himself on his elbow. "master samuel, there is one thing which you do not enough remember, that i pay you for the hand of sarah a hundred thousand piasters." "señor," replied the jew, with a miserly chuckle, "i remember it so well, that i am ready now to exchange this receipt for the money." as he said this, samuel drew from his pocket-book a paper which andré certa repulsed with his hand. "the bargain is not complete until sarah has become my wife, and she will never be such if her hand is to be disputed by such an adversary. you know, master samuel, what is my object; in espousing sarah, i wish to be the equal of this nobility which casts such scornful glances upon us." "and you will, señor, for you see the proudest grandees of spain throng our saloons, around the pearl of lima." "where has sarah been this evening?" "to the israelitish temple, with old ammon." "why should sarah attend your religious rites?" "i am a jew, señor," replied samuel proudly, "and would sarah be my daughter if she did not fulfill the duties of my religion?" the old jew remained sad and silent for several minutes. his bent brow rested on one of his withered hands. his face usually bronze, was now almost pale; beneath a brown cap appeared locks of an indescribable color. he was clad in a sort of great-coat fastened around the waist. this old man trafficked every where and in every thing; he might have been a descendant of the judas who sold his master for thirty pieces of silver. he had been a resident of lima ten years; his taste and his economy had led him to choose his dwelling at the extremity of the suburb of san lazaro, and from thence he entered into various speculations to make money. by degrees, samuel assumed a luxury uncommon in misers; his house was sumptuously furnished; his numerous domestics, his splendid equipages betokened immense revenues. sarah was then eight years of age. already graceful and charming, she pleased all, and was the idol of the jew. all her inclinations were unhesitatingly gratified. always elegantly dressed, she attracted the eyes of the most fastidious, of which her father seemed strangely careless. it will readily be understood how the mestizo, andré certa, became enamored of the beautiful jewess. what would have appeared inexplicable to the public, was the hundred thousand piasters, the price of her hand; but this bargain was secret. and besides, samuel trafficked in sentiments as in native productions. a banker, usurer, merchant, ship-owner, he had the talent to do business with everybody. the schooner _annonciation_, which was hovering about the mouth of the rimac, belonged to the jew samuel. amid this life of business and speculation this man fulfilled the duties of his religion with scrupulous punctuality; his daughter had been carefully instructed in the israelitish faith and practices. so, when the mestizo had manifested his displeasure on this subject, the old man remained mute and pensive, and andré certa broke the silence, saying: "do you forget that the motive for which i espouse sarah will compel her to become a convert to catholicism? it is not my fault," added the mestizo; "but in spite of you, in spite of me, in spite of herself, it will be so." "you are right," said the jew sadly; "but, by the bible, sarah shall be a jewess as long as she is my daughter." at this moment the door of the chamber opened, and the major-domo of the jew samuel respectfully entered. "is the murderer arrested?" asked the old man. "we have reason to believe he is dead!" "dead!" repeated andré, with a joyful exclamation. "caught between us and a company of soldiers," replied the major-domo, "he was obliged to leap over the parapet of the bridge." "he has thrown himself into the rimac!" exclaimed andré. "and how do you know that he has not reached the shore?" asked samuel. "the melting of the snow has made the current rapid at that spot; besides, we stationed ourselves on each side of the river, and he did not re-appear. i have left sentinels who will pass the night in watching the banks." "it is well," said the old man; "he has met with a just fate. did you recognize him in his flight?" "perfectly, sir; it was martin paz, the indian of the mountains." "has this man been observing sarah for some time past?" "i do not know," replied the servant. "summon old ammon." the major-domo withdrew. "these indians," said the old man, "have secret understandings among themselves; i must know whether the pursuit of this man dates from a distant period." the duenna entered, and remained standing before her master. "does my daughter," asked samuel, "know any thing of what has taken place this morning?" "when the cries of your servants awoke me, i ran to the chamber of the señora, and found her almost motionless and of a mortal paleness." "fatality!" said samuel; "continue," added he, seeing that the mestizo was apparently asleep. "to my urgent inquiries as to the cause of her agitation, the señora would not reply; she retired without accepting my services, and i withdrew." "has this indian often thrown himself in her way?" "i do not know, master; nevertheless i have often met him in the streets of san lazaro." "and you have told me nothing of this?" "he came to her assistance this evening on the plaza-mayor," added the old duenna. "her assistance! how?" the old woman related the scene with downcast head. "ah! my daughter wish to kneel among these christians!" exclaimed the jew, angrily; "and i knew nothing of all this! you deserve that i should dismiss you." the duenna went out of the room in confusion. "do you not see that the marriage should take place soon?" said andré certa. "i am not asleep, master samuel! but i need rest, now, and i will dream of our espousals." at these words, the old man slowly retired. before regaining his room, he wished to assure himself of the condition of his daughter, and softly entered the chamber of sarah. the young girl was in an agitated slumber, in the midst of the rich silk drapery around her; a watch-lamp of alabaster, suspended from the arabesques of the ceiling, shed its soft light upon her beautiful countenance; the half-open window admitted, through lowered blinds, the quiet coolness of the air, impregnated with the penetrating perfumes of the aloes and magnolia; creole luxury was displayed in the thousand objects of art which good taste and grace had dispersed on richly carved _étagères_; and, beneath the vague and placid rays of night, it seemed as if the soul of the child was sporting amid these wonders. the old man approached the bed of sarah: he bent over her to listen. the beautiful jewess seemed disturbed by sorrowful thoughts, and more than once the name of martin paz escaped her lips. samuel regained his chamber, uttering maledictions. at the first rays of morning, sarah hastily arose. liberta, a full-blooded indian attached to her service, hastened to her; and, in pursuance of her orders, saddled a mule for his mistress and a horse for himself. sarah was accustomed to take morning-rides, accompanied by this indian, who was entirely devoted to her. she was clad in a _saya_ of a brown color, and a mantle of cashmere with long tassels; her head was not covered with the usual hood, but sheltered beneath the broad brim of a straw hat, which left her long black tresses to float over her shoulders; and to conceal any unusual pre-occupation, she held between her lips a _cigarette_ of perfumed tobacco. liberta, clad like an indian of the mountains, prepared to accompany his mistress. "liberta," said the young girl to him, "remember to be blind and dumb." once in the saddle, sarah left the city as usual, and began to ride through the country; she directed her way toward callao. the port was in full animation: there had been a conflict during the night between the revenue-officers and a schooner, whose undecided movements betrayed a fraudulent speculation. the _annonciation_ seemed to have been awaiting some suspicious barks near the mouth of the rimac; but before the latter could reach her, she had been compelled to flee before the custom-house boats, which had boldly given her chase. various rumors were in circulation respecting the destination of this vessel--which bore no name on her stern. according to some, this schooner, laden with colombian troops, was seeking to seize the principal vessels of callao; for bolivar had it in his heart to revenge the affront given to the soldiers left by him in peru, and who had been driven from it in disgrace. according to others, the schooner was simply a smuggler of european goods. without troubling herself about these rumors, more or less important, sarah, whose ride to the port had been only a pretext, returned toward lima, which she reached near the banks of the rimac. she ascended them toward the bridge: numbers of soldiers, mestizoes, and indians, were stationed at various points on the shore. liberta had acquainted the young girl with the events of the night. in compliance with her orders, he interrogated some indians leaning over the parapet, and learned that although martin paz had been undoubtedly drowned, his body had not yet been recovered. sarah was pale and almost fainting; it required all her strength of soul not to abandon herself to her grief. among the people wandering on the banks, she remarked an indian with ferocious features--the sambo! he was crouched on the bank, and seemed a prey to despair. as sarah passed near the old mountaineer, she heard these words, full of gloomy anger: "wo! wo! they have killed the son of the sambo! they have killed my son!" the young girl resolutely drew herself up, made a sign to liberta to follow her; and this time, without caring whether she was observed or not, went directly to the church of santa anna; left her mule in charge of the indian, entered the catholic temple, and asking for the good father joachim, knelt on the stone steps, praying to jesus and mary for the soul of martin paz. chapter iv. a spanish grandee. any other than the indian, martin paz, would have, indeed, perished in the waters of the rimac; to escape death, his surprising strength, his insurmountable will, and especially his sublime coolness, one of the privileges of the free hordes of the _pampas_ of the new world, had all been found necessary. martin knew that his pursuers would concentrate their efforts to seize him below the bridge; it seemed impossible for him to overcome the current, and that the indian must be carried down; but by vigorous strokes he succeeded in stemming the torrent; he dived repeatedly, and finding the under-currents less strong, at last ventured to land, and concealed himself behind a thicket of mangrove-trees. but what was to become of him? retreat was perilous; the soldiers might change their plans and ascend the river; the indian must then inevitably be captured; he would lose his life, and, worse yet, sarah. his decision was rapidly made; through the narrow streets and deserted squares he plunged into the heart of the city; but it was important that he should be supposed dead; he therefore avoided being seen, since his garments, dripping with water and covered with sea-weed, would have betrayed him. to avoid the indiscreet glances of some belated inhabitants, martin paz was obliged to pass through one of the widest streets of the city; a house still brilliantly illuminated presented itself: the _port-cochere_ was open to give passage to the elegant equipages which were issuing from the court, and conveying to their respective dwellings the nobles of the spanish aristocracy. the indian adroitly glided into this magnificent dwelling; he could not remain in the street, where curious _zambos_ were thronging around, attracted by the carriages. the gates of the hotel were soon carefully closed, and the indian found flight impossible. some lacqueys were going to and fro in the court; martin paz rapidly passed up a rich stairway of cedar-wood, ornamented with valuable tapestry; the saloons, still illuminated, presented no convenient place of refuge; he crossed them with the rapidity of lightning, and disappeared in a room filled with protecting darkness. the last lustres were quickly extinguished, and the house became profoundly silent. the indian paz, as a man of energy to whom moments are precious, hastened to reconnoitre the place, and to find the surest means of evasion; the windows of this chamber opened on an interior garden; flight was practicable, and martin paz was about to spring from them, when he heard these words: "señor, you have forgotten to take the diamonds which i had left on that table!" martin paz turned. a man of noble stature and of great pride of countenance was pointing to a jewel-case. at this insult martin paz laid his hand on his poignard. he approached the spaniard, who stood unmoved, and, in a first impulse of indignation, raised his arm to strike him; but turning his weapon against himself, said, in a deep tone, "señor, if you repeat such words, i will kill myself at your feet." the spaniard, astonished, looked at the indian more attentively, and through his tangled and dripping locks perceived so lofty a frankness, that he felt a strange sympathy fill his heart. he went toward the window, gently closed it, and returned toward the indian, whose poignard had fallen to the ground. "who are you?" said he to him. "the indian, martin paz. i am pursued by soldiers for having defended myself against a mestizo who attacked me, and levelled him to the ground with a blow from my poignard. this mestizo is the betrothed of a young girl whom i love. now, señor, you can deliver me to my enemies, if you judge it noble and right." "sir," replied the spaniard, gravely, "i depart to-morrow for the baths of chorillos; if you please to accompany me, you will be for the present safe from pursuit, and will never have reason to complain of the hospitality of the marquis don vegal." martin paz bent coldly without manifesting any emotion. "you can rest until morning on this bed," resumed don vegal; "no one here will suspect your retreat. good-night, señor!" the spaniard went out of the room, and left the indian, moved to tears by a confidence so generous; he yielded himself entirely to the protection of the marquis, and without thinking that his slumbers might be taken advantage of to seize him, slept with peaceful security. the next day, at sunrise, the marquis gave the last orders for his departure, and summoned the jew samuel to come to him; in the meantime he attended the morning mass. this was a custom generally observed by the aristocracy. from its very foundation lima had been essentially catholic. besides its numerous churches, it numbered twenty-two convents, seventeen monasteries, and four _beaterios_, or houses of retreat for females who did not take the vows. each of these establishments possessed a chapel, so that there were at lima more than a hundred edifices for worship, where eight hundred secular or regular priests, three hundred _religieuses_, lay-brothers and sisters, performed the duties of religion. as don vegal entered the church of santa anna, he noticed a young girl kneeling in prayer and in tears. there was so much of grief in her depression, that the marquis could not look at her without emotion; and he was preparing to console her by some kind words, when father joachim de camarones approached him, saying in a low voice: "señor don vegal, pray do not approach her." then he made a sign to sarah, who followed him to an obscure and deserted chapel. don vegal directed his steps to the altar and listened to the mass; then, as he was returning, he thought involuntarily of the deep sadness of the kneeling maiden. her image followed him to his hotel, and remained deeply engraven in his soul. don vegal found in his saloon the jew samuel, who had come in compliance with his request. samuel seemed to have forgotten the events of the night; the hope of gain animated his countenance with a natural gayety. "what is your lordship's will?" asked he of the spaniard. "i must have thirty thousand piasters within an hour." "thirty thousand piasters! and who has them! by the holy king david, my lord, i am far from being able to furnish such a sum." "here are some jewels of great value," resumed don vegal, without noticing the language of the jew; "besides i can sell you at a low price a considerable estate near cusco." "ah! señor, lands ruin us--we have not arms enough left to cultivate them; the indians have withdrawn to the mountains, and our harvests do not pay us for the trouble they cost." "at what value do you estimate these diamonds?" samuel drew from his pocket a little pair of scales and began to weigh the stones with scrupulous skill. as he did this, he continued to talk, and, as was his custom, depreciated the pledges offered him. "diamonds! a poor investment! what would they bring? one might as well bury money! you will notice, señor, that this is not of the purest water. do you know that i do not find a ready market for these costly ornaments? i am obliged to send such merchandise to the united provinces! the americans would buy them, undoubtedly, but to give them up to the sons of albion. they wish besides, and it is very just, to gain an honest per centage, so that the depreciation falls upon me. i think that ten thousand piasters should satisfy your lordship. it is little, i know; but----" "have i not said," resumed the spaniard, with a sovereign air of scorn, "that ten thousand piasters would not suffice?" "señor, i cannot give you a half real more!" "take away these caskets and bring me the sum i ask for. to complete the thirty thousand piasters which i need, you will take a mortgage on this house. does it seem to you to be solid?" "ah, señor, in this city, subject to earthquakes, one knows not who lives or dies, who stands or falls." and, as he said this, samuel let himself fall on his heels several times to test the solidity of the floors. "well, to oblige your lordship, i will furnish you with the required sum; although, at this moment i ought not to part with money; for i am about to marry my daughter to the _caballero_ andré certa. do you know him, sir?" "i do not know him, and i beg of you to send me this instant, the sum agreed upon. take away these jewels." "will you have a receipt for them?" asked the jew. don vegal passed into the adjoining room, without replying. "proud spaniard!" muttered samuel, "i will crush thy insolence, as i disperse thy riches! by solomon! i am a skillful man, since my interests keep pace with my sentiments." don vegal, on leaving the jew, had found martin paz in profound dejection of spirits, mingled with mortification. "what is the matter?" he asked affectionately. "señor, it is the daughter of the jew whom i love." "a jewess!" exclaimed don vegal, with disgust. but seeing the sadness of the indian, he added: "let us go, _amigo_, we will talk of these things afterward!" an hour later, martin paz, clad in spanish costume, left the city, accompanied by don vegal, who took none of his people with him. the baths of chorillos are situated at two leagues from lima. this indian parish possesses a pretty church; during the hot season it is the rendezvous of the fashionable limanian society. public games, interdicted at lima, are permitted at chorillos during the whole summer. the señoras there display unwonted ardor, and, in decorating himself for these pretty partners, more than one rich cavalier has seen his fortune dissipated in a few nights. chorillos was still little frequented; so don vegal and martin paz retired to a pretty cottage, built on the sea-shore, could live in quiet contemplation of the vast plains of the pacific ocean. the marquis don vegal, belonging to one of the most ancient families of peru, saw about to terminate in himself the noble line of which he was justly proud; so his countenance bore the impress of profound sadness. after having mingled for some time in political affairs, he had felt an inexpressible disgust for the incessant revolutions brought about to gratify personal ambition; he had withdrawn into a sort of solitude, interrupted only at rare intervals by the duties of strict politeness. his immense fortune was daily diminishing. the neglect into which his vast domains had fallen for want of laborers, had compelled him to borrow at a disadvantage; but the prospect of approaching mediocrity did not alarm him; that carelessness natural to the spanish race, joined to the ennui of a useless existence, had rendered him insensible to the menaces of the future. formerly the husband of an adored wife, the father of a charming little girl, he had seen himself deprived, by a horrible event, of both these objects of his love. since then, no bond of affection had attached him to earth, and he suffered his life to float at the will of events. don vegal had thought his heart to be indeed dead, when he felt it palpitate at contact with that of martin paz. this ardent nature awoke fire beneath the ashes; the proud bearing of the indian suited the chivalric hidalgo; and then, weary of the spanish nobles, in whom he no longer had confidence, disgusted with the selfish mestizoes, who wished to aggrandize themselves at his expense, he took a pleasure in turning to that primitive race, who have disputed so valiantly the american soil with the soldiers of pizarro. according to the intelligence received by the marquis, the indian passed for dead at lima; but, looking on his attachment for the jewess as worse than death itself, the spaniard resolved doubly to save his guest, by leaving the daughter of samuel to marry andré certa. while martin paz felt an infinite sadness pervade his heart, don vegal avoided all allusion to the past, and conversed with the young indian on indifferent subjects. meanwhile, one day, saddened by his gloomy preoccupations, the spaniard said to him: "why, my friend, do you lower the nobility of your nature by a sentiment so much beneath you? was not that bold manco-capac, whom his patriotism placed in the rank of heroes, your ancestor? there is a noble part left for a valiant man, who will not suffer himself to be overcome by an unworthy passion. have you no heart to regain your independence?" "we are laboring for this, señor," said the indian; "and the day when my brethren shall rise _en masse_ is perhaps not far distant." "i understand you; you allude to the war for which your brethren are preparing among their mountains; at a signal they will descend on the city, arms in hand--and will be conquered as they have always been! see how your interests will disappear amid these perpetual revolutions of which peru is the theatre, and which will ruin it entirely, indians and spaniards, to the profit of the mestizoes, who are neither." "we will save it ourselves," exclaimed martin paz. "yes, you will save it if you understand how to play your part! listen to me, paz, you whom i love from day to day as a son! i say it with grief; but, we spaniards, the degenerate sons of a powerful race, no longer have the energy necessary to elevate and govern a state. it is therefore yours to triumph over that unhappy americanism, which tends to reject european colonization. yes, know that only european emigration can save the old peruvian empire. instead of this intestine war which tends to exclude all castes, with the exception of one, frankly extend your hands to the industrious population of the old world." "the indians, señor, will always see in strangers an enemy, and will never suffer them to breathe with impunity the air of their mountains. the kind of dominion which i exercise over them will be without effect on the day when i do not swear death to their oppressors, whoever they may be! and, besides, what am i now?" added martin paz, with great sadness; "a fugitive who would not have three hours to live in the streets of lima." "paz, you must promise me that you will not return thither." "how can i promise you this, don vegal? i speak only the truth, and i should perjure myself were i to take an oath to that effect." don vegal was silent. the passion of the young indian increased from day to day; the marquis trembled to see him incur certain death by re-appearing at lima. he hastened by all his desires, he would have hastened by all his efforts, the marriage of the jewess! to ascertain himself the state of things he quitted chorillos one morning, returned to the city, and learned that andré certa had recovered from his wound. his approaching marriage was the topic of general conversation. don vegal wished to see this woman whose image troubled the mind of martin paz. he repaired, at evening, to the plaza-mayor. the crowd was always numerous there. there he met father joachim de camarones, his confessor and his oldest friend; he acquainted him with his mode of life. what was the astonishment of the good father to learn the existence of martin paz. he promised don vegal to watch also himself over the young indian, and to convey to the marquis any intelligence of importance. suddenly the glances of don vegal rested on a young girl, enveloped in a black mantle, reclining in a calêche. "who is that beautiful person?" asked he of the father. "it is the betrothed of andré certa, the daughter of the jew samuel." "she! the daughter of the jew!" the marquis could hardly suppress his astonishment, and, pressing the hand of father joachim, pensively took the road to chorillos. he had just recognized in sarah, the pretended jewess, the young girl whom he had seen praying with such christian fervor, at the church of santa anna. chapter v. the hatred of the indians. since the colombian troops, confided by bolivar to the orders of general santa cruz, had been driven from lower peru, this country, which had been incessantly agitated by _pronunciamentos_, military revolts, had recovered some calmness and tranquillity. in fact, private ambition no longer had any thing to expect; the president gambarra seemed immovable in his palace of the plaza-mayor. in this direction there was nothing to fear; but the true danger, concealed, imminent, was not from these rebellions, as promptly extinguished as kindled, and which seemed to flatter the taste of the americans for military parades. this unknown peril escaped the eyes of the spaniards, too lofty to perceive it, and the attention of the mestizoes, who never wished to look beneath them. and yet there was an unusual agitation among the indians of the city; they often mingled with the _serranos_, the inhabitants of the mountains; these people seemed to have shaken off their natural apathy. instead of rolling themselves in their _ponchos_, with their feet turned to the spring sun, they were scattered throughout the country, stopping one another, exchanging private signals, and haunting the least frequented _pulperias_, in which they could converse without danger. this movement was principally to be observed on one of the squares remote from the centre of the city. at the corner of a street stood a house, of only one story, whose wretched appearance struck the eye disagreeably. a tavern of the lowest order, a _chingana_, kept by an old indian woman, offered to the lowest _zambos_ the _chica_, beer of fermented maize, and the _quarapo_, a beverage made of the sugar-cane. the concourse of indians on this square took place only at certain hours, and principally when a long pole was raised on the roof of the inn as a signal of assemblage, then the _zambos_ of every profession, the _capataz_, the _arrieros_, muleteers, the _carreteros_, carters, entered the _chingana_, one by one, and immediately disappeared in the great hall; the _padrona_ (hostess) seemed very busy, and leaving to her servant the care of the shop, hastened to serve herself her usual customers. a few days after the disappearance of martin paz, there was a numerous assembly in the hall of the inn; one could scarcely through the darkness, rendered still more obscure by the tobacco-smoke, distinguish the frequenters of this tavern. fifty indians were ranged around a long table; some were chewing the _coca_, a kind of tea-leaf, mingled with a little piece of fragrant earth called _manubi_; others were drinking from large pots of fermented maize; but these occupations did not distract their attention, and they were closely listening to the speech of an indian. this was the sambo, whose fixed eyes were strangely wild. he was clad as on the plaza-mayor. after having carefully observed his auditors, the sambo commenced in these terms: "the children of the sun can converse on grave affairs; there is no perfidious ear to hear them; on the square, some of our friends, disguised as street-singers, will attract the attention of the passers-by, and we shall enjoy entire liberty." in fact the tones of a mandoline and of a _viguela_ were echoing without. the indians within, knowing themselves in safety, lent therefore close attention to the words of the sambo, in whom they placed entire confidence. "what news can the sambo give us of martin paz?" asked an indian. "none--is he dead or not? the great spirit only knows. i am expecting some of our brethren, who have descended the river to its mouth, perhaps they will have found the body of martin paz." "he was a good chief," said manangani, a ferocious indian, much dreaded; "but why was he not at his post on the day when the schooner brought us arms?" the sambo cast down his head without reply. "did not my brethren know," resumed manangani, "that there was an exchange of shots between the _annonciation_ and the custom-house officers, and that the capture of the vessel would have ruined our projects of conspiracy?" a murmur of approbation received the words of the indian. "those of my brethren who will wait before they judge will be the beloved of my heart," resumed the sambo; "who knows whether my son martin paz will not one day re-appear? listen now; the arms which have been sent us from sechura are in our power; they are concealed in the mountains of the cordilleras, and ready to do their office when you shall be prepared to do your duty." "and what delays us?" said a young indian; "we have sharpened our knives and are waiting." "let the hour come," said the sambo; "do my brethren know what enemy their arms should strike first?" "those mestizoes who treat us as slaves, and strike us with the hand and whip, like restive mules." "these are the monopolizers of the riches of the soil, who will not suffer us to purchase a little comfort for our old age." "you are mistaken; and your first blows must be struck elsewhere," said the sambo, growing animated; "these are not the men who have dared for three hundred years past to tread the soil of our ancestors; it is not these rich men gorged with gold who have dragged to the tomb the sons of manco-capac; no, it is these proud spaniards whom fate has thrust on our independent shores! these are the true conquerors of whom you are the true slaves! if they have no longer wealth, they have authority; and, in spite of peruvian emancipation, they crush and trample upon our natural rights. let us forget what we are, to remember what our fathers have been!" "_anda! anda!_" exclaimed the assembly, with stamps of approbation. after a few moments of silence, the sambo assured himself, by interrogating various conspirators, that the friends of cusco and of all bolivia were ready to strike as a single man. then, resuming with fire: "and our brethren of the mountains, brave manangani, if they have all a heart of hatred equal to thine, a courage equal to thine, they will fall on lima like an avalanche from the summit of the cordilleras." "the sambo shall not complain of their boldness on the day appointed. let the indian leave the city, he shall not go far without seeing throng around him _zambos_ burning for vengeance! in the gorges of san cristoval and the amancaës, more than one is couched on his _poncho_, with his poignard at his girdle, waiting until a long carbine shall be confided to his skillful hand. they also have not forgotten that they have to revenge on the vain spaniards the defeat of manco-capac." "well said! manangani; it is the god of hatred who speaks from thy mouth. my brethren shall know before long him whom their chiefs have chosen to lead this great vengeance. president gambarra is seeking only to consolidate his power; bolivar is afar, santa cruz has been driven away; we can act with certainty. in a few days, the fête of the amancaës will summon our oppressors to pleasure; then, let each be ready to march, and let the news be carried to the most remote villages of bolivia." at this moment three indians entered the great hall. the sambo hastened to meet them. "well?" said he to them. "the body of martin paz has not been recovered; we have sounded the river in every direction; our most skillful divers have explored it with religious care, and the son of the sambo cannot have perished in the waters of the rimac." "have they killed him? what has become of him? oh! wo, wo to them if they have killed my son! let my brethren separate in silence; let each return to his post, look, watch and wait!" the indians went out and dispersed; the sambo alone remained with manangani, who asked him: "does the sambo know what sentiment conducted his son to san lazaro? the sambo, i trust, is sure of his son?" the eyes of the indian flashed, and the blood mounted to his cheek. the ferocious manangani recoiled. but the indian controlled himself, and said: "if martin paz has betrayed his brethren, i will first kill all those to whom he has given his friendship, all those to whom he has given his love! then i will kill him, and myself afterward, that nothing may be left beneath the sun of an infamous, and dishonored race." at this moment, the _padrona_ opened the door of the room, advanced toward the sambo, and handed him a billet directed to his address. "who gave you this?" said he. "i do not know; this paper may have been designedly forgotten by a _chica_-drinker. i found it on the table." "have there been any but indians here?" "there have been none but indians." the _padrona_ went out; the sambo unfolded the billet, and read aloud: "a young girl has prayed for the return of martin paz, for she has not forgotten that the young indian protected her and risked his life for her. if the sambo has any news of his poor son, or any hope of finding him, let him surround his arm with a red handkerchief; there are eyes which see him pass daily." the sambo crushed the billet in his hand. "the unhappy boy," said he, "has suffered himself to be caught by the eyes of a woman." "who is this woman?" asked manangani. "it is not an indian," replied the sambo, observing the billet; "it is some young girl of the other classes. martin paz, i no longer know thee!" "shall you do what this woman requests?" "no," replied the indian, violently; "let her lose all hope of seeing him again; let her die, if she will." and the sambo tore the billet in a rage. "it must have been an indian who brought this billet," observed manangani. "oh, it cannot have been one of ours! he must have known that i often came to this inn, but i will set my foot in it no more. we have occupied ourselves long enough with trifling affairs," resumed he, coldly; "let my brother return to the mountains; i will remain to watch over the city. we shall see whether the fête of the amancaës will be joyous for the oppressors or the oppressed!" the two indians separated. the plan of the conspiracy was well conceived and the hour of its execution well chosen. peru, almost depopulated, counted only a small number of spaniards and mestizoes. the invasion of the indians, gathered from every direction, from the forests of brazil, as well as the mountains of chili and the plains of la plata, would cover the theatre of war with a formidable army. the great cities, like lima, cusco, puña, might be utterly destroyed; and it was not to be expected that the colombian troops, so recently driven away by the peruvian government, would come to the assistance of their enemies in peril. this social overturn might therefore have succeeded, if the secret had remained buried in the hearts of the indians, and there surely could not be traitors among them? but they were ignorant that a man had obtained private audience of the president gambarra. this man informed him that the schooner _annonciation_ had been captured from him by indian pirates! that it had been laden with arms of all sorts; that canoes had unloaded it at the mouth of the rimac; and he claimed a high indemnity for the service he thus rendered to the peruvian government. and yet this man had let his vessel to the agents of the sambo; he had received for it a considerable sum, and had come to sell the secret which he had surprised. by these traits the reader will recognize the jew samuel. chapter vi. the betrothal. andré certa, entirely recovered, sure of the death of martin paz, pressed his marriage: he was impatient to parade the young and beautiful jewess through the streets of lima. sarah constantly manifested toward him a haughty indifference; but he cared not for it, considering her as an article of sale, for which he had paid a hundred thousand piasters. and yet andré certa suspected the jew, and with good reason; if the contract was dishonorable, the contractors were still more so. so the mestizo wished to have a secret interview with samuel, and took him one day to the baths of chorillos. he was not sorry, besides, to try the chances of play before his wedding: public gaming, prohibited at lima, is perfectly tolerated elsewhere. the passion of the limanian ladies and gentlemen for this hazardous amusement is singular and irresistible. the games were open some days before the arrival of the marquis don vegal; thenceforth there was a perpetual movement of the populace on the road from lima: some came on foot, who returned in carriages; others were about to risk and lose the last remnants of their fortunes. don vegal and martin paz took no part in these exciting pleasures. the reveries of the young indian had more noble causes; he was thinking of sarah and of his benefactor. the concourse of the limanians to the baths of chorillos was without danger for him; little known by the inhabitants of the city, like all the mountain indians he easily concealed himself from all eyes. after his evening walk with the marquis, martin paz would return to his room, and leaning his elbow on the window, pass long hours in allowing his tumultuous thoughts to wander over the pacific ocean. don vegal lodged in a neighboring chamber, and guarded him with paternal tenderness. the spaniard always remembered the daughter of samuel, whom he had so unexpectedly seen at prayer in the catholic temple. but he had not dared to confide this important secret to martin paz while instructing him by degrees in christian truths; he feared to re-animate sentiments which he wished to extinguish--for the poor indian, unknown and proscribed, must renounce all hope of happiness! father joachim kept don vegal informed of the progress of affairs: the police had at last ceased to trouble themselves about martin paz; and with time and the influence of his protector, the indian, become a man of merit and capable of great things, might one day take rank in the highest peruvian society. weary of the uncertainty into which his incognito plunged him, paz resolved to know what had become of the young jewess. thanks to his spanish costume, he could glide into a gaming-saloon, and listen to the conversation of its various frequenters. andré certa was a man of so much importance, that his marriage, if it was approaching, would be the subject of conversation. one evening, instead of directing his steps toward the sea, the indian climbed over the high rocks on which the principal habitations of chorillos are built; a house, fronted by broad stone steps, struck his eyes--he entered it without noise. the day had been hard for many of the wealthy limanians; some among them, exhausted with the fatigues of the preceding night, were reposing on the ground, wrapped in their _ponchos_. other players were seated before a large green table, divided into four compartments by two lines, which intersected each other at the centre in right angles; on each of these compartments were the first letters of the words _azar_ and _suerte_, (chance and fate,) a and s. at this moment, the parties of the _monte_ were animated; a mestizo was pursuing the unfavorable chance with feverish ardor. "two thousand piasters!" exclaimed he. the banker shook the dice, and the player burst into imprecations. "four thousand piasters!" said he, again. and he lost once more. martin paz, protected by the obscurity of the saloon, could look the player in the face, and he turned pale. it was andré certa! near him, was standing the jew samuel. "you have played enough, señor andré," said samuel to him; "the luck is not for you." "what business is it of yours?" replied the mestizo, roughly. samuel bent down to his ear. "if it is not my business, it is your business to break off these habits during the days which precede your marriage." "eight thousand piasters!" resumed andré certa. he lost again: the mestizo suppressed a curse and the banker resumed--"play on!" andré certa, drawing from his pocket some bills, was about to have hazarded a considerable sum; he had even deposited it on one of the tables, and the banker, shaking his dice, was about to have decided its fate, when a sign from samuel stopped him short. the jew bent again to the ear of the mestizo, and said-- "if nothing remains to you to conclude our bargain, it shall be broken off this evening!" andré certa shrugged his shoulders, took up his money, and went out. "continue now," said samuel to the banker; "you may ruin this gentleman after his marriage." the banker bowed submissively. the jew samuel was the founder and proprietor of the games of chorillos. wherever there was a _real_ to be made this man was to be met with. he followed the mestizo; and finding him on the stone steps, said to him-- "i have secrets of importance to communicate. where can we converse in safety?" "wherever you please," replied certa, roughly. "señor, let not your passions ruin your prospects. i would neither confide my secret to the most carefully closed chambers, nor the most lonely plains. if you pay me dearly for it, it is because it is worth telling and worth keeping." as they spoke thus, these two men had reached the sea, near the cabins destined for the use of the bathers. they knew not that they were seen, heard and watched by martin paz, who glided like a serpent in the shadow. "let us take a canoe," said andré, "and go out into the open sea; the sharks may, perhaps, show themselves discreet." andré detached from the shore a little boat, and threw some money to its guardian. samuel embarked with him, and the mestizo pushed off. he vigorously plied two flexible oars, which soon took them a mile from the shore. but as he saw the canoe put off, martin paz, concealed in a crevice of the rock, hastily undressed, and precipitating himself into the sea, swam vigorously toward the boat. the sun had just buried his last rays in the waves of the ocean, and darkness hovered over the crests of the waves. martin paz had not once reflected that sharks of the most dangerous species frequented these fatal shores. he stopped not far from the boat of the mestizo, and listened. "_but what proof of the identity of the daughter shall i carry to the father?_" asked andré certa of the jew. "you will recall to him the circumstances under which he lost her." "what were these circumstances?" martin paz, now scarcely above the waves, listened without understanding. in a girdle attached to his body, he had a poignard; he waited. "her father," said the jew, "lived at concencion, in chili: he was then the great nobleman he is now; only his fortune equalled his nobility. obliged to come to lima on business, he set out alone, leaving at concencion his wife, and child aged fifteen months. the climate of peru agreed with him, and he sent for the marchioness to rejoin him. she embarked on the _san-josé_ of valparaiso, with her confidential servants. "i was going to peru in the same ship. the _san-josé_ was about to enter the harbor of lima; but, near juan fernandez, was struck by a terrific hurricane, which disabled her and threw her on her side--it was the affair of half an hour. the _san-josé_ filled with water and was slowly sinking; the passengers and crew took refuge in the boat, but at sight of the furious waves, the marchioness refused to enter it; she pressed her infant in her arms, and remained in the ship. i remained with her--the boat was swallowed up at a hundred fathoms from the _san-josé_, with all her crew. we were alone--the tempest blew with increasing violence. as my fortune was not on board, i had nothing to lose. the _san-josé_, having five feet of water in her hold, drifted on the rocks of the shore, where she broke to pieces. the young woman was thrown into the sea with her daughter: fortunately, for me," said the jew, with a gloomy smile, "i could seize the child, and reach the shore with it." "all these details are exact?" "perfectly so. the father will recognize them. i had done a good day's work, señor; since she is worth to me the hundred thousand piasters which you are about to pay me. now, let the marriage take place to-morrow." "what does this mean?" asked martin paz of himself, still swimming in the shadow. "here is my pocket-book, with the hundred thousand piasters--take it, master samuel," replied andré certa to the jew. "thanks, señor andré," said the israelite, seizing the treasure; "take this receipt in exchange--i pledge myself to restore you double this sum, if you do not become a member of one of the proudest families of spain." but the indian had not heard this last sentence; he had dived to avoid the approach of the boat, and his eyes could see a shapeless mass gliding rapidly toward him. he thought it was the canoe--he was mistaken. it was a _tintorea_; a shark of the most ferocious species. martin paz did not quail, or he would have been lost. the animal approached him--the indian dived; but he was obliged to come up, in order to breathe.... he looked at the sky, as if he was never to behold it again. the stars sparkled above his head; the _tintorea_ continued to approach. a vigorous blow with his tail struck the swimmer; martin paz felt his slimy scales brush his breast. the shark, in order to snatch at him, turned on his back and opened his jaws, armed with a triple row of teeth. martin paz saw the white belly of the animal gleam beneath the wave, and with a rapid hand struck it with his poignard. suddenly he found the waters around him red with blood. he dived--came up again at ten fathoms' distance--thought of the daughter of samuel; and seeing nothing more of the boat of the mestizo, regained the shore in a few strokes, already forgetting that he had just escaped death. he quickly rejoined don vegal. the latter, not having found him on his return, was anxiously awaiting him. paz made no allusion to his recent adventures; but seemed to take a lively pleasure in his conversation. but the next day martin paz had left chorillos, and don vegal, tortured with anxiety, hastily returned to lima. the marriage of andré certa with the daughter of the wealthy samuel, was an important event. the beautiful señoras had not given themselves a moment's rest; they had exhausted their ingenuity to invent some pretty corsage or novel head-dress; they had wearied themselves in trying without cessation the most varied toilets. numerous preparations were also going on in the house of samuel; it was a part of the jew's plan to give great publicity to the marriage of sarah. the frescoes which adorned his dwelling according to the spanish custom, had been newly painted; the richest hangings fell in large folds at the windows and doors of the habitation. furniture carved in the latest fashion, of precious or fragrant wood, was crowded in vast saloons, impregnated with a delicious coolness. rare shrubs, the productions of warm countries, seized the eye with their splendid colors, and one would have thought spring had stolen along the balconies and terraces, to inundate them with flowers and perfumes. meanwhile, amid these smiling marvels, the young girl was weeping; sarah no longer had hope, since the sambo had none; and the sambo had no hope, since he wore no sign of hope! the negro liberta had watched the steps of the old indian; he had seen nothing. ah! if the poor child could have followed the impulses of her heart, she would have immured herself in one of those tranquil _beaterios_, to die there amid tears and prayer. urged by an irresistible attraction to the doctrines of catholicism, the young jewess had been secretly converted; by the cares of the good father joachim, she had been won over to a religion more in accordance with her feelings than that in which she had been educated. if samuel had destined her for a jew, she would have avowed her faith; but, about to espouse a catholic, she reserved for her husband the secret of her conversion. father joachim, in order to avoid scandal, and besides, better read in his breviary than in the human heart, had suffered sarah to believe in the death of martin paz. the conversion of the young girl was the most important thing to him; he saw it assured by her union with andré certa, and he sought to accustom her to the idea of this marriage, the conditions of which he was far from respecting. at last the day so joyous for some, so sad for others, had arrived. andré certa had invited the entire city to his nuptials; his invitations were refused by the noble families, who excused themselves on various pretexts. the mestizo, meanwhile, proudly held up his head, and scarcely looked at those of his own class. the little milleflores in vain essayed his humblest vows; but he consoled himself with the idea that he was about to figure as an active party in the repast which was to follow. in the meantime, the young mestizoes were discoursing with him in the brilliant saloons of the jew, and the crowd of guests thronged around andré certa, who proudly displayed the splendors of his toilet. the contract was soon to be signed; the sun had long been set, and the young girl had not appeared. doubtless she was discussing with her duenna and her maids the place of a ribbon or the choice of an ornament. perhaps, that enchanting timidity which so beautifully adorns the cheeks of a young girl, detained her still from their inquisitive regards. the jew samuel seemed a prey to secret uneasiness; andré certa bent his brow in an impatient manner; a sort of embarrassment was depicted on the countenance of more than one guest, while the thousand of wax-lights, reflected by the mirrors, filled the saloon with dazzling splendor. without, a man was wandering in mortal anxiety; it was the marquis don vegal. chapter vii. all interests at stake. meanwhile, sarah was left alone, alone with her anguish and her grief! she was about to give up her whole life to a man whom she did not love! she leaned over the perfumed balcony of her chamber, which overlooked the interior gardens. through the green jalousies, her ear listened to the sounds of the slumbering country. her lace mantle, gliding over her arms, revealed a profusion of diamonds sparkling on her shoulders. her sorrow, proud and majestic, appeared through all her ornaments, and she might have been taken for one of those beautiful greek slaves, nobly draped in their antique garments. suddenly her glance rested on a man who was gliding silently among the avenues of the magnolia; she recognized him; it was liberta, her servant. he seemed to be watching some invisible enemy, now sheltering himself behind a statue, now crouching on the ground. sarah was afraid, and looked around her. she was alone, entirely alone. her eyes rested on the gardens, and she became pale, paler still! before her was transpiring a terrible scene. liberta was in the grasp of a man of tall stature, who had thrown him down; stifled sighs proved that a robust hand was pressing the lips of the indian. the young girl, summoning all her courage, was about to cry out, when she saw the two men rise! the negro was looking fixedly at his adversary. "it is you, then! it is you!" exclaimed he. and he followed this man in a strange stupefaction. they arrived beneath the balcony of sarah. suddenly, before she had time to utter a cry, martin paz appeared to her, like a phantom from another world; and, like the negro when overthrown by the indian, the young girl, bending before the glance of martin paz, could in her turn only repeat these words, "it is you, then! it is you!" the young indian fixed on her his motionless eyes, and said: "does the betrothed hear the sound of the festival? the guests are thronging into the saloons to see happiness radiate from her countenance! is it then a victim, prepared for the sacrifice, who is about to present herself to their impatient eyes? is it with these features, pale with sorrow, with eyes in which sparkle bitter tears, that the young girl is to appear herself before her betrothed?" martin paz spoke thus, in a tone full of sympathizing sadness, and sarah listened vaguely as to those harmonies which we hear in dreams! the young indian resumed with infinite sweetness: "since the soul of the young girl is in mourning, let her look beyond the house of her father, beyond the city where she suffers and weeps; beyond the mountains, the palm-trees lift up their heads in freedom, the birds strike the air with an independent wing; men have immensity to live in, and the young girls may unfold their spirits and their hearts!" sarah raised her head toward martin paz. the indian had drawn himself up to his full height, and with his arm extended toward the summits of the cordilleras, was pointing out to the young girl the path to liberty. sarah felt herself constrained by an irresistible force. already the sound of voices reached her; they approached her chamber; her father was undoubtedly about to enter; perhaps her lover would accompany him! the indian suddenly extinguished the lamp suspended above his head. a whistling, similar to the cry of the _cilguero_, and reminding one of that heard on the plaza-mayor, pierced the silent darkness of night; the young girl swooned. the door opened hastily; samuel and andré certa entered. the darkness was profound; some servants ran with torches. the chamber was empty. "death and fury!" exclaimed the mestizo. "where is she?" asked samuel. "you are responsible for her," said andré, brutally. at these words, the jew felt a cold sweat freeze even his bones. "help! help!" he exclaimed. and, followed by his domestics, he sprang out of the house. martin paz fled rapidly through the streets of the city. the negro liberta followed him; but did not appear disposed to dispute with him the possession of the young girl. at two hundred paces from the dwelling of the jew, paz found some indians of his companions, who had assembled at the whistle uttered by him. "to our mountain _ranchos_!" exclaimed he. "to the house of the marquis don vegal!" said another voice behind him. martin paz turned; the spaniard was at his side. "will you not confide this young girl to me?" asked the marquis. the indian bent his head, and said in a low voice to his companions: "to the dwelling of the marquis don vegal!" they turned their steps in this direction. an extreme confusion reigned then in the saloons of the jew. the news of sarah's disappearance was a thunderbolt; the friends of andré hastened to follow him. the _faubourg_ of san lazaro was explored, hastily searched; but nothing could be discovered. samuel tore his hair in despair. during the whole night the most active research was useless. "martin paz is living!" exclaimed andré certa, in a moment of fury. and the presentiment quickly acquired confirmation. the police were immediately informed of the elopement; its most active agents bestirred themselves; the indians were closely watched, and if the retreat of the young girl was not discovered, evident proofs of an approaching revolt came to light, which accorded with the denunciations of the jew. andré certa lavished gold freely, but could learn nothing. meanwhile, the gate-keepers declared that they had seen no person leave lima; the young girl must therefore be concealed in the city. liberta, who returned to his master, was often interrogated; but no person seemed more astonished than himself at the elopement of sarah. meanwhile, one man besides andré certa had seen in the disappearance of the young jewess, a proof of the existence of martin paz; it was the sambo. he was wandering in the streets of lima, when the cry uttered by the indian fixed his attention; it was a signal of rally well known to him! the sambo was therefore a spectator of the capture of the young girl, and followed her to the dwelling of the marquis. the spaniard entered by a secret door, of which he alone had the key; so that his domestics suspected nothing. martin paz carried the young girl in his arms and laid her on a bed. when don vegal, who had returned to re-enter by the principal door, reached the chamber where sarah was reposing, he found martin paz kneeling beside her. the marquis was about to reproach the indian with his conduct, when the latter said to him: "you see, my father, whether i love you! ah! why did you throw yourself in my way? we should have been already free in our mountains. but how, should i not have obeyed your words?" don vegal knew not what to reply, his heart was seized with a powerful emotion. he felt how much he was beloved by martin paz. "the day on which sarah shall quit your dwelling to be restored to her father and her betrothed," sighed the indian, "you will have a son and a friend less in the world." as he said these last words, paz moistened with his tears the hand of don vegal. they were the first tears this man had shed! the reproaches of don vegal died away before this respectful submission. the young girl had become his guest; she was sacred! he could not help admiring sarah, still in a swoon; he was prepared to love her, of whose conversion he had been a witness, and whom he would have been pleased to bestow as a companion upon the young indian. it was then that, on opening her eyes, sarah found herself in the presence of a stranger. "where am i?" said she, with a sentiment of terror. "with a generous man who has permitted me to call him my father," replied martin paz, pointing to the spaniard. the young girl, restored by the voice of the indian to a consciousness of her position, covered her face with her trembling hands, and began to sob. "withdraw, friend," said don vegal to the young man; "withdraw." martin paz slowly left the room, not without having pressed the hand of the spaniard, and cast on sarah a lingering look. then don vegal bestowed upon this poor child consolations of exquisite delicacy; he conveyed in suitable language his sentiments of nobility and honor. attentive and resigned, the young girl comprehended what danger she had escaped; and she confided her future happiness to the care of the spaniard. but amid phrases interrupted by sighs and mingled with tears, don vegal perceived the intense attachment of this simple heart for him whom she called her deliverer. he induced sarah to take some repose, and watched over her with the solicitude of a father. martin paz comprehended the duties that honor required of him, and, in spite of perils and dangers, would not pass the night beneath the roof of don vegal. he therefore went out; his head was burning, his blood was boiling with fever in his veins. he had not gone a hundred paces in the street, when five or six men threw themselves upon him, and, notwithstanding his obstinate defense, succeeded in binding him. martin paz uttered a cry of despair, which was lost in the night. he believed himself in the power of his enemies, and gave a last thought to the young girl. a short time afterward the indian was deposited in a room. the bandage which had covered his eyes was taken off. he looked around him, and saw himself in the lower hall of that tavern where his brethren had organized their approaching revolt. the sambo, manangani, and others, surrounded him. a gleam of indignation flashed from his eyes, which was reciprocated by his captors. "my son had then no pity on my tears," said the sambo, "since he suffered me for so long a time to believe in his death?" "is it on the eve before a revolt that martin paz, our chief, should be found in the camp of our enemies?" martin paz replied neither to his father, nor to manangani. "so our most important interests have been sacrificed to a woman!" as he spoke thus, manangani had approached martin paz; a poignard was gleaming in his hand. martin paz did not even look at him. "let us first speak," said the sambo; "we will act afterward. if my son fails to conduct his brethren to the combat, i shall know now on whom to avenge his treason. let him take care! the daughter of the jew samuel is not so well concealed that she can escape our hatred. my son will reflect. struck with a mortal condemnation, proscribed, wandering among our masters, he will not have a stone on which to rest his sorrows. if, on the contrary, we resume our ancient country and our ancient power, martin paz, the chief of numerous tribes, may bestow upon his betrothed both happiness and glory." martin paz remained silent; but a terrific conflict was going on within him. the sambo had roused the most sensitive chords of his proud nature to vibrate; placed between a life of fatigues, of dangers, of despair, and an existence happy, honored, illustrious, he could not hesitate. but should he then abandon the marquis don vegal, whose noble hopes destined him as the deliverer of peru! "oh!" thought he, as he looked at his father, "they will kill sarah, if i forsake them." "what does my son reply to us?" imperiously demanded the sambo. "that martin paz is indispensable to your projects; that he enjoys a supreme authority over the indians of the city; that he leads them at his will, and, at a sign, could have them dragged to death. he must therefore resume his place in the revolt, in order to ensure victory." the bonds which still enchained him were detached by order of the sambo; martin paz arose free among his brethren. "my son," said the indian, who was observing him attentively, "to-morrow, during the fête of the amancaës, our brethren will fall like an avalanche on the unarmed limanians. there is the road to the cordilleras, there is the road to the city; you will go wherever your good pleasure shall lead you. to-morrow! to-morrow! you will find more than one mestizo breast to break your poignard against. you are free." "to the mountains!" exclaimed martin paz, with a stern voice. the indian had again become an indian amid the hatred which surrounded him. "to the mountains," repeated he, "and wo to our enemies, wo!" and the rising sun illumined with its earliest rays the council of the indian chiefs in the heart of the cordilleras. these rays were joyless to the heart of the poor young girl, who wept and prayed. the marquis had summoned father joachim; and the worthy man had there met his beloved penitent. what happiness was it for her to kneel at the feet of the old priest, and to pour out her anguish and her afflictions. but sarah could not longer remain in the dwelling of the spaniard. father joachim suggested this to don vegal, who knew not what part to take, for he was a prey to extreme anxiety. what had become of martin paz? he had fled the house. was he in the power of his enemies? oh! how the spaniard regretted having suffered him to leave it during that night of alarms! he sought him with the ardor, with the affection of a father; he found him not. "my old friend," said he to joachim, "the young girl is in safety near you; do not leave her during this fatal night." "but her father, who seeks her--her betrothed, who awaits her?" "one day--one single day! you know not whose existence is bound to that of this child. one day--one single day! at least until i find martin paz, he whom my heart and god have named my son!" father joachim returned to the young girl; don vegal went out and traversed the streets of lima. the spaniard was surprised at the noise, the commotion, the agitation of the city. it was that the great fête of the amancaës, forgotten by him alone, the th of june, the day of st. john, had arrived. the neighboring mountains were covered with verdure and flowers; the inhabitants, on foot, on horseback, in carriages, were repairing to a celebrated table-land, situated at half a league from lima, where the spectators enjoyed an admirable prospect; mestizoes and indians mingled in the common fête; they walked gayly by groups of relatives or friends; each group, calling itself by the name of _partida_, carried its provisions, and was preceded by a player on the guitar, who chanted, accompanying himself, the most popular _yaravis_ and _llantos_. these joyous promenaders advanced with cries, sports, endless jests, through the fields of maize and of _alfalfa_, through the groves of banana, whose fruits hung to the ground; they traversed those beautiful _alamedas_, planted with willows, and forests of citron, and orange-trees, whose intoxicating perfumes were mingled with the wild fragrance from the mountains. all along the road, traveling cabarets offered to the promenaders the brandy of _pisco_ and the _chica_, whose copious libations excited to laughter and clamor; cavaliers made their horses caracole in the midst of the throng, and rivaled each other in swiftness, address, and dexterity; all the dances in vogue, from the _loudon_ to the _mismis_, from the _boleros_ to the _zamacuecas_, agitated and hurried on the _caballeros_ and black-eyed _sambas_. the sounds of the _viguela_ were soon no longer sufficient for the disordered movements of the dancers; the musicians uttered wild cries, which stimulated them to delirium; the spectators beat the measure with their feet and hands, and the exhausted couples sunk one after another to the ground. there reigned in this fête, which derives its name from the little mountain-flowers, an inconceivable transport and freedom; and yet no private brawl mingled among the cries of public rejoicing; a few lancers on horseback, ornamented with their shining cuirasses, maintained here and there order among the populace. the various classes of limanian society mingled in these rejoicings, which are repeated every day throughout the month of july. pretty _tapadas_ laughingly elbow beautiful girls, who bravely come, with uncovered faces, to meet joyous cavaliers; and when at last this multitude arrive at the _plateau_ of the amancaës, an immense clamor of admiration is repeated by the mountain echoes. at the feet of the spectators extends the ancient city of kings, proudly lifting toward heaven its towers and its steeples, whose bells are ringing joyous peals. san pedro, saint augustine, the cathedral, attract the eye to their roofs, resplendent with the rays of the sun. san domingo, the rich church, the madonna of which is never clad in the same garments two days in succession, raises above her neighbors her tapering spire; on the right, the vast plains of the pacific ocean are undulating to the breath of the occidental breeze, and the eye, as it roves from callao to lima, rests on those funereal _chulpas_, the last remains of the great dynasty of the incas; at the horizon, cape morro-solar frames, with its sloping hills, the wonderful splendors of this picture. so the limanians are never satisfied with these admirable prospects, and their noisy approbation deafens every year the echoes of san cristoval and the amancaës. now, while they fearlessly enjoyed these picturesque views, and were giving themselves up to an irresistible delight, a gloomy bloody funereal drama was preparing on the snowy summits of the cordilleras. chapter viii. conquerors and conquered. a prey to his blind grief, don vegal walked at random. after having lost his daughter, the hope of his race and of his love, was he about to see himself also deprived of the child of his adoption whom he had wrested from death? don vegal had forgotten sarah, to think only of martin paz. he was struck with the great number of indians, of _zambos_, of _chiños_, who were wandering about the streets; these men, who usually took an active part in the sports of the amancaës, were now walking silently with singular pre-occupation. often some busy chief gave them a secret order, and went on his way; and all, notwithstanding their _detours_, were assembling by degrees in the wealthiest quarters of lima, in proportion as the limanians were scattered abroad in the country. don vegal, absorbed in his own researches, soon forgot this singular state of things. he traversed san lazaro throughout, saw andré certa there, enraged and armed, and the jew samuel, in the extremity of distress, not for the loss of his daughter, but for the loss of his hundred thousand piasters; but he found not martin paz, whom he was impatiently seeking. he ran to the consistorial prison. nothing! he returned home. nothing! he mounted his horse and hastened to chorillos. nothing! he returned at last, exhausted with fatigue, to lima; the clock of the cathedral was striking four. don vegal remarked some groups of indians before his dwelling; but he could not, without compromising the man of whom he was in search, ask them-- "where is martin paz?" he re-entered, more despairing than ever. immediately a man emerged from a neighboring alley, and came directly to the indians. this man was the sambo. "the spaniard has returned," said he to them; "you know him now; he is one of the representatives of the race which crushes us--wo to him!" "and when shall we strike?" "when five o'clock sounds, and the tocsin from the mountain gives the signal of vengeance." then the sambo marched with hasty steps to the _chingana_, and rejoined the chief of the revolt. meanwhile the sun had begun to sink beneath the horizon; it was the hour in which the limanian aristocracy went in its turn to the amancaës; the richest toilets shone in the equipages which defiled to the right and left beneath the trees along the road; there was an inextricable mêlée of foot-passengers, carriages, horses; a confusion of cries, songs, instruments, and vociferations. the clock on the tower of the cathedral suddenly struck five! and a shrill funereal sound vibrated through the air; the tocsin thundered over the crowd, frozen in its delirium. an immense cry resounded in the city. from every square, every street, every house issued the indians, with arms in their hands, and fury in their eyes. the principal places of the city were thronged with these men, some of whom shook above their heads burning torches! "death to the spaniards! death to the oppressors!" such was the watch-word of the rebels. those who attempted to return to lima must have recoiled before these masses; but the summits of the hills were quickly covered with other enemies, and all retreat was impossible; the _zambos_ precipitated themselves like a thunderbolt on this crowd, exhausted with the fatigues of the festival, while the mountain indians cleared for themselves a bloody path to rejoin their brethren of the city. imagine the aspect presented by lima at this terrible moment. the rebels had left the square of the tavern, and were scattered in all quarters; at the head of one of the columns, martin paz was waving the black flag--the flag of independence; while the indians in the other streets were attacking the houses appointed to ruin, martin paz took possession of the plaza-mayor with his company; near him, manangani was uttering ferocious yells, and proudly displaying his bloody arms. but the soldiers of the government, forewarned of the revolt, were ranged in battle array before the palace of the president; a frightful _fusillade_ greeted the insurgents at their entrance on the square; surprised by this unexpected discharge, which extended a goodly number of them on the ground, they sprang upon the troops with insurmountable impatience; a horrible mêlée followed, in which men fought body to body. martin paz and manangani performed prodigies of valor, and escaped death only by miracle. it was necessary at all hazards that the palace should be taken and occupied by their men. "forward!" cried martin paz, and his voice led the indians to the assault. although they were crushed in every direction, they succeeded in making the body of troops around the palace recoil. already had manangani sprang on the first steps; but he suddenly stopped as the opening ranks of soldiers unmasked two pieces of cannon ready to fire on the assailants. there was not a moment to lose; the battery must be seized before it could be discharged. "on!" cried manangani, addressing himself to martin paz. but the young indian had just stooped and no longer heard him, for an indian had whispered these words in his ear: "they are pillaging the house of don vegal, perhaps assassinating him!" at these words martin paz recoiled. manangani seized him by the arm; but, repulsing him with a vigorous hand, the indian darted toward the square. "traitor! infamous traitor!" exclaimed manangani, discharging his pistols at martin paz. at this moment the cannons were fired, and the grape swept the indians on the steps. "this way, brethren," cried martin paz, and a few fugitives, his devoted companions, joined him; with this little company he could make his way through the soldiers. this flight had all the consequences of treason; the indians believed themselves abandoned by their chief. manangani in vain attempted to bring them back to the combat; a rapid _fusillade_ sent among them a shower of balls; thenceforth it was no longer possible to rally them; the confusion was at its height and the rout complete. the flames which arose in certain quarters attracted some fugitives to pillage; but the conquering soldiers pursued them with the sword, and killed a great number without mercy. meanwhile, martin paz had gained the house of don vegal; it was the theatre of a bloody struggle, headed by the sambo himself; he had a double interest in being there; while contending with the spanish noblemen, he wished to seize sarah, as a pledge of the fidelity of his son. on seeing martin paz return, he no longer doubted his treason, and turned his brethren against him. the overthrown gate and walls of the court revealed don vegal, sword in hand, surrounded by his faithful servants, and contending with an invading mass. this man's courage and pride were sublime; he was the first to present himself to mortal blows, and his formidable arm had surrounded him with corpses. but what could be done against this crowd of indians, which was then increasing with all the conquered of the plaza-mayor. don vegal felt that his defenders were becoming exhausted, and nothing remained for him but death, when martin paz arrived, rapid as the thunderbolt, charged the aggressors from behind, forced them to turn against him, and, amid balls, poignard-strokes and maledictions, reached don vegal, to whom he made a rampart of his body. courage revived in the hearts of the besieged. "well done, my son, well done!" said don vegal to martin paz, pressing his hand. but the young indian was gloomy. "well done! martin paz," exclaimed another voice which went to his very soul; he recognized sarah, and his arm traced a bloody circle around him. the company of sambo gave way in its turn. twenty times had this modern brutus directed his blows against his son, without being able to reach him, and twenty times martin had turned away the weapon about to strike his father. suddenly the ferocious manangani, covered with blood, appeared beside the sambo. "thou hast sworn," said he, "to avenge the treason of a wretch on his kindred, on his friends, on himself. well, it is time! the soldiers are coming; the mestizo, andré certa, is with them." "come then," said the sambo, with a ferocious laugh: "come then, for our vengeance approaches." and both abandoned the house of don vegal, while their companions were being killed there. they went directly to the company who were arriving. the latter aimed at them; but without being intimidated, the sambo approached the mestizo. "you are andré certa," said he; "well, your betrothed is in the house of don vegal, and martin paz is about to carry her to the mountains." this said, the indians disappeared. thus the sambo had put face to face two mortal enemies, and, deceived by the presence of martin paz in the house of don vegal, the soldiers rushed upon the dwelling of the marquis. andré certa was intoxicated with rage. as soon as he perceived martin paz, he rushed upon him. "here!" exclaimed the young indian, and quitting the stone steps which he had so valiantly defended, he joined the mestizo. meanwhile the companions of martin paz were repulsing the soldiers body to body. martin paz had seized andré certa with his powerful hand, and clasped him so closely that the mestizo could not use his pistols. they were there, foot against foot, breast against breast, their faces touched, and their glances mingled in a single gleam; their movements became rapid, even invisible; neither friends nor enemies could approach them; in this terrible embrace respiration failed, both fell. andré certa raised himself above martin paz, whose poignard had escaped his grasp. the mestizo raised his arm, but the indian succeeded in seizing it before it had struck. the moment was horrible. andré certa in vain attempted to disengage himself; martin paz, with supernatural strength, turned against the mestizo the poignard and the arm which held it, and plunged it into his heart. martin paz arose all bloody. the place was free, the soldiers flying in every direction. martin paz might have conquered had he remained on the plaza-mayor. he fell into the arms of don vegal. "to the mountains, my son; flee to the mountains! now i command it." "is my enemy indeed dead?" said martin paz, returning to the corpse of andré certa. a man was that moment searching it, and held a pocket-book which he had taken from it. martin paz sprang on this man and overthrew him; it was the jew samuel. the indian picked up the pocket-book, opened it hastily, searched it, uttered a cry of joy, and springing toward the marquis, put in his hand a paper on which were written these words: "received of the señor andré certa the sum of , piasters; i pledge myself to restore this sum doubled, if sarah, whom i saved from the shipwreck of the _san-josé_, and whom he is about to espouse, is not the daughter and only heir of the marquis don vegal. "samuel." "my daughter! my daughter!" exclaimed the spaniard, and he fell into the arms of martin paz, who carried him to the chamber of sarah. alas! the young girl was no longer there; father joachim, bathed in his own blood, could articulate only these words: "the sambo!--carried off!--toward the river of madeira!--" and he fainted. chapter ix. the cataracts of the madeira. "on! on!" martin paz had exclaimed. and without saying a word, don vegal followed the indian. his daughter!--he must find again his daughter! mules were brought, prepared for a long journey among the cordilleras; the two men mounted them, wrapped in their _ponchos_; large gaiters were attached by thongs above their knees; immense stirrups, armed with long spurs, surrounded their feet, and broad-brimmed guayaquil hats sheltered their heads. arms filled the holsters of each saddle; a carbine, formidable in the hands of don vegal, was suspended at his side. martin paz had encircled himself with his lasso, one extremity of which was fixed to the harness of his mule. the spaniard and the indian spurred their horses to their utmost speed. at the moment of leaving the walls of the city they were joined by an indian equipped like themselves. it was liberta--don vegal recognized him; the faithful servant wished to share in their pursuit. martin paz knew all the plains, all the mountains, which they were to traverse; he knew among what savage tribes, into what desert country the sambo had conveyed his betrothed. his betrothed! he no longer dared give this name to the daughter of don vegal. "my son," said the latter, "have you any hope in your heart?" "as much as hatred and tenderness." "the daughter of the jew, in becoming my blood, has not ceased to be thine." "let us press on!" hastily replied martin paz. on their way the travelers saw a great number of indians flying to regain their _ranchos_ amid the mountains. the defection of martin paz had been followed by defeat. if the _émeute_ had triumphed in some places, it had received its death-blow at lima. the three cavaliers traveled rapidly, having but one idea, one object. they soon buried themselves among the almost impracticable passes of the cordilleras. difficult pathways circulated through these reddish masses, planted here and there with cocoanut and pine trees; the cedars, cotton-trees, and aloes were left behind them, with the plains covered with maize and lucerne; some thorny cactuses sometimes pricked their mules, and made them hesitate on the verge of precipices. it was a difficult task to traverse the cordilleras during these summer months; the melting of snows beneath the sun of june often made unforeseen cataracts spout from beneath the steps of the traveler; often frightful masses, detaching themselves from the summits of the peaks, were engulfed near them in fathomless abysses! but they continued their march, fearing neither the hurricane nor the cold of these high solitudes; they traveled day and night, finding neither cities nor dwellings where they might for a moment repose; happy if in some deserted hut they found a mat of _tortora_ upon which to extend their wearied limbs, some pieces of meat dried in the sun, some calabashes full of muddy water. they reached at last the summit of the andes, , feet above the level of the sea. there, no more trees, no more vegetation; sometimes an _oso_ or _ucuman_, a sort of enormous black bear, came to meet them. often, during the afternoon, they were enveloped in those formidable storms of the cordilleras, which raise whirlwinds of snow from the loftiest summits. don vegal sometimes paused, unaccustomed to these frightful perils. martin paz then supported him in his arms, and sheltered him against the drifting snow. and yet lightnings flashed from the clouds, and thunders broke over these barren peaks, and filled the mountain recesses with their terrific roar. at this point, the most elevated of the andes, the travelers were seized with a malady called by the indians _soroche_, which deprives the most intrepid man of his courage and his strength. a superhuman will is then necessary to keep one from falling motionless on the stones of the road, and being devoured by those immense condors which display above their vast wings! these three men spoke little; each wrapped himself in the silence which these vast deserts inspired. on the eastern slope of the cordilleras, they hoped to find traces of their enemies; they therefore traveled on, and were at last descending the chain of mountains; but the andes are composed of a great number of salient peaks, so that inaccessible precipices were constantly rising before them. nevertheless they soon found the trees of inferior levels; the llamas, the vigonias, which feed on the thin grass, announced the neighborhood of men. sometimes they met _gauchos_ conducting their _arias_ of mules; and more than one _capataz_ (leader of a convoy) exchanged fresh animals for their exhausted ones. in this manner they reached the immense virgin forests which cover the plains situated between peru and brazil; they began thenceforth to recover traces of the captors; and it was in the midst of these inextricable woods that martin paz recovered all his indian sagacity. courage returned to the spaniard, strength returned to liberta, when a half-extinct fire and prints of footsteps proved the proximity of their enemies. martin paz noted all and studied all, the breaking of the little branches, the nature of the vestiges. don vegal feared lest his unfortunate daughter should have been dragged on foot through the stones and thorns; but the indian showed him some pebbles strongly imbedded in the earth, which indicated the pressure of an animal's foot; above, branches had been pushed aside in the same direction, which could have been reached only by a person on horseback. the poor father comforted himself and recovered life and hope, and then martin paz was so confident, so skillful, so strong, that there were for him neither impassable obstacles nor insurmountable perils. nevertheless immense forests contracted the horizon around them, and trees multiplied incessantly before their fatigued eyes. one evening, while the darkness was gathering beneath the opaque foliage, martin paz, liberta and don vegal were compelled by fatigue to stop. they had reached the banks of a river; it was the river madeira, which the indian recognized perfectly; immense mangrove trees bent above the sleeping wave and were united to the trees on the opposite shore by capricious _lianes_ (vines), on which were balancing the _titipaying_ and the _concoulies_. had the captors ascended the banks? had they descended the course of the river? had they crossed it in a direct line? such were the questions with which martin paz puzzled himself. he stepped a little aside from his companions, following with infinite difficulty some fugitive tracks; these brought him to a clearing a little less gloomy. some footsteps indicated that a company of men had, perhaps, crossed the river at this spot, which was the opinion of the indian, although he found around him no proof of the construction of a canoe; he knew that the sambo might have cut down some tree in the middle of the forest, and having spoiled it of its bark, made of it a boat, which could have been carried on the arms of men to the shores of the madeira. nevertheless, he was still hesitating, when he saw a sort of black mass move near a thicket; he quickly prepared his lasso and made ready for an attack; he advanced a few paces, and perceived an animal lying on the ground, a prey to the final convulsions--it was a mule. the poor, expiring beast had been struck at a distance from the spot whither it had been dragged, leaving long traces of blood on its passage. martin paz no longer doubted that the indians, unable to induce it to cross the river, had killed it with the stroke of a poignard, as a deep wound indicated. from this moment he felt certain of the direction of his enemies; and returned to his companions, who were already uneasy at his long absence. "to-morrow, perhaps, we shall see the young girl!" said he to them. "my daughter! oh! my son! let us set out this instant," said the spaniard; "i am no longer fatigued, and strength returns with hope--let us go!" "but we must cross this river, and we cannot lose time in constructing a canoe." "we will swim across." "courage, then, my father! liberta and myself will sustain you." all three laid aside their garments, which martin paz carried in a bundle upon his head; and all three glided silently into the water, for fear of awakening some of these dangerous _caïmans_ so numerous in the rivers of brazil and peru. they arrived safely at the opposite shore: the first care of martin paz was to recover traces of the indians; but in vain did he scrutinize the smallest leaves, the smallest pebbles--he could discover nothing; as the rapid current had carried them down in crossing, he ascended the bank of the river to the spot opposite that where he had found the mule, but nothing indicated the direction taken by the captors. it must have been that these, that their tracks might be entirely lost, had descended the river for several miles, in order to land far from the spot of their embarkation. martin paz, that his companions might not be discouraged, did not communicate to them his fears; he said not even a word to don vegal respecting the mule, for fear of saddening him still more with the thought that his daughter must now be dragged through these difficult passes. when he returned to the spaniard, he found him asleep--fatigue had prevailed over grief and resolution; martin paz was careful not to awaken him; a little sleep might do him much good; but, while he himself watched, resting the head of don vegal on his knees and piercing with his quick glances the surrounding shadows, he sent liberta to seek below on the river some trace which might guide them at the first rays of the sun. the indian departed in the direction indicated, gliding like a serpent between the high brush with which the shores were bristling, and the sound of his footsteps was soon lost in the distance. thenceforth martin paz remained alone amid these gloomy solitudes: the spaniard was sleeping peacefully; the names of his daughter and the indian sometimes mingled in his dreams, and alone disturbed the silence of these obscure forests. the young indian was not mistaken; the sambo had descended the madeira three miles, then had landed with the young girl and his numerous companions, among whom might be numbered manangani, still covered with hideous wounds. the company of sambo had increased during the journey. the indians of the plains and the mountains had awaited with impatience the triumph of the revolt; on learning the failure of their brethren, they fell a prey to a gloomy despair; hearing that they had been betrayed by martin paz, they uttered yells of rage; when they saw that they had a victim to be sacrificed to their anger, they burst forth in cries of joy and followed the company of the old indian. they marched thus to the approaching sacrifice, devouring the young girl with sanguinary glances--it was the betrothed, the beloved of martin paz whom they were about to put to death; abuse was heaped upon her, and more than once the sambo, who wished his revenge to be public, with difficulty wrested sarah from their fury. the young girl, pale, languishing, was without thought and almost without life amid this frightful horde; she had no longer the sentiment of motion, of will, of existence--she advanced, because bloody hands urged her onward; they might have abandoned her in the midst of these great solitudes--she could not have taken a step to have escaped death. sometimes the remembrance of her father and of the young indian passed before her eyes, but like a gleam of lightning bewildering her; then she fell again an inert mass on the neck of the poor mule, whose wounded feet could no longer sustain her. when beyond the river she was compelled to follow her captors on foot, two indians taking her by the arm dragged her rapidly along, and a trace of blood marked on the sand and dead leaves her painful passage. but the sambo was no longer afraid of pursuit; he cared little that this blood betrayed the direction he had taken--he was approaching the termination of his journey, and soon the cataracts which abound in the currents of the great river sent up their deafening clamor. the numerous company of indians arrived at a sort of village, composed of a hundred huts, made of reeds interlaced and clay; at their approach, a multitude of women and children darted toward them with loud cries of joy--more than one found there his anxious family--more than one wife missed the father of her children! these women soon learned the defeat of their party; their sadness was transformed into rage on learning the defection of martin paz, and on seeing his betrothed devoted to death. sarah remained immovable before these enemies and looked at them with a dim eye; all these hideous faces were making grimaces around her, and the most terrific threats were uttered in her ears--the poor child might have thought herself delivered over to the torturers of the infernal regions. "where is my husband?" said one; "it is thou who hast caused him to be killed!" "and my brother, who will never again return to the cabin--what hast thou done with him? death! death! let each of us have a piece of her flesh! let each of us have a pain to make her suffer! death! death!" and these women, with dishevelled hair, brandishing knives, waving flaming brands, bearing enormous stones, approached the young girl, surrounded her, pressed her, crushed her. "back!" cried the sambo, "back! and let all await the decision of their chiefs! this girl must disarm the anger of the great spirit, which has rested upon our arms; and she shall not serve for private revenge alone!" the women obeyed the words of the old indian, casting frightful glances on the young girl; the latter, covered with blood, remained extended on the pebbly shore. above this village, plunges, from a height of more than a hundred feet, a foaming cataract, which breaks against sharp rocks; the madeira, contracted into a deep bed, precipitates this dense mass of water with frightful rapidity; a cloud of mist is eternally suspended above this torrent, whose fall sends its formidable and thundering roar afar. it was in the midst of this foaming tempest that the unfortunate young girl was destined to die; at the first rays of the sun, exposed in a bark canoe above the cataract, she was to be precipitated with the mass of waters on the rude rocks against which the madeira broke. so the council of chiefs had decided; and they had delayed until the morrow the punishment of their victim, to give her a night of anguish, of torment, and of terror. when the sentence was made known, cries of joy welcomed it, and a furious delirium seized the indians. it was a night of orgies--a night of blood and of horror; brandy increased the excitement of these wild natives; dances, accompanied with perpetual yells, surrounded the young girl, and wound their fantastic chains about the stake to which she was fastened. sometimes the circle narrowed, and enlaced her in its furious whirls: the indians ran through the uncultivated fields, brandishing blazing pine-branches, and surrounding the victim with light. and it was thus until sunrise, and worse yet when its first rays illuminated the scene. the young girl was detached from the stake, and a hundred arms were stretched out to drag her to execution, when the name of martin paz involuntarily escaped her lips, and cries of hatred and of vengeance responded. it was necessary to climb by steep paths the immense pile of rocks which led to the upper level of the river, and the victim arrived there all bloody; a canoe of bark awaited her a hundred paces above the fall; she was deposited in it, and fastened by bonds which entered her flesh. "vengeance and death!" exclaimed the whole tribe, with one voice. the canoe was hurried on with increasing rapidity and began to whirl. suddenly a man appeared on the opposite shore-- it is martin paz! beside him, are don vegal and liberta. "my daughter! my daughter!" exclaims the father, kneeling on the shore. "my father!" replied sarah, raising herself up with superhuman strength. the scene was indescribable. the canoe was rapidly hastening to the cataract, in whose foam it was already enveloped. martin paz, standing on a rock, balanced his lasso which whistled around his head. at the instant the boat was about to be precipitated, the long leathern thong unfolded from above the head of the indian, and surrounded the canoe with its noose. "my daughter! my daughter!" exclaimed don vegal. "my betrothed! my beloved!" cried martin paz. "death!" yelled the savage multitude. meanwhile martin paz redoubles his efforts; the canoe remains suspended over the abyss; the current cannot prevail over the strength of the young indian; the canoe is drawn to him; the enemies are far on the opposite shore; the young girl is saved. suddenly an arrow whistles through the air, and pierces the heart of martin paz. he falls forward in the bark of the victim; and, re-descending the current of the river in her arms, is engulfed with sarah in the vortex of the cataract. a yell of triumph is heard above the sound of the torrent. liberta bore off the spaniard amid a cloud of arrows, and disappeared with him. don vegal regained lima, where he died with grief and exhaustion. the sambo, who remained among his sanguinary tribes, was never heard of more. the jew samuel kept the hundred thousand piasters he had received, and continued his usuries at the expense of the limanian nobles. martin paz and sarah were, in their brief and final re-union, betrothed for eternity. none note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and added music. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=), and text in small capitals is replaced by all capitals. a list of corrections is at the end of the e-book. [illustration: the song of a single note.] a song of a single note a love story by amelia e. barr author of "the bow of orange ribbon," "the maid of maiden lane," etc. [illustration: decoration] new york dodd, mead & company copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. first edition published october, . the burr printing house, new york. to my friend, dr. stephen decatur harrison: an american who loves his country "right or wrong," and who always believes she is "right," this novel is with much esteem dedicated. contents chapter page i. red or blue ribbons . . . . . . . . ii. the fair and the brave . . . . . . . iii. life in the captive city . . . . . . . iv. a song of a single note . . . . . . . v. love's sweet dream . . . . . . . . vi. the intercepted message . . . . . . . vii. the price of harry's life . . . . . . viii. the help of jacob cohen . . . . . . . ix. the turn of the tide . . . . . . . . x. maria goes to london . . . . . . . . xi. the question of marriage . . . . . . . xii. love and victory . . . . . . . . . list of illustrations page the song of a single note--_frontispiece_. maria lay dressed upon her bed _facing_ the drummers and fifers in front did not see him _facing_ he caused the small boat to put him on shore _facing_ prologue. "love, its flutes will still be stringing, lovers still will sigh and kneel; freedom sets her trumpets ringing to the clash of smiting steel." so i weave of love and glory, homely toil, and martial show, fair romance from the grand story lived a century ago. a song of a single note chapter i. red or blue ribbons. it was the fourth year of the captivity of new york, and the beleaguered city, in spite of military pomp and display, could not hide the desolations incident to her warlike occupation. the beautiful trees and groves which once shaded her streets and adorned her suburbs had been cut down by the army sappers; her gardens and lawns upturned for entrenchments and indented by artillery wheels; and some of the best parts of the city blackened and mutilated by fire. her churches had been turned into prisons and hospitals, and were centres of indescribable suffering and poisonous infection; while over the burnt district there had sprung up a town of tents inhabited by criminals and by miserable wretches whom starvation and despair had turned into highwaymen. but these conditions were the work of man. nature still lavished upon the captive city a glory of sunshine and blue skies, and winds, full of the freshness and sparkle of the great sea, blew through all her sickly streets. wherever the gardens had not been destroyed, there was the scent of mays and laburnums, and the indescribable beauty of apple blossoms on the first day of their birth. in front of one of these fortunate enclosures, belonging to a little house on queen street, an old gentleman was standing, looking wistfully in at a trellis of small red roses. he turned away with a sigh as a man dressed like a sailor touched him on the arm, saying, as he did so: "well, then, elder, a good afternoon to you? i am just from boston, and i have brought you a letter from your son." "you, de vries! i didna look for you just yet." "you know how it is. i am a man of experience, and i had a good voyage both ways." "and robertson and elliot and ludlow will have a good percentage on your cargoes?" "that is the way of business. it is as it ought to be. i do not defraud or condemn the government. it is the young--who have no knowledge or experience--who do such things." "what do you bring in, captain?" "some provisions of all kinds; and i shall take back some merchandise of all kinds--for them who can not get it in any other way." "to boston again?" "this time only to the connecticut coast. the goods will easily go further. the trade is great. what then? i must waste no time; i have to live by my business." "and i have nae doubt you think the 'business' on the king's service." "every respectable man is of that way of thinking. we carry no military stores. i am very precise about that. it is one of my principles. and what, then, would the merchants of new york do without this opening for trade? they would be ruined; and there would also be starvation. they who say different are fools; we give help and comfort to the royalists, and we distress the rebels, for we take from them all their ready money. if the trade was not 'on the king's service,' the governor would not be in it." "even so! that circumstance shows it is not far out o' the way." "'out of the way!' what the deuce, elder! i am a deacon in the middle kirk. my respectability and honesty cannot be concealed: any one can see them. batavius de vries would not steal a groschen; no, nor half of one!" "easy, easy, captain! why should you steal? it is far mair lucrative to cheat than to steal; and the first is in the way o' business--as you were remarking. but this or that, my good thanks for the letter you have brought me; and is there anything i can do in return for your civility?" "if you will kindly call at my dwelling and tell madame i am arrived here safe and sound; that would be a great satisfaction for us both." "i pass your door, captain, and i will tell madame the good news. nae doubt she will gie me a smile for it." then de vries turned away with some remark about business, and elder semple stood still a moment, fingering the bulky letter which had been given him; and, as he did so, wondering what he should do, for "ill news comes natural these days," he thought, "and maybe i had better read it through, before i speak a word to janet anent it. i'll step into the king's arms and see what alexander has to say." when he entered the coffee-room he saw his son, mr. neil semple, and governor robertson sitting at a table with some papers between them. neil smiled gravely, and moved a chair into place for his father, and the governor said pleasantly: "how are you, elder? it is a long time since i saw you." "i am as well as can be expected, considering a' things, governor; but what for will i be 'elder,' when i have nae kirk to serve?" "is that my fault, elder?" "you might have spoke a word for the reopening of the kirk, and the return o' dr. rogers. your affirmative would have gone a long way toward it. and the loyal calvinists o' new york hae been too long kirkless. what for didn't you speak the word, governor? what for?" "indeed, elder, you know yourself that dr. rogers is a proved traitor. as a fundamental rule, a calvinist is a democrat--exceptions, of course--like yourself and your worthy sons, but as a fundamental, natural democrats. there is the church of england open for all services." "aye; and there is the kirk o' scotland closed for all services. what has the kirk done against king george?" "must i remind you, elder, that her ministers, almost without exception, are against the king? did not this very dr. rogers pray in the pulpit for the success of the rebels? as for the church of scotland, she has been troubling kings, and encouraging rebellion ever since there was a church of scotland. what for? no reason at all, that i can see." "yes, she had reason enough. scotsmen read their bibles, and they thought it worth while to fight for the right to do so. there's your colleague, judge ludlow; his great-grandfather fought with oliver cromwell in england in a quarrel of the same kind. he should have said a word for us." "elder, it is undeniable that dissent and calvinism are opposed to royalty." "the kirk is not subject to cæsar; she is a law unto hersel'; and the methodists are dissenters, yet their chapel is open." "the loyalty of john wesley is beyond impeachment. he is a friend of the king." "yet his brother charles was imprisoned for praying for the pretender, and nae doubt at all, he himsel' would gladly have followed prince charlie." "as the semples and gordons _did do_." "to their everlasting glory and honor! god bless them!" "will your excellency please to sign these papers?" interrupted neil; and his calm ignoring of the brewing quarrel put a stop to it. the papers were signed, and the governor rising, said, as he offered his hand to the elder: "our sufferings and deprivations are unavoidable, sir. is there any use in quarreling with the wheel that splashes us?" "there is nane; yet, if men have grievances----" "grievances! that is a word that always pleases, and always cheats. there are no grievances between you and me, i hope." "none to breed ill-will. human nature is fallible, but as a rule, tory doesna eat tory." "and as for the whigs, elder, you know the old fable of the wolf and the lamb. judging from that past event, tory and whig may soon make an eternal peace." he went out well pleased at the implication, and neil, after a few moments' silence, said, "i am going to register these documents, sir, or i would walk home with you." "much obligated to you, neil, but i can tak' very good care o' mysel'. and i have a letter from your brother alexander. i must see what news he sends, before i tell your mother." he was opening his letter as he spoke, carefully cutting round the large red seal, which bore the arms of the semples, and which, therefore, he would have thought it a kind of sacrilege to mutilate. a cup of coffee had been brought to him, and he took one drink of it, and then no more; for everything was quickly forgotten or ignored in the intelligence he was receiving. that it was unexpected and astonishing was evident from his air of perplexity and from the emotion which quite unconsciously found relief in his constant ejaculation, _"most extraordinary! most extraordinary!"_ finally, he folded up the epistle, threw a shilling on the table for his entertainment, and with more speed than was usual, took the road to the west of broadway. he had been remarkable in days past for his erect carriage, but he walked now with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. there was so much that he did not want to see, though he was naturally the most curious and observant of mortals. fifteen minutes' walk brought him to the river side, and anon to a large house separated from his own by a meadow. there were horses tied to the fence and horses tethered in the garden; and in a summer-house under a huge linden tree, a party of soldiers drinking and playing dominoes. the front door was partly open, and a piece of faded red ribbon was nailed on its lintel. semple knocked loudly with his walking-stick, and immediately a stout, rosy woman came toward him, wiping her hands on a clean towel as she did so. "well, then, elder!" she cried, "you are a good sight! what is the matter, that you never come once to see us, this long time?" "i come now to bring you good news joanna--madame, i should say." "no, no! i make not so much ceremony. when you say 'joanna' i think of the good days, before everybody was unfriends with each other." "well, then, joanna, your husband is back again; as he says, safe and sound, and i promised him to let you know as i passed." "but come in once, elder--come in!" "some day--some day soon. i am in haste at this time--and you have much company, i see." he spoke with evident disapproval, and joanna was at once on the defensive. "i know not how to alter that. a good wife must do some little thing these hard times; for what is to come after them, who knows--and there are many boys and girls--but i am not discontented; i like to look at the bright side, and that is right, is it not?" semple had already turned away, and he only struck his cane on the flagged walk in answer. for while joanna was speaking he had casually noticed the fluttering red ribbon above her head; and it had brought from the past a memory, unbidden and unexpected, which filled his eyes with the thin, cold tears of age, and made his heart tremble with a fear he would not allow himself to entertain. he was so troubled that he had to consciously gather his forces together before he entered his own dwelling. it, at least, kept visible state and order; the garden, perhaps, showed less variety and wealth of flowers; but the quiet dignity of its handsomely furnished rooms was intact. in their usual parlor, which was at the back of the house, he found his wife. "you are late to-day, alexander," she said pleasantly; "i was just waiting till i heard your footstep. now i can make the tea." "i'll be glad o' a cup, janet. i'm fairly tired, my dearie." "what kept you so far ahint your ordinar time? i thought it long waiting for you." "twa or three things kept me, that i am not accountable for. i was on the way hame, when batavius de vries spoke to me." "he's back again, is he? few words would do between you and him." "he brought me a letter from our lad in boston; and i thought i would go into the king's arms and read it." "you might have come hame." "i might; but i thought if there was any bad news folded in the paper, i would just leave it outside our hame." "there is naething wrang, then?" "it is an astonishment--the lad has sold all he had and gone to scotland. when he can find a small estate that suits him, he thinks o' buying it, and becoming 'semple o' that ilk.' alexander aye had a hankering after land." "he has the siller, i suppose; there is no land given awa in scotland." "alexander wasn't born yesterday. he has been sending siller to england ever since the first whisper o' these troubles. ten years ago, he told me the stamp act riots spelt revolution and maybe independence; and that in such case the best we could hope for would be a dozen or mair states, each with its ain rights and privileges and government; and a constant war between them. he is a far-seeing lad, is alexander." "i think little o' his far sight. there are others who see further and clearer: petty states and constant war! na, na! _it's not so written."_ "perhaps he is right, janet." "perhaps is a wide word, alexander. perhaps he is wrang. has he sailed yet? and pray, what is to become of the little maria?" "he sailed a week since--and maria is coming to us." "coming to us! and what will we do wi' the lassie?" "we'll just hae to love and comfort her. in a way she has neither father nor mother--the one being in the grave and the other beyond seas. she may be a pleasure to our auld age; when she was here last she was a bonnie, lovesome little creature." "that is mair than eight years ago, and she was eight years old then; she'll be sixteen and a half, or, perhaps, nearer seventeen now--you ken weel what to expect from lassies o' that indiscreet age; or, if you don't, you ought to." "i know she is our ain grandbairn and that we be to give her love and all that love calls for. she was the very image o' yoursel' janet, and her father was much set up o'er the extraordinar likeness." "i thought she favored you, alexander." "a little--a little, perhaps--but not enough to spoil her. if she has kept the gordon beauty, she will be a' the mair welcome to me. i have aye had a strong prejudice in its favor;" and he leaned forward and took madame's small brown hand, and then there was a look and a smile between the old lovers that made all words impotent and unnecessary. such pauses are embarrassing; the lealest hearts must come back quickly to ordinary life, and as the elder passed his cup for more tea, madame asked: "what way is the lassie coming? by land or water?" "she is coming by land, with john bradley and his daughter." "how's that?" "madame charlton's school had to be closed, and agnes bradley was one of the scholars. her father has gone to boston to bring her hame, and maria being her friend and schoolmate, bradley promised alexander to see her safe in our home and care. doubtless, he is well able to keep his word. if the governor and the commander-in-chief can do ought to mak' travel safe, john bradley will hae their assistance; but i'm vexed to be put under an obligation to him. i would rather have sent neil, or even gane mysel'." "what ails you at john bradley? he wears the red ribbon on his breast, and it blaws o'er his shop door, and he is thick as thack with a' the dignities--civil and military." "i don't like him, and i don't like his daughter being friends with my granddaughter." "he serves our turn now, and once is nae custom." "let alone the fact that girls' friendships are naething but fine words and sugar candy. i shall put a stop to this one at the very outset." "you'll do what, gudeman?" "put my commands on maria. i shall tell her that beyond yea and nay, and a fine day, or the like o' that, she is to have no intercourse wi' john bradley's daughter." "you'll have revolution inside the house, as weel as outside. let the girls alane. some young men will come between them and do your business for you. you have managed your lads pretty well--wi' my help--but two schoolgirls in love wi' one anither! they will be aboon your thumb--ane o' them may keep you busy." "i shall lay my commands on maria." "and if maria tak's after the gordons, she'll be far mair ready to give commands than to tak' them. let be till she gets here. when did she leave boston?" "mair than a week ago, but sunday intromits, and bradley, being what they call a local preacher would hae to exploit his new sermon and hold a class meeting or a love feast; forbye, he wouldna neglect ony bit o' business that came his way on the road. i shouldn't wonder if they were at stamford last sunday, and if so, they would be maist likely at east chester to-night. they might be here to-morrow. i'll ask neil to ride as far as the halfway house; he will either find, or hear tell o' them there." "what for should neil tak' that trouble? you ken, as weel as i do, that if bradley promised maria's father to deliver her into your hand, at your ain house, he would do no other way. say you were from hame, he would just keep the lassie till he could keep his promise. he is a very pharisee anent such sma' matters. if you have finished your tea, gudeman, i will get the dishes put by." they both rose at these words, madame pulled a bell rope made of a band of embroidery, and a girl brought her a basin of hot water and two clean towels. semple lit his long, clay pipe and went into the garden to see how the early peas were coming on, and to meditate on the events the day had brought to him. madame also had her meditations, as she carefully washed the beautiful derby china, and the two or three apostle teaspoons, and put them away in the glass cupboard that was raised in one corner of the room. her thoughts were complex, woven of love and hope and fear and regret. the advent of her granddaughter was not an unmixed delight; she was past sixty, not in perfect health, and she feared the care and guiding of a girl of scarce seventeen years old. "just the maist unreasonable time of any woman's life," she sighed. "at that age, they are sure they know a' things, and can judge a' things; and to doubt it is rank tyranny, and they are in a blaze at a word, for they have every feeling at fever heat. a body might as well try to reason wi' a baby or a bull, for they'll either cry or rage, till you give in to them. however, maria has a deal o' gordon in her, and they are sensible bodies--in the main. i'll even do as the auld song advises: "bide me yet, and bide me yet, for i know not what will betide me yet." when the room was in order, she threw a shawl round her and went to her husband. "i hae come to bring you inside, elder," she said, "the night air is chilly and damp yet, and you arena growing younger." "i walked down as far as the river bank, janet," he answered, "and i see the boat is rocking at her pier. neil should look after her." "neil is looking after another kind of a boat at present. i hope he will have as much sense as the rats, and leave a sinking ship in good time to save himsel'." "janet, you should be feared to say such like words! they are fairly wicked--and they gie me a sair heart." "oh, forgive me, alexander! my thoughts will fly to my lips. i forget! i forget! i hae a sair heart, too"--and they went silently into the house with this shadow between them until janet said: "let me help you off wi' your coat, dearie. your soft, warm wrap is here waiting for you," and against her gentle words and touch he had no armor. his offense melted away, he let her help him to remove his heavy satin-lined coat, with its long stiffened skirts, and fold round his spare form the damasse wrap with its warm lining of flannel. then, with a sigh of relief he sat down, loosened his neckband, handed madame his laces, and called for a fresh pipe. in the meantime madame hung the coat carefully over a chair, and in flecking off a little dust from its richly trimmed lapel, she tossed aside with an unconscious contempt, the bit of scarlet ribbon at the buttonhole. "you are requiring a new ribbon, alexander," she said. "if you must wear your colors on your auld breast, i would, at least, hae them fresh." he either ignored, or did not choose to notice the spirit of her words; he took them at their face value, and answered: "you are right, janet. i'll buy a half yard in the morning. i tell you, that one bit o' rusty, draggled red ribbon gave me a heart-ache this afternoon." madame did not make the expected inquiry, and after a glance into her face he continued: "it was at the van heemskirk's house. i was talking to joanna, and i saw it o'er the door, and remembered the night my friend joris nailed up the blue ribbon which batavius has taken down. i could see him standing there, with his large face smiling and shining, and his great arms reaching upward, and i could hear the stroke o' the hammer that seemed to keep time to his words: '_alexander myn jougen!_' he said, 'for freedom the color is always blue. over my house door let it blow; yes, then, over my grave also, if god's will it be.' and i answered him, 'you are a fool, joris, and you know not what you are saying or doing, and god help you when you do come to your senses.' then he turned round with the hammer in his hand and looked at me--i shall never forget that look--and said 'a little piece of blue ribbon, alexander, but for a man's life and liberty it stands, for dead already is that man who is not free.' then he took me into the garden, and as we walked he could talk of naething else, 'men do not need in their coffins to lie stark,' he said, 'they may without that, be dead; walking about this city are many dead men.'" "joris van heemskirk is a good man. wherever he is, i ken well, he is god's man," said janet, "doing his duty simply and cheerfully." "as he sees duty, janet; i am sure o' that. and as he talked he kept touching the ribbon in his waistcoat, as if it was a sacred thing, and when i said something o' the kind, he answered me out o' the holy book, and bid me notice god himself had chosen blue and told israel to wear it on the fringes o' their garments as a reminder o' their deliverance by him. then i couldna help speaking o' the scotch covenanters wearing the blue ribbon, and he followed wi' the dutch protestors, and i was able to cap the noble army wi' the english puritans fighting under cromwell for civil and religious liberty." "and gudeman!" cried janet, all in a tremble of enthusiasm, "general washington is at this very time wearing a broad blue ribbon across his breast;" and there was such a light in her eyes, and such pride in her voice, the elder could not say the words that were on his tongue; he magnanimously passed by her remark and returned to his friend, joris van heemskirk. "blue or red," he continued, "we had a wonderfu' hour, and when we came to part that night we had no need to take each other's hands; we had been walking hand-in-hand together like twa laddies, and we did not know it." "you'll have many a happy day with your friend yet, gudeman; joris van heemskirk will come hame again." "he will hae a sair heart when he sees his hame, specially his garden." "he will hae something in his heart to salve all losses and all wrongs; but i wonder joanna doesna take better care o' her father's place." "she canna work miracles. i thought when i got her there as tenant o' the king, she would keep a' things as they were left; but batavius has six or eight soldiers boarding there--low fellows, non-commissioned officers and the like o' them--and the beautiful house is naething but barricks in their sight; and as for the garden, what do they care for boxwood and roses? they dinna see a thing beyond their victuals, and liquor, and the cards and dominoes in their hands. joanna has mair than she can manage." "didn't batavius sell his house on the east river?" "of course he did--to the government--made a good thing of it; then he got into his father-in-law's house as a tenant of the government. i don't think he ever intends to move out of it. when the war is over he will buy it for a trifle, as confiscated property." "he'll do naething o' the kind! he'll never, never, never buy it. you may tak' my solemn word for that, alexander semple." "how do you ken so much, janet?" "the things we ken best, are the things we were never told. i will not die till i have seen joris van heemskirk smoking his pipe with you on his ain hearth, and in his ain summer-house. he can paint some new mottoes o'er it then." she was on the verge of crying, but she spoke with an irresistible faith, and in spite of his stubborn loyalty to king george, semple could not put away the conviction that his wife's words were true. they had all the force of an intuition. he felt that the conversation could not be continued with joris van heemskirk as its subject, and he said, "i wonder what is keeping neil? he told me he would be hame early to-night." "then you saw him to-day?" "he was in the king's arms, when i went there to read my letter--he and governor robertson--and i had a few words wi' the governor anent dr. rogers and the reopening of our kirk." "you did well and right to speak to them. it is a sin and a shame in a christian country to be kept out o' sabbath ordinances." "he told me we had the church o' england to go to." "aye; and we hae the king o' england to serve." "here comes neil, and i am glad o' it. somehow, he makes things mair bearable." the young man entered with a grave cheerfulness; he bowed to his father, kissed his mother, and then drew a chair to the cold hearth. in a few minutes he rang the bell, and when it was answered, bid the negro bring hot coals and kindle the fire. "neil, my dear lad," said the elder, "are you remembering that wood is nearly ungetable--ten pounds or mair a cord? i hae but little left. i'm feared it won't see the war out." "if wood is getable at any price, i am not willing to see mother and you shivering. burn your wood as you need it, and trust for the future." "i hae told your father the same thing often, neil; careful, of course, we must be, but sparing is not caring. there was once a wife who always took what she wanted, and she always had enough." the fire blazed merrily, and neil smiled, and the elder stretched out his thin legs to the heat, and the whole feeling of the room was changed. then madame said: "neil, your brother alexander has gane to scotland." "i expected him to take that step." "and he is sending little maria to us, until he gets a home for her." "i should not think she will be much in the way, mother. she is only a child." "she is nearly seventeen years old. she won't be much in my way; it is you that will hae to take her out--to military balls and the like." "nonsense! i can't have a child trailing after me in such places." "vera likely you will trail after her. you will be better doing that than after some o' the ladies o' clinton's court." "i can tell you, neil," said neil's father, "that it is a vera pleasant sensation, to hae a bonnie lassie on your arm wha is, in a manner, your ain. i ken naething in the world that gives a man such a superior feeling." neil looked at the speaker with a curious admiration. he could not help envying the old man who had yet an enthusiasm about lovely women. "i fancy, sir," he answered, "that the women of your youth were a superior creation to those of the present day. i cannot imagine myself with any woman whose society would give me that sensation." "women are always the same, neil--yesterday, to-day, and forever. what they are now, they were in abraham's time, and they will be when time shall be nae langer. is not that so, mother?" "maybe; but you'll tak' notice, they hae suited a' kinds o' men, in a' countries and in a' ages. i dare say our little maria will hae her lovers as well as the lave o' them, and her uncle neil will be to keep an eye on them. but i'm weary and sleepy, and if you men are going to talk the fire out i'll awa' to my room and my bed." "i have something to say to father," answered neil, "about the government, and so----" "oh, the government!" cried madame, as she stood with her lighted candle in her hand at the open door; "dinna call it a government, neil; call it a blunderment, or a plunderment, if you like, but the other name is out o' all befitting." "mother, wait a moment," said neil. "you were saying that maria would want to be taken to dances; i got an invitation to-day. what do you say to this for an introduction?" as he spoke he took out of his pocket a gilt-edged note tied with transverse bands of gold braid and narrow red ribbon. madame watched him impatiently as he carefully and deliberately untied the bows, and his air of reverential regard put her in a little temper. "cut the strings and be done wi' it, neil," she said crossly. "there is nae invite in the world worth such a to-do as you are making. and dinna forget, my lad, that you once nearly threw your life awa' for a bit o' orange ribbon! maybe the red is just as dangerous." then neil took the red ribbon between his finger and thumb, and dropping it into the fire looked at his mother with the denial in his face. "it is from mrs. percival," he said; and she nodded her understanding, but could not help giving him a last word ere she closed the door: "if you hae a fancy for ribbons, neil, tak' my advice, and get a blue one; a' the good men in the country are wearing blue." chapter ii. the fair and the brave. at breakfast next morning the conversation turned naturally upon the arrival of maria semple. the elder showed far the most enthusiasm concerning it. he wondered, and calculated, and supposed, till he felt he had become tiresome and exhausted sympathy, and then he subsided into that painful attitude of disappointment and resignation, which is, alas, too often the experience of the aged? his companions were not in sympathy with him. madame was telling herself she must not expect too much. once she had set her heart upon a beautiful girl who was to become neil's wife, and her love had been torn up by the roots: "maist women carry a cup of sorrow for some one to drink," she thought, "and i'm feared for them." as for neil, he felt sure the girl was going to be a tie and a bore, and he considered his brother exceedingly selfish in throwing the care of his daughter upon his aged parents. it was not a pleasant meal, but in good hearts depression and doubt find no abiding place. when neil had gone to his affairs, the elder looked at his wife, and she gave him his pipe with a smile, and talked to him about maria as she put away her china. and she had hardly turned the key of the glass closet, when the knocker of the front door fell twice--two strokes, clear, separate, distinct. the elder rose quickly and with much excitement. "that is bradley's knock," he said; "i never heard it before, but it is just the way he would call any one." he was going out of the room as he spoke, and madame joined him. when they entered the hall the front door was open, and a short, stout man was standing on the threshold, holding a young girl by the hand. he delivered her to the elder very much as he would have delivered a valuable package intrusted to his care, and then, as they stood a few moments in conversation, maria darted forward, and with a little cry of joy nestled her head on her grandmother's breast. the confiding love of the action was irresistible. "you darling!" whispered the old lady with a kiss; "let me look at you!" and she put her at arm's length, and gazed at the pretty, dark face with its fine color, and fine eyes, charmingly set off by the scarlet hood of her traveling cloak. "what do you think o' your granddaughter, elder?" she asked, when he joined them, and her voice was trembling with love and pride. "i think she is yoursel' o'er again; the vera same bonnie janet gordon i woo'd and loved in strathallen nearly fifty years syne. come and gie me twenty kisses, bairnie. you are a vera cordial o' gladness to our hearts." madame had swithered in her own mind before the arrival of maria about the room she was to occupy--the little one in the wing, furnished in rush and checked blue and white linen; or the fine guest room over the best parlor. a few moments with her grandchild had decided her. "she shall hae the best we have," she concluded. "what for would i gie it to my cousin gordon's wife, and lock my ain flesh and blood out o' it?" so she took maria to her best guest chamber, and when the girl stood in the center of it and looked round with an exclamation of delight, she was well rewarded. "this is the finest room i ever saw," said maria. "i love splendid rooms, and mahogany makes any place handsome. and the looking glasses! o grandmother, i can see myself from top to toe!" and she flung aside her cloak, and surveyed her little figure in its brown camblet dress and long white stomacher, with great satisfaction. "and where are your clothes, maria?" asked madame. "i brought a small trunk with me, and mr. bradley will send it here this morning; the rest of my trunks were sent with captain de vries. i dare say they will be here soon." "they are here already, de vries arrived yesterday, but the rest o' your trunks, how many more have you, lassie?" "three large, and one little one. father told me i was to get everything i wanted, and i wanted so many things. i got them all, grandmother--beautiful dresses, and mantillas, and pelerines; and dozens of pretty underwear. i have had four women sewing for me ever since last christmas." "but the expense o' it, maria!" "mrs. charlton said i had simply received the proper outfit for a young lady entering society." "but whatever did your father say?" "he whistled very softly. there are many ways of whistling, grandmother, and my father's whistle was his form of saying he was astonished." "i hae no doubt he was astonished." "i had to have summer and winter dresses, and ball dresses, and home dresses, and street dresses; and all the little things which mrs. charlton says are the great things. father is very generous to me, and he has ordered lambert and co. to send me thirty pounds every month. he told me that food and wood and every necessity of life was very dear in new york, and that if i was a good girl i would do my full share in bearing the burden of life." this was her pretty way of making it understood that she was to pay liberally for her board, and then, with a kiss, she added, "let us go downstairs. i want to see all the house, grandmother. it is like home, and i have had so little home. all my life nearly has been spent at school. now i am come home." they went down hand in hand, and found the elder walking about in an excited manner. "i think i shall bide awa' from business to-day," he said; "i dinna feel like it. it isna every day a man gets a granddaughter." _"tuts!_ nonsense, alexander! go your ways to the store, then you can talk to your acquaintance o' your good fortune. maria and i will hae boxes to unpack, and clothes to put away; and you might as weel call at de vries, and tell him to get miss semple's trunks here without sauntering about them. batavius is a slow creature. and neil must hae the news also, so just be going as quick as you can, alexander." he was disappointed; he had hoped that maria would beg him to stay at home, but he put on his long coat with affected cheerfulness, and with many little delays finally took the road. then the two women went through the house together, and by that time bradley had sent the small trunk, and they unpacked it, and talked about the goods, and about a variety of subjects that sprang naturally from the occupation. all at once madame remembered to ask maria where she had spent the previous night, and the girl answered, "i slept at the bradley's. it was quite twilight when we reached their house, and mr. bradley said this road was beset by thieves and bad people after dark, and he also thought you retired early and would not care to be disturbed." "vera considerate o' mr. bradley, i am sure; perhaps mair so than necessary. maria, my dear, i hope you are not very friendly wi' his daughter." "not friendly with agnes bradley! why, grandmother, i could not be happy without her! she has been my good angel for three years. when she came to mrs. charlton's i had no friends, for i had such a bad temper the girls called me 'spitfire' and 'vixen' and such names, and i was proud of it. agnes has made me gentle and wishful to do right. agnes is as nearly an angel as a woman can be." "fair nonsense, maria! and i never was fond o' angelic women, they dinna belong to this world; and your grandfather dislikes john bradley, he will not allow any friendship between you and agnes bradley. that is sure and certain." "what has mr. bradley done wrong to grandfather?" "naething; naething at all! he just does not like him." "i shall have to explain things to grandfather. he ought not to take dislikes to people without reason." "there's no one can explain things to your grandfather that he does not want to understand. i know naething o' john bradley, except that he is a methodist, and that kind o' people are held in scorn." "i think we can use up all our scorn on the whigs, grandmother, and let the methodists alone. mr. bradley is a tory, and trusted and employed by the government, and i am sure he preached a beautiful sermon last sunday at stamford." "your grandfather said he would preach at stamford." "he preached on the green outside the town. there were hundreds to listen to him. agnes led the singing." "maria semple! you don't mean to tell me you were at a field preaching!" "it was a good preaching and----" "the man is a saddle-maker! i hae seen him working, day in and day out, in his leather apron." "st. paul was a tent-maker; he made a boast of it, and as he was a sensible man, i have no doubt he wore an apron. he would not want to spoil his toga." _"hush! hush!_ you must not speak o' saint paul in that tempered and common way. the apostles belong to the kirk. your father was brought up a good presbyterian." "dear grandmother, i am the strictest kind of presbyterian. i really went to hear agnes. if you had seen her standing by her father's side on that green hill and heard her sing: 'israel, what hast thou to dread? safe from all impending harms, round thee, and beneath thee, spread, are the everlasting arms.' you would have caught up the song as hundreds did do, till it spread to the horizon, and rose to the sky, and was singing and praying both. people were crying with joy, and they did not know it." "i would call her a dangerous kind o' girl. has she any brothers or sisters?" "her brother went to an english school at the beginning of the war. he was to finish his education at oxford. annie gardiner--one of the schoolgirls--told me so. he was her sweetheart. she has no sisters." "sweetheart?" "just boy and girl sweethearting. agnes seldom spoke of him; sometimes she got letters from him." "has agnes a sweetheart?" "there was a young gentleman dressed like a sailor that called on her now and then. we thought he might be an american privateer." "then agnes bradley is for the americans! well, a good girl, like her, would be sure to take the right side. nae doubt the hymn she sung referred to the american army." "i am sure people thought so; indeed, i fear agnes is a little bit of a rebel, but she has to keep her thoughts and feelings to herself." "plenty o' folks hae to do the same; thought may be free here, but speech is bond slave to his majesty george o' hanover, or england, or brunswick, or what you like." "or america!" "nae, nae! you may make that last statement wi' great reservation, maria. but we must make no statements that will vex your grandfather, for he is an auld man, and set in his ways, and he does not believe in being contradicted." and at this moment they heard the elder's voice and step. he came in so happily, and with such transparent excuses for his return home, that the women could not resist his humor. they pretended to be delighted; they said, "how nice it was that he had happened to arrive just as dinner was ready to serve;" they even helped him to reasons that made his return opportune and fortunate. and batavius arriving with the trunks immediately after the meal, madame made unblushing statements about her dislike of the man, and her satisfaction in the elder being at hand to prevent overcharges, and see to the boxes being properly taken upstairs. then maria begged him to remain and look at her pretty things, and that was exactly what he wished to do; and so, what with exhibiting them, and trying some of them on, and sorting, and putting them into drawers and wardrobes, the afternoon slipped quickly away. the elder had his pipe brought upstairs, and he sat down and smoked it on the fine sofa mrs. gordon had covered with her own needlework when she occupied the room; and no one checked him or made discouraging demurs. he had his full share of the happy hours; and he told himself so as the ladies were dressing; and he sat waiting for neil, alone with his pleasant thoughts and anticipations. "auld age has its compensations," he reflected. "they wouldna hae let neil sit and smoke amid their fallals; and it was the bonniest sight to watch them, to listen to their _ohs!_ and _ahs!_ and their selfish bits o' prattle, anent having what no ither woman was able, or likely to have. women are queer creatures, but, oh, dear me, what a weary world it would be without them!" and when maria came down stairs in a scarlet gown over a white silk petticoat, a string of gold beads round her neck, and her hair dressed high and fastened with a gold comb, he was charmed afresh. he rose with the gallantry of a young man, to get her a chair, but she made him sit down and brought a stool to his side, and nestled so close to him that he put his arm across her pretty shoulders. and it added greatly to his satisfaction that neil came suddenly in, and discovered them in this affectionate attitude. "one o' the compensations o' auld age," he said in happy explanation. "here is your niece, maria semple, neil; and proud you may be o' her!"--and maria rose, and made her uncle a sweeping courtesy, and then offered him her hand and her cheek. the young man gave her a warm welcome, and yet at the same moment wondered what changes the little lady would bring to the house. for he had sense and experience enough to know that a girl so attractive would irresistibly draw events to her. in two or three days the excitement of her advent was of necessity put under restraint. age loves moderation in all things, and maria began to feel the still, stately house less interesting than the schoolroom. whigs and tories, however unequally, divided that ground, and the two parties made that quarrel the outlet for all their more feminine dislikes. her last weeks at school had also been weeks full of girlish triumphs; for she was not only receiving a new wardrobe of an elaborate kind, but she was permitted to choose it; to have interviews with mantua-makers and all kinds of tradespeople; and above all, she was going to new york. and new york at that time was invested with all the romance of a mediæval city. it was the center around which the chief events of the war revolved. within her splendid mansions the officers of king george feasted, and danced, and planned warlike excursions; and in her harbor great fleets were anchored whose mission was to subjugate the whole southern seaboard. this of itself was an interesting situation, but how much more so, when whig and tory alike knew, that just over the western shore every hilltop, and every lofty tree held an american sentinel, while washington himself, amid the fastnesses of new jersey, watched with unerring sagacity and untiring patience the slightest military movement on manhattan island. thus, the possibilities and probabilities of her expected change of life had made her the envy of romantic girls; for all of them, no matter what their political faith, had their own conception of the great things which might be achieved in a city full of military and naval officers. it was the subject on which conversation was always interesting, and often provocative; thus, in the very last talk she had with her schoolmates, one little tory maid said: "o, the dear officers! how delightful it will be to dance with brave men so magnificently dressed in scarlet and gold! how i wish that i was you, maria!" "o, the hateful creatures!" ejaculated another girl of different opinions. "i would not dance a step with one of them; but if i did, i should be saying to myself all the time: very soon my fine fellow, some brave man in homespun blue will kill you." "if i was maria," said another, "and had a british officer for my servant, i would coax him to tell me what general clinton was going to do; and then i would send word to general washington." "o, you mean girl!" answered maria, "would you be a spy?" "yes, i would." "and so would i!" "and i!" "and i!" "and i!" and then an equal chorus of "what a shame! just like whigs!" maria missed these encounters. she saw that her grandmother usually deprecated political conversation, and that her uncle and grandfather did not include her in the discussion of any public event. on the fourth day she began to feel herself of less importance than she approved; and then there followed naturally the demoralizing luxury of self-pity: "because i am a girl, and a very young girl, no one appears to think i have common sense. i am as loyal to the king as any one. i wish grandmother would speak out. i believe she is a whig. uncle neil said he would take me to some entertainments; he has not done so. i am not tired--that is just an excuse--i want to go out and i want to see agnes. i will not give up agnes--no one, no one shall make me--she is part of my heart! no, i will not give up agnes; her father may be a saddler--and a methodist--i am above noticing such things. i will love who i like--about my friends i will not yield an inch--i will not!" she was busy tatting to this quite unnecessary tirade of protestations and her grandmother noticed the passionate jerk of the shuttle emphasizing her thoughts. "what is vexing you, dearie?" she asked. "oh, i am wretched about agnes," she answered. "i am afraid grandfather has been rude in some way." "you needna be afraid on that ground, maria; your grandfather is never rude where women are concerned." "but he is unkind. if he was not, there could be no objections to my calling on agnes." "is it not her place to call on you? she is at home--born and bred in new york--you are a stranger here. she is older than you are; she seems to have assumed some kind of care or oversight----." "she has been my guardian angel." "then i think she ought to be looking after a desolate bairn like you; one would think you had neither kith nor kin near you, maria." madame spoke with an air of offense or injury, and as the words were uttered, the door was softly moved inward, and agnes bradley entered. she courtesied to madame, and then stretched out her hands to maria. the girl rose with a cry of joy, and all her discontent was gone in a moment. madame could not forget so easily; in fact, her sense of unkindness was intensified by the unlooked-for entrance of its cause. but there was no escaping the influence of agnes. she brought the very atmosphere of peace into the room with her. in ten minutes she was sitting between madame and maria, and both appeared to be alike happy in her society. she did not speak of the war, or the soldiers, or the frightful price of food and fuel, or the wicked extravagance of the tory ladies in dress and entertainments, or even of the unendurable impudence of the negro slaves. she talked of maria, and of the studies she ought to continue, and of madame's flowers and needlework, and a sweet feeling of rest from all the fretful life around was insensibly diffused. in a short time madame felt herself to be under the same spell as her granddaughter, and she looked at the charmer with curious interest; she wondered what kind of personality this daughter of tranquility possessed. a short scrutiny showed her a girl about nineteen years old, tall, but not very slender, with a great deal of pale brown hair above a broad forehead; with eyebrows thick and finely arched, and eyelids so transparent from constant contact with the soul that they seemed to have already become spiritual. her eyes were dark grey, star-like, mystical, revealing--when they slowly dilated--one hardly knew what of the unseen and heavenly. her face was oval and well shaped, but a little heavy except when the warm pallor of its complexion was suddenly transfigured from within; then showing a faint rose color quickly passing away. her movements were all slow, but not ungraceful, and her soft voice had almost a caress in it. yet it was not these things, one, or all of them, that made her so charmful; it was the invisible beauty in the visible, that delighted. without question here was a woman who valued everything at its eternal worth; who in the midst of war, sheltered life in the peace of god; and in the presence of sorrow was glad with the gladness of the angels. an hour with agnes bradley made madame think more highly of her granddaughter; for surely it was a kind of virtue in maria to love the goodness she herself could not attain unto. nearly two hours passed quickly away. they walked in the garden and talked of seeds, and of the green things springing from them; and down at the lily bed by the river, madame had a sudden memory of a young girl, who had one spring afternoon gone down there to meet her fate; and she said to agnes--with a note of resentment still in her voice: "a lassie i once loved dearly, came here to gather lilies, and to listen to a lover she had nae business to listen to. she would sit doubtless on the vera step you are now sitting on, maria; and she made sorrow and suffering enough for more than one good heart; forbye putting auld friends asunder, and breeding anger where there had always been love. i hope you'll never do the like, either o' you." "who was she, grandmother?" "her name was katherine van heemskirk. you'll hae heard tell o' her, miss bradley?" "i saw her several times when she was here four years ago. she is very beautiful." madame did not answer, and maria stepped lower and gathered a few lilies that were yet in bloom, though the time of lilies was nearly over. but agnes turned away with madame, and both of them were silent; madame because she could not trust herself to begin speech on this subject, and agnes because she divined, that for some reason, silence was in this case better than the fittest words that could be spoken. after a short pause, agnes said, "my home is but a quarter of a mile from here, and it is already orderly and pleasant. will you, madame, kindly permit maria to come often to see me! i will help her with her studies, and she might take the little boat at the end of your garden, and row herself along the water edge until she touches the pier in our garden." "she had better walk." in this way the permission was granted without reserves or conditions. madame had not thought of making any, and as soon as she realized her implied approval, she was resolved to stand by it. "the lassie requires young people to consort wi'," she thought, "and better a young lass than a young lad; and if her grandfather says contrary, i must make him wiser." with this concession the visit ended, but the girls went out of the parlor together, and stood talking for some time in the entrance hall. the parting moment, however, had to come, and maria lifted her lips to her friend, and they were kissing each other good-bye, when neil semple and a young officer in the uniform of the eighty-fourth royal highlanders opened the door. the picture of the two girls in their loving embrace was a momentary one, but it was flooded with the colored sunshine pouring on them from the long window of stained glass, and the men saw and acknowledged its beauty, with an involuntary exclamation of delight. maria sheltered herself in a peal of laughter, and over the face of agnes there came and went a quick transfiguring flush; but she instantly regained her mental poise, and with the composure of a goddess was walking toward the door, when neil advanced, and assuming the duty of a host, walked with her down the flagged path to the garden gate. maria and the young soldier stood in the doorway watching them; and madame at the parlor window did the same thing, with an indescribable amazement on her face. "it isna believable!" she exclaimed. "neil semple, the vera proudest o' mortals walking wi' auld bradley's daughter! his hat in his hand too! and bowing to her! bowing to his vera knee buckles! after this, the stuarts may come hame again, or any other impossible thing happen. the world is turning tapsalterie, and i wonder whether i am janet sample, or some ither body." but the world was all right in a few minutes; for then neil entered the room with maria and captain macpherson, and the mere sight of the young highlandman brought oblivion of all annoyances. madame's heart flew to her head whenever she saw the kilt and the plaid; she hastened to greet its wearer; she took his plumed bonnet from his hand, and said it was "just out o' calculation that he should go without breaking bread with them." captain macpherson had no desire to go. he had seen and spoken with maria, and she was worth staying for; besides which, a scot in a strange land feels at home in a countryman's house. macpherson quickly made himself so. he went with neil to his room, and anon to the garden, and finally loosed the boat and rowed up the river, resting on the oars at the bradley place, hoping for a glance at agnes. but nothing was to be seen save the white house among the green trees, and the white shades gently stirring in the wind. the place was as still as a resting wheel, and the stillness infected the rowers; yet when macpherson was in semple's garden, the merry ring of his boyish laughter reached madame and maria in the house, and set their hearts beating with pleasure as they arranged the tea-table, and brought out little dishes of hoarded luxuries. and though madame's chickens were worth three dollars each, she unhesitatingly sacrificed one to a national hero. when the elder came home he was equally pleased. he loved young people, and the boyish captain with his restless, brimming life, was an element that the whole house responded to. his heart had a little quake at the abundance of the meal, but it was only a momentary reserve, and he smiled as his eyes fell on the motto carved around the wooden bread-plate--_"spare not! waste not! want not!"_ madame looked very happy and handsome sitting before her tray of pretty china, and the blended aromas of fine tea and hot bread, of broiled chicken, and indian preserves and pickles were made still more appetizing by the soft wind blowing through the open window, the perfume of the lilacs and the southernwood. madame had kept the place at her right hand for macpherson; and maria sat next to him with her grandfather on her right hand, so that neil was at his mother's left hand. between the two young men the old lady was radiantly happy; for macpherson was such a guest as it is a delight to honor. he ate of all madame had prepared for him, thoroughly enjoyed it, and frankly said so. and his chatter about the social entertainments given by generals clinton and tryon, robertson and ludlow was very pleasant to the ladies. neil never had anything to say about these affairs, except that they were "all alike, and all stupid, and all wickedly extravagant;" and such criticism was too general to be interesting. very different was macpherson's description of the last ball at general tryon's; he could tell all its details--the reception of the company with kettle drums and trumpets--the splendid furniture of his residence, its tapestries, carpets, and silk hangings--the music, the dancing, the feasting--the fine dressing of both men and women--all these things he described with delightful enthusiasm and a little pleasant mimicry. and when madame asked after her acquaintances, macpherson could tell her what poplins and lutestrings, and lace and jewels they wore. moreover, he knew what grand dames crowded william street in the mornings and afternoons, and what merchants had the largest display of the fashions and luxuries of europe. "john ambler," he said, "is now showing a most extraordinary cargo of english silks and laces, and fine broadcloths, taken by one of dirk vandercliff's privateers. really, madame, the goods are worth looking at. i assure you our beauties lack nothing that europe can produce." "yes, there is one thing the privateers canna furnish you, and that is fuel. you shivered all last winter in your splendid rooms," said the elder. "true," replied macpherson. "the cold was frightful, and though general clinton issued one proclamation after another to the farmers of long island to send in their wood, they did not do it." "why should they?" asked madame. "on the king's service, madame," answered the young man with a final air. "vera good," retorted madame; "but if the king wanted my forest trees for naething, i should say, 'your majesty has plenty o' soldiers wi' little to do; let them go and cut what they want.' they wouldna waste it if they had it to cut. but the wastrie in everything is simply sinful, and i canna think where the blacks and vanderlanes, and all the other 'vans' you name--and whom i never heard tell of in our kirk--get the money." "privateering!" said macpherson with a gay laugh. "who would not be a roving privateer? i have myself longings for the life. i have thoughts of joining vandercliff's fleet." "you are just leeing, young man," interrupted madame. "it would be a thing impossible. the macphersons have nae salt water in their blood. could you fling awa' your tartans for a sailor's tarry coat and breeches? how would you look if you did? and you would feel worse than you looked." macpherson glanced at his garb with a smile of satisfaction. "i am a macpherson," he answered, proudly, "and i would not change the colors of my regiment for a royal mantle; but privateering is no small temptation. on the deck of a privateer you may pick up gold and silver." "that is not very far from the truth," said neil. "in the first year of the war the rebel privateers took two hundred and fifty west indiamen, valued at nearly two millions of pounds, and mr. morris complained that the eastern states cared for nothing but privateering." "weel, morris caught the fever himself," said the elder. "i have been told he made nearly four hundred thousand dollars in the worst year the rebel army ever had." "do the rebels call that patriotism?" asked macpherson. "yes," answered the elder, "from a whig point of view it is vera patriotic; what do you think, neil?" "if i was a whig," answered neil, "i should certainly own privateers. without considering the personal advantage, privateering brings great riches into the country; it impoverishes the enemy, and it adds enormously to the popularity of the war. the men who have hitherto gone to the arctic seas for whales, find more wealthy and congenial work in capturing english ships." "and when men get money by wholesale high-seas robbery----" "privateering, madame," corrected macpherson. "weel, weel, give it any name you like--what i want to say is, that money got easy goes easy." "in that, madame, you are correct. while we were in philadelphia that city was the scene of the maddest luxury. while the rebels were begging money from france to feed their starving army at valley forge, every kind of luxury and extravagance ran riot in philadelphia. at one entertainment there was eight hundred pounds spent in pastry alone." "stop, macpherson!" cried madame, "i will not hear tell o' such wickedness," and she rose with the words, and the gentlemen went into the parlor to continue their conversation. madame had been pleased with her granddaughter's behavior. she had not tittered, nor been vulgarly shy or affected, nor had she intruded her opinions or feelings among those of her elders; and yet her self-possession, and her expressive face had been full of that charm which showed her to be an interested and a comprehending listener. now, however, madame wished her to talk, and she was annoyed when she did not do so. it was only natural that she should express some interest in the bright young soldier, and her silence concerning him madame regarded as assumed indifference. at last she condescended to the leading question: "what do you think o' captain macpherson, maria?" "i do not know, grandmother." "he is a very handsome lad. it did my heart good to see his bright face." "his face is covered with freckles." "freckles! why not? he has been brought up in the wind and the sunshine, and not in a boarding-school, or a lady's parlor." "freckles are not handsome, however, grandmother." madame would not dally with half-admissions, and she retorted sharply: "freckles are the handsomest thing about a man; they are only the human sunshine tint; the vera same sunshine that colored the roses and ripened the wheat gave the lad the golden-brown freckles o' rich young life. freckles! i consider them an improvement to any one. if you had a few yoursel' you would be the handsomer for them." "grandmother!" "yes, and your friend likewise. she has scarce a mite o' color o' any kind; a little o' the human sunshine tint--the red and gold on her cheeks--and she might be better looking." "better looking! why, grandmother, agnes was the beauty of the school." "schoolgirls are poor judges o' beauty. she has a wonderfu' pleasant way with her, but that isn't beauty." "i thought you liked her, i am so sorry and disappointed." "she is weel enough--in her way. there are plenty o' girls not as pleasant; but she is neither venus, nor helen o' troy. i was speaking o' captain macpherson; when he stood in the garden with your uncle neil, his hand on his sword and the wind blowing his golden hair----" "grandmother! his hair is red." "it is naething o' the kind, maria. it is a bonnie golden-brown. it may, perhaps, have a cast o' red, but only enough to give it color. and he has a kindly handsome face, sweet-eyed and fearless." "i did not notice his eyes. he seems fearless, and he is certainly good-tempered. have you known him a long time, grandmother?" "i never saw him before this afternoon," the old lady answered wearily. she had become suddenly tired. maria's want of enthusiasm chilled her. she could not tell whether the girl was sincere or not. women generally have two estimates of the men they meet; one which they acknowledge, one which they keep to themselves. when the gentlemen returned to the sitting-room a young negro was lighting the fire, and macpherson looked at him with attention. "a finely built fellow," he said, when the slave had left the room; "such men ought to make good fighters." then turning to madame he added, "captain de lancey lost four men, and mr. bayard five men last week. they were sent across the river to cut wood and they managed to reach the rebel camp. we have knowledge that there is a full regiment of them there now." "they are fighting for their personal freedom," said the elder, "and who wouldna fight for that? washington has promised it, if they fight to the end o' the war." "they have a good record already," said macpherson. "i have nae doubt o' it," answered the elder. "fighting would come easier than wood cutting, no to speak o' the question o' freedom. i heard a sough o' rumor about them and the hessians; true, or not, i can't say." "it is true. they beat back the hessians three times in one engagement." "i'm glad o' it," said madame, "slaves are good enough to fight hired human butchers." "o, you know, madame, the hessians are mercenaries; they make arms a profession." he spoke with a languid air of defense; the hessians were not of high consideration in his opinion, but madame answered with unusual warmth: "a profession! well, it isn't a respectable one in their hands--men selling themselves to fight they care not whom, or for what cause. if a man fights for his country he is her soldier and her protector; if he sells himself to all and sundry, he is worth just what he sells himself for, and the black slave fighting for his freedom is a gentleman beside him." then, before any one could answer her tart disparagement, she opened a little indian box, and threw on the table a pack of cards. "there's some paper kings for you to play wi'," she said, "and neither george nor louis has a title to compare wi' them--kings and knaves! ancient tyrants, and like ithers o' their kind, they would trick the warld awa' at every game but for some brave ace," and the ace of hearts happening to be in her hand she flung it defiantly down on the top of the pack; and that with an air of confidence and triumph that was very remarkable. with the help of these royalties and some desultory conversation on the recent alliance of france with the rebels, the evening passed away. madame sat quiet in the glow of the fire, and maria, as neil's partner, enlivened the game with many bewitching airs and graces she had not known she possessed, until this opportunity called them forth. and whatever macpherson gained at cards he lost in another direction; for the little schoolgirl, he had at first believed himself to be patronizing, reversed the situation. he became embarrassed by a realization of her beauty and cleverness; and the sweet old story began to tell itself in his heart--the story that comes no one knows whence, and commences no one knows how. in that hour of winning and losing he first understood how charming maria semple was. the new feeling troubled him; he wished to be alone with it, and the ardent pleasure of his arrival had cooled. the elder and his wife were tired, and neil seemed preoccupied and did not exert himself to restore the tone of the earlier hours; so the young officer felt it best to make his adieu. then, the farewell in a measure renewed the joy of meeting; he was asked to come again, "to come whenever he wanted to come," said madame, with a smile of motherly kindness. and when maria, with a downward and upward glance laid her little hand in his, that incident made the moment wonderful, and he felt that not to come again would be a great misfortune. maria was going to her room soon afterward but neil detained her. "can you sit with me a little while, maria?" he asked; "or are you also sleepy?" "i am not the least weary, uncle; and i never was wider awake in my life. i will read to you or copy for you----" "come and talk to me. the fire still burns. it is a pity to leave its warmth. sit down here. i have never had a conversation with you. i do not know my niece yet, and i want to know her." maria was much flattered. neil's voice had a tone in it that she had never before heard. he brought her a shawl to throw around her shoulders, a footstool for her feet, and drawing a small sofa before the fire, seated himself by her side. then he talked with her about her early life; about her father and mother, and mrs. charlton, and without asking one question about agnes bradley led her so naturally to the subject, and so completely round and through it, that he had learned in an hour all maria could tell concerning the girl whose presence and appearance had that day so powerfully attracted him. he was annoyed when he heard her name, and annoyed at her pronounced methodism, which was evidently of that early type, holding it a sin not to glory in the scorn of those who derided it. yet he could not help being touched by maria's enthusiastic description of the girl's sweet godliness. "you know, uncle," she said, "agnes's religion is not put on; it is part of agnes; it is agnes. girls find one another out, but all the girls loved agnes. we were ashamed to be ill-natured, or tell untruths, or do mean things when she was there. and if you heard her sing, uncle, you would feel as if the heavens had opened, and you could see angels." now there is no man living who does not at some time dream of a good woman--a woman much better than himself--upon his hearthstone. neil felt in that hour this divine longing; and he knew also, that the thing had befallen him which he had vowed never would befall him again. without resistance, without the desire to resist, he had let the vision of agnes bradley fill his imagination; he had welcomed it, and he knew that it would subjugate his heart--that it had already virtually done so. for maria's descriptions of the pretty trivialities of their school life was music and wine to his soul. he was captivated by her innocent revelations, and the tall girl with her saintly pallor and star-like eyes was invisibly present to him. he had the visionary sense, the glory and the dream of love, and he longed to realize this vision. therefore he was delighted when he heard that maria had permission to continue her studies under the direction of her friend. it was an open door to him. it was at this point that maria made her final admission: "i am obliged to tell you, uncle, that i am sure agnes is a whig." this damaging item in her idol's character maria brought out with deprecating apologies and likelihood of change, "not a bad whig, uncle; she is so gentle, and she hates war, and so she feels so sorry for the poor americans who are suffering so much, because, you know, they think they are right. then her father is a tory, and she is very fond of her father, and very proud of him, and she will now be under his influence, and of course do what he tells her--only--only----" "only what, maria? you think there is a difficulty; what is it?" "her lover. i am almost certain he is a rebel." "has she a lover? she is very young--you must be mistaken?" he spoke so sharply maria hardly knew his voice, and she considered it best to hesitate a little, so she answered in a dubious manner: "i suppose he is her lover. the girls all thought so. he sent her letters, and he sometimes came to see her; and then she seemed so happy." "a young man?" "yes, a very young man." "a soldier?" "i think, more likely, he was a sailor. i never asked agnes. you could not ask agnes things, as you did other girls." "i understand that." "he wore plain clothes, but all of us were sure he was a sailor; and once we saw agnes watching some ships as far as she could see them, and he had called on her that day." neil did not answer her conjecture. he rose and stood silently on the hearth, his dark eyes directed outward, as if he was calling up the vision of the sea, and the ships and the girl watching them. for the first time maria realized the personal attractiveness of her uncle. "he is not old," she thought, "and he is handsomer than any one i ever saw. why has he not got married before this?" and as she speculated on this question, neil let his eyes fall upon the dead fire and in a melancholy voice said: "maria, my dear, it is very late, i did not remember--you have given me two pleasant hours. good-night, child." he spoke with restraint, coldly and wearily. he was not aware of it, for his mind was full of thoughts well-nigh unspeakable, and maria felt their influence, though they had not been named. she went away depressed and silent, like one who has suddenly discovered they were no longer desired. neil speedily put out the lights, and went to the solitude his heart craved. he was not happy; but doubt and fear are love's first food. for another hour he sat motionless, wondering how this woman, whom he had not in any way summoned, had taken such possession of him. for not yet had it been revealed to him, that "love is always a great invisible presence," and that in his case, agnes bradley was but its material revelation. chapter iii. life in the captive city. at this time in new york, john bradley was a man of considerable importance. he was not only a native of the city, but many generations of bradleys had been born, and lived, and died in the wide, low house close to the river bank, not far north of old trinity. they were originally a yorkshire family who had followed the great oliver cromwell from marston moor to worcester, and who, having helped to build the commonwealth of england, refused to accept the return of royalty. even before charles the second assumed the crown, ezra bradley and his six sons had landed in new york. they were not rich, but they had gold sufficient to build a home, and to open near the fort a shop for the making and repairing of saddlery. ever since that time this trade had been the distinctive occupation of the family, and the john bradley who represented it in the year , had both an inherited and a trained capability in the craft. no one in all america could make a saddle comparable with bradley's; the trees were of his own designing, and the leather work unequalled in strength and beauty. in addition to this important faculty, he was a veterinary surgeon of great skill, and possessed some occult way of managing ungovernable horses, which commended itself peculiarly to officers whose mounts were to be renewed frequently from any available source. and never had his business been so lucrative as at the present date, for new york was full of mounted military during the whole period of the war, and enormous prices were willingly paid for the fine saddlery turned out of the workshop of john bradley. contrary to all the traditions of his family, he had positively taken the part of the king, and at the very commencement of the national quarrel had shown the red ribbon of loyalty to england. his wife dying at this time, he sent his daughter to a famous boarding-school in boston, and his son to the great dissenting academy in gloucester, england; then he closed his house and lived solitarily in very humble fashion above his workroom and shop. in this way, he believed himself to have provided for the absolute safety of his two children; the boy was out of the war circle; the thundering drum and screaming fife could not reach him in the cloistered rooms of the doddridge school; and as for agnes, mrs. charlton's house was as secure as a convent; he had no fear that either english or american soldiers would molest a dwelling full of schoolgirls. and john bradley could keep the door of his mouth; and he believed that a man who could do that might pursue a trade so necessary as his, with an almost certain degree of safety. in appearance he was a short, powerful-looking man with tranquil, meditating eyes and a great talent for silence; an armed soul dwelling in a strong body. some minds reflect, shift, argue, and are like the surface of a lake; but john bradley's mind was like stubborn clay; when once impressed it was sure to harden and preserve the imprint through his life, and perhaps the other one. his methodism was of this character, and he never shirked conversation on this subject; he was as ready to tell his experience to general howe or general clinton as to the members of his own class meeting; for his heart was saturated with the energy of his faith; he had the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. on politics he would not talk; he said, "public affairs were in wiser hands than his, and that to serve god and be diligent in business, was the length and breadth of his commission." his shop was a place where many men and many minds met, and angry words were frequently thrown backward and forward there; yet his needle never paused an instant for them. only once had he been known to interfere; it was on a day when one of de lancey's troop drew his sword against a boyish english ensign almost at his side. he stopped them with his thread half drawn out, and said sternly: "if you two fools are in a hurry for death, and the judgment after death, there are more likely places to kill each other than my shop," and the words were cold as ice and sharp as steel, and the men went out rebuked and checked, and washed away their hot temper in wine instead of blood. for the vision of death, and the judgment after death, which bradley's words and manner had evoked, was not to be faced at that hour. yet, withal, bradley was rather a common-looking man, ill-mannered and rough as hemp to the generality; but not so where childhood or calamity appealed to his strength or forbearance. in other respects, general howe had, not inaptly, described him as "very unlike other men when at chapel, but not much so, when among horses in the stable, or selling saddles in the shop." this was the man who came up from the waterside early one morning in the beginning of july, singing dr. watts' lyrical dream of heaven: "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign." his voice was strong and melodious, and it was evident that agnes had inherited her charming vocal power from him. he did not cease as he entered the house, but continued his hymn until he was in the little sitting-room, and agnes finished the verse with him: "and see the canaan that we love, with unbeclouded eyes." he sat down to breakfast with the heavenly vision in his heart, and reluctantly let it pass away. but his spiritual nature had hands as well as wings, and he felt also the stress of the daily labor waiting him. "the expedition leaves for the connecticut coast to-day," he said. "general clinton is determined to strike a blow at the people in new haven, and fairfield, and new london." "well, father? what do you say to that?" "i say it is better they should be struck down than that they should lie down." "matthews has but just returned from ravaging the river counties of virginia, and clinton from stony point. have they not made misery enough for a little while? who is going with the connecticut expedition?" "tryon, and he goes to do mischief with the joy of an ape." "i heard trumpets sounding and men mustering, as i was dressing myself." "trumpets may sound, and not to victory, agnes. fire and pillage are cowardly arms; but i heard tryon say, any stick was good enough to beat a dog with, and all who differ from tryon are dogs. vile work! vile work! and yet all this does not keep new york from dancing and drinking, and racing, and gambling, and trading; nor yet new york women from painting and dressing themselves as if there were no such persons as king george and george washington." "yes, father, a great many of our best families are very poor." "those not employed by the government, or those who are not contractors or privateers, are whipped and driven to the last pinch by poverty. ah, agnes, remember new york before this war began, its sunny streets shaded with trees, and its busy, happy citizens talking, laughing, smoking, trading, loving and living through every sense they had at the same time. now there is nothing but covert ill-will and suspicion. our violent passions have not cured our mean ones; to the common list of rogueries, we have only added those of contractors and commissioners." "i think war is the most terrible calamity that can befall a people, father." "the despair of subjugated souls would be worse." "do they never doubt you, father?" "howe never did. that amiable, indolent officer might have liked me all the more if he had doubted me. clinton is a different man; and i think he may have thought my loyalty to royalty lukewarm, for he sent for me on the king's birthday, and after some talk about a horse and saddle, he said, 'mr. bradley, it is the king's birthday; shall we drink his majesty's health?' and i answered him, 'if it please you, general.' so he filled a glass with portugal wine for me, and then filling one for himself raised it, and waited for me to speak. there were several officers present, and i lifted my glass and said, 'to king george the third! god bless him, and make him and all his officers good john wesley methodists!'" "then, father?" "clinton put down his glass with a ringing guffaw, and the rest followed him. only one bit of a beardless boy spoke, and he said: 'you think, bradley, methodism might make his majesty a better king?' and i answered, 'i am not here to judge his majesty's kingship. i think it would make him and all present, better and happier men.' i did not try to go away or shirk questions; i looked squarely in their faces until general clinton said, 'very good, bradley. you will remember saladin and the new saddle for him'; and i answered, 'i will see to it at once, general.' so i went out then, and i think they were not all sure of me; but they cannot do without me, and they know it is better to put their doubts out of inquiry. wise men obey necessity, and that is true for them as well as for me. agnes, i want to know something about that little girl of semple's? i don't like her coming here day after day. she will be seeing or hearing something she ought not to see or hear. women are dangerous in politics, for, as a rule, politics either find or leave them vixens." "maria is to be trusted." "you can not be sure. she is passionate, and though a woman in a temper may not intend to burn any one, she pokes the fire and makes a blaze and sets others looking and wondering. i can tell you of many such women in new york; they think ill of their neighbor, and the thoughts get to their tongues, and before they know the mischief is done. then, like the wolf in the fable, they thank god they are not ferocious. oh, no! they have only loosed the dogs of war and left others to set them worrying." "how you do run on, father! and not one word you have said fits the little maria, no, nor any one of the semples. indeed, i am sure madame is as true a patriot as you could find anywhere." "the old man is as bitter a royalist as i could find anywhere." "he is, however, a good old man. last monday night, when you had to go to the leaders' meeting, i walked home with maria and stayed to tea there. and after tea madame asked me to sing a hymn, and i sang the one you were singing this morning, and when i had finished, the elder said, 'now, then, we will supplement isaac watts with the apostle john'; and he opened the bible and read aloud john's vision of 'the land of pure delight' from the twenty-first of revelation; then standing up, he asked us all to join in the prayer of the lord jesus christ. and we stood up with him and said to 'our father which is in heaven,' the words he taught us. i felt it to be a very precious few minutes." "i have nothing to say against such experiences, agnes. if people would stick to what christ says, there might be only one creed and one church; it is peter and paul that make disputing. but if you go to semple's house do not stop after sunset. there are bad men about." "mr. neil semple walked home with me." "oh! mr. neil semple! and what had he to say?" "very little. he praised my singing, he said it went to his heart; and he spoke about the moon, and the perfume of the locust flowers. i think that was all." "the moon and the locust flowers! what does mr. neil semple know about the moon and the locust flowers? and he spoke very little! he can talk fast enough when he is in court, and well paid for it. he is a proud man--ill-tempered, too, i should think." "i am sure he is not ill-tempered. he is as sweet as a child to his father and mother; and maria says many pleasant things about him." "let him pass for what he is worth; but remember always this thing, agnes, i am trusting my life in your hands. if you inadvertently repeated even what i have said this morning, i should be hard put to answer it." "you know well that i would die rather than reveal anything you said to me. my life for yours, father!" "i trust you as my own soul. you are an inexpressible comfort to me. i can speak to you. i can open my heart to you. i can get relief and sympathy from you. your coming home makes me a hundred-fold safer. if your brother with his hot temper and young imprudences had been here, no one knows what would have happened before this. i thank god continually that he is so far out of the way. has he left school yet?" "school does not close until june." "then he will go directly to doctor brudenel in london?" "that was your instruction to him." "when did you have a letter from him?" "it is nearly a month since." "when will you write to him next?" "i write to him every opportunity i have." "does he need money? young men are often extravagant." "he has never named money to me. he is well and happy." "tell him he must not come home, not think of coming home till i give him permission. tell him that his being away from home is my great comfort. make that plain to him, agnes, my great comfort. tell him he must stay in london till a man can speak his mind safely in new york, whatever his mind may be." "i will tell him all, father." then bradley went to his shop and his daughter sat down to consider with herself. many persons stimulate or regulate thought in movement and find a positive assistance to their mental powers in action of some kind, but agnes had the reverse of this temperament. she needed quiet, so closing the door of her room she sat still, recalling, reviewing, and doing her best to anticipate events. there were certain things which must be revealed to maria, wholly, or in part, if she continued to visit the house, and agnes saw not how to prevent those visits. nor did she wish to prevent them; she loved maria and delighted in her companionship. they had many acquaintances and events in common to talk about, and she was also interested in maria's life, which was very different to her own. she felt, too, that her influence was necessary and valuable to the young girl, suddenly thrown into the midst of what agnes regarded as sinful and dangerous society. and then into this process of self-examination there drifted another form--the stately, rather sombre, but altogether kindly personality of neil semple. it was linked with maria, she could not separate the two; and as intrusion involved some heart-searching she was not inclined to, she rather promptly decided the question without any further prudential considerations, and as she did so maria called her. she answered the call gladly. it was to her one of those leadings on which she spiritually relied, and her face was beaming with love and pleasure as she went down stairs to her friend. maria was standing in the middle of the small parlor, most beautifully arrayed in an indian muslin, white as snow and lustrously fine, as only dacca looms could weave it. her shoulders were covered with a little cape of the same material, ruffled and laced and fastened with pink ribbons, and on her head was a bewitching gypsy hat tied under her chin with bows of the same color. her uncle stood at her side, smiling with grave tolerance at her girlish pride in her dress, and the pretty airs with which she exhibited it to agnes. "am i not handsome?" she cried. "am i not dressed in the most perfect taste? why do you not say as miss robinson is sure to say--'la, child, you are adorable!'" agnes fell quite naturally into her friend's excited mood, and in the happiest tone of admiring mimicry, repeated the words dictated. she made the most perfect contrast to maria; her pale blue gown of simple material and simple fashion was without ornament of any kind, except its large falling collar of white muslin embroidery, but the long, unbroken line of the skirt seemed to neil semple the most fitting, the only fitting, garment he had ever seen on any woman. "its modesty and simplicity is an instinct," he thought; "and i have this morning seen a woman clothed by her raiment. now i understand the difference between being dressed and clothed. maria is dressed, agnes is clothed; her garments interpret her." he was lifted up by his love for her; and her calico gown became a royal robe in his imagination. every time he saw her she appeared to have been adorned for that time only. it was a delightful thing for him to watch her tenderness and pride in maria. it was motherly and sisterly, and without a thought of envy, and he trembled with delight when she turned her sweet, affectionate face to his for sympathy in it. and really this morning agnes might reasonably have given some of her admiring interest to maria's escort. he was undeniably handsome. his suit of fine, dark cloth, his spotless lawn ruffles, his long, light sword, his black beaver in his hand, were but fitting adjuncts to a noble face, graven with many experiences and alight with the tender glow of love and the steady fire of intellectual power and purpose. he did not stay at this time many minutes, but the girls watched him to the garden gate and shared the courtly salute of his adieu there. "is he not the most graceful and beautiful of men?" asked maria. "indeed he is very handsome," replied agnes. "there is not an officer in new york fit to latch his shoe buckles." "then why do you dress so splendidly, only to show yourself to them?" "well, agnes, see how _they_ dress. as we were coming here we met men in all the colors of the rainbow; they were rattling swords and spurs, and tossing their heads like war horses scenting the battle afar off." "you are quoting the bible, maria." "uncle did it first. you don't suppose i thought of that. we passed a regiment of hessians with their towering brass-fronted helmets, their yellow breeches, and black gaiters; really, agnes, they were grand-looking men." "very," answered agnes, scornfully. "i have seen them standing like automatons, taking both the commands and the canes of their officers. very grand-looking indeed!" "you need not be angry at the poor fellows. it must be very disagreeable for them to be caned in public and not dare to move an eyelash or utter a word of protest." "men that will suffer such things are no better than the beasts of the field; not as good, for the beasts do speak in their way with hoofs, or horns, or teeth, or claws, and that to some purpose, when their sense of justice is outraged." "it is all military discipline, you know, agnes. and you must allow, the regiments make fine appearances. i dare say these hessians have to be caned--most men have, in one way or another. uncle is coming back for me this afternoon. we are going to see the troops leaving; it will be a fine sight. i told uncle you might like to go with us, and he said he would ask you, but he did not." "he had more grace granted him, maria." "i think he is a little afraid of you, agnes." "nothing of the kind. he had sense enough to understand i would not go." then, without further thought or preliminary she said: "sit down here beside me, maria, i have something very important to say to you. i know that i can perfectly trust you, but i want to hear you tell me so. can you keep a secret inviolate and sure, maria?" "if the secret is yours, agnes, neither in life nor in the hour of death would i tell it." "if you were questioned----" "i should be stupid and dumb; if it was your secret, fire could not burn it out of me." "i believe you. many times in boston you must have known that a young man called on me. you may have seen his face." "none of the girls saw his face but sally laws; we all knew that he called on you. i should recognize his figure and his walk anywhere, but his face i never saw. sally said he was as handsome as apollo." "such nonsense! he has an open, bright, strong countenance, but there is nothing greek about him, nothing at all. he is an american, and he loves his native land, and would give his life for her freedom." "and he will come here to see you now?" "yes, but my father must not know it." "i thought you were always so against anything being done unknown to our parents. when i wanted to write good-bye to teddy bowen you would not let me." "i expected you to remind me of this, and at present i can give you no explanation. but i tell you positively that i am doing right. can you take my word for it?" "i believe in you, agnes, as if you were the bible. i know you will only do right." "all that you see or hear or are told about this person must be to you as if you had dreamed a dream, and you must forget that you ever had it." "i have said that i would be faithful. darling agnes, you know that you may trust me." "just suppose that my friend should be seen, and that my father should be told," she was silent a moment in consideration of such an event, and maria impulsively continued: "in that case i would say it was my friend." "that would not be the truth." "but he might be my friend, we might have become friends, not as he is your friend, nothing like that, just a friend. are you very fond of him, agnes?" "i love him as my own life." "and he loves you in that way?" "he loves me! oh, yes, maria, he loves me! even as i love him." "sweetest agnes, thank you for telling me. i will see what you tell me to see, and hear what you tell me to hear; that, and that only. i will be as true to you as your own heart." "i am sure you will. some day you shall know all. now, we will say no more until there is a reason; everything is so uncertain. tell me about the rout last night." "it was at governor robertson's. his daughter called and asked me to honor them with my company; and grandmother said i ought to go, and uncle neil said i ought to go--so i went. there was a great time dressing me, but i made a fine appearance when it was done. i wore my silver-tissue gown, and grandmother loaned me her pearl necklace. she told me how many generations of gordon ladies had worn it, and i felt uncanny as she clasped it round my throat. i wondered if they knew----" "you should not wonder about such things. did you dance much?" "i had the honor to dance with many great people. every gentleman danced one minuet with his partner, and then began cotillon and allemand dances; and there were some songs sung by major andré, and a fine supper at midnight. it was two o'clock when i got home." "tell me who you talked with." "oh, everybody, agnes; but i liked most of all, the lady who stays with the robertsons--mrs. gordon; her husband was with burgoyne and is a prisoner yet. she was very pleasant to me; indeed, she told uncle neil 'i was the perfectest creature she had ever seen,' and that she was 'passionately taken with me.' she insisted that i should be brought to her, and talked to me about my dress and my lovers, and also about grandfather and grandmother." "she lived with them once, and helped to make great sorrow in their house." "i know. grandmother does not forgive her." "and your uncle?" "he is very civil to her, for she is vastly the fashion. she played cards all the evening, and called me to her side more often than i liked. she said i brought her luck. i don't think she approved of my dancing so often with captain macpherson. she asked questions about him, and smiled in a way that was not pleasant, and that made me praise the highlander far more than i meant to, and she barely heard me to the end of my talk ere she turned back to her cards, and as she did so, said: 'what a paragon in tartan! before this holy war there may have been such men, but if you are a good child pray that a husband may drop down from heaven for you; there are no good ones bred here now.' then every one near began to protest, and she spread out her cards and cried, 'who leads? diamonds are trump.' when she called me next, she was sweeping the sovereigns into her reticule; and governor ludlow said she was fortune's favorite, and uncle neil said, 'i see, madame, that you now play for gold,' and i think uncle meant something that she understood, for she looked queerly at him for a moment, and then answered, 'yes i play for money now. i confess it. why not? if you take away that excuse, the rest is sinning without temptation.' she is so well bred, agnes, and she speaks with such an air, you are forced to notice and remember what she says." agnes was troubled to think of the innocent child in such society, and without obtruding counsel, yet never restraining it when needful, she did her best to keep maria's conscience quick and her heart right. it was evident that she regarded the whole as a kind of show, whose color and sound and movement attracted her; yet even so, this show was full of temptation to a girl who had no heart care and no lack of anything necessary for the pride of life. this afternoon the half-camp and half-garrison condition of new york was very conspicuous. all was military bustle and excitement; trumpets were calling, drums beating, and regiments parading the streets once devoted to peaceful commerce and domestic happiness. royalist merchants stood in the doors of their shops exchanging snuff-box compliments and flattering prophecies concerning the expedition about to leave--prophecies which did not hide the brooding fear in their eyes or the desponding shake of the head when sure of a passer's sympathy. and a sensitive observer would have felt the gloom, the shame and sorrow that no one dared to express; for, just because no one dared to express it, the very stones of the streets found a voice that spoke to every heart. the bitterest royalist remembered. all the riot of military music could not drown the memory of sounds once far more familiar--the cheerful greeting of men in the market place, and all the busy, happy tumult of prosperous trade; the laughter and chatter of joyful women and children, and the music of the church bells above the pleasant streets. neil was silent and unhappy; maria full of the excitement of the passing moment. they sat in the open window of neil's office and watched company after company march to the warships in which they were to embark: grenadiers of auspach with their towering black caps and sombre military air; brass-fronted hessians; gaudy waldeckers; english corps glittering in scarlet pomp; and highlanders loaded with weapons, but free and graceful in their flowing contour. on these latter especially, both neil and maria fixed their interest. who can say how long national feeling, expatriated, may live? neil leaped to his feet as the plaided men came in sight. their bagpipes made him drunk with emotion; they played on his heartstrings and called up centuries of passionate feelings. he clasped his sword unconsciously; his hand trembled with that magnetic attraction for iron that soldiers know. at that moment he said proudly to his soul, "thou also art of scottish birth!" and a vision of hills and straths and of a tossing ocean filled his spiritual sight. maria's interest was of the present and was centered on the young captain walking at the head of his company; for quentin macpherson was a born soldier, and whatever he might lack in a ball-room, he lacked nothing at the head of his men. his red hair flowing from under his plaided bonnet was the martial color; it seemed proper to his stern face and to the musket and bayonet, the broadsword, dirk and pistols which he wore or carried with the ease and grace of long usage. he stepped so proudly to the strains of "lochaber;" he looked so brave and so naturally full of authority that maria was, for the moment, quite subjugated. she had told him on the previous night, at what place she was to view the embarkment; and she detected the first movement which showed him to be on the watch for her. this fleeting pleasure of exhibiting himself at his best to the girl he loves, is a soldier's joy; and the girl is heartless who refuses him the small triumph. maria was kind, and she shared the triumph with him; she knew that her white-robed figure was entrancing to the young captain, and she stood ready to rain down all of beauty's influence upon his lifted face. only a moment was granted them, but in that one moment of meeting eyes, maria's handkerchief drifted out of her hand and macpherson caught it on his lifted bayonet, kissed, and put it in his bosom. the incident was accomplished as rapidly and perfectly as events unpremeditated usually are; for they are managed by that self that sometimes takes our affairs out of all other control and does perfectly, in an instant, what all our desiring and planning would have failed to do in any space of time. neil was much annoyed, and made a movement to stop the fluttering lawn. "what have you done, maria?" he asked angrily. "the van der donck's and half a dozen other women are watching you." "i could not help it, uncle neil. i do not know how it happened. i never intended to let it fall. honor bright! i did not." and perhaps neil understood, for he said no more on the subject as they walked silently home through the disenchanted city. all the bareness of its brutal usage was now poignantly evident, and the very atmosphere was heavy with an unconquerable melancholy. some half-tipsy members of the de lancey militia singing about "king george the third" only added to the sense of some incongruous disaster. everyone has felt the intolerable _ennui_ which follows a noisy merry-making--the deserted disorder, the spilled wine, the disdained food, the withered flowers, the silenced jest, the giving over of all left to desecration and destruction--all this, and far more was concentrated in that wretched _ennui_ of unhappy souls which filled the streets of new york that hot summer afternoon. for an intense dejection lay heavy on every heart. like people with the same disease, men avoided and yet sought each other. they dared not say, they hardly dared to think, that their love for the king was dying of a disease that had no pity--that their idol had himself torn away the roots of their loyalty. but they closed their shops early, and retreated to the citadel of their homes. melancholy, hopelessness, silence, infected the atmosphere and became epidemic, and men and women, sensitive to spiritual maladies, went into their chambers and shut their doors, but could not shut out the unseen contagion. it rained down on them in their sleep, and they dreamed of the calamities they feared. it was on this afternoon that john bradley received a new "call" and answered it. affected deeply by the events of the day, he left his shop in the middle of the hot afternoon and went about some business which took him near the king's college building, then crowded with american prisoners. as he came under the windows, he heard a thin, quavering voice singing lines very dear and familiar to him: ye fearful saints, fresh courage take! the clouds ye so much dread are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head. judge not the lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace: behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face. then there was a pause and bradley called aloud: "brother, who are you?" "william watson," was the answer. "i thought so. how are you?" "dying," then a pause, and a stronger voice added, "and in need of all things." "brother watson, what do you want that i can get now?" "cold water to drink, and some fresh fruit," and then, as if further instructed the voice added, "when you can, a clean shirt to be buried in." "tell william he shall have them." his whole manner had changed. there was something he could do, and he went at once for the fruit and water. fortunately, he knew the provost of this prison and had done him some favors, so he had no hesitation in asking him to see that the small comforts were given to william watson. "he was a member of my class meeting, provost," said bradley; "a methodist leader must love his brother in christ." here bradley's voice failed him and the provost added, "i knew him too--he used to live in good style in queen street. i will see that he gets the fruit and water." "and if you need anything for yourself in the way of saddlery, provost, i will be glad to serve you." "i was thinking of a new riding whip." "i will bring you the best i have. one good turn deserves another." then, after a little further conversation he turned homeward, and men who met him on the way wondered what was the matter with john bradley. for, without cessation, as he walked, he went over and over the same three words, _"christ forgive me!"_ and no one could smile at the monotonous iteration; the man was in too dead earnest; his face was too remorseful, his voice too tragic. the next morning he was very early in superintendent ludlow's office. the great man of the court of police had not arrived, but bradley waited until he came. "you are an early visitor, mr. bradley," he said pleasantly. "i have a favor to ask, judge." "come in here then. what is it? you are no place or plunder hunter." "judge, a month ago you asked me to make you a saddle." "and you would not do it. i remember." "i could not--at least i thought i could not; now, if you will let me, i will make you the fittest saddle possible--it shall be my own work, every stitch of it." "how much money do you want for such a saddle, bradley?" "i want no money at all. i want a very small favor from you." "nothing for the rebels, i hope. i cannot grant any favor in that direction." "i want nothing for the rebels; i want one hour every sunday afternoon in the college prison with my class members." "oh, i don't know, bradley----" "yes, you know, judge. you know, if i give you my promise, i will keep every letter of it." "what is your promise?" "i want only to pray with my brothers or to walk awhile with them as they go through the valley of the shadow. i promise you that no word of war, or defeat or victory; that no breath of any political opinion shall pass my lips. nor will i listen to any such." "bradley, i don't think i can grant you this request. it would not be right." "judge, this is a thing within your power, and you must grant it. we shall stand together at the judgment, and when the lord christ says, 'i was hungered, and ye gave me no meat: i was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: i was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not:' don't let me be obliged to plead, 'lord christ, i would have fed, and clothed, and visited the sick and in prison, but this man barred my way.' open the door, judge, and it shall be well with you for it." then, without a word, ludlow turned to his desk and wrote an order permitting john bradley to visit his friends for one hour every sunday afternoon; and as he did so, his face cleared, and when he signed his name he had the glow of a good deed in his heart, and he said: "never mind the saddle, bradley. i don't want to be paid for this thing. you say william watson is dying--poor willie! we have fished together many a long summer day"; and he took a few gold pieces from his pocket and added, "they are for the old friend, not for the rebel. you understand. good morning, sir." "good morning, judge. i won't overstep your grant in any way. i know better." from this interview he went direct to the prison and sent the gold to the dying man. and as he stood talking to the provost the dead cart came, and five nearly naked bodies were thrown into it, their faces being left uncovered for the provost's inspection. bradley gazed on them with a hot heart; emaciated to the last point with fever and want, there was yet on every countenance the peace that to the living, passeth understanding. they had died in the night-watches, in the dark, without human help or sympathy, but doubtless sustained by him whose name is _wonderful!_ "all of them quite common men!" said the provost carelessly--"country rustics--plebeians!" but when bradley told his daughter of this visit, he added, passionately, _"plebeians!_ well, then, agnes, _plebeians who found out the secret of a noble death!"_ sweeter than joy, tho' joy might abide; dearer than love, tho' love might endure, is this thing, for a man to have died for the wronged and the poor! let none be glad until all are free; the song be still and the banner furled, till all have seen what the poets see and foretell to the world! chapter iv. a song of a single note. the next morning, very soon after breakfast, maria came down stairs ready to visit her friend. she was dressed like a schoolgirl in a little frock of india chintz, her black hair combed backward and plaited in two long, loose braids. one morning she had tied these braids with red ribbon, and been scornfully criticised by her grandmother for "makin' a show of herself." the next morning she had tied them with blue, and been heart-pained by her grandfather's sigh and look of reproach; so this morning they were tied with ribbons as black as her hair, and as she turned herself before the long mirror she was pleased with the change. "they make my braids look ever so much longer," she said with a pretty toss of her head; "and grandmother can not say i am making a show of myself. one must have ribbons of some color, and black is really distinguished. i suppose that is the reason uncle neil wears so much black cloth and velvet." to these thoughts she ran gaily down stairs. the elder was reading rivington's _royal gazette_; madame had a hank of wool over two chairs, and was slowly winding it. she looked at maria with a little disappointment. her hat was on her head, her books in her hand, and she understood where the girl was going; yet she asked: "is it agnes bradley again, maria?" "yes, grandmother. i said no lessons yesterday. we were watching the soldiers pass, and the people, and i was expecting neil, and there seemed no use in beginning then. i told agnes i would say extra lessons to-day." "and i'm doubting, even with the 'extra,' if the lessons amount to much." "oh grandmother! i have learned a page of 'magnall's questions,' and studied a whole chapter in 'goldsmith's history' about king john." "king _who?"_ asked madame, suspiciously. "i never heard tell o' a king john. david, and robert, and james i ken; but john! no, no, lassie! there's nae king john." "maria means john of england," explained the elder. "he was a vera bad king." "john of england, or george of england!" answered madame disdainfully, "kings are much of a muchness. and if he was a bad king, he was a bad man, and ye ought to put your commandments on your granddaughter, elder, to learn naething about such wicked men. ye ken as well as i do, that the almighty forbid the children o' israel even to _inquire_ anent the doings of thae sinners, the canaanites. and it is bad enough to hae to thole the evil doings o' a living king, without inquiring after the crimes o' a dead one." "i will give up my history if you wish it, grandmother. i care nothing about king john." "maria must learn what other people learn," said the elder. "she has to live in the world, and she has sense enough to make her own reflections. give me a kiss, dearie, and study king john if you like to, he was a bad man, and a bad king, but----" "others worse than him!" ejaculated madame. "give me a kiss, darling grandmother, one for myself, and one for agnes; she always asks for it." "oh, you flattering lassie!" but the old lady gave the two kisses, and with a sweeping courtesy, maria closed the door and went humming down the garden walk: _"who saw fair pamela?"_ she had not gone far before she met moselle, the only slave bradley possessed. she was in her sunday clothing, and she said missee had given her a whole day's holiday. in that case agnes would be alone, and maria hastened her steps onward. the little house was as calm and peaceful looking as usual, the windows all open, the mignonette boxes on their sills in full bloom; the white shades gently stirring in the wind. the door was closed, but on the latch, and maria turned the handle and went into the parlor. it was empty, but the ruffle agnes was gathering was on the table, and maria took off her bonnet and laid it and her books down on the cushioned seat within the window recess. as she lifted her head an astonishing sight met her eyes. in the middle of the yard there was a very handsome young man. he was bareheaded, tall, and straight as a ramrod, and stood with one hand on his hip and his face lifted to the sunshine. maria's heart beat quick, she lifted her bonnet and books, retreated to the front door, and called "agnes" in a clear, eager voice. in a moment or two, agnes came in at the opposite door. "maria!" she cried, "i am glad to see you. is your uncle with you? no? that is well. come with me to the kitchen. i have given moselle a holiday. maria, i have a friend--a very dear friend. i am cooking him some breakfast. come and help me." agnes spoke in a hurried, excited manner very unusual to her, and as she did so, the two girls went into the little outside kitchen. the coffee was ready, the steak broiled, and as agnes lifted the food she continued, "yes, i have a friend this morning. he is going to eat in the summer-house, and you will help me to wait upon him. will you not, maria? oh, my dear, i am so happy!" and maria, who remembered only too vividly the bare-headed youth she had seen for a moment, gladly accepted the office. a spirit of keen pleasure was in the dingy little kitchen, and the girls moved gaily to it. "you shall carry the coffee, and i will carry the steak," said agnes; "the bread and the china are already placed." so laughing and chatting, and delighted with their service the two girls entered the summer-house. "harry," said agnes, "this is my friend, maria semple; and maria, this is harry deane." and harry looked with frank eyes into maria's eyes, and in a moment they knew each other. what was this strange impression made by a look? not a word was spoken, but the soul salutation through meeting eyes was a far more overwhelming influence than any spoken word could have evoked. then came the current forms of courtesy, and the happy tones of low laughter slipping in between the mingling of voices, or the soft tinkling of glass and china, and everyone knows that as soon as talking begins the divine gates close. it mattered not, maria knew that something wonderful had happened to her; and never in all her subsequent life could she forget that breakfast under the clematis vines. swiftly the hot, still hours of the mid-day passed. the city was torpid in the quivering heat. there was no stir of traffic--no lumbering sound of loaded wagons--no noise of shouting drivers--no footsteps of hurrying men. the streets were almost empty; the very houses seemed asleep. only the cicadas ran from hedge to hedge calling shrilly; or now and then a solitary trumpet stirred the drowsy air, or, in the vicinity of the prisons, the moaning of the dying men, made the silence terribly vocal. "let us go into the house," said agnes, "it will be cooler there." and they took maria's hands and went to the shaded parlor. then harry drew some cool water from the well, and as they drank it they remembered the men in the various prisons and their pitiful need of water at all times. "they are the true heroes," said agnes; "tortured by heat and by cold, by cruel hunger and more cruel thirst, in all extremities of pain and sorrow, they are paying their life blood, drop by drop, like coin, for our freedom." "and when our freedom is won," answered harry, "we will give to the dead their due. they, too, have saved us." "do you think, harry, this french alliance is going to end the war?" "those who know best say it will. but these frenchmen are giving washington no end of trouble. they are mostly military adventurers. they worry washington for promotion and for increase of pay; they have only their own interest in view. they scorn our privations and simplicity, and their demands can only be gratified at the expense of native officers whose rights they unjustly wish to invade. yet i am told that without french money and french help we should have to give up the struggle. i don't believe it. starving and demoralized as our army is, there are many who will never give up while washington is alive to lead them." "if i was a rebel," said maria, "i should want our freedom won by our own hands only. the french are coming here at the last hour, and they will get all the credit. do you think it is for love of freedom they help the americans? if so, why do they not give freedom to france? she has the most tyrannical and despotic of governments; uncle neil says so; and yet she pretends to thrill with indignation because england violates the liberties of her colonies. france had better mind her own affairs, or, as grandmother says, she will scald herself with other people's broth." "god made the french, and he may understand them, i do not," answered harry. "fancy the french government allowing our declaration of independence to be translated and scattered broadcast all over the country! no wonder that lafayette smiled grimly when he heard of it; no wonder he said that 'the principles of government we had announced would soon be heard from in france.' he can see the results, but the king and queen--who catch up every fashion and every enthusiasm with childish levity--do not imagine any one will have the audacity to apply american principles of government to the french monarchy. 'give me good news from our dear american republicans,' is always marie antoinette's greeting to franklin, and he himself is one of her prime favorites." "oh, he is a cunning old man," said maria. "i have heard grandfather talk about him. i am sure he is disagreeable; yet the french have his picture on their snuff-boxes and rings and brooches. it is such foolishness. and uncle neil--who is a very clever lawyer--says some very disparaging things about this famous declaration. it is at least most inconsistent." harry looked his dissent, and agnes said: "perhaps you did not understand your uncle, maria." "i am not quite a fool, agnes. in one respect i am cleverer than mr. jefferson. imagine an assembly composed largely, like himself, of slave-owners, saying 'that all men were created equal, and were given by god an unalienable right to liberty.' and do you think if i were king or queen of france i would scatter a paper in every house telling my miserable, starving subjects, that 'whenever a government did not do what it ought to do, it was the right of the people to alter or abolish it.' indeed, i think king louis and queen marie antoinette will be sorry some day for teaching their people american ideas of government." "what do they say in england about the french alliance?" asked agnes. "the parliament declares we have not only rebelled against the mother-country, but also mortgaged ourselves to her enemy; and that if we are to become an accession to france, self-preservation requires england to make that accession of as little value as possible. that does not sound very bad, agnes, but it means killing men, women and children, burning houses, ravaging land, and making life so wretched that death will be preferable. now you understand such expeditions as matthew's and tryon's. so i say with miss semple, it is a pity for many reasons we had to beg foreign help; especially from the three nations who are hereditary foes of england." "the french did not help you much at newport," said maria scornfully. "they left us in the very oncoming of the battle; as soon as lord howe came in sight--sailed away to the west indies, where they had plans of their own to carry out. the indignation of our army was beyond description; no one but washington could at this time have kept peace between the french and american soldiers. their jealousy was flaming, and washington could not help saying he wished there was not a foreigner in the army but lafayette. but when necessity compels, it becomes destiny, eh, agnes?" "yes. i think england must now be in a very dangerous predicament, harry." "she has thirteen colonies in revolt; france, spain, holland, uniting against her, and a large majority of her own people conspicuously in our favor. our old mother-country! i am sorry for her, for she _is ours_, and we are her sons, even though we have been compelled to rebel against her." "i think it is england that has rebelled against us," said agnes. "she has repudiated our chartered rights, and made us aliens to the laws and privileges which are our natural heritage. england is traitor to america, and i don't see why you should be sorry for her." "can you take the english blood out of my heart? no. i want our independence, that we must have, nothing less will now satisfy us; but i don't want to see three other nations, who have no business in our family quarrel, badgering the old mother. if you had a liking for some noble old mastiff, and saw him attacked by three strange dogs, how would you feel?" "well, harry, if the mastiff was hurting me, i might feel obliged to the strange dogs. i do not wonder that france, spain, and holland should take this opportunity to fight england; but i do wonder that englishmen, living in england, should be on our side." "they have been so from the very first. the king has found it impossible to get soldiers to fight us. they regard us as their countrymen. they refuse to acknowledge the war as an 'english' war; they call it 'the king's war'; and they look upon our victories as triumphs for representative government. i saw a letter from judge curwen of boston, in which he says he visited a large factory in birmingham where they were making rifles to be used by the english troops in america; and he found that the proprietor, as well as every man thus employed, was enthusiastically on our side. fox spoke of an english success on long island as 'the terrible news from america'; and many say that the whig party, of which he is the leader, adopted blue and buff for their colors, because washington had chosen them for his troop. in both houses of parliament we have many powerful friends, and the american cause is spoken of throughout england as the cause of liberty." "oh, you must be mistaken!" cried maria. "grandfather says things very different; and if england is for us, why does the war go on? whose fault is that." "it is the fault of king george; the most stupid of men, but with a will as indomitable as the beasts of the desert. not even king charles was so determined to ruin himself and the nation. he is cruel as he is immovable. it is _the king's war_, my mistresses, and only the king's friends and sycophants and the clergy defend it." "and what will those englishmen who would not lift a finger against us do against our allies?" "do? they are preparing with joyful enthusiasm to fight their old enemies. it made my heart throb to hear how they were jumping to arms, at the mere idea of a french and spanish fleet in the english channel." "you are half an englishman, mr. deane," said maria. "no," he answered warmly; "i am out and out, from head to foot, an american! i was born here, bred here, and i shall live and die here; nor do i wish to live in any other country. but brave men and free men feel with a gigantic throb each other's rights and wrongs, even across oceans--thus we are brothers. and the roots of my being are somewhere in england; i can not cut myself loose from them; i do not wish to. the feeling belongs to the unknown side of human reasons--but it governs me." "i thought," said maria, "you would talk about nothing but washington, and you have hardly named him. is he as great a man as we are told he is? or does he have faults like the rest of poor mortals?" "indeed, miss semple, he is so great a man i have forgotten whether he has a fault. he is such a man as men build their love round while he leads them on the way to immortality. often i have seen the whole army shaken, confused, hopeless; but washington never shrank, or slipped, or compromised; he looked unswervingly to the end. he is the moses of america; our people's hope, our young men's idol, our old men's staff and sword. and even physically, who would compare our god-like washington with this?" and he took from his pocket-case a pen-and-ink sketch of king george, taken at the beginning of the war and showed it to the girls. they looked at it curiously, and maria said: "surely, mr. deane, that is not a true likeness; it is what you call a pasquil--a lampoon--to make ridiculous his majesty." "it is not intended as a lampoon. but i never see it without thinking of the mighty ghosts of the great henrys, and the armed edwards, and then i wonder if they are not watching, with anger and amazement, the idiotic folly of this german." "i must really go home now," said maria. she spoke as if she had all at once become aware of the gravity of the words she was listening to. "i should not have stopped so long. grandmother is not well." and she thought agnes was not sorry to bid her good-bye; "but that is natural," she reflected, "i suppose i should feel the same. she must have a great many things to tell such a lover. i dare be bound i have been much in the way." her feelings were captious and impetuous, and she walked rapidly to them, in spite of the heat. somehow she was not pleased with agnes, and harry deane also had bid her but a formal farewell. and yet not formal, for when he held her hand a moment, he laid it open within his own, and said with a look she could not forget, "my life lies there. i have put it in your hand myself, knowingly, willingly." and she had clasped his hand and answered gravely: "it is as safe there as it would be in the hand of your mother--or of agnes." it was not harry that she was fretted at, it was agnes. she felt that in some way agnes had deceived her. she had not said secrecy would include hours of rebel conversation--"and i wonder at myself for listening to it," said the little woman angrily. "i suppose it was mr deane--men talk women down. i know i should not have let agnes talk in that way to me--just as if i believed all he said! if uncle neil had been there, he would have scattered every word to the four winds with little trouble. and," she continued, with rising temper, "i don't think agnes acts fairly to uncle neil. he is her devoted lover, and she knows it, she must know it. people don't walk slowly up and down in the moonlight and not know such things. i am, they say, only a child, but i have walked with captain macpherson in the moonlight, and i know how amiable it makes me feel. i am disappointed in agnes!" and she really felt at that moment as if her friend had done her some great wrong. so much easier is it to blame others than to look deep down into our own hearts for the reason of dissatisfaction. for whenever we are disappointed, we are disappointed with ourselves, though we may not admit it. when she entered the semple garden she was encompassed with the delicious perfume of carnations. then she remembered that they were her grandfather's favorite flower, and that before the war his garden had been a wonder and delight with their beauty and fragrance. and in some subtle way, the flowers made an avenue for a spiritual influence, more in accord with the natural uprightness of the girl's nature. she sighed and sauntered through the scented space, and as she did so, began to make her confession. "perhaps it was my fault--perhaps i was just a little jealous--it is not pleasant to be the outside one; if captain macpherson, or even that stupid lord medway had been my servant i should not have felt so small; but that was not the fault of agnes--nevertheless, agnes ought not to treat uncle neil badly." it was a kind of inconsequent reasoning, but it restored her to herself, and she entered the house very cheerfully, looking into the parlor first of all, to see whom she could find to talk to. all the rooms down stairs were sweet with the same enthralling odor of carnations; but they were dusky, silent and empty; and she went to her grandmother's room on the second floor. "are you awake, dear grandmother?" she asked, as she tapped gently on the door. "come in, dearie," was the answer, and madame raised herself from the bed as maria entered and went to a large chair by the open window. "it is hotter than needs be," she said, "and i have had company." "who has been here, grandmother?" "mrs. jermyn brought us an invitation to the bayards. it is for a three days' visit." "i am so happy. i have heard about colonel bayard's fine house on the heights; you will surely go, grandmother?" "i can not go, maria; but mrs. jermyn offered to take you in her party; and to that i am agreeable. madame jacobus will go with you, and i am vera fond o' madame jacobus. she is not an ordinary woman; she has had romantics in her life, and the vera look o' her sets you thinking o' all sorts o' impossibilities. tell her madame semple keeps good mind o' her, and would be glad to see her again;" then she added sharply, "mrs. gordon was with her. i was quite taken aback. i was all in a tremble at first." "she is so anxious to be friends with you; can't you forgive her, grandmother? it is a long time since." "maria semple, no one is mair willing than i am, to let byganes be byganes. but mind this, there are folks simply unlucky to you, and not intending it; and adelaide gordon and janet semple are best apart. she is one o' them women who bring happenings and events, and i notice they are not pleasant or favorable. you will hae heard say, maria, _wha_ it is, that sends a woman, where he canna go himsel'. cousin gordon means no harm--but." "indeed, she really likes you. she talks to me of the days she lived with you, and of all your kindness to her. it was katherine van heemskirk that behaved badly. i don't think i like that person--and i want you to forgive mrs. gordon." "i have forgiven mrs. gordon, maria. do you think i would put the lord's prayer behind my back for adelaide gordon? and i couldna dare to say it and not forgive her; but to love your friend, and look to yoursel' isna out o' the way o' wisdom." "when am i to go, grandmother?" "mrs. jermyn will call for you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. how about thae lessons, and the 'extras' you were speaking o'?" "it is such warm weather. i think i ought to have my holiday now; and what about my frocks, grandmother? shall i not have to pack my small trunk?" this subject was, of course, paramount, and madame went to maria's room with her, and the proper garments were selected and packed. very soon the whole house was infected with the hurry and excitement of the little lady, and the elder tried to join in the discussion and employment; it being one of his pet ideas that he had a pretty taste about women's clothing. but his first suggestion that the simple frock of india chintz maria was wearing was a most becoming morning gown, met with such a decided rebuff he had no courage left for further advice. for maria looking scornfully down at its short simplicity asked, "why do you not advise a white ruffled pinafore also, grandfather? then i would be fit for an infant school. i am a young lady now," she continued, as she spread out its three breadths to their utmost capacity, showing in the act the prettiest little feet, shod in bronze leather with red rosettes on the instep. and when a man finds his opinions out of date, what can he do but retire with them into silence? the quiet that fell upon the house after maria's departure was a grateful respite. the old people sat down with a sigh of relief, and while they praised their granddaughter's sweet nature, and talked proudly of all her excellences, they were not sorry to be at rest for a day or two. neither was the elder sorry to casually notice the absence of maria to certain royalist upstarts who had won wealth through their chicaneries, but who had not been able to win the social notice they craved. "elder semple may be pinched, now and then, for a few sovereigns," he thought, "but he and his can sit down with the highest of the king's servants and be counted one o' them. and it will be lang ere the paynes and the bradleys and many others i could name, will get that far!" such reflections gave to the old gentleman's steps something of the carriage of his more prosperous days; he looked outward and upward in his old manner, and thus saw mr. cohen, the jewish trader, standing in his shop door. he asked pleasantly after his health, and by so doing brought a few good words on himself, which somehow went warmly to his heart. in this amiable temper he passed the famous saddlery shop. john bradley was just dismissing a customer. he was wearing his apron of blue and white ticking, and had a paper cap upon his head, and he looked precisely what he was--a capable, self-respecting workman. semple had always permitted a polite salutation to cover all claims on his courtesy that bradley might have; but this morning he said with a friendly air, "how's all with you, mr. bradley? will you tell your charming daughter that her friend, miss semple, has gone wi' a party o' our military friends to the bayards' for a three days' visit?" "agnes will miss her friend, elder." "yes, yes! they went off this morning early, up the river wi' music and singing. young things, most o' them, mr. bradley, and we must make allowances." "if we must, we must, elder. and god knows, if it isn't the lute and the viol, and the tinkling feet of the foolish maidens, it is the trumpet, and the sword, and the hell of the battlefield. evil times we are fallen on, sir." "but they are to bring us good times. we must not doubt that. my respects, sir, to miss bradley, who has a voice to lift a soul on the wings of melody, heavenward. good day, sir." semple went forward a little dashed, he hardly knew why; and bradley was chagrined. he had tried to say something that should not only represent himself, but also acknowledge the kindness he was sensible of; but he had only blundered into commonplaces, and quite against his will, shown much of his roughest side. why did he include the elder's granddaughter among the tinkling feet of foolish maidens? she was the friend of his own child also. he felt that he had had an opportunity and mismanaged it, and a sense of his inabilities in all social matters mortified and fretted him all the day afterward. maria was expected home in three days, but she did not come. her party went directly from the bayard house to hempstead, where colonel birch was entertaining a large company from the city; so it was fully a week before the young lady returned to new york. in the meantime destiny was not asleep, and affairs in which maria was interested did not lie still waiting for her reappearance. maria had left a message for agnes with her uncle, and he resolved to take it personally that evening. but as he was drinking his tea the elder said, "i saw mr. bradley this morning, and i sent word by him to his daughter anent maria's absence." neil did not make any answer, but his mother noticed the sweep of color up and down his dark face, and she was on the point of saying, "you hae taken the job out o' hands that would hae done it better, gudeman." but the wisdom and kindness of silence was granted her; yet the elder felt his remark to be unpropitious, and sighed. there were so many subjects these days that he made mistakes about; and he had a moment's recollection of his old authoritative speech, and a wonder as to what had happened him. was it that he had fallen out of the ranks of the workers of the world? or, was it because he was growing old? he was silent, and so pathetic in his silence, that neil observed it and blamed himself. "father," he said, "pardon me! i was thinking. i have been with major crosby all day about the barrack department finances, and that is not work to be talked about. it is well you told mr. bradley of maria's absence." "i wonder you did not go with maria; you had an invitation." "yes, i had an invitation, but i had engagements of more importance with brigadier skinner and treasurer mcevers. mcevers is to pay me with wood from a rebel tract granted him. so when the cold weather comes we shall not require to count the sticks; we can at least keep warm." he rose with these words and went to his room. he told himself that he would there consider a visit to miss bradley, and yet he knew that he intended to make it no matter what considerations came up for his deliberation. not for a moment did he deceive himself; he was well aware that for the first time in his life he was really in love. he admitted frankly that his early passion for the pretty katherine van heemskirk had been a selfish affair; and that his duel with captain hyde was fought, not so much for love of katherine, as for hatred and jealousy of his rival. he had never loved katherine as he loved agnes, for it was the soul of agnes that attracted him and drew him to her by a gravitation, like that which one star exerts upon another. his first love he had watched grow from childhood to maidenhood; he could count on his fingers the number of times he had seen agnes bradley; and yet from this slender experience there had sprung an invincible longing to say to her, "o, soul of my soul, i love you! i need you!" yet to make agnes his wife at this time was to make sacrifices that he durst not contemplate. they included the forfeiture of his social position, and this loss was certain to entail the same result on his political standing and emoluments. his father was connected with his financial affairs, and to ruin himself meant also ruin to the parents he loved so truly. then the sudden fear that assails honest lovers made his heart tremble; agnes might have scruples and reluctances; she might not be able to love him; she might love some other man, maria had named such a probability; with a motion of his hand he swept all contingencies aside; no difficulties should abate his ardor; he loved agnes bradley and he was determined to win her. with this decision he rose, stood before his mirror, and looked at himself. too proud a man to be infected with so small a vice as vanity, he regarded his personality without unreasonable favor. "i am still handsome," he said. "if i have not youth, i have in its place the perfection of my own being; i am now in the prime of life, and have not begun to fall away from it. many young and beautiful women have shown me favor i never sought. now, i will seek favor; i will woo it, beg it, pray for it. i will do anything within honor and honesty to win this woman of my soul, this adorable agnes!" he found her in the garden of her home; that is, she was sitting on the topmost step of the short flight leading to the door. her silent, penetrative loveliness encompassed her like an atmosphere in which all the shafts of the shelterless, worrying day fell harmless. she smiled more than spoke her welcome, and her eyes unbarred her soul so that they seemed to understand each other at a glance; for neil's love was set far above all passionate tones of welcome or personal adulation. sitting quiet by her side he noticed a man walking constantly before the house, and he pointed out the circumstance to agnes. "he will walk there until my father comes home," she answered. "it is elias hurd the chapel keeper. father pays him to come here every day at sunset and watch till he returns." "your words take a great fear from me," said neil; and then, though his heart was brim full he could say no more. silence again enfolded them, and the song in each heart remained unsung. yet the overwhelming influence of feelings which had not found words was upon them, and this speechless interlude had been to both the clearest of revealers. after a week's pleasure-seeking maria returned home. it was in the middle of a hot afternoon, and life was at its most languid pitch. the elder was asleep in his chair, madame asleep on the sofa, and the negroes dozing in the kitchen. her entry aroused the house, her personality instantly filled it. she was flushed and tired, but alive with the egotistical spirit of youth. "were you not expecting me?" she asked with an air of injury, as she entered the drowsy, tidy house. "and i do want a cup of tea so much, grandmother." "you were coming monday, and then you were coming wednesday; we did not know whether you would come to-day or not; but you are very welcome, dear, and you shall have tea in ten minutes." she went upstairs while it was preparing, took off her bonnet and her silk coat, dashed cool water over her flushed face and shoulders and arms, wet her hair and brushed it backward, and then put on a loose gown of thin muslin. "now i can drink my tea in comfort," she said, "and just talk at my leisure. and dear me! what a week of tumult it has been!" "have you enjoyed your visits?" asked the elder when she reappeared. "so, so, grandfather," she answered; and as she spoke, she lifted the small tea-table close to his side, and whispered on his cheek, "you will have a cup of tea with me, dear grandfather, i shall not enjoy mine unless you do." he said "pooh! pooh! child," but he was delighted, and with beaming smiles watched her small hands busy among the china, and the bread and meat. "i am downright hungry," she said. "we had breakfast before leaving, but that seems hours and hours ago, and, o grandmother! there is no tea and bread like yours in all the world." then she began her long gossip concerning people and events: the water parties on the river, the picnics in the woods, the dancing and gambling and games in the house. "and i must tell you," she said, "that really and truly, i was the most admired of all the beauties there. the ladies all envied my frocks, and asked where i got them, and begged for the patterns; and i wished i had taken more with me. it is so exhilarating to have a new one for every evening. lord medway said every fresh one became me better than the last." "lord medway!" said the elder. "is he that long, lazy man that trails after general clinton like his shadow?" "well, they love each other. it seems funny for men to love one another; but general clinton and lord ernest medway are like david and jonathan." "maria semple!" cried madame, "i think you might even the like o' clinton and the english lord, to some one o' less respectability than bible characters." "o grandmother! general clinton is just as blood-thirsty as general david ever was. he hates his enemies quite as perfectly, and wishes them all the same sorts and kinds of calamities. i don't know whether jonathan was good-natured, but lord medway is. he danced with me as often as i would let him, and he danced with nobody else! think of that, grandmother! the women were all madly jealous of me. i did not care for that much." "janet, dear," said the elder to his wife, "if you had ever seen this lord medway trailing up william street or maiden lane, you wouldna believe the lassie. he is just the maist inert piece o' humanity you could imagine. _dancing! tuts! tuts! lassie!"_ "he can dance, grandfather. mrs. gordon said the way he led me through a minuet was adorable; and major andré told me that in a skirmish or a cavalry charge, no one could match him. he was the hardest rider and fiercest fighter in the army." "weel, weel!" said madame, "a man that isna roused by anything short o' a battle or a cavalry charge, might be easy to live with--if you have any notion for english lords." "indeed, i have not any notion for lord medway. he is the most provoking of men. he takes no interest in games, he won't stake money on cards, he listened to the music with his eyes shut; and when miss robertson and major andré acted a little piece the major had written, he pretended to be asleep. he was not asleep, for i caught him awake, and he smiled at me, as much as to say that i knew all about his deception, and sanctioned it. i told him so afterward, and he laughed so heartily that every one looked amazed, and what do you think he said? 'it is a fact, ladies; i really laughed, but it is miss semple's fault.' i don't think, grandmother, i would have been invited to hempstead if he had not let it be known that he was not going unless miss semple went." "is he in love with you?" "he thinks he is." "are you in love with him?" maria smiled, and with her teacup half-way to her mouth hummed a line from an old scotch song: "i'm glad that my heart's my ain." such conversation, touching many people and many topics, was naturally prolonged, and when neil came home it was carried on with renewed interest and vigor. and maria was not deceived when neil with some transparent excuse of 'going to see a friend' went out at twilight. "he is going to see agnes," she thought; "my coming home is too good an excuse to lose, but why did he not tell me? lovers are so sly, and yet all their cunning is useless. people always see through their little moves. in the morning i shall go to agnes, and i hope she will not be too advising, because i am old enough to have my own ideas: besides, i have some experiences." all the way to her friend's house in the morning, she was making resolutions which vanished as soon as they were put to the test. it was only too easy to fall into her old confidential way, to tell all she had seen and heard and felt; to be petted and admired and advised. also, she could relate many little episodes to agnes that she had not felt disposed to tell her grandparents, or even neil--compliments and protestations, and sundry "spats" of envy and jealousy with the ladies of the party. but the conversation settled mainly, however often it diverged, upon lord medway. agnes had often heard her father speak of him. he knew john wesley, and had asked him to preach at market-medway to his tenants and servants; and on the anniversary of the wesley chapel in john street he had given mr. bradley twenty pounds toward the chapel fund. "he is a far finer man than he affects to be," she added, "and father says he wears that drawling, trailing habit like a cloak, to hide his real nature. do you think he has fallen in love with you, maria?" "would it be a very unlikely thing to happen, agnes? he danced only with me, and when major andré arranged the musical masque, he consented to sing only on the condition that i sang with him." "and what else, maria?" "one evening quentin macpherson danced the scotch sword dance--a very clever barbaric thing--but i did not like it; the man looks better at the head of his company. however, he sang a little song called 'the soldier's kiss' that was pretty enough. the melody went in this way"--and maria hummed a strain that sounded like the gallop of horses and shaking of bridles--"i only remember the chorus," she said. "a kiss, sweet, a kiss, sweet, for the drums are beat along the street, and we part, and know not when we meet, with another kiss like this, sweet. "and lord medway whispered to me that shakespeare had said it all far better in one line, _'touch her soft mouth and march.'_ in major andre's masque we had a charming little verse; i brought you a copy of it, see, here it is. the first two lines have a sweet crescendo melody; at the third line there was a fanfare of trumpets in the distance and the gentlemen rattled their swords. the fourth line we sang alone, and at the close lord medway bowed to me, and the whole room took up the refrain." then the girls leaned over the paper, and agnes read the words aloud slowly, evidently committing them to her memory as she read: "a song of a single note! but it soars and swells above the trumpet's call, and the clash of arms, for the name of the song is love." "now sing me the melody, maria," said agnes; and maria sang, and agnes listened, and then they sang it together until it was perfect. "just once more," said maria, and as they reached the close of the verse, a strong, musical voice joined in the refrain, and then harry came into the room singing it. "harry! harry!" cried agnes, joyfully. _"and the name of the song is love!"_ he answered, taking agnes in his arms and kissing the word on her lips. then he turned with a glowing face to maria, and she bent her head a little proudly, and remained silent. but soon agnes went away to order coffee for her visitor, and then harry sat down by maria, and asked to see the song, and their hands met above the passionate words, and the dumb letters became vocal. they sang them over and over, their clear, fresh voices growing softer and softer, till, almost in a whisper of delight, they uttered the last word _"love!"_ then he looked at her as only a lover can look, and she looked at him like one who suddenly awakens. her past was a sleep, a dream; that moment her life began. and she had all the tremors that mark the beginnings of life; a great quiet fell upon her, and she wanted to go into solitude and examine this wonderful experience. for harry had stirred one of those unknown soul depths that only love ventures down to. when agnes returned she said she must go home, her grandmother was not well; and then she blundered into such a number of foolish excuses as made agnes look curiously, perhaps anxiously, at her. and for several days she continued these excuses; she sent neil with messages and letters, but she did not go to her friend. there was something wrong between them, and maria finally threw the blame upon agnes. "any one may see that she is deceiving either harry or uncle neil--and i hate a deceiver. it is not fair--i am sure if harry knew about uncle--if he was not engaged to agnes--oh, no! i must not think of him. poor uncle neil! if agnes treats him badly, i shall never forgive her, never!" thus, and so on, ran her reflections day after day, and yet she had not the courage to go and talk the matter out with agnes. but she noticed an unusual exaltation in her uncle's manner; he dressed with more than his usual sombre richness; he seemed to tread upon air, and though more silent than ever, a smile of great sweetness was constantly on his lips. and one afternoon as maria sat at her tambour frame, madame entered the parlor hastily, looking almost frightened. "do you hear him? your uncle, i mean. do you hear him, maria?" she cried. "he is singing. he must be _fey_. i haven't heard him sing since he was a lad going to paul gerome's singing class. it's uncanny! it frightens me! and what is he singing, maria?" and maria lifting a calm face answered--_"the name of the song is love."_ chapter v. love's sweet dream. it is not truth, but falsehood which requires explanation, and maria was sensible of this fact as she sat at her tambour frame thinking of agnes and of harry and of her uncle neil. there was something not straightforward in the life of agnes, and she resolved every day to make inquiry into it, and every day she made, instead, some deferring excuse. but one morning, while eating breakfast, they were all sensitive to unusual movements in the city, and the air was tense with human emotion. the elder and neil became restless and anticipative, and maria could not escape the feverish mental contagion. when the men had left the house she hurried through her few duties, and then went to her friend. agnes was standing at the garden gate, watching and listening. "there is news of some kind, maria," she said; "i am anxious to know what it is." "grandmother says we need not run after news, it will find us out, and i dare say it is only more connecticut ravaging." then agnes turned into the house with maria, for she perceived something unusual in her voice and manner--dissatisfaction, and perhaps a tone of injury. there was no pretence of study about her, she had not even brought her books, and agnes became silent, and lifted her sewing. at length maria spoke: "what is the matter with you, agnes?" she asked, and then added: "you are not like yourself this morning." "whatever the matter is, maria, i caught it from you." "you are cross." "i was only curious and anxious when you came. you brought dissatisfaction and annoyance with you. i think you had better tell me at once what has displeased you." "oh, you must know what displeases me, agnes. do you think i can bear to see you playing with two lovers at once? i am very fond of my uncle neil, and he adores you. and when harry is away, uncle neil is everything; but as soon as harry comes, then harry is everything. it is not fair to uncle, and i do not approve of such ways. if i were to act in that kind of fashion between lord medway and quentin macpherson, who would be so shocked as agnes bradley? i am so disappointed in you, agnes. i have not been able to come and see you for days; this morning i felt that i must speak to you about things." "maria, i once asked you to defer judgment on whatever you saw or heard or suspected, and to take my word for it being all right. it seems that i asked too much." "but how can it be all right, if you allow two men to make love to you?--and you seem to like it from both of them." "i do like it--from both of them. the two loves are different." "agnes! agnes! i am shocked at you!" and maria hid her face on the sofa cushion and began to cry. then agnes knelt at her side, and lifted her face and kissed it, and whispered four words in her ear; and there was a look of wonder, and maria asked softly, "why did you not tell me before?" "i thought every time you saw him you would surely guess the truth." "i did not." "you must have seen also that harry is deeply in love with you. now, how could he be in love with me also?" "harry in love with me! o agnes!" "you know it. love cannot be hid. only lovers look at a woman as i have seen harry look at you." "i do think harry likes me, and i felt as if--i don't know what i felt, agnes. i am very unhappy." "let me tell you what you felt. you said to yourself: if harry was not bound to agnes he would be my lover; and agnes does not care for him, she does not treat him well, and yet she treats him too well to be doing right to uncle neil. you would include your uncle, because you would feel it selfish to be wounded and disappointed only on your own account." "you ought not to speak in that way, agnes. suppose i had such feelings, it is not nice of you to put them into words so plain and rude." "i do not blame you, maria. your attitude is natural, and specially womanly. it is i who have been wrong. i must now excuse myself to you; once you said you could believe in me without explanations." "forgive me, agnes. i do not want explanations now." "for i have told you that harry is my brother, not my lover. that is the main fact, and accounts for all that specially troubles you. now you must know the whole truth. harry was sent to england out of the way of the war, for my father lives and moves in his being and welfare. but harry wanted to be in the thick of the war; he wanted the post of most danger for his country's sake. he said he was ashamed to be in england; that every american who could be in active service ought to be there, because it might be, god intended to use just him. i gave in to all he proposed; i had no heart to resist him. i only stipulated that come what would, our father should not know he was in the country." "why did you not tell me at first that he was your brother?" "harry is handsome, and i was afraid you might be attracted by him; and the secrecy and romance of the situation and the danger he was constantly facing--these are things that capture a woman's imagination. and marriage is such an important affair, i could not think it right to run the risk of engaging you to harry unknown to your father or friends. i told harry that you believed him to be my lover, and i was sure that this belief would save you from thinking of him in any light but that of a friend or brother." "it ought to have done, dear agnes; it did do--but harry." "i know, at harry's second visit, if not at his first, he was your lover; and i knew that this explanation must come. now, i can only beg you to keep the knowledge of harry bradley's presence in america absolutely to yourself. i assure you, if father knew he was here and in constant danger, he would be distracted." "but does he not suspect? he must wonder that harry does not write to him." "harry does write. he sends letters to a friend in london, who re-mails them to father. about three times a year father gets a london letter, and that satisfies him. and he so little suspects harry's presence in america that the boy has passed his father on the street without the slightest recognition on father's part; for he has more disguises than you could believe possible. i have seen him as a poor country doctor, buying medicines for his settlement; as an old schoolmaster, after a few books and slates at rivington's; and a week ago, i met him one day shouting to the horses which were pulling a load of wood up golden hill. and he has no more transitions than a score of other young men who serve their country in this secret and dangerous manner. i can assure you general washington's agents go in and out of new york constantly, and it is beyond the power of england to prevent them." "suppose in some evil hour he should be suspected! oh, agnes!" "there are houses in every street in the city where a window or a door is always left open. harry told me he knew of sixteen, and that he could pass from one to the other in safety." "suppose he should be noticed on the river, at your landing or any other." "he can swim like a fish and dive like a seal and run like a deer. the river banks that look like a tangle to you and me, are clear as a highway to harry. and you know it is the east river that is watched; no one thinks much about the water on this side; especially so near the fort. i do not think harry is in any great danger; and he will be mainly on the river now for some months." "i wish i had not said a word, agnes, i am so sorry! so sorry!" "we are always sorry when we doubt. i felt that you were mistrusting me, and i promised harry, on his last visit, to tell you the truth before he came again. i have been waiting for you all week. i should have told you to-day, even if you had not said a word." "i shall never forgive myself." "i was wrong also, maria. i ought, at the first, to have trusted you fully." "or not trusted me at all, agnes." "you are right, maria." a great chagrin made maria miserable. a little faith, a little patience, and the information she had demanded in spirit unlovely and unloving, would have come to her by harry's desire, and with the affectionate confidence of agnes. but neither of the girls were fully satisfied or happy, and the topic was dropped. both felt that the matter would have to rest, in order to clear itself, and agnes was not unconscious of those mute powers within, which, if left to themselves, clear noiselessly away the débris of our disputes and disappointments. she proposed a walk in the afternoon; she said she had shopping to do, and if there was any news, they would likely hear it from some one. there was evidently news, and agnes at once judged it unfavorable for the royalists. the military were moving with sullen port; the houses were generally closed, and the people on the streets not inclined to linger or to talk. "we had better ask my father," she said, and they turned aside to bradley's store to make the inquiry. the saddler was standing at the door talking to lord medway; and his eyes flashed an instant's triumphant signal as they caught his daughter's glance of inquiry. but he kept his stolid air, and when he found lord medway and maria so familiarly pleased to meet each other, he introduced agnes and gave a ready acquiescence to lord medway's proposal to walk with the ladies home. then, maria, suddenly brilliant with a sense of her power, asked, "what is the matter with the city this afternoon? every one seems so depressed and ill-humored." "we have lost stony point," answered medway. "there was a midnight attack by twelve hundred picked men. it was an incomparable deed of daring. i would like to have been present. i said to general clinton when i heard the story, 'such men are born to rule, and coming from the stock they do, you will never subdue them!'" "who led the attack?" asked agnes. "anthony wayne, a brave daring man, they tell me. the frenchman, de fleury, was first in, and he hauled down our flags. _dash it!_ if it had been an american, i would not have cared so much. now, perhaps, generals clinton and tryon will understand the kind of men they have to fight. when americans fight englishmen, it is greek meeting greek. clinton tells me the rebels have taken four thousand pounds' worth of ordnance and stores and nearly seven hundred prisoners. oh, you know a deed like this makes even an enemy proud of the men who could do it!" "was it a very difficult deed?" asked maria. "i am told that stony point is a rock two hundred feet high, surrounded by the hudson river on three sides, and almost isolated from the land on the fourth side by a marsh, which at high tide is two feet under water. they reached the fort about midnight, and while one column drew the defenders to the front by a rapid continuous fire, two other columns, armed only with the bayonet, broke into the fort from opposite points. in five minutes the rebels were rushing through every embrasure, and a thousand tongues crying 'victory'! there is no use belittling such an affair. it was as brave a thing as ever men did, and i wish i had seen the doing of it." in such conversation they passed up maiden lane, and by the ruins of trinity church to the river side; all of them influenced by the tense feeling which found no vocal outlet for its passion. men and women would appear for a moment at a window, and then disappear. they were american patriots on the look-out to spread the good news. a flash from the lifted eyes of agnes was sufficient. again they would meet two or three royalists talking in a dejected, disparaging way of the victory; or else blustering in anger over the supineness or inefficiency of their generals. "i hope general clinton will now find his soldiers some tougher work than hay-making," sneered an irate old man who stopped lord medway. "if he goes out hay-making, he ought to leave fighting men in the forts. why the commander at stony point--colonel johnson--i know him, had a wine party, and the officers from verplanck's point were drinking with him, when wayne walked into their midst and made them all prisoners. i am told the sentinels had been secured, the abatis removed, and the rebels in the works before our fine soldiers knew an enemy was near. and it was that tanner from pennsylvania--that dandy wayne, that stole the march on them! it makes me ashamed of our english troops, my lord! "well, mr. smith, general clinton will be in new york in a few days. there will be many to call him to account, i have no doubt." in this electric atmosphere heart spoke to heart very readily, for in the midst of great realities conventionalities are of so little consequence, and genuine feeling, of any kind, forgets, or puts aside, flatteries or compliments. so when they reached the bradley house, agnes asked lord medway if he would enter and rest awhile? and he said he would, and so sat talking about the war until it was tea-time for the simple maidens, who ate their dinner at twelve o'clock. then he saw agnes bring in the tray, and take out the china, and lay the round table with a spotless nicety; and it delighted him to watch the homely scene. maria was knitting, and he turned her ball of pink yarn in his hands and watched her face glow and smile and pout and change with every fresh sentiment. or, if he lifted his eyes from this picture, he could look at agnes, who had pinned a clean napkin across her breast, and was cutting bread and butter in the wafer slices he approved. he wondered if she would ask him to take tea with them; if she did not he was resolved to ask himself. then he noticed she had placed three cups on the tray, and he was sure of her hospitality. it made him very happy, and he never once fell into the affectation of talk and manner appropriate to a fashionable tea-table. he seemed to enjoy both the rebel sentiments of agnes, and the royalist temper of maria; and he treated both girls with such hearty deference and respect as he did not always show to much more famous dames. and it was while sitting at this tea-table he gave his heart without reserve to maria semple. if he had any doubts or withdrawals, he abandoned them in that happy hour, and said frankly to himself: "i will make her my wife. that is my desire and my resolve; and i will not turn aside from it for anything, nor for any man living; maria semple is the woman i love, no one else shall have her." in following out this resolve he understood the value of agnes; and he did all he could to gain her good-will. she was well disposed to give it; her father's approval bespoke hers. a feeling of good comradeship and confidence grew rapidly as they ate, and drank their tea, and talked freely and without many reservations, for the sake of their political feelings. so much so, that when lord medway rose to go, there came to agnes a sudden fear and chill. she looked at him apprehensively, and while he held her hand, she said: "lord medway, maria and i have been very sincere with you, but i am sure our sincerity cannot wrong us, in your keeping." this was not very explicit, but he understood her meaning. he laid his hand upon the table at which they had eaten, and said: "it is an altar to faith and friendship. when i am capable of repeating anything said at the table where i sit as guest, i shall be lost to truth and honor, and be too vile to remember." he spoke with force, and with a certain eloquence, very different from his usual familiar manner, and both agnes and maria showed him in their shining eyes and confiding air how surely they believed in him. after this event there was continual excitement in the city, and general clinton returned to it at once. he called in the little army he had cutting grass for winter fodder, and with twenty thousand troops shut himself up in new york. "for once the man has been employing himself well and wiselike," said madame semple. "he has cut all the grass, and cured all the grass round about rye, and white plains, and new rochelle, and east chester, and a few other places; and he has left it all ahint him. what a wiselike wonderfu' man is general sir henry clinton!" "and the rebels have carried off the last wisp o' hay he made," said the elder angrily. "they were on the vera heels o' our soldiers. it's beyond believing! it's just the maist mortifying thing that ever happened us." madame looked pityingly at her husband, raised her shoulders to emphasize the look, and then in a thin voice, quavering a little with her weakness and emotion, began to sing to herself from that old translation of the psalms so dear to every scottish heart: "kings of great armies foiled were and forced to flee away; and women who remained at home did distribute the prey. god's chariots twenty thousand are, thousands of angels strong." "janet! janet! will you sing some kind o' calming verse? the lord is naething but a _man of war_ in your thoughts. do you believe he goes through the earth wi' a bare, lifted sword in his hand?" "whiles he does, alexander. and the light from that lifted sword lightens the earth. i hae tasted o' the goodness of the lord; i know of old his tender mercy, and his loving kindness, but in these awfu' days, i am right glad to think o' him as _the lord of hosts!_ he is sure to be on the right side, and he can make of one man a thousand, and of a handful, a great multitude." "it's a weary warld." "but just yet there's nae better one, my dear auld man! so we may as well tak' cheerfully what good comes to-day, there will be mair to-morrow, or i'm far wrang." if janet's "to-morrow" be taken as she meant it to be taken, her set time was long enough for other startling events. tryon's expedition was ordered back to new york, and quentin macpherson brought the news of his own return. he did not meet with as warm a welcome as he hoped for. madame was contemptuous and indignant over the ravaging character of the expedition. the elder said they had "alienated royalists without intimidating rebels"; and maria looked critically at the young soldier, and thought him less handsome than she had supposed: the expedition, so cowardly and cruel, had been demoralizing and had left its mark on the young man. he was disappointed, jealous, offended; he had an overweening opinion of the nobility of his family and not a very modest one as to his own deserts. he was also tenacious, and the thing he desired grew in value as it receded from his grasp; so, although angry at maria, he had no idea of relinquishing his suit for her hand. she kept as much as possible out of his company, and this was not difficult. the troops were constantly on the alert, for one piece of bad news, for the royalists, followed another. a month after the capture of stony point, the rebels took paulus hook in a midnight attack. this fort had been most tenaciously held by the english from the earliest days of the war, it being the only safe landing-place in jersey for their foraging parties. it was within sight of new york, and almost within reach of its guns. the shame and anger of the royalist burghers was unspeakable; they would have openly insulted the military, if they had dared to do so. about two weeks later came the news of sullivan's sweeping victory over the six nations of indians under sir john johnson and the indian chief, brandt. the americans turned their country into a desert, and drove the whole people in headlong flight as far as niagara. this autumn also was rendered remarkable by the astonishing success of the american privateers; never had they been at once so troublesome and so fortunate. so that there was plenty for every one to talk about, if there had been neither lovers nor love-making in the land. but it seemed as if love regarded the movement of great armies and the diplomacies of great nations, as the proper background and vehicles for his expression. while medway was talking, or fishing, or hunting with clinton, he was thinking of maria. while macpherson was inspecting his company, he was thinking of maria. while harry was traversing the woods and the waters, he was thinking of maria. and while neil semple was drawing out titles, and making arguments in court, he was always conscious of the fact that his happiness was bound up in the love of agnes bradley. on every side also, other lovers were wooing and wedding. the sound of trumpets did not sadden the music of the marriage feast, nor did the bridal dance tarry a moment for the tramp of marching soldiers. all the chances and changes of war were but ministers of love, and did his pleasure. in the meantime john bradley was stitching his saddles, and praying and working for washington, the idol of his hopes, quite unconscious of how completely his home had been confiscated to the service of love and lovers. no house in all the restless city seemed less likely to be the rendezvous of meeting hearts; and yet quite naturally, and by the force of the simplest circumstances, it had assumed this character. it began with maria. her beauty and charm had given her three lovers, who were, all of them, men with sufficient character to find, or to make a way to her presence. but every movement, whether of the body or the soul, takes, by a certain law, the direction in which there is the least resistance; and the road of least resistance to maria, was by way of agnes bradley. at the semple house, madame was a barrier medway could not pass. she told maria plainly, "no english lord should cross her doorstep." she could not believe in his good heart, or his good sense, and she asked scornfully, "how a close friend of general clinton's could be fit company for an american girl? he has nae charm for touching pitch without being defiled," she said, "and i'll not hae him sitting on my chairs, and putting his feet on my hearth, and fleching and flattering you in my house while my name is janet semple. and you may tell him i said so." and in order to prevent madame giving her own message, maria was compelled to confess to lord medway, her grandmother's antagonism. he was politely sorry for her dislike to englishmen--for he preferred to accept it as a national, rather than a personal feeling; but it did not interfere with his intentions. there was miss bradley. she had a kind feeling toward him, and maria spent a large part of every day with her friend. by calling on miss bradley he could see miss semple. as the best means toward this end he cultivated agnes through her father. he talked with him, listened to his experiences, and gave him subscriptions for wesley chapel, and for the prisoners he could find means to help. he made such a good impression on john bradley, that he told his daughter he felt sure the good seed he had sown would bring forth good fruit in its season. macpherson had a certain welcome at the semples, but he could not strain it. madame was not well, company fatigued her, and, though he did not suspect this reason, she was feeling bitterly that she must give up her life-long hospitality--she could not afford to be hospitable any longer. she did not tell maria this, she said rather, "the laddie wearied her mair than once a week. she wasna strong, and she didna approve o' his excuses for general clinton. i could tear them all to ravlins," she said, angrily, "but i wad tear mysel' to pieces doing it. he has the reiving, reiving highland spirit, and nae wonder! the macphersons have carried fire and sword for centuries." as for harry deane, he, of course, could not come at all, though madame might have borne him more than once a week, if she had been trusted. but harry was as uncertain as the wind. he came when no one looked for him, and when he was expected, he was miles away. so there was no possible neutral ground for love but such as agnes in her good-nature and wisdom would allow. but agnes was not difficult. neil semple had taught her the sweetness and clemency of love, and she would not deprive maria of those pleasant hours, with which so many days were brightened that would otherwise have been dull and monotonous. for, during the summer's heat the royalist families, who could afford to do so, left the city, and the little tea parties at agnes bradley's were nearly the only entertainment at maria's command. these were informal and often delightful. lord medway knew that about five o'clock agnes would be setting the tea-tray, and he liked to sit beside maria and watch her do it. and sometimes maria made the tea, and poured his out, and put in the sugar and cream with such enchanting smiles and ways that he vowed never tea in this world tasted so refreshing and delicious. and not infrequently quentin macpherson would come clattering in when the meal had begun, take a chair at the round table, and drinking his tea a little awkwardly, soothe his self-esteem by an aggressive self-importance. for lord medway's nonchalant manner provoked him to such personal assertion as always mortified when the occasion was over. about half-past seven was neil's hour, and then the conversation became general, and love found all sorts of tender occasions; every glance of meeting eyes, and every clasp of meeting hands, bearing the one sweet message, "i love you, dear!" it was usually in the morning that harry came springing up the garden path. there was neither work nor lessons that day, nor any pretense of them. harry had too much to tell, and both agnes and maria hung upon his words as if they held the secret of life and happiness. now, granted two beautiful girls with a moderate amount of freedom, and four lovers in that pleasantly painful condition between hope and fear that people in love make, if it is not made for them, and put all in a position where they have the accessories of sunlight and moonlight, a shady garden, a noble river, the scent of flowers, the goodness of fine fruit, the pleasures of the tea-table, and if these young people do not advance in the sweet study their hearts set them, they must be either coldly indifferent, or stupidly selfish. this company of lovers was however neither stupid nor selfish. in the midst of war's alarms, while fleets and armies were gathering for battle, they were attending very faithfully to their own little drama. quentin macpherson had one advantage over both his rivals: he went to the semple house every sunday evening, and then he had maria wholly under his influence. he walked in the garden with her, she made his tea for him, he sat by her side during the evening exercise, sung the psalm from the same bible, and then, rising with the family, stood, as one of them, while the elder offered his anxious yet trustful prayer. it was madame who had thought of connecting this service with the young soldier. "it is little good he can get from thae episcopals," she said, "and it's your duty, alexander, to gie him a word in season," and though macpherson was mainly occupied in watching maria, and listening to her voice, he had been too well grounded in his faith not to be sensible of the sacredness of those few minutes, and to be insensibly influenced by their spirit. neil was never present. when the tea-table was cleared, he went quietly out, and those who cared to follow him would have been led to the little wesleyan chapel on john street. he always took the same seat in a pew near the door, and there he worshipped for an hour or two the beautiful daughter of john bradley. he was present to watch them enter. sometimes the father went to the pulpit, sometimes he went with agnes to the singing-pew. and to hear these two translating into triumphant song the holy aspirations and longings of watts and wesley, was reason enough for any one who loved music to be in wesley chapel when they were singing together. all who have ever loved, all who yet dream of love, can tell the further story of those summer days for themselves. they have only to keep in mind that it had a constant obligato of trumpets and drums and marching men, and a constant refrain, made up of all the rumors of war, victory, and defeat; good news and bad news, fear, and hope, and sighing despair. at length the warm weather gave place to the dreamy hours of the indian summer. a heavenly veil of silvery haze lay over the river and the city; a veil which seemed to deaden every sound but the shrill chirping of the crickets; and a certain sense of peace calmed for a short time the most restless hearts. the families who had been at various places during the hot months returned to their homes in new york, with fresh dreams of conquest and pleasure, for as yet the terrors of the coming winter were not taken into thought or account. the war was always going to be "over very soon," and general clinton assured the butterflies of his military court they might eat, drink, and be merry, for he intended at once to "strike such a blow as would put an end to confederated rebellion for ever." and they gladly believed him. in less than a week maria received half-a-dozen invitations to dinners, dances, card parties, and musical recitations. she began at once to look over her gowns, and agnes came every day to the semple house to assist in remodeling and retrimming them. they were delightful days long to be remembered. both the elder and madame enjoyed them quite as much as the girls; and even neil entered into the discussions about colors, and the suitability of guimpes and fringes, with a smiling gravity that was very attractive. "uncle neil thinks he is taking depositions and weighing evidence; see how the claims of pink and amber perplex him!" and then neil would laugh a little, and decide in such haste that he generally contradicted his first opinion. the sunday in this happy week was made memorable by the news which quentin macpherson brought. "some one," he said, "had whispered to general clinton that it was the intention of washington to unite with the french army and besiege new york, and clinton had immediately ordered the troops garrisoning rhode island to return to the city with all possible speed. and would you believe it, elder?" said the young soldier, "they came so hastily that they left behind them all the wood they had cut for winter, and all the forage and stores provided for six thousand men. no sooner were they out of sight than the american army slipped in and took possession of everything; and now it appears that it was a false report--the general is furious, and is looking for the author of it." "he needna look very far," answered semple. "there is a man that dips his sop in the dish wi' him, and that coils him round his finger wi' a mouthful o' words, wha could maist likely give him the whole history o' the matter, for he'll be at the vera beginning o' it." "do you mean to say, sir, that our commander-in-chief has a traitor for his friend and confidant and adviser?" "i mean to say all o' that. but where will you go and not find washington's emissaries beguiling thae stupid english?" "you cannot call the english stupid, sir." "i can and i will. they are sae sure o' their ain power and wisdom that they are mair than stupid. they are ridic'lus. it makes them the easy tools of every clever american that is willing to take a risk--and they maist o' them are willing." "but when the english realize----" "aye, _when_ they realize!" "well, sir, they came to realization last month splendidly in that encounter with the privateer, paul jones. it was the grandest seafight ever made between seadogs of the same breed. why, the muzzles of their guns touched each other; the ships were nearly torn to pieces, and three-fourths of the men killed or wounded. gentlemen, too, as well as fighters though but lowborn men, for i am told they began the combat with a courtesy worthy of the days of chivalry. both captains bowed and remained uncovered until the foremost guns of the english ship bore on the starboard quarter of the american. then captain paul jones put on his hat, as a sign that formalities were over, and the battle began, and raged until the english ship was sinking; then she surrendered." "mair's the pity!" said the elder, "she ought to have gone down fighting." "she saved the great fleet of merchantmen she was convoying from the baltic; while she was fighting the american every one of them got safe away and into port, and the american ship went down two days afterward--literally died of her wounds and went down to her grave. and by the bye, mr. semple, this paul jones is a countryman of ours--a scotchman." "aye, is he!--from kirkcudbright. i was told he had an intention o' sacking edinburgh. fair, perfect nonsense!" "an old friend of the macphersons--stuart of invernalyle--was sought out to defend the town. i had a letter from the family." "weel, stuart could tak' that job easy. the west wind is a vera reliable one in the firth o' edinburgh, and it is weel able, and extremely likely, to defend its ain city. in fact, it did do so, for paul couldna win near, and so he went 'north about' and found the baltic fleet with the _serapis_ guarding it. weel, then, he had his fight, though he lost the plunder. but it was a ridic'lus thing in any mortal, menacing the capital o' scotland wi' three brigs that couldna have sacked a fife fishing village! and what is mair," added the old man with a tear glistening in his eyes, "he wouldna have hurt leith or edinburgh. not he! scots may love america, but they never hate their ain dear scotland; they wouldna hurt the old land, not even in thought. if put to the question, all o' them would say, as david o' israel and david o' scotland baith said, 'let my right hand forget its cunning----' you ken the rest, and if you don't, it will do you good to look up the th psalm." the stir of admiration concerning these and other events--all favorable to the americans--irritated general clinton and made him much less courteous in his manner to both friends and foes. and, moreover, it was not pleasant for him to know that general washington was entertaining the first french minister to the united states at newburgh, and that john jay was then on his way to madrid to complete with the spanish government terms of recognition and alliance. so that even through the calmness of these indian summer days there were definite echoes of defeat and triumph, whether expressed publicly or discussed so privately that the bird of the air found no whisper to carry. one day at the end of october, agnes did not come until the afternoon, and maria rightly judged that harry was in new york. there was no need to tell her so, the knowledge was an intuition, and when agnes said to madame, "she had a friend, and would like maria to bring the pelerine they were retrimming to her house, and spend the evening with her," no objection was made. "i shall miss you baith; so will the elder," she answered, "but i dare say that english lord is feeling i have had mair than my share o' your company." "oh, madame!" said agnes, "it is not the english lord, it is a true american boy from--up the river," and agnes opened her eyes wide as she lifted them to madame's, and there was some sort of instantaneous and satisfactory understanding. then she added, "will you ask mr. neil semple to come for maria about eight o'clock?" "there will be nae necessity to ask him. his feet o' their ain accord will find their way to your house, agnes," said madame. "before he has told himsel' where he is going he will be at your doorstep. he must be very fond o' his niece maria--or of somebody else," and the old lady smiled pleasantly at the blushing girl. then both girls kissed madame and stopped at the garden gate to speak to the elder, and so down the road together full of happy expectation, divining nothing of _one_ who went forth with them. how should they? neither had ever seen the face of sorrow or broke with her the ashen crust. they were not aware of her presence and they heard not the stir of her black mantle trailing upon the dust and the dead leaves as she walked at their side. "harry will be here for tea," said agnes, when they reached the house, and a soft, delightful sense of pleasure to come pervaded the room as they sat sewing and talking until it was time to set the table. and as soon as agnes began this duty there was a peculiar whistle, and maria glanced at agnes, threw aside her work, and went down the garden to meet her lover. he was tying his boat to the little jetty, and when the duty was done they sat down on the wooden steps and talked of this, and that, and of everything but love, and yet everything they said was a confession of their interest in each other. but the truest love has often the least to say, and those lovers are to be doubted and pitied who must always be seeking assurances, for thus they sow the path of love with thorns. far happier are they who leave something unsaid, who dare to enter into that living silence which clasps hearts like a book of songs unsung. they will sing them all, but not all at once. one by one, as their hour comes, they will learn them together. that calm, sweet afternoon was provocative of this very mood. maria and harry sat watching the river rocking the boat, and listening to the chirruping of the crickets, and both were satisfied with their own silence. it was a heavenly hour, hushed and halcyon, full of that lazy happiness which is the most complete expression of perfect love. when agnes called, they walked hand in hand up the garden, and at the tea-table came back again into the world. harry had much to tell them, and was full of confidence in the early triumph of the americans. "then i hope we shall have peace, and all be friends again," said maria. she spoke a little wearily, as if she had no faith in her words, and harry answered her doubt rather than her hope. "there will not be much friendship this generation," he said; "things have happened between england and america which men will remember until they forget themselves." after tea, harry said, "maria is going with me to the river to see if the boat is safe," and agnes, smiling, watched them a little way; then turned again to her china, and without any conscious application began to sing softly the aria of an old english anthem by king: "i went down into the garden of nuts, to see whether the pomegranates budded--to see whether the pomegranates--the pomegranates budded,"[ ] but suddenly, even as her voice rose and fell sweetly to her thoughts, a strange chill arrested the flow of the melody; and she was angry at herself because she had inadvertently wondered, "if the buds would ever open full and flowerwise?" [ ] "solomon's song," : . in about half an hour agnes, having finished her house duties, went to the door opening into the garden and called harry and maria. they turned toward the house when they heard her voice, and she remained in the open door to watch them come through the tall box-shrubs and the many-colored asters. and as she did so, quentin macpherson reached the front door--which also stood open--and perceiving agnes, he did not knock, but waited for her to turn inward. consequently he saw harry and maria, and did not fail to notice the terms of affectionate familiarity between them. the fire of jealousy was kindled in a moment; he strode forward to meet the company, and was received with the usual friendly welcome; for such a situation had often been spoken of as possible, and agnes was not in the least disconcerted. "my friend, mr. harry deane, captain macpherson," she said, without hesitation, and the captain received the introduction with his most military air. then agnes set herself to keep the conversation away from the war, but that was an impossible thing; every incident of life somehow or other touched it, and before she realized the fact, harry was deprecating tryon's outrages in connecticut, and macpherson defending them on the ground that "the towns destroyed had fitted out most of the privateers which had so seriously interfered with english commerce. both the building of the ships and the destruction of the towns for building them are natural incidents of war," he said, and then pointedly, "perhaps you are a native of connecticut?" "no," answered harry, "i am a native of new york." "ah! i have not met you before." "i am a great deal away----" then receiving from agnes a look of anxious warning, he thought it best to take his leave. agnes rose and went to the door with him, and maria wished captain macpherson anywhere but in her society; especially as he began to ask her questions she did not wish to answer. "so miss bradley has a lover?" he said, looking pointedly at the couple as they left the room. "i used to think so once," answered maria. "but not now?" "but not now. mr. deane is an old friend, a playmate even." "i suppose he is a king's man?" "ask him; he is still standing at the gate. i talk to him on much pleasanter subjects." "love, for instance?" "perhaps." "how can you be so cruel, maria?" "it is _miss semple's_ nature to be cruel." the reproof snubbed him, and both were silent for some minutes; then the same kind of desultory fencing was renewed, and maria felt the time to be long and the tension unendurable. she could have cried out with anger. why had not agnes let her go to the door with harry? she had had no opportunity to bid him "good-bye"; and yet, even after harry had gone, there agnes stood at the gate, "watching for uncle neil, of course," thought maria, "and no doubt she has a message for me; she might come and give it to me--very likely harry is at the boat waiting for me--oh, dear! why does she not come?" with such thoughts urging her, the very attitude of agnes was beyond endurance. she stood at the gate as still as if she was a part of it, and at length maria could bear the delay no longer. "i wish to speak to agnes," she said, "will you permit me a moment?" "certainly," he answered with an air of offense. "i fear i am in the way of some one or something." "oh, no, no!" cried maria, decisively. "i only want to make her come in. she says the night air is so unhealthy, and yet there she stands in it--bareheaded, too." "it is an unusually warm evening." "yes, but you know there is the malaria. i shall bring her in a moment, you shall see how quickly i am obeyed." in unison with these words, she rose in a hurry, and as she did so there came through the open window a little stone wrapped in white paper. if she had not moved, it would have fallen into her lap; as it was, it fell on the floor and almost at the feet of macpherson. he lifted it, and went to the candle. it was a message, as he expected, and read thus: _"keep that scot amused for an hour, and meet me at semple's landing at nine o'clock. harry."_ "oh! oh!" he said with an intense inward passion. "i am to be amused! i am to be cajoled! deceived! _that scot_ is to be used for some purpose, and by st. andrew, i'll wager it is treason. this affair must be looked into--quick, too." with this thought he put the paper in his pocket, and followed maria to the gate where she stood talking with agnes. "i will bid you good-night," he said with a purposed air of offense. "i am sure that i am an intruder on more welcome company." he would listen to no explanations or requests. maria became suddenly kind, and assumed the prettiest of her coaxing ways, but he knew she was only "amusing" him, and he would not respond to what he considered her base, alluring treachery. "there, now, maria! you have been very foolish," said agnes. "captain macpherson is angry. you ought to have been particularly kind to him to-night--after harry." "you were so selfish, agnes--so unreasonably selfish! you might have let me go to the gate with harry. i never had a chance to say 'good-bye' to him; there you stood, watching for uncle neil, and i was on pins and needles of anxiety. why didn't you stay with the man, and let me go to the gate?" "if you must know why; i had some money to give harry. could i do that before captain macpherson?" "i hate the man! i am glad he has gone! i hope he will never come again!" "i do not think he will, maria." they went into the house thoroughly vexed with each other, and maria said in a tone of pique or offense, "i wonder what delays my uncle! i wish he would come!" in reality neil was no later than usual, but maria was quivering with disappointment and annoyance, and when he did arrive it was not possible for any one to escape the influence of an atmosphere charged with the miserable elements of frustrated happiness. maria was not a girl to bear disagreeable things alone or in silence. she would talk only of macpherson and his unwelcome visit; "but he always did come when he was not wanted," she said angrily. "last sunday when grandmother was sick, and i was writing a long letter to father, and nobody cared to see him at all, enter captain macpherson with his satisfied smile, and his clattering sword, and his provoking air of conferring a favor on us by his company. i hate the creature! and i think it is a dreadful thing to make set days for people's visits; we have all got to dislike sunday afternoons, just for his sake!" and so on, with constant variations. fortunately mr. bradley came home soon after eight o'clock, and maria would not make any further delay. she had many reasons for her hurry, but undoubtedly the chief one, was a feeling that agnes ought not to have the pleasure of a conversation between her father and her lover, and probably a walk home with her, and then a walk back with neil alone. she would go at once, and she would not ask agnes to go with her. if she was disappointed, it was only a just retribution for her selfishness about harry. and though she noticed agnes was depressed and cast down, she was not appeased; "however, i will come in the morning and make all right," she thought; "to-night agnes may suffer a little. i will come in the morning and make all right." yes, she would come in the morning, but little she dreamed on what errand she would come. still, maria is not to be blamed over much; there is some truth in every reproach that is made. chapter vi. the intercepted message. while this unhappy interlude was passing, a far greater sorrow was preparing. captain macpherson went at once to his colonel with the pebble-sent note. he told himself that his duty to his king and his colors demanded it, and that no harm could come to the two women except such as was reflected from the trouble that saucy young man might be entitled to. he had no objections to giving him trouble; he felt that he ought to be made to understand a little better what was due to an officer of the king. _"that scot!"_ he flung his plaid passionately over his shoulder and stamped his foot with the offended temper of centuries of macphersons. as for maria, he would not think of her. he could not know what the consequences of the interrupted tryst would be, but let her take them! a girl who could prefer quite a common-looking young man to himself needed a lesson. he said over and over that he had only done a duty he would have performed under any circumstances; and he kept reiterating the word "duty,"--still he knew right well that duty in this case had been powerfully seconded by jealousy and by his personal offense. what action his colonel would take he knew not. he desired to be excused from any part in it, because of the semple's hospitality to him. his request was granted; and then he went to his rooms hot with uncertain excitement. the colonel had no sentimental reasons for ignoring what might prove a valuable arrest. nothing had provoked general clinton more than the ubiquitous nature of washington's spies. they were everywhere; they were untiring, unceasing and undaunted. the late reverses, which had mortified every english soldier, had been undoubtedly brought about by the false reports they spread,--no one knew by whose assistance,--and this night might be a turning-point in affairs. he ordered ten picked men to wait for the boat at semple's landing. the place was easily reached; they had but to walk to the bottom of the fence, climb over it, and secrete themselves in the little boathouse, or among the shrubbery, if it had yet foliage enough to screen them. he looked over his roll of suspects and found madame semple's name among them. likely enough, her family sympathized with her. it would at least be prudent to secure the husband and son. if they were good royalists, they could easily prove it. then he sat down to smoke and to drink brandy; he, too, had done his duty, and was not troubled at all about results. the semples, to him, were only two or three out of sixty thousand reputed royalists in the city. if they were honest, they had little to fear; if they were traitors, they deserved all they would certainly get from clinton in his present surly mood. quite unconscious of what was transpiring, john bradley was eating a frugal supper of oatmeal and bread and cheese, and telling his daughter about a handsome saddle that was going up the river to "the man in all the world most worthy of it." elder semple was asleep, and madame, lying in the darkness, was softly praying away her physical pain and her mental anxieties. suddenly she heard an unusual stir and the prompt, harsh voices of men either quarreling or giving orders. "it is on our ain place!" and a sick terror assailing her, she cried: "wake up! wake up, alexander! there's men at the door, and angry men, and they're calling you!" neil, who was sitting dressed in his room, instantly answered the summons, and was instantly under arrest; and as no effort was made to prevent noise or confusion, the tumult and panic soon reached maria. she was combing her hair to fretful thoughts, and a keen sense of disappointment; but when madame entered the room wringing her hands and lamenting loudly, she let the comb fall and stood up trembling with apprehension. "maria! maria! they are taking your grandfather and uncle to prison! oh, god, my dear auld man! my dear auld man!" "grandmother! what are you saying? you must be mistaken--you must be!" "come, and see for yoursel';" and madame flung open the window and with a shriek of futile distress cried, "alexander, look at me! speak to me." at these words the elder, who was standing with a soldier, lifted his face to the distracted woman, in her white gown at the open window, and cried to her: "janet, my dearie, you'll get your death o' cold. it is a' a mistake. go to your bed, dear woman. i'll be hame in the morning." neil repeated this advice, and then there was a sharp order and a small body of men marched forward, and in their midst harry walked bareheaded and manacled. he tried to look up, for he had heard the colloquy between the elder and his wife, and understood maria might be also at the window; but as he turned his head a gigantic highlander struck him with the flat of his sword, and as the blow fell rattling on the youth's shoulder maria threw up her hands with a shriek and fell into a chair sobbing. "dinna cry that way, maria, my dearie; they'll be hame in the morning." "yes, yes, grandmother! it was the blow on that last prisoner. did you see it? did you hear it? oh, what a shame!" "poor lad! i know naething about him; but he is in a terrible sair strait." "what is he doing here in our house? surely you know, grandmother?" "i know naething about him. he is doubtless one o' washington's messengers--there's plenty o' them round. why he came near us is mair than i can say." then a sudden fear made her look intently at maria, and she asked, "do you think your uncle neil has turned to the american cause?" "oh, grandmother, how can you?" "he has been so much wi' that agnes bradley. my heart misgave me at the first about her. neil is in love, and men in love do anything." "uncle neil is as true a royalist as grandfather." "see, then, what they have, baith o' them, got for standing by king george. it serves them right! it serves them right! o dear, dear me! what shall we do?" two weary hours were spent in such useless conversation; then madame, being perfectly exhausted, was compelled to go to bed. "we can do naething till morning," she said; "and neil will hae his plans laid by that time. they will be to bail, doubtless; and god knows where the friends and the money are to come from. but there's plenty o' time for grief to-morrow; go and sleep an hour or two now." "and you, grandmother? what will you do?" "he who never fails will strengthen me. when the morn comes i shall be able for all it can bring. this was such a sudden blow i lost my grip." alone in her room, maria felt the full force of the sudden blow. although harry's note had missed her, she understood that he had been waiting for a few words with her. twice before she had been in the garden when he passed up the river, and he had landed and spent a delicious half-hour with her. she was sure now that he had been as much disappointed as herself, and had hoped she would come and say good-bye as soon as she reached home. but who had betrayed him? and why was her grandfather and uncle included in his arrest? for some time she could think of nothing but her lover walking so proudly in the midst of his enemies; reviled by them, struck by them, yet holding his head as authoritatively as if he was their captain, rather than their prisoner. then she remembered agnes, and at first it was with anger. "if she had not been so selfish, harry would not have needed to take such a risk!" she cried. "it is dreadful! dreadful! and just as soon as it is light i must go and tell her. her father must now know all; he ought to have been told long ago. i shall insist on her telling now, for harry's life is first of all, and his father has power some way or other." thus through the long hours she wept and complained and blamed agnes and even herself, and perhaps most of all was angry with the intrusive macpherson, whose unwelcome presence had been the cause of the trouble. and, oh! what arid torturing vigils are those where god is not! madame lying on her bed with her hands folded over her breast and thoughts heavenward, was at peace compared with this tumultuous little heart in the midst of doubt, darkness, and the terror of dreadful death for one dear to her. she knew not what to abandon, nor what to defend; her brain seemed stupefied by calamity so inevitable. and yet, it was not inevitable; it had depended for many minutes on herself. a word, a look, and agnes would have understood her desire; and half a dozen times before she had made the movement which was just _too late;_ her heart had urged her to call her friend. but she had doubted, wavered, and delayed, and so given to destiny the very weapons that were used against her. as soon as the morning dawned she dressed herself. before her grandmother came down stairs it was imperative on her to see agnes and tell her what had happened. a dismal, anxious stillness had succeeded the storm of her terror and grief; a feeling of outrage, of resentment against events, and an agony of love and pity, as she remembered harry smitten and helpless in the power of a merciless foe. she had now one driving thought and purpose--the release of her lover. she must save the life he had risked for her sake, though she gave her own for it. as she went through the gray dawning she was sensitive to some antagonism, even in nature. the unseasonable warmth of the previous evening had been followed by a frost. the faded grass snapped under her fleet steps, the last foliage had withered during the night, and was black and yellow as death, and everything seemed to shiver in the pale light. and though the waning moon yet hung low in the west, and all the mystery and majesty of earth was round her, maria was only conscious of the chill terror in her heart, and of the chill, damp mist from the river which enfolded her like a cloak, and was the very atmosphere of sorrow. when she reached the bradley home all was shut and still; the very house seemed to be asleep, but why did its closed door affect her so painfully? she went round to the kitchen and found the slave woman mosella bending over a few blazing chips, making herself a cup of tea. the woman looked at her wonderingly, and when maria said, "mosella, i must see miss agnes at once," she rose without a word and opened the garden door of the house. the shutters were all closed, the stairway dim, and the creaking of the steps under her feet made her quiver. it was an hour too early for light and life, and a noiseless noise around her seemed to protest against this premature invasion of the day. she entered the room of her friend very softly. it was breathless, shadowy, and on the white bed agnes was lying, asleep. for a moment maria stood looking at the orderly place and the unconscious woman. the pure pallor of her cheeks had the flush of healthy sleep; her brown hair, braided, lay loose upon her pillow, her white hands upon the white coverlet. she was the image of deep, dreamless, peaceful oblivion. it seemed a kind of wrong to awaken her; but though the eyes of agnes were closed, maria's gaze called to the soul on guard behind them, and without one premonitory movement she opened them wide and saw maria at her bedside. a quick fear leaped into her heart. she was momentarily speechless. she laid her hand on maria's arm, and looked at her with apprehending inquiry. _"harry!"_ said maria, and then she sat down and covered her face and began to cry softly. there was no necessity to say more. agnes understood. she rose and began to dress herself, and in a few minutes asked, though almost in a whisper: "is he taken?" "yes." "where?" "at our landing." "when?" "last night." "why did you not send me word last night? neil would have come." "neil was arrested, and also my dear old grandfather. it is shameful! shameful!" "what was harry doing at your landing?" "i don't know. i was in my room. i was half-undressed, combing my hair out, when grandmother rushed to me with the news. it is not my fault, agnes." "did you ever meet harry at your landing, maria?" "only twice, both times in the daylight. he was passing and happened to see me. there was no tryst between us; and i know nothing about last night, except----" "except what?" "that if you had given him a chance to say 'good-bye' to me here, he would not have thought of stopping at our landing; but," she added in a weary voice, "you were watching for uncle neil, and so, of course, you forgot other people." "don't be cruel, maria, as well as unjust." "all the same, it is the truth." "how was he discovered? you surely know that?" "no, i do not. there were at least ten or twelve soldiers--highlanders. one of them struck harry." "oh, why do you tell me? who could have betrayed him? macpherson? you know you offended him." "it could not be macpherson. he never saw harry before. he knew nothing about him. he thought his name was deane. if it had been macpherson, your landing, not ours, would have been watched." "no; for he saw you and harry coming through the garden hand-in-hand. i am sure he did. he went away in a fit of jealousy, and he would think of your landing as well as ours. but all that is nothing. we have but a few hours in which to try and save his life. i must awake father and tell him. it will break his heart." "you ought to have told him----" "i know." "what can i do?" "women can do nothing but suffer. i am sorry with all my soul for you, maria, and i will let you know what father does. go home to your poor grandmother; she will need all the comfort you can give her." "i am sorry for you, agnes; yes, i am! i will do anything i can. there is lord medway, he loves me; and general clinton loves him, i know he does; i have seen them together." "father is first. i must awaken him. leave me now, maria, dear. none but god can stand by me in this hour." then maria kissed her, and agnes fell upon her knees, her arms spread out on her bed and her face buried in them. there were no words given her; she could not pray; but when the gate of prayer is closed the gate of tears is still open. she wept and was somewhat helped, though it was only by that intense longing after god which made her cry out, "o that i knew where to find him, that i might come into his presence!" when she went to her father's door he was already awake. she heard him moving about his room, washing and dressing, and humming to himself in strong snatches a favorite hymn tune; no words seemed to have come to him, for the melody was kept by a single syllable that served to connect the notes. nevertheless, the tone was triumphant and the singer full of energy. it made agnes shiver and sicken to listen to him. she sat down on the topmost stair and waited. it could not be many minutes, and nothing for or against harry could be done till the world awoke and went to business. very soon the hymn tune ceased, and there was a few minutes of a silence that could be felt, for it was threaded through by a low, solemn murmur easy to translate,--the man was praying. when he came out of his room he saw agnes sitting on the stair, and as soon as she lifted her face to him he was frightened and asked sharply: "what are you doing there, agnes? what has happened?" she spoke one word only, but that word went like a sword to the father's heart,--_"harry!"_ he repeated the word after her: "harry! is he ill? let me see the letter, where is he? with doctor brudenel? can't you speak, girl?" "harry is here, in new york, in prison?" the words fell shivering from her lips; she raised herself, watching her father's face the while, for she thought he was going to fall. he shook like a great tree in a storm, and then retreated to the door of his room and stood with his back against it. he could not speak, and agnes was afraid. "father," she said in a low, passionate voice of entreaty, "we have the boy to save. do not lose yourself. you have _your father_ to lean upon." "i know! i feel! go and make me a cup of coffee. i will be ready when you call me." then he went back into his room and shut the door, and agnes, with a sick, heavy heart, prepared the necessary meal. for though danger, sorrow and death press on every side, the body must have sustenance; and every-day meals, that look so tragically common and out of place must go on as usual. but it was a little respite and she was grateful, because in it her father would talk the trouble over with god before she had to explain it to him. the interval was a short one, but during it john bradley found him who is "a very present help in every hour of need." he came down to his coffee in full possession of himself and ready for the fight before him. but he had also realized the disobedience which had brought on this sorrow, and the deception which had sanctioned the boy in his disobedience. therefore agnes was afraid when she saw his severe eyes, and shrank from them as from a blow, and large tears filled her own and rolled down her white cheeks unchecked. "agnes," he said, "tell me the whole truth. i must know everything, or you may add your brother's murder to the other wrongdoing. when did he come back to america?" "six months after you sent him to england. he said he could not, durst not, stay there. he thought that god might have some work that needed _just him_ to do it. i think harry found that work." "why did you not tell me at the time?" "i was in boston, at school, when harry first came to me, and we talked together then about telling you. but at that time both of us supposed you to be a king's man, and the party feeling was then riotously cruel. harry had been three months with washington, and his peculiar fitness for the new york secret service had been found out. still, washington took no unfair advantage of his youth and enthusiasm. he told him he would be one of a band of young men who lived with their lives in their hands. and when harry answered, 'general, if i can bring you information that will help freedom forward one step, my life gladly for it,' washington's eyes shone, and he gave harry his hand and said, 'brave boy! your father must be a happy man.'" she paused here and looked at the father, and saw that his face was lifted and that a noble pride strove with a noble pain for the mastery. so she continued: "harry _has_ helped freedom forward. he found out, while pretending to fish for the garrison at stony point, the best way across the marsh and up the rocks. he helped to set afloat the reports that brought tryon back from connecticut, and the garrison from rhode island. he has prepared the way for many a brave deed, taken all the danger and the labor, getting no fame and wanting none, his only aim to serve his country and to be loved and trusted by washington. if we erred in keeping these things from you, it has been an error of love. and when we knew you also were serving your country in your own way, harry was sure you would do it better and safer if you were not always looking for him--fearing for him. oh, father! surely you see how his presence would have embarrassed you and led to suspicion." "i would like to have seen the boy," he said, softly, as if he were thinking the words to himself. "he saw you often, never came to the city without passing the shop to see you; and it made both of us happy to believe that very soon now he would dare to speak to you and to say, 'father, forgive me.'" "i must go to him, agnes. harry's life must be saved, or i, john bradley, will know the reason why. yes, and if he has to die there are some big men here, playing double-face, that will die with him. i know them----" "oh, father! father! what are you saying? vengeance is not ours. would it bring harry back to us?" "it is more than i can bear. who was the informer? tell me that. and where was he taken?" "i cannot tell who informed. he was taken with his little boat at elder semple's landing by a party of scotch highlanders." "what on earth was he doing at semple's? do you think the elder, or that fine gentleman neil, gave information?" "they were both arrested with harry. they also are in prison." "am i losing my senses? the semples! they are royalists, known royalists, bitter as gall. what was harry doing at their place? tell me." "i do not certainly know, father. i think he may have gone there hoping that maria would come down to the river to say a good-bye to him." _"maria!_ that is it, of course. if a man is to be led to destruction and death, it is some woman who will do the business for him. i warned you about that maria. my heart misgave me about the whole family. so harry is in love with her! that is your doing, girl. what business had you to let them meet at all? if harry perishes, i shall find it hard to forgive you; hard to ever see you again. all this sorrow for your sentimental nonsense about maria. if she had been kept out of harry's life, he would have gone safely and triumphantly on to victory with the rest of us. but you must have your friend and your friend's brother, and your own brother must pay the price of it." "oh, father, be just! even if you cannot pity me, be just. i am suffering as much as i can bear." then he rose and put on his hat and coat. "stay where you are," he said. "i will not have women meddling with what i have now to do. don't leave the house for anyone or anything." "you will send me some word, father. i shall be in an agony of suspense." "if there is any word to send, i will send it." then he went away without kissing her, without one of his ordinary tender words; he left her alone with her crushing sorrow, and the consciousness that upon her he would lay the blame of whatever disaster came to harry. she had no heart for her household duties, and she left the unwashed china and went back to her room. she was yet in a state of pitiful bewilderment; her grief was so certain, its need was so urgent, and at that hour heaven seemed so far off; and yet she questioned her soul so eagerly for the watchword that should give her that stress of spirit which would connect her with the unseen world and permit her to claim its invincible help. agnes had told her father that it was highlanders who arrested harry, and bradley went first to their quarters. there he learned that the young man had disclaimed connection with any regiment whatever; and, being in citizen's clothes and wearing no arms, his claim had been allowed and his case turned over to the military court of police. so far it was favorable; the cruel haste of a court martial shut the door of hope; but john bradley knew the court of police was composed of men who put financial arguments before all others. he was, however, too early, an hour too early, to see any one; and the prisoner was under watch in one of the guard-houses and could not be approached. he wandered back to his shop utterly miserable and restless and wrote a letter to thomas curtis, a clever lawyer, and a partner of neil semple, explaining the position of his son and begging him to be at the court of police when it opened. this letter he carried to the lawyer's office and paid the boy in attendance to deliver it immediately on the arrival of his master. then he went back to his shop for money, and as he was slowly leaving the place lord medway spoke to him. he had his rifle over his shoulder and was going with a friend to long island to shoot birds. the sight of the man made john bradley's heart leap and burn. he had been waiting for some leading as to the way he ought to take, and he felt that it had been given him. "good morning, mr. bradley," said the nobleman. "my lord, turn back with me to my shop. i have something of the greatest importance to tell you." medway smiled: "my hunting is of the greatest importance at present, mr. bradley, for my friend, colonel pennington, is waiting for me; but if i can be of service----" "i think you can; at least, listen to me." medway bent his head in acquiescence, and bradley led the way to the small room behind his shop, which had been his sitting and dining room while his daughter was at school. he plunged at once into the subject of his anxieties. "there was a prisoner taken last night." "a young man in a boat; i heard of it. general clinton thinks they may have made an important arrest." "he is my son--my only son! i did not know until an hour ago that he was in america. i sent him to england at the beginning of the war--to a fine school there--and i thought he was safe; and he has been here, one of washington's scouts, carrying messages from camp to camp, in and out of new york in all kinds of disguises, spreading reports and gathering reports, buying medicines, and clothing, and what not; doing, in short, duties which in every case were life and death matters. for three years or more he has done these things safely; last night he was discovered." "and you thought he was in england, safe and comfortable, and learning his lessons?" "i did, and thanked god for it." "now, i would offer thanks for the other things. if i were an american it would gladden my heart to have a son like that. the young man thinks he has been doing his duty; be a little proud of him. i'll be bound he deserves it. who arrested him?" "some soldiers from the highland regiment." "how did they happen to know? could macpherson have informed? oh, impossible! what am i saying? where was he taken?" "at elder semple's landing." "you confound me, bradley. i will stake my honor on the semples's loyalty--father and son both. what was he doing there?" "he had the old reason for calamity--a woman. he is in love with the elder's granddaughter, and agnes thinks he must have landed hoping to see her." "you mean, he had a tryst with her?" "i only surmise. i can tell nothing surely." "i will go with you to court, bradley. can you send a man with a message to colonel pennington?" this done they went out together, and many looked curiously at the lord and the saddler walking the streets of new york in company. for in those days the lines of caste were severely drawn. when they entered the courtroom the case of the semples was being heard; but harry sat a little apart, on either side of him a soldier. the father fixed his eyes upon him, and a proud flush warmed his white face at the sight of the lad's dauntless bearing and calm, almost cheerful, aspect. lord medway looked first toward the semples, and conspicuously bowed to both of them. the elder was evidently sick, fretful, and suffering. neil was wounded in every fiber of his proud nature. the loyalty, the honor, the good name of the semples had been, he believed, irrevocably injured; for he was lawyer enough to know that it is nearly as bad to be suspected as to be guilty. and, small as the matter seemed in comparison, he was intensely mortified at the personal disarray of his father and himself. the men who arrested them had given them no time to arrange their clothing, and neil knew they looked more suspiciously guilty for want of their clean laces and the renovating influences of water and brushes. the assistant magistrate, peter dubois, was just questioning elder semple. "look at the prisoner taken on your premises, mr. semple. do you know him?" "i never saw him in a' my life before his arrest." "did you know he was using your landing?" "not i. i was fast asleep in my bed." "mr. neil semple, what have you to say?" "i was sitting partially dressed, reading in my room. i have no knowledge whatever of the young man, nor can i give you any reason why our landing should have been used by him." mr. curtis then spoke eloquently of the unstained loyalty of the semples, and of their honorable life for half a century in the city of new york. but peter dubois held that they were not innocent, inasmuch as they had been so careless of his majesty's interests as to permit their premises to be used for treasonable purposes. "the court must first prove the treasonable purposes," said mr. curtis. "the court proposes to do so," answered dubois. "henry deane, stand up!" and as he did so bradley uttered a sharp cry and rose to his feet also. in this hour harry looked indeed a son to be proud of. he showed no fear, and was equally free from that bluster that often cloaks fear, but raised a face calm and cheerful--the face of a man who knows that he has done nothing worthy of blame. "henry deane," said dubois, "is there anyone in new york who knows you?" _"i do!"_ shouted john bradley. "he is my son! my dear son, henry deane bradley;" and with the words he marched to his son's side and threw his arms about his neck. "oh, father! father, forgive me!" "oh, harry! harry! i have nothing to forgive!" and he kissed him in the sight of the whole court, and wept over him like a mother. the whole affair had been so sudden, so startling and affecting, that it was not at once interrupted. but in a few moments the examination proceeded, dubois asking, "do you know the semples?" "i have seen them often. i have never spoken to either of them in all my life." "what took you to their landing, then?" "i know it so well. when i was a little boy i used to borrow elder semple's boat if i wished to fish or row, because i knew they were busy in the city and would not miss it. so i got used to their landing years ago." "had you any special reason for going there last night?" "yes. it was a good place to wait until the moon rose." "no other reason?" "habit." "nothing to get there?" "nothing at all." "no one to see there?" "no one." lord medway sighed heavily. the words were a tremendous relief. if the young man had named maria it would have been shameful and unbearable. he began now to take more interest in him. "you refused to tell last night," said dubois, "to whom you were carrying the clothing and _the saddle_ that was in your boat. will you now name the person or persons?" "no. i refuse to name them." "from whom did you receive or purchase these articles?" "i refuse to say." "perhaps from the semples?" "certainly not. i never received and never bought a pin's worth from the semples." in fact, no evidence of complicity could either be found or manufactured against the semples, and mr. curtis demanded their honorable acquittal. but they were good subjects for plunder, and dubois had already intimated to judge matthews how their purses could be reached. in pursuance of this advice, judge matthews said: "the loyalty of alexander semple and of his son, neil semple, cannot be questioned; but they have been unfortunately careless of his majesty's rights in permitting their premises to be of aid and comfort to rebels; and therefore, as an acknowledgment of this fault, and as a preventative to its recurrence, alexander semple is fined two hundred pounds and neil semple one hundred pounds. the prisoners are free upon their own recognizances until the fifteenth day of november, when they must appear in this court and pay the fines as decided." the elder heard the decision in a kind of stupefaction. neil, neither by himself or his lawyer, made any protest. what use was there in doing so? they had been sentenced by a court accountable to no tribunal whatever: a court arbitrary and illegal, that troubled itself neither with juries nor oaths, and from which there was no appeal. lord medway watched the proceedings with indignation, and the feeling in the room was full of sympathy for the two men. neil's haughty manner and stern face betrayed nothing of the anger he felt, but the elder was hardly prevented from speaking words which would have brought him still greater loss. as it was, it taxed neil's strength and composure to the uttermost to get his father with dignity away from the scene. he gave him his arm, and whispered authoritatively, "do not give way, father! do not open your lips!" so the old gentleman straightened himself, and, leaning heavily on his son, reached the lobby before he fell into a state bordering on collapse. neil placed him in a chair, got him water, and was wondering where he could most easily procure a carriage, when the sound of wheels coming at a furious rate arrested his attention. they stopped at the court house, and as neil went to the door the lovely madame jacobus sprang out of the vehicle. "neil!" she cried. "neil semple! i only heard an hour ago, i came as soon as the horses were ready, it is disgraceful. where is the elder? can i take him home?" "madame, it will be the greatest kindness. he is ready to faint." the elder looked at her with eyes full of tears. "madame," he said, "they have fined me in my auld age for a misdemeanor"--and then he laughed hysterically. "i hae lived fifty years in new york, and i am fined--i hae----" she stopped the quavering voice with a kiss, and with neil's help led him gently to her carriage; and as soon as he reached its friendly shelter he closed his eyes and looked like one dead. madame was in a tempest of rage. "it is just like the ravening wolves," she said. "they saw an opportunity to rob you,--you need not tell me, i know matthews! he has the winter's routs and dances for his luxurious wife and daughters to provide for, as well as what he calls his own 'damned good dinners.' how much did he mulct you in? never mind telling me now, neil, but come and lunch with me to-morrow; i shall have something to say to you then." she had the elder's hand in her's as she spoke, and she did not loosen her clasp until she saw him safely at his own home and in the care of his wife. she remained a few moments to comfort madame semple, then, divining they would be best alone with their sorrow, she went away with a reminder to neil that she wished to speak to him privately on the following day. "it is as if god sent her," said madame gratefully. "get me to my bed, janet, dearie," said the elder. "i'll just awa' out o' this warld o' sorrows and wrongs and robbery." "you'll just stop havering and talking nonsense, alexander. are you going to die and leave me my lane for a bit o' siller? i'm ashamed o' you. twa or three hundred pounds! is that what you count your life worth? help your father to his bed, neil, and i'll bring him some gude mutton broth. he's hungry and faint and out o' his sleep--it tak's little to make men talk o' dying. parfect nonsense!" "you don't know, janet semple----" "yes, i do know, alexander. quit whining, and put a stout heart to a steep hill. you hae a wife and sons and friends yet about you, and you talk o' dying! i'll not hear tell o' such things, not i!" but when the elder had taken a good meal and fallen asleep, janet spoke with less spirit to her son. and neil was in a still fury; he found it difficult to answer his mother's questions. "the money is to be found, and that at once," he said. "father will not rest until it is paid; and i have not the least idea where i can procure it." "you must sell some o' that confiscated property you and your father wared all your ready money on," said janet bitterly. "at the present time it is worth nothing, mother; and houses and lands are not sold at an hour's notice. i suppose if i ask batavius devries he will help father. i think curtis can manage my share of the blackmail." "that poor lad wha has made a' the mischief, what of him?" "he is john bradley's son." then neil described the scene in the courtroom, and madame's eyes filled with tears as she said, "i never thought so well o' the bradleys before. poor agnes!" yes, "poor agnes!" neil was feeling a consuming impatience to be with her, to comfort her and help her to bear whatever might be appointed. "so the lad is to be tried in the military police court. is not that a good thing?" "yes. john bradley has money. it is all the 'law' there is to satisfy in that court." "are they trying him to-day?" "yes. i heard his case called as we left the room. where is maria?" "she has cried herself blind, deaf and dumb. she is asleep now. i went to tell her you were hame, and she was sobbing like a bairn that has been whipped ere it shut its eyes. i dinna waken her." then neil went to his room to dress himself. he felt as if no care and no nicety of apparel could ever atone for the crumpled disorder of his toilet in the courtroom, which had added itself so keenly to his sense of disgrace. then he must go to agnes; her brother was his brother, and, though he had brought such shame and loss on the semples, still he must do all he could for him, for the sake of agnes. and there was the money to find, and madame jacobus to see! a sense of necessary haste pressed him like a goad. not a moment must be lost, for he felt through every sense of his mortal and spiritual being that agnes was calling him. chapter vii. the price of harry's life. he heard agnes calling him, and he resolved to go at once to her. and never had he looked handsomer than at this hour, for he had clothed himself with that rich and rigid propriety he understood so well while the sense of injustice under which he so inwardly burned gave to him a haughty dignity, suiting his grave face and lofty stature to admiration. he went very softly along the upper corridor of his home, but madame heard his step, and opening her door, said in a whisper: "your father has fallen asleep, neil, and much he needed sleep. where are you going?" "i am going back to the court. i wish to know what has been done in bradley's case." "why trouble yourself with other people's business? the lad has surely given us sorrow enough." "he is her brother--i mean----" "i know who you mean; weel, then, go your way; neither love nor wisdom will win a hearing from you on that road." "there is money to be found somewhere, mother. until his fine is paid, father will be miserable. i want to borrow the amount as soon as possible." _"borrow!_ has it come to that?" "it has, for a short time. i think captain devries will let me have it. he ought to." "he'll do naething o' the kind. i would ask any other body but him." "there are few to ask. i must get it where i can. curtis will advance one hundred pounds for me." "they who go borrowing go sorrowing. i'm vexed for you, my dear lad. it is the first time i ever heard tell o' a semple seeking money not their ain." "it is our own fault, mother. if father and i had taken your advice and let confiscated property alone we should have had money to lend to-day; certainly, we should have been able to help ourselves out of all difficulties without asking the assistance of strangers." the confession pleased her. "what you say is the truth," she answered; "but everybody has a fool up their sleeve some time in their life. may god send you help, neil, for i'm thinking it will hae to come by his hand; and somehow, i dinna believe he'll call on batavius devries to gie you it." with these words she retreated into her room, closing the door noiselessly, and neil left the house. as soon as he was in the public road he saw batavius standing at his garden gate, smoking and talking with cornelius haring and adrian rutgers. they were discussing bradley's trouble and the semples's connection with it, and neil felt the spirit of their conversation. it was not kindly, and as he approached them haring and rutgers walked away. for a moment batavius seemed inclined to do the same, but neil was too near to be avoided without intentional offense, and he said to himself, "i will stand still. out of my own way i will not move, because neil semple comes." so he stolidly continued to smoke, staring idly before him with a gaze fixed and ruminating. "good afternoon, captain. are you at liberty for a few minutes?" asked neil. "yes. what then, mr. semple? i heard tell, from my friends, that you are in trouble." "we have been fined because mr. bradley's son used our landing. it is a great injustice, for in this matter we were as innocent as yourself." "that is not the truth, sir. if, like me, you had boarded in your house a few soldiers, then the care and the watch would have been their business, not yours. those who don't act prudently must feel the chastisement of the government; but so! i will have nothing to do with the matter. it is a steady principle of mine never to interfere in other people's affairs." "there is no necessity for interference. the case is settled. my father is fined two hundred pounds, a most outrageous wrong." "whoever is good and respectable is not fined by the government." "in our case there was neither law nor justice. it was simple robbery." "i know not what you mean. the government is the king, and i do not talk against either king or government. the van emerlies, who are always sneering at the king, have had to take twenty-seven per cent. out of the estate of a bankrupt cousin; and the remsens, who are discontented and always full of complaints, have spoiled their business. god directs things so that contentment leads to wealth." "i was speaking of neither the king nor his government, but of the military police court." "oh! well, then, i think all the stories i hear about its greediness and tyranny are downright lies." "i must, however, assert that this court has been unjust and tyrannical both to my father and myself." "that is your business, not mine." "i was in hopes that you would feel differently. my father has often helped you out of tight places. i thought at this time you would remember that. there was that cargo at perth amboy, but for my father, it had gone badly with you!" "yes, yes! i give good for good, but not to my own cost. people who go against the government and are in trouble are not my friends. i do not meddle with affairs that are against the government. it is dangerous, and i am a husband and a father, not a fool." "to assist my father for a few days, till i can turn property into money, is not going against the government." "you will not turn property into money these days; it is too late. i, who am noted for my prudence, got rid of all my property at the beginning of the war; you and your father bought other people's houses, while i sold mine. so! i was right, as i always am." "then you had no faith in the king's cause, even at the beginning; and i have heard it said you are not unfriendly now to the rebels." _"ja!_ i give the americans a little, quietly. one must sail as the wind serves; and who can tell which way it will blow to-morrow? i am a good sailor; never shall i row against wind and tide. who am i, batavius devries, to oppose the government? it is one of my most sacred principles to obey the government." "then if the americans succeed, you will obey their government? your principles are changeable, captain." "it is a bad principle not to be able to change your principles. the world is always changing. i change with it. that is prudent, for i will not stand alone, or be left behind. that is my way; your ways do not suit me." "this talk comes to nothing. to be plain with you, i want to borrow two hundred pounds for a month. i hope you will lend it. in the perth amboy matter my father stood for you in a thousand pounds." "that is eaten bread, and your father knew i could secure the money. i wish i could help elder semple, but it would not be prudent." "good gracious, sir!" "oh, then, you must keep such words to yourself! i say it would not be prudent. he has swamped himself with other men's houses, his business is decayed, he is old; and you are also in a bad way and cannot help him, or why do you come to me?" "i can give you good security, good land----" "land! what is good land to me? it will not be useful in my business. and there is another thing, you are not particular in your company. i have heard about your methodist friends; there is vestryman william ustick, he was a methodist servant, and he has become bankrupt; so, then----" "you will not repay my father's frequent loans to you. if your father-in-law, joris van heemskirk, was here----" "i am not joris van heemskirk. he is a rebel. i, who have always been loyal, have made twelve thousand dollars this last year. is not that a hint for me to go on in the right way?" without waiting for the end of this self-complacent tirade, neil went forward. batavius was only a broken reed in his hand. never before in all his life had he felt such humiliating anxiety. even the slipping away of haring and rutgers, and the uncivil refusal of batavius, were distinctly new and painful experiences. he felt, through haring and rutgers, the public withdrawal of sympathy and respect; and through batavius, the coming bitterness of the want of ready money. the semples had been fined; they were suspects; their names would now be on the roll of the doubtful, and it would be bad policy for the generality of citizens to be friendly with them. and the necessity for borrowing money revealed poverty, which otherwise they would have been able to conceal. he knew, also, that he would have to meet many such rebuffs, and he was well aware that his own proud temper would make them a pleasant payment to many whom he had offended by his exclusiveness. as he approached the bradley house he put all these bitter thoughts aside. what were they in comparison with the sorrow agnes was compelled to endure? his whole soul went out to the suffering girl, and he blamed himself for allowing any hope of batavius to delay him. the very house had taken on an air of loneliness and calamity. the door was closed, the blinds down, and the wintry frost that had blackened the garden seemed in some inscrutable way to have touched the dwelling also. he saw the slave woman belonging to the bradleys talking to a group of negroes down the road, and he did not call her. if agnes was within, he would see her; and if her father had returned, they would probably be together. thinking thus, he knocked loudly, and then entered the little hall. all was silent as the grave. "agnes! agnes!" he cried; and the next moment she appeared at the head of the stairs. "agnes!" he cried again, and the word was full of love and sorrow, as he stretched out his arms to the descending girl. she was whiter than snow, her eyes were heavy and dark with weeping, her hair had fallen down, and she still wore the plain, blue gingham dress she had put on while maria was telling her tragical tale. yet in spite of these tokens of mental disturbance, she was encompassed by the serene stillness of a spirit which had reached the height of "thy will be done." when her father left her, smitten afresh by his anger she had fled to her room, and locking the door of this sanctuary, she had sat for two hours astonished, stupefied by the inevitable, speechless and prayerless. yet while she was musing the fire burned; she became conscious of that secret voice in her soul which is the spirit that helpeth our infirmities, and ere she was aware she began to pray. it was as if she stood alone in some great hall of the universe, with an infinite, invisible audience of spirits watching her. then the miracle of the ladder between heaven and earth was renewed, and angels of help and blessing once more ascended and descended. an inward, deep, untroubled peace calmed the struggle of her soul; one by one the clouds departed and the light steadily grew until fears were slain, and doubts had become a sure confidence that naught should prevail against her or disturb her cheerful faith that all which looked so dark was full of blessing. she was sitting waiting when she heard neil's call, and oh! how sweet is the voice of love in the hour of anxious sorrow! she never thought of her appearance or her dress; she hasted to neil, and he folded her to his heart and for the first time touched her white cheek with his lips. she made no resistance, it was not an hour for coy withdrawals, and they understood, amid their silent tears, far more than any future words could explain. then neil told her all that had happened, and when he described john bradley's open recognition of his son she smiled proudly and said, "that was like father. if i had been there i would have done the same. it is a long time," she said, looking anxiously at neil. "will father soon be home?" "i expected to find him here. i will go to the court now; the trial ought to be over." but complications had arisen in what at first seemed to be a case that proved itself. harry was not easily managed. he admitted that he had been in america for more than three years, but declared that his father had been totally ignorant of his presence. when asked where he had dwelt and how he had employed himself during that time, he gave to every question the same answer, "i refuse to tell." then the saddle found in his boat was brought forward, and he was asked from whom he received it and to whom he was taking it. and to both these questions there was the same reply, "i refuse to tell." "it is indisputably a bradley saddle," said the assistant magistrate, dubois. "let john bradley identify it." bradley came forward, looked at the saddle, and answered, "i made it; every stitch of it." "for whom? mr. bradley?" "i should have few saddles to make if i talked about my patrons in this place. i refuse to tell for whom i made it." "the court can fine you, sir, for contempt of its requests." "i would rather pay the fine than bring my patron's name in question and cause him annoyance." there was considerable legal fencing on this subject, but nothing gained; a parcel also found in the boat was opened and its contents spread out for examination. they consisted of a piece of damasse for a lady's gown, some lace, two pairs of silk stockings, two pairs of gloves, some ribbon, and a fan that had been mended. everything in this parcel was obviously intended for a woman, but harry was as obdurately noncommittal as he had been about the saddle. nothing could be gained by continuing an examination so one-sided, and the next witness called was captain quentin macpherson. he came forward with more than his usual haughty clangor, and was first asked if he had ever seen the prisoner before. "yes," he answered, "for about half an hour yesterday evening, say, between half-past seven and eight o'clock." "did you have any conversation with him?" "very little. when i began to question him about his residence he rose and went away." "who else was present?" "miss bradley and miss semple." "tell the court what occurred when the prisoner left." "miss bradley went to the gate with him, miss semple remained with me. i noticed that she was anxious, and found my company disagreeable; and suddenly she excused herself and left the room. as she did so a pebble was thrown through the window, it fell at my feet; a note was wrapped round it, and i read the note." there was a low _hiss-s-s-s!_ at these words, which pervaded the whole room. macpherson waited until it had subsided, and then in a loud, defiant voice repeated his last sentence, "i read the note, and acted upon it." the note was then handed to him, and he positively recognized it, and as it was not his note, nor intended for him, he was unable to protest against dubois's reading it aloud. it made a pleasant impression. men looked at the boy prisoner sympathetically, and a little scornful laugh pointed the epithet _"that scot!"_ which infuriated macpherson. in this favorable atmosphere mr. curtis rose, and sarcastically advised judge matthews that it was "evident the posse of highland soldiers had been called out to prevent a lovers' tryst and satisfy the wounded vanity or jealousy of captain macpherson." the soldier glared at the lawyer, and the lawyer smiled and nodded at the audience, as if telling them a secret; and it really seemed possible for a minute or two that harry might escape through the never-failing sympathy that lovers draw to themselves. unfortunately, at this moment a man entered with a shabby-looking little book, and harry's face showed an unmistakable anxiety. "what is the purport of this interruption?" asked dubois as the volume was handed to him. "this book fell from the prisoner's jacket last night and john vanbrunt, the jailor, picked it up. this morning he noticed that it had been freshly bound, and he ripped open the leather and found this letter between the boards." the letter was eagerly examined, but it was in cipher and nothing could be made of it. one thing, however, instantly struck judge matthews; it was written on paper presumably only to be obtained in the commander-in-chief's quarters. this discovery caused the greatest sensation, and harry was angrily questioned as to how the letter got inside the binding of a book he was carrying. "the book is one of my schoolbooks," said harry. "i am a poor counter, and it is, as you see, a ready reckoner. i use its tables in my business calculations constantly; it was falling to pieces, and a friend offered to bind it afresh for me. as for the letter, i did not put it there. i do not know who put it there. i do not know a word of its meaning. it may be an old puzzle, put there for want of a better piece of paper. that is all i can tell." "you can tell the name of the friend who rebound your book?" "no, i cannot." "will not, you mean?" "as you say." a recess was taken at this point of the examination, and the judges retired to consider what ought to be done. "the letter must, of course, be laid before general clinton at once," said dubois; "and as for the prisoner, there can now be no doubt of his treason. i am in favor of hanging him at sunset to-day." "i think," answered matthews, "we had better give the young man a day to tell us what he knows. this letter proves that there are worse traitors, and more powerful ones, behind him. it is our duty to at least try and reach them through their emissary." "he will never tell." "the shadow of the gallows is a great persuader. this cipher message is a most important affair. i propose to make the sentence of death to-morrow at sunset, with the promise of life if he gives us the information we want." matthews carried his point, and neil semple arrived at the court house just as the sentence in accord with this opinion was pronounced. harry hardly appeared to notice it; his gaze was fixed upon his father. the words had transfigured, not petrified him. his soul was at his eyes, and that fiery particle went through those on whom he looked and infected them with fear or with sympathy. he had risen to his feet when his son did, and every one looked at him, rather than at the prisoner. for mental, or spiritual, stature is as real a thing as physical; and in the day of trial this large-souled man, far from shrinking, appeared to grow more imposing. he had a look about him of a mountain among hills. the accepted son of a divine father, he knew himself to be of celestial race, and he scorned the sentence of shameful death that had fallen from the lips of man upon his only son. as he turned to the door he smiled bravely on harry, and his smile was full of promise. he declined all help from both medway and semple, and was almost the first to leave the room. the crowd fell away from him as he passed; though he neither spoke nor moved his hands, it fell away as if he pushed it aside. yet it was a pitiful, friendly crowd; not a man in it but would have gladly helped him to save his boy's life. "what will he do?" asked medway of his companion. "i cannot tell," answered semple. "he has some purpose, for he walks like a man who knows what he intends and is in a hurry to perform it." "this is a very bad case. i see not how, in any ordinary way, the young man can be saved. you are a lawyer, what think you?" "unless there are extraordinary ways of helping him; there are no ordinary ones. he is undoubtedly a rebel spy. any court, either police or court-martial, would consider his life justifiably forfeit." "have you any influence, secret or open?" "none whatever. if i had, we should not have been fined. bradley may have, but i doubt it." "i think he has. men are not silent and observant year after year for nothing. but we must not trust to bradley. can i see miss semple at seven o'clock this evening? i know, madame your mother is averse to englishmen, but in this case----" "miss semple will certainly see you." then the young men parted and neil returned to his home, for he did not dare to intrude his presence at that hour between the distressed father and daughter. it was hard enough to have maria to meet; and the moment she heard his step she came weeping to him. "tell me, uncle neil," she cried, "what have they done to harry? i am sick with suspense. are they going to kill--to hang him?" her voice had sunk to a terrified whisper, and he looked pitifully at her and drew her within his embrace. "my dear maria!" then his lips refused to say more, and he suffered his silence to confirm her worst fears. after a few moments he added: "his only hope is in lord medway's influence. i think medway may do something." "oh!" she sobbed "if he can only save his life! i would be content never to see him again! only ask him to save his life. if harry is killed i shall feel like a murderer as long as i live. i shall not dare to look at myself, no one will want to look at me. i shall die of grief and shame! uncle, pity me! pity me!" "my dear maria, it is not your fault." "it is, it is! he took his life in his hand just to see me." "he was a selfish fool to do such a thing. see what misery he has made. it is his own fault and folly." "every one will despise me. i cannot bear it. people will say, 'she deserves it all. why did she meet the young man unknown to her friends? see what she has done to her grandparents and her uncle.' people like captain devries will frown at me and cross the street; and their wives and children will go into their houses when i come near and peep at me through the windows, and the mothers will say, 'look at her! look at her! she brought a fine young man to the gallows, and her friends to shame and poverty.' uncle, how am i to bear it?" "i think, my poor child, lord medway has some plan. money unbars all doors but heaven's, and medway has plenty of money. besides, general clinton is easily moved by him. i do not think clinton will refuse medway anything; certainly not, if harry will tell who wrote the cipher message he was carrying." "but harry will not tell, will he?" "i feel sure he will not." "if he did, he would deserve to die. i would not shed a tear for him. as for quentin macpherson!--i wish that i was a man. i would cut his tongue out." "maria!" "i would, truly. then i would flog him to death." neil's dark face flushed crimson; his fingers twitched; he looked with approval and admiration at the passionate girl. "one hundred years ago--in scotland," he said, "i would have answered, 'yes! he deserves it! i will do it for you!'" "it is so wretched to be a woman! you can go out, see for yourself, hear for yourself; a girl can only suffer. hour after hour, all night long, all day long, i have walked the floor in misery. how does agnes bear it? she was cross, and sent me away this morning." "she looks very ill; but she is calm, and not without hope. she has spoken to god and been comforted. can you not do so?" "no. i am not agnes. i cannot pray. i want to _do_ something. oh, dear me! all this shame and sorrow because i had a little love-making with her brother and we did not tell the whole town about it. it is too great a punishment! it is not just nor kind. what wrong have i done? yet how i have to suffer! no, i cannot pray, but if i can _do_ anything, see any one, be of any earthly help or use----" "i think medway has some scheme, if clinton should fail, and that this scheme requires a woman's help." "i hope it does! i hope it does! i will run any risk." "medway is coming here at seven o'clock. he wishes distinctly to see you. run what risk you choose. i am not afraid of you. nothing will make you forget you are maria semple." "thank you, uncle neil. lord medway and i have always been good friends. he will not ask me to do anything wrong; and if he did, i would not do it." the prospect of his visit somewhat soothed maria. though medway had never said a word of love to her, she knew she was adorable in his eyes as well as she knew the fact of her own existence. women need no formal declarations; they have considered a lover's case and decided it many a time before he comes to actual confession. in her great trouble she hoped to find this love sufficient in some way for the alleviation of harry's desperate position. but though she really was in the greatest sorrow, she was not oblivious to her beauty. she knew if she had a favor to ask, it was the best reason she had to offer. so, as the hour approached, she bathed her face and put on the _negligée_ of scarlet silk, which was one of her most becoming house costumes. she thought her intentional, pleasing carelessness of dress would only be noticed in its effect; but lord medway was much in love, and love is an occult teacher. he noticed at once the studied effort to make grief attractive--the glowing silk of her gown, the bronze slippers, the bewitching abandon of her dark, curling hair against the amber cushion of the chair on which she sat. and though he had an astonishing plan for harry's life to propose, maria's careful negligence gave him hope and courage. for if he had been quite indifferent to her, she would have been more indifferent to the dress she was to meet him in. nothing else in her surroundings spoke of love or happiness. the best parlor had been opened for his reception; but the few sticks of wood sobbed and sung wearily on the cold hearth, and the room was chill and half-lighted and full of shadows. he noticed, nothing, however, but the lovely girl who came to meet him as he entered it, and who, even in the gloom, showed signs of the violent grief which she soon ceased to restrain. for his tenderness loosed afresh all her complaining; and he encouraged her to open her heart, and to weep with that passionate abandon youth finds comfort in. but when she was weary and had sobbed herself into silence he said: "miss semple--may i call you maria?" "yes, if you will be my friend, if you will help me." "i am your friend, and if there is help in man i will get it for you." "i want harry's life; he risked it for me. if they kill him, all my days i shall see that sight and feel that horror. i shall go mad, or die." "would you be content if i saved his life? he may be sent to prison." "there is hope in that. i could bear it better." "he will certainly be forbidden to come near new york, for----" "only let him live." "he is without doubt a rebel." "so am i, from this day forth." "and a spy." "i wish i could be one. there is nothing i would not tell." he looked at her with the unreasoning adoration of a lover; then taking her cold hands between his own, he said in a slow, fervent voice: "if you will promise to marry me, i will save the young man's life." "you are taking advantage of my trouble." "i know i am. a man who loves as i do must make all events go to further his love." "but i love harry bradley." "you think so. if you had met him under ordinary circumstances you would not have looked twice at him. it was the romance, the secrecy, the danger, the stolen minutes--all that kind of thing. there is no root in such love." "i shall never cease to love harry." "i will teach you to forget him." "no, no! how can you ask me in an hour like this? it is cruel." "love is cruel. sooner or later love wounds; for love is selfish. i want you for my wife, maria. i put aside so," and he swept his hand outward, "everything that comes in the way." "you want to buy me! you say plainly, 'i will give you your lover's life for yourself.' i cannot listen to you!" "be sensible, maria. this infatuation for a rebel spy is infatuation. there is nothing real to it. if the war were over, and you saw young bradley helping his father in his shop and going about in ordinary clothes about ordinary business, you would wonder what possessed you ever to have fancied yourself in love with him." "oh, but you are mistaken!" "you would say to yourself, 'i wish i had listened to ernest medway. he would have taken me all over the happy, beautiful world, to every lovely land, to every splendid court. he would have surrounded me with a love that no trouble could put aside; he would have given me all that wealth can buy; he would have loved me more and more until the very last moment of my life, and followed me beyond life with longings that would soon have brought us together again.' yes, maria, that is how i love you." "harry loves me." "not he! if he had loved you he would not, for his own pleasure, have run any risk of giving you this trouble. what did i say? love is selfish, love wounds----" "you wound me. you are selfish." "i am. i love you. you seemed to belong to me that first hour i saw you. i will not give you up." "if you really loved me, if you were really noble, you would save harry without any conditions." "perhaps. i am not really noble. i can't trust such fine sentiments. they will lead, i know not where, only away from you. i tell you plainly, i will save the young fellow's life, if it be possible, on condition that you promise to marry me." "i am not eighteen years old yet." "i will wait any reasonable time." "till the end of the war?" "yes, provided it is over when you are twenty-one." she pondered this answer, looking up covertly a moment at the handsome, determined face watching her. three years held innumerable possibilities. it was a period very far away. lord medway might have ceased to love her before it was over; he might have fallen in love with some other girl. he might die; she might die; the wide atlantic ocean might be between them. the chances were many in her favor. she remained silent, considering them, and medway watched with a curious devotion the expressions flitting across her face. "think well, maria," he said at last, letting her hands drop gently from his own. "remember that i shall hold you to every letter of your promise. do not try to make yourself believe that if bradley escapes and you come weeping and entreating to me i shall give way. _i shall not._ i want to be very plain with you. i insist that you understand, harry bradley is to be given up finally and forever. he is to have no more to do with your life. i am planning for _our_ future; i do not think of him at all. when he leaves new york to-morrow he must be to you as if he had never been." "suppose i do not promise to marry you, what then?" "nothing. i shall go away till you want me, and send for me." "oh!" "yes." "and not even try to save harry's life? not even try?" "why should i? better men than harry bradley have died in the same cause." she rose and walked across the room a few times, and then, being cold, came back to the fire, knelt on the rug and warmed her hands. he watched her intently, but did not speak. she was trying to find something which should atone to her better self for such a contract. it came with the thought of harry's father and agnes. for their sakes, she ought to do all she could. harry, for her sake, had taken his life in his hand and forfeited it; surely, then, it was right that she, having the power to do so, should redeem it. better that he should live for others than die for her. better that she should lose him in the living world than in the silent grave. through agnes she would hear of his comings and goings, his prosperity, and his happiness; but there would come no word to her from the dead whether at all he lived and loved, or not. with a quick, decisive motion she rose and looked at the man who was waiting in such motionless, but eager, silence. "a life for a life!" she said simply, offering medway her hand. "you mean that you will be my wife?" "yes. i will marry you when the war is over." "or when you are twenty-one, even if it be not over?" "yes." "now, then," he said, "you are my betrothed;" and he drew her within his arm. "my honor, my hopes, my happiness, are in your hands." "they are safe. though i am only a girl, i know what my promise means. i shall keep it." "i believe you. and you will love me? you will learn to love me, maria?" "i will do my best to make you happy, you ought not to ask more." "very well." he looked at her with a new and delightful interest. she was his own, her promise had been given. he could, indeed, tell by her eyes,--languid, but obstinately masterful--that she would not be easily won, but he did not dislike that; he would conquer her by the strength of his own love; he would make her understand what love really meant. still, he felt that for the present it would be better to go away, so he said: "you shall hear from me as soon as possible. try and sleep, my dear one. you may tell yourself, 'ernest is doing all that can be done.'" then he took her hands and kissed them, and in a moment she was alone. her heart was heavy as lead, and she was cold and trembling, but she was no longer in the shadow of death. medway's face, turned to her in the semi-darkness of the open door, was full of hope; and there was an atmosphere of power about the man which assured her of success; but she truly felt at that hour as if it was bought with her life. she was in the dungeon of despair; there seemed nothing to hope for, nothing to desire, in all the to-morrows of the years before her. "and i may have sixty years to live," she moaned; for youth exaggerates every feeling, and would be grieved to believe that its sorrows were not immortal. she pushed the dying fire safely together, looked mournfully round the darksome room, closed and locked the door. then neil came toward her and asked if lord medway could do anything, and she answered, "he can save harry's life; he has promised that. i suppose he will be imprisoned, but his life is saved. what did grandmother say about lord medway being here?" "she has never been down stairs. she does not know he was here." "then we will not tell her. what is the use?" "none at all. father and mother have their own trouble. they are very anxious and almost broken-hearted at the indignity put upon our family. i heard my father crying as i passed his door and mother trying to comfort him, but crying, too. it made my heart stand still." "it is my fault! it is my fault! oh! what a wicked, miserable girl i am! what can i do? what can i do?" "try and sleep, and get a little strength for tomorrow. within the next twenty-four hours harry bradley will be saved or dead." "i think he is saved. i am sure of it." "then try and sleep; will you try, maria?" "yes." she said the word with a hopeless indifference, half nullifying the promise. then, lighting her candle, she went slowly to her room. oh, but the joy that is dead weighs heavy! maria could hardly trail her body upstairs. her life felt haggard and thin, as if it was in its eleventh hour; and she was too physically exhausted to stretch out her hand into the dark and find the clasp of that unseen hand always waiting the hour of need, strong to uphold, and ready to comfort. no, she could not pray; she had lost harry: there was nothing else she desired. in her room there was a picture of the crucifixion, and she cast her eyes up to the christ hanging there, forsaken in the dark, and wondered if he pitied her, but the pang of unpermitted prayer made her dumb in her lonely grief. alas, god christ! along the weary lands, what lone, invisible calvaries are set! what drooping brows with dews of anguish wet, what faint outspreading of unwilling hands bound to a viewless cross, with viewless bands. chapter viii. the help of jacob cohen. on leaving maria, lord medway went straight to his friend general clinton. he had just dined, and having taken much wine, was bland and good-tempered. medway's entrance delighted him. "i have had my orderly riding about for a couple of hours looking for you," he said. "where have you been ernest? my dinner wanted flavor without you." "i have been seeing some people about this son of bradley's that the police court has in its clutches. by-the-bye, why don't you put a stop to its infamous blackmailing? as a court, it is only a part of howe's treachery, formed for the very purpose of extortion, and of bringing his majesty's government into disrepute. abolish the whole affair, henry. you are court sufficient, in a city under martial law." "all you say is true, ernest, and there is no doubt that matthews and dubois and the rest of them are the worst of oppressors. but i am expected to subjugate the whole south this winter, and i must leave new york in three or four weeks now." "the government expects miracles of you, henry; but if military miracles are possible, you are the soldier to work them. i have found out to-day why you are not more popular; it is this police court, and they call it a _military_ police court, i believe; and all its tyrannies are laid to you because your predecessor instituted it. they might as well lay howe's love for rebels to you." "speaking of rebels, i hear most suspicious things of bradley's son. in fact, he is a spy. matthews tells me that he ought to have been hung to-day. there is something unusual about the affair and i wanted to talk to you concerning it. bradley himself has been here and said things that have made me uncomfortable--you know how he brings the next world into this one; smith has been here, also, asking me to pardon the fellow, because the feeling in the city about tryon's doings in connecticut is yet like smoldering fire in the hearts of the burghers. powell has been here asking me to pardon, because the spy's father has a thousand bridles to make for the troops going south, and he thinks hanging the youth would kill his father, or at least incapacitate him for work, and rivington has just left, vowing he will not answer for consequences if his newspaper does not sympathize with the bradleys. if bradley's son had been the arch-rebel's son, there could hardly have been more petitions for his life. i don't understand the case. what do you say?" "that matthews and dubois have made a tremendous blunder in fining the semples for disloyalty in the matter. i will warrant the semples' loyalty with my own." "so would i. it is indisputable." "yet the elder has been fined two hundred pounds, and mr. neil semple one hundred pounds, because bradley's son tied his boat at their landing; a fact they were as ignorant of as you or i. and you get the blame and ill-will of such tyranny, henry. it is shameful!" "it is," answered clinton in a tone of self-pity; "the boat, however, was full of goods, about which the young man would say nothing at all." "women's bits of lace and ribbons; a mended fan, and some gloves and stockings." "there was also a bradley saddle." "yes, bradley acknowledged it." "then father or son ought to have given information about it." "it was their business; and if either you or i were brought before such an irresponsible court and such autocratic judges, i dare say we should consider silence our most practical weapon of defense. in harry bradley's position, i should have acted precisely as he did. the whole affair resolves itself into a lovers' tryst; the lad would not give the lady a disagreeable publicity; he would die first. you yourself would shield any good woman with your life, henry, you know you would." and clinton thought of the bewitching mrs. badely and the lovely miss blundell, and answered with an amazing air of chivalry, "indeed i would!" "have you ever noticed a captain macpherson, belonging to your own highland regiment?" "who could help noticing him? he is always the most prominent figure in every room." "he will be so no longer. he was almost hissed out of court to-day, and i was told the demonstrations on the street sent him stamping and swearing to his quarters. well, he is the villain of this pitiful little drama. the heroine is that lovely granddaughter of semples." "i know her; a little darling! and as good as she is beautiful." then medway, with an inimitable scornful mimicry told the story of the pebble and the note, the alarm of the highland troops, the arrest of the elder and his son, the subsequent proceedings in court, the sympathy of the people with the semples, and the contempt which no one tried to conceal for the informer. then, changing his voice and attitude, he described bradley's speechless grief, the semple's wounded loyalty and indignation, and finally the passionate sorrow of the mistress and sister of the doomed man. "it is the most pitiful story of the age," he continued, "and if i were you, henry, i would not permit civilians to usurp the power you ought to hold in your own hand. you have to bear the blame of all the crimes committed by this infamous court. pardon the prisoner with a stroke of your pen, if only to put these fellows in their proper place." "but there was a cipher message in his possession--here it is. it was in the binding of a book he carried in his pocket." "he says he did not put it there. no one can read it. if you found a letter in the babylonish speech, would you hang a man because you could not read the message he carried!" "special pleading, ernest. and he ought to have told who rebound the book, and to whom he was carrying it. the paper on which the cipher is written is my paper. some one, not far from me, must have taken it." "suppose you question smith?" "do you intend to say that smith is a traitor?" "i say, ask smith. i have no doubt he can read the babylonish for you--if he will." "you alarm me. am i surrounded by enemies?" "i think you have many round you. i have warned you often. my advice to you at this time is to pardon young bradley." "why are you taking such an interest in young bradley?" "i have no secrets from you, he is my rival." "preposterous! how could he rival you in anything?" "yet he is my rival in the affections of maria semple." "then let him hang! he will be out of your way." "no, he would be forever in my way. she would idolize him, make him a hero and a saint, and worship him in some secret shrine of memory as long as she lives. i am going to marry her, and i want no secret shrines. he is a very good-looking, ordinary young man; only the circumstances of the time lifted him out of the average and the commonplace. let him go scot free that he may find his level which is far below the horizon of my peerless maria." "i don't think i can let him go 'scot free,' ernest. i should offend many if i did, and it would be made a precedent; suppose i imprison him during the continuance of the war!" "that is too romantic. maria would haunt the prison and contrive some way of communication. he would still be her hero and her lover." "and you will marry this infatuated girl?" "yes, a thousand times, yes! her love for that boy is mere sentiment. i will teach her what love really means. she has promised to marry me--if i save harry bradley's life." "i never saw you taken so with any woman before." "i never cared for a woman before. the moment i saw maria semple it was different. i knew that she belonged to me. henry, you are my best friend, give me my wife; no one but you can do so." "ernest! ernest! you ask a great thing." "not too great for you to grant. you have the will and you have the power. are you not going to make me happy, henry?" "privately, it would be a delight to humor you, ernest; but officially, what am i to say to matthews, dubois and others." "tell them, that as a matter of military policy, you wish the prisoner released. why should you make explanations to them? oh, they are such courtiers, they will smile and do all you wish. you are above their rascally court; reverse their decision in this affair and show them your power. believe me, it will be, politically, a wise step." there was silence for a few moments, and then clinton said: "i am sorry for the semples. i like them both, and there is something about the saddler that sets him above other men. but it would not be right to let this young spy--for he is a spy--off, without some punishment." "i think that is right." "he must be told that he will be shot on sight if he enters new york again." "he will deserve it." "and i will have him drummed out of the city as a rogue and a suspect. we will make no hero of him--quite the contrary." "i oppose nothing of that kind. i ask for his life and his freedom, because he stands between maria semple and myself. if i wanted any other reason, because i thoroughly respect his father, and am on excellent terms with his sister, who has been very hospitable to me and who is a remarkable girl. it has troubled me to-day to remember her lonely sorrow and anxiety." "you have given me three good reasons for granting your request, and have omitted the strongest of all, ernest." "what is that, henry?" "that i love you." "and i love you. you have always been like a big brother to me; always petted me and humored my desires." "well, then, i will see matthews and dubois in the morning." "send for them here to-night. if their court is a military police court, you are commander-in-chief." "right! i will send for them. it is only about nine o'clock." "and you will insist that the prisoner be given his life and freedom--nothing less?" "i give you my word for it. but i will have him punished as i said. he must be prevented from coming to new york again. this kind of thing can not happen twice." "i know. if words could thank you, henry, i would say them." "nonsense, ernest; what are words between us? we know each other's heart;" then he laid his arm across his friend's shoulder and their hands clasped; there was no need of words. very early in the morning maria and agnes received the good tidings. maria was asleep when medway's letter, with a basket of hot-house fruit was brought to her. agnes was making her father's coffee, and they both looked at the unexpected letter with a fearful anticipation. but as soon as agnes glanced at it, she perceived that it brought good news, and she gave it to her father. she could not speak, and for a few minutes bradley was equally silent. not that they were ungrateful, oh, no! they were only inarticulate. they had a gratitude so deep and holy that they had no words with which to express it; and when the happy father found speech, it was weak and tremulous as that of a man in the last extremity. _"i was brought low, and he helped me!"_ that was all, but he stood up, steadying himself by his chair, and uttered the verse with a reverence and holy joy that no language can describe. in a little while he began to talk to his daughter. "i knew god would not fail me," he said. "yesterday afternoon i did all i could, and then i left the rest with him. i saw general clinton and said a few words which he could not gainsay. i saw smith, and told him plainly if harry died, he should translate that cypher message to the commander-in-chief. i saw powell, and many others, whom _i hold at my mercy_, and they know _that_ now, if they never knew it before. andrews left new york an hour after i saw him; he is a fearful creature and he believed i would speak, though harry had been silent; well, i must see the boy as soon as possible, there is certain to be some difficulty that only gold can overcome. i hope they will not imprison him." "lord medway says, he will be set free." "thank god!" he rose with the words and agnes brought him his top-coat. then, as they stood face to face, she was shocked at the ravage thirty hours of travail in the shadow of death had made on him. "father," she said, "oh, father, forgive me! i did wrong to deceive you! i did wrong!" "yes, my girl, you did wrong; and nothing right can come from wrong; but agnes, i have been worse than you. i, also, have been living a deceitful life, thinking that the end justified the means. i set you the example. your fault is my fault. we have both been trying to do the right thing in _our own way_. we have been patriots, as nicodemus was a christian--by night. that is wrong. we must do right first hand, not second hand. from this hour that kind of thing will be sinning with our eyes open; it will be looking god's commandments in the face, and then breaking them. do you understand, agnes?" then he went away, and agnes tried to turn to her household duties. she wondered if maria would come and see her or if she ought to go to maria, and while she was debating the question neil called. he was much depressed. the good news about harry only affected him through agnes, and he was very anxious about his father, who was in a high fever and was constantly talking of his fine and his inability to pay it. "maybe i'll hae to go to prison for the debt," was his constant cry, and neil felt that his father's fine must be satisfied, no matter at what cost. so it was a troubled little visit; the day before each was so uncertain, so full of probabilities which the slightest momentum might divert to either joy or sorrow. they could not feel that their congratulations were full ripe; something might yet happen to destroy their hopes. neil went first to his office. he found mr. curtis preparing for the court, and as yet unaware of the decision in harry's case; "but it is a great piece of good luck for the young scamp," he said, when neil told him, "for he's a spy, if ever there was one. i have no doubt he deserves death, fifty times over." "i have no doubt there are fifty men in new york who deserve it more than he does--men of power and prominence." "i would keep such observations to myself, neil. your father is far too outspoken and he is paying for it now." "i hope my father will never be less outspoken." "well, as i say, he has to pay for his opinions. he has two hundred pounds to pay, but then he had his two hundred pounds worth of fault-finding." "what do you mean, curtis?" "don't you remember how imprudently he spoke about mr. hulen's imprisonment?" "he said nothing but the truth. mr. hulens is the most loyal of gentlemen, but because he was not sufficiently polite to a town major, he was imprisoned with felons and vagabonds and afterward compelled to publicly apologize. it was an infamous wrong." "precisely what the elder said. it has not been forgotten." "there were the two de lanceys----" "yes, to be sure! and why did he trouble himself about them? there are enough of de lanceys to look after de lanceys." "the injustice of the affair was every man's business. these two de lanceys were private gentlemen, who, because they had some words with a german chasseur, were seized in their homes and tried by court-martial--though they had no connection whatever with the army: at the worst it was a simple assault, the most trifling offense the civil law notices, yet the de lanceys were degraded and imprisoned for two months, and then compelled to beg this german mercenary's pardon before all the troops at kingsbridge. remember mr. hicks, turned out of his hotel by general patterson at the request of that unmentionable creature loring--because loring wanted it for one of his parasites. remember poor amberman, the miller at hempstead, who, because he asked major stockton for payment for the flour he had bought, was nearly flogged to death, and then run through with major crew's sword, and kicked out of the way--dead. nothing was done to stockton; i met him on the street an hour ago, still an officer in his majesty's service. i could add one hundred examples to these--but what is the use? and why are we lawyers? there is no law. the will of any military officer is the law." "still we are lawyers, neil; and special counselors to three of the commissaries." "i shall not be counselor much longer. i am going to write my resignation now." "are you mad? these fees are about all the ready money we make." "i should deserve to be called mad, or worse, if i continued to serve a government which had just fined me for not being careful of its interests." "for heaven's sake, don't throw hundreds a year away for a figment!" "honor is something more than a figment. but you had better go to court early this morning. when you come back, i want you to let me have two hundred pounds until i can sell some property." curtis burst into a loud laugh: "i could not let you have two hundred shillings," he said. "good gracious, neil, how can you suppose i have money to spare?" "i know you have money, but if you are averse to lending it, that is a different thing. i thought you might have some memory of all i have done for you." "i have. of course i have. you have put thousands of pounds in my way; i don't deny or forget it, but i have a family----" "i understand. i wish you would hasten about bradley's case. his father will be expected to pay for their service." "i suppose his case is settled. i am sorry he has got off--deuced sorry! a saucy youth who looked defiance at his betters all the time." "were they his betters?" "he ought to be hung!" and he went on talking rapidly about bradley's deserts. neil knew the bluster was affected in order to prevent recurrence to the subject of money, and with a heart hot and wounded he sat down to write his resignation of the offices which were his principal support. curtis was disconcerted and uneasy, and his last words on leaving the office were an entreaty to neil to do "nothing foolish and hasty." but the papers were written, and then he took himself to the proper departments. he was woefully unhappy. his father's and mother's condition made his strong heart tremble, and though no one could have supposed from his appearance that he had a single care, the sudden falling away of his friends and acquaintances wounded him like a sword. as he walked the streets, so gravely erect, so haughtily apart, he was made to feel, in many ways, that he had lost in public estimation. no one took the trouble to ask him a favor or stopped to seek his opinion, or told him bits of gossip about events transpiring. he was classed with the bradleys. the misses robertson passed him with the most formal of recognitions; miss smith did not notice him at all, while joris van emerslie, who had taken his advice the previous week about the sale of his business, crossed the street to avoid him. friends were not far behind enemies. as he stood a moment on the steps of the barracks commissary, judge lawson, an old man and an intimate acquaintance of the semples, stopped and said, "good-morning, neil. i am glad to see you here. i heard cornelius bloch had asked for your position and was likely to get it." "i did not resign my position, judge, until five minutes ago. the commissioners have not yet received it." "very true, but every one knew you must resign--the servants of the king must be above suspicion, eh?" "suspicion, sir!" "now, now, neil! you must keep your temper for younger men; i am too old to be bluffed." then neil walked silently away, and the old friend of the family watched him with a queer mingling of pity and satisfaction. "proud creatures, them semples, old and young," he muttered; "but good, true hearts in them, i'm half sorry for neil, he was always ready to do me a kindness; but a little pull-down won't hurt him, he carries his head too high for anything." but high as neil carried his head, his heart was in the depths. it seemed to him that all the fair, honorable life he had built was falling into ruin. he needed now both help and sympathy, and his friends looked coldly upon him, or took the same reproving tone as the self-righteous comforters of the man of uz. full of bitter thoughts he was walking down queen street, when he heard a soft, familiar voice, almost at his ear, say, "mr. semple! honored sir, will you speak to me for a few minutes?" he looked up quickly, and saw that he was close to the doorstep of jacob cohen, the jewish dealer in fine furniture, china, jewelry, etc. "certainly, mr. cohen," he answered, as he stepped inside the gloomy warehouse, crowded with articles of great beauty and astonishing value. "will you sit here, if you please, sir," and cohen drew a large stool forward for neil; "i must not detain you, your time is worth much money, many people wish to buy it, but it is land i would buy, if you will sell it to me." "land, mr. cohen! perhaps a house----" "no, it is the land you own next to our synagogue. if you will remember, i had it in my heart to buy this plot of ground six years ago. i thought then we could build a larger temple, one more worthy for our worship; but we did not reach agreement at that time and then came the war. i offered you then, four hundred pounds for the land; to-day i make you the same offer if you will take it." neil's emotion was almost beyond his control. for a few minutes he could not answer the proposition, but cohen had the patience of the jew, and he divined the young man's agitation and mental tremor. silent and motionless he waited for neil's reply. it came strained and hesitating, as if speech was an effort. "mr. cohen--i will sell you the land--yes, indeed! as you say, for four hundred pounds." "to-morrow? can the sale be completed to-morrow?" "i will prepare the papers to-day." "i am well pleased." "mr. cohen, this is a great surprise--a good surprise--you do not understand how good. i believe it is something more than business you intend; it is sympathy, kindness, friendship." "it is business, but it is kindness also, if you will accept it. your house have ever done me good, and not evil. i and mine prayed for you--yes, the jew knows the pang of injustice that must be borne without protest and without redress." "you have done my family and myself an unspeakable kindness. i were the worst of ingrates not to acknowledge it," and neil rose and offered his hand. and when cohen took it, and held it for a few moments within his own, a marvellous change passed over the old man. the timid attitude, the almost servile respect, vanished; his face beamed with a lofty expression, his eyes met neil's frankly; in the prosaic surroundings of the dark, crowded shop he looked, for a few moments, like an eastern prince. as they stood thus together, neil longing to say something that should show his deep gratitude and friendship, and forgetting that israel in america at that day still preserved much of their oriental seclusion in household matters, asked after his daughter, mrs. belasco. "i have not seen her since her marriage," he said; "but i can never forget her. it was her promptitude in the duel between captain hyde and myself that saved my life." "she has a good heart;" then suddenly, "come, come into my home, yes, come in and see her." he walked toward the back of the shop and neil followed him into a large, low room, where there was a table covered with a white cloth. another white cloth, folded lengthwise, shielded the bread and the china laid ready for the noonday meal. cohen stood at the entrance and permitted neil to pass in. as he did so, a small, dark jew rose and bringing forward a chair, said, "welcome be the guest." "this is mr. belasco," said cohen, and then neil knew the woman who was standing behind mr. belasco's chair. it was the still beautiful miriam. the happiness of perfect love lighted the dusky white of her complexion and filled her glorious eyes. a brilliant silk kerchief was thrown over her black hair, and she wore a rich, flowing garment of many colors. there were gems in her ears and around her neck, and her slim, brown fingers sparkled with sapphires and diamonds. behind her was the whitewashed wall of a room on which was traced some black hebrew characters--wise or comforting passages from the psalms or the prophets; and on shelves of ordinary wood, a quantity of beautiful china, some silver vessels, and a copper lamp with seven beaks, brightly polished. before her sat belasco, his swarthy face revealing both power and intellect, purposely veiled beneath a manner of almost obsequious deference. but his voice, like cohen's, was full of those vague tones of softness and melody, of which orientals preserve the eternal poetry, with the eternal secret. outside, but within sight and hearing, was the vibrant, noisy, military life of new york--western turmoil--hurry of business--existence without pause; but here, in this grave, unornamented room, with its domestic simplicity and biblical air, was the very atmosphere of the east. neil, who really possessed the heart and the imagination of a poet, felt the vibration of the far-off life, and even while addressing mr. belasco, had visions of palm-trees and of deserts and of long, long journeys with the caravans of camels, from oasis to oasis. he was standing amid the children of the patriarchs. these souls were of older race than himself; they had the noblest of kindreds, a country that was the mother of nations. with the ideal respect born of such thoughts he offered his hand to mrs. belasco. then she called her children and proudly exhibited them to neil, and in a few moments a slave brought in a dish of lamb stewed with rice and herbs, some dates, a plate of little cakes strewed with caraway seeds, and some strong coffee. a roll of bread was at each plate, and cohen broke his with neil. miriam did not eat with them; she waited silently on their wants, her face beaming with pleasure and goodwill. and neil felt as if he had suddenly passed through a little wooden door into the life of the far east. he said something like this, and cohen answered, "god has said to us, as to his servant abraham, get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred. we are the wayfarers of the eternal, confessing still, as moses in the law taught us--'a syrian ready to perish was my father.'" deut. : . it was an unlooked-for and wonderful hour, and neil left the shop of jacob cohen a very different being from the depressed, anxious man who had entered it an hour previously. his first thought was his father and mother, and he went to his office, wrote the following note, and sent a messenger with it to them: my honored and beloved parents: i have sold a plot of land in mill street for four hundred pounds, and the fines will be paid to-morrow. we shall not require to borrow a farthing from any one. be at ease. i will come to you as soon as i have written the necessary transfer papers. your affectionate son, neil. then an unconquerable desire to see agnes, or at least to do something for her, took entire possession of him; and he laid aside his business, and went as rapidly as possible to the bradley house. but agnes would not see him. she asked to be left alone, and neil understood her need of solitude, and respected it. in maiden lane he met lord medway, who said, "i have been at your office seeking you, mr. semple. young bradley is to be put outside the city at two o'clock to-day." "he is pardoned then, on what conditions?" "he will be shot on sight if he comes within five miles of new york; and i fear he will not have a pleasant escort to the barricade." "you mean that he will be drummed out by the military and assaulted by the mob?" "yes, the court said, as a vagabond and spy and common rogue against his majesty's government and interests." "oh! i suppose the court is right; there is nothing to be done." "his father has sent a number of men with some message to all the respectable burghers he can influence; and i think bradley can influence a great many, either through their fear of him, or their respect for him." "what does he propose to do? he can not prevent this public demonstration, and he ought not to try to do so. his son has got off miraculously well. it is his place to submit and be grateful." "he tells me the last man drummed out of town was nearly killed by the missiles thrown at him, and did lose the sight of one eye. he proposes to prevent the mob's playfulness, if he can." "but how?" "he has asked a number of the tradesmen and merchants in the city to send their apprentices and clerks, and thus, by influence and example, keep the unruly element in check. no one can prevent their presence. in fact, good citizens are expected to countenance the rogue's punishment. i may show myself at some point of the route," he added, with a laugh; "i have a little friend who may ask me about it," and he looked curiously at neil, wondering if maria had told him how the miracle had been performed which saved harry's life. but neil made no sign, and medway continued: "i wish you would dine with me this evening, mr. semple. i have something of importance to tell you. i dine at five, shall we say at the king's arms. afterward i will walk home with you, if i may." "i will join you at five o'clock. what time does the young man begin his march, and from what point?" "from whitehall slip to dock street, hanover square, queen street, crown street, william street, king george street to the boston road, and so to the eastern gate of the barrier. i rather think the companions of the journey will be few in number ere they reach the barrier. they start about two o'clock i believe. you will not forget dinner at five?" then the young men parted and neil went to his office to consider his movements. events had happened with a celerity that made him nervous and uncertain. he was used to method and plenty of time. hurry, under any circumstances, destroyed his balance. between his father and mother, agnes, maria, john bradley and his son, jacob cohen and lord medway, he felt as if in a whirlwind. he wanted an hour of solitude in which to collect himself. but his office, that usually quiet, methodical place, was this day full of unrest. his partner was fuming at harry bradley's release, and wondering "what on earth was the use of the law, or the necessity for lawyers to interpret it?" "there is now no necessity for either law or lawyers," answered neil; "we may pack our books and lock our door." "neil, i have been thinking how i could manage to get two hundred for you." "it is not necessary. i am sorry i spoke to you on the subject." "i hope you have reconsidered the question of resignation." "i sent in my resignation this morning." "of course the commissioners will include me with you." "not necessarily." "yes, necessarily; and i think you have been very selfish and unkind." "my honor." "my wife and children! they are of as much account as your honor." then neil rose and went out again; there seemed no peace anywhere, he had scarcely reached the street when he heard in the distance the mocking strains of the drums and the fifes. they sounded so intolerable that he fled to his home to escape their cruel clamor. his mother saw his approach and was at the door to meet him. her face looked strangely grey and thin, but it had something too of its old spirit and cheerfulness as she said: "neil, my dear lad, your letter set our old hearts singing. how did you manage it? who helped you?" "god and jacob cohen helped me," he answered. "the jew has bought my land in mill street, and the strange thing is that he bought it out of respect and sympathy for my father. i am as sure of that as i am that jacob cohen is the only christian in new york who remembered us for past kindness or cared for us in present trouble. i want to rest an hour, mother; i have an appointment with lord medway at five o'clock, and i feel like a leaf that has been blown hither and thither by the wind for two days. you might tell maria that agnes bradley's brother will be outside of new york, a free man, in an hour." "i am glad he is out o' our life, anyway. much sorrow and loss he has brought us, and you will see that maria's good name will be none the better for being mixed up with the affair." "that is macpherson's fault. for her sake, and for your sake, he might have held his tongue. i will not forgive him." "his duty, neil----" "nonsense! he could have given the information without bringing in maria's name. he was mad with wounded vanity, it was a miserable, cowardly bit of revenge." "i don't think he is a coward." "he is; any man is a coward who takes his spite out on a woman, and you have been so kind, so motherly to him. he is a disgrace to the tartan: but i want an hour's rest, and tell father to be perfectly easy about the money. i shall have it in the morning. it rests on cohen's word; i know no better human security." "are you not hungry?" "i had dinner with the cohens, a simple, excellent meal." "the world is tapsalteerie; i wonder at nothing that happens. did you see the young man? i mean bradley's son?" "not i. i did not want to see him. i heard the drums and got out of sight and hearing as quickly as possible. i believe his father has managed the affair very wisely; i should not wonder if the rogue's march turns out more of a triumph than an ignominy." in a measure neil's judgment proved to be correct. respectable young men, charged to discountenance riotous abuse, began to join the procession at its outset, and this element was continually augmented. as they passed bradley's shop, bradley himself stepped out of it and walking at the head of the line, took his place at harry's right hand. no one interfered. the drummers and fifers in front did not see him, and the stupid waldeckers, ignorant of english and of everything but the routine of their regiment, took him as a part of the event. he was dressed in black cloth, with a white lawn band around his neck, and if they speculated about him at all, they thought he was a clergyman, and concluded the prisoner was to be hung at the barrier. [illustration: the drummers and fifers in front did not see him.] but harry turned to his father a face full of love and gratitude. the youth's self-control was complete, for his disdain of the whole proceeding was both breastplate and weapon to him. he was bare-headed and with the wind in his hair and the sunlight in his eyes he went swinging onward to the song of victory he heard in his own heart. by the side of his father's massive contour and stern countenance, harry looked like some young michael, bright-faced and fearless. now and then a taunt was hurled at the lad, and occasionally a jibe far more tangible, but of neither missile did he show the least consciousness. the presence of his father touched the rudest heart. he removed his hat when he saw his son's uncovered head, and his grey hairs evoked far more pity than contempt. when they passed through the fashionable residence streets, the sympathy was even remarkable; windows were thrown up, handkerchiefs fluttered, and now and then a shrill little _"bravo!"_ made harry look up and catch the influences of pity and admiration that women, young and lovely, and women, old and wayworn, rained down on him. as medway predicted, the crowd melted away long before the barrier was reached, for the mood of mischief was not in it. the fifes screamed and the drums beat, but could not summon the devilish spirit of mob violence, and harry bradley's tramp to the rogue's march was a much more quiet and orderly affair than the police court intended it to be. at the barrier the gate was flung open, and, in the midst of a fanfaronade of discordant sounds and scornful shouts harry was hustled outside. but his father had found opportunity to give him gold and to tell him a negro was waiting with a swift horse behind the gates; and just at the last moment, amid the scoffing and jeering of the soldiers, he put his arms about his son's neck and kissed and blessed him. he had drunk the shameful cup to the dregs with the lad, and he turned to the little gathering a face that awed them. as one man they moved aside to let him pass, and for a few moments watched him, as, with a mighty stride he took the road homeward. for he looked beyond his nature large and commanding, and he walked as if moved by some interior force that was beyond his control. men gazed at him with awe and pity, but no one ventured to speak to him. as he approached his home the inner momentum that had carried him without let or hinderance at a marvelous speed seemed to fail; he faltered, looked round wearily, and then stumbled forward, as if he had charged his spirit for the last mile of life. when he reached his gate he could not open it, and agnes ran out to help him; speech was impossible, but with a pitiful glance he let her lead him into the house. leaning on her, he stumbled forward until he reached the sofa, then, with a great cry he fell backward. fortunately, neil semple at that moment entered the house, and he was instantly at bradley's side, rendering, with agnes, the help at once necessary, and soothing the afflicted man with words of such sympathy and affection as few mortals had ever heard pass the lips of neil semple. "mr. bradley," he entreated, "do not fail yourself at this hour! we are all so sorry for you--all ready to weep with you--think of agnes--are you suffering?--shall i go for a physician? what is the matter? speak to me, mr. bradley." "sir," he answered, stretching out his trembling arms, "sir, i can neither see nor hear." chapter ix. the turn of the tide. every misfortune has its horizon, but as yet maria was not able to lift up her eyes and see any comfort coming from afar. it seemed to her that all the joy and glory of living was over. it was not only that harry was taken out of her schemes of happiness for the future; the present, also, was denuded of every hope and clouded by very real annoyances. she felt bitterly the publicity given to her name, and she knew that this publicity would supply those who disliked her with continual opportunities for her humiliation. "i shall have to stop at home," she thought; "and grandmother is sick and grandfather fretful, and neil's whole care is given to agnes bradley. i think he might consider me a little; but nobody does; i am only maria. yet my life is ruined, quite ruined;" and the unhappy child wept over herself and wondered how she was to live through the long, long years before her. very frequently, however, this tearful mood gave place to indignation against her friends in general, and agnes in particular. for she still held steadily to the opinion that all the trouble had arisen from her selfishness and inability to remember any one's desires but her own. and so, in plaintive or passionate wandering from one wrong to another, she passed some very miserable days. finally, neil persuaded her to go and see agnes. he said, "even the walk may do you good; and agnes is certain to have some comforting words to say." maria doubted both assertions. she could not see what good it could do her to go from one wretched house to another even more wretched, and neil's assurances that john bradley was better and able to go to his shop did not give her any more eager desire to try the suggested change. yet to please neil she went, though very reluctantly; and madame sympathized with this reluctance. she thought it was agnes bradley's place to come and make some acknowledgment of the sorrow and loss her family had brought upon the semples; and she recalled the innate aversion the elder had always felt for the bradley family. "the soul kens which way trouble can come," she said. "but what is the good o' its warnings? nobody heeds them." "i never heard any warning, grandmother." "there's nane so deaf as those who won't hear; but go your ways to your friend agnes! i'll warrant she would rather you would bide at hame." the morning was cold and damp and inexpressibly depressing, but maria was in that mood which defies anything to be of consequence. she put on her hat and cloak and walked silently by her uncle's side until they came to the bradley cottage. all the prettiness of its summer and autumn surroundings was blighted or dead; the door shut, the window covered, the whole place infected by the sorrow which had visited it. agnes opened the door. she was wan and looked physically ill and weary, but she smiled brightly at her visitor, and kissed her as she crossed the threshold. "my father has been very ill, maria, or i should have been to see you before this," she said; "but he has gone to the shop this morning. i fear he ought not." "my grandfather has been very ill and is still unable to leave his room," replied maria. "my dear grandmother also! as for myself--but that is of little importance, only i must say that it has been a dreadful thing to happen to us, a cruel thing!" "it was a wrong thing to begin with. that is where all the trouble sprang from. i see it now maria." "of course! you ought not to have deceived your father, agnes." "i was to blame in that, very much to blame. i have nearly broken my heart over the sin and its consequences." "consequences! yes, for they fell upon the innocent--that is what you ought to be sorry for--my grandfather and grandmother, my uncle neil, and even myself." "but as for yourself, maria, you also were to blame. if you would have been content with seeing harry here----" "oh, indeed! you did not permit me to see harry here, or even to bid him good-bye that night. if you had----" "it would have made no difference. harry as well as you seemed willing to run all risks to meet--elsewhere." "i never thought of meeting harry elsewhere. i have told you this fact before." "if you had not done so, if harry had not known you would do so again, he would not have asked you." "this is the last time i will condescend to tell you, agnes, that i never once met harry by appointment; much less, at nine o'clock at night. please remember this!" "it is, then, very strange, that harry should have asked you that night." "not only very strange, but very impertinent. why should he suppose maria semple would obey such a command? for it was a command. and it was a further impertinence to send me this command on a bit of common paper, wrapped around a stone and thrown at me through a window. it was a vulgar thing to do, also, and i never gave harry bradley the smallest right to order me to meet him anywhere." "oh, if you look at things that way! but why did he ask you? that is a question hard to answer." "not at all. he was jealous of macpherson and wished to show off his familiarity with me and make macpherson jealous. under this distracting passion he forgot, or he did not care, for the risk. it was your selfishness put the idea into his head, and it was his selfishness that carried it out, regardless of the consequences." "and your selfishness, maria, what of it?" "i was not selfish at all. i knew nothing about it. if i had received the note, i should not have answered it in any way." "are you sure of that?" "absolutely sure. it angered me, humiliated me, wronged me beyond words. and to have it read in the police court! how would you feel, agnes? it has ruined my life." "poor harry!" "oh, but poor maria! all this misery was brought to me without my knowledge and without any desert on my part. and don't you suppose i love my grandparents and uncle neil? think what i have suffered when i saw them dragged to prison, tried, fined and disgraced, and all for a scribble of presumptuous words that harry bradley ought to have been ashamed to write. it was very thoughtless, it was very cruel." "harry suffered for his presumption; and as for the fine, my father will repay it to your grandfather. he said so this morning; said it would only be just; and i think so, too." "the fine is the least part of the wrong. who can repay grandfather and uncle for the loss of their good name and their honorable record? who can give uncle his business back again? these are wrongs that cannot be put right with money. you know that, agnes." "do not quarrel with me, maria. i am not able to bear your reproaches. let us at least be thankful that harry's life is spared. when the war is over you may yet be happy together." then maria burst into passionate weeping. "you know nothing agnes! you know nothing!" she cried. "i can never see harry again! never, never! not even if he was in this house, _now_. how do you suppose he was saved?" "father has a great deal of influence, and he used it." her calm, sad face, with its settled conviction of her father's power, irritated maria almost beyond endurance. for a moment she thought she would tell her the truth, and then that proud, "not-caring," never far away from a noble nature stayed such a petty retaliation. she dried her eyes, wrapped her cloak around her, and said she "must not stop longer; there was trouble and sorrow at home and she was needed." agnes did not urge her to remain, yet she could not bear her to leave in a mood so unfriendly, and so despairing. "forgive me, dear maria," she whispered. "i have been wrong and perhaps unkind. i fear you are right in blaming me. forgive me! i cannot part in such misunderstanding. if you knew all----" "oh, yes! and if you knew all." "but forgive me! god knows i have suffered for my fault." "and i also." "put your arms around my neck and kiss me. i cannot let you go feeling so unkindly to me. do you hear, little one? i am sorry, indeed i am. maria! maria!" then they wept a little in each other's arms, and maria, tear stained and heavy hearted, left her friend. was she happier? more satisfied? more hopeful, for the interview? no. there had been no real confidence. and what is forgiveness under any circumstances? only incomplete understanding; a resolution to be satisfied with the wrong acknowledged and the pain suffered, and to let things go. certainly, nothing was changed by the apparent reconciliation; for as maria sat by the fire that night she said to herself, "it is her fault. if she had given harry five minutes, only five minutes, that night he never would have written that shameful note. it came of her delay and his hurry. i do not forgive her, and i will not forgive her! besides, in her heart i know she blames me; i, who am perfectly innocent! she has ruined my life, and she looked as injured as if it was i who had ruined her life. i was not to blame at all, and i will not take any blame, and i will not forgive her!" maria's divination in the matter was clearly right. agnes did blame her. she was sure harry would not have written the note he did write unless he had received previous encouragement. "there must have been meetings in the semples's garden before," she mused. "oh, there must have been, or else harry's note was inexcusable, it was impertinence, it was vulgarity. all the same, she need not have said these words to me." so the reconciliation was only a truce; the heart-wound in both girls was unhealed; and if it were healed would not the scar remain forever? three or four days after this unsatisfactory meeting neil came home in the afternoon just as the family were sitting down to the tea-table. "it is cruelly cold, mother," he said. "i will be grateful for a cup. i am shivering at my very heart." then he gave his father a business-like paper, saying, "i found it at my office this morning, sir." "what is it neil? what is it? more trouble?" "no, sir. it is a deed making over to you the property in which mr. bradley has his shop and workrooms. he says in a letter to me that 'he feels this deed to be your right and his duty.' you are to hold the property as security until he pays you three hundred pounds with interest; and if you are not paid within three years you are to sell the property and satisfy yourself." "you can give mr. bradley his deed back again, my lad. i can pay my own fines; or if i can't, i can go to prison. i'll not be indebted to him." "you mistake, sir. this is a moral obligation, and quite as binding as a legal one to mr. bradley." "take the paper, alexander," said madame, "and be thankfu' to save so much out o' the wreck o' things. we havena the means nor the right, these days, to fling awa' siller in order to flatter our pride. in my opinion, it was as little as bradley could do." "i went at once to his shop to see him," continued neil, "but he was not there. in the afternoon i called again, and found he had been absent all day. fearing he was sick, i stopped at his house on my way home. a strange woman opened the door. she said mr. bradley and his daughter had gone away." "gone away!" cried maria. "where have they gone? agnes said nothing to me about going away." "the woman, mrs. hurd, she called herself, told me agnes did not know she was to leave new york until fifteen minutes before she started." "when will they return?" asked madame. "god knows," answered neil, going to the fire and stooping over it. "i am cold and sick, mother," he said. "it was such a shock. no one at the shop expected such an event; everything was as busy as possible there, but the house! the house is desolate." "when did they go, neil?" "last night, mother, at eleven o'clock. mr. bradley came in about twenty minutes before eleven, put mr. and mrs. hurd in possession, and told agnes to pack a change of clothing for herself in a leather saddlebag he gave her. there was a boat waiting for them, and they went away in the darkness without a word. _o agnes!"_ "what did the hurds say?" "they know nothing." "did agnes leave no letter?" asked maria, looking with pitying eyes at her uncle. "how could she? the poor child, how could she? she had no time. some one had taken away her pens and pencils. she left a message with mrs. hurd. that was all." that was all. the next day new york city knew that john bradley had left his business and his home and disappeared as completely as a stone dropped into the river. no one had suspected his intention; not his foreman, nor any of the fifteen men working in his shop; not his most intimate friends, not even his daughter. but it was at once surmised that he had gone to the rebel army. people began to murmur at the clemency shown to his son, and to comment on the almost offensive sympathy of the father for him. for a few days john bradley was the absorbing topic of conversation; then he was forgotten by every one but neil. his shop, indeed, was kept open by the foreman, under control of the government, but the name of bradley was removed from above its entrance and the royal cipher g. r. put in its place. and in a few weeks his home was known as hurd's place, and had lost all its little characteristics. neil passed it every day with a heavy heart. there was no sweet face at the window to smile him a greeting; no beautiful woman to stand with him at the gate, or, hand in his hand, lead him into the little parlor and with ten minutes' conversation make the whole day bright and possible. the house looked forlorn; fire or candlelight were never visible, and he could only think of agnes as driven away in the dark night by destiny and wandering, he knew not where. maria, too, was unhappy. her last visit to agnes had been such a mockery of their once loving companionship. her last visit! that word "last" took hold of her, reproached her, hurt her, made her sorry and anxious. she felt also for her uncle, who looked old and gray in his silent sorrow. poor neil! he had suffered so many losses lately; loss of money, loss of business, loss of friends, and to crown all these bereavements, the loss of the woman on whom he had fixed the love and light and hopes of his life. no wonder he was so mournful and so quiet; he, who had just begun to be really happy, to smile and be gracious and pleasant to every one, yes, and even to sing! madame could not help noticing the change. "he is worse than ever he was before," she said with a weary pity. "dear me! what lots of sorrow women do manage to make!" this remark maria did not approve of, and she answered it with some temper. "all this sorrow came from a man's hand, grandmother," she said, "and no woman is to blame." "not even yoursel', maria?" "i, least of all. do you think that i would have met any man by the river side at nine o'clock at night?" "i'll confess i have had my doubts." "then you ought to say, 'maria, i am sorry i have had one doubt of you.' when you were janet gordon, would you have done a thing like that?" "not a man in scotland could have trysted me at an hour when all my folk were in their rooms and maybe sleeping." "not a man in america could make such a tryst with me. i am your granddaughter." "but that letter, maria." "it was a shame! a wrong i cannot forgive. i called it an impertinence to agnes, and i feel it so. he had no reason to suppose i would answer such a request, such an order, i may say. i am telling you the truth, grandmother." "i believe you, maria; but the pity of it is that you canna advertise that fact." "i know that. i know that everyone will doubt me or shun me. i shall be made to suffer, of course. well, i can suffer and smile as well as any woman,--we all have that experience at some time or other." "men have it, too. look at your uncle." "men don't smile when they suffer; they don't even try to. uncle suffers, any one can see that, but he does not dress up in velvet and silk, and laugh, and dance, and talk nonsense merrily over the grave where all his hopes are buried. no, indeed! he looks as if he had lost the world. and he shuts himself in his room and swears at something or somebody; he does not cry like a woman and get a headache, as well as a heartache; he swears at his trouble and at everything connected with it. that is the way with men, grandmother, you know it is. i have heard both my grandfather and my uncle comforting themselves after this fashion. grandfather, i thought, even seemed to enjoy it." madame smiled and then admitted "men had their ain ways, and so couldna be judged by woman's ways." moreover, she told maria in regard to agnes that a friendship which had begun to decay was best cut off at once. and maria, in spite of certain regrets, felt this to be a truth. things were not the same between agnes and herself; it was, then, more comfortable that they should not be at all. only, as day after day went by and no one took the place of agnes or showed the slightest desire to do so, her life became very monotonous. this was specially remarkable, because new york was at a feverish point of excitement. general clinton was hurrying his preparations for the reduction of the south. any hour the troops might get marching orders, and every entertainment had the gaiety and the melancholy of a farewell feast. all day long troops were moving hither and thither, and orderlies galloping in every direction. there was a constant rumble of army wagons in motion; trumpets were calling men together, drums beating them to their stations; and through all the blare and movement of a great military town in motion there was the tinkling of sleigh-bells and the glancing of splendidly caparisoned sleighs, full of women brilliantly dressed. now, although the semple house was beyond the actual throng and tumult of these things, maria heard the confused murmur of their activity; and neil told her bare facts, which she easily clothed with all the accessories of their existence and movement. but although there were dinner parties and sleighing parties, nightly dances, and the promise of a fine theatrical season, with the officers of the army as actors, no one remembered her. she was shocked when she realized that she had been cut off from all social recognition. setting aside the fact that harry bradley was a rebel, she had done nothing to deserve such ostracism; but, though conscious of her innocence, she did not find this inner approval as satisfying a compensation for outward respect and pleasant company as it is supposed to be. as the days went on, she began to wonder at lord medway's absence. at least, if she was to be his wife he ought to show her some care and attention. she remembered that in their last important interview she had told him not to trouble her; but he ought to have understood that a woman's words, in such trying circumstances, meant much less or much more than their face value. household anxieties of all kinds were added to these personal ones. madame semple was sick and full of domestic cares. never had there been known in new york such bitter frost, such paralyzing cold. snow lay four to six feet deep; loaded teams or galloping cavalry crossed the river safely on its solid ice. neil had made arrangements for wood in the summer months, but only part of it had been delivered; the rest, though felled, could not be extricated from the frozen snowdrifts. the sale of the mill street property had left them a margin of ready money, but provisions had risen to fabulous prices and were not always procurable at any price. new york was experiencing, this cruel winter, all the calamities of a great city beleaguered both by its enemies and the elements. yet the incessant social gaiety never ceased. thousands were preparing for the battlefield; thousands were dying in a virulent smallpox epidemic; thousands were half-frozen and half-fed; the prisons were crowded hells of unspeakable agonies; yet the officers in command of the city, and the citizens in office, the rich, the young and the beautiful, made themselves merry in the midst of all this death and famine, and found very good recreation in driving their jingling sleighs over the solid waters of the river and the bay. in these bad times neil was the stay and comfort of the semple household. he catered for their necessities cheerfully, but his heart was heavy with anxious fear; and when he saw those he loved deprived of any comfort, he reproached himself for the pride which had made him resign offices so necessary for their welfare. this pinch of poverty, which he must conceal, made his whole being shrink with suffering he never named to any one. and besides, there was always that desolate house to pass and repass. how was it that its shut door affected him so painfully? he could only feel this question; he could not answer it. but, though he was not conscious of the fact, never had neil semple in all his life been at once so great and so wretched: great because he was able to put his own misery under the feet of those he loved; to forget it in noble smiles that might cheer them and in hopeful words, often invented for their comfort. one day as he was walking down broadway he saw a sleigh coming toward him. it was drawn by four black horses blanketed in scarlet, glittering with silver harness and tossing their plumed heads to the music of a thousand bells. as it drew nearer a faint smile came to his lips. he saw the fantastically-dressed driver and footman, and the brilliant mass of color surrounded by minever furs, and he knew it was madame jacobus, out to defy any other sleigh to approach her. he expected only a swift, bright smile in passing, but she stopped, called him imperatively, and then insisted that he should take a seat beside her. "i have caught you at last," she said with a laugh. "it is high time. i asked you to come soon and see me, and you said you would. you have broken your word, sir. but nothing is binding where a woman is concerned; we have to live on broken scraps of all kinds, or perish. you are going to dine with me. i shall take it very ill if you refuse;" then, more soberly, "i have some important things to say to you." "it will be a great pleasure to dine with you," answered neil. "first, however, we will gallop a mile or two, just to show ourselves and get an appetite;" and the grave smile of pleasurable assent which accepted this proposition delighted her. in and out of the city ways they flew, until they reached the bowery road; there they met the sleighs of generals and governors, dandy officers and wealthy commissioners, and passed them all. and neil shared the thrill of her triumph and the physical delight of a pace no one could approach. something like his old expression of satisfied consideration came into his face, and he was alive from head to feet when he reached madame's fine house in lower broadway,--a handsome, luxurious house, filled with treasures from every part of the world; no shadow of limitation in anything within it. the lunch, elaborately laid for madame, was instantly extended for the guest, and neil marvelled at the dainty liberality of all its arrangements. it was, indeed, well known that the jacobus wealth was enormous, but here was a room warmed as if wood was of no great value; broiled birds, the finest of wheat bread, the oldest and best of wines. "you see, i take good care of myself, neil," said madame. "i don't wish to die till the war is over. i am resolved to see troy taken." "you mean new york." "i mean new york, of course." "do you really think the rebels will take new york?" "the greeks got into troy by trying. i think others can do the same." this was the only allusion made to public events during the meal; but when it was over and the servants had disappeared she set her chair before the roaring fire, spread out her splendid scarlet skirt, and, holding a gemmed fan between her face and the blaze, said: "now we will talk. you must tell me everything, neil, without holdbacks. you are a lawyer and know that everything must be told or nothing. do you feel that you can trust me?" then neil looked into the dark, speaking face, bending slightly toward him. kindness lighted its eyes and parted its lips, but, above all, it was a countenance whose truth was beyond question. "madame," he answered, "i believe you are my friend." "in plain truth, i am your friend. i am also your mother's friend. she is the best of women. i love her, and there's an end of it. when i came to new york first i was a stranger and people looked curiously, even doubtfully, at me. janet semple stood by me like a mother just as long as i needed her care. do i forget? that is far from angelica jacobus. i never forget a kindness. now, neil, i have known you more than twenty years. what can i do for you?" "o madame, what can you not do? your sympathy has put new life into me. i feel as if, perhaps, even yet there may be happy days in store." "plenty of them. i hear you paid the fines immediately. did they pinch you much?" "no. jacob cohen bought a piece of land from me. i do believe he bought it out of pure kindness." "pure kindness and good business. he knows how to mingle things. but that jew has a great soul. jacobus has said so often, and no one can deceive jacobus. but what are these stories i hear about your lovely niece? is there any truth in them?" "none, i'll warrant," answered neil warmly. "but i will tell you the exact truth, and then you may judge if little maria deserves to be treated as people are now treating her." then neil succinctly, and with clearness and feeling, told the story of maria's entanglement with harry bradley, laying particular stress on the fact that she never had met him clandestinely, and that his note had been a great offense and astonishment to her. "i was present," he said, "when my father told her of the note, and of its being read in the police court, and i shall never forget her face. it is an easy thing to say that a person was shocked, but maria's very soul was so dismayed and shocked that i seemed to see it fly from her face. she would have fallen had i not caught her. why was that note written? i cannot understand it." "it was never intended for maria. it was written to wound the vanity and fire the jealousy of that scot. as soon as maria left the room the opportunity was seized. can you not see that? and harry bradley never dreamed that the kilted fool would turn an apparent love-tryst into a political event. he wished to make trouble between macpherson and maria, but he had no intention of making the trouble he did make. he also was jealous, and when two jealous men are playing with fire the consequences are sure to be calamitous. but macpherson is sorry enough now for his zeal in his majesty's affairs. he is thoroughly despised by both men and women of the first class. i, myself, have made a few drawing-rooms places of extreme humiliation to him." "still, others think the man simply did his duty. a scotsman has very strong ideas about military honor and duty." "fiddlesticks! honor and duty! nothing of the kind. it was a dirty deed, and he is a dirty fellow to have done it. there was some decent way out of the dilemma without going through the police court to find it. grant me patience with such bouncing, swaggering, selfish patriotism! a penny's worth of common-sense and good feeling would have been better; but it was his humor to be revengeful and ill-natured, and he is, of course, swayed by his inclinations. let us forget the creature." "with all my soul." "the stories are various about maria going to general clinton and begging her lover's life with such distraction that he could not refuse it to her. which story is the true one?" "they are all lies, i assure you, madame. it was lord medway who begged harry bradley's life." "but why?" neil paused a minute, and then answered softly, "for maria's sake." "oh, i begin to understand." "she has promised to marry him when she is of age--then, or before." "i am very glad. medway is a man full of queer kinds of goodness. when the robinsons and blundells, when joan attwood and kitty errol and all the rest of the beauties, hear the news, may i be there to see? is it talkable yet?" "no, not yet. maria has told no one but me, and i have told no one but you. medway is to see my father and mother; after that--perhaps. he has not called since the arrangement; he told me 'he was doing the best thing under the circumstances.'" "of course he is. medway understands women. he knows that he is making more progress absent than he would present. come, now, things are not so bad, socially. mrs. gordon and angelica jacobus will look after maria; and, though women can always be abominable enough to their own sex, i think maria will soon be beyond their shafts. now, it is business i must speak of. patrick huges, my agent, is robbing me without rhyme or reason. i had just sent him packing when i met you. the position is vacant. will you manage my affairs for me? the salary is two hundred pounds a year." "madame, the offer is a great piece of good fortune. from this hour, if you wish it, i will do your business as if it were my own." "thank you, neil. in plain truth, it will be a great kindness to me. we will go over the rascal's accounts to-morrow, and he will cross the river to-night if he hears that neil semple is to prosecute the examination." then neil rose to leave. madame's sympathy and help had made a new man of him; he felt able to meet and master his fate, whatever it might be. at the last moment she laid her hand upon his arm. "neil," she asked, "has not this great outrage opened your eyes a little. do you still believe in the justice or clemency of the king?" "it was not the king." "it was the king's representatives. if such indignity is possible when we are still fighting, what kind of justice should we get if we were conquered?" "i know, i know. but there is my father. it would break his heart if i deserted the royal party now. they do not know in england----" "then they ought to know; but for many years i have been saying, 'england was mad'; and she grows no wiser." "englishmen move so slowly." "of course. all the able englishmen are on this side of the atlantic. lord! how many from the other side could be changed for the one great one on this side. what do you think? it was my silk, lace, ribbons and fallals harry bradley was taking across the river. the little vanities were for my old friend martha. i am sorry she missed them." neil looked at her with an admiring smile. "how do you manage?" he asked. "i have arranged my politics long since, and quite to my satisfaction. so has jacobus. he left new york flying the english flag, but the ocean has a wonderful influence on him; his political ideas grow large and free there; he becomes--a different man. society has the same effect on me. when i see american women put below that vulgar mrs. reidesel----" "oh, no, madame!" "oh, yes, sir. in the fashionable world we are all naught unless mrs. general reidesel figures before us; then, perhaps, we may acquire a kind of value. see how she is queening it in general tryron's fine mansion. and then, this foreign mercenary, knyphausen, put over american officers and american citizens! it is monstrous! not to be endured! i only bear it by casting my heart and eyes to the jersey highlands. there our natural ruler waits and watches; here, we wait and watch, and some hour, it must be, our hopes shall touch god's purposes for us. for that hour we secretly pray. it is not far off." and neil understood, as he met her shining eyes and radiant smile, that there are times when faith may indeed have all the dignity of works. then the young man, inexpressibly cheered and strengthened, went rapidly home; and when madame heard her son's steps on the garden walk she knew that something pleasant had happened to him. and it is so often that fortune, as well as misfortune, goes where there is more of it that neil was hardly surprised to see an extraordinarily cheerful group around an unusually cheerful fireside when he opened the parlor door. the elder, smiling and serene, sat in his arm-chair, with his finger-tips placidly touching each other. madame's voice had something of its old confident ring in it, and maria, with heightened color and visible excitement, sat between her grandparents, an unmistakable air of triumph on her face. "come to the fire, neil," said his mother, making a place for his chair. "come and warm yoursel'; and we'll hae a cup o' tea in ten or fifteen minutes." "how cheerful the blazing logs are," he answered. "is it some festival? you are as delightfully extravagant as madame jacobus. oh, if the old days were back again, mother!" "they will come, neil. but wha or what will bring us back the good days we hae lost forever out o' our little lives while we tholed this weary war? however, there is good news, or at least your father thinks so. maria has had an offer o' marriage, and her not long turned eighteen years auld, and from an english lord, and your father has made a bonfire o'er the matter, and i've nae doubt he would have likit to illuminate the house as weel." the elder smiled tolerantly. "janet," he answered, "a handsome young man, without mair than his share o' faults and forty thousand pounds a year, is what i call a godsend to any girl. and i'm glad it has come to our little maria. i like the lad. i like him weel. he spoke out like a man. he told me o' his castle and estate in lancashire, and o' the great coal mines on it; the lands he owned in cumberland and kent, his town house in belgrave square, and forbye showed me his last year's rental, and stated in so many words what settlement he would make on maria. and i'm proud and pleased wi' my new english grandson that is to be. i shall hold my head higher than ever before; and as for matthews and peter dubois, they and their dirty police court may go to----, where they ought to have been years syne, but for god almighty's patience; and i'll say nae worse o' them than that. it's a great day for the semples, neil, and i am wonderfully happy o'er it." "it's a great day for the medways," answered madame. "i could see fine how pleased he was at the gordon connection, for when i told him colonel william gordon, son o' the earl o' aberdeen--him wha raised the gordon highlanders a matter o' three years syne--was my ain first cousin, he rose and kissed my hand and said he was proud to call colonel gordon his friend. and he knew a' about the gordons and the warlike huntleys, and could even tell me that the fighting force o' the clan was a thousand claymores; a most intelligent young man! and though i dinna like the thought o' an englishman among the gordons, there's a differ even in englishmen; some are less almighty and mair sensible than others." "he spoke very highly o' the americans," answered the elder. "he said 'we were all o' one race, the children o' the same grand old mother.'" "the americans are obligated for his recognition," replied madame a trifle scornfully. "to be sure, it's a big feather in our caps when lord medway calls cousins with us." "what does maria say?" asked neil. and maria raised her eyes to his with a look in them of which he only had the key. so to spare her talking on the subject, he continued: "i also have had a piece of good fortune to-day. i met madame jacobus, went home with her to dinner, and she has offered me the position of her business agent, with a salary of two hundred pounds a year." "it's a vera springtide o' good fortune," said the elder, "and i am a grateful auld man." "weel, then," cried madame, "here comes the tea and the hot scones; and i ken they are as good as a feast. it's a thanksgiving meal and no less; come to the table wi' grateful hearts, children. i'm thinking the tide has turned for the semples; and when the tide turns, wha is able to stop it?" the turn of the tide! how full of hope it is! not even maria was inclined to shadow the cheerful atmosphere. indeed, she was grateful to lord medway for the fresh, living element he had brought into the house. life had been gloomy and full of small mortifications to her since the unfortunate bradley affair. her friends appeared to have forgotten her, and the dancing and feasting and sleighing went on without her presence. even her home had been darkened by the same event; her grandfather had not quite recovered the shock of his arrest; her grandmother had made less effort to hide her own failing health. neil had a heartache about agnes that nothing eased, and the whole household felt the fear and pinch of poverty and the miserable uncertainty about the future. maria bore her share in these conditions, and she had also began to wonder and to worry a little over lord medway's apparent indifference. if he really loved her, why did he not give her the recognition of his obvious friendship? his presence and attentions would at least place her beyond the spite and envy of her feminine rivals. why did he let them have one opportunity after another to smile disdain on her presence, or to pointedly relegate her to the outer darkness of non-recognition? when she had examined all her slights and sorrows, lord medway's neglect was the most cutting thong in the social scourge. madame jacobus, however, was correct in her opinion. medway was making in these days of lonely neglect a progress which would have been impossible had he spent them at the girl's side. and if he had been aware of every feeling and event in the lives of the semples, he could not have timed his hour of reappearance more fortunately, for not only was maria in the depths of despondency, but the elder had also begun to believe his position and credit much impaired. he had been passed, avoided, curtly answered by men accustomed to defer to him; and he did not take into consideration the personal pressure on these very men from lack of money, or work, or favor; nor yet those accidental offenses which have no connection with the people who receive them. in the days of his prosperity he would have found or made excuses in every case, but a failing or losing man is always suspicious, and ready to anticipate wrong. but now! now it would be different. as he drank his tea and ate his buttered scone he thought so. "it will be good-morning, elder. how's all with you? have you heard the news? and the like of that. it will be a different call now." and he looked at maria happily, and began to forgive her for the calamity she had brought upon them. for it was undeniable that even in her home she had been made to feel her responsibility, although the blame had never been voiced. she understood the change, and was both happy and angry. she did not feel as if any one--grandfather, grandmother, lord medway, or uncle neil--had stood by her with the loyal faith they ought to have shown. all of them had, more or less, suspected her of imprudence and reckless disregard of their welfare. all of them had thought her capable of ruining her family for a flirtation. even agnes, the beginning and end of all the trouble, had been cold and indifferent, and blamed, and left her without a word. and as she did not believe herself to have done anything very wrong, the injustice of the situation filled her with angry pain and dumb reproach. lord medway's straightforward proposal cleared all the clouds away. it gave her a position at once that even her grandfather respected. she was no longer a selfish child, whose vanity and folly had nearly ruined her family. she was the betrothed wife of a rich and powerful nobleman, and she knew that even socially reprisals of a satisfactory kind would soon be open to her. the dejected, self-effacing manner induced by her culpable position dropped from her like a useless garment; she lifted her handsome face with confident smiles; she was going, not only to be exonerated, but to be set far above the envy and jealousy of her enemies. for medway had asked her to go sleighing with him on the following day, and she expected that ride to atone for many small insults and offenses. twice during the night she got up in the cruel cold to peep at the stars and the skies. she wanted a clear, sunny day, such a day as would bring out every sleigh in the fashionable world; and she got her desire. the sun rose brilliantly, and the cold had abated to just the desirable point; the roads, also, were in perfect condition for rapid sleighing, and at half-past eleven medway entered the parlor, aglow with the frost and the rapid motion. his fine presence, his hearty laugh, his genial manners, were irresistible. he bowed over madame's hand, and then drew maria within his embrace. "is she not a darling? and may i take her for an hour or two, grandmother?" he asked. and madame felt his address to be beyond opposition. he had claimed her kinship; he had called her "grandmother," and she gave him at once the key of her heart. as they stood all three together before the fire, a servant man entered and threw upon the sofa an armful of furs. "i have had these made for you, maria," said medway. "look here, my little one! their equals do not exist outside of russia." and he wrapped her in a cloak of the finest black fox lined with scarlet satin, and put on her head a hood of scarlet satin and black fox, and slipped her hands into a muff of the same fur lined with scarlet satin; and when they reached the waiting sleigh he lifted her as easily as a baby into it, and seating himself beside her, off they went to the music in their hearts and the music in the bells; and the pace of the four horses was so great that madame declared "all she could see was a bundle of black fur and flying scarlet ribbons." that day maria's cup of triumph was full and running over. before they had reached the half-way house they had met the entire fashionable world of new york, and every member of it had understood that maria semple and lord medway would now have to be reckoned with together. for medway spoke to no one and returned no greeting that did not include maria in it. indeed, his neglect of those who made this omission was so pointed that none could misconstrue it. maria was, therefore, very happy. she had found a friend and a defender in her trouble, and she was, at least, warmly grateful to him. he could see it in her shining eyes, and feel it, oh, so delightfully! in her unconscious drawing closer and closer to him, so that finally his hands were clasping hers within the muff of black fox, and his face was bending to her with that lover-like, protecting poise there was no mistaking. "are you satisfied, maria? are you happy?" he asked, when the pace slackened and they could talk a little. "oh, yes!" she answered. "but why did you wait so long? i was suffering. i needed a friend; did you not understand?" "but you had a sorrow i could not share. i did not blame you for it. it was but natural you should weep a little, for the young man had doubtless made some impression. he was a gallant fellow, and between life and death carried himself like a prince. i am glad i was able to save his life; but i did not wish to see you fretting about him; that was also natural." she did not answer, nor did he seem to expect an answer. but she was pleased he did not speak slightingly of harry. had he done so, she felt that she would have defended him; and yet, in her deepest consciousness she knew this defense would have been forced and uncertain. the circumstances were too painful to be called from the abyss of past calamity. it was better everything should be forgotten. and with the unerring instinct of a lover, medway quickly put a stop to her painful reverie by words that seldom miss a woman's appreciation. he told her how much he had longed to be with her; how tardily the weeks had flown; how happy it made him to see her face again. he called her beautiful, bewitching, the loveliest creature the sun shone on, and he said these things with that air of devoted respect which was doubly sweet to the girl, after the social neglect of the past weeks. finally he asked her if she was cold, and she answered: "how can i be cold? these exquisite furs are cold-proof. where did you get them? i have never seen any like them before." "i got them in st. petersburg. i was there two years ago on a political embassy, and while i was waiting until you partly recovered yourself i had my long coat cut up and made for you. i am delighted i did it. you never looked so lovely in anything i have seen you wear. do you like them, maria, sweet maria?" she looked at him with a smile so ravishing that he had there and then no words to answer it. he spoke to the driver instead, and the horses bounded forward, and so rapid was the pace that the city was soon reached, and then her home. neil was at the gate to meet them, and medway lifted maria out of the sleigh and gave her into his care. "i will not keep the horses standing now;" he said, "but shall i call to-morrow, maria, at the same time?" and she said, "yes," and "i have had a happy drive." so he bowed and went away in a dash of trampling horses and jingling bells, and maria watched him a moment or two, being greatly impressed by his languid, yet masterful, air and manner, the result of wealth long inherited and of social station beyond question. with a sigh--and she knew not why she sighed--maria went into the house. she was now quite forgiven; she could feel that she was once more loved without reservation, and also that she had become a person of importance. it was a happy change, and she did not inquire about it, or dampen the pleasure by asking for reasons. she took off her beautiful furs, showed them to her grandmother and grandfather, and told at what personal sacrifice lord medway had given them to her. and then, drawing close to the hearth, she described the people they had met, and the snubs and recognitions given and received. it was all interesting to madame, and even to the elder; the latter, indeed, was in extraordinary high spirits, and added quite as much salt and vinegar to the dish of gossip as either of the women. in spite, therefore, of the bitter weather and the scarcity of all the necessaries of life, the world went very well again for the semples; and though at the end of december, clinton sailed southward, lord medway had a furlough for some weeks, so that in this respect the military movement did not interfere with maria's social pleasures. two days before the embarkment of the troops colonel delancey called one morning on the elder. he had sold a piece of property to the government, and in making out the title information was wanted that only elder semple, who was the original proprietor, could give. delancey asked him, therefore, to drive back with him to the king's arms and settle the matter, and the elder was pleased to do so. anything that took him among his old associates and gave him a little importance was particularly agreeable, and in spite of the cold he went off in the highest spirits. the king's arms was soon reached, and he found in its comfortable parlor general ludlow, recorder john watts, jr., treasurer cruger, commissioners degeist and housewert, and lawyer spiegel. after semple's arrival the business which had called them together was soon settled, and it being near noon, ludlow called for a bottle of old port and some beef sandwiches. the room was warm and bright, the company friendly and well informed on political matters, and a second bottle was drunk ere they made a movement to break up the pleasant meeting. then ludlow arose, and for a few minutes they stood around the blazing fire, the elder very happy in the exercise of his old influence and authority. but just as they were going to shake hands the door was flung open and captain macpherson appeared. for a moment he stood irresolute, then he suddenly made up his mind that he had chanced upon a great opportunity for placing himself right with the public, and so, advancing toward elder semple, who had pointedly turned his back upon him, he said: "elder, i am grateful for this fortunate occasion. i wish before these gentlemen to assure you that i did my duty with the most painful reluctance. i beg you to forgive the loss and annoyance this duty has caused you." then semple turned to him. his eyes were flashing, his face red and furious. he looked thirty years younger than usual, as with withering scorn he answered: _"caitiff!_ out of my sight!" "no, sir," continued the foolish young man, "not until you listen to me. as a soldier and a gentleman, i had a duty to perform." "you hae covered the names o' 'soldier' and 'gentleman' wi' infamy. duty, indeed! what duty o' yours was it to examine a letter that came to a house where you were making an evening call? no matter how the letter came--through the window or by the door--you had nae duty in the matter. it was your cursed, curious, spying impertinence. no gentleman would hae opened it. the letter was not directed to you,--you admitted that in court. god in heaven! what right had you to open it?" "allow me to ask, elder, what you would have done if you had been an officer in his majesty's service and had been placed in the same circumstances?" "done? why, you villain, there was only _one_ _thing to do_, and an officer, if he was a gentleman, would have done it,--given the letter to miss bradley unopened. she was the mistress of the house, and entitled to see the letters coming to it. what had you to do wi' her letters? if you had kept your fingers frae picking and your e'en frae spying, you would not have put yoursel' in an utterly shamefu' dilemma." "in these times, sir----" "in this case the times are nae excuse. mr. bradley was believed by everybody to be a friend of his majesty. you had nae reason whatever to suppose a treasonable note would come to his house. you did not suppose it. my god, sir! if our letters are to be examined by his majesty's officers, wha is safe? an enemy might throw a note full o' treason through a window, and if _you_ happened to be calling there----" "mr. semple, you are insulting." "i mean to be insulting. what right had you to speak to me? you judas! who could eat my bread, and borrow my siller, and pretend to love my granddaughter. you have smirched your colors and dishonored your sword, and you deserve to be drummed out o' your regiment; you do that, you eternal scoundrel, you!" by this time the elder's voice filled the room, and he brought his cane down as if it were twenty. "out o' my sight," he shouted, "or i'll lay it o'er your shoulders, you blackguard aboon ten thousand." "your age, sir! your age!" screamed the enraged young fellow; but his words almost choked him, and de geist and cruger took him forcibly out of the room. then delancey filled a glass with wine. "sit down and drink it, elder," he said. "afterward i shall have the great honor and pleasure of driving you home." and the approval of every one present was too marked to be misunderstood. semple felt it in every handclasp, and saw it in every face. also, semple had his own approval, and the result of it in his voice and manner troubled janet. she was ignorant of its cause, and the elder was not prepared to tell her. "the fool may think himself bound to challenge me," he thought, "and i'll e'en wait till he does it, or else till clinton carries him awa' to fight rebels." but he was nearly betrayed by neil, who entered the parlor in an almost buoyant manner for one so naturally grave. "why, father," he said, "what is this i hear?" and then he suddenly stopped, having caught his father's warning glance. "you hae heard many things doubtless, neil," answered the elder, "and among them that i and delancey were driving together. we had a rather cheerful time at the king's arms o'er a bit of transferring business. the government must hae clear titles, you ken, to the property it buys." "a clear title is beyond the government," interrupted madame, "and the government needna' fash itsel' about titles. nane that can be made will hold good much longer for the government. sit down, neil, and see if you can steady your father a bit; he's as much excited about a ride wi' auld delancey as if king george himsel' had gien him a ride in his chariot;" and she flipped her dress scornfully to the words as she left the room to give some household order. "you vera near told tales on me, neil," said the old man gleefully; "and there's nae need to mention the bit o' scrimmage till we see if it's finished. the lad might send me a challenge," he added with a little mirthful laugh. "not he, father! if he did, i should quickly answer it." "you would mind your ain business, sir. as long as i bide in this warld i'll do my ain fighting, if i die for it." "there's none can do it better, father. errol told me your scorn overwhelmed macpherson; and he said, moreover, that if the quarrel had come to blows he had no doubt you would have caned the scoundrel consumedly. they are talking of the affair all over town, and delancey is quite beyond himself about it. i heard him say that, though your hands quivered with passion, you stood firm as a rock, and that there were a few minutes at the last when no man could have tackled you safely." then there was a sudden pause, for madame reëntered, and the elder looked at her in a way so full of triumph and self-satisfaction that he troubled her. "to think o' alexander semple being sae set up wi' delancey's nod and smile," she thought. then neil turned the conversation on the social events of the day, and the topic allowed madame some scope for the relief of her annoyance. yet her anxiety about her husband continued, for the elder was in extraordinarily high spirits. his piquant, pawkie humor finally alarmed madame. "alexander," she said, "you had better go awa' to your bed. i dinna like to hear you joking out o' season, as it were. what has come o'er you, man?" "hear to your mother, neil!" he answered. "when i sit still and silent, she asks, 'have you naething to say, auld man?' and when i say something she doesna' like my way o' joking, and is for sending me awa' to bed for it, as if i was a bairn. however, the day is o'er, and we hae had the glory o' it, and may as weel get rested for the day to come." he left the room in his old sober fashion, with a blessing and a "good-night, children," and madame followed him. maria rose with her; she was anxious to carry her thoughts into solitude. but neil sat still by the fireside, dreaming of agnes bradley, and yet finding the dream often invaded by the thought of the retributive scene in the parlor of the king's arms. and perhaps never in all his life had neil loved and honored his father more sincerely. when madame returned to the room he came suddenly out of his reverie. he saw at once that his mother was strangely troubled. she sat down and covered her face with her thin, trembling hands, and when neil bent over her with a few soothing words she sobbed: "oh, my dear lad, i'm feared your father is _fey_, or else he has been drinking beyond his reason; and goodness knows what nonsense he has been saying. the men who brought sae much wine out may have done it to set him talking; and anyway, it shames me, it pains me, to think o' alexander semple being the butt o' a lot o' fellows not worthy to latch his shoe buckles. but he's getting auld, neil, he's getting auld; and he's always been at the top o' the tree in every one's respect, and i canna bear it." "dear mother, never has father stood so high in all good men's opinion as he stands this night. he has a little secret from you, and, i dare say, it is the first in his life, and it is more than wine to him. it is the secret, not the wine." "what is it, neil? what is it?" then neil sat down by his mother's side, and looking into her face with his own smiling and beaming, he told her with dramatic power and passion the story of "the bit scrimmage," as the elder defined the wordy battle, adding, "there is not a man, young or old, in new york, that this night is more praised and respected for his righteous wrath than alexander semple. as for quentin macpherson, he may go hang!" and long before the story was finished madame was bridling and blushing with pride and pleasure. "the dear auld man! the brave auld man!" she kept ejaculating; and her almost uncontrollable impulse was to go to him and give him the kiss and the few applauding words which she knew would crown his satisfaction. but neil persuaded her to dissemble her delight, and then turned the conversation on the condition of the city. "it is bad enough," he said. "famine and freezing will soon be here, and the town is left under the orders of a hired mercenary--a german, a foreigner, who neither understands us nor our lives or language. it is a shameful thing. was there no englishman to defend new york? every citizen, no matter what his politics, is insulted and sulky, and if washington attacks the city in clinton's absence, which he will surely do, they won't fight under knyphausen as they would under a countryman. even delancey would have been better. i, myself, would fight with a delancey leading, where i would be cold as ice behind knyphausen." "when men are left to themselves what fools they are," said madame. "they don't think so. you should hear the talk about what clinton is going to do in the south, and he will find cornwallis too much for him." "how is that? cornwallis?" "cornwallis hates clinton passionately; he will sacrifice everything rather than coöperate with him. clinton successful would be worse than his own disgrace. yet clinton is sure he will succeed in subduing the whole south." "and knyphausen?" "is sure he will capture general washington, though clinton failed in his alert for that purpose. the four hundred light horsemen he despatched came back as they went twenty-four hours after they started full of confidence." "what frightened them?" asked madame with a scornful laugh. "the guides. they lost the road,--rebels at heart, doubtless,--the cold was intense, the snow deep, and the four hundred came home all. the wretched rebel army must have had a hearty laugh at clinton's 'alert'--the alert which was to end the war by the capture of washington." "how could they expect such a thing?" "well, washington was living in a house at morristown, some distance from the huts occupied by the army. the army were in the greatest distress, nearly naked, hungry and cold, and the snow was deep around them. there was every reason to hope four hundred men on swift horses might be alert enough to surprise and capture the man they wanted." "nae! nae!" cried madame. "the tree god plants no wind hurts; and george washington is set for the defense and freedom o' these colonies. cold and hungry men, snow-strangled roads, and four hundred alerts! what are they against the tree god plants? only a bit wind that shook the branches and made the roots strike deeper and wider. and sae clinton's alert having failed, knyphausen is trying for another; is that it, neil?" "yes. he considers washington's capture his commission." "and if he should capture him, what then?" "if he is taken alive he will die the death of a traitor." "and then?" "then the war would be over, the idea of independence would be buried, and we should be english subjects forever." "and after that comes a cow to be shod. one thing is as likely as the other. the idea of independence will never be buried; we shall never again be subjects of the king o' england. in spite of all the elements can do, in spite of what seems to us impossibilities, the tree god has planted no wind shall hurt. many a day, neil, i have steadied my soul and my heart as i went to and fro in my house singing or saying this bit verse, and i wrote it my ain sel': no wind that blows can ever kill the tree god plants; it bloweth east; it bloweth west; the tender leaves have little rest, but any wind that blows is best. the tree god plants strikes deeper root, grows higher still, spreads wider boughs for god's good will, meets all its wants." neil sighed, and rising suddenly, said, "let us go upstairs; the room is growing very cold. and, mother, do not let father know i have told you about his 'bit scrimmage.' it would rob him of the triumph of his own recital." "i'll not say a word, neil; you may be sure o' that." and she did not say a word. nevertheless, the elder looked queerly at neil the following evening, and when he found an opportunity, said, "you've been telling tales on me, lad. your mother hasna petted me a' the day lang for naething. some one has whispered a word in her ear. i can see it in her e'en and hear it in her voice, and feel it in the stroke o' her hand. i wonder who it was." "a bird of the air often carries such matters, sir. it would be but the generality; the particulars can come from yourself only." "aye, to be sure!" and he smiled and seated himself comfortably in his chair before the blaze, adding, "it was a wonderfu' bit o' comfort, neil, and you'll stand by me if your mother thinks wrong o' it?" "shoulder to shoulder, sir. you did quite right." chapter x. maria goes to london. as the days lengthened, the cold strengthened, and new york experienced a winter of unparallelled severity. food could only be procured with hard money, and at exorbitant prices, and the scarcity of fuel added greatly to the general distress. wall street surrendered most of its beautiful century-old shade trees, to warm the family of the german general riederel, and before spring, the streets and lanes of the city, the gardens and pleasure grounds of the burghers, were shorn of their finest fruit and shade trees. the aged, the very young, the men in the prisons and hospitals perished in great numbers, and the deathly cold of the atmosphere was full of the unspeakable misery everywhere present. these distressing conditions were intensified by the fear of an attack from washington. the waters around new york were for several weeks so hard frozen that the heaviest artillery could easily have crossed on them; and the city in losing its insular position, lost its chief advantage for defense. knyphausen constantly expected washington to cross the ice, and refugees and citizens alike, were formed into companies and subjected to garrison duty. during the dark, bitter watches, men sometimes froze at their posts, and women in their unheated rooms, knelt listening to the children's breathing, for the atmosphere was so deadly cold that the babes shivered, even in the covert of their mothers' breasts. yet, in this city of frost, and famine, and suffering, a hectic and most unnatural gaiety was kept up. maria would have little part in it. she could find no pleasure in listening to comedies and songs, in a freezing temperature, and the warmth induced by dancing was generally followed by a most uncomfortable and dangerous chill. her status in society also led her to feel more content in withdrawing from it a little. she was not yet to be classed among the married belles, nor was she quite at one with the girlhood that surrounded her. her engagement to lord medway had set her a little apart; it was understood that she could not be in perfect sympathy with the plans and hopes of either maids or wives. yet her life was far from unhappy. she visited mrs. gordon and mrs. jacobus a great deal; and the latter delighted in making little lunches and dinners, where the three ladies were joined by lord medway, and neil semple, and very often also by major andré, whose versatile gifts and cheerful temperament were the necessary and delightful antitheses to neil's natural gravity and medway's cultivated restraint. the splendid rooms of madame jacobus were warm, her dinners well cooked, her wines of the finest quality, her good nature never failing. she made a pet of maria, and lord medway--reclining with half-closed eyes in some luxurious chair--watched his betrothed managing this clever woman, so much older than herself, with infinite satisfaction and amusement. he foresaw that she would be equal to any social position, and it never occurred to him that it was likely she would manage lord medway quite as thoroughly as she managed madame jacobus. occasionally, medway gave return dinners, at which madame semple presided, and then maria sat at his right hand, and he proved himself to be the most charming of hosts, and the most devoted and respectful of lovers. conversation was never to make, every one spoke as they listed, and as their prejudices or convictions led them. there was no quentin macpherson present, and opinions were as much individual property as purses. one day, toward the end of january, when the temperature was so low that the dining-table had been drawn close to the hearth, the usual party were sitting in the warmth and glow of its roaring fire. the dinner was over, the servants had left the room, medway and maria were picking their walnuts out together, and major andré and neil semple talking of a game of chess. then madame jacobus drawing her gay indian shawl closer around her, said suddenly, "pray what is the news? has nobody a mouthful of intelligence? are we to wait for the americans to make us something to talk about?" "indeed madame," answered maria, "we have not yet exhausted their night attack on the british troops encamped on staten island." "they got nothing but five hundred sets of frozen hands and ears," said major andré. "oh, yes, they did, sir; blankets and food count for something these days," said madame, "not to speak of the nine vessels destroyed at decker's ferry--and the prisoners." "it was a dashing absurdity, madame." "with all my soul; yet i am glad, it was an american dashing absurdity." "you should have seen knyphausen when he heard of it," continued andré. he pulled his whiskers savagely and said 'egad! damn! these americans have the come-back-again, come-back-again, of the flies; to drive them off--it is impossible--they come-back-again.' we have, however, had our turn. four nights ago, our troops entered newark and elizabeth and made a few reprisals, and then he began to hum: "the new york rebs are fat, but the jersey rebs are fatter; so we made an expedition, and carried off the latter." medway laughed. "madame," he said, "the major was desperately dull last night, and i wondered at it. but, this morning, as you hear, he is delivered of his verse, and he is cheerful." "oh, if the war is degenerating into midnight robberies!" cried madame, "why does not washington come? what hinders him from at least trying to get into new york? i do believe if he simply stood on broadway, he would draw three-fourths of the men in the city to him; why does he not try? it might end this dreadful war one way or the other, and people are beginning to be indifferent, which way. why, in the name of wonder, does he not try?" "it would be a desperate 'try,'" answered andré. "yes, but when ordinary means fail, desperate remedies should be tried." "i saw the exact copy of a letter written by general washington on the eighth of this month," said lord medway, "and in it he declares that his troops, both officers and men, are almost perishing for food; that they have been alternately without bread and meat for two weeks, a very scanty allowance of either, and frequently destitute of both. furthermore, he describes his troops as almost naked, riotous, and robbing the people from sheer necessity. can you expect a general to lead men in such a condition to battle? he performs a miracle in simply holding them together." "the poor fellows! and we are warm and comfortable. it seems almost wrong." "oh, no!" said andré. "it is the rebels who are wrong; they are like runaway horses, and, as i said to one who talked to me, 'my lad, a runaway horse punishes himself.'" in such freedom of conversation, without a moment's doubt of each other, they passed the hours, and about four o'clock the party usually broke up, and lord medway wrapped maria in her furs, and drove her home. however, the weariest road sometimes comes to an end, and the long dreadful winter wore itself away, the ice broke up, and the sun shone warmly out of the blue skies, and the trees put forth their young, tender, little leaves. every one was ready to cry with joy, the simple endurance of misery was over, men could now work and fight, and some movement and change would be possible. coming home from a delightful drive in the sweet spring evening, medway told maria this, and added that his furlough, so long extended by general clinton's love, would probably terminate as soon as active hostilities began. but it was not yet a present case, and maria did not take the supposition to heart. besides, there had been frequent talk of her lover's departure, and somehow or other, he had never gone. at the semple gate they stood a while. there were some lilies growing near it, and their fairy-like bells shook in the fresh wind and scattered incense all around. maria stooped, gathered a handful, and offered them to her lover. "kiss them first, for me, maria," he said, and she buried her lovely face in the fragrant posy, and then lifted it full of delight and perfume. he thought he had never before seen her so purely exquisite, so freshly adorable. his love was a great longing, he could hardly bear to leave her. so he stood holding her hands and the lilies, and looking into her face, but saying nothing, till maria herself spoke the parting words: "i see grandmother at the door, ernest, she is calling me; now we must say good-bye!" he could not answer her, he only kissed the lilies, leaped into the carriage, and went speechlessly away. maria watched him a few moments, and then hastened into the house. madame met her at the door. "there is a letter from your father, maria," she said; "i thought you might want to tell ernest what news it contained, so i called you, but you didna answer me." "yes, i answered, 'coming, grandmother,' and here i am. what a thick letter! have you one also?" "aye, there was one for your grandfather. better take yours to your room. when you have read it, and changed your dress, tea will be waiting." "is grandfather at home?" "he is; so do not stay up stairs too long." she nodded a bright assent, and holding the letter in her hand went swiftly up the stairway. in half an hour she came back to the parlor, but her face was then troubled and even angry, and her eyes full of tears. she held out the letter to her grandmother, and asked, "do you know what father has written to me about?" "i have a very sure suspect," answered madame; but she went on setting out her china, and did not lift her face, or offer any further opinion. "it is a shame! i ought to have been told before." then the elder rose, and came toward the tea-table, "maria," he said, "you will not use such like words, whatever your father pleases to do. i hae nae doubt at all that he has chosen a good wife for himsel' and a good mother for you. you had a long letter; what does he say anent her?" "she is a nonesuch, of course. no woman in england, or out of england like her." "i expect as much; my son alexander has my ain perception concerning women-folk. he would hae the best, or nane at a'. wha was she? he said in my letter you would gie us a' the particulars." "he has filled six pages about her. she was miss elizabeth spencer. father says her family is one of the best and oldest in england. the reverend oswald spencer married them; he is rector of st. margaret's church in london, and a distant relative." "a very fashionable congregation, and nae doubt the living is according." "father has become a member of st. margaret's, and he has a large mansion in the wealthy bloomsbury district. he tells me that i must come home, the first opportunity that gives me a respectable companion." "and it is just destiny, maria, and not to be," said her grandmother; "for mrs. gordon was here this afternoon to bid me farewell. colonel gordon has been exchanged, and has reached new york, and they sail in saturday's packet for london. she will be delighted to hae your company, and a mair proper person to travel wi' you couldna find in america; for it isna only hersel', you will hae the colonel also, to watch o'er you baith." "destiny or not, i won't go, grandmother." "dinna sow sorrow to yoursel'. they who cross destiny, make a cross for themsel's." "i will hear what ernest says about it." "you arena your ain mistress yet, and god and man, baith, expect you to put your father's commands before all others," said the elder. "i think grandmother and you wish to get rid of me," and the tears sprang to her eyes, and she set her cup down with a noisy petulance. there was a moment's silence and then the elder continued, "your education isna finished yet, as your father says; it was broken up by the war." "and the lessons at bradley's house were worse than nane at all," interrupted madame. "you are to have masters of a' kinds; and your stepmother is a grand musician, i hear, and willing to teach you hersel'." "i will not go to school again. i know all i want to know." "you will hae to be schooled for the station you are to fit; your father has turned his loyalty into gold, for he has got it noticed by his majesty, and been appointed to a rich place in the government offices. forbye, he tells me, his new wife has a fortune in her ain right, and sae the world stands straight with him and his. you'll hae society o' the best sort, and i hope you'll do your part, to show all and sundry, that a little colonial maid isna' behind english girls, in any usefu' or ornamental particular." but maria was indignant and unhappy, and the thought of going to london and of being under authority again was very distasteful to her. the elder went early upstairs, in order to escape her complaining, and madame after his departure, was a little more sympathetic. she petted her grandchild, and tried to make her see the bright side of the new life before her. "you'll be taken to court, doubtless, maria, and there is the grand opera you have heard so much about, and lords and ladies for company----" "i have had enough of lords and ladies, grandmother." "and fine houses, and nae cold rooms in them; and plenty o' food and clothing at christian prices, and a rich, powerfu' father, and a musical mother----" "stepmother you mean. nobody can have more than one mother. my mother is dead, and no other woman can take her place." "ay, weel, i suppose you are nearby right. and i hae seen--mair than once or twice--that the bairn who gets a stepmother gets a stepfather, also. sae mind your ways and your words, and give nae occasion to friend, or foe, for complaint." as they were talking thus, they heard the garden gate open, and madame said, "that is your uncle neil at last;" but maria, with an eager, listening face, knew better. "it is not uncle neil," she said, "it is ernest. why does he come to-night? he told me he was going to a military dinner, given in honor of colonel gordon's return." "if it is lord medway, bring him in here," said madame. "your grandfather is needing me, and doubtless wondering and fretting already at my delaying." she left the room with these words, and lord medway immediately joined maria. he appeared hurried and annoyed, and without any preliminaries said: "i must leave new york immediately, my dear maria; sit down here, close beside me, my sweet one, and comfort me. i have worn out the patience of lord clinton, and now i must obey orders, not desires." "i, also, am in the same predicament, ernest. i am ordered to london, and must go by the first opportunity," said maria; and then she told her lover the fear and trouble that was in her heart, and found plenty of sympathy in all that either wounded or angered her. "but there is a remedy, my darling," said medway. "marry me to-morrow morning. i will make all the arrangements to-night--see the clergyman--see mrs. gordon, and your uncle neil----" "stop, ernest. it is useless to talk of such a thing as that. it is beyond our compact, too." "the compact is idle wind before our love--you do love me, maria?" and he slipped down to his knees beside the little maid, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her face within the shining influence, the tender eagerness, of his entreating eyes. then a strange, wilful contradictious spirit took possession of her. this very outlet to her position had been in her mind--though unacknowledged--from the first presentment of the journey, and the new mother, and the resumed lessons; but now, that the gate was opened to her desire, something within her obstinately refused to move a step. half the accidents in the hunting-field arise from arresting the horse in the leap, and half the disappointments of life may be laid to that hesitation, or stubbornness of will, which permits happiness--coming without notice, and demanding a confiding and instantaneous decision--to go past, and be probably lost for ever. "you do love me, maria? oh, yes! you must have caught love from me. at this hour, say one word to assure me--will you not? maria! queen of my soul, say you love me--speak--only yes----maria!" he waited, he watched her lovely face for some tender change, her eyes for some assuring glance, her lips for the one little word that would make the hour heaven to him, and she was still and speechless as some exquisite picture. "after all these happy weeks, will you send me away without one word? it is incredible--impossible! why are you so cold?--now--when we must part--or be always together? are you afraid to be with me always? you have promised to marry me----" "yes--when the time comes." "cannot love put the time forward?" "i don't know." "we could then go south together." "i do not want to go south." "with me, maria?" "no." "then you will go to london, and your father will have complete control of you, he may make you marry some other man." "no one can make me break my word of honor--you have my promise." "i am wretched. i am broken-hearted. i have failed in making you love me. i will go to the front--what does it matter if i am killed? you will not care." "of course i shall care, ernest." "say that a little differently, then i shall be satisfied. put your arms round my neck; kiss me, if only once, you never have kissed me yet, say, 'i love you, ernest'; come, my dear one, comfort me a little!" her heart was on fire, it throbbed and struggled like a bound creature. she looked sadly, even tenderly at her lover, but she could not break the thrall of careless impassiveness that bound her, as streams are bound in ice. medway wearied himself with entreaty. she trembled to its passion, but remained inarticulate. he was at first disappointed, then astonished, then, weary with his own emotion, wounded and sorrowful. he rose, put on his hat and gloves, and prepared to leave her. it was like the nailing of the coffin lid over a sensitive form; but still that strange, insuperable apathy was not broken. "good-bye, maria! my life, my love, good-bye! and if forever, still----_maria! maria!"_ and those two last words were not only speech, they were a cry from a heart hurt beyond hoping, a cry full of despairing affection. the door closed to them, and its clash broke the icy bounds of that soul stupor which had held her like a spell. "ernest! ernest!" she called passionately, but he was beyond hearing, and ere she reached the parlor door, she heard the entrance door clash in the same fatal, final manner. yet, walking as if in some evil dream she reached it, and with a great effort threw it wide open. her lover was just beyond the garden gate. would he not turn his head? oh, would he not look round and see her! no. he caught no sound of her sorrowful entreaty; he cast no backward glance to the distracted girl, who reached the outer gate, only to see his tall, soldierly figure blend itself with the misty night shadows, and then vanish entirely. never, never in all her life had maria been so wretched. in the bradley affair, she had at least the consciousness that it was not her doing; she was the victim of circumstances she could not control; but this cup of sorrow she had stubbornly mixed for herself. and that was the smallest part of her remorse; she had made the man who loved her so dearly, drink of it also. and it had all happened in such a tragically short time. oh, to call back the last hour! only five minutes of it, that she might see again the handsome face that had never turned to her except with love and tender kindness! alas, alas, there is no return to our lost edens! whatever gardens of pleasure we may find in the future, our past edens are closed. the cherubim are at the gate, and the flaming sword. she went despairingly to her room, and sat for two bitter hours speechless, astonished at her own folly and wilfulness. she could blame no one. destiny in this case had used only the weapons she herself put into her hand. she did not complain, nor even weep, her grief found no passage to her eyes, it sank inward and seemed for the first hour or two to drown her heart in a dismal, sullen stillness, which made her feel the most forlorn and abandoned of creatures. but even in these dark hours she was trying the wings that should take her out of them. as she sat musing the inner woman returned to the post she had so criminally deserted, and at once began to suggest remedies. "nothing is desperate," she whispered; "in every loss, but the loss of death, there is room for hope; write a letter, neil will take it, he may yet be detained." she took out pen and paper, and wrote the words medway had begged her to say; wrote, indeed, far more than the one tender "yes" he had asked for. then she sealed the letter and sat with it in her hand, waiting for neil. he was so late that she thought he must have reached his room unheard, and toward midnight she tip-toed along the corridor to his door. there was no light, no sound, and when she knocked, no response. anxiously she resumed her watch, and soon after twelve o'clock heard him enter the house. she went noiselessly down stairs to meet him. "neil," she said, "can you find ernest? oh, if you can, you must carry this letter to him! neil, it is the very greatest favor i can ever ask of you. do not speak, if you are going to refuse me." "my dear maria, i know not where to find lord medway. he ought to have been at the dinner given to colonel gordon, and he was not there." "he was here," she said wearily; "he is going south at once; he must, he must have this letter first. neil, good, kind uncle neil, try and find him!" "be reasonable, maria. if he is paying farewell calls--which is likely--how can i tell at whose house he may be; at any rate it is too late now for him to be out, the city is practically closed; any one wandering about it after midnight is liable to arrest, and if ernest is not visiting, he is in his rooms, and likely to be there till near noon to-morrow. i will carry this letter before breakfast, if you say so, but----" "i tell you he is going to general clinton at once. he told me so." "he cannot go until the _arethusa_ sails. she leaves to-morrow, but the tide will not serve before two o'clock. give me the letter; i will see he gets it very early in the morning." with a sigh she assented to this promise, and then slipped back into the sorrowful solitude of her room. but the talk with neil had slightly steadied her. nothing more was possible; she had done all she could to atone for her unkindness, and after a little remorseful wandering outside the eden she had herself closed, she fell asleep and forgot all her anxiety. and it is this breaking up of our troubles by bars of sleep that enables us to bear them and even grow strong in conquering them. when the day broke maria was more alert, more full of purpose, and ready for what the morning would bring her. neil was missing at breakfast and she found out that he had left the house soon after seven o'clock. so she dressed herself carefully and took her sewing to the front window. when she saw her lover at the gate, she intended to go and meet him, and her heart was warm and eager with the kind words that she would at last comfort him with. it was half-past eight; by nine o'clock--at the very latest by half-past nine--he would surely answer that loving letter. nine o'clock struck, and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock--to eleven--to noon. but long before that hour maria had ceased to sew, ceased to watch, ceased to hope. soon after twelve she saw neil coming and her heart turned sick within her. she could hardly walk into the hall to meet him. she found it difficult to articulate the questioning word "well?" he gave her the letter back. "ernest sailed this morning at two o'clock," he said. she looked at him with angry despair. "you might have taken that letter last night. you have ruined my life. i will never forgive you." "maria, listen to me. ernest went on board an hour before you asked me. the ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on her at half-past ten. i could not have given him the letter, even if i had tried to." "no; of all the nights in the year, you must stop out last night until twelve o'clock! i never knew you do such a thing before; well, as grandmother says, it is destiny; i am going to my room. i want no dinner; don't let them worry me, or worry about me." sitting alone she faced the circumstances she had evoked, considered them in every light, and came to a conclusion as to her future: "i will go to london, and make no fuss about it," she decided; "here i should miss ernest wherever i went; miss him in every way, and people would make me feel he was absent. i have been a great trouble and expense to grandfather and grandmother. i dare say they will be glad to be quiet and alone again. i don't know much about father--he has always been generous with money--but i wonder if he cared much for me! he sent me away, first to nurses, then to school; i saw little of him, but i can make him care. as for madame, my stepmother, i shall not let her annoy me. and there will be mrs. gordon for a refuge, if i need one. she has always been good to me, and i will see her at once. i cannot help understanding that i am come to the end of this road; but there are many roads in life, and from this moment, i am on the way to london." evidently it was destiny, for there was never a let or hinderance in all her preparations. the gordons took her as a godsend, and all her arrangements went without a hitch. and when it was known she was absolutely going away from new york there was a great access of kindness toward her. the young women she had known--and not always pleasantly--brought her good-bye mementoes; books to read on the voyage, book-marks of their own working, little bags and cases of various kinds for toilet needs, and needlework; and all were given with a conspicuous intention of apology for past offense and conciliation for any future intercourse. maria valued it pretty accurately. "it is far better than ill-will," she said to her grandmother; "but i dare say they think i am going home to be married, and as they all look forward to england eventually, they feel that lady medway may not be unserviceable in the future." "dinna look a gift-horse in the mouth, maria. few folks give away anything of real value to themselves. you needna feel under any special obligation for aught but the good will, and that's aye worth having. as for being lady medway, there is many a slip between cup and lip, and oceans between you and a' the accidents o' war, and love not unchangeable in this warld o' change; and there's your father's will that may stand in your road like a wall you can neither win round nor over. i'm real glad at this hour that your grandfather was wise enough to write naething about lord medway. you can now tell your ain news, or keep it, whichever seems best to you." "do you mean to say, grandmother, that my father has not been told about my engagement to lord medway?" "just so. at first your grandfather was too ill to write one thing or another; and by the time he was able to hold a pen, we had, baith o' us, come to the conclusion that silence anent the matter was wisdom. it would hae been a hard matter to tell, without telling the whole story, police court and young bradley included, and then there was aye the uncertainty of a man's love and liking to be reckoned with; none o' us could be sure lord medway would hold to his promise; he might meet other women to take his heart from you; he might be killed in battle, or in a duel, for it is said he has fought three already; the chances o' the engagement coming to naething were so many on every side we came to the conclusion to leave a' to the future, and i'm sure we did the best thing we could do." "i am so glad you did it, grandmother. i shall now go home on my own merits. if i win love, it will be because i am maria semple, not because i am going to be lady medway. and if my engagement was known i should never hear the last of it. i should be questioned about letters--whether they came or not; my stepmother might talk about the matter; my father insists on a public recognition of my position, and so on. there would be such endless discussions about lord medway that i should get weary to even hear his name. and i must bear my fate, whatever it is." "nonsense! parfect nonsense! there is nae such thing as fate. you're in the care and guidance of a wise and loving creator, and not in thrall to some vague, wandering creature, that you ca' _fate_. your ain will is your fate. commit your will and way to god, and he will direct your path; and you may snap your thumb and finger at that will o' the wisp--fate!" in such conversation over their duties together the three last days were spent, and the girl caught hope and strength from the feeble old woman as they mended and brushed clothing and put it into the trunks standing open in the hall. the elder wandered silently about. the packing was a mournful thing to him; for, with all her impetuosities and little troublesome ways, maria was close to his heart, and he feared he had given her the impression that she was in some way a burden. indeed, he had not felt this, and had only been solicitous that she should obey her father's wishes, and obey them in a loving and dutiful spirit. on the last morning, however, as they rose from the breakfast table, he put even this wise intention behind his anxious love, and drawing her aside he said: "maria, my dearie, you will heed your father, of course, in a' things that are your duty--but--but--my dear bairn! i ken my son alexander is a masterfu' man, and perhaps, it may be, that he might go beyond his right and your duty. i hae told you to obey him as your father, that's right, but if he is your father, he is my son, and so speaking in that relation, i may say, if my son doesna treat you right, or if he lets that strange english woman treat you wrong, then you are to come back to me--to your auld grandfather--to sort matters between you. and i'll see no one do you wrong, maria, no one, though it be my auldest son alexander. you are in my heart, child, and there is always room in my heart for you; and i speak for your grandmother and uncle as well as for mysel'." his voice was low and broken at this point, tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms: "god bless you my little lassie! be strong and of a good courage. act for the best, and hope for the best, and take bravely whatever comes." to such wise, tender words she set her face eastward, and the elder and neil watched the vessel far down the river, while in her silent home madame slowly and tearfully put her household in order. fortunately, the day was sunny and the spring air full of life and hope, and as soon as they turned homeward, the elder began to talk of the possibility of maria's return: "if she isna happy, i hae told her to come back to us," he said to neil, and then added: "your brother is sometimes gey ill to live wi', and the bit lassie has had, maybe, too much o' her ain way here," and neil wondered at the brave old man; he spoke as if his love would always be present and always sufficient. he spoke like a young man, and yet he was so visibly aging. but neil had forgotten at the moment that the moral nature is inaccessible to time; that though the physical man grows old, the moral man is eternally young. not long after the departure of maria, neil was one morning sorting and auditing some papers regarding the affairs of madame jacobus. suddenly the thought of agnes bradley came to him with such intense clarity and sweetness that his hands dropped the paper they held; he remained motionless, and in that pause had a mental vision of the girl, while her sweet voice filled the chambers of his spiritual ears with melody. as he sat still, seeing and listening, a faint, dreamy smile brightened his face, and madame softly opening the door, stood a moment and looked at him. then advancing, the sound of her rustling silk garments brought neil out of his happy trance, and he turned toward her. "dreaming of st. agnes?" she asked, and he answered, "i believe i was madame." "sometimes dreams come true," she continued. "can you go to philadelphia for me? here is an offer from gouverneur morris for my property on market street. he proposes to turn the first floor into storage room. at present it is a rather handsome residence, and i am not sure the price he offers will warrant me making the change." neil was "ready to leave at any time," he said, and madame added, "then go at once. if it is a good offer, it will not wait on our leisure." he began to lock away the papers under his hands, and madame watched him with a pleasant smile. as he rose she asked, "have you heard anything yet from miss bradley?" "not a word." "do you know where she is?" "i have not the least idea. i think the hurds know, but they will not tell me." "i will tell you then. agnes is in philadelphia." "madame! madame! i----" "i am sure of it. on this slip of paper you will find her address. she boards with a quaker family called wakefield--a mother and four daughters; the father and brothers are with the american army. i suppose you can leave to-day?" "in two hours i will be on the road. i need but a change of clothing and a good horse." "the horse is waiting you in my stables. choose which animal you wish, and have it saddled: and better mount here; you can ride to semple house quicker than you can walk." neil's face spoke his thanks. he waited for no explanations, he was going to see agnes; madame had given him her address, it was not worth while asking how she had procured it. but as he left the room he lifted madame's hand and kissed it, and in that act imparted so much of his feeling and his gratitude that there was no necessity for words. "poor fellow!" sighed madame, and then she walked to the window and looked sadly into broadway. "soldiers instead of citizens," she murmured, "war horses instead of wagon horses; that screaming fife! that braying, blustering drum! oh, how i wish the kings of earth would fight their own battles! wouldn't the duello between george of england and george of america be worth seeing? lord! i would give ten years of my life for the sight." with the smile of triumph on her face she turned to see neil re-entering the room. "madame," he said, "i must have appeared selfishly ungrateful. my heart was too full for speech." "i know, i know, neil. i have been suffering lately the same cruel pain as yourself. i have not heard from captain jacobus for nearly a year. something, i fear, is wrong; he takes so many risks." "he is sailing as an american privateer. if he had been captured by the english, we should have heard of the capture." "that is not all. i will tell you just what jacobus would do, as soon as he was fairly out at sea, he would call his men together on deck, and pointing to the british colors, would say something like this: 'men, i don't like that bunting, and i'm going to change it for the flag of our own country. if there is any one here that doesn't like the american flag, he can leave the ship in any way he chooses,' then down would go the british flag, and up, with rattling cheers, the american. so far he would be only in ordinary danger, but that is never enough for jacobus; he would continue after this extraordinary fashion: 'men, you have all heard of these french and spanish alliances. as the son of a hundred thousand dutchmen, i hate the spaniards, and i'm going to fight and sink every spanish ship i meet. _allies!_ to the deep sea with such allies! we want no spanish allies; we want their ships though, and we'll take them wherever on the wide ocean we can find them.' then he would put his hand on his first mate's shoulder and continue, 'here's jack tyler, an englishman from beard to boots, born in the city of london, and there's more on board like him. what does an englishman want with frenchmen? nothing, only to fight them, and that we'll do wherever we meet them! and as for english ships coming our way, they're out of their course, and we'll have to give them a lesson they'll remember. so then, all of you, keep your eyes open for english, french, or spanish sails. nothing but american colors in american waters, and american water rolls round the world, as i take it.' so you see, neil, jacobus would always have a threefold enemy to fight, and i have not a doubt that was his first thought when he heard of our alliance with france and spain. and though we might hear of his capture by a british vessel, it is not likely we should do so if he fell into the hands of a french or spanish privateer. when you come from philadelphia we will consider this circumstance; but now, good-bye, and good fortune go with you." it did not take neil long to go to the semple house and obtain a change of clothing, and after this short delay nothing interfered with the prosperous course of his journey. the weather was delightful, and his heart so full of hope that he felt no fatigue. and he had such confidence in all madame jacobus said, or did, that no doubts as to finding agnes troubled him. it was, however, too late in the evening of the day on which he reached philadelphia, to make a call, and he contented himself with locating the house to which he had been directed. he found it in a quiet street, a small brick house, with white wooden shutters, and a tiny plot of garden in front. no sign of light or life appeared, and after walking a while in front of it, he returned to his inn and tried to sleep. but he was not very successful. his hopes and his fears kept him waking. he fancied the house he had been directed to looked too silent and dark to be occupied; he longed for the daylight to come that he might settle this fear; and then the possibility of its reality made him sick with anxiety and suspense, holding a measure of hope, seemed better than certain disappointment. in the morning his rigid, upright business instinct asserted itself, and he felt that he must first attend to those affairs which were the ostensible reason of his journey. so it was the early afternoon before he was at liberty to gratify the hunger of his heart. happily, when he reached the house indicated, there were many signs of its occupancy; the windows were open, and he saw a young woman sitting near one of them, knitting. his knock was answered by her. he heard her move her chair and come leisurely toward the door, which she opened with the knitting in her hand, and a smile on her face. "does mr. wakefield live here?" he asked. "this is his house, but he is not at home now." "i was told that miss bradley of new york was staying here." "she is here. does thee want to see her?" a great weight rolled from neil's heart. "yes," he answered, "will you tell her that mr. neil semple of new york desires to speak with her." she bowed her head, and then took him into a small darkened parlor. he was glad the light was dim; he had a feeling that he looked worse than he had ever looked in all his life. he knew that he was pale and trembling with a score of fears and doubts, and the short five minutes of suspense seemed to him a long hour of uncertain apprehensions. yet it was barely five minutes ere he heard agnes coming down the stairs, and her steps were quick and eager; and he took courage from the welcoming sound in them, and as the door opened, went with open arms to meet her. he held her in his embrace, her cheek was against his cheek--what need was there for speech? both indeed felt what they had no power to express, for as all know who have lived and loved, there is in the heart feelings yet dumb; chambers of thought which need the key of new words to unlock them. still, in that heavenly silence all was said that each heart longed for, and when at length they sat down hand in hand and began to talk, it was of the ordinary affairs of the individual lives dear to them. neil's first inquiry concerned john bradley and his son, and he was glad to notice the proud pleasure with which agnes answered him. "my father is now in his proper place," she said, "and i have never seen him so well and so happy." "is he under arms?" "not unless there is fighting on hand; but he is in camp, and all day he is busy mending the accoutrements of the soldiers. at night he sings to them as they sit round the camp fires, or he holds a prayer meeting, or he reads the bible; and every sunday he preaches twice. st. paul made tents, and as he stitched found time to preach jesus christ crucified; my father mends saddles and bridles, and does the same thing, and he is happy, oh, so happy! what is better still, he makes the men around him happy and hopeful, and that is a great thing to do, when they are hungry, and naked, and without pay. sometimes, when the camp is very bare and hungry, he takes his implements and goes to the outlying farms, mends all their leather, and begs in return corn, and flour, and meat for the men. he never fails in getting some relief; and often he has so moved the poor farmers that they have filled a wagon with food and driven it to the perishing soldiers." "and harry? where is he?" "with the greatest and best of men. he is now a regular soldier in washington's own regiment." "i am glad, and my dear one, are you happy here?" "as i can be, out of my own home. there are six women in this house; all the men are at the war; some at morristown; some are gone south. we spend our time in knitting stockings for the soldiers, or in any needlework likely to be of service. but how is maria? tell me about her. i thought you might have brought me a letter." "maria is on her way to england. her father has married again. he has obtained an excellent place in the government and furnished a home in london. naturally, he desired maria to join him at once. you know that she is engaged to lord medway?" "no. poor harry! he still dreams that maria is faithful to him. i think she might have given harry one year's remembrance." "what did she tell you about harry in your last interview?" "nothing. she was more fretful and unreasonable than i ever before saw her. she could only cry and make reproaches; we parted in sorrow, and i fear in misunderstanding." "yes, if you do not know the price paid for your brother's life." "the price paid! what do you mean, neil?" "the night harry was condemned to death lord medway came to see maria. he told her he would save harry's life, if she would marry him. he would listen to no compromise, and she accepted the terms. it was a decision bitter as death at the time, but she has learned to love medway." agnes did not appear to listen, she was occupied with the one thought that maria had been the saviour of her brother. "it seems incredible," she said at length; "why did she not tell me that last--last time i saw her. it would have changed everything. oh, maria! maria! how i have misjudged you!" "you had better tell harry, and be very positive, there is really not a shadow of hope for him. maria _had_ to forget; it was her first duty." neil spent nearly three days with his beloved, and then they had to part. but this parting was full of hope, full of happy plans for the future, full of promises in all directions. in those three days neil forgot all the sorrowful weeks of his despairing love. as a dream when one awaketh, they slipped even from his memory. for agnes was loving and faithful, a steady hand to hold, and a steady heart to trust. and oh, she was so lovely and desirable! as he rode joyfully home, he could think of nothing but agnes; of her eyes, gray as mountain lakes and full of light and shadow; of her smile, that filled even silence with content; her white arms, her brown hair, the warm pallor of her cheeks catching a rosy glow from the pink dimity she wore! oh, how perfect she was! beauty! love! fidelity! all in one exquisite woman, and that one woman loved him! ah, well! love wakes men once in a lifetime, and some give thanks and rejoice, and some neglect and betray; but either way, love, and their childhood's unheeded dream is all the light, of all their day. chapter xi. the question of marriage. maria reached london in the early days of june. her voyage had been uneventful, and though long, not unpleasant. still she was glad to feel the earth beneath her feet, and the stir of trafficking humanity around her. they landed late in the afternoon and she remained with the gordons all night, but early the following morning the colonel took her to bloomsbury. mr. semple's house was not difficult to find; it was the largest in the fine square, an imposing mansion of red brick with a wide flight of stone steps leading to its main entrance. this entrance impressed maria very much. it was so ample and so handsome. "i think, indeed," said the colonel to her, "two sedan chairs could easily be taken in, or out, at the same time." her welcome, if not effusive, was full of kindness and interest; she was brought at once to the sunny parlor at the back of the house where her father and stepmother were breakfasting, and nothing could have been more properly affectionate than the latter's greeting. and although she had breakfasted with the gordons, she found it pleasant enough to sit down beside her father and talk of the voyage and the war, and the conditions of life in america. he was obviously both astonished and delighted with his daughter; her beauty was so great, her manner so charming, her conversation so full of clever observations, that he felt her to be a personal credit. "there are very few young girls so perfectly formed, so admirably finished," he said to himself; and he rose and walked loftily about the room, proudly aware of the piquant loveliness and intelligence of the girl who called him father. the word sounded well in his ears, and even touched his heart; and she herself was a crowning grace to his splendid habitation. and for her, and for all her beauties and graces and accomplishments, he took the entire credit. she was his daughter, as much his property as his wife, or his house, or his purse. this appropriation of herself did not then displease maria. she was longing to be loved, longing to be cared for and protected. and she loved her father, and felt that she could easily love him a great deal more. his appearance invited this feeling. he was a strikingly handsome man, though touching fifty years of age, tall and erect like her grandfather, but with a manner much more haughty and dictatorial. he was dressed in a dark blue cloth coat lined with white satin and ornamented with large gilt buttons; his long vest and breeches were of black satin, his stockings of black silk, and his low shoes clasped with gold latches. he wore his own hair combed back from his large ruddy face and tied behind with a black ribbon. his new wife was very suitable to him. she was thirty-eight years old and distinctly handsome, tall and fair, rather highly colored, and dressed with great care in a morning robe of indian silk. she was very cheerful and composed, had fine health, lived in the unruffled atmosphere of her interests, and had no nerves worth speaking of--a nice woman apparently, who would always behave as nice women were then taught to behave. and yet there were within her elements much at variance with that habitual subservience she showed her husband. maria was not long in discovering that, though she spoke little and never boasted, she got all she wished to get and did all she wished to do. after mr. semple had gone to business she took maria to the rooms prepared for her. they were light and airy and prettily furnished, and mrs. semple pointed out particularly the little sitting-room attached. it contained a small library of books which are now classic, a spinnet for practice, maps and globes, and a convenient desk furnished with all the necessary implements for writing or correspondence. maria had fully resolved not to be forced into any kind of study, but as she stood listening to her stepmother's plans and explanations she changed her mind. she resolved rather to insist on the finest teachers london could furnish. she would perfect herself in music and singing; she would enlarge her knowledge and accomplishments in every direction, and all this that she might astonish and please lord medway when he came for her. that he would do so she never doubted; and he could not doubt _her_ love when he saw and heard what she had done to make herself more worthy of him. but this incitement she kept to herself. she permitted her father and stepmother to believe that the fulfilling of their desires was her sole motive, and this beautiful obedience gave her much liberty in other directions. so the weeks and months went past very pleasantly. she had an italian singing master and a french dancing master, kalkbrenner gave her music lessons, madame jermyn taught her embroidery and lace, and two hours every day were spent in the study of history and geography, and her much neglected grammar. it was all pleasant enough; every master or mistress brought in a fresh element, a little gossip, a different glimpse of the great city in which they all lived. and the preparation of her studies and the practice of her music gave her almost unbounded control of her time. if things were not agreeable down stairs her study was a safe retreat, and she began to take off their shelves the books provided for her amusement and instruction, and to make friends of them and become familiar with their thoughts and opinions. the evenings were often spent at the theatre or opera, and still more frequently at vauxhall or ranelagh gardens, and at the latter places she was always sure of a personal triumph. her beauty was so remarkable and so admirably set off by her generally fine toilets that she quickly became a noted visitor. sir horace walpole had called her on one occasion "the american beauty," and the sobriquet clung like a perfume to her. when the semples had a box and a supper in the rotunda the most noble and fashionable of the young bloods hung round it, paraded past it, or when possible took a box in such close proximity that their toasts to "the divine american" could be distinctly or indistinctly heard. both mr. and mrs. semple were proud of this notoriety. it was quite in keeping with the social _élat_ of the age that every glass should be raised when they entered their box at the theatre or opera; quite honorable and flattering to walk between the admiring beaux who watched their entry into the gardens. maria gave them distinction, exhilarating notice and attention. she was spoken of in the papers as "the lovely miss semple, the beautiful daughter of our new collector," and her _début_ at the next spring functions of the court was confidently predicted. the break in this generally agreeable life came, of course, through a man's selfish desires, dignified with the name of love. mrs. semple had a cousin who was largely engaged in the mediterranean trade--then entirely in english hands--and when maria had been about eighteen months in london he returned to that city after a sojourn in turkey and the greek islands of nearly three years. he had been named at intervals to maria, but his existence had made no impression upon her, and she was astonished on coming to the dinner table one day to meet him there. the instinct of conquest was immediately aroused; she smiled and he was subdued. the man who had snubbed turkish bashaws and won concessions from piratical beys in tunis and algiers was suddenly afraid of a woman. he might have run away, but he did not; he was under a spell, and he went with her to the opera, and became her willing slave thereafter. now during her residence in london, maria had had many admirers; some she had frowned away, some her father had bowed out, but richard spencer was a very different man to be reckoned with. he was mrs. semple's cousin, and mrs. semple was strongly attached to every member of her family. cousin richard's suit was advocated, pressed, even insisted upon by her. he was present at every meal and went with them to every entertainment, and the generality of maria's admirers understood that he was her accepted lover. in fact, this relationship was speedily assumed by the whole semple household, and before the man had even had the courage to ask her to be his wife she was made to understand that her marriage to cousin richard was a consummation certain and inevitable. of course she rebelled, treating the supposition at first as an absurdity, and, when this attitude was resented and punished, as an impossibility. the affair soon became complicated with business relations and important money interests, mr. semple becoming a silent partner in the gigantic ventures of the spencer company. he had always felt, even in maria's social triumphs, a proprietary share; she was his daughter, he could give or refuse her society to all who asked it. she had never denied his power to dismiss all the pretenders to her favor that had as yet asked it. he considered himself to have an equal right to grant her hand to the suitor he thought proper for her. and as his interests became more and more associated with mr. spencer's he became more and more positive in mr. spencer's favor. there was little need then for mrs. semple's diplomacies. he had "taken the matter in his own hands" he said, "and he should carry it through." for some time maria did not really believe that her father and stepmother were in earnest, but on her twentieth birthday the position was made painfully clear, for when she came to the breakfast table her father kissed her, an unusual token of affection, and put into her hand an order on his banker for a large sum of money. "it is for your wedding clothes, maria," he said, "and i wish you to have the richest and best of everything. such jewels as i think necessary i will buy for you myself. our relatives and friends will dine with you to-day and i shall announce your engagement." "but father!" she exclaimed, "i do not want to marry. let me return this money. indeed, i cannot spend it for wedding clothes. the idea is so absurd! i do not want to marry." "maria, you are twenty years old this twenty-fifth of november. it is time you settled yourself. mr. spencer will have his new house ready by the end of next june. as nearly as i can tell, your marriage to him will take place on the twenty-ninth of june. your mother thinks that with the help of needlewomen your clothing can be finished by that time." "i told mr. spencer a month ago that i would not marry him." "all right; girls always say such things. it appears modest, and you have a certain privilege in this respect. but i advise you not to carry such pretty affectations too far." "father, i do not love mr. spencer." "he loves you, that is the necessary point. it is not proper, it is not requisite that a girl should take love into her consideration. i have chosen for you a good husband, a man who will probably be lord mayor of london within a few years, and the prospect of such an honor ought to content you." it is difficult for an american girl at this time to conceive of the situation of the daughters of england in the year . the law gave them absolutely into their father's power until they were twenty-one years old; and the law was stupendously strengthened and upheld by universal public approval, and by barriers of social limitations that few women had the daring to cross. maria was environed by influences that all made for her total subjection to her parent's will, and at this time she ventured no further remark. but her whole nature was insurgent, and she mentally promised herself that neither on the twenty-ninth of june nor on any other day that followed it would she marry richard spencer. after breakfast she went to her room to consider her position, and no one prevented her withdrawal. "it is the best thing she can do," said mr. semple to his wife. "a little reflection will show her the hopeless folly of resistance to my commands." "her behavior is not flattering to richard." "richard has more sense than to notice it. he said to me that 'there was always a little chaffering before a good bargain.' he understands women." "maria has been brought up badly. she has dangerous ideas about the claims and privileges and personal rights of women." "balderdash! claims of women, indeed! give them the least power, and they would stake the world away for a whim. see that she dresses herself properly for dinner. i have told her i shall then announce her engagement, and in the midst of all our relatives and friends she will not dare to deny it." in a great measure mr. semple was correct. maria was not ready to deny it, nor did she think the relatives and friends had anything to do with her private affairs. she made no answer whatever to her father's notice of her approaching marriage, and the congratulations of the company fell upon her consciousness like snowflakes upon a stone wall. they meant nothing at all to her. the day following mrs. semple went to buy the lawn and linen and lace necessary for the wedding garments. maria would not accompany her; her stepmother complained and maria was severely reprimanded, and for a few days thoroughly frightened. but a constant succession of such scenes blunted her sense of fear. she remembered her grandfather's brave words, "be strong and of good courage," and gradually gathered herself together for the struggle she saw to be inevitable. to break her promise to lord medway! that was a thing she never would do! no, not even the law of england should make her utter words false to every true feeling she had. and day by day this resolve grew stronger, as day by day it was confronted by a trial she hardly dared to contemplate. there was no one to whom she could go for advice or sympathy. mrs. gordon was in scotland, where her husband had an estate, and she had no other intimate friend. but at the worst, it was only another year and then she would be her own mistress and ernest medway would come and marry her. of this result she never had one doubt. true, she heard very little from him; but if not one word had come to assure her she would still have been confident that he would keep his word, if alive to do so. letter-writing was not then the easily practised relief it is now, and she knew lord medway disliked it. yet she was not without even these evidences of his remembrance, and considering the conditions of the country in which they had been written, the great distance between them, the difficulty of getting letters to new york and the uncertainty of getting letters from new york to england, these evidences of his affection had been fairly numerous. all of them had come enclosed in her uncle neil's letters, and without mention or explanation, for neil was sympathetically cautious and did not know what effect they might have on the life of maria, though he did not know _his_ letters were sure to be inquired after and read by her parents. they were intensely symbolic of a man who preferred to _do_ rather than to _say_, and are fairly represented by the three quoted: * * * * * "sweetest maria: have you forgiven your adoring lover? ernest." * * * * * "my little darling: i have been wounded. i have been ill with fever; but no pain is like the pain of living away from you. ernest." * * * * * "star of my life: i have counted the days until the twenty-fifth of november; they are two hundred and fifty-five. every day i come nearer to you, my adorable maria. ernest." * * * * * this last letter was dated march the fourteenth, and with it lying next her heart, was it likely she would consent to or even be compelled to marry richard spencer? she smiled a positive denial of such a supposition. but for all that, the preparations went on with a stubborn persistence that would have dismayed a weaker spirit. the plans for furnishing the spencer house, the patterns of the table silver, all the little items of the new life proposed for her were as a matter of duty submitted to her taste or judgment. she was always stolidly indifferent, and her answer was invariably the same, "i do not care. it is nothing to me." then mr. semple would answer with cold authority, "you have excellent taste, elizabeth. make the selection you think best for maria." mr. spencer's method was entirely different. he treated maria's apathetic unconcern with constant good nature, pretended to believe it maidenly modesty, and under all circumstances refused to understand or appropriate her evident dislike. but his cousin saw the angry sparkle in his black eyes, and to her he had once permitted himself to say, "i am bearing _now_, elizabeth. when she is mrs. spencer it will be her turn to bear." and elizabeth did not think it necessary to repeat the veiled threat to maria's father. medway's last letter, dated march the fourteenth, did not reach maria until may the first. on the morning of that day she had been told by mrs. semple to dress and accompany her to bond street. "we are going to choose your wedding dress," she said, "and i do hope, maria, you will take some interest in it. i have spoken to madame delamy about the fashion and trimmings, and your father says i am to spare no expense." "i will not have anything to do in choosing a wedding dress. i will not wear it if it is made." "i think it is high time you stopped such outrageous insults to your intended husband, your father and myself. i am astonished your father endures them. many parents would consider you insane and put you under restraint." "i can hardly be under greater restraint," answered maria calmly, but there was a cold, sick terror at her heart. nevertheless she refused to take any part in the choosing of the wedding dress, and mrs. semple went alone to make the selection. but maria was at last afraid. "under restraint!" she could not get the words out of her consciousness. surely her dear grandfather had had some prescience of this grave dilemma when he told her if she was not treated right to come back to him. but how was she to manage a return to new york? women then did not travel, could not travel, alone. no ships would take her without companions or authority. she did not know the first of the many steps necessary, she had no money. she was, in fact, quite in the position of a little child left to its own helplessness in a great city. the gordons would be likely to come to london before the winter, but until then she could find neither ways nor means for a return to new york. all she could do was to take day by day the steps that circumstances rendered imperative. the buying of the wedding dress brought things so terribly close to her that she finally resolved to tell her father and stepmother of her engagement to lord medway. "i will take the first opportunity," she said to herself, and the opportunity came that night. mr. spencer was not present. they dined alone, and mr. semple was indulging one of those tempers which made him, as his father had said to neil, "gey ill to live with." he had been told of maria's behavior about the wedding dress, and the thundery aspect of his countenance during the meal found speech as soon as the table was cleared and they were alone. he turned almost savagely to his daughter and asked in a voice of low intensity: "what do you mean, miss, by your perverse temper? why did you not go with your mother to choose your wedding dress?" "because it is not my wedding dress, sir. i have told you for many weeks that i will not marry mr. spencer;" then with a sudden access of courage, _"and i will not_. i am the promised wife of lord medway." mr. semple laughed, and then asked scornfully, "and pray, who is lord medway?" "he is my lover; my husband on the twenty-ninth of next november." all the passion and pride of a lifetime glowed in the girl's face. her voice was clear and firm, and at that hour she was not a bit afraid. "i will tell you about him," she continued, and her attitude had in those few minutes so far dominated her audience that she obtained the hearing she might otherwise not have gained. rapidly, but with singular dramatic power, she related the story of her life in new york--her friendship with agnes bradley, the attraction between herself and harry bradley, his arrest, trial and death sentence, lord medway's interference and her own engagement, her subsequent intimacy with the man she had promised to marry, and the love which had sprung up in her heart for him. "and i will not break my word, not a letter of it," she said in conclusion. "if there was any truth in this story," answered her father, "who cares for a woman's promises in love matters? they are not worth the breath that made them." "my promise to lord medway, father, rests on my honor. i could give him no security but my word. i must keep my word." "a woman's honor! a woman's word to a lover! pshaw! let us hear no more of such rant. what do you think of this extraordinary story, elizabeth?" "i think it is a dream, a fabrication. maria has imagined it. who knows lord medway? i never heard tell of such a person." "nevertheless, he will come for me on the twenty-fifth of november," said maria. "long before that time you will be mrs. richard spencer," answered her father. "i declare to you, father, i will not. you may carry me to the altar, that is as far as you can go; you cannot make me speak. i will not say one word that makes me richard spencer's wife. i entreat you not to force such a trial on me. it will make me the town's talk, you also." "do not dare to consider me as a part of such a mad scene. go to your room at once, before i--before i make you." she fled before his passion, and terrified and breathless locked the door upon her sorrow. but she was not conquered. in fact, her resolution had gained an invincible strength by the mere fact of its utterance. words had given it substance, form, even life, and she felt that now she would give her own life rather than relinquish her resolve. in reality her confidence did her case no good. mr. semple easily adopted the opinion of his wife that maria had invented the story to defer what she could not break off. "and you know, alexander," she added, "those gordons will be back before the date she has fixed this pretended lover to appear, and in my opinion they are capable of encouraging maria to all lengths against your lawful authority. as for myself, i am sure mrs. gordon disliked me on sight, i know i disliked her, and maria was rebellious the whole time they were in london. i wonder richard does not break off the wedding, late as it is." "i should not permit him to do so, even if he felt inclined. but he is as resolute as myself. why, elizabeth, we two men should be the laughing-stock of the town for a twelvemonth if we allowed a chit of a girl to master us. it is unthinkable. go on with the necessary preparations. the spencers living in durham and in kendal must be notified at once. the greater the company present the more impossible it will be for her to carry out her absurd threat. and even if she will not speak, silence gives consent. i shall tell the clergyman to proceed." after this there were no more pretenses of any kind. maria's reluctance to her marriage was openly acknowledged to the household, and her disobedience complained of and regretted. among the two men-servants and three maids there was not one who sympathized with her. the men were married and had daughters, from whom they expected implicit obedience. the women wondered what the young mistress wanted: "a man with such black eyes and nice, curly hair," said the cook, "any proper girl would like; so free with his jokes and his money, too; six foot tall, and well set up as ever i saw a man. and the fine house he is giving her, and the fine things of all kinds he sends her! oh, she's a proud, set-up little thing as ever came my way!" these remarks and many more of the same kind from the powers in the kitchen indicated the sentiment of the whole house, and maria felt the spirit of opposition to her, though it was not expressed. she could only endure it and affect not to notice what was beyond her power to prevent. but she wrote to her uncle neil and desired him to see lord medway and tell him exactly how she was situated. in this letter she declared in the most positive manner her resolve not to marry mr. spencer, and described the uneasiness which her stepmother's remark about "restraint" had caused her. and this letter, with one to mrs. gordon, were the only outside influences she had any power to reach. at length the twenty-eighth day of june arrived. the spencer house was filled with relatives from the northern and midland countries, and in maria's home the wedding feast was already prepared. a huge wedding cake was standing on the sideboard, and in the middle of the afternoon her wedding dress came home. mrs. semple brought it herself to maria and spread out its shimmering widths of heavy white satin and the costly lace to be worn with it. "it is sure to fit you, maria," she said. "madame delamy made it from your gray cloth dress, which you know is perfect every way. will you try it on? i will help you." "no, thank you. i would as willingly try my shroud on." "i think you are very selfish and unkind. you know that i am not well; indeed, i feel scarcely able to bear the fatigue of the ceremony, and you are turning what ought to be a pleasure to your father and every one else into a fear and a weariness." she did not answer her stepmother, but in the hurry of preparations going on down stairs she sought her father and found him resting in the freshly decorated drawing-room. he was sitting with closed eyes and evidently trying to sleep. she stood a little way from him, and with many bitter tears made her final appeal. "say i am ill, father, for indeed i am, and stop this useless preparation. it is all for disappointment and sorrow." he listened without denial or interruption to her words, but when she ceased in a passion of weeping he answered, "there is no turning back and there is no delay, maria. you are very silly to cry over the inevitable, especially when both my love and wisdom decide that the inevitable is good for you. you will certainly be married to richard spencer to-morrow morning. prepare yourself for ten o'clock. i shall come to your study for you at five minutes before ten. at nine o'clock madame delamy will send two women to arrange your dress. see that you are ready in time. good night." there was nothing now to be done in the way of prevention, and a dull, sullen anger took the place of entreaty in maria's mind. "if they will set my back to the wall, they shall see i can fight," she thought, as she wretchedly took her way to her room. the beauteous gown was shining on her bed, and she passionately tossed it aside and lay down and fell asleep. when she awoke it was morning, a gusty, rainy morning with glints of sunshine between the showers. she was greatly depressed, and not a little frightened. what she had to do she determined to do, but oh! what would come after it? then she was shocked to find that the scene she was resolved to enact, though gone over so often in her mind, slipped away from her consciousness whenever she tried to recall or arrange it. for a few minutes she was in a mood to be driven against her will, and she fully realized this condition. "i must be strong and of good courage," she whispered. "i must cease thinking and planning. i must leave this thing to be done till the moment comes to do it. i am only wasting my strength." fortunately, she was continually interrupted. coffee was sent to her room. then the hairdresser arrived, and the women to robe her for the ceremony. she was quite passive in their hands, and when her father appeared, ready to answer his "come, maria." the parlors were crowded with the spencers and their friends, and congratulations sounded fitfully in her ears as carriage after carriage rolled away to st. margaret's church. mr. semple and maria were in the last coach, and his wife and the bridegroom in the one immediately before them. so that when they arrived at the church, the company were already grouped around the communion railing. maria felt like a soul in a bad dream; she was just aware when she left the carriage that it was raining heavily, and that her father took her arm and sharply bid her to "lift her wedding dress from the plashy pavement." she made a motion with her hand, but failed to grasp it, and then she was walking up the gloomy aisle, she was at the rail, the clergyman was standing before her, the bridegroom at her side, the company all about her. there was prayer, and she felt the pressure of her father's hand force her to her knees; and then there was a constant murmur of voices, and a spell like that which held her during her last interview with lord medway was upon her. but suddenly she remembered this fateful apathy, and the memory was like movement in a nightmare. the instant she recognized it the influence was broken and she was almost painfully conscious of richard spencer's affirmative: "i will." she knew then what was coming and what she had to do, and those who watched her saw the girl lift herself erect and listen to the priest asking those solemnly momentous questions which were to bind her forever to obey richard spencer, to love and honor him, and in sickness and health, forsaking all others, keep unto him as long as she lived. she had but to say two words and her promise would be broken, her lover lost and her life made wretched beyond hope. "but i will never say them!" and this passionate assurance to her soul gave her all the strength she needed. when the clergyman stopped speaking she looked straight into his face and in a voice low, but perfectly distinct, answered: "i will not." there was a moment's startled pause. her father's voice broke it: "go on, sir." but before this was possible maria continued: "i am the promised wife of another man. i do not love this man. i will not marry him." her eyes, full of pitiful entreaty, held the clergyman's eyes. he looked steadily at the company and said, "god's law and the laws of this realm forbid this marriage until such time as the truth of this allegation be tried." and with these words he walked to the altar, laid the book of common prayer upon it, and then disappeared in the vestry. before he did so, however, there was a shrill, sharp cry of mortal pain, and mrs. semple was barely saved by her husband's promptitude from falling prone on the marble aisle before the chancel. immediately all was confusion. the sick woman was carried insensible to her coach. mr. spencer took his sobbing sister on his arm, and the guests broke up into couples. with hurrying feet, amazed, ashamed, all talking together, they sought the vehicles that were to carry them away from a scene so painful and so unexpected. maria sat down in the nearest pew and waited to see what would happen. she heard carriage after carriage roll away, and then realized that every one had deserted her. in about twenty minutes the sexton began to close the church, and she asked him, "has nobody waited for me?" "no, miss, you be here alone." then she took a ring from her finger and offered it to him: "get me a closed carriage and i will give you this ring," she said, but he answered: "nay, i want no ring from a little lass in trouble. i'll get the carriage, and you may drop into the church some better day to pay me." she went back home in the midst of a thunderstorm. the day was darkened, the rain driven furiously by the wind, and yet when she reached her father's house the front entrance stood open and there was neither men nor women servants in sight. she ran swiftly to her room, locked the door and sank into a chair, spent with fear and sick with apprehension. what had happened? what would be done to her? "oh, to be back in new york!" she cried. "nobody there would force a poor girl into misery and make a prayer over it, and a feast about it." a sudden movement of her head showed her maria semple in her wedding dress. she turned herself quickly from the glass, and with frantic haste unfastened the gown and hung it up. all the trinkets in which they had dressed her were as quickly removed, and she was not satisfied until she had cast off every symbol of the miserably frustrated marriage. but as hour after hour passed and no one came near her she became sick with terror, and she was also faint with hunger and thirst. something must be ventured, some one must be seen; she felt that she would lose consciousness if she was left alone much longer. after repeatedly ringing her bell, it was answered by one of the women. "i want some tea, mary, and some meat and bread. what is the matter with every one?" "the doctors do say as mrs. semple is dying, and the master is like a man out of his mind." the woman spoke with an air of distinct displeasure, if not dislike, but she brought the food and tea to maria, and without further speech left her to consider what she had been told. oh, how long were the gloomy hours of the day! how much longer those of the terrible night! the very atmosphere was full of pain and fear; lights were passing up and down, and footsteps and inarticulate movements, all indicating the great struggle between life and death. and maria lay dressed upon her bed, sleepless, listening and watching, and seeing always in the dim rushlight that white shimmering gown splashed with rain, and hanging limply by one sleeve. it grew frightful to her, threatening, uncanny, and she finally tore it angrily down and flung it into a closet. [illustration: maria lay dressed upon her bed.] but the weariest suspense comes to some end finally, and just as dawn broke there was a sudden change. the terror and the suffering were over; peace stole through every room in the house, for a man child was born to the house of semple. chapter xii. love and victory. this event was in many ways favorable to maria. she was put aside, nearly forgotten for a month, in the more imminent danger to the household. and by that time the almost brutal passion which in the first hours of shame and distress could think of no equivalent but personal punishment, had become more reasonable. for men and women, if worthy of that name, do not tarry in the valley of the shadow of death without learning much they would learn nowhere else. still her position was painful enough. her father did not speak unless it was necessary to ask her a question, her stepmother for nearly eight weeks remained in her room, and the once obsequious servants hardly troubled themselves to attend to her wants or obey her requests. in the cold isolation of her disgrace she often longed for a more active displeasure. if only the anger against her would come to words she could plead for herself, or at least she could ask to be forgiven. but mr. semple, though ordinarily a passionate and hot-spoken man, was afraid to say or do anything which would disturb the peace necessary for his wife's restoration and his son's health. he felt that it was better for maria to suffer. she deserved punishment; they were innocent. yet, being naturally a just man, he had allowed her such excuse as reflection brought. he had told himself that the girl had never had a mother's care and guidance; that he himself had been too busy making money to instill into her mind the great duty of obedience to his commands. he had considered also that the very atmosphere in which she had lived and moved nearly all the years of her life had been charged with assertion and rebellion. it was the attitude of every one around her to resist authority, even the authority of kings and governors. if she had been brought up in the submissive, self-effacing manner proper to english girls her offense would have been unnatural and unpardonable; but he remembered with a sigh that american women, as a rule, arrogated to themselves power and individuality, which american men, as a rule, did not ask them to surrender. these things he accepted as some palliation of maria's abnormal misconduct; and also he was not oblivious to the fact that her grandparents had for a year given her great freedom, and that he, for his own convenience, had placed her with her grandparents. besides which, anger in a good heart burns itself out. very slowly, but yet surely, this process was going on, and maria's attitude was favorable to it, for she was heart-sorry for the circumstances that had compelled her to assert the right of her womanhood, and her pathetic self-effacement was sincere and without reproach. by-the-by the babe came in as peacemaker. as soon as she was permitted to see her stepmother she bent all the sweet magnetism of her nature to winning, at least, her forgiveness. she carried the fretful child in her arms and softly sung him to sleep, she praised his beauty, she learned to love him, and she made the lonely hours when mr. semple was at the office pass pleasantly to the sick woman. finally one day they came to tears and explanations; the dreadful affair was talked out, maria entreated forgiveness, and was not ungenerously pardoned. this was at the close of august, and a few days afterward she received a letter from mrs. gordon. "we are in london for the winter," she wrote. "come, child, and let me see how you look." rather reluctantly mrs. semple permitted her to make the visit. "she is the next thing to an american," she thought, "and she will make maria unreasonable and disobedient again." but she need not so have feared; the primal obligations of humanity are planted in childhood, and when we are old we are apt to refer to them and judge accordingly. mrs. gordon's first remark was not flattering, for as maria entered her room she cried out, "la, child! what is the matter with you? you look ill, worried, older than you ought to look. are you in trouble?" "yes, madame." "stepmother?" "father." "ah! stepmothers make stepfathers, every one knows that. we shall have a dish of tea and you shall tell me about it. then i will help you. but one can't build without stone. what has the stepfather done?" then maria told her friend all her trouble, and was rather chilled in the telling by certain signs of qualified sympathy. and when the story was finished mrs. gordon's first remark was yet more disheartening: "'tis a common calamity," she said, "and better people than you have endured it." "but, madame----" "yes, i know what you are going to say. but you must consider first that your father was acting quite within his authority. he had the right to choose your husband." "i had already chosen my husband." "then you ought, when you first came home, to have notified your parents. sure, you had so much responsibility to fulfill. why did you not do your duty in this matter?" "i think i was afraid." "to be sure you were. little coward! pray what did you fear? ernest medway?" "yes. i thought, perhaps--as i told you, we parted in anger, and i thought perhaps he might not keep his word, there were so many reasons why he might like to break it, and also, in war-time life is uncertain. he has been wounded, sick; he might have died." "so might you, or i, for that matter. a pretty account you give of yourself. lord, child! you surely had letters to show your father." "i had a few, but they were only a line or two. i was sure they would be made fun of, and i was angry, too. i thought if they would not take my word, i would not give vouchers for it. not i!" "don't dash at things in that way, child. your father was not bound to believe your story, especially as you did not tell it until he had made all arrangements for your marriage with this mr. spencer. your conduct was too zigzaggery; you should have been straight." "father ought to have believed me." "we have it on good authority that all men are liars, and i daresay that your father has known better people than either you or i to tell lies. really, i ought to give you a scolding, and this is nothing like it." "it was such an outrage to force me to the very altar. the consequences were at my father's door." "custom, use and wont, take the outrage out of many things. good gracious, maria, most of the women i know were in some way or other forced to the altar; good for them, too, and generally they found that out. my own cousin, lady clarisse home, went weeping there; miss anne gordon, a cousin of my husband, refused to get up, said she was ill, and her friends had the marriage at her bedside. 'tis above or below reason, but these same women adored their husbands within a week's time." "oh, dear! what shall i say? what shall i do?" "poor little maria! you come to england, and then are astonished that a girl of eighteen is not allowed to have her own way, even in a husband." "i have heard that you took your own way in england, madame." "in scotland, there was some difference, and i was twenty-three and had a fortune of my own." "tell me then, madame, what i ought to do." "i think you ought to go back to new york. you are unhappy here, and you must make your father's home unhappy. that is not fair. if you are in new york, ernest medway will have no difficulty in keeping his word--if he wishes to do so. if he does not keep his word, you will escape the mortification you would certainly feel in your father's house. ask the stepmother for permission to go back; she will manage the rest." "had i not better wait till the twenty-ninth of november has come and gone?" "if you are a fool, do so. if you are wise, do not give opportunity so much scope. go at once." this advice was carried out with all the speed possible. that very night maria found a good time to ask her stepmother's influence, and in spite of some affected reluctances, she understood that her proposal was one that gave great and unexpected satisfaction. she felt almost that she might begin to prepare for the voyage; nor were her premonitions false. on the third evening after the request her father came to her room to grant it. he said he was "sorry she wished to leave him, but that under the circumstances it was better that she left england, at least for a year. the war is practically over," he continued, "and new york will speedily recover herself." then he entered into some financial explanations of a very generous character, and finally, taking a small package from his pocket, said: "give this to your grandfather. it is a miniature of his grandson, alexander semple the third. he will be much delighted to see that child, for he has no other grandson. my brothers' children are only girls." _"only girls!"_ the two words cut like a two-edged blade, but they were not said with any unkind intent, though he felt the unkind impression they made, and rose and went slowly toward the door. his manner was hesitating, as if he had forgotten something he wished to say, and the momentary delay gave to maria a good thought. she followed him quickly, and while his hand was on the door laid hers upon it. "father," she said, "stay a little while. i want to ask you to forgive me. i have so often been troublesome and self-willed, i have given you so much annoyance, i feel it now. i am sorry for it. i cannot go back to america until you forgive me. father, will you forgive me? indeed, i am sorry." he hesitated a moment, looked into her white, upturned face, and then answered, "i forgive you, maria. you have caused me great shame and disappointment, but i forgive you." "not in that way! oh, not in that way, father! kiss me as you used to do. you have not kissed me for nearly a year. dear father, do not be so cold and so far-off. i am only a little girl, but i am _your_ little girl. perhaps i do not deserve to be forgiven, but for my mother's sake be kind to me." at these words he turned fully to her, took her hands, and in a low, constrained voice said, "you are a very dear little girl, and we will let all the trouble between us be as if it had never been. we will bury it, forgive it, and forget it evermore. it is not to be spoken of again, not as long as we live." then she leaned her head against his breast and he kissed her as those who love and forgive kiss, and the joy of reconciliation was between them. "good night, maria;" and as he held her close within his arm he added with a laugh, "what a little bit of a woman! how high are you? maria?" "just as high as your heart, father. i don't want to be any higher." "that is a very pretty speech," and this time he kissed her voluntarily, and with a most tender affection. five days after this interview maria sailed for america. her father had carefully attended to all things necessary for her safety and comfort, and her stepmother had tried to atone by profuse and handsome gifts for the apparent unkindness which had hastened her departure. but maria knew herself much to blame, and she was too happy to bear ill will. she was going to see her lover. she was going to give him the assurances which she had so long withheld. she was now impatient to give voice to all the tenderness in her heart. it was the nineteenth day of september when she sailed, and on the following day, as mr. semple was sitting in his office, one of the messengers brought him a card. the light was dim and he looked intently at it, appeared startled, rose and took it to the window for further inspection. "lord medway" was certainly the name it bore, and ere he could give any order concerning it the door opened and lord medway entered. mr. semple advanced to meet him, and the nobleman took the chair he offered. "sir," he said, hardly waiting for the preliminary courtesies, "sir, i cannot believe myself quite unknown to you. and i hope that you have already some anticipation of the purport of my visit. i come to ask the hand of your daughter maria in marriage. i have been her devoted lover for more than three years, and now i would make her my wife. i beg you, sir, to examine these papers. they will give you a generally correct idea of my wealth and of the settlement i propose to make in favor of my wife." mr. semple looked at the eager young man with a face so troubled that he was instantly alarmed. "what is it?" he cried. "is maria sick? married? sir, do not keep me in suspense." "maria must be very near to new york. she sailed three weeks ago." "oh, how unfortunate i am! i am indeed distracted at this disappointment." "will you come with me to my home? mrs. semple will tell you all that you desire to know about maria." "i am obliged for your kindness, sir, but there is only one thing for me to do. i must go back to new york by the first opportunity. i have your permission, i trust." "i have nothing to oppose to your wishes, lord medway. maria has been faithful to your memory, and i have every reason to know that you are dear to her. i wish you both to be happy." "then, sir, farewell for the present. if fate be not most unkind to me, i will return with lady medway before the year be fully out." he seemed to gather hope from his own prophecy, and with the charming manner he knew well how to assume he left mr. semple penetrated with his importance and dignity, and exceedingly exalted in the prospect of his daughter's great fortune. "i do not wonder that maria would accept no lover in his place," he said to mrs. semple. "i think, elizabeth, he is the handsomest man i ever saw. and i glanced at the total of his rent-roll; it is close on forty thousand pounds a year, and likely to increase as his mining property is opened up. maria has done very well for herself." "then we have good authority for saying all men will praise her. nevertheless, cousin richard was a handsome man and an excellent match," said mrs. semple. "you had better tell richard. it will close that affair forever." she was vexed, but not insensible to the social glory of the match. and there was also the precious boy in the cradle. a relative among the nobility would be a good thing for him; and, indeed, the subject opened up on all sides in a manner flattering both to the pride and the interest of the semples. they could not cease talking of it until sleep put an end to their hopes and speculations. and in the morning they were so readily excited that mrs. semple felt impelled to make a confidante of her nursery maid; and mr. semple, being under the same necessity of conversation, was pleased to remember that his wife had advised him to inform richard spencer. he told himself that she was right, and that richard ought to know the reason of his rejection. it would only be proper kindness to let him understand that maria's reluctance was not a dislike for him personally, but was consequent upon her love for one who had won her heart previous to their acquaintance. that fact altered richard's position and made it much less humiliating. so he went to the offices of the spencer company, and after some tedious talk on the zante currant question, he told the rejected man of lord medway's visit, described his appearance, and revealed, under a promise of secrecy, the amount of his rent-roll and the settlement proposed for his wife. the effect of this story was precisely in the line of what mr. semple had supposed. the weakness of richard spencer's nature was a slavish adoration of the nobility. to have had lord medway for a rival was an honor to be fully appreciated; and to the end of his life it supplied him, in all his hours of after-dinner confidences, with a sentimental story he delighted to tell. "yes, gentlemen," he would say, even when an old man, "yes, gentlemen, i was once in love, madly in love, with as beautiful a creature as ever trod this earth. and she led me a pretty dance right to the altar steps, and then deserted me. but i cannot blame her. no, by st. george, i cannot! i had a rival, gentlemen, the young, handsome, rich and powerful lord medway, a nobleman that sits in the house of lords and may be of the privy council. what hope for poor dick spencer against such a rival? none at all, gentlemen, and so you see, for lord medway's sake i am a bachelor, and always shall be one. no girl for me, after the divine maria was lost. i saw her going to the last drawing-room and she smiled at me. i live for such little favors, and i have reason to know my great rival does not grudge them to me." and in this way richard spencer consoled himself, and was perhaps more reasonably happy than if he had married a reluctant woman and been grieved all the years of his life by her contradictions. the unexpected return of maria to her grandparents quite overthrew lord medway's plans for a few hours. he had hoped to marry her in london, and take her at once to his town house, which was even then being prepared and adorned for her. and affairs in new york were in such a state of chaos that he was even anxious for her personal safety. he had left everything and every one in a state of miserable transition and uncertainty, and he was sure things were growing worse and would continue to do so until the departure of the hostile army and the return of the patriotic citizens. for it was they, and they only, who had any interest in the preservation of their beautiful city from plunder and destruction. and as he thought on these things, he reflected that it would be an impossibility to secure for maria and himself any comfortable passage home, in the ordinary shipping, or even in the ships of war. he was sure every available inch of room would be filled with royalist refugees, and he knew well the likely results of men and women and children crowded together, without sufficient food and water, and exposed to the winter's cold and storm without any preparation for it. "it will not do, it will not do!" he ejaculated, "whatever it costs, i must charter a vessel for our own use." in pursuance of this decision, he was in the largest shipping-house very early the next morning, and with its aid, speedily secured a swift sailing clipper. her long, sharp bow and raking masts, pleased his nautical sense; she was staunchly built, fit to buffet wind and waves, and had a well-seasoned captain, who feared nothing, and was pleased at the terms lord medway offered him. nearly two weeks were spent in victualing and fitting her for the dainty lady she was to carry. the softest pillows and rugs and carpets, made her small space luxuriously sufficient. silver and china and fine linen were provided for her table, and when all her lockers had been filled and all her sailing wants provided for, lord medway brought on board a good cook, a maid for maria, and a valet for himself. then he set sail joyously; surely, at last, he was on the right road to his bridal. overtaking maria was of course beyond a possibility, but he desired to reach new york before its evacuation. he had many reasons for this, but the chief one was a fear that unless he did so, there might be no clergyman in new york to perform the marriage ceremony. lovers have a thousand anxieties, and if they do not have them, make them; and as the "dolphin" flew before the wind, medway walked her deck, wondering if maria had arrived safely in new york, if her ship had been delayed, if it had been taken by a privateer, if there had been any shipwreck, or even great storms; if by any cruel chance he should reach new york, and not find maria there. how could he endure the consequent disappointment and anxiety? he trembled, he turned heartsick, at any such possibility, and when the green shores of the new world appeared, he almost wished for a little longer suspense; he thought a certainty of maria's absence would kill him. as they came nearer to the city it was found impossible to approach any of the usual wharfs. the river was crowded with men-of-war, transports, and vessels of every kind, and after some consideration they took to the north river, and finally anchored in midstream, nearly opposite the house of madame jacobus. the sight of her residence inspired him with something like hope, and he caused the small boat by which he landed to put him on shore as far north of the heart of the city as possible. but even so, he could distinctly hear, and still more distinctly _feel_ the sorrowful tumult of the chaotic, almost frantic town. with swift steps and beating heart he reached the semple house. he stood still a moment and looked at it. in the morning sunshine it had its usual, peaceful, orderly aspect, and as he reached the gate, he saw the elder open the door, and, oh, sight of heaven! maria stepped into the garden with him. [illustration: he caused the small boat to put him on shore.] what happened then? let each heart tell itself. we have many words to express grief, none that translate the transports of love that has conquered all the accidents of a contrary fortune. such joy speaks like a child, two or three words at a time, "my darling--oh, beloved--sweetest maria--ernest--ernest--at last--at last!" but gradually they came back to the sense of those proprieties that very wisely invade the selfishness of human beings. they remembered there were others in the world besides themselves, and broke their bliss in two, that they might share it. and as conversation became more general medway perceived that haste was an imperative necessity, and that even haste might be too late. it was now exceedingly doubtful if a clergyman could be procured. trinity had no authorized rector, the reverend mr. inglis having resigned the charge on the first of november, just three weeks previously, and the appointment of the reverend mr. moore, selected by the corporation of trinity, not being yet approved by the governor of the state of new york. to an englishman of that day, there was no marriage legally performed but by an accredited episcopal minister, and this was the obstacle lord medway had now to face. if general clinton had been still in new york, the chaplain attached to his staff would have been easily available; but lord medway knew little of sir guy carleton, then in command, and could only suppose his staff would be similarly provided. as this difficulty demanded instant attention, medway went immediately about it. he was but barely in time. sir guy thought the chaplain had already embarked, but fortunately, he was found in his rooms, in the midst of his packing, and the offer of a large fee made a short delay possible to him. it was then the twentieth of november, and the evacuation of the british troops and refugees was to be completed on the twenty-fifth. there was no time to be lost, for an almost insane terror pervaded the minds of the royalists, and medway hastened back to maria to expedite her preparations. "only one day, my dear one," he said, "can be allowed you. you must pack immediately. if your trunks can be sent to madame jacobus to-night, i will have the captain of the 'dolphin' get them on board as early as possible to-morrow. during to-day you must make all your arrangements. the clergyman will be waiting for us in st. paul's chapel at nine o'clock in the morning. will your grandparents go with us to the church?" "i think not, ernest. they would rather bid me good-bye in their own home, and it will be better so. uncle neil has begged grandfather not to go into the city; he says it would be both dangerous and heart-breaking to him--yet we will ask them." it was as maria had supposed; the elder and madame preferred to part with their little girl in private. with smiles and tears and blessings, they gave her into lord medway's care and then sat down on their lonely hearth to rejoice in her joy and good fortune. they did not, however, talk much; a few words now and then, and long pauses between, in which they wandered back to their own bridal, and the happy, busy days that were gone forever. "it will be neil next," said the elder sadly. "yes. the bradleys will be home on the twenty-seventh. he is set on agnes bradley." "i'm sorry for it." "she suits him. i know you never liked the family." "far awa' from it." "neil says the son is to marry mary wakefield. agnes has been with the wakefields; mary is the youngest daughter." "and the saddler will open his shop again?" "yes. his son is to be his partner. john bradley thinks he has a 'call' to preach. he has got the habit of wandering about, working and preaching. agnes says he will never give it up." after a long pause the elder spoke again: "maria is sure to be happy; she has done well." "no woman could be happier. has neil told you what he is going to do?" "he canna stay here, janet. that is beyond thinking of. any bill of attainder would include him. he is going to boston to pick up the lines o' his brother's business. alexander made a fortune there; the name o' semple is known and respected, and john curwen, who has plenty o' money, will be in the business with him. he'll do well, no fear o' neil." "then he'll get married." "to be sure; men are aye eager to meet that trouble." "alexander!" "and speaking o' bills o' attainder, i'll like enough hae my name on one." "no, you won't. if you'll only bide at hame and keep your whist anent a' public matters, you'll be left alane. if you have enemies, i hae friends--great and powerful friends--and there's our two sons to stand on your right hand and your left. robert and allen left a' and followed the american cause from the first. they are good sureties for you. and what of your friend, joris van heemskirk?" "we'll see, we'll see. he may have changed a deal; he was always fond o' authority, and for eight years he has been giving orders and saying 'go' and 'come' and 'do this.' i took a bit walk down the road yestreen, and i saw that creature batavius polishing up the brass knocker o' his father-in-law's front door. he had raked the littered garden, and joanna was putting up clean curtains. and he came waddling down to the gate and said, 'good-morning, elder,' and i could but say the same to him. and then he said, 'we are all getting ready for the coming home o' our brave soldiers, and i am satisfied; it is a steady principle of mine to be satisfied with the government. governor clinton bowed to me yesterday, and he is the friend of general washington. i notice these things, for it is my way to notice everything.' and i interrupted him and said, 'your principles change with your interests, sir,' and he fired up and asked: 'why not, then? it is a principle of mine to go with the times, for i will not be left behind. i am a sailor, and i know that it is a fool that does not turn his sail with the wind. when the wind blows west i will not sail east;' and i said, 'you will do very well in these times,' and he laughed and answered, '_ja!_ i always do very well. i am known for that everywhere.' so i left him, but the world seems slipping awa' from me, janet." "i am at your side, and there's nae bride nor bridegroom o' a day half as much to each other as you are to me and i to you. and if this warld fails, it is not the only warld." and they looked lovingly at each other and were silent and satisfied. in the meantime the little wedding party had gathered at the altar of st. paul's chapel: neil, who gave away maria, madame jacobus and her friend counselor van ahrens; lord medway with sir francis lauve and his sister miss estelle lauve, members of an english family with whom he had been familiar. the chaplain was waiting when the bride arrived, and the words that made her lord medway's wife were solemnly said. there was no music, no flowers, no bells, no theatrical effects of any kind, but the simple, grand words of resignation and consecration had all the serious joy and sacred character of a happy religious rite, and every heart felt that nothing could have been more satisfactory. maria wore the dark cloth dress and long coat she intended to travel in, and as she knelt bareheaded at the altar, madame jacobus held the pretty head-covering that matched it. so that as soon as the registry had been made in the vestry, she bid farewell to all her friends, and with a look of adorable love and confidence placed her hand in her husband's. he was so happy that he was speechless, and he feared a moment's delay. until he had maria safely on board the "dolphin," he could not feel certain of her possession. the suspense made him silent and nervous; he could only look at his bride and clasp her hands, until she had passed safely through the crowded streets and was securely in the cabin of the waiting ship. then, with the wind in her sails and the sunshine on her white deck, the "dolphin" went swiftly out to sea. but not until the low-lying land was quite lost to sight was lord medway completely satisfied. then he suffered the rapture in his heart to find words. he folded maria in her furs, and clasped her close to his side, and as the daylight faded and the stars shone out upon her lovely face, he told her a thousand times over, how dear, how sweet, how beautiful she was! ah! youth is sweet! and life is dear to love and youth; and these two were supremely happy while whole days long they talked of their past and their future. and though the journey lasted their honeymoon out, they were not sorry. they were going to be in london for the christmas feast, and medway remembered that he had promised mr. semple to "bring lady medway home before the new year," and he was pleased to redeem his word. "for i liked your father, maria," he said. "he seemed to me one of the finest gentlemen i ever met, and----" "my stepmother is a lady also," maria answered, "one of the norfolk spencers; and many women would have been worse to me than she was. sometimes i was in the wrong too." "they must keep christmas with us. _christmas in our own home!_ maria, you hold me by my heart. sweet, say what you wish, and you shall have it." and indeed it would be impossible to express in written words a tithe of the great content they had. for all their hopes and plans and dreams of future happiness were "but ministers of love and fed his sacred flame," and the bliss so long afar, at length so nigh, rested in the great peace of its attainment. in leaving new york immediately after their marriage, lord and lady medway escaped the misery of seeing the last agony of the royalist inhabitants of that city. for six months sir guy carleton had been sending them to nova scotia, newfoundland, canada, to the bahamas and the west india islands, and yet the condition of the city in these last days is indescribable. to remove a large household is no easy matter, but the whole city had practically to be moved, and at the same time at least two thousand families driven from their homes at the occupation of new york, had returned and were gradually taking possession of their deserted dwellings. the confusion was intensified at the last by the distraction of those who had hesitated until delay was no longer possible, by the sick and the helpless, and the remnant who had been striving to procure money, or were waiting for relatives and friends. such a scene as new york presented on the morning of the final evacuation on the twenty-fifth of november, , has no parallel in modern history. it was followed by a scene not only as intensely dramatic, but also as exhilarating and joyful as the former was distracting and despairing--the entry of the triumphant army of freedom. as the rearguard of the british army left the battery, it came marching down the bowery--picked heroes of a score of battlefields--led by general knox. it passed by chatham street and pearl street to wall street and so to broadway, where it waited for the procession headed by general washington and governor clinton, the officers of the army, citizens on horseback, and citizens on foot. a salute of thirteen guns greeted the columns as they met, arms were presented and the drums beat. as a military procession, it was without impressiveness, as a moral procession, it was without equal in the annals of the world. no bells chimed congratulations, no bands of music stirred popular enthusiasm; it notably lacked all the usual pomp of military display, but no grander army of self-wrought freemen ever greeted their chief, their homes, and their native city. madame jacobus, weeping tears of joy, viewed it from her window. early in the morning she had sent a closed carriage for her friend madame semple; but it had returned empty. "janet semple kept herself alive for this day," she said. "i wonder why she did not come. she prayed that her eyes might see this salvation, and then she has not come to see it. what is the matter, i wonder?" a very simple and yet a very great thing was the matter. when madame had put on her best gown, some little necessity took her back to the parlor. the elder was crouching over the fire and down his white face tears were unconsciously streaming. she could not bear it; she could not leave him. "the joy is there, the victory is won, and the blessing is for a' generations," she said. "i'll never be missed in the crowd, and i can sing 'glory be to god' in my ain house. so i'll stay where i'm needed, by my dear auld man; it was for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in joy, or in sorrow, while baith our lives lasted," she mused, "and janet semple isna one to forget that bargain." she went quickly back to her room, spoke only into the ear of god her joy and her thanksgiving, and then taking off her festival garments, knocked at neil's door as she went down stairs. "are you going out, neil?" "no; i shall stay with father. i am just going to him." they went together, and as they entered the room, the elder looked up: "aren't you going to see the show, neil?" he asked. "i prefer to stay with you, sir," was the answer. the old man looked from his son to his wife gratefully, and murmuring, "thank you baith," he fainted away. tenderly they lifted him to a couch, and he soon responded to the remedies applied; but janet gave him a soothing draught, and they sat the afternoon through, watching him. they could hear the joyful acclaims--the shouts and songs of a redeemed people--the noise of a multitude giving itself to a tumultuous joy; but the real gladness of grateful hearts was by the rekindled hearth fires. fathers and mothers at home again! after seven years' wandering, they knew what home meant. their houses were dismantled, but they had liberty! their gardens were destroyed, their shade trees burnt, but they had liberty! their churches were desecrated, but they had liberty! their trade was gone, their fair city mutilated and blackened with fire, her streets torn up, and her wharfs decayed, but thank god, they had liberty! never again would they be the subjects of any king, or the victims of any imposed tyranny. they were free men. they had won their freedom, and they who have once tasted of the sharp, strong wine of freedom will drink thereof forever. * * * * * these events occurred exactly one hundred and eighteen years ago, but those who happen to be in that lovely country which lies between yorkshire and lancashire can find in medway castle one frail memento of them. a little diplomacy and a little coin of the realm dropped into the keeper's hand will procure them admittance. and after viewing its rooms of state, its splendid library, and its picture gallery, they may seek a little room toward the sunrising, called "the lady maria's parlor." its furniture of crimson satin is faded now, but it doubtless suited well the dark beauty so well depicted in a large portrait of her, that is one of the ornaments of the east wall. the portrait of her husband, lord ernest medway, is near to it, but between them is a sheet of ordinary writing paper, yellow with age, but still keeping a legible copy of three verses and the pretty, simple, old tune to which they were sung. it is the original copy of _"the song of a single note,"_ the song they sang together at nicholas bayard's summer entertainment one hundred and twenty-one years ago. lord medway always said it was an enchanted song, and that, as its melodious tones fell from his lady's lips, they charmed his heart away and gave it to her forever. and if other lovers would learn this fateful melody, why here is a copy of it. if they sing it but once together, it may be that they will sing it as long as they live: "for through the sense, the song shall fit the soul to understand." a song of a single note. [illustration: a song of a sin-gle note. but it soars and swells a-bove the trum-pet's call and clash of arms, for the name of the song is love, love, love, the name of the song is love.] mortals may sing it here below, the angels sing it above; for all of heaven that earth can know is set to the song of love, love, love, love, is set to the song of love. then bid the trumpet and drum be still, and battle flags idly float; better by far that men should sing the song of a single note. love, love, love, the song of a single note. * * * * * transcriber's note: some of the illustrations have been moved so that they correspond to the text and do not break up paragraphs. the biggest change was the movement of the illustration "maria lay dressed upon her bed" from facing page to page , near the corresponding text. because of these changes, the page numbers of the illustrations no longer match the page numbers in the list of illustrations. throughout the book, the name of one of the characters was "dubois", but four times the name was given as "du bois". in each of those four, instances, "du bois" was replaced with "dubois". likewise, another character was sometimes named "andré" and sometimes named "andre". in this case, "andre" was replaced with "andré". thoughout the book, quotation mark usage is different than current usage. quotation mark usage was "corrected" only where the printed usage would be confusing to the reader. in some cases a single set of quotation marks was used for multiple paragraphs, in those caes the quotation marks were not changed. throughout the dialogues, there were words and punctuation used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words and punctuation were retained. in the contents, a period was placed after "v". in the prologue, a quotation mark was placed at the end of the poem. on page , a period was placed after "easily go further". on page , a period was placed after "by a meadow", and a period was placed after "i should say". on page , a quotation mark was removed after the phrase "called for a fresh pipe.". on page , "to speak them" was replaced with "to speak to them". on page , the double quotation marks around the poem has been replaced with single quotation marks, as the poem is part of a larger quote. on page , "he eat of all" was replaced with "he ate of all". on page , a period was placed after "he is her lover". on page , "doubt and fear and love's first food" was replaced with "doubt and fear are love's first food". on page , a double quotation mark before "mr. bradley, it is the king's birthday" was replaced with a single quotation mark. on page , "she asked" was replaced with "she asked". on page , the double quotation mark was removed after "wonderful!". on page , the single quotation mark after "they, too, have saved us." was replased with a double quotation mark. on page , a double quotation mark was placed before "oh, you must be". on page , the quotation mark was removed after "though we may not admit it." on page , "have not began" was replaced with "have not began". on page , "exhilerating" was replaced with "exhilarating". on page , the quotation mark was removed after "they would likely hear it from some one.". on page , "colums" was replaced with "columns". on page , "confident and adviser" was replaced with "confidant and adviser". on page , a double quotation mark was placed after "at nine o'clock. harry.". on page , a double quotation mark was placed before "i am sure that". on page , a period was added after "i refuse to say". on page , the quotation mark was removed after "i will stand still." on page , a quotation mark was added after "but for my father, it had gone badly with you!" on page , a comma was added after "and there is another thing". on page , "there has a low" was replaced with "there was a low". on page , a period was added after "said harry". on page , a quotation mark was added before "one hundred years ago--in scotland". on page , the period after "would you be content if i saved his life" was replaced with a question mark. on page , a double quotation mark was added after "'ernest is doing all that can be done.'" on page , "the horoine is" was replaced with "the heroine is". on page , a person is referred to as "hulen" and as "hulens". no change was made because there was no indication of which is the correct name. on page , "a saucy youth" was replaced with "a saucy youth". on page , "and he went on talking" was replaced with "and he went on talking". on page , "he had builded" was replaced with "he had built". on page , a quotation mark was added after "i make you the same offer if you will take it." on page , a period was placed after "and mental tremor". on page , a period was placed after "waited for neil's reply". on page , "as you say" was replaced with "as you say". on page , a period was placed after "will be paid to-morrow". on page , "tapsalterie" was replaced with "tapsalteerie". on page , a double quotation mark was removed before "this remark maria did not approve of". on page , "curiuosly" was replaced with "curiously". on page , a quotation mark was added after "less almighty and mair sensible than others.". on page , "consiousness" was replaced with "consciousness". on page , the semicolon after "aboon ten thousand" was replaced with a period. on page , "the butt o 'a lot o' fellows" was replaced with "the butt o' a lot o' fellows". on page , a period was put after "lost its chief advantage for defense". on page , a quotation mark was added after "meets all its wants." on page , "scrimage" was replaced with "scrimmage". on page , a quotation mark was added after the phrase "said lord medway,". on page , the period after "in the sweet spring evening" was replaced with a comma. on page , a quotation mark was placed after "do love me, maria?". on page , "my father insist" was replaced with "my father insists". on page , a double quotation mark was placed after "i think, indeed,". on page , "situaton" was replaced with "situation." on page , the quotation mark after "in her heart for him." was removed. on page , a quotation mark was placed after "such a person". on page , "vesty" was replaced with "vestry". on page , a quotation mark was placed after "to show your father." on page , a quotation mark was placed after "you should have been straight." on page , the quotation mark was removed after "silent and satisfied." on page , "alter" was replaced with "altar". on page , "exhilerating" was replaced with "exhilarating". on page , "they may seek a litttle" was replaced with "they may seek a little". the battle of life. a love story. [illustration] [illustration: the battle of life a love story] the battle of life. a love story. by charles dickens. london: bradbury & evans, whitefriars. mdcccxlvi. london: bradbury and evans, printers, whitefriars. this christmas book is cordially inscribed to my english friends in switzerland illustrations. _title._ _artist._ _engraver._ frontispiece d. maclise, r.a. _thompson._ title d. maclise, r.a. _thompson._ part the first r. doyle. _dalziel._ war c. stanfield, r.a. _williams._ peace c. stanfield, r.a. _williams._ the parting breakfast j. leech. _dalziel._ part the second r. doyle. _green._ snitchey and craggs j. leech. _dalziel._ the secret interview d. maclise, r.a. _williams._ the night of the return j. leech. _dalziel._ part the third r. doyle. _dalziel._ the nutmeg grater c. stanfield, r.a. _williams._ the sisters d. maclise, r.a. _williams._ the battle of life. a love story. part the first. [illustration] part the first [illustration] once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart england, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. it was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. many a wild flower formed by the almighty hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup fill high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. many an insect deriving its delicate color from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. the painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. the stream ran red. the trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun. [illustration] heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers' breasts sought mothers' eyes, or slumbered happily. heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day's work and that night's death and suffering! many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away. they lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things, for nature, far above the evil passions of men, soon recovered her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. the larks sang high above it, the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro, the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, and simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight. but there were deep green patches in the growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. year after year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. the husbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the battle sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a battle sheaf to be among the last load at a harvest home. for a long time, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of the fight. for a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade would grow. for a long time, no village-girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them. [illustration] the seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in their minds, until they dwindled into old wives' tales, dimly remembered round the winter fire, and waning every year. where the wild flowers and berries had so long remained upon the stem untouched, gardens arose, and houses were built, and children played at battles on the turf. the wounded trees had long ago made christmas logs, and blazed and roared away. the deep green patches were no greener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. the ploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits of metal, but it was hard to say what use they had ever served, and those who found them wondered and disputed. an old dinted corslet, and a helmet, had been hanging in the church so long, that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain to make them out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as a baby. if the host slain upon the field, could have been for a moment reanimated in the forms in which they fell, each upon the spot that was the bed of his untimely death, gashed and ghastly soldiers would have stared in, hundreds deep, at household door and window; and would have risen on the hearths of quiet homes; and would have been the garnered store of barns and granaries; and would have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; and would have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill, and crowded the orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled the rickyard high with dying men. so altered was the battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight. nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than in one little orchard attached to an old stone house with a honeysuckle porch: where, on a bright autumn morning, there were sounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrily together on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standing on ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in their work to look down, and share their enjoyment. it was a pleasant, lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the two girls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the very freedom and gaiety of their hearts. if there were no such thing as display in the world, my private opinion is, and i hope you agree with me, that we might get on a great deal better than we do, and might be infinitely more agreeable company than we are. it was charming to see how these girls danced. they had no spectators but the apple-pickers on the ladders. they were very glad to please them, but they danced to please themselves (or at least you would have supposed so); and you could no more help admiring, than they could help dancing. how they did dance! not like opera dancers. not at all. and not like madame anybody's finished pupils. not the least. it was not quadrille dancing, nor minuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. it was neither in the old style, nor the new style, nor the french style, nor the english style; though it may have been, by accident, a trifle in the spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, i am told, deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from the chirping little castanets. as they danced among the orchard trees, and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each other lightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemed to spread and spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expanding circle in the water. their streaming hair and fluttering skirts, the elastic grass beneath their feet, the boughs that rustled in the morning air--the flashing leaves, their speckled shadows on the soft green ground--the balmy wind that swept along the landscape, glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily--everything between the two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge of land, where they showed against the sky as if they were the last things in the world--seemed dancing too. at last the younger of the dancing sisters, out of breath, and laughing gaily, threw herself upon a bench to rest. the other leaned against a tree hard by. the music, a wandering harp and fiddle, left off with a flourish, as if it boasted of its freshness; though, the truth is, it had gone at such a pace, and worked itself to such a pitch of competition with the dancing, that it never could have held on half a minute longer. the apple-pickers on the ladders raised a hum and murmur of applause, and then, in keeping with the sound, bestirred themselves to work again, like bees. the more actively, perhaps, because an elderly gentleman, who was no other than doctor jeddler himself--it was doctor jeddler's house and orchard, you should know, and these were doctor jeddler's daughters--came bustling out to see what was the matter, and who the deuce played music on his property, before breakfast. for he was a great philosopher, doctor jeddler, and not very musical. "music and dancing _to-day_!" said the doctor, stopping short, and speaking to himself, "i thought they dreaded to-day. but it's a world of contradictions. why, grace; why, marion!" he added, aloud, "is the world more mad than usual this morning?" "make some allowance for it, father, if it be," replied his younger daughter, marion, going close to him, and looking into his face, "for it's somebody's birth-day." "somebody's birth-day, puss," replied the doctor. "don't you know it's always somebody's birth-day? did you never hear how many new performers enter on this--ha! ha! ha!--it's impossible to speak gravely of it--on this preposterous and ridiculous business called life, every minute?" "no, father!" "no, not you, of course; you're a woman--almost," said the doctor. "by the bye," and he looked into the pretty face, still close to his, "i suppose it's _your_ birth-day." "no! do you really, father?" cried his pet daughter, pursing up her red lips to be kissed. "there! take my love with it," said the doctor, imprinting his upon them; "and many happy returns of the--the idea!--of the day. the notion of wishing happy returns in such a farce as this," said the doctor to himself, "is good! ha! ha! ha!" doctor jeddler was, as i have said, a great philosopher; and the heart and mystery of his philosophy was, to look upon the world as a gigantic practical joke: as something too absurd to be considered seriously, by any rational man. his system of belief had been, in the beginning, part and parcel of the battle-ground on which he lived; as you shall presently understand. "well! but how did you get the music?" asked the doctor. "poultry-stealers, of course. where did the minstrels come from?" "alfred sent the music," said his daughter grace, adjusting a few simple flowers in her sister's hair, with which, in her admiration of that youthful beauty, she had herself adorned it half-an-hour before, and which the dancing had disarranged. "oh! alfred sent the music, did he?" returned the doctor. "yes. he met it coming out of the town as he was entering early. the men are travelling on foot, and rested there last night; and as it was marion's birth-day, and he thought it would please her, he sent them on, with a pencilled note to me, saying that if i thought so too, they had come to serenade her." "ay, ay," said the doctor, carelessly, "he always takes your opinion." "and my opinion being favorable," said grace, good-humouredly; and pausing for a moment to admire the pretty head she decorated, with her own thrown back; "and marion being in high spirits, and beginning to dance, i joined her: and so we danced to alfred's music till we were out of breath. and we thought the music all the gayer for being sent by alfred. didn't we, dear marion?" "oh, i don't know, grace. how you teaze me about alfred." "teaze you by mentioning your lover!" said her sister. "i am sure i don't much care to have him mentioned," said the wilful beauty, stripping the petals from some flowers she held, and scattering them on the ground. "i am almost tired of hearing of him; and as to his being my lover"---- "hush! don't speak lightly of a true heart, which is all your own, marion," cried her sister, "even in jest. there is not a truer heart than alfred's in the world!" "no--no," said marion, raising her eyebrows with a pleasant air of careless consideration, "perhaps not. but i don't know that there's any great merit in that. i--i don't want him to be so very true. i never asked him. if he expects that i----. but, dear grace, why need we talk of him at all, just now!" it was agreeable to see the graceful figures of the blooming sisters, twined together, lingering among the trees, conversing thus, with earnestness opposed to lightness, yet with love responding tenderly to love. and it was very curious indeed to see the younger sister's eyes suffused with tears; and something fervently and deeply felt, breaking through the wilfulness of what she said, and striving with it painfully. the difference between them, in respect of age, could not exceed four years at most: but grace, as often happens in such cases, when no mother watches over both (the doctor's wife was dead), seemed, in her gentle care of her young sister, and in the steadiness of her devotion to her, older than she was; and more removed, in course of nature, from all competition with her, or participation, otherwise than through her sympathy and true affection, in her wayward fancies, than their ages seemed to warrant. great character of mother, that, even in this shadow, and faint reflection of it, purifies the heart, and raises the exalted nature nearer to the angels! the doctor's reflections, as he looked after them, and heard the purport of their discourse, were limited, at first, to certain merry meditations on the folly of all loves and likings, and the idle imposition practised on themselves by young people, who believed, for a moment, that there could be anything serious in such bubbles, and were always undeceived--always! but the home-adorning, self-denying qualities of grace, and her sweet temper, so gentle and retiring, yet including so much constancy and bravery of spirit, seemed all expressed to him in the contrast between her quiet household figure and that of his younger and more beautiful child; and he was sorry for her sake--sorry for them both--that life should be such a very ridiculous business as it was. the doctor never dreamed of inquiring whether his children, or either of them, helped in any way to make the scheme a serious one. but then he was a philosopher. a kind and generous man by nature, he had stumbled, by chance, over that common philosopher's stone (much more easily discovered than the object of the alchemist's researches), which sometimes trips up kind and generous men, and has the fatal property of turning gold to dross, and every precious thing to poor account. "britain!" cried the doctor. "britain! halloa!" a small man, with an uncommonly sour and discontented face, emerged from the house, and returned to this call the unceremonious acknowledgment of "now then!" "where's the breakfast table?" said the doctor. "in the house," returned britain. "are you going to spread it out here, as you were told last night?" said the doctor. "don't you know that there are gentlemen coming? that there's business to be done this morning, before the coach comes by? that this is a very particular occasion?" "i couldn't do anything, doctor jeddler, till the women had done getting in the apples, could i?" said britain, his voice rising with his reasoning, so that it was very loud at last. "well, have they done now?" returned the doctor, looking at his watch, and clapping his hands. "come! make haste! where's clemency?" "here am i, mister," said a voice from one of the ladders, which a pair of clumsy feet descended briskly. "it's all done now. clear away, gals. everything shall be ready for you in half a minute, mister." with that she began to bustle about most vigorously; presenting, as she did so, an appearance sufficiently peculiar to justify a word of introduction. she was about thirty years old; and had a sufficiently plump and cheerful face, though it was twisted up into an odd expression of tightness that made it comical. but the extraordinary homeliness of her gait and manner, would have superseded any face in the world. to say that she had two left legs, and somebody else's arms; and that all four limbs seemed to be out of joint, and to start from perfectly wrong places when they were set in motion; is to offer the mildest outline of the reality. to say that she was perfectly content and satisfied with these arrangements, and regarded them as being no business of hers, and took her arms and legs as they came, and allowed them to dispose of themselves just as it happened, is to render faint justice to her equanimity. her dress was a prodigious pair of self-willed shoes, that never wanted to go where her feet went; blue stockings; a printed gown of many colours, and the most hideous pattern procurable for money; and a white apron. she always wore short sleeves, and always had, by some accident, grazed elbows, in which she took so lively an interest that she was continually trying to turn them round and get impossible views of them. in general, a little cap perched somewhere on her head; though it was rarely to be met with in the place usually occupied in other subjects, by that article of dress; but from head to foot she was scrupulously clean, and maintained a kind of dislocated tidiness. indeed her laudable anxiety to be tidy and compact in her own conscience as well as in the public eye, gave rise to one of her most startling evolutions, which was to grasp herself sometimes by a sort of wooden handle (part of her clothing, and familiarly called a busk), and wrestle as it were with her garments, until they fell into a symmetrical arrangement. such, in outward form and garb, was clemency newcome; who was supposed to have unconsciously originated a corruption of her own christian name, from clementina (but nobody knew, for the deaf old mother, a very phenomenon of age, whom she had supported almost from a child, was dead, and she had no other relation); who now busied herself in preparing the table; and who stood, at intervals, with her bare red arms crossed, rubbing her grazed elbows with opposite hands, and staring at it very composedly, until she suddenly remembered something else it wanted, and jogged off to fetch it. "here are them two lawyers a-coming, mister!" said clemency, in a tone of no very great good-will. "aha!" cried the doctor, advancing to the gate to meet them. "good morning, good morning! grace, my dear! marion! here are messrs. snitchey and craggs. where's alfred?" "he'll be back directly, father, no doubt," said grace. "he had so much to do this morning in his preparations for departure, that he was up and out by daybreak. good morning, gentlemen." "ladies!" said mr. snitchey, "for self and craggs," who bowed, "good morning. miss," to marion, "i kiss your hand." which he did. "and i wish you"--which he might or might not, for he didn't look, at first sight, like a gentleman troubled with many warm outpourings of soul, in behalf of other people, "a hundred happy returns of this auspicious day." "ha ha ha!" laughed the doctor thoughtfully, with his hands in his pockets. "the great farce in a hundred acts!" "you wouldn't, i am sure," said mr. snitchey, standing a small professional blue bag against one leg of the table, "cut the great farce short for this actress, at all events, doctor jeddler." "no," returned the doctor. "god forbid! may she live to laugh at it, as long as she _can_ laugh, and then say, with the french wit, 'the farce is ended; draw the curtain.'" "the french wit," said mr. snitchey, peeping sharply into his blue bag, "was wrong, doctor jeddler; and your philosophy is altogether wrong, depend upon it, as i have often told you. nothing serious in life! what do you call law?" "a joke," replied the doctor. "did you ever go to law?" asked mr. snitchey, looking out of the blue bag. "never," returned the doctor. "if you ever do," said mr. snitchey, "perhaps you'll alter that opinion." craggs, who seemed to be represented by snitchey, and to be conscious of little or no separate existence or personal individuality, offered a remark of his own in this place. it involved the only idea of which he did not stand seised and possessed in equal moieties with snitchey; but he had some partners in it among the wise men of the world. "it's made a great deal too easy," said mr. craggs. "law is?" asked the doctor. "yes," said mr. craggs, "everything is. everything appears to me to be made too easy, now-a-days. it's the vice of these times. if the world is a joke (i am not prepared to say it isn't), it ought to be made a very difficult joke to crack. it ought to be as hard a struggle, sir, as possible. that's the intention. but it's being made far too easy. we are oiling the gates of life. they ought to be rusty. we shall have them beginning to turn, soon, with a smooth sound. whereas they ought to grate upon their hinges, sir." mr. craggs seemed positively to grate upon his own hinges, as he delivered this opinion; to which he communicated immense effect--being a cold, hard, dry man, dressed in grey and white, like a flint; with small twinkles in his eyes, as if something struck sparks out of them. the three natural kingdoms, indeed, had each a fanciful representative among this brotherhood of disputants: for snitchey was like a magpie or a raven (only not so sleek), and the doctor had a streaked face like a winter-pippin, with here and there a dimple to express the peckings of the birds, and a very little bit of pigtail behind, that stood for the stalk. as the active figure of a handsome young man, dressed for a journey, and followed by a porter, bearing several packages and baskets, entered the orchard at a brisk pace, and with an air of gaiety and hope that accorded well with the morning,--these three drew together, like the brothers of the sister fates, or like the graces most effectually disguised, or like the three weird prophets on the heath, and greeted him. "happy returns, alf," said the doctor, lightly. "a hundred happy returns of this auspicious day, mr. heathfield," said snitchey, bowing low. "returns!" craggs murmured in a deep voice, all alone. "why, what a battery!" exclaimed alfred, stopping short, "and one--two--three--all foreboders of no good, in the great sea before me. i am glad you are not the first i have met this morning: i should have taken it for a bad omen. but grace was the first--sweet, pleasant grace--so i defy you all!" "if you please, mister, _i_ was the first you know," said clemency newcome. "she was a walking out here, before sunrise, you remember. i was in the house." "that's true! clemency was the first," said alfred. "so i defy you with clemency." "ha, ha, ha!--for self and craggs," said snitchey. "what a defiance!" "not so bad a one as it appears, may be," said alfred, shaking hands heartily with the doctor, and also with snitchey and craggs, and then looking round. "where are the--good heavens!" with a start, productive for the moment of a closer partnership between jonathan snitchey and thomas craggs than the subsisting articles of agreement in that wise contemplated, he hastily betook himself to where the sisters stood together, and--however, i needn't more particularly explain his manner of saluting marion first, and grace afterwards, than by hinting that mr. craggs may possibly have considered it "too easy." perhaps to change the subject, doctor jeddler made a hasty move towards the breakfast, and they all sat down at table. grace presided; but so discreetly stationed herself, as to cut off her sister and alfred from the rest of the company. snitchey and craggs sat at opposite corners, with the blue bag between them for safety; and the doctor took his usual position, opposite to grace. clemency hovered galvanically about the table, as waitress; and the melancholy britain, at another and a smaller board, acted as grand carver of a round of beef, and a ham. "meat?" said britain, approaching mr. snitchey, with the carving knife and fork in his hands, and throwing the question at him like a missile. "certainly," returned the lawyer. "do _you_ want any?" to craggs. "lean, and well done," replied that gentleman. [illustration] having executed these orders, and moderately supplied the doctor (he seemed to know that nobody else wanted anything to eat), he lingered as near the firm as he decently could, watching, with an austere eye, their disposition of the viands, and but once relaxing the severe expression of his face. this was on the occasion of mr. craggs, whose teeth were not of the best, partially choking, when he cried out with great animation, "i thought he was gone!" "now alfred," said the doctor, "for a word or two of business, while we are yet at breakfast." "while we are yet at breakfast," said snitchey and craggs, who seemed to have no present idea of leaving off. although alfred had not been breakfasting, and seemed to have quite enough business on his hands as it was, he respectfully answered: "if you please, sir." "if anything could be serious," the doctor began, "in such a--" "farce as this, sir," hinted alfred. "in such a farce as this," observed the doctor, "it might be this recurrence, on the eve of separation, of a double birth-day, which is connected with many associations pleasant to us four, and with the recollection of a long and amicable intercourse. that's not to the purpose." "ah! yes, yes, doctor jeddler," said the young man. "it is to the purpose. much to the purpose, as my heart bears witness this morning; and as yours does too, i know, if you would let it speak. i leave your house to-day; i cease to be your ward to-day; we part with tender relations stretching far behind us, that never can be exactly renewed, and with others dawning yet before us," he looked down at marion beside him, "fraught with such considerations as i must not trust myself to speak of now. come, come!" he added, rallying his spirits and the doctor at once, "there's a serious grain in this large foolish dust-heap, doctor. let us allow to-day, that there is one." "to-day!" cried the doctor. "hear him! ha, ha, ha! of all days in the foolish year. why on this day, the great battle was fought on this ground. on this ground where we now sit, where i saw my two girls dance this morning, where the fruit has just been gathered for our eating from these trees, the roots of which are struck in men, not earth,--so many lives were lost, that within my recollection, generations afterwards, a churchyard full of bones, and dust of bones, and chips of cloven skulls, has been dug up from underneath our feet here. yet not a hundred people in that battle, knew for what they fought, or why; not a hundred of the inconsiderate rejoicers in the victory, why they rejoiced. not half a hundred people were the better, for the gain or loss. not half-a-dozen men agree to this hour on the cause or merits; and nobody, in short, ever knew anything distinct about it, but the mourners of the slain. serious, too!" said the doctor, laughing. "such a system!" "but all this seems to me," said alfred, "to be very serious." "serious!" cried the doctor. "if you allowed such things to be serious, you must go mad, or die, or climb up to the top of a mountain, and turn hermit." "besides--so long ago," said alfred. "long ago!" returned the doctor. "do you know what the world has been doing, ever since? do you know what else it has been doing? _i_ don't!" "it has gone to law a little," observed mr. snitchey, stirring his tea. "although the way out has been always made too easy," said his partner. "and you'll excuse my saying, doctor," pursued mr. snitchey, "having been already put a thousand times in possession of my opinion, in the course of our discussions, that, in its having gone to law, and in its legal system altogether, i do observe a serious side--now, really, a something tangible, and with a purpose and intention in it--" clemency newcome made an angular tumble against the table, occasioning a sounding clatter among the cups and saucers. "heyday! what's the matter there?" exclaimed the doctor. "it's this evil-inclined blue bag," said clemency, "always tripping up somebody!" "with a purpose and intention in it, i was saying," resumed snitchey, "that commands respect. life a farce, doctor jeddler? with law in it?" the doctor laughed, and looked at alfred. "granted, if you please, that war is foolish," said snitchey. "there we agree. for example. here's a smiling country," pointing it out with his fork, "once overrun by soldiers--trespassers every man of 'em--and laid waste by fire and sword. he, he, he! the idea of any man exposing himself, voluntarily, to fire and sword! stupid, wasteful, positively ridiculous; you laugh at your fellow-creatures, you know, when you think of it! but take this smiling country as it stands. think of the laws appertaining to real property; to the bequest and devise of real property; to the mortgage and redemption of real property; to leasehold, freehold, and copyhold estate; think," said mr. snitchey, with such great emotion that he actually smacked his lips, "of the complicated laws relating to title and proof of title, with all the contradictory precedents and numerous acts of parliament connected with them; think of the infinite number of ingenious and interminable chancery suits, to which this pleasant prospect may give rise;--and acknowledge, doctor jeddler, that there is a green spot in the scheme about us! i believe," said mr. snitchey, looking at his partner, "that i speak for self and craggs?" mr. craggs having signified assent, mr. snitchey, somewhat freshened by his recent eloquence, observed that he would take a little more beef, and another cup of tea. "i don't stand up for life in general," he added, rubbing his hands and chuckling, "it's full of folly; full of something worse. professions of trust, and confidence, and unselfishness, and all that. bah, bah, bah! we see what they're worth. but you mustn't laugh at life; you've got a game to play; a very serious game indeed! everybody's playing against you, you know; and you're playing against them. oh! it's a very interesting thing. there are deep moves upon the board. you must only laugh, doctor jeddler, when you win; and then not much. he, he, he! and then not much," repeated snitchey, rolling his head and winking his eye; as if he would have added, 'you may do this instead!' "well, alfred!" cried the doctor, "what do you say now?" "i say, sir," replied alfred, "that the greatest favor you could do me, and yourself too i am inclined to think, would be to try sometimes to forget this battle-field, and others like it, in that broader battle-field of life, on which the sun looks every day." "really, i'm afraid that wouldn't soften his opinions, mr. alfred," said snitchey. "the combatants are very eager and very bitter in that same battle of life. there's a great deal of cutting and slashing, and firing into people's heads from behind; terrible treading down, and trampling on; it's rather a bad business." "i believe, mr. snitchey," said alfred, "there are quiet victories and struggles, great sacrifices of self, and noble acts of heroism, in it--even in many of its apparent lightnesses and contradictions--not the less difficult to achieve, because they have no earthly chronicle or audience; done every day in nooks and corners, and in little households, and in men's and women's hearts--any one of which might reconcile the sternest man to such a world, and fill him with belief and hope in it, though two-fourths of its people were at war, and another fourth at law; and that's a bold word." both the sisters listened keenly. "well, well!" said the doctor, "i am too old to be converted, even by my friend snitchey here, or my good spinster sister, martha jeddler; who had what she calls her domestic trials ages ago, and has led a sympathising life with all sorts of people ever since; and who is so much of your opinion (only she's less reasonable and more obstinate, being a woman), that we can't agree, and seldom meet. i was born upon this battle-field. i began, as a boy, to have my thoughts directed to the real history of a battle-field. sixty years have gone over my head; and i have never seen the christian world, including heaven knows how many loving mothers and good enough girls, like mine here, anything but mad for a battle-field. the same contradictions prevail in everything. one must either laugh or cry at such stupendous inconsistencies; and i prefer to laugh." britain, who had been paying the profoundest and most melancholy attention to each speaker in his turn, seemed suddenly to decide in favor of the same preference, if a deep sepulchral sound that escaped him might be construed into a demonstration of risibility. his face, however, was so perfectly unaffected by it, both before and afterwards, that although one or two of the breakfast party looked round as being startled by a mysterious noise, nobody connected the offender with it. except his partner in attendance, clemency newcome; who, rousing him with one of those favorite joints, her elbows, inquired, in a reproachful whisper, what he laughed at. "not you!" said britain. "who then?" "humanity," said britain. "that's the joke." "what between master and them lawyers, he's getting more and more addle-headed every day!" cried clemency, giving him a lunge with the other elbow, as a mental stimulant. "do you know where you are? do you want to get warning?" "i don't know anything," said britain, with a leaden eye and an immovable visage. "i don't care for anything. i don't make out anything. i don't believe anything. and i don't want anything." although this forlorn summary of his general condition, may have been overcharged in an access of despondency, benjamin britain--sometimes called little britain, to distinguish him from great; as we might say young england, to express old england with a difference--had defined his real state more accurately than might be supposed. for serving as a sort of man miles, to the doctor's friar bacon; and listening day after day to innumerable orations addressed by the doctor to various people, all tending to shew that his very existence was at best a mistake and an absurdity; this unfortunate servitor had fallen, by degrees, into such an abyss of confused and contradictory suggestions from within and without, that truth at the bottom of her well, was on the level surface as compared with britain in the depths of his mystification. the only point he clearly comprehended, was, that the new element usually brought into these discussions by snitchey and craggs, never served to make them clearer, and always seemed to give the doctor a species of advantage and confirmation. therefore he looked upon the firm as one of the proximate causes of his state of mind, and held them in abhorrence accordingly. "but this is not our business, alfred," said the doctor. "ceasing to be my ward (as you have said) to-day; and leaving us full to the brim of such learning as the grammar school down here was able to give you, and your studies in london could add to that, and such practical knowledge as a dull old country doctor like myself could graft upon both; you are away, now, into the world. the first term of probation appointed by your poor father, being over, away you go now, your own master, to fulfil his second desire: and long before your three years' tour among the foreign schools of medicine is finished, you'll have forgotten us. lord, you'll forget us easily in six months!" "if i do--but you know better; why should i speak to you!" said alfred, laughing. "i don't know anything of the sort," returned the doctor. "what do you say, marion?" marion, trifling with her teacup, seemed to say--but she didn't say it--that he was welcome to forget them, if he could. grace pressed the blooming face against her cheek, and smiled. "i haven't been, i hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of my trust," pursued the doctor; "but i am to be, at any rate, formally discharged, and released, and what not, this morning; and here are our good friends snitchey and craggs, with a bagful of papers, and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the balance of the trust fund to you (i wish it was a more difficult one to dispose of, alfred, but you must get to be a great man and make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be signed, sealed, and delivered." "and duly witnessed, as by law required," said snitchey, pushing away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner proceeded to spread upon the table; "and self and craggs having been co-trustees with you, doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned, we shall want your two servants to attest the signatures--can you read, mrs. newcome?" "i a'n't married, mister," said clemency. "oh, i beg your pardon. i should think not," chuckled snitchey, casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. "you _can_ read?" "a little," answered clemency. "the marriage service, night and morning, eh?" observed the lawyer, jocosely. "no," said clemency. "too hard. i only reads a thimble." "read a thimble!" echoed snitchey. "what are you talking about, young woman?" clemency nodded. "and a nutmeg-grater." "why, this is a lunatic! a subject for the lord high chancellor!" said snitchey, staring at her. "if possessed of any property," stipulated craggs. grace, however, interposing, explained that each of the articles in question bore an engraved motto, and so formed the pocket library of clemency newcome, who was not much given to the study of books. "oh, that's it, is it, miss grace!" said snitchey. "yes, yes. ha, ha, ha! i thought our friend was an idiot. she looks uncommonly like it," he muttered, with a supercilious glance. "and what does the thimble say, mrs. newcome?" "i a'n't married, mister," observed clemency. "well, newcome. will that do?" said the lawyer. "what does the thimble say, newcome?" how clemency, before replying to this question, held one pocket open, and looked down into its yawning depths for the thimble which wasn't there,--and how she then held an opposite pocket open, and seeming to descry it, like a pearl of great price, at the bottom, cleared away such intervening obstacles as a handkerchief, an end of wax candle, a flushed apple, an orange, a lucky penny, a cramp bone, a padlock, a pair of scissors in a sheath, more expressively describable as promising young shears, a handful or so of loose beads, several balls of cotton, a needle-case, a cabinet collection of curl-papers, and a biscuit, all of which articles she entrusted individually and severally to britain to hold,--is of no consequence. nor how, in her determination to grasp this pocket by the throat and keep it prisoner (for it had a tendency to swing and twist itself round the nearest corner), she assumed, and calmly maintained, an attitude apparently inconsistent with the human anatomy and the laws of gravity. it is enough that at last she triumphantly produced the thimble on her finger, and rattled the nutmeg-grater; the literature of both those trinkets being obviously in course of wearing out and wasting away, through excessive friction. "that's the thimble, is it, young woman?" said mr. snitchey, diverting himself at her expense. "and what does the thimble say?" "it says," replied clemency, reading slowly round it as if it were a tower, "for-get and for-give." snitchey and craggs laughed heartily. "so new!" said snitchey. "so easy!" said craggs. "such a knowledge of human nature in it," said snitchey. "so applicable to the affairs of life," said craggs. "and the nutmeg-grater?" inquired the head of the firm. "the grater says," returned clemency, "do as you--wold--be--done by." "'do, or you'll be done brown,' you mean," said mr. snitchey. "i don't understand," retorted clemency, shaking her head vaguely. "i a'n't no lawyer." "i am afraid that if she was, doctor," said mr. snitchey, turning to him suddenly, as if to anticipate any effect that might otherwise be consequent on this retort, "she'd find it to be the golden rule of half her clients. they are serious enough in that--whimsical as your world is--and lay the blame on us afterwards. we, in our profession, are little else than mirrors after all, mr. alfred; but we are generally consulted by angry and quarrelsome people, who are not in their best looks; and it's rather hard to quarrel with us if we reflect unpleasant aspects. i think," said mr. snitchey, "that i speak for self and craggs?" "decidedly," said craggs. "and so, if mr. britain will oblige us with a mouthful of ink," said mr. snitchey, returning to the papers, "we'll sign, seal, and deliver as soon as possible, or the coach will be coming past before we know where we are." if one might judge from his appearance, there was every probability of the coach coming past before mr. britain knew where _he_ was; for he stood in a state of abstraction, mentally balancing the doctor against the lawyers, and the lawyers against the doctor, and their clients against both; and engaged in feeble attempts to make the thimble and nutmeg-grater (a new idea to him) square with anybody's system of philosophy; and, in short, bewildering himself as much as ever his great namesake has done with theories and schools. but clemency, who was his good genius--though he had the meanest possible opinion of her understanding, by reason of her seldom troubling herself with abstract speculations, and being always at hand to do the right thing at the right time--having produced the ink in a twinkling, tendered him the further service of recalling him to himself by the application of her elbows; with which gentle flappers she so jogged his memory, in a more literal construction of that phrase than usual, that he soon became quite fresh and brisk. how he labored under an apprehension not uncommon to persons in his degree, to whom the use of pen and ink is an event, that he couldn't append his name to a document, not of his own writing, without committing himself in some shadowy manner, or somehow signing away vague and enormous sums of money; and how he approached the deeds under protest, and by dint of the doctor's coercion, and insisted on pausing to look at them before writing (the cramped hand, to say nothing of the phraseology, being so much chinese to him), and also on turning them round to see whether there was anything fraudulent, underneath; and how, having signed his name, he became desolate as one who had parted with his property and rights; i want the time to tell. also, how the blue bag containing his signature, afterwards had a mysterious interest for him, and he couldn't leave it; also, how clemency newcome, in an ecstasy of laughter at the idea of her own importance and dignity, brooded over the whole table with her two elbows like a spread eagle, and reposed her head upon her left arm as a preliminary to the formation of certain cabalistic characters, which required a deal of ink, and imaginary counterparts whereof she executed at the same time with her tongue. also how, having once tasted ink, she became thirsty in that regard, as tigers are said to be after tasting another sort of fluid, and wanted to sign everything, and put her name in all kinds of places. in brief, the doctor was discharged of his trust and all its responsibilities; and alfred, taking it on himself, was fairly started on the journey of life. "britain!" said the doctor. "run to the gate, and watch for the coach. time flies, alfred!" "yes, sir, yes," returned the young man, hurriedly. "dear grace! a moment! marion--so young and beautiful, so winning and so much admired, dear to my heart as nothing else in life is--remember! i leave marion to you!" "she has always been a sacred charge to me, alfred. she is doubly so now. i will be faithful to my trust, believe me." "i do believe it, grace. i know it well. who could look upon your face, and hear your earnest voice, and not know it! ah, good grace! if i had your well-governed heart, and tranquil mind, how bravely i would leave this place to-day!" "would you?" she answered, with a quiet smile. "and yet, grace--sister, seems the natural word." "use it!" she said quickly, "i am glad to hear it, call me nothing else." "and yet, sister, then," said alfred, "marion and i had better have your true and stedfast qualities serving us here, and making us both happier and better. i wouldn't carry them away, to sustain myself, if i could!" "coach upon the hill-top!" exclaimed britain. "time flies, alfred," said the doctor. marion had stood apart, with her eyes fixed upon the ground; but this warning being given, her young lover brought her tenderly to where her sister stood, and gave her into her embrace. "i have been telling grace, dear marion," he said, "that you are her charge; my precious trust at parting. and when i come back and reclaim you, dearest, and the bright prospect of our married life lies stretched before us, it shall be one of our chief pleasures to consult how we can make grace happy; how we can anticipate her wishes; how we can show our gratitude and love to her; how we can return her something of the debt she will have heaped upon us." the younger sister had one hand in his; the other rested on her sister's neck. she looked into that sister's eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, with a gaze in which affection, admiration, sorrow, wonder, almost veneration, were blended. she looked into that sister's face, as if it were the face of some bright angel. calm, serene, and cheerful, it looked back on her and on her lover. "and when the time comes, as it must one day," said alfred,--"i wonder it has never come yet: but grace knows best, for grace is always right,--when _she_ will want a friend to open her whole heart to, and to be to her something of what she has been to us,--then, marion, how faithful we will prove, and what delight to us to know that she, our dear good sister, loves and is loved again, as we would have her!" still the younger sister looked into her eyes, and turned not--even towards him. and still those honest eyes looked back, so calm, serene, and cheerful, on herself and on her lover. "and when all that is past, and we are old, and living (as we must!) together--close together; talking often of old times," said alfred--"these shall be our favorite times among them--this day most of all; and telling each other what we thought and felt, and hoped and feared, at parting; and how we couldn't bear to say good bye"---- "coach coming through the wood," cried britain. "yes! i am ready--and how we met again, so happily, in spite of all; we'll make this day the happiest in all the year, and keep it as a treble birth-day. shall we, dear?" "yes!" interposed the elder sister, eagerly, and with a radiant smile. "yes! alfred, don't linger. there's no time. say good bye to marion. and heaven be with you!" he pressed the younger sister to his heart. released from his embrace, she again clung to her sister; and her eyes, with the same blended look, again sought those so calm, serene, and cheerful. "farewell my boy!" said the doctor. "to talk about any serious correspondence or serious affections, and engagements, and so forth, in such a--ha ha ha!--you know what i mean--why that, of course, would be sheer nonsense. all i can say is, that if you and marion should continue in the same foolish minds, i shall not object to have you for a son-in-law one of these days." "over the bridge!" cried britain. "let it come!" said alfred, wringing the doctor's hand stoutly. "think of me sometimes, my old friend and guardian, as seriously as you can! adieu, mr. snitchey! farewell, mr. craggs!" "coming down the road!" cried britain. "a kiss of clemency newcome for long acquaintance' sake--shake hands, britain--marion, dearest heart, good bye! sister grace! remember!" the quiet household figure, and the face so beautiful in its serenity, were turned towards him in reply; but marion's look and attitude remained unchanged. the coach was at the gate. there was a bustle with the luggage. the coach drove away. marion never moved. "he waves his hat to you, my love," said grace. "your chosen husband, darling. look!" the younger sister raised her head, and, for a moment, turned it. then turning back again, and fully meeting, for the first time, those calm eyes, fell sobbing on her neck. "oh, grace. god bless you! but i cannot bear to see it, grace! it breaks my heart." part the second. [illustration] part the second. [illustration] snitchey and craggs had a snug little office on the old battle ground, where they drove a snug little business, and fought a great many small pitched battles for a great many contending parties. though it could hardly be said of these conflicts that they were running fights--for in truth they generally proceeded at a snail's pace--the part the firm had in them came so far within that general denomination, that now they took a shot at this plaintiff, and now aimed a chop at that defendant, now made a heavy charge at an estate in chancery, and now had some light skirmishing among an irregular body of small debtors, just as the occasion served, and the enemy happened to present himself. the gazette was an important and profitable feature in some of their fields, as well as in fields of greater renown; and in most of the actions wherein they shewed their generalship, it was afterwards observed by the combatants that they had had great difficulty in making each other out, or in knowing with any degree of distinctness what they were about, in consequence of the vast amount of smoke by which they were surrounded. the offices of messrs. snitchey and craggs stood convenient with an open door, down two smooth steps in the market-place: so that any angry farmer inclining towards hot water, might tumble into it at once. their special council-chamber and hall of conference was an old back room up stairs, with a low dark ceiling, which seemed to be knitting its brows gloomily in the consideration of tangled points of law. it was furnished with some high-backed leathern chairs, garnished with great goggle-eyed brass nails, of which, every here and there, two or three had fallen out; or had been picked out, perhaps, by the wandering thumbs and forefingers of bewildered clients. there was a framed print of a great judge in it, every curl in whose dreadful wig had made a man's hair stand on end. bales of papers filled the dusty closets, shelves, and tables; and round the wainscoat there were tiers of boxes, padlocked and fireproof, with people's names painted outside, which anxious visitors felt themselves, by a cruel enchantment, obliged to spell backwards and forwards, and to make anagrams of, while they sat, seeming to listen to snitchey and craggs, without comprehending one word of what they said. snitchey and craggs had each, in private life as in professional existence, a partner of his own. snitchey and craggs were the best friends in the world, and had a real confidence in one another; but mrs. snitchey, by a dispensation not uncommon in the affairs of life, was, on principle, suspicious of mr. craggs, and mrs. craggs was, on principle, suspicious of mr. snitchey. "your snitcheys indeed," the latter lady would observe, sometimes, to mr. craggs; using that imaginative plural as if in disparagement of an objectionable pair of pantaloons, or other articles not possessed of a singular number; "i don't see what you want with your snitcheys, for my part. you trust a great deal too much to your snitcheys, _i_ think, and i hope you may never find my words come true." while mrs. snitchey would observe to mr. snitchey, of craggs, "that if ever he was led away by man he was led away by that man; and that if ever she read a double purpose in a mortal eye, she read that purpose in craggs's eye." notwithstanding this, however, they were all very good friends in general: and mrs. snitchey and mrs. craggs maintained a close bond of alliance against "the office," which they both considered a blue chamber, and common enemy, full of dangerous (because unknown) machinations. in this office, nevertheless, snitchey and craggs made honey for their several hives. here sometimes they would linger, of a fine evening, at the window of their council-chamber, overlooking the old battle-ground, and wonder (but that was generally at assize time, when much business had made them sentimental) at the folly of mankind, who couldn't always be at peace with one another, and go to law comfortably. here days, and weeks, and months, and years, passed over them; their calendar, the gradually diminishing number of brass nails in the leathern chairs, and the increasing bulk of papers on the tables. here nearly three years' flight had thinned the one and swelled the other, since the breakfast in the orchard; when they sat together in consultation, at night. [illustration] not alone; but with a man of thirty, or about that time of life, negligently dressed, and somewhat haggard in the face, but well-made, well-attired, and well-looking, who sat in the arm-chair of state, with one hand in his breast, and the other in his dishevelled hair, pondering moodily. messrs. snitchey and craggs sat opposite each other at a neighbouring desk. one of the fire-proof boxes, unpadlocked and opened, was upon it; a part of its contents lay strewn upon the table, and the rest was then in course of passing through the hands of mr. snitchey, who brought it to the candle, document by document, looked at every paper singly, as he produced it, shook his head, and handed it to mr. craggs, who looked it over also, shook his head, and laid it down. sometimes they would stop, and shaking their heads in concert, look towards the abstracted client; and the name on the box being michael warden, esquire, we may conclude from these premises that the name and the box were both his, and that the affairs of michael warden, esquire, were in a bad way. "that's all," said mr. snitchey, turning up the last paper. "really there's no other resource. no other resource." "all lost, spent, wasted, pawned, borrowed and sold, eh?" said the client, looking up. "all," returned mr. snitchey. "nothing else to be done, you say?" "nothing at all." the client bit his nails, and pondered again. "and i am not even personally safe in england? you hold to that; do you?" "in no part of the united kingdom of great britain and ireland," replied mr. snitchey. "a mere prodigal son with no father to go back to, no swine to keep, and no husks to share with them? eh?" pursued the client, rocking one leg over the other, and searching the ground with his eyes. mr. snitchey coughed, as if to deprecate the being supposed to participate in any figurative illustration of a legal position. mr. craggs, as if to express that it was a partnership view of the subject, also coughed. "ruined at thirty!" said the client. "humph!" "not ruined, mr. warden," returned snitchey. "not so bad as that. you have done a good deal towards it, i must say, but you are not ruined. a little nursing--" "a little devil," said the client. "mr. craggs," said snitchey, "will you oblige me with a pinch of snuff? thank you, sir." as the imperturbable lawyer applied it to his nose, with great apparent relish and a perfect absorption of his attention in the proceeding, the client gradually broke into a smile, and, looking up, said: "you talk of nursing. how long nursing?" "how long nursing?" repeated snitchey, dusting the snuff from his fingers, and making a slow calculation in his mind. "for your involved estate, sir? in good hands? s. and c.'s, say? six or seven years." "to starve for six or seven years!" said the client with a fretful laugh, and an impatient change of his position. "to starve for six or seven years, mr. warden," said snitchey, "would be very uncommon indeed. you might get another estate by shewing yourself, the while. but we don't think you could do it--speaking for self and craggs--and consequently don't advise it." "what _do_ you advise?" "nursing, i say," repeated snitchey. "some few years of nursing by self and craggs would bring it round. but to enable us to make terms, and hold terms, and you to keep terms, you must go away, you must live abroad. as to starvation, we could ensure you some hundreds a year to starve upon, even in the beginning, i dare say, mr. warden." "hundreds," said the client. "and i have spent thousands!" "that," retorted mr. snitchey, putting the papers slowly back into the cast-iron box, "there is no doubt about. no doubt a--bout," he repeated to himself, as he thoughtfully pursued his occupation. the lawyer very likely knew his man; at any rate his dry, shrewd, whimsical manner, had a favourable influence upon the client's moody state, and disposed him to be more free and unreserved. or perhaps the client knew _his_ man; and had elicited such encouragement as he had received, to render some purpose he was about to disclose the more defensible in appearance. gradually raising his head, he sat looking at his immovable adviser with a smile, which presently broke into a laugh. "after all," he said, "my iron-headed friend--" mr. snitchey pointed out his partner. "self and--excuse me--craggs." "i beg mr. craggs's pardon," said the client. "after all, my iron-headed friends," he leaned forward in his chair, and dropped his voice a little, "you don't know half my ruin yet." mr. snitchey stopped and stared at him. mr. craggs also stared. "i am not only deep in debt," said the client "but i am deep in--" "not in love!" cried snitchey. "yes!" said the client, falling back in his chair, and surveying the firm with his hands in his pockets. "deep in love." "and not with an heiress, sir?" said snitchey. "not with an heiress." "nor a rich lady?" "nor a rich lady that i know of--except in beauty and merit." "a single lady, i trust?" said mr. snitchey, with great expression. "certainly." "it's not one of doctor jeddler's daughters?" said snitchey, suddenly squaring his elbows on his knees, and advancing his face at least a yard. "yes!" returned the client. "not his younger daughter?" said snitchey. "yes!" returned the client. "mr. craggs," said snitchey, much relieved, "will you oblige me with another pinch of snuff? thank you. i am happy to say it don't signify, mr. warden; she's engaged, sir, she's bespoke. my partner can corroborate me. we know the fact." "we know the fact," repeated craggs. "why, so do i perhaps," returned the client quietly. "what of that? are you men of the world, and did you never hear of a woman changing her mind?" "there certainly have been actions for breach," said mr. snitchey, "brought against both spinsters and widows, but in the majority of cases--" "cases!" interposed the client, impatiently. "don't talk to me of cases. the general precedent is in a much larger volume than any of your law books. besides, do you think i have lived six weeks in the doctor's house for nothing?" "i think, sir," observed mr. snitchey, gravely addressing himself to his partner, "that of all the scrapes mr. warden's horses have brought him into at one time and another--and they have been pretty numerous, and pretty expensive, as none know better than himself and you and i--the worst scrape may turn out to be, if he talks in this way, his having been ever left by one of them at the doctor's garden wall, with three broken ribs, a snapped collar-bone, and the lord knows how many bruises. we didn't think so much of it, at the time when we knew he was going on well under the doctor's hands and roof; but it looks bad now, sir. bad! it looks very bad. doctor jeddler too--our client, mr. craggs." "mr. alfred heathfield too--a sort of client, mr. snitchey," said craggs. "mr. michael warden too, a kind of client," said the careless visitor, "and no bad one either: having played the fool for ten or twelve years. however mr. michael warden has sown his wild oats now; there's their crop, in that box; and means to repent and be wise. and in proof of it, mr. michael warden means, if he can, to marry marion, the doctor's lovely daughter, and to carry her away with him." "really, mr. craggs," snitchey began. "really mr. snitchey, and mr. craggs, partners both," said the client, interrupting him; "you know your duty to your clients, and you know well enough, i am sure, that it is no part of it to interfere in a mere love affair, which i am obliged to confide to you. i am not going to carry the young lady off, without her own consent. there's nothing illegal in it. i never was mr. heathfield's bosom friend. i violate no confidence of his. i love where he loves, and i mean to win where he would win, if i can." "he can't, mr. craggs," said snitchey, evidently anxious and discomfited. "he can't do it, sir. she dotes on mr. alfred." "does she?" returned the client. "mr. craggs, she dotes on him, sir," persisted snitchey. "i didn't live six weeks, some few months ago, in the doctor's house for nothing; and i doubted that soon," observed the client. "she would have doted on him, if her sister could have brought it about; but i watched them. marion avoided his name, avoided the subject: shrunk from the least allusion to it, with evident distress." "why should she, mr. craggs, you know? why should she, sir?" inquired snitchey. "i don't know why she should, though there are many likely reasons," said the client, smiling at the attention and perplexity expressed in mr. snitchey's shining eye, and at his cautious way of carrying on the conversation, and making himself informed upon the subject; "but i know she does. she was very young when she made the engagement--if it may be called one, i am not even sure of that--and has repented of it, perhaps. perhaps--it seems a foppish thing to say, but upon my soul i don't mean it in that light--she may have fallen in love with me, as i have fallen in love with her." "he, he! mr. alfred, her old playfellow too, you remember, mr. craggs," said snitchey, with a disconcerted laugh; "knew her almost from a baby!" "which makes it the more probable that she may be tired of his idea," calmly pursued the client, "and not indisposed to exchange it for the newer one of another lover, who presents himself (or is presented by his horse) under romantic circumstances; has the not unfavorable reputation--with a country girl--of having lived thoughtlessly and gaily, without doing much harm to anybody; and who, for his youth and figure, and so forth--this may seem foppish again, but upon my soul i don't mean it in that light--might perhaps pass muster in a crowd with mr. alfred himself." there was no gainsaying the last clause, certainly; and mr. snitchey, glancing at him, thought so. there was something naturally graceful and pleasant in the very carelessness of his air. it seemed to suggest, of his comely face and well-knit figure, that they might be greatly better if he chose: and that, once roused and made earnest (but he never had been earnest yet), he could be full of fire and purpose. "a dangerous sort of libertine," thought the shrewd lawyer, "to seem to catch the spark he wants from a young lady's eyes." "now, observe, snitchey," he continued, rising and taking him by the button, "and craggs," taking him by the button also, and placing one partner on either side of him, so that neither might evade him. "i don't ask you for any advice. you are right to keep quite aloof from all parties in such a matter, which is not one in which grave men like you could interfere, on any side. i am briefly going to review in half-a-dozen words, my position and intention, and then i shall leave it to you to do the best for me, in money matters, that you can: seeing, that, if i run away with the doctor's beautiful daughter (as i hope to do, and to become another man under her bright influence), it will be, for the moment, more chargeable than running away alone. but i shall soon make all that up in an altered life." "i think it will be better not to hear this, mr. craggs?" said snitchey, looking at him across the client. "_i_ think not," said craggs.--both listening attentively. "well! you needn't hear it," replied their client. "i'll mention it, however. i don't mean to ask the doctor's consent, because he wouldn't give it me. but i mean to do the doctor no wrong or harm, because (besides there being nothing serious in such trifles, as he says) i hope to rescue his child, my marion, from what i see--i _know_--she dreads, and contemplates with misery: that is, the return of this old lover. if anything in the world is true, it is true that she dreads his return. nobody is injured so far. i am so harried and worried here just now, that i lead the life of a flying-fish; skulk about in the dark, am shut out of my own house, and warned off my own grounds: but that house, and those grounds, and many an acre besides, will come back to me one day, as you know and say; and marion will probably be richer--on your showing, who are never sanguine--ten years hence as my wife, than as the wife of alfred heathfield, whose return she dreads (remember that), and in whom or in any man, my passion is not surpassed. who is injured yet? it is a fair case throughout. my right is as good as his, if she decide in my favor; and i will try my right by her alone. you will like to know no more after this, and i will tell you no more. now you know my purpose, and wants. when must i leave here?" "in a week," said snitchey. "mr. craggs?--" "in something less, i should say," responded craggs. "in a month," said the client, after attentively watching the two faces. "this day month. to-day is thursday. succeed or fail, on this day month i go." "it's too long a delay," said snitchey; "much too long. but let it be so. i thought he'd have stipulated for three," he murmured to himself. "are you going? good night, sir." "good night!" returned the client, shaking hands with the firm. "you'll live to see me making a good use of riches yet. henceforth, the star of my destiny is, marion!" "take care of the stairs, sir," replied snitchey; "for she don't shine there. good night!" "good night!" so they both stood at the stair-head with a pair of office-candles, watching him down; and when he had gone away, stood looking at each other. "what do you think of all this, mr. craggs?" said snitchey. mr. craggs shook his head. "it was our opinion, on the day when that release was executed, that there was something curious in the parting of that pair, i recollect," said snitchey. "it was," said mr. craggs. "perhaps he deceives himself altogether," pursued mr. snitchey, locking up the fireproof box, and putting it away; "or if he don't, a little bit of fickleness and perfidy is not a miracle, mr. craggs. and yet i thought that pretty face was very true. i thought," said mr. snitchey, putting on his great coat, (for the weather was very cold), drawing on his gloves, and snuffing out one candle, "that i had even seen her character becoming stronger and more resolved of late. more like her sister's." "mrs. craggs was of the same opinion," returned craggs. "i'd really give a trifle to-night," observed mr. snitchey, who was a good-natured man, "if i could believe that mr. warden was reckoning without his host; but light-headed, capricious, and unballasted as he is, he knows something of the world and its people (he ought to, for he has bought what he does know, dear enough); and i can't quite think that. we had better not interfere: we can do nothing, mr. craggs, but keep quiet." "nothing," returned craggs. "our friend the doctor makes light of such things," said mr. snitchey, shaking his head. "i hope he mayn't stand in need of his philosophy. our friend alfred talks of the battle of life," he shook his head again, "i hope he mayn't be cut down early in the day. have you got your hat, mr. craggs? i am going to put the other candle out." mr craggs replying in the affirmative, mr. snitchey suited the action to the word, and they groped their way out of the council-chamber: now as dark as the subject, or the law in general. * * * * * my story passes to a quiet little study, where, on that same night, the sisters and the hale old doctor sat by a cheerful fire-side. grace was working at her needle. marion read aloud from a book before her. the doctor, in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his feet spread out upon the warm rug, leaned back in his easy chair, and listened to the book, and looked upon his daughters. they were very beautiful to look upon. two better faces for a fireside, never made a fireside bright and sacred. something of the difference between them had been softened down in three years' time; and enthroned upon the clear brow of the younger sister, looking through her eyes, and thrilling in her voice, was the same earnest nature that her own motherless youth had ripened in the elder sister long ago. but she still appeared at once the lovelier and weaker of the two; still seemed to rest her head upon her sister's breast, and put her trust in her, and look into her eyes for counsel and reliance. those loving eyes, so calm, serene, and cheerful, as of old. "'and being in her own home,'" read marion, from the book; "'her home made exquisitely dear by these remembrances, she now began to know that the great trial of her heart must soon come on, and could not be delayed. oh home, our comforter and friend when others fall away, to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave--'" "marion, my love!" said grace. "why, puss!" exclaimed her father, "what's the matter?" she put her hand upon the hand her sister stretched towards her, and read on; her voice still faltering and trembling, though she made an effort to command it when thus interrupted. "'to part with whom, at any step between the cradle and the grave, is always sorrowful. oh home, so true to us, so often slighted in return, be lenient to them that turn away from thee, and do not haunt their erring footsteps too reproachfully! let no kind looks, no well-remembered smiles, be seen upon thy phantom face. let no ray of affection, welcome, gentleness, forbearance, cordiality, shine from thy white head. let no old loving word or tone rise up in judgment against thy deserter; but if thou canst look harshly and severely, do, in mercy to the penitent!'" "dear marion, read no more to-night," said grace--for she was weeping. "i cannot," she replied, and closed the book. "the words seem all on fire!" the doctor was amused at this; and laughed as he patted her on the head. "what! overcome by a story-book!" said doctor jeddler. "print and paper! well, well, it's all one. it's as rational to make a serious matter of print and paper as of anything else. but dry your eyes, love, dry your eyes. i dare say the heroine has got home again long ago, and made it up all round--and if she hasn't, a real home is only four walls; and a fictitious one, mere rags and ink. what's the matter now?" "it's only me, mister," said clemency, putting in her head at the door. "and what's the matter with _you_?" said the doctor. "oh, bless you, nothing an't the matter with me," returned clemency--and truly too, to judge from her well-soaped face, in which there gleamed as usual the very soul of good humour, which, ungainly as she was, made her quite engaging. abrasions on the elbows are not generally understood, it is true, to range within that class of personal charms called beauty-spots. but it is better, going through the world, to have the arms chafed in that narrow passage, than the temper: and clemency's was sound and whole as any beauty's in the land. "nothing an't the matter with me," said clemency, entering, "but--come a little closer, mister." the doctor, in some astonishment, complied with this invitation. "you said i wasn't to give you one before them, you know," said clemency. a novice in the family might have supposed, from her extraordinary ogling as she said it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which pervaded her elbows, as if she were embracing herself, that 'one,' in its most favorable interpretation, meant a chaste salute. indeed the doctor himself seemed alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his composure, as clemency, having had recourse to both her pockets--beginning with the right one, going away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming back to the right one again--produced a letter from the post-office. "britain was riding by on a errand," she chuckled, handing it to the doctor, "and see the mail come in, and waited for it. there's a. h. in the corner. mr. alfred's on his journey home, i bet. we shall have a wedding in the house--there was two spoons in my saucer this morning. oh luck, how slow he opens it!" all this she delivered, by way of soliloquy, gradually rising higher and higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to hear the news, and making a corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth. at last, arriving at a climax of suspense, and seeing the doctor still engaged in the perusal of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet again, and cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and inability to bear it any longer. "here! girls!" cried the doctor. "i can't help it: i never could keep a secret in my life. there are not many secrets, indeed, worth being kept in such a--well! never mind that. alfred's coming home, my dears, directly." "directly!" exclaimed marion. "what! the story-book is soon forgotten!" said the doctor, pinching her cheek. "i thought the news would dry those tears. yes. 'let it be a surprise,' he says, here. but i can't let it be a surprise. he must have a welcome." "directly!" repeated marion. "why, perhaps not what your impatience calls 'directly,'" returned the doctor; "but pretty soon too. let us see. let us see. to-day is thursday, is it not? then he promises to be here, this day month." "this day month!" repeated marion, softly. "a gay day and a holiday for us," said the cheerful voice of her sister grace, kissing her in congratulation. "long looked forward to, dearest, and come at last." she answered with a smile; a mournful smile, but full of sisterly affection: and as she looked in her sister's face, and listened to the quiet music of her voice, picturing the happiness of this return, her own face glowed with hope and joy. and with a something else: a something shining more and more through all the rest of its expression: for which i have no name. it was not exultation, triumph, proud enthusiasm. they are not so calmly shown. it was not love and gratitude alone, though love and gratitude were part of it. it emanated from no sordid thought, for sordid thoughts do not light up the brow, and hover on the lips, and move the spirit, like a fluttered light, until the sympathetic figure trembles. doctor jeddler, in spite of his system of philosophy--which he was continually contradicting and denying in practice, but more famous philosophers have done that--could not help having as much interest in the return of his old ward and pupil, as if it had been a serious event. so he sat himself down in his easy chair again, stretched out his slippered feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over and over a great many times, and talked it over more times still. "ah! the day was," said the doctor, looking at the fire, "when you and he, grace, used to trot about arm-in-arm, in his holiday time, like a couple of walking dolls. you remember?" "i remember," she answered, with her pleasant laugh, and plying her needle busily. "this day month, indeed!" mused the doctor. "that hardly seems a twelve-month ago. and where was my little marion then!" "never far from her sister," said marion, cheerily, "however little. grace was everything to me, even when she was a young child herself." "true, puss, true," returned the doctor. "she was a staid little woman, was grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, quiet, pleasant body; bearing with our humours and anticipating our wishes, and always ready to forget her own, even in those times. i never knew you positive or obstinate, grace, my darling, even then, on any subject but one." "i am afraid i have changed sadly for the worse, since," laughed grace, still busy at her work. "what was that one, father?" "alfred, of course," said the doctor. "nothing would serve you but you must be called alfred's wife; so we called you alfred's wife; and you liked it better, i believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a duchess, if we could have made you one." "indeed!" said grace, placidly. "why, don't you remember?" inquired the doctor. "i think i remember something of it," she returned, "but not much. it's so long ago." and as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of an old song, which the doctor liked. "alfred will find a real wife soon," she said, breaking off; "and that will be a happy time indeed for all of us. my three years' trust is nearly at an end, marion. it has been a very easy one. i shall tell alfred, when i give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly all the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. may i tell him so, love?" "tell him, dear grace," replied marion, "that there never was a trust so generously, nobly, stedfastly discharged; and that i have loved _you_, all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and oh! how dearly now!" "nay," said her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, "i can scarcely tell him that; we will leave my deserts to alfred's imagination. it will be liberal enough, dear marion; like your own." with that she resumed the work she had for a moment laid down, when her sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the doctor liked to hear. and the doctor, still reposing in his easy chair, with his slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune, and beat time on his knee with alfred's letter, and looked at his two daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world, these trifles were agreeable enough. clemency newcome in the mean time, having accomplished her mission and lingered in the room until she had made herself a party to the news, descended to the kitchen, where her coadjutor, mr. britain, was regaling after supper, surrounded by such a plentiful collection of bright pot-lids, well-scoured saucepans, burnished dinner-covers, gleaming kettles, and other tokens of her industrious habits, arranged upon the walls and shelves, that he sat as in the centre of a hall of mirrors. the majority did not give forth very flattering portraits of him, certainly; nor were they by any means unanimous in their reflections; as some made him very long-faced, others very broad-faced, some tolerably well-looking, others vastly ill-looking, according to their several manners of reflecting: which were as various, in respect of one fact, as those of so many kinds of men. but they all agreed that in the midst of them sat, quite at his ease, an individual with a pipe in his mouth, and a jug of beer at his elbow, who nodded condescendingly to clemency, when she stationed herself at the same table. "well, clemmy," said britain, "how are you by this time, and what's the news?" clemency told him the news, which he received very graciously. a gracious change had come over benjamin from head to foot. he was much broader, much redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier in all respects. it seemed as if his face had been tied up in a knot before, and was now untwisted and smoothed out. "there'll be another job for snitchey and craggs, i suppose," he observed, puffing slowly at his pipe. "more witnessing for you and me, perhaps, clemmy!" "lor!" replied his fair companion, with her favorite twist of her favorite joints. "i wish it was me, britain." "wish what was you?" "a going to be married," said clemency. benjamin took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed heartily. "yes! you're a likely subject for that!" he said. "poor clem!" clemency for her part laughed as heartily as he, and seemed as much amused by the idea. "yes," she assented, "i'm a likely subject for that; an't i?" "_you_'ll never be married, you know," said mr. britain, resuming his pipe. "don't you think i ever shall though?" said clemency, in perfect good faith. mr. britain shook his head. "not a chance of it!" "only think!" said clemency. "well!--i suppose you mean to, britain, one of these days; don't you?" a question so abrupt, upon a subject so momentous, required consideration. after blowing out a great cloud of smoke, and looking at it with his head now on this side and now on that, as if it were actually the question, and he were surveying it in various aspects, mr. britain replied that he wasn't altogether clear about it, but--ye-es--he thought he might come to that at last. "i wish her joy, whoever she may be!" cried clemency. "oh she'll have that," said benjamin; "safe enough." "but she wouldn't have led quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and wouldn't have had quite such a sociable sort of husband as she will have," said clemency, spreading herself half over the table, and staring retrospectively at the candle, "if it hadn't been for--not that i went to do it, for it was accidental, i am sure--if it hadn't been for me; now would she, britain?" "certainly not," returned mr. britain, by this time in that high state of appreciation of his pipe, when a man can open his mouth but a very little way for speaking purposes; and sitting luxuriously immovable in his chair, can afford to turn only his eyes towards a companion, and that very passively and gravely. "oh! i'm greatly beholden to you, you know, clem." "lor, how nice that is to think of!" said clemency. at the same time, bringing her thoughts as well as her sight to bear upon the candle-grease, and becoming abruptly reminiscent of its healing qualities as a balsam, she anointed her left elbow with a plentiful application of that remedy. "you see i've made a good many investigations of one sort and another in my time," pursued mr. britain, with the profundity of a sage; "having been always of an inquiring turn of mind; and i've read a good many books about the general rights of things and wrongs of things, for i went into the literary line myself, when i began life." "did you though!" cried the admiring clemency. "yes," said mr. britain; "i was hid for the best part of two years behind a bookstall, ready to fly out if anybody pocketed a volume; and after that i was light porter to a stay and mantua maker, in which capacity i was employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing but deceptions--which soured my spirits and disturbed my confidence in human nature; and after that, i heard a world of discussions in this house, which soured my spirits fresh; and my opinion after all is, that, as a safe and comfortable sweetener of the same, and as a pleasant guide through life, there's nothing like a nutmeg-grater." clemency was about to offer a suggestion, but he stopped her by anticipating it. "com-bined," he added gravely, "with a thimble." "do as you wold, you know, and cetrer, eh!" observed clemency, folding her arms comfortably in her delight at this avowal, and patting her elbows. "such a short cut, an't it?" "i'm not sure," said mr. britain, "that it's what would be considered good philosophy. i've my doubts about that: but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don't always." "see how you used to go on once, yourself, you know!" said clemency. "ah!" said mr. britain. "but the most extraordinary thing, clemmy, is that i should live to be brought round, through you. that's the strange part of it. through you! why, i suppose you haven't so much as half an idea in your head." clemency, without taking the least offence, shook it, and laughed, and hugged herself, and said, "no, she didn't suppose she had." "i'm pretty sure of it," said mr. britain. "oh! i dare say you're right," said clemency. "i don't pretend to none. i don't want any." benjamin took his pipe from his lips, and laughed till the tears ran down his face. "what a natural you are, clemmy!" he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he. "but i can't help liking you," said mr. britain; "you're a regular good creature in your way; so shake hands, clem. whatever happens, i'll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you." "will you?" returned clemency. "well! that's very good of you." "yes, yes," said mr. britain, giving her his pipe to knock the ashes out of; "i'll stand by you. hark! that's a curious noise!" "noise!" repeated clemency. "a footstep outside. somebody dropping from the wall, it sounded like," said britain. "are they all abed up-stairs?" "yes, all abed by this time," she replied. "didn't you hear anything?" "no." they both listened, but heard nothing. "i tell you what," said benjamin, taking down a lantern. "i'll have a look round before i go to bed myself, for satisfaction's sake. undo the door while i light this, clemmy." clemency complied briskly; but observed as she did so, that he would only have his walk for his pains, that it was all his fancy, and so forth. mr. britain said 'very likely;' but sallied out, nevertheless, armed with the poker, and casting the light of the lantern far and near in all directions. "it's as quiet as a churchyard," said clemency, looking after him; "and almost as ghostly too!" glancing back into the kitchen, she cried fearfully, as a light figure stole into her view, "what's that!" "hush!" said marion, in an agitated whisper. "you have always loved me, have you not!" "loved you, child! you may be sure i have." "i am sure. and i may trust you, may i not? there is no one else just now, in whom i _can_ trust." "yes," said clemency, with all her heart. "there is some one out there," pointing to the door, "whom i must see, and speak with, to-night. michael warden, for god's sake retire! not now!" clemency started with surprise and trouble as, following the direction of the speaker's eyes, she saw a dark figure standing in the doorway. "in another moment you may be discovered," said marion. "not now! wait, if you can, in some concealment. i will come, presently." he waved his hand to her, and was gone. "don't go to bed. wait here for me!" said marion, hurriedly. "i have been seeking to speak to you for an hour past. oh, be true to me!" eagerly seizing her bewildered hand, and pressing it with both her own to her breast--an action more expressive, in its passion of entreaty, than the most eloquent appeal in words,--marion withdrew; as the light of the returning lantern flashed into the room. "all still and peaceable. nobody there. fancy, i suppose," said mr. britain, as he locked and barred the door. "one of the effects of having a lively imagination. halloa! why, what's the matter?" clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and concern, was sitting in a chair: pale, and trembling from head to foot. "matter!" she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows, nervously, and looking anywhere but at him. "that's good in you, britain, that is! after going and frightening one out of one's life with noises, and lanterns, and i don't know what all. matter! oh, yes." "if you're frightened out of your life by a lantern, clemmy," said mr. britain, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, "that apparition's very soon got rid of. but you're as bold as brass in general," he said, stopping to observe her; "and were, after the noise and the lantern too. what have you taken into your head? not an idea, eh?" but as clemency bade him good night very much after her usual fashion, and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed herself immediately, little britain, after giving utterance to the original remark that it was impossible to account for a woman's whims, bade her good night in return, and taking up his candle strolled drowsily away to bed. when all was quiet, marion returned. "open the door," she said; "and stand there close beside me, while i speak to him, outside." timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose, such as clemency could not resist. she softly unbarred the door: but before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to issue forth when she should open it. the face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its pride of youth and beauty. some simple sense of the slightness of the barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion, that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round marion's neck. "it's little that i know, my dear," cried clemency, "very little; but i know that this should not be. think of what you do!" "i have thought of it many times," said marion, gently. "once more," urged clemency. "till to-morrow." marion shook her head. "for mr. alfred's sake," said clemency, with homely earnestness. "him that you used to love so dearly, once!" she hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating "once!" as if it rent her heart. "let me go out," said clemency, soothing her. "i'll tell him what you like. don't cross the door-step to-night. i'm sure no good will come of it. oh, it was an unhappy day when mr. warden was ever brought here! think of your good father, darling: of your sister." "i have," said marion, hastily raising her head. "you don't know what i do. you don't know what i do. i _must_ speak to him. you are the best and truest friend in all the world for what you have said to me, but i must take this step. will you go with me, clemency," she kissed her on her friendly face, "or shall i go alone?" [illustration] sorrowing and wondering, clemency turned the key, and opened the door. into the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshhold, marion passed quickly, holding by her hand. in the dark night he joined her, and they spoke together earnestly and long: and the hand that held so fast by clemency's, now trembled, now turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers, in the strong feeling of the speech it emphasized unconsciously. when they returned, he followed to the door; and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand, and pressed it to his lips. then stealthily withdrew. the door was barred and locked again, and once again she stood beneath her father's roof. not bowed down by the secret that she brought there, though so young; but with that same expression on her face, for which i had no name before, and shining through her tears. again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to her, as she said, with confidence, implicitly. her chamber safely reached, she fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on her heart, could pray! could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending over her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile: though sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that grace had been a mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child! could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest--it seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly even in sleep--and breathe upon the parted lips, god bless her! could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one dream, in which she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite alone, and they had all forgotten her. * * * * * a month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. the month appointed to elapse between that night and the return, was quick of foot, and went by, like a vapour. the day arrived. a raging winter day, that shook the old house, sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. a day to make home doubly home. to give the chimney corner new delights. to shed a ruddier glow upon the faces gathered round the hearth; and draw each fireside group into a closer and more social league, against the roaring elements without. such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for shut-out night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks; for music, laughter, dancing, light, and jovial entertainment! all these the doctor had in store to welcome alfred back. they knew that he could not arrive till night; and they would make the night air ring, he said, as he approached. all his old friends should congregate about him. he should not miss a face that he had known and liked. no! they should every one be there! so, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made, of every hospitable kind. because it was the christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to english holly, and its sturdy green, the dancing room was garlanded and hung with it; and the red berries gleamed an english welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves. it was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of all the preparations. many a time that day (as well as many a time within the fleeting month preceding it), did clemency glance anxiously, and almost fearfully, at marion. she saw her paler, perhaps, than usual; but there was a sweet composure on her face that made it lovelier than ever. at night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that grace had proudly twined about it--its mimic flowers were alfred's favorites, as grace remembered when she chose them--that old expression, pensive, almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high, and stirring, sat again upon her brow, enhanced a hundred fold. "the next wreath i adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage wreath," said grace; "or i am no true prophet, dear." her sister smiled, and held her in her arms. "a moment, grace. don't leave me yet. are you sure that i want nothing more?" her care was not for that. it was her sister's face she thought of, and her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly. "my art," said grace, "can go no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. i never saw you look so beautiful as now." "i never was so happy," she returned. "aye, but there is greater happiness in store. in such another home, as cheerful and as bright as this looks now," said grace, "alfred and his young wife will soon be living." she smiled again. "it is a happy home, grace, in your fancy. i can see it in your eyes. i know it _will_ be happy, dear. how glad i am to know it." "well," cried the doctor, bustling in. "here we are, all ready for alfred, eh? he can't be here until pretty late--an hour or so before midnight--so there'll be plenty of time for making merry before he comes. he'll not find us with the ice unbroken. pile up the fire here, britain! let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. it's a world of nonsense, puss; true lovers and all the rest of it--all nonsense; but we'll be nonsensical with the rest of 'em, and give our true lover a mad welcome. upon my word!" said the old doctor, looking at his daughters proudly, "i'm not clear to-night, among other absurdities, but that i'm the father of two handsome girls." "all that one of them has ever done, or may do--may do, dearest father--to cause you pain or grief, forgive her," said marion: "forgive her now, when her heart is full. say that you forgive her. that you will forgive her. that she shall always share your love, and--," and the rest was not said, for her face was hidden on the old man's shoulder. "tut, tut, tut," said the doctor, gently. "forgive! what have i to forgive? heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this, we must hold 'em at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop 'em short upon the road, and bring 'em on a mile or two a day, until we're properly prepared to meet 'em. kiss me, puss. forgive! why, what a silly child you are. if you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, instead of not at all, i'd forgive you everything, but such a supplication. kiss me again, puss. there! prospective and retrospective--a clear score between us. pile up the fire here! would you freeze the people on this bleak december night! let us be light, and warm, and merry, or i'll not forgive some of you!" so gaily the old doctor carried it! and the fire was piled up, and the lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful excitement stirring through all the house. more and more company came flocking in. bright eyes sparkled upon marion; smiling lips gave her joy of his return; sage mothers fanned themselves, and hoped she mightn't be too youthful and inconstant for the quiet round of home; impetuous fathers fell into disgrace, for too much exaltation of her beauty; daughters envied her; sons envied him; innumerable pairs of lovers profited by the occasion; all were interested, animated, and expectant. mr. and mrs. craggs came arm in arm, but mrs. snitchey came alone. "why, what's become of _him_?" inquired the doctor. the feather of a bird of paradise in mrs. snitchey's turban, trembled as if the bird of paradise were alive again, when she said that doubtless mr. craggs knew. _she_ was never told. "that nasty office," said mrs. craggs. "i wish it was burnt down," said mrs. snitchey. "he's--he's--there's a little matter of business that keeps my partner rather late," said mr. craggs, looking uneasily about him. "oh--h! business. don't tell me!" said mrs. snitchey. "_we_ know what business means," said mrs. craggs. but their not knowing what it meant, was perhaps the reason why mrs. snitchey's bird of paradise feather quivered so portentously, and all the pendant bits on mrs. craggs's ear-rings shook like little bells. "i wonder _you_ could come away, mr. craggs," said his wife. "mr. craggs is fortunate, i'm sure!" said mrs. snitchey. "that office so engrosses 'em," said mrs. craggs. "a person with an office has no business to be married at all," said mrs. snitchey. then mrs. snitchey said, within herself, that that look of hers had pierced to craggs's soul, and he knew it: and mrs. craggs observed, to craggs, that 'his snitcheys' were deceiving him behind his back, and he would find it out when it was too late. still, mr. craggs, without much heeding these remarks, looked uneasily about him until his eye rested on grace, to whom he immediately presented himself. "good evening, ma'am," said craggs. "you look charmingly. your--miss--your sister, miss marion, is she----" "oh she's quite well, mr. craggs." "yes--i--is she here?" asked craggs. "here! don't you see her yonder? going to dance?" said grace. mr. craggs put on his spectacles to see the better; looked at her through them, for some time; coughed; and put them, with an air of satisfaction, in their sheath again, and in his pocket. now the music struck up, and the dance commenced. the bright fire crackled and sparkled, rose and fell, as though it joined the dance itself, in right good fellowship. sometimes it roared as if it would make music too. sometimes it flashed and beamed as if it were the eye of the old room: it winked too, sometimes, like a knowing patriarch, upon the youthful whisperers in corners. sometimes it sported with the holly-boughs; and, shining on the leaves by fits and starts, made them look as if they were in the cold winter night again, and fluttering in the wind. sometimes its genial humour grew obstreperous, and passed all bounds; and then it cast into the room, among the twinkling feet, with a loud burst, a shower of harmless little sparks, and in its exultation leaped and bounded, like a mad thing, up the broad old chimney. another dance was near its close, when mr. snitchey touched his partner, who was looking on, upon the arm. mr. craggs started, as if his familiar had been a spectre. "is he gone?" he asked. "hush! he has been with me," said snitchey, "for three hours and more. he went over everything. he looked into all our arrangements for him, and was very particular indeed. he--humph!" the dance was finished. marion passed close before him, as he spoke. she did not observe him, or his partner; but looked over her shoulder towards her sister in the distance, as she slowly made her way into the crowd, and passed out of their view. "you see! all safe and well," said mr. craggs. "he didn't recur to that subject, i suppose?" "not a word." "and is he really gone? is he safe away?" "he keeps to his word. he drops down the river with the tide in that shell of a boat of his, and so goes out to sea on this dark night--a dare-devil he is--before the wind. there's no such lonely road anywhere else. that's one thing. the tide flows, he says, an hour before midnight about this time. i'm glad it's over." mr. snitchey wiped his forehead, which looked hot and anxious. "what do you think," said mr. craggs, "about--" "hush!" replied his cautious partner, looking straight before him. "i understand you. don't mention names, and don't let us seem to be talking secrets. i don't know what to think; and to tell you the truth, i don't care now. it's a great relief. his self-love deceived him, i suppose. perhaps the young lady coquetted a little. the evidence would seem to point that way. alfred not arrived?" "not yet," said mr. craggs. "expected every minute." "good." mr. snitchey wiped his forehead again. "it's a great relief. i haven't been so nervous since we've been in partnership. i intend to spend the evening now, mr. craggs." mrs. craggs and mrs. snitchey joined them as he announced this intention. the bird of paradise was in a state of extreme vibration; and the little bells were ringing quite audibly. "it has been the theme of general comment, mr. snitchey," said mrs. snitchey. "i hope the office is satisfied." "satisfied with what, my dear?" asked mr. snitchey. "with the exposure of a defenceless woman to ridicule and remark," returned his wife. "that is quite in the way of the office, _that_ is." "i really, myself," said mrs. craggs, "have been so long accustomed to connect the office with everything opposed to domesticity, that i am glad to know it as the avowed enemy of my peace. there is something honest in that, at all events." "my dear," urged mr. craggs, "your good opinion is invaluable, but _i_ never avowed that the office was the enemy of your peace." "no," said mrs. craggs, ringing a perfect peal upon the little bells. "not you, indeed. you wouldn't be worthy of the office, if you had the candor to." "as to my having been away to-night, my dear," said mr. snitchey, giving her his arm, "the deprivation has been mine, i'm sure; but, as mr. craggs knows--" mrs. snitchey cut this reference very short by hitching her husband to a distance, and asking him to look at that man. to do her the favor to look at him. "at which man, my dear?" said mr. snitchey. "your chosen companion; _i_'m no companion to you mr. snitchey." "yes, yes, you are, my dear," he interposed. "no no, i'm not," said mrs. snitchey with a majestic smile. "i know my station. will you look at your chosen companion, mr. snitchey; at your referee; at the keeper of your secrets; at the man you trust; at your other self, in short." the habitual association of self with craggs, occasioned mr. snitchey to look in that direction. "if you can look that man in the eye this night," said mrs. snitchey, "and not know that you are deluded, practised upon: made the victim of his arts, and bent down prostrate to his will, by some unaccountable fascination which it is impossible to explain, and against which no warning of mine is of the least avail: all i can say is--i pity you!" at the very same moment mrs. craggs was oracular on the cross subject. was it possible she said, that craggs could so blind himself to his snitcheys, as not to feel his true position. did he mean to say that he had seen his snitcheys come into that room, and didn't plainly see that there was reservation, cunning, treachery in the man? would he tell her that his very action, when he wiped his forehead and looked so stealthily about him, didn't show that there was something weighing on the conscience of his precious snitcheys (if he had a conscience), that wouldn't bear the light. did anybody but his snitcheys come to festive entertainments like a burglar?--which, by the way, was hardly a clear illustration of the case, as he had walked in very mildly at the door. and would he still assert to her at noon-day (it being nearly midnight), that his snitcheys were to be justified through thick and thin, against all facts, and reason, and experience? neither snitchey nor craggs openly attempted to stem the current which had thus set in, but both were content to be carried gently along it, until its force abated; which happened at about the same time as a general movement for a country dance; when mr. snitchey proposed himself as a partner to mrs. craggs, and mr. craggs gallantly offered himself to mrs. snitchey; and after some such slight evasions as "why don't you ask somebody else?" and "you'll be glad, i know, if i decline," and "i wonder you can dance out of the office" (but this jocosely now), each lady graciously accepted, and took her place. it was an old custom among them, indeed, to do so, and to pair off, in like manner, at dinners and suppers; for they were excellent friends, and on a footing of easy familiarity. perhaps the false craggs and the wicked snitchey were a recognised fiction with the two wives, as doe and roe, incessantly running up and down bailiwicks, were with the two husbands: or perhaps the ladies had instituted, and taken upon themselves, these two shares in the business, rather than be left out of it altogether. but certain it is, that each wife went as gravely and steadily to work in her vocation as her husband did in his: and would have considered it almost impossible for the firm to maintain a successful and respectable existence, without her laudable exertions. but now the bird of paradise was seen to flutter down the middle; and the little bells began to bounce and jingle in poussette; and the doctor's rosy face spun round and round, like an expressive pegtop highly varnished; and breathless mr. craggs began to doubt already, whether country dancing had been made "too easy," like the rest of life; and mr. snitchey, with his nimble cuts and capers, footed it for self, and craggs, and half a dozen more. now, too, the fire took fresh courage, favored by the lively wind the dance awakened, and burnt clear and high. it was the genius of the room, and present everywhere. it shone in people's eyes, it sparkled in the jewels on the snowy necks of girls, it twinkled at their ears as if it whispered to them slyly, it flashed about their waists, it flickered on the ground and made it rosy for their feet, it bloomed upon the ceiling that its glow might set off their bright faces, and it kindled up a general illumination in mrs. craggs's little belfry. now, too, the lively air that fanned it, grew less gentle as the music quickened and the dance proceeded with new spirit; and a breeze arose that made the leaves and berries dance upon the wall, as they had often done upon the trees; and rustled in the room as if an invisible company of fairies, treading in the footsteps of the good substantial revellers, were whirling after them. now, too, no feature of the doctor's face could be distinguished as he spun and spun; and now there seemed a dozen birds of paradise in fitful flight; and now there were a thousand little bells at work; and now a fleet of flying skirts was ruffled by a little tempest; when the music gave in, and the dance was over. [illustration] hot and breathless as the doctor was, it only made him the more impatient for alfred's coming. "anything been seen, britain? anything been heard?" "too dark to see far, sir. too much noise inside the house to hear." "that's right! the gayer welcome for him. how goes the time?" "just twelve, sir. he can't be long, sir." "stir up the fire, and throw another log upon it," said the doctor. "let him see his welcome blazing out upon the night--good boy!--as he comes along!" he saw it--yes! from the chaise he caught the light, as he turned the corner by the old church. he knew the room from which it shone. he saw the wintry branches of the old trees between the light and him. he knew that one of those trees rustled musically in the summer time at the window of marion's chamber. the tears were in his eyes. his heart throbbed so violently that he could hardly bear his happiness. how often he had thought of this time--pictured it under all circumstances--feared that it might never come--yearned, and wearied for it--far away! again the light! distinct and ruddy; kindled, he knew, to give him welcome, and to speed him home. he beckoned with his hand, and waved his hat, and cheered out, loud, as if the light were they, and they could see and hear him, as he dashed towards them through the mud and mire, triumphantly. "stop!" he knew the doctor, and understood what he had done. he would not let it be a surprise to them. but he could make it one, yet, by going forward on foot. if the orchard gate were open, he could enter there; if not, the wall was easily climbed, as he knew of old; and he would be among them in an instant. he dismounted from the chaise, and telling the driver--even that was not easy in his agitation--to remain behind for a few minutes, and then to follow slowly, ran on with exceeding swiftness, tried the gate, scaled the wall, jumped down on the other side, and stood panting in the old orchard. there was a frosty rime upon the trees, which, in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the smaller branches like dead garlands. withered leaves crackled and snapped beneath his feet, as he crept softly on towards the house. the desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. but the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows: figures passed and repassed there: and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear, sweetly. listening for hers: attempting, as he crept on, to detach it from the rest, and half-believing that he heard it: he had nearly reached the door, when it was abruptly opened, and a figure coming out encountered his. it instantly recoiled with a half-suppressed cry. "clemency," he said, "don't you know me?" "don't come in," she answered, pushing him back. "go away. don't ask me why. don't come in." "what is the matter?" he exclaimed. "i don't know. i--i am afraid to think. go back. hark!" there was a sudden tumult in the house. she put her hands upon her ears. a wild scream, such as no hands could shut out, was heard; and grace--distraction in her looks and manner--rushed out at the door. "grace!" he caught her in his arms. "what is it! is she dead!" she disengaged herself, as if to recognise his face, and fell down at his feet. a crowd of figures came about them from the house. among them was her father, with a paper in his hand. "what is it!" cried alfred, grasping his hair with his hands, and looking in an agony from face to face, as he bent upon his knee, beside the insensible girl. "will no one look at me? will no one speak to me? does no one know me? is there no voice among you all, to tell me what it is!" there was a murmur among them. "she is gone." "gone!" he echoed. "fled, my dear alfred!" said the doctor, in a broken voice, and with his hands before his face. "gone from her home and us. to-night! she writes that she has made her innocent and blameless choice--entreats that we will forgive her--prays that we will not forget her--and is gone." "with whom? where?" he started up as if to follow in pursuit, but when they gave way to let him pass, looked wildly round upon them, staggered back, and sunk down in his former attitude, clasping one of grace's cold hands in his own. there was a hurried running to and fro, confusion, noise, disorder, and no purpose. some proceeded to disperse themselves about the roads, and some took horse, and some got lights, and some conversed together, urging that there was no trace or track to follow. some approached him kindly, with the view of offering consolation; some admonished him that grace must be removed into the house, and he prevented it. he never heard them, and he never moved. the snow fell fast and thick. he looked up for a moment in the air, and thought that those white ashes strewn upon his hopes and misery, were suited to them well. he looked round on the whitening ground, and thought how marion's foot-prints would be hushed and covered up, as soon as made, and even that remembrance of her blotted out. but he never felt the weather, and he never stirred. part the third. [illustration] part the third [illustration] the world had grown six years older since that night of the return. it was a warm autumn afternoon, and there had been heavy rain. the sun burst suddenly from among the clouds: and the old battle-ground, sparkling brilliantly and cheerfully at sight of it in one green place, flashed a responsive welcome there, which spread along the country side as if a joyful beacon had been lighted up, and answered from a thousand stations. how beautiful the landscape kindling in the light, and that luxuriant influence passing on like a celestial presence, brightening everything! the wood, a sombre mass before, revealed its varied tints of yellow, green, brown, red; its different forms of trees, with raindrops glittering on their leaves and twinkling as they fell. the verdant meadow-land, bright and glowing, seemed as if it had been blind a minute since, and now had found a sense of sight wherewith to look up at the shining sky. corn-fields, hedge-rows, fences, homesteads, the clustered roofs, the steeple of the church, the stream, the watermill, all sprung out of the gloomy darkness, smiling. birds sang sweetly, flowers raised their drooping heads, fresh scents arose from the invigorated ground; the blue expanse above, extended and diffused itself; already the sun's slanting rays pierced mortally the sullen bank of cloud that lingered in its flight; and a rainbow, spirit of all the colors that adorned the earth and sky, spanned the whole arch with its triumphant glory. at such a time, one little roadside inn, snugly sheltered behind a great elm-tree with a rare seat for idlers encircling its capacious bole, addressed a cheerful front towards the traveller, as a house of entertainment ought, and tempted him with many mute but significant assurances of a comfortable welcome. the ruddy sign-board perched up in the tree, with its golden letters winking in the sun, ogled the passer-by from among the green leaves, like a jolly face, and promised good cheer. the horse-trough, full of clear fresh water, and the ground below it, sprinkled with droppings of fragrant hay, made every horse that passed prick up his ears. the crimson curtains in the lower rooms, and the pure white hangings in the little bed-chambers above, beckoned, come in! with every breath of air. upon the bright green shutters, there were golden legends about beer and ale, and neat wines, and good beds; and an affecting picture of a brown jug frothing over at the top. upon the window-sills were flowering plants in bright red pots, which made a lively show against the white front of the house; and in the darkness of the doorway there were streaks of light, which glanced off from the surfaces of bottles and tankards. on the door-step, appeared a proper figure of a landlord, too; for though he was a short man, he was round and broad; and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his legs just wide enough apart to express a mind at rest upon the subject of the cellar, and an easy confidence--too calm and virtuous to become a swagger--in the general resources of the inn. the superabundant moisture, trickling from everything after the late rain, set him off well. nothing near him was thirsty. certain top-heavy dahlias, looking over the palings of his neat well-ordered garden, had swilled as much as they could carry--perhaps a trifle more--and may have been the worse for liquor; but the sweetbriar, roses, wall-flowers, the plants at the windows, and the leaves on the old tree, were in the beaming state of moderate company that had taken no more than was wholesome for them, and had served to develope their best qualities. sprinkling dewy drops about them on the ground, they seemed profuse of innocent and sparkling mirth, that did good where it lighted, softening neglected corners which the steady rain could seldom reach, and hurting nothing. [illustration] this village inn had assumed, on being established, an uncommon sign. it was called the nutmeg grater. and underneath that household word, was inscribed, up in the tree, on the same flaming board, and in the like golden characters, by benjamin britain. at a second glance, and on a more minute examination of his face, you might have known that it was no other than benjamin britain himself who stood in the doorway--reasonably changed by time, but for the better; a very comfortable host indeed. "mrs. b.," said mr. britain, looking down the road, "is rather late. it's tea time." as there was no mrs. britain coming, he strolled leisurely out into the road and looked up at the house, very much to his satisfaction. "it's just the sort of house," said benjamin, "i should wish to stop at, if i didn't keep it." then he strolled towards the garden paling, and took a look at the dahlias. they looked over at him, with a helpless, drowsy hanging of their heads: which bobbed again, as the heavy drops of wet dripped off them. "you must be looked after," said benjamin. "memorandum, not to forget to tell her so. she's a long time coming!" mr. britain's better half seemed to be by so very much his better half, that his own moiety of himself was utterly cast away and helpless without her. "she hadn't much to do, i think," said ben. "there were a few little matters of business after market, but not many. oh! here we are at last!" a chaise-cart, driven by a boy, came clattering along the road: and seated in it, in a chair, with a large well-saturated umbrella spread out to dry behind her, was the plump figure of a matronly woman, with her bare arms folded across a basket which she carried on her knee, several other baskets and parcels lying crowded about her, and a certain bright good-nature in her face and contented awkwardness in her manner, as she jogged to and fro with the motion of her carriage, which smacked of old times, even in the distance. upon her nearer approach, this relish of bygone days was not diminished; and when the cart stopped at the nutmeg grater door, a pair of shoes, alighting from it, slipped nimbly through mr. britain's open arms, and came down with a substantial weight upon the pathway, which shoes could hardly have belonged to any one but clemency newcome. in fact they did belong to her, and she stood in them, and a rosy comfortable-looking soul she was: with as much soap on her glossy face as in times of yore, but with whole elbows now, that had grown quite dimpled in her improved condition. "you're late, clemmy!" said mr. britain. "why, you see, ben, i've had a deal to do!" she replied, looking busily after the safe removal into the house of all the packages and baskets; "eight, nine, ten--where's eleven? oh! my baskets, eleven! it's all right. put the horse up, harry, and if he coughs again give him a warm mash to-night. eight, nine, ten. why, where's eleven? oh i forgot, it's all right. how's the children, ben?" "hearty, clemmy, hearty." "bless their precious faces!" said mrs. britain, unbonneting her own round countenance (for she and her husband were by this time in the bar), and smoothing her hair with her open hands. "give us a kiss, old man." mr. britain promptly complied. "i think," said mrs. britain, applying herself to her pockets and drawing forth an immense bulk of thin books and crumpled papers, a very kennel of dogs' ears: "i've done everything. bills all settled--turnips sold--brewer's account looked into and paid--'bacco pipes ordered--seventeen pound four paid into the bank--doctor heathfield's charge for little clem--you'll guess what that is--doctor heathfield won't take nothing again, ben." "i thought he wouldn't," returned britain. "no. he says whatever family you was to have, ben, he'd never put you to the cost of a halfpenny. not if you was to have twenty." mr. britain's face assumed a serious expression, and he looked hard at the wall. "a'nt it kind of him?" said clemency. "very," returned mr. britain. "it's the sort of kindness that i wouldn't presume upon, on any account." "no," retorted clemency. "of course not. then there's the pony--he fetched eight pound two; and that a'nt bad, is it?" "it's very good," said ben. "i'm glad you're pleased!" exclaimed his wife. "i thought you would be; and i think that's all, and so no more at present from yours and cetrer, c. britain. ha ha ha! there! take all the papers, and lock 'em. oh! wait a minute. here's a printed bill to stick on the wall. wet from the printer's. how nice it smells!" "what's this?" said ben, looking over the document. "i don't know," replied his wife. "i haven't read a word of it." "'to be sold by auction,'" read the host of the nutmeg grater, "'unless previously disposed of by private contract.'" "they always put that," said clemency. "yes, but they don't always put this," he returned. "look here, 'mansion' &c.--'offices,' &c., 'shrubberies,' &c., 'ring fence,' &c. 'messrs. snitchey and craggs,' &c. 'ornamental portion of the unencumbered freehold property of michael warden, esquire, intending to continue to reside abroad'!" "intending to continue to reside abroad!" repeated clemency. "here it is," said mr. britain. "look!" "and it was only this very day that i heard it whispered at the old house, that better and plainer news had been half promised of her, soon!" said clemency, shaking her head sorrowfully, and patting her elbows as if the recollection of old times unconsciously awakened her old habits. "dear, dear, dear! there'll be heavy hearts, ben, yonder." mr. britain heaved a sigh, and shook his head, and said he couldn't make it out: he had left off trying long ago. with that remark, he applied himself to putting up the bill just inside the bar window: and clemency, after meditating in silence for a few moments, roused herself, cleared her thoughtful brow, and bustled off to look after the children. though the host of the nutmeg grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind; and she amused him mightily. nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straightforward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man. so easy it is, in any degree of life, (as the world very often finds it,) to take those cheerful natures that never assert their merit, at their own modest valuation; and to conceive a flippant liking of people for their outward oddities and eccentricities, whose innate worth, if we would look so far, might make us blush in the comparison! it was comfortable to mr. britain, to think of his own condescension in having married clemency. she was a perpetual testimony to him of the goodness of his heart, and the kindness of his disposition; and he felt that her being an excellent wife was an illustration of the old precept that virtue is its own reward. he had finished wafering up the bill, and had locked the vouchers for her day's proceedings in the cupboard--chuckling all the time, over her capacity for business--when, returning with the news that the two master britains were playing in the coach-house, under the superintendence of one betsey, and that little clem was sleeping "like a picture," she sat down to tea, which had awaited her arrival, on a little table. it was a very neat little bar, with the usual display of bottles and glasses; a sedate clock, right to the minute (it was half-past five); everything in its place, and everything furbished and polished up to the very utmost. "it's the first time i've sat down quietly to-day, i declare," said mrs. britain, taking a long breath, as if she had sat down for the night; but getting up again immediately to hand her husband his tea, and cut him his bread-and-butter; "how that bill does set me thinking of old times!" "ah!" said mr. britain, handling his saucer like an oyster, and disposing of its contents on the same principle. "that same mr. michael warden," said clemency, shaking her head at the notice of sale, "lost me my old place." "and got you your husband," said mr. britain. "well! so he did," retorted clemency, "and many thanks to him." "man's the creature of habit," said mr. britain, surveying her, over his saucer. "i had somehow got used to you, clem; and i found i shouldn't be able to get on without you. so we went and got made man and wife. ha, ha! we! who'd have thought it!" "who indeed!" cried clemency. "it was very good of you, ben." "no, no, no," replied mr. britain, with an air of self-denial. "nothing worth mentioning." "oh yes it was, ben," said his wife, with great simplicity; "i'm sure i think so; and am very much obliged to you. ah!" looking again at the bill; "when she was known to be gone, and out of reach, dear girl, i couldn't help telling--for her sake quite as much as theirs--what i knew, could i?" "you told it, any how," observed her husband. "and doctor jeddler," pursued clemency, putting down her tea-cup, and looking thoughtfully at the bill, "in his grief and passion, turned me out of house and home! i never have been so glad of anything in all my life, as that i didn't say an angry word to him, and hadn't an angry feeling towards him, even then; for he repented that truly, afterwards. how often he has sat in this room, and told me over and over again, he was sorry for it!--the last time, only yesterday, when you were out. how often he has sat in this room, and talked to me, hour after hour, about one thing and another, in which he made believe to be interested!--but only for the sake of the days that are gone away, and because he knows she used to like me, ben!" "why, how did you ever come to catch a glimpse of that, clem?" asked her husband: astonished that she should have a distinct perception of a truth which had only dimly suggested itself to his inquiring mind. "i don't know i'm sure," said clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. "bless you, i couldn't tell you if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound." he might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. he seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it. clemency hastily rose at this sight. mr. britain also rose and saluted the guest. "will you please to walk up stairs, sir. there's a very nice room up stairs, sir." "thank you," said the stranger, looking earnestly at mr. britain's wife. "may i come in here?" "oh, surely, if you like, sir," returned clemency, admitting him. "what would you please to want, sir?" the bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it. "excellent property that, sir," observed mr. britain. he made no answer; but turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at clemency with the same observant curiosity as before. "you were asking me," he said, still looking at her-- "what you would please to take, sir," answered clemency, stealing a glance at him in return. "if you will let me have a draught of ale," he said, moving to a table by the window, "and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, i shall be much obliged to you." he sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at the prospect. he was an easy well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. his face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. his beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again: "it's a new house, is it not?" "not particularly new, sir," replied mr. britain. "between five and six years old," said clemency: speaking very distinctly. "i think i heard you mention doctor jeddler's name, as i came in," inquired the stranger. "that bill reminds me of him; for i happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of mine.--is the old man living?" "yes, he's living, sir," said clemency. "much changed?" "since when, sir?" returned clemency, with remarkable emphasis and expression. "since his daughter--went away." "yes! he's greatly changed since then," said clemency. "he's grey and old, and hasn't the same way with him at all; but i think he's happy now. he has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. that did him good, directly. at first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one's heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. he had forgiven her then. that was about the same time as miss grace's marriage. britain, you remember?" mr. britain remembered very well. "the sister _is_ married then," returned the stranger. he paused for some time before he asked, "to whom?" clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question. "did _you_ never hear?" she said. "i should like to hear," he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips. "ah! it would be a long story, if it was properly told," said clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. "it would be a long story, i am sure." "but told as a short one," suggested the stranger. "told as a short one," repeated clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors, "what would there be to tell? that they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her? every one knows that. i'm sure _i_ do. no one better," added clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand. "and so," suggested the stranger. "and so," said clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, "they at last were married. they were married on her birth-day--it comes round again to-morrow--very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. mr. alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard, 'grace, shall our wedding-day be marion's birth-day?' and it was." "and they have lived happily together?" said the stranger. "ay," said clemency. "no two people ever more so. they have had no sorrow but this." she raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. seeing that his face was turned towards the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. as she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced mr. britain to the confines of despair. he stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife--followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and perplexity--asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she--answered her signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and confusion--followed the motions of her lips--guessed half aloud "milk and water," "monthly warning," "mice and walnuts"--and couldn't approach her meaning. clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. she had not to wait long; for he said, presently, "and what is the after history of the young lady who went away? they know it, i suppose?" clemency shook her head. "i've heard," she said, "that doctor jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. miss grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to mr. alfred: and has written letters back. but there's a mystery about her life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which--" she faltered here, and stopped. "and which--" repeated the stranger. "which only one other person, i believe, could explain," said clemency, drawing her breath quickly. "who may that be?" asked the stranger. "mr. michael warden!" answered clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting michael warden know that he was recognised. "you remember me, sir," said clemency, trembling with emotion; "i saw just now you did! you remember me, that night in the garden. i was with her!" "yes. you were," he said. "yes, sir," returned clemency. "yes, to be sure. this is my husband, if you please. ben, my dear ben, run to miss grace--run to mr. alfred--run somewhere, ben! bring somebody here, directly!" "stay!" said michael warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and britain. "what would you do?" "let them know that you are here, sir," answered clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. "let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister--even her old servant, even me," she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, "with a sight of her sweet face. run, ben, run!" and still she pressed him on towards the door, and still mr. warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully. "or perhaps," said clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at mr. warden's cloak, "perhaps she's here now; perhaps she's close by. i think from your manner she is. let me see her, sir, if you please. i waited on her when she was a little child. i saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. i knew her when she was mr. alfred's promised wife. i tried to warn her when you tempted her away. i know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. let me speak to her, if you please!" he gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but he made no gesture of assent. "i don't think she _can_ know," pursued clemency, "how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to see her once more. she may be timorous of going home. perhaps if she sees me, it may give her new heart. only tell me truly, mr. warden, is she with you?" "she is not," he answered, shaking his head. this answer, and his manner, and his black dress, and his coming back so quietly, and his announced intention of continuing to live abroad, explained it all. marion was dead. he didn't contradict her; yes, she was dead! clemency sat down, hid her face upon the table, and cried. at that moment, a grey-headed old gentleman came running in quite out of breath, and panting so much that his voice was scarcely to be recognised as the voice of mr. snitchey. "good heaven, mr. warden!" said the lawyer, taking him aside, "what wind has blown----" he was so blown himself, that he couldn't get on any further until after a pause, when he added, feebly, "you here?" "an ill wind, i am afraid," he answered. "if you could have heard what has just passed--how i have been besought and entreated to perform impossibilities--what confusion and affliction i carry with me!" "i can guess it all. but why did you ever come here, my good sir?" retorted snitchey. "come! how should i know who kept the house? when i sent my servant on to you, i strolled in here because the place was new to me; and i had a natural curiosity in everything new and old, in these old scenes; and it was outside the town. i wanted to communicate with you first, before appearing there. i wanted to know what people would say to me. i see by your manner that you can tell me. if it were not for your confounded caution, i should have been possessed of everything long ago." "our caution!" returned the lawyer. "speaking for self and craggs--deceased," here mr. snitchey, glancing at his hat-band, shook his head, "how can you reasonably blame us, mr. warden? it was understood between us that the subject was never to be renewed, and that it wasn't a subject on which grave and sober men like us (i made a note of your observations at the time) could interfere? our caution too! when mr. craggs, sir, went down to his respected grave in the full belief----" "i had given a solemn promise of silence until i should return, whenever that might be," interrupted mr. warden; "and i have kept it." "well, sir, and i repeat it," returned mr. snitchey, "we were bound to silence too. we were bound to silence in our duty towards ourselves, and in our duty towards a variety of clients, you among them, who were as close as wax. it was not our place to make inquiries of you on such a delicate subject. i had my suspicions, sir; but it is not six months since i have known the truth, and been assured that you lost her." "by whom?" inquired his client. "by doctor jeddler himself, sir, who at last reposed that confidence in me voluntarily. he, and only he, has known the whole truth, years and years." "and you know it?" said his client. "i do, sir!" replied snitchey; "and i have also reason to know that it will be broken to her sister to-morrow evening. they have given her that promise. in the meantime, perhaps you'll give me the honor of your company at my house; being unexpected at your own. but, not to run the chance of any more such difficulties as you have had here, in case you should be recognised--though you're a good deal changed--i think i might have passed you myself, mr. warden--we had better dine here, and walk on in the evening. it's a very good place to dine at, mr. warden: your own property, by the bye. self and craggs (deceased) took a chop here sometimes, and had it very comfortably served. mr. craggs, sir," said snitchey, shutting his eyes tight for an instant, and opening them again, "was struck off the roll of life too soon." "heaven forgive me for not condoling with you," returned michael warden, passing his hand across his forehead, "but i'm like a man in a dream at present. i seem to want my wits. mr. craggs--yes--i am very sorry we have lost mr. craggs." but he looked at clemency as he said it, and seemed to sympathise with ben, consoling her. "mr. craggs, sir," observed snitchey, "didn't find life, i regret to say, as easy to have and to hold as his theory made it out, or he would have been among us now. it's a great loss to me. he was my right arm, my right leg, my right ear, my right eye, was mr. craggs. i am paralytic without him. he bequeathed his share of the business to mrs. craggs, her executors, administrators, and assigns. his name remains in the firm to this hour. i try, in a childish sort of a way, to make believe, sometimes, that he's alive. you may observe that i speak for self and craggs--deceased sir--deceased," said the tender-hearted attorney, waving his pocket-handkerchief. michael warden, who had still been observant of clemency, turned to mr. snitchey, when he ceased to speak, and whispered in his ear. "ah, poor thing!" said snitchey, shaking his head. "yes. she was always very faithful to marion. she was always very fond of her. pretty marion! poor marion! cheer up, mistress--you _are_ married now, you know, clemency." clemency only sighed, and shook her head. "well, well! wait 'till to-morrow," said the lawyer, kindly. "to-morrow can't bring back the dead to life, mister," said clemency, sobbing. "no. it can't do that, or it would bring back mr. craggs, deceased," returned the lawyer. "but it may bring some soothing circumstances; it may bring some comfort. wait 'till to-morrow!" so clemency, shaking his proffered hand, said that she would; and britain, who had been terribly cast down at sight of his despondent wife (which was like the business hanging its head), said that was right; and mr. snitchey and michael warden went up stairs; and there they were soon engaged in a conversation so cautiously conducted, that no murmur of it was audible above the clatter of plates and dishes, the hissing of the frying-pan, the bubbling of saucepans, the low monotonous waltzing of the jack--with a dreadful click every now and then as if it had met with some mortal accident to its head, in a fit of giddiness--and all the other preparations in the kitchen, for their dinner. * * * * * to-morrow was a bright and peaceful day; and nowhere were the autumn tints more beautifully seen, than from the quiet orchard of the doctor's house. the snows of many winter nights had melted from that ground, the withered leaves of many summer times had rustled there, since she had fled. the honey-suckle porch was green again, the trees cast bountiful and changing shadows on the grass, the landscape was as tranquil and serene as it had ever been; but where was she! not there. not there. she would have been a stranger sight in her old home now, even than that home had been at first, without her. but a lady sat in the familiar place, from whose heart she had never passed away; in whose true memory she lived, unchanging, youthful, radiant with all promise and all hope; in whose affection--and it was a mother's now: there was a cherished little daughter playing by her side--she had no rival, no successor; upon whose gentle lips her name was trembling then. the spirit of the lost girl looked out of those eyes. those eyes of grace, her sister, sitting with her husband in the orchard, on their wedding-day, and his and marion's birth-day. he had not become a great man; he had not grown rich; he had not forgotten the scenes and friends of his youth: he had not fulfilled any one of the doctor's old predictions. but in his useful, patient, unknown visiting of poor men's homes; and in his watching of sick beds; and in his daily knowledge of the gentleness and goodness flowering the bye-paths of the world, not to be trodden down beneath the heavy foot of poverty, but springing up, elastic, in its track, and making its way beautiful; he had better learned and proved, in each succeeding year, the truth of his old faith. the manner of his life, though quiet and remote, had shown him how often men still entertained angels, unawares, as in the olden time; and how the most unlikely forms--even some that were mean and ugly to the view, and poorly clad--became irradiated by the couch of sorrow, want, and pain, and changed to ministering spirits with a glory round their heads. he lived to better purpose on the altered battle-ground perhaps, than if he had contended restlessly in more ambitious lists; and he was happy with his wife, dear grace. and marion. had _he_ forgotten her? "the time has flown, dear grace," he said, "since then;" they had been talking of that night; "and yet it seems a long long while ago. we count by changes and events within us. not by years." "yet we have years to count by, too, since marion was with us," returned grace. "six times, dear husband, counting to-night as one, we have sat here on her birth-day, and spoken together of that happy return, so eagerly expected and so long deferred. ah when will it be! when will it be!" her husband attentively observed her, as the tears collected in her eyes; and drawing nearer, said: "but marion told you, in that farewell letter which she left for you upon your table, love, and which you read so often, that years must pass away before it _could_ be. did she not?" she took a letter from her breast, and kissed it, and said "yes." "that through those intervening years, however happy she might be, she would look forward to the time when you would meet again, and all would be made clear: and prayed you, trustfully and hopefully to do the same. the letter runs so, does it not, my dear?" "yes, alfred." "and every other letter she has written since?" "except the last--some months ago--in which she spoke of you, and what you then knew, and what i was to learn to-night." he looked towards the sun, then fast declining, and said that the appointed time was sunset. "alfred!" said grace, laying her hand upon his shoulder earnestly, "there is something in this letter--this old letter, which you say i read so often--that i have never told you. but to-night, dear husband, with that sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed with the departing day, i cannot keep it secret." "what is it, love?" "when marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, alfred, such a trust in my hands: praying and beseeching me, as i loved her, and as i loved you, not to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return it." "--and make me a proud, and happy man again, grace. did she say so?" "she meant, to make myself so blest and honored in your love," was his wife's answer, as he held her in his arms. "hear me, my dear!" he said.--"no. hear me so!"--and as he spoke, he gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. "i know why i have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. i know why no trace of it ever shewed itself in any word or look of yours at that time. i know why grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win to be my wife. and knowing it, my own! i know the priceless value of the heart i gird within my arms, and thank god for the rich possession!" she wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. after a brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet, playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and how red the sun was. "alfred," said grace, raising her head quickly at these words. "the sun is going down. you have not forgotten what i am to know before it sets." "you are to know the truth of marion's history, my love," he answered. "all the truth," she said, imploringly. "nothing veiled from me, any more. that was the promise. was it not?" "it was," he answered. "before the sun went down on marion's birth-day. and you see it, alfred? it is sinking fast." he put his arm about her waist; and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined, "that truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear grace. it is to come from other lips." "from other lips!" she faintly echoed. "yes. i know your constant heart, i know how brave you are, i know that to you a word of preparation is enough. you have said, truly, that the time is come. it is. tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial--a surprise--a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate." "what messenger?" she said. "and what intelligence does he bring?" "i am pledged," he answered her, preserving his steady look, "to say no more. do you think you understand me?" "i am afraid to think," she said. there was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which frightened her. again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling, and entreated him to pause--a moment. "courage, my wife! when you have firmness to receive the messenger, the messenger is waiting at the gate. the sun is setting on marion's birth-day. courage, courage, grace!" she raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. as she stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like marion's as it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. he took the child with him. she called her back--she bore the lost girl's name--and pressed her to her bosom. the little creature, being released again, sped after him, and grace was left alone. she knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there, motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared. ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold! that figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its head laid down upon her father's breast, and pressed against it to his loving heart! oh, god! was it a vision that came bursting from the old man's arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in her embrace! "oh, marion, marion! oh, my sister! oh, my heart's dear love! oh, joy and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!" it was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but marion, sweet marion! so beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the earth upon some healing mission. clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat, and bent down over her: and smiling through her tears, and kneeling close before her, with both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her face: and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them: marion at length broke silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the time. "when this was my dear home, grace, as it will be now, again--" "stay, my sweet love! a moment! oh marion, to hear you speak again." she could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first. "when this was my dear home, grace, as it will be now, again, i loved him from my soul. i loved him most devotedly. i would have died for him, though i was so young. i never slighted his affection in my secret breast, for one brief instant. it was far beyond all price to me. although it is so long ago, and past and gone, and everything is wholly changed, i could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should think i did not truly love him once. i never loved him better, grace, than when he left this very scene upon this very day. i never loved him better, dear one, than i did that night when _i_ left here." her sister, bending over her, could only look into her face, and hold her fast. "but he had gained, unconsciously," said marion, with a gentle smile, "another heart, before i knew that i had one to give him. that heart--yours, my sister--was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness, to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and kept its secret from all eyes but mine--ah! what other eyes were quickened by such tenderness and gratitude!--and was content to sacrifice itself to me. but i knew something of its depths. i knew the struggle it had made. i knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of it, let him love me as he would. i knew the debt i owed it. i had its great example every day before me. what you had done for me, i knew that i could do, grace, if i would, for you. i never laid my head down on my pillow, but i prayed with tears to do it. i never laid my head down on my pillow, but i thought of alfred's own words, on the day of his departure, and how truly he had said (for i knew that, by you) that there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which these fields of battle were as nothing. thinking more and more upon the great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that there must be every day and hour, in that great strife of which he spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy: and he who knows our hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of bitterness or grief--of anything but unmixed happiness--in mine, enabled me to make the resolution that i never would be alfred's wife. that he should be my brother, and your husband, if the course i took could bring that happy end to pass; but that i never would (grace, i then loved him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!" "oh, marion! oh, marion!" "i had tried to seem indifferent to him;" and she pressed her sister's face against her own; "but that was hard, and you were always his true advocate. i had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never hear me; you would never understand me. the time was drawing near for his return. i felt that i must act, before the daily intercourse between us was renewed. i knew that one great pang, undergone at that time, would save a lengthened agony to all of us. i knew that if i went away then, that end must follow which _has_ followed, and which has made us both so happy, grace! i wrote to good aunt martha, for a refuge in her house: i did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she freely promised it. while i was contesting that step with myself, and with my love of you, and home, mr. warden, brought here by an accident, became, for some time, our companion." "i have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been," exclaimed her sister, and her countenance was ashy-pale. "you never loved him--and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!" "he was then," said marion, drawing her sister closer to her, "on the eve of going secretly away for a long time. he wrote to me, after leaving here; told me what his condition and prospects really were; and offered me his hand. he told me he had seen i was not happy in the prospect of alfred's return. i believe he thought my heart had no part in that contract; perhaps thought i might have loved him once, and did not then; perhaps thought that when i tried to seem indifferent, i tried to hide indifference--i cannot tell. but i wished that you should feel me wholly lost to alfred--hopeless to him--dead. do you understand me, love?" her sister looked into her face, attentively. she seemed in doubt. "i saw mr. warden, and confided in his honor; charged him with my secret, on the eve of his and my departure. he kept it. do you understand me, dear?" grace looked confusedly upon her. she scarcely seemed to hear. "my love, my sister!" said marion, "recall your thoughts a moment: listen to me. do not look so strangely on me. there are countries, dearest, where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and worldly loves and hopes for ever. when women do so, they assume that name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other sisters. but there may be sisters, grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places and among its busy life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good,--learn the same lesson; and, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the victory long won. and such a one am i! you understand me now?" still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply. "oh grace, dear grace," said marion, clinging yet more tenderly and fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, "if you were not a happy wife and mother--if i had no little namesake here--if alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband--from whence could i derive the ecstasy i feel to-night! but as i left here, so i have returned. my heart has known no other love, my hand has never been bestowed apart from it, i am still your maiden sister: unmarried, unbetrothed: your own old loving marion, in whose affection you exist alone, and have no partner, grace!" she understood her now. her face relaxed; sobs came to her relief; and falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a child again. when they were more composed, they found that the doctor, and his sister good aunt martha, were standing near at hand, with alfred. "this is a weary day for me," said good aunt martha, smiling through her tears, as she embraced her nieces; "for i lose my dear companion in making you all happy; and what can you give me in return for my marion?" "a converted brother," said the doctor. "that's something, to be sure," retorted aunt martha, "in such a farce as--" "no, pray don't," said the doctor, penitently. "well, i won't," replied aunt martha. "but i consider myself ill-used. i don't know what's to become of me without my marion, after we have lived together half-a-dozen years." "you must come and live here, i suppose," replied the doctor. "we sha'n't quarrel now, martha." "or get married, aunt," said alfred. "indeed," returned the old lady, "i think it might be a good speculation if i were to set my cap at michael warden, who, i hear, is come home much the better for his absence, in all respects. but as i knew him when he was a boy, and i was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn't respond. so i'll make up my mind to go and live with marion, when she marries, and until then (it will not be very long, i dare say) to live alone. what do _you_ say, brother?" "i've a great mind to say it's a ridiculous world altogether, and there's nothing serious in it," observed the poor old doctor. "you might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, anthony," said his sister; "but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those." "it's a world full of hearts," said the doctor; hugging his younger daughter, and bending across her to hug grace--for he couldn't separate the sisters; "and a serious world, with all its folly--even with mine, which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and a world on which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of battle-fields; and a world we need be careful how we libel, heaven forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its creator only knows what lies beneath the surface of his lightest image!" you would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and now reunited. therefore, i will not follow the poor doctor through his humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had, when marion was lost to him; nor will i tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which some love deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor how such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd account, had stricken him to the ground. nor how, in compassion for his distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him, by slow degrees; and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his self-banished daughter, and to that daughter's side. nor how alfred heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of that then current year; and marion had seen him, and had promised him, as her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, grace should know it from her lips at last. "i beg your pardon, doctor," said mr. snitchey, looking into the orchard, "but have i liberty to come in?" without waiting for permission, he came straight to marion, and kissed her hand, quite joyfully. "if mr. craggs had been alive, my dear miss marion," said mr. snitchey, "he would have had great interest in this occasion. it might have suggested to him, mr. alfred, that our life is not too easy, perhaps; that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it; but mr. craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. he was always open to conviction. if he were open to conviction now, i--this is weakness. mrs. snitchey, my dear,"--at his summons that lady appeared from behind the door, "you are among old friends." mrs. snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband aside. "one moment, mr. snitchey," said that lady. "it is not in my nature to rake up the ashes of the departed." "no my dear," returned her husband. "mr. craggs is--" "yes, my dear, he is deceased," said mr. snitchey. "but i ask you if you recollect," pursued his wife, "that evening of the ball. i only ask you that. if you do; and if your memory has not entirely failed you, mr. snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your dotage; i ask you to connect this time with that--to remember how i begged and prayed you, on my knees--" "upon your knees, my dear?" said mr. snitchey. "yes," said mrs. snitchey, confidently, "and you know it--to beware of that man--to observe his eye--and now to tell me whether i was right, and whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn't choose to tell." "mrs. snitchey," returned her husband, in her ear, "madam. did you ever observe anything in _my_ eye?" "no," said mrs. snitchey, sharply. "don't flatter yourself." "because, ma'am, that night," he continued, twitching her by the sleeve, "it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn't choose to tell, and both knew just the same, professionally. and so the less you say about such things the better, mrs. snitchey; and take this as a warning to have wiser and more charitable eyes another time. miss marion, i brought a friend of yours along with me. here! mistress." poor clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if she abandoned herself to grief, the nutmeg grater was done for. "now, mistress," said the lawyer, checking marion as she ran towards her, and interposing himself between them, "what's the matter with _you_?" "the matter!" cried poor clemency. when, looking up in wonder, and in indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from mr. britain, and seeing that sweet face so well-remembered close before her, she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her fast, released her, fell on mr. snitchey and embraced him (much to mrs. snitchey's indignation), fell on the doctor and embraced him, fell on mr. britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it. a stranger had come into the orchard, after mr. snitchey, and had remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been monopolised by the ecstasies of clemency. he did not appear to wish to be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance) which the general happiness rendered more remarkable. none but the quick eyes of aunt martha, however, remarked him at all; but almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him. presently, going to where marion stood with grace and her little namesake, she whispered something in marion's ear, at which she started, and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she timidly approached the stranger, in aunt martha's company, and engaged in conversation with him too. "mr. britain," said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, "i congratulate you. you are now the whole and sole proprietor of that freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by the sign of the nutmeg grater. your wife lost one house, through my client mr. michael warden; and now gains another. i shall have the pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of these fine mornings." "would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, sir?" asked britain. "not in the least," replied the lawyer. "then," said mr. britain, handing him back the conveyance, "just clap in the words, 'and thimble,' will you be so good; and i'll have the two mottoes painted up in the parlour, instead of my wife's portrait." [illustration] "and let me," said a voice behind them; it was the stranger's--michael warden's; "let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. mr. heathfield and dr. jeddler, i might have deeply wronged you both. that i did not, is no virtue of my own. i will not say that i am six years wiser than i was, or better. but i have known, at any rate, that term of selfreproach. i can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me. i abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt my own demerits, with a shame i never have forgotten, yet with some profit too i would fain hope, from one," he glanced at marion, "to whom i made my humble supplication for forgiveness, when i knew her merit and my deep unworthiness. in a few days i shall quit this place for ever. i entreat your pardon. do as you would be done by! forget, and forgive!" time--from whom i had the latter portion of this story, and with whom i have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five and thirty years' duration--informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that michael warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it afresh, maintained a golden mean of hospitality, and had a wife, the pride and honor of that country-side, whose name was marion. but as i have observed that time confuses facts occasionally, i hardly know what weight to give to his authority. the end. london: bradbury and evans, printers, whitefriars. new work by boz. _now publishing in monthly parts, price s. each_, dealings with the firm of dombey and son, wholesale, retail, and for exportation. by charles dickens. with illustrations by hablot k. browne. now ready, in one handsome volume, vo, elegantly bound in cloth, price _s._ oliver twist. by charles dickens. with illustrations by george cruikshank, and the _latest corrections and alterations of the author_. mr dickens's works. martin chuzzlewit. with forty illustrations by "phiz." in one volume, price _s._ cloth boards. american notes. for general circulation. _fourth edition._ in two volumes, post vo, price _s._ cloth. barnaby rudge; a tale of the riots of 'eighty. with seventy eight illustrations by g. cattermole and h. k. browne. in one volume, price _s._ cloth. the old curiosity shop. with seventy five illustrations by g. cattermole and h. k. browne. in one volume, price _s._ cloth. sketches by "boz." _a new edition_, with forty illustrations by george cruikshank. in one volume, vo, price _s._ cloth. the pickwick papers. with forty three illustrations by "phiz." in one volume, vo, price _s._ cloth. nicholas nickleby. with forty illustrations by "phiz." in one volume, vo, price _s._ cloth. pictures from italy.--with vignette illustrations. contents:--paris to chalons.--lyons, the rhone, and the goblin of avignon.--avignon to genoa.--genoa and its neighbourhood.--parma, modena, and bologna.--ferrara.--verona, mantua, milan, and the simplon.--rome, naples, and florence. _second edition._ in foolscap vo, price _s._ a christmas carol. in prose. being a ghost story of christmas. with four coloured etchings, and woodcuts, by leech. _tenth edition._ in foolscap vo, price _s._ the chimes. a goblin story of some bells that rang an old year out and a new year in. the illustrations by daniel maclise, r.a.; clarkson stanfield, r.a.; john leech; and richard doyle. _twelfth edition._ in foolscap vo, price _s._ the cricket on the hearth. a fairy tale of home. the illustrations by daniel maclise, r.a.; clarkson stanfield, r.a.; edwin landseer, r.a.; john leech; and richard doyle. _twenty-second edition._ price _s._ portrait of mr. dickens. engraved by finden, from a painting by daniel maclise, r.a. price--in quarto, plain paper, _s._; folio, india paper, _s._ transcriber's note in this text-version italics have been surrounded with _underscores_ and small capitals have been changed to all capitals. the following corrections have been made, on page "heathfeld" changed to "heathfield" (mr. heathfield," said snitchey) " added (said the client, "but i am) " added (you know, clem.") , changed to . (go away. don't ask) " added (on any account.") and "tim" changed to "ben", (doctor heathfield won't take nothing again, ben."), (whatever family you was to have, ben) and ("what's this?" said ben) "faultered" changed to "faltered" (she faultered here, and stopped.) " added (it is sinking fast.") "recal" changed to "recall" (said marion, "recall your thoughts). otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. i, thou, and the other one [illustration:] i, thou, and the other one a love story by amelia e. barr new york dodd, mead and company _copyright, _, by dodd, mead and company. university press: john wilson and son, john wilson and son, u.s.a. contents chapter page i the athelings ii cecil and edgar iii the lord of exham iv the dawn of love v annabel vyner vi the beginning of the great struggle vii the lost ring viii will she choose evil or good? ix a foolish virgin x trouble comes unsummoned xi life comes and goes the old, old way xii the shadow of sorrow stretched out xiii not yet xiv at the worst xv lady of exham hall at last xvi after twenty golden years i, thou, and the other one chapter first the athelings "_the land is a land of hills and valleys, and drinketh water of the rain of heaven._" beyond thirsk and northallerton, through the cleveland hills to the sea eastward, and by roseberry topping, northward, there is a lovely, lonely district, very little known even at the present day. the winds stream through its hills, as cool and fresh as living water; and whatever beauty there is of mountain, valley, or moorland, farndale and westerdale can show it; while no part of england is so rich in those picturesque manor-houses which have been the homes of the same families for twenty generations. the inhabitants of this region are the incarnation of its health, strength, and beauty,--a tall, comely race; bold, steadfast, and thrifty, with very positive opinions on all subjects. there are no laodiceans among the men and women of the north-riding; they are one thing or another--episcopalians or calvinists; conservatives or radicals; friends or enemies. for friendship they have a capacity closer than brotherhood. once friends, they are friends forever, and can be relied on in any emergency to "aid, comfort, and abet," legally or otherwise, with perhaps a special zest to give assistance, if it just smacks of the "otherwise." of such elements, john atheling, lord of the manors of atheling and belward, was "kindly mixed," a man of towering form and great mental vigour, blunt of speech, single of purpose, leading, with great natural dignity, a sincere, unsophisticated life. he began this story one evening in the may of ; though when he left atheling manor-house, he had no idea anything out of the customary order of events would happen. it is however just these mysterious conditions of everyday life that give it such gravity and interest; for what an hour will bring forth, no man can say; and when squire atheling rode up to the crowd on the village green, he had no presentiment that he was going to open a new chapter in his life. he smiled pleasantly when he saw its occasion. it was a wrestling match; and the combatants were his own chief shepherd and a stranger. in a few moments the shepherd was handsomely "thrown" and nobody knew exactly how it had been done. but there was hearty applause, led by the squire, who, nodding at his big ploughman, cried out, "now then, adam sedbergh, stand up for atheling!" adam flung off his vest and stepped confidently forward; but though a famous wrestler among his fellows, he got as speedy and as fair a fall as the shepherd had received before him. the cheers were not quite as hearty at this result, but the squire said peremptorily,-- "it is all right. hold my horse, jarum. i'll have to cap this match myself. and stand back a bit, men, i want room enough to turn in." he was taking off his fine broadcloth coat and vest as he spoke, and the lad he was to match, stood looking at him with his hands on his hips, and a smile on his handsome face. perhaps the attitude and the smile nettled the squire, for he added with some pride and authority,-- "i would like you to know that i am squire atheling; and i am not going to have a better wrestler than myself in atheling manor, young man, not if i can help it." "i know that you are squire atheling," answered the stranger. "i have been living with your son edgar for a year, why wouldn't i know you? and if i prove myself the better man, then you shall stop and listen to me for half-an-hour, and you may stop a whole hour, if you want to; and i think you will." "i know nothing about edgar atheling, and i am not standing here either to talk to thee, or to listen to thee, but to give thee a fair 'throw' if i can manage it." he stretched out his left hand as he spoke, and the young man grasped it with his right hand. this result was anticipated; there was a swift twist outward, and a lift upward, and before anyone realised what would happen, a pair of shapely young legs were flying over the squire's shoulder. then there rose from twenty yorkshire throats a roar of triumph, and the squire put his hands on his hips, and looked complacently at the stranger flicking the atheling dust from his trousers. he took his defeat as cheerily as his triumph. "it was a clever throw, squire," he said. "try it again, lad." "nay, i have had enough." "i thought so. now then, don't brag of thy wrestling till thou understandest a bit of 'in-play.' but i'll warrant thou canst talk, so i'll give myself a few minutes to listen to thee. i should say, i am twice as old as thou art, but i notice that it is the babes and sucklings that know everything, these days." as the squire was speaking, the youth leaped into an empty cart which someone pushed forward, and he was ready with his answer,-- "squire," he said, "it will take not babes, but men like you and these i see around me, for the wrestling match before us all. what we have to tackle is the british government and the two houses of parliament." the squire laughed scornfully. "they will 'throw' thee into the strongest jail in england, my lad; they will sink thee four feet under ground, if thou art bound for any of that nonsense." "they will have enough to do to take care of themselves soon." "thou art saying more than thou knowest. wouldst thou have the horrors of acted over again, in england? my lad, i was a youngster then, but i saw the red flag, dripping with blood, go round the champ-de-mars." "none of us want to carry the red flag, squire. it is the tri-colour of liberty we want; and that flag--in spite of all tyrants can do--will be carried round the world in glory! when i was in america--" "wilt thou be quiet about them foreign countries? we have bother enough at home, without going to the world's end for more. and i will have no such talk in my manor. if thou dost not stop it, i shall have to make thee." "king william, and all his lords and commons, cannot stop such talk. it is on every honest tongue, and at every decent table. it is in the air, squire, and the winds of heaven carry it wherever they go." "if thou saidst _william cobbett_, thou mightst happen hit the truth. the winds of heaven have better work to do. what art thou after anyway?" "such a parliamentary reform as will give every honest man a voice in the government." "just so! thou wouldst make the door of the house of commons big enough for any rubbish to go through." "the plan has been tried, squire, in america; and as the liberty lads over the sea, bought their freedom--and cheaply--with blood; so we, boys, we will die fighting; or live free, and down with--" "stop there!" roared the squire. "nonsense in poetry is a bit worse than any other kind of nonsense. speak in plain words, or be done with it! do you know what you want?" "that we do. we want the big towns, where working men are the many, and rich men, the few, to be represented. we want all sham boroughs thrown out. what do you think of old sarum sending a member to parliament, when there isn't any old sarum? there used to be, in the days of king edward the first, but there is now no more left of it than there is of the tower of babel. what do you think of the member for ludgershall being not only the member, but the _whole constituency_ of ludgershall? what do you think of gatton having just seven voters, and sending _two_ members to parliament?"--then leaning forward, and with burning looks drinking the wind of his own passionate speech--"what do you think of _leeds! manchester! birmingham! sheffield!_ being _without any representation_!" "my lad," cried the squire, "have not leeds, manchester, birmingham, sheffield, done very well without representation?" "squire, a child may grow to a man without love and without care; but he is a robbed and a wronged child, for all that." "the government knows better than thee what to do with big towns full of unruly men and women." "that is just the question. they are not represented, because they are made up of the working population of england. but the working man has not only his general rights, he has also rights peculiar to his condition; and it is high time these rights were attended to. yet these great cities, full of woollen and cotton weavers, and of fine workers in all kinds of metals, have not a man in parliament to say a word for them." "what is there to say? what do they want parliament to know?" asked the squire, scornfully. "they want parliament to know that they are being forced to work twelve hours a day, for thirty pennies a week; and that they have to pay ten pennies for every four-pound loaf of bread. and they expect that when parliament knows these two facts, something will be done to help them in their poverty and misery. they believe that the people of england will _compel_ parliament to do something." "there are members in both houses that know these things, why do they not speak?--if it was reasonable to do so." "squire, they dare not. they have not the power, even if they had the will. the peers and the great landlords own two-thirds of the house of commons. they _own_ their boroughs and members, just as they _own_ their parks and cattle. one duke returns eleven members; another duke returns nine members; and such a city as manchester cannot return one! if this state of things does not need reforming, i do not know what does." so far his words had rushed rattling on one another, like the ring of iron on iron in a day of old-world battle; but at this point, the squire managed again to interrupt them. from his saddle he had something of an advantage, as he called out in an angry voice,-- "and pray now, what are _you_ to make by this business? is it a bit of brass--or land--or power that you look forward to?" "none of them. i have set my heart on the goal, and not on the prize. let the men who come after me reap; i am glad enough if i may but plough and sow. the americans--" "_chaff_, on the americans! we are north-riding men. we are englishmen. we are sound-hearted, upstanding fellows who do our day's work, enjoy our meat and drinking, pay our debts, and die in our beds; and we want none of thy reform talk! it is all scandalous rubbish! bouncing, swaggering, new-fashioned trumpery! we don't hold with reformers, nor with any of their ways! i will listen to thee no longer. thou mayst talk to my men, if they will be bothered with thee. i'm not afraid of anything thou canst say to them." "i think they will be bothered with me, squire. they do not look like fools." "at any rate, there isn't one reform fool among them; but i'll tell thee something--go to a looking-glass, and thou mayst shake thy fist in the face of one of the biggest fools in england,"--and to the laughter this sally provoked the squire galloped away. for a short distance, horse and rider kept up the pace of enthusiasm; but when the village was left behind, the squire's mood fell below its level; and a sudden depression assailed him. he had "thrown" his man; he had "threeped" him down in argument; but he had denied his son, and he brought a hungry heart from his victory. the bright face of his banished boy haunted the evening shadows; he grew sorrowfully impatient at the memories of the past; and when he could bear them no longer, he struck the horse a smart blow, and said angrily,-- "dal it all! sons and daughters indeed! a bitter, bitter pleasure!" at this exclamation, a turn in the road brought him in sight of two horsemen. "_whew!_ i am having a night of it!" he muttered. for he recognised immediately the portly figure of the great duke of richmoor, and he did not doubt that the slighter man at his side was his son, lord exham. the recognition was mutual; and on the duke's side very satisfactory. he quickened his horse's speed, and cried out as he neared the squire,-- "well met, atheling! you are the very man i wished to see! do you remember exham?" there was a little complimentary speaking, and then the duke said earnestly: "squire, if there is one thing above another that at this time the landed interest ought to do, it is to stand together. the country is going to the devil; it is on the verge of revolution. we must have a majority in the next parliament; and we want you for the borough of asketh. exham has come back from italy purposely to take gaythorne. what do you say?" it was the great ambition of the squire to go to parliament, and the little dispute he had just had with the stranger on the green had whetted this desire to a point which made the duke's question a very interesting one to him; but he was too shrewd to make this satisfaction apparent. "there are younger men, duke," he answered slowly; "and they who go to the next parliament will have a trying time of it. i hear queer tales, too, of parliament men; and the house keeps late hours; and late hours never did suit my constitution." "come, atheling, that is poor talk at a crisis like this. there will be a meeting at the castle on friday--a very important meeting--and i shall expect you to take the chair. we are in for such a fight as england has not had since the days of oliver cromwell; and it would not be like john atheling to keep out of it." "it wouldn't. if there is anything worth fighting for, john atheling will be thereabouts, i'll warrant him." "then we may depend upon you--friday, and two in the afternoon, is the day and the hour. you will not fail us?" "duke, you may depend upon me." and so the men parted; the squire, in the unexpected proposal just made him, hardly comprehending the messages of friendly courtesy which lord exham charged him to deliver to mrs. and miss atheling. "my word! my word!" he exclaimed, as soon as the duke and he were far enough back to back. "won't maude be set up? won't little kitty plume her wings?" and in this vague, purposeless sense of wonder and elation he reached his home. the gates to the large, sweet garden stood open, but after a moment's thought, he passed them, and went round to the farm court at the back of the house. the stables occupied one side of this court, and he left his horse there, and proceeded to the kitchen. the girls were starting the fires under the coppers for the quarterly brewing; they said "the missis was in the houseplace," and the squire opened the door between the two rooms, and went into the houseplace. but the large room was empty, though the lattices were open, and a sudden great waft of honeysuckle fragrance saluted him as he passed them. he noticed it, and he noticed also the full moonlight on the rows of shining pewter plates and flagons, though he was not conscious at the time that these things had made any impression upon him. two or three steps at the west end of this room led to a door which opened into mrs. atheling's parlour; and the squire passed it impatiently. the news of the night had become too much for him; he wanted to tell his wife. but mrs. atheling was not in her parlour. a few ash logs were burning brightly on the hearth, and there was a round table spread for supper, and the candles were lit, and showed him the mistress's little basket containing her keys and her knitting, but neither wife nor daughter were to be seen. "it is always the way," he muttered. "it is enough to vex any man. women are sure to be out of the road when they are wanted; and in the road when nobody cares to see them. wherever has maude taken herself?" then he opened a door and called "maude! maude!" in no gentle voice. [illustration:] in a few minutes the call was answered. mrs. atheling came hurriedly into the room. there was a pleasant smile on her large, handsome face, and she carried in her hands a bowl of cream and a loaf of white bread. "why, john!" she exclaimed, "whatever is to do? i was getting a bit of supper for you. you are late home to-night, aren't you?" "i should think i was--all of an hour-and-a-half late." "but you are not ill, john? there is nothing wrong, i hope?" "if things go a bit out of the common way, women always ask if they have gone wrong. i should think, they might as well go right." "so they might. here is some fresh cream, john. i saw after it myself; and the haver-cake is toasted, and--" "nay, but i'll have my drinking to-night, maude. i have been flustered more than a little, i can tell thee that." "then you shall have your drinking. we tapped a fresh barrel of old ale an hour ago. it is that strong and fine as never was; by the time you get to your third pint, you will be ready to make faces at goliath." "well, maude, if making faces means making fight, there will be enough of that in every county of england soon,--if dukes and radical orators are to be believed." "have you seen the duke to-night?" "i have. he has offered me a seat in the next parliament. he thinks there is a big fight before us." "parliament! and the duke of richmoor to seat you! why, john, i am astonished!" "i felt like i was dreaming. now then, where is kate? i want to tell the little maid about it. it will be a grand thing for kate. she will have some chances in london, and i'll warrant she is yorkshire enough to take the best of them." "kate was at dashwood's all the afternoon; and they were riding races; and she came home tired to death. i tucked her up in her bed an hour ago." "i am a bit disappointed; but things are mostly ordered that way. there is something else to tell you, maude. i saw a stranger on the green throw bill verity and adam sedbergh; and i could not stand such nonsense as that, so i off with my coat and settled him." "you promised me that you would not 'stand up' any more, john. some of them youngsters will give you a 'throw' that you won't get easy over. and you out of practice too." "out of practice! nothing of the sort. what do you think i do with myself on wet afternoons? what could i do with myself, but go to the granary and have an hour or two's play with verity and sedbergh, or any other of the lads that care to feel my grip? i have something else to tell you, maude. i had a talk with this strange lad. he began some reform nonsense; and i settled him very cleverly." "poor lad!" she spoke sadly and absently, and it nettled the squire. "i know what you are thinking, mistress," he said; "but the time has come when we are bound to stick to our own side." "the poor are suffering terribly, john. they are starved and driven to the last pinch. there never was anything like it before." "women are a soft lot; it would not do to give up to their notions." "if you mean that women have soft hearts, it is a good thing for men that women are that way made." "i have not done with my wonders yet. who do you think was with the duke?" "i don't know, and i can't say that i care." "yes, but you do. it was lord exham. he said this and that about you, but i did not take much notice of his fine words." then he rose and pushed his chair aside, and as he left the room added,-- "that stranger lad i had the tussle with to-night says he knows your son edgar--that they have lived and worked together for a year,--a very unlikely thing." "stop a minute, squire. are you not ashamed of yourself to keep this news for a tag-end? why it is the best thing i have heard to-night; and i'll be bound you let it go past you like a waft of wind. what did you ask the stranger about _my_ son?" "nothing. not a word." "it was like your stubborn heart. _my son_ indeed! if ever you had a son, it is edgar. you were just like him when i married you--not as handsome--but very near; and you are as like as two garden peas in your pride, and self-will, and foolish anger. don't talk to me of dukes, and lords, and parliaments, and wrestling matches. i want to hear about _my_ son. if you have nothing to say about edgar, i care little for your other news." "why, maude! whatever is the matter with you? i have lived with you thirty years, and it seems that i have never known you yet." "but i know you, john atheling. and i am ashamed of myself for having made nothing better out of you in thirty years. i thought i had you better shaped than you appear to be." "i shall need nothing but my shroud, when thou, or any other mortal, shapest me." "fiddlesticks! go away with your pride! i have shaped everything for you,--your house, and your eating; your clothes, and your religion; and if i had ever thought you would have fallen into duke richmoor's hands, i would have shaped your politics before this time of day." "now, maude, thou canst easily go further than thou canst come back, if thou dost not take care. thou must remember that i am thy lord and husband." "to be sure, thou hast that name. but thou hast always found it best to do as thy lady and mistress told thee to do; and if ever thou didst take thy own way, sorry enough thou hast been for it. talk of clay in the hands of the potter! clay is free and independent to what a man is in the hands of his wife. now, john, go to bed. i won't speak to thee again till i find out something about _my_ son edgar." "very well, madame." "i have been thy guardian angel for thirty years"--and mrs. atheling put her head in her hands, and began to cry a little. the squire could not bear that argument; he turned backward a few steps, and said in a more conciliatory voice,-- "come now, maude. thou hast been my master for thirty years; for that is what thou meanest by 'guardian angel.' but there is nothing worth crying about. i thought i had brought news that would set thee up a bit; but women are never satisfied. what dost thou want more?" "i want thee to go in the morning and find out all about edgar. i want thee to bring his friend up here. i would like to question him myself." "i will not do it." "then thou oughtest to be ashamed of thyself for as cruel, and stubborn, and ill-conditioned a father as i know of. john, dear john, i am very unhappy about the lad. he went away without a rag of his best clothes. there's the twelve fine linen shirts kitty made him, backstitched and everything, lying in his drawers yet, and his top-coat hanging on the peg in his room, and his hat and cane so natural like; and he never was a lad to take care of his health; and so--" "now, maude, i have humbled a bit to thee many a time; and i don't mind it at all; for thou art only a woman--and a woman and a wife can blackguard a man as no other body has either the right or the power to do--but i will not humble to edgar atheling. no, i won't! he is about as bad a prodigal son as any father could have." "well, i never! putting thy own son down with harlots and swine, and such like!" "i do nothing of the sort, maude. there's all kinds of prodigals. has not edgar left his home and gone away with radicals and reformers, and poor, discontented beggars of all makes and kinds? happen, i could have forgiven him easier if it had been a bit of pleasuring,--wine and a bonny lass, or a race-horse or two. but mechanics' meetings, and pandering to ranting radicals--i call it scandalous!" "edgar has a good heart." "a good heart! a cat and a fiddle! and that friend of his thou wantest me to run after, he is nothing but a bouncing, swaggering puppy! body of me, maude! i will not have this subject named again. if thou thinkest i will ever humble to edgar atheling, thou art off thy horse; for i will not--_never_!" "well, john, as none of thy family were ever out of their senses before, i do hope thou wilt come round; i do indeed!" "make thyself easy on that score. lord! what did the almighty make women of? it confounds me." "to be sure it does. didst thou expect the almighty to tell thee? he has so ordered things that men get wed, and then try and find the secret out. thou hadst better go to bed, john atheling. i see plainly there is neither sense nor reason in thee to-night. i fancy thou art a bit set up with the thought of being sent to parliament by duke richmoor. i wouldn't if i was thee, for thou wilt have to do just what he tells thee to do." "what an aggravating woman thou art!" and with the words he passed through the door, clashing it after him in a way that made mistress atheling smile and nod her handsome head understandingly. she stood waiting until she heard a door clash sympathetically up-stairs, and then she said softly,-- "he did not manage to 'throw' or 'threep' me; if he was cock of the walk down on the green--what fools men are!--i see clear through him--stubborn though--takes after his mother--and there never was a woman more stubborn than dame joan atheling." during this soliloquy she was locking up the cupboards in the parlour and houseplace. then she opened the kitchen door and sharply gave the two women watching the malt mash her last orders; after which she took off her slippers at the foot of the stairs, and went very quietly up them. she had no light, but without any hesitation she turned towards a certain corridor, and gently pushed open a door. it let her into a large, low room; and the moonlight showed in the centre of it a high canopied bedstead, piled with snowy pillows and drapery, and among them, lying with closed eyes, her daughter kate. "kate! kitty darling! are you awake?" she whispered. "mother! yes, dear mother, i am wide awake." "your father has been in one of his tantrums again--fretting and fuming like everything." "poor father! what angered him?" "well, child, i angered him. why wouldn't i? he saw a man in the village who has been living with edgar for a year, and he never asked him whether your poor brother was alive or dead. what do you think of that?" "it was too bad. never mind, mother. i will go to the village in the morning, and i will find the man, and hear all about edgar. if there is any chance, and you want to see him, i will bring him here." "i would like him to come here, kitty; for you know he might take edgar his best clothes. the poor lad must be in rags by this time." "don't fret, mother. i'll manage it." "i knew you would. your father is going to parliament, kate. the duke offers to seat him, and you will get up to london. what do you think of that?" "i am very glad to hear it. father ought to be in parliament. he is such a straight-forward man." "well, i don't know whether that kind of man is wanted there, kate; but he will do right, and speak plain, i have no doubt. i thought i would tell you at once. it is something to look forward to. now go to sleep and dream of what may come out of it,--for one thing, you shall have plenty of fine new dresses--good-night, my dear child." "good-night, mother. you may go sweetly to sleep, for i will find out all about edgar. you shall be at rest before dinner-time to-morrow." then the mother stooped and tucked in the bedclothing, not because it needed it, but because it was a natural and instinctive way to express her care and tenderness. very softly she stepped to the door, but ere she reached it, turned back to the bed, and laying her hand upon kitty's head whispered, "lord exham is home again. he is coming here to-morrow." and kate neither spoke nor moved; but when she knew that she was quite alone, a sweet smile gathered round her lips, and with a gentle sigh she went quickly away to the land of happy dreams. chapter second cecil and edgar early the next morning the squire was in the parlour standing at the open lattices, and whistling to a robin on a branch of the cherry-tree above them. the robin sang, and the squire whistled, scattering crumbs as he did so, and it was this kindly picture which met kate's eyes as she opened the door of the room. to watch and to listen was natural; and she stood on the threshold doing so until the squire came to the last bars of his melody. then in a gay voice she took it up, and sang to his whistling: "_york! york! for my money!_"[ ] ------ [footnote : "york! york for my monie of all the places i ever did see this is the place for good companie except the city of london."] "hello, kate!" he cried in his delight as he turned to her; and as joyously as the birds sing "spring!" she called, "good-morning, father!" "god bless thee, kate!" and for a moment he let his eyes rest on the vision of her girlish beauty. for there was none like kate atheling in all the north-riding; from her sandalled feet to her shining hair, she was the fairest, sweetest maid that ever yorkshire bred,--an adorable creature of exquisite form and superb colouring; merry as a bird, with a fine spirit and a most affectionate heart. as he gazed at her she came close to him, put her fingers on his big shoulders, and stood on tiptoes to give him his morning greeting. he lifted her bodily and kissed her several times; and she said with a laugh,-- "one kiss for my duty, and one for my pleasure, and all the rest are stolen. put me down, father; and what will you do for me to-day?" "what wouldst thou like me to do?" "may i ride with you?" "nay; i can't take thee with me to-day. i am going to squire ayton's, and from there to rudby's, and very like as far as ormesby and pickering." "then you will not be home to dinner?" "not i. i shall get my dinner somewhere." "can i come and meet you?" "thou hadst better not." at this moment mrs. atheling entered, and kate, turning to her, said, "mother, i am not to ride with father to-day. he is going a visiting,--going to get his dinner 'somewhere,' and he thinks i had better not come to meet him." "father is right. father knows he is not to trust to when he goes 'somewhere' for his dinner. for he will call for ayton, and they two will get rudby, and then it will be ormesby, and so by dinner-time they may draw rein at pickering, and pickering will start 'corn laws' and 'protection for the farmers,' and midnight will be talked away. is not that about right, john?" but she asked the question with a smile that proved maude atheling was once more the wise and loving "guardian angel" of her husband. "thou knowest all about it, maude." "i know enough, any way, to advise thee to stand by thy own heart, and to say and do what it counsels thee. pickering is made after the meanest model of a yorkshireman; and when a yorkshireman turns out to be a failure, he is a ruin, and no mistake." "what by that? i can't quarrel with pickering. you may kick up a dust with your neighbour, but, sooner or later, it will settle on your own door-stone. it is years and years since i learned that lesson. and as for pickering's ideas, many a good squire holds the same." "i don't doubt it. whatever the ass says, the asses believe; thou wilt find that out when thou goest to parliament." "are you really going to parliament, father?" "wouldst thou like me to go, kate?" "yes, if i may go to london with you." "it isn't likely i would go without thee. did thy mother tell thee, lord exham has come back from italy to sit for gaythorne." "a long way to come for so little," she answered. "why, father! there are only a few hovels in gaythorne, and all the men worth anything have gone to leeds to comb wool. poor fellows!" "why dost thou say 'poor fellows'?" "because, when a man has been brought up to do his day's work in fields and barns, among grass, and wheat, and cattle, it is a big change to sit twelve hours a day in 'the devil's hole,' for martha coates told me that is what the wool-combing room is called." "there is no sense in such a name." "it is a very good name, i think, for rooms so hot and crowded, and so sickening with the smells of soap, and wool, and oil, and steam. martha says her lads have turned radicals and methodists, and she doesn't wonder. neither do i." "ay; it is as natural as can be. to do his duty by the land used to be religion enough for any yorkshire lad; but when they go to big towns, they get into bad company; and there couldn't be worse company than those weaving chaps of all kinds. no wonder the government doesn't want to hear from the big towns; they are full of a ranting crowd of non-contents." "well, father, if i was in their place, and the question of content, or non-content, was put to me, i should very quickly say, 'non-content.'" "nobody is going to put the question to thee. thy mother has not managed to bring up a daughter any better than herself, i see that. kate, my little maid, lord exham will be here to-day; see that thou art civil enough to him; it may make a lot of difference both to thee and me." "john atheling!" cried his wife, "what a blunderer thou art! why can't thou let women and their ways alone?" when they rose from the breakfast-table, the squire called for his horse, and his favourite dogs, and bustled about until he had mrs. atheling and half-a-dozen men and women waiting upon him. but there was much good temper in all his authoritative brusqueness, and he went away in a little flurry of éclat, his wife and daughter, his men and maid-servants, all watching him down the avenue with a loving and proud allegiance. he was so physically the expression of his place and surroundings that not a soul in atheling ever doubted that the squire was in the exact place to which god almighty had called him. on this morning he was dressed in a riding suit of dark blue broadcloth trimmed with gilt buttons; his vest was white, his cravat white, and his hat of black beaver. as he galloped away, he swept it from his brow to his stirrups in an adieu to his wife and daughter; but the men and women-servants took their share in the courtesy, and it was easy to feel the cheer of admiration, only expressed by their broad smiles and sympathetic glances. as soon as "the master" was out of sight, they turned away, each to his or her daily task; and kate looked at her mother inquiringly. there was an instant understanding, and very few words were needed. "thou hadst better lose no time. he might get away early." "he will not leave until he sees us, mother. that is what he came to atheling for,--i'll warrant it,--and if i don't go to the village, he will come here; i know he will." "kitty, i can't, i can't trust to that--and you promised." "i am going to keep my promise, mother. have my mare at the door in ten minutes, and i will be ready." mrs. atheling had attended to this necessity before breakfast, and the mare was immediately waiting. she was a creature worthy of the beauty she had to carry,--dark chestnut in colour, with wide haunches and deep oblique shoulders. her mane was fine, her ears tremulous, her nostrils thin as parchment, her eyes human in intelligence, her skin like tissue-paper, showing the warm blood pressing against it, and the veins standing clearly out. waiting fretted her, and she pawed the garden gravel impatiently with her round, dark, shining hoofs until kate appeared. then she uttered a low whinny of pleasure, and bent her head for the girl to lay her face against it. [illustration:] a light leap from the groom's hand put kate in her seat, and a lovelier woman never gathered reins in hand. in those days also, the riding dress of women did not disfigure them; it was a garb that gave to kate atheling's loveliness grace and dignity, an air of discreet freedom, and of sweet supremacy,--a close-fitting habit of fine cloth, falling far below her feet in graceful folds, and a low beaver hat, crowned with drooping plumes, shadowing her smiling face. one word to the mare was sufficient; she needed no whip, and kate would not have insulted her friend and companion by carrying one. for a little while they went swiftly, then kate bent and patted the mare's neck, and she instantly obeyed the signal for a slower pace. for kate had seen before them a young man sitting on a stile, and teaching two dogs to leap over the whip which he held in his hand. she felt sure this was the person she had to interview; yet she passed him without a look, and went forward towards the village. after riding half-a-mile she took herself to task for her cowardice, and turned back again. the stranger was still sitting on the stile, and as she approached him she heard a hearty laugh, evoked doubtless by some antic or mistake of the dogs he was playing with. she now walked her mare toward him, and the young man instantly rose, uncovered his head, and, pushing the dogs away, bowed--not ungracefully--to her. yet he did not immediately speak, and kate felt that she must open the conversation. "do you--do you want to find any place?" she asked. "i think you are a stranger--and i am at home here." he smiled brightly and answered, "thank you. i want to find atheling manor-house. i have a message for mrs. and miss atheling." "i am miss atheling; and i am now returning to the house. i suppose that you are the wrestler and orator of last night. my father told us about the contest. mother wishes to talk with you--we have heard that you know my brother edgar--we are very unhappy about edgar. do you know anything of him? will you come and see mother--_now_--she is very anxious?" these questions and remarks fell stumblingly from her lips, one after the other; she was excited and trembling at her own temerity, and yet all the time conscious she was squire atheling's daughter and in her father's manor, having a kind of right to assume a little authority and ask questions. the stranger listened gravely till kate ceased speaking, then he said,-- "my name is cecil north. i know edgar atheling very well. i am ready to do now whatever you wish." "then, mr. north, i wish you would come with me. it is but a short walk to the house; candace will take little steps, and i will show you the way." "thank you." he said only these two words, but they broke up his face as if there was music in them; for he smiled with his lips and his eyes at the same time. kate glanced down at him as he walked by her side. she saw that he was tall, finely formed, and had a handsome face; that he was well dressed, and had an air of distinction; and yet she divined in some occult way that this animal young beauty was only the husk of his being. after a few moments' silence, he began that commonplace chat about horses which in yorkshire takes the place that weather does in other localities. he praised the beauty and docility of candace, and kate hoped she was walking slowly enough; and then cecil north admired her feet and her step, and asked if she ever stumbled or tripped. this question brought forth an eager denial of any such fault, and an opinion that the rider was to blame when such an accident happened. "in a general way, you are right, miss atheling," answered north. "if the rider sits just and upright, then any sudden jerk forward throws the shoulders backward; and in that case, if a horse thinks proper to fall, _he_ will be the sufferer. he may cut his forehead, or hurt his nose, or bark his knees, but he will be a buffer to his rider." "candace has never tripped with me. i have had her four years. i will never part with her." "that is right. don't keep a horse you dislike, and don't part with one that suits you." "do you love horses?" "yes. a few years ago i was all for horses. i could sit anything. i could jump everything, right and left. i had a horse then that was made to measure, and foaled to order. no one borrowed him twice. he had a way of coming home without a rider. but i have something better than horses to care for now; and all i need is a good roadster." "my father likes an irish cob for that purpose." "nothing better. i have one in the village that beats all. he can trot fourteen miles an hour, and take a six-foot wall at the end of it." "do you ride much?" "i ride all over england." she looked curiously at him, but asked no questions; and north continued the conversation by pointing out to her the several points which made candace so valuable. "in the first place," he said, "her colour is good,--that dark chestnut shaded with black usually denotes speed. she has all the signs of a thoroughbred; do you know them?" "no; but i should like to." "they are three things long,--long ears, long neck, and long forelegs. three things short,--short dock, short back, and short hindlegs. three things broad,--broad forehead, broad chest, and broad croup. three things clean,--clean skin, clean eyes, and clean hoofs. then the nostrils must be quite black. if there had been any white in the nostrils of candace, i would have ranked her only 'middling.'" kate laughed pleasantly, and said over several times the long, short, broad, and clean points that went to the making of a thoroughbred; and, by the time the lesson was learned, they were at the door of the manor-house. mrs. atheling stood just within it, and when kate said,-- "mother, this is edgar's friend, mr. cecil north," she gave him her hand and answered: "come in! come in! indeed i am fain and glad to see you!" and all the way through the great hall, and into her parlour, she was beaming and uttering welcomes. "first of all, you must have a bit of eating and drinking," she said, "and then you will tell me about my boy." "thank you. i will take a glass of ale, if it will please you." "it will please me beyond everything. you shall have it from the squire's special tap: ale smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, fourteen years old next twenty-ninth of march. and so you know my son edgar?" "i know him, and i love him with all my heart. he is as good as gold, and as true as steel." "to be sure, he is. i'm his mother, and i ought to know him; and that is what i say. how did you come together?" "we met first at cambridge; but we were not in the same college or set, so that i only knew him slightly there. fortune had appointed a nobler introduction for us. i was in glasgow nearly a year ago, and i wandered down to the green, and was soon aware that the crowd was streaming to one point. edgar was talking to this crowd. have you ever heard him talk to a crowd?" the mother shook her head, and kate said softly: "we have never heard him." she had taken off her hat, and her face was full of interest and happy expectation. "well," continued north, "he was standing on a platform of rough boards that had been hastily put together, and i remembered instantly his tall, strong, graceful figure, and his bright, purposeful face. he was tanned to the temples, his cheeks were flushed, the wind was in his hair, the sunlight in his eyes; and, with fiery precipitance of assailing words, he was explaining to men mad with hunger and injustice the source of all their woes and the remedy to be applied. i became a man as i listened to him. that hour i put self behind me and vowed my life, and all i have, to the cause of reform; because he showed me plainly that parliamentary reform included the righting of every social wrong and cruelty." "do you really think so?" asked kate. "indeed, i am sure of it. a parliament that represented the great middle and working classes of england would quickly do away with both black and white slavery,--would repeal those infamous corn laws which have starved the working-man to make rich the farmer; would open our ports freely to the trade of all the world; would educate the poor; give much shorter hours of labour, and wages that a man could live on. can i ever forget that hour? never! i was born again in it!" "that was the kind of talk that he angered his father with," said mrs. atheling, between tears and smiles. "you see it was all against the land and the land-owners; and edgar would not be quiet, no matter what i said to him." "he _could not_ be quiet. he had _no right_ to be quiet. why! he sent every man and woman home that night with hope in their hearts and a purpose in their wretched lives. oh, if you could have seen those sad, cold faces light and brighten as they listened to him." "was there no one there that didn't think as he did?" "i heard only one dissenting voice. it came from a minister. he called out, 'lads and lasses, take no heed of what this fellow says to you. he is nothing but a dreamer.' instantly edgar took up the word. 'a dreamer!' he cried joyfully. 'so be it! what says the old hebrew prophet? look to your bible, sir. let him that hath a dream tell it. dreamers have been the creators, the leaders, the saviours of the world. and we will go on dreaming until our dream comes true!' the crowd answered him with a sob and a shout--and, oh, i wish you had been there!" kate uttered involuntarily a low, sympathetic cry that she could not control, and mrs. atheling wept and smiled; and when north added, in a lower voice full of feeling, "there is no one like edgar, and i love him as jonathan loved david!" she went straight to the speaker, took both his hands in hers, and kissed him. "thou art the same as a son to me," she said, "and thou mayst count on my love as long as ever thou livest." and in this cry from her heart she forgot her company pronoun, and fell naturally into the familiar and affectionate "thou." fortunately at this point of intense emotion a servant entered with a flagon of the famous ale, and some bread and cheese; and the little interruption enabled all to bring themselves to a normal state of feeling. then the mother thought of edgar's clothing, and asked north if he could take it to him. north smiled. "he is a little of a dandy already," he answered. "i saw him last week at lady durham's, and he was the best dressed man in her saloon." "now then!" said mrs. atheling, "thou art joking a bit. whatever would edgar be doing at lady durham's?" "he had every right there, as he is one of lord durham's confidential secretaries." "art thou telling me some romance?" "i am telling you the simple truth." "then thou must tell me how such a thing came about." "very naturally. i told lord grey and his son-in-law, lord durham, about edgar--and i persuaded edgar to come and speak to the spur and saddle-makers at ripon cross; and the two lords heard him with delight, and took him, there and then, to studley royal, where they were staying; and it was in those glorious gardens, and among the ruins of fountains abbey, they planned together the reform campaign for the next parliament." "the squire thinks little of lord grey," said mrs. atheling. "that is not to be wondered at," answered north. "lord grey is the head and heart of reform. when he was mr. charles grey, and the pupil of fox, he presented to parliament the famous prayer, from the society of friends, for reform. that was thirty-seven years ago, but he has never since lost sight of his object. by the side of such leaders as burke, and fox, and sheridan, his lofty eloquence has charmed the house until the morning sun shone on its ancient tapestries. he and his son-in-law, lord durham, have the confidence of every honest man in england. and he is brave as he is true. more than once he has had the courage to tell the king to his face what it was his duty to do." "and what of lord durham?" asked kate. "he is a masterful man,--a bolder radical than most radicals. all over the country he is known as radical jack. he has a strong, resolute will, but during the last half-year he has leaned in all executive matters upon 'mr. atheling.' indeed, there was enthusiastic talk last week at lady durham's of sending 'mr. atheling' to the next parliament." "my word! but that would never do!" exclaimed mr. atheling's mother. "his father is going there for the landed interest; and if edgar goes for the people, there will be trouble between them. they will get to talking back at each other, and the squire will pontify and lay down the law, even if the king and the law-makers are all present. he will indeed!" "it would be an argument worth hearing, for edgar would neither lose his temper nor his cause. oh, i tell you there will be great doings in london next winter! the duke of wellington and mr. peel will have to go out; and earl grey will surely form a new government." "the squire says earl grey and reform will bring us into civil war." "on the contrary, only reform can prevent civil war. hitherto, the question has been, 'what will the lords do?' now it is, 'what must be done with the lords?' for once, all england is in dead earnest; and the cry everywhere is, 'the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill!' and if we win, as win we must, we shall remember how edgar atheling has championed the cause. george the fourth is on his death-bed," he added in a lower voice. "he will leave his kingdom in a worse plight than any king before him. i, who have been through the land, may declare so much." "the poor are very poor indeed," said mrs. atheling. "kate and i do what we can, but the most is little." "the whole story of the poor is--slow starvation. the best silk weavers in england are not able to make more than eight or nine shillings a week. thousands of men in the large towns are working for two-pence half-penny a day; and thousands have no work at all." "what do they do?" whispered kate. "they die. but i did not come here to talk on these subjects--only when the heart is full, the mouth must speak. i have brought a letter and a remembrance from edgar," and he took from his pocket a letter and two gold rings, and gave the letter and one ring to mrs. atheling, and the other ring to kate. "he bid me tell you," said north, "that some day he will set the gold round with diamonds; but now every penny goes for reform." "and you tell edgar, sir, that his mother is prouder of the gold thread than of diamonds. tell him, she holds her reform ring next to her wedding ring,"--and with the words mrs. atheling drew off her "guard" of rubies, and put the slender thread of gold her son had sent her next her wedding ring. at the same moment kate slipped upon her "heart finger" the golden token. her face shone, her voice was like music: "tell edgar, mr. north," she said, "that my love for him is like this ring: i do not know its beginning; but i do know it can have no end." then north rose to go, and would not be detained; and the women walked with him to the very gates, and there they said "good-bye." and all the way through the garden mrs. atheling was sending tender messages to her boy, though at the last she urged north to warn him against saying anything "beyond bearing" to his father, if they should meet on the battle-ground of the house of commons. "it is so easy to quarrel on politics," she said with all the pathos of reminiscent disputes. "it has always been an easy quarrel, i think," answered north. "don't you remember when joseph wanted to pick a quarrel with his brethren, he pretended to think they were a special commission sent to egypt to spy out the nakedness of the land?" "to be sure! and that is a long time ago. good-bye! and god bless thee! i shall never forget thy visit!" "and we wish 'the cause' success!" added kate. "thank you. success will come. they who _care_ and _dare_ can do anything." with these words he passed through the gates, and mrs. atheling and kate went slowly back to the house, both of them turning the new ring on their fingers. it was dinner-time, but little dinner was eaten. edgar's letter was to read; mr. north to speculate about; and if either of the women remembered lord exham's expected call, no remark was made about it. yet kate was neither forgetful of the visit, nor indifferent to it. a sweet trouble of heart, half-fear and half-hope, flushed her cheeks and sent a tender light into her star-like eyes. in the very depths of her being there existed a feeling she did not understand, and did not investigate. was it memory? was it hope? was it love? she asked none of these questions. but she dressed like a girl in a dream; and just as she was sliding the silver buckle on her belt, a sudden trick of memory brought back to her the rhyme of her childhood. and though she blushed to the remembrance, and would not for anything repeat the words, her heart sang softly to itself,-- "it may so happen, it may so fall, that i shall be lady of exham hall." chapter third the lord of exham on the very edge of the deep, tumbling becks which feed the esk stands exham hall. it is a stately, irregular building of gray stone; and when the sunshine is on its many windows, and the flag of richmoor flying from its central tower, it looks gaily down into the hearts of many valleys, where "the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree, flourish at home in the north countree." otherwise, it has, at a distance, a stern and forbidding aspect. for it is in a great solitude, and the babble of the beck, and the cawing of the rooks, are the only sounds that usually break the silence. the north part was built in a. d. ; and the most modern part in the reign of james the first; and yet so well has it stood the wear and tear of elemental and human life in this secluded yorkshire vale that it does not appear to be above a century old. it was usually tenanted either by the dowager of the family, or the heir of the dukedom; and it had been opened at this time to receive its young lord on his return from italy. so it happened that at the very hour when mrs. and miss atheling were talking with cecil north, piers exham was sitting in a parlour of exham hall, thinking of kate, and recalling the events of their acquaintanceship. it had begun when he was seventeen years old, and kate atheling exactly twelve. indeed, because it was her birthday, she was permitted to accompany an old servant going to exham hall to visit the housekeeper, who was her cousin. this event made a powerful impression on kate's imagination. it was like a visit to some enchanted castle. she felt all its glamour and mystery as soon as her small feet trod the vast entrance hall with its hangings of arras tapestry, and its flags and weapons from every english battlefield. her fingers touched lightly standards from crecy, and agincourt, and the walls of jerusalem; and her heart throbbed to the touch. and as she climbed the prodigiously wide staircase of carved and polished oak, she thought of the generations of knights, and lords and ladies, who had gone up and down it, and wondered where they were. and oh, the marvellous old rooms with their shadowy portraits, and their treasures from countries far away!--shells, and carved ivories, and sandalwood boxes; strange perfumes, and old idols, melancholy, fantastic, odd; musky-smelling things from asia; and ornaments and pottery from africa, their gloomy, primitive simplicity, mingling with pretty french trifles, and italian bronzes, and costly bits of china. it was all like an arabian night's adventure, and hardly needed the touches of romance and superstition the housekeeper quite incidentally threw in: thus, as they passed a very, very tall old clock with a silver dial on a golden face, she said: "happen, you would not believe it, but on every tenth of june, a cold queer light travels all round that dial. it begins an hour past midnight, and stops at an hour past noon. i've seen it myself a score of times." and again, in going through a state bed-room, she pointed out a cross and a candlestick, and said, "they are made from bits of a famous ship that was blown up with an exham, fighting on the spanish main. i've heard tell that candles were once lighted in that stick on his birthday; but there's been no candle-lighting for a century, anyway." and kate thought it was a shame, and wished she knew his birthday, and might light candles again in honour of the hero. with such sights and tales, her childish head and heart were filled; and the mazy gardens, with their monkish fish-ponds and hedges, their old sun-dials and terraces, their ripening berries and gorgeous flower-beds, completed her fascination. she went back to atheling ravished and spellbound; too wrapt and charmed to talk much of what she had seen, and glad when she could escape into the atheling garden to think it all over again. she went straight to her swing. it was hung between two large ash-trees, and there were high laurel hedges on each side. in this solitude she sat down to remember, and, as she did so, began to swing gently to-and-fro, and to sing to her movement,-- "it may so happen, it may so fall, that i shall be lady of exham hall." and as she sung these lines over and over--being much pleased with their unexpected rhyming--the young lord of exham hall came through atheling garden. he heard his own name, and stood still to listen; then he softly parted the laurel bushes, and watched the little maid, and heard her sing her couplet, and merrily laugh to herself as she did so. and he saw how beautiful she was, and there came into his heart a singular warmth and pleasure; but, without discovering himself to the girl, he delivered his message to squire atheling, and rode away. the next morning, however, he managed to carry his fishing-rod to the same beck where edgar atheling was casting his line, and to so charm the warm-hearted youth that meeting after meeting grew out of it. nor was it long until the friendship of the youths included that of the girl; so that it was a very ordinary thing for kate to go with her brother and piers exham to the hill-streams for trout. as the summer grew they tossed the hay together, and rode after the harvest wagons, and danced at the ingathering feast, and dressed the ancient church at christmastide, and so, with ever-increasing kindness and interest, shared each other's joy and sorrows for nearly two years. then there was a break in the happy routine. kate put on long dresses; she was going to a fine ladies' school in york to be "finished," and edgar also was entered at cambridge. piers was to go to oxford. he begged to go to cambridge with his friend; but the duke approved the tory principles of his own university, and equally disapproved of those of cambridge, which he declared were deeply tainted with whig and even radical ideas. perhaps also he was inclined to break up the close friendship between the athelings and his heir. "no one can be insensible to the beauty of kate atheling," he said to the duchess; "and piers' constant association with such a lovely girl may not be without danger." the duchess smiled at the supposition. a royal princess, in her estimation, was not above her son's deserts and expectations; and the squire's little home-bred girl was beneath either her fears or her suppositions. this also was the tone in which she received all her son's conversation about the athelings. "very nice people, i dare say, piers," she would remark; "and i am glad you have such thoroughly respectable companions; but you will, of course, forget them when you go to college, and begin your independent life." and there was such an air of finality in these assertions that it was only rarely piers had the spirit to answer, "indeed, i shall never forget them!" so it happened that the last few weeks of their friendship missed much of the easy familiarity and sweet confidence that had hitherto marked its every change. kate, with the new consciousness of dawning womanhood, was shy, less frank, and less intimate. strangers began to call her "miss" atheling; and there were hours when the little beauty's airs of maidenly pride and reserve made piers feel that any other address would be impertinent. and this change had come, no one knew how, only it was there, and not to be gainsaid; and every day's events added some trifling look, or word, or act which widened the space between them, though the space itself was full of sweet and kindly hours. then there came a day in autumn when kate was to leave her home for the york school. edgar was already in cambridge. piers was to enter oxford the following week. this chapter of life was finished; and the three happy souls that had made it, were to separate. piers, who had a poetic nature, and was really in love--though he suspected it not--was most impressed with the passing away. he could not keep from atheling, and though he had bid kate "good-bye" in the afternoon, he was not satisfied with the parting. she had then been full of business: the squire was addressing her trunks; mrs. atheling crimping the lace frill of her muslin tippets; and kate herself bringing, one by one, some extra trifle that at the last moment impressed her with its necessity. it was in this hurry of household love and care that he had said "good-bye," and he felt that it had been a mere form. perhaps kate felt it also; for when he rode up to atheling gates in the gloaming, he saw her sauntering up the avenue. he thought there was both melancholy and expectation in her attitude and air. he tied his horse outside, and joined her. she met him with a smile. he took her hand, and she permitted him to retain it. he said, "kate!" and she answered the word with a glance that made him joyous, ardent, hopeful. he was too happy to speak; he feared to break the heavenly peace between them by a word. oh, this is the way of love! but neither knew the ways of love. they were after all but children, and the sweet thoughts in their hearts had not come to speech. they wandered about the garden until the gloaming became moonlight, and they heard mrs. atheling calling her daughter. then their eyes met, and, swift as the firing of a gun, their pupils dilated and flashed with tender feeling; over their faces rushed the crimson blood; and piers said sorrowfully, "kate! sweet kate! i shall never forget you!" he raised the hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and went hurriedly away from her. kate was not able to say a word, but she felt the kiss on her hand through all her sleep and dreams that night. indeed five years of change and absence had not chilled its warm remembrance; there were hours when it was still a real expression, when the hand itself was conscious of the experience, and willingly cherished it. all through cecil north's visit, she had been aware of a sense of expectancy. interested as she was in edgar, the thought of lord exham would not be put down. for a short time it was held in abeyance; but when the early dinner was over, and she was in the solitude of her own room, piers put edgar out of consideration. as she sat brushing and dressing her long brown hair, she recalled little incidents concerning piers,--how once in the harvest-field her hair had tumbled down, and piers praised its tangled beauty; how he had liked this and the other dress; how he had praised her dancing, and vowed she was the best rider in the county. he had given her a little gold brooch for a christmas present, and she took it from its box, and said to herself she would wear it, and see if it evoked its own memory in exham's heart. it had been her intention to put on a white gown, but the day darkened and chilled; and then she had a certain shyness about betraying, even to her mother, her anxiety to look beautiful. perhaps piers might not now think her beautiful in any garb. perhaps he had forgotten--everything. so, impelled by a kind of perverse indifference, she wore only the gray woollen gown that was her usual afternoon attire. but the fashion of the day left her lovely arms uncovered, and only veiled her shoulders in a shadowing tippet of lace. she fastened this tippet with the little gold brooch, just where the folds crossed the bosom. she had hastened rather than delayed her dressing; and when mrs. atheling came downstairs in her afternoon black silk dress, she found kate already in the parlour. she had taken from her work-box a piece of fine cambric, and was stitching it industriously; and mrs. atheling lifted her own work, and began to talk of edgar, and edgar's great fortune, and what his father would say about it. this subject soon absorbed her; she forgot everything in it; but kate heard through all the radical turmoil of the conversation the gallop of a strange horse on the gravelled avenue, and the echo of strange footsteps on the flagged halls of the house. [illustration:] in the middle of some grand prophecy for edgar's future, the parlour door was opened, and lord exham entered. he came forward with something of his boyhood's enthusiasm, and took mrs. atheling's hands, and said a few words of pleasant greeting, indistinctly heard in the fluttering gladness of mrs. atheling's reception. then he turned to kate. she had risen, but she held her work in her left hand. he took it from her, and laid it on her work-box, and then clasped both her hands in his. the firm, lingering pressure had its own eloquence. in matters of love, they who are to understand, _do_ understand; and no interpreter is needed. the conversation then became general and full of interest; but from oxford, and france, and italy, it quickly drifted--as all conversation did in those days--to reform. and mrs. atheling could not keep the news that had come to her that day. she magnified edgar with a sweet motherly vanity that was delightful, and to which piers listened with pleasure; for the listening gave him opportunity to watch kate's eloquent face, and to flash his sympathy into it. he thought her marvellously beautiful. her shining hair, her rich colouring, and her large gray eyes were admirably emphasised by the homely sweetness of her dress. after the lavish proportions, and gaily attired women of italy, nothing could have been more enchanting to piers exham than kate's subdued, gray-eyed loveliness, clad in gray garments. the charming background of her picturesque home added to this effect; and this background he saw and realised; but she had also a moral background of purity and absolute sincerity which he did not see, but which he undoubtedly felt. while piers was experiencing this revelation of womanhood, it was not likely kate was without impressions. in his early youth, exham had a slight resemblance to lord byron; and he had been vain of the likeness, and accentuated it by adopting the open collar, loose tie, and other peculiarities of the poetic nobleman. kate was glad to see this servile imitation had been discarded. exham was now emphatically individual. he was not above medium height; but his figure was good, and his manner gentle and courteous, as the manner of all superior men is. grave and high-bred, he had also much of the melancholy, mythical air of an english nobleman, conscious of long antecedents, and dwelling in the seclusion of shaded parks, and great houses steeped in the human aura of centuries. his hair was very black, and worn rather long, and his complexion, a pale bronze; but this lack of red colouring added to the fascination of his dark eyes, which were remarkable for that deep glow always meaning mental or moral power of some kind. they were often half shut--and then--who could tell what was passing behind them? and yet, when all this had been observed by kate, she was sure that something--perhaps the most essential part--had escaped her. this latter estimate was the correct one. no one as yet had learned the heart or mind of piers exham. it is doubtful if he understood his own peculiarities; for he had few traits of distinctive pre-eminence, his character being very like an opal, where all colours are fused and veiled in a radiant dimness. so that, after all, this meeting was a first meeting; and kate did not feel that the past offered her any intelligible solution of the present man. the conversation having drifted to edgar and reform, stayed there. lord exham spoke with a polite, but stubborn emphasis in favour of his own caste, as the governing caste, and thought that the honour and welfare of england might still be left "to those great houses which represented the collective wisdom of the nation." nor was he disturbed when mrs. atheling, with some scorn and temper, said "they represented mostly the collective folly of the nation." he bowed and smiled at the dictum, but kate understood the smile; it was of that peculiarly sweet kind which is equivalent to having the last word. he admitted that some things wanted changing, but he said, "changes could not be manufactured; they must grow." "true," replied kate, "but reform has been growing for sixty years." "that is as it should be," he continued. "you cannot write reforms on human beings, as you write it on paper. two or three generations are not enough." in all that was said--and mrs. atheling said some very strong things--he took a polite interest; but he made no surrender. even if his words were conciliatory, kate saw in his eyes--languid but obstinately masterful--the stubborn, headstrong will of a man who had inherited his prejudices, and who had considered them in the light of his interest, and did not choose to bring them to the light of reason. still the conversation was a satisfactory and delightful vehicle of human revelation. the two women paled and flushed, and grew sad or happy in its possibilities, with a charming frankness. no social subject could have revealed them so completely; and exham enjoyed the disclosures of feeling which this passionate interest evoked,--enjoyed it so much that he forgot the lapse of time, and stayed till tea was ready, and then was delighted to stay and take it with them. mrs. atheling was usually relieved of the duty of making it by kate; and piers could not keep his glowing eyes off the girl as her hands moved about the exquisite derby teacups, and handed him the sweet, refreshing drink. she remembered that he loved sugar; that he did not love cream; that he preferred his toast not buttered; that he liked apricot jelly; and he was charmed and astonished at these proofs of remembrance, so much so indeed that he permitted mrs. atheling to appropriate the whole argument. for this sweet hour he resigned his heart to be pleased and happy. too wise in some things, not wise enough in others, piers exham had at least one great compensating quality--the courage to be happy. he let all other feelings and purposes lapse for this one. he gave himself up to charm, and to be charmed; he flattered mrs. atheling into absolute complaisance; he persuaded kate to walk through the garden and orchard with him, and then, with caressing voice and a gentle pressure of the hand, reminded her of days and events they had shared together. smiles flashed from face to face. her simple sweetness, her ready sympathy, her ingenuous girlish expressions, carried him back to his boyhood. kate shone on his heart like sunshine; and he did not know that it had become dark until he had left atheling behind, and found himself exham-way, riding rapidly to the joyful whirl and hurry of his thoughts. now happiness, as well as sorrow, is selfish. kate was happy and not disposed to talk about her happiness. her mother's insistent questions about lord exham troubled her. she desired to go into solitude with the new emotions this wonderful day had produced; but the force of those lovely habits of respect and obedience, which had become by constant practice a second nature, kept her at her mother's side, listening with sweet credulousness to all her opinions, and answering her hopes with her own assurances. the reward of such dutiful deference was not long in coming. in a short time mrs. atheling said,-- "it has been such a day as never was, kate; and you must be tired. now then, go to bed, my girl, and sleep; for goodness knows when your father will get home!" so kate kissed her mother--kissed her twice--as if she was dimly conscious of unfairly keeping back some pleasure, and would thus atone for her selfishness. and mrs. atheling sat down in the chimney-corner with the gray stocking she was knitting, and pondered her son's good fortune for a while. then she rose and sent the maids to bed, putting the clock an hour forward ere she did so, and excusing the act by saying, "if i don't set it fast, we shall soon be on the wrong side of everything." another hour she sat calmly knitting, while in the dead silence of the house the clock's regular "_tick! tick!_" was like breathing. it seemed to live, and to watch with her. as the squire came noisily into the room it struck eleven. "my word, maude!" he said with great good humour, "i am sorry to keep you waiting; but there has been some good work done to-night, so you won't mind it, i'll warrant." "well now, john, if you and your friends have been at pickering's, and have done any 'good' work there, i will be astonished! you may warrant _that_ with every guinea you have." "we were at rudby's. there were as many as nine landed men of us together; and for once there was one mind in nine men." "that is, you were all for yourselves." "no! dal it, we were all for old england and the constitution! the constitution, just as it is, and no tinkering with it." "i wonder which of the nine was the biggest fool among you?" "thou shouldst not talk in that way, maude. the country is in real danger with this reform nonsense. every reformer ought to be hung, and i wish they were hung." "i would be ashamed to say such words, john. thou knowest well that thy own son is a reformer." "more shame to him, and to me, and to thee! i would have brought up a better lad, or else i would hold my tongue about him. it was thy fault he went to cambridge. i spent good money then to spoil a fine fellow." "now, john atheling, i won't have one word said against edgar in this house." "it is my house." "nay, but it isn't. thou only hast the life rent of it. it is edgar's as much as thine. he will be here, like enough, when i and thou have gone the way we shall never come back." "maybe he will--and maybe he will not. i can break the entail if it suits me." "thou canst not. for, with all thy faults, thou art an upright man, and thy conscience wouldn't let thee do anything as mean and spiteful as that. how could we rest in our graves if there was any one but an atheling in atheling?" "he is a disgrace to the name." "he is nothing of that kind. he will bring the old name new honour. see if he does not! and as for the constitution of england, it is about as great a ruin as thy constitution was when thou hadst rheumatic fever, and couldn't turn thyself, nor help thyself, nor put a morsel of bread into thy mouth. but thou hadst a good doctor, and he set thee up; and a good house of commons--reforming commons--will happen do as much for the country; though when every artisan and every farm labourer is hungry and naked, it will be hard to spread the plaster as far as the sore. it would make thy heart ache to hear what they suffer." "don't bother thy head about weavers, and cutlers, and artisans. if the agriculture of the country is taken care of--" "now, john, do be quiet. there is not an idiot in the land who won't talk of agriculture." "we have got to stick by the land, maude." "the land will take care of itself. if thou wouldst only send for thy son, and have a little talk with him, he might let some light and wisdom into thee." "i have nothing to say on such subjects to edgar atheling--not a word." "if thou goest to parliament, thou mayst have to 'say' to him, no matter whether thou wantest to or not; that is, unless thou art willing to let edgar have both sides of the argument." "what tom-foolery art thou talking?" "i am only telling thee that edgar is as like to go to parliament as thou art." "to be sure--when beggars are kings." "earl grey will seat him--or lord durham; and i would advise thee to study up things a bit. there are new ideas about, john; and thou wouldst look foolish if thy own son had to put any of thy mistakes right for thee." "i suppose, maude, thou still hast a bit of faith left in the bible. and i'll warrant thou knowest every word it says about children obeying their parents, and honouring their parents, and so on. and i can remember thee telling edgar, when he was a little lad, about absalom going against his father, and what came of it; now then, is the bible, as well as the constitution, a ruin? is it good for nothing but to be pitched into limbo, or to be 'reformed'? i'm astonished at thee!" "the bible has nothing to do with politics, john. i wish it had! happen then we would have a few wise-like, honest politicians. the bible divides men into good men and bad men; but thou dividest all men into tories and radicals; and the bible has nothing to do with either of them. i can tell thee that. nay, but i'm wrong; it does say a deal about doing justice, and loving mercy, and treating your neighbour and poor working-folk as you would like to be treated yourself. radicals can get a good deal out of the new testament." "i don't believe a word of what thou art saying." "i don't wonder at that. thou readest nothing but the newspapers; if thou didst happen to read a few words out of christ's own mouth, thou wouldst say, 'thou never heardest the like,' and thou wouldst think the man who quoted them wrote them out of his own head, and call him a radical. get off to thy bed, john. i can always tell when thou hast been drinking rudby's port-wine. it is too heavy and heady for thee. as soon as thou art thyself again, i will tell thee what a grand son thou art the father of. my word! if the duke gives thee a seat at his mahogany two or three times a year, thou art as proud as a peacock; now then, thy son edgar is hob-nobbing with earls and lords every day of his life, and they are proud of his company." the squire laughed boisterously. "it is time, maude," he said, "i went to my bed; and it is high time for thee to wake up and get thy head on a feather pillow; then, perhaps, thou will not dream such raving nonsense." with these scornful words he left the room, and mrs. atheling rose and put away her knitting. she was satisfied with herself. she expected her mysterious words to keep the squire awake with curiosity; and in such case, she was resolved to make another effort to reconcile her husband to his son. but the squire gave her no opportunity; he slept with an indifferent continuity that it was useless to interrupt. perhaps there was intention in this heavy sleep, for when he came downstairs in the morning he went at once to seek kate. he soon saw her in the herb garden; for she had on a white dimity gown, and was standing upright, shading her eyes with her hands to watch his approach. a good breeze of wind from the wolds fluttered her snowy skirts, and tossed the penetrating scents of thyme and marjoram, mint and pennyroyal upward, and she drew them through her parted lips and distended nostrils. "they are so heavenly sweet!" she said with a smile of sensuous pleasure. "they smell like paradise, father." "ay, herbs are good and healthy. the smell of them makes me hungry. i didn't see thee last night, kitty; and i wanted to see thee." "i was so tired, father. it was a day to tire any one. was it not?" "i should say it was," he replied with conscious diplomacy. "now what part of it pleased thee best?" "well, mr. north's visit was of course wonderful; and lord exham's visit was very pleasant. i enjoyed both; but mr. north's news was so very surprising." "to be sure. what dost thou think of it?" "of course, edgar is on the other side, father. in some respects that is a pity." "it is a shame! it is a great shame!" "nay, nay, father! we won't have 'shame' mixed up with edgar. he is in dead earnest, and he has taken luck with him. just think of our edgar being one of lord durham's favourites, of him speaking all over england and scotland for reform. mr. north says there is no one like him in the drawing-rooms of the reform ladies; and no one like him on the reform platforms; and he was made a member of the new reform club in london by acclamation. and earl grey will get him a seat in parliament next election." "who is this mr. north?" "why, father! you heard him speak, and you 'threw' him down on the green, you know." "_oh! him!_ dost thou believe all this palaver on the word of a travelling mountebank?" "he is not a travelling mountebank. i am sure he is a gentleman. you shouldn't call a man names that you have 'thrown' fairly. you know better than that." "i know nothing about the lad. and he does not seem to have told thee anything about himself. as for thy mother--" and then he hesitated, and looked at kate meaningly and inquiringly. "mother liked him. she liked him very much indeed. he brought both mother and me a ring from edgar," and she put out her hand and showed the squire the little gold circle. "trumpery rubbish!" he said scornfully. "it didn't cost half a crown. give it to me, and i will get thee a ring worth wearing,--sapphires or rubies." "i would not part with it for loops and hoops of sapphires and rubies. edgar sent it as a love-token; he wants his money for nobler things than rubies--but, dear me! you can't buy love for any money. oh, father! i do wish you would be friends with edgar." "my little lass, i cannot be friends with any one if he goes against the land, and the king, and the constitution. i am loyal straight through; up and down to-day, and to-morrow, and every day; and i can't bear traitors,--men that would sell their country for a bit of mob power or mob glory. all of edgar's friends and neighbours are for the king and the laws; and it shames me and pains me beyond everything to have a rascal and a radical in my family. the duke and his son are finger and thumb, buckle and belt; and edgar and i ought to be the same. and it stands to reason that a father knows more than his own lad of twenty-six years old. what dost thou think of lord exham?" the question was asked at a venture; but kate had no suspicion, and she answered frankly, "i think very well of him. he talked mostly of politics; but every one does that. it was pleasant to see him at our tea-table again." "to be sure. so he stayed to tea?" "yes; did not mother tell you?" "nay, we were talking of other things. what does he look like?" "i think he is much improved." "well, he ought to be. he must have learned a little, and he has seen a lot since we saw him. come, let us go and find out what kind of a breakfast mother can give us. i am hungry enough for two." so kate lifted the herbs which she had cut into her garden apron, and cruddling close to her father's side, they went in together, with the smell of the thyme and marjoram all about them. mrs. atheling drew it in as they entered the parlour, and then turned to them with a smile. the squire went to her side, and promptly kissed her. it was one of his ways to ignore their little tiffs; and this morning mrs. atheling was also agreeable. she looked into his eyes, and said: "why, john! are you really awake. you lay like the seven sleepers when i got up, and i said to myself, 'john will sleep the clock round,' so kate and i will have our breakfasts." "nay, i have too much to look after, maude." then he turned the conversation to the farms, and talked of the draining to be done, and the meadows to be left for grass; but he eschewed politics altogether, and, greatly to mrs. atheling's wonder, never alluded to the information she had given him about their son edgar. did he really think she had been telling him a made-up story? she could not otherwise understand this self-control in her curious lord. however, sometime during the morning, kate told her about the conversation in the herb garden; then she was content. she knew just where she had her husband; and the little laugh with which she terminated the conversation was her expression of conscious power over him, and of a retaliation quite within her reach. chapter fourth the dawn of love there is always in every life some little part which even those dearer than life to us cannot enter. kate had become conscious of this fact. she hoped her mother would not talk of lord exham; for she did not as yet understand anything about the feelings his return had evoked. she would have needed the uncertain, enigmatical language which comes in dreams to explain the "yes" and the "no" of the vague, trembling memories, prepossessions, and hopes which fluttered in her breast. fortunately mrs. atheling had some dim perception of this condition, and without analysing her reasons, she was aware "it was best not to meddle" between two lives so surrounded by contradictious circumstances as were those of her daughter and lord exham. besides, as she said to her husband, "it was no time for love-making, with the king dying, and the country on the quaking edge of revolution, and starvation and misery all over the land." and the squire answered: "exham has not one thought of love-making. he is far too much in with a lot of men who have the country and their own estates to save. he won't bother himself with women-folk now, whatever he may do in idle times." they had both forgotten, or their own love affair had been of such arcadian straightness and simplicity that they had never learned love's ability to domineer all circumstances that can stir this mortal frame. exham had indeed enlisted himself with passionate earnestness in the cause of his class, which he called the cause of his country--but as the drop of "lucent sirup tinct with cinnamon" is forever flavoured and perfumed by the spice, so exham's life was coloured and prepossessed by the thought of the sweet girl who had been blended with so many of his purest and happiest hours. it was then of kate he thought as he wandered about the stately rooms and beautiful gardens of exham hall. he was not oblivious of his engagements with the duke and the tenants; but he was considering how best to keep these engagements, and yet not miss a visit to her. the dying king, the riotous land, were accidentals of his life and condition; his love for kate atheling was at the root of his existence; it was a fundamental of the past and of the future. for five years of constant change and movement, it had lain in abeyance; but old love is a dangerous thing to awaken; and piers exham found in doing this thing that every event of the past strengthened the influence of the present, and fixed his heart more passionately on the girl he had first found fair; the --"rosebud set with little, wilful thorns, and sweet as english airs could make her," that had sung and swung herself into his affection when she was only twelve years old. he was however quite aware that any proposal to marry kate atheling would meet with prompt opposition from his family; indeed the duke had already mentioned a very different alliance; and in that case, he did not doubt but that squire atheling would be equally resolved never to allow his daughter to enter a home where she would be regarded by any member of it as an intruder. but he put all such considerations for the present behind him. he said to himself, "the first thing to do, is to win kate's love; with that sweet consciousness, i shall be ready for all opposition." for his heart kept assuring him that every trouble and obstacle has an hour in which it may be conquered,--an hour when fate and will become one, and are then as irresistible as a great force of nature. he was sure the hour for this conflict had not yet come. it was the day for a different fight. his home, his estate, his title, and all the privileges of his nobility were in danger. when they were placed beyond peril, then he would fight for the wife he wanted, and win her against all opposition. and who could tell in what way the first conflict would bring forth circumstances to insure victory to the last? he was deeply in love; he was full of hope; he was at atheling some part of every day. if he came in the afternoon, kate's pony was saddled, and they rode far and away, to where the shadows and sunshine elbowed one another on the moors. the golden gorse shed its perfume over their heads; the linnets sang to them of love; they talked, and laughed, and rode swiftly until their pace brought them among the mountains that looked like a titanic staircase going up to the skies. there, they always drew rein, and went slower, and spoke softer, and indeed often became quite silent, and knew such silence to be the sweetest eloquence. then after a little interval piers would say one word, "_kate!_" and kate only answer with a blush, and a smile, and an upturned face. for love can put a volume in four letters; and souls say in a glance what a thousand words would only blunder about. then there was the gallop home, and the merry cup of tea, and the saunter in the garden, and the long tender "good-bye" at the threshold where the damask roses made the air heavy with their sweetness. so lord exham did not find his politics hard to bear with such delicious experiences between whiles. and kate? what were kate's experiences? oh, any woman who has once loved, any pure girl who longs to love, may divine them! for love is always the same. the tale he told kate on the atheling moors and under the damask roses was the very same tale he told high in paradise by the four rivers where the first roses blew. as the summer advanced, startling notes from the outside world forced themselves into this heavenly solitude. on the twenty-sixth of june, king george died; and this death proved to be the first of a series of great events. piers felt it to be a warning bell. it said to him, "the charming overture of love, with its restless pleasure, its delicate hopes and fears, is nearly at an end." he had been with kate for three divine hours. they had sat among the brackens at the foot of the mountains, and been twenty times on the very point of saying audibly the word "love!" and twenty times had felt the delicious uncertainty of non-confession to be too sweet for surrender. nay, they did not reason about it; they simply obeyed that wise, natural self-restraint which knew its own hour, and would not hurry it. [illustration:] with a sigh of rapture, they rose as the sun began to wester, and rode slowly back to atheling. no one was at the door to receive them, and kate wondered a little; but when they entered the hall, the omission was at once understood. there was a large open fireplace at the northern extremity, and over it the atheling arms, with their motto, "_feare god! honour the kinge! laus deo!_" squire atheling was draping this panel with crape; and mrs. atheling stood near him with some streamers of the gloomy fabric in her hands. she pointed to the king's picture--which already wore the emblem of mourning--and said, "the king is dead." "the king lives! god save the king!" replied the squire, instantly. "god save king william the fourth!" then all the clocks in the house were stopped, and draped, and when this ceremony was over, they had tea together. and as it is a yorkshire custom to make funeral feasts, mrs. atheling gave to the meal an air of special entertainment. the royal derby china added its splendour to the fine old silver and delicate damask. there were delicious cheese-cakes, and queen's-cakes, and savoury potted meats, and fresh crumpets; and the ripe red strawberries filled the room with their ethereal scent. no one was at all depressed by the news. if king george was dead, king william was alive; and the squire thought, "everything might be hoped from 'the sailor king.' why!" he said, "he is that good-natured he won't say a bad word about the reformers; though, god knows, they are a disgrace to themselves, and to all that back them up." "there will now be a general election," said exham positively. "to be sure," answered the squire. "and it is to be hoped we may get together a few men that will take the bull of reform by the horns, and put a stop to that nonsense forever in england." "before they do that," said mrs. atheling, "they will have to consider the swarms of people they have brought up in dirt, and rags, and misery. for if they don't, they will bring ruin to the nation that owns them." "king william is a fighter. he will back the law with bayonets, if he thinks it right," said the squire. mrs. atheling looked at him indignantly. then, putting her cup down with unmistakable emphasis, she exclaimed, "the lord forgive thee, john atheling! i'll say one thing, and i'll say it now, and forever, it isn't law backed with bayonets that has saved england so far; it is the bit of religion in every man's heart, and his trust that somehow god will see him righted. if it wasn't for that it would have been all up with our set long ago." "that is just the way women talk politics," said the squire, with some contempt. "if there was nothing else in this reform business to make a man sick, the way they have given in to women, and got them to form clubs and make speeches, is enough to set any sensible person against reform; and if there is no way of talking people into doing what is right--then they must be _made_ to do right; and that's all there is about it." "very well, john; but there are two sides to play at making other people do right. i'll tell you one thing, the government will have to take a lot of things into consideration before they put their trust in backing law with bayonets. it won't work! let them start doing it, and we shall all find ourselves in a wrong box." "i think there is much good sense in what mrs. atheling believes," said lord exham. "and as for the reformers getting round the women of the country," she continued, "that is as it should be. men have done all the governing for six thousand years; and, in the main, they have made a very bad job of it. happen, a few kind-hearted women would help things forwarder. there is going to be some alterations, you may depend upon it, john." "father," said kate, "you had better not argue with mother. she knows a deal more about the country than you think she does; and mother is always right." "to be sure, kate. to hear mother talk, she knows a lot; but if she would take my advice, she would forget a lot, and try and learn something better." then touching his wife's hand, he continued, "maude, i always did believe thou wert in favour of the land, and the law, and the king." "i don't know that i ever said such a thing, john; but thou mayst have believed it. what i _thought_, was another matter. and i am beginning to think aloud now, that makes all the difference." such divided opinions were in every household; and yet, upon the whole, the death of the selfish, intolerant george was a hopeful event. when people are desperate, any change is a promise; and william had a reputation not only for good nature, but also for that love of fair play which is the first article of an englishman's personal creed. he came to the throne on the twenty-sixth of june; and on the twenty-ninth parliament resumed its sittings. mr. brougham led the opposition, and violent debates and unmeasured language distinguished the short session. the duke of wellington, representing the government, was prominently bitter against reform of every kind; and mr. brougham boldly declared that any minister now hoping to rule either by royal favour or military power would be overwhelmed. in less than a month the king prorogued parliament in person, and in so doing, congratulated his country on the tranquillity of europe. forty-eight hours afterwards, france was insurgent, and paris in arms. three days of most determined fighting followed; and then charles the tenth was driven from his throne, and the white flag of the bourbon tyranny gave place to the tri-colour of liberty. now if there had been a direct electric or magnetic current between england and the continent, the effect could not have been more sympathetically startling; and these three memorable "days of july" in paris impelled forward, with an irresistible impetus, the cause of freedom in england. the nobility and the landed gentry were gravely aware of this effect; and the great middle class, and the working men in every county, were stirred to more hopeful and united action. far and wide the people began anew to express, in various ways, their determination to have the tory ministers dismissed, and a liberal government in favour of reform inaugurated. for the first time the squire was anxious. for the first time he saw and felt positive symptoms of insubordination among his own people. pickering's barns were burnt one night; and a few nights afterwards, rudby's hay-ricks. squire atheling was a man of prompt action; one well disposed to do in his own manor what he expected the government to do in the country,--take the reform bull by the horns. he sent for all his labourers to meet him in the farm court at atheling; and when they were gathered there, he stood up on the stone wall which enclosed one side of it and said in his strong, resonant voice,-- "now, men of atheling manor and village, you have been sulky and ugly for two or three weeks. you aren't sulky and ugly without knowing _why_ you are so. if you are yorkshiremen worth your bread and bacon, you will out with your grievance--whatever it is. tom gisburn, what is it?" "we can't starve any longer, squire. we want two shillings a week more wages. me and mine would hev been in t' churchyard if thy missis hed been as hard-hearted as thysen." "i will give you all one shilling a week more." "nay, but a shilling won't do. thy missis is good, and miss kate is good; but we want our rights; and we hev made up our minds that two shillings a week more wage will nobbut barely cover them. we are varry poor, squire! varry poor indeed!" the man spoke sadly and respectfully; and the squire looked at him, and at the stolid, anxious faces around with an angry pity. "i'll tell you what, men," he continued; "everything in england is going to the devil. englishmen are getting as ill to do with as a lot of grumbling, contrary, bombastic frenchers. if you'll promise me to stand by the king, and the land, and the laws, and give these trouble-making reformers a dip in the horse-pond if any of them come to atheling again--why, then, i will give you all--every one of you--two shillings a week more wage." "nay, squire, we'll not sell oursens for two shillings a week; not one of us--eh, men?" and gisburn looked at his fellows interrogatively. "sell oursens!" replied the squire's blacksmith, a big, hungry-looking fellow in a leather apron; "no! no, squire! thou oughtest to know us better. sell oursens! not for all the gold guineas in yorkshire! we'll sell thee our labour for two shilling a week more wage, and thankful; but our will, and our good-will, thou can't buy for any money." there was a subdued cheer at these words from the men, and the squire's face suddenly lightened. his best self put his lower self behind him. "sawley," he answered, "thou art well nicknamed 'straight-up!' and i don't know but what i'm very proud of such an independent, honourable lot of men. such as you won't let the land suffer. remember, you were all born on it, and you'll like enough be buried in it. stand by the land then; and if two shillings a week more wage will make you happy, you shall have it,--if i sell the gold buttons off my coat to pay it. are we friends now?" a hearty shout answered the question, and the squire continued, "then go into the barn, and eat and drink your fill. you'll find a barrel of old ale, and some roast beef, and wheat bread there." in this way he turned the popular discontent from atheling, and doubtless saved his barns and hay-ricks; but he went into his house angry at the men, and angry at his wife and daughter. they had evidently been aiding and succouring these discontents and their families; and--as he took care to point out to kate--evil and not good had been the result. "i have to give now as a right," he said, "what thee and thy mother have been giving as a kindness!" and his temper was not improved by hearing from the barn the noisy "huzzas" with which the name of "the young squire" was received, and his health drank. "wife, and son, and daughter! all of them against me! i wonder what i have done to be served in such a way?" he exclaimed sorrowfully. and then kate forgot everything about politics. she said all kinds of consoling words without any regard for the reform bill, and, with the sweetest kisses, promised her father whatever she thought would make him happy. it is an unreasonable, delightful way that belongs to loving women; and god help both men and women when they are too wise for such sweet deceptions! yet the squire carried a hot, restless heart to the duke's meeting that night; and he was not pleased to find that the tactics he had used with his labourers met with general and great disapproval. those men who had already suffered loss, and those who knew that they had gone beyond a conciliating policy, said some ugly words about "knuckling down," and it required all the duke's wisdom and influence to represent it as "a wise temporary concession, to be recalled as soon as the election was over, and the tory government safely reinstalled." upon the whole, then, squire atheling had not much satisfaction in his position; and every day brought some new tale of thrilling interest. all england was living a romance; and people got so used to continual excitement that they set the homeliest experiences of life to great historical events. during the six weeks following the death of king george the fourth occurred the new king's coronation, the dissolution of parliament, the "three days of july," and the landing of the exiled french king in england; all of these things being accompanied by agrarian outrages in the farming districts, the destruction of machinery in the manufacturing towns, and constant political tumults wherever men congregated. the next six weeks were even more restless and excited. the french king was a constant subject of interest to the reformers; for was he not a stupendous example of the triumph of liberal principles? he was reported first at lulworth castle in devonshire. then he went to holyrood palace in edinburgh. the scotch reformers resented his presence, and perpetually insulted him, until sir walter scott made a manly appeal for the fallen tyrant. and while the bourbon sat in holyrood, a sign and a text for all lovers of freedom, england was in the direst storm and stress of a general election. the men of the fen country were rising. the universities were arming their students. there was rioting in this city and that city. the tories were gaining. the reformers were gaining. both sides were calling passionately on the women of the country to come to their help, without it seeming to occur to either that if women had political influence, they had also political rights. but the end was just what all these events predicated. when the election was over, the tory government had lost fifty votes in the house of commons; but piers exham was member of parliament for the borough of gaythorne, and squire atheling was the representative of the twenty-two tory citizens of the village of asketh. chapter fifth annabel vyner the first chapter of kate's and piers' love-story was told to these stirring events. they were like a _trumpet obligato_ in the distance thrilling their hearts with a keener zest and a wider sympathy. true, the sympathy was not always in unison, for piers was an inflexible partisan of his own order, yet in some directions kate's feelings were in perfect accord. for instance, at exham hall and at atheling manor-house, there was the same terror of the mob's firebrand, and the same constant watch for its prevention. these buildings were not only the cherished homes of families; they were houses of national pride and record. yet many such had perished in the unreasoning anger of multitudes mad with suffering and a sense of wrong; and the squire and the lord alike kept an unceasing watch over their habitations. on this subject, all were unanimous; and the fears, and frights, and suspicions relating to it drew the families into much closer sympathy. after the election was over, there was a rapid subsidence of public feeling; the people had taken the first step triumphantly; and they were willing to wait for its results. then the richmoor family began to consider an immediate removal to london, and, as a preparatory courtesy, gave a large dinner party at the castle. as kate was not yet in society, she had no invitation; but the squire and mrs. atheling were specially honoured guests. "the squire has been of immense service to me," said richmoor to his duchess. "a man so sincere and candid i have seldom met. he has spoken well for us, simply and to the point, and i wish you to pay marked attention to mrs. atheling." "of course, if you desire it, i will do so. who was mrs. atheling? is she likely to be detrimental in town or troublesome?" "she is the daughter of the late thomas hardwicke, of hardwicke--as you know, a very ancient county family. she had a good fortune; in fact, she brought the squire the manor of belward." "in appearance, is she presentable?" "she was very handsome some years ago. i have not seen her for a long time." "i dare say she has grown stout and red; and she will probably wear blue satin in honour of her husband's tory principles. these county dames always think it necessary to wear their party colours. i counted eleven blue satin dresses at our last election dinner." "even if she does wear blue satin, i should like you to be exceedingly civil to her." "i suppose you know that piers has been at atheling a great deal. i heard in some way that--in fact, duke, that piers and miss atheling were generally considered lovers." the duke laughed. "i think i understand piers," he said. "these incendiary terrors have drawn people together; and there has also been the election business as well. many perfectly necessary natural causes have taken piers to atheling." "miss atheling, for instance!" "oh, perhaps so! why not? when i was a young man, i thought it both necessary and natural to have a pretty girl to ride and walk with. but riding and walking with a lovely girl is one thing; marrying her is another. piers knows that he is expected to marry annabel vyner; he knows that for many reasons it will be well for him to do so. and above all other considerations, piers puts his family and his caste." the duke's absolute confidence in his son satisfied the duchess. she looked upon her husband as a man of wonderful penetration and invincible wisdom. if he was not uneasy about piers and miss atheling, there was no necessity for her to carry an anxious thought on the subject; and she was glad to be fully released from it. yet she had more than a passing curiosity about kate's mother. the squire she had frequently seen, both in the pink of the hunting-field and in the quieter dress of the dinner-table. but it so happened that she had never met mrs. atheling; and, on entering the great drawing-room, her eyes sought the only lady present who was a stranger to her. mrs. atheling was standing at the duke's side; and she went directly to her, taking note, as she did so, of the beauty, style, and physical grace that distinguished the lady. she saw that she wore a gown--not of blue--but of heavy black satin, that it fell away from her fine throat and shoulders, and showed her arms in all their exquisite form and colour. she saw also that her dark hair was dressed well on the top of the head in _bouillonés_ curls, and that the only ornament she wore was among them,--a comb of wrought gold set with diamonds,--and that otherwise neither brooch nor bracelet, pendant nor ruffle of lace broke the noble lines of her figure or the rich folds of her gown. and the duchess was both astonished and pleased with a toilet so distinguished; she assured herself in this passing investigation that mrs. atheling was quite "presentable," and also probably desirable. the favourable impression was strengthened in that hour after dinner when ladies left to their own devices either become disagreeable or confidential. the duchess and mrs. atheling fell into the latter mood, and their early removal to london was the first topic of conversation. "we have no house in town," said mrs. atheling; "but the squire has rented one that belonged to the late general vyner. it is in very good condition, i hear, though we may have to stay a few days at '_the clarendon_.'" "how strange! i mean that it is strange you should have rented the general's house. did you make the arrangement with the duke?" "no, indeed; with a mr. pownell who is a large house agent." "mr. pownell attends to the duke's london property. i am sure he will be delighted to know his old friend's home is in such good hands. i wonder if you have heard that the duke is general vyner's executor and the guardian of his daughter?" mrs. atheling made a motion indicative of her ignorance and her astonishment, and the duchess continued, "it is quite a charge everyway; but there was a life-long friendship between the two men, and annabel will come to us almost like a daughter." "a great charge though," answered mrs. atheling, "especially if she is yet to educate." "her education is finished. she is twenty-two years of age. it is her wealth which will make my position an anxious one. it is not an easy thing to chaperon a great heiress." "and if she is beautiful, that will add to the difficulty," said mrs. atheling. "i have never seen miss vyner. i cannot tell you whether she is beautiful or not so. she joins us in london, and my first duty will be to present her at the next drawing-room." a little sensitive pause followed this statement,--a pause so sensitive that the duchess divined the desire in mrs. atheling's heart; and mrs. atheling felt the hesitancy and wavering inclination weighing her wish in the thoughts of the duchess. a sudden, straight glance from mrs. atheling's eyes decided the question. "i should like to present miss atheling at the same time, if you have no objection," she added. and mrs. atheling's pleasure was so great, and her thanks so candid and positive, that the duchess accepted the situation she had placed herself in with apparent satisfaction. yet she wondered _why_ she had made the offer. she felt as if the favour had been obtained against her will. she was half afraid in the very moment of the proposal that she was doing an imprudent thing. but when she had done it, she never thought of withdrawing from a position she must have taken voluntarily. on the contrary, she affected a great interest in the event, and talked of "the ceremonies miss atheling must make herself familiar with," of the probable date at which the function would take place, and of the dress and ornaments fitting for the occasion. "and the young people must meet each other as soon as possible," she continued. then the gentlemen entered the drawing-room, and the groups scattered. the duchess left mrs. atheling; and lord exham took the chair she vacated. and the happy mother was far too simple, and too single-hearted to keep her pleasure to herself. she told exham of the honour intended kate, and was a little dashed by the manner in which he heard the news. he was ashamed of it himself; but he could not at once conquer the feeling of jealousy which assailed him. it was the first time that the image of kate had been presented to him in company with any but piers exham; and it gave him real suffering to associate it with the attention and admiration her beauty was sure to challenge from all and sundry who would be present at a court drawing-room. however, he made the necessary assurances of pleasure, and mrs. atheling was not a woman who went motive hunting. she took a friend's words at their face value. of course kate was delighted, and the squire perhaps more so; for though he pretended to think it "all a bit of nonsense," he opened his purse-strings wide, and told his wife and daughter to "help themselves." so the last few days at atheling were set to the dreams, and hopes, and expectations of that gay social life which always has a charm for youth. the clash of party warfare, the wailing of want, the insistent claims of justice,--all these voices were temporarily hushed. they had become monotonous and, to kate, suddenly uninteresting. what was the passing of a reform bill to a girl of nineteen, when there was such a thing as a court drawing-room in expectation? it made her restless and anxious during the two weeks occupied by their removal from atheling, and their settlement in london. and though the great city was full of wonder and interest, and the new splendours of the vyner mansion very satisfactory, yet she could not enjoy these things until there was some token that the duchess remembered, and intended to fulfil her promise. if only piers had been in london! but piers had been detained in yorkshire, and was not expected until the formal opening of parliament, so that kate could only speculate, and wish, and fear, and in so doing discount her present, and forestall her future pleasures. so prodigal is youth of happiness and feeling! however, at the end of october, mrs. atheling received a letter from the duchess. it reminded her of the drawing-room, and asked miss atheling's presence that evening in order to meet miss vyner, and consult with her about the dresses to be worn. the visit was to be perfectly informal; but even an informal visit to richmoor house was a great event to kate. and how pretty she was when she came into her father's and mother's presence, dressed for the occasion! mrs. atheling looked at her with a smile of satisfaction, and the squire instantly rose, and took her on his arm to the waiting carriage. this carriage was the squire's pet extravagance, and there was not a more splendidly-appointed equipage in london. its horses were of the finest that yorkshire breeds; the servant's liveries irreproachable in taste; and when he saw his daughter's white figure against its rich, blue linings he was satisfied with his outlay. richmoor house was soon reached, and kate looked with wonder at its noble frontage, and its stone colonnades. how much greater was her wonder when she stepped into its interior vestibule! this vestibule was eighty-two feet long, by more than twelve feet wide; it was ornamented with doric columns and fine carvings, and at each end there was a colossal staircase. up one of these stately ways kate was conducted into a gallery full of fine paintings, and forming the corridor on which the one hundred and fifty rooms appropriated to the use of the family opened. here, one servant after another escorted her, until she was left with a woman-in-waiting, who led her into a tiring-room and then assisted kate's own maid to remove her mistress's wrap and hood, and tie in pretty bows her white satin sandals. the simple girl felt as if she was in a dream, and she accepted all this attention with the calm composure of a dream-maiden. it was just like one of the old fairy tales she used to live in. she was an enchanted princess in an enchanted castle, and all she had to do, was to be passive in the hands of her destiny. transient and illogical as this feeling was, it gave to her manner a singular air of serene confidence, and the duchess noticed and approved it. she was relieved at once from any apprehension of anything _malapropos_ in the presence. she went forward to meet kate, and was both astonished and pleased at her _protegée's_ appearance. the white llama in which she was gowned, its simple trimming of white satin, and its pretty accessories of white slippers and gloves satisfied both the pride and the taste of the duchess. any less attention to costume she would have felt as a want of respect towards herself; any more extravagant display would have indicated vulgar display and a due want of subordination to her own rank and age. but kate offended no feeling, and she took her by the hand and led her down the long room. at its extremity there was a group of girls: one was standing; the others were sitting on a sofa before her. the eyes of all were fastened on kate as she approached; but she was not disturbed by this scrutiny. she had all the strength and assurance which comes from a proper and moderate toilet; and she was even competent to do her own share of observation. [illustration:] the three girls sitting on the sofa offered no points of remark or speculation. they were the three ladies anne, mary, and charlotte warwick; and all alike had the beauty of youth, the grace of noble nurture, and the pretty garments indicative of their station. but the young lady standing was of a different character. her personality pervaded the space in which she stood; she domineered with a look; and kate knew instinctively that this girl was annabel vyner. the knowledge came with a little shock, a sudden failing of heart, a presentiment. she had given her hand with a pleasant impulse, and without consideration, to the ladies warwick; she did not offer it to annabel; and yet she was not aware of the omission. all of these girls were intending to make a court _début_, and at that moment were discussing its necessities. kate at first took little part in this discussion. mrs. atheling had already decided on the costume she thought most suitable for her daughter; and kate was quite satisfied with her choice. miss vyner was however dictating to lady charlotte warwick what she ought to wear; and kate watched with a curious wonder this girlish oracle, laying down laws for others her equal in age, and far more than her equal in rank and social position. miss vyner was not beautiful; but she possessed an irresistible fascination. she was large, and rather heavy. she reminded one of a roughhewn granite statue of old egypt; and she was just as magnificently imposing. her hair was long, and strong, and wavy; her eyes very black and intrepid, but capable of liquid, languishing expressions, full of enchantment. her nose, though thick and square at the end, had wide, sensitive nostrils; and her fine, red lips showed white and dazzling teeth. but it was the sense of power and plenitude of life which she possessed which gave her that natural authority, whose influence all felt, and few analysed or disputed. she was quite aware that standing was a becoming posture, and that it gave to her a certain power over the girlish figures who seemed to sit at her feet. it was not long, however, before kate felt an instinctive rebellion against the position assigned her; she knew that it put her in an unfair subordination; and she rose from her chair, and stood leaning against the broadwood piano at her side. the action arrested miss vyner's attention. she stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, and, looking steadily at kate, said suavely, as she pushed the chair slightly,-- "do sit down, miss atheling." "no, thank you," answered kate. "i have been sitting all day. i am tired of sitting." then annabel gave her a still more searching look, and something came into kate's eyes which she understood; for she smiled as she went on with her little dictation; but the thought in her heart was, "so you have thrown down the glove, miss atheling!" nothing however of this incipient defiance was noticeable; and annabel's attention was almost immediately afterwards diverted from her companions. for in the middle of one of her fine descriptions of an indian court, she observed a sudden loss of interest, and a simultaneous direction of every glance towards the upper end of the room. the duchess was approaching, and with her, a young man in dinner costume. a crimson flush rushed over kate's neck and face; she dropped her eyes, but could not restrain the faint smile that came and went like a flash of light. "it is lord exham," she said in a low voice to anne warwick; and the ladies nodded slightly, and continued a desultory conversation, they hardly knew what about. but annabel stood erect and silent. she glanced once at kate, and then turned the full blaze of her dazzling eyes upon the advancing nobleman. for once, their magnetic rays were ineffectual. the duchess, on her son's arrival, had notified him of the ladies present; and kate atheling was the lodestar which drew his first attention. he had in the button-hole of his coat a few michaelmas daisies, and after speaking to the other ladies, he put them into kate's hand, saying, "i gathered them in atheling garden. do you remember the bush by the swing in the laurel walk? i thought you would like to have them." and kate said "thank you" in the way that piers perfectly understood and appreciated, though it seemed to be of the most formal kind. the dinner was a family dinner, but far from being tiresome or dull. the duke and lord exham had both adventures to tell. the latter in passing through a little market-town had seen the hungry people take the wheat from the grain-market by force, and said he had been delayed a little by the circumstance. "but why?" asked the duchess. "there were some arrests made; and after all, one cannot see hungry men and women punished for taking food." there was silence after this remark, and kate glanced at exham, whose veiled eyes, cast upon the glass of wine he held in his hand, betrayed nothing. but when he lifted them, they caught something from kate's eyes, and an almost imperceptible smile passed from face to face. no one asked exham for further particulars; and the duke hurriedly changed the subject. "where do you think i took lunch to-day?" he asked. "at stephen's," answered the duchess. "not likely," he replied. "i am neither a fashionable officer, nor a dandy about town. if i had asked for lunch there, the waiters would have stared solemnly, and told me there was no table vacant." "as you want horses, perhaps you went to limmers," said exham. "no. i met a party of gentlemen and ladies going to whitbread's brewery, and i went with them. we had a steak done on a hot malt shovel, and plenty of stout to wash it down. there were quite a number of visitors there; it has become one of the sights of london. then i rode as far as the philosophical society, and heard a lecture on a new chemical force." "the archbishop does not approve of your devotion to science," said the duchess, reprovingly. "i know it," he answered. "all our clergy regard science as a new kind of sin. i saw the archbishop later, at a very interesting ceremony,--the deposition in whitehall chapel of twelve standards taken in andalusia by the personal bravery of our soldiers." "i wish i had seen that ceremony," said kate. "and i wish i had myself been one of the heroes carrying the standard i had won," added annabel. the duke smiled at the pretty volunteers, and continued, "it was a very interesting sight. three royal dukes, many generals and foreign ambassadors, and the finest troops in london were present. we had some good music, and a short religious service, and then the archbishop deposited the flags on each side of the altar." "i like these military ceremonies," said the duchess. "i shall not forget the proclamation of peace after waterloo. what a procession of mediæval splendour it was!" "i remember it, though i was only a little boy," said exham. "the proclamation was read three times,--at temple bar, at charing cross, and at the royal exchange. the blast of trumpets before and after each reading!--i can hear it yet!" "and the thanksgiving at st. paul's after the procession was just as impressive," continued the duchess. "the prince regent and the duke of wellington walked together, and wellington carried the sword of state. it was a gorgeous festival set to trumpets and drums, and the roll of organ music, and the seraphic singing of '_lo! the conquering hero comes_.' the duke could have asked england for anything he desired that day." "yet he is very unpopular now," said kate, timidly. "even my father thinks he carries everything with too high a hand." "his military training must be considered, miss atheling," said the duke. "and the country needs a tight rein now." "he may hold it too tight," said exham, in a low voice. then the conversation was turned to the theatres, and while they were talking, squire atheling was introduced. he had called to escort his daughter home; and after a short delay, kate was ready to accompany him. the duke and the squire--who were deep in some item of political news--went to the entrance hall together; and lord exham took kate's hand, and led her down the great stairway. it was now lighted with a profusion of wax candles in silver candelabra. they were too happy to speak, and there was no need of speech. like two notes of music made for each other, though dissimilar, they were one; and the melody in the heart of piers was the melody in the heart of kate. the unison was perfect; why then should it be explained? very slowly they came down the low broad steps, hardly feeling their feet upon them; for spirit mingled with spirit, and gave them the sense of ethereal motion. when they reached the vestibule, kate's maid advanced and threw round her a wrap of pink silk, trimmed with minever; and as piers watched the shrouding of her rose-like face in the pretty hood, a sudden depression came like a cloud over him. oh, yes! true love has these moments of deep gloom, in which intense feeling suspends both movement and speech. he could only look into the warm, secret foldings of silk and fur which hid kate's beauty; he had not even the common words of courtesy at his command; but kate divined the much warmer "good-night" that was masked by the formal bow and uncovered head. after the departure of the athelings, father and son walked silently up the stairs together; but at the top of them, the duke paused and said, "piers, the king opens parliament on the second of november. we have only three days' truce. then for the fight." "we have foemen worthy of our steel. grey--durham--brougham--russel and graham. they will not easily be put down." "we shall win." "perhaps. the house of lords is very near of one mind. will you come to my smoking-room and have a pipe of turkish?" "i must see the ladies again; afterwards i may do so." with these words they parted, and piers went dreamily along the state corridor. in its dim, soft light, he suddenly saw miss vyner approaching him. he was thinking of kate; but he had no wish to escape annabel. he was even interested in watching her splendid figure in motion. only from some indian loom had come that marvellous tissue of vivid scarlet with its embroidery of golden butterflies. it made her look like some superb flower. she smiled as she reached piers, and said,-- "i only am left to wish you a 'good-night and happy dreams.'the ladies warwick were sleepy, the duchess longing to be rid of such a lot of tiresome girls, and i--" "what of 'i'?" he asked with a sudden, unaccountable interest. "i am going to the land where i always go in sleep. i shut my eyes, and i am there." "then, 'good-night.'" "good-night." she put her little, warm, brown hand, flashing with gems, into his; and then with one long, unwinking gaze--in which she caught piers' gaze--she strangely troubled the young man. his blood grew hot as fire; his heart bounded; his face was like a flame; and he clasped her hand with an unconscious fervour. she laughed lightly, drew it away, and passed on. but as she did so, the indian scarf she had over her arm trailed across his feet, and thrilled him like some living thing. he had a sense of intoxication, and he hurried forward to his own room, and threw himself into a chair. "it is that strange perfume that clings around her," he said in a voice of controlled excitement. "i perceived it as soon as i met her. it makes me drowsy. it makes me feverish--and yet how delicious it is!" he threw his head backward, and lay with closed eyes, moving neither hand nor foot for some minutes. then he rose, and began to walk about the room, lifting and putting down books, and papers, and odd trifles, as they came in the way of his restless fingers. and when at last he found speech, it was to reproach himself--his real self--the man within him. "you, poor, weak, false-hearted lover!" he muttered bitterly. "piers exham! you hardly needed temptation. i am ashamed of you! ashamed of you, piers! oh, kate! i have been false to you. it was only a passing thought, kate; but you would not have given to another even a passing thought. forgive me. _o thou dear one!_" "thou dear one!" these three words had a meaning of inexpressible tenderness to him. for one night,--when as yet their love was but learning to speak,--one warm, sweet july night, as they stood under the damask roses, he said to kate,-- "how beautiful are the words and tones which your mother uses to the squire. she does not speak thus to every one." "no," replied kate. "to strangers mother always says '_you_.' to those she loves, she says '_thou_.'" and piers answered, "dear--if only--" and then he let the silence speak for him. but kate understood, and she whispered softly,-- "_thou dear one!_" it seemed to piers as if no words to be spoken in time or in eternity could ever make those three words less sweet. they came to his memory always like a sigh of soft music on a breath of roses. and so it was at this hour. they filled his heart, they filled his room with soft delight. he stood still to realise their melody and their fragrance, the music of their sweet inflections, the perfume of their pure and perfect love. "_thou dear one!_" he said these words again and again. "it has always been kate and piers! always _i_ and _thou_--and as for _the other one_--" this mental query, utterly unthought of and uncalled for, very much annoyed him. who or what was it that suggested "the other one"? not himself; he was sure of that. he went to his father, and they talked of the king, and the ministers, and the great mr. brougham, whom both king and ministers feared--but all the time, and far below the tide of this restless conversation, piers heard this very different one,-- "_i_ and _thou_!" "and _the other one_." "there is no 'other one.'" "annabel." "no." "if annabel were destiny?" "will is stronger than destiny." "if annabel should be will." "love is stronger than will." "it is kate and piers." "and the other one." he grew impatient at this persistence of an idea that he had not evoked, that he had, in fact, denied. but he could not exorcise it. his very dreams were made and mingled of the two girls,--kate, whom he loved, annabel, who came like a splendid destiny to trouble love. in the pageant of sleep, he lost that will-power which controlled his life; he was tossed to-and-fro between blending shadows: kate was annabel; annabel was kate; and the fretful, unreasonable drama went on through restless hours, always to the same tantalising refrain,-- "_i, thou, and the other one!_" chapter sixth the beginning of the great struggle there is no eternity for nations. individuals may be punished hereafter; nations are punished here. in the first years of the nineteenth century, englishmen were mad on war; and though wise men warned them of the ruin that stalks after war, no one believed their report. the treasure that would have now fed the starving population of england, had been spent in killing frenchmen. bad harvests followed the war years, taxation was increased, wages were lowered and lowered, credit was gone, trade languished, hunger or scrimping carefulness was in every household. for the iniquitous corn laws of , forbidding the importation of foreign grain, had raised english wheat to eighty shillings a quarter. and how were working men to buy bread at such a price? no wonder, they clamoured for a house of commons that should represent their case, and repeal acts that could only benefit one class, and inflict ruin and misery on all others. a feeling therefore of intense anxiety pervaded the country on the second of november,--the day on which the king was to open parliament. no one could work; every one was waiting for the king's speech. he was as yet very popular; it was his first message to his people; and they openly begged him for some word of hope--some expression of sympathy for reform. he went in great state to westminster, and was cheered by the city as he went. "will your majesty say a word for the poor? god bless your majesty! stand by reform!" such expressions assailed him on every hand; they were the prayers of a people wronged and suffering, yet disposed to be patient and loyal, and to seek reform only to spare themselves and the country the ruth and ruin of revolution. richmoor house was on the way of the royal procession, and kate was there to watch it. a little later, a great company began to assemble in its rooms; for the duke had promised to bring, or to send, the earliest news of the event. there was however an intense restlessness among these splendidly attired men and women. they could not separate reform from revolution; and the french revolution was yet red and bloody in their memories. they still heard the thunder of those famous "three days of july," and there was constantly before their eyes, the heir of forty kings finding in a british palace an ignominious shelter. not only was this the case, but french noblemen, in poverty and exile, were earning precarious livings all around; and english noblemen and ladies looked forward with terror to a similar fate, if the reformers obtained their desire. indeed, sir robert inglis had boldly prophesied, "reform would sweep the house of lords clear in ten years." no wonder then the company waiting in richmoor house were restless and anxious. kate did not permit herself to speak, and mrs. atheling had very prudently remained in her own home. she had told the squire she "must say what she thought, if she died for it!" and the squire had answered, "to be sure, maude. that is thy right; only, for goodness' sake, say it in thy own house!" but though kate knew she would follow her mother's example, if she was brought to catechism on the subject, she did not have much fear of such a result; there were too many older ladies present, all of them desirous to express the hatreds and hopes of their class. yet it was these emotional, expressional women that annabel vyner naturally joined. she stood among them like a splendid incarnation of its spirit. she hoped vehemently that "earl grey and lord john russell would be beheaded as traitors;" she declared she would "go with delight to tower hill and see the axe fall." she flashed into contempt, when she spoke of mr. brougham. "botany bay and hard labour might do for him; and as for the waiting crowds in the streets, the proper thing was to shoot them down, like rabid animals." she wondered "the duke of wellington did not do so." these sentiments were vivified by the passion that blazed in her black eyes and flushed her brown face crimson, and by the gown of bright yellow chinese crape which she wore; for it fluttered and waved with her impetuous movements, and made a kind of luminous atmosphere around her. "what a superb creature!" exclaimed mr. disraeli to the hon. mrs. norton. and mrs. norton put up her glass and looked at annabel critically. "superb indeed--to look at. would you like to live with her?" "it would be exciting." "more so than your 'vivian grey,' which i have just read. it is the book of the year." "no, that honour belongs to a little volume of poems by a young man called tennyson. get it; you will read every word it contains." "i am wedded to my idols,--byron and scott and keble. i am much interested at present in those 'imaginary conversations' which that queer mr. landor has given us. they are worth reading, i assure you." "but why read them? listen to the 'conversations' around us! they are of revolution, civil war, exile, and the headsman. could anything be more 'imaginary'?" "who can tell? here comes richmoor. he may be able to prognosticate. what a murmur of voices! what invisible movement! can you divine the news from the messenger's face?" "he thinks that he brings good news. he may be fatally wrong." the duke certainly thought that he brought good news. he was much excited. he came forward with his hands extended, palms upward. "the king stands by us!" he cried. "god save the king!" twenty voices called out at once, "what did he say?" "he said plainly that in spite of the public opinion expressed so loudly in recent elections, reform would have no sanction from the government. i only stayed until the end of the royal speech. yet in some way rumours of its purport must have reached the street. in the neighbourhood, there was much agitation, and even anger." then kate slipped away from the excited throng. piers had evidently remained for the discussion on the king's speech; and it might be midnight when the house adjourned. the winter day was fast darkening; she ordered her chairmen, and the pretty sedan was brought into the vestibule for her. she had no fear, though the very gloom and silence of the waiting crowd was more indicative of danger than noise or threats would have been. when she reached hyde park corner, however, angry faces pressed around a little too close, and she was alarmed. then she threw back her hood and looked out calmly at the crowd, and immediately a clear voice cried out, "it is edgar atheling's sister! take good care of her!" and there was a cheer and a cry, and about twenty men closed round the chair, and saw it safely to its destination. then cecil north stepped to the door and opened it. "i knew it was you, mr. north!" cried kate. "i knew your voice. how kind of you to come all the way with me! how glad mother will be to see you!" "i cannot wait a moment, miss atheling. can you give me any news?" "yes. the king says the government will not sanction reform." "who told you this?" "the duke of richmoor--not an hour ago." "then 'good-night.' i am afraid there will be trouble." mrs. atheling and kate were afraid also. the murmur of the crowd grew louder and louder as the tenor of the king's speech became known; and many a time they wished themselves in the safety and solitude of their yorkshire home. so they talked, and watched, and listened until the night was far advanced. then they heard the firm, strong step of the squire on the pavement; and his imperative voice in denial of something said by a group of men whom he passed. in a few minutes he entered the drawing-room with an angry light in his eyes, and the manner of a man exasperated by opposition. "whatever is it, john? is there trouble already?" asked mrs. atheling. [illustration:] "plenty of it, and like to be more. the king has spoken like a fool." "john atheling! his majesty!" "his imbecility! i tell you what, maude, there has been enough said to-day, and to-night, to set all the dogs of civil war loose. give me a bit of eating, and i will tell thee and kitty what a lot of idiots are met together in westminster." the squire always wanted a deal of waiting upon; and in a few minutes his valet was bringing him easy slippers and a loose coat, and two handmaidens serving a tray, bearing game pastry, and fruit tarts, and clotted cream. but he would take neither wine, nor strong ale,-- "water is all a man wants that gets himself stirred up in the house of commons," he said. "and if i had been in the lords' house, i would have needed nothing but a strait-jacket." he had hardly sat down to eat, when piers exham came in. no one could have been more welcome, and the young man's troubled face brightened in the sunshine of kate's smile, and in the honest kindness of the squire's greeting. "i was just going to tell mrs. atheling all i knew about to-night's blundering," he said; "but now we will have your report first, for you have seen the duke, i'll warrant." "indeed, squire, the duke is not dissatisfied--though the general opinion is, that the duke of wellington has committed an egregious mistake." "i shouldn't wonder. wellington does not know the difference between a field-marshal and a cabinet minister. what did he say?" "he said that as long as he held any office in the government, he would resist reform. he said there was no need of reform; that we had the best government in the world. the duke of devonshire, whom i have just seen, told me that this statement produced a feeling of the utmost dismay, even in the calm atmosphere of the house of lords." "calm!" interrupted the squire. "you had better say, incurable prosiness." "wellington noticed the suppressed excitement, the murmur, and the movement, and asked devonshire in a whisper, 'what can i have said to cause such great disturbance?' and devonshire shrugged his shoulders and answered candidly, 'you have announced the fall of your government, that is all.'" "wellington considers the nation as a mutinous regiment," answered the squire. "he thinks the arguments for reformers ought to be cannon balls; but englishmen will not endure a military government." "it would be better than a mob government, squire. remember france." "englishmen are not frenchmen," said kate. "you ought to remember _that_, piers. englishmen are the most fair, just, reasonable, brave, loyal, honourable people on the face of the earth!" "well done, kitty!" cried the squire. "it takes a little lass like thee to find adjectives plenty enough, and good enough, for thy own. my word! i wish thou couldst tell the duke of wellington what thou thinkest of his fellow-citizens. he would happen trust them more, and treat them better." "there is mr. peel too," she continued. "both he and the duke of wellington are always down on the people. and yet the duke has led these same people from one victory to another; and mr. peel is one of the people. his father was a day-labourer, and he ought to be proud of it; william cobbett is, and william cobbett is a greater man than robert peel." "now then, kitty, that is far enough; for thou art wrong already. cobbett isn't a greater man than peel; he isn't a great man at all, he is only a clever man. but the man for my money is henry brougham. he drives the world before him. he is a multitude. he had just one idea to-day,--reform and again reform. he played that tune finely to the house, and they danced to it like a miracle. much good it will do them!" "he was scarcely decent," said piers. "he gave notice, as you must have heard, in the most aggressive manner that he should bring 'reform' to an immediate issue." "yes," answered the squire. "there is doubtless a big battle before us. but, mark my words, it will not be with wellington and peel. they signed their own resignation this afternoon." "that is what my father thinks," said piers. "if wellington could only have held his tongue!" said the squire, bitterly. "and if daniel o'connell would only cease making fun of the government." "that man! he is nobody!" "you mistake, squire. his buffoonery is fatal to our party. i tell you that ridicule is the lightning that kills. has not aristophanes tossed his enemies for the scorn and laughter of a thousand cities for a thousand years? i fear o'connell's satire and joking, far more than i fear grey's statesmanship, or durham's popularity." then piers turned to kate, and asked if she had seen the royal procession. and she told him about her visit, and about mr. north's interference for her safety, and his escort of her home. piers was much annoyed at this incident. he begged her not to venture into the streets until public feeling had abated, or was controlled, and asked with singular petulance, "who is this mr. north? he plays the mysterious knight very well. he interferes too much." "i was grateful for his interference." "why did you not remain at richmoor until i returned? i expected it, kate." "i was afraid; and i knew my mother would be anxious--and i felt so sad among strangers. you know, piers, i have always lived among my own people--among those who loved me." this little bit of conversation had taken place while the tray was being removed, and the squire and mrs. atheling were talking about the engagements for the next day, so that definite orders might be given concerning the carriage and horses. the movements of the servants had enabled piers and kate, quite naturally, to withdraw a little from the fireside group; and when kate made her tender assertion, about living with those who loved her, piers's heart was full to overflowing. this girl of sweet nature, with her innocent beauty and ingenuous expressions, possessed his noblest feelings. he clasped her hands in his, and said,-- "oh, kate! i loved you when you were only twelve years old; i love you now beyond all measure of words. and you love me? speak, dear one!" "i love none but thee!" the next moment she was standing before her father and mother. piers held her hand. he was talking to them in low but eager tones, yet she did not realise a word, until he said,-- "give her to me, my friends. we have loved each other for many years. we shall love each other for ever. she is the wife of my soul. without her, i can only half live." then bending to kate, he asked her fondly, "do you love me, kate? do you love me? ask your heart about it. tell us truly, do you love me?" then she lifted her sweet eyes to her lover, her father, and her mother, and answered, "i love piers with all my heart." the squire was much troubled and affected. "this is taking a bit of advantage, piers," he said. "there is a time for everything, and this is not my time for giving my little girl away." "speak for us, mrs. atheling," said piers. "nay, i think the squire is quite right," she replied. "love isn't worth much if duty does not stand with it." "and there is far more, piers," continued the squire, "in such a marriage as you propose than a girl's and a lover's 'yes.' when the country has settled a bit, we will talk about love and wedding. i can't say more for my life, can i, mother?" "it is enough," answered mrs. atheling. "why, we might have a civil war, and what not! to choose a proper mate is good enough; but it is quite as important to choose a proper time for mating. now then, this is not a proper time, when everything is at ups-and-downs, and this way and that way, and great public events, that no one can foretell, crowding one on the neck of the other. let things be as they are, children. if you only knew it, you are in the maytime of your lives. i wouldn't hurry it over, if i was you. it won't come back again." then kate kissed her father, and her mother, and her lover; and piers kissed kate, and mrs. atheling, and put his hand into the squire's hand; and the solemn joy of betrothal was there, though it was not openly admitted. in truth the squire was much troubled at events coming to any climax. he would not suffer his daughter to enter into an engagement not openly acknowledged and approved by both families; and yet he was aware that at the present time the duke would consider any subject--not public or political--as an interruption, perhaps as an intrusion. besides which, the squire's own sense of honour and personal pride made him averse to force an affair so manifestly to the preferment of his daughter. it looked like taking advantage of circumstances--of presuming upon a kindness; in fact, the more squire atheling thought of the alliance, the less he was disposed to sanction it. under no circumstances, could he give kate such a fortune as the heir of a great dukedom had a right to expect. she must enter the richmoor family at a disadvantage--perhaps even on sufferance. "no! by the lord harry, no!" he exclaimed. "i'll have none of the duke's toleration on any matter. i am sorry i took his seat. i wish edgar was here--he ought to be here, looking after his mother and sister, instead of setting up rogues on glasgow green against their king and country! of course, there is love to reckon with, and love does wonders--but it is money that makes marriage." with such reflections, and many others growing out of them, the squire hardened his heart, and strengthened his personal sense of dignity, until he almost taught himself to believe the duke had already wounded it. in this temper he was quite inclined to severely blame his wife for not "putting a stop to the nonsense when it first began." "john," she answered, "we are both of a piece in that respect." "on my honour, mother." "don't say it, john. you used to laugh at the little lass going off with edgar and piers fishing. you used to tease her about the gold brooch piers gave her. many a time you have called her to me, 'the little duchess.'" "wilt thou be quiet?" "i am only reminding thee." "thou needest not. i wish thou wouldst remind thy son that he has a sister that he might look after a bit." "i can look after kate without his help. he is doing far better business than hanging around dukes." "if thou wantest a quarrel this morning, maude, i'm willing to give thee one. i say, edgar ought to be here." "what for? he is doing work that we will all be proud enough of some day. thou oughtest to be helping him, instead of abusing him. i want thee to open this morning's _times_, and read the speech he made in glasgow city hall. thou couldst not have made such a speech to save thy life." "say, i _would not_ have made it, and then thou wilt say the very truth." "read it." "not i." "thou darest not. thou knowest it would make thee turn round and vote with the reformers." "roast the reformers! i wish i could! i would not have believed thou couldst have said such a thing, maude. how darest thou even think of thy husband as a turncoat? why, in politics, it is the unpardonable sin." "it is nothing of the kind. not it! it is far worse to stick to a sin, than to turn from it. if i was the biggest of living tories, and i found out i was wrong, i would stand up before all england and turn my coat in the sight of everybody. i would that. when i read thy name against mr. brougham bringing up reform, i'll swear i could have cried for it!" "i wouldn't wonder. all the fools are not dead yet. but i hear kitty and her lover coming. i wonder what they are talking and laughing about?" "thou hadst better not ask them. i'll warrant, piers is telling her the same sort of nonsense, thou usedst to tell me; and they will both of them, believe it, no doubt." at these words piers and kate entered the room together. they were going for a gallop in the park; and they looked so handsome, and so happy, that neither the squire nor mrs. atheling could say a word to dash their pleasure. the squire, indeed, reminded piers that the house met at two o'clock; and piers asked blankly, like a man who neither knew, nor cared anything about the house, "does it?" with the words on his lips, he turned to kate, and smiling said, "let us make haste, my dear. the morning is too fine to lose." and hand in hand, they said a hasty, joyful "good-bye" and disappeared. the father and mother watched them down the street until they were out of sight. as they turned away from the window, their eyes met, and mrs. atheling smiled. the squire looked abashed and disconcerted. "why didst not thou put a stop to such nonsense, john?" she asked. fortunately at this moment a servant entered to tell the squire his horse was waiting, and this interruption, and a rather effusive parting, let him handsomely out of an embarrassing answer. then mrs. atheling wrote a long letter to her son, and looked after the ways of her household, and knit a few rounds on her husband's hunting stocking, and as she did so thought of kate's future, and got tired of trying to settle it, and so left it, as a scholar leaves a difficult problem, for the master to solve. and when she had reached this point kate came into the room. she had removed her habit, and the joyous look which had been so remarkable two hours before was all gone. the girl was dashed and weary, and her mother asked her anxiously, "if she was sick?" "no," she answered; "but i have been annoyed, and my heart is heavy, and i am tired." "who or what annoyed you, child?" "i will tell you. piers and i had a glorious ride, and were coming slowly home, when suddenly the richmoor liveries came in sight. i saw the instant change on piers's face, and i saw annabel slightly push the duchess and say something. and the duchess drew her brows together as we passed each other, and though she bowed, i could see that she was angry and astonished. as for annabel, she laughed a little, scornful laugh, and threw me a few words which i could not catch. it was a most unpleasant meeting; after it piers was very silent. i felt as if i had done something wrong, and yet i was indignant at myself for the feeling." "what did piers say?" "he said nothing that pleased me. he fastened his eyes on annabel,--who was marvellously dressed in rose-coloured velvet and minever,--and she clapped her small hands together and nodded to him in a familiar way, and, bending slightly forward, passed on. and after that he did not talk much. all his love-making was over, and i thought he was glad when we reached home. i think annabel will certainly take my lover from me." "you mean that she has made up her mind to be duchess of richmoor?" "yes." "well, my dear kate, a beautiful woman is strong, and money is stronger; but _true love conquers all_." chapter seventh the lost ring "to-morrow some new light may come, and you will see things another way, kitty." this was mrs. atheling's final opinion, and kitty was inclined to take all the comfort there was in it. she was sitting then in her mother's room, watching her dress for dinner, and admiring, as good daughters will always do, everything she could find to admire about the yet handsome woman. "you have such beautiful hair, mother. i wouldn't wear a cap if i was you," she said. "your father likes a bit of lace on my head, kitty. he says it makes me look more motherly." she was laying the "bit of lace" on her brown hair as she spoke. then she took from her open jewel case, two gold pins set with turquoise, and fastened the arrangement securely. kitty watched her with loving smiles, and finally changed the whole fashion of the bit of lace, declaring that by so doing she had made her mother twenty years younger. and somehow in this little toilet ceremony, all kitty's sorrow passed away, and she said, "i wonder where my fears are gone to, mother; for it does not now seem hard to hope that all is just as it was." "to be sure, kitty, i never worry much about fears. fears are mostly made of nothing; and in the long run they are often a blessing. without fears, we couldn't have hopes; now could we?" "oh, you dear, sweet, good mother! i wish i was just like you!" "time enough, kitty." then a look of love flashed from face to face, and struck straight from heart to heart; and there was a little silence that needed no words. kitty lifted a ring and slipped it on her finger. it was a hoop of fine, dark blue sapphires, set in fretted gold, and clasped with a tiny padlock, shaped like a heart. "what a lovely ring!" she cried. "why do you not wear it, mother?" "because it is a good bit too small now, kitty." "miss vyner's hands are always covered with rings, and she says every one of them has a romance." "i've heard, or read, something like that. there was a woman in the story-book, was there not, who kept a tally of her lovers on a string of rings they had given her? i don't think it was anything to her credit. i shouldn't wonder if that is a bit ill-natured. i ought not to say such a thing, so don't mind it, kitty." "is this sapphire band yours, mother?" "to be sure it is." [illustration:] "may i wear it?" "well, kitty, i think a deal of that ring. you must take great care of it." "so then, mother, one of your rings has a story too, has it?" and there was a little laugh for answer, and kitty slipped the coveted trinket on her finger, and held up her hand to admire the gleam of the jewels, as she said, musingly, "i wonder what piers is doing?" "i wouldn't 'wonder,' dearie. little troubles are often worrited into big troubles. if things are let alone, they work themselves right. i'll warrant piers is unhappy enough." but mrs. atheling's warrant was hardly justified. piers should have gone to the house; but he went instead to his room, threw himself among the cushions of a divan, and with a motion of his head indicated to his servant that he wanted his turkish pipe. the strange inertia and indifference that had so suddenly assailed, still dominated him, and he had no desire to combat it. he was neither sick nor weary; yet he seemed to have lost all control over his feelings. had the man within the man "gone off guard"? have we not all--yes, we have all of us succumbed to just such intervals of supreme, inexpressible listlessness and insensibility? we are "not all there," but _where_ has our inner self gone to? and what is it doing? it gives us no account of such lapses. piers asked no questions of himself. he was like a man dreaming; for if his will was not asleep, it was at least quiescent. he made no effort to control his thoughts, which drifted from annabel to kate, and from kate to annabel, in the vagrant, inconsequent manner which acknowledges neither the guidance of reason or will. and as the levantine vapour lulled his brain, he felt a pleasure in this surrender of his noblest attributes. he thought of annabel as he had seen her the previous evening, dressed in a shaded satin of blue and green, trimmed with the tips of peacock feathers. the same resplendent ornaments were in her strong, wavy, black hair, and round her throat was a necklace of emeralds and amethysts. "what a duchess of richmoor she would make!" he thought. "how stately and proud! how well she would wear the coronet and the gold strawberry leaves, and the crimson robe and ermine of her state dress! yes, annabel would be a proper duchess; but--but--" and then he was sitting with kate among the tall brackens, where the yorkshire hills threw miles of shadow. she was in her riding dress; but her little velvet cap was in her hand, and the fresh wind was blowing her brown hair into bewitching tendrils about her lovely face. how well he knew the sweet seriousness of her downcast eyes, the rich bloom of her cheeks and lips, the tender smile with which she always answered his "_kate! sweet kate!_" even through all his listlessness, this vision moved him, and he heard his heart say, "oh, kate, wife of my soul! oh, beloved! love of my life, who can part us? thou and i, kate! thou and i--" "and the other one." from _whom_ or from _where_ came the words? piers heard them with his spiritual sense plainly, and their suggestion annoyed him. now if we stir under a nightmare, it is gone; and this faint rebellion broke the chain of that mental inertia which had held him at least three hours under its spell. he moved irritably, and in so-doing threw down the lid of the tobacco jar, and then rose to his feet. in a moment, he was "all there." "i ought to be in the house," he muttered, and he touched the bell for his valet, and dressed with less deliberation than was his wont. and during the toilet he was aware of a certain mental anger that longed to expend itself: "if mr. brougham is as insufferably dictatorial as he was last night, if mr. o'connell only plays the buffoon again, we shall meet in a narrow path--and one of us will fare ill," he muttered. the hour generally comes when we are ready for it; and piers found both gentlemen in the tempers he detested. he gladly accepted his own challenge, and the squire was so interested in the wordy fight that he did not return home to dinner. mrs. atheling neither worried nor waited. she knew that the squire's vote might be wanted at any inconvenient hour; and, besides, the night had set stormily in, and she said cheerfully to kate, "it wouldn't do for father to get a wetting and then be hours in damp clothes. he is far better sitting to-day's business out while he is there." but the evening dragged wearily, in spite of the efforts of both women to make little pleasantries. kate's whole being was in her sense of hearing. she was listening for a step that did not come. on other nights there had been visitors; she heard the roll of carriages and the clash of the heavy front door; but this dreary night no roll of wheels broke the stillness of the aristocratic square; and she listened for the sound of the closing door until she was ready to cry out against the strain and the suspense. however, the longest, saddest day wears to its end; and though it does not appear likely that a loving girl's anxiety about a coolness in her lover should teach us how far deeper, even than mother-love, is our trust in god's love, yet little kitty's behaviour on this sorrowful evening did show forth this sublime fact. for the girl left undone none of her usual duties, left unsaid none of the pleasant words she knew her mother expected from her; she even followed her--as she always did when the squire was late--to her bedroom, and helped her lay away her laces and jewels ere she bid her a last "good-night." but as soon as she had closed the door of her own room, she felt she might give herself some release. if she did not read the whole of the evening service, _god would understand_. she could trust his love to excuse, to pity, to release her from all ceremonies. she knelt down, she bowed her head, and said only the two or three words which opened her heart and let the rain of tears wash all her anxieties away. and though sorrow may endure for a night, joy comes in the morning; and this is specially true in youth. when kate awoke, the sun was shining, and the care and ache was gone from her heart. "he giveth his beloved sleep," and thus some angel had certainly comforted her, though she knew it not. with a cheerful heart she dressed and went into the breakfast-room, and there she saw her father standing on the hearthrug, with _the times_ open in his hand. he looked at her over its pages with beaming eyes, and she ran to him and took the paper away, and nestling to his heart, said, "she would have no rival, first thing in the morning." and the proud father stroked her hair, and kissed her lips, and answered her, "rival was not born yet, and never would be born; and that he was only seeing if them newspaper fellows had told lies about piers." "piers!" cried mrs. atheling, entering the room at the moment, "what about piers?" "well, mother, the lad had his say last night; but, dal it! mr. brougham went at the government and the electors as if they were all of them wearing the devil's livery. i call it scandalous! it was nothing else. he let on to be preaching for reform, but he was just preaching for henry brougham." "what was mr. brougham talking about, father?" "mr. brougham can talk about nothing but reform, kitty, the right of every man to vote as seems good in his own eyes. he said peers and landowners influenced and prejudiced votes in a way that was outrageous and not to be borne, and a lot more words of the same kind; for henry brougham would lose his speech if he had anything pleasant to say. i was going to get up and give him a bit of my mind, when piers rose; and the cool way in which he fixed his eye-glass, and looked mr. brougham up and down, and straight in the face, set us all by the ears. he was every inch of him, then and there, the future duke of richmoor; and he told brougham, in a very sarcastic way, that his opinions were silly, and would neither bear the test of reason nor of candid examination." "but, father, i thought mr. brougham was the great man of the commons, and held in much honour." "well, my little maid, he may be; but i'll warrant it is only by people who have their own reasons for worshipping the devil." "come, come, john! if i was thee, i would be silent until i could be just." "not thou, maude! right or wrong, thou wouldst say thy say. i think i ought to know thee by this time." "never mind me, john. we want to hear what piers said." "brougham's words had come rattling off in full gallop. piers, after looking at him a minute, began in that contemptuous drawl of his,--you've heard it i've no doubt,--'mr. brougham affords an example of radical opinions degrading a statesman into a politician. he cannot but know that it is the positive, visible duty of every landowner to influence and prejudice votes. it is the business and the function of education and responsibility to enlighten ignorance, and to influence the misguided and the misled. if it is the business and the function of the clergy to influence and prejudice people in favour of a good life; if it is the business and function of a teacher to influence and prejudice scholars in favour of knowledge,--it is just as certainly the business and function of the landowner to influence his tenants in favour of law and order, and to prejudice them against men who would shatter to pieces the noblest political constitution in the world.'" the squire read this period aloud with great emphasis, and added, "well, maude, you never heard such a tumult as followed. cries of '_here! here!_' and '_order! order!_' filled the house; and the speaker had work enough to make silence. piers stood quite still, watching brougham, and as soon as all was quiet, he went on,-- "'if you take the peers, the gentry, the scholars, the men of enterprise and wealth, from our population, what kind of a government should we get from the remainder? would they be fit to select and elect?' then there was another uproar, and piers sat down, and o'connell jumped up. he put his witty tongue in his laughing cheek, and, buttoning his coat round him, held up his right hand. and the reform members cheered, and the tory members shrugged their shoulders, and waited for what he would say." "i don't want to hear a word from _him_," answered mrs. atheling. "come and get your coffee, john. a cup of good coffee costs a deal now, and it's a shame to let it get cold and sloppy over dan o'connell's blackguarding." "tell us what he said, father," urged kate, who really desired to know more about piers's efforts. "you can drink your coffee to his words. i don't suppose they will poison it." "i wouldn't be sure of that," said mrs. atheling, with a dubious shake of her head; while the squire lifted his cup, and emptied it at a draught. "what did he say, father? did he attack piers?" "to be sure he did. he took the word 'remainder,' and said piers had called the great, substantial working men of england, scotland, and ireland _remainders_. he said these '_remainders_' might only be farmers, and bakers, and builders, and traders; but they were the backbone of the nation; and the honourable gentleman from richmoor palace had called them 'remainders.' and then he gave piers a few of such stinging, abusive names as he always keeps on hand,--and he keeps a good many kinds of them on hand,--and piers was like a man that neither heard nor saw him. he looked clean through the member for kilkenny as if he wasn't there at all. and then mr. scarlett got up, and asked the speaker if such unparliamentary conduct was to be permitted? and mr. dickson called upon the house to protect itself from the browbeating, bullying ruffianism of the member for kilkenny; and dan o'connell sat laughing, with his hat on one side of his head, till dickson sat down; then he said, he 'considered mr. dickson's words complimentary;' and the shouts became louder and louder, and the speaker had hard work to get things quieted down." "why, john! i never heard tell of such carryings on." "then, maude, i thought _i_ would say a word or two; and i got the speaker's eye, and he said peremptorily, 'the member for asketh!' and i rose in my place and said i thought the honourable member for kilkenny--" "john! i wouldn't have called him 'honourable.'" "i know thou wouldst not, maude. well, i said honourable, and i went on to say that mr. o'connell had mistaken the meaning lord exham attached to the word 'remainder.' i said it wasn't a disrespectful word at all, and that there were plenty of 'remainders,' we all of us thought a good deal of; but, i said, i would come to an instance which every man could understand,--the remainder of a glass of fine, old october ale. the rich, creamy, bubbling froth might stand for the landowners; but it was part of the whole; and the remainder was all the better for the froth, and the more froth, and the richer the froth, the better the ale below it. and i went on to say that lord exham, and every man of us, knew right well, that the great body of the english nation wasn't made up of knaves, and scoundrels, and fools, but of good men and women. and then our benches cheered me, up and down, till i felt it was a good thing to be a representative of the remainder, and i said so." then mrs. atheling and kitty cheered the squire more than a little, with smiles, and kisses, and proud words; and he went on with increased animation, "in a minute o'connell was on his feet again, and he called me a lot of names i needn't repeat here; until he said, 'my example of a glass of ale was exactly what anybody might expect from such a john bull as the member for asketh.' and, maude and kitty, i could not stand that. the house was shouting, 'order! order!' and i cried, 'mr. speaker!' and the speaker said, 'order, the member for kilkenny is speaking!' 'but, mr. speaker,' i said, 'i only want to say to the member for kilkenny that i would rather be a john bull, than a bully.' and that was the end. there was no 'order' after it. our side cheered and roared, and, maude, what dost thou think?--the one to cheer loudest was thy son edgar. he must have got in by the speaker's favour; but there he was, and when i came through the lobby, with piers and lord althorp, and a crowd after me, he was standing with that young fellow i threw on atheling green; and he looked at me so pleased, and eager, and happy, that i thought for a moment he was going to shake hands; but i kept my hands in my pockets--yet i'll say this,--he has thy fine eyes, maude,--i most felt as if thou wert looking at me." "john! john! how couldst thou keep thy hands in thy pockets? how couldst thou do such an unfatherly thing? i'm ashamed of thee! i am." "give me a slice of ham, and don't ask questions. i want my breakfast now. i can't live on talk, as if i was a woman." fortunately at this moment a servant entered with the morning's mail. he gave mrs. atheling a letter, and kate two letters; and then offered the large salver full of matter to the squire. he looked at the pile with indignation. "put it out of my sight, dobson," he said angrily. "do you think i want letters and papers to my breakfast? i'm astonished at you!" he was breaking his egg-shell impatiently as he spoke, and he looked up with affected anger at his companions. kitty met his glance with a smile. she could afford to do so, for both her letters lay untouched at her side. she tapped the upper one and said, "it is from miss vyner, father; it can easily wait." "and the other, kitty? who is it from?" "from piers, i don't want to read it yet." "to be sure." then he looked at mrs. atheling, and was surprised. her face was really shining with pleasure, her eyes misty with happy tears. she held her letter with a certain pride and tenderness that her whole attitude also expressed; and the squire had an instant premonition as to the writer of it. "well, maude," he said, "i would drink my coffee, if i was thee. a cup of coffee costs a deal now; and it's a shame to let it get cold and sloppy over a bit of a letter--nobody knows who from." "it is from edgar," said mrs. atheling, far too proud and pleased to keep her happiness to herself. "and, john, i am going to have a little lunch-party to-day at two o'clock; and i do wish thou wouldst make it in thy way to be present." "i won't. and i would like to know who is coming here. i won't have all kinds and sorts sitting at my board, and eating my bread and salt--and i never heard tell of a good wife asking people to do that without even mentioning their names to her husband--and--" "i am quite ready to name everybody i ask to thy board, john. there will be thy own son edgar atheling, and mr. cecil north, and thy wife maude atheling, and thy daughter kitty. maybe, also, lord exham and miss vyner. kitty says she has a letter from her." "i told thee once and for all, i had forbid edgar atheling to come to my house again until i asked him to do so." "this isn't thy house, john. it is only a rented roof. thou mayst be sure edgar will never come near atheling till god visits thee and gives thee a heart like his own to love thy son. thou hast never told edgar to keep away from the vyner mansion, and thou hadst better never try to do so; for i tell thee plainly if thou dost--" "keep threats behind thy teeth, maude. it isn't like thee, and i won't be threatened either by man or woman. if thou thinkest it right to set edgar before me, and to teach him _not_ to 'honour his father'--" "didn't he 'honour' thee last night! wasn't he proud of thee? and he wanted to tell thee so, if thou wouldst have let him. poor edgar!" and edgar's mother covered her face, and began to cry softly to herself. "nay, maude, if thou takest to crying i must run away. it isn't fair at all. what can a man say to tears? i wish i could have a bit of breakfast in peace; i do that!"--and he pushed his chair away in a little passion, and lifted his mail, and was going noisily out of the room, when he found kitty's arms round his neck. then he said peevishly, "thou art spilling my letters, kitty. let me alone, dearie! thou never hast a word to say on thy father's side. it's too bad!" "i am all for you, father,--you and you first of all. there is nobody like you; nobody before you; nobody that can ever take your place." then she kissed him, and whispered some of those loving, senseless little words that go right to the heart, if love sends them there. and the squire was comforted by them, and whispered back to her, "god love thee, my little maid! i'll do anything i can to give thee pleasure." "then just think about edgar as you saw him last night, think of him with mother's eyes watching you, listening to you, full of pride and loving you so much--oh, yes, father! loving you so much." "well, well,--let me go now, kitty. i have all these bothering letters and papers to look at; they are enough to make any man cross." "let me help you." "go to thy mother. listen, kitty," and he spoke very low, "tell her, thou art sure and certain thy father does not object to her seeing her son, if it makes her happy--thou knowest my bark is a deal worse than my bite--say--thou believest i would like to see edgar myself--nay, thou needest not say that--but say a few words just to please her; thou knowest what they should be better than i do,"--then, with a rather gruff "good-morning," he went out of the room; and kitty turned to her mother. mrs. atheling was smiling, though there were indeed some remaining evidences of tears. "he went without bidding me 'good-morning,' kitty. what did he say? is he very angry?" "not at all angry. all put on, mother. he loves edgar quite as much as you do." "he can't do that, kitty. there is nothing like a mother's love." "except a father's love. don't you remember, that god takes a father's love to express his own great care for us? and when the prodigal son came home, christ makes his father, not his mother, go to meet him." "that was because christ knew children were sure and certain of their mother's love and forgiveness. he wasn't so sure of the fathers. so he gave the lesson to them; he knew that mothers did not need it. mothers are always ready to forgive, kitty; but there is nothing to forgive in edgar." "is he really coming to-day?" "listen to what he says, kitty. 'darling mother, i cannot live another day without seeing you. let me come to-morrow at two o'clock, and put my arms round you, and kiss you, and talk to you for an hour. ask father to let me come. london is not atheling. if he counts his passionate words as forever binding between him and me, surely they are not binding between you and me. let me see you anyway, mother. sweet, dear mother! when father forgives the rest, he will forgive this also. your loving son, edgar.' now, kitty, if edgar was your son, what would you say?" "i would say, come at once, edgar, and dearly welcome!" "to be sure you would. so shall i. what is miss vyner writing about?" then kitty lifted the squarely folded letter with its great splash of white wax stamped with the vyner crest, and after a rapid glance at its contents said, "there is likely to be a great house to-night; and the duchess has three seats in the ladies gallery. one is for annabel, the other for me; and she asks you to take her place. do go, mother." "i'll think about it." "don't say that." "it is all i will say just yet. did you have a letter from piers?" "yes." "i knew you would. go and read it, and tell dobson to send the cook to me. we want the best lunch that can be made; and put on a pretty dress, kitty. edgar must feel that nothing is too good for him." in accordance with this intent, mrs. atheling took particular pains with her own dress; and kitty thought she had never seen her mother so handsome. soft brown satin, and gold ornaments, and the bit of lace on her head set off her large, blonde, stately beauty to perfection; while the look of love and anxiety, as the clock moved on to two, gave to her countenance that "something more" without which beauty is only flesh and blood. she had said to herself that edgar might be detained, that he might not be able to keep his time, and that she would not feel disappointed if he was a bit behind two o'clock. but fully ten minutes before the hour, she heard his quick, firm knock; and as she stood trembling with joy in the middle of the room, he took her in his arms, and, between laughing and crying, they knew not, either of them, what they said. and then kitty ran into the room, all a flutter with pale-blue ribbons, and it was a good five minutes before the two women found time to see, and to speak to cecil north, who stood watching the scene with his kind heart in his face. evidently the meeting had bespoke a fortunate hour. the weather, though it was november, was sunny; the lunch was perfection, and they were in the midst of the merriest possible meal when annabel vyner and piers exham joined them. annabel had expected nothing better from this visit than an opportunity to show off her familiar relations with lord exham, and torment kitty, as far as she thought it prudent to do so; but fate had prepared motives more personal and delightful for her,--two handsome young men, whom she at once determined to conquer. cecil north made no resistance; he went over heart and head in love with her. her splendid vitality, her manner,--so demanding and so caressing,--her daring dress, and dazzling jewelry, her altogether unconventional air charmed and vanquished him, and he devoted himself to pleasing her. during the lunch hour the conversation was general, and very animated. annabel excelled herself in her peculiar way of saying things which appeared singularly brilliant, but which really derived all their point from her looks, and shrugs, and flashing movements. the good mother was in an earthly heaven, watching, and listening, and attending to every one's wants, actual and possible. laughter and repartee and merry jests mingled with bits of social and parliamentary gossip, though politics were instinctively avoided. piers knew well the opinions of the two men with whom he was sitting; and he was quite capable of respecting them. besides, he had an old friendship for edgar atheling; and he loved his sister, and was well aware that she had much sympathy with her brother's views. so all annabel's attempts to make a division were futile; no one took up the little challenges she flung into their midst, and the parliamentary talk drifted no nearer dangerous ground than the ladies gallery. piers knew of the invitation given to the athelings, and he proposed to meet the ladies in the courtyard near the entrance to the exclusive precinct. "too exclusive by far," said annabel. "why do english ladies submit to that grating? it is a relic of the barbarous ages. i intend to move in the matter. let us get up a petition, or an act, or an agitation of some kind for its removal. i think we should succeed. what do you say, lord exham?" "i think you would _not_ succeed," answered piers. "i have heard the duke say that the proposition is frequently made in the house; that it is always enthusiastically cheered; but that every time the question comes practically up, there is a dexterous count out." "well, then, i will propose that the front treasury bench be taken away, and twenty-four ladies' seats put in its place. do you see, mr. north, what i intend by that?" "i am sure it is something wise and good, miss vyner." "my idea is, that twenty-four ladies should sit there as representatives of the women of england. twenty-four bishops in lovely lawn sit as representatives of the clergy of england; why should not english women have their representation? i hope while reformers are correcting the abuses of representation, they will consider this abuse. mr. atheling, what do you say?" "i am at your service, miss vyner." "indeed, sir, just at present you are hand and heart in the service of mrs. atheling. i must turn to mr. north." then mrs. atheling perceived that in her interesting conversation with edgar, she was keeping her guests at table; and she rose with an apology, and led the way into the parlour. there was a large conservatory opening out of this room, and kate and piers, on some pretext of rosebuds, went into it. "my dear kate, i have been so unhappy!" he said, taking her hand. "but why, piers?" "we parted so strangely yesterday. i do not know how it happened." "we were both tired, i think. i was as much in fault as you. is not this an exquisite flower?" that was the end of the trouble. he drew her to his side, and kissed the hand that touched the flower; and so all explanations were over; and they took up their love-story where the shadow of yesterday had broken it off. and as their hands wandered among the shrubs, it was natural for piers to notice the ring on kate's finger. "it is a very singular jewel," he said; "i never saw one like it." "it is my mother's," answered kate. "she told me this morning it was her betrothal ring and that father bought it in venice." "kate dear, i wish to get you a ring just like it. let us ask mrs. atheling if i may show it to my jeweller, and have one made for you." "i am sure mother will be willing," and she slipped the shining circle from her finger, and gave it to piers; and he whispered fondly, as he placed it on his own hand, "will you take it from me, kate, as a love gage?--never to leave your finger until i put the wife's gold ring above it?" and what she said need not be told. many happy words grew from her answer; and they forgot the rosebuds they had come to gather, and the company they had left, and the flight of time, until edgar came into the conservatory to bid his sister "good-bye." there had been a slight formality between piers and edgar at their first meeting; but with kate standing between them, all the good days on the yorkshire hills and moors came into their memories, and they clasped hands with their old boyish fervour, and it was "piers" and "edgar" again. so the parting was the real meeting; and they went back to the parlour in an unmistakable enthusiasm of good fellowship. annabel was then quite ready to leave, and the question of the ladies gallery came up for settlement. mrs. atheling declared she was too weary to go out; and kate preferred her own happy thoughts to the tumult of a political quarrel. annabel was equally indifferent. she had discovered that mr. north was a son of the earl of westover, and might with propriety be asked to the richmoor opera-box, that there was even an acquaintance strong enough between the families to enable her new lover to pay his respects to the duchess in the interludes, and, in fact, an understanding to that effect had been made for that very night, if the offer of the seats in the ladies gallery was not accepted. so their refusal caused no regret; for when politics come in competition with youth and love, they have scarcely a hearing. but during the slight discussion, piers found time to speak to mrs. atheling about the ring; and the direction of three pair of eyes to the trinket caught annabel's attention. her face flamed when she saw that it had passed from kate's hand to the hand of exham; and for the first time, she had a feeling of active dislike against kate. her sweet, calm, innocent beauty, her happy eyes and ingenuous girlish expression, offended her, and set all the worst forces of her soul in revolt. she did not dare to trust herself with piers. in her present mood, she knew she would be sure to say something that would hamper her future actions. she declared she would only accept mr. north's escort to richmoor house; for she was sure the duke was expecting piers to be in his place in the commons when the vote was taken. piers had a similar conviction, and he looked at his watch almost guiltily, and went hurriedly away. then the little party was soon dispersed; but mrs. atheling and kate were both far too happy to need outside aids. they talked of edgar and cecil north, and annabel's witcheries, and piers's great and good qualities, and the promised ring, and the excellent lunch, and the general success of the impromptu little feast. everything had been pleasant, and the squire's absence was not thought worth worrying about. "he will come round, bit by bit," said the happy mother. "i know john atheling. the first thing edgar does to please him, will put all straight; and edgar is on the very road to please him most of all." "what road is that, mother?" "nay, i can't tell you, kitty; for just yet it is a secret between edgar and me. he was glad to meet piers again; and, if i am any judge, they will be better friends than ever before." thus the two women talked the evening away, and were by no means sorry to be at their own fireside. "we could have done no good by going to the house," said kate. "if we were men, it would be different. they like it. father says the house is the best club in london." "it gives men a lot of excuses," said mrs. atheling, with a sigh. "i dare say your father won't get home till late. you had better go to bed, kitty." "perhaps piers may come with him." "i don't think he will. he looked tired when he left here; he will be worse tired when he gets away from the commons. he said he was going to speak again, if he got the opportunity,--that is, if he could find anything to contradict in mr. brougham's speech. piers likes saying, 'no, sir!' his spurs are always in fighting trim. go to bed, kitty. piers won't be back to-night, and i can say to father whatever i think proper." mrs. atheling judged correctly. piers sat a long time before his opportunity came, and then he did not get the best of it. brougham's followers overflowed the opposition benches, the government side, and the gangway, and piers exhausted himself vainly in an endeavour to get a hearing. it was late when he returned to richmoor house, but the duke was still absent, and the duchess and annabel at the opera. he went to the duke's private parlour, for there were some things he felt he must discuss before another day's sitting; and the warmth and stillness, added to his own mental and physical weariness, soon overcame all the resistance he could make. the couch on which he had thrown himself was also a drowsy place; it seemed to sink softly down, and down, until piers was far below the tide of thought, or even dreams. it was then that annabel returned. she came slowly and rather thoughtfully along the silent corridor. she had exhausted for the time being her fine spirits, her wit, almost her good looks. she hoped she would _not_ meet piers, and was glad in passing the door of his apartments to see no man in attendance, nor any sign of wakeful life. a little further on she noticed a band of light from the duke's private parlour; the door was a trifle open, left purposely so by piers in order that his father might not be tempted to pass it. tired as she was, she could not resist the opportunity it offered. she liked to show herself in her fineries to her guardian, for he always had a compliment for her beauty; and although she had listened for hours to compliments her vanity was still unsatiated. with a coquettish smile she pushed wider the door and saw lord exham. there could be no doubt of his profound insensibility; his face, his attitude, his breathing, all expressed the deep sleep of a thoroughly-exhausted man. for one moment she looked at him curiously, then, at the instigation of the evil one, her eyes saw the ring upon his hand, and her heart instantly desired it; for what reason she did not ask. at the moment she perhaps had no reason, except the wicked hope that its loss might make trouble between kitty and her lover. with the swift, noiseless step that nature gives to women who have the treachery and cruelty of the feline family, she reached piers's side. but rapid as her movement had been, her thought had been more rapid. "if i am caught, i will say i won a pair of gloves, and took the ring as the gage of my victory." she stooped to the dropped hand, but never touched it. the ring was large, and it was only necessary for her to place her finger and thumb on each side of it. it slipped off without pressing against the flesh, and in a moment it was in her palm. she waited to see if the movement had been felt. there was no evidence of it, and she passed rapidly out of the room. outside the door, she again waited for a movement, but none came, and she walked leisurely, and with a certain air of weariness, to her own apartments. once there all was safe; she dropped it into the receptacle in which she kept the key of her jewel-case, and went smiling to bed. not ten minutes after her theft the duke entered the room. he did not scruple to awaken his son, and to discuss with him the tactics of a warfare which was every day becoming more bitter and violent. piers was full of interest, and eager to take his part in the fray. suddenly he became aware of his loss. then he forgot every other thing. he insisted, then and there, on calling his valet and searching every inch of carpet in the room. the duke was disgusted with this radical change of interest. he went pettishly away in the middle of the search, saying,-- "the reformers might well carry all before them, when peers who had everything to lose or gain thought more of a lost ring than a lost cause." and piers could not answer a word. he was confounded by the circumstance. that the ring was on his hand when he entered the room was certain. he searched all his pockets with frantic fear, his purse, the couch on which he had slept. there was no part of the room not examined, no piece of furniture that was not moved; and the day began to dawn when the useless search was over. he went to his room, sleepless and troubled beyond belief. government might be defeated, ministers might resign, reform might spell revolution, the estates and titles of nobles might be in jeopardy,--but kitty's ring was lost, and that was the first, and the last, and the only thought piers exham could entertain. chapter eighth will she choose evil or good? annabel had a very good night. her conscience was an indulgent one, and she easily satisfied its complaining. "it was after all only a joke," she said. "in the morning i can restore the ring. the duke will have a good laugh at his son's discomfiture, and will praise my cleverness. the duchess will either knit her brows, or else take it merrily; and piers will owe me a forfeit, and that will be the end of the affair. what is there to make a fuss over?" annabel's conscience thought, in such case, there was nothing to fuss about; and it let her sleep comfortably on the prevaricating promise. she considered the matter over as she was dressing. she had slept well, was refreshed and full of life, and therefore full of selfish wilfulness:-- "i will restore the ring to piers." she said this to please one side of her nature. "i will not restore the ring." she said this to please the other side. "as a thing of worth, it is by no means costly. i will give kate atheling a ring of twice its value. as a thing of power it is mine, the spoil of my will and my skill; and i will not part with it." still she kept the first decision in reserve; she promised herself to be influenced by the circumstances which the affair induced. but the way out of temptation is always very difficult, and circumstances are rarely favourable to it. they were not in this case. before annabel was dressed she received a message that overthrew all her intentions. the duchess was going to breakfast in her own parlour, and she desired annabel's company at the meal. the desires of the duchess were commands, and the young lady reluctantly obeyed them; for she anticipated the reproof that came, as soon as they were alone, regarding her attitude towards cecil north. "it will not do, annabel," said the duchess, severely. "the norths are a fine family, but poor, even in the elder branches. this young man can look forward to nothing better than some diplomatic or military appointment, and that in an indian presidency." "what could be better?" asked annabel, with an affectation of delight. "an indian court is a court. it has the splendour, the ceremony, the very air of royalty." "but with your fortune--" "i assure you, duchess, any man who marries me will need all my fortune. he will in fact deserve it. you know that i am _not_ amiable, and that i _am_ extravagant and luxurious." "but you may avoid such a foolish, unwomanly thing as flirtation, even if you are not amiable. it seems to me the world has forgotten how to be amiable. this morning, the duke is touchy and disagreeable; and piers has not come to ask after my health, though it is his usual custom when i remain in my room. he angered the duke also last night." "did you see him last night?" asked annabel, with an air of indifference. "the duke did. piers seems to have behaved in an absurd way about a ring he has lost. the duke says, he turned his room topsy-turvy, and went on as if he had lost his whole estate." "was it the ring with the ducal arms that he always wears?" "no, indeed! only a simple band of sapphires, or some other stone. the duke thinks it must have been the gift of some woman. were you the donor, annabel?" "i! i should think not! i do not give rings away. i prefer to receive them. he wore no sapphire band yesterday when he and i went to the athelings--" and she looked the rest of the query, over her coffee-cup, straight into the eyes of the duchess. "what is it you mean to ask, annabel?" "do you think that miss atheling--" [illustration:] "miss atheling! that girl! what an absurd idea! why should she give lord exham a ring?" "_why!_ there are so many '_whys_' that nobody can answer." and with this remark, annabel felt that her opportunity for confession had quite lapsed. for if the duchess had thought it right to reprove her for such freedom as she had shown towards cecil north, what would she say about an act so daring, so really improper in a social sense, as the removal of a ring from her son's hand? annabel had no mind to bring on herself the disagreeable looks and words she merited. she gave the conversation the political turn that answered all purposes, by asking the duchess if she was not afraid piers's principles might be influenced by his friendship with young atheling. "they were david and jonathan yesterday," she said; "and as for cecil north, he is a radical of the first water." "lord exham is not so easily persuaded," answered the duchess, loftily. "he could as readily change his nose as his principles. but i am seriously annoyed at this intercourse with a family distinctly out of our own caste. the duke has been very foolish to encourage it." "you have also encouraged miss atheling." "i have been too good-natured. i admit that. but as i have promised to present her, i must honourably keep my word; that is, if any opportunity offers. it now appears as if there would be no court functions. the king declined the lord mayor's feast,--a most unprecedented thing,--and it is said the queen is averse to receive while the reform agitation continues. when it will end, nobody knows." "it will end when it succeeds, not before," said annabel. "i am only a woman, but i see that conclusion very clearly." it gave her pleasure to make this statement. it was her way of returning to the duchess the disagreeable words she had been obliged to take from her; and she was not at all dismayed by the look of anger she provoked. "i am astonished at you, annabel. are you also in danger of changing your opinions?" "i am astonished at myself, duchess. my opinions are movable; but i have not yet changed them. truth, however, belongs to all sides, and i cannot avoid seeing things as they are." "that is, as young atheling and cecil north show them to you." "lord exham has still more frequent opportunities of showing me the course of events. i have 'influences' on both sides, you see, duchess; but, after all, i form my own opinions." "reform will never be accomplished. the people must follow the nobles, as surely as the thread follows the needle." "i have ceased to prophesy. anything can happen in a long enough time; and i often heard my father say that, 'they who _care_ and _dare_ may do as they like.' i think the reform party both '_care_' and '_dare_.'" "have you fallen in love with cecil north, or with mr. atheling?" "i am in love with annabel vyner. i worship none of the idols that have been set up, either by tories or reformers. men who talk politics are immensely stupid. i shall marry a man who is a good fighter. mere talkers are like barking dogs. why don't these reformers stop whimpering, and fly like a bull dog at the throat of their wrongs? then i should go with them, heart and soul and purse." "you are talking now for talking's sake, annabel. you are actually advocating civil war." "am i really? well, war is man's natural condition. it takes churches, and priests, and standing armies, and constables always on hand, to keep peace in any sort of fashion. we are all barbarians under our clothes,--just civilised on the top." "such assertions are odious, and you cannot prove them." "i can. the other evening i was reading to lord tatham a most exquisite poem by that young man tennyson; and he seemed to be enjoying it, until algernon sydney showed him his watch, and said something about 'the black boy.' then his face fairly glowed, and he went off with a compliment that meant nothing. the next morning i found out 'the black boy' was a famous pugilist. we are all of us, in some way or other, in this mixed condition." "i think you are particularly disagreeable this morning, miss." "pardon, duchess. we have fallen on a disagreeable subject. let us change it. are we to drive to richmond to-day?" "if piers will accompany us. ay! that is his knock." she turned a radiant face to meet her son, but received a sudden chill. piers was pale and sombre-looking; he said he had not slept, and politely declined the richmond excursion. annabel was sure he would. "he will have an explanation at the athelings instead," she thought; and she waited curiously for some remark which might open the way for her confession--or else close it. but lord exham did not allude to his loss, and the duchess either attached no importance to the subject, or else thought it too important to bring forward. the tone of the room was not brightened by the young lord's advent, and annabel quickly excused herself from further attendance. "he will tell his mother when i am not there; and i shall get his opinions, with commentaries from her," she thought, as she hurried to her own rooms. once there, she dismissed her maid, and sat down to realise herself. she doubled her little hands, and beat her knees softly with them. it was her way of summoning her mental forces, and of collecting vagrant and undecided thought. "i am just here," she said to her own consciousness. "i have taken a ring from lord exham's finger. what for? mischief or a joke? which? probably mischief. i wanted to turn it into a joke, and my opportunity is gone. not my fault. if the duchess had been in a good humour, i should have told her all about it. if exham's manner had not frozen everything but the commonplaces of propriety, i would have teased him a little, and then given up the ring. it is their own fault. if people are cross at breakfast, they deserve a disagreeable day. i am not sorry to give them their deserts." then she rose and went to her jewel-case, and took the ring out and put it on her finger. "it is a poor little thing after all," she said as she turned it round and round. "the stones are not very fine; i have sapphires of far finer colour. if i give kate atheling my diamond locket, she will have reason to be grateful,--the setting is, however, really beautiful; that is the point, i suppose. i would like to have a ring set in the same way; but it would be dangerous--" and she laughed as if she enjoyed the thought of the danger. she took off the ring at this point, and looked at it more critically. "what must i do with the troublesome thing?" she asked herself. "justine is a curious, suspicious creature, and when she hears the talk in the servants' hall, if she got but a glimpse of it, she would put two and two together." a momentary resolve to throw it into the fire-place of the duke's parlour came into her mind. "if it is found there," she argued, "the only supposition will be that piers dropped it on the hearth. if it is not found, there will be no suppositions at all." this resolve, however, received no real encouragement. there is a perverse disposition in human nature to keep with special care things that incriminate, or which might become sources of suspicion or trouble; and the ring exercised over the girl this fatal fascination. she closed her jewel-case deliberately, holding the lid a trifle open for a moment or two of last consideration; then she dropped it with decision, and took from her pocket a small purse, made of gold as flexible as leather or satin. there were a few sovereigns in one compartment, and a hindoo charm in another. she put the ring with the charm, and closed the purse with a smile of satisfaction. for the time being, at any rate, it was out of her way; and there were yet possibilities of turning the whole matter into a pleasantry. "i may even take it to kate atheling and tell her to claim my forfeit." this very improbable solution satisfied annabel's conscience; she was at peace after it, and able to consider more personal affairs. in order to do this under the most favourable conditions, she placed herself comfortably on her lounge. her fine, tall form lay at length, supine and indolent, the feet, in their crimson sandals, crossed at the ankles. her dark, powerful head, with its masses of strong, black hair, looked almost handsome on the pale amber cushions, with the hands and arms--jewelled though it was only morning--clasped above it. she was going to examine herself, and she was not one to shirk even the innermost chamber of her heart. "first," she thought, "there is lord exham. do i really want to marry him? let me be sure of this, and then there is nothing for him to do, but make out the settlements. he cannot resist my influence when i choose to exert it. as yet i have not troubled him much; but i can trouble him--and i will, if i want to. do i? be honest, annabel. there is no use lying to yourself. well, then, i want to be duchess of richmoor; but i do _not_ want to be exham's wife. and if i marry him, the present duke may live ten, twenty, even thirty years. i would not wait for the crown of england thirty years, with a husband i rather despised; only--only what? i do not want that atheling girl to marry him. jane warwick, or helen percy, or margaret gower, i would not mind--but kate atheling! no! why? i cannot tell." nor could she. it was one of those apparently unreasonable dislikes we bring into the world with us, and which, probably, are the most reasonable dislikes of all. "very well, then," she continued, "i will not marry piers, nor shall kate atheling marry him. that is fair enough. if i manage to make her give him up, i give him up myself also. i am only doing to her as i do to myself. "now there is wynn, and sidmouth, and russell--and others. every one of them have appraised my value, and made inquiries about my wealth. no one has told me this, but i know it. i know it with that invincible certainty with which women know things they are never told. cecil north? yes, i like cecil north. he really fell in love with me,--with _me_, _myself_. a woman knows; she is never deceived about that unless she wants to be deceived. he is poor,--the westovers are all poor,--i do not care if he is as poor as job. i am tired to death of rich people. if cecil north would get a military commission in india, i could be his wife. i could follow the drum, or live in quarters with him, and i should be a better and a happier woman than i am here. this life is too small for me." she was right in this estimation of herself. her nature was one fitted to respond to great emergencies. she was a woman for frontiers and forts, for strife with men or elements, for days of danger in the shadow of suffering or death; and she was living in a society so artificial that any real cry of nature and needless familiarity, any sign of genuine passion was startling and distasteful to it. the soldierly temper inherited from her father demanded an adventurous life, because people made for overcoming obstacles cannot be morally healthy without obstacles to overcome. and, therefore, it was a poor life for annabel vyner that offered her no difficulty to surmount but the claims of kate atheling. she was quite aware of this, and the ring in her purse was no real triumph. it was rather one of those irreparable facts, the very thought of which gives pain. if she had been morally stronger, she would have dominated her environment, and defied the circumstances that so easily prevented her from doing the right thing. she would have been obedient to duty; and that grand, immutable principle would have given her strength to resist temptation, or, having fallen into it, to make the obvious reparation; for "so nigh is grandeur to our dust, so near is god to man, when duty whispers low, '_thou must_,' the soul replies, '_i can_.'" this morning, though she was far from diagnosing her feelings correctly, annabel soon began to suffer from that nervous and even that physical fatigue which is bred of moral indifference. for nothing is more certain than that moral strength is the very _life_ of life. she yawned; she felt the hours too long to be endured, while she pictured to herself the scene in the atheling parlour, when piers would confess the loss of the ring, and kate lovingly excuse it. finally, she became nervously angry at the persistence of the vision. in every possible way she tried to banish it, but though she fetched memories from farthest india, the exasperating phantasm would not be driven away. in reality the affair produced very little apparent effect. piers made his confession to mrs. and miss atheling with so much genuine emotion that they could not but make light of the loss while he was present. yet it troubled both women very much. mrs. atheling cried over it when she was alone; and kate took it as a sign of some untoward event in the course of love between piers and herself. no one is able to put aside such inferences and presentiments; and, quite unconsciously, it worked towards the end kate feared. piers began to fancy--perhaps unjustly--that he never entered kate's or mrs. atheling's presence without seeing in their first glance an unspoken inquiry after the lost ring. in some measure he was to blame, if this was so. he had employed detectives to watch such servants of the richmoor household as could have had access to the duke's parlour on that unhappy night; and as the ladies were aware of this movement, it was only natural they should desire to know if any result came from it. of course there was no result; and the real culprit remained absolutely unsuspected. as the days wore away, her conscience grew accustomed to the situation; it made no troublesome demands; and annabel even began to feel a certain pleasurable excitement in holding in her hands what might prove to be a power for great good, or great evil,--for she was not yet ready to admit an entirely evil intention; she chose rather to regard it as a practical jest which she might undo, or explain, in some future, favourable hour. she kept the jewel always in her purse; she went frequently to the athelings; and once or twice she had a transitory impulse to tell kate the whole circumstance, and be guided by her advice in the matter. but the evil one, who had prompted her in the first instance to take it, always met these intents or impulses with some plausible excuse; and every good impulse which does not crystallise into a good action, only tends towards the strengthening of the evil one. then outside events made delay more easy. on the fifteenth of november, there was a short, decided argument in the house of commons on the civil list; a division was promptly taken, and the government was found to be in a minority of twenty-nine. the squire and lord exham returned home together, both very much annoyed at this result. "all this election business will be to go over again," the squire said, wearily. "wellington and peel are sure to take this opportunity to resign." "why should they resign, john?" asked mrs. atheling. "well, maude," he answered, "they are bound to resign sooner or later; and i should think, if they have any sense left, they will go out as champions of the royal prerogative, rather than be driven out by a reform division, which is sure to come. they will go out, my word for it, maude!" "and what then, john?" "well, then, we shall have all the bother of another election; and earl grey will form a new ministry, and lord brougham will bully the new ministry, as he has done the old one, about this reform bill. he intended to have begun that business this very night; but there wasn't any ministers, nor any administration to arraign, and so he said, in his domineering way, that he would put the question of reform off until the twenty-fifth of this month, and not a day longer, no matter what circumstances prevailed, nor who were his majesty's ministers. i can tell you the city was in a pretty commotion as we came home. we shall have a reform government now, with earl grey at the head, and the real fight will then begin." "earl grey!" said mrs. atheling; "that is edgar's friend." "well, i wouldn't brag about it, mother, if i was thee. i shall have to go back to yorkshire, and so will exham; and there will be no end of bother, and a reform ministry at the end of it. it is too bad! what they will do with mr. brougham, i am sure i don't know. no ministry can live without him; and it will be hard work for any ministry to live with him; for if he drew up a bill himself, he would find faults in it, and never rest until he had torn it to pieces." piers was sitting in the embrasure of a window, holding kate's hands, and talking to her in those low, sweet tones that women love; and at this remark he rose, and, coming towards the squire, said with a grave smile, "for such dilemmas, squire, there are remedies made and provided. if it is a clever clergyman who arraigns the church, or his superiors, he is made a bishop; and thereafter, he sees no faults. if it is a clever commoner who arraigns the government, the government makes him a peer; and in the house of lords, he finds the grace of silence. earl grey will have mr. brougham made lord high chancellor, and then _lord_ brougham will only have the power to put the question." exham's prophecy proved to be correct. brougham had declared that under any circumstances he would bring up reform on the twenty-fifth of november; but, on the twenty-second of november, he took his seat as chancellor in the house of lords. it was said the great seal had been forced upon him; but the squire wondered what pressure, never before known, had been discovered to make henry brougham do anything, or take anything, he did not want to do or take. however the feat was an accomplished one; and with earl gray, lord durham, sir james graham, viscounts melbourne and palmerston, and other great leaders, brougham kissed the king's hand on his appointment just three days before his threatened demonstration for reform. soon after parliament adjourned for the re-election of members in the lower house; and the duke, with lord exham and squire atheling, went down into yorkshire. edgar and cecil north also disappeared. "they have gone into the country on business, and i'll tell you what it is, kitty," said mrs. atheling, with a little happy importance. "a friend of earl grey has a close borough, and edgar is to have it. i am sure i don't know what will happen, if he should clash with father in the house. father cannot bear contradicting." "nothing wrong will happen, mother." "to be sure, the floor of the house of commons is a bit different from his own hearthstone. when edgar is a parliament man, father will give him his place." "and edgar will never forget to give father his place, i am sure of that." "i wouldn't stand a minute with him if he did. what a father and son say to each other in their homestead, is home talk; but edgar must not threep his father before strangers. no, indeed!" "i wouldn't wonder if father comes round a little to edgar's views. he listened very patiently to cecil north, the last time they talked on politics." "he _has_ to listen in parliament, and so he is getting used to listening. he never listened patiently at home--not even to me. but we can hope for the best anyhow, kitty." "to be sure, mother. hoping for the best is far better than looking for the worst." "i should think it was. do you believe piers will be in london at christmas?" "i fear not. mother, he is going to send us each a ring at christmas; then we will forget the other ring--shall we not?" "i don't know, kitty. i think a deal of that other ring. no new one can make up for it. why, my dear, your father gave it to me the night i promised to marry him. we were standing under the big white hawthorn at belward. i'll never forget that hour." "it is so long ago, mother--you cannot care very much now about it." "now, kitty, if you think only young people can be in love, get that idea out of your mind at once. you don't know anything about love yet. after twenty-five years bearing, and forbearing, and childbearing, you will smile at your gentle-shepherding of to-day. your love is only a fancy now, it will be a fact then that has its foundations in your very life. you do not love piers exham, child, as i love your father. you can't. it isn't to be expected. and it is a good thing, love is so ordered; for if it did not grow stronger, instead of weaker, marrying would be a poor way of living." "that weary ring! i am so sorry that i ever put it on." "i did not ask you to put it on, kitty. i did not want you to put it on." "mother, please don't be cross." "kitty, don't be unjust; it is not like you." then kitty laid her cheek against her mother's cheek, and said sadly, "i fear, somehow, that ring will make trouble between piers and me." "nonsense, dearie! the ring is lost and gone. it can't make trouble now." "its loss was a bad omen, mother." "there is no omen against true love, kitty. love counts every sign a good sign." "the duke was very formal with me at my last visit. the duchess dislikes me; and miss vyner has so many opportunities; it seems nearly impossible that piers should ever marry me." "if piers loves you, there is no impossibility. love works miracles. you cannot say 'impossible' to love. love will find out a way." chapter ninth a foolish virgin parliament was adjourned on the twenty-third of december, and did not re-assemble until the third of february. the interval was one of great public excitement and of great private anxiety. the country had been assured of a government pledged to reform; and, in the main, were waiting as patiently as men, hungry and naked, and burning with a sense of injury and injustice, could wait. but no one knew what hour a spark might be cast into such inflammable material,--that would mean revolution instead of reform. consequently life was depressed, and not disposed to any exhibition of wealth or festivity; the most heartless and reckless feeling that it would not be endured by men and women on the very verge of starvation. the queen also was unpopular, and the great social leaders were, as a general thing, bitter political partisans; in theatres and ball-rooms and even on the streets, the whig and tory ladies, when they met, looked at one another as guelphs and ghibellines, instead of christened english gentlewomen. both the duchess of richmoor and miss vyner were women of strong and irrepressible prejudices; and, before parliament adjourned, they had made for themselves an environment of active, political enemies. and women carry their politics into their domestic and social life; the duchess had wounded many of her oldest friends; and annabel, with the haughty intolerance of youth and wealth, had succeeded in making herself a person whom all the ladies of the reform party delighted either to positively offend, or to scornfully ignore. these circumstances, with all her audacity and advantages, she was unable to control. her brilliant beauty, her clever tongue, her ostentatious dress and display were as nothing against the united disposition of a score of other women to make her understand that they neither desired her friendship nor felt her influence; and she had at least the sense to retire from a conflict "whose weapons," she said contemptuously, "were not in her armory." this condition of affairs naturally threw her very much upon the athelings for society. while the duchess sat with a few old ladies of her own caste and political persuasion, talking fearfully of the state of english society and of the horrors reform would inaugurate for the nobility, annabel spent her time with mrs. and miss atheling, and learned to look hopefully into a future in which, perhaps, there would be neither dukes nor lords. besides, cecil north had a habit of visiting the athelings also; and, without expressed arrangement, both cecil and annabel looked forward to those charming lunches which mrs. atheling dispensed with so little ceremony and so much good nature. it had been cecil's intention to go with edgar into the country; but when the hour for departure arrived, he had not been able to leave annabel's vicinity, and, in some of those mysterious ways known to love, she understood, and was pleased with this evidence of her power. cecil's mother had been particularly prominent in that social ostracism the reform ladies had meted out to her; and it gave to the real liking which she had for cecil a piquant relish to parade the young man as her devoted servant in all places where his noble mother would be likely to see or hear tell of her son's "infatuation." but cecil north's affection, and the favour it received, did not much influence kate. with the perversity of a woman in love, she believed annabel to be only amusing herself during lord exham's absence; and she accepted, without a doubt, all the little innuendoes, and half-truths, and half-admissions which annabel suffered herself, as it were, without intent, to make. thus the dreary winter days passed slowly away. in january edgar returned. his election had been a mere walk over the ground. the patron of the borough of shereham had spoken the word, and edgar atheling was its lawful representative. it was a poor little place, but it gave edgar a vote on the right side; and earl grey also hoped much from his power as a natural orator. he might take brougham's place, and be far more amenable to directions than brougham had ever been. mrs. atheling considered none of these things. she took in only the grand fact that her son was in parliament, and that he must have won his place there by some transcendent personal merit. true, she had some little qualms of fear as to how edgar's father would treat the new representative of englishmen; but her invincible habit of hoping and her cheerful way of looking into the future did not suffer these passing doubts to seriously mar her glory and pride in her son's dignity. in fact, even in annabel's eyes, edgar atheling was now an important person. women do not consider causes, they look at results; and in edgar atheling's case the result was satisfactory. on the day the new member for shereham returned home, she was lunching with the athelings, eating her salad and playing with cecil north's heart, when edgar entered the room. his honour sat well on him; he neither paraded, nor yet affectedly ignored it. his mother's pride, his sister's pleasure, and the congratulations of his friends made him happy, and he showed it. the lunch that was nearly finished was delayed for another hour. no one liked to break up the delightful meal and conversation; and when annabel got back to richmoor house the short day was over, and the duchess had sent an escort to hurry her return. "you are exceedingly imprudent, annabel," she said, when the girl entered her presence; "and i do think it high time you stopped visiting so much at one house." "duchess, will you say what other house equally charming is open to me? you know how little of a favourite i am. to-day i was delayed by an event,--the return of young atheling after his election. he is now an m. p.,--a great honour for so young a man, i think." "honour, indeed! grey or durham, or some of those renegades to their own caste, have given him a seat. grey would give a seat to a puppy if it could bark 'aye' for him." "well, i should not think atheling will be a dumb dog; he has a ready tongue. mr. north says he will take brougham's place." "he will do nothing of the kind. young atheling is a fine talker when he has to face a mob of grumbling men on a yorkshire moor or a city common. it is a different thing, annabel, to stand up before the gentlemen of england. as for mr. north, i have told you before that both the duke and myself seriously object to that entanglement." annabel laughed. "there is no entanglement, duchess,--that is, on my part." "then why throw yourself continually in the young man's way?" "you are scarcely polite. he throws himself in my way." "pardon. i meant nothing disrespectful." "and i have reasons." "may i know them?" "yes. mr. north's mother was particularly insulting to me at the last morning concert i attended. i heard also that she had spoken of me as 'an indian girl of doubtful parentage.' she is particularly fond of cecil, who is her youngest child, and she is trying to make a marriage between him and that enormously rich miss curzon. i am going to defeat her plans." then the duchess laughed. "i never interfere with any woman's retributions," she said. "but do not burn yourself at the fire you kindle for others." "i am fire-proof." "i must think so, or surely piers would have influenced you." "lord exham never tried to 'influence' me; and only one woman in the world can 'influence' him." "you mean miss atheling, of course; and i have already told you that there is not even a supposition in that case. miss atheling is out of the question. the duke would never consent to such a marriage; and i would never forgive it. never! i should prefer to lose my son altogether." "then you ought to let miss atheling know how you feel. she is a very honourable, yes, a very proud girl. she would not force herself into your family, no matter how much she loved your son. now, i would. if i had thought you did _not_ want me to marry lord exham, i should probably have been his wife to-day." the duchess glanced at the speaker a little scornfully, and said, "perhaps you over-estimate your abilities. however, annabel, your suggestion about miss atheling has much likelihood. i shall make an opportunity to speak to her. will you go out to-night? there will be the usual crush at lady paget's." "excuse me, i do not wish to go." the statement was correct. she had begun to weary of a routine of visiting that lacked decisive personal interest. she had many lovers; but even love-making grows tiresome unless it is reciprocal, or has some spice of jealousy, or some element of the chase in it. cecil north did interest her, and piers exham did stimulate her desire for conquest; but cecil was most pleasantly met at the athelings, and lord exham was in yorkshire. so, after dining alone with the duchess, she went to a little drawing-room that was her favourite resort. the great ash logs burned brightly on the white marble hearth, and threw shifting lights on the white-and-gold furnishings, on the pictured walls, on the ferns and flowers, and on the lovely marble forms of two wood nymphs among them. she placed herself comfortably in a large easy-chair, with her back to the argand lamp, and stretched out her sandalled feet before the blaze, and nestled her head among the soft white cushions. the delicious drowsy atmosphere was a physical satisfaction of the highest order to her, quite as much so as it was to the splendid persian cat that grumblingly resigned, at her order, the pleasantest end of the snow-white rug. "now i can think," she said with lazy satisfaction, as she closed her restless eyes and began the operation. "in the first place, i have set a ball rolling that i may not be able to manage. it is in the hand of the duchess, and she will have no scruples--she never has, if she is fighting for her own side. perhaps i ought not to have given her such a 'leader,' for kate atheling has always been kind to me--thoughtful about cecil, ready at making excuses to let us have a little solitude, arranging shopping excursions in his presence, so that he would know where he could 'accidentally' meet us--and so on. no, it was not exactly kind; but then, in love and war, all things are fair--and i dare say miss kate's motives were probably selfish enough. she would give me cecil to make her own way clear to piers; and, also, cecil is a favourite with the athelings and young atheling's friend; and they know that he is poor, and doubtless wish to help him to a rich wife. every one works out their own plan, why should not i do the same? but i must find out something about that ring, and, as the straight way is the best way, i will ask kate the necessary questions. she will be sure to betray herself." then she opened her purse, took out the ring, and placed it upon her finger, holding up her hand to the blaze to catch its reflections. "it is a pretty little thing, but i have bought it two or three times over with my diamond locket. i wonder why kate never wears that locket! is it too fine? or has she some feeling against me? i gave her it at christmas, and i have only seen it once on her neck--that is strange! i never thought of it before--it really is not much of a ring--i have twenty finer ones--and i dare say i shall give it back some day: yes, of course i shall give it back--but at present--" and she stopped thinking of the demands of the present, and taking the ring off her finger laid it in the palm of her hand, and softly tossed it and the hindoo charm up and down together ere she replaced them in their receptacle. evidently she had arranged things comfortably with herself, for, after closing the purse, she began to swing it by its golden chain before the cat's eyes, until the creature became thoroughly annoyed, and tried to catch the gleaming, tantalising worry with its claws. the play delighted her; she gave herself up to its tormenting charm, and for once lost, in the momentary amusement, all consciousness of herself and her appearance. it was then the great white door swung noiselessly open, and lord exham stood within it. the sensuous little drama, so full of colour and life, instantly arrested him; and he stood motionless to watch it. the girl's strong, vivid face, her black hair, her dress of bright scarlet, her arms and hands flashing with gems, were thrown into dazzling prominence by the chair of white brocade in which she sat, and the white rug at her feet, and the lamp shining behind her. she waved the golden purse before the cat's eyes, and let it almost fall into the eager paws, and then drew it backward with a little laugh, and was not aware that she was, in the act, an absolutely bewitching type of mere physical beauty. but piers was aware of it. he forgot everything but delight in the moving picture; and, as he advanced, he cried, in a voice full of pleasure, "_annabel! annabel!_" and the girl answered her name with an instantaneous movement towards him. her radiant face looked into his face, and ere they were aware they had met in each other's arms and piers had kissed her. she was silent and smiling, and he instantly recovered himself. "i ask your pardon," he said, releasing her and bowing gravely; "but you are one of the family, you know, and i have been long away, and am so glad to get home again that some liberty must be excused me." "oh, indeed!" she answered, with a pretty pout, "i think the apology is the worst part of the business," and she looked into his eyes with that steady, unwinking gaze which none withstand. then he drew her closer, and said softly, "you are simply bewildering to-night, annabel. how have you made yourself so beautiful?" as he spoke he led her to her seat, and drew a chair close to her side; and the cat leaped to his knee and began to loudly purr her satisfaction in her master's return. "are you alone to-night?" he asked. "or perhaps you are expecting company?" "i am alone. i expected no company; but destiny loves surprises, and to-night she has surpassed herself. the duchess has gone to lady paget's. i could not sacrifice myself so far. you know what her political nights are. and if it is not relief bills, and reform bills, then it is mr. clarkson and anti-slavery; and we are solemnly told to make little petticoats for the negro children if we desire to go to heaven." she laughed, and dropped her eyes, and was silent; and the silence grew dangerous. fortunately, she herself broke the spell by asking piers if he had seen squire atheling in yorkshire. "we came from yorkshire together," he said. then he began to talk about the election, and in a few minutes a butler announced his dinner, and annabel's hour was over. she was not disappointed. "we went far enough," she thought. "i am not yet ready to put my hand out further than i can draw it back. i cannot give up cecil now; he is the only private pleasure i have. every other thing i share with the duchess, or somebody else. and piers i should have to share with her and the duke. as heir to the dukedom, they will always retain a right in his time and interests. no, lord exham, not yet--not yet." she rose with the words, and went to the piano and dashed off in splendid style that famous old military fantasia, "the battle of prague." and the drift of her uncontrolled thoughts during it may be guessed by the first query she made of her intelligence when the noisy music ceased:-- "i wonder what the athelings are doing? piers says the squire is at home. i suppose mrs. atheling and kate are coddling, and petting, and feeding him." in some respects annabel judged fairly well. the squire reached his home about the same time that lord exham arrived at richmoor house, and found mrs. atheling waiting to receive him. he made no secret of his joy in seeing her again. "i was afraid thou mightst be gadding about somewhere, maude," he said. "it is pleasant to find thee at home." "john atheling!" "well, it is too bad to say such a thing, maude. i knew well i would find thee at home when there was either chance or likelihood of my getting back there. but where is little kitty? it isn't right without kitty." "well, john, squire pickering's family came to london a few days ago, and kitty has gone to the theatre with them." "i'll tell thee a good joke about squire pickering, maude," said the squire, laughing heartily as he spoke. "he was feared young sam pickering was going to vote for reform, and he served a writ on him for a trespass, or something of that sort, and got him put safely in jail till voting time was over. then he quashed the writ and let the lad out. but, my word! young sam is fighting furious, and he has treated his father nearly as bad as edgar treated me." "edgar is going to parliament now. i told thee he would. john, for goodness' sake, don't quarrel with him before all england!" "maude atheling! i never quarrelled with edgar. never! he quarrelled with me. if he had done his duty by his father, we would have been finger and thumb, buckle and strap, yesterday, and to-day, and to-morrow, and every other day. the duke says my anger at edgar is quite reasonable and justifiable." "_the duke!_ so then thou art framing thy opinions to what _he_ says. dear me! i wouldn't have believed such a thing could ever come to pass." "wait till it _does_ come to pass. why, richmoor and i very near came to quarrelling point because i would _not_ frame my opinions by his say-so. i have been looking into things a bit, maude, more than i ever did before, and i have learned what i am not going to deny for anybody. i met philip brotherton of knaseborough, and he asked me to go home with him for two or three days--you know philip and i have been friends ever since we were lads, and our fathers before us." "i know that." "so i went with him, and he showed me how working men live and labour in such towns as leeds and manchester; and i am not going to say less than it is a sin and a shame to keep human beings alive on such terms. i do not believe any reform bill is going to help them; but they ought to be helped; and they must be helped; or else government is nothing but blunderment, and legislating nothing but folly. and i said as much to richmoor, and he asked me if my son had been lecturing me; and i told him i had been using my own eyes, and my own ears, and my own conscience." "what did he say to that?" "he said, 'squire, i do not like your associating with philip brotherton. the man has radical ideas, though he does not profess them.' and i said, 'i like philip brotherton, and i shall associate with him whenever i can make it convenient to do so; and as for his ideas, if they are radical, then christianity is radical; and as for professing them, philip brotherton does better than that, he lives them;' and i went on to say that i thought it would be a right and righteous thing if both landlords and loomlords would do the same." "my word, john! thou didst speak up! i'll warrant richmoor was angry enough." the squire laughed a little as he answered, "well, maude, he got as red in the face as a turkey-cock, and he asked me if i was really going to be philip brotherton's fool. and i answered, 'no, i am like you, duke, i do my own business in that line.' and he said, '_squire atheling!_' and turned on his heel and walked one way; and i said, '_duke richmoor!_' and turned on my heel and walked the other way. now then, maude, dost thou think he orders my opinions for me?" and mrs. atheling smiled understandingly in her lord's face, and cut him a double portion from the best part of the haunch of venison she was carving. a few days after this event annabel called one morning at the athelings. she expected cecil north to be there, and he was not there; she waited for him to come, and he did not come; she tried in many devious ways to get kate to express an opinion about his absence, and kate seemed entirely unconscious of it. it provoked her into an ill-natured anger; and, casting about in her mind for something disagreeable to say, she remembered her resolve to find out how the sapphire ring came to be in lord exham's possession. even if "the straight way had not been the best way," she was by nature inclined to direct inquiries; and she had just proven in her mental manoeuvring about cecil north that indirect methods were not satisfactory. so she said bluntly:-- "kate, did you ever hear about lord exham losing a ring he valued very much?" "yes," answered kate, without the slightest embarrassment; "it was my mother's ring." "your mother's ring?" "yes." "but lord exham had it on his finger." "my mother loaned it to him. he admired it very much, and wished to have one made like it." "the duchess was sure that some lady had given it to him as a love gage. do you know that he has fretted himself sick about its loss?" [illustration:] "oh, no! i am sure he is not sick. my mother made light of the loss to him, though she really was very much attached to that particular ring." "have i ever seen her wear it?" "no. it was too small for her." "then it was a simple souvenir?" "it was more than that; it was her betrothal ring. father bought it in venice." "oh!" "but she had a slim little hand, then--like mine is now--" said kate, laughing, and spreading out her hand for annabel to observe. "then you must have been talking of rings, and shown it to him." "i was wearing it. i had it on during the lunch hour, and you were present. it is a wonder you did not notice it, for you are so curious about finger-rings." "yes, i am quite a ring collector." "it was rather a singular ring." "will you describe it to me?" kate did so, and annabel listened with apparent curiosity. "i wonder what exham could want with such a queer ring," she said in answer. "perhaps he is also a ring collector." "perhaps!" but the one word by no means explained the thoughts forming in her mind. she rose, and, lifting her bonnet, went to a mirror and carefully tied the satin ribbons under her chin, in the big bows then considered vastly becoming. kate tried to arrest her hands. "stay and take lunch with us," she urged. "edgar is sure to be here; and i should like him to see you in that pretty cloth pelisse." "mr. atheling never notices me; then why should he notice my pelisse? i heard lady inglis say that he is very much in miss curzon's society. if so, he will clash with his friend mr. north, who is also her devoted slave." "now, annabel! you know that cecil north loves no one but you." "how can you be so wise about his love-affairs?" "no great wisdom is needed to see what he cannot hide." "was he here yesterday?" "he was here last night. he called to tell us he was going to westover on some business for his father. i suppose he wanted you to know." "but you never thought of telling me. how selfish girls in love are! they cannot think a thought beyond their own lover. i declare i was going without giving you my news,--the duchess has a large dinner party on the first of march. the tory ladies will wait in her rooms the reading of this famous reform bill that lord john russell is concocting, and there will be a great crowd. kate, if i was you, i would wear your court dress. it is very unlikely that the queen will receive at all this season." "perhaps we shall not be invited to the dinner." "you certainly will be invited. i heard the list read, and as your name begins with 'a' it was almost the first. if mr. atheling does come to lunch, give him my respects and describe my pelisse to him." she went away with this mocking message, and was driven first to a famous jeweller's, where she bought a sapphire band sufficiently like the one lord exham had lost to pass for it, if the view was cursory and at a distance. kate's confidence had made one course exceedingly plain to annabel. she said to herself as she drove through the city streets, "my best plan is evidently to arouse squire atheling's suspicions. i will let him see the ring on my hand. i will lead him to think piers gave it to me. he will of course make inquiries, and i wonder what mrs. atheling and kate will say. it is a pretty piece of confusion--and, if the matter goes too far, i reserve the power to play the good fairy and put all right. this is a complication i shall enjoy thoroughly, and i am sure, with nothing on earth but reform and revolution in my ears, i deserve some little private amusement. all i have to do is to be constantly ready for opportunities." opportunities, however, with squire atheling, were few and far between. it was not until the day before the first of march she found one. on that afternoon she called at the athelings, and found mrs. and miss atheling out. the squire was walking from the fire-place to the window, and from the window to the fire-place, and grumbling at their absence. miss vyner's entrance diverted him for a few minutes; and as they were talking a servant brought in a small package. the squire took it up, and laid it down, and then took it up again, and was evidently either anxious or curious concerning its contents. "why do you not open your package, squire?" asked annabel. "well, young lady, i am not going to act as if your presence was not entertainment enough and to spare." "nonsense! please do not stand on ceremony with me. it may contain important papers--something relating to church or state. i am only a young woman. open it, squire." "well, then, if you say so, i will open it," and he began fumbling at the well-tied string. annabel saw her opportunity. in a moment she had slipped on to the forefinger of her right hand the lost ring, and the next moment she had gently pushed aside the squire's hands, and was saying, "let me unfasten the knots. i am cleverer at that work than you." "to be sure you are. there is work little fingers do better than big ones, and this is that kind of a job. but i will get my knife and cut the knots; that is the best and quickest way." he began to hunt in his pockets for his knife, but could not find it. "dobson never does put things where they ought to be," he said fretfully; and then he pulled the bell-rope for dobson with a force that fully indicated his annoyance. in the mean time, annabel was quietly untying the string, and the squire naturally watched her efforts. he was complaining and scolding his servant and his womenkind, and annabel did not heed him; but when he suddenly stopped speaking, in the middle of a sentence, she looked into his face. it expressed the blankest wonder and curiosity. his eyes were fixed upon her hands, and he would probably have asked her some inconvenient question if dobson had not entered at the moment. then annabel retired. dobson had taken the parcel in charge, and she excused herself from further delay. "i have several things to do," she said, "and i shall only be in the way of the parcel and its contents. tell mrs. atheling and kate that i called, will you, squire?" "to be sure! to be sure, miss vyner," he answered; but his eyes were on the papers dobson was unfolding, and his mind was vaguely wandering to the ring he had seen on her finger. when he had satisfied his curiosity concerning the papers, his thoughts returned with persistent wonder to it. "i'll wager my best hunter, yes, i'll wager _flying selma_ that was the ring i bought in venice and gave to maude. how did that girl get it? maude would never sell it or give it away. never! _dal it!_ there is something queer in her having it. i must find out how it comes to pass." when he arrived at this decision mrs. atheling came into the room. she was rosy and smiling, and put aside with sweet good nature the squire's complaints about both her and kitty being out of the house when he was in it. "not a soul to say a word to me, or to see that i had a bit of comfortable eating," he said in a tone of injury. "never mind, john!" "oh, but i do mind! i mind a great deal, maude." "you see, it was kitty wanted me. she had to have a new clasp to the pearl necklace your mother left her; and she was sure you would like me to choose it, so i went with her. i thought we should certainly be home before you got back." "well, never mind, then. nothing suits me so much as to see kitty suited. i hope you bought a clasp good enough for the necklace." "i did not forget that she was going with you to-morrow night." "but you are going too, maude?" "nay, i am not. when i can shut my ears as easy as my eyes, i can afford to be less particular about the company i keep. i know beforehand what the women in that crowd will say about their own danger, and about the murmuring poor who won't starve in peace, and i know that i would be sure to answer them with a little bit of plain truth." "and the truth is not always pleasant, eh, maude?" "in this case i'm sure it wouldn't be pleasant. so, then, the outside of richmoor house is the best side for me." "i must say i'm getting a bit tired myself of the duke's masterful way, and of his everlasting talk about the 'noble memories of the past.'" "then tell him, john, that the noble hopes of the future are something better than the noble memories of the past. the country is in a bad condition as ever was. something must be done, and done quickly." "i'm saying nothing to the contrary, maude. but even if reform was right, it cannot be carried. we must drive the nail that will go. that is only good common-sense, maude." "mark my words, john. reform will _have_ to come, and better now than later. that which fools do in the end, wise men do in the beginning. i know, i know." "on this subject thou knowest nothing whatever, maude. now, then, i am going to have a bit of sleep. but i will say thus far--as soon as ever i am sure that i am on a wrong road i won't go a step further. john atheling is not the man to carry a candle for the devil." with these words he threw his bandana handkerchief over his head, adding, "he hoped now he had a 'right' to a bit of sleep." then mrs. atheling went softly out of the room. there was a tolerant smile on her face, for she was not deceived by the squire's habit of dignifying his self-assertions and his self-indulgences with the name of "rights." chapter tenth trouble comes unsummoned never had the ducal palace of richmoor been more splendidly prepared for festivity than on the night of the first of march, . and yet every guest present knew that it was not a festival, but a gathering of men and women moved by the gravest fears for the future. the long suites of parlours, brilliantly lighted, were crowded with peers and noble ladies, wearing, indeed, the smiles of conventional pleasure; but all of them eager to discuss the portentous circumstances by which they were environed. annabel stood at the right hand of the duchess, but was strangely distrait and silent. everything had gone wrong with her. it had been a day of calamity. she began it with a fret and a scold, and her maid justine had been from that moment in a temper calculated to provoke to extremities her impatient mistress. then her costume did not arrive till some hours after it was due; and when examined, it was found to be very unbecoming. she had been persuaded to select a pale blue satin, simply because she had tired of every other colour; and she was disgusted with the effect of its cold beauty against her olive-tinted skin. she wore out justine's temper with the variety of her suggestions, and her angry impatience with every effort. the girl became sulkily silent, then defiantly silent, then, after a most unreasonable burst of anger, actively impertinent, so much so that she left annabel only one way of retaliation--an instant dismissal. she lifted her purse passionately, counted out the money due, and, pushing it contemptuously towards the girl, told her "to leave the house instantly." to her utter amazement, justine pushed back the money. "i will not take it," she said. "i have no intention of leaving the house until i see the ring in your possession--the ring in your purse, miss--returned to the owner of it." if annabel had been struck to the ground, she could not have been more confounded and bewildered; and justine saw and pushed her advantage. "miss knows," she continued, "that police detectives are watching night and day the innocent men whose duties are on this corridor. any hour some little thing may cause one of them to be suspected and arrested; and then who but i could save him from the gallows? no, miss, i shall not leave till you give up the ring--till the real th--the real taker of it is known." these words terrified annabel. she felt her heart stop beating; a strange sickness overwhelmed her; she sunk speechless into a chair, and closed her eyes. with an attention utterly devoid of sympathy, justine put between her lips a tea-spoonful of aniseed cordial which she brought from her own apartment. in a few minutes annabel recovered herself physically; but her prostration, and the hysterical mood which followed it, were admissions she could not by any future word, or act, contradict. she had been taken by surprise, and surrendered. if she had had but ten minutes to survey the situation, she would have defied it; but such an emergency had never occurred to her. over and over again she had supposed every other likelihood of discovery; this one, never! she was at the mercy of her maid; but for the time being the maid was not inclined to extremities. she only insisted that annabel should use her influence to place the men under suspicion out of the danger of arrest; and when annabel had explained, with a wretched little laugh, that the ring had been taken "as a means of forwarding her love-affair with lord exham," the maid assured her "she was on her side in that matter." then she pocketed the sovereigns annabel offered as a peace gift, and "hoped miss would think no more of what she had said." but annabel could not dismiss the subject. under her magnificent but singularly unbecoming gown, she carried a heart heavy with apprehension. the shadow of the gallows, which justine had evoked for the suspected culprit, fell upon her own consciousness. in those days, the most trifling theft was punished with death; and annabel had a terror of that mysterious law of which she was so profoundly ignorant. how it would regard her position, she could not imagine. would even her confession and restoration exonerate her? in this respect, she suffered from fright, as an ignorant child suffers. besides which, when the subject of "confession" came close to her, she felt that it was impossible. constantly she had flattered her conscience with this promise; but if it was to come to actuality, she thought she would rather die. so it was with a wretched heart she took the place the duchess had assigned her at her own right hand. this position associated her intimately with lord exham, and it was for this very reason the duchess had decided upon it. she knew the value of the popular voice; she wished the popular voice to unite lord exham and her rich and beautiful ward; and she felt sure that their association at her right hand would give all the certainty necessary to such a belief. heart-sick with her strange, new terror, annabel stood in that brilliant throng. just before the dinner hour, she saw squire atheling and kate approaching to pay their respects to the duchess. she saw also the quick, joyful lifting of exham's eyelids, the bright flush of pleasure that gave sudden life to his pale cheeks, and the irrepressible gladness that made his voice musical, as he said softly, "how beautiful she is!" "miss atheling?" "yes." then annabel considered her rival's approach. her eyes fell first on the squire, whose splendid physique arrested every one's attention. he wore a coat of dark-blue broadcloth, trimmed with gold buttons, a long, white satin vest, and exquisitely fine linen, rather ostentatiously ruffled. on his arm kate's hand just rested. her gown of rich white silk was soft as lawn, and resplendent as moonbeams; and around her throat lay one string of oriental pearls. her bright, brown hair was dressed high, without any ornament; but there were silver buckles, set with pearls, on the front of her white satin sandals. a pause, a murmur of admiration was perceptible; for conversation ceased a moment as a creature so fresh, so pure, so exquisite, and so suitably protected, moved among them. lord exham, forgetting all ceremonies, went eagerly forward to meet these favoured guests; and the duchess also had a momentary pleasure in kate's well-gowned loveliness. she was very friendly to the squire; and she took his daughter under her own protection. after dinner--which was specially early for that night--the majority of the gentlemen went to the house. the reform bill, about which all england was in agonising suspense, was to be read for the first time. never, within the memory of englishmen, had there been so great a crowd eager to get into the house. every inch of space on the floor was filled; and troops of eager politicians, from all parts of the country, were waiting at the doors of the various galleries. when they were opened, the clamour, the struggle, and the confusion was so indescribable that the speaker threatened to have all the galleries cleared. even among the members, there was great confusion and complaining; for their seats, though marked with their cards, had in many instances been taken by others. outside, the streets were packed with men wrought up to feverish excitement and anxiety; and in all the great centres of society, and in every club in london, there were restless crowds waiting for news from westminster. the duchess of richmoor's parlours were the central point of tory interest. not one of the company there present but believed with sir robert inglis--an orator of their party--that "reform would sweep the house of lords clear in ten years." this night was, to them, their salvation or their ruin. below their jewelled bodices, their hearts trembled with anxious terror. after the departure of the members for the house, they gathered in little knots, wondering, and fearing, and listening to the noises in the crowded streets, with an agitation not quite devoid of pleasurable stimulation. for they were not without comforters and encouragers. the duke of wellington went from group to group, assuring them that lord grey's ministry must go down, and that no reform bill which could injure the nobility would be permitted to pass the house of lords. annabel was almost glad to see every one so unhappy. she had a perverse desire to say contradictious things. her heart was heavy with fear, and it was burning with envy and jealousy. kate's beauty, and lord exham's undisguised admiration, made her realise all the bitterness of failure. she wandered about making evil prophecies, or saying irritating truths, and watching kate the while, till she was ready to cry out with mental pain and mortification. for the great duke--never insensible to female loveliness--had given kate his arm, and was walking about the parlours with her. why had such honour not fallen to her lot? never had she been so desirous to lead, to be admired, to enforce her eminent fitness to wear the richmoor coronet. never had she so signally failed. even her wit had deserted her; she said _malapropos_ clever things, and got snubbed for them. in her anger, and fear, and disappointment, she wished reform _might_ make a clean sweep of such a selfish crowd of so-called nobility. she had arrived at that point when her misery demanded company. about ten o'clock, the duke and lord exham returned. the large lofty rooms, with their moving throngs of splendidly attired men and women, were yet crowded; but their atmosphere was charged with an electric tension, generated by the unusual pitch to which every one's thoughts, and feelings, and words were set. many were almost hysterical; some had subsided into mere waiting, conscious of requiring all their strength for simple endurance of the suspense; others, more hopeful, were restless and watching,--but all alike became instantly and breathlessly silent as the two men appeared. for a moment no one spoke; then the duke of wellington asked, with an assumption of cheerfulness, "what news? has the bill been read?" "it has been read," answered richmoor. "lord john russell introduced it in a speech lasting more than two hours." "and pray what are its provisions." "this infamous bill proposes that every borough of less than two thousand inhabitants shall lose the right to send a member to parliament." "what a scandalous robbery of our privileges!" ejaculated some one of the listeners. "it is nothing else!" answered the duke. "it robs me of the gift of seven boroughs." "what excuse did he make for such an act?" "he supposed the case of a stranger, coming to england to investigate our method of representation, being taken to a green mound, and told that green mound sent two members to parliament; or to a stone wall with three niches in it, and told that those three niches sent two members to parliament; or to a green park with no signs of human habitation, and told that green park sent two members to parliament; and then pictured the amazement of the stranger at this condition of things. 'but,' he cried, 'how much greater would be his amazement if he were then taken to large and populous cities, full of industry, enterprise, and intelligence, and containing vast magazines of every kind of manufactures, and was then told that these cities did not send a single man to represent their rights and their necessities in the great national council.' it was really a very effective passage." "we have heard that argument before; it is stale and unprofitable," said the duchess. "listen! this bill proposes to give every man paying taxes for houses of the yearly value of ten pounds and upward--_a vote_." "what an absurdity!" "it proposes to give manchester, birmingham, leeds, sheffield, and three other large towns, each two members, and london eight additional members." "infamous! it will give us a mob government." "this so-called reform bill gives the franchise to one hundred and ten thousand people in the counties of england who never had it before; in the provincial towns, it gives it to fifty thousand; in london, it gives it to ninety-five thousand; in scotland, to fifty thousand; and in ireland, to forty thousand: in all, half a million of persons are to be added to the constituency of the house of commons." at this information the tendency of the whole company was to laughter. indeed the duke's face, and voice, and manner was that of a man telling an utterly absurd story. such sweeping alterations were not conceivable; their very excess doomed them to ridicule and failure, in the opinion of the privileged class; but the duke of wellington's face expressed an anxiety not consonant with this feeling; and he asked gloomily: "did lord john russell _dare_ to read the names of the boroughs he intends to disfranchise, with their members present?" "he read them with the greatest emphasis and deliberation." "and the result? what was the result? how did they take being robbed of their seats in this summary way?" "the excitement in the house was incredible. he was derisively interrupted by shouts of laughter, and by cries of 'hear! hear!' and by constant questions across the table from the members of those boroughs. the wisest statesmen in the house were aghast at proposals so sweeping and so revolutionary." "what did peel say?" "nothing. he sat rigid as a statue, his face working with emotion, his brow wrinkled and sombre. his supporters, who were gathered round him, burst again and again into uncontrollable laughter. peel tried to make them behave like gentlemen, and could not. every one is sure such a measure predicts a speedy downfall of grey's ministry." "of course it does," said the duchess, with a contemptuous laugh. the laugh was contagious, and the majority of the company burst into merriment and ridicule. "it is really a good joke," said an aged marquis who had the idea that england was the birthright of her nobles. "a good joke!" answered the duke of wellington, sternly. "i can tell you it is no joke. you will find it no laughing matter." "i am weary of it all," whispered annabel to kate; "let us go into the conservatory." kate was willing also, and as they entered the sweet, green place, with its tender lights and restful peace, she sighed with pleasure and said, "i wonder, annabel, if the roses and camellias think themselves better than the violets and daisies." "i dare say they do. let us sit down here. i have had such a wretched day, and i am worn out;" and for a moment, as she looked in kate's gentle face, she had a mind to tell her the whole truth about the unfortunate ring. but while she hesitated, there was a footstep; and in a moment, piers pushed aside the fronds of the gigantic ferns and joined them. "it is allowable," said annabel, "provided you do do not mention reform." "there is no necessity here," he answered gallantly. "how could perfection be reformed?" gradually the conversation fell into a more serious mood, and they began to speak of yorkshire, and to long after its breezy wolds and lovely dales; and annabel listened and said, "she would be delighted when they went down there." kate also acknowledged that she was impatient to return to atheling; and piers watched her every movement,--the smile parting her lips, the light coming and going on her cheeks from dropped or lifted eyes, the graceful movements of her hands, the noble poise of her head,--all these things were fresh enchantments to him. what was the noisy, dusty senate chamber to this green spot filled with the charming presence of the woman he adored? very quickly annabel perceived that she was the one person _not_ necessary; and she was too depressed to resent this position. with a whisper to kate, she went away, promising to return in ten minutes. she did not return; but in half an hour--which had seemed as five minutes--the duchess came in her stead, and said blandly, "annabel has a headache, and has gone to sleep it away. i have sent the squire home, miss atheling; i told him i should keep you here to-night. indeed he was glad for you to remain; the streets are not in a very pleasant condition. london has lost its senses. it has gone mad; in the morning it may be saner." so the sweet interval was over; but one secret glance between the lovers showed how delicious it had been. kate went away with the duchess; and waiting women led her to a splendid sleeping apartment. there, all night long, she kept the sense of piers holding her hand in his; and, faintly smiling with this interior bliss, she dreamed away the hours until late in the morning. her first thought on awakening was, "what shall i wear? i cannot go to breakfast in a white silk gown." then, as she rose, she saw a street costume laid ready for her use. "mrs. atheling sent it very early this morning," said the maid; and kate thought with a blessing of the good mother who never forgot her smallest necessities. at breakfast, the duchess was particularly gracious to her; she affected an entire oblivion of piers's evident devotion, and talked incessantly of the stupidity of the grey ministry; but as she rose from the table, she said,-- "my dear miss atheling, will you do me the favour to come to my private parlour before you leave?" kate stood up, curtsied slightly, and made the required promise. but she did not at once attend the duchess, as that lady certainly expected. she had promised piers to walk with him in the conservatory, and finish their interrupted conversation of the previous night; and a gentle pressure of her hand reminded her of this previous engagement. so it was near the noon hour when she went to the room which the duchess had selected for their interview. she entered it without a suspicion of the sorrow waiting there for her, though the first glance at the cold, haughty face that greeted her made her a little indignant. "i expected you an hour ago, miss atheling," said the duchess. "i am sorry if i have detained you, duchess. i did not think my interview with you could be of much importance." "perhaps not as important to you as the interview you put before it--and yet, perhaps, far more so. for i must tell you that such entirely personal companionship with lord exham, must cease from this very hour." kate had taken the seat the duchess indicated on her entering the room; she now rose to her feet, and answered, "if so, duchess, it is proper for me to leave your home at once. my mother is waiting to see me. she will tell me what it is right for me to do." "in this case, i am a better adviser than your mother. i believe you to be a girl of noble principles, so i tell you frankly that lord exham is bound, by every honourable tie, to marry miss vyner. when you are not present, he is quite happy in her society; when you are present, you seem to exert some unaccountable influence over him. miss vyner has often complained of this. i thought it was simple jealousy on her part, until i observed you with lord exham last night. i am now compelled, by my duty to my son and his affianced wife, to tell you how impossible a marriage between you and lord exham is and must be. i believe this information to be all that is necessary to a girl of your birth and breeding." "what information, duchess?" she asked the question with a dignity that irritated a woman who thought her word, without her reasons, was quite sufficient. "if you persist in having the truth, i must give it to you. remember, i would gladly have spared you and myself this humiliation. know, then, that many years ago the late general vyner rendered the duke a great service. when annabel was born, the duke offered himself as her godfather and guardian, and his son as her husband. it is not necessary to go into details; the facts ought to be sufficient for you. there are circumstances which make the fulfilment of this promise imperative; and, if you do not interfere, my son will very willingly perform his part of it. pardon me if i also remind you that your birth and fortune make any hopes you may entertain of being the future duchess of richmoor very presumptuous hopes. i assure you that i have spoken reluctantly, and with sincere kindness; and i do not desire this conversation to interfere with our future intercourse. if you will give me your promise, i know that i may trust you absolutely." "what do you wish me to promise?" "that you will allow no love-making between lord exham and yourself; that you will not in any way interfere between lord exham and miss vyner,--in fact, promise me, in a word, that you will never marry lord exham. i assure you, such a marriage would be most improper and unfortunate." kate stood for a moment still and white as a marble statue; and when she spoke, her words dropped slowly and with an evident effort. and yet her self-control and dignity of manner was remarkable, as she answered,-- "duchess, i have always done exactly what my dear wise father and mother have told me to do. i shall ask their advice on this matter before i make any promise. if they tell me to do as you wish me to do, i shall know that they are right, and obey them. i do not recognise any other human authority than theirs." she was leaving the room after these words; but the duchess cried angrily, "your father must not at present be asked to interfere. there are interests--grave, political interests--between him and the duke that cannot be imperilled for some love-nonsense between you and lord exham." "there are no grave political interests between my mother and the duke; and i shall, at all events, take my mother's counsel." she had stood with the door open in her hand; she now passed outside. so far she had kept herself from any exhibition of feeling; but, oh, how wronged and unhappy and offended she felt! she went down and down the splendid stairway, erect as a reed; but her heart was like a wounded bird: it fluttered wildly in her bosom, and would not be comforted until she reached that nest of all nests,--her mother's breast. there she poured out all her grief and indignation; and mrs. atheling never interrupted the relation by a single word. she clasped the weeping girl to her heart, and stroked her hands, and soothed her in those tender little ways that are closer and sweeter than any words can be. but when kate had wept her passionate sense of wrong and affront away, the good mother withdrew herself a little, and began to question her child. "let me understand plainly, kitty dear," she said. "her grace--grace indeed!--wishes you to promise her that you will give up piers to annabel." "yes, mother." "and that you will never marry piers under any circumstances?" "yes, mother." "and she thinks you 'presumptuous' in hoping to marry her son?" "yes, dear mother. she said 'presumptuous.' am i; ought i to do as she wishes me? oh, i cannot give up piers! only this morning he told me that he would never marry any woman but me." "have i or your good father told you to give up piers?" "no, mother." "when we do, you will of course know we have good reasons for such an order, and you will give him up. but as yet, father hasn't said such a word; and i haven't. kitty darling, the fifth commandment only asks you to obey your own father and mother. let the duchess put the 'giving up' where it ought to be. let her tell her son to give you up--that is quite as far as her authority extends. she has nothing to say to kate atheling; nor has my little kitty any obligation to obey her. she must give such orders to piers exham. it is the duty of his heart and conscience to decide whether he will obey or not." "then i can go on loving him, mother, without wronging myself or others?" "go on loving him, dearie." "he said he was coming to ride with me at three o'clock." "ride with him, and be happy while you can, dear child. let mother kiss such foolish tears away. i can tell you father was proud of your beauty last night. he said you were the loveliest woman in london." "the duke of wellington told me i was a beautiful girl; and he said many wise and kind things to me, mother. what did father think about the reform bill?" "it troubled him, kitty; it troubled him very much. he said, 'it meant civil war;' but i said, 'nonsense, john atheling, it will prevent civil war.' and so it will, dearie. the people will have it, or else they will have far more. your father said all london was shouting till daybreak, 'the bill! the whole bill! nothing but the bill!' now then, run away and wash your eyes bright, and put on your habit. i'll warrant piers outruns the clock." "have you seen edgar this morning?" "for a few minutes just before you came. cecil was with him. they had been up all night; but cecil would have stayed if annabel had been here. how he does love that girl!" "i think she loves him. she looked ill last night, and i did not see her this morning. what a tangle it is! annabel loves cecil--piers loves me--and the duchess--" "never mind the duchess, nor the tangle either, kitty. to-day is yours; to-morrow is not born; and you are not told to unravel any tangle. there are _them_ whose business it is; and they know all the knots and snarls, and will wind the ball all right in the end." "oh, mother, how i love you!" "oh, kitty, how i love you!" "piers loves me too, mother." "i'll warrant he does. who could help loving thee, kitty? but men's love isn't mother's love; it is a good bit more selfish. god almighty made thy father, john atheling, of the best of human elements; but john atheling has his shabby moments. piers exham won't be different; so don't expect it." then the two women looked at each other and smiled. they understood. chapter eleventh "life comes and goes the old, old way!" annabel had purposely kept out of kitty's way. she had more than a suspicion of the probable interview between the duchess and kitty; and she wished to avoid any unpleasantness with the athelings. they gave her the most reliable opportunities with cecil north; and besides, she was so little of a general favourite as to have no other acquaintances as intimate. she was also really sick and unhappy; and the first occurrence of the day did not tend to make her less so. she wished to see the duke about some matter relating to her finances; and, as soon as she left her room, she went to the apartment in which she was most likely to find him. the duke was not there, but squire atheling was waiting for him. he said he "had an appointment at two o'clock," and then, looking at the time-piece on the mantel, added, "i always give myself ten minutes or so to come and go on." annabel knew this peculiarity of the squire, and made her little joke on the matter; and then the conversation turned a moment on kitty, and her probable return home. annabel assured the squire she had already gone home, and then, offering her hand in adieu, was about to leave the room. the little brown-gemmed hand roused a sudden memory and anxiety in his heart. he detained it, as he said, "miss vyner, i have a question to ask you. do you remember untying a parcel for me the other day?" "i should think so," she replied with a laugh. "a more impatient man to do anything for i never saw." "i am a bit impatient. but that is not what i am thinking of. you wore a ring that day--a sapphire ring with a little sapphire padlock--and that ring interests me very much. will you tell me where you got it?" "no, sir. even if i knew, i might have excellent reasons for not telling you. why, squire, i am astonished at your asking such a question! rings have mostly a story--a love-story too; you might be asking for secrets!" "i beg pardon. to be sure i might. but you see a ring exactly like the one you wore, holds a secret of my own." "perhaps you are mistaken about the ring. so many rings look alike." "i could not be mistaken. i do wish you would tell me--i am afraid you think me rude and inquisitive--" "indeed i do, sir! and, if you please, we will forget this conversation. it is too personal to be pleasant." with these words she bowed and withdrew, and the squire got up and walked about the room until the duke entered it. by that time, he had worried himself into an impatient, suspicious temper, and was touchy as tinder when his political chief asked him to sit down and discuss the situation with him. "exham has gone to see a number of our party; but i thought i would outline to you personally the course we intend to pursue with regard to this infamous bill." the squire bowed but said not a word; and the duke proceeded, "we have resolved to worry and delay it to the death. in the commons, the opposition will go over and over the same arguments, and ask again, and again, and again, the same questions. this course will be continued week after week--month after month if necessary. obstruction, squire, obstruction, that is the word!" "what do you mean exactly by 'obstruction'?" "i will explain. lord exham will move, 'that the speaker do now leave the chair.' when this motion is lost, some other member of the opposition will move, 'that the debate be now adjourned.' that being lost, some other member will again move, 'that the speaker do now leave the chair,' and so, with alternations of these motions, the whole night can be passed--and night after night--and day after day. it is quite a legitimate parliamentary proceeding." "it may be," answered the squire; "but i am astonished at your asking john atheling to take any part in such ways. i will fight as well as any man, on the square and the open; if i cannot do this, i will not fight at all. i would as soon worry a vixen fox, as run a doubling race of that kind. no, duke, i will not worry, and nag, and tease, and obstruct. such tactics are fitter for old women than for reasoning men, sure of a good cause, and working to win it." "i did not expect this obstruction from you, squire; and, i must say, i am disappointed--very much disappointed." "i don't know, duke richmoor, that i have ever given you cause to think i would fight in any other way than in a square, stand-up, face-to-face manner. wasting time is not fighting, and it is not reasoning. it is just tormenting an angry and impatient nation; it is playing with fire; it is a dangerous, deceitful, cowardly bit of business, and i will have nothing to do with it." "you remember that i gave you your seat?" "you can have it back and welcome. i took my seat from you; but when it comes to right and wrong, i take orders only from my own conscience." "advice, squire, advice; i did not think of giving you orders." "well, duke, i am perhaps a little hasty; but i do not understand obstructing warfare. i am ready to attack the bill, tooth and nail. i am ready to vote against it; but i do not think what you call 'obstructing' is fair and manly." "all things are fair in love and war, squire; and this is a war to the knife-hilt for our own caste and privileges." here there was a light tap at the door, and, in answer to the duke's "enter," annabel came in. she said a few words to him in a low voice, gave him a paper, and disappeared. but, short as the interview was, it put the duke in a good temper. he looked after her with pride and affection, and said pleasantly,-- "fight in your own way, squire atheling; it is sure to be a good, straight-forward fight. but the other way will be the tactics of our party, and you need not interfere with them. by-the-bye, miss vyner is a good deal at your house, i think." "she is always welcome. my daughter likes her company. we all do. she is both witty and pretty." "she is a great beauty--a particularly noble-looking beauty. she will make a fine duchess, and my son is most fortunate in such an alliance; for she has money,--plenty of money,--and a dukedom is not kept up on nothing a year. perhaps, however, this reform bill will eventually get rid of dukedoms and dukes, as it proposes to do with boroughs and members." the squire did not immediately answer. he wanted a definite assertion about lord exham and miss vyner, and could not decide on words which would unsuspiciously bring it. finally, he blurted out an inquiry as to the date of a marriage between them; and the duke answered carelessly,-- "it may occur soon or late. we have not yet fixed the time. probably as soon as this dreadful reform question is settled. but as the ceremony will surely take place at the castle, atheling manor will be an important factor in the event." he was shifting and folding up papers as he spoke, and the squire _felt_, more than understood, that the interview had better be closed. ostensibly they parted friends; but the squire kept his right hand across his back as he said "good-morning," and the duke understood the meaning of this action, though he thought it best to take no notice of it. "what a fractious, testy, touchy fellow this is!" he said irritably to himself, when he was alone. "a perfect john bull, absolutely sure of his own infallibility; sure that he knows everything about everything; that he is always right, and always must be right, and that any one who doubts his always being right is either a knave or a fool. _tush!_ i am glad i gave him that thrust about piers and annabel. it hurt. i could see it hurt, though he kept his hand to cover the wound." the duke was quite right. squire atheling was hurt. he went straight home. in any trouble, his first medicine was his wife; for though he pretended to think little of her advice, he always took it--or regretted that he had not taken it. he found her half-asleep in the chair by the window which she had taken in order to watch lord exham and kitty ride down the street together. she was at rest and happy; but the squire's entrance, at an hour not very usual, interested her. "why, john!" she asked, "what has happened? i thought you went to the house at three o'clock." "i have some questions to ask in my own house, first," he answered. "maude, i am sure you remember the ring i gave you one night at belward,--the ring you promised to marry me on, the sapphire ring with the little padlock?" "to be sure i remember it, john." "you used to wear it night and day. i have not seen it on your hand for a long time." "it became too small for me. i had to take it off. whatever has brought it into your thoughts at this time?" "i saw one just like it. where did you put your ring?" "in my jewel-case." "is it there now." she hesitated a moment, but a life-time of truth is not easily turned aside. "john," she answered, "it is not there. it is gone." "i thought so. did you sell it for edgar, some time when he wanted money?" "edgar never asked me for a shilling. i never gave him a shilling unknown to you. and i did not sell the ring at all. i would never have done such a thing." "but i have seen the ring on a lady's hand." "do you know the lady?" "i think i could find her." "i will tell you about it, john. i loaned it to kitty, and piers saw it and wanted one made like it for kitty, and so he took it away to show it to his jeweller, and lost it that very night. he has moved heaven and earth to find it, but got neither word nor sight of it. you ought to tell him where you saw it." "not yet, maude." "tell me then." "to be sure! i saw it on miss vyner's hand." "impossible!" "sure!" "but how?" "thou mayst well ask 'how.' piers gave it to her." "i wouldn't believe such a thing, not on a seven-fold oath." "thou knowest little about men. there are times when they would give their souls away. thou knowest nothing about such women as miss vyner. they have a power that while it lasts is omnipotent. antony lost a world for cleopatra, and herod would have given half, yes, the whole of his kingdom to a dancing woman, if she had asked him for it." "those men were pagans, john, and lived in foreign countries. christian men in england--" "christian men in england, in proportion to their power, do things just as reckless and wicked. piers exham has never learned any control; he has always given himself, or had given him, whatever he wanted. and i can tell thee, there is a perfect witchery about miss vyner in some hours. she has met exham in a favourable time, and begged the ring from him." "i cannot believe it. why should she do such a thing? she must have had a reason." "certainly she had a reason. it might be pure mischief, for she is mischievous as a cat. it might be superstition; she is as superstitious as an hindoo fakir. she has charms and signs for everything. she orders her very life by the stars of heaven. i have watched her, and listened to her, and never trusted her about kitty--not a moment. now this is a secret between thee and me. i asked her to-day about the ring, and she would say neither this nor that; yet somehow she gave me to understand it was a love token." "she is a liar, if she means that piers gave it to her as a love token. i saw the young man half an hour ago. if ever a man loved a maid, he loves our kitty." "yet he is going to marry miss vyner." "he is not. i am sure he is not. he will marry kate atheling." "the duke told me this afternoon that lord exham would marry miss vyner as soon as this reform question is settled. he said the marriage would take place at the castle." "the duke has been talking false to you for some purpose of his own." "not he. richmoor has faults--more than enough of them; but he treads his shoes straight. a truthful man, no one can say different." "i wouldn't notice a thing he said for all that. pass it by. leave kitty to manage her own affairs." "no, i will not! thou must tell kitty to give the man up. he is going to marry another woman." "i don't believe a word of it." "his father said so. what would you have?" "fathers don't know everything." "now, maude atheling, my girl shall not marry where she is not wanted. i would rather see her in her death shroud than in her wedding gown, if things were in that way." "john, i have always been open as the day with you, and i will not change now. the duchess said something like it to kitty this morning, so you see there has been a plan between the duke and duchess to make trouble about piers. kitty came home very troubled." "and you let her go out with the man! i am astonished at you!" "she asked me what she ought to do, and i told the dear girl to be happy until _you_ told her to be miserable. if you think it is right to do so, tell her when she comes home never to see piers again." "you had better tell her. i cannot." "i cannot, and i will not, for the life of me." "don't you believe what i say?" "yes--with a grain of salt. piers is to hear from yet." "well, you must speak to her, mother. my heart is too soft. it is _your_ place to do it." "my heart is as soft as yours, john. i say, let things alone. we are going to atheling soon--we cannot go too soon now. if it must be told her, kate will hear it, and bear it best in her own home; and, besides, he will not be within calling distance. john, this thing cannot be done in a hurry. god help the dear girl--to find piers false--to give him up--it will break her heart, father!" "kitty's heart is made of better stuff. when she finds out that piers has been false to her, she will despise him." "she will make excuses for him." "no good woman will care about an unworthy man." "then, god help the men, john! if that were so, there would be lots of them without any good woman to care for them." "show kitty that piers is unworthy of her love, and i tell you she will put him out of her heart very quickly. i think i know kitty." "women do not love according to deserts, john. if a woman has a bad son or daughter, does she take it for comfort when they go away from her? no, indeed! she never once says, 'they were nothing but a sorrow and an expense, and i am glad to be rid of them.' she weeps, and she prays all the more for them, just because they were bad. and one kind of love is like another; so i will not speak ill of piers to kate; besides, i do not think ill of him. if she has to give him up, it will not be his fault; and i could not tell her 'he is no loss, kate,'--and such nonsense as that,--for it would be nonsense." "what will you say then?" "i shall help her to remember everything pleasant about him, and to make excuses for him. even if you put comfort on the lowest ground possible, no woman likes to think she has been fooled and deceived, and given her heart for worse than nothing. nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand would rather blame fate or father or fortune, or some other man or woman, than their own lover." "women are queer. a man in such a case whistles or sings his heartache away with the thought,-- "'if she be not fair for me, what care i how fair she be?'" "you are slandering good men, john. plenty of men would not give heart-room to such selfish love. they can live for the woman they love, and yet live apart from her. my advice is that we go back to atheling at once. my heart is there already. kitty and i were talking yesterday of the garden. the trees will soon be in blossom, and the birds busy building in them. oh, john,-- "'the spring's delight, in the cowslip bright, as she laughs to the warbling linnet! and a whistling thrush, on a white may bush, and his mate on the nest within it!'" and both caught the joy of the spring in the words, and the squire, smiling, stooped and kissed his wife; and she knew then that she had permission to carry her daughter out of the way of immediate sorrow. as for the future, mrs. atheling never went into an enemy's country in search of trouble. she thought it time enough to meet misfortune when it came to her. kate was not averse to the change. her conversation with the duchess naturally affected her feeling towards annabel. she could not imagine her quite ignorant of it; and it was, therefore, a trial to have the girl intruding daily into her life. yet self-respect forbade her to make any change in their relationship to each other. annabel, indeed, appeared wishful to nullify all the duchess had said by her behaviour to cecil north. never had she been so familiar and so affectionate towards him, and she evidently desired mrs. atheling and kate to understand that she was sincerely in love, and had every intention of marrying for love. but yet she was unable to disguise her pleasure when she was suddenly told of their proposed return to the country. a vivid wave of crimson rushed over her face and throat; and though she said she "was sorry," there was an uncontrollable note of satisfaction in her voice. she was really sorry in one respect; but she had become afraid of the squire. he asked such point-blank questions. his suspicions were wide awake and veering to the truth. he was another danger in her situation, and she felt justine to be all she could manage. mrs. atheling and kate being gone, her visits to the vyner house could naturally cease; and, as the winter was nearly over, she could arrange some other place for her meetings with cecil north. indeed, he had already joined her in a few early morning gallops; and, besides which, she reflected, "love always finds out a way." cecil was a quite manageable factor. [illustration:] about the middle of march, one fine spring evening, mrs. atheling and kate came once more near to their own home. the road was a beautiful one, bordered with plantations of feathery firs on each side; and the pure resinous odour was to these two northern women sweeter than a rose garden. and, oh, what a home-like air the long, rambling old manor house had, and how bright and comfortable were its low-ceiled rooms! when kate went to her own chamber, a robin on a spray of sweet-briar was singing at her window. she took it for her welcome back to the happy place. to be sure, the polished oak floor with its strips of bright carpet, the little tent-bed with its white dimity curtains, and the low, latticed windows, full of rosemary pots and monthly roses, were but simple surroundings; yet kate threw herself with joyful abandon into her white chair before the blazing logs, and thought, without regret, of the splendid rooms of the vyner mansion, and the tumult of men and horses in the thousand-streeted city outside it. certainly piers was in the city, and she had no hope of his speedy return to the country. but, equally, she had no doubts of his true affection; and the passing days and weeks brought her no reasons for doubting. she had frequent letters from him, and many rich tokens of his constant remembrance. and, as the spring advanced, the joy of her heart kept pace with it. never before had she taken such delight in the sylvan life around her. the cool sweetness of the dairy; the satiny sides of the milking-pails; the trig beauty of the dairymaids, waiting for the cows, coming slowly out of the stable,--the beautiful cows, with their indolent gait and majestic tramp, their noble, solemn faces, and their peaceful breathing,--why had she never noticed these things before? was it because we must lose good things--though but for a time--in order to find them? and very soon the bare, brown garden was aflame with gold and purple crocus buds, and the delicious woody perfume of wallflowers, and the springtide scent of the sweet-briar filled all its box-lined paths. the trees became misty with buds and plumes and tufts and tassels; and in the deep, green meadow-grass the primroses were nestling, and the anemones met her with their wistful looks. and far and wide the ear was as satisfied as the eye with the tones of waterfalls, the inland sounds of caves and woods, the birds twittering secrets in the tree-tops, and the running waters that were the tongue of life in many a silent place. oh, how beautiful, and peaceful, and happy were these things! often the mother and daughter wondered to each other how they could ever have been pleased to exchange them for the gilt and gewgaws and the social smut of the great city. thus they fell naturally into the habit of pitying the squire, and edgar, and piers, and wishing they were all back at atheling to share the joy of the spring-time with them. one night towards the close of april, kate was very restless. "i cannot tell what is the matter, mother," she said. "my feet go of their own will to the garden gates. it is as if my soul knew there was somebody coming. can it be father?" "i think not, kitty. father's last letter gave no promise of any let-up in the reform quarrel. you know the bill was read for the second time as we left london; and earl grey's ministry had then only a majority of one. your father said the duke was triumphant about it. he was sure that a bill which passed its second reading by only a majority of one, could be easily mutilated in committee until it would be harmless. the lords mean to kill it, bit by bit,--that will take time." "but what then, mother?" "god knows, child! i do not believe the country will ever settle to work again until it gets what it wants." "then will the house sit all summer?" "i think it will." at these words a long, cheerful "_hallo!_"--the squire's own call in the hunting-field--was heard; and kate, crying, "i told you so!" ran rapidly into the garden. the squire was just entering the gates at a gallop. he drew rein, threw himself off his horse, and took his daughter in his arms. "i am so glad, father!" she cried. "so happy, father! i knew you were coming! i knew you were coming! i did that!" "nay, not thou! i told nobody." "your heart told my heart. ask mother. here she comes." then, late as it was, the quiet house suddenly became full of noise and bustle; and the hubbub that usually followed the squire's advent was everywhere apparent. for he wanted all at once,--his meat and his drink, his easy coat and his slippers, his pipe and his dogs, and his serving men and women. he wanted to hear about the ploughing, and the sowing, and the gardening; about the horses, and the cattle, and the markets; the farm hands, and the tenants of the atheling cottages. he wanted his wife's report, and his steward's report, and his daughter's petting and opinions. the night wore on to midnight before he would speak of london, or the house, or the bill. "i may surely have a little bit of peace, maude," he said reproachfully, when she ventured to introduce the subject; "it has been the bill, and the bill, and the bill, till my ears ache with the sound of the words." "just tell us if it has passed, john." "no, it has _not_ passed; and parliament is dissolved again; and the country has taken the bit in its teeth, and the very mischief of hell is let loose. i told the duke what his 'obstructing' ways would do. englishmen like obstructions. they would put them there, if they were absent, for the very pleasure of getting over them. many a man that was against the bill is now against the 'obstructions' and bound to get over them." "did piers come down with you, father?" asked kate. she had waited long and patiently, and the squire had not named him; and she felt a little wounded by the neglect. "no. he did not come down with me, kitty. but i dare say he is at the castle. the duke spoke of returning to yorkshire at once." "he might have come with you, i think." "i think not. a man's father and mother cannot always be put aside for his sweetheart. lovers think they can run the world to their own whim-whams. 'twould be a god's pity if they could!" "what are you cross about, father? has piers vexed you?" "am i cross, kitty? i did not know it. go to bed, child. england stands where she did, and piers is yet lord of exham hall. i dare say he will be here to-morrow. i came at my own pace. he would have to keep the pace of two fine ladies. and i'll be bound he fretted like a race-horse yoked in a plough." and kitty was wise enough to know that she had heard all she was likely to hear that night; nor was she ill-pleased to be alone with her hopes. piers was at hand. to-morrow she might see him, and hear him speak, and feel the tenderness of his clasp, and meet the love in his eyes. so she sat at the open casement, breathing the sweetness and peace of the night, and shaping things for the future that made her heart beat quick with many thoughts not to be revealed. the faint smile of the loving, dreaming of the loved one, was on her lips; and if a doubt came to her, she put it far away. in fear she would not dwell, and, besides, her heart had given her that insight which changes faith into knowledge. she _knew_ that piers loved her. the squire had no such clear confidence. when kitty had gone away, he said plainly, "i am not pleased with piers. i do not like his ways; i do not like them at all. after kate left london, he was seen everywhere, and constantly, with miss vyner." "why not? she is one of his own household." "they were very confidential together. i noticed them often for kitty's sake." "i do wish, squire, that you would leave kitty's love-affairs alone." "_that_ i will not, maude. if i have any business now, it is to pay attention to them. i have taken your 'let-alone' plan, far too long. my girl shall not be courted in any such underhand, mouse-in-the-corner way. her engagement to lord exham must be publicly acknowledged, or else broken entirely off." "the man loves kate. he will do right to her." "loves kate! very good. but what of the other one? he cannot do right to both." "yes, he can. their claims are different. you may depend on that. kate is the love of his soul; the other one is like a sister." "i do not trust either piers or the other one--and i wish she would give me my ring." "you do not certainly know that she has your ring." "i will ask her to let me see it." "now, john atheling, you will meddle with things that concern you, and let other things alone. it may be your duty to interfere about your daughter. you may insist on having her recognised as the future duchess of richmoor,--it will be a feather in your own cap; you may say to the duke, you must accept my daughter, or i will--" "maude! you are just trying to stand me upon my pride. you cannot do that any longer. if you are willing to let kate 'drift,' i am not. it is my duty to insist on her proper recognition." "then do your duty. but it is _not_ your duty to catechise miss vyner about _my_ ring. when that inquiry is to be made, i will make it myself. if piers has to give up kate, it will be to him a knock-down blow; it will be a shot in the backbone; you need not sting him at the same time." "i will speak to him to-morrow, and see the duke afterwards. i owe my little kate that much." "and the duke and yourself will be the upper and the nether millstones, and your little kate between them. i know! i know!" "i will do what is right, maude, and i will be as kind as i can in doing it. who loves kitty as i do? there is a deal said about mother love; but, i tell thee, a father's love is bottomless. i would lay my life down for my little girl, this minute." "but not thy pride." "not my honour--which is her honour also. honour must stand with love, or else--nay, i will not give thee any more reasons. i know my decision is right; but it is thy way to make out that all my reasons are wrong. i wish thou wouldst prepare her a bit for what may come." "there is no preparation for sorrow, john. when it comes it smites." then the squire lit his pipe, and the mother went softly upstairs to look at her little girl. and, as she did so, kate's arms enfolded her, and she whispered, "piers is coming to-morrow. are you glad, mother?" then, so strange and contrary is human nature, the mother felt a moment's angry annoyance. "can you think of no one but piers, kate?" she asked. and the girl was suddenly aware of her selfish happiness, and ashamed of it. she ran after her mother, and brought her back to her bedside, and said sorrowfully, "i know, mother, that about piers i am a little sinner." and then mrs. atheling kissed her again, and answered, "never mind, kitty. i have often seen sinners that were more angel-like than saints--" and the shadow was over. oh, how good it is when human nature reaches down to the perennial! [illustration:] chapter twelfth the shadow of sorrow stretched out when the squire entered the breakfast parlour, kate was just coming in from the garden. the dew of the morning was on her cheeks, the scent of the sweet-briar and the daffodils in her hair, the songs of the thrush and the linnet in her heart. she was beautiful as hebe, and fresh as aurora. he clasped her face between his large hands, and she lifted the bunch of daffodils to his face, and asked, "are they not beautiful? do you know what mr. wordsworth says about them, father?" "not i! i never read his foolishness." "his 'foolishness' is music; i can tell you that. listen sir,-- "'a smile of last year's sun strayed down the hills, and lost its way within yon windy wood; lost through the months of snow--but not for good: i found it in a clump of daffodils.' are they not lovely lines?" "they sound like most uncommon nonsense, kitty. come and sit beside me, i have something far more sensible and important to tell you." "about the bill, father?" "partly about the bill and partly about edgar. which news will you have first?" "mother will say 'edgar,' and i go with mother." "i do not think you can tell me any news about edgar, john." "go on, father, mother is only talking. she is so anxious she cannot pour the coffee straight. what about edgar?" "i must tell you that i made a speech two days before the house closed; and the papers said it was a very great speech, and i think it _was_ a tone or two above the average. did you read it?" "you never sent us a paper, father." "you wouldn't have read it if i had sent it. i knew philip brotherton would read every word, so it went to him. i was a little astonished at myself, for i did not know that i could bring out the very truth the way i did; but i saw edgar watching me, and i saw no one else; and i just talked to him, as i used to do,--good, plain, household words, with a bit of yorkshire now and then to give them pith and power. i was cheered to the echo, and if edgar, when i used to talk to him for his good, had only cheered me on my hearthstone as he cheered me in the commons, there wouldn't have been any ill blood between us. afterwards, in the crush of the lobby, i saw edgar a little before me; and mr. o'connell walked up to him, and said, 'atheling, you ought to take lessons from your father, he strikes every nail on the head. in your case, the old cock crows, but the young one has not learnt his lesson.' i was just behind, and i heard every word, and i was ready to answer; but edgar did my work finely.' 'he should not have noticed him,' said mrs. atheling. 'ah, but he did! he said, "mr. o'connell, i will trouble you to speak of squire atheling respectfully. he is not old; he is in the prime of life; and, in all that makes youth desirable, he is twenty-five years younger than you are. i think you have felt his spurs once, and i would advise you to beware of them." and what o'connell answered i cannot tell, but it would be up to mark, i can warrant that! i slipped away before i was noticed, and i am not ashamed to say i was pleased with what i had heard. "not as old as o'connell by twenty-five years!" i laughed to myself all the way home; and, in the dark of the night, i could not help thinking of edgar's angry face, and the way he stood up for me. i do think, maude, that somehow it must have been thy fault we had that quarrel--i mean to say, that if thou hadst stood firm by me,--that is, if thou hadst--' 'john, go on and do not bother thyself to make excuses. was that the end of it?' 'in a way. the next afternoon i was sitting by the fireside having a quiet smoke, and thinking of the fine speech i had made, and if it would be safe to try again, when dobson came in and said, "squire, mr. edgar wishes to see you," and i said, "very well, bring mr. edgar upstairs." i had thrown off my coat; but i had on one of my fine ruffled shirts and my best blue waistcoat, and so i didn't feel so very out of the way when edgar came in with the loveliest young woman on his arm--except kitty--that i ever set eyes on; and i was dumfounded when he brought her to me and said, "my dear father, annie curzon, who has promised to be my wife, wants to know you and to love you." and the little thing--for she is but a sprite of a woman--laid her hand on my arm and looked at me; and what in heaven's name was i to do?' 'what did you do?' 'i just lifted her up and kissed her bonny face, and said i had room enough in my heart and home for her; and that she was gladly welcome, and would be much made of, and i don't know what else--plenty of things of the same sort. my word! edgar was set up.' 'he may well be set up,' answered mrs. atheling; 'she is the richest and sweetest girl in england; and she thinks the sun rises and sets in edgar atheling. he ought to be set up with a wife like that.' 'he was, with her and me together. i don't know which of us seemed to please him most. maude, they are coming down to lord ashley's on a visit, and i asked them _here_. i could not do any different, could i?' 'if you had you would have been a poor kind of a father. what did you say?' 'i said, when you are at ashley place come over to atheling, and i gave edgar my hand and looked at him; and he looked at me and clasped it tight, and said, "we will come.'" "that was right." "i am glad i have done right for once, maude. do you know that ashley is one of the worst radicals in the lot of them?" "never mind, john. i have noticed that, as a general thing, the worse radical, the better man; but a tory cannot be trusted to give a radical a character. the tories are very like the poor cat who said, 'if she only had wings, she would gladly extirpate the whole race of those troublesome sparrows.'" "there are to be no more tories now, we have got a new name. lord john russell called us 'conservatives,' and we took to the word, and it is as like as not to stick to us. it will be conservatives and reformers in the future." "but you said the reform bill was lost." "i said it had not passed. what of that? the rascals have only been downed for this round; they will be up to time, when time is called june the twenty-first; and they will fight harder than ever." "how was the bill lost? by obstructions?" "yes; when it was ready to go into committee, general gascoigne moved that, 'the number of members returned to parliament ought not to be diminished;' and when the house divided on this motion, gascoigne's resolution had a majority of eight." "then grey's ministry have retired?" said mrs. atheling, in alarm. "no, they have not; they should have done so by all decent precedents; but, instead of behaving like gentlemen, they resolved to appeal to the country. we sat all night quarrelling on this subject; but at five in the morning i was worn out with the stifling, roaring house, and sick with the smell of dying candles, and the reek and steam of quarrelling human beings, so i stepped out and took a few turns on westminster bridge. it was a dead-calm, lovely morning, and the sun was just rising over the trees of the abbey and the speaker's house, and i had a bit of heart-longing for atheling." "why did you not run away to atheling, father?" "i could not have done a thing like that, kitty, not for the life of me. i went back to the house; and for three days we fought like dogs, tooth and nail, over the dissolution. then lord grey and lord brougham did such a thing as never was: they went to the king and told him, plump and plain, he must dissolve parliament or they would resign, and he must be answerable for consequences; and the king did not want to dissolve parliament; he knew a new house would be still fuller of reform members; and he made all kinds of excuses. he said, 'the crown and robes were not ready, and the guards and troops had not been notified;' and then, to his amazement and anger, lord brougham told him that the officers of state had been summoned, that the crown and robes were ready, and the guards and troops waiting." "my word, john! that was a daring thing to do." "if william the fourth had been henry the eighth, lord brougham's head wouldn't have been worth a shilling; as it was, william flew into a great passion, and cried out, 'you! you, my lord chancellor! you ought to know that such an act is treason, is high treason, my lord!' and brougham said, humbly, that he did know it was high treason, and that nothing but his solemn belief that the safety of the state depended on the act would have made him bold enough to venture on so improper a proceeding. then the king cooled down; and brougham took from his pocket the speech which the king was to read; and the king took it with words; that were partly menace, and partly joke at his minister's audacity, and so dismissed them." "i never heard of such carryings on. why didn't brougham put the crown on his own head, and be done with it?" "i do not like brougham; but in this matter, he acted very wisely. if the king had refused to dissolve a parliament that had proved itself unable to carry reform, i do think, maude, london would have been in flames, and the whole country in rebellion, before another day broke." "were you present at the dissolution, john?" "i was sitting beside piers, when the usher of the black rod knocked at the door of the commons. it had to be a very loud knock, for the house was in a state of turbulence and confusion far beyond the speaker's control; while sir robert peel was denouncing the ministry in the hardest words he could pick out, and being interrupted in much the same manner. i can tell you that a good many of us were glad enough to hear the guns announcing the king's approach. the duke told me afterwards that the lords were in still greater commotion. brougham was speaking, when there were cries of 'the king! the king!' and lord londonderry rose in a fury and said, 'he would not submit to--' nobody heard what he would not submit to; for brougham snatched up the seals and rushed out of the house. then there was terrible confusion, and lord mansfield rose and was making a passionate oration against the reform bill, when the king entered and cut it short. well, london went mad for a few hours. nearly every house was illuminated; and the duke of wellington, and the duke of richmoor, and other great tories had their windows broken, as a warning not to obstruct the next parliament. i really don't know what to make of it all, maude!" "well, john, i think statesmen ought to know what to make of it." "i rode down from london on my own nag; and in many a town and village i saw things that made my heart ache. why, my dears, there has been sixty thousand pounds put into--not bread and meat--but peas and meal to feed the starving women and children; the government has given away forty thousand garments to clothe the naked; and the bank of england--a very close concern--is lending money, yes, as much as ten thousand pounds, to some private individuals, in order to keep their factories going. something is far wrong, when good english workmen are paupers. but i don't see how parliamentary reform is going to help them to bread and meat and decent work." "john, these hungry, naked men know what they want. edgar says a reform parliament will open all the ports to free trade, and tear to pieces the infamous corn laws, and make hours of work shorter, and wages higher and--" "give the whole country to the working men. i see! i see! now, maude, men are not going to run factories for fun, nor yet for charity; and farmers are not going to till their fields just to see how little they can get for their wheat." "father, what part did piers take in all this trouble?" "he voted with his party. he was very regular in his place." "i will go now and put on my habit. piers sent me word that he would be here soon after eleven o'clock;" and kate, with a smile, went quickly out of the room. the squire was nonplussed by the suddenness of her movement, and did not know whether to detain her or not. mrs. atheling saw his irresolution, and said,-- "let her go this time, john. let her have one last happy memory to keep through the time of trouble you seem bound to give her." "can i help it?" "i don't know." "you speak as if it was a pleasure to me." "what for are you so set on interfering just at this time?" "because it is the right time." "who told you it was the right time?" "my own heart, and my own knowledge of what is right and wrong." "you are never liable to make a mistake, i suppose, john?" "not on this subject. i never saw such an unreasonable woman! never! it is enough to discourage any man;" and as mrs. atheling rose and began to put away her silver without answering him a word, he grew angry at her want of approval, and put on his hat and went towards the stables. he had no special intention of watching for lord exham, and indeed had for the moment forgotten his existence, when the young man leaped his horse over the wall of the atheling plantation. the act annoyed the squire; he was proud of his plantation, and did not like trespassing through it. such a little thing often decides a great thing; and this trifling offence made it easy for the squire to say,-- "good-morning, piers, i wish you would dismount. i have a few words to speak to you;" and there was in his voice that shivery half-tone which is neither one thing nor the other: and exham recognised it without applying the change to himself. he was a little annoyed at the delay; but he leaped to the ground, put the bridle over his arm, and stood beside the squire, who then said,-- "piers, i have come to the decision not to sanction any longer your attentions to kate--unless your father also sanctions them. it is high time your engagement was either publicly acknowledged or else put an end to." "you are right, squire; what do you wish me to do? i will make kate my wife at any time you propose. i desire nothing more earnestly than this." "easy, piers, easy. you must obtain the duke's consent first." "i could hardly select a worse time to ask him for it. i am of full age. i am my own master. i will marry kate in the face of all opposition." "i say you will not. my daughter is not for you, if there is any opposition. the duke and duchess are at the head of your house; and kate cannot enter a house in which she would be unwelcome." "kate will reside at exham." "and be a divider between you and your father and mother. no! in the end she would get the worst of it; and, even if she got the best of it, i am not willing she should begin a life of quarrelling and hatred. you can see the duke at your convenience, and let me know what he says." "i will see him to-day," he had taken out his watch and was looking at it as he spoke. "will you excuse me now, squire?" he asked. "i sent kate a message early this morning promising to call for her about eleven. i am already late." "you may turn back. i will make an excuse for you. you cannot ride with kate to-day." "squire, i made the offer and the promise. permit me to honour my word." "i will honour it for you. there has been enough, and too much, riding and walking, unless you are to ride and walk all your lives together. good-morning!" "squire, give me one hour?" "i will not." "a few minutes to explain." "i have told you that i would explain." "i never knew you unkind before. have i offended you? have i done anything which you do not approve?" "that is not the question. i will see you again--when you have seen your father." "you are very unkind, very unkind indeed, sir." "maybe i am; but when the surgeon's knife is to use, there is no use pottering with drugs and fine speeches. it is the knife between you and kate--or it is the ring;" and the word reminded him of the lost love gage, and made his face hard and stern. then he turned from the young man, and had a momentary pleasure in the sound of his furious galloping in the other direction; for he was in a state of great turmoil. he had suddenly done a thing he had been wishing to do for a long time; and he was not satisfied. in short, passionate ejaculations, he tried to relieve himself of something wrong, and did not succeed. "he deserves it; he was all the time with that other one,--day by day in the parks, night after night in the house and the opera; he gave her that ring--i'll swear he did; how else should she have it? my kate is not going to be second-best--not if i can help it; what do i care for their dukedom?--confound the whole business! a man with a daughter to watch has a heart full of sorrow--and it is all her mother's fault!" setting his steps to such aggravating opinions, he reached the manor house and went into the parlour. kate stood at the window in her riding dress. she had lost her usual fine composure, and was nervously tapping the wooden sill with the handle of her whip. on her father's entrance, she turned an anxious face to him, and asked, "did you see anything of piers, father?" "i did. i have been having a bit of a talk with him." "then he is at the door? i am so glad! i thought something was wrong!" "stop, kitty. he is not at the door. he has gone home. i sent him home. now don't interrupt me. i made up my mind in london that he should not see you again until your engagement was recognised by his father and mother." "should not see me again! father!" "that is right." "but i must see him! i must see him! where is mother?" "mother thinks as i do, kate." "oh, what shall i do? what shall i do?" "go upstairs, and take off your habit, and think over things. you know quite well that such underhand courting--" "piers is not underhand. he is as straight-forward as you are, father." "there now! don't cry. i won't have any crying about what is only right. come here, kitty. thou knowest thy father loves every hair of thy head. will he wrong thee? will he give thee a moment's pain he can help? kitty, i heard talk in london that fired me--i saw things that have to be explained." "father, you will break my heart!" "well, kitty, i have had a good many heartaches all winter about my girl. and i have made up my mind, if i die for it, that there shall be no more whispering and wondering about your relationship to piers exham. now don't fret till you know you have a reason. piers has a deal of power over the duke. he will win his way--if he wants to win it. then i will have a business talk with both men, and your engagement and marriage will be square and above-board, and no nodding and winking and shrugging about it. you are kate atheling, and i will not have you sought in any by-way. before god, i will not! cry, if you must. but i think better of you." "oh, mother! mother! mother!" "yes! you and your mother have brought all this on, with your 'let things alone, be happy to-day, and to-morrow will take care of itself' ways. if you were a milk-maid, that plan might do; but a girl with your lineage has to look behind and before; she can't live for herself and herself only." "i wish i was a milk-maid!" "to be sure. let me have the lover i want, and my father, and my mother, and my brother, and my home, and all that are behind me, and all that are to come after, and all honour, and all gratitude, and all decent affection can go to the devil!" and with these words, the squire lifted his hat, and went passionately out of the room. though he had given kate the hope that piers would influence his father, he had no such expectation. there was a very strained political feeling between the duke and himself; and, apart from that, the squire had failed to win any social liking from the richmoors. he was so independent; he thought so much of the athelings, and was so indifferent to the glory of the richmoors. he had also strong opinions of all kinds, and did not scruple to express them; and private opinions are just the one thing _not_ wanted and not endurable in society. in fact, the duke and duchess had both been subject to serious relentings for having any alliance, either political or social, with their opinionated, domineering neighbour. and piers, driven by the anguish of his unexpected calamity, went into his father's presence without any regard to favourable circumstances. previously he had considered them too much; now he gave them no consideration at all. the duke had premonitory symptoms of an attack of gout; and the duchess had just told him that her brother lord francis gower was going to germany, and that she had decided to accompany his party. "annabel looks ill," she added; "the season has been too much for a girl so emotional; and as for myself, i am thoroughly worn out." "i do not like separating piers and annabel," answered the duke. "they have just become confidential and familiar; and in the country too, where miss atheling will have everything in her favour!" "annabel is resolved to go abroad. she says she detests england. you had better make the best of the inevitable, duke. i shall want one thousand pounds." "i cannot spare a thousand pounds. my expenses have been very great this past winter." "still, i shall require a thousand pounds." the duchess had just left her husband with this question to consider. he did not want to part with a thousand pounds, and he did not want to part with annabel. she was the brightest element in his life. she had become dear to him, and the thought of her fortune made his financial difficulties easier to bear. for the encumbrances which the times forced him to lay on his estate need not embarrass piers; annabel's money would easily remove them. he was under the influence of these conflicting emotions, when piers entered the room, with a brusque hurry quite at variance with his natural placid manner. the duke started at the clash of the door. it gave him a twinge of pain; it dissipated his reveries; and he asked petulantly, "what brings you here so early, and so noisily, piers?" "i am in great trouble, sir. squire atheling--" "squire atheling again! i am weary of the man!" "he has forbidden me to see miss atheling." "he has done quite right. i did not expect so much propriety from him." "until you give your consent to our marriage." "why, then, you will see her no more, piers. i will never give it. never! we need not multiply words. you will marry annabel." "suppose annabel will not marry me?" "the supposition is impossible, therefore unnecessary." "if i cannot marry miss atheling, i will remain unmarried." "that threat is as old as the world; it amounts to nothing." "on all public and social questions, i am your obedient son and successor. i claim the right to choose my wife." "a man in your position, piers, has not this privilege. i had not. if i had followed my youthful desires, i should have married an italian woman. i married, not to please myself, but for the good of richmoor; and i am glad to-day that i did so. your duty to richmoor is first; to yourself, secondary." "have you anything against miss atheling?" "i object to her family--though they are undoubtedly in direct descent from the royal saxon family of atheling; i object to her poverty; i object to her taking the place of a young lady who has every desirable qualification for your wife." "is there no way to meet these objections, sir?" "no way whatever." at these words the duke stood painfully up, and said, with angry emphasis, "i will not have this subject mentioned to me again. it is dead. i forbid you to speak of it." then he rang the bell for his secretary, and gave him some orders. lord exham leaned against the mantelpiece, lost in sorrowful thought, until the duke turned to him and said,-- "i am going to ride; will you go with me? there are letters from wetherell and lyndhurst to talk over." "i cannot think of politics at present. i should be no help to you." "your mother and annabel are thinking of going to germany. i wish you would persuade them to stop at home. is annabel sick? i am told she is." "i do not know, sir." "you might trouble yourself to inquire." "father, i have never at any time disobeyed you. permit me to marry the woman i love. in all else, i follow where you lead." "piers, my dear son, if my wisdom is sufficient for 'all else,' can you not trust it in this matter? miss atheling is an impossibility,--mind, i say an impossibility,--now, and to-morrow, and in all the future. that is enough about miss atheling. good-afternoon! i feel far from well, and i will try what a gallop may do for me." piers bowed; he could not speak. his heart beat at his lips; he was choking with emotion. the very attitude of the duke filled him with despair. it permitted of no argument; it would allow of no hope. he knew the squire's mood was just as inexorable as his father's. mrs. atheling had defined the position very well, when she called the two men, "upper and nether millstones." kate and he were now between them. and there was only one way out of the situation supposable. if kate was willing, they could marry without permission. the rector of belward would not be difficult to manage; for the duke had nothing to do with belward; it was in the gift of mrs. atheling. on some appointed morning kate could meet him before the little altar. love has ways and means and messengers; and his face flushed, and a kind of angry hope came into his heart as this idea entered it. just then, he did not consider how far kate would fall below his best thoughts if it were possible to persuade her to such clandestine disobedience. the duke was pleased with himself. he felt that he had settled the disagreeable question promptly and kindly; and he was cantering cheerfully across belward bents, when he came suddenly face to face with squire atheling. the surprise was not pleasant; but he instantly resolved to turn it to service. "squire," he said, with a forced heartiness, "well met! i thank you for your co-operation. in forbidding lord exham your daughter's society, you have done precisely what i wished you to do." "there is no 'co-operation' in the question, duke. i considered only miss atheling's rights and happiness. and what i have done, was not done for any wish of yours, but to satisfy myself. lord exham is your business, not mine." "i have just told him that a marriage with miss atheling is out of all consideration; that both you and i are of this opinion; and, i may add, that my plans for lord exham's future would be utterly ruined by a _mésalliance_ at this time." "you will retract the word '_mésalliance_,' duke. you know miss atheling's lineage, and that a duke of the reigning family would make no '_mésalliance_' in marrying her. i say retract the word!" and the squire involuntarily gave emphasis to the order by the passionate tightening of his hand on his riding-whip. "i certainly retract any word that gives you offence, squire. i meant no reflection on miss atheling, who is a most charming young lady--" "there is no more necessity for compliments than for--the other thing. i have told miss atheling to see lord exham no more. i will make my order still more positive to her." "yet, squire, lovers will often outwit the wisest fathers." "my daughter will give me her word, and she would not be an atheling if she broke it. i shall make her understand that i will never forgive her if she allies herself with the house of richmoor." "come, come, squire! you need not speak so contemptuously of the house of richmoor. the noblest women in england would gladly ally themselves with my house." "i cannot prevent them doing so; but i can keep my own daughter's honour, and i will. good-afternoon, duke! i hope this is our last word on a subject so unpleasant." "i hope so. squire, there are some important letters from lyndhurst and wetherell; can you come to the castle to-morrow and talk them over with me." "i cannot, duke." then the duke bowed haughtily, and gave his horse both rein and whip; and the angry thoughts in his heart were, "what a proud, perverse unmanageable creature! he was as ready to strike as to speak. if i had been equally uncivilised, we should have come to blows as easily as words. i am sorry i have had any dealings with the fellow. julia warned me--a man ought to take his wife's advice wherever women are factors in a question. confound the whole race of country squires!--they make all the trouble that is made." squire atheling had not any more pleasant thoughts about dukes; but they were an undercurrent, his daughter dominated them. he dreaded his next interview with her, but was not inclined to put it off, even when he found her, on his return home, with mrs. atheling. she had been weeping; she hardly dried her tears on his approach. her lovely face was flushed and feverish; she had the look of a rose blown by a stormy wind. he pushed his chair to her side, and gently drew her on to his knees, and put his arm around her, as he said,-- "my little girl, i am sorry! i am sorry! but it has to be, kitty. there is no hope, and i will not fool thee with false promises. i have just had a talk with richmoor. he was very rude, very rude indeed, to thy father." she did not speak or lift her eyes; and the squire continued, "he used a word about a marriage with thee that i would not permit. i had to bring him to his senses." "oh, father!" "would you have me sit quiet and hear the athelings made little of." "no, father." "i thought not." "after what the duke has said to me, there can be no thought of marriage between piers and thee. give him up, now and forever." "i cannot." "but thou must." "it will kill me." "not if thou art the good, brave girl i think thee. piers is only one little bit of the happy life thy good god has given thee. thou wilt still have thy mother, and thy brother, and thy sweet home, and all the honour and blessings of thy lot in life--_and thy father, too_, kitty. is thy father nobody?" then she laid her head on his breast and sobbed bitterly; and the squire could not speak. he wept with her. and sitting a little apart, but watching them, mrs. atheling wept a little also. yet, in spite of his emotion, the squire was inexorable; and he continued, with stern and steady emphasis, "thou art not to see him. thou art not to write to him. thou art not even to look at him. get him out of thy life, root and branch. it is the only way. come now, give me thy promise." "let me see him once more." "i will not. what for? to pity one another, and abuse every other person, right or wrong. the richmoors don't want thee among them at any price; and if i was thee i would stay where i was wanted." "piers wants me." "now then, if you must have the whole bitter truth, take it. i don't believe piers will have any heartache wanting thee. he was here, there, and everywhere with miss vyner, after thou hadst left london; and i saw the ring thou loanedst him on her finger." then kate looked quickly up. once, when annabel had removed her glove, and instantly replaced it, a vague suspicion of this fact had given her a shock that she had named to no one. it seemed so incredible she could not tell her mother. and now her father's words brought back that moment of sick suspicion, and confirmed it. "are you sure of what you say, father?" "i will wage my word and honour on it." there was a moment's intense silence. kate glanced at her mother, who sat with dropped eyes, unconsciously knitting; but there was not a shadow of doubt or denial on her face. then she looked at her father. his large countenance, usually so red and beaming, was white and drawn with feeling, and his troubled, aching soul looked at her pathetically from the misty depths of his tearful eyes. her mother she might have argued and pleaded with; but the love and anguish supplicating her from that bending face was not to be denied. she lifted her own to it. she kissed the pale cheeks and trembling lips, and said, clearly,-- "i promise what you wish, father. i will not speak to piers, nor write to him, nor even look at him again--until you say i may," and with the words she put her hand in his for surety. he rose to his feet then and put her in his chair; but he could not speak a word. tremblingly, he lifted his hat and stick and went out of the room; and mrs. atheling threw down her knitting, and followed him to the door, and watched him going slowly through the long, flagged passageway. her face was troubled when she returned to kate. she lifted her knitting and threw it with some temper into her work-basket, and then flung wide open the casement and let the fresh air into the room. kate did not speak; her whole air and manner was that of injury and woe-begone extremity. "kate," said her mother at last, "kate, my dear! this is your first lesson in this world's sorrow. don't be a coward under it. lift up your heart to him who is always sufficient." "oh, mother! i think i shall die." "i would be ashamed to say such words. piers was good and lovesome, and i do not blame you for loving him as long as it was right to do so. but when your father's word is against it, you may be very sure it is _not_ right. father would not give you a moment's pain, if he could help it." "it is too cruel! i cannot bear it!" "are you asked to bear anything but what women in all ages, and in all countries, have had to bear? to give up what you love is always hard. i have had to give up three fine sons, and your dear little sister edith. i have had to give up father, and mother, and brothers, and sisters; but i never once thought of dying. whatever happens, happens with god's will, or with god's permission; so if you can't give up cheerfully to your father's will, do try and say to god, as pleasantly as you can, _thy_ will be my will." "i thought you would pity me, mother." "i do, kate, with all my heart. but life has more loves and duties than one. if, in order to have piers, you had to relinquish every one else, would you do so? no, you would not. kate, i love you, and i pity you in your great trial; and i will help you to bear it as well as i can. but you must bear it cheerfully. i will not have father killed for piers exham. he looked very queerly when he went out. be a brave girl, and if you are going to keep your promise, do it cheerfully--or it is not worth while." "how can i be cheerful, mother?" "as easy as not, if you have a good, unselfish heart. you will say to yourself, 'what right have i to make every one in the house miserable, because i am miserable?' troubles must come to all, kitty, but troubles need not be wicked; and _it is wicked to be a destroyer of happiness_. i think god himself may find it hard to forgive those who selfishly destroy the happiness of others, just because they are not satisfied, or have not the one thing they specially want. when you are going to be cross and unhappy, say to yourself, "i will not be cross! i will not be unhappy! i will not make my good father wretched, and fill his pleasant home with a tearful drizzle, because i want to cry about my own loss.' and, depend upon it, kitty, you will find content and happiness in making others happy. good comes to hearts prepared for good; but it cannot come to hearts full of worry, and fear, and selfish regrets." "you are setting me a hard lesson, mother." "i know it is hard, kate. life is all a task; yet we may as well sing, as we fulfil it. eh, dear?" kate did not answer. she lifted her habit over her arm, and went slowly upstairs. sorrow filled her to the ears and eyes; but her mother heard her close and then turn the key in her door. "that is well," she thought. "now her good angel will find her alone with god." chapter thirteenth not yet "mothering" is a grand old word for a quality god can teach man as well as woman; and the squire really "mothered" his daughter in the first days of her great sorrow. he was always at her side. he was constantly needing her help or her company; and kate was quite sensible of the great love with which he encompassed her. at first she was inexpressibly desolate. she had been suddenly dislodged from that life in the heart of piers which she had so long enjoyed, and she felt homeless and forsaken. but kate had a sweet and beautiful soul, nothing in it could turn to bitterness; and so it was not long before she was able to carry her misfortune as she had carried her good fortune, with cheerfulness and moderation. for her confidence in piers was unbroken. not even her father's assertion about the lost ring could affect it. on reflection, she was sure there was a satisfactory explanation; if not, it was a momentary infidelity which she was ready to forgive. and in her determination to be faithful to her lover, mrs. atheling encouraged her. "time brings us our own, kitty dear," she said; "you have a true title to piers's love; so, then, you have a true title to his hand. i have not a doubt that you will be his wife." "i think that, mother; but why should we be separated now, and both made to suffer?" "that is earth's great mystery, my dear,--the prevalence of pain and suffering; no one is free from it. but then, in the midst of this mystery, is set that heavenly love which helps us to bear everything. i know, kitty, i know!" "father is very hard." "he is not. when piers's father and mother say they will not have you in their house, do you want to slip into it on the sly, or even in defiance of them? wait, and your hour will come." "there is only one way that it can possibly come; and that way i dare not for a moment think of." "no, indeed! who would wish to enter the house of marriage by the gates of death? if such a thought comes to you, send it away with a prayer for the duke's life. god can give you piers without killing his father. he would be a poor god if he could not. whatever happens in your life that you cannot change, that is the will of god; and to will what god wills is sure to bring you peace, kitty. you have your prayer-book; go to the blessed collects in it. you will be sure to find among them just the prayer you need. they never once failed me,--never once!" "if i could have seen him just for an hour, mother." "far better not. your last meeting with him in london was a very happy, joyous one. that is a good memory to keep. if you met him now, it would only be to weep and lament; and i'll tell you what, kitty, no crying woman leaves a pleasant impression. i want piers to remember you as he saw you last,--clothed in white, with flowers in your hair and hands, and your face beaming with love and happiness." many such conversations as this one held up the girl's heart, and enabled her, through a pure and steadfast faith in her lover, to enter-- "----that finer atmosphere, where footfalls of appointed things, reverberant of days to be, are heard in forecast echoings; like wave-beats from a viewless sea." the first week of her trouble was the worst; but it was made tolerable by a long letter from piers on the second day. it came in the squire's mail-bag, and he could easily have retained it. but such a course would have been absolutely contradictious to his whole nature. he held the thick missive a moment in his hand, and glanced at the large red seal, lifting up so prominently the richmoor arms, and then said,-- "here is a letter for you, kitty. it is from piers. what am i to do with it?" "please, father, give it to me." "give it to her, father," said mrs. atheling; and kate's eager face pleaded still more strongly. rather reluctantly, he pushed the letter towards kate, saying, "i would as leave not give it to thee, but i can trust to thy honour." "you may trust me, father," she answered. and the squire was satisfied with his relenting, when she came to him a few hours later, and said, "thank you for giving me my letter, father. it has made my trouble a great deal lighter. now, father, will you do me one more favour?" "well, dear, what is it?" "see piers for me, and tell him of the promise i made to you. say i cannot break it, but that i send, by you, my thanks for his letter, and my love forever more." "i can't tell him about 'love forever more,' kitty. that won't do at all." "tell him, then, that all he says to me i say to him. dear father, make that much clear to him." "john, do what kitty asks thee. it isn't much." "a man can't have his way in this house with two women to coax or bully him out of it. what am i to do?" "just what kitty asks you to do." [illustration:] "please, father!" and the two words were sent straight to the father's heart with a kiss and a caress that were irresistible. three days afterwards the squire came home from a ride, very much depressed. he was cross with the servant who unbuttoned his gaiters, and he looked resentfully at mrs. atheling as she entered the room. "a nice message i was sent," he said to her as soon as they were alone. "that young man has given me a heart-ache. he has made me think right is wrong. he has made me feel as if i was the wickedest father in yorkshire. and i know, in my soul, that i am doing right; and that there isn't a better father in the three kingdoms." "whatever did he say?" "he said i was to tell kate that from the east to the west, and from the north to the south, he would love her. that from that moment to the moment of death, and throughout all eternity, he would love her. and i stopped him there and then, and said i would carry no message that went beyond the grave. and he said i was to tell her that neither for father nor mother, nor for the interests of the dukedom, nor for the command of the king, would he marry any woman but her. and i was fool enough to be sorry for him, and to promise i would give him kate, with my blessing, when his father and mother asked me to do so." "i don't think that was promising very much, john." "thou knowest nothing of how i feel, maude. but he is a good man, and true; i think so, at any rate." "tell kitty what he said." "nay, you must tell her if you want her to know. i would rather not speak of piers at all. tell her, also, that the duchess and miss vyner are going to germany, and that piers goes with them as far as london. i am very glad of this move, for we can ride about, then, without fear of meeting them." all the comfort to be got from this conversation and intelligence was given at once to kate; and perhaps mrs. atheling unavoidably made it more emphatic than the squire's manner warranted. she did not overstep the truth, however, for piers had spoken from his very heart, and with the most passionate love and confidence. indeed, the squire's transcript had been but a bald and lame translation of the young man's fervent expressions of devotion and constancy. kate understood this, and she was comforted. invincible hope was at the bottom of all her sorrow, and she soon began to look on the circumstances as merely transitory. yet she had moments of great trial. one evening, while walking with her mother a little on the outskirts of atheling, the duke's carriage, with its splendid outriders, suddenly turned into the little lane. there was no escape, and they looked at each other bravely, and stood still upon the turf bordering the road. then the duchess gave an order to the coachman. there was difficulty in getting the horses to the precise spot which was best for conversation; but mrs. atheling would not take a step forward or backward to relieve it. she stood with her hand on kate's arm, kate's hands being full of the blue-bells which she had been gathering. the carriage contained only the duchess and annabel. there had been no overt unpleasantness between the ladies of the two families, and mrs. atheling would not take the initiative, especially when the question was one referring to the most delicate circumstances of her daughter's life. she talked with the duchess of her german trip, and kate gave annabel the flowers, and hoped she would enjoy her new experience. in five minutes the interview was over; nothing but courteous words had been said, and yet mrs. atheling and kate had, somehow, a sense of intense humiliation. the duchess's manner had been politely patronising, annabel's languid and indifferent; and, in some mysterious way, the servants echoed this covert atmosphere of disdain. little things are so momentous; and the very attitude of the two parties was against the athelings. from their superb carriage, as from a throne, the duchess and her companion looked down on the two simply-dressed ladies who had been gathering wild flowers on the roadside. "how provoking!" was kate's first utterance. "mother, i will not walk outside the garden again until they go away; i will not!" "i am ashamed of you!" answered mrs. atheling, angrily. "will you make yourself a prisoner for these two women? _tush!_ who are they? be yourself, and who is better than you?" "it is easy talking, mother. you are as much annoyed as i am. how did they manage to snub us so politely?" "position is everything, kate. a woman in a duke's carriage, with outriders in scarlet, and coachmen and footmen in silver-laced liveries, would snub the virgin mary if she met her in a country lane, dressed in pink dimity, and gathering blue-bells. try and forget the affair." "annabel looked ill." "it was her white dress. a woman with her skin ought to know better than to wear white." "oh, mother! if piers had been with them, what should i have done?" "i wish he had been there! you were never more lovely. i saw you for a moment, standing at the side of the carriage; with your brown hair blowing, and your cheeks blushing, and your hands full of flowers, and i thought how beautiful you were; and i wish piers had been there." "they go away on saturday. i shall be glad when saturday is over. i do not think i could bear to see piers. i should make a little fool of myself." "not you! not you! but it is just as well to keep out of danger." certainly neither the squire nor kate had any idea of meeting piers on the following saturday night when they rode along atheling lane together. both of them believed piers to be far on the way to london. they had been to the village, and were returning slowly homeward in the gloaming. a light like that of dreamland was lying over all the scene; and the silence of the far-receding hills was intensified by the murmur of the streams, and the sleepy piping of a solitary bird. the subtle, fugitive, indescribable fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley was in the air; and a sense of brooding power, of mystical communion between man and nature, had made both the squire and kate sympathetically silent. suddenly there was the sound of horse's feet coming towards them; and the figure of its rider loomed large and spectral in the gray, uncertain light. kate knew instantly who it was. in a moment or two they must needs pass each other. she looked quickly into her father's face, and he said huskily, "be brave, kate, be brave!" the words had barely been spoken, when piers slowly passed them. he removed his hat, and the squire did the same; but kate sat with dropped eyes, white as marble. from her nerveless hands the reins had fallen; she swayed in her saddle, and the squire leaned towards her with encouraging touch and words. but she could hear nothing but the hurrying flight of her lover, and the despairing cry which the wind brought sadly back as he rode rapidly up the little lane,-- "_kate! kate! kate!_" fortunately, news of miss curzon's and edgar's arrival at ashley hall came to atheling that very hour; and the squire and mrs. atheling were much excited at their proposal to lunch at atheling manor the next day. kate had to put aside her own feelings, and unite in the family joy of reunion. there was a happy stir of preparation, and the squire dressed himself with particular care to meet his son and his new daughter. as soon as he heard of their approach, he went to the open door to meet them. to edgar he gave his right hand, with a look which cancelled every hard word; and then he lifted little annie curzon from her horse, and kissed her on the doorstep with fatherly affection. and between kate and annie a warm friendship grew apace; and the girls were continually together, and thus, insensibly, kate's sorrow was lightened by mutual confidence and affection. early in june the squire and edgar were to return to london, for parliament re-opened on the fourteenth; and a few days before their departure mrs. atheling asked her husband one afternoon to take a drive with her. "to be sure i will, maude," he answered. "it isn't twice in a twelvemonth thou makest me such an offer." she was in her own little phaeton, and the squire settled himself comfortably at her side, and took the reins from her hands. "which way are we to go?" he asked. "we will go first to gisbourne gates, and maybe as far as belward." the squire wondered a little at her direction, for she knew gisbourne was rather a sore subject with him. as they approached the big iron portals, rusty on all their hinges from long neglect, he could not avoid saying,-- "it is a shame beyond everything that i have not yet been able to buy gisbourne. the place has been wanting a master for fifteen years; and it lays between atheling and belward as the middle finger lays between the first and the third. i thought i might manage it next year; but this parliament business has put me a good bit back." "many things have put you back, john. there was edgar's college expenses, and the hard times, and what not beside. look, john! the gates are open. let us drive in. it is twenty years since i saw gisbourne towers." "the gates are open. what does that mean, maude?" "i suppose somebody has bought the place." "i'm afraid so." "never mind, john." "but i do mind. the kind of neighbour we are to have is a very important thing. they will live right between atheling and belward. the gisbournes were a fine tory family. atheling and gisbourne were always friends. my father and sir antony went to the hunt and the hustings together. they were finger and thumb in all county matters. it will be hard to get as good a master of gisbourne as sir antony was." "john, i have a bit of right good news for thee. edgar is going to take sir antony's place. will edgar do for a neighbour?" "whatever art thou saying, maude?" "the very truth. miss curzon has bought gisbourne. lord ashley advised her to do so; and she has brought down a big company of builders and such people, and the grand old house is to be made the finest home in the neighbourhood. she showed me the plans yesterday, and i promised her to bring thee over to gisbourne this afternoon to meet her architect and lord ashley and edgar. see, they are waiting on the terrace for thee; for they want thy advice and thy ideas." it was, indeed, a wonderful afternoon. the gentlemen went into consultation with the architect, and a great many of the squire's suggestions were received with enthusiastic approval. mrs. atheling, kate, and annie went through the long-deserted rooms, and talked of what should be done to give them modern convenience and comfort, without detracting from their air of antique splendour. then at five o'clock the whole party met in the faded drawing-room and had tea, with sundry additions of cold game and pasties, and discussed, together, the proposed plans. at sunset the parties separated at gisbourne gates, kate going with miss curzon to ashley, and the squire and mrs. atheling returning to their own home. the squire was far too much excited to be long quiet. "they were very glad of my advice, maude," he said, as soon as the last good-bye had been spoken. "ashley seconded nearly all i proposed. he is a fine fellow. i wish i had known him long ago." "well, john, nobody can give better advice than you can." "and you see i know gisbourne, and what can be done with it. bless your soul! i used to be able to tell every kind of bird that built in gisbourne chase, and where to find their nests--though i never robbed a nest; i can say that much for myself. well, edgar _has_ done a grand thing for atheling, and no mistake." "i told you edgar--" "now, maude, edgar and me have washed the slate between us clean. it is not thy place to be itemising now. i say edgar has done well for atheling, and i don't care who says different. i haven't had such a day since my wedding day. edgar in gisbourne! an atheling in gisbourne! my word! who would have thought of such a thing? i couldn't hardly have asked it." "i should think not. there are very few of us, john, would have the face to _ask_ for half of the good things the good god gives us without a 'please' or a 'thank you.'" "belward! gisbourne! atheling! it will be all atheling when i am gone." "not it! i do not want belward to be sunk in that way. belward is as old as atheling." "in a way, maude, in a way. it was once a part of atheling; so was gisbourne. as for sinking the name, thou sunkest thy name in atheling; why not sink the land's name, eh, maude?" and until the squire and edgar left for london, such conversations were his delight; indeed, he rather regretted his parliamentary obligations, and envied his wife and daughter the delightful interest that had come into their lives. for they really found it delightful; and all through the long, sweet, summer days it never palled, because it was always a fresh wing, or a fresh gallery, cabinet-work in one parlour, upholstery work in another, the freshly laid-out gardens, the cleared chase, the new stables and kennels. even the gates were a subject of interesting debate as to whether the fine old ones should be restored or there should be still finer new ones. thus between atheling, ashley, and gisbourne, week after week passed happily. kate did not forget, did not cease to love and to hope; she just bided her time, waiting, in patience, for fortune to bring in the ship that longed for the harbour but could not make it. and with so much to fill her hours joyfully, how ungrateful she would have been to fret over the one thing denied her! the return of the squire and edgar was very uncertain. both of them, in their letters, complained bitterly of the obstructive policy which the tories still unwaveringly carried out. it was not until the twelfth of july that the bill got into committee; and there it was harassed and delayed night after night by debates on every one of its clauses. this plan of obstructing it occupied thirty-nine sittings, so that it did not reach the house of lords until the twenty-second of september. the squire's letter at this point was short and despondent:-- dear wife,--the bill has gone to the lords. i expect they will send it to the devil. i am fairly tired out; and, with all my heart, i wish myself at atheling. it may be christmas before i get there. do as well as you can till i come. tell kitty, i would give a sovereign for a sight of her. your affectionate husband, john atheling. about a couple of weeks after this letter, one evening in october, mrs. atheling, kate, and annie were returning to atheling house from gisbourne, where they had been happily busy all the afternoon. they were easy-hearted, but rather quiet; each in that mood of careless stillness which broods on its own joy or sorrow. the melancholy of the autumn night influenced them,--calm, pallid, and a little sad, with a dull, soft murmur among the firs,--so they did not hurry, and it was nearly dark when they came in sight of the house. then mrs. atheling roused herself. "how good a cup of tea will taste," she said; "and i dare say it is waiting, for ann has lighted the room, i see." laughing and echoing her remark, they reached the parlour. on opening the door, mrs. atheling uttered a joyful cry. "why, john! why, edgar!" "to be sure, maude," answered the squire, leaping up and taking her in his arms. "i wonder how thou feelest to have thy husband come home and find thee out of the house, and not a bit of eating ready for him." then mrs. atheling pointed to the table, and said, "i do not think there is any need for complaint, john." "no; we managed, edgar and me, by good words and bad words, to get something for ourselves--" and he waved his hand complacently over the table, loaded with all kinds of eatables,--a baron of cold beef, cold yorkshire pudding, a gypsy pie, indian preserves, raspberry tarts, clotted cream, roast apples, cheese celery, fine old ale, strong gunpowder tea, and a variety of condiments. "what do you call this meal, john?" "i call it a decent kind of a tea, and i want thee to try and learn something from its example." then he kissed her again, and looked anxiously round for kitty. "come here, my little girl," he cried; and kitty, who had been feeling a trifle neglected, forgot everything but the warmth and gladness of her father's love and welcome. edgar had found annie a seat beside his own, and the squire managed to get his place between his wife and his daughter. then the "cup of tea" mrs. atheling had longed for became a protracted home festival. but they could not keep politics out of its atmosphere; they were, indeed, so blended with the life of that time that their separation from household matters was impossible, and the squire was no more anxious to hear about his hunters and his harvest, than mrs. atheling was to know the fate of the reform bill. "it has passed at last, i suppose, john," she said, with an air of satisfied certainty. "thou supposest very far wrong, then. it has been rejected again." "never! never! never! oh, john, john! it is not possible!" "the lords did, as i told thee they would,--that is, the lords and the bishops together." "the bishops ought to be unfrocked," cried edgar, with considerable temper. "only one in all their number voted for reform." "i'll never go to church again," said mrs. atheling, in her unreasonable anger. "tell us about it, father," urged kate. "well, you see, mr. peel and mr. croker led our party against the bill; and croker _is_ clever, there is no doubt of that." "not to be compared to lord althorp, our leader,--so calm, so courageous, so upright," said edgar. "nobody denies it; but croker's practical, vigorous views--" "you mean his 'sanguine despondency,' his delight in describing england as bankrupt and ruined by reform." "i mean nothing of the kind, edgar; but--" "did the bill pass the commons, father?" asked kate. "it did; although in fifteen days peel spoke forty-eight times against it, and croker fifty-seven times, and wetherell fifty-eight times. but all they could say was just so many lost words." "think of such men disputing the right of manchester, leeds, and birmingham to be represented in the house of commons! what do you say to that, mother?" "i only hope father wasn't in such a stupid bit of business, edgar." and the squire drank a glass of ale, and pretended not to hear. "but," continued edgar, "we never lost heart; for all over the country, and in every quarter of london, they were holding meetings urging us not to give way,--not to give way an inch. we were fighting for all england; and, as lord althorp said, we were ready to keep parliament sitting till next december, or even to next december twelvemonth." "i'll warrant you!" interrupted the squire. "well, edgar, you passed your bill in a fine uproar of triumph; all london in the street, shouting thanks to althorp and the others--edgar atheling among them." then the squire paused and looked at his son, and mrs. atheling asked, impatiently,-- "what then, john?" "why, then, lord john russell and lord althorp carried the bill to the house of lords. it was a great scene. the duke told me about it. he said nearly every peer was in his seat; and a large number of peeresses had been admitted at the bar, and every inch of space in the house was crowded. the lord chancellor took his seat at the woolsack; and the deputy usher of the black rod threw open the doors, crying, 'a message from the commons.' then lord john russell and lord althorp, at the head of one hundred members of the house of commons, entered, and delivered the bill to the lord chancellor." "oh, how i should have liked to have been present!" said kate. "well, some day thou--" and then the squire suddenly stopped; but the unfinished thought was flashed to every one present,--"some day thou mayst be duchess of richmoor, and have the right to be present;" and kate was pleased, and felt her heart warm to conscious hope. she caught her mother watching her, and smiled; and mrs. atheling, instantly sensitive to the unspoken feeling, avoided comment by her eager inquiry,-- "whatever did they say, john?" "they said the usual words; but the duke told me there was a breathless silence, and that lord john russell said them with the most unusual and impressive emphasis: 'my lords, the house of commons have passed an act to amend the representation of england and wales, to which they desire your lordships' concurrence.' lord grey opened the debate. i dare say edgar knows all about it. i believe grey is his leader." "yes," answered edgar, "and very proud i am of my leader. he is in his sixty-eighth year, and he stood there that night to advocate the measure he proposed forty years before, in the house of commons. althorp told me he spoke with a strange calmness and solemnity, '_for the just claims of the people_;' but as soon as he sat down lord wharncliffe moved that the bill be rejected altogether." "that was like wharncliffe," said the squire. "no half measures for him." "wellington followed, and wanted to know, 'how the king's government was to be carried on by the will of a turbulent democracy?'" "wellington would govern with a sword instead of a sceptre. he would try every cause round a drum-head. i am not with wellington." "lord dudley followed in an elegant, classical speech, also against the bill." the squire laughed. "i heard about that speech. did not brougham call it, 'an essay or exercise of the highest merit, on democracies--_but not on this bill_.'" "yes. brougham can say very polite and very disagreeable things. he spoke on the fifth and last night of the debate. earl grey said a more splendid declamation was never made. all london is now quoting one passage which he addressed to the lords: 'justice deferred,' he said, 'enhances the price at which you will purchase your own safety; nor can you expect to gather any other crop than they did who went before you, if you persevere in their utterly abominable husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion.'" "fine words, edgar, fine words; just like brougham,--catch-words, to take the common people." "they did not, however, alarm or take the lords. my leader closed the debate, and in a magnificent speech implored the archbishops and bishops not to vote against the bill, and thus stand before the people of england as the enemies of a just and moderate scheme of reform." "and yet they voted against it!" said mrs. atheling. "i am downright ashamed of them. the very date ought to be put up against them forever." "it was the seventh of october. all night long, until the dawning of the eighth, the debate was continued; and until three hours after midnight, palace yard, and the streets about westminster, were crowded with anxious watchers, though the weather was cold and miserably wet. towards morning their patience was exhausted; and when the carriages of the peers and bishops rolled out in broad daylight there was no one there to greet them with the execrations and hisses they deserved. the whole of our work this session in the commons has been done in vain. but we shall win next time, even if we compel the king to create as many new reform peers as will pass the bill in spite of the old lords." "edgar, you are talking nonsense--if not treason." "pardon me, father. i am only giving you the ultimatum of reform. the bill _must_ pass the lords next session, or you may call reform revolution. the people are particularly angry at the bishops. they dare not appear on the streets; curses follow them, and their carriages have been repeatedly stoned." "there is a verse beginning, 'inasmuch as ye did it not,' etc.,--i wonder if they will ever dare to repeat it again. they will do the church a deal of harm." "oh, no," said edgar. "the church does not stand on the bishops." "be easy with the bishops," added the squire. "they have to scheme a bit in order to get the most out of both worlds. they scorn to answer the people according to their idols. they are politically right." "no, sir," said edgar. "whatever is morally wrong cannot be politically right. the church is well represented by the clergy; they have generally sympathised with the people. one of them, indeed, called smith--sydney smith--made a speech at taunton, three days after our defeat, that has gone like wild-fire throughout the length and breadth of england;" and edgar took a paper out of his pocket, and read, with infinite delight and appreciation, the pungent wit which made "mrs. partington" famous throughout christendom:-- "as for the possibility of the house of lords preventing a reform of parliament, i hold it to be the most absurd notion that ever entered into human imagination. i do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm at sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent mrs. partington on that occasion. in the winter of , there set in a great flood upon that town; the waves rushed in upon the houses; and everything was threatened with destruction. in the midst of this sublime and terrible storm, dame partington--who lived upon the beach--was seen at the door of her house, with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, squeezing out the sea-water, and vigorously pushing away the atlantic ocean. the atlantic was roused. mrs. partington's spirit was up; but i need not tell you, the contest was unequal. the atlantic ocean beat mrs. partington. she was excellent at a slop or a puddle; but she should not have meddled with a tempest. gentlemen, be at your ease, be quiet and steady. you will beat mrs. partington."[ ] ------ [footnote : speech at taunton by sydney smith, october , .] "it was not respectful to liken the lords of england to an old woman, now was it, mother?" asked the squire. but mrs. atheling only laughed the more, and the conversation drifted so completely into politics that kitty and annie grew weary of it, and said they wished to go to their rooms. and as they left the parlour together, edgar suddenly stayed kitty a moment, and said, "i had nearly forgotten to tell you something. miss vyner is to be married, on the second of december, to cecil north. i am going to london in time for the wedding." and kitty said, "i am glad to hear it, edgar," and quickly closed the door. but she lay long awake, wondering what influence this event would have upon piers and his future, until, finally, the wonder passed into a little verse which they had learned together; and with it singing in her heart, she fell asleep:-- "thou art mine! i am thine! thou art locked in this heart of mine; whereof is lost the little key: so there, forever, thou must be!" chapter fourteenth at the worst in the first joy of their return home, squire atheling and his son had not chosen to alarm the women of the family; yet the condition of the country was such as filled with terror every thoughtful mind. the passionate emotion evoked by the second rejection of the reform bill did not abate. tumultuous meetings were held in every town and village as the news reached them; houses were draped in black; shops were closed; and the bells of the churches tolled backward. in london the populace was quite uncontrollable. vast crowds filled the streets, cheering the reform leaders, and denouncing with furious execrations the members of either house who had opposed the bill. the duke of newcastle, the marquis of londonderry, and many other peers were not saved from the anger of the people without struggle and danger. nottingham castle, the seat of the duke of newcastle, was burnt to the ground; and belvoir castle, the seat of the duke of rutland, was barely saved. bristol saw a series of riots, and during them suffered greatly from fire, and the bishop's palace was reduced to ashes. everywhere the popular fury settled with special bitterness and hatred upon the bishops; because, as teachers of the doctrines of jesus of nazareth, the "common people" expected sympathy from them. a cry arose, from one end of england to the other, for their expulsion from the upper chamber; and proposals even for the abolition of the house of lords were constant and very popular. for such extreme measures no speaker was so eloquent and so powerful as mr. o'connell. in addressing a great meeting at charing cross one day, he pointed in the direction of whitehall palace, and reminded his hearers that, "a king had lost his head there. why," he asked, "did this doom come on him? it was," he cried, "because he refused to listen to his commons and his people, and obeyed the dictation of a foreign wife." and this allusion to the queen's bad influence over william the fourth was taken up by the crowd with vehement cheering. while bristol was burning, the cholera appeared in england; and its terrors, new and awful and apparently beyond human help or skill, added the last element of supernatural fear to the excited and hopeless people. it is hard to realise at this day, and with our knowledge of the disease, the frantic and abject despair which seized all classes. the churches were kept open, supplications ascended night and day from the altars; and on the sixth of november, at one hour, from every place of worship in england, hundreds of thousands knelt to utter aloud a form of prayer which was constantly broken by sobs of anguish:-- "lord, have pity on thy people! withdraw thy heavy hand from those who are suffering under thy judgments; and turn away from us that grievous calamity against which our only security is thy compassion." in the presence of this scourge, mrs. atheling found it impossible to persuade the squire to let his family go up with him and edgar to london. about the cholera, the squire had the common fatalistic ideas. "you may escape through god's mercy," he said; "but if you are to die of this fearsome, outlandish sickness, then it is best to face death in your own home." "but if you should take it in london, and me not near even to bid you 'good-bye,' john! i should die of grief." "i do hope thou wouldst have more sense, maude." "i would follow thee beyond the grave, very quickly, john." "no, no! stay where thou art. thou knowest what yorkshire is," and though he spoke gruffly, his eyes were dim with unshed tears for the dreadful possibility he thought it right to face. kate was specially averse to return to london. it was full of memories she did not wish to revive. piers was there; and how could she bear to meet him, and neither speak to nor even look at her lover? there was annabel's marriage also to consider. if she did not attend it, how many unpleasant inquiries and suppositions there would be? if she did accept the formal invitation sent her, how was she to conduct herself towards piers in the presence of those who knew them both intimately? the marriage was to take place shortly before the opening of parliament; and, owing to the wretched condition of the country, it was thought best to give it only a private character. the management of the social arrangements were in piers's hands, and during these last days a very brotherly and confidential affection sprang up in his heart for the brilliant girl who was so soon to leave them forever. one morning he returned to richmoor house with some valuable jewels for annabel. he sent a servant to tell her that he was in the small east parlour and desired her company. then, knowing her usual indifference to time, he sat down and patiently awaited her coming. she responded almost immediately. but her entrance startled and troubled him. she came in hastily, and shut the door with a perceptible nervous tremour. her face was flushed with anger; she looked desperate and defiant, and met his curious glance with one of mingled fear and entreaty and reckless passion. he led her to a seat, and taking her hands said,-- "my dear bella, what has grieved you?" "oh, piers! piers!" she sobbed. "if you have one bit of pity in your heart, give it to me. i am the most miserable woman in the world." "bella, if you do not love cecil--if you want to break off this marriage--" "love cecil? i love him better than my life! my love for cecil is the best thing about me. it is not cecil." "who is it then?" "i will tell you, though you may hate me for my words. piers, i took the ring you lost. i meant no harm in the first moment; mischief and jealousy were then so mixed, i don't know which of them led me. i saw you asleep. i slipped the ring off your finger. i told myself i would give it to you in the morning, and claim my forfeit. in the morning, the duchess was cross; and you were cross; and the constables were in the house; and i was afraid. and i put it off and off, and every day my fear of trouble--and perhaps my hope of doing mischief with it--grew stronger. i had then hours of believing that i should like to be your wife, and i hated and envied kate atheling. i hesitated until i lost the desire to explain things; and then one day my maid justine flew in a passion at me, and accused me of stealing the ring. she said it was in my purse--_and it was_. she threatened to call in the whole household to see me found out; and it was the night of the great dinner; and i bought her off." "oh, bella! bella! that was very foolish." "i know. she has tortured and robbed me ever since. i have wasted away under her threats. look at my arms, piers, and my hands. i have a constant fever. last week she promised me, if i would give her two hundred pounds, she would go away, and i should never see or hear of her again. i gave her the money. now she says she has made up her mind to go to india with me. that i cannot endure. she has kept me on the rack with threats to tell cecil. he is the soul of honour; he would certainly cease to love me; and if i was his wife, how terrible that would be! what am i to do? what am i to do? oh, piers, help me!" "where is the woman now?" "in my apartments." "can i go with you to your parlour?" "yes--but, piers, why?" "where is the ring, bella dear?" "in her possession. she was afraid i would give it to you." "why did you not tell me all this before? come, i will soon settle the affair." when they reached the room, annabel sank almost lifeless on a sofa; and piers touched a hand-bell. justine called from an inner room: "i will answer at my leisure, miss." piers walked to the dividing door, and threw it open. "you will answer _now_, at my command. come here, and come quickly." "my lord--i did not mean--" "stand there, and answer truly the questions i shall ask; or i promise you a few years on the treadmill, if not a worse punishment. do you know that you are guilty of black-mailing, and of obtaining money on false pretences?--both crimes to be expiated on the gallows." "my lord, it is a true pretence. miss vyner stole your ring. she knows she did." "she could not steal anything i have; she is welcome to whatever of mine she desires. how much money have you taken from miss vyner?" "i have not taken one half-penny," answered justine, sulkily. "she gave me the money; she dare not say different. speak, miss, you know you gave it to me." but annabel had recovered something of her old audacity. she felt she was safe, and she was not disposed to mercy. she only smiled scornfully, and re-arranged the satin cushions under her head more comfortably. "quick! how much money have you taken?" justine refused to answer; and piers said, "i give you two minutes. then i shall send for a constable." "and miss vyner's wedding will be put off." "for your crime? oh, no! miss vyner's wedding is far beyond your interference. she will have nothing to do with this affair. _i_ shall prosecute you. you have my ring. will you give it to me, or to a constable?" "i did not take the ring." "it is in your possession. i will send now for an officer." he rose to touch the bell-rope, keeping his eyes on the woman all the time; and she darted forward and arrested his hand. "i will do what you wish," she said. "how much money have you taken from miss vyner?" "eight hundred and ninety pounds." "where is it?" "in my room." "go and get it--stay, i will go with you." in a few minutes justine returned with her ill-gotten treasure; and then she condescended to explain, and entreat,-- "oh, my lord," she said, "don't be hard on me. i wanted the money for my poor old mother who is in marylebone workhouse. i did, indeed i did! it was to make her old age comfortable. she is sick and very poor, and i wanted it for her." "we shall see about that. if your story is true, you shall give the money to your poor old sick mother. if it is not true, you shall give my ring and the money to a constable, and sleep in prison this very night." with impetuous passion he ordered a carriage, and justine was driven to the marylebone workhouse. by the time they reached that institution, she was thoroughly humbled and afraid; her fear being confirmed by the subservience of the master to the rank and commands of lord exham. for a moment she had an idea of denying her own statement; but the futility of the lie was too evident to be doubted; and, very reluctantly, she admitted her mother's name to be margaret oddy. in a few minutes--during which lord exham ordered justine to count out the money in her bag to the master--margaret appeared. she was not an old woman in years, being but little over forty; but starvation, sorrow, and hard work had made her prematurely aged. when she entered the room, she looked around anxiously; but as soon as she saw justine, she covered her face with her thin hands, and began to weep. "is this your daughter?" asked the master, pointing to justine. "i am her mother, sure enough, sir; but she have cast me off long ago. oh, justine girl, speak a word to me! you are my girl, for all that's past and gone." "justine has come to make you some amends for her previous neglect, mother," said lord exham. "she has brought you eight hundred and ninety pounds for your old age. to-morrow my lawyer will call here, and give you advice concerning its care and its use. until then, the master will take it in charge." "let me see it! let me touch it with my hands! no more hunger! no more cold! no more hard work! it can't be true! it can't be true! is it true, justine? kiss me with the money, girl, for the sake of the happy days we have had together!" with these words she went to her daughter, and tried to take her hands, and draw her to her breast. but justine would not respond. she stood sullen and silent, with eyes cast on the ground. "why, then," said margaret, with just anger, "why, then, keep the money, justine. i would rather eat peas and porridge, and sleep on straw, than take a shilling with such ill-will from you, girl." then, turning to piers, she added, "thank you, good gentleman, but i'll stay where i am. let justine keep her gold. i don't want such an ill-will gift." "mother," answered piers. "you may take the money from my hands, then. it is yours. justine's good or ill-will has now nothing to do with it. i give it to you from the noble young lady whom your daughter has wronged so greatly that the gallows would be her just desert. she gives up this money--which she has no right to--as some atonement for her crime. is not this the truth, justine?" he asked sternly; and the woman answered, "yes." then turning to the master, he added, "to this fact, and to justine's admission of it, you are witness." the master said, "i am." then addressing margaret, he told her to go back to her place, and think over the good fortune that had so unexpectedly come to her; what she wished to do with her money; and where she wished to make her future home. and the mother curtsied feebly and again turned to her child,-- "if i go back to the old cottage in downham--the old cottage with the vines, and the bee skeps, and the long garden, will you come with me, and we will share all together?" "no." "let her alone, mother," said exham. "she is going to the furthest american colony she can reach. only in some such place, will she be safe from the punishment of her wrong-doing." "justine, then, my girl, good-bye!" no answer. "justine, good-bye!" no answer. "why, then, my girl, god be with you, and god forgive you!" then justine turned to lord exham, "i have done what you demanded. may i now go my own way?" "not just yet. you will return with me." he gave his card to the master, and followed the woman, keeping her constantly under his hand and eye until they returned to annabel's parlour. annabel was in a dead sleep; but their entrance awakened her, and it pained piers to see the look of fear that came into her face when she saw her cruel tormentor. she was speedily relieved, however; for the first words she heard, was an order from piers, bidding her to be ready to leave the house in twenty minutes. he took out his watch as he gave the order, and then added, "first of all, return to me my ring." "i did not take your ring, my lord." "you have it in your possession. return it at once." "miss vyner stole it--" "give it to me! you know the consequences of _one_ more refusal." then justine took from her purse the long missing ring. she threw it on the table, and, with tears of rage, said,-- "may ill-luck and false love go with it, and follow all who own it!" "the bad wishes of the wicked fall on themselves, justine," said lord exham, as he lifted the trinket. "how much money does your mistress owe you?" "i have no 'mistress.' miss vyner owes me a quarter's wage, and a quarter's notice, that is eight pounds." "is that correct, annabel?" "the woman says so. pay her what she wants--only get her out of my sight." "oh, miss, i can tell you--" "go. pack your trunk, and be back here in fifteen minutes. and, mind what i say, leave england at once--the sooner the better." before the time was past, the woman was outside the gates of richmoor house, and piers returned to annabel. "that trouble is all over and gone forever," he said to her; "now, dear bella, lift up your heart to its full measure of love and joy! let cecil see you to-night in your old beauty. he is fretting about your health; show him the marvellously bright annabel that captured his heart with a glance." "i will! i will, piers! this very night you shall see that annabel is herself again." "and in three days you are to be cecil's wife!" "in three days," she echoed joyfully. "leave me now, piers. i want to think over your goodness to me. i shall never forget it." smiling, they parted; and then annabel opened all the doors of her rooms, and looked carefully around them, and assured herself that her tyrant was really gone. "in three days!" she said, "in three days i am going away from all this splendour and luxury,--going to dangers of all kinds; to a wild life in camps and quarters; perhaps to deprivations in lonely places--and i am happy! happy! transcendently happy! oh, love! wonderful, invincible, omnipotent love! cecil's love! it will be sufficient for all things." certainly she was permeated with this idea. it radiated from her countenance; it spoke in her eyes; it made itself visible in the glory of her bridal attire. the wedding morning was one of the darkest and dreariest of london's winter days. a black pouring rain fell incessantly; the atmosphere was heavy, and loaded with exhalations; and the cholera terror was on every face. for at this time it was really "a destruction walking at noon-day" and leaving its ghastly sign of possession on many a house in the streets along which the bridal party passed. it came into the gloomy church like a splendid dream: officers in gay uniforms, ladies in beautiful gowns and nodding plumes, and at the altar,--shining like some celestial being,--the radiant bride in glistening white satin, and sparkling gems. and cecil, in his new military uniform, tall, handsome, soldierly, happy, made her a fitting companion. the church was filled with a dismal vapour; the rain plashed on the flagged enclosure; the wind whistled round the ancient tower: there was only gloom, and misery, and sudden death outside; but over all these accidents of time and place, the joy of the bride and the bridegroom was triumphant. and later in the day, when the duke and piers went with them to the great three-decked indiaman waiting for their embarkation, they were still wondrously exalted and blissful. dressed in fine dark-blue broadcloth, and wrapped in costly furs, annabel watched from the deck the departure of her friends, and then put her hand in cecil's with a smile. "for weal or woe, bella, my dear one," he said. "for weal or woe, for life or death, cecil beloved," she answered, having no idea then of what that promise was to bring her in the future; though she kept it nobly when the time of its redemption came. three days after this event, mrs. atheling received by special messenger from lord exham a letter, and with it the ring which had caused so much suspicion and sorrow. but though the letter was affectionate and confidential, and full of tender messages which he "trusted in her to deliver for him," nothing was said as to the manner of its recovery, or the personality of the one who had purloined it. "your father has been right, no doubt, kate," she said. "in some weak moment annabel has got the ring from him, and on her marriage has given it back. that is clear to me." "not to me, mother. i am sure piers did not give annabel--did not give any one the ring. i will tell you what i think. annabel got it while he was asleep, or he inadvertently dropped it, and she picked it up--and kept it, hoping to make mischief." "you may be wrong, kitty." "i may--but i _know_ i am right." _no diviner like love!_ on this same day, with the cholera raging all around, parliament was re-opened; and lord john russell again brought in the reform bill. there was something pathetic in this persistence of a people, hungry and naked, and overshadowed by an unknown pestilence, swift and malignant as a fate. it was evident, immediately, that the same course of "obstruction" which had proved fatal to the two previous bills was to be pursued against the third attempt. yet the temper of the house of commons, sullenly, doggedly determined, might even thus early have warned its opposers. all the unfairness and pertinacity of peel and his associates was of no avail against the inflexible steadiness of lord althorp and the cold impassibility of lord john russell. week after week passed in debating, while the press and people waited in alternating fits of passionate threats and still more alarming silence,--a silence, lord grey declared to be, "most ominous of trouble, and of the most vital importance to the obstructing force." the squire was weary to death. he found it impossible to take a dutiful interest in the proceedings. the tactics of the fight did not appeal to his nature. he thought they were neither fair nor straightforward; and, unconsciously, his own opinions had been much leavened by his late familiar intercourse with lord ashley and his son. in these days his chief comfort came from the friendship of piers exham. the young man frequently sought his company; and it became almost a custom for them to dine together at the tory club. and at such times words were dropped that neither would have uttered, or even thought of, at the beginning of the contest. thus one night piers said, in his musing way, as he fingered his glass, rather than drank the wine in it,-- "i have been wondering, squire, whether the wish of a whole nation, gradually growing in intensity for sixty years, until it has become, to-day, a command and a threat, is not something more than a wish?" "i should say it was, piers," answered the squire. "very likely the wish has grown to--a right." "perhaps." then both men were silent; and the next topic discussed was the new sickness, and piers anxiously asked if "it had reached atheling." "no, it has not, thank the almighty!" replied the squire. "there has not been a case of it. my family are all well." allusions to kate were seldom more definite than this one; but piers found inexpressible comfort in the few words. such intercourse might not seem conducive to much kind feeling; but it really was. the frequent silences; the short, pertinent sentences; the familiar, kindly touch of the young man's hand, when it was time to return to the house; the little courteous attentions which it pleased piers to render, rather than let the squire be indebted to a servant for them,--these, and other things quite as trivial, made a bond between the two men that every day strengthened. [illustration:] it was nearly the end of march when the bill once more got through the commons; and hitherto the nation had waited as men wait the preliminaries of a battle. but they were like hounds held by a leash when the great question as to whether the lords would now give way, or not, was to be determined. the squire was an exceedingly sensitive man; for he was exceedingly affectionate, and he was troubled continually by the hungry, wretched, anxious crowds through which he often picked his way to westminster, the more so, as his genial, bluff, thoroughly english appearance seemed to please and encourage these non-contents. at every step he was urged to vote on the right side. "god bless you, squire!" was a common address. "pity the poor! vote for the right! go for reform, squire! before god, squire, we must win this time, or die for it!" and the squire, distressed, and half-convinced of the justice of their case, would lift his hat at such words, and pass a sovereign into the hand of some lean, white-faced man, and answer, "god defend the right, friends!" he could not tell them, as he had done in his first session, to "go home and mind their business." he could not say, as he did then, a downright "no;" could not bid them, "reform themselves, and let the government alone," or ask, "if they were bereft of their senses?" if he answered at all now, it was in the motto so familiar to them, "god and my right;" or, if much urged, "i give my word to do my best." or he would bow courteously, and say, "god grant us all good days without end." before the bill passed the commons, at the end of march, it had, at any rate, come to this,--he was not only averse to vote against the bill, he was also averse to tell these waiting sufferers that he intended to vote against it. on the night of the thirteenth of april, when the bill was before the lords, the squire was too excited to go to bed, though prevented from occupying his seat in the commons by a smart attack of rheumatism. he sat in his club, waiting for intelligence, and watching the passing crowds to try and glean from their behaviour the progress of events. piers had promised to bring him word as soon as the vote was taken. he did not arrive until eight o'clock the next morning. the squire was drinking his coffee, and making up his mind to return to atheling, "whatever happened," when piers, white and exhausted, drew his chair to the table. "the bill has passed this reading by nine votes," he said wearily; "and parliament has adjourned for the easter recess; that is, until the seventh of may. three weeks of suspense! i do not know how it is to be endured." "i am going to atheling. edgar will very likely go to ashley, and i think you had better go with us. three weeks of exham winds will make a new man of you." at this point edgar joined them, and, greatly to his father's annoyance, declared both atheling and ashley out of the question. "this three weeks," he said, "will decide the fate of england. i have promised my leader to visit warwick, worcester, stafford, and birmingham. at the latter place there will be the greatest political meeting ever held in this world." "and what will annie say?" asked the squire. "annie thinks i am doing right. annie does not put me before the hundred of thousands to whom the success of reform will bring happiness." "it beats all and everything," said the squire. "i wouldn't like my wife to put me back of hundreds and thousands. have you been up all night--you and piers?" "all night," answered edgar. "we were among the three hundred members from the commons who filled the space around the throne, and stood in a row three deep below the bar. i was in the second row; but i heard all that passed very well. earl grey did not begin to speak until five o'clock this morning, and he spoke for an hour and a half. it was an astonishing argument." "it was a most interesting scene, altogether," said piers. "i shall never forget it. the crowded house, its still and solemn demeanour, and the broad daylight coming in at the high windows while grey was speaking. its blue beams mixed with the red of the flaring candles, and the two lights made strange and startling effects on the crimson draperies and the dusky tapestries on the walls. i felt as if i was in a vision. i kept thinking of cromwell and old forgotten things; and it was like waking out of a dream when the house began to dissolve. i was not quite myself until i had drunk a cup of coffee." "it was very exciting," said the more practical edgar; "and the small majority is only to keep the people quiet. at the next reading the bill will be so mutilated as to be practically rejected, unless we are ready to meet such an emergency." piers rose at these words. he foresaw a discussion he had no mind for; and he said, with a touching pathos in his voice, as he laid his hand on the squire's shoulder, "give my remembrance to the ladies at atheling,--my heart's love, if you will take it." "i will take all i may, piers. good-bye! you have been a great comfort to me. i am sure i don't know what i should have done without you; for edgar, you see, is too busy for anything." "never too busy to be with you, if you need me, father. but you are such a host in yourself, and i never imagined you required help of any kind." "only a bit of company now and then. you were about graver business. it suited piers and me to sit idle and say a word or two about atheling. come down to exham, piers, _do_; it will be good for you." "no, i should be heart-sick for atheling. i am better away." the squire nodded gravely, and was silent; and piers passed quietly out of the room. his listless serenity, and rather drawling speech, always irritated the alert edgar; and he sighed with relief when he was rid of the restraining influence of a nature so opposite to his own. "so you are going to atheling, father?" he said. "how?" "as quick and quiet as i can. i shall take the mail-coach to york, or further; and then trot home on as good a nag as i can hire." in this way he reached atheling the third day afterwards, but without any of the usual _éclat_ and bustle of his arrival. kate had gone to bed; mrs. atheling was about to lock the big front door, when he opened it. she let the candlestick in her hand fall when she saw him enter, crying,-- "john! dear john! how you did frighten me! i _am_ glad to see you." "i'll believe it, maude, without burning the house for an illumination. my word! i am tired. i have trotted a hack horse near forty miles to-day." then she forgot everything but the squire's refreshment and comfort; and the house was roused, and kitty came downstairs again, and for an hour there was at least the semblance of rejoicing. but mrs. atheling was not deceived. she saw her lord was depressed and anxious; and she was sure the reform bill had finally passed; and after a little while she ventured to say so. "no, it has not passed," answered the squire; "it has got to its worst bit, that's all. after easter the lords will muster in all their power, and either throw it out, or change and cripple it so much that it will be harmless." "now, then, john, what do you think, _really_?" "i think, really, that we land-owners are all of us between the devil and the deep sea. if the bill passes, away go the corn laws; and then how are we to make our money out of the land? if it does not pass, we are in for a civil war and a commonwealth, and no cromwell to lead and guide it. it is a bad look-out." "but it might be worse. we haven't had any cholera here. we must trust in god, john." "it is easy to trust in god when you don't see the doings of the devil. you wouldn't be so cheerful, maude, if you had lived in the sight of his handiwork, as i have for months. i think surely god has given england into his power, as he did the good man of uz." "well, then, it was only for a season, and a seven-fold blessing after it. it is wonderful how well your men have behaved; they haven't taken a bit of advantage of your absence. that is another good thing." "i am glad to hear that. i will see them, man by man, before i go back to london." the villagers, however, sent a deputation as soon as they heard of the squire's arrival, asking him to come down to atheling green, and tell them something about reform. and he was pleased at the request, and went down, and found they had made a temporary platform out of two horse-blocks for him; and there he stood, his fine, imposing, sturdy figure thrown clearly into relief by the sunny spring atmosphere. and it was good to listen to his strong, sympathetic voice, for it had the ring of truth in all its inflections, as he said,-- "men! englishmen! citizens of no mean country! you have asked me to explain to you what this reform business means. you know well i will tell you no lies. it will give lots of working-men votes that never hoped for a vote; and so it is like enough working-men will be able to send to parliament members who will fight for their interests. maybe that is in your favour. it will open all our ports to foreign wheat and corn. you will get american wheat, and russian wheat, and french wheat--" "we won't eat french wheat," said adam sedbergh. "and then, wheat will be so cheap that it will not pay english land-owners to sow it. will that help you any?" "we would rather grow our own wheat." "to be sure. reform will, happen, give you shorter hours of work." "that would be good, master," said the blacksmith. "it will depend on what you do with the extra hours of leisure." "we can play skittles, and cricket, and have a bit of wrestling." "or sit in the public house, and drink more beer. i don't think your wives will like that. besides, if you work less time won't you get less wage? do you think i am going to pay for twelve hours' work and get ten? would you? will the mill-owners run factories for the fun of running them? would you? and they say they hardly pay with twelve hours' work. men, i tell you truly, i know no more than the babe unborn what reform will bring us. it may be better times; it may be ruin. but i can say one thing, sure and certain, you will get more trouble than you bargain for if you take to rioting about it. your grandfathers and your fathers fought this question; and they left it to you to quarrel over. very well, as long as you keep your quarrel in the parliament houses, i want you to have fair play. but if ever you should forget that there is the great common law behind all of us, rich and poor, and think to right yourselves with fire and blood, then i--your true friend--would be the first to answer you with cannon, and turn my scythes and shares into swords against you. wait patiently a bit longer. in a few more weeks i do verily believe you will have reform, and then i hope, in my soul, you will be pleased with your bargain. i don't think, as far as i am concerned, reform will change me or my ways one particle." "we don't want you changed, squire; you are good enough as you are." "i'm glad you think so, very glad. now here is atheling and belward meadows and corn-fields. we can raise our wheat and cattle and wool, and carry on our farms--you and i together, for i could not do without you; and if i do right by you is there any reason to want better than right? and if i do not do right, then shout 'reform,' and come and tell me what you want, and we will pass our own reform bill. will that suit you?" and they answered him with cheers, and he sent them into the atheling arms for a good dinner, and then rode slowly home. but a great sadness came over him, and he said to himself: "it is not capital; it is not labour; it is not land: it is a bit of human kindness and human relations that lie at the root of all reform. maude says true enough, that we don't know the people, and don't feel for them, and don't care for them. a word of reason, a word of truth and trust and of mutual good-will, and how pleased them poor fellows were! reform has nothing on earth to do with toryism or whigism. god bless my soul! what kind of a head must the man have that could think so? _i begin to see_--_i begin to see!_" chapter fifteenth lady of exham hall at last the three weeks' recess was full of grave anxiety; and the squire had many fears they were to be the last weeks of peace and home before civil war called him to fulfil the promise he had made to his working-men. the birmingham political union declared that if there was any further delay after easter, two hundred thousand men would go forth from their shops and forges, and encamp in the london squares, till they knew the reason why the reform bill was not passed. the scots greys, who were quartered at birmingham, had been employed the previous sabbath in grinding their swords; and it was asserted that the duke of wellington stood pledged to the government to quiet the country in ten days. these facts sufficiently indicated to the squire the temper of the people; and he set himself, as far as he could, to take all the sweetness out of his home life possible. the memory of it might have to comfort him for many days. with his daughter always by his side, he rode up and down the lands he loved; unconsciously giving directions that might be serviceable if he had to go to a stormier field than the house of commons. to mrs. atheling he hardly suggested the possibility; for if he did, she always answered cheerfully, "nonsense, john! the bill _will_ pass; and if it does not pass, englishmen have more sense than they had in the days of cromwell. they aren't going to kill one another for an act of parliament." but to kate, as they rode and walked, he could worry and grumble comfortably. she was always ready to sympathise with his fears, and to encourage and suggest any possible hope of peace and better days. to see her bright face answering his every thought filled the father's heart with a joy that was complete. "bless thy dear soul!" he would frequently say to her. "god's best gift to a man is a daughter like thee. sons are well enough to carry on the name and the land, and bring honour to the family; but the man god loves isn't left without a daughter to sweeten his days and keep his heart fresh and tender. kitty! kitty, how i do love thee!" and kitty knew how to answer such true and noble affection; for,-- "down the gulf of his condoled necessities, she cast her best: she flung herself." oh, sweet domestic love! surely _it is_ the spiritual world, the abiding kingdom of heaven, not far from any one of us. with a heavy heart the squire went back to london. mrs. atheling took his gloom for a good sign. "your father is always what the scotch call 'fay' before trouble," she said to kate. "the day your sister edith died his ways made me angry. you would have thought some great joy had come to atheling. he said he was sure edith was going to live; and i knew she was going to die. i am glad he has gone to london sighing and shaking his head; it is a deal better sign than if he had gone laughing and shaking his bridle. he will meet edgar in london, and edgar won't let him look forward to trouble." but the squire found edgar was not in london when he arrived there; and piers was as silent and as gloomy a companion as a worrying man could desire. he came to dine with his friend, and he listened to all his doleful prognostications; but his interest was forced and languid. for he also had lost the convictions that made the contest possible to him, and there was at the bottom of all his reasoning that little doubt as to the justice of his cause which likewise infected the squire's more pronounced opinions. they were sitting one evening, after dinner, almost silent, the squire smoking, piers apparently reading the _times_, when edgar, with an almost boyish demonstrativeness, entered the room. he drew a chair between them, and sat down, saying, "i have just returned from the great newhall hill meeting. father, think of two hundred thousand men gathered there for one united purpose." "i hope i have a few better thoughts to keep me busy, edgar." piers looked up with interest. "it must have been an exciting hour or two," he said. "i hardly knew whether i was in the body or out of the body," answered edgar. "for a little while, at least, i was not conscious of the flesh. i had a taste of how the work of eternity may be done with the soul." "the _times_ admits the two hundred thousand," said piers, "and also that it was a remarkably orderly meeting. who opened it? was it mr. o'connell?" "the meeting was opened by the singing of a hymn. there were nine stanzas in it, and every one was sung with the most enthusiastic feeling. i remember only the opening lines: "'over mountain, over plain, echoing wide from sea to sea, peals--and shall not peal in vain-- the trumpet call of liberty!' but can you imagine what a majestic volume of sonorous melody came from those two hundred thousand hearts? it was heard for miles. the majority of the singers believed, with all their souls, that it was heard in heaven." "well, i never before heard of singing a hymn to open a political meeting," said the squire. "it does not seem natural." "but, father, you are used to political meetings opened by prayer, for the house has its chaplain. the rev. hugh hutton prayed after the hymn." "i never heard of the rev. hugh hutton." "i dare say not, father. he is an unitarian minister; for it is only the unitarians that will pray with, or pray for, radicals. i should not quite say that. there is a roman catholic priest who is a member of the birmingham union,--a splendid-looking man, a fine orator, and full of the noblest public spirit; but a birmingham meeting would never think of asking him to pray. they would not believe a catholic could get a blessing down from heaven if he tried."[ ] ------ [footnote : this intolerance, general and common in the england of that day, is now happily much mitigated.] "what of o'connell?" said the squire; "he interests me most." "o'connell outdid himself. about four hundred women in one body had been allowed to stand near the platform, and the moment his eyes rested on them his quick instinct decided the opening sentence of his address. he bowed to them, and said, 'surrounded as i am by the fair, the good, and the gentle.' they cheered at these words; and then the men behind them cheered, and the crowds behind cheered, because the crowds before cheered; and then he launched into such an arraignment of the english government as human words never before compassed. and in it he was guilty of one delightful bull. it was in this way. among other grave charges, he referred to the fact that births had decreased in dublin five thousand every year for the last four years, and then passionately exclaimed, 'i charge the british government with the murder of those twenty thousand infants!' and really, for a few moments, the audience did not see the delightful absurdity." "twenty thousand infants who were never born," laughed the squire. "that is worthy of o'connell. it is worthy of ireland." "and did he really manage that immense crowd?" asked piers. "i see the _times_ gives him this credit." "sir bulwer lytton in a few lines has painted him for all generations at this meeting. listen!" and edgar took out of his pocket a slip of paper, and read them:-- "'once to my sight the giant thus was given-- walled by wide air, and roofed by boundless heaven; methought, no clarion could have sent its sound even to the centre of the hosts around. and as i thought, rose the sonorous swell as from some church tower swings the silver bell. aloft and clear, from airy tide to tide, it glided easy as a bird may glide, to the last verge of that vast audience.'" "after o'connell, who would try to manage such a crowd?" asked piers. "they behaved splendidly whoever spoke; and finally mr. salt stood forward, and, uncovering his head, bid them all uncover, and raise their right hands to heaven while they repeated, after him, the comprehensive obligation which had been given in printed form to all of them: "'_with unbroken faith, through every peril, through every privation, we here devote ourselves, and our children, to our country's cause!_' and while those two hundred thousand men were taking that oath together, i find the house of lords was going into committee on the reform bill. this time it _must_ pass." "it will _not_ pass," said piers, "without the most extreme measures are resorted to." "you mean that the king will be compelled to create as many new peers as will carry it through the house of lords." "yes; but can the king be 'compelled'?" "he will find that out." "now, edgar, that is as far as i am going to listen." then piers put down his paper, and said, "the house was in session, and would the squire go down to it?" and the squire said, "no. if there is to be any 'compelling' of his majesty, i will keep out of it." the stress of this compulsion came the very next day. lord lyndhurst began the usual policy by proposing important clauses of the bill should be postponed; and the cabinet at once decided to ask the king to create more peers. sydney smith had written to lady grey that he was, "for forty, in order to make sure;" but the number was not stipulated. the king promptly refused. the reform ministry tendered their resignation, and it was accepted. for a whole week the nation was left to its fears, its anger, and its despair. it was, however, almost insanely active. in manchester twenty-five thousand people, in the space of three hours, signed a petition to the king, telling him in it that "the whole north of england was in a state of indignation impossible to be described." meanwhile, the duke of wellington had failed to form a cabinet, and peel had refused; and the king was compelled to recall lord grey to power, and to consent to any measures necessary to pass the reform bill. it was evident, even to royalty, that it had at length become--the bill or the crown. for his majesty was now aware that he was denounced from one end of england to the other; and several painful experiences convinced him that his carriage could not appear in london without being surrounded by an indignant, hooting, shrieking crowd. yet it was in a very wrathful mood he sent for grey and brougham, so wrathful that he kept them standing during the whole audience, although this attitude was contrary to usage. "my people are gone mad," he said, "and must be humoured like mad people. they will have reform. very well. i give you my royal assent to create a sufficient number of new peers to carry reform through the house of lords. it is an insult to my loyal and sensible peers; but they will excuse the circumstances that force me to such a measure." his manner was extremely sullen, and became indignantly so when lord brougham requested this permission to be given them in the king's handwriting. the request was, however, necessary, and was reluctantly granted. with the king's concession, the great struggle virtually ended. for the creation of new peers was not necessary. a private message from the king to the house of lords effected what the long-continued protestations and entreaties of the whole nation had failed to effect. led by the duke of wellington, those lords who were determined _not_ to vote for reform left the house until the bill was passed; and thus a decided majority for its success was assured. they felt it to be better for their order to retire to their castles, than to suffer the "swamping of the house of lords" by a force of new peers pledged to reform, and sure to control all their future deliberations. consequently, in about two weeks, the famous bill was triumphantly carried by a majority of eighty-four; and three days afterwards it received the royal assent. the long struggle was over; and the tremendous strain on the feelings of the nation relieved itself by an universal and unbounded rejoicing. all night long, the church bells answered one another from city to city, and from hamlet to hamlet. it was said to be impossible to escape, from one end of the country to the other, the _tin_-_tan_-_tabula_ of their jubilation. illuminations must have made the island at night a blaze of light; the people went about singing and congratulating each other; and for a few hours the tie of humanity was a tie of brotherhood, even when men and women were perfect strangers. the duke of richmoor retired with the majority of his peers, and shut himself up in his yorkshire castle, a victim to the most absurd but yet the most sincere despondency. the squire applied for the chiltern hundreds, and returned to atheling as soon as possible. edgar remained in the house until its dissolution in august. as for piers, he had taken the turn of affairs with a composure that had produced decided differences between the duke and himself; and he lingered in london until he heard of the squire's departure for the north. then he sought him with a definite purpose. "squire," he said, "may i go back to exham in your company?" "i'll be glad if you do, piers," was the answer. the young man laid his hand on the squire's hand, and looked at him steadily and entreatingly. "squire, i am going away from england. let me see kate before i go." "you are asking me to break my word, piers." "the law of kindness may sometimes be greater than the law of truth; the greatest of these is charity--is love. i love her so! i love her so that i am only half alive without her. i do entreat you to have pity on me--on us both! she loves me!" and piers pleaded until the squire's eyes were full of tears. he could not resist words so hot from a true and loving heart; and he finally said,-- "it may be that my word, and my pride in my word, are of less consequence than the trouble of two suffering human hearts; piers, right or wrong, you may see kitty. i am not sure i am doing right, but i will risk the uncertainty--this time." however, if the squire had any qualms of conscience on the subject, they were driven away by kitty's gratitude and delight. he arrived at atheling about the noon hour, and kitty was the first to see and to welcome him. she had been gathering cherries, and was coming through the garden with her basket full of the crimson drupes, when he entered the gates. she set the fruit on the ground, and ran to meet him, and took him proudly in to her mother, and fussed over his many little comforts to his heart's content and delight. nothing was said about piers until after dinner, which was hurried forward at the squire's request; but afterwards, when he sat at the open casement smoking, he called kate to him. he took her on his knee and whispered, "kate, there is somebody coming this afternoon." "yes," she said, "we have sent word to annie. she will be here." "i was not thinking of annie. i was thinking of thee, my little maid. there is somebody coming to see _thee_." "you can't mean piers? oh, father, do you mean piers?" "i do." then she laid her cheek against his cheek. she kissed him over and over, answering in low, soft speech, "oh, my good father! oh, my dear father! oh, father, how i love you!" "well, kitty," he answered, "thou dost not throw thy love away. i love thee, god knows it. now run upstairs and don thy prettiest frock." "white or blue, father?" "well, kitty," he answered, with a thoughtful smile, "i should say white, and a red rose or two to match thy cheeks, and a few forget-me-nots to match thy eyes. bless my heart, kitty! thou art lovely enough any way. stay with me." "no, father, i will go away and come again still lovelier;" and she sped like a bird upstairs. "it may be all wrong," muttered the squire; "but if it is, then i must say, wrong can make itself very agreeable." [illustration] "_piers is coming!_" that was the song in kitty's heart, the refrain to which her hands and feet kept busy until she stood before her glass lovelier than words can paint, her exquisite form robed in white lawn, her cheeks as fresh and blooming as the roses at her girdle, her eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots in her hair, her whole heart in every movement, glance, and word, thrilling with the delight of expectation, and shining with the joy of loving. so piers found her in the garden watching for his approach. and on this happy afternoon, nature was in a charming mood; she had made the garden a paradise for their meeting. the birds sang softly in the green trees above them; the flowers perfumed the warm air they breathed; and an atmosphere of inexpressible serenity encompassed them. after such long absence, oh, how heavenly was this interview without fear, or secrecy, or self-reproach, or suspicion of wrong-doing! how heavenly was the long, sweet afternoon, and the social pleasure of the tea hour, and the soft starlight night under the drooping gold of the laburnums and the fragrant clusters of the damask roses! even parting under such circumstances was robbed of its sting; it was only "such sweet sorrow." it was glorified by its trust and hope, and was without the shadow of tears. kitty came to her father when it was over; and her eyes were shining, and there was a little sob in her heart; but she said only happy words. with her arms around his neck she whispered, "thank you, dear!" and he answered, "thou art gladly welcome! right or wrong, thou art welcome, kitty. my dear little kitty! he will come back; i know he will. a girl that puts honour and duty before love, crowns them with love in the end--always so, dear. that _is sure_. when will he be back?" "when the duke and duchess want him more than they want their own way. he says disputing will do harm, and not good; but that if a difference is left to the heart, the heart in the long run will get the best of the argument. i am sure he is right. father, he is going to send you and mother long letters, and so i shall know where he is; and with the joy of this meeting to keep in my memory, i am not going to fret and be miserable." "that is right. that is the way to take a disappointment. good things are worth waiting for, eh, kitty?" "and we shall have so much to interest us, father. there is edgar's marriage coming; and it would not do to have two weddings in one year, would it? father, you like piers? i am sure you do." "i would not have let him put a foot in atheling to-day if i had not liked him. he has been very good company for me in london, very good company indeed--thoughtful and respectful. yes, i like piers." "because--now listen, father--because, much as i love piers, i would not be his wife for all england if you and mother did not like him." "bless my heart, kitty! is not that saying a deal?" "no. it would be no more than justice. if you should force on me a husband whom i despised or disliked, would i not think it very wicked and cruel? then would it not be just as wicked and cruel if i should force on you a son-in-law whom you despised and disliked? there is not one law of kindness for the parents, and another law, less kind, for the daughter, is there?" "thou art quite right, kitty. the laws of the home and the family are _equal_ laws. god bless thee for a good child." and, oh, how sweet were kitty's slumbers that night! it is out of earth's delightful things we form our visions of the world to come; and kate understood, because of her own pure, true, hopeful love, how "god is love," and how, therefore, he would deny her any good thing. so the summer went its way, peacefully and happily. in the last days of august, edgar was married with great pomp and splendour; and afterwards the gates of gisbourne stood wide-open, and there were many signs and promises of wonderful improvements and innovations. for the young man was a born leader and organiser. he loved to control, and soon devised means to secure what was so necessary to his happiness. the curzons had made their money in manufactures; and annie approved of such use of money. so very soon, at the upper end of gisbourne, a great mill, and a fine new village of cottages for its hands, arose as if by magic,--a village that was to example and carry out all the ideas of reform. "edgar is making a lot of trouble ready for himself," said the squire to his wife; "but edgar can't live without a fight on hand. i'll warrant that he gets more fighting than he bargains for; a few hundreds of those lancashire and yorkshire operatives aren't as easy to manage as he seems to think. they have 'reformed' their lawgivers; and they are bound to 'reform' their masters next." the squire had said little about this new influx into his peaceful neighbourhood, but it had grieved his very soul; and his wife wondered at his reticence, and one day she told him so. "well, maude," he answered, "when edgar was one of my household, i had the right to say this and that about his words and ways; but edgar is now squire, and married man, and member of parliament. he is a reformer too, and bound to carry out his ideas; and, i dare say, his wife keeps the bit in his mouth hard enough, without me pulling on it too. i have taken notice, maude, that these sweet little women are often very masterful." "i am sure his grandfather belward would never have suffered that mill chimney in his sight for any money." "perhaps he could not have helped it." "thou knowest different. my father always made everything go as he wanted it. the belwards know no other road but their own way." "i should think thou needest not tell me that. i have been learning it for a quarter of a century." "now, john! when i changed my name, i changed my way also. i have been atheling, and gone atheling, ever since i was thy wife." "pretty nearly, maude. but edgar's little, innocent-faced, gentle wife will lead edgar, curzon way. she has done it already. fancy an atheling, land lords for a thousand years, turning into a loom lord. maude, it hurts me; but then, it is a bit of reform, i suppose." for all this interior dissatisfaction, the squire and his son were good friends and neighbours; and, in a kind of a way, the father approved the changes made around him. they came gradually, and he did not have to swallow the whole dose at once. besides he had his daughter. and kitty never put him behind gisbourne or any other cause. they were constant companions. they threw their lines in the trout streams together through the summer mornings; and in the winter, she was with him in every hunting field. about the house, he heard her light foot and her happy voice; and in the evenings, she read the papers to him, and helped forward his grumble at peel, or his anger at cobbett. at not very long intervals there came letters to the squire, or to mrs. atheling, which made sunshine in the house for many days afterwards,--letters from boston, new york, baltimore, washington, new orleans, and finally from an outlandish place called texas. here piers seemed to have found the life he had been unconsciously longing for. "the people were fighting," he said, "for liberty: a handful of americans against the whole power of mexico; fighting, not in words--he was weary to death of words--but with the clang of iron on iron, and the clash of steel against steel, as in the old world battles." and he filled pages with glowing encomiums of general houston, and colonels bowie and crockett, and their wonderful courage and deeds. "and, oh, what a paradise the land was! what sunshine! what moonshine! what wealth of every good thing necessary for human existence!" when such letters as these arrived, it was holiday at atheling; it was holiday in every heart there; and they were read, and re-read, and discussed, till their far-away, wild life became part and parcel of the calm, homely existence of this insular english manor. so the years went by; and kate grew to a glorious womanhood. all the promise of her beauteous girlhood was amply redeemed. she was the pride of her county, and the joy of all the hearts that knew her. and if she had hours of restlessness and doubt, or any fears for piers's safety, no one was made unhappy by them. she never spoke of piers but with hope, and with the certainty of his return. she declared she was "glad that he should have the experience of such a glorious warfare, one in which he had made noble friends, and done valiant deeds. her lover was growing in such a struggle to his full stature." and, undoubtedly, the habit of talking hopefully induces the habit of feeling hopefully; so there were no signs of the love-lorn maiden about kate atheling, nor any fears for her final happiness in atheling manor house. the fears and doubts and wretchedness were all in the gloomy castle of richmoor, where the duke and duchess lived only to bewail the dangers of the country, and their deprivation of their son's society,--a calamity they attributed also to reform. else, why would piers have gone straight to a wild land where outlawed men were also fighting against legitimate authority. one evening, nearly four years after piers had left england, the duke was crossing belward bents, and he met the squire and his daughter, leisurely riding together in the summer gloaming. he touched his hat, and said, "good-evening, miss atheling! good-evening, squire!" and the squire responded cheerfully, and kate gave him a ravishing smile,--for he was the father of piers, accordingly she already loved him. there was nothing further said, but each was affected by the interview; the duke especially so. when he reached his castle he found the duchess walking softly up and down the dim drawing-room, and she was weeping. his heart ached for her. he said tenderly, as he took her hand,-- "is it piers, julia?" "i am dying to see him," she answered, "to hear him speak, to have him come in and out as he used to do. i want to feel the clasp of his hand, and the touch of his lips. oh, richard, richard, bring back my boy! a word from you will do it." "my dear julia, i have just met squire atheling and his daughter. the girl has grown to a wonder of beauty. she is marvellous; i simply never saw such a face. last week i watched her in the hunting field at ashley. she rode like an amazon; she was peerless among all the beauties there. i begin to understand that piers, having loved her, could love no other woman; and i think we might learn to love her for piers's sake. what do you say, my dear? the house is terribly lonely. i miss my son in business matters continually; and if he does not marry, the children of my brother henry come after him. he is in constant danger; he is in a land where he must go armed day and night. think of our son living in a place like that! and his last letters have had such a tone of home-sickness in them. shall i see squire atheling, and ask him for his daughter?" "let him come and see you." "he will never do it." "then see him, richard. anything, anything, that will give piers back to me." the next day the duke was at atheling, and what took place at that interview, the squire never quite divulged, even to his wife. "it was very humbling to him," he said, "and i am not the man to brag about it." to kate nothing whatever was said. "who knows just where piers is? and who can tell what might happen before he learns of the change that has taken place?" asked the squire. "why should we toss kitty's mind hither and thither till piers is here to quiet it?" in fact the squire's idea was far truer than he had any conception of. piers was actually in london when the duke's fatherly letter sent to recall his self-banished son left for texas. indeed he was on his way to richmoor the very day that the letter was written. he came to it one afternoon just before dinner. the duchess was dressed and waiting for the duke and the daily ceremony of the hour. she stood at the window, looking into the dripping garden, but really seeing nothing, not even the plashed roses before her eyes. her thoughts were in a country far off; and she was wondering how long it would take piers to answer their loving letter. the door opened softly. she supposed it was the duke, and said, fretfully, "this climate is detestable, duke. it has rained for a week." "_mother! mother! oh, my dear mother!_" then, with a cry of joy that rung through the lofty room, she turned, and was immediately folded in the arms she longed for. and before her rapture had time to express itself, the duke came in and shared it. they were not an emotional family; and high culture had relegated any expression of feeling far below the tide of their daily life; but, for once, nature had her way with the usually undemonstrative woman. she wept, and laughed, and talked, and exclaimed as no one had ever seen or heard her since the days of her early girlhood. in the happy privacy of the evening hours, piers told them over again the wild, exciting story he had been living; and the duke acknowledged that to have aided in any measure such an heroic struggle was an event to dignify life. "but now, piers," he said, "now you will remain in your own home. if you still wish to marry miss atheling, your mother and i are pleased that you should do so. we will express this pleasure as soon as you desire us. i wrote you to this effect; but you cannot have received my letter, since it only left for texas yesterday." "i am glad i have not received it," answered piers. "i came home at the call of my mother. it is true. i was sitting one night thinking of many things. it was long past midnight, but the moonlight was so clear i had been reading by it, and the mocking birds were thrilling the air, far and wide, with melody. but far clearer, far sweeter, far more pervading, i heard my mother's voice calling me. and i immediately answered, 'i am coming, mother!' here i am. what must i do, now and forever, to please you?" and she said, "stay near me. marry miss atheling, if you wish. i will love her for your sake." and piers kissed his answer on her lips, and then put his hand in his father's hand. it was but a simple act; but it promised all that fatherly affection could ask, and all that filial affection could give. who that has seen in england a sunny morning after a long rain-storm can ever forget the ineffable sweetness and freshness of the woods and hills and fields? the world seemed as if it was just made over when piers left richmoor for atheling. a thousand vagrant perfumes from the spruce and fir woods, from the moors and fields and gardens, wandered over the earth. a gentle west wind was blowing; the sense of rejoicing was in every living thing. the squire and kate had been early abroad. they had had a long gallop, and were coming slowly through atheling lane, talking of piers, though both of them believed piers to be thousands of miles away. they were just at the spot where he had passed them that miserable night when his cry of "_kate! kate! kate!_" had nearly broken the girl's heart for awhile. she never saw the place without remembering her lover, and sending her thoughts to find him out, wherever he might be. and thus, at this place, there was always a little silence; and the squire comprehended, and respected the circumstance. this morning the silence, usually so perfect, was broken by the sound of an approaching horseman; but neither the squire nor kate turned. they simply withdrew to their side of the road, and went leisurely forward. "_kate! kate! kate!_" the same words, but how different! they were full of impatient joy, of triumphant hope and love. both father and daughter faced round in the moment, and then they saw piers coming like the wind towards them. it was a miracle. it was such a moment as could not come twice in any life-time. it was such a meeting as defies the power of words; because our diviner part has emotions that we have not yet got the speech and language to declare. imagine the joy in atheling manor house that night! the squire had to go apart for a little while; and tears of delight were in the good mother's eyes as she took out her beautiful derby china for the welcoming feast. as for kate and piers, they were at last in earth's paradise. their lives had suddenly come to flower; and there was no canker in any of the blossoms. they had waited their full hour. and if the angels in heaven rejoice over a sinner repenting, how much more must they rejoice in our happiness, and sympathise in our innocent love! surely the guardian angels of piers and kate were satisfied. their dear charges had shown a noble restraint, and were now reaping the joy of it. do angels talk in heaven of what happens among the sons and daughters of men whom they are sent to minister unto, to guide, and to guard? if so, they must have talked of these lovers, so dutiful and so true, and rejoiced in the joy of their renewed espousals. their marriage quickly followed. in a few weeks piers had made exham hall a palace of splendour and beauty for his bride, and kate's wedding garments were all ready. and far and wide there was a most unusual interest taken in these lovers, so that all the great county families desired and sought for invitations to the marriage ceremony, and the little church of atheling could hardly contain the guests. even to this day it is remembered that nearly one hundred gentlemen of the north riding escorted the bride from atheling to exham. but at last every social duty had been fulfilled, and they sat alone in the gloaming, with their great love, and their great joy. and as they spoke of the days when this love first began, kate reminded piers of the swing in the laurel walk, and her girlish rhyming,-- "it may so happen, it may so fall, that i shall be lady of exham hall." and piers drew her beautiful head closer to his own, and added,-- "weary wishing, and waiting past, _lady of exham hall_ at last!" chapter sixteenth after twenty golden years after twenty years have passed away, it is safe to ask if events have been all that they promised to be; and one morning in august of , it was twenty years since kate atheling became lady exham. she was sitting at a table writing letters to her two eldest sons, who were with their tutor in the then little known hebrides. lord exham was busy with his mail. they were in a splendid room, opening upon a lawn, soft and green beyond description; and the august sunshine and the august lilies filled it with warmth and fragrance. lady exham was even more beautiful than on her wedding day. time had matured without as yet touching her wonderful loveliness, and motherhood had crowned it with a tender and bewitching nobility. she had on a gown of lawn and lace, white as the flowers that hung in clusters from the worcester vase at her side. now and then piers lifted his head and watched her for a moment; and then, with the faint, happy smile of a heart full and at ease, he opened another letter or paper. suddenly he became a little excited. "why, kate," he said, "here is my speech on the blessings which reform has brought to england. i did not expect such a thing." "read it to me, piers." "it is entirely too long; although i only reviewed some of the notable works that followed reform." "such as--" "well, the abolition of both black and white slavery; the breaking up of the gigantic monopoly of the east india company, and the throwing open of our ports to the merchants of the world; the inauguration of a system of national education; the reform of our cruel criminal code; the abolition of the press gang, and of chimney sweeping by little children, and such brutalities; the postal reform; and the spread of such good, cheap literature as the _penny magazine_ and _chambers's magazine_. my dear kate, it would require a book to tell all that the reform bill has done for england. think of the misery of that last two years' struggle, and look at our happy country to-day." "prosperous, but not happy, piers. how can we be happy when, all over the land, mothers are weeping because their children are not. if this awful sepoy rebellion was only over; then!" "yes," answered piers; "if it was only over! surely there never was a war so full of strange, unnatural cruelties. i wonder where cecil and annabel are." "wherever they are, i am sure both of them will be in the way of honour and duty." there was a pause, and then piers asked, "to whom are you writing, dear kate?" "to dick and john. they do not want to return to their studies this winter; they wish to travel in italy." "nonsense! they must go through college before they travel. tell them so." the duke had entered as piers was speaking, and he listened to his remark. then, even as he stooped to kiss kate, he contradicted it. "i don't think so, piers," he said decisively. "let the boys go. give them their own way a little. i do not like to see such spirited youths snubbed for a trifle." "but this is not a trifle, father." "yes, it is." "you insisted on my following the usual plan of college first, and travel afterwards." "that was before the days of reform. the boys are my grandsons. i think i ought to decide on a question of this kind. what do you say, my dear?" and he turned his kindly face, with its crown of snowy hair, to kate. "it is to be as you say, father," she answered. "is there any indian news?" "alas! alas!" he answered, becoming suddenly very sorrowful, "there is calamitous news,--the fort in which colonel north was shut up, has fallen; and cecil and annabel are dead." "oh, not massacred! do not tell us _that_!" cried kate, covering her ears with her hands. "not quite as bad. a sepoy who was cecil's orderly, and much attached to him, has been permitted to bring us the terrible news, with some valuable gems and papers which annabel confided to him. he told me that cecil held out wonderfully; but it was impossible to send him help. their food and ammunition were gone; and the troops, who were mainly sepoys, were ready to open the gates to the first band of rebels that approached. one morning, just at daybreak, cecil knew the hour had come. annabel was asleep; but he awakened her. she had been expecting the call for many days; and, when cecil spoke, she knew it was death. but she rose smiling, and answered, 'i am ready, love.' he held her close to his breast, and they comforted and strengthened one another until the tramp of the brutes entering the court was heard. then annabel closed her eyes, and cecil sent a merciful bullet through the brave heart that had shared with him, for twenty-five years, every trial and danger. her last words were, 'come quickly, cecil,' and he followed her in an instant. the man says he hid their bodies, and they were not mutilated. but the fort was blown up and burned; and, in this case, the fiery solution was the best." "and her children?" whispered kate. "the boys are at rugby. the little girl died some weeks ago." the duke was much affected. he had loved annabel truly, and her tragic death powerfully moved him. "the duchess," he said, "had wept herself ill; and he had promised her to return quickly." but as he went away, he turned to charge piers and kate not to disappoint his grandsons. "they are such good boys," he added; "and it is not a great matter to let them go to italy, if they want to--only send stanhope with them." no further objection was then made. kate had learned that it is folly to oppose things yet far away, and which are subject to a thousand unforeseen influences. when the time for decision came, dick and john might have changed their wishes. so she only smiled a present assent, and then let her thoughts fly to the lonely fort where cecil and annabel had suffered and conquered the last great enemy. for a few minutes, piers was occupied in the same manner; and when he spoke, it was in the soft, reminiscent voice which memory--especially sad memory--uses. "it is strange, kate," he said, "but i remember annabel predicting this end for herself. we were sitting in the white-and-gold parlour in the london house, where i had found her playing with the cat in a very merry mood. suddenly she imagined the cat had scratched her, and she spread out her little brown hand, and looked for the wound. there was none visible; but she pointed to a certain spot at the base of her finger, and said, '>look, piers. there is the sign of my doom,--my death-token. i shall perish in fire and blood.' then she laughed and quickly changed the subject, and i did not think it worth pursuing. yet it was in her mind, for a few minutes afterwards, she opened her hand again, held it to the light, and added, 'an old hindoo priest told me this. he said our death-warrant was written on our palms, and we brought it into life with us.'" "you should have contradicted that, piers." "i did. i told her, our death-warrant was in the hand of him with whom alone are the issues of life and death." "she was haunted by the prophecy," said kate. "she often spoke of it. oh, piers, how merciful is the veil that hides our days to come!" "i feel wretched. let us go to atheling; it will do us good." "it is very warm yet, piers." "never mind, i want to see the children. the house is too still. they have been at atheling for three days." "we promised them a week. harold will expect the week; and edith and maude will rebel at any shorter time." "at any rate let us go and see them." "shall we ride there?" "let us rather take a carriage. one of the three may possibly be willing to come back with us." near the gates of atheling they met the squire and his grandson harold. they had been fishing. "the dew was on the grass when we went away; and harold has been into the water after the trout. we are both a bit wet," said the squire; "but our baskets are full." and then harold leaped into the carriage beside his father and mother, and proudly exhibited his speckled beauties. mrs. atheling had heard their approach, and she was at the open door to meet them. very little change had taken place in her. her face was a trifle older, but it was finer and tenderer; and her smile was as sweet and ready, and her manner as gracious--though perhaps a shade quieter than in the days when we first met her. her granddaughter edith, a girl of eight years, stood at her side; and maude, a charming babe of four, clung to her black-silk apron, and half-hid her pretty face in its sombre folds. to her mother, kate was still kate; and to kate, mother was still mother. they went into the house together, little maude making a link between them, and edith holding her mother's hand. but, in the slight confusion following their arrival, the children all disappeared. "they were helping bradley to make tarts," said mrs. atheling, "when i called them, and they have gone back to their pastry and jam. let them alone. dear me! i remember how proud i was when i first cut pastry round the patty pans with my thumb," and mrs. atheling looked at kate, who smiled and nodded at her own similar memory. they were soon seated in the large parlour, where all the windows were open, and a faint little breeze stirring the cherry leaves round them. then the squire began to talk of the indian news; and piers told, with a pitiful pathos, the last tragic act in cecil's and annabel's love and life. and when he had finished the narration, greatly to every one's amazement, the squire rose to his feet, and, lifting his eyes heavenward, said solemnly,-- "i give hearty thanks for their death, so noble and so worthy of their faith and their race. i give hearty thanks because god, knowing their hearts and their love, committed unto them the dismissing of their own souls from the wanton cruelty of incarnate devils. i give hearty thanks for love triumphant over death, and for that faith in our immortality which could command an immediate re-union, 'come quickly, cecil!' "there is nothing to cry about," he added, as he resumed his seat. "death must come to all of us. it came mercifully to these two. it did not separate them; they went together. somewhere in god's universe they are now, without doubt, doing his will together. let us give thanks for them." after a little while, kate and her mother went away. they had many things to talk over about which masculine opinions were not necessary, nor even desirable. and the squire and piers had, in a certain way, a similar confidence. indeed the squire told piers many things he would not have told any one else,--little wrongs and worries not worth complaining about to his wife, and perhaps about which he was not very certain of her sympathy. but with piers, these crept into his conversation, and were talked away, or at least considerably lessened, by his son-in-law's patient interest. this morning their conversation had an unconscious tone of gratified prophecy in it. "edgar is in a lot of trouble," he said; "but then he seems to enjoy it. his hands gathered in the mill-yard yesterday and gave him what they call, 'a bit of their mind.' and their 'mind' isn't what you and i would call a civil one. luke staley, a big dyer from oldham, got beyond bearing, and told edgar, if he didn't do thus and so, he would be made to. and edgar can be very provoking. he didn't tell me what he said; but i have no doubt it was a few of the strongest words he could pick out. and luke staley, not having quite such a big private stock as edgar, doubled his fist, to make the shortage good, almost in edgar's face; and there would have, maybe, been a few blows, if edgar had not taken very strong measures at once,--that is, piers, he knocked the fellow down as flat as a pancake. and then all was so still that, edgar said, the very leaves rustling seemed noisy; and he told them in his masterful way, they could have five minutes to get back to their looms. and if they were not back in five minutes, he promised them he would dump the fires and lock the gates, and they could go about their business." "and they went to their looms, of course?" "to be sure they did. more than that, luke staley picked himself up, and went civilly to edgar and said, 'that was a good knock-down. i'm beat this time, master;' and he offered his hand, blue and black with dyes, and edgar took it. my word! how his grandfather belward would have enjoyed that scene. i am sorry he is not alive this day. he missed a deal by dying before reform. edgar and he together could keep a thousand men at their looms--and set the price, too." "what did the men want?" "a bit of reform, of course,--more wage and less work. i am not much put out of the way now, piers, with the mill. i get a lot of pleasure out of it, one road or another. did i ever tell you about the excursion edgar gave them last week?" "i have not heard anything about it." "well, you see, edgar sent all his hands and their wives and sweethearts to the seaside, and gave them a good dinner; and they had a band of music to play for them, and a little steamer to give them a sail; and they came home at midnight, singing and in high good humour. edgar thought he had pleased them. not a bit of it! two nights after they held a meeting in that mechanics hall mrs. atheling built for them. what for? to talk over the jaunt, and try and find out, '_what master atheling was up to_.' you see they were sure he had a selfish motive of some kind." "i don't believe he had a single selfish motive; he is not a selfish man," said piers. "i wouldn't swear to his motives, piers. between you and me, he wants to go to parliament again." "he ought to be there; it is his native heath, in a manner." "well, as i said, one way or another, i get a lot of pleasure out of these men. there is a truce on now between them and edgar; but, in the main, it is a lively truce." "edgar seems to enjoy the conditions, also, father." "well, he ought to have a bit of something that pleases him. he has a deal of contrary things to fight. there is his eldest son." "augustus?" "yes, augustus." "what has augustus done?" "he will paint pictures and make little figures, and waste his time about such things as no atheling in this world ever bothered his head about,--unless he wanted his likeness painted. the lad does wonders with his colours and brushes, and i'll allow that. he brought me a bit of canvas with that corner by the fir woods on it, and you would have thought you could pull the grass and drink the water. but i did not think it right to praise him much. i said, 'very good, augustus, but what will you make by this?'" "well?" "well, piers, the lad talked about his ideals, and said art was its own reward, and a lot of rubbishy nonsense. but i never expected much from a boy called augustus. that was his mother's whim; no atheling was ever called such a name before. he wants to go to italy, and his father wants him in the mill. edgar is finding a few things out now he didn't believe in when he was twenty years old. the point of view is everything, piers. edgar looks at things as a father looks at them now; then, he had an idea that fathers knew next to nothing. augustus is no worse than he was. maybe, he will come to looms yet; he is just like the curzons, and they were loom lovers. now cecil, his second boy, has far better notions. he likes a rod, and a horse, and a gun; and he thinks a gamekeeper has the best position in the world." "mrs. atheling sets us all an example. she is always doing something for the people." "they don't thank her for it. she brings lecturers, and expects them to go and hear them; and the men would rather be in the cricket field. she has classes of all kinds for the women and girls; and they don't want her interfering in their ways and their houses. i'll tell you what it is, piers, you cannot write reform upon flesh and blood as easy as you can write it upon paper. it will take a few generations to erase the old marks, and put the new marks on." "still reform has been a great blessing. you know that, father." "publicly, i know it, piers. privately, i keep my own ideas. but there is kate calling us, and i see the carriage is waiting. thank god, reform has nothing to do with homes. wives and children are always the same. we don't want them changed, even for the better." "you do not mean that?" "yes, i do," said the squire, positively. "my wife's faults are very dear to me. do you think i would like to miss her bits of tempers, and her unreasonableness? even when she tries to get the better of me, i like it. i wouldn't have her perfect, not if i could." then piers called for his son; but harold could not be found. the squire laughed. "he has run away," he said. "the boy wants a holiday. i'll take good care of him. he isn't doing nothing; he is learning to catch a trout. many a very clever man can't catch a trout." then piers asked his little daughters to come home with him; and edith hid herself behind the ample skirts of her grandfather's coat, and maude lifted her arms to her grandmother, and snuggled herself into her bosom. [illustration:] "come, piers, we shall have to go home alone," kate said. "you have katherine at home," said the squire. and then kate laughed. "why, father," she said, "you speak as if katherine was more than we ought to expect. surely we may have one of our six children. the duke thinks he has whole and sole right in dick and john; and you have harold and edith and maude." "and you have katherine," reiterated the squire. when they got back to exham hall, the little lady katherine was in the drawing-room to meet them. she was the eldest daughter of the house, a fair girl of fifteen with her father's refined face and rather melancholy manner. piers delighted in her; and there was a sympathy between them that needed no words. she had a singular love for music, though from what ancestor it had come no one could tell; and it was her usual custom after dinner to open the door a little between the drawing-room and music-room, and play her various studies, while her father and mother mused, and talked, and listened. this evening piers lit his cigar, and kate and he walked in the garden. it was warm, and still, and full of moonshine; and the music rose and fell to their soft reminiscent talk of the many interests that had filled their lives for the past twenty golden years. and when they were wearied a little, they came back to the drawing-room and were quiet. for katherine was striking the first notes of a little melody that always charmed them; and as they listened, her girlish voice lifted the song, and the tender words floated in to them, and sunk into their hearts, and became a prayer of thanksgiving. "we have lived and loved together, through many changing years; we have shared each other's gladness, and wept each other's tears." and while kate's face illuminated the words, piers leaned forward, and took both her hands in his, and whispered with far tenderer, truer love than in the old days of his first wooing. and if any thought of the other one entered his mind at this hour, it came with a thanksgiving for a life nobly redeemed by a pure, unselfish love, and a death which was at once sacrificial and sacramental. transcriber's note: spelling and punctuation inaccuracies were silently corrected. archaic and variable spelling is preserved. author's punctuation style is preserved. text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). the table of contents lists chapter sixteenth starting on page . the physical page is actually page . it has been left as printed. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the mask a story of love and adventure by arthur hornblow author of the novels "the lion and the mouse," "the gamblers," "bought and paid for," "by right of conquest," "the end of the game," etc. illustrations by paul stahr [frontispiece: a small jewelled hand struck him full on the mouth.] g. w. dillingham company publishers -------- new york copyright, , by g. w. dillingham company _the mask_ illustrations a small jewelled hand struck him full on the mouth. . . . _frontispiece_ "yes, you are my brother. we are twins." "i adore you--i adore you," he murmured, as he kissed her again. the mask chapter i "there! what did i tell you? the news is out!" with a muttered exclamation of annoyance, kenneth traynor put down his coffee cup with a crash and, leaning over the table, pointed out to his wife a despatch from london, given prominence in the morning paper, which ran as follows: advices from cape town report the finding on a farm near fontein, a hundred miles north of here, of a diamond which in size is only second to the famous koh-i-noor. the stone, which is in the shape of an egg with the top cut off, weighs , carats, and was discovered after blasting at the foot of some rocks on land adjacent to the tract owned by the americo-african mining company of new york. it is understood that the american company is negotiating for the property; some say the transfer has already been made. if this is true, the finding of this colossal stone means a windfall for the yankee stockholders. the traynor home, no. ---- gramercy park, was one of those dignified, old-fashioned residences that still remain in new york to remind our vulgar, ostentatious _nouveaux riches_ of the days when culture and refinement counted for something more than mere wealth. overlooking the railed-in square with its green lawns, pretty winding paths and well-dressed children romping at play, it had a high stoop which opened into a wide hall, decorated with obsolete weapons and trophies of the hunt. on the right were rich tapestries, masking the folding doors of a spacious drawing-room, richly decorated and furnished in louis xiv. period. beyond this, to the rear of the house which had been built out to the extreme end of the lot, was the splendidly appointed dining-room with its magnificent fireplace of sculptured white marble, surmounted by a striking portrait in oils by carolus duran of mrs. traynor--a painting which had been one of the most successful pictures of the previous year's salon. in a clinging, white silk negligée gown, the gossamer folds of which only partially veiled the outlines of a slender, graceful figure, helen sat at the breakfast table opposite her husband, toying languidly with her knife and fork. it was nearly noon, long past the usual breakfast time, and by every known gastronomical law her appetite should have been on keen edge. but this morning she left everything untasted. even the delicious wheat cakes, which none better than mammy, their southern cook, knew how to do to a point, did not tempt her. they had been out to dinner the night before. her head ached; she was nervous and feverish. always full of good spirits and laughter, ever the soul and life of the house, it was unusual to find her in this mood, and if her husband, now voraciously devouring the tempting array of ham and eggs spread before him, had not been so absorbed in the news of the day, he would have quickly noticed it, and guessed there was something amiss. certainly the appearance of the dining-room was enough to upset the nerves of anyone, especially a sensitive young woman who prided herself on her housekeeping. all around was chaos and confusion. the usually sedate, orderly dining-room was littered with trunks, grips, umbrellas and canes enveloped in rugs--all the confusion incidental to a hurried departure. she took the newspaper, read the despatch and handed it back in silence. "isn't that the very deuce!" he went on peevishly. "we've been trying our utmost to keep it secret. unless we're quick, there'll be a rush of adventurers from all parts of the world before we can secure the options. happily the despatch is vague. they don't know all the facts. if they did----" lowering his voice and looking around cautiously to make sure that the butler had left the room and no one was listening, he continued: "besides you know what i am to bring back. it couldn't be entrusted to anyone else. just think--a stone worth nearly a million dollars! i hope no one will guess i have it in my possession. it must be brought safe to new york. that's why it's so important that i go at once. even by catching the _mauretania_ to-morrow, i can't reach cape town for a month, and every moment counts now." as helen was still silent he glanced across the table at her for the first time. her pallor and the drooping lines about her mouth told him something was wrong. instantly concerned, he asked: "what's the matter, dear?" "i'm horribly nervous." "what about?" "this trip of yours, of course." "you ought to be used to them by this time. this isn't the first time i've had to leave you since our marriage." "i didn't mind the other trips so much. when you went to mexico and alaska, it didn't seem so far away. but this journey to south africa is different. you are running a terrible risk carrying that diamond. i can't shake off a horrible feeling that something dreadful will happen." surprised less at what she said than at her serious manner, he laid down the newspaper, and, jumping up, went over to her. his wife sat motionless, her lips trembling, her large eyes filled with tears. in spite of a palpable effort at self-control, it was evident that she was laboring under great nervous tension. bending caressingly over her, he said anxiously: "why helen, old girl! what's the matter?" she made no answer. her head fell on his breast. for a moment she could not speak. her emotion seemed to choke her utterance, paralyze her speech. he insisted: "what is it, dearie?" he demanded. "i'm so nervous about your going, i'm so afraid about your having the diamond," she sobbed. suddenly, as if unable longer to control herself, she rose from the table and threw her arms around his neck. passionately she cried: "oh, kenneth, don't go! don't go! i feel that something will happen." he laughed carelessly as he fondled her. more seriously he replied: "i hope something does happen. that's what i'm going out there for. why, helen dear, i don't think you quite realize what this trip means to us. if the deal goes through, and we get full control of all that property, we'll all be as rich as croesus. just think, dear, , square miles of the most wonderful diamond producing country. in ten days they found beautifully clear stones, some of them weighing over a hundred carats. if the reports are true, we shall have a group of mines as valuable as the famous de beers group. do you know what they have produced to date in actual money?" the young woman shook her head. usually she was glad enough to listen to her husband's business plans, but to-day they wearied her. her mind was too much preoccupied with something that concerned her far more. the idea of this coming separation, the knowledge that he was running a risk, had left her singularly depressed. she had tried to remain calm and control her emotion, but the effort was beyond her. the prospect of this separation, with its vague, undefined forebodings of disaster, was simply intolerable. the tears she was unable to restrain rolled silently down her cheeks. he looked at her in surprise. never had he seen her in this mood. approaching her more closely, he said kindly: "that can't be the only reason, dear, what's the matter?" she hesitated a moment before she answered: "i'm very nervous to-day. i was dreadfully irritated last night at the dinner. i wish i hadn't gone----" "who irritated you?" "that man signor keralio. i simply can't tolerate the man. how i hate him!" "why--what did he do?" "he did nothing. he wouldn't dare--there. but i wouldn't care to be alone with him. his eyes were enough. he imagines he is irresistible, and that every woman is immoral. that is the kind of man he is. he annoyed me all evening. there was no getting away from him." kenneth laughed and went back to finish his breakfast, quite indifferent to what he had just heard. he knew his wife too well to be afraid of any number of signor keralios. humming a tune, he said carelessly: "why didn't you call me?" "what? create a scandal? that would only make me ridiculous. he wouldn't care. i can't bear the sight of the man, yet i have to be polite to him." kenneth nodded. "yes--i have reasons for not caring to quarrel with keralio just now." she looked up quickly. "why? what is that man to you? he's your fencing master, i know, but that's no reason for making a friend of him. i never understood why you associated with him. he is so different to you." her husband smiled. he adored his wife and admired the sex in general, but, like most men, he had never had much respect for women's judgment. women were made to be loved; not to discuss business with. indulgently he said: "my dear, you don't understand. i have important financial relations with keralio. i don't care for him myself, but one can't choose one's business associates. he and i are interested in a silver mine in mexico. thanks to him, i got in on the ground floor. one of these days the investment will bring me a big return." his wife shrugged her shoulders. incredulously she retorted: "not if keralio has anything to do with it. i don't trust him. he has deceit and evil written all over his face." amused at her petulance, kenneth jumped up impulsively and took his wife in his arms. abandoning herself willingly to his embrace, for a moment her head fell back on his broad shoulder, and she smiled up at him. from her soft, yielding form arose that subtle, familiar perfume, the intoxicating, vague, indefinable aroma of the well groomed woman that never fails to set a man's blood on fire. bending low until his mouth touched hers, he kissed her until her face glowed under the ardor of his amative caress. but to-day she was not in the mood to respond. "don't--don't!" she panted, striving to free herself. "admit that you're foolish or i'll do it again," he laughed. "perhaps i am. it's selfish of me to make it harder for you to go away." the butler reëntered the room with the finger bowls, and she quickly disengaged herself. to hide her confusion, she turned to the servant: "did my sister go out, robert?" "yes, m'm," replied the man respectfully. "miss ray told me to tell you in case you asked that she had gone shopping and would be back soon." "where's miss dorothy?" "the fraulein took her to the park, m'm." "when fraulein comes in, tell her to bring dorothy upstairs." "very well, m'm." the butler went out and helen turned to her husband. anxiously she said: "i've been a little worried about dorothy lately. she's not looking well. i think she needs the country." kenneth looked up quickly. next to his wife he loved his flaxen haired little girl better than anything in the world. there was a worried look on his face as he asked: "what does the doctor say?" "oh, it's nothing to be alarmed at. only she's growing fast, and needs all the air possible. i'm thinking of sending her to aunt carrie for a while. you know she has a beautiful place in the suburbs of philadelphia. she would be out in the air all the time." "yes--that's a good idea. send her there by all means. write your aunt to-night." helen glanced at the clock. there wasn't any time to lose. turning to her husband she said quickly: "you had better come upstairs and finish your packing, dear. your trunks aren't nearly ready and the expressman was ordered for three." recalled thus abruptly to the day's duties, he turned docily and followed her upstairs. beautiful as was the traynor home below, it was in the library in the second floor that helen always felt happiest and most at ease. up the broad, thickly carpeted stairs and turning to the right as the landing was reached, they entered the library, a room of truly noble proportions extending the entire width of the house and with deep recessed windows and low seats, overlooking the park. the furnishings, though simple, were rich and luxurious. the woodwork was of black flemish oak, the ceiling beamed with a dull red background. the upholstery was a rich red plush throughout, with deep seated armchairs, and sofas built close to the wall wherever space permitted. in the corners, numerous electric reading lamps could be turned on or off at pleasure, constituting ideal nooks for reading. the furniture, apart from the red plush armchairs, was of black flemish oak to match the woodwork, with an immense richly carved black oak dark table in the center of the room, lighted by an electrolier of similar size and design to the one in the dining-room. it was in this room with its atmosphere of books so conducive to peace and introspection that helen loved to spend her spare time. the walls were literally lined with tomes, dealing with every branch of human knowledge--religion, science, philosophy, literature. here when alone she enjoyed many an intellectual treat, browsing among the world's treasures of the mind. even when her sister had a few intimates to tea, or when friends dropped in in the evening, they always preferred being in the library to anywhere else. only second to the library in the affection of its young mistress was her bed chamber with which it was connected by a small boudoir. furnished in louis xvi. style, it was a beautiful room, decorated in the most dainty and delicate of tones. the bed, copied after marie antoinette's couch in the little trianon was in sculptured circassian walnut, upholstered in dull pink brocade, the broad canopy overhead being upheld by two flying cupids. the handsome dressing table with three mirrors and chairs were of the same wood and period. on the floor was a thick carpet especially woven to match the other furnishings. to-day, littered as it was with trunks and clothes, the room lacked its usual sedateness and dignity, but helen did not mind. she would have preferred it to look far worse if only her loved one were not going away. his clothes lay scattered all over the floor. there was still much to be done. kenneth himself realized it as he ruefully surveyed the scene. hurry he must. a director's meeting to-night, the steamer sailing to-morrow and here he was not nearly ready. helen could see no reason why françois should not do the packing, but he insisted on doing it himself, and was soon deep in the work of filling the trunks that stood around. while he worked, almost unconscious of her presence, she sat disconsolately on a trunk and watched him, and from time to time, as if ashamed to let him see her weakness, she turned her head aside to furtively wipe away a tear. no doubt her misgivings were foolish. husbands left their wives on business trips every day. sensible women were not so silly as to cry over it. it was to be only temporary, she knew that, yet her heart misgave her. she had tried to be resigned to this south african journey, to accept it without protest, but her feelings were too much for her. when she married kenneth traynor, the energetic, prosperous wall street promoter, everybody knew that it was a love match. standing six feet two in his stockings, muscular, sinewy, without an ounce of superfluous fat, kenneth traynor looked as though he could give a good account of himself no matter in what tight place he found himself. his clean cut features and strong chin denoted strength of character, his deep set blue eyes, a blue of a shade so light rarely seen except in the peasants of normandy, beamed with frankness and honesty, a kindly smile hovered about his smooth, firm mouth. what at once attracted attention was his hair which was dark and unusually thick and bushy and a peculiar characteristic was a solitary white lock in the center of his forehead. such a phenomenon of the capillary glands was not uncommon, but as a rule, the white hair is on the side of or at the back of the head. in kenneth's case, it was the very center of the forehead and imparted to his face an individuality quite its own. when on leaving college, he had been forced, like other young men, to choose a career, he was unable to decide what he wanted to do. doctor, lawyer, architect, author--none of these suited his nervous, restless temperament. he craved a more exciting life, and at one time thought seriously of entering the army with the hope of seeing active service in the philippines. but aguinaldo's surrender put a quietus on this project, and he entered a broker's office in wall street here, in the maelstrom of frenzied finance, his pent up energies found an outlet. he went into the stock gambling game with the feverish energy of a born gambler. months of excitement followed, luck being usually with him. he was successful. he doubled and tripled his capital, after which he had good sense enough to stop, withdrawing from the fray before the tide turned. but he could not give up the life entirely. the business of stock promotion was the next best substitute. it was about that time he met the woman he married. it had been an ideal union in every way, but even helen herself could not have guessed that day now three years ago when she left the church a bride, how completely, how entirely this man whose sterling qualities, good nature and charm of manner had won her heart, would take complete possession of her, body and soul. instead of the romance flickering out after the first sudden blaze of fierce passion, as it usually does after the first few months of married life, on her side, at least, the flame had gathered in strength until now it was the one compelling, all absorbing interest in her life. she recalled how they had first met. it was in the winter time. she was skating in central park. a thaw had set in and the ice was dangerous. suddenly there was an ominous crack, and the crowd scurried out of harm's way, all but one child, a little nine year old girl who, in her eagerness to escape, stumbled and fell. the next instant she was in the water, disappearing under the ice. just at that moment, a tall athletic figure dashed swiftly to the hole and, stooping quickly, caught the child by the dress. then, by a feat of almost superhuman strength which awed the crowd into silence, he drew the little victim out to safety, not much the worse for her experience. spellbound, hardly able to breathe from sheer excitement, helen had watched the work of rescue. when the stranger, tall, muscular, handsome, passed her, carrying tenderly his burden, a human life saved from a watery grave, she could not help murmuring: "oh, how brave of you!" "nonsense," he retorted abruptly. "it's nothing to make a fuss about." she did not see him again for six months, and had almost forgotten the incident when one night at the opera during a performance of "tannhauser," a man, tall, square shouldered, entered the box where she was and was presented to her. "helen--mr. traynor." it was her hero. he had remained her hero ever since. she remembered the afternoon when he had asked her to be his wife. they were alone in the library which overlooked the park with its beautiful vista of green foliage, its glimpse of rolling lawns, and shimmering lakes. they were standing side by side, gazing idly out of the window, conversing quietly on all kinds of topics interesting to them both. she was enjoying his vigorous, masculine point of view and feeling strangely happy in his company. "when should a man marry?" he asked all at once. startled for a moment at the abruptness of the question which nothing in their previous conversation had led up to, she answered gravely: "when he's tired of being alone and when he feels he has met the woman with whom he can be happy, the kind of woman who will be a real helpmate and aid him to achieve his ambitions." "how can he know that the woman to whom he is attracted will have this influence in his life? how can he distinguish real gold from the imitation which merely glitters?" "only by his instinct. that never errs." "and when in your opinion, should a woman marry?" "when she meets the man to whom she feels she can give herself without forfeiting her self-respect." he nodded approvingly, and looked at her for a few moments without speaking. outside it was growing dark, for which she was glad, for her face burned under the earnestness of his gaze. finally he said: "you are right. but yours is a point of view the modern girl seldom takes. first she discusses ways and means. love, self respect--these she considers quite negligible." she protested. "not all girls--only some girls. they are foolish virgins who leave their lamps untrimmed. they sow folly to-day only to reap unhappiness to-morrow." he said nothing and for a few moments they both stood there in the increasing darkness. suddenly, without a moment's warning, his voice broken by emotion, he turned to her and said: "i am tired of being alone. i have met the woman with whom i could be happy, the woman who can help me to do big things. helen, i want you to be my wife." she made no answer. she felt herself growing pale. a strange tremor passed through her entire body. he came closer and took her unresisting hand. "helen," he whispered, "i want you for my wife." still no reply, but her small delicate hand remained clasped in his big, strong one, and gradually he drew her toward him until she was so close in his embrace that he could feel her panting breath on his cheek. a strange thrill passed through him as he came in contact with her soft, yielding body. she never wore corsets, preferring the clinging grecian style of gowns that showed graceful lines and left the figure free, and her form, slender yet firm and delicately chiseled like that of some sculptured goddess, had none of that voluptuous grossness which mars the symmetry of many women, otherwise beautiful. as she nestled there, pale and trembling in his strong arms, he did not dare move, for fear that he might unwittingly injure a being so frail and delicate. all his life kenneth had lived a clean life. he had not led the riotous, licentious kind of existence which some men of his means and opportunities think necessary to their comfort. he had never been a libertine. he had respected women; indeed, had rather avoided them. but if a man, busily engaged in the battle of life, his mind always engrossed in serious affairs, succeeds in keeping natural instincts under control there comes a day when nature asserts herself, when his manhood demands the satisfaction of legitimate cravings. this bachelor who had lived a secluded, hermit-like kind of existence till he was thirty was suddenly and violently awakened to the fact that he was made of flesh and blood as are other men. this slim girl with her sweet ways, her pretty face, her ready wit, had completely vanquished him, and not alone did she satisfy him mentally, she also attracted him physically. he realized it now as he held her tight against his breast. her head had fallen on his shoulder. her face with its pale, delicate profile was turned toward him, the eyes half closed. the mouth, arched like cupid's bow and partly open, disclosing the white, moistened teeth, and red and luscious like some rare exotic fruit, was tempting enough to madden a saint. kenneth was only human. unable to resist, he lowered his head until his mouth grazed hers and then with a wild, almost savage exclamation of joy, the exultant cry of lust awakened and gratified, his lips met hers and lingered. to helen it seemed as though she was in a dream of untold ecstasy. always a shrinking, modest girl, especially in the company of the opposite sex, in any calmer moment she would have been shocked beyond expression at this momentary abandonment she permitted herself. as she lay in this man's arms and felt his warm kisses on her lips, there came over her a strange sensation she had never known before. she grew dizzy and for a moment thought she would faint. all at once he released her. almost apologetically, he murmured: "forgive me--i lost control over myself--i want you helen--i want you for my wife. will you marry me?" she drew away and turned away her head, so he might not see her burning cheeks. he persisted. "will you marry me?" she hesitated a moment before replying. then, very simply, she answered: "yes, kenneth." that was three years ago. chapter ii in a certain set helen traynor was not popular. some people thought her old fashioned, strait-laced, prudish. they resented her having no taste for their frivolous, decadent amusements. they called her proud and condescending whereas, as a matter of fact, she merely asked to be let alone. of course, it was only people whose opinions were worthless that criticized her. all who were admitted to her intimacy knew that there was no friend more loyal, no woman more womanly and charming. in one respect she might be called old fashioned. her views on life had certainly little in common with those held by most present-day women. she had no taste for bridge, she refused to adopt freak fashions in dress, she discouraged the looseness of tone in speech and manner so much affected by other women of her acquaintance--in a word she was in society but not of it. naturally, she had more acquaintances than friends, yet she was not unpopular among her intimates. while secretly they laughed at what they termed her puritanical notions, they were shrewd enough to realize that they could hardly afford to snub a woman whose husband occupied so prominent a position in the world of affairs. besides, was it not to their interest to cultivate her? who gave more delightful dinners, who could on occasion be a more charming hostess? an accomplished musician, a clever talker, she easily dominated in whatever salon she happened to be, and the men were always found crowding eagerly around her. like most women of her temperament, sure of themselves and in whose mind never enters even a thought of disloyalty to her marriage vows, she made no concealment of her preference for the masculine sex. with those men who were attracted by her unusual mentality,--she was gracious, and affable, discussing with politicians, jurists, financiers, economic and sociological questions with a brilliancy and insight that fairly astonished them. with literary men and musicians, she chatted intelligently of the latest novels and pictures and operas with the facility and expertness of a connoisseur. other men, drawn by her exceptional beauty, fascinated by the spell of her soulful eyes, her tall graceful figure, and delicate classic face, framed in grecian head dress, made violent love to her, their heated imaginations and jaded senses conceiving a conquest compared with which the criminal passion of paolo for francesca should pale. these would-be lotharios might as well have tried to set an iceberg on fire. quietly, but firmly and in unmistakable terms, she let them understand that they were wasting their time and their ardor thus quenched, one by one they dropped away and left her in peace. only signor keralio had persisted. she had snubbed him, insulted him, time after time, yet wherever she turned she found him at her elbow. society soon resigned itself to considering her as one apart--a beautiful, chaste juno whose ideals all must respect. indeed, the only thing with which she could be reproached was that she was in love with her husband--the unpardonable sin in society's eyes--but seeing who it was and despairing of ever changing her point of view, society forgave her. it never occurred to helen that she was different in any way from other women. she did not see how it was possible for a woman to be untrue to the man whose name she bore and still retain her self-respect. the day she ceased to love her husband she would leave him forever. to her way of thinking, it was shocking to go on living with a man merely because it suited one's convenience and comfort. she knew married women who did not care for their husbands, some actually detested the men they had married, and had always held in horror the intimate relation which marriage sanctioned. she felt sorry for such women, but secretly she despised them. they alone were to blame. had they not married knowing well that there was no real affection in their hearts for the men to whom they gave themselves? the cynicism and effrontery of young girls regarding marriage particularly revolted her. eager for wealth and social position, they offered themselves with brazen effrontery in the matrimonial market, immodestly displaying their charms to the lecherous, covetous eyes of blasé, degenerate men. any question of attachment, love, affection was never for a moment considered. the idea that a man could be even considered unless he were able to provide a fine establishment was laughed to scorn. the girls were all men hunters but they hunted only rich men. they called the feeling they experienced for the man they caught in their toils "love." they meant something quite different. to a girl of helen's ideas, such manoeuvers were shocking. to her the marriage tie was something sacred, a relation not to be entered into lightly. kenneth was rich, it was true, but she would have loved him none the less had he been one of his own fifteen dollar a week clerks. when they were married and the romance was over, he stopped playing the lover to devote himself to the more serious business of making money, but with her, time, instead of dimming the flame, only caused it to burn the brighter. this man whom she had married was her only thought. in him centered every interest of her life. a muffled outburst of profanity from kenneth aroused her from her reveries. "that's always the way when one's in a hurry," he exclaimed petulantly. "ring for françois. why the devil isn't he here?" quickly, helen sprang up from the trunk and touched an electric button. "what's the matter, dear?" she asked. she approached her husband who, at the far end of the room, was red in the face from the unusual exertion of trying to coax the buckle of a strap into a hole obviously out of reach. he pulled and strained till the muscles stood out on his neck and brawny arms like whipcord, and still the obstinate buckle declined to be coerced. the more it resisted, the more determined he was to make it obey. go in it must, if sheer strength would do it. the vice-president of the americo-african mining company was no weakling. a six-foot athlete and captain of the varsity football team in his college days, his muscles had been toughened in a thousand lively scrimmages and in later life plenty of golf, rowing and other out-of-door sports had kept him in condition. when he pulled hard something had to give way. it did in this instance. there was a tearing, rending sound and the strap broke off short. with a gesture of despair he turned to his wife as men are wont to do when in trouble. "wouldn't that jar you?" he cried, as he threw the broken strap away. "what the deuce am i going to do now?" "why don't you let françois attend to such things?" answered his wife calmly. "he understands packing so much better than you. you're so strong, you break everything." she looked fondly at her husband's tall, athletic figure. he turned to her with a smile. "i guess you're right," he said. "but where the devil is françois?" "i don't know. i sent him downstairs to tell the cook to have some nice sandwiches ready when you come home after the director's meeting tonight, but that's an hour ago----" his ill humor gone, kenneth looked up and smiled at her. putting his arm about her, fondly he said: "dear little wife. you're always thinking of the comfort of others. you're the most unselfish, the most adorable, the most----" "stop, kenneth, don't be foolish or i shall believe you----" his face red from his recent exertions, he sat down on the arm of a chair to rest a little. full of the coming journey, he had already forgotten his wife's anxiety. the great business schemes he had in mind dwarfed for the time being every other consideration. he could think and talk of nothing but diamonds. huge crystals, worth untold millions as big as a fist, flashed at him from every corner of the room. fabulous fortunes had been made in the diamond mines of south africa. why should he not be as successful as others? the romance of the cullinan might be repeated, even surpassed. well he recalled how he had been thrilled by the sensational story of the discovery of that colossal gem, more than three times the size of the excelsior, the wonder of the modern world. in imagination, he saw it now. an old-fashioned boer farm, transformed into a modern mining camp. a moonlight night. a man strolling idly along the rugged, desolate veldt, chances to look down. his eye suddenly catches a gleam in the rough face of the jagged slope. he stoops and picks up what looks like a piece of ice. quickly he returns to his office and hands it to his chief. the men look at each other in silence. to all parts of the world goes the message that a diamond has been found four times bigger than the largest gem in the world. a stone weighing over , carats and worth four million dollars. he could already imagine himself far from civilization among the barren mountains of south africa, prospecting in wide stretches of stone and gravel, picking up the brilliant dazzling stones by the handful. "have you any idea," he said, "what the mines have produced?" she shook her head indifferently. "no, and i don't want to know. i don't want you to go--that's all." "their output in the last ten years is estimated at no less than $ , , . just think of it. four hundred millions! well, dear, i and a few others want some of it, and we're going to get it." "but aren't we rich enough already?" she demanded petulantly. "why this fever to get richer and richer? we are happy with what we have. why run the risks to gain what after all will only be a surplus? we can't possibly spend it." her husband's eyes flashed. the lines about his mouth tightened as he retorted: "one never has enough! you women don't understand. as long as you have all the amusement you crave, all the frocks you want, all the jewelry you covet, you think that is all there is to life." she looked up at him reproachfully and seemed about to protest when he added hurriedly: "oh, i don't mean you. i know you are not that kind of woman. you are more serious, more sensible. i mean the average society woman whose only concern in life is dress and show. we men have different aims, higher ambitions. i'm well to do, as the term goes. i have an income of over $ , a year, a splendidly appointed town house, a show place in the country. above all i have the most adorable wife in all the world. most men would be satisfied. i am not. i want still more. i have the money craze, an uncontrollable lust to pile up millions. my ambition is to wield the power that only the possession of vast wealth confers. the resources of this vast country are practically in the hands of half a dozen men. merely by holding up a finger, these men could, to suit their own selfish ends, start a universal panic which might bring about a financial cataclysm, involving the whole world in disaster. i do not say they would use this power for evil, but they are in position to do so if it served their purpose. i want to have such power, only if i had it i would not use it for evil. i would use it for good. conditions in the industrial world are very critical. we are rapidly approaching a crisis. in all countries the forces of labor and the forces of capital are lined up in silent, grim battalions. the poor are getting poorer; the rich are getting richer. the cost of living is going up beyond all reason. why? because the men who control the wealth of the world will it so. the system which is responsible for this must one day, sooner or later, give way to another and more humane system, still to be devised, which will enable the man who produces the wealth of the world at least to enjoy some of the fruits of his toil. now it goes into the hands of the privileged few who use the power their money gives them to keep their less fortunate fellow men in servile subjection. i want to be rich, very rich, but i will use my wealth for good. with it i will help my fellow man rise from the mire. i will help him throw off the shackles with which conscienceless capitalism has fettered him. i want to be such a power for good. i want----" the maid reëntered the room. "françois is not in his room, m'm." kenneth gave vent to an exclamation of impatience. turning to his wife, he asked: "where is he? did you send him anywhere?" helen shook her head. quickly she said: "he's never around except when he's not wanted." it was so seldom that his wife displayed irritation at any one that kenneth looked up in surprise. "he's shopping, too, i suppose. you know there's little time left and he has things to get ready the same as i have." helen made a gesture of disapproval. quickly she said: "i wish you were going with someone else, with anyone but that man. i never liked him." her husband laughed. carelessly he replied: "i know you never did and it's the only instance since we're married where i've found dear little wife to be absolutely unfair. seriously, sweetheart, your baseless prejudice against françois is unworthy of you. i can't go without a servant of some kind. he's an honest fellow and a faithful servant." helen shrugged her shoulders. "i'm not so sure about that," she retorted quickly. "what do you know about him or his honesty? he's a perfect stranger that blew in three months ago from nowhere. he had written recommendations which may be forged. you never took the trouble to look them up." "yes, i did. i asked keralio about him." helen looked up in surprise. "signor keralio? i didn't know françois was ever with him." "he was with him nearly a year. keralio warmly recommends him and says he is a very faithful fellow. he only left him because he objected to being compelled to practise sword-play with his master. one day keralio's foil slipped. françois got a puncture and it made him nervous." "no wonder i don't like him. like master, like valet--as the french say." her husband smiled. "you are down on keralio, aren't you?" "i detest him. how could any self-respecting woman like such a man? his every glance is an insult. with his polished manners and sardonic smile he reminds one of mephistopheles." "i don't fancy the fellow much myself, but i have to be polite to him. as i told you, he's in with the people who own that silver mine. i've found him useful." "don't trust him," replied helen warningly. "if he makes himself useful to you, depend upon it, he has some ulterior motive in view. now i know françois was once with him i shall dislike him more than ever." "come--come dear," protested kenneth, "that is carrying things too far. françois is quite a decent chap if you understand him--i find him faithful, discreet." "discreet!" echoed helen mockingly. "i beg to differ." "what do you mean?" "i mean that you are blinded in the man. discreet indeed! only the other day i caught him at your desk reading a letter which you had left there." "a letter?" exclaimed kenneth, looking up in surprise. "what letter?" "the letter from your agent at cape town, telling of the astonishing diamond find, and suggesting that an officer of the company be sent out to bring home the big stone--the letter you read at the director's meeting and which decided them to send you out there." kenneth bit his lip. quickly he said: "i'm sorry he saw that. it was careless of me to leave it around. are you sure he was reading it?" "he had a pencil and paper in hand and appeared to be copying from the letter. when he saw me, he crushed the paper up in his hand and turned away." kenneth gave an expressive whistle. "the deuce you say! the fellow's smarter than i took him to be. all the more reason why i should take him along with me. then i'm sure he can't tell tales out of school. i----. hush, here he is!" the door opened cautiously and there entered a man about thirty years of age, of medium height and slightly, even delicately, built. that he was a frenchman was apparent even at a glance. the dark closely cropped hair, worn in the so-called pompadour or military style, the pale, saturnine features, the manner and general bearing all loudly proclaimed his gallic nationality. his smooth shaven face showed a firm mouth with bloodless lips so thin as to be hardly perceptible. his eyes, when they could be seen at all, were greenish in color, and small and restless as those of a ferret. he advanced into the room with the obsequious deferential manner which in all well-trained servants becomes second nature, moving across the thickly carpeted floor with the rapidity and noiselessness of a snake. "where have you been, françois?" demanded kenneth sharply. the valet stopped short, as if struck by a blow, but he did not stand still. his nervous thin hands and lean body were in constant motion, although he did not stir from the one spot. in every involuntary movement and gesture there was something that suggested the feline. when spoken to or given an order he replied respectfully and obeyed with alacrity, but when addressed he listened always with eyes averted. this had always exasperated helen. she could not recall him ever looking her straight in the face. for that reason alone, if, for no other, she disliked and distrusted him, thinking not unnaturally that a man, who is afraid to let his eyes meet another's, must be plotting in his mind some treachery which he fears his direct gaze may betray. his furtive glances went quickly from master to mistress. something in their attitude, the suddenness with which they interrupted their conversation told him that they had been talking about him. "did you hear me?" demanded kenneth again. "where have you been? you knew there was this packing to be done." the man's eyes flashed resentfully, but he replied civilly: "oui, monsieur, but monsieur forgets. monsieur told me i must go to ze tailor." kenneth's frown disappeared. yes, it was true. he had sent him to the tailor. quick to make amends for an injustice, he said more amiably: "that's right. i had forgotten. what did they say?" "ze suits will be delivered in half hour." "very well. when they come, you will know which trunk to put them in." "oui, monsieur." "and then, when my trunks are ready you had better hustle with your own packing. there's no time to be lost. the steamer sails at o'clock to-morrow morning." "oui, monsieur." quietly, stealthily, the valet retraced his cat-like steps and opening the door retired as noiselessly as he had come. chapter iii when the valet had disappeared, kenneth turned to his wife with a chuckle. "who was right? you made me scold him for nothing." helen shook her head. "i detest the man. there is something crawly and repulsive about him. i can read evil in his face. don't trust him, kenneth. remember, if anything goes wrong, don't blame me. i warned you. my instinct seldom fails." her husband laughed and, advancing, put his arm tenderly around his wife. "i guess i'm able to take care of myself, dear. don't let's discuss françois any longer. tell me about yourself. how are you going to amuse yourself while i'm away?" her head drooped on his breast and once more her eyes filled with tears. with affected carelessness which cost her a great effort, she replied: "oh, the time won't hang so heavy on my hands. it never does when one has resources within oneself. i'll read and ride and sew. i suppose i'll have plenty to do." "mr. parker said he would drop in and look after you." "yes--tell him to come and see me very often. he's rather tiresome with his prosy talk, but he's a dear old soul." with a mischievous twinkle in his eye her husband went on: "it's not unlikely that keralio will call, also." "i hope not," she said quickly. "i'll soon show him he's not wanted." kenneth laughed. it amused him to see how set she was against the italian. he did not know the man any too well. he had met him in a business way and the fellow had been of service, but he had not the slightest idea of making a friend of him. he rather suspected he was an adventurer although, a stranger in new york, no one knew anything against him. protestingly he said: "it's hardly fair to attack a man because he admires you." "he shows his admiration in a most offensive way. if you could see the way he looks at me sometimes you'd be the first to resent it." kenneth laughed. "oh, you mustn't mind that. it's a way all foreigners have. they ogle women more from force of habit than any desire to effect a conquest. besides, you won't be alone." "no, i shall have ray. she is excellent company--far jollier than i----" kenneth protested. "no, she isn't by a long shot. ray is all right as sisters-in-law go, but i'd never change you for her. i'm d----d if i would!" quickly helen put her white hand over his mouth. with mock severity she exclaimed: "kenneth! how can you be so profane? i hate to hear such language from you. ray is the sweetest thing on earth. it's a shame she never got married. oh, don't be uneasy on that score. we'll have a good time. we'll go to the theater. we'll have teas and little dinner parties. i'll invite some interesting men to meet her. i'd love to see her married to some nice man. there's mr. steell, for instance. he's rich, young, has a brilliant future----" kenneth made a grimace. quickly he retorted: "it's you he admires, not ray. he will accept your invitation--less with the idea of letting ray hook him in the matrimonial net, than for the opportunity it affords for a renewed flirtation with you. oh, quite innocent, of course, but still a flirtation. have i forgotten what close friends you used to be before i appeared on the scene?" "and carried me off, a new lochinvar come out of the west!" she laughed. "oh, kenneth, how can you be so foolish? it is absolutely indecent of you. i like mr. steell, and i think he likes me, but our friendship is purely platonic. i never give him a thought, i assure you." "i know you don't, but i'm not so sure about him. he's a man and men are only human----" "he's a gentleman," corrected helen. "he never forgets that." kenneth gave a grunt of incredulity. sulkily he said: "all right--all right. have a good time. marry him to ray. perhaps it's safer that way. when he's my brother-in-law, he'll stop making sheep's eyes at my wife." helen laughed outright. "you silly goose. i never suspected you of having a jealous streak in your nature. how could i prefer anyone to my handsome kenneth?" as she stood before him, playfully patting his cheek, her glance alighted on the solitary lock of gray hair in the center of his forehead. toying with it, she went on: "isn't it strange that your hair should be white just in that place. i rather like it. it gives an added note of distinction to your face. i wonder what caused it." kenneth laughed. "that's my trade mark. if ever i'm brought home on a stretcher you'll know me by that white lock." helen raised her hand in protest. "don't talk that way. never jest about accidents. sometimes they happen." "well--i said nothing. i only said that if you were ever in doubt about my identity, you would know me by my white lock." she smiled, as she patted his cheek lovingly, and said: "that would not be necessary, ken dear. no matter how changed you looked, what disguise you wore, i should still know you." "and if it wasn't me," he laughed, "but only someone who looked like me?" "i could never be mistaken. the ring in the voice, the expression in the eyes--no woman who really loves could ever be deceived." she had drawn nearer to him, her mouth upturned and tempting, her face with that gentle, wistful expression he was never able to resist. throwing his arms impulsively about her, he clasped her passionately to his breast. "sweetheart," he whispered, "you don't know how dear you are to me!" "nor can you," she replied, as he smothered her with kisses, "ever realize what you are to me!" suddenly they were interrupted by a sound at the door behind them. some one coughed discreetly. quickly separating, helen turned round. in some confusion she exclaimed: "hello, ray. i thought you were out. when did you come in?" "i was out. i have been shopping. i met mr. steell in the park and we had a lovely walk." slyly she added: "i am afraid i returned too soon. i see you're both busy." "never too busy for you, ray," smiled helen trying to hide her confusion, while kenneth grinned broadly. the young girl laughed as she flung down on the sofa her muff and fur neck-piece. roguishly she said: "lovemaking so early in the day. aren't you ashamed of yourselves?" kenneth liked to tease his sister-in-law, but the young girl was quite his equal when it came to a battle of wits and it was not often that she gave him the opportunity. "what time do you do your love making?" he demanded. her cheeks reddened a little as she retorted: "i'm never so foolish. i leave that to you married people. my purpose in life is far more serious." "oh, come now," protested her brother-in-law, "i've noticed you and steell spooning often enough." stylishly and tastefully dressed, her face beaming with animation, her eyes sparkling with intelligence, kenneth's sister-in-law was a pretty, wholesome looking girl. she had beautiful blond hair like her sister, and fine, white teeth that told of good health and perfect digestion. helen's junior only by three years, she was still unmarried and for the present at least seemed more inclined to remain single and partake of life's pleasures than incur the risks and responsibilities of matrimony. not that she had been without offers. a girl as attractive and clever could hardly have failed to please the sterner sex. all sorts and conditions of men had prostrated themselves at her tiny, well-shod feet, but, capricious and headstrong, she would have none of them. she was what might be called a singular girl. she liked men, not because of their sex, but because their point of view was different, their grasp of things stronger than her own. one day she must marry. she knew that. it was, she insisted laughingly, an ignoble state of slavery, a humiliating, degrading condition of subjection to the male which every woman must endure, necessary perhaps, but an ordeal to be put off, something unpleasant to be postponed as long as possible, like the taking of a dose of unsavory physic or having a tooth pulled at the dentist's. meantime, heart whole and fancy free, she enjoyed life to the limit and kept her admirers guessing. "oh, i saw such lovely things in the stores," exclaimed the young girl. "i wish i had the money to buy them all." "you will have when i get back from south africa," he laughed. "don't forget," she laughed. "i'll hold you to that promise. helen is witness." "i swear it!" he said with mock solemnity. "you shall have carte blanche in any fifth avenue shop to the amount of--$ . ." "will you be ready in time?" she laughed, looking around with dismay at the litter of open trunks. "i won't, if you stay here chattering like a magpie." "what time does the steamer sail?" "eleven o'clock," said helen. "we're all coming to see you off. mr. steell told me that he's coming, too." "not exactly to see me, i'm afraid," smiled kenneth. "who else?" she retorted. "if you mean me, you're mistaken. he doesn't need to make the uncomfortable trip to hoboken to see me." her brother-in-law smiled, amused at her petulance. "my dear," he said, "you don't know what hardships a man will endure for the girl he's sweet on." with mock seriousness he went on: "say sis, helen and i have been having an argument. who does steell come here for--for you or for me?" ray burst into merry laughter. "how silly you are, ken. for me, of course. at least, i flatter myself that----" with a wink at her sister she added facetiously: "of course, one never knows when dealing with these handsome men. and helen is quite adorable. if i were a man, i should be crazy about her." helen held up a protesting finger. "don't talk like that, dear, or he'll believe you." kenneth laughed. "yes, i'm as jealous as othello and quite as dangerous. don't i look it?" as he spoke, the front door-bell rang downstairs. ray hastily took up her things. "here's company!" "i hope not!" exclaimed helen. "i'm in no mood to see anybody." "i'll see them," whispered ray, "and say you're out. it won't be the first fib i've told." she ran lightly out of the room and upstairs, while helen and her husband went on with the work of packing. they were just stooping together over a trunk when there came a rap on the door, and françois appeared. "a lady to see monsieur." kenneth looked puzzled. "a lady? what lady?" helen laughed merrily. triumphantly, she exclaimed: "it's my turn now to be jealous." "not exactly a lady, monsieur. an elderly person." "what's her name?" "mrs. mary o'connor." kenneth smiled broadly. "mary o'connor, my old nurse. well, well, show her right in." turning to his wife he added quickly: "dear old soul--no doubt she's heard i'm off to africa and wishes to say good-bye." an instant later an old woman bent with age and with a kindly face framed with silvery white hair came in, hands outstretched. without any air of condescension on his part, kenneth went forward to greet her. through all the long stretch of years, from his boy days to his manhood he had never forgotten how kind mary had been to him when a child, taking the place of the mother he had lost in infancy. a christmas was never allowed to pass without a fat turkey for the old nurse and many a little present of money had accompanied the bird. the old woman's lips quivered as she said tremulously: "it's a long way you're going, mr. kenneth." "oh, i'll soon be back, mary," he rejoined jovially. she shook her head. "it's a long way and i'm getting old." the promoter laughed boisterously. leading her gently to a chair he exclaimed: "old! nonsense; you're just as young to me now as when i first remember you." the old lady smiled. nodding her head feebly, she replied: "when you used to play hide-and-seek with me. when i wanted to put you to bed you were nowhere to be found." helen laughed while kenneth protested: "oh, come now, mary, i wasn't so bad as that." "no. you weren't bad--just lively and natural as all healthy children. you were always a better boy than your brother." helen looked up quickly. "your brother, kenneth? i never heard you speak of a brother." he looked at the old lady in amazement. "my brother? what brother?" the old lady smiled. "that's so--you never knew. you were too young to remember. yes, you had a brother--a twin brother. people hardly knew you apart. there was only one way in which your mother and i could tell." "what was that?" demanded the promoter eagerly. "he had a scar. he caught his hand in some machinery when a baby and it left a scar in the index finger of the left hand." transfixed, kenneth listened open-mouthed. at last breaking the spell, he exclaimed: "i never heard of him. you never spoke of him before." "how should you remember?" went on the old woman. "it's many years ago. your father and mother are dead. you have no relatives living. no one knows. but i know." "did he die?" asked kenneth, deeply interested. the old lady nodded affirmatively. "i shall never forgive myself. it was my fault. you were playing together in the garden. i didn't dream either of you could come to harm. i went into the house for a moment to get something. when i came back your brother was gone--no trace of him anywhere. we never saw him again. your father, heart-broken, offered a fortune for news of him. the police hunted high and low all over the country. there was no trace. some gypsies had passed recently through the town. i always suspected them. that is thirty years ago and more." "so it's not even known if he's dead," interrupted kenneth eagerly. the beldame shook her head sorrowfully, as she answered sagely: "oh, he's dead all right. that's sure. there was money left to him by your grandfather. for years the lawyers advertised for news of him. but it was no good. if he'd been alive, he'd have claimed his own." "he might still be alive, yet unaware of his identity," broke in helen, who was a keenly interested listener. she had been so accustomed to regard her husband as the only son of parents, both of whom were dead, that the mere possibility of his having a brother awakened her curiosity. still under the spell of the old woman's unexpected revelation, kenneth had relapsed into a thoughtful silence. the surprising news had affected him strangely. so--he had had a brother--a twin brother, and all these years he had been in ignorance of the fact. yet who could be nearer or dearer than a twin brother? together they had lain under the same mother's heart. together they had first seen the light and laughed in the sun. ah, if he had only lived to be his comrade, his partner! with a brother at his side, to second him in his hazardous enterprises, he felt he would indeed be invincible. he could have conquered the world! the old nurse held out a withered hand, and her eyes were moist with tears as she said: "good-bye, mr. kenneth. a safe journey to you. keep out of danger. i'll be praying for the lord to watch over you." helen turned away so they might not see her emotion. kenneth laughed lightly as he kissed the old woman's cheek, and then, slipping a bank note into her hand, he said carelessly: "all right, mary, i'll be careful. i'll come back safe and sound,--never fear, and i'll bring you something nice,--perhaps a big diamond. out in south africa they pick 'em up like stones." the old woman's eyes opened incredulously. "really, mr. kenneth?" "yes, really. diamonds as big as apples. they're found every day. when i come back i'll have all sorts of adventures to tell you about. who knows? i might even run across this twin-brother of mine. stranger things have happened." "diamonds as big as apples," she echoed. "do you mean that, mr. kenneth?" he laughed. "indeed i do! some of the gems are as big as cocoanuts. didn't you hear of that wonderful diamond we found the other day? it's worth a million dollars." the old woman opened her eyes and gaped with astonishment. "a million dollars, mr. kenneth!" "yes, a million dollars. what's more, i'll soon be able to show it to you, mary. my trip out to south africa is ostensibly for the purpose of negotiating for more land. the real purpose of my journey is to bring home this astonishing stone." "but how will you carry it, mr. kenneth? a stone worth a million dollars must be big as a house." kenneth laughed. "no--no, mary. it can easily go in my waistcoat pocket. but for safety's sake it won't. i don't mind letting you into my confidence. i'm to have a secret bottom made in----" before he could complete the sentence, helen quickly clapped her hand over his mouth, and he had not yet recovered from his astonishment when she sprang to the door and opened it. the movement was so sudden and unexpected that a man who had been leaning against it, fell all his length into the room. it was françois, the french valet. "_excusez_," he stammered, "i stumbled." kenneth stared first at the servant, then at his wife. slowly he began to comprehend. turning to the frenchman he demanded angrily: "what were you doing behind that door?" "_excusez_. i came back to ask monsieur how many shirts i pack." thoroughly aroused, the promoter pointed to the door. sternly he said: "get out of here--you fool! if you don't know your business, i'll get some one else who does." the frenchman beat a rapid retreat. there was a malevolent look on his face, but he murmured respectfully enough: "_oui, monsieur_." kenneth turned to his wife. "what did he come back for?" he demanded. "he was listening--behind the door," she replied calmly. chapter iv the dirty, sullen waters of the harbor washed lazily against the black, precipitous sides of the giant liner which, under a full head of steam, vibrated with suppressed energy, straining at mighty cables as if impatient to start on her long and hazardous voyage across the tumbling seas. a raw, piercing northeaster, howling dismally above the monotonous creaking and puffing of the donkey-engine, swept through the cheerless, draughty dock, chilling the spectators to the marrow. the sun, vainly trying to break through the banks of leaden-colored clouds, cast a grayish pall over land and sky. a day it was of sinister portent, that could not fail to have a depressing effect on sailor and landlubber alike. yet unpropitious skies and chilly wind did not appear to keep people at home. the steamer was crowded, both with those who were sailing and those who were not. the gangways, staterooms were overrun not only by passengers, but by all sorts of visitors curious to get a glimpse of the luxurious liner. the first-class saloon, heaped high on all sides with american beauty roses and orchids, looked as gay and full of color as a florist's shop. "isn't it perfectly stunning? how i adore ships!" exclaimed ray, eager to see everything. keeping close together, the two young women with difficulty elbowed their way through the excited throng. they were anxious to rejoin kenneth whom they had left in the stateroom giving instructions to françois, and they began to be afraid they might lose him in the crush. delighted at everything she saw, ray could not contain herself. "oh, how i wish i were going! why doesn't ken take me?" helen turned to her in mock despair. "if you went, what would i do? who would take care of me?" "i would," said a masculine voice close by. the women turned quickly. a tall, fair man still in his thirties, had stopped and raised his hat. "why, it's mr. steell!" exclaimed ray, her pleasure at the meeting betraying itself in the tone of her voice. "do you doubt my ability to take care of you? could any man wish for a more congenial task?" "flatterer!" laughed helen. cordially she added: "i'm awfully glad to see you. it was very good of you to come and see ken off." "nonsense," exclaimed the newcomer. "i wanted to come--if only to make sure he wouldn't change his mind. i'm as anxious to see those diamonds as you are." "hush!" said helen putting up her finger to her mouth while ray's attention was momentarily diverted elsewhere. "no one knows--not even ray. it's a great secret." an anxious look passed over the young man's face. he hadn't approved of this south african trip. it was wholly unnecessary. in his opinion his old chum was taking a great risk. "that's right," he muttered. "you can't be too careful." in metropolitan legal circles wilbur steell was looked upon as the coming man. his success in the courts had given him a wide reputation before he was five and thirty, and his gifts as a public speaker, his strong, aggressive personality made more than one political leader anxious to secure his services. already he was mentioned as district attorney. even the governorship might have been his for the asking. but he showed no liking for politics. his sympathies leaned more towards the literary, intellectual life. having all the money he needed, he preferred to keep out of the social and political maelstrom, leading a quiet life, following his own tastes and inclinations. match-making mammas saw in him a prize, but so far he had shown no disposition to marry. he cultivated few people, in fact, was considered somewhat of a misanthrope. kenneth he had known all his life. they were boys together, and the traynors were among the few on whom he called frequently. he made no secret of his attraction for ray, and the young girl liked him as well as she chose to like anybody. he had qualities, not usually met with in successful men, that made a strong appeal to her--fine ideals, and a purpose in life. she liked his seriousness, finding him different in this respect from any other man she knew. she felt he admired her, but he did not make love to her and she was grateful to him for that. she liked his society and never tired of discussing with him sociology and other subjects in which both were interested. "when does the steamer sail?" interrupted ray anxiously, as if afraid that they might go off with her on board. "in half an hour," said the lawyer. "they ring a warning bell. there is plenty of time. where's kenneth?" "down below in his stateroom--wrestling with baggage," replied helen. "he said he would join us here." "well, suppose we sit down a bit," he suggested. "yes--that will be jolly," exclaimed ray. the lawyer pulled up three steamer chairs and sitting down, they watched the crowd which had already begun to thin out. the novelty of the scene held both women fascinated. the constant bustle and excitement, the going and coming of well-groomed men and women, the little scraps of conversation overheard, interested them both beyond measure. helen studied each individual couple, wondering who they were, how long married, if they were happy, where they were going to. she wondered if that coarse, loudly dressed woman really cared for her husband, or if this brutal looking man with insolent stare of the libertine, illtreated his delicate little wife. she herself could not understand marriage without genuine affection on both sides. any such intimate relation as the marriage tie involved must surely be repellent and abhorrent to any self-respecting woman unless love were there to sanction and sanctify it. ray glanced at her sister and laughed. "why so serious, helen? he hasn't gone yet." helen sighed. "but he soon will be. i wish he were here instead of downstairs." ray protested. "please be nautically correct. remember we are on a ship. you don't say 'downstairs'; you say 'below.'" mr. steell turned round with a smile. "i had no idea you were so well posted in sailor's parlance." the young girl laughed. "oh, you don't know half my accomplishments. i'm cleverer than you give me credit for." the young man leaned half over the chair as he whispered: "i wouldn't dare tell you how clever i think you." "why?" "because--of my own peace of mind." helen broke in on the conversation. addressing the lawyer, she said: "now kenneth is away, we shall expect you to come to the house very often." the lawyer bowed. "it's always a pleasure to call." "be sure to come next sunday evening. i expect some friends. we'll have some music." "may i bring someone?" "certainly. any friend of yours is welcome." "who is it?" asked ray impertinently. "male or female?" "i believe it's a male," smiled the lawyer. "it looks like a male and talks like one." more seriously he went on: "his name is dick reynolds. he has just passed his bar examination and is practicing temporarily in my office. his people live out west and being alone here, he is glad enough to have somewhere to go." "bring him by all means," exclaimed ray. "has he any accomplishments--apart from being a male?" "yes--he plays the piano indifferently, and tennis admirably. he swims like a fish, and can run like a hare. but his best accomplishment is a gift that one seldom sees developed----" "what is that?" exclaimed both his listeners at once. "he is a born detective--a regular sherlock holmes in real life. i have tested him several times with extraordinary results. i have given him the most difficult cases to unravel. he has found the solution in every one." ray clapped her hands. "oh, i love that," she said. "don't forget to invite him. only the trouble is we have nothing to unravel." "i have a skein of silk," interrupted helen facetiously. suddenly the lawyer stopped speaking and quickly sitting up in his chair stared intently in the distance at a face in the crowd which had caught his eye. "who is it?" demanded ray, her woman's jealousy aroused. "i may be mistaken," he replied, "but i thought i saw your friend signor keralio." helen looked up quickly. "my friend?" she exclaimed. "he's no friend of mine. i wonder what he's doing here. he can't be sailing." "he's up to no good, i wager that," growled the lawyer. "you don't like him either, do you?" smiled ray. "does anyone?" he answered. "i don't see how kenneth can have anything to do with such a cheap type of adventurer." helen hastened to explain. "ken doesn't care for him at all, only they are both interested in the same business deal--a silver mine in mexico. ken bought stock and keralio is the only man he knows connected with it. that's why." the lawyer gave vent to a grunt of disgust. "if keralio has anything to do with it, good-bye to ken's money. in my opinion the fellow's a crook." suddenly helen pointed to a spot away down at the other end of the deck. "yes--you're right--there he is--behind that third lifeboat. he's talking to some one." the lawyer looked in the direction indicated. "yes--and do you see the secretive way in which they're talking--hiding behind that boat, as if so that no one might see them. they're plotting some mischief, you may be sure of that. who's the other fellow?" helen strained her eyes to see. "i can't see his face. oh, yes i can--why--it's our françois--kenneth's valet. what can they be talking about? i don't trust that valet. only the other day i caught him reading some letters. i warned ken about him; but he insists he is faithful--i wonder what they can have in common? he used to be in signor keralio's employ." the lawyer shook his head ominously. gravely he said: "that fellow keralio will bear watching. i think i'll put my sherlock holmes on his track." ray laughed. "oh, that would be exciting--a drama in real life. please do----" "good morning, ladies!" said a voice close at hand. "good morning, mr. steell." all looked up. a tall, elderly man with white hair, distinguished looking and fashionably dressed, had stopped. "why, it's mr. parker!" exclaimed helen holding out her hand. "you came to see kenneth off?" "yes--where is he?" "in his stateroom--attending to his baggage. he'll be here directly." "i must see him at once." "anything important?" "very important, indeed," replied the newcomer. helen jumped up, all flushed from excitement. "please tell me what it is?" she exclaimed. the old gentleman drew a telegram from his pocket. "i've just received this from our agent in cape town. another diamond of extraordinary size has been picked up. it weighs over , carats and is calculated to be worth five hundred thousand dollars. that's the second stone of extraordinary size that we have found. possibly there is some exaggeration in the reports, but there is no doubt whatever that we are on the verge of discoveries little short of sensational. meantime, the treasury of the americo-african mining company has been enriched by at least a million. when kenneth returns to new york with these wonderful gems in his possession, there is likely to be a boom in the company's shares." the old gentleman spoke glibly, even eloquently and it was obvious that he was sincere and not talking for effect. it was, indeed, largely due to his distinguished air, and fine oratorical powers that cornelius winthrop parker had been elected president of the americo-african mining company, with fine offices in new york and london and stockholders in every country under the sun. trained for the ministry and enjoying a wide acquaintance but a slim income, he had found the business of stock company promotion more profitable than preaching the gospel, and when traynor had first gone to him with the suggestion that a company be formed to take up the large tract of transvaal land where precious stones had actually been found he was not slow to grasp at the unusual opportunity. he managed cleverly the preliminary publicity campaign. the company was promptly organized and successfully floated, the public snapping as eagerly at the shares as a fish at the bait. it was only logical to infer, therefore, that when kenneth returned to new york with actual proof of the company's suddenly acquired wealth in his possession, the stock would soar above par. with this pleasing prospect in view, it was not surprising that mr. parker wore to-day his most engaging smile. ray looked up in surprise. "what!" she exclaimed. "kenneth to bring home the diamonds? this is the first i heard of it. helen never told me." "hush!" said mr. parker, holding up his handy warningly. "some one might hear you." continuing, he said blandly: "of course not, my dear lady, of course not. your sister is far too discreet and clever a woman to disclose her husband's plans to the world. there are some things a man must keep secret from everyone--even from his wife. it would have been the height of folly to make any such announcement from the housetops. the highways are full of rogues; even the walls have ears. some crook might have learned of our plans and acted accordingly. kenneth might be followed to south africa, shadowed till he has the gems in his possession and then waylaid and murdered. remember, he will have stones in his waistcoat pocket worth a million. do you suppose desperate men will stop at anything to secure such a prize?" ray turned to her sister. "did you know?" helen nodded. "yes, and it has made me very unhappy. it is terrible that he is taking such risks." turning to mr. parker she asked apprehensively: "do you think he will run any danger?" the old gentleman shook his head. "of course not, my dear lady. it is preposterous to even think of such a thing. we have kept the matter too secret. don't be uneasy. he will come to no harm." raising his hat, he added: "excuse me, ladies. i'll go and find kenneth and bring him to you." the next instant he was swallowed up by the crowd. helen, uneasy at her husband's prolonged absence, suggested that they go below and join him. suddenly a stentorian voice called out: "all ashore--all ashore!" quickly, helen jumped to her feet, only to bump into kenneth, who at that moment ran up, followed by mr. parker. "all ashore, dear," he said hastily, "you had better go." she made no reply, but averted her head so he might not see her red eyes. all about them the bustle and excitement was bewildering. people pushed this way and that in their efforts to reach the gangway. the siren sounded its last deep toned blasts of warning; the final greetings were exchanged. tall and handsome looking in his tourist knicker-bockers and close fitting steamer cap, kenneth held both helen's hands in his. ray and mr. parker, under the pretence of visiting the anchor weighed, had discreetly withdrawn. françois, the valet, could be seen in the distance, making signals to some one on shore. husband and wife were standing alone behind one of the big ventilators, helen glad that no one saw them, ashamed that anyone should detect the big tears she was unable to control. how she had dreaded this moment of actual parting, this ordeal of saying good-bye! "you'll write every day, won't you?" she asked in choking voice. tenderly he drew her to him. "every day, sweetheart." "and you'll come back safe to me?" "i'll come back safe to you." bravely she forced back the tears that blinded her. gently she murmured: "i'll wait for you, kenneth. i shall count the days, every moment, until you return. i never realized till now how much we are to each other. i'll pray for you, kenneth; i'll pray god that he watch over and protect you." he said nothing, but drew her toward him. looking searchingly into her eyes, he said half in jest, half in earnest: "you'll be true, always true!" gravely she answered: "always--until death!" "you'll look at no other man." "how can you be so foolish, ken dear? i see no one but you. i hear no voice but yours. you are my life, my soul. when you return you'll find me here, at this same dock, arms outstretched, waiting, just waiting." the bell rang. "all ashore! all ashore!" he bent low. his mouth met hers in one deep, lingering kiss. "god bless you, darling." "good-bye, ken, good-bye." the next thing she knew she was back on the dock among a crowd of spectators waving hats and handkerchiefs--the women weeping, the men shouting and gesticulating. the passengers stood at the rail, waving frantic adieux in return. the siren sounded deep-toned blasts of warning to the smaller river craft to get out of the way. the huge vessel strained and trembled, vibrating more violently as she gradually began to glide into the open. assisted by a fleet of energetic tugs she finally swung clear and pointed her nose eastward. slowly, majestically, the leviathan moved out to sea. it was bad enough to see him go at all, but to have him sail on such a gloomy day as this, with not a ray of sunshine to cheer him on the way, was more than helen could bear. blinded by tears she stood kissing her hand to the familiar figure now only faintly discernible on the fast receding steamship, and she stood there long after every one else had left the dock watching until the _mauretania_ was only a speck in the horizon. chapter v sunday evenings at mrs. traynor's were always enjoyable. no formal invitations were issued. friends just dropped in as they felt inclined. there was good music, excellent tea _à la russe_ and always a number of interesting people. to-night, the second sunday since kenneth went away, promised to be duller than usual. mr. steell was there, of course, and he had brought dick reynolds, a slightly built, shrewd looking young man with glasses, who kept everybody amused with exciting stories of the underworld. yet, for all the animation, there was an atmosphere of gloom in the air, an indefinable sense of depression which all felt and could not explain. the lawyer, dick, and ray were in a corner carrying on an animated discussion. helen, her mind preoccupied, her thoughts hundreds of miles away with the loved absent one, sat quietly at the piano, running her fingers lightly over the keys, her thoughts many leagues distant with the man who had carried her heart away with him. her face was pale, her expression grave. why had kenneth's going away affected her like this? she had not had a moment's peace of mind since his departure. she could not sleep. horrible dreams and thoughts haunted her all night. some danger threatened, that she felt instinctively. something dreadful was going to happen. what it was, she did not know. but it was something that threatened her happiness, perhaps her life or kenneth's----. at the mere thought a shiver ran through her, and a convulsive sob rose in her throat, almost choking her. not until this moment had she fully realized how much she loved him. a sudden burst of laughter at the other end of the room aroused her from her reverie. looking up, she asked: "what are you all so amused about?" ray smiled as she replied: "we're arguing about dual personalities. mr. steell insists that there is no such thing. mr. reynolds agrees with him. he is wrong of course. i know of several well-authenticated cases, and the medical records are there to back me up." "exactly what do you mean by dual personality?" demanded the lawyer. ray returned to the attack, while helen, amused, rose from the piano and went over to listen to the argument. "i mean that a person we know well may suddenly cease being that person and assume a personality entirely different." mr. steell laughed derisively. "does the patient change her or his skin?" "no, the change is wholly mental. although in fact, the new mental attitude does result in certain physical modifications. for instance, a person who in his normal condition may be most punctilious and neat in his dress is likely to become unkempt and slovenly in the new character he unconsciously assumes." "have you ever encountered any such dual personalities?" "personally, no. but i have heard of them, and physicians often encounter them in their practice." the lawyer shrugged his shoulders as he turned to helen. "what do you think about it?" he asked, with an incredulous smile. "about what?" "these so-called dual personalities." before his hostess could answer, the drawing-room door opened and mr. parker entered. helen rose and went forward to greet the president of the americo-african mining company. "oh, mr. parker, how are you? i am so glad you came to see us." the visitor advanced smiling into the room. with a salute to all present, he asked cheerily: "well, what news of the wanderer?" helen sighed. "none as yet." the visitor chuckled as he crossed the room to shake hands with ray and mr. steell. "oh, well you must be patient. he'll soon be there, and then we shall hear wonderful tales." "what's the latest news from the seat of war--i mean the mines?" asked ray roguishly. mr. parker smiled. "everything is going well, thank you." "no new big finds?" demanded mr. steell. the president laughed. shaking his head, he said: "we can't expect to make such finds every day. if we often picked up stones of that size, we'd soon own all the wealth in the world." "more likely," retorted ray quickly, "that diamonds would become so cheap that children would buy them for marbles." mr. steell looked interested. "what is the real market value of the two big gems you have already picked up?" the president looked at him for a moment in silence. then, slowly, he said: "a very conservative estimate is $ , , for both stones. they are the purest white. there are larger stones in the world, but none of finer quality." "what do you expect to do with them?" "first, they will be brought here and exhibited in their crude state. you can easily realize the value to our company of such a gigantic advertisement. crowds will flock to see the wonderful crystals. the newspapers all over the country will give them the widest publicity. after everybody has seen them, we shall probably send them to amsterdam to be cut." "then, what will you do with them?" "to tell you the truth, we have not made up our minds. such very large stones have really no commercial value. take for instance the famous cullinan, the wonder of the modern world. that gem was so huge that it was of no real value to the owners; so, unable to realize on it themselves, they induced the transvaal government to buy it and present it to the king of england. we shall try to be a little more practical. our first duty is to our stockholders. we shall probably have the stones cut up into a number of smaller stones, on which we shall be able to realize a large sum. it's a rare stroke of good fortune for us." helen had said nothing, but stood listening in silence. it was less of the money involved in the adventure that she was thinking than of her husband's safety. "suppose kenneth loses the gems?" she faltered. the old gentleman laughed. "there's no fear of him losing them. he may have to fight for them, but he'll never lose them i know him too well for that." helen's eyes opened wide. "he may have to fight for them," she echoed. "do you mean that?" "no--no, of course not," said the president hastily. "no one will even know he has them in his possession. we have kept the matter very quiet." mr. steell shrugged his shoulders. drily he said: "oh, i guess ken is big enough to take care of himself. it does look as if it were tempting providence to carry loose on one's person valuables for so large an amount, but it's hardly likely that any of the denizens of the underworld know of his departure. still less that he is carrying a million loose in his clothes. i don't see that there's any reason to worry." "that's precisely my opinion," said a musical voice immediately behind them. all started and looked up. everyone had been so intent on the conversation that they had not noticed a man who had entered the room. he was a tall, dark-complexioned man of five and thirty with strong, stern features, which, in repose, were actually forbidding. the mouth, partly concealed by a long, bristling moustache, was firm, suggesting relentless will power, and his eyes, restless, keen and searching, had taken in every person there long before anyone was aware of his presence. he was fashionably, even elegantly dressed, and on his left hand he wore a solitaire of uncommon size and luster. his hair, carefully curled, scented and parted, was extraordinarily dark, contrasting sharply with the unusual pallor of his face. he spoke low and musically, with a slight foreign accent. helen started involuntarily on hearing the sound of his voice, and a cloud passed momentarily over her face. it lasted only a moment. she was too tactful, too much the woman of the world not to greet with at least apparent cordiality any visitor under her roof, no matter how unwelcome he might really be. turning quickly, she advanced and held out her hand. "how do you do, signor keralio? how you startled us! i did not hear you come in." the newcomer's black eyes flashed, and his thin lips parted in a smile as he bent low and ceremoniously kissed his hostess' hand in continental fashion. fond, as are most men of the latin race, of making extravagant compliments, he murmured softly: "your tiny ears, madam, were not intended to distinguish such gross sounds as ordinary mortal's footsteps. dainty and delicately fashioned as the shells strewn along the beach, they were modeled only to listen to the gods or re-echo the music of the murmuring sea." apologetically he added: "but i'm afraid i intrude. possibly you discuss family affairs----" a look of annoyance crossed helen's face. quickly withdrawing her hand, she said: "oh, not at all. we were only talking about my husband. you know he sailed for south africa two weeks ago. this is mr. steell, signor keralio. i think you know my sister. mr. parker--signor keralio." the old gentleman nodded affably, and, putting on his glass, scrutinized the newcomer narrowly. the president of the americo-african mining company had always made it a point not to neglect any chance introduction. he had no idea who the visitor was, but he looked prosperous. possibly with a little careful manipulation, he might be induced to invest in some a. a. m. stock. holding out his hand, he said affably: "signor keralio---- let me see. where have i heard that name before?" ray came to the rescue. "signor keralio is the well-known fencing master." a look of disappointment came over the president's face. only a fencing master? ugh! he was hardly worth bothering about. he wondered whether the business were profitable and if all fencing masters dressed like millionaires and had such polished manners. helen explained: "signor keralio is a friend of my husband. kenneth enjoys fencing, and signor keralio is his teacher." "oh, yes, to be sure," smiled mr. parker. "capital idea--splendid exercise. i'd try it myself, only i'm afraid i'd do my adversary some injury." the italian gave a low chuckle. with veiled irony, he said: "monsieur is right. he no doubt has a good eye, a supple wrist. an encounter might be very unpleasant for his opponent." ray, unable to control her mirth, hastily beat a retreat, followed more leisurely by mr. steell, and taking refuge at the far end of the room sat down at the piano, and began to play softly a chopin nocturne. waving the newcomer to a seat, mr. parker offered him a cigar, which the fencing master, with a courteous bow, asked his hostess' permission to smoke. "by all means," she said, "and with your permission i'll leave you gentlemen alone a few moments. i have a letter to finish. it must go tonight to catch the boat." "it's to your husband, i wager," said keralio, with a sardonic smile. "an easy guess," she retorted. "i write him every day." the fencing master gave a sigh as he exclaimed: "ah, such devotion is truly beautiful! why have i never known such love as that?" "perhaps you never deserved it!" she retorted. mr. parker chuckled. "that's what we in the american vernacular call 'a knock-out.'" helen laughed lightly. there was a swish of silken petticoats, and she disappeared in an alcove, where she sat down at a desk. keralio looked after her with undisguised admiration and puffed his cigar in silence for a few moments. then he said: "it's a big job which you and traynor are doing out there in south africa. i see by the papers that you've already made some valuable finds." he appeared unconcerned, and looked narrowly at his _vis à vis_ to see what effect his words had on him, possibly to draw him out. but mr. parker was too old a bird to be caught napping, even by a clever adventurer. instantly on his guard, he said carelessly: "the outlook is very bright, very promising indeed. our stockholders are quite satisfied, and it is likely that we shall make good money. but of course everything is in the experimental stage as yet." "but you have found diamonds--big diamonds?" "oh, yes," replied the president with affected carelessness; "we have picked up a few stones. as i told you, the prospects are very promising." "but haven't you recently made some extraordinary finds?" mr. parker shook his head. "no--nothing worth mentioning.'" keralio smiled skeptically. "isn't your memory somewhat at fault, cher monsieur? surely you haven't forgotten the two stones of enormous size just picked up--finds of sensational importance. the newspapers have been full of the story." mr. parker made a deprecatory gesture. "pshaw! my dear sir, you ought to know what newspaper talk is worth! no yarn is too fantastic to print so long as it sells their papers. we found two stones of fair size, it is true, but to say that they are of priceless value is a gross exaggeration." the italian eyed his companion closely. significantly he said: "they're valuable enough, however, to justify you in refusing to trust their shipment to ordinary channels and in going to the expense of sending to south africa one of your officers to whom is confided the task of bringing the gems home." "how did you know that?" demanded mr. parker, surprised. "there is very little i do not know," smiled keralio ironically, as he blew a ring of cigar smoke up to the ceiling. his curiosity aroused, the president of the a. a. m. co. was about to question his companion farther, but at that moment helen rose from the desk and came toward them. "i'm not in the humor to write now," she said. "i'd rather talk." sitting in a chair near them, she added quickly: "won't you let me get you some tea?" both men shook their heads. mr. parker rose. with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he said: "i'll go over to the others and take a hand at bridge. i want to make some money, signor--i'll leave you to entertain mrs. traynor." with a courteous salutation to his hostess, a graceful act of chivalrous politeness of which he was a past master, mr. parker crossed the room in the direction of the card table. chapter vi an awkward silence followed the president's departure. helen would have detained him had she dared. being alone with keralio was very distasteful to her. ill at ease in such close proximity to this man, whom she feared even more than she disliked, she sat still without saying a word. presently between puffs of his cigar, he said: "you really don't mind my smoking?" "oh, not at all." he bowed and again relapsed into silence. she looked at him sideways and wondered why this foreigner had always inspired her with such dislike. his manner was courteous, and he was decidedly handsome. he had white teeth and fine eyes. they were bold eyes, but so were the eyes of other men. they had a habit of looking a woman through and through. she always felt embarrassed under his close scrutiny. it seemed to her as if he were undressing her mentally and took pleasure in surveying critically and admirably every part of her as a connoisseur examines a statue. she had an uncomfortable feeling when near him. she was afraid to look straight in his eyes, afraid that possibly he might be able to throw some spell over her, exert some hypnotic influence that she would not be able to resist. she considered him a seductive, dangerous man, the kind of man every pure woman, every wife who wishes to remain faithful to her marriage vows should avoid. suddenly while she was looking at him, he turned his head toward her. before she could prevent it their eyes met. he did not avert his gaze, but kept his eyes fixed on hers as if trying to awaken in her some of his own ardor. she tried to look away, but she could not. he seemed to hold her there by sheer force of will power. frightened, she started to tremble in every limb. yet, to her astonishment, she had no feeling of anger or resentment. it seemed quite natural that this man should gaze at her in this intimate, caressing way. she found herself taking pleasure in it. her vanity was gratified. if he looked at her so persistently, it must be that he thought her pretty. her face began to burn, her bosom heaved, a strange sensation that heretofore only her husband had been able to arouse, came over her. and still his eyes were on hers, caressing, voluptuous. at the other end of this room the game of bridge was still in progress. ray was winning, as usual, and amusing the men with her wit and vivaciousness. mr. steell had glanced over in their direction several times, and he saw enough to convince him that the attentions of the fencing master were unwelcome to their hostess. had he caught helen's eye, had she made the slightest sign that she was being annoyed, he would have instantly left the game and gone over to the window, if only to break up the tête-à-tête, but she did not once look up. suddenly he remembered what had been suggested on the boat. it was an idea. ray at that moment got up to get some tea, and, profiting by the opportunity, the lawyer leaned over and whispered: "say, dick, you see that chap over there." the young man looked up. "who--the signor?" "yes. what do you know about him?" "nothing good--although nothing very bad for that matter. he's a dark horse--keeps pretty much to himself. he's well known in the gay resorts, in the gambling houses and where they play the ponies." "what's his reputation?" "he's known as a liberal spender. he's always flashing big rolls of money----" "where does he get it--not from the fencing school?" "no--that's only a blind." the lawyer lowered his voice. "dick, my boy, that fellow will bear watching, and you're the man to do it." "you want him shadowed?" "yes--find out where he goes, who he knows. my opinion is that he belongs to an international band of crooks--possibly counterfeiters, smugglers, or blackmailers. if you land him behind the bars you'll deserve well of your country." dick glanced once or twice in the direction of the object of their conversation, who, quite unconscious of their scrutiny, was still talking earnestly to helen. the young man smiled, his chest expanded with satisfaction, and grimly he said: "leave him to me." quite unconscious of the attention he attracted, the italian turned to helen. "you miss your husband very much?" "yes--terribly." "it must be lonely for you." "it is," she sighed. "yet you have your sister." "can a sister replace a husband?" he gave a low, musical laugh. "no--not a sister. a lover is preferable." quickly she retorted: "my husband is my lover---my lover is my husband." he laughed, as he said: "it sounds very pretty, but you must admit that it is rather banal." "in what way?" he flecked the ash from his cigar. "you are too pretty, too charming a woman to be commonplace. really it spoils you----" ignoring his compliments, she persisted. "do you mean i am commonplace because i call kenneth my lover. what other lover should i or any other woman happily married have? i am faithful to him--he is loyal to me." he gave a little mocking laugh, and was silent. how she hated him for that laugh! after a pause he said quietly and suggestively: "i am sure you are faithful to him----" for a moment she looked at him without speaking, eager to resent the implied imputation on her husband, yet unwilling to give the slanderer the satisfaction of seeing that his thrust had carried home. concealing as best she could her growing irritation, she said calmly: "don't you suppose _he_ also is faithful to me?" again that horrible, cynical smile. fixing her with his piercing dark eyes, and, in a manner, the significance of which could not escape her, he said: "don't seek to know too much, madam. to paraphrase a famous saying: 'it's a wise woman who knows her own husband.'" coloring with anger, she said: "you mean----" "just what i say--that a woman, a wife cannot possibly be sure of her husband's fidelity. think how different are the conditions. the wife, no matter if her temperament be warm or cold, is always at home, surrounded by prying eyes, rarely beset by temptation. the husband is often away, he goes on business journeys that free him temporarily from the chains which keep him in good behavior. if he is good looking, the women look at him, flirt with him. it is inevitable. the chances are that he succumbs to the first adventure--no matter how exemplary a husband he may be at home. if he is a man--of unusual character, he passes through the fire unscathed; if he is--just a man, he is attracted to the candle like the proverbial moth and sometimes singes his wings----" she looked at him keenly for a moment as if trying to read on his sphinx-like face if he knew more about kenneth than he admitted, and then with forced calmness she said: "in your opinion, signor keralio--is my husband a man--of unusual character, or is he--just a man?" the italian shrugged his shoulders as he replied deprecatingly: "my dear madam, just stop and think a moment. isn't that a rather indiscreet question to put to a man--a man who is a friend of your husband----" hotly she turned on him. "if you are his friend, why do you vilify and slander him behind his back?" keralio lifted up his long slender hands in pious protest. "i vilify--my best friend---- oh, my dear mrs. traynor--you have quite misunderstood me. i am a foreigner. perhaps it is that i express myself ill." she shook her head skeptically. firmly she said: "no, signor keralio--you express yourself quite plainly. now, i'll be equally frank with you. i confess there is one thing i do not understand. i have never understood it. i do not understand why my husband, a man so honorable, so straightforward in his dealings, a man so free from intrigue or reckless adventures, so regular, methodical and temperate in his habits, a man so entirely apart from the reckless, immoral kind of life you hint at, should have made a friend of _you_----" the italian raised his eyebrows, but there was only an amused smile on his bloodless lips as he said with a mock bow: "thank you, madam. you are very flattering." "no--i mean it. i don't want to seem unkind, but your temperament and my husband's are as wide apart as the poles." he opened wide his eyes as he asked, "in what particular, _s'il vous plait_?" "kenneth is frank, outspoken. he is not the type of man who takes rash risks. he is very conservative, scrupulously honest. he has fine ideals. while you----" he laughed loudly. "i? i am secretive, cunning, reckless, materialistic--is that it, madam?" "i did not say so, but since you draw your portrait so well----" he bit his lip. this girl with the flaxen hair and large lustrous eyes was more than a match for him in a battle of wits. he was making no headway at all. it was time to play his trump card. softly he said: "you said your husband was judicious, conservative----" "so he is." "that is a matter of opinion. some might think otherwise. of course, it is difficult for a woman when she is blinded by love----" "what do you mean?" "i mean that your husband is far from being the conservative, afraid-to-take-risks type of man you picture him. you women think you know your husbands. you know only such part of them as they themselves care to reveal. perhaps if you knew to what extent your husband was involved in wall street, it would surprise you! oh, everything is perfectly regular, of course. as treasurer of the americo-african mining company, he has at his disposal large sums of money. he is also trustee of several large and valuable estates. all of this money he is supposed to invest--conservatively. he certainly invests it. whether conservatively or not, i leave others to judge." "do you mean that he is using other people's money in wall street?" "i mean, my dear lady, that he has the get-rich-quick fever. he has a rage for stock gambling--he is already heavily involved. i have often warned him to go slower, to be more prudent, but he won't heed my counsel. you know, he is very headstrong--your husband. as long as everything goes well he is all right. if anything goes wrong, he might find himself in an unpleasant predicament. hasn't he spoken to you of these matters? why should he worry you? it is as i told you. husbands don't tell their wives everything--god forbid!" helen raised her hand. there was the ring of scorn in her voice as she exclaimed: "don't blaspheme, signor keralio. it sounds incongruous to hear the name of the almighty on the lips of a man of your opinions and tastes. you think you live, but you don't. you go through life, seeking only to gratify your appetites, attracted only by material sensual pleasures. you ignore the best part of life--the pursuit of an ideal, a noble ambition, unselfishness, self-sacrifice. really, signor, i pity you--with all my heart." he made no answer, but sat in silence watching her. presently he said: "mrs. traynor--do you know that you are an extraordinary woman?" "in what way?" she demanded, elevating her eyebrows in surprise. "you are either the cleverest or the most unsophisticated woman i have ever met. you are attractive enough to send a saint to perdition, yet you are quite indifferent to the power of your beauty and the tumult it arouses in the men who chance to cross your path. you seem to be absolutely without feeling. yet i don't believe you devoid of temperament. i think i know women. i have met a good many. you do not belong to the type of cold, passionless women." again his eyes sought hers and found them. again she tried to avoid his gaze and could not. there was something in his manner, his gestures, the tone of his voice, that conveyed to her more his real meaning than his actual words, yet, to her surprise, she was not aroused to anger. sure of herself, she found herself listening, wondering what he would say next, ready to flee at the first warning of peril, but playing a dangerous game like the moth in the flame. as she sat back on the sofa, her head in the sofa cushions, he leaned nearer to her, and in those low, musical tones which held her under a kind of spell, he murmured: "you are the cleverest woman i ever met." she smiled in spite of herself, and he, mistaking the motive, thought she intended it as an encouragement. he glanced round to see if anyone was watching them, but mr. parker was peacefully dozing in a deep armchair a dozen yards away, and at the far end of the room ray, steell and reynolds were engrossed in an exciting game of cards. leaning quickly over, he seized her hand. his voice vibrating with passion, he said: "not only the cleverest, but the most desirable of women. don't you see that you've set me afire? i'm mad for you! helen--i want you!" for a moment she was too stunned by his insolent daring to withdraw her hand, which he continued to press in his. his eyes flashing, he went on: "haven't you seen all along that i love you--desperately, passionately. you've set me afire. i'm mad for you. let me awaken that love that's in your breast, but which your husband has never awakened. let me----" he did not finish, for that moment a small, jeweled hand, suddenly torn from his grasp, struck him full on the mouth. rising and trying with difficulty to control the emotion in her voice, she said quickly: "you'd better go now--so as to prevent a scandal. if they knew, it might be awkward for you. of course, you must never come here again." that was all. she swept away from him with the dignity of an offended queen. the silence was deadly. all one heard was the silk rustle of her gown as she moved across the floor. "it's my say," exclaimed ray. "i lead with trumps," said steell. "signor keralio has to go. isn't it too bad!" mr. steell and dick rose and bowed politely. there was nothing to be done. he was ignominiously dismissed like a lackey caught pilfering. but there was black wrath in his heart as he picked himself up, and turning to the others, he bowed and said: "good night." chapter vii dawn broke over the desert region of the kalihari. the gray mists of the south african night slowly dissolved on the approach of the rising sun, until the crimson glow of the coming day, spreading high in the eastern heavens, tipped with gold the snow-clad peaks of the drachenberg, and then, swiftly inundating the valley like a flood, chased away the shadows and filled the undulating plains with warmth and light. stretched out near the flickering embers of an expiring camp fire, not half a day's _trek_ from the vaal river, lay what, at first view, appeared to be bundles of rags. a closer inspection showed them to be the prostrate forms of two men, asleep. huddled close together, as if seeking all possible protection from the keen air of the open _veldt_, they appeared grateful even for the little warmth that still came from the dying fire. every now and again a tiny flame, bursting from one of the smouldering logs, would light up the recumbent figures, revealing a brief glimpse of the sleepers. both bore traces of desperate need. the rags they wore were filthy, and gave only scant protection from the weather, their emaciated faces and hollowed cheeks told eloquently of many days of fatigue and hunger; their feet, long since without shoes, were clumsily protected from the rocky _veldt_ by pieces of coarse sacking. for weeks they had tramped across the great, merciless desert, guided only by the stars, often losing the trail, begging their way from farm to farm, glad to do little jobs for friendly boers in return for a meal, always in peril of attack by hostile kaffirs, yet never halting, trudging ever onward in their anxiety to reach the coast. that was the haven they painfully sought--the open sea where at least there was a chance to die among their fellows and not perish miserably like dogs on the lonely. god-forsaken plains, with only the howling jackal and the screaming vulture to pick their bones. they had tried and they had lost in the great gamble. like thousands of other reckless adventurers attracted to the newly discovered diamond country, they had rushed out there from england, confident that they, too, could wrest from nature that wonderful gem, ever associated with tragedy and romance, mystery and crime, for the possession of which, since history began, men have been ready to give up their lives. confident of their success, they had risked all on a turn of the wheel, and fortune, mocking their puny efforts, had first ruined and then degraded them, afterward sending them back home to die. it was now quite light. the fire, which had flickered up fitfully at intervals, was entirely extinguished. a chilly wind had started to blow from the plateau on the north. the strangers stirred uneasily in their sleep and awoke almost simultaneously. sitting up with a start, they yawned and rubbed their eyes. "what show o' gettin' some breakfast, handsome?" asked the smaller of the two. "damned little!" was the profane and laconic rejoinder. they were men still in the early thirties. one was short and stocky, his face slightly pock-marked. pictures of a mermaid and anchor clumsily tattooed in indigo on his wrist showed him to be a sailor. in fact, dick hickey, boatswain on _h. h. s. tartar_, having taken french leave of his ship, as she lay in cape town harbor, ran a very good chance of being taken back to england in irons as a deserter. just now he was serenely indifferent as to what happened to him. half dead from exposure and lack of nourishment, he would have gladly welcomed ship's officers or anybody else so long as there was some relief from his present sufferings. meantime he spent what little breath he had left in cursing his hard luck, and blaming his companion as being solely responsible for his misfortune. the latter was some few years his senior, stalwart and clean-limbed. he appeared to be over six feet in height and a man of splendid physique. at first glance it was evident that he came of superior stock. his shapely hands were grimy, his eyes of a peculiarly light shade of blue were hollow and haggard looking. his face, emaciated and ghastly, was almost livid. a clean-cut chin was covered with several weeks' growth of beard. yet, underneath all these repellant externals, there was in his every attitude that indefinable refinement of manner which the world always associates with a gentleman. his dark hair, disheveled and matted, was unusually thick and bushy, with the exception of one spot, in the center of his forehead, where there was a single white lock, a capillary phenomenon, which imparted at once to his face from its very unusualness an individuality quite its own. no one knew who he was or where he came from. they called him "handsome jack," partly because of his good looks and also on account of his reckless liberality with his cronies when flush. what his real name was no one knew or cared. it was a time when no one asked questions. as soon as the news of the astonishing diamond discoveries reached europe, men began to flock to south africa. adventurers from all over the world gathered in cape town, a motley crew of incompetents and blacklegs, an investigation into the antecedents of any of whom was apt to have unpleasant results. that he was a professional gambler, he made no attempt to conceal, and that he had knocked about the world a good deal was also to be inferred from his wide knowledge of men and places. a man of aggressive, domineering personality, he was not without a certain following, attracted by his skill with cards and dice, but he was more feared than liked, and his reputation as a dangerous gunman kept inquisitive strangers at a safe distance. he was well known in every den frequented by the criminal and vicious, and it was in one of these resorts that hickey had met him. the sailor had lost all his savings at faro. dead broke, he was ready for anything which promised to recoup his fortunes. handsome jack laid before him a scheme which would make them both rich beyond the dreams of avarice. the recent discoveries on the vaal had startled the world. a native had picked up a stone weighing over carats. they might be equally lucky. all that was needed was pluck and patience. the plan was to make their way as best they could to the vaal fields, jump a claim, and dig for diamonds. they set out secretly, avoiding the larger caravans, making the long trek across the great plateau, partly by ox wagon, partly on foot. the trail led through a wild, desolate country, and gradually they left civilization hundreds of miles behind them. as far as the eye could reach in every direction was a monotonous desert of stone and sand, broken every now and then by small kopjies, the sides and summits of which were sparsely covered with thick brush and coarse grass. scattered here and there, some twenty miles apart, were the homesteads of the boer farmers and the thatched kraals of the dark-skinned kaffirs. over this lonely waste sheep and cattle wandered undisturbed by springbok, ostriches, crocodiles, mountain lions and other wild animals. in this barren spot nature had concealed her treasures. a child's cry of joy over a pretty pebble led to their discovery. the little son of a boer farmer was playing one day in the fields near the homestead when his eye was attracted by something glittering at his feet. stooping, he picked up a stone unlike any other he had ever seen. interested, he began to look for others and found a number of them, which with great glee he carried home to show his mother. the worthy woman paid little heed to what, in her ignorance, she regarded merely as pretty stones, but she happened to speak about them to a neighboring farmer, who asked to look at them. already tired of his new plaything, the child had thrown the stones away, but one was found in the field close by, and the neighbor, a shrewd dutchman, who had heard of certain stones picked up in that locality having a certain value, offered to buy it. the good woman laughed at the idea of selling a stone, and made him a present of it. the farmer took it to the nearest town, where experts declared it to be a twenty-one carat diamond, worth $ , . round the world the telegraph flashed this remarkable story, and the rush to south africa began. that was in . in may of that year there were about a hundred men at the diggings in the vaal fields. before the next month had closed there were seven hundred. by april of the following year five thousand men were digging frantically in the mud along the vaal and orange rivers. it was a rough, lawless gathering of men of every nationality under the sun, the criminal and the vicious, the idle and the worthless. the region being inside the border lines of the waste territory that lay between the boers and the hottentots, it was therefore no man's land, and beyond the pale of established law and order. the miners, compelled, in self-protection, to institute laws of their own, appointed committees to issue licenses, keep the peace, and punish offenders. natives were whipped; white men were banished, and from this rough-and-ready justice there was no appeal. when handsome and hickey arrived at the diggings, the fever was still at its height, and having secured a claim, they went to work with a will. claims were thirty feet square, and to prevent speculation in them the owner, in order to hold title, was compelled to toil incessantly. it was hard work, harder work than handsome had ever been put to in all his life. at the end of a few days, the skin was scraped off his hands from shoveling, and he had such a kink in his back that he couldn't straighten up. but he had come to stay, and a little; discomfort was not going to scare him. their implements, purchased at the diggings, consisted of pick, shovel and rocker, this last being a box arranged on rockers like a baby's cradle. it was a clumsy yet useful contrivance, in which were fastened, one above the other, wire screens of varying fineness, the coarsest being on top. as handsome dug the yellow earth out of the hole he shoveled it into the top screen. when it was full hickey poured in water while he rocked. the water washed the dirt through the holes, leaving the stones. these were taken out, emptied onto a sorting table, where handsome scraped off the worthless peddles [transcriber's note: pebbles?], saving anything that seemed of value. as a rule, and much to hickey's disgust, the table was scraped clean. sometimes the sailor would make a joyful exclamation on seeing some glittering pieces of rock crystal, thinking he had found a prize, only to be disappointed a moment later when a more experienced miner assured him it was worthless. both soon learned, however, to recognize at sight the precious gems, and, although few came their way, they saw many brought to the surface by luckier neighbors. one day sounds of great rejoicing was heard in their tent. they had worked hard for over a month without finding anything, and were feeling greatly discouraged and dejected, when all at once something happened. handsome had been rocking the cradle in a listless sort of way, and hickey was sorting the residue, when suddenly the sailor gave a wild whoop of delight. darting forward, he held up a glittering stone. examination proved it to be a genuine diamond, weighing about ten carats, and valued at about $ , . it was not much of a find, but it was enough to turn their heads. dropping all work, they both proceeded to have "a good time," going on a drunken orgie, which lasted just as long as the money held out. when they came to their senses they were worse off than before. weakened by prolonged debauch, they were in no mood for digging, and to complicate matters some one had jumped their claim during their absence. even their tools had disappeared. without resource or credit, they could not procure others. yet work they must to keep the wolf from the door, so, cursing others when they had only themselves to blame, handsome secured employment, digging for another miner, while the sailor performed such occasional odd jobs as he could pick up. broken in spirit, enraged at the long spell of ill luck, handsome began to drink heavily. every cent he made went to the grog shop, and hickey, never over fond of work at any time, was only too glad of an excuse to drink with him. the two cronies filled themselves with rum until their reason tottered, and they became beasts, refusing to work, growing ugly, even menacing, preferring to beg the food their empty stomachs craved for rather than toil, as before. at last they made themselves such a nuisance that the attention of the vigilance committee was called to their particular case. in short order they were hauled up and ordered to leave camp. there was no alternative but to obey, and thus began the dreary trek homeward of the two broken and miserable outcasts. "we cawn't go on much longer like this," moaned hickey. he made a painful effort to get up, but his joints, stiff from the all-night exposure, refused to obey his will, and he fell back with a groan. handsome, more successful, had already risen, and was scanning the horizon on every side. except for the kopjies, which in places obstructed the view, there was a clear range for ten miles or more. if anything alive moved within the field of vision, they could not help seeing it, but nothing greeted their eyes. there was neither man or beast to be seen; seemingly they were still many weary miles from the nearest homestead. "we must go on," replied handsome determinedly. impatiently he added: "what do you want to do--stay here and let the jackals gnaw your bones?" hickey, too weak to argue, shook his head despondently. "you go on, handsome. leave me here. i cawn't go any further, s' help me gawd! my feet hurt somethin' awful. i'm all in. if ye get 'ome safe, go and see the old folks, will ye, and tell 'em i put up a good fight?" "hell!" retorted the other savagely. "don't squat there crying like a baby. be a man. get up and let's hike it to the nearest homestead." shading his eyes as he gazed earnestly over the plain, he added: "i see smoke in the distance. it can't be far off. come----" suddenly, to his astonishment, hickey leaped to his feet, with an agility unheard of in one so nearly dying. pointing to the nearest kopjie, he shouted hoarsely: "look! there's a man--near that kopjie--he's coming this way!" it was no dream. a man, unarmed and unaccompanied, was advancing toward them. from his dress and manner, it was easy to see that he was not a boer farmer. he looked more like an englishman or an american. scarcely able to believe the evidence of his own eyes, handsome watched his progress. as he came nearer, he waved his hand to show that he saw them, and he walked faster, as if afraid that they might disappear before he could reach them. hickey, unable to restrain himself, had run forward, and in a few minutes they met. "who are you?" demanded the stranger, whose face, shaded as it was by a big canvas helmet, it was difficult to see. "miners from the vaal," answered hickey. "who are you?" "i am a frenchman--françois chalat. i am ze valet of an american gentleman. our party not know ze road. we has wandered from what you call ze trail. will you show ze way to us?" "where's your party?" demanded hickey. françois pointed to a kopjie about three miles distant. "there! behind zat hill." just at that moment, handsome came lumbering up almost on the run, anxious to know what it was all about. "have you any whiskey?" was his first breathless ejaculation. "we're starving." the valet made no answer. he was too startled to speak. drawing back a few steps, he stared blankly at the big fellow. for several minutes he stood as if struck dumb. presently, when he found his speech, he asked in awed tones: "who are you? what's your name?" "what business is it of yours?" snapped handsome, with some show of irritation. "have you any food or whiskey? we're starving." the valet made no answer, but just stared in astonished silence at the big six-footer who towered above him. for a moment he had thought it a trick that his master had played upon him. by walking quickly he had got there before him, and dressed up in these rags just to have fun with him. but that matted hair and that chin, with its weeks of growth of beard. he could not be deceived in that. no, this man was not his employer. could it be possible, was it--his twin brother long since given up for dead? the same physique, the same features, the same eyes, the same thick, bushy hair with the single lock of white hair in the center of the forehead. there was no room for doubt. it was his employer's brother. it was just as well to make friends. drawing a flask from his pocket and holding it out, he said: "here, take a drink. you need it." eagerly, handsome snatched it out of his hand. "you bet we do." he took a deep gulp and handed it to hickey, whose bleary eyes had watered at the very sight of the flask. françois turned to handsome. "where is ze trail?" he asked. "over yonder," growled the big fellow in surly tones and making a sweeping gesture with his arm which embraced every quarter of the compass. "rather indefinite, i should say," smiled the valet. "where you go? are you on ze way to ze mines?" handsome jack took another pull at the flask. his good humor returning in proportion as he felt warmed up by the spirits, he said more amiably: "i guess not. my pal and i have enough of the cursed place--ain't we, hickey?" the sailor man glanced dolefully at his limping foot, and nodded his head in acquiescence. "you show us the trail home. my boss is very rich man," interrupted françois quickly. "he pay anything." handsome pricked up his ears. "oh, he's rich, is he?" the valet laughed as he replied: "all americans rich--très riches. did you ever hear of poor americans?" hickey took another drink and snickered. handsome looked thoughtful. after a pause, he said: "what your boss' name?" "monsieur traynor of the americo-african mining co." handsome started. "what? kenneth traynor, of the americo-african mining company--the people who made those sensational finds." "yes--he's vice-president of the company." handsome gave a low, expressive whistle. "he's rich--all right! do you know what those stones are worth?" "over a million dollairs." "and he came out here to----" the valet nodded. "_oui_--zat's it--to get ze big diamonds. we're on our way back from ze mines now. he has ze stones in his possession." "and taking them to new york?" gasped handsome; "a million dollars' worth?" "yes--taking zem to new york. that's what he came out for. we want to reach ze coast as soon as possible. again i ask. will you guide us back to ze trail?" for a few moments handsome made no answer. the thoughtful expression on his pale, care-worn face showed that he was thinking hard. what was passing in his mind no one knew, but whatever it was it caused the lines about his strong mouth to tighten and the steely blue eyes to flash. a million dollars? god! what will a man not do for a million dollars? turning to the valet, he said hastily: "yes, i'm on. take me to your party. i'll show you the trail. quick, lead the way." chapter viii traveling to and from the diamond fields in the days immediately following the first rush was not an unmixed joy. express wagons drawn by eight horses or mules and running from cape town to klipdrift once a week charged passengers sixty dollars a head, the journey across the plains taking about eight days. travelers whose business was so urgent that they could not wait for the regular stage had to hire a team of their own at a much higher expense. kenneth did not mind the cost, if only he was able to make good time. the trip to the mines had been accomplished without mishap. everything had gone as well as could be desired. he had been successful in securing valuable land options for the company, and at last the two precious stones were in his possession. that it was a big responsibility, he fully realized. the very knowledge that he had on his person gems worth over a million dollars, and this in a wild, uncivilized country where at any moment he might be followed, ambushed and killed, and no one the wiser, was not calculated to calm his nerves. but kenneth traynor had never known the meaning of the word fear. he was ready for any emergency and he went about unarmed, cool and unruffled. from his demeanor at least no one could guess that he ever gave a thought to the valuable consignment of which he was the guardian. of course, it had been impossible to keep the thing secret. everybody at the mines knew he had come out for the purpose of taking the big stones to america. even his drivers knew, and so did françois. the news was public property and was eagerly discussed over every camp fire as one of the sensations of the day. all this publicity did not tend to lessen the risk, and that was why he was so anxious to reach cape town without the least possible delay. he had timed his departure from the mines so as to just catch the steamer for england, and now, after all his trouble and careful calculation, the fool mule drivers had gone and lost the trail. it was most exasperating. the wagon had come to a halt the night before under shelter of a fair-sized kopjie. the mules, tormented by the deadly _tetse_ fly, stood whisking their tails and biting savagely at their hereditary enemy; the drivers, indifferent and stolid, sat on the ground smoking their pipes, while kenneth, fuming at this unlooked for mishap which threatened an even more serious delay, strode up and down the _veldt_, swearing at the mules, the stolid drivers and everything else in sight. françois, who had left camp for assistance long before sunrise, had not yet returned. unless help came soon they'd be held there another night. there was no use trying to proceed without a guide, for they might find themselves going round and round in a circle. there was nothing to do but wait until help came. sitting down on the stump of a tree near the fire, he tried to possess his soul in patience while one of the teamsters, who also officiated as cook, busied himself getting breakfast. it was now broad daylight; the weather clear and cold. as he sat there idly and smoked reflectively, his thoughts wandered homeward, four thousand miles across the seas. he wondered what helen was doing, if little dorothy was well, if everything was all right. only now he realized what the word home meant to him, and a chill ran through him as he thought of all the things that could happen. yet how foolish it was to worry. what could happen? helen had her sister constantly with her, and she was well looked after by mr. parker and wilbur steell. it was absurd to have any anxiety on that score. besides, if anything had gone wrong, they would certainly have called him. he had had several letters from helen, all of them saying she and baby were well and waiting eagerly for his return. yes, he would soon be home now. in another two days he would reach cape town. from there to southampton was only a fortnight's sail, and in another week he would be in new york. these and kindred thoughts of home ran through his mind as he sat before the camp fire and tranquilly smoked his pipe. the drivers were busying themselves cleaning the harness, the mules were docilely browsing, the air was filled by a fragrant odor of coffee. his memories went back to his boyhood days. he recalled what the old nurse had told him about a twin brother. how strange it would be if he ever turned up. such things were possible, of course, but hardly probable. no, the chances were that he was dead. if he had lived, how different everything might have been. he would have inherited half their father's money. what had been enough to start one so well in life would only have been a meagre provision for two. yet it might have been an advantage, forced him to still greater effort. he might have got even farther than he had--who knows? at that moment his reflections were interrupted by the sound of voices in the distance. he heard some one running. one of the teamsters came up hurriedly and exclaimed breathlessly: "he's found some one, sir; he's got two men with him. they're coming now." kenneth jumped up and, shading his eyes, looked out across the yellow waste of stones and gravel. about a mile away he saw françois, accompanied by two strangers, who looked like miners. they were tattered and miserable looking, as if down on their luck. one of them was limping as if lame; the other, much taller, although ragged and forlorn, had a soldierly bearing and the appearance of a gentleman. the valet, who had been walking faster than his companions, came up at that instant. "who have you got there?" demanded kenneth. "two miners, monsieur. i found zem several miles away on ze _veldt_. they have tramped for days without food; they are starving." "do they know the trail?" "yes, monsieur. ze big man knows ze trail. he will show ze way--for a consideration." "good! first give them some breakfast and then we'll go." he waved his hand in the direction of the cook's mess, where the coffee was already steaming on the fire, and, turning away, began to gather his things together, preparatory to departure. there was no reason why he should have anything to say to the strangers. in fact, it would be better if they did not see him, or know who he was. it was possible that they had been at the mines when he arrived, in which case they would instantly recognize him as the american who had come to take the big diamonds to new york. besides, they were not particularly attractive objects. what did their adventures and mishaps matter to him? he had troubles of his own. françois could look after their wants. the main thing was to find the trail and get started back toward cape town as soon as possible. when the strangers had been fed they would set out, and, the trail once found, he would give them a lift on their way and a few sovereigns into the bargain. that would more than compensate them for all their trouble. meanwhile he thought he would take a quiet walk. his legs were stiff from sitting so long. a little exercise would do him the world of good. so, without a word to anybody, he slipped out of camp unobserved and started off at a brisk gait. the region where they had halted seemed to be the center of nowhere, a land where had reigned for all time the abomination of desolation spoken of by all the prophets. knocking about the world, as he had done for a lifetime, kenneth had seen some queer spots in the world, but never had he come across so savagely repellent a spot as this. it was nature in her harshest mood--not a vestige in any direction of human or animal life. there was not a farm, not a boer or kaffir, not even a tree to be seen. nothing in every direction but a monotonous waste of yellow sand, rough stones and stunted grass. an unnatural stillness filled the air, making the silence oppressive, and uncanny. the soil was so poor that cultivation was impossible. the ground, strewn with broken rocks and sharp stones which cut the shoes and hurt the feet, suggested that in prehistoric times the plateau had been swept by a volcanic tempest. the slopes of the few scattered kopjies were sparsely covered with verdure and as he strode along, he passed here and there clumps of trees, veritable oases in the desert, or deep water holes under overhanging rocks where under cover of night, strange beasts came to drink. apart from these few oases, it was a dreary monotonous waste of rock and sand, where neither beast or man could find food or shelter. he had walked about three miles and was just passing a kopjie where a group of stunted trees offered a little shelter from the glare of the sun on the yellow gravel when he began to feel tired. sitting down on a decayed tree stump, he took out his pipe, removed his helmet, and laying lazily back, closed his eyes, a favorite trick of his when he wished to concentrate his thoughts. the trip, tiresome as it was, had certainly been worth while. his ambitious dreams had been more than realized. he could scarcely wait for his arrival to tell helen the good news. he had secured signatures to a plan of consolidation of practically all the mining companies operating in south africa. until now, these companies had been engaged in a fierce and disastrous competition, which cut into each other's profits and cheapened the market price of stones. he had suggested a scheme of amalgamation which would put all the mines under one management, and fix arbitrary prices for diamonds which henceforth could not be sold under a certain figure agreed upon by the syndicate. this plan, which had the general approval of the mining companies, practically gave kenneth traynor control of the diamond industry of the world, an industry which in south africa alone had already produced , , carats estimated to be worth $ , , . overnight, kenneth found himself many times a millionaire. it had come at last--what he waited for all these years. this new consolidation deal meant great wealth to its promoters. what would he do with it? most men need only enough for their actual needs, but he had higher aims. an ardent socialist he would use his money for the cause. not, however, in the way others did, but to buy influence, power. he would fight capitalism, in his own way. he would go into politics, run for public office, try and remedy some of the economic abuses from which people of the united states were now suffering. he would wage warfare on the high cost of living, on greed and graft. he would attack the plutocracy in its stronghold, lay bare the inner workings of the system, the concentration of the wealth of the entire country in the hands of a few, by which the rich each year were becoming richer and the poor each year poorer. it would not be the first time a multi-millionaire had espoused the cause of the proletariat, but he would carry on the fight more vigorously than anyone had done. he would force an issue, make greed disgorge its ill-gotten gains and accord to labor its rightful place in the sun, its proper share of the world's production of wealth. his sympathies in the bitter struggle between the capitalists and the wage earners were wholly with the people who under the present wage system, had little chance to raise themselves from the mire. but he was intelligent enough to realize that the faults were not all on the side of capital. labor, too, needed the curb at times. too ready to listen to the reckless harangues of irresponsible professional demagogues, wage earners were often as tyrannical as capitalists, insisting on impossible demands, rejecting sober compromise which, in the end, must be the basis of all amicable relations between employer and employed. for some time he sat there, giving free rein to his imagination, when suddenly he fancied he heard the sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the hard sand. raising his head he looked quickly round but seeing no one, concluded he was mistaken. looking at his watch, he was amazed to find that he had been away from camp a whole hour. there was no time to be lost. the men had certainly finished eating by now; they could start at once. jumping up he turned round to retrace his steps the same way he had come, when, suddenly, a shadow fell between him and the white road. looking up, he was startled to see himself reflected as in a mirror against the green background of the kopjie. at first he thought he must be ill. the walk, the sun, the exposure had no doubt overstimulated him and made him excited and feverish. he was seeing things. his success with the diamond deal had affected his brain. of course, it was only an hallucination. the next time he looked this fantastic creation of his disordered mind would be gone. again he glanced up in the direction of the kopjie. the apparition was still there, a horrible, monstrous, distortion of himself, standing still, speechless, staring at him. that it was only a mirage there could be no doubt. he had heard of such mirages at sea and also in the sahara where wandering arabs have beheld long caravans journeying in the skies. but he had never heard of a mirage lasting as long as this one. would it never disappear? it must be a nightmare which still obsessed him. that was it. he had fallen asleep on the tree and was not yet awake. with an effort he made a step forward and tried to articulate, but the words stuck in his throat. suddenly the spell was broken by the apparition itself, which moved and spoke. he recognized who it was now--one of the strangers brought in by françois--but that astonishing likeness of himself-- judging by the astonished expression on his face, handsome was just as much surprised as kenneth at the encounter. after satisfying his hunger he, too, had strayed away from the camp, unable to control his impatience while the teamsters were harnessing the mule team. he had left hickey to gorge still more while he strutted on by himself, cogitating on what the valet had told him in regard to the diamonds. this sudden meeting with the very man who had been uppermost in his thoughts was surprising enough, and instantly he, also, was struck with the extraordinary resemblance between them. "who the devil are you?" he demanded in surly tones. thus rudely aroused to the reality, and seeing that it was really a creature of flesh and blood he had to deal with and not a creature of another world, kenneth answered haughtily: "i'm not accustomed to being addressed in that manner." handsome laughed mockingly. with affected politeness he retorted: "your lordship's servant! what is his lordship's pleasure?" kenneth did not hear the taunting reply or heed the sneer. he was still staring at this counterpart of himself, this very image yet who was not himself, but a human derelict, a wretched, sodden outcast. all at once, an overwhelming, horrible suggestion rushed across his brain. could it be, was it--his long lost twin brother? almost gasping, he demanded: "who are you?" handsome chuckled. "i don't know." "what is your name?" the man chuckled. "they call me handsome. that's because i'm a good looker. i have had a good many other names, but i've forgotten what they are. the police know. it's all in the records." "my god--a police record!" "what of it?" bitterly he added: "we can't all be fine gentlemen and millionaires." "where are you from?" "nowhere." "who were your parents?" "never had any that i know of." kenneth started forward and, seizing the man's left hand, closely examined it. yes, there was the scar on the index finger of the left hand. no further doubt was possible. this was his brother. handsome, meantime, had been watching the other's agitation with mingled interest and amusement. hoarsely, kenneth cried: "where have you been all these years?" handsome stared as if he thought his interlocutor had gone crazy. almost angrily he retorted: "what d----d business is it of yours?" paying no heed to the miner's offensive attitude, and anxious only to learn something of his history, kenneth approached him and held out his hand. "i wish to be your friend." handsome drew back suspiciously. always associated with evil himself, he looked for only evil from others. bitterly he retorted: "my friend--what do your kind care for poor devils like me?" for answer, kenneth removed his helmet, suddenly revealing the solitary lock of white hair. handsome fell back in surprise. for the first time he realized the extraordinary resemblance. he had noticed a marked likeness before, but now the diamond promoter's helmet was off, it was positively startling. hoarsely he exclaimed: "the devil! who are you? you look just like----" kenneth looked at him keenly for a moment. then he said calmly: "yes--i look just like you. no wonder. you are--my brother!" [illustration: "yes, you are my brother. we are twins."] "your brother?" "yes--my brother. we are twins. you were kidnapped by gypsies thirty-two years ago. our old nurse told me the story for the first time the day before i sailed from new york. she also told me about that scar on your hand. you cut it badly when you were a year old and the scar has remained ever since. everybody believed you dead. where have you been all these years?" handsome made no answer but fell back a few steps, and passed his hand over his brow as if bewildered. this astonishing revelation had been made so suddenly that it had left him dazed. a wild, improbable tale, it seemed, yet perhaps there was some truth in it. he had never known who his parents were and it had always seemed to him that he came of better stock than those with whom he associated. then again, there was the ridiculous likeness. one had only to look at them both--it was the same face. slowly, gradually, as he looked more closely at kenneth the conviction grew stronger that this, indeed, was his brother, his own flesh and blood, yet it aroused within him no emotion and left him entirely cold. no impulse seized him to throw himself into this man's arms and embrace him. his heart was steeled against the world. human affection and sympathy had dried up in his breast years ago. what he saw was not a kinsman, a brother, but a man who had succeeded in life where he had failed, a man who was rich and happy while he was poor and miserable, a man who had everything while he had nothing. and if the tale were true, if indeed, he were this rich man's brother, it only made matters worse, for he had been robbed of his rightful inheritance. this rich man was enjoying wealth half of which rightfully belonged to him. again kenneth demanded: "where have you been all these years?" "here, there, everywhere," was the sullen answer. "london, paris, brussels, vienna, new york, boston, chicago, havana, buenos ayres. i know them all and they know me--perhaps too well. my earliest recollection is of the italian quarter in new york, a long narrow always dirty street, bordered on either side by dilapidated greasy tenements, ricketty fire escapes filled with biddy and garbage. pietro lived there and kept his organ in the basement cellar. when pietro went out with the organ he took me along to excite sympathy. until i was fifteen years old i begged to support pietro. one day he beat me and i ran away and shipped as cabin boy on a sailing vessel bound for liverpool. i reached london and found employment as stable boy at ascot. there i learned the fatal fascination of gambling. with what i saved from my wages i bet on the horses. i won and won again. i went back to london and frequented the gambling houses. i won, always won. one day there was a row. someone complained i had cheated. the police arrested me. when i left jail i went to the continent and began gambling again. i have gambled ever since." pointing in the direction of the mines he added bitterly: "that was my last gamble and i lost. that's all i have to tell." kenneth listened with keen interest. when the other stopped speaking he asked: "and now--what will you do?" handsome shrugged his shoulders and made no answer. kenneth went on: "you can't keep up the old life--that is impossible. you owe something to the blood that's running in your veins. there is only one thing for you to do. you must break off with the past for good, and come home with me. are you known in new york?" handsome shook his head. "no, i never returned there since i was a child." "your operations in america were confined to san francisco, chicago and st. louis----" "yes." kenneth breathed more freely. "that makes matters easier. no one in new york, therefore, has anything against you. there it will be possible to live down your past. you will cease being an outcast, a wanderer on the face of the earth. you will take the place in society for which nature intended you." handsome smiled cynically. grimly he replied: "i guess nature never expected much of me." "you never can tell," said kenneth quickly. "your environments no doubt were responsible for your downfall. you have been a victim of circumstances." handsome was silent. this free roving life had come second nature to him. he looked with suspicion on any other. after a pause, he asked: "what can i do in new york?" "i will dress and house you like a gentleman. for a time you can make your home with us. if we find we can't agree, well--we'll part. i will find you employment----" handsome laughed. mockingly he said: "then i am to be dependent on you----" "no--not on me----. on your own efforts. there is no reason why, if given a chance, you will not make a success in the world. you are still young and energetic. i will give you a start in any line you wish to enter. i will make you a present of $ , . it should be enough capital to start in any business." handsome shrugged his shoulders. "charity?" he exclaimed. "no--not charity--brotherly affection." his brother laughed mockingly. bitterly he exclaimed: "maybe it's conscience money." "what do you mean?" "you inherited from our father, didn't you?" "yes--but i've increased it a hundred-fold by my own efforts." "how much did he leave you?" "twenty thousand dollars." "why didn't he leave me some?" "he believed you dead. the sum i offer you is the sum you would have inherited from our father had he known you were living. do you accept?" handsome was silent. his brain was working fast. what this man offered him was the merest pittance. put out at interest, it would give him the princely income of $ a week. what did he care for the good opinion of the world? he had knocked about so long, roughing it everywhere, that he might as well end as he had begun--an adventurer. suddenly there flashed across his brain a wild, audacious idea--a scheme so fantastic, so fraught with adventure and peril that the very thought gave him a thrill. it involved violence, possibly a crime. well, what of it? he was not the kind to be deterred by trifles. this man was nothing to him. brotherly love, family ties--these were simply phrases to one who had never known them. he knew and obeyed only one instinct--the fight for life, the survival of the fittest. society had waged war on him; he would be merciless in his war on society. this man--this alleged brother, threw him a sop, insulted him by offering him charity. why should he hesitate? it was his life or another's. there was a big prize to be won. life was sweet when one has millions to enjoy it with. this man had now on his person diamonds worth over a million and he had more millions at home. suppose something happened to this man here in south africa and he went home in his stead to take his place in his household and enjoy his millions? who would know the difference? impatient at the other's silence kenneth demanded somewhat sharply: "well--what do you say? do you accept?" he looked straight at his _vis-à-vis_, but handsome avoided his direct gaze. he was silent for another moment as if reflecting. then, slowly, he said: "yes, i accept." chapter ix the string orchestra, adroitly concealed behind a bank of graceful exotic plants, struck up a languorous waltz, and the couples, only too eager to respond to the invitation, began to turn and glide over the polished parquet floor. not since its master's departure for south africa had the traynor residence been the scene of so much life and gayety. every window literally blazed with light. from the front door at the top of the high stoop down to the edge of the street curb, stretched a canvas awning to protect arriving guests from the inclemency of the weather. it was a stormy night. the rain was falling in torrents, but no one cared. everybody was out for a good time and they knew that this was the house to get it. helen's first impulse had been to postpone the affair, held really in celebration of ray's birthday, until kenneth's return, but as this idea had met with decided opposition from the younger element, she had reluctantly given way. besides, there was no knowing when kenneth would return. nothing as yet had been heard from him excepting a brief cablegram announcing his safe arrival at cape town, and it was manifestly unfair to let her own inclinations stand in the way of the happiness of others. so, after due reflection, she had surrendered completely, giving ray _carte blanche_ to make what arrangements she chose. that young person did not stand on the order of going. she acted at once and sent out invitations to what proved to be one of the biggest _soirées dansantes_ of the season. everything was done on a most liberal scale. the house was decorated by herly, three picturesque fiddlers were obtained from an agency, and mazzoni, who provides delicacies for the " ," had charge of the catering. everybody who was anybody was invited, all ray's personal friends besides a lot of people she did not know so well. a number of helen's intimates were there and also some men friends of mr. steell and dick reynolds. the girls in their light gowns looked pretty as angels. the men were handsome, attentive and gallant. altogether, everyone voted it one of the most enjoyable social affairs of the year. ray had danced her sixth waltz and at last utterly exhausted, unable to stand any more, she allowed dick reynolds to escort her to a sofa. "please get me an ice, will you? that's a dear boy," she gasped. "will i!" echoed the youth. "what wouldn't i do for you--fire and water--that's all!" "as bad as that?" laughed the girl panting. "please don't be silly. go and get me an ice." obediently, he left her and forced his way through the throng to the buffet, while ray, left alone, started to fan herself vigorously. as she sat there helen passed on the arm of mr. parker. the president stopped short and quizzed the young girl. "you here?" ejaculated the old gentleman in mock amazement. "why aren't you dancing? this will never do." helen smiled. "i expect she's tired out. this is the first time i've seen her sit down all evening." ray nodded. "you've guessed right, sis. i'm nearly dead. i sent dick for an ice." "did you ever see such a crowd?" remarked the president of the a. a. m. company as he surveyed the throng that passed in and out of the rooms. "oh, mrs. traynor we're having such a jolly time," exclaimed a tall graceful girl, gracefully dressed in light blue empire gown with grecian head dress. "i'm so glad, dear," smiled the hostess amiably. turning to mr. parker as the girl passed on she asked: "do you know who that is?" he shook his head. "she's the granddaughter of john r. rockerford, the money king. fancy her saying this is jolly after the grandeur she is accustomed to!" "no doubt she likes this better," retorted ray. "those very rich people don't do things any better than we--sometimes not so well. their parties are too stiff and formal." suddenly mr. parker nudged his hostess. "here comes mrs. brewster-curtis," he said in a stage whisper. "they say her husband's worth ten millions--all made from graft." a handsome woman, blazing with diamonds, came up. addressing helen, she exclaimed gushingly: "oh, mrs. traynor, isn't this perfectly delightful? how do you do, mr. parker. do you know i haven't enjoyed myself so much this season. what's the news from your dear husband?" "no news as yet." "dear me--you poor thing! how interesting--so pretty and husband away. what an opportunity for some of our gay lotharios!" "they wouldn't have much chance with helen!" laughed ray. mrs. brewster-curtis turned, and putting up her gold lorgnon, stared at the unknown young woman who had been so bold to venture to express an opinion. ray, meantime, was wondering what detained dick. here she was famishing with thirst and still no ice. her partner had disappeared completely. addressing her hostess mrs. brewster said languidly: "your niece, i believe." "no--my sister," corrected helen with a smile. it was a mistake often made. "of course--of course, how silly of me. i might have known that. you look enough alike." "do you think so?" interrupted ray hotly. "helen is far prettier than i." "you are no judge, my dear. you must let the men decide that." "they do," said ray, "and they all declare in favor of helen." "not by the way mr. steell dodges [transcriber's note: dogs?] your footsteps." looking up she exclaimed: "there he is now." "oh, mr. steell," cried helen, "don't forget our next waltz." his face all smiles, the lawyer forced his way through the press of people. "have you seen dick?" asked ray. "i sent him to get me an ice." mr. steell laughed outright. "oh, it was you who sent him. if i had known----" "why?" demanded ray, opening wide her eyes. "where is he? i want my ice." "i'll get you an ice, dear," said helen. "no, let me go," exclaimed mr. parker. "no--no one will get the ice but myself," said mr. steell. "it's my fault that the ice is not already forthcoming. it is only just that i suffer accordingly." mr. parker laughed. "the ice episode threatens to become a diplomatic incident." "why--whatever is the matter?" smiled helen. the lawyer was so much amused that he could hardly keep his face straight. with an effort he controlled himself, and said: "just now i was talking with a pretty girl and dick suddenly forced his way through the crowd, going in the direction of the buffet. i had no idea on what a serious mission he was bound, of course, and so i called him to introduce him to the pretty girl, who had with her an aunt, a veritable witch, as hideous as a medusa, and who, in addition, is afflicted with a wooden leg. dick gave the aunt only a glance. that was enough, but he was all smiles for her pretty niece, who, i must admit, is somewhat of a flirt. anyhow she rolled her eyes so eloquently at him that he forgot all about the important errand on which he was bound. just at that moment the musicians struck up a _schottische_, and, on the spur of the moment, he asked the pretty girl to dance. she declined, with an arch smile, but, pointing to the old witch, said her aunt would be delighted. poor dick! there was no help for it. the medusa got up, seized him in her claws, and, the last thing i saw of the poor youth, they were doing a sort of bunny hug, the wooden leg of his lady partner marking time on the waxed floor." "please stop! if you go on--i shall expire." ray was nearly in convulsions of laughter in which all joined. when helen had somewhat regained her composure, she said: "i think it's unkind to make fun of the poor woman. who is she?" "i haven't the least idea. perhaps dick will tell us." at that moment the youth emerged from the throng and came towards them, his linen mussed, his hair dishevelled. but in one hand he held grimly a plate of ice cream. looking shamelessly at ray, he smiled: "i've got it--at last." "where have you been all this time?" she demanded innocently. "oh, i've been having no end of a good time!" steell burst out laughing. "did she ask you to call, dick?" "if she had i'd have killed her." "how did the artificial leg work?" "she jammed it on my foot once. how it did hurt!" ray, by this time, was almost in hysterics, and helen and the others, catching the contagion, the whole group were soon shaken by uncontrollable laughter. the orchestra struck up a quadrille. a man came rushing up to ray. "my dance, i believe." with a comical expression of resignation, the young girl allowed herself to be led away, while helen and mrs. brewster-curtis took seats to watch the figures. "come, dick," said steell in an undertone. "let's go and smoke a cigar." leading the way he went into the smoking-room, where cigars and liquors were laid out. turning to the youth, he inquired eagerly: "well--what about the signor? what have you found out?" dick lit a cigarette and then calmly he said: "everything." "what--to be specific." "he's all and more than we expected." "in other words--a crook?" "yes, and a dangerous one." "what's his game?" "confidence man, bank robber, blackmailer." "how did you find out?" "very easily. i found his record. the police haven't disturbed him because his clever disguise has deceived them. they have not recognized in the polished, suave signor keralio, the popular fencing master, the man they have been hunting for years. his real name is richard barton. his pals call him baron rapp. five years ago he was convicted of robbing a bank out west and was sent up for ten years. he served a year in joliet and then broke jail and he has been at liberty ever since." "good!" exclaimed the lawyer, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "we've got him where we want him. what else?" "he has managed to elude the police so far owing to the fact that he has not been operating of late, but from what i've been able to ferret out, he is preparing some big haul. everything points that way. i don't know what it is, but it's the biggest thing in which he has yet been mixed up. he's affiliated with crooks who operate all over the country. some of his men are disguised as servants and valets in rich houses. they spy on their masters and tell him if there is anything worth robbing. he is the master-mind that schemes the operations that others carry out. he tells his men what banks and homes to break into and instructs them how to do it. he receives all the stolen property. at this very moment his flat in the bronx is full of stolen loot. i also suspect him of being engaged in counterfeiting." the lawyer was lost in admiration. "dick, you're a wonder!" the young man grinned with pride. "well--what's it to be--shall we tip off the police?" "not by a long shot. we'll have the gun loaded--all ready for use. if the signor gets ugly we'll shoot--that's all. not a word, do you hear. leave everything to me. come, let's go back or they'll think something's wrong." in the ballroom, they were still dancing the quadrille, the pretty gowns of the girls and black coats of the men making a picturesque sight as they blended in the ever changing figures. the gayety was at its height when the maid entered and whispered in her ear: "there's a gentleman downstairs." helen looked at the girl in surprise. "a gentleman? what's his name?" "i don't know, m'm. he wouldn't say." "very well, i'll go down." slipping away unobserved, helen made her way downstairs and throwing back the heavy tapestry portières entered the drawing room which was almost in complete darkness. the maid had forgotten to switch on the electrolier and as the only light came from the distant dining-room, the big parlor was practically all in gloom. before her eyes had become quite accustomed to the dark, a man advanced out of the shadow. it was signor keralio. she recognized him instantly and instinctively she shrank back, alarmed. how had he dared come again to her house after what had occurred? he noticed the movement and asked: "i see that i'm unwelcome. do i frighten you so much?" coldly she answered: "you do not frighten me. you surprise me. i did not expect this pleasure after what passed between us the last time you were here." making a half turn, as if about to leave the room, she added quickly: "i have company upstairs. you must excuse me." she walked away and had almost reached the door, when, with a quick stride, he intercepted her. "please don't go. i am here in your own interest. i want to talk to you--just a moment, about----" she hesitated. "about what?" she demanded haughtily. "about your husband." "my husband?" she echoed, turning and facing him. "yes--your husband. he is in danger. i want to help you and--him." "kenneth in danger?" she faltered. "what do you mean?" he pointed to a chair. "won't you sit down. i won't keep you a moment. i will tell you everything----" she sat down like one in a dream. taking a seat near her, he began in his low, musical tones. "peril threatens your husband. it is known that he has gone to south africa to bring home diamonds of almost inestimable value. a number of desperate men, who stop at nothing to accomplish their ends, have taken steps to secure the diamonds at any cost--even at the price of a human life." a chill ran through her, but her voice was firm as she demanded scornfully: "you know these men--these murderers?" "yes--i know them." instantly came the bitter retort: "maybe you are one of them!" his eyes flashed in the darkness and his voice vibrated with passion as he answered: "i know you think ill of me. you do me an injustice. i have no share in these men's operations, but i have great power over them. they must obey my command. they know that and so respect my orders. a word from me and your husband will be unmolested." like the drowning man who in his agony will grasp eagerly at a floating straw, helen seized at the hope his words held out. that kenneth was in peril she readily believed. it was a dangerous mission. she had scented danger from the outset. this man might be lying, and yet he might have the influence he boasted. "you can avert the danger?" he nodded. "i can." "how?" "i will give orders that he be unmolested." "and they will obey you?" "they will." her face brightened. more amiably she said: "you'll do this, won't you?" "yes--for a price." "what price?" "that you recall what you said the other day and restore me to a place in your friendship." there was no mistaking his true meaning. it was a price no self-respecting woman could pay. she rose indignantly, and haughtily she said: "you have never had a place in my friendship, signor keralio, and you never will. i see through your motive and i despise you now all the more. my husband, who is an honorable man, would be the first to have done with me forever if i entered into any such bargain. he has mistaken your character. when he returns i will enlighten him, and he will tell you himself that his wife has no dealings with a scoundrel. as for your threats, and tale of mysterious danger, i don't believe a word you say. but i may think it worth while to cable my husband in order to put him on his guard and to inform the police. good night!" before he could stop her, she had touched an electric bell and left the room. the next instant roberts, the butler, appeared and threw open the front door. there was nothing to do but go. she had defied him. chapter x eagerly, breathlessly, helen tore open the cablegram. it was late saturday afternoon and she had been with ray and mr. steell to see some paintings--a private view of a remarkable collection of old masters. after having tea at the plaza they had taken a brisk walk through the park, the lawyer insisting that the exercise would do them good. "it's just come, m'm," said the maid, holding out the thin envelope. "oh, it's from kenneth!" exclaimed ray excitedly, throwing down her muff and running to look over her sister's shoulder. for long, dreary weeks helen had expected, and waited for, this message, and now it had come, she was almost afraid to read it. there were only a few words, cold and formal, the usual matter-of-fact, businesslike phraseology of the so-much-a-word telegram: cape town, thursday (delay in transmission). sail to-day on the _abyssinia_. all's well. ken. "is that all?" exclaimed ray, disappointed. mr. steell laughed. "how much more do you expect at $ a word?" "well, he might be a little more explicit," pouted ray. "if i were his wife, that wouldn't satisfy me." helen laughed lightly. her eyes sparkling, her usually pale cheeks filled with a ruddy color from her walk in the park, the lawyer thought he had never seen her looking so pretty. "it satisfies me," she said, her face all lit up with joyous excitement. "all i want to know is that he is safe and on his way home. the cablegram is dated thursday. then he's already on the water three days! i wonder why we didn't hear before?" mr. steell glanced over her shoulder. "the dispatch has been delayed. don't you see? it says, 'delayed in transmission.'" helen turned round, her face radiant. "when ought he to get here?" the lawyer was silent for a moment as if calculating. then, looking up, he said: "the _abyssinia_ is not a very fast boat. i suppose she is the best he could get. she's due at southampton two weeks from to-day. a week after that, he ought to be in new york--providing nothing happens." helen, who was still reading and re-reading the cablegram, looked up quickly. with a note of alarm in her voice, she exclaimed: "providing nothing happens! what could happen?" "oh, nothing serious, of course. in these days of the wireless nothing ever happens to steamers. one is safer traveling on the sea than on land. i didn't mean anything serious, but merely that sometimes boats are delayed by bad weather or by fog. that prevents them arriving on schedule time." almost three months had slipped by since kenneth's departure from new york. to helen it had seemed so many years. she had tried to be contented and happy for ray's sake. she entertained a good deal, giving dinner and theater parties, keeping open house, playing graciously the rôle of chatelaine in the absence of her lord, to all outward appearances as gay and light-hearted as ever. only ray and her immediate friends knew that the gayety was forced. the poison had done its deadly work. the few words uttered by signor keralio that afternoon shortly after her husband's departure had burnt deep into her mind like letters of fire. well she guessed the object of the wily italian in speaking as he did. it availed him nothing, and she only despised him the more. it was cowardly, contemptible, and, from such a source, absolutely unworthy of belief. yet secretly it worried her just the same. she had always considered kenneth's life an open book. she thought she knew his every action, his every thought. the mere suggestion that her husband might have other interests, other attachments of which she knew nothing took her so by surprise that she was disarmed, powerless to answer. the innuendo that he might be unfaithful had gone through her heart like a knife. of course it was quite ridiculous. he was not that kind of man. it was true he had often gone away on trips that seemed unnecessary, and now she came to think of it kenneth's absences had of late been both frequent and mysterious. then, too, she had no idea of the extent of his operations in wall street. she knew he bought and sold stocks sometimes. that is only what every investor does. but it was incredible that he was involved to the extent keralio said he was. she knew he was ambitious to acquire wealth, but that he would take such fearful risks and jeopardize funds which, after all, belonged, not to him, but to the stockholders--that was impossible. it was a horrible libel. still another cause for worry was the health of her little daughter, dorothy. nothing ailed the child particularly, but she was not well. the doctor said nothing was the matter, but a slight temperature persisted, together with a cough which, naturally, alarmed the young mother out of all proportion to the seriousness of the case. the doctor also advised a change of air, so helen at once made arrangements to send her little daughter to philadelphia, where, in aunt carrie's beautiful house, she would have the best air and attention in the world. aunt carrie came to new york to fetch the child, and, as she stayed a couple of weeks sight-seeing and visiting friends that also helped to keep helen busy. "i do wish that i didn't have such a worrying disposition"--she laughed nervously after the lawyer had been at some pains to assure her about the sea-worthiness of the _abyssinia_. "really, it makes me so unhappy, but i simply can't help it. the other day it was baby who made me terribly anxious; now it is kenneth's home-coming. i must seem very foolish to you all." ray quickly protested. "you sweet thing--how could you look foolish? what an idea! only please don't worry, dear. i never do." mr. steell nodded sympathetically. "it's nothing to be ashamed of, mrs. traynor. it shows you have a fine, sensitive nature. it is only the grosser natures that are callous and unaffected by the anxieties of life." taking the remarks to herself, ray threw up her head indignantly. "i deny the imputation that i'm gross." the lawyer laughed. "you are far too healthy to worry. moreover, you have nothing to worry about. if a man you loved were six thousand miles away----" "yes," interrupted helen; "that's it. only those who care for each other can understand----" "oh, of course!" retorted her sister, flaring up. "we spinsters, belonging, as we do, to the sisterhood of the great unloved, are quite incompetent to express an intelligent opinion on that or on any other matter. i grant that, but is mr. steell, a confirmed old bachelor, any more competent than i?" "hardly an old bachelor!" interrupted helen reprovingly. "no--middle-aged bachelor!" corrected ray saucily. "he never cared for a woman in his life. he----" "who told you so?" inquired the lawyer quickly, with an amused twinkle in his eye. ray colored visibly. "oh, i judge so," she stammered. "you never speak of that sort of thing. one can only draw conclusions." "the conclusions may be wrong," he replied gravely. "my life is a very busy one. i have had no time to think of anything outside my immediate work. yet i am human. i sometimes yearn for the companionship of a good woman. a pretty face attracts me, as it does other men, but, in my opinion, any such attachment is too serious a matter to be treated lightly. when a man feels deeply he keeps his own confidence until the moment comes when he can unburden himself and say what is in his heart." "i like that," said helen, nodding her head approvingly. ray jumped up to conceal her embarrassment. "oh, how terribly serious you two are to-day!" she exclaimed. "i declare i'll run away unless you cheer up a bit. suppose i get some tea?" "excellent idea!" laughed the lawyer. ray touched a bell, and went to clear a small side table, which she drew up near where they were sitting. "there!" she exclaimed, smiling roguishly at the lawyer. "don't you think i'm smart?" "of course we do." lowering his voice he added significantly: "at least i do." apparently the compliment fell on deaf ears, for, turning her head away, she said quickly: "please don't be sarcastic." more seriously, and in the same tone, that even helen, who was only a short distance away, could not hear, he said: "i'm never sarcastic. i think you are all a woman should be." "do you mean that?" "i do. i have thought it for a long time." "really?" "really." the young girl colored with pleasure. for all her sophisticated and independent manner she was still a child at heart. she had no thoughts of marriage, but it flattered her to think that she had the power to attract and interest this serious, brilliant man of the world. she said nothing more, relapsing into a meditative silence as she busied herself helping the maid to set out the tea table. to helen it was a source of keen satisfaction to notice the attention which the brilliant young lawyer was paying her sister. she had long recognized his sterling qualities. he was a man of whom any woman might well be proud. he could not but make a good husband. next to kenneth and her baby no one was dearer to her than ray and, since their mother died, she had felt a certain sense of responsibility. to see her well and happily married was the one secret wish of her life. but overshadowing these preoccupations at present were those other new anxieties which preyed upon her sensitive mind with all the force of an obsession. was there any part of her husband's life that he had hidden from her? was he really as loyal as she had always fondly and blindly believed; had his ambition led him to take grave financial risks that might one day jeopardize their comfort and happiness, the very future of their child? ray rose to put away the tea table, and she found herself sitting alone with the lawyer. there was a moment's silence, and then, as if thinking out aloud what was on her mind, she said: "thank god, he's safe; i had the most fearful premonitions----" the lawyer laughed. "don't put your trust in premonitions--things happen or they don't happen. it's absurd to believe that misfortunes are all prepared beforehand." "then you are not a fatalist?" "decidedly not. i hope i have too much intelligence to believe in anything so foolish." "do you believe in a supreme being who has the same power to suddenly snuff us out of existence as he had to create us?" "i neither believe nor disbelieve. frankly, i do not know. what people call god, jehovah, nature, according to my reasoning, is an astounding energy, a marvellous chemical process, created and controlled by some unknown, stupendous first cause, the origin of which man may never understand. how should he? he has not time. we are rushed into the world without preparation. we are ignorant, helpless, blind. gradually, by dint of much physical labor and mental toil, we succeed in ferreting out a few facts regarding ourselves and the physical laws that govern us. we are just on the verge of discovering more--we are just beginning to understand and enjoy life--when suddenly we find ourselves growing old and decrepit. our physical and mental powers fail us, and the same force that benevolently created us now mercilessly destroys us, and we are hurled, willy-nilly, back into eternity whence we came. rather absurd, isn't it?" intensely interested helen looked up. eagerly she exclaimed: "you have a whole system of philosophy in a mere handful of words, haven't you?" he smiled. "it's all one needs, and perhaps as good as those more complicated and more verbose." more seriously and lowering her voice so ray, who was still busy at the other end of the room, might not overhear, she said: "mr. steell--you are so clever--you know all about everything. tell me, do you know anything about wall street?" the ingenuousness of the question amused him. with a laugh he answered: "a little--to my sorrow." "it's a dangerous place, isn't it?" "very; it has a graveyard at one end, the east river at the other, two places highly convenient at times to those who play the game." "if luck goes against him, a man could lose his all, then?" "not only his all but the all of others, too--if he's that kind of a man." she was silent for a moment. then she continued: "and sometimes even fine, honest men are tempted, are they not, to gamble with money which is not theirs?" "many have done so. the prisons are full of them. there is nothing so dangerous as the get-rich-quick fever. all the men who gamble in stocks have it. it becomes a mania, an obsession. their judgment becomes warped; they lose all sense of right and wrong." "there's something else i want to ask you. what do you think of signor keralio?" he hesitated a moment before he answered. then, with some warmth, he said: "as i told you before, i think he's a crook, only we can't prove it. i've been looking up his record. it's a bad one. the fellow has behaved himself so far in new york, but out west he is known under various names as one of the slickest rogues that ever escaped hanging. at one time he was the chief of a band of international crooks and blackmailers that operated in london, paris, buenos ayres, and the city of mexico. the scheme they usually worked was to get some prominent man so badly compromised that he would pay any amount to save himself from exposure, and they played so successfully on the fears of their victims that they were usually successful." a worried look came into the young wife's face. perhaps there was more in signor keralio's relations with her husband than she had suspected. quickly she asked: "why do they permit a man of that character to be at large?" the lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "you can't proceed against a man unless there is some specific charge made. the police have nothing now against him. he may have reformed for all i know. but that was his record some years ago." "i don't think he'll dare come here again," went on helen. "he's exceedingly offensive, and yet he has about him a certain magnetism that compels your attention, even while his manner and look repels and irritates. only the other day he----" before she could complete the sentence, there was a loud ring at the front door bell. helen hastily rose, but ray had already gone forward. "it's mr. parker," she cried. "i saw him coming from the window." the next instant the door of the drawing-room was flung open and mr. parker appeared. "hallo, ladies! howdy, steell!" the president of the americo-african mining company was not looking his usual debonair self that evening. his manner was nervous and flustered, his face pale and drawn with anxious lines. his coat lacked the customary boutonnière, and his crumpled linen and unshaved chin suggested that he had come direct from his office after a strenuous day without stopping to go through the formality of making a change of attire. helen was quick to note the alteration in his appearance, and her first instinct, naturally, was to associate it with her husband. something was amiss. "there's nothing wrong, is there?" she asked in alarm. "no, no, my dear woman!" but his tone was not convincing. he always called her "my dear woman" when nervous or excited, and "my dear lady" in his calmer moods. she at once remarked it, and it did not tend to reassure her. now greatly alarmed she laid a trembling hand on his arm. "tell me, please! don't hide anything from me. has anything happened to kenneth?" "no--no; of course not." quickly changing the subject he asked: "you got a message." "yes--a cablegram. it came just now." "have you got it? let me see it." "yes, certainly," said helen, looking around for the dispatch. unable to find it, she called to her sister. "ray, dear, what did you do with kenneth's cablegram?" her sister came up to assist in the search, in which even mr. steell joined. but the search was fruitless. the cablegram had disappeared. "oh, i know!" suddenly exclaimed ray. "it must have been carried away with the tea things." "that's right! i never thought of that!" said helen. the next instant the two women hurried out of the room in the direction of the kitchen. the instant they had disappeared mr. parker turned to the lawyer. in a whisper he said: "there is terrible news! i don't know how to break it to the poor woman----" steell sprang forward. anxiously he exclaimed: "terrible news? surely not----" the president nodded. "yes--all lost, and the diamonds, too. a dispatch just received in london says that, according to a wireless relayed from cape town, the _abyssinia_ caught fire twelve hours after sailing from that port and all on board perished. it is shocking, and the pecuniary loss to us disastrous. the stones were not insured. hush! here they come. not a word!" "my god!" muttered the lawyer, as he fell back and turned away, so they might not see the effect which the shocking news had made on him. with an effort he managed to control himself. the two women entered the room joyfully. "here it is!" cried helen exultantly, as she brandished the missing telegram. "you see, he's just sailed, and all's well." the president said nothing, but, taking the dispatch from her hands, slowly read it. nodding his head, he said slowly: "yes--he's just sailed, and--all's well." "when do you think he'll be here?" questioned the young hostess, looking anxiously up into his face. the president shook his head. "that is hard to tell," he answered evasively. mr. steell had gone to the window, where he stood looking out, idly drumming his fingers on the pane. how was it possible to break such fearful tidings as that? what a horrible calamity! he wished himself a hundred miles away, yet some one must tell her. at that moment shrill cries arose in the street outside--the familiar, distressing, almost exultant cries of news-venders, glad of any calamity that puts a few nickels into their pockets. "_ex-tra! ex-tra! special ex-tra!_" "what's that?" exclaimed helen apprehensively. the sound of special editions always filled her with anxiety, especially since kenneth's departure. "_ex-tra! ex-tra! special edition! ex-tra! big steamer gone down. great loss of life. extra!_" her face was pale, as she turned and looked at the others, who also stood in silence, listening to the hoarse accents of distress. "a steamer gone down!" she faltered. "isn't that terrible? i wonder what steamer it was." ray ran to the door. "i'll get a paper," she said. before mr. parker or mr. steell could prevent her the young girl had opened the front door. now there was no way of preventing helen knowing. the best thing was to prepare her gently. "my dear mrs. traynor--i didn't tell you the trouble just now. there has been a little trouble. the _abyssinia_----" helen gave a cry of anguish. "i knew it! i knew it! kenneth is dead!" "no, no, my dear lady. these newspaper reports are always grossly exaggerated. the _abyssinia_ has met with a little trouble--nothing very serious, i assure you. everything is all right, no doubt. your husband is well able to take care of himself. we may hear from him any moment, reassuring us as to his safety." his words of comfort went unheeded. her face white as death helen tottered rather than walked to the door, reaching it just as ray, almost as pale, entered, reading the paper she had just purchased. on seeing her sister she instinctively made an effort to hide the sheet, but helen quickly snatched it out of her hand. her hand trembling so violently that she could scarcely make out the letters she glanced at the big scare-head, printed in red ink, to imitate blood, a merciful custom sensational newspapers have of making the most of the agony of others. s. s. abyssinia gone down! all perish! for a moment she stood still, looking at the big type with open, staring eyes. then, with a low cry, like a wounded animal, she let the paper slip from her nerveless fingers. there was a furious throbbing at her temples: her heart seemed to stop. the room spun round, and she fainted just as steell rushed forward to catch her in his arms. "brandy! brandy!" he shouted. "she's fainted!" while ray ran for the smelling salts and mr. parker was bringing the brandy there came another vigorous pull at the bell. an instant later the maid entered with a cablegram, which mr. parker seized and tore open. as he read the contents, a look of the greatest surprise and joy lit up his face. "look at this!" he cried. "what is it?" demanded steell, still on his knees trying to revive the unconscious woman. "this will do her more good than all your brandy." "what is it?" cried ray impatiently. "he's safe!" cried mr. parker exultantly. "safe!" they all cried. "yes--safe." handing the dispatch to the lawyer, he added: "here--read this." steell took the dispatch and read: cape town, saturday: miraculously saved. sail to-morrow on the _zanzibar_. kenneth. chapter xi the house of mourning had suddenly become transformed into a house of joy. from the deepest abyss of hopeless despair helen, during the next few days, was raised to the highest pinnacle of human felicity. kenneth was safe, that was all she wanted to know. whether he had succeeded or not in saving the diamonds she did not know or care. nothing more had been heard from him. cable dispatches reported the _zanzibar_ to be making good time on her way to southampton, but, until the steamer arrived there, no further details were to be expected. much, however, had been gleaned as to the fate of the _abyssinia_, and, as the accounts of disaster began to come in, she could only thank god that he had succeeded in escaping such a fearful fate. the ship had mysteriously caught fire the first day out from cape town, and, in the excitement, the crew, as well as the passengers, lost their heads. only one boat could be lowered, and in this kenneth got away, together with françois, his valet, and some other passengers. a news item in connection with the affair, which was of particular interest to helen, ran as follows: "the loss of the _abyssinia_ brought to a tragic ending a remarkable romance in which mr. kenneth traynor, one of the rescued passengers and a prominent new york broker, is one of the principal figures. mr. traynor is one of two twins so identical in appearance that no one, not even their own mother, knew them apart. one of the children mysteriously disappeared when a mere child and was believed to be dead. mr. kenneth traynor went recently to south africa on business, and on the diamond fields found in starving condition an unlucky miner who was a perfect counterpart of himself. it was his lost brother. mutual explanations followed and the identity was established. overjoyed at the reunion the two brothers sailed for home on the _abyssinia_. suddenly came the alarm of fire. while the panic on board was at its worst, the broker lost sight of his brother, whom he never saw again and whom it is only too certain went down with the ship." "it's almost unbelievable, isn't it?" exclaimed helen, as she read the paragraph for the hundredth time and handed it to wilbur steell, who had dropped in to hear if there was any news. ray, who loved a mystery better than anything else in the world, clapped her hands. "isn't it perfectly stunning?" "not for kenneth's brother--poor fellow," said helen reprovingly. "he did not live long to enjoy his bettered condition." "that's right. how thoughtless of me!" said ray contritely. as he finished reading mr. steell looked puzzled. looking toward helen he asked: "did you know that your husband had a twin brother?" "i only knew it recently--just before he sailed. he did not know it himself." "how did he find it out?" "his old nurse told him. i was present." "did the nurse know the brother was in south africa?" "no--she had no idea of it. i'm sure of that. it's one of those wonderful coincidences one some-times hears of." the lawyer shook his head. thoughtfully he said: "it's certainly strange--one of the strangest things i ever heard of." "kenneth will be able to tell us more about it when he comes," said ray. "yes--no doubt," asserted her sister quickly. the lawyer remained thoughtful for a moment. then, lightly he said: "we ought to give kenneth a rousing welcome home. after such experiences as he has had he richly deserves it." eagerly helen caught at the suggestion. "by all means!" she cried. "suppose we give a dinner, followed by a dance." "oh, lovely!" said ray. "the night following his arrival," went on helen enthusiastically. "we'll make it quite an affair and invite everyone we know--the parkers, the galloways, the fentons, everybody----" "don't forget me!" interrupted steell. "oh, you, of course!" roguishly she added: "aren't you one of the family?" he looked at her and smiled. in an undertone which ray, too busy looking at the paper, did not hear, he added: "not yet, but i hope to be." "the sooner the better, wilbur," she said earnestly. with a significant glance at her sister she added, "don't let her keep you waiting too long." every hour brought nearer the happy day when they would see kenneth again. a cablegram from england reported that the _zanzibar_ had reached southampton. closely following this came a brief message from kenneth himself, stating that he was on the point of sailing for new york on the _adriatic_. in five more days he would be in new york. expectation now reached fever heat, the excitement being communicated to everyone in the house. every time the front door bell rang there was a rush downstairs in the hope that it might be another message. ray, bubbling over with excitement, was almost as eager as her sister. "won't it be jolly to go down to the dock and meet him?" helen shook her head. "i won't go to meet him. i prefer to be here when he arrives." anxiously she added: "i hope everything is all right." "why shouldn't it be all right?" her sister was silent. it seemed absurd, when everything seemed to point to her happiness, that she should still feel depressed and nervous, but, somehow, she could not shake off the feeling that something was wrong. it was certainly strange that no letter had been received from kenneth since the accident. yet perhaps it was wicked of her to expect more. she ought to be grateful that he had been spared. almost unconsciously she remarked: "isn't it strange that ken hasn't written for so long? i haven't had a line from him since he left cape town." "yes--you have," protested her sister. "you had a cablegram telling you of his safety." "a cablegram--yes, but no letter. i have had no letter since he left cape town." "that's true. but how could he write? he has been traveling faster than the mails." "i hope he's not hurt." "of course not. you would have heard it before this. bad news travels fast." every moment from now on was devoted to getting the house ready for the arrival of its lord and master. ray had skilfully fashioned out of red letters on white paper, a big "welcome" sign, which was to be suspended in the hall on the complacent horns of two gigantic moose heads, souvenirs of a month's vacation in the adirondacks. while this was being done downstairs helen busied herself in the library and bedroom, getting ready the things for his comfort--his dressing-gown, his slippers, his pipe. she detested pipes, as do most women, but she could not refrain from giving this pipe a furtive kiss, as she laid it lovingly on the table within easy reach of the arm-chair. the maids, changed since he went away, were laboriously instructed in what they should and should not do, what towels should be put in the luxurious bathroom, what pajamas should be laid on the bed. well helen remembered the first time she had entered this bedroom. just married, in the full flush of her new-found happiness, it had all seemed so beautiful, so ideal. the dull pink color scheme, so chaste and delicate, the gracefully carved furniture, so luxurious and elegant, the cupids flying above the massive beautifully carved bed, a veritable bower of love--all this seemed only a realization of her girlhood dreams of what married life should be. and now kenneth was coming back, after his long absence in south africa, it would be like getting married all over again. the next four days seemed longer than any helen had ever spent in all her life. the delay was interminable. the minutes appeared to be like hours, the hours like days. having to wait patiently for what one desired so ardently was simply intolerable. she tried to divert her mind by busying herself about the library, dusting his favorite books, tidying his papers, but constantly came back the thoughts that filled her with uneasiness, a vague, undefinable alarm. was he all right? at last the great day arrived. a western union telegram announced that the _adriatic_ would dock at o'clock. long before that time, ray, unable to restrain her impatience, was on her way down town, accompanied by mr. steell, while helen, her face a little paler than usual, her heart beating a little faster, sat in the great recessed window of the library, and waited for the arrival of the loved one. anxiously, impatiently, she watched the hands of the clock move round. how exasperatingly slow it was: how indifferent it seemed to her happiness! if the ship docked at two they could hardly arrive at the house until four. it would take at least two hours to get through the customs. oh, would the moment never come when she would see his dear face and clasp him in her arms? it was nearly half past two when suddenly the front door bell rang. her heart leaping to her mouth, she rushed to the top of the stairs. it was only mr. parker, who had dropped in on the chance of finding his associate already arrived. to-day the president of the americo-african mining company was in the highest spirits. everything had gone according to his expectations. kenneth was home with the big diamonds safe in his possession. the directors could not fail to give him (parker) credit for his sagacity and enterprise. the stocks of the company would soar above par. fortune was smiling on them in no uncertain way. was it a wonder he was feeling in the best of humors? "how do you know the diamonds are safe?" questioned helen anxiously. "in such a terrible panic as there must have been on that ship a man thinks only of saving himself." "pshaw!" replied the president confidently. "i'm as sure of it as that i'm here. it was understood that he was never to part with the stones under any circumstances. they are in a belt he wears round his waist next to his skin. if the diamonds were not here, kenneth would not be here. knowing he is safe i am convinced that they are safe." "will you wait here until he comes?" "no, i can't. there's a meeting of the directors this afternoon. i must attend. i'll call him up on the telephone----" "but you are coming to dinner this evening----" "yes, yes, of course." with a smile he added: "now, don't get too spoony when he comes, or else ken will have no head for business." "no fear," laughed helen. "we are too long married for that." "well, good-bye. i'll see you later." the president took his hat and turned to go. as he reached the door he turned round. "by the bye, have you seen signor keralio lately?" helen's face grew more serious. "no--signor keralio does not call here any more-at my request." the president gave a low, expressive whistle. holding out his hand he said: "got his walking papers, eh? well, i guess if you don't like him he isn't much good. i never did care for the look of him." "why did you ask?" she inquired. "i was just curious--that's all. he's a persistent, uncomfortable kind of man. i don't like his face. it's a face i wouldn't trust----" "that's why he's not coming here any more," she replied calmly. "he forgot himself and that was the end----" the president turned to go. "well, good-bye. ken will be here soon." "good-bye." he went away, and once more helen resumed her lonely vigil at the library window, straining her ears to catch the direction of every passing car, catching her breath with suspense as each pedestrian came into view. they could not be much longer. she wondered if he had missed her as much as she had him. no, men do not feel these things in the way women do. they are too busy--their minds too much preoccupied with their work. the turmoil of affairs absorbed their attention. the clock struck the three-quarters, and the reverberations of the chimes had not entirely died away, when through the partly opened window came the sound of a taxicab suddenly stopping in front of the door. at last he had come! it was surely kenneth. her bosom heaving with suppressed excitement she ran to the stairs and was already in the lower hall before the maid had answered the bell. quickly she threw open the door, eager to throw herself in the traveler's arms. a tall shadow darkened the doorway. it was françois, the french valet. helen fell back in dismay. "oh, it's you!" she exclaimed, looking over his shoulder to see if kenneth were following. "where is your master?" a curious expression, half-defiant, half-cunning, came over the servant's face, as he replied: "monsieur coming. he sent me ahead with light baggage. he detained at customs." "oh!" she exclaimed, disappointed. "when will he be here?" "he come presently--perhaps quarter of an hour." "how is your master?" "he very well, except his eyes--they bother him a leetle." helen stared at him in alarm. "his eyes," she exclaimed. "what is the matter with his eyes?" the valet avoided her direct gaze, and, shifting uneasily on his feet, began to fuss with the leather bags he was carrying. awkwardly he said: "didn't madame hear?" "hear what?" she gasped, now thoroughly alarmed. the man put out his hand deprecatingly. "oh, it's nothing to make madame afraid. it will soon be all right. i assure madame----" "but tell me what it is, will you?" she interrupted impatiently. "don't have so much to say--tell me what it is----" "it was when the ship caught fire, madame. we were running to ze life-boat, monsieur and me, when suddenly----" "well--what?" she almost shouted, in agony of suspense. "monsieur tripped over a coil of rope and fell----" almost unconscious in her excitement of what she was doing helen laid her hand on the man's arm. terror-stricken she cried: "he didn't hurt himself seriously, did he?" the valet shook his head. "no, madame--not seriously. he struck his head against a chair and just graze ze eye. it is nothing serious, i assure madame. the doctor says that if he wears blue spectacles for few months he will be all right." "oh, he wears blue spectacles, does he?" "yes, madame, he must. ze eye is inflamed and cannot stand ze strong light." "poor kenneth!" she murmured, half-aloud. "i shall hardly know him in blue spectacles." the valet, who had been watching her like a hawk out of his half-closed, sleepy-looking eyes, overheard the remark. quickly he said: "of course, madame must expect to find monsieur a little changed. what we went through was _épouvantable_, something awful. we just escaped with our lives. for days monsieur was so nervous he was hardly able to speak a word. even now he stops at times----" helen looked at him in wonder. "'he stops!' what do you mean?" the valet turned away, and for a moment was silent. then, as if making a great effort, he turned and said: "madame will pardon me, but she must be brave and not show monsieur she notices any change. ze doctor said it was a terrible shock to his nervous system--that fire. monsieur has not been ze same since, _pas du tout_ ze same. ze doctor he says that these symptoms will all disappear once he gets home and has a good rest. it is only ze shock, i assure madame." helen listened appalled, her face growing whiter each moment, her lips trembling. he had met with an accident, then, after all! her instinct had spoken truly. her darling was ill. that explained his long silence. he had been too ill to write. he had gone through a terrible shock and he had come home ill, very ill, quite changed. her voice faltering she said: "what are the symptoms?" "monsieur's memory is so bad, madame. he forgets. only to-day, as ze ship came up ze harbor, i ask monsieur if he expect madame to meet us at ze dock. _c'est vraiment incroyable_! he turned to me, with a look of ze greatest surprise, and asked: 'who ze devil is madame?'" "what! didn't he seem to remember me, even?" a look of distress came over her face. the valet shook his head. "non, madame." quickly he added: "but it is nothing. it is only temporary." "didn't he know my sister and mr. steell? didn't they greet him at the dock?" "yes, madame. they spoke to him and he spoke to them. but he was not himself. they seemed surprised. they will tell madame." helen fell back, sick and faint. why had she not known this before? she would have gone down to meet him, thrown herself weeping into his arms. he would have known her then--who better than he would recognize that perfume he loved so well? he would have taken her in his strong arms and kissed her passionately. if he was not himself it was because he was ill. the shock had affected his memory! poor darling husband, he must be well nursed. a few days of her devoted care and he would be all right again. of course, it was nothing serious. kenneth had led too clean and wholesome a life for anything grave to be the matter. if only he would come! god grant that he return to her as he went away! as the unspoken prayer died away on her lips, there was the chugging of an automobile stopping suddenly at the curb. "_les voici_!" cried françois, dropping into his native tongue in his excitement. he threw open the wide doors and the next instant ray ran up the steps. helen, weak and dizzy from nervous tension, feeling as if she were about to faint, met her on the threshold. "kenneth!" she gasped. "is he all right?" "certainly--he's fine. he's a little tired and nervous after the long journey, and the blue spectacles he wears make him look different, but he's all right." the wife looked searchingly, eagerly at the young girl's face, as if seeking to read there what she dreaded to ask, and it seemed to her that the customary ring of sincerity was lacking in her sister's voice. "where is he--why isn't he with you?' "here he is now--don't you see him?" helen looked out. there came the tall, familiar figure she knew so well, the square shoulders, the thick bushy hair, with its single white lock so strangely isolated among the brown. her heart fell as she saw the blue glasses. they veiled from her view those dear blue eyes, so kind and true. they made him look different. but what did she care as long as he had come home to her? even with the horrid glasses, that dear form she would know in a thousand! slowly he came up the long flight of stone steps, weighted down by traveling rugs and handbag, both of which he refused to surrender to the obsequious françois. eagerly she rushed down the steps to meet him, her eyes half-closed, ready to swoon from excitement and joy. nothing was said. he opened his arms. she put up her mouth, tenderly, submissively. for a moment he seemed to hesitate. he held her tight in his embrace, and just looked down at her. then, as he felt the warmth of her soft, yielding body next to his, and saw the partly opened mouth, ready to receive his kiss, he bent down and fastened his lips on hers. chapter xii for one blissful, ecstatic moment helen lay tight in his embrace, nestling against the breast of the one being she loved better than anyone else in the world, responding with involuntary vibrations of her own body to the gust of fiery passion that swept his. but only for a moment. the next instant she had torn herself violently free, and was gazing, wonderingly, fearfully, up into his face, trying to penetrate those glasses which veiled, as it were, the windows of his soul. why she broke away so abruptly from his embrace she could not herself have explained. something within her, some instinct to which her reason was unable to give a name, made her body revolt against the unusual ardor of the caress. strange! never before had she felt so embarrassed at kenneth's demonstrations of affection. "how are you, dear?" she murmured, when at last she could find words. she had not yet heard the sound of his beloved voice, and when at last he answered her it seemed to her ears only like an echo of its former self, so exhausted and wearied was he by what he had gone through. "very tired, sweetheart," he replied huskily. "i shall need a long rest." she led the way into the house and up the stairs, where everything had been so elaborately prepared for his welcome. in the bedroom she pointed with pride to the real valenciennes lace coverlet put on in his honor, and showed him the dressing-gown and slippers so lovingly laid out. he looked at everything, but made no comment. she half expected a few words of praise, but none were forthcoming. while affectionately demonstrative he was unusually reticent. she wondered what worry he could have on his mind to make him act so strangely and suddenly keralio's words of warning came to her mind. was there a side to his life of which she knew nothing? were his thoughts elsewhere, even while he was with her? quickly there came a look of dismay and anxiety, which he was not slow to notice. instantly on his guard, he murmured in a low tone: "forgive me, dear, i can't talk now. i'm so tired i can hardly keep my eyes open." instantly her apprehension was forgotten in her desire to make him comfortable. "that's right, dear. you must be dead with fatigue. you'll take a nice nap and when you wake up it will be time for dinner. i've planned a nice little party to celebrate your return--only a few intimates--mr. parker is coming, and wilbur steell, and a young man named dick reynolds, an acquaintance of wilbur's. you won't mind such old friends, will you?" he shook his head. "no, indeed. i'm very tired, now, but i'll be all right in a few minutes." "of course you will," she smiled, as she removed the handsome lace coverlet from the bed. "no one will disturb you. my darling hubbie can sleep as sound as a top, and, when he wakes, we'll talk a terrible lot, won't we?" looking up roguishly, as she smoothed his pillow for him, she added shyly: "there are two pillows here now. there has been only one while you were away----" for the first time he seemed to evince interest in what she was saying. his eyes flashed behind the blue spectacles, and his hands trembled, as he quickly made a step forward and put his arm round her waist. "there'll always be two in the future, won't there?" he asked hoarsely. "yes, of course there will," she laughed, "to-night?" he insisted. "yes, of course," she said, her color heightening slightly under the persistency of his gaze. what a foolish question! changing the topic she added, with a laugh: "now, take your coat off, like a good boy, and go to sleep. i'll go down and keep the house quiet. when it's time to get up, i'll come back." "don't go yet," he murmured, looking at her ardently. taking her hand caressingly he tried to lead her to the sofa. "sit down here. i won't sleep yet. let us talk. i have so much to say." firmly helen withdrew from his embrace. "no, no; i won't stay a moment," she said decisively. "not now. you must behave yourself. we'll talk all you want to to-night. but not now. you are very tired. the sleep will do you good. now be a good boy--go to bed." he tried to intercept her before she reached the door, but she was too quick for him. she went out and was about to close the door behind her when he called out: "please send françois to me." she nodded. "yes, dear, i will. of course you need him. why didn't i think of it before?" she closed the door and went downstairs. it was hard to believe that he was back home. how long she had waited for this day, and, even now it had come, the void did not seem filled. there still seemed something wanting. what it was, she did not know, yet it was there. in the dining-room she ran into ray, who had her arms filled with magnificent american beauty roses. "oh, how beautiful!" cried helen enthusiastically. "where did you get those flowers?" the young girl laughed. "they're a present from me and wilbur--in honor of kenneth's arrival. where is he?" "upstairs--he's going to lie down until dinner is ready. poor soul--he's almost dead with fatigue." "has he got the diamonds?" helen gasped. she hadn't thought of that. in all the excitement the real object of her husband's trip to south africa had quite escaped her mind. "i don't know," she said quickly. "i haven't asked him. we've hardly exchanged a dozen words. he'll tell us later. was nothing said about them at the customs? didn't he declare them?" "no--i thought it was strange. that's why i asked you if he had them. possibly he left them to be cut in amsterdam." helen grew thoughtful. "i don't know. he'll tell us later." ray filled the vases with the flowers, while helen busied herself at the buffet, getting out all the pretty silverware with which the dinner table was to be decorated. the young girl hummed lightly as she decorated the room with the fragrant blossoms. "isn't it lovely that kenneth is back?" she exclaimed. "yes, indeed." "i hardly knew him at first in those spectacles." "i'm not surprised at that." "if it hadn't been for that white patch of hair i don't think we could have picked him out of the crowd. there was an awful crush there." there was a pause, and then helen asked: "how do you think he looks?" "about the same," replied the girl carelessly. "he doesn't seem in as good spirits as when he went away. he is very quiet. he hardly spoke a word to us on the way home. possibly he has some business anxiety on his mind." "did he ask about me?" "yes--you were his first question." "did you tell him about dorothy?" "that she was not so well? yes." "what did he say? was he worried?" "not particularly. i think men are more sensible in those matters than we women. he knows baby is well taken care of." changing the subject, the young girl went on: "i hope everybody will be jolly to-night. i've made up my mind to have a good time." helen sighed. "i'm feeling a little uneasy about dorothy. i got a letter this morning from aunt carrie, saying she was not feeling so well. the doctor was going to see her to-day, and, if she got worse, they said they'd telegraph." ray looked at her sister in consternation. "what would you do then?" "i would have to go at once to philadelphia." "and kenneth just come home--oh, helen!" "i couldn't help it. kenneth couldn't go. somebody must go. the child could not be left alone. who should go better than its mother?" ray made a gesture of protest. "well, don't let's imagine the worst. dorothy won't get worse. to-morrow you'll get a reassuring letter, and your worries will be over." "i hope so," smiled helen. leaving the task of sorting the knives and forks ray came over to where helen was standing. the young girl pointed to all the vases filled with the crimson roses. "how do you like that?" she exclaimed. "beautiful!" there was a brief silence, both women being preoccupied by their thoughts, when ray, in her usual vivacious, impulsive way, burst out: "sis, i have something to tell you." helen looked up quickly. "something to tell me--something good?" "i'm so happy! i'm engaged at last." "to wilbur, of course?" "yes." helen gave an exclamation of joy. "oh, i'm so glad. when did it happen? tell me all about it--quick." "he proposed to-day, and i said yes. we're to be married in two months." the next moment the two women were in each other's arms. "i'm so glad--so glad," murmured helen. "i hope you'll both be very, very happy." "we certainly shall if we are like you and kenneth. wilbur says that your example is the one thing that decided him to make the plunge." helen smiled. "you'll have one advantage i don't enjoy. your husband, being a lawyer, won't be taking trips to south africa all the time." "oh, i don't know," laughed the girl; "it's sometimes nice to lose sight of each other for a time. the lovemaking is all the more furious when your husband gets back." "yes--unless he happens to meet some other charmer on his travels." "oh, nonsense, helen--men don't really have such adventures. that only happens in novels." "i hope so," murmured her sister. "oh, by the bye," exclaimed ray, "who do you suppose we saw on the dock?" "who?" "that horrid creature--signor keralio." helen looked up in surprise. "keralio? what was he doing there? did he speak to you?" "no--he seemed to avoid us. once i got lost for a moment in the crush, and, as i turned, i thought i saw him talking earnestly to kenneth and françois. of course i must have been mistaken, for, when i finally rejoined them, both denied having seen him!" "keralio!" murmured helen. "how strange! that man seems to pursue us like some evil genius. no matter where we go, he follows like a shadow. oh, i forgot all about françois. where is he?" "downstairs." helen touched a bell. "why do you need him?" "kenneth wants him. i forgot all about it. all his things need putting away. the litter upstairs is simply terrible." "there won't be much time for unpacking," objected ray. "it's half-past five already. we'll soon have to think of dressing for dinner." suddenly the door opened and françois appeared. he entered quietly, stealthily, and, advancing to where his mistress was, stood in silence, awaiting her orders. "your master wants you upstairs, françois." the man bowed. "_bien_, madame!" "tell mr. traynor not to keep you too long, because there's a lot of work to be done downstairs before dinner." "_bien_, madame." the man lingered in the room, arranging the chairs, and fussing about the table, until he began to make helen nervous. peremptorily she said: "you had better go, françois; monsieur is waiting for you." the valet bowed obsequiously, and left the room, shutting the door carefully. instead of proceeding immediately upstairs, he stopped for a moment behind the closed door and listened intently. but, unable to overhear the two women, who were conversing in an undertone, he hurried upstairs toward his employer's bedroom. arrived on the landing, he went straight to the room, and, without stopping for the formality of knocking, he turned the handle and went in. chapter xiii instead of finding his master resting from his fatigue, as mrs. traynor had said, françois discovered the new arrival very much awake. he was sitting in front of helen's bureau, eagerly perusing a bundle of private letters tied with blue ribbon, which he had taken from a drawer. as the door opened, he jumped up quickly, as if detected committing a dishonorable action; but, when he saw who it was, his face relaxed and he gave a grim nod of recognition. "lock the door!" he said in a whisper. "it won't do to have anyone come in here now." the valet turned the key, and, dropping entirely the obsequious manner of the paid menial, threw himself carelessly into a chair. taking from his pocket a richly chased silver cigarette box, loot from former houses where he had been employed, he struck a match on the highly polished circassian walnut chair, and proceeded to enjoy a smoke. his companion looked at him anxiously. "well?" he demanded hoarsely. "is it all right? what do they say? does anyone suspect?" the frenchman gracefully emitted from between his thin lips a thick cloud of blue smoke, and broke into a laugh that, under the circumstances, sounded strangely hollow and sinister. "suspect?" he chuckled. "why should they suspect? are you not ze same man who went away--ze same build, ze same face, ze same voice, ze same in every particular--except one. zat you have not--_non_--you have not ze education, ze fine manners, ze _savoir faire_ of monsieur." with that expressive shrug of the shoulder, so characteristic of his nation, he added: "_mais que voulez vous_? we must do ze best we can." his listener struck the brass bed-post savagely with his heavy fist. with a burst of profanity he broke out: "yes, damn him! he had all the advantages. i had none. but it's my turn now. i want all that's coming to me." "hush!" exclaimed the valet, raising his finger warningly. "zey may hear. everything will be all right. we must be very careful. you must not talk. you must avoid people. let them think you sick, or strange, or crazy, anything you like. but keep away from zem, or else they soon discover that 'handsome jack,' ze penniless adventurer, is quite a different person from ze accomplished and wealthy monsieur kenneth traynor." "we can't expect to keep the game up long," interrupted the big fellow moodily. "we won't have to," replied his companion calmly. "just enough time to squeeze ze orange dry--that's all----" handsome looked up quickly. savagely he retorted: "of which juice you and keralio want a goodly share, don't you?" the valet's greenish eyes flashed. "of course i do, and, what's more, i mean to get it." changing his free, careless tone to one tense with significance and menace he went on: "don't be a fool, monsieur handsome. who put you up to this snap, but me? who knows what you did to monsieur out there on ze _veldt_, better than me? dead men tell no tales, but live ones do. don't forget that! if you want to keep clear of ze electric chair, you'll keep your mouth shut, and play fair." the gambler listened, his mouth twitching nervously, his eyes glowing with sullen hatred. "what do you and keralio want? i gave you the diamonds--what more do you expect?" the valet laughed scoffingly. "you gave him ze diamonds. why? you were d----d glad to be rid of zem. we can't do anything with zem now. we may have to wait months or years before we can venture to cut zem up and dispose of zem. _non_, monsieur! if zey appeared on ze market now, ze news would be flashed _immédiatement_ to every corner of ze globe, and your career and mine would come to a quick end. _voila_!" "don't forget keralio!" said handsome, with a sneer. "_eh, bien_? has he not earned it, signor keralio? is it not because of his courage and daring that you are here--ze master in this house? who but keralio would have had ze nerve to carry ze thing through?" handsome shrugged his shoulders. cynically he said: "oh, i don't know. it seems to me that keralio is safe under cover, while here i am, disporting myself in the limelight, with every eye turned on me. i guess i prefer keralio's job to mine----" the valet's eyes flashed vindictively as he retorted: "could your puny brain have conceived this scheme which will make us all rich? keralio outlined ze whole plan to me directly he heard of your existence. on our reaching cape town, after finding you starving on ze _veldt_, i cabled him ze news. a few hours later he told me exactly what to do. he knew you would do it. how, i do not know. he is no ordinary man, keralio. when i first saw you out zere, unkempt, in rags, starving, i could have dropped dead from surprise. it never occurred to me that you might be useful. but keralio knew. he knows everything. he also knew that you would accept his leadership, that you would quickly get rid of monsieur, and secure ze diamonds. was it not his idea that you set fire to ze ship? and who set fire to ze ship, _s'il vous plait_, when you refused? who but your very humble servant. and a hard, dangerous job, it was, too--catch me ever wanting to do it again!" "not half so bad as mine. he put up a terrible fight before i threw him overboard." "who--monsieur?" "yes--he fought like a wildcat, and he was fast getting the best of me, when i managed to give him a rap on the head. that quieted him, and over he went." with an exclamation of disgust, he added: "it was a d----d nasty job. i'm sorry i ever went into it----" "sorry--you fool? _sapristi_! just think of this wonderful opportunity. you have ze keys to his vaults, you have control of his bank accounts." lowering his voice, and, with a significant leer on his face, he added "and you have--his wife!" handsome grinned, and the valet went on: "_précisément_! madame is cold and haughty, like all zese american women. it's not exactly my taste, but she's pretty and dainty, and----" "who are all these other people," interrupted the miner, "that man steell----" "yes, that is so. you must know everyone. you must make a study of each, so as to avoid making bad breaks. monsieur steell is a lawyer. he's in love with madame's sister, miss ray. you've known him all your life, went to school with him, and all that sort of thing. say 'yes' to everything he says. that's your cue at present. talk as little as you can, and agree with everybody. the man you must talk with most is monsieur parker. he is president of the mining company. happily he's rather shortsighted, so he won't notice anything. he's the man to whom you'll have to explain ze loss of ze diamonds. he'll be here to-night for dinner, so you'd better get your story ready." "what can i say?" "say that in ze panic your belt worked loose, you had to dive into ze water. when you were dragged into ze lifeboat the belt was gone, do you understand?" "yes--but will they believe it?" "they must believe it. there'll be an awful fuss, of course, but they'll get over it. no suspicion can attach to you." "he's coming to-night--this man parker?" "yes, to-night. he'll be here for dinner. he----" before the valet could complete the sentence there was a knock on the door and helen outside called out: "may i come in?" instantly the valet jumped up and assumed once more his deferential demeanor. the gambler hurriedly shut the bureau drawers and put on the blue spectacles. the door opened and helen entered. alert as the frenchman was, he was not quick enough to quite conceal from the wife that his present obsequious manner had been suddenly assumed for her benefit directly she had entered the room. she had overheard voices, as she reached the landing, and the abrupt manner in which these sounds had ceased was not entirely natural. it had also seemed to her that the valet's tone had had a ring of familiarity about it which she had never known it to have before. could it be possible that they were discussing matters which were to be kept from her? if so, her husband already had secrets in which not she but his valet shared. she recalled keralio's cynical smile, as he had whispered: "husbands only tell their wives half." perhaps he had spoken the truth. perhaps at this very moment she was degraded, insulted in her womanhood by a man who was secretly unloyal to her. the very thought went through her like a knife-thrust. all her life, every hour she had devoted to her husband. even now she did not like to even harbor a shade of distrust, but his strange behavior since his return, this earnest conversation behind closed doors with a menial she despised and distrusted--all this could not but add to her anxiety. calmly, she asked: "have you finished with françois, dear? we need him downstairs." the valet himself answered the question: "_oui_, madame. i was just coming." bowing politely, he turned on his heel, and, with a significant glance at handsome, which his mistress did not notice, he left the room. helen glanced at the bed, which was undisturbed. surprised, she exclaimed: "why, i thought you were going to lie down!" he shook his head. shifting uneasily on his feet, and, without looking up, he answered: "no--i can't sleep. i'm too nervous. i'll sleep to-night." advancing farther into the room she went up him and put her arm affectionately round him. sympathetically she said: "you'll feel better in a few days, dear. just rest and take things easy. i won't hear of your going to the office for a week at least. all the business you and mr. parker have you can transact here. by the way, dear, you haven't even mentioned the most important thing of all--have you brought back the diamonds?" instead of replying at once to her question, he turned quickly and pulled down the blind. "you don't mind, do you?" he said. "the light hurts my eyes." "of course not," she replied. sitting down near him she went on: "tell me--have you got the diamonds? how beautiful they must be! how i should love to see them!" when finally he turned and confronted her she could see his face only indistinctly, as the drawing of the blind had left the room almost in darkness. his voice was strained and tense as he replied huskily: "i have not got the diamonds!" helen almost started from her seat. "you have not got them!" she exclaimed. "where are they, ken?" "they are lost!" "lost?" she echoed, stupefied. "yes--lost." "oh, how terrible!" she faltered. this, then, was the secret of his strange manner, his depression and nervousness. he had lost the diamonds. he had returned home to announce to the eagerly awaiting stockholders that over a million dollars' worth of property had suddenly been swept away. his feeling of personal responsibility must have been awful. no wonder he was not himself. it was enough to unnerve any man. of course he was not to blame, but the world is so merciless. he would have to bear the censure, even when he was perfectly innocent. how she regretted that he had ever undertaken so heavy a responsibility. timidly, not wishing to embarrass or annoy him, she said: "how did it happen, dear?" for a moment he made no answer, but just sat and stared at her. what little light entered between the shade and the window frame fell full on her face, lighting up the fine profile, the delicately chiseled mouth, throwing off golden glints from her artistically arranged hair. from her face his eyes wandered greedily down to her snow-white neck, her slender, graceful figure, her beautifully molded arms. certainly, he mused to himself, his brother was an epicure in love. this woman was dainty enough to tempt a saint. "how did it happen?" she asked again. "it was in the first rush from the burning ship," he said hoarsely. "i was asleep when the fire broke out. it happened at two o'clock in the morning. the diamonds were in the belt which each night i unfastened and put under my pillow. it was more comfortable to do that than to wear it. when the first alarm came i forgot everything--except my own safety. i rushed pell-mell on deck. it was a nasty night. we didn't know where we were, or how grave the situation was. outside the wind was howling furiously, the siren was blowing dismally, the panic-stricken passengers and sailors were fighting like wildcats. i lost my head along with the rest. i had reached the lifeboat when suddenly i remembered the belt. i felt at my waist. it was not there. i remembered i had left it under the pillow. i was horror-stricken. great beads of perspiration broke from every pore. the people were fighting to get into the boat; i fought to get out and back to my stateroom. suddenly someone knocked me on the head. i lost consciousness. when i came to we were miles away from the wreck, drifting on the ocean in an open boat, and the _abyssinia_ was nowhere to be seen." helen made an exclamation of sympathy. "poor soul--how terrible you must have felt! thank god, you escaped with your life! we ought to feel grateful for that. suppose i had been compelled to tell mary that you were drowned. it would have killed her--you know that. do you remember what you told her when you went away?" he stared at her, not understanding. "told who?" he said cautiously. "mary." "oh, yes--mary--of course--you mean your sister----" helen looked at him in amazement, then in alarm. could the wreck have affected his mind? laughingly she retorted: "ray? of course not. how foolish you are, kenneth. don't you remember that your old nurse came to see you before you sailed?" he nodded and coughed uneasily, moving restlessly about in his chair, as if to hide his embarrassment. these questions were decidedly unpleasant. inwardly he wished françois was present to help him out. "mary? oh, yes, i remember--of course--of course----" the look of anxiety in the young woman's face deepened. his memory failed him completely. changing the subject she said quickly: "there's something else i wish to mention to you, dear. it is about signor keralio----" he started quickly to his feet. how came his brother's wife to know the name of the arch-plotter, the man who had sentenced her own husband to death? was it possible that she knew more? was she aware of his real identity? was her present amiability of manner merely simulated? was she waiting her time before calling in the police and exposing him as an impostor? "keralio?" he echoed hoarsely. "what about keralio?" making a step forward he exclaimed savagely: "has he squealed? is the game up? he's to blame, not i!" impulsively, instinctively, helen sprang from her chair and fell back with a startled exclamation. now thoroughly alarmed, more than ever convinced that the shipwreck had affected his brain, her one solicitude was to keep him quiet until she could get a doctor. soothingly she said: "of course, dear; of course. we won't speak of signor keralio now. he's not worth discussing anyhow." he watched her closely for a moment, as if trying to see if she were deceiving him, but her face was frank and serene. suddenly, taking hold of her hand, which she abandoned willingly enough in his, he murmured: "you mustn't mind what i say. i'll soon be all right. i'm a bit mixed up. my mind's been queer ever since that awful night." "perhaps you would prefer if we had no one to dinner. i could easily give some excuse and put them all off." his first impulse was to promptly accept this suggestion, yet what was the good? if he did not meet them to-day he must do so to-morrow. it was best to get it over with. the quicker he got to know the people the easier it would be for him. if he seemed to avoid meeting them, it might only arouse suspicion. shaking his head, he said: "no, dear. that's all right. i'm glad they're coming. it will liven things up." helen's face brightened. it was the first cheerful remark he had made. "that's what i think. you must forget what you have gone through. after all it's not so bad, but it might be a lot worse. mr. parker will feel badly about the stones, of course, because he had counted on making capital out of the advertising they would receive. but who knows? perhaps it's all for the best. they may find other stones even more valuable." a sudden knock at the door interrupted them. "come in," called out helen. the maid appeared. "mr. parker is downstairs, m'm." "good gracious! here already for dinner. what time is it?" "seven o'clock, m'm." "all right. i'll be down immediately." the girl went away and helen turned to her companion. "now, hurry, dear, won't you? dinner is ready. the guests are arriving. dress quickly and come down." he still held her hand. "you're not angry with me?" he whispered. "why should i be angry?" "because of the diamonds." "no, indeed--it was you i wanted, not the diamonds." drawing her to him, he kissed her. but her lips were cold. there was no response to his ardor. she could not herself have explained why. she felt no inclination to respond to his caresses, which at any other time she would have returned with warmth. with a slight shade of impatience she broke away. "we have no time for that now, kenneth. our guests are waiting." "that's right," he replied, with a smile that did not escape her. "we've no time now. but the night is still before us." "will you come soon?" "yes--i'll be right down." chapter xiv once more the traynor residence was filled with the sounds of mirth and revelry. from cellar to attic the old mansion was ablaze with light. the large dining-room, decorated with flowers and plants, wore a festive air, and the long table in the center literally groaned under its burden of fine linen, crystal, and silver. the dinner, now drawing to a close, had been a huge success in every way, and, with the serving of the _demi-tasse_, the guests sat back in their chairs, feeling that sense of gluttony satisfied which only a perfect dinner can impart. the rarest wines, the richest foods--helen had spared no expense to make the affair worthy the occasion. as mr. parker sat back and with deliberation lit the big black corona, which his host had given him, he felt as much at ease as can a man who has dined well and knows that his affairs are prospering beyond all expectations, and, as his eyes half closed, he listened dreamily while his host, for the hundredth time, told yarns of the diamond fields, he silently congratulated himself on his astuteness in having employed so successful a messenger. he had not yet had an opportunity to ask any questions about the diamonds. he had his own reasons for not wanting those present to learn too much of his plans. there would be plenty of time when he could get the vice-president alone. so he just sat back and puffed his cigar, while around him went on the hum of conversation, punctuated here and there with bursts of laughter. considering his short stay at the diamond mines it was astonishing how well stocked their host was with stories. to hear him talk one might have thought he had been a miner all his life. stimulated by copious draughts of champagne, which he contrived to make flow like water, he was highly interesting, and his listeners, greatly interested, hung on to every word. "it must be a terrible life!" said steell, as he lit another cigar. the host emptied his glass and again refilled it before he answered: "it's a life of a dog--not of a human being. the toil is incessant, the profit doubtful. you starve to death: good food is unprocurable save at prohibitive prices. one sleeps practically in the open, save for such rude shelter as each man can make for himself. the flies are a pest and constant source of danger. the water is abominable." "you like champagne better, eh?" laughed ray. the gambler had already drunk more than was good for him, and, raising his glass in a mock toast, began to hum the first lines of a familiar camp ditty: "_la femme qui sait me plaire c'est la petite veuve clicquot._" "is there much stealing of diamonds by the miners?" demanded mr. parker. handsome nodded. "lots of it. they have to watch 'em all the time. they resort to all kinds of tricks to conceal stones they find. they used to swallow them, but when they were forced to take powerful emetics and other drugs, they soon got tired of that game. they also try to smuggle them across the border line. one detective, who had been for months on the trail of a well-to-do smuggler, was badly stung. the man invited him to go shooting, and kindly furnished guns and cartridges. the unsuspecting policeman carried the cartridges across the border, never dreaming that each one was filled with diamonds." ray clapped her hands. "oh, what a clever idea!" the host nodded approvingly. "that's what i thought. any man as smart as that deserved to get away with it." mr. parker protested. "rogues are always smart!" he exclaimed. "until they're caught," laughed dick reynolds. "then they don't think they're so smart." mr. steell nodded approval. "i know something about that," said the lawyer. "a crook is never really clever. he always leaves some loophole which leads to detection. he thinks he is secure, that his disguise is impenetrable, but there is always someone watching him, closely observing his every move. and, the first thing he knows, he has walked into a trap, the handcuffs are snapped, and the electric chair looms grimly before him----" _crash_! all looked up to the end of the table, where their host had broken a glass. in the act of raising the champagne to his lips the glass had slipped and broken into a thousand pieces. helen, frightened, started from her seat. "are you hurt, dear?" she asked. "there is blood on your hand." "no--no, it's nothing. i cut myself with a bit of glass. it's nothing." ray was eager for more anecdotes. "do tell us more, kenneth," she exclaimed, interrupting her chat with her left-hand neighbor. "give him a breathing spell," laughed dick. "we've kept him at it ever since the dinner began." handsome, his face pale, his hand trembling, filled another glass with the foaming golden wine, and drained it at a draught. what the lawyer just said had been somewhat of a shock. was there more meaning in it than appeared in the chance words? he eyed steell narrowly, when he was not looking, but the lawyer's face was inscrutable. again he filled his glass and again emptied it. that her husband had been drinking heavily all evening had not escaped helen's attention, and it worried her. nudging her sister she whispered: "ken's drinking more than is good for him. he never used to drink like that." at that moment, the host looked up and caught helen's eye. raising his glass he offered a toast: "here's to the prettiest, the sweetest, the most desirable little woman in the world! gentlemen and ladies--my wife!" they all drank except helen who, confused and annoyed, tried to turn it off with a laugh. noticing her embarrassment, ray made a signal to mr. steell and they both rose from the table. helen and dick quickly followed their example and the hostess led the way into the drawing-room, leaving handsome and mr. parker alone to their cigars. the president of the americo-african mining company was not sorry of the opportunity which this tête-à-tête afforded for a quiet business talk. "by the way, old man," he began, "we haven't had a chance to talk business yet. you've got the diamonds, of course." his host was silent. mr. parker thought he had not heard. a little louder he repeated: "you've got the diamonds?" still no answer. the president began to get uneasy. could anything be wrong or was his friend drunk? he had noticed that he had been drinking heavily--something he had never known kenneth traynor do. with some impatience he said sharply: "what's the matter, kenneth? wake up, old man. i asked you a question. can't you answer?" handsome brought his fist down on the table with a bang that made the glasses dance. "d---- it!" he exclaimed angrily. "can't a man be left alone in his own house for a few minutes without bothering him with business?" this outburst was so utterly unexpected that mr. parker, taken entirely by surprise, fell back in his chair and stared at his host in amazement. never before had he known his old friend and partner to act in this strange way. could anything be amiss? now he came to think of it, he had noticed a great change in his associate directly he saw him. he had seemed to lack his customary cordiality and frankness. he appeared moody and morose, as if he had on his mind some weighty responsibility he was unwilling to share. evidently there was nothing to be gained by displaying impatience, so, in more conciliatory tones, he asked: "that's all right, my boy. if you don't care to talk shop to-night, we won't. i didn't want to hurry you. i was curious, that's all. i have scarcely been able to curb my impatience. you understand what it means to us. why, the very announcement that we have the diamonds safe here in new york, will be enough to send the company's stock up twenty points." lowering his voice and bending over he added confidentially: "i don't mind telling you that i've been buying for my own account all the cheap stock i could put my hands on. as to the stockholders, they're simply wild with impatience to see the big stones. but we won't talk any more about it to-night. we'll wait till to-morrow." handsome, his face almost livid, leaned over the table. hoarsely, he replied: "it's no use waiting till to-morrow. all that's to be told can be told now. i haven't got the diamonds!" for a moment mr. parker did not realize what the other man was saying. thinking he had not heard right he asked: "what did you say?" "i have not got the diamonds!" the president started from his seat. his face pale as death, his hand shaking as stricken with palsy, he almost shouted: "you have not got the diamonds! then where in god's name are they?" "at the bottom of the ocean!" the senior partner dropped back in his chair, white as death. then this was the outcome of all his hopes, all his planning. faintly he gasped: "why didn't you tell me so before?" "i had no opportunity. i didn't want to cable such news. it might have caused a slump in the shares. i could not let you know before. this is the first time i've seen you alone." the president said no more. the lines about his mouth tightened and the expression of his face underwent a change. he uttered not a word, but just sat there, his eyes fixed steadily on his companion, who continued to fill his glass with champagne. cornelius winthrop parker was not a man to be easily deceived. he had too much experience of the world for that. all his life he had been reading men and what he heard now in the tone of his host's voice convinced him that he was lying. that, in itself, was sufficient of a shock. to find kenneth traynor--the soul of integrity and honor--deliberately betraying a trust of such importance hurt him almost as much as the loss of the gems. that they had gone down with the _abyssinia_ he did not for a moment believe. it was more likely that they had been sold--possibly to make good wall street losses. talk of big stock deals in which traynor had been mixed up had reached his ear before today, and more recently this gossip had become more insistent. kenneth was interested, said rumor, in pool operations involving millions. the recent sudden slump had found him unprepared. ruin threatened him and to save himself he had succumbed to temptation. this, at least, was the theory which the president's alert brain rapidly evolved as he sat watching the man in front of him. perhaps all was not yet lost. if the stones had not yet been disposed of, an effort might still be made to recover them and at the same time save traynor and his young wife from the disgrace that such a grave scandal would entail. the first thing necessary was to keep cool, show no concern and disarm suspicion by pretending to accept the loss as irreparable. then, at the first opportunity, he would take wilbur steell into his confidence. that wide awake lawyer would know exactly how to handle the case. dick reynolds would have an opportunity to show his talent as a detective. breaking the long silence he said calmly: "of course, i understand your silence. i think you acted wisely. we had better keep the loss to ourselves as long as we can. no one can attach any blame to you. it is a terrible loss, but we must face it like men." the gambler looked up quickly, and eyed his guest narrowly. seeing nothing on the latter's face to arouse his suspicions, he grew more cheerful. less sullen and defiant, he extended his hand. "thanks, old man!" he exclaimed heartily. "i expected no less from you. i can't tell you how badly i feel about the loss. no doubt my manner has seemed strange since my return. i have been irritable with everybody--even my dear wife has noticed it. it was only because i did not know how to make a clear breast of it. since you take it so sensibly, i'll cheer up. i declare i feel like a new man already." mr. parker lit another cigar. calmly, he said: "that's right, kenneth my boy. keep a stiff upper lip. all's for the best. we'll have better luck next time." as he spoke, wilbur steell passed on his way to join the ladies in the drawing-room. the president called out to him: "hello, steell. what are you so busy about? entertaining the women, eh? always thought you were a lady killer. suppose you come and smoke a cigar with me and let our friend here go and have a chat with his wife. you've no right to monopolize the fair sex in that fashion, even if you are a trust lawyer. anyhow, i want to talk to you--just a little matter of business--that's all!" steell laughed, and, dropping into a chair, took the cigar which mr. parker held out. turning to his host, and clapping him genially on the back the president exclaimed: "go and talk to your wife, old man. you've left her alone long enough." "all right--i will," replied the gambler, not sorry of any excuse to get away. mr. parker waited till he was out of hearing, then, leaning quickly over to his companion, he exclaimed in a tense whisper: "steell, i need your help." the lawyer looked at him in surprise. removing his cigar from his mouth he said: "my help? by all means. what can i do for you?" mr. parker gave a quick glance behind him to see if they were observed, and then he said: "my god, steell, something terrible has happened! at any cost, we mustn't let the wife know----" the lawyer stared at his companion in amazement. "what is it, for heaven's sake?" he demanded, looking anxiously at his _vis-à-vis_. "the diamonds are lost!" replied parker hoarsely. "the diamonds lost!" "yes--lost--he has returned without them. they went down in the _abyssinia_. at least, that's what he says----" the lawyer started. "you think----" "i think nothing," replied the president cautiously. "i want to know. that's why i want you to help me--to find out--you understand?" the lawyer nodded: "some detective work, eh?" "precisely. the stones may have gone down to the bottom of the ocean, or they may not. for all we know the ship may have been set on fire purposely, in order to create such a panic----" the lawyer protested. "surely you don't think kenneth----" the president shook his head. "i accuse nobody. i want to find out." he was silent for a moment, and then after a pause he went on: "i suppose you've heard, as well as everybody else, how traynor has been plunging in wall street recently." the lawyer nodded. hesitatingly he replied: "yes--i have. unfortunately, the reports are true. investigations i have conducted privately on my own account have convinced me that kenneth has been a big plunger for some time. but as far as i know, he has operated only within his means. i have often remonstrated with him about the folly of it, but he enjoys the excitement of the speculation game, and as long as he kept within bounds and gambled with his own money i didn't see that anyone had any right to interfere." "ah, just so--as long as he operated with his own means and with his own money. but suppose the market suddenly goes against such a man, and he is face to face with a tremendous loss, possibly ruin, what does such a man do nine times out of ten?" "blow his brains out." "yes--sometimes that, but often he succumbs to temptation, and takes what isn't his----" "then you think that kenneth----" "i think nothing. i want to know. he has come back from africa a changed man. he is surly, morose, secretive. that man has something on his conscience. we must find out what it is. it is up to you to ferret it out. set your detectives to work. the company will spend the last cent in its treasury to find those stones. you must trail his associates, find out where he goes. the diamonds are probably right here in new york. who first took kenneth to wall street?" "signor keralio----" "ah--always that fellow! who is he?" "an adventurer of the worst type. i have had him shadowed by one of my men. he has a police record as a dangerous criminal of international reputation." "and kenneth's valet--that fellow françois." "he was formerly in keralio's employ." the president rose. extending his hand to the lawyer, he said: "that's enough. i don't think the trail will be hard to pick up. spare no expense. good night!" chapter xv the last guest had gone. one by one the lights in the traynor residence were extinguished. the servants, tired after an exciting and strenuous day, had gone to their quarters. in the hall downstairs, the grandfather's clock rang out its musical chimes and then, in ponderous tones, slowly struck the twelve hours of midnight. the master of the house was sitting at the desk in the library, looking over some papers. from time to time he glanced significantly, first at the clock and then at the corner where helen and ray were chatting over the events of the day. at last the young girl took the hint. jumping up, she exclaimed good naturedly: "how selfish i am to be sitting gossiping here when poor kenneth is so tired. go to bed, both of you. i'm so sleepy myself i can hardly keep awake. good night!" "good night, dear!" said helen, rising and kissing her. "good night, ken! pleasant dreams," cried the young girl as she left the room. "good night!" he responded hoarsely. the sound of her footsteps died away in the distance and helen and the gambler sat there in silence. he watched her furtively, trying to guess the trend of her thoughts, his eyes bloodshot with wine, feasting on every line of her girlish figure. never had she looked more beautiful, more desirable, than this evening. her _décolleté_ gown revealed a white, plump neck, her lips were red and tempting, her large dark eyes fairly sparkled from excitement. it was a vision to distract a saint and handsome was no saint. it was indeed only with the greatest difficulty that he curbed his impatience to carry off the prize that lay within his grasp. "are you tired," he said at last. "do you want to go to bed?" "not very," she answered. "i'm too excited to sleep. hasn't it been an exciting day?" he made no reply, pretending to be occupied at the desk, and she relapsed into a dream silence, glad of a few quiet, peaceful moments to be alone with her thoughts. how good it was to have him home again! now she could be at peace once more and enjoy life as she used to. she could go to the opera, to the theater. the days would not be so monotonous. she wondered why she was still unable to shake off the feeling of anxiety and apprehension which had haunted her ever since he went away. with a devoted husband safe at her side, what reason had she for feeling depressed? yet, for some reason she was unable to explain, she was not able even now to throw off her melancholy and presentiment of danger. there recurred to her mind what signor keralio had said, his veiled, ambiguous words of warning. could it be true, was it possible that her husband had deceived her all these years and unsuspected by her, had led a double life of deceit and disloyalty? certainly there was much that needed explanation. the loss of the diamonds did not directly concern her, although she felt that, too, was part of the mystery. but his strange aloofness of manner, his inexplicable loss of memory and nervousness, the frenzied outburst when she had mentioned keralio's name that afternoon, the sudden craving for drink--was not all this to some extent, corroboration of what the fencing master has told her? she thought she would question him, speak to him openly, frankly, as a loyal wife should the man she loves, and give him an opportunity to explain. now was as good a time as ever. looking up she said abruptly: "signor keralio was here while you were away. i started telling you this afternoon, but you got so excited----" making a deprecatory gesture with his hand he said indifferently: "that's all right. i was tired and nervous. i'm quieter now. what did keralio have to say?" "nothing worth listening to. he never says anything but impertinences." he shrugged his shoulders. "you mustn't take him too seriously." hotly she retorted: "he takes himself too seriously. if he only knew how repellent he is to a decent woman he would cease to annoy me." he laughed. "oh, keralio's not a bad sort--when you get to know him. those foreigners think nothing of making love to a woman----" "i don't want to know him," she retorted with spirit, "and what's more, i don't want him coming here. one evening he was so insulting that i had to show him the door. he had the impudence to come again. so i had my servant put him out. you won't invite him here again, will you?" he was silent, while she sat watching him, amazed that he did not at once fiercely resent the insult done her in his absence. after a pause, he said awkwardly: "i don't invite him. keralio's the kind of a chap who invites himself." "but can't you put him out?" she demanded with growing irritation. "no--i can't," he answered doggedly. "why?" she demanded firmly. "i can't--that's all!" she looked at him wonderingly, and the color came and went in her face and neck. there was a note almost of contempt in her voice as she demanded: "what is the hold this creature has on you? is it something you are ashamed of?" the blood surged to his face and the veins stood out on his temples like whipcord. another instant and it had receded, leaving him ghastly pale. "we have business interests in common, that's all," he said hastily and apologetically. "he has been very useful to me. i don't like him any more than you do, but in business one can't criticize too closely the manners or morals of one's associates." "no, but a man can prevent his associates from annoying his wife." he made no answer, but toyed nervously with a paper cutter. determined to get at the truth, she went on: "what business interests can you have together? is it legitimate business or merely stock gambling?" "what do you mean?" rising from the divan, she went toward him. earnestly, she said: "kenneth, i've wanted to speak to you about this matter for a long time. during your absence i've heard rumors. things have been insinuated. a hint has been dropped here, gossip has been overheard there--all to the effect that you are heavily involved in wall street. is it true?" for a moment he was silent, at a loss what to answer. he could not imagine the reason for the questioning or where it might lead him, but instinct warned him that it was dangerous ground and that caution was necessary. why hadn't françois told him of his brother's wall street operations? it would never do to show himself entirely ignorant of them. if such rumors existed, there was probably some basis of them. no doubt his brother had played the market and kept from his wife the extent of his losses. "is it true?" she repeated. he shrugged his shoulders. nonchalantly, he replied: "never believe all you hear!" her face lit up with pleasure. "really?" she exclaimed. "it isn't true?" "not a word of it. i have money invested in stocks and bonds, but anyone who accuses me of wild cat speculation is guilty of telling what i would very politely call a d----d lie!" reassured more by his ease and carelessness of manner than by his actual words of denial, the young wife gave an exclamation of delight. "oh, i'm so glad!" she exclaimed. "you've no idea how relieved i feel. it was worrying me terribly to feel that you might be in difficulties and had not thought enough of me to take me into your confidence." looking at him appealingly she added: "you will always confide in me, won't you ken?" "sure i will, sweetheart----" trembling with the ardor he was trying to control he seized hold of her hand and drew her on to his knee. she offered no resistance, but passively sat there, clasped against his broad shoulder, her face radiant with happiness at the load which his words had taken off her mind. putting his arm round her waist, he leaned forward as if to kiss her, but drawing quickly back she said: "there's still something else i must ask you before my happiness is quite complete." "what's that?" he demanded, impatient at these continual interruptions to his amorous advances. turning she looked steadily into his face, as if trying to read the truth or falsity of his answer. she could not see his eyes, veiled as they were by the glasses, but that sensitive mouth she knew so well, that determined chin, that high forehead crowned by the bushy brown hair with its solitary white lock--all these were as dear to her as they had always been. to think that he might have fondled some other woman as he was now fondling her was intolerable agony. "kenneth," she said slowly and impressively, "are you sure that there is no part of your life that you have kept hidden from me?" he started and for a moment changed color. what did she mean? was it possible that she suspected the substitution, or was she alluding to some past history of his brother's life, of which he knew nothing? evasively, he answered: "why all these question, sweetheart, the first day i come home. is this the kind of welcome you promised me, the one i had a right to expect. i am very tired. let us go to bed." his arm still around her, he again drew her to him and, stooping, tried to reach her mouth with his own. but again she resisted, her mind too disturbed by jealousy to be in a mood to respond to his wooing. gently she said: "i know you are tired, ken. i am tired, too,--tired of all these rumors and slanderous insinuations. i have been made unhappy by hearing this gossip. it is my right to tell you what i have heard and ask for a straightforward, loyal explanation. i know you are true to me. i have never doubted it for an instant. i only want a word from you to forget what i've heard and dismiss the matter from my mind forever." he looked at her, an amused kind of expression playing about the corners of his mouth. it was only with an effort that he controlled the muscles of his face. what a comedy, he thought to himself! here was this sweet little woman breaking her heart over something which, as far as he knew, didn't exist. but he must continue to play his part, no matter at what cost. evidently, she had heard something for which there might be some basis of truth. she might even have proofs of his brother's infidelity, and ready to produce them. too sweeping a denial might still further complicate matters, arouse suspicion, and end in exposure. cautiously, he replied: "you know all there is in my life, sweetheart. i never conceal anything from you." looking searchingly at him, she demanded: "never?" "never." "has there been another woman in your life, kenneth, since you married me?" "no, sweetheart--never. if anyone told you that or even insinuated it, he was a scoundrel. it's a damned lie! you are and always will be the only one----" her head fell back on his shoulder. "then i am completely happy!" she murmured. his arms folded about her and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. but this time she did not resist. it felt good to be sheltered there in those strong arms against the attacks and calumnies of the world. "it is late," he murmured. suddenly, he threw her head back and bending down till his mouth reached hers he kissed her full on the lips. she did not resist, but just abandoned herself, responding only feebly to the fierce passion that made him tremble like a leaf. his face flushed, his hands shaking, he murmured: "it is very late. are you not tired?" "no dear--i'm not tired. there's no hurry. we needn't get up early to-morrow. it's so beautiful here--sitting together like this--so happy in each other's company." "but i am tired," he said, trying to control his emotion. it was almost more than he could endure, yet still he mastered himself, and resisted the temptation that arose violently within him to take her by force, if needs be, and carry her into the inner room, as the wild beast, tiring of playing with its victim, suddenly ends the game by seizing its hapless prey and drags it away to its lair. was he not the master? why should he allow her childish prattle to stand in the way of his desires. for years, handsome had not known female society save that of those wretched outcasts who infest the mining camps. he had caroused with them and quarreled with them. he had even loved one of them--after the rough and ready fashion of the _veldt_. she was a spaniard, a tall handsome woman, with large black eyes and the temper of a fury. she had killed her husband in a drunken brawl, and on leaving prison had gone to south africa. she met the gambler one night in a gambling house, and, without as much as asking for an introduction, she went up to him and, in a characteristic spanish style, gave him a hearty kiss on both cheeks. it was her way of notifying her female associates that, henceforth, the big miner was her man. handsome accepted the challenge, and for a couple of years they lived as happily together as can two adventurers who are in constant hot water with the police. one day, in a fit of drunken jealousy, she struck him. furious with rage, he seized her by the neck. he did not mean to harm her; it was his giant strength that was to blame. anyhow her neck was broken and the coroner called it an accident. for a week or so, handsome was really sorry. she was the only woman he had ever cared for. she at least was a woman. but this slip of a girl, with her childish prattle and aristocratic airs, was quite different. accustomed to the rougher ways of the camp, her fine manners and refined graces at first had rather intimidated him. he did not feel at home with her. he felt awkward and ill at ease. yet, for all that, she was a woman, too--a woman of his own race, desirable, tempting. when françois had first suggested that he impersonate his brother and enjoy his fortune, he had said nothing about his brother's wife. perhaps he reserved her for his master, keralio. at the thought, a pang of jealousy went through him. if keralio, why not he? evidently keralio had been stalking the game, for she complained of his conduct and had dismissed him from the house. yet, in what position was he to frustrate keralio in any of his schemes? he had him in his power; he was completely at his mercy. he allowed him to masquerade in new york as the millionaire, but he was the real master of the traynor home. even now, françois might be spying on their actions, eager to report to the arch conspirator. rising from the chair, he lifted her to her feet. "come, darling--it is late----" he led her slowly, almost imperceptibly, in the direction of the inner room. a feeling of languor came over her, and she allowed him to lead her, abandoning herself to his ardent, feverish embrace, responding every now and then to the hot kisses he rained on her mouth and neck. through her thin dress he could feel her soft form pressing against him. from her neck arose a delicious aroma, a kind of feminine incense that still further aroused and lashed his desire. "i adore you--i adore you!" he murmured, as he kissed her again. slowly he led her past the bookcase and marble venus to the open door of her pink and white boudoir. [illustration: "i adore you--i adore you" he murmured, as he kissed her again.] she looked up at him in surprise. "how you love me!" she murmured. "you never used to care for me like this." her head on his shoulder, her eyes half closed, she was conscious only of the presence of the man she loved better than anyone in the world. yet even now, in the hour of her supreme content and felicity, when all her tormenting anxieties and doubts had been dissipated by his frank words of denial, there was still something that worried her. he was changed somehow, even in his love making. it was delicious to be loved passionately, fiercely, like this--to be carried off by force, as it were, by your own husband. but she did not understand how a man could change so much in a few weeks. kenneth had always loved her deeply, but never had she known him display such ardor as this. she had heard that men change, particularly after long absences from home. some, she had heard, became colder; others were more demonstrative. of the two, she thought the latter preferable. if there was such love in the world, why should it not be shown her. her own temperament was cold, but no woman could but feel flattered that she possessed the power to arouse men to such passion. at last they had reached the threshold of the boudoir. what to him was an earthly paradise, was almost attained. in a state of blissful helplessness, intoxicated by a delicious sensation of being completely dominated by a will stronger than her own, she permitted him to take her where he wished. her eyes closed, her head on his shoulder, she submitted willingly to his fervent kisses. another moment and he had closed the door behind them, when, suddenly, a commotion on the landing outside the library aroused both with a start. there was the sound of voices and people running up the stairs. "what's that?" exclaimed helen startled. irritated at this unlooked for interruption, the gambler went quickly toward the landing to investigate. françois met him at the library door. in his hand he held an envelope. holding it out, he said: "a telegram for madame!" "a telegram!" cried helen, rushing forward. "good god, i hope dorothy is not----" she tore it open, while handsome stood by in silence. on the valet's face there was a triumphant expression, the gratified smile of one rogue who enjoys the discomfiture of another. helen suddenly gave a cry. "it's as i thought!" she exclaimed. "dorothy is worse. the doctor thinks it is scarlet fever. i must go to her at once." "go where?" demanded handsome in consternation. "to philadelphia." "to philadelphia to-night?" he cried in dismay. "yes--to-night," she said firmly. he protested vigorously. "nonsense--you can't go to-night. it will do no good. wait till the morning. there are no trains." quickly, the valet drew from his pocket a time-table. with a side glance at his master, he said: "there is a train at . . if madame is quick, she will make it. the car is already waiting downstairs." helen seized her fur coat, which the obliging valet had also brought up from the hall. "yes--yes. throw a few things in my bag. you needn't come, ken. i'll telephone you directly i get to philadelphia. good-bye!" the next instant she was gone and the gambler, with a muttered curse, went to the sideboard and poured out a glass of whiskey, with which to drown his disappointment. chapter xvi for a person so fastidious and particular, so fond of the luxurious and the elegant, signor keralio had certainly selected a queer neighborhood for his abode. miles distant from the fashionable centers, far away up in the bronx, he occupied the entire top floor of a dingy, broken down tenement. there were no other people in the house, it being in such bad repair that no one cared to live in it, and as keralio paid as much as all the previous tenants combined and made no requests for improvements, the landlord was only too glad to leave him undisturbed. it was situated at the extreme end of a blind alley and, there being no egress from the street save at one end, there was consequently little or no traffic and, for the great part of the day and night, the silence was as deep and unbroken as in the open country. with his neighbors signor keralio was distantly polite, but never intimate. the district was a poor one, being settled mostly by italian laborers who rose and went to bed with the sun and toiled too long and too hard each day to bother their heads as to why such a fine gentleman as the signor appeared to be, should live in such squalid quarters. no one had ever been admitted to his flat. if the baker called, he left the bread on the mat; if a chance peddler or book agent happened to wander in, he had to talk through closed doors. the signor was always busy and could not be disturbed. the lights often burned all night long, and sometimes people drove up in a taxi and went away again. for a while the corner gossips speculated idly as to who he might be, but gradually they lost all interest. when he purchased trifles at the corner grocery he gave out casually that he was a newspaper man and had to work all night, and the fact that muffled sounds of hammering and machinery in motion had been heard at all hours, only helped to make the explanation more plausible. to-night, keralio was perhaps more anxious than at any time to discourage callers--especially should they happen to be inquisitive secret service agents. another few days and he would have nothing more to fear. the presses would soon have completed their work and $ , worth of as fine a $ counterfeit as ever deceived a bank teller would be ready for distribution. half of them had already been run off and, as he held them up to the light and critically examined the silken thread that ran here and there through the specially prepared paper and noted the careful coloring, the beautifully geometrical lathe work and skilfully traced signatures, he silently congratulated himself. here was half a million dollars' worth of splendid currency. detection was absolutely impossible. had not françois already succeeded in passing a lot? after all had been disposed of, he could afford to take a rest. on the proceeds of this rich haul, he could live like a prince for a few years in europe, and when that was all gone, he still had the diamonds to fall back upon. glancing at the clock, he wondered why handsome did not come. he was anxious to get possession of the diamonds. it was too soon to attempt doing anything with the stones now. the hue and cry would be too loud. all the diamond markets would be watched, if they were not already. he had a suspicion that parker and steell suspected something wrong. françois had seen the president in earnest consultation with the lawyer directly after handsome had announced the loss. he had not been able to hear what was said, but from their manner he inferred that the diamonds were the sole subject of conversation. they did not question handsome's identity. that never entered their heads, but they doubted his story of losing the stones. they, no doubt, thought he had used the diamonds to make good wall street losses. he chuckled as he thought how admirably his scheme had worked out. he had hinted at kenneth being heavily short in this street, which at once explained a motive for kenneth diverting the stones to his own use. yes, he had triumphed over them all--except one. helen traynor, so far, had foiled him in everything, and the more she resisted and insulted him, the more determined he was to drag her at his feet. handsome, poor devil, fondly imagined he would inherit the wife as well as the fortune. how could he guess that he, keralio, would send a bogus telegram just in time to dash the cup from his lips. impatiently he strode up and down the rooms. why was handsome late? a frown darkened his face. he had better not trifle with him. he must obey without question or take the consequences. he was in no mood to be defied. suddenly, he started and listened. his alert ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps on the stairs outside. a moment later came three deliberate knocks on the door, a signal which indicated a friendly visitor. quickly, keralio went forward and withdrew the bolt. françois entered, suit case in hand. hardly before he could take breath after the long climb, keralio exclaimed: "well, how are they going?" the frenchman grinned. "_À merveille_! like hot cakes. i've passed all of zem. good work, is it not?" "and the real stuff?" demanded keralio. "is in here." the valet pointed to the leather case. eagerly keralio seized the portmanteau, and, opening it, emptied the contents. a perfect shower of greenbacks--genuine ones this time--fell upon the floor. with shaking hands, like a miser who trembles as he handles his hoarded gold, keralio picked up the money by armfuls and, taking it to a table, proceeded to count it. "is it all here?" he demanded suspiciously. the valet scowled. "do you think i'm holding any back on you? _ma foi, non_!" keralio, still counting, fixed his assistant with steely, piercing eyes. "no, françois, i think you know me too well for that. you know i never forget a service; you also know i never forgive anyone who crosses my will." the valet shrugged his shoulders. in an injured tone he asked: "what's all ze talk about? i work well for you. i do your dirty work, _n'est ce pas_? i never complain--i am faithful. what more would you have?" "why should you complain? you get your share," rejoined his chief sternly. the valet was silent and keralio went on: "a few days more and we'll be rid of all the new stuff. then we'll take down the presses and carry away the parts, piece by piece. when we're ready to leave this hole, there won't be a shred of evidence left. have you heard any news from our man in washington? what are the secret service men doing?" "ze alarm is given. zey have spotted several of ze bills. half a dozen of ze cleverest sleuths in ze country have been put on our trail. zey will not succeed. ze scent is cold. we've got zem completely doped." keralio looked anxious. "is there any danger of them having shadowed you and followed you here?" "no--_mon cher, pas le mains du monde_. it took me three hours to come here from ze pennsylvania station--such a crazy in and out route i gave ze chauffeur. if they succeed in following such a labyrinth as that, they deserve to get us." keralio smiled and pointed to a bottle of brandy on the table. approvingly, he said: "good boy! there, take a drink and a cigar----" after the valet had refreshed himself, he again confronted his chief. "what else _à votre service_?" keralio pointed carelessly to a seat. in a commanding tone, he said: "yes--i have more work for you. sit down. i will tell you." the valet took a chair and waited. keralio looked at him meditatively for a moment. then suddenly he asked: "when did you leave the house?" "this afternoon at three o'clock." "when did mrs. traynor return from philadelphia?" "yesterday--furious at the hoax played upon her? miss dorothy is perfectly well----" keralio smiled. "of course. i sent that telegram." the valet grinned. admiringly, he exclaimed: "you are admirable! _quel homme, mon dieu, quel homme_!" paying no heed to the compliment, keralio went on: "what did handsome say?" "he is puzzled himself and can't understand. everyone's up in the air. they think it is a discharged maid who did it for spite." "the next time mrs. traynor receives a sudden message about her baby it will not be a hoax." the valet looked up in surprise. "what do you mean?" keralio did not answer the question immediately, but sat nervously twisting his fingers, a moody sullen look in his pale saturnine face. at last, breaking the heavy silence, he said: "that woman insulted me. you saw it. you were there----" the valet nodded. "you mean she put you out--ah, _oui_, she has a _diable_ of a temper when angry." keralio nodded. "yes--that i can never forgive. she shall ask my pardon on her knees. i will break her spirit, humiliate her pride. i have been taxing my brain how to do it. at last i have hit on a plan--one that cannot fail and you shall help me." "in what way _s'il vous plait_?" bending forward, his black eyes flashing, keralio said earnestly: "that woman is devoted to only two beings in this world--her husband and her baby. sooner or later, perhaps only in a few days, she will discover that handsome is an impostor. he is such a fool that exposure is inevitable. the blow will almost kill her. above all, it will humiliate her pride to know that unwittingly she has allowed that drunken brute, that poor counterfeit of her husband, to caress and fondle her. next in her affections comes her baby. if any danger threatened the child, she would stop at nothing, she would make any sacrifice to ward off the danger. i propose to bring about just that situation----" the valet half started up from his chair. hardened and callous as he was in crime, he was hardly prepared to go to that extreme. "death?" he exclaimed, horror stricken, "you would kill ze child?" "no fool--not kill the child. i'll kidnap it--that's all. we'll bring the child here and, then i'll write the mother, telling her where it is and to come to it, but warning her that if she values the child's life, she must tell no one, and must come here unaccompanied. once she is here, i will take care of the rest. do you understand?" the valet breathed more freely. "so you will that i----" his chief nodded. "precisely. you'll take the flyer to philadelphia. say you come from the mother. they'll have no suspicion. take the child and come here at once. understand?" "_oui_, monsieur." keralio rose. in commanding tones, he said: "then go at once." the valet went to get his hat. as he approached the door keralio halted him and said: "what's handsome doing--keeping sober?" "he has to, for i lock up all ze liquor. he lives like a lord, buying swell clothes, riding in ze automobile. last night he lost at ze club $ , he had drew from ze bank." keralio gave a low whistle. "the deuce he did! living high, eh? well--that's all right. let him enjoy it. his gay life won't last long--only just as long as it suits my purpose." "hush! not a word--here he is!" from the landing outside came the sound of a heavy body lurching. then came the noise of someone groping for the handle, followed by a furious pounding on the wooden panels. "open up there, will you!" shouted a hoarse voice. "drunk, as usual!" said keralio contemptuously. he suddenly threw the door open and the gambler, burly and unsteady on his legs, almost fell in. he was in evening dress, his collar and tie rumpled, his hair unkempt. his face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. reeling in, he hiccoughed: "what'n h--ll do you live so far up town for? i thought i'd never get here. say, this is the end of the world, ain't it? jumping off place, eh? stopped several times on the way to get a drink. my cabby nearly got lost. been driving me round for three hours trying to locate the blooming house. charged me $ . hell of a good business, ain't it. tain't on the level to treat an old pal that way. y'oughter be ashamed o' yourself." "i'm more ashamed of you--for making such a beast of yourself," rejoined keralio angrily. "stop your cursed noise or you'll have the police on top of us!" without ceremony, he pushed the newcomer into a seat and made a gesture to françois to go. the valet went toward the door. "remember," said keralio warningly. "there must be no blundering. i want the child brought here----" "_oui_, monsieur--it shall be as you say." the door closed and keralio turned quietly to the miner. sternly, and in a manner that brooked no nonsense, he demanded: "did you bring the diamonds?" handsome grinned, and pointed to his waist. "i've got 'em all right!" with another hiccough, he added: "but there's no hurry, old sport. let's have a drink before we get talking business." in two rapid strides keralio was up to him. fiercely he said: "give me the stones--give me them i say. we've no time for your d----d fooling. hand them over. come----" for a moment the gambler just sat and looked at his master. a giant in physical strength compared with the slightly built foreigner, he could have overpowered him as a child might crush an egg-shell, but he lacked the mentality, the magnetism of the italian. he was cowed, dominated by the stronger mind. grumbling, he began to fumble at his waist: "i don't see what's the hurry." "but i see," exclaimed keralio, his eyes growing larger, as he already saw the colossal stones glittering in his hand. the next instant handsome had slid his hand under his waistcoat and unbuckled a belt he wore next his shirt. unfastening a pocket and taking out the contents, he growled: "here they are! i'm glad to get rid of the d----d things." with a cry of exultant joy keralio took hold of the stones and, going to the window, greedily feasted his eyes on them. report had not exaggerated the value and extraordinary beauty of the gems. they were worth more than a million. "what do i get out of it?" whined the gambler. keralio regarded him with contempt. dryly he said: "you get out of it that you're not sitting in the electric chair for murdering your twin brother. you get out of it that you're playing the rôle of the millionaire, basking in the smiles of your brother's charming wife, and making a drunken beast of yourself--that's what you get out of it. isn't it enough?" handsome winced. keralio had a direct way of saying things to which there was no answer possible. "all right," he grumbled, "i'm not kicking." "no--i wouldn't if i were you." changing the topic, keralio carelessly lit a cigarette and, between the puffs, asked: "how's your wife?" "my wife? you mean his wife?" keralio smiled. "yours--for the time being." handsome scowled. "it isn't so easy as i thought," he replied. "i don't know if she suspects something's wrong or not, but ever since that evening she was called to philadelphia she avoids me like the pest. i can see in her face that she's puzzled. 'it's my husband, and yet not my husband'--that's what she's thinking all the time. i can guess her thoughts by the expression on her face." keralio shrugged his shoulders. "that's your own fault. i gave you the opportunity. you failed to profit by it. you got drunk the first night you arrived. kenneth traynor was a temperate man. is it no wonder you excited wonder and talk? then you were stupid under questioning and gave equivocal answers. your explanation to parker about the diamonds was more than unfortunate; it was idiotic. his suspicions were at once aroused. he may yet give us trouble before we have time to get rid of the stones. finding the wife eluded you, you began to stay out late at night. you caroused, you drank hard, you gambled--all of which follies your brother never committed. in other words, you are a fool." the miner pointed to the diamonds which still lay on the table. sulkily he asked: "is that all you wanted?" keralio put the gems away in his pocket, and pointed to the stacks of newly printed counterfeit money that lay in stacks all over the floor. "no, you can help me make up bundles of this stuff." handsome opened wide his eyes at sight of the crisp currency. greedily he exclaimed: "say--that's some money! ain't they beauties?" keralio made an impatient gesture and, taking off his coat, made a gesture to his companion to do likewise. "come--there's no time to talk. we must get rid of it all before morning. for all i know the detectives may be watching the house now." chapter xvii "i'm sure it was mary," exclaimed ray positively. "i never did like the girl. she was sullen and vicious and would stop at nothing to get even with us for discharging her." "perhaps you are right," said helen, "although it is hard to believe that a woman would do such a cruel thing to a mother. just imagine how worried i was all the way to philadelphia, only to find when i got there that no message had been sent, and dorothy was perfectly well." it was evening. the two women were sitting alone in the library on the second floor, ray busy at her trousseau, helen helping her with a piece of embroidery. the master of the house was absent, as usual. he had not come home to dinner, having telephoned at the last minute that he was detained at the club, a thing of such common occurrence since his return from south africa that helen had come to accept it as a matter of course. indeed, things had come to such a pass that she rather welcomed his absence. she preferred the sweet, amiable companionship of her little sister to that of a man who had suddenly become exacting, over-bearing and quarrelsome. "why don't you let dorothy come home?" asked ray. "then you wouldn't have this constant worry about her." "i think i will, now that we are more settled and things are quieter. i wrote to auntie to-day that i might go to philadelphia one day next week to bring her home. you are right. i shall not be happy until she's with me. i have such terrible dreams about her. if anything were to happen that child, i think it would kill me." ray nodded approvingly. sympathetically, she said: "yes, dear. you'll feel better satisfied when she's with you. besides she'll be a companion for you--especially when i'm married----" helen sighed and turned away her face so her sister should not see the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. sorrowfully, she said: "it will be terrible to lose you, dear. of course, i'm happy over your marriage. it would be very selfish in me to want to stand in the way of your happiness. i'm sure i wish you and wilbur every joy imaginable. but i shall certainly feel very lonely when you are gone." the young girl looked closely at her sister. she realized that her sister was no longer the happy, contented woman she once was, and she readily guessed the cause. helen had not taken her into her confidence, but she had ears and eyes. living in the house in such close intimacy, she could not help noticing that the relations between the wife and husband were no longer what they had been. guardedly she said: "but you have kenneth." helen sighed and was silent. ray looked up. more gently she said: "haven't you your husband, dear?" her sister shook her head. there was a note of utter discouragement and melancholy in her voice as she answered: "he is seldom home--his club seems to have more attraction for him. i rarely see him except at breakfast time." she was silent for a moment, and then added quickly: "would you believe that he hasn't been home a single night since the time i was called to philadelphia?" ray opened her eyes. "he's out all night?" "yes--all night. the other morning it was seven o'clock when he came home--and his dress suit and shirt looked as if he had been in a fight." the young girl put down her work and looked at her sister in dismay. "sis!--what's the matter with ken all at once?" helen made no reply, but covering her face with her two hands, burst into tears. ray rose quickly and going over to where she was sitting, sat on the edge of the chair and put her arms about her. soothingly she said: "don't cry, dear, don't cry. he will soon be himself again. his terrible experience on the steamer upset him dreadfully. his nervous system underwent such a shock that it has entirely changed his character. wilbur says it is quite a common phenomenon. only the other day he read in some medical book an article on that very subject. the writer says any great shock of that kind can cause a temporary disarrangement of the moral sense and perceptions. for example, a man who, under ordinary circumstances is a perfect model of a husband, with every good quality and virtue, may suddenly lose all sense of conduct and become am unprincipled _roué_. in other words, we have two natures within us. when our system is working normally we succeed in keeping the evil that's in us under control; but following any great shock, the system is disarranged, the evil gains the ascendancy, and we appear quite another person. this explains the dual personality about which wilbur and i had an argument the other day. don't you remember?" helen nodded. sadly she said: "i begin to think you are right. certainly he has changed. if he had been like this when i first met him i should never have married him. it is not the kenneth i learned to love." bitterly, she added: "as he is now, i feel i dislike and detest him. unless he soon changes for the better, i shall leave him. in self respect i can't go on living like this?" kissing her sister again, ray rose and went back to her seat. confidently, she said: "don't worry, dear. i'm sure everything will be all right soon. you see if i'm not right. by my wedding day--only three weeks away now--you'll think as much of ken as ever----" "i hope so, dear, but three weeks is a long time to wait----" the young girl laughed. "why that's nothing at all. just imagine ken is ill or gone away from you on a visit for that length of time----" as she spoke the door opened, and françois entered with a silver salver, which he presented to his mistress. "a letter for madame." helen looked at the envelope and threw it down with a gesture of impatience. crossly, she exclaimed: "françois, i do wish you'd be more careful. can't you read. don't you see the letter is addressed to mr. traynor?" the valet nodded. "_oui_, madame. but as monsieur is out i thought that possibly madame----" incensed more at the fellow's impudent air than by what he actually said, helen lost her temper. angrily, she exclaimed: "don't think. people of your class are not hired to think; they are paid to do as they are told. you've been very careless in your work recently. the next time it happens i shall have to tell you to find another place." the valet smiled. an insolent look passed over his sallow, angular face. dropping completely his deferential manner and fixing the two women with a bold, familiar stare, he said impudently: "you needn't wait till next time. i'll quit right now, _parbleu_. it's a rotten job, anyhow." indignant, helen pointed to the door. "go!" she cried. "the housekeeper will settle with you. never let me see your face again." the frenchman shrugged his shoulders and went toward the door. as he reached it, he turned round, a sneer on his face: "you'll see me again all right, but ze circumstances may be different? my lady may not be so proud ze next time." with this parting shot, he went away, and a moment later they heard him going up to his room to pack his things. ray turned to her sister. reprovingly, she said: "weren't you a little severe with him?" helen shook her head. quickly, she said: "i never could bear the sight of the man. he is treacherous and deceitful. i'm not at all sure that he's honest. it was only after he'd been here some time that i learned he was formerly with signor keralio. that was enough to set me against him. like master, like valet, as the saying goes, and it's usually a true saying. on several occasions lately i have noticed things that seemed suspicious. the fellow is more intimate now with kenneth than i, his wife, have ever been. only the other day i discovered them in earnest and intimate conversation. directly i appeared they separated and françois, instead of continuing to converse on terms of apparent social equality, was once more the fawning valet. i didn't take the trouble to ask kenneth what it all meant. so many singular things have happened since his return, that this only adds one more to the list." "may i come in?" said a voice. helen looked up quickly. it was wilbur steell who was standing at the door with his head half in the room, laughing at them. the two women had been so busy talking that they had not heard the sound of approaching footsteps. with an exclamation of joy ray jumped to her feet and ran up to him. "it's wilbur--my precious wilbur!" helen nodded approvingly, as she noticed the girl's enthusiasm. certainly her sister had changed. she was hardly the cold, self-centered ray of six months ago. with a smile she said: "it's astonishing how a man can alter a girl--if he's the right kind." the lawyer laughed. "it works both ways. the right kind of woman can make a man change his ways--even a hardened old bachelor. who could have guessed that i would ever fall in love?" helen sighed. "what is love? we have it to-day; it eludes us to-morrow. a few weeks ago i thought i loved my husband better than any being in the world. to-day, i can hardly look him in the face. how do you account for it?" dropping into a chair, the lawyer look serious. "i can't account for it, nor can i blame you. kenneth has returned from south africa a changed man. whether the wreck and the loss of the diamonds affected his mind i do not know. only a psychologist could determine that. but he is not the same. where is he to-night?" helen threw up her hands. "do i ever know?" she exclaimed wearily. "i haven't seen him since morning, and don't expect to see him before breakfast to-morrow. he's at his club or drinking and carousing, or in some gambling house playing roulette. how do i know?" "it is certainly a most singular case," said the lawyer meditatively. "mr. parker and i have gone carefully over his accounts at the company's office. everything is perfectly regular. there only remains the missing diamonds. we have detectives working on half a dozen clues but so far we have accomplished nothing. we have also gone to washington to get the secret service men interested in the case on the ground that if the diamonds are here they were smuggled in and no duty was paid. but we found the secret service men busy following up counterfeiters. the country is being flooded with counterfeit $ bills--a splendid reproduction, almost defying detection. it is believed that the plates and presses from which they are made are right here in new york and the whole secret service force is at work trying to run the counterfeiters to earth. this is why our diamond case is going so slowly. they are so busy following up the counterfeiters they have no time for us." ray, much interested, leaned eagerly forward. "a counterfeit ten dollar bill, did you say?" she demanded. "yes--it is a remarkable counterfeit. you would not know it from a good one. only an expert can tell the difference. but all these crooks overreach themselves. clever as they are, they usually leave some mark which betrays them. for example, in printing this bill which bears the head of lincoln, they have spelled his first name 'abrahem'--in other words, the engraver made an 'e' when it should have been 'a.'" ray jumped up, quite excited. her eyes flashing, she cried. "isn't that strange! i have a new $ bill, and i noticed to-day the queer spelling of abraham. wouldn't it be funny if i had one of the counterfeits?" the lawyer smiled. "it wouldn't be funny; it would be a tragedy, considering that in a short while from now i am to pay your bills. where is the bank note?" "i'll run up and get it. it's in my purse." when she had disappeared, steell turned to his hostess and said: "have you seen signor keralio lately?" "hardly--you know i dismissed him from the house." the lawyer sat thoughtfully drumming his fingers on the table. musingly, he said: "somehow i have a hunch that that fellow knows something about the diamonds. does kenneth ever see him?" "i asked him the other day. he said he did not." "that's strange!" exclaimed the lawyer. "it was only yesterday morning that i saw them together in a taxicab." "where?" demanded helen, surprised. "away uptown. i had business up in the bronx. i was driving my car and was near th street and going north when suddenly i had to steer to one side to allow a taxicab to pass. there were two men in it. i just chanced to glance inside and, to my surprise, i recognized your husband and keralio." "what time was that?" "very early--about nine o'clock." "what direction?" "they were coming south." "then he must have been with keralio all night, for he didn't come home." the lawyer was silent. certainly here was a mystery which needed more detective talent than he possessed to clear up. yet he would not rest until it was solved. to-morrow he would get dick reynolds busy, and they would go to work in earnest. the first thing to find out was what took keralio and kenneth to the bronx. "does keralio live in the bronx?" "i don't know," said helen. "i'll find out," said the lawyer, grimly. at that moment ray returned, holding out a new ten-dollar bill. "i was right," she cried. "the name abraham is spelled with an 'e.' do you really think this is a counterfeit?" the lawyer took the bill and examined it critically. "i have no doubt of it," he answered. "there are other indications--the general appearance, the touch of the paper. where did you get it?" for a moment the young girl was puzzled. "let me think. where did i get it. oh yes, i know. françois gave it to me." "françois!" exclaimed helen. the lawyer started and looked up in surprise. "françois, your brother-in-law's valet?" "yes--i wanted a $ bill changed to pay for some things that came home from the store, and he went out and brought me some old bills and this new one." the lawyer gave vent to a low, expressive whistle. "françois gave it to you, eh? where is francois?" "i discharged him to-day for insolence," said helen. "he's gone!" "yes--he went shortly before you came in." the lawyer jumped to his feet, a look of exultation on his face. quickly, he said: "didn't you say that this françois was formerly with signor keralio?" "yes--he was with him for years." the lawyer gave a wild whoop of joy. "then we've got it--at last." "got what?" cried the women. "a clue--a clue!" cried the lawyer, excitedly. "can't you see it? françois is hand in glove with keralio--the master rogue who is making this counterfeit." "what do you propose to do?" "find where keralio lives--then, perhaps, we'll find the lost diamonds." chapter xviii "this way," whispered dick, as he darted swiftly from door to door, "keep close behind me, and stick to the wall, or he'll see you." but françois was so utterly fagged after his long walk from the elevated road, carrying his heavy suitcase, that he worried about nothing save his own discomfort. unable to find a taxi, he had been compelled to tramp the entire distance, and the fatigue of it had made him peevish. he could have saved himself at least a mile if he had taken a more direct road, but keralio's orders were explicit. he must always follow a circuitous route so as to throw possible pursuers off the scent. there was no disobeying the orders of the chief, so on he trudged, looking neither to right nor left, up one street, down another, now crossing an empty lot, now darting through a narrow alley, through the wastes and dreariness of bronxville. as he approached his journey's end, he accelerated his pace, going along so fast that it was as much as dick and steell could do to keep up with him. the night was dark and foggy, and at times they could not see him for the mist. but as he came within the glare of each lamp post, they could make out his lithe figure, scurrying along as if the devil himself were at his heels. "let's get up closer," gasped dick, who was winded from the long chase. "i guess their den is in this neighborhood. he'll slip in somewhere and we'll lose him if we keep so far away." "no--he may see us," whispered steell cautiously. "we can make him out all right." they increased their pace a little. the valet was less than two blocks away, and once he actually stopped and looked around as if to see if he was followed. quickly steell and dick darted under a doorway, and, seeing nothing to arouse his suspicion, françois went on. the lawyer was taking no chances to-night. it was too good a game to spoil. that they were on the right trail at last he was morally certain. ray's experience had given him the first clue. after that it was easy. for two days dick had shadowed the valet, and seen him changing crisp $ bills in half a dozen different places. the lawyer could have had him arrested at once, but he was after bigger game. it was not enough to arrest françois. he was only the tool. they must get the man higher up, the man who employed him. that man, the lawyer felt equally confident, was keralio. he was the master counterfeiter. the first step to take was to find out where the counterfeiting was done, where keralio had his plant, and the only way to do this was to follow the valet to his master's secret den. for several days they had shadowed the frenchman constantly, until to-night they were rewarded by seeing him start with a suit case in the direction of the bronx. they quickly gave chase, the lawyer confident of results. it was not part of his plan, however, to hurry matters or do things prematurely. to-night they would merely reconnoiter. they would content themselves by watching the premises, seeing who came and went, and trying to obtain a glimpse of the interior. if the evidence was incriminating enough to make a raid successful, it would always be time enough to call in the police. keralio, he was also well convinced, had something to do with the missing diamonds, and possibly the present investigation would throw some light on the mystery surrounding kenneth himself. he had made no mention of his suspicions to helen, but he could not help feeling that in some way, yet to be discovered, his old comrade had become involved with a band of crooks. how otherwise explain his acquaintance with keralio, an utter stranger of dubious antecedents. how explain the loss of the diamonds? the explanation kenneth had given was decidedly fishy. parker did not believe a word of it--in fact, frankly expressed, his opinion was that his vice-president had disposed of the gems. had he himself not seen kenneth driving about the bronx with keralio at an impossible hour? had not helen discovered françois conversing on intimate terms with his master? it all looked decidedly bad; only time could unravel it all. it was a fearful thing to suspect a man of kenneth's standing, but everything pointed to his being involved in a vast network of crime. he was aroused from his reflections by an exclamation of warning from his companion. "quick--there he goes!" whispered dick. the valet had suddenly made a sharp turn to the right, and was lost to view. but quick as he was, dick was quicker. the young man was a little ahead of the lawyer, and, putting on a spurt of speed, he reached the corner just in time to see the frenchman and suitcase disappear into a grimy, dilapidated looking tenement at the end of a blind alley. "we've run the fox to earth," whispered steell exultantly. "could any melodrama wish for a more appropriate _mise-en-scène_?" grinned dick. "come opposite, and find out what we can see from the outside." crossing the street they took up positions in the shadow of a doorway. the house which the frenchman had entered was all dark and apparently tenantless, except on the top floor where lights could be faintly seen behind hermetically sealed shutters. straining his ears, steell thought he could hear the steady hum of machinery in motion. with an exclamation of satisfaction, he turned to his companion: "we've got 'em, dick, we've got 'em. do you hear the presses going?" the young man listened. the sound was plainly audible, but it was a muffled sound, as if the walls and windows were padded with mattresses to prevent any sounds of the operations within from reaching inquisitive, outside ears. "let's go upstairs," whispered steell. recrossing the road, they entered the house and began to grope their way up the narrow, winding staircase. they could make only slow progress, not only because of the absence of light, but owing to the rotten condition of the stairs. indescribably filthy and littered with all sorts of rubbish and broken glass, in some places the boards had broken through entirely, leaving gaping holes, which were so many dangerous pitfalls. twice the lawyer came near breaking his neck. at last they reached the top, both out of breath from the long and perilous climb. "hush--there it is!" whispered dick pointing at the end of a narrow hall to a door from underneath which issued a faint glimmer of light. cautiously, noiselessly, treading on tiptoe, the lawyer and his companion crept along the passage until they came to the door. they listened. there was not a sound. even the hum of machinery which they had heard in the street, had ceased. could the inmates have taken alarm? all at once they heard people talking. instantly, steell recognized the voice of keralio. he was questioning someone, no doubt the valet. they listened. "well, did you carry out my orders?" "_oui_, monsieur, ze last of ze ten-dollar bills has been passed. i have ze money here." "i did not mean that," broke in keralio impatiently. "i mean as regards the child----" "_oui_, monsieur. didn't you receive my telegram. i brought the child from philadelphia yesterday evening." steell, puzzled, turned to his companion. "what child are they talking about?" he whispered. "i have no idea. some more mischief they're up to, i guess." again keralio's voice was heard asking: "where is handsome to-day? i told him to come. why isn't he here?" "he's drinking again, monsieur. when he's drunk you can't do anything with him. he's getting ugly about ze diamonds." steell nudged his fellow eavesdropper. "did you hear that?" he whispered. "he spoke of diamonds!" keralio was heard bursting into a peal of savage laughter. "getting ugly is he? what does he want?" "he says you promised him half of ze proceeds when ze diamonds were sold, and that now you are trying to do him out of it---- he says he's sick of ze whole thing and will squeal to ze police unless you do ze right thing." straining every nerve to hear, steell glued his ear to the door. keralio burst out fiercely: "squeal, will he, the dog? i'd like to know what will become of him when the final reckoning's paid. will he tell the police that he was a drunken adventurer in the south african mining camps before his twin brother, kenneth traynor, arrived at cape town? will he tell the police that he set the steamer afire, murdered his own brother, and, profiting by the extraordinary resemblance, returned to new york, passing himself off as the man who went away. no, he won't tell all that, will he? but i will. did you bring the money? let me see it." the talking suddenly ceased, and was followed by a deep silence. steell, staggered at this unexpected revelation, almost stumbled in his eagerness to hear more. turning to his companion, he exclaimed in a horror-stricken whisper: "my god! did you hear that? it's even worse than i feared. they've done away with kenneth. that man at the house is an impostor!" "an impostor?" ejaculated dick. "impossible. don't we all know kenneth when we see him?" "nothing's impossible!" rejoined the lawyer hurriedly. "kenneth had a twin brother--the resemblance was so extraordinary as children that no one knew them apart. the brother disappeared years ago. they thought him dead. kenneth must have come across him in south africa. this brother killed him and took his place. it's all clear to me now. we're in a den of assassins!" inside the conversation began again. "hush! listen!" whispered steell. the voice of keralio was once more raised in angry tones. "didn't i tell you that i wanted the child brought here at once?" "_oui_, monsieur, but i could not. i had ze rest of ze money to get rid of and ze suitcase to carry. i will bring her in a taxi to-morrow." "where is she?" "safe in the care of the woman who runs my boarding house." "when did you bring her from philadelphia?" "yesterday afternoon." "did you have any trouble?" "_non_, monsieur. i didn't even have to go to ze house, although i had a plausible story all ready. i was going to say that mrs. traynor had sent me to fetch miss dorothy because her mother wanted her home for ze coming marriage of miss ray. but it wasn't necessary to lie about it. i found ze child playing in ze street near the house. i merely told her her mamma wanted her to come home, gave her some candy, and she followed me willingly enough." "by this time the alarm has been given." "_sans doute_, monsieur. they probably telegraphed mrs. traynor last night that ze child was missing----" the voices again stopped. steell, his face white, and fists clenched, turned to his companion: "good heavens, dick, did you hear that? they've kidnapped mrs. traynor's little girl--no doubt, with the idea of demanding ransom. thank god, we're in time to frustrate that crime----" "hush!" exclaimed his companion. "listen!" keralio proceeded: "now you understand what you are to do. you bring the child here to-morrow morning. meantime, i have already written in a disguised hand to mrs. traynor telling her that her child is safe--for the present, and that if she wants to see her she must come here to-morrow afternoon. i warned her that if she communicated with the police or informed any of her friends, the child would be put to death before it would be possible to effect a rescue. that ought to bring her here----" "would monsieur go as far as to kill----" "why not," demanded keralio fiercely. "i permit nothing to stand in the way of my will. that woman can save her child's life, but she must pay the price i ask. she shall learn what it costs to dismiss me from her house----" the valet was heard to chuckle as he said: "i don't love her any too much myself. she discharged me from her employ the other day so haughtily i felt like a whipped cur." again there was silence, followed by a muffled hammering. "they're taking the printing press apart," whispered dick, who through the keyhole, had managed to get a glimpse of machinery. "if we don't act quickly, they'll get away with all the evidence. hadn't we better go and call the police?" for answer, the lawyer put his fingers to his lips with a warning gesture, and beckoning the young man to follow, retraced his steps on tiptoe along the narrow, dark hall and down the filthy, winding staircase. not a word was spoken by either man until they reached the street. once in the open air, the lawyer turned and said: "dick, we've uncovered as black a plot as was ever hatched in hell. if we don't queer the game and put them all in the chair it won't be my fault. we can't bring poor kenneth back to life, but we can and will revenge his cowardly murder. it will be a positive joy to me to see that arch-scoundrel keralio electrocuted." "what do you propose to do?" asked his companion. "hadn't we better call mrs. traynor on the telephone and warn her before it's too late?" the lawyer was silent for a few moments. then meditatively, he said: "no, that would be a mistake. no doubt, by this time, she has received keralio's anonymous letter. she is probably frantic with anxiety over the news of her child's disappearance, and will respond eagerly to any clue that promises to take her to her child. if we warned her she would pay no heed. she might pretend to, but only to pacify us. afraid that punishment might be visited on the child, she would obey the warning not to talk, and she will come here to keralio's flat to-morrow at the time the letter stated. of course, she has no idea keralio wrote the letter. but even if she had, it would make no difference. i know her. she would run any risk to save her child." "i think you're right," replied dick, "but how, then, will you help her? there is no knowing what keralio's object is in enticing her here--you can be sure it's nothing good." "precisely--that's why we, too, must be on hand, together with a strong force of detectives. we'll get them all. there will be no possible escape. we'll surround the house with men. they'll be caught like rats in a trap." the lawyer turned to go. "where are you bound now?" asked dick. "to police headquarters!" chapter xix "there--take a little water--you're much better now!" said the nurse, soothingly. the patient swallowed greedily the cooling drink handed to him, and, tired even by that small effort, fell back on his pillows exhausted. "where am i?" he inquired of the comely young woman, who in neat service uniform, hovered about the bed. "you're in st. mary's hospital." "in new york?" he queried. "no--san francisco----" he was too weak to question further, but his hollow blue eyes followed her as she moved here and there, attending skilfully and swiftly to the duties of the sick room. presently he made another venture: "have i been ill long?" "yes--very long." "what's the matter?" "concussion of the brain, pneumonia and shock. you are much better now, but you mustn't talk so much or you may have a relapse." he asked no more, but passed his hand over his brow in a bewildered sort of way. presently, he began again: "does my wife come to see me?" the nurse stopped in her work and looked at him curiously. in surprise, she exclaimed: "your wife! have you a wife?" it was his turn now to be surprised. in somewhat peevish tone he said: "of course i've a wife--everyone knows that." "what's her name?" "helen--helen traynor." enthusiastically, he added: "oh, you'd just love my wife if you only knew her. she's the sweetest, the most unselfish----" the nurse looked at him curiously. "so your name is traynor, is it? we've tried to find out for a long time. but there were no marks on your clothes when you were picked up. we did not know who you were and so have not been able to communicate with any of your friends. we guessed you were a man of social position by your hands and teeth, and we knew your name began with a t because of the monogram on the signet ring on your finger." "pick me up?" he echoed. "where did they pick me up? what has happened? was it an accident?" "you were found unconscious, drifting in the ocean, clinging to a spar, and were brought here by a sailing vessel. you had a fracture of the skull and you were half drowned. it is supposed that you were one of the passengers of the _abyssinia_, which took fire and went down two days after leaving cape town, but as several passengers and officers whose bodies were never found also had names beginning with t, it was impossible to identify you." as he listened, the vacant, stupid expression on his face gradually gave place to a more alert, intelligent look. indistinctly, vaguely, he recalled things that had happened. slowly his brain cells began to work. he remembered cabling to helen from cape town telling her of his sailing on the _abyssinia_. he recalled the incidents of the first day at sea. the weather was beautiful. everything pointed to a good voyage. who was traveling with him? he could not remember. oh, yes, now he knew. françois, his valet, and that other queer fellow he had picked up at the diamond mines--his twin brother. yes, it all came back to him now. why had he gone to the diamond mines? yes, now he knew--to take back to new york the two big stones found on the company's land. he had them safe in a belt he wore round his waist next to his skin. the second night out he went to bed about midnight and was fast asleep when suddenly he heard shouts of "fire! fire!" jumping up and looking out of his cabin he saw stewards and passengers running excitedly about. there was a reddish glare and a suffocating smell of smoke. quickly he buckled on the belt with the diamonds, and, slipping on his trousers, went out. the electric lights had gone out. the ship was in complete darkness. from all sides came shouts of men and screams of frightened women. it was a scene of utter demoralization and horror. he was groping his way along the narrow passage, when, suddenly, out of the gloom a man sprang upon him, and, taken entirely by surprise, he was borne to the deck before he had time to defend himself. he could not see the man's face and thought it was one of the passengers or sailors who had gone mad, but when he felt a tug at his belt where the diamonds were, he knew he had to do with a thief. he fought back with all his strength, but he was unarmed, while the stranger had a black jack which he used unmercifully, raining fearful blows on his head. the struggle was too unequal to last. weak from loss of blood, he relaxed his grip, and the thief, dealing one fearful parting blow, tore away the belt and disappeared. his life blood was flowing away, he felt sick and dizzy, but just as the thief turned to run he managed to get a glimpse of his face. now he remembered that face--it was the face of his twin brother--the man he had rescued from starvation on the _veldt_. yes, it all came back to him now, like a horrible nightmare. what had happened since then? how could he tell, since all this time his mind had been a blank? helen, no doubt, believed him dead. mr. parker and all the others thought he had gone down with the ship. but what of his valet, françois, and his cowardly, murderous brother--were they saved? if so, the thief had the diamonds, and had probably disposed of them by this time. perhaps there might still be time to capture the would-be assassin and save the gems for the americo-african company. brother or no brother, he would have no more pity on the unnatural, miserable cutthroat. the first step was to let his friends know where he was. he must telegraph at once to helen. yet, on second thought, it would not be wise to do that. if helen really believed him dead and was now mourning his loss, it might be almost a fatal shock if suddenly she were to receive a telegram saying he was alive. such shocks have been known to kill people. a better plan would be to get well as soon as possible, leave the hospital, and go to new york. once there, he could go quietly to his office and learn how matters were. the days passed, the convalescent making speedy progress toward recovery, and in a few weeks more he was able to leave the hospital. making himself known quietly to a san francisco business acquaintance, he was quickly supplied with funds and immediately he turned his face homeward. the long, overland journey was tedious and exhausting, especially in his present weakened condition, and even those who knew him well would hardly have recognized in the pale emaciated looking stranger with ill fitting clothes and untrimmed full growth of beard who emerged from the train at the grand central station, the carefully dressed, well groomed kenneth traynor who, only a few months before, had sailed away from new york on the _mauretania_. the noise and turmoil of the big metropolis, in striking contrast to the quiet and seclusion of the sick room in which he had lived for so many weeks, astonished him. the crowds of suburbanites rushing frantically for trains, elbowing and pushing in their anxiety to get home, the strident hoarse cries of newsboys, the warning shouts of wagon drivers as they drove recklessly here and there at murderous speed, the blowing of auto horns, the ceaseless hum and roar of the big city's heavy traffic--all this bewildered and dazed him. at first he did not remember just in what direction to turn, whether he lived in the east or west side, uptown or down. but as he got more accustomed to his surroundings, it all came back to him. how stupid--of course he had to go downtown to th street. once more he was himself again. hailing a taxi, he started for gramercy park. conflicting emotions stirred his breast as he drew near his home. what joy it would be to clasp helen once more in his arms. how delighted she would be to see him! then he was filled with anxiety, a sudden feeling of dread came over him. suppose some misfortune, some calamity had happened during his absence! helen might have met with some accident. baby might have been ill. the worst might have happened. he would never have heard. perhaps he was only going home to find his happiness wrecked forever. the driver made his way with difficulty down fifth avenue, threading his way in and out the entanglement of carriages and automobiles, until, after a ten minutes' run, turned into gramercy park and pulled up short on the curb of the traynor residence. eagerly kenneth put his head out of the window and scanned the windows for a glimpse of the loved one, but no one, not even a servant, was visible. the house looked deserted. his misgivings returned. stepping out hastily, he paid the driver, and, running up the steps, rang the bell. roberts, the faithful old butler, who had been in the family service for years, came to open. seeing a rather shabbily attired person outside, he held the door partly closed and demanded, suspiciously: "who is it you wish to see?" irritated at the manner of his reception, kenneth gave the door a push that nearly knocked the servant over. angrily, he exclaimed: "what's the matter, roberts? didn't you see it was me?" the butler, who had recovered himself, and now believed he had to do with a crank or some person under the influence of liquor, again barred the way. trying to push the unwelcome visitor out, he said soothingly: "come now, my good man, you've made a mistake. you don't live here." struck almost speechless with amazement at the brazen impudence of one whom he had always regarded as a model servant, kenneth turned round as if about to make a wrathful outburst. as he turned, the light from the open door fell full on his face and now for the first time roberts saw the visitor's features. with a startled exclamation the man fell backward. for a moment he was so surprised that he could not speak. then, in an awe-stricken whisper, he cried: "who are you?" for a moment kenneth thought the man had suddenly become insane. for his own servant not to know him was too ridiculous. at that moment he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror of the hat stand. ah, now he understood. the beard and emaciated face had made quite a difference--no wonder the man failed to recognize him. breaking into laughter he exclaimed: "no wonder you didn't recognize me, roberts. i have changed a little, haven't i? i've grown a beard since i saw you last and been through a regular mill. but you know me now don't you--i'm your long lost master." the servant shook his head. still closely scrutinizing kenneth's face as if greatly puzzled, he said: "you're not my master, sir. mr. kenneth traynor left the house some ten minutes before you arrived." kenneth stared at the man as if he thought he had gone clean out of his mind. "i went out ten minutes before i arrived," he echoed. "what kind of nonsense is that, roberts?" "i didn't say _you_ went out," replied the servant, beginning to lose his patience. "i said mr. kenneth traynor went out. you are not mr. kenneth traynor." "then who in the name of heaven am i?" "i haven't the remotest idea," retorted the man. condescendingly, he went on: "i admit you look a little like the master." impatiently he added: "you must excuse me. i want to close the door." instead of obeying the hint to withdraw, kenneth strode further into the house, the protesting and indignant butler at his heels. "you must really go," said the servant. kenneth turned around. "roberts--don't be a fool. don't you know me? i know why you don't recognize me. you all think me dead, but i'm very much alive. i did not go down on the _abyssinia_. i was picked up and taken to san francisco and have been in a hospital there ever since. i have just come home. where's my wife?" the butler stared and stood motionless, as if not knowing what to make of it. "but you came home long ago." "who came home?" "you did." "no, i didn't. i've been in san francisco all the time. how could i be here if i was sick in a san francisco hospital?" "then who is the other mr. traynor?" now it was kenneth's turn to be surprised. "the other mr. traynor?" he echoed stupefied. "yes--the gentleman who looks more like you than you do yourself. he arrived here a month ago. we all took him for you." for the first time a light broke in on the darkness. who was the person who looked so like him that he could successfully impersonate him? who could it be but the man who left him for dead on the _abyssinia_ after murderously assaulting him? suddenly a horrible thought came to him. grasping the butler's arm he exclaimed: "my wife? is she well?" "yes, sir. mrs. traynor's quite well." "and dorothy?" "quite well, sir." "thank god!" the servant hesitated. "that is--sir--miss dorothy----" "out with it, man. out with it." "mrs. traynor's being greatly worried sir, lately. miss dorothy was at her aunt's in philadelphia----" "yes, yes----" "someone's run away with miss dorothy. she's been kidnapped." "my god!" "but mrs. traynor has a clue. she got a letter yesterday, saying where the child was. she wouldn't confide in any of us and she left here only half an hour ago to go to the place." again kenneth was seized by panic. "gone to a kidnapper's den. great god! she's running a terrible risk. where has she gone? i'll go to her." "i don't know, sir, but mr. steell may know----" "ah, that's right. i'll go and see steell." not waiting to say more he rushed down the steps, and, hailing another taxi, went off at full speed in the direction of wilbur steell's office. chapter xx the startling news from philadelphia that dorothy had suddenly disappeared and was believed to have been kidnapped, fell upon the traynor home with the crushing force of a bombshell. at first helen refused to credit the report. it seemed impossible that any new suffering was to be inflicted upon her after what she had already endured. white faced, her whole being shaken by emotion, she read and re-read her aunt's letter, telling of the child's mysterious disappearance, and when at last she could read it no more because of the tears that blinded her, she threw herself limp and broken hearted into ray's arms. hysterically she cried: "what have i done that i should be made to suffer in this way? my god! where is my child? this maddening suspense will kill me." ray tried to soothe her. reassuringly, she said: "don't worry, dear. everything will be all right. a general alarm has been sent out. the police all over the country are searching high and low. it's only a question of a few hours and you'll have good news." but the hours passed and no news came to cheer the distracted, broken-hearted mother. dorothy had disappeared completely, leaving no trace, no clue behind. there was neither rest nor peace for the traynor household that day. helen, almost out of her mind from grief and worry, refused to eat or sleep until news of the missing child was received. in her agony she went down on her knees and prayed as she had never prayed before that her child be restored to her. her little daughter was, she felt, the one link that still bound her to life. to her husband she felt she could not turn for sympathy. the romance of their early married life had been shattered forever by the extraordinary change that had come over him. he had long since ceased to be to her any more than a name. in her heart, she had come to despise and detest him as much as before she had worshiped the very ground he trod. it was an astonishing revulsion of feeling which she was powerless to explain; she only knew that the old love, the old passion he had awakened was now quite dead. he inspired in her no more affection or feeling than the merest stranger. ever since his return from south africa they had lived apart. ever since that first night of his return when their tête-à-tête in the library was interrupted by the bogus telegram, he had quite ceased his amorous advances. he seemed anxious to avoid her. only on rare occasions, and then it was by accident, did they find themselves in each other's company. in fact, he was practically never home, living almost exclusively at the club, where he went the pace with associates of his choosing, mostly gamblers and men about town. he had begun to drink hard and when not in pool rooms or at the races, betting recklessly on the horses, squandering such huge sums, and overdrawing his check account so often that the bank was compelled to ask him to desist, he sat in the barrooms with his cronies till all hours of the morning when he would be brought home in a condition of shocking intoxication. happily helen was spared the spectacle of the degradation of a man she once had loved with all the force of her virgin soul. roberts, the butler, aided by the other servants, smuggled their intoxicated master up to his room, where he remained until sober, when he went back to his club only to repeat the same performance. to such a man she could not turn for aid or consolation in the hour of this new misfortune. indeed, ever since his return, he had been strangely indifferent to the welfare of the child, never asking after her or expressing a desire to see her. at times it seemed as if he had forgotten that he had a child. by some strange metamorphosis he had developed into an unnatural father as well as a brutal, indifferent husband. but to helen, alone save for the devoted companionship of her sister, this was anxiety and suffering enough. only twenty-four hours had passed since the child disappeared, but to the unhappy mother it seemed as many years. constantly at the telephone, expecting each moment to hear that the police had been successful in finding the child, she was gradually wearing herself away to a shadow. breakfast she left untouched. lunch she refused to eat. in vain ray remonstrated with her. if she went on like that she would fall ill. but still helen refused. tears choked her, and morning wore into afternoon and still no news. after lunch ray went out to see if mr. steell could help them, promising to return as soon as possible. helen sat and waited alone. the clock was just striking two o'clock when the front doorbell rang and a letter was brought to her. she did not recognize the writing, but eagerly she tore it open. instinctively, she felt it concerned her missing darling. the letter read as follows: no. -- lasalle street, bronx. friday. madame: your child is safe and in good hands. she wants to see her mother. if you come this afternoon (friday) to the above address you can see her. it is the house with the closed green shutters. but if you value your child's life you must come unaccompanied, and you must inform no one of the contents of this letter, not even the members of your family. if you disobey, swift punishment will follow and your child will suffer. climb eight flights and knock three times on door at end of passage.----x. there was no signature. the person who wrote it evidently had reasons of his own for wishing to remain concealed. that money would be demanded was more than probable. what other motive could the kidnapper have? money she would give--all she had in the world, if only she could get back her precious child. that a visit to such a place unattended was full of danger she did not stop to consider. she only knew that her child was close by--here in new york--and had asked for her. not for a moment did she listen to the warnings of prudence. go she must, and immediately. she did not even stop to leave a note of explanation for ray. stuffing some money in a bag, she left the house, saying she would return soon. taking the third avenue "l" she left the train at tremont avenue, and, after considerable difficulty, found the house indicated in the letter. yes, there were the closed green shutters. at first, on seeing it apparently untenanted, she thought she must have made a mistake in the number, but, finding that there was no other place near by that answered the description as well, she decided to risk climbing the long flight of stairs. arrived on the top floor, breathless from the unusual exertion, she saw a long narrow passage, and, at the end of that, a door. that, no doubt, was the place. her heart beating violently, she went up to the door and gave the three knocks. for a moment or so there was no answer. a profound stillness reigned. then she heard footsteps approaching, the next instant, the door was thrown open and a man's voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, told her to enter. at first when she went in, she could see nothing. all the shutters of the windows looking on the street were closed, and the only light was that which filtered through the slats. it was an ordinary, cheap flat, with no carpets on the floors and little or no furniture. on the floor, scattered here and there, were nailed-up boxes, and parts of machinery, some already crated, as if to be taken away. "so you've come! i thought you would," said a voice behind her. she turned and found herself face to face with signor keralio. at first she was so astonished that she was speechless. then her instinct prompted her to turn and flee. if this man had caused her to be decoyed to this house it could be for no good purpose. but there was no way of egress. the front door was closed and locked. not a human soul was within call. she was alone in an empty house with the one man she distrusted and feared more than any one else in the world. making an effort to conceal her alarm, she turned and faced him boldly: "what are you doing here?" she asked. he smiled--a horrid, cynical smile she knew only too well. "has not a man the right to be in his own home?" she started back in surprise. "this your home?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the scanty and shabby furnishings. he shrugged his shoulders. "oh, don't judge by appearances. i'm really very comfortable here. it's away from the world. i like to work undisturbed." significantly, he added: "then, you see, it is all my own. i am quite at home here in my own house. no one can put me out--not even you----" she raised her hand deprecatingly. "please don't remind me of that. i have forgotten it long ago." his eyes flashed dangerously as he made a step near and exclaimed: "you have, but i have not. i have not forgotten that you put me out of your house ignominiously as one turns out a servant. i have neither forgotten nor forgiven. that is why you are here to-day." she looked at him in utter astonishment. "what do you mean?" he bowed and, with mock courtesy, waved her to a seat. "i will tell you. did you receive a letter to-day?" "yes--i did." "you came here in answer to that letter." "yes--i did." "do you know who wrote that letter?" "no--not the least." "it was i--i wrote the letter." with a stifled cry of mingled fright and amazement, helen jumped up from the chair. "you wrote the letter?" she exclaimed, incredulously. he nodded. "yes--i wrote the letter." her eyes opened wide with terror, her hands clasped together nervously, she exclaimed: "then you are----" he bowed. "exactly. i am the kidnapper of your child----" speechless, she stared at him, her large black eyes opened wide with terror. looking wildly about her as if seeking her little daughter, she gasped: "dorothy? dorothy here? where is she?" "she is safe," he replied calmly. "where is she, where is she? take me to her!" she cried, distractedly, going up to him and clasping her hands in humble supplication. he shook off the hand which, in her maternal anxiety, she had laid on his arm. lighting a cigarette, he gave a low laugh. "plenty of time. there's no hurry. you're not going yet." anxiously, she scrutinized his face, as if trying to read his meaning. "she's going when i go, isn't she?" he shrugged his shoulders. "that depends--on you." "what do you mean?" again he waved her to a seat. "sit down and i'll tell you." trembling, she dropped once more on to a chair and waited. he puffed deliberately at his cigarette for a few moments and then, turning his glance in her direction, he smiled in a peculiar, horrible way and his eyes ran over her figure in a way that made the crimson rush furiously to her cheek. there was no mistaking that smile. it was the bold, lustful look of the voluptuary who enjoys letting his eyes feast on the prey that he knows cannot now escape him. "mrs. traynor," he began in the caressing, dulcet tones which she feared more than his anger, "you are an exceptional woman. to most men of my temperament you would not appeal. they would find your beauty too statuesque and cold. i know you are clever, but love cannot feed on intellect alone, i have loved many women, but never a woman just like you. your coldness, your haughty reserve, your refinement would intimidate most men and keep them at a distance, but not me. your aloofness, your indifference only spurs me, only adds to the acuteness of my desire. i swore to myself that i would conquer you, overcome your resistance, bend you to my will. you turned me out of your home. i swore to be avenged." he stopped for a moment and watched her closely as if studying and enjoying the effect of his words. then, amid a cloud of blue tobacco smoke, he went on: "i knew only one way to win you--it was to humiliate you, to place you in a position where you would have to come to me on your knees." she half rose from her chair. "i would never do that," she cried. "i would rather die!" "oh, yes, you will," he continued, calmly, making a gesture to her to remain seated. "when i've told you all, you'll see things in a different light." fixing her steadily with his piercing black eyes, he asked: "have you noticed any difference in your husband since his return." she looked up quickly. "yes--what does it mean? can you explain?" he nodded. "did you ever hear your husband speak of a twin brother he once had?" her face turned white as death and her heart throbbing violently, she stared helplessly at her persecutor. she tried to be calm, but she could not. yet, why be so alarmed, why should this single question so agitate her? in the deepest recesses of her being she knew that it was her unerring instinct warning her that she was about to hear something that would entail worse suffering than any she had yet endured. "yes--yes--why do you ask?" she gasped. "you all thought the brother dead." "yes." "you were mistaken. he is alive." "where is he?" she faltered. "here in new york." "where?" "in your house. the man who returned home was not your husband. he was your husband's twin brother." she looked at him as one bewildered, as if she did not understand what he was saying, as if words had suddenly lost their meaning. her face, white as in death, she faltered: "not kenneth--then where is kenneth?" "he is dead!" her powers of speech paralyzed, her large eyes starting from their sockets from terror, an expression of mute helpless agony on her beautiful face, she looked up at him with horror. not yet could she fully grasp the meaning of his words. at last the frightful spell was broken. with an effort the words came: "then you," she cried. "you are his assassin!" he shook his head as he replied carelessly: "no--not i--his brother!" she gave a cry of anguish and, starting to her feet, made a movement forward, her hands clutching convulsively at her throat. air! air! she must have air. she felt sick and dizzy. the room was spinning round like a top, and then everything grew dark. lurching heavily forward she would have fallen had he not caught her. instantly she shrank from the contact as from something unclean, and with a low moan sank down on a chair and buried her face in her hands. her instinct had told her true. her loved one was dead, she would never see him again, and that man who had come into the sanctity of her home and fondled her in his arms was his murderer. oh, it was too horrible! the bitter, cynical smile was still on keralio's lips as he went on: "you see the folly of resisting me. had you surrendered at that time all might have been well. the price was not too much to pay. i would have been discreet. no one but ourselves would have known that you and i were----" he did not complete the sentence, for at that moment she sprang forward like an enraged tiger cat, and, seizing a cane that stood close by, struck him across the face with all the force of her outraged womanhood. "murderer! assassin!" she cried indignantly. "how dare you talk like that to me? i will denounce you to the whole world. i will not rest till i see you and that other scoundrel punished and my poor husband is avenged. on leaving here i shall go direct to the police." imbued with strength she never dreamed she possessed, she was about to hit him again when he seized the cane and threw it away. but across his pale, handsome face lay a telltale red mark, the smart of which burned into his soul. his eyes flashed with anger and he made a visible effort to control himself. he took a step forward and, as he advanced she saw an expression in his face which prompted her to retreat precipitately. it was a dangerous look, the look of a man who knew he had a helpless woman in his power, a man who was desperate and would stop at nothing to encompass his ends. now thoroughly frightened, she looked around for some way to escape. the windows were impossible, the only way was by the door and he barred the way. besides, she would never go without her child. he noticed the movement and look of alarm, and he smiled. continuing to advance, he said: "there's no use making a fuss. no one could hear you if you shouted for help till the crack of doom. you are alone with me--and absolutely in my power. do as i ask and there is nothing you shall not have. refuse, and i answer for nothing. come----" her whole body trembling, her face white with terror, she kept on retreating: "leave me alone!" she gasped, "or i will scream." "scream away," he laughed. "there's no one here to hear you." suddenly he made a quick lunge forward and seized her. she struggled and resisted with all the energy born of despair, pushing, twisting, scratching. but they were too unevenly matched. she was like an infant in the grasp of an hercules. slowly, she felt her strength leaving her. his iron grasp gradually closed on her, nearer and nearer he drew her into his embrace. with a last, superhuman effort, she managed to wrench herself free, out of his grip, and breaking completely away, she fled into the next room. but he was after her in a minute and again seized her, but not before she screamed at the top of her voice: "help! help! kenneth! wilbur! help! help!" he tried to gag her mouth to stifle her cries, but it was too late. his quick ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps in the outside hall. almost at the same instant there was a loud knocking at the door. keralio fell back, his face white and tense. had his plans failed at the eleventh hour, could anyone have played him false? if the game was up, they should never take him alive. leaving helen, he drew a revolver, and, going quickly into the inner hall, he waited in grim silence for the visitors to force an entrance. "open the door, or we'll break it in!" shouted a stern voice outside. "there's no use resisting. the place is surrounded." still no answer. keralio stood grimly in the shadow of the parlor doorway, revolver in hand, while helen cowered in the inner room, in momentary expectation of a tragedy. crash! the front door fell in, shattered into a thousand splinters, and through the breach thus made rushed wilbur steell, dick reynolds, and half a score husky central office detectives, revolvers in hand. "there is he!" cried the lawyer, pointing to keralio. quick as a flash, the italian raised the revolver and fired, the bullet entering the plastered wall an inch away from the lawyer's head. almost simultaneously, another pistol shot rang out, but this time the aim was truer, for, with a cry of baffled rage, keralio threw his arms above his head and fell to the floor dead. quickly, one of the detectives stooped down and compared his face with a photograph he had taken from his pocket. "yes----" he exclaimed; "that's the fellow--well known counterfeiter. did time in san quentin and joliet. known as baron rapp, richard barton and a dozen other aliases. he's one of the slickest rogues in the country. we've got the valet safe downstairs. i guess he'll get twenty years." but steell had not waited to hear about keralio. there were others more important to think about. rushing into the inner room, he found helen prostrate, half fainting from fright. "thank god, i'm in time!" he exclaimed. "dorothy," she murmured weakly. "save dorothy! she's somewhere here." going into another room, the lawyer found the little girl fast asleep on a bed. bringing her to her mother, he said tenderly: "here's your treasure. now you can be happy." she shook her head. the nightmare of what keralio had told her, still obsessed her. "no--" she shuddered; "--never again. they have killed him!" to her surprise, the lawyer, instead of sharing her sorrow, actually smiled. "helen," he said; "i have a great surprise for you. a friend has accompanied me here. he called at your house to-day, but you had just left, so he called on me. you have not seen him since he sailed away three months ago on the _mauretania_." she listened bewildered. her color came and went. what did he mean? could it be possible that--no, had not keralio said he was dead? trembling with suppressed emotion, she whispered: "tell me--what is it--tell me----" for all reply, the lawyer went to the door and beckoned to someone who had waited in the outer hall. a moment later a man entered, a tall, well set figure that was strangely familiar. straining her eyes through her tears, it seemed to her that her mind must be playing her some trick, for there before her, stood kenneth, not the impostor her instinct had warned her to detest and avoid, but the real kenneth she had loved, the father of her child. with a joyous exclamation, she tottered forward. "kenneth!" she cried. the man, his athletic form broken by sobs, opened his arms. "my own precious darling!" a moment later they were clasped in each other's arms. ah, now she knew that he had come home! this, indeed, was the husband she loved. there was no deception this time. wonderingly, she turned to steell. "how did it happen?" she asked wonderingly. "we'll tell you later--not now," he replied. she shuddered as she asked in a low voice. "but where is his brother?" "dead! he shot himself at the club. kenneth and i went to confront him at the club before coming here. it was his only way out." the detective stepped forward. addressing the lawyer and holding out two enormous diamonds that sparkled like fire in the sunlight, he said: "we've just found these, together with a lot of counterfeit money." the lawyer laughed as he took charge of the diamonds. "it'll please mr. parker to see these. come, dick. our work is done." kenneth put his arms around his wife. "safe in port at last, dear." "you'll never go away again," she murmured through her tears. web archive (new york public library) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: https://archive.org/details/abitterheritage blougoog (new york public library) . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe] appletons' town and country library no. a bitter heritage by j. bloundelle-burton. *********** each, mo, cloth, $ . ; paper, cents. *********** a bitter heritage. "mr. bloundelle-burton is one of the most successful of the purveyors of historical romance who have started up in the wake of stanley weyman and conan doyle. he has a keen eye for the picturesque, a happy instinct for a dramatic (or more generally a melodramatic) situation, and he is apt and careful in his historic paraphernalia. he usually succeeds, therefore, in producing an effective story."--_charleston news and courier_. fortune's my foe. "the story moves briskly, and there is plenty of dramatic action."--_philadelphia telegraph_. the clash of arms. "well written, and the interest is sustained from the beginning to the end of the tale."--_brooklyn eagle_. "vividness of detail and rare descriptive power give the story life and excitement."--_boston herald_. denounced. "a story of the critical times of the vagrant and ambitious charles i, it is so replete with incident and realistic happenings that one seems translated to the very scenes and days of that troublous era in english history."--_boston courier_. the scourge of god. "the story is one of the best in style, construction, information, and graphic power, that have been written in recent years."--_dial, chicago_. in the day of adversity. "mr. burton's creative skill is of the kind which must fascinate those who revel in the narratives of stevenson, rider haggard, and stanley weyman. even the author of 'a gentleman of france' has not surpassed the writer of 'in the day of adversity' in the moving interest of his tale."--_st. james's gazette_. *************** d. appleton and company, new york. a bitter heritage _a modern story of love and adventure_ by john bloundelle-burton author of the seafarers, fortune's my foe, the clash of arms, in the day of adversity, denounced, the scourge of god, etc. new york d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company. _all rights reserved_. contents. chapter i.--"you will forgive?" ii.--the story of a crime. iii.--"the land of the golden sun." iv.--an encounter. v.--"a half-breed--named zara." vi.--"knowledge is not always proof." vii.--madame carmaux takes a nap. viii.--a midnight visitor. ix.--beatrix. x.--mr. spranger obtains information. xi.--a visit of condolence. xii.--the reminiscences of a french gentleman. xiii.--a change of apartments. xiv.--"this land is full of snakes." xv.--recollections of sebastian's birth. xvi.--a drop of blood. xvii.--"she hates him because she loves him." xviii.--sebastian is disturbed. xix.--a pleasant meeting. xx.--love's blossom. xxi.--julian feels strange. xxii.--in the dark. xxiii.--warned. xxiv.--julian's eyes are opened. xxv.--a dénouement. xxvi.--"you have killed him!" xxvii.--"i will save you." xxviii.--"i live--to kill him." xxix.--the watching figure. xxx.--beyond passion's bound. xxxi.--"the man i love." xxxii.--the shark's tooth reef. xxxiii.--madame carmaux tells all. xxxiv.--contentment. a bitter heritage. chapter i. "you will forgive?" a young man, good-looking, with well-cut features, and possessing a pair of clear blue-grey eyes, sat in a first-class smoking compartment of a train standing in waterloo station--a train that, because there was one of those weekly race-meetings going on farther down the line, which take place all through the year, gave no sign of ever setting forth upon its journey. perhaps it was natural that it should not do so, since, as the dwellers on the southern banks of the thames are well aware, the special trains for the frequenters of race-courses take precedence of all other travellers; yet, notwithstanding that such is the case, this young man seemed a good deal annoyed at the delay. one knows how such annoyance is testified by those subjected to that which causes it; how the watch is frequently drawn forth and consulted, the station clock glanced at both angrily and often, the officials interrogated, the cigarette flung impatiently out of the window, and so forth; wherefore no further description of the symptoms is needed. all things, however, come to an end at last, and this young man's impatience was finally appeased by the fact of the train in which he sat moving forward heavily, after another ten minutes' delay; and also by the fact that, after many delays and stoppages, it eventually passed through vauxhall and gradually, at a break-neck speed of about ten miles an hour, forced its way on towards the country. "thank goodness!" exclaimed julian ritherdon, "thank goodness! at last there is a chance that i may see the dear old governor before night falls. yet, what on earth is it that i am to be told when i do see him--what on earth does his mysterious letter mean?" and, as he had done half a dozen times since the waiter had brought the "mysterious letter" to the room in the huge caravansary where he had slept overnight, he put his hand in the breast pocket of his coat and, drawing it forth, began another perusal of the document. yet his face clouded--as it had done each time he read the letter, as it was bound to cloud on doing so!--at the first worst words it contained; words which told the reader how soon--very soon now, unless the writer was mistaken--he would no longer form one of the living human units of existence. "poor old governor, poor old dad!" lieutenant ritherdon muttered as he read those opening lines. "poor old dad! the best father any man ever had--the very best. and now to be doomed; now--and he scarcely fifty! it is rough. by jove, it is!" then again he read the letter, while by this time the train, by marvellous exertions, was making its way swiftly through all the beauty that the springtide had brought to the country lying beyond the suburban belt. yet, just now, he saw nothing of that beauty, and failed indeed to appreciate the warmth of the may day, or to observe the fresh young green of the leaves or the brighter green of the growing corn--he saw and enjoyed nothing of all this. how should he do so, when the letter from his father appeared like a knell of doom that was being swiftly tolled with, for conclusion, hints--nay! not hints, but statements--that some strange secrets which had long lain hidden in the past must now be instantly revealed, or remain still hidden--forever? it was not a long letter; yet it told enough, was pregnant with matter. "if," the writer said, after the usual form of address, "your ship, the caractacus, does not get back with the rest of the squadron ere long, i am very much afraid we have seen the last of each other; that--and heaven alone knows how hard it is to have to write such words!--we shall never meet again in this world. and this, julian, would make my death more terrible than i can bear to contemplate. my boy, i pray nightly, hourly, that you may soon come home. i saw the specialist again yesterday and he said----well! no matter what he said. only, only--time is precious now; there is very little more of it in this world for me." julian ritherdon gazed out of the open window as he came to these words, still seeing nothing that his eyes rested on, observing neither swift flowering pink nor white may, nor budding chestnut, nor laburnum bursting into bloom, nor hearing the larks singing high up above the cornfields--thinking only again and again: "it is hard. hard! hard! to die now--and he not fifty!" "and i have so much to tell you," he read on, "so much to--let me say it at once--confess. oh! julian, in my earlier days i committed a monstrous iniquity--a sin that, if it were not for our love for each other--thank god, there has always been that between us!--nothing can deprive the past of that!--would make my ending even worse than it must be. now it must be told to you. it must. already, because i begin to fear that your ship may be detained, i have commenced to write down the error, the crime of my life--yet--yet--i would sooner tell it to you face to face, with you sitting before me. because i do not think, i cannot think that, when you recall how i have always loved you, done my best for you, you will judge me hardly, nor----" the perusal of this letter came, perforce, to an end now, for the train, after running through a plantation of fir and pine trees, had pulled up at a little wayside station; a little stopping-place built to accommodate the various dwellers in the villa residences scattered all around it, as well as upon the slope of the hill that rose a few hundred yards off from it. here julian ritherdon was among home surroundings, since, even before the days when he had gone as a cadet into the britannia and long before he had become a lieutenant in the royal navy, his father had owned one of those villas. now, therefore, the station-master and the one porter (who slept peacefully through the greater part of the day, since but few trains stopped here) came forward to greet him and to answer his first question as to how his father was. nor, happily, were their answers calculated to add anything further to his anxiety, since the station-master had not "heerd" that mr. ritherdon was any "wus" than usual, and the porter had "seed" him in his garden yesterday. only, the latter added gruesomely, "he was that white that he looked like--well, he dursn't say what he looked like." mr. ritherdon kept no vehicle or trap of any sort, and no cab was ever to be seen at this station unless ordered by an intending arrival or departing traveller on the previous day, from the village a mile or so off; wherefore julian started at once to walk up to the house, bidding the porter follow him with his portmanteau. and since the villa, which stood on the little pine-wooded eminence, was no more than a quarter of a mile away, it was not long ere he was at the garden gate and, a moment later, at the front door. yet, from the time he had left the precincts of the station and had commenced the ascent of the hill, he had seen the white face of his father at the open window and the white hand frequently waved to him. "poor old governor," he thought to himself, "he has been watching for the coming of the train long before it had passed wimbleton, i'll be sworn." then, in another moment, he was with his father and, their greeting over, was observing the look upon his face, which told as plainly as though written words had been stamped upon it of the doom that was about to fall. "what is it?" he said a little later, almost in an awestruck manner. awestruck because, when we stand in the presence of those whose sentence we know to be pronounced beyond appeal there falls upon us a solemnity almost as great as that which we experience when we gaze upon the dead. "what is it, father?" "the heart," mr. ritherdon answered. "valvular disease. sir josias smith says. however, do not let us talk about it. there is so much else to be discussed. tell me of the cruise in the squadron, where you went to, what you saw----" "but--your letter! your hopes that i should soon be back. you have not forgotten? the--the--something--you have to tell me. "no," mr. ritherdon answered. "i have not forgotten. heaven help me! it has to be told. yet--yet not now. let us enjoy the first few hours together pleasantly. do not ask to hear it now." and julian, looking at him, saw those signs which, when another's heart is no longer in its normal state, most of us have observed: the lips whitening for a moment, the left hand raised as though about to be pressed to the side, the dead white of the complexion. "if," he said, "it pains you to tell me anything of the past, why--why--tell it at all? is it worth while? your life can contain little that must necessarily be revealed and--even though it should do so--why reveal it?" "i must," his father answered, "i must tell you. oh!" he exclaimed, "oh! if at the last it should turn you against me--make you--despise--hate--" "no! no! never think that," julian replied quickly, "never think that. what! turn against you! a difference between you and me! it is impossible." as he spoke he was standing by his father's side, the latter being seated in his armchair, and julian's hand was on the elder man's shoulder. then, as he patted that shoulder--once, too, as he touched softly the almost prematurely grey hair--he said, his voice deep and low and full of emotion: "whatever you may tell me can make no difference in my love and respect for you. how can you think so? recall what we have been to each other since i was a child. always together till i went to sea--not father and son, but something almost closer, comrades----" "ah, julian!" "do you think i can ever forget that, or forget your sacrifices for me; all that you have done to fit me for the one career i could have been happy in? why, if you told me that you--oh! i don't know what to say! how to make you understand me!--but, if you told me you were a murderer, a convict, a forger, i should still love you; love you as you say you loved the mother i never knew----" "don't! don't! for heaven's sake don't speak like that--don't speak of her! your mother! i--i--have to speak to you of her later. but now--now--i cannot bear it!" for a moment julian looked at his father, his eyes full of amazement; around his heart a pang that seemed to grip at it. they had not often spoken of his mother in the past, the subject always seeming one that was too painful to mr. ritherdon to be discussed, and, beyond the knowledge that she had died in giving birth to him, julian knew nothing further. yet now, his father's agitation--such as he had never seen before--his strange excitement, appalled, almost staggered him. "why?" he exclaimed, unable to refrain from dwelling upon her. "why not speak of her? was she----" "she was an angel. ah," he continued, "i was right--this story of my past must be told--of my crime. remember that, julian, remember that. my crime! if you listen to me, if you will hear me, as you must--then remember it is the story of a crime that you will learn. and," he wailed almost, "there is no help for it. you must be told!" "tell it, then," julian said, still speaking very gently, though even as he did so it seemed as if he were the elder man, as if he were the father and the other the son. "tell it, let us have done with vagueness. there has never been anything hidden between us till now. let there be nothing whatever henceforth." "and you will not hate me? you will--forgive, whatever i may have to tell?" "what have i said?" julian replied. and even as he did so, he again smoothed his father's hair while he stood beside him. chapter ii. the story of a crime. the disclosure was made, not among, perhaps, surroundings befitting the story that was told; not with darkness outside and in the house--with, in truth, no lurid environments whatever. instead, the elderly man and the young one, the father and son, sat facing each other in the bright sunny room into which there streamed all the warmth and brilliancy of the late springtide, and into which, now and again, a humble-bee came droning or a butterfly fluttered. also, between them was a table white with napery, sparkling with glass and silver, gay with fresh-cut flowers from the garden. it is amid such surroundings that, nowadays, we often enough listen to stories brimful with fate--stories baneful either to ourselves or others--hear of trouble that has fallen like a blight upon those we love, or learn that something has happened which is to change forever the whole current of our own lives. it was thus that julian ritherdon listened to the narrative his father now commenced to unfold; thus amid such environment, and with a freshly-lit cigarette between his lips. "you do not object to this?" he asked, pointing to the latter; "it will not disturb you?" "i object to nothing that you do," mr. ritherdon replied. "in my day, i have, as you know, been a considerable smoker myself." "yes, in the days, your days, that i know of. but--forgive me for asking--only--is it to tell me of your earlier years, those with which i am not acquainted, that you summoned me here and bade me lose no time in coming to you?--those earlier days of which you have spoken so little in the past?" "for that," replied the other slowly, "and other reasons. to hear things that will startle and disconcert you. yet--yet--they have their bright side. you are the heir to a great----" "my dear father!" "your 'dear father'! ay! your 'dear father'!" once more, nay, twice more, he repeated those words--while all the time the younger man was looking at him intently. "your 'dear father.'" then, suddenly, he exclaimed: "come, let us make a beginning. are you prepared to hear a strange story?" "i am prepared to hear anything you may have to tell me." "so be it. pay attention. you have but this moment called me your 'dear father.' well, i am not your father! though i should have been had all happened as i once--so long ago--so--so long ago--hoped would be the case." "_not--my--father!_" and the younger man stared with a startled look at the other. "not--my--father. you, who have loved me, fostered me, anticipated every thought, every wish of mine since the first moment i can recollect--not my father! oh!" and even as he spoke he laid his hand, brown but shapely, on the white, sickly looking one of the other. "don't say that! don't say that!" "i must say it." "my god! who, then, are you? what are you to me? and--and--who--am--_i_? it cannot be that we are of strange blood." and the faltering words of the younger man, the blanched look that had come upon his face beneath his bronze--also the slight tremor of the cigarette between his fingers would have told mr. ritherdon, even though he had not already known well enough that such was the case, how deep a shock his words had produced. "no," he answered slowly, and on his face, too, there was, if possible, a denser, more deadly white than had been there an hour ago--while his lips had become even a deeper leaden hue than before. "no. heaven at least be praised for that! i am your father's brother, therefore, your uncle." "thank heaven we are so near of kin," and again the hand of the young man pressed that of the elder one. "now," he continued, though his voice was solemn--hoarse as he spoke, "go on. tell me all. blow as this is--yet--tell me all." "first," replied the other, "first let me show you something. it came to me by accident, otherwise perhaps i should not have summoned you so hurriedly to this meeting; should have restrained my impatience to see you. yet--yet--in my state of health, it is best to tell you by word of mouth--better than to let you find out when--i--am--dead, through the account i have written and should have left behind me. but, to begin with, read this," and he took from his breast pocket a neatly bound notebook, and, opening it, removed from between the pages a piece of paper--a cutting from a newspaper. still agitated--as he would be for hours, for days hence!--at all that he had already listened to, still sorrowful at hearing that the man whom he loved so much, who had been so devoted to him from his infancy, was not his father, julian ritherdon took the scrap and read it. read it hastily, while in his ear he heard the other man saying--murmuring: "it is from a paper i buy sometimes in london at a foreign newspaper shop, because in it there is often news of a--of honduras, where, you know, some of my earlier life was passed." nodding his head gravely to signify that he heard and understood, julian devoured the cutting, which was from the well-known new orleans paper, the picayune. it was short enough to be devoured at a glance. it ran: our correspondent at belize informs us by the last mail, amongst other pieces of intelligence from the colony, that mr. ritherdon (of desolada), one of the richest, if not the richest, exporters of logwood and mahogany, is seriously ill and not expected to recover. mr. ritherdon came to the colony nearly thirty years ago, and from almost the first became extremely prosperous. "well!" exclaimed julian, laying down the slip. "well! it means, i suppose--that----" "he is your father? yes. that is what it does mean. he is your father, and the wealth of which that writer speaks is yours if he is now dead; will be yours, if he is still alive--when he dies." because, when our emotion, when any sudden emotion, is too great for us, we generally have recourse to silence, so now julian said nothing; he sitting there musing, astonished at what he had just heard. then, suddenly, knowing, reflecting that he must hear more, hear all, that he must be made acquainted now with everything that had occurred in the far-off past, he said, very gently: "yes? well, father--for it is you whom i shall always regard in that light--tell me everything. you said just now we had better make a beginning. let us do so." for a moment mr. ritherdon hesitated, it seeming as if he still dreaded to make his avowal, to commence to unfold the strange circumstances which had caused him to pass his life under the guise of father to the young man who was, in truth, his nephew. then, suddenly, nerving himself, as it seemed to julian, he began: "my brother and i went to british honduras, twenty-eight years ago, three years before you were born; at a time when money was to be made there by those who had capital. and _he_ had some--a few thousand pounds, which he had inherited from an aunt who died between his birth and mine. i had nothing. therefore i went as his companion--his assistant, if you like to call it so. yet--for i must do him justice--i was actually his partner. he shared everything with me until i left him." "yes," the other said. "yes. until you left him! yet, in such circumstances, why----?" "leave him, you would say. why? can you not guess? not understand? what separates men from each other more than all else, what divides brother from brother, what----" "a woman's love, perhaps?" julian said softly. "was that it?" "yes. a woman's love," mr. ritherdon exclaimed, and now his voice was louder than before, almost, indeed, harsh. "a woman's love. the love of a woman who loved me in return. that was his fault--that for which, heaven forgive me!--i punished him, made him suffer. she was my love--she loved me--that was certain, beyond all doubt!--and--she married him." "go on," julian said--and now his voice was low, though clear, "go on." "her name was isobel leigh, and she was the daughter of an english settler who had fallen on evil days, who had gone out from england with her mother and with her--a baby. but now he had become a man who was ruined if he could not pay certain obligations by a given time. they said, in whispers, quietly, that he had used other people's names to make those obligations valuable. and--and--i was away in new orleans on business. you can understand what happened!" "yes, i can understand. a cruel ruse was practised upon you." "so cruel that, while i was away in the united states, thinking always about her by day and night, i learnt that she had become his wife. then i swore that it should be ruse against ruse. that is the word! he had made me suffer, he had broken, cursed my life. well, henceforth, i would break, curse him! this is how i did it." mr. ritherdon paused a moment--his face white and drawn perhaps from the emotion caused by his recollection, perhaps from the disease that was hurrying him to his end. then, a moment later, he continued: "there were those with whom i could communicate in honduras, those who would keep me well informed of all that was taking place in the locality: people i could rely upon. and from them there came to new orleans, where i still remained, partly on business and partly because it was more than i could endure to go back and see her his wife, the news that she was about to become a mother. that maddened me, drove me to desperation, forced me to commit the crime that i now conceived, and dwelt upon during every hour of the day." "i begin to understand," julian said, as mr. ritherdon paused. "i begin to understand." then, from that time he interrupted the other no more--instead, both the narrative and his own feelings held him breathless. the narrative of how he, a newborn infant, the heir to a considerable property, had been spirited away from honduras to england. "i found my way to the neighbourhood of desolada, stopping at belize when once i was back in the colony, and then going on foot by night through the forest towards where my brother's house was--since i was forced to avoid the public road--forests that none but those who knew their way could have threaded in the dense blackness of the tropical night. yet i almost faltered, once i turned back, meaning to return to the united states and abandon my plan. for i had met an indian, a half-caste, who told me that she, my loved, my lost isobel was dying, that--that--she could not survive. and then--then--i made a compact with myself. i swore that it she lived i would not tear her child away from her, but that, if--if she died, then he who had made me wifeless should himself be not only wifeless but childless too. he had tricked me; now he should be tricked by me. only--if she should live--i could not break her heart as well. "but again i returned upon my road: i reached a copse outside desolada, outside the house itself. i was near enough to see that the windows were ablaze with lights, sometimes even i saw people passing behind the blinds of those windows--once i saw my brother's figure and that excited me again to madness. if she were dead i swore that then, too, he should become childless. her child should become mine, not his. i would have that satisfaction at least. "still i drew nearer to the house, so near that i could hear people calling to each other. once i thought--for now i was quite close--that i could hear the wailing of the negro women-servants--i saw a half-breed dash past me on a mustang, riding as for dear life, and i knew, i divined as surely as if i had been told, that he was gone for the doctor, that she was dying--or was dead. your father's chance was past." "heaven help him!" said julian ritherdon. "heaven help him. it was an awful revenge, taken at an awful moment. well! you succeeded?" "yes, i succeeded. she _was_ dead--i saw that when, an hour later, i crept into the room, and when i took you from out of the arms of the sleeping negro nurse--when, god forgive me, _i stole you!_" chapter iii. "the land of the golden sun." the mustang halted on a little knoll up which the patient beast had been toiling for some quarter of an hour, because upon that knoll there grew a clump of _gros-gros_ and moriche palms which threw a grateful shade over the white, glaring, and dusty track, and julian ritherdon, dropping the reins on its drenched and sweltering neck, drew out his cigar-case and struck a light. also, the negro "boy"--a man thirty years old--who had been toiling along by its side, flung himself down, crushing crimson poinsettias and purple dracæna beneath his body, and grunted with satisfaction at the pause. "so, snowball," julian said to this descendant of african kings, "this ends your journey, eh? i am in the right road now and we have got to say 'good-bye.' i suppose you don't happen to be thirsty, do you, pompey?" "hoop! hoop!" grunted the negro, showing a set of ivories that a london belle would have been proud to possess, "always thirsty. always hungry. always want tobaccy. money, too." "do you!" exclaimed julian. "by jove! you'd make a living as a london johnny. that's what they always want. pity you don't live in london, hannibal. well, let's see." whereon he threw his leg over the great saddle, reached the ground, and began opening a haversack, from which he took a bottle, a packet, and a horn cup. "luncheon time," he said. "sun's over the foremast! come on, julius cæsar, we'll begin." after which he opened the packet, in which was a considerable quantity of rather thickly cut sandwiches, divided it equally, and then filled the horn cup with the liquid from the bottle, which, after draining, he refilled and handed to his companion. "i'm sorry it isn't iced, my lily-white friend," he said; "it does seem rather warm from continual contact with the mustang's back, but i daresay you can manage it. eh?" "manage anything," the negro replied firmly, his mouth full of sandwich, "anything. always----" "yes, i know. 'thirsty, hungry, want tobacco and money.' i tell you, old chap, you're lost in this place. london's the spot for you. you're fitted for a more advanced state of civilization than this." "hoop. hoop," again grunted the negro, and again giving the huge smile--"want----" "this is getting monotonous, sambo," julian exclaimed. "come, let's settle up;" whereon he again replenished the guide's cup, and then drew forth from his pocket two american dollars, which are by now the standard coin of the colony. "one dollar was the sum arranged for," julian said, "but because you are a merry soul, and also because a dollar extra isn't ruinous, you shall have two. and in years to come, my daisy, you can bless the name of mr. ritherdon as that of a man both just and generous. remember those words, 'just and generous.'" the negro of many sobriquets--at each of which he had laughed like a child, as in absolute fact the negro is when not (which is extremely rare!) a vicious brute--seemed, however, to be struck more forcibly by some other words than those approving ones suggested by julian as suitable for recollection, and, after shaking his woolly head a good deal, muttered: "ritherdon, ritherdon," adding afterwards, "desolada." then he continued: "hard man, massa ritherdon. hard man, massa ritherdon. hard man. cruel man. beat blacky. beat whity, too, sometimes. hard man. cruel man." "sambo," said julian, feeling (even as he spoke still jocularly to the creature--a pleasant way being the only one in which to converse with the african) that he would sooner not have heard these remarks in connection with his father, "sambo, you should not say these things to people about their relatives. _that_ would not do for london;" while at the same time he reflected that it would be little use telling his guide of the old latin proverb suggesting that one should say nothing but good of the dead. "you relative of massa ritherdon!" the other grunted now, though still with the unfailing display of ivories. "you relative. oh! i know not that. now," he said, thinking perhaps it was time he departed, and before existing amicable arrangements should be disturbed, "now, i go. back to belize. good afternoon to you, sir. good-bye. i hope you like desolada. fifteen miles further on;" and making a kind of shambling bow, he departed back upon the road they had come. yet not without turning at every other three or four steps he took, and waving his hand gracefully as well as cordially to his late employer. "a simple creature is the honest black!" especially when no longer a dweller in his original equatorial savagery. "like it," murmured julian to himself, "yes, i hope so. since it is undoubtedly my chief inheritance, i hope i shall!" he had left belize that morning, by following a route which the negro knew of, had arrived in the neighbourhood of a place called commerce bight--a spot given up to the cultivation of the cocoanut-tree. and having proceeded thus far, he knew that by nightfall he would be at desolada--the dreary _hacienda_ from which, twenty-six years before, his uncle had ruthlessly kidnapped him from his father--the father who, he had learnt since he arrived in the colony, had been dead three months. also he knew that this property called desolada lay some dozen miles or so beyond a village named all pines, and on the other side of a river termed the sittee, and, as he still sat beneath the palm-trees on the knoll where they had halted for the midday meal, he wondered what he would find when he arrived there. "it is strange," he mused to himself now, as from out of that cool, refreshing shade he gazed across groves upon groves of mangroves at his feet, to where, sparkling in the brilliant cobalt-coloured caribbean sea, countless little reefs and islets--as well as one large reef--dotted the surface of the ocean, "strange that, at belize, i could gather no information of my late father. no! not even when i told the man who kept the inn that i was come on a visit to desolada. why, i wonder, why was it so? my appearance seemed to freeze them into silence, almost to startle them. why? why--this reticence on their part? can it be that he was so hated all about here that none will mention him? is that it? remembering what the negro said of him, of his brutality to black and white, can that be it? yet my uncle hinted at nothing of the kind." still thinking of this, still musing on what lay before him, he adjusted the saddle (which he had previously loosened to ease the mustang) once more upon the animal's back. then, as his foot was in the stirrup there came, swift as a flash of lightning, an idea into his mind. "i must be like him," he almost whispered to himself, "so like him, must bear such a resemblance to him, that they are thunderstruck. and, if any who saw me can recollect that, twenty-six years ago, his newborn child was stolen from him on the night his wife died, it is no wonder that they were thunderstruck. that is, if i do resemble him so much." but here his meditations ceased, he understanding that his name, which he had inscribed in the visitor's book lying on the marble table of the hotel, would be sufficient to cause all who learnt it to refrain from speaking about the recently dead man--his namesake. "yet all the same," he muttered to himself, as now the mule bore him along a more or less good road which traversed copses of oleanders and henna plants, allamandas and cuban royal palms--the latter of which formed occasionally a grateful shade from the glare of the sun--"all the same, i wish that darkey had not spoken about my father's cruelty. i should have preferred never to learn that he bore such a character. he must have been very different from my uncle, who, in spite of the one error of his life, was the gentlest soul that ever lived." all the way out from england to new orleans, and thence to belize by a different steamer, his thoughts had been with that dear uncle--who survived the disclosure he had made but eight days--he being found dead in his bed on the morning of the ninth day--and those thoughts were with him now. gentle memories, too, and kindly, with in them never a strain of reproach for what had been done by him in his hour of madness and desire for revenge; and with no other current of ideas running through his reflections but one of pity and regret for the unhappiness his real father must have experienced at finding himself bereft at once of both wife and child. regret and sorrow, too, for the years which that father must have spent in mourning for him, perhaps in praying that, as month followed month, his son might in some way be restored to him. and now he--that son--was in the colony; here, in the very locality where the bereaved man must have passed so many sad and melancholy years! here, but too late! ere he died, george ritherdon had bidden his nephew make his way to british honduras and proclaim himself as what he was; also he had provided him with that very written statement which he had spoken of as being in preparation for julian's own information in case he should die suddenly, ere the latter returned home. "with that in your possession," he had said, two days before his death actually occurred, "what's there that can stand in the way of your being acknowledged as his son? he cannot have forgotten my handwriting; and even if he has, the proofs of what i say are contained in the intimate knowledge that i testify in this paper of all our surroundings and habits out there. that paper is a certificate of who you are." "suppose he is dead when i get there, or that he should have married again. what then?" "he may be dead, but he has not married again. remember what i told you last night. i know my brother has remained a widower." "i wonder the paper did not also say that his son was stolen from him many years ago, or that there was no heir to his property, or something to that effect." "it is strange perhaps that such a state of things is not mentioned. yet, the picayune's correspondent may have forgotten it, or not known it, or not have thought it worth mention--or have had other news which required to be published. half a hundred things might have occurred to prevent mention of that one." "and," said julian, "presuming i do go out to british honduras if i can get leave from the admiralty, on 'urgent private affairs'----" "you _must_ go out. it is a fortune for you. your father cannot be worth less than forty thousand pounds. you _must_ go out, even though you have to leave the navy to do so." julian vowed inwardly that in no circumstances should the latter happen, while, at the same time, he thought it by no means unlikely that the necessary leave would be granted. he had already fifty days' leave standing to his credit, and he knew that not only his captain, but all his superiors in the service, thought well of him. the "urgent private affairs," when properly explained to their lordships, would make that matter easy. "when i go to british honduras, then," said julian, putting now the question which he had been about to ask in a slightly different form, but asking it nevertheless, "what am i to do supposing he is dead? i may have many obstacles to encounter--to overcome." "there can be none--few at least, and none that will be insurmountable. i had you baptised at new orleans as his son, and, with my papers, you will find the certificate of that baptism, while the papers themselves will explain all. meanwhile, make your preparations for setting out. you need not wait for my death----" "don't talk of that!" "i must talk of it. at best it cannot be far off. let us face the inevitable. be ready to go as soon as possible. if i am alive when you set out, i will give you the necessary documents; if i die before you start, they are here," and as he spoke he touched lightly the desk at which he always wrote. chapter iv. an encounter. and now julian ritherdon was here, in british honduras, within ten or fifteen miles of the estate known as desolada--a name which had been given to the place by some original spanish settlers years before his father and uncle had ever gone out to the colony. he was here, and that father and uncle were dead; here, and on the way to what was undoubtedly his own property; a property to which no one could dispute his right, since george ritherdon, his uncle, had been the only other heir his father had ever had. yet, even as the animal which bore him continued to pace along amid all the rich tropical vegetation around them; even, too, as the yellow-headed parrots and the curassows chattered above his head and the monkeys leapt from branch to branch, he mused as to whether he was doing a wise thing in progressing towards desolada--the place where he was born, as he reflected with a strange feeling of incredulity in his mind. "for suppose," he thought to himself, "that when i get to it i find it shut up or in the occupation of some other settler--what am i to do then? how explain my appearance on the scene? i cannot very well ride up to the house on this animal and summon the garrison to surrender, like some knight-errant of old, and i can't stand parleying on the steps explaining who i am. i believe i have gone the wrong way to work after all! i ought to have gone and seen the governor or the chief justice, or taken some advice, after stating who i was. or mr. spranger! confound it, why did i not present that letter of introduction to him before starting off here?" the latter gentleman was a well-known planter and merchant living on the south side of belize, to whom julian had been furnished with a letter of introduction by a retired post-captain whom he had run against in london prior to his departure, and with whom he had dined at a service club. and this officer had given him so flattering an account of mr. spranger's hospitality, as well as the prominent position which that personage held in the little capital, that he now regretted considerably that he had not availed himself of the chance which had come in his way. more especially he regretted it, too, when there happened to come into his recollection the fact that the gallant sailor had stated with much enthusiasm--after dinner--that beatrix spranger, the planter's daughter, was without doubt the prettiest as well as the nicest girl in the whole colony. however, he comforted himself with the reflection that the journey which he was now taking might easily serve as one of inspection simply, and that, as there was no particular hurry, he could return to belize and then, before making any absolute claim upon his father's estate, take the advice of the most important people in the town. "all of which," he said to himself, "i ought to have thought of before and decided upon. however, it doesn't matter! a week hence will do just as well as now, and, meanwhile, i shall have had a look at the place which must undoubtedly belong to me." as he arrived at this conclusion, the mustang emerged from the forest-like copse they had been passing through, and ahead of him he saw, upon the flat plain, a little settlement or village. "which," thought julian, "must be all pines. especially as over there are the queer-shaped mountains called the 'cockscomb,' of which the negro told me." then he began to consider the advisability of finding accommodation at this place for a day or so while he made that inspection of the estate and residence of desolada which he had on his ride decided upon. all pines, to which he now drew very near, presented but a bare and straggling appearance, and that not a particularly flourishing one either. a factory fallen quite into disuse was passed by julian as he approached the village; while although his eyes were able to see that, on its outskirts, there was more than one large sugar estate, the place itself was a poor one. yet there was here that which the traveller finds everywhere, no matter to what part of the world he directs his footsteps and no matter how small the place he arrives at may be--an inn. an inn, outside which there were standing four or five saddled mules and mustangs, and one fairly good-looking horse in excellent condition. a horse, however, that a person used to such animals might consider as showing rather more of the hinder white of its eye than was desirable, and which twitched its small, delicate ears in a manner equally suspicious. there seemed very little sign of life about this inn in spite of these animals, however, as julian made his way into it, after tying up his own mustang to a nail in a tree--since a dog asleep outside in the sun and a negro asleep inside in what might be, and probably was, termed the entrance hall, scarcely furnished such signs. all the same, he heard voices, and pretty loud ones too, in some room close at hand, as well as something else, also--a sound which seemed familiar enough to his ears; a sound that he--who had been all over the world more than once as a sailor--had heard in diverse places. in port said to wit, in shanghai, san francisco, lisbon, and monte carlo. the hum of a wheel, the click and rattle of a ball against brass, and then a soft voice--surely it was a woman's!--murmuring a number, a colour, a chance! "so, so!" said julian to himself, "madame la roulette, and here, too. ah! well, madame is everywhere; why shouldn't she favour this place as well as all others that she can force her way into?" then he pushed open a swing door to his right, a door covered with cocoanut matting nailed on to it, perhaps to keep the place cool, perhaps to deaden sound--the sound of madame la roulette's clicking jaws--though surely this was scarcely necessary in such an out-of-the-way spot, and entered the room whence the noise proceeded. the place was darkened by matting and persians; again, perhaps, to exclude the heat or deaden _sound_; and was, indeed, so dark that, until his eyes became accustomed to the dull gloom of the room--vast and sparsely furnished--he could scarcely discern what was in it. he was, however, able to perceive the forms of four or five men seated round a table, to see coins glittering on it; and a girl at the head of the table (so dark that, doubtless, she was of usual mixed spanish and indian blood common to the colony) who was acting as croupier--a girl in whose hair was an oleander flower that gleamed like a star in the general duskiness of her surroundings. while, as he gazed, she twirled the wheel, murmuring softly: "plank it down before it is too late," as well as, "make your game," and spun the ball; while, a moment later, she flung out pieces of gold and silver to right and left of her and raked in similar pieces, also from right and left of her. but the sordid, dusty room, across which the motes glanced in the single ray of sunshine that stole in and streamed across the table, was not--it need scarcely be said--a prototype of the gilded palace that smiles over the blue waters of the mediterranean, nor of the great gambling chambers in the ancient streets behind the cathedral in lisbon, nor of the white and airy saloons of san francisco--instead, it was mean, dusty, and dirty, while over it there was the f[oe]tid, sickly, tropical atmosphere that pervades places to which neither light nor constant air is often admitted. himself unseen for the moment--since, as he entered the room, a wrangle had suddenly sprung up among all at the table over the disputed ownership of a certain stake--he stared in amazement into the gloomy den. yet that amazement was not occasioned by the place itself (he had seen worse, or at least as bad, in other lands), but by the face of a man who was seated behind the half-caste girl acting as croupier, evidently under his directions. where had he seen that face, or one like it, before? that was what he was asking himself now; that was what was causing his amazement! where? where? for the features were known to him--the face was familiar, some trick or turn in it was not strange. where had he done so, and what did it mean? almost he was appalled, dismayed, at the sight of that face. the nose straight, the eyes full and clear, the chin clear cut; nothing in it unfamiliar to him except a certain cruel, determined look that he did not recognise. the dispute waxed stronger between the gamblers; the half-caste girl laughed and chattered like one of the monkeys outside in the woods, and beat the table more than once with her lithe, sinuous hand and summoned them to put down fresh stakes, to recommence the game; the men squabbled and wrangled between themselves, and one pointed significantly to his blouse--open at the breast; so significantly, indeed, that none who saw the action could doubt what there was inside that blouse, lying ready to his right hand. that action of the man--a little wizened fellow, himself half spaniard, half indian, with perhaps a drop or two of the tar-bucket also in his veins--brought things to an end, to a climax. for the other man whose face was puzzling julian ritherdon's brain, and puzzling him with a bewilderment that was almost weird and uncanny, suddenly sprang up from beside, or rather behind, the girl croupier and cried-- "stop it! cease, i say. it is you, jaime, you who always makes these disputes. come! i'll have no more of it. and keep your hand from the pistol or----" but his threat was ended by his action, which was to seize the man he had addressed by the scruff of his neck, after which he commenced to haul him towards the door. then he--then all of them--saw the intruder, julian ritherdon, standing there by that door, looking at them calmly and unruffled--calm and unruffled, that is to say, except for his bewilderment at the sight of the other man's face. they all saw him in a moment as they turned, and in a moment a fresh uproar, a new disturbance, arose; a disturbance that seemed to bode ominously for julian. for, now, in each man's hands there was a revolver, drawn like lightning from the breast of each shirt or blouse. "who are you? what are you?" all cried together, except the girl, who was busily sweeping up the gold and silver on the table into her pockets. "who? one of the constabulary from belize? a spy! shoot him!" "no," exclaimed the man who bore the features that so amazed julian ritherdon, "no, this is not one of the constabulary;" while, as he spoke, his eyes roved over the tropical naval clothes, or "whites," in which the former was clad for coolness. "neither do i believe he is a spy. yet," he continued, "what are you doing here? who are you?" neither their pistols nor their cries had any power to alarm julian, who, young as he was, had already won the egyptian medal and the albert medal for saving life; wherefore, looking his interrogator calmly in the face, he said-- "i am on a visit to the colony, and my name is julian ritherdon." "julian ritherdon!" the other exclaimed, "julian ritherdon!" and as he spoke the owner of that name could see the astonishment on all their faces. "julian ritherdon," he repeated again. "that is it. doubtless you know it hereabouts. may i be so bold as to ask what yours is?" the man gave a hard, dry laugh--a strange laugh it was, too; then he replied, "certainly you may. especially as mine is by chance much the same as your own. my name is sebastian leigh ritherdon." "what! your name is ritherdon? you a ritherdon? who in heaven's name are you, then?" "i happen to be the owner of a property near here called desolada. the owner, because i am the son of the late mr. ritherdon and of his wife, isobel leigh, who died after giving me birth!" chapter v. "a half-breed named zara." to describe julian as being startled--amazed--would not convey the actual state of mind into which the answer given by the man who said that his name was sebastian leigh ritherdon, plunged him. it was indeed something more than that; something more resembling a shock of consternation which now took possession of him. what did it mean?--he asked himself, even as he stood face to face with that other bearer of the name of ritherdon. what? and to this question he could find but one answer: his uncle in england must, for some reason--the reason being in all probability that his hatred for the deceit practised on him years ago had never really become extinguished--have invented the whole story. yet, of what use such an invention! how could he hope that he, julian, should profit by such a fabrication, by such a falsehood; why should he have bidden him go forth to a distant country there to assert a claim which could never be substantiated? then, even in that moment, while still he stood astounded before the other ritherdon, there flashed into his mind a second thought, another supposition; the thought that george ritherdon had been a madman. that was--must be--the solution. none but a madman would have conceived such a story. if it were untrue! yet, now, he could not pursue this train of thought; he must postpone reflection for the time being; he had to act, to speak, to give some account of himself. as to who he was, who, bearing the name of ritherdon, had suddenly appeared in the very spot where ritherdon was such a well-known and, probably, such an influential name. "i never knew," the man who had announced himself as being the heir of the late mr. ritherdon was saying now, "that there were any other ritherdons in existence except my late father and myself; except myself now since his death. and," he continued, "it is a little strange, perhaps, that i should learn such to be the case here in honduras. is it not?" as he spoke to julian, both his tone and manner were such as would not have produced an unfavourable impression upon any one who was witness to them. at the gaming-table, when seated behind the half-caste girl, his appearance would have probably been considered by some as sinister, while, when he had fallen upon the disputatious gambler, and had commenced--very roughly to hustle him towards the door, he had presented the appearance of a hectoring bully. also, his first address to julian on discovering him in the room had been by no means one that promised well for the probable events of the next few moments. but now--now--his manner and whole bearing were in no way aggressive, even though his words expressed that a certain doubt in his mind accompanied them. "surely," he continued, "we must be connections of some sort. the presence of a ritherdon in honduras, within an hour's ride of my property, must be owing to something more than coincidence." "it is owing to something more than coincidence," julian replied, scorning to take refuge in an absolute falsehood, though acknowledging to himself that, in the position in which he now found himself--and until he could think matters out more clearly, as well as obtain some light on the strange circumstances in which he was suddenly involved--diplomacy if not evasion--a hateful word!--was necessary. "more than coincidence. you may have heard of george ritherdon, your uncle, who once lived here in the colony with your father." "yes," sebastian ritherdon answered, his eyes still on the other. "yes, i have heard my father speak of him. yet, that was years ago. nearly thirty, i think. is he here, too? in the colony?" "no; he is dead. but i am his son. and, being on leave from my profession, which is that of an officer in her majesty's navy, it has suited me to pay a visit to a place of which he had spoken so often." as he gave this answer, julian was able to console himself with the reflection that, although there was evasion in it, at least there was no falsehood. for had he not always believed himself to be george ritherdon's son until a month or so ago; had he not been brought up and entered for the navy as his son? also, was he sure now that he was _not_ his son? he had listened to a story from the dying man telling how he, julian, had been kidnapped from his father's house, and how the latter had been left childless and desolate; yet now, when he was almost at the threshold of that house, he found himself face to face with a man, evidently well known in all the district, who proclaimed himself to be the actual son--a man who also gave, with some distinctness in his tone, the name of isobel leigh as that of his mother. she sebastian ritherdon's mother! the woman who was, he had been told, his own mother: the woman who, dying in giving birth to her first son, could consequently have never been the mother of a second. was it not well, therefore, that, as he had always been, so he should continue to be, certainly for the present, the son of george ritherdon, and not of charles? for, to proclaim himself here, in honduras, as the offspring of the latter would be to bring down upon him, almost of a surety, the charge of being an impostor. "i knew," exclaimed sebastian, while in his look and manner there was expressed considerable cordiality; "i knew we must be akin. i was certain of it. even as you stood in that doorway, and as the ray of sunlight streamed across the room, i felt sure of it before you mentioned your name." "why?" asked julian surprised; perhaps, too, a little agitated. "why! can you not understand? not recognise why--at once? man alive! _we are alike!_" alike! alike! the words fell on julian with startling force. alike! yes, so they were! they were alike. and in an instant it seemed as if some veil, some web had fallen away from his mental vision; as if he understood what had hitherto puzzled him. he understood his bewilderment as to where he had seen that face and those features before! for now he knew. he had seen them in the looking-glass! "no doubt about the likeness!" exclaimed one of the gamblers who had remained in the room, a listener to the conference; while the half-breed stared from first one face to the other with her large eyes wide open. "no doubt about that. as much like brothers as cousins, i should say." and the girl who (since julian's intrusion, and since, also, she had discovered that it was not the constabulary from belize who had suddenly raided their gambling den), had preserved a stolid silence--glancing ever and anon with dusky eyes at each, muttered also that none who saw those two men together could doubt that they were kinsmen, or, as she termed it, _parienti_. "yes," julian answered bewildered, almost stunned, as one thing after another seemed--with crushing force--to be sweeping away for ever all possibility of george ritherdon's story having had any foundation in fact, any likelihood of being aught else but the chimera of a distraught brain; "yes, i can perceive it. i--i--wondered where i had seen your face before, when i first entered the room. now i know." "and," sebastian exclaimed, slapping his newly found kinsmen somewhat boisterously on the back, "and we are cousins. so much the better! for my part i am heartily glad to meet a relation. now--come--let us be off to desolada. you were on your way there, no doubt. well! you shall have a cordial welcome. the best i can offer. you know that the spaniards always call their house 'their guests' house.' and my house shall be yours. for as long as you like to make it so." "you are very good," julian said haltingly, feeling, too, that he was no longer master of himself, no longer possessed of all that ease which he had, until to-day, imagined himself to be in full possession of. "very good indeed. and what you say is the case. i was on my way--i--had a desire to see the place in which your and my father lived." "you shall see it, you shall be most welcome. and," sebastian continued, "you will find it big enough. it is a vast rambling place, half wood, half brick, constructed originally by spanish settlers, so that it is over a hundred years old. the name is a mournful one, yet it has always been retained. and once it was appropriate enough. there was scarcely another dwelling near it for miles--as a matter of fact, there are hardly any now. the nearest, which is a place called 'la superba,' is five miles farther on." they went out together now to the front of the inn--julian observing that still the negro slept on in the entrance-hall and still the dog slept on in the sun outside--and here sebastian, finding the good-looking horse, began to untether it, while julian did the same for his mustang. they were the only two animals now left standing in the shade thrown by the house, since all the men--including he who had stayed last and listened to their conversation--were gone. the girl, however, still remained, and to her sebastian spoke, bidding her make her way through the bypaths of the forest to desolada and state that he and his guest were coming. "who is she?" asked julian, feeling that it was incumbent on him to evince some interest in this new-found "cousin's" affairs; while, as was not surprising, he really felt too dazed to heed much that was passing around him. the astonishment, the bewilderment that had fallen on him owing to the events of the last half-hour, the startling information he had received, all of which tended, if it did anything, to disprove every word that george ritherdon had uttered prior to his death--were enough to daze a man of even cooler instincts than he possessed. "she," said sebastian, with a half laugh, a laugh in which contempt was strangely discernible, "she, oh! she's a half-breed--spanish and native mixed--named zara. she was born on our place and turns her hand to anything required, from milking the goats to superintending the negroes." "she seems to know how to turn her hand to a roulette wheel also," julian remarked, still endeavouring to frame some sentences which should pass muster for the ordinary courteous attention expected from a newly found relation, who had also, now, assumed the character of guest. "yes," sebastian answered. "yes, she can do that too. i suppose you were surprised at finding all the implements of a gambling room here! yet, if you lived in the colony it would not seem so strange. we planters, especially in the wild parts, must have some amusement, even though it's illegal. therefore, we meet three times a week at the inn, and the man who is willing to put down the most money takes the bank. it happened to me to-day." "and, as in the case of most hot countries," said julian, forcing himself to be interested, "a servant is used for that portion of the game which necessitates exertion. i understand! in some tropical countries i have known, men bring their servants to deal for them at whist and mark their game." "you have seen a great deal of the world as a sailor?" the other asked, while they now wended their way through a thick mangrove wood in which the monkeys and parrots kept up such an incessant chattering that they could scarcely hear themselves talk. "i have been round it three times," julian replied; "though, of course, sailor-like, i know the coast portions of different countries much better than i do any of the interiors." "and i have never been farther away than new orleans. my mother ca--my mother always wanted to go there and see it." "was she--your mother from new orleans?" julian asked, on the alert at this moment, he hardly knew why. "my mother. oh! no. she was the daughter of mr. leigh, an english merchant at belize. but, as you will discover, new orleans means the world to us--we all want to go there sometimes." chapter vi. "knowledge is not always proof." if there was one desire more paramount than another in julian's mind--as now they threaded a campeachy wood dotted here and there with clumps of cabbage palms while, all around, in the underbrush and pools, the caribbean lily grew in thick and luxurious profusion--that desire was to be alone. to be able to reflect and to think uninterruptedly, and without being obliged at every moment to listen to his companion's flow of conversation--which was so unceasing that it seemed forced--as well as obliged to answer questions and to display an interest in all that was being said. julian felt, perhaps, this desire the more strongly because, by now, he was gradually becoming able to collect himself, to adjust his thoughts and reflections and, thereby, to bring a more calm and clear insight to bear upon the discovery--so amazing and surprising--which had come to his knowledge but an hour or so ago. if he were alone now, he told himself, if he could only get half-an-hour's entire and uninterrupted freedom for thought, he could, he felt sure, review the matter with coolness and judgment. also, he could ponder over one or two things which, at this moment, struck him with a force they had not done at the time when they had fallen with stunning--because unexpected--force upon his brain. things--namely words and statements--that might go far towards explaining, if not towards unravelling, much that had hitherto seemed inexplicable. yet, all the same, he was obliged to confess to himself that one thing seemed absolutely incapable of explanation. that was, how this man could be the child of charles ritherdon, the late owner of the vast property through which they were now riding, if his brother george had been neither demented nor a liar. and that sebastian should have invented his statement was obviously incredible for the plain and simple reasons that he had made it before several witnesses, and that he was in full possession, as recognised heir, of all that the dead planter had left behind. it was impossible, however, that he could meditate--and, certainly, he could not follow any train of thought--amid the unfailing flow of conversation in which his companion indulged. that flow gave him the impression, as it must have given any other person who might by chance have overheard it, that it was conversation made for conversation's sake, or, in other words, made with a determination to preclude all reflection on julian's part. from one thing to another this man, called sebastian ritherdon, wandered--from the trade of the colony to its products and vegetation, to the climate, the melancholy and loneliness of life in the whole district, the absence of news and of excitement, the stagnation of everything except the power of making money by exportation. then, when all these topics appeared to be thoroughly beaten out and exhausted, sebastian ritherdon recurred to a remark made during the earlier part of their ride, and said: "so you have a letter of introduction to the sprangers? well! you should present it. old spranger is a pleasant, agreeable man, while as for beatrix, his daughter, she is a beautiful girl. wasted here, though." "is she?" said julian. "are there, then, no eligible men in british honduras who could prevent a beautiful girl from failing in what every beautiful girl hopes to accomplish--namely getting well settled?" "oh, yes!" the other answered, and now it seemed to julian as though in his tone there was something which spoke of disappointment, if not of regret, personal to the man himself. "oh, yes! there are such men among us. men well-to-do, large owners of remunerative estates, capitalists employing a good deal of labour, and so forth. only--only----" "only what?" "well--oh! i don't know; perhaps we are not quite her class, her style. in england the sprangers are somebody, i believe, and beatrix is consequently rather difficult to please. at any rate i know she has rejected more than one good offer. she will never marry any colonist." then, as julian turned his eyes on sebastian ritherdon, he felt as sure as if the man had told him so himself that he was one of the rejected. "i intend to present that letter of introduction, you know," he said a moment later. "in fact i intended to do so from the first. now, your description of miss spranger makes me the more eager." "you may suit her," the other replied. "i mean, of course, as a friend, a companion. you are a naval officer, consequently a gentleman in manners, a man of the world and of society. as for us, well, we may be gentlemen, too, only we don't, of course, know much about society manners." he paused a moment--it was indeed the longest pause he had made for some time; then he said, "when do you propose to go to see them?" "i rather thought i would go back to belize to-morrow," julian answered. "to-morrow!" "yes. i--i--feel i ought not to be in the country and not present that letter." "to-morrow!" sebastian ritherdon said again. "to-morrow! that won't give me much of your society. and i'm your cousin." "oh!" said julian, forcing a smile, "you will have plenty of that--of my society--i'm afraid. i have a long leave, and if you will have me, i will promise to weary you sufficiently before i finally depart. you will be tired enough of me ere then." to his surprise--since nothing that the other said (and not even the fact that the man was undoubtedly regarded by all who knew him as the son and heir of mr. ritherdon and was in absolute fact in full possession of the rights of such an heir) could make julian believe that his presence was a welcome one--to his surprise, sebastian ritherdon greeted his remark with effusion. none who saw his smile, and the manner in which his face lit up, could have doubted that the other's promise to stay as his guest for a considerable time gave him the greatest pleasure. then, suddenly, while he was telling julian so, they emerged from one more glade, leaving behind them all the chattering members of the animal and feathered world, and came out into a small open plain which was in a full state of cultivation, while julian observed a house, large, spacious and low before them. "there is desolada--the house of desolation as my poor father used to call it, for some reason of his own--there is my property, to which you will always be welcome." his property! julian thought, even as he gazed upon the mansion (for such it was); his property! and he had left england, had travelled thousands of miles to reach it, thinking that, instead, it was _his_. that he would find it awaiting an owner--perhaps in charge of some government official, but still awaiting an owner--himself. yet, now, how different all was from what he had imagined--how different! in england, on the voyage, the journey from new york to new orleans, nay! until four hours ago, he thought that he would have but to tell his story after taking a hasty view of desolada and its surroundings to prove that he was the son who had suddenly disappeared a day or so after his birth: to show that he was the missing, kidnapped child. he would have but to proclaim himself and be acknowledged. but, lo! how changed all appeared now. there was no missing, kidnapped heir--there could not be if the man by his side had spoken the truth--and how could he have spoken untruthfully here, in this country, in this district, where a falsehood such as that statement would have been (if not capable of immediate and universal corroboration), was open to instant denial? there must be hundreds of people in the colony who had known sebastian ritherdon from his infancy; every one in the colony would have been acquainted with such a fact as the kidnapping of the wealthy mr. ritherdon's heir if it had ever taken place, and, in such circumstances, there could have been no sebastian. yet here he was by julian's side escorting him to his own house, proclaiming himself the owner of that house and property. surely it was impossible that the statement could be untrue! yet, if true, who was he himself? what! what could he be but a man who had been used by his dying father as one who, by an imposture, might be made the instrument of a long-conceived desire for vengeance--a vengeance to be worked out by fraud? a man who would at once have been branded as an impostor had he but made the claim he had quitted england with the intention of making. under the palms--which grew in groves and were used as shade-trees--beneath the umbrageous figs, through a garden in which the oleanders flowered luxuriously, and the plants and mignonette-trees perfumed deliciously the evening air, while flamboyants--bearing masses of scarlet, bloodlike flowers--allamandas, and temple-plants gave a brilliant colouring to the scene, they rode up to the steps of the house, around the whole of which there was a wooden balcony. standing upon that balcony, which was made to traverse the vast mansion so that, no matter where the sun happened to be, it could be avoided, was a woman, smiling and waving her hand to sebastian, although it seemed that, in the salutation, the newcomer was included. a woman who, in the shadow which enveloped her, since now the sun had sunk away to the back, appeared so dark of complexion as to suggest that in her veins there ran the dark blood of africa. yet, a moment later, as sebastian ritherdon presented julian to her, terming him "a new-found cousin," the latter was able to perceive that the shadows of the coming tropical night had played tricks with him. in this woman's veins there ran no drop of black blood; instead, she was only a dark, handsome creole--one who, in her day, must have been even more than handsome--must have possessed superb beauty. but that day had passed now, she evidently being near her fiftieth year, though the clear ivory complexion, the black curling hair, in which scarcely a grey streak was visible, the soft rounded features and the dark eyes, still full of lustre, proclaimed distinctly what her beauty must have been in long past days. also, julian noticed, as she held out a white slim hand and murmured some words of cordial welcome to him, that her figure, lithe and sinuous, was one that might have become a woman young enough to have been her daughter. only--he thought--it was almost too lithe and sinuous: it reminded him too much of a tiger he had once stalked in india, and of how he had seen the striped body creeping in and out of the jungle. "this is madame carmaux," sebastian said to julian, as the latter bowed before her, "a relation of my late mother. she has been here many years--even before that mother died. and--she has been one to me as well as fulfilling all the duties of the lady of the house both for my father and, now, for myself." then, after julian had muttered some suitable words and had once more received a gracious smile from the owner of those dark eyes, sebastian said, "now, you would like to make some kind of toilette, i suppose, before the evening meal. come, i will show you your room." and he led the way up the vast campeachy-wood staircase to the floor above. tropical nights fall swiftly directly the sun has disappeared, as it had now done behind the still gilded crests of the cockscomb range, and julian, standing on his balcony after the other had left him and gazing out on all around, wondered what was to be the outcome of this visit to honduras. he pondered, too, as he had pondered before, whether george ritherdon had in truth been a madman or one who had plotted a strange scheme of revenge against his brother; a scheme which now could never be perfected. or--for he mused on this also--had george ritherdon spoken the truth, had sebastian---- the current of his thoughts was broken, even as he arrived at this point, by hearing beneath him on the under balcony the voice of sebastian speaking in tones low but clear and distinct--by hearing that voice say, as though in answer to another's question: "know--of course he must know! but knowledge is not always proof." chapter vii. madame carmaux takes a nap. on that night when sebastian ritherdon escorted julian once more up the great campeachy-wood staircase to the room allotted to him, he had extorted a promise from his guest that he would stay at least one day before breaking his visit by another to sprangers. "for," he had said before, down in the vast dining-room--which would almost have served for a modern continental hotel--and now said again ere he bid his cousin "good-night," "for what does one day matter? and, you know, you can return to belize twice as fast as you came here." "how so?" asked julian, while, as he spoke, his eyes were roaming round the great desolate corridors of the first floor, and he was, almost unknowingly to himself, peering down those corridors amid the shadows which the lamp that sebastian carried scarcely served to illuminate. "how so?" "why, first, you know your road now. then, next, i can mount you on a good swift trotting horse that will do the journey in a third of the time that mustang took to get you along. how ever did you become possessed of such a creature? we rarely see them here." "i hired it from the man who kept the hotel. he said it was the proper thing to do the journey with." "proper thing, indeed! more proper to assist the bullocks and mules in transporting the mahogany and campeachy, or the fruits, from the interior to the coast. however, you shall have a good trotting spanish horse to take you into belize, and i'll send your creature back later." then, after wishing each other good-night, julian entered the room, sebastian handing him the lamp he had carried upstairs to light the way. "i can find my own way down again in the dark very well," the latter said. "i ought to be able to do so in the house i was born in and have lived in all my life. good-night." at last julian was alone. alone with some hours before him in which he could reflect and meditate on the occurrences of this eventful day. he did now that which perhaps, every man, no matter how courageous he might have been, would have done in similar circumstances. he made a careful inspection of the room, looking into a large wardrobe which stood in the corner, and, it must be admitted, under the bed also; which, as is the case in most tropical climates, stood in the middle of the room, so that the mosquitoes that harboured in the whitewashed walls should have less opportunity of forcing their way through the gauze nets which protected the bed. then, having completed this survey to his satisfaction, he put his hand into his breast and drew from a pocket inside his waistcoat that which, it may well be surmised, he was not very likely to be without here. this was an express revolver. "that's all right," he said as, after a glance at the chambers, he laid it on the table by his side. "you have been of use before, my friend, in other parts of the world and, although you are not likely to be wanted here, you don't take up much room." "now," he went on to himself, "for a good long think, as the paymaster of the mongoose always used to say before he fell asleep in the wardroom and drove everybody else out of it with his snores. only, first there are one or two other little things to be done." whereon he walked out on to the balcony--the windows of course being open--and gave a long and searching glance around, above, and below him. below, to where was the veranda of the lower or ground floor, with, standing about, two or three singapore chairs covered with chintz, a small table and, upon it, a bottle of spirits and some glasses as well as a large carafe of water. all these things were perfectly visible because, from the room beneath him, there streamed out a strong light from the oil lamp which stood on the table within that room, while, even though such had not been the case, julian was perfectly well aware that they were there. he and sebastian had sat in those chairs for more than an hour talking after the evening meal, while madame carmaux, whose other name he learnt was miriam, had sat in another, perusing by the light of the lamp the belize advertiser. yet, now and again, it had seemed to julian as though, while those dark eyes had been fixed on the sheet, their owner's attention had been otherwise occupied, or else that she read very slowly. for once, when he had been giving a very guarded description of george ritherdon's life in england during the last few years, he had seen them rest momentarily upon his face, and then be quickly withdrawn. also, he had observed, the newspaper had never been turned once. "now," he said again to himself, "now, let us think it all out and come to some decision as to what it all means. let us see. let me go over everything that has happened since i pulled up outside that inn--or gambling house!" he was, perhaps, a little more methodical than most young men; the habit being doubtless born of many examinations at greenwich, of a long course in h.m.s. excellent, and, possibly, of the fact that he had done what sailors call a lot of "logging" in his time, both as watchkeeper and when in command of a destroyer. therefore, he drew from his pocket a rather large, but somewhat unbusinesslike-looking pocketbook--since it was bound in crushed morocco and had its leaves gilt-edged--and, ruthlessly tearing out a sheet of paper, he withdrew the pencil from its place and prepared to make notes. "no orders as to 'lights out,'" he muttered to himself before beginning. "i suppose i may sit up as long as i like." then, after a few moments' reflection, he jotted down: "s. didn't seem astonished to see me. (qy?) ought to have done so, if i came as a surprise to him. can't ever have heard of me before. consequently it was a surprise. said who he was, and was particularly careful to say who his mother was, viz. i. s. r. (qy?) isn't that odd? known many people who tell you who their father was. never knew 'em lug in their mother's name, though, except when very swagger. says madame carmaux relative of his mother, yet isobel leigh was daughter of english planter. c's not a full-bred englishwoman, and her name's french. that's nothing, though. perhaps married a frenchman." these little notes--which filled the detached sheet of the ornamental pocketbook--being written down, julian, before taking another, sat back in his chair to ponder; yet his musings were not satisfactory, and, indeed, did not tend to enlighten him very much, which, as a matter of fact, they were not very likely to do. "he must be the _right_ man, after all, and i must be the wrong one," he said to himself. "it is impossible the thing can be otherwise. a child kidnapped would make such a sensation in a place like this that the affair would furnish gossip for the next fifty years. also, if a child was kidnapped, how on earth has this man grown up here and now inherited the property? if i was actually the child i certainly didn't grow up here, and if he was the child and did grow up here then there was no kidnapping." indeed, by the time that julian had arrived at this rather complicated result, he began to feel that his brain was getting into a whirl, and he came to a hasty resolution. that resolution was that he would abandon this business altogether; that, on the next day but one, he would go to belize and pay his visit to the sprangers, while, when that visit was concluded, he would, instead of returning to desolada, set out on his return journey to england. "even though my uncle--if he was my uncle and not my father--spoke the truth and told everything exactly as it occurred, how is it to be proved? how can any legal power on earth dispossess a man who has been brought up here from his infancy, in favour of one who comes without any evidence in his favour, since that certificate of my baptism in new orleans, although it states me to be the son of the late owner of this place, cannot be substantiated? any man might have taken any child and had such an entry as that made. and if he--he my uncle, or my father--could conceive such a scheme as he revealed to me--or _such a scheme as he did not reveal to me_--then, the entry at new orleans would not present much difficulty to one like him. it is proof--proof that it be----" he stopped in his meditations--stopped, wondering where he had heard something said about "proof" before on this evening. then, in a moment, he recalled the almost whispered words; the words that in absolute fact were whispered from the balcony below, before he went down to take his seat at the supper table; the utterance of sebastian: "know--of course he must know. but knowledge is not always proof." how strange it was, he thought, that, while he had been indulging in his musings, jotting down his little facts on the sheet of paper, he should have forgotten those words. "knowledge is not always proof." what knowledge? whose? whose could it be but his! whose knowledge that was not proof had sebastian referred to? then again, in a moment--again suddenly--he came to another determination, another resolve. he did possess some knowledge that this man, sebastian could not dispute--for it would have been folly to imagine he had been speaking of any one else but him--though he had no proof. so be it, only, now, he would endeavour to discover a proof that should justify such knowledge. he would not slink away from the colony until he had exhausted every attempt to discover that proof. if it was to be found he would find it. perhaps, after all, his uncle was his uncle, perhaps that uncle had undoubtedly uttered the truth. he rose now, preparing to go to bed, and as he did so a slight breeze rattled the slats of the green persianas, or, as they are called in england, venetian blinds--a breeze that in tropical land often rises as the night goes on. it was a cooling pleasant one, and he remembered that he had heard it rustling the slats before, when he was engaged in making his notes. yet, now, regarding those green strips of wood, he felt a little astonished at what he saw. he had carefully let the blinds of both windows down and turned the laths so that neither bats nor moths, nor any of the flying insect world which are the curse of the tropics at night, should force their way in, attracted by the flame of the lamp; but now, one of those laths was turned--turned, so that, instead of being downwards and forming with the others a compact screen from the outside, it was in a flat or horizontal position, leaving an open space of an inch between it and the one above and the next below. a slat that was above five feet from the bottom of the blind. he stood there regarding it for a moment; then, dropping the revolver into his pocket, he went towards the window and with his finger and thumb put back the lath into the position he had originally placed it, feeling as he did so that it did not move smoothly, but, instead, a little stiffly. "there has been no wind coming up from the sea that would do that," he reflected, "and, if it had come, then it would have turned more than one. i wonder whether," and now he felt a slight sensation of creepiness coming over him, "if i had raised my eyes as i sat writing, i should have met another pair of eyes looking in on me. very likely. the turning of that one lath made a peep-hole." he pulled the blind up now without any attempt at concealing the noise it caused--that well-known clatter made by such blinds as they are hastily drawn up--and walked out on to the long balcony and peered over on to the one beneath, seeing that madame carmaux was asleep in the wicker chair which she had sat in during the evening, and that the newspaper lay in her lap. he saw, too, that sebastian ritherdon was also sitting in his chair, but that, aroused by the noise of the blind, he had bent his body backwards over the veranda rail and, with upturned face, was regarding the spot at which julian might be expected to appear. "not gone to bed, yet, old fellow," he called out now, on seeing the other lean over the balcony rail; while julian observed that madame carmaux opened her eyes with a dazzled look--the look which those have on their faces who are suddenly startled out of a light nap. and for some reason--since he was growing suspicious--he believed that look to have been assumed as well as the slumber which had apparently preceded it. chapter viii. a midnight visitor. "not yet," julian called down in answer to the other's remark, "though i am going directly. only it is so hot. i hope i am not disturbing the house." "not at all. do what you like. we often sit here till long after midnight, since it is the only cool time of the twenty-four hours. will you come down again and join us?" "no, if you'll excuse me. i'll take a turn or two here and then go to bed." whereon as he spoke, he began to walk up and down the balcony. it ran (as has been said of the lower one on which sebastian and madame carmaux were seated) round the whole of the house, so that, had julian desired to do so, he could have commenced a tour of the building which, by being continued, would eventually have brought him back to the spot where he now was. he contented himself, however, with commencing to walk towards the right-hand corner of the great rambling mansion, proceeding as far upon it as led to where the balcony turned at the angle, then, after a glance down its--at that place--darkened length, he retraced his steps, meaning to proceed to the opposite or left-hand corner. doing so, however, and coming thus in front of his bedroom window, from which, since the blind was up, the light of his lamp streamed out on to the broad wooden floor of the balcony, he saw lying at his feet a small object which formed a patch of colour on the dark boards. a patch which was of a pale roseate hue, the thing being, indeed, a little spray, now dry and faded, of the oleander flower. and he knew, felt sure, where he had seen that spray before. "i know now," he said to himself, "who turned the slat--who stood outside my window looking in on me." picking up the withered thing, he, nevertheless, continued his stroll along the balcony until he arrived at the left angle of the house, when he was able to glance down the whole of that side of it, this being as much in the dark and unrelieved by any light from within as the corresponding right side had been. unrelieved, that is, by any light except the gleam of the great stars which here glisten with an incandescent whiteness; and in that gleam he saw sitting on the floor of the balcony--her back against the wall, her arms over her knees and her head sunk on those arms--the half-caste girl, zara, the croupier of the gambling-table to which sebastian had supplied the "bank" that morning at all pines. "you have dropped this flower from your hair," he said, tossing it lightly down to her, while she turned up her dark, dusky eyes at him and, picking up the withered spray, tossed it in her turn contemptuously over the balcony. but she said nothing and, a moment later, let her head droop once more towards her arms. "do you pass the night here?" he said now. "surely it is not wholesome to keep out in open air like this." "i sit here often," she replied, "before going to bed in my room behind. the rooms are too warm. i disturb no one." for a moment he felt disposed to say that it would disturb him if she should again take it into her head to turn his blinds, but, on second considerations, he held his peace. to know a thing and not to divulge one's knowledge is, he reflected, sometimes to possess a secret--a clue--a warning worth having; to possess, indeed, something that may be of use to us in the future if not now, while, for the rest--well! the returning of the spray to her had, doubtless, informed the girl sufficiently that he was acquainted with the fact of how she had been outside his window, and that it was she who had opened his blind wide enough to allow her to peer in on him. "good-night," he said, turning away. "good-night," and without waiting to hear whether she returned the greeting or not, he went back to the bedroom. yet, before he entered it, he bent over the balcony and called down another "good-night" to sebastian, who, he noticed, had now been deserted by madame carmaux. for some considerable time after this he walked about his room; long enough, indeed, to give sebastian the idea that he was preparing for bed, then, although he had removed none of his clothing except his boots, he put out the lamp. "if the young lady is desirous of observing me again," he reflected, "she can do so. yet if she does, it will not be without my knowing it. and if she should pay me another visit--why, we shall see." but, all the same, and because he thought it not at all unlikely that some other visitor than the girl might make her way, not only to the blind itself but even to the room, he laid his right arm along the table so that his fingers were touching the revolver that he had now placed on that table. "i haven't taken countless middle watches for nothing in my time," he said to himself; "another won't hurt me. if i do drop asleep, i imagine i shall wake up pretty easily." he was on the alert now, and not only on the alert as to any one who might be disposed to pay him a nocturnal visit, but, also, mentally wary as to what might be the truth concerning sebastian ritherdon and himself. for, strange to say, there was a singular revulsion of feeling going on in his mind at this time; strange because, at present, scarcely anything of considerable importance, scarcely anything sufficiently tangible, had occurred to produce this new conviction that sebastian's story was untrue, and that the other story told by his uncle before his death was the right one. all the same, the conviction was growing in his mind; growing steadily, although perhaps without any just reason or cause for its growth. meanwhile, his ears now told him that, although madame carmaux was absent when he glanced over the balcony to wish sebastian that last greeting, she undoubtedly had not gone to bed. from below, in the intense stillness of the tropic night--a stillness broken only occasionally by the cry of some bird from the plantation beyond the cultivated gardens, he heard the soft luscious tones of the woman herself--and those who are familiar with the tones of southern women will recall how luscious the murmur can be; he heard, too, the deeper notes of the man. yet what they said to each other in subdued whispers was unintelligible to him; beyond a word here and there nothing reached his ears. with the feeling of conviction growing stronger and stronger in his mind that there was some deception about the whole affair--that, plausible as sebastian's possession of all which the dead man had left behind appeared; plausible, too, as was his undoubted position here and had been from his very earliest days, julian would have given much now to overhear their conversation--a conversation which, he felt certain, in spite of it taking place thirty feet below where he was supposed to be by now asleep, related to his appearance on the scene. would it be possible? could he in any way manage to thus overhear it? if he were nearer to the persianas, his ear close to the slats, his head placed down low, close to the boards of the room and of the balcony as well--what might not be overheard? thinking thus, he resolved to make the attempt, even while he told himself that in no other circumstances would he--a gentleman, a man of honour--resort to such a scheme of prying interference. but--for still the certainty increased in his mind that there was some deceit, some fraud in connection with sebastian ritherdon's possession of desolada and all that desolada represented in value--he did not hesitate now. as once he, with some of his bluejackets, had tracked slavers from the sea for miles inland and into the coast swamps and fever-haunted interior of the great black continent, so now he would track this man's devious and doubtful existence, as, remembering george ritherdon's story, it seemed to him to be. if he had wronged sebastian, if he had formed a false estimate of his possession of this place and of his right to the name he bore, no harm would be done. for then he would go away from honduras for ever, leaving the man in peaceable possession of all that was rightly his. but, if his suspicions were not wrong---- he let himself down to the floor from the chair on which he had been sitting in the dark for now nearly an hour, and, quietly, noiselessly, he progressed along that solid floor--one so well laid in the past that no board either creaked or made any noise--and thus he reached the balcony, there interposing nothing now between him and it but the lowered blind. then when he had arrived there, he heard their voices plainly; heard every word that fell from their lips--the soft murmur of the woman's tones, the deeper, more guttural notes of the man. only--he might as well have been a mile away from where they sat, he might as well have been stone deaf as able to thus easily overhear those words. for sebastian and his companion were speaking in a tongue that was unknown to him; a tongue that, in spite of the spanish surroundings and influences which still linger in all places forming parts of central america, was not spanish. of this language he, like most sailors, knew something; therefore he was aware that it was not that, as well as he was aware that it was not french. perhaps 'twas maya, which he had been told in belize was the native jargon, or carib, which was spoken along the coast. and almost, as he recognised how he was baffled, could he have laughed bitterly at himself. "what a fool i must have been," he thought, "to suppose that if they had any confidences to make to each other, any secrets to talk over in which i was concerned they would discuss them in a language i should be likely to understand." but there are some words, especially those which express names, which cannot be translated into a foreign tongue. among such, ritherdon would be one. julian, too, is another, with only the addition of the letter "o" at the end in spanish (and perhaps also in maya or carib), and george, which, though spelt jorge, has, in speaking, nearly the same pronunciation. and these names met his ear as did others: inglaterra--the name of the woman isobel leigh, whom julian believed to have been his mother, but whom sebastian asserted to have been his; also the name of that fair american city lying to the north of them--new orleans--it being referred to, of course, in the spanish tongue. "so," he thought to himself, "it is of me they are talking. of me--which would not, perhaps, be strange, since a guest so suddenly received into the house and having the name of ritherdon might well furnish food for conversation. but, when coupled with george ritherdon, with new orleans, above all with the name of isobel leigh----" even as that name was in his mind, he heard it again mentioned below by the woman--madame carmaux. mentioned, too, in conjunction with and followed by a light, subdued laugh; a laugh in which his acuteness could hear an undercurrent of bitterness--perhaps of derision. "and she was this woman's relative," he thought, "her relative! yet now she is jeered at, spoken scornfully of by----" in amazement he paused, even while his reflections arrived at this stage. in front of where his eyes were, low down to the floor of the balcony, something dark and sombre passed, then returned and stopped before him, blotting from his eyes all that lay in front of them--the tops of the palms, the woods beyond the garden, the dark sea beyond that. like a pall it rested before his vision, obscuring, blurring everything. and, a moment later, he recognised that it was a woman's dress which thus impeded his view, while, as he did so, he heard some five feet above him a light click made by one of the slats. then, with an upward glance of his eyes, that glance being aided by a noiseless turn of his head, he saw that a finger was holding back the lath, and knew--felt sure--that into the darkness of the room two other eyes were gazing. chapter ix. beatrix. thirty-six hours later julian ritherdon sat among very different surroundings from those of desolada; certainly very different ones from those of his first night in the gloomy, mysterious house owned by that other man who bore his name. he was seated now in a wicker chair placed beneath the cool shadow cast by a vast clump of "shade-trees," as the royal palm, the thatch palm, and, indeed, almost every kind and species of that form of vegetation are denominated. these shade-trees grew in the pretty and luxuriant garden of mr. spranger's house on the southern outskirts of belize, a garden in which, for some years now, beatrix spranger had passed the greater part of her days, and sometimes when the hot simoon was on, as it was now, and the temperature scarcely ever fell below °, a good deal of the early part of her nights. she, too, was seated in that garden now, talking to julian, while between them there lay two or three books and london magazines (three or four months old), a copy of the times of the same ancient date, and another of the belize advertiser fresh from the local press. yet neither the news from london which had long since been published, nor that of the immediate neighbourhood, which was quite new but not particularly exciting, seemed to have been able to secure much of their attention. and this for a reason which was a simple one and easily to be understood. all their attention was at the present moment concentrated on each other. "you cannot think," beatrix spranger was saying now, "what a welcome event the arrival of a stranger is to us here, who regard ourselves more or less as exiles for the time being. moreover," she continued, without any of that false shame which a young lady at home in england might have thought necessary to assume, even though she did not actually feel it, "it seems to me that you are a very interesting person, lieutenant ritherdon. you have dropped down into a place where your name happens to be extremely well known, yet in which no one ever imagined that there was any other ritherdon in existence anywhere, except the late and the present owners of desolada." "people, even exiles, have relatives sometimes in other parts of the world," julian murmured rather languidly--the effect of the heat and the perfume of the flowers in the garden being upon him--"and you know----" "oh! yes," the girl said, with an answering smile. "i do know all that. only i happen to know something else, too. you see we--that is, father and i--are acquainted with your cousin, and we knew his father before him. and it is a rather singular thing that they have always given us to understand that, so far as they were aware, they hadn't a relation in the world." "they had, though, you see, all the same. indeed, they had two until a short time ago; namely, when my father, mr. george ritherdon, was alive." "mr. ritherdon, sebastian's father, hadn't seen him for many years, had he? he didn't often speak of him, and always gave people the idea that his brother was dead. i suppose they had not parted the best of friends?" "no," julian answered quietly, "i don't think they had. as a matter of fact, my--george ritherdon--was almost, indeed quite, as reticent about his brother charles as charles seems to have been about him." then, suddenly changing the subject, he said: "is sebastian popular hereabouts. is he liked?" "no," the girl replied, rather more frankly than julian had expected, while, as she did so, she lifted a pair of beautiful blue eyes to his face. "no, i don't think he is, since you ask me." "why not? you may tell me candidly, miss spranger, especially as you know that to-night i am going to have a rather serious interview with your father, and shall ask him for his advice and assistance on a matter in which i require his counsel." "oh! i don't know quite," the girl said now. "only--only--well! you know--because you have told us that you saw him doing it--he--he--is too fond of play, of gambling. people say--different things. some that he is ruining his brother planters, and others that he is ruining himself. then he has the reputation of being very hard and cruel to some of his servants. you know, we have coolies and negroes and caribs and natives here, and a good many of them are bound to the employers for a term of years--and--and--well--if one feels inclined to be cruel--they can be." as she spoke of this, julian recognised how he had been within an ace of discovering, some time before he reached the inn at all pines, that the late mr. ritherdon had not died without leaving an heir, apparent or presumptive, as he had supposed when he landed at belize. the negro guide on whom he had bestowed so many good-humoured sobriquets had spoken of mr. ritherdon as being a hard and cruel man, both to blacks and whites. but--in his ignorance, which was natural enough--he had supposed that the statement could only have applied to the one owner of desolada of whom he had ever heard--the man lately dead. now, he reflected, he wished he had really understood to whom that negro referred. it might have made a difference in his plans, he thought; might have prevented him from going on farther on the road to all pines and desolada; from meeting this unexpected, unknown of, possessor of what he believed to be his, until those plans had become more matured. until, too, he had had time to decide in what form, if any, he should present himself before the man who was called sebastian ritherdon. however, it was done. he had presented himself and, if he knew anything of human nature, if he could read a character at all, his appearance had caused considerable excitement in the minds of both sebastian ritherdon and madame carmaux. "do _you_ like sebastian?" he asked now, and he could scarcely have explained why he was anxious to hear a denial of any liking for that person on the part of beatrix spranger. it may have been, he thought, because this girl, with her soft english beauty, which the climate of british honduras during some years of residence had--certainly, as yet--had no power to impair, seemed to him far too precious a thing to be wasted on a man such as sebastian was--rough, a gambler, and possessing cruel instincts. "do you think i should like him?" she asked in her turn, and again the eyes which he thought were so beautiful glanced at him from beneath their thick lashes, "after what i have told you of the character he bears? what i have told you, perhaps, far too candidly, saying more than i ought to have done." "do not think that," he made haste to exclaim. "to-night i am going to be even more frank with mr. spranger. i am going to tell him one or two things in connection with my 'cousin,' when i ask him for his assistance and advice, which will make your father at least imagine that i have not formed a very favourable impression of my new-found relative." "and mayn't i be told, too--now?" she asked, thoroughly womanlike. "not yet," he answered, with a smile. "not yet. later--perhaps." "oh!" she exclaimed, with something that might almost be described as a pout. "oh! not even after my candour about your cousin! you _are_ a man of mystery, lieutenant ritherdon. why! you won't even tell us how it happens that you arrived here from desolada with that round your arm," and as she spoke she directed her blue eyes to a sling around his neck in which his arm reposed. "nor that," she added, nodding now towards his forehead, where, on the left side, were affixed two or three pieces of sticking-plaster. "yes," he said, "i will tell you that. i feel, indeed, that i ought to do so, if only as an apology for presenting myself before you in such a guise. you see, it is so easy to explain this, that it is not worth making any mystery about it. it all comes from the fact that i am a sailor, and sailors are proverbial for being very bad riders," and as he spoke he accompanied his words with another smile. but beatrix did not smile in return. instead, she said, half gravely, perhaps almost half severely: "go on. lieutenant ritherdon, if you please. i wish to hear how the accident happened," while she added impressively, "on your journey from desolada to belize." "i'm a bad rider," he said again, but once more meeting her glance, he altered his mode of speech and said: "well, you see, miss spranger, it happened this way. i set out on my journey of inspection, on my road to desolada, on a rather ancient mustang which the worthy landlord of the hotel with a queer spanish name recommended to me as the proper thing to do the journey easily on. later, when i had made sebastian's acquaintance, he rather ridiculed my good rosinante." "did he!" beatrix interjected calmly. "he did, indeed. in fact he said such creatures were scarcely ever used in the colony except for draught purposes. then he said he would mount me on a good horse of spanish breed, such as i believe you use a great deal here; so that when i was returning to belize yesterday to present myself before you and mr. spranger, i should be able to make the journey rapidly and comfortably." "that was very kind of him," beatrix exclaimed. "though, as you did not arrive until nine o'clock at night, you hardly seem to have made it very rapidly, and those things," with again a glance at the sling and the plasters, "are not usually adjuncts to comfort." "well, you see, i'm a sailor and not a good ri----" "go on, please." "yes, certainly. i started under favourable circumstances at six in the morning, receiving, i believe, a kind of blessing or benediction from sebastian and madame carmaux, as well as strong injunctions to return as soon as possible." "people are hospitable in this country," beatrix again interrupted. "we got along very well, anyhow, for a time; at a gentle trot, of course, because already it was getting hot, and as we neared all pines i was just thinking of slowing down to a walk when----" "the creature bolted? was that it?" "as a matter of fact it was. by the way, you seem to know the manners and customs of the animals in this country, miss spranger." "i know that many lives are lost in this country," the girl said gravely now, "owing to unbroken horses being ridden too young horses, too, that are sometimes full of vice. the landlord of the hotel here did you a better service than your cousin." "perhaps this was one of those horses," julian remarked. "but, anyhow, it bolted. then, a little later, it did something else. it stopped dead in a gallop and, after nearly shooting me over its head, it reared upright and did absolutely throw me off it backwards. fortunately, i fell at the side of the road onto a sort of undergrowth full of ferns and interspersed with lovely flowering shrubs; so i got off with what you see. the horse, however, had killed itself. it fell over on its back with a tremendous sort of backward bound and, when i got up and looked at it, it was just dying. later, i came on from all pines in a kind of cart--that is, when i had been bandaged up. perhaps, however, it wouldn't have happened if i had not been such a bad rider and----" "it would have happened," beatrix said, decisively, "if you had been a circus rider or a cowboy. that is, unless you had been well acquainted with the horse, and, even then, it would probably have happened just the same." after this they were silent for a little while, julian availing himself of beatrix's permission to smoke, and she sitting meditatively behind her huge fan. and, although he did not tell her so, julian agreed with her that the accident would probably have happened even though he had been a circus rider or a cowboy, as she had said. chapter x. mr. spranger obtains information. mr. spranger was at home later in the afternoon, his business for the day being done, and in the evening they all sat down to dinner in the now almost cool and airy dining-room of his house. and, at this meal, julian thought that beatrix looked even prettier than she had done in the blue-and-white striped dress worn by her during the day. she had on now one of those dinner jackets which young ladies occasionally assume when not desirous of donning the fullest of evening gowns, and, as he sat there observing the healthy sunburn of her cheeks (which was owing to her living so much in the open air) that contrasted markedly with the whiteness of her throat, he thought she was one of the most lovely girls he had ever seen. which from him, who had met so much beauty in different parts of the world, was a very considerable compliment--if she had but known it. also, if the truth must be told, her piquant shrewdness and vivacity--which she had manifested very considerably during julian's description of the vagaries of the animal lent to him by his cousin--appealed very much to him, so that he could not help reflecting how, should this girl eventually be made acquainted with all the doubts and difficulties which now perplexed him as to his birthright, she might possibly become a very valuable counsellor. "she has ideas about my worthy cousin for some reason," he thought to himself more than once during dinner, "and most certainly she suspects him of--well of not having been very careful about the mount he placed at my disposal. so do i, as a matter of fact--only perhaps it is as well not to say so just at present." moreover, now was not the time to take her into his confidence; the evening was required for something else, namely, the counsel and advice of her father. he had made mr. spranger's acquaintance overnight on his arrival, and, in the morning of the present day, before that gentleman had departed to his counting house in belize, he had asked if he would, in the evening, allow him to have his counsel on some important reasons connected with his appearance in british honduras. whereon, mr. spranger having told him very courteously that any advice or assistance which he could give should be at his service, julian knew that the time had arrived for him to take that gentleman into his confidence. arrived, because now, beatrix, rising from the table, made her way out to the lawn, where, already, a negro servant had placed a lamp on the rustic table by which she always sat; she saying that when they had done their conference they would find her there. "now, my boy," said mr. spranger, who was a hale, jovial englishman, on whom neither climate nor exile had any depressing influence, and who, besides, was delighted to have as his guest a young man who, as well as being a gentleman, could furnish him with some news of that far-off world from which he expected to be separated for still some years. "now, help yourself to some more claret--it is quite sound and wholesome--and let me see what i can do for you." "it will take some time in the telling," julian said. "it is a long story and a strange one." "it may take till midnight, if you choose," the other answered. "we sit up late in this country, so as to profit by the coolest hours of the day." "but--miss spranger. will she not think me very rude to detain you so long?" "no," he replied. "if we do not join her soon, she will understand that our conversation is of importance." it was nearly midnight when julian had concluded the whole of his narrative, he telling mr. spranger everything that had occurred from the time when george ritherdon had unfolded that strange story in his surrey home, until the hour when he himself had arrived at the house in which he now was, with his arm bandaged up and his head dressed. of course there had been interruptions to the flow of the narrative. once they had gone out onto the lawn to bid beatrix good-night and to chat with her for a few moments during which julian had been amply apologetic for preventing her father from joining her, as well as for not doing so himself--and, naturally, mr. spranger had himself interrupted the course of the recital by exclamations of astonishment and with many questions. but that recital was finished now, and still the elder man's bewilderment was extreme. "it is the most extraordinary story i ever heard in my life! a romance. and it seems such a tangled web! how, in heaven's name, can your father's, or uncle's, account be the right one?" "you do not believe his story?" julian asked; "you believe sebastian is, in absolute fact, charles ritherdon's son?" "what am i to believe? just think! that young man has been brought up here ever since he was a baby; there must be hundreds upon hundreds of people who can recollect his birth, twenty-six years ago, his christening, his baptism. and charles ritherdon--whom i knew very well indeed--recognised him, treated him in every way, as his son. he died leaving him his heir. what can stand against that?" "doubtless it is a mystery. yet--yet--in spite of all, i cannot believe that george ritherdon would have invented such a falsehood. remember, mr. spranger, i had known him all my life and knew every side and shade of his character. and--he was dying when he told it all to me. would a man go to his grave fabricating, uttering such a lie as that?" for a moment mr. spranger did not reply, but sat with his eyes turned up towards the ceiling of the room--and with, upon his face, that look which all have seen upon the faces of those who are thinking deeply. then at last he said-- "come, let us understand each other. you have asked my advice, my opinion, as the only man you can consult freely. now, are we to talk frankly--am i to talk without giving offence?" "that is what i want," julian said, "what i desire. i must get to the bottom of this mystery. heaven knows i don't wish to claim another man's property--i have no need for it--there is my profession and some little money left by george ritherdon. on the other hand, i don't desire to think of him as dying with such a deception in his heart. i want to justify him in my eyes." then, because mr. spranger still kept silence, he said again: "pray, pray tell me what you do think. pray be frank. no matter what you say." "no," mr. spranger said now. "no. not yet at least. first let us look at facts. i was not in the colony twenty-six years ago, but of course, i am acquainted with scores of people who were. and those people knew old ritherdon as well as they know me; also they have known sebastian all his life. and, you must remember, there are such things as registers of births, registers kept of baptism, and so forth. what would you say if you saw the register of sebastian's birth, as well as the register of your--of mrs. ritherdon's death?" "what could i say in such circumstances? only--why, then, the attempt to make me break my neck on that horse? why the half-caste girl watching me through the night, and why the conversation which i overheard, the contemptuous laugh of madame carmaux at my mother's--at isobel leigh's name? why all that, coupled with the name of george ritherdon, of myself, of new orleans--where he said he had me baptized when he fled there after kidnapping me?" as julian spoke, as he mentioned the name of new orleans, he saw a light upon mr. spranger's face--that look which comes upon all our faces when something strikes us and, itself, throws a light upon our minds; also he saw a slight start given by the elder man. "what is it?" julian asked, observing both these things. "what?" "new orleans," mr. spranger said now, musingly, contemplatively, with, about him, the manner of one endeavouring to force recollection to come to his aid. "new orleans--and madame carmaux. why do those names--the names of that city--of that woman--connect themselves together in my mind. why?" then suddenly he exclaimed, "i know! i have it! madame carmaux is a new orleans woman." "a new orleans woman!" julian repeated. "a new orleans woman! yet he, sebastian, said when we met--that--that--she was a connection of isobel leigh; 'a relative of my late mother,' were his words. how could she have been a relative of hers, if mr. leigh came out from england to this place bringing with him his english wife and the child that was isobel leigh, as george ritherdon told me he did? also----" "also what?" mr. spranger asked now. "also what? though take time--exert your memory to the utmost. there is something strange in the discrepancy between george ritherdon's statement made in england and sebastian's made here. what else is it that has struck you?" "this. as we rode towards desolada he was telling me that he had never been farther away from honduras than new orleans. then he began to say--i am sure he did--that his mother came from there, but he broke off to modify the statement for another to the effect that she had always desired to visit that city. and when i asked him if his mother came from new orleans, he said: 'oh, no! she was the daughter of mr. leigh, an english merchant at belize.'" "you must have misunderstood him," mr. spranger said; "have misunderstood the first part of his remark at any rate." "perhaps," julian said quietly, "perhaps." but, nevertheless, he felt perfectly sure that he had not done so. then suddenly he said-- "you knew mr. ritherdon of desolada. tell me, do i bear any resemblance to him?" "yes," mr. spranger answered gravely, very gravely. "so much of a resemblance that you might well be his son. as great a resemblance to him as you do in a striking manner to sebastian. you and he might absolutely be brothers. "only," said julian, "such a thing is impossible. mrs. ritherdon did not become the mother of twins, and she died within a day or so of giving her first child birth. she could never have borne another." "that," spranger acquiesced, "is beyond doubt." they prepared to separate now for the night, yet before they did so, his host said a word to julian. "to-morrow," he told him, "when i am in the city, i will speak to one or two people who have known all about the desolada household ever since the place became the property of mr. ritherdon. and, as perhaps you do not know, twenty-five years ago all births along the coast, and far beyond desolada, were registered in belize. now, they are thus registered at all pines--but it is only in later days that such has been the case." and next morning, when mr. spranger had been gone from his home some two or three hours, and julian happened to be sitting alone in beatrix's favourite spot in the garden--she being occupied at the moment with her household duties--a half-caste messenger from the city brought him a letter from mr. spranger, or, rather, a piece of paper, on which was written-- "miriam carmaux's maiden name was gardelle and she came from new orleans. she married carmaux in despair, after, it is said, being jilted by charles ritherdon (who had once been in love with her). her marriage took place about the same time as mr. ritherdon's with miss leigh, but her husband was killed by a snake bite a few months afterwards. sebastian's birth was registered here by mr. ritherdon, of desolada, as taking place on the th of september, , he being described as the child of 'charles ritherdon, of desolada, and isobel his wife, now dead.' "her death is also registered as taking place on the th of september, ." "sebastian's birth registered as taking place on the th of september, !" julian exclaimed, as the paper fell from his hand. "the th of september, ! the very day that has always been kept in england as my birthday. the very day on which i am entered in the admiralty books as being born in honduras!" chapter xi. a visit of condolence. the remainder of that day was passed by julian in the society of beatrix--since mr. spranger never came back to his establishment--which was called "floresta"--until he returned for good in the evening; the summer noontide heat causing a drive to and from belize for lunch to be a journey too full of discomfort to be worth undertaking. therefore, this young man and woman were drawn into a companionship so close that, ere long, it seemed to each of them that they had been acquainted for a considerable time, while to beatrix it began to appear that when once lieutenant ritherdon should have taken his departure, the cool shady garden of her abode would prove a vastly more desolate place than it had ever done before. but, while these somewhat dreary meditations occupied her thoughts, julian was himself revolving in his own mind a determination to which he had almost, if not quite, arrived at as yet--a determination that she should be made a confidante of what engrossed now the greater part of his reflections, i.e., the mystery which surrounded both his own birth and that of sebastian ritherdon. the greater part, but not the whole of these reflections! because he soon observed that one other form--a form far different from the handsome but somewhat rough and saturnine figure and personality of his cousin sebastian--was ever present in his mind and, if not absolutely present before his actual eyes, was never absent from his thoughts. that form was the tall, graceful figure of beatrix, surmounted by the shapely head and beautiful features of the girl; the head crowned by masses of fair curling hair, from beneath which those calm and clear blue eyes gazed out through the thick and somewhat darker lashes. "i must do it," he was musing to himself now, as they sat in the shade when the light luncheon was over, and while around them were all the languorous accompaniments of a tropic summer day, with, also, the cloying, balmy odours of the tropic summer atmosphere; "i must do it, must take her into my confidence, obtain her opinion as well as her father's. she can see as far as any one, as she showed plainly enough by her manner when i told her about my ride on that confounded horse. she might in this case perhaps, see something, divine something of that which at present is hidden from her father and from me." yet, although he had by now arrived at the determination to impart to her all that now so agitated him, he also resolved that he would not do so until he had taken her father's opinion on the subject. "he will not refuse, i imagine," he thought to himself. "why should he? especially when i represent to him that, by excluding her from the various confidences which he and i must exchange on the matter--since he has evidently thrown himself heart and soul into unravelling the mystery--we shall also be dooming her to a great many hours of dulness and lack of companionship." but this, perhaps, savoured a little of sophistry--although probably imperceptibly so to himself--since it must be undoubted that he also recognised how great a lack of her companionship he was likewise dooming himself to if she was not allowed to participate in their conversation on the all important subject. young people are, however, sometimes more or less of sophists, especially those who, independently of all other concerns of importance, are experiencing a certain attractiveness that is being exercised by members of the other sex into whose companionship they are much thrown by chance. the day drew on; above them the heat--that subtle tropical heat which has been justly compared with the atmosphere of a turkish bath or the engine room of a steamer--was exerting its full and irresistible power on all and everything that was subject to its influence. even the yellow-headed parrots had now ceased their chattering and clacking; while beatrix's pet monkey, whose home was on the lower branches of a huge thatch-palm, presented a mournful appearance of senile exhaustion, as it sat with its head bowed on its breast and its now drawn-down, wizened features a picture of absolute but resigned despair. and even those two human beings, each ordinarily so full of life and youth and vigour, appeared as if--despite all laws of good breeding to the effect that friends and acquaintances should not go to sleep in each other's presence--they were about to yield to the atmospheric influence. julian knew that he was nodding, even while, as he glanced to where beatrix's great fan had now ceased to sway, he was still wide awake enough to suspect that his were not the only eyes that were struggling to keep open. as thus all things human and animal succumbed, or almost succumbed, to the dead, unruffled atmosphere, and while, too, the scarlet flowers of the flamboyants and the lilac-coloured blossoms of the oleanders drooped, across the lawn so carefully sown, with english grass seeds every spring and mowed and watered regularly, there fell a heavy footstep on the ears of beatrix and julian--footsteps proclaimed clearly by the jingle of spurs, if in no other way. and, a moment later, a sonorous voice was heard, expressing regret for thus disturbing so grateful a siesta and for intruding at all. "good afternoon, mr. ritherdon," julian said, somewhat coldly, as now sebastian came close to them; while beatrix--her face as calm as though no drowsiness had come near her since the past night--greeted him with a civility that might almost have been termed glacial, and was, undoubtedly, distant. "i suppose you have heard of my little adventure on the horse you so kindly exchanged for my mustang?" "it is for that that i am here," the other answered, dropping into a basket-chair towards which beatrix coldly waved her hand. "i cannot tell you what my feelings, my remorse, were on hearing what had befallen you. good heavens! think--just think--how i should have felt if any real, any serious accident had befallen you! yet, it was not my fault." "no?" asked julian. "no? did you not know the animal's peculiarities, then?" "of course. naturally. but, owing to the carelessness of one of the stable hands, you were given the wrong one. i can tell you that that fellow has had the best welting he ever had in his life and has been sent off the estate. you won't see him there when you return to me." "no," thought beatrix to herself, "he won't. and what's more he never would have seen him, unless he has the power of creating imaginary people out of those who have no actual existence." while, although her lips did not move, there was in her eyes a look--conveyed by a hasty glance towards julian, which told him as plainly as words could have done, what her thoughts were. "we had bought a new draft of horses," sebastian went on, "and by a mistake this one--the one on which you rode--got into the wrong stall, the stall properly belonging to the animal you ought to have had. heavens!" he exclaimed again, "when i heard that it had been found lying dead near all pines and that you had been attended to there--your injuries being exaggerated, i am thankful to see--i thought i should have gone mad. you, my guest, my cousin, to be treated thus." "it doesn't matter. only, when i come to see you, i hope your stableman will be more careful." as he spoke of returning to desolada once more, the other man's face lit up with a look of pleasure in the same manner that it had done on a previous occasion. any one regarding him now would have said that there was a generous, hospitable host, to whom no greater satisfaction could be afforded than to hear that his invitations were sought after and acceptable. he did not deceive either of his listeners, however; not julian, who now had reason to suspect many things in connection with this man's existence and possession of desolada; nor beatrix who, without knowing what julian knew, had always disliked sebastian and, since the affair of the horse, had formed the most unfavourable opinions concerning his good faith. probably, however, sebastian, who also had good reasons for doubting whether either of them was likely to believe his explanations, scarcely expected that they should be deceived. he expressed, nevertheless, the greatest, indeed the most vivid, satisfaction at julian's words, and exclaimed, "ah! when next you come to see me? that is it--what i desire. you shall be well treated, i can assure you--the honoured relative, and all that kind of thing. now fix the date, mr. rither--cousin julian." the poets and balladmongers (also the lady novelists) have told us so frequently that there is no possibility of our ever forgetting it, that there exists, such a thing as the language of the eyes, while, to confirm their statements, we most of us have our own special knowledge on the subject. and that language was now being used with considerable vehemence by beatrix as a means of conveying her thoughts to julian, her sweet blue eyes signalling clearly to him a message which she took care should be unseen by sebastian. a message that, if put into words, would have said: "don't go! don't go!" or, "don't fix a date." but--although julian understood perfectly that language--it was not his cue to act upon it at the present moment. beatrix did not know all yet, though he was determined she should do so that very night; and, also, he had already resolved that he would once more become an inmate of desolada. there, if anywhere, he believed that some proof might be found, some circumstances discovered to throw a light upon what he believed to be a strange reversal of the proper state of things that ought to actually exist; in short, he was determined to accept sebastian's invitation. purposely avoiding beatrix's glance, therefore, while meaning to explain his reason for doing so later on, when they should be alone, he said now to his cousin-- "you are very good, and, of course, i shall be delighted to come back and stay with you. as to the date, well! mr. and miss spranger are so kind and hospitable that you must let me avail myself of their welcome for a little longer. i suppose a day need not be actually fixed just now?" "why, no, my dear fellow," sebastian exclaimed, with that almost boisterous cordiality which he had unfailingly evinced since they had first met, and which might be either real or assumed. "why, no, of course not. indeed, there is no need to fix any date at all. there is the house and everything in it, and there am i. come when you like and you will find a welcome, rough as it must needs be in this country, but at any rate sincere." after which there was nothing more for julian to do than to mutter courteous thanks for such proffered hospitality and to promise that, ere long, he would again become a guest at desolada. they walked with sebastian now to the stable, where his horse was awaiting him, beatrix proffering refreshment--to omit which courtesy to a visitor would have been contrary to all the established, though unwritten, laws of honduras, as well as, one may say, of most colonies--but sebastian, refusing this, rode off to belize, where he said he had business. and julian could not help wondering to himself if that business could possibly have any connection with the same affairs which had brought him out from england. "you either didn't see my signals, or misunderstood them," beatrix said, as now they returned once more to the coolness of the garden. "pardon me," julian replied, "i did. only, it is necessary--absolutely necessary, i think--that i should pay another visit to my cousin's house. to-night your father and i are going to invite your opinion on a matter between sebastian and me. then i think you will also agree that it is necessary for me to return to desolada." "i may do so," beatrix said, "but all the same i don't like the idea of your being an inhabitant of that place--of your being under his roof again." chapter xii. the reminiscences of a french gentleman. a week later julian was once more on his way towards desolada, and upon a journey which he was fully determined should either result in satisfying him that sebastian did not properly occupy the position which he now held openly in the eyes of the whole colony, or should be his last one. he did not 'come to this decision without much anxious consideration being given to the subject by himself, by mr. spranger, and by beatrix--who had been taken into the confidence of the others on the evening following sebastian's visit to "floresta." nor had he arrived at the decision to again become his cousin's guest without taking their opinions on that subject as well. and the result was--when briefly stated--that he was on his road once more. now, as he rode along a second time on the mule (which had been returned to its owner by a servant from desolada), because it was at least a safe and trusty animal although not speedy--such a qualification being, indeed, unnecessary, in a country where few people ride swiftly because of the heat--he was musing deeply on all that the past weeks had brought forth. "first," he reflected, "it has done one thing which was not to be expected, and may or may not have a bearing on what i am in this place for. it has caused me to fall over head and ears in love. some people would say, 'that's good.' others that it is bad, since it might distract my attention from more serious matters. so it would be bad, for me, if she doesn't feel the same way. i suppose i shall have courage to tell her all about it some day, but at present i'm sure i couldn't do it. and, anyhow, we will first of all see who and what i am. as the owner of desolada i should be a more suitable match than as a lieutenant of five years' seniority with a few thousand pounds in various colonial securities." whereupon, since the animal had by now reached the knoll where he had halted with his guide for luncheon upon the occasion of his former journey along the same road, he dismounted and, drawing out of his haversack a packet of sandwiches prepared for him by beatrix's cook, commenced, while eating them to reconsider all that had taken place during the past week. what had taken place needs, indeed, to be set down here, since the passage of the last few days had brought to light more than one discrepancy in connection not only with sebastian's first statements to julian, but also with his possession of all that the late mr. ritherdon had left him the sole possessor of. mr. spranger had brought home with him to dinner, on the night following that when beatrix had been informed of the strange variance between the statement made by george ritherdon in england, and the recognised position held by sebastian in british honduras, an elderly gentleman who filled a position in one of the principal schools established by the government and in receipt of government aid, in the city; while, before doing so, he had suggested to julian that he should keep his ears open but say as little as possible. to his daughter he had also made the same suggestion, which was, as a matter of fact, unnecessary, since that young lady had now thrown herself heart and soul into the unravelling of a mystery which she said was more interesting than the plot of any novel she had read for many a long day. also, it need scarcely be said to which side her opinions inclined, or in which quarter her sympathies were enlisted. julian had wondered later, as he ate his lunch on the knoll, whether the affection which had sprung up in his heart for this girl was ever likely to be returned; but, had he been able to peer closely into that mystical receptacle of conglomerate feelings--a woman's heart--his wonderment might, perhaps, have ceased to exist. with considerable skill, mr. spranger led the conversation at dinner to the old residents in the colony and, at last, by more or less devious ways, to the various personages who at one time or another had been inhabitants of desolada. then, when he and his guest were, to use a hunting metaphor, in full cry over a fine open country, he casually remarked that, among others, madame carmaux had herself held a considerable place of trust in the establishment for a great many years. "yes, yes," said the old gentleman, who was himself a french-american from florida, "yes, a long time. miriam carmaux! ha! miriam carmaux--miriam gardelle as she was when she arrived here from new orleans and sought a place as governess. a beautiful girl then; oh! my faith, she was beautiful." "did she get a place as governess?" mr. spranger asked, filling monsieur lemaire's glass. "well, you see, she did and she did not. she got lessons in families, but no posts, no. no posts. then, of course, she married poor carmaux. oh! these snakes--ah! _mon dieu_, that coral-snake, and the tommy-goff--there are dreadful creatures for you! it was a tommy-goff that killed poor jules carmaux." "was it, though? and what was poor carmaux?" "ah!" said monsieur lemaire, shaking his head most mournfully, "he was not a solid man, not steady. oh! no, not at all steady. carmaux loved pleasure too much: all kinds of pleasure. he loved cards, and--and--excuse me, miss spranger--but he loved this also," while as he spoke the old gentleman shook his head reprovingly at the claret jugs. "also he loved sport--shooting the curassow, hunting the raccoon and the jaguar--ah! he did not love work. oh, no! work and he were never the best of friends. then the tommy-goff killed him in the woods." "perhaps," remarked beatrix with one of her bright smiles, "as a punishment for his not loving work." "but," said mr. spranger, "he must have been a poor husband for that young lady, mademoiselle gardelle, as she was then. if he would not work, how did he support a wife?" "ah!" said monsieur lemaire with a very emphatic shake of his head now, so that beatrix wondered he did not get quite warm over the exertion, "ah! they did say that he thought she might earn the money to support him." and still he wagged his head. "i wonder," exclaimed julian, who had been listening to all this with considerable interest, "that she should have married him. he seems to have been a useless sort of man." "ah! ah! there were reasons, very sad reasons. you see, she had been in love with another man. ah! _mon dieu_, these love affairs. another man, mr. ritherdon, was supposed to have been the object of her affections." "dear! dear," said mr. spranger. "yes. only--" and now monsieur lemaire made a sort of apologetic, old-court-life-in-france style of bow to beatrix, as though beseeching pardon for the errors of his own sex--sinking his voice, too, to a kind of pleading one, as well as one reprobating the late mr. ritherdon's conduct--"only he jilted her." "good gracious!" exclaimed the girl, feeling it necessary to say something in return for the old frenchman's politeness, while, as a matter of fact, she had heard the story from her father only a night or so before. "good gracious!" "ah! yes. ah! yes," lemaire continued. "it was so indeed. indeed it was. then, they do say----" and now he sank his voice so much that he might have been reciting the history of some most awful and soul-stirring greek tragedy, "they do say that in her rage and despair she flung herself away on carmaux. but the tommy-goff killed him after he trod on it in the woods--and, so, she was free." then his voice rose crescendo, as though the mention of the tragedy being concluded, a lighter tone was permissible. "take some more claret," said mr. spranger; "help yourself." while as the old gentleman did so, he continued-- "but how in such circumstances did she become a resident in mr. ritherdon's house? one would have thought that was the last place she would be found in next." "ah!" said monsieur lemaire, "then the woman's heart, the heart of all good women"--and he bowed solemnly now to beatrix--"exerted its sway. she was bereft, even the little girl, the poor little daughter that had been born to her after carmaux's death--when the tommy-goff killed him--was dead and buried----" "so she had had a daughter?" said mr. spranger. "poor woman, yes. but what--what was i saying. the good woman's heart prompted her, and, smothering her own griefs, forgetting her own wrongs, knowing the stupendous misery which had fallen on the man who had jilted her through the loss of his wife, she went to him and offered to look after the poor little motherless sebastian; to be a guide and nurse to it. ah! a noble woman was miriam carmaux, a woman who buried her own griefs in assuaging those of others." "she went to desolada," julian said, "after mrs. ritherdon's death? she did that? after mrs. ritherdon's death?" "_si_. after her death. soon. very soon. as soon as her own sorrows, her own loss, were more or less softened." that night, when monsieur lemaire had been driven back into the city in mr. spranger's buggy, the latter gentleman, his daughter and julian, sat out on the lawn, inhaling the cool breeze which comes up from the sea at sunset as well as watching the fireflies dancing. all were quite silent now, for all were occupied with their own thoughts: julian in reflecting on what monsieur lemaire had said; beatrix in wondering whether george ritherdon's dying disclosures could possibly have been true; mr. spranger in feeling positive that they were false. everything, he told himself, or almost everything, pointed to such being the case. the registration of sebastian's birth by the late mr. ritherdon; the acknowledgment of the young man during all the dead man's remaining years as his heir: the knowledge which countless people possessed in the colony of sebastian's whole life having been passed at desolada! and against this, what set-off was there? only the falsehood--for such it must have been--told by sebastian to the effect that miriam carmaux was his mother's relative, which, since she was a french creole, was impossible. nothing much more than that; nothing tangible. as for the slip made by him to julian, the words, "my mother ca--i mean my mother always wanted to go there and see it," (new orleans being the place referred to) well, there was nothing in that. it was a slip any one might easily have made. and no living soul in british honduras had ever heard a whisper of any stolen child. surely that was enough to settle all doubt. then, breaking in upon the silence around, he and his daughter heard julian saying: "if monsieur lemaire's facts are accurate, sebastian made another misstatement to me. he said that madame carmaux had been at desolada for many years, _even before his mother died_. that could not have been so." "and," said beatrix, emerging now from the silence which she had preserved so long, "it was perhaps with reference to that subject that he had uttered the words which you overheard, to the effect that you must know something, but that knowledge was not always proof." "all the same," said mr. spranger now, "it is a blank wall, a wall against which you will push in vain, i fear. honestly, i see no outlet." "nor i," answered julian, "yet all the same i mean to try and find one. at present i am groping in the dark; perhaps the light will come some day." "i cannot believe it," mr. spranger said, "much as i might like to do so. if--if charles ritherdon's child had been stolen from its father's house how could it be that, in so small a place as this, the thing would never have been heard of? and if it was stolen, if you were stolen, how could another, a substitute, take your place?" "heaven only knows," julian replied. "it is to find out this that i am going back to desolada," while as he spoke, he saw again on beatrix's face the look of dissent to that proposed journey which, a day or two before, she had signalled to him through her eyes. so--determinate, resolved to fathom the mystery, if mystery there were; refusing, too, to believe that george ritherdon's story could have been one huge fabrication, one hideous falsehood from beginning to end, and that a fabrication, a falsehood, which must ere long be disproved, directly it was challenged--he did set out and was by now drawing near the end of his journey. "only," said beatrix to him on the morning of his departure, "i do so wish you would let me persuade you not to go. i dread----" "what?" "oh!" she said, raising her hands to her hair with a bewildered movement--a movement that perhaps expressed regret as to the destination for which he was about to depart. "i do not know. yet--still--i fear. sebastian ritherdon is cruel;--fierce--if--if--he thought you were about to cross his path--if--he knows anything that you do not know, then i dread what the end may be. and, i shall think always of that half-caste girl--peering in--glaring into your room, with perhaps, if she is a creature, a tool of his, murder in her heart." "fear nothing, i beseech you," he said deeply moved at her sympathy. "i can be very firm--very resolute--when occasion needs. fear nothing." chapter xiii. a change of apartments. a boisterous welcome from sebastian, a cordial grasp of the hand, accompanied by a smile from the dark eyes of madame carmaux (which latter would have appeared more sincere to julian had the corners of the mouth been less drawn down and the eyelids closed a little less, while the eyes behind those lids glittering with a light that seemed to him unnatural), did not, to use a metaphor, throw any dust in his own eyes. for long reflection on everything that had occurred since first george ritherdon had made his statement in the surrey home until now, when julian stood once more in the house in which he believed himself to have been born, had only served to produce in his mind one conviction--the firm conviction that george ritherdon was his uncle and had spoken the truth; that sebastian was--in spite of all evidence seeming to point in a totally different direction--occupying a position which was not rightly his. a belief that, before long, he was resolved at all hazards to himself to justify and disprove once and for all. the hilarious welcome on the part of sebastian did not deceive him, therefore; the greeting of madame carmaux was, he felt, insincere. and feeling thus he knew that in the latter was one against whom he would have to be doubly on his guard. and on his guard, against both the man and the woman, he commenced to be from the moment when he once more entered the precincts of desolada. that night at dinner, which was here called supper, but which only varied from the former meal in name, he observed a most palpable desire on the part of both his hosts to extract from him all that he had done while staying with the sprangers--as well as an even stronger desire to discover into what society he might have been introduced, or what acquaintances he might happen to have made. "i made one acquaintance," he replied to madame carmaux, who was by far the most pertinacious in her inquiries, "the hearing about whom may interest you considerably. a gentleman who knew you long ago." "indeed!" she said, "and who might that be?" she asked the question lightly, almost indifferently, yet--unless the flicker of the lamp in the middle of the table was playing tricks with his vision--there came suddenly a look of nervousness, of apprehension, upon her face. a look controlled yet not altogether to be subdued. "it was monsieur lemaire," he replied, "the professor of modern languages at the victoria college. he said he knew you very well once, before your marriage." "yes," she replied, "he did," and now he saw that, whatever nervousness she might be experiencing, she was exerting a strong power of suppression of any visible outward sign of her feelings. "monsieur lemaire was very good to me. he enabled me to find employment as a teacher in various houses. what did he tell you besides?" "he mentioned the sad ending to your marriage. also the death of your little---- excuse me," he broke off, "but you have upset your glass. allow me," and from where he sat he bent forward, and with his napkin sopped up the spilt water which had been in that glass. "it was very clumsy," she muttered. "my loose sleeves are always knocking things over. thank you. but what was it you said he mentioned? the death of my----" "little daughter," julian replied softly, feeling sorry--and indeed, annoyed with himself--at what he now considered a lack of delicacy and consideration. a lack of feeling, because he thought it very possible that, even after a long lapse of time, this poor widowed woman might still lament bitterly the death of her little child. "ah! yes," she said, though why now her face should brighten considerably he did not understand. "ah! yes. poor little thing, it did not live long, only a very little while. poor little baby!" looking still under the lamp and feeling still a little disconcerted at the reflection that he had quite unintentionally recalled unhappy recollections to madame carmaux, he saw that sebastian was also regarding her with a strange, almost bewildered look in his eyes. what that look meant, julian was not sufficiently a judge of expression to fathom; yet, had he been compelled there and then to describe what feeling that glance most suggested to him, he would probably have termed it one of surprise. surprise, perhaps, that madame carmaux should have been so emotional as to exhibit such tenderness at the recollection being brought to her mind of her little infant daughter, dead twenty-five years ago and almost at the hour of its birth. no more was said, however, on the subject and an adjournment was made directly the meal was over to the veranda, that place on which in british honduras almost all people pass the hours of the evening; none staying indoors more than is absolutely necessary. and here their conversation became of the most ordinary kind for some time, its commonplace nature only being varied occasionally by divers questions put to julian by both sebastian and madame carmaux as to what george ritherdon's existence had been since he quitted honduras to return to england. "it was a quiet enough one," replied julian, carefully weighing every word he uttered and forcing himself to be on his guard over every sentence. "quiet enough. he took to england some capital from this part of the world, as i have always understood, and he was enabled to make a sufficient living by the use of it to provide for us both. he was never rich, yet since his desires were not inordinate, we did well enough. at any rate, he was able to place me in the only calling i was particularly desirous of following, without depriving himself of anything." "and he left money behind?" madame carmaux asked, while, even as she did so, julian could not but observe that her manner was listless and absent, as well as to perceive that she only threw in a remark now and again with a view of appearing to be interested in the conversation. "yes," he replied, "he left money behind him. not much; some few thousand pounds fairly well invested. enough, anyhow, for a sailor who, at the worst, can live on his pay." "all the same," sebastian said, "a few thousand pounds is a mighty good thing to have handy. i wish i had a few." "you!" exclaimed julian, looking at him in surprise. "why! i should have thought you had any amount. this is a big property, even for the colonies, and mr. ritherdon--your father--has left the reputation behind him in belize of being one of the richest planters in the place." "ay," said sebastian, "rich in produce, stores, cattle, and so forth, but no money. no ready money. not sufficient to work a large place like this. why, look here, julian, as a matter of fact, you and i are each other's heirs, yet i expect i'd sooner come in for your few thousands than you would for desolada. one can do a lot with a few thousands. i wish i had some." "didn't your father leave any ready money, then?" julian asked. "oh, yes! he did. but it's all sunk in the place already." such a conversation as this would, in ordinary circumstances, have been one of no importance and certainly not worth recording, had it not--short as it was--furnished julian with some further food for reflections. and among other shapes which those reflections took, one was that he did not believe that all the money which mr. ritherdon was stated to have died possessed of had been sunk in the estate. he, the late mr. ritherdon, had been able to put by money out of the products of that estate--it scarcely stood to reason, therefore, that his successor would have instantly invested all that money in it. wherefore julian at once came to the conclusion that if it was really gone--vanished--it had done so in sebastian's gambling transactions. then, as to their being each other's heirs! well, that view had never occurred to him--certainly it had never occurred to him that by any chance sebastian could be his heir. yet, if sebastian was in truth charles ritherdon's son and he, julian, was absolutely george ritherdon's son, such was the case. and, if anything should happen to him while staying here at desolada, where he had announced himself plainly as the son of george ritherdon, he could scarcely doubt that sebastian would put in a claim as that heir. if anything should happen to him! well! it might! one could never tell. it might! especially as, when sebastian had uttered those words, he had seen a flash from madame carmaux's eyes and had observed a light spring into them which told plainly enough that she had never regarded matters in that aspect before; that this new view of the state of things had startled her. if anything should happen to him! well, to prevent anything doing so he must be doubly careful of himself. that was all. the evening--like most evenings spent in the tropics and away from the garish amusements and gaieties of tropical towns--was passed more or less monotonously, it being got through by scraps of conversation, by two or three cooling drinks being partaken of by julian and sebastian, and by madame carmaux in falling asleep in her chair. though, julian thought, her slumbers could neither have been very sound nor refreshing, seeing that, whenever he chanced to turn his eyes towards her, he observed how hers were open and fixed on him, though shut immediately that she perceived he had noticed that they were unclosed. "come," exclaimed sebastian now, springing from out of his chair with as much alacrity as is ever testified in the tropics, while as he did so madame carmaux became wide-awake in the most perfect manner. "come, this won't do. early to bed you know--and all the rest of it. we practise that good old motto here." "i thought you practised stopping up rather late when i was here last," julian remarked quietly. "as i told you, i heard your voices and saw you sitting in the balcony long after i had turned in." "but to-night we must be off to bed early," sebastian replied. "i have to start for belize to-morrow in good time, as i remarked to you at supper, and you are going to take a gun and try for some shooting in the cockscomb mountains. early to bed, my boy, early, and, also, an early breakfast." after which julian and madame carmaux made their adieux to each other for the night, while sebastian, as he had done before, escorted his cousin up the vast stairs to his room. this room was, however, a different one from that occupied previously by julian, it being on the other side of the house and looking towards those cockscomb mountains which, gun in hand, he was to explore on the morrow. "it is a better room," said sebastian, "than the other, as you see; although not so large. and the sun will not bother you here in the morning, nor will our chatter on the balcony beneath or inside the room do so either. good night, sleep well. to-morrow, breakfast at six." "good-night," replied julian as he entered the room, and, after sebastian was out of earshot (as he calculated), turned the key in the lock. then, as he sat himself down in his chair, after again producing his revolver and placing it by his side, he thought to himself: "yes! he spoke truly. their conversation below will not disturb me, nor will there be any chance of my overhearing it. all right, sebastian, you understand the old proverb about one for me and two for yourself. but you have for gotten a little fact, namely, that a sailor can move about almost as lightly as a cat when he chooses, and, if i think you and your respected housekeeper have anything to say that it will be worth my while to hear--why, i shall be a cat for the time being." chapter xiv. "this land is full of snakes." the truth was, as the reader is by now very well aware, that julian no more believed in either sebastian's lawful possession of desolada or in his being the son of charles ritherdon, than he believed that george ritherdon had concocted the whole of that story which he narrated ere his death. "for," said the young man to himself, "if it were true, his manner and her manner--that of the superb madame carmaux--would not be what they are. 'think it out,' our old naval instructor in the brit, used to say, 'analyze, compare, exercise the few brains heaven has mercifully given you.' well, i will--or, rather, i have." and he had done so. he had thought it all over and over again--sebastian's manner, madame carmaux's manner, sebastian's slight inaccuracies of statement, madame carmaux's pretence of being asleep when she was awake, and her strange side-glances at him when she thought he was not observing her. "i played _hamlet_ once at an amateur show in the leviathan," he mused. "it was an awful performance, and, if it had been for more than one act, i should undoubtedly have been hissed out of the ship. all the same it taught me something. what was it the poor chap said? 'i'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pounds.' well, i'll take my uncle's word--for uncle he was and he was telling the truth--for a thousand pounds, too. only, how to prove it? that is the question--which, by-the-bye, hamlet also remarked." that was indeed the question. how to prove it! "that fellow is no more charles ritherdon's son than i'm a soldier," he went on, "and i _am_ the son. that i'm sure of! everything, every fresh look on their faces, every word they say, convinces me only the more certainly. even this shifting of the room i am to occupy: why, lord bless me! does he think i'm a fool? yet, all the same, i don't see how it is to be proved. confound them! some one played a trick on charles ritherdon after george had stolen me--for steal me he did--some trick or other. and she, this madame carmaux was in it. only why--why--_why?_" he clenched his hands in front of his forehead, as he recalled now mr. spranger's words: "it is a blank wall against which you will push in vain." almost, indeed, he began to fear that such was the case; that never would he throw down that wall which rose an adamantine object between him and his belief. yet, even as he did so, he recollected that he was an englishman and a sailor; that, consequently, he must be resolved not to be beaten. only, how was it to be accomplished; how was the defeat to be avoided? as he arrived at this determination he heard, outside on the veranda, a sound which he had heard more than once on his first visit, and when he slept on the other side of the mansion. a sound, light, stealthy--such a one as if some soft-footed creature, a cat, perhaps, was creeping gently in the night along the balcony. creeping nearer to his window in front of which, as had been the case before, the venetian blind was lowered. then he resolved that, this time, his strange visitant should know that he had discovered the spying to which he was again to be subjected. in a moment he feigned sleep as he sat by the table on which stood the lamp--casting out a considerable volume of light--while, as he did so, he let his outstretched hands and fingers cover the revolver. and still the weird, soft scraping of those catlike feet came nearer; he knew that his ghost-like visitor was close to the open window. he heard also, though it was the faintest click in the world, the slat or lath turning the least little bit, he knew that now those eyes that had gleamed into the other and darkened room were gleaming in at him in this one. then, suddenly, he opened his own eyes as wide as he could, while with his outstretched hand he now raised the revolver and pointed it at the little dusky figure that he could see was holding the slat back, while he said in a voice, low but perfectly clear in the silence of the night: "don't move. stop where you are--there--outside that blind till i come to you. if you do move i will scatter your brains on the floor of the veranda!" and as he rose and went towards the persianas he could see that his instructions were--through fear--obeyed. the eyes, now white, horrible, almost chalky in their glare of fright, instead of being dusky as he had once seen them, stared with a hideous expression of terror into the room. also, the brown finger which was crooked over the blind-slat trembled. he pulled the persianas up with his left hand, still keeping his right hand extended with the revolver in it (of course only with the intention of frightening the girl into making no attempt to fly); then, when he had fastened the pulley he took her unceremoniously by the upper part of the arm and led her into the room. "now, mademoiselle zara, as i understand your name to be, kindly give me an explanation of why, whenever i am in my room in this house, you honour me with these attentions. my manly beauty can be observed at any time in the daylight much better than at night, and----" "don't tell him," the girl whispered, and he felt as he still held her arm that she was trembling, while, also, he saw that she was deathly pale, her usual coffee-and-milk complexion being more of the latter than the former now. "oh, don't tell him!" "don't tell whom?" he asked astonished. astonished at first, since he had deemed her an emissary of his host, sent to pry in on him for some reason best known to both of them. then, he reflected, this was only some ruse hatched in her scheming, half-indian brain, whereby to escape from his clutches; upon which he said: "now, look here. no lies. what do you come peeping and prying in on me for in the middle of the night. perhaps you're not aware that i saw you do so the last time i was here." "i came to see," she said inconsequently, "if you were comfortable; i am a servant----" but now julian laughed so loudly at this ridiculous statement that the girl in hasty terror--and if it was assumed, she must be a good actress, he thought--put up her hand as though she intended to clap it over his mouth. "oh!" she whispered, "don't! don't! he will hear you--or _she_ will----" "well, what if they do! i suppose they know you are here just as much as i do. come," he continued, "come, don't look so frightened, i'm not going to shoot you or harm you in any way. though, mind you, my dark beauty, you might have got shot if you had timed your visit at a later hour and startled me out of a heavy slumber, or if i had seen those eyes looking in on me in the dead of night however, out with the explanation. quick." for a moment the girl paused as though thinking deeply, then she looked up at him with all the deep tropical glow once more in her sombre eyes, and said: "i won't tell you. no. but----" "but what?" "i--will you believe what i say?" "perhaps. that depends. i might, if it sounded likely." "listen, then. i don't come here to do you any harm. my visits won't hurt you. only--only--this is a dangerous house in more ways than one. it is a very old one--strange things happen sometimes in it. how," she said, and now her voice which had been sunk to a whisper became even lower, "how would you like to die in it?" perhaps the slow mysterious tones of that voice--the something weird and wizard in the elf-like appearance of this dusky girl who was, in truth, beautiful with that beauty often found in the half-caste indian--was what caused julian to feel a sort of creepiness to come over him in spite of the warm, bath-like temperature of the night. "neither in this house nor elsewhere, just at present," he remarked, steadying his nerves. "but," he continued, "i don't suppose there is much likelihood of that. who is going to cause me to die?" for answer the girl cast those marvellous orbs of hers all around the room, taking, meanwhile, as she did so, the mosquito curtains in her hands and shaking them with a swish away from the floor on which they drooped in festoons; she looking also behind the bedposts and in other places. "no one--to-night," she said, "but--but--if i may not come here again, if you will not let me, then do this always. and--perhaps--some night you will know." after which she moved off towards the window, her lithe, graceful figure seeming to glide without the assistance of any movement from her feet towards the open space; and made as though she meant to retire. yet, as she stood within the framework of that window, she turned and looked back at him, her finger slightly raised as though impressing silence. then she stepped outside on to the boards of the veranda and peered over the front of it down towards the garden from which, now, there rose the countless perfumes exhaled by the caribbean wealth of flowers. also, she crept along to either side of the window, glancing to right and left of her until, at that moment, borne on the soft night breeze, there came from the front of the house, a harsh, strident, and contemptuous laugh--the laugh of sebastian ritherdon. when, seemingly reassured by this, she returned again towards the open window and said: "you go to-morrow to the cockscomb mountains shooting. yet, when there, be careful. danger is there, too. this land is full of snakes, the coral snake--which kills instantly, even like the _fer de lance_ of the islands, the rattlesnake, the tamagusa, or, as you english say, the 'tommy-goff.' one killed him--her husband," and she pointed down to where madame carmaux might be supposed to be sitting at this moment, while as she did so he saw in her eyes a look so startling--since they blazed with fire--that he stared amazed. was she, this half-savage girl, gloating over the horrid death of a man which must have taken place ere she was born? or--or--what? "in all the land," she went on, "there are snakes. those i tell you of--and--others. you understand? and others." "i almost understand," julian muttered hoarsely--though he knew not why. "_and others_. is that--? ah! yes--i do understand. yet tell me further, tell----" but she was gone; the window frame was empty of the dark shadowy figure it had enshrouded. gone, as he saw when he stepped out on to the balcony and observed a sombre form stealing along betwixt the bright gleams of the low-lying stars and himself. "why does she warn me thus," he muttered to himself as now he began to undress slowly, "why? she is that man's servant--almost, as servants go here, his slave. why warn me--she whom i deemed his creature--she who does his dirty work as croupier at a gambling hell? and she gloated over carmaux's death in days of long ago--why that also? does she hate this woman who governs here as mistress of the house?" with some degree of horror on him now, with some sort of mystic terror creeping over him at unknown and spectrelike dangers that might be surrounding his existence, he turned down the light serape stretched over the bed for coverlet, and threw back the upper sheet then he started away with a hoarse exclamation at what he saw. for, lying coiled up in the middle of the bed, yet with a hideous flat head raised and vibrating, while from out that head gleamed a pair of threatening and scintillating emerald eyes, was a small, red coral-coloured snake--a snake that next unwound itself slowly with horribly lithe and sinuous movements which caused julian to turn cold, warm as the night was. "so," he whispered to himself, as now he seized a rifle that he had brought out from england with him, and, after beating the reptile on to the floor, used the stock as a bat and sent the thing flying out of the window; "this is what she was looking for, what she expected to find. but where are the others? the other snakes she hinted at? i think i can guess." chapter xv. recollections of sebastian's birth. it is forty miles inland to where the cockscomb mountains rear their appropriately named crests, but not half that distance to where obliquely from north to south there run spurs and ridges which, though they do not rise to the four thousand feet that is attained by the highest peak or summit of the range, are still lofty mountains. here, amidst these spurs and ridges, which dominate and break up what is otherwise a country, or lowland, almost as flat as holland (and which until a few years ago was marked on the maps as "unexplored country"), nature presents a different aspect from elsewhere in the colony. the country becomes wild and rugged; the copses of mangroves are superseded by woods and forests of prickly bamboos and umbrageous figs; vast clumps of palms of all denominations cluster together, forming in their turn other little woods, while rivers, whose sources are drawn from the great lagoons inland, roll swiftly towards the sea. here, upon the bank of one of those lagoons, julian sat next day beneath the shadow of a clump of locust-trees, in which were intermingled other trees of salm-wood, braziletto, and turtle-bone, as well as many others almost unknown of and unheard of by europeans, with at his feet a fowling-piece, while held across his knees was a safety repeating rifle. this was the rifle with which he had overnight beaten out on to the veranda (where this morning he had left it dead and crushed) the coral snake, and which he had provided himself with ere he left england in case opportunities for sport should arise. the gun, an old-fashioned thing lent him by sebastian, he had not used against any of the feathered inhabitants of the woods, although many opportunities had arisen of shooting partridges, wild pigeons, whistling ducks, quails, and others. had not used it because, remembering one or two other incidents, such as that of the horse and that of the coral-snake (which might have crept into his bed for extra warmth, as such reptiles will do even in the hottest climates, but on the other hand might have reached that spot by different means), and because since also he was now full of undefined suspicion, he thought it very likely that if used it would burst in his hands. he was not alone, as by his side, there sat now a man whose features, as well as his spare, supple frame, bespoke him one of that tribe of half-breeds, namely, spanish and carib indian, which furnishes so large a proportion of the labourers to the whole of central america. he was an elderly man, this--a man nearer sixty than fifty, with snow-white hair; yet any one who should have regarded him from behind, or watched his easy strides from a distance, or his method of mounting an incline, might well have been excused for considering him to be about thirty-five. "what did mr. ritherdon strike you for this morning?" julian asked now, while, as he spoke he raised his rifle off his knee, and, with it ready to be brought to the shoulder, sat watching a number of ripples which appeared a hundred and fifty yards away in the lagoon. "because he is a cruel man," his companion, who was at the present time his guide, replied; "because, too, everything makes him angry now--even so small a thing as my having buckled his saddle-girth too loose. a cruel man and getting worse. always angry now." "why?" asked julian, raising the rifle and aiming it at this moment towards a conical grey-looking object that appeared above the ripples on the lagoon--an object that was, in absolute fact, the snout of an alligator. "because--don't fire yet, senor; he's coming nearer--because, oh! because things go very bad with him, they say. he lose much money and--and--pretty missy sprangy don't love him." "does he love her?" "they say. say, too, massa sprangy much money. seabastiano wants money as well as pretty missy. never get it, though. perhaps, too, he not live get much more." "what do you mean?" asked julian, lowering the rifle as the huge reptile in the lagoon now drew its head under water; while he looked also at the man with stern, inquiring eyes. "what do you mean?" though inwardly he said to himself: "this is a new phase in these mysterious surroundings. my life doesn't seem just now one that the insurance companies would be very glad to get hold of, while also my beloved cousin's doesn't appear to be a very good one. lively place, this!" "he very much hated," the half-breed answered. "very cruel. some day tommy-goffy give him a nice bite, or half-breed gentleman put a knife in his liver." "the snakes don't hate him, do they? he can't be cruel to them." the other gave a laugh at this; it was indeed a laugh which was something between the bleating of a sheep and the (so-called) terrible war-whoop of a north-american indian; then he replied: "easy enough make tommy-goffy hate him. take tommy into room where a man sleeps, wrapped up in a serape with his head out, then put him mouth to man's arm. tommy do the rest. gentleman want no breakfast." "this _is_ a nice country!" julian thought. "i'm blessed if some of these chaps couldn't give the natives in india, or the dear old chinese, a tip or two." while as he so reflected, he also thought: "easy enough, too, to put tommy-goff into a man's bed. then that man wouldn't want any breakfast either. it's rather a good job that i found myself with an appetite this morning." "here he comes," the man, whose name was paz, exclaimed, now suddenly referring to the alligator. "hit him in the eye if you can, señor, or mouth. if he gets on shore we shall have to run." while, as he spoke, from out of the lagoon there rose the head of an enormous alligator, which seemed to have touched bottom since it was waddling ashore. "i shall never hit him in the eye," julian said, taking deliberate aim, however. "gather up the traps, paz, and get further away. i'll have a shot at him; and, then if he comes on land, i'll have another. here goes." but now, even as he prepared to fire, the beast gave him a chance, since, either from wishing to draw breath or from excitement at seeing a probable meal, it suddenly began opening and shutting its vast jaws as it came along, so that the hideous rows of yellow teeth, and the whity-pink roof of its mouth were plainly visible. and, at that moment, from the repeating rifle rang out a report, while, after the smoke had drifted away, it was easy to perceive that the monster had received a deadly wound. it was now spread-eagled out upon the rim of the lagoon's bank, its short, squat legs endeavouring to grip the sand, its eyes rolled up in its head and a stream of blood pouring from its open mouth. "though," said julian, as now he approached close to the creature, and, taking steady aim, delivered another bullet into its eye which instantly gave it the _coup de grace_; "though i don't know why i should have killed the poor beast either. it couldn't have done me any harm." then he thought, "i might as well have reserved the fire for something that threatened danger to me." he had had enough sport for the day by now, having done that which every visitor to central america is told he ought to do, namely, kill a jaguar and an alligator; wherefore, bidding paz go on with the skinning of the former (which the man had already began earlier) since the spotted coat of this creature is worth preserving, he took a last look at the dead reptile lying half in and half out of the lagoon, and then made preparations for their return to desolada. these preparations consisted of readjusting the saddle on the mustang, which he was still the temporary proprietor of, and in also saddling paz's mule for him. then, when the operation of skinning was finished, they took their way back towards the coast. among other questions which julian had asked this man during the morning with reference to the owner of the above abode, was one as to how long he had been present on the estate--a question which had remained unanswered owing to the killing of the jaguar having occurred ere it could be answered. but now--now that they were riding easily forward, the skin of the creature hanging like a horse-cloth over the tail of the half-breed's mule, he returned to it. "how long did you say you had known mr. ritherdon and his household?" he asked, referring of course to the late owner of the property to the borders of which they were now approaching. "didn't say anything," paz replied, "because then we killed him," and he touched the fast drying skin of the dead animal. "but i know desolada for over thirty years. before massa ritherdon come." "then you've known the present mr. ritherdon all his life--since the day he was born." "yes. yes. oh, yes. since that day. always remember that. same day my poor old mother die. she carib from tortola." "did you know his--mother--too; the lady who had been miss leigh?" "yes. yes. oh, yes. i know her. i remember she beautiful young girl--english missy. with the blue eye and the skin like the peach and the hair like the wheat. oh, yes. i remember her. very beautiful." "blue eyes, skin like a peach, hair like the wheat," thought julian to himself; "his supposed mother, my own mother as before heaven i believe. yet he, sebastian, speaks of this woman carmaux, this woman of french origin hailing from new orleans, as a near relative of hers. bah! it is impossible." "also i remember," paz went on, "when--when--his brother--the man who sebastian tell us the other day was your father--love her too. and she love him. only old man leigh he say that no good. old man ruin very much. they say constabulary and old man english chief justice very likely to arrest him. then missy leigh save her father and marry massa ritherdon when massa george's back turned." julian nodded as he heard all this--nodded as though confirming paz's story. though, in fact, it was paz's story which confirmed that which the dead man in england had told him. "you knew her and her father, mr. leigh?" he asked now. "know him! know him! i worked for him at the essex hacienda----" "essex hacienda!" "yes, he gave it that name because he love it. 'all my family, paz,' he say to me one day when i was painting the name on waggon--'all my family come from essex many, many long years. all born there--grandmother, father, mother, myself, and daughter isobel, paz. all; every one. oh! paz,' he say to me, 'england always been good enough for us till my turn come. then i very bad young man--very dis--dis--dis--something he say. now, he say, i have to be the first exile of family, i and poor little isobel. no leigh ever have to live abroad before!" "did he say all that, paz? is this the truth?" "truff, sir! sir, my father spanish gentleman, my mother carib lady. very fine lady." "all right. i beg your pardon. never mind, i did not mean that. and so you remember when this mr. ritherdon was born, eh? did the old gentleman seem pleased?" "he very pleased about the son--very sad about the poor wife. he weep much, oh! many weeps. but he give us all money to drink sebastian's health, and he tell us that as his poor wife dead. mam carmaux come keep the house and bring up little boy." "did he?" said julian, and then lapsed into silence as they rode along. yet, to himself he said continually: "what is this mystery? what is the root of it all? what is at the bottom? somehow i feel as certain as that i am alive that i was this son--yet--yet--he was pleased--gave money--oh! shall i ever unravel it all?" chapter xvi. a drop of blood. they were drawing near the coast now as the sun sank slowly away over the crest of the cockscomb mountains towards guatemala; and already there were signs that the night--the swift night that comes to all spots which lie betwixt capricorn and cancer--was drawing near. the sun, although now hidden behind the topmost ridge of the cockscombs, was still an hour above the blue horizon, yet nevertheless the signs were apparent that he would soon be gone altogether. the parrots and the monkeys were becoming still and quiet in the branches--that is to say, as still and quiet as these screeching and chattering creatures ever do become in their native state--in dark and shade places where now the evening glow scarce penetrated, the fireflies gleamed little sparks and specks of molten gold; while, above all, there rose now from the earth that true tropical sign of coming night, the incense exuded by countless flowers and shrubs, as well as the cool damp of the earth when refreshed by the absence of the burning sun. sometimes, too, across their path, an unmade one, or only made by the tracks of wild deer or the mountain cow, two or three of the former would glide swiftly and gracefully, seeking their lair, or the iguana would scuttle before their animals into the nearest copse, while the quash and gibonet were often visible. they rode slowly, not only because of the heat, but also because none could progress at a swift rate through those tangled copses, the trees of which were often hung with masses of wild vines whose tendrils met and interlaced with each other, so that sometimes almost a wall of network was encountered. also they rode slowly, because desolada was but a mile or so off now, and they would be within its precincts ere the sun was quite gone for the day. and as they did so in silence, julian was acknowledging to himself that, with every fresh person he encountered and every fresh question he asked, his bewilderment was increased. for now, by his side, rode this man, half spaniard, half indian, named ignacio paz, who not only had been present at the birth of mr. ritherdon's son, but also had known that son's mother before she was married. and, julian asked himself, how did the knowledge now proclaimed by this man--this man who, if he possessed any feelings towards sebastian possessed only those of hatred--this man who had prophesied for him a violent death as the reward of his brutality and cruelty--how did that knowledge make for or against the story told by george ritherdon? let him see. it served above all to corroborate, to establish, sebastian's position as the true son and inheritor of charles ritherdon. so truly an acknowledged son and inheritor that, undoubtedly no contrary proof could ever be brought of sufficiently powerful nature to overwhelm all that the evidence of the last twenty-five or twenty-six years affirmed. had not this man, paz, been one of those who had received money from mr. ritherdon to drink sebastian's health? surely--surely, therefore, the old man was satisfied that this was his son. and if he, sebastian, was his son, who then was he, julian? on the other hand, the half-breed proved by old mr. leigh's conversation that there was some inaccuracy--perhaps an intentional inaccuracy--in sebastian's statement that miriam carmaux, or gardelle, was a relative of isobel leigh. that was undoubted! there was an inaccuracy. old leigh had definitely said that he was the first of his family who had ever been forced to earn a living in exile--yet she, this woman, with a french maiden, as well as married, name, was a native of new orleans, was a frenchwoman. was it not enormous odds, therefore, against her being any connection of the english girl with the fair, wheat-coloured hair, the peachlike complexion, and the blue eyes who had been brought as an infant from essex to honduras? also, was it not immeasurably unlikely that, even if then the women were connected by blood, such coincidences should have occurred that both should have come to the colony at almost an identical time; that mr. ritherdon's wandering heart should have chanced to be captivated by each of those women; that he should have jilted the one for the other, and that eventually one, the jilted woman, should have dropped into the place of mistress of the household which death had caused the other to resign? what would the doctrine of chances say in connection with these facts, he would like to know? "one other thing perplexes me, too," he thought to himself, as now they reached an open glade across which the swift departing sun streamed horizontally, "perplexes me marvellously. does sebastian know, does he dream, that against his position and standing such a story has been told as that narrated to me in england by my uncle--as still i believe him to be. and if--if there is some chicanery, some dark secret in connection with his and my birth, does he know of it--or is he inno----" he paused, startled now at an incident that had happened, an incident that drove all reflection from his mind. across that glade there had come trotting easily, and evidently without any fear on its part, one of the red deer common enough in british honduras. only this deer was not as those are which sportsmen and hunters penetrate into the forests and the mountains to shoot and destroy; instead, it was one which julian had himself seen roaming about the parklike grounds and surroundings of desolada, the territory of which began on the other side of the open glade. yet this was not the incident, nor the portion of the incident which startled both him and paz. not that, but something else more serious than a tame deer crossing an open grassland a few hundred yards in diameter each way. there was nothing to startle in that--though much to do so in what followed. what followed being that as the deer, still slowly trotting over the broad-leaved grass, which here forms so luxurious a pasture for all kinds of cattle, came into line with julian and paz riding almost side by side, though with the latter somewhat ahead of the former--there came from out of the mangrove trees on the other side of the little opening, a spit of flame, a puff of smoke, and the sharp crack of a rifle, while, a second later, from off the side of a logwood tree close by them there fell a strip of bark to the ground. "by jove!" exclaimed julian, his accustomed coolness not deserting him even at this agitating moment, "the gallant sportsman is a reckless kind of gentleman. one would think we were the game he is after and not the deer which, by-the-bye, has departed like a streak of greased lightning. i say, paz, that bullet passed about three inches behind your head and not many more in front of my nose. people don't go out shooting human beings here as they do partridges at home, do they?" and he turned his eyes on his companion. if, as an extra excitement to add to the incident, he had desired to observe now a specimen of native-born ferocity, he would have been gratified as he thus regarded paz. for the man in whose veins ran the hot blood of a spaniard, mixed with the still more hot and tempestuous blood of the indian, seemed almost beside himself now with rage and fury. his dark coffee-hued skin had turned livid, his eyes glared like those of a maddened wolf, and his hands, which were now unstrapping the rifle that he too carried slung to his saddle, resembled masses of vibrating cords. yet they became calm enough as, the antique long-barrelled weapon being released, he raised that rifle quickly, brought it to the shoulder and fired towards the exact spot whence they had observed the flame and smoke of the previous rifle to come. "are you mad?" exclaimed julian, horrified at the act. "great heavens! do you want to commit a murder? if the person who let drive at that deer has not moved away yet, you have very likely taken a human life." but paz, who seemed now to have recovered his equanimity and to have relieved his feelings entirely by that savage idea of retaliation, which had been not only sprung into his mind, but had also been instantly put into practice, only shrugged his shoulders indifferently while he restrapped his rifle. then he pointed a long lean finger at the spot across the glade where the first discharge had taken place, directing the digit next to the spot where the deer had been, after which he pointed next to their heads and then to the tree, in which they could see the hole where the bullet was buried two or three inches. having done all which, he muttered: "fired at the deer. at the deer! the deer was there--there--there," and he directed his eyes to a spot five yards off the line which would be drawn between the other side of the glade whence the fire had come and the deer, "and we are here. tree here, too." "what do you suspect?" julian asked, white to the lips now himself--appalled at some hitherto unsuspected horror. "what? whom?" and as he spoke his lips seemed to take the form of a name which, still, he hesitated to give utterance to. "no," the half-caste said in reply, his quick intelligence grasping without the aid of any speech the identity of the man to whom julian's expression pointed. "no. he is in belize by now. he must be there. he has money--much money--to pay to lawyer this morning. not him. not him." after which the mysterious creature laughed in a manner that set julian's mind reflecting on how he had heard the indians of old laughed at the tortures endured by their victims. "come," he said now, feeling suddenly cold and chilled, as he had felt once or twice before in desolada and its surroundings. "come, let us go ho----back to the house," and he started the mustang forward on the route they had been following. "no," paz exclaimed, "however, not that way now. other way. quite as near. also," and his dark eyes glistened strangely as he fastened them on julian, "lead to hacienda. to desolada. come. we go through wood--over glade. very nice wood." "what do you expect to do there?" julian asked, divining all the same. "oh! oh!" paz said, his face alight with a demoniacal gleam. "oh! oh! perhaps find a body. who knows? gunny he shoot very straight. perhaps a wounded man. who knows?" so they crossed the glade, making straight for the spot whence the murderous belch of flame had sprung forth, and, pushing aside flowering cacti and oleanders as well as other lightly knitted together shrubs and bushes, looked all around them. but, except that there were signs of footmarks on the bruised leaves of some of the greater shrubs and also that the undergrowth was a little trodden down, they saw nothing. certainly nobody lay there, struck to death by paz's bullet. the keen eyes of the half-caste--glinting here and there and everywhere--and looking like dark topazes as the rays of the evening sun danced in them--seemed, however, to penetrate each inch of the surrounding shrubbery. and, at last, julian heard him give a little gasp--it was almost a bleat--and saw him point with his finger at something about three feet from the ground. at a leaf--a leaf of the wild oleander--on which was a speck that looked like a ladybird. only--it was not that! but, instead, a drop of blood. a drop that glistened, as his eyes had glistened in the sun; a drop that a step or two further onward had a fellow. then--nothing further. "i hit him," paz said, "somewhere. only--did not kill." while, instantly he wheeled round and gazed full into julian's eyes--his face expressing a very storm of demoniacal hate against the late owner of that drop. "that," he almost hissed, "will keep. for a later day. when i know him." they went now toward the house, each intent on his own meditations and with hardly a word spoken between them; or, at least, but a few words: julian requesting paz to say nothing of the incident, and the latter replying that by listening and not talking was the way to discover a secret. "ha! the gentle lady," said the half-breed now, as they observed madame carmaux seated on the veranda arranging some huge lilies in a glass bowl, while the form of zara was observed disappearing into the house. "ha! the gracious ruler and mistress." then, as they drew near and stepped on to the veranda, paz began bowing and scraping before the former with extraordinary deference. yet, all the same, julian observed that his eyes were roving everywhere around, and all over the boards near where madame carmaux sat, so that he wondered what it was for which the half-breed sought! chapter xvii. "she hates him because she loves him." "it would be folly," said julian to himself that night, "not to recognise at once that each moment i spend in this house, or, indeed in this locality, is full of danger to me. therefore, from this moment i commence to take every precaution that is possible. now let us think out how to do it." on this occasion he was the sole occupant of the lower veranda, in spite of its being quite early in the evening, and owing to the fact that sebastian was passing the night in belize, while madame carmaux, having announced that she had a severe headache, had taken herself off to her own room before supper, he had partaken of that meal alone. so that he sat there quite by himself now, smoking; and, as a matter of fact, he was not at all sorry to do so. he recognised that any attempt at conversation with the "gentle lady" as paz had termed her--in an undoubtedly ironical and subacid manner--was the veriest make-believe; while, as to sebastian, when he was at home--well, his conversation was absolutely uninteresting. he never talked of anything but gambling and the shortness of ready money, diversified occasionally by a torrent of questions as to what george ritherdon had done and what he had said during the whole time of his life in england. while, as julian reflected, or, indeed, now felt perfectly sure, that even this wearisome talk was but assumed as a mask or cloak to the other's real thoughts, it was not likely that sebastian's absence to-night could be a cause of much regret. "let me think out how to do it," he said again, continuing his meditations; "let me regard the whole thing from its proper aspect. i am in danger. but of what at the worst? well, at the worst--death. there is, it is very evident, a strong determination on the part of some people in this place to relieve the colony of my interesting presence. first, sebastian tries to break my neck with an untrained horse; next, some one probably places a coral snake in my bed; while, thirdly, some creature of his endeavours to shoot me. paz--who seems to have imbibed many ancient ideas from his spanish and savage ancestors--appears, however, if i understand him, to imagine he was the person shot at, his wild and barbaric notions about the sacredness of the guest making him suppose, apparently that my life could not be the one aimed at. well, let him think so. at any rate, his feelings of revenge and hatred are kept at boiling-pitch against some unknown enemy. "now," he went on, with still that light and airy manner of looking at difficulties (even difficulties that at this time seemed to be assuming a horrible, not to say, hideous, aspect) which had long since endeared him to countless comrades in the wardroom and elsewhere. "now, i will take a little walk in the cool of the evening. dear madame carmaux's headache has deprived her of the pearls of my conversation, wherefore i will, as her countrymen say, 'go and take the air.'" upon which he rose from his seat, and, pushing aside the wicker table on which stood a bottle of bourbon whisky, a syphon, and also a pen and ink with some writing-paper, he took from off it a letter directed and stamped, and dropped it into the pocket of his white jacket. "the creole negro--as they call those chaps here--passes the foot of the garden in five minutes' time," he said to himself, looking at a fine gold watch which he had gained as a prize at greenwich, "and he will convey this to spranger's hands. afterwards, from to-night, i will make it my business to send one off from all pines every day. i should like spranger and beat--i mean miss spranger--to receive a daily bulletin of my health henceforth. "sebastian," he continued to reflect, as now he made his way beneath the palms towards where the road ran, far down at the foot of the garden, "has meditations about being my heir--well, so have i about being his. yet i think, i do really think, i would rather be sebastian's if it's all the same to him. nevertheless, in case anything uncomfortable should happen to me, i should like spranger and beat--miss spranger, to be acquainted with the fact. it might make the succession easier to--sebastian." he heard the "creole negro's" cart coming along, even as he reached the road; he heard also the chuckles and whoops with which the conveyer of her majesty's mails urged on the flea-bitten, raw-boned creature that carried them; and then, the cart drew into sight and was pulled up suddenly as julian emerged into the road. "hoop! massa sebastian, you give me drefful fright," the sable driver began, "thought it was your ghost, as i see you in belize this berry morning----" "so it would have been his ghost," remarked julian, as he came close to the cart with the letter in his hand, "if you had happened to see him now. meanwhile, kindly take this letter and put it in your mail-bag." "huah! huah!" grunted the negro, while he held out his great black hand for the missive and, opening the mouth of the bag which was in the cart behind him, thrust it in on the top of all the others he had collected on his route along the coast; "he get there all right about two o'clock this morning. but, massa, you berry like massa sebastian. in um white jacket you passy well for um ghost or brudder." "so they tell me," julian answered lightly. "but, you see, we happen to be cousins, and, sometimes, cousins are as much alike as brothers. my friend," he said, changing the subject, "are you a teetotaller?" "hoop! huah! teetotallum. huah! teetotallum! yes, massa, when i've no money. then berry good teetotallum. berry good." "well, now see, here is some money," and he gave the man a small piece of silver. "take a drink at all pines as you go by; it will keep this limekiln sort of air out of your throat--or wash it down. off with you, only take two drinks. have the second when you get to belize." profuse in thanks, the darkey drove off, wishing julian good-night, while the latter's cheery, "good-night, fair nymph," seemed to him so exquisite a piece of humour that, for some paces along the road, the former could hear him chuckling and murmuring in his musical bass: "fair nymph. hoah! fair nymph. hoah! fair nymph. that's me." "now," julian said to himself as he strolled along the road, "we shall see if spranger comes to meet me as he said he would if i wanted his assistance. if he doesn't, then bang goes this one into the all pines post-box to-morrow;" the "this one" being an exact duplicate of the letter which the negro postman had at that moment in his mail-bag. "i'm getting incredibly cunning," julian murmured to himself, "shockingly so. yet, what is one to do? one must meet ruse with ruse and cunning with cunning, and i do believe sebastian is as artful as a waggon-load of monkeys. however, if things go wrong with me, if i should get ill--sebastian says the climate is bad and lays a good deal of stress on the fact, although other people say it's first-rate---or disappear, or furnish a subject for a first-class funeral, there is one consolation. spranger, on not hearing from me, will soon begin to make inquiries and, as the novelists say, 'i shall not die unavenged.' that's something." it is permissible for those who record veracious chronicles such as this present one, to do many things that in ordinary polite society would not be tolerated. thus, we have accompanied julian to his bedchamber on more than one occasion, and now we will look over his shoulder as, an hour before this period, he indited the letter to mr. spranger (which at the present moment is in the belize post-cart), and afterwards made a copy of it for posting the next day at all pines. it was not a lengthy document--since the naval officer generally writes briefly, succinctly and to the purpose--and simply served to relate the various startling "incidents" which had occurred after he had returned to desolada. and he told mr. spranger that, henceforth, a letter would be posted for him at all pines every day, which, so long as it conveyed no tidings of ill news, required no answer; but that, if such letter should fail to come, then spranger might imagine that he stood in need of succour. it concluded by saying that if this gentleman had a few hours to spare next day and could meet him half-way betwixt belize and desolada--say, opposite a spot called commerce bight--he would take it as a favour--would meet him, say, in the early morning, about ten o'clock, before the heat was too great. "sebastian," the letter ended, "seems to harp more, now, on the fact that he's my heir than on anything else. he evidently imagines that i have more to leave than i have. but, however that may be, i don't want him to inherit yet." he was thinking about this letter, and its duplicate which was to follow to-morrow, if the first one did not bring his friend from belize, when he heard voices near him--voices that were pitched low and coming closer with every step he took, and then, suddenly, he came upon the girl, zara, and the man, ignacio paz, walking along the road side by side. "well, my queen of night," he said to the former, "and how are you? you heard that i found the snake after all, i suppose?" "yes, i heard," the girl said, her dark slumbrous eyes gleaming at him in the light of the stars. "i heard. better always look. this is a dangerous land. very dangerous to white men." "so sebastian tells me. thank you, zara. henceforth i will be sure to look. i am going to take a great deal of care of my precious health while i am in this neighbourhood." "that is well," the girl said; then, having noticed his bantering manner, she added, "you may laugh--make joke, but it is no joke. take care," and a moment later she was gone swiftly up to the house, leaving him and his companion of the morning standing together in the dusty road. "i wonder why zara is such a good friend of mine?" julian asked meditatively now, looking into the eyes of paz, which themselves gleamed brightly. "you wonder?" the half-caste said, with that bleating little laugh which always sounded so strangely in julian's ears. "_do_ you wonder? can't you guess? do you wonder, too, why i'm a friend of yours?" "you, paz! why we've only known each other about fifteen hours. though i'm glad to hear it, all the same." "friends long enough to nearly get killed together to-day," the man replied. "that's one reason." "and the other--zara's reasons? what are they?" again the man's eyes glistened in the starlight; then he put out his long lithe finger, which, indianlike, he used to emphasize most of his remarks. "she hates him. so do i." "you i can understand. he beat you this morning. but--zara! i thought she was his faithful adherent." "she hates him because," the man replied laconically, "she loves him." "loves him. and he? well--what?" "not love her. he love 'nother. english missy. you know her." "i do," julian answered emphatically. "i do. now, i'll add my share to this little love story. she, the english missy, does not love him." "zara think she do. thinks he with her now. go belize, see her." "bah! bosh! the english missy wouldn't--why, paz," he broke off suddenly, "what's this in your hand? haven't you had enough sport to-day--or are you going out shooting the owls to-night for a change?" while as he spoke he pointed to a small rifle the half-caste held in his hand. "though," he added, "one doesn't shoot birds with rifles." "no," the other replied, with again the bleat, and with, now, his eyes blazing--"no. shoot men with him. nearly shoot one to-day. i find him near where i find drop of blood this afternoon. hid away under ferns. i take a little walk this evening in the cool. then i find him." chapter xviii. sebastian is disturbed. "this knoll is becoming historic," julian said to himself the next morning, as he halted the mustang where twice he had halted it before, when he had been journeying the other way from that which he had now come. "when, some day, the life and adventures of admiral ritherdon, k.c.b., and so forth, are given to an admiring world, it must figure in them. make a pretty frontispiece, too, with its big shady palms and the blue sea beyond the mangroves down below." in spite, however, of his bright and buoyant nature, which refused to be depressed or subdued by the atmosphere of doubt or suspicion--to give that atmosphere no more important name--he recognised very clearly that matters were serious with him. he knew, too, that the calamities which had approached, without absolutely overwhelming him--so far--were something more than coincidences; natural enough as each by itself might have been in a country which, even now, can scarcely be called anything else than a wild and unsettled one. "i was once flung off a horse, a buckjumper," he reflected, "in western australia when i was a 'sub'; i found a snake in my bed in burmah; and a chap shot at me once in vera cruz--but--but," and he nodded his head meditatively over his recollections, "the whole lot did not happen together in australia or burmah or vera cruz. if they had done so, it would have appeared rather pointed. and--well--they _have_ all happened together here. that looks rather pointed, too." "all the same," julian went on reflectively, as now he tethered the mustang to a bush where it could stand in the shade, and also drew himself well under the spreading branches of the palms--"all the same, i can't and won't believe that sebastian sees danger to his very firmly-established rights by my presence here. he said on that first night to madame carmaux, 'knowledge is not proof,' and what proof have i against him? this copy of my baptism at new orleans which i possess can't outweigh that entry of his birth which spranger has seen in belize. and there is nothing else. nothing! except george ritherdon's statement to me, which nobody would believe. my own opinion is," he concluded, "that sebastian, who at the best is a rough, untutored specimen of the remote colonist, with very little knowledge of the world beyond, thinks that if anything happened to me he would only have to put in a claim to whatever i have in england, prove his cousinship, and be put in possession of my few thousands. what a sublime confidence he must have in the simplicity of the english laws!" even, however, as he thought all this, there came to him a recollection, a revived memory, of something that had struck him after george ritherdon's death--something that, in the passage of so many other stirring events, had of late vanished from his mind. "he said," julian murmured to himself--"my uncle said in the letter i received when we got back to portsmouth, that he had commenced to write down the error, the crime of his life, in case he did not live to see me. and--and--later--after he had told me all, on the next day, he remarked that the whole account was written down; that when--poor old fellow! he was gone i should find it in his desk; that it would serve to refresh my memory. but--i never did find it, and, i suppose, he thought it was best destroyed. i wish, however, he hadn't done it; even his handwriting would have been some corroboration of the statement. at least it would have shown, if i ever do make the statement public, that i had not invented it." while he had been indulging in these meditations he had kept his eyes fixed on the long, white, dusty road that stretched from where the knoll was on which he sat toward belize; a road which, through this flat country, could be traced for two or three miles, it looking like a white thread lying on a dark green carpet the colour of which had been withered by the sun. and now, as he looked, he saw upon the farthest end of that thread a speck, even whiter than itself--a speck, that is to say, white above and black beneath--which was gradually travelling along the road, coming nearer and growing bigger each moment. "it may be mr. spranger," he thought to himself, still watching the oncoming party-coloured patch as it continued to loom larger; "probably is. yet for a man of his time of life, and in such a baker's oven as that road is, he is a bold rider. i hope he won't get a sunstroke or a touch of heat apoplexy in his efforts to come and meet me." at last, however, the person, whoever it was, drew so near that the rider's white tropical jacket stood out quite distinct from the black coat of the animal he bestrode; while, also, the great white sombrero on the man's head was distinctly visible. "that's not spranger," julian said to himself, "but a much younger man. by jove!" he exclaimed, "it's sebastian. and i might have expected it to be him. of course. it is about the time he would be returning to desolada." his recognition of his cousin was scarcely accomplished beyond all doubt, when sebastian's horse began to slow down in its stride, owing to having commenced the ascent of the incline that led up to the knoll where julian sat, and in a very few more moments the animal, emitting great gusts from its nostrils, had brought its rider close to where he was. while, true to his determination to exhibit no outward sign of anything he might suspect concerning sebastian's designs toward him, as well as to resolve to assume a light and cheerful manner, and also a friendly one, julian called out pleasantly: "halloa, sebastian! how are you this fine morning? rather a hot ride from belize, isn't it?" if, however, he had expected an equally cordial greeting in return, or, to put it in other and more appropriate words, a similar piece of acting on sebastian's part, he was very considerably mistaken. for, instead of his cousin returning his cheerful salutation in a corresponding manner, his reception of it betokened something that might very well have been considered to be dismay. indeed, he reined his horse up so suddenly as almost to throw the panting creature on its haunches, in spite of the ascent it was making; while his face, sunbrowned and burned as it was, seemed to grow nearly livid behind the bronze. his eyes also had in them the startled expression which might possibly be observed in those of a man who had suddenly been confronted by a spectre. "why!" he said, a moment later, after peering about and around and into all the rich luxuriant vegetation which grew on the knoll, as though he might have expected to see some other person sitting among the wild allamandas or ixoras--"why, what on earth are you doing here, julian? i--i thought you were at desolada, or--or perhaps out shooting again. by the way, i had left desolada before you were up yesterday morning; what sort of a day did you have of it?" "most exciting," julian replied, himself as cool as ice. "quite a field-day." and then he went on to give his cousin, who had by now dismounted and was sitting near him, a _résumé_ of the whole day's adventures--not forgetting to tell him also of the interesting discovery of the coral snake in his bed. "if," he thought to himself, "he wants to see how little he can frighten one of her majesty's sailors, he shall see it now." he had, however, some slight hesitation in narrating the retaliation of paz upon the unknown, would-be assassin--for such the person must have been who had fired at where the deer was not--he being in some doubt as to how this fact would be received. at first it was listened to in silence, sebastian only testifying how much he was impressed at the recountal by the manner in which he kept his eyes fixed on julian--and also by the whiteness of his lips, to which the circulation seemed unable to find its way. also, it seemed as though, when he heard of the drop of blood upon the leaf, once more the blood in his own veins was impeded--and as if his heart was standing still. then, when the recital was concluded, he said: "paz did right. it was a cowardly affair. i wish he had killed the villain. i suppose it was some enemies of his. some fellow half-caste. paz has enemies," he added. "probably," said julian quietly. "and," went on sebastian now in a voice of considerable equanimity, though still his bronze and sunburn were not what they usually were; "and how did you leave madame carmaux? was she not horrified at such a dastardly outrage?" "i did not have much time with her. not time enough indeed to tell her. she went to bed directly i got back----" "went to bed! why?" "she was not well. said she had a headache, or rather sent word to that effect. nor did she come down to breakfast. rather slow, you know, all alone by myself, so i thought i'd come on here for a ride. must do something with one's time." "of course! of course! i told you desolada was liberty hall. went to bed, eh? i hope she is not really ill. i don't know what i should do without her," and as he spoke julian observed that, if anything, he was whiter than before. evidently he was very much distressed at madame carmaux's suffering from even so trifling an ailment as a headache. "i think i'll get on now," sebastian said, rising from where he was sitting. "if she is laid up i shall have a good deal of extra work to do, i suppose it really is a headache." "i suppose it is," julian said, "it is not likely to be much else. she was arranging flowers in a vase when paz and i returned." "was she!" sebastian exclaimed, almost gleefully; "was she! oh, well! then there can't be much the matter with her, can there? i am glad to hear that. but, anyhow, i'll go on now. you'll be back by sundown, i suppose. you know it's bad to be out just at sunset. the climate is a tricky one." "so i have heard you say. never mind, i'll be back in the evening, or before. meanwhile i may wander into the woods and shoot a monkey or so." "shoot! why! you haven't got a gun with you," sebastian exclaimed, looking on the ground and at the mustang's back where, probably, such a thing would have been strapped. "no, i haven't. but i've always got this," and he showed the handle of his revolver in an inside pocket. "you're a wise man. though, if you knew the colony better, you'd understand there isn't much danger to human life here." "there was yesterday. and paz has taught me a trick or two. if any one fired at me now i should do just what he did, and, perhaps, i too might find a leaf with a drop of blood on it afterwards." "you're a cool fish!" exclaimed sebastian after bursting out into a loud laugh which, somehow, didn't seem to have much of the ring of mirth in it. "upon my word you are. well, so long! don't go committing murder, that's all." "no, i won't. bye-bye. i'll be back to-night." after which exchange of greetings, sebastian got on his horse and prepared to continue his journey to desolada. "by the way," he said, however, before doing so, "about that snake! how could it have got into your bed?" "_i_ don't know," julian replied with a half laugh. "how should i? the coral snake is a new acquaintance, though i've known other specimens in my time. it got there somehow, didn't it?" "of course! they love warmth, you know. perhaps it climbed up the legs of the bed and crept in where it would be covered up." "it was rather rude to do such a thing in a visitor's bed though, wasn't it? it isn't as though i was one of the residents. and it must have been a clever chap, too, because it got in without disarranging the mosquito curtains the least little bit. that _was_ clever, when you come to think of it!" at which sebastian gave a rather raucous kind of laugh, and then set his horse in motion. "_au revoir!_" said julian. "i hope you'll find madame carmaux much better when you get back." chapter xix. a pleasant meeting. the morning was drawing on and it was getting late--that is, for the tropics--namely, it was near nine o'clock, and soon the sun would be high in the heavens, so that it was not likely along the dusty white road from belize any sign of human life would make it appearance until sunset was close at hand. "if mr. spranger doesn't come pretty soon," julian said consequently to himself, "he won't come at all, and has, probably, important business to attend to in the city. wherefore i shall have to pass to-day alone here, or have a sunstroke before i can get as far back as all pines for a meal. i ought to have brought some lunch with me." "halloa, my friend," he remarked a moment later to the mustang, which had commenced to utter little whinnies, and seemed to be regarding him with rather a piteous sort of look, "what's the matter with you? you don't want to start back and get a sunstroke, do you? oh! i know. of course!" and he rose from his seat and, going further into the bushes behind the knoll, began to use both his eyes and his ears. for it had not taken him a moment to divine--he who had been round the world three times! that the creature required that which in all tropical lands is wanted by man and animal more than anything else--namely, the wherewithal to quench their thirst. presently, he heard the grateful sound of trickling water, which in british honduras is bountifully supplied by providence, and discovered a swift-flowing rivulet on its way to the sea below--it being, in fact, a little tributary of mullin's river--when, going back for the creature, he led it to where the water was, while, tying its bridle to some reeds, he left it there to quench its thirst. after which he returned to the summit of the knoll to continue his lookout along the road from belize. but now he saw that, during his slight absence, some signs of other riders had appeared, there being at this present moment two black-and-white blurs upon the white dusty thread. two that progressed side by side, and presented a duplicate, party-coloured imitation of that which, earlier, sebastian ritherdon and his steed had offered to his view. "if that's mr. spranger," julian thought to himself, "he has brought a companion with him, or has picked up a fellow traveller. by jove though! one's a darkey and, well! i declare, the other's a woman. oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, joyfully too; "it's miss spranger. here's luck!" and with that, regardless of the sun's rays and all the calamities that those rays can bring in such a land, he jumped into the road and began waving his handkerchief violently. the signal, he saw, was returned at once; from beneath the huge green umbrella held over the young lady's head--and his own--by the negro accompanying her, he observed an answering handkerchief waved, and then the mass of white material which formed a veil thrown back, as though she was desirous that he who was regarding her should not be in any doubt as to who was approaching. yet, she need not have been thus desirous. there is generally one form (as the writer has been told by those who know) which, when we are young, or sometimes even, no longer boys and girls, we recognise easily enough, no matter how much it may be disguised by veils or dust-coats or other similar impediments to our sight. naturally, beatrix and her sable companion rode slowly--to ride fast here on such a morning means death, or something like it--but they reached the knoll at last, and then, after mutual greetings had been exchanged and julian had lifted miss spranger off her horse--one may suppose how tenderly!--she said: "father was sorry, but he could not come. so i came instead. i hope you don't mind." "mind!" he said, while all the time he was thinking how pretty she looked in her white dress, and how fascinating the line which marked the distinction between the sunburn of her face and the whiteness of her throat made her appear--"mind!" then, words seeming somehow to fail him (who rarely was at a loss for such things, either for the purpose of jest or earnest) at this moment, he contented himself with a glance only, and in preparing for her a suitable seat in the shade. yet, all the same, he was impelled directly afterwards to tell her again and again how much he felt her goodness in coming at all. "jupiter," she said to the negro now, "bring the horses in under the shade and unsaddle and unbridle them. and, find some 'water for them. i am going to stay quite a time, you know," she went on, addressing julian. "i can't go back till sunset, or near sunset, so you will have to put up with my company for a whole day. i suppose you didn't happen to think of bringing any lunch or other provisions?" "the mere man is forgetful," he replied contritely, finding his tongue once more, "so----" "so i am aware. therefore, i have brought some myself. oh! yes, quite enough for two, mr. ritherdon; therefore you need not begin to say you are not hungry or anything of that sort. later, jupiter shall unpack it. meanwhile, we have other things to think and talk about. now, please, go on with that," and she pointed to the pipe in his hand which he had let go out in her presence, "and tell me everything. everything from the time you left us." obedient to her orders and subject to no evesdropping by the discreet jupiter--who, having been told by julian where the rivulet was, had conducted the two fresh horses there and was now seated on the bank crooning a mournful ditty which, the former thought, might have been sung by some african sorcerer to his barbaric ancestors--he did tell her everything. he omitted nothing, from the finding of the coral-snake in his bed to his last meeting with sebastian half an hour ago. while the girl sitting there by his side, her pure clear eyes sometimes fixed on the narrator's face and sometimes gazing meditatively on the sapphire caribbean sparkling a mile off in front of them, listened to and drank in and weighed every word. "lieutenant ritherdon," she said, when he had concluded, and placing her hand boldly, and without any absurd false shame, upon his sleeve, "you must give me a promise--a solemn promise--that you will never go back to that place again." "but!" he exclaimed startled, "i must go back. i cannot leave and give up my quest like that. and," he added, a little gravely, "remember i am a sailor, an officer. i cannot allow myself to be frightened away from my search in such a manner." "not for----" she began interrupting. "not for what?" he asked eagerly, feeling that if she said, "not for my sake?" he must comply. "not for your life? its safety? not for that?" she concluded, almost to his disappointment. "may you not retreat to preserve your life?" "no," he answered a moment later. "no, not even for that. for my own self-respect, my own self-esteem i must not do so. miss spranger," he continued, speaking almost rapidly now, "i know well enough that i shall do no good there; i have come to understand at last that i shall never discover the truth of the matter. yet i do believe all the same that george ritherdon was my uncle, that charles ritherdon was my father, that sebastian ritherdon is a--well, that there is some tricking, some knavery in it all. but," he continued bitterly, "the trickery has been well played, marvellously well managed, and i shall never unearth the method by which it has been done." "yet, thinking this, you will not retreat! you will jeopardize your life?" "i have begun," he said, "and i cannot retreat, short of absolute, decisive failure. of certain failure! and, oh! you must see why, you must understand why, i can not--it is because my life is in jeopardy that i cannot do so. i embarked on this quest expecting to find no difficulties, no obstacles in my way; i came to this country and, at once, i learned that my appearance here, at desolada, meant deadly peril to me. and, because of that deadly peril, i must, i will, go on. i will not draw back; nor be frightened by any danger. if i did i should hate myself forever afterwards; i should know myself unworthy to ever wear her majesty's uniform again. i will never draw back," he repeated emphatically, "while the danger continues to exist." as he had spoken, julian ritherdon--the bright, cheery englishman, full of joke and quip, had disappeared: in his place had come another julian--the englishman of stern determination, of iron nerve; the man who, because peril stared him in the face and environed his every footstep, was resolute to never retreat before that danger. while she, the girl sitting by his side, her eyes beaming with admiration (although he did not see them), knew that, as he had said, so he would do. this man--fair, young, good-looking, and _insouciant_--was, beneath all that his intercourse with the world and society had shaped him into being, as firm as steel, as solid as a rock. what could she answer in return? "if you are so determined," she said now, controlling her voice for fear that, through it, she should betray her admiration for his strength and courage, "you will, at least take every measure for your self-preservation. write every day, as you have said you will in your letter to my father, be ever on your guard--by night and day. oh!" she went on, thrusting her hands through the beautiful hair from which she had removed her large panama hat for coolness while in the shade, "i sicken with apprehension when i think of you alone in that mournful, mysterious house." "you need not," he said, and now he too ventured to touch her sleeve as she had previously touched his--"you need not do so. remember, it is man to man at the worst; sebastian ritherdon--if he is sebastian ritherdon--against julian. and i, at least, am used to facing risks and dangers. it is my trade." "no," she answered, almost with a shudder, while her lustrous eyes expressed something that was very nearly, if not quite, horror--"no! it is not. it is a man and a woman--and that a crafty, scheming woman--against a man. against you. lieutenant ritherdon," she cried, "can you doubt who--who----" "hush," he said, "hush. not yet. let us judge no one yet. though i--believe me--_i_ doubt nothing. _i_, too, can understand. but," he went on a little more lightly now, "remember, sebastian is not the only one possessed of a female auxiliary, of female support. remember, i have zara." "zara," she repeated meditatively, "zara. the girl with whom he amused himself by making believe that he loved her; made her believe that, when this precious madame carmaux should be removed, she might reign over his house as his wife." "did he do that?" "he did. if all accounts are true he led her to believe he loved her until he thought another woman--a woman who would not have let him serve her as a groom--might look favourably on his pretensions." "therefore," said julian, ignoring the latter part of her remark, though understanding not only it, but the deep contempt of her tone, "therefore, now she hates him. may she not be a powerful ally of mine, in consequence. that is, if she does hate him, as my other ally--paz--says." "yes, yes," beatrix said, still musing, still reflectively. "yet, if so, why those mysterious visits to your bedroom window, why that haunting the neighbourhood of your room at midnight?" "i understand those visits now, i think i understand them, since the episode of the coral snake. i believe she was constituting herself a watch, a guard over me. that she knows much--that--that she suspects more. that she will at the worst, if it comes, help me to--to thwart him." "ah! if it were so. if i could believe it." "and paz, too. sebastian told me to-day that paz has enemies. well! doubtless he has--only, i would rather be paz than one of those enemies. you would think so yourself if you had seen the blaze of the man's eyes, the look upon his face, when that shot was fired, and, later, when he showed me the rifle which he had found close by the spot. no; i should not like to be one of paz's enemies nor--a false lover of zara's." "if i could feel as confident as you!" beatrix exclaimed. "oh! if i could. then--then--" but she could find no ending for her sentence. chapter xx. love's blossom. a fortnight had elapsed since that meeting on the palm-clad knoll, and julian was still an inmate of desolada. but each day as it came and went--while it only served to intensify his certainty that some strange trickery had been practised at the time when he was gone and when george ritherdon had stolen him from his dying, or dead, mother's side--served also to convince him that he would never find out the manner in which the deceit had been practised, nor unravel the clue to that deceit. he had, too, almost decided to take his farewell of desolada and its inmates, to shake the dust of the place off his shoes, and to abandon any idea of endeavouring to obtain further corroboration of his uncle's statement. for he had come to believe, to fear, that no corroboration was to be found. every one in british honduras regarded sebastian as the undoubted child and absolute heir of the late charles ritherdon, while, in addition, there were still scores of persons alive, black and white and half-caste, who remembered the birth of the boy, though not one individual could be discovered who had heard even a whisper of any kidnapping having ever taken place. once, julian had thought that a journey to new orleans and a verification of the copy of his baptismal certificate with the original might be of some use, but on reflection he had decided that this, as against the certificate of sebastian's baptism in belize, would be of no help whatever. "it is indeed a dead wall, a solid rock, against which i am pushing, as mr. spranger said," he muttered to himself again and again. "and it is too firm for me. i shall have to retreat--not because i fear my foe, but because that foe has no tangible shape against which to contend." he had not returned to desolada on the night that followed his meeting with, first, sebastian on the knoll and then with beatrix; he making his appearance at that place about dawn on the following morning. the reason whereof was, that, after passing the whole day with miss spranger on that spot (the lunch she had brought with her being amply sufficient to provide an afternoon, or evening, meal), he had insisted on escorting her back to her father's house. at first she protested against his doing this, she declaring that jupiter was quite sufficient cavalier for her, but he would take no denial and was firm in his resolve to do so. he did not tell her, though (as perhaps, there was no necessity for him to do, since, if all accounts are true, young ladies are very apt at discovering the inward workings of those whom they like and by whom they are liked), that he regarded this opportunity as a most fortuitous one, and, as such, not to be missed. who is there amongst us all who, given youth and strength and the near presence of a woman whom we are fast beginning to love with our whole heart, would not sacrifice a night's rest to ride a score of miles by her side? not one who is worthy to win that woman's love! so through the tropical night--where high above them blazed the constellations of the southern crown, the peacock, and the archer, with their incandescentlike glow--those two rode side by side; the negro on ahead and casting many a glance of caution around at bush and shrub and clump of palm and mangrove. of love they did not speak, for a sufficient reason; each knew that it was growing and blossoming in the other's heart--that it was there! the man's love there--in his heart, not only because of the girl's winsome beauty; but born and created also by the knowledge that she went hand in hand with him in all that he was endeavouring to accomplish; the woman's love engendered by her recognition of his bravery and strength of character. if she had not come to love him before, she did so when he exclaimed that, because the danger was near to and threatening him, he would never desist from the task on which he had embarked. but love often testifies its existence otherwise than in words, and it did so now--not only in the subdued tones of their voices as they fell on the luscious sultry air of the night, but also in the understanding which they came to as to how they should be in constant communication with each other in the future, so that, if aught of evil befell julian at desolada, beatrix might not be long unaware of the evil. "perhaps," julian said, as now they were drawing near belize--"perhaps it will not be necessary that i should apprise you each day of my safety, of the fact that everything is all right with me. therefore----" "i must know frequently! hear often," beatrix said, turning her eyes on him. "i must. oh! mr. ritherdon, forty-eight hours will appear an eternity to me, knowing, as i shall know, that you are in that dreadful house. alone, too, and with none to help you. what may they not attempt against you next!" "whatever they attempt," he replied, "will, i believe, be thwarted. i take paz and zara--especially zara, now that you tell me she is a jilted woman--against sebastian and madame carmaux. but, to return to my communications with you." "yes," she said, with an inward catching of her breath--"yes, your communications with me. "let it be this way. if you do not hear from me at the end of every forty-eight hours, then begin to think that things may be going wrong with me; while if, at the end of a second forty-eight hours, you have still heard nothing from me, well! consider that they have gone very wrong indeed. shall it be like that?" "oh!" the girl exclaimed with almost a gasp, "i am appalled. appalled even at the thought that such an arrangement, such precautions, should have to be made." "of course, they may not be necessary," he said; "after all, we may be misjudging sebastian." "we are not," she answered emphatically. "i feel it; i know it. i mistrust that man--i have always disliked him. i feel as sure as it is possible to be that he meditates harm to you. and--and--" she almost sobbed, "what is to be done if the second forty-eight hours have passed, and still i have heard nothing from or of you." "then," he said with a light laugh--"then i think i should warn some of those gentry whom we have seen loafing about belize in a light and tasteful uniform--the constabulary, aren't they?--that a little visit to desolada might be useful." "oh!" beatrix cried again now, "don't make a joke of it, mr. ritherdon! don't, pray don't. you cannot understand how i feel, nor what my fears are. if four days went by and i heard no tidings of you, i should begin to think that--that----" "no," he said, interrupting her. "no. don't think that! whatever sebastian may suspect me of knowing, he would not do what you imagine. he would not----" "kill you, you would say! why, then, should he mount you on that horse? and--and was--there no intention of killing you when the coral snake was found in your bed--a deadly, venomous reptile, whose bite is always fatal within the hour--nor when that shot was fired at you?" "is there not a chance," julian said now, asking a question instead of answering one, "that, after all, we are entirely on a wrong tack, granting even that sebastian is in a false position--a position that by right is mine?" "what can you mean? how can we be on a false tack?" "in this way. even should it be as i suggest, namely, that he is--well, the wrong man, how is it possible that he should be aware of it; above all, how is it possible that he should know that i am aware of it? he has been at desolada, and held the position of heir to--to--to my father ever since he was a boy, a baby. if wrong has been done, he was not and could not be the doer of it. therefore, why should he suspect me of being the right man, and consequently wish to injure me?" "surely the answer is clear enough," beatrix replied. "however innocent he may once have been of all knowledge of a wrong having been done, he possesses that knowledge now--in some way. and," the girl went on, turning her face towards him as she spoke, so that he could see her features plainly in the starlight, "he knows that it is to you it has been done. would not that suffice to make him meditate harm to you?" "yet, granting this, how--how can it be? how can he have discovered the wrongdoing. a wrongdoing that his father--his supposed father--died without suspecting." "yes, that is it; that is what puzzles me more than all else," beatrix exclaimed, "that mr. ritherdon should have died without suspecting.' that is it. it is indeed marvellous that he could have been imposed upon from first to last." then for a time they rode on in silence, each deep in their own thoughts: a silence broken at last by beatrix saying-- "whatever the secret is, i am convinced that one other person knows it besides himself." "madame carmaux?" "yes, madame carmaux. if we could find out what her influence over him is, or rather what makes her so strong an ally of his, then i feel sure that all would be as clear as day." these conversations caused julian ample food for meditation as he rode back towards desolada in the coolness of the dawn--a roseate and primrose hued dawn--after having left beatrix spranger at her father's house. what was madame carmaux's influence over sebastian? why was she so strong an ally of his? and for answer to his self-communings, he could find only one. the answer that this woman, who had been bereft in one short year of the husband she had hurriedly espoused in her bitterness of desolation as well as of the little infant daughter who had come as a solace to her misery, had transferred all the affection left in her heart to the boy she found at desolada; no matter whom that boy might be. an affection that year following year had caused to ripen until, at last, her very existence had become bound up in his. this, combined with the fact that desolada had been her home, and that home a comfortable one, over which she had ruled as mistress for so many years, was the only answer he could find. all was very still as he rode into the back part of the mansion where the stables were--for it was now but little after four o'clock, and consequently there was hardly daylight yet--when, unsaddling the mustang himself, he closed the stable door again and prepared to make his way into the house. this was easy enough to do, since, in such a climate, windows were never closed at night, and, beyond the persianas, which could easily be lifted aside, there was no bar to any one's entrance. yet early as it was or, as it should be said, perhaps, far advanced as the night was, sebastian had not yet sought his bed. instead, he seemed to have decided on taking whatever rest he might require in the great saloon in which he seemed to pass the principal part of his time when at home. he was asleep now in the large singapore chair he always sat in--it being inside the room at this time instead of outside on the veranda--possibly for fear of any night dews that--even in this climate--will sometimes arise; he being near the table on which was the never-failing bottle of bourbon whisky. "the young man's companion," as sebastian had more than once hilariously termed it. but that was not the only bottle, the only liquid, on the table by his side. for there stood also by sebastian's hand a stumpy, neckless bottle which looked as if it might once have been part of the stock-in-trade of some chemist's shop--a bottle which was half full of a liquid of the faintest amber or hay-colour. and, to his astonishment, he likewise saw standing on the table a small retort, a thing he had never supposed was likely to be known to sebastian. "well!" he thought to himself as he moved slowly along the balcony to the open door, not being desirous of waking the sleeping man, "you are indeed a strange man, if 'strange' is the word to apply to you. i wonder what you are dabbling in chemistry for now? probably no good!" chapter xxi. julian feels strange. a fortnight had elapsed, it has been written, since the meeting between beatrix and julian on the palm-clad knoll, and during that time the latter had found himself left very much to his own resources by sebastian. indeed, julian was never quite able to make out what became of his "relative" during the day, although at night, when they sat as usual on the veranda, sebastian generally explained matters by saying that he had been absent at one place or another on business, the "business" consisting of trafficking with other settlers for the sale or purchase of the productions of the various estates. as, however, few people ever came to desolada, and none as "visitors" in the ordinary sense of the word, julian had no opportunity of discovering by outside conversation whether the other's statements were accurate or not. still, as he said to himself, sebastian's pursuits were no concern whatever of his, and at any rate the latter's absence left him free to do whatever he chose with his own time. to shoot curassows, wild turkeys, and sometimes monkeys, or, at least, to appear to go out shooting them; though, as often as not, the expedition ended at all pines, to which place julian made his way every other day to post a letter to beatrix. now, after a fortnight had been spent in this manner, during the whole of which period he had not set his eyes on madame carmaux, who still kept her room and was reported to be suffering from a bilious fever, the two men sat upon the veranda of the lower floor after the evening meal had been concluded, both of them having their pipes in their mouths. while, close to sebastian's hand, was a large tumbler which contained a very good modicum of bourbon whisky, slightly dashed with water. "you don't drink at all now," that gentleman said to his cousin, as he always called him. "don't you like the stuff, or what? if that's what it is, i can get something else, you know, from belize." "no," julian replied, "that is not what it is. but of late, for a week or so now, i have not been feeling well, and perhaps abstinence from that is the best thing," and he nodded his head towards where the bourbon whisky bottle stood. "i told you so," sebastian exclaimed; "only you wouldn't believe me. you were sure to feel seedy sooner or later. every one does at first, when they come to this precious colony." "i ought to be pretty well climate-hardened all the same," julian remarked, "after the places i've been in. burmah isn't considered quite the sweetest thing in the way of health resorts, yet i got through that all right." "i hope you are not going to have a fever or anything wrong with your liver. those are the things people suffer from here, intermittent and remittent fevers especially. i must give you some medicine." "no, thanks," julian replied; "i think i can do very well without it at present. besides, the time has come for me to bring my visit to a close, you know. you have been very kind and hospitable, but there is such a thing as overstaying one's welcome." to his momentary astonishment, since he quite expected that sebastian was looking forward to his departure with considerable eagerness and was extremely desirous of seeing the last of him, this announcement was not received at all as he expected. in actual truth, julian had imagined that his decision would be accepted with the faintest of protests which a host could make, while, instead, he perceived that sebastian was absolutely overcome with something that, if not dismay, was very like it. his face fell, as the light of the lamp (round which countless moths buzzed and circled in the sickly night air) testified plainly, and he uttered an exclamation that was one of unfeigned disappointment, if not regret. "oh!" he said, "but i can't allow that. i can't, indeed. going away because you feel queer. nonsense, man! you'll be all right in a day or so. and to go away after a visit of two or three weeks only! why! when people come such a journey as you have done from england to here, we expect them to stop six months." "that in any case would be impossible. my leave of absence only covers that space of time, and cannot be exceeded. but," julian continued, "don't think, all the same, that i am afraid of fever or anything of that sort. that wouldn't frighten me away." "i can't see what you came for, then. what the deuce," he said, speaking roughly now as though his temper was rising, "could have brought you to honduras if you weren't going to stay above a month in the place?" "i wanted to see the place where my father lived," the other replied, and as he did so he watched sebastian's features carefully. for although, of course, he was supposed to be the son of george ritherdon who had lived at desolada once, he thought it most probable that this remark might cause his cousin some disturbance. whether it did so or not, he could, however, scarcely tell, since, as he made it, sebastian, who was relighting his pipe with a match, let the latter fall, and instantly leant forward to pick it up again. "oh!" he exclaimed, when he had done so, "of course, if you only wanted to do that, two or three weeks are long enough. yet, i must say, i think it is an uncommon short stay. however, i suppose even now you don't mean to go off in a wonderful hurry?" "to-day," said julian, "is wednesday. suppose, as you are so kind, that we fix next monday for my departure." "next monday. next monday," and by the movement of sebastian's lips, the other could see that he was making some kind of calculation. "next monday. four clear days. ah!" and his face brightened very much as he spoke. "well! that's something, isn't it? four clear days." upstairs, when julian had reached his room, he found himself meditating upon why sebastian should have seemed so undoubtedly pleased at the knowledge that he was going to stay for another "four clear days." "we haven't seen such a wonderful lot of each other," he reflected, "except for an hour or so after supper; and as i have spent my time uselessly in mooning about this place and the neighbourhood, he can't suppose that it's very lively for me. especially as--as there have been risks." "as--as--as there have been--risks," he repeated a few moments afterwards. then, while still he sat on in his chair, gazing, as he recognised, vaguely out of the window, he noticed that his mind seemed to have got into a dull, sodden state--that it was not active. "as--there--have--been risks," he repeated once more. and now he pushed his chair on one side as he rose from it, exclaiming: "this won't do. there's something wrong with me. as--there--have--no!--no! i don't want to keep on repeating this phrase over and over again. what is the matter with me? _have_ i got a fever?" thinking this, though as he did so he recognised that his head was by no means clear and that he felt dull and heavy, as a man might do who had not slept for some nights, he thought, too, that it would be best for him to go to bed. doubtless his liver was affected by the climate; doubtless, also, he would be well enough in the morning. "there is," he said to himself, "a chemist's in the village of all pines--i will let him to give me a draught in the morning. i wonder if zara ever takes a draught--i--i--mean beatrix. what rot i am talking!" he murmured to himself, "and now, to add to other things the lamp is going out." whereon he made a step towards where the lamp stood on the table, and turning up the wicks gently saw that, in a moment, the flames were leaping up the glass chimney and blackening it. "i thought it was going out," he said to himself, turning the wicks down again rapidly; "i seem to be getting blind too. there is no doubt that i have got a fever. let me see." as he spoke he put his hand into his trousers pocket to draw out his keys, it being his intention to open his gladstone bag and get out a little medicine casket he always carried with him when out of england, and especially when in tropical places; and, in doing so, he leant his head a little to the side that the pocket was on, his chin drooping somewhat towards the lapel of his white jacket. "i suppose," he muttered, "that my sense of smell's affected too, now. or else--jacket's getting--some beastly old--old--old tropical smell that clings to everything--in--in such countries. never mind. here's keys." he drew them forth, regarding the bunch with a stare as though it was something he was unacquainted with, and then, instead of putting into the lock of the bag the long slim key which is usual, he endeavoured to insert a large one that really belonged to a trunk he had left behind at the shipping office in belize as not being wanted. reflection served, however, to call to his mind that this key was not very likely to open the bag, and at last, after giving an inane smile at the mistake, he succeeded in his endeavour and was able to get out the contents, and to withdraw the little medicine casket. "quinine," he said, spelling the word letter by letter as he held the phial under the lamp. "quinine. that's it. don't let's make a mistake. q-u-i-n-i-n-e. that's all right. can't go wrong now." by the aid of the contents of the water-bottle and his glass he was enabled to swallow two quinine pills of two grains each, and then he resolved--in a hazy, uncertain kind of way--to go to bed. whereon, slowly he divested himself of his clothes and, in a mechanical manner, threw back the mosquito curtains. but, whatever might be the matter with him, and however clouded his intellect might be, he was not yet so dense as to forget the strange occupant of that bed which he had once before discovered there. "beatrix said," he muttered, "that coral snake kills in an hour. i don't want to die in an hour. let's see if we've got another guest here to-night." and, as he had done every night since he had returned to desolada, he thoroughly explored the bed, doing so, however, on this occasion in a lethargic, heavy manner which caused him to be some considerable time about it. "turn to the left to unscrew," he said to himself, recalling some old schoolboy phrase as he stood now by the lamp ready to extinguish it, "to the right to screw. same, i suppose, to turn up and down. oh! the revolver. where's that? may as well have it handy." whereupon he went over to where he had hung up his jacket and removed the weapon from the inside pocket. "a nasty smell these tropical places have," he muttered as he did so. "there's the smell of india--no one ever forgets that--and also the smell of africa. well! strikes me honduras can go one better than either of them." then he got into bed. dizzy, stupefied as he felt, however, it did not seem as if his stupefaction or semi-delirium, or whatever it was which had overcome him, was likely to plunge him into a heavy, dull sleep. instead, he found himself lying there with his eyes wide open, and, although his brain felt like a lump of lead, while there was a weight at his forehead as if something were pressing on it, he was conscious that one of his senses was very acute--namely, the sense of smell. either that, or else some very peculiar phase in the fever which he was experiencing, was causing a strange sense of disgust in his nostrils. "this bed smells just like a temple i went into in burmah once," he thought to himself. "what the deuce is the matter with me--or it? anyhow, i can't stand it." and, determined not to endure the unpleasantness any longer, he got up from the bed, while wrapping himself in the dark coverlet he went over to an old rickety sofa that ran along the opposite side of the room and lay down upon it. and here, at least, the odour was not apparent. the old horsehair bolster and pillow did emit, it is true, the peculiar stuffy flavour which such things will do even in temperate climates; but beyond that nothing else. the acrid, loathsome odour which he had smelt for the first time when he leant his head slightly as he felt for his keys, and which he had perceived in a far more intensified form when he lay down in the bed, was not at all apparent now. it seemed as if he was, at last, likely to fall asleep. chapter xxii. in the dark. julian supposed when he was awakened later on, and felt that he was drenched with a warm perspiration which caused his light tropical clothes to stick to him with a hot clammy feeling, that he must have slept for two hours. for now, as he lay on the sofa facing the window, he could see through the slats of the persianas, which he had forgotten to turn down, that, peeping round the window-frame there came an edge of the moon, which he seemed to recollect--dimly, hazily, and indistinctly--had risen late last night. and that moon--which stole more and more into his view as he regarded it--was casting now a long ray into the bedroom, so that there came across the floor a streak of light of about the breadth of nine inches. yet--once his bemused brain had grasped the fact that this ray was there, while, at the same time, that brain was still clear enough to comprehend that every moment the flood of light was becoming larger, so that soon the apartment would be filled with it--he paid no further attention to the matter, nor to the distant rumbling of thunder far away--thunder that told of a tropical storm taking place at a distance. instead, he was endeavouring to argue silently with himself as to the actual state in which his mind was; as to whether he was in a dreamy kind of delirium, or whether, in spite of any fever that might be upon him, he was still able to distinctly understand his surroundings. if, as he hoped earnestly, the latter was the case; if he was not delirious, but only numbed by some ailment that had insidiously taken possession of him--then--why then--surely! he was in deadly peril of some immediate attack upon him--upon his life perhaps. for, outside those persianas there was another light, two other lights glittering in upon him that were not cast by the moon, but that (because now and again her rays were thrown upon them) he discovered to be a pair of eyes. and not the eyes of an animal either, since they glisten in the dark, but, instead, human eyes that glared horribly as now and again the moonbeams caught them. only! was it the truth that they were real tangible eyes, or were they but a fantasy of a mind unhinged by fever? he must know that! and he could only do so by lying perfectly still; by watching. those eyes which stared in at him now were low down to the floor of the balcony, even as he seemed to recollect zara's eyes had been on one occasion during her nocturnal visits to him when he first arrived at desolada; yet now he knew, felt sure, that they were not zara's. why he felt so sure he could not tell, nor in the feverish languor that was upon him, could he even reason with himself as why he did feel so sure. but, at the same time, he told himself, they were not hers. of that he was certain. how did they come there, low down--not a foot above the floor of the veranda? could they indeed be the eyes of an animal in spite of the white eyeballs on which the rays shone with such a sickly gleam; did they belong to some household dog which had chosen this spot for its night's repose? yet--yet--if such was the case, why did it not sleep curled up or stretched out, instead of peering through the latticework with its eyes close to the slats, as though determined to see all that was in the room and all that was going on in it. no! it could not be that, while, also it was not what he had deemed it might be a few minutes ago--the eyes of a snake. it was impossible, since the eyes of a snake would have been much closer together. they were--there could be no doubt about it! the eyes of a human being, man or woman. and they were not zara's. he was sure of that. but still they glared into the room, glared through the dusky sombreness of the lower part of it, of that part of the floor which, even now, the moonlight was not illuminating. and then to his astonishment he saw, as the light flooded the apartment more and more, that those eyes were staring not at him but towards another portion of the room; towards where the bed stood enveloped in the long hanging folds of the mosquito curtains, which, to his distempered mind, seemed in the weird light of the tropical night to look like the hangings that enshroud a catafalque--a funeral canopy. his hand, shaky though he knew it was from whatever ailed him, was on his revolver; for a moment or so he lay there asking himself if he should fire at that wizard thing, that creepy mystery outside his room; if he should aim fair between those glistening eyeballs and trust to fortune to kill or disable the mysterious watcher? but still, however, he refrained; for, if his senses were still in his own possession, if his mind was still able to understand anything, it understood that near the bed in which he should have been sleeping had it not been for the evil odours exhaled from it to-night, there was something that might be a more fitting object of his discharge than the creature outside. "if," he thought to himself, "i am neither mad nor delirious nor drenched with fever, those eyes are watching something in this room, and that something is not myself." should he turn his head; could he turn it towards that dark patch behind the mosquito curtains which was not illuminated with the moon's rays? could he do it as a man turns in his sleep--restlessly--so that in the action there might be nothing which should alarm whatever lurked in the darkness over there; the thing that, having got into his room in the night full of evil intentions towards him, was now itself being watched, suspected, perhaps trapped. could he do it? as he meditated thus, feeling sure now that his stupor, his density of mind, was not what it had been--recognising with a feeling of devout thankfulness that, whatever his state might hitherto have been, his mind was now becoming clear and his intellect collected, he prepared to put this determination into practise. he would roll over on to his right side, as he had seen sleepy sailors roll over on to theirs in the watch below; he would roll over too, with his hand securely on the butt of his revolver. and then--if--if, as he felt certain was the case, there was some dark skulking thing hiding behind his bedhead, if he should see another pair of eyes gleaming out in the rays of the moon--why, then, woe befall it! he had had enough of these midnight hauntings from one visitant or another in this house of mystery; he would fire straight at that figure, he would kill it dead, if so it must be, even if it were sebastian himself. as he turned, imitating a sleeper's restlessness, as well as he was able, there came two interruptions--interruptions that stayed his hand. from near the bed--he was right! those eyes outside had been watching something that was inside there!--close to him, across the room, he heard a sound. a sound that was half a one, half an inward catching of the breath, a gasp. yet so low, so quickly suppressed, that none who had not suspected, none who had not been on the watch for the slightest sign, would have heard or noticed it. but he had heard it! the other was a noisier, a more palpable interruption. sebastian, below in the great saloon on the front was singing to himself, loudly and boisterously, and then, equally boisterously, was wishing madame carmaux "good-night." answering evidently, too, some question, which julian could not hear put to him by her, and expressing also the hope that she would feel better soon. "yet," thought julian, "she cannot quit her room. it is strange. strange, too, that she should be up so late. it must be two o'clock, at least." with a glance from his eye towards the lower part of the window, which still he could see from the position in which he lay, he observed that the mysterious watcher outside was gone. those eyes, at least, no longer gleamed from low down by the floor; through the slats of the blind he perceived that the spot where they had lately been was now a void. the watcher was gone! but what of the one who had been watched, of the lurking creature that was near his bed, and that had gasped with fear even as he turned over on the sofa? what of that? well, it was still there. he was alone with it. his thumb drew back the trigger of the revolver, the well-known click was heard--the click which can never be disguised or silenced. a click that many a man has listened to with mortal agony and terror of soul, knowing that it sounds his knell. then again on his ears there fell that gasp, that indrawn catching of the breath, which told of a terrified object close by his side. and it could not be sebastian who had uttered it; sebastian, the one person alone who had reason to meditate the worst towards him that one human being can desire for another. it could not be he. for was he not still singing boisterously below in the front of the house? it could not be he. and, julian reflected, he was about to take a life, the life of some one whom he himself did not know, of some one whose presence in his room even at night, at such an hour of the night, might yet be capable of explanation; that might not, in absolute fact, bode evil to him. suppose, that after all, it should be zara, and that again she was there for some purpose of serving his interest as he had told beatrix he believed she had been more than once before. suppose that, and that now he should fire and kill her! how would he feel then! what would his remorse be? no! he would not do it. instead, therefore, he whispered the words, "zara, what is it?" even as he did so, even as he spoke, he noticed that a change had come over the room. it was quite dark now; the moon's rays no longer gleamed in; the moon itself was gone, obscured. what had happened? in a moment the question was answered. upon the balcony outside there came a rattle as though a deluge of small stones had been hurled down upon it, and he, who knew well what the violence of tropical storms is, recognized that one had broken over desolada, and that the rain, if not hail, was descending in a deluge. a moment later there came, too, a flash of purple, gleaming lightning which was gone before he could turn his eyes into the quarter of the room where lurked the thing that he suspected, felt sure was there. then, over all, there burst the roar of the thunder from above, reverberating, pealing all around, rumbling, and reechoing a moment later in the cockscomb mountains. "zara!" he called louder now, so as to make himself heard above the din of the storm--"zara, why do you not answer me? i mean you no harm." but, if amid this tumult any answer was given, he did not hear it. for now the crash of the thunder, the downpour of the rain, the screaming of the parrots, and the demoniacal howlings of the baboons farther away, served to create such a turmoil that scarcely could the cry of a human voice be heard above it all. "i am determined," julian exclaimed, "to know who and what it is that cowers there!" wherewith he sprang from off the sofa on which he had previously raised himself to a sitting position, and, with a leap, rushed towards the mosquito curtains hanging by the bedhead. "i will see who and what you are!" he cried, feeling certain that in this spot was still lurking some strange, secret visitant. yet to his astonishment the spot was empty when he reached it. neither human being nor animal, nor anything whatever, was there. "i am indeed struck with fever and delirious," he muttered to himself, "or if not that, am mad. yet i could have sworn it was as i thought." then again, as he stood there holding in his hand the gauzy curtains which he had brushed aside, the storm burst afresh over the house with renewed violence; again the sheets of rain poured down; once more the purple tropical lightning flashed and the thunder roared. and as the tempest beat down on all beneath its violence, and while a moment of intense darkness was followed by an instant of brilliant light, julian heard a stronger rattle of the venetian blinds than the wind had made, and saw, as again there came a flash of lightning, a dark, hooded figure creep out swiftly past them on to the balcony--a figure shrouded to the eyes, yet in the dark eyes of which, as the lightning played on them, there seemed to be a look of awful fear. chapter xxiii. warned. blue as the deepest gleam within the sapphire's depth were the heavens; bright as molten gold were the sun's rays the next morning when the storm was past--leaving, however, in its track some marks of its passage. for the flowers in the gardens round the house were beaten down now with the weight of water that had fallen on them; beneath the oleanders and the flamboyants, the allamandas and ixoras, the blossoms strewed the pampas grass in masses; while many crabs--which wander up from the seacoast in search of succulent plants whereon to feed--lay dead near the roots of the bushes and shrubs. yet a day's scorching sun, to be followed perhaps by an entire absence of further rain for a month, would soon cause fresh masses of bloom to take the place of those which were destroyed, especially as now they had received the moisture so necessary to their existence. and julian, standing on his balcony and wondering who that strange nocturnal visitor was who had fled on to this very balcony a few hours before, thought that during his stay in this mysterious place he had never seen its surroundings look so fair. whether it was that he had received considerable benefit from the quinine which he had taken overnight, or whether it was from the total change of clothing which he had now assumed in place of the garments he had worn up to now, or perhaps from his not having lain through the night upon the bed which, particularly of late, had seemed so malodorous, he felt very much better this morning. his brain no longer appeared numbed nor his mind hazy, nor had he any headache. "which," he said to himself, "is a mighty good thing. for now i want all my wits about me. this affair has got to be brought to a conclusion somehow, and julian ritherdon is the man to do it. only," he said, with now a smile on his face--"only, no more of the simple trusting individual you have been, my friend--if you ever have been such! instead of suspecting master sebastian of being in the wrong box you have got to prove him so, and instead of suspecting him to be a--well! say a gentleman who hasn't got much regard for you, you have got to get to windward of him. now go full speed ahead, my son." whereon, to commence the process of getting to windward of sebastian and also of carrying out the movement known in his profession as going "full speed ahead," he informed the nigger who brought him his shaving-water that he felt very poorly indeed, and would, with sebastian's permission, remain in his room that day. "because," he said to himself, "i think it would be as well if i kept a kind of watch upon this tastefully furnished apartment. like all the rest of this house, it is becoming what the conjurers call 'a home of mystery,' and is consequently getting more and more interesting. and there are only the 'four clear days' left wherein the mystery can be solved--if ever." a few moments after he had made these reflections he heard a tap at his bedroom door, and on bidding the person who was outside to come in, sebastian made his appearance, there being on his face a look of regret at the information which he said the negro had just conveyed to him. "i say, old fellow, this is bad news. it won't do at all. not at all. what is the matter with you?" he exclaimed in his usual bluff, hearty way. "a touch of fever, i'm afraid," julian replied. "not much, i fancy, but still worth being careful about. i'll keep my room to-day if you don't mind." "mind!" sebastian exclaimed. "mind; why, my dear julian, that's the very best thing you can do, the very thing you ought to do. and i'll send you something appetizing by zara. let me see. they have brought in this morning some of that mountain mullet you liked so much; that will do first-rate for breakfast with some guava jelly. how will that suit?" "nothing could be better. those mountain mullet are superb. you are very good." "oh! that's nothing. and, look here, i have brought you a little phial of our physic-nut oil, which the natives say will cure anything, and almost bring a dead man back to life. take three or four drops of that, my boy, in your coffee, and you'll feel a new man," whereon he drew a little phial from his pocket and stood it on the table. then, after a few more sympathetic remarks he prepared to depart, saying he would have the breakfast prepared and sent up by zara at once. "i was glad," julian said casually, as sebastian approached the door, "to hear you wishing madame carmaux good-night, last night. i didn't know she was well enough to get downstairs yet." "oh! yes," the other replied in a more or less careless tone, "she came down to supper last night and sat up late with me. i was glad of her company, you know. so you heard us, eh? did you hear us singing, too? we got quite inspirited over her return to health. if you'd only been down, my boy, we would have had a rollicking time of it." "never mind," said julian, "better luck next time. you wait till i do come down and we'll have a regular chorus. when i give you some of my wardroom songs, you'll be surprised." "right," said sebastian, with a laugh; "the sooner the better," whereon he took himself off. "i didn't hear the silvery tones of madame carmaux, all the same," julian thought to himself after the other was gone, "neither do i remember that i heard her return his 'good-night.' however, sebastian's own tones are somewhat stentorian when he lets himself go, or as our irish doctor used to say of the bo'sun's, 'enough to split a pitcher,' so i suppose that isn't very strange." he took down his jacket now, and indeed the whole of his white drill suit which he had discarded for an exactly similar one that he had in his large gladstone bag, and began to roll it up preparatory to packing it away. though, as he did so, he again perceived the horrible f[oe]tid odour which it had emitted overnight--the same odour that had also been so perceptible when he had laid his head upon the pillow. the revolting smell that had driven him from the bed to seek repose on that sofa. "faugh!" he exclaimed, "it is loathsome. even now, with the room full of the fresh morning air, i feel as if i were getting giddy and bemused again." whereon, and while uttering some remarks that were by no means complimentary to honduras and some of its perfumes, he began rolling the clothes up as quickly as he could. yet while he did so, being now engaged with the jacket, his eye was attracted by the lapel of the collar, the white surface of which was discoloured--though only in the faintest degree discoloured--a yellowish, grey colour. each lapel, down to where the topmost button was! then, after a close inspection of the jacket all over, he perceived that nowhere else was it similarly stained. his curiosity becoming excited by this, since in no way could he account for such a thing (he distinctly remembered that there had been no stain, however faint, on the lapel before), he regarded the waistcoat next; and there, on the small lapel of that--both left and right--were the same marks. "strange," he muttered, "strange. very strange. one might say that the washerwoman had spilt something on coat and waistcoat--purposely. something, too, that smells uncommonly nasty." for, by inspection, or rather test with his nostrils, he was easily able to perceive that no other part of his discarded clothing emitted any such disagreeable odour. while, too, as he applied his nose again and again to the faint stains, he also perceived that in his brain there came once more the giddiness and haziness from which he had suffered so much last night--as well as the feeling of stupid density amounting almost to dreaminess or delirium. "if that stuff was under my nose all day long yesterday, and perhaps for a week or so before," he reflected, "i don't wonder that at last i became almost wandering in my mind, as well as stupefied." then, a thought striking him, he went over to the pillow on the bed and gazed down on it. and there, upon it, on either side, was the same stain--faint, yellow, and emitting the same acrid, loathsome odour. "so, so," he said to himself, "i begin to understand. i begin to understand very well, and to comprehend sebastian's chemical experiments. the woman who washed my jacket and waistcoat in england is not the same woman who washed that pillow-case in british honduras. yet the same stain and the same odour are on both. all right! a good deal may happen in the next four days." then, as he thus meditated, he opened the little phial of physic-nut oil, which sebastian had thoughtfully brought him and left behind with injunctions that he should take three or four drops of it in his coffee, and smelt it. after which he said, "certainly, i won't fail to do so. all right, sebastian, it's full speed ahead now!" a little later, zara arrived bearing in her hands a large tray on which were all the necessaries for a breakfast that would have satisfied a hungry man, let alone an "invalid." there were, of course, innumerable other servants about this vast house, but zara always seemed to perform the principal duties of waiting upon those who constituted the superiors, and in many cases to issue orders to the others, in much such a way as a butler in england issues orders to his underlings. now, having deposited the tray upon the table, which she cleared for the purpose, she uncovered the largest dish and submitted to julian's gaze a good-sized trout reposing in it and looking extremely appetizing. "but," said julian, as he regarded the fish, "that isn't what sebastian promised me. he said he would send one of those delicious mountain mullet we had the other night." for a moment the half-caste girl's lustrous eyes dwelt almost meditatively, as it seemed, on him; then she said, "there are none. the men have not caught any for a long time." "but mr. ritherdon said there were. that the men----" "he was wrong," she interrupted, her eyes roaming all round the room, while it seemed almost to julian as though, particularly, they sought the spot where the pillow was. "he was wrong. you eat that," looking at the dish. "that will do you no--will do you good." and it appeared to julian, now thoroughly on the _qui vive_ as to everything that went on around him as well as to every word that was uttered, as though she emphasized the word "that." "i'm glad to hear madame carmaux is so much better," he said, conversationally, as she finished arranging the breakfast before him and poured out his coffee. "they were pretty gay below last night." "below last night," she repeated, her eyes full on him. "below last night. were they? did you hear her below last night?" "didn't you?" "i was not there," she answered; "i was nursing a sick woman in the plantation." "oh! you didn't pass your evening on the balcony, then, as you have sometimes done?" "no," she said, and still her eyes gazed so intently into his that he wondered what was going on in her mind. "no." then, suddenly, she asked, "when are you going away?" "that is not polite, zara. one never asks a guest----" "why," she interrupted, speaking almost savagely and showing her small white teeth, as though with an access of sudden temper--"why do you turn everything into a--a--_chanza_--a joke. are you a fo--a madman?" "really, zara!" then, seeing that the girl was contending with some inward turbulence of spirit which seemed almost likely to end in an outbreak, julian said quietly, seriously, "no, zara, i am neither a fool nor a madman. look here, i believe you are a good, honest, straightforward girl. therefore, i will be plain with you. i have told mr. ritherdon that i am going on monday. in four days----" "go at once!" she interrupted again. "at once. get news from belize, somehow, that calls you away. leave desolada. begone!" she continued in her quaint, stilted english, which she spoke well enough except when obliged to use either a spanish or carib word. "begone!" and as she said this it seemed almost to julian that, with those dark gleaming eyes of hers, she was endeavouring to convey some intelligence to him which she would not put into words. "that," he said, referring to her last sentence, "is what i am thinking about doing. only, even then, i shall not have done with desolada and its inhabitants. there is more for me to do yet, zara." chapter xxiv. julian's eyes are opened. julian's slumbers of the past night having been more or less disturbed by the various incidents of, first, his drowsy delirium, then of those figures of the watcher and the watched, as well as by the storm and the sight of the departing form of the latter individual, he decided that, during the course of the present day, he would endeavour to obtain some sleep. especially he determined thus because, now, he knew that there must be no more sleeping at night for him. whether he remained in desolada for the next four nights as he had consented to do, or whether he decided to follow zara's suggestion and find some excuse for departing at once, he understood plainly that to sleep again when night was over all the house might be fraught with deadly risk to him. what that risk was, what the tangible shape which it would be likely later on to assume, he was not yet able to conclude--but that it existed he had no doubt. bright and _insouciant_ as he was, with also in his composition a total absence of fear, he was still sufficiently cool, as well as sufficiently intelligent to understand that here, in desolada, he was not only regarded as an inconvenient interloper, but one who must be got rid of somehow. "which proves, if it proves anything," he thought, "that sebastian knows all about why i am in this country; and also that, secure as his position seems, there is some flaw in it which, if brought to light, will destroy that position. i know it, too, now, am certain that george ritherdon's story is true--and, somehow, i am going to prove it so. i have muddled the time away too long; now i am going to be a man of action. when i get back to belize that action begins. mr. spranger said i ought to confide in a lawyer, and in a lawyer i will confide. henceforth, we'll thresh this thing out thoroughly." zara had come in again and removed the remnants of the breakfast, and as he had told her that he meant to sleep as long as ever it was possible, she had promised him that he should not be disturbed. wherefore, he now proceeded to darken the room in every way that he could, without thoroughly excluding the air; namely, by letting down the curtains of the windows as well as by closing the persianas. "i suppose," he thought to himself, "there is no likelihood of my visitor coming in, in the broad daylight, yet, all the same, i will endeavour to make sure." upon which he proceeded to put in practise an old trick which in his gunroom days he had often played upon his brother middies (and had had played upon himself); while remembering, as he did so, the merry shouts which had run along the gangway of the lower deck on dark nights over its successful accomplishment. he took a piece of stout cord and tied it across from one side of the window to the other at about a foot and a half from the floor. "now," he said, "if any one tries to come in here to-day--well! if they don't break their legs they'll make such a din as will lead to their falling into my hands." it was almost midday when he laid himself down on the sofa to obtain his much needed rest--midday, and with the sun streaming down vertically and making the apartment, in spite of its being darkened, more like the engine room of a steamer than anything else; yet, soon, he was in a deep refreshing sleep in spite of this disadvantage. a slumber so calm and refreshing that he slept on and on, until, at last, the room grew cool; partly by aid of a gentle breeze which was now blowing down from the summits of the cockscomb mountains and partly by the coming of the swift tropical darkness. then he awoke, not knowing where he was nor being able to recall that fact even for a moment or so after he was awake, nor to understand why he lay there in the dark. yet, as gradually he returned to his every-day senses, he became aware that he did not alone owe his awakening to the fact that he had exhausted his desire for slumber, but also to a sound which fell upon his ears. the sound of a slight tapping on his bedroom door. astonished at the darkness, which now enveloped the room, more than at anything else--for the tapping he attributed to zara having brought him his evening meal--he went to the door and turned the key, he having been careful to lock the former securely before going to sleep. then, to his surprise, when he had opened the door and peered into the passage, which was also now enveloped in the shadow of night, he saw a figure standing there which was not that of zara, but, instead, of the half-caste paz. "what is it?" he asked, staring at the man and wondering what he wanted. "what! is anything the matter?" "nothing very much," the half-caste answered, his eyes having a strange glitter in them as they rested on julian's face. "only, think you like to see funny sight. you like see señor sebastian look very funny. you come with me. quietly." "what do you mean, paz?" julian asked, wondering if this was some ruse whereby to beguile him into danger. "what is it?" "i show you massa sebastian very funny. he very strange. don't think he find mountain mullet very good for him; don't think he like drink very much with physic-nut oil in it," and he gave that little bleating laugh which julian had heard before and marvelled at. mountain mullet! physic-nut oil! the very things that sebastian had suggested to julian that morning, yet of which julian had not partaken. the mullet, although zara had said the men had not caught any for a long time. the phial which he had brought to the room, but the oil of which he had not touched! "there was no mountain mullet caught--" he began, but paz interrupted him with that bleating laugh once more, though subdued as befitted the circumstances. "ho!" he said. "nice mountain mullet in desolada this morning. he order it cook for you. only--zara good girl. she love sebastian, so she give it him and give you trout. very good girl. but--it make him funny. so, too, physic-nut oil. but that wrong name. physic-nut oil very much. not good if mixed with drop of amancay." amancay! where had julian heard that name before! then, swift as lightning, he remembered. he recalled a conversation he had had with mr. spranger one evening over the various plants and herbs of the colony, and also how he had listened to stories of the deadly powers of many of them--of the manzanillo, or manchineel, of the florispondio and the cojon del gato--above all, of the amancay, a plant whose juice caused first delirium; then, if taken continually, raving madness, and then--death. a plant, too, whose juice could work its deadly destruction not only by being taken inwardly, but by being inhaled. "the indians," mr. spranger had said, "content themselves with that. if they can only get the opportunity of sprinkling it on the earth where their enemy lies, or of smearing his tent canvas with it, or his clothes, the trick is done. and that enemy's only chance is that he, too, should know of its properties. then he is safe. for the odour it emits is such that none who have ever smelt it once can fail to recognise its presence. but on those who are unacquainted with those properties--well! god help them!" he wondered as he recalled those words if he had turned white, so white that, even in the dusk of the corridor, the man standing by his side could perceive it; he wondered, too, if his features had assumed a stern, set expression in keeping with the determination that now was dominant in his mind. the determination to descend to where sebastian ritherdon was, to stand face to face with him, to ask him whether it was he who had sprinkled his jacket and his waistcoat, as well as the pillow on which he nightly slept, with the accursed, infernal juice of the deadly amancay. ask! bah! what use to ask, only to receive a lie in return! what need at all to ask? _he knew!_ "come," he said to paz, even as he went back into the room for his revolver. "come, take me to where this fellow is. yet," he said pausing, "you say i shall see a funny sight. what is it? is he mad--or dying?" "he funny. he eat mountain mullet, he drink physic-nut oil in wine. zara love him dearly, he----" "come," julian again said, speaking sternly. "come." then they both went along the corridor and down the great staircase. "let us go out garden, to veranda," paz whispered. "then we look in over veranda through open window. see funny things. hear funny words." whereupon accompanied by julian, he went out by a side door of the long hall, and so came around into the garden in front of the great saloon in which sebastian always sat in the evening. sheltering themselves behind a vast bush of flamboyants which grew close up to where the veranda ran, they were both able to see into the room, when in truth the sight of sebastian was enough to make the beholders deem him mad. his coat was off, flung across the back of the chair, but in his hand he had a large white pocket handkerchief with which he incessantly wiped his face, down which the perspiration was pouring. yet, even as he did so, it was plain to observe that he was seeking eagerly for something which he could not find. a large campeachy-wood cabinet stood up against the wall exactly facing the spot where the window was, and the doors of this were now set open, showing all the drawers dragged out of their places and the contents turned out pell-mell. while the man, lurching unsteadily all the time and with a stumbling, heavy motion in his feet which seemed familiar enough to julian (since only last night he had stumbled and lurched in the same way), was seizing little bottles and phials and holding them up to the light, and wrenching the corks out of them to sniff at the contents, and then hurling them away from him with an action of despair and rage. "he look for counter-poison," paz said, using the spanish expression, which julian understood well enough. "maybe, he not find it. then he die," and the bleating laugh sounded now very much like a gloating chuckle. "then he die," he repeated. "is there, then, an antidote?" julian asked. "yes. yes," paz whispered. "yes, antidoty, if he find it. if he has not taken too much." "how can he have taken too much? why take any?" for answer paz said nothing, but instead, looked at julian. and, in the light that now streamed out across the veranda to where they stood, dimmed and shaded as it might be by the thick foliage and flower of the flamboyant bush, the latter could see that the half-caste's eyes glittered demoniacally and that his fingers were twitching, and judged that it was only by great constraint that the latter suppressed the laugh he indulged in so often. then, while no word was spoken between them, julian felt the long slim fingers of paz touch his and push something into his hand, something that he at once recognised to be the phial of physic-nut oil; or, rather, the phial that had once contained the physic-nut oil, diluted with the juice of the murderous amancay. "all love sebastian here," the semi-savage hissed, his remaining white teeth shining horribly in the flickering gleam through the flamboyant. "love him, oh! so dear." "he find it. he find it," he muttered excitedly an instant afterwards. "look! look! look!" and julian did look; fascinated by sebastian's manner. for the other held now a small bottle in his hand which he had unearthed from some drawer in the interior of the great cabinet, and was holding it between his eyes and the globe of the lamp, gazing as steadily as he could at the mixture which it doubtless contained. as steadily as he could, because he still swayed about a good deal while he stood there; perhaps because, too, his hands trembled. then, with a look of exultation on his features and in his bloodshot eyes, plainly to be observed from where the two men stood outside, he tore the stopper out with his teeth, smelt the contents, and instantly seizing a tumbler emptied them into that, drenched it with water, and drank the draught down. yet, a moment later, sebastian performed another action equally extraordinary--he seeming to remember--as they judged by the look of dawning recollection on his face--something he had forgotten! he came, still lurching, a little nearer to the open window, and then in a loud voice--a voice that was evidently intended to be heard at some distance--said: "well, good-night, miriam. good-night, i am so thankful to think that you are better! good night." and as he uttered those words, julian understood. "i see his ruse, his trick," he muttered. "he thinks that i am still upstairs, that he is deceiving me, making me believe she is down here. but, though i am not up there, she is! and perhaps in my room again. quick, paz! come. follow me!" chapter xxv. a dÉnouement. by the same way that they had descended they now mounted to the floor above. only, it was not julian's intention to re-enter his room in the same manner he had left it; namely, by the door opening out of the corridor. to do that would be useless, unavailing. if the woman whom he suspected was in that room now, the first sound of his footstep outside, be it never so light, would serve to put her on the alert, to cause her to flee out on to the balcony and away round the whole length of it, and, thereby, with her knowledge of all the entrances and exits of the house, to evade him. that, he reflected, would not do. if she escaped him now, then the determination he had arrived at, to this night bring matters to a climax, would be thwarted. some other way must be found. "take me on to the veranda," he whispered to paz; "to where i shall be outside the room i occupy. this time i will be the watcher gazing in, not the person who is watched." "i take you," paz said. "i show you. same way i get there last night." "last night! so! that was you outside, lying low down? it was you?" but paz only gave him now that look which he had given before, while he seemed at the same time to be struggling with that bleating laugh of his--the laugh which would surely have betrayed his presence. "come," he said, "i put you in big room of all. old man ritherdon call it guest room. sebastian born there." "was he?" julian asked in a whisper, "was he? was he born there?" "he born there. come." so, doubtless, the half-caste believed--since who in all honduras disputed it! who--except julian himself, and, perhaps, the woman he loved; perhaps, too, her father. yet, the information that he was now being led to the room in which he felt sure that it was he who had been born and not the other, filled him with a kind of mystic, weird feeling as they crept along side by side towards it. for the first time since he had come to desolada, he was about to visit the spot in which he had been given birth--the spot in which his mother had died; the spot wherein he had been stolen from that dying mother's side by his uncle. thinking thus, as they approached the door, he wondered, too, if by his presence in that room any inspiration would come to him as to how this other man had been made to supersede him, to appear as himself in the eyes of the little world in which he moved and lived. a man received as being what he was not, without question and with his claim undisputed. "go in," paz whispered now, as he turned the handle. "go in. from the window you see all that pass--if anything pass. or you easy get on balcony. your room there to right, hers there to left. if she go from one to other--then--you surely see." "you will not accompany me?" julian asked, wondering for the moment if there was treachery lurking in the man's determination to leave him at so critical a time; wondering, too, if, after all, he was about to warn the woman whom he, julian, now sought to entrap in some nefarious midnight proceeding, of her danger. yet, he argued with himself, that must be impossible. if he intended to do that, would he have divulged how zara had changed one dish of food for another, so that he who set the trap had himself been caught in it; would he have given him so real a sign as to what use the phial had been put to as by placing it, empty, in his hands? and, even though now paz should meditate treachery--as, in truth, he did not believe he meditated it--still he cared nothing. what he had resolved to do he would do. what he had begun he would go on with. now--at once--this very night! "no. no," paz said, in answer to his question. "no. i come not with you. i live not here but in plantation mile away. if i found here--he--he--try kill me. but you he will not kill. you big, strong, brave. and," the man continued in a whisper that was in truth a hiss, "it is you who must kill. kill! kill! remember the snake in bed, the shot in wood, the mountain mullet, the amancay. now, i go. this is the room." then almost imperceptibly he was gone, his form disappearing like a black blur on the still darker, denser blackness of the corridor. without hesitation, julian softly turned the handle and entered the room that gave egress to the balcony which he wished to gain. and although it was as dark as night itself, there was a something, a feeling of space, quite perceptible to his highly-strung senses, which told him that it was a vast chamber--a room suitable for the birth of the son and heir of the great house and its belongings. "strange," he thought to himself, "that thus i should revisit the place in which i first saw the light--that i, who in the darkness was spirited away, should, in the darkness, return to it." yet, black, impenetrable as all around was, there was an inferior density of darkness at the other end of the great room, away where the window was; and towards that he directed his footsteps, knowing that there, between the laths of the persianas which it possessed in common with every other room in the house, would be his opportunity. there was the coign of vantage through which he could keep watch and make observations. "for," he thought, "if i see her going from her room to mine i shall know enough, as also i shall do if i see her returning from mine to hers. while, if she does neither, then it will be easy enough to discover whether she has been to that room or is in it still." he was close by the window now, having felt his way carefully to it; he proceeded slowly so as to stumble against no obstacle nor make any noise; and then he knew that, should any form, however shrouded, pass before this window he could not fail to observe it. it was not so dark outside as to prevent that; also the gleam of the stars was considerable. and as paz had done outside on the balcony last night, so he did now inside the room. he lowered himself noiselessly to the floor, kneeling on the soft carpet which this, the principal bedchamber possessed, while through a slat a foot from the ground, which he turned gently with his finger, he gazed out. at first nothing occurred. all was as still, as silent as death; save for sometimes the bark of a distant dog, the chatter of an aroused bird in the palms near by, and the occasional midnight howl of a baboon farther away. wonderfully still it was; so undisturbed, indeed, except for those sounds, that almost a breath of air might have been heard. then, after half an hour, he heard a noise. the noise being a gentle one, but still perceptible, of the rattle of the persianas belonging to some window a little distance off. and to the left of him. surely to the left of him! "she is coming," he thought, holding his breath. "coming. on her way to my room. to do what? what?" but now the silence was again intense. upon the boards of the veranda he could hear no footfall--nothing. not even the creak of one of the planks. nothing! what had she done? what was she doing? almost he thought that he could guess. could divine how she--this woman of mystery, this midnight visitor who had crouched near his bed some twenty-four hours ago, who had stolen forth from his room into the storm as a thwarted murderess might have stolen--having now reached the veranda, was pausing to make sure that all was safe; to make sure that there was nothing to thwart her; to disturb her in the doing of that--whatever it might be--which she meditated. then there did fall a sound upon his ears, yet one which he only heard because it was close to him; because also all was so still. the sound of an indrawn breath, gentle as the sigh given in its sleep by a little child, yet issuing from a breast that had long been a stranger to the innocence of childhood. an indrawn breath, that was in truth--that must be--the effect of a supreme nervousness, of fear. "who is she?" he wondered to himself, while still--his own breath held--he watched and listened. "what is she to him? she is twice his age. surely this is not the love of the hot, passionate southern woman! what can she be to him that thus she jeopardizes her life? in my place many men would shoot her dead who caught her as--as--i--shall catch her--ere long." for he knew now (as he could not doubt!) that no step was to be omitted which should remove him from desolada, from existence. "sebastian and she both know that he fills my place. well--to-night we come to an understanding. to-night i tell them that i know it too." while he thus meditated, from far down at the front of the house there once more arose the trolling of a song in sebastian's deep bass tones. a noisy song; a drinking, carousing song; one that should have had for its accompaniment the banging of drums and the braying of trombones. "bah!" muttered julian to himself, "you are too late, vagabond! shout and bellow as much as you choose--hoping thereby to drown all other sounds, such as those of stealthy feet and rattling window blinds, or to throw dust in my eyes. shout as much as you like. she is here on her evil errand--a moment later she will be in my hands." in truth it seemed to be so. past where his eyes were, there went now, as that boisterous song uprose, a black substance which obscured the great gleaming stars from them--the lower part of a woman's gown. amid the turmoil that proceeded from below, she was creeping on towards her goal. julian could scarcely restrain himself now--now that she had passed onward: almost was he constrained to thrust aside the blinds of this great window and spring out upon the woman. but he knew it was not yet the time, though it was at hand. she must be outside the window of his own room by now. the time was near. therefore, taking care that neither should his knees crack nor any other sound whatever be made by him, he rose to his feet. then, he put his hand to the side of the laths to be ready to thrust them aside and follow her. but, perhaps, because that hand was not as steady as it should have been, those laths rattled the slightest. had she heard? no! he knew that could not be, since now he heard the rattling of others--of those belonging to his own room. those would drown the lesser noise that he had made--those---- he paused in his reflections, amazed. down where his room was to the right he heard a sound greater than any which could be caused by the gentle pushing aside of a venetian blind--he heard a smothered cry, and also something that resembled a person stumbling forward, falling! then in a moment he recollected. he knew what had happened. he had forgotten to remove the cord he had stretched across the window at midday ere he slept. he had left it there, and she had fallen forward over it. in a moment he was, himself, on the veranda and outside the window of his own darkened room. in another he was in that room, had struck a match, and saw her--shrouded, hooded to the eyes--over by the door opening on to the corridor and endeavouring to unfasten it. he noticed, too, that one arm, above the wrist, was bandaged. but she was too late. he had caught her now. "so," he said, "i know who my visitor is at last, madame carmaux. and i think i know your object here. have you not dropped another phial in your fall and broken it? the room is full of the hateful odour of the amancay poison." she made him no answer, so that he felt sure she was determined not to let him hear her voice, but he felt that she was trembling all over, even as she writhed in his grasp, endeavouring to avoid it. then, knowing that words were unnecessary, he opened the door into the corridor and bade her go forth. "you know this house well and can find your way easily in the dark. meanwhile, i am now going to descend to have an explanation with the master of desolada." chapter xxvi. "you have killed him!" before however, julian descended to confront sebastian he thought it was necessary to do two things; first, to light the lamp to see how much of that accursed amancay had been spilt by the broken phial, and next--which was the more important--to recharge and look to his revolver. for he thought it very likely that after he had said all he intended to say to sebastian, he might find the weapon useful. when he had obtained a light by the aid of the matches which he was never without, he saw that his surmises were fully justified. upon the floor there lay, glistening, innumerable pieces of broken glass and the half of a broken phial, while all around the _débris_ was a small pool of liquid shining on the polished wooden floor. and from it there arose an odour so pungent and so f[oe]tid, that he began almost at once to feel coming over him the hazy, drowsy stupefaction that he had been conscious of last night. so seizing his water-jug he unceremoniously sluiced the floor with its contents, washing away and subduing the noisome exhalation; when taking his revolver from his pocket and seeing carefully to its being charged, he dropped it into his pocket again. he took with him, too, the remnants of the broken phial. "i shall only return here to pack my few things," he thought to himself, "but, all the same it is as well to have destroyed that stuff. otherwise the room would have been poisoned with it." and now--taking no light with him, for his experience of the last two hours had taught him, even had he not known it before, the way down to the garden--he descended, going out by the way that paz had led him and so around to the lower veranda. a moment later he reached it, and mounting the steps, entered the saloon in which he expected to find sebastian. the man was there, he saw at once even before he stood close by the open window. he was there, sitting at the great table where the meals were partaken of; but looking dark and brooding now. upon his face, as julian could easily perceive, there was a scowl, and in his eyes an ominous look that might have warned a less bold man than the young sailor that he was in a dangerous mood. "has she been with him already," julian wondered, "and informed him that their precious schemes are at an end, are discovered?" "ha!" exclaimed sebastian, looking fixedly at him, as now julian advanced into the room, "so you are well enough to come downstairs to-night. yet--it is a little late. you have scarcely come to sing me those wardroom songs you spoke of, i suppose!" "no," julian said, "it is not to sing songs that i am here. but to talk about serious matters. sebastian ritherdon--if you are sebastian ritherdon, which i think doubtful--you have got to give me an explanation to-night, not only of who you really are, but also of the reason why, during the time i have been in this locality, you have four times attempted my life, or caused it to be attempted." "are you mad?" the other exclaimed, staring at him with still that ominous look upon his face. "you must be to talk to me like this." "no," julian replied. "instead, perfectly sane. i was, perhaps, more or less demented last night when under the influence of the fumes of the amancay plant which had been sprinkled on my pillow, as well as on my jacket and waistcoat; and you also were more or less demented to-night when you had by an accident taken some of the poison into your system, owing to you making a meal of the doctored mountain mullet you had prepared for me--your guest. but--now--we are both recovered and--an explanation is needed." "my god!" exclaimed sebastian, "you must be mad!" yet, in his own heart, he knew well enough that never was the calm, determined-looking man before him--the man who, hitherto, had been so bright and careless, but who now stood stern as nemesis at the other end of the table--further removed from madness than he was this night. he knew and felt that it was not with a lunatic but an avenger that he had to deal. "i am not mad," julian replied calmly. "meanwhile, take your right hand out of that drawer by your side, and keep it out. pistol shots will disturb the whole house, and, if you do not do as i bid you i shall have to fire first," and he tapped his breast significantly as he spoke, so that the other could be in no doubt of his meaning. "now," he continued, when sebastian had obeyed him, he laughing with a badly assumed air of contempt as he did so, all the same, laying his large brown hand upon the table--"now," said julian, "i will tell you all that i believe to be the case in connection with you and with me, all that i know to have been the case in connection with your various attempts to injure me, and, also, all that i intend to do, to-morrow, when i reach belize and have taken the most eminent lawyer in the place into my confidence." as he mentioned the word "lawyer," sebastian started visibly; then, once more, he assumed the contemptuous expression he had previously endeavoured to exhibit, but beyond saying roughly again that julian was a madman, he made no further remark for the moment, and sat staring, or rather glaring, at the other man before him. yet, had that other man been able to thoroughly comprehend, or follow, that glance--which, owing to the lamp being between them, he was not entirely able to do--he would have seen that, instead of resting on his face, it was directed to beyond where he stood. that it went past him to away down to the farther end of the room; to where the open window was. "charles ritherdon," said julian now, "had a son born in this house twenty-six years ago, and that son was stolen within two or three days of his birth by his uncle, george ritherdon. you are not that son, and you know it. yet you know who is. you know that i am." "you lie," sebastian said with an oath; "you are an impostor. and even if what you say is true--who am i? i," he said, his voice rising now, either with anger or excitement, "who have lived here all my life, who have been known from a child by dozens of people still alive? who am i, i say?" "that at present i do not know. perhaps the lawyer to whom i confide my case will be able to discover." "lawyer! bah! a curse for your lawyers. what can you tell him, what proof produce?" and still, as he spoke, he kept his eyes fixed, as julian thought, upon him, but in absolute fact upon that portion of the room which was in shadow behind where the latter stood. upon, too--although julian knew it not, and did not, indeed, for one moment suspect such to be the case--a white face, that, peeping round the less white curtains which hung by the window, never moved the dark eyes that shone out of it from off the back of the man who confronted sebastian. fixed upon, too, the form to which that face belonged, which, even as sebastian had raised his voice, had drawn itself a few feet nearer to the other; finding shelter now behind the curtains of the next or nearest window. "i can at least produce the proofs," julian replied, his eyes still regarding the other, and knowing nothing of that creeping listener behind, "that my presence in honduras--at desolada as your invited guest--caused you so much consternation, so much dismay, that you hesitated at nothing which might remove me from your path. what will the law believe, what will these people who have known you from your infancy--as you say--think, when they learn that three times at least, if not more, you have attempting my life?" "again i say it is a lie!" sebastian muttered hoarsely. "and i can prove that it is the truth. i can prove that this woman, this accomplice of yours--this woman whom my father--not _your_ father, but _my_ father--jilted, threw away, so that he might marry isobel leigh, my mother--fired at me with a rifle known to be hers and used by her on small game. i can prove that she poisoned the meal that was to be partaken of by me; that even so late as to-night she drenched the floor of my room--as she meant again to drench the pillow on which i slept--with the deadly juice of the amancay--with this," and he held before sebastian the broken phial he had found above. "you can prove nothing," sebastian muttered hoarsely, raucously. "nothing." "can i not? i have two witnesses." "two witnesses!" the other whispered, and now indeed he looked dismayed. "two witnesses. yet--what of that, of them! even though they could prove this--which they can not--what else can they prove? even though i am not charles ritherdon's son and you are--even though such were the case--which it is not--how prove it?" "that remains to be seen. but, though it should never be proved; even though you and that murderous accomplice of yours, that discarded sweetheart of my father's, that woman who i believe, as i believe there is a god in heaven, was the prime mover in this plot----" "silence!" cried sebastian, springing to his feet now, yet still with that look in his eyes which julian did not follow; that look towards where the white corpse-faced creature was by this time--namely, five feet nearer still to julian--"silence, i say. that woman is not, shall not, be defamed by you. neither here or elsewhere. she--she--is--ah! god, she has been my guardian angel--has repaid evil for good. my father threw her off--discarded her--and she came here, forgiving him at the last in his great sorrow. she helped to rear me--his son--to----" "now," said julian, still calmly, "it is you who lie, and the lie is the worse because you know it. some trick was played on him whom you still dare to call your father, on him who was mine--never will i believe he was a party to it!--and before heaven i do believe that it was she who played it. she never forgave him for his desertion of her; she, this would be murderess--this poisoner--and--and--ah!" what had happened to him? what had occurred? as he uttered the last words, accusing that woman of being a murderess in intention, if not in fact--a poisoner--he felt a terrible concussion at the nape of his neck, a blow that sent him reeling forward towards the other side of that table against which sebastian had sat, and at which he now stood confronting him. and, dazed, numbed as this blow had caused him to become, so that now the features of the man before him--those features that were so like his own!--were confused and blurred, though with still a furious, almost demoniacal expression in them, he scarcely understood as he gave that cry that in his nostrils was once more the sickening overpowering odour of the amancay--that it was suffocating, stifling him. then with another cry, which was not an exclamation this time, but instead, a moan, he fell forward, clutching with his hands at the tablecloth, and almost dragging the lamp from off the table. fell forward thus, then sank to his knees, and next rolled senseless, oblivious to everything, upon the floor. "you have killed him!" muttered sebastian hoarsely, and with upon his face now a look of terror. "you have killed him! my god! if any others should be outside, should have seen"--while, forgetting that what he was about to do would be too late if those others might be outside of whom he had spoken, he rushed to both the windows and hastily closed the great shutters, which, except in the most violent tempests that at scarce intervals break over british honduras, were rarely used. and she, that woman standing there above her victim with her face still white as is the corpse's in its shroud, her lips flecked with specks of foam, her hands quivering, muttered in tones as hoarse as sebastian's: "killed him. ay! i hope so. curse him, there has been enough of his prying, his seeking to discover the truth of our secret. and--and--if it were not so--then, still, i would have done it. you heard--you heard--how he sneered, gloated over my despair, my abandonment by charles ritherdon, so that he might marry that child--that chit--isobel leigh. the woman who cursed, who broke my life. killed him, sebastian! killed him! yes! that at least is what i meant to do. because, heaven help me! you were not man enough to do it yourself." chapter xxvii. "i will save you." beatrix spranger sat alone in her garden at "floresta," and was the prey to disquieting, nay, to horrible, emotions and doubts. for, by this time, not only had forty-eight hours passed since she had heard from julian--forty-eight hours, which were to mark the limit of the period when, as had been arranged, she was to consider that all was still well with the latter at desolada! but also another twelve hours had gone by without any letter coming from him. and then--then--while the girl had become almost maddened, almost distraught with nervous agitation and forebodings as to some terrible calamity having occurred to the man she had learned to love--still another twelve hours had gone by, it being now three days since any news had reached her. "what shall i do?" she whispered to herself as, beneath the shade of the great palms, she sat musing; "what! what! oh! if father would only counsel me; yet, instead, he reiterates his opinion that nothing can be intended against him--that he must have gone on some sporting expedition inland, or is on his way here. if i could only believe that! if i could think so! but i know it is not the case. it cannot be. he vowed that nothing should prevent him from writing every other day so long as he was alive or well enough to crawl to the gate and intercept the mail driver; and he would keep his word. what, what," she almost wailed, "can have happened to him? can they have murdered him?" even as the horrid word "murder" rose to her thoughts--a word horrid, horrible, when uttered in the most civilized and well-protected spots on earth, but one seeming still more terrible and ominous when thought of in lawless places--there came an interruption to her direful forebodings. the parrots roosting in the branches during the burning midday heat plumed themselves, and opened their startled, staring eyes and clucked faintly, while beatrix's pet monkey--still, as ever, presenting an appearance of misery and dark despair and woe--opened its own eyes and gazed mournfully across the parched lawn. for these creatures had seen or heard that which the girl sitting there had not perceived, and had become aware that the noontide stillness was being broken by the advent of another person. yet when beatrix, aroused, cast her own eyes across the yellow grass, she observed that the newcomer was no more important person than a great negro, who carried in one hand a long whip such as the teamsters of the locality use, and in the other a letter held between his black finger and thumb. "he has written!" she exclaimed to herself, "and has sent it by this man. he is safe. oh! thank god!" while, even as she spoke, she advanced towards the black with outstretched hand. yet she was doomed to disappointment when, after many bows and smirks and a removal of his panama hat, so that he stood bareheaded in the broiling sun (which is, however, not a condition of things harmful to negroes, even in such tropical lands), the man had given her the letter, and she saw that the superscription was not in the handwriting of julian, but in that of his supposed cousin, sebastian. "what does it mean?" she murmured half aloud and half to herself, while, as she did so, the hand holding the letter fell by her side. "what does it mean?" then, speaking more loudly and clearly to the negro, "have you brought this straight from desolada?"--the very mention of that place giving her a weird and creepy sensation. "bring him with the gentleman's luggage, missy," the man replied, with the never-failing grin of his race. "gentleman finish visit there, then come on here pay little visit. steamer go back new orleans to-morrow, missy, and gentleman go in it to get to england. read letter, missy, perhaps that tell you all." the advice was as good as the greatest wiseacre could have given beatrix, in spite of its proceeding from no more astute solomon than this poor black servant, yet the girl did not at first profit by it. for, indeed, she was too stunned, almost it might be said, too paralyzed, to do that which, besides the negro's suggestion, her own common sense would naturally prompt her to do. instead, she stood staring at the messenger, her hand still hanging idly by her side, her face as white as the healthy tan upon it would permit it to become. and though she did not utter her thoughts aloud, inwardly she repeated again and again to herself, "his luggage! his luggage! and he is going back to england to-morrow. without one word to me in all these hours that have passed, and after--after--oh! without one word to me! how can he treat me so!" she had turned her face away from the negro as she thought thus, not wishing that even this poor creature should be witness of the distress she knew must be visible upon it, but now she turned towards him, saying: "go to the house and tell the servants to give you some refreshment, and wait till i come to you. i shall know what to do when i have read this letter." then she went back to her basket-chair and, sitting in the shade, tore open sebastian's note. yet, even as she did so, she murmured to herself, "it cannot be. it cannot be. he would not go and leave me like this. like this! after that day we spent together." but resolutely, now, she forced herself to the perusal of the missive. dear miss spranger (it ran): doubtless, you have heard from cousin julian (who, i understand, writes frequently to you) that he has been called back suddenly to england to join his ship, and leaves belize to-morrow, by the carib queen for new orleans. but, as you also know, he is an ardent sportsman, and said he must have one or two days' excitement with the jaguars, so he left us yesterday morning early, in company with a rather villainous servant of mine, named paz, and, as i promised him i would do, i now send on his luggage to your father's house, where doubtless he will make his appearance in the course of the day. i wish, however, he could have been induced to stay a little longer with us, and i also wish he had not taken paz, who is a bad character, and, i believe, does not like him. however, ju is a big, powerful fellow, and can, of course, take care of himself. with kind regards to mr. spranger and yourself, i am, always yours sincerely, sebastian ritherdon. beatrix let the note fall into her lap and lie there for a moment, while in her clear eyes there was a look of intense thought as they stared fixedly at the thirsty, drooping flamboyants and almandas around her: then suddenly she started to her feet, standing erect and determinate, the letter crushed in her hand. "it is a lie," she said to herself, "a lie from beginning to end. written to hoodwink me--to throw dust in my eyes--to--to--keep me quiet. 'paz does not like him,' she went on, 'paz does not like him.' no, sebastian, it is you whom he does not like, and to use jul--mr. ritherdon's own quaint expression--you have 'given yourself away.' well! so be it. only if you--you treacherous snake! have not killed him with the help of that other snake, that woman, your accomplice, we will outwit you yet." and she went forward swiftly beneath the shade of the trees to the house. "where is that man?" she asked of another servant, one of her own and as ebony as he who had brought the luggage and the letter; "send him to me at once." then, when the messenger from desolada stood before her, she said: "tell mr. ritherdon you have delivered his letter, and that i have read and understand it. you remember those words?" the negro grinned and bowed and, perhaps to show his marvellous intelligence and memory, repeated the words twice, whereon beatrix continued: "that is well. be sure not to forget the message. now, have you brought in the luggage?" for answer the other glanced down the long, darkened, and consequently more or less cool hall, and she, following that glance, saw standing at the end of it a cabin trunk with, upon it, a gladstone bag as well as a rifle. then, after asking the man if he had been provided with food and drink, she bade him begone. yet, recognising that if, as she feared, if indeed, as she felt sure beyond the shadow of a doubt, julian ritherdon was in some mortal peril (that he was dead she did not dare to, would not allow herself to, think nor believe) no time must be wasted, she gave orders that the buggy should be got ready at once to take her into the city to her father's offices. "he," she thought, "is the only person who can counsel me as to what is best, to do. and surely, surely, he will not attempt to prevent me from sending, nay, from taking assistance, to julian. and if he does, then--then--i must tell him that i love----" but, appalled even at the thought of having to make use of such a revelation, she would not conclude the sentence, though there were none to hear it. instead, she walked back into the garden, and, seating herself, resolved that she would think of nothing that might unnerve her or cause her undue agitation before she saw her father; and so sat waiting calmly until they should come to tell her that the carriage was ready. but she did not know, as of course it was impossible that she should know, that drawing near to her was another woman who would bring her such information of what had recently taken place at desolada as would put all surmises and speculations as to why sebastian ritherdon's letter had been written--the lying letter, as she had accurately described it--into the shade. a woman who would tell her that if murder had not yet been done in the remote and melancholy house, it was intended to be done, was brewing; would be done ere long, if julian ritherdon did not succumb to the injuries inflicted on him by madame carmaux. one who would give her such information that she would be justified in calling upon the authorities of belize to instantly take steps to proceed to desolada, and (then and there) to render sebastian and his accomplice incapable of further crimes. a woman--zara--who almost from daybreak had set out from the lonely hacienda with the determination of reaching belize somehow and of warning beatrix, the englishman's friend, of the danger that threatened that englishman; above all, and this the principal reason, with the determination of saving sebastian from the commission of a crime which, once accomplished, could never be undone. yet, also, in her scheming, half-indian brain, there had arisen other thoughts, other hopes. "she loves him; this cold, pale-faced english girl loves sebastian," she thought, still cherishing that delusion as she made her way sometimes along the dusty road, sometimes through copses and groves and thickets, all the paths of which she knew. "she loves him. but," and as this reflection rose in her mind her scarlet lips parted with a bitter smile, and her little pearl-like teeth glistened, "when she knows, when i show her how cruel, how wicked he has intended to be to that other man, so like him yet so different, then--then--ah! then, she will hate him." and again she smiled, even as she pursued her way. "she will hate him--these english can hate, though they know not what real love means--and then when he finds he has lost her, he will--perhaps--love me. ah!" and at the thought of the love she longed so for, her eyes gleamed more softly, more starlike, in the dim dawn of the forest glade. "i shall save him--i shall save him from a crime--then--he--will--love me." and still the look upon her face was ecstatic. "will marry me. my blood is indian, not negro--'tis that alone with which these english will not mix theirs; the negro women alone with whom they will never wed. ah! sebastian," she murmured, "i must save you from a crime and--from her." and so she went on and on, seeing the daffodil light of the coming day spreading itself all around; feeling the rays of the swift-rising sun striking through the forests, and parching everything with their fierceness, but heeding nothing of her surroundings. for she thought only of making the "cold, pale-faced english girl" despise the man whom she hungered for herself, and of one other thing--the means whereby to prevent him from doing that which might deprive him of his liberty--of his life and--also, deprive her of him. chapter xxviii. "i live to kill him." still she went on, unhalting and resolute, feeling neither fatigue nor heat, or, if she felt them, ignoring them. she was resolved to reach belize, or to fall dead upon the road or in the forests while attempting to do so. and thus she came at last to all pines, seeing the white inn gleaming in the first rays of the sun, it being now past six o'clock; while although her thirst was great, she determined that she would not go near it. she was known too well there as the girl, zara, from desolada, and also as she who acted as croupier for all the dissipated young planters who assembled at the inn to gamble, she doing so especially for sebastian when he held the bank. she would be recognized at once and her presence commented on. yet she must pass near it, go through the village street to get forward on her way to belize; she could only pray in her half-savage way that there might be none about who would see her, while, even as she did so, she knew that her chances of escaping observation were of the smallest. in such broiling lands as those of which honduras formed one, the earliest and the latest hours of the day are the hours which are the most utilized because of their comparative coolness and consequently few are asleep after sunrise. yet, she told herself, perhaps after all it was not of extreme importance whether she was recognised or not. by to-night, if all went well, and if the pale-faced english girl and her father had any spirit in them, they would have taken some steps to prevent that which was meditated at desolada on this very night. and, if they had not that spirit, then she herself would utter some warning, would herself see the "old judge man," and tell him her story. perhaps he would listen to it and believe her even though she was but half-breed trash, as those of her race were termed contemptuously as often as not. but, now, as she drew nearer to the village street, and to where the inn stood, she started in dismay at what she saw outside the door. an animal that she recognised distinctly, not only by itself but by the saddle on its back and the long mexican stirrups, and also by its colour and flowing mane. she recognised the favourite horse of sebastian, the one he always rode, standing at the inn door. at first a sickening suspicion came to her mind; a fear which she gave utterance to in the muttered words: "he has followed me. he knows that i have set out for belize." then she dismissed the suspicion as impossible. for she remembered that sebastian had been absent from desolada all the previous day, and had not returned by the time when the others had gone to rest; she thought now (and felt sure that she had guessed aright) that he had slept at the inn all night, and was about to return to desolada in the cool of the morning. determined, however, to learn what the master of that horse--and of her--was about to do, and above all, which direction he went off in when he came outside, she crept on and on down the street until at last she was nearly in front of the inn door. then, lithe and agile as a cat, she stole behind a great barn which stood facing the _plaza_, and so was enabled to watch the opposite house without any possibility of being herself seen from it. that something of an exciting nature had been taking place within the house (even as zara had sought the shelter behind which she was now ensconced) she had been made aware by the loud voices and cries she heard--voices, too, that were familiar to her, as she thought. and about one of those voices she had no doubt--could have no doubt--since it was that of the man she loved, sebastian. then, presently, even as she watched the inn through a crack in the old and sun-baked barn-door, the turmoil increased; she heard a scuffling in the passage, more cries and shouts, sebastian's objurgations rising above all, and, a moment later, the girl saw the latter dragging paz out into the open space in front of the inn. and he was shaking him as a mastiff might shake a rat that had had the misfortune to find itself in his jaws. "you hound!" he cried, even as he did so; "you will lurk about desolada, will you, at light; prying and peering everywhere, as though there were something to find out. and because you are reproved, you endeavour to run away to belize. what for, you treacherous dog? what for? answer me, i say," and again he shook the half-caste with one hand, while with the other he rained down blows upon his almost grey head. but, since the man was extremely lithe, in spite of his age, many of the blows missed their mark; while taking advantage of the twists and turns which he, eel-like, was making in his master's hands, he managed during one of them to wrench himself free from sebastian. and then, then--zara had to force her hands over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming out in terror. and she had to exercise supreme control over herself also so that she should not rush forth from her hiding-place and spring at paz. for, freed from his tyrant's clutches, he had darted back from him, and a second later, with a swift movement of his hand to his back, had drawn forth a long knife that glistened in the morning sun. what he said, what his wild words were, cannot be written down, since most of them were uttered in the maya dialect; yet amid them were some that were well understood by zara and sebastian; perhaps also by the landlord of the inn and the two or three half-caste servants huddled near him, all of them giving signs of the most intense excitement and fear. and zara, hearing those words, threw up her hands and covered her face, while sebastian, his own face white as that of a corpse's in its shroud, staggered back trembling and shuddering. "you know," the latter whispered, "you know that! you know?" and his hand stole into his open shirt. yet he drew nothing forth; he did not produce that which zara dreaded each instant to see. in truth the man was paralyzed, partly by paz's words--yet, doubtless, even more so by the look upon his face--and by his actions. for now paz was creeping toward the other, even as the panther creeps through the jungle toward the victim it is about to spring upon; the knife clutched in his hand, upon his face a gleam of hate so hideous, a look in his topaz eyes so horrible, that sebastian stood rooted to the ground. while from his white and foam-flecked lips, the man hissed: "shoot. shoot, curse you! but shoot straight. into either my heart or head--for if you miss me!--if you miss me--" and he sprang full on the other, the knife raised aloft. sprang at him as the wild cat springs at the hunter who has tracked it to the tree it has taken refuge in, and when it recognises that for it there is no further shelter--his face a very hell of savage rage and spite; his scintillating, sparkling eyes the eyes of an infuriated devil. and sebastian, cowed--struck dumb with apprehension of such a foe--a thing half-human and half a savage beast--forgot to draw his revolver from his breast and seemed mad with dismay and terror. yet he must do something, he knew, or that long glittering blade would be through and through him, with probably his throat cut from ear to ear the moment he was down. he must do something to defend, to save himself. recognising this even in his mortal terror, he struck out blindly--whirling, too, his arms around in a manner that would have caused an english boxer to roar with derision, had he not also been paralyzed with the horror of paz's face and actions. he struck out blindly, therefore, not knowing what he was doing, and dreading every instant that he would feel the hot bite of the steel in his flesh, and--so--saved himself. for in one of those wild, uncalculated blows, his right fist alighted on paz's jaw, and, because of his strength, which received accession from his maddened fury and fear, felled the half-caste to the earth, where he lay stunned and moaning; the deadly knife beneath him in the dust. for an instant sebastian paused, his trembling and bleeding hand again seeking his breast, and his fury prompting him to pistol the man as he lay there before him. but he paused only for a moment, while as he did so, he reflected that if he slew the man who was at his mercy now it would be murder--and that murder done before witnesses--then turned away to where his horse stood, and, flinging himself into the saddle, rode off swiftly to desolada. as he disappeared, zara came forth from behind the door where she had been lurking, an observer of all that had taken place, and forgetting, or perhaps heedless, of whether she was now seen or not, ran toward paz and lifted his head up in her arms. "paz, paz," she whispered in their own jargon. "paz, has he killed you? answer." from beneath her the man looked up bewildered still, and half-stunned by the blow; then, after a moment or so, he muttered, "no, no! i live--to--to kill him yet." and zara hearing those words shuddered, for since they were both of the same half wild and savage blood, she knew that unless she could persuade him to forego his revenge, he would do just as he had said, even though he waited twenty years for its accomplishment. "no," she said, "no. you must not. not yet, at least, paz, promise me you will not. i--i--you know--i love him. for my sake--mine, paz, promise." "i do worse," said paz, "i ruin him--drive him away. zara, i know his secret--now." "what secret?" "who he is. ah!--" for zara had clapped her little brown hand over his mouth, as though she feared he was going to shout out that secret before the landlord of the inn and his servants, all of whom were still hovering near. "ah, i not tell it now. but to the other--the cousin--i tell it. because i--know it, zara." "so," she whispered, "do i. but not now. do not tell it now. paz, i go to belize to fetch succour. he will kill _him_ if it comes not soon." "he will kill him to-night, perhaps. i, too, was going to belize." "where is he now?" the girl asked; "where is the handsome cousin? where have they put him?" "in the room at end of corridor, with the steps outside to garden. easy bring him down them." "will he die?" "not of wound," the man said, his eyes sparkling again, but this time with intelligence, with suggestion. "not of wound--but--of--what--they--do--to-night." "i must go," zara cried, springing to her feet. "i must go. every minute is gold, and--it is many miles." "take the mule," paz said. "it is there. there," and he glanced towards the stables. "take him. he go fast." "i will take him," she replied, "but--but--promise me, paz, that you will do nothing until i return. nothing--no harm to him. else i will not go." "i will promise," the man said, rising now to his feet, and staggering a little from his giddiness. "i will promise--you. yet, i look after him--i take care he do very little more harm now." "keep him but from evil till to-night--till to-morrow, let him not hurt mr. ritherdon, then all will be well." and accompanied by paz, she went toward the stable where his mule was. it took but little time for the girl to spring to its back, to ride it out at a sharp trot from the open plaza, and, having again extorted a promise from paz, to be once more on her road toward belize--she not heeding now the fierceness of the rays of the sun, which was by this time mounting high in the heavens. and so at last she drew near to "floresta," which she knew well enough was mr. spranger's abode; near to where the other girl was causing preparations to be made for reaching her father and telling him what she had learned through the arrival of the negro--she never dreaming of the further revelations that were so soon to be made to her. revelations by the side of which the lying letter and the lying action of sebastian in sending forward julian's luggage would sink into insignificance. she sat on in her garden, waiting now for the groom to come and tell her that the buggy was ready--sat on amid all the drowsy noontide heat, and then, when once more the parrots rustled their feathers, and the monkey opened its mournful eyes, she heard behind her a footstep on the grass; a footstep coming not from the house but behind her, from an entrance far down at the end of the tropical garden. and, looking around, she saw close to her the girl zara, her face almost white now, and her clothes covered with dust. "what is it?" beatrix cried, springing to her feet. "what brings you here? i know you, you are zara; you come from desolada." "yes," the other answered, "i come from desolada. from desolada, where to-night murder will be done--if it is not prevented." chapter xxix. the watching figure. with a gasp, beatrix took a step toward the other, while as she did so the latter almost uttered a moan herself; though her agitation proceeded from a different cause--from, in truth, her appreciation of how wide a gulf there was between them. between them who both loved the same man! between this dainty english girl, who looked so fresh and fair, and was dressed in so spotless and cool a garb, and her who was black and swarthy, her who was clad almost in rags, and covered with the dust and grime of a long journey made partly on foot and partly on the mule's back. what chance was there for her, what hope, she asked herself, that sebastian should ever love her instead of this other? "murder will be done!" beatrix exclaimed, repeating zara's words, even while a faintness stole over her that she thought must be like the faintness of coming death. "murder will be done. to whom? to mr.--to lieutenant ritherdon?" "yes," zara answered, standing there before the other, and feeling ashamed as she did so of the appearance she must present to her rival, as she deemed her. "yes, murder. the murder of lieutenant ritherdon. but, if you have courage, if you have any power, it may be prevented. and--and--you love him! i know it. there must be no crime. you love him!" she repeated fiercely. astonished that the girl should know her secret, unable to understand how she could have learned it, unless for some reason, lieutenant ritherdon might have hinted that he hoped such was the case; abashed at the secret being known, beatrix could but stammer: "yes--yes--i love him." "i love him, too!" zara exclaimed fiercely, hotly; she neither stammering, nor appearing to be put to shame. "i love him too. there must be no crime----" "you love him!" beatrix repeated, startled. "with my whole heart and soul. do you think our hot blood is not as capable of love as the cold blood that runs in your veins?" but beatrix could only whisper again, amazed, "you love him too!" "i have loved him all my life," zara said. "i have always loved him. and i will save him." then beatrix understood how they were at cross-purposes, and that this half-savage girl was here, not to save julian from being murdered so much as to save sebastian from becoming a murderer. "tell me all," she said faintly, sinking into her chair, while she motioned to zara to seat herself in one of the others that stood close by. "tell me all that has happened. then i shall know perhaps what i am to do." and zara, smothering in her heart the hatred that she felt against this other girl so much more fair and attractive than she, she who was but a peasant, almost a slave, while her rival had wealth and bright surroundings--told her all she knew. she narrated how she had watched by day and night to see that no harm was done to the stranger staying at desolada: how, sometimes, she had slept on the upper veranda and sometimes in the grounds and gardens, being ever on the watch. and then she told the story of all that had happened, of how madame carmaux had tried to shoot julian in the copse and had herself been struck in the arm by a bullet from paz's rifle, but to avoid suspicion had, on her return to the house, commenced arranging flowers in a bowl with one hand, she keeping the other, which zara knew she had hastily bandaged up, out of sight. she told, too, the whole story of the amancay poison, and described the final scene in the lower room which she had witnessed from the garden where she stood hidden. "and now," she cried, "now they will kill him to-night, get rid of him forever, if, before night comes, help does not reach him." "what will they do?" asked beatrix, white to the lips, and trembling all over as she had trembled from the first. "poison him with that hateful amancay--or--or----" "i know not, but they will kill him. they will not keep him there. instead, perhaps, carry him to one of the lagoons where the alligators are, or to the sea where the white sharks are, or----" "come, come!" cried beatrix, with a shriek of horror. "come at once to my father in the city. oh! in mercy, come--there is not an hour, not a moment, to be lost!" she had seen, almost directly after zara had made her appearance, the groom come out from the house, and understood that he was approaching to tell her that the buggy was prepared, but by a motion of her hand she had made the man understand that she was not ready. but, now, she must go at once, and she must take this girl with her--that was all important. for surely, when some of the legal authorities in belize had heard the tale which zara could tell, they would instantly send assistance to julian. "come!" she cried again. "come! we must go to the city at once." "it will save--him?" zara asked, her thoughts still upon the man who must be prevented at all hazards from committing a horrible crime, and supposing in her ignorance that it was also the desire to prevent that man from committing this crime which made beatrix so anxious. "it will save--him?" "yes," beatrix answered. "yes. it will save him." the night had come, suddenly, swiftly, as it always does in southern lands. half an hour earlier a band of twenty people had been riding as swiftly as the heat would permit along the dusty white thread, which was the road that led past all pines on toward desolada--now the same band was progressing beneath the swift-appearing stars overhead. the breeze, too, which, not long before, had burnt them with its fiery sun-struck breath, came cool and fresh and grateful at this time, since it was no longer laden with heat; while from all the wealth of vegetation around, there were, distilled by the night dews, the luscious scents and odours that the flowers of the region possess. a band of twenty people--of eighteen men and two women--who, now that night had fallen, rode more swiftly than they had done before, the trot of the horses being accompanied by the clang of scabbard against boot and spur, of jangling bridle and bridle-chain. for among them was a small troop of constabulary headed by an officer, as well as a handful of the police. also, mr. spranger formed one of the number. the two women were beatrix and zara, the former having insisted on her father allowing her to accompany the force. when beatrix had caused zara to go with her to mr. spranger's offices, and then to tell him her tale--a tale supplemented by the former's own account of the letter from sebastian accompanied by julian's luggage--that gentleman had at once agreed that there was no time to be lost if julian was to be saved from any further designs against him. of course, he and all the government officials were well acquainted with each other, the governor included, but it was to the chief justice that he at once made his way, accompanied by zara, who had to tell her tale for a second time to that representative of authority and law. then the rest was easy--instructions were given to the commandant of constabulary and the superintendent of police, and the force set out. meanwhile, the latter was provided with a warrant (although neither beatrix nor zara was aware that such was the case) for the arrest of both sebastian ritherdon and madame carmaux on a charge of attempted murder. and now as the little band passed all pines, zara, who rode close by beatrix's side, whispered in the latter's ear that she was about to quit them; she knew, she said, bypaths that she could thread which the others could not do, or in doing, would only make very slow progress. "but," she concluded, still in a whisper, and with her dark face as close to the fair one of the english girl as she could place it--"i shall be there when you all arrive. and by then i shall know what has been done, or what is to be done. he must not kill him; we must stop that. we love him too well for that." and, ere beatrix could answer, the other had disappeared into the denseness of the forest, it seeming as though she had power to impart to the beast which she bestrode her own mysterious and subtle methods of movement. at first, she was not missed by any of the others, mr. spranger being the earliest to do so; but by the time he had observed that she was gone, they had drawn so near to the object of their visit that, even if her absence was noticed, very little remark was made. for now they were, as most in the band knew, on the outskirts of the plantations around desolada; soon they would be within those plantations and threading their way toward the house itself. what was noticed, however, as now their horses trod on the soft luxurious grass beneath their feet--so gently that the thud of their hoofs became entirely deadened--was that a man, who had certainly not accompanied them from belize, was doing so at this moment, and that, as they wended their way slowly, this man, who was on foot, walked side by side with them. "who are you?" asked the officer in command of the constabulary, bending down from his horse to look at the newcomer, and observing that he was a half-caste. "do you belong to this property?" "i did," that newcomer said, looking up at the other. "i did--but not now. now i belong to you. to the government, the police." "so! you desire to give information. is that it? "yes. that is it." "what can you tell?" "that the englishman not there--that he taken away already, i think----" "it is not so," a voice whispered close to his ear, yet one sufficiently loud to be heard by all. "it is not so." and, looking round, every one saw the dark, starlike eyes of zara gleaming through the darkness at them. "he is there--but he will not be for long if you do not make haste." from one of her hearers--from beatrix--there came a gasp; from the rest only a few muttered sentences that there was no time to be lost; that they must attack the house at once, and call on the inhabitants to come forth and give an account of themselves. then, once more, the order was issued for the cavalcade to advance. and silently they did so, beatrix being placed in the rear, so that if any violence should be offered, or any resistance, she should not be exposed to it more than was necessary. but there was little or no sign at present of the likelihood of such resistance being made. instead, desolada presented now an appearance worthy of its mournful name. for all was darkened in and around it; the windows of the lower floor, especially the windows of the great saloon, from which, or from its veranda, the light of the lamp had streamed forth nightly, were all closed and shuttered; nowhere was a glimmer to be seen. and also the door in the middle of the veranda was closed--a circumstance that certainly during the summer, would have been unusual in any abode in british honduras. all were close to the steps of the veranda now, and the officer in command of the constabulary, dismounting from his horse, strode up on to the latter, while beating upon the door with his clenched fist, he called out that he required to see mr. ritherdon at once. a summons to which no answer was returned. "if," this person said, looking around on those behind him, and whose forms he could but dimly see--"if no answer is returned, we shall be forced to break the door down or blow the lock off. into the house we must get." "there is now," said mr. spranger, who had also dismounted and joined him, "a figure on the balcony of the floor above. it has come out from one of the windows. but i cannot see whether it is man or woman." "a figure!" cried the other, darting out at once on to the path beneath, so that thus he could gaze up to the higher balcony. "a figure!" and then, raising his eyes, he saw that mr. spranger had spoken accurately. for, against the darkness of the night, and the darkness of the house too, there was perceptible some other darker, deeper blur which was undoubtedly the form of a person gazing down at them. a form surmounted by something that was a little, though not much, whiter than its surroundings; something that all who gazed upon it knew to be a human face. chapter xxx. beyond passion's bound. a human face was gazing down on them from where the body beneath crouched, as though kneeling against the rails of the veranda--a face from which more than one in that band thought they could see the eyes glistening. yet, from it no sound issued, only--only--still the white face grew more perceptible and stood out more clearly in the blackness, as the others continued to stare at it, and the eyes seemed to glitter with a greater intensity. "come down," cried up the officer now, directing his voice toward where it lurked, "come down and let us in. we have important business with mr. ritherdon." but still no reply nor sound was heard. "come down," the other said again, "and at once, or we shall force an entrance; we shall lose no time." then from that dark, indistinct mass there did come some whispered words; words clear enough, however, to be heard by those below. "who are you?" that voice demanded, "and what do you want?" "we want," the officer replied, "mr. ritherdon. and also, madame carmaux, his housekeeper, and the englishman who has been staying here." "the englishman has gone away, back to england, and mr. ritherdon is at belize----" "liar!" all heard another voice murmur in their midst, while looking around, they saw that zara was still there, standing beside the horses and gazing up toward the balcony. "liar! both are in the house." then in a moment she had crept away, and stolen toward where beatrix, who had also left the saddle, stood, while, seizing her arm she whispered, "follow me. now is the time." "to him?" "yes," zara said--"yes, to him. to him you love. you do love him, do you not?" "ah, yes! ah, yes! oh, save him! save him!" "come," said zara--and beatrix thought that as the other spoke now, her voice had changed. as, indeed it had. for (still thinking that the english girl could have but one man in her thoughts, and he the one whom she herself loved and hated alternately--the latter passion being testified by the manner in which she had, in a moment of impulse, given him the physic-nut oil and the poisoned mullet) her blood had coursed like wildfire through her veins at hearing beatrix's avowal, and her voice had become choked. for beatrix had forgotten in the excitement of the last few hours to undeceive the girl; had forgotten, indeed, the cross-purposes at which they had been that morning in the garden at "floresta;" and thus zara still deemed that they were rivals--deemed, too, that this white-faced rival was the favoured one. "she loves him," she muttered to herself, her heart and brain racked with torture and with passion; "she loves him. she loves him. and he loves her! but--she shall never have him, nor he her. come," she cried again, savagely this time. "come, then, and see him. and--love him. it will not be for long," she added to herself. whereupon she drew beatrix away toward the back of the house, going around by the farthest side of it, and on, until, at last, they stood at the foot of the stairs outside that gave access to the floor above, on that farthest side. here, they were quite remote from the parley that was going on between those who were in the front and the dark shrouded figure on the veranda above; yet beatrix noticed that, still, they were not alone. for, as they approached those outside stairs she saw three or four dark forms vanish away from them, and steal farther into the obscurity of the night. "who are those?" she asked timorously, nervously, as she watched their retreating figures. "men," said zara, "who to-night will take the englishman, tied and bound, out to the sea in sebastian's boat, and sink him." "oh, my god!" wailed beatrix, nearly fainting. "oh! oh!" "if we do not prevent it. if _i_ do not prevent it." then, suddenly, before beatrix could put her foot on the steps as zara had directed her to do, as well as ascend them, she felt her arm grasped by the latter, and heard her whisper: "stop! before we mount to where he is--tell me--tell me truthfully, has--has he told you he loves you?" "no----" "you lie!" "i do not lie," beatrix replied, hotly, scornfully; "i never lie. but, since you will have the truth--i cannot understand why, what affair it is of yours--although he has not told me, i know it. love can be made known without words." her own words struck like a dagger to the other's heart--nay, they did worse than that. they communicated a spark to the heated, maddening passions which until now, or almost until now, had lain half-slumbering and dormant in that heart; they roused the bitterest, most savage feelings that zara's half-savage heart had nurtured. "she scorns me," she said to herself, "she despises me because she knows she possesses his love, the love made known without words. because she is sure of him. ay, and so she shall be--but not in life. 'what affair is it of mine?'" she brooded. "she shall see. she shall see." then, as once more she motioned beatrix to follow her up those stairs, she, unseen by the latter, dropped her right hand into the bosom of her dress, and touched something that lay within it. "she shall see," she said again. "she shall see." above, in that obscure, gloomy corridor to which they now entered--the corridor which more than once had struck a chill even to the bold heart of julian ritherdon, when he sojourned in the house--all was silent and sombre, so that one might have thought that they stood upon the first floor of some long-neglected mansion from which the inhabitants had departed years before; while the darkness was intense. and, whatever might have been the effect of the weirdness of the place upon the nerves of zara, strung up as those nerves now were to tragic pitch, upon beatrix, at least, it was intense. a great black bat, the wind from whose passing wing fanned her cheek and caused her to utter a startled exclamation, added some feeling of ghastly terror to the surroundings, while, also, the company in which she was, the company of a half-indian savage girl charged with tempestuous passions, contributed to her alarm. yet, on the silence there broke now some sounds, they coming from the front part of the house; the sound of voices, of a hurried conversation, of sentences rapidly exchanged. "you hear," hissed zara in the other's ear--"you hear--and understand? 'tis she--carmaux. and, as ever, she lies. as her life has always been, so is her tongue now." then beatrix heard madame carmaux saying from the balcony: "he has returned. he is coming, i tell you. but just now he has ridden to the stables behind. he will be with you at once. he will explain all. wait but a few moments more." "it must be but a very few then," the girl heard in reply, she recognising the voice of the commandant of the constabulary. "very few. he must indeed explain all. otherwise we force our entrance. not more than five minutes will be granted." "you understand?" whispered zara, "you understand? she begs time so that--so that--the englishman shall be taken to his death. when he is gone, sebastian will show himself." though, to her own heart she added, "never." "i can bear no more," gasped beatrix; "i must see him. go to him." "nay," replied zara, "he comes to you. observe. look behind you--the way we came." and, looking behind her as the other bade, even while she trembled all over in her fear and excitement, she saw that sebastian had himself mounted the stairs outside the house, and was preparing to pass along the passage; to pass by them. yet, ere he did so, she saw, too, that behind him were those misty forms of the natives which she had observed to vanish at their approach below; she heard him speak to them; heard, too, the words he said. "when i whistle, come up and bear him away. you know the rest. to my yawl, then a mile out to sea and--then--sink him. now go, but be ready." whereon he turned to proceed along the passage, and, even in her terror, beatrix could see that he bore in his hand a little lantern from which the smallest of rays was emitted. a lantern with which, perhaps, he wished to observe if his victim still lived, since surely he, who had dwelt in this house all his life, needed no light to assist him in finding his way about it. "he will see us. he will see us," murmured beatrix. "he will never see us again," answered zara, and as she spoke, she drew the other into the deep doorway of one of the bedrooms. "never again," while looking down at her from her greater height, beatrix saw that her right hand was at her breast, and that in it something glistened. and, now, sebastian was close to them, going on to the room at the end of the passage. he was in front of them. he was passing them. "it is your last farewell," said zara. and ere. beatrix could shriek, "no. no!" divining the girl's mistake; ere, too, she could make any attempt to restrain her, zara had sprung forth from the embrasure of the doorway, the long dagger gleaming in her hand, as the sickly rays of sebastian's lamp shone on it, and had buried it in his back, he springing around suddenly with a hoarse cry as she did so--his hands clenched and thrust out before him--in his eyes an awful glare. then with a gasp he sank to the floor, the lamp becoming extinguished as he did so. whereby, zara did not understand that, lying close by the man whom she had slain, or attempted to slay, was beatrix, who had swooned from horror, and then fallen prostrate. sebastian had carried his white drill jacket over his arm as he advanced along the passage, he having taken it off as he mounted the steps, perhaps with the view of being better able to assist the indians in the task of removing julian when he should summon them. and zara, full of hate as she was; full, too, of rage and jealousy as she had been at the moment before she stabbed him, as well as at the moment when she did so, had observed such to be the case, when, instantly, there came into her astute brain an idea that, through this circumstance, might be wreaked a still more deadly vengeance on sebastian for his infidelity to her. "he would have sent that other to his death in the sea," she thought; "now--false-hearted jaguar--that death shall be yours. if the knife has not slain you, the water shall." whereupon, quick as lightning, she seized the jacket and disappeared with it down the corridor, entering at the end of the latter a room in which julian lay wounded and bound upon a bed. a room in which there burnt a candle, by the light of which she saw that he who was a prisoner there was asleep. without pausing to awaken him, she took from off a nail in the room the navy white jacket that julian had worn--which like sebastian's own was stained somewhat with blood--and, seizing it in one hand and the candle in the other, went back to where sebastian lay. "i cannot put it on him," she muttered, "as he lies thus; still, it will suffice. the indians will think it is the other in this light, since both are so alike." after which she crept down the passage to the stairs, and, whistling softly, called up the men outside to her, there being five of them. "he is here," she whispered as they approached sebastian. "here. waste no time; away with him," while they, with one glance at the prostrate body, prepared to obey her, knowing how sebastian confided many things to her. but one of that five never took his eyes off the girl, and seeing that from beneath the jacket there protruded a hand on which was a ring--a ring well known by all around desolada--he drew the jacket over that hand, covering it up. yet, as he did so, he contrived also to disarrange the portion that lay over sebastian's face--and--to see that face. whereupon, upon his own there came an awful look of gloating, even as the indians bent down and, lifting their burden, departed with it. "at last," he whispered to zara, "at last. you not endure longer?" "no," the girl replied. "no longer. he loved that--that--other--and--and--i slew him. now, paz, go--and--sink him beneath the sea forever." "yes. yes. i sink him. he knew not paz was near, but paz never forget. i sink him deep. but, outside--i take ring away so that indians not know. oh, yes, he sink very deep. paz never forget." chapter xxxi. "the man i love." recovering her consciousness, beatrix perceived that she was alone. yet, dimmed though her senses were by the swoon in which she had lain, she was able to observe that some change had taken place in the corridor since she fell prostrate. sebastian ritherdon's body was gone now, but the little lamp which he had carried lay close to the spot where she had seen him fall, while near to it, and standing on the floor, was a candlestick. within it was a candle, which showed to her startled eyes something which almost caused her to faint again; something that formed a small pool upon the shiny, polished floor. and then as she saw the hateful thing, the recollection of all that had happened returned to her, as well as the recollection of other things. "he was going to the end of the passage," she said to herself as, rising, she drew her skirts closely about her so that they should not come into contact with that shining, hideous pool at her feet; "therefore, julian must be there. oh, to reach him, to help him to escape from this horrid, awful house!" whereon, snatching up the candlestick from the floor, she proceeded swiftly to the end of the corridor; while, seeing that, far down it, there was one door open, she naturally directed her footsteps to that. then, as she held the light above her head, she saw that on a bed there lay a man asleep, or in a swoon--or dead! a man whose eyes were closed and whose face was deadly white, yet who was beyond doubt julian ritherdon. "oh, julian!" she gasped, yet with sufficient restraint upon herself to prevent her voice from awaking him. "oh, julian! to find you at last, but to find you thus," and she took a step forward toward where the bed was, meaning to gaze down upon him and to discover if he was in truth alive or not. yet she was constrained to stop and was stayed in her first attempt to cross the room, by the noise of swift footsteps behind her and by the entrance of zara, whose wild beauty appeared now to have assumed an almost demoniacal expression. for the girl's eyes gleamed as the eyes of those in a raging fever gleam; her features were working terribly, and her whole frame seemed shaken with emotion. "it is done!" she cried exultingly--there being a tone of almost maniacal derision in her voice. "it is done. in two hours he will be dead. and i have kept my word to you. you loved him, and you desired to see him. well, you have seen him! did you take," she almost screamed in her frenzy, "a long, last farewell? i hope so, since you will never take another," and in her fury of despair she thrust her face forward and almost into the other's. but, now, hers was not the only wild excitement in the room. for beatrix, recognising to what an extreme the girl's jealousy had wrought her, and what terrible deed she had been guilty of, herself gave a slight scream as she heard the other's words, and then cried: "madwoman! fool! you are deceived. you have deceived yourself. i never loved him. nor thought of him. this man lying here, this man whom he would have murdered, is the one i love with all my heart; this is the man i came to save." then as she spoke, julian--who was now either awake or had emerged from the torpor in which he had been lying--cried from out of the darkness: "beatrix, beatrix, oh, my darling!" whereon she, forgetting that in her excitement she had proclaimed her love, forgetting all else but that her lover was safe, rushed toward where he lay, uttering words of thankfulness and delight at his safety. yet, when a moment later they looked toward the place where zara had been, they saw that she was gone. for, slight as was the glimmer from the candle, it served to show that she was no longer there; that in none of the deep shadows of the room was she lurking anywhere. she had, indeed, rushed from the room on hearing beatrix's avowal, a prey to fresh excitement now, and to fresh horrors. "i have slain him in my folly," she muttered wildly to herself. "i have slain him. and--and, at last, i might have won him. god help me!" then she directed her footsteps toward where she knew madame carmaux was, toward where her ears told her that, below the balcony on which the woman stood, they were making preparations to break into the house. already, she could hear the hammering and beating on the great door from without; and, so hearing, thought they must be using some tree or sapling wherewith to break it in. she recognised, too, the commandant's voice, as he gave orders to one of his men to blow the lock off with his carbine. but without pause, without stopping for one instant, she rushed into the room and out upon the balcony where, seizing madame carmaux by the arm, she cried: "let them come in. it matters not. sebastian is dead, or will be dead ere long. i deemed him false to me, as in truth he was. i have sent him to his doom. the indians have taken him away to drown him, thinking he is that other." then from a second woman in that house there arose that night a piercing heartbroken cry, the cry of a woman who has heard the most awful news that could come to her, a cry followed by the words--as, throwing her hands up above her head, she sank slowly down on to the floor of the veranda-- "you have slain him--you have sent him to his doom? oh, sebastian! oh, my son!" "yes, your son," said zara. "your son." "it is impossible," they both heard a voice say behind them, the voice of julian, as now he entered the room with beatrix. "you are mistaken. madame carmaux never had a son, but instead a daughter." "no," said still another voice, and now it was mr. spranger who spoke, all the party from outside having entered the house at last. "no. she never had a daughter, though it suited her purpose well enough to pretend that such was the case, and that that daughter was dead; the birth of her son being thus disguised." "you hear this," the man in command of the police said, addressing the crouching woman. "is it true?" but madame carmaux, giving him but one glance from her upturned eyes, uttered no word. "i have a warrant for your arrest and for this man called sebastian ritherdon," the sergeant said. "if he is not dead we shall have him." "then i pray god he is dead," madame carmaux cried, "for if you arrest him you will arrest an innocent man." in answer to which the sergeant merely shrugged his shoulders, while addressing one of his force he bade him keep close to her. "was he in truth her son?" julian asked, turning to where a moment before zara had been standing. but once more, as so often she had done in the course of this narrative, the girl had vanished. vanished, that is, so far as julian and one or two others observed now, yet being seen by some of those who were standing near the door to creep out hurriedly and then to rush madly down the corridor. "no," said madame carmaux, glaring at him with a glance which, had she had the power, would have slain him where he stood. "though i often called him so. it is a lie." "is it?" said julian quietly. "it would hardly seem so. here is a paper which was written in england ere i set out for honduras by the man whom i thought to be my father, and in which he tells in writing the whole story he told me by word of mouth. i looked for that paper after his death--and--i have found it here--in the pocket of sebastian's jacket." such was indeed the case. when zara had run into the room where julian was, and had possessed herself of his jacket with the naval buttons on it--she meaning by its use to more thoroughly deceive the indians who were to take sebastian away in his stead--she had left behind her the other jacket which the latter had carried over his arm. and that, in the obscurity of a room lit only by the one candle, julian should have hastily donned another jacket so like his own, and which he found in the place where he had lain for three nights, was not a surprising thing. but he recognised the exchange directly when, happening to put his hand into the pocket, he discovered the very missing papers which mr. ritherdon said he was going to leave behind for julian's guidance, but which he must undoubtedly have forwarded to his brother, as an explanation--an account--of his sin against him in years gone by. "whoever's son he was," said mr. spranger, "he was undoubtedly not the son of charles ritherdon and his wife, isobel leigh. there can be no possibility of that. who, therefore, can he have been--he who was so like you?" while, even as he gazed into julian's eyes, there was still upon his face the look of incredulity which had always appeared there whenever he discussed the latter's claim to be the heir of desolada. "if she," said beatrix now, with a glance toward where madame carmaux sat, rigid as a statue and almost as lifeless, except for her sparkling, glaring eyes--"if she never had a daughter, but did have a son, why may he not be that son? some imposture may have been practised upon mr. ritherdon." "it is impossible," her father said. "he knew his own child was lost--his brother's narrative tells that; she could not have palmed off on him another child--her own child--in the place of his." "there is the likeness between us," whispered julian in mr. spranger's ear. "how can that be accounted for? can it be--is it possible--that in truth two children were born to him at the same time?" "no," said mr. spranger. "no. if such had been the case, your uncle, the man you were brought up to believe in for years as your father, must have known of it." "then," said julian, "the mystery is as much unsolved as ever, and is likely to remain so. she," directing his own glance to madame carmaux, "will never tell--and--well. heaven help him! sebastian is probably dead by now." "in which case," said the other, always eminently practical, "you are the owner of desolada all the same. if sebastian was the rightful heir, and he is dead, you, as mr. ritherdon's nephew, come next." "nevertheless," replied julian, "i am not his nephew. i am his son. i feel it; am sure of it." but, even as he spoke, he noticed--had noticed indeed, already--that there was some stir in the direction where madame carmaux was. he had seen that, as he uttered the words "heaven help him! sebastian is probably dead by now," she had sprung to her feet, while uttering a piteous cry as she did so, and had stood scowling at julian as though it was he who had sent the other to his doom. then, too, he had seen that, in spite of the sergeant of police and one or two of his men having endeavoured to prevent her, she had brushed them on one side and was crossing the room to where he, with mr. spranger and beatrix, stood. a moment later, she was before them; facing them. "you have said," she exclaimed, "that he is probably dead by now," and they saw that her face was white and drawn; that it was, indeed, ghastly. "but," she continued, "if he is not dead--if yet he should be saved, if the scheme of that devil incarnate, zara, should have failed--will you--will you hold him harmless--if--if--i tell all? will you hold _him_ harmless! for myself i care not, you may do with me what you will." "yes," said julian. "yes--if you will----" "no," said the sergeant of police. "that is impossible. you cannot give such a promise. he has to answer to the law." "what!" cried madame carmaux, turning on the man, her eyes flashing--"what if i prove him innocent of everything--of everything attempted against this one here," and she indicated julian. "do that," said the sergeant, "and he may escape." "come, then," she said, addressing mr. spranger and julian; "but not you, you bloodhound," turning on the man. "not you! come, i will tell you everything. i will save him." while, making her way through the others as though she still ruled supreme in the house, and followed by the two men, she led the way to a small parlour situated upon the same floor they were on. chapter xxxii. the shark's tooth reef. meanwhile the night grew on, and with it there was that accompaniment which is so common in the tropics: the wind rising, and from blowing lightly soon sprang up into what the sailors call half a gale. now and again, far away to the east, flashes of rusty red lightning might be seen also, the almost sure heralds of a storm later. the wind blew, too, over the dense masses of orange groves and other vegetation which go to form the tropical jungle that hereabout fringes the seashore; compact masses that, to many endeavouring to arrive at that shore, would offer an impenetrable, an impassable, barrier. though not so to those acquainted with the vicinity and used to threading the jungle, nor to the indians and half-castes whose huts and cabins bordered on that jungle, since they knew every spot where passage might be made, and the coast thereby reached at last. zara knew also each of those passages well, and threaded them now with the confidence born of familiarity; with, too, the stern determination to arrive at the end she had sworn to attain, if such attainment were possible. she had left the room where madame carmaux had been confronted, not only by her but by all the others, in the manner described; had left it suddenly, though mysteriously, even as to her maddened brain a thought had sprung, dispelling for the moment all the agony and passion with which that brain was racked. the thought that, as she had sent the man she loved to his doom, so, also, it might not yet be too late to avert that doom--to save him. the indians who were bearing him to the old ramshackle sailing-boat he possessed (a thing half yawl and half lugger--a thing, too, which she supposed those men had been instructed to pierce and bore so that it would begin to fill from the first, and should, thereby, sink by the time it was in deep water) must necessarily go slowly, owing to the burden they had to carry, while she--well! she could progress almost as swiftly as the deer could themselves thread the thickets that bordered the coast. surely, surely, lithe, young, and active as she was she would overtake those men with their burden ere they could reach the yawl; she would be able to bid them stop, and could at once point out to them the fatal mistake that had been made. she could give them proof, by bidding them take one glance at the features of the senseless man they were transporting, of the nature of that mistake. so she set out to overtake the indians with their burden; set out, staying for nothing, and allowing nothing to hinder her. for, swiftly as she might go, every minute was still precious. and now--now--as the night wind arose still more and the rusty red of the lightning turned to a more purple-violet hue--sure warning of the nearness of the coming storm--she was almost close to the beach where she knew sebastian's crazy old craft was kept in common with one or two others; namely, a punt with a deep tank for fish, a scow, and a boat with oars. she was close to the beach, but with, at this time, her heart like lead in her bosom because of the fear she had that she was too late. "no sound," she muttered to herself. "no voices to be heard. they are gone. they are gone. i _am_ too late!" then, redoubling her exertions, she ran swiftly the remainder of the distance to where she knew the boathouse--an erection of poles with planks laid across them--stood. and in a moment she knew that she was, indeed, too late. where the yawl usually floated there was now an empty space; there was nothing in the boathouse but the punt and the rowboat. "oh! what to do," she cried, "what to do!" and she beat her breast as she so cried. "they have carried him out to sea, even now the yawl is sinking--has sunk--they will be on their way back. he is dead! he is dead! he must be dead by now!" while, overcome by the horror and misery of her thoughts, she sank down to the ground. but not for long, however, since at such a crisis as this her strong--if often ungovernable--heart became filled with greater courage and resource. to sink to the ground, she told herself, to lie there wailing and moaning over the impending fate of him she loved, was not the way to avert that fate. instead, she must be prompt and resolute. she sprang, therefore, once more to her feet and--dark as was all around her, except for the light of a young crescent moon peeping up over the sea's rim and forcing a glimmer now and again through the banks of deep, leaden clouds which the wind was bringing up from that sea--made her way into the boathouse, where, swiftly unloosing the painter of the rowboat, she pushed the latter out into the tumbling waves and began to scull it. "they must have gone straight out," she thought, "straight out. and they would not go far. only to where the water is deep enough for the yawl to sink, or to encounter one of the many reefs--those jagged crested reefs which would make a hole in her far worse than fifty awls could do." then still bending her supple frame over the oars, while her little hands clenched them tightly, she rowed and rowed for dear life--as in actual truth it was!--her breath coming faster and faster with her exertions, her bosom heaving, but her courage indomitable. "i may not be too late," she whispered again and again; "the boat may not yet have filled. i may not be too late." suddenly she paused affrighted, startled; her heart seemed to cease to beat, her hands were idle as they clutched the oars. startled, and despairing! for out here the water was calmer, there being on it only the long atlantic roll that is so common beneath the roughness of the winds; except for the slapping and crashing of those waves against the bows of the boat with each rise and fall it made, there was scarcely any noise; certainly none such as those waves had made, and would make against the boathouse and the long line of the shore. so little noise that what she had heard before she heard again now, as she sat listening and terrified in her place. she caught the beat of oars in another boat, a boat that was drawing nearer to her with each fresh stroke--that was, also, drawing nearer to the boathouse. the indians were returning. their work was done! "i am too late," she moaned. "i am too late. god help us both!" then, too, she heard something else. over the waters, over the rolling waves, there came to her ears the clear sounds of a man singing in a high tenor--it was almost a high treble--a man singing a song in maya which she, who was of their race, knew was one that, in bygone days the caribs and natives had sung in triumph over the downfall of their enemies. a song which, when it was concluded, was followed by a little bleating laugh, one which she knew well enough, a laugh which only one man in all that neighbourhood could give. then she heard words called out in a half-chuckling, half-gloating tone, still in maya. "'sink him beneath the sea forever,' she say, 'forever beneath the sea.' and paz he never for get, oh, never, never! now he sunk," and again she heard the bleating laugh, and again the beginning of that wild carib song of triumph. springing up, dropping the oars heedlessly--her heart almost bursting--the girl rose from her seat, then shrieked aloud--sending her voice in the direction where now there loomed before her eyes a blur beneath the moon's glimmer which she knew to be a boat. "paz," she cried, "paz, it is not true, say it is not true. oh! paz, where is he?" "where you wish. where you tell me put him," the other called back, while still beneath the brawny, muscular strokes of the indians rowing it, the boat swept on toward the shore. "beneath the waves or soon will be. breaking to pieces on shark's tooth reef. paz never forget." "beast! devil!" the girl cried in her agony, forgetting, or recalling with redoubled horror, that what had been done was her own doing, was perpetrated at her suggestion. "return and help me to save him. oh! come back." but the boat was gone, was but a speck now beneath the moon, and she was alone upon the sea, over which the wind howled as it lashed it to fury at last. "the shark's tooth reef," she murmured. "the shark's tooth reef, the worst of all around. yet--yet--if caught on that, the yawl may not sink. oh! oh!" and she muttered to herself some wild unexpressed words that were doubtless a prayer. then she grasped the oars once more, which, since they were fixed by loops on to thole pins instead of being loose in rowlocks, had not drifted away as might otherwise have been the case, and set the boat toward the spot where the shark's tooth reef was as nearly as she could guess. "if i can but reach it," she muttered to herself. "if i can but reach it." but now her labours were more intense than before, her struggles more terrible. for, coming straight toward the bow of the boat, the atlantic rollers beat it back with every stroke she took, while also they deluged it with water, so that she knew ere long it must sink beneath the waves. already there were three or four inches in the bottom--nay, more, for the stretchers were half-covered--another three of four and it would go down like lead. and each fresh wave that broke over the bows added a further quantity. "to see him once again; only to see him though if not to save," she moaned--weeping at last; "to see him, to be able to tell him that though i sent him to his doom i loved him," while roused by the thought, she still struggled on, buffeted and beaten by the waves; breathless, almost lifeless--but still unconquered and unconquerable. suddenly she gave a gasp, a shriek. close by her, rising up some twenty feet from the sea, there was a cone-shaped rock, jagged and serrated at its summit; black, too, and glistening as, in the rays of the fast rising young moon, the water streaming from off it. it was the shark's tooth reef, so called because, from its long length of some fifty yards (a length also serrated and jagged like the under jaw of a dog), there rose that cone-shaped thing which resembled what it was named from. and again she shrieked as, looking beyond the base of the cone, peering through the hurtling waves and white filmy spume and spray, she saw upon the further edge of the base of the reef a black, indistinct mass being beaten to and fro. she heard, too, the grinding of that mass against the reef, as well as its thumps as it was flung on and dragged off it by the swirling of the sea; she heard, how each time, the force of the impact became louder and more deadly. "to reach him at last," she cried, "to die with him! to die together." then it seemed that into that quivering, nervous frame there came a giant's strength; it seemed as though the cords and sinews of her arms had become steel and iron, as though the little hands were vises in the power of their grip. "to die together," she thought again, as, with superhuman efforts, she forced her boat toward the battered, broken yawl. now, she was close to it--now!--then, with a crash her own boat was dashed against the larger one, its bow crushed in, in a moment, its stem lifted into the air. but, catlike, desperate, too, fighting fate with the determination of despair, she had seized the top of the yawl's side; had clung to it one moment while the sea thundered and broke against her feet below, and had then drawn herself up onto the deck over the side. and he was there, lying half-in, half-out the little forecastle cuddy, bound and corded--insensible. "i have found you, sebastian," she whispered, her lips to his cold ones. "i have found you." with an awful lurch the yawl heeled over, the man's body rolling like a log as it did so, and then zara knew that the end had come. even though he lived, nothing could save him now; his arms were bound tightly to his sides, the cords passing over his chest from left to right. he was without sense or power. "nothing can save him now--nor me," she said. "nothing." then she forced her own little hands beneath those cords so that, thereby, she was bound to him; whereby if ever they were found, they would be found locked together; she grasping tightly, too, the top ply, so that neither wave, nor roll of sea, nor any force could tear them apart again. and if they were never found--still--still, nothing could part them more. "together," she murmured, for the last time, her own strength ebbing fast, "together forever. together at the end. always together now--in death!" chapter xxxiii. madame carmaux tells all. calmly--almost contemptuously--as though she were in truth mistress of desolada and a woman who conferred honour upon those who followed her, instead of one who was in actual fact their prisoner, madame carmaux led the way to that parlour wherein she had promised to divulge all; to reveal the secret of how another man had usurped for so long the place and position which rightfully belonged to julian ritherdon. and they who followed her, observing how rigid, how masklike were the handsome features; how the soft, dark eyes gleamed now with a hard, determined look, knew that as she had said, so she would do; so she would perform. they recognised that she would not falter in her task, she deeming that what she divulged would tell in sebastian's favour. still firm and calm, therefore, and still as though she were the owner of that house which she had ruled for so long with absolute sway, she motioned to julian and mr. spranger to be seated--while standing before them enveloped in the long loose robe of soft black material in which she had been clad, and with the lace hood thrown back from her head and setting free the dark masses of hair which had always been one of her greatest beauties--hair in which there was scarcely, even now, a streak of white. "it is," she murmured, when the lights had been brought, "for sebastian's sake, if he still lives. and to prove to you that he is innocent--was innocent until almost the day when he, that other, came here," and her glance fell on julian--"that i tell you all which i am about to do. also, that i tell you how i alone am the guilty one." her eyes resting on those of julian and mr. spranger, they both signified by a look that they were prepared to hear all she might have to narrate. then, ere she began the recital she was about to make, she said: "yet, if you desire more witnesses, call them in. let them hear, too. i care neither for what they may think of me, nor what testimony they may bear against me in the future. call in whom you will." for a moment the two men before her looked into each other's faces; then mr. spranger said: "perhaps it would be as well to have another witness, especially as mr. ritherdon is the most interested person. my daughter is outside, if--if your story contains nothing she may not hear----" "it contains nothing," madame carmaux answered, there being a tone of contempt in it which she did not endeavour to veil, "but the story of a crime, a fraud, worked out by a deserted, heartbroken woman. call her in." then, summoned by julian, beatrix entered the room, and, taking a seat between her father and her lover, was an ear-witness to all that the other woman had to tell. for a moment it seemed as if madame carmaux scarce knew how to commence; for a few moments she stood before them, her eyes sometimes cast down upon the floor, sometimes seeking theirs. then, suddenly, she said: "that narrative which george ritherdon wrote in england when he was dying, and sent to his brother charles, who was himself close to his end, was true." "it was true!" whispered julian, repeating her words, "i knew it was! i was sure of it! yet how--how--was the deception accomplished?" "he loved me," madame exclaimed, she hardly, as it seemed, hearing or heeding julian's remark. "charles loved me--till he saw her, isobel leigh. and i--i--well, i had never loved any other man. i did not know what love was till i saw him. then--then--he--what need to seek for easy words--he jilted me, and, in despair, i married carmaux on the day that he married her. it seemed to my distracted heart that by doing so i might more effectually erase his memory from my mind forever. and my son was born but a week or so before you, julian ritherdon, were born." "sebastian. not a daughter?" julian said. "yes; sebastian; not a daughter. yet, later, when it was necessary that my child should be registered, i recorded the birth as that of a daughter, and at the same time i registered that daughter's death. later, you will understand why it was necessary that any child of mine should disappear out of existence, and also why, above all things, it must never be known that i had a son." again julian looked in mr. spranger's eyes, and mr. spranger into his, their glances telling each other plainly that, even now, they thought they began to understand. "i heard," madame carmaux went on, "that she too had borne a son, and in some strange, heartbroken excitement that took possession of me, i determined to go and see charles ritherdon, to show him my child, to prove to him--as i thought it would do--that if he who had forgotten me was happy in marriage, so, too, was i. happy! oh, my god! however, no matter for my happiness--i went. "i arrived here late at night, and i found him almost distracted. his wife was dying: she could not live, they said; how was the child to live without her? then i promised that, if he would let me stay on at desolada, i would be as much a mother to that child as to my own, that i would forget his cruelty to me, that i would forgive. "'come,' he said to me, on hearing this, 'come and see them--come.' and i went with him to the room where she was, where you were," and she looked at julian. "i went to that room," she continued, "with every honest feeling in my heart that a woman who had sworn to condone a man's past faithlessness could have; before heaven i swear that i went to that room resolved to be what i had said, a second mother to you. i went with pity in my heart for the poor dying woman--the woman who had never really loved her husband, but, instead, had loved his brother. for, as you know well enough, she had been forced to jilt george ritherdon even as charles had jilted me. i went to that room and then--then we learned that she was dead. but, also, we learned something else. there was no child by her side. it was gone. its place was empty." "i begin to understand," murmured julian, while beatrix and her father showed by their expression that to them also a glimmering of light was coming. "yet," said madame carmaux, "scarcely can you understand--scarcely dream of--the temptation that fell in my way. in a moment, at the instant that charles ritherdon saw that his child was missing, he cried, 'this is my brothers doing! it is he who has stolen it. to murder it, to be avenged on me for having won his future wife from him. i know it.' and, distractedly, he raved again and again that it was his brother's doing. in vain i tried to pacify him, saying that his brother was far away in the states. to my astonishment he told me that, on the contrary, he was here, close at hand, if not even now lurking in the plantation of desolada, or at belize. "'i saw him there yesterday,' he cried, 'i saw him with my own eyes. now i understand what took him there. it was to steal my child--to murder it. great god! to thereby become my heir.' "as he spoke there came a footfall in the passage; some one was coming. perhaps the nurse returning; perhaps, also, if george ritherdon had only been there a short time before us, she did not know that the child had been kidnapped. 'and if she does not know, then no one else can know,' he cried. 'while,' he said, 'if that unutterable villain, george, thinks to profit by this theft, i will thwart him. he may rob me of my child, he may murder the poor innocent babe--but he at least shall never be my heir,' and as he spoke his eyes fell on _my_ child in my arms. 'cover it up,' he whispered, 'show its face only, otherwise the clothes it wears will betray it. cover it up.'" "if this is true, the crime was his," whispered julian. "_that_ crime was his," said madame carmaux, "the rest was mine. but--let me continue. as charles spoke, the nurse was at the door--a negro woman who died six months afterward--a moment later she was in the room. yet not before i had had time to whisper a word in his ear, to say, 'if i do this, it is forever? if your child is never found, is mine to remain in its place?'--and with a glance he seemed to answer, 'yes.' "none ever knew of that substitution, no living soul ever knew that the child growing up as his, its birth registered by him at belize as his, was, in truth, mine. not one living soul. nor were you ever heard of again. we agreed to believe that you had been made away with. yet, as time went on, charles ritherdon seemed to repent of what he had done; he came to think that, after all, his brother might not have been the thief, or, being so, that he had not slain the child; to also think that perhaps some of the half-castes or indians, on whom he was occasionally hard, might have stolen it out of revenge. and it required all my tears and supplications, all my prayers to him to remember that, had he not been cruelly false to me, it would in truth have been our child which was the rightful heir, which was here--his child and mine! at last he consented--provided that the other--the real child--you--were never heard of again. my son should remain in his son's place, if you never appeared to claim that place. "sebastian grew up in utter ignorance of all; he grew up also to resemble strangely the man who was supposed to be his father--perhaps because from the moment i married monsieur carmaux it was not his image but that of charles ritherdon which was ever in my mind. "but when george ritherdon's statement came, and with it the information that you were in existence, charles determined to tell sebastian everything. he would have done so, too, but that the illness he was suffering from took a fatal termination almost directly afterward--doubtless from the shock of learning what he did. yet it made no difference, for the day after his death sebastian found the paper and so discovered all." "he knew then," said julian--though as he spoke his voice was not harsh, he recognising how cruel had been this woman's lot from the first, and how doubly cruel must have been the blow which fell on her when, after twenty-five years of possession, the son whom she had loved so, and had schemed so for, was about to be dispossessed--"he knew then who i was when we first met, and--and--god forgive him!--from that moment commenced to plot my death." "no!" cried madame carmaux. "no! have i not said that he was innocent? it was i--i--who plotted--alas! he was my son. will not a mother do all for her only child? it was i who changed the horses in their stalls, putting his, which none but he could ride in safety, in place of the sure-footed one he had destined for you; it was i--god help and pardon me! who put the coral snake in your bed--i--i--who did the rest you know of." "and did you, too, procure the indians who were to take me out to sea and drown me?" asked julian with a doubtful glance at her. "surely not. there was a man's hand in that. and it was sebastian who was advancing along the passage when zara's knife struck him down." "by instigation i did it," madame carmaux cried, determined to the last to shield the son she still hoped to meet again in this world--"the suggestion, the plot was mine alone. while because he was weak, because from the first he has ever yielded to me, he yielded now. spare him!" she cried, and flung herself upon her knees before that listening trio, her calmness, her contemptuousness, vanished now. "spare him, and do with me what you will." so the story was told, so the discovery of all was made at last. julian knew now upon how simple a thing--the fact of madame carmaux having taken that strange determination to go and see the man who had cast her off and jilted her, carrying her child in her arms--the whole mystery had rested. but what he never knew was that, had zara lived, she could have also told him all. for in the savage girl's love for the man, who in his turn had treated her badly, and in her determination to be ever watching over him, she had long since overheard scraps of conversation which had revealed the secret to her in the same way as they had done to paz. and it was to her, and her determination to prevent sebastian from committing any crime by which his life or his liberty might become imperilled, that julian owed the fact that he had not long since died by the hand of madame carmaux--if not by that of sebastian. chapter xxxiv. contentment. "and on her lover's arm she leaned, and 'round her waist she felt it fold." some two or three months of julian's leave remained to expire at the time when the foregoing explanation had taken place, and perhaps nothing which had occurred since the day when he first set foot in british honduras had caused him more perplexity than his present deliberations as to how to make the best of that period. for now he knew that he had done with the colony for ever; he had achieved that for which he had come to it; he had proved the truth of george ritherdon's statement up to the hilt, and--in so far as obtaining the possession of that which was undoubtedly his--well! the law would soon take steps to enable him to do so. only, when he told himself that he had done with the colony, when he reflected that henceforth his foot would never tread on its earth more, he had also to tell himself that he could alone consent to sever his connection with it by also taking away with him the most precious thing it contained in his eyes--beatrix spranger. "for," he said to that young lady, as once more they sat in the garden at "floresta," with about and around them all the surroundings that he had learned to know so well and to recall during many of the gloomy nights and days he had spent at desolada--the great shade palms, the gorgeous flamboyants and delicate oleander blossoms, as well as the despairing looking and lugubrious monkey--"for, darling, i cannot go without you. if i were to do so, heaven alone knows when i could return to claim you; and, also, i cannot wait. sweetheart, you too must sail for england with me, and it must be as mrs. ritherdon." he said the same thing often. indeed at night, which is--as those acquainted with such matters tell us--the period when young ladies pass in review the principal events that have happened to them during the day, beatrix used to consider, or rather to calculate, that he made the same remark about twenty times daily. while, since, loving and gentle as she was, she was also possessed of a considerable amount of feminine perspicacity, she supposed that he reiterated the phrase upon the principle that the constant drop of water which falls upon a stone will at last wear it away. "though," the girl would say to herself in those soft hours of maiden meditation, "he need not fear. he cannot but think that his longing is also shared by me." aloud, however, when once more he repeated what had become almost a set phrase, she said: "you know that you have taken an unfair advantage of me. indeed, though it was only by chance, you have put me to terrible mortification. you overheard my avowal to that unhappy girl, my avowal that--that--i loved you." and beatrix blushed most beautifully as she softly uttered the words. "think what an avowal it was. to be made by a woman for a man who had never asked for her love." "had he not," julian said, "had he not, beatrix? never asked for that love on one happy day spent alone by that woman's side, when he confided everything to her that bore upon his presence here; and she, full of soft and gentle sympathy, told him all her fears and anxiety for the risks he might run. and, did he not ask for that love on the night which followed that day, as they rode back to belize beneath the stars?" and now his eyes were gazing into hers with a look of love which no woman could doubt, even though no other man had ever looked at her so before; while since loverlike, they were sitting close together, his arm stole round her waist. to the inexperienced--the present narrator included--it may be permitted to wonder how lovers learn to do these things as well as how they discover, too, the efficacy of such subtle tenderness; yet one is told that they are done, and that the success thereof is indisputable. nor, with beatrix, did either the look of love or the soft environment of his arm fail in their effort, as may be judged from her answer to his whispered question, "it shall be, shall it not, darling?" "yes," she murmured, blushing again and more deeply. "yes. if father permits." and so julian's love grew toward a triumphant termination; yet still there were other matters to be seen to and arranged ere he, with his wife by his side, should quit the colony forever. one thing, however, it transpired, would require little trouble in arranging; namely, the property of desolada, when the law should put him in possession of it, since, on investigation being made after the disappearance of sebastian, it was found to be so heavily mortgaged that to pay off the loans upon it would leave julian without any capital whatever; while, at the same time, he would be saddled with a possession in a country with which he had nothing in common. of what had become of the money left by charles ritherdon at his death (and it had been a substantial sum) or of what had become of the other sums borrowed on desolada, there was no one to inform them. sebastian had disappeared, was undoubtedly gone forever--and of his fate there could be little doubt. certainly there could be no doubt in the minds of either beatrix or julian or of mr. spranger, who had of course been made acquainted with the substitution of sebastian for julian. zara also had disappeared, and madame carmaux had--escaped. how she had done it no one ever knew, but in the morning which followed that eventful night when she made her confession, she was missing from her room, at the door of which one of the constabulary had been set as a guard. that she should be able so to evade those who were passing the night at desolada was easily to be comprehended when, the next day, her room was examined; they understood how she might have passed on to the balcony outside that room, have traversed it for some distance, and then have made her way into some other apartment, and so from that have descended the great stairs in the darkness, and stolen away into the plantations. at any rate, whether these surmises were correct or not, she was gone, and she has never since been seen in british honduras. yet one planter, who makes frequent journeys to new orleans in connection with his imports and exports, declares that only a few months ago he saw her in lafayette square in that city. it was at the time when the terrible scourge of louisiana, the yellow fever, is most dreaded, and even as the planter entered the square he saw a man lying prostrate on the ground, while afar off from him, because of fear of the infection, yet regarding him with a gaping curiosity, was a crowd of negroes and whites. then, still watching the scene, this gentleman saw a woman clad in the garb of a nun of calvary, who approached the prostrate man, and, while calling on those near to assist him, ministered to his wants in so far as she could. and, her veil falling aside, the planter declared that he saw plainly the face of the woman who, in british honduras, had been known for a quarter of a century as miriam carmaux. he also recognized her voice. if such were the case, if, at last, that tempestuous soul--the soul of a woman who, in her earlier days, had had meted out to her a more cruel fate than falls to the lot of most women--if at last the erring woman who had been driven to fraud and crime by the love she bore her child--had found calm, if not peace, beneath that holy garb, perhaps those who have heard her story may be disposed to think of her without harshness. such was the case with julian ritherdon, who, as she made her confession, forgave her for all that she had attempted against him--since she was scarcely a greater sinner than his own father, who had countenanced the fraud she perpetrated, or his uncle, whose early vindictiveness led to that fraud. such, also, was the case with beatrix, from whose gentle eyes fell tears as she listened to the narrative told by the unhappy woman while she was yet uncertain of the doom of the son for whom she had so long schemed and plotted. and so let it be with others. if she had erred, so also she had suffered. and, by suffering, is atonement made. you could not have witnessed, perhaps, a brighter scene than that which took place on a clear october morning in the handsome gothic church of belize, when julian ritherdon and beatrix spranger became man and wife. space has not permitted for the introduction of the reader to several other sweet young english maidens whose parents' affairs have led to their residences in the colony; yet such maidens there are in honduras--as the inquiring traveller may see for himself, if he chooses--and of these fair exiles some were, this morning, bridesmaids. they, you may be sure, lent brightness and brilliancy to the scene, and so did the uniforms of several young officers of her majesty's navy, these gentlemen having been impressed into the ceremony for, as luck would have it, not a week before, h.m.s. cerberus (twin-screw cruiser, first-class, armoured) had anchored, off belize, and, as those acquainted with the royal navy are aware, no officer of that noble service can come into contact with any ship belonging to it (as julian ritherdon soon did) without finding therein old friends and comrades. be very sure also, therefore, that george hope, george potter, john hamilton, that most illustrious of naval doctors, "jock" lyons, and many others dear to friends both in and out of the service, all came ashore in the bravery of their full dress--epaulettes, cocked hats, and so forth--while the _padré_ "stood by" to lend a hand to the local clergyman in performing the ceremony. while, too, the path from the churchyard gates to the church door was lined by bluejackets who, of course, were here clad in their "whites" and straw hats. but, because rumour ever runneth swift of foot, even in so small a colony as this--where, naturally, its feet have not so much ground to cover--and in so small a capital as belize, with its six thousand inhabitants, the church was also filled with many others drawn from the various races, mixed and pure, who dwell therein. for, by now, there was scarcely a person in either the colony or capital to whose ears there had not come the news that the handsome young officer who was in a few moments to become the husband of miss spranger, was, in truth, the rightful owner of desolada. likewise, all knew that sebastian had never been that owner, but that he was the son of carmaux, who had perished by the fangs of the tommy-goff, and of the dark, mysterious beauty who had come among them as miriam gardelle and had married him. and they knew, too, that this marriage was to be the reward and crown of dangers run by julian, of more than one attempt upon his life, as well as that it was the outcome of a deep fraud perpetrated and kept dark for many years. paz was there, too, his eyes glistening with rapture at the sound of the wedding march, his weird soul being ever stirred by music; so, also, was monsieur lemaire, grave, dignified, and calm as became a french gentleman in exile, and with, about him as ever, that flavour of one who ought by right to have walked in the gardens of versailles two hundred years ago, and have basked in the smiles of the great monarch. and so they were married, nor can it be doubted that they will live happy ever afterward--to use the sweet, old-time expression of the storybooks of our infancy. married--she given away by her father; he supported by his oldest friend in the cerberus--and both passing happy! married, and going forth along the path of life, he most probably to distinction in his calling, she to the duties of an honest english wife. married and happy. what more was needed? "i come," he said to her that afternoon, when already the steamer was leaving honduras far astern, and they were travelling by the new route toward kingstown on their road to england--"i came to honduras to find perhaps a father, perhaps an inheritance. neither was to be granted to me, but, instead, something five thousand times more precious--a wife five thousand times more dear than any parent or any possession." "and," she asked, her pure, earnest eyes gazing into his, "you are contented? you are sure that that will make you happy?" to which he replied--as--well! as, perhaps--if a man--you would have replied yourself. the end. fort lafayette or love and secession a novel by benjamin wood mdccclxii ----"whom they please they lay in basest bonds." _venice preserved._ * * * * * "o, beauteous peace! sweet union of a state! what else but thou gives safety, strength, and glory to a people?" _thomson._ "oh, peace! thou source and soul of social life; beneath whose calm inspiring influence, science his views enlarges, art refines, and swelling commerce opens all her ports; blest be the man divine, who gives us thee!" _thomson._ "a peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser." _shakspeare._ chapter i. there is a pleasant villa on the southern bank of the james river, a few miles below the city of richmond. the family mansion, an old fashioned building of white stone, surrounded by a spacious veranda, and embowered among stately elms and grave old oaks, is sure to attract the attention of the traveller by its picturesque appearance, and the dreamy elegance and air of comfort that pervade the spot. the volumes of smoke that roll from the tall chimneys, the wide portals of the hall, flung open as if for a sign of welcome, the merry chat and cheerful faces of the sable household, lazily alternating their domestic labors with a sly romp or a lounge in some quiet nook, these and other traits of the old virginia home, complete the picture of hospitable affluence which the stranger instinctively draws as his gaze lingers on the grateful scene. the house stands on a wooded knoll, within a bowshot of the river bank, and from the steps of the back veranda, where creeping flowers form a perfumed network of a thousand hues, the velvety lawn shelves gracefully down to the water's edge. toward sunset of one of the early days of april, , a young girl stood leaning upon the wicket of a fence which separated the garden from the highway. she stood there dreamily gazing along the road, as if awaiting the approach of some one who would be welcome when he came. the slanting rays of the declining sun glanced through the honeysuckles and tendrils that intertwined among the white palings, and threw a subdued light upon her face. it was a face that was beautiful in repose, but that promised to be more beautiful when awakened into animation. the large, grey eyes were half veiled with their black lashes at that moment, and their expression was thoughtful and subdued; but ever as the lids were raised, when some distant sound arrested her attention, the expression changed with a sudden flash, and a gleam like an electric fire darted from the glowing orbs. her features were small and delicately cut, the nostrils thin and firm, and the lips most exquisitely molded, but in the severe chiselling of their arched lines betraying a somewhat passionate and haughty nature. but the rose tint was so warm upon her cheek, the raven hair clustered with such luxuriant grace about her brows, and the _petite_ and lithe figure was so symmetrical at every point, that the impression of haughtiness was lost in the contemplation of so many charms. oriana weems, the subject of our sketch, was an orphan. her father, a wealthy virginian, died while his daughter was yet an infant, and her mother, who had been almost constantly an invalid, did not long survive. oriana and her brother, beverly, her senior by two years, had thus been left at an early age in the charge of their mother's sister, a maiden lady of excellent heart and quiet disposition, who certainly had most conscientiously fulfilled the sacred trust. oriana had returned but a twelvemonth before from a northern seminary, where she had gathered up more accomplishments than she would ever be likely to make use of in the old homestead; while beverly, having graduated at yale the preceding month, had written to his sister that she might expect him that very day, in company with his classmate and friend, arthur wayne. she stood, therefore, at the wicket, gazing down the road, in expectation of catching the first glimpse of her brother and his friend, for whom horses had been sent to richmond, to await their arrival at the depot. so much was she absorbed in revery, that she failed to observe a solitary horseman who approached from the opposite direction. he plodded leisurely along until within a few feet of the wicket, when he quietly drew rein and gazed for a moment in silence upon the unconscious girl. he was a tall, gaunt man, with stooping shoulders, angular features, lank, black hair and a sinister expression, in which cunning and malice combined. he finally urged his horse a step nearer, and as softly as his rough voice would admit, he bade: "good evening, miss oriana." she started, and turned with a suddenness that caused the animal he rode to swerve. recovering her composure as suddenly, she slightly inclined her head and turning from him, proceeded toward the house. "stay, miss oriana, if you please." she paused and glanced somewhat haughtily over her shoulder. "may i speak a word with you?" "my aunt, sir, is within; if you have business, i will inform her of your presence." "my business is with you, miss weems," and, dismounting, he passed through the gate and stepped quickly to her side. "why do you avoid me?" her dark eye flashed in the twilight, and she drew her slight form up till it seemed to gain a foot in height. "we do not seek to enlarge our social circle, mr. rawbon. you will excuse me if i leave you abruptly, but the night dew begins to fall." she moved on, but he followed and placed his hand gently on her arm. she shook it off with more of fierceness than dignity, and the man's eyes fairly sought the ground beneath the glance she gave him. "you know that i love you," he said, in a hoarse murmur, "and that's the reason you treat me like a dog." she turned her back upon him, and walked, as if she heard him not, along the garden path. his brow darkened, and quickening his pace, he stepped rudely before her and blocked the way. "look you, miss weems, you have insulted me with your proud ways time and time again, and i have borne it tamely, because i loved you, and because i've sworn that i shall have you. it's that puppy, harold hare, that has stepped in between you and me. now mark you," and he raised his finger threateningly, "i won't be so meek with him as i've been with you." the girl shuddered slightly, but recovering, walked forward with a step so stately and commanding, that rawbon, bold and angry as he was, involuntarily made way for her, and she sprang up the steps of the veranda and passed into the hall. he stood gazing after her for a moment, nervously switching the rosebush at his side with his heavy horsewhip; then, with a muttered curse, he strode hastily away, and leaping upon his horse, galloped furiously down the road. seth rawbon was a native of massachusetts, but for some ten years previously to the date at which our tale commences, he had been mostly a resident of richmond, where his acuteness and active business habits had enabled him to accumulate an independent fortune. his wealth and vigorous progressive spirit had given him a certain degree of influence among the middle classes of the community, but his uncouth manner, and a suspicion that he was not altogether free from the degradation of slave-dealing, had, to his great mortification and in spite of his persistent efforts, excluded him from social intercourse with the aristocracy of the old dominion. he was not a man, however, to give way to obstacles, and with characteristic vanity and self-reliance, he had, shortly after her return from school, greatly astonished the proud oriana with a bold declaration of love and an offer of his hand and fortune. not intimidated by a sharp and decidedly ungracious refusal, he had at every opportunity advocated his hopeless suit, and with so much persistence and effrontery, that the object of his unwelcome passion had been goaded from indifference to repugnance and absolute loathing. harold hare, whose name he had mentioned with so much bitterness in the course of the interview we have represented, was a young rhode islander, who had, upon her brother's invitation, sojourned a few weeks at the mansion some six months previously, while on his way to engage in a surveying expedition in western virginia. he had promised to return in good time, to join beverly and his guest, arthur wayne, at the close of their academic labors. a few moments after rawbon's angry departure, the family carriage drove rapidly up to the hall door, and the next instant beverly was in his sister's arms, and had been affectionately welcomed by his old-fashioned, kindly looking aunt. as he turned to introduce his friend, arthur, the latter was gazing with an air of absent admiration upon the kindled features of oriana. the two young men were of the same age, apparently about one-and-twenty; but in character and appearance they were widely different. beverly was, in countenance and manner, curiously like his sister, except that the features were bolder and more strongly marked. arthur, on the contrary, was delicate in feature almost to effeminacy. his brow was pale and lofty, and above the auburn locks were massed like a golden coronet. his eyes were very large and blue, with a peculiar softness and sadness that suited well the expression of thoughtfulness and repose about his lips. he was taller than his friend, and although well-formed and graceful, was slim and evidently not in robust health. his voice, as he spoke in acknowledgment of the introduction, was low and musical, but touched with a mournfulness that was apparent even in the few words of conventional courtesy that he pronounced. having thus domiciliated them comfortably in the old hall, we will leave them to recover from the fatigues of the journey, and to taste of the plentiful hospitalities of riverside manor. chapter ii. early in the fresh april morning, the party at riverside manor were congregated in the hall, doing full justice to aunt nancy's substantial breakfast. "oriana," said beverly, as he paused from demolishing a well-buttered batter cake, and handed his cup for a second supply of the fragrant mocha, "i will leave it to your _savoir faire_ to transform our friend arthur into a thorough southerner, before we yield him back to his green mountains. he is already half a convert to our institutions, and will give you not half so much trouble as that obstinate harold hare." she slightly colored at the name, but quietly remarked: "mr. wayne must look about him and judge from his own observation, not my arguments. i certainly do not intend to annoy him during his visit, with political discussions." "and yet you drove harold wild with your flaming harangues, and gave him more logic in an afternoon ride than he had ever been bored with in cambridge in a month." "only when he provoked and invited the assault," she replied, smiling. "but i trust, mr. wayne, that the cloud which is gathering above our country will not darken the sunshine of your visit at riverside manor. it is unfortunate that you should have come at an unpropitious moment, when we cannot promise you that perhaps there will not be some cold looks here and there among the townsfolk, to give you a false impression of a virginia welcome." "not at all, oriana; arthur will have smiles and welcome enough here at the manor house to make him proof against all the hard looks in richmond. i prevailed on him to come at all hazards, and we are bound to have a good time and don't want you to discourage us; eh, arthur?" "i am but little of a politician, miss weems," said arthur, "although i take our country's differences much at heart. i shall surely not provoke discussion with you, like our friend harold, upon an unpleasant subject, while you give me _carte blanche_ to enjoy your conversation upon themes more congenial to my nature." she inclined her head with rather more of gravity than the nature of the conversation warranted, and her lips were slightly compressed as she observed that arthur's blue eyes were fixed pensively, but intently, on her face. the meal being over, oriana and wayne strolled on the lawn toward the river bank, while the carriage was being prepared for a morning drive. they stood on the soft grass at the water's edge, and as arthur gazed with a glow of pleasure at the beautiful prospect before him, his fair companion pointed out with evident pride the many objects of beauty and interest that were within view on the opposite bank. "are you a sailor, mr. wayne? if so, we must have out the boat this afternoon, and you will find some fairy nooks beyond the bend that will repay you for exploring them, if you have a taste for a lovely waterscape. i know you are proud of the grand old hills of your native state, but we have something to boast of too in our virginia scenery." "if you will be my helmswoman, i can imagine nothing more delightful than the excursion you propose. but i am inland bred, and must place myself at the mercy of your nautical experience." "oh, i am a skillful captain, mr. wayne, and will make a good sailor of you before you leave us. mr. hare will tell you that i am to be trusted with the helm, even when the wind blows right smartly, as it sometimes does even on that now placid stream. but with his memories of the magnificent hudson, he was too prone to quiz me about what he called our pretty rivulet. you know him, do you not?" "oh, well. he was beverly's college-mate and mine, though somewhat our senior." "and your warm friend, i believe?" "yes, and well worthy our friendship. somewhat high-tempered and quick-spoken, but with a heart--like your brother's, miss weems, as generous and frank as a summer day." "i do not think him high-tempered beyond the requisites of manhood," she replied, with something like asperity in her tone. "i cannot endure your meek, mild mannered men, who seem to forget their sex, and almost make me long to change my own with them, that their sweet dispositions may be better placed." he glanced at her with a somewhat surprised air, that brought a slight blush to her cheek; but he seemed unconscious of it, and said, almost mechanically: "and yet, that same high spirit, which you prize so dearly, had, in his case, almost caused you a severe affliction." "what do you mean?" "have you not heard how curiously beverly's intimacy with harold was brought about? and yet it was not likely that he should have told you, although i know no harm in letting you know." she turned toward him with an air of attention, as if in expectation. "it was simply this. not being class-mates, they had been almost strangers to each other at college, until, by a mere accident, an argument respecting your southern institutions led to an angry dispute, and harsh words passed between them. being both of the ardent temperament you so much admire, a challenge ensued, and, in spite of my entreaty and remonstrance, a duel. your brother was seriously wounded, and harold, shocked beyond expression, knelt by his side as he lay bleeding on the sward, and bitterly accusing himself, begged his forgiveness, and, i need not add, received it frankly. harold was unremitting in his attentions to your brother during the period of his illness, and from the day of that hostile meeting, the most devoted friendship has existed between them. but it was an idle quarrel, miss weems, and was near to have cost you an only brother." she remained silent for a few moments, and was evidently affected by the recital. then she spoke, softly as if communing with herself: "harold is a brave and noble fellow, and i thank god that he did not kill my brother!" and a bright tear rolled upon her cheek. she dashed it away, almost angrily, and glancing steadily at arthur: "do you condemn duelling?" "assuredly." "but what would you have men do in the face of insult? would you not have fought under the same provocation?" "no, nor under any provocation. i hold too sacred the life that god has given. with god's help, i shall not shed human blood, except in the strict line of necessity and duty." "it is evident, sir, that you hold your own life most sacred," she said, with a curl of her proud lip that was unmistakable. she did not observe the pallor that overspread his features, nor the expression, not of anger, but of anguish, that settled upon his face, for she had turned half away from him, and was gazing vacantly across the river. there was an unpleasant pause, which was broken by the noise of voices in alarm near the house, the trampling of hoofs, and the rattle of wheels. the carriage had been standing at the door, while beverly was arranging some casual business, which delayed him in his rooms. while the attention of the groom in charge had been attracted by some freak of his companions, a little black urchin, not over five years of age, had clambered unnoticed into the vehicle, and seizing the long whip, began to flourish it about with all his baby strength. the horses, which were high bred and spirited, had become impatient, and feeling the lash, started suddenly, jerking themselves free from the careless grasp of the inattentive groom. the sudden shout of surprise and terror that arose from the group of idle negroes, startled the animals into a gallop, and they went coursing, not along the road, but upon the lawn, straight toward the river bank, which, in the line of their course, was precipitous and rocky. as oriana and arthur turned at the sound, they beheld the frightened steeds plunging across the lawn, and upon the carriage seat the little fellow who had caused the mischief was crouching bewildered and helpless, and screaming with affright. oriana clasped her hands, and cried tearfully: "oh! poor little pomp will be killed!" in fact the danger was imminent, for the lawn at that spot merged into a rocky space, forming a little bluff which overhung the stream some fifteen, feet. oriana's hand was laid instinctively upon arthur's shoulder, and with the other she pointed, with a gesture of bewildered anxiety, at the approaching vehicle. arthur paused only long enough to understand the situation, and then stepping calmly a few paces to the left, stood directly in the path of the rushing steeds. "oh, mr. wayne! no, no!" cried oriana, in a tone half of fear and half supplication; but he stood there unmoved, with the same quiet, mournful expression that he habitually wore. the horses faltered somewhat when they became conscious of this fixed, calm figure directly in their course. they would have turned, but their impetus was too great, and they swerved only enough to bring the head of the off horse in a line with arthur's body. as coolly as if he was taking up a favorite book, but with a rapid movement, he grasped the rein below the bit with both hands firmly, and swung upon it with his whole weight. the frightened animal turned half round, stumbled, and rolled upon his side, his mate falling upon his knees beside him; the carriage was overturned with a crash, and little pompey pitched out upon the greensward, unhurt. by this time, beverly, followed by a crowd of excited negroes, had reached the spot. "how is it, arthur," said beverly, placing his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder, "are you hurt?" "no," he replied, the melancholy look softening into a pleasant smile; but as he rose and adjusted his disordered dress, he coughed painfully--the same dry, hacking cough that had often made those who loved him turn to him with an anxious look. it was evident that his delicate frame was ill suited to such rough exercise. "we shall be cheated out of our ride this morning," said beverly, "for that axle has been less fortunate than you, arthur; it is seriously hurt." they moved slowly toward the house, oriana looking silently at the grass as she walked mechanically at her brother's side. when arthur descended into the drawing-room, after having changed his soiled apparel, he found her seated there alone, by the casement, with her brow upon her hand. he sat down at the table and glanced abstractedly over the leaves of a scrap-book. thus they sat silently for a quarter hour, when she arose, and stood beside him. "will you forgive me, mr. wayne?" he looked up and saw that she had been weeping. the haughty curl of the lip and proud look from the eye were all gone, and her expression was of humility and sorrow. she held out her hand to him with an air almost of entreaty. he raised it respectfully to his lips, and with the low, musical voice, sadder than ever before, he said: "i am sorry that you should grieve about anything. there is nothing to forgive. let us forget it." "oh, mr. wayne, how unkind i have been, and how cruelly i have wronged you!" she pressed his hand between both her palms for a moment, and looked into his face, as if studying to read if some trace of resentment were not visible. but the blue eyes looked down kindly and mournfully upon her, and bursting into tears, she turned from him, and hurriedly left the room. chapter iii. the incident related in the preceding chapter seemed to have effected a marked change in the demeanor of oriana toward her brother's guest. she realized with painful force the wrong that her thoughtlessness, more than her malice, had inflicted on a noble character, and it required all of arthur's winning sweetness of disposition to remove from her mind the impression that she stood, while in his presence, in the light of an unforgiven culprit. they were necessarily much in each other's company, in the course of the many rambles and excursions that were devised to relieve the monotony of the old manor house, and oriana was surprised to feel herself insensibly attracted toward the shy and pensive man, whose character, so far as it was betrayed by outward sign, was the very reverse of her own impassioned temperament. she discovered that the unruffled surface covered an under-current of pure thought and exquisite feeling, and when, on the bosom of the river, or in the solitudes of the forest, his spirit threw off its reserve under the spell of nature's inspiration, she felt her own impetuous organization rebuked and held in awe by the simple and quiet grandeur that his eloquence revealed. one afternoon, some two weeks after his arrival at the riverside manor, while returning from a canter in the neighborhood, they paused upon an eminence that overlooked a portion of the city of richmond. there, upon an open space, could be seen a great number of the citizens assembled, apparently listening to the harangue of an orator. the occasional cheer that arose from the multitude faintly reached their ears, and that mass of humanity, restless, turbulent and excited, seemed, even at that distance, to be swayed by some mighty passion. "look, miss weems," said arthur, "at this magnificent circle of gorgeous scenery, that you are so justly proud of, that lies around you in the golden sunset like a dream of a fairy landscape. see how the slanting rays just tip the crest of that distant ridge, making it glow like a coronet of gold, and then, leaping into the river beneath; spangle its bosom with dazzling sheen, save where a part rests in the purple shadow of the mountain. look to the right, and see how those crimson clouds seem bending from heaven to kiss the yellow corn-fields that stretch along the horizon. and at your feet, the city of richmond extends along the valley." "we admit the beauty of the scene and the accuracy of the description," said beverly, "but, for my part, i should prefer the less romantic view of some of aunt nancy's batter-cakes, for this ride has famished me." "now look below," continued arthur, "at that swarm of human beings clustering together like angry bees. as we stand here gazing at the glorious pageant which nature spreads out before us, one might suppose that only for some festival of rejoicing or thanksgiving would men assemble at such an hour and in such a scene. but what are the beauties of the landscape, bathed in the glories of the setting-sun, to them? they have met to listen to words of passion and bitterness, to doctrines of strife, to denunciations and criminations against their fellow-men. and, doubtless, a similar scene of freemen invoking the spirit of contention that we behold yonder in that pleasant valley of the old dominion, is being enacted at the north and at the south, at the east and at the west, all over the length and breadth of our country. the seeds of discord are being carefully and persistently gathered and disseminated, and on both sides, these erring mortals will claim to be acting in the name of patriotism. beverly, do you surmise nothing ominous of evil in that gathering?" "ten to one, some stirring news from charleston. we must ride over after supper, arthur, and learn the upshot of it." "and i will be a sybil for the nonce," said oriana, with a kindling eye, "and prophecy that southern cannon have opened upon sumter." in the evening, in despite of a threatening sky, arthur and beverly mounted their horses and galloped toward richmond. as they approached the city, the rain fell heavily and they sought shelter at a wayside tavern. observing the public room to be full, they passed into a private parlor and ordered some slight refreshment. in the adjoining tap-room they could hear the voices of excited men, discussing some topic of absorbing interest. their anticipations were realized, for they quickly gathered from the tenor of the disjointed conversation that the bombardment of fort sumter had begun. "i'll bet my pile," said a rough voice, "that the gridiron bunting won't float another day in south carolina." "i'll go you halves on that, hoss, and you and i won't grow greyer nor we be, before old virginny says 'me too.'" "seth rawbon, you'd better be packing your traps for massachusetts. she'll want you afore long." "boys," ejaculated the last-mentioned personage, with an oath, "i left off being a massachusetts man twelve years ago. i'm with _you_, and you know it. let's drink. boys, here's to spunky little south carolina; may she go in and win! stranger, what'll you drink?" "i will not drink," replied a clear, manly voice, which had been silent till then. "and why will you not drink?" rejoined the other, mocking the dignified and determined tone in which the invitation was refused. "it is sufficient that i will not." "mayhap you don't like my sentiment?" "right." "look you, mr. harold hare, i know you well, and i think we'll take you down from your high horse before you're many hours older in these parts. boys, let's make him drink to south carolina." "who is he, anyhow?" "he's an abolitionist; just the kind that'll look a darned sight more natural in a coat of tar and feathers. cut out his heart and you'll find john brown's picture there as large as life." at the mention of harold's name, arthur and beverly had started up simultaneously, and throwing open the bar-room door, entered hastily. harold had risen from his seat and stood confronting rawbon with an air in which anger and contempt were strangely blended. the latter leaned with awkward carelessness against the counter, sipping a glass of spirits and water with a malicious smile. "you are an insolent scoundrel," said harold, "and i would horsewhip you, if you were worth the pains." rawbon looked around and for a second seemed to study the faces of those about him. then lazily reaching over toward harold, he took him by the arm and drew him toward the counter. "say, you just come and drink to south carolina." the heavy horsewhip in harold's hand rose suddenly and descended like a flash. the knotted lash struck rawbon full in the mouth, splitting the lips like a knife. in an instant several knives were drawn, and rawbon, spluttering an oath through the spurting blood that choked his utterance, drew a revolver from its holster at his side. the entrance of the two young men was timely. they immediately placed themselves in front of harold, and arthur, with his usual mild expression, looked full in rawbon's eye, although the latter's pistol was in a line with his breast. "stand out of the way, you two," shouted rawbon, savagely. "what is the meaning of this, gentlemen?" said beverly, quietly, to the excited bystanders, to several of whom he was personally known. "squire weems," replied one among them, "you had better stand aside. rawbon has a lien on that fellow's hide. he's an abolitionist, anyhow, and ain't worth your interference." "he is my very intimate friend, and i will answer for him to any one here," said beverly, warmly. "i will answer for myself," said hare, pressing forward. "then answer that!" yelled rawbon, levelling and shooting with a rapid movement. but wayne's quiet eye had been riveted upon him all the while, and he had thrown up the ruffian's arm as he pulled the trigger. beverly's eyes flashed like live coals, and he sprang at rawbon's throat, but the crowd pressed between them, and for a while the utmost confusion prevailed, but no blows were struck. the landlord, a sullen, black-browed man, who had hitherto leaned silently on the counter, taking no part in the fray, now interposed. "come, i don't want no more loose shooting here!" and, by way of assisting his remark, he took down his double-barrelled shot-gun and jumped upon the counter. the fellow was well known for a desperate though not quarrelsome character, and his action had the effect of somewhat quieting the excited crowd. "boys," continued he, "it's only yankee against yankee, anyhow; if they're gwine to fight, let the stranger have fair play. here stranger, if you're a friend of squire weems, you kin have a fair show in my house, i reckon, so take hold of this," and taking a revolver from his belt, he passed it to beverly, who cocked it and slipped it into harold's hand. rawbon, who throughout the confusion had been watching for the opportunity of a shot at his antagonist, now found himself front to front with the object of his hate, for the bystanders had instinctively drawn back a space, and even wayne and weems, willing to trust to their friend's coolness and judgment, had stepped aside. harold sighted his man as coolly as if he had been aiming at a squirrel. rawbon did not flinch, for he was not wanting in physical courage, but he evidently concluded that the chances were against him, and with a bitter smile, he walked slowly toward the door. turning at the threshold, he scowled for a moment at harold, as if hesitating whether to accept the encounter. "i'll fix you yet," he finally muttered, and left the room. a few moments afterward, the three friends were mounted and riding briskly toward riverside manor. chapter iv. oriana, after awaiting till a late hour the return of her brother and his friend, had retired to rest, and was sleeping soundly when the party entered the house, after their remarkable adventure. she was therefore unconscious, upon descending from her apartment in the morning, of the addition to her little household. standing upon the veranda, she perceived what she supposed to be her brother's form moving among the shrubbery in the garden. she hastened to accost him, curious to ascertain the nature of the excitement in richmond on the preceding afternoon. great was her astonishment and unfeigned her pleasure, upon turning a little clump of bushes, to find herself face to face with harold hare. he had been lost in meditation, but upon seeing her his brow lit up as a midnight sky brightens when a passing cloud has unshrouded the full moon. with a cry of joy she held out both her hands to him, which he pressed silently for a moment as he gazed tenderly upon the upturned, smiling face, and then, pushing back the black tresses, he touched her white forehead with his lips. arthur wayne was looking out from his lattice above, and his eye chanced to turn that way at the moment of the meeting. he started as if struck with a sudden pang, and his cheek, always pale, became of an ashen hue. long he gazed with labored breath upon the pair, as if unable to realize what he had seen; then, with a suppressed moan, he sank into a chair, and leaned his brow heavily upon his hand. thus for half an hour he remained motionless; it was only after a second summons that he roused himself and descended to the morning meal. at the breakfast table oriana was in high spirits, and failed to observe that arthur was more sad than usual. her brother, however, was preoccupied and thoughtful, and even harold, although happy in the society of one he loved, could not refrain from moments of abstraction. of course the adventure of the preceding night was concealed from oriana, but it yet furnished the young men with matter for reflection; and, coupled with the exciting intelligence from south carolina, it suggested, to harold especially, a vision of an unhappy future. it was natural that the thought should obtrude itself of how soon a barrier might be placed between friends and loved ones, and the most sacred ties sundered, perhaps forever. miss randolph, oriana's aunt, usually reserved and silent, seemed on this occasion the most inquisitive and talkative of the party. her interest in the momentous turn that affairs had taken was naturally aroused, and she questioned the young men closely as to their view of the probable consequences. "surely," she remarked, "a nation of christian people will choose some alternative other than the sword to adjust their differences." "why, aunt," replied oriana, with spirit, "what better weapon than the sword for the oppressed?" "i fear there is treason lurking in that little heart of yours," said harold, with a pensive smile. "i am a true southerner, mr. hare; and if i were a man, i would take down my father's rifle and march into general beauregard's camp. we have been too long anathematized as the vilest of god's creatures, because we will not turn over to the world's cold charity the helpless beings that were bequeathed into our charge by our fathers. i would protect my slave against northern fanaticism as firmly as i would guard my children from the interference of a stranger, were i a mother." "the government against which you would rebel," said harold, "contemplates no interference with your slaves." "why, mr. hare," rejoined oriana, warmly, "we of the south can see the spirit of abolitionism sitting in the executive chair, as plainly as we see the sunshine on an unclouded summer day. as well might we change places with our bondmen, as submit to this deliberate crusade against our institutions. mr. wayne, you are a man not prone to prejudice, i sincerely believe. would you from your heart assert that this government is not hostile to southern slavery?" "i believe you are, on both sides, too sensitive upon the unhappy subject. you are breeding danger, and perhaps ruin, out of abstract ideas, and civil war will have laid the country waste before either party will have awakened to a knowledge that no actual cause of contention exists." "perhaps," said beverly, "the mere fact that the two sections are hostile in sentiment, is the best reason why they should be hostile in deed, if a separation can only be accomplished by force of arms." "and do you really fancy," said harold, sharply, "that a separation is possible, in the face of the opposition of twenty millions of loyal citizens?" "yes," interrupted oriana, "in the face of the opposing world. we established our right to self-government in ; and in we are prepared to prove our power to sustain that right." "you are a young enthusiast," said harold, smiling. "this rebellion will be crushed before the flowers in that garden shall be touched with the earliest frost." "i think you have formed a false estimate of the movement," remarked beverly, gravely; "or rather, you have not fully considered of the subject." "harold," said arthur, sadly, "i regret, and perhaps censure, equally with yourself, the precipitancy of our carolinian brothers; but this is not an age, nor a country, where six millions of freeborn people can be controlled by bayonets and cannon." they were about rising from the table, when a servant announced that some gentlemen desired to speak with mr. weems in private. he passed into the drawing-room, and found himself in the presence of three men, two of whom he recognized as small farmers of the neighborhood, and the other as the landlord of a public house. with a brief salutation, he seated himself beside them, and after a few commonplace remarks, paused, as if to learn their business with him. after a little somewhat awkward hesitation, the publican broke silence. "squire weems, we've called about a rather unpleasant sort of business" "the sooner we transact it, then, the better for all, i fancy, gentlemen." "just so. old judge weems, your father, was a true virginian, squire, and we know you are of the right sort, too." beverly bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. "squire, the boys hereabouts met down thar at my house last night, to take into consideration them two northern fellows that are putting up with you." "well, sir?" "we don't want any yankee abolitionists in these parts." "mr. lucas, i have no guests for whom i will not vouch." "can't help that, squire, them chaps is spotted, and the boys have voted they must leave. as they be your company, us three've been deputized to call on you and have a talk about it. we don't want to do nothing unpleasant whar you're consarned, squire." "gentlemen, my guests shall remain with me while they please to honor me with their company, and i will protect them from violence or indignity with my life." "there's no mistake but you're good grit, squire, but 'tain't no use. you know what the boys mean to do, they'll do. now, whar's the good of kicking up a shindy about it?" "no good whatever, mr. lucas. you had better let this matter drop. you know me too well to suppose that i would harbor dangerous characters. it is my earnest desire to avoid everything that may bring about an unnecessary excitement, or disturb the peace of the community; and i shall therefore make no secret of this, interview to my friends. but whether they remain with me or go, shall be entirely at their option. i trust that my roof will be held sacred by my fellow-citizens." "there'll be no harm done to you or yours, squire weems, whatever happens. but those strangers had better be out of these parts by to-morrow, sure. good morning, squire." "good morning, gentlemen." and the three worthies took their departure, not fully satisfied whether the object of their mission had been fulfilled. beverly, anxious to avoid a collision with the wild spirits of the neighborhood, which would be disagreeable, if not dangerous, to his guests, frankly related to harold and arthur the tenor of the conversation that had passed. oriana was on fire with indignation, but her concern for harold's safety had its weight with her, and she wisely refrained from opposing their departure; and both the young men, aware that a prolongation of their visit would cause the family at riverside manor much inconvenience and anxiety, straightway announced their intention of proceeding northward on the following morning. but it was no part of seth rawbon's purpose to allow his rival, hare, to depart in peace. the chastisement which he had received at harold's hands added a most deadly hate to the jealousy which his knowledge of oriana's preference had caused. he had considerable influence with several of the dissolute and lawless characters of the vicinity, and a liberal allowance of monongahela, together with sundry pecuniary favors, enabled him to depend upon their assistance in any adventure that did not promise particularly serious results. now the capture and mock trial of a couple of yankee strangers did not seem much out of the way to these not over-scrupulous worthies; and rawbon's cunning representations as to the extent of their abolition proclivities were scarcely necessary, in view of the liberality of his bribes, to secure their cooperation in his scheme. rawbon had been prowling about the manor house during the day, in the hope of obtaining some clue to the intentions of the inmates, and observing a mulatto boy engaged in arranging the boat for present use, he walked carelessly along the bank to the old boat-house, and, by a few adroit questions, ascertained that "missis and the two gen'lmen gwine to take a sail this arternoon." the evening was drawing on apace when oriana, accompanied by arthur and harold, set forth on the last of the many excursions they had enjoyed on james river; but they had purposely selected a late hour, that on their return they might realize the tranquil pleasures of a sail by moonlight. beverly was busy finishing some correspondence for the north, which he intended giving into the charge of his friend arthur, and he therefore remained at home. phil, a smart mulatto, about ten years of age, who was a general favorite in the family and an especial pet of oriana, was allowed to accompany the party. it was a lovely evening, only cool enough to be comfortable for oriana to be wrapped in her woollen shawl. as the shadows of twilight darkened on the silent river, a spirit of sadness was with the party, that vague and painful melancholy that weighs upon the heart when happy ties are about to be sundered, and loved ones are about to part. arthur had brought his flute, and with an effort to throw off the feeling of gloom, he essayed a lively air; but it seemed like discord by association with their thoughts. he ceased abruptly, and, at oriana's request, chose a more mournful theme. when the last notes of the plaintive melody had been lost in the stillness of the night, there was an oppressive pause, only broken by the rustle of the little sail and the faint rippling of the wave. "i seem to be sailing into the shadows of misfortune," said oriana, in a low, sad tone. "i wish the moon would rise, for this darkness presses upon my heart like the fingers of a sorrowful destiny. what a coward i am to-night!" "a most obedient satellite," replied arthur. "look where she heralds her approach by spreading a misty glow on the brow of yonder hill." "we have left the shadows of misfortune behind us," said harold, as a flood of moonlight flashed over the river, seeming to dash a million of diamonds in the path of the gliding boat. "alas! the fickle orb!" murmured oriana; "it rises but to mock us, and hides itself already in the bosom of that sable cloud. is there not a threat of rain there, mr. hare?" "it looks unpromising, at the best," said harold; "i think it would be prudent to return." suddenly, little phil, who had been lying at ease, with his head against the thwarts, arose on his elbow and cried out: "wha'dat?" "what is what, phil?" asked oriana. "why, phil, you have been dreaming," she added, observing the lad's confusion at having spoken so vehemently. "miss orany, dar's a boat out yonder. i heard 'em pulling, sure." "nonsense, phil! you've been asleep." "by gol! i heard 'em, sure. what a boat doing round here dis time o' night? dem's some niggers arter chickens, sure." and little phil, satisfied that he had fathomed the mystery, lay down again in a fit of silent indignation. the boat was put about, but the wind had died away, and the sail flapped idly against the mast. harold, glad of the opportunity for a little exercise, shipped the sculls and bent to his work. "miss oriana, put her head for the bank if you please. we shall have less current to pull against in-shore." the boat glided along under the shadow of the bank, and no sound was heard but the regular thugging and splashing of the oars and the voices of insects on the shore. they approached a curve in the river where the bank was thickly wooded, and dense shrubbery projected over the stream. "wha' dat?" shouted phil again, starting up in the bow and peering into the darkness. a boat shot out from the shadow of the foliage, and her course was checked directly in their path. the movement was so sudden that, before harold could check his headway, the two boats fouled. a boathook was thrust into the thwarts; arthur sprang to the bows to cast it off. "don't touch that," shouted a hoarse voice; and he felt the muzzle of a pistol thrust into his breast. "none of that, seth," cried another; and the speaker laid hold of his comrade's arm. "we must have no shooting, you know." arthur had thrown off the boathook, but some half-dozen armed men had already leaped into the frail vessel, crowding it to such an extent that a struggle, even had it not been madness against such odds, would have occasioned great personal danger to oriana. both arthur and harold seemed instinctively to comprehend this, and therefore offered no opposition. their boat was taken in tow, and in a few moments the entire party, with one exception, were landed upon the adjacent bank. that exception was little phil. in the confusion that ensued upon the collision of the two boats, the lad had quietly slipped overboard, and swam ground to the stern where his mistress sat. "miss orany, hist! miss orany!" the bewildered girl turned and beheld the black face peering over the gunwale. "miss orany, here i is. o lor'! miss orany, what we gwine to do?" she bowed her head toward him and whispered hurriedly, but calmly: "mind what i tell you, phil. you watch where they take us to, and then run home and tell master beverly. do you understand me, phil?" "yes, i does, miss orany;" and the little fellow struck out silently for the shore, and crept among the bushes. oriana betrayed no sign, of fear as she stood with her two companions on the bank a few paces from their captors. the latter, in a low but earnest tone, were disputing with one who seemed to act as their leader. "you didn't tell us nothing about the lady," said a brawny, rugged-looking fellow, angrily. "now, look here, seth rawbon, this ain't a goin' to do. i'd cut your heart out, before i'd let any harm come to squire weems's sister." "you lied to us, you long-headed yankee turncoat," muttered another. "what in thunder do you mean bringing us down here for kidnapping a lady?" "ain't i worried about it as much as you?" answered rawbon. "can't you understand it's all a mistake?" "well, now, you go and apologize to miss weems and fix matters, d'ye hear?" "but what can we do?" "do? undo what you've done, and show her back into the boat." "but the two abo"-- "damn them and you along with 'em! come, boys, don't let's keep the lady waiting thar." the party approached their prisoners, and one among them, hat in hand, respectfully addressed oriana. "miss weems, we're plaguy sorry this should 'a happened. it's a mistake and none of our fault. your boat's down thar and yer shan't be merlested." "am i free to go?" asked oriana, calmly. "free as air, miss weems." "with my companions?" "no, they remain with us," said rawbon. "then i remain with them," she replied, with dignity and firmness. the man who had first remonstrated with rawbon, stepped up to him and laid his hand heavily on his shoulder: "look here, seth rawbon, you've played out your hand in this game, now mind that. miss weems, you're free to go, anyhow, with them chaps or not, just as you like." they stepped down the embankment, but the boats were nowhere to be seen. rawbon, anticipating some trouble with his gang, had made a pretence only of securing the craft to a neighboring bush. the current had carried the boats out into the stream, and they had floated down the river and were lost to sight in the darkness. chapter v. there was no remedy but to cross the woodland and cornfields that for about a league intervened between their position and the highway. they commenced the tedious tramp, arthur and harold exerting themselves to the utmost to protect oriana from the brambles, and to guide her footsteps along the uneven ground and among the decayed branches and other obstacles that beset their path. their rude companions, too, with the exception of rawbon, who walked moodily apart, seemed solicitous to assist her with their rough attentions. to add to the disagreeable nature of their situation, the rain began to fall in torrents before they had accomplished one half of the distance. they were then in the midst of a tract of wooded land that was almost impassable for a lady in the darkness, on account of the yielding nature of the soil, and the numerous ruts and hollows that were soon transformed into miniature pools and streams. oriana strove to treat the adventure as a theme for laughter, and for awhile chatted gaily with her companions; but it was evident that she was fast becoming weary, and that her thin-shod feet were wounded by constant contact with the twigs and sharp stones that it was impossible to avoid in the darkness. her dress was torn, and heavy with mud and moisture, and the two young men were pained to perceive that, in spite of her efforts and their watchful care, she stumbled frequently with exhaustion, and leaned heavily on their arms as she labored through the miry soil. one of the party opportunely remembered a charcoal-burner's hut in the vicinity, that would at least afford a rude shelter from the driving storm. several of the men hastened in search of it, and soon a halloo not far distant indicated that the cabin, such as it was, had been discovered. as they approached, they were surprised to observe rays of light streaming through the cracks and crevices, as if a fire were blazing within. it was an uninviting structure, hastily constructed of unhewn logs, and upon ordinary occasions oriana would have hesitated to pass the threshold; but wet and weary as she was, she was glad to obtain the shelter of even so poor a hovel. "there's a runaway in thar, i reckon," said one of the party. he threw open the door, and several of the men entered. a fire of logs was burning on the earthen floor, and beside it was stretched a negro's form, wrapped in a tattered blanket. he started up as his unwelcome visitors entered, and looked frightened and bewildered, as if suddenly awakened from a sound sleep. however, he had no sooner laid eyes upon seth rawbon than, with a yell of fear, he sprang with a powerful leap through the doorway, leaving his blanket in the hands of those who sought to grasp him. "that's my nigger jim!" cried rawbon, discharging his revolver at the dusky form as it ran like a deer into the shadow of the woods. at every shot, the negro jumped and screamed, but, from his accelerated speed, was apparently untouched. "after him, boys!" shouted rawbon. "five dollars apiece and a gallon of whisky if you bring the varmint in." with a whoop, the whole party went off in chase and were soon lost to view in the darkness. harold and arthur led oriana into the hut, and, spreading their coats upon the damp floor, made a rude couch for her beside the fire. the poor girl was evidently prostrated with fatigue and excitement, yet, with a faint laugh and a jest as she glanced around upon the questionable accommodations, she thanked them for their kindness, and seated herself beside the blazing fagots. "this is a strange finale to our pleasure excursion," she said, as the grateful warmth somewhat revived her spirits. "you must acknowledge me a prophetess, gentlemen," she added, with a smile, "for you see that we sailed indeed into the shadows of misfortune." "should your health not suffer from this exposure," replied arthur, "our adventure will prove no misfortune, but only a theme for mirth hereafter, when we recall to mind our present piteous plight." "oh, i am strong, mr. wayne," she answered cheerfully, perceiving the expression of solicitude in the countenances of her companions, "and have passed the ordeal of many a thorough wetting with impunity. never fear but i shall fare well enough. i am only sorry and ashamed that all our boasted virginia hospitality can afford you no better quarters than this for your last night among us." "apart from the discomfort to yourself, this little episode will only make brighter by contrast my remembrance of the many happy hours we have passed together," said arthur, with a tone of deep feeling that caused oriana to turn and gaze thoughtfully into the flaming pile. harold said nothing, and stood leaning moodily against the wall of the hovel, evidently a prey to painful thoughts. his mind wandered into the glooms of the future, and dwelt upon the hour when he, perhaps, should tread with hostile arms the soil that was the birthplace of his beloved. "can it be possible," he thought, "that between us twain, united as we are in soul, there can exist such variance of opinion as will make her kin and mine enemies, and perhaps the shedders of each other's blood!" there was a pause, and oriana, her raiment being partially dried, rested her head upon her arm and slumbered. the storm increased in violence, and the rain, pelting against the cabin roof, with its weird music, formed a dismal accompaniment to the grotesque discomfort of their situation. arthur threw fresh fuel upon the fire, and the crackling twigs sent up a fitful flame, that fell athwart the face of the sleeping girl, and revealed an expression of sorrow upon her features that caused him to turn away with a sigh. "arthur," asked harold, abruptly, "do you think this unfortunate affair at sumter will breed much trouble?" "i fear it," said arthur, sadly. "our northern hearts are made of sterner stuff than is consistent with the spirit of conciliation." "and what of southern hearts?" "you have studied them," said arthur, with a pensive smile, and bending his gaze upon the sleeping maiden. harold colored slightly, and glanced half reproachfully at his friend. "i cannot help believing," continued the latter, "that we are blindly invoking a fatal strife, more in the spirit of exaltation than of calm and searching philosophy. i am confident that the elements of union still exist within the sections, but my instinct, no less than my judgment, tells me that they will no longer exist when the chariot-wheels of war shall have swept over the land. whatever be the disparity of strength, wealth and numbers, and whatever may be the result of encounters upon the battle-field, such a terrible war as both sides are capable of waging can never build up or sustain a fabric whose cement must be brotherhood and kindly feeling. i would as soon think to woo the woman of my choice with angry words and blows, as to reconcile our divided fellow citizens by force of arms." "you are more a philosopher than a patriot," said harold, with some bitterness. "not so," answered arthur, warmly. "i love my country--so well, indeed, that i cannot be aroused into hostility to any section of it. my reason does not admit the necessity for civil war, and it becomes therefore a sacred obligation with me to give my voice against the doctrine of coercion. my judgment may err, or my sensibilities may be 'too full of the milk of human kindness' to serve the stern exigencies of the crisis with a spartan's callousness and a roman's impenetrability; but for you to affirm that, because true to my own opinions, i must be false to my country, is to deny me that independence of thought to which my country, as a nation, owes its existence and its grandeur." "you boast your patriotism, and yet you seem to excuse those who seek the dismemberment of your country." "i do not excuse them, but i would not have them judged harshly, for i believe they have acted under provocation." "what provocation can justify rebellion against a government so beneficent as ours?" "i will not pretend to justify, because i think there is much to be forgiven on either side. but if anything can palliate the act, it is that system of determined hostility which for years has been levelled against an institution which they believe to be righteous and founded upon divine precept. but i think this is not the hour for justification or for crimination. i am convinced that the integrity of the union can only be preserved by withholding the armed hand at this crisis. and pray heaven, our government may forbear to strike!" "would you, then, have our flag trampled upon with impunity, and our government confessed a cipher, because, forsooth, you have a constitutional repugnance to the severities of warfare? away with such sickly sentimentality! such theories, if carried into practice, would reduce us to a nation of political dwarfs and puny drivellers, fit only to grovel at the footstools of tyrants." "i could better bear an insult to our flag than a deathblow to our nationality. and i feel that our nationality would not survive a struggle between the sections. there is no danger that we should be dwarfed in intellect or spirit by practising forbearance toward our brothers." "is treason less criminal because it is the treason of brother against brother? if so, then must a traitor of necessity go unpunished, since the nature of the crime requires that the culprit be your countryman. how hollow are your arguments when applied to existing facts!" "you forget that i counsel moderation as an expediency, as even a necessity, for the public good. it were poor policy to compass the country's ruin for the sake of bringing chastisement upon error." "that can be but a questionable love of country that would humiliate a government to the act of parleying with rebellion." "my love of country is not confined to one section of the country, or to one division of my countrymen. the lessons of the historic past have taught me otherwise. if, when a schoolboy, poring over the pages of my country's history, i have stood, in imagination, with prescott at bunker hill, and stormed with ethan allen at the gates of ticonderoga, i have also mourned with washington at valley forge, and followed marion and sumter through the wilds of carolina. if i have fancied myself at work with yankee sailors at the guns, and poured the shivering broadside into the guerriere, i have helped to man the breastworks at new orleans, and seen the ranks that stood firm at waterloo wavering before the blaze of southern rifles. if i have read of the hardy northern volunteers on the battle-plains of mexico; i remember the palmetto boys at cherubusco, and the brave mississippians at buena vista. is it a wonder, then, that my heartstrings ache when i see the links breaking that bind me to such memories? if i would have the government parley awhile for the sake of peace, even although the strict law sanction the bayonet and cannon, i do it in the name of the sacred past, when the ties of brotherhood were strong. i counsel not humiliation nor submission, but conciliation. i counsel it, not only as an expedient, but as a tribute to the affinities of almost a century. i love the union too well to be willing that its fate should be risked upon the uncertainties of war. i believe in my conscience that the chances of its reconstruction depend rather upon negotiation than upon battles. i may err, or you, as my opponent in opinion, may err; for while i assume not infallibility for myself, i deny it, with justice, to my neighbor. but i think as my heart and intellect dictate, and my patriotism should not be questioned by one as liable to error as myself. should i yield my honest convictions upon a question of such vital importance as my country's welfare, then indeed should i be a traitor to my country and myself. but to accuse me of questionable patriotism for my independence of thought, is, in itself, treason against god and man." "i believe you sincere in your convictions, arthur, not because touched by your argument, but because i have known you too long and well to believe you capable of an unworthy motive. but what, in the name of common justice, would you have us do, when rebellion already thunders at the gates of our citadels with belching cannon? shall we sit by our firesides and nod to the music of their artillery?" "i would have every american citizen, in this crisis, as in all others, divest himself of all prejudice and sectional feeling: i would have him listen to and ponder upon the opinions of his fellow citizens, and, with the exercise of his best judgment, to discard the bad, and take counsel from the good; then, i would have him conclude for himself, not whether his flag has been insulted, or whether there are injuries to avenge, or criminals to be punished, but what is best and surest to be done for the welfare of his country. if he believe the union can only be preserved by war, let his voice be for war; if by peace, let him counsel peace, as i do, from my heart; if he remain in doubt, let him incline to peace, secure that in so doing he will best obey the teachings of christianity, the laws of humanity, and the mighty voice that is speaking from the soul of enlightenment, pointing out the errors of the past, and disclosing the secret of human happiness for the future." arthur's eye kindled as he spoke, and the flush of excitement, to which he was habitually a stranger, colored his pale cheek. oriana had awakened with the vehemence of his language, and gazing with interest upon his now animated features, had been listening to his closing words. harold was about to answer, when suddenly the baying of a hound broke through the noise of the storm. "that is a bloodhound!" exclaimed harold with an accent of surprise. "oh, no," said oriana. "there are no bloodhounds in this neighborhood, nor are they at all in use, i am sure, in virginia." "i am not mistaken," replied harold. "i have been made familiar with their baying while surveying on the coast of florida. listen!" the deep, full tones came swelling upon the night wind, and fell with a startling distinctness upon the ear. "it's my hound, mister hare," said a low, coarse voice at the doorway, and seth rawbon entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. chapter vi. "it's my hound. miss weems, and i guess he's on the track of that nigger, jim." oriana started as if stung by a serpent, and rising to her feet, looked upon the man with such an expression of contempt and loathing that the ruffian's brow grew black with anger as he returned her gaze. harold confronted him, and spoke in a low, earnest tone, and between his clenched teeth: "if you are a man you will go at once. this persecution of a woman is beneath even your brutality. if you have an account with me, i will not balk you. but relieve her from the outrage of your presence here." "i guess i'd better be around," replied rawbon, coolly, as he leaned against the door, with his hands in his coat pocket. "that dog is dangerous when he's on the scent. you see, miss weems," he continued, speaking over harold's shoulder, "my niggers are plaguy troublesome, and i keep the hound to cow them down a trifle. but he wouldn't hurt a lady, i think--unless i happened to encourage him a bit, do you see." and the man showed his black teeth with a grin that caused oriana to shudder and turn away. harold's brow was like a thunder-cloud, from beneath which his eyes flashed like the lightning at midnight. "your words imply a threat which i cannot understand. ruffian! what do mean?" "i mean no good to you, my buck!" his lip, with the deep cut upon it, curled with hate, but he still leaned coolly against the door, though a quick ear might have caught a click, as if he had cocked a pistol in his pocket. it was a habit with harold to go unarmed. fearless and self-reliant by nature, even upon his surveying expeditions in wild and out of the way districts, he carried no weapon beyond sometimes a stout oaken staff. but now, his form dilated, and the muscles of his arm contracted, as if he were about to strike. oriana understood the movement and the danger. she advanced quietly but quickly to his side, and took his hand within her own. "he is not worth your anger, harold. for my sake, harold, do not provoke him further," she added softly, as she drew him from the spot. at this moment the baying of the hound was heard, apparently in close proximity to the hovel, and presently there was a heavy breathing and snuffling at the threshold, followed by a bound against the door, and a howl of rage and impatience. nothing prevented the entrance of the animal except the form of rawbon, who still leaned quietly against the rude frame, which, hanging upon leathern hinges, closed the aperture. there was something frightful in the hoarse snarling of the angry beast, as he dashed his heavy shoulder against the rickety framework, and oriana shrank nervously to harold's side. "secure that dog!" he said, as, while soothing the trembling girl, he looked over his shoulder reproachfully at rawbon. his tone was low, and even gentle, but it was tremulous with passion. but the man gave no answer, and continued leering at them as before. arthur walked to him and spoke almost in an accent of entreaty. "sir, for the sake of your manhood, take away your dog and leave us." he did not answer. the hound, excited by the sound of voices, redoubled his efforts and his fury. oriana was sinking into harold's arms. "this must end," he muttered. "arthur, take her from me, she's fainting. i'll go out and brain the dog." "not yet, not yet," whispered arthur. "for her sake be calm," and while he received oriana upon one arm, with the other he sought to stay his friend. but harold seized a brand from the fire, and sprang toward the door. "stand from the door," he shouted, lifting the brand above rawbon's head. "leave that, i say!" rawbon's lank form straightened, and in an instant the revolver flashed in the glare of the fagots. he did not shoot, but his face grew black with passion. "by god! you strike me, and i'll set the dog at the woman." at the sound of his master's voice, the hound set up a yell that seemed unearthly. harold was familiar with the nature of the species, and even in the extremity of his anger, his anxiety for oriana withheld his arm. "look you here!" continued rawbon, losing his quiet, mocking tone, and fairly screaming with excitement, "do you see this?" he pointed to his mangled lip, from which, by the action of his jaws while talking, the plaster had just been torn, and the blood was streaming out afresh. "do you see this? i've got that to settle with you. i'll hunt you, by g--d! as that hound hunts a nigger. now see if i don't spoil that pretty face of yours, some day, so that she won't look so sweet on you for all your pretty talk." he seemed to calm abruptly after this, put up his pistol, and resumed the wicked leer. "what would you have?" at last asked arthur, mildly and with no trace of anger in his voice. rawbon turned to him with a searching glance, and, after a pause, said: "terms." "what?" "i want to make terms with you." "about what?" "about this whole affair." "well. go on." "i know you can hurt me for this with the law, and i know you mean to. now i want this matter hushed up." harold would have spoken, but arthur implored him with a glance, and answered: "what assurance can you give us against your outrages in the future?" "none." "none! then why should we compromise with you?" "because i've got the best hand to-night, and you know it. for her, you know, you'll do 'most anything--now, won't you?" the fellow's complaisant smile caused arthur to look away with disgust. he turned to harold, and they were conferring about rawbon's strange proposition, when oriana raised her head suddenly and her face assumed an expression of attention, as if her ear had caught a distant sound. she had not forgotten little phil, and knowing his sagacity and faithfulness, she depended much upon his having followed her instructions. and indeed, a moment after, the plashing of the hoofs of horses in the wet soil could be distinctly heard. "them's my overseer and his man, i guess," said rawbon, with composure, and he smiled again as he observed how effectually he had checked the gleam of joy that had lightened oriana's face. "'twas he, you see, that set the dog on jim's track, and now he's following after, that's all." he had scarcely concluded, when a vigorous and excited voice was heard, shouting: "there 'tis!--there's the hut, gentlemen! push on!" "it is my brother! my brother!" cried oriana, clasping her hands with joy; and for the first time that night she burst into tears and sobbed on harold's shoulder. rawbon's face grew livid with rage and disappointment. he flung open the door and sprang out into the open air; but oriana could see him pause an instant at the threshold, and stooping, point into the cabin. the low hissing word of command that accompanied the action reached her ear. she knew what it meant and a faint shriek burst from her lips, more perhaps from horror at the demoniac cruelty of the man, than from fear. the next moment, a gigantic bloodhound, gaunt, mud-bespattered and with the froth of fury oozing from his distended jaws, plunged through the doorway and stood glaring in the centre of the cabin. oriana stood like a sculptured ideal of terror, white and immovable; harold with his left arm encircled the rigid form, while his right hand was uplifted, weaponless, but clenched with the energy of despair, till the blood-drops burst from his palm. but arthur stepped before them both and fixed his calm blue eyes upon the monster's burning orbs. there was neither fear, nor excitement, nor irresolution in that steadfast gaze--it was like the clear, straightforward glance of a father checking a wayward child--even the habitual sadness lingered in the deep azure, and the features only changed to be cast in more placid mold. it was the struggle of a brave and tranquil soul with the ferocious instincts of the brute. the hound, crouched for a deadly spring, was fascinated by this spectacle of the utter absence of emotion. his huge chest heaved like a billow with his labored respiration, but the regular breathing of the being that awed him was like that of a sleeping child. for full five minutes--but it seemed an age--this silent but terrible duel was being fought, and yet no succor came. beverly and those who came with him must have changed their course to pursue the fleeing rawbon. "lead her out softly, harold," murmured arthur, without changing a muscle or altering his gaze. but the agony of suspense had been too great--oriana, with a convulsive shudder, swooned and hung like a corpse upon harold's arm. "oh, god! she is dying, arthur!" he could not help exclaiming, for it was indeed a counterpart of death that he held in his embrace. then only did arthur falter for an instant, and the hound was at his throat. the powerful jaws closed with a snap upon his shoulder, and you might have heard the sharp fangs grate against the bone. the shock of the spring brought arthur to the ground, and man and brute rolled over together, and struggled in the mud and gore. harold bore the lifeless girl out into the air, and returning, closed the door. he seized a brand, and with both hands levelled a fierce blow at the dog's neck. the stick shivered like glass, but the creature only shook his grisly head, but never quit his hold. with his bare hand he seized the live coals from the thickest of the fire and pressed them against the flanks and stomach of the tenacious animal; the brute howled and quivered in every limb, but still the blood-stained fangs were firmly set into the lacerated flesh. with both hands clasped around the monster's throat, he exerted his strength till the finger-bones seemed to crack. he could feel the pulsations of the dog's heart grow fainter and slower, and could see in his rolling and upheaved eyeballs that the death-pang was upon him; but those iron jaws still were locked in the torn shoulder; and as harold beheld the big drops start from his friend's ashy brow, and his eyes filming with the leaden hue of unconsciousness, the agonizing thought came to him that the dog and the man were dying together in that terrible embrace. it was then that he fairly sobbed with the sensation of relief, as he heard the prancing of steeds close by the cabin-door; and beverly, entering hastily, with a cry of horror, stood one moment aghast as he looked on the frightful scene. then, with repeated shots from his revolver, he scattered the dog's brains over arthur's blood-stained bosom. harold arose, and, faint and trembling with excitement and exhaustion, leaned against the wall. beverly knelt by the side of the wounded man, and placed his hand above his heart. harold turned to him with an anxious look. "he has but fainted from loss of blood," said beverly. "harold, where is my sister?" as he spoke, oriana, who, in the fresh night air, had recovered from her swoon, pale and with dishevelled hair, appeared at the cabin-door. harold and beverly sought to lead her out before her eyes fell upon arthur's bleeding form; but she had already seen the pale, calm face, clotted with blood, but with the beautiful sad smile still lingering upon the parted lips. she appeared to see neither harold nor her brother, but only those tranquil features, above which the angel of death seemed already to have brushed his dewy wing. she put aside beverly's arm, which was extended to support her, and thrust him away as if he had been a stranger. she unloosed her hand from harold's affectionate grasp, and with a long and suppressed moan of intense anguish, she kneeled down in the little pool of blood beside the extended form, with her hands tightly clasped, and wept bitterly. they raised her tenderly, and assured her that arthur was not dead. "oh, no! oh, no!" she murmured, as the tears streamed out afresh, "he must not die! he must not die for _me_! he is so good! so brave! a child's heart, with the courage of a lion. oh, harold! why did you not save him?" but as she took harold's hand almost reproachfully, she perceived that it was black and burnt, and he too was suffering; and she leaned her brow upon his bosom and sobbed with a new sorrow. beverly was almost vexed at the weakness his sister displayed. it was unusual to her, and he forgot her weariness and the trial she had passed. he had been binding some linen about arthur's shoulder, and he looked up and spoke to her in a less gentle tone. "oriana, you are a child to-night. i have never seen you thus. come, help me with this bandage." she sighed heavily, but immediately ceased to weep, and said "yes," calmly and with firmness. bending beside her brother, without faltering or shrinking, she gave her white fingers to the painful task. in the stormy midnight, by the fitful glare of the dying embers, those two silent men and that pale woman seemed to be keeping a vigil in an abode of death. and the pattering rain and moan of the night-wind sounded like a dirge. chapter vii. several gentlemen of the neighborhood, whom beverly, upon hearing little phil's story, had hastily summoned to his assistance, now entered the cabin, together with the male negroes of his household, who had mounted the farm horses and eagerly followed to the rescue of their young mistress. they had been detained without by an unsuccessful pursuit of rawbon, whose flight they had discovered, but who had easily evaded them in the darkness. a rude litter was constructed for arthur, but oriana declared herself well able to proceed on horseback, and would not listen to any suggestion of delay on her account. she mounted beverly's horse, while he and harold supplied themselves from among the horses that the negroes had rode, and thus, slowly and silently, they threaded the lonely forest, while ever and anon a groan from the litter struck painfully upon their ears. arrived at the manor house, a physician who had been summoned, pronounced arthur's hurt to be serious, but not dangerous. upon receiving this intelligence, oriana and harold were persuaded to retire, and beverly and his aunt remained as watchers at the bedside of the wounded man. oriana, despite her agitation, slept well, her rest being only disturbed by fitful dreams, in which arthur's pale face seemed ever present, now smiling upon her mournfully, and now locked in the repose of death. she arose somewhat refreshed, though still feverish and anxious, and walking upon the veranda to breathe the morning air, she was joined by harold, with his hand in a sling, and much relieved by the application of a poultice, which the skill of miss randolph had prepared. he informed her that arthur was sleeping quietly, and that she might dismiss all fears as to his safety; and perhaps, if he had watched her closely, the earnest expression of something more than pleasure with which she received this assurance, might have given him cause for rumination. beverly descended soon afterward, and confirmed the favorable report from the sick chamber, and oriana retired into the house to assist in preparing the morning meal. "let us take a stroll by the riverside," said beverly; "the air breathes freshly after my night's vigil." "the storm has left none but traces of beauty behind," observed harold, as they crossed the lawn. the loveliness of the early morning was indeed a pleasant sequel to the rude tempest of the preceding night. the dewdrops glistened upon grass-blade and foliage, and the bosom of the stream flashed merrily in the sunbeams. "it is," answered beverly, "as if nature were rejoicing that the war of the elements is over, and a peace proclaimed. would that the black cloud upon our political horizon had as happily passed away." after a pause, he continued: "harold, you need not fear to remain with us a while longer. i am sure that rawbon's confederates are heartily ashamed of their participation in last night's outrage, and will on no account be seduced to a similar adventure. rawbon himself will not be likely to show himself in this vicinity for some time to come, unless as the inmate of a jail, for i have ordered a warrant to be issued against him. the whole affair has resulted evidently from some unaccountable antipathy which the fellow entertains against us." "i agree with you," replied harold, "but still i think this is an unpropitious time for the prolongation of my visit. there are events, i fear, breeding for the immediate future, in which i must take a part. i shall only remain with you a few days, that i may be assured of arthur's safety." "i will not disguise from you my impression that virginia will withdraw from the union. in that case, we will be nominal enemies. god grant that our paths may not cross each other." "amen!" replied harold, with much feeling. "but i do not understand why we should be enemies. you surely will not lend your voice to this rebellion?" "when the question of secession is before the people of my state, i shall cast my vote as my judgment and conscience shall dictate. meanwhile i shall examine the issue, and, i trust, dispassionately. but whatever may become of my individual opinion, where virginia goes i go, whatever be the event." "would you uphold a wrong in the face of your own conscience?" "oh, as to that, i do not hold it a question between right and wrong, but simply of advisability. the right of secession i entertain no doubt about." "no doubt as to the right of dismembering and destroying a government which has fostered your infancy, developed your strength, and made you one among the parts of a nation that has no peer in a world's history? is it possible that intellect and honesty can harbor such a doctrine!" "my dear harold, you look at the subject as an enthusiast, and you allow your heart not to assist but to control your brain. men, by association, become attached to forms and symbols, so as in time to believe that upon their existence depends the substance of which they are but the signs. forty years ago, in the hawaiian islands, the death-penalty was inflicted upon a native of the inferior caste, should he chance to pass over the shadow of one of noble birth. so would you avenge an insult to a shadow, while you allow the substance to be stolen from your grasp. our jewel, as freemen, is the right of self-government; the form of government is a mere convenience--a machine, which may be dismembered, destroyed, remodelled a thousand times, without detriment to the great principle of which it is the outward sign." "you draw a picture of anarchy that would disgrace a confederation of petty savage tribes. what miserable apology for a government would that be whose integrity depends upon the caprice of the governed?" "it is as likely that a government should become tyrannical, as that a people should become capricious. you have simply chosen an unfair word. for _caprice_ substitute _will_, and you have my ideal of a true republic." "and by that ideal, one state, by its individual act, might overturn the entire system adopted for the convenience and safety of the whole." "not so. it does not follow that the system should be overturned because circumscribed in limit, more than that a business firm should necessarily be ruined by the withdrawal of a partner. observe, harold, that the general government was never a sovereignty, and came into existence only by the consent of each and every individual state. the states were the sovereignties, and their connection with the union, being the mere creature of their will, can exist only by that will." "why, beverly, you might as well argue that this pencil-case, which became mine by an act of volition on your part, because you gave it me, ceases to be mine when you reclaim it." "if i had appointed you my amanuensis, and had transferred my pencil to you simply for the purposes of your labor in my behalf, when i choose to dismiss you, i should expect the return of my property. the states made no gifts to the federal government for the sake of giving, but only delegated certain powers for specific purposes. they never could have delegated the power of coercion, since no one state or number of states possessed that power as against their sister states." "but surely, in entering into the bonds of union, they formed a contract with each other which should be inviolable." "then, at the worst, the seceding states are guilty of a breach of contract with the remaining states, but not with the general government, with which they made no contract. they formed a union, it is true. but of what? of sovereignties. how can those states be sovereignties which admit a power above them, possessing the right of coercion? to admit the right of coercion is to deny the existence of sovereignty." "you can find nothing in the constitution to intimate the right of secession." "because its framers considered the right sufficiently established by the very nature of the confederation. the fears upon the subject that were expressed by patrick henry, and other zealous supporters of state rights, were quieted by the assurances of the opposite party, who ridiculed the idea that a convention, similar to that which in each state adopted the constitution, could not thereafter, in representation of the popular will, withdraw such state from the confederacy. you have, in proof of this, but to refer to the annals of the occasion." "i discard the theory as utterly inconsistent with any legislative power. we have either a government or we have not. if we have one, it must possess within itself the power to sustain itself. our chief magistrate becomes otherwise a mere puppet, and our congress a shallow mockery, and the shadow only of a legislative body. our nationality becomes a word, and nothing more. our place among the nations becomes vacant, and the great republic, our pride and the world's wonder, crumbles into fragments, and with its downfall perishes the hope of the oppressed of every clime. i wonder, beverly, that you can coldly argue against the very life of your country, and not feel the parricide's remorse! have you no lingering affection for the glorious structure which our fathers built for and bequeathed to us, and which you now seek to hurl from its foundations? have you no pride and love for the brave old flag that has been borne in the vanguard to victory so often, that has shrouded the lifeless form of lawrence, that has gladdened the heart of the american wandering in foreign climes, and has spread its sacred folds over the head of washington, here, on your own native soil?" "yes, harold, yes! i love the union, and i love and am proud of the brave old flag; i would die for either, and, although i reason with you coldly, my soul yearns to them both, and my heart aches when i think that soon, perhaps, they will no more belong to me. but i must sacrifice even my pride and love to a stern sense of duty. so washington did, when he hurled his armed squadrons against the proud banner of st. george, under which he had been trained in soldiership, and had won the laurel of his early fame. he, too, no doubt, was not without a pang, to be sundered from his share of old england's glorious memories, the land of his allegiance, the king whom he had served, the soil where the bones of his ancestors lay at rest. it would cause me many a throb of agony to draw my sword against the standard of the republic--but i would do it, harold, if my conscience bade me, although my nearest friends, although you, harold--and i love you dearly--were in the foremost rank." "where i will strive to be, should my country call upon me. but heaven forbid that we should meet thus, beverly!" "heaven forbid?" he replied, with a sigh, as he pressed harold's hand. "but yonder comes little phil, running like mad, to tell us, doubtless, that breakfast is cold with waiting for us." they retraced their steps, and found miss randolph and oriana awaiting their presence at the breakfast-table. chapter viii. during the four succeeding days, the house hold at riverside manor were much alarmed for arthur's safety, for a violent fever had ensued, and, to judge from the physician's evasive answers, the event was doubtful. the family were unremitting in their attentions, and oriana, quietly, but with her characteristic self-will, insisted upon fulfilling her share of the duties of a nurse. and no hand more gently smoothed the sick man's pillow or administered more tenderly the cooling draught. it seemed that arthur's sleep was calmer when her form was bending over him, and even when his thoughts were wandering and his eyes were restless with delirium, they turned to welcome her as she took her accustomed seat. once, while she watched there alone in the twilight, the open book unheeded in her hand, and her subdued eyes bent thoughtfully upon his face as he slept unconscious of her presence, she saw the white lips move and heard the murmur of the low, musical voice. her fair head was bent to catch the words--they were the words of delirium or of dreams, but they brought a blush to her cheek. and yet she bent her head still lower and listened, until her forehead rested on the pillow, and when she looked up again with a sigh, and fixed her eyes mechanically on the page before her, there was a trace of tears upon the drooping lashes. he awoke from a refreshing slumber and it seemed that the fever was gone; for his glance was calm and clear, and the old smile was upon his lips. when he beheld oriana, a slight flush passed over his cheek. "are you indeed there, miss weems," he said, "or do i still dream? i have been dreaming, i know not what, but i was very happy." he sighed, and closed his eyes, as if he longed to woo back the vision which had fled. she seemed to know what he had been dreaming, for while his cheek paled again, hers glowed like an autumn cloud at sunset. "i trust you are much better, mr. wayne?" "oh yes, much better. i fear i have been very troublesome to you all. you have been very kind to me." "do not speak so, mr. wayne," she replied, and a tear glistened in her eyes. "if you knew how grateful we all are to you! you have suffered terribly for my sake, mr. wayne. you have a brave, pure heart, and i could hate myself with thinking that i once dared to wrong and to insult it." "in my turn, i say do not speak so. i pray you, let there be no thoughts between us that make you unhappy. what you accuse yourself of, i have forgotten, or remember only as a passing cloud that lingered for a moment on a pure and lovely sky. there must be no self-reproaches between us twain, miss weems, for we must become strangers to each other in this world, and when we part i would not leave with you one bitter recollection." there was sorrow in his tone, and the young girl paused awhile and gazed through the lattice earnestly into the gathering gloom of evening. "we must not be strangers, mr. wayne." "alas! yes, for to be otherwise were fatal, at least to me." she did not answer, and both remained silent and thoughtful, so long, indeed, that the night shadows obscured the room. oriana arose and lit the lamp. "i must go and prepare some supper for you," she said, in a lighter tone. he took her hand as she stood at his bed-side and spoke in a low but earnest voice: "you must forget what i have said to you, miss weems. i am weak and feverish, and my brain has been wandering among misty dreams. if i have spoken indiscreetly, you will forgive me, will you not?" "it is i that am to be forgiven, for allowing my patient to talk when the doctor prescribes silence. i am going to get your supper, for i am sure you must be hungry; so, good bye," she added gaily, as she smoothed the pillow, and glided from the room. oriana was silent and reserved for some days after this, and harold seemed also to be disturbed and ill at ease. some link appeared to be broken between them, for she did not look into his eyes with the same frank, trusting gaze that had so often returned his glance of tenderness, and sometimes even she looked furtively away with heightened color, when, with some gentle commonplace, his voice broke in upon her meditation. arthur was now able to sit for some hours daily in his easy-chair, and oriana often came to him at such times, and although they conversed but rarely, and upon indifferent themes, she was never weary of reading to him, at his request, some favorite book. and sometimes, as the author's sentiment found an echo in her heart, she would pause and gaze listlessly at the willow branches that waved before the casement, and both would remain silent and pensive, till some member of the family entered, and broke in upon their revery. "come, oriana," said harold, one afternoon, "let us walk to the top of yonder hillock, and look at this glorious sunset." she went for her bonnet and shawl, and joined him. they had reached the summit of the hill before either of them broke silence, and then oriana mechanically made some commonplace remark about the beauty of the western sky. he replied with a monosyllable, and sat down upon a moss-covered rock. she plucked a few wild-flowers, and toyed with them. "oriana, arthur is much better now." "much better, harold." "i have no fears for his safety now. i think i shall go to-morrow." "go, harold?" "yes, to new york. the president has appealed to the states for troops. i am no soldier, but i cannot remain idle while my fellow citizens are rallying to arms." "will you fight, harold?" "if needs be." "against your countrymen?" "against traitors." "against me, perhaps." "heaven forbid that the blood of any of your kin should be upon my hands. i know how much you have suffered, dearest, with the thought that this unhappy business may separate us for a time. think you that the eye of affection could fail to notice your dejection and reflective mood for some days past?" her face grew crimson, and she tore nervously the petals of the flower in her hand. "oriana, you are my betrothed, and no earthly discords should sever our destinies or estrange our hearts. why should we part at all. be mine at once, oriana, and go with me to the loyal north, for none may tell how soon a barrier may be set between your home and me." "that would be treason to my kindred and the home of my birth." "and to be severed from me--would it not be treason to your heart?" she did not answer. "i have spoken to beverly about it, and he will not seek to control you. we are most unhappy, oriana, in our national troubles; why should we be so in our domestic ties. we can be blest, even among the rude alarms of war. this strife will soon be over, and you shall see the old homestead once again. but while the dark cloud lowers, i call upon you, in the name of your pledged affection, to share my fortunes with me, and bless me with this dear hand." that hand remained passively within his own, but her bosom swelled with emotion, and presently the large tears rolled upon her cheek. he would have pressed her to his bosom, but she gently turned from him, and sinking upon the sward, sobbed through her clasped fingers. "why are you thus unhappy, dear oriana?" he murmured, as he bent tenderly above her. "surely you do not love me less because of this poison of rebellion that infects the land. and with love, woman's best consolation, to be your comforter, why should you be unhappy?" she arose, pale and excited, and raised his hand to her lips. the act seemed to him a strange one for an affianced bride, and he gazed upon her with a troubled air. "let us go home, harold." "but tell me that you love me." she placed her two hands lightly about his neck, and looked up mournfully but steadily into his face. "i will be your true wife, harold, and pray heaven i may love you as you deserve to be loved. but i am not well to-day, harold. let us speak no more of this now, for there is something at my heart that must be quieted with penitence and prayer. oh, do not question me, harold," she added, as she leaned her cheek upon his breast; "we will talk with beverly, and to-morrow i shall be stronger and less foolish. come, harold, let us go home." she placed her arm within his, and they walked silently homeward. when they reached the house, oriana was hastening to her chamber, but she lingered at the threshold, and returned to harold. "i am not well to-night, and shall not come down to tea. good night, harold. smile upon me as you were wont to do," she added, as she pressed his hand and raised her swollen eyes, beneath whose white lids were crushed two teardrops that were striving to burst forth. "give me the smile of the old time, and the old kiss, harold," and she raised her forehead to receive it. "do not look disturbed; i have but a headache, and shall be well to-morrow. good night--dear--harold." she strove to look pleasantly as she left the room, but harold was bewildered and anxious, and, till the summons came for supper, he paced the veranda with slow and meditative steps. chapter ix. the following morning was warm and springlike, and arthur was sufficiently strong and well to walk out a little in the open air. he had been seated upon the veranda conversing with beverly and harold, when the latter proposed a stroll with beverly, with whom he wished to converse in relation to his proposed marriage. as the beams of the unclouded sun had already chased away the morning dew, and the air was warm and balmy, arthur walked out into the garden and breathed the freshness of the atmosphere with the exhilaration of a convalescent freed for the first time from the sick-room. accidentally, or by instinct, he turned his steps to the little grove which he knew was oriana's favorite haunt; and there, indeed, she sat, upon the rustic bench, above which the drooping limbs of the willow formed a leafy canopy. the pensive girl, her white hand, on which she leaned, buried among the raven tresses, was gazing fixedly into the depths of the clear sky, as if she sought to penetrate that azure veil, and find some hope realized among the mysteries of the space beyond. the neglected volume had fallen from her lap, and lay among the bluebells at her feet. arthur's feeble steps were unheard upon the sward, and he had taken his seat beside her, before, conscious of an intruder, she started from her dream. "the first pilgrimage of my convalescence is to your bower, my gentle nurse. i have come to thank you for more kindness than i can ever repay, except with grateful thoughts." she had risen when she became aware of his presence; and when she resumed her seat, it seemed with hesitation, and almost an effort, as if two impulses were struggling within her. but her pleasure to see him abroad again was too hearty to be checked, and she timidly gave him the hand which his extended palm invited to a friendly grasp. "indeed, mr. wayne, i am very glad to see you so far recovered." "to your kind offices chiefly i owe it, and those of my good friends, your brother and harold, and our excellent miss randolph. my sick-room has been the test of so much friendship, that i could almost be sinful enough to regret the returning health which makes me no longer a dependent on your care. but you are pale, miss weems. or is it that my eyes are unused to this broad daylight? indeed, i trust you are not ill?" "oh, no, i am quite well," she answered; but it was with an involuntary sigh that was in contrast with the words. "but you are not strong yet, mr. wayne, and i must not let you linger too long in the fresh morning air. we had best go in under shelter of the veranda." she arose, and would have led the way, but he detained her gently with a light touch upon her sleeve. "stay one moment, i pray you. i seem to breathe new life with this pure air, and the perfume of these bowers awakens within me an inexpressible and calm delight. i shall be all the better for one tranquil hour with nature in bloom, if you, like the guardian nymph of these floral treasures, will sit beside me." he drew her gently back into the seat, and looked long and earnestly upon her face. she felt his gaze, but dared not return it, and her fair head drooped like a flower that bends beneath the glance of a scorching sun. "miss weems," he said at last, but his voice was so low and tremulous that it scarce rose above the rustle of the swinging willow boughs, "you are soon to be a bride, and in your path the kind destinies will shower blessings. when they wreathe the orange blossoms in your hair, and you are led to the altar by the hand to which you must cling for life, if i should not be there to wish you joy, you will not deem, will you, that i am less your friend?" the fair head drooping yet lower was her only answer. "and when you shall be the mistress of a home where content will be shrined, the companion of your virtues, and over your threshold many friends shall be welcomed, if i should never sit beside your hearthstone, you will not, will you, believe that i have forgotten, or that i could forget?" still lower the fair head drooped, but she answered only with a falling tear. "i told you the other day that we should be strangers through life, and why, i must not tell, although perhaps your woman's heart may whisper, and yet not condemn me for that which, heaven knows, i have struggled against--alas, in vain! do not turn from me. i would not breathe a word to you that in all honor you should not hear, although my heart seems bursting with its longing, and i would yield my soul with rapture from its frail casket, for but one moment's right to give its secret wings. i will bid you farewell to-morrow"-- "to-morrow!" "yes, the doctor says that the sea air will do me good, and an occasion offers to-morrow which i shall embrace. it will be like setting forth upon a journey through endless solitudes, where my only companions will be a memory and a sorrow." he paused a while, but continued with an effort at composure. "our hearts are tyrants to us, miss weems, and will not, sometimes, be tutored into silence. i see that i have moved, but i trust not offended you." "you have not offended," she murmured, but in so low a tone that perhaps the words were lost in the faint moan of the swaying foliage. "what i have said," he continued earnestly, and taking her hand with a gentle but respectful pressure, "has been spoken as one who is dying speaks with his fleeting breath; for evermore my lips shall be shackled against my heart, and the past shall be sealed and avoided as a forbidden theme. we are, then, good friends at parting, are we not?" "yes." "and, believe me, i shall be happiest when i think that you are happy--for you will be happy." she sighed so deeply that the words were checked upon his lips, as if some new emotion had turned the current of his thought. "are you _not_ happy?" the tears that, in spite of her endeavor, burst from beneath the downcast lids, answered him as words could not have done. he was agitated and unnerved, and, leaning his brow against his hand, remained silent while she wept. "harold is a noble fellow," he said at last, after a long silence, and when she had grown calmer, "and deserves to be loved as i am sure you love him." "oh, he has a noble heart, and i would die rather than cause him pain." "and you love him?" "i thought i loved him." the words were faint--hardly more than a breath upon her lips; but he heard them, and his heart grew big with an undefined awe, as if some vague danger were looming among the shadows of his destiny. oriana turned to him suddenly, and clasped his hand within her trembling fingers. "oh, mr. wayne! you must go, and never see me more. i am standing on the brink of an abyss, and my heart bids me leap. i see the danger, and, oh god! i have prayed for power to shun it. but arthur, arthur, if you do not help me, i am lost. you are a man, an honest man, an honorable man, who will not wrong your friend, or tempt the woman that cannot love you without sin. oh, save me from myself--from you--from the cruel wrong that i could even dream of against him to whom i have sworn my woman's faith. i am a child in your hands, arthur, and in the face of the reproaching providence above me, i feel--i feel that i am at your mercy. i feel that what you speak i must listen to; that should you bid me stand beside you at the altar, i should not have courage to refuse. i feel, oh god! arthur, that i love you, and am betrothed to harold. but you are strong--you have courage, will, the power to defy such weakness of the heart--and you will save me, for i know you are a good and honest man." as she spoke, with her face upturned to him, and the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, her fingers convulsively clasped about his hand, and her form bending closer and closer toward him, till her cheek was resting on his bosom, arthur shuddered with intensity of feeling, and from his averted eyes the scalding drops, that had never once before moistened their surface, betrayed how terribly he was shaken with emotion. but while she spoke, rapt as they were within themselves, they saw not one who stood with folded arms beside the rustic bench, and gazed upon them. "as god is my hope," said arthur, "i will disarm temptation. fear not. from this hour we part. henceforth the living and the dead shall not be more estranged than we." he arose, but started as if an apparition met his gaze. oriana knelt beside him, and touched her lips to his hand in gratitude. an arm raised her tenderly, and a gentle voice murmured her name. it was not arthur's. oriana raised her head, with a faint cry of terror. she gasped and swooned upon the intruder's breast. it was harold hare who held her in his arms. arthur, with folded arms, stood erect, but pale, in the presence of his friend. his eye, sorrowful, yet calm, was fixed upon harold, as if awaiting his angry glance. but harold looked only on the lifeless form he held, and parting the tresses from her cold brow, his lips rested there a moment with such a fond caress as sometimes a father gives his child. "poor girl!" he murmured, "would that my sorrow could avail for both. arthur, i have heard enough to know you would not do me wrong. grief is in store for us, but let us not be enemies." mournfully, he gave his hand to arthur, and oriana, as she wakened from her trance, beheld them locked in that sad grasp, like two twin statues of despair. they led her to the house, and then the two young men walked out alone, and talked frankly and tranquilly upon the subject. it was determined that both should leave riverside manor on the morrow, and that oriana should be left to commune with her own heart, and take counsel of time and meditation. they would not grieve beverly with their secret, at least not for the present, when his sister was so ill prepared to bear remonstrance or reproof. harold wrote a kind letter for oriana, in which he released her from her pledged faith, asking only that she should take time to study her heart, but in no wise let a sense of duty stand in the way of her happiness. he took pains to conceal the depth of his own affliction, and to avoid whatever she might construe as reproach. they would have gone without an interview with oriana, but that would have seemed strange to beverly. however, oriana, although pale and nervous, met them in the morning with more composure than they had anticipated. harold, just before starting, drew her aside, and placed the letter in her hand. "that will tell you all i would say, and you must read it when your heart is strong and firm. do not look so wretched. all may yet be well. i would fain see you smile before i go." but though she had evidently nerved herself to be composed, the tears would come, and her heart seemed rising to her throat and about to burst in sobs. "i will be your true wife, harold, and i will love you. do not desert me, do not cast me from you. i cannot bear to be so guilty. indeed, harold, i will be true and faithful to you." "there is no guilt in that young heart," he answered, as he kissed her forehead. "but now, we must not talk of love; hereafter, perhaps, when time and absence shall teach us where to choose for happiness. part from me now as if i were your brother, and give me a sister's kiss. would you see arthur?" she trembled and whispered painfully: "no, harold, no--i dare not. oh, harold, bid him forget me." "it is better that you should not see him. farewell! be brave. we are good friends, remember. farewell, dear girl." beverly had been waiting with the carriage, and as the time was short, he called to harold. arthur, who stood at the carriage wheel, simply raised his hat to oriana, as if in a parting salute. he would have given his right hand to have pressed hers for a moment; but his will was iron, and he did not once look back as the carriage whirled away. chapter x. in the drawing-room of an elegant mansion in a fashionable quarter of the city of new york, toward the close of april, a social party were assembled, distributed mostly in small conversational groups. the head of the establishment, a pompous, well-to-do merchant, stout, short, and baldheaded, and evidently well satisfied with himself and his position in society, was vehemently expressing his opinions upon the affairs of the nation to an attentive audience of two or three elderly business men, with a ponderous earnestness that proved him, in his own estimation, as much _au fait_ in political affairs as in the routine of his counting-room. an individual of middle age, a man of the world, apparently, who was seated at a side-table, carelessly glancing over a book of engravings, was the only one who occasionally exasperated the pompous gentleman with contradictions or ill-timed interruptions. "the government must be sustained," said the stout gentleman, "and we, the merchants of the north, will do it. it is money, sir, money," he continued, unconsciously rattling the coin in his breeches pocket, "that settles every question at the present day, and our money will bring these beggarly rebels to their senses. they can't do without us, sir. they would be ruined in six months, if shut out from commercial intercourse with the north." "how long before you would be ruined by the operations of the same cause?" inquired the individual at the side-table. "sir, we of the north hold the wealth of the country in our pockets. they can't fight against our money--they can't do it, sir." "your ancestors fought against money, and fought passably well." "yes, sir, for the great principles of human liberty." "which these rebels believe they are fighting for. you have need of all your money to keep a respectable army in the field. these southerners may have to fight in rags, as insurgents generally do: witness the struggle of your revolution; but until you lay waste their corn-fields and drive off their cattle, they will have full stomachs, and that, after all, is the first consideration." "you are an alien, sir, a foreigner; you know nothing of our great institutions; you know nothing of the wealth of the north, and the spirit of the people." "i see a great deal of bunting in the streets, and hear any quantity of declamation at your popular gatherings. but as i journeyed northward from new orleans, i saw the same in the south--perhaps more of it." "and could not distinguish between the frenzy of treason and the enthusiasm of patriotism?" "not at all; except that treason seemed more earnest and unanimous." "you have seen with the eyes of an englishman--of one hostile to our institutions." "oh, no; as a man of the world, a traveller, without prejudice or passion, receiving impressions and noting them. i like your country; i like your people. i have observed foibles in the north and in the south, but there is an under-current of strong feeling and good sense which i have noted and admired. i think your quarrel is one of foibles--one conceived in the spirit of petulance, and about to be prosecuted in the spirit of exaltation. i believe the professed mutual hatred of the sections to be superficial, and that it could be cancelled. it is fostered by the bitterness of fanatics, assisted by a very natural disinclination on the part of the masses to yield a disputed point. if hostilities should cease to-morrow, you would be better friends than ever." "but the principle, sir! the right of the thing, and the wrong of the thing! can we parley with traitors? can we negotiate with armed rebellion? is it not our paramount duty to set at rest forever the doctrine of secession?" "as a matter of policy, perhaps. but as a right, i doubt it. your government i look upon as a mere agency appointed by contracting parties to transact certain affairs for their convenience. should one or more of those contracting parties, sovereignties in themselves, hold it to their interest to transact their business without the assistance of an agent, i cannot perceive that the right can be denied by any provision of the contract. in your case, the employers have dismissed their agent, who seeks to reinstate the office by force of arms. as justly might my lawyer, when i no longer need his services, attempt to coerce me into a continuance of business relations, by invading my residence with a loaded pistol. the states, without extinguishing their sovereignty, created the federal government; it is the child of state legislation, and now the child seeks to chastise and control the parent. the general government can possess no inherent or self-created function; its power, its very existence, were granted for certain uses. as regards your state's connection with that government, no other state has the right to interfere; but as for another state's connection with it, the power that made it can unmake." "so you would have the government quietly acquiesce in the robbery of public property, the occupation of federal strongholds and the seizure of ships and revenues in which they have but a share?" "if, by the necessity of the case, the seceded states hold in their possession more than their share of public property, a division should be made by arbitration, as in other cases where a distribution of common property is required. it may have been a wrong and an insult to bombard fort sumter and haul down the federal flag, but that does not establish a right on the part of the federal government to coerce the wrong-doing states into a union with the others. and that, i take it, is the avowed purpose of your administration." "yes, and that purpose will be fulfilled. we have the money to do it, and we will do it, sir." a tall, thin gentleman, with a white cravat and a bilious complexion, approached the party from a different part of the room. "it can't be done with money, mr. pursely," said the new comer, "unless the great, the divine principle of universal human liberty is invoked. an offended but merciful providence has given the people this chance for redemption, in the opportunity to strike the shackle from the slave. i hold the war a blessing to the nation and to humanity, in that it will cleanse the land from its curse of slavery. it is an invitation from god to wipe away the record of our past tardiness and tolerance, by striking at the great sin with fire and sword. the blood of millions is nothing--the woe, the lamentation, the ruin of the land is nothing--the overthrow of the union itself is nothing, if we can but win god's smile by setting a brand in the hand of the bondman to scourge his master. but assuredly unless we arouse the slave to seize the torch and the dagger, and avenge the wrongs of his race, providence will frown upon our efforts, and our arms will not prevail." a tall man in military undress replied with considerable emphasis: "then your black-coated gentry must fight their own battle. the people will not arm if abolition is to be the watchword. i for one will not strike a blow if it be not understood that the institutions of the south shall be respected." "the government must be sustained, that is the point," cried mr. pursely. "it matters little what becomes of the negro, but the government must be sustained. otherwise, what security will there be for property, and what will become of trade?" "who thinks of trade or property at such a crisis?" interrupted an enthusiast, in figured trowsers and a gay cravat. "our beloved union must and shall be preserved. the fabric that our fathers reared for us must not be allowed to crumble. we will prop it with our mangled bodies," and he brushed a speck of dust from the fine broadcloth of his sleeve. "the insult to our flag must be wiped out," said the military gentleman. "the honor of the glorious stripes and stars must be vindicated to the world." "let us chastise these boasting southrons," said another, "and prove our supremacy in arms, and i shall be satisfied." "but above all," insisted a third, "we must check the sneers and exultation of european powers, and show them that we have not forgotten the art of war since the days of and ." "i should like to know what you are going to fight about," said the englishman, quietly; "for there appears to be much diversity of opinion. however, if you are determined to cut each others' throats, perhaps one pretext is as good as another, and a dozen better than only one." in the quiet recess of a window, shadowed by the crimson curtains, sat a fair young girl, and a man, young and handsome, but upon whose countenance the traces of dissipation and of passion were deeply marked. miranda ayleff was a virginian, the cousin and quondam playmate of oriana weems, like her an orphan, and a ward of beverly. her companion was philip searle. she had known him in richmond, and had become much attached to him, but his habits and character were such, that her friends, and beverly chiefly, had earnestly discouraged their intimacy. philip left for the north, and miranda, who at the date of our story was the guest of mrs. pursely, her relative, met him in new york, after a separation of two years. philip, who, in spite of his evil ways, was singularly handsome and agreeable in manners, found little difficulty in fanning the old flame, and, upon the plea of old acquaintance, became a frequent visitor upon miranda at mr. pursely's mansion, where we now find them, earnestly conversing, but in low tones, in the little solitude of the great bay window. "you reproach me with vices which your unkindness has helped to stain me with. driven from your presence, whom alone i cared to live for, what marvel if i sought oblivion in the wine-cup and the dice-box? give me one chance, miranda, to redeem myself. let me call you wife, and you will become my guardian angel, and save me from myself." "you know that i love you, philip," she replied, "and willingly would i share your destiny, hoping to win you from evil. go with me to richmond. we will speak with beverly, who is kind and truly loves me. we will convince him of your good purposes, and will win his consent to our union." "no, miranda; beverly and your friends in richmond will never believe me worthy of you. besides, it would be dangerous for me to visit richmond. i have identified myself with the northern cause, and although, for your sake, i might refrain from bearing arms against virginia, yet i have little sympathy with any there, where i have been branded as a drunkard and a gambler." "yet, philip, is it not the land of your birth--the home of your boyhood?" "the land of my shame and humiliation. no miranda, i will not return to virginia. and if you love me, you will not return. what are these senseless quarrels to us? we can be happy in each other's love, and forget that madmen are at war around us. why will you not trust me, miranda--why do you thus withhold from me my only hope of redemption from the terrible vice that is killing me? i put my destiny, my very life in your keeping, and you hesitate to accept the trust that alone can save me. oh, miranda! you do not love me." "philip, i cannot renounce my friends, my dear country, the home of my childhood." "then look you what will be my fate: i will join the armies of the north, and fling away my life in battle against my native soil. ruin and death cannot come too soon when you forsake me." miranda remained silent, but, through the gloom of the recess, he could see the glistening of a tear upon her cheek. the hall-bell rang, and the servant brought in a card for miss ayleff. following it, arthur wayne was ushered into the room. she rose to receive him, somewhat surprised at a visit from a stranger. "i have brought these letters for you from my good friend beverly weems," said arthur. "at his request, i have ventured to call in person, most happy, if you will forgive the presumption, in the opportunity." she gave her hand, and welcomed him gracefully and warmly, and, having introduced mr. searle, excused herself while she glanced at the contents of beverly's letter. while thus employed, arthur marked her changing color; and then, lifting his eyes lest his scrutiny might be rude, observed philip's dark eye fixed upon her with a suspicious and searching expression. then philip looked up, and their glances met--the calm blue eye and the flashing black--but for an instant, but long enough to confirm the instinctive feeling that there was no sympathy between their hearts. a half-hour's general conversation ensued, but philip appeared restless and uneasy, and rose to take his leave. she followed him to the parlor door. "come to me to-morrow," she said, as she gave her hand, "and we will talk again." a smile of triumph rested upon his pale lips for a second; but he pressed her hand, and, murmuring an affectionate farewell, withdrew. arthur remained a few moments, but observing that miranda was pensive and absent, he bade her good evening, accepting her urgent invitation to call at an early period. chapter xi. "well, arthur," said harold hare, entering the room of the former at his hotel, on the following evening, "i have come to bid you good bye. i start for home to-morrow morning," he added, in reply to arthur's questioning glance. "i am to have a company of providence boys in my old friend colonel r----'s regiment. and after a little brisk recruiting, ho! for washington and the wars!" "you have determined for the war, then?" "of course. and you?" "i shall go to my vermont farm, and live quietly among my books and pastures." "a dull life, arthur, when every wind that blows will bring to your ears the swell of martial music and the din of arms." "if i were in love with the pomp of war, which, thank heaven, i am not, harold, i would rather dwell in a hermit's cave, than follow the fife and drum over the bodies of my southern countrymen." "those southern countrymen, that you seem to love better than the country they would ruin, would have little remorse in marching over your body, even among the ashes of your farm-house. doubtless you would stand at your threshold, and welcome their butchery, should their ruffian legions ravage our land as far as your green mountains." "i do not think they will invade one foot of northern soil, unless compelled by strict military necessity. however, should the state to which i owe allegiance be attacked by foreign or domestic foe, i will stand among its defenders. but, dear harold, let us not argue this sad subject, which it is grief enough but to contemplate. tell me of your plans, and how i shall communicate with you, while you are absent. my distress about this unhappy war will be keener, when i feel that my dear friend may be its victim." harold pressed his hand affectionately, and the two friends spoke of the misty future, till harold arose to depart. they had not mentioned oriana's name, though she was in their thoughts, and each, as he bade farewell, knew that some part of the other's sadness was for her sake. arthur accompanied harold a short distance up broadway, and returning, found at the office of the hotel, a letter, without post-mark, to his address. he stepped into the reading-room to peruse it. it was from beverly, and ran thus: "richmond, _may_ --, . "dear arthur: the departure of a friend gives me an opportunity to write you about a matter that i beg you will attend to, for my sake, thoroughly. i learned this morning, upon receipt of a letter from mr. pursely, that miranda ayleff, of whom we spoke together, and to whom i presume you have already delivered my communication, is receiving the visits of one philip searle, to whom, some two years since, she was much attached. _entre nous_, arthur, i can tell you, the man is a scoundrel of the deepest dye. not only a drunkard and a gambler, but dishonest, and unfit for any decent girl's society. he is guilty of forgery against me, and, against my conscience, i hushed the matter only out of consideration for her feelings. i would still have concealed the matter from her, had this resumption of their intimacy not occurred. but her welfare must cancel all scruples of that character; and i therefore entreat you to see her at once, and unmask the man fully and unequivocally. if necessary you may show my letter for that purpose. i would go on to new york myself immediately, were i not employed upon a state mission of exceeding delicacy and importance; but i have full confidence in your good judgment. spare no arguments to induce her to return immediately to richmond. "oriana has not been well; i know not what ails her, but, though she makes no complaint, the girl seems really ill. she knows not of my writing, for i would not pain her about miranda, of whom she is very fond. but i can venture, without consulting her, to send you her good wishes. let me hear from you in full about what i have written. your friend. "beverly weems." "p.s.--knowing that you must yet be weak with your late illness, i would have troubled harold, rather than you, about this matter, but i am ignorant of his present whereabouts, while i know that you contemplated remaining a week or so in new york. write me about the ugly bite in the shoulder, from which i trust you are well recovered. b.w." arthur looked up from the letter, and beheld philip searle seated at the opposite side of the table. he had entered while arthur's attention was absorbed in reading, and having glanced at the address of the envelope which lay upon the table, he recognized the hand of beverly. this prompted him to pause, and taking up one of the newspapers which were strewn about the table, he sat down, and while he appeared to read, glanced furtively at his _vis-à-vis_ over the paper's edge. when his presence was noticed, he bowed, and arthur, with a slight and stern inclination of the head, fixed his calm eye upon him with a searching severity that brought a flush of anger to philip's brow. "that is weems' hand," he muttered, inwardly, "and by that fellow's look, i fancy that no less a person than myself is the subject of his epistle." arthur had walked away, but, in his surprise at the unexpected presence of searle, he had allowed the letter to remain upon the table. no sooner had he passed out of the room, than philip quietly but rapidly stretched his hand beneath the pile of scattered journals, and drew it toward him. it required but an instant for his quick eye to catch the substance. his face grew livid, and his teeth grated harshly with suppressed rage. "we shall have a game of plot and counterplot before this ends, my man," he muttered. there were pen and paper on the table, and he wrote a few lines hastily, placed them in the envelope, and put beverly's letter in his pocket. he had hardly finished when arthur reëntered the room, advanced rapidly to the table, and, with a look of relief, took up the envelope and its contents, and again left the room. philip's lip curled beneath the black moustache with a smile of triumphant malice. "keep it safe in your pocket for a few hours, my gamecock, and my heiress to a beggar-girl, i'll have stone walls between you and me." chapter xii. the evening was somewhat advanced, but arthur determined at once to seek an interview with miss ayleff. hastily arranging his toilet, he walked briskly up broadway, revolving in his mind a fit course for fulfilling his delicate errand. to shorten his way, he turned into a cross street in the upper part of the city. as he approached the hall door of a large brick house, his eye chanced to fall upon a man who was ringing for admittance. the light from the street lamp fell full upon his face, and he recognized the features of philip searle. at that moment the door was opened, and philip entered. arthur would have passed on, but something in the appearance of the house arrested his attention, and, on closer scrutiny, revealed to him its character. one of those impulses which sometimes sway our actions, tempted him to enter, and learn, if possible, something further respecting the habits of the man whose scheme he had been commissioned to thwart. a moment's reflection might have changed his purpose, but his hand was already upon the bell, and the summons was quickly answered by a good-looking but faded young woman, with painted cheeks and gay attire. she fixed her keen, bold eyes upon him for a few seconds, and then, tossing her ringlets, pertly invited him to enter. "who is within?" asked arthur, standing in the hall. "only the girls. walk in." "the gentleman who came in before me, is he there?" "do you want to see him?" she asked, suspiciously. "oh, no. only i would avoid being seen by any one." "he will not see you. come right in." and she threw open the door, and flaunted in. arthur followed her without hesitation. bursts of forced and cheerless laughter, and the shrill sound of rude and flippant talk, smote unpleasantly upon his ear. the room was richly furnished, but without taste or modesty. the tall mirrors were displayed with ostentation, and the paintings, offensive in design, hung conspicuous in showy frames. the numerous gas jets, flashing among glittering crystal pendants, made vice more glaring and heartlessness more terribly apparent. women, with bold and haggard eyes, with brazen brows, and cheeks from which the roses of virgin shame had been plucked to bloom no more forever--mostly young girls, scourging their youth into old age, and gathering poison at once for soul and body--with sensual indolence reclined upon the rich ottomans, or with fantastic grace whirled through lewd waltzes over the velvet carpets. there was laughter without joy--there was frivolity without merriment--there was the surface of enjoyment and the substance of woe, for beneath those painted cheeks was the pallor of despair and broken health, and beneath those whitened bosoms, half veiled with gaudy silks, were hearts that were aching with remorse, or, yet more unhappy, benumbed and callous with habitual sin. yet there, like a crushed pearl upon a heap of garbage, lingers the trace of beauty; and there, surely, though sepulchred in the caverns of vice, dwells something that was once innocence, and not unredeemable. but whence is the friendly word to come, whence the guardian hand that might lift them from the slough. they live accursed by even charity, shunned by philanthropy, and shut from the christian world like a tribe of lepers whose touch is contagion and whose breath is pestilence. in the glittering halls of fashion, the high-born beauty, with wreaths about her white temples and diamonds upon her chaste bosom, gives her gloved hand for the dance, and forgets that an erring sister, by the touch of those white fingers, might be raised from the grave of her chastity, and clothed anew with the white garments of repentance. but no; the cold world of fashion, that from its cushioned pew has listened with stately devotion to the words of the redeemer, has taught her that to redeem the fallen is beneath her caste. the bond of sisterhood is broken. the lost one must pursue her hideous destiny, each avenue of escape blocked by the scorn and loathing which denies her the contact of virtue and the counsel of purity. in the broad fields of charity, invaded by cold philosophers, losing themselves in searching unreal and vague philanthropies, none so practical in beneficence as to take her by the hand, saying, "go, and sin no more." but whenever the path of benevolence is intricate and doubtful, whenever the work is linked with a riddle whose solving will breed discord and trouble among men, whenever there is a chance to make philanthropy a plea for hate, and bitterness and charity can be made a battle-cry to arouse the spirit of destruction, and spread ruin and desolation over the fair face of the earth, then will the domes of our churches resound with eloquence, then will the journals of the land teem with their mystic theories, then will the mourners of human woe be loud in lamentation, and lift up their mighty voices to cry down an abstract evil. when actual misery appeals to them, they are deaf; when the plain and palpable error stalks before them, they turn aside. they are too busy with the tangles of some philanthropic gordian knot, to stretch out a helping hand to the sufferer at their sides. they are frenzied with their zeal to build a bridge over a spanless ocean, while the drowning wretch is sinking within their grasp. they scorn the simple charity of the good samaritan; theirs must be a gigantic and splendid achievement in experimental beneficence, worthy of their philosophic brains. the wrong they would redress must be one that half the world esteems a right; else there would be no room for their arguments, no occasion for their invective, no excuse for their passion. to do good is too simple for their transcendentalism; they must first make evil out of their logic, and then, through blood and wasting flames, drive on the people to destruction, that the imaginary evil may be destroyed. while charity soars so high among the clouds, she will never stoop to lift the magdalen from sin. chapter xiii. arthur heaved an involuntary sigh, as he gazed upon those sad wrecks of womanhood, striving to harden their sense of degradation by its impudent display. but an expression of bewildered and sorrowful surprise suddenly overspread his countenance. seated alone upon a cushioned stool, at the chimney-corner, was a young woman, her elbows resting upon her knees, and her face bent thoughtfully upon her palms. she was apparently lost in thought to all around her. she was thinking--of what? perhaps of the green fields where she played in childhood; perhaps of her days of innocence; perhaps of the mother at whose feet she had once knelt in prayer. but she was far away, in thought, from that scene of infamy of which she was a part; for, in the glare of the gaslight, a tear struggled through her eyelashes, and glittered like a ray from heaven piercing the glooms of hell. arthur walked to her, and placed his hand softly upon her yellow hair. "oh, mary!" he murmured, in a tone of gentle sorrow, that sounded strangely amid the discordant merriment that filled the room. she looked up, at his touch, but when his voice fell upon her ear, she arose suddenly and stood before him like one struck dumb betwixt humiliation and wonder. the angel had not yet fled that bosom, for the blush of shame glowed through the chalk upon her brow and outcrimsoned the paint upon her cheek. as it passed away, she would have wreathed her lip mechanically with the pert smile of her vocation, but the smile was frozen ere it reached her lips, and the coarse words she would have spoken died into a murmur and a sob. she sank down again upon the cushion, and bent her face low down upon her hands. "oh, mary! is it you! is it you! i pray heaven your mother be in her grave!" she rose and escaped quickly from the room; but he followed her and checked her at the stairway. "let me speak with you, mary. no, not here; lead me to your room." he followed her up-stairs, and closing the door, sat beside her as she leaned upon the bed and buried her face in the pillow. it was the child of his old nurse. upon the hill-sides of his native state they had played together when children, and now she lay there before him, with scarce enough of woman's nature left to weep for her own misery. "mary, how is this? look up, child," he said, taking her hand kindly. "i had rather see you thus, bent low with sorrow, than bold and hard in guilt. but yet look up and speak to me. i will be your friend, you know. tell me, why are you thus?" "oh, mr. wayne, do not scold me, please don't. i was thinking of home and mother when you came and put your hand on my head. mother's dead." "well for her, poor woman. but how came you thus?" "i scarcely seem to know. it seems to me a dream. i married john, and he brought me to new york. then the war came, and he went and was killed. and mother was dead, and i had no friends in the great city. i could get no work, and i was starving, indeed i was, mr. wayne. so a young man, who was very handsome, and rich, i think, for he gave me money and fine dresses, he promised me--oh, mr. wayne, i was very wrong and foolish, and i wish i could die, and be buried by my poor mother." "and did he bring you here?" "oh no, sir. i came here two weeks ago, after he had left me. and when he came in one night and found me here, he was very angry, and said he would kill me if i told any one that i knew him. and i know why; but you won't tell, mr. wayne, for it would make him angry. i have found out that he is married to the mistress of this house. he's a bad man, i know now, and often comes here drunk, and swears at the woman and the girls. hark! that's her room, next to mine, and i think he's in there now." the faint sound of voices, smothered by the walls, reached them from the adjoining chamber; but as they listened, the door of that room opened, and the loud and angry tones of a man, speaking at the threshold, could be distinctly heard. arthur quietly and carefully opened the door of mary's room, an inch or less, and listened at the aperture. he was not mistaken; he recognized the voice of philip searle. "i'll do it, anyhow," said philip, angrily, and with the thick utterance of one who had been drinking. "i'll do it; and if you trouble me, i'll fix you." "philip, if you marry that girl i'll peach; i will, so help me g--d," replied a woman's voice. "i've given you the money, and i've given you plenty before, as much as i had to give you, philip, and you know it. i don't mind that, but you shan't marry till i'm dead. i'm your lawful wife, and if i'm low now, it's your fault, for you drove me to it." "i'll drive you to hell if you worry me. i tell you she's got lots of money, and a farm, and niggers, and you shall have half if you only keep your mouth shut. come, now, molly, don't be a fool; what's the use, now?" they went down the stairway together, and their voices were lost as they descended. arthur determined to follow and get some clue, if possible, as to the man's, intentions. he therefore gave his address to mary, and made her promise faithfully to meet him on the following morning, promising to befriend her and send her to his mother in vermont. hearing the front door close, and surmising that philip had departed, he bade her good night, and descending hastily, was upon the sidewalk in time to observe philip's form in the starlight as he turned the corner. it was now ten o'clock; too late to call upon miranda without disturbing the household, which he desired to avoid. arthur's present fear was that possibly an elopement had been planned for that night, and he therefore determined, if practicable, to keep searle in view till he had traced him home. the latter entered a refreshment saloon upon broadway; arthur followed, and ordering, in a low tone, some dish that would require time in the preparation, he stepped, without noise, into an alcove adjoining one whence came the sound of conversation. "well, what's up?" inquired a gruff, coarse voice. "fill me some brandy," replied philip. "i tell you, bradshaw, it's risky, but i'll do it. the old woman's rock. she'll blow upon me if she gets the chance; but i'm in for it, and i'll put it through. we must manage to keep it mum from her, and as soon as i get the girl i'll accept the lieutenancy, and be off to the wars till all blows over. if moll should smoke me out there, i'll cross the line and take sanctuary with jeff. davis." "what about the girl?" "oh; she's all right," replied philip, with a drunken chuckle. "i had an interview with the dear creature this morning, and she's like wax in my hands. it's all arranged for to-morrow morning. you be sure to have the carriage ready at the park--the same spot, you know--by ten o'clock. she can't well get away before, but that will be time enough for the train." "i want that money now." "moll's hard up, but i got a couple of hundred from her. here's fifty for you; now don't grumble, i'm doing the best i can, d--n you, and you know it. now listen--i want to fix things with you about that blue-eyed chap." the waiter here brought in arthur's order, and a sudden silence ensued in the alcove. the two men had evidently been unaware of the proximity of a third party, and their tone, though low, had not been sufficiently guarded to escape arthur hearing, whose ear, leaning against the thin partition, was within a few inches of philip's head. a muttered curse and the gurgling of liquor from a decanter was all that could be heard for the space of a few-moments, when the two, after a brief whisper, arose and left the place, not, however, without making ineffectual efforts to catch a glimpse of the occupant of the tenanted alcove. arthur soon after followed them into the street. he was aware that he was watched from the opposite corner, and that his steps were dogged in the darkness. but he drew his felt hat well over his face, and by mingling with the crowd that chanced to be pouring from one of the theatres, he avoided recognition and passed unnoticed into his hotel. chapter xiv. arthur felt ill and much fatigued when he retired to rest, and was restless and disturbed with fever throughout the night. he had overtasked his delicate frame, yet scarce recovered from the effects of recent suffering, and he arose in the morning with a feeling of prostration that he could with difficulty overcome. however, he refreshed himself with a cup of tea, and prepared to call upon miss ayleff. it was but seven o'clock, a somewhat early hour for a morning visit, but the occasion was one for little ceremony. as he was on the point of leaving his room, there was a peremptory knock at the door, and, upon his invitation to walk in, a stranger entered. it was a gentlemanly personage, with a searching eye and a calm and quiet manner. arthur was vexed to be delayed, but received the intruder with a civil inclination of the head, somewhat surprised, however, that no card had been sent to give him intimation of the visit. "are you mr. arthur wayne?" inquired the stranger. "i am he," replied arthur. "be seated, sir." "i thank you. my name is ----. i am a deputy united states marshal of this district." arthur bowed, and awaited a further statement of the purpose of his visit. "you have lately arrived from virginia, i understand?" "a few days since, sir--from a brief sojourn in the vicinity of richmond." "and yesterday received a communication from that quarter?" "i did. a letter from an intimate acquaintance." "my office will excuse me from an imputation of inquisitiveness. may i see that letter?" "excuse me, sir. its contents are of a private and delicate nature, and intended only for my own perusal." "it is because its contents are of that nature that i am constrained to ask you for it. pardon me, mr. wayne; but to be brief and frank you, i must either receive that communication by your good will, or call in my officers, and institute a search. i am sure you will not make my duty more unpleasant than necessary." arthur paused awhile. he was conscious that it would be impossible for him to avoid complying with the marshal's request, and yet it was most annoying to be obliged to make a third party cognizant of the facts contained in beverly's epistle. "i have no desire to oppose you in the performance of your functions," he finally replied, "but really there are very particular reasons why the contents of this letter should not be made public." a very faint indication of a smile passed over the marshal's serious face; arthur did not observe it, but continued: "i will hand you the letter, for i perceive there has been some mistake and misapprehension which of course it is your duty to clear up. but you must promise me that, when your perusal of it shall have satisfied you that its nature is strictly private, and not offensive to the law, you will return it me and preserve an inviolable secrecy as to its contents." "when i shall be satisfied on that score, i will do as you desire." arthur handed him the letter, somewhat to the other's surprise, for he had certainly been watching for an attempt at its destruction, or at least was prepared for prevarication and stratagem. he took the paper from its envelope and read it carefully. it was in the following words: richmond, _may_ --, . dear arthur: this will be handed to you by a sure hand. communicate freely with the bearer--he can be trusted. the arms can be safely shipped as he represents, and you will therefore send them on at once. your last communication was of great service to the cause, and, although i would be glad to have you with us, the president thinks you are too valuable, for the present, where you are. when you come, the commission will be ready for you. yours truly, beverly weems, capt. c.s.a. "are you satisfied?" inquired arthur, after the marshal had silently concluded his examination of the document. "perfectly satisfied," replied the other, placing the letter in his pocket. "mr. wayne, it is my duty to arrest you." "arrest me!" "in the name of the united states." "for what offence?" "treason." arthur remained for a while silent with astonishment. at last, as the marshal arose and took his hat, he said: "i cannot conceive what act or word of mine can be construed as treasonable. there is some mistake, surely; i am a quiet man, a stranger in the city, and have conversed with but one or two persons since my arrival. explain to me, if you please, the particular nature of the charge against me." "it is not my province, at this moment, to do so, mr. wayne. it is sufficient that, upon information lodged with me last evening, and forwarded to washington by telegraph, i received from the secretary of war orders for your immediate arrest, should i find the information true. i have found it true, and i arrest you." "surely, nothing in that letter can be so misconstrued as to implicate me." "mr. wayne, this prevarication is as useless as it is unseemly. you _know_ that the letter is sufficient warrant for my proceeding. my carriage is at the door. i trust you will accompany me without further delay." "sir, i was about to proceed, when you entered, upon an errand that involves the safety and happiness of the young lady mentioned in that letter. the letter itself will inform you of the circumstance, and i assure you, events are in progress that require my immediate action. you will at least allow me to visit the party?" the marshal looked at him with surprise. "what party?" "the lady of whom my friend makes mention." "i do not understand you. i can only conceive that, for some purpose of your own, you are anxious to gain time. i must request you to accompany me at once to the carriage." "you will permit me at least to send a, letter--a word--a warning?" "that your accomplice may receive information? assuredly not." "be yourself the messenger--or send"---- "this subterfuge is idle." he opened the door and stood beside it. "i must request your company to the carriage." arthur's cheek flushed for a moment with anger. "this severity," he said, "is ridiculous and unjust. i tell you, you and those for whom you act will be accountable for a great crime--for innocence betrayed--for a young life made desolate--for perhaps a dishonored grave. i plead not for myself, but for one helpless and pure, who at this hour may be the victim of a villain's plot. in the name of humanity, i entreat you give me but time to avert the calamity, and i will follow you without remonstrance. go with me yourself. be present at the interview. of what consequence to you will be an hour's delay?" "it may be of much consequence to those who are in league with you. i cannot grant your request. you must come with me, sir, or i shall be obliged to call for assistance," and he drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. arthur perceived that further argument or entreaty would be of no avail. he was much agitated and distressed beyond measure at the possible misfortune to miranda, which, by this untimely arrest, he was powerless to avert. knowing nothing of the true contents of the letter which philip had substituted for the one received from beverly, he could not imagine an excuse for the marshal's inflexibility. he was quite ill, too, and what with fever and agitation, his brain was in a whirl. he leaned against the chair, faint and dispirited. the painful cough, the harbinger of that fatal malady which had already brought a sister to an early grave, oppressed him, and the hectic glowed upon his pale cheeks. the marshal approached him, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "you seem ill," he said; "i am sorry to be harsh with you, but i must do my duty. they will make you as comfortable as possible at the fort. but you must come." arthur followed him mechanically, and like one in a dream. they stepped into the carriage and were driven rapidly away; but arthur, as he leaned back exhausted in his seat, murmured sorrowfully: "and poor little mary, too! who will befriend her now?" chapter xv. in the upper apartment of a cottage standing alone by the roadside on the outskirts of boston, miranda, pale and dejected, sat gazing vacantly at the light of the solitary lamp that lit the room. the clock was striking midnight, and the driving rain beat dismally against the window-blinds. but one month had passed since her elopement with philip searle, yet her wan cheeks and altered aspect revealed how much of suffering can be crowded into that little space of time. she started from her revery when the striking of the timepiece told the lateness of the hour. heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairway, and, while she listened, philip, followed by bradshaw, entered the room abruptly. "how is this?" asked philip, angrily. "why are you not in bed?" "i did not know it was so late, philip," she answered, in a deprecating tone. "i was half asleep upon the rocking-chair, listening to the storm. it's a bad night, philip. how wet you are!" he brushed off the hand she had laid upon his shoulder, and muttered, with bad humor: "i've told you a dozen times i don't want you to sit up for me. fetch the brandy and glasses, and go to bed." "oh, philip, it is so late! don't drink: to-night, philip. you are wet, and you look tired. come to bed." "do as i tell you," he answered, roughly, flinging himself into a chair, and beckoning bradshaw to a seat. miranda sighed, and brought the bottle and glasses from the closet. "now, you go to sleep, do you hear; and don't be whining and crying all night, like a sick girl." the poor girl moved slowly to the door, and turned at the threshold. "good night, philip." "oh, good night--there, get along," he cried, impatiently, without looking at her, and gulping down a tumblerful of spirits. miranda closed the door and left the two men alone together. they remained silent for a while, bradshaw quietly sipping his liquor, and philip evidently disturbed and angry. "you're sure 'twas she?" he asked at last. "oh, bother!" replied bradshaw. "i'm not a mole nor a blind man. don't i know moll when i see her?" "curse her! she'll stick to me like a leech. what could have brought her here? do you think she's tracked me?" "she'd track you through fire, if she once got on the scent. moll ain't the gal to be fooled, and you know it." "what's to be done?" "move out of this. take the girl to virginia. you'll be safe enough there." "you're right, bradshaw. it's the best way. i ought to have done it at first. but, hang the girl, she'll weary me to death with her sermons and crying fits. moll's worth two of her for that, matter--she scolds, but at least she never would look like a stuck fawn when i came home a little queer. for the matter of that, she don't mind a spree herself at times." and, emptying his glass, the libertine laughed at the remembrance of some past orgies. while he was thus, in his half-drunken mood, consoling himself for present perplexities by dwelling upon the bacchanalian joys of other days, a carriage drove up the street, and stopped before the door. soon afterward, the hall bell was rung, and philip, alarmed and astonished, started from his seat. "who's that?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "don't know," replied his companion. "she couldn't have traced me here already--unless you have betrayed me, bradshaw," he added suddenly, darting a suspicious glance upon his comrade. "you're just drunk enough to be a fool," replied bradshaw, rising from his seat, as a second summons, more violent than the first, echoed through the corridors. "i'll go down and see what's the matter. some one's mistaken the house, i suppose. that's all." "let no one in, bradshaw," cried philip, as that worthy left the room. he descended the stairs, opened the door, and presently afterward the carriage drove rapidly away. philip, who had been listening earnestly, could hear the sound of the wheels as they whirled over the pavement. "all right," he said, as he applied himself once more to the bottle before him. "some fool has mistaken his whereabouts. curse me, but i'm getting as nervous as an old woman." he was in the act of lifting the glass to his lips, when the door was flung wide open. the glass fell from his hands, and shivered upon the floor. moll stood before him. she stood at the threshold with a wicked gleam in her eye, and a smile of triumph upon her lips; then advanced into the room, closed the door quietly, locked it, seated herself composedly in the nearest chair, and filled herself a glass of spirits. philip glared upon her with an expression of mingled anger, fear and wonderment. "are you a devil? where in thunder did you spring from?" he asked at last. "you'll make me a devil, with your tricks, philip searle," she said, sipping the liquor, and looking at him wickedly over the rim of the tumbler. "ha! ha! ha!" she laughed aloud, as he muttered a curse between his clenched teeth, "i'm not the country girl, philip dear, that i was when you whispered your sweet nonsense in my ear. i know your game, my bully boy, and i'll play you card for card." "bradshaw" shouted philip, going to the door and striving to open it. "it's no use," she said, "i've got the key in my pocket. sit down. i want to talk to you. don't be a fool." "where's bradshaw, moll?" "at the depot by this time, i fancy, for the carriage went off at a deuce of a rate." she laughed again, while he paced the room with angry strides. "'twas he, then, that betrayed me. the villain! i'll have his life for that, as i'm a sinner." "your a great sinner; philip searle. sit down, now, and be quiet. where's the girl?" "what girl?" "miranda ayleff. the girl you've ruined; the girl you've put in my place, and that i've come to drive out of it. where is she?" "don't speak so loud, moll. be quiet, can't you? see here, moll," he continued, drawing a chair to her side, and speaking in his old winning way--"see here, moll: why can't you just let this matter stand as it is, and take your share of the plunder? you know i don't care about the girl; so what difference does it make to you, if we allow her to think that she's my lawful wife? come, give us a kiss, moll, and let's hear no more about it." "honey won't catch such an old fly as i am, philip," replied the woman, but with a gentled tone. "where is the girl?" she asked suddenly, starting from the chair. "i want to see her. is she in there?" "no," said philip, quickly, and rising to her passage to the door of miranda's chamber. "she is not there, moll; you can't see her. are you crazy? you'd frighten the poor girl out of her senses." "she's in there. i'm going in to speak with her. yes i shall, philip, and you needn't stop me." "keep back. keep quiet, can't you?" "no. don't hold me, philip searle. keep your hands off me, if you know what's good for you." she brushed past him, and laid her hand upon the door-knob; but he seized her violently by the arm and pulled her back. the action hurt her wrist, and she was boiling with rage in a second. with her clenched fist, she struck him straight in the face repeatedly, while with every blow, she screamed out an imprecation. "keep quiet, you hag! keep quiet, confound you!" said the infuriated man. "won't you? take that!" and he planted his fist upon her mouth. the woman, through her tears and sobs, howled at him curse upon curse. with one hand upon her throat, he essayed to choke her utterance, and thus they scuffled about the room. "i'll cut you, philip; i will, by ----" her hand, in fact, was fumbling about her pocket, and she drew forth a small knife and thrust it into his shoulder. they were near the table, over which philip had thrust her down. he was wild with rage and the brandy he had drank. his right hand instinctively grasped the heavy bottle that by chance it came in contact with. the next instant, it descended full upon her forehead, and with a moan of fear and pain, she fell like lead upon the floor, and lay bleeding and motionless. philip, still grasping the shattered bottle, gazed aghast upon the lifeless form. then a cry of terror burst upon his ear. he turned, and beheld miranda, with dishevelled hair, pale as her night-clothes, standing at the threshold of the open door. with a convulsive shudder, she staggered into the room, and fainted at his feet, her white arm stained with the blood that was sinking in little pools into the carpet. he stood there gazing from one to the other, but without seeking to succor either. the fumes of brandy, and the sudden revulsion from active wrath to apathy, seemed to stupefy his brain. at last he stooped beside the outstretched form of molly, and, with averted face, felt in her pocket and drew out the key. stealthily, as if he feared that they could hear him, he moved toward the door, opened it, and passing through, closed it gently, as one does who would not waken a sleeping child or invalid. rapidly, but with soft steps, he descended the stairs, and went out into the darkness and the storm. chapter xvi. when miranda awakened from her swoon, the lamp was burning dimly, and the first light of dawn came faintly through the blinds. all was still around her, and for some moments she could not recall the terrible scene which had passed before her eyes. presently her fingers came in contact with the clots of gore that were thickening on her garment, and she arose quickly, and, with a shudder, tottered against the wall. her eyes fell upon moll's white face, the brow mangled and bruised, and the dishevelled hair soaking in the crimson tide that kept faintly oozing from the cut. she was alone in the house with that terrible object; for philip, careless of her convenience, had only procured the services of a girl from a neighboring farm-house, who attended to the household duties during the day, and went home in the evening. but her womanly compassion was stronger than her sense of horror, and kneeling by the side of the prostrate woman, with inexpressible relief she perceived, by the slight pulsation of the heart, that life was there. entering her chamber, she hastily put on a morning wrapper, and returning with towel and water, raised moll's head upon her lap, and washed the thick blood from her face. the cooling moisture revived the wounded woman; her bosom swelled with a deep sigh, and she opened her eyes and looked languidly around. "how do you feel now, madam?" asked miranda, gently. "who are you?" said moll, in reply, after a moment's pause. "miranda--miranda searle, the wife of philip," she added, trembling at the remembrance of the woman's treatment at her husband's hands. molly raised herself with an effort, and sat upon the floor, looking at miranda, while she laughed with a loud and hollow sound. "philip's wife, eh? and you love him, don't you? well, dreams can't last forever." "don't you feel strong enough to get up and lie upon the bed?" asked miranda, soothingly, for she was uncomfortable tinder the strange glare that the woman fixed upon her. "i'm well enough," said moll. "where's philip?" "indeed, i do not know. i am very sorry, ma'am, that--that"-- "never mind. give me a glass of water." miranda hastened to comply, and moll swallowed the water, and remained silent for a moment. "shan't i go for assistance?" asked miranda, who was anxious to put an end to this painful interview, and was also distressed about her husband's absence. "there's no one except ourselves in the house, but i can go to the farmer's house near by." "not for the world," interrupted moll, taking her by the arm. "i'm well enough. here, let me lean on you. that's it. i'll sit on the rocking-chair. thank you. just bind my head up, will you? is it an ugly cut?" she asked, as miranda, having procured some linen, carefully bandaged the wounded part. "oh, yes! it's very bad. does it pain you much, ma'am?" "never mind. there, that will do. now sit down there. don't be afraid of me. i ain't a-going to hurt you. it's only the cut that makes me look so ugly." "oh, no! i am not at all afraid, ma'am," said miranda, shuddering in spite of herself. "you are a sweet-looking girl," said moll, fixing her haggard, but yet beautiful eyes upon the fragile form beside her. "it's a pity you must be unhappy. has that fellow been unkind to you?" "what fellow madam?" "philip." "he is my husband, madam," replied miranda, mildly, but with the slightest accent of displeasure. "he is, eh? hum! you love him dearly, don't you?" miranda blushed, and asked: "do you know my husband?" "know him! if you knew him as well, it would be better for you. you'll know him well enough before long. you come from virginia, don't you?" "yes." "you must go back there." "if philip wishes it." "i tell you, you must go at once--to-day. i will give you money, if you have none. and you must never speak of what has happened in this house. do you understand me?" "but philip"-- "forget philip. you must never see him any more. why should you want to? don't you know that he's a brute, and will beat you as he beat me, if you stay with him. why should you care about him?" "he is my husband, and you should not speak about him so to me," said miranda, struggling with her tears, and scarce knowing in what vein to converse with the rude woman, whose strange language bewildered and frightened her. "bah!" said moll, roughly. "you're a simpleton. there, don't cry, though heaven knows you've cause enough, poor thing! philip searle's a villain. i could send him to the state prison if i chose." "oh, no! don't say that; indeed, don't." "i tell you i could; but i will not, if you mind me, and do what i tell you. i'm a bad creature, but i won't harm you, if i can help it. you helped me when i was lying there, after that villain hurt me, and i can't help liking you. and yet you've hurt me, too." "i!" "yes. shall i tell you a story? poor girl! you're wretched enough now, but you'd better know the truth at once. listen to me: i was an innocent girl, like you, once. not so beautiful, perhaps, and not so good; for i was always proud and willful, and loved to have my own way. i was a country girl, and had money left to me by my dead parents. a young man made my acquaintance. he was gay and handsome, and made me believe that he loved me. well, i married him--do you hear? i married him--at the church, with witnesses, and a minister to make me his true and lawful wife. curse him! i wish he had dropped down dead at the altar. there, you needn't shudder; it would have been well for you if he had. i married him, and then commenced my days of sorrow and--of guilt. he squandered my money at the gambling-table, and i was sometimes in rags and without food. he was drunk half the time, and abused me; but i was even with him there, and gave him as good as he gave me. he taught me to drink, and such a time as we sometimes made together would have made satan blush. i thought i was low enough; but he drove me lower yet. he put temptation in my way--he did, curse his black heart! though he denied it. i fell as low as woman can fall, and then i suppose you think he left me? well, he did, for a time; he went off somewhere, and perhaps it was then he was trying to ruin some other girl, as foolish as i had been. but he came back, and got money from me--the wages of my sin. and all the while, he was as handsome, and could talk as softly as if he was a saint. and with that smooth tongue and handsome face he won another bride, and married her--married her, i tell you; and that's why i can send him to the state prison." "send him! who? my god! what do you mean?" cried miranda, rising slowly from her chair, with clasped hands and ashen cheeks. "philip searle, my husband!" shouted moll, rising also, and standing with gleaming eyes before the trembling girl. miranda sank slowly back into her seat, tearless, but shuddering as with an ague fit. only from her lips, with a moaning sound, a murmur came: "no, no, no! oh, no!" "may god strike me dead this instant, if it is not true!" said moll, sadly; for she felt for the poor girl's, distress. miranda rose, her hands pressed tightly against her heart, and moved toward the door with tottering and uncertain steps, like one who suffocates and seeks fresh air. then her white lips were stained with purple; a red stream gushed from her mouth and dyed the vestment on her bosom; and ere moll could reach her, she had sunk, with an agonizing sob, upon the floor. chapter xvii. the night after the unhappy circumstance we have related, in the bar-room of a broadway hotel, in new york city, a colonel of volunteers, moustached and uniformed, and evidently in a very unmilitary condition of unsteadiness, was entertaining a group of convivial acquaintances, with bacchanalian exercises and martian gossip. he had already, with a month's experience at the seat of war, culled the glories of unfought fields, and was therefore an object of admiration to his civilian friends, and of envy to several unfledged heroes, whose maiden swords had as yet only jingled on the pavement of broadway, or flashed in the gaslight of saloons. they were yet none the less conscious of their own importance, these embryo napoleons, but wore their shoulder straps with a killing air, and had often, on a sunny afternoon, stood the fire of bright eyes from innumerable promenading batteries, with gallantry, to say the least. and now they stood, like caesars, amid clouds of smoke, and wielded their formidable goblets with the ease of veterans, though not always with a soldierly precision. and why should they not? their tailors had made them heroes, every one; and they had never yet once led the van in a retreat. "and how's tim?" asked one of the black-coated hangers-on upon prospective glory. "tim's in hot water," answered the colonel, elevating his chin and elbow with a gesture more suggestive of bacchus than of mars. "hot brandy and water would be more like him," said the acknowledged wit of the party, looking gravely at the sugar in his empty glass, as if indifferent to the bursts of laughter which rewarded his appropriate sally. "i'll tell you about it," said the colonel. "fill up, boys. thompson, take a fresh segar." thompson took it, and the boys filled up, while the colonel flung down a specimen of uncle sam's eagle with an emphasis that demonstrated what he would do for the bird when opportunity offered. "you see, we had a party of congressmen in camp, and were cracking some champagne bottles in the adjutant's tent. we considered it a military necessity to floor the legislators, you know; but one old senator was tough as a siege-gun, and wouldn't even wink at his third bottle. so the corks flew about like minié balls, but never a man but was too good a soldier to cry 'hold, enough.' as for that old demijohn of a senator, it seemed he couldn't hold enough, and wouldn't if he could; so we directed the main battle against him, and opened a masked battery upon him, by uncovering a bottle of otard; but he never flinched. it was a game of _brag_ all over, and every one kept ordering 'a little more grape.' presently, up slaps a mounted aid, galloping like mad, and in tumbles the sleepy orderly for the officer of the day. "'that's you, tim,' says i. but tim was just then singing the star spangled banner in a convivial whisper to the tune of the red, white, and blue, and wouldn't be disturbed on no account. "'tumble out, tim,' says i, 'or i'll have you court-martialled and shot.' "'in the neck,' says tim. but he did manage to tumble out, and finished the last stanzas with a flourish, for the edification of the mounted aid-de-camp. "'where's the officer of the day?' asked the aid, looking suspiciously at tim's shaky knees. "'he stands before you,' replied tim, steadying himself a little by affectionately hanging on to the horse's tail. "'you sir? you're unfit for duty, and i'll report you, sir, at headquarters,' said the aid, who was a west pointer, you know, stiff as a poker in regimentals. "'sir!--hic,' replied tim, with an attempt at offended dignity, the effect of which was rather spoiled by the accompanying hiccough. "'where's the colonel!' asked the aid. "'drunk,' says that rascal, tim, confidentially, with a knowing wink. "'where's the adjutant?' "'drunk.' "'good god, sir, are you all drunk?' "''cept the surgeon--he's got the measles.' "'orderly, give this dispatch, to the first sober officer you can find.' "'it's no use, captain,' says tim, 'the regiment's drunk--'cept me, hic!' and tim lost his balance, and tumbled over the orderly, for you see the captain put spurs to his horse rather suddenly, and whisked the friendly tail out of his hands. "so we were all up before the general the next day, but swore ourselves clear, all except tim, who had the circumstantial evidence rather too strong against him." "and such are the men in whom the country has placed its trust?" muttered a grey-headed old gentleman, who, while apparently absorbed in his newspaper, had been listening to the colonel's narrative. a young man who had lounged into the room approached the party and caught the colonel's eye: "ah! searle, how are you? come up and take a drink." a further requisition was made upon the bartender, and the company indulged anew. searle, although a little pale and nervous, was all life and gaiety. his coming was a fresh brand on the convivial flame, and the party, too much exhilarated to be content with pushing one vice to excess, sallied forth in search of whatever other the great city might afford. they had not to look far. folly is at no fault in the metropolis for food of whatever quality to feed upon; and they were soon accommodated with excitement to their hearts content at a fashionable gambling saloon on broadway. the colonel played with recklessness and daring that, if he carries it to the battle-field, will wreathe his brow with laurels; but like many a rash soldier before him, he did not win. on the contrary, his eagles took flight with a rapidity suggestive of the old adage that "gold hath wings," and when, long after midnight, he stood upon the deserted street alone with philip searle and his reflections, he was a sadder and a soberer man. "searle, i'm a ruined man." "you'll fight all the better for it," replied philip, knocking the ashes from his segar. "come, you'll never mend the matter by taking cold here in the night air; where do you put up? i'll see you home." "d--n you, you take it easy," said the colonel, bitterly. philip could afford to take it easy, for he had most of the colonel's money in his pocket. in fact, the unhappy votary of mars was more thoroughly ruined than his companion was aware of, for when fortune was hitting him hardest, he had not hesitated to bring into action a reserve of government funds which had been intrusted to his charge for specific purposes. "searle," said the colonel, after they had walked along silently for a few minutes, "i was telling you this evening about that vacant captaincy." "yes, you were telling me i shouldn't have it," replied philip, with an accent of injured friendship. "well, i fancied it out of my power to do anything about it. but"-- "well, but?"-- "i think i might get it for you, for--for"---- "a consideration?" suggested philip, interrogatively. "well, to be plain with you, let me have five hundred, and you've won all of that to-night, and i'll get you the captaincy." "we'll talk about it to-morrow morning," replied philip. and in the morning the bargain was concluded; philip, with the promise that all should be satisfactorily arranged, started the same day for washington, to await the commission so honorably disposed of by the gallant colonel. chapter xviii. we will let thirty days pass on, and bear the reader south of the potomac, beyond the federal lines and within rifle-shot of an advanced picket of the confederate army, under general beauregard. it was a dismal night--the th of july. the rain fell heavily and the wind moaned and shrieked through the lone forests like unhappy spirits wailing in the darkness. a solitary horseman was cautiously wending his way through the storm upon the centreville road and toward the confederate hue. he bore a white handkerchief, and from time to time, as his ear seemed to catch a sound other than the voice of the tempest, he drew his rein and raised the fluttering symbol at his drawn sword's point. through the dark masses of foliage that skirted the roadside, presently could be seen the fitful glimmer of a watchfire, and the traveller redoubled his precautions, but yet rode steadily on. "halt!" cried a stern, loud voice from a clump of bushes that looked black and threatening in the darkness. the horseman checked his horse and sat immovable in the centre of the road. "who goes there?" followed quick, in the same deep, peremptory tone. "an officer of the united states, with a flag of truce," was answered in a clear, firm voice. "stand where you are." there was a pause, and presently four dark forms emerged from the roadside, and stood at the horse's head. "you've chosen a strange time for your errand, and a dangerous one," said one of the party, with a mild and gentlemanly accent. "who speaks?" "the officer in command of this picket." "is not that beverly weems?" "the same. and surely i know that voice." "of course you do, if you know harold hare." and the stranger, dismounting, stretched out his hand, which was eagerly and warmly clasped, and followed by a silent and prolonged embrace. "how rash you have been, harold," said beverly, at last. "it is a mercy that i was by, else might a bullet have been your welcome. why did you not wait till morning?" "because my mission admits of no delay. it is most opportune that i have met you. you have spoken to me at times, and oriana often, of your young cousin, miranda." "yes, harold, what of her?" "beverly, she is within a rifle-shot of where we stand, very sick--dying i believe." "good god, harold! what strange tale is this?" "i am in command of an advanced picket, stationed at the old farm-house yonder. toward dusk this evening, a carriage drove up, and when challenged, a pass was presented, with orders to assist the bearer, miranda ayleff, beyond the lines. i remembered the name, and stepping to the carriage door, beheld two females, one of whom was bending over her companion, and holding a vial, a restorative, i suppose, to her lips. "'she has fainted, sir,' said the woman, 'and is very ill. i'm afraid she won't last till she gets to richmond. can't you help her; isn't there a surgeon among you at the farm-house there?' "we had no surgeon, but i had her taken into the house, and made as comfortable as possible. when she recovered from her swoon, she asked for you, and repeatedly for oriana, and would not be comforted until i promised her that she should be taken immediately on to richmond. 'she could not die there, among strangers,' she said; 'she must see one friend before she died. she must go home at once and be forgiven.' and thus she went, half in delirium, until i feared that her life would pass away, from sheer exhaustion. i determined to ride over to your picket at once, not dreaming, however, that you were in command. at dawn to-morrow we shall probably be relieved, and it might be beyond my power then to meet her wishes." "i need not say how much i thank you, harold. but you were ever kind and generous. poor girl! let us ride over at once, harold. who is her companion?" "a woman some years her senior, but yet young, though prematurely faded. i could get little from her. not even her name. she is gloomy and reserved, even morose at times; but she seems to be kind and attentive to miranda." beverly left some hasty instructions with his sergeant, and rode over with harold to the farm-house. they found miranda reclining upon a couch of blankets, over which harold had spread his military cloak, for the dwelling had been stripped of its furniture, and was, in fact, little more than a deserted ruin. the suffering girl was pale and attenuated, and her sunken eyes were wild and bright with the fire of delirium. yet she seemed to recognize beverly, and stretched out her thin arms when he approached, exclaiming in tremulous accents: "take me home, beverly, oh, take me home!" moll was seated by her side, upon a soldier's knapsack; her chin resting upon her hands, and her black eyes fixed sullenly upon the floor. she would give but short and evasive answers to beverly's questions, and stubbornly refused to communicate the particulars of miranda's history. "she broke a blood-vessel a month ago in boston. but she got better, and was always wanting to go to her friends in richmond. and so i brought her on. and now you must take care of her, for i'm going back to camp." this was about all the information she would give, and the two young men ceased to importune her, and directed their attentions to the patient. the carriage was prepared and the cushions so arranged, with the help of blankets, as to form a kind of couch within the vehicle. upon this miranda was tenderly lifted, and when she was told that she should be taken home without delay, and would soon see oriana, she smiled like a pleased child, and ceased complaining. beverly stood beside his horse, with his hand clasped in harold's. the rain poured down upon them, and the single watchfire, a little apart from which the silent sentinel stood leaning on his rifle, threw its rude glare upon their saddened faces. "good bye, old friend," said beverly. "we have met strangely to-night, and sadly. pray heaven we may not meet more sadly on the battle-field." "tell oriana," replied harold, "that i am with her in my prayers." he had not spoken of her before, although beverly had mentioned that she was at the old manor house, and well. "i have not heard from arthur," he continued, "for i have been much about upon scouting parties since i came, but i doubt not he is well, and i may find a letter when i return to camp. good bye; and may our next meeting see peace upon the land." they parted, and the carriage, with beverly riding at its side, moved slowly into the darkness, and was gone. harold returned into the farm-house, and found moll seated where he had left her, and still gazing fixedly at the floor. he did not disturb her, but paced the floor slowly, lost in his own melancholy thoughts. after a silence of some minutes, the woman spoke, without looking up. "have they gone?" "yes." "she is dying, ain't she?" "i fear she is very ill." "i tell you, she's dying--and it's better that she is." she then relapsed into her former mood, but after a while, as harold paused at the window and looked out, she spoke again. "will it soon be day?" "within an hour, i think," replied harold. "do you go back at daylight?" "yes." "you have no horse?" "you'll lend me one, won't you? if you don't, i don't care; i can walk." "we will do what we can for you. what is your business at the camp?" "never mind," she answered gruffly. and then, after a pause, she asked: "is there a man named searle in your army--philip searle?" "nay, i know not. there may be. i have never heard the name. do you seek such a person? is he your friend, or relative?" "never mind," she said again, and then was silent as before. with the approach of dawn, the sentry challenged an advancing troop, which proved to be the relief picket guard. harold saluted the officer in command, and having left orders respectively with their subordinates, they entered the farm-house together, and proceeded to the apartment where moll still remained seated. she did not seem to notice their entrance; but when the new-comer's voice, in some casual remark, reached her ear, she rose up suddenly, and walking straight forward to where the two stood, looking out at the window, she placed her hand heavily, and even rudely, upon his shoulder. he turned at the touch, and beholding her, started back, with not only astonishment, but fear. "you needn't look so white, philip searle," she said at last, in a low, hoarse tone. "it's not a ghost you're looking at. but perhaps you're only angry that you only half did your business while you were at it." "where did you pick up this woman?" asked searle of harold, drawing him aside. "she came with an invalid on her way to richmond," replied harold. "what invalid?" he spoke almost in a whisper, but moll overheard him, and answered fiercely: "one that is dying, philip; and you know well enough who murdered her. 'twasn't me you struck the hardest blow that night. do you see that scar? that's nothing; but you struck her to the heart." "what does she mean?" asked harold, looking sternly into philip's disturbed eye. "heaven knows. she's mad," he answered. "did she tell you nothing--no absurd story?" "nothing. she was sullen and uncommunicative, and half the time took no notice of our questions." "no wonder, poor thing!" said philip. "she's mad. however, i have some little power with her, and if you will leave us alone awhile, i will prevail upon her to go quietly back to washington." harold went up to the woman, who was leaning with folded arms against the wall, and spoke kindly to her. "should you want assistance, i will help you. we shall be going in half an hour. you must be ready to go with us, you know, for you can't stay here, where there may be fighting presently." "thank you," she replied. "don't mind me. i can take care of myself. you can leave us alone together. i'm not afraid of him." harold left the room, and busied himself about the preparations for departure. left alone with the woman he had wronged, philip for some moments paced the room nervously and with clouded brow. finally, he stopped abruptly before moll, who had been following his motions with her wild, unquiet eyes. "where have you sprung from now, and what do you want?" "do you see that scar?" she said again, but more fiercely than before. "while that lasts, there's no love 'twixt you and me, and it'll last me till my death." "then why do you trouble me. if you don't love me, why do you hang about me wherever i go? we'll be better friends away from each other than together. why don't you leave me alone?" "ha! ha! we must be quits for that, you know," she answered, rather wildly, and pointing to her forehead. "do you think i'm a poor whining fool like her, to get sick and die when you abuse me? i'll haunt you till i die, philip; and after, too, if i can, to punish you for that." philip fancied that he detected the gleam of insanity in her eye, and he was not wrong, for the terrible blow he had inflicted had injured her brain; and her mind, weakened by dissipation and the action of excitement upon her violent temperament, was tottering upon the verge of madness. "when i was watching that poor sick girl," she continued, "i thought i could have loved her, she was so beautiful and gentle, as she lay there, white and thin, and never speaking a word against you, philip, but thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home--home, where her mother was sleeping under the sod--home, to be loved and kissed again before she died. and i would have loved her if i hadn't hated you so much that there wasn't room for the love of any living creature in my bad heart. i used to sit all night and hear her talk--talk in her dreams and in her fever--as if there were kind people listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago. and the room seemed full of angels sometimes, so that i was afraid to move and look about; for i could swear i heard the fanning of their wings and the rustle of their feet upon the carpet. sometimes i saw big round tears upon her wasted cheeks, and i wouldn't brush them away, for they looked like jewels that the angels had dropped there. and then i tried to cry myself, but, ha! ha! i had to laugh instead, although my heart was bursting. i wished i could have cried; i'm sure it would have made my heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron that was pressing so hard around my head. it's there now, sinking and burning right against my temples. but i can't cry, i haven't since i was a little girl, long ago, long ago; but i think i cried when mother died, long ago, long ago." she was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while philip paced the room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro. "moll," said philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone, "i'm sorry i struck you, indeed i am; but i was drunk, and when you cut me, i didn't know what i was about. now let's be friends, there's a good girl. you must go back to washington, you know, and to new york, and stay there till i come back. won't you, now, moll?" "won't i? no, philip searle, i won't. i'll stay by you till you kill me; yes, i will. you want to go after that poor girl and torment her; but she's dying and soon you won't be able to hurt her any more." "was it she, moll, was it miranda that came here with you? was she going to richmond?" "she was going to heaven, philip searle, out of the reach of such as you and me. i'm good enough for you, philip, bad as i am; and i'm your wife, besides." "you told her that?" "told her? ha! ha! told her? do you think i'm going to make that a secret? no, no. we're a bad couple, sure enough; but i'm not going to deny you, for all that. look you, young man," she continued, addressing harold, who at that moment entered the room, "that is philip searle, and philip searle is my husband--my husband, curse his black heart! and if he dares deny it, i'll have him in the state prison, for i can do it." "she's perfectly insane," said philip; but harold looked thoughtful and perplexed, and scanned his fellow-officer's countenance with a searching glance. "at all events," he said, "she must not remain here. my good woman, we are ready now, and you must come with us. we have a horse for you, and will make you comfortable. are you ready?" "no," she replied, sullenly, "i won't go. i'll stay with my husband." "nay," remonstrated harold, gently, "you cannot stay here. this is no place for women. when we arrive at headquarters, you shall tell your story to general mcdowell, and he will see that you are taken care of, and have justice if you have been wronged. but you must not keep us waiting. we are soldiers, you know, and must do our duty." still, however, she insisted upon remaining where she was; but when two soldiers, at a gesture from harold, approached and took her gently by the arms, she offered no resistance, and suffered herself to be led quietly out. harold coldly saluted searle, and left him in charge of the post; while himself and party, accompanied by moll and the coachman who had driven them from washington, were soon briskly marching toward the camp. chapter xix. toward dusk of the same day, while philip and his lieutenant were seated at the rude pine table, conversing after their evening meal, the sergeant of the guard entered with a slip of paper, on which was traced a line in pencil. "is the bearer below?" asked philip, as he cast his eyes over the paper. "yes, sir. he was challenged a minute ago, and answered with the countersign and that slip for you, sir." "it's all right, sergeant; you may send him up. mr. williams," he continued, to his comrade, "will you please to look about a little and see that all is in order. i will speak a few words with this messenger." the lieutenant and sergeant left the room, and presently afterward there entered, closing the door carefully after him, no less a personage than seth rawbon. "you're late," said philip, motioning him to a chair. "there's an old proverb to answer that," answered rawbon, as he leisurely adjusted his lank frame upon the seat. having established himself to his satisfaction, he continued: "i had to make a considerable circuit to avoid the returning picket, who might have bothered me with questions. i'm in good time, though. if you've made up your mind to go, you'll do it as well by night, and safer too." "what have you learned?" "enough to make me welcome at headquarters. you were right about the battle. there'll be tough work soon. they're fixing for a general advance. if you expect to do your first fighting under the stars and bars, you must swear by them to-night." "have you been in washington?" "every nook and corner of it. they don't keep their eyes skinned, i fancy, up there. your fancy colonels have slippery tongues when the champagne corks are flying. if they fight as hard as they drink, they'll give us trouble. well, what do you calculate to do?" he added, after a pause, during which philip was moody and lost in thought. philip rose from his seat and paced the floor uneasily, while rawbon filled a glass from a flask of brandy on the table. it was now quite dark without, and neither of them observed the figure of a woman crouched on the narrow veranda, her chin resting on the sill of the open window. at last philip resumed his seat, and he, too, swallowed a deep draught from the flask of brandy. "tell me what i can count upon?" he asked. "the same grade you have, and in a crack regiment. it's no use asking for money. they've none to spare for such as you--now don't look savage--i mean they won't buy men that hain't seen service, and you can't expect them to. i told you all about that before, and it's time you had your mind made up." "what proofs of good faith can you give me?" rawbon thrust his hand into his bosom and drew out a roll of parchment. "this commission, under gen. beauregard's hand, to be approved when you report yourself at headquarters." philip took the document and read it attentively, while rawbon occupied himself with filling his pipe from a leathern pouch. the female figure stepped in at the window, and, gliding noiselessly into the room, seated herself in a third chair by the table before either of the men became aware of her presence. they started up with astonishment and consternation. she did not seem to heed them, but leaning upon the table, she stretched her hand to the brandy flask and applied it to her lips. "who's this?" demanded rawbon, with his hand upon the hilt of his large bowie knife. "curse her! my evil genius," answered philip, grating his teeth with anger. it was moll. "what's this, philip!" she said, clutching the parchment which had been dropped upon the table. "leave that," ejaculated her husband, savagely, and darting to take it from her. but she eluded his grasp, and ran with the document into a corner of the room. "ha! ha! ha! i know what it is," she said, waving it about as a schoolboy sometimes exultingly exhibits a toy that he has mischievously snatched from a comrade. "it's your death-warrant, philip searle, if somebody sees it over yonder. i heard you. i heard you. you're going over to fight for jeff. davis. well, i don't care, but i'll go with you. don't come near me. don't hurt me, philip, or i'll scream to the soldier out there." "i won't hurt you, moll. be quiet now, there's a good girl. come here and take a sup more of brandy." "i won't. you want to hurt me. but you can't. i'm a match for you both. ha! ha! you don't know how nicely i slipped away from the soldiers when they, were resting. i went into the thick bushes, right down in the water, and lay still. i wanted to laugh when i saw them, hunting for me, and i could almost have touched the young officer if i had wished. but i lay still as a mouse, and they went off and never found me. ha! ha! ha!" "is she drunk or mad?" asked rawbon. "mad," answered philip, "but cunning enough to do mischief, if she has a mind to. moll, dear, come sit down here and be quiet; come, now." "mad? mad?" murmured moll, catching his word. "no, i'm not mad," she continued wildly, passing her hands over her brows, "but i saw spirits just now in the woods, and heard voices, and they've frightened me. the ghost of the girl that died in the hospital was there. you knew little blue-eyed lizzie, philip. she was cursing me when she died and calling for her mother. but i don't care. the man paid me well for getting her, and 'twasn't my fault if she got sick and died. poor thing! poor thing! poor little blue-eyed lizzie! she was innocent enough when she first came, but she got to be as bad as any--until she got sick and died. poor little lizzie!" and thus murmuring incoherently, the unhappy woman sat down upon the floor, and bent her head upon her knees. "clap that into her mouth," whispered philip, handing rawbon his handkerchief rolled tightly into a ball. "quietly now, but quick. look out now. she's strong as a trooper." they approached her without noise, but suddenly, and while philip grasped her wrists, rawbon threw back her head, and forcing the jaws open by a violent pressure of his knuckles against the joint, thrust the handkerchief between her teeth and bound it tightly there with two turns of his sash. the shriek was checked upon her lips and changed into a painful, gurgling groan. the poor creature, with convulsive efforts, struggled to free her arms from philip's grasp, but he managed to keep his hold until rawbon had secured her wrists with the stout cord that suspended his canteen. a silk neckerchief was then tightly bound around her ankles, and moll, with heaving breast and glaring eyes, lay, moaning piteously, but speechless and motionless, upon the floor. "we can leave her there," said rawbon. "it's not likely any of your men will come in, until morning at least. let's be off at once." philip snatched up the parchment where it had fallen, and silently followed his companion. "we are going beyond the line to look about a bit," he said to the sergeant on duty, as they passed his post. "keep all still and quiet till we return." "take some of the boys with you, captain," replied the sergeant. "we're unpleasant close to those devils, sir." "it's all right, sergeant. there's no danger," and nodding to seth, the two walked leisurely along the road until concealed by the darkness, when they quickened their pace and pushed boldly toward the confederate lines. half an hour, or less perhaps, after their departure, the sentry, posted at about a hundred yards from the house, observed an unusual light gleaming from the windows of the old farm-house. he called the attention of lieutenant williams, who was walking by in conversation with the sergeant, to the circumstance. "is not the captain there?" asked the lieutenant. "no, sir," replied the sergeant, "he started off to go beyond the line half an hour ago." "alone?" "no, sir; that chap that came in at dusk was with him." "it's strange he should have gone without speaking to me about it." "i wanted him to take some of our fellows along, sir, but he didn't care to. by george! that house is afire, sir. look there." while talking, they had been proceeding toward the farm-house, when the light from the windows brightened suddenly into a broad glare, and called forth the sergeant's exclamation. before they reached the building a jet of flame had leaped from one of the casements, and continued to whirl like a flaming ribbon in the air. they quickened their pace to a run, and bursting into the doorway, were driven back by a dense volume of smoke, that rolled in black masses along the corridor. they went in again, and the sergeant pushed open the door of the room where moll lay bound, but shut it quickly again, as a tongue of flame lashed itself toward him like an angry snake. "it's all afire, sir," he said, coughing and spluttering through the smoke. "are there any of the captain's traps inside?" "nothing at all," replied the lieutenant. "let's go in, however, and see what can be done." they entered, but were driven back by the baffling smoke and the flames that were now licking all over the dry plastering of the room. "it's no use," said the lieutenant, when they had gained their breath in the open air. "there's no water, except in the brook down yonder, and what the men have in their canteens. the house is like tinder. let it go, sergeant; it's not worth saving at the risk of singing your whiskers." the men had now come up, and gathered about the officer to receive his commands. "let the old shed go, my lads," he said. "it's well enough that some rebel should give us a bonfire now and then. only stand out of the glare, boys, or you may have some of those devils yonder making targets of you." the men fell back into the shadow, and standing in little groups, or seated upon the sward, watched the burning house, well pleased to have some spectacle to relieve the monotony of the night. and they looked with indolent gratification, passing the light jest and the merry word, while the red flames kept up their wild sport, and great masses of rolling vapor upheaved from the crackling roof, and blackened the midnight sky. none sought to read the mystery of that conflagration. it was but an old barn gone to ashes a little before its time. perhaps some mischievous hand among them had applied the torch for a bit of deviltry. perhaps the flames had caught from rawbon's pipe, which he had thrown carelessly among a heap of rubbish when startled by molly's sudden apparition. or yet, perhaps, though heaven forbid it, for the sake of human nature, the same hand that had struck so nearly fatally once, had been tempted to complete the work of death in a more terrible form. but within those blistering walls, who can tell what ghastly revels the mad flames were having over their bound and solitary victim! perhaps, as she lay there with distended jaws, and eyeballs starting from their sockets, that brain, amid the visions of its madness, became conscious of the first kindling of the subtle element that was so soon to clasp her in its terrible embrace. how dreadful, while the long minutes dragged, to watch its stealthy progress, and to feel that one little effort of an unbound hand could avert the danger, and yet to lie there helpless, motionless, without even the power to give utterance to the shriek of terror which strained her throat to suffocation. and then, as the creeping flame became stronger and brighter, and took long and silent leaps from one object to another, gliding along the lathed, and papered wall, rolling and curling along the raftered ceiling, would not the wretched woman, raving already in delirium, behold the spectres that her madness feared, beckoning to her in the lurid glare, or gliding in and out among the wild fires that whirled in fantastic gambols around and overhead! nearer and nearer yet the rolling flame advances; it commences to hiss and murmur in its progress; it wreathes itself about the chairs and tables, and laps up the little pool of brandy spilled from the forgotten flask; it plays about her feet, and creeps lazily amid the folds of her gown, yet wet from the brook in which she had concealed herself that day; it scorches and shrivels up the flesh upon her limbs, while pendent fiery tongues leap from the burning rafters, and kiss her cheeks and brows where the black veins swell almost to bursting; every muscle and nerve of her frame is strained with convulsive efforts to escape, but the cords only sink into the bloating flesh, and she lies there crisping like a log, and as powerless to move. the dense, black smoke hangs over her like a pall, but prostrate as she is, it cannot sink low enough to suffocate and end her agony. how the bared bosom heaves! how the tortured limbs writhe, and the blackening cuticle emits a nauseous steam! the black blood oozing from her nostrils proclaims how terrible the inward struggle. the whole frame bends and shrinks, and warps like a fragment of leather thrown into a furnace--the flame has reached her vitals--at last, by god's mercy, she is dead. chapter xx. at dawn of the morning of the st of july, an officer in plain undress was busily writing at a table in a plainly-furnished apartment of a farm-house near manassas. he was of middle age and medium size, with dark complexion, bold, prominent features, and steady, piercing black eyes. his manner and the respectful demeanor of several officers in attendance, rather than any insignia of office which he wore, bespoke him of high rank; and the earnest attention which he bestowed upon his labor, together with the numerous orders, written and verbal, which he delivered at intervals to members of his staff, denoted that an affair of importance was in hand. several horses, ready caparisoned, were held by orderlies at the door-way, and each aid, as he received instructions, mounted and dashed away at a gallop. the building was upon a slight elevation of land, and along the plain beneath could be seen the long rows of tents and the curling smoke of camp-fires; while the hum of many voices in the distance, with here and there a bugle-blast and the spirit-stirring roll of drums, denoted the site of the confederate army. the reveille had just sounded, and the din of active preparation could be heard throughout the camp. regiments were forming, and troops of horse were marshalling in squadron, while others were galloping here and there; while, through the ringing of sabres and the strains of marshal music, the low rumbling of the heavy-wheeled artillery was the most ominous sound. an orderly entered the apartment where general beauregard was writing, and spoke with one of the members of the staff in waiting. "what is it, colonel?" asked the general, looking up. "an officer from the outposts, with two prisoners, general." and he added something in a lower tone. "very opportune," said beauregard. "let them come in." the orderly withdrew and reentered with captain weems, followed by philip searle and rawbon. a glance of recognition passed between the latter and beauregard, and seth, obeying a gesture of the general, advanced and placed a small package on the table. the general opened it hastily and glanced over its contents. "as i thought," he muttered. "you are sure as to the disposition of the advance?" "quite sure of the main features." "when did you get in?" "only an hour ago. their vanguard was close behind. before noon, i think they will be upon you in three columns from the different roads." "very well, you may go now. come to me in half an hour. i shall have work for you. who is that with you?" "captain searle." "of whom we spoke?" "the same." the general nodded, and seth left the apartment. beauregard for a second scanned philip's countenance with a searching glance. "approach, sir, if you please. we have little time for words. have you information to impart?" "nothing beyond what i think you know already. you may expect at every moment to hear the boom of mcdowell's guns." "on the right?" "i think the movement will be on your left. richardson remains on the southern road, in reserve. tyler commands the centre. carlisle, bicket and ayre will give you trouble there with their batteries. hunter and heintzelman, with fourteen thousand, will act upon your left." "then we are wrong, taylor," said beauregard, turning to an officer at his side; and rising, the two conversed for a moment in low but earnest tone. "it is plausible," said beauregard, at length. "taylor, ride down to bee and see about it. captain searle, you will report yourself to colonel hampton at once. he will have orders for you. captain weems, you will please see him provided for. come, gentlemen, to the field!" the general and his staff were soon mounted and riding rapidly toward the masses and long lines of troops that were marshalling on the plain below. beverly stood at the doorway alone with philip searle. he was grave and sad, although the bustle and preparation of an expected battle lent a lustre to his eye. to his companion he was stern and distant, and they both walked onward for some moments without a word. at a short distance from the building, they came upon a black groom holding two saddled horses. "mount, sir, if you please," said beverly, and they rode forward at a rapid pace. philip was somewhat surprised to observe that their course lay away from the camp, and in fact the sounds of military life were lessening as they went on. they passed the brow of the hill and descended by a bridle-path into a little valley, thick with shrubbery and trees. at the gateway of a pleasant looking cottage beverly drew rein. "i must ask you to enter here," he said, dismounting. "within a few hours we shall both be, probably, in the ranks of battle; but first i have a duty to perform." they entered the cottage, within which all was hushed and still; the sounds of an active household were not heard. they ascended the little stair, and beverly pushed gently open the door of an apartment and motioned to philip to enter. he paused at first, for as he stood on the threshold a low sob reached his ear. "pass in," said beverly, in a grave, stern tone. "i have promised that i would bring you, else, be assured, i would not linger in your presence." they entered. it was a small, pleasant room, and through the lattice interwoven with woodbine the rising sun looked in like a friendly visitor. upon a bed was stretched the form of a young girl, sleeping or dead, it would be hard to tell, the features were so placid and beautiful in repose. one ray of sunlight fell among the tangles of her golden hair, and glowed like a halo above the marble-white brow. the long dark lashes rested upon her cheek with a delicate contrast like that of the velvety moss when it peeps from the new-fallen snow. her hands were folded upon her bosom above the white coverlet; they clasped a lily, that seemed as if sculptured upon a churchyard stone, so white was the flower, so white the bosom that it pressed. one step nearer revealed that she was dead; earthly sleep was never so calm and beautiful. by the bedside oriana weems was seated, weeping silently. she arose when her brother entered, and went to him, putting her hands about his neck. beverly tenderly circled his arm about her waist, and they stood together at the bedside, gazing on all that death had left upon earth of their young cousin, miranda. "she died this morning very soon after you left," said oriana, "without pain and i think without sorrow, for she wore that same sweet smile that you see now frozen upon her lips. oh, beverly, i am sorry you brought _him_ here!" she added, in a lower tone, glancing with a shudder at philip searle, who stood looking with a frown out at the lattice, and stopping the sunbeam from coming into the room. "it seems," she continued, "as if his presence brought a curse that would drag upon the angels' wings that are bearing her to heaven. though, thank god, she is beyond his power to harm her now!" and she knelt beside the pillow and pressed her lips upon the cold, white brow. "she wished to see him, oriana, before she died," said beverly, "and i promised to bring him; and yet i am glad she passed away before his coming, for i am sure he could bring no peace with him for the dying, and his presence now is but an insult to the dead." when he had spoken, there was silence for a while, which was broken by the sudden boom of a distant cannon. they all started at the sound, for it awakened them from mournful memories, to yet perhaps more solemn thoughts of what was to come before that bright sun should rise upon the morrow. beverly turned slowly to where philip stood, and pointed sternly at the death-bed. "you have seen enough, if you have dared to look at all," he said. "i have not the power, nor the will, to punish. a soldier's death to-day is what you can best pray for, that you may not live to think of this hereafter. she sent for you to forgive you, but died and you are unforgiven. bad as you are, i pity you that you must go to battle haunted by the remembrance of this murder that you have done." philip half turned with an angry curl upon his lip, as if prepared for some harsh answer; but he saw the white thin face and folded hands, and left the room without a word. "farewell! dear sister," said beverly, clasping the weeping girl in his arms. "i have already overstaid the hour, and must spur hard to be at my post in time. god bless you! it may be i shall never see you again; if so, i leave you to god and my country. but i trust all will be well." "oh, beverly! come back to me, my brother; i am alone in the world without you. i would not have you swerve from your duty, although death came with it; but yet, remember that i am alone without you, and be not rash or reckless. i will watch and pray for you beside this death-bed, beverly, while you are fighting, and may god be with you." beverly summoned an old negress to the room, and consigned his sister to her care. descending the stairs rapidly, he leaped upon his horse, and waving his hand to philip, who was already mounted, they plunged along the valley, and ascending the crest of the hill, beheld, while they still spurred on, the vast army in motion before them, while far off in the vanward, from time to time, the dull, heavy booming of artillery told that the work was already begun. chapter xxi. on the evening of the th july, hunter's division, to which harold hare was attached, was bivouacked on the old braddock road, about a mile and a half southeast of centreville. it was midnight. there was a strange and solemn hush throughout the camp, broken only by the hail of the sentinel and the occasional trampling of horses hoofs, as some aid-de-camp galloped hastily along the line. some of the troops were sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of home, and far away, for the time, from the thought of the morrow's danger. but most were keeping vigil through the long hours of darkness, communing with themselves or talking in low murmurs with some comrade; for each soldier knew that the battle-hour was at hand. harold was stretched upon his cloak, striving in vain to win the boon of an hour's sleep, for he was weary with the toil of the preceding day; but he could not shut out from his brain the whirl of excitement and suspense which that night kept so many tired fellows wakeful when they most needed rest. it was useless to court slumber, on the eve, perhaps, of his eternal sleep; he arose and walked about into the night. standing beside the dying embers of a watchfire, wrapped in his blanket, and gazing thoughtfully into the little drowsy flames that yet curled about the blackened fagots, was a tall and manly form, which harold recognized as that of his companion in arms, a young lieutenant of his company. he approached, and placed his hand upon his fellow-soldier's arm. "what book of fate are you reading in the ashes, harry?" he asked, in a pleasant tone, anxious to dispel some portion of his own and his comrade's moodiness. the soldier turned to him and smiled, but sorrowfully and with effort. "my own destiny, perhaps," he answered. "those ashes were glowing once with light and warmth, and before the dawn they will be cold, as you or i may be to-morrow, harold." "i thought you were too old a soldier to nurse such fancies upon the eve of battle. i must confess that i, who am a novice in this work, am as restless and nervous as a woman; but you have been seasoned by a mexican campaign, and i came to you expressly to be laughed into fortitude again." "you must go on till you meet one more lighthearted than myself," answered the other, with a sigh. "ah! harold, i have none of the old elasticity about me to-night. i would i were back under my father's roof, never to hear the roll of the battle-drum again. this is a cruel war, harold." "a just one." "yes, but cruel. have you any that you love over yonder, harold? any that are dear to you, and that you must strike at on the morrow?" "yes, harry, that is it. it is, as you say, a cruel war." "i have a brother there," continued his companion; and he looked sadly into the gloom, as if he yearned through the darkness and distance to catch a glimpse of the well-known form. "a brother that, when i last saw him, was a little rosy-cheeked boy, and used to ride upon my knee. he is scarce more than a boy now, and yet he will shoulder his musket to-morrow, and stand in the ranks perhaps to be cut down by the hand that has caressed him. he was our mother's darling, and it is a mercy that she is not living to see us armed against each other." "it is a painful thought," said harold, "and one that you should dismiss from contemplation. the chances are thousands to one that you will never meet in battle." "i trust the first bullet that will be fired may reach my heart, rather than that we should. but who can tell? i have a strange, gloomy feeling upon me; i would say a presentiment, if i were superstitious." "it is a natural feeling upon the eve of battle. think no more of it. look how prettily the moon is creeping from under the edge of yonder cloud. we shall have a bright day for the fight, i think." "yes, that's a comfort. one fights all the better in the warm sunlight, as if to show the bright heavens what bloodthirsty devils we can be upon occasion. hark!" it was the roll of the drum, startling the stillness of the night; and presently, the brief, stern orders of the sergeants could be heard calling the men into the ranks. there is a strange mingled feeling of awe and excitement in this marshalling of men at night for a dangerous expedition. the orders are given instinctively in a more subdued and sterner tone, as if in unison with the solemnity of the hour. the tramp of marching feet strikes with a more distinct and hollow sound upon the ear. the dark masses seem to move more compactly, as if each soldier drew nearer to his comrade for companionship. the very horses, although alert and eager, seem to forego their prancing, and move with sober tread. and when the word "forward!" rings along the dark column, and the long and silent ranks bend and move on as with an electric impulse, there is a thrill in every vein, and each heart contracts for an instant, as if the black portals of a terrible destiny were open in the van. a half hour of silent hurry and activity passed away, and at last the whole army was in motion. it was now three o'clock; the moon shone down upon the serried ranks, gleaming from bayonet and cannon, and stretching long black shadows athwart the road. from time to time along the column could be heard the ringing voice of some commander, as he galloped to the van, cheering his men with some well-timed allusion, or dispelling the surrounding gloom with a cheerful promise of victory. where the wood road branched from the warrentown turnpike, gen. mcdowell, standing in his open carriage, looked down upon the passing columns, and raised his hat, when the excited soldiers cheered as they hurried on. here hunter's column turned to the right, while the main body moved straight on to the centre. then all became more silent than before, and the light jest passing from comrade to comrade was less frequent, for each one felt that every step onward brought him nearer to the foe. the eastern sky soon paled into a greyish light, and ruddy streaks pushed out from the horizon. the air breathed fresher and purer than in the darkness, and the bright sun, with an advance guard of thin, rosy clouds, shot upward from the horizon in a blaze of splendor. it was the sabbath morn. the boom of a heavy gun is heard from the centre. carlisle has opened the ball. the day's work is begun. another! the echoes spring from the hillsides all around, like a thousand angry tongues that threaten death. but on the right, no trace of an enemy is to be seen. burnside's brigade was in the van; they reached the ford at sudley's springs; a momentary confusion ensues as the column prepares to cross. soon the men are pushing boldly through the shallow stream, but the temptation is too great for their parched throats; they stoop to drink and to fill their canteens from the cool wave. but as they look up they see a cloud of dust rolling up from the plain beyond, and their thirst has passed away--they know that the foe is there. an aid comes spurring down the bank, waving his hand and splashing into the stream. "forward, men! forward!" hunter gallops to meet him, with his staff clattering at his horse's heels. "break the heads of regiments from the column and push on--push on!" the field officers dash along the ranks, and the men spring to their work, as the word of command is echoed from mouth to mouth. crossing the stream, their course extended for a mile through a thick wood, but soon they came to the open country, with undulating fields, rolling toward a little valley through which a brooklet ran. and beyond that stream, among the trees and foliage which line its bank and extend in wooded patches southward, the left wing of the enemy are in battle order. from a clump of bushes directly in front, came a puff of white smoke wreathed with flame; the whir of the hollow ball is heard, and it ploughs the moist ground a few rods from our advance. scarcely had the dull report reverberated, when, in quick succession, a dozen jets of fire gleamed out, and the shells came plunging into the ranks. burnside's brigade was in advance and unsupported, but under the iron hail the line was formed, and the cry "forward!" was answered with a cheer. a long grey line spread out upon the hillside, forming rapidly from the outskirts of the little wood. it was the southern infantry, and soon along their line a deadly fire of musketry was opened. meanwhile the heavy firing from the left and further on, announced that the centre and extreme left were engaged. a detachment of regulars was sent to burnside's relief, and held the enemy in check till a portion of porter's and heintzelman's division came up and pressed them back from their position. the battle was fiercely raging in the centre, where the th had led the van and were charging the murderous batteries with the bayonet. we must leave their deeds to be traced by the historic pen, and confine our narrative to the scene in which harold bore a part. the nearest battery, supported by carolinians, had been silenced. the mississippians had wavered before successive charges, and an alabama regiment, after four times hurling back the serried ranks that dashed against them, had fallen back, outflanked and terribly cut up. on the left was a farm-house, situated on an elevated ridge a little back from the road. within, while the fiercest battle raged, was its solitary inmate, an aged and bed-ridden lady, whose paralyzed and helpless form was stretched upon the bed where for fourscore years she had slept the calm sleep of a christian. she had sent her attendants from the dwelling to seek a place of safety, but would not herself consent to be removed, for she heard the whisper of the angel of death, and chose to meet, him there in the house of her childhood. for the possession of the hill on which the building stood, the opposing hosts were hotly struggling. the fury of the battle seemed to concentre there, and through the time-worn walls the shot was plunging, splintering the planks and beams, and shivering the stone foundation. sherman's battery came thundering up the hill upon its last desperate advance. just as the foaming horses were wheeled upon its summit, the van of hampton's legion sprang up the opposite side, and the crack of a hundred rifles simultaneously sounded. down fell the cannoneers beside their guns before those deadly missiles, and the plunging horses were slaughtered in the traces, or, wounded to the death, lashed out their iron hoofs among the maimed and writhing soldiers and into the heaps of dead. the battery was captured, but held only fop an instant, when two companies of rhode islanders, led on by harold hare, charged madly up the hill. "save the guns, boys!" he cried, as the gallant fellows bent their heads low, and sprang up the ascent right in the face of the blazing rifles. "fire low! stand firm! drive them back once again, my brave virginians!" shouted a young southern officer, springing to the foremost rank. the mutual fire was delivered almost at the rifles' muzzles, and the long sword-bayonets clashed together. without yielding ground, for a few terrible seconds they thrust and parried with the clanging steel, while on either side the dead were stiffening beneath their feet, and the wounded, with shrieks of agony, were clutching at their limbs. harold and the young southron met; their swords clashed together once in the smoke and dust, and but once, when each drew back and lowered his weapon, while all around were striking. then, amid that terrible discord, their two left hands were pressed together for an instant, and a low "god bless you!" came from the lips of both. "to the right, beverly, keep you to the right!" said harold, and he himself, straight through the hostile ranks, sprang in an opposite direction. when harold's party had first charged up the hill, the young lieutenant with whom he had conversed beside the watch-fire on the previous evening, was at the head of his platoon, and as the two bodies met, he sent the last shot from his revolver full in the faces of the foremost rank. so close were they, that the victim of that shot, struck in the centre of the forehead, tottered forward, and fell into his arms. there was a cry of horror that pierced even above the shrieks of the wounded and the yells of the fierce combatants. one glance at that fair, youthful face sufficed;--it was his brother--dead in his arms, dead by a brother's hand. the yellow hair yet curled above the temples, but the rosy bloom upon the cheek was gone; already the ashen hue of death was there. there was a small round hole just where the golden locks waved from the edge of the brow, and from it there slowly welled a single globule of black gore. it left the face undisfigured--pale, but tranquil and undistorted as a sleeping child's--not even a clot of blood was there to mar its beauty. the strong and manly soldier knelt upon the dust, and holding the dead boy with both arms clasped about his waist, bent his head low down upon the lifeless bosom, and gasped with an agony more terrible than that which the death-wound gives. "charley! oh god! charley! charley!" was all that came from his white lips, and he sat there like stone, with the corpse in his arms, still murmuring "charley!" unconscious that blades were flashing and bullets whistling around him. the blood streamed from his wounds, the bayonets were gleaming round, and once a random shot ploughed into his thigh and shivered the bone. he only bent a little lower and his voice was fainter; but still he murmured "charley! oh god! charley," and never unfolded his arms from its embrace. and there, when the battle was over, the southrons found him, dead--with his dead brother in his arms. chapter xxii. at the door-way of the building on the hill, where the aged invalid was yielding her last breath amid the roar of battle, a wounded officer sat among the dying and the dead, while the conflict swept a little away from that quarter of the field. the blood was streaming from the shattered bosom, and feebly he strove to staunch it with his silken scarf. he had dragged himself through gore and dust until he reached that spot, and now, rising again with a convulsive effort, he leaned his red hands against the wall, and entered over the fragments of the door, which had been shivered by a shell. with tottering steps he passed along the hall and up the little stairway, as one who had been familiar with the place. before the door of the aged lady's chamber he paused a moment and listened; all was still there, although the terrible tumult of the battle was sounding all around. he entered; he advanced to the bed-side; the dying woman was murmuring a prayer. a random shot had torn the shrivelled flesh upon her bosom and the white counterpane was stained with blood. she did not see him--her thoughts were away from earth, she was already seeking communion with the spirits of the blest. the soldier knelt by that strange death-bed and leaned his pale brow upon the pillow. "mother!" how strangely the word sounded amid the shouts of combatants and the din of war. it was like a good angel's voice drowning the discords of hell. "mother!" she heard not the cannon's roar, but that one word, scarce louder than the murmur of a dreaming infant, reached her ear. the palsied head was turned upon the pillow and the light of life returned to her glazing eyes. "who speaks?" she gasped, while her thin hands were tremulously clasped together with emotion. "'tis i, mother. philip, your son." "philip, my son!" and the nerveless form, that had scarce moved for years, was raised upon the bed by the last yearning effort of a mother's love. "is it you, philip, is it you, indeed? i can scarce see your form, but surely i have heard the voice of my boy;--my long absent boy. oh! philip! why have i not heard it oftener to comfort my old age?" "i am dying, mother. i have been a bad son and a guilty man. but i am dying, mother. oh! i am punished for my sin! the avenging bullet struck me down at the gate of the home i had deserted--the home i have made desolate to you. mother, i have crawled here to die." "to die! o god! your hand is cold--or is it but the chill of death upon my own? oh! i had thought to have said farewell to earth forever, but yet let me linger but a little while, o lord! if but to bless my son." she sank exhausted upon the pillow, but yet clasped the gory fingers of the dying man. "philip, are you there? let me hear your voice. i hear strange murmurs afar off; but not the voice of my son. are you there, philip, are you there?" philip searle was crouching lower and lower by the bed-side, and his forehead, upon which the dews of death were starting, lay languidly beside the thin, white locks that rested on the pillow. "look, mother!" he said, raising his head and glaring into the corner of the room. "do you see that form in white?--there--she with the pale cheeks and golden hair! i saw her once before to-day, when she lay stretched upon the bed, with a lily in her white fingers. and once again i saw her in that last desperate charge, when the bullet struck my side. and now she is there again, pale, motionless, but smiling. does she smile in mockery or forgiveness? i could rather bear a frown than that terrible--that frozen smile. o god! she is coming to me, mother, she is coming to me--she will lay her cold hand upon me. no--it is not she! it is moll--look, mother, it is moll, all blackened with smoke and seared with living fire. o god! how terrible! but, mother, i did not do that. when i saw the flames afar off, i shuddered, for i knew how it must be. but i did not do it, moll, by my lost soul, i did not!" he started to his feet with a convulsive effort. the hot blood spurted from his wound with the exertion and spattered upon the face and breast of his mother--but she felt it not, for she was dead. the last glimmering ray of reason seemed to drive away the phantoms. he turned toward those sharp and withered features, he saw the fallen jaw and lustreless glazed eye. a shudder shook his frame at every point, and with a groan of pain and terror, he fell forward upon the corpse--a corpse himself. chapter xxiii. the federal troops, with successive charges, had now pushed the enemy from their first position, and the torn battalions were still being hurled against the batteries that swept their ranks. the excellent generalship of the confederate leaders availed itself of the valor and impetuosity of their assailants to lure them, by consecutive advance and backward movement, into the deadly range of their well planted guns. it was then that, far to the right, a heavy column could be seen moving rapidly in the rear of the contending hosts. was it a part of hunter's division that had turned the enemy's rear? such was the thought at first, and with the delusion triumphant cheers rang from the parched throats of the weary federals. they were soon to be undeceived. the stars and bars flaunted amid those advancing ranks, and the constant yells of the confederates proclaimed the truth. johnston was pouring his fresh troops upon the battle-field. the field was lost, but still was struggled for in the face of hope. it was now late in the afternoon, and the soldiers, exhausted with their desperate exertions, fought on, doggedly, but without that fiery spirit which earlier in the day had urged them to the cannon's mouth. there was a lull in the storm of carnage, the brief pause that precedes the last terrific fury of the tempest. the confederates were concentrating their energies for a decisive effort. it came. from the woods that skirted the left centre of their position, a squadron of horsemen came thundering down upon our columns. right down upon carlisle's battery they rode, slashing the cannoneers and capturing the guns. then followed their rushing ranks of infantry, and full upon our flank swooped down another troop of cavalry, dashing into the road where the baggage-train had been incautiously advanced. our tired and broken regiments were scattered to the right and left. in vain a few devoted officers spurred among them, and called on them to rally; they broke from the ranks in every quarter of the field, and rushed madly up the hillsides and into the shelter of the trees. the magnificent army that had hailed the rising sun with hopes of victory was soon pouring along the road in inextricable confusion and disorderly retreat. foot soldier and horseman, field-piece and wagon, caisson and ambulance, teamster and cannoneer, all were mingled together and rushing backward from the field they had half won, with their backs to the pursuing foe. that rout has been traced, to our shame, in history; the pen of the novelist shuns the disgraceful theme. harold, although faint with loss of blood, which oozed from a flesh-wound in his shoulder, was among the gallant few who strove to stem the ebbing current; struck at last by a spent ball in the temple, he fell senseless to the ground. he would have been trampled upon and crushed by the retreating column, had not a friendly hand dragged him from the road to a little mound over which spread the branches of an oak. here he was found an hour afterward by a body of confederate troops and lifted into an ambulance with others wounded and bleeding like himself. while the vehicle, with its melancholy freight, was being slowly trailed over the scene of the late battle, harold partially recovered his benumbed senses. he lay there as in a dream, striving to recall himself to consciousness of his position. he felt the dull throbbing pain upon his brow and the stinging sensation in his shoulder, and knew that he was wounded, but whether dangerously or not he could not judge. he could feel the trickling of blood from the bosom of a wounded comrade at his side, and could hear the groans of another whose thigh was shattered by the fragment of a shell; but the situation brought no feeling of repugnance, for he was yet half stunned and lay as in a lethargy, wishing only to drain one draught of water and then to sleep. the monotonous rumbling of the ambulance wheels sounded distinctly upon his ear, and he could listen, with a kind of objectless curiosity, to the casual conversation of the driver, as he exchanged words here and there with others, who were returning upon the same dismal errand from the scene of carnage. the shadows of night spread around him, covering the field of battle like a pall flung in charity by nature over the corpses of the slain. then his bewildered fancies darkened with the surrounding gloom, and he thought that he was coffined and in a hearse, being dragged to the graveyard to be buried. he put forth his hand to push the coffin lid, but it fell again with weakness, and when his fingers came in contact with the splintered bone that protruded from his neighbor's thigh, and he felt the warm gushing of the blood that welled with each throb of the hastily bound artery, he puzzled his dreamy thoughts to know what it might mean. at last all became a blank upon his brain, and he relapsed once more into unconsciousness. and so, from dreamy wakefulness to total oblivion he passed to and fro, without an interval to part the real from the unreal. he was conscious of being lifted into the arms of men, and being borne along carefully by strong arms. whither? it seemed to his dull senses that they were bearing him into a sepulchre, but he was not terrified, but careless and resigned; or if he thought of it at all, it was to rejoice that when laid there, he should be undisturbed. presently a vague fancy passed athwart his mind, that perhaps the crawling worms would annoy him, and he felt uneasy, but yet not afraid. afterward, there was a sensation of quiet and relief, and his brain, for a space, was in repose. then a bright form bent over him, and he thought it was an angel. he could feel a soft hand brushing the dampness from his brow, and fingers, whose light touch soothed him, parting his clotted hair. the features grew more distinct, and it pleased him to look upon them, although he strove in vain to fix them in his memory, until a tear-drop fell upon his cheek, and recalled his wandering senses; then he knew that oriana was bending over him and weeping. he was in the cottage where beverly had last parted from his sister; not in the same room, for they feared to place him there, where miranda was lying in a shroud, with a coffin by her bed-side, lest the sad spectacle should disturb him when he woke. but he lay upon a comfortable bed in another room, and beverly and oriana stood beside, while the surgeon dressed his wounds. chapter xxiv. no need to say that harold was well cared for by his two friendly foes. beverly had given his personal parole for his safe keeping, and he was therefore free from all surveillance or annoyance on that score. his wounds were not serious, although the contusion on the temple, which, however, had left the skull uninjured, occasioned some uneasiness at first. but the third day he was able to leave his bed, and with his arm in a sling, sat comfortably in an easy-chair, and conversed freely with his two excellent nurses. "did beverly tell you of arthur's imprisonment?" he asked of oriana, breaking a pause in the general conversation. "yes," she answered, looking down, with a scarcely perceptible blush upon her cheek. "poor arthur! yours is a cruel government, harold, that would make traitors of such men. his noble heart would not harbor a dangerous thought, much less a traitorous design." "i think with you," said harold. "there is some strange mistake, which we must fathom. i received his letter only the day preceding the battle. had there been no immediate prospect of an engagement, i would have asked a furlough, and have answered it in person. i have small reason to regret my own imprisonment," he added, "my jailers are so kind; yet i do regret it for his sake." "you know that we are powerless to help him," said beverly, "or even to shorten your captivity, since your government will not exchange with us. however, you must write, both to arthur and to mr. lincoln, and i will use my best interest with the general to have your letters sent on with a flag." "i know that you will do all in your power, and i trust that my representations may avail with the government, for i judge from arthur's letter that he is not well, although he makes no complaint. he is but delicate at the best, and what with the effects of his late injuries, i fear that the restraint of a prison may go ill with him." "how unnatural is this strife that makes us sorrow for our foes no less than for our friends?" said oriana. "i seem to be living in a strange clime, and in an age that has passed away. and how long can friendship endure this fiery ordeal? how many scenes of carnage like this last terrible one can afflict the land, without wiping away all trace of brotherhood, and leaving in the void the seed of deadly hate?" "if this repulse," said beverly, "which your arms have suffered so early in the contest, will awaken the north to a sense of the utter futility of their design of subjugation, the blood that flowed at manassas will not have been shed in vain." "no, not in vain," replied harold, "but its fruits will be other than you anticipate. the north will be awakened, but only to gird up its loins and put forth its giant strength. the shame of that one defeat will be worth to us hereafter a hundred victories. the north has been smitten in its sleep; it will arouse from its lethargy like a lion awakening under the smart of the hunter's spear. beverly, base no vain hopes upon the triumph of the hour; it seals your doom, for it serves but to throw into the scale against you the aroused energies that till now have been withheld." "you count upon your resources, harold, like a purse-proud millionaire, who boasts his bursting coffers. we depend rather upon our determined hearts and resolute right hands. upon our power to endure, greater than yours to inflict, reverse. upon our united people, and the spirit that animates them, which can never be subdued. the naked britons could defend their native soil against caesar's legions, the veterans of a hundred fights. shall we do less, who have already tasted the fruits of liberty so dearly earned? harold, your people have assumed an impossible task, and you may as well go cast your treasures into the sea as squander them in arms to smite your kith and kin. we are americans, like yourselves; and when you confess that _you_ can be conquered by invading armies, then dream of conquering us." "and we will startle you from your dream with the crack of our southern rifles," added oriana, somewhat maliciously, while harold smiled at her enthusiasm. "there is a great deal of romance in both your natures," he replied. "but it is not so good as powder for a fighting medium. the spirit you boast of will not support you long without the aid of good round dollars." "thank heaven we have less faith in their efficacy than you northern gold-worshippers," observed oriana, with playful sarcasm. "while our soldiers have good round corn-cakes, they will ask for no richer metals than lead and steel. have you never heard of the regiment of mississippians, who, having received their pay in government certificates, to a man tore up the documents as they took up the line of march, saying 'we do not fight for money?'" harold smiled, thinking perhaps that nothing better could have been done with the currency in question. "i think," said beverly, "you are far out of the way in your estimate of our resources. the south is strictly an agricultural country, and as such, best able to support itself under the exhaustion consequent upon a lengthened warfare, especially as it will remain in the attitude of resistance to invasion. from the bosom of its prolific soil it can draw its natural nourishment and retain its vigor throughout any period of isolation, while you are draining your resources for the means of providing an active aggressive warfare. the rallying of our white population to the battle field will not interrupt the course of agricultural pursuit, while every enlistment in the north will take one man away from the tillage of the land or from some industrial avocation." "not so," replied harold. "our armies for the most part will be recruited from the surplus population, and abundant hands will remain behind for the purposes of industry." "at first, perhaps. but not after a few more such fields as were fought on sunday last. to carry out even a show of your project of subjugation, you must keep a million of men in the field from year to year. your manufacturing interests will be paralyzed, your best customers shut out. you will be spending enormously and producing little beyond the necessities of consumption. we, on the contrary, will be producing as usual, and spending little more than before." "can your armies be fed, clothed, and equipped without expense?" "no. but all our means will be applied to military uses, and our operations will be necessarily much less expensive than yours. in other matters, we will forget our habits of extravagance. we will become, by the law of necessity, economists in place of spendthrifts. we will gather in rich harvests, but will stint ourselves to the bare necessities of life, that our troops may be fed and clothed. the money that our wealthy planters have been in the habit of spending yearly in northern cities and watering places, will be circulated at home. some fifty millions of southern dollars, heretofore annually wasted in fashionable dissipation, will thus be kept in our own pockets and out of yours. the spendthrift sons of our planters, and their yet more extravagant daughters, will be found studying economy in the rude school of the soldier, and plying the needle to supply the soldiers' wants, in place of drawing upon the paternal estates for frivolous enjoyments. our spending population will be on the battle-field, and the laborer will remain in the cotton and corn-field. there will be suffering and privation, it is true, but rest assured, harold, we will bear it all without a murmur, as our fathers did in the days of ' . and we will trust to the good old soil we are defending to give us our daily bread." "or if it should not," said oriana, "we can at least claim from it, each one, a grave, over which the foot of the invader may trample, but not over our living bodies." "i have no power to convince you of your error," answered harold. "let us speak of it no more, since it is destined that the sword must decide between us. beverly, you promised that i should go visit my wounded comrades, who have not yet been removed. shall we go now? i think it would do me good to breathe the air." they prepared for the charitable errand, and oriana went with them, with a little basket of delicacies for the suffering prisoners. chapter xxv. it was a fair morning in august, the twentieth day after the eventful st of july. beverly was busy with his military duties, and harold, who had already fully recovered from his wounds, was enjoying, in company with oriana, a pleasant canter over the neighboring country. they came to where the rolling meadow subsided into a level plain of considerable extent on either side of the road. at its verge a thick forest formed a dark background, beyond which the peering summits of green hills showed that the landscape was rugged and uneven. oriana slackened her pace, and pointed out over the broad expanse of level country. "you see this plain that stretches to our right and left?" "of course i do," replied harold. "yes; but i want you to mark it well," she continued, with a significant glance; "and also that stretch of woodland yonder, beyond which, you see, the country rises again." "yes, a wild country, i should judge, like that to the left, where we fought your batteries a month ago." "it is, indeed, a wild country as you say. there are ravines there, and deep glens, fringed with almost impenetrable shrubbery, and deep down in these recesses flows many a winding water-course, lined and overarched with twisted foliage. are you skillful at threading a woodland labyrinth?" "yes; my surveying expeditions have schooled me pretty well. why do you ask? do you want me to guide you through the wilderness, in search of a hermit's cave." "perhaps; women have all manner of caprices, you know. but i want you to pay attention to those landmarks. over yonder, there are some nooks that would do well to hide a runaway. i have explored some of them myself, for i passed some months here formerly, before the war. poor miranda's family resided once in the little cottage where we are stopping now. that is why i came from richmond to spend a few days and be with beverly. i little thought that my coming would bring me to miranda's death-bed. look there, now: you have a better view of where the forest ascends into the hilly ground." "why are you so topographical to-day? one would think you were tempting me to run away," said harold, smiling, as he followed her pointing finger with his eyes. "no; i know you would not do that, because beverly, you know, has pledged himself for your safe-keeping." "very true; and i am therefore a closer prisoner than if i were loaded down with chains. when do you return to richmond?" "i shall return on the day after to-morrow. beverly has been charged with an important service, and will be absent for several weeks. but he can procure your parole, if you wish, and you can come to the old manor-house again." "i think i shall not accept parole," replied harold, thoughtfully. "i must escape, if possible, for arthur's sake. beverly, of course, will release himself from all obligations about me, before he goes?" "yes, to-morrow; but you will be strictly guarded, unless you give parole. see here, i have a little present for you; it is not very pretty, but it is useful." she handed him a small pocket-compass, set in a brass case. "you can have this too," she added, drawing a small but strong and sharp poignard from her bosom. "but you must promise me never to use it except to save your life?" "i will promise that cheerfully," said harold, as he received the precious gifts. "to-morrow we will ride out again. we will have the same horses that bear us so bravely now. do you note how strong and well-bred is the noble animal you ride?" "yes," said harold, patting the glorious arch of his steed's neck. "he's a fine fellow, and fleet, i warrant." "fleet as the winds. there are few in this neighborhood that can match him. let us go home now. you need not tell beverly that i have given you presents. and be ready to ride to-morrow at four o'clock precisely." he understood her thoroughly, and they cantered homeward, conversing upon indifferent subjects and reverting no further to their previous somewhat enigmatical theme. on the following afternoon, at four o'clock precisely, the horses were at the door, and five minutes afterward a mounted officer, followed by two troopers, galloped up the lane and drew rein at the gateway. harold was arranging the girths of oriana's saddle, and she herself was standing in her riding-habit beside the porch. the officer, dismounting, approached her and raised his cap in respectful salute. he was young and well-looking, evidently one accustomed to polite society. "good afternoon, captain haralson," said oriana, with her most gracious smile. "i am very glad to see you, although, as you bring your military escort, i presume you come to see beverly upon business, and not for the friendly visit you promised me. but beverly is not here." "i left him at the camp on duty, miss weems," replied the captain. "it is my misfortune that my own duties have been too strict of late to permit me the pleasure of my contemplated visit." "i must bide my time, captain. let me introduce my friend. captain hare, our prisoner, mr. haralson; but i know you will help me to make him forget it, when i tell you that he was my brother's schoolmate and is our old and valued friend." the young officer took harold frankly by the hand, but he looked grave and somewhat disconcerted as he answered: "captain hare, as a soldier, will forgive me that my duty compels me to play a most ungracious part upon our first acquaintance. i have orders to return with him to headquarters, where i trust his acceptance of parole will enable me to avail myself of your introduction to show him what courtesy our camp life admits, in atonement for the execution of my present unpleasant devoir." "i shall esteem your acquaintance the more highly," answered harold, "that you know so well to blend your soldiership with kindness. i am entirely at your disposition, sir, having only to apologize to miss weems for the deprivation of her contemplated ride." "oh, no, we must not lose our ride," said oriana. "it is perhaps the last we shall enjoy together, and such a lovely afternoon. i am sure that captain haralson is too gallant to interrupt our excursion." she turned to him with an arch smile, but he looked serious as he replied: "alas! miss weems, our gallantry receives some rude rebuffs in the harsh school of the soldier. it grieves me to mar your harmless recreation, but even that mortification i must endure when it comes in the strict line of my duty." "but your duty does not forbid you to take a canter with us this charming afternoon. now put away that military sternness, which does not become you at all, and help me to mount my pretty nelly, who is getting impatient to be off. and so am i. come, you will get into camp in due season, for we will go only as far as the run, and canter all the way." she took his arm, and he assisted her to the saddle, won into acquiescence by her graceful obstinacy, and, in fact, seeing but little harm the tufted hills rolled into one another like the waves of a swelling sea, their crests tipped with the slant rays of the descending sun, and their graceful slopes alternating among purple shadows and gleams of floating light. "it is indeed so beautiful," answered harold, "that i should deem you might be content to live there as of old, without inviting the terrible companionship of mars." "we do not invite it," said the young captain. "leave us in peaceful possession of our own, and no war cries shall echo among those hills. if mars has driven his chariot into our homes, he comes at your bidding, an unwelcome intruder, to be scourged back again." "at our bidding! no. the first gun that was fired at sumter summoned him, and if he should leave his foot-prints deep in your soil, you have well earned the penalty." "it will cost you, to inflict it, many such another day's work as that at manassas a month ago." the taunt was spoken hastily, and the young southron colored as if ashamed of his discourtesy, and added: "forgive me my ungracious speech. it was my first field, sir, and i am wont to speak of it too boastingly. i shall become more modest, i hope, when i shall have a better right to be a boaster." "oh," replied harold, "i admit the shame of our discomfiture, and take it as a good lesson to our negligence and want of purpose. but all that has passed away. one good whipping has awakened us to an understanding of the work we have in hand. henceforth we will apply ourselves to the task in earnest." "you think, then, that your government will prosecute the war more vigorously than before?" "undoubtedly. you have heard but the prelude of a gale that shall sweep every vestige of treason from the land." "let it blow on," said the southron, proudly. "there will be counter-blasts to meet it. you cannot raise a tempest that will make us bow our heads." "do you not think," interrupted oriana, "that a large proportion of your northern population are ready at least to listen to terms of separation?" "no," replied harold, firmly. "or if there be any who entertain such thoughts, we will make them outcasts among us, and the finger of scorn will be pointed at them as recreant to their holiest duty." "that is hardly fair," said oriana. "why should you scorn or maltreat those who honestly believe that the doctrine in support of which so many are ready to stake their lives and their fortunes, may be worthy of consideration? do you believe us all mad and wicked people in the south--people without hearts, and without brains, incapable of forming an opinion that is worth an argument? if there are some among you who think we are acting for the best, and heaven knows we are acting with sincerity, you should give them at least a hearing, for the sake of liberty of conscience. remember, there are millions of us united in sentiment in the south, and millions, perhaps, abroad who think with us. how can you decide by your mere impulses where the right lies?" "we decide by the promptings of our loyal hearts, and by our reason, which tells us that secession is treason, and that treason must be crushed." "heart and brain have been mistaken ere now," returned oriana. "but if you are a type of your countrymen, i see that hard blows alone will teach you that god has given us the right to think for ourselves." "do you believe, then," asked haralson, "that there can be no peace between us until one side or the other shall be exhausted and subdued?" "not so," replied harold. "i think that when we have retrieved the disgrace of bull run and given you in addition, some wholesome chastisement, your better judgment will return to you, and you will accept forgiveness at our hands and return to your allegiance." "you are mistaken," said the southron. "even were we ready to accept your terms, you would not be ready to grant them. should the north succeed in striking some heavy blow at the south, i will tell you what will happen; your abolitionists will seize the occasion of the peoples' exultation to push their doctrine to a consummation. whenever you shall hear the tocsin of victory sounding in the north, then listen for the echoing cry of emancipation--for you will hear it. you will see it in every column of your daily prints; you will hear your statesmen urging it in your legislative halls, and your cabinet ministers making it their theme. and, most dangerous of all, you will hear your generals and colonels, demagogues, at heart, and soldiers only of occasion, preaching it to their battalions, and making converts of their subordinates by the mere influences of their rank and calling. and when your military chieftains harangue their soldiers upon political themes, think not of our treason as you call it, but look well to the political freedom that is still your own. with five hundred thousand armed puppets, moving at the will of a clique of ambitious epauletted politicians and experimentalists, you may live to witness, whether we be subdued or not, a _coup d'etat_ for which there is a precedent not far back in the annals of republics." "have you already learned to contemplate the danger that you are incurring? do you at last fear the monster that you have nursed and strengthened in your midst? well, if your slaves should rise against you, surely you cannot blame us for the evil of your own creation." "it is the hope of your abolitionists, not our fear, that i am rehearsing. should your armies obtain a foothold on our soil, we know that you will put knives and guns into the hands of our slaves, and incite them to emulate the deeds of their race in san domingo. you will parcel out our lands and wealth to your victorious soldiery, not so much as a reward for their past services, but to seal the bond between them and the government that will seek to rule by their bayonets. you see, we know the peril and are prepared to meet it. should you conquer us, at the same time you would conquer the liberties of the northern citizen. you will be at the mercy of the successful general whose triumph may make him the idol of the armed millions that alone can accomplish our subjugation. in the south, butchery and rapine by hordes of desperate negroes--in the north anarchy and political intrigue, to be merged into dictatorship and the absolutism of military power. such would be the results of your triumph and our defeat." "those are the visions of a heated brain," said harold. "i must confess that your fighting is better than your logic. there is no danger to our country that the loyalty of its people cannot overcome--as it will your rebellion." chapter xxvi. they had now approached the edge of the plain which oriana had pointed out on the preceding day. the sun, which had been tinging the western sky with gorgeous hues, was peering from among masses of purple and golden clouds, within an hour's space of the horizon. captain haralson, interested and excited by his disputation, had been riding leisurely along by the side of his prisoner, taking but little note of the route or of the lapse of time. "cease your unprofitable argument," cried oriana, "and let us have a race over this beautiful plain. look! 'tis as smooth as a race-course, and i will lay you a wager, captain haralson, that my nelly will lead you to yonder clump, by a neck." she touched her horse lightly with the whip, and turned from the road into the meadows. "it is late, miss weems," said the southron, "and i must report at headquarters before sundown. besides, i am badly mounted, and it would be but a sorry victory to distance me. i pray you, let us return." "nonsense! nelly is not breathed. i must have one fair run over this field; and, gentlemen, i challenge you both to outstrip nelly if you can." with a merry shout, she struck the fleet mare smartly on the flank, and the spirited animal, more at the sound of her voice than aroused by the whip-lash, stretched forward her neck and sprang over the tufted level. harold waved his hand, as if in invitation, to his companion, and was soon urging his powerful horse in the same direction. haralson shouted to them to stop, but they only turned their heads and beckoned to him gaily, and plunging the spurs into the strong but heavy-hoofed charger that he rode, he followed them as best he could. he kept close in their rear very well at first, but he soon observed that he was losing distance, and that the two swift steeds in front, that had been held in check a little at the start, were now skimming the smooth meadow at a tremendous pace. "halt!" he cried, at the top of his lungs; but either they heard it not or heeded it not, for they still swept on, bending low forward in the saddle, almost side by side. a vague suspicion crossed his mind. "halt, there!" oriana glanced over her shoulder, and could see a sunray gleaming from something that he held in his right hand. he had drawn a pistol from his holster. she slackened her pace a little, and allowing harold to take the lead, rode on in the line between him and the pursuer. harold turned in his saddle. she could hear the tones of his voice rushing past her on the wind. "come no further with me, lest suspicion attach to yourself. the good horse will bear me beyond pursuit. remember, it is for arthur's sake i have consented you should make this sacrifice. god bless you! and farewell!" a pistol-shot resounded in the air. oriana knew it was fired but to intimidate--the distance was too great to give the leaden messenger a deadlier errand. yet she drew rein, and waited, breathless with excitement and swift motion, till haralson came up. he turned one reproachful glance upon her as he passed, and spurred on in pursuit. harold turned once again, to assure himself that she was unhurt, then waved his hand, and urging his swift steed to the utmost, sped on toward the forest which was now close at hand. the two troopers soon came galloping up to where oriana still sat motionless upon her saddle, watching the race with strained eyes and heaving bosom. "your prisoner has escaped," she said; "spur on in pursuit." she knew that it was of no avail, for harold had already disappeared among the mazes of the wood, and the sun was just dipping below the horizon. darkness would soon shroud the fugitive in its friendly mantle. she turned nelly's head homeward, and cantered silently away in the gathering twilight. chapter xxvii. when captain haralson and the two troopers reached the verge of the forest, they could trace for a short distance the hoof-prints of harold's horse, and followed them eagerly among the labyrinthine paths which the fugitive had made through the tangled shrubbery and among the briery thickets. but soon the gloom of night closed in upon them in the depth of the silent wood, and they were left without a sign by which to direct the pursuit. it was near midnight when they reached the further edge of the forest, and there, throwing fantastic gleams of red light among the shadows of the tall trees, they caught sight of what seemed to be the glimmer of a watchfire. soon after, the growl of a hound was heard, followed by a deep-mouthed bay, and approaching cautiously, they were hailed by the watchful sentinel. it was a confederate picket, posted on the outskirt of the forest, and haralson, making himself known, rode up to where the party, awakened by their approach, had roused themselves from their blankets, and were standing with ready rifles beside the blazing fagots. haralson made known his errand to the officer in command, and the sentries were questioned, but all declared that nothing had disturbed their watch; if the fugitive had passed their line, he had succeeded in eluding their vigilance. "i must send one of my men back to camp to report the escape," said haralson, "and will ask you to spare me a couple of your fellows to help me hunt the yankee down. confound him, i deserve to lose my epaulettes for my folly, but i'll follow him to the potomac, rather than return to headquarters without him." "who was it?" asked the officer; "was he of rank?" "a captain, captain hare, well named for his fleetness; but he was mounted superbly, and i suspect the whole thing was cut and dried." "hare?" cried a hoarse voice; and the speaker, a tall, lank man, who had been stretched by the fire, with the head of a large, gaunt bloodhound in his lap, rose suddenly and stepped forward. "harold hare, by g--d!" he exclaimed; "i know the fellow. captain, i'm with you on this hunt, and bully there, too, who is worth the pair of us. hey, bully?" the dog stretched himself lazily, and lifted his heavy lip with a grin above the formidable fangs that glistened in the gleam of the watchfire. "you may go," said his officer, "but i can't spare another. you three, with the dog, will be enough. rawbon's as good a man as you can get, captain. set a thief to catch a thief, and a yankee to outwit a yankee. you'd better start at once, unless you need rest or refreshment." "nothing," replied haralson. "let your man put something into his haversack. good night, lieutenant. come along, boys, and keep your eyes peeled, for these yankees are slippery eels, you know." seth rawbon had already bridled his horse that was grazing hard by, and the party, with the hound close at his master's side, rode forth upon their search. chapter xxviii. harold had perceived the watchfire an hour earlier than his pursuers, having obtained thus much the advantage of them by the fleetness of his steed. he moved well off to the right, riding slowly and cautiously, until another faint glimmer in that direction gave him to understand that he was about equi-distant between two pickets of the enemy. he dismounted at the edge of the forest, and securing his steed to the branch of a tree, crept forward a few paces beyond the shelter of the wood, and looked about earnestly in the darkness. nothing could be seen but the long, straggling line of the forest losing itself in the gloom, and the black outlines, of the hills before him; but his quick ear detected the sound of coming hoof and the ringing of steel scabbards. a patrol was approaching, and fearful that his horse, conscious of the neighborhood of his kind, might betray his presence with a sign of recognition, he hurried back, and standing beside the animal, caressed his glossy neck and won his attention with the low murmurs of his voice. the good steed remained silent, only pricking up his ears and peering through the branches as the patrol went clattering by. harold waited till the trampling of hoofs died away in the distance, and judging, from their riding on without a challenge or a pause, that there was no sentry within hail, he mounted and rode boldly out into the open country. the stars were mostly obscured by heavy clouds, but here and there was a patch of clear blue sky, and his eye, practised with many a surveying night-tramp, discovered at last a twinkling guide by which to shape his path in a northerly direction. it was a wild, rough country over which he passed. with slow and careful steps, his sagacious steed moved on, obedient to the rein, at one time topping the crest of a rugged hill, and then winding at a snail's pace down the steep declivity, or following the tortuous course of the streamlet through deep ravines, whose jagged and bush-clad sides frowned down upon them on either side, deepening the gloom of night. so all through the long hours of darkness, harold toiled on his lonely way, startled at times by the shriek of the night bird, and listening intently to catch the sign of danger. at last the dawn, welcome although it enhanced the chances of detection, blushed faintly through the clouded eastern sky, and harold, through the mists of morning, could see a fair and rolling landscape stretched before him. the sky was overcast, and presently the heavy drops began to fall. consulting the little friendly compass which oriana had given him, he pushed on briskly, turning always to the right or left, as the smoke, circling from some early housewife's kitchen, betrayed the dangerous neighborhood of a human habitation. crossing a rivulet, he dismounted, and filled a small leathern bottle that he carried with him, his good steed and himself meanwhile satisfying their thirst from the cool wave. his appetite, freshened by exercise, caused him to remember a package which oriana's forethought had provided for him on the preceding afternoon. he drew it from, his pocket, and while his steed clipped the tender herbage from the streamlet's bank, he made an excellent breakfast of the corn bread and bacon, and other substantial edibles, which his kind friend had bountifully supplied. man and horse thus refreshed, he remounted, and rode forward at a gallant pace, the strong animal he bestrode seeming as yet to show no signs of fatigue. the rain was now falling in torrents, a propitious circumstance, since it lessened the probabilities of his encountering the neighboring inhabitants, most of whom must have sought shelter from the pelting storm. he occasionally came up with a trudging negro, sometimes a group of three or four, who answered timidly whenever he accosted them, and glanced at him askance, but yet gave the information he requested. once, indeed, he could discern a troop of cavalry plashing along at same distance through the muddy road, but he screened himself in a cornfield, and was unobserved. his watch had been injured in the battle, and he had no means, except conjecture, of judging of the hour; but by the flagging pace of his horse, and his own fatigue, he knew that he must have been many hours in the saddle. surely the potomac must be at hand! yet there was no sign of it, and over interminable hill and dale, through corn-fields, and over patches of woodland and meadow, the weary steed was urged on, slipping and sliding in the saturated soil. what was that sound which caused his horse to prick up his ears and quicken his pace with the instinct of danger? he heard it himself distinctly. it was the baying of a bloodhound. "they are on my track!" muttered harold; "and unless the river is at hand, i am lost. forward, sir! forward, good fellow!" he shouted cheerily to his horse, and the noble animal, snorting and tossing his silken mane, answered with an effort, and broke into a gallop. down one hill into a little valley they pushed on, and up the ascent of another. they reached the crest, and then, thank heaven! there was the broad river, winding through the valley. dull and leaden hued as it looked, reflecting the clouded sky, he had never hailed it so joyfully when sparkling with sunbeams as he did at the close of that weary day. yet the danger was not past; up and down the stream he gazed, and far to the right he could distinguish a group of tents peering from among the foliage of a grove, and marking the site of a confederate battery. but just in front of him was a cheering sight; an armed schooner swung lazily at anchor in the channel, and the wet bunting that drooped listlessly over her stern, revealed the stars and stripes. the full tones of the bloodhound's voice aroused him to the necessity of action; he turned in the saddle and glanced over the route he had come. on the crest of the hill beyond that on which he stood, the forms of three horsemen were outlined against the greyish sky. they distinguished him at the same moment, for he could hear their shouts of exultation, borne to him on the humid air. it was yet a full mile to the river bank, and his horse was almost broken down with fatigue. dashing his armed heels against the throbbing flanks of the jaded animal, he rushed down the hill in a straight line for the water. the sun was already below the horizon, and darkness was coming on apace. as he pushed on, the shouts of his pursuers rang louder upon his ear at every rod; it was evident that they were fresh mounted, while his own steed was laboring, with a last effort, over the rugged ground, stumbling among stones, and groaning at intervals with the severity of exertion. he could hear the trampling behind him, he could catch the words of triumph that seemed to be shouted almost in his very ear. a bullet whizzed by him, and then another, and with each report there came a derisive cheer. but it was now quite dark, and that, with the rapid motion, rendered him comparatively fearless of being struck. he spurred on, straining his eyes to see what was before him, for it seemed that the ground in front became suddenly and curiously lost in the mist and gloom. just then, simultaneously with the report of a pistol, he felt his good steed quiver beneath him; a bullet had reached his flank, and the poor animal fell upon his knees and rolled over in the agony of death. it was well that he had fallen; harold, thrown forward a few feet, touched the earth upon the edge of the rocky bank that descended precipitously a hundred feet or more to the river--a few steps further, and horse and rider would have plunged over the verge of the bluff. harold, though bruised by his fall, was not considerably hurt; without hesitation, he commenced the hazardous descent, difficult by day, but perilous and uncertain in the darkness. clinging to each projecting rock and feeling cautiously for a foothold among the slippery ledges, he had accomplished half the distance and could already hear the light plashing of the wave upon the boulders below. he heard a voice above, shouting: "look out for the bluff there, we must be near it!" the warning came too late. there was a cry of terror--the blended voice of man and horse, startling the night and causing harold to crouch with instinctive horror close to the dripping rock. there was a rush of wind and the bounding by of a dark whirling body, which rolled over and over, tearing over the sharp angles of the cliff, and scattering the loose fragments of stone over him as he clung motionless to his support. then there was a dull thump below, and a little afterward a terrible moan, and then all was still. harold continued his descent and reached the base of the bluff in safety. through the darkness he could see a dark mass lying like a shadow among the pointed stones, with the waves of the river rippling about it. he approached it. there lay the steed gasping in the last agony, and the rider beneath him, crushed, mangled and dead. he stooped down by the side of the corpse; it was bent double beneath the quivering body of the dying horse, in such a manner as must have snapped the spine in twain. harold lifted the head, but let it fall again with a shudder, for his fingers had slipped into the crevice of the cleft skull and were all smeared with the oozing brain. yet, despite the obscurity and the disfigurement, despite the bursting eyeballs and the clenched jaws through which the blood was trickling, he recognized the features of seth rawbon. no time for contemplation or for revery. there was a scrambling overhead, with now and then a snarl and an angry growl. and further up, he heard the sound of voices, labored and suppressed, as of men who were speaking while toiling at some unwonted exercise. harold threw off his coat and boots, and waded out into the river. the dark hull of the schooner could be seen looming above the gloomy surface of the water, and he dashed toward it through the deepening wave. there was a splash behind him and soon he could hear the puffing and short breathing of a swimming dog. he was then up to his arm-pits in the water, and a few yards further would bring him off his footing. he determined to wait the onset there, while he could yet stand firm upon the shelving bottom. he had not long to wait. the bloodhound made directly for him; he could see his eyes snapping and glaring like red coals above the black water. harold braced himself as well as he could upon the yielding sand, and held his poignard, oriana's welcome gift, with a steady grasp. the dog came so close that his fetid breath played upon harold's cheek; then he aimed a swift blow at his neck, but the brute dodged it like a fish. harold lost his balance and fell forward into the water, but in falling, he launched out his left hand and caught the tough loose skin above the animal's shoulder. he held it with the grasp of a drowning man, and over and over they rolled in the water, like two sea monsters at their sport. with all his strength, harold drew the fierce brute toward him, circling his neck tightly with his left arm, and pressed the sharp blade against his throat. the hot blood gushed out over his hand, but he drove the weapon deeper, slitting the sinewy flesh to the right and left, till the dog ceased to struggle. then harold flung the huge carcass from him, and struck out, breathless as he was, for the schooner. it was time, for already his pursuers were upon the bank, aiming their pistol shots at the black spot which they could just distinguish cleaving through the water. but a few vigorous strokes carried him beyond their vision and they ceased firing. soon he heard the sound of muffled oars and a dark shape seemed to rise from the water in front of him. the watch on board the schooner, alarmed by the firing, had sent a boat's crew to reconnoitre. harold divined that it was so, and hailing the approaching boat, was taken in, and ten minutes afterward, stood, exhausted but safe, upon the schooner's deck. chapter xxix. with the earliest opportunity, harold proceeded to washington, and sought an interview with the president, in relation to arthur's case. mr. lincoln received him kindly, but could give no information respecting the arrest or alleged criminality of his friend. "there were so many and pressing affairs of state that he could find no room for individual cases in his memory." however, he referred him to the secretary of war, with a request that the latter would look into the matter. by dint of persistent inquiries at various sources, harold finally ascertained that the prisoner had a few days previously been released, upon the assurance of the surgeon at the fort, that his failing health required his immediate removal. inquiry had been made into the circumstances leading to his arrest; made too late, however, to benefit the victim of a state mistake, whose delicate health had already been too severely tried by the discomforts attendant upon his situation. however, enough had been ascertained to leave but little doubt as to his innocence; and arthur, with the ghastly signs of a rapid consumption upon his wan cheek, was dismissed from the portals of a prison, which had already prepared him for the tomb. harold hastened to vermont, whither he knew the invalid had been conveyed. it was toward the close of the first autumn day that he entered the little village, upon whose outskirts was situated the farm of his dying friend. the air was mild and balmy, but the voices of nature seemed to him more hushed than usual, as if in mournful unison with his own sad reveries. he had passed on foot from the village to the farm-house, and when he opened the little white wicket, and walked along the gravelled avenue that led to the flower-clad porch, the willows on either side seemed to droop lower than willows are used to droop, and the soft september air sighed through the swinging boughs, like the prelude of a dirge. arthur was reclining upon an easy-chair upon the little porch, and beside him sat a venerable lady, reading from the worn silver-clasped bible, which rested on her lap. the lady rose when he approached; and arthur, whose gaze had been wandering among the autumn clouds, that wreathed the points of the far-off mountains, turned his head languidly, when the footsteps broke his dream. he did not rise. alas! he was too weak to do so without the support of his aged mother's arm, which had so often cradled him in infancy and had now become the staff of his broken manhood. but a beautiful and happy smile illumined his pale lips, and spread all over the thin and wasted features, like sunlight gleaming on the grey surface of a church-yard stone. he lifted his attenuated hand, and when harold clasped it, the fingers were so cold and deathlike that their pressure seemed to close about his heart, compressing it, and chilling the life current in his veins. "i knew that you would come, harold. although i read that you were missing at the close of that dreadful battle, something told me that we should meet again. whether it was a sick man's fancy, or the foresight of a parting soul, it is realized, for you are here. and you come not too soon, harold," he added, with a pressure of the feeble hand, "for i am going fast--fast from the discords of earth--fast to the calm and harmony beyond." "oh, arthur, how changed you are!" said harold, who could not keep from fastening his gaze on the white, sunken cheek and hollow eyes of his dying comrade. "but you will get better now, will you not--now that you are home again, and we can nurse you?" arthur shook his head with a mournful smile, and the fit of painful coughing which overtook him answered his friend's vain hope. "no, harold, no. all of earth is past to me, even hope. and i am ready, cheerful even, to go, except for the sake of some loved ones that will sorrow for me." he took his mother's hand as he spoke, and looked at her with touching tenderness, while the poor dame brushed away her tears. "i have but a brief while to stay behind," she said, "and my sorrow will be less, to know that you have ever been a good son to me. oh, mr. hare, he might have lived to comfort me, and close my old eyes in death, if they had not been so cruel with him, and locked him within prison walls. he, who never dreamed of wrong, and never injured willingly a worm in his path." "nay, mother, they were not unkind to me in the fort, and did what they could to make me comfortable. but, harold, it is wrong. i have thought of it in the long, weary nights in prison, and i have thought of it when i knew that death was beckoning me to come and rest from the thoughts of earth. it is wrong to tamper with the sacred law that shields the citizen. i believe that many a man within those fortress walls is as innocent in the eyes of god as those who sent him there. yet i accuse none of willful wrong, but only of unconscious error. if the sacrifice of my poor life could shed one ray upon the darkness, i would rejoice to be the victim that i am, of a violated right. but all, statesmen, and chieftains, and humble citizens, are being swept along upon the whirlwinds of passion; all hearts are ablaze with the fiery magnificence of war, and none will take warning till the land shall be desolate, and thousands, stricken in their prime, shall be sleeping--where i shall soon be--beneath the cold sod. i am weary, mother, and chill. let us go in." they bore him in and helped him to his bed, where he lay pale and silent, seeming much worse from the fatigue of conversation and the excitement of his meeting with his old college friend. mrs. wayne left him in charge of harold, while she went below to prepare what little nourishment he could take, and to provide refreshment for her guest. arthur lay, for a space, with his eyes closed, and apparently in sleep. but he looked up, at last, and stretched out his hand to harold, who pressed the thin fingers, whiter than the coverlet on which they rested. "is mother there?" "no, arthur," replied harold. "shall i call her?" "no. i thought to have spoken to you, to-morrow, of something that has been often my theme of thought; but i know not what strange feeling has crept upon me; and perhaps, harold--for we know not what the morrow may bring--perhaps i had better speak now." "it hurts you, arthur; you are too weak. indeed, you must sleep now, and to-morrow we shall talk." "no; now, harold. it will not hurt me, or if it does, it matters little now. harold, i would fain that no shadow of unkindness should linger between us twain when i am gone." "why should there, arthur? you have been my true friend always, and as such shall i remember you." "yet have i wronged you; yet have i caused you much grief and bitterness, and only your own generous nature preserved us from estrangement. harold, have you heard from _her_?" "i have seen her, arthur. during my captivity, she was my jailer; in my sickness, for i was slightly wounded, she was my nurse. i will tell you all about it to-morrow." "yes, to-morrow," replied arthur, breathing heavily. "to-morrow! the word sounds meaningless to me, like something whose significance has left me. is she well, harold?" "yes." "and happy?" "i think so, arthur. as happy as any of us can be, amid severed ties and dread uncertainties." "i am glad that she is well. harold, you will tell her, for i am sure you will meet again, you will tell her it was my dying wish that you two should be united. will you promise, harold?" "i will tell her all that you wish, arthur." "i seem to feel that i shall be happy in my grave, to know that, she will be your wife; to know that my guilty love--for i loved her, harold, and it _was_ guilt to love--to know that it left no poison behind, that its shadow has passed away from the path that you must tread." "speak not of guilt, my friend. there could live no crime between two such noble hearts. and had i thought you would have accepted the sacrifice, i could almost have been happy to have given her to you, so much was her happiness the aim of my own love." "yes, for you have a glorious heart, harold; and i thank heaven that she cannot fail to love you. and you do not think, do you, harold, that it would be wrong for you two to speak of me when i am gone? i cannot bear to think that you should deem it necessary to drive me from your memories, as one who had stepped in between your hearts. i am sure she will love you none the less for her remembrance of me, and therefore sometimes you will talk together of me, will you not?" "yes, we will often talk of you, for what dearer theme to both could we choose; what purer recollections could our memories cherish than of the friend we both loved so much, and who so well deserved our love?" "and i am forgiven, harold?" "were there aught to be forgiven, i would forgive; but i have never harbored in my most secret heart one trace of anger or resentment toward you. do not talk more, dear arthur. to-morrow, perhaps, you will be stronger, and then we will speak again. here comes your mother, and she will scold me for letting you fatigue yourself so much." "raise me a little on the pillow, please. i seem to breathe more heavily to-night. thank you, i will sleep now. good night, mother; i will eat the gruel when i wake. i had rather sleep now. good night, harold!" he fell into a slumber almost immediately, and they would not disturb him, although his mother had prepared the food he had been used to take. "i think he is better to-night. he seems to sleep more tranquilly," said mrs. wayne. "if you will step below, i have got a dish of tea for you, and some little supper." harold went down and refreshed himself at the widow's neat and hospitable board, and then walked out into the evening, to dissipate, if possible, the cloud that was lowering about his heart. he paced up and down the avenue of willows, and though the fresh night air soothed the fever of his brain, he could not chase away the gloom that weighed upon his spirit. his mind wandered among mournful memories--the field of battle, strewn with the dying and the dead; the hospital where brave suffering men were groaning under the surgeon's knife; the sick chamber, where his friend was dying. "and i, too," he thought, "have become the craftsman of death, training my arm and intellect to be cunning in the butchery of my fellows! wearing the instrument of torture at my side, and using the faculties god gave me to mutilate his image. yet, from the pulpit and the statesman's chair, and far back through ages from the pages of history, precept and example have sought to record its justification, under the giant plea of necessity. but is it justified? has man, in his enlightenment, sufficiently studied to throw aside the hereditary errors that come from the past, clothed in barbarous splendors to mislead thought and dazzle conscience? oh, for one glimpse of the eternal truth! to teach us how far is delegated to mortal man the right to take away the life he cannot give. when shall the sword be held accursed? when shall man cease to meddle with the most awful prerogative of his god? when shall our right hands be cleansed forever from the stain of blood, and homicide be no longer a purpose and a glory upon earth? i shudder when i look up at the beautiful serenity of this autumn sky, and remember that my deed has loosened an immortal soul from its clay, and hurled it, unprepared, into its maker's presence. my conscience would rebuke my hand, should it willfully shatter the sculptor's marble wrought into human shape, or deface the artist's ideal pictured upon canvas, or destroy aught that is beautiful and costly of man's ingenuity and labor. and yet these i might replace with emptying a purse into the craftsman's hand. but will my gold recall the vital spark into those cold forms that, stricken by my steel or bullet, are rotting in their graves? the masterpiece of god i have destroyed. his image have i defaced; the wonderful mechanism that he alone can mold, and molded for his own holy purpose, have i shattered and dismembered; the soul, an essence of his own eternity, have i chased from its alotted earthly home, and i rely for my justification upon--what?--the fact that my victim differed from me in political belief. must the hand of man be raised against the workmanship of god because an earthly bond has been sundered? our statesmen teach us so, the ministers of our faith pronounce it just; but, oh god! should it be wrong! when the blood is hot, when the heart throbs with exaltation, when martial music swells, and the war-steed prances, and the bayonets gleam in the bright sunlight--then i think not of the doubt, nor of the long train of horrors, the tears, the bereavements, the agonies, of which this martial magnificence is but the vanguard. but now, in the still calmness of the night, when all around me and above me breathes of the loveliness and holiness of peace, i fear. i question nature, hushed as she is and smiling in repose, and her calm beauty tells me that peace is sacred; that her master sanctions no discords among his children. i question my own conscience, and it tells me that the sword wins not the everlasting triumph--that the voice of war finds no echo within the gates of heaven." ill-comforted by his reflections, he returned to the quiet dwelling, and entered the chamber of his friend. chapter xxx. the sufferer was still sleeping, and mrs. wayne was watching by the bedside. harold seated himself beside her, and gazed mournfully upon the pale, still features that already, but for the expression of pain that lingered there, seemed to have passed from the quiet of sleep to the deeper calm of death. "each moment that i look," said mrs. wayne, wiping her tears away, "i seem to see the grey shadows of the grave stealing over his brow. the doctor was here a few moments before you came. the minister, too, sat with him all the morning. i know from their kind warning that i shall soon be childless. he has but a few hours to be with me. oh, my son! my son!" she bent her head upon the pillow, and wept silently in the bitterness of her heart. harold forebore to check that holy grief; but when the old lady, with christian resignation, had recovered her composure, he pressed her to seek that repose which her aged frame so much needed. "i will sit by arthur while you rest awhile; you have already overtasked your strength with vigil. i will awake you should there be a change." she consented to lie upon the sofa, and soon wept herself to sleep, for she was really quite broken down with watching. everything was hushed around, save the monotones of the insects in the fields, and the breathing of those that slept. if there is an hour when the soul is lifted above earth and communes with holy things, it is in the stillness of the country night, when the solitary watcher sits beside the pillow of a loved one, waiting the coming of the dark angel, whose footsteps are at the threshold. harold sat gazing silently at the face of the invalid; sometimes a feeble smile would struggle with the lines of suffering upon the pinched and haggard lineaments, and once from the white lips came the murmur of a name, so low that only the solemn stillness made the sound palpable--the name of oriana. toward midnight, arthur's breathing became more difficult and painful, and his features changed so rapidly that harold became fearful that the end was come. with a sigh, he stepped softly to the sofa, and wakened mrs. wayne, taking her gently by the hand which trembled in his grasp. she knew that she was awakened to a terrible sorrow--that she was about to bid farewell to the joy of her old age. arthur opened his eyes, but the weeping mother turned from them; she could not bear to meet them, for already the glassy film was veiling the azure depths whose light had been so often turned to her in tenderness. "give me some air, mother. it is so close--i cannot breathe." they raised him upon the pillow, and his mother supported the languid head upon her bosom. "arthur, my son! are you suffering, my poor boy?" "yes. it will pass away. do not grieve. kiss me, dear mother." he was gasping for breath, and his hand was tightly clasped about his mother's withered palm. she wiped the dampness from his brow, mingling her tears with the cold dews of death. "is harold there?" "yes, arthur." "you will not forget? and you will love and guard her well?" "yes, arthur." "put away the sword, harold; it is accursed of god. is not that the moonlight that streams upon the bed?" "yes. does it disturb you, arthur?" "no. let it come in. let it all come in; it seems a flood of glory." his voice grew faint, till they could scarce hear its murmur. his breathing was less painful, and the old smile began to wreathe about his lips, smoothing the lines of pain. "kiss me, dear mother! you need not hold me. i am well enough--i am happy, mother. i can sleep now." he slept no earthly slumber. as the summer air that wafts a rose-leaf from its stem, gently his last sigh stole upon the stillness of the night. harold lifted the lifeless form from the mother's arms, and when it drooped upon the pillow, he turned away, that the parent might close the lids of the dead son. the end. the ten-foot chain or can love survive the shackles? [illustration: "when i look into your face the sun rises and the boat of my life rocks on the dancing waves of passion."] the ten-foot chain or can love survive the shackles? a unique symposium by achmed abdullah max brand e. k. means p. p. sheehan reynolds publishing company, inc. new york _copyright _ reynolds pub. co. inc. _copyright _ the frank a. munsey co. contents page introduction first tale an indian jataka _by achmed abdullah_ second tale out of the dark _by max brand_ third tale plumb nauseated _by e. k. means_ fourth tale princess or percheron _by perley p. sheehan_ _introduction_ some time ago i was dining with four distinguished writers. needless to say where two or three authors are gathered together with a sympathetic editor in their midst, the flood-gates of fancy are opened wide. in an inspired moment, dr. means tossed this "tremendous trifle" into the center of the table: "what mental and emotional reaction would a man and a woman undergo, linked together by a ten-foot chain, for three days and nights?" the query precipitated an uproar. captain abdullah stepped into the arena at once, and with that élan of the heart, which is bred only in the orient, declared if the man and the woman really loved one another, no chain could be riveted too close or too enduring to render onerous its existence. for through this world and the next, love would hold these twain in ever deeper and tenderer embrace. then the doctor, who claims he cuts nearer to the realities, insisted no emotion could bear such a physical impact. the reaction from such an imposed contact would leave love bereft of life, strangled in its own golden mesh. max brand begged to differ with both of his fellow craftsmen. with the cold detachment of a mind prepared to see all four sides of an object and with no personal animus of either prejudice or prepossession, mr. brand averred no blanker conclusion covered the case in question but in any given instance, the multiple factors of heredity, environment, habit, and temperament, would largely determine the final state of both the man and the woman. hereupon, perley poore sheehan, the fourth member of the writing fraternity present, insisted on a hearing. mr. sheehan, nothing daunted by the naturally polygamous instincts of the male heart, insisted a good man, once in love, would and could discount the handicap of a ten-foot chain, since love was after all, as others have contended, not the whole of a man's life. to be sure it was an integral need, a recurrent appetite; the glamour and the glory, if you like, enfolding with its overshadowing wings his house of happiness. as for the woman--well, we will let mr. sheehan report, in person, his conviction as to the stability of her attachment. the editor, whose business it is to keep an open mind, scarcely felt equal to the responsibility of passing judgment, where experts differed. but the discussion presented an opportunity which he felt called upon to develop. therefore, each of the four authors was invited to present his conclusions in fiction form, the four stories to be published under the general caption "the ten-foot chain." herewith we are printing this unique symposium, one of the most original series ever presented. naturally, the stories are bound to provoke opinion and raise discussion. the thesis in the form presented by dr. means is quite novel, but the underlying problem of the stability of human affections, is as old as the heart of man. wasn't it that prosaic but wise old poet, alexander pope, who compared our minds to our watches? "no two go just alike, yet each believes his own." first tale an indian jataka by achmed abdullah _this is the tale which jehan tugluk khan, a wise man in tartary, and milk brother to ghengiz khan, emperor of the east and the north, and captain general of the golden horde, whispered to the foolish virgin who came to him, bringing the purple, spiked flower of the kadam-tree as an offering, and begging him for a love potion with which to hold haydar khan, a young, red-faced warrior from the west who had ridden into camp, a song on his lips, a woman's breast scarf tied to his tufted bamboo lance, a necklace of his slain foes' skulls strung about his massive chest, and sitting astride a white stallion whose mane was dyed crimson in sign of strife and whose dainty, dancing feet rang on the rose-red marble pavement of the emperor's courtyard like crystal bells in the wind of spring._ _this is a tale of passion, and, by the same token, a tale of wisdom. for, in the yellow, placid lands east of the urals and west of harsh, sneering pekin, it is babbled by the toothless old women who know life, that wisdom and desire are twin sisters rocked in the same cradle: one speaks while the other sings. they say that it is the wisdom of passion which makes eternal the instinct of love._ _this is the tale of vasantasena, the slave who was free in her own heart, and of madusadan, a captain of horse, who plucked the white rose without fearing the thorns._ _this, finally, is the tale of vikramavati, king of hindustan in the days of the golden age, when surya, the sun, warmed the fields without scorching; when vanyu, the wind, filled the air with the pollen of the many flowers without stripping the trees bare of leaves; when varuna, regent of water, sang through the land without destroying the dykes or drowning the lowing cattle and the little naked children who played at the river's bank; when prithwi, the earth, sustained all and starved none; when chandra, the moon, was as bright and ripening as his elder brother, the sun._ _let all the wise children listen to my jataka!_ vasantasena was the girl's name, and she came to young king vikramavati's court on the tenth day of the dark half of the month bhadra. she came as befitted a slave captured in war, with her henna-stained feet bound together by a thin, golden chain, her white hands tied behind her back with ropes of pearls, her slim young body covered with a silken robe of the sad hue of the tamala flower, in sign of mourning for dharma, her father, the king of the south, who had fallen in battle beneath the steel-shod tusks of the war elephants. she knelt before the peacock throne, and vikramavati saw that her face was as beautiful as the moon on the fourteenth day, that her black locks were like female snakes, her waist like the waist of a she-lion, her arms like twin marble columns blue-veined, her skin like the sweetly scented champaka flower, and her breasts as the young tinduka fruit. he looked into her eyes and saw that they were of a deep bronze color, gold flecked, and with pupils that were black and opaque--eyes that seemed to hold all the wisdom, all the secret mockery, the secret knowledge of womanhood--and his hand trembled, and he thought in his soul that the bountiful hand of sravanna, the god of plenty, had been raised high in the western heaven at the hour of her birth. "remember the words of the brahmin," grumbled deo singh, his old prime minister who had served his father before him and who was watching him anxiously, jealously. "'woman is the greatest robber of all. for other robbers steal property which is spiritually worthless, such as gold and diamonds; while woman steals the best--a man's heart, and soul, and ambition, and strength.' remember, furthermore, the words of--" "enough croakings for the day, leaky-tongue!" cut in vikramavati, with the insolent rashness of his twenty-four years. "go home to your withered beldame of a wife and pray with her before the altar of unborn children, and help her clean the household pots. this is the season when i speak of love!" "whose love--yours or the girl's?" smilingly asked madusadan, captain of horse, a man ten years the king's senior, with a mocking, bitter eye, a great, crimson mouth, a crunching chest, massive, hairy arms, the honey of eloquence on his tongue, and a mind that was a deer in leaping, a cat in climbing. men disliked him because they could not beat him in joust or tournament; and women feared him because the purity of his life, which was an open book, gave the lie to his red lips and the slow-eddying flame in his hooded, brown eyes. "whose love, wise king?" but the latter did not hear. he dismissed the soldiers and ministers and courtiers with an impatient gesture, and stepped down from his peacock throne. "fool!" said madusadan, as he looked through a slit in the curtain from an inner room and saw that the king was raising vasantasena to her feet; saw, too, the derisive patience in her golden eyes. "a fool--though a king versed in statecraft!" he whispered into the ear of shivadevi, vasantasena's shriveled, gnarled hill nurse who had followed her mistress into captivity. "thee! a fool indeed!" cackled the old nurse as, side by side with the captain of horse, she listened to the tale of love the king was spreading before the slave girl's narrow, white feet, as kama-deva, the young god of passion, spread the tale of his longing before rati, his wife, with the voice of the cuckoo, the humming-bee in mating time, and the southern breeze laden with lotus. "you came to me a slave captured among the crackling spears of battle," said vikramavati, "and behold, it is i who am the slave. for your sake i would sin the many sins. for the sake of one of your precious eyelashes i would spit on the names of the gods and slaughter the holy cow. you are a light shining in a dark house. your body is a garden of strange and glorious flowers which i gather in the gloom. i feel the savor and shade of your dim tresses, and think of the home land where the hill winds sweep. "my love for you is as the soft sweetness of wild honey which the bees of the forest have gathered among the perfumed asoka flowers--sweet and warm, but with a sharp after-taste to prick the tongue and set the body eternally longing. to hold you i would throw a noose around the far stars. i give you all i have, all i am, all i shall ever be, and it would not be the thousandth part of my love for you. see! my heart is a carpet for your little lisping feet. step gently, child!" vasantasena replied never a word. with unwinking, opaque eyes, she stared beyond the king, at a slit in the curtain which separated the throne-room from the inner apartment. for through the embroidered folds of the brocade, a great, hairy, brown, high-veined hand was thrust, the broad thumb wagging mockingly, meaningly, like a shadow of fate. and she remembered the huge star sapphire set in hammered silver that twinkled on the thumb like a cresset of passion. she remembered how that hand had plucked her from amidst the horse's trampling feet and the sword-rimmed wheels of the war-chariots as she crouched low above her father's body. she remembered the voice that had come to her, clear through the clamor and din of battle, the braying of the conches, the neighing of the stallions, the shrill, angry trumpeting of the elephants-- a voice sharp, compelling, bitter-- "captive to my bow and spear, little flower, but a slave for the king, my master. for such is the law of hind. he will love you--not being altogether a fool. but perhaps you will not love him. being but a stammering virgin boy, perhaps he will heap your lap with all the treasures in the world. being an honest gentleman, perhaps he will treat you with respect and tenderness, with the sweet fairness of the blessed gods. and perhaps--even then--you will not love him, little flower. "perhaps you will turn to the captain of horse as the moon rises like a bubble of passion from the deep red of the sunset. perhaps you will read the meaning of the koel-bird's love-cry, the secret of the jessamine's scent, the sweet, throbbing, winglike call of all the unborn children in the heart and body and soul of madusadan, captain of horse." "a bold man, this captain of horse!" vasantasena had smiled through her tears, through the savage clang of battle. "a reckless man--yet a humble man, little flower. reckless and humble as the moist spring monsoon that sweeps over the young shoots of bluish-white rice. for"--here he had put her in front of him, on the curve of the peaked, bossed saddle--"will the rice ripen to the touch of the savage, clamoring monsoon?" and he had drawn slightly away from her. he had not even kissed her, though they were shielded from all the world by the folds of the great battle flag that was stiff with gold, stiffer with darkening gore. in the fluttering heart of vasantasena rose a great longing for this insolent warrior who spoke of love--and touched her not. _this is the tale of the grape that is never pressed, that never loses its sweetness, though white hands squeeze its pulp, day after day, night after night._ _this is the tale of the book that is never read to the end, though eyes, moist and smarting with longing, read its pages till the candles gutter out in the gray dawn wind and the young sun sings its cosmic song out of the east, purple and golden._ _this is the tale of love which rises like a mist of ineffable calm, then sweeps along on the red wings of eternal desire--the tale of love that is a chain forged of steel and scent, a chain of unbreakable steel mated to the pollen of the glistening areka-flower._ _let all the wise children listen to my jataka!_ "see!" said shivadevi, the old nurse, to vasantasena, who shimmered among the green, silken cushions of her couch like a tiger-beetle in a nest of fresh leaves. "vikramavati, the king, has bowed low before you. he has removed from your hands and ankles the pearl and gold fetters. he has taken off your robe of mourning and has thrown about your shoulders a sari woven of moonbeams and running water. he has seated you beside him on the peacock throne, as a free woman--not a slave." "yes," replied vasantasena. "he has placed his head and his heart on the sill of the door of love. he brought me his soul as an offering. and i"--she yawned--"i love him not." "he has heaped your lap with many treasures," went on the old woman. "jasper from the punjab has he brought to you, rubies from burma, turquoises from thibet, star-sapphires and alexandrites from ceylon, flawless emeralds from afghanistan, white crystal from malwa, onyx from persia, amethyst from tartary, green jade and white jade from amoy, garnets from bundelkhand, red corals from socotra, chalcedon from syria, malachite from kafiristan, pearls from ramesvaram, lapis lazuli from jaffra, yellow diamonds from poonah, black agate from dynbhulpoor!" vasantasena shrugged her slim shoulders disdainfully. "yes," she said. "he put the nightingale in a cage of gold and exclaimed: 'behold, this is thy native land!' then he opened the door--and the nightingale flew away to the green land, the free land, never regretting the golden cage." "he grovels before you in the dust of humility. he says that his life is a blackened crucible of sin and vanity and regret, but that his love for you is the golden bead at the bottom of the crucible. he has given you freedom. he has given you friendship. he has given you tenderness and affection and respect." "yes," smiled vasantasena. "he has given me his everything, his all. without cavil, without stint. freedom he has given me, keeping the bitter water of humility as his own portion. but all his generosity, his fairness, his humility, his decency--all his love has not opened the inner door to the shrine of my heart. in the night he comes, with the flaming torches of his passion; but my heart is as cold as clay, as cold as freezing water when the snow wind booms down from the himalayas. the madness of the storm and the waves is upon him, but there is no answering surge in the tide of my soul. in my heart he sees the world golden and white and flashing with laughter. in his heart i see the world grim and drab and haggard and seamed with tears. for--generous, fair, unstinting--he is also selfish and foolish, being a man unwise in the tortuous, glorious ways of love. daily he tells me that i am the well of his love. but never does he ask me if his love is the stone of my contentment." "perhaps he does not dare," cackled the old nurse. "being modest?" "yes." "only the selfish are modest, caring naught for the answering spark in the heart of the loved one. and the love of woman is destroyed by humble selfishness as the religion of a brahmin by serving kings, the milk of a cow by distant pasturage, and wealth by committing injustice. there is no worth in such wealth--nor in such love. this is veda-truth." and in a high, proud voice she added: "i love madusadan, captain of horse. i will kiss his red, mocking lips and bend to the thrill of his strong body. pure he is to all the world, to all women--so the bazaar gossip says--but i, and i alone, shall light the lamp of passion in his heart. free am i! but the unsung music in his heart shall be a loved fetter around mine. clasped in his arms, life and death shall unite in me in an unbreakable chain. "i will bury my hands deep in the savage, tangled forest that is his soul and follow therein the many trails. i will read the message of his hooded, brown eyes, the trembling message of his great, hairy hands. his heart is a crimson malati-flower, and mine the tawny orchid spotted with purple that winds around its roots." "gray is the hair on his temples. he is the king's senior by ten years." "years of wisdom," laughed vasantasena. "years of waiting. years of garnering strength." "he is not as kindly as vikramavati, nor as great, nor as generous." "but he is wise--wise! he knows the heart of woman--the essence, the innermost secret of woman." "and that is--" "patience in achieving. strength in holding. wisdom in--_not_ demanding unless the woman offers and gives sign." and she went out into the garden that stretched back of the palace in wild, scented profusion, bunching its majestic, columnar aisles of banyan figs as a foil for the dainty, pale green tracery of the nim-trees, the quivering, crimson domes of the peepals bearded to the waist with gray and orange moss, where the little, bold-eye gekko lizards slipped like narrow, green flags through the golden, perfumed fretwork of the chandela bushes and wild parrots screeched overhead with burnished wings; and there she met madusadan, captain of horse, whom she had summoned by a scribbled note earlier in the day, and her veil slipped, and her white feet were like trembling flowers, and she pressed her red mouth on his and rested in his arms like a tired child. _the road of desire runs beneath the feet all day and all night, says the tale. there is no beginning to this road, nor end. out of the nowhere it comes, vanishing, yet never vanishing in the nowhere; renewing each morning, after nights of love, the eternal miracle, the never-ending virginity of passion._ _you cannot end the endless chain of it, says the tale. you cannot hush the murmur of the sea which fills the air, rising to the white, beckoning finger of chandra, the moon._ _love's play is worship._ _love's achievement is a rite._ _love's secret is never read._ _always around the corner is another light, a new light--golden, twinkling, mocking, like the will-o'-the-wisp._ _reach to it--as you never will--and there is the end of the chain, the end of the tale._ _let all the wise children listen to my jataka!_ "you broke your faith, faithless woman!" said vikramavati as he saw vasantasena in the arms of madusadan, captain of horse. the girl smiled. "it was you who spoke of love," she replied, "not i." "i tried to conquer your love by the greatness of my own love." "as a fool tries to take out a thorn in his foot by a thorn in his hand." "i gave you freedom. i gave you the wealth of all hindustan, the wealth of the outer lands. i gave you my soul, my heart, my body, my strength, my ambition, my faith, my secret self." "you gave me everything--because you love me. i gave you nothing--because i do not love you." "love can do the impossible," gravely said the captain of horse, while vasantasena nestled more closely to his arms. "it was because of love that vishnu, the creator, changed into a dwarf and descended to the lowermost regions, and there captured bali, the raja of heaven and of earth. it was because of love that, as ramachandra, helped by the monkey folk, he built a bridge between india and ceylon, and that, as krishna, he lifted up the great mountain golonddhan in the palm of his hand as an umbrella with which to shield his loved one against the splintering, merciless rays of surya, the sun, the jealous, yellow god. "love can do all things--except one. for love can never create love, wise king. love can force the stream to flow up-hill, but it cannot create the stream when there is no water." silence dropped like a shadow of fate, and vikramavati turned slowly and walked toward the palace. "to-morrow," he said over his shoulder, in an even, passionless voice, "you shall die a death of lingering agony." madusadan laughed lightly. "there is neither to-day nor to-morrow nor yesterday for those who love," he replied. "there is only the pigeon-blue of the sunlit sky, the crimson and gold of the harvest-fields, the laughter of the far waters. love fills the cup of infinity." "to-morrow you will be dead," the king repeated dully. and again madusadan laughed lightly. "and what then, o wise king, trained in the rigid logic of brahmin and parohitas?" he asked. "will our death do away with the fact that once we lived and, living, loved each other? will the scarlet of our death wipe out the streaked gray of your jealousy? will our death give you the love of vasantasena, which never was yours in life? will our death rob our souls of the memory of the great sweetness which was ours, the beauty, the glory, the never-ending thrill of fulfillment?" "love ceases with death." "love, wise king, is unswayed by the rhythm of either life--or death. love--that surges day after day, night after night, as year after year the breast of the earth heaves to the spring song of the ripening rice, to the golden fruit of the mango groves. "death? a fig for it, wise king! "let me but live until to-morrow in the arms of my loved one, and the sweetness of our love shall be an unbreakable chain--on through a thousand deaths, a thousand new births, straight into nirvana--into brahm's silver soul!" "ahee!" echoed vasantasena. "let death come and the wind of life lull; let the light fail and the flowers wilt and droop; let the stars gutter out one by one and the cosmos crumble in the gray storm of final oblivion--yet will our love be an unbreakable chain, defying you, o king--defying the world--defying the very gods--" "but not defying the laws of nature, as interpreted by a wise brahmin!" a shrill, age-cracked voice broke in, and deo singh, the old prime minister who had come down the garden trail on silent, slippered feet, stepped into the open. "no! by shiva and by shiva! not the laws of nature, the eternal laws of logic, as interpreted by a priest well versed in sruti and smriti--in revelation and tradition. not the laws of nature, rational and evidential, physical and metaphysical, analytical and synthetical, philosophical, and philological, as expounded by a parohita familiar with the vedas and the blessed wisdom of the ancient upanishads of hind!" he salaamed low before vikramavati. "it is written in the bhagavad gita, the book of books, the lay of brahm the lord, that each crime shall find condign punishment, be it committed by high caste or low caste, by prince or peasant, by raja or ryot. to each his punishment, says the karma, which is fate!" "and--these two?" demanded vikramavati. "what punishment shall be meted out to the faithless woman and the faithless captain of horse, brahmin?" deo singh spread out his fingers like the sticks of a fan. "they have chosen their own sentence, these worshipers of kartikeya, god of rogues and rascals," he chuckled. "of a chain they spoke. an unbreakable chain that defies all laws, except belike"--again he laughed deep in his throat--"the wise laws of nature. weld them together with such a chain, forged by a master smith, made so strong that not even a tough-thewed captain of horse may break it with the clouting muscles of his arms and back. a chain, ten feet long, so that they may never be far away from each other, so that they may always be able to slake the hot, turbulent thirst of love, so that they may never have to wait for the thrill of fulfillment as a beggar waits at life's feast, so that day and night, each hour, each minute, each second they may revel in the sunshine of their love, so that never they may have to stand helpless before the flood-tide of their desire. "grant them their wish, o king, being wise and merciful; and then lock them into a room containing the choicest food, the sweetest drinks, the whitest flowers, the softest, silkenest couch draped with purple and gold. a room such as lovers dream of--and fools! leave them there together for three days, three nights, three sobbing, crunching, killing eternities! with no sound, no touch, no scent, no taste, but their own voices, their own hearts and souls and minds and bodies! and at the end of the three days----" "yes?" asked vikramavati. "they will have suffered the worst punishment, the worst agony on earth. slowly, slowly for three days, three nights, three eternities, they will have watched the honey of their love turn, drop by drop, into gall. their passion--slowly, slowly--will turn into loathing; their desire into disgust. for no love in the world can survive the chain of monotony!" * * * * * thus it was done. a chain of unbreakable steel, ten feet long, was welded to the girl's right wrist and the man's left, and they were locked into a house--a house such as lovers dream of--that was guarded day and night by armed warriors, who let none within hailing distance, whose windows were shuttered and curtained so that not even the golden eye of the sun might look in, and around which a vast circular clearing had been made with torch and spade and scimitar so that neither bird nor insect nor beast of forest and jungle might live there and no sound drift into the lovers' room except, perhaps, the crooning sob of the dawn wind; and at the end of the third night carefully, stealthily, silently the king and the brahmin walked up to the house and pressed their ears against the keyhole, and they heard the man's voice saying: "i love you, little flower of my happiness! i love you--you who are all my dreams come true! when i look into your face the sun rises, and the waters bring the call of the deep, and the boat of my life rocks on the dancing waves of passion!" and then the girl's answer, clear, serene: "and i love _you_, madusadan, captain of horse! you have broken the fetters of my loneliness, the shackles of my longing! i waited, waited, waited--but you came, and i shall never let you go again! you have banished all the drab, sad dreams of the past! you have made your heart a prison for my love, and you have tossed away the key into the turbulent whirlpool of my eternal desire!" _"did the chain gall them?" asked the foolish virgin, who had come to jehan tugluk khan, a wise man in tartary and milk brother to ghengiz khan, emperor of the east and the north and captain general of the golden horde._ _"no, foolish virgin," replied jehan tugluk khan. "their love could not have lived without the chain. it was their love which was the chain--made it, held it, welded it, eternal, unbreaking, unbreakable. ten feet long was the chain. each foot of steel--eternal, unbreaking, unbreakable--was a link of their love, and these links were: passion, patience, completion, friendship, tolerance, understanding, tenderness, forgiveness, service, humor."_ _this is the end of the tale of vasantasena, the slave who was free in her own heart, and of madusadan, a captain of horse, who plucked the white rose without fearing the thorns._ _and, says the tale, if you would make your chain doubly unbreakable, add another foot to it, another link. there is no word for it. but, by the strength and sense of it, you must never lull your love to sleep in the soft cradle of too great security._ _for love demands eternal vigilance._ _listen, o azzia, o beloved, to my jataka!_ second tale out of the dark by max brand the principality of pornia is not a large country and in the ordinary course of history it should have been swallowed entire, centuries ago, by one of the kingdoms which surround it. its situation has saved it from this fate, for it is the buffer state between two great monarchies whose jealousy has preserved for pornia an independent existence. despite its independence, pornia has never received much consideration from the rest of europe, and the aim of its princes for many generations has been to foist it into the great councils by a strong alliance with one of the two kingdoms to which it serves as a buffer. the long-desired opportunity came at last in the reign of alexander vi, who, one morning, commanded rudolph of herzvina to appear at the palace. as soon as the worthy old baron appeared, alexander spoke to him as follows: "rudolph, you are an old and respected counselor, a devoted servant of the state, and therefore i am delighted to announce that the greatest honor is about to descend upon your family, an honor so great that the entire state of pornia will be elevated thereby. the crown prince charles wishes to make your daughter his wife!" at this he stepped back, the better to note the joy with which old rudolph would receive this announcement, but, to his astonishment, the baron merely bowed his head and sighed. "your highness," said rudolph of herzvina, "i have long known of the attachment which the crown prince has for my daughter, bertha, but i fear that the marriage can never be consummated." "come, come!" said the prince genially. "it is a far leap indeed from baron of herzvina to father-in-law to prince charles, but there have been stranger things in history than this, though never anything that could so effectually elevate pornia. have no fear of charles. he loves your daughter; he is strong-minded as the very devil; he will override any opposition from his father. as a matter of fact, it is no secret that charles is already practically the ruler over his kingdom. so rejoice, herzvina, and i will rejoice with you!" but the baron merely shook his head sadly and repeated: "i fear the marriage can never be consummated." "why not?" said the prince in some heat. "i tell you, his royal highness loves the girl. i could read passion even in the stilted language of his ambassador's message. why not?" "i was not thinking of his royal highness, but of the girl. she will not marry him." the prince dropped into a chair with jarring suddenness. rudolph continued hastily: "i have talked with bertha many times and seriously of the matter; i have tried to convince her of her duty; but she will not hear me. the foolish girl says she does not love his highness." the prince smote his hands together in an ecstasy of impatience. "love! love! in the name of god, herzvina, what has love to do with this? this is the thing for which pornia has waited during centuries. through this alliance i can make a treaty that will place pornia once and forever upon the map of the diplomatic powers. love!" "i have said all this to her, but she is obdurate." "does she expect some fairy prince? she is not a child; she is not even--forgive me--beautiful." "true. she is not even pretty, but even homely women, your highness, will sometimes think of love. it is a weakness of the sex." he was not satirical; he was very earnest indeed. he continued: "i have tried every persuasion. she only says in reply: 'he is too old. i cannot love him.'" an inspiration came to alexander of pornia. under the stress of it he rose and so far forgot himself as to clap a hand upon the shoulder of herzvina. in so doing he had to reach up almost as high as his head, for the princes of pornia have been small men, time out of mind. "baron," he said, "will you let me try my hand at persuasion?" "it would be an honor, sire. my family is ever at the disposal of my prince." he answered with a touch of emotion: "i know it, rudolph; but will you trust the girl in my hands for a number of days? a thought has come to me. i know i can convince her that this love of which she dreams is a thing of the flesh alone, a physical necessity. come, send her to me, and i shall tear away her illusions. she will not thank me for it, but she will marry the crown prince." "i will send her to the palace to-day." "very good; and first tell her why i wish to speak with her. it may be that of herself she will change her mind when she learns the wishes of her prince. farewell." and the prince rode off to a review of the troops of the city guard. so it was that bertha of herzvina sat for a long time in a lonely room, after her arrival at the palace before the door opened, a man in livery bowed for the entrance of the prince, and she found herself alone with her sovereign. automatically she curtsied, and he let her remain bowed while he slowly drew off his white gloves. he still wore his general's uniform with the stiff padding which would not allow his body to grow old, for a prince of pornia must always look the soldier. "sit down," he ordered, and as she obeyed he commenced to walk the room. he never sat quietly through an interview if he could avoid it; a constitutional weakness of the nerves made it almost impossible for him to meet another person's eyes. the pacing up and down gave a plausible reason for the continual shifting of his glance. "a good day, a very good day," he said. "the hussars were wonderful." his shoulders strained further back. the prince himself always rode at the head of the hussars; in her childhood she had admired him. he stopped at a window and hummed a marching air. that was a planned maneuver, for his back was far more royal than his face, with its tall forehead and diminutive mouth and chin. she felt as if she were in the presence of a uniformed automaton. he broke off his humming and spoke without turning. "well?" "my decision is unchanged." "impossible! in the length of a whole day even a woman must think twice." "yes, many times." "you will not marry him?" "i cannot love him." he whirled, and the pale blue eyes flashed at her a brief glance which made her cringe. it was as if an x-ray had been turned on her heart. "love!" he said softly, and she shuddered again. "because he is old? bertha, you are no longer a child. other women marry for what they may term love. it is your privilege to marry for the state. that is the nobler thing." he smiled and nodded, repeating for his own ear: "the nobler thing! what is greater than such service--what is more glorious than to forget self and marry for the good of the thousands?" "i have an obligation to myself." "who has filled you with so many childish ideas?" "they have grown of themselves, sire." the pacing up and down the room recommenced. "child, have you no desire to serve me? i mean, your country?" she answered slowly, as if feeling for her words: "it is impossible that i should be able to serve you through my dishonor. if i should marry the crown prince, my life would be one long sleep, sire. i would not dare awaken to the reality." his head tilted and he laughed noiselessly. a weakness of the throat prevented him from raising his voice even in times of the greatest excitement. "a soul that sleeps, eh? the kiss of love will awaken it?" he surveyed her with brief disdain. "my dear, you scorn titles, and yet as an untitled woman you are not a match for the first red-faced tradesman's daughter. stand up!" she rose and he led her in front of a pier glass. solemnly he studied her pale image. "a sleeping soul!" he repeated. she covered her face. "will that bait catch the errant lover, bertha?" "god will make up the difference." he cursed softly. she had not known he could be so moved. "poor child, let me talk with you." he led her back to a chair almost with kindness and sat somewhat behind her so that he need not meet her eyes. "this love you wait for--it is not a full-grown god, dear girl, but a blind child. given a man and a woman and a certain propinquity, and nature does the rest. we put a mask on nature and call it love, we name an abstraction and call it god. love! love! love! it is a pretty disguise--no more. do you understand?" "i will not." she listened to his quick breathing. "bertha, if i were to chain you with a ten-foot chain to the first man off the streets and leave you alone with him for three days, what would happen?" her hand closed on the arm of the chair. he rose and paced the room as his idea grew. "your eyes would criticize him and your shame would fight in behalf of your--soul? and the sight of your shame would keep the man in check. but suppose the room were dark--suppose you could not see his face and merely knew that a man was there--suppose _he_ could not see and merely knew that a woman was there? what would happen? would it be love? pah! love is no more deified than hunger. if it is satisfied, it goes to sleep; if it is satiated, it turns to loathing. aye, at the end of the three days you would be glad enough to have the ten-foot chain cut. but first what would happen?" the vague terror grew coldly in her, for she could see the idea taking hold of him like a hand. "if i were to do this, the world might term it a shameful thing, but i act for pornia--not for myself. i consider only the good of the state. by this experiment i prove to you that love is not god, but blind nature. yes, and if you knew it as it is, would you oppose me longer? the thought grows upon me! speak!" her smile made her almost beautiful. "sire, in all the world there is only one man for every woman." "book talk." he set his teeth because he could not meet her eyes. "and who will bring you this one man?" "god." once more the soundless laugh. "then i shall play the part of god. bertha, you must now make your decision: a marriage for the good of the state, or the ten-foot chain, the dark room--and love!" "even you will not dare this, sire." "bertha, there is nothing i do not dare. what would be known? i give orders that this room be utterly darkened; i send secret police to seize a man from the city at random and fetter him to a chain in that room; then i bring you to the room and fasten you to the other end of the chain, and for three days i have food introduced into the room. results? for the man, death; for you, a knowledge first of yourself and, secondly, of love. the state will benefit." "it is bestial--incredible." "bestial? tut! i play the part of god and even surpass him. i put you face to face with a temptation through which you shall come to know yourself. you lose a dream; you gain a fact. it is well. shame will guard the secret in your heart--and the state will benefit. still you see that i am paternal--merciful. i do not punish you for your past obstinacy. i still give you a choice. bertha, will you marry as i wish, or will you force me to play the part of god?" "i shall not marry." "ah, you will wait for god to make up the difference. it is well--very well; _le dieu c'est moi_. ha! that is greater than the phrase of louis xiv. you shall have still more time, but the moment the sun goes down, if i do not hear from you, i shall ring a bell that will send my secret police out to seize a man indiscriminately from the masses of the city. i shall not even stipulate that he be young. my trust in nature is--absolute. _adieu!_" she made up her mind the moment he left the room. she drew on her cloak. before the pier glass she paused. "aye," she murmured, "i could not match the first farmer's daughter. but still there must be one man in the world--and god will make up the difference!" she threw open the door which gave on a passage leading to a side entrance. a grenadier of the palace guard jumped to attention and presented arms. "pardon," he said. he completely blocked the hall; the prince had left nothing to chance. she started to turn back and then hesitated and regarded the man carefully. "fritz!" she said at last, for she recognized the peasant who had been a stable-boy on her father's estate before he took service in the grenadiers. "you are fritz barr!" he flushed with pleasure. "_madame_ remembers me?" "and my little black pony you used to take care of?" "yes, yes!" he grinned and nodded; and then she noted a revolver in the holster at his side. "what are your orders, fritz?" "to let no one pass down this hall. i am sorry, _madame_." "but if i were to ask you for your revolver?" he stirred uneasily and she took money from her purse and gave it to him. "with this you could procure another weapon?" he drew a long breath; the temptation was great. "i could, _madame_." "then do so. it will never be known from whom i received the gun--and my need is desperate--desperate!" he unbuckled the weapon without a word, and with it in her hand she returned to the room. there was a tall western window, and before this she drew up a chair to watch the setting of the sun. "will he ring the bell when the edge of the sun touches the hills or when it is completely set?" she thought. the white circle grew yellow; then it took on a taint of orange, bulging oddly at the sides into a clumsy oval. from the gardens below came a stir of voices and then the thrill of a girl's laughter. she smiled as she listened, and, leaning from the window, the west wind blew to her the scent of flowers. she sat there for a long time, breathing deeply of the fragrance and noting all the curves of the lawn with a still, sad pleasure. the green changed from bright to dark; when she looked up the sun had set. as she turned from the gay western sky, the room was doubly dim and the breeze of the evening set the curtains rustling and whispering. silence she was prepared for, but not those ghostly voices, not the shift and sweep of the shadows. she turned the electric switch, closing her eyes to blur the shock of the sudden deluge of light. the switch clicked, but when she opened her eyes the room was still dark; they had cut the connecting wires. thereafter her mind went mercifully blank, for what she faced was, like birth and death, beyond comprehension. noise at the windows roused her from the daze at last and she found that a number of workmen were sealing the room so that neither light nor sound could enter or escape. the only air would be from the ventilator. and still she could not realize what had happened, what was to happen, until the last sounds of the workmen ceased and the deep, dread silence began; silence that had a pulse in it--the beating of her heart. she was standing in the middle of the room when the first shapes formed in the black night, and terror hovered about her suddenly, touching her as with cold fingers. she felt her way back to a corner and crouched there against the wall, waiting, waiting. they had seized the doomed man long before this. they must have bound and gagged him and carried him to the palace. a thousand types of men passed before her inward eye--thin-faced clerks, men as pale as the belly of a dead fish; bearded monsters, gross and thick-lipped, with thunderous laughter; laborers, stamped with patient weariness--and all whom she saw carried the sign of the beast in their eyes. she tried to pray, but the voice of the prince rang in her ears: "_le dieu, c'est moi!_" and when she named god in her prayers, she visualized alexander's face, the pale, small eyes, the colorless hair, the lofty brow, the mouth whose tight lips could not be disguised by even the careful mustache. when a key turned in a door, she sprang to her feet with a cry of horror. "it is i," said the prince. "i am dying; i cannot stay here; i will marry whom and when you will." "ah, my dear, you should have spoken before sunset. i warned you, and i never change my mind. it is only for three days, remember. also, it is in the interest of science. beyond that, i have quite taken a fancy to playing god for you for three days. do you understand?" the even, mocking tones guided her to him. she fell at his feet and strained his thin knees against her breast. "come! be reasonable, bertha. this is justice." "sire, i want no justice. for god's sake, be merciful." she heard the shaken breath of his soundless laughter. "is it so? you should be grateful to me. trust me, child, i am bringing you the love of which you have dreamed. ha! ha! _le dieu, c'est moi!_" the clanking of the chain which he carried stilled her voice. it hushed even the thunder of her heart. she rose and waited patiently while the manacle was affixed to her wrist. the prince crossed the room and tapped on the door, which opened, and by a faint light from without bertha discovered two men carrying a third into the room. she strained her eyes, but could make out no faces. the burden was laid on the floor; a metallic sound told her that she was fettered to the unknown. the prince said: "you are a brave girl. all may yet be well. then human nature is finer than i think. we shall see. as for your lover, your gift from god, he is sleeping soundly now. it may be an hour before the effects of the drug wear away. during that time you can think of love. food will be placed three times a day within the door yonder. you can readily find it by feeling your way around the wall. farewell." when the door closed she started to retreat to her corner, but the chain instantly drew taut with a rattle. strangely enough, much of her fear left her now that she was face to face with the danger; temptation, the prince had called it. she smiled as she remembered. when the man awoke and learned their situation, she had no doubt as to how he would act. she had seen the sign of the beast in the eyes of many men, great and small; she had seen it and understood. the revolver might save her for a time, but what if she slept? she knew it would be almost impossible to remain awake during three days and nights. the moment her eyes closed the end would come. it seemed better that she should fire the bullet now. when he recovered his senses, it would be difficult to shoot effectively in the dark, for this was not the gloom of night--it was an absolute void, black, thick, impenetrable. she could not make out her hand at the slightest distance from her eyes. he might even attack her from behind and knock the revolver from her hand before she could shoot. sooner or later the man must die. even if she did not kill him it would be accomplished by the command of the prince at the end of the three days. far better that it should be done at once--that he should never awaken from his sleep. she reached the decision calmly and crept forward to him. very lightly she passed her hand over his clothes. she had to move his arm to uncover the breast over his heart; the arm was a limp weight, but the muscles were firm, round, and solid. the first qualm troubled her as she realized that this must be a young man, at least a man in the prime of his physical strength. then it occurred to her that often bullets fired into the breast are deflected from the heart by bones; it would be far more certain to lay the muzzle against the temple--press the trigger--the soul would depart. the soul! she paused with a thrill of wonder. a little touch would loose the swift spirit. the soul! for the first time she saw the tragedy from the viewpoint of the unknown man. his life was cut in the middle; truly a blind fate had reached out and chosen him from a whole city. yet she was merely hastening the inevitable. she reached out and found his forehead. it was broad and high. tracing it lightly with the tips of her fingers she discovered two rather prominent lumps of bony structure over the eyes. some one had told her that this represented a strong power of memory. she tried to visualize that feature alone, and very suddenly, as a face shows when a man lights his cigarette on the street at night, she saw in memory the figure of rembrandt's "portrait of a young painter." he sits at his drawing board, his pencil poised, ready for the stroke which shall give vital character to his sketch. there is only one high light, falling on the lower part of the face. inspiration has tightened the sensitive mouth; the questing eyes peer out from the shadow of the soft cap. she broke off from her vision to realize with a start that when she touched the trigger she would be stepping back through the centuries and killing her dream of the original of rembrandt's picture. a foolish fancy, truly, but in the dark a dream may be as true, as vivid as reality. the unconscious man sighed. she leaned close and listened to his breathing, soft, hurried, irregular as if he struggled in his sleep, as if the subconscious mind were calling to the conscious: "awake! death is here!" at least there was plenty of time. she need not fire the shot until he moved. she laid the revolver on her lap and absently allowed her hands to wander over his face, lingering lightly on each feature. she grew more alert after a moment. every particle of her energy was concentrated on seeing that face--on seeing it through her sense of touch. the blind, she knew, grow so dextrous that the delicate nerves of their finger tips record faces almost as accurately as the eyes of the normal person. ah, for one moment of that power! she tried her best. the nose, she told herself, was straight and well modeled. the eyes, for she traced the bony structure around them, must be large; the cheek bones high, a sign of strength; the chin certainly square and prominent; the lips full and the mouth rather large; the hair waving and thick; the throat large. one by one she traced each detail and then, moving both hands rather swiftly over the face, she strove to build the mental picture of the whole--and she achieved one, but still it was always the young painter whom great rembrandt had drawn. the illusion would not go out of her mind. an artist's hands, it is said, must be strong and sinewy. she took these hands and felt the heavy bones of the wrist and strove to estimate the length of the fingers. it seemed to her that this was an ideal hand for a painter--it must be both strong and supple. he sighed again and stirred; she caught up the weapon with feverish haste and poised it. "ah, it is well," said the sleeper in his dream. she made sure that he was indeed unconscious and then leaned low, whispering: "adieu, my dear." at some happy vision he laughed softly. his breath touched her face. surely he could never know; he had so short a moment left for living; perhaps this would pass into his latest dream on earth and make it happy. "adieu!" she whispered again, and her lips pressed on his. she laid the muzzle of the revolver against his temple, and, summoning all her will power, she pressed the trigger. it seemed as if she were pulling against it with her full strength, and yet there was no report. then she realized that all her might was going into an inward struggle. she summoned to her aid the voice of the prince as he had said: "we put a mask on nature and call it love; we name an abstraction and call it god. _le dieu, c'est moi!_" she placed the revolver against the temple of the sleeper; he stirred and disturbed the surety of her direction. she adjusted the weapon again. up sprang the man, shouting: "treason! help!" then he stood silent a long moment; perhaps he was rehearsing the scene of his seizure. "this is death," he muttered at last, "and i am in hell. i have always known what it would be--dark--utter and bitter loss of light." as his hand moved, the chain rattled. he sprang back with such violence that his lunging weight jerked her to her feet. "it is useless to struggle," she cried. "a woman! where am i?" "you are lost." "but what has happened? in god's name, _madame_, are we chained together?" "we are." "by whose power? by whose right and command?" "by one against whom we cannot appeal." "my crime?" "none." "for how long--" "three days." he heaved a great sigh of relief. "it is merely some practical joke, i see. that infernal franz, i knew he was meditating mischief! three days--and then free?" "yes, for then you die." once more he was silent. then: "this is a hideous dream. i will waken from it at once--at once. my dear lady--" she heard him advancing. "keep the chain taut, sir, i am armed; i will fire at the slightest provocation." he stopped and laughed. "come, come! this is not so bad. you have been smiling in your sleep at me. up with the lights, my dear. if franz has engaged you for this business, let me tell you that i'm a far better fellow than he must have advertised me. but what a devil he is to rig up such an elaborate hoax! by jove, this chain--this darkness--it's enough to turn a fellow's hair white! the black night gets on my nerves. lights! lights! i yearn to see you; i prophesy your beauty by your voice! still coy? then we'll try persuasion!" his breast struck the muzzle of the revolver. she said quietly: "if i move my finger a fraction of an inch you die, sir. and every word i have spoken to you is the truth." "well, well! you do this finely. i shall compliment franz on rehearsing you so thoroughly. is this the fair daphne of whom he told me--" and his hand touched her shoulder. "by everything that is sacred, i will fire unless you stand back--back to the end of the chain." "is it possible? the middle ages have returned!" he moved back until the light chain was taut. "my mind whirls. i try to laugh, but your voice convinces me. _madame_, will you explain my situation in words of one syllable?" "i have explained it already. you are imprisoned in a place from which you cannot escape. you will be confined here, held to me by this chain, for three days. at the end of that time you die." "will you swear this is the truth?" "name any oath and i will repeat it." "there's no need," he said. "no, it cannot be a jest. franz would never risk the use of a drug, wild as he is. some other power has taken me. what reason lies behind my arrest?" "think of it as a blind and brutal hand which required a victim and reached out over the city to find one. the hand fell upon you. there is no more to say. you can only resign yourself to die an unknown death." he said at last: "not unknown, thank god. i have something which will live after me." her heart leaped, for she was seeing once more the artist from rembrandt's brush. "yes, your paintings will not be forgotten." "i feel that they will not, and the name of--" "do not speak of it!" "why?" "i must not hear your name." "but you know it already. you spoke of my painting." "i have never seen your face; i have never heard your name; you were brought to me in this room darkened as you find it now." "yet you knew--" her voice was marvelously low: "i touched your face, sir, and in some way i knew." after a time he said: "i believe you. this miracle is no greater than the others. but why do you not wish to know my name?" "i may live after you, and when i see your pictures i do not wish to say: 'this is his work; this is his power; this is his limitation.' can you understand?" "i will try to." "i sat beside you while you were unconscious, and i pictured your face and your mind for myself. i will not have that picture reduced to reality." "it is a delicate fancy. you are blind? you see by the touch of your hands?" "i am not blind, but i think i have seen your face through the touch." "here! i have stumbled against two chairs. let us sit down and talk. i will slide this chair farther away if you wish. do you fear me?" "no, i think i am not afraid. i am only very sad for you. listen: i have laid down the revolver. is that rash?" "_madame_, my life has been clean. would i stain it now? no, no! sit here--so! my hand touches yours--you are not afraid?--and a thrill leaps through me. is it the dark that changes all things and gives eyes to your imagination, or are you really very beautiful?" "how shall i say?" "be very frank, for i am a dying man, am i not? and i should hear the truth." "you are a profound lover of the beautiful?" "i am a painter, _madame_." she called up the image of her face--the dingy brown hair, long and silken, to be sure; the colorless, small eyes; the common features which the first red-skinned farmer's daughter could overmatch. "describe me as you imagine me. i will tell you when you are wrong." "may i touch you, _madame_, as you touched me? or would that trouble you?" she hesitated, but it seemed to her that the questing eyes of rembrandt's portrait looked upon her through the dark--eyes reverent and eager at once. she said: "you may do as you will." his unmanacled hand went up, found her hair, passed slowly over its folds. "it is like silk to the touch, but far more delicate, for there is life in every thread of it. it is abundant and long. ah, it must shine when the sun strikes upon it! it is golden hair, _madame_, no pale-yellow like sea-sand, but glorious gold, and when it hangs across the whiteness of your throat and bosom the hearts of men stir. speak! tell me i have named it!" she waited till the sob grew smaller in her throat. "yes, it is golden hair," she said. "i could not be wrong." his hand passed down her face, fluttering lightly, and she sensed the eagerness of every touch. cold fear took hold of her lest those searching fingers should discover the truth. "your eyes are blue. yes, yes! deep-blue for golden hair. it cannot be otherwise. speak." "god help me!" "_madame?_" "i have been too vain of my eyes, sir. yes, they are blue." the fingers were on her cheeks, trembling on her lips, touching chin and throat. "you are divine. it was foredoomed that this should be! yes, my life has been one long succession of miracles, but the greatest was reserved until the end. i have followed my heart through the world in search of perfect beauty and now i am about to die, i find it. oh, god! for one moment with canvas, brush, and the blessed light of the sun! it cannot be! no miracle is complete; but i carry out into the eternal night one perfect picture. canvas and paint? no, no! your picture must be drawn in the soul and colored with love. the last miracle and the greatest! three days? no, three ages, three centuries of happiness, for are you not here?" who will say that there is not an eye with which we pierce the night? to each of these two sitting in the utter dark there came a vision. imagination became more real than reality. he saw his ideal of the woman, that picture which every man carries in his heart to think of in the times of silence, to see in every void. and she saw her ideal of manly power. the dark pressed them together as if with the force of physical hands. for a moment they waited, and in that moment each knew the heart of the other, for in that utter void of light and sound, they saw with the eyes of the soul and they heard the music of the spheres. then she seemed to hear the voice of the prince: "you should be grateful to me. trust me, child, i am bringing you that love of which you dreamed. _le dieu, c'est moi!_" yes, it was the voice of doom which had spoken from those sardonic lips. the dark which annihilates time made their love a century old. "in all the world," she whispered, "there is one man for every woman. it is the hand of heaven which gives me to you." "come closer--so! and here i have your head beside mine as god foredoomed. listen! i have power to look through the dark and to see your eyes--how blue they are!--and to read your soul beneath them. we have scarcely spoken a hundred words and yet i see it all. through a thousand centuries our souls have been born a thousand times and in every life we have met, and known--" and through the utter dark, the merciful dark, the deep, strong music of his voice went on, and she listened, and forgot the truth and closed her eyes against herself. * * * * * on the night which closed the third day the prince approached the door of the sealed room. to the officer of the secret police, who stood on guard, he said: "nothing has been heard." "early this afternoon there were two shots, i think." "nonsense. there are carpenters doing repair work on the floor above. you mistook the noise of their hammers." he waved the man away, and as he fitted the key into the lock he was laughing softly to himself: "now for the revelation, the downward head, the shame. ha! ha! ha!" he opened the door and flashed on his electric lantern. they lay upon a couch wrapped in each other's arms. he had shot her through the heart and then turned the weapon on himself; his last effort must have been to draw her closer. about them was wrapped the chain, idle and loose. surely death had no sting for them and the grave no victory, for the cold features were so illumined that the prince could hardly believe them dead. he turned the electric torch on the painter. he was a man about fifty, with long, iron-gray hair, and a stubble of three days' growth covering his face. it was a singularly ugly countenance, strong, but savagely lined, and the forehead corrugated with the wrinkles of long, mental labor. but death had made bertha beautiful. her eyes under the shadow of her lashes, seemed a deep-sea blue, and her loose, brown hair, falling across the white throat and breast, seemed almost golden under the light of the torch. a draft from the open door moved the hair and the heart of the prince stirred in him. he strove to loosen the arms of the painter, but they were frozen stiff by death. "she was a fool, and the loss is small," sighed the prince. "after all, perhaps god was nearer than i thought. i bound them together with a chain. he saw my act and must have approved, for see! he has locked them together forever. well, after all--_le dieu, c'est moi!_" third tale plumb nauseated by e. k. means i. "yes, suh, i feels plum' qualified to take on a wife." the black negro blushed to a darker hue and his face shone like polished ebony in the blazing august sun. in his embarrassment he twisted his shapeless wool hat into a wad, thrust it under his arm like a bundle, turned his back upon the white man's quizzical eyes, and sat down upon the lowest step of the porch. at the feet of the white man lay half a dozen pairs of handcuffs. he stooped and picked up a pair which showed rusty in the bright light, rubbed the rust off with sand-paper, squirted some oil into the mechanism from a little can, and busied himself for a few minutes seeing that his police hardware was in good condition. the sheriff remained silent for so long that the negro imagined he had been forgotten. then flournoy fired a question so unexpectedly that the black man winced: "what's your name?" "dey calls me plaster sickety." "gosh!" the sheriff exploded. "can any woman be induced to exchange a perfectly decent name for a smear like that?" "suttinly," the negro grinned. "dat gal's name ain't so awful cute. dey calls her pearline flunder." "plaster sickety and pearline flunder--help, everybody! what sort of children will issue from a matrimonial alliance of such names?" "i reckin our chillun will all be borned huns, marse john; but i cain't he'p it." under his manipulation the sheriff's worn handcuffs took on a polish like new. at intervals he glanced up from his task to see the sunlight spraying from the pecan-trees like water and the heat rising from the ground, visible as a boiling cloud. once he heard an eagle scream, and glanced toward the little mocassin swamp to behold a black speck sail into the haze that hung like a curtain of purple and gold upon the horizon. the negro sat motionless except for glowing black eyes restless as mercury and all-perceiving. suddenly the bear-trap mouth of the big sheriff twisted into a little smile. "how'd you like to give your girl one of these things for a wedding-present, plaster?" he asked, as he tossed a polished pair of handcuffs on the step beside the negro. "i's kinder pestered in my mind 'bout gittin' a fitten weddin'-present, marse john, but--" plaster rose to his feet and returned the manacles without completing his sentence. "how much money have you got?" flournoy asked. "i ain't got none till yit." "how you going to buy the license? how you going to pay the preacher?" flournoy asked. "dat's whut i come to git a view from you about, marse john. all de cullud folks gives you a rep dat you is powerful good to niggers an' i figgered dat you an' me mought fix up some kind of shake-down so i could git married 'thout costin' me nothin'." "don't you ever read the bible?" flournoy growled. "even adam's wife cost him a bone." "yes, suh," the negro grinned. "but i figger ef sheriff flournoy had been aroun' anywheres at dat time, maybe adam would 'a' got off a whole lot cheaper." "have you got a job to support your wife?" flournoy asked. "naw, suh." "have you got a house to live in?" "naw, suh." "where are you going to live with her--in a hollow sycamore-tree?" "yes, suh, i reckin so--dat is, excusin' ef you don't he'p us none." "where are you two idiots going to derive your sustenance--from the circumambient atmosphere?" "dat's de word, marse john--dat is, excusin' ef you don't loant us a hand in our troubles," the negro murmured, wondering what the sheriff's big talk meant. "do you love this black girl very much?" the sheriff asked with that odd turn of tone with which every man speaks of love when he is in love with love. "boss," the black man answered in a voice which throbbed, "i been lovin' dat gal ever since she warn't no bigger dan--dan--dan a june-bug whut had visited accidental a woodpecker prayer-meetin'." "is she good to look at, plaster?" flournoy smiled. "well, suh, i cain't lie to no white man, marse john; an' i tells you honest--she looks a whole heap better at night in de dark of de moon." "if she ain't a good-looker, why do you love her?" flournoy asked without a smile. "she's good sense an' jedgment, marse john," the black man answered earnestly. "an'--an'--i jes' nachelly loves her." flournoy studied a moment, twisting a pair of steel handcuffs in his giant hands. finally he spoke: "plaster, i have a cabin down on the coolie bayou which i have given to three young married couples in succession on the condition that they live there in peace and amity one year." "yes, suh." "every couple broke up and got a divorce within nine months." "too bad, marse john, dat's mighty po' luck." "you niggers think you love each other until you get hitched and then you don't stay hitched." "some shorely don't--dey don't fer a fack." "now i make you and pearline flunder this offer. i will buy your marriage license, pay vinegar atts to marry you, bear all the expense of a church wedding, give you a job so you can support your wife, and i will make you a present of that cabin down on the coolie bayou if you and your wife will live together for three days without busting up in a row." "three days, marse john!" the negro howled. "boss, i motions to make it thurty years!" "no!" flournoy snapped. "three days!" "i's willin', marse john," the negro laughed, cutting a caper on the grass. "all right!" the sheriff said as he stooped and picked up a pair of handcuffs. "now listen: i intend to cut the little chain on these two manacles and attach each cuff to a ten-foot chain. when you and pearline are married, i am going to put one of these manacles around her wrist and one around your wrist"--the negro showed the whites of his eyes--"and bind you two honey-loves together with a ten-foot chain." the negro looked behind him toward the gate and the public highway, took a tighter grip upon his hat, and made a furtive step backward. "you are to remain bound together for three days." the negro smiled and stepped forward. "at the end of that time you are to come here and report, and if you agree to spend the remainder of your life together, the cabin is yours!" "make it a two-feets chain, marse john, so us kin git clost to each yuther," plaster pleaded. "what i have spoken i have spoken," flournoy proclaimed autocratically. "now, go tell your sweetheart all about it." ii. the big four of tickfall sat around a much bewhittled pine table in the hen-scratch saloon. the room was hazy with their tobacco smoke. conversation languished. the session was about to adjourn until to-morrow at the same hour. figger bush laid his cigarette upon the edge of the table, lifted his head like a dog baying the moon, and chanted: "o you muss be a lover of de landlady's daughter or you cain't git a secont piece of pie!" before the other could catch the tune, the green-baize doors of the saloon were thrown open and a white man entered. every negro looked up into that granite face with its deep-set eyes, iron jaw, and rugged lines of strength and purpose, and smiled a joyful welcome: "mawnin', marse john. 'tain't no use to come sheriffin' down dis way. no niggers ain't done nothin'." "i am hunting for a methodist clergyman of color," flournoy grinned. "boss," vinegar atts chuckled as he rose to his feet, "i's de blackest an' best nigger preacher whut is, an' i b'lieves in de mefdis doctrine of fallin' from grace an' grease. ef you misdoubts my words, ax my wife. dat ole woman admits dat fack herse'f." "i want you to perform a wedding ceremony at the shoofly church to-night at seven o'clock," the sheriff announced. instantly the rev. vinegar atts thrust both hands into the pockets of his trousers and brought his hands out, turning out the pockets and showing them empty. "dar now, figger bush!" vinegar bellowed. "i tole you dat de good lawd would pervide a way fer me to pay fer dem near-booze grape-juices i been guzzlin' in yo' sinful saloom! five dollars will sottle wid you an' leave a few change over fer seegaws." "who's cormittin' mattermony, marse john?" mustard prophet wanted to know. "is it one of dese here shotgun weddin's?" "plaster sickety wishes to wed pearline flunder." "i knows 'em," hitch diamond rumbled from his big chest. "de good lawd will shore got to pervide fer dem coons like he do fer vinegar atts--nary one is got git-up enough to make a livin'." "those young colored honey-birds are under my special care and protection," flournoy announced, smiling. "i intend to house them and take care of them and get them work. they are an experiment." "de trouble wid experiments is dis, marse john," mustard chuckled, "sometimes dey bust in yo' face." "my plan is this," flournoy told them. "i am going to tie those two negroes together with a ten-foot chain and they are to live in peace and amity for three days." "lawdymussy, marse john!" the rev. vinegar atts bellowed. "did you ever tie two cats to each yuther an' hang 'em over de limb of a tree?" "yes." "does you recommember how quick dem cats got tired of each yuther's sawsiety an' fell out wid theirselves?" "certainly." vinegar jerked a yellow bandana handkerchief from the tail of his coat and mopped the top of his bald head. "you mought care fer dem niggers ef you ties em togedder, marse john. but you ain't gwine be able to pertection 'em--not from each yuther," vinegar announced as he slapped at his face with his kerchief. "i wouldn't be tied to my nigger wife wid a telephone-wire long enough to conversation de man in de moon. naw, suh! dat ole gal would be yankin' on dat line a catfish all de time. whoosh!" "i agrees wid dem religium sentiments," hitch diamond rumbled. "now you example goldie, my own wife. dat little yeller gal's maw is a lunatic, an' goldie ain't no lunatic, but she ain't got her right mind. i wouldn't mind bein' a dandylion in de lion's den, like de bible tells about--dat would gib me a chance to fight fer my gizzard. but chained up to goldie--" hitch broke off, shook his head in earnest negation, rubbed one giant hand around his iron-thewed wrist as if he could feel the holy bonds of matrimony and gave utterance to one expressive word: "gawd!" "hol' on, niggers!" figger bush exclaimed. "i don't foller you-alls in dem sentiments. now i been married to scootie gwine on two year an' i ain't never got too much of dat gal yit. i cherishes de opinion dat marse john could tie our heads togedder an' i wouldn't complain none." "i sides wid figger bush," mustard prophet grinned. "i been livin' off an' on wid hopey fer twenty year, an' dat gal is busted stovewood over my head off an' on plenty of times, but i don't bear her no grouch. she kin always make peace by givin' me some hot biskits an' a few sirup." "you four niggers talk too much," flournoy grinned. "i want you to get busy and decorate that shoofly church and pull the biggest tickfall church wedding ever seen in the social sets of our colored circles. i'll pay for everything." "us fo' niggers will git our wifes an' pull some kind of nice stunt ourselfs, too, marse john," vinegar howled. "we'll fix up a good send-off fer 'em." at seven o'clock that evening the flournoy automobile conveyed the happy pair to the shoofly church. the rev. vinegar atts proceeded with the ceremony until the bride sported a new ring and the two were pronounced man and wife with the solemn admonition: "whom god hath joined together, let not man put asunder!" thereupon sheriff flournoy stepped forward and with the ease of long practice slipped a manacle upon the right wrist of the bride and another upon the left wrist of the groom and snapped the handcuffs shut. figger bush stooped and lifted a long bottle from a bucket of ice. there was a loud pop, the cork struck against the ceiling, ricochetted around the walls of the room and caused a commotion by falling on vinegar's bald head. figger advanced with a tray containing three glasses and the sheriff toasted the bride and groom. the ten-foot chain rattled as the bride raised her manacled hand to drink. when they marched out of the church the entire congregation formed a procession and accompanied them to their cabin on the coolie bayou. they noticed that plaster sickety picked up the chain and wrapped a turn around his bride's neck and one about his own, thus shortening the bond and bringing them close together. they clamped their arms around each other's waists, and plodded solemnly through the deep dust of the crooked highway. "dat nigger cain't park his wife like a new automobile an' walk off an' leave her," vinegar chuckled. "he ain't actin' anxious to git away--now," hitch rumbled pessimistically. "not yit, but soon," vinegar agreed. approaching the cabin, plaster sickety's voice broke into exultant song, and through the negro's wonderful gift of improvisation, he produced this neat bit: "dar's a pearline pearl of price untold, an' dat pearline pearl cain't be bought wid gold; an' dat pearline pearl am good to see, fer dat pearline pearl b'longs to me!" "listen to dat fool!" hitch diamond chuckled. "he's singin' like a little black angel whut had swiped de pearliest pearl offen de pearly gates!" the bride and groom entered their cabin and softly closed the door. good night! iii. "looky here, pearline, i ain't used to totin' dis ole steel band on my wrist an' it hurts my feelin's," plaster complained as he sat at the breakfast-table before a meal which had been left on the door-step a few minutes before by hitch diamond. "don't begin to howl an' pull back like a dawg tied under a wagin, plaster," pearline urged prettily, as she helped herself to liberal portions of the breakfast prepared in sheriff flournoy's kitchen. "you won't kick about wearin' it as long as you loves me, will you?" "no'm," plaster said, as he lifted the chain to a more comfortable place upon the dining-table. "but i shore wish dat white man hadn't choosed such a heavy chain." "dis chain ain't heavy, plaster," pearline protested. "you hadn't oughter talk dat way. excusin' dat, i likes dis chain--it ties us to each yuther. don't you like it?" "yes'm, i shore does." "how come you complains about it fer?" "i ain't got no lament, pearline--dat is, i ain't mean it dat way." the bridegroom filled his mouth with food and for the next ten minutes ate voraciously. one watching him would draw the inference that he was not eating to enjoy the food so much as to find some occupation for his mouth beside speech. pearline reached out with her free hand and toyed with the chain, twisting it about her fingers lovingly, a dreamy light in her coal-black eyes. "us had de biggest weddin' in cullud circles, plaster," she murmured. "i ain't no cullud circle," plaster mumbled, his mouth full of food. "but i reckin i got to run circles aroun' you 'slong as dis ole chain stays on. don't rattle dat chain so loud, pearly! gosh! it makes a heap of racket fer its little size." "you jes' now said it wus a big, heavy chain fer its size," his wife reminded him in a sweetly argumentative tone. "yes'm, it am--dis chain is bofe little an' big--fer its size," the groom amended hastily. "stop talkin' about dis chain!" "you started dis talk," she reminded him reproachfully. "you said it hurted yo' wrist." there was a loud knock upon the door. plaster sprang up to answer. the chain jerked at his wrist. "good gawsh!" he snorted. "come to de door wid me, honey, so i kin open up." "i cain't, plaster," the bride exclaimed in a panic. "i ain't dressed fer comp'ny dis soon in de mawnin." "you's got on all de clothes you owns," the groom reminded her. "suttinly, but i ain't got no white powder on my black nose," she giggled. "come back in de nex' room an' let me fresh up befo' we opens de door." "i stayed in dar a plum' hour while you wus freshin' up fer yo' viteles," plaster grumbled. "don't git grumped up, plaster," pearline urged. "you ack like yo' love is commenced to wilt aroun' de edges." meekly the man followed her to the bedroom and stood for fifteen minutes while the bride primped her hair, powdered her nose, adjusted her collar, fiddled with her belt, put pins in her shirt-waist, took them out and deposited them in her mouth, put them back into her waist, turned around and looked at herself in the mirror, hunted for a fresh handkerchief and could not find it, located it at last in the bosom of her waist, wondered where she had left her chewing-gum, found it on top of the box of face-powder, and finally said: "come on--less hurry up. dat comp'ny will git tired waitin' fer us!" "dat comp'ny is gone done it," plaster sighed. "i peeped through de crack in de door an' seed 'em. hitch diamond knocked fo' times, den opened de door an' picked up dem breakfast-dishes an' trod out." "dat's too bad," pearline remarked with no interest whatever. she was looking at herself in the mirror. "i'd like to seen hitchie. he use to be one of my ole sweethearts." "come out an' set under de tree wid me an' mebbe dat ole sweetheart of yourn will come back," plaster suggested. "i don't like to git out in de sunshine," the girl replied. "dar's too much glare." "too much--which?" plaster asked. "glare." "yes'm." plaster stood looking at her helplessly, wondering where they were going from there. "does you love me, plaster?" the girl asked, siding up to him and stepping on the chain. "yes'm," plaster answered as he pulled the chain from under her feet and rubbed his wrist. "don't step on dat chain no mo'. you might break it." "how come you don't tell me you loves me?" "i done tole you 'bout fawty times dis mawnin'," plaster reminded her. "but you ain't never tole me onless i axed you." "less go somewhar an' set down an' i'll tell you a millyum times," plaster said eagerly. "bless gawd, i knows you loves me a plum' plenty, but i likes to hear you tell dem words. wait a minute till i puts--er--i b'lieve i oughter change de collar on dis dress. a clean one would make me look mo' fresher." plaster lingered until the woman was dressed to her fancy, resting his weight first on one impatient leg, then upon the other. "you wastes a heap of time fixin' yo'se'f, pearly," he sighed at last. "i hopes you'll soon git dressed up fer de day." "you wants yo' wife to look nice, don't you?" she asked reproachfully. "yes'm." "how kin i look nice 'thout takin' de time to dress?" they went out and sat down under the pecan-tree in the "glare." pearline seemed to have forgotten the glare. plaster lighted a cigarette, smoked it to the end, lighted another, smoked it to the end, and lighted another. then pearline remarked: "honey, does you love me more dan you loves dem cigareets?" "i shore does"--with moderate fervor. "does you love me a millyum times mo' dan you loves cigareets?" "suttinly." "den, fer gossake, throw dem cigareets away! dey smells like some kind o' fumigate." "i cain't do that, pearly. dese here smokes costes money. an' i couldn't affode to buy 'em ef i had to wuck fer de money. dey's a weddin' present." "is you gwine smoke all yo' married life?" "yes'm." "but you ain't gwine smoke no mo' fer de nex' three days, is you?" "no'm." pearline thrust her hand into plaster's pocket and brought forth his precious smokes. she concealed them in the mysterious recesses of her attire and plaster sighed deeply. ten minutes later the girl straightened up with a fierceness that nearly snapped her spinal column. "fer mussy sake, plaster sickety! whut is you got in yo' mouf?" "i's nibblin' a few crumbs of terbacker, honey," plaster said apologetically. "my gawsh! you aim to tell me dat you _chaws_?" "yes'm. i chaws a little bit now an' den. it kinder helps my brains to think an' sottles my stomick." there was a long silence. plaster stared straight ahead of him, his jaws moving with the regularity of a ruminant cow, his eyes counting the leaves on the trees, the pickets on the broken-down fence, and estimating the number of ants crawling out of a hill. then, unconsciously, he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. he did not find it. he heard a suspicious sound beside him and looked at pearline. "whut you cryin' about honey?" "you tole me you loved me more dan cigareets, an' yit you cain't set by me a minute 'thout chawin' terbacker," she wailed. "you is blood kin brudder to a worm an' a goat--nothin' else chaws!" "lawd!" plaster sighed in desperation. "i sees now dat i'm got to learn how to suck eggs an' hide de shells." suddenly a loud whoop was heard near at hand and out of the swamp came vinegar atts, figger bush, mustard prophet and hitch diamond. "hey, niggers!" plaster bawled. "come up an' set down. lawd, i nefer wus so glad to see nobody in my whole life." "good mawnin', sister pearline!" vinegar chuckled. "how is yo'-alls enjoyin' mattermony life by now?" "fine," the bride smiled, with a suspicion of tears still in her eyes. "praise de lawd!" exclaimed vinegar. "i wus skeart you niggers would be fightin' by now, an' mebbe one of yous would be draggin' de yuther on de end o' dat chain--dead!" "naw, suh!" plaster howled, as he snatched a cigar out of hitch diamond's pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "us is gittin' along puffeckly." plaster snatched his cigar from his lips with his manacled hand and flourished it with a motion of broad contentment. pearline gave the chain a quick jerk and the smoke flew from plaster's fingers and fell over in the high grass. "you two idjits look like a holy show to me," figger bush cackled. "how come you don't charge admissions to de show an' git rich?" "us wouldn't git rich quick," pearline giggled. hitch diamond had retrieved the cigar, and pearline had taken it from him and stuck it in her hair. "you-all is de onlies' comp'ny we is had till yit." "i hopes you niggers will stay wid us all day, brudders," plaster exclaimed earnestly. "we wus feelin' kinder--er--me an' pearline wus feelin' sorter--er--" "uh-huh," hitch diamond grunted knowingly. "dat's a fack. we ole married folks onderstan's dem feelin's. i'd feel dat way mese'f ef i wus in yo' fix. i'd whet up my teeth on a brick-bat an' bite myse'f in my own gizzard an' die." "not me!" figger bush howled. "ef i wus chained to dat little gal, i'd git me a plow-line an' wrop it aroun' our necks." "i would, too," vinegar bellowed. "but i'd tie de yuther eend of dat plow-line to a tree an' jump off de worl'." "i bet pearline don't hanker to jump offen no worl'," mustard prophet proclaimed. "look at her--she's jes' as happy as ef she had sense." the eyes of the four men turned upon the girl appraisingly. then pearline remembered that a few moments before she had been sniffling and shedding tears. she was sure her eyes were red, and she knew the tears had washed all the white powder off her black nose. quickly she rose to her feet, giving the ten-foot chain a sharp jerk. "i hates to take you from yo' frien's, plaster," she exclaimed, "but i'm got to go in. i cain't stand de glare." side by side they entered the cabin and the chain rattled as they shut the door. and the evening and the morning were the first day. iv. "stop scatterin' dem shavin's all over de floor, plaster," pearline commanded. "ef folks comes to see us, i don't want dis house all literated up wid trash." "i got to whittle while you sews, honey," plaster said patiently. "i wanted to sot out in the yard, but you kep' me in de house all yistiddy afternoon because you said you had de headache from de glare." "you kin whittle 'thout messin' up dis room," pearline snapped. "i likes a messy room," the man declared. "it looks like folks lived in it an' wus tol'able comfer'ble." "you cain't mess up my house ef i got to come atter you an' clean up," the woman replied in a tone of finality. a hound-dog stuck his wistful face into the door, seeking an invitation to enter. "dar's a frien' in need," the bridegroom proclaimed happily. "come here, dawg!" "git out o' here!" the woman shrieked, kicking at the hound and sending him out with a howl. "i don't want dat houn' in dis house scratchin' his fleas all over de rooms. look at de mud dat dawg tracked in. come wadin' through de bayou an' den come trackin' through de house!" "dar's some advantages in livin' a dawg's life, pearline," plaster sighed. "even excusin' de fleas, dar's plenty advantage. a dawg, even a married dawg, he ain't tied up all de time an' kin run aroun' some." "you aims to say you's gittin' tired stayin' here wid me?" pearline snapped. "no'm. nothin' like dat. i's happy as a mosquiter on a pickaninny's nose." "ef you feels tied up like a houn'-dawg in de middle of de secont day, how does you expeck to feel in de middle of de secont year?" plaster thought it best not to venture a reply. he looked through the open door at the hound, lying under the china-berry tree in the glare, placidly scratching fleas, bumping the elbow of his hind leg on the soft ground as he scratched. "don't you never answer no 'terrogations when i axes you?" pearline asked sharply. "how you gwine feel in de middle of de secont year?" out of sheer perversity plaster was disposed to tell her that he would feel dead and buried for at least a year before the time she mentioned, but instead he swallowed hard three times. his throat was dry and his tongue rasped his mouth like sandpaper. his answer, finally, was a song: "she'll be sweeter as de days go by; she'll git sweeter as de moments fly; she'll git sweeter an' be dearer as to me she draws mo' nearer-- sweeter as de days go by." thereupon pearline jumped from her chair, got strangle-hold upon her husband, sat down on him, and impressed him forcibly in the next half-hour that his wife was a heavyweight and the day was extremely warm. plaster made such a hit with his improvised song that he repeated it three times, then gradually eased his wife off his lap and onto a chair. "don't you never shave yo' face, plaster?" the lady asked when the love scene ended. "you feels like a stubby shoe-brush." "no'm, my whiskers don't pester me none." "but dey looks so bad," the woman urged. "i cain't see 'em," plaster grinned. "i wants you to shave eve'y day while you is married to me." "huh," plaster grunted. "an i wants you to brush up yo' clothes, plaster," the woman told him. "you looks scandalous dusty." "i looks as good as you does," plaster retorted. "i's got powdered dirt on my clothes an' you's got powdered chalk on yo' nose. you looks to dang dressy fer me anyhow. i favors bein' dusty an' easy-feelin'." the discussion ended by the appearance of three women who came to the open door from the highroad. "look at dat, now!" plaster exclaimed. "here comes three ole gals of mine. i co'ted 'em all servigerous but it didn't git me nothin'." "whut dey buttin' in here fer?" pearline asked in sharp tones. "mebbe dey'll tell us when dey comes in," plaster chuckled. the three women were the wives of hitch diamond, figger bush, and vinegar atts. when they entered they came straight to the point. "plaster, us ladies wants to talk to sister pearline flunder sickety in privut." "dat cain't be did, sisters," plaster answered, looking them over suspiciously. "whut does you want to tell my wife in privut?" "dat's a secret," scootie bush giggled. plaster looked at the women with an earnest effort to read their intentions. he recalled certain incidents in his association with the three in the old days of happy courtship that he preferred his wife should not know. he thought he saw mischief in the eyes of each of the women, especially scootie and goldie, and he shook his head. "nothin' ain't told in privut, sisters," he announced. "leastwise, not till after de third day." "does you aim to say dat i cain't conversation in privut wid my frien's?" pearline snapped. "no'm not perzackly dat," plaster hastened to explain. "but it looks kinder onpossible to me as long as i'm tied up wid you on dis chain." "git over again dat wall while dese ladies whispers to me," pearline replied, giving him a push. plaster sat down and strained his ears to hear. what he heard was spasmodic giggles. he saw mischievous glances directed to himself. once he saw his wife look straight at him reproachfully, as if she suspected that he was trying to overhear. there was half an hour of this, then the three giggling women took their departure. "whut did dem nigger women want, pearline?" plaster demanded. "dat's a fambly secret," pearline giggled. "does you think you oughter hab any secrets from yo' cote-house husbunt?" plaster demanded belligerently. "naw, suh. not no secrets dat stays secrets, but dis here little myst'ry will git public powerful soon." coming through the medium of plaster's troubled conscience, this answer sounded ominous. pearline picked up some sewing and plaster reached for his unwhittled stick. he spent one half-hour in deep thought. he was sorry he had told pearline that those three women were old sweethearts of his. he recalled that his courtship of each woman had broken up in a row and a fist-fight. it had been one-sided, the women conducting the row and doing all the fighting while plaster endeavored to escape. now plaster had no other idea than that they were hot on his trail. they were planning to make his life miserable through the jealousy of his wife. there was a loud knock on the front door. the two arose and the door opened to vinegar atts, figger bush, and hitch diamond. "sister sickety, us three niggers is a cormittee of three app'inted to wait in privut on brudder plaster sickety an' hol' a secret confab wid him," vinegar announced pompously. "i don't allow my husbunt to hab no secrets from me," pearline answered looking suspiciously at her old sweetheart, hitch diamond. "dis am a man's pussonal bizzness, pearline," hitch diamond rumbled. "a nigger woman is got to butt out." "but i's chained up wid plaster," pearline protested. "git over agin dat wall while dese gen'lemens whispers to me," plaster remarked, giving her a push toward the chair which he had occupied under similar circumstances a short time before. the three committeemen walked up close to plaster, draped their arms over his shoulders, and talked in whispers, but guffawed out loud. because pearline was present their eyes irresistibly sought hers, especially when they laughed--what man can keep from looking at the woman in a room?--and pearline inferred that they were talking and laughing about her. she strained her ears to hear, but not a word enlightened her ignorance. then with a loud laugh the three men patted plaster on the back and took themselves off. "whut did them niggers want, plaster?" pearline demanded in irate tones. "dat's a fambly secret," plaster quoted mockingly. "i felt like a fool wid dem mens lookin' at me an' snickerin'," the woman complained. "wus dey talkin' about me?" "yes'm," the man chuckled. this remark set pearline to thinking about certain incidents. hitch had been an old sweetheart, figger bush and vinegar atts had paid her courtly attentions, and some things had happened that she would rather not have to explain to her husband. there was a dismal depthless gulf of painful silence between the honeymooners for a long time. then pearline said with difficulty: "i don't like de nigger mens you 'socheates wid. dem three niggers ain't fitten comp'ny fer my husbunt." "dat's whut i thinks about dem three womens dat come to see you," plaster answered. "ef you runs wid dat color of petticoats i shore will disrespeck you mo' dan i does now." "i runs wid anybody i chooses," pearline snapped. "me, too," plaster retorted. they pulled apart and the chain rattled. they stepped back from the entrance and closed the door. and the evening and the morning were the second day. v. by sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the third day by half. in the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of their disposition and temperament. the day before plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of difference of opinion and argument--so he thought. while he and his wife were dressing, plaster began: "does you know dat i am dyin' fer a little bit of love? everywhar dey hears me sighin' fer a little bit of love. fer dat love dat grows mo' strong, fills de heart wid hope and song, i has waited--oh, so long-- fer a little bit of love." "whut makes you sing so dang loud, plaster?" pearline asked wearily, as she rested her head upon her hands. "you sounds like a brayin' jackace mournin' because he done tumbled down a open well." "one time you said you liked my singin'," plaster retorted. "i couldn't tell you whut i really thought about it in dem sad days," pearline remarked. they ate their noon meal in silence because neither could think of anything to say. plaster had got the hook at the very beginning of his musical career, and the things he thought of to say were not fit for utterance or publication. as they rose from the table, they looked with surprise out of the window. a long procession of negroes approached the cabin. all were dressed in their best clothes and the rev. vinegar atts was in the lead. the bridal pair suddenly remembered something, and they stepped out on the porch to receive them as they filled the space in front of the house. vinegar took his famous preaching attitude in front of the porch, inflated his lungs and began: "brudder an' sister sickety, us is all rejoiced dat you two honey-loves is got mighty nigh through wid yo' honey-tower widout no fuss or fight. we welcomes you back to our sawsiety wid glad arms. we hopes dat you will love each yuther mo' or less an' off an' on ferever! we knows dat you has well earnt dis house an' lot dat marse john flournoy has gib you an' we cullud folks wants to make you a present of a few change so you kin buy some nice house-furnicher an' start out fresh an' new." thereupon vinegar laid his stove-pipe hat upside down upon the floor of the porch, turned and surveyed the assembly while he mopped his bald head with a yellow bandana handkerchief. "walk right up, brudders an' sisters, an' drap yo' few change in dis stove-pipe preachin'-hat!" they came up one by one, laughingly depositing their money, and pausing to shake hands with the bride and groom. when the ceremony ended, vinegar emptied his hat upon the floor of the porch, placed it upon his head with a farewell flourish, and led the negroes out of the yard. "dis money is de fambly secret dem three nigger womens whispered to me, honey," pearline giggled. "dat's de myst'ry dem three committee fellers tole me," plaster chuckled. the two sat down and counted the money--twenty-five dollars and thirty cents! "dat thuty cents is yourn to spend foolish, pearline," plaster said generously as he pushed three dimes toward her and clutched with both hands at the rest. "hol' on nigger!" pearline snapped. "i ain't no bayou minnow to git jes' a little nibble of dat money--half of dat cash spondulix is mine." "yes'm, but i is de man of de fambly an' i oughter keep it an' han' it out to you as you needs it." "i needs my half right now," pearline snapped, placing both her hands upon the clutching paws of plaster sickety. "whut you gwine do wid twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" plaster demanded in irate tones. "buy me a hat!" pearline told him. "you's a fool!" plaster informed her. "female hats ain't furnicher." "dis money furnishes me wid a hat," she announced positively. then they sat for a few minutes in silence, both keeping their hands spread out over the money. "whut you gwine do wid yo' twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" pearline demanded at last. "i figgers on buyin' a fiddle," plaster told her. "plenty money kin be made playin' fiddles, an' i b'lieves i could learn to fiddle ef i had a good chance." "i ain't gwine hab no fiddlin' nigger in my house," pearline snorted. "i's druther be married to a phoneygraft." "you ain't gwine be married to nothin' very long ef you don't leggo dis money, nigger!" plaster snarled. "i is." "you ain't." "don't gimme no sass." "you sassed me fust." the woman raised one hand from the money and made an unexpected sideswipe at plaster's jaw with her open palm. the blow landed with a smack that jarred the very marrow of his bones and keeled him over the edge of the porch to the ground. as he fell sprawling, the chain tightened and jerked pearline off her perch and she fell to the ground with a squall. then for ten minutes there was a kilkenny cat scrap on the front lawn. pearline bit and scratched and pulled hair and tore clothes. she had decidedly the best of the rookus until her unusual activities caused her to get a twist of the chain around her neck. plaster thanked the lord and choked her into inaction and submission by the simple process of pretending to escape from her and thus tightening the chain. when she was choked almost to suffocation, he edged her to the porch, lifted the twenty-five dollars and thirty cents into his own pockets, and released the chain. [illustration: "the blow landed with a smack that jarred the very marrow of his bones and keeled him over the edge of the porch to the ground."] when pearline recovered her breath she dropped flat upon the ground at her feet and howled like a comanche until the going down of the sun. plaster did not attempt to console or quiet her. when he spoke again, he reached out and touched the bawling woman with his foot. "git up idjit!" he exclaimed. "marse john expecks us to come an' repote to him an' git dese here handcuffs tuck off." sheriff john flournoy was waiting for them as they came across his lawn to the porch where he sat. then for half an hour he listened to a tirade of crimination and recrimination which crackled with profane expletives like thorns under a pot. when plaster paused to breathe, pearline took up the complaint. when pearline stopped from exhaustion, plaster resumed his lamentations. when the storm of vituperation subsided, flournoy sat in his chair like a man who had been pounded over the head with a brick. it was some time before he could formulate his ideas. then he spoke with difficulty. "i judge from what i have heard that your three days' experience together has convinced you that your tastes are entirely dissimilar and your natures incompatible." "yes, suh, dat's c'reck." "the information you offer conveys to me the impression that a woman loves shadows, but a man loves sunshine and glare; a woman loves dress, but a man loves tobacco; a woman desires daintiness and neatness attended with any degree of discomfort, but a man prefers comfort with no matter how much litter and mess; a woman loves indoor sports, like sewing, and a man loves outdoor sports, like whittling sticks and making the acquaintance of a hound-dog with fleas on his body and mud on his feet; a man loves to sing and hear himself sing, and the woman prefers to hear some other man sing; a woman wants her female companions with their confidences and their secrets, and a man desires his male companions and their secrets, but neither party to the matrimonial alliance is willing that the partner should keep a secret. am i right as far as i've gone?" "dat's right!" they said in positive tones. "but de fuss part, marse john, is de money!" the woman shrieked. "certainly," flournoy agreed softly. "matrimony is always a matter of money." then flournoy took a key from his pocket and opened the bracelets on their wrists. the chain fell at their feet. the bride and bridegroom looked away, each ignoring the presence of the other. plaster sickety thrust both hands into his pockets, brought out twenty-five dollars and thirty cents and laid it into the open palm of the sheriff. "fer gawd's sake, git me a deevo'ce!" he pleaded. "make it two, marse john," the girl urged. "i's plum' nauseated wid dat nigger man." the bride and bridegroom turned and walked away, choosing different paths and going in opposite directions. they did not look back. the sheriff stooped and picked up the rattling chain. then he went into the house and slammed the door. the evening and the morning were the third day, and-- fourth tale princess or percheron by perley poore sheehan i. some queer things had taken place in this same hall--some very queer things; but there were indications that this present affair was going to be queerer yet. the old duke always had been a worthy descendant of his ancestors; like them, a little mad, with flashes of genius, very fine, very brutal, a murderer at heart, with a love for poetry and philosophic speculation. the guests were already in a smiling tremor of curiosity when they arrived. some of them whispered among themselves: "it's on account of the princess gabrielle." "they say the duke is furious." "not astonishing. but--a marriage! how can there be a marriage?" yet it looked as if a marriage there would be. manifestly, the hall had been prepared for some such event. it was a chamber long, lofty and broad, walled and floored with the native burgundy rock, richly carpeted, hung with tapestry. and down a portion of the length of this ran a wide table already spread with the viands of a wedding-feast--huge cold pasties, hams and boarheads beautifully jellied, fresh and candied fruits from spain and sicily, flagons and goblets of crystal, silver, and gold. what aroused curiosity and conjecture to the highest point, however, was the discovery that the immense fireplace of the hall had been transformed into a forge. it was a forge complete--bellows and hearth, anvil and tub, hammers and tongs. there was even a smutty-faced imp there to tend the forge fire, which already hissed and glowed as he worked the bellows. "aha! so there _was_ a smith mixed up in the affair, after all!" "_mais oui!_ gaspard, the smith, whose forge is down there on the banks of the rhone." "but what does the duke intend to do?" it was a question which more than one was asking. there was never any forecasting what a whim of the duke might lead him to do even in ordinary circumstances--declare war on france, call a new crusade. and now, with this menace of scandal in his family! there in front of the fireplace where the forge had been set up, the valets had placed the ducal chair. all the same, the arrangements had something sinister about them. there fell a period of silence touched with panic. but not for long. curiosity was too acute and powerful to be long suppressed. the whispering resumed: "the duke surprised them together--the princess and her smith." "it looks like the torture for one or both." "they say the fellow's an apollo, a hercules." "you wait until the duke--" "silence! he comes." one of the large doors toward the farther end of the hall was thrown open, and through this there came a surge of music--hautboys, viols, and flutes. two guardsmen came in, helmeted, swords drawn, and took up their stations at either side of the door. there entered the duke. he looked the philosopher, perhaps, if not the student--tall, bent, bony; a brush of white hair bristling over the top of his high and narrow head; a fleshless face, sardonic and humorous. the guests were pleased to see that his mood was amiable. he came forward smiling, waved his musicians into retreat; and half a dozen valets were assisting him into his chair as he greeted his guests. they all bent the knee to him. some kissed his hand--and some he kissed, especially those who were fair and of the opposite sex. if princess gabrielle had shown herself fragile in the matter of her affections, well, she had come by her failing honestly. seated in his chair, the duke delivered himself of a little pun which convulsed his audience--something about "court and courtship": "_je fais--la cour._" and with no other preliminary he spoke to a page: "summon _mademoiselle_." then to another: "fetch in the smith." there was a bitter smile on his face as he sank back into his chair and studied the forge set up in the fireplace. the imp went white under his smudge and worked the bellows until the fire on the hearth was spouting like a miniature vesuvius. the wait was brief. once more the musicians struck into the royal march of burgundy, and there was the princess gabrielle. every one who looked at her must have experienced some thrill of the heart--envy, desire, pure admiration. it was impossible to look at her without some emotion; for she was eighteen, slender, white and passionate; with dusky, copper-colored hair hanging in two heavy curls forward over her brilliantly tender shoulders; and she had a broad, red mouth, and slightly dilated nostrils; dark eyes, liquid and heavily fringed, with disquieting shadows under them. she came forward with a number of maidens in her train, but she so dominated them that she appeared to be alone. she took her time. she was a trifle rebellious, perhaps. but she was brave, not to say bold. she tossed her head slightly. she smiled. she and her maidens, familiar with the duke's intentions, grouped themselves at one side of the improvised forge. every one present was still looking at her when there came a rough command: "stand aside!" a good many of the guests were not in the habit of hearing orders except from the duke himself; but the command came again: "stand aside! let me pass--me and my people!" at that there was a rapid shifting of the crowd and a whispered cry: "the smith! it's gaspard the smith!" and he attracted even more attention than the princess had done; for, manifestly, here was not only a man who could play the game of love, but could play the game of life and death as well--to shout out like this, and come striding like this into the presence of his ruler. but he looked the part. he was all of six feet tall, blond and supple and beautifully fleshed. he was wearing his blacksmith's outfit of doeskin and leather, but he was scoured and shaven to the pink. his great arms were bare; and the exquisitely sculptured muscles of these slipped and played under a skin as white as a woman's. he stood there with his shoulders back, his arms folded, feet apart. but, curiously, there was no insolence in the posture. insolence is a quality of the little heart, the little soul, and shows itself in the eyes. gaspard the smith had gentle blue eyes, large, dark, fearless, and with a certain brooding pride in them. there may have been even a hint of virgin bashfulness in them as well, during that moment he glanced at the princess gabrielle. then he had looked at the duke, and all his courage had come back to him, perhaps also a suggestion of challenge. but neither had the smith come into the ducal presence alone. there were two old people--a man and a woman, peasants, both of them very poor, very humble, so frightened that they could breathe only with their mouths open; and so soon as they were inside the circle of guests, they had dropped to their knees. the other member of the smith's party would have done the same had he permitted. this was a girl of twenty or so, likewise a peasant, healthy, painfully abashed, but otherwise not notable. to her the smith had given a nudge and a word of encouragement, so that now she stood close to him and back of him. "our friends," said the duke, with studied nonchalance, "we are about to present to you the initial operation of scientific experiment. like all scientific research, this also should be judged solely by its possible contribution to the advancement of human happiness. ourself, we feel that this contribution will be great. god knows it is concerned with a problem that is both elusive and poignant." all this was rather above gaspard's head. he turned to the imp at the bellows. "stop blowing that fire so hard," he whispered. "you're wasting charcoal." the duke smiled grimly. "the problem," he continued, "is this: can any man and woman, however devoted, continue to love each other if they are too closely held together?" there was a slight movement among some of the younger gentlemen and ladies present--a few knowing smiles. "there have always been those who answered _no_; there have always been those who answered _yes_," the duke went on. "which were right?" no answer. "my granddaughter here, while having her horse shod some weeks ago, became enamored of this worthy subject of mine." he nodded toward the smith. "she would have him. she would have no one else. we knew how hopeless would be any attempt to impose our will--in an affair of the heart." he smiled gallantly. "we are familiar with the breed." "long live the house of burgundy," cried the chivalrous young vicomte de mâcon. but the duke silenced him with a look. "and now," said the duke, "we wish to test this so great passion of hers--test it under conditions that while apparently extraordinary are none the less classical and scientific. our experiment is this--" for the first time since he began to speak the duke now leaned forward, and both his face and his voice took on that quality which made his name a source of trembling from spain to denmark. "our experiment is this: "_to have the princess and her smith, whom she is so sure she loves, handcuffed and linked together by a ten-foot chain._" ii. there was a gasp from the audience. every one stared at the princess. even the duke himself. without turning his head he took her in with his furtive eyes. "_mlle. la princess_," he said icily, "was good enough to insist upon the sacrifice." at this, a stain of richer color slowly crept up the throat of the princess gabrielle; there came a touch of extra fire to her eyes. perhaps she would have spoken. but the duke hadn't finished yet. "we'll see whether she loves him so much or not," said the duke. "we'll give them three days of it--three days to go and come as they wish--and to do as they wish--together--always together--bound to each other by their ten-foot chain." but while the excitement caused by the duke's announcement was still crisping the nerves of every one present, the smith had cast one more glance in the direction of the princess gabrielle. and this time their eyes met. there were those who saw a glint of terror--of delicious terror--in the eyes of the princess; and in the eyes of gaspard a look intended to be reassuring. then the smith had unfolded his arms, thrust them forward. "wait," he cried. at that there was a fresh sensation. for it was seen that one of his wrists--his left--was already encircled by a bracelet of shining steel, forged there of a single piece, and that to the bracelet itself there was forged a link, fine but powerful, and that other links ran back over his shoulder. "ha!" snarled the duke. "so you've come prepared!" "by the grace of god!" replied gaspard the smith, unafraid. he cast a look about him, brought his eyes back to the duke. "_moi_, gaspard," he said, "i forge my own chains--always! i'm a smith, i am." the two old people kneeling just back of him began to sob and to groan. gaspard turned and looked down at them. "shut up," he ordered; "i'm talking." he smiled at the duke. he explained. "you see, they're frightened," he said. "when i found out what your highness and your highness's lady-granddaughter were planning up here in the castle, why, i went to these old folks and told them that i wanted their daughter susette." "i suppose you loved her," the duke put in with ironical intent. but the smith saw no reason for irony. "eh, _bon dieu_!" he ejaculated. "and save your highness's respect, we've loved each other ever since we were out of the cradle, we have. so i made the old folks consent. i'm a smith, i am. i forge my own chains. stand around, susette! his highness won't hurt you. look!" he stepped aside. he gave a gentle thrust to the girl who had been sheltering back of him. the chain rattled. and there was another cry of surprise. one of the girl's wrist's also was ornamented with a steel handcuff tightly welded. not only that, but to this also was attached a chain. the smith threw up his arm. it was the same chain that was welded to his own handcuff--ten feet of it, glistening steel, unbreakable. "there's your ten-foot chain, highness," cried gaspard. "and it's no trick-chain, either," he added. "it's a chain that will hold. you bet it will. i forged it myself, and i know. it's a chain you couldn't buy. why? because--because the iron of it's mixed with love. nor can it be cut, nor filed, nor broken. i'm a smith, i am. and each link of it i tempered myself--with sweat and blood." there for a time it was a question--possibly a question in the mind of the duke himself--just how many minutes the smith still had to live. many a valet had been executed for less. during a period of about thirty seconds the duke's face went black. then the blackness dispersed. he slowly smiled. after all, he wasn't to be cheated of his experiment. but he answered the question that was in his own mind and the minds of all the others there as he looked at the smith and said: "fool, you'll be sufficiently punished--by your own device." he let his eyes drift again to the princess gabrielle. "and thou," he said, "art sufficiently punished already." iii. it happened to be a day of late spring; and as gaspard and this strangely wedded bride of his and her parents came out of the castle, both fed and forgiven, it must have seemed to all of them that this was the most auspicious moment of their lives. the old folks, who had partaken freely of the generous wines pressed upon them, had now passed from their trembling terror to a spirit of frolic. arm in arm, their sabots clogging, they did a rigadoon down the winding road. it was a spirit of tender elation, though, that dominated gaspard and susette. they were like two beings distilled complete from the mild and fragrant air, the sweet mistiness of the verdant valley, the purpling solemnity of the juras. "what did he mean, his highness?" asked susette as she pressed the smith's arm closer to her side. "what did he mean that you'd be punished by your own device?" gaspard looked down at her, pressed her manacled wrist to his lips, took thought. "i don't know," he answered gently. "he must be crazy. it's like calling it punishment when a true believer receives the reward of paradise." "you love me so much as that?" "_pardi!_" he ejaculated. "and thou?" "so much," she palpitated, "so much that when you looked at the princess like that--i wished you were blind!" at the bottom of the hill, the old folks, burgundians to the souls of them, happily bade the young couple to be off about their own affairs. they knew how it was with young married people. the old were obstacles--so they themselves well recalled--albeit that was more than twenty years ago. said gaspard fondly: "this business has put me back in my work; but we'll call this a holiday. shall we go to my cottage or into the forest? i know of a secret place--" "into the forest," whispered susette. "i don't like the forge. it makes me think--think of that cursed princess--and of the work that almost lost you to me." her blue eyes filmed as she looked up at him. "oh, gaspard, i also have dreamed so much--of love--a life of love with thee!" there was no one there to see. some day, perhaps, in the far distant future, this part of the world would be thickly populated. but this was not yet the case. gaspard brought his bride close to his breast, smiled gravely into her upturned face. he kissed her tears away. sweet susette! she was such a child! how little she knew of life! and yet what was that fragile, fluttering, elusive, tiny suggestion of a regret in the back of his brain? now he saw it; now it was gone--a silver moth of a thought, yet one, some instinct warned him, was there to gnaw a hole in his happiness. he said nothing about this to susette, of course; he chased it from his own joy. and this joy was a beautiful, tumultuous thing. "it's like the source of the rhone, which i saw one time--this joy of ours," he said with placid rapture. "all sparkling it was, and wild cataracts, and deep places, clean and full of mystery." "ah, i want it to be always like this," said susette. gaspard let himself go in clear-sighted thought. they were seated on a grassy shelf that overhung the great river. the forest hemmed them in on three sides like a wedding-bower fashioned to order; but here they could follow the rhone for miles--with its drifting barges, its red-sailed shallops, its hamlets, and villages. "yes, ever like the rhone," he said; "but growing, like the rhone, until it's broad and majestic and strong to carry burdens--" susette interrupted him. "kiss me," she said. "kiss me again. no--not like that; like you did a while ago." and gaspard, laughing, did as he was bidden. but what was that silver glint of something like a regret, something like a loss, that came fluttering once more across the atmosphere of his thought? susette, though, kept him diverted. she was forever popping in upon his reflections with innocent, childish questions; and he found this infinitely amusing. "did you desire me--more than the princess?" "beloved, i have desired you for years." "did you think me more beautiful--than she?" again gaspard laughed; but it set him to thinking. he liked to think. he thought at his forge, at his meals, nights when he happened to be awake. "love and beauty," he said, "these are created by desire. as a stone-cutter desires what is hidden in the rock, and hews it out and loves the thing he shapes, though it be as ugly as a gargoyle, because of the desire that brought it forth--" "do you think that i'm a gargoyle?" queried susette hastily. "certainly not." "then, why did you call me one?" so he had to console her again, and took a certain joy in it, although she protracted the dear, silly dispute by telling him that he had chained her to him simply so that he could torture her, and that he had wanted to spare the princess such suffering, and that therefore it was clear that he loved the princess more. "why, no," said gaspard; "as for that, she's really in love with that young sieur de mâcon." but thereupon susette wanted to know how he came to be so well informed as to the contents of the lady's heart. so the smith gave over any attempt to reason, except in the silences of his brain; and just confined his outer activities to cooings and caresses, as susette would have him do. yet his thought would persist. that was the trail of a great truth he had almost stated back there, about the place held by desire in the origins of love and beauty. he had watched a certain italian named botticelli do a mural painting in the duke's private chapel. lord, there was a passion! he had helped in the building of the cathedral at sens. lord, what fervor the builders put into their work! they were all like young lovers. the smith sat up. it was almost as if he had cornered that glinting moth of doubt. yes, they had been like young lovers--sieur botticelli, in pursuit of the beautiful; the church-builders in pursuit of god. but--and here was the point--what if their desire had been satisfied? the quest would have stopped. the vision of the artist would have faded. the steeple would have fallen down. for desire would have ceased to exist. "i'm hungry and i'm thirsty," said susette. he kissed her pensively. they started home. iv. "gaspard! gaspard!" the smith sat up swiftly on his couch. "what's the matter?" he demanded. all the same, in spite of certain disquieting dreams, it struck him as sweet and curious to be awakened like that by susette. but he perceived that she was alarmed. "some one hammers at the door," she said. then he heard it himself, that thing he had already been hearing obscurely in his sleep. "coming!" he yelled. and he smilingly explained to susette: "it's my old friend, joseph, the carter. he'd bring his work to me if he had to travel five leagues." and he was for jumping up and running to the door. "wait," cried susette. "i'll have to go with you, and i can't be seen like this." "that's right," said gaspard. "that confounded chain! i'd forgotten all about it." so he called out again to his friend, and the two of them held quite a conversation while susette tried to make herself presentable. but gaspard turned to her as she shook her hair out for the third time, starting to rearrange it. "quick!" he urged. "he's in a hurry. one of his horses has cast a shoe." "you can't show yourself like that, either," cried susette, playing for time. "me?" laughed gaspard. "i'm a smith. i'd like to see a smith who couldn't show himself in singlet and apron!" "you look like a brigand." but he merely laughed: "joseph won't mind." and, indeed, joseph the carter did appear to have but little thought for anything except the work in hand. for that matter, neither, apparently, did gaspard. after the first few brief civilities and the inevitable jests about the chain, their attention was absorbed at once by the horses. there were four of these--percherons, huge monsters with shaggy fetlocks and massive feet; yet joseph and gaspard went about lifting these colossal hoofs, and considering them as tenderly as if the two had been young mothers concerned with the feet of babes. at last susette let out a little cry, and both men turned to look at her. "i faint," she said weakly. and gaspard sprang over and caught her in his arms. he was filled with pity. he was all gentleness. "are you sick?" he asked. "it was the odor of the horses," susette replied in her small voice. joseph the carter seemed to take this as some aspersion on himself. "those horses don't smell," he asserted stoutly. but gaspard signaled him to hold his place. "you'll be all right in a second or so," he told his wife. he spoke gently; although, as a matter of fact, he himself could find nothing about those magnificent animals to offend the most delicate sensibility. "you'll be all right. you can come into the forge and sit down while i shoe the big gray." "that will be worse than ever," wailed susette. joseph the carter was an outspoken man, gruff and honest. "and there's a woman for you," he said, "to be not only wed but welded to a smith! _nom d'un tonnerre!_ say, then, gaspard, i'm in a hurry. shall we start with the gray?" "yes," gaspard answered softly, as he continued to support susette. "no, no, no!" cried susette. "not to-day! i'm too sick." "_mais, chérie_," gaspard began. "you love your work better than you do me," sobbed susette. "_nom d'un pourceau!_" droned joseph. "but this work is important," gaspard argued desperately. "the gray has not only cast a shoe, but the shoes on the others are loose. they've got to be attended to. it's work that will bring me in a whole _écu_." "i don't care," said susette. "i can't stand the smell of those horses, and i could never, never bear the smell of the hot iron on their hoofs." "but i'm a smith," argued gaspard. it was his ultimate appeal. "i told you that you loved your work more than you did me," whimpered susette, beginning to cry. "'_i'm a smith; i'm a smith_'--that's all you've talked about since you got me in your power." joseph the carter went away. he did so shaking his head, followed by his shining percherons, which were as majestic as elephants, but as gentle as sheep. there was a tugging at gaspard's heart as he saw them go. such horses! and no one could shoe a horse as could he. he looked down at susette's bowed head as she lay there cuddled in his arms. that despairing cry was again swelling in his chest: "but i'm a smith." he silenced it. he stroked the girl's head. as he did so, he was mindful as never before of the clink and jangle of the chain. v. "what do you want me to do?" he asked that afternoon as they lay out in the shade of the poplars along the river bank. "i want you to love me," she answered. "i do love you. but we can't live on love--can we, susette?--however pleasant that would be. i've got to work." "ah, your _sacré_ work!" "still, you'll admit that you can't pick up _écus_ in the road." "you're thinking still of that miserable carter." "no; but i'm thinking of his horses. somebody's got to shoe them. you can't let them go lame--or be lamed by a bungler. i could have done that job as it should have been done." "but i tell you," declared susette, pronouncing each word with an individual stress, "i can't support the grime and the odors and the racket of your forge. you ought to find some work that i do like. we could collect wild salads together--pick wild-flowers and sell them--something like that." gaspard sighed. "but a man's work is his work," he averred. "there you go again," said susette, and the accusation was all the more damning in that it was spoken not in anger, but in grief. "now that i've given myself to you--done all that you wished--you want to get rid of me; you want me to die." "haven't i told you a thousand times," cried gaspard softly and passionately, "that i love you more than any man has ever loved any woman? haven't i spent whole days and nights--yes, years--of my life desiring you? haven't i proven it? come into my arms, susette. ah, when i have you in my arms like this--" "and it's only like this that i know happiness, my love," breathed the girl. "yes; i'm jealous! jealous of everything that can take you from me, body or spirit, if even for a moment. all women are like that. we live in jealousy. what's work? what's ambition, honor, duty, gold as compared with love?" but late that night gaspard the smith roused himself softly from his couch. he lay there leaning on his elbow and stared out of the window of his cottage. susette stirred at his side, undisturbed by the metallic clinking. otherwise the night was one of engulfing, mystical silence. just outside the cottage the great river rhone flowed placid and free in the light of the young moon. up from the river-bottoms ran the vine-clad slopes of burgundy as fragrant as gardens. there was no wind. it was all swoon and mystery. "lord god!" cried gaspard the smith in his heart. it was a prayer as much as anything--an inspiration that he couldn't get otherwise into words. he was of that race of artist-craftsmen whose forged iron and fretted steel would continue to stir all lovers of beauty for centuries to come. "it's true," that inner voice of his spoke again, "that desire is the driving force of the world. 'twas desire in the heart of god that led to creation. 'tis so with us, his creatures--desire that makes us love and embellish. but when desire is satisfied, then desire is dead, and then--and then--" and yet, as he lay there, buffeted by an emotion which he either would not or could not express, his eyes gradually focused on the castle of the great duke of burgundy up there on top of the hill--washed in moonlight, dim and vast; and it was as if he could see the princess gabrielle at her casement, kneeling there, communing with the night as he was doing. did she weep? he had caught that message in her eyes as she had looked at him up there in the castle hall--had seen the same message before. but never had she looked so beautiful--or as she looked now in retrospect--skin so white, mouth so tender, shape so stately, yet so slim and graceful. oddly enough, thought of her now filled him with a vibrancy, with a longing. and brave! hadn't she shown herself to be brave though--to stand up like that there before her grandfather, him whom all europe called louis the terrible, and declare herself ready to be welded to the man of her choice! she wouldn't faint in the presence of horses! and where couldn't a man go if led by a guardian angel like that? slaves had become emperors; blacksmiths had forged armies, become the architects of cathedrals. his breathing went deep, then deeper yet. the sweat was on his brow. he sat up. he seized the chain in his powerful hands, made as if he were going to tear it asunder. but after that moment of straining silence he again lifted his face. "_seigneur-dieu_," he panted; "if--if i only had it to do over again!" vi. "it's gaspard the smith," said the frightened page. "he craves the honor of an interview." the duke looked up from his parchment. "gaspard the smith?" the duke was seated before the fireplace in the hall. the forge had been removed; and instead there were some logs smoldering there, for the morning was cool. but his glance recalled the circumstances of his last encounter with the smith. the watchful page was quick to seize his cue. "he comes alone," the page announced. the duke gave a start, then began to chuckle. "_tiens! tiens!_ he comes alone! 'tis true, this is the time limit i set. send the creature in." and his highness continued to laugh all the time that the page was gone. but he laughed softly, for he was alone. presently he heard a subdued clinking of steel. he greeted his subject with a sly smile. most subjects of louis the terrible would have been overjoyed to be received by their sovereign so graciously. but gaspard the smith showed no special joy. he wasn't nearly so proud, either, as he had been that other time he had appeared before his lord. he bent his knee. he remained kneeling until the duke told him to get up. the duke was still smiling. "so my three days were enough," said his highness. "enough and sufficient," quoth the smith. now that he was on his feet again he was once more the man. he and the duke looked at each other almost as equals. "tell me about it," said louis. "well, i'll tell you," gaspard began; "you see, i'm a smith." "but incapable of forging a chain strong enough to hold a woman." "i'm not so sure," gaspard replied. "it was a good chain." he put out his left wrist and examined it. the steel handcuff was still there. up and back from it ran the chain which the smith had been carrying over his shoulder. he hauled the chain down. he displayed the other end of it, still ornamented by the companion bracelet. "what happened? how did she get out of it?" queried the duke. "she got thin," gaspard responded with melancholy. "she didn't want me to work. she wanted the money that i could earn. yes. she even wanted me to work. but it had to be her kind of work; something--something--how shall i say it?--something that wouldn't interfere with our love." "and you didn't love her?" "sure i loved her," flared the smith. "eh--_bon dieu_! i wouldn't have coupled up with her if i hadn't loved her; but, also, i loved something else. i loved my work. i'm a smith. i'm a shoer of horses, a forger of iron, a worker in steel. i'm what the good god made me, and i've the good god's work to do! "so after a certain amount of honeymoon i had to get back to my forge. joseph the carter, his percherons; who could shoe them but me?" "and she didn't like that?" "no. when i made her sit in my forge she pined and whined and refused to eat. i was crazy. but i did my work. and this morning when i awoke i found that she had slipped away." "you were already enchained," said his highness, "by your work." the smith misunderstood. "you can see it was no trick chain," he said, holding up the chain he himself had forged and playing with the links. "aye," said the duke, for he loved these philosophic disquisitions, when he was in the mood for them. "aye, chains are the nature of the universe. the planets are chained. the immortal soul is chained to the mortal body. the body itself is chained to its lusts and frailties." "i'm a smith," said gaspard, "and i want to work." "we're not happy when we are chained," the duke continued to reflect aloud. "but i doubt that we'd be happier were our chains to disappear. no matter." he regarded gaspard the smith with real benignancy. "at least you've proven the fatal quality of one particular chain--the thing i wanted to prove. and--you've saved the princess." "'twas of her i wanted to speak," gaspard spoke up. "this is a good chain. i forged it myself." "yes, i know you're a smith," said the duke. "well, then," said gaspard, "i've been thinking. suppose--now that i've still got it on me--that we try it on the princess, after all." he noticed the duke's look of amazement. "i'm willing," said gaspard. "i'm willing to have another try--" "_dieu de bon dieu!_" quoth the duke. "never content!" he recovered himself. he felt kindly toward the smith. "haven't you heard?" he demanded. "the princess has forged a chain of her own. she eloped with that young sieur de mâcon the same day you declined to chain her to yourself." transcriber's note: spelling, punctuation and grammar have been retained except as follows: page bear of leaves _changed to_ bare of leaves page enternal laws of logic _changed to_ eternal laws of logic page what has love to _changed to_ what has love to do page completely locked the hall _changed to_ completely blocked the hall page borne a thousand times _changed to_ born a thousand times page but the were frozen _changed to_ but they were frozen page flourney studied a moment _changed to_ flournoy studied a moment page "no!" flourney snapped _changed to_ "no!" flournoy snapped page enlightened her igorance _changed to_ enlightened her ignorance page i ain't no bayou _changed to_ "i ain't no bayou page its my old friend _changed to_ it's my old friend page no, matter. _changed to_ no matter. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. love after marriage; and other stories of the heart. by mrs. caroline lee hentz. author of "linda; or, the young pilot of the belle creole," "the banished son," "courtship and marriage; or, the joys and sorrows of american life," "the planter's northern bride; or, scenes in mrs. hentz's childhood," "eoline; or, magnolia vale; or, the heiress of glenmore," "ernest linwood; or, the inner life of the author," "helen and arthur; or, miss thusa's spinning-wheel," "rena; or, the snow bird," "the lost daughter," "marcus warland; or, the long moss spring," "robert graham;" a sequel to "linda," etc. this volume contains some of the most charming stories ever written by mrs. caroline lee hentz, among which will be found: "love after marriage." "the victim of excitement." "the blind girl's story." "the parlour serpent." "the shaker girl." "a rainy evening." "three scenes in the life of a belle." "the fatal cosmetic." "the abyssinian neophyte." "the village anthem." "the brown serpent." "my grandmother's bracelet," and "the mysterious reticule." philadelphia: t. b. peterson & brothers; chestnut street. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by t. b. peterson & brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states, in and for the eastern district of pennsylvania. mrs. caroline lee hentz's works. each work is complete in one large duodecimo volume. _linda; or, the young pilot of the belle creole._ _robert graham. a sequel to "linda."_ _rena; or, the snow bird. a tale of real life._ _eoline; or, magnolia vale; or, the heiress of glenmore._ _marcus warland; or, the long moss spring._ _ernest linwood; or, the inner life of the author._ _the planter's northern bride; or, scenes in mrs. hentz's childhood._ _helen and arthur; or, miss thusa's spinning-wheel._ _courtship and marriage; or, the joys and sorrows of american life._ _love after marriage._ _the lost daughter._ _the banished son._ price $ . each in morocco cloth; or $ . in paper cover. above books are for sale by all booksellers. copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the publishers, t. b. peterson & brothers, chestnut street, philadelphia, pa. contents. love after marriage, page the victim of excitement, the blind girl's story, the parlour serpent, the shaker girl, a rainy evening, three scenes in the life of a belle, the fatal cosmetic, the abyssinian neophyte, the village anthem, the bosom serpent, my grandmother's bracelet, the mysterious reticule, love after marriage. a stranger was ushered into the parlour, where two young ladies were seated, one bonneted and shawled, evidently a morning visiter, the other in a fashionable undress, as evidently a daughter or inmate of the mansion. the latter rose with a slight inclination of the head, and requested the gentleman to take a chair. "was mr. temple at home?" "no! but he was expected in directly." the young ladies exchanged mirthful glances, as the stranger drew nearer, and certainly his extraordinary figure might justify a passing sensation of mirth, if politeness and good feeling had restrained its expression. his extreme spareness and the livid hue of his complexion indicated recent illness, and as he was apparently young, the almost total baldness of his head was probably owing to the same cause. his lofty forehead was above the green shade that covered his eyes in unshadowed majesty, unrelieved by a single lock of hair, and the lower part of his face assumed a still more cadaverous hue, from the reflection of the green colour above. there was something inexpressibly forlorn and piteous in his whole appearance, notwithstanding an air of gentlemanly dignity pervaded his melancholy person. he drew forth his pocket-book, and taking out a folded paper, was about to present it to miss temple, who, drawing back with a suppressed laugh, said--"a petition, sir, i suppose?"--then added in a low whisper to her companion--"the poor fellow is perhaps getting up a subscription for a wig." the whisper was very low, but the stranger's shaded though penetrating eyes were fixed upon her face, and the motion of her lips assisted him in a knowledge of their sound; he replaced the paper in his pocket-book--"i am no petitioner for your bounty, madam," said he, in a voice, whose sweetness fell like a reproach on her ear, "nor have i any claims on your compassion, save being a stranger and an invalid. i am the bearer of a letter to your father, from a friend of his youth, who, even on his death-bed, remembered him with gratitude and affection; will you have the goodness to present to him my name and direction?" then laying his card upon the table, he made a low bow and retreated, before miss temple had time to apologize, if indeed any apology could be offered for her levity and rudeness. she approached the table and took up the card--"gracious heavens!" she exclaimed--"it cannot be possible?--sydney allison--that bald, yellow, horrid-looking creature--sydney allison! they described him as the perfection of manly beauty--i never will believe it--he is an impostor--the wretch!" the young lady who was with her, beheld with astonishment, the passion that lighted up miss temple's face, and her looks besought an explanation. "have you not heard," said miss temple, "since you came to this city, that i was betrothed; that i had been so from a child, to a young gentleman residing in cuba, whose uncle was the bosom friend of my father? you must have heard it, for my father has always taken pains to circulate the report, so that no one might presume upon my favour. and this is the delectable bridegroom! the one who has been represented as clothed in every grace calculated to fascinate a female heart--and i, fool that i was, i believed it, and looked forward with rapture to the hour of our first meeting." here she paused, and throwing herself back in her chair, burst into a passion of tears. mary manning, her more rational companion, endeavoured to soothe the excited feelings of her friend, and suggested to her, that whatever disappointment she might feel with regard to his personal appearance, his character might be such as to awaken a very ardent attachment. "indeed," added mary, "i thought there was something quite interesting in his address, and his voice was remarkably persuasive in its tones. he has evidently been very ill, and his bad looks are owing to this circumstance. he will become handsomer by and by. besides, my dear augusta, what is mere beauty in a man? it is the prerogative of a woman, and you are so highly gifted in that respect yourself, you should be willing that your husband should excel in those qualities which men generally arrogate to themselves." "husband!" repeated augusta; "i would as soon take a death's-head for my husband. i care nothing about mere beauty, provided there is intelligence and spirit. but with such a bald, livid-looking wretch at my side, such a living memento of mortality, i should sink into my grave in a fortnight. i never will marry him, unless i am dragged to the altar." here mr temple entered the room, and interrupted her rash speech. miss manning too retired, feeling that her presence might be an intrusion. he looked astonished at the agitation of his daughter, who handed him the card, and turning away leaned against the mantel-piece, the image of woe. "sydney allison arrived!" exclaimed mr. temple; "where is he? when was he here? and why is he gone?--why--what is the matter with you, augusta? the first wish of my heart seems accomplished, and i find you weeping. tell me the meaning of all this?" "oh! father," sobbed augusta, covering her face with her handkerchief, "he is _so_ ugly, and you told me he was so _very_ handsome." mr. temple could not forbear laughing at the piteous tone in which augusta uttered this melancholy truth, though he immediately resumed, in an accent of displeasure, "i am ashamed of your folly--i have always given you credit for being a girl of sense, but you talk like a little fool;--ugly! if a man is not ugly enough to frighten his horse, he is handsome enough. besides, it is nothing but a whim; i saw him when a child, and he was an uncommonly beautiful boy. i hope you did not behave in this manner before him--why did you suffer him to go away?" "why, i did not know him," said augusta, in considerable trepidation, for she feared her father's anger; "and he looked so thin and woe-begone, i thought he was some foreigner asking charity, and when he took out a paper i thought it a petition, and said something about one--so he was angry, i believe, and went away, saying he had letters for you, from a friend, who was dead." "and is he dead!--the good old man!--the best, the earliest friend i ever had in the world--dead and gone!" mr. temple leaned his face over on his hands, and sat in silence several moments, as if struggling with powerful emotions. after a while, mr. temple lifted his hands, and fixed his darkened eyes upon his daughter. he took her hand with affection and solemnity. "augusta, you are the child of affluence as well as of indulgence; you are my only child, and all the wealth, which now surrounds you with luxury, will be at your disposal after my death." "oh! father, do not speak of such a thing." "do not interrupt me. mr. allison, the uncle of this young man, was my benefactor and friend, when all the world looked dark upon me. he extricated me from difficulties which it is unnecessary to explain--gave me the means of making an ample fortune, and asked no recompense, but a knowledge of my success. it was through his influence i was united to your now angel mother--yes! i owe everything to him--wealth, reputation, and a brief, but rare portion of domestic bliss. this dear, benevolent, romantic old man, had one nephew, the orphan child of his adoption, whom he most tenderly loved. when commercial affairs carried me to cuba, about ten years ago, sydney was a charming boy,"--here augusta groaned--"a charming boy; and when i spoke with a father's pride of my own little girl whom i had left behind, my friend gladdened at the thought, that the union which had bound our hearts together would be perpetuated in our children; we pledged our solemn promise to each other, that this union should take place at a fitting age; you have long been aware of this betrothal, and i have seen with great pleasure, that you seemed to enter into my views, and to look forward with hope and animation to the fulfilment of this contract. the engagement is now doubly binding, since death has set his awful seal upon it. it must be fulfilled. do not, by your unprecedented folly, make me unhappy at a moment like this." "forgive me, my dear father, but indeed when you see him, you will not wonder at the shock i have received. after all you had said of him, after reading his uncle's letters so full of glowing descriptions, after dwelling so long on the graceful image my fancy drew, to find such a dreadful contrast." "dreadful contrast! why surely he cannot be transformed into such a monster." "you have not seen him yet," said she mournfully. "no! you remind me of my negligence. after the strange reception you have given him, it is doubly urgent that i should hasten to him. have a care, augusta, you have always found me a very indulgent father, but in this instance i shall enforce implicit obedience. i have only one fear, that you have already so disgusted him with your levity, that he may refuse, _himself_, the honour of the alliance." "_he_ refuse _me_!" murmured augusta, in a low voice, as she glanced at herself in a mirror that shone above the mantelpiece. as the nature of her reflections may be well imagined, it may be interesting to follow the young man, whose figure had made so unfortunate an impression on his intended bride, and learn something of the feelings that are passing through his mind. sydney allison returned to his lonely apartment at the hotel with a chilled and aching heart. the bright day-dream, whose beauty had cheered and gilded him, even while mourning over the death-bed of his uncle, while languishing himself on the bed of sickness, and while, a sea-sick mariner, he was tossed upon the boisterous waves--this dream was fled. she, who had always risen upon his imagination as the morning star of his destiny--this being he had met, after years of romantic anticipation--what a meeting! he was well aware of the sad ravages one of the violent fevers of a tropical clime had made upon his beauty, but, never attaching much value to his own personal attractions, he could not believe that the marks of a divine visitation would expose him to ridicule, or unkindness; of an extremely sensitive disposition, he was peculiarly alive to the stings of satire, and the sarcastic whisper of miss temple wounded him to the quick. "what!" said he, to himself, as he folded his arms in melancholy abstraction, in the solitude of his chamber, "what, if the dark luxuriance of waving hair which once shadowed my temples, is now gone, is not thought and intelligence still lingering on my brow? are there no warm and animated veins of feeling in my heart, because the tide of health no longer colours my wan and faded cheek? these enfeebled eyes, which i must now shelter from the too dazzling light, can they not still emit the rays of tenderness, and the beams of soul? this proud beauty! may she live to know what a heart she has wounded!" he rose and walked slowly across the floor, pausing before a large looking glass, which fully reflected his person. he could not forbear a smile, in the midst of his melancholy, at the ludicrous contrast to his former self, and acknowledge it was preposterous to expect to charm at first sight, under the present disastrous eclipse. he almost excused the covert ridicule of which he had been the object, and began to pity the beautiful augusta for the disappointment she must have endured. it was under the influence of these feelings mr. temple found him. "my dear fellow," said the latter, warmly grasping his hand, and gazing earnestly at him--"my poor boy! how ill you must have been!--your uncle, too"--the warm-hearted man was incapable of uttering another syllable, not more moved at that moment, by the recollection of his friend, than affected by the transformation of the blooming boy, whose waving locks were once so singularly beautiful. his sympathy was so unaffected, his welcome so warm, and his affection expressed in so heartfelt a manner, that sydney, who had just been arming himself with proud philosophy against the indifference and neglect of the world, melted into woman's softness. he had been so long among strangers, and those of rougher natures--had experienced so cold a disappointment in his warmest hopes--he had felt so blighted, so alone--the reaction was too powerful, it unmanned him. mr. temple was a remarkable instance of a man who retained a youthful enthusiasm and frankness of character, after a long and prosperous intercourse with the world of business. the rapid accumulation of wealth, instead of narrowing, as it too often does, enlarged his benevolent heart. when, in a long and confidential conversation with sydney, he learned that mr. allison had left but a small fortune for his support, instead of the immense one he had been led to expect, he was more than ever anxious to promote his union with his daughter. however mysterious it seemed that mr. allison's property should be so diminished, or have been so much overrated, he rather rejoiced at the circumstance, as it gave him an opportunity of showing his gratitude and disinterestedness. but sydney was proud. he felt the circumstance of his altered fortunes, and, though not a poor man, was no longer the heir of that wealth which was his in reversion when mr. temple had plighted his daughter to him. in his short interview with her he had gained such an insight into her character, that he recoiled from the idea of appearing before her as her betrothed lover. "receive me as a friend," said he to mr. temple; "let your daughter learn to look upon me as such, and i ask no more; unless i could win her _affections_, nothing would induce me to accept of her hand--under existing circumstances, i believe that impossible. much as i feel your kindness, and sacred as i hold the wishes of the dead, i hold your daughter's happiness paramount to every other consideration. this must not be sacrificed for me. promise me, sir, that it shall not. i should be more wretched than words can express, if i thought the slightest force were imposed upon her sentiments." "be satisfied on that score; say nothing about it; only let her get fully acquainted with you, and there will be no occasion to employ _force_. you must forget the mistake of the morning. this yellow fever makes sad work of a man when it gets hold of him, but you will soon revive from its effects." * * * * * sydney allison became a daily visiter at mr. temple's. had he assumed the privileges of a lover, augusta would have probably manifested, in a wounding manner, the aversion she felt for him in that character; but it was impossible to treat with disdain one who never presumed to offer any attentions beyond the civilities of friendship. though rendered vain from adulation, and selfish from indulgence, and though her thoughtless vivacity often made her forgetful of the feelings of others, augusta temple was not destitute of redeeming virtues. nature had gifted her with very ardent affections, and opened but few channels in which those affections could flow. she had the great misfortune to be the only child of a rich, widowed, and doting parent, and from infancy had been accustomed to see every one around her subservient to her will. she had reached the age of womanhood without knowing one real sorrow, or meeting with a being who had excited in any degree the affections of her heart. her warm and undisciplined imagination had dwelt for years on one image. she had clothed it in the most splendid hues that fancy ever spread upon her palette; and had poor sydney appeared before her in his original brightness, the reality would probably have been dim, to the visions of ideal beauty by which she had been so long haunted. in the greatness of her disappointment, she became unjust and unreasonable, violent in her prejudices, and extravagant in the manifestations of them. but after the first ebullition of her grief, she grew more guarded, from the dread of her father's anger; and as sydney continued the same reserved and dignified deportment, she began to think her father's prediction was fulfilled, and that their aversion was mutual. she did not derive as much comfort from this supposition as might be anticipated. she had dreaded his importunity, but she could not endure his indifference. it was in vain mr. temple urged his young friend to a different course of conduct; he always answered, "let her cease to dread me as a lover, then she may learn to prize me as a friend." one evening, there was a concert at mr. temple's. sydney, who was passionately fond of music, forgot every cause of inquietude, while abandoned to its heavenly influence. he stood near the fair songstress of the hour, keeping time to the harmony, while in a pier-glass opposite, he had a full view of the groups behind. augusta was a little in the rear, leaning on the arm of miss manning. he could gaze on her image thus reflected, without her being conscious of the act, and he sighed as he paid involuntary homage to her brilliant beauty. her figure was of superb proportions, her features formed on the model of oriental symmetry, while her eyes glittered through their dark sweeping lashes, like sunbeams through the forest foliage. she stood with her head a little averted, and her profile presented the softened outline of the lineaments ascribed to the beautiful daughters of judah. he forgot himself entirely, in the contemplation of her loveliness, when he saw her turn, with an arch smile, and hold up her hands in a whimsical attitude in the direction of his head, as if in the act of warming them; for the full blaze of the chandeliers seemed concentrated in that point, and all eyes, lured by augusta's gesture, were turned upon his illuminated skull. for one moment sydney lost his self-possession, and the angry spot was seen distinctly burning on his sallow cheek. the next, he smiled superior to such weakness, and retreating a few steps, bowed for her to pass forward. she had relied on the shade that covered his eyes, for security from detection, unconscious of the piercing glances that were darting beneath. her conscience now upbraided her for her folly, and she felt with bitterness how low she must be in the opinion of the man whose admiration she secretly coveted, notwithstanding the ridicule she dared to throw upon his person. after the company dispersed, she remained alone in the drawing-room, dissatisfied with herself and sickening at the pleasure that surrounded her. the door softly opened. it was sydney, who had returned for his gloves, which he had left on the mantel-piece. it was the first time she had found herself alone with him, and she felt excessively embarrassed. in that tone, which even _she_ acknowledged to be irresistibly sweet, he apologized for his intrusion, and taking his gloves, was retiring, when she, ever impulsive, arrested his motions. "stay one moment, mr. allison--you have great reason to despise me--i have treated you with unpardonable levity and rudeness. though i can hardly hope your forgiveness, i cannot withhold this acknowledgment of my errors; your calm forbearance has done more for my reformation, than a thousand reproofs." surprised and softened by this unexpected avowal from the cold sarcastic augusta, whose fluctuating complexion and agitated voice bore witness to her sincerity, allison was at first incapable of replying. "your present candour," at length he said, "would indemnify me for much greater suffering than you have ever inflicted on me. allow me, miss temple, to take advantage of this first moment of confidence, to disarm you of all fear on my account. the relative situation in which we have been placed by others, has given us both much embarrassment; but be assured my only wish is to be looked upon as your friend. consider yourself as entirely unshackled. in brighter hours i might have aspired to the distinction our parents designed for me; but, worn down by sickness, the shadow of my former self, i feel but too sensibly, that the only sentiment i can now inspire in the female heart, is that of compassion." augusta was so much impressed by his delicacy and generosity, she began to hate herself for not having more justly appreciated his worth. she raised her eyes to his face and sighed--"ah!" said she to herself, "i must respect and esteem, but i can never love him." mr. temple, who had been absent the whole evening, returned at this moment, and his countenance expressed his pleasure in finding them thus alone, in apparently confidential conversation with each other. "do not go, allison," said he; "i have been oppressed with business to-night, and i want a little social enjoyment before i sleep. besides, i do not feel quite well." they now observed that he looked unusually pale, and pressed his hand upon his head, as if in pain. "father," said augusta, "you do indeed look ill; you have fatigued yourself too much. a glass of wine will revive you." she brought him the glass, but just as he took it from her hand with a smile, a sudden spasm came over him, and he fell back in his chair, speechless and convulsed. augusta's piercing shriek alarmed the servants, who, rushing in, beheld their master supported in the arms of allison, gasping for breath, while augusta was trying to loosen his cravat with hands nerveless from terror. a physician was directly summoned, who bled him profusely, and after a few hours consciousness was restored. he was removed to his chamber, and allison remained with him during the remainder of the night. augusta sat by her father's bedside holding his hand, almost stunned by the suddenness of the calamity. never, since her recollection, had her father known an hour's sickness; and now to be prostrated at once, in the midst of florid health, it was awful. she dared not ask the physician if there was danger, lest he should confirm her worst fears. she looked at allison, and, in his pale and anxious countenance, she saw a reflection of her own anxiety and sorrow. towards morning mr. temple opened his eyes, and looked earnestly round him. "my children," said he, "come near me--both--both." "father," cried augusta, "we _are_ near thee--oh! my father, say that you are better--only say that you will _live_." as she uttered the last word she bowed her head upon the bed cover, and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. "my child," said mr. temple, faintly, "you must call upon god to sustain you, for there is need. i feel that the hand of death is on me. sudden and awful is the summons--but it must be obeyed. doctor, i would see my minister. not to give peace to my parting soul--for all is peace _here_," said he, laying his hand feebly on his heart, "peace with god and man--but there is one thing i would witness before i die." sydney, who stood at the bed's head, trembled at the import of these words; augusta in her agony comprehended them not. "sydney, my son, give me your hand; augusta, is this your hand i hold? my children, if you would bless my last hour, you must let my dying eyes behold your union. it will gladden my friend, when i meet him in another world, to tell him his last wishes are consummated. do you consent, my children?" he looked up to sydney, with that earnest expression which is never seen except in the eye of the dying, and pressed their hands together in his, already cold and dewy with the damps of death. sydney sunk upon his knees, unutterably affected. all the happiness of his future life was at stake, but it seemed as nothing at that moment. "your daughter, sir?" was all he could utter. "augusta," repeated mr. temple, in a voice fearfully hollow, "will you not speak?" "oh! my father," she murmured, "do with me as you will, only take me with you." the reverend figure of the minister was now added to the group that surrounded that bed of death. strange and awful was the bridal ceremony, performed at such a moment, and attended by such solemnities. sydney felt that he was mysteriously and irresistibly impelled on to the fulfilment of his destiny, without any volition of his own; and he supported, with a firm arm, the sinking form of her he was now to call his own. it was with bloodless lips and deadened perceptions augusta repeated her vows; but low as they were, they fell like music on the ear that was so shortly to close to all earthly sound. "there is a blessing above, mingling with mine," faintly articulated the dying man. "i bless you, my dear children, and ye will be blessed." these were the last words he ever uttered. augusta fell almost lifeless on her father's bosom, but what was a moment before the temple of an immortal spirit, was now but dust and ashes. at the same moment an orphan and a bride, she was incapable of comprehending the startling realities of her situation. the images that flitted through her mind, were like the phantasmagoria of a dream--a vague impression of something awful and indescribable having occurred, a wild fear of something more awful still impending, filled her imagination and paralyzed her frame. but allison had a full and aching sense of the responsibilities so unexpectedly imposed upon him. he mourned for the venerated and generous friend so suddenly snatched away; but he grieved most of all, that his last act had placed in his keeping that to which he felt he had no legitimate right. no selfish repinings filled his heart--but to find himself _married_, joined irrevocably to a woman who had given him so many proofs of personal aversion; who never, till that evening, had evinced towards him the slightest sensibility--a woman whom he did not love, and whose superior fortune burdened him with a painful sense of obligation--there was something inexpressibly galling and humbling in these circumstances, to the sensitive and high-minded allison. tenderness, however, mingled with the bitterness of his reflections; and even then, he could have taken her to his heart, and wept over her tears of sympathy and sorrow, had he not dreaded that she would recoil from his embraces. he did not intrude on the sacredness of her grief, and for days she buried herself in the solitude of her chamber. she admitted no one but her chosen friend, miss manning, who represented her as inconsolable, either sunk in a torpor, from which nothing could arouse her, or in a state of nervous excitement still more distressing. he waited, hoping that time would restore her to comparative composure, and that she would be willing to receive from him the consolations of friendship. finding, at length, that she persevered in her system of solitary grief, and that time, while it must, according to its immutable laws, soften her anguish for her father's death, probably increased her dread of the shackles that bound her, his resolution was taken. in a short time everything was arranged for his departure to a foreign land. the ship, in which he was bound a passenger, was ready to sail, when he requested a parting interview with augusta. a parting interview!--augusta was roused at that sound, from the selfishness of her grief. he was going into banishment, and she was the cause. for the first time since the bridal ceremony, the thought forced itself into her mind, that _he_ too might have cause for sorrow, and that _his_ happiness might be sacrificed as well as her own. allison was greatly shocked, to see the change wrought in her radiant face. he was so much agitated, he forgot everything he purposed to say, and remembered only the strangeness of their situation. he endeavoured to repress his own emotion, that he might not increase hers; while she, unused to self-control, abandoned herself to a passion of tears. he approached her with tenderness and solemnity, and entreated her to listen to him, as a _friend_, as one willing to promote her happiness by any sacrifice she might require. "i go," said he, "augusta, to another clime, whose genial influence may restore me again some portion of my former vigour. i go, too, in the hope, that in my absence you will learn submission to a destiny which my presence renders insupportable. if you knew the anguish that fills my heart, when i think of myself as the involuntary cause of your wretchedness, you would pity me, even as much as you abhor. hear me, augusta, while i repeat with all the solemnity of the vows that bound us to each other, that i will never claim the name of husband, till your own free affections hallow the sacred title. in the mean time i leave you with one who will be to you as a loving sister, in whose father you will find a faithful and affectionate guardian--will you not part from me, at least in kindness?" augusta sat, with her arms thrown around miss manning, weeping, yet subdued. all the best impulses of her nature were wakened and active. she would have given worlds to say something expressive of her remorse and regret for her selfishness and waywardness. clasping her hands together she exclaimed, "oh! forgive me, sydney, that i cannot love you;" then, conscious that she was only wounding more deeply when she wished to heal, she only uttered, "what an unfortunate wretch i am!" "we are both unfortunate," said he, moved beyond his power of control--"but we may not be always miserable. something whispers me, that we shall meet again with chastened feelings, capable of appreciating all that is excellent in each other, and both earnest in the endeavour to merit the blessing that hallowed our nuptial tie. i leave you that you may be restored to tranquillity--i may never return--i pray to god, that he may find me a grave in that ocean to whose bosom i am about to commit myself, if i am only to live for the misery of others." "no, no," cried augusta, "this must not be, you must not become an exile for me." "listen to her," said miss manning, earnestly, her whole soul wrought up into the most painful excitement, at the sight of their mutual distress--"indeed, sir, you are doing what is rash and uncalled for--oh! why, with so much to bind you together, with qualities capable of inspiring the strongest attachment in each other, will ye close up your hearts in this manner, and resolve to be miserable?" "i cannot now remain if i would, as i have taken steps which cannot well be recalled--your father, miss manning, knows and approves my intention. he is the delegated guardian and protector of augusta. i will not, i cannot prolong the pain of these moments. farewell, augusta! think of me, if possible, with kindness--should i live to return, i will be to you friend, brother, or husband, as your own heart shall dictate." he pressed her cold and passive hand in his--turned, and was gone. augusta would have spoken, but she seemed as if under the influence of a nightmare. her faculties were spell-bound; she would have returned the parting pressure of his hand, but her fingers seemed icicles. she shuddered with superstitious dread. her father's upbraiding spirit appeared to her imagination, armed with the terrors of the grave, and threatening her with the retribution of heaven. poor augusta! her mind required the stern, but salutary discipline of adversity, and that discipline was preparing. how she profited by the teachings of this monitress, whose lessons, however hard, have such high and celestial bearings, the events of after years may show. * * * * * augusta and her friend are once more presented to the view of the reader, but the destiny of the former is changed. they are seated in a parlour side by side, but it is not the same, rich in all the adornments of wealth and fashion, that augusta once occupied. it is in a neat rural cottage, in the very heart of the country, embosomed in trees and flowers. a few words will explain the past. mr. temple's open, generous, uncalculating disposition had exposed him to the designs of the mercenary and treacherous. he never could refuse to endorse a note for a friend, or to loan money when it was asked with a look of distress. he believed his resources as exhaustless as his benevolence; but by the failure of several houses with which he was largely connected, his estate was involved in ruin, and his daughter left destitute of fortune. mr. manning suffered so much himself in the general loss, he was obliged to sell all that he still possessed in the city and retire into the country, with limited means of subsistence. but, though limited, he had sufficient for all the comforts of life, and what he deemed its luxuries--books, music, the socialities of friendship, and the exercise of the kindly charities. a cherished member of this charming family, augusta no longer the spoiled child of fortune, but the chastened disciple of sorrow, learned to estimate the purposes of her being, and to mourn over her former perversity. with such ennobled views of life and its enjoyments, she began to think she might be happy with a husband, with such irreproachable worth and exalted attributes as sydney allison, even though he had the misfortune to be bald and sallow. but him she had banished, and when would he return? he had written to her once or twice, in the most affectionate manner, as a brother would write; he had spoken of amended health and reviving spirits, but he spoke of his return as of something indefinite and even remote. she too had written, and her letters were transcripts of the progressive elevation of her character, and expressed with candour and warmth the just appreciation she now had of his own. she was uncertain whether they had ever reached him. it was long since she had received any tidings, and she felt at times that sickness of the heart, which suspense unfed by hope creates. "i bring you a messenger, who i trust is the bearer of glad tidings," said mr. manning, entering, with a benevolent smile, and ushering in a young gentleman, whom he introduced by the name of clarence. "augusta, you will greet him with joy, for he comes with letters from mr. allison, your husband." augusta sprang forward, scarcely waiting to go through the customary form of introduction, and took the letter with a trembling hand. "tell me, sir, do you know him, and is he well?" the stranger bent his dark and lustrous eyes upon her face, with a look of undisguised admiration. "i know him intimately, madam; when i last saw him, he was in perfect health, and animated by the prospect of a speedy return." augusta waited to hear no more, but retired to her own chamber, to peruse the epistle she had so anxiously anticipated. it was in answer to her last, and breathed the language of hope and confidence. there was a warmth, a fervour of sentiment, far different from his former cold, but kind communications. he rejoiced in the knowledge of her altered fortune, for he could prove his disinterestedness, and show her that he loved her for herself alone, by returning and devoting himself to the task of winning her affections. "say not, my augusta," said he in conclusion, "that i cannot win the prize. all the energies of my heart and soul are enlisted for the contest. i could look on your beauty, all dazzling as it is, without much emotion; but the humility, the trust, the gentleness and feeling expressed in your letter has melted me into tenderness. dare i indulge in the blissful dream, that even now gilds this page with the hues of heaven? augusta, the sad, reluctant bride, transformed into the fond and faithful wife, cherished in my yearning bosom, and diffusing there the life, the warmth, the fragrance of love!" augusta's tears rained over the paper. "oh! allison," she cried, "the task shall not be in vain; i _will_ love thee for thy virtues, and the blessing my dying father called down, may yet rest upon us." she was about to fold the letter, when a postscript on the envelope met her eye. "receive clarence," it said, "as my friend--he knows all my history, and the peculiarity of our situation--he is interested in you, for my sake--as a stranger and my especial friend, may i ask for him the hospitable attentions of mr. manning's family?" when she descended into the room, where clarence was seated, she could not repress a painful blush, from the consciousness that he was familiar with her singular history. "he must despise me," thought she; but the deference, and respect of his manner forbade such an impression. gradually recovering from her embarrassment, and finding him directing his conversation principally to mr. manning, she had leisure to observe one who possessed strong interest in her eyes, as the friend of allison. and seldom does the eye of woman rest upon a more graceful or interesting figure, or a more expressive and glowing countenance. there was a lambent brightness in his eyes, a mantling bloom upon his cheek, that indicated indwelling light and conscious youth. his hair clustered in soft waves round his temples, relieving by its darkness the unsunned whiteness of his forehead. yet the prevailing charm was manner, that indescribable charm, that, like sunshine in the summer landscape, gilded and vivified the whole. the acquisition of such a guest gave life and animation to the domestic circle. mr. manning was a man of varied information, and the society of this accomplished traveller recalled the classic enthusiasm of his earlier days. mary, though usually reserved to strangers, seemed fascinated into a forgetfulness of herself, and found herself a partaker of a conversation to which at first she was only a timid listener. augusta, while she acknowledged the stranger's uncommon power to please, was preoccupied by the contents of her husband's letter, and longed to be alone with mary, whose sympathy was always as spontaneous as it was sincere. she was not disappointed in the readiness of mary's sympathy; but after having listened again and again, and expressed her hope and joy that all would yet be for the happiest and the best, she returned to the subject next in interest, the bearer of this precious document. "ah! my dear augusta," said she, "if allison's noble spirit had been enshrined in such a temple, you had not been parted now." augusta felt the comparison _odious_. it brought before her the person of allison in too melancholy a contrast with the engaging stranger. "i thought it was mary manning," answered she in a grave tone, "who once reproved me for attaching too much importance to manly beauty--i never thought you foolish or unkind till this moment." "forgive me," cried mary, with irresistible frankness; "foolish i may be, indeed i know i am; but intentionally unkind to you--never--never." it did not require the recollection of all mary's tried friendship and sincerity, for augusta to accord her forgiveness. mary was more guarded afterwards in the expression of her admiration, but augusta, in her imagination, had drawn the horoscope of mary's destiny, and clarence shone there, as the star that was to give it radiance. a constant guest of her father's, she thought it impossible for him to witness mary's mild, yet energetic virtues, without feeling their influence. she was interesting without being beautiful, and clarence evidently delighted in her conversation. to her, he was always more reserved, yet there was a deference, an interest, a constant reference to her wishes and opinions, that was as delicate as it was flattering. he was the companion of their walks, and nature, never more lovely than in this delightful season, acquired new charms from the enthusiasm with which he sought out and expatiated on its beauties. mr. manning was passionately fond of music, and every evening mary and augusta were called upon for his favourite songs. now the music was finer than ever, for clarence accompanied them with his flute, and sometimes with his voice, which was uncommonly sweet and melodious. one evening augusta was seated at the piano; she was not an excelling performer, but she played with taste and feeling, and she had endeavoured to cultivate her talent, for she remembered that allison was a lover of music. she had played all mr. manning's songs, and turned over the leaves, without thinking of any particular tune, when clarence arrested her at one, which he said was allison's favourite air. "let us play and sing that," said he, repeating the words, "your husband loves it, we were together when he first heard it; it was sung by an italian songstress, whom you have often struck me as resembling. the manner in which your hair is now parted in front, with those falling curls behind, increases the resemblance; it is very striking at this moment." augusta felt a strange pang penetrate her heart, when he asked her for her husband's favourite. there was something, too, in his allusion to her personal appearance that embarrassed her. he had paid her no compliment, yet she blushed as if guilty of receiving one. "i cannot play it," answered she, looking up, "but i will try to learn it for his sake." she could not prevent her voice from faltering; there was an expression in his eyes, when they met hers, that bowed them down, in shame and apprehension. it was so intense and thrilling--she had never met such a glance before, and she feared to interpret it. "shall i sing it for you?" asked he; and leaning over the instrument, he sang in a low, mellow voice, one of those impassioned strains, which the fervid genius of italy alone can produce. the words were eloquent of love and passion, and augusta, charmed, melted by their influence, could not divest herself of a feeling of guilt as she listened. a new and powerful light was breaking upon her; truth held up its blazing torch, flashing its rays into the darkest corners of her heart; and conscience, discovering passions, of whose very existence she had been previously unconscious. she saw revealed in prophetic vision, the misery of her future existence, the misery she was entailing on herself, on others, and a cold shudder ran through her frame. mary, alarmed at her excessive paleness, brought her a glass of water, and asked her if she were ill. grateful for an excuse to retire, she rose and took mary's arm to leave the room; but as she passed through the door, which clarence opened and held, she could not avoid encountering again a glance so tender and impassioned, she could not veil to herself the language it conveyed. augusta had thought herself miserable before, but never had she shed such bitter tears as bathed her pillow that night. just as she had schooled herself to submission; just as she was cherishing the most tender and grateful feelings towards her husband, resolving to make her future life one long task of expiation, a being crossed her path, who realized all her early visions of romance, and who gently and insidiously had entwined himself into the very chords of her existence; and now, when she felt the fold, and struggled to free herself from the enthralment, she found herself bound as with fetters of iron and clasps of steel. that clarence loved her, she could not doubt. enlightened as to the state of her own heart, she now recollected a thousand covert marks of tenderness and regard. he had been admitted to the most unreserved intercourse with her, as the friend of her husband. like herself, he had been cherishing sentiments of whose strength he was unaware, and which, when revealed in their full force, would make him tremble. she now constantly avoided his society. her manners were cold and constrained, and her conscious eyes sought the ground. but clarence, though he saw the change, and could not be ignorant of the cause, was not rebuked or chilled by her coldness. he seemed to call forth, with more animation, the rich resources of his mind, his enthusiasm was more glowing, his voice had more music, and his smile more brightness. it was evident she alone was unhappy; whatever were his feelings, they inspired no remorse. she began to believe her own vanity had misled her, and that he only looked upon her as the wife of his friend. she had mistaken the luminousness of his eyes for the fire of passion. her credulity abased her in her own estimation. one afternoon clarence found her alone. she had declined accompanying mary and her father in a walk, because she thought clarence was to be with them. "i did not expect to find you alone," said he, taking a seat by her side--"but since i have gained such a privilege, may i ask, without increasing your displeasure, in what i have offended? you shun my society--your averted looks, your altered mien"--he paused, for her embarrassment was contagious, and the sentence remained unfinished. the appeal was a bold one, but as a _friend_ he had a right to make it. "you have not offended me," at length she answered, "but you know the peculiar circumstances of my life, and cannot wonder if my spirits sometimes droop, when reflecting on the misery of the past, and the uncertainty of the future." "if," said he, "the uncertainty of the future makes you unhappy as it regards yourself, you may perhaps have cause of uneasiness, but as it respects allison, as far as i know his sentiments, he has the fullest confidence, and the brightest hopes of felicity. i once looked upon him as the most unfortunate, but i now view him as the most blessed of men. when he told me the circumstances of his exile, how lone and hopeless seemed his lot! now, when i see all that woos him to return, angels might covet his destiny." "you forget yourself," cried augusta, not daring to take in the full meaning of his words--"it is not the office of a friend to flatter--allison never flattered--i always revered him for his truth." "yes!" exclaimed clarence, "he has truth and integrity. they call him upright, and honourable, and just; but is he not cold and senseless to remain in banishment so long, leaving his beautiful wife in widowhood and sorrow! and was he not worse than mad to send me here the herald of himself, to expose me to the influence of your loveliness, knowing that to see you, to be near you, must be to love, nay, even to worship." "you have driven me from you for ever!" cried augusta, rising in indignant astonishment, at the audacity of this avowal. "allison shall learn in what a friend he has confided." "i am prepared for your anger," continued he, with increasing impetuosity, "but i brave it; your husband will soon return, and i shall leave you. tell him of all my boldness, and all my sincerity; tell him too all the emotions that are struggling in your heart for me, for oh! you cannot deny it, there is a voice pleading for my pardon, in your bosom now, and telling you, that, if it is a crime to love, that one crime is mutual." "then i am indeed a wretch!" exclaimed augusta, sinking down into a chair, and clasping her hands despairingly over her face; "but i deserve this humiliation." clarence drew nearer to her--she hesitated--he trembled. the triumphant fire that revelled in his eyes was quenched; compassion, tenderness, and self-reproach softened their beams. he was in the very act of kneeling before her, to deprecate her forgiveness, when the door softly opened, and mary manning entered. her step was always gentle, and she had approached unheard. she looked at them first with a smile, but augusta's countenance was not one that could reflect a smile; and on mary's face, at that moment, it appeared to her as a smile of derision. clarence lingered a moment, as if unwilling to depart, yet uncertain whether to remain or go--then asking mary for her father, he hastily retired, leaving augusta in a state of such agitation, that mary, seriously alarmed, entreated her to explain the cause of her distress. "explain!" cried augusta. "you have witnessed my humiliation, and yet ask me the cause. i do not claim your sympathy, the grief i now feel admits of none; i was born to be unhappy, and whichever way i turn, i am wretched." "only tell me one thing, dear augusta, is all your grief owing to the discovery of your love for clarence, and to the sentiments with which you have inspired him? there is no humiliation in loving clarence--for who could know him and not love him?" augusta looked in mary's face, assured that she was uttering the language of mockery. mary, the pure moralist, the mild, but uncompromising advocate for duty and virtue, thus to palliate the indulgence of a forbidden passion! it could only be in derision; yet her eye was so serene, and her smile so kind, it was impossible to believe that contempt was lurking beneath. "then you _do_ love him, mary, and i am doubly treacherous!" mary blushed--"with the affection of a sister, the tenderness of a friend, do i regard him; i admire his talents, i venerate his virtues." "virtues! oh! mary, he is a traitor to his friend; what reliance is there on those virtues, which, having no root in the heart, are swept away by the first storm of passion?" "passion may enter the purest heart," answered mary; "guilt consists in yielding to its influence. i would pledge my life that clarence would never give himself up to the influence of a guilty passion." "talk not of him, let me forget his existence, if i can; i think of one, who will return from his long exile, only to find his hopes deceived, his confidence betrayed, his heart broken." here augusta wept in such anguish, that mary, finding it in vain to console her, threw her arms around her, and wept in sympathy; yet still she smiled through her tears, and again and again repeated to her, that heaven had long years of happiness yet in store. augusta, in the solitude of her own chamber, recovered an appearance of outward composure, but there was a deadly sickness in her soul, that seemed to her like a foretaste of mortality. the slightest sound made her tremble, and when mary returned to her, softly, but hurriedly, and told her her father wished to see her, she went to him, with a blanched cheek and trembling step, like a criminal who is about to hear her sentence of doom. "i have something to communicate to you," said he, kindly taking her hand, and leading her to a seat. "but i fear you will be too much agitated." "is he come?" cried she, grasping his arm with sudden energy; "only tell me, is he come?" "your husband _is_ arrived; i have just received tidings that he is in the city, and will shortly be here." augusta gasped for breath, she pressed her hands on her bosom, there was such a cold, intolerable weight there; she felt the letter of her husband, which she had constantly worn as a talisman against the evil she most dreaded. that tender, confiding letter, which, when she had first received it, she had hailed as the precursor of the purest felicity. "it is all over now," sighed she, unconscious of the presence of mr. manning. "poor unhappy allison, i will tell him all, and then i will lie down and die." "i hear a carriage approaching," said mr. manning; "the gate opens--support yourself, my dear child, and give him the welcome he merits." augusta could not move, her limbs were powerless, but perception and sensibility remained; she saw mr. manning leave the room, heard steps and voices in the passage, and then the door reopen. the shades of twilight were beginning to fall, and a mist was over her eyes, but she distinctly recognised the figure that entered--what was her astonishment, to behold, instead of the lank form, bald brows, and green shade, marked in such indelible characters on her memory--the graceful lineaments, clustering looks, and lustrous eyes of clarence? she looked beyond in wild alarm for her husband. "leave me," she exclaimed, "leave me, or you drive me to desperation!" but clarence eagerly approached her, as if defying all consequences, and reckless of her resentment. he clasped her in his arms, he pressed her to his heart, and imprinted on her brow, cheek, and lips, unnumbered kisses. "my bride, my wife, my own beloved augusta, do you not know me? and can you forgive me for this trial of your love? i did not mean to cause you so much suffering, but i could not resist the temptation of proving whether your love was mine, through duty or inclination. i have been the rival of myself, and i have exulted in finding, that love in all its strength has still been mastered by duty. augusta, i glory in my wife." augusta looked up, in bewildered rapture, hardly knowing in what world she existed. she had never dreamed of such a transformation. even now it seemed incredible--it could not be true--her present felicity was too great to be real--"can allison and clarence be one?" "yes, my augusta, these arms have a right to enfold thee, or they would not clasp you thus. no miracle has been wrought, but the skeleton is reclothed with flesh, the locks of youth have been renewed, the tide of health has flowed back again into the wasted veins, lending a glow to the wan cheek, and a brightness to the dim eye; and more than all, the worn and feeble spirit, always sympathizing with its frail companion, as replumed its drooping wings, and been soaring in regions of hope, and joy, and love." without speaking metaphorically, augusta's heart actually ached with its excess of happiness. "i have not room here," she cried, "for such fulness of joy," again laying her hand where that precious letter was deposited, but with such different emotions. "my friends must participate in my happiness, it is selfish to withhold it from them so long." "they know it already," said allison, smiling; "they have known my secret from the first, and assisted me in concealing my identity." augusta now understood mary's apparent inconsistency, and vindicated her from all unkindness and wilful palliation of guilt. "i am not quite an impostor," continued her husband, "for my name is sydney clarence allison--and let me still wear the appellation you have learned to love. it was my uncle's, and he left a condition in his will that i should assume it as my own. i find myself, too, the heir of sufficient wealth to be almost a burden; for my uncle, romantic to the last, only caused the report of the failure of his wealth, that i might prove the sincerity of your father's friendship. my wife, my own augusta, is not his blessing resting on us now?" mr. manning and his daughter sympathized largely in the happiness of their friends. their only sorrow was the approaching separation. mary, whose disposition was naturally serious, was exalted on this occasion to an unwonted vein of humour. when she saw augusta's eyes turning with fond admiration towards her husband, she whispered in her ear--"is it possible, that bald, yellow, horrid-looking creature is your husband? i would not marry him, unless i were dragged to the altar." and allison, passing his hand over his luxuriant hair, reminded her, with a smile, of the _subscription_ and the _wig_. the victim of excitement. intemperance is a vice which is generally considered of the masculine sex. in the pictured scenes of the ravages it has wrought woman is seldom introduced but as the patient victim of brutality, or as the admonishing angel of transgressing man. there are instances on record, however, of a sad reverse. not alone in the lower classes of life, amid the dregs of society, but in higher walks, where intelligence, wit, beauty, and wealth, virgin worth, wedded love, and christian grace, are all cast as unvalued offerings at the beastly shrine of intemperance. one of these fatal examples (of which, to the honour of our sex be it said, there are so few) once came under the observation of the writer. her character and history form the subject of the following sketch. mr. manly first met anne weston in a ball-room. it was on the evening of the fourth of july, and the fairest ladies of the country were assembled to celebrate the national jubilee. he was a lawyer, and had been the orator of the day; an eloquent one, and therefore entitled to distinguished attention. he came from an adjoining town, of which he had recently become an inhabitant, and now found himself in a scene which scarcely presented one familiar countenance. he was a very proud man, and had the air of one who felt himself too superior to the multitude to mingle in the general amusement. he stood with folded arms, as remote as possible from the dancers despising those who were engaged in that exercise on such a sultry night. in vain the obsequious master of ceremonies begged to introduce him to this and that fair lady. he declined the honour with a cold bow, declaring his utter disinclination to dancing. he was told that his disinclination would cease as soon as miss weston arrived. she was the belle of the place, the daughter of the richest gentleman in town--had received the most finished education, and refused the most splendid offers. in short, she was irresistible, and it was predicted that he would find her so. it cannot be denied, that the fame of this all-conquering lady had previously reached his ears, but unfortunately he had a detestation of belles, and predetermined to close his eyes, and shut his ears, and steel his heart against her vaunted attractions. he had never yet sacrificed his independence to woman. he had placed his standard of female excellence very high. he had seen no one that reached its altitude. "no," said he to himself, "let me live on in singleness of heart and loneliness of purpose, all the days of my life, rather than unite myself with one of those vain, flimsy, garrulous, and superficial beings who win the smiles, and fix the attention of the many. i despise a weak woman, i hate a masculine one, and a pedantic one i abhor. i turn with fear from the glittering belle, whose home is the crowded hall, whose incense the homage of fools, whose altar the shrine of fashion. can _she_ sit down contented in the privacy of domestic love who has lived on the adulation of the world, or be satisfied with the affection of one true heart, who has claimed as her due, the vows of all? no, better the fool, the pedant, than the belle. who can find that woman, whose price is above rubies? ah! 'tis certain i never shall marry." he was aroused from these reflections, by a movement in the hall, and he felt a conviction that the vaunted lady was arrived. in spite of his boasted indifference, he could not repress a slight sensation of curiosity to see one who was represented as so transcendent. but he moved not, he did not even turn his eyes towards the spot where so many were clustering. "the late hour of her arrival," said he, "shows equal vanity and affectation. she evidently wishes to be conspicuous--studies everything for effect." the lady moved towards that part of the hall where he was stationed. she held the arm of one gentleman, and was followed by some half-dozen others. he was compelled to gaze upon her, for they passed so near, the folds of her white muslin dress fluttered against him. he was pleased to see that she was much less beautiful than he had expected. he scarcely thought her handsome. her complexion was pale, even sallow, and her face wanted that soft, flowing outline, which is necessary to the perfection of beauty. he could not but acknowledge, however, that her figure was very fine, her motions graceful, and her air spirited and intellectual. "i am glad she is not beautiful," said he, "for i might have been tempted to have admired her, against my sober judgment. oppressed by the heat of the apartment, he left the hall and sauntered for a long time in the piazza, till a certain feeling of curiosity, to know whether a lady whose bearing expressed so much pride of soul, could be foolish enough to dance, led him to return. the first object he beheld, was the figure of miss weston, moving in most harmonious time, to an exhilarating air, her countenance lighted up with an animation, a fire, that had as magical an effect upon her features, as the morning sunbeams on the face of nature. the deepest colour was glowing on her cheek,--her very soul was shining forth from her darkening eyes. she danced with infinite spirit, but equal grace. he had never witnessed anything to compare with it, not even on the stage. "she dances entirely too well," thought he; "she cannot have much intellect, yet she carries on a constant conversation with her partner through all the mazes of the dance. it must be admirable nonsense, from the broad smiles it elicits. i am half resolved to be introduced and invite her to dance--from mere _curiosity_, and to prove the correctness of my opinion." he sought the introduction, became her partner in the dance, and certainly forgot, while he listened to her "admirable nonsense," that she was that object of his detestation--a _belle_. her conversation was sprightly, unstudied, and original. she seemed more eager to listen than to talk, more willing to admire than to be admired. she did not tell him that she admired his oration, but she spoke warmly on the subject of eloquence, and quoted in the happiest manner, a passage of his own speech, _one_ which he himself judged superb. it proved her to have listened with deep attention. he had never received so delicate or gratifying a compliment. his vanity was touched, and his pride slumbered. he called forth those powers of pleasing, with which he was eminently endowed, and he began to feel a dawning ambition to make the conquest of a heart which so many had found indomitable. he admired the simplicity of her dress, its fitness and elegance. a lady's dress is always indicative of her character. then her voice was singularly persuasive in its tones, it breathed of feminine gentleness and sensibility, with just enough spirit and independence for a woman. mr. manly came to these wise conclusions before the end of the first dance--at the termination of the second, he admired the _depth_, as well as the brilliancy of her mind, and when he bade her adieu for the night, he was equally convinced of the purity of her feelings and the goodness of her heart. such is the strength of man's wisdom, the stability of his opinions, the steadiness of his purpose, when placed in competition with the fascinations of a woman who has made the determination to please. in after years mr. manly told a friend of a dream which that night haunted his pillow. he was not superstitious, or disposed to attach the slightest importance to dreams. but this was a vivid picture, and succeeding events caused him to recall it, as one having the power of prophecy. he lived over again the events of the evening. the winning accents of miss weston mingled in his ear with the gay notes of the violin. still, ever and anon, discordant sounds marred the sweet harmony. the malicious whisper, the stifled, deriding laugh, and the open scoff came from every corner. sometimes he saw, through the crowd, the slow finger of scorn pointing at him. as he turned, with a fierce glance of defiance, miss weston seemed to meet him still, holding a goblet in her hand, which she pressed him to drain. her cheeks and lips burned with a scarlet radiance, and her eyes sparkled with unnatural brightness. "taste it not," whispered a soft voice in his ear, "it is poison." "it is the cup of immortality," exclaimed the syren, and she drained the goblet to its last drop. in a few moments her countenance changed--her face became bloated, her features disfigured, and her eyes heavy and sunken. he turned with disgust from the former enchantress, but she pursued him, she wound her arms around him. in the vain struggle of liberating himself from her embrace, he awoke. it was long before he could overcome the sensation of loathing and horror excited by the unhallowed vision, and even when, overcome by heaviness and exhaustion, he again slept, the same bloated phantom presented her intoxicating draught. the morning found him feverish and unrefreshed. he could not shake off the impression of his dream, and the image of miss weston seemed deprived of the witchery that had enthralled his imagination the preceding evening. he was beginning to despise himself, for having yielded up so soon his prejudices and pride, when an invitation to dine at mr. weston's, interrupted the severe tenor of his thoughts. politeness obliged him to accept, and in the society of miss weston, graceful, animated, and intellectual, presiding with unaffected dignity and ease at her father's board, he forgot the hideous metamorphose of his dream. from that day his fate was sealed. it was the first time his heart had ever been seriously interested, and he loved with all the strength and ardour of his proud and ardent character. the triumph, too, of winning one whom so many had sought in vain, threw a kind of glory over his conquest, and exalted his estimation of his own attributes. the wedding-day was appointed. the evening previous to his nuptials, anne weston sat in her own chamber, with one of the chosen friends of her girlhood, emily spencer. anne had no sisters, and from childhood, emily had stood to her almost in that dear relation. she was to accompany her to her new home, for anne refused to be separated from her, and had playfully told mr. manly, "that if he married _her_, he must take emily too, for she could not and would not be parted from her." the thought of the future occupied the minds of the two friends. anne sat in silence. the lamp that partially illumined the apartment, gave additional paleness to her pale and spiritual countenance. her thoughts appeared to have rolled within herself, and, from the gloom of her eye, did not appear to be such as usually rest in the bosom of one about to be wedded to the object of her affection and her trust. "i fear," said she at length, as if forgetting the presence of her friend, "that i have been too hasty. the very qualities that won my admiration, and determined me to fix his regard, now cause me to tremble. i have been too much accustomed to self-indulgence, to bear restraint, and should it ever be imposed by a master's hand, my rebellious spirit would break the bonds of duty, and assert its independence. i fear i am not formed to be a happy wife, or to _constitute_ the happiness of a husband. i live too much upon excitement, and when the deep monotony of domestic life steals on, what will become of me?" "how can there be monotony," answered emily, warmly, "with such a companion as manly? oh, trust him, anne, love him as he merits to be loved, as you yourself are loved, and your lot may be envied among women." "he has awakened all the capabilities my heart has of loving," cried anne, "but i wish i could shake off this dull weight from my spirits." she rose as she spoke, approached a side table, and, turning out a glass of rich cordial, drank it, as if conscious, from experience, of its renovating influence. emily's anxious gaze followed her movements. a deep sigh escaped her lips. when her friend resumed her seat, she drew nearer to her, she took her hand in hers, and, while her colour heightened, and her breath shortened, she said-- "anne weston, i should not deserve the name of friend, if in this hour, the last, perhaps, of unrestrained confidence between us, i did not dare--" "dare what?" interrupted anne, shame and resentment kindling in her eye. "to tell you, that the habit you indulge in, of resorting to artificial means to exhilarate your spirits, though now attended with no obvious danger, may exercise most fatal influence on your future peace. i have long struggled for resolution to utter this startling truth, and i gather boldness as i speak. by all our friendship and sincerity, by the past splendour of your reputation, by the bright hopes of the future, by the trusting vows of a lover, and the gray hairs of a father, i pray you to relinquish a habit, whose growing strength is now only known to me." emily paused, strong emotions impeded her utterance. "what is it you fear?" asked anne, in a low, stern voice; "speak, for you see that i am calm." "you know what i dread," continued emily. "i see a speck on the bright character of my friend. it may spread and dim all its lustre. we all know the fearful strength of habit, we cannot shake off the serpent when once its coils are around us. oh, anne, gifted by nature with such brilliancy of intellect and gayety of heart, why have you ever had recourse to the exciting draught, as if art could exalt the original buoyancy of your spirits, or care had laid his blighting hand upon you?" "forbear," cried anne, impetuously, "and hear me, before you blast me with your contempt. it was not till bitter disappointment pressed, crushed me, that i knew art could renovate the languor of nature. yes, _i_, _the_ courted and admired of all, was doomed to love one whose affections i could not win. you knew him well, but you never knew how my ineffectual efforts to attach him maddened my pride, or how the triumph of my beautiful rival goaded my feelings. the world guessed not my secret, for still i laughed and glittered with mocking splendour, but with such a cold void within! i could not bear it. my unnatural spirits failed me. i _must_ still shine on, or the secret of my humiliation be discovered. i began in despair, but i have accomplished my purpose. and now," added she, "i have done. the necessity of shining and deceiving is over. i thank you for the warmth of friendship that suggested your admonition. but, indeed, emily, your apprehensions are exaggerated. i have a restraining power within me that must always save me from degradation. habit, alone, makes slaves of the weak; it becomes the slave of the strong in mind. i know what's due to manly. he never shall blush for his choice in a wife." she began with vehemence and ended with deliberation. there was something in the cold composure of her manner that forbid a renewal of the subject. emily felt that she had fulfilled her duty as a friend, and delicacy commanded her to forbear a renewal of her admonitions. force of feeling had betrayed her into a warmth of expression she now regretted. she loved anne, but she looked with many misgivings to being the sharer of her wedded home. she had deeply studied the character of manly, and trembled to think of the reaction that might one day take place in his mind, should he ever discover the dark spot on the disk of his sun--of his destiny. though she had told anne that the secret of her growing love for the exciting draught was _known_ only to herself, it was whispered among the servants, suspected by a few discreet individuals, and had been several times hinted in a private circle of friends. it had never yet reached the ears of manly, for there was something in his demeanour that repelled the most distant approach to familiarity. he married with the most romantic and enthusiastic ideas of domestic felicity. were those bright visions of bliss realized? time, the great disenchanter, alone could answer. * * * * * it was about five years after the scenes we have recorded, that mr. and mrs. manly took up their residence in the town of g----. usually, when strangers are about to become inhabitants of a new place, there is some annunciation of their arrival; but they came, without any previous intimation being given for the speculation of the curious, or bringing any letters of introduction for the satisfaction of the proud. they hired an elegant house, furnished it rich and fashionably, and evidently prepared for the socialities of life, as enjoyed in the highest circles. the appearance of wealth always commands the respect of the many, and this respect was heightened by their personal claims to admiration. five years, however, had wrought a change in both, not from the fading touch of time, for they were not of an age when the green leaf begins to grow sere, but other causes were operating with a power as silent and unpausing. the fine, intelligent face of mrs. manly had lost much of its delicacy of outline, and her cheek, that formerly was pale or roseate as sensibility or enthusiasm ruled the hour, now wore a stationary glow, deeper than the blush of feminine modesty, less bright than the carnation of health. the unrivalled beauty of her figure had given place to grosser lineaments, over which, however, grace and dignity still lingered, as if unwilling to leave a shrine so worshipped. mr. manly's majestic person was invested with an air of deeper haughtiness, and his dark brow was contracted into an expression of prevailing gloom and austerity. two lovely children, one almost an infant, who were carried abroad every fair day by their nurse, shared the attention their parents excited; and many appealed to _her_ for information respecting the strangers. she was unable to satisfy their curiosity, as she had been a member of their household but a short time, her services having been hired while journeying to the place. the other servants were hired after their arrival. thus, one of the most fruitful sources from which the inquisitive derive their aliment, was denied to the inhabitants of g----. it was not long before the house of mr. and mrs. manly was frequented by those whose society she most wished to cultivate. the suavity of her manners, the vivacity of her conversation, her politeness and disinterestedness, captivated the hearts of all. mr. manly too received his guests with a cordiality that surprised, while it gratified. awed by the external dignity of his deportment, they expected to be repulsed, rather than welcomed, but it was universally acknowledged, that no man could be more delightful than mr. manly, when he chose to unbend. as a lawyer, his fame soon rose. his integrity and eloquence became the theme of every tongue. amidst all the admiration they excited, there were some dark surmises. the malicious, the censorious, the evil-disposed are found in every circle, and in every land. it was noticed that mr. manly watched his wife with painful scrutiny, that she seemed uneasy whenever his glance met hers, that her manner was at times hurried and disturbed, as if some secret cause of sorrow preyed upon her mind. it was _settled_ in the opinion of many, that mr. manly was a domestic tyrant, and that his wife was the meek victim of this despotism. some suggested that he had been convicted of crime, and had fled from the pursuit of justice, while his devoted wife refused to separate her destiny from his. they gave a large and elegant party. the entertainment was superior to anything witnessed before in the precincts of g----. the graceful hostess, dressed in unwonted splendour, moved through her drawing-rooms, with the step of one accustomed to the homage of crowds, yet her smiles sought out the most undistinguished of her guests, and the most diffident gathered confidence from her condescending regards. still the eye of mr. manly followed her with that anxious, mysterious glance, and her hurried movements often betrayed inexplicable perturbation. in the course of the evening, a gentleman refused wine, on the plea of belonging to the temperance society. many voices were lifted in condemnation against him, for excluding one of the gladdeners of existence, what, the scriptures themselves recommended, and the saviour of men had consecrated by a miracle. the subject grew interesting, the circle narrowed round the advocate of temperance, and many were pressing eagerly forward to listen to the debate. the opinion of mrs. manly was demanded. she drew back at first, as if unwilling to take the lead of her guests. at length she seemed warmed by the subject, and painted the evils of intemperance in the strongest and most appalling colours. she painted woman as its victim, till every heart recoiled at the image she drew. so forcible was her language, so impressive her gestures, so unaffected her emotions, every eye was riveted, and every ear bent on the eloquent mourner of her sex's degradation. she paused, oppressed by the notice she attracted, and moved from the circle, that widened for her as she passed, and gazed after her, with as much respect as if she were an empress. during this spontaneous burst of oratory, mr. manly remained aloof, but those who had marked him in their minds as the harsh domestic tyrant, were now confirmed in their belief. instead of admiring the wonderful talents of his wife, or sympathizing in the applause she excited, a gloom thick as night lowered upon his brow, his face actually grew of a livid paleness, till at last, as if unable to control his temper, he left the drawing-room. "poor mrs. manly," said one, "how much is her destiny to be lamented! to be united to a man who is incapable of appreciating her genius, and even seems guilty of the meanness of annoying her." thus the world judges; and had the tortured heart of manly known the sentence that was passing upon him, he would have rejoiced that the shaft was directed to _his_ bosom, rather than _hers_, which he would fain shield from the proud man's contumely, though it might never more be the resting-place of love and confidence. is it necessary to go back and relate the history of those years which had elapsed since anne weston was presented to the reader as a triumphant belle, and plighted bride! is it not already seen that the dark speck had enlarged, throwing into gradual, but deepening shade, the soul's original brightness, obscuring the sunshine of domestic joy, converting the home of love into a prison-house of shame, and blighting, chilling, palsying the loftiest energies and noblest purposes? the warning accents of emily spencer were breathed in vain. that fatal habit had already become a passion--a passion which, like the rising tide, grows deeper and higher, rolling onward and onward, till the landmarks of reason, and honour, and principle, are swept over by its waves--a tide that ebbs not but with ebbing life. she had looked "upon the wine when it was red, when it gave its colour to the cup," till she found, by fatal experience, that it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. it were vain to attempt a description of the feelings of manly when he first discovered the idol of his imagination under an influence that, in his opinion, brutalized a man. but a woman!--and that woman--his wife! in the agony, the madness of the moment, he could have lifted the hand of suicide, but emily spencer hovered near and held him back from the brink to which he was rushing. she pleaded the cause of her unhappy friend, she prayed him not to cast her off. she dwelt on the bright and sparkling mind, the warm, impulsive heart that might yet be saved from utter degradation by his exerted influence. she pledged herself to labour for him, and with him, and faithfully did she redeem her pledge. after the first terrible shock, manly's passionate emotion settled down into a misanthropic gloom. sometimes when he witnessed the remorse which followed such self-abandonment, the grace and beauty with which she would emerge from the disfiguring cloud, and the strong efforts she would make to reinstate herself in his estimation, a ray of brightness would shine in on his mind, and he would try to think of the past as a frightful dream. then his prophetic dream would return to him, and he shuddered at its confirmation--once it seemed as if the demon had withdrawn its unhallowed presence, unable to exist in the holy atmosphere that surrounds a mother's bosom. for a long time the burning essence was not permitted to mingle with the fountain of maternal tenderness. even manly's blasted spirit revived, and emily hoped all, and believed all. but anne had once passed the rubicon, and though she often paused and looked back with yearnings that could not be uttered, upon the fair bounds she had left, the very poignancy of her shame goaded her on, though every step she took, evidenced the shame that was separating her from the affections of a husband whom she loved and respected, and who had once idolized her. it has been said that when woman once becomes a transgressor, her rapid progress in sin mocks the speed of man. as the glacier, that has long shone in dazzling purity, when loosened from its mountain stay, rushes down with a velocity accelerated by its impenetrability and coldness, when any shameful passion has melted the virgin snow of a woman's character, a moral avalanche ensues, destroying "whatsoever is venerable and lovely, and of good report." manly occasionally sought to conceal from the world the fatal propensities of his wife. she had occupied too conspicuous a station in society--she had been too highly exalted--to humble herself with impunity. her father, whose lavish indulgence probably paved the way to her ruin, was unable to bear himself up under the weight of mortification and grief thus unexpectedly brought upon him. his constitution had long been feeble; and now the _bowl was, indeed, broken at the fountain_. the filial hand which he once hoped would have scattered roses on his dying pillow, struck the deathblow. physicians talked of a chronic disease; of the gradual decay of nature; but anne's conscience told her she had winged the dart. the agony of her remorse seemed a foretaste of the quenchless fire, and the undying worm. she made the most solemn promises of reformation--vowed never again to taste the poisonous liquor. she threw herself on the forgiveness of her husband, and prayed him to remove her where her name was never breathed; that she might begin life anew, and establish for their children an unblemished reputation. on the faith of these ardent resolutions, manly broke his connexion with every former friend--sold all his possessions, and sought a new home, in a place far removed from the scene of their present unhappiness. circumstances in her own family prevented emily spencer from accompanying them, but she was to follow them the earliest opportunity, hoping miracles from the change. mrs manly, from the death of her father, came into the possession of a large and independent fortune. she was not sordid enough to deem money an equivalent for a wounded reputation; but it was soothing to her pride, to be able to fill her husband's coffers so richly, and to fit up their new establishment in a style so magnificent. manly allowed her to exercise her own taste in everything. he knew the effect of external pomp, and thought it was well to dazzle the judgment of the world. he was determined to seek society; to open every source of gratification and rational excitement to his wife, to save her from monotony and solitude. his whole aim seemed to be, "that she might not be led into temptation." if with all these cares for her safety, he could have blended the tenderness that once softened his proud manners, could he have banished from his once beaming eye the look of vigilance and distrust; could she have felt herself once more enthroned in his heart, gratitude might, perhaps, have completed the regeneration begun by remorse. but anne felt that she was an object of constant suspicion and fear; she felt that he had not faith in her good resolutions. she was no longer the sharer of his counsels--the inspirer of his hopes--or the companion in whom his soul delighted. his ruling passion supported him in society; but in those hours when they were necessarily thrown upon each other's resources, he was accustomed to sit in gloomy abstraction, brooding over his own melancholy thoughts. anne was only too conscious of the subject of these reveries, and it kept alive a painful sense of her humiliation. she had, hitherto, kept her promise sacred, through struggles known only to herself, and she began to feel impatient and indignant that the reward for which she looked was still withheld. had she been more deeply skilled in the mysteries of the human heart, she might have addressed the genius of the household shrine, in the language of the avenging moor, who first apostrophizes the torch that flares on his deed of darkness: "if i quench thee, thou flaming minister, i can again thy former light restore, should i repent me--but once put out thine, i know not where is the promethean heat that can thy light relume." mr. manly was called away by professional business, which would probably detain him many weeks from home. he regretted this necessity; particularly before the arrival of emily, whose coming was daily expected. he urged his wife to invite some friends to remain as her guests during his absence, to enliven her solitude. his request, so earnestly repeated, might have been gratifying to her feelings, if she had not known the distrust of her faith and strength of resolution it implied. the last words he said to her, at parting, were, "remember, anne, everything depends on yourself." she experienced a sensation of unspeakable relief in his absence. the eagle glance was withdrawn from her soul, and it expanded and exulted in its newly acquired freedom. she had a constant succession of visiters, who, remarking the elasticity of her spirits, failed not to cast additional obloquy on mr. manly, for the tyranny he evidently exercised over his wife. emily did not arrive, and mrs. manly could not regret the delay. her presence reminded her of all she wished to forget; for her days of triumph were returned, and the desire of shining rekindled from the ashes of scorn, that had for a while smothered the flame. it wanted about a week of mr. manly's return. she felt a strong inclination to renew the splendours of her party. she had received so many compliments on the subject:--"mrs. manly's delightful party!" "her conversational powers!" "such a literary banquet!" &c. invitations were given and accepted. the morning of the day, which was somewhat warm and oppressive, she was summoned by the kitchen council, where the business of preparation was going on. suddenly, however, they came to a stand. there was no brandy to give flavour to the cake; and the cook declared it was impossible to make it without, or to use anything as a substitute. mrs. manly's cheeks flushed high with shame. her husband had retained the key of the closet that contained the forbidden article. he was afraid to trust it in her keeping. the mildest cordials were alone left at her disposal, for the entertainment of her guests. what would her husband think if she purchased, in his absence, what he had himself secreted from her? what would the servants believe if she refused to provide them with what was deemed indispensable? the fear of her secret being detected, combined with resentment at her husband's unyielding distrust, decided her conduct. she bought--she _tasted_. the cook asserted there was something peculiar in its flavour, and asked her to judge for herself. would it not excite suspicion, if she refused? she broke her solemn vow--she _tasted_--and was _undone_. the burning thirst once kindled, in those who have been victims to this fatal passion, it rages with the strength of madness. in the secrecy of the closet where she hid the poison, she yielded to the tempter, who whispered, that, as she had been _compelled_ to taste, her promise had been innocently broken: there could be no harm in a _little more_--the last that should ever pass her lips. in the delirium of the moment, she yielded, till, incapable of self-control, she continued the inebriating draught. judgment--reason--at length, perception, vanished. the approach of evening found her still prostrate on her bed, a melancholy instance of the futility of the best human resolutions, unsupported by the divine principle of religion. the servants were at first struck with consternation. they thought some sudden disease had overtaken her. but the marks of intemperance, that, like the brand on the brow of cain, single out its votaries from the rest of mankind, those revolting traces, were but too visible. they knew not what to do. uncertain what guests were invited, they could not send apologies, nor ask them to defer their visit. the shades of evening were beginning to fall; the children were crying, deprived of the usual cares of their nurse; and in the general bustle, clung to their mother, whose ear was deaf to the appeal of nature. the little one, weary of shedding so many unavailing tears, at last crawled up on the bed, and fell asleep by her side, though there was scarcely room for her to stretch her little limbs, where she had found the means of climbing. as her slumbers deepened, her limbs relaxed from the rigid posture they had assumed: her arms dropped unconsciously over the bed, and she fell. in her fall she was thrown against one of the posts, and a sharp corner cutting her head, inflicted a deep wound. the screams of the little sufferer roused the household, and pierced even the leaden slumbers of intemperance. it was long, however, before mrs. manly came to a clear perception of what was passing around her. the sight of the streaming blood, however, acted like a shock of electricity. she sprang up, and endeavoured to stanch the bleeding wound. the effusion was soon stopped; the child sunk into a peaceful sleep, and the alarm subsided. children are liable to so many falls, and bruises, and wounds, it is not strange that mrs. manly, in the confused state of her mind, should soon forget the accident, and try to prepare herself for the reception of her guests, who were already assembling in the drawing-room. every time the bell rung, she started, with a thrill of horror, conscious how unfit she was to sustain the enviable reputation she had acquired. her head ached almost to bursting, her hands trembled, and a deadly sickness oppressed her. the visions of an upbraiding husband, a scoffing world, rose before her--and dim, but awful, in the dark perspective, she seemed to behold the shadow of a sin-avenging deity. another ring--the guests were thronging. unhappy woman! what was to be done? she would have pleaded sudden indisposition--the accident of her child--but the fear that the servants would reveal the truth--the hope of being able to rally her spirits--determined her to descend into the drawing-room. as she cast a last hurried glance into the mirror, and saw the wild, haggard countenance it reflected, she recoiled at her own image. the jewels with which she had profusely adorned herself, served but to mock the ravages the destroying scourge had made upon her beauty. no cosmetic art could restore the purity of her complexion; nor the costliest perfumes conceal the odour of the fiery liquor. she called for a glass of cordial--kindled up a smile of welcome, and descended to perform the honours of her household. she made a thousand apologies for her delay; related, in glowing colours, the accident that happened to her child, and flew from one subject to another, as if she feared to trust herself with a pause. there was something so unnatural in her countenance, so overstrained in her manner, and so extravagant in her conversation, it was impossible for the company not to be aware of her situation. silent glances were exchanged, low whispers passed round; but they had no inclination to lose the entertainment they anticipated. they remembered the luxuries of her table, and hoped, at least, if not a "feast of reason," a feast of the good things of earth. it was at this crisis emily spencer arrived. her travelling dress, and the fatigue of a journey, were sufficient excuses for her declining to appear in the drawing-room; but the moment she saw mrs. manly, her eye, too well experienced, perceived the backsliding of anne, and hope died within her bosom. sick at heart, wounded, and indignant, she sat down in the chamber where the children slept--those innocent beings, doomed to an orphanage more sad than death even makes. anne's conscious spirit quailed before the deep reproach of emily's silent glances. she stammered out an explanation of the bloody bandage that was bound around the infant's, head, assured her there was no cause of alarm, and hurried down to the _friends_ who had passed the period of her absence in covert sarcasm, and open animadversion on her conduct. emily sat down on the side of the bed, and leaned over the sleeping infant. though mrs. manly had assured her there was no cause of alarm, she felt there was no reliance on her judgment; and the excessive paleness and languor of its countenance, excited an anxiety its peaceful slumbers could not entirely relieve. "it is all over," thought she, "a relapse in sin is always a thousand times more dangerous than the first yielding. she is at this moment blazoning her disgrace, and there will be no restraining influence left. oh! unfortunate manly! was it for this you sacrificed home, friends, and splendid prospects, and came a stranger to a strange land!" absorbed in the contemplation of manly's unhappy destiny, she remained till the company dispersed, and mrs. manly dragged her weary footsteps to her chamber. completely exhausted by her efforts to command her bewildered faculties, she threw herself on the bed, and sunk into a lethargy; the natural consequence of inebriation. the infant, disturbed by the sudden motion, awakened, with a languid cry, expressive of feebleness and pain. emily raised it in her arms, endeavoured to soothe its complaining; but it continued restless and wailing, till the blood gushed afresh through the bandage. greatly alarmed, she shook mrs. manly's arm, and called upon her to awake. it was in vain; she could not rouse her from her torpor. instantly ringing the bell, she summoned the nurse, who was revelling, with the other servants, over the relics of the feast, and told her to send immediately for a physician. fortunately there was one in the neighbourhood, and he came speedily. he shook his head mournfully when he examined the condition of the child, and pronounced its case beyond the reach of human skill. the injury produced by the fall had reached the brain. the very depth of its slumbers was but a fatal symptom of approaching dissolution. the tears of emily fell fast and thick on the pallid face of the innocent victim. she looked upon its mother--thought upon its father, and pressed the child in agony to her bosom. the kind physician was summoned to another chamber of sickness. he had done all he could to mitigate, where he could not heal. emily felt that this dispensation was sent in mercy. she could not pray for the child's life, but she prayed that it might die in the arms of its father; and it seemed that her prayer was heard. it was a singular providence that brought him that very night--a week sooner than he anticipated--urged on by a restless presentiment of evil; a dread that all was not well. imagination, however, had not pictured the scene that awaited him. his wife, clothed in her richest raiments, and glittering with jewels, lying in the deep torpor of inebriation. emily, seated by the side of the bed, bathed in tears, holding in her lap the dying infant, her dress stained with the blood with which the fair locks of the child were matted. what a spectacle! he stood for a moment on the threshold of the apartment, as if a bolt had transfixed him. emily was not roused from her grief by the sound of his footsteps, but she saw the shadow that darkened the wall, and at once recognised his lineaments. the startling cry she uttered brought him to her side, where, kneeling down over his expiring infant, he gazed on its altering features and quivering frame with a countenance so pale and stern, emily's blood ran cold. silently and fixedly he knelt, while the deepening shades of dissolution gathered over the beautiful waxen features and the dark film grew over the eyes, so lately bright with that heavenly blue, which is alone seen in the eyes of infancy. he inhaled its last, cold, struggling breath; saw it stretched in the awful immobility of death; then slowly rising, he turned towards the gaudy figure that lay as if in mockery of the desolation it had created. then manly's imprisoned spirit burst its bonds. he grasped his wife's arm, with a strength that might have been felt, even were her limbs of steel, and calling forth her name in a voice deep and thrilling as the trumpet's blast, he commanded her to rise. with a faint foretaste of the feeling with which the guilty soul shall meet the awakening summons of the archangel, the wretched woman raised herself on her elbow, and gazed around her with a wild and glassy stare. "woman," cried he, still retaining his desperate grasp, and pointing to the dead child, extended on the lap of the weeping emily, "woman! is this your work? is this the welcome you have prepared for my return? oh! most perjured wife and most abandoned mother! you have filled, to overflowing, the vials of indignation; on your own head shall they be poured, blasting and destroying. you have broken the last tie that bound me--it withers like flax in the flame. was it not enough to bring down the gray hairs of your father to the grave? to steep your own soul in perjury and shame, but that fair innocent must be a sacrifice to your drunken revels? one other victim remains. your husband--who lives to curse the hour he ever yielded to a syren, who lured him to the brink of hell!" he paused suddenly--relaxed his iron hold, and fell back perfectly insensible. it is an awful thing to see man fall down in his strength, struck, too, by the lightning of passion. anne sprang upon her feet. the benumbing spell was broken. his last words had reached her naked soul. she believed him dead, and that he had indeed died _her_ victim. every other thought and feeling was swallowed up in this belief; she threw herself by his side, uttering the most piercing shrieks, and rending her sable tresses, in the impotence of despair. poor emily! it was for her a night of horror; but her fortitude and presence of mind seemed to increase with the strength of the occasion. she turned her cares from the dead to the living. she bathed with restorative waters the pale brow of manly; she chafed his cold hands, till their icy chill began to melt in the warmth of returning animation. all the while his wretched wife continued her useless and appalling ravings. the morning dawned upon a scene of desolation. in one darkened room lay the snowy corpse, dressed in the white garments of the grave; in another, the almost unconscious manly, in the first stages of a burning fever; anne, crouched in a dark corner, her face buried in her hands; and emily, pale and wan, but energetic and untiring, still the ministering and healing spirit of this house of grief. yes! darkness and mourning was in that house; but the visitation of god had not come upon it: pestilence had not walked in the darkness, nor destruction, at the noon-day hour. had anne resisted the voice of the tempter, her child might have still smiled in his cherub beauty; her husband might have still presided at his board, and she, herself, at his side; if not in the sunshine of love, in the light of increasing confidence. her frame was worn by the long, silent struggles of contending passions, hopes, and fears. this last blow prostrated her in the dust. had _anne resisted the voice of the tempter_, all might yet have been well; but having once again steeped her lips in the pollution, the very consciousness of her degradation plunged her deeper in sin. she fled from the writhing of remorse to the oblivious draught. she gave herself up, body and soul, irredeemably. she was hurrying on, with fearful strides, to that brink from which so many immortal beings have plunged into the fathomless gulf of perdition. manly rose from the couch of sickness an altered man: his proud spirit was humbled--chastened--purified. brought to the confines of the unseen world, he was made to feel the vanity--the nothingness of this--and while his soul seemed floating on the shoreless ocean of eternity, the billows of human passion sunk before the immensity, the awfulness of the scene. the holy resolutions, formed on what he believed his death-bed, did not vanish with returning health. he saw the bitter cup prepared for him to drain, and though he prayed that it might be permitted to pass from him, he could say, in the resignation of his heart, "not my will, oh, father! but _thine_ be done." he looked upon his degraded wife rather with pity, than indignation. he no longer reproached her, or used the language of denunciation. but sometimes, in her lucid intervals, when she witnessed the subdued expression of his once haughty countenance--his deep paleness--the mildness of his deportment to all around him; the watchful guard he held over his own spirit; and all this accompanied by an energy in action--a devotedness in duty--such as she had never seen before--anne trembled, and felt that he had been near unto his maker, while she was holding closer and closer companionship with the powers of darkness. the wall of separation she had been building up between them, was it to become high as the heavens--deep as the regions of irremediable woe? emily was no longer their guest. while manly lingered between life and death, she watched over him with all a sister's tenderness. insensible to fatigue--forgetful of sleep--and regardless of food, she was sustained by the intensity of her anxiety; but as soon as his renovated glance could answer her attentions with speechless gratitude, and he became conscious of the cares that had done more than the physician's skill in bringing him back to life, she gradually yielded to others the place she had occupied as nurse--that place, which she who should have claimed it as her right, was incapacitated to fill. when manly was restored to health, emily felt that she could no longer remain. there was no more fellowship with anne; and the sympathy that bound her to her husband she could not, with propriety, indulge. manly, himself, did not oppose her departure; he felt it was best she should go. she took with her the little anne, with the grateful consent of her father. the opposition of the mother was not allowed to triumph over what manly knew was for the blessing of his child. "let her go," said he, mildly, but determinately; "she will not feel the want of a mother's care." * * * * * it was a dark and tempestuous night. the winds of autumn swept against the windows, with the mournful rustle of the withered leaves, fluttering in the blast: the sky was moonless and starless. everything abroad presented an aspect of gloom and desolation. even those who were gathered in the halls of pleasure, felt saddened by the melancholy sighing of the gust; and a cold, whispered mortality breathed into the hearts of the thoughtless and gay. it was on this night that manly sat by the dying couch of anne. every one is familiar with the rapid progress of disease, when it attacks the votary of intemperance. the burning blood soon withers up the veins; the fountain, itself, becomes dry. fearfully rapid, in this instance, had been the steps of the destroyer. here she lay, her frame tortured with the agonies of approaching dissolution, and her spirit strong and clear from the mists that had so long and so fatally obscured it. she saw herself in that mirror which the hand of truth holds up to the eye of the dying. memory, which acquires, at that awful moment, such supernatural power, brought before her all the past--the _wasted past_--the _irretrievable past_. her innocent childhood--her bright and glowing youth; her blasted womanhood, seemed embodied to her eyes. her father rose from his grave, and standing by her bedside, waving his mournful locks, warned her of her broken oath. her little infant, with his fair hair dabbled with blood, came gliding in its shroud, and accused her of being its murderer. her husband! as her frenzied spirit called up this last image, she turned her dim eye to him, who was hanging over her couch with a countenance of such grief and compassion, the dry agony of her despair softened into a gush of remorseful tenderness: "oh! no--no!" cried she, in difficult accents, "you do not curse me; you live to pardon the wretch who has undone herself and you. oh! could i live over the past; could i carry back to our bridal the experience of this awful hour, what long years of happiness might be ours!" the recollection of what she had been--of what she _might have been_--contrasted with what she then was, and with what she still _might be_, was too terrible. her agonies became wordless. manly knelt by her side: he sought to soothe her departing spirit by assurances of his own pardon; and to lead her, by penitence and prayer, to the feet of him, "in whose sight the heavens are not clean." he poured into her soul the experience of his, when he had travelled to the boundaries of the dark valley: his despair--his penitence, and his hopes. he spoke of the mercy that is boundless--the grace that is infinite--till the phantoms, accusing conscience called up, seemed to change their maledictions into prayers for her behalf. her ravings gradually died away, and she sunk into a troubled sleep. as manly gazed upon her features, on which death was already fixing its dim, mysterious impress,--those features whose original beauty was so fearfully marred by the ravages of intemperance,--the waters of time rolled back, and revealed that green, enchanted spot in life's waste, where he was first gilded by her presence. was that the form whose graceful movements then fascinated his senses; or those the eyes, whose kindling glances had flashed like a glory over his soul? the love, then so idolatrous and impassioned--so long crushed and buried--rose up from the ruins to hallow the vigils of that solemn night. the morning dawned, but the slumbers of anne were never to be broken, till the resurrection morn. in the bloom of life--the midst of affluence--with talents created to exalt society, and graces to adorn it; a heart full of warm and generous impulses; a husband as much the object of her pride as of her affections; children, lovely in their innocence, she fell a sacrifice to one brutalizing passion. seldom, indeed, is it that woman, in the higher walks of life, presents such a melancholy example; but were there but _one_, and that one anne weston, let her name be revealed, as a beacon, whose warning light should be seen by the daughters of the land. * * * * * another year glided by. the approach of another autumn, found manly girded for enterprise. he had marked out a new path, and was about to become a dweller of a young and powerful city, born on one of the mighty rivers of the west. his child could there grow up, unwithered by the associations of her mother's disgrace. amidst the hopes and anticipations gathering around a new home, in a new land, his own spirit might shake off the memories that oppressed its energies. he was still young. the future might offer something of brightness, to indemnify for the darkness of the past. he once more sought the native place of his unhappy wife; for his child was there, under the cherishing care of emily spencer. he passed that ball-room, in whose illuminated walls his destiny was sealed. the chamber selected for the traveller's resting-place was the one where the prophetic dream had haunted his pillow. his brow was saddened by the gloom of remembrance, when he entered the dwelling-place of his child; but when he saw the bright, beautiful little creature, who sprang into his arms, with spontaneous rapture, and witnessed the emotion that emily strove vainly to conquer, he felt he was not alone in the world: and the future triumphed over the past. he unfolded all his views, and described the new scenes in which he was soon to become an actor, with reviving eloquence. "are you going to carry me there too, father?" said the little girl, whose earnest blue eyes were riveted on his face. "are you not willing to go with me, my child? or must i leave you behind?" "i should like to go, if you will take emily, but i cannot leave her behind," cried the affectionate child, clinging to that beloved friend, who had devoted herself to her with all a mother's tenderness. "we will not leave her," exclaimed manly, a warm glow spreading over his melancholy features, "if she will go with us, and bless our western home." emily turned pale, but she did not speak--she could not, if her existence had depended upon it. she was no sickly sentimentalist, but she had ardent affections, though always under the government of upright principles. her mind was well balanced, and though passion might enter, it was never suffered to gain the ascendancy. from her earliest acquaintance with manly, she had admired his talents, and respected his character; but the idea of _loving_ the husband of her friend, never entered her pure imagination. it was not till she saw him borne down by domestic sorrow, on the bed of sickness, thrown by the neglect of his wife on her tenderness and care, that she felt the danger and depth of her sympathy. the moment she became aware of her involuntary departure from integrity of feeling she fled, and in the tranquillity of her own home, devoted to his child the love she shuddered to think began to flow in an illegitimate channel. that manly ever cherished any sentiments towards her, warmer than those of esteem and gratitude, she did not believe, but now he came before her, freed by heaven from the shackles that bound him, and duty no longer opposed its barrier to her affections, her heart told her she could follow him to the ends of the earth, and deem its coldest, darkest region, a paradise, if warmed and illumed by his love! the simplicity of childhood had unveiled the hearts of each to the other. it was not with the romance of his earlier passion that manly now wooed emily spencer to be his wife. it was love, approved by reason, and sanctified by religion. it was the christian, seeking a fellow labourer in the work of duty; the father, yearning for a mother to watch over an orphan child--the man awakened to the loftiest, holiest purposes of his being. in a beautiful mansion, looking down on one of the most magnificent landscapes unfolded in the rich valley of the west, manly and emily now reside. all the happiness capable of being enjoyed around the household shrine is theirs--and the only shade that ever dims their brows, is caused by the remembrance of the highly gifted--but ill-fated anne. the blind girl's story. all is still and solitary--the lamp burns on the table, with wasting splendour. the writing-desk is open before me, with the last letter unfolded--the letter i have cherished so fondly, though every word seems an arrow to my conscience. i cannot solace myself by the act, yet i must give utterance to the feelings with which my heart is bursting. on these unwritten sheets i will breathe my soul--i will trace its early history, and, perchance, _his_ eye may see them when mine are veiled in a darkness deeper than that which once sealed them. yet what shall i write? how shall i commence? what great events rise up in the records of memory, over which imagination may throw its rich empurpling dyes? alas! mine is but a record of the heart--but of a _blind_ girl's heart--and that being who bound my eyes with a fillet of darkness, till the hand of science lifted the thick film, and flooded them with the glories of creation, alone knows the mysteries of the spirit he has made. _his_ eye is upon me at this moment, and as this awful conviction comes over me, a kind of deathlike calmness settles on the restless sea of passion. oh! when i was blind, what was my conception of the all-seeing eye! it seemed to me as if it filled the world with its effulgence. i felt as if i, in my blindness, were placed in the hollow of that rock where moses hid, when the glory of the lord passed by. would that no daring hand had drawn me from that protecting shade! the beams that enlighten me have withered up the fountains of joy, and though surrounded by light, as with a garment, my soul is wrapped in the gloom of midnight. i was a blind child--blind from my birth--with one brother, older than myself, and a widowed father--for we were motherless--motherless, sisterless--yet blind. what a world of dependence is expressed in these few words! but, though thus helpless and dependent, i was scarcely conscious of my peculiar claim to sympathy and care. my father was wealthy, and my childhood was crowned with every indulgence that wealth could purchase, or parental tenderness devise. my brother was devotedly attached to me, giving up all his leisure to my amusement--for i was looked upon as hallowed by the misfortune which excluded me from communion with the visible world--and my wishes became laws, and my happiness the paramount object of the household. heaven, perhaps, as a kind of indemnification for depriving me of one of the wonted blessings of life, moulded me in a form which pleased the fond eyes of my relatives, and, as it was my father's pride to array me in the most graceful and becoming attire, my sightless eyes being constantly covered by a silken screen, i was a happy child. if it had not been for the epithet, _poor_, so often attached to my name, i should never have dreamed that mine was a forlorn destiny. "my _poor_ little blind girl," my father would exclaim, as he took me in his lap, after his return from his business abroad--"my _poor_ little sister," was the constant appellation given me by my affectionate brother, yet i was happy. when he led me in the garden, through the odorous flowers, i felt a kind of aching rapture at the sweetness they exhaled--their soft, velvet texture, was ecstasy to the touch, and the wind-harps that played amid the branches of the trees were like the lyres of angels to my ears. then the songs of birds, with what thrilling sensations would i listen to these harmonists of nature, these winged minstrels of god's own choir, as they lifted their strains of living harmony in the dim corridors of the woods! they painted to me the beauty of the world, and i believed them--but i could conceive of nothing so beautiful as sound. i associated the idea of everything that was lovely with music. it was my passion, and also my peculiar talent. every facility which art has furnished to supply the deficiencies of nature was given me, and my progress was considered astonishing by those who are not aware of the power and acuteness of touch bestowed upon the sightless. i love to linger on the days of my childhood, when sunshine flowed in upon my heart in one unclouded stream. the serpent slumbered in the bottom of the fountain--had no one gone down into its depths, its venom might have slumbered yet. my first cause of sorrow was parting with my brother--"my guide, my companion, my familiar friend." he was sent to a distant college, and i felt for a while as if i were alone in the world, for my father was in public life, and it was only at evening he had leisure to indulge in the tenderness of domestic feeling. he had never given up the hope that i might recover my sight. when i was very small there was an operation performed upon my eyes, but it was by an unskilful oculist, and unsuccessful. after this i had an unspeakable dread of any future attempt,--the slightest allusion to the subject threw me into such nervous agitation, my father at last forbore to mention it. "let me live and die under this shade," i would say, "like the flower that blooms in the cleft of the rock. the sunshine and the dew are not for me." time glided away. in one year more henry would complete his collegiate course. i was in the morning of womanhood, but my helpless condition preserved to me all the privileges and indulgences of the child. it was at this era--why did i here dash aside my pen, and press my hands upon my temples to still the throbbings of a thousand pulses, starting simultaneously into motion? why cannot we always be children? why was i not suffered to remain blind?--a young physician came into the neighbourhood, who had already acquired some fame as an oculist. he visited in our family--he became almost identified with our household. philanthropy guided him in his choice of a profession. he knew himself gifted with extraordinary talents, and that he had it in his power to mitigate the woes of mankind. but though the votary of duty, he was a worshipper at the shrine of intellect and taste. he loved poetry, and, next to music, it was my passion. he read to me the melodious strains of the sons of song, in a voice more eloquent, in its low depth of sweetness, than the minstrels whose harmony he breathed. when i touched the keys of the piano, his voice was raised, in unison with mine. if i wandered in the garden, his hand was ever ready to guide, and his arm to sustain me. he brought me the wild-flower of the field, and the exotic of the green-house, and, as he described their hues and outlines, i scarcely regretted the want of vision. here, in this book, i have pressed each faded gift. i remember the very words he uttered when he gave me this cluster.--"see," said he, "nay, _feel_ this upright stem, so lofty, till bending from the weight of the flower it bears. it is a lily--i plucked it from the margin of a stream, in which it seemed gazing on its white, waxen leaves. touch gently the briars of this wild rose. thus heaven guards the innocence and beauty that gladdens the eyes of the wayfaring man. cecilia, would you not like to look upon these flowers?" "yes, but far rather on the faces of those i love--my father's--my brother's. man is made in the image of his maker, and his face must be divine." "oh!" added i, in the secrecy of my own soul, "how divine must be the features of that friend, who has unfolded to me such unspeakable treasures of genius and feeling, whose companionship seems a foretaste of the felicities of heaven." it was then, for the first time, he dared to suggest to me a hope that my blindness was not incurable. he told me he had been devoting all his leisure to this one subject, and that he was sure he had mastered every difficulty; that though mine was a peculiar case, and had once baffled the efforts of the optician, he dared to assure himself of complete success. "and if i fail," said he, "if through my means no light should visit your darkened orbs, then," continued he, with an expression of feeling that seemed wholly irrepressible, "suffer me to be a light to your eyes and a lamp to your feet. but if it should be my lot to bestow upon you the most glorious of the gifts of god, to meet from you one glance of gratitude and love, were a recompense i would purchase with life itself." did i dream? or were these words breathed to me?--me, the helpless, blind girl! to receive the unmeasured devotion of one of the most gifted and interesting of created beings. i had thought that he pitied me, that he felt for me the kindness of a brother, that he found in me some congenial tastes--but that he loved me so entirely, it was a confession as unlooked for as overpowering. my heart ached, from the oppression of its joy. let not the cold-hearted and vain smile, when i repeat the broken accents of gratitude, trust, and love, that fell from my lips. my helplessness sanctified the offer, and i received his pledge of faith as a holy thing, to be kept holy through time and eternity. * * * * * never shall i forget that moment, when the first ray of light penetrated the long midnight that had shrouded my vision. it was in a darkened apartment. my father, one female friend, and clinton, the beloved physician--these were around me. faint, dim, and uncertain, as the first gray of the dawn, was that ray, but it was the herald of coming light, and hailed as a day-spring from on high. a bandage was immediately drawn over my brow, but during the weeks in which i was condemned to remain in darkness, the memory of that dim radiance was ever glimmering round me. there was a figure kneeling, with clasped hands and upraised head, pale and venerable--i knew it was my father's--for the same figure folded me to his heart the next moment, and wept like an infant. there was one with soft flowing outline, and loose robes, by my side,--and bending over me, with eyes gazing down into the mysteries of my being, shadowy but glorious, was he, who received the first glance of the being he had awakened to a new creation. slowly, gradually was i allowed to emerge from my eclipse, but when i was at last led from my darkened chamber, when i looked abroad on the face of nature, clothed as she was in the magnificent garniture of summer, when i saw the heavens unrolled in their majesty, the sun travelling in the greatness of his strength, the flowers glowing in the beams that enamelled them, i closed my eyes, almost fainting from the excessive glory. i will not attempt to describe my sensations when i first distinctly saw the lineaments of my lover. creation contained nothing so lovely to my sight. to see the soul, the thinking, feeling, immortal soul, flashing with enthusiasm, or darkening with tenderness, looking forth from his eyes, and feel my own mingling with his! no one but those who have once been blind, and now see, can imagine the intensity of my emotions. next to my creator, i felt my homage was due to him, and surely it is not impious to apply to him the sublime language of scripture--"he said, let there be light, and there was light." our mansion was transformed. my father gathered all his friends around him to participate in his joy. my brother was summoned home. there seemed one continual jubilee. i turned coldly, however, from all these festivities, occupied almost exclusively with one feeling. i could not feign an interest in others i did not feel. i began even at this early period to experience the first symptoms of that passion, which has since consumed me. clinton, though still, as ever, the kind, devoted, and watchful guardian, hovering round my steps, as if to shield me from every danger, clinton, i saw, shared in the pleasures of sociality, and returned the smiles that kindled wherever he moved. he was a universal favourite in society, and knew how to adapt himself to others, not from a vague desire of popularity, but from a benevolence, a sunny glow of feeling, shedding light and warmth all around. even then there were moments when i regretted my blindness, and wished i had never seen those smiles and glances, which i would fain rivet for ever on myself. henry, my brother, once whispered to me, as i was turning, in a languid manner, the leaves of a music book, not caring to play because clinton was not bending over my chair, "my dear cecilia, do not let clinton see too glaringly his power over you. there is scarcely a man in the world who can be trusted with unlimited power. we are ungrateful creatures, my sweet sister, and you do not know us half as well as we know each other. you ought to love clinton, for he merits it, but be mistress of yourself. do not love him too well for _his_ peace and your _own_." alas! poor henry--how little have i heeded your brotherly admonitions? but when did passion ever listen to the counsels of reason--when will it? when the cygnet's down proves a barrier to the tempest's breath. we were married. i became the inmate of a home, fashioned after the model of my own taste. everything was arranged with a view to my happiness. the curtains and decorations of the house were all of the softest green, for the repose of my still feeble eyes. oh! thou benefactor of my life--friend, lover, husband, would that i could go back to the hour when we plighted our wedded vows, and live over the past, convinced, though too late, how deeply i have wronged thee--confiding implicitly in thy love and truth, we might live together the life of angels! and we were happy for a while. we withdrew as much as possible from the gay world. he saw that i loved retirement, and he consulted my feelings as far as was consistent with the duties of his profession. i might have been convinced by this of the injustice of my suspicions. i might have known that he loved me better than all the world beside. during the day he was but seldom with me, as his practice was extensive, and often called him to a distance from home, but the evening was mine, and it seemed my peculiar province, for i shrunk from the full blaze of sunlight. the brightness was too intense, but when the moon was gliding over the firmament, in her sweet, approachable loveliness, and the soft glitter of the stars was around, i could lift my undazzled eyes, and marvel at the wonderful works of god. clinton was a devout astronomer--he taught me the name of every planet that burned--of every star known to science. he was rich in the wisdom of ancient days, and his lips distilled instruction as naturally and constantly as the girl in the fairy tale dropped the gems of the orient. i have made mention of a female friend--she was the daughter of a deceased friend of my father, and, as such, came under his especial guardianship. since my marriage she had remained with him, to cheer his loneliness, but her health becoming very delicate, he sent her to be my guest, that she might receive medical aid from my husband. she was not a decided invalid, but her mother had died of a consumption, and it was feared she had a hereditary tendency to that disease. alice was a pale, delicate-looking girl, with sometimes a hectic flush on her cheek, a frail, drooping form, and extremely pensive cast of countenance. the dread of this constitutional malady hung over her like a death-cloud, and aggravated symptoms slight in themselves. though there was nothing very attractive in the appearance of this poor girl, she was calculated to excite pity and sympathy, and surely she had every claim to mine. i did pity her, and sought, by every attention and kindness, to enliven her despondency, and rouse her to hope and vivacity. but i soon found that my father had encroached sadly on my domestic happiness by giving this charge to my husband. air, exercise, and gentle recreation, were the remedies prescribed by the physician, and it was his duty to promote these by every means in his power. she often accompanied him on horseback in his rides, a pleasure from which i was completely debarred, for, in my blindness, i was incapacitated, and the timidity which originated from my situation remained after the cause was removed. it was some time before i was willing to acknowledge to myself the pain which this arrangement gave me. i felt as if my dearest privileges were invaded. i had been so accustomed, from infancy, to be the sole object of every attention, these daily offices bestowed upon another, though dictated by kindness and humanity, were intolerable to me. had i seen the congregated world around her, offering every homage, it would not have given me one envious pang--but clinton, my husband, he was more precious to me than ten thousand worlds. she leaned too exclusively on his guardian care. i tried to subdue my feelings--i tried to assume an appearance of indifference. my manners gradually became cold and constrained, and instead of greeting my husband with the joyous smile of welcome, on his return, i would avert from his the eyes which had received from him their living rays. frank and unsuspicious himself, he did not seem to divine the cause of my altered demeanour. when he asked me why i was so silent, or so sad, i pleaded indisposition, lassitude--anything but the truth. i blamed him for his want of penetration, for i felt as if my soul were bare, and that the eye of affection could read the tidings revealed by my changing cheek and troubled brow. in justice to myself, let me say, that alice, by her manner, justified my emotions. enlightened by the sentiment in my own bosom, i could not but mark that the hectic flush always became brighter when clinton approached, that her glance, kindling as it moved, followed his steps with a kind of idolatry. then she hung upon his words with an attention so flattering. was she reading, reclining on the sofa, apparently languid and uninterested, the moment he spoke she would close her book, or lean forward, as if fearful of losing the faintest sound of that voice, which was the music of my life. i could have borne this for a day, a week, a month--but to be doomed to endure it for an indefinite term, perhaps for life, it was unendurable. a hundred times i was on the point of going to my father, and, telling him the secret of my unhappiness, entreat him to recall my too encroaching guest, but shame and pride restrained me. chilled and wounded by my coldness, my husband gradually learned to copy it, and no longer sought the smiles and caresses my foolish, too exciting heart, deemed he no longer valued. oh! blissful days of early confidence and love! were ye for ever flown? was no beam of tenderness permitted to penetrate the cold frost-work of ceremony deepening between us? it is in vain to cherish love with the memory of what has been. it must be fed with daily living offerings, or the vestal fire will wax dim and perish--then fearful is the penalty that ensues. the doom denounced upon the virgins of the temple, when they suffered the holy flame to become extinct, was less terrible. alice, when the mildness of the weather allowed, almost made her home in the garden. she must have felt that i shrunk from her society, and i knew she could not love the wife of clinton. she carried her books and pencil there--she watched the opening blossoms, and gathered the sweetest, to make her offering at the shrine she loved. my husband was evidently pleased with these attentions, flowing, as he thought, from a gentle and grateful heart, and his glance and voice grew softer when he turned to address the invalid. once during the absence of alice i went into her chamber for a book i had lent her, which contained a passage i wished to recall. i took up several others, which lay upon the table. there was one which belonged to my husband, and in it was a piece of folded paper, embalmed with flowers, like some holy relic. it was not sealed--it was open--it was a medical prescription, written by clinton, thus tenderly, romantically preserved. on another half-torn sheet were some broken lines, breathing passion and despair. they were in the handwriting of alice, and apparently original, without address or signature, but it was easy for my excited imagination to supply them. poor victim of passion--by the side of this record of all my fears was the composing draught, prepared to check the consumptive cough--the elixir to sustain the failing principles of vitality. how is it that we dare to kindle an unhallowed flame, even on the ashes of decaying mortality? i left the chamber, and retired to my own. i knew not in what manner to act. i endeavoured to reflect on what i ought to do. alice and myself could not live long under the same roof, yet how could i bid her depart, or betray her to my husband? i could not believe such feelings could be excited in her without sufficient encouragement. i laid myself down on the bed, and wished i might never rise again. i closed my eyes, and prayed that the dark fillet of night might rest on them again and forevermore. my cheeks burned as with consuming fire, but it was in my heart. when clinton returned, not finding me in the drawing-room, he sought me in my own chamber. he seemed really alarmed at my situation. he forgot all his former constraint, and hung over me with a tenderness and anxiety that might have proved to me how dear i was. he sat by me, holding my burning hand, and uttering every endearing expression affection could suggest. melted by his caresses, i yearned to unbosom to him my whole heart--my pride, my jealousy was subdued. i endeavoured to speak, but the words died on my tongue. confused images flitted across my brain--then came a dreary blank. for weeks i lay on that bed of sickness, unconscious of everything around me. my recovery was for a long time doubtful--but when i at last opened my languid eyes, they rested on the face of my husband, who had kept his unwearied vigils by my pillow, and still he held my feeble hand in his, as if he had never unloosed his clasp. he looked pale and wan, but a ray of divine joy flashed from his eye as he met my glance of recognition. humbled and chastened by this visitation from heaven, renovated by the warm and gracious influences exerted for my restoration, animated by new-born hope, i rose from my sick-bed. the vulture had unloosened its fangs, and the dove once more returned to its nest. i could even pity the misguided girl who had caused me so much unhappiness. i treated her with a kindness, of late very unwonted--but she evidently shunned my companionship, and in proportion as my spirits rose from the weight that had crushed them to the dust, hers became depressed and fitful. let me hurry on--i linger too long on feelings. few events have marked my brief history, yet some have left traces that all the waves of time can never wash out. it was sunday--it was the first time i had attended church since my illness. my husband accompanied me, while alice, as usual, remained at home. the preacher was eloquent--the music sweet and solemn--the aspirations of faith warm and kindling. i had never before felt such a glow of gratitude and trust; and while my mind was in this state of devout abstraction, clinton whispered to me that he was obliged to withdraw a short time, to visit a patient who was dangerously sick--"but i will return," said he, "to accompany you home." my thoughts were brought back to earth by this interruption, and wandered from the evangelical eloquence of the pulpit. the services were unusually long, and my head began to ache from the effort of listening. i experienced the lingering effects of sickness, and feeling that dimness of sight come over me, which was a never-failing symptom of a malady of the brain, i left the church, and returned home, without waiting for the coming of my husband. when i crossed the threshold, my spirit was free from a shadow of suspicion. i had been in an exalted mood--i felt as if i had been sitting under the outspread wings of the cherubim, and had brought away with me some faint reflection of the celestial glory. i was conscious of being in a high state of nervous excitement. the reaction produced by the unexpected scene that presented itself, was, in consequence, more terrible. there, on a sofa, half supported in the arms of my husband, whose hand she was grasping with a kind of convulsive energy, her hair unbound and wet, and exhaling the odorous essence with which it had been just bathed, sat alice, and the words that passed her lips, as i entered, at first unperceived by them, were these--"never, never--she hates me--she must ever hate me." i stood transfixed--the expression of my countenance must have been awful, for they looked as if confronted by an avenging spirit. alice actually shrieked, and her pale features writhed, as the scroll when the scorching blaze comes near it. my resolution was instantaneous. i waited not for explanations--the scene to my mind admitted none. the sudden withdrawal of my husband from church, upon the pretence of an errand of duty, the singular agitation of alice--all that i saw and heard, filled me with the most maddening emotions--all the ties of wedded love seemed broken and withered, at once, like the withes that bound the awakening giant. "clinton," exclaimed i, "you have deceived me--but it is for the last time." before he could reply, or arrest my motions, i was gone. the carriage was still at the door. "drive me to my father's, directly," was all i could utter, and it was done. swiftly the carriage rolled on--i thought i heard my name borne after me on the wind, but i looked not behind. i felt strong in the conviction of my wrongs. it would have been weakness to have wept. my scorn of such duplicity lifted me above mere sorrow. it was in the gloom of twilight when i reached my father's door. i rushed into the drawing-room, and found myself in the arms of my brother. "cecilia, my sister! what brings you here?" he was alarmed at my sudden entrance, and through the dusky shade he could discover the wild flashing of my eyes, the disorder of my whole appearance. the presence of human sympathy softened the sternness of my despair. tears gushed violently forth. i tried to explain to him my wretchedness and its cause, but could only exclaim, "clinton, alice, cruel, deliberate deceivers!" henry bit his lip, and ground his teeth till their ivory was tinged with blood, but he made no comments. he spoke then with his usual calmness, and urged me to retire to my chamber, and compose myself before my father's return. he almost carried me there in his arms, soothing and comforting me. he called for an attendant, again whispered the duty and necessity of self-control, then left me, promising a speedy return. i watched for the footsteps of henry, but hour after hour passed away, and he returned not. i asked the servants where he had gone? they knew not. i asked myself, and something told me, in an awful voice--"gone to avenge thee." the moment this idea flashed into my mind, i felt as if i were a murderess. i would convince myself of the truth. i knew my brother's chamber--thither i ran, and drawing back the bed curtains, looked for the silver mounted pistols that always hung over the bed's head. they were gone--and a coat dashed hastily on the counterpane, a pocket-book fallen on the carpet, all denoted a hurried departure on some fatal errand. the agony i had previously suffered was light to what pierced me now. to follow him was my only impulse. i rushed out of the house--it was a late hour in the evening--there was no moon in the sky, and i felt the dampness of the falling dew, as i flew, with uncovered head, like an unblessed spirit, through the darkness. my brain began to be thronged with wild images. it seemed to me, legions of dark forms were impeding my steps. "oh! let me pass," cried i, "it is my husband and brother i have slain. let me pass," continued i, shrieking, for an arm of flesh and blood was thrown around me, and held me struggling. "gracious heavens, it is the voice of my cecilia!" it was my father that spoke. i remember that i recognised him, and that was all. my cries were changed to cries of madness. i was borne back raving. the malady that had so recently brought me to the door of the grave, had renewed its attack with increased malignancy. my brain had been too much weakened to bear the tension of its agony. for long months i was confined within my chamber walls, sometimes tossing in delirious anguish, at others lying in marble unconsciousness, an image of the death they prayed might soon release me from my sufferings. they prayed that i might die, rather than be doomed to a living death. but i lived--lived to know the ruin i had wrought. my father was a man of majestic person, and time had scarcely touched his raven locks. his hair was now profusely silvered, and there were lines on his brow which age never furrowed. it was long before i learned all that had transpired during this fearful chasm in my existence, but gradually the truth was revealed. all that i was at first told, was, that my husband and brother lived--then, when it was supposed i had sufficient strength to bear the agitation, this letter from my husband was given me. "cecilia, how shall i address you? i will not reproach you, for you have had too bitter a lesson. i would fain have seen you before my departure, but you decline the interview, and perhaps it is well. should i live to return--oh! cecilia, what wretchedness have you brought upon us all! if your alienated heart does not turn from any memento of me, you will read these lines, and i know you will believe them. i have been, as it were, to the very threshold of the presence-chamber of the king of kings, and am just emerging from the shadows of approaching death. this is the first effort of my feeble hand. most rash and misjudging woman, what have you done? how madly have i doted on you, how blindly have i worshipped! yet all the devotion of my life, my truth, love and integrity, weighed nothing in the balance with one moment's mystery. i leave my vindication to alice. she will not deceive you. she will tell you that never did the heart of man throb with a more undivided passion for another than mine for you. she will tell you--but what avails it? you have cast me from you, unvalued and untrusted. your poor, unhappy brother! his avenging hand sought my life--the life of him who he believed had betrayed his sister's happiness, the wretch almost unworthy of a brave man's resentment. in wresting the weapon from his frenzied grasp, i received an almost deadly wound. his wrath was slaked in my blood. he believes me innocent. he has been to me more than a brother. he will accompany me to another clime, whither i am going, to try the effect of more genial air on my shattered frame. would to god we could have met before we parted--perhaps for ever. your father says you have been ill, that you fear the effect of the meeting on both. you have been ill--my ever adored, still tenderly beloved cecilia, i write not to reproach you. bitter is the penalty paid for one moment of passion. had i ever swerved in my affection for you, even in thought, i should deserve all i have suffered. i recall your sadness, your coldness, and averted looks. i now know the cause, and mourn over it. why did you not confide in me? we might yet have been happy--but the will of god be done. the vessel waits that is to bear us to a transatlantic clime--farewell. should i return, bearing with me some portion of my former vigour, should your confidence in my love be restored, then, perchance, through the mercy of heaven, two chastened and humble hearts may once more be united on earth. if i am never permitted to revisit my native soil, if i die in a foreign land, know, that, faithful to you to my latest hour, my last thought, prayer, and sigh, will be yours." * * * * * and he was gone--gone--sick, wounded, perhaps dying, he was gone to another land, and the blood that was drained from him on my soul. my father forbade him to see me--he was too feeble to bear the shock of beholding me in the condition i then was. my real situation was concealed from him. the only means of making the prohibition effectual, was to word it as proceeding from myself. thus, he believed me cold and selfish to the last. my father talked to me of better days, of the hope of my husband's speedy restoration, and of our future reunion. i could only listen and weep. i dared not murmur. i felt too deeply the justice of the judgment the almighty had passed against me. i had one ordeal yet to pass--an interview with alice. she also was under my father's roof, confined by increasing debility to her own apartment. as soon as my strength allowed, i made it a religious duty to visit the poor invalid. i was shocked to see the ravages of her malady. her eye of glassy brightness turned on me with such a look of woe and remorse, it cut me to the heart. i took the pale thin hand she extended towards me, and burst into tears. yes! i saw it but too clearly. here was another victim. the steps of the destroyer were fearfully accelerated. she had had a profuse hemorrhage from the lungs, and her voice was so weak and husky, it was with difficulty i could understand her. she drew me down near to her pillow, and, placing my hand on her heart, said, in a careful whisper--"remorse, cecilia, it is here. it is this which gives the sting to death." she then drew from beneath her pillow a paper that she had written for me, which she begged me to read when i was alone. i did read it. it was the transcript of a warm, romantic heart, erring and misguided, yet even in its aberrations discovering an innate love for virtue and truth. her whole soul was bared before me--all her love, imprudence, and remorse. she described my husband as an angel of light and purity, soaring high above the clouds of passion that gathered darkly around herself. she spoke of that scene, followed by such irremediable woe. "even now," continued alice, "wasting as i am on the bed of death, with the shadows of earthly feeling dimly floating round me, knowing that i shall soon turn to cold, impassive clay, the memory of that hour presses with scorching weight on my brain. i must have been mad. surely i had not the control of my reason. i had taken the previous night an unusual quantity of opium, which, instead of composing me to sleep, had excited my nerves, and strung them as with fire. your husband came in only a short time before your sudden entrance, evidently on some errand; and though he kindly paused to speak to me, his looks expressed haste to depart. just as he was about to leave the room, i was attacked with one of those spasms you have sometimes witnessed. he came to my relief--he administered every restorative. i know not all i uttered, but when i recovered i remember many wild expressions that escaped my lips. it seemed to me that i was going to die, and while his arms thus kindly supported me, i felt as if it would be joy to die. with this conviction, was it so black a crime to breathe forth the love that had so long pervaded my frail and lonely existence? cecilia, he recoiled from me with horror. he proclaimed his inviolable love and devotion for you--his glance was stern and upbraiding. then seeing me sinking in despair, the kindness of his nature triumphed, and he sought to calm my overwrought and troubled spirit. he expressed the affection of a brother, the pity of a friend, the admonitions of a christian. "above all," said he, "make a friend of cecilia. she will always cherish you with a sister's love." "never!" i exclaimed, "she hates me, she must ever hate me." the vision of an injured wife arrested my unhallowed accents. you know the dreadful tragedy that followed. never since that hour have i had one moment's calm. conscience, with her thousand scorpions, lashes me--whether sleeping or waking there is no rest. 'there is no peace,' saith my god, 'to the wicked,' yet mine was not deliberate guilt. had i only wrecked my own happiness!--but the wide desolation, the irretrievable ruin! i shudder, i weep, i lift my feeble hands to that power whose laws i have transgressed, and pray for pardon. to you, whose home of love i have laid waste, dare i turn my fading eyes, and hope for forgiveness? to him whom i have driven from his native land, shorn of the brightness of his manhood--oh! sinful dust and ashes"----here the unhappy writer broke off--the blank was stained with tears. probably in that broken sentence the embers of passion flashed out their last fires, through the "dust and ashes" of withering mortality. poor alice! may'st thou be forgiven by a merciful creator as freely as thou art by me. gentle be thy passage through the valley of the shadow of death, to that country where no storms desolate the heart, where passion and penitence are unknown. as for me--why and for what do i live? for hope or despair? i pray for tidings from the beloved exiles, yet dread to receive them. if the night gale sweeps with hasty gust against the window, i tremble lest they be exposed to the stormy deep. when i gaze on the moon and stars, i ask myself if they are lighting the wanderers on their homeward way, and sometimes gather hope from their heavenly brightness. the manuscript of cecilia here abruptly closes. it has fallen to the lot of one who afterwards became the devoted friend of clinton, to relate the sequel of their melancholy history. "it was in the spring of the year ----, i was sitting on the deck, watching the rapid motion of the boat, as it glided over the waves, thinking earnestly of the place of my destination, when i first beheld cecilia, the wife of clinton. i was a stranger on board, and gazed around me with that indefinite expression, which marks the stranger to the experienced eye. at length my glance was riveted by the appearance of a lady, leaning on the arm of a gray-haired gentleman, slowly promenading the deck. they passed and repassed me, while i continued to lean over the railing, fearing, by a change of position, to disturb the silent strangers. there was something in the figure of the lady inexpressibly interesting. she wore a mourning-dress, and her eyes were covered with a green shade. notwithstanding her face was thus partially obscured, the most exquisite beauty of outline and colouring was visible i ever saw in any human countenance. she wore no bonnet or veil, for the sun was verging towards the west, and its rays stole soft and mellow over the golden waters. fair and meek as the virgin mother's was the brow that rose above the silken screen, defined with beauteous distinctness by dark, divided hair, whose luxuriance was confined by a golden band. at length they seated themselves very near me, and began to converse in a low tone. there was a melancholy sweetness in her accents, and i was sure they were speaking of some sorrowful theme. we were now entering the ---- bay, and the boat rocked and laboured as she plunged through the increased volume of the waters. now, just visible on the glowing horizon, was the topmast of a vessel. on she came, with sails full spread, her canvas swelling in the breeze, her majestic outline softened by the sunset hues. the gentleman pointed out the object to his companion, who lifted the shade from her brow, revealing as she did so, eyes of such melting softness, i wondered i had thought her lovely before. she pressed the arm of the gentleman, and gazed eagerly on the vessel which now bore down 'majestically near.' she rose, she bent forward with earnest gestures, her face kindled, and sparkled like the waters themselves. the ship approached so near we could discern figures on the deck. the boat had diverged from her path to give place to the nobler craft. she was sailing with great rapidity, and the noise of the engine and the dashing of the waves drowned the sound of the voices near me. i began to feel a strange interest in the vessel on which the eyes of the strangers were so earnestly riveted. amid the figures that walked her deck, i distinguished one, which was aloof from the others, of a more lofty bearing--a cloak was gathered round him, and from this circumstance, together with his extremely pallid complexion, i judged him to be an invalid. from the rapid motion of both vessels, it was but a glance i obtained, after we were near enough to trace these lineaments. at this moment the lady sprang upon the bench beneath the railing--she stretched forth her arms, with a startling cry. i saw her for an instant, bending far over the edge of the boat. i rose and rushed towards her to warn her of her danger, but a plunging sound in the water, that closed darkly over her sinking form, froze my veins with horror. 'oh! my god!' exclaimed the father, 'save her! my daughter! oh, my daughter!' then fell back, almost paralyzed, on the seat. to throw off my coat and plunge in after the ill-fated lady, in whom i had become so painfully interested, was an instantaneous deed. alas! all my efforts were unavailing. the current was so powerful, i found it in vain to struggle with its force. i relaxed not, however, till my failing strength warned me that i was seeking a grave for myself, without being able to rescue the victim for whom i had willingly periled my life. "i will not attempt to describe the grief of the half-distracted father. i never left him till he reached his own home. what a scene of agony awaited him there! the husband and brother, so long absent, were returned, yearning to behold once more that beloved being, whose involuntary sin had been so fearfully expiated. it was clinton whom i had seen on the vessel's deck. as he afterwards told me, the dazzle of the rays on the water, in that direction, had prevented him from distinguishing the features for ever engraven on his heart. the hoarse sound of the waves swallowed her drowning shriek--onward they bore him, and he saw not the fond arms that would have embraced him, even over that watery chasm. i have witnessed many a scene of sorrow, but never saw i one like this. from the peculiar circumstances that brought us together, i became almost identified with this unhappy family. clinton was the most interesting man i ever saw. he was a confirmed invalid, never having recovered from the effects of his wound. i never saw a smile upon his face, nor could i ever smile in his presence. he seldom spoke, and never but once did he mention the name of cecilia. it was one night when he was unusually ill, and i was sitting alone with him in his chamber. he gave me the manuscript for perusal which is here transcribed, an act of confidence he considered due to me, who would have been her saviour. through the watches of that night he poured into my ear the hoarded agonies of his grief. never before did i know how deep human sorrow could be, or how holy was that love which clings to the memory of the dead. "alice dwelt in 'the dark and narrow house.' she was spared the knowledge of the fatal catastrophe, for she died before her victim. yes--_her victim_! had she guarded against the first inroads of a forbidden passion, there might have been 'beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.' the angel form that lies low, wrapped in the winding-sheet of the waves, might now be moving in the light of loveliness, love, and joy. but who shall dare to arraign the doings of the almighty?" the parlour serpent. mrs. wentworth and miss hart entered the breakfast-room together, the latter speaking earnestly and in a low confidential tone to the other, whose countenance was slightly discomposed. "there is nothing that provokes me so much as to hear such remarks," said miss hart, "i have no patience to listen to them. indeed, i think they are made as much to wound my feelings as anything else, for they all know the great affection i have for you." "but you do not say what the remarks were, that gave you so much pain," answered mrs. wentworth. "i would much prefer that you would tell me plainly, than speak in such vague hints. you will not make me angry, for i am entirely indifferent to the opinion of the world." now there was not a woman in the world more sensitively alive to censure than mrs. wentworth, and in proportion to her sensitiveness, was her anxiety to know the observations of others. "if you had overheard miss bentley and miss wheeler talking of you last night as i did," continued miss hart, "you would not have believed your own ears. they said they thought it was ridiculous in you to make such a nun of yourself, because captain wentworth was absent, and to dress so plain and look so moping. one of them said, you did not dare to visit or receive visiters while he was away, for that you were as much afraid of him as if you were his slave, and that he had made you promise not to stir out of the house, or to invite any company while he was gone." "ridiculous!--nonsense!" exclaimed mrs. wentworth, "there never was such an absurd idea. captain wentworth never imposed such a restraint upon me, though i know he would rather i would live retired, when he cannot attend me himself in the gay world. it is not despotism, but affection, that prompts the wish, and i am sure i feel no pleasure in dressing, shining, and mingling in society, when he is exposed to danger, and perhaps death, on the far deep sea." "i know all that, my dear mrs. wentworth," replied miss hart, insinuatingly, "and so i told them; but how little can a heartless and censorious world judge of the feelings of the refined and the sensitive! it seems to be a general impression that you fear your husband more than you love him, and that this fear keeps you in a kind of bondage to his will. if i were you, i would invite a large party and make it as brilliant as possible, and be myself as gay as possible, and then that will be giving the lie at once to their innuendoes." "it is so mortifying to have such reports in circulation," said mrs. wentworth, her colour becoming more and more heightened and her voice more tremulous. "i don't care what they say at all, and yet i am half resolved to follow your advice, if it were only to vex them. i _will_ do it, and let them know that i am not afraid to be mistress of my own house while its master is absent." "that is exactly the right spirit," answered the delighted miss hart; "i am glad you take it in that way. i was afraid your feelings would be wounded, and that is the reason i was so unwilling to tell you." but though mrs. wentworth boasted of her spirit and her indifference, her feelings were deeply wounded, and she sat at the breakfast-table, cutting her toast into the most minute pieces, without tasting any, while miss hart was regaling herself with an unimpaired appetite, and luxuriating in fancy on the delightful party, she had so skilfully brought into promised existence, at least. she had no idea of spending the time of her visit to mrs. wentworth, in dullness and seclusion, sympathizing in the anxieties of a fond and timid wife, and listening to a detail of domestic plans and enjoyments. she knew the weak side of her character, and mingling the gall she extracted from others, with the honey of her own flattery, and building her influence on their ruined reputations, imagined it firm and secure on such a crumbling foundation. it is unnecessary to dwell on the genealogy of miss hart. she was well known as miss hart, and yet it would be very difficult for anybody to tell precisely who miss hart was. she was a general visiter; one of those young ladies who are always ready to fill up any sudden vacuum made in a family--a kind of bird of passage, who, having no abiding place of her own, went fluttering about, generally resting where she could find the softest and most comfortable nest. she was what was called _excellent company_, always had something new and interesting to say about everybody; then she knew so many secrets, and had the art of exciting a person's curiosity so keenly, and making them dissatisfied with everybody but herself, it would be impossible to follow all the windings, or discover all the nooks and corners of her remarkable character. it was astonishing to see the influence she acquired over the minds of those with whom she associated, male as well as female. she was a showy, well-dressing, attractive-looking girl, with a great deal of manner, a large, piercing, dark eye, and an uncommonly sweet and persuasive tone of voice. mrs. wentworth became acquainted with her a very short time before captain wentworth's departure, and esteemed it a most delightful privilege to have such a pleasing companion to charm away the lingering hours of his absence. acting upon the suggestions of her friend, and following up the determination she had so much applauded, she opened her doors to visiters, and appeared in society with a gay dress and smiling countenance. "what a change there is in mrs. wentworth!" observed miss bentley to miss hart, as they met one morning at the house of a mutual friend. "i never saw any one so transformed in my life. she looks and dresses like the most complete flirt i ever saw; i suspect captain wentworth has very good reason to watch her as he does." miss hart shrugged her shoulders and smiled significantly, but did not say anything. "it must be a very pleasant alteration to you," continued miss bentley, "the house seems to be frequented by gentlemen from morning till night. i suppose you have the grace to appropriate their visits to yourself." "i have nothing to say about myself," answered miss hart, "and i do not wish to speak of mrs. wentworth otherwise than kindly. you know she is excessively kind to me, and it would be ungrateful in me to condemn her conduct. to be sure i must have my own thoughts on the subject. she is certainly very imprudent, and too fond of admiration. but i would not have you repeat what i have said, for the world, for being in the family it would have such weight. be very careful what you say, and above all, don't mention _my_ name." miss bentley was very careful to repeat the remarks to every one she saw, with as many additions of her own as she pleased, and the unutterable language of the smile and the shrug was added too, to give force to the comments. mrs. wentworth, in the mean while, unconscious of the serpent she was nursing in her bosom, suffered herself to be borne along on the current on which she had thoughtlessly embarked, without the power to arrest her progress, or turn back into the quiet channel she had quitted. the arrival of her brother, a gay and handsome young man, gave additional animation to her household, and company flowed in still more continuously. henry more, the brother of mrs. wentworth, was the favourite of every circle in which he moved. with an uncommon flow of spirits, a ready and graceful wit, a fluent and flattering tongue, he mingled in society unaffected by its contrasts, unwounded by its asperities, and unruffled by its contentions. he seemed to revel in the happy consciousness of being able to impart pleasure to all, and was equally willing to receive it. he was delighted to find a fine-looking, amiable girl, an inmate of his sister's dwelling, and immediately addressing her in his accustomed strain of sportive gallantry, found that she not only lent a willing ear, but was well skilled in the same language. though miss hart was still young, she had outlived the romance and credulity of youth. she had a precocious experience and wisdom in the ways of this world. she had seen the affections of many a young man, with a disposition open and ingenuous as henry's, won through the medium of their vanity, by women, too, who could not boast of attractions equal to her own. she believed that juxtaposition could work miracles, and as long as they were the inmates of the same house, participating in the same pleasures, engaged in the same pursuits, and often perusing the same book, she feared no rival. she rejoiced, too, in the close-drawing socialities of the winter fireside, and delighted when a friendly storm compelled them to find all their enjoyment within their own little circle. mrs. wentworth, who had once been cheerful and serene in clouds as well as sunshine, was now subject to fits of despondency and silence. it was only when excited by company, that her eyes were lighted up with animation, and her lips with smiles. she dreaded the reproaches of her husband on his return, for acting so contrary to his wishes, and when she heard the night-gust sweep by her windows, and thought of him exposed to the warring elements, perhaps even then clinging to the drifting wreck, or floating in a watery grave, and recollected the scenes of levity and folly in which she was now constantly acting a part, merely to avoid the censures of the very people she detested and despised, she sighed and wept, and wished she had followed her bosom counsellor, rather than the suggestions of the friend in whom she still confided, and on whose affection she relied with unwavering trust. it was strange, she could hear miss hart ridicule others, and join in the laugh; she could sit quietly and see her breathe the subtle venom of slander over the fairest characters, till they blackened and became polluted under her touch, and yet she felt herself as secure as if she were placed on the summit of mont blanc, in a region of inaccessible purity and splendour. so blinding is the influence of self-love, pampered by flattery, strengthened by indulgence, and unrestrained by religious principle. one evening, and it chanced to be the evening of the sabbath day, henry sat unusually silent, and miss hart thought that his eyes were fixed upon her face with a very deep and peculiar expression--"no," he suddenly exclaimed, "i never saw such a countenance in my life." "what do you see so remarkable in it?" asked she, laughing, delighted at what she supposed a spontaneous burst of admiration. "i don't know; i can no more describe it, than one of those soft, fleecy clouds that roll melting away from the face of the moon. but it haunts me like a dream." miss hart modestly cast down her eyes, then turned them towards the moon, which at that moment gleamed with pallid lustre through the window. "your imagination is so glowing," replied she, "that it invests, like the moonlight, every object with its own mellow and beautiful tints." "jane," continued he, without noticing the compliment to his imagination, and turning to his sister, who was reading intently, "jane, you must have noticed her--you were at the same church." "noticed her!" repeated miss hart to herself, in utter dismay; "who can he mean?" "noticed who?" said mrs. wentworth, laying down her book, "i have not heard a syllable you have been saying." "why, that young lady dressed in black, with such a sweet, modest, celestial expression of face. she sat at the right hand of the pulpit, with another lady in mourning, who was very tall and pale." "what coloured hair and eyes had she?" asked his sister. "i could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than i could paint yon twinkling star, or her hair either. i only know that they shed a kind of glory over her countenance, and mantled her brow with the softest and most exquisite shades." "i declare, henry," cried mrs. wentworth, "you are the most extravagant being i ever knew. i don't know whether you are in jest or earnest." "oh! you may be sure he is in earnest," said miss hart. "i know whom he means very well. it is miss carroll. lois carroll, the grand-daughter of old mr. carroll, the former minister of ---- church. the old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. they live somewhere in the suburbs of the city--but never go anywhere except to church. they say she is the most complete little methodist in the world." "what do you mean by a methodist?" asked henry abruptly--"an enthusiast?" "one who never goes to the theatre, never attends the ballroom, thinks it a sin to laugh, and goes about among poor people to give them doctor's stuff, and read the bible." "well," answered henry, "i see nothing very appalling in this description. if ever i marry, i have no very great desire that my wife should frequent the theatre or the ballroom. she might admire artificial graces at the one and exhibit them in the other, but the loveliest traits of her sex must fade and wither in the heated atmosphere of both. and i am sure it is a divine office to go about ministering to the wants of the poor and healing the sick. as to the last item, i may not be a proper judge, but i do think a beautiful woman reading the bible to the afflicted and dying, must be the most angelic object in the universe." "why, brother," said mrs. wentworth, "what a strange compound you are! such a rattle-brain as you, moralizing like a second johnson!" "i may be a wild rattle-brain, and sport like a thousand others in the waves of fashion, but there is something here, jane," answered he, laying his hand half seriously, half sportively on his breast, "that tells me that i was created for immortality; that, spendthrift of time, i am still bound for eternity. i have often pictured the future, in my musing hours, and imagined a woman's gentle hand was guiding me in the path that leads to heaven." mrs. wentworth looked at her brother in astonishment. there was something in the solemnity of his expressions that alarmed her, coming from one so gay and apparently thoughtless. miss hart was alarmed too, but from a different cause. she thought it time to aim her shaft, and she knew in what course to direct it. "this miss carroll," said she, "whom you admire so much, has lately lost her lover, to whom she was devotedly attached. he was her cousin, and they had been brought up together from childhood, and betrothed from that period. she nursed him during a long sickness, day and night, and many thought she would follow him to the grave, her grief was so great." "her lover!" exclaimed henry, in a mock tragedy tone. "then it is all over with me--i never would accept the second place in any maiden's heart, even if i could be enshrined there in heaven's crystal. give me the rose before the sunbeams have exhaled the dew of the morning, or it wears no charms for me." miss hart and mrs. wentworth laughed, rallied henry upon his heroics, and the beautiful stranger was mentioned no more. miss hart congratulated herself upon the master stroke by which she had dispelled his enchantment, if indeed it existed at all. she had often heard henry declare his resolution never to marry a woman who had acknowledged a previous affection, and she seized upon a vague report of miss carroll's being in mourning for a cousin who had recently died, and to whom she thought she might possibly be betrothed, and presented it as a positive truth. finding that henry's ideas of female perfection were very different from what she had imagined, she was not sorry when an opportunity offered of displaying those domestic virtues, which he so much extolled. one night, when mrs. wentworth was prepared to attend a private ball, she expressed her wish to remain at home, declaring that she was weary of dissipation, and preferred reading and meditation. she expected henry would steal away from the party, and join her in the course of the evening, but her real motive was a violent toothache, which she concealed that she might have the credit of a voluntary act. after mrs. wentworth's departure, she bound a handkerchief round her aching jaw, and having found relief from some powerful anodyne, she reclined back on the sofa and fell at last into a deep sleep. the candles burned dim from their long, unsnuffed wicks, and threw a very dubious light through the spacious apartment. she was awakened by a tall, dark figure, bending over her, with outspread arms, as if about to embrace her, and starting up, her first thought was that it was henry, who had stolen on her solitude, and was about to declare the love she had no doubt he secretly cherished for her. but the figure drew back, with a sudden recoil, when she rose, and uttered her name in a tone of disappointment. "captain wentworth," exclaimed she, "is it you?" "i beg your pardon," said he, extending his hand cordially towards her, "i thought for a moment it was my wife, my jane, mrs. wentworth--where is she? is she well? why do i not see her here?" "oh! captain wentworth, she had no expectation of your coming so soon. she is perfectly well. she is gone to a quadrille party, and will probably not be at home for several hours--i will send for her directly." "no, miss hart," said he, in a cold and altered voice, "no, i would not shorten her evening's amusement. a quadrille party--i thought she had no taste for such pleasures." "she seems to enjoy them very much," replied miss hart, "and it is very natural she should. she is young and handsome, and very much admired, and in your absence she found her own home comparatively dull." the captain rose, and walked the room with a sailor's manly stride. his brows were knit, his lips compressed, and his cheek flushed. she saw the iron of jealousy was entering his soul, and she went on mercilessly deepening the wound she had made. "you will be delighted when you see mrs. wentworth--she looks so blooming and lovely. you have reason to be quite proud of your wife--she is the belle of every party and ball-room. i think it is well that you have returned." this she added, with an arch, innocent smile, though she knew every word she uttered penetrated like a dagger, where he was most vulnerable. "how thoughtless i am!" she exclaimed; "you must be weary and hungry--i will order your supper." "no, no," said he, "i have no appetite--i will not trouble you. don't disturb yourself on my account--i will amuse myself with a book till she returns." he sat down and took up a book, but his eyes were fixed moodily on the carpet, and his hands trembled as he unconsciously turned the leaves. miss hart suffered occasional agony from her tooth, the more as she had taken off the disfiguring bandage, but she would not retire, anticipating with a kind of savage delight, the unpleasant scene that would ensue on mrs. wentworth's return. the clock struck twelve before the carriage stopped at the door. mrs. wentworth came lightly into the room, unaccompanied by her brother, her cloak falling from her shoulders, her head uncovered, most fashionably and elegantly dressed. she did not see her husband when she first entered, and throwing her cloak on a chair, exclaimed, "oh! miss hart, i'm so sorry you were not there, we had such a delightful party--the pleasantest of the whole season." her eye at this moment fell upon her husband, who had risen upon her entrance, but stood back in the shade, without making one step to meet her. with a scream of surprise, joy, and perhaps terror too, she rushed towards him, and threw her arms around him. he suffered her clinging arms to remain round his neck for a moment while he remained as passive as the rock on the seabeat shore when the white foam wreathes and curls over its surface, then drawing back, he looked her steadfastly in the face, with a glance that made her own to quail, and her lip and cheek blanch. she looked down upon her jewelled neck and airy robes, and wished herself clothed in sackcloth and ashes. she began to stammer forth some excuse for her absence, something about his unexpected return, but the sentence died on her lips. the very blood seemed to congeal in her heart, under the influence of his freezing glance. "don't say anything, jane," said he, sternly. "it is better as it is--i had deluded myself with the idea, that in all my dangers and hardships, to which i have exposed myself chiefly for your sake, i had a fond and faithful wife, who pined at my absence and yearned for my return. i was not aware of the new character you had assumed. no," continued he impetuously, entirely forgetful of the presence of miss hart "i was not prepared for a welcome like this. i expected to have met a wife--not a flirt, a belle, a vain, false-hearted, deceitful woman." thus saying, he suddenly left the room, closing the door with a force that made every article of the furniture tremble. mrs. wentworth, bursting into hysterical sobs, was about to rush after him, but miss hart held her back--"don't be a fool," said she; "he'll get over it directly-you've done nothing at which he ought to be angry; i had no idea he was such a tyrant." "he was always kind to me before," sobbed mrs. wentworth. "he thinks my heart is weaned from him. now, i wish i had disregarded the sneer of the world! it can never repay me for the loss of his love." "my dear mrs. wentworth," said miss hart, putting her arms soothingly round her, "i feel for you deeply, but i hope you will not reproach yourself unnecessarily, or suffer your husband to suppose you condemn your own conduct. if you do, he will tyrannize over you, through life--what possible harm could there be in your going to a private party with your own brother, when you did not look for his return? you have taken no more liberty than every married lady in the city would have done, and a husband who really loved his wife, would be pleased and gratified that she should be an object of attention and admiration to others. come, dry up your tears, and exert the pride and spirit every woman of delicacy and sense should exercise on such occasions." mrs. wentworth listened, and the natural pride and waywardness of the human heart strengthening the counsels of her treacherous companion, her sorrow and contrition became merged in resentment. she resolved to return coldness for coldness and scorn for scorn, to seek no reconciliation, nor even to grant it, until he humbly sued for her forgiveness. the husband and wife met at the breakfast-table without speaking. henry was unusually taciturn, and the whole burthen of keeping up the conversation rested on miss hart, who endeavoured to entertain and enliven the whole. captain wentworth, who had all the frankness and politeness of a sailor, unbent his stern brow when he addressed her, and it was in so kind a voice, that the tears started into his wife's eyes at the sound. he had no words, no glance for her, from whom he had been parted so long, and whom he had once loved so tenderly. henry, who had been absorbed in his own reflections, and who had not been present at their first meeting, now noticed the silence of his sister, and the gloom of her husband, and looking from one to the other, first in astonishment, and then in mirth, he exclaimed, "well, i believe i shall remain a bachelor, if this is a specimen of a matrimonial meeting. jane looks as if she were doing penance for the sins of her whole life, and captain wentworth as if he were about to give a broadside's thunder. what has happened? miss hart resembles a beam of sunshine between two clouds." had henry been aware of the real state of things, he would never have indulged his mirth at the expense of his sister's feelings. he had no suspicion that the clouds to which he alluded, arose from estrangement from each other, and when mrs. wentworth burst into tears and left the table, and captain wentworth set back his chair so suddenly as to upset the teaboard and produce a terrible crash among the china, the smile forsook his lips, and, turning to the captain in rather an authoritative manner, he demanded an explanation. "ask your sister," answered the captain, "and she may give it--as for me, sir, my feelings are not to be made a subject of unfeeling merriment. they have been already too keenly tortured, and should at least be sacred from your jest. but one thing let me tell you, sir, if you had had more regard to your sister's reputation, than to have escorted her to scenes of folly and corruption during her husband's absence, you might perhaps have spared me the misery i now endure." "do you threaten me, captain wentworth?" said henry, advancing nearer to him with a flushed brow and raised tone. miss hart here interposed, and begged and entreated, and laid her hand on henry's arm, and looked softly and imploringly at captain wentworth, who snatched up his hat and left the room, leaving henry angry, distressed, and bewildered. miss hart explained the whole as the most causeless and ridiculous jealousy, which would soon pass away and was not worth noticing, and urged him to treat the matter as unworthy of indignation. she feared she had carried matters a little too far; she had no wish that they should fight, and henry, perhaps, fall a victim to excited passions. she was anxious to allay the storm she had raised, and she succeeded in preventing the outbreakings of wrath, but she could not restore the happiness she had destroyed, the domestic peace she had disturbed, the love and confidence she had so wantonly invaded. nor did she desire it. incapable herself of feeling happiness from the evil passions that reigned in her bosom, she looked upon the bliss of others as a personal injury to herself; and where the flowers were fairest and the hopes the brightest, she loved to trample and shed her blasting influence. as the serpent goes trailing its dark length through the long grasses and sweet blossoms that veil its path, silent and deadly, she glided amid the sacred shades of domestic life, darting in ambush her venomed sting, and winding her coil in the very bosoms that warmed and caressed her. she now flitted about, describing what she called the best and most ridiculous scene imaginable; and the names of captain wentworth and his wife were bandied from lip to lip, one speaking of _him_ as a tyrant, a bear, a domestic tiger--another of _her_ as a heartless devotee of fashion, or a contemner of the laws of god and man. most truly has it been said in holy writ, that the tongue of the slanderer is set on fire of hell, nor can the waters of the multitudinous sea quench its baleful flames. one evening henry was returning at a late hour from the country, and passing a mansion in the outskirts of the city, whose shaded walls and modest situation called up ideas of domestic comfort and retirement; he thought it might be the residence of miss carroll, for, notwithstanding miss hart's damper, he had not forgotten her. he passed the house very slowly, gazing at one illuminated window, over which a white muslin curtain softly floated, and wishing he could catch another glimpse of a countenance that haunted him, as he said, like a dream. all was still, and he passed on, through a narrow alley that shortened his way. at the end of the alley was a small, low dwelling, where a light still glimmered, and the door being partially open, he heard groans and wailing sounds, indicating distress within. he approached the door, thinking he might render relief or assistance, and stood at the threshold, gazing on the unexpected scene presented to his view. on a low seat, not far from the door, sat a young lady, in a loose white robe, thrown around her in evident haste and disorder, her hair partly knotted up behind and partly falling in golden waves on her shoulders, holding in her lap a child of about three years old, from whose bandaged head the blood slowly oozed and dripped down on her snowy dress--one hand was placed tenderly under the wounded head, the other gently wiped away the stains from its bloody brow. a woman, whose emaciated features and sunken eyes spoke the ravages of consumption, sat leaning against the wall, gazing with a ghastly expression on the little sufferer, whose pains she had no power to relieve, and a little boy about ten years of age stood near her, weeping bitterly. here was a scene of poverty, and sickness, and distress that baffled description, and in the midst appeared the outlines of that fair figure, like a descended angel of mercy, sent down to console the sorrows of humanity. "this was a dreadful accident," said the young lady, "dreadful," raising her head as she spoke, and shading back her hair, revealing at the same time the heavenly countenance which had once before beamed on henry's gaze. it was lois carroll, true to the character miss hart had sarcastically given her, a ministering spirit of compassion and benevolence. "she will die," said the poor mother, "she'll never get over such a blow as that. she fell with such force, and struck her head on such a dangerous part too. well, why should i wish her to live, when i must leave her behind so soon?" "the doctor said there was some hope," answered the fair lois, in a sweet, soothing voice, "and if it is god's will that she should recover, you ought to bless him for it, and trust him who feedeth the young ravens when they cry to him for food. lie down and compose yourself to rest. i will remain here through the night, and nurse the poor little patient. if she is kept very quiet, i think she will be better in the morning." "how kind, how good you are!" said the mother, wiping the tear from her wasted cheek, "what should i do without you? but i never can think of your sitting up the whole night for us." "and why not for you?" asked lois, earnestly. "can i ever repay your kindness to poor charles, when he was sick, and you sat up, night after night, and refused to leave him? and now, when you are sick and helpless, would you deprive me of the opportunity of doing for you, what you have done for one so dear to me?" a pang shot through henry's heart. this poor _charles_ must have been the lover for whom she mourned, and at the mention of his name, he felt as if wakening from a dream. the love that bound the living to the dead, was a bond his hand would never attempt to loosen, and turning away with a sigh, he thought it would be sacrilege to linger there longer. still he looked back to catch one more glimpse of a face where all the beatitudes dwelt. he had beheld the daughters of beauty, with all the charms of nature aided by the fascinations of art and fashion, but never had he witnessed anything so lovely as this young girl, in her simplicity, purity, and gentleness, unconscious that any eye was upon her, but the poor widow's and weeping orphan's. he had seen a fair belle in ill-humour for an hour, because a slight accident had soiled a new dress, or defaced a new ornament, but lois sat in her blood-spotted robes, regardless of the stains, intent only on the object of her tenderness, and that a miserable child. "surely," thought he, as he pursued his way homeward, "there must be a divine influence operating on the heart, when a character like this is formed. even were her affections free and not wedded to the dead, i should no more dare to love such a being, so spiritual, so holy, so little of the earth, earthy, than one of those pure spirits that live in the realms of ether. _i!_ what has my life hitherto been? nothing but a tissue of recklessness, folly, and madness. i have been trying to quench the heaven-born spark within me, but it still burns, and will continue to burn, while the throne of the everlasting endures." henry felt more, reflected more that night, than he had done for five years before. he rose in the morning with a fixed resolve, to make that night an era in his existence. during the day the poor widow's heart was made to "sing for joy," for a supply was received from an unknown hand, so bounteous and unlooked for, she welcomed it as a gift from heaven. and so it was, for heaven inspired and also blessed the act. miss hart began to be uneasy at henry's deportment, and she had no reason to think she advanced in his good graces, and she had a vague fear of that lois carroll, whom she trusted she had robbed of all power to fascinate his imagination. "by the way," said she to him, one day, as if struck by a sudden thought, "have you seen that pretty miss carroll since the evening you were speaking of her?" "yes," answered henry, colouring very high, "i have met her several times--why do you ask?" "no matter," said she, petrified at this information; "i saw a lady yesterday, who knows her intimately, and her conversation reminded me of ours on the same subject." "what does the lady say of her character?" asked henry. "what every one else does, who knows her--that she is the greatest hypocrite that ever breathed. perfectly selfish, self-righteous, and uncharitable. she says, notwithstanding her sweet countenance, she has a very bad temper, and that no one is willing to live in the same house with her." "you told me formerly," said henry, "that she was _over_ charitable and kind, constantly engaged in labours of love." "oh, yes!" answered she, with perfect self-possession; "there is no end to the parade she makes about her _good works_, as she calls them, but it is for ostentation, and to obtain the reputation of a saint, that she does them." "but," said henry, very warmly, "supposing she exercised this same heavenly charity when she believed no eye beheld her, but the poor whom she relieved, and the sick whom she healed, and the god whom she adores; would you call that ostentation?" "oh, my dear mr. more," cried miss hart, with a musical laugh, "you do not know half the arts of the sex. there is a young minister and young physician too, in the neighbourhood, who know all her secret movements, and hear her praises from morning till night--they say they are both in love with her, but as her cousin hasn't been dead long, she thinks it proper to be very demure--i must say frankly and honestly, i have no faith in these female _tartuffes_." "nor i neither," added henry, with so peculiar a manner, that miss hart started and looked inquisitively at him, with her dark, dilated eyes. she feared she had hazarded too much, and immediately observed, "perhaps, in my abhorrence of duplicity and hypocrisy, i run into the opposite extreme, and express my sentiments too openly. you think me severe, but i can have no possible motive to depreciate miss carroll, but as she herself stretches every one on the bed of procrustes, i feel at liberty to speak my opinion of her character, not mine only, but that of the whole world." henry made some evasive reply, and turned the conversation to another topic, leaving miss hart lost in a labyrinth of conjecture, as to the impression she had made on his mind--where and when had he met lois carroll, and why was he so reserved upon a theme, upon which he had once been so eloquent? she sat for half an hour after henry left her, pondering on these things, and looking at one figure in the carpet, as if her eyes grew upon the spot, when her thoughts were turned into another channel by the entrance of captain wentworth. she believed that she stood very high in his favour, for he was extremely polite to her, and showed her so much deference and attention, that she had no doubt that if mrs. wentworth were out of the way, he would be at no loss whom to choose as a successor. her prospects with henry grew more and more dubious--she thought, upon the whole, the captain the finer-looking and most agreeable man of the two. there was no knowing but he might separate from his wife, and as they seemed divorced in heart, she thought it would be much better than to remain together so cold and distant to each other. there was nothing she feared so much as a reconciliation; and as long as she could prevent mrs. wentworth from manifesting any symptoms of submission and sorrow, she was sure her husband's pride would be unyielding. she had a scheme on hand at present, which would promote her own gratification, and widen the breach between them. there was a celebrated actor in the city, whom she was very desirous of seeing, and of whom captain wentworth had a particular dislike; he disliked the theatre and everything connected with it, and miss hart had vainly endeavoured to persuade mrs. wentworth to go with her brother, in open defiance of her husband. henry manifested no disposition himself, and never would understand the oblique hints she gave him; she was determined to make a bold attack upon the captain himself. "captain wentworth," said she, carelessly looking over the morning paper, "don't you mean to take mrs. wentworth to see this superb actor? she is dying to see him, and yet does not like to ask you." "she's at perfect liberty to go as often as she pleases," replied the captain coldly--"i've no wish to control her inclinations." "but she will not go, of course, unless you accompany her," replied miss hart, "not even with her brother." "did she commission you to make this request?" "not precisely; but knowing her wishes, i could not forbear doing it, even at the risk of your displeasure." "if her heart is in such scenes, there can be no possible gratification to confine her body within the precincts of home." the captain walked several times up and down the room, as was his custom when agitated, then abruptly asked miss hart if she wished to go herself. she wished it, she said, merely to avoid singularity, as everybody else went; but had it not been for mrs. wentworth, she would never have mentioned it. the captain declared that if she had the slightest desire, it was a command to him, and the tickets were accordingly purchased. late in the afternoon, captain wentworth sat in the dining-room, reading. as the sun drew near the horizon, and the light grew fainter, he sat down in a recess by a window, and the curtain falling down, completely concealed him. in this position he remained while the twilight darkened around him, and no longer able to read, he gave himself up to those dark and gloomy reflections which had lately filled his mind. he thought of the hours when, tossed upon the foaming billows, he had turned in heart towards his home, "and she, the dim and melancholy star, whose ray of beauty reached him from afar," rose upon the clouds of memory, with soft and gilding lustre. now he was safely anchored in the haven of his hopes and wishes, but his soul was drifted by storms, wilder than any that swept the boisterous seas. the very effort of preserving outward calmness, only made the tempest fiercer within. this new instance of his wife's unconquerable levity and heartlessness, filled him with despair. he believed her too much demoralized by vanity and love of pleasure, ever to return to her duty and allegiance as a wife. while indulging these bitter feelings, miss hart and mrs. wentworth entered the dining-room, unaware of his presence. miss hart, as usual, was speaking in an earnest, confidential tone, as if she feared some one was listening to her counsels. "i beg, i entreat," said she, "that you would rally your spirits, and not let the world see that you are cast down by his ill treatment. all the fashionable people will be there tonight, and you must remember that many eyes will be upon you; and pray don't wear that horrid unbecoming dress, it makes a perfect fright of you, muffling you up to the chin." "it is no matter," replied mrs. wentworth, despondingly, "i don't care how i look--the only eyes i ever really wished to charm, now turn from me in disgust; i'm weary of acting the part of a hypocrite, of smiling and chattering, and talking nonsense, when i feel as if my heart were breaking. oh! that i had not weakly yielded my better reason to that fear of the world's censure, which has been the ruin of my happiness." "i would never suffer my happiness to be affected one way or the other," cried miss hart, "by a man who showed so little tenderness or delicacy towards me. i wonder your affection is not chilled, nay utterly destroyed by his harshness and despotism." "oh! you little know the strength or depth of a woman's love, if you deem it so soon uprooted. my heart yearns to be admitted once more into the foldings of his--a hundred times have i been tempted to throw myself into his arms, implore his forgiveness, and entreat him to commence a new life of confidence and love." miss hart began to laugh at this romantic speech, but the laugh froze on her lips when she saw the window-curtains suddenly part, and captain wentworth rushing forward, clasp his astonished wife in his arms, exclaiming "jane, dear jane, that life is begun!" he could not utter another word. when, after a few moments of intense emotion, he raised his head, tears which were no stain upon his manhood, were glistening on his dark cheek. miss hart looked on with feelings similar to those which we may suppose animate the spirits of darkness, when they witness the restoration of man to the forfeited favour of his maker. there was wormwood and bitterness in her heart, but her undaunted spirit still saw a way of extrication from all her difficulties. "really, captain wentworth," exclaimed she, laughing violently, "the next time you hide yourself behind a curtain, you must draw your boots under; i saw the cloven foot peeping out, and spoke of you as i did, just to see what mrs. wentworth would say, and i thought very likely it would have a happy result--i am sure this is a finer scene than any we shall see at the theatre." "that you have deceived me, miss hart," answered the captain, "i acknowledge to my shame, but my eyes are now opened. my situation was accidental; no, i should say providential, for i have made discoveries, for which i can never be sufficiently grateful. jane, i have been harsh and unjustly suspicious, i know, and richly deserve all i have suffered; but from the first hour of my return, this treacherous friend of yours, discovering the weakness of my character, has fanned the flame of jealousy, and fed the fires that were consuming me. i despise myself for being her dupe." "oh! miss hart," cried mrs. wentworth, "how could you be so cruel? you whom i so trusted, and thought my best and truest friend!" "i have said nothing but the truth to either," cried miss hart boldly, seeing all subterfuge was now vain, "and you had better profit by it. everybody has a weak side, and if they leave it unguarded and open to the attacks of the enemy, they have no one to blame but themselves. i never made you jealous, captain wentworth, nor your wife credulous; and, as i leave you wiser than i found you, i think you both ought to be very much obliged to me." thus saying, with an unblushing countenance, she left the apartment, and recollecting the next morning that a certain lady had given her a most pressing invitation to visit her, she departed, and no one said "god bless her." henry, who had seen full as much as he desired of her, hardly knew which rejoiced him more, her departure or his sister's happiness. indeed the last seemed the consequence of the first, for never was there such a transformation in a household. there was blue sky for stormy clouds--spring gales for chill east winds--love and joy for distrust and sorrow. henry had seen the physician and minister whom miss hart had mentioned as the lovers of lois carroll. the _young physician_ happened to be a bald, broad-faced man, with a long nose, which turned up at the end, as if looking at his forehead, and the _young_ minister, a man whose hair was frosted with the snow of sixty winters, and on whose evangelical countenance disease had written deeper lines than those of age. charles, too, the lover-cousin, proved to be an only brother, whose lingering hours of disease she had soothed with a christian sister's holy ministration. henry became a frequent, and, as he had reason to believe, a welcome visiter, at the house. he found lois skilled in all the graceful accomplishments of her sex--her mind was enriched with oriental and classical literature, her memory stored with the brightest and purest gems of genius and taste; yet, like the wise men of the east, who brought their gold and frankincense and myrrh to the manger of the babe of bethlehem, she laid these precious offerings in lowliness of spirit, at the feet of her redeemer. all at once, henry perceived a cloud come over the confidence in which he was established there. the good aunt was cold and distant; lois, though still gentle and kind, was silent and reserved, and he thought he caught her melting blue eyes fixed upon him more than once with a sad and pitying expression. "what has occurred?" asked he with the frankness so peculiar to him--when for a moment he was left alone with her "i am no longer a welcome guest." "forgive us," answered lois, her face mantling with earnest blushes, "if we feel constrained to deny ourselves the pleasure we have derived from your society. as long as we believed you the friend of religion, though not her acknowledged votary, our hearts acknowledged a sympathy with yours, and indulged a hope that you would ere long go goal for goal with us for the same immortal prize. but an infidel, mr. more! oh! my soul!" continued she, clasping her hands fervently together, and looking upward, "come not thou into his secret!" "an infidel!" cried henry, "and do you believe me such, and condemn me as such, unheard, without granting me an opportunity of vindication?" "we would not have admitted the belief from an authority less respectable. the intelligence came from one who had been an inmate of your family, and expressed for you the warmest friendship. we were told that you ridicule our faith, make the bible a scorn and mockery, and expose us as individuals to contempt and derision." "it must have been that serpent of a miss hart!" exclaimed henry, trembling with passion; "that scorpion, that fiend in woman's form, whose path may be traced by the slime and the poison she leaves behind! the lips which could brand _you_, lois, as a hypocrite, would not leave my name unblackened. my sister received her into her household, and her domestic happiness came near being the wreck of her malignant arts--i could give you any proof you may ask of her falsehood and turpitude." "i ask none," cried lois, with an irradiated countenance, "i believe your assurance, and rejoice in it. i cannot describe the pain, the grief i felt that one so kind to others, could be so cruel to himself." lois, in the godly simplicity of her heart, knew not of the warmth with which she spoke, or of the vivid expression that lighted up her eyes. henry thought if ever there was a moment when he could dare to address her as a being born to love, and to be loved with human tenderness, it was the present. he began with faltering lips, but in the intensity of his feelings he soon forgot everything, but the object for which he was pleading, with an ardour and a vehemence that made the unsophisticated lois tremble. she trembled and wept her heart melted before his impassioned declaration, but she feared to yield immediately to its dictates. their course of life had hitherto been so different, their early associations, their pursuits and habits--she dreaded lest he should mistake the fervour of his attachment for her, for the warmth of religious sentiment, and that the temptations of the world would resume their influence over his heart. "let us still be friends," said she, smiling through her tears, "till time has more fully unfolded our characters to each other. we are as yet but acquaintances of a day, as it were, and if we hope to pass an eternity together, we should pause a little before we become fellow-travellers in our pilgrimage. the love of a christian," continued she, a holy enthusiasm illuminating her face, "cannot be limited to the transient union of this world--it soars far, far beyond it, illimitable as space, and everlasting as the soul's existence." henry felt, while listening to this burst of hallowed feeling, that to possess the love of lois carroll here, without a hope of reunion beyond the grave, would be a dark and cheerless destiny, compared to the glorious hopes that now animated his being. it was about two years after this, miss hart took passage in the stage, and started for the habitation of some obscure relative who lived in a distant town. she had gone from family to family, indulging her odious propensity, flattering the present, and slandering the absent, till, her character becoming fully known, all doors were closed against her, and she was compelled to seek a home, among kindred she was ashamed to acknowledge. "whose beautiful country-seats are those?" asked a fellow-passenger, pointing to two elegant mansions, that stood side by side as if claiming consanguinity with each other. "the first belongs to captain wentworth, and the other to mr. henry more, his brother-in-law," answered miss hart, putting her head from the window, as they passed--"you must have heard of them." "no," said the stranger; "is there anything remarkable connected with them?" "nothing," replied she, with one of her significant shrugs, "only the captain is one of your dark spanish knights, who lock up their wives, and fight everybody who looks at them; and his lady likes every other gentleman better than her husband--and they could not agree, and the whole city were talking about them, so he took her into the country, and makes her fast and pray, and do penance for her sins. the other gentleman, mr. more, married a low, ignorant girl, who had never been accustomed to good society; so, being ashamed to introduce her among his friends, he immured himself in the country also. they say he is so wretched in his choice, he has turned a fanatic, and there is some danger of his losing his reason." at this moment one of the horses took fright, and springing from the road, the stage was upset, with a terrible crash. miss hart, whose head was projecting from the window, was the only one who was seriously injured. she was dreadfully bruised and mangled, and carried insensible into captain wentworth's house. the stranger, whose curiosity was excited by the description he had just heard, and seeing the inhabitants of both dwellings were gathering together in consequence of the accident, assisted in carrying her, and lingered as long as he could find a reasonable excuse for doing so. "i believe that young woman's jaw is broken," said he, when he rejoined his fellow-passengers; "and it is a judgment upon her--i know there is not a word of truth in what she has been saying. if ever domestic happiness, as well as benevolence, dwelt on earth, i verily believe it is in those two families." it was long before miss hart recovered her consciousness, and when she did, and endeavoured to speak, she felt such an excruciating pain in her jaw, as prevented her utterance. it seemed a remarkable instance of the retribution of providence, that she should be afflicted in the very part which she had made an instrument of so much evil to others. her jawbone was indeed broken, and there she lay, writhing in agony, incapable of speech, indebted to the beings she hated because she had injured, for the cares that prolonged her miserable existence. she could not speak, but she could see and hear, and her senses seemed sharpened by the bondage of her tongue. mrs. wentworth, and lois too, hovered round her, with gentle steps and pitying looks, and the tenderest alleviations; and for this she might have been prepared. but when, through the shades of evening, she heard the deep voice of the once haughty and ungovernable captain wentworth, breathing forth humble and heartfelt prayers, while his wife knelt meek and lowly by his side, when she heard the gay and gallant henry more, reading with reverence god's holy word, and joining with lois in hymns to the redeemer's praise, she rolled her eyes in wild amazement, and her dark spirit was troubled within her. "there seems a reality in this," thought she. "the worldling become the saint, and the lion transformed into the lamb! how happy they look, while i--poor, wretched, mangled creature that i am!" paroxysms of agony followed these reflections, for which there seemed no mitigation. she lingered for a long time speechless and in great suffering, but at length recovered with a frightful distortion in the lower part of the face. when she first beheld herself in a mirror, the shock was so great as to produce delirium, and when that subsided, a gloom and despair succeeded, from which they vainly endeavoured to rouse her by the soothings of sympathy and the consolations of religion. she felt that, like cain, she must carry about an indelible brand upon her face, and cried like him, in bitterness of spirit, "my punishment is greater than i can bear." it was intolerable to her to look upon the fair, serene countenances of mrs. wentworth and lois, and to see too the eyes of their husbands follow them with such love and delight, and then to draw the contrast between them and her own disfigured beauty and desolate lot. she expressed a wish to be sent to her relatives, and the wish was not opposed. she received from them a grudging welcome, for they had felt her sting, and feared that serpent tongue of slander, whose ancestral venom is derived from the arch reptile that lurked in the bowers of eden. woe to the slanderer!--to use the language of the wise man, "her end is bitter as wormwood, and sharp as a two-edged sword--her feet go down to death, her steps take hold on hell!" the shaker girl. it was on a sunday morning, when roland gray entered the village of ----. though his mind was intent on the object of his journey, he could not but admire the singular neatness and uniformity of the houses, the velvet smoothness of the grass on the wayside, and the even surface of the street, from which every pebble seemed to have been removed. an air of perfect tranquillity reigned over the whole--not a being was seen moving abroad, not a human face beaming through the windows; yet far as the eye could reach, it roamed over a vast, cultivated plain, covered with all the animated hues of vegetation, giving evidence that the spirit of life was there, or had been recently active. "surely," thought roland, "i have entered one of those cities, described in the arabian nights, where some magician has suddenly converted the inhabitants into stone. i will dismount and explore some of these buildings--perchance i shall find some man, who is only half marble, who can explain this enchantment of silence." he had scarcely dismounted, and fastened his horse to a part of the snow-white railing which guarded every avenue to the dwellings, when he saw a most singular figure emerging from one, and approaching the spot where he stood. it was a boy of about twelve years old, clad in the ancient costume of our forefathers--with large breeches, fastened at the knees with square shining buckles--a coat, whose skirts were of surprising breadth, and a low-crowned hat, whose enormous brim shaded his round and ruddy visage. roland could not forbear smiling at this extraordinary figure, but habitual politeness checked his mirth. he inquired the name of the village, and found to his surprise he was in the midst of one of those shaker establishments, of whose existence, and of whose singular doctrines, he was well aware, but which, his own home being remote, he had never had an opportunity of witnessing. delighted with the circumstance, for the love of novelty and excitement was predominant in his character, he determined to avail himself of it to its fullest extent. an old man, dressed in the same obsolete fashion, came up the path and accosted him: "are you a traveller," said he, "and seeking refreshments? if so, i am sorry you have chosen this day, but nevertheless we never refuse to perform the rites of hospitality." roland confessed he had no claims upon their hospitality, having partaken of a hearty breakfast two hours before in a town not far distant, and he wondered within himself why they had not mentioned the vicinity of this interesting establishment; forgetting that to those who live within the reach of any object of curiosity, it loses its interest. it is said there are some, who live where the echo of niagara's eternal thunders are ringing in their ears, who have never gazed upon its foam. "if you come to witness our manner of worship, young man," said the elder, "and come in a sober, godly spirit, i give you welcome. the world's people often visit us, some, i am sorry to say, to scoff and to jest; but you have an honest, comely countenance, and i trust are led by better motives." roland was no hypocrite, but the good shaker opened for him so fair a door of excuse for his intrusion, he was unwilling to deny that he was moved by a laudable desire to behold their peculiar form of worship. pleased by the sunny openness of his countenance, the elder led the way to the house set apart for the service of the most high, exhorting him at the same time to renounce the pomps and vanities of the world, and unite with them in that _oneness_ of spirit, which distinguished their society from the children of mankind. no lofty spire marked out the temple of the lord, nor did its form differ from that of a common dwelling-place. they entered a spacious hall, the floor of which presented such a dazzling expanse of white, the foot of the traveller hesitated before pressing its polished surface. the walls were of the same shining whiteness, chilling the eye by their cold uniformity--and benches arranged with the most exact precision on each side of the building, marked the boundaries of either sex roland seated himself at some distance from the prescribed limits, and waited with proper solemnity the entrance of the worshippers. he observed that the men invariably entered at one door, the women at another, and that they had as little intercourse as if they belonged to different worlds. the men were all clothed in the ancient costume we have just described, and the women were dressed in garments as peculiar and unbecoming. a shirt of the purest white, short gown of the same texture, a 'kerchief folded in stiff unbending plaits, a mob cap of linen fastened close around the face, from which every tress of hair was combed carefully back, constituted their chill and ghost-like attire. as one by one these pallid figures glided in, and took their appointed seat, roland felt as if he were gazing on the phantasmagoria of a dream, so pale and unearthly did they seem. the countenances of the males were generally suffused with a ruddy glow, but cold and colourless as marble were the cheeks of that sex he had been wont to see adorned with the roses of beauty and health. they arose and arranged themselves in a triangular form, while several of the aged stood in the centre, commencing the worship by a hymn of praise. their voices were harsh and broken, but the devotion of their manner sanctified the strains, and roland felt not, as he feared he should, a disposition for mirth. but when they gradually formed into a procession, marching two and two in a regular line, all joining in the wild and dissonant notes, then warming as they continued, changing the solemn march into the liveliest dance, clapping their hands simultaneously and shouting till the cold white walls resounded with the strange hosannas; all the while, those hueless, passionless faces gleaming by him, so still and ghastly mid their shroud-like garments, his brain began to reel, and he almost imagined himself attending the orgies of the dead, of resuscitated bodies, with the motions of life, but without the living soul. still, over the whole group there was a pervading solemnity and devotion, an apparent abandonment of the whole world--an anticipation of the loneliness and lifelessness of the tomb, that redeemed it from ridicule, and inspired emotions kindred to awe. this awe, however, soon melted away in pity at such delusion, and this sensation became at length converted into admiration for an object, at first unnoticed in the general uniformity of the scene, but which grew upon his eye, like the outline of the landscape through the morning mist. there was one young girl moving in this throng of worshippers, whose superior bearing could not long elude the stranger's scrutiny. her age might be fourteen or fifteen, perhaps younger; it was difficult to decide through the muffling folds of a dress which levelled every distinction of form and comeliness. as she passed and repassed him, in the evolutions of their dance, he caught occasional glimpses of a face, which, though pale, betrayed the flitting colour through the transparent skin; and once or twice the soft, thoughtful gray eyes were turned towards him, with a wistful and earnest expression, as if claiming sympathy and kindness from some congenial being. fixing his gaze upon the spot where he first beheld her, he watched her returning figure with an intensity that at last became visible to the object of it, for the pale rose of her cheek grew deeper and deeper, and her beautiful gray eyes were bent upon the floor. roland leaned from the window near which he was seated, to see if it was actually the same world he had inhabited that morning, so strangely were his senses affected by the shrill music, growing louder and louder, the shuffling, gliding motions, increasing in velocity, and this sweet apparition so unexpectedly mingling in such an incongruous scene. the breath of summer redolent with a thousand perfumes stole over his brow--the blue sky was arching over his head; never had creation seemed more lovely or glowing; yet the worshippers within deemed they were offering an acceptable sacrifice on the altar of god, the sacrifice of those social affections, which find such beautiful emblems in the works of nature. roland became so lost in these reflections, he hardly noticed the closing of the exercise, or heard the monotonous tones of one of the elders, who was exhorting in the peculiar dialect of his sect. when the services were concluded, he left the hall, still watching the motions of the gray-eyed damsel, in the bold resolution of accosting her, and discovering if she were a willing devotee. as she walked along with a light step, in spite of her clumsy high-heeled shoes, by the side of an ancient dame, roland, unconscious of the extreme audacity of the act, and hardly knowing himself in what manner to address her, crossed her path, and was in the very act of apologizing for the intrusion, when his arm was seized with a sturdy grasp, and he saw the old shaker who had introduced him into the assembly, standing by his side. "young man," said he, in a stern voice--"do you come here, a wolf in sheep's clothing, in the very midst of the flock? what is your business with this child, whom our rules forbid you to address?" roland felt at first very indignant, but a moment's reflection convinced him he had erred, and transgressed their rigid rules. he felt too that he had placed himself in rather a ridiculous situation, and he stood before the rebuking elder with a blush of ingenuous shame, that completely disarmed his wrath. "you are young, very young," said the old man--"and i forgive you--you have been brought up in the midst of the vanities of the world, and i pity you; yet my heart cleaves to you, young man, and when you become weary of those vanities, as you shortly will, come to us, and you will find that peace which the world can neither give nor take away." he shook hands with roland after he had spoken, who acknowledged his offence, thanked him for his counsel and kindness, and, mounting his horse, left him with a sentiment of unfeigned respect; so true it is, that sincerity of faith gives dignity to the professor of many a creed revolting to human reason. roland looked back upon the beautiful village, and wondered at what he had just witnessed. he felt a strong disposition to linger, that he might discover something more of the peculiarities of this singular and isolated people. had he known their incorruptible honesty, their unwearied industry, their trusting hospitality, their kindness and charity--had he seen the pale sisterhood extending their cherishing cares to the children of orphanage and want, he would have been convinced that warm streams of living tenderness were flowing beneath the cold forms of their austere religion. roland gray was very young, and had seen but little of the world. he had led the secluded life of a student, and, but lately freed from collegiate restraints, he had been trying his wings, preparatory to a bolder flight across the atlantic. he was now on the way to his sister, who, with himself, was placed under the guardianship of the excellent mr. worthington, for they were orphans, left with an independent fortune, but singularly destitute of kindred, being the last of their race. an invalid gentleman, one of his father's early friends, was about to travel in foreign climes to try the benefit of a milder atmosphere, and he urged roland to be his companion. such a proposal was accepted with gratitude, and roland, with buoyant spirits, returned to his sister, to bid her farewell, before launching on the "deep blue sea." lucy gray was older than her brother, and from childhood had exercised over him the influence with which a few additional years, joined to a strength of mind far beyond her years, invested her. he was the object no less of her love than her pride. she looked upon him as the last representative of a family, honoured among the most honourable, and destined to transmit to posterity his ancestral name, with unblemished and still more exalted lustre. she resolved he should ennoble himself by marriage, and would have scorned, as degrading, the thought that love might make the youth a rebel to her will. she believed the affections entirely under the control of the reason, and looked upon the passions as vassals to be dragged at its chariot wheels. lucy was not loved by her friends, but she was respected and esteemed for the firmness of her principles, and the strength of her mind. but roland loved as much as he revered her. his heart was a fountain of warm and generous affections, and it flowed out towards her, his only sister, in the fulness of a current, that found no other legitimate channel. accustomed to yield his rash and ardent impulses to the direction of her cooler judgment, he looked up to her as the mentor of his follies, rather than as the companion of his youthful amusements, and now, after an absence of several months, partly from pleasure and partly from business, he looked forward to meeting her with something of the feelings of a son, blended with the affection of a brother. his arrival at mr. worthington's was hailed with a burst of joy, for roland had a face of sunshine and a voice of melody, that shed light and music wherever he went. in relating his adventures, he failed not to give due interest to his interview with the shakers, and laughed over the quixotism that exposed him to so stern a rebuke. the pretty little shakeress did not lose any of her attractions in his romantic description, and he dwelt upon her dovelike eyes, melting beneath the snows of her antiquated cap, her sweet, appealing countenance and spiritual air, till mr. worthington's childless heart warmed within him, and lucy listened with apprehensive pride lest her brother's excited imagination should convert this obscure unknown into a heroine of romance. it was but a transient alarm, for she knew that the waves of the atlantic would soon roll between them, and roland, surrounded by all the glorious associations of an elder world, would cast aside every light and ignoble fancy, and fit himself for the high station in society she felt he was born to fill. * * * * * after an absence of four years roland gray appeared once more in the family circle of mr. worthington. his hair had assumed a darker shade, and his cheek a darker glow, but the same sunshiny spirit lighted up his brow and animated his lips; it was roland gray still, only the bloom of boyhood was lost in the sunniness of manhood. lucy's handsome, but severe countenance was so irradiated with joy, it was almost dazzling from the effect of contrast: and as she sat by his side, and gazed in his face, she felt that all her affections and her hopes were so completely centered in him, they could be separated only with the breaking of her heart. happy as roland was in being reunited to his sister, his attention was not so engrossed as to forget the kindly greetings due to the other members of mr. worthington's household. "i have an adopted daughter to introduce you to," said mr. worthington, drawing forward a young girl who, on the entrance of roland, had retreated behind a stand of geraniums, and busied herself in picking off the faded leaves. roland had become too familiar with beauty in foreign climes, to be surprised into admiration of a face however fair, but there was a sweetness, a modesty and simplicity diffused over the young face before him, that interested his feelings and disarmed his judgment. he could scarcely tell the colour of her eyes, for they were downcast, but there was something in the play of her features, that implied she sympathized in the pleasure his coming had excited. "roland," continued mr. worthington, evidently delighted with the reception he had given his favourite, "this is my daughter grace, whom providence has kindly given to cheer a widowed and childless heart. you know i look upon you almost as my son, so you will find in her, i trust, another sister to love." roland held out his hand with great alacrity to seal this new compact, but the pretty grace drew back with an embarrassment he was unwilling to increase, seeing it was entirely unaffected; and there was something in lucy's glance that told him she resented the idea of such a partnership in his affections. he could not but marvel where good old mr. worthington had found such a fairy gift, but believing the mystery would be explained in due time, he promised himself no slight gratification in studying a character, concealed under such a veil of bashfulness and reserve. the twilight hour found the brother and sister walking together towards their accustomed seat under the sycamore boughs, the scene of many of lucy's former counsels, and roland's high resolves. she wanted to be alone with him--to guard him against a thousand dangers and snares, visible only to her proud and jealous eye. "oh! roland," said she, taking his hand and looking earnestly in his face--"do you return unchanged?--may i still, as wont, presume to counsel, to direct, and to sustain?" "unchanged in everything as regards my affection for you, my dear sister," replied he--"be still my mentor and my guide, for i fear, with all the worldly wisdom i have acquired, i am often the same impulsive being you have so long tried in vain to bring under the square and compass of reason and right. now, i feel at this moment an irresistible impulse to know who is this pretty god-send of mr. worthington's; did she drop down from the skies, or did she come on the wings of the wind?" "i am glad you have opened the subject, roland, for i brought you here to warn you of that girl's influence. do not laugh, for, knowing you so well, i feel bound to prevent any imposition on your open, generous nature. i do not know who she is, probably some poor child of shame and desertion, whom mr. worthington discovered and educated, for it is but a year since he brought her from school, and introduced her as his adopted daughter. he made a long visit to his relatives, since you left us, and found her, i believe, in the family of his brother, in a dependent and perhaps menial situation. charmed by her beauty and beguiled by her arts, the good man conceived the romantic design of educating her as his own, and now he is felicitating himself with another project, that of securing for this nameless foundling the heart and the fortune of roland gray." roland had heard too much about gentle blood and honourable parentage, and been too much under the influence of his aristocratic sister, not to shrink from the supposition of such an union, but he protested against the word _arts_, which lucy had used in reference to grace, for she looked the most artless of human beings; and he accused her of injustice towards mr. worthington, who in his singleness of heart was incapable of making a project of any kind. "you must not think it strange," said lucy, "that i, a woman should not be blinded by the beauty of one of my own sex, and i know i am superior to the weakness of envy. with an insight into character which has never deceived me, i know that girl to be vain, selfish, and calculating. mr. worthington may claim her as _his daughter_, but he shall never impose her on me, by the name of _sister_." those who have witnessed the empire an elder sister of commanding mind and manners is capable of obtaining over a younger brother's judgment, will not be surprised that roland learned to look upon grace with distrustful eyes, though he could not believe in the duplicity lucy ascribed to her character, and he invariably treated her with that consideration due to the situation she held in mr. worthington's family. it was impossible, however, to be domesticated with her, to be seated at the same table, parties in the same amusements, near each other in the evening circle, and the moonlight walks, notwithstanding the unsleeping vigilance of lucy, not to feel the reality of her loveliness, her simplicity and truth. there was something about her that haunted him like a dream, and whenever she turned her eyes towards him, he experienced a sudden thrill of recollection, as if he had seen that fair face before. in the evening mr. worthington often challenged lucy to a game of chess, for though not a skilful performer, he was extravagantly fond of the game, and lucy had no rival in the art. she now regretted this accomplishment, as it threw her brother more immediately into companionship with grace, whose conversation, when unrestrained, was perfectly bewitching, from a mixture of bright intelligence, quick sensibility, and profound ignorance of the vices and customs of the world. it was evident she felt oppressed by lucy's scrutinizing gaze, for when she was conscious of its withdrawal, her spirits rebounded with an unobtrusive gayety, that harmonized admirably with the life and vivacity of roland's disposition. one evening, as lucy was absorbed in the crisis of the game, grace was busily plying her needle, making some garments for a poor woman, whose house and wardrobe were completely consumed by fire, the previous night; all the ladies in the neighbourhood were contributing their part towards relieving her wants, and a very pretty little girl, with a basket half-filled with her mother's offerings, was waiting till grace had put the last stitches into a cap, whose fashion seemed to fix the particular attention of roland. the child, who was a petted favourite in the family, caught up the cap the moment it was completed, and drawing it over the soft brown locks of grace, laughingly fastened the linen bands. roland uttered so sudden an exclamation, it made lucy start from her seat, upsetting bishop, knight, and royalty itself. the mystery was revealed, the pretty little shakeress stood before him. the close linen border, under which every lock of hair was concealed, transformed at once the fashionable and elegant young lady into the simple and humble shaker girl. a scene, which the lapse of years and the crowding events of a transatlantic tour had effaced from his memory, returned vividly to his recollection. he wondered he had not recognised her earlier, but the hue of the soft gray eye was darkened, and its light more warm and shifting, her complexion had a richer colouring, and shadows of bright hair relieved the fairness of a brow where intelligence and sensibility now sat enthroned. then her figure--now revealed in all the graces of womanhood, was it the same he had seen muffled in the stiff starched shirt and 'kerchief, moving on high-heeled shoes with large shining buckles? grace blushed deeply beneath his riveted gaze, and hastily snatching the cap from her head, folded it with the other garments she had made into the basket, and bade the little girl hasten to her mother. "what is the meaning of all this bustle?" said lucy, looking at grace with so much asperity it made her involuntarily draw closer to mr. worthington. "it means," said roland, delighted and excited by the discovery he had made, and forgetting his sister's daily cautions--"it means that i have found my pretty shakeress at last. ah! mr. worthington, why did not you tell me that your adopted daughter and my fair unknown were one?" mr. worthington laughed, and taking the hand of grace drew her upon his knee. "because the world is full of prejudice, and i did not like to expose my girl to its influence. i always wanted to tell _you_, but grace insisted i should allow you to find it out yourself, for she told me about the bold youth, who almost stared her out of her devotion and her wits. nay, grace, i owe him a thousand thanks, for had he not warmed my old heart by a description of your loveliness, i never should have gone so far out of my journey to visit your village, begged you of the good people for my own, nor would i now have such a sweet blossom to shed fragrance over my declining years." "and how," exclaimed roland with irresistible curiosity, "how came she amongst them?" before mr. worthington could reply, grace clasped her hands earnestly together, and cried, "i was a stranger, and they took me in; i was an orphan and they clothed me, sheltered and--" previously much agitated, grace here entirely lost her self-command, and leaning her head on the shoulder of mr. worthington, she wept audibly. lucy actually trembled and turned pale. she saw that her empire was tottering from its foundation. accustomed to interpret every change of her brother's countenance, she read with terror the intense expression with which his eyes were fixed on grace. she was willing he should marry from ambition, but not for love. she had never for a moment admitted the idea that another should supplant her in his affections--a jealousy far more dark and vindictive than that excited by love, the jealousy of power, took possession of her soul, mingled with a bitter hatred towards the innocent cause of these emotions. through life she had bowed the will of others to her own, and as long as no opposition roused the strength of her passions, she maintained a character of integrity and virtue, that bid defiance to scandal and reproach. she did not know herself the evil of which she was capable, but now the lion was unchained in her bosom, and chafed and wrestled for its prey. too politic to attempt checking too suddenly the tide of feeling, yet too angry to hide her own chagrin, she left the room, and meditated in what manner she could best arrest the evil she dreaded. she failed not, however, to breathe a warning whisper into her brother's ear as she passed out. here mr. worthington entreated grace to tell roland all she knew of herself, assuring her, in his simplicity, that no one, next to himself, felt so deep an interest in her, as he did. roland felt no disposition to contradict this assertion, and joined his own entreaties so earnestly to mr. worthington's, grace hesitated not to relate her simple history. it could be comprised in a few words. she told of her sad and almost desolate childhood, of her dwelling in a little cottage deep in the woods, remote from neighbours or friends; of a dark and cruel man she called father--here grace's voice grew low and husky--of a pale, sick, and dying mother, who was found by a good shaker, on the bed of death, and who committed her orphan child to the care of the kind samaritan. the man who had deserted her mother, in the extremity of her wants, never appeared to claim his child. she was cherished in the bosom of that benevolent society, where roland first beheld her, grateful for their kindness, though yearning after freedom and the fellowship of youth, till mr. worthington came, and offered her the love and guardianship of a father, if she would occupy a daughter's place in his heart and home. her father's name was goldman, which she had willingly resigned for that of worthington, for the memory she had of him, was like a dark and terrible dream--fearful to remember. the dread that he might appear some day to claim her, often made her shudder in the midst of her happiness; but as so many years had passed away, it was more natural to suppose he had expiated his cruelty with his life. had mr. worthington conceived the project that lucy had suggested, and been aware at the same time of roland's family pride, it is not probable he would have induced her to reveal to him the sad events of her childhood; and had grace been the artful being described, she would never have told with such straightforward simplicity and deep sensibility of her father's brutality and vices, nor expressed the startling fear, that he might still assert the forfeited rights of nature, and tear her from the arms of her benefactor. such thoughts as these filled the breast of roland, as grace continued her affecting recital, where truth was attested by her blushes and her tears. she unclasped from her neck a golden chain, from which a miniature was suspended, the sole relic of her mother. the chain was beautifully wrought, and indicated that however abject was the condition to which the owner had been reduced, she had once been accustomed to the decorations of wealth. the miniature was that of a gentleman in the prime of life, with a dark, but interesting countenance, and dignified bearing. grace knew not whether it was her father's picture, for she had but a faint recollection of his features, and the shaker who discovered it around her mother's neck, after she was speechless in death, could give her no information. here was mystery and romance, innocence, beauty, and youth; and roland felt as if he would gladly twine them together, and bind them around his heart, as all "he guessed of heaven." but while his imagination was weaving the garland and revelling in its fragrance, the vision of "a sister's jealous care, a cruel sister she," rose before him, and the wreath faded and the blossoms fell. with a stinging sensation of shame, he admitted the conviction, that he _feared_ his sister. he had long worn her fetters unconsciously, but now, when for the first time they galled and restrained him, his pride and his heart rebelled against the hand that bound him in thraldom. grace retired that night, with a thousand bright hopes hovering round her pillow. roland then was her first benefactor. it was he, who had awakened the interest of mr. worthington, and directed him to her retreat. he, the handsome and noble-looking youth, whose dark piercing eyes had kindled in her such yearnings after the world from which she was excluded, and who for four years had been the morning and evening star on the horizon of her memory. she knew something of this before, but she had never realized it so fully as now; for he had himself confirmed it, by words, which, though simple in themselves, were unutterably eloquent, accompanied by such looks--she blushed even in the darkness, as she caught herself involuntarily repeating, "and have i found my pretty shakeress at last?" for two or three days, roland avoided being alone with lucy, but to his surprise, she did not seem to desire an opportunity to renew her warnings. on the contrary, she was more kind and affectionate towards grace than she had ever been before, who, in the confidingness of innocence, relied on her unwonted testimonies of favour, as the harbingers of her dearest wishes. "grace," said lucy--they were alone and secure of interruption, for mr. worthington and roland were both absent on business--"grace, are you willing to tell me of what you are now thinking?" grace started--she had fallen into an unconscious revery, and her work lay idly in her lap; her cheeks glowed painfully, but with that habitual reverence for truth which always distinguished her, she answered, "i was thinking of roland." unprepared for such perfect ingenuousness, lucy hesitated a moment, and conscience upbraided her for the part she was about to act, but again fixing her keen eye on a countenance as transparent as crystal, she continued: "has roland ever told you that he loved you?" grace crimsoned still more deeply from wounded modesty and shame, while she answered in a low voice, "never!" "then," said the inquisitor, drawing a relieving breath, "grace, your task is easy, and i rejoice that he has made it so; you must not think of roland, you must not love him, for he never can be to you anything more than he now is." grace turned deadly pale, but she did not speak, and lucy went on--"my brother was my father's only son, and is sole heir of a name long conspicuous for its honours. our parents died when we were both young; but i, as the elder, became the guardian and guide. to me, on his death-bed, my father committed my young brother, charging me with the solemnity of that awful hour, to guard his honour from stain, and his name from degradation. my father was a proud and haughty man, and he has transmitted to his children a portion of his own spirit. grace, you have told me all the circumstances of your life; you know there is mystery, but you may not know in your extreme simplicity, that there may be disgrace in your birth. the golden chain that wreathes your neck, shows that your mother was not born to poverty. why then did she flee from her friends, to bury herself in solitude with the dark and cruel man you called father; and why are you an alien from your kindred? you ought to know these truths, which the mistaken kindness of your friends conceals from you, and i reveal them to you, that you may not encourage hopes that never can be realized; to convince you, you can never be the wife of roland. for myself, hear me, grace, to the end--if roland could forget himself so far as to think of such an union, i would forever disown him as a brother, and load with maledictions the being who had brought such misery on us both." all the strong passions at work in lucy's bosom, sent their baleful lustre to her eyes, and poor grace shrunk from their beams as if they were withering her very heart. brought up in the midst of that gentle and subdued sisterhood, in whose uniform existence the passions seemed cradled into unbroken slumber, she had almost forgotten their existence. the terrible dreams of her childhood were brought back to her. the curses of her father again rung in her ears--the helpless cries of her mother. she clasped her hands despairingly over her eyes--she knew she had been poor and wretched; but benevolence and charity had administered to her wants, and the very remembrance of poverty had faded from her mind; but disgrace--that there was a disgrace attached to her that made it sinful in her to love roland gray, that debarred her from an union with the honourable and good--that was the thought that crushed her, that chilled her blood, and turned her cheeks to marble and her lips to ashes. lucy paused, and attempted to soothe the agony she had excited. cold herself to the softer emotions, she had no faith in the eternity of love. grace, like a child robbed of its plaything, now wept and refused to be comforted, but she would soon smile animated by some new-born hope. thus lucy tried to reason, while she held her chill grasp on the heart of grace, and bound her still more closely to her will. "promise me," said she, "that you will not reveal to any one the conversation of this morning--mr. worthington has deceived you, and you would not meanly appeal to the compassion of roland--promise this, and you shall find in me a friend who will never forsake you in weal or woe. deny it, and you will create an enemy whose power can make you tremble." grace, with all her woman's pride rising to her relief, at the idea of appealing to the compassion of roland, gave the desired promise, and still more--she voluntarily declared she would rather die than think of roland, after what lucy had just uttered. lucy, satisfied with her promise, for she knew her truth, embraced her with commendations which fell heedlessly on poor grace's paralyzed ears--she withdrew to her chamber, "for her whole head was pained and her whole heart sick;" and when mr. worthington and roland returned, grace was said to be unable, from indisposition, to join the circle, where she was wont to preside an angel of light and joy. the sympathy and sorrow excited by so common an event, reconciled lucy more than anything else, to her selfishness and cruelty. but was she happy in the success of her operations! she had planted thorns in the bosom of another--but were there none rankling in her own! could she, a daughter of this land of republicanism, shelter herself under the cold shadow of family pride, from the reproaches of her own conscience? ah! no! the heart is its own avenger, and for every drop of sorrow wilfully wrung from the eyes of another, shall be doomed to give only tears of blood. roland wondered at the change that had come over grace, and sought by every means to ascertain the cause, but she seemed wrapped in a cloud of impenetrable reserve. she avoided him, but in so quiet a manner, it appeared to him more the result of sudden indifference or aversion, than unexplained resentment. the sunshine of her smile was gone, and an expression of calm apathy settled on her brow, where the alternations of feeling had lately flitted, like the lights and shadows of a moonlight landscape. roland sometimes had a painful suspicion of his sister, but she had always been so open in all her actions, so undisguised in her least amiable traits, that notwithstanding all the prejudice she had manifested towards grace, he believed her incapable of any mean or dark designings. mr. worthington was anxious and alarmed. he was sure some incipient and insidious disease was the cause of her pale and dispirited appearance. he was constantly feeling her pulse, and inquiring her symptoms, and insisting upon calling in a physician, till poor grace, really glad to shelter herself from observation, under the pretext held out, acknowledged herself ill, and passively submitted to a course of medicine, which reduced her soon to a state of real debility and suffering. they applied blisters to her forehead to still its hot throbbings; they drew blood from her veins to reduce her feverish pulse, and lucy sat by her bedside and administered to her unweariedly, and discussed the nature of her malady, and talked of its different stages; while all the time she knew it was herself who had coldly and deliberately dried up the fountain of hope and joy, and love, which had sent such roses to her cheek and sunbeams to her eye. she sometimes trembled in the darkness of night, at the possibility that grace might die, under the regimen of this imaginary disease; and then a voice whispered in hollow murmurs, in her ears, "thou shalt sleep no more, for thou hast murdered sleep." but in day's broad light a witness to roland's abstraction, anxiety and gloom, she steeled her conscience, in reflecting on the necessity of the act. let not grace be condemned, as too weak and yielding, as too blind an instrument in the hands of another. her education had been peculiar, and her natural disposition was extremely sensitive and timid. the first years of her life had been passed in terror and sorrow--terror for her father's cruelty, and sorrow for her mother's woe. everything around her was tumultuous and fearful, and she learned to shudder at the awful manifestations of evil passions, before she knew them by name. transplanted to a scene, where everything breathed of peace and silence, where industry, neatness, and order were heaven's first laws, where the voice of dissension was unheard, and the storms of passion unfelt, her spirit had been so hushed and subdued, her sensibilities so repressed, and her energies held down, she moved along her daily path a piece of beautiful and exquisite mechanism, but whose most powerful springs had never been touched. it is true she loved the kind and gentle shakers, but it was with a tranquil feeling of gratitude and trust. the visit of roland gray acted as an electrical communication between her and the world to which he belonged. it seemed to her it must be inhabited by angels; and when mr. worthington came and induced her benefactor to resign her to his care, she welcomed the change as into the garden of eden. in the seclusion of a school, her timidity still induced her to shrink within herself; in the companionship of lucy, she felt awe-struck and abashed; but roland came, and then she realized the paradise of her imagination. everything around her was music and beauty and love--flowers sprang up in the waste places, water gushed from the rock, and melody filled the air. to be forbidden to think of him, to be commanded to wrench him from her heart, to be made to think of herself as a low and disgraced being--grace would have shuddered at the idea of impiety, but when she laid her head on her pillow, willing to be thought sick, rather than wretched, she certainly wished to die. but the strength of youth, though prostrated, rebounded from the pressure. she was not doomed to the _curse of a granted prayer_. the providence that had so long watched over her destiny, still kept its unseen but slumbering vigils. grace remembered her old friends, the shakers, and yearned once more for their still and passionless existence. she prayed mr. worthington to take her there so earnestly, he did not hesitate to grant her request, believing the journey would invigorate her constitution and change of scene animate her mind. she spoke not of remaining, and the wish was so natural and grateful, it could not excite surprise or censure. "you see," said lucy to her brother, the night before grace's departure, "the influence of early habits. perhaps all this time grace has been pining after the shakers. she has been suffering from a kind of calenture, and when she sees their green plain, and quiet village, she will be happy." "impossible!" cried roland, completely thrown off his guard by lucy's sudden insinuation. "she is strange and unaccountable, but i never will believe anything so preposterous. she, that sweet, lovely, spiritual creature, to be immured again in their cold walls, and to wish it, and pine after it! by heavens! lucy, if i could believe such a thing, i would go this moment and prevent the immolation. i will not deceive you; i do not care any longer for pride and empty sounding names, and birth and parentage. it is ridiculous to think of such things in this republican country. grace is equal to the highest; for she claims her birthright from the almighty himself, and carries on her brow the signet of heaven." "stop, roland, for heaven's sake, and hear me." "i will not stop," continued roland, a spirit of determination flashing from his eyes she had never seen in them before; "shall i sacrifice my happiness to a shadow, a bubble? no! i have hesitated too long; i love grace; i love her with all my heart and soul, and i will go this moment and tell her so." he laid his hand upon the latch, but lucy sprang forward like lightning, and seized it in her own. "one moment, roland, only one moment; i, your only sister, ask it." roland saw she was very pale, and he felt her hand tremble as it grasped him. she was indeed his only sister, whom he had so much loved, and he felt he had met her prejudices with too much impetuosity; they might yield, perhaps, to softer measures. "what is it you would say, lucy? you asked for one moment, and i have given you more." "only promise to wait till her return; that is all i ask; i spoke in jest; you knew she would not remain; mr. worthington will never leave her. promise me this, dear roland, and i will not oppose my pride to your happiness." lucy knew that she was uttering a falsehood, for she herself had confirmed grace in her resolution to remain; but she had begun to weave the tangled web of deceit, and she wound herself deeper and deeper in its folds. all she wanted now was to gain time, and she then felt she should be safe. roland promised, for delay was not sacrifice, and he was surprised and grateful for lucy's concession. "grace," whispered lucy, as she embraced and bid her farewell, "you are acting right; you will find peace and happiness in the path you seek. be assured of my friendship and also my gratitude." grace was mute, but she gave lucy a look that might have melted a heart of stone. "grace," said roland, "come back to us soon." he kept his promise to his sister, but his voice trembled, his hand lingered as it pressed hers in parting, and his eyes spoke a language she must have understood, had not her own been blinded with tears. she met a warm reception from the friends of her early days. the kind susan, who had taken the first charge of her, and acted toward her a mother's part, opened her arms to receive her, and when she saw her faded colour and drooping eyes, she felt as the patriarch did when he took in his weary dove to the ark, for she knew the wanderer brought back no green olive branch of hope and joy. susan had once known the gayeties of the world, and tasted its pleasures, but her heart had been blighted and her hopes betrayed, and finding all was vanity, to use her own expressive language she had "taken up her cross and followed her saviour." the seal of silence was placed on the history of her heart, and grace dreamed not that one of that tranquil tribe had ever known the tumult of human passions. by some mysterious communion, however, between soul and soul, grace felt an assurance of susan's sympathy, and clung to her with increased affection. it was long before mr. worthington would consent to leave her behind. "only a few months," pleaded she, "and then i shall be well and strong again; all i need is quiet." "the child is right," added susan; "she is weary of the world, and wants rest. she shall dwell in my tabernacle, and share my pillow, and i will nourish and cherish her as my own flesh and blood. she will not be compelled to join our worship, or follow our rites, for we now look upon her as our guest, our daughter in love, but not our sister in the spirit of the lord." satisfied with this promise, mr. worthington blessed grace, embraced her, and left her, bidding her be ready to return when the first leaf of autumn fell. she did not sit down and brood over the blighted hopes of her youth. she interested herself in all their neat and regular occupations, assisted them in gathering the leaves of the medicinal plants, in spreading them on pieces of pure white linen to dry; in collecting the garden seeds and shelling them out of their shrunken capsules, with as much readiness and grace as if she had never learned to touch the keys of the piano, or to school her steps by the dancing master's rule. dressed in the plainest robes the fashions of the world allow, so as not to offend the austerity of their taste, with no other ornament than her shining hair, simply parted on her brow, she looked the incarnation of sweetness and humility; and susan, seeing her dawning colour, believed she had found peace. "thus will i live," thought grace, "till roland marries, and then if my adopted father claims me, i will try to find happiness in administering to his." one evening, just as the sun had set, she returned from the garden, her white apron gathered up before her, full of damask rose leaves, while exercise and a bending position had given her cheeks a hue, warm as the twilight's glow, and calling eagerly to susan, to present her offering for distillation, she crossed the threshold and stood before--roland gray. electrified at the sight, she let go her apron, and the leaves fell in a rosy shower around her. "grace, dear grace!" exclaimed roland, and both hands were clasped in his own. now she had been called dear grace, and sweet grace, and pretty grace, a thousand times in her life, but never in such a tone, and with such eyes looking down into her heart. it is easy to imagine why roland came, and how eloquently he proved to grace that he loved her better than all the world beside, and that he could not, and would not live without her. for a moment a flood of rapture, deep and overwhelming, flowed in upon her heart from the conviction that she was thus beloved; the next, a cold and freezing thought shot through it and turned the current to ice. lucy--her threatened curse, her withering enmity, her own promise of never thinking of roland, and of never revealing what had passed between lucy and herself--all was remembered, and suddenly withdrawing her hand from his, she turned away and wept, without the power of self-control. roland was amazed. she had met his avowal with such a radiant blush and smile--such love and joy had just lighted up her modest eye, and now he witnessed every demonstration of the most passionate grief. "oh, no!" she cried, "it never can be--i had forgotten it all; but i must not listen to you--oh, no!" and she repeated the interjection in such a plaintive accent, roland was convinced there was no deception in her woe. in vain he entreated her for an explanation. she could not give any consistent with her promise to lucy; she could only declare her unworthiness, her poor and perhaps disgraceful origin; and this only called forth a more impassioned assurance of his disinterested love, and his disdain of such scruples. he endeavoured to soothe and caress, till grace felt her resolution and her truth fast yielding before his influence. if she could see lucy, and be released from her rash promise, all might yet be well. perhaps lucy herself, finding her brother's pride had yielded to his love, would sanction the union. this idea once admitted, changed despair into hope. "wait," said she, "till i return, and then, if the obstacle i fear no longer exists,"--she paused a moment, and her truth-telling lips constrained her to utter--"i shall be the happiest of human beings." roland, now believing the obstacle to be lucy, resolved she should not stand any longer in the way of their happiness, pressed for no further explanation. he had departed unknown to her, for he dreaded her violence. when mr. worthington returned alone, he dreaded grace might sacrifice herself, as lucy insinuated, and determined to bear her away ere it was too late. grace poured into susan's calm but sympathizing ear the story of her love and the obstacles that opposed it. her single heart was too narrow to contain the fulness of her emotions. susan applauded her integrity, but trembled at her idolatry. she reminded her of the mutability and uncertainty of all earthly things, and strengthened her in the resolution never to accept the vows of roland, with the threatened vengeance of lucy hanging over her love. "oh, she will relent!" cried grace; "roland's sister cannot be such a monster." had the chastened susan witnessed her parting with roland, she would have read a still more solemn lesson on the sinfulness of earthly affections; but she only saw the consequent sorrow, which she was too gentle to reprove. the leaves of autumn soon fell, and then everything was changed in the destiny of grace. mr. worthington claimed his child, and when susan resigned her, her last words bid her pray for strength to keep her virtuous resolution. it would be difficult to describe the passions that struggled for mastery in lucy's breast, when she learned from her brother the part he had acted. incapable of concealing them at first, and believing she had lost the affection of roland, she no longer disguised the bitterness of her heart. she hated grace still more, since she was conscious she had injured her, and when she, appealing in behalf of roland's happiness as well as her own, entreated her to free her from her promise, she turned a deaf ear to the prayer, and claimed the fulfilment of her word, renewing the same fearful penalty--"unless," she added, with a scornful smile, "you can prove your family equal to ours, and that your alliance will bring no disgrace." strange paradox of the human heart! had lucy taken scorpions into her bosom, she could not have suffered keener pangs than the consciousness of roland's alienated affection caused her; yet she refused to bend her stubborn pride, and wrapped herself up in the sulliness of self-will, feeling a kind of stern joy that she had made others as wretched as herself. * * * * * grace was standing in a lighted saloon, leaning on the arm of mr. worthington, and an unwilling partaker of the gay scene. a tall and majestic-looking man passed the spot where she stood, whose appearance excited her interest and curiosity, for he was evidently a stranger in the throng of fashion and wealth, then gathered together. the suns of warmer climes had darkened his face, and added gloom to features of a fine and noble expression. as grace lifted her mild gray eyes his somewhat stern countenance relaxed, and turning round he gazed earnestly in her face. abashed by his scrutiny, she moved into another part of the room; still the tall stranger followed, with his melancholy eyes, pursuing her figure. roland, never far from the object of his apparently hopeless devotion, now jealous and irritated, drew to her side. "oh, roland," said she, suddenly agitated by a new emotion, "there is something in that stranger's face, resembling this!"--and she drew from her bosom the miniature suspended from the golden chain. there was indeed a resemblance, only the face of the picture was younger, and the sable locks unbleached. the stranger observed the motions of grace, and pressed forward, while the miniature was still open in her hand. "pardon me, madam," said he, earnestly, "i must be pardoned--but allow me to look at that picture." grace with trembling fingers unloosed the chain, and gave it into the stranger's hand. "it was once my mother's," said she, in a faltering voice, "and her name was grace goldman." "_was_"--said the stranger--"and yet how could it be otherwise?--she was my sister--my only sister--and you"--he became too much agitated to finish the sentence, and entirely forgetting the throng that surrounded them, he clasped grace to his bosom, as the living representative of his lost and lamented sister. yes! in mr. maitland, the rich merchant, just returned from the east indies, grace had found an uncle, which proved her lineage to be such, that even the proud lucy must acknowledge to be equal to her own. his sister, the mother of grace, had eloped, when very young, with a handsome but profligate man, and being cast off by her parents, she was soon doomed to eat the bread of poverty, in consequence of her husband's excesses. her brother, as soon as he learned her situation, offered to support her through life, declaring his intention never to marry, if she would leave her unprincipled husband. but she, in the strength of that passion which hopes all, believes all, and endures all, refused to leave the man she still loved, and whom she still trusted she might reclaim. her brother, finding her wedded to her fate, left her with a purse of gold and his own miniature as a parting pledge of love, and departed for a foreign land. forced to fly from the clamours of his creditors, goldman removed his wife from place to place, till she was far out of the reach of former friends, when, plunging deeper and deeper in the gulf of inebriation, he left her to die, as we have described, of a broken heart. for himself, he died a drunkard's death by the wayside, and was buried by the same humane society that protected his orphan child. this circumstance had been concealed from grace, nor did she learn it, till her subsequent visit to the shaker village. mr. maitland, who had dwelt long in other lands, accumulating wealth, which his generous heart longed to share with the friends of his early youth, returned to mourn over the graves of his parents, and to seek in vain intelligence of his lost sister, till he saw in the crowd the lovely form of grace, such as her ill-fated mother was in the days of her beauty and youth. lucy could with sincerity offer her congratulations and welcome as a sister the niece of mr. maitland, though she had scorned the alliance of the humble shaker girl. but she felt she was degraded in her eyes, and this was a punishment to her proud spirit, keener than the task-master's lash. mr. maitland's gratitude to mr. worthington was boundless as it was warm; but he longed to see the kind samaritans, who had soothed his sister's dying hours and guarded her orphan child. it was a happy day for grace, when, as the bride of roland, she accompanied her husband and her uncle to the home of her early youth. she introduced with pride the noble-looking stranger to all her true and single-hearted friends. "but here," said she, throwing her arms round susan, "here is my mother and my mother's friend." mr. maitland would gladly have lavished wealth upon them, in remuneration for their cares, but they steadfastly refused his gifts, asserting they had only done their duty, and merited no reward. "do unto others, as we have done towards yours," replied these followers of our saviour's golden rule. "when you hear us reviled by the world, and our worship scorned, and our rites ridiculed, defend us if you can; and if one of the disciples of our creed should be in need of succour, be unto him as a brother, and we ask no more." "dear susan," said grace, when the parting hour arrived, as she lingered behind to bid her farewell, "am i not the happiest of human beings?" "i bless god that you _are_ happy, my child," answered susan, laying her hand solemnly on her head--"and long, long may you remain so; but forget not, days of darkness may come, that the bridal garments may be changed for sackcloth, and ashes be scattered over the garlands of love. remember then, o grace, there is a refuge from the woes and vanities of the world, where the spirit may wait in peace for its everlasting home." grace wept, but she smiled through her tears, and, seated once more at roland's side, she felt as if darkness and sorrow could never be _her_ portion. a rainy evening. a sketch. a pleasant little group was gathered round uncle ned's domestic hearth. he sat on one side of the fire-place, opposite aunt mary, who, with her book in her hand, watched the children seated at the table, some reading, others sewing, all occupied, but one, a child "of larger growth," a young lady, who, being a guest of the family, was suffered to indulge in the pleasure of idleness without reproof. "oh! i _love_ a rainy evening," said little ann, looking up from her book, and meeting her mother's smiling glance, "it is so nice to sit by a good fire and hear the rain pattering against the windows. only i pity the poor people who have no house to cover them, to keep off the rain and the cold." "and i love a rainy evening, too," cried george, a boy of about twelve. "i can study so much better. my thoughts stay at home, and don't keep rambling out after the bright moon and stars. my heart feels warmer, and i really believe i love everybody better than i do when the weather is fair." uncle ned smiled, and gave the boy an approving pat on the shoulder. every one smiled but the young lady, who with a languid, discontented air, now played with a pair of scissors, now turned over the leaves of a book, then, with an ill-suppressed yawn, leaned idly on her elbow, and looked into the fire. "and what do you think of a rainy evening, elizabeth?" asked uncle ned. "i should like to hear your opinion also." "i think it over dull and uninteresting, indeed," answered she. "i always feel so stupid, i can hardly keep myself awake--one cannot go abroad, or hope to see company at home; and one gets so tired of seeing the same faces all the time. i cannot imagine what george and ann see to admire so much in a disagreeable rainy evening like this." "supposing i tell you a story, to enliven you?" said uncle ned. "oh! yes, father, please tell us a story," exclaimed the children, simultaneously. little ann was perched upon his knee as if by magic, and even elizabeth moved her chair, as if excited to some degree of interest. george still held his book in his hand, but his bright eyes, sparkling with unusual animation, were riveted upon his uncle's face. "i am going to tell you a story about a _rainy evening_," said uncle ned. "oh! that will be _so_ pretty!" cried ann, clapping her hands; but elizabeth's countenance fell below zero. it was an ominous annunciation. "yes," continued uncle ned, "a rainy evening. but though clouds darker than those which now mantle the sky were lowering abroad, and the rain fell heavier and faster, the rainbow of my life was drawn most beautifully on those dark clouds, and its fair colours still shine most lovely on the sight. it is no longer, however, the bow of promise, but the realization of my fondest dreams." george saw his uncle cast an expressive glance towards the handsome matron in the opposite corner, whose colour perceptibly heightened, and he could not forbear exclaiming-- "ah! aunt mary is blushing. i understand uncle's metaphor. _she_ is his rainbow, and he thinks life one long rainy day." "not exactly so. i mean your last conclusion. but don't interrupt me, my boy, and you shall hear a lesson, which, young as you are, i trust you will never forget. when i was a young man i was thought quite handsome--" "pa is as pretty as he can be, now," interrupted little ann, passing her hand fondly over his manly cheek. uncle ned was not displeased with the compliment, for he pressed her closer to him, while he continued-- "well, when i was young i was of a gay spirit, and a great favourite in society. the young ladies liked me for a partner in the dance, at the chess-board, or the evening walk, and i had reason to think several of them would have made no objection to take me as a partner for life. among all my young acquaintances, there was no one whose companionship was so pleasing as that of a maiden whose name was mary. now, there are a great many marys in the world, so you must not take it for granted i mean your mother or aunt. at any rate, you must not look so significant till i have finished my story. mary was a sweet and lovely girl--with a current of cheerfulness running through her disposition that made music as it flowed. it was an under current, however, always gentle, and kept within its legitimate channel; never overflowing into boisterous mirth or unmeaning levity. she was the only daughter of her mother, _and she a widow_. mrs. carlton, such was her mother's name, was in lowly circumstances, and mary had none of the appliances of wealth and fashion to decorate her person, or gild her home. a very modest competency was all her portion, and she wished for nothing more. i have seen her, in a simple white dress, without a single ornament, unless it was a natural rose, transcend all the gaudy belles, who sought by the attractions of dress to win the admiration of the multitude. but, alas! for poor human nature. one of these dashing belles so fascinated my attention, that the gentle mary was for a while forgotten. theresa vane was, indeed, a rare piece of mortal mechanism. her figure was the perfection of beauty, and she moved as if strung upon wires, so elastic and springing were her gestures. i never saw such lustrous hair--it was perfectly black, and shone like burnished steel; and then such ringlets! how they waved and rippled down her beautiful neck! she dressed with the most exquisite taste, delicacy, and neatness, and whatever she wore assumed a peculiar grace and fitness, as if art loved to adorn what nature made so fair. but what charmed me most was, the sunshiny smile that was always waiting to light up her countenance. to be sure, she sometimes laughed a little too loud, but then her laugh was so musical, and her teeth so white, it was impossible to believe her guilty of rudeness, or want of grace. often, when i saw her in the social circle, so brilliant and smiling, the life and charm of everything around her, i thought how happy the constant companionship of such a being would make me--what brightness she would impart to the fireside of home--what light, what joy, to the darkest scenes of existence!" "oh! uncle," interrupted george, laughing, "if i were aunt mary, i would not let you praise any other lady so warmly. you are so taken up with her beauty, you have forgotten all about the rainy evening." aunt mary smiled, but it is more than probable that george really touched one of the hidden springs of her woman's heart, for she looked down, and said nothing. "don't be impatient," said uncle ned, "and you shall not be cheated out of your story. i began it for elizabeth's sake, rather than yours, and i see she is wide awake. she thinks i was by this time more than half in love with theresa vane, and she thinks more than half right. there had been a great many parties of pleasure, riding parties, sailing parties, and talking parties; and summer slipped by, almost unconsciously. at length the autumnal equinox approached, and gathering clouds, north-eastern gales, and drizzling rains, succeeded to the soft breezes, mellow skies, and glowing sunsets, peculiar to that beautiful season. for two or three days i was confined within doors by the continuous rains, and i am sorry to confess it, but the blue devils actually got complete possession of me--one strided upon my nose, another danced on the top of my head, one pinched my ear, and another turned somersets on my chin. you laugh, little nanny; but they are terrible creatures, these blue gentlemen, and i could not endure them any longer. so the third rainy evening, i put on my overcoat, buttoned it up to my chin, and taking my umbrella in my hand, set out in the direction of mrs. vane's. 'here,' thought i, as my fingers pressed the latch, 'i shall find the moonlight smile, that will illumine the darkness of my night--the dull vapours will disperse before her radiant glance, and this interminable equinoctial storm be transformed into a mere vernal shower, melting away in sunbeams in her presence.' my gentle knock not being apparently heard, i stepped into the ante-room, set down my umbrella, took off my drenched overcoat, arranged my hair in the most graceful manner, and, claiming a privilege to which, perhaps, i had no legitimate right, opened the door of the family sitting-room, and found myself in the presence of the beautiful theresa--" here uncle ned made a provoking pause. "pray, go on." "how was she dressed?" "and was she glad to see you?" assailed him on every side. "how was she dressed?" repeated he. "i am not very well skilled in the technicalities of a lady's wardrobe, but i can give you the general impression of her personal appearance. in the first place, there was a jumping up and an off-hand sliding step towards an opposite door, as i entered; but a disobliging chair was in the way, and i was making my lowest bow, before she found an opportunity of disappearing. confused and mortified, she scarcely returned my salutation, while mrs. vane offered me a chair, and expressed, in somewhat dubious terms, their gratification at such an unexpected pleasure. i have no doubt theresa wished me at the bottom of the frozen ocean, if i might judge by the freezing glances she shot at me through her long lashes. she sat uneasily in her chair, trying to conceal her slipshod shoes, and furtively arranging her dress about the shoulders and waist. it was a most rebellious subject, for the body and skirt were at open warfare, refusing to have any communion with each other. where was the graceful shape i had so much admired? in vain i sought its exquisite outlines in the folds of that loose, slovenly robe. where were those glistening ringlets and burnished locks that had so lately rivalled the tresses of medusa? her hair was put in tangled bunches behind her ears, and tucked up behind in a kind of gordian knot, which would have required the sword of an alexander to untie. her frock was a soiled and dingy silk, with trimmings of sallow blonde, and a faded fancy handkerchief was thrown over one shoulder. "'you have caught me completely _en déshabille_,' said she, recovering partially from her embarrassment; 'but the evening was so rainy, and no one but mother and myself, i never dreamed of such an exhibition of gallantry as this.' "she could not disguise her vexation, with all her efforts to conceal it, and mrs. vane evidently shared her daughter's chagrin. i was wicked enough to enjoy their confusion, and never appeared more at my ease, or played the agreeable with more signal success. i was disenchanted at once, and my mind revelled in its recovered freedom. my goddess had fallen from the pedestal on which my imagination had enthroned her, despoiled of the beautiful drapery which had imparted to her such ideal loveliness. i knew that i was a favourite in the family, for i was wealthy and independent, and perhaps of all theresa's admirers what the world would call the best match. i maliciously asked her to play on the piano, but she made a thousand excuses, studiously keeping back the true reason, her disordered attire. i asked her to play a game of chess, but 'she had a headache; she was too stupid; she never _could_ do anything on a _rainy evening_.' "at length i took my leave, inwardly blessing the moving spirit which had led me abroad that night, that the spell which had so long enthralled my senses might be broken. theresa called up one of her lambent smiles as i bade her adieu. "'never call again on a rainy evening,' said she, sportively; 'i am always so wretchedly dull. i believe i was born to live among the sunbeams, the moonlight, and the stars. clouds will never do for me.' "'amen,' i silently responded, as i closed the door. while i was putting on my coat, i overheard, without the smallest intention of listening, a passionate exclamation from theresa. "'good heavens, mother! was there ever anything so unlucky? i never thought of seeing my neighbour's _dog_ to-night. if i have not been completely caught!' "'i hope you will mind my advice next time,' replied her mother, in a grieved tone. 'i told you not to sit down in that slovenly dress. i have no doubt you have lost him for ever.' "here i made good my retreat, not wishing to enter the _penetralia_ of family secrets. "the rain still continued unabated, but my social feelings were very far from being damped. i had the curiosity to make another experiment. the evening was not very far advanced, and as i turned from mrs. vane's fashionable mansion, i saw a modest light glimmering in the distance, and i hailed it as the shipwrecked mariner hails the star that guides him o'er ocean's foam to the home he has left behind. though i was gay and young, and a passionate admirer of beauty, i had very exalted ideas of domestic felicity. i knew that there was many a rainy day in life, and i thought the companion who was born alone for sunbeams and moonlight, would not aid me to dissipate their gloom. i had, moreover, a shrewd suspicion that the daughter who thought it a sufficient excuse for shameful personal neglect, that there was no one present but her _mother_, would, as a wife, be equally regardless of a _husband's_ presence. while i pursued these reflections, my feet involuntarily drew nearer and more near to the light, which had been the lodestone of my opening manhood. i had continued to meet mary in the gay circles i frequented, but i had lately become almost a stranger to her home. 'shall i be a welcome guest?' said i to myself, as i crossed the threshold. 'shall i find her _en déshabille_, likewise, and discover that feminine beauty and grace are incompatible with a rainy evening?' i heard a sweet voice reading aloud as i opened the door, and i knew it was the voice which was once music to my ears. mary rose at my entrance, laying her book quietly on the table, and greeted me with a modest grace and self-possession peculiar to herself. she looked surprised, a little embarrassed, but very far from being displeased. she made no allusion to my estrangement or neglect; expressed no astonishment at my untimely visit, nor once hinted that, being alone with her mother, and not anticipating visiters, she thought it unnecessary to wear the habiliments of a _lady_. never, in my life, had i seen her look so lovely. her dress was perfectly plain, but every fold was arranged by the hand of the graces. her dark-brown hair, which had a natural wave in it, now uncurled by the dampness, was put back in smooth ringlets from her brow, revealing a face which did not consider its beauty wasted because a mother's eye alone rested on its bloom. a beautiful cluster of autumnal roses, placed in a glass vase on the table, perfumed the apartment, and a bright blaze on the hearth diffused a spirit of cheerfulness around, while it relieved the atmosphere of its excessive moisture. mrs. carlton was an invalid, and suffered also from an inflammation of the eyes. mary had been reading aloud to her from her favourite book. what do you think it was? it was a very old-fashioned one, indeed. no other than the bible. and mary was not ashamed to have such a fashionable young gentleman as i then was to see what her occupation had been. what a contrast to the scene i had just quitted! how i loathed myself for the infatuation which had led me to prefer the artificial graces of a belle to this pure child of nature! i drew my chair to the table, and entreated that they would not look upon me as a stranger, but as a friend, anxious to be restored to the forfeited privileges of an old acquaintance. i was understood in a moment, and, without a single reproach, was admitted again to confidence and familiarity. the hours i had wasted with theresa seemed a kind of mesmeric slumber, a blank in my existence, or, at least, a feverish dream. 'what do you think of a rainy evening, mary?' asked i, before i left her. "'i love it of all things,' replied she, with animation. 'there is something so home-drawing, so heart-knitting, in its influence. the dependencies which bind us to the world seem withdrawn; and, retiring within ourselves, we learn more of the deep mysteries of our own being.' "mary's soul beamed from her eye as it turned, with a transient obliquity, towards heaven. she paused, as if fearful of unsealing the fountains of her heart. i said that mrs. carlton was an invalid, and consequently retired early to her chamber; but i lingered till a late hour, nor did i go till i had made a full confession of my folly, repentance, and awakened love; and, as mary did not shut the door in my face, you may imagine she was not sorely displeased." "ah! i know who mary was. i knew all the time," exclaimed george, looking archly at aunt mary. a bright tear, which at that moment fell into her lap, showed that though a silent, she was no uninterested auditor. "you haven't done, father?" said little ann, in a disappointed tone; "i thought you were going to tell a story. you have been talking about yourself all the time." "i have been something of an egotist, to be sure, my little girl, but i wanted to show my dear young friend here how much might depend upon a rainy evening. life is not made all of sunshine. the happiest and most prosperous must have their seasons of gloom and darkness, and woe be to those from whose souls no rays of brightness emanate to gild those darkened hours. i bless the god of the rain as well as the sunshine. i can read his mercy and his love as well in the tempest, whose wings obscure the visible glories of his creation, as in the splendour of the rising sun, or the soft dews that descend after his setting radiance. i began with a metaphor. i said a rainbow was drawn on the clouds that lowered on that eventful day, and that it still continued to shine with undiminished beauty. woman, my children, was sent by god to be the rainbow of man's darker destiny. from the glowing red, emblematic of that love which warms and gladdens his existence, to the violet melting into the blue of heaven, symbolical of the faith which links him to a purer world, her blending virtues, mingling with each other in beautiful harmony, are a token of god's mercy here, and an earnest of future blessings in those regions where no _rainy evenings_ ever come to obscure the brightness of eternal day." three scenes in the life of a belle. there was a rushing to and fro in the chamber of ellen loring, a tread of hurrying feet, a mingled hum of voices, an opening and shutting of doors, as if some event of overwhelming importance agitated the feelings, and moved the frames of every individual in the house. a stranger, in the apartment below, might have imagined an individual was dying, and that all were gathering round to offer the appliances of love and sympathy. but ellen loring, the object of all this commotion, was in all the bloom and beauty of health. she sat in a low chair and in front of a large mirror, half-arrayed in the habiliments of the ball-room, her head glowing with flowers, and streaming with ringlets, her feet encased in silk cobweb and white satin, her face flushed with excitement, her waist compressed into the smallest possible compass, while the strongest fingers the household could supply, were drawing together the last reluctant hook and eye, which fastened the rich and airy mixture of satin blonde, that fell in redundant folds round her slender person. "i am afraid, ellen, your dress is _rather_ too tight," said mrs. loring, who was superintending the process with a keen and experienced eye; "you had better not wear it, it may give you a consumption." "ridiculous!" exclaimed ellen, "it feels perfectly loose and comfortable; i am sure it fits delightfully. look, agnes," addressing a weary-looking girl who had been standing more than half an hour over her, arranging her hair in the most fashionable style. "look, agnes, is it not beautiful?" "very beautiful," answered agnes; "but i think it would look much better if it were not so very low, and the night is so cold, i am sure you will suffer without something thrown over your shoulders. these pearl beads are very ornamental, but they will not give warmth," lifting them up as she spoke, from a neck that "rivalled their whiteness." ellen burst into a scornful laugh, and declared she would rather catch her death-cold, than look so old-fashioned and old-womanish. mrs. loring here interposed, and insisted that ellen should wear a shawl into the ball-room, and to be sure to put it around her when she was not dancing, "for you must remember," added she, "the dreadful cough you had last winter; when you caught cold, i was really apprehensive of a consumption." "i do think, mother, you must be haunted by the ghost of consumption. everything you say begins and ends with _consumption_--_i_ am not afraid of the ghost, or the reality, while such roses as these bloom on my cheeks, and such elastic limbs as these bear me through the dance." mrs. loring looked with admiring fondness on her daughter, as she danced gayly before the looking-glass, called her a "wild, thoughtless thing," and thought it would be indeed a pity to muffle such a beautiful neck in a clumsy 'kerchief. the carriage was announced, and agnes was despatched in a hundred directions for the embroidered handkerchief, the scented gloves, and all the _et ceteras_, which crowd on the memory at the last moment. agnes followed the retreating form of ellen with a long and wistful gaze, then turned with a sigh to collect the scattered articles of finery that strewed the room. "happy ellen!" said she to herself, "happy, beautiful ellen! favoured by nature and fortune. every desire of her heart is gratified. she moves but to be admired, flattered, and caressed. while i, a poor, dependent relative, am compelled to administer to her vanity and wait upon her caprices--oh! if i were only rich and beautiful like ellen! i would willingly walk over burning ploughshares to obtain the happiness that is in store for her to-night." while the repining agnes followed ellen, in imagination, to scenes which appeared to her fancy like the dazzling pictures described in the arabian nights, let us enter the ball-room and follow the footsteps of her, whose favoured lot led her through the enchanted land. the hall was brilliantly lighted, the music was of the most animating kind, airy forms floated on the gaze, most elaborately and elegantly adorned, and in the midst of these ellen shone transcendent. for a while, her enjoyment realized even the dreams of agnes. conscious of being admired, she glided through the dance, gracefully holding her flowing drapery, smiling, blushing, coquetting and flirting. compliments were breathed continually into her ears. she was compared to the sylphs, the graces, the muses, the houris, and even to the angels that inhabit the celestial city. yes; this daughter of fashion, this devotee of pleasure, this vain and thoughtless being, who lived without god in the world, was told by flattering lips, that she resembled those pure and glorified spirits which surround the throne of the most high, and sing the everlasting song of moses and the lamb--and she believed it. perhaps some may assert that the daughters of fashion are not always forgetful of their god, for they are often heard to call upon his great and holy name, in a moment of sudden astonishment or passion, and were a saint to witness their uplifted eyes and clasped hands, he might deem them wrapt in an ecstasy of devotion. ellen, in the midst of almost universal homage, began to feel dissatisfied and weary. there was one who had been in the train of her admirers, himself the star of fashion, who was evidently offering incense at a new shrine. a fair young stranger, who seemed a novice in the splendid scene, drew him from her side, and from that moment the adulation of others ceased to charm. she danced more gayly, she laughed more loudly, to conceal the mortification and envy that was spreading through her heart; but the triumph, the joy was over. she began to feel a thousand inconveniences, of whose existence she seemed previously unconscious. her feet ached from the lightness of her slippers, her respiration was difficult from the tightness of her dress; she was glad when the hour of her departure arrived. warm from the exercise of the dance, and panting from fatigue, she stood a few moments on the pavement, waiting for some obstructions to be removed in the way of the carriage. the ground was covered with a sheet of snow, which had fallen during the evening, and made a chill bed for her feet, so ill defended from the inclement season. the night air blew damp and cold on her neck and shoulders, for her cloak was thrown loosely around her, that her beauty might not be entirely veiled, till the gaze of admiration was withdrawn. agnes sat by the lonely fireside, waiting for the return of ellen. for a while she kept up a cheerful blaze, and as she heard the gust sweep by the windows, it reminded her that ellen would probably come in shivering with cold and reproach her, if she did not find a glowing hearth to welcome her. she applied fresh fuel, till, lulled by the monotonous sound of the wind, she fell asleep in her chair, nor waked till the voice of ellen roused her from her slumbers. a few dull embers were all that was left of the fire, the candle gleamed faintly beneath a long, gloomy wick--everything looked cold and comfortless. it was long before poor agnes could recall the cheering warmth. in the mean time, ellen poured upon her a torrent of reproaches, and tossing her cloak on a chair, declared she would never go to another ball as long as she lived--she had been tired _to death_, chilled _to death_, and now to be vexed _to death_, by such a stupid, selfish creature as agnes. it was too much for human nature to endure. agnes bore it all in silence, for she ate the bread of dependence, and dared not express the bitter feelings that rose to her lips. but she no longer said in her heart "happy, beautiful ellen;" she wished her admirers could see her as she then did, and be disenchanted. "take off this horrid dress," cried ellen, pulling the roses from her hair, now uncurled by the damp, and hanging in long straight tresses over her face. what a contrast did she now present to the brilliant figure which had left the chamber a few hours before! her cheeks were pale, her eyes heavy, her limbs relaxed, her buoyant spirits gone. the terrible misfortune of not having reigned an unrivalled _belle_, completely overwhelmed her! he, whose admiration she most prized, had devoted himself to another, and she hated the fair, unconscious stranger, who had attracted him from his allegiance. the costly dress which the mantuamaker had sat up all night to complete, was thrown aside as a worthless rag; her flowers were scattered on the floor; every article of her dress bore witness to her ill-humour. "i cannot get warm," said she; "i believe i _have_ caught my death-cold;" and throwing her still shivering limbs on the bed, she told agnes to bury her in blankets, and then let her sleep. can we suppose that guardian angels hovered over the couch, and watched the slumbers of this youthful beauty? there was no hallowed spot in her chamber, where she was accustomed to kneel in penitence, gratitude, and adoration, before the king of kings and lord of lords. perhaps, when a mere child, she had been taught to repeat the lord's prayer at her nurse's knee, but never had her heart ascended unto him, who created her for his glory, and breathed into her frame a portion of his own immortal spirit. she had been educated solely for the circles of fashion, to glitter and be admired--to dance, to sing, to dress, to talk, and that was all. she knew that she must one day die, and when the bell tolled, and the long funeral darkened the way, she was reluctantly reminded of her own mortality. but she banished the dreadful and mysterious thought, as one with which youth, beauty, and health had nothing to do, and as suited only to the infirmities of age, and the agonies of disease. as for the judgment beyond the grave, that scene of indescribable grandeur, when every created being must stand before the presence of uncreated glory, "to give an account of the deeds done in the body," she deemed it shocking and sacrilegious to think of a subject so awful; and, to do her justice, she never heard it mentioned except from the pulpit (for there are fashionable churches, and ellen was the belle of the church as well as of the ball-room). thus living in practical atheism, labouring to bring every thought and feeling in subjection to the bondage of fashion, endeavouring to annihilate the great principle of immortality struggling within her, ellen loring was as much the slave of vice as the votary of pleasure. like the king of babylon, who took the golden vessels from the temple of the lord, and desecrated them at his unhallowed banquet, she had robbed her _soul_, that temple of the living god, of its sacred treasures, and appropriated them to the revelries of life. but the hour was approaching, when the invisible angel of conscience was to write on the walls of memory those mystic characters which a greater than daniel alone can interpret. * * * * * it was the afternoon of a mild summer's day, a lovely, smiling, joyous summer day, when two female figures were seen slowly walking along a shaded path, that led from a neat white cottage towards a neighbouring grove. one was beautiful, and both were young, but the beautiful one was so pale and languid, so fragile and fading, it was impossible to behold her without the deepest commiseration. she moved listlessly on, leaning on the arm of her less fair, but healthier companion, apparently insensible of the sweet and glowing scenery around her. the birds sung in melodious concert, from every green bough, but their music could not gladden her ear; the air played softly through her heavy locks, but awaked no elastic spring in her once bounding spirits. it was the late blooming ellen loring, who, according to the advice of her physician, was inhaling the country air, to see if it could not impart an invigorating influence. she had never recovered from the deadly chill occasioned by her exposure, the night of the ball, when she stood with her thin slippers and uncovered neck in the snow and the blast, in all the "madness of superfluous health." it was said she had caught a "dreadful cold," which the warm season would undoubtedly relieve, and when the summer came, and her cough continued with unabated violence, and her flesh and her strength wasted, she was sent into the country, assured that a change of air and daily exercise would infallibly restore her. the fearful word _consumption_, which in the days of ellen's health was so often on the mother's lips, was never mentioned now; and whenever friends inquired after ellen, she always told them, "she had caught a bad cold, which hung on a long time, but that she was so young, and had so fine a constitution, she did not apprehend any danger." ellen was very unwilling to follow the prescriptions of her medical friend. she left the city with great reluctance, dreading the loneliness of a country life. agnes accompanied her, on whom was imposed the difficult task of amusing and cheering the invalid, and of beguiling her of every sense of her danger. "be sure," said mrs. loring, when she gave her parting injunctions to agnes, "that you do not suffer her to be alone: there is nothing so disadvantageous to a sick person as to brood over their own thoughts. it always occasions low spirits. i have put up a large supply of novels, and when she is tired of reading herself, you must read to her, or sing to her, or amuse her in every possible manner. if she should be very ill, you must send for me immediately, but i have no doubt that in a few weeks she will be as well as ever." poor agnes sometimes was tempted to sink under the weary burden of her cares. she wondered she had ever thought it a task to array her for the ball-room, or to wait her return at the midnight-hour. but she no longer envied her, for ellen pale and faded, and dejected, was a very different object from ellen triumphant in beauty and bloom. the kind lady with whom they boarded, had had a rustic seat constructed under the trees, in the above-mentioned grove, for the accommodation of the invalid. as they now approached it, they found it already occupied by a gentleman, who was so intently reading he did not seem aware of their vicinity. they were about to retire, when lifting his eyes, he rose, and with a benignant countenance, requested them to be seated. ellen was exhausted from the exercise of her walk; and, as the stranger was past the meridian of life, she did not hesitate to accept his offer, at the same time thanking him for his courtesy. his mild, yet serious eyes, rested on her face, with a look of extreme commiseration, as with a deep sigh of fatigue she leaned on the shoulder of agnes, while the hectic flush flitting over her cheek, betrayed the feverish current that was flowing in her veins. "you seem an invalid, my dear young lady," said he, so kindly and respectfully, it was impossible to be offended with the freedom of the address; "i trust you find there is a balm in gilead, a heavenly physician near." ellen gave him a glance of unspeakable astonishment, and coldly answered, "i have a severe cold, sir--nothing more." the dry, continuous cough that succeeded, was a fearful commentary upon her words. the stranger seemed one not easily repulsed, and one, too, who had conceived a sudden and irrepressible interest in his young companions. agnes, in arranging ellen's scarf, dropped a book from her hand, which he stooped to raise, and as his eye glanced on the title, the gravity of his countenance deepened. it was one of ----'s last works, in which that master of glowing language and impassioned images, has thrown his most powerful spell around the senses of the reader, and dazzled and bewildered his perceptions of right and wrong. "suffer me to ask you, young lady," said he, laying down the book, with a sigh, "if you find in these pages instruction, consolation, or support? anything that as a rational being you ought to seek, as a moral one to approve, as an immortal one to desire?" ellen was roused to a portion of her former animation, by this attack upon her favourite author; and, in language warm as his from whom she drew her inspiration, she defended his sentiments and exalted his genius--she spoke of his godlike mind, when the stranger entreated her to forbear, in words of supplication, but in accents of command. "draw not a similitude," said he, "between a holy god, and a being who has perverted the noblest powers that god has given. bear with me a little while, and i will show you what is truly godlike, a book as far transcending the productions of him you so much admire, as the rays of the sun excel in glory the wan light of a taper." then, taking from his bosom the volume which had excited the curiosity of ellen, on account of its apparent fascination, and seating himself by her side, he unfolded its sacred pages. she caught a glimpse of the golden letters on the binding, and drew back with a feeling of superstitious dread. it seemed to her, that he was about to read her death-warrant, and she involuntarily put out her hand, with a repulsive motion. without appearing to regard it, he looked upon her with sweet and solemn countenance, while he repeated this passage, from a bard who had drank of the waters of a holier fountain than grecian poets ever knew: "this book, this holy book, on every line marked with the seal of high divinity, on every leaf bedewed with drops of love divine, and with the eternal heraldry and signature of god almighty stamped from first to last; this ray of sacred light, this lamp, from off the everlasting throne, mercy took down, and in the night of time, stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow; and evermore, beseeching men, with tears and earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live." ellen listened with indescribable awe. there was a power and sensibility in his accent, a depth of expression in his occasional upturned glance, that impressed and affected her as she had never been before. "forgive me," said he, "if, as a stranger, i seem intrusive; but i look upon every son and daughter of adam, with the tenderness of a brother, and upon whom the almighty has laid his chastening hand, with feelings of peculiar interest. if i were wandering through a barren wilderness, and found a fountain of living water, and suffered my fellow-pilgrim to slake his thirst at the noisome pool by the wayside, without calling him to drink of the pure stream, would he not have reason to upbraid me for my selfishness? oh! doubly selfish then should i be, if, after tasting the waters of everlasting life, for ever flowing from this blessed book, i should not seek to draw you from the polluted sources in which you vainly endeavour to quench the thirst of an immortal spirit. dear young fellow-traveller to eternity, suffer me to lend you a guiding hand." ellen loring, who had been famed in the circles of fashion for her ready wit and brilliant repartee, found no words in which to reply to this affectionate and solemn appeal. she turned aside her head, to hide the tears which she could no longer repress from flowing down her cheeks. as the polished, but darkened athenians, when paul, standing on mars hill, explained to them "that unknown god, whom they ignorantly worshipped," trembled before an eloquence they could not comprehend, she was oppressed by a power she could not define. agnes, who began to be alarmed at the consequences of this agitation, and who saw in perspective mrs. loring's displeasure and reproaches, here whispered ellen it was time to return, and ellen, glad to be released from an influence to which she was constrained to bow, obeyed the signal. their new friend rose also; "i cannot but believe," said he, "that this meeting is providential. it seems to me that heaven directed my steps hither, that i might lead you to those green pastures and still waters where the shepherd of israel gathers his flock. you are both young, but there is one of you whose cheek is pale, and whose saddened glance tells a touching history of the vanity of all earthly things. take this blessed volume, and substitute it for the one you now hold, and believe me you will find in it an inexhaustible supply of entertainment and delight, a perennial spring of light, and love, and joy. you will find it an unerring guide in life, and a torch to illumine the dark valley of the shadow of death. farewell--the blessing of israel's god be yours!" he placed the book in the hand of agnes, and turned in a different path. they walked home in silence. neither expressed to the other the thoughts that filled the bosom of each. had an angel from heaven come down and met them in the grove, the interview could hardly have had a more solemnizing influence. it was the first time they had ever been individually addressed as immortal beings, the first time they had been personally reminded that they were pilgrims of earth, and doomed to be dwellers of the tomb. the voice of the stranger still rung in their ears, deep and mellow as the sound of the church-going bell. those warning accents, they could not forget them, for there was an echo in their own hearts, and an answer too, affirming the truth of what he uttered. that night, when ellen, unusually exhausted, reclined on her restless couch, she suddenly asked agnes to read her something from _that book_, so mysteriously given. it was the first time she had addressed her, since their return, and there was something startling in the sound of her voice, it was so altered. there was humility in the tone, that usually breathed pride or discontent. agnes sat down, and turned the leaves with a trembling hand. "what shall i read? where shall i commence?" asked she, fearful and irresolute, in utter ignorance of its hallowed contents. "alas! i know not," replied ellen, then raising herself on her elbow, with a wild and earnest look, "see if you can find where it speaks of that dark valley, of which he told--the dark valley of death." by one of those unexpected coincidences which sometimes occur, agnes at that moment opened at the twenty-third psalm, and the verse containing this sublime allusion met her eye. she read aloud--"though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil, for thou art with me--thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." "strange," repeated ellen, and making a motion for her to continue, agnes read the remainder of that beautiful psalm, and the two succeeding ones, before she paused. dark as was their understanding with regard to spiritual things, and deep as was their ignorance, they were yet capable of taking in some faint glimpses of the glory of the lord, pervading these strains of inspiration. agnes was a pleasing reader, and her voice, now modulated by new emotions, was peculiarly impressive. ellen repeated again and again to herself, after agnes had ceased, "who is this king of glory? the lord strong and mighty?" she had never thought of god, but as of a being dreadful in power, avenging in his judgments, and awful in his mystery. she had remembered him only in the whirlwind and the storm, the lightning and the thunder, never in the still small voice. she had thought of death, but it was of the winding sheet and the dark coffin lid, and the lonely grave--her fears had rested there, on the shuddering brink of decaying mortality. oh! as she lay awake during the long watches of that night, and conscience, aroused from its deadly lethargy, entered the silent chambers of memory and waked the slumbering shadows of the past--how cheerless, how dark was the retrospect! far as the eye of memory could revert, she could read nothing but _vanity, vanity_! a wide, wide blank, on which a spectral hand was writing _vanity_, and something told her, too, that that same hand would ere long write this great moral of life on her mouldering ashes. she cast her fearful gaze upon the future, but recoiled in shivering dread, from the vast illimitable abyss that darkened before her. no ray of hope illumined the dread immense. the star of bethlehem had never yet shed its holy beams on the horoscope of her destiny; not that its beams had ever ceased to shine, since that memorable night when, following its silvery pathway in the heavens, the wise men of the east were guided to the cradle of the infant redeemer, to offer their adoration at his feet; but her eyes had never looked beyond the clouds of time, and in its high and pure resplendence it had shone in vain for her. "i will seek him to-morrow, this holy man," said she, as hour after hour she lay gazing, through her curtains, on the starry depths of night, "and ask him to enlighten and direct me." the morrow came, but ellen was not able to take her accustomed walk. for several days she was confined from debility to her own room, and had ample leisure to continue the great work of self-examination. as soon as she was permitted to go into the open air, she sought her wonted retreat, and it was with feelings of mingled joy and dread, she recognised the stranger, apparently waiting their approach. this truly good man, though a stranger to them, was well known in the neighbourhood for his deeds of charity and labours of love. his name was m----, and as there was no mystery in his character or life, he may be here introduced to the reader, that the appellation of stranger may no longer be necessary. he greeted them both with even more than his former kindness, and noticed with pain the increased debility of ellen. he saw, too, from her restless glance, that her soul was disquieted within her. "oh, sir," said ellen, mournfully, "you promised me joy, and you have given me wretchedness." "my daughter," replied mr. m----, "before the sick found healing virtue in the waters at bethesda, an angel came down and troubled the stillness of the pool." then, at her own request, he sat down by her side, and endeavoured to explain to her the grand yet simple truths of christianity. and beginning with the law and the prophets, he carried her with him to the mount that burned with fire and thick smoke, where the almighty, descending in shrouded majesty, proclaimed his will to a trembling world, in thunder and lightning and flame; he led her on with him, through the wilderness, pointing out the smitten rock, the descending manna, the brazen serpent, and all the miraculous manifestations of god's love to his chosen people; then, taking up the lofty strains of prophecy, from the melodious harp of david to the sublimer lyre of isaiah, he shadowed forth the promised messiah. in more persuasive accents he dwelt on the fulfilment of those wondrous prophecies. gently, solemnly he guided her on, from the manger to the cross, unfolding as he went the glorious mysteries of redemption, the depth, the grandeur, the extent, and the exaltation of a saviour's love. ellen listened and wept. she felt as if she could have listened for ever. at one moment she was oppressed by the greatness of the theme, at another melted by its tenderness. those who from infancy have been accustomed to hear these divine truths explained, who from their earliest years have surrounded the household altar, and daily read god's holy word, can have no conception of the overpowering emotions of ellen and agnes; neither can they, whose infant glances have taken in the visible glories of creation, comprehend the rapture and amazement of those who, being born blind, are made in after years to see. from this hour ellen and agnes became the willing pupils of mr. m----, in the most interesting study in the universe; but it is with ellen the reader is supposed most strongly to sympathize; the feelings of agnes may be inferred from her going hand in hand with her invalid friend. ellen lingered in the country till the golden leaves of autumn began to strew the ground, and its chill gales to sigh through the grove. what progress she made during this time in the lore of heaven, under the teachings and prayers of her beloved instructor, may be gathered from _another_, _and the last scene_, through which this once glittering belle was destined to pass. * * * * * the chamber in which ellen loring was first presented to the reader, surrounded by the paraphernalia of the ball-room, was once more lighted--but what a change now met the eye! she, who then sat before the mirror to be arrayed in the adornments of fashion, whose vain eye gazed with unrepressed admiration on her own loveliness, and who laughed to scorn the apprehensions of her fatally indulgent mother, now lay pale and emaciated on her couch. no roses now bloomed in her damp, unbraided locks, no decorating pearl surrounded her wan neck, no sparkling ray of anticipated triumph flashed from her sunken eye. pride, vanity, vainglory, strength, beauty--all were fled. come hither, ye daughters of pleasure, ye who live alone for the fleeting joys of sense, who give to the world the homage that god requires, and waste in the pursuits of time the energies given for eternity, and look upon a scene through which you must one day pass! there is more eloquence in one dying bed, than grecian or roman orator ever uttered. the dim eyes of ellen turned towards the door, with a wistful glance. "i fear it will be too late," said she; "mother, if he should not come before i die--" "die!" almost shrieked mrs. loring; "you are not going to die, ellen. do not talk so frightfully. you will be better soon--agnes, bathe her temples. she is only faint." "no, mother," answered ellen, and her voice was surprisingly clear in its tones, "i feel the truth of what i utter, here," laying her wasted hand on her breast, as she spoke. "i did hope that i might live to hear once more the voice of him who taught me the way of salvation, and revealed to my benighted mind the god who created, the saviour who redeemed me, that i might breathe out to him my parting blessing, and hear his hallowed prayer rise over my dying bed. but oh, my dear mother, it is for your sake, more than mine, i yearn for his presence--i looked to him to comfort you, when i am gone." mrs. loring here burst into a violent paroxysm of tears, and wrung her hands in uncontrollable agony. "oh! i cannot give thee up," she again and again repeated, "my beautiful ellen, my good, my beautiful child!" mournfully, painfully did these exclamations fall on the chastened ears of the dying ellen. "recall not the image of departed beauty, oh my mother! i made it my idol, and my heavenly father, in infinite mercy, consumed it with the breath of his mouth. speak not of goodness--my life has been one long act of sin and ingratitude. i can look back upon nothing but wasted mercies, neglected opportunities, and perverted talents. but blessed be god, since i have been led in penitence and faith to the feet of a crucified saviour, i dare to believe that my sins are forgiven, and that my trembling spirit will soon find rest in the bosom of him, who lived to instruct and died to redeem me." ellen paused, for difficult breathing had often impeded her utterance; but her prayerful eyes, raised to heaven, told the intercourse her soul was holding with one "whom not having seen she loved, but in whom believing, she rejoiced with joy unspeakable and full of glory." at this moment, the door softly opened, and the gentle footsteps of him, whom on earth she most longed to behold, entered the chamber. as she caught a glimpse of that benign, that venerated countenance, she felt a glow of happiness pervading her being, of which she thought her waning life almost incapable. she clasped her feeble hands together, and exclaimed, "oh! mr. m----." it was all she could utter, for tears, whose fountains she had thought dried for ever, gushed into her eyes and rolled down her pallid cheeks. mr. m---- took one of her cold hands in his, and looked upon her, for a time, without speaking. "my daughter," at length he said, and he did not speak without much emotion, "do you find the hand of god laid heavy upon your soul, or is it gentle, even as a father's hand?" "gentle, most gentle," she answered. "oh! blessed, for ever blessed be the hour that sent you, heaven-directed, to guide the wanderer in the paths of peace! had it not been for you, i should now be trembling on the verge of a dark eternity, without one ray to illumine the unfathomable abyss. pray for me once more, my beloved friend, and pray too for my dear mother, that she may be enabled to seek him in faith, who can make a dying bed 'feel soft as downy pillows are.'" ellen clasped her feeble hands together, while mr. m----, kneeling by her bed-side, in that low, sweet solemn tone, for which he was so remarkable, breathed forth one of those deep and fervent prayers, which are, as it were, wings to the soul, and bear it up to heaven. mrs. loring knelt too, by the weeping agnes, but her spirit, unused to devotion, lingered below, and her eyes wandered from the heavenly countenance of that man of god, to the death-like face of that child, whose beauty had once been her pride. she remembered how short a time since, she had seen that form float in airy grace before the mirror clothed in fair and flowing robes, and how soon she should see it extended in the awful immobility of death, wrapped in the still winding-sheet, that garment whose folds are never more waved by the breath of life. then, conscience whispered in her shuddering ear, that, had she acted a mother's part, and disciplined her daughter to prudence and obedience, the blasts of death had not thus blighted her in her early bloom. and it whispered also, that _she_ had no comfort to offer her dying child, in this last conflict of dissolving nature. it was for this world she had lived herself, it was for this world she had taught _her_ to live, but for that untravelled world beyond, she had no guiding hand to extend. it was to a stranger's face the fading eyes of ellen were directed. it was a stranger's prayers that hallowed her passage to the tomb. the realities of eternity for the first time pressed home, on that vain mother's heart. she felt, too, that _she_ must one day die, and that earth with all its riches and pleasures could yield her no support in that awful moment. that there was something which earth could not impart, which had power to soothe and animate the departing spirit, she knew by the angelic expression of ellen's upturned eyes, and by the look of unutterable serenity that was diffused over her whole countenance. the voice of mr. m---- died away on her ear, and an unbroken silence reigned through the apartment. her stormy grief had been stilled into calmness, during that holy prayer. the eyes of ellen were now gently closed, and as they rose from their knees they sat down by her side, fearing, even by a deep-drawn breath, to disturb her slumbers. a faint hope began to dawn in the mother's heart, from the placidity and duration of her slumbers. "i have never known her sleep so calm before," said she, in a low voice, to mr. m----. mr. m---- bent forward and laid his hand softly on her marble brow. "calm indeed are her slumbers," said he, looking solemnly upward; "she sleeps now, i trust, in the bosom of her saviour and her god." thus died ellen loring--just one year from that night when agnes followed her retreating figure, with such a wistful gaze, as she left her for the ball-room, exclaiming to herself, "happy, beautiful ellen!" and agnes now said within herself, even while she wept over her clay-cold form, "happy ellen!" but with far different emotions; for she now followed, with the eye of faith, her ascending spirit to the regions of the blest, and saw her, in imagination, enter those golden gates, which never will be closed against the humble and penitent believer. a few evenings after, a brilliant party was assembled in one of those halls, where pleasure welcomes its votaries.--"did you know that ellen loring was dead?" observed some one to a beautiful girl, the very counterpart of what ellen once was. "dead!" exclaimed the startled beauty, for one moment alarmed into reflection; "i did not think she would have died so soon. i am sorry you told me--it will throw a damp over my spirits the whole evening--poor ellen!" it was but a moment, and the music breathed forth its joyous strains. she was led in haste to the dance, and ellen loring was forgotten. the fatal cosmetic. charles brown sat with mr. hall in a corner of the room, apart from the rest of the company. mr. hall was a stranger, charles the familiar acquaintance of all present. the former evidently retained his seat out of politeness to the latter for his eyes wandered continually to the other side of the room, where a group of young ladies was gathered round a piano, so closely as to conceal the musician to whom they were apparently listening. the voice that accompanied the instrument was weak and irregular, and the high tones excessively shrill and disagreeable, yet the performer continued her songs with unwearied patience, thinking the young gentlemen were turned into the very stones that orpheus changed into breathing things, to remain insensible to her minstrelsy. there was one fair, blue-eyed girl, with a very sweet countenance, who stood behind her chair and cast many a mirthful glance towards charles, while she urged the songstress to continue at every pause, as if she were spell-bound by the melody. charles laughed, and kept time with his foot, but mr. hall bit his lips, and a frown passed over his handsome and serious countenance. "what a wretched state of society!" exclaimed he, "that admits, nay, even demands such insincerity. look at the ingenuous countenance of that young girl--would you not expect from her sincerity and truth? yet, with what practical falsehood she encourages her companion in her odious screeching!" "take care," answered charles, "you must not be too severe. that young lady is a very particular friend of mine, and a very charming girl. she has remarkably popular manners, and if she _is_ guilty of a few little innocent deceptions, such, for instance, as the present, i see no possible harm in them to herself, and they certainly give great pleasure to others. she makes miss lewis very happy, by her apparent admiration, and i do not see that she injures any one else." mr. hall sighed. "i fear," said he, "i am becoming a misanthropist. i find i have very peculiar views, such as set me apart and isolate me from my fellow beings. i cannot enjoy an artificial state of society. i consider _truth_ as the corner stone of the great social fabric, and where this is wanting, i am constantly looking for ruin and desolation. the person deficient in this virtue, however fair and fascinating, is no more to me than the whited sepulchre and painted wall." "you have, indeed, peculiar views," answered charles, colouring with a vexation he was too polite to express in any other way; "and if you look upon the necessary dissimulations practised in society as falsehoods, and brand them as such, i can only say, that you have created a standard of morality more exalted and pure than human nature can ever reach." "i cannot claim the merit of _creating_ a standard, which the divine moralist gave to man, when he marked out his duties from the sacred mount, in characters so clear and deep, that the very blind might see and the cold ear of deafness hear." mr. hall spoke with warmth. the eyes of the company were directed towards him. he was disconcerted and remained silent. miss lewis rose from the piano, and drew towards the fire. "i am getting terribly tired of the piano," said she. "i don't think it suits my voice at all. i am going to take lessons on the guitar and the harp--one has so much more scope with them; and then they are much more graceful instruments." "you are perfectly right," replied miss ellis, the young lady with the ingenuous countenance, "i have no doubt you would excel on either, and your singing would be much better appreciated. don't you think so, margaret?" added she, turning to a young lady, who had hitherto been silent, and apparently unobserved. "you know i do not," answered she, who was so abruptly addressed, in a perfectly quiet manner, and fixing her eyes serenely on her face; "i should be sorry to induce miss lewis to do anything disadvantageous to herself, and consequently painful to her friends." "really, miss howard," cried miss lewis, bridling, and tossing her head with a disdainful air, "you need not be so afraid of my giving you so much pain--i will not intrude my singing upon your delicate and refined ears." mr. hall made a movement forward, attracted by the uncommon sincerity of miss howard's remark. "there," whispered charles, "is a girl after your own heart--margaret howard _will_ speak the truth, however unpalatable it may be, and see what wry faces poor miss lewis makes in trying _not_ to swallow it--i am sure mary ellis's flattery is a thousand times kinder and more amiable." mr. hall did not answer. his eyes were perusing the face of her, whose lips had just given such honourable testimony to a virtue so rarely respected by the world of fashion. a decent boldness lighted up the clear hazel eyes that did not seem to be unconscious of the dark and penetrating glances at that moment resting upon them. she was dressed with remarkable simplicity. no decoration in colour relieved the spotless whiteness of her attire. her hair of pale, yet shining brown, was plainly parted over a brow somewhat too lofty for mere feminine beauty, but white and smooth as parian marble. her features, altogether, bore more resemblance to a pallas than a venus. they were calm and pure, but somewhat cold and passionless--and under that pale, transparent skin, there seemed no under current, ebbing and flowing with the crimson tide of the heart. her figure, veiled to the throat, was of fine, though not very slender proportions. there was evidently no artificial compression about the waist, no binding ligatures to prevent the elastic motions of the limbs, the pliable and graceful movements of nature. "she has a fine face--a very handsome face," repeated charles, responding to what mr. hall _looked_, for as yet he had uttered nothing; "but to me, it is an uninteresting one. she is not generally liked--respected, it is true, but feared--and fear is a feeling which few young ladies would wish to inspire. it is a dangerous thing to live above the world--at least, for a woman." charles availed himself of the earliest opportunity of introducing his friend to miss howard, glad to be liberated for a while from the close companionship of a man who made him feel strangely uncomfortable with regard to himself, and well pleased with the opportunity of conversing with his favourite, mary ellis. "i feel quite vexed with margaret," said this thoughtless girl, "for spoiling my compliment to miss lewis. i would give one of my little fingers to catch her for once in a white lie." "ask her if she does not think herself handsome," said charles; "no woman ever acknowledged that truth, though none be more firmly believed." he little expected she would act upon his suggestion, but mary was too much delighted at the thought of seeing the uncompromising margaret guilty of a prevarication, to suffer it to pass unheeded. "margaret," cried she, approaching her, unawed by the proximity of the majestic stranger--"mr. brown says you will deny that you think yourself handsome. tell me the truth--don't you believe yourself _very_ handsome?" "i will tell you the truth, mary," replied margaret, blushing so brightly, as to give an actual radiance to her face, "that is, if i speak at all. but i would rather decline giving any opinion of myself." "ah! margaret," persisted miss ellis, "i have heard you say that to _conceal_ the truth, when it was required of us, unless some moral duty were involved, was equivalent to a falsehood. bear witness, charles, here is one subject on which even margaret howard dares not speak the truth." "you are mistaken," replied miss howard; "since you force me to speak, by attacking my principles, i am very willing to say, i _do_ think myself handsome; but not so conspicuously as to allow me to claim a superiority over my sex, or to justify so singular and unnecessary a question." all laughed--even the grave mr. hall smiled at the frankness of the avowal--all but miss lewis, who, turning up her eyes and raising her hands, exclaimed, "really, miss howard's modesty is equal to her politeness. i thought she despised beauty." "the gifts of god are never to be despised," answered miss howard, mildly. "if he has graced the outer temple, we should only be more careful to keep the indwelling spirit pure." she drew back, as if pained by the observation she had excited; and the deep and modest colour gradually faded from her cheek. mr. hall had not been an uninterested listener. he was a sad and disappointed man. he had been the victim of a woman's perfidy and falsehood--and was consequently distrustful of the whole sex; and his health had suffered from the corrosion of his feelings, and he had been compelled to seek, in a milder clime, a balm which time alone could yield. he had been absent several years, and was just returned to his native country, but not to the scene of his former residence. the wound was healed, but the hardness of the scar remained. one greater and purer than the genius of the arabian tale, had placed in his breast a mirror, whose lustre would be instantaneously dimmed by the breath of falsehood or dissimulation. it was in this mirror he saw reflected the actions of his fellow beings, and it pained him to see its bright surface so constantly sullied. never, since the hour he was so fatally deceived, had he been in the presence of woman, without a melancholy conviction that she was incapable of standing the test of this bosom talisman. here, however, was one, whose lips cast no cloud upon its lustre. he witnessed the marvellous spectacle of a young, beautiful, and accomplished woman, surrounded by the artifices and embellishments of fashionable life, speaking the truth, in all simplicity and godly sincerity, as commanded by the holy men of old. there was something in the sight that renovated and refreshed his blighted feelings. the dew falling on the parched herbage, prepares it for the influence of a kinder ray. even so the voice of margaret howard, gentle in itself and persuasive, advocating the cause he most venerated, operated this night on the heart of mr. hall. for many weeks the same party frequently met at the dwelling of mrs. astor. this lady was a professed patroness and admirer of genius and the fine arts. to be a fine painter, a fine singer, a fine writer, a traveller, or a foreigner, was a direct passport to her favour. to be distinguished in any manner in society was sufficient, provided it was not "bad eminence" which was attained by the individual. she admired mr. hall for the stately gloom of his mien, his dark and foreign air, his peculiar and high-wrought sentiments. she sought an intimacy with margaret howard, for it was a _distinction_ to be her friend, and, moreover, she had an exquisite taste and skill in drawing and painting. mary ellis was a particular favourite of hers, because her own favourite cousin charles brown thought her the most fascinating young lady of his acquaintance. mrs. astor's house was elegantly furnished, and her rooms were adorned with rare and beautiful specimens of painting and statuary. she had one apartment which she called her gallery of fine arts, and every new guest was duly ushered into this sanctuary, and called upon to look and admire the glowing canvas and the breathing marble. a magnificent pier-glass was placed on one side of the hall, so as to reflect and multiply these classic beauties. it had been purchased in europe, and was remarkable for its thickness, brilliancy, and fidelity of reflection. it was a favourite piece of furniture of mrs. astor's, and all her servants were warned to be particularly careful, whenever they dusted its surface. as this glass is of some importance in the story, it deserves a minute description. mrs. astor thought the only thing necessary to complete the furnishing of the gallery, were transparencies for the windows. miss howard, upon hearing the remark, immediately offered to supply the deficiency, an offer at once eagerly accepted, and mrs. astor insisted that her painting apparatus should be placed in the very room, that she might receive all the inspiration to be derived from the mute yet eloquent relics of genius, that there solicited the gaze. nothing could be more delightful than the progress of the work. margaret was an enthusiast in the art, and her kindling cheek always attested the triumph of her creating hand. mrs. astor was in a constant state of excitement, till the whole was completed, and it was no light task, as four were required, and the windows were of an extra size. almost every day saw the fair artist seated at her easel, with the same group gathered round her. mary ellis admired everything so indiscriminately, it was impossible to attach much value to her praise; but mr. hall criticised as well as admired, and as he had the painter's eye, and the poet's tongue, margaret felt the value of his suggestions, and the interest they added to her employment. above all things, she felt their _truth_. she saw that he never flattered, that he dared to blame, and when he did commend, she was conscious the tribute was deserved. margaret was not one of those beings, who cannot do but one thing at a time. she could talk and listen, while her hands were applying the brush or arranging the colours, and look up too from the canvas, with a glance that showed how entirely she participated in what was passing around her. "i wonder you are not tired to death of that everlasting easel," said mary ellis to margaret, who grew every day more interested in her task. "i could not endure such confinement." "_death_ and _everlasting_ are solemn words to be so lightly used, my dear mary," answered margaret, whose religious ear was always pained by levity on sacred themes. "i would not be as serious as you are, for a thousand worlds," replied mary, laughing; "i really believe you think it a sin to smile. give me the roses of life, let who will take the thorns. i am going now to gather some, if i can, and leave you and mr. hall to enjoy all the briers you can find." she left the room gayly singing, sure to be immediately followed by charles, and mr. hall was left sole companion of the artist. mary had associated their names together, for the purpose of disturbing the self-possession of margaret, and she certainly succeeded in her object. had mr. hall perceived her heightened colour, his vanity might have drawn a flattering inference; but he was standing behind her easel, and his eyes were fixed on the beautiful personification of faith, hope, and charity--those three immortal graces--she was delineating, as kneeling and embracing, with upturned eyes and celestial wings. it was a lovely group--the last of the transparencies, and margaret lavished on it some of the finest touches of her genius. mary had repeated a hundred times that it was finished, that another stroke of the pencil would ruin it, and mrs. astor declared it perfect, and more than perfect, but still margaret lingered at the frame, believing every tint should be the last. every lover of the arts knows the fascination attending the successful exercise and development of their genius--of seeing bright and warm imaginings assume a colouring and form, and giving to others a transcript of the mind's glorious creations; but every artist does not know what deeper charm may be added by the conversation and companionship of such a being as mr. hall. he was what might be called a fascinating man, notwithstanding the occasional gloom and general seriousness of his manners. for, when flashes of sensibility lighted up that gloom, and intellect, excited and brought fully into action, illumined that seriousness--it was like moonlight shining on some ruined castle, beauty and grandeur meeting together and exalting each other, from the effect of contrast. then there was a deep vein of piety pervading all his sentiments and expressions. the comparison of the ruined castle is imperfect. the moonbeams falling on some lofty cathedral, with its pillared dome and "long-drawn aisles," is a better similitude, for devotion hallowed and elevated every faculty of his soul. margaret, who had lived in a world of her own, surrounded by a purer atmosphere, lonely and somewhat unapproachable, felt as if she were no longer solitary, for here was one who thought and sympathized with her; one, too, who seemed sanctified and set apart from others, by a kind of mysterious sorrow, which the instinct of woman told her had its source in the heart. "i believe i am too serious, as mary says," cried margaret, first breaking the silence; "but it seems to me the thoughtless alone can be gay. i am young in years, but i began to reflect early, and from the moment i took in the mystery of life and all its awful dependencies, i ceased to be mirthful. i am doomed to pay a constant penalty for the singularity of my feelings: like the priestess of the ancient temples, i am accused of uttering dark sayings of old, and casting the shadows of the future over the joys of the present." margaret seldom alluded to herself, but mary's accusation about the thorns and briers had touched her, where perhaps alone she was vulnerable; and in the frankness of her nature, she uttered what was paramount in her thoughts. "happy they who are taught by reflection, not experience, to look seriously, though not sadly on the world," said mr. hall, earnestly; "who mourn from philanthropy over its folly and falsehood, not because that falsehood and folly have blighted their dearest hopes, nay, cut them off, root and branch, for ever." margaret was agitated, and for a moment the pencil wavered in her hand. she knew mr. hall must have been unhappy--that he was still suffering from corroding remembrances--and often had she wished to pierce through the mystery that hung over his past life; but now, when he himself alluded to it, she shrunk from an explanation. he seemed himself to regret the warmth of his expressions, and to wish to efface the impression they had made, for his attention became riveted on the picture, which he declared wanted only one thing to make it perfect--"and what was that?"--"truth encircling the trio with her golden band." "it may yet be done," cried margaret; and, with great animation and skill, she sketched the outline suggested. it is delightful to have one's own favourite sentiments and feelings embodied by another, and that too with a graceful readiness and apparent pleasure, that shows a congeniality of thought and taste. mr. hall was not insensible to this charm in margaret howard. he esteemed, revered, admired, he wished that he dared to love her. but all charming and true as she seemed, she was still a woman, and he might be again deceived. it would be a terrible thing to embark his happiness once more on the waves which had once overwhelmed it; and find himself again a shipwrecked mariner, cast upon the cruel desert of existence. the feelings which margaret inspired were so different from the stormy passions which had reigned over him, it is no wonder he was unconscious of their strength and believed himself still his own master. "bless me," said mary, who, entering soon after, _banished_, as she said, mr. hall from her presence, for he retired; "if you have not added another figure to the group. i have a great mind to blot faith, hope, and charity, as well as truth from existence," and playfully catching hold of the frame, she pretended to sweep her arm over their faces. "oh! mary, beware!" exclaimed margaret; but the warning came too late. the easel tottered and fell instantaneously against the magnificent glass, upon which mrs. astor set such an immense value, and broke it into a thousand pieces. mary looked aghast, and margaret turned pale as she lifted her picture from amid the ruins. "it is not spoiled," said she; "but the glass!" "oh! the glass!" cried mary, looking the image of despair; "what shall i do? what will mrs. astor say? she will never forgive me!" "she cannot be so vindictive!" replied margaret; "but it is indeed an unfortunate accident, and one for which i feel particularly responsible." "do not tell her how it happened," cried mary, shrinking with moral cowardice from the revealing of the truth. "i cannot brave her displeasure!--charles, too, will be angry with me, and i cannot bear that. oh! pray, dearest margaret, pray do not tell her that it was i who did it--you know it would be so natural for the easel to fall without any rash hand to push it. promise me, margaret." margaret turned her clear, rebuking eye upon the speaker with a mingled feeling of indignation and pity. "i will not expose you, mary," said she, calmly; and, withdrawing herself from the rapturous embrace, in which mary expressed her gratitude, she began to pick up the fragments of the mirror, while mary, unwilling to look on the wreck she had made, flew out to regain her composure. it happened that mr. hall passed the window while margaret was thus occupied; and he paused a moment to watch her, for in spite of himself, he felt a deep and increasing interest in every action of margaret's. margaret saw his shadow as it lingered, but she continued her employment. he did not doubt that she had caused the accident, for he had left her alone, a few moments before, and he was not conscious that any one had entered since his departure. though he regretted any circumstance which might give pain to her, he anticipated a pleasure in seeing the openness and readiness with which she would avow herself the aggressor, and blame herself for her carelessness. margaret found herself in a very unpleasant situation. she had promised not to betray the cowardly mary, and she knew that whatever blame would be attached to the act, would rest upon herself. but were mrs. astor to question her upon the subject, she could not deviate from the truth, by acknowledging a fault she had never committed. she felt an unspeakable contempt for mary's weakness, for, had _she_ been in _her_ place, she would have acknowledged the part she had acted, unhesitatingly, secure of the indulgence of friendship and benevolence. "better to leave the circumstance to speak for itself," said margaret to herself, "and of course the burden will rest upon me." she sighed as she thought of the happy hours she had passed, by the side of that mirror, and how often she had seen it reflect the speaking countenance of mr. hall, that tablet of "unutterable thoughts," and then thinking how _his_ hopes seemed shattered like that frail glass, and his memories of sorrow multiplied, she came to the conclusion that all earthly hopes were vain and all earthly memories fraught with sadness. never had margaret moralized so deeply as in the long solitary walk she stole that evening, to escape the evil of being drawn into the tacit sanction of a falsehood. like many others, with equally pure intentions, in trying to avoid one misfortune she incurred a greater. mrs. astor was very much grieved and astonished when she discovered her loss. with all her efforts to veil her feelings, mary saw she was displeased with margaret, and would probably never value as they deserved, the beautiful transparencies on which she had so faithfully laboured. "i would not have cared if any other article had been broken," said mrs. astor, whose weak point mary well knew; "but this can never be replaced. i do not so much value the cost, great as it was, but it was perfectly unique. i never saw another like it." mary's conscience smote her, for suffering another to bear the imputation she herself deserved. a sudden plan occurred to her. she had concealed the truth, she was now determined to save her friend, even at the cost of a lie. "i do not believe margaret broke it," said she. "i saw dinah, your little black girl in the room, just before margaret left it, and you know how often you have punished her for putting her hands on forbidden articles. you know if margaret had done it, she would have acknowledged it, at once." "true," exclaimed mrs. astor; "how stupid i have been!" and glad to find a channel in which her anger could flow, unchecked by the restraints of politeness, she rung the bell and summoned the unconscious dinah. in vain she protested her innocence. she was black, and it was considered a matter of course that she would lie. mrs. astor took her arm in silence, and led her from the room, in spite of her prayers and protestations. we should be sorry to reveal the secrets of the prison-house, but from the cries that issued through the shut door, and from a certain whizzing sound in the air, one might judge of the nature of the punishment inflicted on the innocent victim of unmerited wrath. mary closed her ears. every sound pierced her heart. something told her those shrieks would rise up in judgment against her at the last day. "oh! how," thought she, "if i fear the rebuke of my fellow-creature for an unintentional offence, how can i ever appear before my creator, with the blackness of falsehood and the hardness of cruelty on my soul?" she wished she had had the courage to have acted right in the first place, but now it was too late. charles would despise her, and that very day he had told her that he loved her better than all the world beside. she tried, too, to soothe her conscience, by reflecting that dinah would have been whipped for something else, and that as it was a common event to her, it was, after all, a matter of no great consequence. mrs. astor, having found a legitimate vent for her displeasure, chased the cloud from her brow, and greeted margaret with a smile, on her return, slightly alluding to the accident, evidently trying to rise superior to the event. margaret was surprised and pleased. she expressed her own regret, but as she imputed to herself no blame, mrs. astor was confirmed in the justice of her verdict. margaret knew not what had passed in her absence, for mrs. astor was too refined to bring her domestic troubles before her guests. mary, who was the only one necessarily initiated, was too deeply implicated to repeat it, and the subject was dismissed. but the impression remained on one mind, painful and ineffaceable. mr. hall marked margaret's conscious blush on her entrance, he had heard the cries and sobs of poor dinah, and was not ignorant of the cause. he believed margaret was aware of the fact--she, the true offender. a pang, keen as cold steel can create, shot through his heart at this conviction. he had thought her so pure, so true, so holy, the very incarnation of his worshipped virtue--and now, to sacrifice her principles for such a bauble--a bit of frail glass. he could not remain in her presence, but, complaining of a headache, suddenly retired, but not before he had cast a glance on margaret, so cold and freezing, it seemed to congeal her very soul. "he believes me cowardly and false," thought she, for she divined what was passing in his mind; and if ever she was tempted to be so, it was in the hope of reinstating herself in his esteem. she had given her promise to mary, however, and it was not to be broken. mary, whose feelings were as evanescent as her principles were weak, soon forgot the whole affair in the preparations of her approaching marriage with charles, an event which absorbed all her thoughts, as it involved all her hopes of happiness. margaret finished her task, but the charm which had gilded the occupation was fled. mr. hall seldom called, and when he did, he wore all his original reserve. margaret felt she had not deserved this alienation, and tried to cheer herself with the conviction of her own integrity; but her spirits were occasionally dejected, and the figure of truth, which had such a beaming outline, assumed the aspect of utter despondency. dissatisfied with her work, she at last swept her brush over the design, and mingling truth with the dark shades of the back ground, gave up her office as an artist, declaring her sketches completed. mrs. astor was enraptured with the whole, and said she intended to reserve them for the night of mary's wedding, when they would burst upon the sight, in one grand _coup d'oeil_, in the full blaze of chandeliers, bridal lamps, and nuptial ornaments. margaret was to officiate as one of the bridemaids, but she gave a reluctant consent. she could not esteem mary, and she shrunk from her flattery and caresses with an instinctive loathing. she had once set her foot on a flowery bank, that edged a beautiful stream. the turf trembled and gave way, for it was hollow below, and margaret narrowly escaped death. she often shuddered at the recollection. with similar emotions she turned from mary ellis's smiles and graces. there was beauty and bloom on the surface, but hollowness and perhaps ruin beneath. a short time before the important day, a slight efflorescence appeared on the fair cheek and neck of mary. she was in despair, lest her loveliness should be marred, when she most of all wished to shine. it increased instead of diminishing, and she resolved to have recourse to any remedy, that would remove the disfiguring eruption. she recollected having seen a violent erysipelas cured immediately by a solution of corrosive sublimate; and without consulting any one, she sent dinah to the apothecary to purchase some, charging her to tell no one whose errand she was bearing, for she was not willing to confess her occasion for such a cosmetic. dinah told the apothecary her mistress sent her, and it was given without questioning or hesitation. her only confidant was margaret, who shared her chamber and toilet, and who warned her to be exceedingly cautious in the use of an article so poisonous; and mary promised with her usual heedlessness, without dreaming of any evil consequences. the eruption disappeared--mary looked fairer than ever, and, clad in her bridal paraphernalia of white satin, white roses, and blonde lace, was pronounced the most beautiful bride of the season. mr. hall was present, though he had refused to take any part in the ceremony. he could not, without singularity, decline the invitation and, notwithstanding the blow his confidence in margaret's character had received, he still found the spot where _she_ was, enchanted ground, and he lingered near, unwilling to break at once the only charm that still bound him to society. after the short but solemn rite, that made the young and thoughtless, _one_ by indissoluble ties, and the rush of congratulation took place, margaret was forced by the pressure close to mr. hall's side. he involuntarily offered his arm as a protection, and a thrill of irrepressible happiness pervaded his heart, at this unexpected and unsought proximity. he forgot his coldness--the broken glass, everything but the feeling of the present moment. margaret was determined to avail herself of the tide of returning confidence. her just womanly modesty and pride prevented her _seeking_ an explanation and reconciliation, but she knew without breaking her promise to mary, she could not justify herself in mr. hall's opinion, if even the opportunity offered. she was to depart in the morning, with the new-married pair, who were going to take an excursion of pleasure, so fashionable after the wedding ceremony. she might never see him again. he had looked pale, his face was now flushed high with excited feeling. "you have wronged me, mr. hall," said she, blushing, but without hesitation; "if you think i have been capable of wilful deception or concealment. the mirror was not broken by me, though i know you thought me guilty, and afraid or ashamed to avow the truth. i would not say so much to justify myself, if i did not think you would believe me, and if i did not value the esteem of one who sacrifices even friendship at the shrine of truth." she smiled, for she saw she was believed, and there was such a glow of pleasure irradiating mr. hall's countenance, it was like the breaking and gushing forth of sunbeams. there are few faces, on which a smile has such a magic effect as on margaret's. her smile was never forced. it was the inspiration of truth, and all the light of her soul shone through it. perhaps neither ever experienced an hour of deeper happiness than that which followed this simple explanation. margaret felt a springtide of hope and joy swelling in her heart, for there was a deference, a tenderness in mr. hall's manner she had never seen before. he seemed entirely to have forgotten the presence of others, when a name uttered by one near, arrested his attention. "that is mrs. st. henry," observed a lady, stretching eagerly forward. "she arrived in town this morning, and had letters of introduction to mrs. astor. she was the beauty of ----, before her marriage, and is still the leader of fashion and taste." margaret felt her companion start, as if a ball had penetrated him, and looking up, she saw his altered glance, fixed on the lady, who had just entered, with a dashing escort, and was advancing towards the centre of the room. she was dressed in the extremity of the reigning mode--her arms and neck entirely uncovered, and their dazzling whiteness, thus lavishly displayed, might have mocked the polish and purity of alabaster. her brilliant black eyes flashed on either side, with the freedom of conscious beauty, and disdain of the homage it inspired. she moved with the air of a queen, attended by her vassals, directly forward, when suddenly her proud step faltered, her cheek and lips became wan, and uttering a sudden ejaculation, she stood for a moment perfectly still. she was opposite mr. hall, whose eye, fixed upon hers, seemed to have the effect of fascination. though darkened by the burning sun of a tropical clime, and faded from the untimely blighting of the heart, that face could never be forgotten. it told her of perjury, remorse, sorrow--yes, of sorrow, for in spite of the splendour that surrounded her, this glittering beauty was wretched. she had sacrificed herself at the shrine of mammon, and had learned too late the horror of such ties, unsanctified by affection. appreciating but too well the value of the love she had forsaken, goaded by remorse for her conduct to him, whom she believed wasting away in a foreign land--she flew from one scene of dissipation to another, seeking in the admiration of the world an equivalent for her lost happiness. the unexpected apparition of her lover was as startling and appalling as if she had met an inhabitant of another world. she tried to rally herself and to pass on, but the effort was in vain--sight, strength, and recollection forsook her. "mrs. st. henry has fainted! mrs. st. henry has fainted!"--was now echoed from mouth to mouth. a lady's fainting, whether in church, ball-room, or assembly, always creates a great sensation; but when that lady happens to be the centre of attraction and admiration, when every eye that has a loop-hole to peep through is gazing on her brilliant features, to behold her suddenly fall, as if smitten by the angel of death, pallid and moveless--the effect is inconceivably heightened. when, too, as in the present instance, a sad, romantic-looking stranger rushes forward to support her, the interest of the scene admits of no increase. at least margaret felt so, as she saw the beautiful mrs. st. henry borne in the arms of mr. hall through the crowd, that fell back as he passed, into an adjoining apartment, speedily followed by mrs. astor, all wonder and excitement, and many others all curiosity and expectation, to witness the termination of the scene. mr. hall drew back, while the usual appliances were administered for her resuscitation. he heeded not the scrutinizing glances bent upon him. his thoughts were rolled within himself, and "the soul of other days came rushing in." the lava that had hardened over the ruin it created, melted anew, and the greenness and fragrance of new-born hopes were lost under the burning tide. when mrs. st. henry opened her eyes, she looked round her in wild alarm; then shading her brow with her hand, her glance rested where mr. hall stood, pale and abstracted, with folded arms, leaning against the wall--"i thought so," said she, in a low voice, "i thought so;"--then covered her eyes and remained silent. mr. hall, the moment he heard the sound of her voice and was assured of her recovery, precipitately retired, leaving behind him matter of deep speculation. margaret was sitting in a window of the drawing-room, through which he passed. she was alone, for even the bride was forgotten in the excitement of the past scene. he paused--he felt an explanation was due to her, but that it was impossible to make it. he was softened by the sad and sympathizing expression of her countenance, and seated himself a moment by her side. "i have been painfully awakened from a dream of bliss," said he, "which i was foolish enough to imagine might yet be realized. but the heart rudely shattered as mine has been, must never hope to be healed. i cannot command myself sufficiently to say more, only let me make one assurance, that whatever misery has been and may yet be my doom, guilt has no share in my wretchedness--i cannot refuse myself the consolation of your esteem." margaret made no reply--she could not. had her existence depended on the utterance of one word, she could not have commanded it. she extended her hand, however, in token of that friendship she believed was hereafter to be the only bond that was to unite them. long after mr. hall was gone, she sat in the same attitude, pale and immovable as a statue; but who can tell the changes and conflicts of her spirit, in that brief period? mrs. st. henry was too ill to be removed, and mrs. astor was unbounded in her attentions. she could hardly regret a circumstance which forced so interesting and distinguished a personage upon the acceptance of her hospitality. margaret remained with her during the greater part of the night, apprehensive of a renewal of the fainting fits, to which she acknowledged she was constitutionally subject. margaret watched her as she lay, her face scarcely to be distinguished from the sheet, it was so exquisitely fair, were it not for the shading of the dark locks, that fell unbound over the pillow, still heavy with the moisture with which they had been saturated; and, as she contemplated her marvellous loveliness, she wondered not at the influence she exercised over the destiny of another. mr. hall had once spoken of himself as being the victim of falsehood. could she have been false--and loving him, how could she have married another? if she had voluntarily broken her troth, why such an agitation at his sight? and if she were worthy of his love, why such a glaring display of her person, such manifest courting of the free gaze of admiration? these, and a thousand similar interrogations, did margaret make to herself during the vigils of the night, but they found no answer. towards morning, the lady slept; but margaret was incapable of sleep, and her wakeful eyes caught the first gray tint of the dawn, and marked it deepening and kindling, till the east was robed with flame, the morning livery of the skies. all was bustle till the bridal party was on their way. mrs. st. henry still slept, under the influence of an opiate, and margaret saw her no more. farewells were exchanged, kind wishes breathed, and the travellers commenced their journey. margaret's thoughts wandered from mrs. st. henry to mr. hall, and back again, till they were weary of wandering and would gladly have found rest; but the waters had not subsided, there was no green spot where the dove of peace could fold her drooping wings. charles and mary were too much occupied by each other to notice her silence; and it was not till they paused in their journey, she was recalled to existing realities. mary regretted something she had left behind--a sudden recollection came over margaret. "oh! mary," said she, "i hope you have been cautious, and not left any of that dangerous medicine, where mischief could result from it. i intended to remind you of it before our departure." "certainly--to be sure i took especial care of it, i have it with me in my trunk," replied mary, but her conscience gave her a remorseful twinge as she uttered the _white lie_, for she had forgotten it, and where she had left it, she could not remember. as margaret had given her several warnings, she was ashamed to acknowledge her negligence, and took refuge in the shelter she had too often successfully sought. had she anticipated the fatal consequences of her oblivion, her bridal felicity would have been converted into agony and despair. she had left the paper containing the powder, yet undissolved, on the mantelpiece of her chamber. the chambermaid who arranged the room after her departure, seeing it and supposing it to be medicine, put it in the box which mrs. astor devoted to that department, in the midst of calomel, salts, antimony, &c. it was folded in brown paper, like the rest, and there was no label to indicate its deadly qualities. mrs. st. henry continued the guest of mrs. astor, for her indisposition assumed a more serious aspect, and it was impossible to remove her. she appeared feverish and restless, and a physician was called in to prescribe for her, greatly in opposition to her wishes. she could not bear to acknowledge herself ill. it was the heat of the room that had oppressed her--a transient cold, which would soon pass away--she would not long trespass on mrs. astor's hospitality. the doctor was not much skilled in diseases of the heart, though he ranked high in his profession. his grand panacea for almost all diseases was calomel, which he recommended to his patient, as the most efficient and speediest remedy. she received the prescription with a very ill grace, declaring she had never tasted of any in her life, and had a horror of all medicines. mrs. astor said she had an apothecary's shop at command in her closet, and that she kept doses constantly prepared for her own use. after the doctor's departure, mrs. st. henry seemed much dejected, and her eyes had an anxious, inquiring expression as they turned on mrs. astor. "you say," said she to her, in a low tone, "that friends have been kind in their inquiries for me? most of them are strangers, and yet i thank them." "mr. hall has called more than once," replied mrs. astor, "he, i believe, is well known to you." "he is indeed," said mrs. st. henry--"i wish i could see him--but it cannot be; no, it would not answer." mrs. astor longed to ask the nature of their former acquaintance, but a conviction that the question would be painful, restrained the expression of her curiosity. "would you not like to send for some of your friends?" inquired mrs. astor--"your husband? my servants shall be at your disposal." "you are very kind," answered mrs. st. henry, quickly--"but it is not necessary--my husband is too infirm to travel, and believing me well, he will suffer no anxiety on my account--i think i shall be quite well, after taking your sovereign medicine. give it me now, if you please, while i am in a vein of compliance." she turned, with so lovely a smile, and extended her hand with so much grace, mrs. astor stood a moment, thinking what a beautiful picture she would make; then taking the lamp in her hand, she opened her closet, and took down the medicine casket. it happened that the first paper she touched was that which mary had left, and which the servant had mingled with the others. "here is one already prepared," cried she--"i always keep them ready, the exact number of grains usually given, as we often want it suddenly and at night." she mixed the fatal powder with some delicious jelly, and holding it to the lips of her patient, said with a cheering smile--"come, it has no disagreeable taste at all." mrs. st. henry gave a nervous shudder, but took it, unconscious of its deadly properties; and mrs. astor, praising her resolution, seated herself in an easy chair by the bedside, and began to read. she became deeply interested in her book, though she occasionally glanced towards her patient to see if she slept. she had placed the lamp so that its light would not shine on the bed, and the most perfect quietness reigned in the apartment. how long this tranquillity lasted it is impossible to tell, for she was so absorbed in her book, time passed unheeded. at length mrs. st. henry began to moan, and toss her arms over the covering, as if in sudden pain. mrs. astor leaned over her, and took her hand. it was hot and burning, her cheek had a scarlet flush on it, and when she opened her eyes they had a wild and alarming expression. "water," she exclaimed, leaning on her elbow, and shading back her hair hurriedly from her brow--"give me water, for i die of thirst." "i dare not," said mrs. astor, terrified by her manner--"anything but that to quench your thirst." she continued still more frantically to call for water, till mrs. astor, excessively alarmed, sent for the doctor, and called in other attendants. as he was in the neighbourhood, he came immediately. he looked aghast at the situation of his patient, for she was in a paroxysm of agony at his entrance, and his experienced eye took in the danger of the case. "what have you given her, madam?" said he, turning to mrs astor, with a countenance that made her tremble. "what have you given me?" exclaimed mrs. st. henry, grasping her wrist with frenzied strength--"you have killed me--it was poison--i feel it in my heart and in my brain!" mrs. astor uttered a scream, and snatched up the paper which had fallen on the carpet. "look at it, doctor--it was calomel, just as you prescribed--what else could it be!" the doctor examined the paper--there was a little powder still sticking to it. "good heavens, doctor," cried mrs. astor, "what makes you look so?--what is it?--what was it?" "where did you get this?" said he, sternly. "at the apothecary's--i took it from that chest--examine it, pray." the doctor turned away with a groan, and approached his beautiful patient, now gasping and convulsed. he applied the most powerful antidotes, but without effect. "i am dying," she cried, "i am dying--i am poisoned--but oh, doctor, save me--save me--let me see him, if i must die--let me see him again;" and she held out her hands imploringly to mrs. astor, who was in a state little short of distraction. "only tell me, if you mean mr. hall." "who should i mean but augustus?" she cried. "perhaps in death he may forgive me." the doctor made a motion that her request should be complied with, and a messenger was despatched. what an awful scene was presented, when he entered that chamber of death! was that the idol of his young heart, the morning star of his manhood; she, who lay livid, writhing and raving there? her long, dark hair hung in dishevelled masses over her neck and arms, her large black eyes were fearfully dilated, and full of that unutterable agony which makes the spirit quail before the might of human suffering. cold sweat-drops gleamed on her marble brow, and her hands were damp with that dew which no morning sunbeam can ever exhale. "almighty father!" exclaimed mr. hall, "what a sight is this!" the sound of that voice had the power to check the ravings of delirium. she shrieked, and stretched out her arms towards him, who sunk kneeling by the bedside, covering his face with his hands, to shut out the appalling spectacle. "forgive me," she cried, in hollow and altered accents--"augustus, you are terribly avenged--i loved you, even when i left you for another. oh! pray for me to that great and dreadful god, who is consuming me, to have mercy on me hereafter." he did pray, but it was in spirit, his lips could not articulate; but his uplifted hands and streaming eyes called down pardon and peace on the dying penitent. the reason, that had flashed out for a moment, rekindled by memory and passion, was now gone for ever. all the rest was but the striving of mortal pain, the rending asunder of body and soul. in a short time all was over, and the living were left to read one of the most tremendous lessons on the vanity of beauty, and the frailty of life, mortality could offer in all its gloomy annals. "this is no place for you, now," said the doctor, taking mr. hall's arm, and drawing him into another apartment, where, secure from intrusion, he could be alone with god and his own heart. there was another duty to perform--to investigate the mystery that involved this horrible tragedy. the apothecary was summoned, who, after recovering from his first consternation, recollected that a short time before, he had sold a quantity of corrosive sublimate to a little black girl, according to her mistress's orders. the servants were called for examination, and dinah was pointed out as the culprit--dinah, the imputed destroyer of the mirror, whose terror was now deemed the result of conscious guilt. mrs. astor vehemently protested she had never sent her, that it was the blackest falsehood; and dinah, though she told the whole truth, how mary had forbid her telling it was for her, and she merely used her mistress's name on that account, gained no belief. the chambermaid, who had found the paper and put it in the chest, withheld her testimony, fearing she might be implicated in the guilt. everything tended to deepen the evidence against dinah. the affair of the broken looking-glass was revived. she had been heard to say, after her memorable flagellation, that she wished her mistress was dead, that she would kill her if she could; and many other expressions, the result of a smarting back and a wounded spirit, were brought up against her. it was a piteous thing to see the fright, and hear the pleadings of the wretched girl: "oh! don't send me to jail--don't hang me--send for miss mary," she repeated, wringing her hands, and rolling her eyes like a poor animal whom the hunters have at bay. but to jail she was sent--for who could doubt her crime, or pity her after witnessing its terrific consequences?--a damp, dreary prison-house, where, seated on a pallet of straw, she was left to brood day after day over her accumulated wrongs, hopeless of sympathy or redress. let those who consider a _white lie_ a venial offence, who look upon deception as necessary to the happiness and harmony of society, reflect on the consequences of mary ellis's moral delinquency, and tremble at the view. she had not done more than a thousand others have done, and are daily doing; and yet what was the result? the soul of the lovely, the erring, and the unprepared had been sent shuddering into eternity, a household made wretched, the innocent condemned, a neighbourhood thrown into consternation and gloom. had mary confessed her negligence to margaret, instead of telling an unnecessary and untempted falsehood, a warning message could have then been easily sent back, and the wide-spread ruin prevented. there is no such thing as a _white lie_; they are all black as the blackest shades of midnight; and no fuller on earth can whiten them. when mrs. astor had recovered from the shock of these events in a sufficient degree, she wrote to mary a detailed account, begging her and margaret to return immediately, and cheer the home which now seemed so desolate. the letter was long in reaching her, for the travellers were taking a devious course, and could leave behind them no precise directions. mary was in one of her gayest, brightest humours, when she received the epistle. she was putting on some new ornaments, which charles had presented to her, and he was looking over her shoulder at the fair image reflected in the glass, whose brow was lighted up with the triumph of conscious beauty. "i look shockingly ugly to-day," said she, with a smile that belied her words. "you tell stories with such a grace," replied her flattering husband, "i am afraid we shall be in love with falsehood." "a letter from our dear mrs. astor; open it, charles, while i clasp this bracelet; and read it aloud, then margaret and i both can hear it." before charles had read one page, mary sunk down at his feet, rending the air with hysterical screams. her husband, who was totally unaware of the terrible agency she had had in the affair, raised her in indescribable alarm. her own wild expressions, however, revealed the truth, which margaret's shivering lips confirmed. "oh! had you told me but the _truth_," cried margaret, raising her prayerful eyes and joined hands to heaven--"how simple, how easy it had been--charles, charles," added she, with startling energy, "praise not this rash, misguided girl, for the grace with which she _lies_--i will not recall the word. by the worth of your own soul and hers, teach her, that as there is a god above, he requires truth in the inward heart." charles trembled at the solemnity of the adjuration; and conscience told him, that all the agonies his wife suffered, and all the remorse which was yet to be her portion, were just. margaret sought the solitude of her chamber, and there, on her knees, she endeavoured to find calmness. the image of mr. hall, mourning over the death-bed of her once so madly loved, the witness of her expiring throes, the receiver of her last repentant sigh rose, between her and her creator. then, that radiant face, that matchless form, which had so lately excited a pang of envy, even in _her_ pure heart, now blasted by consuming poison, and mouldering in the cold grave; how awful was the thought, and how fearful the retribution! she, whose vain heart had by falsehood endangered the very existence of another, was the victim of the very vice that had blackened her own spirit. yes! there is retribution even in this world. mary returned, but how changed from the gay and blooming bride! her cheek was pale, and her eye heavy. she hastened to repair the only wrong now capable of any remedy. the prison doors of poor dinah were thrown open, and her innocence declared: but could the long and lonely days and nights spent in that weary, gloomy abode be blotted out? could the pangs of cold, shuddering fear, the dream of the gallows, the rope, the hangman's grasp round the gurgling throat, the dark coffin seat, the scoffing multitude, be forgotten? no!--dinah's spirit was broken, for though her skin was black, there was sensibility and delicacy too beneath her ebon colouring. could mary bring back the gladness that once pervaded the dwelling of mrs. astor? everything there was changed. the room in which mrs. st. henry died was closed, for it was haunted by too terrible remembrances. bitterly did mary mourn over the grave of her victim; but she could not recall her by her tears. no remorse could open the gates of the tomb, or reclothe with beauty and bloom the ruins of life. margaret, the true, the pure-hearted and upright margaret, was not destined, like mary, to gather the thorns and briers of existence. long did the fragrance of _her_ roses last, for she had not plucked them with too rash a hand. she and mr. hall again met. the moral sympathy that had drawn them together, was not weakened by the tragic event that had intervened; it had rather strengthened through suffering and sorrow. mr. hall could never forget the death scene of laura st. henry. the love expressed for him at a moment when all earthly dissimulation was over had inexpressibly affected him. her unparalleled sufferings seemed an expiation for her broken faith. it was at her grave that he and margaret first met after their sad separation, when the falling shades of evening deepened the solemnity of the scene. sorrow, sympathy, devotion, and truth, form a holy groundwork for love; and when once the temple is raised on such a foundation, the winds and waves may beat against it in vain. mr. hall found by his own experience, that the bruised heart can be healed, for margaret's hand poured oil and balm on its wounds. he could repose on her faith as firmly as on the rock which ages have planted. he knew that she loved him, and felt it due to her happiness as well as his own, to ask her to be the companion of his pilgrimage. if they looked back upon the clouds that had darkened their morning, it was without self-reproach, and remembrance gradually lost its sting. who will say she was not happier than mary, who carried in her bosom, through life, that which "biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder?" the abyssinian neophyte. adellan, an abyssinian youth, approached one of those consecrated buildings, which crown almost every hill of his native country. before entering, he drew off his shoes, and gave them in charge to a servant, that he might not soil the temple of the lord, with the dust of the valley; then bending down, slowly and reverentially, he pressed his lips to the threshold, performed the same act of homage to each post of the door, then passed into the second division of the church, within view of the curtained square, answering to the mysterious _holy of holies_ in the jewish temple. he gazed upon the pictured saints that adorned the walls, long and earnestly, when, kneeling before them, he repeated, with deep solemnity, his customary prayers. he rose, looked towards the mystic veil, which no hand but that of the priest was permitted to raise, and anticipated with inexplicable emotions the time when, invested with the sacred dignity of that office, he might devote himself exclusively to heaven. from early childhood, adellan had been destined to the priesthood. his first years were passed mid the stormy scenes of war, for his father was a soldier, fighting those bloody battles, with which the province of tigre had been more than once laid waste. then followed the dreadful discipline of famine, for the destroying locusts, the scourge of the country, had followed up the desolation of war, and year succeeding year, gleaned the last hope of man. the parents of adellan fled from these scenes of devastation, crossed the once beautiful and fertile banks of the tacazze, and sought refuge in the ample monastery of walduba, where a brother of his father then resided. here, he was placed entirely under the protection of his uncle, for his father, sickened with the horrors he had witnessed, and loathing the ties which were once so dear to him, recrossed his native stream, became a gloomy monk in another convent, where, with several hundred of his brethren, he soon after perished a victim to those barbarities, which had robbed him of all that gave value to life. adellan had never known the joys of childhood. the greenness and bloom of spring had been blotted from his existence. famine had hollowed his boyish cheek, and fear and distrust chilled and depressed his young heart. after entering the convent of walduba, where all his physical wants were supplied, the roundness and elasticity of health were restored to his limbs, but his cheek was kept pale by midnight vigils, and long and painful fastings. the teacher, whom his uncle placed over him, was severe and exacting. he gave him no relaxation by day, and the stars of night witnessed his laborious tasks. he was compelled to commit lessons to memory, in a language which he did not then understand, a drudgery from which every ardent mind must recoil. yet, such was his thirst for knowledge, that he found a pleasure, even in this, that sweetened his toils. all the strains of the devout psalmist were familiar to his lips, but they were in an _unknown tongue_, for in this manner are the youth of those benighted regions taught. often, when gazing on the magnificent jewelry of a tropical sky, shining down on the darkness and solitude of night, had he unconsciously repeated the words of the royal penitent--"the heavens declare the glory of god. the firmament showeth his handy work." he understood not their meaning, but the principle of immortality was striving within him, and every star that gemmed the violet canopy, seemed to him eye-beams of that all-seeing divinity he then darkly adored. adellan left the enclosure of the church, and lingered beneath the shade of the cedars, whose trunks supported the roof, and thus formed a pleasant colonnade sheltered from the sun and the rain. beautiful was the prospect that here stretched itself around him. all the luxuriance of a mountainous country, constantly bathed with the dews of heaven, and warmed by the beams of a vertical sun, was richly unfolded. odoriferous perfumes, wafted from the forest trees, and exhaled from the roses, jessamines, and wild blossoms, with which the fields were covered, scented the gale. borne from afar, the fragrance of judea's balm mingled with the incense of the flowers and the richer breath of the myrrh. a cool stream murmured near, where those who came up to worship, were accustomed to perform their ablutions and purifying rites, in conformance with the ancient levitical law. wherever adellan turned his eyes, he beheld some object associated with the ceremonies of his austere religion. in that consecrated stream he had bathed, he had made an altar beneath every spreading tree, and every rock had witnessed his prostrations. he thought of the unwearied nature of his devotions, and pride began to swell his heart. he knew nothing of that meek and lowly spirit, that humiliation of soul, which marks the followers of a crucified redeemer. he had been taught to believe that salvation was to be found in the observance of outward forms, but never had been led to purify the inner temple so as to make it a meet residence for a holy god. near the close of the day, he again walked forth, meditating on his contemplated journey to jerusalem, the holy city, where he was not only to receive the remission of his own sins, but even for seven generations yet unborn, according to the superstitious belief of his ancestors. he was passing a low, thatched dwelling, so lost in his own meditations, as scarcely to be aware of its vicinity, when a strain of low, sweet music, rose like a stream of "rich distilled perfumes." woman's softer accents mingled with a voice of manly melody and strength; and as the blending strains stole by his ear, he paused, convinced that the music he heard was an act of adoration to god, though he understood not the language in which it was uttered. the door of the cabin was open, and he had a full view of the group near the entrance. a man, dressed in a foreign costume, whose prevailing colour was black, sat just within the shade of the cedars that sheltered the roof. adellan immediately recognised the pale face of the european, and an instinctive feeling of dislike and suspicion urged him to turn away. there was something, however, in the countenance of the stranger that solicited and obtained more than a passing glance. there was beauty in the calm, thoughtful features, the high marble brow, the mild devotional dark eye, and the soft masses of sable heir that fell somewhat neglected over his lofty temples. there was a tranquillity, a peace, an elevation diffused over that pallid face, which was reflected back upon the heart of the beholder: a kind of moonlight brightness, communicating its own peculiar sweetness and quietude to every object it shone upon. seated near him, and leaning over the arm of his chair, was a female, whose slight delicate figure, and dazzlingly fair complexion, gave her a supernatural appearance to the unaccustomed eye of the dark abyssinian. her drooping attitude and fragile frame appealed at once to sympathy and protection, while her placid eyes, alternately lifted to heaven and turned towards him on whose arm she leaned, were expressive not only of meekness and submission, but even of holy rapture. a third figure belonged to this interesting group: that of an infant girl, about eighteen months old, who, seated on a straw matting, at the feet of her parents, raised her cherub head as if in the act of listening, and tossed back her flaxen ringlets with the playful grace of infancy. adellan had heard that a christian missionary was in the neighbourhood of adorva, and he doubted not that he now beheld one whom he had been taught to believe his most dangerous enemy. unwilling to remain longer in his vicinity, he was about to pass on, when the stranger arose and addressed him in the language of his country. surprised at the salutation, and charmed, in spite of himself, with the mild courtesy of his accents, adellan was constrained to linger. the fair-haired lady greeted him with a benign smile, and the little child clapped its hands as if pleased with the novelty and grace of his appearance; for though the hue of the olive dyed his cheek, his features presented the classic lineaments of manly beauty, and though the long folds of his white robe veiled the outlines of his figure, he was formed in the finest model of european symmetry. the missionary spoke to him of his country, of the blandness of the climate, the magnificence of the trees, the fragrance of the air, till adellan forgot his distrust, and answered him with frankness and interest. following the dictates of his own ardent curiosity, he questioned the missionary with regard to his name, his native country, and his object in coming to his own far land. he learned that his name was m----, that he came from the banks of the rhine to the borders of the nile, and, following its branches, had found a resting-place near the waters of the beautiful tacazze. "and why do you come to this land of strangers?" asked the abrupt abyssinian. "i came as an humble servant of my divine master," replied the missionary, meekly; "as a messenger of 'glad tidings of great joy,' to all who will receive me, and as a friend and brother, even to those who may persecute and revile me." "what tidings can you bring us," said adellan, haughtily, "that our priests and teachers can not impart to us?" "i bring my credentials with me," answered mr. m----, and taking a testament, translated into the amharic language, he offered it to adellan; but he shrunk back with horror, and refused to open it. "i do not wish for your books," said he; "keep them. we are satisfied with our own. look at our churches. they stand on every hill, far as your eye can reach. see that stream that winds near your dwelling. there we wash away the pollution of our souls. i fast by day, i watch by night. the saints hear my prayers, and the stars bear witness to my penances. i am going to the holy city, where i shall obtain remission for all my sins, and those of generations yet unborn. i shall return holy and happy." mr. m---- sighed, while the youth rapidly repeated his claims to holiness and heaven. "you believe that god is a spirit," said he; "and the worship that is acceptable in his eyes must be spiritual also. in vain is the nightly vigil and the daily fast, unless the soul is humbled in his eyes. we may kneel till the rock is worn by our prostrations, and torture the flesh till every nerve is wakened to agony, but we can no more work out our own salvation by such means, than our feeble hands can create a new heaven and a new earth, or our mortal breath animate the dust beneath our feet, with the spirit of the living god." the missionary spoke with warmth. his wife laid her gentle hand on his arm. there was something in the glance of the young abyssinian that alarmed her. but the spirit of the martyr was kindled within him, and would not be quenched. "see," said he, directing the eye of the youth towards the neighbouring hills, now clothed in the purple drapery of sunset; "as sure as those hills now stand, the banner of the cross shall float from their summits, and tell to the winds of heaven the triumphs of the redeemer's kingdom. ethiopia shall stretch out her sable hands unto god, and the farthest isles of the ocean behold the glory of his salvation." adellan looked into the glowing face of the missionary, remembered the cold and gloomy countenance of his religious teacher, and wondered at the contrast. but his prejudices were unshaken, and his pride rose up in rebellion against the man who esteemed him an idolater. "come to us again," said the missionary, in a subdued tone, as adellan turned to depart; "let us compare our different creeds, by the light of reason and revelation, and see what will be the result." "come to us again," said the lady, in adellan's native tongue; and her soft, low voice sounded sweet in his ears, as the fancied accents of the virgin mother. that night, as he sat in his lonely chamber, at the convent, conning his task in the stillness of the midnight hour, the solemn words of the missionary, his inspired countenance, the ethereal form of his wife, and the cherub face of that fair child, kept floating in his memory. he was angry with himself at the influence they exercised. he resolved to avoid his path, and to hasten his departure to jerusalem, where he could be not only secure from his arts, but from the legions of the powers of darkness. * * * * * months passed away. the humble cabin of the missionary was gradually thronged with those who came from curiosity, or better motives, to hear the words of one who came from such a far country. his pious heart rejoiced in the hope, that the shadows of idolatry which darkened their religion would melt away before the healing beams of the sun of righteousness. but he looked in vain for the stately figure of the young adellan. his spirit yearned after the youth, and whenever he bent his knees at the altar of his god, he prayed for his conversion, with a kind of holy confidence that his prayer would be answered. at length he once more presented himself before them, but so changed they could scarcely recognise his former lineaments. his face was haggard and emaciated, his hair had lost its raven brightness, and his garments were worn and soiled with dust. he scarcely answered the anxious inquiries of mr. m----, but sinking into a seat, and covering his face with his hands, large tears, gathering faster and faster, glided through his fingers, and rained upon his knees. mary, the sympathizing wife of the missionary, wept in unison; but she did not limit her sympathy to tears, she gave him water to wash, and food to eat, and it was not until he rested his weary limbs, that they sought to learn the history of his sufferings. it would be tedious to detail them at length, though he had indeed experienced "a sad variety of woe." he had commenced his journey under the guidance and protection of a man in whose honour he placed unlimited confidence, had been deceived and betrayed, sold as a slave, and, though he had escaped this degradation, he had been exposed to famine and nakedness, and the sword. "i have been deserted by man," said adellan; "the saints have turned a deaf ear to my prayers; i have come to you to learn if there is a power in _your_ christianity to heal a wounded spirit, and to bind up a broken heart." the missionary raised his eyes in gratitude to heaven. "the spirit of the lord god is upon me," cried he, repeating the language of the sublimest of the prophets: "because the lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound." "blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," repeated mary, softly; and never were promises of mercy pronounced in a sweeter voice. afflictions had humbled the proud spirit of adellan. but his was not the humility of the christian. it was rather a gloomy misanthropy, that made him turn in loathing from all he had once valued, and to doubt the efficacy of those forms and penances, in which he had wasted the bloom of his youth, and the morning strength of his manhood. but he no longer rejected the proffered kindness of his new friends. he made his home beneath their roof. the testament he had formerly refused, he now gratefully received, and studied it with all the characteristic ardour of his mind. persevering as he was zealous, as patient in investigation as he was quick of apprehension, he compared text with text, and evidence with evidence, till the prejudices of education yielded to the irresistible force of conviction. when once his understanding had received a doctrine, he cherished it as a sacred and eternal truth, immutable as the word of god, and immortal as his own soul. he now went down into the hitherto untravelled chambers of his own heart, and, throwing into their darkest recesses the full blaze of revelation, he shuddered to find them infested by inmates more deadly than the serpent of the nile. passions, of whose existence he had been unconscious, rose up from their hiding places, and endeavoured to wrap him in their giant folds. long and fearful was the struggle, but adellan opposed to their power the shield of faith and the sword of the spirit, and at last came off conqueror, and laid down his spoils at the foot of the cross. the missionary wept over him, "tears such as angels shed." "now," exclaimed he, "i am rewarded for all my privations, and my hitherto unavailing toils. oh! adellan, now the friend and brother of my soul, i feel something like the power of prophecy come over me, when i look forward to your future destiny. the time will shortly come, when you will stand in the high places of the land, and shake down the strong holds of ancient idolatry and sin. the temples, so long desecrated by adoration of senseless images, shall be dedicated to the worship of the living god. sinners, who so long have sought salvation in the purifying waters of the stream, shall turn to the precious fountain of the redeemer's blood. oh! glorious, life-giving prospect! they who refuse to listen to the pale-faced stranger, will hearken to the accents of their native hills. rejoice, my beloved mary! though i may be forced to bear back that fading frame of yours to a more congenial clime, our saviour will not be left without a witness, to attest his glory, and confirm his power." to fulfil this prophecy became the ruling desire of adellan's life. he longed to liberate his deluded countrymen from the thraldom of that superstition to which he himself had served such a long and gloomy apprenticeship. he longed, too, for some opportunity of showing his gratitude to his new friends. but there is no need of signal occasions to show what is passing in the heart. his was of a transparent texture, and its emotions were visible as the pebbles that gleam through the clear waters of the tacazze. the beautiful child of the missionary was the object of his tenderest love. he would carry it in his arms for hours, through the wild groves that surrounded their dwelling, and, gathering for it the choicest productions of nature, delight in its smiles and infantine caresses. sometimes, as he gazed on the soft azure of its eyes, and felt its golden ringlets playing on his cheek, he would clasp it to his bosom and exclaim, "of such is the kingdom of heaven." mary idolized her child, and adellan's great tenderness for it, inexpressibly endeared him to her heart. she loved to see the fair face of her infant leaning against the dark cheek of adellan, and its flaxen locks mingling with his jetty hair. one evening, as it fell asleep in his arms, he was alarmed at the scarlet brightness of its complexion, and the burning heat of its skin. he carried it to its mother. it was the last time the cherub ever slumbered on his bosom. it never again lifted up its head, but faded away like a flower scorched by a noonday sun. day and night adellan knelt by the couch of the dying infant, and prayed in agony for its life; yet even in the intensity of his anguish, he felt how sublime was the resignation of its parents. they wept, but no murmur escaped their lips. they prayed, but every prayer ended with the submissive ejaculation of their saviour, "not our will, o father! but thine be done." and when the sweet, wistful eyes were at last closed in death, and the waxen limbs grew stiff and cold, when adellan could not restrain the bitterness of his grief, still the mourners bowed their heads and cried, "the lord gave, the lord taketh away--blessed be the name of the lord." adellan had witnessed the stormy sorrow of his country-women, whose custom it is to rend their hair, and lacerate their faces with their nails, and grovel, shrieking, in the dust; but never had his heart been so touched as by the resignation of this christian mother. but, though she murmured not, she was stricken by the blow, and her fragile frame trembled beneath the shock. her husband felt that she leaned more heavily on his arm, and though she smiled upon him as wont, the smile was so sad, it often brought tears into his eyes. at length she fell sick, and the missionary saw her laid upon the same bed on which his infant had died. now, indeed, it might be said that the hand of god was on him. she, the bride of his youth, the wife of his fondest affections, who had given up all the luxuries of wealth, and the tender indulgences of her father's home, for the love of him and her god; who had followed him not only with meekness, but joy, to those benighted regions, that she might share and sweeten his labours, and join to his, her prayers and her efforts for the extension of the redeemer's kingdom; she, whose presence had been able to transform their present lowly and lonely dwelling into a place lovely as the garden of eden--could he see _her_ taken from him, and repeat, from his heart, as he had done over the grave of his only child, "father, thy will be done?" bitter was the conflict, but the watchful ear of adellan again heard the same low, submissive accents, which were so lately breathed over his lost darling. here, too, adellan acted a brother's part; but female care was requisite, and this his watchful tenderness supplied. he left them for a while, and returned with a young maiden, whose olive complexion, graceful figure, and long braided locks, declared her of abyssinian birth. her voice was gentle, and her step light, when she approached the bed of the sufferer. ozora, for such was the name of the maiden, was a treasure in the house of sickness. mary's languid eye followed her movements, and often brightened with pleasure, while receiving her sympathizing attentions. in her hours of delirious agony, she would hold her hand, and call her sister in the most endearing tone, and ask her how she had found her in that land of strangers. sometimes she would talk of the home of her childhood, and imagine she heard the green leaves of her native bowers rustling in the gale. then she thought she was wandering through the groves of paradise, and heard the angel voice of her child singing amid the flowers. ozora was familiar with all the medicinal arts and cooling drinks of her country. she possessed not only native gentleness, but skill and experience as a nurse. she was an orphan, and the death-bed of her mother had witnessed her filial tenderness and care. she was an idolater, but she loved adellan, and for his sake would gladly embrace the faith of the european. adellan was actuated by a twofold motive in bringing her to the sick-bed of mary; one was, that she might exercise a healing influence on the invalid, and another, that she might witness the triumphs of christian faith over disease, sorrow, and death. but mary was not doomed to make her grave in the stranger's land. the fever left her burning veins, and her mind recovered its wonted clearness. she was able to rise from her couch, and sit in the door of the cabin, and feel the balmy air flowing over her pallid brow. she sat thus one evening, supported by the arm of her husband, in the soft light of the sinking sunbeams. adellan and her gentle nurse were seated near. the eyes of all were simultaneously turned to a small green mound, beneath the shade of a spreading cedar, and they thought of the fairy form that had so often sported around them in the twilight hour. "oh! not there," cried mary, raising her glistening eyes from that lonely grave to heaven--"not there must we seek our child. even now doth her glorified spirit behold the face of our father in heaven. she is folded in the arms of him, who, when on earth, took little children to his bosom and blessed them. and i, my beloved husband--a little while and ye shall see my face no more. though the almighty has raised me from that couch of pain, there is something tells me," continued she, laying her hand on her heart, "that my days are numbered; and when my ashes sleep beside that grassy bed, mourn not for me, but think that i have gone to my father and your father, to my god and your god." then, leaning her head on her husband's shoulder, she added, in a low trembling voice--"to my child and your child." it was long before mr. m---- spoke; at length he turned to adellan, and addressed him in the amharic language: "my brother! it must be that i leave you. the air of her native climes may revive this drooping flower. i will bear her back to her own home, and, if god wills it, i will return and finish the work he has destined me to do." mary clasped her hands with irrepressible rapture as he uttered these words; then, as if reproaching herself for the momentary selfishness, she exclaimed, "and leave the poor abyssinians!" "i will leave them with adellan," he answered, "whom i firmly believe god has chosen, to declare his unsearchable riches to this portion of the gentile world. the seed that has been sown has taken root, and the sacred plant will spring up and increase, till the birds of the air nestle in its branches, and the beasts of the forest lie down beneath its shade. adellan, does your faith waver?" "never," answered the youth, with energy, "but the arm of my brother is weak. let me go with him on his homeward journey, and help him to support the being he loves. i shall gather wisdom from his lips, and knowledge from the glimpse of a christian land. then shall i be more worthy to minister to my brethren the word of life." a sudden thought flashed into the mind of the missionary. "and would you, adellan," asked he, "would you indeed wish to visit our land, and gain instruction in our institutions of learning, that you might return to enrich your country with the best treasures of our own? you are very young, and might be spared awhile now, that you may be fitted for more extensive usefulness hereafter." adellan's ardent eye told more expressively than words could utter, the joy which filled his soul at this proposition. "too happy to follow you," cried he; "how can i be sufficiently grateful for an added blessing?" ozora, who had listened to the conversation, held in her own language, with intense interest, here turned her eyes upon adellan, with a look of piercing reproach, and suddenly rising, left the cabin. "poor girl!" exclaimed mary, as adellan, with a saddened countenance, followed the steps of ozora; "how tenderly has she nursed me, and what is the recompense she meets? we are about to deprive her of the light that gladdens her existence. she has not yet anchored her hopes on the rock of ages, and where else can the human heart find refuge, when the wild surges of passion sweep over it!" "adellan is in the hands of an all-wise and all-controlling power," answered the missionary, thoughtfully; "the tears of ozora may be necessary to prove the strength of his resolution; if so, they will not fall in vain." a few weeks after, everything being in readiness for the departure of the missionary and his family, he bade farewell to the abyssinians, who crowded round his door to hear his parting words. he took them with him to the hillside, and, under the shadow of the odoriferous trees, and the covering of the heavens, he addressed them with a solemnity and fervour adapted to the august temple that surrounded him. his deep and sweet-toned voice rolled through the leafy colonnades and verdant aisles, like the rich notes of an organ in some ancient cathedral. the amharic language, soft and musical in itself, derived new melody from the lips of mr. m----. "and now," added he, in conclusion, "i consign you to the guardianship of a gracious and long-suffering god. forget not the words i have just delivered unto you, for remember they will rise up in judgment against you in that day when we shall meet face to face before the bar of eternal justice. this day has the gospel been preached in your ears. every tree that waves its boughs over your heads, every flower that embalms the atmosphere, and every stream that flows down into the valley, will bear witness that the hallowed name of the redeemer has been breathed in these shades, and promises of mercy so sweet that angels stoop down from heaven to listen to the strains that have been offered, free, free as the very air you inhale. i go, my friends, but should i never return, this place will be for ever precious to my remembrance. it contains the ashes of my child. that child was yielded up in faith to its maker, and the spot where it sleeps is, therefore, holy ground. will ye not guard it from the foot of the stranger, and the wild beast of the mountain? let the flower of the hills bloom ungathered upon it, and the dew of heaven rest untrodden on its turf, till he, who is the resurrection and the life, shall appear, and the grave give back its trust." he paused, overpowered by the strength of his emotions, and the sobs of many of his auditors attested the sympathy of these untutored children of nature. he came down from the elevated position on which he had been standing, and taking the hand of adellan, led him to the place he had just occupied. the people welcomed him with shouts, for it was the first time he had presented himself in public, to declare the change in his religious creed, and such was the character he had previously obtained for sanctity and devotion, they looked upon him with reverence, notwithstanding his youth. he spoke at first with diffidence and agitation, but gathering confidence as he proceeded, he boldly and eloquently set forth and defended the faith he had embraced. that young, enthusiastic preacher would have been a novel spectacle to an european audience, as well as that wild, promiscuous assembly. his long, white robes, girded about his waist, according to the custom of his country, his black, floating hair, large, lustrous eyes, and dark but now glowing complexion, formed a striking contrast with the sable garments, pallid hue, and subdued expression of the european minister. they interrupted him with tumultuous shouts, and when he spoke of his intended departure and attempted to bid them farewell, their excitement became so great, he was compelled to pause, for his voice strove in vain to lift itself above the mingled sounds of grief and indignation. "i leave you, my brethren," cried he, at length, "only to return more worthy to minister unto you. my brother will open my path to the temples of religion and knowledge. he needs my helping arm in bearing his sick through the lonely desert and over the deep sea--what do i not owe him? i was a stranger and he took me in; i was naked and he clothed me; hungry and he fed me, thirsty and he gave me drink; and more than all, he has given me to eat the bread of heaven, and water to drink from the wells of salvation. oh! next to god, he is my best friend and yours." the shades of night began to fall, before the excited crowd were all dispersed, and mr. m----, and adellan were left in tranquillity. mary had listened to the multitudinous sounds, with extreme agitation. she reproached herself for allowing her husband to withdraw from the scene of his missionary labours out of tenderness for her. she thought it would be better for her to die and be laid by her infant's grave, than the awakened minds of these half pagan, half jewish people, be allowed to relapse into their ancient idolatries. when the clods of the valley were once laid upon her breast, her slumbers would not be less sweet because they were of the dust of a foreign land. thus she reasoned with her husband, who, feeling that her life was a sacred trust committed to his care, and that it was his first duty to guard it from danger, was not moved from his purpose by her tearful entreaties. they were to depart on the following morning. that night adellan sat with ozora by the side of a fountain, that shone like a bed of liquid silver in the rising moonbeams. nature always looks lovely in the moonlight, but it seemed to the imagination of adellan he had never seen her clothed with such resplendent lustre as at this moment, when every star shone with a farewell ray, and every bough, as it sparkled in the radiance, whispered a melancholy adieu. ozora sat with her face bent over the fountain, which lately had often been fed by her tears. her hair, which she had been accustomed to braid with oriental care, hung dishevelled over her shoulders. her whole appearance presented the abandonment of despair. almost every night since his contemplated departure, had adellan followed her to that spot, and mingled the holiest teachings of religion with the purest vows of love. he had long loved ozora, but he had struggled with the passion, as opposed to that dedication of himself to heaven, he had contemplated in the gloom of his conventual life. now enlightened by the example of the missionary, and the evangelical principles he had embraced, he believed christianity sanctioned and hallowed the natural affections of the heart. he no longer tried to conquer his love, but to make it subservient to higher duties. mary, grieved at the sorrow of ozora, would have gladly taken her with her, but adellan feared her influence. he knew he would be unable to devote himself so entirely to the eternal truths he was one day to teach to others, if those soft and loving eyes were always looking into the depths of his heart, to discover their own image there. he resisted the proposition, and mr. m---- applauded the heroic resolution. but now adellan was no hero; he was a young, impassioned lover, and the bitterness of parting pressed heavily on his soul. "promise me, ozora," repeated he, "that when i am gone, you will never return to the idolatrous worship you have abjured. promise me, that you will never kneel to any but the one, invisible god, and that this blessed book, which i give you, as a parting pledge, shall be as a lamp to your feet and a light to your path. oh! should you forget the faith you have vowed to embrace, and should i, when i come back to my country, find you an alien from god, i should mourn, i should weep tears of blood over your fall; but you could never be the wife of adellan. the friend of his bosom must be a christian." "i cannot be a christian," sobbed the disconsolate girl, "for i love you better than god himself, and i am still an idolater. oh! adellan, you are dearer to me than ten thousand worlds, and yet you are going to leave me." the grief she had struggled to restrain, here burst its bounds. like the unchastened daughters of those ardent climes, she gave way to the wildest paroxysms of agony. she threw herself on the ground, tore out her long raven locks, and startled the silence of night by her wild, hysterical screams. adellan in vain endeavoured to soothe and restore her to reason; when, finding his caresses and sympathy worse than unavailing, he knelt down by her side, and lifting his hands above her head, prayed to the almighty to forgive her for her sacrilegious love. as the stormy waves are said to subside, when the wing of the halcyon passes over them, so were the tempestuous emotions that raged in the bosom of this unhappy maiden, lulled into calmness by the holy breath of prayer. as adellan continued his deep and fervent aspirations, a sense of the omnipresence, the omnipotence and holiness of god stole over her. she raised her weeping eyes, and as the moonbeams glittered on her tears, they seemed but the glances of his all-seeing eye. as the wind sighed through the branches, she felt as if _his_ breath were passing by her, in mercy and in love. filled with melting and penitential feelings, she lifted herself on her knees, by the side of adellan, and softly whispered a response to every supplication for pardon. "oh! father, i thank thee for this hour!" exclaimed adellan, overpowered by so unlooked-for a change, and throwing his arms around her, he wept from alternate ecstasy and sorrow. let not the feelings of adellan be deemed too refined and exalted for the region in which he dwelt. from early boyhood he had been kept apart from the companionship of the ruder throng; his adolescence had been passed in the shades of a convent, in study, and deep observation, and more than all he was a christian; and wherever christianity sheds its pure and purifying light, it imparts an elevation, a sublimity to the character and the language, which princes, untaught of god, may vainly emulate. the morning sunbeam lighted the pilgrims on their way. the slight and feeble frame of mary was borne on a litter by four sturdy ethiopians. seven or eight more accompanied to rest them, when weary, and to bear mr. m---- in the same manner, when overcome by fatigue, for it was a long distance to massowak. their journey led them through a desert wilderness, where they might vainly sigh for the shadow of the rock, or the murmur of the stream. adellan walked in silence by the side of his friend. his thoughts were with the weeping ozora, and of the parting hour by the banks of the moonlighted fountain. mary remembered the grave of her infant, and wept, as she caught a last glimpse of the hill where she had dwelt. the spirit of the missionary was lingering with the beings for whose salvation he had laboured, and he made a solemn covenant with his own soul, that he would return with adellan, if god spared his life, and leave his mary under the shelter of the paternal roof, if she indeed lived to behold it. on the third day, mr. m---- was overcome with such excessive languor, he was compelled to be borne constantly by the side of his wife, unable to direct, or to exercise any controlling influence on his followers. adellan alone, unwearied and energetic, presided over all, encouraged, sustained, and soothed. he assisted the bearers in upholding their burdens, and whenever he put his shoulder to the litter, the invalids immediately felt with what gentleness and steadiness they were supported. when they reached the desert, and camels were provided for the travellers, they were still often obliged to exchange their backs for the litter, unable long to endure the fatigue. adellan was still unwilling to intrust his friends to any guidance but his own. he travelled day after day through the burning sands, animating by his example the exhausted slaves, and personally administering to the wants of the sufferers. when they paused for rest or refreshment, before he carried the cup to his own parched lips, he brought it to theirs. it was his hand that bathed with water their feverish brows, and drew the curtain around them at night, when slumber shed its dews upon their eyelids. and often, in the stillness of the midnight, when the tired bearers and weary camels rested and slept after their toils, the voice of adellan rose sweet and solemn in the loneliness of the desert, holding communion with the high and holy one who inhabiteth eternity. there was a boy among the negro attendants, who was the object of adellan's peculiar kindness. he seemed feeble and incapable of bearing long fatigue, and at the commencement of the journey adellan urged him to stay behind, but he expressed so strong a desire to follow the good missionary, he could not refuse his request. he wore his face muffled in a handkerchief, on account of some natural deformity, a circumstance which exposed him to the derision of his fellow slaves, but which only excited the sympathy of the compassionate adellan. often, when the boy, panting and exhausted, would throw himself for breath on the hot sand, adellan placed him on his own camel and compelled him to ride. and when they rested at night, and adellan thought every one but himself wrapped in slumber, he would steal towards him, and ask him to tell him something out of god's book, that he, adellan, had been reading. it was a delightful task to adellan to pour the light of divine truth into the dark mind of this poor negro boy, and every moment he could spare from his friends was devoted to his instruction. one evening, after a day of unusual toil and exertion, they reached one of those verdant spots, called the oases of the desert; and sweet to the weary travellers was the fragrance and coolness of this green resting-place. they made their tent under the boughs of the flowering acacia, whose pure white blossoms diffused their odours even over the sandy waste they had passed. the date tree, too, was blooming luxuriantly there, and, more delicious than all, the waters of a fountain, gushing out of the rock, reminded them how god had provided for the wants of his ancient people in the wilderness. the missionary and his wife were able to lift their languid heads, and drink in the freshness of the balmy atmosphere. all seemed invigorated and revived but the negro boy, who lay drooping on the ground, and refused the nourishment which the others eagerly shared. "what is the matter, my boy?" asked adellan, kindly, and taking his hand in his, was struck by its burning heat. "you are ill," continued he, "and have not complained." he made a pallet for him under the trees, and they brought him a medicinal draught. seeing him sink after a while in a deep sleep, adellan's anxiety abated. but about midnight he was awakened by the moanings of the boy, and bending over him, laid his hand on his forehead. the sufferer opened his eyes, and gasped, "water, or i die!" adellan ran to the fountain, and brought the water immediately to his lips. then kneeling down, he removed the muffling folds of the handkerchief from his face, and unbound the same from his head, that he might bathe his temples in the cooling stream. the moon shone as clearly and resplendently as when it beamed on ozora's parting tears, and lighted up with an intense radiance the features of the apparently expiring negro. adellan was astonished that no disfiguring traces appeared on the regular outline of his youthful face; his hair, too, instead of the woolly locks of the ethiopian, was of shining length and profusion, and as adellan's hand bathed his brow with water, he discovered beneath the jetty dye of his complexion the olive skin of the abyssinian. "ozora!" exclaimed adellan, throwing himself in agony by her side; "ozora, you have followed me, but to die!" "forgive me, adellan," cried she, faintly; "it was death to live without you; but oh! i have found everlasting life, in dying at your feet. your prayers have been heard in the desert, and i die in the faith and the hope of a christian." adellan's fearful cry had roused the slumberers of the tent. mr. m----, and mary, herself, gathering strength from terror, drew near the spot. what was her astonishment to behold her beloved nurse, supported in the arms of adellan, and seemingly breathing out her last sighs! every restorative was applied, but in vain. the blood was literally burning up in her veins. this last fatal proof of her love and constancy wrung the heart of adellan. he remembered how often he had seen her slender arms bearing the litter, her feet blistering in the sands; and when he knew, too, that it was for the love of him she had done this, he felt as if he would willingly lay down his life for hers. but when he saw her mind, clear and undimmed by the mists of disease, bearing its spontaneous testimony to the truth of that religion which reserves its most glorious triumphs for the dying hour, he was filled with rejoicing emotions. "my saviour found me in the wilderness," cried she, "while listening to the prayers of adellan. his head was filled with dew, and his locks were heavy with the drops of night. oh, adellan, there is a love stronger than that which has bound my soul to yours. in the strength of that love i am willing to resign you. i feel there is forgiveness even for me." she paused, and lifting her eyes to heaven, with a serene expression, folded her hands on her bosom. the missionary saw that her soul was about to take its flight, and kneeling over her, his feeble voice rose in prayer and adoration. while the holy incense was ascending up to heaven, her spirit winged its upward way, so peacefully and silently, that adellan still clasped her cold hand, unconscious that he was clinging to dust and ashes. they made her grave beneath the acacia, whose blossoms were strewed over her dying couch. they placed a rude stone at the head, and the hand of adellan carved upon it this simple, but sublime inscription, "i know that my redeemer liveth." the name of _ozora_, on the opposite side, was all the memorial left in the desert, of her whose memory was immortal in the bosom of her friends. but there was a grandeur in that lonely grave which no marble monument could exalt. it was the grave of a christian: "and angels with their silver wings o'ershade the ground now sacred by her relics made." it would be a weary task to follow the travellers through every step of their journey. adellan still continued his unwearied offices to his grateful and now convalescent friends, but his spirit mourned for his lost ozora. when, however, he set foot on christian land, he felt something of the rapture that swelled the breast of columbus on the discovery of a new world. it was, indeed, a new world to him, and almost realized his dreams of paradise. the friends of mary and her husband welcomed him, as the guardian angel who had watched over their lives in the desert, at the hazard of his own; and christians pressed forward to open their hearts and their homes to their abyssinian brother. mary, once more surrounded by the loved scenes of her youth, and all the appliances of kindred love, and all the medicinal balms the healing art can furnish, slowly recovered her former strength. all that female gratitude and tenderness could do, she exerted to interest and enliven the feelings of adellan, when, after each day of intense study, he returned to their domestic circle. the rapidity with which he acquired the german language was extraordinary. he found it, however, only a key, opening to him treasures of unknown value. mr. m---- feared the effects of his excessive application, and endeavoured to draw him from his books and studies. he led him abroad amongst the works of nature, and the wonders of art, and tried to engage him in the athletic exercises the youth of the country delighted in. whatever adellan undertook he performed with an ardour which no obstacles could damp, no difficulties subdue. knowledge, purified by religion, was now the object of his existence; and, while it was flowing in upon his mind, from such various sources, finding, instead of its capacities being filled, that they were constantly enlarging and multiplying, and the fountains, though overflowing, still undrained: and knowing too, that it was only for a short time that his spirit could drink in these immortal influences, and that through them he was to fertilize and refresh, hereafter, the waste places of his country, he considered every moment devoted to relaxation alone, as something robbed from eternity. one day, adellan accompanied a number of young men belonging to the institution in which he was placed, in an excursion for the collection of minerals. their path led them through the wildest and most luxuriant country, through scenes where nature rioted in all its virgin bloom; yet, where the eye glancing around, could discern the gilding traces of art, the triumphs of man's creating hand. adellan, who beheld in every object, whether of nature or of art, the manifestation of god's glory, became lost in a trance of ecstasy. he wandered from his companions. he knelt down amid the rocks, upon the green turf, and on the banks of the streams. in every place he found an altar, and consecrated it with the incense of prayer and of praise. the shades of night fell around him, before he was conscious that the sun had declined. the dews fell heavy on his temples, that still throbbed with the heat and the exertions of the day. he returned chilled and exhausted. the smile of rapture yet lingered on his lips, but the damps of death had descended with the dews of night, and from that hour consumption commenced its slow but certain progress. when his friends became aware of his danger, they sought by every possible means to ward off the fatal blow. mr. m---- induced him to travel, that he might wean him from his too sedentary habits. he carried him with him, through the magnificent valleys of switzerland, those valleys, embosomed in hills, on whose white and glittering summits adellan imagined he could see the visible footprints of the deity. "up to the hills," he exclaimed, with the sweet singer of israel, in a kind of holy rapture, "up to the hills do i lift mine eyes, from whence cometh my help." when returning, they lingered on the lovely banks of the rhine, his devout mind, imbued with sacred lore, recalled "the green fields and still waters," where the shepherd of israel gathered his flock. the languid frame of adellan seemed to have gathered strength, and his friends rejoiced in their reviving hopes; but "he who seeth not as man seeth," had sent forth his messenger to call him to his heavenly home. gentle was the summons, but adellan knew the voice of his divine master, and prepared to obey. one night, as he reclined in his easy chair, and mr. m---- was seated near, he stretched out his hand towards him, with a bright and earnest glance: "my brother," said he, "i can now say from my heart, the will of god be done. it was hard to give up my beloved abyssinians, but i leave them in the hands of one who is strong to deliver, and mighty to save. you, too, will return, when you have laid this wasted frame in its clay-cold bed." "i made a vow unto my god," answered mr. m----, "that i would see them again, and that vow shall not be broken. when they ask me the parting words of adellan, tell me what i shall utter." "tell them," exclaimed adellan, raising himself up, with an energy that was startling, and in a voice surprisingly clear, while the glow of sensibility mingled with the hectic fires that burned upon his cheek; "tell them that the only reflection that planted a thorn in my dying pillow, was the sorrow i felt that i was not permitted to declare to them once more, the eternal truths of the gospel. tell them, with the solemnities of death gathering around me, in the near prospect of judgment and eternity, i declare my triumphant faith in that religion your lips revealed unto me, that religion which was sealed by the blood of jesus, and attested by the spirit of almighty god; and say, too, that had i ten thousand lives, and for every life ten thousand years to live, i should deem them all too short to devote to the glory of god, and the service of my redeemer." he sunk back exhausted in his chair, and continued, in a lower voice, "you will travel once more through the desert, but the hand of adellan will no longer minister to the friend he loves. remember him when you pass the grave of ozora, and hallow it once more with the breath of prayer. she died for love of me, but she is gone to him who loved her _as man never loved_. her spirit awaits my coming." the last tear that ever dimmed the eye of adellan here fell to the memory of ozora. it seemed a parting tribute to the world he was about to leave. his future hours were gilded by anticipations of the happiness of heaven, and by visions of glory too bright, too holy for description. he died in the arms of the missionary, while the hand of mary wiped from his brow the dews of dissolution. their united tears embalmed the body of one, who, had he lived, would have been a burning and a shining light, in the midst of the dark places of the earth; one, who combined in his character, notwithstanding his youth and his country, the humility of the publican, the ardour of peter, the love of john, and the faith and zeal of the great apostle of the gentiles. perhaps it should rather be said, with the reverence due to these holy evangelists and saints, that a large portion of their divine attributes animated the spirit of the abyssinian neophyte. the village anthem. "what is that bell ringing for?" asked villeneuve of the waiter, who was leaving the room. "for church," was the reply. "for church! oh! is it sunday? i had forgotten it. i did not think there was a church in this little village." "yes, indeed," answered the boy, his village pride taking the alarm, "and a very handsome one, too. just look out at that window, sir. do you see that tall, white steeple, behind those big trees there? that is the church, and i know there is not a better preacher in the whole world than parson blandford. he was never pestered for a word yet, and his voice makes one feel so warm and tender about the heart, it does one good to hear him." villeneuve cast a languid glance through the window, from the sofa on which he was reclining, thinking that parson blandford was very probably some old hum-drum, puritanical preacher, whose nasal twang was considered melodious by the vulgar ears which were accustomed to listen to him. dull as his present position was, he was resolved to keep it, rather than inflict upon himself such an intolerable bore. the boy, who had mounted his hobby, continued, regardless of the unpropitious countenance of his auditor. "then there is miss grace blandford, his daughter, plays so beautifully on the organ! you never heard such music in your life. when she sits behind the red curtains, and you can't see anything but the edge of her white skirt below, i can't help thinking there's an angel hid there; and when she comes down and takes her father's arm, to walk out of church, she looks like an angel, sure enough." villeneuve's countenance brightened. allowing for all the hyperbole of ignorance, there were two positive things which were agreeable in themselves--music and a young maiden. he rose from the sofa, threw aside his dressing-gown, called for his coat and hat, and commanded the delighted boy to direct him to the church, the nearest way. his guide, proud of ushering in such a handsome and aristocratic-looking stranger, conducted him to one of the most conspicuous seats in the broad aisle, in full view of the pulpit and the orchestra, and villeneuve's first glance was towards the red curtains, which were drawn so close, not even a glimpse of white was granted to the beholder. he smiled at his own curiosity. very likely this angel of the village boy was a great red-faced, hard-handed country girl, who had been taught imperfectly to thrum the keys of an instrument, and consequently transformed by rustic simplicity into a being of superior order. no matter, any kind of excitement was better than the ennui from which he had been aroused. a low, sweet, trembling prelude stole on his ear. "surely," thought he, "no vulgar fingers press those keys--that is the key-note of true harmony." he listened, the sound swelled, deepened, rolled through the arch of the building, and sank again with such a melting cadence, the tears involuntarily sprang into his eyes. ashamed of his emotions, he leaned his head on his hand, and yielded unseen to an influence, which, coming over him so unexpectedly, had all the force of enchantment. the notes died away, then swelled again in solemn accompaniment with the opening hymn. the hymn closed with the melodious vibrations of the instrument, and for a few moments there was a most profound silence. "the lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before him:" uttered a deep, solemn voice. villeneuve raised his head and gazed upon the speaker. he was a man rather past the meridian of life, but wearing unmarred the noblest attributes of manhood. his brow was unwrinkled, his piercing eye undimmed, and his tall figure majestic and unbowed. the sun inclined from the zenith, but the light, the warmth, the splendour remained in all their power, and the hearts of the hearers radiated that light and warmth, till an intense glow pervaded the assembly, and the opening words of the preacher seemed realized. villeneuve was an infidel; he looked upon the rites of christianity as theatrical machinery, necessary, perhaps, towards carrying on the great drama of life, and when the springs were well adjusted and oiled, and the pulleys worked without confusion, and every appearance of art was kept successfully in the background, he was willing to sit and listen as he would to a fine actor when reciting the impassioned language of the stage. "this man is a very fine actor," was his first thought, "he knows his part well. it is astonishing, however, that he is willing to remain in such a limited sphere--with such an eye and voice--such flowing language and graceful elocution, he might make his fortune in any city. it is incomprehensible that he is content to linger in obscurity." thus villeneuve speculated, till his whole attention became absorbed in the sermon, which as a literary production was exactly suited to his fastidiously refined taste. the language was simple, the sentiments sublime. the preacher did not bring himself down to the capacities of his auditors, he lifted them to his, he elevated them, he spiritualized them. he was deeply read in the mysteries of the human heart, and he knew that however ignorant it might be of the truths of science and the laws of metaphysics, it contained many a divine spark which only required an eliciting touch to kindle. he looked down into the eyes upturned to him in breathless interest, and he read in them the same yearnings after immortality, the same reverence for the infinite majesty of the universe, which moved and solemnized his own soul. his manner was in general calm and affectionate, yet there were moments when he swept the chords of human passion with a master's hand, and the hectic flush of his cheek told of the fire burning within. "he is a scholar, a metaphysician, a philosopher, and a gentleman," said villeneuve to himself, at the close of his discourse. "if he is an actor, he is the best one i ever saw. he is probably an enthusiast, who, if he had lived in ancient days, would have worn the blazing crown of martyrdom. i should like to see his daughter." the low notes of the organ again rose, as if in response to his heart's desire. this time there was the accompaniment of a new female voice. the congregation rose as the words of the anthem began. it was a kind of doxology, the chorus terminating with the solemn expression--"for ever and ever." the hand of the organist no longer trembled. it swept over the keys, as if the enthusiasm of an exalted spirit were communicated to every pulse and sinew. the undulating strains rolled and reverberated till the whole house was filled with the waves of harmony. but high, and clear, and sweet above those waves of harmony and the mingling voices of the choir, rose that single female voice, uttering the burden of the anthem, "for ever and ever." villeneuve closed his eyes. he was oppressed by the novelty of his sensations. where was he? in a simple village church, listening to the minstrelsy of a simple village maiden, and he had frequented the magnificent cathedral of notre dame, been familiar there with the splendid ritual of the national religion, and heard its sublime chantings from the finest choirs in the universe. why did those few monotonous words so thrill through every nerve of his being? that eternity which he believed was the dream of fanaticism, seemed for a moment an awful reality, as the last notes of the pæan echoed on his ear. when the benediction was given, and the congregation was leaving the church, he watched impatiently for the foldings of the red curtains to part, and his heart palpitated when he saw a white-robed figure glide through the opening and immediately disappear. the next minute she was seen at the entrance of the church, evidently waiting the approach of her father, who, surrounded by his people, pressing on each other to catch a kindly greeting, always found it difficult to make his egress. as she thus stood against a column which supported the entrance, villeneuve had a most favourable opportunity of scanning her figure, which he did with a practised and scrutinizing glance. he was accustomed to parisian and english beauty, and comparing grace blandford to the high-born and high-bred beauties of the old world, she certainly lost in the comparison. she was very simply dressed, her eyes were downcast, and her features were in complete repose. still there was a quiet grace about her that pleased him--a blending of perfect simplicity and perfect refinement that was extraordinary. mr. blandford paused as he came down the aisle. he had noticed the young and interesting looking stranger, who listened with such devout attention to all the exercises. he had heard, for in a country village such things are rapidly communicated, that there was a traveller at the inn, a foreigner and an invalid--two strong claims to sympathy and kindness. the pallid complexion of the young man was a sufficient indication of the latter, and the air of high breeding which distinguished him was equal to a letter of recommendation in his behalf. the minister accosted him with great benignity, and invited him to accompany him home. "you are a stranger," said he, "and i understand an invalid. perhaps you will find the quiet of our household more congenial this day than the bustle of a public dwelling." villeneuve bowed his delighted acceptance of this most unexpected invitation. he grasped the proffered hand of the minister with more warmth than he was aware of, and followed him to the door where grace yet stood, with downcast eyes. "my daughter," said mr. blandford, drawing her hand through his arm. this simple introduction well befitted the place where it was made, and was acknowledged by her with a gentle bending of the head and a lifting of the eyes, and they walked in silence from the portals of the church. what a change had the mere uplifting of those veiled lids made in her countenance! two lines of a noble bard flashed across his memory-- "the light of love, the purity of grace, the mind, the music breathing from her face." then another line instantaneously succeeded-- "and oh! that eye is in itself a soul." there was one thing which disappointed him. he did not notice a single blush flitting over her fair cheek. he feared she was deficient in sensibility. it was so natural to blush at a stranger's greeting. he did not understand the nature of her feelings. he could not know that one so recently engaged in sublime worship of the creator, must be lifted above fear or confusion in the presence of the creature. villeneuve had seen much of the world, and understood the art of adaptedness, in the best sense of the word. he could conform to the circumstances in which he might be placed with grace and ease, and though he was too sincere to express sentiments he did not feel, he felt justified in concealing those he did feel, when he knew their avowal would give pain or displeasure. it was a very singular way for him to pass the sabbath. the guest of a village pastor, breathing an atmosphere redolent of the sweets of piety, spirituality, and holy love. the language of levity and flattery, so current in society, would be considered profanation here; and a conviction deeply mortifying to his vanity forced itself upon him, that all those accomplishments for which he had been so much admired, would gain him no favour with the minister and his daughter. he could not forbear expressing his surprise at the location mr. blandford had chosen. "i would not insult you by flattery," said villeneuve, ingenuously, "but i am astonished you do not seek a wider sphere of usefulness. it is impossible that the people here should appreciate your talents, or estimate the sacrifices you make to enlighten and exalt them." mr. blandford smiled as he answered--"you think my sphere too small, while i tremble at the weight of responsibility i have assumed. if i have the talents which you kindly ascribe to me, i find here an ample field for their exercise. there are hundreds of minds around me that mingle their aspirations with mine, and even assist me in the heavenward journey. in a larger, more brilliant circle, i might perhaps gain a more sounding name and exercise a wider influence, but that influence would not be half as deep and heartfelt. i was born and bred in a city, and know the advantages such a life can offer; but i would not exchange the tranquillity of this rural residence, the serenity of my pastoral life, the paternal influence i wield over this secluded village, and the love and reverence of its upright and pure-minded inhabitants, for the splendid sinecure of the archbishops of our motherland." villeneuve was astonished to see a man so nobly endowed, entirely destitute of the principle of ambition. he wanted to ask him how he had thus trampled under his feet the honours and distinctions of the world. "you consider ambition a vice, then?" said he. "you are mistaken," replied mr. blandford, "if you believe me destitute of ambition. i am one of the most ambitious men in the world. but i aspire after honours that can resist the mutations of time, and partake of the imperishability of their great bestower." there was a silence of some moments, during which mr. blandford looked upward, and the eyes of grace followed her father's with kindling ray. "but, your daughter," continued villeneuve, "can she find contentment in a situation for which nature and education have so evidently unfitted her?" "let grace answer for herself," said mr. blandford, mildly; "i have consulted her happiness as well as my own, in the choice i have made." villeneuve was delighted to see a bright blush suffuse the modest cheek of grace--but it was the blush of feeling, not of shame. "i love the country rather than the town," said she, "for i prefer nature to art, meditation to action, and the works of god to the works of man; and in the constant companionship of my father i find more than contentment--i find happiness, joy." villeneuve sighed--he felt the isolation of his own destiny. the last of his family, a traveller in a strange land, in pursuit of health; which had been sacrificed in the too eager pursuit of the pleasures of this world, without one hope to link him to another. affluent and uncontrolled, yet sated and desponding, he envied the uncorrupted taste of the minister's daughter. he would have bartered all his wealth for the enthusiasm that warmed the character of her father. that night he was awakened by a singular dream. he thought he was alone in the horror of thick darkness. it seemed that he was in the midst of infinity, and yet chained to one dark spot, an immovable speck in the boundless ocean of space. "must i remain here for ever?" he cried in agony, such as is only known in dreams, when the spirit's nerves are all unsheathed. "for ever and ever," answered a sweet, seraphic voice, high above his head, and looking up he beheld grace, reclining on silver-bosomed clouds, so distant she appeared like a star in the heavens, yet every lineament perfectly defined. "am i then parted from thee for ever?" exclaimed he, endeavouring to stretch out his arms towards the luminous point. "for ever and ever," responded the same heavenly accents, mournfully echoing till they died away, and the vision fled. he was not superstitious, but he did not like the impression of his dream. he rose feverish and unrefreshed, and felt himself unable to continue his journey. mr. blandford came to see him. he was deeply interested in the young stranger, and experienced the pleasure which every sensitive and intellectual being feels in meeting with kindred sensibility and intellect. the intimacy, thus commenced, continued to increase, and week after week passed away, and villeneuve still lingered near the minister and his daughter. his health was invigorated, his spirits excited by the novel yet powerful influences that surrounded him. it was impossible, in the course of this deepening intimacy, that the real sentiments of villeneuve should remain concealed, for hypocrisy formed no part of his character. mr. blandford, relying on the reverence and affection villeneuve evidently felt for him, believed it would be an easy task to interest him in the great truths of religion. and it was an easy task to interest him, particularly when the father's arguments were backed by the daughter's persuasive eloquence; but it was a most difficult one to convince. the prejudices of education, the power of habit, the hardening influence of a worldly life, presented an apparently impenetrable shield against the arrows of divine truth. "i respect, i revere the principles of your religion," villeneuve was accustomed to say at the close of their long and interesting conversations. "i would willingly endure the pangs of death; yea, the agonies of martyrdom, for the possession of a faith like yours. but it is a gift denied to me. i cannot force my belief, nor give a cold assent with my lips to what my reason and my conscience belie." mr. blandford ceased not his efforts, notwithstanding the unexpected resistance he encountered, but grace gradually retired from the conflict, and villeneuve found to his sorrow and mortification that she no longer appeared to rejoice in his society. there was a reserve in her manners which would have excited his resentment, had not the sadness of her countenance touched his heart. sometimes when he met her eye it had an earnest, reproachful, pitying expression, that thrilled to his soul. one evening he came to the parsonage at a later hour than usual. he was agitated and pale. "i have received letters of importance," said he; "i must leave you immediately. i did not know that all my happiness was centered in the intercourse i have been holding with your family, till this summons came." grace, unable to conceal her emotions, rose and left the apartment. villeneuve's eyes followed her with an expression which made her father tremble. he anticipated the scene which followed. "mr. blandford," continued villeneuve, "i love your daughter. i cannot live without her--i cannot depart without an assurance of her love and your approbation." mr. blandford was too much agitated to reply--the blood rushed to his temples, then retreating as suddenly, left his brow and cheek as colourless as marble. "i should have foreseen this," at length he said. "it would have spared us all much misery." "misery!" replied villeneuve, in a startling tone. "yes," replied mr. blandford, "i have been greatly to blame--i have suffered my feelings to triumph over my judgment. villeneuve, i have never met a young man who won upon my affections as you have done. the ingenuousness, ardour, and generosity of your character impelled me to love you. i still love you; but i pity you still more. i can never trust my daughter's happiness in your hands. there is a gulf between you--a wall of separation--high as the heavens and deeper than the foundations of the earth." he paused, and bowed his face upon his hands. the possibility that his daughter's happiness might be no longer in her own keeping, completely overpowered him. villeneuve listened in astonishment and dismay. he, in all the pride of affluence and rank (for noble blood ran in lineal streams through his veins), to be rejected by an obscure village pastor, from mere religious scruples. it was incredible--one moment his eye flashed haughtily on the bending figure before him; the next it wavered, in the apprehension that grace might yield to her father's decision, and seal their final separation. "mr. blandford," cried he, passionately, "i can take my rejection only from your daughter--i have never sought her love unsanctioned by your approbation--i have scorned the guise of a hypocrite, and i have a right to claim this from you. you may destroy _my_ happiness--it is in your power--but tremble lest you sacrifice a daughter's peace." mr. blandford recovered his self-command, as the passions of the young man burst their bounds. he summoned grace into his presence. "i yield to your impetuous desire," said he, "but i would to heaven you had spared me a scene like this. painful as it is, i must remain to be a witness to it." he took his daughter's hand as she entered, and drew her towards him. he watched her countenance while the first vows of love to which she had ever listened were breathed into her ear with an eloquence and a fervour which seemed irresistible, and these were aided by the powerful auxiliary of a most handsome and engaging person, and he trembled as he gazed. her cheek kindled, her eye lighted up with rapture, her heart panted with excessive emotion. she leaned on her father's arm, unable to speak, but looked up in his face with an expression that spoke volumes. "you love him, then, grace," said he mournfully. "oh, my god! forgive me the folly, the blindness, the madness of which i have been guilty!" grace started, as if wakening from a dream. her father's words recalled her to herself--one brief moment of ecstasy had been hers--to be followed, she knew, by hours of darkness and sorrow. the warm glow faded from her cheek, and throwing her arms round her father's neck, she wept unrestrainedly. "she loves me," exclaimed villeneuve; "you yourself witness her emotions--you will not separate us--you will not suffer a cruel fanaticism to destroy us both." "grace," said mr. blandford, in a firm voice, "look up. let not the feelings of a moment, but the principles of a life decide. will you hazard, for the enjoyment of a few fleeting years, the unutterable interests of eternity? will you forsake the master _he_ abjures for the bosom of a stranger? in one word, my daughter, will you wed an infidel?" grace lifted her head, and clasping her hands together, looked fervently upward. "thou art answered," cried mr. blandford, with a repelling motion towards villeneuve. "the god she invokes will give her strength to resist temptation. go, then, most unhappy yet beloved young man--you have chosen your destiny, and we have chosen ours. _you_ live for time. _we_, for eternity. as i said before, there is a deep gulf between us. seek not to drag her down into the abyss into which you would madly plunge. my soul hath wrestled with yours, and you have resisted, though i fought with weapons drawn from heaven's own armory. farewell--our prayers and our tears will follow you." he extended his hand to grasp villeneuve's for the last time, but villeneuve, with every passion excited beyond the power of control, rejected the motion; and, snatching the hand of grace, which hung powerless over her father's shoulder, drew her impetuously towards him. "she loves me," exclaimed he, "and i will never resign her; i swear it by the inexorable power you so blindly worship. perish the religion that would crush the dearest and holiest feelings of the human heart! perish the faith that exults in the sacrifice of nature and of love!" with one powerful arm mr. blandford separated his daughter from the embrace of her lover, and holding him back with the other, commanded him to depart. he was dreadfully agitated, the veins of his temples started out like cords, and his eyes flashed with imprisoned fires. villeneuve writhed for a moment in his unrelaxing grasp, then, reeling backward, sunk upon a sofa. he turned deadly pale, and held his handkerchief to his face. "oh! father! you have killed him!" shrieked grace, springing to his side; "he faints! he bleeds, he dies!" even while grace was speaking, the white handkerchief was crimsoned with blood, the eyes of the young man closed, and he fell back insensible. "just heaven! spare me this curse!" cried mr. blandford. "great god! i have killed them both!" they did indeed look like two murdered victims, for the blood which oozed from the young man's lips not only dyed his own handkerchief and neckcloth, but reddened the white dress of grace and stiffened on her fair locks, as her head drooped unconsciously on his breast. all was horror and confusion in the household. the physician was immediately summoned, who declared that a blood-vessel was ruptured, and that the life of the young man was in the most imminent danger. grace was borne to her own apartment and consigned to the care of some kind neighbours, but mr. blandford remained the whole night by villeneuve's side, holding his hand in his, with his eyes fixed on his pallid countenance, trembling lest every fluttering breath should be his last. about daybreak he opened his eyes, and seeing who was watching so tenderly over him, pressed his hand and attempted to speak, but the doctor commanded perfect silence, assuring him that the slightest exertion would be at the hazard of his life. for two or three days he hovered on the brink of the grave, during which time mr. blandford scarcely left his side, and grace lingered near the threshold of the door, pale and sleepless, the image of despair. one night, when he seemed to be in a deep sleep, mr. blandford knelt by his couch, and in a low voice breathed out his soul in prayer. his vigil had been one long prayer, but he felt that he must find vent in language for the depth and strength of his emotions. he prayed in agony for the life of the young man; for his soul's life. he pleaded, he supplicated; till, language failing, sigh and tears alone bore witness to the strivings of his spirit. "yet, not my will, oh! god!" ejaculated he again, "but thine be done." "amen!" uttered a faint voice. the minister started as if he had heard a voice from the dead. it was villeneuve who spoke, and whose eyes fixed upon him had a most intense and thrilling expression. "your prayer is heard," continued he. "i feel that god is merciful. a ray of divine light illumines my parting hour. let me see grace before i die, that our souls may mingle once on earth, in earnest of their union hereafter." the minister led his daughter to the couch of villeneuve. he joined her hand in his. "my daughter," cried he, "rejoice. i asked for him life. god giveth unto him long life; yea, life for evermore." grace bowed her head on the pale hand that clasped her own, and even in that awful moment, a torrent of joy gushed into her soul. it was the foretaste of an eternal wedlock, and death seemed indeed swallowed up in victory. mr. blandford knelt by his kneeling daughter, and many a time during that night they thought they saw the spirit of villeneuve about to take its upward flight; but he sunk at length into a gentle slumber, and when the doctor again saw him, he perceived a favourable change in his pulse, and told mr. blandford there was a faint hope of his recovery. "with perfect quiet and tender nursing," said he, looking meaningly at grace, "he may yet possibly be saved." the predictions of the excellent physician were indeed fulfilled, for in less than three weeks villeneuve, though still weak and languid, was able to take his seat in the family circle. mr. blandford saw with joy that the faith which he had embraced in what he believed his dying hour, was not abandoned with returning health. he had always relied on the rectitude of his principles, and now, when religion strengthened and sanctified them, he felt it his duty to sanction his union with his daughter. the business which had summoned him so unexpectedly to his native country still remained unsettled, and as the physician prescribed a milder climate, he resolved to try the genial air of france. it was no light sacrifice for mr. blandford to give up his daughter, the sole treasury of his affections, and doom himself to a solitary home; but he did it without murmuring, since he hoped the blessing of heaven would hallow their nuptials. villeneuve promised to return the ensuing year, and restore grace again to her beloved parsonage. the sunday before their departure, grace accompanied her father and husband to the village church. villeneuve saw the boy who had guided him there the first time, standing at the portal. he returned his respectful salutation with a warm grasp of the hand. "he led me to the gate of heaven," thought he; "he shall not go unrewarded." "she will be too proud to play on the organ any more," said the boy to himself, "now that she has married a great man and a foreigner;" but grace ascended the steps as usual, and drew the red curtains closely round her. what the feelings of the musician were, within that sacred sanctuary, as she pressed the keys, probably for the last time, could only be judged from a trembling touch; but at the close of the services, when the same sublime anthem, with the burden "for ever and ever," was sung by the choir, villeneuve recognised the same clear, adoring accents which first fell so thrillingly on his ear. he remembered his dream. it no longer filled him with superstitious horror. it was caused by the workings of his dark and troubled mind. now every thought flowed in a new channel; he seemed a new being to himself. "are we indeed united?" said he, while his soul hung on the echoes of that sweet strain, "and shall we be united for ever?" "for ever and ever," returned the voice of the worshipper; and the whole choir, joining in, in a full burst of harmony, repeated again and again, "for ever and ever." the bosom serpent. "i have something to tell you, rosamond," said cecil dormer, taking rosamond clifford on his knee and seating himself in a corner of her mother's sofa--"don't you want to hear a story to-night?" "is it a sure enough story?" asked rosamond, "or a fairy tale, like the arabian nights entertainment?" "every word of it truth," answered cecil--"though some portions of it may 'freeze your young blood.' it is of a little girl, about your own age, and a woman who i verily believe is lucifer himself, dressed in woman's clothes." "you have excited my curiosity," said mrs. clifford closing her book, and taking a seat on the sofa--"for as every story must have a hero, i suspect you are the hero of your own." "please tell it," cried rosamond, with the impatience of a petted child--"i want to hear about the little girl." "well," said cecil, "you recollect how bright and beautiful the moon shone last night, and how peaceful and lovely everything looked. as i was returning to my lodgings, rather later than usual, i passed through a lane, which shortened the distance, though the walk itself was rough and unpleasant. as i was indulging in my old habit of building castles by the moonlight, i heard the most piercing shrieks issuing from a low building to which i was directly opposite. there must be murder going on, thought i, and like the giant, i imagined i could 'smell the blood of an englishman.' i rushed to the door, almost shook it from its hinges in opening it, and found myself in the narrow, dark passage--but, guided by the cries, i soon reached another door, which i opened with as little ceremony, and what do you think i saw?" "were they killing the poor little girl?" cried rosamond, drawing a long breath, her eyes growing larger and darker. "you shall hear. in the centre of the room, there was a large, iron-framed woman, with her right hand extended, brandishing a leathern thong over the head of a pale, shrinking girl, whom she grasped with her left hand, and from whose bare shoulders the blood was oozing through grooves that thong had cut. you may well start and shudder, for a more hideous spectacle never met the eye. she was just in the act of inflicting another lash, when i arrested her arm with a force which must have made it ache to the marrow of the bones, and caused her involuntarily to loosen her hold of her victim, who fell exhausted to the floor. the woman turned on me, with the fury of a wolf interrupted in its bloody banquet." "did she look like the picture of the wolf in little _red riding hood_?" asked rosamond. "yes, a most striking resemblance. her cap was blown back to the crown of her head by the barbarous exercise in which she had been engaged, her tongue actually protruded from her mouth, in the impotence of her rage, and her hard, dull-coloured eyes glowed like red-hot stones in their deep sockets." "'what do you want?' cried she, in a voice between a growl and a scream--'and who are you, and what is your business? you had better take care, or i'll make your back smart, in spite of your fine coat.' "i could not help smiling at the idea of being whipped by a woman, but i answered as sternly as possible--'i want humanity, for i am a man. my business is to snatch this child from your clutches, and to give you up to the city authorities for disturbing the public peace.' "'it is her fault, not mine,' replied she, a little intimidated by my threat--'she always screams and hollows when i whip her, as if i were murdering her, if i but scratch her skin. i gave her a task to do, and told her if she did not do it i would whip her--a good-for-nothing, lazy thing!--mope, mope from morning to night, nothing but mope and fret, while i'm drudging like a slave. i'm not going to support her any longer, if i have to turn her out of doors. she thinks because her mother happened to die here, i must give her a home, forsooth, and she do nothing to pay for it, the ungrateful hussy!'" "oh! don't tell any more about that horrid old woman," interrupted rosamond--"i want to hear about the little girl. what did she do?" "why, she wept and sobbed, and said she did all she could, but that she was sick and weak, and she wished she was in the grave, by her poor mother's side, for there was nobody in the world to take care of her, and she knew not what would become of her. i told her impulsively that _i_ would see she was taken care of, and if that vile woman but lifted her finger against her once more, she should rue it to her heart's core." "there, cecil, you have made a rhyme, so you must wish before you speak again," said rosamond, laughing. "well, i wish that poor, desolate child had a home like this, and a mother like mrs. clifford, and a companion like rosamond--or i wish that i had a kind mother and sister, to whose care i could intrust her, or a sweet gentle wife--and it is the first time in my life i ever breathed that wish--who would be willing to protect and cherish her for my sake." "is she a pretty child?" interrogated mrs. clifford, feelings best known to herself prompting the question. "yes!" repeated rosamond, eagerly, stealing a look in the glass at her own bright eyes, fair complexion, and curling locks--"is she pretty, and was she dressed nice?" "no!" answered cecil, "the only emotion she could excite is that of the deepest pity. she is thin to emaciation, sallow to cadaverousness, and her eyes occupy the greatest portion of her face, they look so large and hollow and wild. she might sit for a miniature representation of famine, disease, or woe. there is something about her, however, that speaks of gentle blood and early gentle breeding. her name at least is aristocratic, and bespeaks a french extraction--eugenia st. clair." rosamond was delighted with the name, and wondered how she could help being pretty with such a beautiful name. "poor child!" said mrs. clifford, "it is a pity she is not handsome, it would add so much to the romance of the adventure." "she is helpless and oppressed," cried cecil warmly, "and if she had the beauty of a cherub her claims would not plead more eloquently than they do in my heart. i should think i were guilty of murder, if i left her in the hands of that virago. it is true i put a _douceur_ in her hand, terrifying her at the same time with the threatenings of the law, but this will only purchase the child's security for a short time. i made a vow to myself, when she clung to me convulsively, as i attempted to leave her, that i would place her in some situation where she could find kindness and protection, till fitting arrangements can be made for her education." "you are indeed romantic," said mrs. clifford, seriously, "and know not what you may entail upon yourself." "i am sorry if you think me so," said cecil, with a look of mortification and disappointment--"i see i have as usual drawn too hasty conclusions. you have been so very kind to me, so kind as to make me forget in your household the absence of domestic ties. i dared to hope you would assist me in my design, and perhaps receive for a little while, under your own roof, this neglected child of orphanage and want. i have no other friend of whom i could ask a similar favour, and if i find i am presuming too much on you, i believe i must try to fall in love and get married, so that i can take my protegée to a home of my own." mrs. clifford had not the most distant idea of permitting him to do so preposterous a thing, for she had long since appropriated him to rosamond, whom as a child he now petted and caressed, and whom, if he continued as he now was, fancy free, as a woman he must inevitably love. when he first mentioned the girl, and expressed such a strong interest in her behalf, she began to tremble in anticipation, fearing a future rival in her views; but the lean, sallow face, half eyes and half bone, just delineated, tranquillized her fears, and as her fears subsided, her pity strengthened. and rosamond, though too young to enter into her mother's speculations, felt her sympathy increased tenfold since she had learned that nature had gone hand in hand with fortune, and been equally niggard of her boons. she was unfortunately an only child, and accustomed to be an object of exclusive attention in the household, from her idolizing mother down to the lowest menial. the guests too easily understood the way to mrs. clifford's heart, and as rosamond was pretty and sprightly, they derived amusement from her little airs and graces. but what flattered her vanity and elated her pride more than anything else, cecil dormer, so distinguished for wealth and accomplishments, so courted and admired, seemed to prefer her company to the society of grown ladies, who had often declared themselves jealous of her, and threatened, when she was a few years older, to shut her up in some convent or cell. thus imperceptibly acquiring an exaggerated idea of her own consequence, and believing the love and admiration of all her inalienable right, had cecil represented the orphan eugenia as beautiful and charming, it is more than probable she would have regarded her as a dreaded encroacher on boundaries which nature had prescribed and fortune guarded--but for the ugly eugenia all her sympathies were enlisted, and she pleaded her mother so warmly to bring her there directly, and take her away from that dreadful woman _for good and all_, that cecil was delighted with her sensibility and benevolence, and rejoiced in such a juvenile coadjutor. the next morning mrs. clifford accompanied dormer to mrs. grundy's, the woman of the leathern thong, of whom she requested the history of eugenia. mrs. grundy was sullen, and but little disposed to be communicative. she declared she knew nothing about her mother, only that she came there as a boarder, with barely sufficient to pay the expenses of her lodgings; that she fell sick soon after, and died, leaving the little girl on her hands, with nothing in the world but a grand name for her support. she expressed no gratitude or pleasure at the prospect of being released from the burthen under which she groaned, but grumbled about her own hard lot, insinuating that idleness and ingratitude were always sure to be rewarded. eugenia's appearance was a living commentary on the truth of dormer's story. her neck and shoulders were streaked with swollen and livid lines, and her large, blood-shot eyes spoke of repressed and unutterable anguish. when told of the new home to which she was to be transferred, that she was to be placed by dormer under the protection of mrs. clifford, and that if she were a good girl, and merited such advantages, she should be sent to school, and be fitted for a respectable station in society--she stood like one bewildered, as if awaking from a dream. then, after taking in the truth of her position, she turned towards dormer with wonderful quickness and even grace of motion, and clasping her hands together, attempted to speak, but burst into a passionate fit of weeping. "there!" cried mrs. grundy, "you see what an ungrateful cretur she is. do what you will for her, she does nothing but cry. well, all i hope, you'll not be sick of your bargain, and be imposing her on me, before the week comes round again. but i give you warning, when once she gets out of my doors, she never darkens them a second time." dormer cast upon her a withering look, but, disdaining to reply to mere vulgarity and insolence, he took the hand of the sobbing child, and motioning to mrs. clifford, they left the room, while mrs. grundy's voice, keeping up a deep thorough bass, followed them till the door of the carriage was closed and the rumbling of the wheels drowned accents which certainly "by distance were made more sweet." eugenia had not been an hour under the roof of mrs. clifford, before a complete transformation was effected, by the supervising care of the proud and busy rosamond. her waiting-maid was put in active employment, in combing, brushing, and perfuming eugenia's neglected hair, her wardrobe was ransacked to supply her fitting apparel, her mother's medicine chest was opened to furnish a healing liniment for her lacerated neck, which was afterwards covered by a neat muslin apron. "now look at yourself in the glass," said rosamond, leading her to a large mirror, which reflected the figure at full length; "don't you look nice?" eugenia cast one glance, then turned away with a deep sigh. the contrast of her own tawny visage and meagre limbs with the fair, bright, round, joyous face and glowing lineaments of rosamond, was too painful; but rosamond loved to linger where a comparison so favourable to herself could be drawn, and her kind feelings to eugenia rose in proportion to the self-complacency of which she was the cause. it was a happy little circle which met that evening around mrs. clifford's table. mrs. clifford was happy in the new claim she had acquired over cecil dormer, and the probable influence it might exert on her future plans. rosamond was happy in enacting the character of lady bountiful, and being praised by cecil dormer; and cecil himself was happy in the consciousness of having performed a benevolent action. eugenia's spirits had been so crushed by sorrow and unkindness, it seemed as if their elastic principle were destroyed. she was gentle, but passive, and appeared oppressed by the strangeness of her situation. yet, as she expressed no vulgar amazement at the elegancies that surrounded her, and had evidently been taught the courtesies of society, mrs. clifford became convinced that dormer was right in his belief that she was of gentle blood, and the fear that rosamond's manners might be injured by contact with an unpolished plebeian subsided. when eugenia was somewhat accustomed to her new situation, mrs. clifford questioned her minutely with regard to her parentage and the peculiar circumstances of her mother's death. she gathered from her broken and timid answers, that her father was wealthy, and that the first years of her life were passed in affluence; that as she grew older her mother seemed unhappy and her father stern and gloomy, why she could not tell; that one night, during her father's absence, her mother had left her home, accompanied by herself and one servant girl, and taken passage in a steamboat for that city. they boarded in obscure lodgings, never went abroad, or received visiters at home. her mother grew paler and sadder. at length the servant girl, who seemed greatly attached to them, died. then she described her mother as being much distressed for money to pay her board, being obliged to part with her watch and jewels, and when these resources failed, thankful to obtain sewing from her landlady, or, through her, from others. as they became more wretched and helpless, they were compelled to go from house to house, where her mother could find employment, till she was taken sick at mrs. grundy's, and never lifted her head again from the pillow so grudgingly supplied. a diamond ring, the most valued and carefully preserved of all her jewels, procured for her the sad privilege of dying there. over her consequent sufferings eugenia only wept, and on this subject mrs. clifford had no curiosity. it was about six years after these events, that cecil dormer again was seated on the sofa in mrs. clifford's drawing-room, but rosamond no longer sat upon his knee. the rosy-cheeked child, with short curling hair, short frock, and ruffled pantalettes, had disappeared, and, in her stead, a maiden with longer and more closely fitting robes, smoother and darker hair, and cheeks of paler and more mutable roses. cecil was unchanged in face, but there was that in his air and manner which spoke a higher degree of elegance and fashion, and a deeper acquaintance with the world. he had passed several years at paris. rosamond had been in the mean time at a distant boarding-school, where eugenia still remained. "what are you going to do with eugenia," asked mrs. clifford, "when she returns? will you not find a young female protegée rather an embarrassing appendage to a bachelor's establishment?" "i have just been thinking of the same thing," replied cecil. "i believe i must still encroach on your kindness as i was wont to do in former days, and request you to receive her under your protection, till some permanent arrangement can be made for her home." "that permanent arrangement must be your own marriage, i should presume," said mrs. clifford; "and indeed, cecil, i wonder that with your fortune and rare endowments, you do not think seriously of assuming the responsibility of a household." "what! the sensible benedict a married man?" cried cecil, with a theatrical start. "i shall lose all my consequence in society--i shall dwindle down into complete insignificance. no--i am not quite old enough to be married yet. i must act, too, as protector and elder brother to rosamond, on her entrance into the world, an office which i promised to perform, when i dandled her a child in my arms." "i am sure rosamond would not wish to interfere with your personal arrangements," replied mrs. clifford, in a tone of pique--she was vexed and astonished at cecil's coldness and indifference. she could not imagine the stoicism which could resist the influence of rosamond's blooming beauty. she had looked forward to their meeting, after an absence of years, as the moment which should realize her long-cherished hopes, and nothing could be more provoking than the nonchalance of cecil, unless it was the warm interest he manifested in everything respecting eugenia. "no, indeed," said rosamond, laughing, "i willingly relinquish every claim on your protection, for eugenia's sake. perhaps some one else will take pity on my forlorn condition, and volunteer as my champion." rosamond laughed, but her voice was unsteady, and a bright blush suffused her cheek. cecil noticed the vibration of her voice, and the sudden crimson rushing even to her temples. her emotion surprised--interested him--was it possible, his marriage was an event capable of awakening such visible agitation? he looked at her more intently. sensibility had added wonderful charms to her features. his vanity was flattered. he had been much admired in the world, and the language of adulation was familiar to his ear. but here was a young girl, in all the freshness and purity of life's vernal season, incapable of artifice, unpractised in the blandishments of society, one too whom he had known and loved as a beautiful child, and caressed with the familiarity of a brother, who was paying him an involuntary homage, as unexpected as it was fascinating. it was surprising what a long train of images swept over his mind, rapid and dazzling as lightning, called up by that deep maiden blush. how delightful it would be to secure the possession of a heart which had never yet known the pulsations of passion, whose master chords were waiting the magic of his touch to respond the deep music of feeling and love! how happy eugenia would be in the constant companionship of her juvenile benefactress, her schoolmate and friend! mrs. clifford, too, had always shown him the tenderness of a mother, and was so interested in his future establishment. strange, what slight circumstances sometimes decide the most solemn, the most important events of life! the opportune blush of rosamond sealed her own destiny, and that of cecil dormer. in less than one month the "sensible benedict" was indeed a married man, the husband of the young and happy rosamond. seldom indeed was there a prouder and happier bride--ambition, pride, vanity, love--all were gratified, and could she have purchased the lease of immortality on earth, she would have asked no other heaven. but, even in the fulness of love's silver honeymoon, a dark cloud rose. the mother, who had lived but for her, and who was basking in the blaze of her daughter's prosperity, without one thought beyond it, was stricken by a sudden and fatal disease, and rosamond's bridal paraphernalia was changed to the garments of mourning. it was her first felt misfortune, for her father died in her infancy; and the blow was terrible. at any other time it would have been so, but now this sudden and startling proof of mortality, in the morn of her wedded felicity, was chill and awful. still there was a consolation in the sympathy of cecil, that disarmed sorrow of its keenest pang, and there were moments, when she felt it even a joy to weep, since her tears were shed on the bosom of a husband so passionately loved. the arrival of eugenia, a few weeks after this melancholy event, turned her feelings into a new channel. cecil had often asked of her a description of eugenia, whose letters, breathing so eloquently of gratitude and affection, and so indicative of enthusiasm and refinement of character, had been a source of pleasure and pride to him. "if her person has improved only half as much as her mind," he would say, "she cannot be ugly." rosamond, who had been her daily associate, was hardly sensible of the gradual transformation that was going on in her external appearance. the strength of her first impression remained, and whenever she thought of eugenia, she remembered her as she stood, pale and hollow-eyed, by her side, before the mirror, which gave back the blooming image of her own juvenile beauty. still, though she felt her immeasurable superiority to this poor, dependent girl, she was agitated at her coming, and regretted the commanding claims she had on her husband's kindness and protection. "can this indeed be eugenia?" exclaimed cecil, in a tone of delighted surprise, when, unbonneted and unshawled, she stood before him, tearful, smiling, and agitated. "rosamond, are we not deceived? tell me, can this indeed be our eugenia?" "it is indeed that eugenia whom your bounty has cherished, the child whom you"--eugenia paused in unconquerable emotion, and clasped her hands together with characteristic fervour and grace. cecil was deeply affected. he recollected the little girl whose emaciated features told a tale of such unutterable woe, whose shoulders were furrowed with bleeding streaks, whose cries of agony had pierced the silence of his evening walk. he contrasted the image drawn on his remembrance, with the figure of exquisite symmetry, the face moulded into the softness of feminine loveliness, the eyes of such rare beauty and lustre, that they actually illuminated her whole countenance. his heart swelled with the consciousness of rewarded benevolence, it softened into tenderness towards every human being, and overflowed with a love for rosamond, such as he had never felt before. so true it is that the exercise of every kind and generous affection increases the soul's capacities for loving, instead of draining and impoverishing them. "you must henceforth be sisters," said he, taking a hand of each, and seating himself between them. "i need not tell you to love each other as such. i am sure that injunction is unnecessary. but there is one task i must impose upon you, rosamond. you must teach eugenia to look upon me as a brother, a friend, not as a benefactor, for i feel repaid a thousand times over, for all i have done for her, in the happiness of this moment. let the idea of obligation be banished for ever, and we can be the happiest trio in the universe, bound together by a threefold and indissoluble cord." "my mother!" ejaculated rosamond, and drawing away her hand from her husband, she covered her face and wept. he reproached himself for his transient oblivion of her sorrow, and in endeavouring to soothe it, eugenia was for a while forgotten. but he little dreamed of the fountain of rosamond's tears. it would have been difficult for herself to have analyzed the strange feelings struggling within her. the _bosom serpent_, of whose existence she had been previously unconscious, then wound its first cold coil in her heart, and instead of shuddering at its entrance, and closing its portals on the deadly guest, she allowed it to wind itself in its deepest foldings, where its hissings and writhings were no less terrible, because unheard and unseen. rosamond from earliest childhood had been the object of exclusive devotion from those she loved. she had never known a sharer in her mother's love, for unhappily she was an only child. the undivided fondness of her husband had hitherto been all that her exacting heart required. now, she must admit an acknowledged sharer of his thoughts and affections, not as an occasional visiter, but as an constant inmate, an inseparable companion. the hallowed privacy of the domestic altar was destroyed, for the foot of the stranger had desecrated it. she could no longer appropriate to herself every look and smile of him, whose glances and smiles she believed her own inalienable right. if she walked abroad, another beside herself, must henceforth lean upon his arm. if she remained at home, another must also be seated at his side. and this invasion of her most precious immunities, was not to be endured for a short season, for weeks or months, but years, perhaps for life. these new and evil anticipations swept darkly across the troubled surface of rosamond's mind, as she gazed on the varying countenance of eugenia, and wondered she had never thought her handsome before. the gratitude and sensibility that beamed from her eyes whenever they turned on her benefactor, seemed to her diseased imagination the harbingers of a warmer emotion, and the constitutional ardour and frankness of her expressions were indicative of the most dangerous of characters. it was well for rosamond that the recent death of her mother was a legitimate excuse for her pensiveness and gloom, as the incipient stage of the malady that was beginning to steal into her soul must otherwise have been perceived. cecil, frank, confident, and unsuspecting, never dreamed that every attention bestowed on eugenia was considered as a robbery to herself. eugenia, warm-hearted, impulsive, and grateful, as little imagined that the overflowings of her gratitude were construed into feelings she would have blushed to have cherished. cecil was passionately fond of music. since her mother's death, rosamond could not be prevailed upon to touch the keys of the instrument, and he was too kind to urge upon her a task repugnant to her feelings. but when eugenia discovered that she possessed an accomplishment capable of imparting pleasure to him who had given her the means of acquiring it, she was never weary of exercising it. she sang too with rare sweetness and power, and never refused to sing the songs that cecil loved to hear. rosamond could not sing. she had never mourned over this deficiency before, but now she could not bear to think that another should impart a pleasure to her husband, she had not the means of bestowing. she forgot that she had selfishly denied to gratify his taste, in the way she had the power of doing, because it would have interrupted the indulgence of her filial grief. another thing deeply wounded rosamond's feelings: always accustomed to being waited upon by others, to have all her wishes anticipated, she never thought of showing her love by those active manifestations which most men love to receive. she would have laid down her life for her husband, if the sacrifice were required, but she never thought of offering him a glass of water with her own hand, because it was the office of the servants to supply his recurring wants. never till she saw these attentions bestowed by another who was not a menial, did she imagine that affection could give an added relish, even to a cup of cold water, when offered to the thirsty lip. one warm, sultry day, cecil entered after a long walk, and throwing himself on a sofa exclaimed, "give me some drink, titania--for i faint--even as a sick girl." rosamond smiled at his theatrical assumption of cæsar's dignity, and reaching out her hand, rang the bell. eugenia flew out of the room, and returned long before a servant could answer the summons, with a glass of water, and bending one knee to the ground, with sportive grace she offered it to his acceptance. "eugenia!" cried rosamond, colouring very high, "we have no lack of servants. i am sure there is no necessity of your assuming such a trouble." "oh! but it is such a pleasure!" exclaimed eugenia, springing up, and placing the empty glass on the sideboard. "it is all i can do. you would not deprive me of the privilege if you knew how dearly i prize it." had cecil observed the heightened colour of rosamond, he might have conjectured that all was not right in her bosom, but she sat in the shadow of a curtain, and her emotion was unperceived. a few evenings afterwards, they were walking together, when they met a woman bustling through the streets, with her arm a-kimbo, and an air of boldness and defiance, that spoke the determined amazon. eugenia clung closely to cecil's arm as she approached, and turned deadly pale; she recognised in those stony eyes and iron features the dreaded mrs. grundy, the tyrant of her desolate childhood, and she felt as if the thong were again descending on her quivering flesh, and the iron again entering into her soul. such a rush of painful recollections came over her, she was obliged to lean against a railing for support, while cecil, who saw what was the cause of her agitation, gave a stern glance at the woman, who had stopped, and was gazing in her face with an undaunted stare. "heyday!" cried she, "who's this? 'tisn't giny, sure enough? i never should have thought of such a thing, if it hadn't been for the gentleman. well! can't you speak to a body, now you have got to be such a fine lady? this is all the gratitude one gets in the world." "gratitude!" repeated cecil, "how dare you talk of gratitude to her, before me? pass on and leave her, and be thankful that your sex shields you a second time from my indignation." "well you needn't bristle up so, sir," cried she, with a sneer. "i'm not going to kill her. i suppose you've got married to her by this time. but you'd better look sharp, lest she gets into a rambling way, as her mother did before her." with a malignant laugh the virago passed on, delighted to find that she had drawn quite a crowd to the spot where eugenia still leaned, incapable of motion, and rosamond stood, pale as a statue, brooding over the words of the woman, as if, like a delphian priestess, she had uttered the oracles of fate. "why should she imagine _her_ to be his wife," whispered the bosom serpent, subtle as its arch prototype in the bowers of eden, "if she had not witnessed in him evidences of tenderness, such as a husband only should bestow? that random sentence spoke volumes, and justifies thy fearful suspicions. alas for thee, rosamond! the young blossoms of thy happiness are blighted in the sweet springtime of their bloom. there is no more greenness or fragrance for thee--better that thou hadst died, and been laid by thy mother's side, than live to experience the bitter pangs of deceived confidence and unrequited love." cecil, unconscious of the secret enemy that was operating so powerfully against him in the breast of rosamond, wondered at her coldness to eugenia; a coldness which became every day more apparent, and was even assuming the character of dislike. it seemed so natural in one so young and affectionate as rosamond, to wind her affections round a being of corresponding youth and sensibility, so foreign to her gentle nature to treat one entirely dependent on her kindness, with such reserve and distrust--he wondered, regretted, and at length remonstrated. eugenia had just anticipated a servant's movements in bringing him a book from the library, which he expressed a desire to see, and he had taken it from her hand with a smile of acknowledgment, when the instantaneous change in the countenance of rosamond arrested his attention. it was so chilling, so inexplicable, he dropped the book to the ground in his confusion, which eugenia, with her usual graceful readiness, again lifted and laid upon his knee. in raising her face from her bending position, she encountered the glance of rosamond, which seemed to have upon her the momentary effect of fascination. she stood as if rooted to the spot, gazing steadfastly on her, then with a cheek as hueless as ashes, turned and precipitately left the apartment. cecil and rosamond looked at each other without speaking. never had they exchanged such a look before. "good heavens!" he exclaimed, rising and walking two or three times across the apartment, with a resounding tread. "good heavens! what a transformation! i must know the cause of it. tell me, rosamond, and tell me truly and unreservedly, what means your mysterious and unkind behaviour to one who never can have offended you? what has eugenia done to forfeit your affection as a friend, your consideration as a guest, your respect to the claims of your husband's adopted sister?" "it were far better to subject your own heart and conscience to this stern inquisition, than mine, cecil," replied rosamond bitterly. "had you informed me sooner of the length and breadth of my duties, i might have fulfilled them better. i did not know, when eugenia was received into our household, how overwhelming were her claims. i did not know that i was expected to exalt _her_ happiness on the ruins of my own." "rosamond! rosamond!" interrupted cecil, vehemently--"beware what you say--beware lest you strike a deathblow to our wedded love. i can bear anything in the world but suspicion. every feeling of my heart has been laid bare before you. there is not a thought that is not as open to your scrutiny as the heavens in the blaze of noonday. how unworthy of yourself, how disgraceful to me, how wounding to eugenia, this unjustifiable conduct!" every chord of rosamond's heart quivered with agony at this burst of indignant feeling from lips which had never before addressed her but in mild and persuasive tones. had the wealth of worlds been laid at her feet, she would have given it to recall the last words she had uttered. still, in the midst of her remorse and horror, she felt the overmastering influence of her imagined wrongs, and that influence triumphed over the suggestions of reason and the admonitions of prudence. "it is ungenerous--it is unmanly," she cried, "to force me into the confession of sentiments which you blame me for declaring--i had said nothing, done nothing--yet you arraign me before the bar of inexorable justice, as the champion of the injured eugenia. if the sincerity of my countenance offends you, it is my misfortune, not my fault. i cannot smile on the boldness i condemn, or the arts i despise." "boldness! arts!" repeated cecil. "if there was ever an unaffected, impulsive child of nature, it is she whom you so deeply wrong; but you wrong yourself far more. you let yourself down from the high station where i had enthroned you, and paid you a homage scarcely inferior to an angel of light. you make me an alien from your bosom, and nourish there a serpent which will wind you deeper and deeper in its envenomed folds, till your heart-strings are crushed beneath its coils." "i am indeed most wretched," exclaimed rosamond; "and if i have made myself so, i deserve pity rather than upbraiding. cecil, you never could have loved me, or you would not so lightly cast me from you." cecil, who had snatched up his hat, and laid his hand on the latch of the door, turned at the altered tone of her voice. tears, which she vainly endeavoured to hide, gushed from her eyes, and stole down her colourless cheeks. "rosamond," said he, in a softened tone, approaching her as he spoke, "if you believe what you last uttered, turn away from me, and let us henceforth be strangers to each other;--but if your heart belies their meaning, if you can restore me the confidence you have withdrawn, and which is my just due, if you are willing to rely unwaveringly on my integrity, my honour, and my love, come to my arms once more, and they shall shelter you through life with unabated tenderness and undivided devotion." poor, foolish rosamond! she had wrought herself up to a state bordering on despair, and the revulsion of her feelings was so great that she almost fainted in the arms that opened to enfold her. her folly, her madness, her injustice and selfishness stared her so fearfully in the face, she was appalled and self-condemned. like the base judean, she had been about to throw away from her "a gem richer than all its tribe," a gem of whose priceless worth she had never till this moment been fully conscious. she made the most solemn resolutions for the future, invoking upon herself the most awful penalties if she ever again yielded to a passion so degrading. but passion once admitted is not so easily dispossessed of its hold. every self-relying effort is but a flaxen withe bound round the slumbering giant, broken in the first grasp of temptation. jealousy is that demon, whose name is legion, which flies from the rebuking voice of omnipotence alone. rosamond did not say, "if god give me strength, i will triumph over my indwelling enemy." she said, "the tempter shall seek me in vain--i am strong, and i defy its power." rosamond was once more happy, but she had planted a thorn in the bosom of another, sharp, deep, and rankling. no after kindness could obliterate the remembrance of that involuntary, piercing glance. it was but the sheathing of a weapon. eugenia felt that the cold steel was still lurking in the scabbard, ready to flash forth at the bidding of passion. a few evenings after the scene just described, when she had been playing and singing some of cecil's favourite songs, at the magnanimous request of rosamond, she turned suddenly to cecil and said-- "i think i overheard a friend of yours say to you the other day, that i might make my fortune on the stage. now," added she, blushing, "i do not wish to go upon the stage, but if my musical talents could give me distinction there, they might be made useful in the domestic circle. i have been told of a lady who wishes an instructress for her daughters. suffer me to offer myself for the situation. if through your bounty i am possessed of accomplishments which may be subservient to myself or others, is it not my duty to exercise them? i should have done this sooner--i have been too long an idler." "no, no, eugenia," said rosamond, warmly, every good and generous feeling of her heart in full and energetic operation--"we can never sanction such a proposition. is not this your home as well as mine? are you not our sister? remember the threefold cord that never was to be broken." she pressed eugenia's hand in both her own, and continued, in a trembling voice--"if i have ever seemed cold or unkind, forgive me, eugenia, for i believe i am a strange, fitful being. you found me a sad mourner over the grave of my mother, with weakened nerves and morbid sensibilities. my mind is getting a healthier tone. remain with us--we shall be happier by and by." completely overcome by this unexpected and candid avowal, eugenia threw her arms round rosamond's neck, and exclaimed--"i shall be the happiest being in the world, if you indeed love me. i have no one else in the world to love but you and my benefactor." cecil felt as if he could have prostrated himself at rosamond's feet, and thanked her for her noble and generous conduct. he had waited in trembling eagerness for her reply. it was more than he expected. it was all he wished or required. "be but true to yourself, my beloved rosamond," said he, when he was alone with her, "and you can never be unjust to me. continue in the path you have now marked out, and you shall be repaid not only with my warmest love, but with my respect, my admiration, and my gratitude." thus encouraged, rosamond felt new life flowing in her veins. though she could not sing according to scientific rules, her buoyant spirit burst forth in warbling notes, as she moved about her household duties, with light, bounding steps, rejoicing in the consciousness of recovered reason. week after week glided away, without any circumstance arising to remind them of the past. indeed all seemed to have forgotten that anything had ever disturbed their domestic peace. "oh! what beautiful flowers!" exclaimed rosamond, as, riding with her husband, on a lovely autumnal evening, they passed a public garden, ornamented with the last flowers of the season. "i wish i had some of them. there are the emblems of love, constancy, and devotion. if i had them now, i would bind them on my heart, in remembrance of this enchanting ride." "you shall have them speedily, dear rosamond," replied he, "even if, like the gallant knight who named the sweet flower _forget-me-not_, i sacrifice my life to purchase them." rosamond little thought those flowers, sought with such childish earnestness, and promised with such sportive gallantry, were destined to be so fatal to her newly acquired serenity. as soon as they reached home, cecil returned to seek the flowers which rosamond desired, and selecting the most beautiful the garden afforded, brought them with as much enthusiasm of feeling as if it were the bridegroom's first gift. when he entered the room eugenia was alone, rosamond being still engaged in changing her riding apparel. "oh! what an exquisitely beautiful nosegay," cried eugenia, involuntarily stretching out her hand--"how rich, how fragrant!" "yes! i knew you would admire them," he replied--"i brought them expressly for----" rosamond, he was just going to add, when he was suddenly called out, leaving the flowers in the hand of eugenia, and the unfinished sentence in her ear. not knowing anything of their appropriation, eugenia believed the bouquet a gift to herself, and she stood turning them to the light in every direction, gazing on their rainbow hues with sparkling eyes, when rosamond entered the apartment, with a cheek glowing like the roses before her. "see what beautiful flowers your husband has just given me," cried eugenia--"he must have been endowed with second sight, for i was just yearning after such a bouquet." had rosamond beheld the leaves of the bohon-upas, instead of the blossoms she loved, she could not have experienced a more sickening sensation. she had begged for those flowers--she had pointed out their emblematic beauties--had promised to bind them to her heart, and yet they were wantonly bestowed on another, as if in defiance of her former wretchedness. she grew dizzy from the rapidity of the thoughts that whirled through her brain, and leaning against the mantelpiece, pressed her hand upon her head. "you are ill, dear rosamond," cried eugenia, springing towards her--"lean on me--you are pale and faint." rosamond recoiled from her touch, as if a viper were crawling over her. she had lost the power of self-control, and the passion that was threatening to suffocate her, found vent in language. "leave me," cried she, "if you would not drive me mad. you have destroyed the peace of my whole life. you have stolen like a serpent into my domestic bower, and robbed me of the affections of a once doting husband. take them openly, if you will, and triumph in the possession of your ill-gotten treasure." "rosamond!" uttered a deep, low voice behind her. she started, turned, and beheld her husband standing on the threshold of the door, pale, dark and stern as the judge who pronounces the doom of the transgressor. eugenia, who had dropped the flowers at the commencement of rosamond's indignant accusation, with a wild, bewildered countenance, which kindled as she proceeded, now met her scorching glance, with eyes that literally flashed fire. her temple veins swelled, her lip quivered, every feature was eloquent with scorn. "rosamond," said she, "you have banished me for ever. you have cruelly, wantonly, causelessly insulted me." she walked rapidly to the door, where cecil yet stood, and glided by him before he could intercept her passage. then suddenly returning, she snatched his hand, and pressed it to her forehead and to her lips. "my benefactor, brother, friend!" cried she, "may heaven for ever bless thee, even as thou hast blessed me!" "stay, eugenia, stay!" he exclaimed, endeavouring to detain her--but it was too late. he heard her footsteps on the stairs, and the door of her chamber hastily close, and he knew he could not follow her. "rash, infatuated girl!" cried he, turning to rosamond, "what have you done? at a moment too when my whole heart was overflowing with tenderness and love towards you. remember, if you banish eugenia from the shelter of my roof, i am bound by every tie of honour and humanity still to protect and cherish her." "i know it well," replied rosamond; "i remember too that it was to give a home to eugenia you first consented to bind yourself by marriage vows. that home may still be hers. i am calm now, cecil--you see i can speak calmly. the certainty of a misfortune gives the spirit and the power of endurance. those flowers are trifles in themselves, but they contain a world of meaning." "these worthless flowers!" exclaimed cecil, trampling them under his feet till their bright leaves lay a soiled and undistinguishable mass--"and have these raised the whirlwind of jealous passion? these fading playthings, left for a moment in another's keeping, accidentally left, to be immediately reclaimed!" "you gave them to her--with her own lips she told me--rapture sparkling in her eyes." "it was all a misunderstanding--an innocent mistake. oh, rosamond! for a trifle like this you could forget all my faith and affection, every feeling which should be sacred in your eyes--forget your woman's gentleness, and utter words which seem branded in my heart and brain in burning and indelible characters. i dare not go on. i shall say what i may bitterly repent. i wish you no punishment greater than your own reflections." rosamond listened to his retreating footsteps, she heard the outer door heavily close, and the sound fell on her ear like the first fall of the damp clods on the coffin, the signal of mortal separation. she remained pale as a statue, gazing on the withering flowers, counting the quick beatings of her lonely heart, believing herself doomed to a widowhood more cruel than that the grave creates. cecil's simple explanation, stamped with the dignity of truth, had roused her from the delirium of passion, and seeing her conduct in its true light, she shuddered at the review. her head ached to agony--one moment she shivered with cold, the next the blood in her veins seemed changed to molten lead. "i feel very strangely," thought she--"perhaps i am going to die, and when i am dead, he will pity and forgive me." she had barely strength to seek her own chamber, where, throwing herself on the bed, she lay till the shades of night darkened around her, conscious of but one wish, that her bed might prove her grave, and cecil, melted by her early fate, might shed one tear of forgiveness over the icy lips that never more could open to offend. the bell rang for supper--she heeded not the summons. a servant came to tell her that mr. dormer was below. her heart bounded, but she remained immovable. again the servant came. "shall i make tea for mr. dormer?" she asked. "miss eugenia is gone out." rosamond started up, and leaned on her elbow. "gone!" repeated she, wildly--"when? where?" "i don't know, ma'am," replied the girl; "she put on her bonnet and shawl an hour ago and went out through the back gate." "does mr. dormer know it?" asked rosamond faintly. "i don't know, ma'am--he has just come in," was the reply.--"i saw him reading a note he found on the table in the hall, and he seemed mightily flustered." there was an insolent curiosity in the countenance of the girl, who had hitherto been respectful and submissive. she placed the lamp near the bedside and left the room; and almost simultaneously, cecil entered, with an open note in his hand, which he threw upon the bed without speaking. she seized it mechanically, and attempted to read it, but the letters seemed to move and emit electric sparks, flashing on her aching eyeballs. it was with difficulty that she deciphered the following lines, written evidently with a trembling hand:-- "farewell, kindest, noblest, and best of friends! may the happiness which i have unconsciously blighted, revive in my absence. i go, sustained by the strength of a virtuous resolution, not the excitement of indignant passion. the influence of your bounty remains, and will furnish me an adequate support. seek not, i pray you, to find the place of my abode. the heaven in which i trust will protect me. farewell--deluded, but still beloved rosamond! your injustice shall be forgotten, your benefits remembered for ever." rosamond dropped the letter, cast one glance towards her husband, who stood with folded arms, pale and immovable, at the foot of the bed, then sinking back upon her pillow, a mist came over her eyes, and all was darkness. when she again recovered the consciousness of her existence, she found herself in a darkened chamber, the curtains of her bed closely drawn, saving a small aperture, through which she could perceive a neat, matronly figure, moving with soft, careful steps, and occasionally glancing anxiously towards the bed. she attempted to raise herself on her elbow, but she had not strength to lift her head from the pillow; she could scarcely carry her feeble hand to her forehead, to put back the moist hair which fell heavily over her brow. "how weak i am!" said she faintly. "how long have i slept?" "be composed," said the stranger, approaching her gently, "and do not speak. you have been very ill. everything depends on your keeping perfectly quiet." rosamond began to tremble violently as she gazed up in the stranger's face. why was she committed to _her_ charge? was she forsaken by him whom awakening memory brought before her as an injured and perhaps avenging husband? "where is he?" cried she, in a voice so low, the woman bent her ear to her lips, to hear. "the doctor?" replied she. "oh, he will soon be here. he said if you waked, no one must come near you, and you must not be allowed to speak one word. it might cost you your life." rosamond tried to gasp out her husband's name, but her parched lips were incapable of further articulation. her eyes closed from exhaustion, and the nurse, supposing she slept, drew the curtains closer, and moved on tiptoe to the window. at length the door slowly opened, and the footstep of a man entered the room. rosamond knew it was not her husband's step, and such a cold feeling fell on her heart, she thought it the precursor of death. she heard a whispered conversation which set every nerve throbbing with agony. then the curtains were withdrawn, and she felt a stranger's hand counting the pulsations of her chilled veins. "i am forsaken," thought she, "even in my dying hour. oh god! it is just." again the chamber was still, and she must have fallen into a deep slumber, for when she again opened her eyes, she saw a lamp glimmering through the curtains, and the shadow of her nurse reflected in them, seated at a table, reading. she was reading aloud, though in a low voice, as if fearful of disturbing the slumbers she was watching. rosamond caught the sound, "i the lord thy god am a jealous god." she repeated it to herself, and it gave her an awful sensation. the commanding claims of her maker upon her affections, for the first time rose before her in all their height, depth, power, and majesty. "a jealous god!" how tremendous, how appalling the idea. if she, a poor worm of the dust, was so severe and uncompromising in her demands upon a fellow being, what terrible exactions might a neglected deity make from the creature he had formed for his glory? she remembered the command from which that fearful sentence was extracted. she had broken it, trampled it under her feet. she had bowed down in adoration to an earthly idol, and robbed her god, her _jealous god_, of the homage due to his august name. the light that poured in upon her conscience was like the blazing of a torch through a dark mine. she had felt before the madness of her bosom passion, she now felt its sin and its sacrilege. "i am forsaken," again repeated she to herself, "but i had first forsaken thee, o my god! thou art drawing me home unto thee." tears gathering thick and fast, fell down her pale cheeks, till the pillow they pressed was wet as with rain-drops. she wept long, and without one effort to restrain the gushing forth of her melting heart, when exhausted nature once more sought relief in sleep. her first consciousness, on awakening, was of a soft hand laid gently on her brow, a warm breath stealing over her cheek, and a trembling lip gently pressed upon her own. had she awakened in the abodes of the blest, in the midst of the hierarchy of heaven, she could hardly have experienced a deeper rapture than that which flooded her breast. slowly, as if fearing to banish by the act the image drawn on her now glowing heart, she lifted her eyes, and met the eyes of her husband looking down upon her, no longer stern and upbraiding, but softened into woman's tenderness. the next moment he was kneeling by the bedside, his face buried in the covering, which shook from the strong emotion it concealed. when rosamond learned that cecil, instead of having left her to her bitter consequences of her rashness, in just and unappeasable resentment, had never left her in her unconsciousness, and since her restoration to reason had hovered near the threshold of her chamber day and night, forbidden to enter, lest his presence should produce an agitation fatal to a frame apparently trembling on the brink of the grave, she again reproached herself for believing he could have been capable of such unrelenting cruelty. when she was assured too that eugenia was safe under the protection of an early friend, whom she had most unexpectedly encountered, and only waited a passport from the physician, to come to her bedside, her soul swelled with gratitude that found no language but prayer. "i have sinned against heaven and thee, my husband!" exclaimed rosamond, from the depth of a penitent and chastened spirit--"i am no more worthy to be called thy wife." "we have both erred, my beloved rosamond; we have lived too much for the world and ourselves, regardless of higher and holier relations. never, till i feared to lose thee for ever, did i feel the drawings of that mighty chain which links us inseparably to him who created us. let us both commence life anew--awakened to our responsibilities as christians, and, profiting by the sad experience of the past, let us lay the foundations of our happiness too deep and broad for the storms of passion to overthrow. let us build it on the rock of ages." and who was the friend whom eugenia had so providentially discovered? when she left the dwelling of cecil dormer, to seek the lady who wished for an instructress for her daughters, one of the first persons who crossed her path was the terrific mrs. grundy. this woman, whose hatred for her seemed implacable as the injuries she had inflicted were deep, seeing her alone and in evident disorder of mind, began to revile and threaten her. a stranger, observing the terror and loathing with which a young and attractive-looking girl shrunk from a coarse and masculine woman, paused and offered his protection. the remarkable resemblance which eugenia bore to her ill-fated mother led to a discovery as unexpected as it was interesting. the melancholy stranger was no other than her own father, who believed his wife and child had perished in their flight, having heard of the destruction of the boat in which they fled. thus mysteriously had providence transmuted into a blessing, what seemed the greatest misfortune of her life. the history of mr. st. clair and his unfortunate wife, which he subsequently related to cecil and rosamond, was fraught with the most intense interest. like rosamond, he had cherished a _bosom serpent_, remorseless as death, "cruel as the grave;" but he had not, like her, found, before it was too late, an antidote for its deadly venom. my grandmother's bracelet. we were all seated in a piazza, one beautiful summer's night. the moonbeams quivered through the interlacing vines that crept fantastically over the latticework that surrounded it. my grandmother sat in an arm-chair in the centre of the group, her arms quietly folded across her lap, her hair white and silvery as the moonbeams that lingered on its parted folds. she was the handsomest old lady i ever saw, my revered grandmother, and in the spring of her years had been a reigning belle. to me she was still beautiful, in the gentle quietude of life's evening shades, the dignity of chastened passions, waiting hopes, and sustaining religious faith. i was her favourite grandchild, and the place near her feet, the arm laid across her lap, the uplifted eye fixed steadfastly on her face, constant as the recurrence of the still night hour, told a story of love and devotion on my part, which defied all competition. as i sat this night, leaning on her lap, i held her hand in mine, and the thought that, a few more years, that hand must be cold in the grave, incapable of answering the glowing pressure of mine, made me draw a deep inspiration, and i almost imagined her complexion assumed an ashen hue, prophetical of death. the weather was warm, and she wore a large loose wrapper, with flowing sleeves, left unconfined at the wrist. as i moved her hand, the folds of the sleeve fell back, and something pure and bright glittered in the moonlight. she made a movement to draw down the sleeve, but the eager curiosity of childhood was not to be eluded. i caught her wrist, and baring it to the gaze of all, exclaimed-- "only think--grandmother has got on a bracelet--a pearl bracelet! who would think of her indulging in such finery? here are two sweet pearl lilies set together in a golden clasp, with golden leaves below them. why, grandmother, you must be setting up for a bride!" "it was a bridal gift," replied she, sliding the bracelet on her shrunken arm; "a bridal gift, made long ago. it was a foolish thought, child. i was looking over a casket, where i have deposited the choicest treasures of my youth, and i clasped it on my wrist, to see how my arm had fallen from its fair proportions. my mind became so lost in thinking of the story of this gem, i forgot to restore it to the place where it has so long lain, slumbering with the hoarded memories of other days." "a story!" we all eagerly exclaimed,--"please tell it--you promised us one to-night." "ah! children, it is no fairy tale, about bright genii, and enchanted palaces, and ladies so beautiful that they bewitch every one who comes within the magic reach of their charms. it is a true tale, and has some sad passages in it." "grandmother," said i, in a dignified manner, "i hope you don't think me so silly as not to like anything because it is true. i have got over the arabian nights long ago, and i would rather hear something to make me feel sorry than glad--i always do feel sad when the moon shines on me, but i can't tell the reason why." "hush! mina, and let grandmother tell her story--you always talk so much," said little mitty, who sat on the other side of her venerable relative. the old lady patted with one hand the golden head of the chider, but the arm clasped by the magic bracelet was still imprisoned by my fingers, and as she proceeded in its history, my grasp tightened and tightened from the intenseness of my interest, till she was compelled to beg me to release her. "yes," said she, in a musing tone, "there is a story depending on this, which i remember as vividly as if the events were of yesterday. i may forget what happened an hour ago, but the records of my youth are written in lines that grow deeper as time flows over them." she looked up steadily for a few moments, appearing to my imagination like an inspired sibyl, then began as follows: "when i was a young girl, i had no brothers or sisters, as you have, but was an only, i might say a lonely child, for my father was dead and my mother an invalid. when i returned from school, i obtained permission to invite a sweet young cousin of mine, whose name was eglantine, to be my companion. we were affluent, she was poor; and when my mother proposed to make our house her home, she accepted the offer with gratitude and joy. she was an interesting creature, of a peculiar temperament and exquisite sensibility. she was subject to fits of wonderful buoyancy, and equal despondency; sometimes she would warble all day, gay and untiring as the bird perched on yonder spray, then a soft melancholy would sit brooding on her brow, as if she feared some impending misfortune. this was probably owing to the peculiar circumstances of her infancy, for she was born during her mother's widowhood, and nursed by a mother's tears. a poetical friend had given her the name of eglantine, and well did her beauty, sweetness, delicacy, and fragility justify the name. in our girlhood we grew together, like the friends of the midsummer's night, almost inseparable in body, and never divided in heart, by those little jealousies which sometimes interpose their barriers to young maidens' friendships. but i see little mitty has fallen asleep already. my story is too grave for the light ears of childhood. i shall be obliged, too, to say something about love, and even you, mina, are entirely too young to know anything of its influence." "oh! but i do know something, grandmother," exclaimed i, impulsively; "that is, i have read--i have thought"--i stammered and stopped, unable to express my own vague ideas. "you may not be too young to sympathize, but certainly too young to feel," said my grandmother, mildly; "but, ardent and sympathizing as your nature is, it will be hard for you to carry back your mind to the time when all the warm passions and hopes of youth were glowing in my bosom. it is enough to say that there was one who came and rivalled eglantine in my affections, one to whom i was betrothed, and to whom i was to be shortly wedded. it was on such an eve as this, so clear and bright, that he gave me the pledge of our betrothal, this bracelet of pearl, and clasped it on an arm which then filled the golden circlet. perhaps you wonder that the first token of love should not have been a ring; but ronald did not like to follow the track of other men, and even in trifles marked out for himself a peculiar and independent course. that night, when i retired to my chamber, i found eglantine seated at the open window, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the starry heavens. she sat in a loose undress, her hair of pale gold hung unbound over her shoulders, and her head, being slightly thrown back, allowed the moonlight to flood her whole face with its unearthly radiance. "'you look very beautiful and romantic, dear eglantine,' said i, softly approaching her, and throwing my arms round her neck; 'but come down from the stars a little while, my sweet cousin, and share in my earthborn emotions.' my heart was too full of happiness, my spirits too excited, not to overflow in unreserved confidence in her bosom. she wept as i poured into her ears all my hopes, my recent vows, and future schemes of felicity. it was her usual manner of expressing deep sympathy, and i loved her the better for her tears. 'all i wonder at and blame in ronald is,' and i spoke this in true sincerity, 'that he does not love you better than me. never, till this evening, was i sure of his preference.' "eglantine withdrew herself from my arms, and turned her face to the shadow of the wall. there was something inexplicable in her manner that chilled, and even alarmed me. a thought, too painful to be admitted, darted for a moment to my mind. could she be jealous of ronald's love for me? was my happiness to be built on the ruin of hers? no! it could not be. she probably feared my affections might become alienated from her in consequence of my new attachment. such a fear was natural, and i hastened to remove it by the warmest professions, mingled with covert reproaches for her doubts and misgivings. "i had a young waiting-maid, who, next to eglantine, was the especial object of my regard. she was the daughter of a gentlewoman, who, from a series of misfortunes, was reduced to penury, to which was added the helplessness of disease. to relieve her mother from the pressure of immediate want, the young alice offered herself as a candidate for a state of servitude, and i eagerly availed myself of the opportunity of securing the personal attendance of one so refined in manner and so winning in appearance. alice now came forward, as was her custom, to assist me in preparing for my nightly rest. she was about to unclasp the bracelet from my wrist, but i drew back my arm. 'no, no, alice,' said i, 'this is an amulet. sweet dreams will come to my pillow, beckoned by its fairy power. i cannot sleep without it. see how beautifully the lilies gleam in the moonlight that gilds my couch.' alice seemed as if she could never weary in admiring the beauty of the ornament. she turned my arm to shift the rays, and catch the delicate colouring of the pearls, and looped up the sleeve of my night-dress in a fantastic manner, to display it fully to her gaze. once or twice i thought i saw the eyes of eglantine fastened upon it with a sad, wistful expression, and the same exquisitely painful thought again darted to my mind. i struggled against its admission, as degrading both to myself and her, and at last fell asleep, with my arm thrown on the outside of the bed, and the bracelet shining out in the pure night-beams. alice slept in a little bed by the side of mine, for i could not bear that a creature so young and delicate, and so gentle bred, should share the apartments devoted to the servants, and be exposed to their rude companionship. she generally awoke me with her light touch or gentle voice, but when i awoke the next morning, i saw alice still sleeping, with a flushed cheek and an attitude that betokened excitement and unrest. eglantine sat at her window, reading, dressed with her usual care by her own graceful fingers. in the school of early poverty she had learned the glorious lesson of independence, a lesson which, in my more luxurious life, i had never acquired. 'alice must be ill,' said i, rising, and approaching her bedside; 'she looks feverish, and her brows are knit, as if her dreams were fearful.' i bent down over her, and laid my hand upon her shoulder, to rouse her from her uneasy slumbers, when i started--for the precious bracelet was gone. eglantine laid down her book at my sudden exclamation, and alice, wakening, looked round her with a bewildered expression. 'my bracelet!' repeated i--'it is gone.' i flew to my couch; it was not there. i looked upon the carpet, in the vain hope that the clasp had unloosed, and that it had fallen during the night. 'alice,' cried i, 'rise this moment, and help me to find my bracelet. you must know where it is. it never could have vanished without aid.' i fixed my eyes steadfastly on her face, which turned as hueless as marble. she trembled in every limb, and sunk down again on the side of the bed. "'you do not think _i_ have taken it, miss laura?" said she, gasping for breath. "'i do not know what to think,' i answered, in a raised tone; 'but it is very mysterious, and your whole appearance and manner is very strange this morning, alice. you must have been up in the night, or you would not have slept so unusually late---- "'do not be hasty, laura,' said eglantine, in a sweet, soothing voice; 'it may yet be found. perhaps it is clinging to your dress, concealed in its folds. let me assist you in searching.' she unfolded the sheets, turned up the edges of the carpet, examined every corner where it might have been tossed, but all in vain. in the mean while alice remained like one stupefied, following our movements with a pale, terrified countenance, without offering to participate in the search. "'there is no use in looking longer, eglantine,' said i, bitterly. 'i suspect alice might assist us effectually to discover it, if she would. nay, i will not say suspect--i believe--i dare to say, i know--for conscious guilt is written in glaring characters on her countenance.' "'do not make any rash accusations, laura,' cried eglantine; 'i acknowledge appearances are much against her, but i cannot think alice capable of such ingratitude, duplicity, and meanness.' "alice here burst into a passionate fit of weeping, and declared, with wringing hands and choking sobs, that she would sooner die than commit so base and wicked a deed. "'oh! miss eglantine,' she exclaimed, 'didn't you take it in sport? it seems as if i saw you in a dream going up to miss laura, while she was asleep, and take it from her wrist, softly, and then vanish away. oh! miss eglantine, the more i think of it the more i am sure i saw you,--all in sport, i know,--but please return it, or it will be death to me.' "the blood seemed to boil up in the cheeks of eglantine, so sudden and intense was the glow that mantled them. "'i thought you innocent, alice,' said she, 'but i see, with pain, that you are an unprincipled girl. how dare you attempt to impose on me the burthen of your crime? how dare you think of sheltering yourself under the shadow of my name?' "the vague suspicions which the assertion of alice had excited, vanished before the outraged looks and language of the usually gentle eglantine. alice must have been the transgressor, and in proportion to the affection and confidence i had reposed in her, and the transcendent value of the gift, was my indignation at the offence, and the strength of my resolution to banish her from me. "'restore it,' said i, 'and leave me. do it quietly and immediately, and i will inflict no other punishment than your own reflections, for having abused so much love and trust.' "'search me, if you please, miss laura, and all that belongs to me,' replied alice, in a firmer tone, 'but i cannot give back what i have never taken. i would not, for fifty thousand worlds, take what was not mine, and least of all from you, who have been so kind and good. i am willing to go, for i would rather beg my bread from door to door, than live upon the bounty of one who thinks me capable of such guilt:' with a composure that strangely contrasted with her late violent agitation, she arranged her dress, and was walking towards the door, when eglantine arrested her-- "'alice, alice, you must be mad to persist in this course. confess the whole, return the bracelet, and laura may yet forgive you. think of your sick mother. how can you go to her in shame and disgrace?' "at the mention of her mother, alice wept afresh, and putting her hand to her head, exclaimed-- "'i feel very, very sick. perhaps we shall die together, and then god will take pity on us. the great god knows i am innocent of this crime.' "grandmother," interrupted i, unable to keep silence any longer, "tell me if she was not innocent. i know she must have been. who could have taken it?" "do you think eglantine more likely to have stolen it from her cousin, who was to her, as it were, another soul and being?" "oh! no," i replied, "but i shall feel unhappy till i discover the thief. please, grandmother, go on. did alice really go away?" "yes, my child," answered my grandmother, in a faltering voice, "she went, though my relenting heart pleaded for her to linger. her extreme youth and helplessness, her previous simplicity and truthfulness, and her solemn asseverations of innocence, all staggered my belief in her guilt. it was a mystery which grew darker as i attempted to penetrate it. if alice were innocent, who could be guilty--eglantine? such thought was sacrilege to her pure and elevated character, her tried affection for me, her self-respect, dignity, and truth. alice returned to her mother, in spite of our permission for her to remain till the subject could be more fully investigated. "when the door closed upon her retreating form, i sat down by the side of eglantine, and wept. the fear that i had unjustly accused the innocent, the possibility, nay, the probability that she was guilty, the loss of the first pledge of plighted love, indefinite terrors for the future, a dim shade of superstition brooding over the whole, all conspired to make me gloomy and desponding. we were all unhappy. ronald tried to laugh at my sadness, and promised me 'gems from the mine, and pearls from the ocean,' to indemnify me for my loss, yet i watched every change of his expressive countenance, and knew he thought deeply and painfully on the subject. the strange suspicion which had risen in my mind the preceding night, with regard to eglantine's feelings towards him, revived when i saw them together, and i wondered i had not observed before the fluctuations of her complexion, and the agitation of her manner whenever he addressed her. he had always treated her with the kindness of a brother--that kindness now made me unhappy. i was becoming suspicious, jealous, and self-distrustful, with a settled conviction that some strange barrier existed to my union with ronald, a destiny too bright and too beautiful to be realized in this world of dreams and shadows. my mother was firm in her belief of the guilt of alice, who had never been a favourite of hers. perhaps i lavished upon her too many indulgences, which displeased my mother's soberer judgment. she forbade all intercourse with her, all mention of her name, but she was ever present to my imagination; sometimes the shameless ingrate and accomplished deceiver, at others the eloquent pleader of her outraged innocence. one day eglantine came to me, and laid her hand on mine with a look of unspeakable dismay-- "'i have heard,' said she, 'that alice is dying. let us go to her, laura, and save her, if it be not too late.' "what i felt at hearing these words i never can tell,--they pressed upon me with such a weight of grief--her innocence seemed as clear to me as noonday--my own unkindness as cruel as the grave. quickly as possible we sought the cottage where her mother dwelt, and a piteous spectacle met our eyes. there lay alice, on a little bed, pale, emaciated, and almost unconscious; her once bright hair dim and matted; her sweet blue eyes sunk and half closed; her arms laid listlessly by her side, the breath coming faint and flutteringly from her parted lips. on another bed lay her poor, heart-broken mother, unable to relieve the sufferings of her she would gladly have died to save. frantic with grief, i threw myself by the side of alice, and disturbed the solemn stillness of the death-hour with my incoherent ravings. i declared her innocence; i called upon her to live, to live for my sake, and throwing my arms wildly round her wasted form, struggled to hold her back from the grave yawning beneath her. it was in vain to cope with omnipotence. alice died, even in the midst of my agonies, and it was long before i was able to listen to the story of her illness, as related by her disconsolate mother. she had returned home sick and feverish, and sick and feverish she evidently was on her first awakening, and that wounded spirit, which none can bear, acting on a diseased frame, accelerated the progress of her fever till it settled on her brain, producing delirium, and ultimately death. during all her delirium, she was pleading her cause with an angel's eloquence, declaring her innocence, and blessing me as her benefactress and friend." here my grandmother paused, and covered her eyes with her handkerchief. i laid my head on her lap, and the ringlets of little mitty's hair were wet with my tears. i felt quite broken-hearted, and ready to murmur at providence for placing me in a world so full of error and woes. "did you ever feel happy again, dear grandmother?" asked i, when i ventured to break the silence,--curiosity was completely merged in sympathy. "yes, mina, i have had hours of happiness, such as seldom falls to the lot of woman, but those bright hours were like the shining of the gold that comes forth purified from the furnace of fire. the mother of alice soon followed her to the grave, and there they sleep, side by side, in the lonely churchyard. eglantine soothed and comforted me, and endeavoured to stifle the self-upbraidings that ever sounded dolefully to my heart. alice had been the victim of inexplicable circumstances, and so far from having been cruel, i had been kind and forbearing, considering the weight of evidence against her. thus reasoned eglantine, and i tried to believe her, but all my hopes of joy seemed blighted, for how could i mingle the wreath of love with the cypress boughs that now darkened my path? ronald pressed an immediate union, but i shrunk with superstitious dread from the proposition, and refused the ring, with which he now sought to bind my faith. 'no, no,' i cried, 'the pledges of love are not for me--i will never accept another.' "my mother grew angry at my fatalism. 'you are nursing phantasies,' said she, 'that are destroying the brightness of your youth. you are actually making yourself old, ere yet in your bloom. see, if there are not actually streaks of gray threading your jetty hair.' i rose and stood before a mirror, and shaking my hair loose from the confining comb, saw that her words were true. here and there a gleam of silver wandered through those tresses which had always worn that purple depth of hue peculiar to the raven's plumage. the chill that penetrated my heart on the death-bed of alice, had thus suddenly and prematurely frosted the dark locks of my youth. my mother became alarmed at my excessive paleness, and proposed a journey for the restoration of my spirits and health. ronald eagerly supported the suggestion, but eglantine declined accompanying us. she preferred, she said, being alone. with books at home, and nature, in the glory of its summer garniture, abroad, she could not want sources of enjoyment. i did not regret her determination, for her presence had become strangely oppressive to me, and even ronald's manners had assumed an embarrassment and constraint towards her very different from their usual familiarity. the night before our departure i felt more melancholy than ever. it was just such a night as the one that witnessed our ill-starred betrothal. the moon came forth from behind a bed of white clouds, silvering every flake as it floated back from her beauteous face, and diffusing on earth the wondrous secret of heavenly communion. i could not sleep; and as i lay gazing on the solemn tranquillity of the night heavens, i thought of the time when 'those heavens should be rolled together as a scroll, and the elements melt with fervent heat,' and i, still thinking, living, feeling, in other, grander, everlasting scenes, the invisible dweller of my bosom's temple assumed such magnitude and majesty in my eyes, the contemplation became overwhelming and awful. the sublime sound of the clock striking the midnight hour--and all who have heard that sound in the dead silence of the night, can attest that it is sublime--broke in on my deep abstraction. eglantine, who had lain wrapped in peaceful slumbers, here softly drew back the bed-cover, and rising slowly, walked round with stilly steps to the side where i reclined, and stood looking fixedly upon me. 'eglantine!' i exclaimed, terrified at her attitude and singular appearance. 'eglantine, what is the matter?' she answered not, moved not, but remained standing, immovable, with her eyes fixed and expressionless as stone. there she stood, in the white moonlight, in her long, loose night-dress, which hung around her, in her stillness, like the folds of the winding-sheet, her hair streaming down her back in long, lifeless tresses, and lighted up on her brow with a kind of supernatural radiance--and then those death-resembling eyes! i trembled, and tried to draw the sheet over my face, to shut out the appalling vision. after a few moments, which seemed interminable to me, she bent over me, and taking my right hand, felt of my wrist again and again. her fingers were as cold as marble. my very blood seemed to congeal under her touch. 'it is gone,' murmured she, 'but it is safe--i have it safe. it fits my wrist as well as hers.' terrified as i was at this unexpected apparition, my mind was clear, and never were my perceptions more vivid. the mystery of the bracelet was about to be unravelled. poor alice's assertion that she had seen eglantine standing by my side, and taking the bracelet from my wrist, came back thundering in my ears. 'it is gone,' replied eglantine, in the same low, deep voice, 'but i know where it is laid; where the bridegroom or the bride can never find it. perhaps the moon shines too brightly on it, and reveals the spot.' thus saying, she glided across the floor, with spirit-like tread, and opening the door, disappeared. in the excess of my excitement i forgot my fears, and hastily rising, followed her footsteps, determined to unravel the mystery, if i died in the act. i could catch the glimpses of her white garments through the shadows of the winding staircase, and i pursued them with rapid steps, till i found myself close behind her, by the door which opened into the garden. there she stood, still as a corpse, and again the cold dew of superstitious terror gathered on my brow. i soon saw a fumbling motion about the keyhole, and the door opening, she again glided onward towards the summer-house, my favourite retreat, the place where i had received this mysterious bracelet--the place where flora had collected all her wealth of bloom. she put aside the drooping vines, sending out such a cloud of fragrance on the dewy air, i almost fainted from their oppression, and stooping down over a white rose-bush, carefully removed the lower branches, while the rose-leaves fell in a snowy shower over her naked feet. 'where is it?' said she, feeling about in the long grass. 'it isn't in the spot where i hid it. if she has found it, she may yet be a bride, and ronald still her own.' she stooped down lower over the rose-bush, then rising hastily, i saw, with inexpressible agitation, the lost bracelet shining in the light that quivered with ghostlike lustre on her pallid face. with a most unearthly smile she clasped it on her wrist, and left the arbour, muttering in a low voice, 'i will not leave it here--lest she find out where it lies, and win back her bridal gift. i will keep it next my own heart, and she cannot reach it there.' once more i followed the gliding steps of eglantine, through the chill silence of night, till we ascended the stairs, and entered our own chamber. quietly she laid herself down, as if she had just risen from her knees in prayer, and i perceived by her closed lids and gentle breathing, that a natural sleep was succeeding the inexplicable mysteries of somnambulism." "she was walking in her sleep, then, grandmother!" i exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "i thought so all the time; and poor alice was really innocent! and what did eglantine say the next morning, when she awaked, and found the bracelet on her arm?" "she was astonished and bewildered, and knew not what to think; but when i told her of all the events of the night, the truth of which the bracelet itself attested, she sunk back like one stricken with death. so many thoughts crowded upon her at once in such force, it is no wonder they almost crushed her with their power. the conviction that her love for ronald could no longer be concealed, the remembrance of the accusation of alice, which she had so indignantly repelled, the apparent meanness and turpitude of the art, though performed without any conscious volition on her part, the belief that another had been the victim of her involuntary crime, all united to bow her spirit to the dust. my heart bled at the sight of her distress, and, every feeling wrought up to unnatural strength by the exciting scenes i had witnessed, i promised never to wed ronald, since the thought of our union had evidently made her so unhappy. eglantine contended against this resolution with all her eloquence, but, alas! she was not destined long to oppose the claims of friendship to the pleadings of love. her constitution was naturally frail, a fragility indicated by the extreme delicacy and mutability of her complexion, and the profusion of her pale golden hair. day by day she faded--night by night she continued her mysterious rambles to the spot where she had first deposited the bracelet, till she had no longer strength to leave her bed, when her soul seemed to commune with the cherubim and seraphim, which, i doubt not, in their invisible glory surrounded her nightly couch. as she drew near the land of shadows, she lost sight of the phantom of earthly love in aspirations after a heavenly union. she mourned over her ill-directed sensibilities, her wasted opportunities, her selfish brooding over forbidden hopes and imaginings. she gave herself up in penitence and faith to her redeemer, in submission to her father and her god; and her soul at last passed away as silently and gently as the perfume from the evening flower into the bosom of eternity." "oh! grandmother, what a melancholy story you have told," cried i, looking at the bracelet more intently than ever, the vivid feelings of curiosity subdued and chastened by such sad revealings; "but did not you marry ronald at last?" "yes," replied she, looking upward with mournful earnestness; "the beloved grandfather, who has so often dandled you in his arms, in this very spot where we are now seated, whose head, white with the snows of threescore years and ten, now reposes on the pillow all the living must press,--who now awaits me, i trust, in the dwellings of immortality, was that once youthful ronald, whose beauty and worth captivated the affections of the too sensitive eglantine. many, many years of happiness has it been my blessed lot to share with him on earth. the memories of alice and eglantine, softened by time, were robbed of their bitterness, and only served to endear us more tenderly to each other. the knowledge we had gained of the frailty and uncertainty of life, led us to lift our views to a more enduring state of existence, and love, hallowed by religion, became a sublime and holy bond, imperishable as the soul, and lofty as its destinies. i have lived to see my children's children gather around me, like the olive branches of scripture, fair and flourishing. i have lived to see the companion of my youth and age consigned to the darkness of the grave, and i have nothing more to do on earth but to fold the mantle of the spirit quietly around me, and wait the coming of the son of man." i looked up with reverence in my grandmother's face as she thus concluded the eventful history of the pearl bracelet, and i thought what a solemn and beautiful thing was old age when the rays of the sun of righteousness thus illumed its hoary hair, and converted it into an emblematic crown of glory. the mysterious reticule. "i own," said fitzroy, "that i have some foolish prejudices, and this may be one. but i cannot bear to see a lady with a soiled pocket-handkerchief. i never wish to see anything less pure and elegant than this in the hand of a beautiful maiden." he lifted, as he spoke, a superb linen handkerchief, decorated with lace, that lay carelessly folded in the lap of mary lee. "ah, yes," exclaimed her cousin kate, laughing, "it looks very nice now, for she has just taken it from her drawer. see, the perfume of the lavender has not begun to evaporate. but wait till to-morrow, and then it will look no nicer than mine." "to-morrow!" cried the elegant fitzroy, with an expression of disgust; "surely no lady would think of using a handkerchief more than once. if i were in love with a venus de medici herself, and detected her in such an unpardonable act, i believe the spell would be broken." "i would not give much for your love, then," cried kate, "if it had no deeper foundation--would you, mary?" mary blushed, for she was already more than half in love with the handsome fitzroy, and was making an internal resolution to be exceedingly particular in future about her pocket-handkerchiefs. fitzroy was a young man of fashion and fortune, of fine person, elegant manners, cultivated mind, and fastidiously refined taste. he had, however, two great defects--one was, attaching too much importance to trifles, and making them the criterion of character; the other, a morbid suspicion of the sincerity of his friends, and a distrust of their motives, which might become the wildest jealousy in the passion of love. he had a most intense admiration of female loveliness, and looked upon woman as a kind of super-angelic being, whose food should be the ambrosiæ and nectar of the gods, and whose garments the spotless white of vestal purity. he had never known misfortune, sickness, or sorrow, therefore had never been dependent on those homely, domestic virtues, those tender, household cares, which can alone entitle woman to the poetical appellation of a ministering angel. he was the spoiled child of affluence and indulgence, who looked, as kate said, "as if he ought to recline on a crimson velvet sofa, and be fanned with peacocks' feathers all the day long." he was now the guest of mr. lee, and consequently the daily companion of the beautiful, sensitive mary and her gay cousin. with his passionate admiration for beauty, it is not strange that he should become more and more attracted towards mary, who never forgot, in the adornments of her finished toilet, the robe of vestal white and the pure, delicate, perfumed handkerchief, which fitzroy seemed to consider the _ne plus ultra_ of a lady's perfections. the cousins walked, rode, and visited with the elegant stranger, and never did weeks glide more rapidly away. mary was happy, inexpressibly happy, for life began to be invested with that soft, purple hue, which, like the rich blush of the grape, is so easily brushed away, and can never be restored. fitzroy had often noticed and admired, among the decorations of mary's dress, a beautiful reticule of white embroidered satin. one evening, on returning from a party, mary's brow became suddenly clouded. "oh, how could i be so careless?" exclaimed she, in a tone of vexation; "i have left my reticule behind. how unfortunate!" fitzroy immediately offered his services, but mary persisted in refusing them, and dispatched a servant in his stead. "you must have something very precious in that bag," said kate. "i have no doubt it is full of billetdoux or love-letters. i intend to go after it myself, and find out all mary's secrets." "how foolish!" cried mary. "you know there is no such thing in it--nothing in the world but----" she stopped, in evident embarrassment, and lowered her eyes, to avoid fitzroy's searching glance. the servant came without the bag, and again fitzroy renewed his offers of search in the morning. "no, indeed," said mary; "i am very grateful, but i cannot allow you to take that trouble. it is of no consequence; i insist that you do not think of going. i am very sorry i said anything about it." mary's ill-concealed embarrassment and flitting blushes awakened one of fitzroy's bosom enemies. why this strange anxiety and confusion about a simple reticule? it must be the receptacle of secrets she would blush to have revealed. kate's suggestion was probably true. it contained some confessions or tokens of love which she was holding in her heart's treasury, while her eye and her lip beamed and smiled encouragement and hope of him. the next morning he rose from his bed at an early hour with a feeling of restlessness and anxiety, and resolved to go himself in search of the lost treasure. he found it suspended on the chair in which he remembered to have seen her last seated, leaning against the window, with the moonbeams shining down on her snowy brow. the soft satin yielded to his touch, and the exquisite beauty of the texture seemed to correspond with the grace and loveliness of the owner. he was beginning to be ashamed of his suspicions, when the resistance of a folded paper against his fingers recalled kate's laughing assertions about love-letters and billetdoux, and jealous thoughts again tingled in his veins. for one moment he was tempted to open it and satisfy his tantalizing curiosity, but pride and honour resisted the promptings of the evil spirit. poor mary! had she known what sweeping conclusions he brought against her during his homeward walk, she would have wished her unfortunate bag in the bottom of the ocean. she was false, coquettish, and vain! he would never bestow another thought upon her, but bid adieu, as soon as possible, to her father's hospitable mansion, and forget his transient fascination. when he entered the room where mary and kate were seated, mary sprang forward with a crimsoned cheek and extended her hand with an eager, involuntary motion. "i thank you," said she, coldly; "but i am very, very sorry you assumed such unnecessary trouble." she thanked him with her lips, but her ingenuous countenance expressed anything but gratitude and pleasure. fitzroy gave it to her with a low, silent bow, and threw himself wearily on the sofa. "i will know what mystery is wrapped up in this little bag!" exclaimed kate, suddenly snatching it from her hand. "i know it contains some love talisman or fairy token." "ah, kate, i entreat, i pray you to restore it to me," cried mary. "no--no--no," answered kate, laughing, and holding it high above her head. mary sprang to catch it, but kate only swung it higher and higher with triumphant glee. fitzroy looked on with a scornful glance; mary's unaffected alarm confirmed all his suspicions, and he felt a selfish gratification in her increasing trepidation. "kate, i did not think you could be rude or unkind before," said mary, looking reproachfully at fitzroy, for not assisting her in the contest. "since miss lee evidently endures so much uneasiness lest the mysteries of her bag should be explored," cried fitzroy, with a sarcastic smile, "i am sure her friends must sympathize in her sufferings." "oh, if you are in earnest, mary," cried kate, tossing the reticule over her head, "i would not make you unhappy for the world." there was a beautiful child, about two or three years old, a little sister of kate's, who was playing on the carpet with the paraphernalia of her dolls. the bag fell directly in her lap, and she caught it with childish eagerness. "i got it--i got it!" cried she, exultingly; and before mary could regain possession of it, she had undrawn the silken strings, and emptied the contents in her lap--a parcel of faded rose-leaves scattered on the floor, from a white folded paper that opened as it fell. fitzroy beheld it, and his jealous fears vanished into air; but another object attracted his too fastidious gaze--a soiled, crumpled pocket-handkerchief lay maliciously displayed in the little plunderer's lap, and then was brandished in her victorious hand. mary stood for a moment covered with burning blushes, then ran out of the room, stung to the soul by the mocking smile that curled the lip of fitzroy. "cousin mary been eating cake," said the child, exposing the poor handkerchief still more fully to the shrinking, ultra-refined man of taste and fashion. the spell was broken, the goddess thrown from her pedestal--the charm of those exquisite, transparent, rose-scented handkerchiefs for ever destroyed. kate laughed immoderately at the whole scene. there was something truly ridiculous to her in the unfathomable mystery, mary's preposterous agitation, and fitzroy's unconcealed disgust. there was a very slight dash of malice mingled with the gayety of her character, and when she recollected how much fitzroy had admired and mary displayed her immaculate and superb handkerchiefs, pure from all earthly alloy, she could not but enjoy a _little_ her present mortification. she ridiculed fitzroy so unmercifully that he took refuge in flight, and then the merry girl sought the chamber of mary, whither she had fled to conceal her mortification and tears. "surely you are not weeping for such a ridiculous cause?" said kate, sobered at the sight of mary's real suffering. "i had no idea you were so foolish." mary turned away in silence; she could not forgive her for having exposed her weakness to the eyes of fitzroy. "mary," continued kate, "i did not mean to distress you; i did not imagine there was anything in the bag you really wished concealed, and i am sure there was not. what induced you to make such a fuss about a simple pocket-handkerchief? it looks as nice as mine does, i dare say." "but he is so very particular," sobbed mary, "he will never forget it. i have always carried a handkerchief in my bag for use, so that i could keep the one which i held in my hand clean and nice. i knew his peculiarities, and thought there was no harm in consulting them. he will never think of me now without disgust." "and if he never will," cried the spirited kate, with flashing eyes, "i would spurn him from my thoughts as a being unworthy of respect or admiration. i would not marry such a man were he to lay at my feet the diadem of the east. forgive me for having made myself merry at your expense, but i could not help laughing at your overwrought sensibility. answer me seriously, mary, and tell me if you think that if fitzroy really loved you, and was worthy of your love, he would become alienated by a trifle like this?" mary began to be ashamed of her emotions in the presence of her reasonable cousin;--she was ashamed, and endeavoured to conceal them, but they were not subdued. she was conscious she must appear in a ridiculous light in the eyes of the scrupulously elegant fitzroy, whose morbid tastes she had so unfortunately studied. when they met again, it was with feelings of mutual estrangement. she was cold and constrained--he polite, but reserved. mary felt with anguish that the soft, purple hue which had thrown such an enchantment over every scene, was vanished away. the realities of existence began to appear. fitzroy soon after took his leave, with very different feelings from what he had once anticipated. he blamed himself, but he could not help the chilled state of his heart. mary was a mortal, after all; she ate cake, drank lemonade, and used her handkerchiefs like other ladies, only she kept them out of sight. her loveliness, grace, and feminine gentleness of manner no longer entranced him. he departed, and mary sighed over the dissolving of her first love's dream; but notwithstanding her weakness on this subject, she had a just estimation of herself, and a spirit which, when once roused, guided her to exertions which astonished herself. her gay cousin, too, departed, and she was thrown upon her own resources. she read much, and reflected more. she blushed for her past weakness, and learned to think with contempt upon the man who had so false an estimate of the true excellence and glory of a woman's character. "oh," repeated she to herself a hundred times, as, interested in domestic duties, she devoted herself to the comfort of her widowed father, "how miserable i should have been as the wife of a coxcomb, who would desire me to sit all day with folded hands, holding an embroidered handkerchief, with fingers encased in white kid gloves! how could i ever have been so weak and foolish?" mary generally concluded these reflections with a sigh, for fitzroy was handsome, graceful, and intellectual, and he was, moreover, the first person who had ever interested her young heart. the following summer she accompanied her father to a fashionable watering-place. she was admired and caressed, but she turned coldly from the gaze of admiration, and cared not for the gayety that surrounded her. while others hurried to the ball-room, she lingered over her book, or indulged in meditations unfamiliar to the lovely and the young. one evening, when she had been unusually dilatory, she heard her father call, and taking a lamp, began to thread the passage, which led through a long suite of apartments occupied by the visiters of the spring. as she passed by one of the rooms, the door of which was partially opened, she heard a faint, moaning sound, and paused to listen. it returned again and again, and she was sure some stranger was suffering there, probably forgotten in the gay crowd that filled the mansion. her first impulse was to enter, but she shrunk from the thought of intruding herself, a young maiden, into the apartment of a stranger. "my father will go in and see who the sufferer is," cried she, hastening to meet him on the stairs. mr. lee required no entreaties from his daughter, for his kind and humane feelings were immediately excited by the idea of a lonely and perhaps dying stranger, in the midst of a heartless crowd. mary gave the lamp into her father's hand, and stood in the passage while he entered. a sudden exclamation, echoed by a faint low voice, made her heart palpitate with vague apprehensions. who could this lonely stranger be whom her father evidently recognised? she stood holding her breath painfully, fearing to lose the sound of that faint voice which awakened strange emotions within her, when her father suddenly came to the door and beckoned her to him. "i do believe he is dying," said he, in an agitated tone. "it is fitzroy himself! you must come to him, while i call a physician." mary almost mechanically obeyed the summons, and stood the next moment, pale and trembling, by the bedside of the man she had once loved. could that, indeed, be the elegant fitzroy?--with disordered hair, half-closed eyes, parched and trembling lips, which now vainly endeavoured to articulate a sound?--the pillows tossed here and there, as if in wrestling with pain; the white counterpane twisted and tumbled--were these the accompaniments of this fastidious exquisite? these thoughts darted through mary's mind, as the vision of her soiled handkerchief came ghost-like before her. but she was no longer the weak girl who wept tears of bitter agony at the discovery that she was made of mortal mould; she was a woman awakened to the best energies and virtues of her sex. she found herself alone with the sick man, for her father had flown for the assistance he required, and left her to watch till his return. she saturated her handkerchief with cologne, and bathed his burning temples and feverish hands. her heart softened over the invalid in his prostrate and dependent state. "ah, proud fitzroy," thought she, "this handkerchief is now more soiled and defaced than the one which alienated your fancy from me, and yet you shrink not from its contact. no pride or scorn now flashes from those dim eyes, or curls those pallid lips. alas! he is very, very ill--i fear even unto death." the tears gathered into her eyes at this appalling idea, and even mingled with the odorous waters with which she embalmed his forehead. her father soon came in with the physician, and mary resigned her watch by his bedside. she withdrew to her own apartment, and waited with intense anxiety the tidings which he promised to bring her. she was surprised at her own emotions. she thought fitzroy perfectly indifferent to her--nay, more, that she disliked him; but now, when she saw him in suffering and danger, she remembered the charm with which her imagination had once invested him, and accused herself of harsh and vindictive feelings. "yes," said mr. lee, in answer to her earnest inquiries, "he is very ill--dangerously ill. imprudent exposure to the burning mid-day sun has brought on a sudden and violent fever, the consequences of which are more to be dreaded, as he has never been sick before. could he have commanded immediate attention, perhaps the disease might have been arrested. but in this scene of gayety and confusion--though got up for the express accommodation of invalids--heaven save the sick and the dying." "who will take care of him, father? he has no mother or sister near. oh, surely we must not let him die for want of these!" "i know what you are thinking of, mary," said mr. lee, shaking his head; "but i cannot consent to it. the fever may be contagious, and you are too young and too delicate for such a task. besides, there might be remarks made upon it. no; i will remain with him to-night, and to-morrow we will see what can be done for him." "but to-night may be the crisis of his fate," pleaded mary; "to-morrow it may be too late. you are very kind, father, but you are not a woman, and you know there are a thousand gentle cares which only a woman's hand can tender. i am a stranger here; i don't care if they do censure me. let me act a true woman's, a kind sister's part. you know, by your own experience, what a skilful nurse i am." mary pleaded earnestly, and wound her arms caressingly around her father's neck, and looked up into his face with such irresistible eyes, that he could not refuse her. the pallid face of fitzroy seemed to be leaning beside her own, clothed with that authority which sickness and approaching death impart. so mary twisted up her shining ringlets, and took the rings from her jeweled fingers, and donned a loose, flowing robe. behold her, one of the loveliest nurses that ever brought the blessings of hygea to the chamber of disease. there is a great deal said in romances of the interesting appearance of invalids, of a languor more lovely than the bloom of health, of a debility more graceful than the fullness of strength; but this is all romance. it has been said by one of the greatest moralists of the age, that the slow consuming of beauty is one of the greatest judgments of the almighty against man for sin. certainly a sick chamber is not the place for romantic beings to _fall in love_, but it is the place where love, once awakened, can exert its holiest influences, and manifest its death-controlling power; it is the place where religion erects its purest altar, and faith brings its divinest offerings. yea, verily, it is hallowed ground. thus mary thought through the vigils of that long night. she had never been dangerously sick herself, but she felt the entire dependence of one human being upon another, and of all upon god. she felt, too, a kind of generous triumph, if such an expression may be used, in the conviction that this proud and over-sensitive being was so completely abandoned to her cares. fitzroy lay in the deep lethargy of a burning fever, unconscious whose soft footsteps fell "like snow on snow" around his bed. "he never shall know it," said mary, to herself. "he would probably feel disgust, instead of gratitude. if he saw this handkerchief, all impregnated with camphor, and stained with medicine, he might well think it unfit for a lady's hand. shame on me, for cherishing so much malice against him--he so sick and pale!" for more than a week fitzroy languished in that almost unconscious condition, and during that interval mary continued to lavish upon him every attention a kind and gentle sister could bestow. at length he was declared out of danger, and she gradually withdrew from her station in the sick chamber. her mission was fulfilled, and an angelic one it had been. the physician, her father, and a youthful, unimpaired constitution accomplished the rest. "what do i not owe you?" said fitzroy, when, liberated from confinement, he was slowly walking with her through one of the green, shady paths of the enclosure. now he, indeed, looked interesting. the contrast between his dark brown hair and pale cheek was truly romantic. that dark hair once more exhaled the odours of sweet-scented waters, and his black dress and spotless linen were as distinguished for their elegance as in former days. "what do i not owe you?" repeated he, with more fervour. mary smiled. "you were sick, and i ministered unto you. i only obeyed a divine command. a simple act of obedience deserves no reward." "then it was only from a sense of duty that you watched over me so kindly?" repeated he, in a mortified tone. "you would have done the same for any stranger?" "most certainly i would," replied mary; "for any stranger as helpless and neglected as you appeared to be." "pardon me," said he, evidently disconcerted, "but i thought--i dared to think--that----" mary laughed, and _her_ rosy lip began to curl with a slight expression of scorn. she was a woman, and her feelings had once been chafed, humiliated through him, if not by him. her eyes sparkled, not vindictively, but triumphantly. "you dared to think that i was in love with you! oh, no; that is all passed--long, long ago." "passed? then you acknowledge that you _have_ loved?" "yes," replied she, in the same laughing tone, though she blushed deeply all the while; "i did love you, fitzroy, and i could have loved you with a life-long passion. to win your affection i tried to pass myself off as an angel, to whose garments the dust of mortality never adhered. you discovered my folly, and turned from me in contempt. it was a bitter lesson at first, but i thank you for it now. i am not the foolish girl that i was when i first knew you, fitzroy. you must not think that i am----" "and _i_ am not the fool i was then," interrupted he. "i know now what constitutes the perfection of a woman's character. you only captivated my fancy then, now you have won my whole heart." "better lost than won," cried mary, in the same careless accents. "i could not keep the treasure, and i cannot take it. you think you love me now, but i might fall sick, you know, and people do not look so pretty when they are sick, and you might not like the scent of camphor and medicine, and then one's handkerchiefs get so terribly soiled!" she stopped, and looked archly at fitzroy's clouded countenance. "i understand it all," cried he, bitterly; "you pitied me in sickness, and watched over me. but i must have looked shockingly ugly and slovenly, and you became disgusted. i cannot blame you, for i deserve such a punishment." "no, no--not ugly, fitzroy, but helpless, weak, and dependent, proud man that you are. but, oh! you ought to know that this very helplessness and dependence endear the sufferer ten thousand times more to a fond woman's heart than all the pride of beauty and the bloom of health. i have had my revenge; but believe me, fitzroy, the hours passed in your chamber of sickness will be remembered as the happiest of my life." the tone of playful mockery which she had assumed, subsided into one of deep feeling, and tears gathered in her downcast eyes. fitzroy--but it is no matter what fitzroy said--certainly something that pleased mary, for when they returned, more than an hour afterwards, her cheeks were glowing with the roses of eden. it was about six months after this that cousin kate visited mary--but not _mary lee_--once more. fitzroy, who now often complained of a headache, was leaning back in an easy chair, and mary was bathing his temples, which she occasionally pressed with her linen handkerchief. "oh, shocking!" exclaimed kate; "how can you bear to see mary touch anything so rumpled and used, about your elegant person?" "the hand of affection," replied fitzroy, pressing mary's gently on his brow, "can shed a beautifying influence over every object. mary is a true alchemist, and has separated the gold of my heart from the worthless dross that obscured its lustre. she put me in the crucible, and i have been purified by the fires through which i passed." the end heimatlos _two stories for children, and for those who love children_ by johanna spyri translation by emma stelter hopkins with illustrations by frederick richardson ginn and company boston · new york · chicago · london copyright, , by emma s. hopkins all rights reserved . the athenæum press ginn and company · proprietors · boston · u.s.a. preface in the translation of "heimatlos" an effort has been made to hold as far as possible to the original, in order to give the reader of english the closest possible touch with the story as it stands in the german. this method retains the author's delightful simplicity, and it leaves revealed, even in her roundabout way of telling things, her charming adaptability as a writer for children. the adult reader will pardon the repetitions, where the same thought is expressed in different ways, when it is remembered that the author is making doubly sure of reaching the understanding of the young mind. the literal rendering has been sacrificed only in a few instances, and then because of local idioms and national standards. it is the hope of the translator that these two stories, so widely read by the children of germany, will help our own little ones, in these days of general prosperity, to appreciate the everyday comforts of home, to which they grow so accustomed as often to take them for granted, with little evidence of gratitude. e. s. h. contents lake sils and lake garda chapter page i. the quiet home ii. in school iii. the schoolmaster's violin iv. the distant lake without a name v. the lake has a name vi. rico's mother vii. a precious legacy and a precious prayer viii. at lake sils ix. a puzzling occurrence x. a little light xi. a long journey xii. the journey continued xiii. lake garda xiv. new friends xv. an emphatic appeal xvi. the advice xvii. over the mountains xviii. two happy travelers xix. clouds at lake garda xx. at home xxi. sunshine at lake garda wiseli finds her place chapter page i. coasting ii. the home on the hill iii. another home iv. the gotti home v. how life continues and summer comes vi. a new feature vii. brighter days for the patient and for some one else viii. the unexpected happens pronouncing vocabulary heimatlos lake sils and lake garda chapter i the quiet home in the upper engadine valley, on the road leading up to the maloja pass, lies a lonely town called sils. taking a diagonal path from the street back to the mountains, one comes to a smaller village known as sils-maria. here, a little aside from the highway, in a field, two dwellings stood opposite each other. both had old-fashioned doors and tiny windows set deep in the wall. one house had a garden, where herbs and vegetables and a few straggling flowers were growing. the other, which was much smaller, had only an old stable with a couple of chickens wandering in and out of it. at the same hour every morning there came out of this forlorn little house a man who was so tall that he had to stoop in order to pass through the doorway. his hair and eyes were very dark, and the lower part of his face was hidden by a heavy black beard. familiar as this man's figure was to the people of sils, they always spoke of him as "the italian." his work took him regularly up the maloja, where the roads were being improved, or down the pass to st. moritz bath, where some new houses were going up. each morning a boy followed the man to the door and stood looking wistfully after him. it would have been hard to say just what those great dark eyes were fixed upon, their gaze seemed so far reaching. sunday afternoons, when the weather was favorable, the father and son would go for a walk together. so striking was the likeness between them that no one could help noticing it, although in the bearded face of the man the sadness was less apparent. they seldom spoke, but sometimes the man would hum or whistle a tune, and then the boy would listen eagerly. it was easy to see that music was their chief pleasure. when they were kept in the house by bad weather, the father would play familiar airs on a mouth organ or on a whistle that he had made himself--perhaps on a comb or even on a leaf from a tree. once he brought home a violin, which delighted the boy beyond measure. he watched the father intently as he played, and later tried to bring out the same notes himself. he must have succeeded fairly well, for the man laughed, and laying his own fingers over the little ones, played several melodies from beginning to end. the next day, while the father was away, the boy practiced until he succeeded in playing his favorite tune, but after that the violin disappeared and was never brought back again. sometimes, however, the father would sing in his deep voice,--softly, perhaps, at first, but louder as he caught the spirit of the music. then the boy would sing, too, and when the words failed him--for the songs were in italian, which he did not understand--he could still hum the air. there was one tune that he knew better than all the rest, for it was one his father had sung over and over again. it had many verses, and this was the way it began: "una sera in peschiera--" though the music was sad, this song was the boy's favorite. he would always sing it with much feeling, his clear, bell-like voice blending smoothly with the father's rich bass. often when they had finished all the verses, the man would put his hand on his son's shoulder and say, "good, enrico! that went very well." only his father called him "enrico"; to all others he was simply "rico." there was still another person who lived in the little cottage. this was rico's aunt, who kept house for the father and himself. in the winter, when she sat spinning beside the stove and it was too stormy to be out of doors, rico had to be very careful of his behavior. everything he did seemed to annoy her. the faultfinding made the loneliness still harder to bear when, as often happened, the father's work kept him away from home for days at a time. sometimes when rico tried to escape from the presence of his aunt, she would say sharply: "shut the door and sit down, rico. you are forever letting the cold air into the house." he was thankful that his bed upstairs offered a safe retreat after supper; and then he always had the pleasant anticipation that his father would probably soon come home again. chapter ii in school rico was nearly nine years old and had attended school two winters. there was no school in the mountains in the summer, for every one, including the teacher, was busy farming. rico did not mind this, however, for he had his own way of passing the time. in the morning he would go out to the doorsteps where he would remain watching the house opposite until a girl with laughing eyes beckoned him to come across. they always had much to say to each other of all that had happened since they were together before. her name was stineli, and she and rico were nearly the same age. they had always gone to school together, were in the same classes, and from the first had been the best of friends. rico extended his intimacy to no one else. it was little pleasure to him to be with the boys of the neighborhood. when they wrestled in the school yard, rico either walked away or paid no attention to them. if, however, they attacked him, he would face them with such a strange look that they ceased troubling him. with stineli he was perfectly contented. she had a lovely face with merry light-brown eyes. her fluffy golden hair was gathered into two heavy braids which hung loosely from her shoulders. she was scarcely nine years old, but there were seven younger brothers and sisters. for these she had to do a great many things, so that her time for play was sadly limited. the other children were trudt, sam, peter, urschli, anna, kunzli, and the baby. calls for stineli seemed to come from every direction, and she willingly helped wherever she could. the mother said that stineli could put on three pairs of stockings for the little ones while trudt, the younger sister, was getting a child's foot in place for the first one. stineli went to school gladly, for there was always the pleasant walk going and returning with rico. so many duties fell to her share during the summer that she had no leisure except on sunday afternoons. then she and rico, who had usually been waiting on the doorsteps opposite, would go hand in hand over the wide meadow to the wooded hill beyond that stretched far out into the lake. there they would sit and look down into the water and watch the waves beat against the shore. here they enjoyed themselves so much that stineli was happy all the week in looking forward to the pleasure of the next sunday. there was some one else who contributed greatly to stineli's pleasure. this was her aged grandmother, who made her home with the family. she noticed how much was expected of stineli and often gave her bits of money to brighten a hard day's work. she was very fond of rico and occasionally made it possible for stineli to play with him by taking the household duties upon herself. the grandmother frequently spent the summer evenings sitting in the front yard, and stineli and rico liked to sit with her and listen to the stories she told them. when the vesper bell rang she would say, "remember, that is the signal for our evening worship." then the three would devoutly repeat the lord's prayer. "your evening devotion ought never to be neglected," the grandmother continued one evening; "i have lived many more years than you have, and i have known many people, but i have observed that there is a time in the life of every one when prayer is needful. i have some in mind who did not pray, but when troubles came they had nothing to comfort them. i want you to know that you need not worry so long as you use this prayer." it was may and the school was still in session, although it could not be kept open much longer, for the trees were beginning to show green tips, and great stretches of ground were entirely free from snow. rico was standing in the doorway, observing these facts while waiting for stineli. earlier than usual the door across the way opened and she ran to him. "have you been waiting long? no doubt you've been building air castles at the same time," she said, laughing. "we shall not be late to-day, even if we walk slowly. do you ever think about that pretty lake any more?" asked stineli, as they walked along. "indeed i do," replied rico; "i often dream of it, too, and i see large red flowers near the violet-colored hills i told you about." "but dreams don't count," broke in stineli. "i have dreamed that peter climbed up the tallest tree, but when he got to the topmost branch i thought it was only a bird, and then he called to me to dress him. that proves how impossible dreams may be." "this one of mine is possible," asserted rico. "it makes me think of something that i have really seen, and i know that i have looked at those flowers and the hills. the picture is too real to be a dream only." as they neared the schoolhouse a company of children ran to meet them, and they all entered the schoolroom together. in a few moments the teacher came. he was an old man who had taught in this room many years, and his hair had grown thin and gray as the years passed by. this morning he began the exercises with a number of questions on previous work, following this with the song, "little lambs." rico was looking so attentively at the teacher's fingering of the violin strings that he forgot to sing. the children, being accustomed to depending upon rico's voice, sang out of tune, and the notes from the violin became more and more uncertain until all was in confusion. the song was abruptly ended by the teacher's throwing the violin on the table in disgust. "what are you trying to sing, you foolish children?" he exclaimed. "if i only knew who gets so out of tune and spoils the whole song!" a lad sitting next to rico ventured to say, "i know why it went that way; it always does when rico doesn't sing." "what is that i hear about you, rico?" began the teacher, sharply. "you are a very obedient little fellow, but inattention is a serious fault, the result of which you have just seen. let us try again. now, rico, see that you sing this time." the children joined heartily, and rico's voice sustained the song to the end. then the teacher gave the violin a few final strokes and laid it on the table. "a good instrument that!" he said, and rubbed his hands with evident satisfaction. chapter iii the schoolmaster's violin after school stineli and rico found their way out of the mass of children and started for home. "were you dreaming about your lake when you forgot to sing this morning?" asked stineli. "no, something quite different," answered rico. "i was watching the teacher, and i am sure that i can play 'little lambs,' if i only had a violin." the wish must have been a heartfelt one with rico, for he said it with such a deep sigh that stineli's sympathy was at once aroused and she said: "we will buy one together. i have ever so many pennies that grandmother gave me--i think twelve in all. how many have you?" "not one," said rico, sadly. "my father gave me some before he went away, but my aunt took them. she said that i would only squander them anyway. i know we can't get those." "maybe we have enough without them," said stineli, consolingly. "grandmother will give me more soon, and it can't be, rico, that a violin costs much. you know it is only a piece of old wood with four strings drawn across it. that ought not to cost a great deal. ask the teacher to-morrow how much one costs, and then we will try to get one." so the subject was left, but stineli secretly resolved to get up early to build the fires, because grandmother would notice it and give her some more pennies. the following day, after school, stineli went out without rico and stood at the corner of the building waiting for him. rico was to ask the teacher concerning the violin. she waited so long that she wondered what could be keeping him, but finally he appeared. "what did he say? how much does it cost?" inquired stineli, eagerly. "i didn't dare ask him," said rico in a dejected tone. "oh, what a shame!" she exclaimed; but noticing rico's sadness, she added, "it doesn't matter, rico; you can ask him to-morrow." then, in her cheerful way, she took his hand and they walked home without further mention of the subject. rico had no better success, however, on the second day nor on the third. he remained nearly half an hour at the teacher's entrance, not finding the courage to ring the bell. the fourth evening stineli said to herself, "if he doesn't ask the teacher to-night, i will." this time, however, as rico was standing at the door, the teacher came out suddenly and noticed the boy's hesitating attitude. "what does this mean, rico?" he asked, standing surprised and perplexed before him. "why do you come to a person's door without rapping? if you have no business here, why don't you go home? if you wish to tell me something, you may do so now." "what does a violin cost?" asked rico, timidly. the teacher's surprise and mistrust increased. "rico," he said severely, "what am i to think of you? have you come purposely to ask useless questions, or what is your idea? will you tell me what object you have in asking me what you did?" "i only wish to find out what a violin costs," said rico, still trembling at his own boldness. "you do not understand, rico; now listen to what i say. one asks something for a reason, otherwise it would be a useless question. now answer me truthfully, rico, did you ask me this out of curiosity, or did some one who wishes to buy a violin send you?" "i should like to buy one," said rico, a little more bravely. "what did you say?" broke out the teacher, impatiently. "such a senseless boy--and an italian besides--to wish to buy a violin! you scarcely know what a violin is. can you imagine how old i was before i was able to buy one? i was twenty-two years old and ready to enter my life work as teacher. what a child, to think of buying a violin! now, to show you how foolish you are, i will tell you the price of one. six solid dollars is what i paid for mine. can you grasp an idea of the amount? we will put it into pennies. if one dollar contains one hundred pennies, then six dollars would contain six times one hundred, which is--now, rico, you are not dull at your studies; six times one hundred is--" "six hundred pennies," supplemented rico, softly, for his voice nearly failed him as he compared stineli's twelve pennies with this large sum. "but further, rico," continued the teacher, "do you suppose that one need only to buy a violin in order to play it? one has to do much more than that. just step in and let me show you." the teacher opened the door as he spoke and took down the violin from its place on the wall. "there, take it on your arm and hold the bow in your hand; so, my boy. now, if you can sound _c, d, e, f,_ i will give you a half dollar right away." rico actually had the violin on his arm! his face flushed, as with sparkling eyes he played firmly and correctly, _c, d, e, f_. "you little rascal!" exclaimed the teacher. "where did you learn that? who taught you so that you can find the notes?" "i know something else too, if i might play it," rico ventured to say. "play it," directed the teacher. rico played the melody of the song, "little lambs," with the greatest confidence, his eyes speaking his pleasure. the teacher had taken a chair and put on his spectacles. he had looked attentively at rico's fingers, moving with easy grace, then at his joyous countenance, and again at his fingers. the boy had played correctly. "come to me, rico," said the teacher, as he moved his chair to the window and put rico directly in front of him; "i want to talk a little with you. you see, your father is an italian, rico, and they do all sorts of things down there, they say, that we know nothing of up here in the hills. now look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. how is it that you are able to play this tune correctly on my violin?" rico looked steadily at the teacher and said frankly, "i learned it from you in school, where we sing it so often." the teacher got up and paced the floor. this put the matter in an entirely different light. so he was himself the cause of this wonderful intelligence! all his suspicions vanished, and he good-naturedly took out his pocketbook. "there is the half dollar, rico; it belongs to you. you had better go now, but keep on being attentive to the violin playing. it may be that you can make it amount to something, so that in twelve or fourteen years you can buy a violin for yourself. good night." rico had looked longingly at the violin when he realized that he must go, and he now laid it very tenderly on the table. he was pondering the last words of the teacher, when stineli came running to meet him. "how long it did take you!" she exclaimed. "did you ask him?" "yes, but it is all of no use," said rico with frowning brow. "a violin costs six hundred pennies, and in fourteen years, when everybody will probably be dead, he thought i could perhaps buy one. who wants to live fourteen years from now? there, you may take that; i don't want it," and he put the half dollar into stineli's hand. "six hundred pennies!" repeated stineli in amazement. "and how did you get this money?" rico told stineli what had passed between him and the teacher, and again said, "it is of no use." stineli urged rico to keep the money, but he would not take it again. "then i will keep it and put it away with the pennies, and it shall belong to us both," she said. even stineli felt discouraged, but happier thoughts came to her as they turned the corner to enter the field and she saw the indications of spring on every hand. "see, rico, it will be summer in a short time, and we can go to the woods once more. let us go this sunday so that you will be happy again." "i shall never be happy again, stineli, but if you would like to go, i will go with you." they arranged their plans so that they could go the following sunday. it was not an easy task for stineli to get away, for peter, sam, and urschli had the measles, and a goat was sick at the stable. she was kept busy from the time she returned from school until late at night. saturday she worked all day and much later than usual, but did it so willingly and was so cheerful that her father said: "stineli is a perfect treasure. she makes us all happy." chapter iv the distant lake without a name when stineli awoke the following morning, she instantly realized that it was sunday. the grandmother's words of the previous evening were still fresh in her memory, "you deserve the whole afternoon to-morrow, and you shall have it." after dinner, when stineli had finished all the necessary duties and was prepared to join rico, peter called from his bed, "stineli, come, stay with me!" the two others who were ill shouted, "no, no, stineli, we want you!" the father said, "i should like to have you go to the barn and take a look at the goat first." "hush, everybody!" broke in the grandmother. "stineli shall go in peace. i will look after these things myself. remember, dear, that when the vesper bell rings, you are to come home like good children." the grandmother knew that there would be two of them. stineli flew away like a bird for whom the door of its cage had been opened, and went directly to rico, who was waiting as usual. the sun was shining pleasantly, and the heaven was an unbroken blue above them as they crossed the meadow to reach the hill beyond. they still found patches of snow in the shaded places, until they got up where the whole surface had been exposed to the sun; from here they could see the waves beating steadily against the rocks on the shore. they searched for a dry place on a cliff directly over the water, and here they sat down. the wind was blowing a sharp gale at this height; it whistled in their ears and swayed the woods above them like a living mass of green. "oh, see, rico, how beautiful it is here!" exclaimed stineli as she looked about. "i am so glad that spring has come again. see how the water sparkles in the sunlight. there really cannot be a prettier lake than this one." "i should say there is!" exclaimed rico. "you ought to see the one i mean! no such black fir trees with needles grow by my lake. we have shining green leaves and large red flowers there. the hills are not so high and black, nor so near, but show their violet colors from a distance. the sky and water are all a golden glow, and there is such a warm, fragrant air that one can always sit on the shore without being cold. the wind never blows like this, and there is no snow to cover one's shoes as ours are covered now." this description convinced stineli that rico was not speaking of a place that he had simply dreamed about, so she said half sadly: "perhaps you can go there sometime and see it again. do you know the way?" "no," answered rico, "but i know that you have to go up the maloja. i have been as far as that with my father, and he showed me the road that leads ever and ever so far down toward the lake. it is such a long way that you could hardly get there." "it would be easy enough," remarked stineli. "all you have to do is just to keep right on going farther and farther and at last you _must_ get there." "yes," said rico, "but father told me something else too. you have to go to hotels to eat and to sleep on the way, and it takes money for that." "but think of the money we own together!" cried stineli. rico frowned and said: "that doesn't amount to anything. i found that out when i wanted to buy a violin." "then you had better stay at home and not go, rico. it is always nice to be at home." rico sat lost in thought, his head resting on his arm. stineli was busy gathering some moss and shaping it into pillows, which she intended to take to the sick ones when she and rico went home. she thought nothing of rico's silence until he said: "you say that i can stay at home, but it seems to me exactly as if that were something i did not have. i am sure i don't know where it is." "o rico, what are you saying!" cried the astonished stineli, letting the moss fall unheeded in her lap. "you are at home here, of course. you are always at home where your father and mother--" here she stopped abruptly as she remembered that rico had no mother and that his father had not been at home for ever so long, and she shuddered as she thought of his aunt, of whom she had always been afraid. she scarcely knew how to continue, yet it grieved her to see rico so sadly silent. she impulsively took his hand and said, "i should like to know the name of the lake where it is so beautiful." rico meditated a moment. "i don't know it, stineli. i wonder what it can be and why i can't remember it!" "let us try to find out," suggested stineli; "then, when we get money enough, you will be able to find your way to it. we might ask the teacher about it, and possibly grandmother could tell us." "i think my father will know, and i will ask him just as soon as he comes back." they heard the vesper bell ringing in the distance. they rose immediately and ran through the bushes and snow, down the hill and across the meadow. in a few moments they were panting beside the grandmother, who stood at the door waiting for them. she greeted them hastily and motioned for stineli to pass into the house; then she added to rico: "i think that you had better go in when you get to the house to-night, instead of waiting awhile outside. it may be better." no one had ever spoken like that to him before, and he wondered why she asked it of him. he wished to obey the grandmother, but he could not help entering the house reluctantly. chapter v the lake has a name the aunt was not in the living room when rico entered, so he went to the kitchen door and opened it. there she stood, but before rico had time to take a step nearer, she raised her finger in warning: "hush! don't open and shut all the doors as if there were four of you coming. go into the other room and keep still. your father was brought home in a wagon, and he is sick upstairs." rico went to the bench by the window, where he sat motionless for fully half an hour. then he decided that he would go up quietly and look at his father; it was past supper time, and perhaps the sick man might be needing something. he heard the aunt walking about the kitchen, so he silently slipped behind the stove and up the narrow stairway into his father's room. in a moment he was again in the kitchen, saying faintly, "come, aunt!" she was about to take him by the shoulders to shake him, when she caught sight of his frightened face. she shrank from him, exclaiming, "what has happened?" "if you will go to my father," said rico, "i will see if the grandmother can come over. my father must be dead." "i will run for the pastor!" cried the aunt, and rushed out ahead of the trembling boy. later he heard his aunt tell the pastor that for several weeks his father had been working down in the st. gall district on a railroad. he had received a bad wound on his head while blasting stone. the journey home, part of which had to be taken in an open wagon, had proved too much for him. the following sunday the man was buried. rico was the only mourner to follow the coffin. a few neighbors joined him through sympathy, and thus the procession moved through sils. here rico heard the pastor read aloud during the service, "the dead man was called enrico trevillo and was born in peschiera on lake garda." it seemed to rico that he was hearing something he had known very well but had not been able to recall. he understood now why he had always had the lake in mind when he and the father had sung his favorite song: "una sera in peschiera." as rico was returning alone from the funeral, he noticed that the grandmother and stineli were waiting in the yard. when he drew near they beckoned him to come to them. the grandmother gave the boy and girl some bread, saying: "now go and take a walk together. rico had better not be left alone to-day." she looked pityingly after the boy as the children walked away. when she could see them no longer, she repeated softly: "whatever in his care is laid shall have a happy end." chapter vi rico's mother the teacher was coming down the path from sils, leaning heavily on his cane. he came directly from the funeral of rico's father. he was coughing and panting as he greeted the grandmother, and he sank heavily to the seat beside her. "if you are willing," he said, "i will rest here a few moments. my throat troubles me, and my chest is very weak. of course, now that i am seventy years old i must expect such things. what a pity that a man of such powerful strength as the italian must give up life! he was not yet thirty-five years old." "yes," said the grandmother, "i, too, have been thinking how much better i might have been spared than he." "i know how you feel," replied the teacher, "but i suppose the older people have their place in life to fill as well as the younger ones. where would they find precept and example but for us? what will become of the boy yonder?" "what will become of him?" repeated the grandmother. "i have been asking the same question, and i cannot tell you. i only know that there is a heavenly father whom he still has, and he will doubtless find a place for the homeless one." "tell me, neighbor, how it ever happened that an italian should get a wife up here. there is no knowing what those strangers are." "i will tell you about them," said the grandmother. "you remember that the girl's mother had lost her husband and several children, leaving her only this one daughter. she was a charming maiden, with whom the mother lived for years alone. i think that it is about twelve years since the handsome young trevillo first came here. he had joined a group of men who were working on the maloja. it was a case of love at first sight with the young people. i am glad to be able to say that trevillo was not only a very handsome man but also very capable. the mother was proud of her son-in-law and wanted them to remain with her. they meant to do as she wished, but the daughter had a longing to see the place that trevillo described to her when they walked up the maloja. the mother objected strongly at first, but when she heard that trevillo owned a house and farm, having left it simply to see something of the hills, she gave her consent and they moved away. she heard from them regularly through the mail, but the daughter preferred to remain in the new home, where they were very happy. "a number of years later, trevillo came back to the mother, carrying a little boy. 'there, mother,' he said, as he held the boy for her to take, 'we have come back to you without marie. she and the other baby were buried a few days ago, and we cannot bear to live without her down there. if you don't mind, we will stay here with you.' "it brought both happiness and sorrow to the mother. rico was four years old and extremely lovable and good. he was a comfort to her and her last great pleasure, for she died a year later. people advised trevillo to get the aunt to keep house for him and the boy, and thus they have lived ever since." "so that is their story!" remarked the teacher, when she had finished speaking. "i never could imagine how it came about. it is possible that some relative of trevillo's may come to take the child." "relatives!" said the grandmother, scornfully. "the aunt is a relative, and what does he get from her? few enough kind words, i am sure." the teacher rose stiffly. "i am rapidly getting old, my friend," he said. "i feel my strength leaving me to such an extent that i can scarcely get about." "you should still feel young in comparison with me," said the grandmother, and she wondered at his feebleness as he walked away with slow, unsteady steps. chapter vii a precious legacy and a precious prayer the pleasant summer days were at hand. the grandmother did not forget rico's loneliness, and she helped stineli with the work as much as possible, so that she and rico might play together. in the early days of september, when every one made an effort to stay out of doors for the last of the warm evenings, the teacher was forced to remain in the house, for he was growing weaker and coughed more and more. one morning, when he tried to rise as usual, he fell back upon his pillow, exhausted. this brought to his mind serious thoughts of how things would be left in case he died. he had lived among these mountain people all his life and loved both his home and his work, but he had no children, and his wife had been dead many years. the only one who lived with him was a faithful old servant. he had made no plans for disposing of his property. he loved his violin more than all his other possessions, and it grieved him to realize that the time was at hand when he must leave it. he remembered the day that rico had been there and had held it so lovingly, and the desire came to him to leave it with the boy, so that it might always have the care it deserved. it seemed a shame that he must actually give away things for which he had worked so hard and cared so much. many plans for disposing of them presented themselves, but each was put aside as he faced the grim messenger and realized that earthly things had served him all they could. a fever was taking firm hold upon him. all the evening and through the long night he lay restless, thinking of his past and the little he had done for the world. he was seized by a longing to do some one a real kindness before it was too late. he reached for his cane and tapped the wall for his servant, whom he directed to summon the grandmother to him. it was not long before she stood by his bedside. without waiting to extend his hand in greeting, he said: "please be so kind as to take the violin from the wall and carry it to the little orphan, rico. i want to give it to him. tell him that i hope he will take good care of it." the grandmother understood the restless impatience of the sick one, so she immediately lifted the violin from its place, saying: "that is truly good of you. how astonished he will be! i will come in later to see how you are feeling." rico was standing on the doorsteps when he saw the grandmother coming, and he ran to meet her. "i have come with good news for you, rico," she said. "the teacher has asked me to bring you this violin. he wishes to give it to you. take it, rico. it is your own now." rico seemed suddenly petrified. the grandmother touched his shoulder, repeating: "it is yours; take it, child, and be happy. the teacher wants you to have it." rico trembled as she laid the gift in his arms. "if that is true, i will take it," was all he could say. "you will always be careful of it, won't you?" asked the grandmother, to fulfill the teacher's request, but she smiled as she thought how unnecessary the caution was. "now, rico," she added, "i will go home, but i hope that you will not forget about the teacher's kindness, for he is very sick." rico went up to his room, where he could be alone with his treasure. here he examined it carefully and played softly to his heart's content. so absorbed was he in his pleasure that he forgot to think of the time until it began to grow dark. his aunt met him at the foot of the stairs, saying: "you may have something to eat to-morrow. you are so excited to-day that you deserve nothing." rico had not thought about supper. he said nothing to his aunt, but walked contentedly over to find the grandmother. stineli was lighting the kitchen fire when he went in. ever since she had heard the good news in the morning, she had been wishing that she had time to run over to tell rico how glad she was. now that he suddenly stood before her, she could contain herself no longer. she exclaimed over and over as she danced about: "it is yours, rico! i am so glad! it is yours! it is yours!" before the rejoicing had subsided, the grandmother entered. rico went up to her and said, "grandmother, will it be right for me to go over to thank the teacher if he is sick?" she considered a moment, because the old man had looked so ill that morning; then she said, "yes; i will go with you." she led the way to the sick man's room, rico following closely with the precious violin, which had not been out of his arms since it had been given to him. the teacher had become very weak since morning. rico stepped to the bed with such a happy, grateful face that he did not need to say a word. the sick man gave the boy a loving caress and then asked for the grandmother. rico stepped aside and she took his place. "grandmother," said the teacher faintly, "i have been feeling so troubled that i shall be glad if you will pray for me." just then the vesper bell rang. rico bowed his head as the grandmother prayed by the bed. after an interval of silence she gently closed the eyes of her old friend, for he had died during prayer. then taking rico by the hand, she led him softly from the room. rico understood what had happened. he and the grandmother walked in silence until they reached her home. "do not be unhappy, rico," she said; "your teacher has been suffering for some time, and we should rather rejoice that he is now at rest with the heavenly father. i know you will always remember him for his useful life and for his loving gift to you." chapter viii at lake sils during the week that followed rico's good fortune stineli was as happy as a bird, in spite of the fact that there seemed to be ten more days than usual before sunday came. it arrived at last, and proved to be a glorious day of sunshine. when she found herself with rico, under the evergreens on the hill overlooking the lake, she felt so thankful that she could only dance about the moss-covered slope. after a while she seated herself on the edge of the cliff, where she could see both the lake and the village far down the hill. "come, rico," she said; "now we can sing." rico sat down beside her and began tuning the violin, which, you may be sure, he had not forgotten to bring with him. then they sang together: "come down, little lambs, from the sunniest height--" and on through every one of the stanzas. stineli was brimming over with fun. "come," she said, "let's make some more rhymes. how will this do? "oh, climb, little lambs, to the beautiful green, where the winds are all hushed and the clouds are unseen." this made them laugh, and they sang the verses two or three times. "more, stineli!" cried rico, encouragingly, and stineli went on: "little lambs, little lambs, under heavenly blue, 'mong numberless flowers of exquisite hue. "there's a boy who is sad, here's a girl who is gay; but all lakes are alike made of water, they say." they laughed again and sang their verses over several times. "i wish we had some more," said rico; so stineli added two more stanzas: "little lambs, little lambs, so playful yet shy; gay and happy are they, though they know not just why. "now the boy and the girl at the lake are so glad; if we think not at all, can we ever be sad?" then they began from the beginning and sang all the verses over and over again, and the more they sang them the better they liked their song. they tried to sing other songs during the afternoon, but every little while they would go back to what rico called "stineli's song," but what she called "our own song." once while they were singing, stineli stopped abruptly and clapped her hands for joy. "i have just thought of a way to get to your pretty lake without money," she said exultantly. rico looked inquiringly at his companion. "don't you see?" she added hastily. "now that you have a violin and know a song, it is very simple. you can stop at the door of the inns to play and sing; then the people will give you something to eat and let you sleep there, for they will know that you are not a beggar. you can keep on going until you get there, and you can come back in the same way." they were still discussing the plan when they noticed that it was growing dark. they had not heard the vesper bell. running down the hill, they found the grandmother out looking for them. they ran joyfully to her, taking it for granted that she knew they would have come earlier had they been aware of the time. "oh, grandmother!" exclaimed stineli; "you will be astonished to find how well rico can play. we have a song all our own that we want to sing to you." the grandmother smiled. it was a pleasure to her to see the children together. "i can see that you have enjoyed the afternoon," she said when the song was ended. "i wonder, rico," she continued, "if you can play my favorite tune, 'with heart and voice to thee i sing.' we will all sing if you can play for us." the grandmother sang softly the first verses of the hymn and rico took it up readily, for it proved to be familiar. then the three joined in the singing, the grandmother speaking each verse before they began: "with heart and voice to thee i sing, lord of my life's delight! o'er all the earth let love take wing to make dark places bright! "i know that thou the well of grace and everlasting art; thou, lord, to whom we all can trace the pure and true of heart. "why then unhappy should we live and sorrow day and night? oh, let us take our cares and give to him who has the might. "he never will refuse his aid if you a prayer will send; whatever in his care is laid shall have a happy end. "then let the blessing onward go, and cause it not to stay, that you may rest in peace below and happy be alway." "there, that was a real benediction," said the grandmother. "you may go to rest in peace, children." "and i believe i like the violin just as well as rico does," said stineli. "aren't you glad he can play so well? and it's so nice here, wouldn't you like to have him play some more?" "i am very glad, dear," said the grandmother, "but we will not play or sing any more to-night. we'll let rico go now, and let us all keep in our hearts the thought of the last song. remember the father will care for his own. good night." chapter ix a puzzling occurrence that evening rico was later than usual in returning to the house, for the grandmother's singing lesson had taken some time. the aunt met him at the door. "so this is the way you have begun!" she said sharply. "your supper has been waiting for you long enough, so you may go to bed without it. i am sure it will not be my fault if you become a tramp. any drudgery would be better than taking care of a boy like you." usually rico made no response to her faultfinding. to-night he met her angry look with an expression of determination that she had never seen in his face before. "very well," he replied quietly, "i will take myself out of your way." he said nothing more, and as he went up to his dark bedroom he heard his aunt bolt the door. the following evening, when the neighboring household had gathered about the table for supper, the aunt surprised them by coming to the door to inquire for rico. she had not seen him that day. "don't worry," said stineli's father, cheerfully; "he'll come when he's hungry." as soon as the aunt saw that the boy had not taken refuge at the neighbor's, she went on to explain that in the early morning she had found the door unbolted. at first she had supposed that her trouble with rico had made her forget to fasten it, but when she saw that he was not in his room and that his bed had not been slept in, she concluded that he had run away. "if that is the case, something has surely happened to him," said the father. "he may have fallen into a crevasse on the mountain. a boy climbing about in the dark might easily break his neck. you were wrong not to speak of it sooner, for how is any one to find him, now that the daylight is gone?" "of course everybody will blame _me_ for it," the aunt retorted. "that is the way when a person is uncomplaining. no one will believe" (and here she told the truth) "what a stubborn, malicious, deceitful child he has been, nor how he has made my life miserable all through these long, long years. he will never be anything but an idle tramp." the grandmother could bear no more in silence. she rose from the table, her eyes flashing with indignation. "stop, neighbor, for pity's sake!" she protested. "i know rico very well. ever since the father brought him here i have seen him almost constantly. instead of saying harsh things about the child remember what danger he may be in this very minute. don't you suppose that he may also have some reason to complain?" the aunt had been thinking all day of rico's words, "i will take myself out of your way," and trying to justify her own position. now the grandmother's rebuke made her ashamed. "i will go back," she said, as she stepped out into the dark field. "rico may have come home while i have been standing here." in her heart she knew that she would be glad to find this true, but the little house was empty and still. early the next morning the neighbors set forth to search carefully in the ravines and along the approaches to the glacier. when stineli's father noticed that she had followed the others he said, "that is right, stineli; you can get into places where bigger folk could not go." "but, father," said stineli, "if rico went up the road he couldn't have fallen into any such place, could he?" "of course he could!" said the father. "he was such a dreamer that it would have been easy enough for him to lose his way. he probably paid no attention to where he was going, and wandered off toward the mountains." a great fear entered stineli's heart when she heard this. for days she could scarcely eat or sleep and she went listlessly about her work as if she did not know what she was doing. no one could be found who had seen rico since the night he left home. as time went on he was given up for dead. the neighbors tried to console one another by saying: "he is better off as it is. the child had no one to look after him properly." chapter x a little light stineli became more and more depressed as the days passed. the children complained, "stineli won't tell us any more stories and she won't laugh with us any more." one day the mother spoke to the father about the change in stineli, but all that he said was: "it is because she is growing so rapidly. let her rest a little and give her plenty of goat's milk to drink." after about three weeks had passed in this way, the grandmother went with stineli to her room one evening and said, "i can understand, dear, how hard you find it to forget about rico, but i am afraid that you are not resigning yourself to the inevitable as it should be your duty to do for the sake of the dear ones about you." "but, grandmother," sobbed stineli, "you don't know how it hurts me to think that i gave rico the notion of going to the lake; and now that he has been killed, i am to blame for it." a great load seemed to fall from the grandmother as she heard these words. she had given rico up for lost, for she could not otherwise account for his complete disappearance. a strong hope of his safety now came to her. "tell me, child," she said, "all that you know about his going to the lake." stineli told of rico's longing to see the pretty lake he remembered, and how she had advised him to make the trip. "i am sure," she said, "that rico started for the lake, but father says that he would get killed anyway." "we have a right to hope for something better," said the grandmother. "have you forgotten the song we sang the last night that rico was with us? 'whatever in his care is laid shall have a happy end.' of course it was wrong of you to advise rico without consulting your parents, but you did it thoughtlessly and meant no harm, so you may dare to hope that there will be a happy ending to rico's going to the lake. i feel satisfied now that the child is alive and that he will be taken care of." from that time on stineli began to be her old self. to be sure, she missed her friend, but she cherished a secret hope that he would return to her. day by day she looked up the road to see if he might not possibly be coming down the maloja pass, but the seasons came and went and nothing was heard from the missing boy. chapter xi a long journey when rico was so harshly dismissed by his aunt that sunday evening, he went up to his room and took a chair in the darkness. his intention was to stay there only until his aunt had gone to bed. it seemed a simple undertaking to him to find his lake, now that stineli had told him her plan. he dreaded the aunt's interference, although he knew that she would be glad to have him gone. his first thought upon reaching his room was, "i will go to-night, as soon as she has gone to bed." a feeling of relief swept over rico as he contemplated the future when he should be able to live for days without seeing the aunt. he thought of the beautiful flowers he would gather to bring back to stineli, for there was not the least doubt in his mind about his coming back to her. then, as he walked in fancy on the sunny shore of the lake, and thought of its beautiful setting, he fell asleep. his uncomfortable position awakened him at last. the violin still lay in his lap, and as he felt it his plan came to his mind. the room was still as dark as when he had entered in the early evening. he was glad that he was wearing his best suit. he put on his hat and, going softly down the stairs, he quietly pushed back the bolt and let himself out into the brisk morning air. over the hills he could see the first glimmer of morning. soon he heard the cocks announcing the break of day, and he increased his pace so that he might get beyond the town before it was light enough for him to be recognized. he very much enjoyed the walk, combined with the feeling of freedom, as soon as he got to the open country. it was familiar to him, for he and the father had many times walked there together. he had no idea of the distance to the top of the maloja, but after he had walked steadily for two hours, it began to seem like a long way. bright daylight came at last, and after another hour of brisk walking he reached the summit of the mountain, where he and the father had so often stood looking at the scenery about them. a sunny morning was spread over the hills. the evergreen tops shimmered in the distance as if sprinkled with gold. rico sat down by the roadside, a very tired and hungry boy, and well he might be, for he had eaten nothing since sunday noon. perhaps, he thought, he should find it much easier now that his way would be going downhill, and possibly it would not be much farther to the lake. as rico sat by the roadside, lost in thought, the large stagecoach came rumbling by. rico had often seen it and envied the coachman on that high seat where he could look about him so well and have control of those fine large horses. the coach halted in the driveway leading to the inn at the summit. rico came closer and watched the driver as he came out of the inn; he had remained but a moment, and he was now carrying a huge slice of black bread and a large piece of cheese. he cut these into strips and began to eat them, occasionally giving a bite to the horses. while they were contentedly eating, the driver noticed rico's interested attention. "well, little musician," he said, "will you eat with us? come nearer and i will give you some." rico had not realized how hungry he was until he saw the bread and cheese, but he quickly stepped forward at the invitation. the coachman cut such a large piece of bread and put such a thick slice of cheese on it that rico had to find a place to lay his violin in order to have both hands free to hold his liberal portion. it pleased the man to see the way in which rico attacked his breakfast, and he took the occasion to ask him a few questions. "you are a very young musician. can you play anything?" "yes, two new songs, and a few others." "is that so! and where do you expect your little legs to take you?" "to peschiera on lake garda," was rico's prompt reply. the coachman laughed so heartily at this that rico was puzzled. "that is great!" said he. "don't you know that a little one like you could wear out the soles of his shoes, and his feet too, before he would see a drop of water from lake garda? who sends you down there?" "i go of my own accord," said rico. "bless me, did you ever see such a child! where is your home?" "i don't know; maybe it is at lake garda," said rico, earnestly. the coachman looked thoughtfully at the boy. he did not look like a runaway, neither did he have the appearance of neglect. his black curly hair hanging over his sunday frock was very pretty and childlike. his attractive appearance and honest looks gained the man's sympathy. "you carry your passport in your face, my lad," he said. "it is all right, even if you don't know where your home is. what will you give me if i put you on the high seat beside me and take you a long way on your journey?" rico stared in amazement. to think of sitting on that high seat and riding down the valley! how he longed for the experience, but what had he to pay? "i haven't anything to give but my violin, and i couldn't part with that," he said at last. "well," said the coachman, laughing, "i shouldn't know what to do with that if i had it, so you may keep it. come, we will get on now, and you can play for me anyway." rico scarcely dared believe that the man meant what he said, but it was true, and he was hoisted up to the seat. the passengers were inside the coach, with the windows down, as the morning was cool. the driver took up the reins and they started down the hill that rico had wanted to pass over for so long a time. in what a remarkable way was his desire fulfilled! he felt as if he were sailing between heaven and earth, and wondered how it had all come about. "tell me, little traveler," began the coachman, "where is your father?" "he is dead," answered rico. "is that so! where is your mother?" "she is dead, too," came the answer. "that is too bad! how about grandfather and grandmother?" "they are dead." "well, well!" exclaimed the man. "but you must have brother or sister?" "they are dead," was again rico's sad reply. "what was your father's name?" "enrico trevillo from peschiera on lake garda." this made the coachman conclude that the boy belonged rightfully to peschiera and that possibly he had been kidnapped by a mountaineer. however that might be, he determined to help the boy to get back to where he evidently belonged, and so he dismissed the matter from his mind. after they had descended the first hill and were riding along on a comparatively level stretch of road, the driver said, "now, little musician, play us a lively piece of music." rico tuned his instrument, and feeling very grateful to the good man for letting him ride, he not only began to play but to sing with all the strength of his bell-like voice, "come down, little lambs, from the sunniest height." it so happened that there were on the coach three students who were taking a vacation trip in the hills. to them the music was most welcome, and stineli's verses appealed to their sense of humor. rico was asked again and again to sing the song, and they joined in the singing as soon as they had learned the words. sometimes they laughed so hard that they had to go back to the beginning. thus the journey progressed merrily. if rico stopped playing, they asked him for more, and threw him pieces of silver until he had quite a sum in his hat which he held safely between his knees. all the windows were now open, and some of the passengers were leaning out, trying to get a glimpse of the musician. the fun did not cease until the noon hour brought them to an inn, where they were to stop for dinner. the driver helped rico transfer the money from his hat to his pockets, saying, "i am glad that you have that, for now you can buy your dinner." the students had not been able to see rico from their position on the coach, and were much surprised to find such a little boy. their good humor increased, and they took him in their midst, giving him a place at their table and waiting upon him as upon an honored guest. rico could not remember of ever having seen so pretty a table or of ever having eaten so good a dinner. "from whom did you learn that song?" asked one. "from stineli; it is her song, because she made it herself," answered rico. "that was clever of stineli," said another. "let us drink to her health and happiness, since her song has so richly entertained us this morning!" the noon hour was gone all too soon. as the passengers began taking their places in the coach, a large, heavily built man, clad in a brown worsted suit and carrying a heavy cane, came to rico and said: "see here, little man, you sang very well this morning. i heard you from my window, and i want to tell you that i am in the business of buying and selling sheep, so i want to give you something, because you sang to us about the little lambs." then he pressed a large piece of silver into rico's hand. the man entered the coach, and the sturdy driver tossed rico to his seat as if he were but a toy in his hands. a moment later they were speeding down the valley. later in the afternoon rico played again for them. he went over all the tunes he knew and finally played the melody and sang the song that he had learned from the grandmother the previous evening. this dreamy air must have lulled the students to sleep, for he heard nothing more from them. he put away his violin and watched the daylight fade and the stars begin to twinkle. the evening breeze was cooling the air. rico thought of stineli and the grandmother, and wondered what they were doing. in imagination he heard the vesper bells, and then he wondered no longer. he seemed to be with them as he folded his hands and, looking up to the star-sprinkled heaven, prayed as they had taught him. chapter xii the journey continued rico had fallen asleep. he was awakened by the coachman, who wanted to help him from the wagon. everybody had hurried away except the students, who came to rico to bid him good luck for the journey and ask him to tell stineli about them. then with a merry "good-by" they too departed. rico could hear them singing stineli's song as they went. "if we think not at all, can we ever be sad?" the next moment found rico standing in the darkness, without any idea as to where he was or what he should do. it occurred to him that he had not thanked the coachman for having taken him so far, and he wanted to do so before going away. the man and the horses had disappeared, and it was too dark to see where they were. soon rico detected a faint glimmer to his left; this proved to be the light from the lantern in the barn, and he could dimly see the horses being led through the door into the stable. rico hurried to the place, and finding that the large man who carried the cane was standing in the doorway, apparently waiting for the driver, the boy waited there also. the sheep buyer could not have noticed rico at first, for suddenly he exclaimed: "what, you still here, little one? where are you going to spend the night?" "i don't know where," answered rico. "you don't know where! at eleven o'clock at night--a little one like you! what does this mean?" the man's breath nearly failed him in his astonishment, but he had no chance to finish his exclamation, for the coachman came out just at that moment, and rico immediately stepped up to him, saying, "i forgot to thank you for bringing me so far, and i wanted to." "good that you did!" said the driver. "i was busy with the horses and forgot that i meant to hand you over to a friend." the coachman turned to the other man, saying: "here, good friend, i intended to ask you if you wouldn't take this child with you down the valley, since you were going that way. he wants to go to lake garda, and he seems to be all alone in the world--you know what i mean." "stolen, perhaps," said the large man as he cast a pitying glance at rico. "i have little doubt of his belonging to those who would do well by him if they had him. of course i will take him with me." he motioned rico to follow him as he bade the coachman good night. a short walk brought them to the door of an inn; they entered and took chairs at a small table in one corner of the room. "let us count your money," said rico's new friend. "we can tell then how far it will take you on your journey. where is it that you wish to go?" "to peschiera on lake garda," answered rico. he took all the money from his pockets and piled it on the table, putting the large piece of silver on top. "is that large piece the only one you have?" asked the friend. "the only one. i got it from you," answered rico. it pleased the man to have rico remember this, and he was glad to know that of all the listeners he had been the most liberal. it occurred to him to add another coin, but the supper he had ordered came in just then, so he said instead: "very well, you may keep what you have for to-morrow. i will pay for the supper and lodging to-night." rico was so tired that he found it difficult to eat anything. the man noticed this and let him go straight to bed. he had scarcely touched the pillow before he was fast asleep. early the following morning rico was aroused from a sound slumber by his friend, who stood before him, cane in hand, ready for the journey. a few moments later rico joined him in the breakfast room, where their coffee was awaiting them. the man helped rico to an abundant breakfast, telling him that they had a long journey before them, so that they must be fortified against hunger on the way. "a part of our trip to-day will be taken on the water, and that always sharpens a person's appetite," said he. the breakfast over, the travelers started on their way. they walked a short distance and then turned a corner, where rico caught his breath in surprise, for a beautiful lake lay before them. "aren't we at lake garda?" he asked. "no, no, we are a long way from it yet," replied his friend. "this is lake como, where we take a steamer." they were soon at the steamship landing, where they entered a small vessel. the sunny shore seemed to speak a welcome to rico. he and the man had taken chairs at a table. rico took his largest piece of silver and laid it on the table in front of his friend, who was sitting with his hands resting on his cane. "what is that for?" he asked. "have you too much money to suit you?" "you told me that i must pay to-day," said rico. "it is good of you to remember," said the man, "but you mustn't put your money on the table like that. let me take it and i will settle the bill for you." he went to the ticket agent, but when he saw how full his own purse was, he could not bear to use the only large piece the child possessed, so he gave it back to rico with his ticket, saying: "there, you had better keep this; you may need it to-morrow. i am with you now, and there may be no one to look after you when i am gone. who knows how much you may have occasion to use later! when you get to peschiera have you some one to whom you can go?" "i don't know of any one," answered rico. the man stifled his surprise, but he had a secret fear that all might not go well with the child. he resolved to find out more about the boy on his return trip, thinking that the coachman would be able to tell him, and so he asked rico no more questions. when the steamer had landed her passengers, the man said, "we must hurry across to the railway station to catch our train, rico, and i am going to take you by the hand; then i shall be sure not to lose you." rico had all he could do to keep up with the man, who walked on rapidly. he wished for time to look about him, but he had to wait until they reached the train, which was the first one he had ever seen. he felt very strange in it, even with the man at his side. he was glad that he was near a window, where he could look out, as everything was of interest to him. after about an hour's ride, rico's friend said: "we are coming into bergamo, where i shall have to leave you, rico. all that you have to do is to sit still until the conductor comes to help you off, and then you will know that you are in peschiera. he has promised me that he will tell you." rico very earnestly thanked his benefactor, and then he and the good man parted, each being sorry to leave the other. sitting in the corner of the car, rico meditated upon all that had come to pass in the last few days of his life. no one in the compartment paid any attention to him, and he was glad to spend his time looking out of the window, thinking of whatever he wished. three hours had passed before the conductor came to him and took his hand to help him down the steps. then pointing toward the station he said, "peschiera." the train started on, and rico watched it move away until it was lost to view in the distance. chapter xiii lake garda rico walked a few paces away from the station and looked about him. this large white building, the open space in front of it, the winding street in the distance, were all strange to him. he was positive that he had never seen them before. he had to confess to himself, "i have not come to the right place, after all." he sadly followed along the path between the trees until he came to a turn in the road which brought him to a sudden standstill, for before him lay the sky-blue lake, the water shimmering in the sunshine. yonder were the towering hills in the distance, with the faint outlines of the white dwellings in the valleys. how familiar it seemed! many a time he had stood just where he was at present. he recognized the trees, but where was the house? oh, there should be a little white house near by, but it was gone! there was the street that led to it. how well he remembered it! there were the red flowers in the abundance he had been used to seeing. there ought to be a bridge a little farther down. in his eagerness to see it he ran toward it, and sure enough, it was there, just as memory had pictured it. a flood of recollections overpowered him. it was here that a lovely, loving woman had held him by the hand,--his mother. in fancy he saw her face distinctly and heard the sweet words of her lips, and understood anew the love revealed in her youthful eyes. throwing himself upon the grass, rico wept bitterly. the sun was setting before he dried his eyes and began to think of what he should do. the golden evening glow that his memory had cherished was on the water, the hills had taken the violet tints, and the fragrance of the roses perfumed the air. the beauty of the place comforted him, and he thought, "how i wish stineli could see this!" when rico left the bridge, the sun had set and the light of day was fast fading away into darkness. it seemed more like a home than anything he had known for years, and he reluctantly left the place. his first purpose was to take a closer look at the red flowers that he had noticed in the garden. he found a path leading from the street, where he could obtain a good view of them. it seemed to rico that there must be bushels of the buds among the trees, shrubs, and vines. again he thought, "if only stineli could see them!" rico could see a sturdy boy in the garden, cutting grapes from the vines. the side door of the attractive white house in front of the garden stood wide open. the young man noticed rico and stopped his whistling to say, "come here and play a tune if you can." this was said in italian, and rico wondered at his own understanding of the words, for he was sure that he could not _speak_ like that. after the young man had asked some questions and discovered that rico could not answer, he directed him to the house to play there. rico stopped at the door and played and sang stineli's song from beginning to end. through the open door he noticed a lady sitting beside a child's bed, sewing. when rico was about to turn away, a little pale face was raised from the pillow and he heard a voice say, "play some more, please." rico played another melody and again turned to go, but the child repeated, "play some more." so it happened time after time until rico had played all the tunes he knew. when the little boy saw that rico was really going away, he began to cry, begging rico to come to him. the lady came out, offering a coin to rico, who had played for the child with no thought of money. then it occurred to him again that stineli had said that people would give him something if he played for them, so he took it and put it into his pocket. the lady asked where rico came from and where he was going, but he could not answer. "have you parents here?" she continued, and rico shook his head in reply, thus telling her that he could understand. then she asked if he were all alone, and rico nodded. "then where will you go?" she questioned, and rico shook his head with a little gesture to indicate that he did not know. the lady called the young man from the garden, and rico heard her direct him to take the child to the hotel for the night, and to tell the landlord that the bill for lodging and supper was to be sent to her. "perhaps the people at the hotel can understand the language he speaks," she said. "he must have been away a long time to forget so much. he is too young to be out alone, and i want you to tell them to show him the way he wishes to go in the morning." the little invalid was still crying, and the mother at last asked rico if he would come to see him in the morning. as soon as he saw rico nod his assent, the boy was satisfied. it was about ten minutes' walk to the city proper. the young man led rico directly to the landlady and explained his errand. in the meantime rico noticed that the living room was filled with men who were smoking and talking. he heard the landlady dismiss the boy with, "very well, i will do as you say." she looked rico over from head to foot as she asked him where he came from. he answered in german that he had come down the maloja and could understand what the people said, although he could not speak in the same way. the landlord, who understood german, told rico that he had been up to the mountains himself. "we will talk about it later," he said, "if you will play for the guests a few moments first." they had called for music as soon as they saw the violin. rico was very tired, but he obediently played and sang, beginning as usual with stineli's song. none of the guests understood german, and they talked and laughed during the song. as soon as he had finished, some one called for a lively tune, and rico tried to think of something they might like. he had never heard the music of the dance halls, but he finally thought of "una sera in peschiera." the men joined rico in the singing, much to his surprise, and they made the strongest chorus he had ever heard. it was fine to lead so many voices, and he played through the whole number of verses. when the song was ended, there was such a jubilee that rico could not imagine what it meant. they surrounded him, shaking his hands and patting his shoulders, and then asked him to drink with them. rico was bewildered, for he could not understand their surprise that he, a stranger, should know their song,--the song that no one outside their locality would care to learn. moreover, he had played it with feeling, like a loyal peschieran; hence this hilarious gratitude and brotherly welcome. rico's supper, consisting of boiled rice with chicken, was brought in and put on a corner table, and the landlady rescued him from his embarrassment by explaining that the child must eat and rest. she led him to the table, remaining to serve him. rico was indeed hungry. it seemed as if a long time had elapsed since he had taken breakfast with his friend in the early morning, and he had tasted nothing since. he had scarcely finished eating when he found it almost impossible to keep awake. he had told them, in response to questions, that he had no home and that he was going nowhere. "that is too bad," said the husband, kindly. "don't worry about anything now, for you must go to bed and get a good sleep. perhaps mrs. menotti, the lady that sent you here, will give you some work if you go to see her to-morrow morning. i have no doubt of her helping you, since you have no home." he did not notice that his wife was trying to keep him from saying this. the guests called for another song, but rico was sent to bed, the wife taking him up to an attic storeroom that contained a quantity of ear corn and had its walls decorated with harnesses. in one corner, however, stood a bed, and rico was soon tucked away in it and asleep. after the guests had departed, the woman said to her husband: "i don't want you to send the boy to mrs. menotti. i can make him useful myself. didn't you notice how well he can play? they were all pleased with him, too. mark my words that the boy will make a better player than any of the three that we now hire. he will learn the music easily, and we can soon get along by hiring only two men on dance days, for we shall have him for nothing, and we can hire him out besides. you would be more than foolish to let him go. i like his looks very much, and i say that we will keep him." "very well; i am quite willing," the husband said amiably. he could see how well she had reasoned. chapter xiv new friends the next morning the landlady was standing in the doorway of the inn, observing the signs of the weather and planning the work of the day, when suddenly mrs. menotti's servant appeared. this young man was manager as well as servant. he understood his work thoroughly, and the place prospered under his care. he had a habit of whistling wherever he went, and people thought it was because his life was such a happy, contented one that he could not help expressing his satisfaction. "if the boy i brought you last evening is still here," he began, "mrs. menotti requests that you will send him over to her. silvio wishes to see him again." the landlady stiffened, but tried to say pleasantly: "yes, to be sure, if she is not in too much of a hurry. it so happens that the boy is still in bed, and i would rather let him have his sleep out. you can go back and tell mrs. menotti that i will send him over later, as he is not going any farther. i have taken him for good and all. he is a little neglected orphan, but i will see that he is provided for hereafter." when rico at last awoke, he felt as fresh as if he had not taken the long journey the day before. the landlady admired his neat appearance as he came down the stairway. she beckoned to him to come to the kitchen, where she served him his late breakfast. "you may breakfast as well as this every morning, if you like, rico," she said, as she seated herself opposite him at the little table. "we have a still better dinner and supper, for we cook for the guests then. you might pay me by helping with the work and playing for us when we want you to, but of course it remains for you to decide whether you will stay or not." the landlady had spoken in italian, but rico had understood her, and he found words enough to say, "yes, i will stay." when rico's breakfast was over, he was taken about the premises so that he might become familiar with the house, barn, chicken shed, and yard, and also the vegetable garden, for his help would be needed about them all. he was later sent to several places of business to get soap, oil, thread, and repaired shoes, and each time returned with his errand correctly done. it was therefore evident to the landlady that rico knew the language well enough to be of great service to her. the afternoon was half over before she said to him, "you may take your violin over to mrs. menotti's and stay until night, if you would like to. she is expecting you." rico was delighted, for that would take him near the place he loved. as soon as he reached the lake, he went to the bridge and sat down. he recognized this quiet, fragrant spot as all that was left to him of his home, for it was still associated with the tender care of his mother as no other place could be. its restfulness appealed to him, and the beauty of the scene was a feast after the years spent in the hills. he longed to remain for the rest of the afternoon, but he realized that his time belonged to those who had given him a home, and so he resumed his way to the sick boy. the door was open at mrs. menotti's, and the little invalid heard rico's step as soon as he entered the garden. mrs. menotti came down the path to meet him, and welcomed him so cordially and led him to the living room in such a motherly way that she won his affection immediately. rico noticed how pleasantly the room opened to the garden. each night the boy's tiny bed was rolled into an adjoining room, where the mother slept. early every morning it was taken back to the living room, where the morning sun and pleasant outlook gladdened the heart of the little sufferer. beside the bed were the tiny crutches with which the mother at times assisted him to move about the room, for he was lame and had never been able to walk. as soon as the little one heard rico, he lifted himself to a sitting posture by means of a cord which hung suspended from the ceiling. he could not raise himself without help. rico noticed the frail hands and arms, and the pinched look of the wan face. the little frame seemed too delicate to be that of a boy. the child had seen but few strangers, though he had often longed for company, and now his large blue eyes fastened eagerly upon rico. "what is your name?" he asked at the first opportunity. "rico," was the answer. "mine is silvio. how old are you?" "i am eleven." "so am i," said the little one. "why, silvio, you are forgetting!" broke in mrs. menotti. "you are not quite four, so rico can see that you have made a mistake." silvio changed the subject. "play something, rico," he said. rico stepped some distance away from the bed before beginning to play. mrs. menotti sat in her accustomed place at the head of the bed. it was hard to tire silvio by playing for him. rico had exhausted his entire list of pieces, and yet the boy called for more. mrs. menotti tactfully brought in a plate of grapes and had rico take her chair by the bed, where he and silvio might enjoy them together. she slipped out of the room unnoticed by the children. she rejoiced to get out to the garden, for it had been days since silvio would consent to her leaving him. the children did not find it embarrassing to talk together. rico could answer all the questions that silvio asked, and was never at a loss to find a way of making himself understood where words failed him. the mother had time to take a long walk about the garden without silvio's having once called for her. it was getting dark when she returned. rico rose to leave, but silvio caught hold of his jacket and begged him to stay. "unless you promise to come to see me every day i will not let you go," he said. "but, silvio," said the mother, "you must remember that rico cannot promise that, even if he would like to, for he must first ask the people with whom he is living. i will go to see them to-morrow, and perhaps we can arrange it so that rico can come every day." silvio grasped rico's hand lovingly as he said good-by. "i hope you won't forget to come every day," he said. rico was sorry to leave them. he loved silvio and his mother for being so good to him. a homelike atmosphere filled the place and made him wish that his work might be done for them instead of for the people at the hotel. the next afternoon mrs. menotti called at the golden sun. the landlady was much flattered by this visit. she met her guest very cordially and led her to the parlor upstairs. mrs. menotti at once made her errand known, urging the landlady to let her have rico at least a few evenings a week, saying that she should be glad to pay well for the favor. the landlady had been thankful that mrs. menotti had not interfered with her keeping rico, so she willingly promised to let him go any evening that he did not have to play for dances. she was willing, she said, to let mrs. menotti pay what she pleased. it was agreed that mrs. menotti should clothe rico in return for the time he would give her. this pleased the landlady immensely, for not only would she have all his help for nothing, but he would soon be earning something besides. the days passed quickly for rico. in a short time he was speaking italian as if he had always known it. it came to him the more readily because he had once known it; then, too, he had a good ear, and caught the true italian accent with wonderful ease. the landlady found rico much more useful than she had expected. she praised his neat way of doing his work by saying that she could not have done it better herself. if he were sent on an errand, he never failed to return promptly. he was industrious, patient, and good-tempered. when people questioned him about his past, he was very reticent. the landlady respected his silence and did not ask any questions. thus he never gave his reason for coming to peschiera. a story was told around the town, however, that rico had run away from the people who had abused him in the mountains, that he had suffered many hardships on the long journey before he came to peschiera, and that he had found the people there so kind-hearted that he had decided to go no farther. whenever the landlady told the story, she always added that rico deserved the good fortune of having found a home with them. the first week of rico's stay at the golden sun more people than usual assembled for the regular dance out of curiosity to see the little boy who had had such strange experiences, and to hear him play. in fact, so many came that the capacity of the house was taxed. the landlady flitted about among her guests as rosy as if she herself were the golden sun. once, as she passed her husband, she whispered, "i told you that rico would help out our dances." rico listened to the music as the pieces were played, and soon found no trouble in playing with the others. when the dancing ceased, he was asked to play the peschiera song, and the dancers sang it enthusiastically as a fitting close to their evening of fun. it seemed to rico that they had been boisterously happy all the evening. the noise had hurt his ears and racked his nerves so that he was thankful when it was over. the crowd dispersed after the song, and rico hurried away to his attic bed, where he could at least have quiet. later that evening the landlady said to her husband: "you see how well my plan works? the next time rico can take the place of one of the players, so that we need hire but two." the husband smiled at his wife's sagacity and added: "yes, and he ought to be a favorite with those who give tips. there is no question of his getting something in that way." only two days later there was a dance in desenzano, and rico was sent with the other players. the people there did not sing the peschiera song, but they were as boisterous or worse than the golden sun crowd had been. the coarse laughter made rico shudder, so that from beginning to end he thought, "if it were only over!" he carried home a pocketful of pennies, which he put uncounted into the landlady's lap. she praised him for doing this and prepared a good supper for him. rico had been promised for another dance in riva the following week, and he was glad to go, for it would give him the opportunity to see closely what he had always looked at from a distance. riva lies at the opposite end of the lake from peschiera, and the white houses of the little towns built along the shore under the towering, rocky cliffs, had always seemed to throw him a glance of welcome. the musicians crossed the lake in an open boat under a clear blue sky. rico's thoughts were mostly with stineli. he wished again that she might know how pretty the lake was, especially since she had at first doubted its existence. he knew how much she would enjoy the beautiful sight, and how much it would surprise her to see it. he meant to tell her all about it when he went back to her. the boat landed at riva all too soon, and a few moments later rico was playing for the same kind of people that he had played for at the two preceding dances. it occurred to him that it was much pleasanter to look at the white houses and friendly rocks from his accustomed place on the opposite shore, or to amuse silvio at mrs. menotti's, than to play amid the present tumult and applause. as they were returning to peschiera that night he found no time to look about the town, though he had long wished to see the place. when there were no dances rico was allowed to go to mrs. menotti's every evening, for the landlady wished to prove herself grateful not only to rico but to mrs. menotti as well. these evenings were rico's greatest pleasure. he invariably went to the bridge for a short time on his way over. it always gave him fresh comfort, for he knew to a certainty that it was a place that had once been a part of his home. he had found the exact spot where his mother used to sit most frequently when she held and fondled him. he would sit there and think it over and over, actually living in the spirit of the past. each time he had to force himself to realize that silvio needed him and would be waiting. though it was always a little hard to leave the place, his peace of mind was restored as soon as he came to mrs. menotti's, for she had endeared herself to him, and he realized that from her he received more affection than from any one else except stineli. mrs. menotti had heard the story about rico's suffering in the hills, and she considered it wise to forbear asking questions, for fear of recalling to his mind painful scenes that had much better be forgotten. she longed to take rico away from the hotel, for she knew that it was not the place for a sensitive nature such as his, but she saw that this would be an impossibility. once she fondly put her hand on his head and said, "you poor little orphan, i do so wish i could keep you." to silvio, rico became more and more necessary. he spoke of him at all times of the day and was always listening for his coming. rico could speak fluently by this time, and it was silvio's greatest comfort to listen to the stories he would tell him. one day rico told him about stineli. silvio was so interested that rico enjoyed telling him about her. he told of stineli's seeing her brother sam fall into the creek, and how she reached the place in time to catch one of his feet, holding on to him until the father, for whom she called as loudly as she could, should get to them. the frightened boy was in the meantime screaming with all his might. the father, taking it for granted that children are always noisy, did not trouble himself to go immediately, but when he had leisurely strolled across the field to find out why they called, he found stineli still holding her brother. rico told how she drew pictures for peter and made playthings for urschli out of wood, moss, or rushes,--sometimes with all combined,--and how all the children wanted her when they were sick, because she could entertain them so well. he also told of the good times he and stineli had enjoyed together, and he became so animated in the telling that one would scarcely have recognized the quiet, sober rico. silvio's delight in these stories made both boys forget to look at the clock in time for rico to leave as early as usual. he was startled to see how late it was and hastily rose to go. "good night, silvio," he said. "i am sorry that i cannot come to-morrow or the next day, but i must play for some dances." this was too much for silvio's patience, and he called to his mother, who hastily came from the garden in the greatest anxiety. "mother!" he cried, "rico shall not go back to the hotel any more! i want him to stay here and i wish that you would make him. you will do it, won't you, rico?" "if i didn't have to help at the hotel, i would," answered rico. mrs. menotti had feared such a scene for some time, but was troubled to know how to meet it even now. she knew too well what rico was worth to the landlady and her husband in dollars and cents to entertain the faintest hope of their letting him go from them. she tried to quiet silvio as best she could, and affectionately drew rico to her, saying "you poor little orphan! i wish it were so that you might stay with us." "what is an orphan? i want to be one, too," said silvio. "i am afraid my little boy is naughty to-night," mrs. menotti admonished him. "an orphan is one who has neither father nor mother, and no place that he can call home. don't ever wish that again." mrs. menotti did not notice rico's pathetic glance when she gave silvio the meaning of the word. later when she saw that rico was gone, she supposed that he had slipped away without saying good night, for the sake of keeping silvio quiet, and she gave it no further thought. "now, silvio," she said, as she sat down by his bed, "i want to tell you something, so that you will never make such a fuss again. we have no more right to take rico away from those people than they would have to take you away from me. how should you like never to see the garden again?" "i would come right home if they took me," was silvio's valiant answer, but the illustration had served to quiet him, and he was soon tucked in his little bed and willing to go to sleep. it would be hard to tell just what passed in rico's mind when he quietly left the house that night and went down to the bridge. "i know now that i am an orphan," he murmured, "and that there is no place that i can call home." he longed to stay on the bridge all night, for its sweet association with the past was his only comfort, but he knew that the landlady would become alarmed at his absence, so he forced himself away to his cheerless attic. he did not need a candle to find his way to the bed, and he much preferred not to see his surroundings. an eager desire to see stineli possessed him. he meant to tell her how it comforted him to know that she cared for him. it was late in the night before he could quiet his thoughts for sleep. chapter xv an emphatic appeal the matter, however, was not at all satisfactorily settled for silvio. he understood that he must do without rico for two days, but it wore upon his patience as the hours dragged along. he fretted and tossed about, wishing continually for rico. before the second day was over mrs. menotti's strength had been severely taxed. when rico understood that he was really homeless, his thoughts turned to stineli more than ever before. a new feeling of satisfaction came to him as he considered how much her friendship had meant to him and how much the future might mean if they could be again together as in days past. so continually had she been in his mind the last few days, that he had scarcely reached silvio's side before he said, "silvio, it seems to me as if no one could be quite happy without stineli." "mamma, i want stineli," said silvio, as he pulled himself to a sitting posture. "i want her to come to me because i can't have rico, and he says that no one can be quite happy without her." mrs. menotti knew of whom they were speaking, for she had often heard rico mention her during the years he had been with them. "yes," she said, "it would be delightful if we could have her, but my little boy must not forget to be reasonable." "but we _can_ have her, mamma," broke in silvio. "rico knows where she is, and he can go to-morrow and bring her to us." mrs. menotti had for some time secretly wished that rico might find for her some one to assist in the care of silvio, but she would not for a moment consider letting the boy go back to the perils from which he had so fortunately escaped. she sought to change the subject of conversation between the children, and endeavored to interest them in other things, but she failed to keep them from going back to the original subject. silvio would invariably say, "rico knows where she is and he must get her." "do you suppose that rico will deliberately go among those wicked people to get her, when he can stay here in safety?" asked the mother. "will you?" said silvio, fastening his large blue eyes upon rico. "surely, i will go," said rico enthusiastically. "rico, have you lost your senses?" exclaimed mrs. menotti. "what do you suppose i can do with you when you both begin to be unreasonable? you had better play something for silvio, rico, and i will go to the garden for a while. by the time i get back i shall hope to find two good, sensible boys." the boys, however, did not care for music to-night, and they talked, instead, of possible ways of bringing stineli to them and of how it would seem to have her there. when she returned from the garden, where she had enjoyed the quiet evening, mrs. menotti had to remind rico that it was time to go home. silvio urged his mother for a promise that rico might be allowed to go for stineli, and both boys eagerly awaited her answer. "you may feel differently about it in the morning, children," she said. "i want you to go to sleep in peace; possibly before the night is over i can think of a way to satisfy you." early the following morning silvio raised himself in bed to see if his mother was awake and said, "have you thought of a way, mamma?" mrs. menotti could not say that she had, and again the child's discontent broke out. all that day and the next and for many days thereafter he would not be comforted. mrs. menotti thought it was only a fancy and would wear itself out, but the extra strain upon the boy began to tell upon his health to such an extent that the mother became alarmed. she was convinced that silvio ought to have a companion, and she resolved to consult with some trustworthy person, to see if it were possible to get a child from the hills in safety. mrs. menotti understood that rico had escaped from ill treatment in the hill country, and she avoided asking him questions about his past life, hoping that he was young enough to let silence efface all unpleasant memories. on this account she felt quite unwilling to let him undertake the journey, and even the consideration of such a possibility brought to her a fuller realization of how necessary he had become to their own happiness. chapter xvi the advice under these conditions it was a pleasure and relief to mrs. menotti to see the pastor walking up the garden path. he came frequently to inquire after the health of the little one. as usual he was dressed in his long black coat. "silvio, the pastor is coming; isn't that nice?" said mrs. menotti, as she went to the door to meet him. "i don't want to see him. i wish it were stineli," said silvio, pouting. then seeing that the pastor had heard him, he covered his head with the bedclothes. "my little boy is out of humor to-day, and i am sure he didn't mean what he said," apologized the mother. they heard the boy under the covers say, "i did mean it." the pastor must have suspected where the voice came from, for he walked straight over to the bed, although there was not a bit of silvio in sight. he said: "god bless you, my son, how are you feeling, and why do you hide yourself like a little fox? creep out of there and tell me what you mean by stineli." instantly silvio's head was out and he said, "rico's stineli." "you must be seated, pastor," said mrs. menotti. "i will tell you what silvio means, for i want your advice very much." mrs. menotti recited in detail all that she knew about stineli, the reason why they wished for her, and the obstacles in the way of getting her. "i have thought," she said, "that it might be a good thing for the girl to get away from those wicked people, and i wonder if you can think of a safe way to bring her here." "i think," said the pastor, "that you have been misinformed about those people in the mountains. i am sure that there are kind-hearted men and women living there as well as here. people travel so much in these days that i am sure that it cannot be much of a task to get up there. one thing i am positive about is that the journey can be taken in absolute safety. i know some live-stock dealers who regularly make the trip from bergamo to the mountains, and who will be able to tell me all about it. since you are interested, i will see one of the men as soon as i go to bergamo and i will let you know when i return." silvio's eyes had grown larger as the pastor spoke, and he began to feel a great respect for the man who could so ably take his part. when the pastor extended his hand to silvio in parting, the boy fairly plunged his little palm into the larger one, as much as to say, "you deserve it now." weeks passed by as mrs. menotti waited to hear further news from the minister, but silvio's patience did not again fail him. he felt sure that the good man would help him to get what he wished. when rico heard that there was hope of his being sent for stineli, he forgot that he had ever been sad. the expectation of having her there to enjoy the beautiful scenes and to share his companionship fairly made the world over for him. his serious expression gave way to a happy one, and his purpose so animated him that it added a new charm to his manner. he went often to see silvio, and took pleasure in entertaining him by relating incidents of his active life among the people with whom he lived. he stopped playing the dreamy airs and substituted those more suited to his present mood. he played so well by this time that mrs. menotti was proud of his ability, and she often gave up a walk in order to listen to him. it was here, with those who loved him, that rico enjoyed the music he had learned. the only regret of the day came when he had to bid them good night and go away, for it always brought afresh the longing for a home of his own. the change in rico was noticed at the hotel where he lived. the landlady was much astonished one morning to have him ask her to hire some one else to care for the chickens and outbuildings. he thought that he had performed those duties as long as was necessary, and he preferred to be released also from blacking shoes and from similar work. the landlady remarked that he was indeed getting fastidious, but she was too wise to remonstrate, for she knew that there would still be enough for him to do. mrs. menotti had liberally provided rico with wearing apparel. she selected as carefully in material and workmanship as if he were her own child. the landlady said that he always went about looking like a little prince, and she meant to find no fault in regard to the work he chose to do. "i am sure," she said to her husband, "that since he brings so much money from the dances where he plays, i ought not to object to the slight expense of hiring a boy to do the menial work about the house and garden. rico has been a credit to us so far." the years had passed rapidly since rico came to peschiera. the vague, dreamy look in his eyes had given place to one of purpose and determination. he had the appearance of one much older than he was. another autumn was at hand. the purple grapes were temptingly ripe on the vines, and the oleander blossoms sparkled in the sunshine. one morning, about the usual time for rico to arrive at mrs. menotti's, silvio was listening for his step on the garden walk. he heard the gate open, but when he raised himself to look, there was the pastor instead of rico! silvio did not hide under the covers; instead, he clapped his hands, shouting, "mamma, the pastor is here," and stretched his arms to him as soon as he entered the room. this cordial welcome pleased the minister, and he went directly to silvio's bed, although he had seen the mother gathering some figs in the garden. he took the little one in his arms and said, "how is our silvio to-day?" "well, thank you. when can rico go?" the good man laughed. "to-morrow morning, my son; he is to go at five o'clock," he answered. later the pastor explained to mrs. menotti that he had just returned from bergamo, where he had spent a few days. he had looked up a stock dealer, according to his promise, and found that the man had made regular trips to the mountains for the last thirty years; every bit of the way that rico would have to go was familiar to him. it so happened that he had made his plans to go up again, and if they would send rico on the early morning train, he would take him along and see that he was well cared for; moreover, he had said that as he was acquainted with all the coachmen and conductors on the way, he would arrange for a safe return trip, so that the young travelers could not possibly go astray. "i wish that i could be certain that no harm would come to rico," said mrs. menotti to the pastor, as she accompanied him to the gate on his departure that morning. "you have no reasonable cause for worry," replied the pastor. "let the child go in peace, and we will pray god to bless the journey." just at this moment rico came in sight. silvio saw him from the doorway and shouted: "don't tell him! please don't tell him! i want to tell him myself. come, rico; i have something wonderful to tell you." mrs. menotti left the boys alone while she packed some things for the journey. in a large traveling bag she put a great piece of smoked ham, a loaf of fresh bread, a package of dried fruit, some figs fresh from the garden, and a bottle of her best fruit juice wrapped in a napkin; next came shirts, stockings, shoes, handkerchiefs, and various other things, so that one might suppose that rico were going for a month's stay instead of a week. "how much i have learned to care for that boy," she thought, as she looked about to make sure that nothing had been forgotten, and her heart sent up a silent prayer for a safe journey. "i think you had better take this bag to the station now, rico," she said to him when she came downstairs. "silvio has told you that you are to go on the early train, and you will wish to explain matters to the landlady. you must ask her if it greatly inconveniences her to let you go so soon." rico was astonished to find that he was expected to take a traveling bag of such huge proportions, but knowing that loving hands had prepared it, he did not remonstrate, but took it gladly and did as he was directed. when rico told the landlady that the pastor had planned for him to go to the mountains in the morning to get stineli, she took it for granted that the girl was his sister, and inferred that the sister would live with them. rico's statement that stineli was to live with mrs. menotti undeceived her. it was a disappointment, but she gave her consent, feeling thankful to mrs. menotti for not having tried to get rico. "it must be that rico likes it here," said the landlady to some guests that evening, "because he is going back to get his sister." she meant to let those people in the hills know how good a place the boy had, so she packed a large basket with sausages, cheese, and boiled eggs, and spread a loaf of bread with fresh butter, saying: "you mustn't be hungry on the trip. if i put up more than you need, they will no doubt be glad to have some up there; besides, you must have something on the way back, for you will surely come back to me, won't you, rico?" "in a week i will be here again," said rico. he took his violin and went over to bid silvio and the mother good-by. he asked them to care for his violin, for he would not have dared to intrust it to any one else. rico could not spend the evening with them, because he was expected to go to bed early. mrs. menotti's motherly farewell made his heart go out to her in gratitude, and silvio's "come back soon" rang in his ears again and again as he walked through the darkness to the hotel. chapter xvii over the mountains long before five o'clock the following morning, rico was at the station, impatient to be off. he had slept but little during the night, for his mind was in a whirl at the thought that he was actually going back to stineli. how glad he was that he might bring her to his good friends on his return! when he found that sleep was out of the question, he dressed, and going to the station, paced back and forth along the narrow platform until the train came in. when rico selected his place in the car, he was reminded of his ride, years ago, when he sat half-frightened in a corner of the seat, with only his violin beside him. this time his luggage required more space in the compartment than he himself did. the stock dealer did not fail to join rico at bergamo, and they both enjoyed the lovely daylight sail on lake como. the boy recognized the place where they landed and also the inn where they took the stage. he looked especially for the door of the stable, where the lantern had shown him the way to the coachman on his former trip. he had not at that time been able to see his surroundings very clearly. the sun had set when the stage left the inn, so rico entered the coach with his companion. he fell asleep almost immediately and did not wake until morning, when the sun was shining over the mountain tops. to his great surprise and joy he found that they were going up the zigzag road of the maloja, so familiar to him. he could, however, see nothing but the sharp angles in the road, until they arrived at the summit, where they alighted for breakfast and to give the horses a rest. after breakfast rico looked for the place where he sat years ago, when he was a tired and hungry little boy. he remembered distinctly how he had watched the stage which later picked him up and took him down the valley. everything about him was of interest now, and he said to the coachman, "will it trouble you if i sit up there with you so that i can see better?" "certainly not," said the man; "come up if you want to." the passengers had already taken their places in the coach, and it was but a moment later when they started at a lively pace down the long, sloping grade. rico presently saw the lake, the island with its pine trees, and beyond, the white houses of sils. across the fields was sils-maria. the little church showed up most distinctly at that distance, but rico's eyes were searching for something farther down the hill; soon he saw, as he had hoped, the two familiar houses. rico's heart began to beat wildly. where and how would he find the little girl he had not seen for years? suppose she should not be there any longer? suppose she had forgotten him? it seemed but a moment before the stage stopped in sils, and rico alighted with his luggage. stineli had seen many hard days since rico's disappearance. the children had grown older, so that they were less care, but the work, especially since the grandmother had died, had fallen more than ever upon her. the children were wont to say, "stineli is the oldest, so she can do that," and the parents often said, "stineli is young and strong, so she can do that"; thus the willing hands were kept busy. she sorely missed rico and the grandmother, the only ones who had ever regarded her comfort, but she tried hard to keep her cheerful nature uppermost, although she often thought, "the world is not the same now that they are gone." on this sunny saturday morning stineli came out of the granary with a bundle of straw which she intended to braid into a broom. as she reached the path leading to sils, she let her eyes follow along the dry, smooth way until her glance was arrested by the appearance of a strange young man coming in her direction. she knew from his dress that he was not a silsan. he came more rapidly as soon as he noticed her and when quite close, stopped and looked at her. she glanced inquiringly at his face and immediately recognized her long-lost friend. dropping her bundle, she ran to him, exclaiming: "o rico, you are not dead after all! how glad i am to see you! how very tall you have grown! i would never have known you if it had not been for your face; nobody else has a face like yours. o rico, how glad i am that you are here again!" rico was pale,--the joy seemed too great,--and he had not been able to say one word. stineli stood blushing in her pride of him, and waited for him to speak. "you have grown, too, stineli," he said at length; "otherwise you are the same as ever. the nearer i got to the house the more afraid i became that you would be different, so that it would not seem the same here." "o rico, if only grandmother could know!" said stineli. "but i must take you to the others; they will all be so astonished to see you." when stineli took rico into the house the children, unaccustomed to strangers, began to hide. the two older ones, trudt and sam, came in a moment later and shyly said "good morning" in passing. the mother simply inquired if there was anything she could do for the stranger. "don't any of you know him?" inquired stineli. "why, mother, it is rico." they were just exclaiming in surprise when the father came in to breakfast. rico advanced to shake hands cordially, but the man looked at him blankly and said: "are you a relative? there are so many i may not know them all." "now father doesn't know him either!" exclaimed stineli. "it is rico, papa." "why, rico, to be sure," the father said, gazing at him from head to foot. "you look prosperous, my boy; i suppose you have learned a good trade. let us sit down to breakfast, and then you must tell us about yourself." when rico noticed that the grandmother did not come to breakfast, he asked for her. it was the father who answered that they had buried her beside the teacher a year ago. rico said nothing, for the news came as a shock to him. he had counted upon the pleasure of seeing the dear old lady who had always shown him so much kindness. rico was immediately urged to tell about his wanderings and how he happened to go away. he began his story from the night he left, but he spoke in detail only when he told of mrs. menotti and of silvio's home. this led him easily to tell them the object of his visit to the hills, and to beg them to let him take stineli back with him when he returned. stineli opened her eyes wide in astonishment, for she had not even dreamed of such a possibility. how delightful it would be if she were allowed to go with rico to that beautiful place! the best part of it, of course, would be to have him with her or near her again, and how she would love silvio for sending rico back to her! thoughts like these kept surging through her brain while the father was considering the matter. "it would, no doubt, be a good thing for stineli," he said. "i should like to have her get out among people and learn their ways; but there is no use to talk about it, for she can't be spared. we could let trudt go just as well as not." "yes," agreed the mother; "i couldn't possibly get along without stineli. i am willing that trudt should go if she wants to." "goody! goody! i am going and i am glad," and trudt clapped her hands and danced about. stineli's face had clouded, but she made no protest, preferring to have rico say what was needful. "it so happens," said rico, calmly, "that silvio wants stineli and no one else. if trudt went down there, he would only send her away, so that is out of the question. mrs. menotti told me to tell you that if stineli got along well with silvio, she could send home two dollars and a half every month. i am just as sure that stineli will get along with silvio as if i had already seen them together." stineli's father pushed his chair away from the table and put on his cap,--a habit of his whenever he wished to think seriously about anything. the money was an important factor to him. how hard he had to work to earn a dollar, and here was an opportunity to get two dollars and a half every month without the least effort on his part! it was not long before he hung up his cap and said: "she can go if that is the case. i suppose one of the others can learn to do things here." stineli's face beamed, but the mother sighed as she realized what it would mean to her. in a moment the father put his cap on again. "i had forgotten," he said, "that stineli has not been confirmed; she will have to wait until after that." "but, father," exclaimed stineli, "i was not planning to be confirmed for two years. i can go now and come back when the two years are over." this plan was at last approved, and the parents consoled themselves by thinking that they could then keep her at home if they wished. "just as soon as she gets back, i am going," said trudt. they all laughed at this, while rico and stineli exchanged glances and were happy. "now, stineli, i want to tell you something," said the father. "i know that pandemonium will reign here until you two are gone, so i say the sooner it is accomplished the better; then we can have peace and quiet." it was accordingly decided that they should leave the following monday. rico realized how busy a day stineli would have, so he asked sam to accompany him about sils-maria and the neighborhood. they stopped first of all to look at the house across the way, that had at one time sheltered rico. he was informed that strangers lived there, that the aunt had been gone several years, and that no one knew where she was. wherever rico and sam went that day they failed to find a single person who recognized the "foreign-looking young man," as they called him. on their return rico wished to visit the grandmother's grave, but they could not find it. it was evening before they came back to the house, carrying with them rico's luggage from the station. they found stineli at the well, scrubbing the pails used about the barn. "i can't believe yet that i am going, rico," she said as they passed her. "i can," said rico; "but you haven't thought about it so long as i have." stineli was delighted with the change in rico. "how well and forcibly he speaks," she thought. "he was timid and shy before he went away. he seems to inspire confidence, and he looks wonderfully strong and capable." a bed was prepared for rico in the attic. he did not unpack his lunch until the following morning, when it provided a real feast for the children. the figs were a novelty to them, and the abundance of good things assured the parents that rico was among friends in the valley. they had no further fears about letting stineli go with him. chapter xviii two happy travelers the return trip had been fully explained to rico, and he knew that they must leave sils in the evening. sam was going with stineli and rico as far as sils; the rest of the family gathered about the door and waved farewell to them until they were lost to view. "if grandmother could only see us!" said stineli, as they neared the little church. "let us go over to her grave for a moment." this they did, for stineli knew exactly where it was. "are the two children here who are to go to lake garda?" they heard the coachman say as soon as he arrived. rico and stineli stepped forward. "all right," said the man. "i have instructions to look after you. the coach happens to be full inside, but i am thinking that you are young enough to like it up here with me." he helped them up, tucked a large blanket around them because the night was cool, and then the stage rolled on. this was the first time that rico and stineli had been alone since he came back, and they were both glad of the opportunity to sit so cozily in the starry night and feel again the sweet companionship that they had given up long ago. they had so much to say that they slept but little during the night. they reached lake como in the morning, and arrived in peschiera on the same train that had carried rico when he came before. he led stineli by a roundabout way in order to keep the view of the lake hidden by the trees until they came to his favorite place on the bridge. suddenly it burst upon them in all its beauty, as rico had often wished to describe it, only it seemed much more beautiful to rico now that stineli was seeing it, too. he rejoiced to hear her say presently, "oh, it _is_ prettier than lake sils--ever so much prettier." they sat down on the bridge, and for the first time rico spoke to stineli about his mother. he told her how well he remembered her, and how often they had been together on this bridge, and how much they had cared for each other. "then your home must have been here," said stineli. "where did you go when you left the bridge? can't you remember that?" "yes, i know just where we went, but i can't find the house. everything is just as it used to be until i get to the station; i never saw that until i came here by myself, and i think they must have taken the house away." the sun was low in the heavens before they left the bridge. rico was secretly rejoicing over the fact that their coming would be a surprise, for they were not expected for a week and here they were at the garden! "what a lovely place!" exclaimed stineli. "what gorgeous flowers!" silvio's sharp ears heard this exclamation. he pulled himself up in bed and called to his mother, "i do believe that rico has come with stineli." mrs. menotti hastily ran to her son, fearing that he was ill, but just at that moment rico appeared. how glad she was to see him safely back! her surprise and warm welcome were more than rico had anticipated. before rico had time to present stineli the girl had gone directly to silvio's bed, speaking to him so kindly that he put his arms around her neck and gave her the greatest hug his little arms were capable of giving. mrs. menotti told rico that she was more than satisfied with the girl's appearance, and he had no fears about her conduct. although she spoke no italian, stineli found various ways in which she could immediately make herself useful. the latin words she had learned in school helped her, and she tactfully used motions when rico did not explain for her. she carried the tray with silvio's supper to his bed and cut the food for him, propping him up comfortably with pillows before she joined the mother and rico in the dining room. after supper stineli made the others go to silvio until she had finished the work, and then she joined them. she began to amuse silvio with a little gift that she had brought in her pocket so that it might be convenient when she wished to give it to him. it was simply a number of wooden figures, with faces and dresses gaily painted on them, and put together on a central piece so that they would dance comically when shaken out. this was peter's handiwork, and it afforded silvio unceasing amusement. stineli also made the shapes of animals with her hands, and let silvio watch the shadows on the wall. the mother could hear him say, "a rabbit! an animal with horns! a long-legged spider!" the clock struck ten before they thought it could possibly be so late. rico immediately arose, for it was his usual time to leave, but a dark cloud seemed to settle on his face as he said good night and went out. stineli noticed that something was wrong with rico, so she followed him to the garden. she took his hand impulsively and said: "you have been so good to bring me here, rico, that i shall be very sorry if you are not going to be happy. you can come over every day; don't you think we can be happy?" "yes, and every night, no matter how happy we are here, i have to go away and remember that i don't belong to anybody." "but you must not think that, because you and i have always belonged to each other. if you only knew how i missed you all those long years that you were away! many times i had to work so hard that i would rather not have lived at all, but i used to think that i would gladly bear it if i could just see you once more. now that everything has turned out so beautifully, i am sure that we ought to be happy." "really, stineli, i will try," said rico, and the cloud vanished as they stood with clasped hands for a moment before he left the garden. stineli bade silvio good night when she returned to the house, but he grasped her hand and begged her to stay with him. "very well," said the mother, "stineli may stay, but to-morrow she will be ill, and you will have to do without her." "then go to sleep now, but come early in the morning," said the boy. mrs. menotti had prepared a cozy room upstairs for stineli. it overlooked the garden, and the outdoor fragrance greeted them as they entered. the girl went to sleep feeling assured that her new home would prove to be a happy one. at first stineli was handicapped in her new surroundings by her ignorance of italian, but it was remarkable how well she and silvio entertained each other. he was always obedient and cheerful in her presence, and complained of loneliness whenever she was gone. mrs. menotti noticed with gratitude how rapidly her son was gaining in strength. he enjoyed his meals more than ever before, for stineli liked to arrange things prettily, and to plan surprises for him on his tray. then, too, he slept better and longer than had been his custom. stineli was tireless in her efforts to please the sick child. she adapted everything at hand to his entertainment. having always lived with children, she understood how to amuse them. in a remarkably short time she had learned all the italian that silvio used. she soon began to tell him stories, although some words failed her and others came with painful slowness for a time. now that mrs. menotti was freed from the care of silvio, she formed the habit of going to meet rico when she saw him coming. she was always eager to express her appreciation of stineli. "i hadn't supposed that a young girl could be so thoughtful," she said at one time. "she does things for silvio from morning until night as if it were a real pleasure to her, and she knows as much about housekeeping as a woman. i feel as if it were sunday every day." rico never tired of hearing stineli praised. any one seeing the group sitting so cozily together when rico was there would have taken them to be a very happy family, and so they were until the hour arrived for rico to leave them. his face darkened every night so that stineli was worried, but mrs. menotti was too much absorbed in silvio's happiness to notice it. chapter xix clouds at lake garda one evening when rico came, he said that he could not be with them again for two days, as he must go to riva to play for a dance. this was a disappointment to them all, and especially to stineli. "i hope the weather will be good," she said; "then you will have such a fine sail on the lake. it will be beautiful, too, coming back in the moonlight." everything rico played that night was sad, and he failed, in spite of his efforts, to shake off his wretchedness. long before it was ten o'clock he put up his violin and rose to go. mrs. menotti urged him to stay, but she did not notice his unhappy face. "i will go with rico for a little way," said stineli. "no, no; don't go away, stineli!" cried silvio. "stay with him, stineli; never mind me," said rico, with the same finality with which he had said, "there is no use to think of it," after his interview with the teacher, when he had found out the price of a violin. stineli whispered to silvio, "be a brave little boy, dearie, and don't cry for me; then i will tell you ever so many stories to-morrow." as usual he obeyed her. when rico and stineli came to the garden gate he said: "go back, stineli; you belong there and i belong to the street. i am only a poor, homeless orphan, so just let me go and don't worry." "no, no, you shall not leave me while you feel in this way. where can we go to talk a little while?" "to the bridge," answered rico, eagerly. they walked on in silence, and after reaching their favorite place on the bridge, stood listening to the splash of the waves below them until rico said, "really, stineli, if it were not for you, i wouldn't stay here any longer. i would go ever so far away, it would make little difference where, since there is no one that cares for me and i shall always have to live in hotels, and sleep in storerooms, and play for dances where people act as if they were crazy. since i have seen you living with these good people, i have wished that my mother had thrown me into the lake before she died, so that i need not have come to be what i am." "o rico, how dare you think such wicked thoughts, much less express them! it must be that you have been neglecting the lord's prayer or you would not be so unhappy," said stineli. "it is true," said rico; "i have not said it, and i am sure i have forgotten it altogether by this time." "but how dare you live so?" asked stineli. "just think how grandmother would worry about you if she knew that! you must remember how she said to us, 'the one that forgets to pray will have a hard time.' you must learn the prayer again. let us sit down here and i will teach it to you." after stineli had repeated the prayer twice she said, "you can see from this that the whole kingdom belongs to god, and you can trust him to find a home for you, because it also says that the power is his." "if he has a home for me in his kingdom and has the power to give it, he clearly doesn't want to," retorted rico. "have you asked him to give it to you?" "no." "grandmother said that we must ask for things we want. it is very likely that he thinks you can ask him if you really want anything." after a moment's silence rico said, "say the prayer once more; i will learn it." in a short time they were walking back to the garden, where they parted for the night. on the way to the hotel rico thought of the kingdom and the power. he felt convinced that he had neglected a sacred duty, and that night, in his cheerless attic room, he knelt by his bed and prayed. stineli meant to go in as soon as rico left her, and tell mrs. menotti of his unhappiness, hoping that she might help the boy to find some more suitable employment, since he so disliked playing for dances, but this intention was not carried out, for silvio had been taken suddenly ill while she was gone, and was lying exhausted on his pillow, flushed and breathing heavily. the mother sat crying softly beside him. stineli had never seen him ill before, and she stood wondering what she should do. mrs. menotti soon noticed her presence and said: "sit down, stineli; he is better now, and i should like to tell you about something that troubles me greatly. you are young, but i feel sure it will do me good to have you know about it. "when mr. menotti and i were first married, he brought me here from riva, where my father is still living. an old friend of my husband's lived here, but he wished to go away for a few years, because his wife had died and he found it too hard to live here without her; he wanted us to live on his place while he was away. he had a little house and a large farm of not especially good land, but since mr. menotti understood perfectly how to manage a farm, it was agreed between them, as intimate friends, that there was to be no rent; we were simply to keep everything in good condition so that he would find his place in order when he returned. "a few years later the railway officials decided to build on the land, and paid much more than it was worth to get it. mr. menotti took the money, and being able to buy much better land, including this garden, he built this house. there was money enough to pay for it all. the land brought rich returns, and we prospered to such an extent that i was worried, for it did not belong to us. mr. menotti was happy over it because he had such a pleasant surprise for his friend, to whom he meant to turn it all over as soon as he returned; but he never came. "as silvio grew older, and i saw how weak he was, i feared that his illness might be sent as a punishment to us for living upon the profits of another's money, and i have felt the same to-night. mr. menotti died four years ago. i am sure i would gladly give things over to the rightful owner, if i could, but i don't know where to find him. the man may be sick somewhere, or in need, and it worries me beyond measure." "i think you have no reason to worry, since you have done the best you could," said stineli. "my grandmother taught me to ask god to make things right, if it was beyond my own power. "_i_ am worried about rico," stineli continued, "and i can do nothing for him, so i have asked god to help him, and rico has promised that he will do his part. i feel sure that this burden can be lifted from you in the same way, if you will only ask him to make it right in his sight. my grandmother has taught me that we are all governed in harmony by the creator so long as we seek the divine will. it is like a great chorus in which every member sings in tune because he is governed by the harmony of music, and so i always try to put myself back where i belong, when i feel any discord. i have never been disappointed in trusting god with the results." "you are a wise girl, stineli, and you have truly comforted me," said mrs. menotti, as she kissed stineli and bade her good night. chapter xx at home a glorious day dawned upon peschiera the next morning, and mrs. menotti hurried to the garden to enjoy it more fully. she took her accustomed seat on a rustic bench near the gate and looked about her with appreciative eyes. the oleander bushes were in full bloom beside her, behind her was the hedge to screen the garden from the street, and yonder were the loaded fig trees, while near by were the grapevines, dotted with clusters of ripe fruit. "i realize," she said to herself, "that i shall never find so pretty a home again." just at this moment rico opened the gate. he had not been able to let the beautiful morning pass without seeing his friends, as he was obliged to go to riva a little later. he had not noticed mrs. menotti, and was going directly to the house when she called to him. "i want you to sit here with me for a few moments, rico, if you will. what a fine day this promises to be! i have just been wondering how long i may still be here to enjoy it." "you alarm me, mrs. menotti. you are not thinking of going away?" "i beg your pardon, rico, for speaking so thoughtlessly; i should not have mentioned it." she changed the subject, and presently, recalling what stineli had told her the previous evening about rico's trouble, she began to wonder what it could be. she had been so absorbed in her own affairs at the time that she had given it but a moment's thought. "won't you tell me, rico, why you came to lake garda? stineli told me last evening that you used to long to come here. were you ever here before?" "yes, when i was a child, but i was taken away." "how did you happen to come here as a child?" "i came into the world here." "you were born here? who was your father, and why did he come here from the mountains?" "he wasn't from the mountains; it was my mother who lived there." "why, rico, your father was not a peschieran?" "he surely was, mrs. menotti; this was his home." "how very strange! and you never have told me this in all these years! feeling that you did not care to talk of your earlier life, i have never asked you to tell me your last name. but 'rico' is not italian. what was your father called?" "the same as i, enrico trevillo." mrs. menotti sprang from the seat as if she had been struck. "what are you saying?" she exclaimed. "what did you say just now?" "my father's name," said rico. "why, what is the matter?" mrs. menotti did not stay to answer him. she ran to the house and hastily said to stineli: "get me a wrap, please. i must go over to see the pastor, but i will be back soon and explain." stineli, much astonished, put a cape around the trembling form. "come with me, rico, for i want to ask a few questions," said mrs. menotti, but she was so agitated that she could think of nothing to ask except if he were sure that enrico trevillo was his father. rico returned to the house after leaving mrs. menotti with the pastor. stineli and silvio were laughing over a funny story when he arrived. as soon as silvio saw the violin he shouted, "let us sing 'little lambs' with stineli, because rico is here to play." rico had learned a great number of new songs, so that stineli had nearly forgotten all about "her song." she had not heard it since they sang it for the grandmother the evening they had composed it. it astonished her to find that silvio knew anything about it. how was she to know that rico had been singing that song time after time, before he knew any others? she gladly consented to sing it with rico. to her great surprise silvio began singing with them. to be sure, he did not know the meaning of a word he was saying, but he remembered the sounds from having heard them so often. he gave the words such a funny pronunciation that stineli had to laugh. silvio laughed because she laughed; then rico could not help laughing, and so the song waited. they began again time after time, only to stop as before, and when mrs. menotti returned, she found them all still laughing and trying to sing. she had been making a strong effort to adjust herself to the new order of things which the eventful morning had brought about. she crossed the garden hastily and came in where the children were. the laughter hushed as she sank exhausted into a chair, and they gazed at her in astonishment. "rico," she said, as soon as she had gathered a little composure, "i have just found out from the pastor that this home--the house, garden, farm, and everything--is yours. it is your inheritance from your father and belongs to you. your name is recorded in the baptismal record of the church; you are the son of enrico trevillo, who was my husband's most intimate friend." stineli had almost from the first grasped the meaning of it all, and it gave her an unspeakable happiness. her face was radiant, and mrs. menotti thought, "how beautiful the girl looks!" rico sat staring at the mother, speechless and bewildered. silvio shouted, "all of a sudden the house belongs to rico; where shall he sleep?" "where, silvio?" repeated the mother. "in all the rooms, if he chooses. he can turn us out on the street at once if he likes." "then i should certainly go out on the street with you," said rico. "oh, you good rico! we will gladly stay if it will give you pleasure. i was thinking on the way home of how we could arrange it if you should wish to have us here. i could buy a half interest in the place, and then one half would belong to you and one half to silvio." "then i will give my half to stineli," declared silvio. "and i my half too," said rico. "hurrah! now everything belongs to stineli," shouted silvio, gleefully. "the garden, the house, and everything in it--the chairs, the table, the violin, and you and i too are hers. now let's sing again!" rico, in the meantime, had been thinking, and now hesitatingly asked, "how can it be that silvio's father's house belongs to me, even if he was my father's best friend?" this reminded mrs. menotti that as yet rico knew none of the circumstances leading up to her discovery, so she began from the beginning and related the events in the proper order. when she finished, there was a grand jubilee among the children, because they realized that there was nothing to hinder rico's coming to live with them immediately. after the commotion had somewhat subsided, rico said to mrs. menotti: "you must let nothing here be changed because this good fortune has come to me. i will simply come and live with you, and we shall all be at home, and you can be our mother." "o rico, to think it should be you of all people!" exclaimed mrs. menotti. "how well stineli has advised us to let our troubles be made right, and how soon the answer came! i gladly give the property over to you, and i gladly remain here, too. i will be a true mother to you, rico, for i have long loved you as an own son. you and stineli must call me mother after this. we shall be the happiest family in all peschiera." "now we _must_ finish our song," burst out silvio, who felt so happy that his feelings needed an outlet. rico and stineli were no less jubilant, and they sang merrily. rico was about to put up his violin, when stineli said, "i should like to stop with a different song, rico; can you guess which one?" "yes, i can." then they sang in gratitude to god and in sweet memory of the dear old grandmother who taught it to them: "he never will refuse his aid if you a prayer will send; whatever in his care is laid shall have a happy end. then let the blessing onward go, and cause it not to stay, that you may rest in peace below and happy be alway." it is needless to say that rico did not go to riva that day. the situation was immediately explained to the hotel people, so that they could hire a substitute to play for the dance. how glad rico was to be excused they could scarcely imagine. the landlady received the information with the greatest astonishment. she hastily called her husband and told him the news. later she congratulated rico and said to him that she heartily wished for god's blessing upon his home. not in the least did she begrudge him his good fortune. she had really grown very fond of him, and her pleasure was genuine. for some time the people of the hotel three crosses had been making rico liberal offers to come to live with them, and she was relieved that now this could not happen. her husband was glad for rico, because he had known the father well; he wondered now that he had never noticed the striking resemblance between father and son. rico left word to have his belongings sent over to his house the next day, and then bade them a friendly farewell. "we want you to give us your orders for all the entertaining you may do in the future," the landlady said, as he was about to leave. rico thanked them in his usual quiet fashion and departed. before night nearly all peschiera had heard of rico's good fortune. he was a favorite in town, and the news caused much rejoicing. mrs. menotti spared no pains to make rico comfortable in his new home. the large front room upstairs was prepared for his special use. after everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, she went to gather some flowers as a finishing touch, and she had just placed them on the table when she heard rico coming. "mrs. menotti has your room ready, and she is upstairs," said stineli. "won't you go up to see it now?" rico expected to see a pleasant room, but he was not prepared to find the artistic effect which held him spellbound as he reached the threshold. mrs. menotti understood his nature so well that she knew what he would like, and she had arranged every detail herself. she met him at the door, and taking his hand, led him to the windows overlooking the lake. rico wished to express his gratitude, but he could only murmur, "i am so glad to be at home." in the sitting room downstairs, where the doors opened so pleasantly into the garden, the family, after rico had come to stay, spent the most delightful evenings imaginable. ten o'clock no longer brought sadness to the happy circle, and the months slipped by quite unheeded. rico was now supposed to manage his business, and he usually spent the days in the field and garden with his foreman. the first day they were out together the foreman thought, "i know more than my master," but that evening, when the soul-inspiring strains of the violin and voice came floating out to him across the garden, he thought, "my master does know more than i"; and thereafter he had a profound respect for rico. chapter xxi sunshine at lake garda two years had passed since rico had come to his home, and it seemed to them all that every day was filled with more pleasure than the preceding one. stineli knew that the time was at hand when she ought to go home, and it made her sad whenever she thought of it. there was the possibility that she might not be allowed to come back, and she could think of nothing worse than that. rico, too, began to be unhappy about it, for he had promised that she should go back to be confirmed. it seemed to be his duty to let her go, and though he put it off from day to day, it weighed upon his mind to such an extent that he scarcely spoke except when it was necessary. mrs. menotti saw that something was wrong, and inquired into the cause; she had long ago forgotten that stineli would ever have to leave them. when they told her she said, "stineli is still very young; it will be just as well to wait until she is older"; so they had one more year of undisturbed pleasure. one day, about a year later, a message came from bergamo, saying that some one was there who was to take stineli back with him. there was no way out of it now, so the preparations for the journey began. silvio cried and cried because his stineli was going away. "you must be sure to come back," said mrs. menotti. "promise your father anything he wants if he will only let you come." rico said scarcely a word when stineli went, but it seemed to him that she took all the sunshine in the world away with her. the clouds remained from november to the following easter. the days had dragged along in monotonous fashion, with the zest of life completely gone. now it was easter sunday. the festivities of the day were over, the garden was one mass of bloom, and the fields gave promise of a bountiful harvest. it ought to have made everybody happy, yet here was rico, sitting with silvio in the midst of all this luxury and beauty, playing the most melancholy tunes he could think of. to be sure they suited rico's mood, but they depressed silvio and made him extremely fretful. suddenly they heard, "rico, haven't you a more cheerful welcome?" silvio screamed for joy. rico threw the violin on the bed and rushed out. mrs. menotti came in from an adjoining room to see what had happened. there on the threshold stood stineli. the sunshine was back again. she had not had the slightest notion of the hearty welcome that awaited her return. in fact, the others had not realized how necessary she was to their happiness until she was gone. they gathered about silvio's bed as usual, and they asked questions and answered them and rejoiced that the days of separation were over. a few years later something came about so naturally that it seemed as if it could not have been otherwise. one lovely day in may--as fine a day as peschiera had ever seen--a long wedding procession moved from the church to the golden sun. the tall, handsome rico was at the head, and by his side, with a wreath of roses on her fair brow, was the beautiful stineli. next came silvio, in a softly upholstered cart drawn by two peschiera boys. next in line was the mother, in her rustling festive attire, looking somewhat pale and tired. the flower girls who came next were almost hidden in the roses they carried; following them came the guests, and it seemed from their number that all peschiera must have turned out to do honor to the young bride and bridegroom. the pride of the landlady of the golden sun, when she saw the procession coming, can be better imagined than described. ever after, when anybody told about a wedding, she would say scornfully, "that is nothing compared to rico's wedding at the golden sun." the loyal peschierans rejoiced that rico was to make his home among them. the sunshine never again left him, and the home nestled in the beautiful garden was always a happy one. stineli never let the lord's prayer be forgotten, and the grandmother's song could be heard every sunday night. wiseli finds her place chapter i coasting directly opposite the city of bern lies a small village beautifully situated on a hill. i cannot tell you what it is called, but i will describe it to you so that you may know it if you are ever there. on the summit of the hill there is but one house; it is surrounded by a flower garden, which meets on each side of the house the stretch of lawn at the front. this residence is called the hill, and is the home of colonel ritter. a short distance down the hill, on a level stretch of ground, stands the church, with the parsonage beside it. this is where mrs. ritter spent her happy girlhood as the pastor's daughter. still farther down, amid a group of houses, is the schoolhouse. on the left of these, all by itself, stands an attractive little house with a garden. in the front lawn are placed some flower beds containing roses, carnations, and mignonette. the asparagus beds at the sides of the house are screened from the front by a low raspberry hedge. the whole place presents a well-kept appearance. the road goes on down the hill to the main road that follows along the aar river to the open country. this long, sloping hill provided excellent coasting during the winter. the distance from the top of the hill to the aar road below made a continuous coast of about ten minutes' duration. this incomparable sledge course gave to the children of the village the greatest pleasure of the year. no sooner was school dismissed than they ran for their sleds and hurried up the hill. the hours passed like minutes, so that six o'clock, the time when they were expected at home, came much too soon. the closing scene on the hill was usually an interesting one, for they always wanted to go down once more before they broke up for the night, and then once again, and after that just one single time more, so that it might be inferred from their excited haste that their lives depended upon making as many trips as possible. they were usually governed by a wise rule that compelled them all to ride down and return in the same order, so as to avoid the possibility of collision and confusion; but the rule was occasionally disregarded, when the final excitement swayed them. this happened to be the case on a bright january night, when the intense cold made the snow crackle as it was crunched under the feet of the children, who came panting up the hill, drawing their sleds after them, their faces glowing from their exertions. the boys were shouting, "once more! once more!" as they turned their sleds and fell into line. now it happened that three of the boys claimed the same place in the file, and not one was willing to go behind the others. during the dispute two of them crowded the big boy chappi to one side into the snow, where his heavy sled sank into the drift. this made him angry, for it gave the others the opportunity to get ahead of him. in glancing back he noticed a little girl standing near, watching him; she had wrapped her hands in her apron to keep them warm, but she was shivering in her thin dress. "can't you get out of the way, you ragged thing?" he cried angrily. "what business have you here anyway, since you have no sled? i'll teach you how to get away." he kicked a cloud of snow at her and was just ready to repeat it when some one behind him gave him a fierce blow. in great rage he doubled up his fist and turned savagely to attack his unknown foe. it was otto ritter, who had just placed his sled in line and who now stood looking calmly at chappi's clenched fist and raised arm. "strike if you dare," was all he said. otto was a tall, slender boy, not nearly so stout as chappi, but he had already proved, in previous encounters, that he possessed a skill in handling himself against which chappi's weight counted for little. chappi was too wise to strike, but he shook his fist in the air and snarled, "clear out! i don't care to have anything to do with you." "but i have something to do with you," retorted otto. "what business have you to drive wiseli into the drift and then pelt her with snow besides? you are a coward to attack a defenseless child." otto disdainfully turned his back upon chappi and went toward the girl, who was standing knee-deep in the snowdrift. "come out of the snow, wiseli," he said gently. "is it true that you have no sled?" "i was only looking at the rest," she answered timidly. "take mine and go down once," said otto. "hurry, for they are going to start in a minute." wiseli glanced quickly at chappi, afraid that he would interfere with her going, but the boy seemed to have forgotten all about her. otto helped her to seat herself on the sled, and the next minute she was going down the hill behind the others. wiseli had watched them for ten or fifteen minutes, and had secretly wished that she might be allowed to sit on one of the large sleds used to carry several at a time, but to go down alone was more than she had even hoped for; besides, this was the prettiest sled of all. it had a lion's head for the front decoration, and was finished with steel runners and made of light material so that it beat all the others in a race. it seemed to otto but a moment before the party returned, so he shouted, "stay in line, wiseli, and go down once more." wiseli immediately turned her sled and gladly led the line down the hill. she murmured timid thanks to otto when she returned with the sled, but the happy, flushed face would have satisfied him even if she had said nothing. she heard otto calling his sister as she started homeward through the panting crowd. "here i am!" and a plump, rosy-cheeked little girl came to him with her sled. otto took his sister's warm little hand in his and they hastened home. they had spent much more than the allotted time to-night, but they had enjoyed themselves too much to entertain any regrets whatever. chapter ii the home on the hill as otto and his sister rushed into the long hall with its stone floor, they were met by trina, an old and faithful servant, who held the lamp she was carrying high above her head to avoid getting the light in her eyes. "you are here at last," she said half impatiently and half indulgently. "your mother has been wanting you, and we have all waited for you until long after supper time." trina had been in the family before the children were born, and she exercised the same authority over them as did the parents, while she was even more indulgent. in fact, she idolized them both; but for their good, according to her views, she did not wish them to be too sure of it. consequently she was always trying to be somewhat gruff for their especial benefit. "out of your shoes and into your slippers!" she commanded. she put the light down, and kneeling before otto she unfastened his shoes and put the dry slippers on his feet. in the meantime she was urging the little sister to begin removing her wet shoes, but miezi stood listening intently to something she thought she heard from the living room. "well," said trina, "are you going to wait until next summer? your shoes will be dry before then." "hush!" warned miezi with upraised hand; "i heard something. who is in the other room, trina?" "only people with dry shoes are going in there," said trina, still kneeling before otto. just then miezi gave a startled exclamation. "there, i heard it again! it is uncle max's laugh, i am sure." "what!" exclaimed otto, and both children rushed for the living room door. "let me go in first, otto; i heard him first!" cried miezi, endeavoring to push herself ahead of him; but trina picked her up in her arms and carried her to the hall seat, where the old servant had a hard time trying to get the wet shoes from the impatient feet. the moment the girl was released she bounded into the living room and into uncle max's arms, for it was really he, sitting in the large armchair, looking as happy and prosperous as ever. the children quite worshiped uncle max. he was their especial friend, from whom they had no secrets. his travels kept him away much of the time, and they seldom saw him more than once a year, but this seemed to make his visits the more appreciated, especially as he always brought them remembrances from the remotest parts of the world. each time he came seemed a holiday to the children. to-night they were hurried to the table, where a steaming supper awaited them. the children's excitement over the uncle's coming abated somewhat before this enjoyment, for coasting always brought sharpened appetites. miezi was industriously engaged with her soup when her father said: "i think my little girl has forgotten her papa to-night. i missed my usual kiss and handshake." miezi instantly let her spoon drop and pushed her chair back to run to the neglected parent, but he stopped her with, "no, no, you need not trouble now." "i didn't mean to forget you, papa," she said. "we will make up for it after supper, miezchen," said the father. "what did we christen the child, anyway?" he continued. "wasn't it maria?" "i was there when she was baptized," said max, "but i cannot remember. it surely was not miezchen." "of course you were there," asserted his sister. "you were the child's godfather, and we called her marie. it was papa himself who first called her miezchen, and otto made it still worse." "no, mamma, surely not worse," interposed otto. "you see, uncle max, it is like this: if she is a good little girl i call her miezchen; this she is so seldom, however, that i usually call her miezi. when she is angry and looks like a little ruffled hen, i call her miez." "and when otto is angry, what does he look like?" inquired uncle max, addressing miezi. before she could think of a comparison, otto answered, "like a man!" they all laughed so heartily that miezi stirred her soup violently in her confusion. uncle max tactfully changed the subject: "it has been over a year since i have seen you children, and i wish you would tell me what you have been doing while i have been away." naturally the latest news was related first, and, in their eagerness to have uncle max know everything, both children wished to speak at once. among other things they told of the fun they had in school, and that led otto to tell about his experience with chappi and wiseli; how she had been driven into the snowdrift and rudely treated, and how, though she had no sled, she finally had had two rides on his. "that was right, otto," said his father; "always take the part of the weak and the oppressed, and honor the meaning of your name. who is this little girl you speak of?" "i doubt if you know her," answered mrs. ritter, "but max knew the mother very well. you remember the frail linen weaver that lived near us? she was his daughter and only child, and she used to come often to the parsonage. she was a pretty girl with large brown eyes, and she could sing beautifully. do you remember whom i mean?" just at this moment trina brought in a message: "joiner andreas begs permission to speak with mrs. ritter, if it will not disturb her." quite a commotion followed this announcement. mrs. ritter dropped the spoon with which she was serving, and saying hastily, "excuse me, please," left the room. otto and miezi immediately pushed back their chairs to go also, but uncle max held miezi fast. otto stumbled over something in his haste, and miezi struggled hard to free herself. "do let me go, uncle max! let me go!" she cried. "why do you want to go, miezchen?" "to see joiner andreas. let me go. help me, papa." "tell me why you want to see joiner andreas, and i will let you go." "my sheep has but two legs left and no tail, and only joiner andreas knows how to fix it. now let me go." miezi's papa and uncle max laughed as she ran from the room. "who is this man that has the whole household at his command?" inquired uncle max. "you ought to know better than i," answered colonel ritter. "very likely he is an old playmate of yours. i am sure you would enjoy knowing him. your sister makes us all love him. he is really the corner stone of this household, without whom things generally would go to rack and ruin. it doesn't matter what happens, for 'joiner andreas will fix it.' in fact he is helper, adviser, comforter, and friend, all in one." "you may laugh," said mrs. ritter, who returned just then, "but i know that joiner andreas is a comfort." "so do i," said the husband, playfully. "so do i," echoed miezi, as she seated herself at the table. "so do i," added otto, who was rubbing the knuckles he had bruised in his hasty exit. "then we are all agreed," said the mother. "now i want you children to go to bed." "to which we are not all agreed," said otto, teasingly. however, trina came and they were obliged to go. the mother followed after a time, as was her custom, to hear the children's evening prayer and receive their last embrace for the night. this often required some time, for they were eager to tell her many things, and detained her for their own pleasure. to-night she remained until they were quiet and then returned to the gentlemen in the sitting room. "at last," said colonel ritter, apparently as relieved as if he had just conquered an enemy. "you see, max, my wife's time belongs first of all to joiner andreas, and then to the children; if there is any left, it belongs to me." "oh, it's not quite so bad as that!" corrected mrs. ritter. "you like andreas just as well as the rest of us do, even though you won't admit it. that reminds me, he told me that he had received the money from his yearly profit and wanted your advice about investing it." "yes, it is a fact," said the colonel, "that i never saw a more trustworthy or energetic man than he. i would trust him with all i have. he is by far the most reliable and wide-awake man in our parish." "now you know what he thinks of him, max," said mrs. ritter, laughing. "yes, to be sure," said the brother, "but you have said so much about this man that i am curious to see him. did i ever know him?" "why, max! to think of your asking!" his sister admonished him. "you used to go to school together and you knew him well. don't you remember the two brothers who were in your class, the older one such a good-for-nothing boy? not that he was stupid, but he didn't care to study, so the younger one was in the same class. the older one's name was george, and he was rather striking in appearance because of his heavy black hair. whenever he saw us he would pelt us with stones or apples, and he invariably called us 'aristocrat-breed.'" uncle max laughed. "yes, i should say i do remember him distinctly," he said. "that word i shall never forget--'aristocrat-breed.' i should like to know how he got hold of it. i remember very well what a tyrant he was. i interfered once when i saw him unmercifully pommeling a much smaller boy, and he took his vengeance on me by calling me 'aristocrat-breed' at least a dozen times. now, of a sudden, i remember the other one too. can it be that little andreas with the violets has become your hero? now i comprehend the intimacy, marie." "the violets!" broke in colonel ritter. "i have heard nothing about the violets." "why, i see that scene before me as if it were but yesterday," continued max, "and i am going to tell you about it, otto. you have no doubt heard marie tell about the teacher we had in those days, who believed that the bad should be whipped out of children and the good whipped into them. consequently he was much of the time engaged in punishing us for one or both purposes. at one time he was administering this treatment to the little andreas, and he struck the boy such a heavy blow across the back that he screamed outright. well, my little sister, who had just begun to go to school, and who didn't understand the teacher's well-meant methods, immediately rose from her seat and marched down the aisle to the door. "the teacher stopped to see what had happened, holding his rod poised in the air long enough to ask, 'where are you going?' "marie turned around and, with tears streaming down her face, answered loud enough for the whole school to hear, 'i am going home to tell my papa.' "i shall never forget how the teacher left the astonished andreas and rushed upon marie. 'just wait and i'll teach _you_,' he threatened. he roughly took her by the arm and forced her back to her seat, muttering, 'i'll teach _you_!' that ended the scene, however, for he sent andreas to his seat without further punishment, and nothing more was said to marie. "andreas never forgot this kind act in his behalf, and he always brought marie a bunch of violets when he came to school; i used to notice how they perfumed the schoolroom. occasionally there would be a cluster of strawberries or something else equally appropriate. how the friendship has extended to the present state of affairs i shall have to let my sister explain." "my dear wife, i am eager to have this brought up to date," remarked the colonel. mrs. ritter laughed with the others and began: "the strawberries and violets were given as max said, but you have forgotten how soon andreas left school after i entered. he went to the city to learn the joiner's trade. i didn't lose track of him, however, for he often came home. when otto and i were married and bought this place, he came to consult us about his own purchase of some property. the owner of the place wanted cash, and andreas, who had lost his parents, hadn't the money. otto lent him the sum he needed and has never regretted it." "i should say not," broke in the colonel. "he paid for that long ago, and since that time has laid by a good sum of his own. he brings his money to me, and i invest it for him. his interest is adding to his capital, and he could now afford to build a much better house and live with more comforts. it is a shame that he is all alone in the world." "hasn't he a wife? and where is george?" asked max. "andreas lives all alone," answered the sister. "i think his history is too sad for him ever to take a wife. george led a wild life around here until andreas refused to help him out of any more scrapes, and now he has disappeared, for he couldn't pay his debts. people were relieved to have him out of the neighborhood, but everybody respects andreas." "what do you mean by his sad experience, marie?" inquired max. "i should like to hear about that, too," said the husband. "why, otto!" said mrs. ritter, "i have told you about it at least a dozen times." "is that so? it must please me," answered the husband, laughing. "can you recall, max, the girl whom we were speaking of at the table to-night when andreas came? we could hear her father's loom from our garden, they lived so near us. i told you the girl was very pretty. she had a charming manner and her name was aloise." "never in my life have i known anybody by that name," asserted max. "i know why you say so," corrected his sister. "we never called her that, and i am sure that you never did. we called her wisi, much to our dear mother's disgust. you often went over to get her when we wanted to have some music, because she could sing so well." "oh, yes, i remember wisi," said max, "and i used to like the girl, too; but i don't believe that i ever knew of her being named anything else." "i know that you used to know, max," persisted mrs. ritter. "mother so often deplored the fact that we would not use the pretty name aloise, and she never liked what we did call her." "what became of wisi?" inquired max. "well," continued mrs. ritter, "wisi and i were much together, for we were in the same class and went from grade to grade at the same time. andreas, through all those years, was her stanchest friend, and she willingly accepted his attentions, often finding his friendship of great advantage to herself. "for one thing we were supposed to bring certain examples worked out on our slates when we came to school in the morning, but wisi's slate was usually blank. she was always light-hearted and merry, and she would put her slate on her desk in a very unconcerned way and go out to play; when she returned, the slate was filled with neatly copied examples. "once it was brought before the school that some one had broken a windowpane, and again, that some one had shaken the teacher's fruit trees, and i remember that we all knew it was wisi's fault; but andreas took the blame upon himself and the punishment also. the rest of us accepted it as a matter of course, for we all liked wisi and were used to having her escape. "how it happened that the quietest, most earnest boy in school should care especially about the most mischievous girl used to puzzle us, and i often wondered if wisi were not indifferent to andreas's interest in her. i asked mamma about it one day, and she said, 'i am afraid that aloise is somewhat vain, and that she may live to see the bad results of her carelessness.' after that i worried about her myself. "some time later we had bible studies together, preparatory to our confirmation, and she took such an interest in them that we began to think she had given up her mischievous ways. she regularly came to sing with us sunday evenings, and we liked to have her with us, for her cheerfulness infected us all. by this time she was a very pretty young woman, not rugged, but perfectly well; and she far surpassed the other girls of the neighborhood in grace, beauty, and accomplishments. andreas was still at his trade, but he managed to come home nearly every sunday. we could all see how much he cared for wisi. he was the only one that ever called her wiseli, and he always accented the name so softly that we thought it was very pretty. "one sunday night, when wisi and i were not quite eighteen years of age, she came in radiantly happy and told us that she was soon to be married. the man to whom she was betrothed had but recently come to the village and was employed at the factory. i was so astonished and grieved over the news that i could say nothing. mother, however, asked her to take some time to consider the matter thoroughly, because it was too important a step to take hurriedly. mother told her that she was very young and that she must not forget that there was some one else who had loved her for years, of whose intentions she could have no doubt; then, too, her father needed her, and she ought to help him a few years more. "wisi cried because mother talked so earnestly, but she said that her father had given his consent and it was all arranged that they were to be married in two weeks. 'then,' said mother, 'we must make the best of it and try to be happy. i will play our favorite melody and we will sing the words. "commit thou all thy ways and all that grieves thy heart to him whose endless days can strength and grace impart. "he gives to wind and wave the power to be still; for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will."' "when wisi left us that night she was as cheerful as ever, but i could not help feeling that her happiest days were over. then, too, i feared for andreas, but he said nothing, although he has never been the same since. for several years he seemed to be far from well, but he did not give up work." "poor fellow!" exclaimed max; "and he never married?" "why, no, max!" said mrs. ritter, impatiently, "how could he when he is faithfulness itself?" "how was i to know that he possessed that virtue also, dear sister? he seems to have them all. how did wisi get along? i should be sorry to hear that her marriage proved a failure." "i can plainly see that your sympathy is with her," replied mrs. ritter. "to you, andreas's fate does not matter so much." "not so, sister, but those pretty eyes of hers ought never to have been spoiled with tears. isn't she happy?" "i fear not, max. i have seen but little of her since her marriage. there was a coarseness in her husband's nature that repelled me, and he was always cross to her. six children were born to them, and all but one, a frail little girl, have died. she is called wiseli, and is about the size of our miezchen, although she is three years older. she is the little girl whom otto defended this evening. her mother has suffered so much during all these years, that there is little hope of her ever being well again." "that is too bad," said max; "we must try to do something for her. don't you think that we might help her?" "i am afraid that it is too late. wisi was much too delicate for all the work and worry that fell to her lot." "what is the husband doing?" "i forgot to tell you, max. about six months ago he had an arm and a leg badly crushed in the factory, and he died a few weeks after being injured. since then wisi has been living alone with her little girl." "so that is her story," mused max. "and one child is all that she has left. what would become of her in case wisi died? it is more likely, though, that the mother will get well, and that andreas will yet be happy." "no, i am sure it is too late for that," asserted mrs. ritter. "although wisi repented long ago, the wrong could not be undone, and she has suffered in silence. but we are forgetting that we must have some sleep to-night." colonel ritter had fallen asleep in his chair. it was past midnight. max roguishly went behind his sleeping brother and shook his shoulders so roughly that the colonel sprang from his chair in alarm. max laughed and patted his shoulder by way of atonement, saying apologetically, "i only intended to give you a gentle warning that my sister says we must take to our beds." a few moments later the house stood dark and quiet in the moonlight. at the foot of the hill was another house where it would soon be quiet also; from a tiny window a small lamp still sent a faint glimmer into the night. chapter iii another home while otto and miezi ritter were going home after the coasting, wiseli was running down the hill as fast as her little feet could take her; she realized that she was later than usual and was sorry to have kept her mother waiting. the pleasure of her coast gave an added impetus, for she could scarcely wait to tell her mother about it. in her haste she would have run against a man coming from the house, had he not quickly stepped to one side. she found her mother reclining in a chair by the window, and she wondered at it because it was so unusual. she threw her arms about her neck, saying eagerly, "are you vexed with me, mother, for not coming sooner?" "why, no, child; but i am glad that you are here now." she hastily told her mother about otto's kindness, and how she had enjoyed two long rides on the prettiest sled in school. "but, mother," she added, "what is the matter? why haven't you a light?" "you may get the lamp now and bring me a glass of water. i am so thirsty." wiseli went to the kitchen and returned carrying the lamp in one hand and a bottle of fruit juice in the other. "what are you bringing me?" asked the mother. "i don't know myself. i found it on the kitchen table. see how it sparkles." the mother drew the cork. "it is raspberry juice, as fragrant as the berries fresh from the garden," she said. wiseli poured some of the rich juice into a tumbler and diluted it with water; this the mother drank in long draughts until the tumbler was emptied. "leave it near me, wiseli," she said. "it seems as if i could drink it all, i am so thirsty and it is so refreshing. i wonder who was so thoughtful as to bring it to me! it must have come from mrs. ritter's and very likely trina brought it over." "trina always comes in when she brings anything. was she here to-day?" "no. no one came in." "joiner andreas may have left it when he was here," said wiseli. "wiseli!" exclaimed the mother. "joiner andreas has not been here either." "but i saw him, mother. he came out of the house just as i came in. i nearly ran into him in my hurry. didn't you hear any one? it seems strange that he should have been so quiet." "i do remember that i thought the kitchen door opened, and i listened for your footsteps, but you came in a few moments later, so i thought i must have been mistaken. are you sure that it was andreas whom you saw?" wiseli was certain, but to convince the mother she described him as he invariably looked. "i shouldn't wonder," she added, "if it were he who brought that large jar of honey you liked so much, and also the cakes you found that day. don't you remember thanking trina for them when she brought you the hot dinner, and she told you that she knew nothing about them? it must have been joiner andreas who did it." tears filled the mother's eyes as she said, "i think that probably you are right, wiseli." "surely you are not going to be sorry about it, mother," said wiseli, as she fondly stroked her mother's hair. "no, but i want you to thank him for me sometime, wiseli. i am afraid that i cannot do it myself. tell him that it did me good; that i was glad he was so kind. give me a little more, please." wiseli prepared the fruit juice and brought a pillow from the bed so that her mother could rest her head on the window seat. she drew a footstool to the window and made her mother comfortable. then she sat down beside her and said, "it is time for me to say the verses you taught me. commit thou all thy ways and all that grieves thy heart to him whose endless days can strength and grace impart. "he gives to wind and wave the power to be still; for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will." "remember that, wiseli," said the mother, drowsily. "if the time ever comes when it seems as if you were not cared for, take comfort and courage from the verses you have just repeated." the mother's regular breathing soon told wiseli that she was asleep; but the child remained quietly by her side for fear of waking her. thus it happened that she too fell asleep, and the lamp burned on, growing fainter and fainter until it burned itself out and left the house dark in the quiet night. early the following morning a neighbor passed the window on her way to the well, and, glancing in as usual, she saw wiseli crying beside the mother, who had her head pillowed on the window seat. she ran to the child, saying, "what is it, wiseli? i hope your mother is not worse." wiseli only sobbed. the neighbor bent over the mother in surprise and alarm. "go to your uncle quickly, wiseli," she said; "tell him to come immediately. i will wait here until you get back." the uncle's house was about fifteen minutes' walk from the church, and wiseli ran on obediently, although the tears would not be kept back. her aunt answered the knock at the door; seeing the child in tears she said gruffly, "what is the matter with you?" "i have been sent over to get my uncle; my mother is dead," answered wiseli, for she had reasoned it out to herself that it must be so or else the mother would speak to her. the aunt softened perceptibly. "he is not here just now," she said almost kindly. "i will have him come as soon as possible, so you needn't wait." it was not long after wiseli's return that the uncle came. he directed the neighbor to look after everything so that he might take the child away at once. "but where shall we go?" inquired wiseli. "you shall go home with me, for i am all that you have left now. i will take care of you." in spite of this assurance a great dread seized wiseli. to go home with her uncle meant to live with the aunt of whom she was so afraid that she had always dreaded even meeting her. then there were the three rude cousins, of whom chappi was the oldest. the thought of how hans and rudi were always throwing stones at children made her shudder. how could she go there to live, and yet how dared she refuse? all these thoughts flashed through wiseli's mind as she stood hesitating. "you needn't be afraid," said her uncle kindly; "there are a good many of us, to be sure, but you will find that all the more interesting." wiseli tied a few of her things in a bundle, put a shawl over her head, and joined her uncle who was waiting near the door. "that is a good girl," said the uncle; "now let us be off. don't cry any more; that never helps anything." wiseli choked back the sobs as best she could and followed the uncle, whose stern nature had never been so touched before. thus the little home where wiseli had lived, loving and beloved, passed out of her life forever. they had a glimpse of trina, who was crossing a vacant lot with a basket on her arm, and wiseli knew that she was going to see her mother. trina said to the neighbor who met her at the door; "i have something good for the sick one's dinner; i hope i am not too late. we have a visitor, and everything is late when he is there." "it doesn't matter now, for you would have been too late even if you had come early this morning; she died in the night," said the neighbor. "oh, what will mrs. ritter say!" exclaimed trina in alarm. "she tried so hard to have me come yesterday, but we were all so taken up with the uncle's arrival that it was put off. i am so sorry to have to tell her of this because i know how she will blame herself for neglecting her friend so long." "yes," said the neighbor, "we are all apt to do that. yesterday i did not suspect that she was any worse than usual." trina sorrowfully returned to the ritter home. chapter iv the gotti home when wiseli and her uncle arrived at beechgreen, the three boys rushed in from the barn and stood staring at her. soon the mother came in from the kitchen and did the same thing. wiseli did not know what to do except to stand and hold her bundle. presently the father seated himself at the table and said, "i think we had better have something to eat. i am afraid the little one has not had much to-day. put your things down, wiseli, and sit here with me." wiseli obeyed without a word. the aunt brought a large loaf of black bread and some cheese, after which she went on staring at wiseli as if she had never seen a child before. the uncle cut a slice of the bread, put a piece of cheese on it, and pushed it over in front of wiseli. "there, little one," he said kindly, "eat that. you must be hungry." the suppressed tears welled up in wiseli's eyes, and her throat was so choked that she could scarcely breathe. she knew that she could not swallow a single crumb. "no, thank you," she managed to say; "i am not hungry." "but you had better try," urged the uncle. "you mustn't be afraid." still wiseli left the bread untouched, and the boys and their mother continued to stare at her. presently the aunt dropped her hands from her hips and said, "if it isn't good enough for you, then let it alone." wiseli was glad that she went out after this rebuke. "you had better put your slice of bread in your pocket, wiseli, for you may want it a little later," said the uncle, and then he too went out to the kitchen, closing the door after him. wiseli knew that her uncle meant to be good to her, and she wanted to obey him, so she tried to put the bread in her pocket. unfortunately this was much too small, so she laid the bread back on the table. at this point chappi snatched the slice saying, "i will help you." he was just in the act of taking a bite when one of the brothers struck his arm so that the bread dropped to the floor. then the other brother tried to get it, and a general scuffle ensued. the father opened the kitchen door to ask what the trouble was. the boys answered together, "wiseli didn't want it." "unless you want me to come in with a strap you had better stop that racket," threatened the father. he had just closed the door again when one of the younger boys seized the other by the hair, with the idea of holding him at bay while he got the bread, but this only made matters worse, and the bread disappeared bite by bite as each found an opportunity to snatch it. the aunt was washing potatoes in the kitchen. when her husband came in she said, "what do you mean by bringing the girl home with you? i should like to ask what you intend to do with her." "the child had to go somewhere," he answered. "i am her uncle and the only relative she has. she ought to be of some help to you. i am sure she could do the kind of work you are doing now, and you could take your time for something you like better. you have always said that the boys make work, and you can surely find something for her to do." "oh, bosh! so far as that is concerned, she will be no better than the boys. you can hear what is going on in there now, and she has scarcely been here fifteen minutes." "yes," said the uncle; "but i have heard the same thing many times before she came, and i imagine she has little enough to do with it." "didn't you hear them all lay it upon her when you opened the door?" she asked angrily. "they have to blame some one," the husband calmly answered; "they always do, i notice. i am of the opinion that you will have little trouble from the girl; she acts and obeys better than the boys." "you needn't set her up as a model for the boys already," retorted his wife. "there isn't a place for her to sleep, anyway." "well," said the husband, "one can't plan everything at once. she has, no doubt, had a bed to sleep on, and it can easily be brought over here. i will talk with the pastor about her to-morrow. she can sleep on the bench behind the stove to-night; it will at least be warm. later we can partition off a part of our chamber large enough for her little bed." "i never in my life heard of any one bringing a child and a week later her bed!" sneered the aunt. "i should like to know who is going to pay the bills if we have to go to building on her account." "if the church agrees to let us have her, they will also pay something for her keeping," explained the husband. "i will take her for less money than any one else would ask, because i am her uncle, and she will be happier with us than with strangers. i wish you would tell chappi that i want him at the barn." the aunt called to chappi, but the boys were still struggling on the floor and he did not hear. she went into the room and gruffly ordered quiet. wiseli stood crouching against the wall, scarcely daring to move. "i wonder that you stand by and watch such a scene without trying to stop it," scolded the aunt. "can you knit?" wiseli trembled as she answered, "yes, i can knit stockings." the aunt handed wiseli a large brown stocking, at the same time sending chappi to the barn. the two brothers followed him out. "remember that it is the foot you are knitting on, and don't make it too short," cautioned the aunt, and then she returned to the kitchen. wiseli was glad to be alone. she sat down on the bench behind the stove so that she might hold her work in her lap, for the stocking was so heavy that she could not otherwise manage the needles. she had just begun her knitting when the aunt returned to say, "you had better come to the kitchen now, so that you can learn how i do the work, for i want you to do it next time." wiseli followed to the kitchen, where she tried to help, but there seemed to be little that she dared to do. she kept thinking how gladly she would have done any number of tasks for her mother, because she would have been kind. the comparison brought the tears, so she desperately fought against thinking about herself. "now pay attention!" cautioned the aunt, as she walked about doing the work while wiseli stood by the stove; "i want you to know how to do it the next time." they were still there when the father and sons came up the walk from the barn, stamping the snow from their heavy boots. "they are coming; run, wiseli, and open the door," said the aunt. then the woman drained a large kettle of potatoes, which she took from the stove, ran to the living room and dumped them in the middle of the warped dining table. next she brought a large pan of sour milk, and said to wiseli, "the knives and forks are in the table drawer; you can put them on." wiseli found five knives and five forks in the drawer and put them on the table; then supper was ready. the father and the boys took their places on the bench behind the table next the window. there was a chair at one end of the table, and one at the side next the kitchen, which the aunt took. the uncle motioned wiseli to take the other chair, saying to his wife, "she can sit there, i suppose?" "of course," snapped the aunt, and then went out to the kitchen on pretense of being busy. she kept coming back for only a moment at a time. the uncle, understanding her, said impatiently, "i wish you would sit still and eat your supper." "i don't find the time to sit still," she retorted; "i should like to know who is going to look after things out there if i don't." just at that moment she noticed that wiseli was not eating her supper. "why are you sitting with your hands in your lap?" she demanded. "she hasn't anything to eat with," replied rudi, who had already solved the problem to his own satisfaction, for he could not understand how anybody could help eating so long as there was anything on the table. "so that is it," said the aunt. "how was i to know that all of a sudden we must have six knives and forks when we have always needed but five. i suppose we must get an extra spoon, too. why couldn't you have said something?" she went on, turning to wiseli. "you must know that one has to have a spoon to eat with." wiseli timidly answered, "it didn't matter, because i am not hungry." "but why not?" snapped the aunt. "are you used to something better? i haven't any notion of making a change on your account." "i think you had better let the child alone," interrupted the husband. "i don't want you to frighten her. she will get along well enough after a while." wiseli sat quietly while the rest finished their meal. then the father said that speck, the goat, was ailing at the barn, so he would go back. he put on his fur cap, took the lantern, and went out. wiseli watched her aunt brush the potato peelings from the table into the empty milk pan with her hands; then she wiped the table, after which the other things were soon washed and put away. when all was finished she said, "now you have seen how i do up the supper work, wiseli; you can do it hereafter." when they came into the living room, chappi was seated at the table with his number book and pencil, as if he intended writing his sums on the table; he now began to stare at wiseli. she had picked up the stocking on the bench by the stove, but had not dared to go near the light on the table. "you ought to be working examples yourself," he said to wiseli; "you aren't the smartest one in school by any means." wiseli did not know what to say. she had not been in school that day, and did not know what examples had been given out. in fact, she seemed to be out of harmony with everything. "if i have to do sums, you have to," continued chappi. wiseli said nothing, and did not stir. "all right," said chappi, "i'll not do one single example more," and he threw down his pencil. "goody!" exclaimed hans; "then i don't need to either," and he put his multiplication table back in his book sack. study was the most unpleasant thing he ever had to do. "i shall tell the teacher who is to blame for all this laziness," said chappi, threateningly; "you will find out what he will do to you." this might have been carried on indefinitely had not the father returned from the barn. he brought two large mill sacks and asked chappi to take his things from the table; then he spread out the sacks, folded them neatly, and laid them on the bench behind the stove. "there," he said, "that is all right. where is your bundle, little one?" wiseli brought it from the corner, where she had put it, and was surprised to see her uncle place it at one end of the sacks and press it flat with his hands. "there!" he repeated as he gave the bundle a last pat. then turning to wiseli, he added: "you may go to sleep now; the bundle will be your pillow and the stove will keep you from getting cold. you three boys must be off to bed!" he took the lamp and followed the boys out, but he returned presently and said: "i hope you will sleep well, wiseli. try hard not to think about what has happened to-day. it will all come right later." then he left her to herself. a moment later the aunt came, carrying a small lamp, and wished to see the bed. "can you sleep that way?" she asked, almost kindly. "it will be nice and warm for you. some people haven't any bed and are cold besides. it may happen to be the case with you yet, so you better be thankful that you have a roof over your head. good night." "good night," answered wiseli, but the door closed too quickly for the aunt to hear. wiseli was glad to know that she was to be alone for the night. the moon dimly lighted the room. she had been in such constant dread of those about her that she had scarcely dared to think of herself. now she lifted up her heart in prayer, simply saying, "help me, heavenly father, for i am afraid, and mother is not with me now." she felt comforted after a time because she had the assurance, from her mother's teaching, that her prayer would be answered. she remembered that it was only the evening before that her mother had told her to take comfort and courage from the verses she had repeated. the real meaning came to her now as she said the lines over. "for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will." the load she had been carrying all day seemed lifted. a quiet peace filled her trusting heart, and she resolved in her new-found strength never to fear her cousins and the aunt again. she was soon sound asleep. wiseli dreamed that she saw a path before her which was beautiful with roses and carnations on either side, and that the sun was shining pleasantly overhead. she was so happy that she danced for joy. beside her stood the mother, holding her by the hand. she pointed down the path and said: "see, wiseli, god is giving that to you. didn't i tell you he would find the place? for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will." wiseli had forgotten all her sorrow and fear, and slept as well with her head on the bundle on the hard bench as if she had been dreaming in the softest bed. chapter v how life continues and summer comes when the faithful trina returned to the hill with the unopened basket upon her arm, a look of anxiety came over mrs. ritter's countenance. trina explained that the mother was dead and that wiseli had been taken to the home of her uncle gotti. the news shocked the entire household, for none of them had realized that the sickness would terminate so suddenly. "here i have tried for several days to visit the poor, lonely woman, and now it is too late," said mrs. ritter. "if i had only gone i should feel more reconciled to the loss." "it is a shame that wiseli must go there," said otto as he paced the floor with his hands clenched. "i tell you if i catch him abusing her, he will need to count his ribs to see if any are left." "of whom are you speaking in that fashion?" asked mrs. ritter. "of chappi. think of the mean things that he can do to her now that she has to live in the same house with him. it is unjust and ought not to be allowed. i'll attend to him if i find out that--" just then otto's voice was nearly drowned by a loud stamping behind the stove, and he paused to say, "what are you making such an outlandish noise for, you miez behind the stove?" miezi came out in sight of the others, her cheeks flaming red from the heat of the stove combined with her exertions in trying to get her feet into a pair of wet shoes which trina had but a short time before taken off with the greatest difficulty. she continued her efforts, but managed to say, "you can see that i have to do it; no one on earth could put on these things without stamping." "why must they be put on, when i have just taken the pains to get you out of them?" asked trina. "i am going to beechgreen to get wiseli; she can have my bed," replied miezi, with a finality that seemed to admit of no interference. her operations were nevertheless cut short by trina, who picked her up in her arms and carried her to a chair. "that is nice of you, miezchen," she said, "but i had better do that errand for you. there is no reason why you should wear out your shoes getting ready. you can let wiseli have your bed and you can go to the attic to sleep. there is plenty of room up there." this, however, was not in harmony with miezi's plans; she had solved the sleeping problem to her own as well as to wiseli's advantage, for nothing else would suit her so well as never to have to go to bed. so long as she could remember, she had always been sent to bed when she wanted very much to be up. it soon became evident to miezi, not only that trina was keeping her from going to wiseli, but that she had no intention of going in her place. when trina frankly refused to go, miezi cried so bitterly that otto put his hands over his ears, and the mother came to make terms of peace. she promised to talk the matter over with papa just as soon as he and uncle max returned from a long-contemplated visit at a friend's house some distance away. it was four days later when the colonel and uncle max returned. the children brought the subject of wiseli's coming to live with them before the father at once, and he promised to investigate the conditions the next morning. at noon the following day the colonel came home with the information that he was too late to get wiseli. "you know, children," he said, "her uncle gotti really wants to help the girl. he is a highly respected man and he offered to take the child for very little money. wiseli's mother left her scarcely anything, so somebody had to offer her a home, and it seemed natural that her uncle should do so. everybody feels satisfied that she has been well placed. i believe it is the best arrangement that could be made, for she is much too young to go out to work. we cannot take all the homeless children unless we put up an orphanage." "i had only hoped," said mrs. ritter, "that we might help to find a place more suited to the child. she has a sensitive nature as well as a frail body, and she ought to be somewhere else. she will hear a great deal that is coarse and rude where she is, and will have to work much too hard for her delicate constitution. we shall have to accept the situation, but i am sorry that we cannot help her in some way." miezi cried, and otto struck the table with his clenched fist to emphasize how he would deal with chappi if he were unkind to wiseli. it was only a few days, however, before the children grew accustomed to thinking of the little girl in her new surroundings, and the weeks sped on as rapidly as ever. in the meantime wiseli was becoming reconciled to her new home. her bed had been brought over as her uncle had planned, and it was put in a box-like apartment partitioned off from the aunt's sleeping room. this was barely large enough for the bed and the small trunk which had been brought over with the remainder of the little girl's things. wiseli had to stand either on the bed or on the trunk when she dressed, and she had to climb over the trunk to get into bed. she had to go to the well out of doors to wash her hands and face. when it was so cold that the water would freeze, the aunt told her to let it go altogether. "i am sure," she said, "that you can wash yourself enough when it gets warmer." since this advice was not in accordance with her mother's teaching, wiseli did not accept it. the life in wiseli's present surroundings was so different in every way from that to which she had been accustomed, that the comparison often produced severe homesickness, although she was never again so unhappy as on the first evening at her uncle's house. she remembered her beautiful dream and she did not doubt that a better place would be found for her, since she had prayed for it. "my mother will not let god forget me," was the assurance that held up hope before her during those trying days, and the thought of the verses was constantly with her. "for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will." the winter had passed and a promising spring was at hand. the trees put forth their green leaves and the meadow was dotted with primroses and anemones. in the woods the birds were merry, and the warm sunshine changed the barren waste of winter to a living beauty that made all hearts rejoice. probably no one enjoyed the balmy days more than wiseli, and she felt quite happy as she walked to and from school. at other times there was scarcely a moment to spare, not even to notice the pretty flowers, for not only did she have to work every moment, but she had to work hard. she helped with the garden, and, since the aunt worked in the field on the farm, she had to get the meals and wash dishes as well. she did the patching for the whole family, made the gruel for the little pigs, and carried it to them besides; in short, she did everything about the house, so that she often had to stay away from school in order to finish her duties. going to school was wiseli's greatest pleasure. it rested her tired body and, best of all, she heard there kind and friendly words. during recess and after school hours otto was sure to speak to her in a cordial way, and it did much to relieve the lonely feeling. sometimes a message came from mrs. ritter inviting wiseli to spend the following sunday with her children. wiseli was never allowed to accept these invitations to the hill, for the aunt would say, "it is the only day that you don't have to go to school, and i can't spare you every day." wiseli worked all day sunday, but it was pleasant to know that the ritter family had invited her, and there was always the hope that some day she might be allowed to go. there was another reason why wiseli liked to go to school. the road went by the home of joiner andreas. she had not forgotten that she had the message from her mother to deliver to him. she was too timid to go to the house and ask for him, but she watched for the opportunity to see him in his garden or near his home. she never passed his place without looking over the garden fence to see if he was there. she had not yet seen him, although the garden was in the best of trim and indicated that he spent many hours there. may and june had passed, and now the long hot summer days had come, bringing increased work on the farm. wiseli had to go to the haymaking. she was expected either to rake the hay together or to use the fork in spreading it in the sun, working all day long until her arms ached so wretchedly that she could not sleep. this, however, was not what made her unhappy, for it did not occur to her that she ought not to work as she did. her great trouble was that she had to miss school, except on rainy days, or occasionally when the aunt said that she might go. chappi often said in the evening, when he was doing his examples, "why don't you get your lessons, wiseli? you never know anything, and you seem to think that you can live without working." it was this that hurt wiseli, for she could rarely go to school two days in succession, and so she was not able to keep up with the class. one day, when she failed to give a correct answer, the teacher said, "i did not expect that of you, wiseli; you used to be a good scholar." how it shamed the child, and how she cried all the way home that night, no one but herself realized! it seemed to her that day that no one cared for her after all, and when she got into her little bed at night, she felt too miserable even to pray. but she could not sleep until she had repeated her usual prayer, although it was said almost hopelessly. this happened in july. the following morning wiseli was standing at the table when the boys went off to school, and she was wondering whether or not she should be allowed to go. the aunt said nothing, and the uncle was not in the room. the aunt had a large washing on hand for that day. would she be asked to carry it to the trough and help? yes, she heard her aunt calling, and she was just about to answer when her uncle came in, saying, "hurry, wiseli, the boys have gone already. the hay is safe in the barn, and you shall go to school now. you may tell the teacher that you will not be kept out any more for a while, and explain to him that it was because we had so much work on our hands that you had to stay away." wiseli felt as free as a bird that morning. she knew that she might go to school every day that week, and it was something worth living for. how beautiful the morning was! the birds warbled their care-free notes in the tree tops, the sunlight sparkled on the dewy grass, and the air was fragrant with the perfume of the wild flowers. wiseli had no time to stop, but she noticed all this beauty as she ran along. that afternoon, just as the school children were about to rush out to their freedom, the teacher asked, "whose turn is it to care for the schoolroom this week?" "it is otto's; it is otto's!" cried the children, and the next moment they were gone. "otto," said the teacher sternly, "you didn't do your duty here last night. i will overlook it this time, but i want you to see that it does not happen again, or i shall be obliged to enforce the penalty upon you." otto glanced around the room and saw the nutshells, apple parings, and bits of paper that he was supposed to clean up; then he looked at the children playing out of doors, and the first thing he knew he was among them. the teacher had already left the room. later, when the children were all gone, otto stood for a moment watching the golden glow of the evening sky and thought, "if i could only go home now! i would pick my cap full of cherries and take a ride out to the meadow with the hired man; now i have to go to that stuffy room and sweep and dust it." otto's patience forsook him as he started for the schoolroom. "i shouldn't care," he said, "if a cyclone came along and shattered the old house into a thousand pieces." there was no alternative, however; he must either take his turn at cleaning the schoolroom, or he must stay in at recess to-morrow. he had no sooner entered the room than he noticed, to his great surprise, that the work was done. not a speck of dust was to be seen, and the windows had been opened wide, letting the air enter freely, so that the room seemed as fresh as out of doors. just at this moment the teacher entered hastily and looked in astonishment at the staring otto. then he noticed the clean room and said kindly, "you may be satisfied with your work to-night. i did not expect you to do so well, although you are always good at your lessons. good night." now that otto was convinced that what he saw was real, he seized his cap and, clearing the steps in two jumps, ran all the way up the hill. it did not occur to him to seek for an explanation of what had happened, until he told his mother about it when he reached home. "you may be sure that no one did it for you by mistake," said his mother. "you must have some good friend who has willingly sacrificed himself for you. perhaps you can think of some one who may have done it." "i know who it was," said miezi, who had been listening. "who?" asked otto. "henry, because you gave him an apple about a year ago," said miezi, emphatically. "yes, or william tell, because i didn't take his away from him about a year ago; that would be just as sensible, you little miezi," said otto, as he playfully stroked her cheek. just then he saw an opportunity to ride out to the hayfields, so the subject was dropped. in the meantime wiseli was tripping down the hill happier than she had been for many a day. she passed joiner andreas's house, but retraced her steps in order to get a good view of the carnation bed. "it is a little late," she thought, "but i shall get home before the boys, anyway, for they are probably playing somewhere." just as she was admiring the flowers, the joiner came out of the house and walked directly toward her. "wouldn't you like to have a few carnations, wiseli?" he said. "yes, very much," she answered. "my mother wanted me to tell you something, too." "your mother!" he gasped, and the carnations he had just picked fell unheeded to the ground. wiseli darted through the gate and picked them up. "when my mother was sick and didn't eat anything any more, she drank that nice fruit juice you put in the kitchen, and it made her feel better. she told me to thank you for bringing it, and for all that you did for her. she said you were very kind." wiseli was surprised to see the tears in the good man's eyes. he tried to say something, but he could not. he took wiseli's hand in both of his, patted it gently, and returned to the house without another word. wiseli was amazed. nobody else had shed any tears for her mother, and she had not allowed herself to do so when anybody could see her; yet here was a man so moved that he could not speak of her. how she loved him for it! she started homeward for fear of being later than the boys, and it was well she did so, for they had just turned in at the gate when she got there. wiseli felt so much better when she went to bed that night that she wondered how she could have been so discouraged the evening before. she resolved to keep herself cheerful in the future, if it were possible. the good, kind face of joiner andreas was the last thing she thought of before going to sleep. the following day (it was wednesday) otto had a repetition of his strange experience. it had not occurred to him that the good fairy would again appear, and, as usual, he was not able to keep from rushing out with the others and frolicking until the children left the playground. when he returned to do his work, the room was again in the best of order. he began to be really curious as to whom he had to thank for this favor. he decided to play the spy the next night and solve the mystery. accordingly, after the school had been dismissed the following afternoon, otto waited a moment at his seat, wondering how he could get to a hiding place unseen, when the boys began to shout, "come on, otto, come on; we want to play robber and you must lead." "i have to clean up this week, so i won't play to-night," he said. "what difference will fifteen minutes make? come on." he gave up his scheme of playing spy and went with the boys. instead of the game's lasting fifteen minutes, it was half an hour before it was over, and otto felt anxious as to whether he must still do his work. he ran panting to the schoolroom and gave the door such a vigorous kick that the teacher came in to see what had happened. "what do you want, otto?" he asked. "just to see if i did everything," stammered otto. "very well done," commented the teacher, as he looked about. "your zeal is praiseworthy, otto, but you needn't be so boisterous when you come to the door again." otto went out more curious than ever. he determined to find out the next night without fail, for, with the exception of saturday morning, it would be his last opportunity. "otto," called the teacher as soon as he had dismissed school the next day, "i wish you would take this note to the pastor's for me and wait for an answer; you can be back in five or ten minutes to do your cleaning." otto was not in the least pleased to do the teacher's errand, but he dared not refuse, so he started off at a run, hoping to be back in time to capture the good fairy, if she appeared to do his work. when he got to the parsonage, he was admitted at once, and told that the pastor would see him directly. then the minister's wife called him to the garden to chat a moment, and it seemed an age to him before he could free himself courteously, for she asked not only about himself and his health, but that of his mother, father, uncle max, miezi, and apparently all the relatives in germany. finally the opportunity came to present the note to the pastor, and it was but a moment later when he was speeding back to the schoolhouse with the written answer in his hand. he fairly stumbled into the schoolroom in his eagerness to see if any one was there, but, as before, the room was in the best of order and not a soul to be seen. "not once this week have i had to do that disagreeable task," he thought. "since there is some one who is doing such work without needing to, i am at least going to find out who it is." the school closed at eleven o'clock on saturday. otto let all the children pass out; when they had gone, he went outside, locked the door, and stood with his back against it waiting to see who would come back to do the work. he stood there waiting until half past eleven, and still no one came. otto remembered that the family at home were to have lunch promptly at twelve, for an afternoon's outing had been planned and he had promised to get home as early as possible. it became evident that he was going to have to do the work himself, and he dared wait no longer. greatly disappointed, he unlocked the door and entered the room, but--otto could scarcely believe his eyes--the work was finished as usual. how very strange it seemed! for a moment a superstitious fear possessed him, and he tiptoed to the door and went out, taking pains to lock it securely behind him. just at that moment wiseli came quietly out of the teacher's kitchen door; she listened intently for a moment, but hearing no one, started on her way home, which led her by the schoolhouse door. the next moment she and otto were face to face. each was startled at the other's presence, and wiseli blushed deeply, as if she had been caught doing something very wrong. this partly betrayed her to otto, who said: "surely, wiseli, _you_ have not been doing all that work for me this week? how _could_ any one who didn't have to?" "it has given me a great deal of pleasure," said wiseli. "oh, no, don't say that!" exclaimed otto. "to do such work _couldn't_ give anybody any pleasure." "but it did, really, otto. i was always glad when night came and i could do it again. i was all the time thinking how glad and surprised you would be to find the task finished." "what made you do it for me, wiseli?" "i knew that you didn't like to do it, and i have many a time wished for an opportunity to do something for you." "i am sure you have done a great deal more for me than i did for you, and i shall not forget it, wiseli." otto had taken wiseli's hand in his and she was very happy. "i waited to-day until everybody had gone, and even now i cannot see how you got into that room," said otto. "i never went out," she replied. "i hid behind my seat, for i expected you to go out as usual." "how have you always before managed to get away without my seeing you?" asked otto. "you don't notice much when you are playing," said wiseli. "yesterday and to-day, when i was not sure where you were, i went through the teacher's room and asked his wife if she had an errand she would like to have me do on the way home. i have several times done things for her. i was behind the kitchen door yesterday when you stormed into the schoolroom." both children laughed heartily at the remembrance. otto impulsively pressed wiseli's hand and said, "i am truly grateful to you. good-by." after they had gone their separate ways, they both rejoiced that they had discovered each other. chapter vi a new feature the summer had passed, and now the late autumn was at hand. the nights were getting cold and damp. the cows were eating the last bits of grass in the chilly pastures, while the boys herding them built fires to warm themselves and to roast potatoes. one such unpleasant evening otto came home from school to tell his mother that he was going over to see what wiseli was doing, for she had not been at school for a whole week. he took an apple and hurried away. as he went up the path to beechgreen he noticed rudi sitting on the ground in front of the door with a pile of pears beside him; he was busily engaged biting into first one and then another. "where is wiseli?" asked otto. "outdoors," answered rudi. "where outdoors?" "in the pasture." "in what pasture?" "i don't know." "you will not suffer from overpoliteness at least," remarked otto. he started for the large pasture near the woods. just then he noticed some people under a pear tree near at hand, and soon he saw wiseli gathering pears into a basket. hans had thrown himself face upward across a filled basket and was rocking himself in a way which threatened the overturn of the pears. chappi was perched up in the tree laughing at his brother's antics. when wiseli saw otto coming, her face broke into happy smiles. "i have come to see how you are, wiseli," said otto, as he took her hand. "why have you been out of school so long?" "there was so much to be done that i couldn't go, otto. see what a lot of pears there are! i have to pick pears from morning until night." "your shoes and stockings are soaked," remarked otto. "ugh, it is cold here. doesn't it make you sick to get so wet?" "yes, sometimes; but the work usually keeps me warm." just then hans gave such a violent lurch that the basket went over and the pears scattered in every direction. "oh," cried wiseli, "that is too bad! now we must gather them all over again." "and that one too," cried chappi, and he laughed as the pear that he threw hit wiseli on the forehead hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. it had scarcely happened, however, before otto had pulled chappi from the tree and had taken a firm grip on his throat. "stop, you're choking me," gurgled chappi. he was not laughing any more. "i will teach you that you are responsible to me when you treat wiseli in that way," said otto, his voice strained in his anger. he tightened his grip as he added, "is this enough to make you remember what i told you?" "yes," gasped chappi, whose face was turning purple. "i will let you go," said otto, "but i want you to keep in mind that i will give you such a choking as you will remember to your dying day if you ever hurt wiseli again. good-by, wiseli." then otto was gone. he went straight to his mother and indignantly protested against the necessity of wiseli's having to live with those boys at her uncle's home. he declared his intention of going over to ask the pastor if complaint might be entered against the whole family, so that wiseli might be taken from them. "my dear son," said mrs. ritter; "there is no lawful way of taking wiseli from them, and a complaint of that character would only lead the whole family to treat her more unkindly than they do now. so long as the uncle means well by her there is nothing we can do. i realize fully what a hard time wiseli is having, and i don't want you to think that i have not taken the matter to heart, otto. i am looking earnestly for an opening to do something for her, and i hope that in the meantime you will protect her as much as possible, without being rude and rough yourself." otto tried to help his mother think of a way to free wiseli, but each plan proposed proved impracticable, if not impossible. the children had a custom of writing their christmas wishes upon a slate, and otto wrote, "i wish santa claus would set wiseli free." january had come and again brought to the children the great pleasure of the year by providing them with snow for the coasting. one beautiful moonlight night the idea came to otto that it would be great sport to coast by moonlight, and the next day he accordingly suggested to the children that they assemble at seven o'clock for a moonlight ride. the suggestion was enthusiastically received. when they broke up that evening, there were cries of "all hands back at seven!" "hurrah for moonlight!" "good-by till seven!" the ritter children did not tell their mother of this plan until they came home from school toward evening. much to their surprise she was not at all enthusiastic over what they considered such a capital idea. she spoke of the intense cold of the evening, the danger, especially to miezi, in the uncertain light, and the likelihood of the younger ones being frightened in the shadows. in spite of these objections they wished to carry out their plan, and otto promised not to let miezi out of his sight if she might go with him. their request was finally granted, and they started off as happy as birds on the wing. it was great sport. the track had been worn as smooth as ice, and the fear of the timid ones in the dark places gave zest to the undertaking. nearly all the children from the neighborhood were there, and the best of humor prevailed. otto let them all precede him with their sleds, permitting only miezi to follow him, so that there would be no danger of any one's running into her from behind, and he looked back every moment to see that she was coming safely. after several rides in this fashion some one proposed that they ride "tandem fashion," that is, with all the sleds tied together. the idea was immediately accepted, and they began tying their sleds together in joyful anticipation. otto, however, considered the sport too dangerous for miezi, as the sleds sometimes became tangled and the whole company was piled up in a mass. he tied his sled last, letting his sister follow with hers untied. in this way it was expected that they would go as usual, except that otto would not be free to stop in case miezi did not keep up with them. soon the children were off and went down the slippery hill with the speed of the wind. they had gone but halfway down, when otto heard a scream behind him in which he recognized his sister's voice, but he was powerless to stop, and he was going too fast to dare to roll himself from his sled until their speed diminished near the foot of the hill. he found miezi halfway down the hill crying with all her might. almost breathless, otto gathered her in his arms, saying, "what happened, miezchen? tell me, what is the matter?" "he wanted to--he wanted to--he was going to--" sobbed miezi. "what did he want to do? who? where?" asked otto. "the big man over there, he wanted to--he was going to kill me--and he said things." "never mind, miezchen; be quiet now; he didn't kill you. did he even hit you?" asked otto, somewhat puzzled by the occurrence, for he knew miezi to be a rather fearless child. "no," sobbed miezi, "but he had a big stick and he raised it like this and was going to strike and he said, 'you look out!' and he called me dreadful names." "so he really didn't hurt you at all," said otto, much relieved to find it true, although miezi was of a different opinion. "yes, he did--he was going to--and you were all gone ahead and i was all alone," and from sheer self-pity came a fresh burst of tears. "hush now, miezchen," coaxed otto. "i shall never leave you like that again, so the man shall never get you. if you will be a happy little girl now, just as soon as we get home i will give you the red candy rooster i had on the christmas tree." this promise restored miezi to her normal self in a moment. she wiped the tears away, but did not let go of otto's hand for the rest of the evening. the other children had joined them and as they climbed the hill they discussed what had happened. several of the children had noticed a large man turn out of the road to let them pass, and it was otto's opinion that it must have made the man angry to have to step into the snow, and he had threatened miezi because she was the only one within reach. this seemed a likely explanation to the children, and the subject was dropped. the party broke up after the next ride, as most of them had promised to be at home by eight o'clock. "now, miezchen," said otto on the way home, "if you tell mamma about your being so frightened, you may be sure that she will never let you go with me again. no harm was done, and i think we had better not say anything about it." miezi promised to say nothing. all traces of tears had been removed by the expectation of receiving the candy rooster, which otto did not fail to give to her as soon as they reached home, and the children went happily to bed. they had been in bed and asleep for some time when a loud rapping at the door startled the parents, who were sitting at the table in the living room, talking about their children. trina had gone upstairs, but she leaned out of her window and called, "what is it you want?" "something dreadful has happened," came the answer from the man below. "joiner andreas has been killed, and we want the colonel to come over at once." the messenger departed without waiting. through the open window colonel and mrs. ritter had heard what he said. the colonel threw his cloak over his shoulder and hurried to andreas's home. a number of people had assembled there when he arrived. the police and the pastor had been summoned, and others, hearing of the misfortune, had come to see what could be done. colonel ritter worked his way into the crowd to where the joiner lay. "where is the doctor?" was his first question. "what is the use of getting a doctor when the man is dead?" some one answered. "he may not be dead," said the colonel, impatiently. "some one must go for a doctor immediately; tell him i said that he must hurry. this call should be answered before all others." some one reluctantly started, then, with the help of others, the colonel lifted the apparently lifeless body and carried it to the bed. the miller's son explained to the colonel that he had passed the house about half an hour earlier, that he had noticed a light and the open door and had decided to stop a moment to see the joiner, when, to his horror, he saw that he was dead; that meadow joggi was standing in the room, holding a gold piece in his hand; and that joggi had laughed as he looked at the gold. meadow joggi, so called because he lived in the meadow, was a man who had lost his reason, but whom people had always regarded as perfectly harmless. the neighborhood supported him, and he often helped them with simple work, which he managed to do fairly well. the miller's son had told him to stay where he was until some one came, and he had obeyed, still clutching his gold piece and smiling, not in the least concerned about himself. the physician came at last and hastened to examine the body. "he was struck on the back of his head; it is a bad wound," said the doctor. "do you think that he is dead, doctor?" asked colonel ritter. "no; he is not dead, but he is very near it. bring me sponges, bandages, and some water." the men searched the house in vain for the things that were needed. "i wish there were a woman here to find things!" exclaimed the exasperated physician. "a woman knows intuitively what a sick person needs and where to find it." "trina can come," said the colonel. "will some one please run over to my house and tell mrs. ritter to send her at once." "i am afraid your wife will not thank you, colonel," said the doctor, "for whoever comes must stay at least three days, and perhaps longer." "you need not worry about that," replied the colonel. "mrs. ritter will gladly do more than give trina's time if it will save the joiner." trina appeared sooner than they had thought it possible for her to get there, and she brought with her a basket of necessary supplies which she and mrs. ritter had in readiness for an emergency. the doctor was much pleased. "now, colonel," he said, "please dismiss every one, and lock up the house for the night." the policemen decided to put joggi in jail until they could investigate matters. he walked along with them willingly, opening his hand occasionally and laughing at his gold piece. early the following morning mrs. ritter went to the home of the joiner to inquire after him. trina met her at the door and said that toward morning the patient had recovered partial consciousness. the doctor had just left, she said, and had expressed his opinion that the man was doing better than he had dared to hope. "i have had to promise him," she added, "that i would let no one come into the room, not even my dear mistress." "i am sure he is right about it," said mrs. ritter smiling. "i am glad to know that andreas is in safe hands, and i will hurry home, so that my husband may know that he is doing well." so eight days passed. mrs. ritter never failed to come every morning to inquire. she supplied trina with whatever she needed. no one had yet been allowed in the sick room, and trina was kept at her post. several days later the doctor gave his permission to have the colonel question andreas in regard to the accident, as the police were anxious to know if he could give them any information. the joiner received the colonel warmly; he realized how much he was indebted to him. the sick man could tell nothing about his injury except that some one had entered his room as he sat counting his money. "i was evidently struck senseless before i had time to look around to see who it was," he added. this proved to the officers that andreas had been injured for the sake of his gold. they wondered what had become of the rest of the money, if joggi had committed the deed. this was the first that andreas had heard about joggi's being suspected. "i want you to release joggi immediately," he said. "i am positive that he did not do it. why, joggi wouldn't kill a fly if he could help it." "a stranger might have done it," suggested the doctor; "the windows are low, and seeing them open and the pile of money at hand, he might have felt a sudden desire to possess it." "that is very likely," replied the joiner. "i have never thought about being careful, and my house has always been unlocked." "well," said the colonel, "it is a good thing that you have enough saved for a rainy day, so you will not suffer from the loss of the money. the best of it all is that you yourself were saved." "yes, colonel," said the joiner, as he gave his hand in farewell, "i have enough to be thankful for. i shall never use all i have, anyway." "i am sure you are more at peace with yourself than the man that robbed you," remarked the doctor. a sad story was being told about the neighborhood concerning joggi. he had been so reluctant to give up his gold piece, that the police had taken it from him by force after conducting him to the prison. the policeman's son was supposed to have said to him: "you just wait, joggi; you will get your pay for this night's work. you'll see what you will get after a while." this had so thoroughly frightened joggi that he had moaned constantly ever since; he would not eat or sleep, but sat crouched in a corner, fearing that they would come to kill him. the police came to see him a few days after his imprisonment, and promised him their protection if he would confess the truth to them. he said that he had looked in at the window and had seen the joiner lying on the floor. he went in, he said, and touched him with his foot and saw that he was dead. then he saw the gold piece on the floor and picked it up a moment before the miller's son came in; other people soon came after that. this was his simple story, and every one was inclined to believe it, but joggi did not get over his fright. chapter vii brighter days for the patient and for some one else since the day that colonel ritter had called with the physician to see the joiner after his recovery, mrs. ritter had daily visited the patient, and she rejoiced to see how rapidly he was gaining strength. otto and miezi had been over twice and taken their friend everything they could think of that might please him. they were glad to have the joiner tell them that a king could not have had better care. one day the doctor was just leaving his patient, when the colonel came. "the joiner is doing well," said the doctor. "your wife has spared trina so long that she ought to go back now, but the poor fellow needs to have somebody with him a while longer. what a pity that he has no relatives! i have been wondering if mrs. ritter might not know of some one that we could get to take trina's place for a couple of weeks." "i will ask her as soon as i go back, although i am sure that she will be in no haste about taking trina away." the next morning, as mrs. ritter made her accustomed call, she said to her friend, "do you feel like talking over a little business matter this morning?" "certainly; i am feeling quite like myself," replied the joiner, as he propped his head on his elbow. "i am thinking of taking trina away, since you are doing so well," she began. "believe me, mrs. ritter, for several days i have been urging her to go; i have realized what it meant to you to do without her." "i shouldn't have let her in if she had taken your advice, but the doctor assures us now that it will be safe for her to leave you, in case some one can be found to take her place. it need not be any one so proficient as trina, because we could send you your meals from our house. i have been giving the matter a great deal of thought, andreas, and i think that you ought to have wiseli come over to stay with you." "no, no, mrs. ritter, of course not!" exclaimed andreas in astonishment. "do you suppose i could expect that delicate child to do my work? oh, mrs. ritter, do you imagine i have forgotten for a moment about the girl's mother? please say nothing more about it, for i would rather never get well." "but, andreas, you do not understand me, and i want to tell you something more about it. the child is given very hard work to do where she is, and the worst of it is that they are not kind to her. i should feel so greatly relieved to have her here, because she would at least be treated kindly. i know that wiseli's mother would want you to take her, so that she might have a real home, and you will be surprised to see how gladly she will come to you and do the little necessary tasks." "but how could i get the child if i wanted her?" "i shall be more than glad to arrange that for you if you will trust me with it," replied mrs. ritter. "i must make you promise that she shall be brought only on the condition that she wants to come," said the joiner. "yes," said mrs. ritter; "wiseli shall not come unless it is her own wish. i will see you again to-morrow. good-by." instead of going home, mrs. ritter went to find wiseli, for she was eager to free the child from her present surroundings. when she arrived at beechgreen, she met mr. gotti, who was himself just going into the house. "i am surprised to see you over here, and so early in the morning, mrs. ritter," he said, as he cordially shook her hand. "yes, i am sure you are, mr. gotti," she replied. "i have come to see if you could possibly spare wiseli for about two weeks to care for joiner andreas. the doctor thinks that he doesn't need trina any more, but that he must have some one. i hope that you will not refuse, and that the cure so well begun may be carried to a successful finish." mrs. gotti joined them just then, and her husband explained the matter to her before answering mrs. ritter. "wiseli couldn't do anything if she went," said mrs. gotti. "the child knows how to do a number of things," corrected the husband. "she is bright and learns readily. i am willing to let her go for two weeks. the spring work will soon begin, and we must have her back then. the joiner will no doubt be well by that time, so this arrangement will be satisfactory to everybody." "it is very well for you to talk," broke in mrs. gotti. "i have just gone through all the trouble of teaching her everything, and when she comes back i shall have it to do over again. the joiner can afford to train a girl for himself if he needs one." "but, wife, two weeks is not a long time. mrs. ritter has spared trina much longer, and we all have to ask favors sometimes." "i thank you for the kindness," said mrs. ritter, as she rose to take her leave. "i am sure, too, that the joiner will fully appreciate your sacrifice. if you will allow me, i will take the child now." the aunt objected seriously, but the husband said firmly: "that will be the best way. the sooner she goes, the sooner she will get back, and i want it distinctly understood that it is to be for only two weeks." wiseli was called, and told without further explanation to tie a few belongings together; she silently obeyed, not daring to ask any questions. it was just a year since she had come to the house with her bundle. she had been given nothing new during that time except the black jacket she had on; it was thinly lined, and her skirt hung limply to her knees. it was only a moment before she appeared with her bundle under her arm. she looked timidly from her dress to mrs. ritter as she entered. "you are all right, wiseli; we are not going far," said mrs. ritter. wiseli followed her down the path, after a hasty farewell to the aunt and uncle, and she could not help wondering what was going to be done with her. mrs. ritter cut across the fields to make the distance shorter, for she felt as if she could not get the child away fast enough. as soon as they were out of sight of beechgreen, mrs. ritter turned to wiseli, saying, "you know who joiner andreas is, don't you, wiseli?" "oh, yes," she answered, her face lighting up on hearing the name. mrs. ritter was pleasantly surprised, and continued, "he is sick, wiseli; do you think that you would like to stay with him a couple of weeks and wait on him so that he will get well again?" "of course, mrs. ritter, i shall be very glad to go," wiseli said, and mrs. ritter wished that andreas could have seen her as she said it. "you must remember to tell him that you are glad to be with him, if you are," said mrs. ritter; "otherwise he might think we made you come." "i shall not forget to tell him," said the little girl. when they reached the joiner's gate, mrs. ritter bade wiseli enter without her. "since i know that you like to go to him, i shall not need to go in, but you can tell the joiner that i will be over in the morning, and you must come to me for anything you may want at any time. good-by." it was with a light heart that wiseli ran up the path to the house, for she rejoiced that she was to see the man who had been so kind to her, and that this was to be her home for a few weeks. she understood what was expected of her, and she knew that the joiner was in bed, with no one else in the house, so she entered without ringing. how homelike everything seemed as she looked about! at the farther end of the room she noticed, through the parted curtains, a large bed freshly dressed with a white spread and pillows; she wondered who slept in that room. then she tapped lightly on the joiner's door, which she opened as soon as she heard a response. the joiner raised himself on his elbow to see who was there. "wiseli!" he exclaimed, as if in doubt whether to be glad or sorry. "come over here and give me your hand." wiseli silently did as she was told. "i am sorry that you had to come to me." "why?" "i only mean that perhaps you would a little rather not have come. mrs. ritter is always so kind that you did it to please her, didn't you?" "no, not at all. she never asked me to do it for her. she wanted to know if i cared to come, and i said, 'yes.' there is no place in the whole world where i should have been so glad to go as to your house." this must have satisfied the joiner, for his head dropped back to the pillows, and he tried to look at wiseli, but the tears persisted in filling his eyes. "what must i do?" asked wiseli, when he said nothing further. "i am sure i don't know, wiseli," said the joiner, gently. "i shall be glad to have you do exactly as you please, if you will stay with me a while first and keep me company." wiseli could scarcely believe she had heard aright. nobody but her mother had ever spoken to her like that. her first thought was that her mother would be glad if she knew how kind he was. there was the same tenderness in his tones that she used to feel in the mother's, and she unconsciously loved him in the same way. she took his hand in both of hers and chatted with him as freely as if she had always known him. "i am afraid i ought to be getting dinner," she said at length; "what should you like to have me cook for you?" "i want you to have just what you like," replied the joiner. this, however, did not satisfy wiseli, for she desired above all else to please him, so she asked question after question until she found out what she wanted to know. she knew how to make the soup he said he liked, and she realized now that she had learned many useful things from her aunt, even if they had been taught without kindness. wiseli prepared the joiner's dinner on a tray and carried it to him. "i wish you would draw the little table over here and eat your dinner with me," said the joiner. "mine will taste so much better if you will." wiseli was again surprised, but she said, "that is just what mamma would have said." what a pleasant dinner that was! the joiner was so considerate of wiseli's comfort that it made the humblest task a pleasure to her. "now what are you going to do?" he asked, when they had finished dinner and wiseli rose from the table. "i am going to wash the dishes," she replied. "i suppose such things have to be done," said the joiner, "but i think, since this is your first day with me, that you might stack them up and do them to-morrow; you know there are only a few." "why, i should be so ashamed if mrs. ritter should happen to come in that i shouldn't know what to do," said wiseli, and she turned such a serious face to him that he laughed. "all right," he said; "only remember that you are to do just as you like while you are with me." wiseli had not thought that it could be so much fun to do up the dinner work. when it was finished, she said to herself, "now this kitchen is nice enough for any one to inspect." she had been told that the alcove opening off from the living room was to be hers, so she hung her few garments in the closet opening from one corner of the room. when she returned to the joiner's room he said, "good, i have been waiting for you a long time." "haven't you a stocking that i could knit while i sit here?" she asked, as she took the chair beside the bed. "of course not," answered the sick man; "you have already done too much, and i want you to rest now." "but i am not allowed to sit idle except on sunday. besides, i can knit and talk at the same time." "if you will be any more contented with a stocking, get one, by all means, but please remember that i don't want you to work unless you prefer to do so," said the joiner. in this quiet way they passed one day after another. everything wiseli did pleased the joiner, and she was thanked for every little service as if it were of the utmost importance. the patient gained so much in strength that he was soon clamoring for permission to get up. the doctor told him that he might sit up whenever he wished, and much of his time was now spent sitting in the bay window in the living room, where the warm sunshine helped to make the days cheerful. he liked to watch his little housekeeper moving about at her household duties, and she succeeded in making his house more attractive than he had ever hoped to see it. wiseli so enjoyed herself in this comfortable home, where she had the assurance of being cared for and protected, that she sometimes forgot she must soon give it up and return to her uncle at beechgreen. chapter viii the unexpected happens in the home on the hill they talked often of the good joiner and wiseli. mrs. ritter went to see them every morning, and she always brought encouraging news home with her. otto and miezi were planning a surprise for andreas and wiseli in which they meant to celebrate their friend's recovery. to-day, however, they had a celebration in their own home, for it was their father's birthday. it had seemed like a real holiday to the children ever since they got up in the morning, and now they were about to enjoy the birthday feast. they were all in the best of humor. after the first course had been served, there was placed before mrs. ritter a covered dish which, when the cover had been removed, displayed a cabbage head looking as fresh and natural as if it had just come from the garden. "that dish is certainly pretty enough to be praised," said the father; "but really i was expecting to see something else, marie. you know at every feast i am on the lookout for my favorite vegetable, the artichoke. isn't it on the menu to-day?" "there," broke in miezi, "that is just what he called me! twice he called me that, and he had his big stick raised like this, and he was going--" miezi had her arm raised to illustrate the man's attempt to strike her, when she suddenly caught the warning look from her brother across the table, and remembered her promise not to tell her parents about what had happened that night. in her great confusion her face grew scarlet, and she pushed her arms as far as possible under the table. "i am surprised to have my birthday celebration take this turn," said the father. "on one side of the table my daughter speaks of something about which we have heard nothing, while, on the opposite side, my son kicks my leg until it feels as if it might be black and blue. i should like to know, otto, where you learned such gymnastics." it was now otto's turn to blush, which he did to the roots of his hair. he had intended to hush his sister with the kicks, but evidently he had not struck where he intended. for a time he was too embarrassed to look his father in the face. "well, miezchen, what was the rest of the story which otto did not allow you to finish? you say he called you a dreadful name, raised his stick at you, and--?" "then, then," began miezi,--she realized, now, that she had told, and must sacrifice the candy rooster in consequence,--"then he didn't kill me, anyway." the father laughed heartily. "it was good of him not to kill my little girl, but what then?" "that was all." "the story has a happy ending," said the father. "the stick remains poised in the air and little miezchen comes home as the artichoke. now let us forget everything except that this is my birthday and that we are to do justice to the feast provided." otto, however, still felt somewhat disturbed, and after dinner went off to a corner by himself. he seemed to be reading, but instead, he was thinking about what had happened, for he was very sure that his mother would never again let him go with the others to coast by moonlight. miezi went to her room to take a last look at the candy rooster with which she must part, now that she had failed to keep her promise. mrs. ritter was seated at the window trying to explain to herself the strange actions of her children. she became more and more restless as she thought about it, and finally went in search of miezi, whom she found at the foot of the bed in a very unhappy state of mind. "miezchen, mamma has come to have a talk with you. i want you to tell me when it was that you were frightened by that man." "the night that we went coasting by moonlight. i know he called me that word papa used at the table to-night." mrs. ritter now went to find her husband. "i should like to tell you something, otto," she said. the colonel laid his newspaper aside and looked inquiringly at his wife. "i have been thinking about the scene at the table to-night, and i have come to the conclusion that the children were frightened by the same man that tried to kill the joiner. i have just found out from miezi that it happened the evening i gave the children permission to coast by moonlight, and that was the very night the joiner was hurt. it is much more likely that the man called her 'aristocrat' than 'artichoke.' if so, i should say that the man was andreas's brother. he is the only one in the world who would think of using that word, and i am sure the only one who would hurt andreas. don't you think it likely that it was andreas's brother george?" "it does seem probable," answered the colonel, thoughtfully; "i will see what can be done about it." he rang for the coachman to bring the carriage, and a few moments later he was on his way to the city. for several days colonel ritter went frequently to confer with the police, but it was not until two weeks later that they succeeded in getting results. one evening, when the colonel returned to his home, he told the members of his family that the thief had been captured, and that it was, as mrs. ritter had surmised, the joiner's own brother george. he had been living in the near-by hotels, confident that no one had seen him in his home town, because he had passed through in the night. he denied knowing anything about the affair when he was first arrested, but when told that colonel ritter had weighty evidence against him, he inferred that he must have been recognized after all. he lost his temper, and said that of course those "aristocrats" would like to make trouble for him. in answer to questions he said that he had just returned from service in the neapolitan war; and that he had intended to go to his brother to borrow some money, but finding him with the large sum before him, he saw the opportunity to get it all. it had been his intention merely to knock his brother senseless, so that he could make his escape, and he protested that he had never wished to kill him. fortunately, most of the money was still in george's possession. it was recovered, and he was put in prison. this story caused quite a commotion in the little town, especially among the school children. several nights after george had been arrested, otto came home very much excited. although joggi had been set free as soon as george had confessed, he was still too frightened to take advantage of his liberty. he thought that he should be killed if he went out. finally the police authorities turned him out by force, but he ran quickly to a near-by barn where he hid himself in the farthest corner. here he had remained for three days, and the farmer had threatened to take the pitchfork to him if he did not go away soon. "that is very sad indeed," said mrs. ritter, when otto had finished telling her about it. "the poor fellow suffers because his mind is too feeble to understand what is said to him. it is hard that an innocent man should be made so miserable. if you had told me that night about what had happened to miezi, we should not have caused joggi so much suffering. you had better try to do something for him, since you might have spared him all this." "i will give him my red candy rooster," said miezi, sympathetically. "a red candy rooster to a grown-up man!" laughed otto. "you had better keep it, since you are so fond of it." "they say he has had no food, mother," otto continued. "i shall be glad to take him some dinner." mrs. ritter gave her consent, so the children packed a basket with good things to eat, and started for the barn to find joggi. he was there, crouched in the corner as they had supposed. otto opened the basket for him to see and said, "come out here, joggi, and you shall have all there is in this basket." joggi did not move. "come, joggi," continued otto, "you know the farmer may take the pitchfork to you if you stay here." at this joggi screamed and tried to get farther back in his corner. miezi was very sorry for the poor man. going up to him, she whispered in his ear: "my papa will not let them hurt you, so you had better come along with me. i brought you something from santa claus. see!" she held out the candy rooster to him as she spoke. these whispered words restored joggi's confidence. he looked fearlessly about, took the candy rooster from her hand, and began to laugh in his old way. he allowed miezi to lead him out, but he would not touch the basket, so they let him follow them home. mrs. ritter was relieved to see joggi with them. she opened the door for them, and had a good supper placed before the hungry man, saying, "eat all you want, joggi, and be happy." joggi ate heartily and seemed as pleased as a child over the rooster, which he held constantly. as soon as he had finished eating, he rose to go home, and they noticed that he looked at the rooster and laughed as he went, his great fright apparently forgotten. for several days mrs. ritter did not see the joiner. it seemed a longer time to her, for so much had happened in the meantime; she had not worried about him, however, because she knew that he was well cared for. the colonel had told andreas about his brother's confession. "it is like him to do things in that fashion," said the joiner. "i would gladly have given it all to him, but he always takes the wrong way to get what he wants." one bright sunny morning mrs. ritter went tripping down the hill like a schoolgirl. she was going to see andreas, and she had some plans in mind, the carrying out of which would give her a great deal of pleasure. when she reached his house and entered as usual, she was surprised to see wiseli run out of the room in tears, and the joiner sitting in the deepest gloom, as if a great sorrow had befallen him. "what has happened?" she exclaimed, as she stood still in astonishment. "mrs. ritter," he faltered, "i wish that the child had never come to my house." "what!" she exclaimed, more amazed than ever. "wiseli? what can she have done?" "oh, for heaven's sake, don't misunderstand me, mrs. ritter!" he cried. "it is only because she has been here and has made a little paradise out of my humble home that i am so unhappy. they have sent for her the second time, and she has to go back to beechgreen. i shall be miserable without her. you don't know how hard it is for me to let her go. she would rather stay with me, too, so we are both unhappy over it. i would give the uncle all i have saved in the last thirty years, if he would only let me keep her." mrs. ritter sighed in relief and said, "i should do nothing of the sort; i know of a much better way." he looked at her questioningly. "i should adopt wiseli, if i were you and wanted her. then you will be her father and she will be your child and heir. wouldn't that be a better way, andreas?" andreas grasped mrs. ritter's hand as he asked eagerly, "is such a thing possible?" "yes"; said mrs. ritter, "i thought that you might want to keep her, so i have been looking the matter up, and mr. ritter is at home now, so that, in case you want to settle the legal part of it, he can take you to the city immediately, for you are not yet able to go by yourself. then you will have nothing to worry about, and you can tell wiseli after you come back." it was the first time that she had ever seen the joiner excited. he began to get into his overcoat as she rose to go. "are you sure," he asked, "that we can get the matter settled to-day?" "yes, i am sure," she replied, "and i will send the carriage over at once." a few moments later wiseli noticed the ritter carriage drive up to the gate and the coachman come to assist the joiner down the walk. she was surprised to see him get into the carriage, for he had not told her that he was going for a drive. "perhaps," she thought, "he did not feel like telling me, because this is the last day that i can be with him." wiseli had the dinner ready at the usual hour, but the joiner was not there. she did not wish to eat without him, so she waited and waited, but still he did not come. finally, she fell asleep. she dreamed that she was again at her uncle's home and that she was very unhappy. she was not aware of the beautiful evening glow in the sunset which promised a pleasant to-morrow. wiseli started from her slumber when the door opened. it was the joiner, who had just returned, and his face was as radiant as the sunset. he had been in such a different mood in the morning that wiseli stared in astonishment. "i have good news, wiseli," he said, as he hung up his hat and stepped about as lightly as a boy. "it is all settled. you are legally my child, and i am your father. call me father this very minute, my little girl." all the color had left wiseli's cheeks, and she stood uncomprehending and speechless. "of course you don't know what i am talking about," he said. "i begin at the wrong end because i am so glad. this is what has happened, wiseli: the proper authorities have to-day given me the legal right to take care of you. i have been to the city and the matter is arranged, so that we really belong to each other. you shall never go back to your uncle's again, for now you have a home of your own." his meaning dawned at length upon wiseli, although it seemed too good to be true. impulsively she sprang into his arms. "then i can always call you father," she said. "i know who knew that this was going to happen," she added. "who knew it would happen, wiseli?" "my mother knew it would." "your mother! how, wiseli?" "in my dream i saw the path that leads to your house, and she was pointing to it and saying, 'see, wiseli, that is your path.' so mother must have known it," she added. "don't you think that she helped to bring it about, father?" the good man could not answer, for his heart was full and his eyes were dimmed with tears, but he looked at wiseli so lovingly that she understood. suddenly the door was thrown open, and otto fairly sprang into the room. he threw up his cap and shouted, "hurrah! we've won, and wiseli is free." miezi came in next, almost breathless, and as she held the door open she cried, "see what is coming for the celebration!" there was the baker's boy carrying so large a board on his head that he stuck fast in the doorway, and they had to help him to get it into the house. it was explained that otto and miezi, having permission to order as large a cake as they wished for the occasion, had told the baker to make them the largest he could, so he had baked one just the size of his oven. trina came with loaded baskets which contained a well-browned roast and tempting vegetables, for mrs. ritter knew that the joiner had not been able to eat his dinner, and surmised rightly that wiseli would not have eaten much by herself. trina prepared things on the table so that they could all sit down. it was a joyous occasion for every one present. the feast was followed with merriment and song until a late hour. at last trina stood ready to return, and the guests rose to go. "to-night you have brought the feast to us," said the joiner, "but one week from to-night i invite you all to come back to a feast that i wish to provide in honor of my little daughter." then they shook hands in the pleasant anticipation of coming together again soon, and in general satisfaction that their little friend had at last a home of her own. wiseli followed otto to the door and said: "i thank you a thousand times, otto, for all that you have done for me. chappi never hurt me again after you choked him, because he was afraid that i might tell you, so you see how much reason i have to be grateful." "i am much more indebted to you," said otto. "i haven't had to do that work in the schoolroom again, and that i disliked much more than punishing chappi, so we shall have to call it even." miezi, who had been the gayest of the party all the evening, waved her hand in answer to the last farewell, and then the guests were lost to view. joiner andreas sat down by the window in his accustomed place, but wiseli first restored order to dishes and furniture. when she had finished that task, she went to her father and said: "shouldn't you like to hear the verses that mother taught me? they have been running in my mind all the evening, and i don't intend ever to forget them." "i shall be very glad to hear them," said the joiner, as he took her on his knee. then wiseli, leaning on his shoulder and looking out to the stars, repeated with joyful heart: "commit thou all thy ways and all that grieves thy heart to him whose endless days shall grace and strength impart. "he gives to wind and wave the power to be still; for thee he'll surely save a place to work his will." from this time on the little home of the joiner, nestling among the flowers, remained one of the happiest in the world. wherever wiseli went, people were so polite to her that she was quite astonished, for they had scarcely noticed her before. her aunt and uncle gotti never passed the house without coming in to see her, and they always invited her to make them a visit. wiseli was very much relieved to see their friendly manner, for she had had secret fears as to how they would accept the situation. she was glad to live in peace with all the people about her, but she said to herself, "otto and the rest of the ritter family were kind to me when i was unhappy and poor, but the others paid no attention to me until my father took me, so i know where to look for my real friends." pronouncing vocabulary of proper names the vowels are marked as in webster's dictionary. in unaccented syllables, long vowels and ä should not be pronounced too strongly; but they should not become indistinct, especially in the names around lake garda (both persons and places). in unaccented syllables the vowel [~e] should be very light and rather indistinct; a very common pronunciation, though not the most exact, is to sound this vowel in german names like the _a_ in _sofa_. aar (är) aloise (ä l[=o][=e]'z[~e]) andreas (än dr[=a]'äs) bergamo (b[ve]r'gä m[=o]) bern (b[ve]rn) chappi (käp'p[=e]) como (c[=o]'m[=o]) desenzano (d[=a] s[ve]n dzä'n[=o]) engadine ([ve]n gä d[=e]n') enrico ([ve]n r[=e]'c[=o]) garda (gär'dä) gotti (g[vo]t't[=e]) hans (häns) heimatlos (h[=i]'mät l[=o]s): homeless joggi (y[vo]g'g[=e]) kunzli (kunts'l[=e]) maloja (mä l[=o]'yä) maria (mä r[=e]'ä) marie (mä r[=e]') menotti (m[=a] n[vo]t't[=e]) miez (m[=e]ts) miezchen (m[=e]ts'ch[ve]n) miezi (m[=e]t's[=e]) peschiera (p[ve] skyâ'rä) rico (r[=e]'c[=o]) ritter (r[vi]t'ter) riva (r[=e]'vä) rudi (r[u:]'d[=e]) st. gall (saint gäl) st. moritz (saint m[=o]'r[vi]ts) sils (z[vi]ls) sils-maria (z[vi]ls-mä r[=e]'ä) silvio (s[=e]l'vy[=o]) stineli (st[=e]'n[~e] l[=e]) trevillo (tr[=a] v[=e]l'l[=o]) trina (tr[=e]'nä) trudt (tr[u:]t) una sera ([u:]'nä s[=a]'rä): one evening urschli (ur'shl[=e]) wiseli (v[=e]'z[~e] l[=e]) wisi (v[=e]'z[=e]) transcriber's note: not all letters can be shown as in the original text. the following convention has been used to indicate letters which can not be represented (where x denotes the letter). [vx] letter with caron above [=x] letter with macron above [~x] letter with tilde above [x:] letter with dieresis below a rose of a hundred leaves a love story by amelia e. barr author of "friend olivia," "the bow of orange ribbon," "jan vedder's wife," etc. new york dodd, mead and company copyright, , by j. b. lippincott company. copyright, , by dodd, mead and company. all rights reserved. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge. contents. chapter page i. the wild rose is the sweetest ii. forgive me, christ! iii. only brother will iv. for mother's sake v. but they were young vi. "love shall be lord of sandy-side" vii. "a rose of a hundred leaves" chapter i. the wild rose is the sweetest. i tell again the oldest and the newest story of all the world,--the story of invincible love! this tale divine--ancient as the beginning of things, fresh and young as the passing hour--has forms and names various as humanity. the story of aspatria anneys is but one of these,--one leaf from all the roses in the world, one note of all its myriad of songs. aspatria was born at seat-ambar, an old house in allerdale. it had skiddaw to shelter it on the northwest; and it looked boldly out across the solway, and into that sequestered valley in furness known as "the vale of the deadly nightshade." the plant still grew there abundantly, and the villagers still kept the knowledge of its medical value taught them by the old monks of furness. for these curious, patient herbalists had discovered the blessing hidden in the fair, poisonous amaryllis, long before modern physicians called it "belladonna." the plant, with all its lovely relations, had settled in the garden at seat-ambar. aspatria's mother had loved them all: the girl could still remember her thin white hands clasping the golden jonquils in her coffin. this memory was in her heart, as she hastened through the lonely place one evening in spring. it ought to have been a pleasant spot, for it was full of snowdrops and daffodils, and many sweet old-fashioned shrubs and flowers; but it was a stormy night, and the blossoms were plashed and downcast, and all the birds in hiding from the fierce wind and driving rain. she was glad to get out of the gray, wet, shivery atmosphere, and to come into the large hall, ruddy and glowing with fire and candle-light. her brothers william and brune sat at the table. will was counting money; it stood in small gold and silver pillars before him. brune was making fishing-flies. both looked up at her entrance; they did not think words necessary for such a little maid. yet both loved her; she was their only sister, and both gave her the respect to which she was entitled as co-heir with them of the ambar estate. she was just sixteen, and not yet beautiful. she was too young for beauty. her form was not developed; she would probably gain two or three inches in height; and her face, though exquisitely modelled, wanted the refining which comes either from a multitude of complex emotions or is given at once by some great heart-sorrow. yet she had fascination for those capable of feeling her charm. her large brown eyes had their childlike clearness; they looked every one in the face with its security of good-will. her mouth was a tempting mouth; the lips had not lost their bow-shape; they were red and pouting, but withal ever ready to part. she might have been born with a smile. her hair, soft and dark, had that rarest quality of soft hair,--a tendency to make itself into little curls and tendrils and stray down the white throat and over the white brow; yet it was carefully parted and confined in two long braids, tied at the ends with a black ribbon. she wore a black dress. it was plainly made, and its broad ruffle around the open throat gave it an air of simplicity almost childlike in effect. her arms below the elbows were uncovered, and her hands were small and finely formed, as patrician hands should be. there was no ring upon them, and no bracelet above them. she wore neither brooch nor locket, nor ornament of any kind about her person; only a daffodil laid against the snowy skin of her bosom. even this effect was not the result of coquetry; it was a holy and loving sentiment materialized. altogether, she was a girl quite in keeping with the antique, homelike air of the handsome room she entered; her look, her manner, and even her speech had the local stamp; she was evidently a daughter of the land. her brothers resembled her after their masculine fashion. they were big men, whom nature had built for the spaces of the moors and mountains and the wide entrances of these old cumberland homes. they would have been pushed to pass through narrow city doorways. a fine open-air colour was in their faces; they had that confident manner which great physical strength imparts, and that air of conscious pride which is born in lords of the soil. indeed, william and brune anneys made one understand how truthfully popular nomenclature has called an englishman "john bull." for whoever has seen a bull in its native pastures--proud, obstinate, conscious of his strength, and withal a little surly--must understand that there is a taurine basis to the english character, finely expressed by the national appellation. a great thing was to happen that hour, and all three were as unconscious of the approaching fate as if it was to be a part of another existence. squire william finished his accounts, and played a game of chess with his brother. aspatria walked up and down the hall, with her hands clasped behind her, or sat still in the squire's hearth-chair, with her dress lifted a little in front, to let the pleasant heat fall upon her ankles. she did not think of reading or of sewing, or of improving the time in any way. perhaps she was not as dependent on books as the women of this generation. aspatria's mind was sensitive and observing; it lived very well on its own ideas. the storm increased in violence; the rain beat against the windows, and the wind howled at the nail-studded oak door, as if it intended to blow it down. a big ploughman entered the room, shyly pulled his front hair, and looked with stolid inquiry into his master's face. the squire pushed aside the chess-board, rose, and went to the hearth-stone; for he was young in his authority, and he felt himself on the hearth-stone to hold an impregnable position. "well, steve bell, what is it?" "be i to sow the high land next, sir?" "if you can have a face or back wind, it will be best; if you have an elbow-wind, you must give the land an extra half-bushel." "be i to sow mother-of-corn[ ] on the east holme?" [ ] clover. "it is matterless. is it going to be a flashy spring?" "a right season, sir,--plenty of manger-meat." "how is the weather?" "the rain is near past; it will take up at midnight." as he spoke, aspatria, who had been sitting with folded hands and half-shut eyes, straightened herself suddenly, and threw up her head to listen. there was certainly the tramp of a horse's feet, and in a moment the door was loudly and impatiently struck with the metal handle of a riding-whip. steve bell went to answer the summons; brune trailed slowly after him. aspatria and the squire heard nothing on the hearth but a human voice blown about and away by the wind. but steve's reply was distinct enough,-- "you be wanting redware hall, sir? cush! it's unsensible to try for it. the hills are slape as ice; the becks are full; the moss will make a mouthful of you--horse and man--to-night." the squire went forward, and aspatria also. aspatria lifted a candle, and carried it high in her hand. that was the first glimpse of her that sir ulfar fenwick had. "you must stay at seat-ambar to-night," said william anneys. "you cannot go farther and be sure of your life. you are welcome here heartily, sir." the traveller dismounted, gave his horse to steve, and with words of gratitude came out of the rain and darkness into the light and comfort of the home opened to him. "i am ulfar fenwick," he said,--"fenwick of fenwick and outerby; and i think you must be william anneys of ambar-side." "the same, sir. this is my brother brune, and my sister aspatria. you are dreeping wet, sir. come to my room and change your clothing." sir ulfar bowed and smiled assent; and the bow and the smile were aspatria's. her cheeks burned; a strange new life was in all her veins. she hurried the housekeeper and the servants, and she brought out the silver and the damask, and the famous crystal cup in its stand of gold, which was the lucky bowl of ambar-side. when fenwick came back to the hall, there was a feast spread for him; and he ate and drank, and charmed every one with his fine manner and his witty conversation. they sat until midnight,--an hour strange to seat-ambar. no one native in that house had ever seen it before, no one ever felt its mysterious influence. sir ulfar had been charming them with tales of the strange lands he had visited, and the strange peoples who dwelt in them. he had not spoken much to aspatria, but it was in her face he had found inspiration and sympathy. for her young eyes looked out with such eager interest, with glances so seeking, so without guile and misgiving, that their bright rays found a corner in his heart into which no woman had ever before penetrated. and she was equally subjugated by his more modern orbs,--orbs with that steely point of brilliant light, generated by large experience and varied emotion,--electric orbs, such as never shone in the elder world. when the clock struck twelve, squire anneys rose with amazement. "why, it is strike of midnight!" he said. "it is past all, how the hours have flown! but we mustn't put off sleeping-time any longer. good-night heartily to you, sir. it will be many a long day till i forget this night. what doings you have seen, sir!" he was talking thus to his guest, as he led him to the guest-room. aspatria still stood by the dying fire. brune rose silently, stretched his big arms, and said: "i'll be going likewise. you had best remember the time of night, aspatria." "what do you think of him, brune?" "fenwick! i wouldn't think too high of him. one might have to come down a peg or two. he sets a good deal of store by himself, i should say." "you and i are of two ways of judging, brune." "never mind; time will let light into all our ways of judging." he went yawning upstairs and aspatria slowly followed. she was not a bit sleepy. she was wider awake than she had ever been before. her hands quivered like a swallow's wings; her face was rosy and luminous. she removed her clothing, and unbraided her hair and shook it loose over her slim shoulders. there was a smile on her lips through all these preparations for sleep,--a smile innocent and glad. suddenly she lifted the candle and carried it to the mirror. she desired to look at herself, and she blushed deeply as she gratified the wish. was she fair enough to please this wonderful stranger? it was the first time such a query had ever come to her heart. she was inclined to answer it honestly. holding the light slightly above her head, she examined her claims to his regard. her expressive face, her starry eyes, her crimson, pouting lips, her long dark hair, her slight, virginal figure in its gown of white muslin scantily trimmed with english thread-lace, her small, bare feet, her air of childlike, curious happiness,--all these things, taken together, pleased and satisfied her desires, though she knew not how or why. then she composed herself with intentional earnestness. she must "say her prayers." as yet it was only saying prayers with aspatria,--only a holy habit. a large book of common prayer stood open against an oaken rest on a table; a cushion of black velvet was beneath it. ere she knelt, she reflected that it was very late, and that her collect and lord's prayer would be sufficient. youth has such confidence in the sympathy of god. she dropped softly on her knees and said her portion. god would understand the rest. the little ceremony soothed her, as a mother's kiss might have done; and with a happy sigh she put out the light. the old house was dark and still, but her guardian angel saw her small hands loose lying on the snowy linen, and heard her whisper, "dear god! how happy i am!" and this joyous orison was the acceptable prayer that left the smile of peace upon her sleeping face. in the guest-chamber ulfar fenwick was also holding a session with himself. he had come to his room very wide awake; midnight was an early hour to him. and the incidents he had been telling filled his mind with images of the past. he could not at once put them aside. women he had loved and left visited his memory,--light loves of a season, in which both had declared themselves broken-hearted at parting, and both had known that they would very soon forget. neither was much to blame: the maid had long ceased to remember his vows and kisses; he, in some cases, had forgotten her name. yet, sitting there by the glowing oak logs, he had visions of fair faces in all kinds of surroundings,--in lighted halls, in moon-lit groves under the great stars of the tropics, on the shetland seas when the aurora made for lovers an enchanted atmosphere and a light in which beauty was glorified. well, they had passed as april passes, and now,-- as a glimpse of a burnt-out ember recalls a regret of the sun, he remembered, forgot, and remembered what love saw done and undone. aspatria was different from all. he whispered her strange name on his lips, and he thought it must have wandered from some sunny southern clime into these northern solitudes. his eyes shone; his heart beat. he said to it: "make room for this innocent little one! what a darling she is! how clear, how candid, how beautiful! oh, to be loved by such a woman! oh, to kiss her!--to feel her kiss me!" he set his mouth tightly; the soft dreamy look in his face changed to one of purpose and pleasure. "i shall win her, or die for it," he said. "by saint george! i would rather die than know that any other man had married her." yet the thought of marriage somewhat sobered him. "i should have to give up my voyage to the spanish colonies,--and i am very much interested in their struggle. i could not take her to mexico, i suppose,--there is nothing but fighting there; and i could not--no, i could not leave her. if she were mine, i should hate to have any one else breathe the same air with her. i could not endure that others should speak to her. i should want to strike any man who touched her hand. perhaps i had better go away in the morning, and ride this road no more. i have made my plans." and fate had made other plans. who can fight against his destiny? when he saw aspatria in the morning, every plan that did not include her seemed unworthy of his consideration. she was ten times lovelier in the daylight. she had that fresh invincible charm which women of culture and intellect seldom have: she was inspired by her heart. it taught her a thousand delightful subjugating ways. she served his breakfast with her own fair hands; she offered him the first sweet flowers in the garden; she fluttered around his necessities, his desires, his intentions, with a grace and a kindness nothing but love could have taught her. he thanked her with marvellous glances, with smiles, with single words dropped only for her ears, with all the potent eloquence which passion and experience teach. and he had to pay the price, as all men must do. the lesson he taught he also learned. "aspatria!" he said, in soft, penetrating accents; and when she answered his call and came to his side, her dress trailing across his feet bewitched him. they were in the garden, and he clasped her hand, and went down the budding alleys with her, speechless, but gazing into her face until she dropped her tremulous, transparent lids before her eyes; they were too full of light and love to show to any mortal. the sky was white and blue, the air fresh and sweet; the swallows had just come, and were chattering with the starlings; hundreds of daffodils "danced in the wind" and lighted the ground at their feet; troops of celandines starred the brook that babbled by the bee-skips; the southernwood, the wall-flower, the budding thyme and sweet-brier,--a thousand exhalations filled the air and intensified that intoxication of heart and senses which makes the first stage of love's fever delirious. fenwick went away in the afternoon, and his adieus were mostly made to the squire. he had done his best to win his favour, and he had been successful. he left seat-ambar under an engagement to return soon and try his skill in wrestling and pole-leaping with brune. aspatria knew he would return: a voice which fenwick's voice only echoed told her so. she watched him from her own window across the meadows, and up the mountain, until he was lost to her vision. she was doubtless very much in love, though as yet she had not admitted the fact to herself. the experience had come with a really shocking swiftness. her heart was half angry and half abashed by its instantaneous surrender. two circumstances had promoted this condition. first, the singular charm of the man. ulfar fenwick was unlike any one she had ever seen. the squires and gentlemen who came to seat-ambar were physically the finest fellows in england, but noble women look for something more than mere bulk in a man. sir ulfar fenwick had this something more. culture, travel, great experience with women, had added to his heroic form a charm flesh and sinew alone could never compass. and if he had lacked all other physical advantages, he possessed eyes which had been filled to the brim with experiences of every kind,--gray eyes with pure, full lids thickly fringed,--eyes always lustrous, sometimes piercingly bright. secondly, aspatria had no knowledge which helped her to ward off attack or protract surrender. in a multitude of lovers there is safety; but fenwick was aspatria's first lover. he rode hard, as if he would ride from fate. perhaps he hoped at this early stage of feeling to do as he had often done before,-- to love--and then ride away. he had also a fresh, pressing anxiety to see his sister, who was lady of redware manor. seven years--and much besides years--had passed since they met. she was his only sister, and ten years his senior. she loved him as mothers love, unquestioningly, with miraculous excuses for all his shortcomings. she had been watching for his arrival many hours before he appeared. "ulfar! how welcome you are!" she cried, with tears in her eyes and her voice. "oh, my dear! how happy i am to see you once more!" she might have been his only love, he kissed and embraced and kissed her again so fondly. oh, wondrous tie of blood and kinship! at that moment there really seemed to ulfar fenwick no one in the whole world half so dear as his sister elizabeth. he told her he had lost his way in the storm and been detained by squire anneys; and she praised the squire, and said that she would evermore love him for his kindness. "i met him once, at the election ball in kendal. he danced with me; 'we neighbour each other,' you see; and they are a grand old family, i can tell you." "there is a younger brother, called brune." "i never saw him." "a sister also,--a child yet, but very handsome. you ought to see her." "why?" "you would like her. i do." "ulfar, there is a 'thus far' in everything. in your wooing and pursuing, the line lies south of seat-ambar. to wrong a woman of that house would be wicked and dangerous." "why should i wrong her? i have no intention to do so. i say she is a lovely lady, a great beauty, worthy of honest love and supreme devotion." "such a rant about love and beauty! nine tenths of the men who talk in this way do but blaspheme love by taking his name in vain." "however, elizabeth, it is marriage or the spanish colonies for me. it is miss anneys, or cuba, new orleans, and mexico. santa anna is a supreme villain; i have a fancy to see such a specimen." "you are then between the devil and the deep sea; and i should say that the one-legged spaniard was preferable to the deep sea of matrimony." "she is so fair! she has a virgin timidity that enchants me." "it will become matronly indecision, or mental weakness of will. in the future it will drive you frantic." "her sweet sensibility--" "will crystallize into passionate irritation or callous opposition. these childlike, tender, clinging maidens are often capable of sudden and dangerous action. better go to cuba, or even to mexico, ulfar." "i suppose she has wealth. you will admit that excellence?" "she is co-heir with her brothers. she may have two thousand pounds a year. you cannot afford to marry a girl so poor." "i have not yet come to regard a large sum of money as a kind of virtue, or the want of it as a crime." "your wife ought to represent you. how can this country-girl help you in the society to which you belong?" "society! what is society? in its elemental verity it means toil, weariness, loss of rest and health, useless expense, envy, disappointment, heart-burnings,--all for the sake of exchanging entertainments with a and b, c and d. it means chaff instead of wheat." "if you want to be happy, ulfar, put this girl out of your mind. i am sure her brothers will oppose your suit. they will not let their sister leave allerdale. no anneys has ever done so." "you have strengthened my fancy, elizabeth. there is a deal of happiness in the idea of prevailing, of getting the mastery, of putting hindrances out of the way." "well, i have given you good advice." "there are many 'counsels of perfection' nobody dreams of following. to advise a man in love not to love, is one of them." "love!" she cried scornfully. "before you make such a fuss about the spanish colonies and their new-found freedom, free yourself, ulfar! you have been a slave to some woman all your life. you are one of those men who are naturally not their own property. a child can turn you hither and thither; a simple country girl can lead you." he laughed softly, and murmured,-- "there is a rose of a hundred leaves, but the wild rose is the sweetest." chapter ii. forgive me, christ! the ultimatum reached by fenwick in the consideration of any subject was, to please himself. in the case of aspatria anneys he was particularly determined to do so. it was in vain lady redware entreated him to be rational. how could he be rational? it was the preponderance of the emotional over the rational in his nature which imparted so strong a personality to him. he grasped all circumstances by feeling rather than by reason. in a few days he was again at seat-ambar. aspatria drew him, as the candle draws the moth which has once burned its wings at it. and among the simple anneys folk he found a hearty welcome. with squire william he travelled the hills, and counted the flocks, and speculated on the value of the iron-ore cropping out of the ground. with brune he went line-fishing, and in the wide barns tried his skill in wrestling or pole-leaping or single-stick. he tolerated the rusticity of the life, for the charming moments he found with aspatria. no one like ulfar fenwick had ever visited ambar-side. to the young men, who read nothing but the gentleman's magazine and the whitehaven herald, and to aspatria, who had but a volume of the ladies' garden manual, notable things, her bible and common prayer, fenwick was a book of travel, song, and story, of strange adventures, of odd bits of knowledge, and funny experiences. things old and new fell from his handsome lips. squire william and brune heard them with grave attention, with delight and laughter; aspatria with eyes full of wonder and admiration. as the season advanced and they grew more familiar, aspatria was thrown naturally into his society. the squire was in the hay-field; brune had his task there also. or they were down at the long pool, washing the sheep, or on the fells, shearing them. in the haymaking, aspatria and fenwick made some pretence of assistance; but they both very soon wearied of the real labour. aspatria would toss a few furrows of the warm, sweet grass; but it was much sweeter to sit down under the oak-tree with fenwick at her side, and watch the moving picture, and listen to the women singing in their high shrill voices, as they turned the swaths, the song of the mower, and the men mournfully shouting out the chorus to it,-- "we be all like grass! we be all like grass!" as for the oak, it liked them to sit under it; all its leaves talked to each other about them. the starlings, though they are always in a hurry, stopped to look at the lovers, and went off with a q-q-q of satisfaction. the crows, who are a bad lot, croaked innuendoes, and said it was to be hoped that evil would not come of such folly. but aspatria and fenwick listened only to each other; they saw the whole round world in each other's eyes. fenwick spoke very low; aspatria had to droop her ear to his mouth to understand his words. and they were such delightful words, she could not bear to lose one of them. then, as the sun grew warm, and the scent of the grass filled the soft air, and the haymakers were more and more subdued and quiet, heavenly languors stole over them. they sat hand in hand,--aspatria sometimes with shut eyes humming to herself, sometimes dreamily pulling the long grass at her side; fenwick mostly silent, yet often whispering those words which are single because they are too sweet to be double,--"darling! dearest! angel!" and the words drew her eyes to his eyes, drew her lips to his lips; ere she was aware, her heart had passed from her in long, loving, stolen kisses. on the fells, in the garden, in the empty, silent rooms of the old house, it was a repetition of the same divine song, with wondrously celestial variations. goethe puts in faust an interlude in heaven: fenwick and aspatria were in their interlude. one evening they stood among the wheat-sheaves. the round, yellow harvest-moon was just rising above the fells, and the stars trembling into vision. the reapers had gone away; their voices made faint, fitful echoes down the misty lane. the squire was driving home one load of ripe wheat, and brune another. aspatria said softly, "the day is over. we must go home. come!" she stood in the warm mystical light, with one hand upon the bound sheaf, the other stretched out to him. her slim form in its white dress, her upturned face, her star-like eyes,--he saw all at a glance. he was subjugated to the innermost room of his heart. he answered, with inexpressible emotion,-- "come! come to me, my dear one! my love! my joy! my wife!" he held her close to his heart; he claimed her by no formal special yes, but by all the sweet reluctances and sweeter yieldings, the thousand nameless consents won day by day. oh, the glory of that homeward walk! the moon beamed upon them. the trees bent down to touch them. the heath and the honeysuckle made a posy for them. the nightingale sang them a canticle. they did not seem to walk; they trod on ether; they moved as people move in happy dreams of other stars, where thought and wish are motion. it would have been heaven upon earth if those minutes could have lasted; but it was only an interlude. that night fenwick spoke to squire william and asked him for his sister. the squire was honestly confounded by the question. aspatria was such a little lass! it was beyond everything to talk of marrying her. still, in his heart he was proud and pleased at such high fortune for the little lass; and he said, as soon as fenwick's father and family came forward as they should do, he would never be the one to say nay. fenwick's father lived at fenwick castle, on the shore of bleak northumberland. he was an old man, but his natural feelings and wisdom were not abated. he consulted the history of cumberland, and found that the family of ambar-anneys was as ancient and honourable as his own. but the girl was country-bred, and her fortune was small, and in a measure dependent upon her brother's management of the estate. a careless master of ambar-side would make aspatria poor. while he was considering these things, lady redware arrived at the castle, and they talked over the matter together. "i expected ulfar to marry very differently, and i must say i am disappointed. but i suppose it will be useless to make any opposition, elizabeth," the old man said to his daughter. "quite useless, father. but absence works miracles. try to secure twelve months. you ought to go to a warm climate this winter; ask ulfar to take you to italy. in a year time may re-shuffle the cards. and you must write to the girl, and to her eldest brother, who is a fine fellow and as proud as lucifer. i called upon them before i left cumberland. she is very handsome." "handsome! old men know, elizabeth, that six months after a man is married, it makes little difference to him whether his wife is handsome or not." "that may be, or it may not be, father. the thing to consider is, that young men unfortunately persist in marrying for that first six months." "well, then, fortune pilots many a ship not steered. suppose we leave things to circumstances?" "no, no! human affairs are for the most part arranged in such a way that those turn out best to which most care is devoted." so the letters were thoughtfully written; the one to aspatria being of a paternal character, that to her brother polite and complimentary. to his son ulfar the old baronet made a very clever appeal. he reminded him of his great age, and of the few opportunities left for showing his affection and obedience. he regretted the necessity for a residence in italy during the winter, but trusted to his son's love to see him through the experience. he congratulated ulfar on winning the love of a young girl so fresh and unspoiled by the world, but kindly insisted upon the wisdom of a little delay, and the great benefit this delay would be to himself. it was altogether a very temperate, wise letter, appealing to the best side of ulfar's nature. squire william read it also, and gave it his most emphatic approval. he was in no hurry to lose his little sister. she was but a child yet, and knew nothing of the world she was going into; and "surely to goodness," he said, looking at the child, "she will have a lot of things to look after, before she can think of wedding." this last conjecture touched aspatria on a very womanly point. of course there were all her "things" to get ready. she had never possessed more than a few frocks at a time, and those of the simplest character; but she was quite alive to the necessity of an elaborate wardrobe, and she had also an instinctive sense of what would be proper for her position. so the suggestions of ulfar's father were accepted in their entirety, and the old gentleman was put into a very good temper by the fact. and what was a year? "it will pass like a dream," said ulfar. "and i shall write constantly to you, and you will write to me; and when we meet again it will be to part no more." oh, the poverty of words in such straits as these! men say the same things in the same extremities now that have been said millions of times before them. and aspatria felt as if there ought to have been entirely new words, to express the joy of their betrothal and the sorrow of their parting. the short delay of a last week together was perhaps a mistake. a very young girl, to whom great joy and great sorrow are alike fresh experiences, may afford a prolonged luxury of the emotions of parting. love, more worldly-wise, deprecates its demonstrativeness, and would avert it altogether. the farewell walks, the sentimental souvenirs, the pretty and petty devices of love's first dream, are tiresome to more practised lovers; and ulfar had often proved what very cobwebs they were to bind a straying fancy. "absence makes the heart grow fonder." perhaps so, if the last memory be an altogether charming one. it was, unfortunately, not so in aspatria's case. it should have been a closely personal farewell with ulfar alone; but squire anneys, in his hospitable ignorance, gave it a public character. several neighbouring squires and dames came to breakfast. there was cup-drinking, and toasting, and speech-making; and ulfar's last glimpse of his betrothed was of her standing in the wide porch, surrounded by a waving, jubilant crowd of strangers, whose intermeddling in his joy he deeply resented. anneys had invited them in accord with the traditions of his house and order. fenwick thought it was a device to make stronger his engagement to aspatria. "as if it needed such contrivances!" he muttered angrily. "when it does, it is a broken thread, and no anneys can knot it again." the weeks that followed were full of new interests to aspatria. mistress frostham, the wife of a near shepherd-lord, had been the friend of aspatria's mother; she was fairly conversant with the world outside the fells and dales, and she took the girl under her care, accompanied her to whitehaven, and directed her in the purchase of all considered necessary for the wife of ulfar fenwick. then the deep snows shut in seat-ambar, and the great white hills stood round about it like fortifications. but as often as it was possible the dalton postman fought his way up there, with his packet of accumulated mail; for he knew that a warm welcome and a large reward awaited him. in the main, the long same days went happily by. william and brune had a score of resources for the season; the farm-servants worked in the barn; they were making and mending sacks for the wheat, and caps for the sheeps' heads in fly-time, sharpening scythes and tools, doing the indoor work of a great farm, and mostly singing as they did it. as aspatria sat in her room, surrounded by fine cambric and linen and that exquisite english thread-lace now gone out of fashion, she could hear their laughter and their song, and she unconsciously set her stitches to its march and melody. the days were not long to her. so many dozens of garments to make with her own slight fingers! she had not a moment to waste, but the necessity was one of the sweetest delight. the solitude and secrecy of her labour added to its charm. she never took her sewing into the parlour. and yet she might have done so: william and brune had a delicacy of affection for her which would have made them blind to her occupation and densely stupid as to its design. so, although the days were mostly alike, they were not unhappily so; and at intervals destiny sent her the surprises she loved. one morning in the beginning of february, aspatria felt that the postman ought to come; her heart presaged him. the day was clear and warm,--so much so, that the men working in the barn had all the windows open. they were singing in rousing tones the famous north country song to the barley-mow, and drinking it through all its verses, out of the jolly brown bowl, the nipperkin, the quarter-pint, the quart and the pottle,--the gallon and the anker,--the hogshead and the pipe,--the well, and the river, and the ocean,--and then rolling back the chorus, from ocean to the jolly brown bowl. suddenly, while a dozen men were shouting in unison,-- "here's a health to the barley mow!" the verse was broken by the cry of "here comes ringham the postman!" then aspatria ran to the window and saw him climbing the fell. she did not like to go downstairs until will called her; but she could not sew another stitch. and when at last the aching silence in her ears was filled by will's joyful "come here, aspatria! here is such a parcel as never was,--from foreign parts too!" she hardly knew how her feet twinkled down the long corridor and stairs. the parcel was from rome. ulfar had sent it to his london banker, and the banker had sent a special messenger to dalton with it. over the fells at that season no one but ringham could have found a safe way; and ringham was made so welcome that he was quite imperious. he ordered himself a rasher of bacon, and a bowl of the famous barley broth, and spread himself comfortably before the great hearth-place. at the table stood aspatria, william, and brune. aspatria was nervously trying to undo the seals and cords that bound love's message to her. will finally took his pocket-knife and cut them. there was a long letter, and a box containing exquisite ornaments of roman cameos,--precious onyx, made more precious by work of rare artistic beauty, a comb for her dark hair, a necklace for her white throat, bracelets for her slender wrists, a girdle of stones linked with gold for her waist. oh, how full of simple delight she was! she was too happy to speak. then will discovered a smaller package. it was for himself and brune. will's present was a cameo ring, on which were engraved the anneys and fenwick arms. brune had a scarf-pin, representing a lovely hebe. it was a great day at seat-ambar. aspatria could work no more; will and brune felt it impossible to finish the game they had begun. there is a tide in everything: this was the spring-tide of aspatria's love. in its overflowing she was happy for many a day after her brothers had begun to speculate and wonder why ringham did not come. suddenly it struck her that the snow was gone, and the road open, and that there was no letter. she began to worry, and will quietly rode over to dalton, to ask if any letter was lying there. he came back empty-handed, silent, and a little surly. the anniversary of their meeting was at hand: surely ulfar would remember it, so aspatria thought, and she watched from dawn to dark, but no token of remembrance came. the flowers began to bloom, the birds to sing, the may sunshine flooded the earth with glory, but fear and doubt and dismay and daily disappointment made deepest, darkest winter in the low, long room where aspatria watched and waited. her sewing had been thrown aside. the half-finished garments, neatly folded, lay under a cover she had no strength to remove. in june she wrote a pitiful little note to her lover. she said that he ought to tell her, if he was tired of their engagement. she told will what she had said, and asked him to post the letter. he answered angrily, "don't you write a word to him, good or bad!" and he tore the letter into twenty pieces before her eyes. "oh, will, i cannot bear it!" "thou art a woman: bear what other women have tholed before thee." then he went angrily from her presence. brune was thrumming on the window-pane. she thought he looked sorry for her; she touched his arm and said, "brune, will you take a letter to dalton post for me?" "for sure i will. go thy ways and write it, and i'll be gone before will is back." it was an unfortunate letter, as letters written in a hurry always are. absolute silence would have piqued and worried ulfar. he would have fancied her ill, dying perhaps; and the uncertainty, vague and portentous, would have prompted him to action, if only to satisfy his own mind. sometimes he feared that a girl so sensitive would fade away in neglect; and he expected a letter from william anneys saying so. but a hurried, halting, not very correct epistle, whose whole tenour was, "what is the matter? what have i done? do you remember last year at this time?" irritated him beyond reply. he was still in italy when it reached him. sir thomas fenwick was not likely ever to return to england. he was slowly dying, and he had been removed to a villa in the italian hills. and elizabeth redware had a friend with her, a young widow just come from athens, who affected at times its splendid picturesque national costume. she was a very bright, handsome woman, whose fine education had been supplemented by travel, society, and a rather unhappy matrimonial experience. she knew how to pique and provoke, how to flirt to the very edge of danger and then sheer off, how to manipulate men before the fire of passion, as witches used to manipulate their waxen images before the blazing coals. she had easily won ulfar's confidence; she had even assisted in the selection of the cameos; and she declared to elizabeth that she would not for a whole world interfere between ulfar and his pretty innocent! a natural woman was such a phenomenon! she was glad ulfar was going to marry a phenomenon. elizabeth knew her better. she gave the couple opportunity, and they needed nothing more. there were already between them a good understanding, transparent secrets, little jokes, a confessed confidence. they quickly became affectionate. the lovely sarah, relict of herbert sandys, esq., not only reminded ulfar of his vows to aspatria, but in the very reminder she tempted him to break them. when aspatria's letter was put into his hand, she was with him, marvellously arrayed in tissue of silver and brilliant colours. a head-dress of gold coins glittered in her fair braided hair; her long white arms were shining with bracelets; she was at once languid and impulsive, provoking elizabeth and ulfar to conversation, and then amazing them by the audacity and contradiction of her opinions. "it is so fortunate," she said, "that ulfar has found a little out-of-the-way girl to appreciate his great beauty. the world at present does not think much of masculine beauty. a handsome fellow who starts for any of its prizes is judged to be frivolous and poetical, perhaps immoral: you see byron's beauty made him unfit for a legislator, he could do nothing but write poetry. i should say it was ulfar's best card to marry this innocent with the queer name: with his face and figure, he will never get into parliament. no one would trust him with taxes. he is born to make love, and he and his country phyllis can go simpering and kissing through life together. if i were interested in ulfar----" "you are interested in ulfar, sarah," interrupted elizabeth. "you said so to me last night." "did i? nevertheless, life does not give us time really to question ourselves, and it is the infirmity of my nature to mistake feeling for evidence." "you must not change your opinions so quickly, sarah." "it is often an element of success to change your opinions. it is hesitating among a variety of views that is fatal. the man who does not know what he wants is the man who is held cheap." "i am sure i know what i want, sarah." and as he spoke, ulfar looked with intelligence at the fair widow, and in answer she shot from her bright blue eyes a bolt of summer lightning that set aflame at once the emotional side of ulfar's nature. "you say strange things, sarah. i wish it was possible to understand you." "'who shall read the interpretation thereof?' is written on everything we see, especially on women." "i believe," said elizabeth, "that ulfar has quarrelled with his country maid. is there a quarrel, ulfar, really?" "no," he answered, with some temper. sarah nodded at ulfar, and said softly: "the absent must be satisfied with the second place. however, if you have quarrelled with her, ulfar, turn over a new leaf. i found that out when poor sandys was alive. people who have to live together must blot a leaf now and then with their little tempers. the only thing is to turn over a new one." "if anything unpleasant happens to me," said ulfar, "i try to bury it." "you cannot do it. the past is a ghost not to be laid; and a past which is buried alive, it is terrible." it was sarah who spoke, and with a sombre earnestness not in keeping with her usual character. there was a minute's pregnant silence, and it was broken by the entrance of a servant with a letter. he gave it to ulfar. it was aspatria's sorrowful, questioning note. written while brune waited, it was badly written, incorrectly constructed and spelled, and generally untidy. it had the same effect upon ulfar that a badly dressed, untidy woman would have had. he was ashamed of the irregular, childish scrawl. he did not take the trouble to put himself in the atmosphere in which the anxious, sorrowful words had been written. he crushed the paper in his hand with much the same contemptuous temper with which elizabeth had seen him treat a dunning letter. she knew, however, that this letter was from aspatria, and, saying something about her father, she went into an adjoining room, and left ulfar and sarah together. she thought sarah would be the proper alterative. the first words sir thomas fenwick uttered regarded aspatria. turning his head feebly, he asked: "has ulfar quarrelled with miss anneys? i hear nothing of her lately." "i think he is tired of his fancy for her. there is no quarrel." "she was a good girl,--eh? kindhearted, beautiful,--eh, elizabeth?" "she certainly was." he said no more then; but at midnight, when ulfar was sitting beside him, he called his son, and spoke to him on the subject. "i am going--almost gone--the way of all flesh, ulfar. take heed of my last words. you promised to make miss anneys your wife,--eh?" "i did, father." "do not break your promise. if she gives it back to you, that might be well; but you cannot escape from your own word and deed. honour keeps the door of the house of life. to break your word is to set the door wide open,--open for sorrow and evil of all kinds. take care, ulfar." the next day he died, and one of ulfar's first thoughts was that the death set him free from his promise for one year at the least. a year contained a multitude of chances. he could afford to write to aspatria under such circumstances. so he answered her letter at once, and it seemed proper to be affectionate, preparatory to reminding her that their marriage was impossible until the mourning for sir thomas was over. also death had softened his heart, and his father's last words had made him indeterminate and a little superstitious. a clever woman of the world would not have believed in this letter; its _aura_--subtle but persistent, as the perfume of the paper--would have made her doubt its fondest lines. but aspatria had no idea other than that certain words represented absolutely certain feelings. the letter made her joyful. it brought back the roses to her cheeks, the spring of motion to her steps. she began to work in her room once more. now and then her brothers heard her singing the old song she had sung so constantly with ulfar,-- "a shepherd in a shade his plaining made, of love, and lovers' wrong, unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, and thus began his song: 'restore, restore my heart again, which thy sweet looks have slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing, fye! fye on love! it is a foolish thing! "'since love and fortune will, i honour still your dark and shining eye; what conquest will it be, sweet nymph, to thee, if i for sorrow die? restore, restore my heart again, which thy sweet looks have slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing, fye! fye on love! it is a foolish thing!'" but the lifting of the sorrow was only that it might press more heavily. no more letters came; no message of any kind; none of the pretty love-gages he delighted in giving during the first months of their acquaintance. a gloom more wretched than that of death or sickness settled in the old rooms of seat-ambar. william and brune carried its shadow on their broad, rosy faces into the hay-fields and the wheat-fields. it darkened all the summer days, and dulled all the usual mirth-making of the ingathering feasts. william was cross and taciturn. he loved his sister with all his heart, but he did not know how to sympathize with her. even mother-love, when in great anxiety, sometimes wraps itself in this unreasonable irritability. brune understood better. he had suffered from a love-change himself; he knew its ache and longing, its black despairs and still more cruel hopes. he was always on the lookout for aspatria; and one day he heard news which he thought would interest her. lady redware was at the hall. william had heard it a week before, but he had not considered it prudent to name the fact. brune had a kinder intelligence. "aspatria," he said, "redware hall is open again. i saw lady redware in the village." "brune! oh, brune, is he there too?" "no, he isn't. i made sure of that." "brune, i want to go to redware. perhaps his sister may tell me the truth. go with me. oh, brune, go with me! i am dying of suspense and uncertainty." "ay, they're fit to kill anybody, let alone a little lass like you. it will put william about, and it may make bad bread between us; but i'll go with you, even if we do have a falling out. i'm not flayed for william's rages." the next market-day brune kept his word. as soon as squire anneys had climbed the fell breast and passed over the brow of the hill, brune was at the door with horses for aspatria and himself. she was a good rider, and they made the distance, in spite of hills and hollows, in two hours. lady redware was troubled at the visit, but she came to the door to welcome aspatria, and she asked brune with particular warmth to come into the house with his sister. brune knew better; he was sure in such a case that it would prove a mere formal call, and that aspatria would never have the courage to ask the questions she wished to. but aspatria had come to that point of mental suffering when she wanted to know the truth, even though the truth was the worst. lady redware saw the determination on her face, and resolved to gratify it. she was shocked at the change in aspatria's appearance. her beauty was, in a measure, gone. her eyes were hollow, and the lids dark and swollen with weeping. her figure was more angular. the dew of youth, the joy of youth, was over. she drooped like a fading flower. if ulfar saw her in such condition he might pity, but assuredly he would not admire her. lady redware kissed the poor girl. "come in, my dear," she said kindly. "how ill you look! here is wine: take a drink." "i am ill. i even hope i am dying. life is so hard to bear. ulfar has forgotten me. i have vexed him, and cannot find out in what way. if you would only tell me!" "you have not vexed him at all." "what then?" "he is tired, or he has seen a fresher face. that is ulfar's great fault. he loves too well, because he does not love very long. can you not forget him?" "no." "you must have other lovers?" "no. i never had a lover until ulfar wooed me. i will have none after him. i shall love him until i die." "what folly!" "perhaps. i am only a foolish child. if i had been wise and clever, he would not have left me. it is my fault. do you believe he will ever come to seat-ambar again?" "i do not think he will. it is best to tell you the truth. my dear, i am truly sorry for you! indeed i am, aspatria!" the girl had covered her face with her thin white hands. her attitude was so hopeless that it brought the tears to lady redware's eyes. hoping to divert her attention, she said,-- "who called you aspatria?" "it was my mother's name. she was born in aspatria, and she loved the place very much." "where is it, child? i never heard of it." "not far away, on the sea-coast,--a little town that brother will says has been asleep for centuries. such a pretty place, straggling up the hillside, and looking over the sea. mother was born there, and she is buried there, in the churchyard. it is such an old church, one thousand years old! mother said it was built by saint kentigern. i went there to pray last week, by mother's grave. i thought she might hear me, and help me to bear the suffering." "you poor child! it is shameful of ulfar!" "he is not to blame. will told me that it was a poor woman who couldn't keep what she had won." "it was very brutal in will to say such a thing." "he did not mean it unkindly. we are plain-spoken people, lady redware. tell me, as plainly as will would tell me, if there is any hope for me. does ulfar love me at all now?" "i fear not." "are you sure?" "i am sure." "thank you. now i will go." she put out her hands before her, as if she was blind and had to feel her way; and in answer to all lady redware's entreaties to remain, to rest, to eat something, she only shook her head, and stumbled forward. brune saw her coming. he was standing by the horses, but he left them, and went to meet his sister. her misery was so visible that he put her in the saddle with fear. but she gathered the reins silently, and motioned him to proceed; and aspatria's last sad smile haunted lady redware for many a day. long afterward she recalled it with a sharp gasp of pity and annoyance. it was such a proud, sorrowful farewell. she reached home, but it took the last remnant of her strength. she was carried to her bed, and she remained there many weeks. the hills were white with snow, and the winter winds were sounding among them like the chant of a high mass, when she came down once more to the parlor. even then will carried her like a baby in his arms. he had carried her mother in the same way, when she began to die; and his heart trembled and smote him. he was very tender with his little sister, but tempests of rage tossed him to and fro when he thought of ulfar fenwick. and he was compelled lately to think of him very often. all over the fell-side, all through allerdale, it had begun to be whispered, "aspatria anneys has been deserted by her lover." how the fact had become known it was difficult to discover: it was as if it had flown from roof to roof with the sparrows. will could see it in the faces of his neighbours, could hear it in the tones of their speech, could feel it in the clasp of their hands. and he thought of these things, until he could not eat a meal or sleep an hour in peace. his heart was on fire with suppressed rage. he told brune that all he wanted was to lay fenwick across his knees and break his neck. and then he spread out his mighty hands, and clasped and unclasped them with a silent force that had terrible anticipation in it. and he noticed that after her illness his sister no longer wore the circlet of diamonds which had been her betrothal-ring. she had evidently lost all hope. then it was time for him to interfere. aspatria feared it when he came to her room one morning and kissed her and bade her good-by. he said he was going a bit off, and might be a week away,--happen more. but she did not dare to question him. will at times had masterful ways, which no one dared to question. brune knew where his brother was going. the night before he had taken brune to the little room which was called the squire's room. in it there was a large oak chest, black with age and heavy with iron bars. it contained the title-deeds, and many other valuable papers. will explained these and the other business of the farm to brune; and brune did not need to ask him why. he was well aware what business william anneys was bent on, before will said,--"i am going to fenwick castle, brune. i am going to make that measureless villain marry aspatria." "is it worth while, will?" "it is worth while. he shall keep his promise. if he does not, i will kill him, or he must kill me." "if he kills you, will, he must then fight me." and brune's face grew red and hot, and his eyes flashed angry fire. "that is as it should be; only keep your anger at interest until you have lads to take your place. we mustn't leave ambar-side without an anneys to heir it. i fancy your wrath won't get cold while it is waiting." "it will get hotter and hotter." "and whatever happens, don't you be saving of kind words to aspatria. the little lass has suffered more than a bit; and she is that like mother! i couldn't bide, even if i was in my grave, to think of her wanting kindness." the next morning will went away. brune would not talk to aspatria about the journey. this course was a mistake; it would have done her good to talk continually of it. as it was, she was left to chew over and over the cud of her mournful anticipations. she had no womanly friend near her. mrs. frostham had drawn back a little when people began to talk of "poor miss anneys." she had daughters, and she did not feel that her friendship for the dead included the living, when the living were unfortunate and had questionable things said about them. and the last bitter drop in aspatria's cup full of sorrow was the hardness of her heart toward heaven. she could not care about god; she thought god did not care for her. she had tried to make herself pray, even by going to her mother's grave, but she felt no spark of that hidden fire which is the only acceptable prayer. there was a christ cut out of ivory, nailed to a large ebony cross, in her room. it had been taken from the grave of an old abbot in aspatria church, and had been in her mother's family three hundred years. it was a christ that had been in the grave and had come back to earth. her mother's eyes had closed forever while fixed upon it, and to aspatria it had always been an object of supreme reverence and love. she was shocked to find herself unmoved by its white pathos. even at her best hours she could only stand with clasped hands and streaming eyes before it, and with sad imploration cry,-- "i cannot pray! i cannot pray! forgive me, christ!" chapter iii. only brother will. it was a dull raw day in late autumn, especially dull and raw near the sea, where there was an evil-looking sky to the eastward. ulfar fenwick stood at a window in castle fenwick which commanded the black, white-frilled surges. he was watching anxiously the point at which the pale gray wall of fog was thickest, a wall of inconceivable height, resting on the sea, reaching to the clouds, when suddenly there emerged from it a beautifully built schooner-yacht. she cut her way through the mysterious barrier as if she had been a knife, and came forward with short, stubborn plunges. all over the north sea there are desolate places full of the cries of parting souls, but nowhere more desolate spaces than around fenwick castle; and as the winter was approaching, ulfar was anxious to escape its loneliness. his yacht had been taking in supplies; she was making for the pier at the foot of fenwick cliff, and he was dressed for the voyage and about to start upon it. he was going to the mediterranean, to civita vecchia, and his purpose was the filial one of bringing home the remains of the late baronet. he had promised faithfully to see them laid with those of his fore-elders on the windy northumberland coast; and he felt that this duty must be done, ere he could comfortably travel the westward route he had so long desired. he was slowly buttoning his pilot-coat, when he heard a heavy step upon the flagged passage. many such steps had been up and down it that hour, but none with the same fateful sound. he turned his face anxiously to the door, and as he did so, it was flung open, as if by an angry man, and william anneys walked in, frowning and handling his big walking-stick with a subdued passion that filled the room as if it had been suddenly charged with electricity. the two men looked steadily at each other, neither of them flinching, neither of them betraying by the movement of an eyelash the emotion that sent the blood to their faces and the wrath to their eyes. "william anneys! what do you want?" "i want you to set your wedding-day. it must not be later than the fifteenth of this month." "suppose i refuse to do so? i am going to italy for my father's body." "you shall not leave england until you marry my sister." "suppose i refuse to do so?" "then you will have to take your chances of life or death. you will give me satisfaction first; and if you escape the fate you well deserve, brune may have better fortune." "duelling is now murder, sir, unless we pass over to france." "i will not go to france. wrestling is not murder, and we both know there is a 'throw' to kill; and i will 'throw' until i do kill,--or am killed. there's brune after me." "i have ceased to love your sister. i dare say she has forgotten me. why do you insist on our marriage? is it that she may be lady fenwick?" "look you, sir! i care nothing for lordships or ladyships; such things are matterless to me. but your desertion has set wicked suspicions loose about miss anneys; and the woman they dare to think her, you shall make your wife. by god in heaven, i swear it!" "they have said wrong of miss anneys! impossible!" "no, sir! they have not said wrong. if any man in allerdale had dared to say wrong, i had torn his tongue from his mouth before i came here; and as for the women, they know well i would hold their husbands or brothers or sons responsible for every ill word they spoke. but they think wrong, and they make me feel it everywhere. they look it, they shy off from aspatria,--oh, you know well enough the kind of thing going on." "a wrong thought of miss anneys is atrocious. the angels are not more pure." he said the words softly, as if to himself; and william anneys stood watching him with an impatience that in a moment or two found vent in an emphatic stamp with his foot. "i have no time to waste, sir. are you afraid to sup the ill broth you have brewed?" "afraid!" "i see you have no mind to marry. well, then, we will fight! i like that better." "i will fight both you and your brother, make any engagement you wish; but if the fair name of miss anneys is in danger, i have a prior engagement to marry her. i will keep it first. afterward i am at your service, squire, yours and your brother's; for i tell you plainly that i shall leave my wife at the church door and never see her again." "i care not how soon you leave her; the sooner the better. will the eleventh of this month suit you?" "make it the fifteenth. to what church will you bring my fair bride?" "keep your scoffing for a fitter time. if you look in that way again, i will strike the smile off your lips with a hand that will leave you little smiling in the future." and he passed his walking-stick to his left, and doubled his large right hand with an ominous readiness. "we may even quarrel like gentlemen, mr. anneys." "then don't you laugh like a blackguard, that's all." "answer me civilly. at what church shall i meet miss anneys, and at what hour on the fifteenth?" "at aspatria church, at eleven o'clock." "aspatria?" "ay, to be sure! there will be witnesses there, i can tell you,--generations of them, centuries of generations. they will see that you do the right thing, or they will dog your steps till you have paid the uttermost farthing of the wrong. mind what you do, then!" "the dead frighten me no more than the living do." "you will find out, maybe, what the vengeance of the dead is. i would be willing to leave you to it, if you shab off, and i am not sure but you will." "william anneys, you are sure i will not. you are saying such things to provoke me to a fight." "what reason have i to be sure? all the vows you made to aspatria you have counted as a fool's babble." "i give you my word of honour. between gentlemen that is enough." "to be sure, to be sure! gentlemen can make it enough. but a poor little lass, what can she do but pine herself into a grave?" "i will listen to you no longer, squire anneys. if your sister's good name is at stake, it is my first duty to shield it with my own name. if that does not satisfy your sense of honour, i will give you and your brother whatever satisfaction you desire. on the fifteenth of this month, at eleven o'clock, i will meet you at aspatria church. where shall i find the place?" "it is not far from gosforth and dalton, on the coast. you cannot miss it, unless you never look for it." "sir!" "unless you never look for it. i do not feel to trust you. but this is a promise made to a man, made to william anneys; and he will see that you keep it, or else that you pay for the breaking of it." "good-morning, squire. there is no necessity to prolong such an unpleasant visit." "nay, i will not 'good-morning' with you. i have not a good wish of any kind for you." with these defiant words he left the castle, and fenwick threw off his pilot-coat and sat down to consider. first thoughts generally come from the selfish, and therefore the worst, side of any nature; and fenwick's first thoughts were that his yacht was ready to sail, and that he could go away, and stay away until aspatria married, or some other favourable change took place. he cared little for england. with good management he could bring home and bury his father's dust without the knowledge of william anneys. then there was the west! america was before him, north and south. he had always promised himself to see the whole western continent ere he settled for life in england. such thoughts were naturally foremost, but he did not encourage them. he felt no lingering sentiment of pity or love for aspatria, but he realized very clearly what suspicion, what the slant eye, the whispered word, the scornful glance, the doubtful shrug, meant in those primitive valleys. and he had loved the girl dearly; he had promised to marry her. if she wished him to keep his promise, if it was a necessity to her honour, then he would redeem with his own honour his foolish words. he told himself constantly that he had not a particle of fear, that he despised will and brune anneys and their brutal vows of vengeance; but--but perhaps they did unconsciously influence him. life was sweet to ulfar fenwick, full of new dreams and hopes set in all kinds of new surroundings. for aspatria anneys why should he die? it was better to marry her. the girl had been sweet to him, very sweet! after all, he was not sure but he preferred that she should be so bound to him as to prevent her marrying any other man. he still liked her well enough to feel pleasure in the thought that he had put her out of the reach of any future lover she might have. squire anneys rode home in what brune called "a pretty temper for any man." his horse was at the last point of endurance when he reached seat-ambar, he himself wet and muddy, "cross and unreasonable beyond everything." aspatria feared the very sound of his voice. she fled to her room and bolted the door. at that hour she felt as if death would be the best thing for her; she had brought only sorrow and trouble and apprehended disgrace to all who loved her. "i think god has forgotten me too!" she cried, glancing with eyes full of anguish to the pale crucified one hanging alone and forsaken in the darkest corner of the room. only the white figure was visible; the cross had become a part of the shadows. she remembered the joyous, innocent prayers that had been wont to make peace in her heart and music on her lips; and she looked with a sorrow that was almost reproach at her book of common prayer, lying dusty and neglected on its velvet cushion. in her rebellious, hopeless grief, she had missed all its wells of comfort. oh, if an angel would only open her eyes! one had come to hagar in the desert: aspatria was almost in equal despair. yet when she heard her brother will's voice she knew not of any other sanctuary than the little table which held her bible and prayer book, and upon which the wan, sad ivory christ looked down. in speechless misery, with clasped hands and low-bowed head, she knelt there. will's voice, strenuous and stern, reached her at intervals. she knew from the silence in the kitchen and farm-offices, and the hasty movements of the servants, that will was cross; and she greatly feared her eldest brother when he was in what brune called one of his rages. a long lull was followed by a sharp call. it was will calling her name. she felt it impossible to answer, impossible to move; and as he ascended the stairs and came grumbling along the corridor, she crouched lower and lower. he was at her door, his hand on the latch; then a few piteous words broke from her lips: "help, christ, saviour of the world!" instantly, like a flash of lightning, came the answer, "it is i. be not afraid." she said the words herself, gave to her heart the promise and the comfort of it, and, so saying them, she drew back the bolt and stood facing her brother. he had a candle in his hand, and it showed her his red, angry face, and showed him the pale, resolute countenance of a woman who had prayed and been comforted. he walked into the room and put the candle down on a small table in its centre. they both stood a moment by it; then aspatria lifted her face to her brother and kissed him. he was taken aback and softened, and troubled at his heart. her suffering was so evident; she was such a gray shadow of her former self. "aspatria! aspatria! my little lass!" then he stopped and looked at her again. "what is it, will? dear will, what is it?" "you must be married on the fifteenth. get something ready. i will see mrs. frostham and ask her to help you a bit." "whom am i to marry, will? on the fifteenth? it is impossible! see how ill i am!" "you are to marry ulfar fenwick. ill? of course you are ill; but you must go to aspatria church on the fifteenth. ulfar fenwick will meet you there. he will make you his wife." "you have forced him to marry me. i will not go, i will not go. i will not marry ulfar fenwick." "you shall go, if i carry you in my arms! you shall marry him, or i--will--kill--you!" "then kill me! death does not terrify me. nothing can be more cruel hard than the life i have lived for a long time." he looked at her steadily, and she returned the gaze. his face was like a flame; hers was white as snow. "there are things in life worse than death, aspatria. there is dishonour, disgrace, shame." "is sorrow dishonour? is it a disgrace to love? is it a shame to weep when love is dead?" "ay, my little lass, it may be a great wrong to love and to weep. there is a shadow around you, aspatria; if people speak of you they drop their voices and shake their heads; they wonder, and they think evil. your good name is being smiled and shaken away, and i cannot find any one, man or woman, to thrash for it." she stood listening to him with wide-open eyes, and lips dropping a little apart, every particle of colour fled from them. "it is for this reason fenwick is to marry you." "you forced him; i know you forced him." she seemed to drag the words from her mouth; they almost shivered; they broke in two as they fell halting on the ear. "well, i must say he did not need forcing, when he heard your good name was in danger. he said, manly enough, that he would make it good with his own name. i do not much think i could have either frightened or flogged him into marrying you." "oh, will! i cannot marry him in this way! let people say wicked things of me, if they will." "nay, i will not! i cannot help them thinking evil; but they shall not look it, and they shall not say it." "perhaps they do not even think it, will. how can you tell?" "well enough, aspatria. how many women come to ambar-side now? if you gave a dance next week, you could not get a girl in allerdale to accept your invitation." "will!" "it is the truth. you must stop all this by marrying ulfar fenwick. he saw it was only just and right: i will say that much for him." "let me alone until morning. i will do what you say.--oh, mother! mother i want mother now!" "my poor little lass! i am only brother will; but i am sorry for thee, i am that!" she tottered to the bedside, and he lifted her gently, and laid her on it; and then, as softly as if he was afraid of waking her, he went out of the room. outside the door he found brune. he had taken off his shoes, and was in his stocking-feet. will grasped him by the shoulder and led him to his own chamber. "what were you watching me for? what were you listening to me for? i have a mind to hit you, brune." "you had better not hit me, will. i was not bothering myself about you. i was watching aspatria. i was listening, because i knew the madman in you had got loose, and i was feared for my sister. i was not going to let you say or do things you would be sorry to death for when you came to yourself. and so you are going to let that villain marry aspatria? you are not of my mind, will. i would not let him put a foot into our decent family, or have a claim of any kind on our sister." "i have done what i thought best." "i don't say it is best." "and i don't ask for your opinion. go to your own room, brune, and mind your own affairs." and brune, brought up in the religious belief of the natural supremacy of the elder brother, went off without another word, but with a heart full to overflowing of turbulent, angry thoughts. in the morning will went to see mrs. frostham. he told her of his interview with ulfar fenwick, and begged her to help aspatria with such preparations as could be made. but neither to her nor yet to aspatria did he speak of fenwick's avowed intention to leave his wife after the ceremony. in the first place, he did not believe that fenwick would dare to give him such a cowardly insult; and then, also, he thought that the sight of aspatria's suffering would make him tender toward her. william anneys's simple, kindly soul did not understand that of all things the painful results of our sins are the most irritating. the hatred we ought to give to the sin or to the sinner, we give to the results. surely it was the saddest preparation for a wedding that could be. will and brune were "out." they did not speak to each other, except about the farm business. aspatria spent most of her time in her own room with a sempstress, who was making the long-delayed wedding-dress. the silk for it had been bought more than a year, and it had lost some of its lustrous colour. mrs. frostham paid a short visit every day, and occasionally alice frostham came with her. she was a very pretty girl, gentle and affectionate to aspatria; and just because of her kindness will determined at some time to make her mistress of seat-ambar. but in the house there was a great depression, a depression that no one could avoid feeling. will gave no orders for wedding-festivities; a great dinner and ball would have been a necessity under the usual circumstances, but there were no arrangements even for a breakfast. aspatria wondered at the omission, but she did not dare to question will; indeed. will appeared to avoid her as much as he could. really, william anneys was very anxious and miserable. he had no dependence upon fenwick's promise, and he felt that if fenwick deceived him there was nothing possible but the last vengeance. he had this thought constantly in his mind; and he was quietly ordering things on the farm for a long absence, and for brune's management or succession. he paid several visits to whitehaven, where was his banker, and to gosport, where his lawyer lived. he felt, during that terrible interval of suspense, very much as a man under sentence of death might feel. the morning of the fifteenth broke chill and dark, with a promise of rain. great gable was carrying on a conflict with an army of gray clouds assailing his summit and boding no good for the weather. the fog rolled and eddied from side to side of the mountains, which projected their black forms against a ghastly, neutral tint behind them; and the air was full of that melancholy stillness which so often pervades the last days of autumn. squire anneys had slept little for two weeks, and he had been awake all the night before. while yet very early, he had every one in the house called. still there were no preparations for company or feasting. brune came down grumbling at a breakfast by candle-light, and he and william drank their coffee and made a show of eating almost in silence. but there was an unspeakable tenderness in william's heart, if he had known how to express it. he looked at brune with a new speculation in his eyes. brune might soon be master of ambar-side: what kind of a master would he make? would he be loving to aspatria? when brune had sons to inherit the land, would he remember his promise, and avenge the insult to the anneys, if he, william, should give his life in vain? out of these questions many others arose; but he was naturally a man of few words, and not able to talk himself into a conviction that he was doing right; nor yet was he able to give utterance to the vague objections which, if defined by words, might perhaps have changed his feelings and his plans. he had sent aspatria word that she must be ready by ten o'clock. at eight she began to dress. her sleep had been broken and miserable. she looked anxiously in the glass at her face. it was as white as the silk robe she was to wear. a feeling of dislike of the unhappy garment rose in her heart. she had bought the silk in the very noon of her love and hopes, a shining piece of that pearl-like tint which only the most brilliant freshness and youth can becomingly wear. many little accessories were wanting. she tried the roman cameos with it, and they looked heavy; she knew in her womanly heart that it needed the lustre of gems, the sparkle of diamonds or rubies. mrs. frostham came a little later, and assisted her in her toilet; but a passing thought of the four bridemaids she had once chosen for this office made her eyes dim, while the stillness of the house, the utter neglect of all symbols of rejoicing, gave an ominous and sorrowful atmosphere to the bride-robing. still, aspatria looked very handsome; for as the melancholy toilet offices proceeded with so little interest and so little sympathy, a sense of resentment had gradually gathered in the poor girl's heart. it made her carry herself proudly, it brought a flush to her cheeks, and a flashing, trembling light to her eyes which mrs. frostham could not comfortably meet. a few minutes before ten, she threw over all her fateful finery a large white cloak, which added a decided grace and dignity to her appearance. it was a garment ulfar had sent her from london,--a long, mantle-like wrap, made of white cashmere, and lined with quilted white satin. long cords and tassels of chenille fastened it at the throat, and the hood was trimmed with soft white fur. she drew the hood over her head, she felt glad to hide the wreath of orange-buds and roses which mrs. frostham had insisted upon her wearing,--the sign and symbol of her maidenhood. will looked at her with stern lips, but as he wrapped up her satin-sandalled feet in the carriage, he said softly to her, "god bless you, aspatria!" his voice trembled, but not more than aspatria's as she answered,-- "thank you, will. you and brune are father and mother to me to-day. there is no one else." "never mind, my little lass. we are enough." she was alone in the carriage. will and brune rode on either side of her. the frosthams, the dawsons, the bellendens, the atkinsons, and the lutons followed. will had invited every one to the church, and curiosity brought those who were not moved by sympathy or regard. fortunately the rain held off, though the air was damp and exceedingly depressing. when they arrived at aspatria church, they found the yard full; every gravestone was occupied by a little party of gossips. at the gate there was a handsome travelling-chariot with four horses. it lifted a great weight of apprehension from william anneys, for it told him that fenwick had kept his word. he helped aspatria to alight, and his heart ached for her. how would she be able to walk between that crowd of gazing, curious men and women? he held her arm tight against his big heart, and brune, carefully watching her, followed close behind. but aspatria's inner self had taken possession of the outer woman. she walked firmly and proudly, with an erect grace, without hesitation and without hurry, toward her fate. something within her kept saying words of love and encouragement; she knew not what they were, only they strengthened her like wine. she passed the church door whispering the promise given her,--"it is i. be not afraid." and then her eyes fell upon the ancient stone font, at which her father and mother had named her. she put out her hand and just touched its holy chalice. the church was crowded with a curious and not unsympathetic congregation. aspatria anneys was their own, a dales-woman by a thousand years of birthright. fenwick was a stranger. if he were going to do her any wrong, and will anneys was ready to punish him for it, every man and woman present would have stood shoulder to shoulder with will. there was an undefined expectation of something unusual, of something more than a wedding. this feeling, though unexpressed, made itself felt in a very pronounced way. will and brune looked confidingly around; aspatria gathered courage with every step. she felt that she was among her own people, living and dead. as soon as they really entered the church, they saw fenwick. he was with an officer wearing the uniform of the household troops; and he was evidently pointing out to him the ancient tombs of the ambar-anneys family, the crusaders in stone, with sheathed swords and hands folded in prayer, and those of the family abbots, adorned with richly floriated crosses. when he saw aspatria he bowed, and advanced rapidly to the altar. she had loosened her cloak and flung back her hood, and she watched his approach with eyes that seemed two separate souls of love and sorrow. one glance from them troubled him to the seat of life. he motioned to the waiting clergyman, and took his place beside his bride. there was a dead stillness in the church, and a dead stillness outside; the neighing of a horse sounded sharp, imperative, fateful. a ripple of a smile followed; it was a lucky omen to hear a horse neigh. brune glanced at his sister, but she had not heeded it. her whole being was swallowed up in the fact that she was standing at ulfar's side, that she was going to be his wife. the aged clergyman was fumbling with the prayer book: "the form of solemnization of matrimony" seemed hard to find. and so vagrant is thought, that while he turned the leaves aspatria remembered the travelling-chariot, and wondered whether ulfar meant to carry her away in it, and what she would do for proper clothing. will ought to have told her something of the future. how cruel every one had been! it took but a moment for these and many other thoughts to invade aspatria's heart, and spread dismay and anxiety and again the sense of resentment. then she heard the clergyman begin. his voice was like that of some one speaking in a dream, till she sharply called herself together, hearing also ulfar's voice, and knowing that she too would be called upon for her assent. she glanced up at ulfar, who was dressed with great care and splendour and looking very handsome, and said her "i will" with the glance. ulfar could not receive it unmoved; he looked steadily at her, and then he saw the ruin of youth that his faithlessness had made. remorse bit him like a serpent, but remorse is not repentance. then william anneys gave his sister to his enemy; and the gift was like death to him, and the look accompanying the gift filled ulfar's heart with a contemptuous anger fatal to all juster or kinder feelings. when the service was ended, fenwick turned to aspatria and offered her his hand. she put hers into his, and so he led her down the aisle, and through the churchyard, to her own carriage. william had followed close. he wondered if fenwick meant to take his wife with him, and he resolved to give him the opportunity to do so. but as soon as he perceived that the bridegroom would carry out his threat, and desert his bride at the church gates, he stepped forward and said,-- "that is enough, sir ulfar fenwick. i have made you keep your word. i will care for your wife. she shall neither bear your name nor yet take anything from your bounty." fenwick paid no heed to his brother-in-law. he looked at aspatria. she was whiter than snow; she had the pallor of death. he lifted his hat and said,-- "farewell, lady fenwick. we shall meet no more." "sir ulfar," she answered calmly, "it is not my will that we met here to-day." "and as for meeting no more," said brune, with passionate contempt, "i will warrant that is not in your say-so, ulfar fenwick." as he spoke, fenwick's friend handed will anneys a card; then they drove rapidly away. will was carefully wrapping his sister for her solitary ride back to seat-ambar; and he did this with forced deliberation, trying to appear undisturbed by what had occurred; for, since it had happened, he wished his neighbours to think he had fully expected it. and while so engaged he found opportunity to whisper to aspatria: "now, my little lass, bear up as bravely as may be. it is only one hour. only one hour, dearie! don't you try to speak. only keep your head high till you get home, darling!" so the sad procession turned homeward, aspatria sitting alone in her carriage, william and brune riding on either side of her, the squires and dames bidden to the ceremony following slowly behind. some talked softly of the affair; some passionately assailed william anneys for not felling the villain where he stood. gradually they said good-by, and so went to their own homes. aspatria had to speak to each, she had to sit erect, she had to bear the wondering, curious gaze not only of her friends, but of the hinds and peasant-women in the small hamlets between the church and seat-ambar; she had to endure her own longing and disappointment, and make a poor attempt to smile when the children flung their little posies of late flowers into the passing carriage. to the last moment she bore it. "a good, brave girl!" said will, as he left her at her own room door. "my word! it is better to have good blood than good fortune: good blood never was beat! aspatria is only a little lass, but she is more than a match for yon villain! a big villain he is, a villain with a latchet!" the miserable are sacred. all through that wretched afternoon no one troubled aspatria. will and brune sat by the parlour fire, for the most part silent. the rain, which had barely held off until their return from the church, now beat against the window-panes, and drenched and scattered even the hardy michaelmas daisies. the house was as still as if there had been death instead of marriage in it. now and then brune spoke, and sometimes william answered him, and sometimes he did not. at last, after a long pause, brune asked: "what was it fenwick's friend gave you? a message?" "a message." "you might as well say what, will." "ay, i might. it said fenwick would wait for me a week at the sceptre inn, carlisle." "will you go to carlisle?" "to be sure i will go. i would not miss the chance of 'throwing' him,--no, not for ten years' life!" "dear me! what a lot of trouble has come with just taking a stranger in out of the storm!" "ay, it is a venturesome thing to do. how can any one tell what a stranger may bring in with him?" chapter iv. for mother's sake. in the upper chamber where will had left his sister, a great mystery of sorrow was being endured. aspatria felt as if all had been. life had no more joy to give, and no greater grief to inflict. she undressed with rapid, trembling fingers; her wedding finery was hateful in her sight. on the night before she had folded all her store of clothing, and laid it ready to put in a trunk. she had been quite in the dark as to her destiny; the only thing that appeared certain to her was that she would have to leave home. perhaps she would go with ulfar from the church door. in that case will would have to send her clothing, and she had laid it in the neatest order for the emergency. on the top of one pile lay a crimson canton crape shawl. her mother had worn it constantly during the last year of her life; and aspatria had put it away, as something too sacred for ordinary use. she now folded it around her shoulders, and sat down. usually, when things troubled her, she was restless and kept in motion, but this trouble was too bitter and too great to resist; she was quiet, she took its blows passively, and they smote her on every side. could she ever forget that cruel ride home, ever cease to burn and shiver when she remembered the eyes that had scanned her during its progress? the air seemed full of them. she covered her face to avoid the pitying, wondering, scornful glances. but this ride through the valley of humiliation was not the bitterest drop in her bitter cup; she could have smiled as she rode and drank it, if ulfar had been at her side. it was his desertion that was so distracting to her. she had thought of many sorrows in connection with this forced marriage, but this sorrow had never suggested itself as possible. therefore, when ulfar bade her farewell she had felt as if standing on the void of the universe. it was the superhuman woman within her that had answered him, and that had held up her head and had strengthened her for her part all through that merciless ride. and the sight of her handsome, faithless lover, the tones of his voice, the touch of his hand, his half-respectful, half-pitying kindness, had awakened in her heart a tenfold love for him. for she understood then, for the first time, her social and educational inferiority. she felt even that she had done herself less than justice in her fine raiment: her country breeding and simple beauty would have appeared to greater advantage in the white merino she had desired to wear. she had been forced into a dress that accentuated her deficiencies. at that hour she thought she could never see mrs. frostham again. to these tempestuous, humiliating, heart-breaking reflections the storm outside made an angry accompaniment. the wind howled down the chimney and wailed around the house, and the rain beat against the window and pattered on the flagged walks. the darkness came on early, and the cold grew every hour more searching. she was not insensible to these physical discomforts, but they seemed so small a part of her misery that she made no resistance to their attack. will and brune, sitting almost speechless downstairs, were both thinking of her. when it was quite dark they grew unhappy. first one and then the other crept softly to her room door. all was as still as death. no movement, no sound of any kind, betrayed in what way the poor soul within suffered. no thread of light came from beneath the door: she was in the dark, and she had eaten nothing all day. about six o'clock will could bear it no longer. he knocked softly at her door, and said: "my little lass, speak to will! have a cup of tea! do have a cup of tea, dearie!" the voice was so unlike will's voice that it startled aspatria. it told her of a suffering almost equalling her own. she rose from the chair in which she had been sitting for hours, and went to him. the room was dark, the passage was dark; he saw nothing but the denser dark of her figure, and her white face above it. she saw nothing but his great bulk and his shining eyes. but she felt the love flowing out from his heart to her, she felt his sorrow and his sympathy, and it comforted her. she said: "will, do not fret about me. i am over-getting the shame and sorrow. yes, i will have a cup of tea, and tell tabitha to make a fire here. dear will, i have been a great care and shame to you." "ay, you have, aspatria; but i would rather die than miss you, my little lass." this interview gave a new bent to aspatria's thoughts. as she drank the tea, and warmed her chilled feet before the blaze, she took into consideration what misery her love for ulfar fenwick had brought to her brothers' once happy home, the anxiety, the annoyance, the shame, the ill-will and quarrelling, the humiliations that will and brune had been compelled to endure. then suddenly there flashed across her mind the card given to will by ulfar's friend. she was not too simple to conceive of its meaning. it was a defiance of some kind, and she knew how will would answer it. her heart stood still with terror. she had seen will and ulfar wrestling; she had heard will say to brune, when ulfar was absent, "he knows little about it; when i had that last grip, i could have flung him into eternity." it was common enough for dalesmen quarrelling to have a "fling" with one another and stand by its results. if will and ulfar met thus, one or both would be irremediably injured. in their relation to her, both were equally dear. she would have given her poor little life cheerfully for the love of either. her cup shook in her hand. she had a sense of hurry in the matter, that drove her like a leaf before a strong wind. if will got to bed before she saw him, he might be away in the morning ere she was aware. she put down her cup, and while she stood a moment to collect her strength and thoughts, the subject on all its sides flashed clearly before her. a minute afterward she opened the parlour door. brune sat bent forward, with a poker in his hands. he was tracing a woman's name in the ashes, though he was hardly conscious of the act. will's head was thrown back against his chair; he seemed to be asleep. but when aspatria opened the door, he sat upright and looked at her. a pallor like death spread over his face; it was the crimson shawl, his mother's shawl, which caused it. wearing it, aspatria closely resembled her. will had idolized his mother in life, and he worshipped her memory. if aspatria had considered every earthly way of touching will's heart, she could have selected none so certain as the shawl, almost accidentally assumed. she went direct to will. he drew a low stool to his side, and aspatria sat down upon it, and then stretched out her left hand to brune. the two men looked at their sister, and then they looked at each other. the look was a vow. both so understood it. "will and brune," the girl spoke softly, but with a great steadiness,--"will and brune, i am sorry to have given you so much shame and trouble." "it is not your fault, aspatria," said brune. "but i will do so no more. i will never name ulfar again. i will try to be cheerful and to make home cheerful, try to carry on life as it used to be before he came. we will not let people talk of him, we will not mind it if they do. eh, will?" "just now, dear, in a little while." "will, dear will! what did that card mean,--the one ulfar's friend gave? you will not go near ulfar, will? please do not!" "i have a bit of business to settle with him, aspatria, and then i never want to see his face again." "will, you must not go." "ay, but i must. i have been thought of with a lot of bad names, but no one shall think 'coward' of me." "will, remember all i have suffered to-day." "i am not likely to forget it." "that ride home, will, was as if i was going up calvary. my wedding-dress was heavy as a cross, and that foolish wreath of flowers was a wreath of cruel thorns. i was pitied and scorned, till i felt as if my heart--my real heart--was all bruised and torn. i have suffered so much, will, spare me more suffering. will! will! for your little sister's sake, put that card in the fire, and stay here, right here with me." "my lass! my dear lass, you cannot tell what you are asking." "i am asking you to give up your revenge. i know that is a great thing for a man to do. but, will, dear, you stand in father's place, you are sitting in father's chair; what would he say to you?" "he would say, 'give the rascal a good thrashing, will. when a man wrongs a woman, there is no other punishment for him. thrash him to within an inch of his cruel, selfish, contemptible life!' that is what father would say, aspatria. i know it, i feel it." "if you will not give up your revenge for me, nor yet for father, then i ask you for mother's sake! what would mother say to-night if she were here?--very like she is here. listen to her, will. she is saying, 'spare my little girl any more sorrow and shame, will, my boy will!'--that is what mother would say. and if you hurt ulfar you hurt me also, and if ulfar hurts you my heart will break. the fell-side is ringing now with my troubles. if i have any more, i will go away where no one can find me. for mother's sake, will! for mother's sake!" the strong man was sobbing behind his hands, the struggle was a terrific one. brune watched it with tears streaming unconsciously down his cheeks. aspatria sunk at will's feet, and buried her face on his knees. "for mother's sake, will! let ulfar go free." "my dear little lass, i cannot!" "for mother's sake, will! i am speaking for mother! for mother's sake!" "i--i--oh, what shall i do, brune?" "for mother's sake, will!" he trembled until the chair shook. he dared not look at the weeping girl. she rose up. she gently moved away his hands. she kissed his eyelids. she said, with an irresistible entreaty: "look at me, will. i am speaking for mother. let ulfar alone. i do not say forgive him." "nay, i will never forgive him." "but let him alone. will! will! let him alone, for mother's sake!" then he stood up. he looked into aspatria's eyes; he let his gaze wander to the crimson shawl. he began to sob like a child. "you may go, aspatria," he said, in broken words. "if you ask me anything in mother's name, i have no power to say no." he walked to the window and looked out into the dark stormy night, and brune motioned to aspatria to go away. he knew will would regain himself better in her absence. she was glad to go. as soon as will had granted her request, she fell to the lowest ebb of life. she could hardly drag herself up the long, dark stairs. she dropped asleep as soon as she reached her room. it was a bitter awakening. the soul feels sorrow keenest at the first moments of consciousness. it has been away, perhaps, in happy scenes, or it has been lulling itself in deep repose, and then suddenly it is called to lift again the heavy burden of its daily life. aspatria stood in her cold, dim room; and even while shivering in her thin night-dress, with bare feet treading the polished oak floor, she hastily put out of her sight the miserable wedding-garments. a large dower-chest stood conveniently near. she opened it wide, and flung dress and wreath and slippers and cloak into it. the lid fell from her hands with a great clang, and she said to herself, "i will never open it again." the storm still continued. she dressed in simple household fashion, and went downstairs. brune sat by the fire. he said: "i was waiting for you, aspatria. will is in the barn. he had his coffee and bacon long ago." "brune, will you be my friend through all this trouble?" "i will stand by you through thick and thin, aspatria. there is my hand on it." about great griefs we do not chatter; and there was no further discussion of those events which had been barely turned away from tragedy and death. murder and despairing love and sorrow might have a secret dwelling-place in seat-ambar, but it was in the background. the front of life went on as smoothly as ever; the cows were milked, the sheep tended, the men and maids had their tasks, the beds were made, and the tables set, with the usual order and regularity. and aspatria found this "habit of living" to be a good staff to lean upon. she assumed certain duties, and performed them; and the house was pleasanter for her oversight. will and brune came far oftener to sit at the parlour fireside, when they found aspatria there to welcome them. and so the days and weeks followed one another, bringing with them those commonplace duties and interests which give to existence a sense of stability and order. no one spoke of fenwick; but all the more aspatria nursed his image in her heart and her imagination. he had dressed himself for his marriage with great care and splendour. never had he looked so handsome and so noble in her eyes, and never until that hour had she realized her social inferiority to him, her lack of polish and breeding, her ignorance of all things which a woman of birth and wealth ought to know and to possess. this was a humiliating acknowledgment; but it was aspatria's first upward step, for with it came an invincible determination to make herself worthy of her husband's love and companionship. the hope and the object gave a new colour to her life. as she went about her simple duties, as she sat alone in her room, as she listened to her brothers talking, it occupied, strengthened, and inspired her. dark as the present was, it held the hope of a future which made her blush and tingle to its far-off joy. to learn everything, to go everywhere, to become a brilliant woman, a woman of the world, to make her husband admire and adore her,--these were the dreams that brightened the long, sombre winter, and turned the low dim rooms into a palace of enchantment. she was aware of the difficulties in her way. she thought first of asking will to permit her to go to a school in london. but she knew he would never consent. she had no friends to whom she could confide her innocent plans, she had as yet no money in her own control. but in less than two years she would be of age. her fortune would then be at her disposal, and the law would permit her to order her own life. in the mean time she could read and study at home: when the spring came she would see the vicar, and he would lend her books from his library. there was an encyclopædia in the house; she got together its scattered volumes, and began to make herself familiar with its _mélange_ of information. in such efforts her heart was purified from all bitterness, wounded vanity, and impatience. life was neither lonely nor monotonous, she had a noble object to work for. so the winter passed, and the spring came again. all over the fells the ewes and their lambs made constant work for the shepherds; and aspatria greatly pleased will by going out frequently to pick up the perishing, weakly lambs and succour them. one day in april she took a bottle of warm milk and a bit of sponge and went up calder fell. on the first reach of the fell she found a dying lamb, and carried it down to the shelter of some whin-bushes. then she fed it with the warm milk, and the little creature went to sleep in her arms. the grass was green and fresh, the sun warm; the whins sheltered her from the wind, and a little thrush in them, busy building her nest, was making sweet music out of air as sweet. all was so glad and quiet: she, too, was happy in her own thoughts. a wagon passed, and then a tax-cart, and afterward two old men going ditching. she hardly lifted her head; every one knew aspatria anneys. when the shadows told her that it was near noon, she rose to go home, holding the lamb in her arms. at that moment a carriage came slowly from behind the hedge. she saw the fine horses with their glittering harness, and knew it was a strange vehicle in ambar-side, so she sat down again until it should pass. the lamb was in her left arm. she threw back her head, and gazed fixedly into the whin-bush where the thrush had its nest. whoever it was, she did not wish to be recognized. lady redware, sarah sandys, and ulfar fenwick were in the carriage. at the moment she stood with the lamb in her arms, ulfar had known his wife. lady redware saw her almost as quickly, and in some occult way she transferred, by a glance, the knowledge to sarah. the carriage was going very slowly; the beauty of the thrown-back head, the simplicity of her dress, the pastoral charm of her position, all were distinct. ulfar looked at her with a fire of passion in his eyes, lady redware with annoyance. sarah asked, with a mocking laugh, "is that really little bo peep?" the joke fell flat. ulfar did not immediately answer it; and sarah was piqued. "i shall go to italy again," she said. "englishmen may be admirable _en masse_, but individually they are stupid or cross." "in italy there are the capuchins," answered ulfar. he remembered that sarah had expressed herself strongly about the order. "i have just passed a week at oxford among the reverends; all things considered, i prefer the capuchins. when you have dined with a lord bishop, you want to become a socialist." "your oxford friends are very nice people, sarah." "excellent people, elizabeth, quite superior people, and they are all sure not only of going to heaven, but also of joining the very best society the place affords." "best society!" said ulfar, pettishly. "i am going to america. there, i hope, i shall hear nothing about it." "america is so truly admirable. why was it put in such an out-of-the-way place? you have to sail three thousand miles to get to it," pouted sarah. "all things worth having are put out of the way," replied ulfar. "yes," sighed sarah. "what an admirable story is that of the serpent and the apple!" "come, ulfar!" said lady redware, "do try to be agreeable. you used to be so delightful! was he not, sarah?" "was he? i have forgotten, elizabeth. since that time a great deal of water has run into the sea." "if you want an ill-natured opinion about yourself, by all means go to a woman for it." and ulfar enunciated this dictum with a very scornful shrug of his shoulders. "ulfar!" "it is so, elizabeth." "never mind him, dear!" said sarah. "i do not. and i have noticed that the men who give bad characters to women have usually much worse ones themselves. i think ulfar is quite ready for american society and its liberal ideas." and sarah drew her shawl into her throat, and looked defiantly at ulfar. "the americans are all socialists. i have read that, ulfar. you know what these liberal ideas come to,--always socialism." "do not be foolish, elizabeth. socialism never comes from liberality of thought: it is always a bequest of tyranny." "ulfar, when are you going to be really nice and good again?" "i do not know, elizabeth." "ulfar is a standing exception to the rule that when things are at their worst they must mend. ulfar, lately, is always at his worst, and he never mends." there was really some excuse for ulfar; he was suffering keenly, and neither of the two women cared to recognize the fact. he had just returned from italy with his father's remains, and after their burial he had permitted elizabeth to carry him off with her to redware. in reality the neighbourhood of aspatria drew him like a magnet. he had been haunted by her last, resentful, amazed, miserable look. he understood from it that will had never told her of his intention to bid her farewell as soon as she was his wife, and he was not devoid of imagination. his mind had constantly pictured scenes of humiliation which he had condemned the woman he had once so tenderly loved to endure. and that passing glimpse of her under the whin-bushes had revived something of his old passion. he answered his sister's and sarah's remarks pettishly, because he wanted to be left alone with the new hope that had come to him. why not take aspatria to america? she was his wife. he had been compelled, by his sense of justice and honour, to make her lady fenwick; why should he deny himself her company, merely to keep a passionate, impulsive threat? to the heart the past is eternal, and love survives the pang of separation. he thought of aspatria for the next twenty-four hours. to see her! to speak to her! to hear her voice! to clasp her to his heart! why should he deny himself these delights? what pleasure could pride and temper give him in exchange? fenwick had always loved to overcome an obstacle, and such people cannot do without obstacles; they are a necessary aliment. to see and to speak with aspatria was now the one thing in life worthy of his attention. it was not an easy thing to accomplish. every day for nearly a week he rode furiously to calder wood, tied his horse there, and then hung about the brow of calder cliff, for it commanded seat-ambar, which lay below it as the street lies below a high tower. with his glass he could see will and brune passing from the house to the barns or the fields, and once he saw aspatria go to meet her brother will; he saw her lift her face to will's face, he saw will put her arm through his arm and so go with her to the house. how he hated will anneys! what a triumph it would be to carry off his sister unknown to him and without his say-so! one morning he determined if he found no opportunity to see aspatria that day alone he would risk all, and go boldly to the house. why should he not do so? he had scarcely made the decision when he saw will and brune drive away together. he remembered it was dalton market-day; and he knew that they had gone there. almost immediately aspatria left the house also. then he was jealous. where was she going as soon as her brothers left her? she was going to the vicar's to return a book and carry him a cream cheese of her own making. he knew then how to meet her. she would pass through a meadow on her way home, and this meadow was skirted by a young plantation. half-way down there was a broad stile between the two. he hurried his steps, and arrived there just as aspatria entered the meadow. there was a high frolicking wind blowing right in her face. it had blown her braids loose, and her tippet and dress backward; her slim form was sharply defined by it, and it compelled her to hold up both her hands in order to keep her hat on her head. she came on so, treading lightly, almost dancing with the merry gusts to and fro. once ulfar heard a little cry that was half laughter, as the wind made her pirouette and then stand still to catch her breath. ulfar thought the picture bewitching. he waited until she was within a yard or two of the stile, ere he crossed it. she was holding her hat down: she did not see him until he could have put his hand upon her. then she let her hands fall, and her hat blew backward, and she stood quite still and quite speechless, her colour coming and going, all a woman's softest witchery beaming in her eyes. "aspatria! dear aspatria! i am come to take you with me. i am going to america." he spoke a little sadly, as if he had some reason for feeling grieved. she shook her head positively, but she did not, or she could not, speak. "aspatria, have you no kiss, no word of welcome, no love to give me?" and he put out his hand, as if to draw her to his embrace. she stepped quickly backward: "no, no, no! do not touch me, ulfar. go away. please go away!" "but you must go with me. you are my wife, aspatria." and he said the last words very like a command. "i am not your wife. oh, no!" "i say you are. i married you in aspatria church." "you also left me there, left me to such shame and sorrow as no man gives to the woman he loves." "perhaps i did act cruelly in two or three ways, aspatria; but people who love forgive two or three offences. let us be lovers as we used to be." "no, i will not be lovers as we used to be. people who love do not commit two or three such offences as you committed against me." "i will atone for them. i will indeed! aspatria, i miss you very much. i will not go to america without you. how soon can you be ready? in a week?" "you will atone to me? how? there is but one way. you shall, in your own name, call every one in allerdale, gentle and simple, to aspatria church. you shall marry me again in their presence, and go with me to my own home. the wedding-feast shall be held there. you shall count will and brune anneys as your brothers. you shall take me away, in the sight of all, to your home. of all the honour a wife ought to have you must give me here, among my own people, a double portion. will you do this in atonement?" "you are talking folly, aspatria. i have married you once." "you have not married me once. you met me at aspatria church to shame me, to break my heart with love and sorrow, to humble my good brothers. no, i am not your wife! i will not go with you!" "i can make you go, aspatria. you seem to forget the law--" "will says the law will protect me. but if it did not, if you took me by force to your house or yacht, you would not have me. you could not touch me. aspatria anneys is beyond your reach." "you are aspatria fenwick." "i have never taken your name. will told me not to do so. anneys is a good name. no anneys ever wronged me." "you refused my home, you refused my money, and now you refuse my name. you are treating me as badly as possible. the day before our marriage i sent to your brother a signed settlement for your support, the use of fenwick castle as a residence, and two thousand pounds a year. your brother will, the day after our marriage, took it to my agent and tore it to pieces in his presence." "will did right. he knew his sister would not have your home and money without your love." she spoke calmly, with a dignity that became well her youth and beauty. ulfar thought her exceedingly lovely. he attempted to woo her again with the tender glances and soft tones and caressing touch of their early acquaintance. aspatria sorrowfully withdrew herself; she held only repelling palms toward his bending face. she was not coy, he could have overcome coyness; she was cold, and calm, and watchful of him and of herself. her face and throat paled and blushed, and blushed and paled; her eyes were dilated with feeling; her pretty bow-shaped mouth trembled; she radiated a personality sweet, strong, womanly,--a piquant, woodland, pastoral delicacy, all her own. but after many useless efforts to influence her, he began to despair. he perceived that she still loved him, perhaps better than she had ever done, but that her determination to consider their marriage void had its source in a oneness of mind having no second thoughts and no doubt behind it. the only hope she gave him was in another marriage ceremony which in its splendour and publicity should atone in some measure for the first. he could not contemplate such a confession of his own fault. he could not give will and brune anneys such a triumph. if aspatria loved him, how could she ask such a humiliating atonement? aspatria saw the shadow of these reflections on his face. though he said nothing, she understood it was this struggle that gave the momentary indecision to his pleading. for herself, she did not desire a present reconciliation. she had nursed too long the idea of the aspatria that was to be, the wise, clever, brilliant woman who was to win over again her husband. she did not like to relinquish this hope for a present gratification, a gratification so much lower in its aim that she now understood that it never could long satisfy a nature so complex and so changeable as ulfar's. she therefore refused him his present hope, believing that fate had a far better meeting in store for them. while these thoughts flashed through her mind, she kept her eyes upon the horizon. in that wide-open fixed gaze her loving, troubled soul revealed itself. ulfar was wondering whether it was worth while to begin his argument all over again, when she said softly: "we must now say farewell. i see the vicar's maid coming. in a few hours the fell-side will know of our meeting. i must tell will, myself. i entreat you to leave the dales as soon as possible." "i will not leave them without you." "go to-night. i shall not change what i have said. there is nothing to be done but to part. we are no longer alone. good-by, ulfar!--dear ulfar!" "i care not who is present. you are my wife." and he clasped her in his arms and kissed her. perhaps she was not sorry. perhaps her own glance of love and longing had commanded the embrace; for when she released herself she was weeping, and ulfar's tears were on her cheeks. but she called the vicar's maid imperatively, and so put an end to the interview. "that was my husband, lottie," she said. it was the only explanation offered. aspatria knew it was useless to expect any reticence on the subject. in that isolated valley such a piece of news could not be kept; the very birds would talk about it in their nests. she must herself tell will, and although she had done nothing wrong, she was afraid to tell him. when she reached home she was glad to hear that will had been sent for to squire frostham's. "it was something about a fox," said brune. "they wanted me too, but alice frostham is a girl i cannot abide. i would not go near her." "brune, will you take a long ride for my sake?" "i will do anything for you i can." "i met ulfar fenwick this morning." "then you did a bad thing. i would not have believed it of you. good lord! there is as much two-facedness in a woman as there is meat in an egg." "brune, you are thinking wrong. i did not know he was in the country till he stood before me; and he did not move me a hair's-breadth any way. but lottie from the vicarage saw us together; and she was going to dalton. you know what she will say; and by and by the frosthams will hear; and then they will feel it to be 'only kind' to talk to will about me and my affairs; and the end of it will be some foolish deed or other. if you love me, brune, go to redware to-night, and see lady redware, and tell her there is danger for her brother if he stays around here." "i can say that truly. there is danger for the scoundrel, a good deal of it." "brune, it would be such a sorrow to me if every one were talking of me again. do what i ask you, brune. you promised to stand by me through thick and thin." "i did; and i will go to redware as soon as i have eaten my dinner. if lottie saw him, it will be known all over. and if no one came up here on purpose to tell will, he would hear it at dalton next week, when that lot of bothering old squires sit down to their market dinner. it would be a grand bit for them to chew with their victuals." "i thought they talked about politics." "they are like other men. if you get more than one man in a place, they are talking bad about some woman. they call it politics, but it is mostly slander." "i am going to tell will myself." "that is a deal the best plan." "be sure to frighten lady redware; make her think ulfar's life is in danger,--anything to get him out of the dales." "she will feel as if the heavens were going to fall, when i get done with her. my word! who would have thought of him coming back? life is full of surprises." "but only think, if there was never anything accidental happened! surprises are just what make life worth having,--eh, brune?" "maybe so, and maybe not. when will comes home, tell him everything at once. i can manage lady redware, i'll be bound." with the promise he went away to perform it, and aspatria carried her trembling heart into solitude. but the lonely place was full of ulfar. a thousand hopes were budding in her heart, growing slowly, strongly, sweetly, in that earth which she had made for them out of her love, her desires, her hopes, and her faithful aspirations. chapter v. but they were young. brune arrived at redware hall while it was still afternoon, and he found no difficulty in obtaining an interview with its mistress. she was sitting at a table in a large bay-window, painting the view from it. for in those days ladies were not familiar with high art and all its nomenclature and accessories; lady redware had never thought of an easel, or a blouse, or indeed of any of the trappings now considered necessary to the making of pictures. she was prettily dressed in silk; and a square of bristol-board, a box of newman's water-colours, and a few camel's-hair pencils were neatly arranged before her. she rose when brune entered, and met him with a suave courtesy; and the unsophisticated young man took it for a genuine pleasure. he felt sorry to trouble such a nice-looking gentlewoman, and he said so with a sincerity that made her suddenly serious. "have you brought me bad news, mr. anneys?" she asked. "i am afraid you will be put about a bit. sir ulfar fenwick met my sister this morning; and they were seen by ill-natured eyes, and i came, quiet-like, to let you know that he must leave the dales to-night." "cannot sir ulfar meet his own wife?" "lady redware, that is not the question. put it, 'cannot sir ulfar meet your sister?' and i will answer you quick enough, 'not while there are two honest men in allerdale to prevent him.'" "you cannot frighten sir ulfar from allerdale. to threaten him is to make him stay." "dalesmen are not ones to threaten. i tell you that the vicar's maid saw sir ulfar and my sister together; and when william anneys hears of it, sir ulfar will get such a notice to leave these parts as will give him no choice. i came to warn him away before he could not help himself. i say freely, i did so to please aspatria, and out of no good-will going his way." "but if he will not leave allerdale?" "but if william anneys, and the sixty gentlemen who will ride with william anneys, say he must go? what then?" "of course sir ulfar cannot fight a mob." "not one of that mob of gentlemen would fight him; but they all carry stout riding-whips." and brune looked at the lady with a sombre intentness which made further speech unnecessary. she had been alarmed from the first; she now made no further attempt to disguise her terror. "what must i do, mr. anneys?" she asked. "what must i do?" "send your brother away from cumberland to-night. i say he must leave to-night. to-morrow morning may be too late to prevent a great humiliation. aspatria begged me to come to you. i do not say i wanted to come." at this moment the door opened, and sarah sandys entered. brune turned, and saw her; and his heart stood still. she came slowly forward, her garment of pale-green and white just touching her sandalled feet. she had a rush basket full of violets in her hands; there were primroses in her breast and belt, and her face was like a pink rose. high on her head her fair hair was lifted, and, being fastened with a large turquoise comb, it gave the idea of sunshine and blue sky. brune stood looking at her, as a mortal might look at the divine cytherea made manifest. his handsome, open face, full of candid admiration, had almost an august character. he bowed to her, as men bow when they bend their heart and give its homage and delight. sarah was much impressed by the young man's beauty, and she felt his swift adoration of her own charms. she made lady redware introduce her to brune, and she completed her conquest of the youth as she stood a moment holding his hand and smiling with captivating grace into his eyes. then lady redware explained brune's mission, and sarah grasped the situation without any disguises. "it simply means flight, elizabeth," she said. "what could ulfar do with fifty or sixty angry cumberland squires? he would have to go. in fact, i know they have a method of persuasion no mortal man can resist." brune saw that his errand was accomplished. lady redware thanked him for his consideration, and sarah rang for the tea-service, and made him a cup, and gave it to him with her own lovely hands. brune saw their exquisite form, their translucent glow, the sparkling of diamonds and emeralds upon them. the tea was as if brewed in paradise; it tasted of all things delightful; it was a veritable cup of enchantments. then brune rode away, and the two women watched him over the hill. he sat his great black hunter like a cavalry officer; and the creature devoured the distance with strides that made their hearts leap to the sense of its power and life. "he is the very handsomest man i ever saw!" said sarah. "what is to be done about ulfar? sarah, you must manage this business. he will not listen to me." "ulfar has five senses. ulfar is very fond of himself. he will leave redware, of course. how handsome brune anneys is!" "will you coax him to leave to-night?" "ulfar? yes, i will; for it is the proper thing for him to do. it would be a shame to bring his quarrels to your house.--what a splendid rider! look, elizabeth, he is just topping the hill! i do believe he turned his head! is he not handsome? apollo! antinoüs! pshaw! brune anneys is a great deal more human, and a great deal more godlike, than either." "do not be silly, sarah. and do occupy yourself a little with ulfar now." "when the hour comes, i will. ulfar is evidently occupying himself at present in watching his wife. there is a decorous naughtiness and a stimulating sense of danger about seeing aspatria, that must be a thorough enjoyment to ulfar." "men are always in fusses. ulfar has kept my heart palpitating ever since he could walk alone." sarah sighed. "it is very difficult," she said, "to decide whether very old men or very young men can be the greater trial. the suffering both can cause is immense! poor sandys was sixty-six, and ulfar is thirty-six, and--" she shook her head, and sighed again. "how hateful country-people are!" exclaimed elizabeth. "they must talk, no matter what tragedy they cause with their scandalous words." "are they worse than our own set, either in town or country? you know what the countess of denbigh considered pleasant conversation?--telling things that ought not to be told." "the countess is a wretch! she would tell the most sacred of secrets." "i tell secrets also. i do not consider it wrong. what business has any one to throw the _onus_ of keeping their secret on my shoulders? why should they expect from me more prudence than they themselves have shown?" "that is true. but in these valleys they speak so uncomfortably direct; nothing but the strongest, straightest, most definite words will be used." "that is a pity. people ought to send scandal through society in a respectable hunt-the-slipper form of circulation. but that is a kind of decency to be cultivated. however, i shall tell ulfar, in the plainest words i can find, that there will be about sixty cumberland squires here to-morrow, to ride with him out of the county, and that they are looking forward to the fun of it just as much as if it was a fox-hunt. ulfar has imagination. he will be able to conceive such a ride,--the flying man, and the roaring, laughing, whip-cracking squires after him! he will remember how tom appleton the wrestler, who did something foul, was escorted across the county line last summer. and ulfar hates a scene. can you fancy him making himself the centre of such an affair?" so they talked while brune galloped homeward in a very happy mood. he felt as those ancients may have felt when they met the immortals and saluted them. the thought of the beautiful mrs. sandys filled his imagination; but he talked comfortably to aspatria, and assured her that there was now no fear of a meeting between her husband and will. "only," he said, "tell will yourself to-night, and he will never doubt you." unfortunately, will did not return that night from the frosthams'; for in the morning the two men were to go together to dalton very early. will heard nothing there, but mrs. frostham was waiting at her garden gate to tell him when he returned. he had left squire frostham with his son-in-law, and was alone. mrs. frostham made a great deal of the information, and broke it to will with much consideration. will heard her sullenly. he was getting a few words ready for aspatria, as mrs. frostham told her tale, but they were for her alone. to mrs. frostham he adopted a tone she thought very ungrateful. for when the whole affair, real and consequential, had been told, he answered: "what is there to make a wonder of? cannot a woman talk and walk a bit with her own husband? maybe he had something very particular to say to her. i think it is a shame to bother a little lass about a thing like that." and he folded himself so close that mrs. frostham could neither question nor sympathize with him longer. "good-evening to you," he said coldly; and then, while visible, he took care to ride as if quite at his ease. but the moment the road turned from frostham he whipped his horse to its full speed, and entered the farmyard with it in a foam of hurry, and himself in a foam of passion. aspatria met him with the confession on her lips. he gave her no time. he assailed her with affronting and injurious epithets. he pushed her hands and face from him. he vowed her tears were a mockery, and her intention of confessing a lie. he met all her efforts at explanation, and all her attempts to pacify him, at sword-point. she bore it patiently for a while; and then will anneys saw an aspatria he had never dreamed of. she seemed to grow taller; she did really grow taller; her face flamed, her eyes flashed, and, in a voice authoritative and irresistible, she commanded him to desist. "you are my worst enemy," she said. "you are as deaf as the village gossips. you will not listen to the truth. your abuse, heard by every servant in the house, certifies all that malice dares to think. and in wounding my honour you are a parricide to our mother's good name! i am ashamed of you, will!" from head to foot she reflected the indignation in her heart, as she stood erect with her hands clasped and the palms dropped downward, no sign of tears, no quiver of fear or doubt, no retreat, and no submission, in her face or attitude. "why, whatever is the matter with you, aspatria?" at this moment brune entered, and she went to him, and put her hand through his arm, and said: "brune, speak for me! will has insulted mother and father, through me, in such a way that i can never forgive him!" "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, will anneys!" and brune put his sister gently behind him, and then marched squarely up to his brother's face. "you are as passionate as a brute beast, will, and that, too, with a poor little lass that has her own troubles, and has borne them like--like a good woman always does." "i do not want to hear you speak, brune." "ay, but i will speak, and you shall hear me. i tell you, aspatria is in no kind to blame. the man came on her sudden, out of the plantation. she did not take his hand, she did not listen to him. she sent him about his business as quick as might be." "lottie patterson saw her," said will, dourly. "because aspatria called lottie patterson to her; and if lottie patterson says she saw anything more or worse than ought to be, i will pretty soon call upon seth patterson to make his sister's words good. cush! i will that! and what is more, will anneys, if you do not know how to take care of your sister's good name, i will teach you,--you mouse of a man! you go and side with that frostham set against aspatria! chaff on the frosthams! it is a bad neighbourhood where a girl like aspatria cannot say a word or two on the king's highway at broad noonday, without having a _sisserara_ about it." "i did not side with the frosthams against aspatria." "i'll be bound you did!" "let me alone, brune! go your ways out of here, both of you!" "to be sure, we will both go. come, aspatria. when you are tired of ballooning, william anneys, and can come down to common justice, maybe then i will talk to you,--not till." now, good honest anger is one of the sinews of the soul; and he that wants it when there is occasion has but a maimed mind. the hot words, the passionate atmosphere, the rebellion of aspatria, the decision of brune, had the same effect upon will's senseless anger as a thunder-storm has upon the hot, heavy, summer air. will raged his bad temper away, and was cool and clear-minded after it. at the same hour the same kind of mental thunder-storm was prevailing over all common-sense at redware hall. ulfar, after a long and vain watch for another opportunity to speak to aspatria, returned there in a temper compounded of anger, jealousy, disappointment, and unsatisfied affection. he heard lady redware's story of his own danger and of brune's consideration with scornful indifference. brune's consideration he laughed at. he knew very well, he answered, that brune anneys hated him, and would take the greatest delight in such a hubbub as he pretended was in project. "but he came to please aspatria," continued lady redware. "he said he came only to please aspatria." "so aspatria wishes me to leave allerdale? i will not go." "sarah, he will not go," cried lady redware, as her friend entered the room. "he says he will not go." "that is because you have appealed to ulfar's feelings instead of to his judgment. when ulfar considers how savagely primitive these dalesmen are in their passions, he will understand that discretion is the nobler part of valour. in russia he thought it a very prudent thing to get out of the way when a pack of wolves were in the neighbourhood." "the law will protect me in this house. human beings have to mind the law." "there are times when human beings are a law unto themselves. how would you like to see a crowd of angry men shouting around this house for you? think of your sister,--and of me, if i am worth so much consideration." "i am not to be frightened, sarah." "will you consider, then, that as far as keswick and kendal on one side, and as far as dalton and whitehaven on the other side, every local newspaper will have, or will make, its own version of the affair? the earl of lonsdale, with a large party, is now at whitehaven castle. what a _sauce piquante_ it will be to his dinners! how the men will howl over it, and how the women will snicker and smile!" "sarah! you can think of the hatefullest things." "and lonsdale will go up to london purposely to have the delight of telling it at the clubs." "sarah!" "and the 'daily whisper' will get lonsdale's most delectable version, and blow it with the four winds of heaven to the four corners of the civilized world." "sarah sandys, i--" "worse still! that poor girl whom you treated so abominably, must suffer the whole thing over again. her name will be put as the head and front of your offending. all her sorrows and heartbreak will be made a penny mouthful for country bumpkins and scandalous gammers to 'oh!' and 'ah!' over. ulfar, if you are a man, you will not give her a moment's terror of such consequences. you may see that she fears them, by her sending her brother to entreat your absence." "and i must be called coward and runaway!" "let them call you anything they like, so that you spare her further shame and sorrow." "your talking in this fashion to me, sarah, is very like satan correcting sin. i loved aspatria when i met you in rome." "of course! adam always has his eve ready. 'not my fault, good people! look at this woman! with her bright smiles and her soft tongue she beguiled me; and so i fell!' we can settle that question, you and i, again. now you must ring the bell, and order your horse--say, at four o'clock to-morrow morning. you can have nearly six hours' sleep,--quite enough for you." "you have not convinced me, sarah." "then you must ride now, and be convinced afterward. for your sister's sake and for aspatria's sake, you will surely go away." lady redware was crying, and she cried a little harder to emphasize sarah's pleading. ulfar was in a hard strait. he looked angrily at the handsome little woman urging him to do the thing he hated to do, and then taking the kerchief from his sister's face, he kissed her, and promised to leave redware at dawn of day. "but," said he, "if you send me away now, i tell you, our parting is likely to be for many years, perhaps for life. i am going beyond civilization, and so beyond scandal." "do not flatter yourself so extravagantly, ulfar. there is scandal everywhere, and always has been, even from the beginning. i have no doubt those nameless little sisters of cain and abel were talked about unpleasantly by their sisters and brothers-in-law. in fact, wherever there are women there are men glad to pull them down to their own level." "is it not very hard, then, that i am not to be permitted to stay here and defend the women i love?" sarah shook her head. "it is beyond your power, ulfar. if porthos were on earth again, or amadis of gaul, they might have happy and useful careers in handling as they deserve the maligners of good, quiet women. but the men of this era!--which of them durst lift the stone that the hand without sin is permitted to cast?" so they talked the night away, drifting gradually from the unpleasant initial subject to ulfar's plan of travel and the far-off prospect of his return. and in the gray, cold dawn he bade them farewell, and they watched him until he vanished in the mists rolling down the mountain. then they kissed each other,--a little, sad kiss of congratulation, wet with tears; they had won their desire, but their victory had left them weeping. alas! it is the very condition of success that every triumph must be baptized with somebody's tears. this event, beginning in such a trifle as an almost accidental visit of aspatria to the vicar, was the line sharply dividing very different lives. nothing in seat-ambar was ever quite the same after it. william anneys, indeed, quickly perceived and acknowledged his fault, and the reconciliation was kind and complete; but aspatria had taken a step forward, and crossed clearly that bound which divides girlhood from womanhood. unconsciously she assumed a carriage that will felt compelled to respect, and a tone was in her voice he did not care to bluff and contradict. he never again ordered her to remain silent or to leave his presence. a portion of his household authority had passed from him, both as regarded aspatria and brune; and he felt himself to be less master than he had formerly been. perhaps this was one reason of the growing frequency of his visits to frostham. there he was made much of, deferred to, and all his little fancies flattered and obeyed. will knew he was the most important person in the world to alice frostham; and he knew, also, that he only shared aspatria's heart with ulfar fenwick. men like the whole heart, and nothing less than the whole heart; hence alice's influence grew steadily all through the summer days, full to the brim of happy labour and reasonable love. as early as the haymaking will told aspatria that alice was coming to seat-ambar as its mistress; and when the harvest was gathered in, the wedding took place. it was as noisily jocund an affair as aspatria's had been silent and sorrowful; and alice frostham, encircled by will's protecting arm, was led across the threshold of her own new home, to the sound of music and rejoicing. the home was quickly divided, though without unkind intent. will and alice had their own talk, their own hopes and plans, and aspatria and brune generally felt that their entrance interfered with some discussion. so aspatria and brune began to sit a great deal in aspatria's room, and by and by to discuss, in a confidential way, what they were to do with their future. brune had no definite idea. aspatria's intents were clear and certain. but she knew that she must wait until the spring brought her majority and her freedom. one frosty day, near christmas, as brune was returning from dalton, he heard himself called in a loud, cheerful voice. he was passing seat-ketel, and he soon saw harry ketel coming quickly toward him. harry wore a splendid scarlet uniform; and the white snow beneath his feet, and the dark green pines between which he walked, made it all the more splendid by their contrast. brune had not seen harry for five years; but they had been companions through their boyhood, and their memories were stored with the pleasant hours they had spent together. brune passed that night, and many subsequent ones, with his old friend; and when harry went back to his regiment he took with him a certainty that brune would soon follow. in fact, harry had found his old companion in that mood which is ready to accept the first opening as the gift of fate. brune found there was a commission to be bought in the household foot-guards, and he was well able to pay for it. indeed, brune was by no means a poor man; his father had left him seven thousand pounds, and his share of the farm's proceeds had been constantly added to it. aspatria was delighted. she might now go to london in brune's care. they discussed the matter constantly, and began to make the preparations necessary for the change. but affairs were not then arranged by steam and electricity, and the letters relating to the purchase and transfer of brune's commission occupied some months in their transit to and fro; although brune did not rely upon the postman's idea of the practicability of the roads. aspatria's correspondence was also uncertain and unsatisfactory for some time. she had at first no guide to a school but the advertisements in the london papers which harry sent to his friend. but one night brune, without any special intention, named the matter to mrs. ketel; and that lady was able to direct aspatria to an excellent school in richmond, near london. and as she was much more favourably situated for a quick settlement of the affair, she undertook the necessary correspondence. will was not ignorant of these movements, but alice induced him to be passive in them. "no one can then blame us, will, whatever happens." and as will and alice were extremely sensitive to public opinion, this was a good consideration. besides alice, not unnaturally, wished to have the seat to herself; so that aspatria's and brune's wishes fitted admirably into her own desires, and it gave her a kind of selfish pleasure to forward them. the ninth of march was aspatria's twenty-first birthday; and it was to her a very important anniversary, for she received as its gift her freedom and her fortune. there was no hitch or trouble in its transfer from will to herself. honour and integrity were in the life-blood of william anneys, honesty and justice the very breath of his nostrils. aspatria's fortune had been guarded with a super-sensitive care; and when years gave her its management, will surrendered it cheerfully to her control. fortunately, the school selected by mrs. ketel satisfied will thoroughly; and brune's commission in the foot-guards was in honourable accord with the highest traditions and spirit of the dales. for the gigantic and physically handsome men of these mountain valleys have been for centuries considered the finest material for those regiments whose duty it is to guard the persons and the homes of royalty. brune had only followed in the steps of a great number of his ancestors. in the beginning of april, aspatria left seat-ambar for london,--left forever all the pettiness of her house life, chairs and tables, sewing and meals, and the useless daily labour that has to be continually done over again. and at the last will was very tender with her, and even alice did her best to make the parting days full of hope and kindness. as for the journey, there was no anxiety; brune was to travel with his sister, and see her safely within her new home. yet neither of them left the old home without some tears. would they ever see again those great, steadfast hills, that purify those who walk upon them; ever dwell again within the dear old house, that had not been builded, but had grown with the family it had sheltered, through a thousand years? they hardly spoke to each other, as they drove through the sweet valleys, where the sunshine laid a gold on the green, and the warm south-wind gently rocked the daisies, and the lark's song was like a silvery water-fall up in the sky. but they were young; and, oh, the rich significance of the word "young" when the heart is young as well as the body, when the thoughts are not doubts, and when the eyes look not backward, but only forward, into a bright future! chapter vi. "love shall be lord of sandy-side." during thirty years of the first half of this century mrs. st. alban's finishing school for young gentlewomen was a famous institution of its kind. for she had been born to the manner of courts and of people of high degree; and when evil fortune met her, she very wisely turned her inherited social advantages into a means of honest livelihood. aspatria was much impressed by her noble bearing and fine manners, and by the elaborate state in which the twelve pupils, of whom she was one, lived. each had her own suite of apartments; each was expected to keep a maid, and to dress with the utmost care and propriety. there were fine horses in the stables for their equestrian exercise, there were grooms to attend them during it, and there were regular reception-days, which afforded tyros in social accomplishments practical opportunities for cultivating the graceful and gracious urbanity which evidences really fine breeding. many of aspatria's companions were of high rank,--lady julias and lady augustas, who were destined to wear ducal coronets and to stand around the throne of their young queen. but they were always charmingly pleasant and polite, and aspatria soon acquired their outward form of calm deliberation and their mode of low, soft speech. for the rest, she decided, with singular prudence, to cultivate only those talents which nature had obviously granted her. a few efforts proved that she had no taste for art. indeed, the attempt to portray the majesty of the mountains or the immensity of the ocean seemed to her childishly petty and futile. she had dwelt among the high places and been familiar with the great sea, and to make images of them appeared a kind of sacrilege. but she liked the study of languages, and she had a rich contralto voice capable of expressing all the emotions of the heart. at the piano she hesitated; its music, under her unskilled fingers, sounded mechanical; she doubted her ability to put a soul into that instrument. but the harp was different; its strings held sympathetic tones she felt competent to master. to these studies she added a course of english literature and dancing. she was already a fine rider, and her information obtained from the vicar's library and the encyclopædia covered an enormous variety of subjects, though it was desultory, and in many respects imperfect. her new life was delightful to her. she had an innate love for study, for quiet, and for elegant surroundings. these tastes were fully gratified. the large house stood in a fair garden, surrounded by very high walls, with entrance-gates of handsomely wrought iron. perfect quiet reigned within this flowery enclosure. she could study without the constant interruptions which had annoyed her at home; and she was wisely aided in her studies by masters whose low voices and gliding steps seemed only to accentuate the peace of the wide schoolroom, with its perfect appointments and its placid group of beautiful students. on saturdays brune generally spent several hours with her; and if the weather were fine, they rode or walked in the park. brune was a constant wonder to aspatria. certainly his handsome uniform had done much for him, but there was a greater change than could be effected by mere clothes. without losing that freshness and singleness of mind he owed to his country training, he had become a man of fashion, a little of a dandy, a very innocent sort of a lady-killer. his arrival caused always a faint flutter in mrs. st. alban's dove-cot, and the noble damosels found many little womanly devices to excuse their passing through the parlour while brune was present. they liked to see him bend his beautiful head to them; and lady mary boleyn, who was aspatria's friend and companion, was mildly envied the privileges this relation gave her. during the vacations aspatria was always the guest of one or other of her mates, though generally she spent them at the splendid seat of the boleyns in hampshire, and the unconscious education thus received was of the greatest value to her. it gave the ease of nature to acquired accomplishments, and, above all, that air which we call distinction, which is rarely natural, and is attained only by frequent association with those who dwell on the highest social peaks. much might be said of this phase of aspatria's life which may be left to the reader's imagination. for three years it saw only such changes as advancing intelligence and growing friendships made. the real change was in aspatria personally. no one could have traced without constant doubt the slim, virginal, unfinished-looking girl that left seat-ambar, in the womanly perfection of aspatria aged twenty-four years. she had grown several inches taller; her angles had all disappeared; every joint was softly rounded. her hands and arms were exquisite; her throat and the poise of her head like those of a greek goddess. her hair was darker and more abundant, and her eyes retained all their old charm, with some rarer and nobler addition. to be sure, she had not the perfect regularity of feature that distinguished some of her associates, that exact beauty which titian's venus possesses, and which makes no man's heart beat a throb the faster. her face had rather the mobile irregularity of leonardo's mona lisa, the charming face that men love passionately, the face that men can die for. at the close of the third year she refused all invitations for the summer holidays, and went back to seat-ambar. there had not been much communication between will and herself. he was occupied with his land and his sheep, his wife and his two babies. people then took each other's affection as a matter of course, without the daily assurance of it. about twice a year will had sent her a few strong words of love, and a bare description of any change about the home, or else alice had covered a sheet with pretty nothings, written in the small, pointed, flowing characters then fashionable. but the love of aspatria for her home depended on no such trivial, accidental tokens. it was in her blood; her personality was knotted to seat-ambar by centuries of inherited affection; she could test it by the fact that it would have killed her to see it pass into a stranger's hands. when once she had turned her face northward, it seemed impossible to travel quickly enough. hundreds of miles away she felt the cool wind blowing through the garden, and the scent of the damask rose was on it. she heard the gurgling of the becks and the wayside streams, and the whistling of the boys in the barn, and the tinkling of the sheep-bells on the highest fells. the raspberries were ripe in their sunny corner; she tasted them afar off. the dark oak rooms, their perfume of ancient things, their air of homelike comfort,--it was all so vivid, so present to her memory, that her heart beat and thrilled, as the breast of a nursing mother thrills and beats for her longing babe. she had told no one she was coming; for, the determination made, she knew that she would reach home before the dalton postman got the letter to seat-ambar. the gig she had hired she left at the lower garden gate; and then she walked quickly through the rose-alley up to the front door. it stood open, and she heard a baby crying. how strange the wailing notes sounded! she went forward, and opened the parlour door; alice was washing the child, and she turned with an annoyed look to see the intruder. of course the expression changed, but not quickly enough to prevent aspatria seeing that her visit was inopportune. alice said afterward that she did not recognize her sister-in-law, and, as will met her precisely as he would have met an entire stranger, alice's excuse was doubtless a valid one. there were abundant exclamations and rejoicings when her identity was established, but will could do nothing all the evening but wonder over the changes that had taken place in his sister. however, when the first joy of reunion is over, it is a prudent thing not to try too far the welcome that is given to the home-comer who has once left home. will and alice had grown to the idea that aspatria would never return to claim the room in seat-ambar which was hers legally so long as she lived. it had been refurnished and was used as a guest-room. aspatria looked with dismay on the changes made. her very sampler had been sent away,--the bit of canvas made sacred by her mother's fingers holding her own over it. she could remember the instances connected with the formation of almost every letter of its simple prayer,-- jesus, permit thy gracious name to stand as the first effort of my infant hand; and, as my fingers on the sampler move, engage my tender heart to seek thy love. with thy dear children may i have a part, and write thy name, thyself, upon my heart. and it was gone! she went into the lumber-room, and picked it out from under a pile of old prints and shabbily framed certificates for prize cattle. with a sad heart aspatria regarded the other changes. her little tent-bed, with its white dimity curtains, had been given to baby's nurse. the vase her father had bought her at kendal fair was broken. her small mirror and dressing-table had been removed for a fine psyche in a gilded frame. nothing, nothing was untouched, but the big dower-chest into which she had flung her wretched wedding-clothes. she stood silently before it, reflecting, with excusable ill-nature, that neither will nor alice knew the secret of its spring. her mother had taught it to her, and that bit of knowledge she determined to keep to herself. after some hesitation she tried the spring: it answered her pressure at once; the lid flew back, and there lay the unhappy white satin dress, the wreath, and veil, and slippers, just as she had tumbled them in. the bitter hour came sharply back to her; she thought and gazed, and thought and gazed, until she felt herself to be weeping. then she softly closed the lid, and, as she did so, a smile parted her lips,--a smile that denied all that her tears said; a smile of hope, of good presage, of coming happiness. she stayed only a week at seat-ambar, though she had originally intended to remain until the harvest was over. the time was spent in public festivity; every one in allerdale was invited to give her a fitting welcome. but the very formality of all this entertainment pained her. it was, after all, only a cruel evidence that will and alice did not care to take her into their real home-life. she would rather have sat alone with them, and talked of their hopes and plans, and been permitted to make friends of the babies. so far away, so far away as she had drifted in three years from the absent living! would the dead be kinder? she went to aspatria church and sat down in her mother's seat, and let the strange spiritual atmosphere which hovers in old churches fill her heart with its supernatural influence. all around her were the graves of her fore-elders, strong elemental men, simple god-loving women. did they know her? did they care for her? her soul looked with piteous entreaty into the void behind it, but there was no answer; only that dreadful silence of the dead, which presses upon the drum of the ear like thunder. she went into the quiet yard around the church. the ancient, ancient sun shone on the young grass. over her mother's grave the sweet thyme had grown luxuriantly. she rubbed her hands in it, and spread them toward heaven with a prayer. then peace came into her heart, and she felt as if eyes, unseen heavenly eyes, rained happy influence upon her. thus it is that death imparts to life its most intense interest; for, kneeling in his very presence, aspatria forgot the mortality of her parents, and did reverence to that within them which was eternal. she returned to london, and was a little disappointed there also. mrs. st. alban had promised herself an absolute release from any outside element. she felt aspatria a trifle in the way, and, though far too polite to show her annoyance, aspatria by some similar instinct divined it. that is the way always. when we plan for ourselves, all our plans fail. happy are they who learn early to let fate alone, and never interfere with the powers who hold the thread of their destiny! it was not until she had reached this mood, a kind of content indifference, that her good genius could work for her. she then sent brune as her messenger, and brune took his sister to meet her on richmond hill. on their way thither they talked about seat-ambar, and will and alice, until aspatria suddenly noticed that brune was not listening to her. his eyes were fixed upon a lovely woman approaching them. it was sarah sandys. brune stood bareheaded to receive her salutation. "i never should have known you, lieutenant anneys," she said, extending her hand, and beaming like sunshine on the handsome officer, "had not your colonel jardine been in richmond to-day. he is very proud of you, sir, and said so many fine things of you that i am ambitious to show him that we are old acquaintances. may i know, through you, mrs. anneys also?" "this is my sister, mrs. sandys,--my sister--" brune hesitated a moment, and then said firmly, "miss anneys." then sarah insisted on taking them to her house to lunch; and there she soon had them under her influence. she waited on them with ravishing smiles and all sorts of pretty offices. she took them in her handsome carriage to drive, she insisted on their remaining to dinner. and before the drive was over, she had induced aspatria to extend her visit until the opening of mrs. st. alban's school. "we three are from the north country," she said, with an air of relationship; "and how absurd for miss anneys to be alone at mrs. st. alban's, where she is not wanted, and for me to be alone here, when i desire her society so much!" aspatria was much pleased to receive such a delightful invitation, and a messenger was sent at once for her maid. mrs. st. alban was quite ready to resign aspatria, and the maid was as glad as her mistress to leave the lonely mansion. in an hour or two she had removed aspatria's wardrobe, and was arranging the pleasant rooms mrs. sandys had placed at her guest's disposal. sarah was evidently bent on conquest. her toilet was a marvellous combination of some shining blue and white texture, mingled with pink roses and gold ornaments. her soft fair hair was loosened and curled, and she had a childlike manner of being carelessly happy. brune sat at her right hand; she talked to him in smiles and glances, and gave her words to aspatria. she was determined to please both sister and brother, and she succeeded. aspatria thought she had never in all her life seen a woman so lovable, so amusing, so individual. brune was naturally shy and silent among women. sarah made him eloquent, because she had the tact to discover the subject on which he could talk,--his regiment, and its sayings and doings. so brune was delighted with himself; he had never before suspected how clever he was. stimulated by sarah's and aspatria's laughter and curiosity, he found it easy to retail funny little bits of palace and mess gossip, and to describe the queer men and the vain men and the fine fellows that were his familiars. "and pray how do you amuse yourself, lieutenant? do you drink wine, and gamble, and go to the races, and bet your purse empty?" "i was never brought up in such ways," brune answered, "and, i can tell you, i wouldn't make believe to like them. there are a good many dalesmen in my company, and none of us enjoy anything more than a fair throw or an in-lock." "a throw or an in-lock! what do you mean, lieutenant? you must explain yourself to miss anneys and myself." "aspatria knows well enough. did you ever see north-country lads wrestling, madam? no? then you have as fine a thing in keeping for your eyes as human creatures can show you. i'll warrant that! why-a! wrestling brings all men to their level. when colonel jardine is ugly-tempered, and top-heavy with his authority, a few sound throws over timothy sutcliffe's head does bring him to level very well. i had a little in-play with him yesterday; for in the wrestling-ring we be all equals, though out of it he is my colonel." "now for the in-play. tell me about it, for i see miss anneys is not at all interested." "colonel jardine is a fine wrestler; a fair match he would be even for brother will. yesterday he said he could throw me; and i took the challenge willingly. so we shook hands, and went squarely for the throw. i was in good luck, and soon got my head under his right arm, and his head close down to my left side. then it was only to get my right arm up to his shoulder, and lift him as high as my head, and, when so, lean backward and throw him over my head: we call it the flying horse." "oh, i can see it very well. no wonder rosalind fell in love with orlando when he threw the wrestler charles." "were they north-country or cornish men?" she was far too kindly and polite to smile; indeed, she gave aspatria a pretty, imperative glance, and answered, in the most natural manner, "i think they were italians." "oh!" said brune, with some contempt. "chaff on their ways! the devonshire wrestlers are brutal; the cornish are too slow; but the cumberland men wrestle like gentlemen. they meet square and level in the ring, and the one who could carry ill-will for a fair throw would very soon find himself out of all rings and all good fellowship." "you said 'even brother will.' is your brother a better wrestler than you?" "my song! he is that! will has his match, though. we had a ploughman once,--aspatria remembers him,--robert steadman, an upright, muscular young fellow, civil and respectful as could be in everything about his work and place; but on wet days when we were all, masters and servants, in the barn together, it was a sight to see robert wrestling with will for the mastery, and will never so ready to say, 'well done!' nor the rest of us so happy, as when we saw will's two brawny legs going handsomely over robert's head." "if i were a man, i should try to be a fine wrestler." "it is a great comfort," said brune. "if you have a quarrel of any kind, it is a deal more satisfactory to meet your man, and throw him a few times over your head, than to go to law with him. it puts a stop to unpleasantness very quickly and very good-naturedly." then sarah rose and opened the piano, and from its keys dashed out a lilting, hurrying melody, like the galloping of horses and shaking of bridles; and in a few moments she began to sing, and brune went to her side, and, because she looked so steadily into his eyes, he could remember nothing at all of the song but its dashing refrain,-- "for he whom i wed must be north country bred, and must carry me back to the north countrie." then aspatria played some wonderful music on her harp, and sarah and brune sat still and listened to their own hearts, and sent out shy glances, and caught each other in the act, and brune was made nervous, and sarah gay, by the circumstance. by and by they began to talk of schools, and of how much aspatria had learned; and so brune regretted his own ignorance, and wished he had been more attentive to his schoolmaster. sarah laughed at the wish. "a knowledge of shakspeare and the musical glasses and the della cruscans," she said, "is for foolish, sentimental women. you can wrestle, and you can fight, and i suppose you can make money, and perhaps even make love. is there anything else a soldier needs?" "colonel jardine is very clever," continued brune, regretfully; "and i had a good schoolmaster--" "nonsense, lieutenant!" said sarah. "none of them are good. they all spoil your eyes, and seek to lay a curse on you; that is the confusion of languages." "still, i might have learned latin." "it was the speech of pagans and infidels." "or logic." "logic hath nothing to say in a good cause." "or philosophy." "philosophy is curiosity. socrates was very properly put to death for it." they were all laughing together, when sarah condemned socrates, and the evening passed like a happy dream away. it was succeeded by weeks of the same delight. aspatria soon learned to love sarah. she had never before had a woman friend on whom she could rely and to whom she could open her heart. sarah induced her to speak of ulfar, to tell her all her suffering and her plans and hopes, and she gave her in return a true affection and a most sincere sympathy. nothing of the past that referred to ulfar was left untold; and as the two women sat together during the long summer days, they grew very near to each other, and there was but one mind and one desire between them. so that when the time came for aspatria to go back to mrs. st. alban's, sarah would not hear of their separation. "you have had enough of book-learning," she said. "remain with me. we will go to paris, to rome, to vienna. we will study through travel and society. it is by rubbing yourself against all kinds of men and women that you acquire the finest polish of life; and then when ulfar comes back you will be able to meet him upon all civilized grounds. and as for the south americans, we will buy all the books about them we can find. are they red or white or black, i wonder? are they pagans or christians? i seem to remember that when i was at school i learned that the peruvians worshipped the sun." "i think, sarah, that they are all descendants of spaniards; so they must be roman catholics. and i have read that their women are beautiful and witty." "my dear aspatria, nothing goes with spaniards but gravity and green olives." aspatria was easily persuaded to accept sarah's offer; she was indeed very happy in the prospect before her. but brune was miserable. he had spent a rapturous summer, and it was to end without harvest, or the promise thereof. he could not endure the prospect, and one night he made a movement so decided that sarah was compelled to set him back a little. "were you ever in love, mrs. sandys?" poor brune asked, with his heart filling his mouth. she looked thoughtfully at him a moment, and then slowly answered: "i once felt myself in danger, and i fled to france. i consider it the finest action of my life." aspatria felt sorry for her brother, and she said warmly: "i think no one falls in love now. love is out of date." sarah enjoyed her temper. "you are right, dear," she answered. "culture makes love a conscious operation. when women are all feeling, they fall in love; when they have intellect and will, they attach themselves only after a critical examination of the object." later, when they were alone, aspatria took her friend to task for her cruelty: "you know brune loves you, sarah; and you do love him. why make him miserable? has he presumed too far?" "no, indeed! he is as adoring and humble as one could wish a future lord and master to be." "well, then?" "i will give our love time to grow. when we come back, if brune has been true to me in every way, he may fall to blessing himself with both hands;" and then she began to sing,-- "betide, betide, whatever betide, love shall be lord of sandy-side!" "love is a burden two hearts carry very easily together, but, oh, sarah! i know how hard it is to bear it alone. therefore i say, be kind to brune while you can." "my dear, your idea is a very pretty one. i read the other day a hindu version of it that smelled charmingly of the soil,-- 'a clapping is not made with one hand alone: your love, my beloved, must answer my own.'" but in spite of such reflections, sarah's will and intellect were predominant, and she left poor brune with only such hope as he could glean from the lingering pressure of her hand and the tears in her eyes. aspatria's pleading had done no good. perhaps it had done harm; for the very nature of love is that it should be spontaneous. chapter vii. "a rose of a hundred leaves." one morning in spring aspatria stood in a balcony overlooking the principal thoroughfare of rome,--the rome of papal government, mythical, mystical, mediæval in its character. a procession of friars had just passed; a handsome boy was crying violets; some musical puppets were performing in the shadow of the opposite palace; a party of brigands were going to the angelo prison; the spirit of cæsar was still abroad in the black-browed men and women, lounging and laughing in their gaudy, picturesque costumes; and the spirit of ecclesiasticism lifted itself above every earthly object, and touched proudly the bells of a thousand churches. aspatria was weary of all. she had that morning an imperative nostalgia. she could see nothing but the mountains of cumberland, and the white sheep wandering about their green sides. through the church-bells she heard the sheep-bells. above the boy crying violets she heard the boy whistling in the fresh-ploughed furrow. as for the violets, she knew how the wild ones were blowing in ambar wood, and how in the garden the daffodil-beds were aglow, and the sweet thyme humbling itself at their feet, because each bore a chalice. oh for a breath from the mountains and the sea! the hot roman streets, with their ever-changing human elements of sorrow and mirth, sin and prayer, riches and poverty, made her sad and weary. sarah came toward her with a letter in her hand. "ria," she said, "this is from lady redware. your husband will be in england very shortly." it was the first time sarah had ever called ulfar aspatria's husband. in conversation the two women had always spoken of him as "ulfar." the change was significant. it implied that sarah thought the time had come for aspatria to act decisively. "i shall be delighted to go back to england. we have been twenty months away, sarah. i was just feeling as if it were twenty years." sarah looked critically at the woman who was going to cast her last die for love. she was so entirely different from the girl who had first won that love, how was it possible for her to recapture the same sweet, faithless emotion? she had a swift memory of the slim girl in the plain black frock whom she had seen sitting under the whin-bushes. and then she glanced at aspatria standing under the blue-and-red awning of the roman palace. she was now twenty-six years old, and in the very glory of her womanhood, tall, superbly formed, graceful, calm, and benignant. her face was luminous with intellect and feeling, her manner that of a woman high-bred and familiar with the world. culture had done all for her that the lapidary does for the diamond; travel and social advantages had added to the gem a golden setting. she was so little like the sorrowful child whom ulfar had last seen in the vicar's meadow that sarah felt instantaneous recognition to be almost impossible. after some hesitation, aspatria agreed to accept sarah's plan and wait in richmond the development of events. at first she had been strongly in favour of a return to seat-ambar. "if ulfar really wants to see me," she said, "he will be most likely to seek me there." "but then, ria, he may think he does not want to see you. men never know what they really do want. you have to give them 'leadings.' if ulfar can look on you now and have no curiosity about your identity, i should say the man was not worth a speculation from any point. see if you have hold sufficient on his memory to pique his curiosity. if you have, lead him wherever you wish." "but how? and where?" "do i carry a divining-cup, ria? can i foresee the probabilities of a man so impossible as ulfar fenwick? i only know that richmond is a good place to watch events from." and of course the richmond house suited brune. his love had grown to the utmost of sarah's expectations, and he was no longer to be put off with smiles and pleasant words. sarah had promised him an answer when she returned, and he claimed it with a passionate persistence that had finally something imperative in it. to this mood sarah succumbed; though she declared that brune had chosen the morning of all others most inconvenient for her. she was just leaving the house. she was going to london about her jewels. brune had arrested the coachman by a peremptory movement, and he looked as if he were quite prepared to lift sarah out of the carriage. so aspatria went alone. she was glad of the swift movement in the fresh air, she was glad that she could be quiet and let it blow passively upon her. the restlessness of watching had made her feverish. she had the "strait" of a strong mind which longs to meet her destiny. for her love for her husband had grown steadily with her efforts to be worthy of that love, and she longed to meet him face to face and try the power of her personality over him. the trial did not frighten her; she felt within her the ability to accomplish it; her feet were on a level with her task; she was the height of a woman above it. musing on this subject, letting her mind shoot to and fro like a shuttle between the past and the present, she reached piccadilly, and entered a large jeweller's shop. the proprietor was talking to a gentleman who was exhibiting a number of uncut gems. aspatria knew him instantly. it was ulfar fenwick,--the same ulfar, older, and yet distinctly handsomer. for the dark hair slightly whitened, and the thin, worn cheeks, had an intensely human aspect. she saw that he had suffered; that the sum of life was on his face,--toil, difficulty, endurance, mind, and also that pathetic sadness which tells of endurance without avail. she went to the extreme end of the counter, and began to examine the jewels which sarah had sent to be reset. some were finished; others were waiting for the selection of a particular style, and aspatria looked critically at the models shown her. the occupation gave her an opportunity to calm and consider herself; she could look at the jewels a few moments without expressing an opinion. then she gave, in a clear, distinct voice, some order regarding a pearl necklace; and ulfar turned like a flash, and looked at the woman who had spoken. she had the pearls in one hand; the other touched a satin cushion on which lay many ornaments of diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. the moonlight iridescence of the pearls, the sparkling glory of the gems, seemed to be a part of her noble beauty. he forgot his own treasures, and stood looking at the woman whose voice had called to him out of the past, had penetrated his heart like a bell struck sharply in its innermost room. who was it? where had they met before? he knew the face. he knew, and yet he did not know, the whole charming personality. as she turned, his eyes met her eyes, and the pure pallor of her cheeks was flooded with crimson. she passed him within touch; the rustle of her garments, their faint perfume, the simple sense of her nearness, thrilled his being wondrously. and, above all, that sense of familiarity! what could it mean? he gave the stones into the jeweller's care, and hurriedly followed her steps. "that is sarah sandys's carriage, my barony for it!" he exclaimed; "and the men are in the sandys livery. sarah, then, is in richmond; and the woman who rides in her carriage is very likely in her house; but who can it be?" the face haunted him, the voice tormented him like a melody that we continually try to catch. he endeavoured to place both as he rode out to richmond. more than once the thought of aspatria came to him, but he could not make any memory of her fit that splendid vision of the woman with uplifted hand and the string of pearls dropping from it. her exquisite face, between the beauty of their reflection and the flashing of the gems beneath, retained in his memory a kind of glory. "such loveliness is the proper setting for pearls and diamonds," he said. "many a beauty i have seen, but none that can touch the heel of her shoe." for he really thought that it was her personal charms which had so moved him. it was the sense of familiarity; it was in a far deeper and dimmer way a presentiment of right, of possession, a feeling of personal touch in the emotion, which perplexed and stimulated him as the mere mystery and beauty of the flesh could never have done. as soon as he reached the top of richmond hill he saw sarah. she was sauntering along that loveliest of cliffs, with brune. an orderly was leading brune's horse; he himself was in the first ecstasy of sarah's acknowledged love. ulfar went into the star and garter inn and watched sarah. he had no claim upon her, and yet he felt as if she had been false to him. "and for a mere soldier!" then he looked critically at the soldier, and said, with some contempt: "i am sorry for him! sarah sandys will have her pastime, and then say, 'farewell, good sir!'" as for the mere soldier being brune anneys, that was a thought out of ulfar's horizon. in a couple of hours he went to sarah's. she met him with real delight. "you are just five years lovelier, sarah," he said. "admiration from sir ulfar fenwick is admiration indeed!" "yes; i say you are beautiful, though i have just seen the most bewitching woman that ever blessed my eyes,--in your carriage too." and then, swift as light or thought, there flashed across his mind a conviction that the beauty and aspatria were identical. it was a momentary intelligence; he grasped it merely as a clew that might lead him somewhere. "in my carriage? i dare say it was ria. she went to piccadilly this morning about some jewels." "she reminded me of aspatria." "have you brought back with you that old trouble? i have no mind to hear more of it." "who is the lady i saw this morning?" "she is the sister of the man i am going to marry. in four months she will be my sister." "what is her name?" "that is to tell you my secret, sir." "i saw you throwing your enchantments over some soldier. i knew just how the poor fellow felt." "then you also have been in arcadia. be thankful for your past blessings. i do not expect you to rejoice with me; none of the apostolic precepts are so hard as that which bids us rejoice with those who do rejoice." "neither elizabeth nor you have ever named aspatria in your letters." "did you expect us to change guard over ambar-side? i dare say aspatria has grown into a buxom, rosy-cheeked woman and quite forgotten you." "i must go and see her." "i think you ought. also, you should give her her freedom. i consider your behaviour a dog-in-the-manger atrocity." "can you not pick nicer words, sarah?" "i would not if i could." "sarah, tell me truly, have i lost my good looks?" she regarded him attentively a moment, and answered: "not quite. you have some good points yet. you have grown thin and gray, and lost something, and perhaps gained something; but you are not very old, and then, you know, you have your title, and your castle, and your very old, old family, and i suppose a good deal of money." in reality, she was sure that he had never before been so attractive; for he had now the magic of a countenance informed by intellect and experience, eyes brimming with light, lips neither loose nor coarse, yet full of passion and the faculty of enjoyment. he smiled grimly at sarah's list of his charms, and said, "when will you introduce me to your future sister?" "this evening. come about nine. i have a few sober people who will be delighted to hear your south american adventures. ria goes to lady chester's ball soon after nine. do not miss your chance." "could i see her now?" "you could not." "what for?" "do you suppose she would leave a _modiste_ for--you?" "i wonder where aspatria is!" "go and find out." "sarah, who is the young lady i saw in your carriage?" "she is the sister of the officer you saw me with, the man i am going to marry." "where did you meet him?" "at a friend's house." "where did you meet her?" "her brother brought her to my house. i asked her to stay with me, and finally we went to italy together." "she has a very aristocratic manner." "she ought to have. she was educated at mrs. st. alban's, and she visits at the earl of arundel's, the duke of norfolk's, and the very exclusive boleyns',--lady mary boleyn is her friend, and she has also had the great advantage of my society for nearly two years." "then of course she is not aspatria, and my heart is a liar, and my memory is a traitor, and my eyes do not see correctly. i will call about nine. i am at the star and garter. if she should name me at all--" "do you imagine she noticed you? and in such a public place as howell's?" "i really do imagine she noticed me. ask her." "i see you are in love again. after all that experience has done for you! it is a nemesis, ulfar. i have often noticed that, however faithless a man may be, there comes at last one woman who avenges all the rest. enter nemesis at nine to-night!" "sarah, you are an angel." "thank you, ulfar. i thought you classed me with the other side." "as for aspatria--" "life is too short to discuss aspatria. i remember one day at redware being sharply requested to keep silence on that subject. the wheel of retribution has made a perfect circle as regards aspatria! i shall certainly tell ria that you have made her the heroine of your disagreeable matrimonial romance." "no, no, sarah! do not say a word to her. i must wait until nine, i suppose? and i am so anxious and so fearful, sarah." "you must wait until nine. and as for the rest, i know very well that in the present age a lover's cares and fears have dwindled to the smallest span. do go to your hotel, and get clothed and in your right mind. you are most unbecomingly dressed. good-by, old friend, good-by!" and she left him with an elaborate courtesy. ulfar was now in a vortex. things went around and around in his consciousness; and whenever he endeavoured to examine events with his reason, then feeling advanced some unsupported conviction, and threw him back into the same senseless whirl of emotion. he had failed to catch the point which would have given him the clew to the whole mystery,--the identity of brune with the splendidly accoutred officer sarah avowed to be her intended husband. without taking special note of him, ulfar had seen certain signs of birth, breeding, and assured position. in his mind there was a great gulf between the haughty-looking soldier and the simple, handsome, but rather boorish-looking young squire of ambar-side. the two individualities were as far apart in social claims as the north and south poles are apart physically. and if this beautiful woman were indeed aspatria, how could he reconcile the fact with her education at st. alban's, her friendship with such exalted families, her relationship to an officer of evident birth and position? when he thought thus, he acknowledged the impossibility; but then no sooner had he acknowledged it than his heart passionately denied the deduction, with the simple iteration, "it is aspatria! it is aspatria!" aspatria or not, he told himself that he was at last genuinely in love. every affair before was tame, pale, uninteresting. if it was not aspatria, then the first aspatria was the shadow of the second and real one; the preface to love's glorious tale; the prelude to his song; the gray, sweet dawn to his perfect day. he could not eat, nor sit still, nor think reasonably, nor yet stop thinking. the sun stood still; the minutes were hours; at four o'clock he wished to fling the timepiece out of the window. aspatria had the immense strength of certainty. she knew. also, she had sarah to advise with. still better, she had the conviction that ulfar loved her. perhaps sarah had exaggerated ulfar's desperate condition; if so, she had done it consciously, for she knew that as soon as a woman is sure of her power she puts on an authority which commands it. she was now only afraid that ulfar would not be kept in suspense long enough, that aspatria would forgive him too easily. "do make yourself as puzzling as you can, for this one night, aspatria," she urged. "try to outvie and outdo and even affront that dove-like simplicity he used to adore in you, and into which you are still apt to relapse. he told me once that you looked like a quakeress when he first saw you." "i was just home from miss gilpin's school in kendal. it was a quaker school. i have always kept a black gown ready, like the one he saw me first in." "no black gown to-night. i have a mind to stay here and see that you turn the quakeress into a princess." "i will do all you wish. to-night you shall have your way; but poor ulfar must have suffered, and--" "poor ulfar, indeed! be merry; that is the best armour against love. what ruins women? revery and sentimentality. a woman who does not laugh ought to be watched." but though she lectured and advised aspatria as to the ways of men and the ways of love, sarah had not much faith in her own counsels. "no one can draw out a programme for a woman's happiness," she mused; "she will not keep to its lines. now, i do wonder whether she will dress gorgeously or not? what did solomon in all his glory wear? if aspatria only knew how dress catches a man's eye, and then touches his vanity, and then sets fire to his imagination, and finally, somehow, someway, gets to his heart! if she only knew,-- 'all thoughts, all passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame, are but the ministers of love, and feed his sacred flame!'" a little before nine, ulfar entered sarah's drawing-room. it was lighted with wax candles. it was sweet with fresh violets, and at the farther end aspatria stood by her harp. she was dressed for lady chester's ball, and was waiting her chaperon; but there had been a little rebellion against her leaving without giving her admirers one song. every person was suggesting his or her favourite; and she stood smiling, uncertain, listening, watching, for one voice and face. her dazzling bodice was clasped with emeralds; her draperies were of damasked gauze, shot with gold and silver, and abloom with flowers. her fair neck sparkled with diamonds; and the long white fingers which touched the strings so firmly glinted with flashing gems. the moment ulfar entered, she saw him. his eyes, full of fiery prescience, forced her to meet their inquiry; and then it was that she sat down and filled the room with tinkling notes, that made every one remember the mountains, and the merry racing of the spring winds, and the trickling of half-hidden fountains. sarah advanced with him. she touched aspatria slightly, and said: "hush! a moment. this is my friend sir ulfar fenwick, ria." ria lifted her eyes sweetly to his eyes; she bowed with the grace and benignity of a queen, and adroitly avoided speech by turning the melody into song:-- "i never shall forget the mountain maid that once i met by the cold river's side. i met her on the mountain-side; she watched her herds unnoticed there: 'trim-bodiced maiden, hail!' i cried. she answered, 'whither, wanderer? for thou hast lost thy way.'" every word went to ulfar's heart, and amid all the soft cries of delight he alone was silent. she was beaming with smiles; she was radiant as a goddess; the light seemed to vanish from the room when she went away. her adieu was a general one, excepting to ulfar. on him she turned her bright eyes, and courtesied low with one upward glance. it set his heart on fire. he knew that glance. they might say this or that, they might lie to him neck-deep, he knew it was aspatria! he was cross with sarah. he accused her of downright deception. he told her frankly that he believed nothing about the soldier and his sister. she bade him come in the morning and talk to ria; and he asked impetuously: "how soon? twelve, i suppose? how am i to pass the time until twelve to-morrow?" "why this haste?" "why this deception?" "after seven years' indifference, are you suddenly gone mad?" "i feel as if i was being very badly used." "how does the real aspatria feel? go at once to ambar-side." "the real aspatria is here. i know it! i feel it!" "in a court of law, what evidence would feeling be?" "in a court of love--" "try it." "i will, to-morrow, at ten o'clock." his impetuosity pleased her. she was disposed to leave him to aspatria now. and aspatria was disposed on the following morning to make his confession very easy to him. she dressed herself in the simple black gown she had kept ready for this event. it had the short elbow sleeves, and the ruffle round the open throat, and the daffodil against her snowy breast, that distinguished the first costume he had ever seen her in. she loosened her hair and let it fall in two long braids behind her ears. she was, as far as dress could make her so, the aspatria who had held the light to welcome him to ambar-side that stormy night ten years ago. he was standing in the middle of the room, restless and expectant, when she opened the door. he called her by name, and went to meet her. she trembled and was silent. "aspatria, it is you! my life! my soul! it is you!" he took her hands; they were as cold as ice. he drew her close to his side; he stooped to see her eyes; he whispered word upon word of affection,--sweet-meaning nouns and adjectives that caught a real physical heat from the impatient heart and tongue that forged and uttered them. "forgive me, my dearest! forgive me fully! forgive me at once and altogether! aspatria, i love you! i love none but you! i will adore you all my life! speak one word to me, one word, my love, one word: say only 'ulfar!'" she forgot in a moment all that she had suffered. she forgot all she had promised sarah, all her intents of coldness, all reproaches; she forgot even to forgive him. she just put her arms around his neck and kissed him. she blotted out the past forever in that one whispered word, "ulfar." and then he took her to his heart; he kissed her for very wonder; he kissed her for very joy; but most of all he kissed her for fervent love. then once more life was an "interlude in heaven." every hour held some sweet surprise, some accidental joy. it was brune, it was sarah, it was some eulogium of ulfar in the great london weeklies. he had fought in the good fight for freedom; he had done great deeds of mercy as well as of valour; he had crossed primeval forests, and brought back wonderful medicines, and dyes, and many new specimens for the botanist and the naturalist. the papers were never weary in praising his pluck, his bravery, his generosity, and his endurance; the geographical society sent him its coveted blue ribbon. in his own way ulfar had made himself a fit mate for the new aspatria. and she was a constant wonder to him. nothing in all his strange experience touched his heart like the thought of his simple, patient wife, studying to please him, to be worthy of his love. every day revealed her in some new and charming light. she was one hundred aspatrias in a single, lovable, lovely woman. on what ever subject ulfar spoke, she understood, supplemented, sympathized with, or assisted him. she could talk in french and italian; she was not ignorant of botany and natural science, and she was delighted to be his pupil. in a single month they became all the world to each other; and then they began to long for the lonely old castle fronting the wild north sea, to plan for its restoration, and for a sweet home-life, which alone could satisfy the thirst of their hearts for each other's presence. at the end of june they went northward. it was the month of the rose, and the hedges were pink, and the garden was a garden of roses. there were banks of roses, mazes of roses, walks and standards of roses, masses of glorious colour, and breezes scented with roses. butterflies were chasing one another among the flowers; nightingales, languid with love, were singing softly above them. and in the midst was a gray old castle, flying its old border flags, and looking as happy as if it were at a festival. aspatria was enraptured, spellbound with delight. with ulfar she wandered from one beauty to another, until they finally reached a great standard of pale-pink roses. their loveliness was beyond compare; their scent went to the brain like some divine essence. it was a glory,--a prayer,--a song of joy! aspatria stood beside it, and seemed to ulfar but its mortal manifestation. she was clothed in a gown of pale-pink brocade, with a little mantle of the same, trimmed with white lace, and a bonnet of white lace and pink roses. she was a perfect rose of womanhood. she was the glory of his life, his prayer, his song of joy! "it is the loveliest place in the world!" he said, "and you! you are the loveliest woman! my sweet aspatria!" she smiled divinely. "and yet," she answered, "i remember, ulfar, a song of yours that said something very different. listen:-- 'there is a rose of a hundred leaves, _but the wild rose is the sweetest_!'" and as she sang the words, ulfar had a vision of a young girl, fresh and pure as a mountain bluebell, in her scrimp black frock. he saw the wind blowing it tight over her virgin form; he saw her fair, childish, troubled face as she kissed him farewell in the vicar's meadows; and then he saw the glorious woman, nobly planned, perfect on every side, that the child wife had grown to. so, when she ceased, he pulled the fairest rose on the tree; he took from it every thorn, he put it in her breast, he kissed the rose, and he kissed her rose-like face. then he took up the song where she dropped it; and hand in hand, keeping time to its melody, they crossed the threshold of their blessed home. "the robin sang beneath the eaves: 'there is a rose of a hundred leaves, _but the wild rose is the sweetest_!' "the nightingale made answer clear: '_o darling rose! more fair, more dear! o rose of a hundred leaves_!'" the end. * * * * * transcriber notes archaic spelling preserved, including pottle and alterative. passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. claire by leslie burton blades the blind love of a blind hero _by a blind author_ [transcriber's note: this novel was originally serialized in four installments in all-story weekly magazine from october , , to october , . the original breaks in the serial have been retained, but summaries of previous events preceding the second and third installments have been moved to the end of this e-book. the table of contents which follows the introduction was created for this electronic edition.] on the editorial page of last week's all-story weekly we announced a new serial by a new author. "claire" is a story of such subtle insight, of so compassionate an understanding of human nature, and of so honest an attack on the eternal problem of love and living, that it can well afford to take its chances on its own merits. but _lawrence gordon_, the blind hero of the triangle tragedy, which runs its inevitable course in the mountain cabin of _philip ortez_, takes on a new interest, when we learn that his creator is himself a blind man. born of mining people in colorado, blades lost two fingers and the sight of both eyes when as a lad of nine years he refused to take the dare of some playmates and set off a giant firecracker. while still a youth he entered the colorado state school for the blind. here he spent six years. in the crash at creede, when the bottom fell out of so many mining fortunes, the blades family lost their all. then young blades took up the burden of his own keep. for two successful years he maintained himself at the university of colorado by teaching music. when the family moved to oregon, the indomitable leslie followed. at eugene he entered the state university and continued to support himself by music and lectures. after receiving his degrees of b.a. and m.a. he was a substitute teacher in the english department. for some time he has made his home at san dimas, where his regular contributions on a variety of themes to the magazine section of _the express_ have brought him something more than local prestige. he is deeply interested in the drama, and has several plays to his credit. "when he came home," a play of his dealing with the return of a blind soldier from the war, has become a favorite with one of the california circuits. "claire" is his first novel, and though he is still on the sunny side of thirty, this arresting story is a promising portent of what we may expect from the powerful pen of this blind man with an artist's vision.--the editor. table of contents i. disaster. ii. the water of life. iii. the way of the primitive. iv. mutual dislike. v. the face of death. vi. the stone threat. vii. playing with fire. viii. the tightening net. ix. claire's abasement. x. how simple the solution! xi. the making of a knight errant. xii. the unhorsing of a knight errant. xiii. faint heart and fair lady. xiv. philip to the rescue. xv. utter exhaustion. xvi. the question answered. xvii. angles of a triangle. xviii. the romantic realist. xix. the last discussion. xx. the law of life. xxi. into the sunlight. chapter i. disaster. in the confusion lawrence stood still. over the howling wind and smashing sea, he heard thin voices shouting orders. another mass of water swept over the deck. near him a woman screamed piteously. instinctively, the masculine desire to protect womanhood made him ache to help her, but he bit his lip and clung to the rail. if he could only see! never before in his five years of blindness had he felt the full horror of it. he had taught himself to forget his loss of sight. it is useless to waste time in sentimental moping, he would say, but now-- "god, when will it end?" he muttered savagely. the city of panama lurched back and forth like a rocking-horse. somewhere forward they must be lowering the boats. he stumbled along the deck, holding to the rail for support. the spray dashed in his face, and he could feel the water from his hair trickling into his ears. he shook his head and laughed grimly, but he could not hear his own laughter. the terrific noise of the wind drowned everything else. it became increasingly difficult to keep his hold on the rail. he was wet to the waist. each time the wave struck him higher, and he noticed that the lurching grew heavier. he was strong, six feet of hard muscle, but the water was stronger. his mouth was filled with it, and his ears seemed bursting. his rugged features twisted into hard lines. as he struggled forward, he raged at the blindness that kept him from seeing. "not a chance, not a chance," he repeated over and over, as he strained to hold the deck. there was a lull in the wind, and he marveled at the absence of human sound. suddenly he divined the cause. his mind became a chaos of rage and fear. "they have left me," he cried; "left me without a thought." he shut his teeth hard, then ducked as another heavy beating weight of water crashed over him. it seemed it would never lift and leave him free to breathe. his arms and feet no longer seemed a part of him. he wondered if the vessel were under the surface, and nerved himself to let go. but he could not. the rail was his only hope of life. slowly the water began to draw his fingers away from it. the next surge sent his body out--somewhere. he struck forward with both hands and kicked his feet mechanically. was it the roar of the wind or the weight of the water itself that beat into his ears? the sudden pain in his lungs, told him that he had reached the surface. how good the air felt! shaking the water out of his ears, he listened. nothing but the wind was audible. it seemed to him that he had been swimming for hours in the icy waves. events on the ship, the shock of the boiler explosion, the rush for the deck, all seemed to have happened long ago. "if i could only see," he thought, "i might find the ship again." it occurred to him that he might be swimming in a circle, and he resolved to keep in one direction, but how? he remembered that he had always tended to swim to the left, so he increased his right-arm stroke. suddenly a heavy timber struck him. he gasped with pain, and sank under the surface. when he came up, his hand struck the same piece of wood. with a desperate effort, he dragged himself up on it, twisting his arms and legs about it to maintain his hold. the water, swirled by the wind, lashed him as he lay on the timber. "land may be within sight," he thought, "and i shall never know." his fear and the cold began to work upon his imagination. he had a clear mental picture of a sandy beach backed with trees. he felt sure he was being carried past it into the open sea. hours passed. he began to rave at the water, at life, at everything. mixed, tangled masses of images heaped themselves in utter disorder in his brain: passages of verse, bits of his trained laboratory jargon, phrases from half-forgotten books, the delicate curves of the water sprite at the exposition, and, above all, a fierce gnawing pain in his side. over the roar of the wind he heard something else. was it the tumbling of breakers? he listened, then concluded that it was his imagination. but they came nearer, louder; he sat up on his plank, his nerves tense. the board lurched sidewise, spurn around, and the swell it was riding broke over him with a force that knocked him from his position. over and over he rolled, until, almost unconscious, he felt his body dragging along the sand. the undertow was pulling at him. he fought furiously, digging his hands into the sand, and clawing desperately up the steep sloping beach. the next breaker caught him and rolled him past the water-line. he scrambled to his feet, and ran shakily ahead, neither knowing nor caring what was before him. behind him he heard the water sweeping in. he was out of its reach, but still he ran. a rock caught him above the knees and sent him headlong into the sand. he became unconscious, and lay still, half doubled up. when he recovered consciousness and sat up, a fierce sun was beating down upon him. his head ached, and he was hungry. "there may be people within call," he thought. rising unsteadily, the soreness of his muscles coming home to him, he gave a prolonged "hello-o." a faint echo was his answer. he formed a trumpet of his hands and shouted louder. the echo came back stronger. "only cliffs," he concluded. the gnaw of hunger increased. "clams are my best chance," he reasoned, and, turning, he groped his way to the water. when the incoming breakers washed his knees, he stopped. the intense dread that his experience had given him was crying retreat, but he stood his ground. stooping over, he began digging in the sand. his cut and bleeding hands burned with the salt water, but he dug steadily, moving rapidly along the beach. at last his fingers turned up a round, ridged object. feeling the edge of it he knew that he had found what he sought. he wanted to eat the clam at once, but reluctantly dropped it into his pocket, and went on digging. when he had filled his pocket he straightened up and started toward the shore. as he waded through the last shallow wash of the wave, his foot caught in something soft, and he fell. he rose, and then on second thought stooped to feel what had tripped him. his hand touched a mass of wet, tangled hair. he jerked it back hurriedly and screamed. the strain he had been under was telling. nerving himself, he reached again, and touched a face. "a woman! another human being! thank god!" then he clutched his throat in desperation. she might be dead. he stooped and dragged the body up on the sand. he was afraid to find out if she were dead or alive, and sat beside her, timidly touching her hair. "fool!" he muttered at last. "if she is not dead, she soon will be." he leaned over, listening for her breathing. at first there was only the sound of the waves, then he heard her breathing come faintly. he took off his coat, emptied out the clams, and dipped it in the ocean. coming back, he wrung it out over her face. he knelt beside her, and rubbed her arms and throat. his hands were his trained observers. as he worked over her, they gave him a detailed picture which sank deep into his memory. she was splendidly made. his fingers caught the delicate curve of her throat and shoulders. her skin was satin to his touch. he knew that the fine hair, the smooth skin, the curve and grace of her body belonged to a beautiful woman. taking her arms, he worked them vigorously. when he was beginning to despair, she coughed, moaned a little, and turned over on her side. he wondered if she had her eyes open. he dared not feel to see, and sat silent, anxious, waiting for her to speak. it seemed to him that eternity passed before she murmured, "oh, oh! where am i?" "i do thank god," he exclaimed earnestly. "where am i?" she repeated as she sat up. "i do not know," he answered. "presumably somewhere on the coast of chile." her eyes opened very wide and gazed at him as she said, "are we the only ones?" "i cannot tell," he replied, smiling a little. "i am blind, you see." "yes, i know," she said softly. "i saw you on shipboard." "the first consciousness i had of you," he continued, "was when i stumbled over you while getting my breakfast." "breakfast? where is it?" he laid one hand on the pile of clams. she looked down at them, and burst out laughing, uncontrollably. "it is not much," he said, "but we primitive people are simple in our needs. i worked to get them, goodness knows." she was looking around her, twisting her long brown hair in her hands. at last she shuddered. "it's desperately lonely. nothing but sea and mountains. i'm afraid i can't walk," she said. "good god!" he exclaimed. "can't walk?" she turned toward him, smiling faintly. "i was struck when i washed overboard, and my ankle, i think, is broken. i am sorry," she added. her tone was slightly apologetic, and he laughed nervously. "oh, that's all right," he said, assuringly, then stammered, "i mean--" he hesitated, and she laughed. "i mean that we can get along," he continued, stubbornly. "heaven knows i am sorry. but you can't realize what it means to have some one near you who can see." she did not answer for a minute, then said quietly: "shall we breakfast before beginning anything else?" he reached in his pocket for his penknife. it was gone. the blank expression of disgust on his face made her ask: "what is it?" "my knife," he said. "it is gone." they sat opposite each other, the clams between them. each followed a different trend of ideas. he was raging at this last mishap, and considering means of opening the clams. she was conjecturing over the fate of the city of panama and wondering what she could do, alone here with this blind man. her night-gown and a heavy skirt had been all she had worn when she had rushed on deck in the night. she looked around her at the rocks and thought how foolish she had been to leave her shoes. at last he rose and began to grope back along the beach. noticing that his hands were torn and bleeding, she said, hastily: "don't do that. what are you looking for, anyway?" "stones," he answered, stopping. "i will direct you," she to him. "left--right--a little ahead now." guided by her, he moved until his hand touched a small stone. he found two of them and came back to her side. she watched him while he tried to break a clam-shell between the two rocks. "let me," she said, taking hold of one of them. "your hands are too badly cut." he hesitated. "please," she said. "i can at least do the woman's part and prepare the meal. especially when you bring it to me." he laughed and gave up the stones. "i am desperately thirsty," she said, breaking open the shells. "i feel as though my tongue were swelling fast," he admitted. they dug the tiny clams from the shells, and ate for a few minutes in silence, then she said: "i can't go any more of them." he wondered if she were not hungry, but said nothing. after eating a few more, he understood. then he, too, stopped. "i've got to find water," he said. he waited for her to speak. at last she said: "i can see nothing that might indicate fresh water. where will you go?" "up the beach, i suppose." "there are mountains up the beach, and back of us, too. you could never find your way out." her tone was despairing. "true," he admitted. there was a long pause. then she said slowly: "it seems to be your only hope, doesn't it? well, i guess you had better go. god bless you!" she concluded as though it were her last word. suddenly it occurred to him that he had been thinking and talking of himself alone. the idea of parting from this woman who could see, whom it seemed to him he had found as his own means of salvation, immediately became impossible. "i am going to take you with me," he stated quietly. "you forget," she said, "i cannot walk." he had forgotten it for the moment. now it filled him with new terror. he laid his hand on hers. "i can't help it," he said finally, "i can't leave you. i will carry you." "oh, no!" her protest was genuine. he felt her fear that she would hamper him. "don't be foolish," he said as though he had known her for years, "i am not being gallant. this is not a time for gallantry. i am simply being sensible. you can't sit here, can you?" "i can't help myself, can i? i can't walk." "i can help it," he retorted. "it would simply make your chance of escape impossible," she argued. "it is preposterous. why should you? your life is worth to you as much as mine is to me. i know what that means. i would not stay here if i could help it. i would not sacrifice my life for yours. neither shall you sacrifice yours for mine." "see here," he demanded, "who are you and where did you get that attitude toward life?" it was one he knew. it was the hard, relentless theory of the struggle of animal survival which his thinking in college had led him to accept. there was in it no touch of duty, no sense of obligation, and very little pity. he had called himself a hard materialist, and had never lived up to his theory. now here beside him in this outlandish situation was a woman quietly arguing his own philosophy of life to him against herself. she laughed. "it's my way of thinking, and i mean it," she said, twisting her hair up on her head. "i got it out of four years of thought and reading in a college, and i do not thank the college for it. i find it very inconvenient, but it is my belief. i have tried to live by it." "so is it mine," he said, "and i mean to live by it." "very well," she answered. "that aggressive tone against me is not necessary. go ahead and get through if you can. good-by, my friend." "i'm afraid you do not understand," he answered her steadily. "i want to live. to do it, you are necessary to me. i need your eyes. very well, whether you like it or not, you are going with me." he rose quickly, and stretched his muscles. his head ached, his whole being cried for water. he knew he could not carry her far, but without her he was powerless. "suppose," she suggested, her eyes flashing from hazel to deep-brown, "suppose you do take me. have you any assurance that my eyes will serve you rightly?" "your own life, which is pleasant to you, will depend upon your eyes serving me rightly," he said coldly, as he stooped over her. she laid a restraining hand on his arm. "and in the long days that we may have to go on together, what will you do in return for my eyes?" "carry you," he answered. "very well, but there are two things you must know," she said quietly. "first, that i am married; second, that i am quite as steadfast in my belief as i said. if you make one single attempt to establish more than a frank comradeship, based on mutual support in our unforeseen partnership, my eyes will serve you falsely." he laughed a little as he picked her up. she gasped with pain. "i can't help hurting you," he said gently. "it's all right," she answered, putting her arm around his neck so that he might the more easily bear her. "we are off on our great adventure. the halt and the blind! such a mad pair!" he smiled, and started slowly up the beach. "i shall have to develop a system of one word guides," she mused. "left--right--slow--ahead--all right--and so on," he admitted. suddenly she laughed out merrily. "my friend, a stranger pilgrimage the world never knew. what is your name?" "lawrence," he said. "mine," she answered, "is claire. go a little to the left." he turned slightly, and plodded through the sand. chapter ii. the water of life. still exhausted from his recent battle with the waves, lawrence was not in the best condition for this new struggle. before he had gone far, he was forced to rest. he lowered claire to the ground carefully and dropped beside her. his effort in carrying her had made him breathe hard, the sun was beating down on them, and his throat was dry and parched. speaking was becoming difficult. "if we don't find water soon, we're ended," he managed to say. "i'm afraid we are," she admitted. "do you know, lawrence, you shouldn't try to carry me. i weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds. that is too much for any man. without me, you might make it, even though you couldn't travel so steadily ahead." "perhaps," he agreed. "i've thought of that. but, you see, i would have to feel my way. at best i'd get a lot of falls. i might walk off a precipice. that doesn't appeal to me, now that i've set myself to winning." "and yet you are almost certain to wear yourself out to no purpose if you carry me," she repeated. "if you could do it and get me through, i'd never stop you. i've a husband in america who loves me, and i want to get back to him, but you aren't equal to it. i see no advantage in dying a mile or ten miles inland. for one's grave, this is as good a place as any." she spoke of dying in a matter-of-fact way that made him feel strange, though he thought of it in exactly the same way himself. he believed that he was a mere animal and that death was a mere cessation of energy. "i wonder if she feels just as i do about it," he pondered. "perhaps not. but it can't matter anyway. here we are, and death does seem fairly certain." he was breathing more regularly now, though his throat burned and his tongue stuck to his mouth disagreeably. "we'd better be moving," he said, rising with an effort. "as you please," she assented. then, as he lifted her: "my ankle is swollen dreadfully. if we could find water, i'd bathe it and put a stick splint on it." he did not answer. silence fell between them while he plodded ahead. they started up the mountainside, and the way became increasingly difficult. there was a dense undergrowth through which he was compelled to shove his feet. there were rocks which she could not see, down which he was constantly slipping. her directions barely kept him from bumping into the trees that grew closer and closer together. occasionally she pushed a branch aside from before him, and laughed as he stooped to pass under, throwing her forward so that she had to cling to his neck to keep her position. on and on he forced his way, his teeth clenched, his breath broken by the strain. she made herself as easy to carry as she could, but beyond that she showed no sign of sympathy. again and again he was obliged to stop and put her down while he rested. his head was throbbing frightfully. he gave up trying to talk. during one of their frequent rests she had asked him quietly, her eyes filled with a soft, calculative haze: "how much are you good for, lawrence?" he had answered: "till we find water." she had laughed a little at that, and it had sounded unpleasant to him. now she said again: "you don't face facts, do you?" he made no answer. she continued: "it's strange how we humans are always so overdetermined. one ought to know by the time he is grown that he is a puppet in the hands of circumstance. now i go on hoping that you can carry me out to life and my husband, and you plod determinedly on as if you were really able to do it. of course, you may, but it is entirely dependent upon outside things." he was too tired to answer, even to think. besides, that was exactly his view of the situation. "you see," she went on, "here we are, two distinct groups of living cells, each loving life and wanting it. our pasts have been very different, our futures would have been; but here we are. i am resentful, because you are blind, because you are not stronger, because i cannot walk. you are probably resenting the same things. perhaps you resent my saying what i do. you want me to reassure you and to promise success. if i did, you would know in your real mind that i was lying to you for the sake of getting you to do more. yet both of us would feel happier if i could do it. i can't." he stood up and took her in his arms without a word. "we are going a few yards farther," she laughed. "well, if ever any animal deserved life, you do." he bit his lip and climbed on up the hill. in his mind he was saying over and over: "just a mere intellect, nothing more. that's all she is." yet in his arms she felt very feminine. the sense of her body so close to him seemed strangely out of keeping with her talk. he remembered a few other women of her type; he wondered what the end of their daily association would be. then gradually his thinking ceased to be clear. his thirst more and more wove itself into his consciousness until his mind was a blurred fantasmagoria, in which, repeating itself over and over in the midst of strange ideas, would come the flashing sound of unattainable water. he did not talk, he did not think. through the trees he wound his way with the grim determination of a beast fighting against death. the sun passed its zenith and sank slowly. it grew cooler in the forest through which he lurched, but he was hardly aware of it. claire, too, was rapidly losing control over herself. she had ceased to talk, save to utter dull, monosyllabic commands to him. the pain from her ankle and her own thirst were blending into a dizzying maze of torture. as darkness settled over the forest, she grew afraid. ordinarily it would have been a delight to her, here among the trees, but now the shadowing night filled her with ideas of horror. she forgot her theories, and clung to him so that he was the more hampered. she grew afraid lest he should drop her, lest he should give up the fight, and with that came an overwhelming desire to urge him on. she thought of wild tales that she might tell to spur his faltering strength. at first she resisted, then as her desire for life grew within her, she began to lie to him. "it isn't far, just a little way to water," she whispered. he struggled unsteadily forward. they had passed the top of the ridge and were descending the other side. he was scarcely aware of his own motion. he did not hear her directions, and stumbled against the trees. when her ankle struck a bough, she realized in a flash of pain that he was not listening to her. then she felt him sinking down. gripping his shoulder, she shouted: "go on! water ahead!" he heard her, his mouth opened, and he gathered himself up to stumble a few steps farther through the darkness. they seemed to be deep in a wooded ravine. he staggered again and fell. she was thrown violently forward, and flung out a hand to save herself. as she lay there, half-dazed, suddenly she felt her fingers grow cold and wet. water! a small stream, no larger than that from a hydrant, was trickling over the rock. dragging herself to it, she drank greedily. she dipped her hands in it. she laughed joyously and splashed. for a few minutes she played like a child. then she remembered lawrence. lifting her hands full of water, she threw it on his face. his mouth was open, and a few drops fell upon his black tongue. she threw another handful, then took her skirt and, wetting it, wrung it into his mouth. he twisted over on his side and muttered: "water." she gave him more, and as he sat up, she said eagerly: "here, lawrence, here." taking his hand, she pulled him toward the stream. he drank ravenously, plunging his face and hands into the little line of water, making queer noises over it. claire began to grow cold, and her ankle pained her till she shook like a fevered person. he turned and sat up. "you cold?" he managed to mutter. she wanted to say "no," but her will was worn out. "yes," she answered, "very cold." he laughed a little guttural laugh as he drew off his coat. "take it," he said, dropping it near her hand. she took the coat and drew it on. lawrence was drinking again from the stream. she listened to him for a time, as she lay there in the darkness, then gradually her suffering and the strain under which she had been, won the victory over her consciousness, and she heard no more. he lay where he was, half unconscious. at last he began to feel the chill of the place and drew himself up toward claire. she did not move. "we've got to do the best we can," he thought, and moved close to her so that their bodies might warm each other. chapter iii. the way of the primitive. claire was the first to wake. she sat up and gazed around her. the morning sun was just breaking through a heavy fog that had drifted in from the ocean. her clothes were damp, and she was chilled through, while her swollen and discolored ankle throbbed with steady pain. she looked down at the sleeping man beside her, and her forehead gathered in a little thoughtful frown. then she looked around her again. despite the knowledge of their desperate situation, she could not help noticing the beauty of the scene. great trees grew in massive profusion all about them. heavy tropical moss hung from the branches and trailed its green mat over the stones. birds were beginning to sing, their notes breaking the silence of the place in sharp thrills. then she studied her companion. finally, she laughed aloud. "lawrence," she said gaily. he turned and sat up, yawning drowsily. "what is it?" he demanded. "we are certainly the primitive pair." "h-m, i suppose. anyhow, i feel better for my sleep." "it's beastly cold," returned claire, "and my ankle is playing fits and jerks with me." "we'll have to do something about it," he said earnestly. she did not answer. "we can bind it up, i presume," he went on. "but it's a frightful inconvenience." "admitted," she said quickly. "it can't be helped, however." "i'm very much for a fire," he suggested, as though he had not noticed the hints of hardness in her voice. "some twenty feet ahead is a flat rock. we might build one there. have you matches?" he shook his head. "we'll have to go it primeval." "but i don't see how," she began. "never mind," he answered, with a malicious grin. "i do know some few things." "perhaps you also know how to find food when there isn't any," she retorted. he rose without replying. "well," she continued, "i see plenty of roots and stuff. we may as well prepare to eat them. it's unbelievable that i should be here, and with you. it's a horrible nightmare, this being stranded and lame out here somewhere with a blind man." he winced, but answered quietly: "i'm not especially charmed myself. i could prefer other things." she looked at him and smiled. "don't ever let me repeat those sentiments," she said, simply. "i'm sorry. of course you aren't to blame, and i shouldn't have said that." he stepped forward timidly. "will you suggest the best means of finding dry wood?" he asked, as though the matter were forgotten. she pursed her lips and looked around her. "this moss seems to be feet deep," she said at last. "you might dig up some that is dry, and with that as a starter you can add twigs." he stopped and began to tear away the moss. his hands were stiff, but he worked rapidly and before long he had a heap of the brown, dry stuff from underneath. she watched him silently. when he stopped, she said: "straight to your left is the rock. get the fire started. then you can move the invalid." he took the moss and felt his way to the rock, which was eight or ten feet square and practically flat, standing up almost a foot from the ground. "now, for a dry stick or two," he said, cheerily. she directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. then began the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one's hands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until friction brought a flame. it was a long, hard experiment; several times he stopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression he knew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. at last the moss began to burn. true, it smoked much and flamed little, but he gathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. then he carried claire to the rock and set her down beside it. she leaned her elbow on the edge and said, happily: "it's quite a success, lawrence. i really feel as though we were progressing." "our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience," he answered. "next, i guess we had better bathe your ankle," he observed, as though giving due care to the order of procedure. "very well," she replied. at her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. she wound it about her ankle and held it tightly. "now the surgeon orders splints and bandages," she said. he brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from the lining of his coat, she bound them fast. "there," she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "that ought to help. i wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases." "made the best of it," he said cheerfully. "many of them died, i suppose." "and we are back again at their game. whether we can outwit the master strategist and survive, is at least interesting to try." "in any event, we'll have to eat to do it," he said shortly. she studied the greenery about her, meditatively. "it's probable that most any of these things are edible, but are they nourishing?" "we'll try them. which shall i get?" he asked. "i hate to start in on roots or leaves. if we only had some berries!" he got up determinedly. "i'll go down the ravine and hunt. if i get mixed in directions, i'll shout." she watched him go, and when he had disappeared through the trees she felt strangely sadder and very much alone. she fell to wondering if he were really so necessary to her. sooner or later would come the inevitable problem between them. would he fall in love with her, and would she, in the days that they might be alone together, find his companionship growing into any really vital proportion in her life? that she, claire barkley, rich and independent, whose life had been selfish to a marked degree and who had never considered anything except from the point of view of vigor, perfection, or beauty, should ever love a blind man was incredible. "no," she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with him could ever make me really care. he is not of my life." she wondered how much she would sacrifice for him if it were necessary in their pilgrimage toward civilization, and she answered herself, frankly: "no more than i must to maintain a balance in our forced business partnership." she knew that was all this meant to her. from down the ravine she heard him shouting lustily, and she answered, her clear, rich voice waking pleasant echoes as she called. she waited for some time before he came. in his arms he carried a bundle of branches loaded with red berries, while in one hand was a clump of large mushrooms. claire watched him as he approached, and was surprised at the ease with which he walked. there was less hesitation in his stride than she had thought, and he came briskly through the trees, dodging as though by instinct. when he reached the rock, it was characteristic of her that she said: "you came through those trees remarkably well." he laughed. "i have an uncanny way of feeling things on my face before they touch me. i experimented somewhat with it in the laboratory at college. it's a sort of tropism, perhaps, such as bugs have, that enables them to keep between two planks or that turns plant-roots toward the sun. anyway, i've brought some breakfast. these berries may be good, and these other things may be toadstools. i brought them along." "how does one tell?" she asked. "oh, mushrooms are pink underneath and ribbed like a fan." she examined them and said they might be mushrooms, they looked it. he sat down again, but not until he had replenished the fire. "they may be poison, both of them," he hazarded. "that's our sporting chance. will you try them?" claire took some of the berries and ate them. "i don't feel anything yet," she announced after a minute's solemn munching. "oh, you probably won't for several hours anyway," he said lightly. then he continued: "if we could devise a way, we might heat water and cook the mushrooms. then, too, i've been thinking we might even catch a bird." "neither sounds very simple." "nothing in life is simple," he replied. "at home, in america, where we leave food-getting to the farmer, dress from a store, and go to heaven by way of a minister, things are fairly well arranged, but here we aren't even sure of salvation unless we mind the business of thinking." he continued after a pause. "of course, i don't especially remember that i counted on heaven. it always seemed a bit distant in the face of living and working. perhaps, however, you counted it as vital." "i was fairly occupied with more immediate things," she answered. "however, that is a different world from this. what we did then can't especially matter to us here. this is our place of business, so to speak, and social life doesn't factor." "i see." he accepted the snub thoughtfully. "but this business of ours will grow exceedingly irksome without talk. i doubt if we can find the means of escape an all-sufficient topic." "we haven't boiled our water yet," she said. "and the bird is still free to roam." he did not carry on his line of thought aloud. if she had known what was going on in his mind, she might have been angered. he was wondering just how much thinking she was capable of. certain that she was beautiful, he had scarcely allowed that to occupy him. his experience had led him to estimate people almost wholly by their ability to be open-minded. in his struggle against blindness, he had concluded that open minds were rare indeed, and persons who limited his freedom of action or tended to baby him he had grown to dismiss with a shrug. claire did not belong to that class. "she has shown remarkable willingness to let me go my own pace," he thought, "but is this due to her mind or to mere indifference?" he decided at last that the relationship would be tiresome for both of them, and that she was not especially eager to prevent it from being so. this conclusion led him to adopt a definite attitude toward her. she could do as she pleased; he, for his part, would treat her simply as an uninteresting person, a machine that furnished the eyes which he could use in his travel to liberty. he recalled how, when he had been displeased with convention, he had thought of life in the wild as the best possible means of liberty, and he laughed. claire looked up. "what is there amusing just now?" "myself, and you." "why, pray, am i amusing?" then she was sorry she had said it. "because you are you." "and are you other than yourself?" she asked scornfully. "not at all, but my own particular interests seem infinitely more important to me than there is any possibility of yours doing." "you mean to say that you are an egotist." "frankly, i am," he agreed. "one is an egotist, i suppose, when he finds himself and his needs and whims essentially worth while. i'll admit i find mine so. perhaps you feel the same about yours. one scarcely knows where egotism and vanity meet or end in a woman." he smiled, for he meant that to provoke, and it did. claire's voice was edged when she replied. "a very penetrating remark. with men generally, vanity seems to be a widely extended cloak to spread over all things in a woman that they cannot dispose of in any other way. if i find you dull, or if i am not struck with your ability, or if you do not seem to me sufficiently fascinating, i am possessed of feminine vanity." "precisely. and why not? if i choose to regard myself as all those things which you deny, why shouldn't i find the fault in you rather than in myself?" "because it may be in you," suggested claire. "it may, but that doesn't alter the case. i quite agree that you are right, but none the less you are at fault, because i, lawrence, am the most important of all things to me." she did not answer. the conversation seemed to her useless. she saw no reason for arguing the matter, and she half suspected that he was simply teasing her. besides, she could not but feel that to sit here in his coat and discuss egotism was a trifle ridiculous. he was merely trying to establish a friendship in talk which she did not care to encourage. that was her conclusion. as he rose to gather more sticks, he asked: "do you happen to see a rock that flattens to an edge?" told where he might find one, he brought it and struck it hard against their boulder. it did not break. "it may do," he said thoughtfully, and began to grind it against the side of the other rock. he worked steadily and long, and the result was a fairly good edge, which was nicked and toothed, but still an edge. he laid it down with a sigh of contentment. "my first tool," he commented. chapter iv. mutual dislike. all day lawrence worked, and when night came he had hollowed out a piece of log to a depth of some eighteen inches, leaving six inches of solid wood in the bottom. both were very well pleased with the result. with the coming of darkness, he gathered more berries, and heated water in his log kettle. they were able to cook the mushrooms and to bind her ankle in moss soaked in hot water. the building of a shelter was discussed, but both decided to resume their journey on the following day, so they slept again in the heavy moss. in the morning, claire was glad indeed of the hot water, for it warmed her, and her ankle felt much better. they decided to follow the little stream which would doubtless wind its way somehow around the present ridge back to the ocean. accordingly, they kept down the ravine, which cut across the ridge in a southerly direction. for the whole of that day and the next they followed the stream, which grew to a small creek. at noon of the third day they dropped suddenly down a steep slope to find themselves at the juncture of their stream, with a river which flowed through a deep gorge out to the ocean. they determined to follow it up toward its head. "somewhere inland must be a town," argued claire. "at any rate, it's the only way we can go." after living for four days on berries, they were beginning to feel acutely the need of other food, but they discussed the problem at length without arriving at any feasible solution. two days later fortune temporarily relieved their difficulty. they were following along the side of a steep ridge overlooking the river, when claire suddenly stopped him and gave a cry of delight. near them a small, furry animal, caught in a tangled mass of wirelike creepers, was struggling to free itself. he killed the creature with his stone-edged tool, and after barbecuing it on the end of a stick, they ate it ravenously. each of them would have disliked the whole scene at any other time, but now neither thought anything of it until after they were satisfied. leaning back against a rock, lawrence stroked his chin, rapidly becoming invisible under a heavy beard. "i hadn't known i was so hungry for real food," he laughed. brown as a gipsy, her hair filled with tiny green leaves, claire looked at him, her eyes shining with the warm light of satisfied hunger. "we ate like two beasts," she remarked languidly, and laughed. "it was simply disgraceful." "i know," he began to muse, "it doesn't take long for the most polished man--not that i ever was that--to become a savage." "you look the part," she laughed. "i suppose i do, too. my hair is matted hopelessly; the curliness makes it worse. my face, too, is rapidly hardening under this sun. if only i had a few more clothes--" she stopped and looked at him. "i feel the need of them," she finished lamely. claire had worn his coat continuously from the first night, and his undershirt was tearing from contact with bush and tree. he grinned contentedly, however. "if you approach nakedness as rapidly as i," he chuckled, "i fear we both will have to avoid civilization. undisguised humanity isn't tolerated there." she flushed warmly, then laughed. "i wonder why people are so afraid of being seen," lawrence went on. "of course, there's the warmth and natural protection of clothing, but one would feel so much freer without the encumbrance of shirt-stud and feathered plume." "we need them to complete a personality," said claire. "i know few people who would inspire respect in their elemental state. stripped of advertising silk and diamond, they wouldn't be so suggestive of wealth." "but why be so eager to impress others with your power?" she turned toward him with a faint smile. "if you didn't ask that as mere conversation, i would think you childish. you know very well why. it probably goes back to the days when the possession of a fish-hook, more or less, meant surer life. it has come to mean, now, that the decoration of an extra feather or white flannel trousers means advantageous position, the place of more power, more pleasure; in short, greater fulness of living." "but we are living fully, goodness knows," he interrupted. "this last week we have had to exert our wits and bodies in more ways than we ever did before in all our lives. true, i do miss my modeling somewhat." he spoke the last with a soft mellowness in his voice and a wistfulness that made her look at him quickly. "modeling?" she asked. he nodded slowly. "what sort of modeling?" she insisted. "oh, probably poor, for the most part. i did some work that was beginning to make its way, though." "you mean sculpture?" he nodded again. she looked at him earnestly. here was a new revelation. she had wondered at this man's apparent keen sense of form, and his imaginative power when he spoke of color or mentioned line, and she had been sure from his occasional word that he was a wide student of literature. "what did you do at home?" she asked abruptly. "oh, played with living," he said indifferently. she felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet she remembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him. "see here, lawrence," she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with each other, are we?" "why not?" he answered quietly. "i carry you toward your old life, you guide me toward mine. it's a fair business, with equal investment. i'm not complaining." she was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of days at home with his work. as he lay there, she studied his hands. they were practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, the fingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength. she knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a piece of wood to heat water in, she had seen that. so they were sculptor's hands. what a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! she fell to wondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merely fancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by his blindness. she studied his face in repose. then her mind came back to his hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin, and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had not carried her. she did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him made her restless. suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her. the more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last she ventured, "are you asleep?" "no, dreaming." "lawrence." "what is it?" he sat up and waited. "what do you think of me?" she was surprised to find herself waiting eagerly for his answer. he laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh. "claire," he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. you see, i haven't thought much about you. however, if you like, i'll study you for a week and report." hot anger surged up in her. "you needn't bother," she said dryly. "our lives are so utterly different in every phase that nothing could be gained." he lay back carelessly. "so i had decided," he replied, and lapsed into silence again. she could have cried with vexation. for the first time in her life claire was utterly humiliated, and there grew within her an aggressive dislike for this man, a determination to make him feel her power and to punish him for his indifference. she did not want him to love her, by any means, but he had never even shown her the courteous deference, the admiration or regard that she was accustomed to receive from men. her mind went back over the past week, and she grew more humiliated, more angry. tears of vexation came to her eyes, but she brushed them away fiercely. "shall we take the remains of our meat and move on toward the habitats of men?" said lawrence, sitting up. she controlled herself to answer, "as you please." he stooped to lift her into his arms. she flushed warm as his hands slipped under her, and he straightened up. she hesitated, and wanted not to do it, but realized the necessity, and put her arm around his neck. "i shall be grateful when i can walk," was her comment. "it will make our progress more rapid," he agreed, and she was angry again. she knew that he thought only in terms of the most efficient means of getting ahead. a longing possessed her to make him realize that he was physically distasteful to her. "we are so vastly different," she said, "it is disagreeable to be carried this way." lawrence flushed, and she was pleased. at least he understood now. "of course," he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but i suppose one must make the best of a bad bargain." there was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "i think i realize, claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for a woman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are those of the society glow-worm." claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "surely at home you had your own social group," she said pleasantly. "of a sort, yes. we were all workers, not going in much for form, entertainment, and that sort of thing. we generally sat in the gallery at the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. none of us were rolling in wealth. we worked for the love of it, and looked to the future for pay." "i see." she was thinking fast. "you were struggling young artists." her voice was sugar-coated. "we were struggling young artizans," he answered, seemingly indifferent to her irony. as he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carry on the conversation. the stops for rest were gradually lengthening out, and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. he was quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff so hard between grades. claire felt the easier swing of his body when he walked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more graceful in movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendid specimen of manhood. she now admitted all these things to herself, but they only added to her feeling against him. she wondered if he had been as indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased that she wondered. suddenly lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. claire looked up at him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown. "what is it?" she asked anxiously. "you are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "i have walked into three boulders without your knowing it." "i am sorry," she said earnestly. "it was silly of me." he laughed and sat down. "you see, as eyes you can't afford to think. at other times perhaps i, too, should wander into abstractions, but at present it won't work." "i know it," she admitted contritely. "i won't repeat it." "what," he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?" she blushed, and her eyes darkened. she wondered whether she should tell the truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "i was asking myself what my husband was probably doing and thinking." "poor fellow!" lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "i can imagine what it must be to him, supposing you lost at sea. yes, he must be suffering badly. i don't believe i would change places with him." claire started at lawrence. "are you flattering me?" she asked coldly. "not at all," he replied. "i am merely stating the truth. i have an imagination, my dear lady. i can quite grasp your husband's position. you would certainly be a loss to a man who loved you, and i shouldn't care to be that man." "shouldn't you?" she said instinctively, and bit her lip for saying it. "not under the circumstances," answered lawrence. "i never did fancy the idea of death visiting my loved ones. i have never got over its having done so." "oh"--her voice softened--"then you have lost your--" she waited. "i am an orphan," he said bruskly. she was ashamed of her relief. how ridiculous it was to have imagined him, even for an instant, as a married man! he was so cold, so impersonal; of course, he had never married, and never would. well, that was best; a blind man had no right to marry. he owed it to himself and to any woman not to place her in the position of caring for him, handicapped as he was, and so unable to give her the companionship, the comradeship a woman deserved. she could see how he would treat a wife: feed her well, clothe her, care for her comfort, and talk to her if she desired, but he would never be tender, loving, sympathetic, or understanding. no, he could not be; he was too self-centered, too much the artist. that last seemed to her a correct estimate of him, and she settled her mind on it as being final. "so you are alone in the world?" claire said, renewing the conversation. "quite," answered lawrence. "i am as free from family hindrances as a young wolf that runs his first season's hunt alone." she thought how apt a comparison he had made. "so you regard the family as a hindrance?" "oh--no and yes. one can never do quite as he pleases while a family and its wishes, aims, and loves are concerned. they always hold him down to some extent. he is an equal hindrance to them. they love each other, and as a result they have to sacrifice their individual wishes. but the family keeps man more social, more gregarious, and less selfish. if we were as free from family love as is the wolf i mentioned, we would be able to live our lives more completely, and, on the other hand, we would die in greater numbers. the love of man and woman for each other and their children lifts humanity out of its serfdom, but it also places limitations. you ought to know more about that than i, however," he laughed. "i merely theorize." "so i noticed," claire observed. "one can easily gather that you aren't experienced." "no. my parents died when i was small. i had to work my way through school. the accident made it somewhat harder, but i got along." he was plainly matter of fact. "oh!" she exclaimed at his words more forcefully than she had intended. he smiled a little, comprehendingly. "yes, it explains a lot, doesn't it?" he spoke carelessly. "you doubtless can now understand my lack of social grace." she thought to deny it, but that seemed foolish. he was silent, and there seemed little use in talking. claire knew she understood him well enough. chapter v. the face of death. in the days that followed they talked but little. lawrence had fallen into the habit of speaking only when she seemed to desire conversation, and his mind was occupied with planning their escape. if he thought of her in any other way than merely as his eyes, he never showed it. though watchful of her comfort, in every act and word, he was markedly impersonal. following the river, they had progressed steadily north and east over increasingly higher and rougher ground. the tropical vegetation of intertwining crimson was now changing to a faint gold. there were days when they were forced to make long détours over broken ridges to get around some deep gorge through which the gray-green stream dashed its foamy way downward. they were well into the mountains, and above them the higher andes raised their snowy peaks in forbidding austerity. it was daily growing colder, and their clothes were now only ragged strips. then came days when sharp, biting winds whipped through the cañon they followed, or headed against them on some plateau, and they were forced to face new issues. food was less plentiful, and winter was at hand. to be sure they were in the tropics, but on the mountains the air was cold, and warmer clothes became imperative. claire's ankle was almost well. after weeks of pain, which she had borne bravely, it was healing, and the time was near when she would be able to walk. shoes were absolutely essential for her. furthermore, lawrence's own shoes were worn through, and his walking was becoming a continual pain. in spite of claire's increasingly careful guidance, he stepped on small, sharp rocks that dug into his flesh. he did not complain, but claire knew that he was suffering. the times when he stepped out freely became more and more seldom, and his face was usually taut. they were, indeed, a pitiable couple. lawrence's thin face was shaggy with hair. claire's once soft skin was now brown and hard. both were thin and wiry, with the gaunt lines of the undernourished showing plainly. one morning, to fight the frost that bit into them, they were forced to build a fire long before dawn. as they sat huddled together over it, lawrence finally broached the subject that had been engrossing both their minds for days. "claire," he said thoughtfully, "we can't make it through. we'll have to find a place somewhere and prepare for winter. it's tough, but it's inevitable. i hate to give up now, but it will be even worse for us if we don't get meat, fur, and a house against the snow that will soon be covering everything." "i know," she said sadly, her thin hands supporting her chin. "it seems as though we had played our long farce to its end. death is as inexorable in its demands as life." the circles under her eyes were great half-moons. "we have done well, though," he argued. "we've done better than well. who would have believed that a blind man and a crippled woman could have come as far as this?" "i didn't believe it, lawrence," she said, and her voice and eyes were full of a warmth that had grown of late to be fairly constant. "i didn't believe it, and i wouldn't believe it now if i were told the story back home." "i'm not sure; i might have," lawrence said proudly. "i know the blind and their capabilities." "i'm learning to know them," she admitted, and lapsed into silence. "shall we go into camp, then," he asked, as if they had not mentioned anything else. claire hesitated, then said slowly: "it's our only chance. are you willing to spend a winter with me?" her eyes glanced amusedly at him. catching the note in her voice, lawrence laughed. "it seems inevitable," he said, "and, anyway, i couldn't ask for a better companion. you don't disturb me, and i don't irritate you--that is, not especially." she looked at him impatiently. "don't you?" she said, meditatively. "well, i'm glad i don't bother you." "yes," he assented seriously. "you've been mighty open-minded, claire, and you haven't hampered me with incredulities." "oh, that is what you mean." he moved uneasily, his muscles drawing a little. claire saw and wondered. "yes," lawrence said shortly. "when morning comes, we'll hunt for a location." they ceased speaking, each occupied with his own thoughts. claire was asking herself what the winter would mean to her, spent with this silent man, and he was questioning how long she would continue to regard him as a mere imperfect carrier, devoid of the stuff that men are made of. sometimes when her body was in his arms, he had wondered if she was capable of love, but always he had remembered her husband, her social life, her assumption of superior reserve, and had forced himself into a habitual attitude of indifference. the strain was telling on his will, however, and often he longed to make this woman see him as he was. he thought of the old days in his studio when he had proved himself master of blindness in his power to imagine and carry the sense of form into the carved stone. he recalled the praise of his comrades, and over all else there surged in him the swift, warm blood of the artist. "lawrence," said claire suddenly, "at what do you value human life?" "that depends," he answered, "on whose life it is." "well, at what would you value mine?" she demanded. "from varying points of view, at varying prices. from your husband's point of view, it is invaluable. from your own, it is worth more than anything else. from my point of view, it is worth as much as my own, since without you mine ceases." "then your care of me and all your trouble is merely because you value your own life." "what else?" he moved uneasily. she ignored that question. "if you could get through without me, would you do it?" "that depends on circumstances. if i could get through without you, and do it quickly, and could not get through with you"--he paused--"i should leave you behind." "and suppose, when i can walk, i do that myself?" he smiled. "as you please," he said quietly. "i advise you to make your estimate well, however. my hands and strength are assets which you might have trouble in doing without." "and do you estimate the whole of our relationship on a carefully itemized basis of material gain and loss?" "claire, isn't that your understanding, stated by yourself, of our partnership?" "yes, but--well, it's hard to estimate human companionship." "i know it." he shifted nearer the fire. "i've tried to estimate yours." "indeed?" her voice was full of interest. "i've failed. you are worth a great deal, potentially." "exactly what do you mean?" "i mean just this"--he stood up suddenly and faced her, his shadow covering her like an ominous cloud--"that as mrs. claire barkley you are worth nothing to me except eyes, and, therefore, your personality and conversation are of value only as time-fillers." "go on," she said steadily. "but as claire, the almost starved, ragged human being who is living with me through a prolonged war with death, you are worth everything to me--everything that i value." "but isn't that what i have been from the beginning?" she flashed. he answered slowly. "yes--in a way." once more they lapsed into silence. in turn she tried to estimate his worth to her, but failed. she began to recall the men she knew, and concluded that she was without a standard of measurement. one by one she pictured them and cast them aside, as somehow not the scale by which to evaluate this man. at last, she began to think of her husband. it had not occurred to her to think of him in comparison with lawrence before, and it made her wonder at her doing so now. she fell to dreaming of the man who had been her lover in girlhood, and her husband and dear companion these past six years. he was surely at home, aching, yearning for the little girl he had lost. she could see him sitting before the fireplace in their big living-room, his head on his hands, his tired face in repose, while he gazed into the flames and longed and longed for her. the picture grew in clearness. she saw the joy that would be his when they met again, and she felt around her those dear arms, crushing her against him in a rapture of reunion. in sudden contrast, she was again conscious of the cold, impersonal arms of the man beside her. as she thought of the difference she hated lawrence wildly. at least, her husband knew her worth. he knew her golden treasure-house of love; he knew her as she was. this blind man before her there, unkempt, hard, expressionless, what did he know of her? what could he know, born of poor people, and working his way among inferiors? she almost laughed aloud. why, at home this man, who had carried her in his arms, would have been one of her wards, an object of her charities. but would he? lawrence was an artist. she considered that. "isn't it light enough to get moving, claire?" his rich, warm tones broke in upon her thought like a shattering cataract. how musical and vibrant his voice was! "i think so." she stood up unsteadily. "good. we'd better go down nearer the river. we will want a sheltered ravine for our winter camp." "very well." she threw her arm over his shoulder. "it isn't far down, and it's clear going. when we start again, i'll be able to walk. and then i'll lead you, mr. lawrence." she spoke half in jest. "and if we are alive, i shall make it possible for you to do so comfortably. i hope for something to make shoes of." he answered with a frank, sincere joy at her being able to walk, and she was ashamed of her anger. he was not to blame for being anxious to have her well, to have felt otherwise would certainly have been to be a fool indeed. she should rejoice with him, for then they could get home that much sooner, home to her husband and her old life. she warmed at the idea, and felt a sense of gratitude toward lawrence that was good and wholesome. "i have been silly," she thought. "he is really not to be expected to fall and adore me, and certainly i ought not to blame him for being blind. he couldn't help that, either." "lawrence," she said aloud, "i am a beastly unjust wretch." "i don't see it," he protested. "but you ought to see it. i don't play fair with you." "you said that once before, i believe. i don't agree any more now that i did then." "but i think all sorts of beastly things." she could not understand her frankness. "oh"--he paused. "so do i. but as i am not a puritan, i scarcely hold myself responsible to you for my thoughts. one's thoughts are his own, and, as long as he keeps them to himself, he is entitled to as many as he pleases, of whatever variety he prefers." "do you think so?" "of course, and so do you." "yes, i did--but it seemed to me," she faltered, "that in the present case--oh, well, let it go." she laughed nervously, and said no more. lawrence wondered at her silence, and wanted to know very much what she thought, but he told himself that after all it was none of his business. they had reached the river. the water rushed from the mouth of a gorge in rapids that sent its every drop sparkling and flashing over a great rock into a mass of white foam below. "oh," cried claire, "it's beautiful, beautiful!" he put her down and laughed. "it sounds as if it were leaping from points of light into cloud-banked foam." she stared at him in amazement. "it is," she said in a subdued tone. "how did you know?" "one learns," he said carelessly. "and how about a camp?" her admiration of him vanished into the commonplace. "we can't find it here," she said, hiding her appreciation of the scene under her professional-guide tone. he frowned. "nowhere close?" "no. and what is worse, we'll have to go over a mountain. the stream here is rushing right out from between cliff walls." lawrence's spirit sank, but he did not show it. "we'd better eat what little we have left and then be off," he suggested simply. that morning was the beginning of their hardest experience since they first left the beach. scarcely had they started to climb over the great ridge, which broke into sheer precipice at the river, when a sharp wind rose and cut through their unprotected bodies. claire drew in against him as close as she could, while he tried to give her more protection with his arms. the slope was steep and filled with loose rocks so that he lost ground at every step. they were forced to stop often, and by noon he was worn out, and they were both bitterly cold. claire thought they were near the top, so lawrence nerved himself to press on. night found them standing on the crest of the ridge, in the face of a bitter wind; before them, across a small plateau, rose a still higher mountain around the northern side of which a ravine cut its jagged gash away from the river. claire stared at the scene until her courage broke down. "we can never do it, lawrence," she moaned, and her head sank wearily against his shoulder. her cry was the aching moan of a heart-broken child. the proud, self-contained claire was gone. it stirred lawrence strangely, and for the first time a warm tenderness for her came over him. he drew her to him, and tried to comfort her. her poor undernourished body shook with the sobs that despair and the cold wrung from her, and, though his own hands and body were blue, he tried to warm her. had he seen the ground ahead of them, he, too, might have given up, but blindness was the barring wall of black which shut out even defeat. he clenched his teeth firmly, and lifted claire in his arms again resolutely. "we've got to do it, claire," he said, "and we will." she attempted to paint the scene before him in graphic detail, her words broken by sobs. when she finished he started forward. "we'll follow the gulf," he stated. "we must keep going, claire. we don't dare to stop." "we can't. it's dark, and will be black soon," she answered. "we've got to do it," lawrence repeated. "it isn't the first night of my life i've struggled against a black so dense its nothingness seemed overpowering." she strained her eyes through the gathering night to turn him into the smoothest way, lapsing into jerky, habitual words of guidance. in the darkness they entered the ravine and staggered down to its broken bottom. the time soon came when she could see hardly anything until they were almost upon it, and the white face of a boulder spotting the endless black before her filled her with a vague dread. often they paused to rest, but the cold drove them on again. claire almost ceased to direct him, and lawrence gritted his teeth till they hurt him and forged ahead. once he slipped and fell, but got to his feet again and went on. claire was not injured beyond a few bruises, but she noticed that he limped more than before and her fear increased. how they ever fought that night through neither knew, but morning came at last and found them still staggering down the ravine. they were almost out of it now and were entering a rather heavy pine forest. fortunately the gulf they followed had turned around the mountain in the direction of the river, and their desire for water drove them to keep on. to their blue and shaking bodies all feeling had grown vague, tingling, and uncertain. when claire looked at lawrence she could have screamed. his lips were drawn back, and his hairy cheeks and sightless eyes flashed before her the image of a dehumanized death mask. her own face must look like that, she thought, and buried her head on his shoulder. through that morning he struggled on, faltering, lurching, resting a little, girding himself against the death now so surely at hand. in his mind thought had ceased to be coherent; his starved body, whipped by the cold, was beginning to play with the imagery. he gurgled a grim little laugh, and all clear thought was at an end. claire heard and looked at him wonderingly. she knew that she was freezing, and she had resigned herself, but this man, what was he doing? he still lunged through the trees, where, at all events it seemed a little warmer. she heard him muttering incoherent jargon that gradually cleared to speech. "we'll go on, claire. we'll go on to the end. i've got to do it. i need my life. i need you!" she started and listened, though even in her present state she grew resentful. "so that was it," she thought; "he's waiting to get me out before he breaks into his love. he wants his rescue as an argument." then her thinking was broken into detached images. she saw her husband and cried aloud to him. she had pictures flashing in her mind of him, of old scenes, parties, places they had been together, tenements she had visited in her charity work, the beach that morning when lawrence had found her, and in and through it all she heard words falling from his lips that recalled later, stung her to wrath. "i need you, claire," she heard him again, and then, "i shall use you, claire. you will be my masterpiece. it is you, proud, superior, human, social, intellectual, sexed, vital, you, carrying in your being the whole tumultuous riot of the ages gone, and hiding it under a guarded social exterior, not knowing when in a sentence it breaks through, you, you, claire, you, the woman!" he stumbled, regained his balance, and plunged through a fringe of pines, staggered against one, then another, cursed, and went again forward and out into a clearing. she saw it vaguely before them. at first she doubted, then, as he let his hold on her slip, she gripped his neck with arms that scarcely felt the body they closed around. "lawrence," she screamed in a voice that was shrill--"lawrence, a cabin, a cabin!" he sank down with her clinging to him still. "i know," he muttered, "i've got to find one." then he lay quiet. she freed herself and crept toward the house. she was at the back of it, and she was obliged to crawl slowly on hands and knees around to the front. there was a door, she pushed on it, but it did not open. she grew angry at it, and beat against it with her fists, abusing it for its obstinacy. when at last it opened she laughed wildly. before her, his tall body, clad in warm, heavy clothes, stood a man whose dark eyes grew wet with tears of pity the instant they saw her. he lifted her in his arms like a child and carried her inside. she had a fleeting sense of being at home, she thought he was her husband and threw her arms around him passionately, then, remembering lawrence, she murmured as he laid her down, "out there--behind the cabin!" and was unconscious. the man turned and hurried out. in a few minutes he came back, carrying lawrence, and his face was lined with pity at the state of these two human beings. he laid them together on a wide berth at the side of the cabin and began to work over them alternately. swiftly and deftly he heated blankets and prepared food. he wound them in the hot cloth, chafed their hands and arms, and forced brandy down their throats. lawrence's eyelids drew back. "the man is blind," muttered the stranger in spanish. claire was looking at him dazedly and reaching greedily toward the kettle that simmered over a great open fireplace. he brought a bowl of hot savory soup and started feeding them. lawrence swallowed mechanically, but he could hardly get the spoon out of claire's mouth. "not too much, _señora_," he said, turning away. when he looked again toward them they were both asleep. the utter exhaustion of their long night claimed rest. he walked over to claire and stood looking down at her. "she was beautiful," he thought. "and he is blind. ah, well, for her, beauty is again possible, but for him"--he shrugged his shoulders--"it is bad, bad!" he said softly, and, turning to a shelf of books that stood against the wall, he drew out a volume and sat down before the fire to read. chapter vi. the stone threat. when claire awoke she stared around her for a few minutes before the events of their frantic struggle came back to her. her eyes strayed to the figure before the fireplace. idly she noted the lustrous, wavy black hair and deep brown eyes protected by unusually heavy lashes. it was clearly the face of a thinker, a dreamer, yet there was something sensual about the mouth, potentially voluptuous, abandoned, and suggestive of tremendous passion that slumbered close beneath the brain that was so actively awake. claire ached, and her body tingled with the unaccustomed warmth. she lay quiet, looking at the fire, her mind still uncertain in its action, weaving sharp, dynamic images about this new personality. while his appearance gripped and awed her strangely, at the same time she felt drawn to him. she turned and threw out her hand. her host closed his book and looked up, smiling. "ah, _la señora se siente mejor_?" his deep, rich voice, although lighter than lawrence's, was full of music, but she did not understand his words. her blank expression told him, and he smiled again. "i remember, you spoke english," he said with only the slightest accent. "are you better, _madame_?" she answered his warm smile and said weakly: "much better, thank you!" "and your husband?" claire saw that he was looking beyond her, and she turned to find lawrence at her side. instinctively she resented his being there. the warm blood rushed to her face. "he--oh--he will be all right, i trust!" she stammered falteringly, and her host looked puzzled. her impulse was to tell him that lawrence was not her husband, but she thought better of it and said nothing about the relationship. "he had a long, desperate struggle to bring me here," she said instead. "you see, i broke my ankle and he had to carry me." "oh!" the man rose, his face filled with respect as he looked at lawrence asleep beside her. "from where did he carry you?" he asked. "from the coast," she shuddered. "it has been terrible!" his face expressed utter amazement as he repeated: "from the coast? it is a miracle!" she made no reply, for lawrence stirred and tried to sit up. "you'd better lie still," the stranger said kindly. "you deserve rest, my friend." then, as to himself, he added: "it is the first miracle in which i can believe." claire stared at him, and he laughed softly. "pardon, _madame_! i am an unhappy seeker after truth," he apologized, throwing a log on the fire. for lawrence and claire the days that followed were uneventful days of recovery from their hardship. slowly both of them grew stronger and resumed their normal habits of thought and speech. their host was a gentle nurse, kindly and considerate. claire assumed her wonted attitude of the cultured woman, a guest in the house of a friend, and the spaniard met her with the polished courtesy of a cosmopolitan. lawrence, too, became the usual man that he was, careless of little niceties, indifferent to form, but a charming companion and a delightful guest. from the first he and philip became intensely interested in each other. they discovered early that each was a thinker and a searcher in his own way for the one great solution of life. during the first half-hour claire had demanded of their rescuer where they were and how soon they could get back to civilization. philip had laughed gently. "you are on the borders of bolivia," he told her, "and the nearest railroad is two hundred miles away. it is impossible to get out until spring. long ere this snow will have barred the way through the one pass that leads out and we are prisoners--the three of us. you will have to accept the hospitality of philip ortez until the spring." lawrence had accepted the verdict with calm indifference. "oh, well," he said, "it's hard on you, but as far as i'm concerned, one place is as good as another." "i shall enjoy your company," their host laughed. after voicing polite thanks, claire, in her own thought, had rebelled against the situation vehemently. she wanted to get home, she wanted to get away from everything that suggested her last weeks of suffering, she wanted to get away from these men. her heart leaped to the ever-recurring dream of the husband, whose arms should take her up and hold her warmly against the memory of their separation. "then there is no way out?" she asked again. "none, _madame_," and philip ortez bowed. "you will have to be the guest of a humble mountaineer." "i shall enjoy it, i am sure," she answered. "it is simply a woman's natural desire for home which leads me to ask again." his eyes clouded. claire somehow found herself fancying a tragic mystery in the life of this man, and then rebuked herself for romancing. certainly, such fancies were not her habit, and she wondered why they were occurring to her. the cabin stood on the very edge of the forest through which lawrence had carried claire the last morning of their long march. protected by its pines, the little house fronted on a small lake, a place where the river which they had followed widened to a half-mile, and stayed thus with scarcely any current save directly through the center. all around the lake the forest stretched its massed green, and here philip trapped. the lake, in its turn, provided him with fish. the week after their arrival snow had heaped itself into the ravine and piled up high around the cabin. ice was beginning to form on the edge of the lake, and their host was preparing for his winter's work. they were too weak to go with him, and he left them in possession of the cabin. at first there had been an unaccountable awkwardness between lawrence and claire, and it had left a reserve which was difficult to overcome. lawrence had explained their situation to philip; the spaniard had been apologetically gracious, but there was something in claire's nature that made her wish that lawrence had never been thought of as her husband. dressed in philip's clothes, and in the presence of a roof and fire, she felt a desire to be free from the memory of the days when she had clung about lawrence's neck, and, above all, she felt that she was not able to meet him with understanding. his blindness in these surroundings seemed to set a sudden and impassable barrier between them, and made her ill at ease when she was alone with him. lawrence was irritated that she should so immediately react into what he called the old conventional habit toward blind people, and keep it standing like a stupid but solid wall between all their talk. now that she was no longer dependent on him, she appeared to him more attractive. he thought of her husband, and wondered if claire's attitude toward himself was tempered with the thought of the man at home. "surely," he told himself, "she can't be allowing that to come between us, for it is so obviously quite unnecessary." then he began to wonder how much of her life was centered about her husband. what sort of man was he, and did she love him devotedly? as he thought, there crept into his feeling a sense of irritation against the unknown man who was obstructing his friendship with the woman he had carried half through the andes mountains. then the longing for his work came over him, and there were times when he felt he must do something. he spoke needlessly sharp words to claire. though she concealed her anger, there grew between them a continuous straining born out of mutual misunderstanding and a great submerged tangle of emotions. one morning when ortez in snow-shoes and fur had gone for the day to look after his traps, claire washed up the tin dishes they used, and sat down before the fire opposite lawrence. his head was in his hands and his face was somber. "you look sad this morning," she said casually. "do i?" he answered. "i'm not--especially. i was just planning a piece of work, dreaming it out in outline." she looked at him thoughtfully. his forehead was high and broad, she thought, and his hands-- their days in the wilderness rushed back over her. she was angry at the memories they brought her, and doubly angry at lawrence, as if he only were responsible. "it's inconceivable," she said calmly, "that you, without seeing, can really carve anything true to form and line." in her voice was incredulity and unbelief. he rose suddenly, his face white, and said, with an intensity that startled her: "that sentiment is as familiar to me as my name. i have heard it from sight-bigoted people from the days when i made my first attempt to go back to my school work. i am rather weary of it." she sat staring at him for a moment, then she laughed. she could not have told why she did it, and she was instantly sorry. the blood rushed to his face. "i shall create that which will forever assure you that i can carve true to the most familiar form and line you know," he said fiercely. her face was as crimson as his now, though she felt ice cold. "what do you mean?" she demanded, her voice unsteady. he laughed bitterly. in his own heart a fierce volcanic surge was raging which he did not attempt to control. "do you think that i, trained as i am to gather fact from touch, could carry you through weeks of hell in my arms, against my breast, and not know you, you as you are, claire barkley? i shall carve you, you with your cold reserve suppressing the emotional chaos within you, and you will not fail to recognize yourself." claire gripped the chair arms. anger, fear, doubt, then the knowledge that he could do as he said, swept over her in rapidly succeeding waves, and gathered at last into a steel hate that she felt must last through eternity. "you, you would do that, after i guided you here! you would take advantage of what i could not help, and--and--" she choked, and then said swiftly--"so, under your indifferent exterior you used your touch that way these days! oh, you--you beast!" lawrence laughed coolly. "i could no more help it than i can avoid being here." "lies!" she exclaimed. "a gentleman could help it!" "perhaps, but not an artist." "and what of beauty, of your boasted purity of art, is there in that?" "all," he said calmly. "if you knew, oh, if i could make you see what every artist knows"--he was talking passionately now, his face illumined in spite of his blind eyes--"you would realize, that i could not help it, that i glory in it, and that it was and is the way of art." he rose and walked the floor, pouring out his creed in a stream of burning words. "i am a machine, a sensitive thing that registers what it feels and knows, that is all. you touch me, my brain registers that touch, and something in me, the will to live, the desire to create, the insistent shout for expression says, 'take that and carve it in stone.' if i could see, if i were not blind, i would have been a painter. i would have painted you, almost naked as you were, your eyes filled with the hunger for life, your face tense with racing thoughts, i would have painted you fully, all of you, as you were in night-gown and skirt there in that forest, and you would have shouted to all the world from my canvas, 'look at me, i am the primitive, the wild, the passionate, the tender, the selfish and unselfish living woman. see me as i am, cultured, refined, educated, elemental withal, and the emblem of humanity as it is, still stained with the traditional mud of superstition and blood that marks its origin. oh, i would have painted you so, and now i shall carve you so!" he stopped, and claire looked at him wildly, her eyes aflame with hate and admiration. "you would use another human being that way?" she gasped. "i would use any one, i would, i will, at any cost to them, to me, if the outcome be a piece of art, a work that in its truth, its immortal beauty, shall stand a lasting testimony that i, lawrence gordon, have mastered blindness and registered life correctly." a great light swept over her mind; that was the key to him. he would sacrifice himself to conquer blindness--but would he, she wondered, and instantly her thought found expression. "would you crush yourself to create that mastery of blindness?" he laughed. "i have, i am doing it," he said. "i would go through all the torment of the world if i might create something lasting, true, and beautiful." claire leaned forward, her lips apart, her eyes bright. that she hated this man she was sure, yet all her woman's soul was awed by what she now saw behind his mask of blindness. then a new thought came to her. "might it not be," she asked subtly, "if you hold suffering to be the key to beauty that you would profit more at last by denying the impulse to create the thing you are planning?" he laughed again. "i hold that pain is only the spur to progress. i care nothing for the sentimentalism you are talking now. i carried you through the wilderness, i suffered and bore it, i staggered through nights and days with your warm body against mine that i might live, and now--now i know the value of life, i understand as never before the pain our fathers paid. i know the bitter animal war against environment, evolution whipped into action by pain, hunger, fear of death, and i shall carve that, all that, into the statue of one woman." "and what of me, me and you as such, claire and lawrence, who were there through that struggle in the wilderness?" the speech leaped from somewhere in her being before she knew it, and with it came knowledge that stung her into tearful self-hate. "we shall go back to our old lives, i suppose, and live them out." it was what she had expected him to say, yet the calm matter-of-fact statement hurt her as nothing he had ever said before. lawrence dropped into the arm-chair again, and rested his head on his hand. he was calmer now, and, reviewing in his mind what he had said, he was beginning to ask himself why had he given way to this sudden resentment against claire. if she doubted him because he was blind, was that any more than others had done? he had never burst out against them. what was the matter with him? he surveyed the whole trend of his life up to this minute: how he had broken at late adolescence from a glowing idealist to a wanderer through varying paths of thought; always stirred, stimulated, and swept on by contact with other people, books he had read, women for whom he had occasional fancies of love, until gradually he settled into his assured manner. it was exercise he needed, that and work. he asked himself if he seriously loved claire, and answered unequivocally that he did not. he wanted her friendship very much, indeed, but love, not at all. if she had been single, perhaps--but no, he did not care about her that way, that was all. he had been too long shut up here in the cabin with her and without work. he must get some wood and amuse himself carving things with ortez's knife; it would be good practise, and, at the same time, relieve his nerves. he was sorry he had let himself go; claire must not be hurt. "claire," he said quietly, "if i wounded you, if i said things i ought not, pardon me! i am getting nervous doing nothing, and i am not myself these days." she laughed calmly. "oh, very well!" she said. "i wonder that we don't come to blows, cooped up here as we are. i think next time philip makes his rounds i'll go with him." "it would be a good thing," answered lawrence. "i'd like it myself." claire did not keep up the talk. she, too, was thinking fast, and facing new problems that demanded her attention. she was surprised to find that her resentment toward lawrence was completely gone. what would her husband think of him? what would he do when she returned, when she told him of her journey with this blind man through weeks and weeks of wilderness when they were almost naked. she stopped, that was what lawrence had said, 'almost naked.' her flesh tingled as she saw the picture which he said he would like to paint of her. what would she, claire barkley, do if such a picture were painted? she buried her face deep in her hands, but in her heart she knew that she would respect the man who painted it. and if lawrence carved her so in stone, and did it as he thought he could--she pondered over that for some time. "i think," she said aloud, and lawrence raised his head, "that if i were to stay shut up here alone as philip does, i should go crazy before spring." "it all depends on how your mind is occupied," he laughed. she blushed guiltily, and was glad he could not see her face. to be continued next week. don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. what liberty bonds mean patriotism, victory, the soundest investment in the world, a perfect means of saving buy all you can claire by leslie burton blades the blind love of a blind hero _by a blind author_ this story began in the all-story weekly for october . chapter vii. playing with fire. in the late afternoon, philip returned to find lawrence still sitting before the fire, his mind centered on ideas for his future work. claire had disappeared behind the canvas curtain which was stretched before her bed. "it is almost christmas," announced philip, as he entered. lawrence straightened up. "back again?" he said, carelessly. "it's been a beastly day." claire came out from her partition, laughing. "if you don't take one of us with you next time," she said, "i won't answer for the tragedy that may follow." philip laughed, and shook the snow from his big coat. "too much of your own continuous company?" he asked. "yes"--her tone was light, but he saw that she was in earnest--"we are so accustomed to each other that we both need a rest." she drew up a chair for philip before the fire. his dark eyes looked searchingly at her. "if you knew the path to peace," he said, "you would be happier. i see that i must take you out with me and teach you the hidden entrance to that mystic roadway." "you know one, then?" lawrence's voice was amusedly skeptical. "it lies through the heart of man into the heart of"--philip paused--"shall i say god?" "you may as well, though it isn't especially clear." lawrence smiled. "god is a big, but vague, term." "i find it so," philip answered, seriously. "there are days, however, and this was one of them, when i am sure of the meaning of that term. claire must go forth with me and see." "yes, do let me go," she said, eagerly. then, with a little laugh: "if your mystery out there is as discomforting as the lawrence mystery in here, i sha'n't worship him, however." "he isn't." philip arose and crossed to his books. "he is the mighty god who speaks in solitude." he drew down a volume, and returned to his chair. "i find here in these mountains the medicine that _hamlet_ should have had. he would have been no _hamlet_ had he ranged this plateau for a day in winter." "and the world would be the loser," lawrence interposed. claire rose and started to prepare their evening meal. she had taken over the duties of housekeeping from the time her ankle had allowed her to walk. "if you two are going to plunge the house into an argument such as that one promises to be," she said gaily, "i am going to reenforce the inner man so that at least you won't suffer from physical exhaustion." both men laughed, and one of them listened to her thoughtfully as she moved about, while the other watched her, his dark eyes full of a keen appreciation of her grace and her concise, accurate movements. "how good it is to have her here," thought philip. aloud, he said, seriously: "i do not think the world gains enough from _hamlet_ to make it worth the price he paid." "why not?" lawrence was quick to respond. "whatever his agony, whatever his failures and his death, he left the world a picture of man's heroic struggles to solve the riddle of the universe, his wisdom, his strength--and his weakness." "but that is just what we don't want--the picture of man's weakness. it is made all the worse when it is presented with the power of a sublime work." claire turned from the stove, and looked at philip. his eyes were burning with a deep, earnest fire that held her fascinated. she thought him the most beautiful of all the men she knew. it was not his face, not his appearance generally, but his eyes. oh, the loss of such eyes! she thought--yes, they are what makes him a finer man than lawrence. why hasn't lawrence such eyes? "believe me, friend," philip was speaking again, "if i could erase from my knowledge the weakness of man, i would not need to trail my feet through these snow-buried forests to find an hour's rest from life." claire saw his fingers move nervously on the arms of his chair, and thought: "that is it, then; i was right; he has his tragedy." she looked at him again, and as she met his eyes she felt that she was sorrier for him than she had ever been for lawrence. yes, she was sorrier for this man whose soul burned out of his eyes than for that other whose soul was always curtained by the expressionless mask that hid him. "i can't quite agree with you," lawrence was saying; "i, too, know the weakness of man, but there is, nevertheless, the glory of sublime beauty which alone stands, immortal. i should indeed mourn for man if he were unable to be truly immortal even in his created work. that, it seems to me, saves him." "or loses him," philip added. "one golden life of unbroken sunshine, dead at last and laid away in the memory of friends is worth more than your greatest poem." "i should call that sentimentality," lawrence laughed. "so it is," philip flashed, "and why not? must we kill sentiment and go about with hearts of ice because our world is hard?" "is there no way to keep ourselves warm without poultices?" retorted lawrence. claire sat down at the table. "come on and enjoy your venison, you two, and have done with the ills of the universe." the two men joined her. it was a strange trio: claire, a dashing boy in philip's made-over corduroys; lawrence wearing his host's summer serge as though it were his own, and philip looking at them, amusedly. "i never quite recover from the charm of you in male attire," ortez remarked, looking into her face. "i've tried at times since our fortunate misfortune to imagine her in evening gowns and furs," said lawrence; "but i always fail and end by getting her into some sort of barbaric costume belonging to the distant past." "you are both flattering and both foolish," she told them. "it's my business to look well in clothes, you know, and it's masculine to admit my efficiency in a particularly feminine line." "you were scarcely fascinatingly efficient in the garb in which you first appeared to me." philip laughed at the recollection. "that isn't fair. i would have been if i had had enough to eat." she looked at him, and her eyes sparkled gaily. "i surrender," he said. "you would have been. too fascinating!" "that also depends on circumstances," said lawrence. "she wouldn't be fascinatingly efficient in that back-to-nature garb if she were doing charity work at home or if she were taking a trip in an airplane." "you carry your point," she agreed. "i shouldn't care to try." "which leads me," lawrence went on, "to observe that our friend, shakespeare, was, after all, right in bequeathing _hamlet_ to us. he might not look well in our own castle, but as a portrait viewed in our neighbor's house, or in a house unspecified, he is the high point of subjective tragedy." ortez did not answer for a moment, then he said, quietly: "i had rather lose my winter's work than lost _hamlet_ from my memory, yet when i think of what there is in life for a man, did he not have _hamlet's_ doubt to face, i think perhaps we would all be better off for no knowledge of that subjective war. man has too much to do to lift himself out of the still clinging primordial slough to dally with subjectiveness. we should be acting, aggressive, strident in the strength of the war we wage toward freedom." "of course," agreed lawrence, "but that requires only one thing, the master passion to do, because for us, doing is life. i cannot regret _hamlet's_ hesitating failure. it was his life. to every man there is but one way, his way, and whether it be failure or success does not depend upon an avenged wrong, a successful marriage, or even a great work done for humanity. the test is, is his life worth the price he pays to live it? i imagine _hamlet's_ was." "fallacies!" interrupted claire. "why, then, the tragedy?" "because _hamlet_ did not know that the governing laws to which he strove to hold himself were not laws, not true, not necessary." "you mean," ortez inquired, "that he was not bound to avenge his father and punish his mother?" "i mean just that. why should he? she was satisfied, his father was dead, and _hamlet_ gained nothing by his moral strutting and raving against his own hesitating hand." "but you have swept aside all moral law," protested philip. "what moral law is there that is external to me? what, indeed, is moral law?" "that which makes for life, perhaps, as some one has said," offered claire. "for my life, yes. that which to me means life, is good. that which to me means less life, is bad." "yet you carried claire through the mountains," philip's voice was hard. "because i needed her, because she was essential to my life." "then you would have left her, had she been a hindrance?" "that depends," answered lawrence slowly. "had she made my life uncertain when otherwise i might have lived, i think i would. of course, if her being there merely increased my trouble, i should have brought her." claire was watching philip's face. it was a study. on it there was something that made her heart beat faster, she found herself unable to tell why. she glanced at lawrence. there he sat, his strong, stern face, calm and soulless. she wondered why blindness robbed this man of his rightful appearance. he had a soul, and it was a wild, beauty-loving soul, she knew, but blindness quite mantled it. on the other hand, philip's was a mighty fire within, which shone in beauty through his eyes. lawrence had quietly spoken of how he would have left her under other circumstances. philip would have died at her side, she knew it. what a difference between them! "but if you feel as you declare, why take that extra trouble to save her?" philip asked. "because i have a certain dislike of death and don't care to cause it myself if i can help it." claire laughed. "but death, you said once, is a mere stopping of animal action. why dread that?" "because i myself do not care to die, i would not care to cause your death." philip rose and went to the fire. "i do not believe you could live by your theory," he asserted. "i do live by it. there is but one thing i dread worse than death. i would die rather than give up my creative impulse." "and he would sacrifice your life or mine for art's sake," merrily added claire. "it's a good thing he doesn't think we are hindrances to art." philip also laughed. "well," he said, "there might come a time when i, too, would want a thing enough to kill in order to obtain it." "what, for example?" asked lawrence. "that is the best way to determine your value of life." philip did not answer for a few minutes, then his voice vibrated. "the things that mean more than life to me. i know that one holds his own life dear, but there are things, love, courage, honor, for example, that he holds even above life." "would you kill me, for instance," asked lawrence pleasantly, "if i stood between you and claire?" "that is scarcely answerable," nervously interposed claire. "you see, you don't and the man who does--though it's all absurd, since we none of us here are the least in love--is my husband." "i had almost forgotten him," said lawrence, his voice lingering softly on the word "almost." philip laughed. "why, yes, in the abstract, i should say that if anything would make me kill you, it would be your standing between me and the woman i loved. of course, the case is fair, but scarcely probable enough to make any of us worry." "true"--lawrence joined him at the fire--"and by the way, while i think of it, i want a knife and a block of soft wood. i'm going to entertain myself these days." quickly claire looked up. "and you shall entertain me, philip," she said gaily. chapter viii. the tightening net. christmas was upon them. they gathered before the big fireplace in silent meditation, while outside the wind whipped sheeted snow against the walls and wailed dismally its endless journeying. they could not help but feel the something melancholy in the air. the little cabin, standing so far away from civilization and all the things they were accustomed to know seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of the world and leave them stranded as it were, upon a barren stretch of thought. in keeping with the setting, solemn questions of destiny, death, and the meaning of things took the place of the usual christmas festival and glitter. in lawrence's mind, claire was growing more and more predominant. he found her constant association weaving itself into his life until, when he looked ahead toward the day when they must part, he discovered himself asking what he could find that would take her place. her voice, her little habits of speech, the unexpected question that showed her deep interest in him, in his work, and in his attitude toward her, these had gradually stirred in him the desire to establish in his own mind a definite relation toward her which he could maintain. when claire went out for a while with philip, lawrence spent the interim in trying to reason out his problem. he told himself that he would feel differently in his old environment with friends and work, but the answer was not satisfactory. he knew that even there, he would miss the quick sound of movement, the quick phrase that was claire. did he love her then? he asked himself that, and could not answer. what was love to him, anyway? he sought to think out a scheme of love that would fit into his system of utter selfishness, and failed. the memory of her in his arms came to him now with a warm, emotional coloring that had been absent during the days of their journey. had he been so impersonal then at first? he remembered his first wild joy at finding her there in the surf, and he admitted that even then there had been a subtle heightening of his pleasure, because it was a woman. since his blindness he had been separated from the other sex even more than from his own, and now he was to live with one daily, having her alone to talk to, to watch, to be interested in, and to know--yes, that had been a part of his feeling that morning. he remembered that he had been slightly irritated at her when he had first decided that she was cold and intellectual. he had wanted her to be warm, colorful, vivid, and feminine. he had found later that she was all these things, but not toward him. it was a man whom he had never known, her husband, howard barkley, for whom she was wholly woman. always when she spoke of him her voice had warmed, grown softer, subtly shaded with color. claire opened the cabin door. "hello, mr. dreamer! still in the land of to-morrow?" she called, taking off her heavy wraps. "where's philip?" lawrence demanded gruffly, without moving. "working over a trap in the ravine. i was a little tired, so i didn't wait." lawrence could hear her brushing her hair. he was glad she had returned without philip. now at least they would have a few minutes alone. "snow bad?" he asked. if he could only have run his hands through that curly mass! the memory of her hair brushing against his face made his temples throb dully. "yes, my hair is filled with it. i caught my cap on a branch, and the whole load of snow came down on top of me." "how old are you, claire?" he demanded suddenly. she laughed. "guess! don't you know it isn't good form to ask a lady her age?" "sometimes you are quite thirty, and other times--" "well, go on." claire was standing at the opposite side of the fireplace with her back to the flame. "other times, you are two," lawrence continued calmly. "i thought that was coming. well, just to prove what a really nice person i am, i'll tell you. i'm twenty-six." "when were you married, claire?" her breath tightened at his question. "curiosity is a wonderful thing, and the impudence of man passeth all understanding. i have been married exactly six years, three months, and twenty-four days." the last sentence brought the catch into her voice that lawrence had expected. "i know you miss your husband," he forced himself to say formally. "yes, you see"--claire hesitated--"ours wasn't like some marriages one hears about. howard and i were both very much in love." she realized too late the past tense. had lawrence noticed it? "i miss him dreadfully," she added desperately. lawrence said nothing. he had noticed claire's slip, and the verb had sent him into a thousand realized dreams. the next instant he was cursing himself for a fool. "fools, all of us," he thought. "philip, too, warming himself with dreams of claire." before the nearness of the spaniard's personality, howard barkley faded into the background. lawrence reviewed his own position moodily. blind, unable to do the work that philip did, certainly unable to use the million little ways of courtesy-building as philip did, his chances were unequal. did he want claire for claire, or was it only the fighting instinct, the desire to overcome men not handicapped as he was? would he still want claire after he had won her? after the intimacies of home life had made her familiar as nothing else could, and had dispelled all romance, all the alluring appeal that sprang from the deepest sex-prompted desire yet unattained, would he still want her? that was the question, and he could not say. the experience alone could tell him--and would that experience ever come? claire watched lawrence's face, the while her own thoughts raced on. it had been love she felt for her husband. she was sure of that. of course, in the years of their life together, the old, wild passion had gradually retired into its normal proportion, leaving them free to go about calmly and untroubled. but it was there, as she well knew in the hours when they became lovers again. certainly those hours had been joyous, happy ones, unclouded by any suspicion of mere gratification of impulse or desire. yes, they had been hours of love claiming its rightful expression over the more constant hours of daily living. then she recalled her experience of the night before. she had been dreaming of her husband, but he possessed lawrence's features, illumined with the glow of philip's eyes, and she had started into full wakefulness with a sudden sense of her position. now she sat before the fire, and resolved grimly that no matter what happened she would be faithful to howard. of course, she would go with philip to look after his traps, the exercise was the best antidote to such morbid thoughts, and he would never make advances to her, of that she was sure. as for the days that she might spend alone with lawrence, he was too self-centered, too much wrapped up in his wood-carving, to think of a woman--and she disregarded the little pang of discontent that accompanied her thought. philip was hanging the skins over the door. claire realized that she had been too engrossed to notice his entrance. "i break a six weeks' fast to-day"--and he turned toward lawrence. "do you smoke?" "man!" said lawrence, springing up, "if i'd known you had tobacco in store i'd have murdered you long ago to get it. i would be a more agreeable companion if i could taste tobacco now and then." "pardon me for not thinking to ask you. i was declaring a six months' course in self-discipline for the good of my soul." "bring forth the smoke," said lawrence joyously. "unfortunately"--philip turned to claire--"a bachelor's storehouse contains no treat for a lady. your visit was unexpected." "i shall gain my pleasure through watching you two sink back into a beloved vice," she answered. "horrible!" lawrence sat down, and took the cigarette which philip produced. "to enjoy seeing one succumb to vice." "isn't it characteristic of scandal-loving humanity?" she rejoined. "and on christmas day!" philip chided her lightly. then he went on, seriously: "but one should really be above all things save love and gratitude to god on this day." "i suppose so," said lawrence, "but it's difficult to determine just where this object of gratitude abides and what he is." "is it necessary to locate him?" asked claire. lawrence breathed deeply with the satisfaction in his cigarette. "i should hate to direct my gratitude toward some one who missed it, and thus have it lost in desert space," he answered. "it isn't that we need god so much as it is simply the good we gain ourselves," said philip slowly. "i still follow the old trail for my own heart's sake." "and does it get you anywhere?" lawrence's question was characteristic. "yes, i think so. i find myself nearer to the source of that which is worth while." "what is worth while?" claire asked. the answers she obtained were the two men revealed. "the fullest life possible for me," said lawrence. "the fullest heart possible for me," followed philip. "but you both mean the same thing, don't you?" asked claire. "i mean the fullest number of my own desires gratified," lawrence avowed. philip leaned back in his chair and looked at claire, meditatively. "if he did as he says, we should have to lock him up," he observed. they all laughed. "not at all." lawrence was amiably argumentative. "to be sure, if my desires were gratified at your expense, as this smoke, for example"--he laughed--"and on an all-inclusive scale, you might have to resort to personal violence. but, in fact, many of my desires would bring you joy in their gratification, you know." "i do know," said philip cordially, "but the danger in your point of view is that it allows for no check. you would sacrifice both of us if it were necessary to gratify your desires--that is, if you lived true to your assertion." "perhaps i would. i don't know. there is the weak point in my whole scheme. i evade it by failing to sacrifice you, but i support my theory by saying there is no occasion to do so." "i don't like your principles," philip rejoined, "though i admit that my own fail me more often than not." "exactly. we humans do fail, and the conclusion to which it brings me is, why hold principles that you find unworkable? i prefer a standard to which i can at least be true, in the main, and avoid self-condemnation, pricks of conscience, and other little inconveniences." "such as a sense of duty?" interrupted claire. "that above all, claire," he laughed. "and obligation?" "yes, that too, if you mean a sense of being bound to one because of something he has done in the past. for instance, i am obliged to philip for his food, his house, my life, and this cigarette, but i scarcely feel that that would imply that i must sacrifice my greatest desire in life as payment if necessary. of course, it isn't necessary, but if it were, i should refuse." "i think you would not," asserted philip. "i know i would. i rather believe you would also, though it might be that you would not." "i would sacrifice anything to pay a debt of gratitude." philip spoke warmly. "you would--perhaps--but in so doing would you not feel that gratitude was the thing of supreme worth to yourself?" "not necessarily. i might even suffer all my life for having done so." "impossible. you would either redeem your sense of life's value by a new belief, or you would die." "then you think a man can do as he pleases and maintain his self-respect, his personal integrity?" "he will find some way to make himself feel worth while, or he will cease to be." "you think that a criminal, or perhaps better, a person abandoned to vice, feels justified?" "yes. he creates a belief by which his abandonment is not destructive to himself, or he is converted, which is simply a convulsion of nature for the same end, to preserve his life and make it seem valuable to him." "could you, for instance, murder a man, and do it believing that afterward you would somehow make it seem right, or at least so necessary that you would feel as self-respecting and sin-free as before?" philip was speaking earnestly. "i should not do so unless i were forced to it, but if i were, i know that i would somehow reconstruct my mental life so that i would still feel existence worth the price." claire leaned forward. "lawrence," she said jestingly, "you have swept away the bulwark of the home, made infidelity easy, and numberless separated families inevitable with your bold, bad talk. aren't you sorry for all those tragedies?" he laughed. "very," he said, "though it was watching such proceedings take place so frequently that led me to accept my theory. think of the men and women who are unfaithful, who leave their wedded partner for another, and still find life worth while." "but that is their failure to live true to their principles," said philip. "it is commonly called sin, my friend." "it may be, according to their light, but they generally get a new light afterward. you see, i do not believe that god joins men and women. i am persuaded that a very natural physical desire does so, and it doesn't follow that the first is the only or best union." "my husband would simply dread me if i held your view, and i should feel very wary if i were your wife, lawrence," remarked claire. that was the central point in the whole discussion, though none of them were aware of it. vaguely they felt that they were groping their way toward the future, but they did not allow the feeling to reach a conscious state, and philip laughingly broke up the talk. "here we are," he said, yawning, "the fire is making us all sleepy, we're talking foolishness, and we need exercise. why not get it? i think we might all of us go out and face the wind for a quarter of an hour, then let it blow us back to camp like three children. i have the skis for us all." "great!" claire clapped her hands in applause. "it's a splendid idea," agreed lawrence, and they set forth. it was hard going against the wind; philip was the only one who managed his skis very satisfactorily, and lawrence, of course, had to be assisted, but the crust was smooth and clear, and they made great sport of it. the two men placed claire between them and crossed hands in front of her, like skaters. the fresh snow-filled air blew into their lungs, and they laughed like boys on a holiday. claire glanced at the two and thought: "what a pair to be between!" then laughed again. all the morbidity was gone, she was not thinking follies now, and neither of them was more than a good friend. philip was thinking that claire was good to see as she moved along between them, her graceful stroke carrying her over the snow, her cheeks stung red in the wind. lawrence was not thinking at all. he was simply moving, deeply enjoying the wind and the exercise and the soft, strong little hand upon his own, helping to guide him through his darkness. when they turned and stood close together, the wind caught them like a sail and sent them skimming before it. the sense of tobogganing was keenly exhilarating. home, problems, worries, the future, all seemed very simply, very easy, and not at all a matter for long conversations before a hot fire. chapter ix. claire's abasement. the following days and even weeks passed quickly, carried on the wave of light-hearted play which philip had so wisely started that christmas night. february came with clear sun that set the snow glittering like a field of crystal under the dark pines, and they laughed with exuberance of spirit as they swept over it on their skis. even lawrence became an adept as long as he had one of their guiding hands to hold. all speculation was gone for the time being. lawrence and claire gave themselves up to a frank comradeship, in which philip formed a splendid third, so that they seemed a trio of happy, healthy animals whose lives flowed without a break in the mere pleasure of living. but one morning early in the month, philip said after breakfast, over his coffee and cigarette, "i'm going for the day to my farthest traps across the river. claire, would you care to go? we'll get back late this evening." "i would," she said promptly. "i'll be ready in a few minutes." lawrence did not say anything, but to his sudden surprise he felt his heart sink. an insistent inner voice was saying, "i wish she wouldn't go." he heard her, back of the curtain, dressing for the trip, and his little petulant thought grew into gloom at the prospect of her being away. he felt irritated at philip for suggesting that she go. "you'll have to leave me a good spread, claire," he said finally when she emerged into the room. "i'll fix you up a great meal," she laughed. "you can eat all day, if you like." in her voice there was an unusual warmth, for at his words she felt suddenly as though she were thoughtless of him in going. for a minute she pondered giving up the trip, then concluded that to do so would seem ridiculous, and set about preparing his lunch. philip rose and, putting on his heavy coat, said carelessly, "you can carve us a new wooden image, lawrence." the words were casual and without intention, but they angered. lawrence felt as though both of them were trying to make amends to him for their going, as though, being blind, he must of course stay at home, but ought to have something to occupy his time. his resentment grew stronger as he continued to think of their supposed condescension. when the lunches were ready claire and philip started. at the door she paused and said gaily: "keep the house warm for our returning, lawrence." he was sullenly angry and made no reply. the frank way in which she spoke of herself and philip somehow recalled to his mind other couples, married lovers starting out somewhere, and his heart tightened perceptibly. after they were gone he sat thinking for a long time, and his impulsive feeling clarified into certainty. claire and philip were in love. perhaps they did not know it yet themselves, and had not spoken, perhaps they had; at any rate, they were in love. it had grown between them in his very presence, and he, doubly blind fool, had not known. if he could have seen, it would have been clear to him, of course. he thought of claire's husband, and grew virtuously angry at claire. howard barkley would mourn his days out, never knowing that his beloved wife was living in bolivia with a spanish trapper! he saw claire going about the cabin as philip's wife and doing for love the things she now did out of a desire to be of use, and his rage grew. was it not for love that she did them now? but she was just as thoughtful of him as she was of philip. "of course, idiot," he muttered, "she pities you; you poor, abandoned, blind man, you are to be cared for, don't you see?" he strove to shake himself into a different mood by self-ridicule. was this the philosopher who made life a matter of calm acceptance of circumstances which he knew to be his master? he laughed at himself, but the laugh was bitter, and he knew that he was not willing to accept this particular turn of circumstances. but what right had he to judge what she did? she was not his wife nor the woman who would be his wife. she could never be his wife. there was her husband. no, it was not her husband that counted, but philip! suddenly lawrence realized the point that he had reached. he loved claire barkley. the admission of that at last in frank, utter avowal set him dreaming of the joys she might have been to him. he thought of a thousand little intimacies, cares, thoughtfulnesses, that she might have given him and received from him, and they were all made vital, real, by the now ardent memory of her in his arms, of the hands he had held in his own so often of late in the open. in the afternoon he grew disgusted with himself. he had moped all day in his chair, moving only to replenish the fire or get a cigarette, and he now shook himself vigorously free from his thoughts. "you love her, yes, and she obviously does not love you," he told himself. "why, then, make the best of it, if you can't do better, and at least don't be a beast in your treatment of your host when he comes back to his own hearth." with that he dragged out a block of wood, took his knife, and went to work. as was his way, he was soon unconscious of everything but the piece of wood beneath his hand. he had never done wood-carving before, and he was learning the technique that made it very different from clay. he had gone at this piece without any special intent and was shaping it into a cherub merely out of whim, but he was giving to the task every atom of his skill, and his hands worked with every nerve strained to detect and keep line and proportion. swiftly under his knife the child's body grew in shape, and he caressed the rough form tenderly. he would polish it later, and then what pleasure it would represent! it would make a great decoration for the cabin--for her cabin. he winced--yes, for hers and philip's cabin. "fool!" he ejaculated. "forget it!" he bent again to his work, but it did not go so smoothly. out there she and philip would be laughing merrily together, skimming over the snow in long, sweeping strides, hand in hand. would they think of him? probably not, or if they did it would be to say, "poor lawrence! it's a pity he's blind. he has real talent." he gritted his teeth. well, he had real talent, and they should know it. she should know it. he would show her such carving as she had never thought possible. after all, was her love to him, lawrence the artist, the capable, blindness-conquering artist? "i am reconstructing my life," he thought, "so that i can still find it valuable without the woman i want." he again laughed bitterly and said to himself, "you poor, blind, groveling beast, you, what a poor excuse for life you have, and what a tawdry substitute you would offer claire for the vast joy that is hers! oh, it is contemptible!" he bent over his work again, and the door opened. claire came across the room and leaned over him, her body radiating a cool, healthy perfume as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "oh, what a splendid piece of work, lawrence!" her voice was joyous, triumphant, and his heart beat desperately against his chest. "they've declared their love," he thought, and then he said simply, his voice vibrant with the emotion he did not otherwise show, "it's been beastly lonesome to-day, claire." she laughed gaily, while her eyes clouded. then she noticed the untouched food on the table. "why, lawrence, didn't you like the lunch i fixed for you?" "it was bully, claire," he answered quickly, "but i wasn't very hungry to-day--i don't know why." the emotional coloring in his voice set her whole being atremble. she had come in, radiant with the day's pleasure, and he had met her with his need. he had been too blue even to eat. she was suddenly seized with pity for him, as she thought of his long day alone. but more than that, over and over in her heart she kept saying, with a joy she could not conceal from herself, "he loves me! he loves me!" philip came in and bent over them both to look at the wooden child. "_caramba!_ it is a marvelous thing!" he exclaimed. the unconscious use of the spanish word showed the genuineness of his admiration. claire laughed joyously. she was glad that philip knew the power of this blind man who loved her, and a vague feeling came over her that she was now somehow safe from philip. instantly she wondered at her feeling the need of safety from him. glancing back over lawrence's head, she met ortez's eyes and read in their look a tenderness that he did not know was there. her heart leaped unsteadily, and her lashes dropped. she was saying to herself, "how wonderful he is!" then she turned and almost ran behind the curtain that walled her room. on the edge of her bed she sat, her face in her hands, hot tears burning her eyes, while over and over the blood rushed into her cheeks and out again. "claire! claire! what sort of a woman are you?" she moaned. her heart beat irregularly under the surge of emotion that shook her. she was glad, glad that lawrence loved her. she had looked into the eyes of philip ortez, and her own had dropped, while her mind had leaped into admiration of him, warm, yielding admiration. what was it that had swept her on the discovery of one man's love to a deep, vibrant gladness--that another man's eyes had been filled with tenderness for her? was she so changed from the claire of old? was she utterly degraded? did she want both men to love her? did she love either of them? what of her husband? she sank down on the bed and wept silently. they were talking out there in the cabin. she heard lawrence say laughingly: "one gets accustomed to hearing your voices around, and to hearing claire do things, so that a day alone seems endless." "hearing claire do things"--that was it--and suppose he knew what she was, would he want to hear her then? "oh, i know," philip was answering. "it gets to be a sort of necessity, doesn't it, when we have so many associations and memories all among ourselves? i shall find the place dreary next winter, i am afraid, when you are back among your friends, and claire"--he paused slightly--"will be going about as ever, doing things for her husband somewhere up there in the states." would her husband ever imagine or discover what she was? if he did, he would leave her. she remembered a girl in the slums at home who had refused to be uplifted. "aw, one fellow ain't enough. a plain ham is all right for some, but i want a club-sandwich." she shuddered now at the memory of the girl's words, and shrank together on her bed. was she another of that sort, abnormal, degenerate, whose life must find its level at last in the sordid riot of promiscuity, disguising itself as love? if claire had never touched the bed-rock of self-abasement before, she was doing it now, there in that cabin. she heard ortez starting to get supper, and she sat up quickly. with stern control she forced herself to seem composed and quiet, while within her passions raged like a tornado. self-contempt, wonder, amazement, pity for her husband, for lawrence, and hatred for philip ortez swept round and round in her brain like a maelstrom. she stepped through her curtain and said gaily: "you're preempting my privilege, philip." he laughed. "i thought perhaps you were tired," he said. "she ought to be," remarked lawrence from his chair, and in her present state she imagined in his voice a tenderness, a worry for her, and a distrust of her. she took up the kettle, and hung it on its hook in the fireplace. "i never in my life imagined myself cooking over an open fire in this way," she said as she turned toward the little storeroom adjoining. "you like it?" philip asked carelessly. she felt sure that his eyes had read her heart and that he was looking toward the future, his future with the wanton mistress he had found. she could have screamed, "i hate you! i hate you!" but she said only, "it's great fun for a while; i wouldn't fancy it as a permanent thing." "it surely must be different from the conveniences of your home." "rather," she laughed as she began cutting from the smoked meat that hung in the storeroom. now it was lawrence who was speaking. "i guess she'd surprise us if we could supply her with a chafing-dish. i'd like to see her at work over one in my studio with the bunch around waiting hungrily for results." would these men never stop saying things that made her want to scream? what was the matter, that all at once the beauty of her day should be smashed into a discolored memory of self-hatred? was there nothing in all the world but sordid thoughts of oneself and of men who, causing them, said things to make them worse? after they had eaten she went to bed as soon as possible, leaving the men to smoke before the fire. she had pleaded weariness, and they had laughingly told her to get to sleep. they were out there now, talking in subdued tones so as not to disturb her--as if their voices did not ring through her suffering mind like clarions of evil! what should they say if she should suddenly spring before them and shout out her mad fancies? for a moment she had the wildest of impulses to laugh aloud, then suddenly she turned on her face as she recalled the emotion that had swept her when she saw philip looking at her over lawrence's head. sleep finally stopped her tears. the two men went to bed, and there was silence in the cabin. lawrence was smiling, as he felt philip's body there beside him in the darkness. "i could kill you now," he was thinking ironically, "and end all question of your loving claire." philip, too, was awake. he had seen the hot flush that came into claire's face that evening, and he knew that she had been troubled during the supper. he wondered if she were ill. then suddenly he asked himself, "is she in love with one of us?" he immediately tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy of her. she was not the kind of woman to forget her marriage vows. but what a home she could make for the man she loved! if he had only known her in time! but there was still friendship--yes, surely she could give that. complete understanding and perfect sympathy would be the basis of a lasting attachment. "who knows?" he pondered. "it may be that fate has sent her to me to teach me what a great self-denying love can be. in claire i may find my dream-star again." chapter x. how simple the solution! when claire awoke the next morning her whole being seemed gathered into a tense strain that made her feel as though the least thing might snap the taut nerves in her body and leave her broken and stranded on some far, emotional shoal. her heart beat unevenly, while her lips and hands felt dry and hot, as if she had spent hours in a desert wind. she did not experience the bitter anguish of the night before; such storms are too wild to last, but it had left her deadly heavy within, and she was unable to recover her usual calm. one great determination dominated her, to prevent these men, at any cost, from knowing her real feelings. it was a determination born out of the sheer force that was carrying her on, a struggle that came from the very strength of the tide she sought to resist. she had been awakened by a sudden and clear image, the result of her unsettled mind. her husband was beside her, leaning over the bed and looking down at her with a great love and a greater pity shining in his eyes. she thought that she had thrown up her arms to close about him with the frantic joy of a rescued person, only to have them meet in empty air and fall listless at her sides again. beyond the curtain she heard philip saying cheerfully: "it is a great day outside, one of claire's days for play." "good!" lawrence answered. "we'll go out, then, and play." a rush of self-pity, anger against her situation, fear of she knew not what, and a gnawing desire to escape blended in her thoughts, while her heart warmed at the sound of lawrence's words. "oh," she thought, "i can never, never stand this day!" she got out of bed and began to dress, her nervous hands fumbling at the buttons on her clothes. her eyes, deeper and shadowed in dark rings, stared vacantly at the white canvas before her. lawrence was talking again, and she listened. presently he started across the room and bumped into a chair. the incident was one which had become long familiar to her, and ordinarily she would have thought nothing of it, but this morning she flushed with sudden anger that a chair should have been left in his way. then she realized that she was foolish, stepped through the curtain, and said before she thought: "lawrence, i do wish that you'd look where you are going!" he laughed merrily. "so do i," he rejoined. "for some years failure to do so has kept me with at least one skinned shin. but just think of the cost of stockings had i been blind as a boy!" suddenly she had a vivid picture of him as a ragged, little fellow, stumbling about through his unfathomable darkness, bumping into things and leaving jagged holes in his child's black stockings. whether she wanted to laugh or cry she did not know, but a great, warm surge of motherliness came over her for the child she imaged, and she said aloud, "poor little urchin!" philip turned and looked at her, smiling. "it would have been a picture indeed," he said. "i had enough troubles during my rebellious childhood at the orphanage without adding imaginary woes," lawrence went on, amusedly retrospective. "i remember one day when i was at the awkward stage. i was all dressed for church and happened to stumble over another boy lying in the grass. i fell against a bench, my trousers caught on a projecting nail, and ripped dreadfully. the matron gave me a scolding and sent me to bed for the day." "brought up in an orphanage!" thought claire. "no wonder he is pessimistic." "i didn't mind missing church," lawrence continued; "but it struck me as a piece of gross injustice that i should be punished for a boy's lack of muscular coordination. i've experienced the same fate over my blindness. it seems to be a special trick people have, and they play it incessantly. i should think it would get as tiresome to them by and by as it did to me some years ago." claire felt as if she were included in his casual criticism of mankind, and wondered just how she had been addicted to the practise. a dozen different instances came to her, and she felt very penitent. "it's because we're all so thoughtless," she said. "perhaps. i rather choose to state it differently. it's for the same reason that i do thousands of things, because i'm more interested in myself than i am in any one else. i'm selfish, and so is the rest of humanity." "but we aren't deliberately so," philip protested. "isn't it rather that we are short-sighted and unimaginative?" "it may be. the end is the same. if i am too short-sighted, too unimaginative to know how a fellow being feels, i can do nothing but blunder along. he may be hurt by me. i may do him an injustice, i may even cheat him of his chance at life, but it can't be helped, and again the result amounts to my being selfish." as she worked over her biscuit dough, claire listened to their talk resentfully. she wished they would keep still, but she said nothing. they went ahead, demonstrating, she thought bitterly, the truth of lawrence's argument. "i suppose mankind generally does the best it can," philip said thoughtfully. "if you ask a man, if you really talk with him, you will find him kindly, inclined to be generous, and willing to do what he can for another. i have always found that true." "so have i, in a way. he is kindly, he is inclined to be generous, and he is willing to do what he can for another. the trouble is, he makes a maudlin sentiment of his kindliness, a self-flattering charity of his generous inclinations, and is unable to do what he can for another because he is quite sincerely persuaded that he can't do anything." "my friend, i have had men help me when it cost them trouble to do it. we all have. without it, we would none of us accomplish anything of value." "i, too, have had them help me, from the lending of money down to guiding me across a traffic-blurred street, but i have never yet found more than three or four whose imagination was keen enough and whose judgment clear enough to give me a square deal at living." "what do you mean?" "i mean that the same man who will help me across the street, lend me money, and be a splendid comrade, stops short when he comes to the field of self-support. he will say sympathetically, 'i don't see how you can do it,' or 'i admire your grit, old man, and i'd like to see you do it,' and then begin scheming around to direct my interests, aspirations, and efforts into some other channel from where i want them, as though, out of his own great wisdom, he knew much better than i what a blind man could do. if you want to learn just how small the imagination of mankind is and how obstructive to progress is their fool good-heartedness, go among them as a capable mind with a physical handicap. you'll size them up, yourself included, as the most blindly wall-butting set of blundering organisms that ever felt their way through an endlessly obstructed universe." "breakfast!" claire broke in with an unwonted sharpness in her tone. "and do let the biscuits stop the argument." they laughed and sat down to a silent meal. when it was ended, and the men took their cigarettes to the fireplace, she said: "i wish you would both do me a favor to-day." "we will! name it!" they spoke at the same time. she turned toward them with an earnestness which she had scarcely meant to betray. "go out, both of you, and leave me here alone a while." lawrence was silent. her words and her tone sent a sharp pain through him, and he wondered if she were ill. he wanted to say something to her, started to do so, checked himself, and laughed embarrassedly. philip stared at her. he noticed the pale face and the dark rings under her eyes. "why, certainly," he said, and rose. "you aren't looking well, claire. is anything seriously wrong?" he looked at her again with the same unconsciously tender warmth in his eyes. she saw it, flushed angrily, wanted to scream at him, and said simply, "no, i just want to think, and want it quiet. you two talk too much about yourselves and about things that you don't understand." "very true"--lawrence also had risen--"if i did understand them, i'd show humanity how to stop being animals and be men." "while as it is," she said nervously, "you allow them to blunder along and help the good work out by making plenty of trouble for them by your own blind shortness of vision." he stood, wondering at her. how had he unintentionally hurt her, and what exactly did she mean? philip laughed heartily. "a just judgment on him for his sorry view of the world," he commented, opening the door. "we'll tramp back into the hills," he said to lawrence when they were both outside, "and see what there is of deficient imagination in them." "there isn't," lawrence said quietly; "they and the ocean are testimonials to the real potential power of an otherwise very faulty artist." left alone, claire worked furiously at setting the house to rights. her nervous state led her to throw herself into the work with an energy that kept her from thinking. she sought for things to do with the desperation of a person whose only escape from the furies that followed him is utter physical exhaustion. when the cabin had been arranged and rearranged until there was no possible excuse for further effort, she took her heavy man's coat from its place and stepped out upon the snow-covered plateau before the house. along its edges the lake shone milk-white in the sun, while farther out the ice glinted a clear, watery blue that made a gleaming jewel set in the sparkling snow around it. she stood gazing across the ice to the forest beyond. its still beauty crept over her, and she breathed deeply of the cold, crisp air. her head ached dully, and her chest felt tight as though trying to expand beyond its limit to make room for the trouble that filled her being. after standing motionless for a few moments, she started briskly across the snow toward the far side of the lake. she walked carefully over the ice and into the trees beyond. in her mind was one thought, to escape--but escape from what? from herself, she answered, and then suddenly, with a panicky bursting of the tension, she thought that is done only through death. she stopped and let the word "death" fill her mind, as a word sometimes does, growing and growing until its increasing weight oppresses the brain with a sense of physical pressure. "death"--is it an escape? she tried to imagine herself dead, and failed. she could find no adequate image to express oblivion, and she gave up trying, while she began to wonder if she actually were immortal, and if she were, what would she say to herself beyond the edge of life? she thought of herself as standing, naked of soul, unbodied, in some far etherealized atmosphere, and she shuddered. "i would still be claire, loving these two men and fearing a third." tears crept down her cheeks. no, she did not want to be immortal and have no escape from herself. if she would only be able to endure the months still remaining before she got home, then everything would be settled. but would it? did she want lawrence to go out of her life, did she want to lose him? she could have him still as a friend, her home open to him always, her husband as glad to welcome him as she herself--yes, that would be best. she was walking again now, rapidly, thinking as she moved, and it all seemed very clear to her. she would tell her husband how lawrence had suffered, how brave he had been, and how he had carried her on and on, when death seemed inevitable. howard would owe lawrence a tremendous debt of gratitude, and would make existence easier for him. lawrence had had a hard life, his bitter attitude showed that he deserved a less obstructed road, and she would give it to him. in their home all three would talk, laugh, and be, oh, so happy, while lawrence could work better with his studio near her, perhaps in her own house where care could be taken of him. he would create great art there, and his bitterness would end. she would show him that her husband was understanding and imaginative. again she stopped suddenly. but lawrence--would he accept? he was so independent, so doggedly determined to fight his life out while his very battling made him ironical and darkly pessimistic. she tried to imagine him agreeing to her plan, and instead she heard him say, "i'm sorry, claire, but i can't do it. i've got to go it alone and win or go under. i can't accept the charity you offer me in place of love. gratitude, i know, prompts you, but you owe me nothing, you paid your debt by being eyes for me. no, if we can't be lovers, we can't be anything else. i know my limitations." why had she put in that about "lovers"? he had never said anything to lead her to think he would say that. she answered herself that it was because she would want him to say it. and if he did say it, what would she answer? she would say--no, she couldn't do that--she would want to say, "then let us be lovers!" but that was impossible. in her own husband's home! and what would she think of philip when she was again in her old world? he, also, was deserving of gratitude. she stamped her foot in the snow. she hated him, hated him, and he would drop out of her life, utterly and forever. she would be glad when she saw the last of him with his seductive eyes. those eyes--why did he, and not lawrence, have them? they should have been lawrence's. it was one more instance of the endless ironic humor of the universe. lawrence--lawrence and her husband! she turned wearily back toward the cabin. it was nearly noon when she reached home again, and lawrence, a worried look on his face, was standing in the door of the cabin. "you beat me back," claire said, as she approached, and her heart leaped at the look of relief that came into his face. "claire, you ought to be punished," he said in gay, tender tones. "what sentence would you pass, mr. judge?" she questioned. he stepped out toward her. "perhaps your fate needs a good washing in cold snow," he laughed. "perhaps it does," she said, caressingly. "do you think you could administer it?" "i know i could." he stooped and took up a handful of snow. she did the same and said gaily, "two washed faces seem inevitable." lawrence laughed and caught her around the waist. her blood tingled, and her throat hurt as if she would choke. she began to struggle desperately, frightened at her own emotion. he laughed, and held her tighter with one arm while he tried to reach her face with the other hand. she was pressed against him, and they swayed back and forth, while philip laughed from the doorway. her heart was beating trip-hammer blows against her breast, she gasped for breath, and her eyes closed. his hand reached her face, and she ducked against his shoulder. "lawrence! lawrence!" she sobbed. her voice startled him. its pleading, yielding intensity sent his own blood racing. he let her go, and stepped back quickly while his breath came short. "pardon me, claire," he muttered, and turned away. claire saw philip watching them, in his eyes a strange, new glitter. she rushed past him to the cabin and into her little room. it was a silent dinner they ate that day. claire was deeply, bitterly humiliated, and she kept seeing again and again with exaggerated clearness that look in philip's eyes when she had staggered free from lawrence's arms. it burned in her mind like an unquenchable coal, and she revolted at it. she was utterly unable to collect her thoughts. she fancied she could still feel the warm pressure of lawrence's body while she suffered untold agony of soul for having been carried away by his touch. she reproached herself with a scorn that seared for having ever allowed herself to engage in that silly scuffle. she could scarcely bear to sit at the table with philip, and she did not once look in his direction. in her heart there was no anger against lawrence, only a dull, aching dread, tempered with a longing she did not attempt to analyze. dominating her thought was the one phrase, "why need philip have seen?" that look in his eyes--oh, god! would she have to go on day after day facing those eyes that compelled her in spite of herself? must she feel his glances burning through her when her soul was filled with hatred for him? but was it hatred? surely his eyes, those lights that made her marvel, were the windows to a high and noble soul. yes, he was fine, yet she wished he was not there, that she had never known him. she asked herself if she would rather have perished, and she knew she would not. better to have lived forever with philip's eyes piercing into her than to give up life when lawrence was with her, needing her, and--she stopped--loving her, yes, loving her. it was true. she remembered his voice when he had released her, and thrilled again at the tense note. he did love her! and philip? she felt her heart sink, and then a strange, subtle warmth came over her. it was good to be loved by two men so powerful, so worth while, each in his own way. of course, she could never care for philip. he was beyond her power to love; besides her heart was filled with lawrence. but her husband, yes, she had loved her husband. her many days of happiness with him proved that. she could never have lived with him as she had if love had not been between them. she must remember that, and be true to him. it would be hard to see lawrence go out of her life, but it was her duty, she owed it to herself, to her husband, and to society. if she could only get through the remaining months without allowing lawrence to hope! she must not give him another opportunity to want her or to discuss his feelings with her. she would be very, very careful. she must plan it as easily for him as possible. the way to accomplish that was not to be with him. this would necessitate her associating more with philip. after all, why shouldn't she? he was good and strong, and not really in love with her. of course, he might be, if she allowed it, but she would stop that. she would show him by word, look, and act that any such love was inconceivable. he would understand and forget his earlier feeling, for after all he was not yet alive to the situation. it was merely circumstances that had brought that look into his eyes. disliking him as she did, it would be hard to associate with him. she studied this last problem carefully, and at last arrived at a new state of mind. she did not dislike him, it was merely the natural unconscious trend of male and female that she hated. he was not to blame, neither was she, and they were, fortunately, beings with mind and will. they could use their god-given power to talk it out and face the situation. then philip's natural nobility would make the solution easy. they would be on a splendid footing of frank understanding; their foresight would have saved them from a ridiculous and criminal mistake. in these mountains she would have found two real friends and a higher ground of life. after the first painful talk with philip they would go out from the cabin, warm comrades, with nothing to regret. chapter xi. the making of a knight errant. silently, lawrence rose and went to his work-chair. the zeal with which he began to cut his wood showed more clearly than any of them quite knew, the turbulent state of his mind. he was carried far into speculative possibilities that shook him with their power. he was absolutely in love with claire, that was undoubted. he knew it, and he was determined to tell her so. to continue living in this uncertainty, with the memory of her pressed against him always compelling him to put out his arms and draw her again to himself, was intolerable. he would speak, and settle it once for all, nor would he take any compromising negative as a reply. that tone she had used could indicate but one thing, she loved him, and whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted to know it or not, should not matter. he would argue it out with her, showing her with the inexorable logic back of their whole experience how she was his, his in spite of her husband, in spite of blindness, in spite of everything. without her, life was useless, barren, and dead. he must have her! he carved viciously but accurately, while his mind and body yearned toward the hour when she would be in his arms, yielding, abandoned, loving. claire watched him from her place at the table in calmness of mind that, following her day of tumult, she could not understand. peace, the peace that comes when one thinks he has settled something forever, was hers. "philip," she said, "our artist has buried himself in his work. shall we go forth on a chance adventure?" lawrence choked back a whirl of jealous suspicion that swept to his lips, and said from his corner, "do! i'll have a surprise for your return." he wanted to say, "no, stay here, claire. i wish to tell you something, to make you see that i love you, that this philip is not for you, that he is outside our real lives," but his tongue refused to obey his will. "it sounds inviting," said philip, rising. "suppose we do." they were gone. lawrence worked savagely, his mind grasping at impossible thoughts which kept struggling for expression. he was afraid, afraid till it chilled him, lest, after all, she loved philip. if her voice had sounded so intense that noon, it had been because she resented his holding her while her real lover looked on. meanwhile claire and philip tramped through the pines in silence. she was wondering why she had come. she hesitated before speaking to him as she had determined. perhaps he would be hurt at her imagining he could think of making any advances to a married woman, he would feel that she had suspected and accused him of a thing of which he was incapable. speech was difficult, so she trudged along, feeling very uncomfortable. her heart ached as she saw again the lonely look on lawrence's face bending over his work back there in the cabin. "the adventure is slow in coming," philip said, genially. "perhaps we don't know how to find it," she answered, not heeding her words especially. "to find adventure, one must be awake to possibilities." "true," he mused, looking at her. "so much depends on a man's experience, knowledge, and imagination." "i suppose life itself may set us, even calmly walking here, in the heart of an adventure." "i have no doubt it does," he said. claire looked at him in faint alarm. "why," she stammered, "i didn't imagine it was true when i spoke." "to him who has faith, the wildest dreams are always possibilities." "do you believe that, philip?" "i have found it to be quite true. i often dreamed of good company here in my wilderness and a charming woman about my cabin. it has happened." "but even that has its very strong drawbacks, hasn't it?" "what, for example?" he looked at her, earnestly. "oh," she hesitated, laughed, and said, "the rapidly depleted food supply, your time for thought broken, and all the rest." "one sometimes finds a relief from thought very agreeable." she wanted to laugh at the force with which his words struck her. "i'm sure that depends on the thought, as lawrence would say," she answered, smiling. "it does. and there is nothing i would not give to escape from my present thoughts." his voice was pitched low. her heart failed her, but she said bravely, "perhaps you need a confessor, sir philip." "i do, a gracious one, who can listen well." "then a woman would never serve," claire laughed. "she would want to talk, you know." philip stopped, and looked at her. as far as he could see, she was calm, indifferent, the lady making talk. "perhaps," he said, lightly. "they have that reputation, i know." "now, i"--she laughed--"i, also, need a confessor." "you?" his look searched her, incredulously. "what in the name of all the saints have you to confess?" "oh! many things. misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things." "absurd!" his tone was amused. "who of us is not a sinner in those things?" "but suppose," she ventured, hesitant--"suppose i had misjudged you? suppose i had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?" "i should be sorry if you told me of them." it was impossible, she thought, to go on. he would indeed be sorry, and how foolish she had been! but what had he meant a moment before? "is your confession worse?" she asked. "i think so. a man is so apt to be a mad fool," he said, and lapsed into silence. they walked some distance before either spoke. then claire laughed suddenly. "philip," she said, "we all three need a change of scene." he turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "it will be here soon. we can go out in april." he had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. it was her golden opportunity; and she took it. "splendid!" she cried--"splendid! i so want to get back to my husband. i am scarcely able to wait at all." "i suppose," he said, "it seems a long time that you have been separated." "oh, so long," she answered, softly. "and i do so want him." he walked on, slowly. "i shall miss you very much." her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she answered. "really, i was so afraid i had been stupid company, and i owe so much to you. my husband will want to come clear back here to thank you for your winter's hospitality." "it would hardly be worth his while. the debt is more than paid." "i shall be sorry--in a way," she went on. "we have become such good friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to remember. i shall always be glad of that." "yes," he said. "i am glad, indeed, that you feel so." "if any one had ever told me that i should find so rare a gentleman here"--she laughed--"i would have thought they were talking medieval gallantry." "thank you. a gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady." claire flushed a little, and said nothing. "i shall remember you with pleasure and regret," continued philip, his head high. her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "oh, with regret, too?" "yes. regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to stay longer." "you are a consummate flatterer, philip," she chided. "i suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that i should be in earnest," he said, a little bitterly. her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. she could have said those things before and thought nothing of them. why did she feel sorry now? "i didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "believe me, i did not." "no," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference." "but i am not indifferent to you, philip. i like you very much." she was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days. she felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the man to whom she owed so much. "i know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign mountaineer." she was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface. "philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "it isn't that at all. i like you for the man you are." he smiled sadly. "and did it ever occur to you that i might love you for the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone. she stopped and her breath quickened. over her rushed a tide of fear, regret, sorrow. even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger which moved her. "i do not believe that. how could you?" she said swiftly. "you cannot even conceive of my loving you?" "i--i can, philip--it isn't that, i--i"--she was floundering among her own emotions--"i can under other circumstances, different conditions. oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "lawrence," but hastily substituted--"my husband." "i have thought of him. from the day you came, he has haunted my footsteps. but after all, he thinks you are dead." "but i love him. think of that, too." "oh, claire, claire, i have seen you when i felt perhaps you might--might learn to love me." "philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "please don't let's spoil everything now. i so wanted to be just friends." his faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both terrorized and fascinated her. "we cannot be that, claire." his voice vibrated with growing passion. they stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind. "i saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly, "and i knew then that i loved you. loved you with all the soul of me. i could have killed him, i tell you. claire, claire, i love you! you must not deny me love." she did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry, hot mouth felt as if she would smother. she looked into his eyes and said nothing, while she shook violently. "claire!" he cried. "claire! i love you!" his arms closed around her and he held her tightly. his eyes burned into her own with a flame that was contagious in its intensity. she gasped, trembled, and did not struggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "lawrence! lawrence!" he pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in her a passion beyond the control of will. her eyes lighted warmly and then closed. she felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. his head bent, and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stopping the cry that rose to her throat. he held her fast, keeping his lips against her own until she felt her strength giving. she half leaned against him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms. a savage joy sprang into his eyes. she opened her own and saw. throwing up her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, and shoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined. she was not angry with philip, only with herself, but the storm of self-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching words against him. "you, you coward! you dare to touch me, to take me that way! if i had only known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! oh, to be here with you!" his dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. she stood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastity itself, and his anger died. into his face came the dejected, suffering look of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of a woman's scorn. "forgive me, claire," he moaned, "forgive me. i was mad, mad." she knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly. "i know, philip," she said. "i understand, but you must realize that it is impossible. won't you see that? it was, perhaps, partly my fault. forgive me if it was, and let us be friends. philip, i want a friend," she continued. "i need one, a big, strong man whom i can trust, whom i know to be my loyal friend and my husband's friend." he put out his hand, shame and love mingling in his face. "i will be that friend, claire," he said, earnestly. she took his hand, her mind breaking with relief. she felt she was going to cry, and she leaned forward to hide her filling eyes. "oh, philip, god bless you! you do not know what this means to me! you will never know. i thank you, i thank you!" the tears rushed down her cheeks and dropped upon their clasped hands. "claire, don't, please--please don't," philip pleaded, anguish in his tone. she stopped, forced back her sobs, and smiled at him. "philip ortez," she said, "i shall make you glad of this." deep in his heart, the words gave him hope. he grasped at them as a drowning man at a life-belt, but he did not voice the hope. "i want to spend much of my time with you, philip, in the out-of-doors. i must do it, and it is such a relief to know that i can do it without--without fear. you will be just my friend, won't you?" "if it is in my power, i will." he spoke as a knight of old, taking a holy vow, and in his heart was the deep, sacred sense of the spirit that still moved in his idealistic soul. claire laughed joyously, almost hysterically, with the peace that came over her at the sound of his words. she was sure that all was well. if she had known that already he was building on the promise of frequent days alone, she would have been more afraid than ever. but she did not know that, neither did she know that in her very promise she was preparing a more difficult situation for her own struggle with herself than any she had ever faced in her life. she was only aware of the crisis passed and the peace that was now hers. "let us go back," she said gaily. they found lawrence smoothing his little carved child with a stone. claire was effervescent with joy. her great plan seemed sure of success, and she greeted him with a gaiety that was as abnormal as her despondency had been before. "lawrence," she cried, "we have had such a walk! and here you have finished for us this beautiful cherub as the symbol of our little home." her words stung him with savage pain, filling him with a great fear born of love and jealousy. for a minute he did not know what he was doing or saying, and he was scarcely aware of the words that fell from him. "cherubs are said to be symbols of the greatest love." he laughed tonelessly. "it belongs to you, claire. take it." the child was carved standing upon a stump with wings outspread. in the form and face of the figure there was so much of benevolence, love, and charity that the imaginative power of this blind artist filled claire with awe. she stood reverently before it, her heart singing with pride in the handiwork of the man she loved. she interpreted his words as a confession that he had carved it for her as a symbol of his love, and she was humbled before him, before his work. she wanted to throw herself in his arms and to tell him with the gift of her unreserved self how grateful she was for his gift, but she only said, very softly, taking both his hands: "thank you, lawrence." the words struck his ear with a strangely mixed power in their sound. he wanted to laugh at the bitter mockery that swept into him. he had made the image for love of her, and he presented it to her as a symbol of her love for philip. it was cruel, but he could endure it. oh, yes, he was accustomed to life's little jokes. he did not answer her thanks, only gripped her hands in his own capable ones till he hurt her. to philip, the child brought still other suggestions. moved by his present feeling of great, chivalrous guardianship of the woman who had said she needed him, he felt that it was a symbol of the great sacrificial love which he was privileged to know, and at the same time he felt that it was a symbol of hope. to be continued next week. don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. claire by leslie burton blades the blind love of a blind hero _by a blind author_ this story began in the all-story weekly for october . chapter xii. the unhorsing of a knight errant. between men and women who have established what they believe to be an unemotional friendship there nearly always springs up a relation franker than any which is otherwise possible. such was the experience of philip and claire during the days that followed. they took many walks together, and their conversation grew daily more exclusive and more personal. lawrence, through ignorance of their situation and jealousy of philip, grew daily more dissatisfied. he would hear the intimate ring in their voices and writhe within. the artist felt keenly that he was being set aside, and his eager determination to live and be in the front rank of warring manhood made him determine to win claire against this man who, it seemed to him, was taking her from him by mere advantage of sight. he felt that they were shelving him as a blind man, a very nice fellow, but quite outside the possibility of any relation with their real lives. he now thought that claire was kind to him as one is to those whose situation makes them objects of pity. there were days when he sat alone before the fire in the cabin brooding until he was filled with savage hatred of philip. he would think of all sorts of impossible means of eliminating this spaniard from claire's life; then philip would come in, talk to him, seem so very normally friendly as man to man, that his reason mastered his fancies and he laughed at himself. he ridiculed his own thoughts with an irony that inwardly grew in bitterness with his growing love for claire, and he would end by admitting that philip was only doing what he himself would like to do. in his fair-minded moments he did not blame his friend. "i should be a fool to expect him to act differently," he told himself. "in this struggle for meat and mate which we all wage, he is doing what any one would do. i who am losing must at least be just to him." he resolved to be just, and in a little while was again ensnaring himself in his own notions. "she is throwing herself away upon this spaniard," he thought, "while i sit by. if i were not blind, she would see that after all i am the better man. i put all my power into the carving of that little statue, and she knows it is good, better than anything he has done or can do, and yet--she loves him." he would rise and walk the floor in his tension, knocking into the chairs recklessly. his thoughts would gain speed from his bodily movement, and soon he would rage against the man whose guest he was, against claire, against life, fate, and blindness. then suddenly his ever self-questioning mind would demand of him, "why are you doing nothing, then?" he did nothing because he could do nothing. that was his answer, no sooner made than contradicted, no sooner contradicted than to be restated, "i do nothing because i will do nothing." several times he refused to go with them on tramps or skiing trips. when they were gone he would revile himself for his stubbornness and ache because claire could not see that he had refused with a petulant boy's hope that she would stay with him. "why should she stay with me?" there was no reason, he told himself, and again he would be off on a mental whirlwind that carried him still farther from reason. he became perpetually sullen, irritable, and discontented. he realized it, thought that claire would certainly grow to dislike him if he continued so disagreeable, and with the thought became even more disagreeable. claire, however, was not growing to dislike him. she avoided him in pursuance of her settled policy, but she thought of him all the more. one morning when she and philip were out in the pines together, she observed, casually, "lawrence doesn't seem to be doing any work these days." philip glanced at her carelessly. "yes. i'm very sorry for the poor fellow." his pity angered her a little. lawrence did not need his sympathy. "i think he must be feeling badly," she replied. "i believe he is moody by nature." "oh, do you? i hadn't thought so," she objected. "it is not strange," philip went on; "he is so limited by his blindness and so ambitious that the effect is almost sure to be a disgruntled mind. he cannot hope to overcome his blindness, and he ought to realize it. i think that is the cause of his odd philosophy. he certainly would be happier if he could get a more sunlit view of things. he needs optimism, and he ought to practise it." for a moment, claire was silent. she was not willing to admit that lawrence was unable to conquer blindness or even that his beliefs were altogether wrong. she had more often disagreed with him than not, but now for some reason she found herself desiring to support his convictions. "i don't agree with you," she answered philip, a little shortly. "well then, what is my lady's diagnosis?" he had not noticed her curt reply, for he was thinking of something else and was not really interested in lawrence as a topic of conversation. claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and his expression, but she had nothing to substitute for his explanation. they walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before she ventured a little lamely, "i don't know what to say." philip looked up, smilingly. "to say about what, claire?" then he remembered, and continued hastily, "oh, pardon me. i know, of course. about lawrence. if i could suggest anything to do, i would. he is an interesting friend, but i have nothing to offer. it seems to me that we can do no more than to let him alone. he will work it out for himself. if he does not, we cannot help. he would not expect us to do so." "that's no reason we shouldn't try," she flashed, "unless, of course, you quite agree with his argument after all." philip colored slightly and said, "i admit the fault, claire, but what can we do?" "couldn't you get him to tell what's the matter?" she asked, groping for something to say. "no more than you could. perhaps even less easily. you know him better than i and understand him better." she laughed, a little satisfaction warming her at his words. "sometimes i think i understand him, sometimes i know i don't. as he himself would say, it is merely a matter of blind psychology, is it not?" "it is not," she answered positively. "it's more a matter of artist psychology, i think." "perhaps," he admitted; "certainly the combination is difficult." "i do wish we could do something for him." "he would be better off if he would come out with us, but since he will not, he will not." philip's tone showed clearly that he was inclined to let the matter drop. but not so claire. "you are willing to help me, aren't you, philip?" "why yes, if there is any way in which i can be of service." "we might stay and talk with him more." "that is useless, i fear," he said abruptly, his own wishes revolting against sacrificing his companionship with claire or against sharing it with lawrence. "he was unhesitating in his care for me those days we wandered," she remarked simply. "pardon me again. i forgot for the time that you owed him anything." "he doesn't consider that i owe him anything. it's simply that i want him to be as happy as possible shut up here with us away from his own kind of life." "oh!" philip looked at her thoughtfully. "do you think he could be happier with other people?" "i'm afraid so," she answered, a little regretfully. philip's eyes searched her face. "i should think you could satisfy any one's need for companionship," he said, quietly. "don't flatter, philip. that was a very silly speech." "was it? it was not flattery at any rate. it is my feeling about you." "please," she said, stopping, "let's not go into that again." "very well, but why cannot my lady extend her charity? there are other unfortunates besides lawrence who have troubles to face." "oh, philip, you really haven't any troubles. you merely imagine you have." he laughed, a little bitterly. "i suppose a life's happiness is a small thing." "it isn't, philip," she protested. "but you can get out and tramp and trap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as you thought you did. we've settled all that." "i know we have," he agreed. "that is, you have." she looked him over, angrily. "so this is the outcome! i ask you to think of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him for your own little troubles!" philip looked down and flushed crimson. "well, it does seem as if i were selfish. i am afraid i am. but i do not mean to be. i can talk to him if you wish." "you needn't," she said, angered still more. "it isn't charity i'm asking you to bestow on him. he doesn't need that, and you ought to know it." she had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he," and philip's face darkened. "i see," he said coldly. "it is i after all to whom you are charitable. thank you." tears of vexation came to claire's eyes. "oh, i do wish you'd be reasonable," she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "don't you understand that i am giving you more frank friendship than ever i gave any man in my life? isn't that of any value to you? don't you realize how unfair you have been to lawrence?" his face grew suddenly white, as he said, "do you love him, claire?" she did not look away from him. "if i did, would it concern you?" he took one step toward her, then stopped. "yes, it would," he answered. her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself. "philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? i had hoped you might at least allow our companionship to live." he looked at her without answering. finally, he choked, "don't--don't, claire, i have the right to know." "if i promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you be satisfied?" she felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense of indifference to lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. she did not know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her a strange pleasure. "i will," philip returned, simply. "and in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough of despond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner. "surely i will, though i confess i do not see the way." "then shall we go at once and begin our cheering process, my friend?" she said, as though she were conferring a favor by the use of the word. he winced at her immediate application of his promise. "perhaps we would better," he answered sadly, and turned toward the cabin. as she walked by his side she had already dismissed him from her attention and was busy planning what she might do to make lawrence happy. when they entered the cabin, claire looked eagerly about the room. as she glanced around, her face clouded. lawrence was gone. his coat and hat were not on the rack, and the cane which he had carved one day from a stick which she had brought him from the woods was also missing. claire walked slowly into the room, her mind filled with an unaccountable apprehension. "why, how abandoned the place seems without lawrence! where is he, i wonder?" she tried to appear casual. philip followed her in and placed a chair for her. his mind, already touched with the potential jealousy that claire's talk had begun, leaped ahead at her words and he felt more than ever doubtful of her attitude toward lawrence. though he quickly dispelled his fear, the thought left behind, as such things do, the readier soil for a stronger weed to spring up in. "he has gone out for a walk, i suppose. doubtless, he will be back soon." his voice was indifferent. "will you not sit down, claire? you stand there looking about you as though you had lost something." she was on the point of saying she had, but checked herself, and accepted the chair. "it's so unusual. he never did this before." claire forced a smile. "well, he will be the better for it; i am glad that he has gone out," philip answered. "i know, but it is so difficult for him to find his way through the snow," she said. "he told me it muffles sounds until he is almost helpless in it. his feet can't feel the ground, and he doesn't know which way to turn." "he cannot possibly go far, and he cannot get lost." philip's tone was becoming a little edged. "all the same, it worries me to have him out this way." philip started toward the door. "shall i go search for him?" his voice, unknown to himself, was heavy. claire glanced at him quickly. her intuition told her he was jealous, and she saw he was angry. she wanted to shout at him, "go find lawrence!" and she was surprised at the sudden panicky nervousness that seized her. but she rose calmly and crossed to the fireplace, saying as she sat down, "no, thank you; i think he is able to take care of himself." philip also seated himself. "i think he is," he said. "certainly he thinks so, and comes near enough to proving his assertion." she was both angry and pleased with his words. "i never saw a man less handicapped by misfortune," she remarked. "he does do very well." "lawrence seems all capable sense-nerves, and he is so very efficient with his touch. what a keen appreciation of beauty he has!" "i think he does remarkably well." "in the hills he used to describe scenes to me, and do it accurately just from their sound; running water and wind in the trees," she went on, not noticing philip's short replies. "yes, that is quite surprising." "he certainly has taught me a great deal about blindness." "association with him does do that." "do you know, i believe he is one of the most unusual men i have ever known." philip rose quickly. "doubtless. he is not the only topic of conversation our friendship permits, is he, claire?" she looked up at him, and rose immediately, her eyes flashing. "i think you are more selfish with your theories of altruism than he with his egoism." philip looked quietly back at her. "perhaps i am where the woman i love is concerned." claire turned away and walked angrily toward her room. "i see you can't maintain a friendship," she exclaimed. "meaning, you cannot." philip's voice was bitter. she turned quickly and looked at him. "what do you mean?" she asked him, fearing. "i mean that you are unfair. you ask me not to talk of my love, you wish to talk friendship, while you are forcing me by your every word and act to think of my own misery." claire stood aghast before him. his words seemed to her to be an accusation so grossly false that she was stunned beyond anger. "i don't understand," she said anxiously. "you ought to understand. i love you, i cannot help but love you, fight it as i will. you say you cannot love me because of your husband. yet your talk is not of your husband, but of this blind man. you say you desire friendship, yet you allow me all that a woman allows her accepted suitor." claire was appalled. she stared at him in amazement, faltering. "why, philip, i--what is the matter? i don't do any such thing." he laughed. "of course not," he replied. "you look at me with that warm light in your eyes, because you think i am not human. i am a mere duenna, a chaperon, perhaps." she sank into a chair and covered her face. "i didn't think," she moaned, and could say no more. a thousand memories of her intimate treatment of philip swept through her mind. she had considered him as one of her own family, without thought, without intent, because she had believed so strongly in his assurance of friendship. after a pause, she gathered her thoughts. "philip, i may have done as you say," she spoke slowly, "but it was not because i was not conscious of your manhood. it was because i thought you stronger than you are. i believed you could be my friend and not ask more." he stood quietly looking at her where she sat. "and what of him?" he asked, steadily. "i am worried about him because he is blind, nothing more." she lied, looking straight into his eyes, then rose and stepped behind the curtain. "claire," he almost sang. "i am deeply, humbly, a thousand times sorry. you cannot know how your talk of lawrence made me wild. i am a fool, i will admit, but i cannot think of your loving him, blind, selfish, egoistic, intolerant of other people, i cannot." "you needn't," she returned, coldly. her whole soul was filled with rage. she was recalling that he had said her eyes were alight when she looked at him, and she told herself that it was not true. "won't you give me a chance to show myself as i am, claire? i want to prove to you that i am not a selfish beast." she thought of lawrence's cynical view of philip's sentiments, and she laughed. philip groaned, and then said again, "aren't you fair enough to do that, claire?" "and what will you read in my eyes next?" she inquired icily. "whatever is there?" he answered. "but your imagination spoils your sight," she returned. "perhaps. i will not deny that i am not myself where you are concerned. but i ask only for one more trial. and i will do my best." claire was growing more and more worried about lawrence. what could have happened to him? "then go and find lawrence," she said suddenly. chapter xiii. faint heart and fair lady. claire heard philip leave the house, and she sat down on her bed to wait and think. it seemed ages that she sat there, her imagination busy with a hundred possible calamities. when she finally heard the door open she was almost afraid to look. "lawrence!" her voice was full of warm gladness. he was hanging his hat in its place. "hello, claire. back, are you?" his voice held the impersonal, sullen note that he used of late. "where is philip?" "why, didn't he find you?" lawrence was immediately angry. he thought, "why should philip be hunting for me? i don't need his care. can't i even go out without a guardian?" "i didn't see him," he returned, aloud. "i sent him to find you." she was standing looking at him, her whole figure expressing love and relief at his return. he was too angry to catch the fine warmth of her voice, and his inability to see handicapped him more at that moment than at any time in his life. "i sent him to find you," she said again. "he didn't. i came back as i went, alone." "lawrence, what is the matter with you?" she asked, pleadingly, with tears in her voice. he felt the emotion in her words, and was suddenly contrite. if he had known it, he was acting like the sentimentalists whom he ridiculed, but he suffered from the egotist's fate, he did not recognize his own failing. "i don't know that there is anything the matter, claire. it angered me to think that you still imagine that because i am blind i need a guardian," he said, dropping into a chair. she came over toward him, impulsively. "that isn't the idea at all," she said, still very worried. "it was simply that you told me yourself that you were helpless in the snow." "i didn't ask to be cared for," he snapped. "i wasn't caring for you--nor about you," she retorted, in sudden irritation. "i didn't want you to be lost, that's all." "i should think you'd be glad to see me gone." he was a little ashamed of his own words, but he did not try to remedy the speech. "what do you mean?" he smiled ironically. "even a blind man sometimes sees too much of lovers." claire sank into a chair and struggled against the starting sobs. it seemed to her that her whole life was becoming one continual argument wherein she was accused and in return forced to demand explanations. "what in the world do you mean?" she faltered. "are you saying that philip and i are lovers?" "aren't you?" "of course not! it isn't like you to say that. and what if we were?" "it wouldn't be any of my business, would it?" he was bitter. "i suppose not," she said, weakly. "you needn't be hesitant about admitting it. it's true," he went on. "why shouldn't it be? i am a mere piece of excess baggage which you are too kind-hearted to eliminate. i know that, too. why shouldn't you eliminate me?" he smiled, satirically. "if i were philip ortez, loving you and loved in return, i would feel like killing the blind man, whose presence hampered." she stared at him, wondering if he were in earnest. "then it's fortunate that you haven't the opportunity to feel that way." "obviously." he laughed, sullenly. "i sha'n't, because you couldn't love a blind man." claire only sat and looked at him, thrilled with the knowledge that he was about to tell her he loved her. she was trembling and desperately afraid of herself. she moved uneasily, and against her will; her lips said, "i could love a blind man, lawrence." he sat up and clenched his hands together quickly. the tone of her voice in itself was a direct confession. but his deep skepticism of blindness would not let him believe that he was right. "do you mean that you do love me?" he demanded. she wanted to say "yes," but she thought of philip and was afraid of what he might do, should he learn of her lie. then, too, there was her resolution to go back to howard. strange that her long-planned friendly explanation of her own attitude did not occur to her, but it did not. lawrence rose and came toward her, his hands out. he was determined to know, once and for all. the gathering emotion in his breast was growing into an unbearable pain. "claire," he said, coming nearer and nearer. "could you love me?" his hands were almost to her. she saw them coming; terror, love, happiness, anguish, and the desire to be his paralyzed her will. she did not move. "yes," she whispered, "i could." he put his arms around her and lifted her until she was crushed against him. "do you love me, claire?" he asked, tensely. she did not answer, but her head sank against his shoulder. outside the cabin, she heard philip's step in the snow. "no!" she cried frantically, filled with dread. "no, no! let me go!" lawrence, too, heard, and released her, stepping back indifferently, as though just going toward a chair. the door opened, and philip entered. "oh, you're back, i see." the artist was coldly cordial in his greeting. "and i see you, which is more important," philip laughed. "i suppose so." lawrence sat down, thoughtfully. "claire has just scolded me for going out. she doesn't like to have me add to the bother i am already." claire was still under the spell of her own emotion, and she resented lawrence's sang-froid. he was as cold as a block of stone. her heart cried out against him because he could not see why she had said "no" to him, because he believed her! she wanted to cry, but did not dare. "i told him we were worried," she said, indifferently. "so we were." philip was cheerful and friendly. lawrence buried himself from them both, and sat brooding, clothed in the blackness that blindness brought when it suddenly loomed before him as the wall between him and his life's desires. the brief instant claire had been in his arms had made him feel that his life was intolerable without her, and that blindness was the curse of a double living death. she had told him that she did not love him. she had struggled to be free. lawrence failed to read claire aright because he had not seen her, and because his blindness made him uncertain of himself. that was the truth of it all, the awful truth of his life. he was always uncertain of himself because he was afraid of blindness. he strutted, boasted, lied, and above all pretended to himself that he believed his hard philosophy because he was afraid, afraid of failing to do the things he wanted to do. he saw himself clearly now, he was a coward, a deceiving ape, a monkey caught in the terror of tangling roots, and denying it. he barked like a frightened dog, at the thing that was his master. he was gripped by life, tortured by life, denied death by life, and cheated by life of living. his imagination, fired by his passion, leaped into play, and he felt himself a thousand times a slave, a chained prisoner in the hand of circumstance. philip was laughing gaily, and talking to claire, who listened, answered, and was all the while lost in her own thought. when he had entered, philip had looked quickly at the two to see if there was aught between them, and had found lawrence colder, more despondent than ever. he told himself that lawrence had evidently pleaded with claire for her love and been denied. at least, this blind man had not been successful, and philip could afford to be good-humored. the more agreeable he was, the more claire would turn to him from that dark, ungracious form yonder. his would be the victory of pleasant manners. therefore he talked, gladly, smilingly, while claire listened, or seemed to listen. she was rebellious at the fear which had made her cry "no" to lawrence, and at the same time glad that she had done so, afraid of the future, exasperated with philip for coming in at the supreme moment, and angry with lawrence for his stupidity. perhaps these tangled relations might have been cleared had it not been for a piece of folly more stupendous than any they had yet experienced. this event occurred the day after lawrence's walk in the snow. philip had stepped out for a few minutes to look at a near-by trap, and claire and the artist were left alone for the first time since her denial. she wanted him to renew his suit, feared that he would, and sat waiting for him to speak. but he remained silent, and at last she said, "lawrence." "well?" he did not move. the psychology of woman has been too often commented upon and attempted by those who thought they could explain. why claire was doing and saying what she did, she herself could not tell. "lawrence, don't you ever, ever act as you did yesterday again." he smiled. "it would be dangerous if your gallant should come in less slowly." he was filled with a desire to hurt her. claire was angry with him for saying what was so utterly far from her mind and so different from what she wanted him to say. "if my gallant should come in," she thrust coldly, "he would scarcely appreciate the melodrama you are playing." lawrence sat up with a jerk, his rage near the boiling point. "what do you mean?" he demanded. "i have not interfered with your delightful episode, have i?" "no, and you couldn't. i mean that my husband--he is my lover--for i know that is what you intend by 'gallant'--would scarcely appreciate the type of man who mopes and abuses the woman who does not care to lie in his arms." lawrence sat still, while a fierce, uncontrollable rage consumed him. he felt that to take this woman and whip her into submission would be a pleasure. he thought of the lash he had in his studio at home and wished it were in his hand. with the thought he rose and stepped swiftly toward claire, his teeth set. she saw him, and rose. "i have one way of showing you who is master," he began, and stopped. she had stepped forward and was standing almost against him. "even blindness does not allow you the freedom to threaten." he shrank back and dropped once more into his chair. claire was talking rapidly, savagely. later she was to be thrown into a despairing self-hate that kept her many a night in tears, but now she went on. "do you think i will overlook everything in you because i pity you? there have been times when your impositions, so carelessly thrust upon me, because you were selfish, because you knew i must accept them from you, were almost unbearable. the touch of your thief-trained hands to steal from everything its beauty and self-respect has galled me beyond all endurance. my body has received its last vile grasp from you." she stopped, appalled at his expression. she did not know, neither of them knew, that love, the ever-changing impulse of creation within men and women, speaks its desire through bitter scorn and abuse, when softer words are too slow in finding their way. he was sitting there, white, anguished, cowering under her tongue, his whole life shaken. her words made him feel that the thing she said was true. he had always feared it, realizing that in a measure it was inevitable, and his great strength was now turned against himself, against his bitter handicap, and he was in that tremendous upheaval that requires a rebuilding of one's faith. his belief in himself was broken. his belief in his power was gone. coming after weeks of thought and fear about blindness, claire's words tore him asunder and made him feel that there was nothing for him but abject misery and dependence upon charity. instinctively, his hand went up as if to shield him from a blow, and he murmured, "for god's sake, claire!" there was to come a time, later, when experience would have taught him that there is a wild strain in the nature of human hearts which abuses out of a desire to be conquered. he did not yet realize that he had spoken truly when he said that this woman had hidden in her the savage warring sexed tumult of all the struggling ages. she saw him there, his hand up, and suddenly her emotion changed. it was love, still love crying out for expression, but now she was all compassion, tenderness, and fear. she read in his face what she had done, and her heart was gray with the pain at her own failure. now all love for her was buried, perhaps dead, under his shattered selfhood, slain in the wrecking earthquake that she had brought to pass with the ardor of her passion. she had meant to sting him into taking her in his arms and forcing her to love him, and instead--"oh, god!" she whispered, and slipped behind the curtain to throw herself on her bed and weep with heart wrung by self-condemnation and loving pity for the man whom she had clubbed with his own dread weakness. she had shattered into chaos the strong soul of the man she loved, with the only weapon he would have felt, and she realized now that it was her love, her desire to be his, to be his utterly, that had led her to do it. lawrence was too hurt to move. his mind repeated again and again the words she had spoken. he kept saying to himself: "blindness has made me that, an egotist beggar." he did not reproach claire. she had swept him too far from his habitual moorings for that. there was no rebellion against her, none, indeed, against life. over him rolled wave after wave of self-contempt, distrust, and anguish that shook him with an agony that only the assured man knows when the one he loves most of all on earth strikes dead his faith in himself. he thought of a multitude of things that stabbed anew, but not once did he move in the interminable period that passed before philip returned. when he did come, the spaniard was amazed at the crouching, white-faced man whom he found before a dying fire. there was something so sad in the blind face that philip felt no suspicion and no anger. he looked for claire, but she was not visible. he stirred the fire and set about preparing supper while his mind began digging at the problem which he saw in the attitude of the man there in the chair. claire did not come out to help. she was too exhausted from the storm that had swept over her. in her bed she could hardly smother the scream that kept rising to her lips. she wanted to spring up and cry aloud to lawrence for forgiveness. she was scarcely aware of philip as he moved about. she could have thrown herself at lawrence's feet and pleaded with him. she was discovering that her whole wild outbreak was a strange expression of her physical desire for this man whom she loved, and the discovery made her as self-detesting as she had been violent in her outbreak. it seemed to her that there was nothing, nothing she would not do to make amends to lawrence for what she had said. she wanted to tell him what it had been that prompted her, but she dared not lest in revulsion at her viciousness he turn on her and kill her. "god, god," she muttered, "what have i done!" philip was calling her to supper. she steadied her voice, and said humbly: "i can't come out. i'm not feeling very well. go on without me, please." she heard him speak to lawrence, and she strained her ears to catch the answering movement toward the table, but there was none. at last philip spoke again in a voice that was full of anxiety: "lawrence, what in god's name has happened?" lawrence was moving now, and she waited with bated breath for his answer. he walked to the table and sat down. his voice was heavy. "i've found myself out, philip. that's all. i know what i am." there was a moment of silence. claire covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a cry. she wanted to shout: "no, no, no, not that, but what i am, my beloved, my adored one." "what do you mean?" philip's voice seemed stern. "i mean that i am indebted to you and claire for the truth i needed." behind the curtain claire turned on her face and burst into sobs. philip arose abruptly. "lawrence," he said quietly, "i do not know what has happened to you this afternoon; i do not know what you mean; but this i do know: i am deeply sorry if anything i have done or said has made you feel that you are an unwelcome guest in my home." lawrence stood up and gathered his scattered senses. "philip, i beg your pardon, old man. it isn't that at all. the truth is"--and his voice broke--"i have lied to myself and to the world these many years. much of it hasn't been my fault, but i must pay the price just the same. i am blind. that has led me to a sort of clamorous egoism which carried me on and on until i came to feel that i was really doing something. at last, i know that i am a narrow human parasite, worthless, utterly worthless. a blind, clinging, grasping, vagrant beast, fed upon the mercy of too kind-hearted humanity. i am sorry. it isn't my fault, but it is so." philip stood for a few minutes in silence. "you're ill, lawrence," he said finally. "get back to yourself if you can. things do not stay at this point in human abasement. i know of what i speak. i have been through that myself. i cannot say anything comforting. no one can." they went to bed with but a few commonplace remarks, and the cabin became silent. lawrence lay awake through that night. claire, unknown to him, spent her vigil in a great readjustment of her life. chapter xiv. philip to the rescue. it is always the little things in human relations that have the most far-reaching results. claire might have avoided much trouble with a few well-chosen words to lawrence, but her own mental state prevented her from speaking. on his part, lawrence was so shaken by her outburst that his love for her was driven deep into his subconscious self, and for the time it lay there dormant. after the sudden volcanic upheaval of his entire universe, he was utterly absorbed in the immediate task of reconstructing his faith in himself. the primitive stages of his thinking did not allow for any relation between himself and the woman who had released the dam of self-abasement. she was unavoidably at hand, reminding him of her speech, and that alone delayed what otherwise would have been an unconscious process. claire was not able to forget the intense desire which, she now realized, had prompted her terrible diatribe. humiliation held her in its throes, and she was reserved, distant, and unnatural toward him. philip saw it all, and his mind was filled with conjectures which made him less and less charitable toward lawrence, more jealous, and more hopeful of a happy issue of his love for claire. she turned to him eagerly for companionship. instinctively she sought refuge from her own thoughts--and from lawrence--by talking to philip. the morning after the incident between lawrence and claire there had been an austere reserve in the cabin. claire had fled from the oppressive gloom into the open. outside philip joined her, and they walked together in silence. he was determined not to ask claire what had happened, although he was extending her a silent sympathy which she felt and a little resented. lawrence, left alone in the cabin, gave small heed to their departure. he had risen with a frightful headache and a fever. he lay on the bed and thought of his situation, his past life, and his future chances, in bitter, heartrending, self-condemnatory sarcasm which made his condition even less tolerable than it would have been otherwise. "i am a miserable groveler at the feet of humanity," he thought, "clutching at shrinking shoestrings for a piece of bread in pity's name. if i could see, god, if i only could!" he thought of all the little things which his blindness made it absolutely necessary for others to do for him, and his excited mind magnified them into colossal proportions. if his landlady in new york had removed a spot from his clothes, as she had often done, that was a proof of his despised state. he fell to imagining that he was unkempt, dirty, disgustingly unclean, and that people had tolerated it because they had pitied him. at last, with a cry of anguish, he thought: "and my work, too, it is a botched mess which they are amused at and do not dare to tell me the truth about. it, too, is a jest that the world is having at my expense." he remembered praise and prizes that he had won in contests with other students, and he was too excited to see the folly of his answer: "that was charity, the award of kindness to me. i know now what they thought--that for a blind man the thing was nearly enough correct to be interesting and quite amusing." his body felt hot, and he went outside to prowl about in the wind and snow, like a despairing beast. his mind kept up its terrible work, and he did not notice the continual drop in temperature. round and round the cabin he walked, instead of going into the forest, as he would have done the day before. in his mind was a sudden doubt of his own ability, and he said that claire had been right to keep him in. she was more aware of his pitiable weakness than he. at last, however, from sheer weariness he went inside. he was chilled through, but instead of rebuilding the fire and warming himself, he rolled up in a blanket and lay on the bed, chilling and burning by turns. in the mean time claire and philip were discussing the man in the cabin. philip had finally broken the silence by saying: "claire, you needn't feel so about whatever has happened. remember he is blind and must be treated less critically than other men." she knew that that was just what had made lawrence so deadly white when she had spoken, and it filled her with sickening pain. she answered unsteadily: "that isn't true. it isn't lawrence, anyway, it's myself who should be condemned." philip was thoughtful. "it is like you to take the blame on yourself. you are so kind-hearted that way." in her present state, his words seemed like a reproach. "philip, don't," she said sadly. "i know better than that." he persisted. "no, you do not. you are too sympathetic, and you let your heart get the better of you." "i wish you wouldn't talk that way," she repeated. "you wouldn't, if you knew the truth." "of course, i do not know what happened," he said, "but i do know you--even better than you know yourself." "do you know what i've done?" "no, and i do not care. it was right, i am sure. the queen can do no wrong." he was intensely serious. "isn't there any common sense left in you, philip?" she railed. "have you gone clear back into medieval nonsense in your feeling toward me? i tell you, you are indulging in foolishness." "am i?" he smiled. "well, if that is the best i have to give--" "i don't want you to give me anything." "but i cannot help it, neither can you." "i have killed a man's love before this," she answered bitterly. "but you cannot kill mine. i love you, whether you love me or not. i am proud to acknowledge my unreturned love." "as you please." claire stopped suddenly. "are we apt to get anywhere with this subject?" she asked ironically. "i don't know. i earnestly hope so." she looked at philip thoughtfully. perhaps the truth about her own weakness might cure him. "suppose i allowed you to love me, and you found that you had won a woman whose passions were her whole life. suppose she should prove to be a mere bundle of sex, all polished over with other people's ideas, a social manner, and a set of morals which she did not really feel, which were deceiving ornaments hiding her soul. what would you think of your prize?" "i should not love such a woman. i could not." "but suppose you were deceived and thought her other than she was." "i hardly expect such a thing to happen. why suppose?" "because if i were your wife you might find it to be true." philip laughed aloud. "claire, how preposterous! are you trying to kill my love for you with such terrifying pictures of depravity?" "i wasn't trying to do anything. i just wanted to know." "have you been answered?" "yes, you are like all of your type; you are in love with what your own desire chooses as an ideal, and then you shout, 'behold, i am not a sensual lover!'" he stared at her in amazement. "what sort of a thing do you think i am?" she laughed carelessly. "a man. and what do you think i am?" "a very strange woman, but a dear one," he said earnestly. "why strange, philip?" "because you talk of love as lawrence might." she winced. "he would know," she said. "he does know, perhaps." she was talking to herself, and her voice was pathetic. philip's eyes grew fierce with anger. "what do you mean?" "not what your very ideal mind thinks," she said coldly. he flamed scarlet, and looked away. "claire," he said softly, "will you never have done stirring up suspicions no man could avoid, and then condemning them?" "i didn't stir them up," she mocked. "who did, then?" claire was undergoing a developing reconstruction, but that she did not know. she thought she was degenerating, and the immediate result was to make her careless and ironical. "oh, the devil, perhaps," she hazarded. "what are you, claire?" philip demanded hoarsely. suddenly her suffering broke into tears. to his utter amazement, she began to cry unrestrainedly. over and over she sobbed: "i don't know, i don't know." for a moment philip stood motionless, bewildered, then his love and natural tenderness swept over him, and he said tenderly, "don't, claire, please." she only cried harder, weakened the more by his pity. he took her in his arms as he would a child, and comforted her. she was tempted to struggle, but her need for sympathy prevailed, and she did not resist him. he held her in his arms, pouring out his love, his anxiety, his tenderness, and in her momentary condition she listened and made no protest. in her aching mind she kept repeating, "i have killed lawrence's love with my bestial talk"--and she wanted love. she did not think of her husband. he was too far away. in her present attitude she exalted lawrence to the unattainable, and, without formulating the thought, she was willing to lie in philip's arms and take what he could give. they were two of a kind, she thought scornfully. in her bitterness, the bleak, snow-covered land, with its drooping pines, seemed in its cold monotony a fitting background for two such worthless derelicts. in the spaniard's mind was but one thought--to comfort claire and restore her to her usual self. vaguely he knew that love was already promised by the unresisting body in his arms, but there was no thought of immediately pressing his suit. he petted and talked until she stopped crying, then he stood her on her feet, and said, with a tender laughter in his words: "there, you are all right again. we would better go in. you are cold." silently she walked beside him back to the cabin. she was indifferent, she thought, as to whether he did or did not continue his appeals for love. she was under her own deep, unexplained, emotional control which led her forward. she was finding herself, but before she would be safe she would have to throw off a mass of traditional views, beliefs, and teachings. if philip chose to press his suit while her knowledge of herself still seemed vile and abnormal, she would be surely his. claire thought herself lost. she had revealed her terrible state to lawrence, killed his love, filled him with abhorrence, and struck at his life's source. with silent turmoil in her brain she entered the cabin beside philip. when she saw lawrence, a sharp pain went through her. he was white as death save for the red spots that marked his fever. she took off her coat and snow-cap hurriedly. "lawrence," she said softly, going toward him. he lifted his head slightly. "what is it, claire?" "i want to do something for you. you're ill." his face clouded. "no, thanks," he said. "you've done too much for me already." "won't you do anything for yourself?" she begged. "i'll be all right. it's just a cold, i guess." philip came and stood looking down at lawrence scrutinizingly, while claire went to the fire and heated water. "i am going to fill you up with quinin," he announced. "it is never missing from my medicine-chest." "all right," lawrence laughed. "it isn't bitter compared to what i'm filling myself with." "are you not making a fool of yourself?" philip asked plainly. "yes. i know it. that doesn't keep me from doing it, though." claire turned and looked at them, her eyes sternly reproachful toward philip. "one can't help thinking," she said. "i can't." "i shouldn't want you to," lawrence returned. "indeed, i'm grateful to you for making me think, too." "she started you off, did she?" philip smiled. lawrence did not answer, and philip sat down by the fire where he could watch claire as she worked. after a time lawrence said thoughtfully: "if one could establish some sort of a relation between himself and the ultimate first cause of all this blind snowstorm we call life, things might get shaped with some measure for perspectives." "yes," philip assented. "i manage to establish one, though i confess it isn't clearly logical." "what is it?" lawrence asked. "simply having faith; hope, if you prefer it." "but faith in what, and what do you base it on?" "oh, on my experience." "i wonder if we really matter at all to the rest of the scheme," claire voiced. "i am inclined to think not," replied lawrence. "we matter only to ourselves, and what we can do with the universe around us." "we matter to god, i think," said philip. "i don't mean in the old accepted sense; but we must matter to him in some way, perhaps as your statue here matters to you." lawrence chuckled weakly. "it mattered tremendously when i was doing it. now it doesn't in the least matter. i shouldn't care if you burned it as firewood." "but you must care," claire protested, feeling that he was losing interest in his work because of her. "i don't see why. i haven't any real assurance as to its value. it may be good, more likely it isn't; in any case, i have turned it loose to shift for itself. it can survive or not; its doing so is immaterial. perhaps as immaterial as my existence is to the great artist who conceived the botched job called me." "but, lawrence, why insist that you don't matter to him?" "oh, because i am scarcely aware of him at all; indeed, i am not aware of him, and i am sure he isn't aware of me." "you have not any way to prove that," declared philip. "true, except that i can imaginatively comprehend the size of time and space, and all that is therein. i know my own size, and i can readily imagine that the creator of the whole is no more aware of me than i am, say, of a small worm that may be in the heart of my cherub there." "we do seem pretty small in the face of the stars," said claire. "yes, and so impossible," added lawrence. "i didn't realize until to-day how utterly impossible i really am." "but, impossible or not, here you are," philip laughed. "yes, here i am and there i may be, but in either place i am not especially possible. you are; you can go out and make a definite, independent impression on life; that makes you possible in that you are forcing recognition of power and capability. i can't do that. the impression i make is one of incapability. for myself i am impossible, and for others more so." "which has nothing to do with god," said philip, in his tone a touch of distaste. lawrence recognized it and became silent. claire made him take the quinin and heated bricks for his feet. philip went out to cut wood for the fire, leaving her alone with the sick man. she was so full of her own wickedness, as she conceived it, that she dared not tell him her thoughts. she wanted to explain that she loved him, that she had loved him all along, but she could not. she looked at him, and felt sure that he had now no love for her. lawrence was trying to follow out in his mind a searching inquiry as to his relation to life. "if i could only establish that," he thought, "i could get myself straight and there would be something to start from. if i knew which way to move!" but he was unable to do any coherent thinking. his head ached, his lips burned with fever, and his body kept him busy with the sensation of pain. it seemed to him that illness made his state more detestable, but it also offered him a chance of escape from the whole drab business. he was quite sure that he wanted to escape, and he would not have believed it if any one had told him that he would resist death to the uttermost; yet deep within him was that will to live which had made him the creative artist. it was working, unknown to him, now, toward the reconstruction he so needed. he turned restlessly, and muttered something about his foolishness. claire came and sat beside him silently. she was wondering what would happen if she should tell him of her discovery of herself. "claire!" lawrence spoke. "is it possible for any one to get his life platform built so that it will stand without that first great plank?" "what plank?" "god." "i don't know." "it seems to me that you couldn't have shaken me so yesterday if i had been built up right." "lawrence," she said piteously, "i didn't mean to do that, to say that." he waved her words aside. "never mind, claire, it did me good. i was not realizing, quite, just what i was. i'm finding it out, and when i get right i'll be all the better for it." "but you don't know why i did it." "yes, i do, but it doesn't matter, anyway. what was behind your words doesn't count so long as you told the truth." "but it does count, and i didn't tell the truth." "i'm afraid you did. please don't try to cover it with kind fibs now." "i sha'n't, but you don't understand." "well, claire, it doesn't matter, as i said. what is it to me what you do or don't do, so long as you bring me face to face with more truth?" she thought he was telling her that he cared nothing for her. she did not blame him, yet there was a tiny streak of pride that said, "at least philip finds me worth while." "it is simply my own salvation that is involved," lawrence went on. "well, i hope you find it," she said simply. "i must find it to live," he answered. "and how do you propose to find it?" "i don't know. i wish i did." "you might find it, as you once said, in creative work." "no, that isn't a salvation. i must have a platform from which to work. don't you see that, claire?" "i don't understand anything about it." "pardon me, i didn't intend to force this upon you." "that isn't what i mean, lawrence." her eyes were moist. "what i meant was that you live above me entirely." "nonsense," he said wrathfully. "you talk like a silly girl, claire." "do i? well, i am perhaps less worth while than you think." "oh, i guess not," he returned carelessly. she covered her face with her hands. "i know you are worth all that i think you are," he continued. "but i am afraid that just now i am too interested in my own salvation to think of you at all correctly." "yes," she observed wearily. she was thinking of philip as he had comforted her that morning, and his tenderness, compared to this cold statement from lawrence, seemed attractive beyond measure. she admitted that all hope of lawrence's loving her was dead, and she said to herself: "it is what i wanted. i can go back to my husband." but she did not want to go back to howard. she received this discovery calmly. she would never go back. but why shouldn't she? she could not tell for certain. she thought it was because she had found herself unworthy, but deep within her was the knowledge that she no longer loved him. it would be useless to go back to him in any event. he could never be the same to her after hearing of her long months with this blind man in the wilderness. what months they had been! she thought them over, day by day, and she saw what might have been a great joy sink, after a glimpse, into utter darkness. before her she saw the endless gray years beside philip. yes, she would stay with him. at least he loved her, and she could help him. if she did not love him, what of it? she would be an able wife to him. she could keep him from ever knowing that her heart was away with lawrence, who would be back in the world at home and have forgotten her. "claire!" lawrence was speaking. "we have certainly reaped a strange harvest from our months of sowing in the wilderness." "yes." "whatever brought it about?" "i don't know." "perhaps it was fate, that you should teach me where i stand in life." "perhaps." "and perhaps you, too, will find that i have been of some value when we are separated." "it may be." "i wish things might have gone differently." "they didn't." "no, and they can't. well, let them be as they are." "i guess we'll have to, lawrence." a few minutes later, when she looked at him, he was asleep. chapter xv. utter exhaustion. claire rose and slipped quietly to her own bed. all the aching pain of her proposed future came over her with its dirty sordidness. she could never stand it, she thought, and clenched her teeth. well, it was not necessary. when lawrence was gone, there was the lake. that would be her way out of it all. no one need ever know. the thought of death seemed very sweet to her. philip came in, saw lawrence asleep, and stole across the room to peep in at her. she met his glance. "i beg your pardon," he murmured. "never mind," she answered dully. "come in if you like." he hesitated, then stepped through, and let the curtain fall behind him. "may i sit here?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "why not?" her voice was colorless. "only please speak softly. don't wake lawrence." "he'll feel better after his sleep, i think." "i hope so." he sat looking down into her dark, clouded eyes. there was something so tragic, so sad, and so submissive in them that he was filled with utter tenderness. "claire," he whispered, "what is the matter?" "nothing. i'm quite well." "you look absolutely desolate." "i don't especially feel so." "are you happy?" "i don't know." he stooped over her, studying her face. she did not move, only her deep, dark eyes looked up coldly into his. he took the hand which she did not draw away, and whispered: "claire, let me make you happy." she did not answer. he bent nearer. her eyes did not shift from his, she saw that he was going to kiss her, but she did not move. if the whole world had come crashing down upon her, she could not have made the slightest effort to escape. he pressed his lips against hers. she did not return his kiss, but she did not protest. he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her up. still she made no objection. he held her more closely, kissing her again and again. she remained impassive, unable to summon sufficient willpower to resist. besides, had she not decided to be this man's wife? he was pouring into her ears short, whispered words of endearment, giving his love free rein. "claire--claire," he whispered passionately, "you do love me! say you love me!" "oh, must i say that?" she asked languidly. he laid her head back on the pillow tenderly. "why shouldn't you?" he demanded. "you do, or you wouldn't let me act this way. oh, claire, isn't that true?" "doesn't your own heart tell you, philip?" she could not lie easily. "yes, of course. i just wanted to hear you say it, dear." "why?" "because--because it means so much to me." "how does it mean any more than my unresisting lips?" she wanted to be fair to philip. would he want a wife without love? he looked at her, puzzled by her calm question. "because, dear, it would mean that you put your seal on our divine betrothal." "i gave you my lips, you held me in your arms, doesn't that mean love to you?" "claire, why do you talk that way?" "why shouldn't i? isn't it true?" "yes, but you--you seem so unlike the woman you are." "oh, i see. but you haven't told me fully why you wanted me to say i loved you." he stood up nervously and moved a few paces away, but the patient, self-reproachful gaze in claire's eyes brought him back again. "why talk of that at all, dearest?" he whispered. "we have each other. isn't that enough?" "perhaps not. you asked me to say it, you know." "yes, but i don't care. i won't plague you. i know you do love, me." he kissed her again and then looked at her. her lips had been cold. "what is the matter, claire? don't you love me? is that why you wouldn't give me your word?" it was coming at last. how could she make philip see, and yet be fair to him, too? "i don't know what you mean by love." her voice was carefully toneless. philip's eyes lighted. "don't you want me here beside you? don't you warm to my kisses? isn't there an awakened tenderness in you at my touch? isn't there, dearest?" claire's hands moved nervously up and down the edge of the comforter. "if i should stay here with you, that would be the highest proof that i loved you, wouldn't it?" "what else?" he looked at her, hope giving his face a renewed glow. was that all that love meant to him? "is that what your years of thought have taught you?" she said aloud. "why, yes, claire, the return of passion for passion, of warmth for warmth, of tenderness for tenderness, must be the last test, mustn't it?" despite her resolution her eyes narrowed ironically. philip started, and stared at her. "would you ever be jealous of my husband?" she asked, slowly. his head dropped. "no--and yes. of course, i wish he hadn't been your husband, but we can't help what fate has decreed." he raised his eyes, and then suddenly he smiled. "claire, is it because of him that you are unwilling to tell me you love me?" he asked softly. "i think i can understand. you'll have to be freed from him in some way, and we must be married, of course." "i am free from him. to him, i am dead. isn't that enough?" "yes," he answered judiciously, "if your own conscience is satisfied." she smiled a little, her eyebrows lifting in amusement. "oh, my own conscience dictates my every act, philip." "i know it does," he agreed, earnestly. "but your lips were cold to my kiss." he bent over to test the truth of his remark. "do you forget lawrence so easily?" claire raised a hand over her face. "certainly i cannot." "i beg your pardon," philip said, rising hastily. "of course he is to be remembered. we will wait until we are alone to talk of our future." "yes," she said. "i should prefer that greatly." he touched his lips to her forehead tenderly, then stepped silently into the room beyond. she heard him as he moved quietly to replenish the fire, and it seemed to her that he made enough noise to echo from the mountains across the lake. she must think her situation through. she was studying the look she had read on philip's face, and was angry with herself, yet she could not help thinking of it and its meaning. suddenly she remembered the same expression on her husband's face, and she shuddered. she had thought it beautiful then, why not now? and why should she be so contemptuous when probably the same look had been in her own eyes when she had raged at lawrence because he had not taken her in his arms. philip was sitting out there beyond the curtain dreaming ecstatically of the days when they would be alone in the cabin, and she smiled ironically. after all, there was but one way out. he would find little comfort in her ghost, and her drowned body would scarcely fire him to passion. she rose and slipped out into the room. lawrence was still asleep. she did not even glance toward philip because she foresaw his look of proprietorship. she went straight to lawrence, and bending over him as if to arrange something about his blanket, she whispered softly: "beloved, when i am alone with him, i shall be more with you." philip came and stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "it looks like a serious fever," he said softly. claire listened to lawrence's breathing and felt his temperature. she stood up, gray with anxiety. "i'm afraid for him," she said, and there was that in her voice which philip did not understand. they ate their supper in silence. claire glanced at philip occasionally and found in his eyes the anticipated look of tender ownership. she let him slip out of her mind while she thought again of the afternoon when lawrence had declared his creative principle. how dearly she would love to help him, to have him model his statue of her. he had said that she was savage and elemental underneath her polish. he had known, then, all the time. what a man he was! if only she knew how to find his love, to reawaken it. but no, he would never forget. well, he would not have been able to care for her, anyway, she was so utterly sensual despite all her training in culture. he would want a more spiritual woman to fire his imagination to do great work. she tried to imagine what sort of woman would be best for his wife. lawrence stirred restlessly. she rose and went quickly to the bed. he was still asleep and she stood looking down at him. in her heart was a great tenderness and a great fear. what if he should die? memories of their days in the woods swept over her in waves of love. abruptly she turned to philip and said quietly: "philip, until i am your wife you must not touch me again." he looked up, startled, then smiled. "i understand, my dear," he said, "i will not." she sat down at the table to wait for lawrence's waking. it was late when he did, and immediately they realized that he was worse. claire gave him some hot soup made from dried meal and helped philip get him undressed and into bed. "i'll put some blankets here and sleep on the floor beside him," philip whispered. "i don't in the least mind, and i can help him if he wants help during the night." "thank you," claire said gratefully. she felt indebted to this man for every kindness shown lawrence. long before morning she was aroused by the sound of movements out there in the room. "what is it?" she called softly. "i am looking for something in which to heat water," came philip's voice. she scrambled out of bed, drew on a few clothes, and went out. lawrence was tossing on his bed and breathing heavily. she set to work heating the water herself, and sent philip back to his blankets. there was a pleasure in doing this nursing for lawrence. she felt glad that hers was the chance to care for him. "you're to have the best nursing a sick man ever got, lawrence," she said, stooping over him tenderly. he smiled faintly and whispered: "good, claire." "you'll be well so quick you won't remember being ill." "i know," he murmured huskily. "what do you know?" she asked eagerly. "i know, it's natural for you, this kindness." "is that all you know, lawrence?" "about all, claire. about all, yet." "why do you say 'yet'?" "i haven't thought it out yet." "what, lawrence?" "my platform, my work-bench for the future." she laughed, a little sadly. "you would better stop thinking about that for a day or so, wouldn't you?" "perhaps. i can't, though." she drew up a chair and sat beside him. "i'm going to become a regular guard, and if you don't sleep and let thinking wait, i'll scold dreadfully." he tossed uneasily and turned toward her, his cheeks brilliant with fever. "i like to hear you scold, claire," he said. "i shall go my limit." she rubbed her cool hand across his forehead for answer. when he at last slept, she continued to watch by his side, rocking slowly in her chair. it was peace for her to sit there and dream. there was rest from her ceaseless questionings, and it was welcome rest. chapter xvi. the question answered. during the days that followed claire's attitude grew into one of motherhood. she watched over lawrence for the least thing she might do, the least promise of returning health. there were times when he raved in delirium, and she listened with a swelling heart. one morning he began suddenly talking of himself. in broken sentences, shapeless phrases, half finished thoughts, he unfolded a strange tale. claire was glad that philip was away at work with his traps. she sat beside lawrence, her hands clasped, and did not miss a word. "you see," he began one day without preliminaries, "you see, i wasn't just given the best of chances. that was the beginning of it all. i wasn't fairly treated." she tried to comfort him into sleep, but he did not know she was talking to him and went on earnestly with his unconscious revelation. "the whole business was a squalid sort of thing banked by mountains so grand in their rugged strength that i never got used to the dirty, dusty little half-civilized town there on the plateau. even as a child i felt the intolerable difference between the place and its surroundings. men ought to be better up there, but they aren't. they just magnify faults with the bigness of the hills around. lots of it was romantic, lots of it ought never to be lost, the frank freedom, the vital living, the joy of uncertain victory over the dirt of the mines. it made men wild, wild to the last degree, that ever possible stumbling into gold, pure, glittering gold. why, i saw it as a kid, shining like stars all over the side of the tunnel. it made even the children mad, i think. when i modeled rude little figures out of the red clay, i was always on the outlook for a possible gold-mine." he laughed, then went on seriously. "i didn't have the chance to grow up learning things gradually. there was no dividing-line between vice and virtue, all of it spread out there, street behind street, in a glow of abandoned riot. even virtue flashed with a loose frankness that deceived a growing boy. it was a grand drama. fifty thousand mad men and women!" she looked at him in amazement. this was something beyond her knowledge. what was it all that he was talking about? "there was josey; she didn't know. i didn't. we saw love played with in hilarious open passion. we thought it was the thing to do. children oughtn't to see it quite that way." claire felt guilty, but he stopped and when he began again he was on a different line of old memories. "why, when i sold papers down on the main street i could see the girls of the district standing around, one block below, in their business regalia. i thought at first they were angels." claire sat in wonder and listened. "the first time i ever went down there i was eight. eight years old, and one of them called me from the open door of her house. when i stepped to the door, she was coming down a stairway, her white dress open and spread like wings at either side of her naked body. i was sure she was an angel out of my sunday-school book. i could scarcely take the dime she gave me. i never forgot her kissing me and patting my head when i stared so at her." claire felt a strangely tender pity for the little chap she was seeing now in her imagination. "and the fighting, dirty, freckled sons of those women--they kept me hard at it, keeping the money i got. after that day, i went down there often. traded a paper with a golden-haired angel for a box of cigarettes, the first i ever owned. it was great, wonderful, to have her cigarettes. i smoked them with a sense of reverence. "wright and i played hooky, and the girls hid us all day in their shacks, played with us, teased us about sex, and taught us things we oughtn't to have known. poor old wright! they sent him to the pen for burglary after i had been gone years and was blind. i wonder if i'd have followed him. most likely would. "and, oh, the hills! there was old pisga, pined to its cone point, and a race-track, with a saloon, at its foot. i ran away out there once at a big fourth of july barbecue. it rained like the devil and i lounged in the bar with jockeys and sporting girls, listening to their ribald talk. "i don't know--a street urchin in a camp, that was all i was. if i got licked, and i did, i was a coward for years and had to give up my pennies. i used strategy, cunning, because i was afraid to fight till i whipped red. that made a difference. if the old fellow i liked so hadn't given red a quarter to lick me, i'd have been a coward yet. it made me so mad i licked red." lawrence laughed again merrily. "that started me fighting, and i fought daily without provocation. dirty, scaly fisted little rat, whose stockings sagged around his shoes, fighting for money in the saloons! the men liked me, too. all of them called me their kid. i used to stand big-eyed and watch the faro-table stacked with gold. there were days, too, when i went out alone over the hills. i was ashamed of my little figures and afraid lest the boys find my mud-pies, as red had called a tiny dog that fell out of my pocket in a fight. "one day in an electric storm i saw a man and his horse killed by lightning. i was awed, and electricity became my god. i worshiped it like a little heathen. i even bought penny suckers and stuck them up in the ground where the lightning played in stormy weather. "it always seemed that the only things about the whole camp that fitted with the hills were that girl in white and an old mountaineer who fought with his fists alone against a gang of drunks. i don't know why. they just belonged." he stopped and lay a long time in silence. claire thought over what he had said, and her heart went out to this man as if he were still the little gamin of the hills. "poor little chap," she murmured aloud. lawrence half raised himself in bed, talking again, and she was obliged to push him back. "it was all paradise, though, compared to that school where the women's club sent me. i didn't want an education. freedom was taken from me. i was chained with discipline. i had seen too much and i told the other marveling boys. they talked, and i was punished as a degenerate little villain. i couldn't see why. that first winter was hell. they all misunderstood me, and i them. i ached for my mountains again, and when they sent me to the camp for the summer i whooped for joy. "i must have been thirteen at that time. the men in camp paid the widow morgan to keep me through the summer. she had a daughter seventeen or thereabouts. georgia had curly hair and blue eyes. she didn't pay much attention to me at first. i didn't care. "then one night the widow went off to a lodge-meeting and left us alone. pearly and the gang came around and began throwing rocks at the house and demanding that georgia let them in. i was furious, and she was nearly scared to death. she got her mother's pistol and asked me to shoot it. i took it and, opening the door, fired into the night. the gang slunk off, but georgia was still frightened. "we slipped out of our clothes in trembling silence and huddled together in her mother's bed. she was crying, and i felt very brave. i put my arms around her and comforted her. she became quiet by and by and slipped her arms around me. after that we found ourselves. "she said we were in love, and i guess we were. that night was the beginning of my rebellious manhood. her mother abused us roundly for immoral little whiffits. i was put out, and after that the county kept me. georgia hated me, for she said i was to blame. "i suppose that was all right, too, but it made me bitter against what seemed to me an unjust world. i went back to school, hating. i never stopped hating as long as i was there. it was misunderstanding from first to last. i never ceased rebelling against punishment for rebellion. "it was a hopeless snarl, but it made me what i was when i entered college, distant, sullen, and ferocious. my only joy was in my work, and i spent all my spare time in the studio. then the second summer i shot off the gunpowder, and blindness came." lawrence lay back silent, then began again. "after the accident it was a thousand times worse. i thought people didn't like me because i was blind. they only pitied and misunderstood. misunderstood--that word might be my epitaph. it could certainly be placed over my childhood's grave. "it was in college that i started thinking. thought out my plan of militant egoism. it seemed to succeed, but all the time i was afraid it was only pity that sold my work. you know, claire, as you said, i've got to do it all over again. all of it, building a new platform, a new work-bench. i've got to allow for things. i've got to understand." in her tension, claire walked the floor. would he never stop? that glimpse into his life at the widow's--who was pearly?--and what a tough little gang he must have grown up with! poor boy! he did not talk much for a long time, then he kept repeating: "i must build a new work-bench, claire. that's the thing to do." she felt at times that she must scream at him, then she would be all motherly tenderness. "lawrence," she would whisper, "do it, my man. you can, my laddie." he tossed, and chided an unseen man or woman for having helped him through charity under the garb of admiration. he was misunderstanding again. he thought everything was charity, pity for his blindness, and he raved. she began to see that this sudden bitterness which poured from his lips was the outcome of years of sorrow, the product of a deep-burning fire to see the beauty his soul craved. "lawrence," she cried, "god knows if i could i would give you my eyes!" she knew that he was consumed with the pain of his struggle to comprehend more beauty. even exaggerating his hunger for sight, she wept beside him. her whole soul yearned to help him, to give him more of the beauty which seemed the prime need of his nature. sometimes he prayed for it, addressing fate, nature, chance, anything, everything but god. after a silence that was beginning to frighten claire, he began again. at first his words were indistinct, but as she leaned closer, they cleared of guttural sounds. she listened spellbound. "you see, i hadn't done my thinking with allowance for the whole of human character, claire. that was what was wrong with me. i'm doing that now. i'm finding myself again. it is back with the beginning of things i must start. back with the first squirm of life in the primordial mud. it's no use trying further back than that. no use at all. back of that lies only conjecture. "there was existence, perhaps, inert unconscious existence waiting to become suddenly aware of itself, aware of its parts and its difference from other things. well, existence struggling, dreaming of self-knowledge, found in a wriggling, oozing spot of protoplasm--that's the start of it all. feeding without hunger, moving without knowledge to food, reproducing mechanically by division, living without instinct, without emotion, without death. for me, that must be the beginning. "whether death came, or what it was--a long period without food, perhaps--that started this stuff to changing, i do not know. maybe it was existence following the way of greatest pressure toward selfhood. anyway, it started and began its journey. up and up, out of the mud and ooze, into light and dry dirt. "the glory of light must have been a great thing then. think of it, coming into light, out of wet, dark mud. i know what it would be better than you. light, the first great discovery of life! it must have hastened growth--warmth, sunrays, heat, cold at night and dark again. the glory of it breaking at dawn over the squirming, groping blind existence of things! "god said let there be light, and there was light. "existence demanding the thing it craved. was that it, or existence finding light and learning to crave it? no matter--light, a thousand miracles of warmth and wonder! growth was inevitable, claire. "then the craving learned by experience broke into new form. i don't know what it was; a two-celled bug, perhaps--only that it was craving that did it. hunger and thirst after light. "pain came at the very start of things. wants unsatisfied drove with the scourge of hell, forcing eyes, ears, stomach, sex into being, and out of the squalor of it all, still goaded by incessant want, there heaved the gigantic scaly carcass of the dinosaur. still unaware of things, but driven to move, to grow, to expand. existence demanding more expression of its awareness of self. "the beast didn't know what it was. he only grew and grew and grew, till he spread his ugly, yearning life over hundreds of feet of ground. eye and ear and touch and a peace of filled belly lay basking in the light, glorying in what they found. life was good, riotously good, finding things, finding itself out. they fought, fed, killed, bred, all in the effort of existence to know. "what a blood-drenched chaotic struggle for self it was, claire! "and so, on and on and on. touch didn't satisfy the incessant taste for more knowledge, more life. bodies rising like hills out of the marshes couldn't give the keen joy that existence craved for itself. "new things again: changed, altered products of the old, bearing in their frames the history, the memory of the old--it all came, and out of it at last, hunger-driven for more keen life, sprang a biped, hairy, tusked, savage, bloody, lustful, eager to live, live, live! "he was a glorious beast. in his flattened head that held the little bloodshot eyes were memory, products of the past, things that harked back for confirmation of present things. he had instincts--that's what they are, instincts, memories of past sufferings--that whipped the organism to go on into keener living. he was sexed, he was hungry, he was vicious, he slept and ate, he bred consciously, carrying on the eager shout within his being for more, more of life. more of existence aware of itself! "if he killed, he gloried in the hot blood that drenched his hairless nose, and he learned to laugh through the pleasure of a filled belly. he learned to cry when he went hungry. tears came, and emotions, a more specialized instinct. "he was learning something else, too. but pain still whipped him on, filled him with fear of non-life, and he grew cowardly. nature had created a new thing, a brain, a specialized mass of cells that can comment, realize, criticise, warn, appreciate, choose better food, get it easier, help to conquer and promote life; the biped used this new thing to understand why he ran from the fingers that clutched at him in the dark and he became afraid. if it brought him new pain, it also brought him new pleasure. it was a great toy that could be used to enjoy oneself with. "it can have the joy of bodily sensations and then recall them, study them, comment on them, on its own instincts, its own memories. it can dream of ways for procuring fuller life, and put the dreams into any desired shape. man struts from his jungle, laughing aloud, with lust for life and joy at his fulness thereof. but all the while, pain, the darkness, the still inert unconsciousness in existence that oppresses and drags back into its own dead inertness, is laughing still more heartily. "everywhere it checks, but man in his egotism forgets that he is a slave, bound and hampered, and boasts himself master. death sweeps in, lightning kills, thunder crashes over him, and filled with fear, with something bigger than he can grasp, he falls upon his knees, and cries, 'god!' "then begins the mess, the tangled, detestable, bloody, dirty, riotously glorious, sublime mystery that is me. me and you, claire. here we are." claire leaned over him, her breath suspended in her eagerness. "me, the man, specialized, sex-specialized, made to record, to enjoy, to remember, to create, and to die at last from sheer wearing out myself seeking life. "and you, you the woman, deeper, more vitally sexed, more complete in your memory of the past, more true in your record of it, less a sport, more a true seeker and knower of life--you, the embodiment of it all, memory, instinct, fear, passion, tenderness, hate--cunning, strong, wise, far-seeing, and altogether mistress of the whole brute world, mistress of everything in life and destiny save death. you, too, worn out by struggling to live more fully, but not until your lust for life has sent children out to carry on the struggle. "oh, claire, it is you the woman, demanding at any cost that your child live, who gives us our great knowledge, our beauty, our selfishness, and our strident sex, our pain." claire caught her breath and sobbed: "lawrence, lawrence!" "yes," he went on, "that is the end of it all. i see it now. you, unknown to yourself, demanding your child, stung to fear of death without it here in the wilderness, you love me--i know it, you love me. and i--i love you. it was that which drove you to speak as you did. i see. i love you!" she sank down on the pillow beside him. in her heart was a great relief which carried her away in a flood of tears. lawrence talked on unheeded by her. he had made everything clear, and she was utterly happy. when philip came in he found her sitting quietly, in her eyes a deep, calm peace that filled him with wonder. he smiled at her, thoughtfully, and remarked: "well, claire, you look happier than you have for months." "i am," she said simply. they did not carry on the conversation. he was satisfied that it was love for him which made her so distant, and he was content to wait until she should be his wife. he sat by the fire, watching her earnestly, and she was too deep in her new-found joy even to think of him or of her promise to him. to be concluded next week. don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. claire by leslie burton blades the blind love of a blind hero _by a blind author_ this story began in the all-story weekly for october . chapter xvii. angles of a triangle. it was well into april before lawrence was able to walk again. his convalescence had been slow, and he was still very weak. they had planned to start out by the end of april, but they were compelled to postpone the journey until the middle of may. philip was fired with impatience. he wanted to get out to a priest and be married to claire. she, on her part, was glad of the delay. she dreaded the hour when she should have to tell philip that she would not marry him. her joy in her love for lawrence was too great, however, to allow for much thought about the matter. she looked back upon her yielding to philip as upon a terrible nightmare, but she still liked him and could not bring herself to limit the intimate ways which had sprung up between them. he did not imagine, therefore, that there had been any change in her. claire had never told lawrence of what he had said during his illness, but her treatment of him was very different from what it had been before. he had come out of his illness with a calm assurance of his future, and he knew that he loved claire. he did not know her feeling, but as soon as he should be well he meant to tell her of his love once more. the days passed in quiet serenity. outside the cabin the plateau flowed under the pines into green and white and gold with dark patches of blue flowers that filled claire's heart with song. the lake was open and glistened in the warm sun, while fish leaped in it, sending up sparkling rainbow drops. claire took to wandering along the shore with lawrence or philip, or both, talking gaily all the while. she never mentioned her husband, it was only of their return to civilization that she spoke and of the great time the three of them would have in celebration. they laughed agreement with her words. as lawrence grew more and more like himself there came a time, however, when philip could not but see that claire was giving the artist a tenderness, a sweetness of companionship, and a carefully guarded joy which he had never known. it was impossible for him to say to himself longer that it was only her nursing manner. he took to watching her eyes, and again and again he caught them filled with a deep light which they had never held for him. he now realized that he had always feared claire might love lawrence, that he had feared it even on the day of her confession. a fierce desire of possession gripped him, and he swore to have this woman as his wife, in spite of lawrence, in spite of herself, if need be. it was this last frame of mind which gained in constancy until he became a danger to claire's happiness. she saw it in his dark expression, and her heart cried out against herself for the time of weakness. then a great doubt would assail her. lawrence had never spoken of love since he had regained his consciousness, and she wondered if, after all, his talk had been mere delirium, without basis in his normal mind. she determined to find out, and then tell philip the frank truth. she was sure that he would receive it as a gentleman should, and let her moment of weakness pass forgiven. she went over all their experience together, and she came to feel that, in any case, she could never live with him. even though lawrence did not care, she told herself, she could go out into the world and find her place. one evening she came into the house and found philip alone, sitting darkly over his book. she felt sorry for him, and, wanting to leave him friendly memories, if she could, she walked quietly over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. he looked up and smiled faintly, though his face remained clouded. "philip," she said, "you look worried!" "i dare say i do," he returned quietly, but there came into his eyes a fierce light that frightened her. "why should you?" she asked. "claire!" he stood up and faced her. "i do not know what you think of lawrence. i do not know what he thinks of you. i do not care. i will tell you one thing. you lay in my arms yonder and said that you would be my wife. if you did not mean it"--he hesitated--"then you are scarcely the type of woman to be allowed to live. don't lead me to suspect that such is the case." claire gasped, realized her situation, and for the moment was carried beyond all power of speech. she sank in a chair and stared at him. then, suppressing her rising fear, she said calmly: "philip, would you have me yours against your will?" his eyes flashed fire at her. "would you say you wanted to be mine and not mean it?" "no," she faltered, "i--i might have meant it then." "does your heart change with the passing breeze?" she was feeling panicky. her throat was dry and hot. "i hope not," she said faintly. "bah! does it?" he demanded. "no," she said, even more faintly. "very well. you lay in my arms there and told me you would be my wife. years ago, before you came into my life, another woman played with me. you shall not. i do not know what has happened to bring about the change in you. it cannot alter my will. you are mine by your own lips. it is best for us both that i hold you to your promise. when we go out of this place to a priest you shall become my wife. you dare not be untrue to yourself!" she was afraid to answer him. his dark, threatening face told her that he was beyond reason, and she sank wearily back in her chair. in her heart she was determined never to be his, but her lips played her false. despite her will they whispered submissively, "very well, philip. i understand." he laughed aloud. "what in heaven's name made you act like that, claire?" he asked, once more kindly and agreeable. "a woman's whim!" she said, and hated herself for saying it. "i don't understand women," he laughed softly. "neither do i." it was lawrence's voice. he had come in, just in time to hear the last words. "nor men, either--except in one thing." "what is the one thing?" asked claire eagerly. "that, given a normal, healthy mind, they will sacrifice all their idols for life. life is the one eternally insistent thing." philip chuckled. "you are yourself again, i see." "yes, and stronger than ever in my faith," said lawrence, sitting down. "i know the price i would pay for life. it is the price every human being would pay, if demanded." "what is that price?" philip asked. "the whole of one's faith in god and man!" "nonsense!" philip spoke curtly. "i would die before forfeiting a dozen ideals i hold dear!" "would you?" lawrence looked at him quizzically. "would you sacrifice your own life before you would the love of your sweetheart, for instance, if you had one?" the conversation was similar to those which they had had months before, but the fire was nearer the surface now. "yes." philip's answer came swiftly. "then you are a sex-maddened mountaineer!" "and you are talking like the beast you are not. i know you do not believe that." "i know i do. i would only die for a woman if she were my life." "but any real love finds her so." "folly! i find my work, my future, my dream of a single immortal statue more my life than any woman!" lawrence exclaimed. "i wonder if you really do," claire mused, half to herself. "yes," lawrence insisted, "although she might be necessary to that statue. at least i believe she might--and i would feel sure of it if i wanted her badly enough," he ended amusedly. "that merely means that you are still utterly selfish!" said claire. "yes, i am." lawrence was thoughtful. "it is a paradox, i am so selfish that, although i would sacrifice myself to the last degree for a person i loved, yet i would all the time feel that i was a fool, that i was doing an absurd thing when life was so good." "i see," claire observed. "and i know i would do the same." "i would do it," philip said, "but i would not feel a fool. it would seem to me right." claire looked straight into his eyes. "you would not, philip," she declared softly. "your own happiness would come first--and you know it." the spaniard's gaze shifted, and there was silence in the cabin. when he looked up his eyes had changed their expression. "yes," he agreed steadily, "i admit it. hereafter i mean to have what i want from life at any cost." "yet you will go on talking ideals," lawrence mocked. "yes--and thinking them, too." "while lawrence will make the sacrifice and go on talking his selfishness," claire added. both men laughed constrainedly. "and i," claire continued, "if it is necessary, will lie to preserve my will, and, having it secure, will use it to obtain what i want." "we are at last three delightfully frank, insufferable, unpleasant, and very natural, likable human beings!" lawrence laughed. "and on that basis we will work out our fates," murmured claire. "we will do just that," lawrence answered gaily. "be they good or bad, we will meet our futures with perfect self-knowledge," contributed philip. "then most likely they will be bad," claire added with conviction. they gave up talking, and each abandoned himself to his own reflections. in the minds of the two men these thoughts assumed widely differing words, though they were the same thoughts. philip was garbing his impulses, desires, and determinations in clothes that furnished his habitual mental wardrobe. with their marriage, he thought, claire would learn the real philip. he would treat her with such deference, such tender respect, and such devotion that she would see the wisdom of her choice. he would prove to her that sex mattered little, was altogether secondary. it was her great companionship, her dear thoughtfulness, her charming personality that he loved. respect, first of all: happy married life depended on respect; then, common interest, friendship between two human beings, and, last and least important, that wonderful emotion springing out of the divine god-given reproductive life of both. lawrence was thinking very different words to the same end. he thought of her as his mate, his comrade, and his equal. he admired her brain, smiled at the thought of their hours of intellectual pleasure, dreamed of her as the stimulus to creation which her mind should help shape into master work. he loved her beauty and her measureless well of bubbling energy. what a help she could be to him! she was the greatest of all women; he wanted her, needed her. could he realize his dream? that was the point. well, no matter, or, at least, no use in speculating. he would try. if she were willing, what a life of joy and accomplishment lay before them! if not, he had lived alone until this time, and he could continue to live alone. meantime, was philip the barrier that would keep him from her? he hoped not. he did not believe that she loved philip. if she did, he would be a good loser and wish her joy. his heart ached at the thought. but, after all, one doesn't die over such things, and he would recover. "i'm going to get the supper," said claire somewhat abruptly. she rose and set to work. here the thoughts of the two men flowed into an identical channel. it was certainly good to sit and listen to her. that sound would be very agreeable, indeed, at the end of a day, in one's own home. as for her husband, he was out of the question. if claire went back to him, she might find him married or in love again, unwilling to receive her after her long months with two men in the wilderness, suspicious of such a thing being possible without more intimacies than he would care to overlook. no, her husband did not matter. she would be justified and safe in remarrying. of course, not safe if she returned to america, but that she would not do. at this point their thoughts diverged. philip was seeing claire as the continued inmate of his cabin. lawrence was painting a delightful mental picture of claire as the ever-present fairy of his studio in some south american town, or perhaps in paris. he preferred france; it was a land of more brilliance, more freedom, and certainly much more appreciation of the things in which they were interested. besides, his work would carry more prestige in the world if it came from europe. he thanked the memory of old roger burton, of cripple creek, and he rejoiced that he would be able to give claire the home to which she was entitled. he smiled as his thoughts went back to the mines and the dirty little newsboy an old man had befriended. burton's quarter to red had kept lawrence, the boy, from becoming a coward, and burton's slender provision for the college graduate would now insure happiness for lawrence the man. many times before he had laughed scornfully at the untouched interest from the miner's bonds. he could make his own living. but now there would be claire. the old man would have been glad to see his protégé happy in the love of such a woman. meanwhile claire was doing her work automatically. in her mind there was pleasure at the thought that lawrence was listening to her movements. but she was filled with a dead weight that seemed likely to break her down with its dreadful pressure. vaguely she wished that she had never seen philip, even that she had never seen lawrence, or that she had perished with him in the mountains. how had she ever placed herself in the position she was now in? she had come by the way of a terrible road and, looking ahead, she could see nothing but sadness, anguish, and a life of dull discontent with philip--that or death! lawrence had had time and opportunity since his recovery to declare himself, and he had not done so. she had had time and opportunity to tell him frankly of her own feeling, but she had not done so. she did not know why. now she could not. philip had given her to understand his desperate determination to marry her, and, after all she had said and done, she had no right to refuse him. if she told him the truth he might kill lawrence or her, or both of them. these tragic idealists, she exclaimed to herself, what a tangle they can make out of life! oh, what a noose she had managed to fasten around her own neck! would the problem never be settled, one way or the other? what would she do if philip tried to force her to marry him? kill him? was she, then, so primitive, so savage, so much the slave of her own desires that she would slay to gain her end? she remembered lawrence's talk when he was ill, "we killed those days, claire, killed because we wanted fuller life, fuller knowledge, fuller expansion of our own vital existence; we were gropers after more light!" "supper!" she said dully, and then sat down. they ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, and afterward went immediately to bed. claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind--to live as she wanted to live she would pay any price! chapter xviii. the romantic realist. it was the st of may when lawrence at last found himself alone with claire and decided to speak. the instant he thought of declaring himself he was surprised at his own mental state. a panic seized him, his heart beat unsteadily, his mouth grew dry, and he could think of nothing to say. they were out on the lake shore. philip had left them on his last long trip across the plateau before starting for civilization. the warm spring wind blew around them, laden with scent of pine and flower. at their feet the water rippled and cooed little melodies. claire sat very still, gazing wistfully at the man beside her. her heart was a lead weight, and her brain ached with the strain of her problem. it was late afternoon. all day she had wandered with lawrence in comparative silence, wishing that he would speak, and observing that something troubled him. finally she moved uneasily, took her hand from her cheek, and said half-dreamily, "you aren't a bit talkative." he gulped, swallowed, and laughed. "i'm too busy trying to think of something to say," he told her amusedly. "oh!" she was provoked in the extreme. "have i ceased to suggest conversation? you are very tired of me, then." "quite the contrary. so far from it, you paralyze my tongue." "how complimentary!" she said. "then i suppose your excessive arguments with philip denote your weariness of him?" "they do." "i suppose, if you were really fond of a person, you would never talk at all?" "perhaps. i don't know but that you are right." she laughed gaily. "lawrence," she said, "you are certainly amusing when you attempt to be flattering!" he grew warm and uncomfortable. "i wasn't trying to flatter. can't you see that?" he was almost wistful. "i don't see it. no, if you weren't trying to flatter you were surely doing the unintended in a most intricately original manner." he shifted his position and did not answer. "of course," she said, "although you aren't accustomed to flattering, you've taken to doing it almost constantly." "well, why shouldn't i?" he asked curiously. "why not, if you care to?" her reply was as gentle as if she were a submissive object of his whims. he felt that now was the time to speak, but he could not bring himself to the point. the thought of his blindness killed all confidence. "hang it all," he broke out, quite as if it were a part of their previous talk, "blindness certainly does rob one of his will!" she looked at him apprehensively. "i thought you had decided you were the master of that." "i had, but it seems i was mistaken." claire laid her hand on his arm tenderly. her eyes were dazzling. "lawrence, you must master that, you know." "why?" he said thoughtfully. "if i shouldn't, it would mean only one more human animal on the scrap heap!" "but you don't want to be there." "of course not. no one does. i don't imagine any one chooses it." "if you go there it will be because you choose it." "i wish i saw things your way," he observed. "at times i feel as sure of success as if it were inevitable, and then suddenly down sweeps the black uncertainty, and i am afraid, timid, and unnerved." she looked at him sadly. "don't you believe in your work, lawrence?" "yes, that is about all i do believe in." "then what is the matter?" "it is that, after all, thousands of men have believed in their work to no avail. one can never know whether he is a fad or a real artist. it isn't only that, either. one's work, when it is his life, requires so much besides to make it possible. it is that which gives me the blue fear you see. i always imagine that the thing i want just then is absolutely essential to my better work. perhaps it is. i don't know. i know only that i am persuaded that it is. then i set about to get that thing and i fail." "but do you always fail?" claire was unconsciously pleading her own cause. "not always. just often enough to scare me to death when the biggest need of my life seems just out of reach." "nonsense, lawrence," she laughed. "when you were sick you talked as if you could reach out and pull down the stars, if you needed them in an endeavor to complete your life." "sometimes i think i could, then the reality of life comes crashing through the walls of my dream-palace, and, behold, i am standing desolate and abandoned, grasping at lights which are even too far away to be seen! i am clawing darkness for something i fancied i could reach, while, as far as i am concerned, it is clear out of space and time." she sat pensively looking across the lake. "yet you keep on reaching, don't you?" "yes--and no. i always wish i could. there are times, claire, when i don't want to be a realist, don't want to face life as it is, when it seems too tawdry to be valuable just as it is; then i reach out into the night and cry, 'let me be the maddest of dreamers, the wildest of idealists, a knight of fancy seeking the illusive dream!'" claire laughed aloud as she said, "and don't you know, dear man, that that is just what you do become at times?" "i know it. that's the joke of it. all the while i mock myself for being a romancing idiot!" "what a state of mind!" she exclaimed. "it isn't pleasant. then, worse than that, when i attain my star, i spoil it with too much scrutiny." she started. "what do you mean?" "just that. i make a mess of it." "still i don't understand." he thought for a moment, then said sadly: "take the cherub i carved there"--he nodded in the direction of the house--"i was wild with creative fervor when i did that. i put into it a thousand little thoughts that flashed with imaginative fire. i dreamed things, felt things that should have made a masterpiece beyond all masterpieces, and at last the thing was finished. still under the heat of enthusiasm, i felt of it, tested it, and found it good. well, a week later, when the imaginative flame was gone, i went back and looked at it again. it was poor, cold, imperfect, not at all what it should have been. i dreamed a star and made a block of poor wooden imagery." "but you underestimate your work. to me the cherub is still a star." he laughed. "it is what others see of good in my work that makes me hope that sooner or later i will do the thing that will stand eternally a star of the first magnitude." "and you will, lawrence," she said earnestly. "perhaps." he was pensive. "perhaps not. that is where the rest of life enters in. i want many things; they seem necessary if i am to attain my eternal star. i am afraid i shall never get them!" "have you tried?" "no, i haven't the courage. if they should be beyond my grasp, if obtaining them, they should prove to be wrong and not the real things i need, after all, what then?" "i don't know." she waited to watch a little colored cloud float by, and then continued: "isn't the real interest in life the game you play?" "i suppose it is, but it's hard on other people." "why--and how?" "suppose," lawrence said slowly, "you were the one thing i thought i needed." claire leaned toward him, her lips apart, her heart beating wildly. "suppose i were sure of it, and set about to make you part of my life, well, if i succeeded and then"--he smiled sadly--"found that you were not the necessity, not the answer to my need, what of you? it would be an inferno for you, and none the less equally terrible for me! we couldn't help it. under such circumstances you would be right in saying that i had been unfair. i don't know, certainly you would be right in charging your possible unhappiness to me." "under your supposition, lawrence," she answered evenly, "if you obtained my love, wouldn't it then be my game, my risk in the great gamble for deeper life? wouldn't it be my mistake for having thought you were what i needed?" "what if you still thought you needed me after i was sure that i did not need you?" she shrugged her shoulders. "i am too fond of life and too eager to know its possibilities to let that hurt me long. possibly i should weep, be cynical, maybe even do something desperate, but at last i would come up smiling, calm in the faith that my life was deeper, richer for the experience, and that yours was, too. or if it proved that yours was not, i should be amused at the shallowness of the claire that was, for having been so simple a dunce as to imagine that you were worth while. i should thank you for teaching the present claire to forsake that shallow one, and should find you a rung on my ladder of life!" he laughed merrily. "you are strong in your faith, claire." "yes. this winter and you have made me strong," she answered. "i have made you strong in it?" "yes. last summer, when you dragged me out of the surf, i was full of a number of ideas i no longer possess." "but what have i done?" "you have lived stridently all your life." "perhaps so. what of it?" "i see that is the thing most worth doing." "what will your husband say to such a doctrine?" "i don't know. i am not going back to him. we are not the same people we were a year ago, and he would no more love the present claire than i should love the present howard." the sky deepened from pink to crimson, but claire's eyes were staring blankly on the ground. "claire, what do you think is essential to great work?" "i don't know. to keep at it most likely." she was digging with a little stick in the grass. "perhaps you're right," he agreed. "but sometimes i think it is a lot of other things; romantic wandering over the earth, a deep and lasting love, any number of such external factors." "you don't call love external, do you?" "i mean a permanent love," he laughed. "oh, well, perhaps those are necessary, certainly they would be a help to you, they would be to any one. but, after all, even a woman isn't absolutely essential to a man in order that he create great art." "i think she is," lawrence insisted. "very well, perhaps she is, but"--claire laughed skeptically--"i know that she is not the all in all, the alpha and omega, the 'that without which nothing,' that she is so often told she is by seeking males." "no," he agreed slowly, "in rare cases of great love that may be true, but in most cases it isn't." "it is more likely that what you, the abstract male, really mean is that you must have some woman as wife and housekeeper." "perhaps that is so, although even that needs qualifying." "i know," she said, "but why not be frank about it both ways; that is precisely her situation as well as his. there ought to be less sentimental rubbish and more plain sense about all of it. women would suffer less from shattered illusions, they would grow accustomed to reality, and be considerably less idiotic in their romantic caperings." "i admit it," lawrence said, smiling; "and yet"--he paused--"i want to be the maddest of romanticists, i want to say those things to the woman i love, i want to think them about her, i want to feel them all, all those dear, false romantic deceptions. i do, in fact, even though my brain agrees with you." "so should i, and i would." then she added softly under her breath, "i do." lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the grass in front of him. "claire," he said slowly, "i--i want to say them, think them, believe them about and with you." she did not move. over her there swept a great joy, and her thinking stopped. she was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, and she looked at her lover. he was blind. he could not see what was in her face, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. he was waiting, anguishing, for her answer. she realized then what it was he needed more than he himself knew. "lawrence," she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "i know what you need, beloved!" he laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturned face. "i guess you do, sweetheart," he consented. "what is it?" she settled down with a sigh of content, her head against his shoulder, and announced, very much like a child saying what it knows to be wisely true: "you need a woman who is keen enough to think with you and be eyes for you, natural and unspoiled by conventional sham enough to be your heart's answer, self-willed enough to be herself and deny you and your selfishness, and, above all, mother enough to care for you as she would a child. i believe i am that woman, dearest boy!" he held her tight in his arms and smiled. "i not only think, i know you are." for a long time they sat in silence, dreaming, loving, enjoying, and caring nothing for all the rest of the world. at last claire raised her head from his shoulder and whispered, "lawrence, before i would be separated from you, i am afraid i would kill!" he chuckled merrily. "good!" he said. "that sounds proper. so would i. we are alive because our ancestors killed to live, they fought to mate, so shall we, if need be." she remembered philip and shuddered slightly. "what is the matter, claire?" lawrence drew her closer. she did not answer. she was wondering how to tell him about philip, and afraid. "are you filled with terror at the mere thought of murder!" he asked. she moved uneasily in his arms. "no, but i can't say i like to even think of such a possibility." "don't, then. it isn't very likely to happen," he comforted. she remained silent, but her pleasure was not untroubled. her whole impulse was to wait, but her brain kept demanding that she tell him now, and she gathered herself for the effort. "lawrence"--she hesitated--"i--i have something i must tell you." "all right. go ahead; but confessions never do much good." she drew away from him tenderly. "because my whole being wants to be in your arms, i will not--not while i tell you," she said, sitting beside him. "i want you to hear and think without my body in your arms as a determining factor in your answer." "very well. go ahead. i promise to be an emotionless judge." "can you?" she asked quickly. "no," he said, "but i will." they both laughed, and she nerved herself to talk. "it's about philip," she said timidly. he started. "don't tell me about him, claire," he said. "it can't do any good, and it's hard for you, i see. whatever you are or were to philip doesn't matter to me in the least. the claire of this morning wasn't my mate. it is only claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way bound to philip for whatever may have occurred in the past." "oh, i wish that were true!" she moaned. "it is true," he asserted. "but you don't understand. let me go on, please." "surely," he answered. "say as much or as little as you wish." she told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm, expressionless face as she talked. she was filled with dread, for he sat as still as death, without a word, without a change of expression to show her what he was thinking. she made many corrections to her explanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discover herself how it all had happened. there was nothing of apology in her attitude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of that afternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to philip since that day. "now," she said at last, "you know all about it. you can do as you please, of course. if you choose to go on, we will have to find some solution together. philip will not take it easily. of that i am sure. he is more than likely to become desperate." she waited. lawrence did not move. his face was seriously thoughtful, and she was filled with a growing fear that made it harder and harder to wait for him to speak. when she could stand it no longer, she shook his arm. "lawrence, why don't you say something?" she cried. he read the fear in her voice, and laughed caressingly, as he took her in his arms. "i thought you knew it wouldn't alter our futures," he said. "i was only trying to think out a just solution unpersuaded by your body in my arms." "oh!" she laughed comfortably. he was making fun of her, and she was not averse to it. "it certainly looks as if philip were up against a bad future," he went on, amusedly. "philip!" she cried, startled. "are you pitying him all this time?" "whom else?" lawrence demanded. "we don't need pity, do we?" "oh, you selfish lover!" she chided. "i have been needing and do need it. philip worries me." "i see," he mused. "well, accept my condolences, and prepare to pass them on to philip. poor devil! when you and i are back in our world, he will indeed need pity." "suppose he takes steps to see that i don't go back?" she chanced. "he can scarcely compel you to live with him." "he can, and he will. he isn't as civilized as he appears. if need be, he would keep me locked up here and make me his by force, or kill me. he told me so." lawrence shrugged his shoulders. "romantic raving for effect!" he exclaimed. "but if he should happen to try that, well, i think my argument might be as effective as his." "but how do you propose to stop him? i tell you, he is in earnest." claire was insistent. "why, in whatever way is necessary. if it is my life against his, i'll give him the best i've got." she looked at lawrence in wonder. he was as calm as if he had been making small talk at a theater-party. "can you plan it so--so carelessly, like that?" she asked. "why not? i could hardly allow him to take you by force. i wouldn't choose a fight as a diversion, but once in, i wouldn't stop short of his life. and i wouldn't feel any compunction afterward, either." "well," she said quickly, "it won't be necessary." "i think not." he smiled. "we need say nothing about our plans. once we get into town, all the world is ours, and we can quietly depart, leaving philip ortez a very pleasant memory." they both laughed heartily. neither of them allowed for that vast portion of human character which lies beyond the knowledge of the most keen-visioned. claire was more familiar with the distinctly male phases of philip than lawrence--perhaps a woman always is--but they were too happy to give the matter any real consideration, and, after the fashion of all lovers, they shut out the third person from their little self-bound universe. the whole world seemed a friendly sphere whose entire action was merely to bring them together, and they were utterly oblivious to philip and his new attitude. it seemed so impossible that anything serious could arise to separate them from each other. it was late when philip returned, and he was instantly aware of the change in his guests. the old, serious silence was gone from lawrence; he was not the speculative man to whom philip was accustomed. his talk was light, pleasantly humorous, and very genial. he was, in short, the lover. claire, too, shone with a new radiance. doubt rearose in philip's heart, and grew rapidly into suspicion. he became less responsive to their chatter. his dark eyes grew somber with misgiving, and love swelled into longing that made him feel sure that claire was necessary to his life. without her there could be no living for him. he wondered if she and lawrence had found love. "if they have," he argued, "there can be but one explanation. claire is unreliable, vicious, and dangerous." his aching desire to possess her did not lessen, however. it became deeper, in fact, with each succeeding thought of her as a wanton at heart, and he set his teeth over his will, assuring himself that all would be well when lawrence was gone. he took to avoiding absences, and to watching furtively for some confirmation of his suspicion. claire was instinctively cautious, and he saw nothing that could actually be construed against her. he was of that type of man whose love, burning into jealousy, does battle with ideals which stand against his suspicions and demand actual physical proof before retiring and allowing the beast to run riot. he knew no middle ground. once he had seen that which would condemn claire, he would be utterly savage. his soul anguished to bitterness at every thought against her purity and truth. he could not accept her as she was. his suspicion painted her black with the sticky ink of a morbid idealist, while his faith, rising from the same ideals, made her seem almost ethereal. his longing for her was an acute physical pain, and he never allowed his ideals to stop his romancing. he insisted that his desire be stated in masking phrases and deceiving glories of chivalrous prattle. he was so torn by his conflicting emotions and ideals that he was fast arriving at a state where his action would be that of a wounded beast at bay. he did not know and would not admit that his own distorted view of claire was back of his own condition. true to his type, he carried this war in silence, and sought support for his fast-weakening ideals in argument. he was wise. defend your faith if you would keep it glowing. chapter xix. the last discussion. the time of their departure was at hand. there had been two days of intense packing of the food and clothing necessary for their two-hundred-mile walk. now that was behind them, and after a short trip which philip must take the following morning, they would be off for the ten or fifteen miles they hoped to cover that day. when night came they were overjubilant, and they sat before the cabin watching the lake as it shimmered in the moonlight. claire was pensively silent, though her heart sang. she was dreaming out her days, painting them on the moonlit water, and she paid very little heed to the two men, though unconsciously her whole personality leaned toward lawrence. what they were saying she did not at first know, but gradually her attention was caught and she listened earnestly with an ever-growing fear in her heart. she saw the deep fire that burned in philip's eyes, and she realized that lawrence was unaware of how his provocative, half-humorous ironies were stirring the volcano within the man who sat beside him. "no man has a right," philip was saying, "to think of a woman in his house unless he can think of her as altogether trustworthy, pure, and beyond temptation. if he does think of her differently, he is a beast, and wants a mistress, not a wife." lawrence laughed carelessly. "the average man wants both in one," he said. "personally, so far as your talk about suspicion goes, who needs to think either way? i'm sure i don't. i'm quite content to live with a woman, giving and taking what we can enjoy together, and not asking that she limit her time and devotion to me. she may have various outside interests of her own. in fact, i would prefer that life should hold a separate work for her." "oh, you do not care. you are too selfish to feel any responsibility for a woman's soul. i would feel depraved if i did not guard my wife's soul by my very faith in her." "why should you guard her soul? isn't the average woman intelligent enough to look out for herself? what she does, she does because she wants to, and for heaven's sake, man, let her have the right to freedom of being." "but real freedom of being lies in her dependence on me as the head of the house," philip protested. "if you happen to be the head of the house," lawrence added jestingly. "but i would be the head of the house. it is my right and my duty." "poor mrs. ortez, if there ever is one," lawrence continued, joking. "she is to be guarded by a great, aggressive, possessing husband. what if she happens to want something you don't approve of?" "she won't. a good woman doesn't." "but suppose your woman isn't good, and does?" "i should have to explain to her her mistake." "and then when she says, 'but i don't regard it as a mistake, i think it was quite right,' what will you do?" "i wouldn't have a woman who would hold such views." "what is it you want for a wife, philip? a brainless feminine body who is content to be your slave?" "i should be ashamed to speak of any woman i cared for in those terms. one doesn't marry a woman who can be thought of in terms of sex." "perhaps 'one doesn't.' i would. i should want her to be very well aware of her exact physical potentialities, and to think enough about them to understand herself." "then you would want an unwholesome wife, my friend." "not at all. i want a natural one, that's all. moreover," he added joyously, "i shall have one." philip glanced at him quickly. into his mind flashed the memory of claire's words in the room that fatal afternoon. "i shall never marry such a woman," he declared, and added: "but i mean to have one whose devotion is so pure that even her talk to me of such things will be holy." lawrence laughed heartily. "philip," he said, still chuckling, "you seem to think we human beings are half supernatural and half stinking dirt. why, in heaven's name, don't you once see us as plain, healthy, intelligent animals?" "because we're half gods, half beasts." "so i was once told by the son of an ancient mind whose farthest mental frontier reached a.d. ." philip rose and faced lawrence, then looked shamefacedly at claire, and sat down again. "you think you are advanced because you are still unaware of anything but beasthood!" lawrence grinned complacently. "i am always amused at the way men speak of beasts as if they were something base," he said. "'beast' should not be a term of opprobrium. the average dog or elephant, for example, is fairly wholesome and quite naturally proper in his fulfilment of instincts. it is more than one can say for men. yes, i am a beast, if by that you you mean a physical being; and if humanity ever does get anywhere in quest for a soul i suspect it will have to start from that very admission." "of course"--philip hesitated a little--"we are animals in that sense. but who can think of us as nothing more? take claire, for example. we both know her better than any one else. i could scarcely think of her as an animal, subject only to its instincts. even allowing that she is a very intelligent animal, it isn't all or even the better part of her, any more than it is of any good woman." the speech was self-revealing, and lawrence smiled. "now, it is strange," he observed; "that is precisely the way i should think of claire if i wanted to see her in the best possible light, as the most splendidly intelligent, healthy animal i ever knew." "you are more insulting than you intend. i am glad that you do not mean to be," philip growled. "tra-la-la. i shouldn't insult her for a good deal." "yet your attitude is debasing," philip retorted. "oh, well, perhaps. she has my apology if she thinks so." "but you can't actually mean what you say," philip went on. "your attitude would lead you to make a cave of your home, and a mere lair of your bed." "which, by the way, very elaborately arranged, and embellished with thousands of psychological phases, products of the most highly specialized part of me, is exactly what my home would be." "well, i certainly should deplore your household." "go as far as you like. it ought to be a fairly comfortable home, with its basis on frankness, oughtn't it, claire?" philip's eyes flashed. claire hesitated, fearing lest she provoke him further, and said cautiously: "yes, it ought to be based on frankness." "but frankness doesn't mean an attitude of mind like that," philip protested. "what does it mean?" lawrence asked. "it means an established order where love makes it possible for two beings to speak their thoughts freely one to the other," philip said, with the air of defining infinity. "does it? well, if that is frankness by definition, i have known many women with whom i was in love, but neither they nor i knew it until this minute." lawrence laughed. philip flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and stood up. "i thank goodness i do not see things as you do," he said. "even the parable of the pharisee has its modern aspect," lawrence murmured chucklingly. philip stood looking moodily across the lake, and fortunately did not catch his words. "i think i shall walk a little," he said coldly. "i can't sleep until i have walked some of your conversation out of my soul." "go to it," lawrence said with a smile. "i didn't mean to corrupt you." "you didn't. you simply make me angry. i'm sorry, but you do." "yes? so am i. however, it won't last much longer, philip." both men smiled at the thoughts that came with those words. "i think i shall go in," lawrence went on. "i shall want sleep for the big start to-morrow." philip looked hopefully at claire. she rose with a sigh of weariness, pretending not to see him. "so shall i," she said. "good night, both of you." she was gone into the cabin, and philip looked disappointed. he turned down the lake shore, dreaming of the end of his journey, rebelling at the necessity for claire to listen to lawrence's talk, and rejoicing at how different his life with her would be. inside the cabin, lawrence closed the door and stepped into the room. claire stood waiting silently before him, and when he came to her, she threw her arms happily around his neck. he laughed and caught her up. "so you lie in wait for me, do you?" he teased. "why not? i want to capture my man," she said softly. "you have him, dearest. and, by the way"--he sat down and drew her on to the arm of his chair--"permit me to extend you my sympathy for the suffering you must have experienced at the thought of living with philip." she shuddered a little, and laughed. "such frankness as his home would permit!" she said. "i'm afraid our hearth would not radiate warmth." "nothing could warm such a home into anything like the real thing," lawrence mused. "it was my privilege when in college to stay for a time in a home where the people had really attained the ideal. it was the only home that ever made me envious." "i shall make you such a home, dear," she whispered. "no, we will have a mere cave, a lair," he laughed. she shook her long hair down over his face playfully. "will you be a savage old cave man?" she asked. "i shall. as savage as they ever made them in the golden age," he answered, and drew her down against him. "i shall like that," she said, her eyes full of a warm, dreamy light. "you will be terribly abused by your beast husband," lawrence said gaily. "i think sometimes, lawrence, that i could enjoy being hurt by your hands--having them really cause me pain." he gripped her tightly against him and his hands tightened. "claire," he said, "a man never knows what there is in his nature till a woman like you whispers in his ear. you make me afraid at what i feel within me." "i know," she said. "i'm afraid, too, of what there is in you, but just the same i'm going to be the happiest woman in the world." "i hope so," he said. "but you will have to defend yourself against selfishness." "i have to do that already," she laughed, "but i don't mind. i can, and that is the main thing. besides, when you really want anything very much, you have a way of forcing me to want it, too, my master-lover!" he laughed joyously. "claire," he said, "if we ever do go to smash, you and i, there will have been a glorious day and a glorious house to smash with. it won't be a petty breaking of toy dishes!" "no," she whispered, "it will be the breaking of life's foundations." she slipped from his arms and into her room. philip was coming in. lawrence sat down in a chair and philip threw himself on his bed in silence. he was caught in the inevitable result of his beliefs. he had argued with lawrence because he was troubled. his whole being was filled with a great fear. remembering how lawrence and claire had acted lately, he had been thrown into a fever of jealous rage. he was utterly beyond his depth now, and he was silent because to speak would have meant to break into accusation. his imagination had pictured claire in lawrence's arms while he was gone; if he had actually known the truth it would have been less agonizing than the picture. he lay there filled with his own thoughts and dreading the moment when lawrence would come and lie down beside him. behind her curtain he heard claire moving about, humming a little song, and it added to his torture. he turned restlessly on his bed and groaned. lawrence raised his head. he, too, was dreaming of claire, but his imaginings, vividly alluring in their appeal, were filled with the content of happiness. claire was his. that was certain, and those sweet dreams should be fulfilled again and again in his life, with a growing depth that would make them the more beautiful. what a creature of wonder she was--and she was his--his, to love, to enjoy, to master, and to work for. yes, and to work with. he would find her the needed impulse and idea to form his great work. she would make him the creative artist, the sculptor that he felt he had the power to be. philip muttered something, and lawrence turned toward him. "feeling bad?" he asked genially. philip did not answer. "you aren't ill, are you?" lawrence's voice was full of real concern. he was thinking that it would be bad if they had to stay here a while longer. "no. only in spirit. i will be all right to-morrow." philip turned over, and lawrence sat down again to dream. for a long time he remained there, meditating, and at last he arose to go to bed. philip was asleep and breathing heavily. claire was moving a little. lawrence stopped to listen. the curtain parted, her arms slipped around his neck, and silently there in the darkness she kissed him passionately, eagerly. he held her tightly, her soft, warm figure thrilling him with joy. philip turned restlessly, and she hastily drew back, stealing a last swift kiss. lawrence walked toward his bed. he heard a low, stifling little laugh, then all was still in the cabin. claire had laughed for very joy at her love. he smiled tenderly. dear little woman, she was indeed a wealth untold to him. what a life theirs would be after they got away from philip! poor philip, his would indeed be a sad fate, with his ideals here to worry him after they were gone. well, he wasn't the sort that one could help. let him work out his own destiny. lawrence lay down comfortably, and sending a thousand dear thoughts flying across the silent room, he fell asleep while he smiled at his own romancing. chapter xx. the law of life. the last morning at the cabin was bright and sunny, with the warm mystery of the day promising an infinity of strength for the future. all three of them felt it and were carried along in dreams of anticipated relief. breakfast over, philip helped lawrence and claire get their packs ready. when everything was done, he said cheerily: "i will be gone less than an hour in getting that farthest trap--i am going to make quick speed--and then we will be off." they laughed with the joy that was filling their hearts. "don't be longer than you can help, philip," claire admonished, and lawrence added: "every minute that divides us from our life ahead seems an eternity." claire smiled at the dear thoughts his words provoked. "good," said philip in the doorway. "i'll hurry." and he was gone. claire and lawrence stood in the doorway while philip went singing down the lake shore. her eyes filled with a warm light, and she slipped her hand into lawrence's. "at this moment, dear," she said, "i feel only pity for him. he is going to be hurt." "who wouldn't be, dearest, at losing you?" "always flattering," she teased. they stood arm in arm, leaning against the door-casing. "claire," he said, "let's take a last walk around our estate. the place where i first found the real, you will always be beautiful to me. i'm less blind this morning than i've been in my life." "of course you are," she said gaily. "you've acquired two good eyes." "and two dear hands and a very wonderful personality that makes me doubly able," he said softly. they wandered out across the plateau in the direction from which they had first entered it. their conversation was broken and often meaningless, but eminently pleasing to them both. "dear heart," claire mused softly, "you don't know what that poor, freezing, underfed woman in your naked arms felt when she heard you muttering that you needed her, as you stumbled down this ravine." "how did she feel?" claire was dreaming back, and she wanted to tell him, but she found her emotions too complex and too rapid for expression. "and then when you added that it was to use her as a subject for a stone image," laughed claire, "she was furious with you, and yet she was very sure that she didn't want you to care about her in any other way." "then perhaps i am making a mistake," he jested. "perhaps, my dearest, but i am so glad of it that i don't care if you are." he caught her in his arms. they were very near the great point in lovers' lives when emotions always tend to break all restraint. she clung to him passionately, her lips yielding and holding his in a rapture of love. together they swayed toward a great tree and sat down. when they returned to the cabin, they were surprised to find philip still gone. with the whimsicality of lovers, they dismissed him from their thoughts and sat down in the armchair together, laughing and talking of the past. their conversation ran gradually into a clearly defined discussion in which both minds were compelled to think quickly, and they found new joy in their love. even now, when their whole minds were swayed by emotion, they were able to think, to talk, and to be alive to everything in the world of intellect. art, religion, and life, all in a grand mix-chaotic tangle. lawrence was talking for the joy of his thought to the woman who he knew would enjoy it. "you see, claire," he said after a long discussion, "in the religious instinct we find very little besides a fear of the unknown. what else there is in it is the more valuable part, and it is this lesser section that we can develop and use to advantage." "what is this lesser section?" she asked. "the vital desire to create for our god's sake. if we could build that into its real place, stimulated as it is by the overwhelming appreciation of beauty in nature, we could establish something far more worth while than a mere deceiving of men about their own kind, their faults, and their relations." "you aren't quite fair, lawrence," she protested. "in so far as the church makes for a stronger socialization, it is a good." "but does it always promote that very effectively? most of the socialization could be better carried on where really educated people were educators. the few of them there are in our schools now are hampered as much as they are helped by the church." "i don't agree," she said. "the church does hamper education in higher branches, undoubtedly, but in the kindergartens and grades it is a good." "i don't know," he responded; "i never saw it." "well," she cried suddenly, and laughed, "whatever we think of the church, i agree that religion isn't always there, and when it is, barring a few liberal exceptions, it is generally misdirected." "and here you and i sit in the andes mountains talking when we might be making love," he laughed. "and here we are making love under the pretense of being intellectual," she rejoined. "what would we do without the dear deceptions that make us such pitiably delightful animals?" "we'd be a hopelessly unimaginative set of eaters." his answer was quick. "i am convinced that it is our very power to deceive, plan grand follies, though petty in deeds, that makes us artists, dreamers, thinkers, and statesmen." "perhaps," she agreed, and then slipped her arms around him suddenly. "is that what makes us able lovers, too?" he laughed. "by jove, i believe it is!" he exclaimed. "well, old universal tangle, i do truly thank you for the power to be a foolish, deceived, human being. hurrah for the instinct that makes me call you my divine necessity, claire." she laughed happily and leaned against his shoulder. "for any instinct or deception that makes you more enjoyable, let us give thanks," he repeated. "and for all the dear bodily claims that make me your adored one i do give thanks, lawrence," she whispered. their lips met again. she drew back startled, and sprang to her feet with a cry of terror. philip stood in the doorway, looking at them with a face from which all human sentiment was gone. he was a raging beast. "lawrence," she screamed. "philip!" her lover sprang to his feet. now he realized his blindness and its true handicap. philip was there, somewhere before him, thinking what he could not know. he waited, every muscle strained with expectant fear and anger. claire was staring at philip with abject terror in her face. lawrence could not know that, he only heard her breathing heavily, and instinctively his arm went out to her. "don't be afraid, dear," he said tenderly. the man in the door uttered an exclamation. "so"--and his words were sharp as icicles--"that is your damned wanton way. you are the second harlot i have loved." lawrence started forward angrily. "fool!" he ejaculated. claire's warning scream gave him just time to brace his body. philip had sprung at him like a wild beast, and the impact of his weight sent lawrence staggering backward. in that moment the spaniard's hand closed on his throat. the blind man was paying the price of his defect in his long-talked-of primitive battle for life. even then he thought of the scene as it must be, and smiled bitterly, while his hand went to his throat and tore at the wrist that was steeling itself to rob him of breath. had he been able to see, the fight would still have been unequal. philip was taller, wirier, and quicker on his feet. lawrence's one advantage lay in his keen, quick response to touch sensation, and that gave him his sense of direction and ability to move rightly. with one hand he tore at philip's wrist, while with the other he reached steadily for philip's face. they had knocked over the chairs and were staggering against the table. from the corner by the fireplace claire watched them in an agony of dread. it was indeed her time of test. she saw lawrence's hand clutching at the flesh of philip's cheek. they were panting like two beasts. it was the primitive battle of males for the female of their choice. philip's hand was torn free from lawrence's throat. the blind man laughed as his lungs filled with air. she heard him mutter between clenched teeth: "by god, i'll spoil your advantage." they were struggling again for throat holds. lawrence was protecting his own, but the hand he had wrenched free closed around his arm, bending it back slowly, irresistibly toward the point where it must break. she screamed and covered her eyes for a second at what her lover was doing--she saw him deliberately gouge at philip's eyes with his thumb held hard. she heard both men fall, and looked again in spite of herself. they were on the floor writhing, their bodies against each other, clawing, striking, digging, and biting like two wild gorillas. now lawrence was on top, now underneath, but she could not help but see that philip was slowly gaining. though badly injured in one eye, he still fought on unhesitatingly, forcing lawrence nearer and nearer to death. the artist was even now ceasing to resist, his struggle had become spasmodic. her lover was being choked to death. she sprang to her feet. "lawrence!" she screamed. "lawrence!" he was being killed in a battle for the possession of her. could she stand still and see the man she loved murdered? her hair fell about her shoulders in a mass. she swept it back from her face, looked frantically around her, then rushed to the wall-cupboard on the other side of the cabin and drew out a long meat-knife. the touch of the steel in her hand carried her out beyond the last barrier of civilized thought. for a moment she was the savage through and through. with a scream like that of a wounded lioness whose cub is in danger, she sprang toward them, the knife uplifted. then she stopped. something paralyzed her--generations of inherited inhibition, conscience, what you will. "o god!" she moaned miserably, as the weapon fell from her hand. it clattered on the wooden floor close beside the two men. philip looked up, and his white teeth gleamed in a grim smile. claire realized what she had done--she had placed the means of certain triumph within reach of her lover's enemy. she stooped to regain the knife, but it was too late. philip released his grip on lawrence's throat, leaned over, and seized the blade. it was a mistake. lawrence was far past consciousness of what he was doing, but his body still instinctively obeyed his will. as the weight from his chest was eased for a moment, he writhed his body into a freer position and his arms struck out wildly. philip saw his danger and raised the knife. the scene passed in a second, but to claire it was as if they were petrified for hours in that position--she half-kneeling there, her arm outstretched, and philip astride lawrence's body, holding the knife in midair. in that last picture, carved upon claire's agonized gaze, all the spaniard's beauty was gone forever--he was a monster, his face distorted, one eye closed, his smile broadening into a hideous dog-like grin. philip's arm came down. as it did so, it was struck from above by lawrence's, swinging aimlessly in a wide sweep. the blade, deflected with double force, entered deep into philip's breast. for just one instant an expression of angry and almost ludicrous surprise leaped across the spaniard's face as his teeth snapped shut. then his whole body twisted round violently, rolled over, and lay still beside lawrence's equally motionless form. claire tottered back into a chair, and stared at them stupidly. silence reigned in the cabin where there had been chaos. slowly from under philip's body a red line spread to a blotch on the floor. lawrence was lying there, his head almost touching it. claire gazed and gazed, while she felt as if she must faint from the dreadful illness which seized her. suddenly lawrence was sitting up, his blackened face growing less terrible to look upon. he put his hands to his throat, and then, as the pain in his lungs decreased, he rose unsteadily. for a moment he balanced himself carefully, rubbing his throat. then he cried hoarsely: "claire!" she moistened her lips with her tongue, but could not answer. he stooped and began to feel across the floor. she saw his hands, those sensitive hands, move toward philip's dead body. they would be in his blood presently. she started forward. "lawrence!" she screamed. he stopped abruptly. her tone had filled him with dread wonder. "what is it, claire?" he whispered. she stood a moment, silently looking at him. he straightened and stepped toward her, "what is it?" he demanded. she swayed unsteadily and sank into his arms, sobbing, her body wrenched with the agony. "take me outside," she whispered fearfully. he lifted her and carried her out into the sunlight. she sat down on the ground and wept bitterly, while he sat silently beside her, seeking to comfort her with his arms. at last she said in an awed tone: "lawrence, he is dead. killed by his own blow--with his own knife. but i might have done it. i--i thought of it." she remembered the touch of the knife in her hands, the sight of philip's blood seeping out around his own body. "it is terrible," she moaned. "i--i might have done it." her lover's hands tightened spasmodically. his face went white, then became normal again. she watched him, hypnotized. would he tell her that she was as good as a murderer, that he could not love her now? he wet his lips, then suddenly laughed aloud. claire could have screamed at the sound. she clutched his arm and shook him. "stop it!" she commanded. "what is it, lawrence?" he stood up and lifted her beside him. "i must have a drink," he said calmly. she stared at him, then brought him some water from beside the cabin. he drank it easily, but with some pain. finally he dropped the cup at his feet. "life is a wonderful thing, claire." she was still too shaken to do aught but gaze at him. "what now?" she asked at last, falteringly. he heard the fear, half anguish and half hope, in her voice, and suddenly he caught her to him and cried buoyantly: "what now? life, claire, life! we have the whole world before us. it was my life or his. i am glad it was not mine." he smiled. "well, we have staged the great animal stunt. i have fought for the possession of life." she let her head fall on his shoulder. "then--then i am not repulsive to you?" she choked. "repulsive! why?" his voice was full of wonder. "i--i thought of murdering him," she whispered. "claire," he answered tenderly, "human beings think many things they don't and can't do. that is part of our old heritage. but let's get away from here, claire. staying here won't do either of us any good. what is done is done. we cannot help it. very well, then the best thing to do is to forget it. shall we start?" she stepped back and looked at him. he was all energy, clear-countenanced, free, frank, and normal. "yes, i am ready." she stooped and took up her pack from beside the door. he took his and threw it over his shoulder. hand-in-hand they started forward and out toward civilization. chapter xxi. into the sunlight. all that day they talked little. both were occupied with their own thoughts. lawrence was dreaming of his work, his future with claire, and the home that was to be. claire was pondering lawrence's words, "human beings think many things they don't and can't do." to her these words had been both a great comfort and a startling awakening. almost instantly had returned an idea which she had thought forever gone, and all day it kept growing. that night they camped beside a stream under great trees where tiny blue flowers winked up at them from the deep grass. after supper they sat beside their fire dreaming. at last lawrence took her in his arms, and she laid her shoulder against his. "lawrence," she said thoughtfully, "isn't it strange how little we know ourselves when we think we know most?" "yes, i sometimes think we are nearer folly then than at any other time." "do you know what i have been thinking to-day?" "no. but i know what i have been thinking." he drew her tight, laughing. "i have thought of you, always you, my wife to be." she patted his hand tenderly. "i can scarcely wait till we get out, claire." "i know, dear." they listened to the purling of the stream and dreamed. days followed in uneventful sequence. each brought them nearer to the railroad, towns, and escape. lawrence was freely merry. at times claire was caught in his gaiety, but more and more often he noticed that she was quiet. he attributed her silences at first to the charming strain of diffidence he had learned to know as part of this woman, but gradually he grew fearful lest all was not well. "if she wants me to know, she will tell me," he thought. she seemed to divine what he was thinking, but she did not speak. she wanted to be sure of herself before she said anything. lawrence's words came again and again, and each time they brought with them a stronger feeling that there was yet one thing they must do. this feeling increased as they neared the town toward which they journeyed. the night came when they were more than ever silent. "to-morrow," lawrence said at last. "to-morrow we reach civilization. oh, claire, claire, with civilization come you, home, our real life!" she moved uneasily. there was a sudden overwhelming sense of her need, and she resolved to tell him everything. "lawrence," she began, "to-morrow we do reach civilization, and i--i am finding out things about myself." he knew she was going to tell him what troubled her. for an instant he was filled with terror lest she say she could not love him after all. perhaps his fight with philip had sickened her, killed her love. tense and fearful, he waited. "go on, claire. i have noticed something." "it isn't that i don't love you," she cried, seeing his fear in his drawn face. "oh, i do love you!" he laughed with relief. "then speak away. nothing else in the world can frighten me." "i'm afraid that it will displease you." "not if it is something real to you." "well then--oh, it seems so hard to explain. i--i am finding myself out." "that ought to be pleasant." "yes, it is--yet, i don't know--you see, back there in the wilderness i thought nothing mattered but you. it was so hard and uncertain. the future was so far off. but now it's different. every day i have neared civilization i have grown less sure that our way is the right way." "why not? it all seems clear to me." "but, lawrence, are we quite fair? are we quite right with ourselves?" "i try to be. i certainly try to be fair to you." "i know. that's it. you would want me to be fair to--to every one, wouldn't you, and above all, to myself?" "you must be that, claire." she did not continue at once. he waited, holding her hand very tight between his own. "go on, claire." the deep earnestness of the faith in her that rang through his words gave her courage. "it is howard and--and my vows to him." lawrence sat, his brows knit. she watched him. "i see," he answered. "i see, but--" "after all, i promised to be his wife forever, you know." "but you don't love him now." "no. i love you--and for your sake as well as my own i've got to straighten things out between howard and myself." "i thought they were straight. he thinks you are dead." "but i know that i'm not dead, and all my life i would know that i had been unfair to myself as well as to him. i must go and get things right before--before i marry you." her voice dropped and lingered caressingly yet with gracious reverence over these last words, as one's does in speaking of holy things. "i see," he said. her tone told him more than her words. "i think you do." "yes, i do. but when did you begin thinking of this?" "when you said, 'human beings think many things they don't and can't do.'" "i understand." he threw back his head. "you see, dearest, it is that everything in our lives may be clean." "good enough, claire." he was hearty in his agreement. to his alert mind the problem seemed very clear. "yes," he went on, "you are right. it isn't going to be easy. it will hurt him to have you tell him that you no longer love him, but i suppose it can't be helped, and it is best." "i knew you would say so." her cry was full of relief. "to-morrow morning we'll start early," he laughed. "noon will get us to the railroad if ortez was right about distances, and then--home and the last clearing-up before we start life." the matter was settled. claire lay down in her blankets happily. she did not sleep at once, however. gazing through the fire, she let her eyes rest tenderly on the strong face of the sleeping man opposite. she had seen much of him, and always he was fair, just, and she loved him. her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the suffering she must cause her husband, yet it was right and she could do no less. she would tell him everything. he was big and he would understand. since her whole nature, primal and spiritual, cried out that lawrence was her mate, howard would free her. she fell asleep sure that everything would work out right, and then--life and love, as lawrence said with that exuberant lift in his voice. at noon of the next day they stopped on the brow of a high hill. "lawrence," claire cried exultantly. "it is there--below us--a town!" "hurrah!" they laughed like children who had discovered a long-sought treasure, then hand-in-hand as they had walked so far, they dropped down the steep slope and into a quaint mining village. the sound of men, the scent of smoke, and above all, the clang and puff of a locomotive, sent their blood racing. too happy to speak, they ran along the street scarcely noticing the people, and found the station. that night they were speeding toward the coast, and a few days later found them northward-bound on a liner. it was decided that lawrence should not go with her to her home. he would wait in san francisco till she had seen her husband and was free. they parted with eager yet hesitating hearts in that city. claire found it harder than she had imagined to go alone, but her will was master and she did not falter. to lawrence, waiting for word from her, time was dead and moved not at all. when claire arrived, the old familiar city seemed strangely desolate. she found herself wondering with a little flush of shame how she could have loved it so. then came her testing time. she had arrived late at night and gone to a hotel. no one had noticed her. the next morning as she went into the breakfast-room, some one rose hastily, with an exclamation. it was her husband's business partner. how she ever got through her own explanations she did not know, then she heard him speaking. "yes, mrs. barkley, we had given you up for lost with the others on that fated ship. and i cannot express my regret at the sorrow you have returned to meet." "i--sorrow--why?" she stared at him wonderingly. he looked surprised, then understood. claire listened silently to his brief, sincere sympathy as he told her how her husband had died during the winter of pneumonia. "it has been nearly six months now," he finished, "and, of course, i am very sorry for you. if i can do anything to help you, don't hesitate to call on me, please." "thank you. i--i won't." she heard her own voice change. stifled, she fled up-stairs. her grief was sincere, unshaded by any selfish thought that it made her own course easier or more justifiable in the eyes of society. to her, howard barkley's death changed nothing save that the man whom she had once loved sincerely was now no more. but the living remained, and to the call of the living her life was henceforth joyfully dedicated. (the end.) [transcriber's note: the following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected.] in chapter v, "tenements she had visted in her charity work" was changed to "tenements she had visited in her charity work". in chapter vii, a missing quotation mark was added after "what, indeed, is moral law?" in chapter ix, "disdiscover what she was" was changed to "discover what she was". in chapter x, "disliking him as he did" was changed to "disliking him as she did". in chapter xi, "as abnormal as her depondency had been before" was changed to "as abnormal as her despondency had been before". in chapter xviii, "i promise to an emotionless judge" was changed to "i promise to be an emotionless judge", and "harded and harder to wait" was changed to "harder and harder to wait". in chapter xx, "clearly defined discusion" was changed to "clearly defined discussion", and "the overwelming appreciation of beauty in nature" was changed to "the overwhelming appreciation of beauty in nature". [transcriber's note: the following summary originally appeared at the beginning of the serial's second installment.] preceding chapters briefly retold when the city of panama foundered off the coast of chile, lawrence gordon suddenly realized he had been left, in the frenzy of the disaster, alone on the deck. then, before he had fully recovered from the lash of the wind and the violence of the waves, he was swept overboard and into the seething maelstrom of an angry sea. as he came up from the depths he struck a heavy timber, and with the strength of desperation he dragged his weight up on it and clung fast. "land may be in sight," was his thought, "and i shall never know!" lawrence gordon was blind. hours had passed. the wind-lashed water beat him as he lay on the timber. fear and the cold drove him to rave at life and death alike. finally, over the roar of the wind, he caught the tumbling of breakers. his plank was spun round, the swell lifted him from his position, and the next breaker rolled him past the water-line. once with the feel of the sand beneath his feet he ran until a rock caught him above the knees and sent him headlong. when he regained consciousness he returned to the water to hunt for clams. as he came ashore again he tripped over an object that on investigation proved a woman. claire barkley answered to his ministrations, and recognized the blind man she had observed on the boat. she could furnish the eyes for an investigation of their situation inland, but her ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable to walk. when months after, just as they had reached the limit of human endurance--what with hunger, the cold, and privation--they stumbled into the cabin of philip ortez. the spanish mountaineer declared it no less than a miracle that a blind man should have carried a woman in his arms half across the andes--from the coast to the borders of bolivia. then they settled down to spend the winter in philip's cabin. and now the latent antagonism of the woman, who was so curiously stirred by the apparent coldness of this blind sculptor to her charm, began to plan the man's punishment. [transcriber's note: the following summary originally appeared at the beginning of the serial's third installment. the summary at the beginning of the serial's fourth installment, if one was present, was not available when preparing this electronic edition.] preceding chapters briefly retold when lawrence gordon, numb with cold and hunger, after weeks of weary wandering through the mountains in a desperate effort to find a habitation, came in sight of the mountaineer's little cabin, he dropped the woman from his breaking arms and fell, exhausted and unconscious, in the snow. flung into the sea when the ship foundered, he had eventually found his way to the beach, and here he stumbled on the unconscious form of claire barkley. mrs. barkley's ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable to walk. the man was strong, dominant, and unafraid; but he was blind. carrying the woman in his arms the blind man had stumbled half across the andes, for the boat was wrecked off the coast of chile, and philip ortez, whose cabin they had reached, declared they were on the borders of bolivia, about two hundred miles from the nearest railroad station. this spanish scholar, gentleman, and recluse readily welcomed two such promising guests for the winter. a charming woman of twenty-six, with a mind as well as emotions, and a man not much older, who was both a philosopher and an artist, promised no end of diversion for the winter. and diversion, not to say, drama, came--the eternal triangle. lawrence was slow in admitting his love for claire, even to himself. and claire, who was affronted by the seeming cold and calculating indifference of this big, blind god, suddenly realized his apparent coldness held the very heart of passion itself. in the playful scramble of a snow-fight before the cabin, lawrence had taken her by the waist to wash her face with snow, and the contact of her tightly held body betrayed the tensity of the man's feeling. claire broke from his grasp to look into the eyes of philip, who had stood in the doorway to watch the fun. in the eyes of the spaniard she detected the emotion she felt in the touch of the blind sculptor. the next day, to relieve the suppressed passion in her own as well as lawrence's soul, she proposed to go with philip, as she sometimes did, when he went out to spend the day with his traps. on the return journey, when the conversation was fast drifting into the personal, philip, carried off his feet by the nearness of the woman and the madness in his blood, snatched claire up in his arms and covered her full lips with his kisses. the indignant woman brought him to an abject apology after his wild confession of love, and entered into a compact of friendship with him. reaching the cabin, the blind man, whose acute soul and senses had long told him of philip's passion, held out the finished carving he had been at work on all these weeks--a winged cherub. in his eyes it was the symbol of his love for her. but her words of acceptance made him think in her eyes it was rather a symbol of her love for the mountaineer. to philip it was a symbol of hope. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ for the love of lady margaret [illustration: lady margaret carroll _frontispiece_] for the love of lady margaret _a romance of the lost colony_ by william thomas wilson [illustration: decoration] charlotte, n. c. stone & barringer company copyright, by stone & barringer company the quinn & boden co. press rahway, n. j. contents chapter page i. the end or the beginning ii. i have an offer iii. we take the merchant iv. the island eldorado v. the cave vi. the plot thickens vii. the phantom viii. i dice for a life ix. the last revel x. the black flag goes under xi. the great armada xii. my lady xiii. i sail for virginia xiv. croatan xv. the search for the lost colony xvi. a wild diana xvii. the death of denortier xviii. my lord takes his departure xix. the journey's end for the love of lady margaret chapter i the end or the beginning and so this was the end? well, no matter--i had lived my little day--had played my part. the bell had tapped; the curtain had fallen; and so the scene must end. how many of those who had seen the little game played out, and had applauded the actor, would remember after the lights were out and the house was dark? i had passed from heaven to hell in four short hours--four hours! my new white trunks, with the gray doublet, were on the bed, where i had laid them out. i had planned to wear them to lady wiltshire's ball to-night. the guests were just beginning to arrive--raleigh, with the gallant air and courtly mien; lord north, with his stupid and insufferable egotism; francis bacon, the austere and brilliant, and the viscount james henry hampden, who would, in my absence, promptly take possession of lady margaret carroll. ah, my lady! wouldst thou give one thought to me when i had passed out of thy life forever? wouldst thou, like the rest, move on without one sigh, thine eyes fixed upon the moving figures about thee, forgetful that there was wont to be another by thy side, who was now gone for aye? would one tear fall from those beautiful eyes which i had looked into so often within the last two years?--years that seemed so short to me to-night, as i looked back over them, and thought of the golden hours, which had once gleamed so bright and happy before me, but now lay so far behind, lost in the moldering ashes of the forgotten past. it seemed like long years since i had received that short note from my father, with its few curt lines, saying that our paths must separate; that i had disgraced the family; that he had borne with me till flesh and blood could stand no more, and henceforth i would be as a stranger to him. life indeed seemed black to me! past my first youth (i was thirty-two), brought up to do nothing except to enjoy myself, with an ample income, which my father, lord richmond, had always supplied--what wonder that i felt as if the anchor had indeed slipped, and that i was adrift at the mercy of the wind and tide. i might, it was true, drift on for a few weeks on credit, and borrow from my friends, but i had no mind to do that. whatever my faults, and they were many and grievous, i had at least lived like a gentleman, and had nothing on that score to reproach myself with. i did not wish to run deep into debt, and cause honest tradesmen to lose their just dues because they had trusted to my honor. no; whatever came, i would not do that. i would face the situation fairly and squarely--would work out as best i could my own salvation, without fear or favor from any man. the old lord, my father, had always disliked me; i remember as a boy how he never had a kind word for me. my older brother, richard, was his favorite, and richard had never lost an opportunity to prejudice him against me. my brother, as a little boy, had always treasured up all my mistakes and punishments at school, and when he returned home, would recount them to my father with a grave face, so that he would have the pleasure of hearing him reprove me, which i believe that richard delighted in. what wonder was it, when i finished school, that i chose, after a year or two in the irish campaign, to return and remain in london, rather than journey down to the grim old castle, built by the third lord richmond during the reign of stephen, and live there with my father and richard. my mother had been dead for years. from out of the dim memories of my childhood i see her arise--a gentle, sweet-faced woman, who loved her family and her home more than all else. she died when i was young, and there remained of the family only my father, richard, and myself. this sudden fury of my father's was richard's work, i had no doubt. he had played on my father's old hatred for me, and had fanned it by his hints of my extravagance and wildness, until it had burned into a flame ready to sweep all before it. well, they could go their own way now, and i would go mine. henceforth they should not be troubled with me. i walked over to my window, and looked down upon the crowd, as it surged to and fro along cheapside. many parties of richly clad gallants hurried along, bound for the playhouse and the rout. on the opposite side of the street, amidst the throng, i descried bobby vane, in his new plum-colored cloak, as he hastened to my lady wiltshire's ball. i followed him with my eyes, until the torch of his linkboy was lost in the crowd. the night was hot and sultry, and to me, exhausted by my painful thoughts, the room seemed insufferably close and stifling. hardly knowing what i did, i picked up my coat and hat, and passed out into the street. how long i walked, or where, i know not. the faces about me on the street i saw dimly, as though in some dream--indistinct, faint, which on the morn comes to the mind in broken fragments. thou knowest that such thoughts, such faces, have passed before thine eyes, but when and where thou canst not tell. i strode on rapidly, looking neither to right nor left, not knowing or caring whither i went; glad that i was occupied, and not sitting idle, tortured with painful thoughts of the morrow. many i passed thus, some of whom stopped to look back at me as i left them behind in my rapid walk. some sound of their conversation came to my ears as they whispered after me. i was coming now into the less frequented part of london, where i did not remember to have ever been before. the crowd upon the streets was smaller here, and was of the poorer class, mostly laborers and tradesmen, and the sight of a well-dressed stranger must have created some sensation in their minds. they said naught to me, however, and i passed on. i had halted at a corner to let a cart pass by, and moved by some impulse of the moment, i now looked back. a man stood by a house a few feet away, and as he caught my look he shrank against the wall, as though to conceal himself from my sight. i had seen him before--a short, squat man, with a dark bronzed face, and thick black hair sprinkled with gray. he was dressed in the garb of a well-to-do tradesman, but there was an indescribable something in his appearance or manner, i know not exactly what, that suggested the sea to me. it may have been his walk, rolling and clumsy, or the slits in his ears, which showed where once there had been ear-rings, that made me think of a seaman. i had seen him several times within the last few days, hanging around the corners near my apartments, as though watching for someone. once on coming down my steps, i ran full into his arms as he stood on the landing, and as i disengaged myself, he glanced keenly into my face as though to fix it in his mind, and with a word of apology passed on. it seemed as though he followed my footsteps, for half an hour later, on passing a fruit stand near the thames, i had seen him gazing intently at me through the lattice. and now the same man was just behind me, and when i glanced at him, innocently enough, he shrank back as though to avoid my look. could it be that he dogged my steps, and for some purpose of his own wished to keep me in sight? i knew not why he should do so. i had no enemy in the city, who would go to so much trouble on my account. but it was worth looking into, and so i turned into an alley, and stepping quickly into a dark doorway, i waited. a few moments, and footsteps sounded on the pavement, and the figure of my pursuer, for pursuer he undoubtedly was, came in sight. pausing at the entrance of the lane, he looked cautiously into it, no doubt pondering where i could have disappeared so suddenly. the moonlight shone full in his face as he stood there, and from my hiding place i could see every sinister feature, as like a baffled hound he sought to rediscover the lost scent. an instant thus he stood, as if undecided; then silently he stole into the dark alley, and passing the doorway where i stood melted away in the gloom. waiting a few minutes where i was, i stepped down, and turning strode out of the lane and back to the corner whence i had come only a moment ago. congratulating myself on the fact that i had shaken this spy, i resumed my walk. through strange twisted streets, overhung with gabled, many-windowed houses; by dark shops, now closed for the day; and along ill-paved crooked lanes i strode, engaged with my own thoughts, as black and gloomy as my surroundings. what was i to do? turn my back upon london and all my friends, and one bright lady, more than all the rest to me? i could not remain among those where once i held high sway, the chief amidst the gay throng--now poor, despised, forsaken, stripped of my rank and means, for i had been dependent upon the old lord, my father, for all that i had. monthly he had sent to me through a london bank, a good round sum in shining gold, which i had promptly sown to the four winds. the life of a gentleman of leisure in the reign of elizabeth was no cheap thing, i can tell thee. there were many new doublets, made of silk and satin, of varied colors and shapes, which were ever changing, even as a maid blushes--and as readily. there were the routs and balls; playhouses where the painted actors strutted and declaimed; the dice games in the evenings at the houses of the noble ladies who entertained, where we threw for the golden coin, stacked high upon the table, until daylight peeped in at the closed shutters, and shone upon the flushed, haggard faces and disheveled hair of the lords and ladies. then there were our servants, many and skillful; our horses and hounds; our wines and dinners; our banquets and routs--all the most elegant. no wonder the sovereigns melted from our purses as snow before a summer sun. those were brave old days in london town, when we laughed and idled around, free and happy as the larks. naught to do save enjoy ourselves; naught to think of save the color of some fair lady's eyes. sweet, happy days--but gone forever! even now, when my hair has grown as white as the driven snow and my eye is dim and feeble, i think of them sometimes with a smile. i would give all of worldly fame and fortune i possess, if, for one brief moment, i could feel again the bounding blood of youth pulse through my withered veins, and my bent form could straighten with the old proud fire, and my step be as light and care-free as of yore; if in my ears could ring the sound of those dear voices--walter raleigh's ringing laugh, bobby vane's piping tones--and if those true and tried friends--many of whom are scattered east and west, some of whom sleep the last, long, quiet sleep--could be gathered with me as of yore in the great room about the roaring fire of the mermaid inn. a great bar of light loomed ahead of me across the narrow street, and as i drew nearer i heard the sound of shouting and carousing, the clink of glasses, and the deep roars of laughter of the drinkers. evidently some crowd held high carnival to-night, bent on feasting and frolic. nearing the latticed window, i peered in. it was a low room in a tavern, its ceiling black with smoke and age. a great log fire roared up the wide fireplace. around a long table in the center of the room was seated what looked to me like the crew of some foreign ship--swarthy-faced, with earrings hanging from their ears, and cutlasses and swords buckled around their waists--they seemed none too good for any wild deed of crime and plunder. there were some twenty-five or thirty of them, who, flagons in hand, sat about the table, telling many strange tales of the unknown regions of the spanish main, and motioning to the waiters, who ran frantically to and fro, filling the ever empty glasses. they were plainly the terror and admiration of the other guests, who, huddled together in a corner near the chimney, leered and whispered at their boisterous conduct and wild appearance. i looked in at them for a few moments, aroused from my thoughts by the extraordinary spectacle. it was doubtless the crew of some foreign merchant vessel, probably a spaniard, who, returning from a long voyage to the west, and touching at london, had chosen this night to celebrate their return to civilization. as i peered in, a door at the rear of the room opened, and there advanced rapidly into the room my pursuer, whom i had but just outwitted a few brief moments ago in the alley. hot and breathless he stood there, as though he had just emerged from some race, and i chuckled when i thought what a chase i must have given him. he crossed the room to where the foreign seamen drank and feasted; bending over two, who sat at the head of the table, he placed his hands upon their shoulders, and whispered a few words in their ears. instantly they rose, and putting on their caps, followed him out through the rear door, deaf to the taunts and entreaties of their comrades to "drink one more glass." [illustration: "he placed his hands upon their shoulders"] the seamen cried out in spanish, a tongue which i understood, and their conversation, mostly about their voyages, was carried on in that same language. but they talked only of such things as seamen were wont to do; so turning away from my station, i retraced my steps toward my room. why had this man come so quickly into this place, and whispering to two of the seamen, gone out as silently and speedily as he had appeared? plainly he was known to these men, for they had shouted at him, and two had followed him out without a word. where? was it in pursuit of me? and if so with what motive? perhaps they meant to capture me, and exact a ransom from my doting father, and at the thought, i smiled bitterly to myself. ah! a kingly ransom would he pay for my return. long would he grieve, together with the saintly richard, should i vanish from his ken. to reach this place was easier than to find my way back through the long labyrinth of turns and corners, of cross streets and alleys. retracing my steps, i wended my course through a maze of dark lanes, and had almost despaired of ever finding my way home, when turning i saw two men, who seemed to be engaged in an earnest discussion, and quickening my steps, i approached them, inquiring, as i did so, whether they could direct me to cheapside. the taller turned quickly at the sound of my voice, and stood looking down at me. he was wrapped in a great cloak, and i only saw, bent upon me, the flash of a pair of cold black eyes. "turn the first corner to the right," he answered, with a slight foreign accent. "that will take thee straight to it," and he turned again to his companion as though eager to be rid of me. with a brief word of thanks i passed on, but had gone only a few steps when i heard a loud oath, and wheeling about saw one of the men draw his sword and make for the other, who seemed to be surprised and dismayed by the sudden attack. the sword flashed in the moonlight, and i barely had time to dash back, and running in between them to catch it upon my own, which i had hastily drawn, else the luckless victim had departed this flesh in a twinkling. with another loud cry, the assailant made a hasty pass at me, and we closed. even in the moonlight i was struck with the unusual beauty of the face--its long aquiline nose, and keen hawk eyes. the hat had fallen from his head, and his jet black hair shone like the wing of a raven. i had small time to observe these things, however, for he pressed me with the fury of a demon, now thrusting with the point, then cutting at me with the blade. i had on merely a light rapier, more for dress than work, while he was using a heavy service sword, and i began to realize that this could not last much longer, for he would beat me down by the strength of his arm, as with all his swordsmanship he pressed upon me. i was bleeding from several slight wounds where he had touched me, for he was undoubtedly the finest blade with whom i had ever crossed swords--i, thomas winchester, accounted one of the best swordsmen of the north country; backward, backward he was pressing me, and i could see the evil look on his face, as he steadily pushed me to the wall. how much longer the unequal fight would have lasted, i know not. i had abandoned all hope and given myself up for lost, when the gentleman to whose rescue i had come, and who had stood by in the meantime as if dazed, suddenly drew his sword and came to my assistance. together we rushed upon my tall assailant with all our skill and force, but try as we would, we could never cross the gleaming hedge of steel, with which he seemed ringed about. now he would meet my ally's blade and beat him back, and when i rushed upon him, thinking to take him unawares, i would meet that impenetrable wall of fire, and would be forced to retreat again. it seemed more than mortal man could endure, but his dark, gleaming eyes showed no change; and it looked as if we would have both been held at bay, had it not been for an unlooked for and unforeseen circumstance. in meeting the attack of my friend, for i knew not what else to call him, the tall stranger's foot slipped, and he fell at full length on the pavement. we both rushed forward quickly, eager to disarm so dangerous a foe, when raising himself on his elbow, he drew a little silver whistle from his breast, and blew one sharp, long blast. immediately it seemed as if the whole street were alive with men. they looked as if they sprang from the very pavements. my friend was seized before he could turn to meet the new foe, and a dozen or more sprang upon me. the first, a burly ruffian armed with a cutlass, i ran through the body with my rapier, but as he fell, he dragged my weapon out of my hand, and before i could disengage it from his body, the others were upon me. i had one glimpse of a mass of dark, bronzed faces, evil and leering; then there was a noise as of many waters in my ears--i seemed to be falling, falling, and i knew no more. chapter ii i have an offer i seemed to be back at richmond castle. i could see the great green lawn and the dove-cot with its pigeons. old dennis, the gardener, was speaking to me, "mister thomas, it's glad i am to see thee back." my hound came running forward to lick my hand, and i could feel the fresh breeze of the country, so different from the hot, feverish air of london, upon my face. a great peace fell upon me--i was at home. the scene changed; i was at lady wiltshire's ball. i could see the brilliantly lighted rooms, the eager, joyous faces about me. there was the young débutante, unaffectedly pleased and amused; the bored, tired rake, weary of the game. yonder comes my lord leicester, followed by his crowd of satellites, and with him my lady wiltshire and her beautiful ward, the lady margaret carroll, surrounded by a little coterie of admirers. i could see the light as it fell upon her beautiful brown hair, turning every thread into gold, as rich and pure as any mined from the far fabled land of the indies in the days gone by, and the deep violet of her eyes, like the azure blue of the sky on a summer day, with not a cloud to disturb or ruffle it. as she turned her head, i could see the rich full throat, white as the driven snow, and the lovely rose color upon her cheek--that fair cheek, the envy and despair of many a titled beauty. i could hear the whispers of the viscount james henry hampden, who stood beside her; and while he fanned her with the pretty jeweled fan and poured out a stream of small talk, it was a sight for gods and men. it was more than mortal man could bear, and stretching out my arms, i called to her, "margaret!" she turned her dark blue eyes upon me, and as she did so faded from my sight. i seemed to be wandering in a vast and limitless desert, no vegetation was in view, and i could see nothing but the hot, burning sand. i was thirsty, but though i searched far and wide, i could find no water to cool my burning tongue. but as i looked toward the horizon, i saw a beautiful, cool oasis; the fresh, green trees seemed to beckon me on. i struggled through the terrible heat and sand, and finally as i reached it, it vanished, and i awoke. my first sensation was one of pain. i raised my hand to my head. it was bandaged, as was also my left arm; and on attempting to turn on the bunk where i lay, a sudden pain seized me, which turned me faint and sick. i lay perfectly still for some time, gazing at the ceiling above me--so different from my own apartments. my eyes were met with the sight of plain, unpainted pine boards, the rough, unfinished wood broken and defaced in places, as though dented by some heavy article coming into violent contact with it. i also became conscious of a rocking, tossing motion, as if caused by the rolling of a vessel upon the open sea, and while wondering where i was, i dropped off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. i was awakened by someone shaking me roughly by the shoulder, and on looking up, i perceived the man who had dogged my steps on last evening standing over me, with a platter in one hand, upon which there was some salt beef and ship biscuits, and a candle in the other. he, on perceiving my rueful countenance, broke out into a loud peal of laughter. "here, my fine fellow, eat whilst thou mayst!" he cried. "perchance a day may dawn when thou canst not." "where am i?" i exclaimed weakly. "eat and ask no more questions," he replied. "our captain will see thee after thou hast eaten." without more words i fell to upon the food, and notwithstanding that it was rough fare, i managed to make a good meal of it. my head had ceased to pain me, and while my arm still throbbed and ached, i was beginning to feel like myself again. i thought of my encounter with the tall stranger of the night before--at least i supposed it was the night before; for although the room in which i was confined was without windows or openings of any kind, and was dark save for the candle, i had seen a gleam of light, as the sailor had opened the door. he was a short, bronzed fellow, with bold, dark eyes, and a sullen face, garbed in the rough clothes of a seaman. i fumbled in my pocket, and finding a sovereign, drew it out, and extended it to him. "my man, i would ask thee a question. wilt answer it?" at the sight of the gold, the face of the seaman changed. his dark sullen look was replaced by one, which, if not of delight, plainly indicated that he was pleased, and he extended his hand, with a rough, uncouth bow. "anything that i know, i will answer, your honor," he said. "well, then, where am i?" i asked. the man did not answer, and looking at his face, i saw that he seemed to hesitate between a desire to answer, and fear to do so. "come now, didst not thou say that thou wouldst answer my question?" i cried. "thou art on the ship 'betsy' of london," he answered sullenly; and picking up his empty platter (for i had almost demolished the salt beef and bread), he strode out of the room before i could stop him, and i heard the heavy bolts turn, as he secured the door. i had discovered on looking around the room while eating, that i was in a common sailor's cabin, the windows of which were boarded, so as to exclude all light from the room. groping my way in the dark, as best i could, i crossed over to the other side of the cabin, and began to feel with my right hand along the side of the room for the boards, with which the window had been planked up. but i was still weak and dizzy, and after a few minutes' work, i was compelled to sink down on the floor to rest, and while i lay there, i heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. the heavy bar creaked; the door swung open; and i was gazing into the face of the tall stranger, with whom i had fought upon the streets of london. the same high forehead, aquiline nose, thin, cruel lips, and jet-black eyes and hair. he wore a plum-colored doublet, with dark fawn trunks and hose, and had about him that ease and grace which mark the gentleman. in truth, he would have passed as a handsome gallant, had it not been for the cruelty and sensuality of his face. i have never been able to determine what feature it was that gave him that air of sinister, reckless cruelty. analyzing his face, no one single member gave it that expression, but the combined effect was that of a man who had never let any fear or scruple come between himself and his desire. he stood in the doorway a moment in silence, a candle in his hand, looking upward; then closing the door, he advanced into the room, and with a bow and smile, addressed me as i sat upon the floor, speaking in english, but with a pronounced accent: "i trust that sir thomas winchester will pardon this rude abode, and this somewhat unceremonious treatment. i assure him that nothing but the most urgent necessity is to blame for it." "if thou wilt have the goodness to tell me where i am, how i came here, and by whom and what authority i am detained in this place?" i said angrily, for the richmond blood, which had never brooked opposition, and which had been the pride and curse of my race, was up now, and was boiling in my veins. "one thing at a time, my dear sir," he replied, and seating himself on a stool near the rude table on which he had placed the candle, he motioned me to a seat upon the other side of the room. but my temper was aroused, and by a shake of the head i declined the proffered seat, at the same time indicating my desire that he should answer my questions. "in the first place," he replied, "thou art on the brig, 'betsy,' two days out from london. in the second place, as doubtless thou rememberest, thou didst attack me on the street of london, without any just cause, and wouldst have slain me, hadst thou had thy way. on my men coming up, thou wert unfortunately struck on the head, and being senseless, wert brought on board this ship. in the third place, thou art detained on board this vessel by me, and by my authority," and he looked down coolly upon me, as i sat upon the floor. "who art thou," i exclaimed, rising to my feet, "that thou shouldst detain me?" my heat produced no noticeable effect upon him; with an evil smile he calmly replied, "the count denortier." in a flash i knew into whose hands i had fallen--denortier, the spanish adventurer and pirate, whose boldness and cruelty had been the talk of london two years ago. he had taken a portuguese merchant vessel, bound from lisbon to the west indies, and fearful tales had been told of the way in which he had tortured the men and women. after taking everything of value from the ship, he had cut the throats of those who remained alive, and scuttling the ship, had sailed away. the ship, however, had not sunk immediately, and two days later was found by a spanish vessel, and from a dying sailor the news of the tragedy had been heard. since that day, from time to time, had come news of some further devilish act, until the whole of europe knew and feared this human fiend. but i was a man. i could meet death like a gentleman, and if this desperado expected me to flinch, he would be disappointed. so unmoved, i awaited further explanation. the count, seeing that i was unaffected by his name, continued: "thou wouldst perhaps know why i had thee brought aboard, and i will satisfy thy curiosity. i am in need of men--not puppets, but men. when thou wert overpowered upon the street of london, i knew thee to be a man, and had thee brought aboard this ship, not knowing who thou wert. since bringing thee aboard, i have discovered thy name and reputation. several of thy countrymen are with me. come with us. i have lost my lieutenant, and thou shalt have the place. what more couldst thou desire? gold, wine, the wealth of the broad seas at thy command, a climate the finest in the world, a life of stir and enterprise, which would appeal to thee. is there more that thou couldst wish?" and leaning back upon his stool against the wall, he looked at me with his cold black eyes. for a moment the audacity of the scheme amused me. i, a gentleman, to become a wild sea rover; to roam the sea knowing no law or god save that of my captain? it was ridiculous and laughable. the count perceived the look of covert amusement upon my face. "laugh not, my friend--i am in earnest!" he exclaimed slowly and deliberately. "weigh my offer well before thou refusest," and he looked at me grimly. and now the tempter rushed upon me, and whispered--why not? thou art cut off from thy friends and people, and left an outcast upon the earth, with no home or friends. why not? to roam the wide seas with none to say thee nay; free as a bird that wings its way among the clouds, far above the path of weary mortals; gold, the wealth of the seas at thy command. why not? all the demons of hell assailed me to bear me down. i had no one to mourn for me, or grieve that i should take such a course. to live the bold, free life, though but a day--were it not better than to stand a pariah among men? what matter the morrow? we could live the night with song and laughter, and if with the morn came the pale spectre to hold us to a grim account, we would at least have the consolation of knowing that for one brief night we had lived. i had almost accepted his offer, forgetting all honor and manhood, forgetting all those higher, nobler things. i had turned to denortier, and had opened my mouth to close with his proposition. already his eye had brightened at the prospect of securing a bold assistant and lieutenant. and even as i turned there flashed into my mind the thought of a fair maiden, with clear, blue eyes and gold-brown hair, into whose pure soul there had never come one unworthy thought; and i could see with what scorn those eyes would be turned upon me, as one who had disgraced his birth and rank and the honored name he bore. no, come what might, i would endeavor to be as she would have me. cut off from her by an impenetrable barrier, i would yet live as a gentleman should, and would pursue my solitary path throughout the long night until the morn. "thou hast my answer," i said. "i will not join thee." the pirate's face had changed, and had grown dark with anger. although he endeavored to conceal his wrath, his eyes sparkled with rage, and his hand played with the hilt of his sword. "thou hadst best reconsider my offer," he said in a low, fierce voice. "we have a short way of dealing with those who thwart us." "i have decided," i replied. "i am willing to abide by my decision." he arose to his feet, and stood looking at me a moment; then picking up his candle, he left the room. the bolt turned in its socket; his footsteps died away; and i was left to my own meditations. they were far from pleasant; afloat on the seas in the hands of a man who knew no law save his own will; shut off from all help, i was indeed in a not-to-be-envied position. my thoughts turned to london. what did my old friends think had become of me? what did bobby vane think? good old bobby! how many times had we explored the city by moonlight. how many escapades we had had together, in the ten years we had been in london. we had been more like brothers than friends. and then there were a score of others, boon companions, with whom i had laughed and drank and feasted; had frequented the playhouses, and seen the puppet shows with their tinsel and glitter. what did they think of me--or care? well, it was the way of the world. we have our little day, our little jest, our little song, and then the night falls, and shuts out the last faint gleam of the setting sun. as travelers who pass upon the road, we meet--a moment's greeting; then the journey is resumed, and we disappear in the deepening gloom. and so thinking i fell asleep. then passed long uneventful days and nights, during which i saw only the sailor who had first brought my meals, and who had told me his name was herrick. three times a day he brought my food, and stood by me, sullen and morose, while i ate. when i finished, he would take the platter and candle and leave me, locking the heavy bolt behind him. all my efforts to draw him into a conversation proved vain; he would not be drawn out, or answer any of my questions. my health began to suffer from my close confinement, and i had almost given up all hope of ever seeing again the blue skies of heaven. i could still feel the rocking and tossing of the vessel, and sometimes could hear the shouts of the men, but outside of this, i was as much dead to the world as if i had been buried. it was about the twentieth day, i reckoned, after my conversation with denortier, when i heard footsteps approaching the door of my prison at an unwonted hour; as only a few minutes before the grim herrick had brought my meal--whether breakfast, dinner, or supper, i did not know. the heavy lock groaned; the door opened, and herrick stood outside. "come," he said, "thou art wanted on deck," and candle in hand, he waited for me. the candlelight threw into relief his grim, dark features; his broad, flat nose and coarse, rough mouth; sparkled on the earrings in his ears; gleamed on his cutlass, which was suspended from his waist by a broad leather belt--altogether it was a picture for some ancient master, as he stood in the doorway. picking up my tarnished hat, i passed up the ladder and stood on the deck of the ship. the vessel lay motionless upon the water. about the deck there clustered a group of rough sailors--english, by their costume and language, some thirty or more. on the other side of the vessel there stood about fifty of the most villainous-looking men i had ever seen--the ruffians whom i had noticed in the alehouse in london--of every clime and nationality, their faces stamped with all manner of vice; they were a crew repulsive enough to make men shudder. between these two groups there stood denortier, and a broad, squat man, whom, from his dress and deportment, i surmised to be the master of the ship. a few ship-lengths distant there lay another vessel, long, low, with the hull painted a dull black. many culverins protruded their frowning mouths from her dark sides; her decks were crowded with men. from her mast there flew a black flag, and as i gazed at it the folds opened wide to the wind, and i saw upon its face the skull and crossbones of the sea rover. from the vessel was putting out a boat filled with men, which was making for the ship on which i stood. the voice of denortier fell upon my ears at this moment. "well, honored sir, i trust that thou hast had a pleasant trip." i turned to him as he stood beside me looking at my face, with a sinister smile on his own. "pleasant trip!" i cried. "yes--as the sufferings of the damned are pleasant, such pleasure have i had." he shrugged his shoulders, then came close to me, and spoke in a lower tone: "thou hast in thy power to change it. would it not be better to be a leader among those merry men yonder--to have the treasure of the world at thy command--than to languish out a miserable existence in some foul prison, shut out from the world; or perhaps to die by the thumbscrew and the torture?" "better," i replied, "perhaps--but answer one question." "what is it?" he asked. "why dost thou detain me here?" "i have told thee once," he answered; "it is not necessary to repeat it." "granting that," i said; "in case of my refusal, what dost thou intend to do with me?" "i shall take thee with me to my rendezvous; shall keep thee until thou dost change thy mind. if thou wilt not join us after a reasonable time--why, dead men tell no tales." and as he said this, his black eyes narrowed to a mere slit. he gazed at me a moment, then, turning his back, walked to where the pirates, whose boat had arrived, were scrambling aboard the vessel. i was about to follow him, when my attention was attracted to two seamen who came up the companionway, bearing between them a man. they came forward to where i stood alone, and as they neared, i looked at the burden in their arms. it was not--could not be? yes, it was the gentleman to whose rescue i had come on the street of london, and to whom i owed my present situation. the confinement had told on him, great hollows were under his eyes, his cheeks were wan and thin; no wonder i looked at him twice before i knew him. the seamen brought him forward to where i stood, and there deposited him, as though he were a bundle of goods. i believe he did not know me when he raised his eyes blankly to my face, but as he looked at me a moment, the light of recognition crept into them, and he held out his hand in greeting, with a smile. "pardon me, that i did not at first know thee, but thou must remember that i only saw thee a moment in the moonlight, when we were both engaged, and this cursed imprisonment has so worked upon me, that i hardly believe i would know my own mother, could i see her." i laughed at the energy with which he spoke, and after grasping his proffered hand, sat down beside him. "dame fortune has played us a scurvy trick," i said, "but perhaps the wheel may turn. i am thomas winchester, kt., of london. pray, whom have i the honor of addressing?" he bowed. "i well know sir thomas winchester by reputation, and am glad to know in person so redoubtable a gentleman," he answered. "thou wert in ireland some years ago with sir philip sidney. permit me to introduce captain henry steele, at thy service." steele? steele? where had i heard that name before? ah, yes, it all came back to me. i remembered philip sidney's recounting, at the old mermaid inn, over a pipe of the fragrant virginia tobacco, the tale of how this man steele had swam across a river in the low country, during the campaign with spain, and had traveled ten miles through a country swarming with the enemy, where capture meant certain death, to carry dispatches to a besieged fortress. i remembered the crowded room; the cloud of blue tobacco smoke, through which peered the eager, interested faces of the listeners; remembered the applause which the tale evoked; and francis drake's "by god! 'twas a gallant deed, sir." no wonder was it that i wrung his hand, glad to have so sturdy a warrior with me. short, erect, strongly built, with a face that bespoke courage and determination, his was a noble spirit, and one calculated to invite confidence and trust. "and now let me thank thee for thy assistance in that fight on the street of london," he said. "the gods only know what i would have done without thy arm, for i have never before seen such swordplay in mortal man." "tell me," i inquired, "how thou didst come to get into a difficulty with thy assailant?" and then, in a few short words, he told me that he had just returned from the low country a few days before, where he had been engaged in the noble fight that the netherlands were waging against their spanish oppressors. he had spent the early part of the night at a tavern with some of his friends, and was returning to his lodgings, his head heavy with wine, when he was stopped on a corner by denortier, who held up a sparkling ring, set with a precious stone, and asked him if he had lost it. he stepped nearer, to look at the gem; the man struck him in the face, and then, drawing his sword, had rushed at him. the rest i knew. then he requested me to tell him where he was, and i told him all that i knew. i had barely finished, before i saw denortier approaching us. "well, gentlemen," he said, "the boat awaits you." i looked around--i had no weapon, neither had steele. we were both weak from our long confinement, and were surrounded by the cutthroats whom denortier had brought with him from london. resistance seemed useless, so gathering up my faded cloak, and assisting steele, who was very feeble, i followed denortier to the boat. for a moment i hesitated at the ladder, which led down to the little craft, but the pirate, as if divining my purpose, had placed his whole force at the entrance. grim and cold they stood, weapons in hand. bowing to the inevitable, we went down the ladder into the boat, and were rapidly rowed over to the pirate vessel. the men who manned the craft were like those i had seen on the "betsy," wild and reckless, and were dressed in fantastic costumes. they were also heavily armed. on attempting to address one of them, i was immediately silenced by herrick, who seemed to be in command, and who growled out that if i wanted to save my neck, i had best hold my tongue. taking the polite suggestion, for the remainder of our trip i held my peace, and we neared the vessel in silence. reaching the pirate, we were immediately carried down the cabin way into a large bare room, with a rough bunk in one corner, and only a rude table together with a chair or two. the window of this room was enclosed by an iron grating. here steele and myself were left alone. chapter iii we take the merchant ten days more passed; but they were not so dull and tedious as those i had spent heretofore. both steele and myself were rapidly improving in health, under the cheering influence of our mutual companionship and conversation. we passed the days in recounting our mutual adventures; he telling of his experience in the low country; the many hairbreadth escapes that he had met with at the hands of the spaniards; of the struggles that the people of holland were passing through in their fight for freedom, and how many gallant englishmen had drawn swords in their cause. he also asked me something of my irish campaign with sidney many years ago, when i was but a light-hearted lad, before i had ever gone to london and lost the sweetness and freshness of my youth in that great city of fashions and society. i would tell him of the gayeties of london of which he knew little; of the nobles and ladies of fashion, and their empty, care-free, butterfly existence. i told him of a great play which i had seen, when the little man, shakespeare, had played a noble tragedy before the crown, and tried to give him some idea of the great lighted house with its audience of nobles and fair ladies. steele's eyes flashed, as i tried to depict the play, and the enthusiasm of the people as they saw some noble scene. "it must have been grand!--grand! lad," he cried. "i would give five years of my existence to live such a life, be it only for a day." i also told him of my father's dismissal, for steele's was a fine and generous nature, which invited confidence; and he agreed with me that richard must have had a hand in it. we also talked of the golden virginia, which raleigh was determined to make into a great, vast empire; and discussed its wild, ferocious tribes, and its mines of gold and gems. so passed ten days. we had exhausted all plans for escaping; none seemed feasible. were we to overpower our jailer, our condition would not be bettered; and so being surrounded by a shipload of pirates, and with no means of escape, we mutually agreed to wait until land was reached before making an attempt to free ourselves. on the eleventh morning, just as we finished our breakfast, steele went to the grating to look out, and as he did so, uttered an exclamation. "look!" he cried, pointing out upon the sea. i ran over to the window, and following his finger, saw far away on the horizon a dark speck, which steele asserted was a ship. even as we looked we heard a hoarse order in spanish, a language i am familiar with. it was denortier's command to the pirates to put about in the direction of the distant vessel. all the morning long we followed that dark speck upon the water, gaining little by little, until about two of the evening we had gotten well in sight of her. she was a great galleon, bearing the yellow flag of spain, her decks crowded with men, women, and children, who pointed and gesticulated at us. slowly, steadily, we drew nearer, nearer, until within a few yards of her. i could see the soldiers trying to drive the women and children down below. suddenly we came about; i heard the hoarse word of command, and then like a peal of thunder from a clear sky, the pirates discharged their culverins into the galleon. the slaughter was fearful. men, women, and children were mowed down; and the screams of the wounded and dying rang loud and clear in our ears. men ran hither and thither upon the decks. a few of the soldiers returned the fire of the pirates, but they seemed paralyzed with terror. slowly our vessel came around in the wind, and discharged another broadside--and yet another, the musketoons of the pirates keeping up an incessant fire all the while. the deck of the galleon literally ran blood. of the many who had thronged the vessel but a few minutes before, barely one-half were alive. the others lay huddled into great heaps--some dead, others grievously wounded, many praying, others screaming with pain. an officer, his steel helmet gleaming, ran to and fro, trying to get the men in order--but in vain. they seemed utterly beside themselves with fright, and abandoning the culverins, from which they had never fired a shot, the gunners ran down the hold; while the remainder of the men stood as if dazed by the destruction which the pirates had wrought. as we looked on, sick at heart, and wishing but for some weapon, that we might strike one blow for the galleon, we heard the door behind us open, and old herrick, a grin of delight upon his face, came into the cabin. "the captain wishes you to come on deck," he informed us. we followed the old ruffian in silence up the companionway, and stood upon the deck. a few dead and wounded pirates lay about us. denortier, sword in hand, stood by the mast, two or three of his lieutenants around him. he gave us a dark look and said, "gentlemen, you will accompany me to yonder ship." i merely inclined my head in token of our assent. the boats were gotten out, and crowded with the pirates, made their way to the stricken vessel. as we drew nearer, we saw that the slaughter was even worse than it had appeared from the deck of the ship. here lay the body of a fresh young girl; there that of a grizzled old sailor; here a soldier in his armor, musketoon in hand; there a young child, his chubby arm under his head, as if asleep and dreaming; there a negro, dark and scowling. it was a horrible sight. we climbed on deck, and immediately denortier ordered a squad of sailors to throw the dead bodies overboard; another to divide the prisoners--the men into one group, the women and children into another. steele, who had been examining a culverin that stood near him, touched me on the sleeve. i turned and looked at the gun to which he pointed--it was spiked and useless. we looked at another--spiked too. the culverins had all evidently been disabled by some trusty ally on the ship. this accounted for the fact that they were never fired. i turned sick at the thought of such treachery, which had cost so many human lives, and so much blood and carnage. and now we noticed that the pirates had stood all the men, who were left alive, by the side of the rail, their hands bound behind them. denortier advanced in front of the silent line. "my men," he cried in spanish (most of the men were spaniards), "who of you wish a merry life, plenty of wine, gold in abundance, and a good ship under you, to roam the wide blue seas? any who prefer that to a watery grave, step forward." there were about one hundred men left; some twenty stepped forward; the rest stood firm and unyielding. some of their faces were pale; a few of them were wounded; some had wives and children in far-off spain, who would watch for their coming in vain. the suns would wax and wane; the hair of the watchers would fade slowly into the white of the winter snows; their children would grow up, live their little day, and lie down in the arms of the great angel, "death"--but still they would not come. not for them was a grave beneath the sunny skies of spain, with the mourners to weep about their lifeless clay--theirs was a watery grave, lonely and deep, beneath the ocean's brine. "i will give you one more chance," the pirate said. "step forward, and your lives are saved--if not, overboard you go." i have never admired the spaniard as a race; but at this moment i felt a thrill of admiration and respect for those men, most of them bronzed and battered veterans, who could look into the face of death and meet him unafraid and undismayed. the captain raised his hand; but i could not see them go down without one effort to save them. i sprang forward, as did also steele. "count," i cried, "thou canst not mean to throw them overboard?--thou dost not mean to do that?" "why not?" he said coolly. "they are of no use to me, if they will not join me. i cannot keep them as captives. what other course is open to me?" "unbind them," i said; "give them the ship and let them go. better starvation upon the seas, than such a death as this." "what? and let them bring down a swarm about my ears? hardly!" he sneered. "i was not born yesterday, brave sir." then raising his voice he shouted, "herrick, seize them!" the sturdy herrick and a score of others rushed upon us. the struggle was brief; we were unarmed, and two against a score, for many others of the pirates had rushed to the assistance of their companions. i felled some two or three of my assailants to the floor, and steele did the like, but flesh and blood could do no more. we were seized, bound hand and foot, and deposited like two logs on the floor of the deck to await the destruction of the captives. the prisoners, with their hands bound and tied together, could only dumbly watch the struggle, which was to decide their fate. as the pirates, after securing us, turned to their captives to put the brutal sentence of their captain into execution, the prisoner who stood at the end of the line next us, and who wore a long white beard, which flowed down over his armor, turned to us and cried in english: "we thank you, noble sirs, for your gallant struggle in our behalf. may the blessings of the holy virgin be with you forever! may you ever remember that you have stood up manfully for those who could not help themselves; and may the memory of this deed be as water to the thirsty traveler in the desert. farewell! may the benediction of god be ever with you." as he finished, the pirates rushed upon them. i had been a soldier in ireland, and had looked unmoved on many a bloody field, but this slaughter of men, bound hand and foot, was more than i could see unmoved. a moment of brief struggle; i turned my head aside; there was a thud, as man after man struck the water--then silence. i looked again; they were gone; only the pirates, laughing and jeering among themselves, remained. and now the burly herrick appeared, leading by the sleeve a girl, dark, slender, petite, with a complexion like a wild rose, and great glorious black eyes. truly she was a beautiful sight, though she shrank back in affright from the admiring eyes of denortier. "by the holy city! here is a find!" he cried. "herrick, thou shalt be made a bishop, and wear a miter; i swear it shall be so." the rascal bowed, a leer upon his face. "i thought that this would please thy excellency," he said. "i have long searched the broad blue seas for a bride--what need to go further? here is a pearl from the antilles, a very jewel of the west. bid father francis stand forth, and make us one." the girl stood as though frozen into stone, during this conversation, as if dazed by the terrible scene through which she had passed. but as denortier motioned a seaman to find the priest, whom he called father francis, the full horror of the situation seemed to burst upon her, and breaking away from the grasp of old herrick, she threw herself at denortier's feet, in a torrent of tears. "señor! señor!" she cried, "for the love of god, have mercy! hast thou no soul? hadst thou a mother? for her sake i implore! kill me if thou wilt, but do not do this act; 'twill be a stone about thy neck, to drag thee down to the bottomless pit." the count smiled and touched her with his hand. "rise up, fair one," he said; "thou shalt be queen of the tropic isles, and share my throne. thou shalt have slaves to answer thy beck and call; thy slightest wish shall be my law. dry those tears; father francis shall tie the wedding knot--and then, ho! for the fragrant isle where we shall reign." the girl sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing. "dog!" she cried, "rather would i die than be the wife of such as thou! rather would i let the crows pick the flesh from my bones, than to submit to such an outrage! knowest thou not that i am the donna maria decarnova, the daughter of the duc decarnova? the blood of kings and princes runs in my veins. kill me, if thou wilt, but do not compel me to be thy wife." the count laughed--such a laugh as the damned might have uttered, as they gloat in the regions of the inferno over a soul that is lost. "donna," he said, "save thy pretty blandishments, until after the priest hath finished with us. thou mightst as well try to climb into the clouds of heaven as to move me, after my mind has been made up. my wife thou shalt be, whether thou dost desire it or not. prepare thyself for the wedding." i could stand this scene no longer; for, from where i lay, bound and tied, i could see and hear all that passed. the agony of the girl touched me to the heart. i have seen much of the evil side of life; but all the scenes of sin and sorrow have made me unable to turn a deaf ear to the cry of suffering, agonizing humanity. naught had i to live for, disowned and spurned by my own father; cut off by an impenetrable barrier from all i knew and loved, what did there remain for me? what mattered a few short days? i could not ask the lady margaret carroll to share such a life as this--would not let her do so, even were she willing. the spanish girl was young, wealthy, beautiful; life held much, meant much to her; stretched out rich and wonderful before her eyes. i would let the maiden go. i was a soldier and a gentleman, and death's cold hand had been near me too often on the fields of ireland to fear him now. "steele," i said, "i am past my youth; have seen the best in life; have drunk deep of the golden cup. the maiden is young and lovely. i will exchange myself for the girl. denortier may do what he wishes with me, if he will but let the maid go free. good-by, old friend--god bless thee! we have been together but a small space as time goes, yet i have learned to love thee. when thou returnest to england in the days to come, thou wilt bear my devoirs to lady margaret carroll, and tell her that i was ever unto death her loyal knight. that i died as became a soldier and a gentleman--my last thoughts were of her. farewell!" i could not see his face, for they had bound and thrown me with my back to him; but in a moment he spoke, his voice husky with emotion: "truly, my friend, thou art the bravest gentleman that it has ever been my good fortune to know. i would i could persuade thee from this deed." "thou canst not," i answered. "my mind is fixed and immovable." "then fare thee well!" he answered, "and god be with thee. if ever i come to england, i will search out the lady margaret carroll, and deliver thy message, though i be compelled to walk through england barefoot to do so." "so be it," i replied, and i called loudly for denortier. the count came forward to where i lay bound, his face dark with anger, his eyes flashing; plainly the spanish girl had not left him in the best of moods. "what wouldst thou have?" he cried. "speak quickly, my time is short." "count," i answered, "thou art a soldier, and sometime a gentleman. release the maid; swear to me that thou wilt furnish her a safe conduct to spain; let my friend, steele, go with her as escort, and thou mayst do what thou wilt with me." "art thou mad," he said, "that thou proposest such a thing? art thou flesh and blood, that thou shouldst pass through such torture as i can devise? granting that thy life should be of enough value to me that i should release the maid, of what benefit would that be to me? what is the maid to thee, that thou shouldst give thy life for her?" as i lay there, a verse of scripture passed through my mind, learned long years ago, at my mother's knee. i had not thought of it for twenty years, but it came clear and fresh to my mind, as if learned on yesterday. "greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." hardly knowing what i did, i repeated these few words, more to myself than to him. they were so short, and yet so full of meaning. the loving face of my mother came back to me as of old, when kneeling at her feet, i would repeat my simple prayers. much had i learned since then, more of sin and evil than of good; yet many things, that i had lisped long years ago, would come back to me at unexpected moments, like rich gold buried for a season, and but awaiting the spade of the miner to uncover the yellow ore. dear patient one, thy toil was long and weary, but perhaps thou builded better than thou dreamed. denortier burst into a peal of laughter at the words. "this is the best yet!" he shouted, stamping his feet with glee. "the devil turned priest! i had as soon expected old herrick to don the cassock." i answered him: "the maid is naught to me, yet i would not see her young life blighted. swear to me on the crucifix that she shall go unharmed, with my friend as an escort; that thou wilt send them to some spanish port, and i am content. let it be said that thou didst one good deed in all thy career of blood and crime; perhaps it will avail thee much, at the last grim moment." he still stood looking at me. "thou art a strange and perverse man, that thou wouldst give thy life for an unknown maid, but the humor of the thing appeals to me. i, too, am strange, and have my whims and fancies. so be it; the maid shall go free with thy friend to see her safe. i have another vessel, which meets me in a day or two; they shall go on that, and thou canst take her place." "one last word," i said, "thou canst take my life if thou wilt, but thou canst not make me stoop to play the knave. a gentleman i was born, and by god's help, a gentleman i will die." a bitter smile played around his mouth for a moment. "so be it," he said, and turning, he called: "francis! francis! where art thou?" "here, thy excellency," cried a voice; and from out of the group of pirates, there waddled towards us the large, stout figure of an englishman, clad in the gown of a priest; a man on whose rubicund face the mellow juice of the grape had stamped its seal. the nose red and swollen, the cheeks puffed and bloated, the watery eye, all told the tale of his vice as plainly as if it had been spoken in words. he came forward, a smile of triumph upon his face. "ah! thy excellency," he cried, as he came nearer, "did i not do my work well? not one culverin to answer thee with, and all at the risk of my life. was i not nearly discovered several times? i would not go through the like again for a mine of gold, freshly dug from the virgin soil." "thou shalt be well requited for thy pains," denortier replied. "in the meantime, hast thou a cross?" "most assuredly," he answered; "the servant hath ever the tools of his calling," and he plucked from under the folds of his cassock a little iron cross, and held it out to the count. "swear upon it," i said, "that by the bones of thy ancestors, by the body of jesus, by all the fears of perdition, thou wilt deliver the maiden, with captain steele, safe and unharmed, into the hands of her friends. if thou failest to do so, may a thousand curses weigh down thy soul." "i swear it," he said sullenly, kissing the cross, and returning it to the priest. "and thou foul imp of satan," i cried to the priest, "the first time i get but a chance, i will run my sword through thy traitor heart; and this i swear." "bold words, brave sir," he answered. "strange words from a dying man. i will heed them more, when thou art more able to perform thy threat," and with a leer at me, he hobbled after denortier, who had gone forward to acquaint the girl with the fact that she was free. as he told her that she was at liberty, and would be placed in the hands of her friends in a few days, and that i had taken her place, she ran forward to where i lay, and threw herself at my feet. "oh, señor!" she cried, "thou must be a blessed saint in disguise." "no saint, maiden," i answered, "only a weak, erring man." "but thou canst not mean that thou wilt stay among these dreadful men, and let me go back to my home? i cannot let thee do that; thy blood would be upon my hands." "no," i answered, "i am in the hands of god; thou canst do no good by remaining here. i am in the power of these men already, and can be in no worse position. perhaps," i said, speaking in a lower tone, "thou canst bring succor, and thus assist me." "i will," she answered quickly, "though i be compelled to go to the king himself. have no fear, i will send back as soon as i reach my friends, and rescue thee." and before i could prevent her, she had caught my hand, and pressed it to her lips. herrick and a party of his men came forward at this moment, and with his accustomed sneer, he bowed. "i am sorry to interrupt this touching scene, but orders thou knowest must be obeyed," and with that two of his men picked me up and carried me forward. passing the group of weeping women and children, huddled together near the companionway, they carried me in a small boat over to the other vessel and down below to my old prison. i was alone this time though; unbinding my hands, they left me. two days later denortier summoned me to come on deck. at some little distance there lay a small vessel; and on its deck, leaning upon the rail, stood two figures--one i knew for steele, and the other was the spanish maiden. even as i looked, the ship got under way; i waved my hand at them, and they replied. they still waved at me as far as i could see them. smaller, smaller, smaller the vessel grew, until she dwindled to a mere speck upon the water; finally i could discern it no longer--the ship was gone. and thus i saw them no more. chapter iv the island eldorado denortier now allowed me to come and go upon the ship as i chose; only the ever present herrick dogged my footsteps every minute of my waking time, and dutifully locked me in at night. i was at a loss to account for this sudden liberty; perhaps the pirate thought that he was now in his own dominion; perhaps he no longer feared me, and so allowed me this much of freedom. i knew not the reason, nor did i ponder over it, so long as he allowed me to roam the decks unmolested. it was on the fourth day after we had parted from the little vessel on which steele and the maiden had left us, that i heard the watchman on the mast call, "land! land!" it was about seven in the morning when i heard the cry, and hastily dressing myself, i rushed on deck. there to the west of us, loomed up what appeared to be an island, and a couple of hours' time brought us to it. it was a beautiful spot; any sort of land would have been welcome after the long, weary voyage, but such a land as this was doubly so. long, feathery trees fringed the water's edge; tropic flowers, wondrous, many-hued, bloomed everywhere; strange birds, their plumage gorgeous and brilliant, flitted from tree to tree, and filled the air with their songs; fruits, luscious and tempting, hung from the trees and lay upon the ground; everywhere profusion and plenty seemed to reign. no wonder that this lovely spot had been chosen by the pirate for his home; such a place as this was an earthly paradise, with the needs of existence already supplied. the climate was soft and balmy, and though it must have been about the middle of november, the air was as warm and pleasant as a may morning. the voice of denortier sounded at my elbow: "welcome, sir thomas! welcome to eldorado!" "and so this is eldorado?" i said. "long have i searched for eldorado; i had not looked to find it here." "fate plays us many strange tricks," he answered, his eyes upon the island. "where is this eldorado?" i inquired. "it is near the coast of cuba," he answered, "which is only a few leagues distant. i discovered it several years ago on one of my expeditions. it is safe and pleasant, out of the track of stray ships, and here, when home from my voyages, i reign as though i were a king." the ship had fired a culverin some moments ago, and now, in answer to the signal, a long canoe put off from the shore and came rapidly toward us. we watched it come forward in silence, and as it drew nearer, i saw that the men who filled the boat were the wild indians, like the savage manteo, whom i had seen in london--and yet not like him. like him in the bronze color of their skin, in their black, glittering eyes, and long, coarse hair; yet not like him, for they wanted the rugged strength of his face, wanted the martial pose of his bearing and the freedom of his glance. they were not clad in skins, as had been manteo, but wore jerkins of some cotton material, their legs and arms bare. upon their feet were fastened light sandals. evidently, by their countenances and deportment, they did not belong to the warlike tribes which roamed the virgin forests of virginia, but were a gentler type of that race. in a few minutes their light boat touched the ship, and one, who seemed to be the leader, ran forward to where denortier stood, and dropping on one knee, spoke some words in a soft tongue which i did not understand. the count answered him in the same language, and turning to me, told me that i might go ashore. "one thing, count," i said, detaining him as he turned to leave, "when am i to recover my sword? i am strangely ill at ease without the tapping of the blade against my knee, and care not to go among yonder barbarians without a weapon." he looked at me in some surprise. "thy sword? of what use is a sword to a captive? swords are for the free. as for yon indians, thou couldst drive them before thee with a lash. but thou shalt have thy sword upon one condition. give me thy word of honor as a gentleman that thou wilt not attempt to escape while upon this island, and thou shalt be free to come and go as thou dost please." i pondered a moment. escape was not possible, even should i break forth from my prison, for the boundless ocean stretched between me and land. so he should have my word of honor for the present; should a favorable opportunity for escape present itself, i could retract my word. "thou shalt have my word of honor for the present," i said. "should i see proper to change my mind, thou shalt be informed." a sardonic smile was upon his face. "dost thou think that i am a child, to bring thee here, and then let thee escape? suit thy own fancy; when thou seest fit to retract thy promise, i shall secure thee well. as for thy sword--francis! come hither." the priest, who had hovered near during this brief conversation, drew closer to us. "go into my cabin, and bring my gold-hilted toledo blade," denortier commanded. the rogue turned, and walked toward the cabin. in a few minutes he returned, bringing with him a splendid gold-hilted sword. the count took it from him, and drawing the long, bright blade from its sheath, turned to me with a bow. "allow me to present thee with this sword in lieu of thine own, which was unfortunately lost the night thou wert brought on board. it is of the finest steel, and, i am sure, could be in the hands of no more gallant gentleman." i bowed in reply, as i took the sword from him. "i thank thee," i said, "and hope that it will not be dishonored in my hands." "i am sure it will not," he answered. "but it is time that we were on shore," and he walked forward to where the canoe lay. together we descended the ladder and stepped into the boat. the natives bent their muscles to the task; the paddles flew, and the canoe passed rapidly through the water to a spot which seemed suited for landing, and where a little throng of the indians, both men and women, together with a few of the pirates, awaited us. the canoe grated upon the beach, and treading our way through the crowd of indians, who stood with bent heads as we passed by, we took a well-beaten path which led through the trees, and after about fifteen minutes' brisk walking turned a corner and passed into a broad, level savannah, carpeted with long luxuriant grass. a long, low building stretched to the left, rough and unpainted; while to the right there arose a splendid mansion, many-windowed, with broad, white pillars--stately and magnificent it stood, looking like a pearl among swine. the count noticed the surprise depicted upon my face. "be not dismayed," he said. "it is but my poor home; for though shut off in some sense from the world, i yet manage to enjoy some of the good things of the flesh. the world has contributed to my comfort and the furnishings of yonder house. italy has given us of her sculpture and painting; england, our furniture and tapestry; spain, our wine and goblets; from venice have come our carpets and tableware; the netherlands have given us linen and clothing; from portugal have come our gold and silverware. i have managed to make my brief stays here not unpleasant. yonder is the barrack for the men," he said, pointing to the rough, unfinished building, which stood to the left. as we came nearer to the mansion, one of the indians, detaching himself from the group of servants on the steps, ran forward to greet his master. as he reached us, he caught denortier's hand and carried it to his lips, crying out a few words in the same musical language which the native who first came aboard the vessel had spoken. the pirate answered in the same tongue, and turning to me, said: "thou seest that i have something human in me after all; these poor dogs worship the very ground that i walk upon." resuming our steps, we passed on into the house. when within, i stood amazed at the elegance of its furnishings; the floor carpeted in some soft material into which the feet sank as we walked; the walls covered with elegant tapestry; the chairs and other furniture, massive and splendid; on pedestals stood the choicest statuary of the masters of italy; from the walls there hung paintings, costly and exquisite; and the perfume of sweet-scented flowers filled the rooms. wealth and culture seemed to reign supreme. this might be the palace of some noble in far-off england or spain, a man of wealth and refinement, but not the home of a reckless, blood-thirsty pirate, devoid of conscience or soul, his head resting insecurely upon his shoulders--for so unmerciful and terrible had been the cruelty of denortier that, if captured by any civilized nation, his neck would pay the penalty of his crimes. no wonder i was amazed. the count had thrown himself upon a velvet couch, which stood near the center of the great room into which he had led me. stretching out his hand he touched a little silver gong, which stood upon a pedestal near his elbow. a soft-footed attendant stood noiselessly in the doorway. a word in that same unknown language, and the servant disappeared. a moment later he reappeared, a bottle and two goblets in his hand. drawing up a small table, he pushed another soft couch opposite me as i stood gazing around the room, and silently passed out of the apartment. "be seated, sir," the count said. "drink one glass with me. this wine," he continued, filling a golden goblet and holding it up to the light, "was intended for his catholic majesty, the king of spain. i took it from a galleon near the coast of cuba, a year ago, after a bitter fight. little thinks his majesty that to-day we drink it." and he poured a glass for himself, his goblet matching mine. "come, sir thomas, let us lay aside all enmity for a few brief moments, and drink one glass together. i give thee a toast which thou canst not refuse," he cried, rising to his feet, and holding out the glass at arm's length--"her royal majesty, the queen of england!" [illustration: "her royal majesty, the queen of england"] "the queen!" i rejoined, rising. "may her glory never wane or fade!" "amen to that," the pirate said, and we both sank back upon our couches. "where, pray, didst thou find these rich treasures which adorn thy mansion? if all be of the same quality as the wine we have just drank, thou art well named king of eldorado." he glanced around the room before replying, and then answered, speaking slowly and clearly: "some of these things i took from vessels upon the seas; some i obtained when i raided the south american coasts, the spoils of monasteries and cathedrals; some i bought in europe and sent in merchant vessels, which i met as i did the 'betsy' and transferred to my own ship. it has been the work of several years, but it is well worth the price. some day, when i tire of war and bloodshed, i shall come back here, and pass the remainder of my life in this lovely spot, with the song of the bird and the odor of the rose. allow me to fill thy glass." and he poured me out another goblet, and refilled his own. "and now as we talk," i said, "what of myself? of what advantage am i to thee? why not release me and let me go back to england?" "release thee? no; my dear sir, not yet. did i not give up a spanish maiden, a jewel of the west, to have the pleasure of thy company? wouldst thou deprive me of it so soon, and bought with such a price? cruel! cruel!" and he laughed again. "but of what advantage am i here to thee? i am not gold; thou canst not melt me into shining coin." "no," the pirate answered, looking at me narrowly, "i cannot melt thee--but there are other things. i offered thee a place beneath me, to be my right-hand man----" "which i refused," i interrupted. "dost thou take me for a child, one day to refuse an offer, the next to accept it? i credited thee with more wisdom." a dark look had spread over the sea rover's face, accentuating the thin lips and dark overhanging brows. his eyes glittered; he reminded me of a snake as it rears back to strike its victim. he spoke thickly: "thou canst not say that i have not done my best to save thee from thy own folly. join me, thou art safe; refuse me----" and he shrugged his shoulders. "thou hast powerful enemies, wouldst thou refuse an ally?" he had drank several glasses to my one. twice, during our conversation, had the soft-footed native replaced with full bottles the empty ones upon the table, as denortier finished them. i waited until the indian disappeared before i spoke. what meant the pirate, when he said powerful enemies? might not this explain my abduction and detention in this place? i would see whether he would not say more, under the generous influence of the wine. "is that so?" i answered. "i know not what thou meanest by powerful enemies; such a thing as that might change my resolution." but he would not be drawn out. evidently alarmed by what he had said, he arose unsteadily from the couch. "think on what i have said," he replied, as he turned toward the door; "perhaps thou mayest yet come with me." and turning a deaf ear to all my endeavors to detain him, he walked out of the door, bidding me remain where i was. i still reclined on the couch after denortier had passed out of the room. i was tired, my limbs ached, and the wine had produced a pleasant torpor which sapped my energy. what meant the pirate when he said that i had powerful enemies? could it be that my father or richard had taken this method to get me out of the way? not my father, certainly; he hated me, it is true, but he was too much of the aristocrat to stoop to such work as this. he had cast me off forever, but what motive could he have for condemning me to the life of an exile? no; whoever it was behind the scene, it could not be my father. richard, then? it was more like him, for he had always been wont to do his dirty work under cover of darkness, and was none too good for such a trick. but where was the motive? he was the eldest son; the estate and title would fall to him at my father's death; he stood near my father's heart, while the old lord despised me. why should he wish to do this deed, which might come to light and ruin him? no, i did not think it was richard. he would have put a dagger in my back, and so been rid of me, once and forever. he would never have had me kidnaped and carried out of england. there only remained the viscount james henry hampden. it might be that his was the master hand that worked the wires; but i could not believe he would do such a deed. he might wish to get so dangerous a rival out of the way, but why in such a manner as this? he was a soldier; would it not be more likely that he would have picked a quarrel with me, and fought it out as a gentleman? but there came to my mind the threat he had made, that margaret should be his in spite of heaven and hell. rumor had it that he had done strange deeds in the low country--things that would not bear the light of day. tales were told of a house in which some spanish prisoners were confined, which was burned by his command, cooking them alive in its ruins. yes, it might be his work. at the thought i ground my teeth together, and my hand sought the hilt of my sword. there was no one else i could think of who had any motive for keeping me out of england. i would keep my eyes open, and perhaps the plot would thicken; in the meantime i would watch and wait. woe to whomsoever had done this deed; for whoever it was, i would never rest until i had punished him. the world was too small to hold both of us; one must pass out should we meet face to face. with these thoughts, i caught up my hat, and walked out upon the broad veranda. without, dusk was just beginning to fall. the men were struggling up from the vessel bringing their booty, the spoils of the ships they had rifled, and their rude songs floated up to me. the natives, men, women, and children, were running to and fro, their arms loaded with small articles. a little apart from the men stood a small group, composed of denortier, herrick, francis, and one of the indians. even as i looked, they separated--the count and the indian going toward the barrack, herrick going down the path toward the landing place, and the priest coming toward me. as he drew nearer i could see his fat, evil face, with its watery eyes, looking like some bloated monster of the deep. he called to me as he drew closer, the habitual leer upon his face: "how does my lord stand the fatigue of his travel? i trust that he has not been greatly inconvenienced by our rude accommodations." i answered calmly, having my own reasons for not angering the man; perhaps he knew something of the plan to detain me here, and who stood behind it. "not greatly fatigued," i said, "and yet tired. come inside and have a glass of the wondrous wine of the count." the pale eye lit up, his tongue protruded from his lips, as i have seen a dog's at the sight of a bone, and he glanced hastily around him. only a few men were in sight, busy at work around the barrack. coming nearer he spoke in a low voice: "i will take one glass with thee, noble sir; only one glass, to celebrate thy safe arrival." "come into the house, then," i said. retracing my steps to the room which i had just left, i threw myself upon one of the divans, motioning him to take the one opposite. he did so, at the same time catching up the bottle of wine from the table and looking at the seal. a smile broke over his face, as he saw the rich amber fluid. "the wine of the king of spain!" he cried. "how camest thou by this?" "the count opened it," i answered. "drink!" and taking the bottle from his unwilling hands, i poured out a brimming glass. catching it up, he put it to his lips; then held out the empty glass to me. "wine!" he cried, "that warms the cockles of the heart as old age creeps on; that turns life's cheerless existence into gold. wine, the curse of youth; the friend of middle life; the staff of old age--the great alchemist that turns the dull, gray hours into sunshine. ah, i drink to him who first discovered wine!" and he drained the second goblet, though somewhat slower than the first, as if to taste each drop of the precious fluid. upon finishing this glass, a thought seemed to strike him, and he held up the golden goblet to the light; for while we sat, the same noiseless servant lit the candles that stood in the golden candelabras which hung upon the walls, and the great room was bathed in a flood of light. "ah! this goblet," the priest resumed, "well do i remember it; taken by the impious son of holy church from the cathedral at cartagena. i implored, but my anguish availed nothing." and the great tears rolled down the fat cheeks of the rascal, whose face was fast settling into the cunning of intoxication. the two great goblets he had drunk in rapid succession--and i surmised that he had been celebrating before now the safe return of the vessel--had almost overcome him. although his head was like a stone, from constant, excessive drink, yet even a stone can be worn away by continual dripping. his eye rested on my goblet which i had not filled, for i needed a clear head to pump the rascal. suspicion struggled for a moment upon his face. "why dost thou not drink?" he said. "it is nectar for gods and men." "thou forgettest," i replied, "that i have already drunk with denortier, and my head will stand no more at present." suspicion died out of his eyes, and in its place there appeared a look of gentle merriment. "ah! you boys! you boys!" he chuckled. "wait until thou hast reached my years; then thy head will be stronger; thou wilt learn wisdom." solemnly shaking his head, he poured another brimming goblet and slowly drank it down. "such trinkets as these," he went on, still holding the massive goblet in his hand, "should belong to the faithful servants of mother church, to reward them for their constant prayer and vigil," and he fetched a great sigh, that caused the very candles on the wall to flare. "see the carving upon the sides of the goblet--a miter and robe. who knows that i may not wear the miter?" his face brightened at the thought, and he looked at me inquiringly, a drunken smile upon his face. "a miter would surely become so pious a man," i said, "who spends his days and nights in vigil and fastings." his head had fallen to one side; his red cheeks shone in the candlelight; the bald pate; the hair white around the edges; his cassock ruffled and disheveled--surely he was a sight to make the gods weep. i judged that the moment was ripe to broach the subject. i looked cautiously around--not a soul was in sight but the drunken priest. i leaned forward. "why not?" i said. "why not? my uncle, thou knowest, is an archbishop, a few words spoken in his ear by one whom he loves, and presto--francis, bishop of the holy catholic church!" i leaned back and watched the effect of this announcement upon him. a look of avarice replaced that of drunken wisdom, and bending, he placed his head upon his hands, looking up at me. his eyes swam with the liquor he had drunk. i saw plainly that he was hesitating. he sat thus for a moment; then looking at me broke the silence: "sayest thou so? would i had known this before; rather had i burnt my right hand to the stump, than to have helped to bring thee here," and he broke into sobs, the tears running between his fingers and mingling with the little puddle of wine upon the table. "my last chance gone," he gurgled, "gone!--gone!" "no," i continued, still watching narrowly his face, "thou hast only to say one word, and the place is thine." "what?" he cried, looking up, a smile swiftly replacing the tears. "but no; promises are easy to make, hard to keep. how do i know that thou canst fulfill that which thou dost now promise?" i hesitated; the time had come for me to play my last card. months before, i had found one night on the streets of london a ring, large, peculiar, strange, with a miter carved upon the soft gold. i had carried it to a jeweler, thinking that i might possibly find the owner. he, being a catholic, and high in the church councils, had told me that it was a ring of state of some bishop; whose he did not know. i had kept the ring, not finding the owner, and now drew it from my finger, where i had worn it, holding it out to father francis. he took it in his fingers, and gazed at it. a look of amazement came over his face, and he looked up, the ring still in his hand. "what is it that thou wouldst ask? i will answer it," he said, bending nearer to me, our heads almost meeting over the table, his flushed face touching mine. "who is it that is at the bottom of this plan to kidnap and detain me here?" i asked. he would have answered--a moment of hesitation--he opened his mouth, and i bent forward eagerly to catch the answer. suddenly a look of horror came over his face; he was gazing up, the expression upon his countenance such as i have seen in the eyes of a bird, charmed by the baleful gaze of a snake. the voice of denortier at my elbow broke the silence. "my dear sir, i object to thy asking such pointed questions," he said. i arose to my feet, and turned around. denortier, sober now, stood near me, a look of almost devilish anger upon his face. near him stood the grim herrick, sword in hand. they had entered the room just in time to scatter my plans to the four winds--just at the moment when victory was in sight. "and so thou didst think to wring my plans from my servants," the pirate continued, his face white with rage. "thou didst try all thy art upon me, and i, unsuspecting, almost fell a victim. then when thou failed on me, thou attempted to pick from yonder drunken sot the secret of thy detention. this is the work of a gentleman." "and so is that of a jailer," i replied, angered at the gibe. "it is the work of a gentleman to kidnap a man, struck senseless in the street by one of thy ruffians, and detain him here against his will. i count it no sin to fight the devil with fire," and i drew my sword, and stood on guard. he drew his sword also, and for a moment i thought that he would cross with me, but he hesitated--then sheathed it. "another time, sir," he said. "believe me, it is only for important reasons, which i cannot explain, that i do not satisfy thee now. ah!" he said, as i laughed aloud in scorn, "thou dost laugh. it is an old saying and a true one, that 'he laughs best who laughs last.' have no fears, i will satisfy thee, but the time is not yet ripe. herrick, take yon drunken sot out of here." the sailor strode to the door and called. at the sound two natives entered. he motioned to the priest, who had fallen asleep upon the table, and whose stentorian snores shook the very goblets. picking him up between them, they carried him out of the door. the count stood looking at me after the priest had been removed from the room; the anger had died out of his face, and a look of grim humor had replaced it. finally he spoke: "it was a fortunate thing for thee, sir thomas, that i came in when i did; a little more, and thy head would have rested on an uneasy pillow." but i was tired; tired of the enigmas and puzzles; tired of wearying my brain with unfruitful guessing. i cared not whether he laughed or frowned, so i merely inquired whether my room was ready, and made known my wish to retire. "certainly," he answered, and touching the silver gong again, he spoke to the native. then turning to me he said, "josé will show thee thy room. good-night, and pleasant dreams," and with a bow he threw himself upon the great couch. "thanks," i answered. following the indian, i was shown up a noble stairway, through the splendid hall into a large room, where my guide left me, after lighting the candle in a great silver stick, the spoil of some cathedral, i doubted not. as he went out, i heard the key turn in the lock, and i was left alone. i glanced around the room. it was furnished like the one downstairs; was smaller certainly, and had a bed instead of the luxurious couch. i walked over to the window, through which beamed the splendid tropic moon, and drawing aside the curtain, i saw that the window, the only one in the room, had an iron grating over it. i was fastened in securely, no doubt of that. chapter v the cave i had been on the island three months, and as yet had found no clew as to why i was kept there, or who was responsible for my detention. i was free in a sense. i wandered all around the country, and had visited the native settlement, some five miles from the mansion, as i called denortier's palatial home; had tramped over the island, which was about fifteen miles square, and had seen about all that there was to see upon it. but i had not been able to discover where the adventurer kept the treasure which he took from the vessels that he scuttled. i knew that the galleon on which the donna decarnova had been, carried treasure for the spanish crown; knew that he had taken many other ships laden with gold. my life went on much as usual. denortier had been gone for two months, but i saw no change in my condition; the servants were at my beck and call, always ready to wait upon me. i spent my days in roaming over the island, my nights in exploring the great house. somewhat discouraged i was, as i wended my way homeward this february evening. the air was fresh and balmy, despite the fact that it was winter and the people in england were huddled over the fires, and were wrapped in their great-coats and furs. i had spent the day hunting, and two natives who trotted in front of me carried the spoils of the day, a lordly stag; a third indian carried my musketoon. the last three months had been spent profitably in a way; the time had been passed in the open air, and my muscles were like steel. i could spend the whole day in the chase, and at night be fresh and untired. i had also devoted a good deal of my time to learning the language of the indians, and had gotten such a fair idea of it that i could carry on an intelligible conversation. but i was low-spirited and downcast. would i ever see england again--and margaret? at the thought i groaned aloud, and the sound caused the indians to look back at me. shouting to them to go on, i quickened my footsteps and followed faster. they were rapidly getting out of speaking distance, and breaking into a long, swinging trot, they turned in among some trees, and were lost to my view. i resumed my train of thought. what did margaret think had become of me--or did she care? england i would fain see again, but more than england, more than all else, i longed for a sight of her whom i worshiped, as the heathen worship the sun. she was my sun. as the captive longs for a sight of the sun, when shut up for weary months in some deep dungeon far below the prison walls, so i longed for one sight of the lady margaret carroll, and with it i would have been content. what had become of steele and the lovely spanish maiden? were they safe in spain, or had the pirate but cozened me with his promise, and were they not now in some prison like my own? if steele had reached england safely, had he delivered my message to my lady? what would she say to such a greeting as that? these and many other thoughts filled my mind, as i walked briskly on to overtake my carriers. descending a steep hillock overgrown with brush and undergrowth, i saw far below me, some one hundred yards away, the mansion, from the windows of which the light streamed down and brightened up the dusk below--for it was beginning to grow dark. i had almost reached the foot of the hill, when i stopped. the dull murmur of conversation caught my ear, and i looked around me; there was no one in sight. where could the sound come from? it was near me somewhere. i turned, and retraced my steps a few feet, the voice becoming plainer. stepping cautiously, for i did not know what i was running into, i peered around. the noise seemed to come from the ground beneath me. a thick hedge of bushes was at my elbow, and from this the sound proceeded. softly pushing them aside, i looked behind them. below me i could see a light; that was where the people were, evidently, and talking in english. i crawled under the bushes, and found myself in a low cave. quietly moving forward, i looked down. the soft dirt on which i stood came abruptly to an end, and a sheer fall of fifteen feet was directly beneath me. sitting together, facing each other, a candle between them, were herrick and the old priest, father francis. herrick was talking, and i bent forward to hear what he said. "yes, the captain has gone forward to meet him now. they will come back together." "a curse on them both!" francis replied. "what do we care whether they come back or not?" and he leaned forward to peer at herrick; but the pirate's face was inscrutable. he straightened back with a sigh, and looked up to where i lay. "it is a shame," the priest went on, "to keep so gallant a gentleman here in this hole. if he loves the maid, let him have her, and be hanged to him." "thou wilt sing a different tune, when i tell the count what thou hast said," herrick answered, and he leaned back calmly against the rock. "hell and the furies!" cried the old rogue, his face white with terror. "thou wouldst not tell what i have said in jest?" "why not?" answered the sailor. "i could get a handful of gold for it." "herrick," the priest implored, his face ashy with fright, "ask what thou wilt. i will do anything, if thou wilt but keep secret what i have said to thee here, only in jest," and he arose, a look of terror awful to behold upon his face. "well, i will keep silent," the pirate answered, seemingly enjoying the fright of his companion, "but only upon one condition, which i will tell thee in a moment. but what said thou awhile ago?--that the count was half-crazy. why dost thou say that?" francis hesitated; then he answered: "did i not see him walk the floor in agony only a few days ago, and cry out as if in pain? would a man in his senses do that, thinkest thou?" "it may be that he has something upon his mind that thou dost not know of," the sailor replied, his face grim and stolid. the priest smiled, his wrinkles deepening. "or perhaps it is more likely this devil of an englishman that he has upon his hands. a thousand fiends fly away with them both to perdition!" the priest continued, his face flushing with anger. "betwixt them, i am 'between the devil and the deep blue sea.' the count swears that he will burn me alive, if i so much as intimate to this fellow what i know about his imprisonment; the englishman will kill me if i do not tell. between them i do not know what to do," he finished in a wail of agony. herrick still looked at him unmoved. i thought i could even discern, from where i lay, a faint trace of irony about his mouth. "and thou wouldst have lost thy head," he rejoined, "if we had not come upon thee in the nick of time, one night three months ago." "what wouldst thou have?" father francis cried. "the fool had me fuddled with wine, and offered one a king's ransom. what could i do?" the seaman shrugged his shoulders. "what matter! it is done. we saved thee--and now what other strange thing hast thou seen the count do lately? thou art like a cat, creeping silently about the house, thy paw in the cream of all." "the count sighs for some lady love," the priest continued deliberately, eying his companion, to see what effect this announcement would have upon him. "why, even on the night i tell thee of, did i not hear him call out once, twice, 'margaret! margaret!'" and he chuckled to himself in glee at the thought. i started in my hiding place, and a lump of dirt dislodged itself and rolled down to where the villains sat. they started; francis sprang to his feet in terror. "what is that?" he cried, and he peered uneasily up to where i crouched. his companion kept his seat unmoved. "art thou a fool," he said, "to be scared out of thy wits by a clod of dirt falling? thou art even as if thou hadst seen a ghost," and he laughed at his ally's fright. the priest resumed his seat, still gazing up to where i lay. "i fancy sir thomas winchester is after me in every breeze i hear," he muttered, as he reseated himself. "calm thy mind," the seaman rejoined. "he is safe at his supper long ere this, dreaming over the king's wine," and he grinned. "what foolishness is this? the count yearning for some fair lady! dost thou take me for a schoolboy, that i should believe this? did he pine for some maid, he would bestir himself and take her; quietly, if possible--if not, then by force. faith! thou little knowest him, if thou thinkest he would pine over any maiden." "all the same, comrade, i saw him wring his hands, with my own eyes, but three short months ago, and cry out, as i have told thee, the name margaret. who could this margaret be, if not a lady?" all this time i was craning my neck to catch every word that was uttered, my mind in a tumult. why did the count cry margaret? there was but one margaret--pure, innocent, sweet. as soon would i have expected a worm to raise his eyes to the far-distant stars, as that this bloodstained villain should raise his evil eyes to her--so far above him. and yet would this not explain my detention? perhaps the pirate expected to lure margaret from her home, and bring her here to torture me with the sight of her in his arms, before he should make away with me. yes, it was like him. he would exult in such exquisite anguish as this, and at the thought i ground my teeth together, and felt for the hilt of my sword. happen what might, this should not come to pass. rather would i, with one swift blow, put an end to her misery, and fall upon my own sword, than to witness such a scene as this--death would be a boon beside it. perhaps denortier was even now returning with her on his ship, that evil smile upon his face as he thought of my anguish and his triumph. he had been gone three months; and i had heard one of the men say only the day before, that the count would return now almost any time. i bent forward again; they had resumed their conversation. "and now," said herrick, "i will tell the price of my silence. answer the question that i ask, and the grave shall be no more silent than i; refuse, and i will go to denortier immediately upon his arrival, and tell him what thou hast said to me. thou hast thy choice," and he looked carelessly at the other, as though he would not give a farthing which course he pursued. father francis was moistening his white lips with his tongue. "thou knowest i must answer," he said sullenly. "why trifle with me? what is thy question?" "who is it behind this plot to keep sir thomas winchester here?" herrick asked quietly, and leaning back, he gazed up at the wall of the cave above him. his companion was trembling with fear. "'tis as much as my life is worth to tell thee!" he cried excitedly. "i durst not! anything but this--anything! i implore thee to ask me some other question. herrick, i have been thy friend; have stood by thee through thick and thin, when others would have forsaken and left thee to thy fate. for god's sake! ask not this of me. dost thou remember gromas? did i not save thy life there, when the very breath of thy body hung by but a thread, and i could have slain thee with a word? for the sake of this spare me!" and with clasped hands he looked at the other. "it is as much as thy life is worth not to tell me," boldly answered the adventurer. "rememberest thou the tender mercies of our captain--the indian burned alive at the stake; the mutineer crucified; the slave branded with red-hot irons; the----?" "hush!" cried the poor priest, his eyes almost starting from their sockets. "thou makest my very blood run cold. lean forward, and i will whisper it in thy ear--the very walls have ears in this place." herrick leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. the priest bent over to whisper to him. in my eagerness to hear, i leaned forward further--further over the edge of the ledge, and dame fortune, with a twist of her wheel, turned the propitious fates aside. for even as i bent forward, my ears strained to catch the slightest whisper, the soft earth under me gave way, and in a perfect avalanche of dirt, shrubbery, and rocks, i rolled down into the camp of my enemies. with a yell--shrill, loud, and piercing, which rang through the cave like the blast of a trumpet, the priest sprang up. with one spring like a wild goat, he was upon the ledge from which only one short moment ago i had fallen. i heard him tear through the bushes, and run down the hill outside, as though the furies were after him. the sound died away in the distance--he was gone. but the other rogue was of sterner mold. with an oath, he whipped out his cutlass, and was upon me as i was rising from the ground. well it was that i had on my light steel breastplate, for the blade, coming viciously down, struck full upon it, and glanced off harmlessly, or i would not have been here to tell the tale. in an instant i had drawn my sword and was on guard. "i have against thee a goodly account to settle, master herrick," i said. "the night wanes, and we must to business." "aye," he cried, "i will rid the world of one rascal," and he pressed upon me, thrusting, cutting, striking with such fury that, had my blade not been a good one, it would have broken sheer off, from the very force of the blows. i let him come on, contenting myself with parrying his thrusts, for by and by i knew that he would exhaust himself, and then i would force from him the secret of my imprisonment; for the priest had whispered it into his ear before i had rolled down upon them. of father francis i had no fear. he would not bring help to his comrade. no, i knew him too well to think that he would fail to protect himself. it was to his interest that herrick should be silenced, now that he knew so much, and he was too shrewd not to know what was best for his own interest. so i held my own, and let him exhaust himself with his fruitless efforts. back he came upon me, striking down blow after blow with his blade, any one of which, had it gone home, would have split me like a herring. i could have run him through at any moment, for he left his whole breast exposed in his insane fury; but i merely waited, calmly, coolly meeting every thrust, parrying every cut with a wrist of steel. five minutes passed, and the smile which at first had been upon his face died away. the great beads of sweat began to gather upon his forehead, as he saw his every trick and maneuver met easily, without an effort; and how fresh i was, and knew that he was rapidly exhausting himself. another little trick he tried, but i read what was coming in his eyes, even before he thrust, and met him, parried his blade, and thrusting back, laid open his cheek--the first time that i had drawn blood. then slowly i began to advance towards him, thrusting faster, faster, faster--surrounding him with a flaming wall of steel, which, try as he might, he could not penetrate. backwards--backwards i pressed him. it was a grim, weird scene. the white, bare walls of the cave lit up by the gleam of one little candle; the shadows coming and going upon the sides, as the air from above flared the wick of the candle. now we were in the light; now in darkness. the wind was rising outside; already it wailed and moaned, like the souls of the lost. there was not a sound to break the stillness that reigned throughout the cave, save only that--for we had fought in grim silence--only the sound of our feet upon the stones, as we moved and turned hither and thither, and the quick panting of our hot breath. there, within the walls of the cavern, we fought out the last hard battle, that sooner or later, in some guise or other, comes to all of mortal flesh; that grim, silent struggle in darkness and agony, and in that despair that wrings the heart, as we run the last race, with life in the balance, and the specter, death, holding in his fleshless hand the scales. i could feel his presence that night, as he stalked about us, his garments almost touching us, as we struggled to and fro--shut off from the world, with only the feeble rays of one little candle. life seemed far away and unreal; death seemed near and omnipresent. strange thoughts crossed my mind, as i cut and thrust at the grim pirate. i recalled how my mother had looked, twenty years ago, as she lay in state in the great hall at richmond castle. my years seemed to fall from me as a mantle, and i was again the little boy, innocent and fresh, as, holding my nurse's hand, i looked down upon the cold, waxen features of one whom i had known and loved. i remembered the thrill of fear--or was it only dread of the unknown?--that filled my mind, as i looked upon the change that had been wrought by the hand of the great destroyer. the calm, serene features, lovely with a beauty not of earth; with that look of majesty which death brings to the face of mortals, as they lie wrapped in the embrace of the last foe. it is as if he would erase the lines and wrinkles that sorrow and care had wrought--which the toil and pain of this cold sphere had imprinted upon that patient face--and instead would imprint upon its calm lineaments that great mystery which none but the immortal can know. it all came back to me, and i could remember how i had turned away in the throes of my first real grief. ah! many since then had old "time" brought me, but none so bitter as the first. strange thoughts to think, as i pressed the sea rover back nearer the wall. ah! i had him--but he sprang nimbly aside, and my blade passed under his arm. i had forgotten my scheme to spare his life; the blood thirst was upon me; the blood of the fighting richmonds was up. angered by the long fight, angered at myself that i had not slain him when i had a chance, i pressed him harder and harder, with no thought but to run him through. and now his back was against the wall; he could retreat no further. he turned in despair, as i have seen some hunted thing do when driven to its lair; as i have seen some lone wolf when brought to bay by the hunters, and hope has fled, determined to strike one last blow, and then if need be, to go down with its face to its foes, and its teeth clinched in the throat of some good hound. the adventurer sprang at me in such fury that i was compelled to give back a pace or two, or be cut to pieces. but his strength was gone; he was exhausted--the end had come. i know not at that last moment, whether i would have spared his life--i cannot tell; but fate, who ever stands patiently at our side, awaiting a favorable opportunity to interfere, took the matter out of my hands. for even as i drew back to end the matter by one home thrust, my feet slipped upon the stone and i stumbled. with a cry, he thrust full at my breast, a blow that would have finished me; but he was too much exhausted to strike true. the blade slipped between my arm and my shoulder, and caught for an instant--it was enough. recovering myself, i made one good lunge. he had on no armor, and the blade striking him full in the breast, right above the heart, passed entirely through his body and stood out a foot behind his back. with a shout, he threw up his hands and dropped like a log, the force of the fall wrenching the blade from his body. i stood holding the dripping sword in my hand, and looked down at him, as he lay upon the floor. a slight shudder passed over his body; one deep, long sigh came from his lips--and then he lay motionless. that figure, which but a short moment before had been animated with hatred and thirst for my life, was now powerless to help or hurt me. only a moment ago he had been a man, with a man's soul; had loved and sorrowed; had rejoiced and mourned; had toiled and striven--now he was but a lump of senseless clay. he had fought a good fight; he had his faults, but he was a man. peace to his ashes! picking up what remained of the candle from the floor, i walked back further into the cave. it seemed to me to be the work of nature; and at the further end a long, dark passageway led deeper into the earth. i hesitated a moment, as i peered into it. then i listened, but could hear nothing, so i plunged boldly into the tunnel, the candle in my left hand, my drawn sword before me in my right, its red blade still dripping. stopping i wiped the blood off upon my kerchief, and passed on down the narrow way. where it led i did not know; nor with what secret traps it was filled. it might be that i would learn the mystery of my captivity at the end; it might be that i would meet with such a fate as herrick. probably this tunnel led to some place where the pirates gathered to discuss the plans for their expeditions and forays; or it was possible that denortier had his treasure concealed somewhere within its dark depths, and even now these two men whom i had seen had been sent to watch it. i must be careful, or i would walk full into the pirates' arms. i had walked perhaps a hundred feet, when i stopped. two paths diverged here--one to the right, the other to the left; both yawned dark, gloomy, and mysterious before me. i had long since passed out of the natural part of the cave, and this was plainly the work of man, for i could see upon its sides the mark of the pick and shovel. both ways looked alike to me. hesitating a moment, i drew a coin from my pocket. if the queen's head fell uppermost, i would go to the right; if the reverse, to the left. i tossed the coin into the air and bent over it as it fell. it had fallen upon its face, and turning to the left, i passed on down the path about one hundred and fifty feet more. i stopped again. before me, shining down from the top of the rock overhead, a few yards away, there gleamed a light. moving cautiously forward, i blew out my candle, and in a moment came upon a flight of stone steps. looking up, i could see that what had appeared to me to be a light was simply an opening in the wall above me, which led into a lighted room. ascending the steps, i stood in the bed-chamber of denortier. i had never been in it before. it was the only room in the house, so far as i knew, that i had never entered; but the door was always fastened when i tried it, and i could find no key that would fit the lock. heavy tapestry lined the walls, and as i stood in the room i was concealed from view by the embroidered arras, which hung directly in front of the trap-door, hiding it from the sight of the occupants of the chamber. the floor was of polished wood, as was the rest of the house, and bending down i closed the aperture through which i had come, noting as i did so how cunningly it fitted into the wood, so as to be indiscernible to the eye. a thought struck me. i had best leave the trap-door ajar; it might be that those who had left it open might wish to go through it again. it would arouse suspicion were it found closed. bending down i endeavored to again open the door, but in vain. it was evidently worked by some secret spring, and desisting from the vain attempt, i peered through the hangings into the brilliantly lighted room. the same golden candelabra suspended from the wall; the same heavy, elegant furniture and luxurious couches; the same soft rugs and skins upon the floors; even the identical odor of flowers, tropical and sweet-scented. upon a little table stood a bottle of that same delicious nectar that i had drunk before; even the very golden goblets were there, from which denortier and i, and also father francis, had sipped the amber juice. i had not tasted such wine as that since the fat priest had drunk with me, that night which had proved so near his undoing. denortier had sailed the next day, where, i did not know; the burly francis i had not seen since, until this evening in the cave; only herrick, the grim, with a few hardy ruffians, had remained behind. i had already stepped into the room, thinking to let myself out of the door and into the great hall, when the soft thud of approaching footsteps caused me to dodge back behind the friendly tapestry. a key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and i heard the tread of footsteps across the threshold. the key turned again, and the voice of denortier broke the silence. "come, my dear lord, thou art safe here. be seated, pray." the noise of some heavy article being pushed over the floor, and i could hear them throw themselves upon the couches. only one man with the count, whom, i did not know. i had only heard him growl out a brief "thank thee," as he took the proffered seat. a man of rank, too, evidently, for denortier had said, "my lord." what did a noble in this part of the world? english, too, by his voice. i had as soon expected to see an elephant here as an english lord. the stranger spoke. "where is our prisoner?" he said in a low, clear voice. "i care not to meet him during my brief stay here." where had i heard that voice before? it sounded as familiar to me as my own. in london, surely, but i could not for my life remember whose it was. could i but peer out from my hiding-place without detection, i would soon find out who the visitor was. carefully, very carefully, i drew aside a fold of the arras and looked out. there facing me and looking down at denortier, who sat opposite, a grin of pleasure upon his face, sat the viscount james henry hampden. the same piercing gray eye, dark brown hair and pointed beard; the same nose and broad, wide mouth; the same cold, hard expression upon his face. as though he were at lady wiltshire's ball, instead of upon a wild island in the unknown western seas, he sat there, gay and careless. so this was the explanation that i had sought so long. he should pay dearly for this deed. i had a heavy reckoning against him, but it could wait for a while. perhaps i would learn something of interest to me to-night. luckily this part of the room (i was in the furthest corner) was in the shadow, for the tapestry hung some six or eight inches from the wall, and i could move stealthily behind it without being seen from the room. but the count was speaking. "no fear of that, my lord. i inquired from one of the servants as i came in, and he informed me that our prisoner had not returned from a long hunt. he is probably sleeping in the hut of some native to-night. have no fear--he cannot hear of thy arrival." and now he proceeded to fill one of the golden goblets with wine; pushing it toward hampden, and filling another for himself, he said, "let us drink a toast in this rare old wine. what shall it be? i await thy pleasure," and he rose to his feet and bowed. the viscount hesitated; for a moment he sat as if undecided. but the wine he had drunk before had mounted to his head, and he too arose to his feet and extended his glass. "i give thee a toast!" he cried, his colorless cheek warming. "one for gods and men! drink with me to the fairest of earth's mortals, as divinely beautiful and as innocent as an angel; one upon whose slightest word all london hangs--to the lady margaret carroll!" and he drained the great golden goblet in a draught. "the lady margaret carroll!" rejoined the sea rover, lifting the goblet to his lips. "may she be the bride of the bravest gallant!" and he too drained his cup to the dregs. the viscount still stood staring at him as the count finished his cup and set it upon the table. "yes," said he finally, with a frown, "may the bravest man win her." and following the example of denortier, he resumed his reclining position upon the couch. "and now, my lord," the adventurer continued, "how long since is it that thy noble uncle died, and thou didst come into the possession of the title and estate?" "only a bare two months ago," answered hampden, with a growl. "i thought the old fool would never die. he hung on to the estates and title as though he thought that he could carry them in his doublet with him, when he passed out of this world. i had thought that i would finally have to end his sufferings with my dagger, but he at last saved me that trouble. the saints be praised!" with a devout sigh at the thought of such sin and wickedness, he put to his lips the goblet that the count had refilled, and drank off half of its contents with a gulp. then putting it down once more on the table, he continued: "i had been here long since had it not been for that; but from day to day i kept waiting for the old lord to die. each day we thought would be his last, but he held on for months," and looking up at the golden candelabra, he sighed again. "and what effect had the titles and estates upon thy lady love?" asked denortier, with a slight smile. "surely, lord dunraven, the possessor of an ancient title and lordly estates, would be a fit mate for any lady, barring none. even the queen would not stoop did she unite her fate with so noble a line." lord dunraven frowned blackly. "it is true many a titled lady would be proud to be lady dunraven, wife of one of the greatest noblemen of england, but the foolish girl is as obstinate as a donkey. she would have none of it; told me she would be my friend ever, but i could never hope for more. the foul fiend fly away with such a friend!" he cried, his anger, stimulated by the rich wine, arising at the thought. "i believe that she loves this sir thomas winchester, so i had thee to bring him here." my heart gave a great bound of joy as i heard this. was it possible that lady margaret carroll, courted and admired, with the choice of england's nobility before her, herself the bearer of a proud name, and with great estates, did she--could she--love and remember a gentleman spurned by his own family, penniless, an outcast from his home? was she true to me, or was it only maidenly coyness, but used to heat my lord's passion, that she repulsed him thus? "if i cannot win, he shall not!" and rising to his feet, dunraven began to pace the floor. the pirate's face wore a serious air, and fingering the goblet before him, he spoke to lord dunraven, who was tramping restlessly to and fro. "if thou fearest that, my lord, why not say the word? a dagger in the back, and thy rival would be out of thy way forever." "no," dunraven said, stopping for a moment his aimless walk. "no; i reserve him for a more exquisite torture than that; he would not suffer--a blow, and he would be out of his misery. but to see her in my arms, his successful rival, to have her cry to him for aid, and he bound helpless, unable to do aught but writhe in impotent agony--agony which wrings the soul--ah, my friend! that would be revenge indeed, such as i long for. watch over him carefully. i would not have him come to harm for an earl's ransom. curse him! how i hate him! when i can bring him to such a fate as this i shall be content, and not until then will i rest." "and what are thy plans?" denortier asked, his hands still fingering listlessly the massive goblet. the other looked at him keenly with his cold gray eye. "can i trust thee?" he asked suspiciously. the adventurer laughed sardonically. "thou hast trusted me thus far," he answered. "have i played thee false in aught that thou askest me this?" "forgive me," replied the viscount. "forgive me--but there hangs so much at stake that i fear to trust myself. listen, and thou shalt learn my plans and purpose," and drawing up a heavy chair to the table, he seated himself. filling up another goblet of wine, and drinking it down as though it were a thimbleful, he resumed: "the lady will not yield to me. i will give her but one more chance to freely and of her own will become my bride. if she still refuses to consent, then," a frown, dark and ominous, passed over his face, "i will by some ruse obtain possession of her and by force carry her on board one of my ships. then, ho for eldorado!" "yes," he said, noticing the look of astonishment upon the spaniard's face, "sir thomas winchester shall behold her my bride. when he has suffered enough to satisfy me, i will put him out of the way. we will stay here until my lady becomes reconciled, and then we will sail back to england and home," and his eyes, so cold and gray, lighted up with delight and pleasure as he surveyed the face of the other. his companion did not at once speak, but sat in silence. "and all this," he finally said musingly--"all this toil and blood and sweat for one woman, when a score as beautiful stand at thy elbow. truly did some wise man say, 'what fools we mortals be.'" "ah!" answered dunraven, rising from his chair, "thou hast not seen the lady margaret carroll. didst thou but lay eyes upon her, thou wouldst wonder no longer, for she is the daintiest slip of mortality that ever graced this cold gray earth. man, half london is wild over her!" "it may be so," denortier replied, yawning behind his hand. "i would, for my part, prefer some less lovely maid who would be won more easily, and without all this labor." "_tendit ad astra!_" cried my lord. then bending across the table, "thou shouldst see this lady. did i not fear that she would entangle that black heart of thine in her golden tresses, i would take thee in disguise with me to london, and show thee this wondrous beauty." "no fear of that," rejoined denortier, a grim smile of amusement upon his countenance. "would the lady prefer a worn old warrior, his neck resting uneasily upon his shoulders, to a noble of england, handsome, rich, accomplished?" and he drummed his fingers restlessly upon the table, his legs sprawled out before him. "thou flatterest me, my friend, and underratest thyself. the lady would look twice before she refused thee." and dunraven looked at his companion. truly they were a striking pair as they sat together beneath the candlelight, and thou couldst have searched europe, and not have found their match for comeliness and martial bearing. dunraven, with his broad shoulders, his striking face, his proud pose, dark brown hair and beard; the spaniard, more slender, but quicker, more agile, his jet-black hair and beard gleaming like the wing of a crow in the light. they were a dangerous couple. denortier was the leopard, restless, cunning, lurking ready to spring at a moment's warning--not so big as his bulky companion, but with muscles of steel; dunraven, bigger, heavier, clumsier, but more powerful--the bear. woe to the creature that he locked in his iron arms; he would crush the life from him, even as a vise. they both now sat silent and motionless, wrapped in their own thoughts, neither breaking the deep silence that reigned in the room. quick steps sounded upon the floor outside. a loud rap upon the door, and then another. "what is it?" denortier cried, springing to his feet and catching up his sword, which lay upon the floor beside him. "the sentry swears that he saw the gleam of the moonlight upon a sail, captain," a gruff voice answered. "the fiends!" cried the adventurer. then turning to dunraven, who had risen to his feet, he whispered rapidly, "down the stairs into the passageway--quick! wait for me there; i will join thee as soon as i can," and he stepped forward to unbolt the door. hampden dashed behind the tapestry. "where?" he cried. "what passageway?" and he looked at the floor about him. "i forgot," denortier answered, "that thou dost not know the secret." crossing the room and pushing aside the tapestry, he knelt a moment upon the floor and pressed his hand against it. there was a quick click, and slowly the trap door rose. hampden sprang through it. i held my breath, my unsheathed sword in hand. surely they must see me; but no, they were too much engaged. denortier sprang up as soon as the trap door yawned open, and rushing over to the door, unlocked and opened it. it slammed to behind him, and he ran down the hall, the sailor following. in an instant i was through the opening beside me, sword in hand. my enemy was in my grasp. we would fight out the quarrel below, with none but the dead to interrupt us. one of us would come out perhaps; he would have the field to himself; however it ended, the matter would be settled. if my lord fell, i would have the ground to myself; if he triumphed, it would not disturb me; if i fell beneath his sword, it could not matter to the dead. at the sound of my footsteps, he, not knowing who it was that followed, quickened his own. the dim light through the trap door died out, and we were treading in total darkness. guided by the sound of his feet, i ran on after him. i had no wish to fight under denortier's chamber; some one might hear and interrupt us. i would wait until we got further on into the cavern, where we would be undisturbed. several minutes passed; i judged that we were out of hearing, and raising my voice shouted: "why hurry, my lord? the night is young yet, and we have much to settle between us. wait for me but a moment, and i will join thee." i heard him stop in the darkness. "ha!" he said, "speak of the devil and we hear his wings. so that was thou who ran down after me into this black hole; thou must have been behind the arras and have heard all that i said. well, no matter, dead men tell no tales," and he laughed, a ring of menace sounding in it. i thrust out in the darkness before me with my sword; he could not be far away, by the sound of his voice--but my blade only struck against the wall, the steel ringing as though struck by a hammer. i heard his footsteps move on down the tunnel. "stop!" i cried, "i have long wished to settle several small matters with thee. if thou wilt but wait for me an instant, we will go out into the moonlight, and there we will cross blades and fight out our difference." "why should i fight thee?" he answered, his voice coming from in front of me. "the game is mine; did i wish thee knifed, a dozen men stand ready to do it at my command. why should i risk my life? i do not wish to kill thee, for i reserve thee for a more delicious fate," and his laugh, low and smothered, floated back to me. "dog!" i cried, my anger getting the best of me--anger at the taunt--anger that my sword could not reach him. "boast not, 'there be many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' i may not win my lady but thou at least shalt not have her. rather would i see her dead than meet such a fate." "when thou beholdest her resting peacefully upon my breast, my arms around her, my lips pressed close to hers, then, and not till then, will i be content. fear not. only a few months, and thou wilt behold her mine. till then--adieu!" and his footsteps moved again. then silence. with a curse i rushed on down the dark passageway, prodding with my sword the walls, cutting the darkness in front of me wildly. like a madman i dashed on until, cracking my head upon the projecting stone, i staggered back, fell at full length upon the floor, and so was checked in my mad career. getting on my feet again, i called. no answer. "dunraven!" i cried, "where art thou?" but only the echo of my own voice answered me. he was gone, as though the darkness had swallowed him up to protect him from my wrath. truly the devil had taken good care of his own. i resumed my way on down the cavern, for a gleam of light had caught my eye, far in front of me. i drew cautiously nearer; it was the moon shining down at the mouth of the cave, which i had entered a few brief hours ago. stumbling over the body of herrick as it lay where he had fallen, i scrambled up the embankment, pushed aside the bushes, and stood once more in the open air. far below me lay the mansion, its lights shining out into the darkness as though to welcome me back once more to life and hope. descending the hill, i made my way down to it. it was midnight when i stood again on the broad veranda between the great white pillars. no one was in sight, and passing into the hallway i ascended the stairs to my own room. chapter vi the plot thickens the next day after the death of herrick i set out again for the cavern, determined to find out, if possible, whether lord dunraven still lurked in its dark recesses; and also to follow the right-hand tunnel to its termination, for it might be that it led to some place from which i could escape. i strode up the hill again, and before pushing through the hedge which screened the mouth of the cave, i turned and looked about me. there was no one in sight, and so bending my head, i brushed aside the bushes and entered. lighting the candle which i had brought with me, i peered around. the body of herrick was gone; evidently someone had removed it since last night. i passed rapidly down the passage, until i reached the place where the two paths diverged. i took the one to the right, and with my candle over my head made my way down it. there was nothing unusual about the tunnel, it loomed about me much as had the other. its sides and floor were of white stone which gleamed in the candlelight. i had probably gone about two hundred feet when there came a sudden gust of wind which blew my candle out. now i was at a loss to account for this, as it felt more like an artificial gust than a natural one; more as if someone with a great fan had created a breeze. fumbling about, i found my flint and steel which i always carried with me, and striking it, i relit my candle and looked around. there was no one in sight, and so pausing an instant, i started on my way again. i had barely taken a couple of steps when there came a second blast of wind, as sudden and unexpected as the first, and my candle was blown out again, as silently and quickly as it had been before. exasperated by this recurrence i angrily struck another light, and as i did so the candle was snatched from my hand, and a low mocking laugh ran through the tunnel; sinister and cold it sounded in my ears, and at the noise i shrank back. i am not a superstitious man (i have seen too much of the world for that), but the flint and steel as i struck it, had lit up the cave around me for an instant with a flash of light, and it was at that instant that the candle had been caught from me. it had been no human hand that had done this, for i could see distinctly around, and naught had touched my hand; only as i looked had the candle fallen from my fingers. again and again i struck the flint and steel, and peered wonderingly about me. there was no trace of the candle anywhere, only the bare, cold walls of the cave could i see, as i stood with white face and shaking hands. the accents of a voice, stern and low, from i knew not where, fell upon my ears: "go back! go back! and if thou wouldst live, come not again to this place." a sudden shiver passed over me, and my knees knocked together with terror; there was a grandeur and majesty in the tones that i had heard in no earthly language. it was as though i listened to the voice of a god. a sudden dread fell upon my soul as i stood there, and the craven "fear" which i had never known before in all my life, on the fields of ireland, or in great london, smote me with his cold hand. gone were my manhood and courage now, and i became as some old withered hag, crouched in the chimney by the fire. with a yell i turned and fled down that silent cavern, as though grim death himself were at my heels. twice i dashed into the wall in the darkness and fell, screaming at the top of my voice, thinking that the fiends had me for sure; but i was up again in an instant, and with another wild yell had resumed my flight. my reason had forsaken me for the moment, and i was as though a madman. i fancied i could see white figures, with outstretched hands and glaring eyes, awaiting me at every step. screaming and yelling i rushed on, and never once did i slacken pace, until in front of me i saw the light streaming through the undergrowth at the entrance. dashing up the embankment, i tore through the bushes and out into the open air again, where i cast myself flat upon the ground and sobbed with thankfulness for the sunlight, the calm blue sky above me, and the fresh air beating upon my face. it must have been a ruse of denortier's to frighten me from the cave, fearing that i would discover some of his secrets or perhaps his buried treasure; and if it were a trick, it served his purpose well, for never, from that day to this, have i put foot again in that cavern. not for a barrel of gold would i tread again its dark recesses and feel that thrill of horror at the sound of that solemn voice. i sometimes now at night awake trembling with fear, thinking i hear once more in my ears those calm, majestic tones, the like of which i have never heard again from the lips of man. an hour after i had rushed from the cavern i was standing on the porch of the mansion, watching the ocean as it roared and chafed against its sandy prison, as though it were some caged thing striving to be free. * * * * * * * two weeks had flown by since i had listened to lord dunraven's voice in denortier's chamber. two weeks in which i had waited, my nerves keyed up to the highest pitch, for the next move from my enemies; but no sound came. my lord i had not seen since that night when he had disappeared in the cavern. it was as though he had vanished forever; but i knew that somewhere behind the scene he was watching and waiting for the time to ripen, so that the curtain could rise for the last scene in the tragedy. denortier had said naught to me, though he must have known of herrick's death, and of the fact that i now had discovered the secret of my captivity. he still came and went as heretofore. i heard the sound of footsteps behind me and turning i saw one of the indian attendants, called josé. "what is it, josé?" i asked, speaking in his own tongue. "the señor wishes to talk with thee," he answered. "even now he waits in the great room," and so saying he disappeared into the house. so the next move had come after all. i would be very watchful and silent, and so thinking, i passed into the hall and back to the great room where denortier awaited me. he was seated there in one of the huge chairs, his head buried in his hands, and did not hear me as i entered. "what is it, count?" i asked. i had not seen him in several days, and the change in his appearance startled me; it was so different from his accustomed look. "art sick?" i asked, "or what is it that ails thee?" he answered slowly and lifelessly. "i have even now a throbbing headache. but be seated, there is something of importance that i would speak to thee of." seating myself near him, i waited in silence to hear what he would say. "thou wilt remember that a few months ago i freed a beautiful spanish girl at thy request. at that time thou didst tell me that i might do with thee what i would, if i but freed the maid. is this not true?" "it is true," i answered. "but at the same time i told thee that i would do nothing unworthy of an english gentleman. thou dost remember that too?" "distinctly," he replied. "what i now ask of thee is nothing that would stain the honor of even the most scrupulous. 'tis but a simple thing. if thou wilt sign the paper that i shall hand to thee in a moment, then not only wilt thou have kept thy promise to me, but in addition thou shalt be set at liberty, with the sum of five hundred pounds to speed thee on thy way. come, 'tis a generous offer, and one worthy of thy acceptance." "where is the paper?" i asked. "let me but see that, and i will then tell thee in a few moments whether i will sign it or not." the count reached his hand within his doublet and drew out a long stiff paper. he looked me full in the eye, and i could see the excitement upon his face, try as he would to conceal it. "do nothing rash," he said in a hurried tone. "believe me or not, i wish thee well, and would grieve to see thee come to harm. be cool, and weigh well what thou doest; for after thou hast once chosen, thy decision cannot be revoked. on one side liberty, on the other side imprisonment and perhaps death," and he coughed dryly behind his hand. "choose which thou wouldst have," and he extended the paper to me. i took it in my hand and breaking the seal, held it up to the candlelight. what paper could it be, that would be worth such a price as this? "this indenture made and entered into this the twenty-fifth day of february, , a.d. and in the reign of our sovereign queen----" i glanced on further down. "between thomas winchester, kt., of the city of london, england, party of the first part, and james henry hampden, lord dunraven, of the city and county aforesaid, party of the second part. witnesseth: that for, and in consideration of the sum of five hundred pounds to me in hand paid----" a long string of legal phrases followed, all jargon, and without meaning to me. " ... said party of the first part, doth hereby relinquish, release, assign and transfer all the right, title, interest or pretension, which he may have or possess, to and in the hand of the lady margaret carroll, of riverdale, england. and the said thomas winchester, kt., doth hereby promise and bind himself not to have any communication by any means whatsoever with the said lady margaret carroll, and doth further bind himself not to set foot in england for the space of fifty years from the date hereinbefore set out; and to reside abroad during the whole of that time." i had seen enough. tearing the document into a thousand fragments, i scattered them to the four winds, before the astonished spaniard could rise from his chair. then turning to him, my voice hoarse with anger, i cried: "and thou hast the hardihood to present such a paper as this to me to sign? on guard and defend thyself," and drawing my blade, i stood waiting for him to rise. but the count did not move from his seat nor turn even so much as an eyelash. "strike if thou wilt," he replied calmly. "i will not defend myself," and he sat still and motionless where he was. i could not murder him in cold blood, and he would not budge to raise a finger in his own behalf. sheathing my sword i leaned over the table, and speaking slowly and distinctly, my face almost touching his own, i said: "go back and tell thy master that i spurn his offer as i would himself, were he not too much of a coward to be here in person, instead of sending thee as a tool in his place." and turning on my heel, without so much as another look at him, i strode away and out of the house. a storm was brewing upon the sea. already the dark, heavy clouds hung over us, and a calm, deep, ominous silence seemed to brood over earth and sky, as though the storm god gathered every nerve and sinew, and crouching low, poised himself for one great effort that would carry terror into the hearts of men. passing down the steps of the house, i made my way out to the sea. my mind was in a chaos of thoughts and doubts, and i longed for the storm and struggle of the tempest. the pale twinkling stars above me were vanishing one by one behind the storm clouds; cold and silent they looked down on me from their great heights, as they had gazed upon so many of the storm-tossed children of men. generations and ages had passed away since they had seen the first mortal upon the earth. what mattered it to them that poor sin-cursed humanity lived and died; had their loves and hates; their friends and foes; their good days and their bad ones; lived their little span, and then crept away to make room for others who would take their places. a sense of my own littleness crossed my mind. out here with nature, stripped of all the gloss and glitter of civilization; alone, without that sense of security which comes to us when we are huddled with our fellows; a single atom upon the troubled sea of life--my own perplexities seemed to dwindle, and a feeling of peace swept over my care-worn spirit. the storm was about to burst; great white-capped billows surged up, like the serried ranks of the foe ready to charge. the roar deepened and increased to a perfect thunder which seemed to shake the very earth. the sea lashed and whipped itself into a foaming caldron; the winds howled like the spirits of the departed; and the great black clouds seemed to almost touch the very sea. a flash of lightning forked, many-tongued, sprang athwart the sky, and a burst of thunder peeled forth like the roar of a score of culverins. one lone bird, solitary and forsaken, beat forward before the approaching gale. such was my life i thought, as i watched him struggle against the wind. why must i ever be the storm petrel, sport for the wind and wave, borne on, ever on, before the tempest, by the resistless force of the blast. my old friends sat in london to-night with lights and cheer. the old mermaid inn rang with song and jest as they passed the cup, and smoked the fragrant weed that had been brought back from the golden virginia. i could almost hear the hoarse tones of francis drake as he spun out some long-winded yarn; could hear the deep-chested laugh of raleigh; and the yell ring out as bobby vane struck up some light-hearted ditty, and the others with a roar joined the chorus. theirs was a pleasant, easy way, smooth to the foot, bright with the garlands of flowers and the companionship of their fellows; mine was a solitary, lonely road, rough and stormy, with no friend to help or aid me. i must walk high up above the crowd, walk as best i might, this untrod path until morn. so be it. i would not murmur at what fate held in store for me. come what might, i would at least play my part with what courage i possessed. a slight sound seemed to come from the darkness about me. i bent forward and listened. someone was evidently approaching, making his way toward the mansion. i could hear the quick crunch of the sand under the advancing feet, though the night had grown inky black and i could distinguish no figure in the gloom. throwing myself flat upon the sand, i waited for the coming traveler. the sound came nearer and passed where i lay, invisible in the night. just as it moved swiftly by, there was a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the darkness with dazzling brilliancy, and throwing into relief the stout form of father francis, as with head bent down to avoid the force of the wind, he stood motionless, his back to me, waiting for the crash of the thunder to die away. what was the priest doing here, at this time of night and in such a gale? it must be something of importance that called him forth, for he loved his own ease too well to sally out in the storm and tempest without good cause. like a flash i sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as i did so; and as he stood there motionless, before he could turn, i was upon him. catching the weapon by the blade, i brought the heavy hilt upon his head, and with a dull thud, he fell to the ground. kneeling beside him, i ran my hand over his garments as he lay there. perhaps he had some paper or message that he was carrying, which would be of use, could i but discover it. ah! i touched a square oblong package in the folds of his cassock, and running my hand on the inside, i drew it out. they were papers most probably, tied up securely, with a fold of canvass around them. was there aught else there? i searched thoroughly, but could find nothing further, though i felt over every inch of his robe. as i straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of rain poured down upon me. hastily sheathing my sword, i left the priest where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in my hand. had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows, i would never have found it in the darkness; but i reached the porch, after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its fury. hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, i stepped upon the veranda and passed into the hall. denortier, pale and distraught, was standing in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm. "'tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "see the surf," and he pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us. "terrible," i answered. "the wind roars like the culverins of a fleet." passing him, i made my way up to my own room. lighting the candle and fastening the door, i looked around me. all was quiet and silent, and going to the window, i drew the curtain across it. then seating myself under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, i cut the fastenings and opened the package. drawing out a paper, i looked at it. it was a brief account of the coming of hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which existed. but it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, i picked up the next one. an account of the disappearance of sir thomas winchester. "he had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... a great loss to london society. a diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...." i threw it aside with a smile. evidently this was dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, i had no doubt that he was the author. my lord wished it thought that i was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. if ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was dunraven. several other papers i saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of denortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it. the rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the viscount james henry hampden. i had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. i had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. there was only one whom i knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, i read the few brief lines it contained. only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name--margaret carroll. yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island, separated from her by leagues of rolling water, i pressed that sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy. thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where i could feel the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, i arose to my feet. replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, i looked around the room. where should it be concealed? i could not keep it about my person, that was out of the question. my eye fell upon a heavy chest against the wall, and moving it i pushed the papers under the bottom; they could stay there at least, until i could find a better place. i was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as i was, upon the bed, i dropped off to sleep. chapter vii the phantom and now i am about to recount an occurrence so strange and unearthly that i have sometimes since doubted whether it was not the creation of my own fancy; whether or not i really saw what i am about to relate. i can offer no reasonable hypothesis that would account for such a physical impossibility--something that we are taught to sneer at--i can only say with others who have trod before us: "there are more things in heaven and earth, horatio, than are dreamed of in thy philosophy." i can only set down in black and white what really took place, as best i can. i know not how long i slept, whether one hour or five; i only know that i was awakened by that peculiar sensation which thou hast felt in thy sleep, when conscious that someone is gazing intently at thee. rubbing my eyes, i looked around the room. the storm clouds had passed away as rapidly as they had come, and the moonlight, streaming through the window, bathed the whole room in a flood of light, and lit it up as brightly as could the noonday sun. there, standing cold and grim and gray near the bed, some six or eight paces away, clothed in a coat of antique armor, leaning upon his great bloody sword, his eyes fixed sternly upon me, was the figure of geoffrey winchester, first lord richmond. there is a tradition in the family, handed down from father to son, from generation to generation, which runs somewhat like this: when william the conqueror landed in england, he brought with him from normandy a certain stout, sturdy, and gallant gentleman--this same geoffrey winchester--whom he held in high esteem for his stout arm and undaunted courage. at the great battle of hastings, the death-blow to so many noble saxon scions of great families, this gentleman, geoffrey, bore himself with great valor. twice was william beaten to his knees by the furious assaults of the desperate saxons, and twice did geoffrey come to the rescue, and with his great two-handled sword clear a path around the king. and so after the battle was over, william had called the norman to him, and had asked him what he would have, telling him that he should have what he willed, even to the half of his kingdom. and winchester had answered, so the legend ran, that he cared not for earthly honors, but he would that he might be able to come to the rescue of those of his own blood, when in some danger from their foes. the king, struck by the strangeness of his request, had called to him a pious bishop who had fought by his side that day, and recounted to him what the soldier would have. the holy man of god had turned to geoffrey winchester, and bidding him kneel, had prayed to the god of battle that he grant the request of winchester's heart, and then blessing him, had said: "thou hast chosen wisely. so be it. in the ages to come, when thou hast long crumbled into the dust, still thou shalt have the power to appear once to those of thine own blood when they are in sore distress, and warn them of danger. go thou in peace." and so it had been from that day. when richmond castle was sacked during the troublous times of stephen's reign, the phantom had appeared to warn the third lord richmond, who had escaped barely in time to save himself. in the reign of richard coeur de lion, john winchester, sixth lord richmond, who accompanied the king on his crusade to the holy land, saw this vision, which told him not to embark on the vessel that was to carry the host across the mediterranean sea. he did as the spectre had cautioned, and though his companions jeered at him for his craven heart to fear a dream of the night, still he stood firm, and the ship had gone down with all her crew on board. and so on down the ages. my grandfather, fighting the scots upon the frontier, was warned by the gray geoffrey to ride for england without delay. he waited for naught, but mounted and dashed away post-haste; an hour later the camp was sacked and burned by the wild highlanders, and the whole company put to the sword. once, and only once, he had appeared, sooner or later, to each of the blood of winchester, and in their hour of direst need had warned them of their danger. true to the story, he stood before me to-night, just as he had stood when the bishop had blessed him at the battle of hastings, the great dents still in his armor, his huge sword dripping with blood. there was no mistake; i had often seen his picture, when i had been but a child at the castle, and it had made an impression upon me. there was something wild, but yet noble, that i could never forget, in that bold, dark eye, the broad, high forehead, prominent, curved nose, and mouth set in its stern mould. and now as i lay gazing at him the marrow almost froze in my bones; the cold, damp sweat stood out in great beads upon my forehead; my very hair seemed to rise on my head; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; i could not speak. for a moment he stood thus, looking down at me, while his dark piercing eyes seemed to read the very secrets of my bosom. and then he spoke--or was it but the beating of my own heart? "up! be vigilant!" for an instant i saw him standing there, and then--there was only the moonlight as it cast the moving light and shadow upon the wall opposite. he was gone. springing up, with trembling hand i found my flint and steel, and lit the candle. carefully i searched every nook and cranny of the broad room--there was nothing here; no one but myself. whatever there was to fear was plainly outside, and i knew not what to guard against, nor how to prepare myself for the danger that even now approached me; for i had no doubt that the specter spoke truth. he had never deceived one of my name yet, and deep down in my heart, i felt--yes, i knew--with a conviction unmistakable, that i stood to-night in perhaps the greatest peril of any which i had yet faced. blowing out the candle and drawing my sword, i took my seat in the darkest corner of the room, and waited--i knew not for what. i sat there an hour; no sound floated up from the silent house, nothing stirred; only the moon, pale and calm, shone down into the window. what meant the warning? did danger imminent and portentous threaten me? i could draw no other meaning from the vision; and if so, where and how did it approach? i could only wait. this much i knew, that whenever the first lord richmond had appeared to any of my house, on down through the ages, he had ever warned of some great peril, which, but for his appearance, would have proven the end of him to whom he spoke. an hour i sat there, silent and motionless, my drawn sword in my hand, and then--i had almost persuaded myself that i had dreamed of the spectre, and turned to go to bed when lo! i heard a slight sound. it was as if someone had halted near me, i knew not exactly where, and stopped to listen. then a click, and from the shadow of the room opposite, as though from out the solid wall, there stepped a man. slowly, silently, he crept forward; quietly, softly, as though he feared to breathe, he crossed the room and drew near the bed. then as he stood beside it, he straightened himself, raised his hand high, and as he drew back to strike i saw something glitter in the dim light. dropping my sword, i sprang forward with one bound, and caught him by one hand on his throat, the other clutching the arm that held the dagger. a short struggle, and i felt him grow limp under my iron grasp, for i held his throat like a vise. carrying him forward in my arms to the window, and laying him down on the floor, i peered into his face. it was the fat priest. i waited patiently, the dagger that he had dropped clasped in my hand. it was a long, sharp blade, and had it not been for my ghostly visitant, i would even now sleep that sleep that knows no waking. a long sigh from the priest; he was coming to his senses. sitting up, he looked around him, and catching sight of me as i stood opposite, the dagger in my hand, he cowered back against the wall, and covered his face with his hand. "listen," i said, bending toward him. "one sound, and i will run this dagger into that craven heart of thine. if thou dost fail to answer one question of mine, i shall say no word, but i will kill thee where thou sittest. take away thy hand from thine eyes, and answer me quickly, as i put the questions to thee. dost hear?" father francis had jerked his hands from his face like a puppet figure, and now he sat by the window, his ruddy face all white and ghastly in the moonlight. "what wouldst thou have?" he moaned. "who sent thee here?" i asked. "answer me quickly and truly, or into the nether world thou goest," and i flashed his dagger in his face. "in the name of heaven!" he cried in alarm. "good sir thomas, brandish not the dagger about me so recklessly; should it but slip and strike me, i would be done for this world," and he shrank back against the wall. "it would but serve thee right," i answered grimly. "thou deservest no better fate. answer me as i tell thee," and i pricked his fat arm with the point of the weapon. with a loud howl of pain, he rubbed the injured spot vigorously. "no one sent me," he said sullenly. "didst thou not strike me down but a few short hours ago, without cause or provocation, as i walked peaceably along the shore, and then take from me papers that concerned thee not? am i a man, that i should bear such treatment as this quietly? my head rings yet from the blow," and he raised his hand to his forehead, where there was a great swollen place as large as an egg. "thou liest," i answered coolly. "speak truly; one last chance i give thee, and if thou dost fail to answer, thy soul shall go out to join that of thy comrade herrick," and i made as if to stab him. the ruse succeeded admirably. "stop!" he cried. "stop! wouldst thou murder me? i will answer truly, if thou wilt but give me time. it was denortier." "and so thou wouldst creep upon a man and slay him unawares, while he sleeps. is that all the manhood that remains in thee? i would not soil my hand with such carrion as thou art. though thou dost richly deserve death, yet thou shalt go unharmed this once; but remember this, if thou dost cross my path again i will slay thee as i would a serpent, calmly and without compunction. go! and tell thy master that he should do such work as this like a man; not hire such scum to do that which he fears to attempt himself. but stay a moment," i said, as the priest scrambled to his feet, and began to slink toward the door. "give me that ring of mine which thou wearest upon thy finger." and i held out my hand for it. slowly he drew it from his pudgy finger, and dropped it into my outstretched palm. "and another thing, how camest thou into the room? show me but that, and thou shalt go unharmed." and catching him by the collar, i dragged him across the floor to the corner where i had seen him first. with a growl he raised his hand, and touched the wall with his finger. immediately a panel slipped back and disclosed an opening in the solid wood. i turned to him. "go!" i said, pointing to the door, "before i forget myself and run thee through. no--not through the panel, but out yonder door." he waddled back across the room, and turning the key in the lock, opened the door. stopping on the threshold, he looked back at me as i stood by the open panel. a smile was upon his fat countenance--a smile of triumph. "be not so sure that thou wilt explore yon passage to-night, my lord," he cried in glee. "the battle thou knowest is not ever to the strong;" and as he said this the secret door in the wall slid to with a snap, and with a loud laugh, even as i sprang towards him, he slammed the door of the room and the bolt turned in the lock. he had touched some secret spring outside, that closed the aperture in the wall. long i stood there on the floor listening, but i heard no sound. the house was as though all were wrapped in slumber. crossing to the window, i looked out; along the sand outside there was passing the figure of a man. i did not have to look twice to know who it was; short, thick, and clumsy, it could be none other than father francis. he halted, and i saw another man step forward to meet him. they were too far away for me to recognize who the stranger was; wrapped in a great cloak, he stood close to francis and they seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation, for they would turn and point towards the mansion as they talked, and i saw the priest double in a loud fit of laughter. at the sight a bitter smile crossed my lips, for i surmised that he was relating how he had outwitted and trapped me. i turned my head; footsteps soft and slow were coming down the hall, and at the sound i crossed over to the door, and beat upon it with the hilt of the dagger. the steps stopped outside. "what is it, señor?" said the low voice of one of the indian attendants, called josé. "open, josé," i whispered. "'tis i, sir thomas." a moment of silence. "i dare not, señor," he whispered. "what would the count say?" "open," i pleaded, "and thou shalt have a fine piece of gold with the face of the great mother across the water on it." an instant, and then the key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and the face of the native peered in. "i know not what the lord would say, did he know that i had done this," he muttered, trembling. "he need not know of it," i replied. "not unless thou dost tell him, for i most assuredly will not;" and tossing him a coin, i stopped only long enough to pick up my sword, which lay in the corner where i had dropped it. rushing quickly down the stairs and out of the house, i dashed toward the place where i had seen the priest and the stranger a few minutes before. the sky had clouded again, and it was evident that we were to have another storm; for in this changeable climate one moment the weather would be fine, and the next the heavens would be darkened by the heavy clouds. i made my way cautiously down the path and followed the couple who, several hundred yards ahead of me, were walking slowly by the side of the water, seemingly deep in confab. quietly and stealthily, keeping some distance behind, i followed them, gradually drawing nearer all the while. never once did they look behind, as with heads bent, they walked steadily on. suddenly i saw them stop, and i threw myself flat upon the sand. they were evidently discussing something of more than ordinary interest. who could the priest's companion be? i could not tell from this distance. they had seated themselves upon the bench, and at the sight, i crawled cautiously up to where the rough, uneven sand lay heaped back from the water, and began to worm my way, flat on my stomach, towards them. 'twas slow work, for i had to move at a snail's pace lest i should startle the twain, so engrossed in their conversation. minutes passed; i was getting nearer to them now, when there rang out a splash from the sea, and peering gradually up, i saw a boat, manned by four seamen, approaching rapidly the spot where the priest and his companion awaited them. turning my head, i could see that i was within a few yards of them; but i did not care to run into their hands with the boat approaching, so i lay quiet where i was. nearer it drew, until within a few yards of the land; then one of the sailors hailed. father francis answered; and the boat grated upon the sand, while the men rested on their oars in silence. as they did so, a stray moonbeam came out from behind the clouds and fell full into the face of the tall stranger, who had arisen and was about to step into the boat. it was lord dunraven. for a moment i lay still; and then, reckless of the seamen, thinking only of the way that he had slunk from me in the cave, of his plans against margaret, and how he would wrest her away from her friends and home if he could, i arose to my feet. "and so lord dunraven is afraid to walk in the day, and slinks about under cover of darkness to meet his hired assassins!" i cried ironically. "such bravery as this is worthy of thee, and deserves commendation." at the sound of my voice he had turned toward me, his foot upon the stern of the boat. "ah, sir thomas!" he said, "did i not have other plans on foot, i would meet thee here, and once and for all settle all matters of difference between us; but mighty reasons, which i have already stated to thee, forbid me from doing so. should i by any mischance fall by thy sword, it would be a shame that the loveliest lady of england should weep out her eyes in sorrow at my untimely fate. even now i go back to england to her kisses. i trust that thy stay upon the island may not prove unprofitable, and should time hang heavy on thy hands, perchance thou mightst amuse thyself with the thought of the bright lady in my arms. farewell!" and he stepped into the boat. "dog!" i cried, rushing forward, "wait but one moment, and thou shalt hold no lady in thy foul arms again." the priest, who had stood quietly on the sand, intending i suppose to see my lord off, at the first sound of my voice had pushed by dunraven and sprang into the boat. now as i ran forward, he cried: "wouldst thou wait for him? he is a fiend in disguise. did i not lock him up, and has he not broken loose? push off!--for the love of god push off!" his voice rising to a shriek as i neared them. the boatmen needed no second bidding; plainly they feared the cold steel in my hand, for in a twinkle they had pushed off, and bent their backs to the oars with a will. when i reached the spot where my lord had stepped on board, they were fifty feet or more from me. i hesitated for one moment, sorely tempted to spring into the surf and swim after them; but angered as i was, calm common sense came to my rescue. i was burdened with my steel breastplate and sword, and could not overtake the light boat manned by four sturdy seamen; even though i should, it would mean certain death to me. six men to one, and he in the water; so i stood and watched them pull away. oh for a musketoon! i could have picked off my lord, as he sat in the stern facing me, as easily as i would a hare. and even as i stood there upon the shore, biting my lips with rage to see them so easily glide out of my reach, my lord arose, and sweeping his hat from his head, bowed. "adieu!" he said. "may thy dreams be pleasant. i shall remember thee to my lady," and he took his seat with a smile upon his face. the boat dwindled down into a speck upon the water; still i stood there silent. dunraven seemed ever to escape me, as i had my hand upon his throat. what meant he when he said that he returned to england? did he speak truth, or was it but some lie to throw me off his track while he remained here to watch my movements? was the priest his spy kept here but to watch me, and perhaps the spaniard also, and report all that we did or said? it seemed so from the diary that i had read. perhaps dunraven distrusted the count as much as he did me, and was keeping an eye on us both. i was beginning to think that he had good reason to fear the spaniard, for had not the priest said in the cave to his companion herrick that he had seen denortier walk the floor in agony, and cry out "margaret! margaret!" i knew something of the count by this time, and realized that he was a dangerous foe. instead of one rival, it began to look as if i had two. perhaps i might be able to join forces with denortier, and thus outwit dunraven; then i could settle with the adventurer later. but where had the spaniard seen margaret? echo answered "where?" and so musing i retraced my steps towards the mansion, my head bent low in thought. the wind was rising again, and we would have a great storm if this but kept up for the night. it was nearly day when i stood again in my own room. something hung and dangled from the window, swinging to and fro in the rising wind, and knocking against the side of the house. my god! it could not be! rushing to the window, i drew through the grating the rope that hung outside; and there, his face bruised and disfigured, with gaping tongue, a great cut in his breast, hung the body of josé, the servant who had released me from the room only a short while before. cold, stiff, and lifeless he hung, and there, kneeling by his lifeless body, i swore that if god gave me health and strength i would pursue and punish the fiend who had done this deed. chapter viii i dice for a life it was noon before i awoke; a terrific storm was raging outside, and the sea was white with foam. dressing rapidly, i made my way to the great dining hall. often had i eaten there, sometimes alone, and sometimes with denortier, for when he was not on the island i ate alone; the men always kept to their barrack, and never came to the house save on some errand. they were uniformly respectful to me; they had evidently had orders from the captain to be so, and they knew him too well to dare to disobey his commands. i, of course, had naught to do with them, save occasionally to ask them some question. denortier supplied me with all that i needed. one evening when i returned from a stroll, i had found a new doublet and hose in my room; at another time a new feather for my hat. i had several times found small sums of money upon my table, and appreciated that delicate sense of honor which realized how i must feel, and did not roughly force what i needed upon me. denortier was seated at the table alone, eating a slice of venison. "welcome!" he said in a cordial tone. "this venison is excellent," and he took a great bite as he glanced up at me. there was no trace of the pallor and wildness of the night before in his manner; now self-composed, alert, calm, he was himself again. seating myself opposite him, i helped myself to the meat. "count, i have a grievance to lay before thee," i said. "what is it?" he inquired. "have any of the men failed to show thee the proper respect? if so, thou hast but to speak, and i will know how to punish them." "no, it is not that," i answered. "i find this morning the body of one of the natives swinging in front of my window. who has done this deed?" and i looked intently at him. his voice was cold as he replied: "he was a mutinous rogue, and even dared to disobey my orders. the safety of my plans--the safety of us all--depends upon the rigidity of the discipline which i maintain. did i but loose the reins, even for a moment, the men would break out of all bounds, and our heads would pay the penalty; so i punished him as he deserved." "no need to hang him to my window, if thou didst!" i cried. "thou hast done many deeds of bloodshed and sin, but as i live i shall have thy life for this!" and i struck the table with my fist a loud blow. "it is a warning, sir thomas," he drawled, "'a word to the wise is sufficient.' as for thy sword, put it up. i will not fight thee now; i told thee once before, that i could not cross swords with thee just yet. have no fear, i will meet thee; thou hadst best save thy wind and thy sword too, for thou wilt need them;" and he drummed upon the table with his fingers, unconcerned, though i stood within two feet of him, my sword in hand, and could have run him through before he could have saved himself. "dost thou call thyself a gentleman?" i asked bitterly, "and hire a cutthroat to slay a man, whom thou fearest to meet thyself?" a dull red flush covered the count's face, his eyes glittered like a trapped beast. "what meanest thou?" he growled hoarsely. "explain thyself, for i know not what thou referrest to." "i refer to last night, when father francis tried to knife me by thy command while i slept," i answered. "oh! thou art a noble of spain to do such work as this; and then fear to meet the man thou didst try to have murdered. i would disgrace myself by crossing swords with such as thee." "have a care," he growled, his face swollen with anger, "have a care lest i forget myself and run thee through. as for the priest, i swear to thee that i know naught of that which thou sayest, until thou didst tell me of it but a moment ago. this much i will say to thee, that i never yet feared man or devil. i have ever done my work in the open, have never stooped to such tricks as this, and were it not for a matter that i cannot explain i would fight thee now, and forever rid myself of thee." "save thy breath for one who will believe thee," i answered. "as for myself, i believe naught that thou hast said." and picking up my hat, i left him there, his face hot and red with rage, and walked out upon the porch. looking out i saw two sailors coming up the path, leading a youth between them. he was a stranger, young, handsome, with a sunny brown eye, long yellow locks, a frank, open face, and could not have been more than twenty years at most. as he came nearer i saw him glance at me. "what hast thou here?" i asked one of the men. he answered, respectfully enough: "a young gentleman, sir, who was washed ashore last night from the brig that went down. we kept him in the barrack, for he was half drowned, although to-day he is as bright as a cricket, and is the only soul that came ashore alive out of the ship." "art thou english?" i asked the youth. "yes," the young fellow replied, looking at me out of his frank eyes. "in whose hands am i?" "ask those who are better acquainted than myself," i replied. "the count is in the dining hall, my men." "come," said one of the sailors, and they led him in to where denortier sat. i watched him as they carried him into the hall; his was a fresh, young face, virile and strong, a captive too, like myself, and i naturally felt an interest in his fate. turning, i passed back into the dining hall, where the count, silent and moody, still sat. he was questioning the lad when i entered. "what is thy name?" he asked, speaking in english. "oliver gates," the boy replied in the same tone, his head held high. "what art thou doing in these strange seas?" the other said. "i was page to my lord lamdown," the lad answered brightly; "but i had grown tired of the soft, idle life, and being an orphan, with none of kin in england, i embarked with captain jones as a gentleman adventurer for the coast of cuba to trade with the natives. we had gotten this far and all seemed well, until last night the storm arose, and the ship went down." "where am i?" continued the boy, as denortier sat silent in the great chair, his head bent in thought, as though forgetful of all around him. at this question the pirate stirred, and raised his eyes to the handsome face of the lad. "i could best answer that question by telling thee into whose hands thou hast fallen," he said, with a frown. "i am the count denortier." oliver started, a look of fear crossed his face. "what!" he cried. "not denortier the pirate?" "the same," answered the adventurer, unmoved by the other's alarm. "i am in need of recruits," he continued. "thou dost seem a likely strippling, wilt thou come with us? thou shalt be my right-hand man, with thy pockets full of gold, and sword in hand thou wilt be the envy and admiration of all the maids in london," and he laughed, a grim look of mirth upon his face. but the lad stood determined. "i will not come," he said firmly, "though thou dost slay me. i was raised in the family of, and have served, a nobleman; thinkest thou that i would disgrace my training like this? to roam the seas with a band of cutthroats, and finally to swing 'twixt heaven and earth, a rope around my neck?" the answer seemed to fan the smoldering rage of the count into a flame. with an oath, he caught up his sword which lay upon the table, and drew it from its sheath. "choose!" he cried. "either thou shalt join me without more words, or prepare to meet thy doom; for as certain as thou dost stand there, i will run thee through if thou dost not join me." the boy threw back his head, his cheeks were pale, but his look was high and unflinching. "strike," he said, "if thou wilt, for i refuse to join thee." the spaniard raised his sword, but leaning over i caught the hilt with my hand and held it. "ruffian!" i cried. "wouldst thou slay the youth? he is but a child." a slow, evil look was upon his face; for a moment his anger mastered him. "twice hast thou crossed my path to thwart me," he growled. "take care, there shall be no third time." then drawing back, he sheathed his sword. "i will dice with thee for the lad's life," he said suddenly. "if thou dost win, he is thine to do with what thou wilt; if thou shouldst lose, then he is mine. wilt cast with me?" i hesitated a moment; then turning to the boy, who stood gazing with wide-open eyes upon us, i cried: "art thou content that we should dice for thy life, or wilt thou have none of it?" his face was pale, but he answered me quickly: "i am content; better that i should die, than be in the hands of such as he." "so be it," i answered. "where are the dice?" turning to the corner, he drew from a chest the dice, and a little round box, and with those in his hand, moved to the table. "wilt thou throw first?" he asked, "or shall i?" "no," i answered; "do thou throw. i will follow thee." it was a strange scene in that great room. the rough seamen gathered around the table watching, eager to see which way the dice would fall; the boy, oliver gates, as he stood behind me, watching the dice in the count's hand--his life the stakes for which we gamed. denortier, a dark scowl upon his face, fingering coolly the box in which the dice lay, ready to cast without a tremor the little squares on which depended a human life; myself, with face as white as the boy's, as i thought of the great load which rested upon me, and of how much depended upon "chance," the blind goddess. denortier stood opposite me, only the little light in his dark eyes betraying his excitement. i watched his hand narrowly while he shook the dice in the box, preparing to throw. i have often thought of that scene since, and wondered if i fully appreciated its solemnity as i watched the spaniard, and yet i was oppressed by the thought that a human life lay in my hands, either to be lost or to be gained; but as the lad had said, better that he should die than to live a captive in the pirate's hands and at his mercy. he threw, and with a rattle the dice rolled out upon the table. for a moment i feared to look, and then summoning all my courage, with an effort i looked at the dice--double fours--could i beat that? i saw the look of triumph in denortier's eyes, plainly he thought that he had won; and there as i stood with the box in my hand, i sent up one fervent prayer to whatever gods there be, to fight for me in that hour, and guide the dice aright. raising my hand i tossed, and they rolled down upon the table and over to the further side. i bent over them with eyes that feared to behold the result, and i could hear the quick, deep breathing of oliver gates behind me, as with beating heart he awaited to hear his fate. the two seamen were bending over the table with eager faces. i straightened myself up--five and four. "the day is mine, count," i said triumphantly. "yes," he answered, "thou hast it; the fates are propitious. beware! they will not be ever at thy side;" and turning from me he passed out of the room. the men followed, leaving me alone with oliver. "thy life is safe," i said to him, "and thou shalt be my page. wilt enter my service?" "who art thou?" he asked. "it seems as if i had seen thy face before, yet i know not where." "sir thomas winchester, of london," i answered. "i recognize thy face now," he said. "oft have i seen thee in london, but thou art changed," and he hesitated. "say that i have grown older," i replied. "nay, do not deny it. i know that i have grown older, and that the gray is beginning to fleck my hair; hadst thou been through what i have the last six months, thy hair would be gray too." "what doest thou here?" he asked, his eyes fixed still upon my face. "thou hast not joined these ruffians, and become one of them?" "the saints forbid!" i answered quickly. "i am a captive here even as thou art." and then i related in a few words all i wished him to know of my kidnaping and detention upon the island. he listened intently, a look of wonder upon his face. "and why does my lord dunraven hound thee thus?" he cried. "what motive has he, that he should detain thee here?" "lad," i answered, a bitter smile upon my face, "thou art young yet, and hast much to learn; when thou growest older thou wilt know what a man will do for the love of a maid. dost know the lady margaret carroll?" "aye," he answered, "the loveliest lady in england; as well ask me if i know my master." "then," i answered, "is there need to look further than the lady for a cause?" a look of understanding came into his face. "i see," he said, "and wonder no longer. a lady so fair would tempt a man to risk his soul, could he but win her." "but thou hast not answered my question; wilt be my man and enter my service? i have need of such a one here, and when i come to my own again, thou shalt not regret it." "yes," he answered, a look frank and true upon his open face. "i owe my life to thee. i am thy man, for better or for worse, and here is my hand on it," and he stretched out his hand to me. i reached out and grasped it, a mist before my eyes. 'twas the first friendly hand i had clasped since steele had sailed away and left me weary months before, and i knew what it meant to be alone and friendless among bitter foes. "thou shalt not rue it," i said. and thus oliver gates entered my service. he was a treasure, that boy; he fell to and cleaned my muddy clothes and boots, polished my rusty breastplate, mended the rents in my ragged doublet, and was ever at my elbow, ready to serve me. he had cleaned the musketoon which i carried, and one morning i came suddenly upon him, his eyes fixed upon the sight, the weapon at his shoulder. "what art thou doing?" i asked in surprise, seeing no one at whom he pointed. he lowered the gun, a look of confusion upon his face. "i was but wishing that my lord dunraven walked below," he answered, "and i would soon rid thee of him forever;" and he looked up into my face. i was strangely touched by his thoughts of me, for i had grown to love him well, with his frank and merry ways, ever with a song upon his lips, ever busy with thoughts of my comfort and welfare. "lad," i said, "i know not what i would do without thee." a tear came into his eye, and rolled down his rosy cheek; he tried to speak, but could not, and turning, hurried from the room. sometimes at night as we sat together in my room under the candlelight, i would have him to tell me of london, and what my friends did there, of himself, and of his life before he sailed on his ill-fated voyage. i learned that my old comrade drake had sailed for the spanish main in search of gold; that bacon was busy with his law; raleigh was in high favor with the queen, and seemed at present to be the favorite; bobby vane he did not know. the lady margaret carroll was the toast of london, happy, gay, light-hearted; rumor had it that she would soon become the bride of the lord dunraven, who, devoted, gallant, and attentive, was ever her constant shadow, and since i had vanished so mysteriously from london, he had no rival of importance. of me, london had gossiped for a few days; the tale of my disinheritance had been the talk of the town, and followed so soon by my disappearance had created quite a sensation, and a dozen different stories had been circulated by way of explanation. some said i had committed suicide; others that i had gone to the low country to assist the dutch; still others that i had joined the freebooters and become a sea-rover. it had furnished sensation for the ladies and gentlemen of fashion, as they gathered under the evening candles and sipped their tea, but other things came to engage their attention; what cared they if one poor gentleman, stripped of his position and fortune, lived or died? i had passed from their world forever, and so with a jest upon their lips they had flitted to some new topic. only a few friends had made an effort to find some trace of my fate. bobby vane and raleigh had indeed searched, but could find no clue. it was as though the earth had swallowed me up. oliver gates loved me, i believed. he followed me about like a dog; had searched the island for father francis and dunraven, and was ever vigilant to track the spaniard in hope that he would discover some trace of my lord, but in vain. dunraven and father francis i had never seen since they left the island that stormy night in the boat. sometimes i thought they had gone down in the gale, but they were too wicked to die like honest men. no, i believed they were alive, perhaps in england, engaged in plots to abduct my lady, and at the thought i would pace the floor and wring my hands. at such times oliver was a boon to me. he would sing some ballad of the olden days, when a knight, brave in his armor, and with his waving pennant, would ride out to do battle for his lady love; and at the sound of his rich, mellow voice, the care and sorrow would fade away from my heart, and i would forget myself and all my woes. so the time passed, and spring had come; the sun shone brightly, and its beauty had tempted me out of the house. all was light and merry beneath the morning light; the birds were singing, and all earth seemed to lie quiet and peaceful, as though weary of toil and labor, and resolved to take holiday for one brief day. oliver i had not seen for several minutes, and i strolled down the lane that led to the little settlement of the natives. a few of them i met as i walked down the path, and with a word of greeting, they had stepped aside to let me pass. i kept steadily on my way, my head bent, thinking of old england and wondering if i would ever see it again. the grass was green and fresh there, the spring flowers were beginning to bloom, and in the fields the sod lay upturned to the sun. the fresh scent of the turf struck my nostrils. ah, this was england! it held naught for me, perhaps only scorn and hatred; still my heart yearned for the old country like that of the exile condemned to some prison, far from his home. it was where my eyes had first beheld the light, and it was there, when i finished my weary journey and life's brief sorrows were over, that i wished to rest quietly beneath its green turf, where naught of the world's turmoil and strife could reach; safe from all harm, with only the silent stars to shine down upon me, i would sleep with my fathers. i was coming into the group of bark huts; only one old woman was visible, her form bent nearly double with age, her hair snow white, her eyes sunken, her face weather-beaten as though by many a storm. crouched by one of the low entrances she sat, her eyes fixed upon me. there was that look of knowledge, of understanding, in them, which comes only with extreme age; the look of one who has tasted of all life's secrets, and who has known all that it contains. i paused beside her, struck by the look of withered age upon her face, and by her snow-white hair; for i had never seen a native with white hair before. "what is thy age, old crone?" i asked her, in the native tongue. she did not stir, only her sunken eyes were fixed upon my face, and then, in a voice cracked and broken, she replied: "neulta has seen the suns of one hundred and four summers, and still she remains; those whom she knew in her youth have long since gone from among her people." one hundred and four years old! she was mad; but still she was extremely old, her face showed that. i knew the name too; often when the servants at the mansion had lost aught, or anything had mysteriously disappeared, they would go to neulta, and she would tell them where to find the missing article. strange to say, when they had looked where she directed, they would always discover the missing thing. wonderful stories were told of her superhuman powers by the natives. it was said that denortier always consulted her before embarking on his voyages; that she had foretold to herrick, months before, that he would meet death by the hand of a tall stranger, alone in a cavern; he had laughed at her, but lo! it had been even as she had said. the indians swore by neulta, and regarded her as a goddess. i had scoffed at the tales told me by the dead josé and the other servants; had told them that the old hag had stolen the things herself, and did but tell them where they were hidden that she might increase their faith in her, but i could never persuade them that i spoke truth. some thought of the idle tales crossed my mind as she told me her age. "thy mind wanders," i answered. "it is not possible; tell me something that i can believe." the old woman sat still and motionless, then she answered: "before the señor's father came into this world i was a middle-aged woman. when the señor dies i will still be here; for i hold the magic power handed down from my people, who dwelt on this island long before these miserable natives whom thou now seest about thee had landed in this place. ah," she continued, rising to her feet at the thoughts of the past, "they were a race of men! these are but cattle, who are fitted to wait upon the white man. but why do i talk thus?" she muttered, seating herself again. "my people have vanished, and i alone remain. "the señor does not believe me; he thinks that i dream. let the señor but come into my hut here, and i will show him things which are not of this world. does he wish to behold whom he thinks of? but follow me and he shall see what he wots not of. come!" and she hobbled to the door of the hut and threw it open. i hesitated; she was mad doubtless, but i was in no hurry. i had naught to engage my mind; perhaps she might amuse me. it might be that this was but a trick of denortier's to lure me into this hut and then put me out of the way; for that was a scheme worthy of his master mind. the old crone stood in the doorway, looking at me. "ah! the señor fears," she croaked. "afraid of an old woman, alone and unarmed," and she cackled in glee. my mind was made up; stepping upon the threshold, i pushed the door wide open and entered. the old woman closed the door, and i was in total darkness. she moved about in the dark, until presently she struck two hard stones together, and going to where three great torches of light-wood were fastened in the wall, she lit them. immediately the room became brightly illuminated, and i looked around. there was nothing in the hut; only a rough pile of leaves in the corner, which served as a bed, and a rough stone bench in the center of the room, together with a little wooden chest. going to the chest, she raised the lid, calling as she did so to me, "let the señor seat himself upon the bench." i did so, and watched her movements, until finally she drew an article from the chest, and turning, held it out to me. i took it in my hands, and glanced down to see what she had given me. it was a polished disk of silver, perhaps a foot in diameter, curved and embossed with strange and barbarous shapes. i had seen naught like it in all my travels. "how camest thou by this?" i asked sternly. the old woman, her back to me, was groping again in the box. "let not the señor be troubled," she said dryly, "for the mirror was handed down to me from my fathers, who dwelt here in the days of yore. it is mine; be not uneasy on that score." and then from the box she drew a little stone image of a man, grotesquely shaped, with great staring eyes, and with a cold, sinister expression upon his carved face. she set it on the floor in front of me; as i looked at it, the face reminded me of someone whom i had seen. yes, the same hard, cold look and hawk nose of lord dunraven; i was struck by the resemblance, for rough, uncouth as the image was, it resembled my lord. the old crone had sprinkled a yellow powder in front of the idol, and had lit it, and now she was kneeling in front of the image, crooning a low savage song, her eyes, keen and piercing through the smoke, fixed upon me. i rose in disgust. was i a fool, to sit through such mummery as this? she called to me even as i stirred, "let not the señor arise; but a moment, and he will behold a sight upon the mirror such as he has never seen before. let him wait but a moment, and gaze upon the disk." there was something in that look, eager, commanding, fixed upon me, that i could not resist. i resumed my seat. "i will remain but a moment," i said. "quick with thy foolery, i am wearied and would go." "look upon the glass!" she shrieked. "look!" i looked down carelessly at the mirror in my hand. unaccountably, marvelously, there was something dim, misty, and hazy, growing upon the polished disk; more and more distinct it became, until wonder of wonders, i looked into the violet eyes of lady margaret carroll!--there, lovely, beautiful, divine, she gazed at me, gowned for some ball, a flower in her hair, the soft curved neck encircled by a chain of precious stones, her lovely dimpled chin, and little mouth curved as though laughing at its own red beauty. for a moment i looked at her, and then i was gazing at the vacant glass in my hand. i sprang to my feet. "hag!" i cried, "what trick is this? beware how thou triflest with me." the voice of the crone floated across to me through the smoke. "no trick," she mumbled; "'tis but the magic of the great white spirit. would my lord behold his rival? look!" and there upon the silver disk, with his brave, true eyes upon me, shone the face of bobby vane. "'tis false!" i cried. "false! he would not act thus." "wonder not," replied the crone. "stranger things than this have happened; men would betray all for love of such a maid;" and she muttered something to herself. "wouldst behold how thy friend conducts himself in thy absence with thy lady-love? behold!" and there upon the glass i saw my lady and bobby. they were at some dance or merry-making, for i could see dimly the moving forms around them. suddenly they turned and passed out into a moonlit garden, and seated themselves in the shadow of some thick trees. i saw bobby lean forward nearer that beautiful face; saw him whisper something into that little shell-like ear; saw the smile upon her face; and then, reaching out his hand, he took one of margaret's in his own, and bent down as though to kiss her, looking into her beautiful blue eyes all the while. it was more than flesh and blood could stand. with an oath, i cast the mirror far from me, and throwing the cowering crone a coin, strode out from the miserable hut into the free air of heaven. chapter ix the last revel march, , was here; i had been restrained of my liberty since the sixteenth day of september, , oliver and myself had made many schemes for our deliverance, but they had all come to naught. we could not cross the mighty sea without a vessel; there was nothing but frail canoes here--light, fragile, they would suffice for a brief sail, but they could never live through the thousands of miles of water that rolled between us and england. i had spent a great deal of my time in fencing and shooting with the lad, until now i felt that i could hold my own against denortier himself. my wrist was of steel, and my strength had grown enormously with my exercise in the open air; i could hit a small coin at thirty yards with a musketoon. oliver, who knew nothing of a sword when he landed, had become a fairly good swordsman under my training, and was getting so that he could bring down the wild fowl on the wing with the gun. returning from a long stroll one evening and going up to my room, i found oliver engaged in holding up to the light a splendid new doublet of light gray silk. it was a beautiful garment, and he was so occupied in admiring it that he did not hear me come into the door. "what hast thou there, lad?" i asked. "thou must have at thy disposal the shops of london, that thou shouldst have such a doublet as that. faith, not but thou dost need one! that thou hast on now is almost in rags." the boy turned to me, his face aglow. "ah, sir thomas! thou mayest laugh, but it is full time that we had some new garments. i have mended the one that thou hast on, until i fear that not a piece of the original cloth remains," and he broke into a merry, ringing laugh. "but the doublet that thou jeerest at is for thee. i have a new lilac one," and turning, he lifted it from a chair and held it up for my inspection. "what means such prodigality?" i asked in astonishment. "what scheme is on foot?" "the men hold high revelry to-night," he answered. "pepin, who came up only a few moments ago, brought us each an entire outfit of new clothing, and told me that the count sails to-morrow with all his men; that on his return he would resign command to one of his crew, and depart for the great region from whence he came, to return here no more. i asked him whether we were to go with the count on his cruise to-morrow, and he replied yes, that only the natives would remain behind. he told me also that the count denortier bade us dress in these new garments, and be at the board to-night to join in the feast." the candles had been lit. slowly, with the lad's help, i dressed myself in the silks and laces; it had been long since i had been garbed as fitting my birth and station. the clothes brought back to me my old, useless, happy life in far-away london, and the thought of the gayety and pleasure of days gone by, when i had softly spoken into the dainty ears of fair ladies the little useless whispers that went to make up their lives; had moved among the gay throng, the petted plaything of society. it had been sweet while it lasted, but it had passed from me. oliver had buckled on my gold-hilted sword, and given me a last touch. "thou art prepared, sir thomas," he cried, with a grand air and a sweeping bow. "and though thou mayest jeer at me if thou choosest, i will say to thy face, that thou art a goodly sight. would that the fair ladies of london might see thee to-night; it would create a sensation, i can tell thee." "nonsense, boy!" i replied. "i have grown too old and rough to be a pleasant sight for a lady. she would want some fawning tailor's model, sweet-scented and delicate, and not a rude man such as i am." but, nevertheless, pleased by his light flattery, i stepped forward to where one of the great mirrors hung and glanced at myself. was this the silent, rough man, clad in his faded doublet, his sword in hand, ready at a moment's notice to defend himself from the foes who sought his life? there looked back at me from the mirror the figure of a man, clad in splendid silks, a rich collar of lace about his neck, elegantly and richly dressed; his hair, in which the gray threads were beginning to shine, was combed back and fell upon his shoulders. the little pointed beard which he wore, was flecked with gray here and there; and his face, tanned and brown, was one which seemed created to command. the deep lines of suffering had purified and ennobled the face never handsome; the youth and gayety were gone from it, never to return, but 'twas stronger, deeper, better than it had been in the old days. the light hazel eyes, with that look of understanding that only sorrow brings, were more sympathetic and kinder than they had been of yore. yet as i looked at myself in the glass, and saw the gray threads in my hair and beard, i felt to-night as though i had reached the summit of the hill of life, and was beginning the long descent down the other side. yes, to-night i realized that i was beginning to be an old man, with the best in life behind me. i knew not what the night or morrow held in store for me, but the struggle and toil and suffering of the last year had taught me patience; the fire of youth had burned out, and i would wait, and the morrow would tell. oliver had already dressed himself; young and comely he stood there, and i, for the moment, envied him his youth and buoyancy. together we descended the stairs, and passed into the great dining hall; both of the large sliding doors between the dining and front room had been thrown back, and now there was but one immense room. the candlelight that night streamed down on a strange and motley crew. down the great room there ran three long tables; around them there sat the entire crew of the ship, clad in the silks and satins of the nobles of europe; with fine collars of lace and gold about their bronzed throats; their long hair perfumed and scented; their faces those of every nationality. it was a scene such as i have never witnessed before or since. at a small table placed at the head of the room sat denortier, stroking his black beard. he arose as we entered. "welcome!" he cried. "welcome to the last revel! gentlemen, to-morrow we sail for the spanish main; who knows how many of us will ever return? come, be seated here with me," and he motioned us to seats at his table. there was only one vacant chair left; he noticed my glance at it. "an old friend, detained by important business; he will not be here to-night. i am sure that thou must regret it," and he grinned at me. "it is perhaps best that he did not come," i answered. "the night air possibly would not agree with him;" for i guessed that he referred to dunraven. he did not answer me, but beat upon his table for silence. the hubbub and noise ceased, and he arose to his feet, goblet in hand. "my men," he said, "we go on a voyage long and perilous; i know not how many will meet with us again. when we return, i leave thee forever; davis shall take my place, and be thy chief. i shall return to the old world and dwell in peace. but before we drink to our voyage, i have one toast that i will give thee in honor of our guest, the englishman. i give thee the virgin queen, elizabeth of england!--may her years be full of glory and happiness!" the men had arisen to their feet, glasses in hand; many of them were englishmen, and, degraded and besotten as they were, they still felt a love for old england and a pride in the achievements of her queen, whose name and fame rang around the world. as denortier ceased, there arose a shout that made the very candles upon the wall flicker in their sockets; once, twice, thrice it rose and fell, like the deep beat of the surf upon the beach--then it died out. i arose to my feet, cup in hand. "my men," i said, "i thank thee in the name of the queen for thy courtesy, and would give thee in return--king philip of spain!" the spaniards drank it with a cheer, but it was nothing like the shout that had greeted the name of elizabeth. then there were toasts of every sort and kind; the noise at the long tables arose to an uproar as some toast was drank of more than usual interest. i glanced down the tables where the men sat, for we took no part in their merriment, but sat at our own table, quiet and composed. there were the spoils of many a galleon upon the board; goblets and drinking cups of gold and silver; candlesticks and vessels from the monasteries; richly embroidered altar cloths spread the long tables; and the heavy carved chairs of the priests seated the pirates at their revel. behind the tables the natives, soft-footed and silent, filled the glasses as oft as they were emptied. without the night, quiet and silent, brooded; within the lights, the laughter, the song--revelry held high carnival. to-morrow they would sail, and who knew how many would return? they would feast to-night; what mattered the morrow, which might hold for them the halter? but to-night--ah, yes!--to-night was theirs, and the night was young yet; fill up again. a tall fellow, his face flushed with the wine he had drunk, was roaring out a wanton love song, his fellows keeping time to the tune with their glasses upon the board. he finished amidst a storm of cheers and applause. far down the table one of the men had already fallen forward upon the board, overcome by the wine that he had poured down. a feeling of anxiety came over me; what were not the rogues capable of, when later in the night they should be crazed by the liquor that they had drunk, with nothing to hold them in check except the fear of their chief, and he was but one man, no matter how resolute and determined? what could he do against two hundred and fifty drunken, crazed wretches, hardened to every scene of misery and woe, who feared neither god nor man? would they not, when they had reached the pitch of frenzy, turn upon oliver and myself, and vent their fury upon us? for myself, i cared not, but i feared for the boy. denortier must have seen the thought upon my face as i turned to him, for he spoke immediately. "have no fear," he said. "i have often had such revels before, and no harm came of it; my men know my hand too well to attempt to anger me." "for myself, i fear not," i answered. "my only fear was for the boy; i would not have him harmed." and i turned my head to look at oliver, who with wide eyes was surveying the scene before him. "thou needst not worry," he replied; "he is as safe as though he were in his father's house." "where is the priest?" i asked. "it is strange that he is not here. i would have thought that he would be the first to come." the count smiled. "i looked to see him here too," he answered, "but perhaps he would not come for fear that thou wouldst kill him. he fears thee as though thou wert the foul fiend himself," and he finished with a laugh. "he has good cause to," i said grimly. "if i had but given him his deserts, he would have been now where no revelry could disturb him." "he is a strange fellow," denortier said musingly, as though half to himself, stroking his pointed black beard. "i picked him up in london, five years ago; he had been expelled from the monastery for drunkenness, and was adrift without chart or compass, when i discovered him. but he has well requited me for my trouble, for he is a useful fellow, and true as steel to me." i looked at him; it might be that i could win him to my side, or if i could but make him distrust dunraven, it would be a good night's work. "be not so sure of that," i answered. he started and peered at me, a look of suspicion upon his face. "why dost thou say that?" he cried. "dost know aught of what thou speakest?" i leaned back in my chair, and regarded him with a cold smile. "am i a child, that i speak of what i know not of?" i said. the look of suspicion deepened upon his face; then there came another, a look of anger. he spoke: "show me some proof of that which thou sayest, sir thomas; not that i doubt thy word, but this is a matter of importance that thou talkest of, and not to be lightly decided." "and of what advantage will this be to me?" i asked. "why should i go to the trouble, if it is to be of no benefit to me?" he answered me, speaking slowly: "it is of more importance than thou mayest think; thou art held here by my power; did i but say the word thou shouldst go scot-free. would that be of advantage to thee? could i think that the fat rogue played me false, i would soon settle his fate. but why should he do that? it would not be to his advantage, and he knows too well where his bread lies to cut his own throat. his hopes are all based upon me; take me away, and they fall to the ground. no, thou art mistaken, it could not be so." "thou hast forgotten that dunraven is rich and powerful; that he has gold in abundance to reward his servants and tools. he wishes to keep an eye upon thee, as well as myself. perhaps he thinks that thou mightst become a dangerous rival to him, or mightst be tempted to play him false. what better spy could he choose on us both than father francis?" i gazed at him, a smile of triumph upon my face. he brought down his fist upon the table with a blow that made the glasses ring. "show me the proof!" he cried--"but the proof, and then i shall know how to act." "oliver," i said, turning to the boy, "go up into my room; move that heavy chest which stands next the wall, and bring down to me the bundle of papers that thou findest behind it." he arose, and ran lightly from the room. i sat quietly in my seat, and gazed at the spaniard. "what effect will this have upon my detention?" i asked. "wilt thou free me?" "i shall know better how to answer when i see the papers," he replied hoarsely. the noise at the tables had redoubled. one of the seamen had brought out a couple of flutes and was urging a short, squat sailor to give them the sword dance. after much pressing by his friends, and after drinking off a couple of glasses of wine, "only to steady his nerves a bit," as he informed them, he announced that he was ready to begin. a space was cleared in the middle of the room, and in it a dozen swords were fastened, blades upward. the man had taken off his shoes, and stood in his stocking feet, his eyes covered with a cloth. the flute struck up a wild, barbarous air, and springing into the midst of the swords he began to dance, while the men crowded eagerly around him. up he went, turning, twisting, whirling, all the while chanting a low savage tune, now leaping to the right, now to the left, but always alighting in the space, perhaps four inches in width, that lay between each sword. now advancing, now retreating, always evading the perilous blades with a skill that was marvelous to me, when i thought of the cloth over his eyes. a loud burst of music; he had finished, and was untying the bandage from about his face, midst the cries, "well done!" of his companions. and now the outer door opened, and from the darkness outside an indian appeared, leading by a rope a tame bear. often had i seen the animal about the native settlement. he was a huge, clumsy, good-natured brute, and as he stood in the middle of the room sniffing the air, his little eyes blinking in the light, his head rolling from side to side, he looked anything but dangerous. his master had taught him to wrestle, and as the animal stood erect on the floor, i saw one of the seamen stripping off his doublet to struggle with him. the indian untied the rope from about the brute's head. "the señor had best treat him gently to-night," he said in his native tongue to the sailor as he advanced, "for he has been in an ugly humor all day, and it has been only within the last few moments that i have been able to approach him." i remonstrated with denortier. "the man had best not wrestle with the bear to-night," i said. "the indian says that he is in an ugly humor, and he might do the sailor a harm." the count shrugged his shoulders. "the brute does not look dangerous," he answered. "i have seen him around here for more than a year, and never have i known him to do any mischief." i looked at the beast again; truly he did not look dangerous. to-night he seemed the same good-humored giant that he had ever been; only he was a little restless, perhaps the light and the unaccustomed crowd made him so. he was a tremendous fellow, standing six feet or more on his hind legs, and with his long curved paws, he could tear a man to pieces as if he were a leaf, should he become infuriated. the sailor was ready, and advanced to meet the bear. he was as fine a specimen of mankind as the brute was of the animal creation--tall, broad-shouldered, with big corded arms, upon which the great muscles stood out like the ivy upon some gigantic oak. he might well have stood for a statue representing the brute strength of man. the beast did not seem disposed to meet his antagonist, and it was only by repeated blows with his stick that his master could persuade him to advance toward the seaman, and then he did so very unwillingly. the sailor threw his arms around the unresisting animal, and bore down his great weight upon him; with a crash they went down, the man upon the bear. the pirate arose lightly in an instant, but the beast lay still, as if stunned by the fall. angered by the easy overthrow of his pet, the native brought down his heavy stick with a dull thud upon the bear. with a hoarse growl, he sprang to his feet, his little eyes flashing fire, his tongue protruding from his teeth. "do not approach him!" i cried out to the sailor. but he, flushed with his easy victory and by the wine he had drunk, and goaded on by the cheers of his fellows, would not listen to me. with an oath he sprang forward, wrapped his arms about the brute again, and now followed a terrible struggle. the bear had wound his paws around the assailant's body, and to and fro they moved, each endeavoring to throw the other. twice, incredible as it may seem, the man had put forth all of his bull strength, and the bear had tottered--had almost fallen--but each time he had recovered himself, and had borne the man back again. both times the men had raised a cheer as the bear had staggered, and each time silence had fallen upon them as the brute had hurled back their favorite. and now they were both becoming exhausted by the fury of the struggle. the great drops of sweat stood out upon the head and arms of the man, his shoulders heaved with the effort--but he was game; the little eyes of the brute had grown dull and glassy, he was plainly tired. it was time for the thing to stop. i had already opened my mouth to denortier, to ask him to put a stop to this, when the end came. the brute had almost ceased to struggle, and his victorious antagonist was bending him backwards, when suddenly the bear stepped upon one of the swords, which still lay edge upwards upon the floor, where the dancer had left them. with a grunt of anger he straightened himself, his eyes flashed fire; plainly his brute mind in some way connected his assailant with the pain. in an instant he tightened his grasp about the man's body, tighter, tighter, tighter; and even as a score sprang forward to drag him from his prey, there was a dull crunch, and the man bent double, fell limp and lifeless to the floor, crushed to death in the terrible paws of his foe. for an instant the beast stood there erect, his eyes upon the man as he lay at his feet; then a dozen blades leaped from their sheaths, and the seamen were upon him. the light flashed upon their swords for an instant--then the beast fell, pierced in a dozen places, and a convulsion passed over him. the indian, in a torrent of tears, threw himself upon his body. "pepin!" he moaned, "they have killed thee--pepin, speak to me." the dying beast opened his eyes, as though called back to life by the voice of one whom he loved; a low grunt of pleasure came from him as he recognized his master. raising his muzzle, he rubbed it against the indian's face; then the head fell back upon the floor, a low whine, and he lay still. the seamen had gathered around the body of their companion, who lay upon the floor where he had fallen. one of their number, who possessed some knowledge of medicine, knelt beside him; rising, he shook his head sadly. "he is dead," he said in a low voice. denortier had arisen, and following him, i passed down to where the sailor lay. the face of the man was stern and set, as he had looked when he was wrestling with the animal. he had had no time for preparation; as he lived, so had he also died. we looked at him for a moment. only a few brief minutes before he had been among us, in the prime of his magnificent manhood; now he lay there cold and stiff, fit food for the worms and foul reptiles of the earth. turning to the pirates, the count ordered them to remove both the man and the beast, and he made his way back to his seat without so much as another glance. i lingered a moment where the indian lay upon the body of the animal, his arm locked about its rough head. here was love, deep and deathless. the rough sailors were removing the body of one whom they had eaten and caroused with, one who had faced death with them many a time, a comrade and friend, and yet they knew no such love as this. true they stepped softly and spoke in low voices, but that was out of their awe for the unknown; of that cold hand which had beckoned to one with whom they had feasted to leave the board, and he could but obey. but the poor untaught savage loved the wild beast whom he had trained and fed. his love was something higher, finer, nobler than they could know; and treading softly, i stood by his side with uncovered head and dropped a coin beside him. but he did not move, and quietly i passed back to where denortier sat. some wise man hath said truly that "in the midst of life we are in death." he was one who knew of the secrets of the soul, had drank deep of the wine of understanding, and who realized how uncertain is our brief hour. they had carried out both the sailor and the bear, together with the indian, who had refused to leave his pet, when the door opened and oliver appeared, the package in his hand. "i would have returned sooner," he panted, as he extended it towards me, "but the chest was heavy, and i had much work to move it; for the package had slipped under the bottom, and it was some time before i could discover where it lay." "why didst thou not call for aid?" i asked, as i cut the cord with which it was secured. "it was not necessary," he answered, his eye upon me; plainly he thought that i had some reason for remaining behind. "here is the proof," i said, as i turned to the count and laid the bundle of papers upon the table. it contained the diary and all the notes, save that of my lady, which had lain next my heart ever since i had discovered it. he took the package, and opening it, began methodically to read the papers. oliver and myself had resumed our seats, to await the result of denortier's investigation. i glanced down the long tables; the men had taken their seats, but, hardened as they were, the tragedy had cast a gloom over their spirits, and they sat in silence, drinking deeply of the wine, only speaking softly among themselves. their silence, deep and unbroken, was a strange contrast to the mirth and turmoil that only a few minutes before had rung through the room. there is something in silence that oppresses the mind; we can bear the noise and roar with a good grace, but silence is a quality that strikes dismay within the breast of man. to-night, as i gazed upon these silent men, i felt a thrill of something pass over me--'twas not fear, it was more like dread, that foe i had seldom experienced since i came to man's estate. they were dangerous thus; in the feasting and revelry they had not had time to plot, but now they were silent and had the opportunity. i was now aroused by oliver, who caught my sleeve. "what is it?" he whispered. "why have the men grown so silent?" i whispered to him what had happened. "awful," he murmured, as he covered his face with his hands, "i am glad that i missed the sight." the pirate had spoken not a word since he had taken the papers. slowly, carefully, he glanced over them one by one, but now he had finished. with an oath, he threw them from the table. "thou didst speak truth, sir thomas," he said. "he is false!--false as hell! and i trusted him, and believed him devoted to me. all the while he played spy upon me, and reported every motion to his master, lord dunraven. he shall pay dear for this," he continued, his voice rising, "for i will hang him as high as haman. "thou art free," he said, looking at me, "both thou and the lad. we will join forces against my lord, fool that he is to think he could deceive me thus; but i will settle with him, once and for all. come," he continued, "this is to be thy last night here. thou art free--free as the wind. to-morrow we will talk of plans to outwit dunraven, and to punish this dog, the priest--but to-night we will drink. fill up thy glass, both thou and the lad. here is confusion to lord dunraven, and success to all his foes!" "i drink that toast with a good grace," i said, and i drained the brimming goblet, as did oliver also. and now the men had resumed their revelry. they had drunk deep, several of them had fallen under the table, and their fellows, flagons in hand, were now roaring out right lustily the chorus of a drinking song. many of the glasses had been overturned, and the wine ran in little rivulets over the costly covering of the table; but with their faces lit up with mirth, they heeded it not. their voices rose to a yell that deafened my ears; then died out--they had finished the song. denortier was drinking deep; fooled in his most trusty man, and chagrined and vexed, to hide his anger he had poured down goblet after goblet of the wine. it was in vain i tried to check him; he was deaf to all my words of warning, and heard me unmoved, as without a moment's hesitation he kept up his debauchery. although his head was as marble, it would have been more than human if the wine had not begun to tell on him. he said nothing, but silently drank again and again, as though he were an automaton. i had sipped my wine sparingly, as had also oliver; for i knew not how the drunken debauchery would end. i could not withdraw as yet, but as soon as denortier lost consciousness, as he was sure to do in a few moments if he kept up his mad course, i had determined to take oliver, and barricade ourselves in our room, where we would be safe until the men became sober and the count was himself. and now a whisper circulated among the pirates, who, keyed up to a drunken frenzy by the wine they had drunk, were but looking for someone to vent their insane rage upon, and were ripe for any mischief. i had heard the whispered word: "what do these englishmen as the guests of our captain? let us bind them, and string them up to the nearest tree. they are intermeddlers, and have no business in our midst." i heard a burly ruffian whisper this to his neighbor, and saw him pass it on, until now it had gone around the table, and all eyes were turned to me. they had seen me practice with the sword, and shoot with the musketoon; plainly they hesitated before attacking so formidable a foe. but all they needed was a few more glasses to nerve them up to the work; then, careless of consequences, they would rush upon oliver and myself and overpower us by sheer force of numbers. the time had come for me to retire; for denortier was asleep, and could take no offense when he found out later what i had done. bending over, i whispered to the lad to rise and leave the room. the count stirred at the sound of my low tones; his head had fallen upon the table and he was wrapped in a drunken sleep, but even as we moved to rise, he staggered to his feet, his eyes red and bloodshot. "up, every man!" he cried to his crew. "up and drink one last toast with me! fill high the goblets! it is the last that we shall drink together, and the best." habit is near akin to nature; and the habit of obedience brought every one of these drunken brutes to his feet, cups in hand. there, lurching and tipsy, they stood. the count had filled his goblet high, and as he did so his eye fell upon us where we sat. "up, my noble ally!" he cried. "i give a toast that thou canst not refuse. why sittest thou silent? up, i say!" whispering to oliver to rise, i stood up, cup in hand. we would leave when we had drunk this toast, as it would take only a few minutes, and i did not care to offend the count. he waited, swaying to and fro, until we had arisen, and then, steadying himself against the table, he looked around. it was a wild and ungodly sight. one of the great tables had fallen with a crash, and the wine ran down the room in a stream, and over the pirates, as they lay in sodden slumber upon the floor. some of the candles had burned down to the sockets and gone out; the blood was clotted upon the floor where the man and bear had fallen and died. the chairs lay strewn all about the floor; and the ruffian crew laughed in drunken glee as they swayed, goblet in hand. denortier, drunken and solemn, gazed at me, as he reeled opposite. oliver and myself were the only sober men in the room. "i give thee a toast," he repeated, a strange smile upon his face. "a lady, the fairest and loveliest upon the earth! my bride--for i am soon to wed," he continued, not noticing the drunken exclamations of surprise which came from the men, "and the lady is the most beautiful in england. drink! drink to the noble bride!--drink to the lady margaret carroll!" i leaned forward, and before he could stir, i gave him a blow with my fist, which sent him sprawling backwards upon the floor. a loud cry from oliver, and turning quickly, my eyes fell upon the priest, father francis, who had entered, and stood by one of the great tables in the room. even as i turned, he caught up one of the heavy gold drinking cups and hurled it full at me. i attempted to dodge it--but too late; with a crash, it struck me upon the forehead, and i went down, as though cuffed by the very hand of hercules himself. chapter x the black flag goes under the cold morning light shone through the windows and lit up the room about me. it fell upon the walls, all spotted and stained with wine; upon the overturned tables and the golden goblets, which lay here and there upon the floor; upon the figures of the pirates, as they snored where they had fallen among the chairs in last night's bout. i was lying flat upon the floor where i had been struck down by the goblet thrown by the priest. putting my hand to my head, i felt a great bruise upon my forehead, which was clotted with blood. sitting up upon the floor, i gazed around me; the count was nowhere to be seen, nor was oliver. a sound at the door caught my ear, and i looked toward it--ye gods, did my mind wander? there standing sword in hand, looking into the room, his men behind him, stood my old acquaintance and sometime friend, sir francis drake. "francis!" i joyfully cried, "francis!--thou here?" he started, a look of surprise upon his face. "i could swear that i had heard that voice before," he muttered to himself, his eyes glancing down upon the fantastic scene upon the floor until it fell upon me, as i sat up among the slumbering pirates, still weak and faint from the blow that the sneaking priest had dealt me. he looked at my face a moment--that gayly dressed gallant, with the bloodstained ruff and sober face, where had he seen him before? a look of recognition came into his eyes. "'fore god!" he shouted in sudden joy, "it is sir thomas winchester!" then throwing up his hands sorrowfully, he cried: "then it is true! would to god i had not seen it!" and he turned his face away, as though to shut me from his sight. "what's true?" i exclaimed, disappointed and alarmed at the change in his countenance, and painfully i staggered to my feet and faced him. "that thou hast joined these pirates," he answered. "the report was circulated in london after thy disappearance, but thy friends would not credit such a tale. never would i have believed it, had i not seen thee with mine own eyes," and he finished with a groan. "art thou so easily persuaded to think ill of one whom thou didst once believe in and trust?" i answered coldly, for in truth i was grieved and wounded that he should so readily think this of me. "shame on thee, sir francis! is it the part of a man to convict on such slight testimony and without a hearing? a few idle words of an empty brain, and thou wouldst turn thy back forever upon me, and tarnish the good name of a man of noble family, and one whom thou didst once love," and i looked at him indignantly. "slight testimony," he replied bitterly. "what wouldst thou call overwhelming then, if this is but slight? lo! i look into the hall where the ruffians held their drunken feast last night, and i find thee here on the floor with them. yes, by the saints, thou hast on the very sword of sir samuel morton, who sailed away two years ago to search for gold on the coast of peru, and who never returned. it was rumored that he was slain by the hand of count denortier. i cannot be mistaken, for oft have i seen the sword in london. it is of a curious design, and thou couldst search the world over and find no other like unto it," and he pointed to the gold-hilted sword that lay at my side. a young gallant had entered the room behind drake, and now stood regarding me with a supercilious air. "he even wears the gray silk doublet of sir samuel!" he lisped breathlessly. "thou didst see it at the queen's palace, sir francis, when sir samuel appeared in it that night for the first time, and how the doublet was praised for the beauty of the cloth and the shape of the garment. as for the sword, there are a dozen gentlemen here who can swear to it." he was a dainty creature, this gentleman who had spoken, slender, wiry, with a colorless face, and little black beard; his doublet and hose all of the latest cut, and made of the finest material. he might have just stepped out of some london coffee-house instead of a ship commanded by the rough soldier drake. i turned my face towards drake with a bitter look of scorn. "if thou believest not the word of a gentleman, ask some of these men," i said. "even they, besotted as they are, have left in them some sparks of justice; they will tell thee that i was held a prisoner here against my will and had naught to do with their adventures," and i seated myself in one of the carved chairs. "a likely story indeed for one to believe!" the gallant behind drake cried out shrilly. "peace, sir james mortimer!" said sir francis. "prick one of yonder snoring rogues with thy sword, and see what he will say about the man. in truth i am loath to believe ill of one, who, when i knew him, ever bore himself gallantly and nobly. but we will see," and he seated himself, with a sigh. his men were moving about the room, picking up the weapons from the floor and binding the prostrate pirates hand and foot. suddenly i remembered i had not seen denortier nor oliver. where were they; had harm befallen the lad? "sir francis," i said, "there is a lad here, who has been a fellow captive with me. i should grieve if aught had befallen him, and i do not see him here. hast thou seen a tall, fair, smooth-faced lad, with golden hair?" "aye," he answered, "we caught him outside with drawn sword, after the fat priest who guided us here. faith! it is well that we came when we did. a moment--and then the bulky rogue had been in paradise, for the lad had caught and was about to slay him." so it was francis who had betrayed the pirates; this would account for his long absence. he was probably dickering then with drake to deliver his comrades into the englishmen's hands, and what better time could he choose than when they drank and caroused? 'twas an idea worthy of such a rogue, and even as i thought of it the door opened and father francis glided in. he leered at me in the old way. "how is the noble sir this fine morning?" he cried. "ah, he will sail no more the blue seas to scuttle the rich galleons! 'tis a pity, but all good things must cease," and he heaved a mock sigh, with a rueful countenance. "priest," said drake, "listen, and answer me truly. what part did sir thomas winchester take in these enterprises of which thou dost speak?" i interrupted him. "it is useless to question this rogue, for i have no more bitter enemy than he is. why, he even tried to murder me as i slept." the priest still looked at me, a smile upon his face, the look of a cat as he plays with a mouse in his paws. here was a triumph, golden and pleasant, surpassing all his dreams--and revenge was sweet. he had long waited for such a moment as this; had lain awake at night to plot how he would achieve it, and now the time had come. he spoke deliberately, the words coming slowly from his lips: "ah, sir francis! the gentleman does not like me. oft have i remonstrated with him at his deeds of blood, but he turned ever a deaf ear to me. i implored him, when in cold blood he slew sir samuel morton, to spare his life, but he would not. i saved from his foul clutches a beautiful spanish maid that he had marked out for his prey, and since then he has hated me with the fury of a demon. have i not many a time prayed for him until morning? prayed that the light might break into his darkened soul, and that he, even then, would return again into the bosom of mother church; but he would have none of it. i forgive thee freely for all the threats and curses that thou hast heaped upon this weak head of mine, and would fain refrain from testifying against thee, but duty, sir thomas--my duty will not allow me to shrink from this painful task," and he groaned piously. "ah! how i have longed to stop thee in thy career of blood and crime, and now, through my prayers, i have been made the humble instrument of thy overthrowal. sir thomas, i have implored, but thou didst drive me from thee. truly the wicked have fallen into the pit that they digged," and he cast up his eyes with a look of patient suffering, beautiful to behold, upon his features. "peace, thou ruffian!" i cried, "or as i live, i will beat out thy brains with the hilt of my sword," and i made as though to rise. with a loud yell he rushed through the door. a group of gentlemen had entered, and now stood around sir francis as he sat at the small table, his fingers idly drumming upon it, and his eyes upon my face. as they gathered around him, i saw several that i knew. there was sir william stone, old and bald; henry degarner, with his disdainful air; captain martin lane in his armor; the little coxcomb, sir james mortimer; peter graham, and some six or eight other gentlemen--men whom i did not know--who looked at me coldly, and whispered among themselves. the pirates had been dragged to their feet; their hands were tied behind them, and they now stood in a long line against the wall. sir francis turned to them. "what of the englishman, sir thomas winchester?" he inquired. "did he engage in the expeditions with thee, or did he remain here as a captive?" they raised a loud shout. "he is the ringleader," they cried as though with one voice. "did he not slay sir samuel morton?" one cried, midst the approval of his fellows. "he wears his doublet now!" another shouted. "and his sword!" roared another. "he knew no mercy!" screamed a burly villain in a green doublet. "he would have taken the spanish maid had not the priest dissuaded him," said another. drake turned to me; his face had hardened. "what more couldst thou ask, sir thomas? they corroborate the priest in every detail with one accord. here is evidence enough to hang an angel of light." then turning to old sir william stone. "take them out, sir william," he cried; "stand them up against the wall, and shoot them down. as for thee, sir thomas, thou shalt go back with me to england, and let the queen pass upon thy fate." "one word," i said, "there is among them the lad oliver gates; he is but a boy, fresh and innocent, and has had naught to do with these deeds of which the ruffians speak. i would not that he should suffer harm." "he is safe," he answered, "and shall go back to england with thee. hast thou the lad secured outside, sir william?" "aye," rejoined the grim old soldier. "and now right about, you rogues." and he marched them outside, surrounded by his men. we sat in silence a few minutes--a volley of shots, and they had passed into eternity, the lie fresh upon their lips. this was the priest's work that the men should testify against me. dunraven had doubtless planned the scheme, and had through francis paid these men to swear against me, telling them, not indeed that they would fall into the hands of drake, but had arranged so that whatever happened they would swear away my life. they had seen the priest in favor, their promise had come back to their minds, and they thought--or perhaps he had promised beforehand--that at all events he would save their lives; and so they had spoken as he had commanded them. the end had come, before they could retreat. drake glanced up as the sound of the musketoons died away. "hast thou aught to say for thyself?" he asked. "simply that i am innocent," i answered. "i have been a captive here for months, and have had naught to do with the forays of these men. the priest is my enemy; these men swore as they did by his command. if thou dost not believe me, ask the boy oliver gates." i said naught of dunraven, for i knew that if i did it would simply make my tale seem the more incredible; and, too, i said naught of my adventures, for i saw that he would not believe me. i would save that for the ear of the queen herself. sir james mortimer leaned over to drake, and murmured: "thou dost remember that the priest warned us of the lad, that he was a sworn henchman of this man. "true, sir james," drake answered; then turning to me, "thou surely dost not expect me to believe this, sir thomas?" i arose and bowed. "in that event, i wait only to be shown the room in which i am to be confined," i said. unbuckling my sword, i laid it sheathed upon the table. "can i leave it in thy hands until i claim it again?" i asked. "i have endeavored to keep the blade bright and spotless since i have worn it. some day, when i have cleared myself from this false charge, i will ask it back from thee." he bowed his head gravely. "when thou askest for it again, it shall be thine. i pray god that thou mayst be innocent of this charge, but----" and he shook his head gloomily. and so between two men i passed up the great stairs and into the room which i had left last night; the star of the pirates had waned and set for aye, and the isle was now in the power of the english. events had transpired quickly, but still i was a prisoner. the door closed, and i heard the key turn in the lock. someone ran forward from the corner of the room--it was oliver, his face radiant with delight. "it is thou!" he cried. "i had not thought to see thee again," and he almost embraced me in his joy. i put forward my rough hand and stroked his yellow curls, as though he were a babe and i his mother. "ah, lad, we are still prisoners," i said mournfully. "yes," he replied, "but we are both alive, and that is more than i had hoped for at one time. when the priest felled thee with the cup, i whipped out my sword and ran at him. he turned and fled out of the door with me at his heels; catching his foot on a stone, he tripped and fell. i was upon him before he could arise. another moment--and it would all have been over. when lo! these men arose from the ground around us, where they had been lying, and overpowered me. tying my hands, they took my sword away, and bringing me up to this room, guided by the priest, they unbound and left me. i did not know what had become of thee, and was almost mad with anxiety when thou, too, wert brought in." "what of denortier?" i asked. "he was not below when drake took the hall." the lad grinned at me. "i left him on the floor, where thy buffet had sprawled him, for he was as though dead when i ran after the priest." "he must have recovered himself and escaped," i said. "he is as slippery and cunning as a fox, and doubtless he lies hidden in some of his secret caves about here." "what was the volley that i heard but a minute ago?" he asked. i seated myself upon a chair, and crossed my legs comfortably. "'twas the death of the pirates. drake sent them out and put an end to them in short order." "and then we will both be set free!" he cried. "why do they keep us here?" "the fates fight against us," i answered. "the priest has sworn, and the men, bought by him, have corroborated his statement, that i was the ringleader of the pirates; that i slew sir samuel morton, and i know not what else. to bear them out, it seems that the clothes i have on and the sword that i wore belonged to morton. they all recognize them, and have persuaded drake that i am guilty," and i arose and began to pace the floor. "infamous!" the boy cried indignantly. "but i will tell them the truth," and he arose. "it is useless," i replied sadly. "the priest has told them that thou art a boon companion of mine, and they will believe naught that thou wouldst say. in truth it begins to look like the halter. i care not for myself, for i have run my race, but thou art young and thy life lies before thee. i would mourn should harm befall thee. it may be that drake will free thee, and i will see what can be done." the lad had risen, and stood facing me, his eyes flashing fire. "and dost thou think that i would take my own life, when thou dost lose thine? i owe mine to thee--dost think that i would leave thee?" the moisture stood in my eyes as i looked at him. when all others had deserted me, he had stood faithful and true; there was left some drop of balm in existence while it held such souls as this, few though they be. "i shall not drive thee away," i said smilingly, "for i am but too glad to have thee with me." an hour--two--and then the door opened, and stone entered. "sir francis wishes to see both of you," he said. we followed him down into the room where drake sat alone. he motioned us to chairs. "sir thomas," he said, "dost thou, on the honor of a gentleman, know where the plunder of denortier is hidden? if either of you will but tell me, you shall have a liberal share, and so can perhaps buy your liberty from the queen." "sir francis," i answered, "i know naught of it; none but the count knew where it was concealed." "and he has escaped," he muttered. "i regret that i must leave without finding the gold, but time is precious. it may be that this fellow will bring a swarm about our ears, did i but linger here a day. the spaniards would be but too glad of an excuse to repay me for the blows that i have struck them before now, and we have but one ship. no, we must go," and he arose. "and now, gentlemen, give me but your word, that you will not attempt to escape, and you shall be free to come and go without a guard." "thou hast it," i answered; "that is if oliver assents," and i looked at the boy. "aye," he said, "if sir thomas gives the word, so will i." drake walked over to the window and looked out, his back towards us. the lad plucked my sleeve. "look," he whispered, "everything of value has been taken by these vandals." i glanced around me; it was true. the gold and silver goblets, the candlesticks of precious metal, the draperies and statues, the paintings and ornaments, even the very skins and rugs upon the floor were gone. naught but the heavy furniture remained. i doubted not that they would take that, did they but have a way to carry it on the ship. i glanced through the open door, it was the same in the other room; even as i looked, i saw the men descending the stairs, bringing the booty from above and stripping the hall as they passed through. drake had made a clean job of it, yet even now he mourned because he could not discover the treasure of denortier. he turned from the window. "'tis a pity that thou dost not know where the treasure is hidden," he said. "the gold would have more weight with elizabeth in freeing thee, than would the innocence of saint george himself," and with these words he waited silently a moment to see what effect they would have upon me. but i stood cold and unmoved, and growling out indistinctly a word or two, which i could not understand, he picked up his hat and strode away. i felt a touch upon my arm; looking around, i saw father francis behind me. "dog!" i shouted, "and dost thou think to slink here thus to taunt me, and after thou hast sworn away my life?" and with a threatening look, i lifted my clenched fist. "hush!" he whispered, drawing nearer to me, his face grave and serious. "i have something of importance for thy ear alone. come but into the next room. what! and when thy very life hangs in my hands, and i can save thee at a word? i offer to say that word even now for thee, and set thee and the lad free." and he pointed to oliver, who upon seeing the priest had turned his back, and was gazing intently out of the window. "thy life is thine own, to throw away as thou choosest," he continued, "but the boy, so young and innocent--wouldst thou send him to his death? his blood would be upon thy head." i hesitated, it would take but a moment after all, and i would save oliver if i could. "i will listen to thee," i finally replied, "but look thee--beware how thou dost trifle with me. thou shalt pay dearly for it, if thou doest so," and i looked at him threateningly. "i do not seek to trifle," he answered. "i talk but business for thee alone. come!" and he crossed into the next room. hesitating i followed, and seated myself in a chair opposite him, which the plunderers had left. "out with it!" i cried impatiently. "say quickly what thou wouldst and waste no time about it!" "a moment," he mumbled, "only a moment. dost know this handwriting?" and running his hand into the folds of his robe he brought out a paper and held it out to me. did i know it? would i know my own heart beats, as they throbbed within my breast? i knew that delicate flowing hand. did not there lie next my heart at that moment a yellow paper in the same writing? i took it in my hand, and looking at its address a moment, broke the seal and opened it. it was addressed to lord dunraven, and ran as follows: london, england. nov. , . lord dunraven, london, england. my dear lord: i received thy note only a few moments ago and make haste to answer it. i have thought over thy flattering offer, in which with vows of eternal love thou askest me to be thy wife. thou dost not know how much this means to a woman. man has much else; love in his life plays but a little part, and if he should be disappointed, he has his estate, his business, and his friends. he can sail the wide seas, and with his sword carve out for himself a name and fortune. but a woman, if she mistakes the tinsel for pure gold--ah! hers is a wrecked and miserable existence; there is naught but sorrow left for her. i wonder if thou dost realize this, james? that i am putting into thy hands, trustingly and unafraid, my life, my love, my all? dost thou appreciate the gravity of this step that i am taking? i am afraid that thou dost not, but i will hope, and try to believe that thou wilt come to a future realization of all that this must mean to me, and that thy love will ever be all that thou sayest it is. and so my answer is--yes. good-night, margaret. i looked at the paper in my hands; from it there floated that subtle odor that so often heralded the approach of my lady. i could not mistake that delicate perfume, nor the paper, for there were the dainty initials intertwined at the top of the sheet--m. c. yes, it was in her handwriting--it was hers! every letter seemed branded into my brain with a hand of fire. my head swam. so this was the last blow; cast off and spurned by my family; kidnaped and detained in captivity; my life in hourly danger--so that when i lay down at night i knew not whether i would awake again--scorned and distrusted by my friends; condemned to die as a pirate, alone, friendless--my sun about to set in disgrace and despair. yet i could bear all these things, sustained by my love and trust for her when all else failed. she was to me as the north star to the storm-tossed mariner, ever calm, serene, lovely--what though she gleamed far away and distant, i could yet see her in memory and guide by her my tempest-tossed bark. when that light failed, then indeed i was adrift without chart and compass, at the mercy of the winds and waves. this was the last drop that filled my cup to overflowing. there was naught left for me--all was lost! night, black and inpenetrable, seemed to rise before my tortured eyes; the roll of the ocean beat and moaned in my ears; something within me seemed to snap and break; my breath choked and ceased; i dropped upon the floor, and all else was a blank to me. someone was sprinkling water upon my face, and looking up, i saw bending anxiously over me the priest, a look of concern upon his red face. "leave me," i moaned. "canst thou not let me rest in peace? go! go!" "i tell thee i cannot," he said. "dost thou not remember that i had a proposition for thy ear alone?" "i care not for thy proposition!" i answered. "let me die in peace! i would not turn my finger for life or death--go!" "remember the lad then," he replied. "if thou dost care not for thyself, remember him. he has a life that even i, besotted as thou dost think me, would grieve to see lost. would thou cast it from thee, when by one word thou couldst save him? one good deed thou wilt not regret." "help me to a chair then," i replied, "and i will hear what thou hast to say." bending over me he put his fat arms around my body, and lifting me as though i had been a child, he bore me to a chair. i felt as some careworn man, bending beneath his years, and tottering with feebleness and age; all my strength and energy had left me. even the fat priest, hardened and bloodstained as he was, seemed to feel some sparks of pity as he looked down upon me. "had i known that the paper would affect thee thus, i would not have shown it to thee," he muttered. "it matters little," i replied lifelessly. "what is thy offer?" he hesitated--then spoke: "several days ago the count showed thee a paper in which thou didst purport to formally renounce all claims that thou mightest have to the hand of the lady margaret carroll. not that thou hast any interest after that paper," he chuckled, "but this matters not for the present. he told thee if thou wouldst but sign that document, thou shouldst be free, with a purse of gold. i offer thee this additional proposition besides what has already been offered--that is thy life, and the boy's (which are as good as gone) to deal with as thou choosest. not only this, but i will increase the five hundred pounds to one thousand pounds. it is a noble offer. what sayest thou?" and he tapped the floor nervously with his foot. "my reply now is as it was then. not though thou offerest me the wealth of the incas, the lives of a thousand men, though i suffered a dozen deaths by all the tortures that human ingenuity could devise, and my body rotted in the ground, would i sign the paper. thy master has the lady. what more can he wish? go back, and tell him once for all what i have said--begone!" an ugly light had come into the priest's eye as he had listened to me; his bloated face was purple with baffled rage. with a snarl he sprang towards me, drawing his hand from behind his back, and i saw a dagger flash in the light. "then die!" he shrieked, and he raised the gleaming weapon above his head and brought it down. at that moment there was a rush, and a blade flashed under the descending dagger and caught it--'twas oliver's. father francis with a yell dropped the dagger, and rushing to the open window, sprang out of it. the lad, who was close behind him, lunged at him even as he went through--with an exclamation he held up his sword, it was streaming with blood. "'tis only a scratch; would that it had been through his breast. what ails thee?" he asked in alarm, as he saw my face. "what is it, that thou dost look as though thou hadst seen thy end?" "yes, my end, lad," i repeated, "it is in yonder paper." he picked it up from the floor and read it through. "'tis false!" he cried, the red blood of indignation dyeing his cheeks. "it is only some trick of that fiend dunraven." "no," i answered, "'tis her paper, her crest, her handwriting, even the very perfume that she uses hangs about it. it must be true--i would not have believed it had i not seen the paper with mine own eyes. i loved her with a love that knew no distrust, faithfully, devotedly. the night, calm and silent, was not purer or more innocent than her soul; the stars as they peeped out from the distant sky, were no brighter than her eyes, azure, deep, serene; the gold of the sunset was like the glimmer of her hair; the fleecy clouds, white and snowy, were not lovelier than her neck and throat, and yet--yet--she weds dunraven. why hast thou forsaken me?--margaret! oh, margaret!" the lad looked at me, the great tears of pity running down his cheeks. "come," he sobbed, "come, we must go," and he led me by the hand from the room. my mind, numbed by this last great shock, refused to serve me, and i was as one in a trance. dimly i saw the room, heard the babble of oliver's voice, my feet moved mechanically under me, but it was as though i were in a dream--a hideous and frightful phantom of the night that in a moment would pass away, and i would wake and find it false. oliver chatted on: "i did but go out into the yard to look at the vessel, and lingered longer than i thought, when remembering that i had left thee with the priest, i hastened back just in time to save thee." "yes," i answered, "in time to save me." he looked at me anxiously. "what ails thee, sir thomas?" he said. "shall i have a leech attend thee? perhaps thou hast fever and wouldst feel better for his attendance." "'tis useless--he cannot mend a broken heart, lad," i replied, rousing myself from the spell which hung over my senses. "if he is able to do that, thou canst call him." we had passed down the path to the landing where drake's vessel lay, and the men were coming and going as they loaded her with the spoils of the mansion. the last party was preparing to leave the house, as we passed from its portals. they were all ready and had gathered in front of the great white mansion. at oliver's request i listlessly turned to look at them, and could see drake's golden beard as he strode among his crew arranging them into rank. the black flag with the ghastly skull and cross-bones still floated over the roof of the house, but even as we looked there arose a shout from the men which was echoed on board the ship. a single culverin boomed out, then slowly, as though reluctant to descend from where she had so long floated, supreme and invincible--the mistress of the isle--the flag lowered until it touched the roof. she had finished her course; her day here was done. then there arose a roar that made the other weak and puny in comparison, and lo, there floated high above her the cross of saint george. proudly and triumphantly she spread her folds and streamed out bravely in the breeze; the mistress of a hundred hard-fought fields and scenes of carnage, she now counted another among her many victories. the culverins upon the vessel opened their bronze throats and screamed a greeting to the noble banner, and then she too came down. the men had left the splendid house, and were coming towards us, their hands laden with the last spoils. even as i looked at that stately home, oliver touched my shoulder, and pointed towards it. "look!" he cried, "it is on fire!" 'twas true, both the barrack and the house were in flames, and as we looked they burst out of one of the windows of the mansion, and licked their fiery tongues upwards as though rejoicing in their mad fury at the disaster they were creating. higher they crept--higher, as if to climb upwards to their friend the red sun, as he hung above them--embracing the great white house in their fiery clutches, like the eager lover as he catches his cold lady in his passionate embraces, and presses her to him, while she hangs listless and silent in his arms. the sailors had reached us, and the boats were ready to put out for the ships. drake approached me. "art ill, sir thomas?" he asked uneasily, "if so, my leech will attend thee." i shook my head, for i could not speak. i was faint and sick; my head reeled as though i had been struck down by some heavy hand; my feet trembled under me from weakness and exhaustion--i was almost finished. the lad spoke up: "aye, sir francis, if thou wilt but help me with him to the boat. he is ill, and when we reach the ship thy man shall attend him." and so with hair dishevelled, and bloodshot eyes, like an old man, trembling and feeble, i staggered to the boat between drake and oliver. laying me upon a seat, they pulled off. i glanced back only once; the fire had ascended to the roof, and the whole house was wrapped in flames; the barrack had burned down to the ground and lay in ashes. so i left the island forever; the noble home ruined and gutted; the pirates dead; denortier i knew not where; behind me somewhere concealed a princely treasure, the spoils of a hundred galleons, the fruits of five long years of bloodshed and carnage. perhaps some unborn explorer of some unknown people may sometime in the dim and misty future sail out upon these seas and find this deserted isle, with its crumbling ruins and hidden gold. i know not; it may be that it will lie forever deep down in the bowels of the earth, for no good can come of treasure won as this. i know only this, that not for the wealth of the earth would i touch foot again upon the shore of this isle eldorado. for me it is a page in life's book finished and closed--past forever. other regions might i explore, other isles might i look upon, but i knew that i would never again see eldorado. and thus we left its shore forever. often since have i thought of the island, and wondered if it still lies in ruins and silence, broken only by the cries of the birds and the call of the natives. often in the long winter nights, my pipe in hand, as i sit in my great chair in front of the blazing fire, watching the white clouds of smoke and hearing the wind groaning and whistling about the house, have i mused of its tropic clime and starlit nights, and of the noble white mansion. often have i seen in fancy the faces of denortier and the fat priest; lived over the stirring scenes of the past, and reveled again, as on the night we held high carnivals; have half turned to where the patient indian josé stood behind my chair with a cup of the king's wine. lo! i start, i am dozing here, my head upon the cushion of my easy-chair. chapter xi the great armada we sailed for three long months; july, , was here when we neared england. i had been sick with a fever, brought on by the life of peril that i had lived for so long; the last stroke had been too much for my enfeebled system. i had rolled and tossed for six weary weeks, day and night, and prayed to die, but it was not to be. oliver had been ever with me; did i moan he was up in an instant to change my rumpled pillow; did my head ache he would stroke it for me. gentle, light-footed, tender as a woman, he nursed me day and night. sometimes when i would grow quiet, he would throw himself upon his cot and doze for a few moments, but when i stirred he was upon his feet instantly again. i know not how he lived, but pale and serene he moved about as usual; i know i would have died, had it not been for his care of me. at last after six weeks i began to mend, and would lie weak and exhausted, listening as he would sing to me some old ballad, or give me the news of the ship as he learned it from the gentlemen; for he was a general favorite with all on board, from drake himself, down to the humblest man who walked the vessel. his bright sunny ways and laughing face had endeared him to the hearts of all. i was resigned now to my lot. i had prayed for death, had wished to die, and had rebelled when i began to improve. there were so many happy young lads and lovely maidens, for whom life seemed to hold so much, it stretched out so beautiful before their eyes; and yet the grim old reaper had garnered them in and left me here. i had ceased to fear death; it had lost its sting for me, and the dread of it was gone. i thought of it now as some old friend, long lost and loved, whose face i had not seen for many years, and whom i longed and yearned to behold once more. to lie down in its open arms and wake no more--only quiet, peace, oblivion, only the snow of winter to lie above me, and the dew of heaven to fall upon the mound where i lay. ah! rest after toil would be sweet. but now i was resigned; i would bow to the inevitable. it was the will of god that i should live, and with it i was content. oliver, whistling some merry tune, came into the room where i lay one bright morning. i had been thinking of the island, and had idly wondered what had become of the pirates' vessel, for i had not seen it when we left. i looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "lad, what has become of the ship of the pirates?" i asked. "i have not seen it for months." "drake put some of his crew upon it, and she sailed before us," he answered gayly. "on it i have since learned were my lord dunraven and the priest. the gentlemen tell me" (he dropped into one of the chairs) "that the spaniards are about to fit out a noble fleet, called the great armada, to invade england. philip has sworn to humble her pride, so that she will trouble him no more. this is why sir francis has put on full sail for the last few days. he wishes to be in at the death," and he whistled in a trifle louder key. "i but hope that we will arrive in time to help put down these dons!" he cried, breaking off in the middle of a measure, his eyes flashing. "they have long tried to rule the world with an iron hand, and 'tis full time that old england should show them a thing or two." "thou dost talk strangely, oliver," i answered, with a laugh at his vehemence. "we are most likely to lose our heads if we reach england safe; 'twould be best for us to fall into the hands of the spaniards as prisoners of war. perhaps we might escape from them to some place where we would be safe; at any rate our necks would be saved, and that would be something to be thankful for under present conditions." the boy's face had grown long as he listened to me. "i had not thought of that," he said, his brow puckered. "'tis a strange situation to be in," and with that he betook himself thoughtfully on deck. i had now almost recovered my strength, but i kept closely to my cabin. i had been on deck a while, a few days after i had gotten able to stir about, and i could but remark on the conduct of the gentlemen; my former comrades had turned the cold shoulder to me, and i had been met on all sides with cool looks and scornful faces. it had fretted me at first, but after all it was the way of the world. even drake had not seemed overly joyous to see me. he inquired after my health, and told me he was glad to see me up again, but his voice had been so careless and perfunctory that i saw it was a distasteful duty, and i had turned away and gone down to my cabin. occasionally i went on deck, but i avoided the men, and wrapping myself in my cloak would stand apart, a pariah among my fellows. sometimes i would be joined by oliver, and we would pace the deck together. a strange pair we must have looked--i, grave and silent; the boy, bright and merry; i, with gray hair and sad face; he with his curls blowing in the breeze, and a song upon his lips as he walked beside me, his tongue running all the while like a weaver's shuttle. often at night i would slip away from my cabin, and would silently stride the deck for hours, my eyes upon the tossing sea. oliver i did not see so much of lately. heaven knows i did not complain, for he was young and needed society. the gentlemen kept him a good deal of his time in the great cabin; he amused them, and was good company. i could hear them as they sung together, or tossed the dice; and at such times the loneliness of my life would descend upon me with bitter agony, and i would groan aloud and writhe with anguish as i fought with my traitor soul until i was calm again. oliver the gallants could forgive for his crimes, he was bright and innocent; if he had wandered astray he was too young to realize the error of his way. the pirates moreover had said little against him, and if he had done aught he had been led by me. we had passed several merchant vessels within the last few days; one we hailed was the "betsy." i recognized her short, stout skipper, who nearly two years ago had conveyed me out to meet the pirate vessel. the man did not know me; i had changed too much. and now, as i leaned against the rail, i heard the conversation between him and drake. "the great armada had sailed from spain," he said, "several weeks before. it was doubtless even now upon the coast of england; the whole country had arisen as one strong man, and stood ready to meet the spaniards. if the english were defeated, it would mean the ruin of the country." on hearing this much, drake had sailed on and left him there. we were in sight of england now. a frightened fisherman, whom we had picked up, told us that the spaniards were upon the coast only a few miles away. as dusk fell, a cry went up. looking, we could perceive through the darkness the gleam of the many lights upon the galleons of the foe, as their ships rose and fell upon the waves. to-morrow the english would join forces with them, and would fight such a battle as had seldom been fought before; one upon which hung the destiny of a great people, and which the world would gaze upon with bated breath. a voice at my elbow startled me. drake was leaning upon the rail near my side. "'tis a noble sight," he said, pointing to the lights, "those great ships yonder, laden with men. many of those on board doubtless toss to-night as they think of their homes and friends. some of them before to-morrow's sun sets will sleep sounder, i doubt not," and he stroked his yellow beard as he glanced at me. "true," i answered, "they have a hard fight before them, ere they conquer england. dost think they can accomplish so great a task?" "i know not," he replied thoughtfully. "this much i will say, that before they conquer england they must face a united people, such as there hast not been since the time of william the norman." "where lies the english fleet?" i asked. "i see naught of it, though it must be near." "behind yon acclivity," he replied, pointing to the left of us, where i could dimly see the jagged outline of the coast. we were swiftly sailing towards that point; a few minutes passed and we rounded the promontory. there in the still waters lay the english squadron, their decks alive with men, lights gleaming everywhere as the boats moved hither and thither between the vessels. the rough commands of the officers floated out to us upon the night air; the bustle and stir of preparation were everywhere, as ammunition was piled upon the decks, the guns were cleaned for action, and all was gotten in readiness to meet the foe on the morrow. the long roll of the drum upon our ship met my ear. drake had aroused his men, and in a few moments our deck was as busy as any of those of the vessels around us. sir francis had gotten into his boat, and pulled out to where lord howard, who was in command, lay. our men ran to and fro upon the vessel, preparing, strengthening, arming, putting everything in order. naught had been said to me, so i looked on. yet i would put in a blow for england to-morrow; though she spurned and disowned me, i would yet strike for the life of the country of my fathers, that had given me birth, and for which my ancestors had fought, bled, and died. i paced the deck and watched the men, who, perspiring and grimy, were cleaning the great guns, stacking cutlasses and swords in huge heaps upon the vessel, and bringing up ammunition from the hold. some of them were singing rude songs as they toiled at their work; others, grim and silent, were staggering under the weight of the iron balls for the guns. everywhere there were hope and courage, even in the face of the overwhelming force they were to face in a few hours. not for a moment did i see any trace of despair and discouragement. "let them come," growled one burly fellow, as he whirled a great cutlass and made it hum about his head; "we will give them such a dose that they will ne'er come back for a second." a low murmur of approval came from his fellows, as with set and determined faces they stopped work an instant to look at him. all the short summer night the boats came and went, until when the great light of morning broke, everything was prepared for the fray. oliver had been with sir francis drake, running to and fro carrying messages and commands, and now he pulled back with him at daybreak from the vessel of lord howard, where drake had been in consultation all night. sleepy and red-eyed the boy scrambled on board. "thou hadst best catch a minute or two of sleep, lad," i said, as he came near me. "thou wilt need it before night, or i shall be mistaken." "aye," he answered, "i shall lie down in a moment," and he passed down the ladder. drake lingered a moment by me. "wilt strike a blow with us to-day for the honor of old england, sir thomas?" he said. "or hast thou enough of england?" i faced him as he stood there in the dim light of the morn. "i will fight with thee," i answered. "good!" he replied. "we will need all of our stout arms before night, for we are few compared with the spaniards. i pray god will defend the right and give us victory," and he passed forward among his men. and now at the sound of the culverin from howard's ship the noise ceased. the seamen and gentlemen who gathered on the decks of the vessels knelt with one accord. 'twas a solemn sight as they knelt with bared heads, and the holy men of god lifted their voices and prayed for england, now sorely beset by her foes. "and if it be thy will, o lord, we ask that she may emerge from this calamity now upon her with increased glory and honor, and that the strength of the wicked may be utterly put to flight, like the chaff before the wind. wilt thou, o father, stretch forth thy hand and smite them root and branch." so prayed our chaplain. the men cheered as they rose to their feet. then we sailed out, one by one, to meet the spaniards, who were only five miles away--on that summer morning, the th of july, . the spanish fleet lay in the shape of a broad crescent, as they sailed on towards plymouth; a noble fleet, the great galleons towering above the water, and the sails seemed endless, as ship after ship, one hundred and forty-nine in all, stretched out as far as the eye could see. truly it seemed folly in the little english fleet with only eighty vessels, some of them mere pinnaces, to attack these great vessels. it was as though a bulldog, little and plucky, was about to spring at the throat of a great bull. as we sailed down upon them, sir francis motioned for silence, and springing upon a huge cask of powder, cried: "my men, we are about to strike a blow for liberty to-day, that shall ring around the world. is there a man before me, so base, so fallen, that he would not defend his home, his family, his land, his queen? if there be any such here to-day, let him stand out from among his fellows," and he paused. no sound, the men stood stern and silent. he resumed: "the spaniards boast that they will sleep in london to-morrow night, and that they will sack the town. if every one among this crew stands true and firm, and will do his duty to his country and his god, many of their men shall sleep to-night in a warmer clime than london." a deep roar of laughter went up from the men about him at this sally. "if each one of you will but remember this, when you strike at your foes, we will deal such a blow to spain, that it will be ages ere she recovers. give back but an inch, and you will forge a link in the chains of your slavery; bear yourselves bravely, and you will put a nail in the coffin of spain. i swear to you that the first man of mine who shall give way but an inch, i will run him through with my sword, though i fight my way through the ranks of the spaniards to do it. should you fall back, i will blow up the ship and all on board, rather than she should fall into the hands of the enemy. stand firm, strike hard and fast, and the day is ours," and he stepped down and wiped the sweat from his brow with his hand. with a cheer the men responded, "drake forever!" with our flag nailed to the mast, as sir francis had ordered, we bore down upon the spaniards. then began that long fight, immortalized in song and story, which will be told wherever english blood flows, and wherever pluck and courage are known and honored among the sons of men. we sailed under a great galleon, her decks thronged with mailed soldiers; as we ran beneath them they jeered long and loud, for we looked so little, so insignificant as they towered high above us; it seemed so foolhardy that we should attack the huge vessel. silence reigned on board our ship; half-naked gunners, lighted matches in hand, stood by the culverins waiting for the word of command; the soldiers, musketoons in hand; the little knot of gentlemen gathered around drake--it was in strange contrast to the spaniard, which rang with laughter, with taunt, and gibe. i stood a little to one side of drake, my breastplate on; in my hands was a great ax, for i had not asked for my sword, and had chosen this weapon for the fight. we almost touched the enemy, their tier of guns hung high above us; i could have tossed a biscuit easily on board. "now," cried drake, "let them have it, boys!" at the sound there arose a deafening roar; the vessel rocked like a leaf upon the water; the smoke in a dense cloud hid us from the foe. i could hear the crash as the balls struck the ship; could hear the exclamations and oaths of the men; and our sailors, leveling their musketoons into the smoke, fired. another chorus of yells and curses--we had evidently struck them somewhere. the noise and uproar around us were deafening, as ship after ship wreathed in fire and smoke closed with the galleons; oaths, curses, and shouts filled the air; volley after volley sounded as the vessels exchanged broadsides; the smoke hid everything from us in a dense cloud. hoarse words of command, prayers, the screams of the wounded and dying, the shouts of the victorious, the clashing of swords as some ship was boarded--and over it all a dense pall, dark and impenetrable. now and then a breeze would blow aside the smoke, and i could see vessels, english and spanish, around me; could see the men fighting hand to hand on the deck of some great galleon that had been boarded--rising and falling, cutting and thrusting; the englishmen now advancing and bearing their foes before them, now borne back by some desperate rush. then another vessel would sweep up to the side of the ship on which they were struggling, and would discharge a load of men. with a yell they would bear down upon the spaniards and beat them back, and then the smoke would settle, and like a dark curtain shut out the scene. the spaniards in the great vessel under which we lay had endeavored to train their culverins upon us, but in vain, we were too far below them. so they had given that up, and with a volley of small arms had swept our deck. many of our men had fallen under the storm of lead, and we had replied with another broadside, and then another. the galleon was sorely hit; we could hear her as she reeled from the shock of the shot, and the smoke clearing showed us the great rents in the side of the ship where our balls had torn through her. at close range the destruction was terrible; her decks were strewn with the dead and dying. it looked like a slaughter pen as the blood ran in great streams down the rough planks. then another great ship sailed alongside of us, and our deck swarmed with spaniards; at the same time the stricken galleon poured what remained of her crew over into us and we were boarded from both sides at the same time. we divided our ranks, fore and aft, with a volley that dropped many a man; then sword in hand we stood firm and steadfast. ah! that was a good fight that day. though they outnumbered us three to one, yet they had not the stern stuff in them of our men. drake seemed to bear a charmed life; he was here and there--now in the midst of the foe, a dozen swords aimed at him, now back among our men; one moment in front, now on the other side. wherever the spaniards pressed our men the hardest, there might be seen his yellow beard and bloody sword. but i had short time to observe him, for a dozen spaniards were at me. with a shout, i brained a couple with my great ax, and the others gave way before me; but in an instant they were back, cutting at me with their swords. oliver was by my side, and right nobly did he play his part; i know not what i would have done without him. gay, debonair, smiling, he met them and with me drove them back. with a rush, a new reënforcement came over the rail and made for us, led by a sturdy fellow with a long tawny beard. then for the first time our depleted ranks gave back, and i was left almost alone; only oliver and a dozen more stayed by me. i cut down the first fellow, and dropping my ax, for i was too hard pressed for that, i caught up his sword. "come!" i shouted to their leader as he neared me. "cross swords with a man!" with an oath he cut viciously at my head; i parried his thrust and lunged at him; and then with a rush a score bore down upon me, and i stood alone among the foe. it had gone hard with me, had not drake come to the rescue; with a shout he cut his way into their ranks, and to where i still fought doggedly on. a thrust had grazed my forehead, i had another cut in the back of my head, but they were scratches and i felt them not; turning, twisting among them, i evaded the myriad blows aimed at me. with a yell the enemy gave way before us; a score of englishmen had followed drake, and were now hacking at them. to add to their confusion our men had driven off the boarders on the other side, and now streamed down to the rescue with loud cries of "drake!" a moment of fierce hand-to-hand struggle, as we fought to and fro upon the bloody deck; many slipped and fell in the pools of blood, and they fought among themselves and hacked at the legs of the men as they trampled over them. some who went down were trodden to death; others struggled to their feet and fought on. the spaniards wavered, hesitated, and then with a rush we swept on and over them, as the great waves over the sinking ship. a few little groups remained, struggling stubbornly until they were cut down. drake stood wiping his red sword, and looking at the bloodstained floor, all piled with gory bodies. finally his eye fell upon me. "art hurt, sir thomas?" he asked, noticing my bloody face. "no," i answered, "'tis but a scratch," and i wiped my face with my sleeve. "thou hast borne thyself right gallantly in the fray," he said. "i almost feared to look, when i saw thee alone in the midst of the foe. but what has become of oliver? i saw him but a moment ago." i looked around; he was nowhere in sight. "i hope no harm has befallen him," i replied anxiously. "but i lost sight of him in the fray, and i know not where he could be." "oliver!" shouted drake, raising his voice, "where art thou?" "here," answered a muffled voice, which sounded as though it came from the bowels of the earth. "where?" i shouted. "i can see naught of thee." "up near the mast," he replied. "i am under a pile of bodies, which, from the feeling of my back, must be at least a mile high." treading among the dead, with which the deck was covered, we at last reached the place from which the voice proceeded. there, from under one side of a huge pile of the slain, protruded the legs of the lad. 'twould have been laughable, had it not been for the gravity of the surroundings. the lad's head was on the other side from us, his body pinned down under the dead, who had fallen crosswise over him, and had doubtless protected his life in the fight by concealing him from view. i smiled as i saw the spindling legs. "thou seemest comfortable and easy where thou liest--no doubt resting from the fatigue of the day. we had perhaps best leave thee where thou art; 'twill keep thee out of mischief." "comfortable!" he shouted. "my back is almost broken with the weight upon it. i feel like atlas bearing the world upon my shoulders. pull them off, i tell thee!" drake had roared when i had teased the boy. he now lent a hand, and we pulled off the six or eight bodies that lay upon him, the last one being that of the tawny-bearded spaniard who had led the attack upon me. his face was still hard and fierce, as when he had fallen in the heat of the fray. we lifted the last one aside and helped oliver to his feet; he was sore and stiff, but unhurt, as he informed us in answer to our anxious inquiry. "had it not been for yonder red-bearded fellow," he said, "it would have gone hard with me. i tripped as they came down upon us, and as i fell he rushed at me. one of our men cut him down, and he fell upon my body. before i could arise another had fallen, and so they kept piling up until i was so weighed down that i could not get upon my feet again." "half of my men have fallen," drake said sorrowfully, as we walked aft, and he stopped to survey a pile of the dead. in truth 'twas a scanty crew that greeted us as we stood among them. of the three hundred men who had gone into the fight only about seventy-five bloodstained survivors remained; but they were undaunted and unconquerable, as waving their gory swords, they gathered around us. a crash--and a great ship, floating the yellow flag of spain, her decks crowded with men, emerged from the smoke, and spurting fire and death, as though some titan of the deep bent upon our destruction, she bore down upon us. the men around me were falling thick and fast; one by my side sprang into the air with a loud cry, and then fell, struck down by a ball. a few of the crew were endeavoring to answer them with some of our culverins, but it was in vain; they were shot down where they stood, before they could fire a single gun. the biting scent of the powder was in my nostrils; the smoke stung my eyes until they ran water; bloody and grimy, i waved my sword and cheered on the men, as they fired their guns at the foe. "steady!" i shouted. "stand firm! this cannot last!" with a last volley, she swept up to our side, and a throng of armed men sprang upon our decks. the smoke cleared for an instant--there was not an english ship in sight, that i could see. away to the west, about a mile distant, the roars of the guns resounding showed that the fight still raged, but as far as we were concerned, we must work out our own salvation. and now, sword in hand, the boarders charged down upon our little band as they gathered around drake, and there we made our last stand. with a rush they were upon us, and then ensued a wild mêlée. borne back by the weight of numbers the english stood an instant; and then, broken and scattered in little groups, they were swallowed up in the dense mass of their foes. only the rush and swarm where they fought showed that they were still standing at bay, undaunted and unafraid. cut off from the others, only a seaman or two with me, i fought like a tiger for my very life. all around me there swept a fierce sea of angry, hostile faces; every hand seemed to hold a weapon and to be bent upon my destruction. i could see nothing of the english; i was alone save only for the two sailors. but the enemy were handicapped by their very numbers; many slipped and went down on the bloody decks, and their companions in blind fury cut and struggled over them in their endeavor to get at me. many of the wounded were trampled under foot and perished. cursing, shouting, and fighting among themselves, the spaniards tried to cut me down. but i had kept perfectly cool as they closed with me; the two men, their backs to mine, guarded my rear, and we held them at bay for many minutes. i was silent, and made no answer to the cries of the spaniards; every now and then there would come to my ears the hoarse shouts of drake, as somewhere in the press he fought and struggled. but save that, i could hear no sound from my friends. among the many heads around me, i could see a steel cap with a white plume in it, which marked the chief who had led the enemy when they boarded the ship. as my eye caught sight of him, he made a last charge upon a little group nearby. cutting down those who resisted, he turned and caught sight of the steel as the spaniards rushed upon me, and i beat them back. he made his way through the throng towards me, the men giving way before him. there seemed something familiar in his bearing as he came nearer to me, but i had no chance further to observe him, for with a yell the men whom i had hurled back temporarily were hammering at me as though determined to end the struggle. one of the men at my back was dragged down and i saw him no more; but turning and thrusting at them, i kept on my feet. my breastplate stood me in good stead; if it had not been for its protection i would have been cut to pieces long before; but my body to the waist was hidden by the pile of dead that lay in front of me, and i had only to guard my head and shoulders and i was safe. a cry behind me, and i turned in time to see the last sailor fall. i was alone now. the wall of the cabin was only a few feet away; if i could only reach that, with my back against it, i could hold them at bay for a few minutes longer. slowly and painfully, inch by inch, my face to the foe, i made my way to it. my arm was weary with cutting; i was almost exhausted; several flesh wounds were bleeding freely, and it was only a few minutes until i would be overpowered by sheer force of numbers. it was only a few feet away now--would i never reach it? the seconds seemed like hours--days--as at a snail's pace i crept nearer to its protecting shelter. i had almost reached it now, nearer, nearer; at last, thank heaven, my back was against it, and i faced them for the last act of the scene. a moment thus we faced each other--the spaniards yelling and shouting, i silent and still. they seemed to be in no hurry to meet the sword that had cut down so many of their fellows, but jostling and pushing they faced me, even as a pack of hounds, baying, gather around some grim old monarch of the forest, who, with antlers poised, stands ready to meet them. a cry met my ears; a few feet from me the spaniards were cutting and hacking at someone. a voice called "sir thomas!" with a shout i cut my way through them, as a she bear aroused by the cry of her cubs rushes upon the hunter, and with claws bared and flashing eyes, deals out destruction to those who dare to meet her. i knew the voice--it was oliver's. raising my sword, i whirled it about my head with both hands, and cutting down the men who stood in my path, i made for the lad. cutting and slashing all in my way, i cleared a path through them, the men giving back at the fury of my charge, until i stood above oliver. he lay in a pool of blood, the clotted gore all over his bonny gold curls. stooping, i picked him up as though he had been a feather, and tucking him under my left arm, protecting him as best i could from the enemy's blows, my sword in my right hand, i began my journey back to the friendly shelter of the wall. how i reached it i never knew. i was crazed with fury as i saw their angry faces, saw them cut at me, and slashed back right and left at them, the lad under my arm lying quiet and limp. i knew not whether he was alive or dead. finally i stood once more against the wall, and dropping the boy on the floor behind me, i faced them again. "dogs!" i shouted, "do you fear to meet one man? come on, and i will show you how an englishman can die." a moment they waited, and then from out the ranks sprang the tall spaniard with the white plume, whom i had seen but a few moments ago. bowing, he faced me with a drawn sword. "ah, sir thomas!" he cried, "we meet again." it was the count denortier. for a moment i stood spellbound in astonishment. denortier!--i had left him on the floor, on that last night upon the island, and had thought him dead, or at least stranded and alone on that far-away island, and now i saw him here, leading the charge against me. "denortier!" i cried. "what dost thou here?" he laughed as he answered: "as soon as i recovered from the buffet that thou didst deal me, i rushed out into the open air, and hearing drake's men outside, i evaded them. crossing over to the other side of the island, i boarded a fleet schooner that i had concealed there, ready to sail at a moment's notice, her crew in readiness. we sailed away, and met a galleon going to join the spanish fleet. they were glad enough to promise me a pardon for my past misdeeds to secure my services. so here i am. gods! it is well that i recovered myself when i did on that last night--a few moments later, and i would have been in paradise," and he laughed loudly. "but if thou dost remember, twice have i promised to meet thee, and settle all our differences--that time has come. on guard!" we crossed swords; the others, clearing a space and leaning upon their weapons, watched us; the senseless body of the lad behind me. denortier cut at me furiously, but i met his blow, and returned it with a vengeance. gone was my fatigue of a moment ago; it was as though the strength that i had felt in the old days had flowed back into my veins. i was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but i felt it not, for the glow of some wondrous wine seemed to warm me through. i was master of myself; my wrist as strong and supple, my eye as keen and cunning as it had ever been, for i was determined to kill this man. he had kept me confined for months. i could have forgiven him that, but i could not forget that he had insulted, on that memorable night, lady margaret carroll, by coupling her name with his. what though she was to be the bride of lord dunraven, i would avenge this insult to her; she could not prevent me from doing this. ah! it would be sweet to fight once more for her. her hand and love were hers to bestow where she wished, but she could not say me nay in this matter, and so with a right joyful heart i faced the spaniard in the gathering gloom. thrust after thrust he tried, but i met them all with a readiness that surprised myself. i had not fought such a fight as this before; had not crossed swords with a man so worthy of my steel. trick after trick he tried, some i had never seen before, but the gods fought with me, and as though by intuition i met him and sent him staggering back again. a look of black wrath was upon his face; piqued at being met at every point, he was losing his head at my swordsmanship. "ah!" he said, as we struggled upon the slippery deck, "the gentleman fights well. perhaps he thinks that beyond the water there waits for him a lovely lady. let him not fool himself. she is ere now the bride of a noble lord, who holds her fast in bands which she cannot break." but i kept my temper. i had only to keep cool, and the victory was mine, and so i only lunged at him with all my strength. the sharp point of my blade touched his cheek, and with a turn of the wrist i laid it open from ear to neck. with a scream of pain he came at me like a wild cat, but i met him and cut him in the side, so that he staggered back again; pressing forward, i lunged at him once more. he recovered himself, the blood spouting from his cheek, and met my blade with a cut, that, had i not sprang back quickly, would have run me through and through. pressing upon me, he rained blow after blow with point and blade. i had never seen such fury. it was as though he were a madman, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that i protected myself. the smile had passed from his face, and a look of awful anger had replaced it. if he could only reach me, he would give his black soul. "so dunraven has outwitted thee," i taunted. "to the victor belongs the spoil." "the furies take thee!" he cried furiously. "if i have lost, so also hast thou. i would rather that my lord should win than thou. curse thee!" and he struck with all his force at my head. "he has used thee well, has done his work with thee, and then, when thou art of no further use, has cast thee aside like a squeezed lemon," and i laughed in his face. "i will have her yet," he replied, beside himself with anger, his eyes almost starting from his head. "i swear that to thee, though i have to cut dunraven's throat, and fight my way through all england with her in my arms. then ho! for my ship, and away to some far-off clime, where i shall reign a king, and she shall be my queen." his face lighted up with a savage smile. "fool," i answered, "thou babblest. thinkest thou that dunraven would let thee have the lady? he would slit thy throat at first sight, and then what?" "he would if he dared," he answered, "but he fears to attempt it. with what i know i could send him to the gallows. no, believe me, he thinks too much of his own hide to try such a scheme as that." his eyes wandered for an instant. "look!" he shouted in alarm to his men. "an english ship to the rescue! meet them while i finish this fellow." i heard the shout as the englishmen clambered over the rail behind me; and the sound of many feet as they rushed at the spaniards. i raised my sword and lunged forward at denortier's breast. it would have finished him for good and all, but the englishmen were upon me, and the sword was knocked from my hand in the mad rush. the spaniards dashed forward to meet their assailants. i was in the midst of a mad vortex of men, arms, swords, weapons, cries, oaths, as with a crash the two parties came together. like a feather i was thrown from my feet, and lay upon the deck unable to rise as they fought and struggled above me; tramping and stepping on my limbs until i felt as though i were verily beaten into a jelly. how long they fought there i do not know. it seemed long to me, as i lay under the feet of the struggling men, and heard the crash of arms as they still fought fiercely on. the noise was receding from me, evidently one side was fleeing, but which was it? then a good old english cheer broke forth, and never had i heard a more welcome sound in my life than that hoarse cry, "hurrah! hurrah!" then the hubbub ceased and the only sound was the splash of the water as the spaniards sprang overboard. i slowly and painfully crawled out from among some of the bodies, which lay pell-mell about me, and got on my feet. a round-faced, jovial-looking man who stood near me turned around at the sound, his red sword in his hand. i had never seen him before; around him stood a group of seamen. "'tis the brave fellow that we saw holding them at bay when we boarded the ship!" he cried. "pray, sir, what is thy name?" "sir thomas winchester, of london," i answered. a frown was on his face as he looked at me. "'tis a pity that so fine a fellow should hang like a dog, but it cannot be helped," he murmured. "sir, i shall report thy gallant conduct to the queen. i am sorry i can do no more. sir francis drake related thy story to me last night. it is a passing strange one, incredible and unbelievable, and i would i could believe it. i am howard." i had never seen him, but i recognized the family favor. i had known his father when i was but a lad, and had loved the bluff old gentleman. "let me congratulate thee upon thy great victory," i said, bowing low. "it is one with which the world will ring, and in which her majesty will rejoice. truly, 'twas a splendid fight, but i believe it is over now, as i see several of the ships around us." and i looked out to where there lay a dozen shot-riddled vessels. "i thank thee," he answered. "the credit is to my men, and not to me. the fight is, as thou sayest, won. the armada has turned tail and flown; our ships are after her as hard as they can go." "what has become of sir francis?" i asked, looking about me. "i fear that he is slain." "no," he answered, "we found him, with about a dozen of his men, holding the spaniards at bay upon the other side of the vessel. he has even now made his way out to one of yonder ships to pursue the foe. he left his report concerning his voyage and thyself with me last night, and but just now charged me to send thee, and the boy, oliver gates, by the first ship to london, together with the report." "oliver!" i cried, my thoughts instantly upon him. "where is he--hast thou seen aught of him?" and i turned to look behind me where i had left him. yes, there he lay, still limp and quiet, his eyes closed, breathing heavily, a pool of blood around him, which flowed from a great cut in his breast. i knelt beside the boy. "i would ask that thou let the leech attend him," i said to lord howard, as he stood looking down at the body of the lad, "for i fear that he has received his death-blow." "i trust not," he answered gravely. he turned to several of his men: "take him down to the cabin, and let dr. robbins attend him," he said. carefully they picked him up and bore him through the piles of the dead and wounded, that lay upon the deck, down into the cabin. lord howard spoke to me as i passed him, behind the boy. "thou shalt leave for london on this ship to-night," he said. "i will send the news of our victory to her majesty by sir william stone, who will command the vessel. our wounded also go with thee, and i will get aboard another vessel and join drake in harrying these dogs, so that this will be their last invasion of england." bowing my head, i passed down the ladder and into the room where oliver lay. a fat chubby-faced little man was bending over him. he turned his face as i entered. "a bad wound," he said, shaking his head and screwing up his eyes. "it is not fatal?" i said anxiously, as i approached the bed. "i know not," he replied. "it depends upon the care and attention he receives. with nursing he may recover. i have seen as bad cuts before, and yet the men recovered." "doctor----?" i said. "robbins," he answered. "doctor robbins, of london, at thy service," and he bowed. "doctor robbins," i continued, "i know no one in london that i would trust him to at a time like this." "ah! sad," he replied, "sad," and he shook his little round head like a monkey, a look of sorrow upon his face. "i heard thy story last night, when sir francis drake related it to the gentlemen in the cabin. it is incredible--wonderful!" "thou must take the boy to thy house," i said, thoughtfully. "there is no one else, and i will repay thee well." he started. "my dear sir--my dear sir, i cannot take the boy. thou art dreaming. i have no time--no place----" "thou must," i interrupted, "there is no one else. either thou wilt take him, or his death be upon thy hands. i can do nothing for him confined in prison, probably to die." "i pity thee," he answered sadly; "from the bottom of my heart i pity thee. but i have nowhere to put him; no one to look after him. what would i do with the lad on my hands?" "art married?" i asked. "no," he answered, a faint smile upon his face. "i live with one sister, a maiden. what would she do with a boy sick unto death?" "dost thou believe in a god?" i asked. "art thou a christian?" "surely," he replied indignantly. "dost thou take me for a heathen, that thou shouldst ask me such a question?" "well," i answered, "dost thou remember the tale of the good samaritan, how the poor man, stricken by his wound, fell by the wayside, and how the priest with holy look passed by on the other side, then the samaritan, seeing him, took pity upon him, and binding up his wounds, put him upon his own beast, and carrying him to the inn, paid for his lodging and left him there? thou hast thy choice. wilt thou be the priest or the good samaritan?" the tears were in his eyes as he answered: "i will take the lad and keep him until he is restored to health and strength." "i thank thee," i answered. "i know not whether i will see thee again, but i shall not forget thy kindness. may thy god reward thee if i cannot, and as thou dealest with the lad, so may he deal with thee," and i put into his hands my purse. it had some money left in it. "tell the boy that my thoughts shall be of him, and that i shall ever treasure in sweetest remembrance his friendship and love. it will brighten the pathway, and if i do not see him again, may god be with him." and turning, i passed to the door. the little doctor followed me, and stretched out his hand. "thou art a man," he said, "whatever thy faults. i will hold ever sacred the trust thou hast given me, and will deal with the boy as i would with my own." i wrung his hand, and crossing the room, i bent for a moment and pressed a kiss upon the cold forehead of the boy; then i passed from the room. the ship had turned, and was moving up the thames at a rapid rate of speed towards london. i had gone upon deck, and wrapped in my cloak, stood watching the twinkling lights on the banks of the river, that marked where some pleasure house or dwelling lay. someone touched me upon my arm, and looking up i saw the war-worn face of sir william stone. "nobly didst thou bear thyself," he said. "thou hast fought as becoming a gentleman of thy house. would that it might save thee." "i have done my duty," i answered. "i leave the rest; i can do no more." he looked at me in admiration. "sir francis drake left me thy gold-hilted sword, he said, "and bade me give it to thee, for he knew not when he would see thee again. what wouldst thou have me do with it?" "take it to sir robert vane," i replied, "and give it to him with my compliments. it has never been drawn in a cause that would stain it since i have worn it." "i will do it," he replied, and he looked out again at the lights. then he touched me. "look!" he said, pointing to where far before us there twinkled and sparkled many tiny lights--"it is london." london--and so twenty-two months after i left it i was to enter my native land a captive, my life forfeited, old, broken, gray-headed, my heart bowed down with grief, alone and friendless, the only friend that i had on earth lying below at death's door. so i set foot again upon my native heath. nearer we came, for the wind had risen to a gale, and we rushed through the water as though propelled by the hand of a giant. turning a curve, the lights burst full upon us. before us a few ships lay at anchor; only a few, however, for most of the vessels had gone out to meet the spaniards. upon the wharves was gathered a great crowd of people; as far as the eye could see, there stretched a great black sea of heads, awaiting, no doubt, to hear news of the day's fight. as we came into sight they raised a great shout which reached to where we stood; our men sprang to their culverins, and with a blinding crash they roared back a greeting. so with ringing bells and roaring guns, amidst the shouts and cheers of the people, we came into the harbor and dropped anchor. the cries of the people rang across. "how went the fight? did the spaniards run? how many of the ships were sunk?" a perfect babel of shouts and questions arose. several boats had put off from the shore, and were making for us at full speed. springing upon the rail, sir william, his head bowed, held up his hand. instantly a great silence fell upon them--a silence deep and oppressive. "the armada is defeated!" he shouted. "many of their ships are sunk, and they are now in full flight, our men after them. three cheers for england!" then there arose a shout, deep, full, deafening--it fell upon the night air like the roar of a thousand guns; once, twice, thrice, it rose and fell. then, "three cheers for drake and sir william stone!" someone cried, recognizing the old soldier, and the mob gave them with a will. "the boat is ready, sir thomas," the old warrior said, his face lighting up with a proud smile of joy. stepping into the boat, we were rowed ashore. silence fell upon them as we neared the great throng, but as we touched the wharf, they rushed forward, and would have borne old sir william aloft in triumph. he waved them back impatiently. "back!" he cried. "would you hinder me? i am on my way to the queen with tidings of the victory. if you value your heads, you will not delay me." at this they gave way, for they cared not to arouse the imperious elizabeth, and we passed through the mob, a little band of soldiers following. many were the curious glances that were cast at me, but no one recognized my face. it would have been strange if they had. i had left london a care-free, gay, and laughing gallant; i returned gray, haggard, and old. i could hear the murmur of the crowd as they looked at me. "it is a spanish nobleman!" one fat old woman cried to her neighbor. "nonsense!" said a butcher in his greasy apron, who stood near her. "it is sir henry cobden, who commanded one of our ships. i know his face." "thou art mad!" another shouted. "it is the commander of the spanish fleet; he goes even now to the queen to implore mercy and save his neck." "it is the earl of essex," said a tradesman, as i passed him. "look at his bloody sword." "fool, it is the bishop of dunham," said a burly baker. "do not i know his gray beard and pious face? right bravely has he borne himself, look at his dented breastplate." and he bared his head as i passed. at the next corner sir william halted and spoke to me in a low tone. "i will send some of my men with thee to the tower," he whispered. "i grieve that i should have to do this, but those are my orders, and i durst not disobey them. i trust it is only for a short time, and when the queen hears how thou hast borne thyself in the fight, she will pardon thee." "it is thy duty," i answered. "worry not about it. let but two men accompany me, and i will go on quietly to the tower." he turned to the sailors. "do ye, giles and henry, go with sir thomas," he commanded. "ay, sir," they replied. with them in the lead i passed on to the grim old fortress of london, in which had been confined the bravest and noblest of england. how many, as the heavy doors shut behind them, had breathed for the last time the breath of freedom? it had almost become an adage, "that he who goes to the tower leaves hope behind him." it loomed dark and gray before me now. crossing a narrow court-yard, one of the men beat upon the great door studded with nails. "who is it?" a voice asked from the inside. "friends," he answered. "a gentleman to see sir henry degray." at this the heavy bolts rattled and the door opened. a man, a candle in his hand, peered out at us. "why canst thou not come in the daylight?" he grumbled. "thou hast all day, and yet thou must worry us at night." "we have just arrived in england to-night, my friend," i answered, "and could not have come sooner." at this the fellow looked at us closely and saw the blood upon our clothes, our disheveled and disordered appearance. "what news of the great spanish fleet?" he inquired eagerly. "i heard only a moment ago a great shouting, and wondered if it could be news of the fight." "the spanish are defeated," i answered, "and even now are in full flight, our men after them." "god be praised!" exclaimed the rough old fellow, as he lifted up his hands in joy. "many a one of them will see the bottom ere morning, or i am mistaken, for there is such a storm brewing to-night as london has not seen for many a year." "but go into yonder room, sir," he said, pointing to the door in front of me. "sir henry is in there." "come, comrades!" he cried to the two sailors who stood behind me. "come with me, and we will celebrate this victory in a flagon of good wine, and you shall tell me of the battle," and he hobbled off with them. i turned the knob and entered the low room. there, seated at a table, was sir henry, whom i knew well, for i had served with him during my brief campaign in ireland, and with him, a glass in his hand, his dull, watery eyes fixed upon me, sat my brother richard. chapter xii my lady i knew him the moment that i put my eyes upon his face, though i had not seen him in years. he was still the same as when i had seen him last--dull, watery, pale blue eyes, little and stupid like those of a pig; his lean face mottled by hard drinking; his peaked beard shot with gray. ah! he was the same; a little older, that was all. he knew me, too, despite the change in me, for even as i looked at him, a gleam of recognition came into his eyes, and he arose to his feet. "so thou hast met thy deserts? years ago when we were boys together, i prophesied that the gallows would be thy end. thou didst laugh at me then, but it has come to pass even as i said," and he stood grinning at me. "peace, fool!" i answered, "or i will crack that empty pate of thine with a chair," and i made as though to seize one. he dropped back into his seat in an instant, his face pale, for he was ever a coward. "sir henry," he stammered, "i am thy guest, wouldst thou see me murdered before thine eyes?" and he cowered away from me. "tut, sir richard," rejoined the bluff old warrior. "what dost thou fear? thou art as safe as though thou wert at richmond castle. but this cannot be sir thomas winchester?" and he turned to me in astonishment. "the same, sir henry," i answered. "hadst thou been through but half what i have, thy hair would be as gray as mine." "sit thee down, and tell us about it," the good knight said, as he pushed a chair toward me. "another time, sir henry," i answered. "i am faint and weak from my wounds, and weary from the long voyage; some other time i will tell thee with pleasure. but one of the men had a note for thee, if i mistake not. he has been in such a hurry to swig down thy good wine, that he even forgot his errand." "the rogue," he mumbled, and turning he strode to the wall and touched a great brass gong that hung there. "thou didst speak of thy wounds," he said. "how camest thou by them; wert in the fleet that met the spanish armada?" "yes," i answered, "i was, then----" "how did the fight go?" he eagerly interrupted me. "do the spaniards even now sail up the thames to sack the city?" "hardly," i answered. "they are beaten and scattered, with drake and hawkins in hot pursuit." "good!" he shouted joyously. "but thou--why, we thought thee dead long ere this." "'tis a long tale," i replied, "and i will tell it to thee to-morrow." "i forgot," he said hastily, with red cheeks, "and i beg thy pardon; for once curiosity got the better of my manners." "where is the note that the seaman had for me, sam?" he asked, as the old man who had opened the door for us appeared. "here, thy honor," he said, as he handed a paper to sir henry. "the man begs thy pardon for not delivering it at once, but i dragged him away to drink a glass with me, to celebrate the defeat of the spaniards, and i am sure that thou wilt forgive his remissness," and he smiled with the ease of an old favorite. "begone!" said sir henry. "i pardon thee at such a time as this, but let it not occur again." "no, sir," mumbled the old man, and he shambled quickly out of the door. sir henry was reading the note, a frown upon his face, and as he finished he looked up. "right sorry i am to hear this, sir thomas," he said. "thou shalt have such comforts as the place affords while thou art here, which i trust will not be long. i have a leech in the house who shall dress thy wounds. but come, i will show thee to thy cell," and rising, he took from his belt a large bunch of keys, and motioned me to follow him. i did so, leaving richard, his head bowed as though in thought, in his chair by the table. corridor after corridor we crossed; stair after stair we ascended and descended, winding in and out the long, silent halls as though we would never reach our destination. degray trod them with the ease of one who knows every nook and cranny by heart. we met only a few people, seemingly guards, and just as i had almost given up in despair, my guide halted in front of one of the innumerable doors, and fitting the key in the lock, opened it, motioning me to enter. the windows were secured by a heavy grating, and there was only the simplest kind of furniture in the room, only a bed, a rough table, and a chair or two, that was all. the room was fairly large and clean though, but that was about all that could be said of it. old sir henry entered with me, and locking the door, seated himself on one of the chairs. he was a blunt, rough old fellow, but with a heart of gold, and he had thought much of me in the old days in ireland. i had saved his life there once, when his horse had been cut down, and he had been left on the ground in the midst of the wild irish. seeing him thus, i had turned my horse and had ridden back, and catching him up across my saddle, had dashed forward to join our men, the savage kerns at my heels. he had not forgotten this, his first words told me that. "it was fourteen years ago to-day that thou didst save my life at the risk of thine own, when the rest of the men had left me to the mercy of the irish," he said thoughtfully, his eyes absently fixed upon me. "i have the scar with me yet, and will bear it to the grave," and he laid his finger upon a great seamed place on his neck, where a rough scar ran half-way around it. "it was a close shave," i answered, as i threw myself upon the bed, "but yet thou didst pull through." "yes," he replied, "thanks to thee. but, lad, i hope that thou wilt pardon the curiosity of an old friend, and tell me why thou art here. it is not all curiosity, believe me, for perhaps i can be of assistance to thee," and he lowered his voice to a whisper, and glanced around cautiously at the door. "listen," i answered, "perhaps i will tell thee many things that thou wilt not believe. thou hast asked for the truth, and thou shalt have it." and beginning from my abduction, i related the whole story of my captivity and adventures, omitting nothing, save only the part concerning my lady. when i finished he gave a low whistle of astonishment. "it is almost incredible," he exclaimed. "had it not been thee, i would not have believed it. but why does this dunraven wish to keep thee out of england?" "the same reason that has inspired hatred since the beginning of time," i replied--"a fair lady." "ah!" he said, his shrewd old eyes upon my face. "and now i remember to have heard some talk of the rivalry for the favor of one of england's loveliest ladies. if she is as beautiful as they say, it is no wonder. "it is a strange thing," he mused, his rough hand upon his head--"this love of a man for a maid. for her he will do all things; will shed innocent blood; will stoop to any low and ugly deed; would walk through hell bare-footed, as i once heard a gallant say. many have i seen turn their back upon wealth, honor and fame, upon home, kindred and friends, and leave all to win a woman--'tis strange. it has grown to be an adage that, 'all's fair in love and war,' and the little god has missed but few victims. "it is ten years since my wife died," he continued, in a low voice, his worn old face softening, "and yet i have not recovered from her death. i think each day that i miss her more and more, and there is an aching void in my heart that naught can fill. it was only a few days ago that i came upon a little piece of needlework that she had sewed upon and left unfinished, and though thou wouldst not believe it, i fell upon my knees in front of that bit of cloth, and burst into tears. dear, patient jane! it is only when we have lost the gem that we prize it most. a noble woman, my boy, is god's best gift to man, a bad one his worse curse. a woman, true and sweet, can raise a man's life towards heaven; can be a benediction to him that will last as long as life; and an unfaithful and nagging woman is as near a hell on earth as man ever gets. "how stand thy chances with the maid?" he asked, raising his head with a smile upon his rugged face. "she weds lord dunraven," i answered quickly, for he had touched a wound yet fresh and bleeding. "pardon me," he replied. "i would not have asked, had i known. but never give up, my lad, fight on until the last shot in the locker. 'none but the brave deserve the fair,' i have often heard, and if that be true thou wilt win her. if rumor can be believed, the lady is the fairest of eve's daughters, and as for thyself, i know that thou art 'the bravest of the brave.'" "thou dost overrate me," i answered, with a gloomy laugh, which i endeavored to make cheerful. "and what of the spaniard?" he said. "does he love the maid, too?" "yes," i answered. "he, too, is in the same boat." he laughed as he arose and made ready to leave. "i pity the maid," he said. "between you she is in a pretty fix; whichever way she turns she must run into one of you--a pirate, a rascal, and a gentleman. were i in her shoes, it would not take me long to make my choice," and he chuckled as he looked at me. i smiled back at him. "would that thou couldst make up her mind for her," i said. "if that were the case, i would lose no sleep over the situation." "lose no sleep as it is," he answered; "'twill all come out right in the end. 'truth is mighty and will prevail,' i once heard a wise man say, and he spoke truly--but i must go. is there aught that thou dost wish?" "naught," i answered, "save if any of my friends should call to see me, i would wish to see them. not that any of them will come," i said somewhat bitterly, for the lash will sting sometimes. "thou knowest how the rats desert the sinking ship." "aye, my lad," he rejoined, "none know better than i. have i not had my ups and downs, and been almost at the end of my tether? i know the traitor smile when the wind is fair, and the terrible frown when the gale blows hard. it's up with thee, when the sun shines brightly, and all stand ready to put their shoulder to the wheel and help thee up still higher, and it's down and a kick to help the cause, when the clouds hang heavy above. ah! well i know them--a curse on their heads!" and with a growl he strode from the room. only a few moments elapsed, when the key grated and the door opened again to admit the prison leech. a pleasant-faced young fellow, who chatted like a monkey as he dressed the dozen flesh wounds that i had received. "that was a rough cut, sir," he said, as he pointed to my shoulder, where i had a clip of a cutlass as i bore oliver back to the cabin wall. "it must have pained considerably." "not much," i said rather gruffly, for i was weary, and his chatter grated upon me. this silenced him somewhat, and i had an opportunity to think in peace. what was richard doing below? no good, i knew. it might be that his friend dunraven had told him that i would be here to-night, or it might be that it was only a trick of dame fortune that she had played me, though it seemed improbable. no, he had some scheme in being here to-night, i was sure; perhaps he would show his hand. the leech had finished, and with a cheery good-night he opened the door and stepped outside. as he turned to lock the door, i heard the voice of sir william stone, and in a moment the old knight entered. his face was hot and angry, and flinging himself in a chair, he looked at me in silence. "what news?" i asked. "bad," he answered. "i saw the queen and told her of the defeat of the armada, at which she was of course greatly pleased. seeing that, i thought it a good opportunity to broach the subject of thyself, and putting into her hands the report drake had made in thy favor, i begged that she would read that, and afterwards hear me. she did so, and then looking up at me, her eyes flashing, asked what i had to say. i knew not what to make of her face, and was going on to relate thy gallant conduct in the fight with the spaniards, and to beg that she would free so valiant a gentleman, when she interrupted me. "'sir william!' she cried, 'had it not been for this noble fight for england, and that thou hast grown old in our service, and even now bring news of great joy, i would hang thee with him. what does drake mean to send me such stuff as this? he shall answer for it when he returns;' and she tore the paper in pieces. "'after this ruffian denortier has murdered my people and sacked my ships for five long years, then thou dost ask me to spare the life of his stanchest captain, who personally murdered one of my bravest gentlemen, sir samuel morton, and who led these expeditions of blood and crime? shame upon thee! he shall hang, though he were of royal blood! get ye back to him, and say that on the day after to-morrow, he shall hang by the neck until he is dead. to-morrow is his to make his peace with god. get thee out of my presence,' and i hurried away as fast i could, for in truth she is too much like her royal father, for it to be pleasant to be around when she is angry," and he groaned. "it is but what i expected," i answered. "but i thank thee for the effort that thou hast made for me--from the bottom of my heart i thank thee." and i arose and gave him my hand. he caught it and wrung it with both of his own. "i would that i could have saved thee," he said hoarsely, "and i wish thee to know that i now believe that thy tale is true. it seems strange, incredible, but thou art a gentleman, and i believe thee. 'the truth is often stranger than fiction.'" i was pleased at this sign of his trust in me. "i thank thee, sir william," i said, "and say again that i spoke only the truth. should we not meet each other again upon this earth, i hope we shall meet in another sphere." "god grant it, sir thomas!" he cried. "it is but a few more short years for me now, and the time is still shorter with thee. somewhere beyond this world we will meet again, that i feel sure of--until then, farewell!" and the old soldier opened the door and passed out, locking it behind him. throwing myself upon the bed, i closed my eyes, and only awoke when the gray light of the morning was streaming into the rough cell. a man brought my breakfast, coarse though bountiful, and after eating, i walked to the window and looked out. only the narrow court-yard met my view. i could see nothing beyond it. to-morrow morning at this time i would be standing upon the scaffold, preparing to make the last long journey into the beyond. a little more and the journey would be over. the door opened again. "a gentleman to see thee, sir," said the man who waited upon me. i turned eagerly, perhaps it was bobby vane, or--no, only the crafty features of my brother richard met my view as he limped into the cell. "get out!" i cried angrily. "quick! or i will dash thee against the wall. art deaf?" and i moved toward him. the jailer had already locked the door and left us. "listen, thomas," he answered. "i have come to save thee, if thou wilt but listen to me a moment." "dost thou expect me to believe that?" i said. "out with thee! wouldst thou come in to annoy a dying man, and to distract his thoughts from his devotions? this is my last day--wouldst thou spoil it for me?" "i would save thee," he replied, "if thou wilt but listen to me." "be quick then," i answered, "my time is short." and i seated myself opposite him, and leaning my elbow on the table, waited to hear what he would say. "our father is dead," he said, clearing his throat and speaking in a low voice. "is that so? well, thou couldst not expect me to shed many tears over him, the way he has treated me. thy news, while interesting, is not of sufficient moment to disturb me at this late hour." "wait a moment!" he cried. "he left me the estates and title, but thou art my brother, i cannot forget that, and i would deal generously by thee. though thou hast no legal claim to the estate, if thou wilt but sign this paper, renouncing all right which thou mayst have to the estate, and also another trifling matter here, thou shalt have the devonshire lands with the house, and i will see that thou dost go free," and his watery eyes glistened as he looked at me. "thou art promising too much," i replied. "art promising what thou canst not perform, and----" "not so," he broke in eagerly. "i swear to thee that if i but say the word thou shalt go scot free." "and what is the other trifling condition in the paper that thou speakest of?" i asked. "that thou dost renounce all right and pretension that thou mayest have to the hand of the lady margaret carroll," he said. i laughed scornfully. "thou hadst best save thy breath," i said. "thou hast no claim--no hope," he rejoined, rising to his feet. "the lady is about to become the bride of the lord dunraven. what difference can it make to thee if thou signest away the right to something that thou hast not, if by doing so, thou canst save thy life?" "why dost thou wish me to sign the paper, then?" i asked. "if the estates and title are already thine, and the lady dunraven's?" he hesitated a moment. "there are reasons," he finally said. "reasons that i cannot explain to thee, but sufficiently weighty for us to give thee thy life, if thou wilt sign this document. more than this i durst not say." "us," i repeated. "why not say dunraven and thyself? it would sound better thus." "well," he replied defiantly, "if thou dost wish it thus, have it thine own way. this much is certain: sign this paper and thou art free, a competency in thy hands sufficient to support thee in comfort--refuse, and thy head will pay the penalty," and he stood, his back to the door, leering at me. "get out of my sight!" i replied. "or i will forget myself and do thee an injury," and i advanced on him. with a yell, he turned and beat fiercely on the door with the hilt of his sword. "open!" he cried, "quick!" the door opened so suddenly that he fell out into the hall at full length and sprawled upon the floor. the door was shut and fastened, and i heard his voice as he shrilly cursed the jailer for his carelessness. the voice died away, and i knew that he was gone. the dull day dragged away. it was noon, the last i would spend on earth, and i lay upon the bed and wished for the morn. i was weary, and the slow hours wore upon me until finally i arose and began to walk the floor. they had all deserted me, left me like a rat in a trap to die. of the many who had fawned upon me, there was not one to approach me with a kind word. london was doubtless amusing herself with talk of me at this moment. the wine was going around the table, and the small talk, as light and frothy as their empty pates, was beginning to be heard; they would doubtless discuss me from the beginning to the end. "poor winchester! he used to be a right amusing fellow before he ran away to join the pirates. i wonder how he looks now?" the little world of fashion--how i had grown to despise it! what cared i for its painted smile or frown; whether the fashion was silver buckles or bronze; whether they talked of me or not? i cared as little for it as i did for the chatter of the sparrows that hopped about the court-yard below. did the lady margaret carroll think of one who had known and loved her? did one sigh of pity come from her heart and darken those azure eyes; or had she serenely forgotten my very existence? and bobby--this was the most unkind cut of all. bobby, whom i loved as i did a brother, and whose heart i thought was as true as steel; he, too, had turned his back and left me to my fate. such was the way of the world. nine o'clock, and the dusk was beginning to fall, the long july day was ending. as i lay there i heard someone pause at my door, and then it swung open. i still lay there, my eyes fixed on the dingy ceiling. it was the jailer probably bringing my supper, for it was about time for him. "well, my friend," i said, "this is the last supper that thou wilt bring for me. to-morrow i will be where they do not eat, or at least not such stuff as this that thou dost bring." "sir thomas!" a voice cried. "is it thou?" and springing to a sitting posture, whom should i see but steele, whom i had last left on board the ship with the spanish maid. "steele!" i cried, "steele!" and leaping to my feet, i almost hugged him in my delight. "then there is still one friend left to me." he was as glad to see me as i was to see him; the great tears of joy rolled down his face as he answered: "yes, one friend who will stay with thee to the last. i have been out of london to my country place in hampshire, and only returned to-day. as soon as i arrived i heard the news and came immediately, without stopping to change my clothes," and he pointed to the mud upon his boots. "sit down," i said, "and tell me about thyself. but first, what has become of the spanish maid?" he colored deeply beneath his ruddy skin. with a smile he answered: "she is now mistress steele." "is it possible!" i cried in surprise. "let me congratulate thee. she is a lovely girl, and i have no doubt is as amiable as she is beautiful. dame fortune has indeed smiled upon thee," and i shook his hand heartily. "thank thee," he replied. "we were thrown together a great deal during the voyage, and i grew to know and love her for her courage and beauty. we came a short distance in the pirate ship, and then they transferred us to a spanish merchant vessel in which we went to cadiz. i found there that i had lost something of value--my heart--and that a spanish maiden was the finder. what could i do but ask her to give me back hers in exchange? she consented, and we were married there, and then we came on to england. she had a good deal of property, and with it we have bought a splendid home in the country, where we live most of the time, and i am as happy as a king. "often have we talked of thee, and have wondered whether thou wert still alive or not. twice have i set sail to find thy whereabouts, and each time have been driven back. once by shipwreck, in which i narrowly escaped with my life; the second time we sailed out into the west for two months, but finally we had to give up the search and come back, as i had no idea where thou wert." "and where is mistress steele?" i said. "is she in london?" "no," he replied. "she is in hampshire. i grieve that she is not here, for i know that she would wish to see thee." "and didst thou give my message to the lady margaret carroll?" i asked. "and if so, what did she say?" "yes," he replied, his face brightening. "i gave it into the hands of the fair lady herself. she blushed as prettily as the dawn, and wept when i told her the situation in which i had left thee; and her eye kindled as i related how thou hadst given thy life into the hands of the count denortier that an unknown spanish maid might go free. when i had finished, she said no word, only sat in silence for a moment, and then she raised her head, and i saw her bonny blue eyes were full of tears. 'he is the knightliest gentleman that i have ever known,' she said softly, and then she gave me this trinket." he took from the pocket of his doublet a little gold pin and held it out to me. "i would ask a favor of thee," i said, as i took the little ornament in my hands. "once thou didst think thyself under some little obligation to me. wouldst thou cancel the debt?" "if i could," he replied. "ask anything in my power and i will do it." "tis a simple thing," i said. "i would only ask thee for this pin." "it is thine," he replied. "i saved it for thee, should i ever see thee again, for i guessed that thou wouldst wish for it. the lady loves thee," he said, his eyes upon my face. "nay"--as i would have interrupted him, "do not raise thy hand. i have seen maidens before now. did i not watch her as i told my story, and see the soft color come and go in her cheeks, and the tears in her beautiful eyes? a lady looks not thus but for one man, and that him whom she loves. believe me, i have seen many damsels. this one loves thee," and he looked at me sagely. i laughed bitterly. "it may be so, steele, and yet if she does she has a passing strange way of showing it. why, even now, man, the rumor is that she weds lord dunraven! how dost thou account for that?" he bent his head as though in thought for a moment. "i know not," he said with a sigh. "many strange things have i seen in my journey through this life, but the strangest of all, i think, my friend, is a maid. one mind to-day; another to-morrow. i had as lieve try to account for the storm, as to say what a lady would do to-day or to-morrow. i cannot say what the maiden will do--perhaps she will marry dunraven, but this much i repeat, deep down in her heart she loves thee." i mused a moment, my head upon my hands. could it be possible?--but no; steele was mistaken. the lady was interested in the fate of a friend; was perhaps touched that i still thought of her--that was all. and then i thought of a question that i had pondered on so often since steele left me, and had determined to ask if i should ever see him again. "what became of the women and children that were taken prisoners when denortier captured the galleon with the spanish maid? i never saw them again, and have often wondered at their fate." his face darkened with a frown as he replied: "they went with us on board the ship, and when we had almost gotten to our destination, just before the lady and myself were transferred, we were hailed one day by an english merchant vessel, and the women and children were put aboard--to be sold as slaves to the barbary pirates, a sailor afterwards told me." "didst thou catch the name of the ship?" i asked. "this should be put a stop to, once and for all." "yes," he replied, "'twas the 'betsy' of london." "it was the very same ship on which we were carried to the pirate's vessel," i said. "the ruffian!" he answered indignantly, "he should be drawn and quartered. i sought high and low for some trace of the ship when i returned to england, but though i inquired in every city, nowhere could i hear of such a vessel. they told me there was no such ship. the name was probably a disguise." at that moment there came a knock upon the door, and the rough jailer thrust in his head. "closing time, sir," he growled. "thou must go." steele arose to his feet, and we clasped hands in one last, long grasp. the honest fellow was almost overcome by his emotion. "god bless thee!" he said huskily. "i shall never forget thee, and what thou hast done for me and mine." a great lump came into my throat. when all others had deserted me, there still remained one friend, who was with me to the last. "i am glad that in my life i have been able to be of service to thee," i replied. "'twill perhaps balance that long list of errors and harm that i have brought to many. the memory of it will be sweet to me at the last. give my best wishes and regards to thy wife, and tell her that she has chosen well. farewell!" stepping closer to me he looked around him; the jailer stood in the hall, fumbling impatiently with his keys. "do not despair," he whispered in my ear hurriedly. "thy friends will not see thee die. be watchful." and with this he hurried from the room; a wave of the hand to me, and then the great door creaked on its hinges, and i was alone. i threw myself upon my bed. what did steele mean when he said that my friends would not see me die? perhaps they would make one more attempt to persuade the queen to pardon me. they did not know her as i did, if they had the courage to try again. her mind when once made up was as adamant, and they might probably go to the gallows for their pains; for elizabeth was of an imperious temper, and brooked no restraint. he could only mean to use persuasion; they could do nothing by force, even though he could raise a band who were so reckless as to attack the tower. its walls were high and strong, and were garrisoned by hardy veterans commanded by a warworn general, who had only to hold them at bay for a few moments, until reënforcements arrived from the city. perhaps he only meant to cheer my spirits, and to arouse me from the gloom into which i had fallen. an hour passed; a man knocked at the door, but he bore only a message from old sir henry, saying that a priest waited below to pray with me, should i desire it. "no," i answered, "tell him that i shall have no sniveling priest around me. if i die, it shall be like a man, undaunted and unafraid." and i turned my face to the wall. below in the courtyard i could hear the sound of hammer and saw, as they reared the gallows on which to-morrow i would take my last leap. the workmen with jest and laughter were discussing the execution. "he will meet it like a man," i heard one say, "for old giles told me that he fought the dons like a demon." it availed me little now, i thought as i lay there; my life's book was about to be finished and closed, and they would forget that i had fought for my land, and risked my life in her cause. would that i might see the lady margaret carroll once more, ere i closed my eyes forever. what though she had promised to be the bride of a ruffian and knave. if i could catch one more glimpse of her face, pure and sweet, but one sight of her dainty head, i would die content. it was too much to be in england, alone and forsaken, my life to-morrow to be forfeited, in the same city with her, to see the same sky and breathe the same air, and yet not be able to see her; and at the thought i arose and began to pace the floor in agony, the damp sweat of anguish upon my brow. my god! was i to go down into the grave and not catch one last glimpse of her face? i could appreciate in that bitter moment the story that i had heard years ago from the lips of my old nurse--poor old alice, she had been dust these many years!--of how the son of god, alone and forsaken, in anguish and agony sweated great drops of blood, and at the last moment of pain cried out those heartrending words--"my god, my god, why hast thou forsaken me?" the nails had torn the flesh of my hands, as i writhed in sufferings, and the blood from the bruises was dripping from my fingers upon the floor, as i paced to and fro in that accursed cell; my tongue, hot and dry, almost cleaved to the roof of my mouth. my very soul cried out in rebellion, that i should drink the cup of bitterness and anguish to the very dregs. it seemed to me that i had felt the sting of all else, and this was the last and bitterest; earth could hold nothing more of torture for me. the morrow was as naught beside it. i could imagine how the damned must feel, as they writhe in agony in the burning flames of hell, and realize that they must suffer for countless ages; that there has gone from them all hope--that shining star that guides our groping feet through life's scenes of bitterest woe, and remains our brightest blessing from the cradle to the grave. when hope has fled, there is nothing left. i must have walked thus for hours, for it was eleven o'clock of the night, when worn out and exhausted, i threw myself again upon the bed. i had reached the point where my tortured soul could suffer no more, and i was now comparatively resigned. the storm and struggle had left me weak and worn, but i had spent myself with its fury and now lay quiet and composed. another tap upon the door, and i heard it softly open. perhaps it was old sir henry coming to cheer my drooping spirits. i did not turn my face from the wall; the candle was burning low upon the table, and cast its flickering light throughout the room. i lay there a moment, no sound came from the intruder; and then i became conscious of some faint, familiar perfume. delicate and subtle, it penetrated my nostrils as though some far-famed wine, buoyant and life-giving. i sprang to my feet in an instant; there was only one who used such perfume as this. there, standing by the table, wrapped in a dark cloak that concealed her face, one little jeweled hand resting upon the table, stood a lady. i could not see her face; but that radiant hair that sparkled like gold in the light, that proud bend of the head, the little foot that peeped out from the folds of her dress, they belonged only to one of earth's creatures, and she--margaret carroll. "margaret!" i cried. "is it thou?" and i would have caught her in my arms in my delight. but she drew back from me, the cloak falling from her as she did so, and raised her hand. "stop, sir," she said hurriedly. "thou must think me bold and unmaidenly." "say rather divine!" i cried. "like some ministering angel, to bless poor mortals," and i took a step nearer where she stood. the faint color had deepened on her rose cheeks at my words. "stop," she said. "thou dost misinterpret my visit, as i feared thou wouldst; but i knew not what else to do. there was no one i could trust, so i persuaded sir robert vane to bring me. he awaits outside," and she turned as though to call him in. "a moment, lady margaret," i said--"a moment before thou dost call him in. i have something of importance for thy ear alone. wilt thou not hear me, before thou callest sir robert?" she looked at me a moment doubtfully. "no," she murmured. "thou canst have naught for my ears that sir robert should not hear." and she turned again and took a step towards the door. "margaret!" i cried, "hast thou no pity for me? to-night is my last on earth, and thou wilt not hear me one moment. is that all that thou dost think of one who knew and admired thee in the old days? to-morrow thou canst hear others, but if thou hear me not to-night, thou never wilt. i would tell thee of my strange adventures since i left london," i finished artfully, with an imploring look. she turned, and then coming back towards me, seated herself upon one of the rough chairs near the table. "i will hear thy tale," she said, a smile upon her lips. "but list to me, sir, the moment that thou dost digress from that i am gone, and thou mayst depend upon it. "and what is this marvelous tale of thine?" she continued gently, her azure eyes upon my face. "sir robert, who was out of town, only returned this evening, and i immediately sent for him, and told him that thou wast here, condemned to die. he waited not a moment, but came at once with me here, and a time we had getting in i can tell thee," and she laughed, a little ringing laugh. i said nothing, i was feasting my eyes upon her as she sat opposite; as the starving beggar looks with eager gaze upon the shop windows, filled with dainties, so i feasted my soul upon her and watched the light come and go upon her lovely face. she was more beautiful if possible, than when i had seen her last. there was an air of maturity, of the ripened fruit, that she had wanted in the days gone by. she was dressed for some ball or rout, in a clinging gown of shimmering pale blue stuff that set off her marvelous beauty to perfection. around her white throat was clasped a sparkling necklace of diamonds, and the low cut of her gown revealed the soft beauty of her lovely neck. she looked as though she were a creature of some other world--too fair to be one of mother earth's daughters. "art dumb," she said, "that thou dost sit silent and gaze at me as though i were a ghost? thou wert better company in the old days," and she looked up at me archly. "in truth, my lady," i answered, "i did but marvel at thy wondrous beauty and----" up she arose in an instant. "did i not say that at the first hint of this i would go?" she cried. "i am as good as my word," and she would have gone. "margaret!" i cried in dismay, "i most humbly crave thy pardon. i did not mean to offend again." "i do not trust thee," she answered with a frown. "remember, sir, i shall not say a word, but at the first intimation of this again--out i go. thou art changed," she said, and she hesitated. "thou meanest older, margaret," i replied. "yes, older--much older. i have been through much since thou didst see me last, and my sufferings have, i believe, made me a better man." "i am glad," she said softly, tears in her eyes. "margaret," i said, "didst thou learn who was responsible for my captivity?" "how long has it been margaret?" she cried impatiently, tapping her little foot. "'twas not margaret when i saw thee last, and though i would not be hard upon thee, still i have overlooked it several times," and she looked up at me imperiously. "i crave thy pardon," i said, coloring to my ears, for i had not been conscious until she spoke that i had called her by her given name. in my joy at seeing her again i had forgotten all else. "i did but call thee, in the confusion of the moment, as i had thought of thee so often. habit, thou knowest, lady margaret, becomes a part of one," and i looked boldly at her. the imperious look faded from her face; she met my admiring gaze, and dropping her eyes, she hid them behind her long lashes, and a deep blush mounted her cheeks. "i see thou hast lost none of thy old boldness," she murmured, "and still art as persistent to gain thy point as ever." "what i am about to say may seem strange to thee," i said--"incredible. but i have always told the truth to thee--have i not?" "yes," she answered gravely, raising her eyes, "i believe whatever thou mayest say." "it was dunraven who kidnaped me," i answered quietly. she started, and i thought her face grew paler. "impossible!" she cried, her eyes wide open with astonishment. "i stand too near death's door to lie to thee now, margaret," i said, "did i wish to." "forgive me," she answered quickly. "i was astonished, though i never doubted what thou didst say. but lord dunraven--what motive could he have for so black a deed?" "margaret!" i cried, "look at me." she raised her eyes to mine bravely, but the tell-tale color was in her cheeks. "and thou dost ask me that?" i cried. "thou knowest as well as i why dunraven did this." she did not reply, but bent her head over the table, so that i could not see her face. "to-morrow," i said, "will end my career, and i----" she interrupted me eagerly. "thou wilt not die to-morrow; thy friends will save thee." "my friends can do nothing," i replied slowly. "i am beyond man's help now. i would ask thee one question and only one. wilt answer me?" "i will try," she replied, without raising her bent head. one little hand lay on the table near me, and i had hard work to keep myself from striding forward and closing my own over it. "i would not wish thee to marry one unworthy of thee," i said. "thou art too sweet and beautiful to be tied to such a man as this; he would be a blight upon thy young life, that would grow and deepen as the years go by. such a soul as thine should be mated with one congenial, a man that thou couldst love and trust." no answer; only silence, the beautiful head bent low over the table. she looked so young and helpless, as i looked at her, that my great love surged over all barriers, and swept everything before it, as the angry ocean beats down its puny bulwarks and breaks upon the land. "i have a story to tell thee," i said, in a low voice--"one that i have treasured long." "no!" she cried, lifting her head, and i could see her wet eyes and the tear stains upon her cheeks. "spare me now--it is useless," she said hurriedly. "i know it is, margaret," i said sadly. "but it is because it is so useless that i wish thee to know it, it can harm no one. to-morrow i will have passed from thy life forever; will be as last summer's flowers faded and gone, and yet i wish thee to know of what thou hast been to me. how when i was tempted sorely, and ready to yield, thy pure, sweet face would rise before me, and i, strengthened, would overcome the temptation. how often in the watches of the night, when all was quiet, with none but the silent stars to keep me company, i would think of thee, glad that the same sky hung over both, that we breathed the same air, and that the same sun shone above us. wilt thou not hear me?" "how can i help myself," she moaned, "if thou wilt force me to hear thee. but i warn thee beforehand that it is useless." "i had never been a lady's man in my youth," i said, rising and beginning to pace the floor. "i was ever too rough, too shy, to please little lasses. they laughed at me and mocked my uncouth ways. even when i was a mere lad, when i would bring the small maid whom i admired my little presents, and offer them to her, i felt a great admiration for her that bound my tongue, and i could only hold them out awkwardly. she would take my gifts from me, and then would turn and mock my awkwardness among her playmates, until they shouted with glee. this taught me my first lesson of woman; that she would use thee while she could, and then cast thee aside like a worn-out garment. "when i had grown larger i went to college, and finishing there, went out into ireland, and stayed there a year or two in a brief campaign. when i returned to london i had not seen a woman of my own rank for years, but i plunged at once into the gay whirl of london society, and soon knew all the ladies of fashion. there i learned all the tricks of the men of fashion; learned how to play the flirt; how to regard woman as without heart or soul, her mind occupied only with the latest gown from paris, or the last ball or rout; cold, heartless, only angling to entrap some gentleman, and after entangling him in her net, to calmly show him to the door when he clamored for something more than friendship. if she, to obtain rank or fortune, should finally marry him, it would be only a cold, matter-of-fact trade, a simple transaction of business--her beauty for his title or gold. "i had seen these newly-wedded husbands remain at home for a few weeks, and then frequent the taverns more assiduously than ever; had heard them tell in their cups of the vixenish temper of mary, or the nagging tongue of jane. what wonder that i soon regarded all women as flirts and coquettes, bent only on enjoying themselves, no matter at what expense, and then away to some other flower to sip the honey. for ten years did i linger among them, the gayest of the gay, the petted and humored of the bright dames of fashion. i could cast the most languishing glances, whisper the most burning words into soft ears that bent to listen, and yet it was only winchester--he was a witty fellow, but he meant nothing and was harmless. "and then one day i met a maiden, beautiful, lovely; she lured me on by her very beauty, i grew to know her better from day to day; the admiration deepened as i saw her--pure, innocent, and true, never deceiving, never trifling with men's love, always noble, unselfish, and unaffected, never seeming conscious of her great beauty which turned the heads of men. as i knew her better i admired her more, until one day i awoke and found my admiration had ripened into love. shall i tell thee what it meant to me?--how it brightened life's pathway; how if i could but see one bright face my heart was full to overflowing; how if one was absent from the room it was deserted for me, and how when i was by her side earth was heaven enough for me; how i watched the streets day and night to see her pass, and counted that day well spent when i had seen her face? i treasured her smile as the miser does his gold, and at night counted them over one by one. "one morning as i arose early, i saw her out for a morning stroll with a companion, and watched her as she tossed a coin to a beggar upon the corner. i bought that coin from her, and now wear it next my heart," and i pulled a little gold chain from around my neck, and laid it upon the table. no sound from the silent figure with her head upon the table. "margaret!" i cried, "i love thee. i know not how to express my love, i can only sing like the bird, only one song by night and day--i love thee." "don't," she said, "i am not worthy of such love as this." "not worthy!" i cried. "why, a king upon his throne would step down gladly for thy love," and i bent toward her. "no, no," she murmured, her shoulders rising and falling with her sobs. "margaret," i said, "dost thou love another?" no sound save that of her low sobs. at that moment i remembered the mirror in the crone's hut in that far-away island, and what i had seen in it. it was possible that it might be true after all. bobby was by her side here in london, was constantly thrown in her company; would it be strange if he had grown to love her? "is it sir robert vane?" i asked. she sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing through her tears. "how darest thou?" she cried. "how darest thou ask me such a question as that? who gave thee the right, sir?" and she gazed at me a moment in her anger, as though she would strike me down, and then, sinking into her chair, she cried as though her heart would break. "i hate thee," she wailed. "forgive me," i said gently. "i would not have asked thee, had i known. he is a gentleman, brave and true, and will make thee a kind and upright husband. thou wilt be happy in the days to come, together. i trust thou wilt believe me, when i say that for thee i wish all good blessings. may thy future pathway be strewn with flowers, and may not a shadow fall athwart it to darken its happiness. sometimes when thou art happy, leaning upon the strong arm of him whom thou dost love, wilt thou not give one thought to one who once knew and loved thee? and now--good-by!" bending my knee, i pressed that little white hand to my lips, and taking her arm i walked with her to the door and opened it--there, pacing the hall, was bobby. [illustration: "i pressed that little white hand to my lips"] he turned when he saw me, and running forward, caught my hand. "thomas!" he cried, "i never thought to see thee alive again." i returned his cordial grasp. "bobby," i said, "take lady margaret home, and then come back again, for i have something to say to thee. care for her tenderly," i said to him, as with the weeping lady upon his arm he turned to go. "thou hast won the loveliest and fairest woman that i have ever known. it is a priceless jewel, bobby--guard it well. may god watch over both of you now and in the days to come!" and turning i opened the door of my cell, and passing inside, closed it behind me. chapter xiii i sail for virginia it was near midnight when my door opened again. i was still in the chair by the table, where i had seated myself when i had left them outside, staring vacantly at the place opposite, where she had sat so lately. only a few brief minutes before her dress had pressed yonder chair; her elbow had touched the table; it was still wet with her tears. "bobby," i said, arising as he entered, "i need not say that i am glad to see thee; it seems like ages since we roamed london together." he seated himself opposite and looked at me. i saw no change in him since we had been together twenty-two months before, save perhaps a few wrinkles about his forehead, otherwise he was still the same frank, sincere friend. "thou hast changed," he said at length. "i know it," i replied, "but thou hast heard of my adventures." "yes," he answered, with a ringing laugh. "the lady margaret told me of them. i marvel not that the queen did not believe thee--it is almost beyond belief." "bobby," i said, "often have i thought of thee in the long nights and wished to see thy face. i had not thought sometimes to see it again." he looked up at me, his eyes moist. "i have searched far and wide for thee, everywhere that i could think of, but it was as though thou hadst been caught up in the clouds; nowhere could i find a trace of thy whereabouts. i had almost given up hope." "dunraven was at the bottom of it," i said. "he thought that, with me out of the way, he could win margaret, but i thank heaven that his plans have miscarried, and that she has bestowed her love upon a noble gentleman of worth and merit. old friend, this is no time for concealment or coldness between us--from the bottom of my heart i congratulate thee, and wish thee joy!" and i held out my hand to him. he took it, and squeezed it between both of his own. "thank thee, old man," he said huskily. "none but a heart of true steel such as thine could bear this grief so nobly. but i fear that thou art mistaken, for never has the lady given me any cause to think that she regarded me as more than a friend; thou hast misinterpreted her words." "no," i answered, "she loves thee; she as good as told me that. what didst thou expect--that the lady would propose to thee?" i smiled at him. "pluck up courage, good sir, make one brave charge, and the field is thine." "i would i thought so," he said doubtfully. "but," i said, "'faint heart ne'er won fair lady.' put on a bold front, i have never found thee timid; corner her and force her to listen to thee." he looked at me, his face flushed and happy. "and thou dost think of me with thyself at death's door!" he cried, "while i sit here like a mummy. listen--old sir henry degray thinks much of thee, as thou dost know, and he has consented to aid us in thy escape. the plan is this. after i have left, dost thou wait about fifteen minutes, then beat upon the door. the man who will open it is drunk. knock him down, take his keys away from him, and put him in thy place; then don his cloak and walk boldly out into the hall. sir henry awaits thee there. say nothing, but follow him to the door. i shall be outside and will guide thee to where governor white lies at anchor in the thames, ready to set sail for the golden virginia. once over there thou art safe, and canst remain until the coast is clear here; then thou canst return to england." "'tis a bold scheme, bobby, and i thank thee. but why should i go? life holds naught so precious for me, that i should cling to it so strongly. there is nothing for me beyond the seas, in that strange and barbarous land, with its painted savages and fierce beasts of prey. what could i do, should i reach it alive? no, leave me to my fate--and go!" "thomas!" he cried, "if thou carest not for thyself, think of thy friends. spare me this last blow--spare me, or i shall go mad! think of margaret, and for her sake go," and he stretched out his hands imploringly to me. silence reigned in the little room. i was thinking of her; what would she care? why should i go out into a strange and unknown land to begin life anew, with no one besides me save only the indians and wild beasts; to drag out a few miserable years of pain and sorrow. a life such as this was not worth the effort--no, the game was not worth the candle. "thou dost not know what thou askest of me," i replied finally. "what would a life such as this mean? it would be a living death. better one quick leap and then forgetfulness and oblivion. as for margaret, why should she care?" "thou art mad," he replied, "that thou talkest thus. it will be only for a few months among new scenes and men; 'twill be a diversion for thy mind. as for my lady, thou hast no right to speak thus. thou dost not know how much she cares; in truth, as i led her home she wept as though her heart would break, and she implored me to save thee as i left her." "and so thou dost beseech me to leave england, so that i may be out of the way," i answered bitterly. "thomas!" he cried reproachfully, "i have not deserved this at thy hands--as god is my witness, i have not. i have ever loved thee as a brother, and there has been no time when i would not have given my life to have saved thee, and yet thou reproachest me thus. truly those we love most are the first to turn their backs upon us." "forgive me, bobby!" i cried penitently. "my grief has almost turned my brain, and i know not what i say. i did not mean to offend thee, and would beg thy pardon." "then go," he answered, pacing the floor in his excitement. "a few more minutes and the watch will be changed, and 'twill be too late. come! for my sake if thou lovest me; for margaret's sake; for the sake of thy old friends, whom thou didst once know and cherish." and he turned to me with a look of entreaty upon his face. "if thou dost put it thus," i said, "i will go. it matters little where i drag out the few remaining years left to me. for thy sake i will go." "good!" he cried joyfully. "remember what i have told thee. i will wait for thee on the outside. i pray that our plans may not miscarry. be brave, and fear naught. i must hurry," and he opened the door and left me. i could hear the sound of his feet upon the floor as he walked rapidly down the hall. i waited in silence a few minutes, then with both fists i pounded upon the door, and kicked upon it with my heels. an unsteady voice answered me from the outside: "what-cher-want? can't-yer-be-quiet?" and then a hiccough. "open!" i cried. "i have a sovereign for thee if thou wilt do an errand for me." i heard him fumbling with the lock, and then opening the door, he thrust his head inside, and gazed carefully around the room from the ceiling to the floor, until finally his eyes fell upon me, as i stood within three feet of him. "what-yer-want?" he muttered again. "can't-yer-lemme-sleep?" and a threatening look came over his drunken face. "i have a dozen bright gold pieces for thee," i said. "come inside and thou shalt have them," and i thrust my hand into my pocket, as though to draw them out. he lurched inside and towards me, his hand outstretched. "lemme-have-em," he cried in tipsy glee. with a bound i caught him by the throat and threw him upon the floor. with his own doublet and some of the bedding i swiftly and quietly bound him hand and foot and gagged him. then picking up his helpless body in my arms, i threw it upon the bed as though he were a bundle of goods. "listen," i said in a low voice, my face within a foot of his own; "make but one sound or attempt to escape, and i will kill thee, for i am just outside." unbuckling the belt around his waist, in which hung a long dagger, i fastened it around my own, and picking up his dark cloak and steel cap, which had fallen upon the floor when i sprang upon him, i prepared to take my departure. one last look at the bound man upon the bed--yes, he was secure. a sudden thought struck me: where were the keys? there were only a few in his doublet, but they were small ones, evidently to the doors of the cells. nowhere could i find those which belonged to the great front door, nor to the doors which led into each corridor. well i must trust to chance for my salvation; i would make the attempt, i could do no more. crossing over to the door which stood slightly ajar, the key still in the lock, i pushed it open and stood in the corridor, which was deserted. i turned the key in the lock, thrust it into my pocket, and with the cloak around my face, strode down the hall. the long passage seemed to re-echo my footsteps as though i trod with feet of mail. it seemed to me that all must know a prisoner was escaping. the very walls seemed to cry "stop!--stop!" to me as i trod by; my heart beat as though it would burst. the jailer must hear its muffled beat--but no sound greeted my ears, as i kept steadily on my way and stood at the first heavy door that barred my passage. my feeling of terror had left me, and i felt a strange exultation. if i should escape from this black hole, i would be the first for many a year. of the many who entered its gloomy portals, few ever left them alive again. they were doomed to pass their days in some dark dungeon within its recesses, shut off from the world and all it contained. i beat with the hilt of my dagger upon the iron-studded panel. "open!" i cried. the growl of old sir henry answered me. "is it thee, jack? thou scoundrel! thou shouldst have been here an hour ago. what kept thee so long, thou dog? i will lash that lazy hide of thine," and grumbling to himself he unlocked the door. "why stand like a struck boar?" he shouted at me. "thou fool! hast thou all night to stand there?" and with a curse he locked the door again, and strode away with me at his heels, leaving the man who had stood by him during his brief monologue staring after us as we left him. he walked at a rapid gait, i at his heels, down the long passage, speaking never a word. we passed several guards lounging in the hall, who straightened up, all attention, as we neared them. evidently the old soldier kept his men under strict discipline. as we neared a little knot of guards, he cried out: "come on, thou fool, i will teach thee to sleep at thy post again! i will tear the very flesh from thy bones!" and with that he unlocked the door which barred our passage, and passing the man who stood beside it, he kept on down the hall. i could hear the men on the other side mutter to themselves as it swung to, but what they said i could not catch. we were alone now in the hall, no one was in sight of us. peering around him the old warrior halted a moment, and turning to me, one eye closed, he winked; then with a growl, he resumed his journey. several more doors we unlocked and passed through, meeting a dozen little groups of men in the hall, but sir henry said not a word, only as we neared them, he would curse me for my tardiness and laziness, and swear to tear me limb from limb. with my cap pulled down over my face and wrapped in the great dark cloak, i followed him, my head bowed as though in dejection and fear; and so we traversed the great building, until finally we stood at the huge door that led out into the open air, where he halted. there was no one there, and unbolting it, he motioned for me to walk out. "forget not to deliver the message that i gave thee to lord pendleton," he said, in a loud tone of voice, for the benefit of any who might chance to see us, "thou dog, and waste no time about it, or i will trounce thee well with my stirrup--begone!" and with a kindly look upon his old face, he pushed the door to, and i heard the chain rattle as he secured it. i stood alone in the low courtyard of the prison, the cold night air blowing against my face. carefully i picked my way over the uneven stones, with which the yard was paved, until i reached the gate which led into the street. it was unlocked, and opening it, i stood once more upon the street of london--free. a man started from the shadow of the wall, and came toward me, his head muffled in his cloak; as he neared me, i saw that it was bobby. "i had almost given thee up," he whispered. "but come, we have no time to lose. it will be only a few hours at the most until they discover thy escape, and they will search all england thoroughly for thee." and catching me by the arm, he hurried me down the street. "where art thou going?" i asked in a low tone of voice. "to the river," he answered. "i have a fleet boat there, and we will row down to where governor white lays. he has consented to conceal thee for a day or two, until he gets out of england, and then thou canst reveal thyself, for it will not matter then. he is under great obligations to raleigh, and i persuaded sir walter to ask this of him; it was the only way we could save thee, and white would cut off his right hand for walter." down the dark streets we hurried; i could hear bobby panting as he rushed along. this was violent exercise for one who had lived an idle life for years. every moment i expected the dark tower behind us to twinkle with lights and ring with shouts, as they discovered my flight and made haste to pursue me. but no sound came from its black depths; it lay still and gloomy. we passed only a few belated nighthawks and wayfarers, as they staggered home after a night of revelry, and they endeavored to give us a wide berth, for we were two able-bodied men, and they cared not to tackle us. finally, turning into a dark lane, we stood by the river's brink. bobby, putting his fingers to his lips, gave a shrill whistle; an answer floated back from the dark water, and i heard the sound of oars as a boat came forward to us. "it is manned by four tenants from my estate near london," he whispered. "true as steel they are; rather would they be cut to pieces, than to say one word of to-night's work." the boat swept up to the dark wharf where we stood. "careful," he muttered, "watch where thou dost step. do thou go first," and he motioned towards the boat. i stepped down into it and he followed. without a sound the men pushed off, and bent to their work with a will; the little boat hummed through the water. i could not see the faces around me, only four dark forms, pulling with all their strength upon the oars. they rowed on in silence, uttering no sound as we passed through the twinkling lights where the vessels lay at anchor, rising and falling with the tide. behind us stretched the city; before us the silent river, and i knew not what beyond that. god only knew when i would see england again; an exile, with only one true friend beside me, i was hurrying from london like a thief, from the land where i had been born and reared. engaged with such thoughts as these, i sat silent and moody; beside me bobby, his face upon his hand, sat as preoccupied as myself. we had left the ships now, and were pulling down the river, with no glimmer of light in sight. "where art thou going, bobby?" i asked. "thou hast left all of the ships behind thee, and art making down the river." he roused himself and looked around him. "where art thou going, bill?" he cried. "this is not where the vessel lies," and he bent forward to peer at the silent figure near him. as he did so he sprang to his feet, his sword in hand. "what have we here?" he shouted in alarm. "this is not my boat!" i was just about to rise beside him, dagger in hand, when from the stern of the boat, among some oilskins and packages, a man arose. at the first sound of his voice i was up, for i knew the curt, ironical tones. "my dear gentlemen, pray be seated," he said. "you are my guests, and i beg that you be not alarmed; i will watch over you well." with a mocking smile upon his face, stood lord dunraven. the men had dropped their oars and sprang up to overpower us. as one hardy mariner caught my left arm with both hands, i raised my dagger and plunged it full into his brawny breast; with a groan he rolled down at my feet, knocking down his companion in his fall. bobby was struggling in the grasp of the other two men behind me; dunraven was coming at me with drawn sword--there was no time to be lost. the seaman who had been knocked down struggled to his knees. i raised my foot, and kicked him full in the face, with all my might. with a cry of pain he fell back, and i, losing my balance, sprawled over him as he went down. i heard dunraven's sword whistle over my head as i fell; it would have caught me full in the throat had i not done so. he stumbled for an instant as, carried away by the force of his blow, he sought to recover himself. leaning forward i caught him by both knees, and rising to my feet, i swung him high over my head a moment, and then cast him far out into the water, as though he had been a log. the two men had bobby down in the bottom of the boat, and were tying him securely with ropes, he struggling to release himself. catching up a cutlass, i sprang forward, and cut at the head of one of them who had turned to meet me. the blade caught him full on the neck, and almost severed his head from his body. he stood erect for an instant, the blood spurting from his throat, and then with an awful yell he went down, both hands clutching blindly at the bottom of the boat in his agony. the other rogue waited for no more, but in an instant was over the side of the boat, and i heard him as with vigorous strokes he swam down the stream. "thomas, for heaven's sake, untie these cords from my arms!" bobby cried, at my feet. "these rogues have bound me as though they thought i would fall asunder; the cords cut into my flesh like a sword." bending over him, i cut the rope with my bloody cutlass, and helped him to his feet. "where are we?" i asked. "god only knows," he answered, "i do not. we will miss the ship!" he cried, wringing his hands. "what a fool i was, not to be sure that i had gotten on board the right boat. dunraven must have caught wind of my scheme somewhere, and laid this trap into which i walked like an idiot." "thou couldst not know it," i answered. "do not blame thyself. yonder goes an oar!" and one of the oars, loosed from the socket by the struggle, floated out into the stream. i jumped forward and caught another as it was about to follow suit. "catch yonder one, bobby! i shouted, and quickly he did so. only two remained out of four; one of the others had floated away, probably when the seamen had loosened it. "where dost thou say we are?" i asked. "we had best turn back upstream, and make for the ship." he was standing up, and peered around him. "i know yonder house," he said finally, pointing out to where a great many-gabled house gleamed far away in the darkness. "'tis sir john norton's house, and it is five miles from where governor white lies, and the tide is against us; we shall never make it before morning," and he groaned hopelessly. "do not despair," i said cheerfully. "take one of the oars and we will have a try at it. we will go under if we must, but first we will make a game fight," and seating myself, i began to tug at one of the oars. years ago i could row, but i had grown older now, and rowing was more difficult to me. slowly we turned, and began to pull against the tide; it was about three o'clock in the morning, and we had only two hours at the most to make the ship, for she sailed at five o'clock, as bobby informed me. he, tugging opposite, cursed his luck, as with a groan he bent to his task. of dunraven and the sailor we heard nothing. they had disappeared, and the dark river told no secrets. i shall never forget that night's work, as with aching back i pulled for my life, and not only mine, but for bobby's as well; for to my repeated offers to put him on shore, and let him strike through the country for his estates, he turned a deaf ear. "leave thee to thy death?" he cried indignantly. "no, i have not sunk so low as that. thou couldst never make the ship alone, and to remain in england is but to invite certain discovery. they will scour all england to find thee, and there is no place that thou couldst remain in safety. no--we will both sink or swim together." my hands, unaccustomed to the hard work, had blistered, and every stroke gave me pain. the sweat stood in large drops upon my forehead, and ran down my face; my back seemed as though it would break, as i bent to the work; my breath came in quick gasps. two miles gone--and it was four o'clock. i stopped for an instant, and tearing off the sleeves of my doublet, i handed one in silence to bobby, and wrapping the other about the handle of my oar, resumed my task. it was only a question of a few moments with me; we were crawling slowly upstream, the tide beating against us as though in league with dunraven, and eager to hold us back. it seemed to me that i had rowed always; that i had done naught from my birth but tug with bleeding hands at some heavy oar against the belated tide. my mind was a blank; i had forgotten all else, save that we must pull three miles in one short hour, or bobby was lost. in all broad england there was no spot where he could safely lay his head, for the queen would punish with iron hand one who dared to beard her in her palace, and to pluck from the very gallows a felon whom she had doomed to die. and so i pulled as though an empire hung upon my efforts. how much longer would this last? half-past four, and we had pulled a little over a mile, and must rest. fastening my oar, i threw myself flat upon the bottom of the boat. bobby fell beside me, and with throbbing hearts we lay there. every breath that i drew gave me pain; a mist came before my eyes; the world seemed to whirl and circle in a mad dance about me; the river sucking at the boat seemed to my fevered brain to be a thing of life; the dark trees upon the banks seemed to beckon to me, as though a company of cloaked monks. afar down the east, a light streak was beginning to broaden, the sun was about to rise. aboard the vessel all was bustle and hurry; they were preparing to hoist sail, and at the thought i tottered to my feet, and bent once more to the oar. by hard work we made another mile; it was five o'clock now, and we were still some distance from the ship. there was no use to work longer. "bobby," i muttered weakly, "the ship must have gone--let us rest." "no," he answered, "pull! it will wait for us a moment--pull, man! we may yet reach it," and he redoubled his efforts. i bent again to the oar, though it seemed as though my exhausted arms would wrench from their sockets at each stroke. around me danced the river; the roar of the ocean was in my ears; little specks of fire glimmered in front of my very eyes. how long was a mile?--a mile--a mile--i had forgotten why we rowed so madly, i only knew that something terrible would befall us did we not reach a place, i knew not where, by five o'clock. bobby was speaking: "it is past five o'clock now, and we are nearly there." "yes, nearly there," i repeated vacantly; "nearly there." where was "there"? the sun was rising like a ball of flame; red and angry, he was preparing for another day, and he scowled down upon us with threatening look, as though we had wronged him, and he but waited to avenge himself. we turned a curve in the river--there, nearly a quarter of a mile away, by the side of a dock lay a great vessel, her decks alive with men. she was about to spread her white sails, and fly out into the trackless ocean; even as we looked, she came slowly around, and, the wind filling her great sheets of canvass, began to move slowly through the water. bobby dropped the oar and sprang to his feet. "it is our ship!" he cried. and then he raised his voice and shouted with all his might, i joining him, but in vain; we were too weak from our long efforts, and our voices could not reach the ship. i waved my doublet above my head, and bobby, putting his cap upon his oar, moved it backward and forward, hoping to attract their attention. but no sound came from the vessel, steadily she kept on her way to join her two consorts at the mouth of the river. the vessel lay below the city, at an old deserted wharf, probably waiting for us, and her going attracted little attention; only a small crowd of people stood upon the wharf, idlers and friends of the adventurers, who had come to say good-by. my companion had thrown himself upon his face on the bottom of the boat and was sobbing like a child. i listlessly kept up my efforts to attract the attention of the vessel, for, though i had despaired of succeeding, i would not desist until it had passed out of sight. the great ship keeled as she came round to the wind, and lay motionless. a culverin boomed, and lo! a boat put out from her and made for us where we lay. i gave a shout of joy--we were saved. vane looked up at my cry of astonishment. "what is it?" he asked wonderingly. "art thou mad?" "we are saved, bobby!" i cried, and i caught him in my arms and hugged him in delight. "saved!" he had arisen, calm again. "we had best toss these rogues overboard," he said; "their bodies might excite suspicion. we can get into their boat, and turn this adrift; perhaps it will serve to throw our pursuers off the track." and with my help, he tossed the dead bodies into the river. two of them were dead, cold, and stiff; the third, whom i had kicked in the face, lay as though dead. we had no time to examine him; alive or dead he must go into the stream, for it would mean certain death to sir robert to leave this fellow behind, to tell of his share in my escape. so we cast him overboard. the boat had neared us; a spare, gaunt man, wrapped in a dark cloak, with a worn, patient face, stood erect in the stern, and as he came in speaking distance, shouted to bobby. "what means this, captain? i expected thy brother an hour ago, and have lost time waiting for you." "i could not help it, governor," he answered. "we were set upon by robbers down the river, our men were murdered, and it was only after a hard fight that we saved our lives. we rowed for two hours and more against the stream, as though the furies were at our heels, to catch thy ship." he said nothing as the boat reached us, and we clambered aboard. "it is governor white," bobby whispered in my ear. "what wouldst thou have me do with thy boat?" white asked, eying us closely. "turn it adrift," i answered. "it has done its work." and leaving it, we pulled towards the spot where the ship lay awaiting us. "you must have had a time of it," he said. "your faces are dripping with sweat, and the blood is all over your doublets." "such a fight as i have never made before," bobby replied. "i had given up hope several times, but still we kept on. how camest thou to wait for us?" "i suspected something of the sort," he answered quietly, "and so we waited for a while. but i had given you up in despair and was about to sail, when one of the sailors spied your boat, and called my attention to it. i knew at once who it was, and so came back to pick you up. but pull, men!" he cried--"pull! we are much delayed as it is." he was plainly worried, and i did not blame him. all london doubtless knew of my escape by now, and they were scouring the country high and low for me; at any moment we might come upon a party of the searchers, and then good-by for white and his voyage. it was light now, and we could be plainly seen from the banks of the river; the bustle and hum of the city came dimly to our ears. they would probably search the ship before they would let it sail--no wonder white's cheeks were pale. a few moments, and we neared the ship; a crowd of eager faces peered down at us, sailors and adventurers, men of all sorts and conditions, they jostled and pushed each other, and the hum of their voices reached my ears, as, assisted by two sailors, i stumbled up the ladder, and down into the cabin, followed by vane. concealment now was useless, our only safety was in flight. should our ship be stopped, all on board knew of our arrival, and discovery was inevitable. white closed the door behind him. "i am risking much for walter raleigh," he said. "we must take to our heels now, and evade them as best we can. do you both stay below, until i send for you. i will set sir robert off at some point further down the river, where he can reach his place without suspicion," and with that he hurried out of the room. the wind had freshened, and with all her sails set, the vessel flew through the water. we were passing among the shipping docks now, for i could see the sides of the vessels from the little open window where i stood. a hoarse shout struck my ears--"stop! in the name of the queen, i command thee!" "what is it?" i could hear white answer. "we are delayed, and are making all speed to join our consorts--we cannot stop." "thou dost go on at thy peril!" the voice roared. "a prisoner doomed to die has escaped from the tower, and we are to search each vessel. it will take but a moment, and my orders are to fire on every ship that disobeys. wait but a moment." white shouted back: "i will go on a little further down the river, and stop at yonder wharf." "no!" shouted the man, his voice becoming fainter, for the ship was staggering through the water with the speed of a race horse. "stop! or i shall fire on thee." white did not answer, only i heard him urge the men to put on more sail. a moment--then a dull roar, and the culverins crashed, as somewhere behind us they fired. a scornful laugh from the deck. evidently we were out of range now. then i heard a cry from above: "the man-of-war is making sail for us!" and there was the sound of hurried steps, as the men ran to and fro upon the deck in fear. if we could only keep this up but for a few minutes, we would soon be upon the high seas. the wind was blowing a very gale, as with every stitch of sail set, the vessel plunged through the water. it was broad daylight now, and every moment was golden to us; at any instant a vessel might block our way, and all would be lost. four long hours passed; several merchant vessels had gone by on their way to london, their crews pointing at us and staring in wonder as we dashed on at full speed. one or two had attempted to hail us, but we had paid no attention to their repeated shouts, and had kept steadily down the river. our pursuer had fallen far behind us and was out of sight; only the rippling thames lay before us. a man knocked upon the door and informed us that governor white awaited us on deck, and we followed him to where white stood, a little apart from his men. "we have almost reached the ocean," he said as we approached him. "if sir robert desires to land, he had best do so now; but say the word and thou shalt go ashore where thou dost wish." bobby turned to me. "i have half a mind to go with thee, thomas," he said in a low voice. "it would be a change of scene, and i would be company for thee in that strange land." i shook my head. "no," i replied, "thy duty is here; there is enough for thy hand to do, without wandering out into an unknown wilderness. thou must watch over margaret," i whispered in his ear. "what will she do here at the mercy of dunraven? no, thou must remain. we have come to the parting of the ways--thine lies in england; mine in distant virginia. we will walk as best we may, nor murmur though the task seem hard, and dark the way before us. thy boat awaits thee--we must part." "thomas," he replied, "i cannot see thee go thus, for i feel that it will be years before i see thy face again, if ever. that land swarms with hidden dangers and i cannot see thee go alone." "it is best," i answered. "thou couldst do no good. tell the lady margaret that i remain as ever her humble servant--and may the good angels watch over you both." white came forward. "i grieve to interrupt your parting, gentlemen," he said, "but time is precious, for i know not what moment our pursuer will round yonder bend, and cut off our retreat." "thou art right," i answered, wringing bobby by the hand once more. "over with thee, old friend, and remember all i have said to thee. keep up a brave heart, and all will be well." he made no answer; perhaps some thought of what i had been to him choked his voice; he only clasped my hand tighter for an instant. "would that i could go with thee," he said brokenly. "i will think of thee often, as thou dost wander in exile beyond the sea," and turning, he descended the ladder into the little boat that awaited him. swiftly they carried him to where a great and majestic oak stood overhanging the water, like some forest monarch, with its sturdy head upraised against the sky. i watched him as he sat with bent head, his face turned towards the shore. a few moments and the boat touched the bank. he sprang out; the men had turned back, and with rapid strokes were coming toward the vessel, leaving him standing looking at me as i leaned upon the rail. he was only one hundred yards away, for the river was narrow at this point, and raising my voice, i hailed him. "remember the trust i have confided into thy hands," i shouted, "and stand stanch and true." "i shall not forget," he answered, with a wave of his hand. "it is of thee that i think." the adventurers were crowding around me with bulging eyes; evidently they were swelling with curiosity as to what this strange occurrence could mean, but they said naught to me. the boat had returned, and with a rush the vessel spread her sails and pursued her journey. i watched as long as i could see the solitary figure, standing by the giant oak, waving his sword at me. finally i could no longer see the glimmer of the sun upon the steel; only a tiny black speck, and at last that too faded from my view--i had left him. we passed the mouth of the river and struck the ocean. in front of us, a mile or two away, two vessels rocked and tossed upon the bosom of the atlantic. i heard white's voice by my side. "it is the dart and the goodwill," he said, "our two consorts. we will soon overtake them." like a seagull that plumes her feathers, ere she takes some long flight across the blue sea, the vessel seemed to hesitate and waver, as though uncertain of her course. striking the long roll of the surf, she quivered and rocked a moment, and then spreading her wings, she took her departure out into that great unknown--the boundless ocean. chapter xiv croatan for long days and nights we rocked to and fro, rising and falling with the waves, only the blue water stretched around and about us. no vessel, no land in sight, nothing but water, water, water all around, and afar the distant horizon as it seemed to stoop and blend with the ocean. the second morning out i stood leaning on the rail, gazing far out in front of me. "ugh," said someone, and raising my eyes, i saw standing near me a savage, red and fierce in his paint and skins, the feather of an eagle in his coarse black hair, his dark gleaming eyes upon my face. it was the indian whom i had seen with raleigh one night at lady wiltshire's. margaret had sat by me that evening, and had been kinder than her wont. several times as her clear laughter had rung at some jest of mine, i had seen the piercing eye of the indian wander from lady wiltshire, who was questioning raleigh about him, and rest for an instant upon margaret's face, wonder and admiration upon his own; and then meeting my eye, he had turned his face hastily away. sir walter, on leaving, had halted by us an instant. "manteo has been spellbound by thy wondrous beauty, lady margaret," he cried gayly. "thou hast added one more victim to thy long list," and he cast a teasing look at her. a slight flush had crept into her pink cheeks at his words. "since when hast thou turned flatterer?" she cried, archly tossing her golden head. "i had thought thee more sincere, sir walter." i thought of that merry evening, as i saw the indian upon this vessel. he uttered some guttural words in his native tongue, a few of which i understood, the dialect being very similar to the one i had learned upon the island eldorado, although some of the words were different. i could not put the words together that i understood. there were the words "night" and "maid" that i comprehended, but i could make no sense out of the two, so i shook my head, and tried a few words in the language of the natives of the island. he seemed much excited when i spoke to him in something that resembled his native tongue, and stalking forward to where a group of men stood, he said something to one of them, and catching him by the sleeve, conducted him to where i stood. the man was a strange-looking individual, with pale hollow cheeks and little green cat eyes, that could not meet my own, but shifted to and fro whenever they caught my look; gaunt and hungry he seemed as he stood in front of me, dressed in a long black doublet. the indian, grave and stately in his skins, spoke several words rapidly in his own tongue. the man translated. "manteo would know where thou didst learn a language that resembles his own?" "tell him that i learned it long ago in another region--perhaps in the sun," i answered; "who knows?" "what foolery is this?" said he, and as he spoke to the chief again, he sniffed indignantly. "translate what i have said," i replied sternly, "without any more words, or by the gods, i will teach thee a lesson that thou shalt not forget," and i frowned at him. his knees quaked under him at this, and he spoke to the chief quickly in his own language. "ugh," grunted the savage, his fierce eyes upon my face, and again he uttered a few words. the white man interpreted. "where is the beautiful one, who sat with the white chief in the lighted wigwam many moons ago, when manteo saw them in the camp of the pale men?" "tell him," i said, "she is far away, and i am alone." he did so. "and now," i said to the white man, "who art thou?" "john marsden," he answered, cringing low, "a poor apothecary at thy lordship's service, who seeks his fortune in the new region beyond the sea." "and how camest thou to know the indian's language?" i said sternly. "answer me that." "i have been in the household of sir walter raleigh for the last two years or more," he replied, "where the savage was; and having little to do much of the time, i amused myself by learning the native tongue. i expect it to be of service to me in virginia." and he bowed with a pale smile upon his hollow face. "i doubt not that thou wilt find it so," i said, turning my back upon him, for i distrusted his knavish face. if ever dame nature had stamped upon a mortal countenance the brand of a rogue, that one was john marsden. i saw much of the indian in the long days and weeks that followed; he had taken a strange fancy to me, and dogged my footsteps, as though he were some tame animal, and i his master. one morning he brought me a little basket that he had cut in the shape of a wolf's head from a nut. as i looked at the beautiful carving, i realized how much work and labor it must have cost him, and was touched by his thought for me. "the eagle is pleased," said the indian. "yes," i answered. "i thank manteo, and will wear it around my neck," and i fastened it in the little gold chain with the coin and trinket of my lady. the savage's eye flashed with pleasure. "it is well," he answered, a look of delight passing over his dark face for a moment, as a bolt of lightning flashes for an instant over the lowering clouds, and then vanishes. "it is enough." and as though ashamed of his emotion, he left me, and disappeared down the companionway. i learned to speak the tongue of manteo; it was very like the one that i had learned before. i amused myself by talking with the indian, becoming more fluent in his language. we had grown to be fast friends, and i had begun to think much of him. he was a strange creature; he never forgot a kind word, and he loved his friends almost to idolatry, and despised his foes with a deep implacable hate, that was a revelation to me. he called me "the eagle." why i never knew, unless it was from some fancied resemblance that he thought he saw in my face to that bird. "why dost thou call me the eagle, manteo?" i asked him one day. "my brother is like the eagle," he answered gravely; "he flies far above the dull realms of earth. the eagle is the chief of birds, lordly and courageous, even as my brother is a chief among his fellows," and he scanned my face with his dark eyes. "manteo is mistaken," i answered with a laugh, "i am no chief." "manteo was not born yesterday," he replied. "he knows the royal blood when he sees it. my brother is a great chief." i did not reply; if he chose to think me a chief, well and good; and rising to my feet, i walked to where governor white stood, looking out over the water. "governor," i said, "hast thou an extra hatchet that thou canst spare me?" "surely," he replied, for he was a kindly, thoughtful soul, ever ready to lend a helping hand to his friends. "sam," he shouted to one of the sailors who stood near, "get thee down below, and bring up one of those new hatchets. what dost thou want with it?" he asked gently. "i wish to give it to the indian," i answered. "it will please him much." he smiled sadly. "thine is a strange fancy," he said, "that thou shouldst love the savage." "he is a man," i replied; "a true and noble soul, stripped of all the dross that eats and corrodes the pure metal from the heart of his brother, the white man, who calls himself his superior. he has not learned to forsake his friends when they have fallen into misfortune, or to crowd with fawning smile around the great and powerful. he has much of worth, governor, that we, who laugh at his barbarous ways, might do well to imitate." "yes," he answered absently, his eyes fixed upon the distant horizon, "he has much of good in him. "i was thinking of my little granddaughter, virginia," he continued wistfully; "she will be three years old in august, a bright happy baby when i saw her last. now she is just beginning to totter around and to lisp childish prattle--that is if the savages have not murdered her with all the rest of the colonists. often at night, during the two weary years that i have been in england, endeavoring to get men and ships to sail back, have i awakened, dreaming she was being slain by the indians, with her screams in my ears, her baby hands clutching my garments. even now i fear to touch foot upon the island, afraid that they are gone. it is terrible, sir thomas--awful," and he shuddered, his face pale. "if i should find them alive and well when i arrive, i shall thank god upon my knees. "but here is thy hatchet," he said, as the sailor appeared with it in his hands. "only take care that thy friend does not brain us in our sleep," and he tried to smile at me. "have no fear," i answered, "i will vouch for him." and taking the weapon in my hand, i retraced my steps to where i had left manteo. he still sat alone where i had left him, for he would have naught to do with most of the men; only with white and myself, and one or two others, would he mingle at all, the others he treated with cold scorn and contempt. his head was upon his hands, as i approached him and seated myself opposite on the deck. "manteo, i can give thee naught that is as valuable as the little basket that thou didst carve for me, but here is something that my brother can use and remember me by," and i put the bright new hatchet into his hand. he glanced up at me, a look of wonder upon his savage face, for raleigh would never allow him to have any weapons, fearing that he would become enraged at some fancied insult, and would kill his tormentor. "is it for me?" he asked. "yes," i answered. "it is for thee, a chief and warrior." he took it in his hands, and felt of its sharp edge with his fingers. "manteo will never forget," he said. "the eagle has treated him as a brave; these others think of him as a woman." with that he betook himself away, and in a few moments i saw him at the grindstone, putting a razor edge upon the weapon. save for the indian and white, i saw little of my fellow-passengers; for in some way my story had gotten out among them, probably some of the men had seen me in london, and i felt the chill in their bearing towards me. as i would near a group of men laughing and talking, the noise would cease, and they would stop to peer and whisper, until i had passed on. they said no word, uttered no gibe; they knew of my swordsmanship too well for that. wonderful stories had been told of my valor and daring; of my matchless skill with the sword in the great fight with the spanish armada. so they feared to cross me, they could only gaze and whisper among themselves. that was enough though, and i shrank from contact with them as though they had the plague; only white, kind and gentle, ever the same, and the indian remained. white had spoken to me of the rumor only once. one night as i strode the deck impatiently by myself, for the indian had gone below to mend a broken arrow, the governor joined me. we had talked of different things, until finally he had said gravely: "these stories that have been circulated about thee, sir thomas--they are false?" "yes," i replied quietly, "they are lies of the whole cloth." "i am glad," he said gently. "i should grieve if they had been true of so gallant a gentleman," and then he had turned the subject to other things. he had never spoken of it again. the indian had observed the demeanor of the men too, though he made no sign. once when i stood moody and dejected, alone and apart, oppressed with the bitterness of my life, he came up noiselessly to where i stood, and touched me upon the arm. "the curs bark at the heels of the gray wolf, the monarch of the forest, but they dare not touch him, lest they feel his fangs." and looking down into his dark eyes i knew that here at least was one who understood, and in his savage way sympathized with me, and i was comforted. much company had manteo been to me during the long winter nights, when we sat in the cabin together; i, busy polishing my sword or mending my belt, he sitting opposite, the long stem of his pipe between his lips, blowing out the curling wreaths of the fragrant tobacco from his teeth. wonderful tales would he tell as we sat there; tales of savage warfare and of the chase; strange stories of savage love and hate. how when a young brave would wish a squaw from among some neighboring tribe, he would steal out and capture her by force or cunning, and carry her back with him to the lodges of his people; how they hunted the savage bear and panther among the trackless forests. sometimes white would drop in to smoke a pipe with us, for i, too, had learned to love the soothing weed, and we would both sit solemnly puffing at our pipes, the room white with smoke, as manteo would recount some marvelous adventure, or chant some savage song, while in our ears still rang the deep roar of the restless sea. it was on the first night that white came, when opening the door to his knock, i spied underneath his arm the sparkling handle of my gold-hilted sword. with a cry of joy, i took it as he held it out to me. "how camest thou by it?" i asked. "sir robert vane sent it to me the day before thy coming on board," he answered, "and bade me give it to thee upon thy arrival. i crave pardon that i have not returned it before now, but in truth i have been so busy that i have not thought of it once. it is a splendid sword, and one worthy of thy valor." "'tis a good bit of steel," i answered, "and has served me well, for which i prize it much, and have grieved that i had lost it. but sit thee down, and hear the indian tell of his strange country." white took the proffered seat, and listened with grave face to the tale of the chief. the apothecary, john marsden, i had met often upon the deck. i had seen him moving among the men, talking and gesticulating, and it was after these talks that they had cast the bitterest looks upon me. so in some way, dimly, i know not how, i began to connect him with the matter. he seemed to be always friendly with me, strove to make himself agreeable, but even when he strove the hardest, his uneasy eyes would belie his pleasant words, and he made no headway in my favor. one morning, rising early from my bed, while all the rest of the company were wrapped in sleep, i came upon him and another rogue, a carpenter, hawkins by name, in earnest confab by the cabin. as i was about to turn the corner of the cabin, i heard my name called; peering out cautiously, i saw them standing with bent heads, only a few feet away. marsden was speaking, his thin, piping voice lowered to a whisper. "we have been out three months, and thou still dost hesitate; dost thou call thyself a man, and yet fear to attack one lone mortal?" "he is the devil himself," grumbled his companion, "and he will have with him, not only white, but his shadow, the savage. the men shrink from arousing them, for it will mean death to some of us." "fool," replied the apothecary, "creep upon him in the night. a thrust of the knife, and 'twill all be over. thou shalt have a capful of bright gold when thou doest the work." "it is well to talk about 'a thrust of the knife and 'twill all be over,'" grunted hawkins, with a scowl, "but the infernal indian, who sleeps in the cabin with him, one eye open, would be on thee by that time. a blow from that cursed hatchet that he hauls around with him all the time, and it will all be over with a vengeance. thou art so anxious for it, why not do the job thyself, and keep the capful of gold that thou talkest of so bravely." the other shrugged his shoulders. "it is out of my line," he muttered; "had it been my work, i had done it long ago." "why not a drop of some powerful drug in his wine?" said the carpenter. "it would do the work full as well, and much quieter. he would die of some lingering fever, and it would all be well, no one would be the wiser; but this other, that thou speakest of, is a dangerous business." at that moment footsteps sounded around the other side of the deck, and white came in sight. they had just time to separate; marsden to lean upon the rail and gaze thoughtfully off upon the water; his companion to throw himself flat upon the deck, his cap over his face as though asleep, when the governor reached them. he stopped to speak to the apothecary, for he had ever a cheery word for all, and i turned around and slipped away quietly to the stern of the vessel. here was a pretty kettle of fish. someone, i knew not who, was plotting to kill me. i had three to watch now--dunraven, denortier, and my brother richard; each had some motive for wishing me out of the way; none of them were too good to stoop to any means to accomplish their end. the first two would slay me because they feared that i stood between them and the woman they loved; richard, because he had some fear that in some way, i know not how, i would wrest the estates and title out of his hands. i knew not upon whom to fasten the guilt, for it might be any one of the three. it was important that i should learn who was at the bottom of the matter, and turning i made my way back to the cabin which i shared with the indian. he had just awakened, and was yawning upon his pallet as i entered; closing the door, i came forward to where he lay. at the first sound of my footsteps, he had turned his head quickly, and he now squatted upon the floor opposite, his black eyes restlessly roving to and fro. "what is it?" he asked. "there is a cloud that hides the sun from my brother; let him speak." "manteo," i said, "wouldst thou save me?" "let the eagle speak," he answered. "manteo will do anything for his brother." "listen, then," i said in a low voice. "i have three enemies who have sought my life long, and but a moment ago, i heard the pale one, marsden, speak to the fat carpenter, plotting my death. i would know which of the three it is that sets on foot this scheme; do nothing rash, only dog both of these men, search their cabins when thou dost get a chance, and let me know what thou findest. my brother must be as cunning as a serpent, for he tracks those who are subtle and wary." "manteo understands," he answered, his face brightening. "it shall be as my brother says," and he glided silently from the room. three days had passed, and still the indian had said naught. i knew he was at work, silently, quietly following the conspirators, for once as i turned the cabin upon the deck, i had seen a sudden shadow upon the floor but as i looked around i had discovered nothing. i knew it must have been manteo, for no one else could have vanished in an instant like that. out of mere curiosity, i searched everywhere for him, for i knew the savage indians prided themselves upon their skill and cunning. i peered into every nook and cranny, looked behind every box and barrel, but as well look for last year's flowers or the frost of a winter ago--he had vanished. i knew that he would say nothing until he had found some trace of what he sought, and so i waited in patience. i had walked about the deck most of the morning and was weary. it was near noon, so i made my way to the cabin where i dined by myself, unless white or the indian ate with me. my dinner sat hot and smoking upon the table as usual, and by it the customary bottle; for the governor kept me supplied with his own wine, and as fast as i emptied a bottle (which was but slowly, as i drank sparingly) i found a fresh one at my plate. a little piece of paper lay upon the table. i picked it up and looked at it. "a bottle of my best wine; see how thou dost like it." "white." i picked up the bottle. it was dusty and covered with cobwebs, and upon it was the label, "la france, ." i seated myself, and taking the bottle in my hand, looked at it. it was a mellow liquid, yellow and generous with age. over one hundred and fifty years ago, some hand long since gone had pressed the grapes, and laid the bottle away for some unborn man to quaff in the ages to come. it was too good wine to gulp down with my food; i could wait until i had finished dinner, and sip it at my leisure. putting the bottle down, i went to work with a will at the platters before me. a pleasant sigh came from my lips. i had finished my dinner, and a pleasing feeling of languor and content swept over me--that thoughtful, expansive sensation, that we only experience after a good meal, when we are in a mood for thought and reverie, at peace with the world and ourselves. talk about a clear conscience! it may be a great thing to make thee feel happy and contented, but if thou canst not have that, by all means, my friend, have that next best thing, a full stomach, and an hour to muse and ponder over life and all it contains. it was in this retrospective, peaceful mood that i pushed aside my plate, and tilting my chair back against the wall, fell to studying the label upon the bottle, and watching the light as it glistened upon the wine, as i turned the bottle this way and that. no such liquor as this had i seen since i drank the wine of the king of spain with denortier, that night in the far-away isle of eldorado. opening the bottle, i poured out a glass of the noble fluid, and held it up to the light; it sparkled as though it held imprisoned within itself the sunlight of merry france. such wine was for kings and nobles, and not for a friendless and forgotten man, alone and deserted; it should grace the banquet board where mirth and laughter rang, and the toasts were drank to the clink of the glasses. the goblet still stood upon the table in front of me, as i sat there. idly i jostled the wine to and fro in the bottle, as i absently toyed with it. i started abruptly. what was that? a little grain of some white substance for an instant rose to the surface, and then sank out of sight as though eager to be lost from view. a sudden thought came into my mind, and like a flash i turned the bottle upside down. yes, in the bottom, clinging to it, was some whitish powder which had not yet dissolved in the liquor. it was some poison i doubted not. the villainous marsden had taken the hint of the carpenter, and had chosen the quieter way. at my feet lay a great black cat, which white had brought out with him from england, and which had grown quite friendly with me. leaning over i took from the platter, in which lay the remains of my meal, a bit of meat, and dipping it into the glass, i threw it to the animal. she snatched it up greedily and gobbled down most of it; then lying down again, she resumed her nap. i sat there silently watching her; five minutes she lay there, asleep. perhaps after all i had been mistaken, had misjudged the man--but no, with a wail of agony the cat sprang to her feet, and with staring eyes and trembling body began to run around the room, uttering cry after cry of dumb brute pain. for a minute she ran thus, and then sinking forward on her paws, she lay quiet. i touched her with my foot--she was dead. and so i would have been by this time, had i not tardily delayed drinking the wine. would have lain cold and stiff in my agony, with outstretched limbs and staring eyes, for the powerful drug lost no time in accomplishing its deadly work. rising i took the bottle and glass in my hand, and carrying them to the window, cast them out into the ocean, and as i did so the door opened and the indian appeared. at one glance he took in the room, my pale face, and the dead cat, as it lay in the middle of the floor. "what is it, my brother?" he asked. "the pale one has poisoned my wine," i answered. "it was only by chance that i discovered it in time; and to make sure, i soaked a piece of meat in the wine and gave it to the cat. thou canst see the result," and i pointed to the animal. the indian's eyes flashed. "the pale one shall suffer," he answered, "let not my brother fear. manteo will, when the time is ripe, bury his hatchet in his skull, and his scalp shall dry in the lodge of manteo." "do nothing rash," i said, "the time is not yet ripe." he grunted, and opening his clenched fist, extended to me a little piece of paper, that he had held concealed in his palm. "let my brother look at the magic paper," he said. "i found it in the mantle of the pale one." i took it--only a line. "be wary and vigilant; he has the nine lives of a cat. make sure that he does not escape thee this time." no name or address, but i knew the crest on the paper; it was dunraven's. so this was his work. to be sure i might know his hand; he was a master at such as this. "watch them still, manteo," i said. "at any moment they may try to cut my throat." not a muscle of his face moved as he replied: "manteo will watch." i walked up upon the deck. marsden was standing with his back to me, talking to governor white. at the first sound of my voice he started as though he had been shot. "i thank thee most sincerely for the noble wine which thou didst send me, governor," i said. "it was worth a king's ransom." the governor smiled gently; plainly he was ignorant of the plot to poison me, and pleased at my praise of his wine. "'twas a bottle of some old wine that i bought in paris years ago. i had forgotten that i had it, until i discovered it a day or two ago, covered by the cobwebs and dust. i thank thee, sir, for thy praise of it," and he bowed. marsden, his face ghastly, was still looking at me as though i were a ghost; plainly he had never thought to see me again on earth. "master marsden is ill," i said to white. "perhaps he needs some wine. and now i think of it, there is some of that wine of which we have just been speaking in the bottle. it would help him to quiet his nerves." and i turned as though to go down for it. "no," he murmured, his cheeks like chalk. "it is a mere headache, which i have had all day, and which struck me with a sudden twinge. do not trouble thyself about the wine, sir thomas." "it is no trouble," i replied politely, and i made as if to hurry down the companionway. "no!" he shrieked. "i will not have it. it always unsettles me," he continued apologetically, lowering his voice to its ordinary tone, "and for that reason i cannot touch it, when i have these headaches." "oh, well," i replied, "if thou wilt not drink it. but, pray, what causes these headaches, some sudden shock or disappointment?" i was delighted that i could taunt him thus; each sharp thrust that i gave him was as balm to my soul. "no," he answered, a gleam of anger in his green eyes. "when i see some foul and loathsome creature it always affects me thus," and he smiled his ghastly grin. with this parting thrust he left us, and shambled forward to where the men stood. a little knot of them were coming forward now to where we were, the leader, the carpenter hawkins, a pace in front of them. when they were almost in reach of us they halted. "what is it?" asked white, his kindly face grown stern and harsh, for there was something different in the appearance of the men. they had lost their quiet and sober expression, and in its place there was a look of anger and determination. the carpenter spoke, his words humble enough, but there was that in his tone that seemed to make his request a command. behind him, on the deck below, the whole body of the men, adventurers and sailors, were gathered. "we have a favor to ask of thee, governor," he said, twisting his hat between his fingers. at his first words i had drawn my sword, and putting my fingers to my lips, i gave a low whistle, the signal that manteo and myself had agreed upon should there be trouble. it had come like a flash of lightning from a clear sky, without a word of warning; for i guessed that marsden was at the bottom of the whole thing, and that i was to be the bone of contention. "what is it?" answered white sternly, looking at hawkins. "the whole crew wishes to know whether these charges against sir thomas winchester are true," he growled, glaring at me sideways from under his bushy brows. "if it be so, governor, what they tell of him, he is not fit company for honest men," and he spat upon the deck viciously. "since when hast thou been appointed ruler over us?" asked white. "begone! lest i hang thee from the yardarm," and he motioned him back with his hand. "all this is well said, governor," sneered the fellow, his face black with rage, "but we would know the truth--we are men." "leave me to deal with him governor," i said. stepping forward, i faced him. "hast aught to say against me?" i asked. "if so speak it to my face, thou cur, and do not sneak behind my back. come, draw steel, and we will settle the matter now." but the fellow plainly had no desire to face me alone, and drew back a step. "fair play, men," i shouted to the crowd below. "we are all honest men of england, and have fought and bled for her; this rogue has a grudge against me, and yet he fears to face my steel. with your hearts of oak to see fair play, i will meet him." a murmur arose. "what of the rumor, sir?" cried a weather-beaten old tar. "'tis false," i answered. "as i expect mercy from my god at the last day, 'tis false, instigated only by my enemies. come, ye are men, sturdy and true. you will see fair play--for an old soldier of england." a dozen voices arose. "give the gentleman a show--stand back--give him a chance. let him fight hawkins." and a score of men sprang out from among the throng. "clear the deck!" they shouted. "all come back but hawkins." as the cry rose, those who had stood by the carpenter turned, and crept one by one back down to where their fellows stood, until only i and hawkins faced each other. the fellow was no coward, whatever his faults; he knew that he was nothing like my match with the sword; knew that i would kill him without any mercy like a dog, and yet he stood his ground, his cutlass, which he had drawn, in hand. he would have retreated at that last moment, could he have done so without showing the white feather; but there was no way to do it, and retain the respect and admiration of his fellows, and losing these, his power would be gone. he had advanced too far to back down now, his only safety lay in fighting to the end. there was naught else left. "i will end thy trouble for thee," he growled, as he made ready. "better men than thou have tried and failed," i answered. "the foul creatures of the deep shall feast upon thy body this night," and i moved forward to cross blades. but as i did so, there was a quick rush of soft feet, a shout from white, and with a groan hawkins fell, a gleaming hatchet buried in his skull; beside me stood manteo. a cry went up from the men, and then died away. white sprang upon the rail. "i warn all to return to their duty," he shouted. "but fail for an instant to obey me, and i shall turn the culverins upon you. those who escape them will hang in chains. disperse instantly, or else a worse thing shall befall you." an instant the mob wavered; they needed only a man of spirit to lead them upon us, but their leader lay dead, and there was none to take his place. "dost hear me?" roared white, "or shall i fire?" they hesitated for an instant, and then broke and scattered, the sailors to their work, the rest to their tasks, whatever they might be. the mutiny had blown over. white descended from his perch. "it was a close shave," he said as he neared me. "a little more and it would have been good-by for us. that stroke of thy red friend was the best thing that could have happened. nay, scold him not, it was at the right time, and probably saved our lives. manteo has done well," he said to the indian. "it is good," proudly answered the chief. "he would not see his brother imperil his life against such a dog as this." "bill," shouted white to one of the sailors who stood near, "do thou and sam fasten a solid shot to this fellow's feet," pointing to the carpenter, "and cast him overboard." and he walked away. as i made my way down to my cabin, i ran full into marsden, who crouched down behind the ladder. "it is awful," he groaned; "much innocent blood will be shed, and i hide my eyes from the scene." "get out!" i said, giving him a kick with a right good will, which sprawled him on his face in the middle of the floor. "thou needst have no fear; the storm has blown over, and thy precious head is safe." and with that i left in disgust. we were now nearing the shore of virginia. for the last day the boughs and barks of trees could be seen on the water, and this morning about five o'clock, the man had called out from the mast the magic word "land." in a few moments the decks were crowded with men, as with eager gaze they strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of old mother earth, which for five months we had not seen. away to the left of us, and several miles behind, could be seen the other vessels, following in our wake, as they had during the whole of the voyage. by noon we had neared the shore, of what white told me was roanoke island, on which was a settlement of the colonists. no sound greeted our ears as we approached the shore, fringed with a forest of dark, unbroken trees. we fired our culverins and musketoons repeatedly. no answer--only the boom of the surf came back to us, and the woods re-echoed to the roar of the guns. the governor was standing by my elbow, his face distraught and anxious. "why do they not answer?" he groaned. "what has become of them?" "perhaps they have run out of powder and ball," i answered, "or probably they have strayed over to the other side of the island, and have not had time to come within shooting distance." "i fear that they have been slain," he said gloomily, "for only about four miles around is the settlement." we rounded the northern end of the island, which we had first seen, and passing into a broad bay of water, began to beat down the coast. the island was thickly wooded, and grapes and fruits in abundance could be seen from the ship. in an hour's time we had dropped anchor in a little sheltered cove, and firing our guns again, put out several boats for the shore. "the settlement is only about a mile away, through yon trees," said white sorrowfully. "some evil has befallen them, or they would have answered long ere this." i did not answer, for i knew he spoke the truth, and in silence we rowed to the shore, accompanied by a strong party well armed with swords and musketoons. we began our journey through the trees and tangled vines to the huts. it was hard work to keep the men in line; they had not felt the firm sod under their feet in so long, that they were almost beside themselves with glee. twice we had to halt, while white and myself with drawn swords drove them away from the grape vines, where they had stopped, and back into line. in front of the little column strode manteo, hatchet in belt, his bow in his hand, with eyes fixed upon what seemed to be a dim trail, overgrown with grass and bushes; behind him walked white, sword in hand, his back bent with anxiety. i followed, and behind me in single file, trod the men, in dead silence, for the indian knew not what instant we would come upon hostile savages, and the command had been given by white to march quickly and quietly. the trail broadened here, and the chief stopped. peering over white's shoulder cautiously, i saw in front of me what seemed to be a rough log stockade, some six or eight feet high, the walls pierced for the guns of the settlers. above the fence i could see the top of several thatched huts, but no sound came from the settlement; silence deep and unbroken reigned. only the call of some strange bird came to our ears. the indian motioned to us to remain where we were, and throwing himself flat upon the ground, he began to crawl cautiously towards the settlement, taking advantage of every tuft of grass, and log of wood. finally he reached the wall and disappeared from view. it was several moments before he appeared again, gliding in silently like a shadow. "come," he said, and turning he walked toward the fort, with us at his heels. white had broken into a run, and had dashed past us through the idly swinging gate, and i heard him shout, as he reached the inside. he was rushing madly from hut to hut, searching each one eagerly, and then passing on to the next, his gray locks floating in the breeze. "virginia!" he shouted, "virginia! come to grandpa," and he raised his voice again and again, and called the child. no answer--only the taunting echo, "virginia." the settlement was deserted, and had evidently not been trodden by the foot of the colonists for months. the cabins were bare and uninhabited, with rotting floors, and sagging doors; the hearthstones had been cold for long days. the colonists were gone, and had left no trace behind them. the old man, governor white, had thrown himself upon the ground in anguish, and lay with bared head on the grass. he did not move when i approached him. "governor," i said, bending and touching him on the shoulder, "do not despair. we will search the country; perhaps they have gone to some more congenial spot, and even now await us. by inquiring among the indians, we may find some trace." "no," he answered dully, "our agreement was that if they should leave this spot they should carve upon some tree the name of the place where they had gone, and if in distress, they should cut above the name a cross--i find neither name nor cross. the little lass would be just large enough to walk about and babble her childish thoughts, so young and innocent, with curling locks and playful eyes. and to become the prey of some cruel savage or ferocious beast, or to die beneath the tomahawk, or at the stake," and he tore his gray hair with his hands wildly. "come," i said, gently taking him by the hand, and lifting him from the ground where he lay. "thou must rest, and then we will begin our search." at that moment there arose a loud shout, and the party, which had scattered in their search, all ran forward to where the indian stood, surrounded by a throng of the men. white broke loose from me and ran at full speed to where they stood, i hot at his heels. had manteo found a moldering body of some of the unfortunate colonists, or had he discovered some token or message of their whereabouts? panting and breathless, i halted where the chief stood pointing to a tree, the body of which had been stripped of its bark, and which gleamed white and naked among its fellows. there, high up upon its trunk, in well-cut letters, was carved the one word "croatan." chapter xv the search for the lost colony all day long, at the head of my little band of fifteen men, i had pushed through the deep virgin forests. rough, steady men they were, well armed, with their musketoons upon their shoulders and their flint and steel in their doublets, ready at a moment's notice to fire upon the indians. for the natives around the coast had proved sullen and hostile, and not only had refused to give us any information of the lost colony, but had fired a shower of arrows at their questioners. some of our men had been left on the island as a garrison, and white, with a strong party under the guidance of a friendly indian, had started in one direction, and i, with my little band under the guidance of manteo, had plunged into the forest in another. the two other vessels would cast anchor in a few hours, and as soon as they did so, several more parties would be organized, and the whole country near the coast would be given, as far as possible, a thorough search. so now, with the indian by my side, i strode steadily on; behind us, on a pole, two of my men carried a buck that manteo had brought down with his bow only a little while before, and upon which we were to sup. the last rays of the setting sun were falling through the trees, and in a few minutes they would disappear, leaving us in darkness among the silent forest, with its gloomy trees and painted men. there was something oppressive in the thought; the men behind me had ceased their chatter and jest, and like shadows softly strode after us. we finally reached a little grassy hillock, and here the indian paused. with a wave of his hand he said: "will the eagle rest here to-night?" "yes, my brother," i answered. "it is a fair spot, and here we will stop until the morrow," and turning to the waiting men, i bade them throw aside their baggage and rest. posting two sentries, i cast myself beside the indian upon the grass. it had been long since i had taken such a jaunt as this, and my limbs ached from the unaccustomed exertion. the scent of the roasting venison floated up to my nostrils from where the men had lighted a little fire, which, by the direction of the indian, they had kindled in a low depression, so that it could not be seen by any prowling wanderer. the firelight played upon the rough, bronzed faces of the men, and flashed from their swords and breastplates, flickering upon the fierce features of manteo as he lay in his paint and feathers by my side, and upon my face as i watched the men. suddenly the indian raised his hand and pointed to the west. "look, my brother," he said. i followed his outstretched finger; there, far away from the depths of the forest, twinkled a tiny light like a star, one moment it might be seen, and then it would be lost for an instant--then lo! as we looked it would rise again. "what is it, manteo?" i asked in surprise. "'tis the signal fire of some scout," he answered. "it may be that the natives have discovered that we are advancing into their country, and even now they send the news to their friends." only the cry of some wild beast of prey echoed from the forest, and anon the mournful call of some strange bird. we were alone, cut off from all civilization and the world. i looked around me; of how many bloody struggles could not these dark glades tell, could they but speak; how many black and gloomy secrets of war and massacre. they had looked down for countless ages upon the roaming red man, and the wild animals of the forest, but never until now had they been trodden by the foot of civilized man. the cheery shout of the men floated up to where we lay. they called us to our evening meal, and descending the little hillock, we joined them in their fierce attack upon the smoking venison. after we had eaten our fill, manteo and myself, lighting our pipes, strode out in the moonlight; below us trickled a little spring, its waters clear as crystal, and i followed the indian down to drink of its pure waters. he was bending over the moist earth in front of the spring, looking down at the ground intently. "what is it, manteo?" i asked, noticing his strange conduct. "it is the foot of some white squaw," he answered arising. "let my brother look." i bent down--there, in the soft earth, was the impression of a little shoe, dainty and small, as though its wearer had touched earth for a moment here, as she bent to quaff the waters of the spring. it was plainly the shoe of a patrician, a lady from its size. no indian ever wore such a shoe as that; it could have been made by no one but a white woman, unless it was the track of a small child. the indian straightened himself up with a grunt. "it is the beautiful one," he said gravely; "let my brother look." i eyed him in wonder and astonishment. was he daft that he should make such a statement as this, and expect me to believe it? i had received his declaration that this was the print of the shoe of a white woman without question, but that he should go further, and say that it was the shoe of one maid, and she the "beautiful one," as the indian with the poetry of his race called margaret carroll--impossible!--i had left her safe in england, and we had seen no vessel pass us. so with fast-beating heart and bewildered brain, i turned to manteo. "how knowest thou that it is the beautiful one?" i asked. "'tis but a track, and might be that of any one of a thousand ladies." "how canst thou know that the summer draweth nigh?" replied the chief, his arms folded upon his brawny chest. "by the flowers. so know i that the beautiful one has passed." "it may be so," i answered incredulously. "we will follow the trail on the morrow, be it who it may." manteo, his head bent near the earth, had traced what might have been to him a trail, but, as i followed behind him, search as i would, i could perceive nothing. 'twas true that here a twig was bent, a tuft of grass might have been stepped upon, but that could have been the work of some deer or other wild animal as they trod by. the indian would turn here and there, now zigzagging from left to right, now retracing his steps and starting afresh, his head ever bent near the ground, scanning with his dark eye the earth. finally, after we had followed the faint track for some one hundred yards he stopped, and with a guttural "ugh!" pointed to the ground again. "two white men passed this way four suns ago with the beautiful one," he said. "and after them only on last eve, the pale one with a red man hurried to overtake them." he straightened himself up in the moonlight and looked at me. "it is well, manteo," i answered. "shall we follow after them to-night?" "no, my brother," he replied. "the hearts of the men are faint within them; to-morrow we will follow them." and with that he retraced his steps to the camp, i by his side. i dreamed that night that the lady margaret struggled with dunraven, and stretching out her hands, cried out for me to save her. as i sprang forward to her aid, lo! with a start i awoke. something was struggling through the undergrowth near us; i could hear the faint sound of the bushes as someone passed through them--a stick crunched. an instant thus i lay, and listened to the faint rustling sound, and then turning over, i touched the slumbering manteo, who lay next me, upon the shoulder. he started, and cautiously peered around at me. "what is it, my brother?" he whispered. "listen," i answered in the same low voice, "something is approaching the camp." the sentry upon this side of the camp now raised his musketoon. "halt!" he shouted loudly. "halt, or i fire." and i could see him as, flint and steel in hand, he stood ready to discharge his weapon. there was a grunt from the bushes, and out of them strode a single indian brave. manteo sprang up from the ground and rushed forward toward him. "do not hurt the warrior," he shouted to the astonished sentry, who stood amazed at this red man, who had come out so willingly from his concealment. the strange warrior was holding something white in his upraised hand. "'tis for the eagle," he grunted, and ignoring the others, he stalked forward to where i lay and held out the paper to me. wonderingly i took the note from his hands and opened it. it was from white and ran thus: "my dear sir thomas: "a friendly native informs me that a week ago a great white ship cast anchor near the mainland, and from it there were put on shore two pale men and a white squaw. from the description which he gives me of them, i have no doubt that these people were lord dunraven, the fat priest, whom thou hast described to me, and lady margaret carroll. they took the direction in which thou art now exploring, and the ship sailed away again. perhaps thou mayest discover them, and so rescue the lady. trusting that thou mayest do so, i remain ever, "thy friend, "white." lifting my eyes, i looked for the indian runner who had brought the message. "where is the messenger?" i cried. "he is gone," said manteo, who stood near me. "does the eagle wish him brought back?" and he turned as though to go in pursuit. "no," i answered, "'tis of no use. manteo, thou wert right, 'twas the track of the beautiful one that thou didst see to-night. but how knewest thou 'twas she? art thou gifted with magic?" and i laughed uncertainly; for in truth i did not understand how he knew that this print of a shoe was made by margaret carroll. "my brother is curious," grunted the chief. "listen, and he shall know. when i dwelt with the great chief in the crowded village of the pale faces, there i saw the beautiful one, who outshone the other pale squaws, as the sun outshines the dim stars. one morning i beheld the beautiful one walking in her garden, and after she had gone, i clambered over the wall, and moved by some mysterious impulse, i know not what, i bent over the print of her little moccasin in the soft earth. in the heel of the left shoe there were six tacks, arranged in the shape of a star. to-night i saw not only the shape of the same small footprint, but lo! in the heel of the left shoe i find the star--and then manteo knew that the beautiful one had passed by." i stood amazed at such marvelous wood-craft, for although i knew that the indians were trained in the lore of field and wood from their youth up, i had not thought that they were so expert as this. the chief had turned his face from me. "look!" he said, pointing to the eastern sky, where the first faint rays of the sun were beginning to be visible. "'tis day, and the men are ready to resume their journey." and so saying he glided swiftly forward to where they were gathered, busy fastening belt and buckle, preparing for the march. two long weeks we followed hot upon their trail; we had passed now far into the interior. twice had we caught sight of a lordly river, broad and wide, as with foaming yellow water it rushed on to join the sea. over hill and dale, across grassy savannahs we pursued our unwavering march behind the tireless manteo. often we started a herd of deer from their hiding places, and with a rush they would dash out of sight among the trees, and sometimes savage beasts of prey were frightened from their lairs by our approach. once a great black bear had not been quick enough, and the indian had wounded him with an arrow; growling surlily, he had turned with a cry of anger, and made for us with foaming muzzle and upraised paw. but as he came down upon our little band, i had snatched a musketoon with lighted fuse from one of the men, and let fly at him. the ball had struck the beast in the throat, and as he reeled from the shock, a dozen men were upon him with upraised blades, and had sheathed their swords in his body. one night as we rested from our day's trail, we had seen a bright light gleaming a few miles ahead of us; but when after an all night's march we reached the spot, there were only the charred ashes of the camp fire--they had gone. "'twas the beautiful one," manteo had grunted, as he gazed at the trodden ground. with a sigh i had resumed the march; so near to her and yet so far. 'twas like the will-o'-wisp; one moment thou couldst see the magic fire in front of thine eyes, but lo! when thou hadst reached it, it had flitted on ahead, to taunt thee to further pursuit. and now on the fifteenth day of our departure from roanoke island we still followed after them. manteo, who glided in front, was striding along, his eyes as usual upon the ground. i following him, was wondering for the one hundreth time whether it was possible that this could be margaret, and if so how she came there, and who were her companions; dunraven of course, and the pale one, as the indian called marsden. who was the third white man? it might be denortier, and so musing i bumped suddenly into the indian, who had halted, and almost threw him sprawling upon the ground. "hush!" he whispered, his finger upraised. i stopped, as did the man behind me, and listened. far away i could hear the deep regular strokes of an ax; plainly someone was chopping, but who in this wilderness?? "wait here," muttered manteo. "i will see who it is that cuts so loudly," and with that he glided silently away, across the little open glade in front of us, and into the trees upon the other side. a few minutes passed, and then he came back again as silently as he had left. "come," he said, and he turned and retraced his steps whence he had come. we followed him for perhaps ten minutes, and then emerging from the trees, we came full upon a strange indian. bow in hand, he sat quietly by the side of a charred tree, which he had been fashioning into a canoe with a stone tomahawk, after burning out the heart of the tree. he arose gravely as i approached, and stood looking at me, his fierce eyes scanning my face searchingly. "this is the great white chief, the eagle," said manteo to the other brave. "tell him what thou hast seen." the indian answered, speaking in what appeared to be a dialect of the same tongue that manteo spoke, and though it differed in some respects, i could yet manage to understand what he said. "the sun has stood still twice, since occom beheld a strange sight, for as he sat in this same spot, he heard the sound of feet approaching, and hiding himself, there passed by three pale men, and a squaw more lovely than the harvest moon. they had with them tetto, one of the tuscaroras, and as occom looked they disappeared on down the trail, and i saw them no more." "what manner of men were they, my brother?" i asked. "the chief was tall, with dark hair, and his face was as the stone; the look upon it was like the hawk when he wheels to strike his prey." it was dunraven without a doubt, the indian had described him well. but who were his companions? "and what of the others?" i continued. "did the eye of occom behold the others?" "occom saw them," he answered. "the one who walked behind the chief was as the pale moon, when afraid it shrinks behind the clouds, and when the chief spoke to him harshly, he drew back in fear; he is a squaw and should till the soil with them." "and what of the third?--what of him, occom?" "he was round and fat as the bear," he answered, as though in scorn at my excitement. "his face was big and red as the blood of the deer, but he wore the dress of the squaw, and his head was white with the snows of many winters." "'tis the priest!" i cried. "ah, a precious crew! "show the eagle what thou didst pick up from the trail when they had passed," said manteo to the indian occom. "it was this," answered the other, and from his deerskin robe he plucked out a little shining trinket, and held it out to me. i took it with a cry of wonder. it was a little gold locket that i had often seen around margaret's neck; pressing the spring the face flew open, and there, i beheld a little miniature of her, painted several years ago when she was a merry, laughing girl. i gazed at it long, wrapped in my own thoughts. ah, my lady! the same light brown hair, the same deep azure eyes and pink cheeks; time had brought little to thee, only the ripening of the lovely fruit, only the bloom of a yet more perfect beauty. as i toyed with the little bauble, a spring snapped, and the back of the locket flew open. i must have touched a secret spring in some way. there in the recess was a paper. hardly knowing what i did i took it in my hand, and read the few lines that it contained. so dunraven had struck his last blow--by the grace of god i would wring his neck for this, though i should follow him across the whole vast country that stretched before me to accomplish it. the blackest perfidy of his dark life lay before me as i read that note, and my very blood boiled in my veins with rage. "margaret:--i lie sick and wounded in this place to which i have escaped from the prison. to-morrow i must sail for virginia, and i may never see thy bright face again. i would make one last request in the name of the love i bear thee; for the love of god, margaret, have pity upon me as i lie here sick unto death, and longing for one more glimpse of thee. come, though it be only for a moment--thou art a woman, and wilt pity me in this last hour. if thou wilt come, but accompany this holy priest who bears this note to thee. "farewell, "thomas winchester." i laughed bitterly as i replaced the paper in its hiding place. it had done its work well, and i now knew why margaret was here. that imp of satan, father francis, had carried this message, and she, in the pity of her woman's heart, had accompanied him to some house where dunraven awaited her. then they hurried her aboard his vessel and set sail, thinking to be safe in this wild country. but fate, weary with the smiles which she had bestowed upon him, had at last turned her frown, and i, like a sleuth hound, was on their trail. "wilt sell the bauble?" i asked occom. "i would that my brother would give me one of the bright steel tomahawks," he answered. "then shall occom be rewarded for his story, and the eagle shall keep the trinket." "it is well," i replied, and i commanded one of the men to give the indian his hatchet, promising him another when we reached the ship. the indian's face lighted up with pleasure as he took it in his hands. "occom thanks the eagle," he said, "and shall not forget him." manteo now spoke: "the eagle shall have the canoe too," pointing to the unfinished boat. "many leagues he has to go, and his heart will sing within him, if occom will but give him the canoe." "'tis the eagle's," occom replied. "we shall follow them by water," manteo said to me. "in this way we can take two steps to their one." the men had gathered around me, and now one of them spoke respectfully: "dost thou still follow the trail, captain?" "yes," i answered, looking at the group about me. "why askest thou?" he cleared his throat hesitatingly. "the men are fearful, sir. fifteen days have we followed thee, but it is plain that the colonists are not to be found, and while we still go deeper into these woods, the governor might sail away and leave us." i turned to the others. "are ye all of this mind?" i asked. it was plain that they feared to go on, though they cared not to say so. "if there were any hopes of finding them," said one, "but the deeper we go, the fainter are our chances to ever get out alive, and we do but endanger ourselves without helping them. as this is a private enterprise of thine, captain, we have made so bold as to mention this matter," and a chorus of approval went up from his comrades. "so be it," i replied. "as thou sayest, this is a private enterprise of mine, and you can all go back; but i would ask that you first help me with the finishing of the canoe." "aye! aye!" they answered, and with their axes and hatchets they fell to upon the half finished boat. in an hour it was finished, and putting it on their shoulders, they carried it the few feet that separated us from the river. i made ready to separate from the men. they had put a musketoon with some ammunition and provisions in the canoe, and all was in readiness. i think at the last they felt some remorse of conscience, as i prepared to set out alone far into the unexplored regions that lay in front of us. i shook them all one by one by the hand, as i stepped into the boat, and bade them tell governor white that they left me sound and well. then, picking up my paddle, i prepared to push off. occom had promised to guide the men back to roanoke island, and now stood silent and apart, waiting the moment to start. a light foot sounded upon the boat. manteo had stepped aboard, and picking up one of the paddles was about to dip it into the water. "manteo," i said, "go back with the others. i go far into the country, and may not come back again." "manteo will go with his brother," he interrupted me. "what would the eagle do alone? he could not follow the flight of the beautiful one," and thrusting the paddle against the bank, he gave a shove that sent us far out into the stream. the men raised a great cheer as we left them; a few more strokes and we were out of sight, alone in the little canoe upon the breast of the great river. we still paddled upon the stream, the roanoke manteo called it. three days had we passed on its breast; only once had we seen a human being besides ourselves, and that a lone indian, who seeing us approach had made for the shore in haste, and leaving his canoe had plunged into the trees, so that as we passed we only saw the empty canoe as it rocked idly to and fro upon the water. manteo had grounded our boat upon the beach a few yards from the indian, and we stepped ashore. "we near the beautiful one," he said. "it is best that the canoe be concealed here, and we should follow them upon the land." hiding the light canoe under some bushes, so cunningly that when i looked for it a moment later i could discover no trace of it, he made off through the trees, i following, a musketoon upon my shoulder. we trod on in silence, manteo looking ever for the trail. evening was beginning to fall, as though some black mantle dropped by the hands of the gods upon the quiet earth. there came to my ears the cawing of a crow, and it seemed to me that the bird was very near us. manteo in an instant had fallen, without a sound, flat upon his face. "down," he whispered. "quick!" i followed his example as quickly as i could, and just in time. for, from the trees in front of me, there stole silently a painted figure; tall, fierce, savage, he strode from the dusk, and after him another, and another, until i had counted fifty warriors, walking in single file, their glaring eyes seemingly fixed upon me, as with bated breath i watched them. they were naked, save for the breech cloth about their loins, their bodies hideously daubed with the juice of wild berries and clay; from their coarse black hair there dangled the feathers of an eagle or hawk. i had seen nothing like this before in all my wanderings. noiselessly, like a shadow, they faded one by one into the gloom opposite. long it seemed to me we lay there quietly; finally manteo arose to his feet. "a party of cherokees on the war path," he whispered, and we resumed our journey. searching the ground about us for many minutes the indian moved, now peering under some stone or leaf, now turning some tuft of grass aside to look beneath it. at last with a low grunt he led off again, striding along at his rapid gait. "how knewest thou that thou wouldst find their trail here?" i asked. the indian grunted. "had the eagle looked closer, he would have seen the mark upon the bank where a canoe had landed," he said. "but how knewest thou that it contained the party whom we seek?" "their canoe had been broken and the prow had been mended; i saw that it had landed here, for the mark of it was upon the bank." i trod in silence behind him, and wondered at this almost superhuman knowledge of the forest that could observe such things as these, which to me were as a closed book. my musketoon in my right hand, i had hurried on after him, but now i halted in an instant, for again i heard the cawing of the crow in the woods, seemingly in front of us. the indian too had stopped suddenly, and we stood motionless. as we stood there from every bush and tree there seemed to rise a hideous, painted figure. with a yell, so horrible and ferocious that my blood almost congealed in my veins at the sound, they were upon us with brandished tomahawks and clubs. like a flash i struck flint and steel, and ignited the fuse of my gun; at least one of these demons would be silenced forever. leveling my gun at the foremost one as he leaped at me, i pulled down, but even as i did so, manteo with one quick blow of his arm struck the gun upwards, so that it harmlessly exploded in the air. before i could draw my sword, a score had caught me by the arms and shoulders, and hurled me headlong to the ground. my companion made no defense, and a dozen grasped and in the twinkle of an eye disarmed him, and secured his arms with thongs of deerskin. several had bound my hands behind me, and they now jerked me to my feet--i stood disarmed, a prisoner among the cherokees. without a word they placed us in the midst of the band, and at a long swinging trot began a journey to the north-west. my heart was bitter within me as i hurried along. i had been betrayed by one whom i thought was my friend and as true as steel; he had doubtless decoyed me here so that he could deliver me into the hands of these indians, probably allies of dunraven, and they were now most likely carrying me away to deliver me into his hands. there was one melancholy consolation in it--i would see margaret once more, though it be under such circumstances as these. all day long they kept up this swift pace, stopping only a few moments for dinner, and the evening was beginning to deepen into twilight, but still they kept on their steady way. manteo trotted by my side, but i said no word to him, and he had said naught to me. i had begun to despair of ever resting again, when the loud shouts of our captors and the answering yells in reply informed me that we were about to enter their encampment. emerging from the forest, many smoking torches could be seen approaching, and the beating of drums and the shouts of the advancing crowd produced a noise that was almost deafening. the embers of several camp fires lit up the thirty or forty rough bark huts which were grouped before us into a semicircle. at our heels there tagged a crowd of men, women, and children, who shouted and danced with glee, as surrounded by our guards we entered the village. fierce savage faces peered at us from the doorways; little half-naked boys and girls shouted to each other in wonder at my white skin; the wrinkled squaws hissed and grunted. i only saw hatred, curiosity, surprise; nowhere pity or sympathy for a friendless stranger. yes, in one face i saw pity, sympathy, or was it admiration? it seemed to me, that as i saw the face for an instant i could discern something akin to that in the dark eyes. it was a young indian maid of perhaps nineteen or twenty summers, who stood in the doorway of one of the largest huts. slender, shapely, graceful as a young fawn, with black eyes, large and liquid, and straight black hair, she might have stood as a model for some picture, representing savage beauty. she was clad in a mantle of soft deerskin, with leggins of the same material fringed with bear claws, and upon her small feet were moccasins of the same soft skin. i took all this in at a glance, as i stood motionless among my guards, for they had halted here. a few words were spoken to the girl. she stood aside, and the brave dragged manteo and myself to the entrance and thrust us inside, leaving several warriors at the open door, while the babble of tongues wrangled and argued upon the outside, as they craned and twisted to get a glimpse of me. for several minutes we lay there; then a wrinkled old warrior pushed by the braves who stood at the door and bending down he cut the thongs that bound manteo, and motioned for him to follow; they strode out of the place, leaving me alone. an old hag came in to bring me a pot of some kind of meat, and with her came the pretty maid whom i had seen outside, who brought me a skin to lie upon. i thanked her in the native tongue, at which she looked at me with wide open eyes. "how knowest thou our tongue?" she asked, while the old crone stood peering at me as though i were a ghost. "it matters not," i answered. "and who art thou, my pretty maid, who dost remember a poor prisoner?" the rich color surged up into her dark face as she answered shyly, "i am winona, daughter of the chief windango." at that moment there entered the same wrinkled old chief. "what dost thou here, winona?" he said sternly. "this is no place for thee." "i came but with occoma, father," she answered. "she brought the pale man some venison." "begone!" he said, and turning his back upon her, he bent over and cut the thongs that bound me. "come," he said. i followed him, escorted by the two guards who had each taken an arm and were holding to me with an iron grasp. passing down the street of the encampment, we halted in front of a long, low building, which stood in the center of the place. drawing aside the curtain of deer skin, windango, for such was my guide, motioned for me to enter. i did so, and dropping the curtain he followed. i found myself in a long, low room, its walls made of rude, unfinished logs, with a thatched roof. a large fire burned in the center of the room, and around it there squatted upon the hard mud floor the whole band of warriors, their fierce faces scowling at me through the smoke; for there was no opening in the roof, and the smoke from the fire was so dense that it was almost impossible to see. almost blinded, my eyes stinging and watering from the thick haze which hung over the room, i staggered to a place in the front rank to which windango motioned me. a deep silence reigned. from hand to hand a great long-stemmed red pipe, decorated with feathers, was being passed, each warrior as it reached him taking a puff, and then solemnly passing it on to his neighbor. it was handed to me by windango, and taking a puff, i passed it on. a full hour it was in going the rounds, and when the last warrior had been reached, the old chief by my side arose. "the ears of the cherokees are open to hear the words of my brother manteo. let him speak." on the other side of the fire manteo stood erect. extending one hand, he spoke. the fitful firelight lit up the bronze faces of his listeners, and played strange pranks with their fierce, motionless features, as now in light, now in shadow, it came and went upon the walls, and threw into strong relief the face of the speaker. he began in a low voice which penetrated to every corner of the wigwam. "my brothers," he said, "many moons have passed since manteo has seen his neighbors, the cherokees. his heart warms within his breast as he looks upon them, for was not the father of manteo a friend of the cherokees?" he looked around, while a chorus of grunts went up from the circle. "he has journeyed far to see his red brothers, but he comes not alone, he brings with him a great chief of the pale men, who live far beyond the wide waters. he floated back with manteo upon a great wigwam with white wings to see these warriors of whom he has heard so much. he has brought for his red brothers six shining tomahawks, like the one that was taken from manteo, and two long knives, together with many blue beads, which are now on board the wigwam ready for the cherokees." "ugh," said windango at this amazing lie, and his fellow braves all followed suit with a resounding "ugh." i could feel that they were covertly glancing at me to see whether he told the truth. "but the eagle has come also to ask the help of his red brothers," continued the speaker. "a wolf has crept into the lodge of the pale chief, and even as he slept, has carried away the favorite squaw of the eagle, and fled with her into the country of the cherokees. the eagle, to show that there is no cloud between him and the face of his red brothers, has come alone into their land, to tell them of the presents that he has brought for them, and to ask their aid to regain his squaw and to punish the wolf. have my brothers seen aught of the pale one with the squaw?" and he looked around inquiringly. windango answered: "it is but two suns since down the stream there floated a canoe with three of the pale men, even like the eagle, and with them a red dog, a tuscarora, and a pale squaw, who gleamed as fair as the winter snow and whose hair shone like copper. we had no canoes and could not follow them, so they passed on down the river. "let the eagle follow them," said manteo, "and he will send a speaking paper back to the wigwam with my brother, that they may have their presents. so shall my brothers be the friends of the eagle, and their corn shall flourish and be green. if the eagle frowns upon them, then shall famine and pestilence sit in the cabins of the cherokees; the tuscaroras will slay their braves, and their hearts will quake within their breasts, for the eagle is a great chief, and wields a magic tube that thunders death from it. listen, and the eagle will speak to the cherokees in their own tongue," and he motioned to me. arising to my feet, i spoke with as much majesty as i could command at such short notice: "manteo speaks true; if my red brothers will free me so that i may pursue my squaw, then six shining tomahawks, together with two long knives, and much beads are theirs. if you seek to detain me, death and destruction shall stalk among the wigwams of the cherokees," and i seated myself. windango arose. "the hearts of the cherokees sing within them that the great eagle has soared down to them. let it be as he says; let the eagle but fold his pinions for a brief season to rest among his red brothers. they will send some of their braves back with manteo to the great wigwam, that they may receive the gifts the eagle has brought them. then upon manteo's return, their braves will accompany the great chief, so that he may take his squaw." "let manteo stay with his red brothers, while the eagle journeys on to regain his squaw," said manteo. "then shall the eagle be glad, for the wolf may have carried the squaw far, while he feasts with the cherokees." i chimed in with the same request, but plainly the cunning old fellow had no idea of releasing me till he got the hatchets. he was too afraid i would give him the slip. "would the eagle fly from among his brothers," he answered reproachfully, "after he has journeyed so far to see them? the cherokees would moan, and their hearts would be as lead within their breasts, did my brother do this. no, let the eagle feast with us a little season, then he shall fly again." and with this i was fain to be content. but my lips parted that night in a faint smile as i thought of what my lady would say, could she but know that the pet and belle of london was to the indians only a squaw--of less value than their bows, only useful to till the ground and carry the burden, the plaything of an idle hour. chapter xvi a wild diana i sat with my head upon my hands watching winona, as with her nimble fingers she fashioned a pair of moccasins from some soft deerskin. two months had i been here, the prisoner of the cherokees. manteo had started back with a party of savages the morning after our capture, bearing a short note from me to white, briefly telling him that we were prisoners among the savages, and that our ransom was fixed at a half-dozen hatchets, two swords, and some beads; also telling him that lady margaret carroll was a prisoner in the hands of lord dunraven, further up in the wilderness; that i was helpless to stir hand or foot to aid her until the ransom was forthcoming, and imploring him to make what speed he could in sending the articles. i had heard nothing of the party since, and knew not what to think. it might be that in a country teeming with enemies they had fallen in some fight with a hostile band. often in the dead of night i would toss and groan upon my pillow as i thought of margaret, a prisoner in the hands of dunraven somewhere in the depths of the unbroken forest, cut off from the world and all help, at the mercy of one who feared neither man nor devil. my fevered brain would conjure up every taunting phantom of fear and anguish that the ingenuity of man could devise. i would think of her struggling in his embraces, his kisses upon her lips, calling upon me for help and succor, with none to hear her cries, and at such times i would arise from my sleepless couch and with a silent guard, who never left me, i would pace the streets of the village until day. often haggard and weary, i would never lie down to sleep, but would sit all night staring into the camp fire, building air castles and wondering what margaret did. she was bobby's but she could not prevent me from thinking of her, and weaving happy dreams, that at a touch would crumble and fall into dust. the cherokees ever watched my slightest motion; a brave would follow me all day long, throughout all my journeys, and at night would sleep in the doorway of my hut, so that i could not step outside without awakening him. several times i had accompanied the indians upon their hunts, but never did i have an opportunity to escape. ever there kept at my side one of the warriors, and twist and turn as i would i could not shake him off. he clung to me with the tenacity of a leech, and so finally in disgust i gave up the effort, and returned quietly to the village. i had watched every chance to free myself, but i could never find a propitious opportunity. someone was ever at my heels, and so i waited as best i might for manteo to return. i had craved pardon for my suspicion of him before he left, and with his stately air he had answered: "it is nothing; the eagle for a moment thought that manteo would betray him, but he knows better now, and manteo's heart is glad. he but struck up his brother's thunder tube because he knew that if a cherokee had fallen, then would the eagle have been burned at the stake." and with a smile he left me. i had another friend in the sweet indian maid, winona. often would i find in my hut, when i returned from a long stroll, some choice fruit, or a fat turkey, browned to a crisp. once a deerskin doublet had hung on the wall, at another time there had been a wampum belt, and i knew whose deft fingers had been at work. when i had fretted myself into a fever, it was winona who brought me cool-water and nourishing food, and with her light hands had soothed my fevered brow and waited upon me until i had been myself again. often she would sing some wild love song of the savages to me, sitting opposite and looking at me with a strange, sweet light in her dark eyes, which had almost frightened me, for i feared that she had grown to love me. i grieved that her warm young heart should be disappointed and wounded, for there was but one woman for me, wild or civilized, and that was the blue-eyed maid, who somewhere in yonder dim region which loomed before me, chafed and fretted, a prisoner of lord dunraven. and so it was with a heavy heart this bright morning that i sat opposite the indian girl, and saw that same warm, tender light in her great black eyes--those eyes that were the envy of her girlish companions, and the despair of all the young bucks of the village, who scowled at me as i passed them on the street. one of them in particular loathed me with a fierce, unbending hate, the young brave chawanook, who had found favor with winona until i had arrived upon the scene, when she straightaway turned her back upon him, and would have naught more to do with the young warrior. he had immediately saddled me with the blame, and but waited for a favorable opportunity to revenge himself. the old chieftain, windango, adored his bright young daughter, and she twisted him about her fingers, as the saying goes, until he would believe that black was white if she but said so. she had been brought up free from all the toil that had bowed the hearts and bent the backs of her companions, and while they were fast becoming withered and faded, she was strong and graceful, a veritable wild diana. she could follow the chase as well as any brave, and strike down with her arrows the wild deer. often had i seen her return from a day's hunt fresh and smiling, while behind her there lagged some warrior worn and footsore. but even the old chief had begun to admonish his daughter to give ear to the soft sighs of the young braves, and become the squaw of some warrior. she was long past the age when her companions had wedded. why did she still remain alone? here was chawanook, who would some day be a great chief. why not go into his wigwam and cook his venison? it was of this that winona spoke as she finished one moccasin, and laying it aside, began to embroider the other with the bear claws. "do the maidens beyond the seas go into the lodges of the braves so soon?" she asked, with a bright smile at me. "some," i answered, smiling gently at her question. "many of them do not go at all." she broke into a low clear laugh. "would that i dared to tell my father that, but he would tear my head from my shoulders, did i dare to hint such a thing. he wishes me to become the squaw of chawanook; to slave and toil for him--and he ugly and awkward," and she frowned, her eyes still upon me, as though she wished to draw me out. "why dost thou not listen to chawanook?" i answered. "he is a brave young warrior, and will some day become a chief. that he would be kind to thee, i doubt not." she laid down the moccasin and looked at me intently, the smile gone from her face. "and thou wouldst counsel that," she said in a low voice. "i thought that thou wert the friend of winona." "even so," i replied; "and it is because i think much of winona that i speak thus." "dost some fair maid await across the great sea for the eagle?" she asked eagerly, changing the conversation with the artfulness of a woman. i shook my head. "no," i replied sadly, "no one waits for the eagle--he is alone." she still sat opposite looking at me, the half-finished moccasin beside her. "the squaw of the eagle is in the forest above the head of the river," she said. "is that why the eagle walks abroad in the moonlight, when all are slumbering, and sighs to himself until day? does he love the fair young maid, who is in the hands of his foes?" "the squaw belongs to one of the eagle's friends," i replied gently, for the girl did not know that she touched a raw and bleeding wound. "he seeks her for one whom he loves as a brother." the girl looked at me; plainly she was debating something in her mind. finally she spoke hesitatingly, and bending forward she whispered in a low voice: "a sun after the eagle had folded his pinions among us, there passed up the great river a canoe, and in it a single pale man, with hair and beard the color of the night. he stopped not, but passed on in the direction of the great mountains, towards which the pale squaw had gone. is he the friend thou speakest of?" "no," i answered, "he is not the one;" for i knew not of whom she spoke, unless it might be denortier. "did he have a curved nose, like that of thy father?" i asked; "thin lips, and a high forehead?" "yes," she answered quickly, clapping her hands, "it is the one." it was denortier most probably; like a sleuth hound after his quarry he would run them to earth before he slackened pace. but the lady would be in as bad conditions in his hands as in dunraven's. "winona," i said, bending over nearer to her, "wilt tell me something?" "yes," she answered, looking up at me with her soft black eyes perilously close to mine, a deep red color in her cheeks. "what is it that the eagle wishes?" i drew back hurriedly and sat down, for i liked not those soft looks. "where is the white squaw?" i asked. she hesitated and drew back. "it would mean my death," she whispered, "should they find it out, and yet i will tell thee. they are four days' journey above us, near the banks of the great river." four days' journey from me--and yet i sat here with folded arms, while she, a captive in the hands of dunraven, wrung her white hands and endured i knew not what. no, i would make one attempt to break loose from the cherokees to rescue her, though i lost my life in the effort. the indian maid had finished the moccasins, and with them in her hands had risen to go. "i must go," she said demurely, as though she had not sat with me for two hours alone. "occoma will be searching for me if i stay longer. let the eagle take the moccasins," she continued shyly, as she extended them to me, "for of a truth he needs them," with a ringing laugh. and evading my outstretched hands, she ran from the hut. i looked down at my worn-out boots. she had spoken the truth, for i needed them if ever mortal did. stooping, i took off my ragged footgear and replaced them with the soft new moccasins, and then, like a little child with a new toy, i paraded down the streets. a party of braves were gathering around the great council hall, their bows and clubs in hand, and as i neared them i saw the light form of winona running to and fro among them. windango was there too, and the fierce, scowling chawanook. as i looked at them a sudden thought struck me. there were only about fifteen warriors in the party; it might be that in the hurry of the chase i could escape from them. so, stopping beside windango, i said: "where goes windango? does he strike the tuscaroras?" "no," grunted the old warrior, as he busied himself with his weapon. "windango but goes to hunt the deer, and to supply the village with venison." "the eagle will fly with his red brothers, and strike down the quarry with them," i continued, with a glance at the other braves. i thought that he did not look particularly pleased at the suggestion, though he only nodded his head, and falling in by his side, we took the trail for the forest. a few minutes and we had passed out of the village, and headed northward, a direction in which i had never been before. the old chief, who trod in front, spoke but seldom, and then only about the journey. soon tiring of his grim silence, i fell back a pace by winona, who, bow in hand, trod swiftly along behind her father. behind me was chawanook, who eyed me as though he would gladly have cut my throat if he but dared. noticing the frown with which he regarded me, i turned to him, and with an air of great anxiety inquired of him if he were ill. his only answer was a savage grunt, much to the amusement of the dusky flirt at my side, who, little minx, knew well enough what ailed the young brave, and seemed to enjoy his air of discomfiture. the men had scattered somewhat, for we were nearing a famous deerlick, which great herds of the wild game were wont to frequent. a small band under windango had crept around to the right of the grove of trees, to scare up the quarry, while the remainder of the party, with whom were winona and i, had deployed in a long line so as to head off the deer. the indian girl was standing under a great leafy tree, her weapon in hand, while i, unarmed and empty-handed, stood some ten paces away, a little behind chawanook, who seemed determined to keep his eye on me. with a rush a dozen deer had started up at the first crackling of the leaves, which heralded the advance of the party of windango, and with a bound dashed towards us. the quick twang of the bows and four or five fell, the rest darting by us and into the woods. with a shout winona sprang forward, and drawing a little steel knife that i had given her, cut the throat of a lordly buck with wide-spreading antlers, which she had brought down. "let the eagle come forward and help me to bear the buck under the tree, and i will cook some of the flesh so that we may eat," she cried out to me, with a triumphant air. smiling i came to where, with face aglow with exultation, she bent over the deer. "well done!" i said; "thou art a veritable diana." and taking hold of the animal, i dragged it over under the great tree. the maiden had followed me, a frown of perplexity upon her bright face, and as i threw the bleeding carcass down, she spoke: "who is this diana of whom thou speakest? is it some lady of thy own country?" and with a pretty look of eagerness she glanced up at me. "she is a goddess," i answered. "one who descends from above to lead the chase, and to ensnare the hearts of men, even as thou," and i laughed at her confusion. for with a deep blush, she had dropped her long lashes over her black eyes, and stood fingering the fringe of her deerskin tunic. "i ensnare not the hearts of men," she answered in a low voice. "some there are who crave but to be caught, and those i care not for; others mayhap would struggle to be free, if by any chance they should fall a victim, and those i would not take prisoners against their will," and she raised her eyes bravely to mine, with the warm light which she vainly endeavored to conceal burning deep in them. it was my turn to be confused now, and i mechanically sought in my mind for something to say that would change the conversation from this awkward topic, for i knew at that moment that the dark-eyed maid loved me. i could give her no encouragement, and yet i grieved that i should wound her young heart, and even as i stumbled for words to say, fate, that old master, with a jerk caught the reins from my hands and mounted the box. with a rustle of the leaves there bounded down through the air from the tree overhead, a long, dark body, which alighted at the very feet of the girl. as she started back horrified, she tripped, and losing her balance, rolled down to the feet of the beast, who, with a hoarse growl, put one paw upon her body, and with gently moving tail stood glaring down at the helpless girl. he was a long bony animal with a round cat head and shining green eyes, perhaps measuring some six feet from muzzle to tail, his color a dark brown. his little short ears erect, he stood there as though to challenge the world. a huge club lay at my feet, where one of the warriors had dropped it as he pursued the deer. an instant i stood as though spellbound by the spectacle of this ferocious beast, which had dropped as though from the clouds among us, and then with a yell, i caught up the club and sprang at him. before he could turn upon me, i had raised the heavy bludgeon and brought it down on his head, with a resounding whack; as i did so, i heard the screams of the girl, the shouts of the warriors as they hurried towards us, and with a shrill snarl of rage, the brute recovered from the shock, and then sprang full at my face. i threw up my left hand to shield my head, and it was on this arm that the great brute, his eyes gleaming with rage and pain, alighted. i felt his sharp claws as they sank deep into my shoulder and arm, his teeth seeking to reach my throat, his hot, fetid breath in my face. i tottered with the weight a moment, and then went down, the animal upon me. luckily he had his fangs fastened into the chain which held my breastplate in position, and growling and snarling he strove to free himself, his claws rasping and scraping upon my steel plate. as we struggled thus, a half-dozen arrows from the bows of the braves whistled into him. the warriors, with clubs and tomahawks sprang to my rescue; a short, sharp struggle, and the huge brute toppled over me and fell. the indians helped me to my feet, the blood spurting from the flesh wounds in my arm and shoulder, and with looks of wonder and admiration they stood about me. i had plainly risen in their estimation, for there is nothing the savage appreciates like bravery. winona pushed through them as they stood there, a soft deerskin in her hand. i saw she had torn from her own shoulders the light robe that she wore, and now with quick commands she dispatched one brave for water, another to get some herbs from the woods, as with deft fingers she cut away the frayed cloth from the wounds. before i could prevent her, she bent her head, and pressed her lips to the bleeding flesh. "did not the eagle risk his own life to save winona?" she cried, as i remonstrated vainly with her. "had it not been for him, winona would now sleep with her fathers." the silent indians stood around me; no sound or gesture did they make as they watched the girl, though their dark eyes followed her every motion. looking up quickly as winona finished, i caught the deep, implacable look of hate which chawanook cast at me, and i knew that i had here a bitter and undying enemy, who would go to any length to injure me; and at the thought my heart grew heavy, for here was one more complication in the net that surrounded me. the love of winona, with which i knew not what to do, and the hate of chawanook, who would watch me like a hawk, would prove obstacles in the way of my escape. "art hurt, winona?" i asked, as she bent over me, impatiently waiting for the messengers to return. "no," she answered; "thanks to a warrior." and she cast a taunting look at chawanook, who leaned gloomily on his club behind her. at that moment the young braves returned; one with water in my steel cap, the other with a bunch of some peculiar looking herb in his hands. with deft fingers the girl washed the wounds, binding the leaves to them. windango, his wrinkled old face gleaming with excitement, had arrived, and was listening to the account of my rescue of winona. as the braves finished, the old chief strode forward to where i stood, and taking my hand in his, he said: "the eagle has saved the life of winona. windango will not forget; perhaps he may repay the eagle some day." and with that, he turned and led the way in silence back to the village. the indians held high carnival to-night, for it was the feast of the sun god, which winona had endeavored to explain, as she stood before me clad in all her savage splendor, a wild flower in her dusky hair. in vain she tried to enlighten my ignorance as to the celebration. all that i knew when she had finished, was that it was the feast of the sun god, and was a great time for them; that the maids and young braves decked themselves in all their finery, and danced and shouted together until day. in despair at getting no more information, i put on my steel cap (about all that was left of my original garments) and followed her down the long street of the village, now alight with torches, and thronged with young braves and maidens, while from the lodges there peered out the faces of the squaws. before the doors gathered the old warriors, pipes in hand, talking over the hunt and planning some foray against their enemies. the hum of many voices arose as we passed through the crowd down to where the feasters gathered. i might almost at first glance have passed for an indian myself in the twilight, for my doublet and hose had long since worn out. i now wore the deerskin and leggins of the savages, and the moccasins that winona had made me were on my feet. no day had passed since i had been a captive among them, that i had not planned to escape, but someone was ever watchfully at my heels. my weapons had been taken from me, and i seemed as far from escape as i had ever been. of manteo and the party who had gone to roanoke there had been heard no word, and i had given them up for lost. windango and a band of his warriors had only yesterday taken the trail for a scout against their enemies, the tuscaroras. the braves only awaited his return to muster their fighting men to the war path. winona had halted by the open space, around which the crowd had gathered. it was perhaps a hundred feet square, and now within it there leaped and shouted a medicine man in his skins and paint, a great round club in his hand which he shook fiercely to and fro, as he sang a wild ditty, keeping time to the music with his feet. with a loud yell, he threw himself upon his face. "what is this for, winona?" i whispered to the girl as we stood watching him. "it is to frighten away evil spirits," she replied gravely, in the same low tone. and now a party of maidens sprang into the cleared space. their long hair wreathed with wild flowers, decked in their finest garments, with branches of green leaves in their hands, they stood motionless an instant at the further end of the square. "wait for me here," whispered the girl by my side. "i go to join them," and she darted rapidly away. a few minutes later, i saw her take her place among the throng. and now they raised a loud chant, and with waving branches began a marvelous dance, now advancing, now retreating, winding in and out among each other to the sound of their voices. slowly forward they moved toward the other end of the square, their merry, laughing faces making a pretty picture against the black background of the night. their clear voices arose upon the air like the sound of some wild strains of barbaric music. faster and faster they turned, until they only seemed one dark mass of moving figures, twisting in and out among one another. the wreaths had fallen from their heads in the rapidity of their motion, and they trampled upon them unheeded, as they whirled by. from the words that i could catch, it seemed a wild invocation to the sun god to send them peace and plenty, and that their braves might triumph over all the enemies of the cherokees. i looked in vain among the throng for winona, but the figures moved by so quickly that i could not discern her face among the many dark heads that glided past. faster, faster, faster they moved; several had fallen in exhaustion, and the old crones, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd, had rushed in and dragged them out of the rush. their companions still danced on; it seemed to me as though they must all be weak from exhaustion by this time, but still they kept up their mad pace until, with one loud cry, they halted and stood still. a chorus of cries and loud "ughs" of approval from the bystanders arose. they had danced well. and now into the ring rushed the young braves, stripped to the breech cloth, their bronze bodies shining in the light. they caught each other around the waist, and tugged and strained, each seeking to cast his antagonist to the ground. for many minutes they wrestled, their chests heaving, as with every muscle strained they exerted themselves to the utmost. the warriors and squaws looked on, delight pictured upon their faces. now and then a deep-chested "ugh" would go up, as some brawny brave would cast another upon the ground, and the defeated one would withdraw, leaving the victorious wrestlers to struggle among themselves. the braves thinned slowly but steadily; finally only two were left in the arena, the warrior chawanook, and another lusty indian, called okisco. an instant they stood facing each other, then slowly, cautiously, like cats, they moved about, each seeking for an opportunity to catch the other unawares. finally, with a dull crash they came together. okisco had caught chawanook under the arm pits, and with bent body was endeavoring to bear him down, while his antagonist, his toes dug deep in the sand, was steadily resisting every effort the other made to throw him. great drops of sweat ran down their faces, as they staggered about the square, locked in each other's arms. the ground was trodden into deep furrows, where they dug their moccasins into the soft earth. both were now becoming weak from the long bout, and even while i looked the end came. okisco, giving a shrill yell, threw all his bull strength into the effort, and with a fury nothing could withstand, bore the other to his knees. a loud cry went up from the crowd. at the sound, as though beside himself with rage, chawanook sprang to his feet, and catching both hands around the waist of the triumphant okisco, and bending his body with a power that seemed superhuman, he cast him backward upon the ground. with a proud gesture, chawanook stood erect, the blood pouring from his nostrils as the result of his great effort. and now there tottered into the square an old feeble man, the eldest of the village. with his sunken face and dim eyes he looked as though he was ready for the grave. with a gesture he held up his hands, and silence fell upon the noisy throng. "my brothers," he said, "from the time of our fathers, when the mind of man runneth not to the contrary, it has been our custom that the oldest man of the village should at the feast of the sun present to the maiden who had danced the nimblest a belt of wampum; to the most valiant young brave a necklace." and he held up in his withered hand a blue wampum belt, and a necklace of blue stone of some strange pattern, but i was not near enough to discern them well. "the judges have decided that unto winona, the daughter of windango, should the belt belong, and unto the young brave chawanook, the necklace. step forth," he continued, "and receive them." and from the crowd i saw winona and the warrior chawanook come forward and receive the belt and necklace. as the maiden turned, and scanning the dark faces about her, moved rapidly down the ranks, i heard the murmur of the savage tongues about me. "to whom will she give the belt?" asked an old hag by my side. "i know not," said her companion. "perhaps to the young chawanook. they would make a brave pair," and she moved aside to let winona, who was coming toward me, pass by. too late i realized what was about to happen, and for her sake as well as my own i would have turned and fled, but the golden moment had passed; there was naught to do but to stand my ground. the girl stood in front of me, the wampum belt in her hand. a deep flush was upon her face, and she bent her head for a moment in embarrassment, for the whole crowd was gazing at her in silence. for an instant she stood thus, twisting the girdle nervously in her hand, and then she raised her face. it was transfigured and glorified by the light of a great love--a love that would face all things and undergo all agony or sorrow for the sake of the one she loved; that could endure the cold gaze of the world, and fear it not, happy in the knowledge of the light within. who counted all things as naught compared with this. i had heard often of the love of some frail woman, who would face death calmly and unafraid, would endure the thumbscrew and the stake with a smile upon her face and a song within her soul, for the sake of one she loved, and i had doubted the story; but as i looked upon the face of this indian maiden, i knew that such things as these could be, that here was one who would die for me, if needs be, because she loved me. "it is a custom," she murmured softly, so softly that i had to bend my head to catch the faint sound, "that the maiden who wins the girdle should bestow it upon some valiant warrior. i know of no warrior who is more worthy to wear it than the eagle, who at the risk of his own life dared to rescue an indian maid." and with that she bent forward shyly, and with fingers that trembled fastened the blue wampum belt around my waist. [illustration: "i know of no warrior who is more worthy to wear it than the eagle"] i dared not look around me, as she bent her dark head over the clasp, her hair just brushing my face. for an unconscionably long time, it seemed to me, she fumbled over it, and then with a little sigh of satisfaction, she straightened up. "there," she said, with a nervous laugh. "winona," i said gravely, for in truth i was in the most awkward position in which i had ever been placed, "the eagle thanks thee for thy courtesy, and will wear the belt always to remind him of thee. it will be a bright spot in his life, which he will cherish, when he has returned again to his own far distant country." and extending my hand, i caught her little brown one in mine, and carrying it to my lips as though she were some princess, i kissed it. she flushed again happily, her dark eyes soft with light as she looked at me. the sullen voice of chawanook rang out behind me: "and so the daughter of a great chief stoops to bestow her love upon a nameless dog of a captive!" the girl had raised her head proudly at his words, for there flowed in her veins the blood of a line of savage chiefs. she answered him scornfully: "if chawanook would meet his fathers let him face the eagle alone in yon ring. as for me," and her voice rang out clear and full, "my love is my own, to bestow where i will; it shall never be given to such as chawanook." the young brave answered angrily: "i sought winona to bestow upon her the necklace of blue beads, for which many of the maidens sigh but i would bestow it upon the most beautiful, even upon winona. what do i find here? that winona shamefully has confessed before the whole village her love for the pale man, who is a captive among us, by bestowing upon him the wampum belt." and almost beside himself, chawanook tore the necklace in his hands into a dozen fragments, and cast them from him. the girl, her head erect, stood fearlessly looking at him. "what if i love the eagle?" she cried defiantly. "he is a great chief among his own people; he is no nameless brave like chawanook." and with heaving breast and flashing eyes, she stood like some wild animal at bay. the warrior whirled on me quickly. "thou shalt not live to boast of this!" he cried. "die, pale dog!" and before i could turn my head, he had plucked from his belt a tomahawk, and cast it full at my head. the excited crowd had surged about me in their eagerness to see what was going on, and even as he threw the weapon, an old woman had darted in front of me to shake her fist in my face. it proved my salvation, for as she sprang in front of me, the tomahawk crashed full into her head, and she fell over against me, the weapon still quivering in her skull. in an instant i had plucked it from her, and with all my strength cast it at chawanook. the tomahawk sped onward and struck him with a dull thud full in the face, braining him at a blow, and spattering blood upon those who stood beside him. throwing up his hands, he fell at full length upon the ground. an instant thus i stood, with my hand raised as i had thrown the tomahawk, and then from somewhere back in the crowd there arose a voice, shrill and piercing: "how long will the cherokees bow their heads like squaws, while this strange eagle soars into their lodges, winning their loveliest maiden, and strikes down with his talons their braves? the cherokees are women and should till the ground. the tuscaroras shall make war for them." a low growl of fury went up from the mob as it gazed upon the body of the young warrior, as it lay before them. a brave leaped from among the throng. "come!" he cried. "the cherokees will clip the eagle's wings!" and with a yell he sprang towards me. the crowd stood still for a moment. they were as a magazine of powder, and wanted but a spark to ignite. the fire had been applied, and with a loud shout they streamed down in one wild mass of men and women upon me. i struck down the first who neared me with my fists, but i had as well attempt to catch the rain with my naked hand, as to break the fury of the attack in such style as this. a dozen had caught me by each arm; several braves had clambered upon my back, and tugged and pulled to throw me from my feet. it was as though i was in the hands of the giants themselves, for with a rush they threw me to the ground, and bound me securely, hand and foot. "what shall we do with the pale one?" they shouted. a score of old women had rushed to where i lay, and shaking their fists in my face, they taunted and jeered at me. some of them had thongs of deerskin with which they beat my helpless body, as i lay there bound and tied, and i firmly believe they would have torn me to pieces in their fury, had not the braves who guarded me interfered and driven them away. and now they cleared an open space of about ten square yards about me, and two great braves, picking me up in their arms, carried me to the middle of it, and dumped me upon the ground, after which they placed a log of wood under my head. a great brawny warrior strode forward to where i lay, a jagged club in his hands. leaning upon his weapon, he looked down at me. "does the heart of the eagle faint within him?" he taunted. i made no answer, for i thanked god that they were to end my suffering quickly with one blow, and not by the fire and stake or the gauntlet. the warrior still looked at me, with a fierce smile upon his face. "were it not that the cherokees expect at any moment the return of the chief windango, who might save thee, we would put thee to the torture and the stake. our time is short, and thou mayest thank the great spirit thy end will be quick and merciful." and with that he raised the great club high above his head and as he did so a lithe figure darted out from among the throng, and caught his arm with a quick jerk as it descended. the weapon swerved to one side, and fell harmlessly upon the ground near my head. it was winona. "thou shalt not kill him!" she wailed. "put a weapon in his hands and let the eagle face thee; then thou shalt know that he is a warrior." with a growl of fury the indian struggled to throw her aside, as, with the strength of despair, she clung to his arm with the grip of a bulldog. "he shall die!" he answered fiercely. "loose me, girl, or i will beat out thy brains with my fist." and with a threatening scowl upon his angry face, he raised his knotted fists. "loose him, winona," i shouted to her. "thou hast done thy best for me, for which i thank thee. thou canst do no more." "no," she sobbed, "he shall not slay thee." and she fought and struggled with the brave. a dozen warriors now sprang to the rescue of their leader, and catching the girl by main strength, they dragged her from the panting and furious indian. holding her, weeping and struggling, they shouted for him to strike. a second time he raised his club to strike, but the girl, with superhuman effort, had wrenched herself loose from her captors, and bounding forward, cast herself upon my body. "if thou slayest him," she sobbed, "thou wilt slay winona also. now strike, if thou darest." under ordinary conditions he would not have dared to slay the daughter of the chief, but he was infuriated beyond control and beside himself with rage. "then die!" he shouted, and with a fierce snarl he raised his club again. i closed my eyes and waited for the weapon to descend. i could not think; my mind seemed only to whirl and throb in a chaos of broken thought which i could not connect. i wondered dimly whether a rough knot which i had seen upon one side of the gnarled stick would strike winona or myself; whether the indian would strike once or twice; whether margaret would moan could she but know, and what she did at that moment; whether her hair still shone with the old golden splendor as of yore; whether her eyes were the same deep blue and her laugh as clear and ringing as in the old days. it seemed to me that i lay there an eternity, waiting for the blow, and still it did not descend. would it never come? "strike!" i shouted. "wouldst thou wait forever?" no sound answered me, and i opened my eyes and looked up. there, a few paces from me, stood the would-be headsman, leaning upon his huge bludgeon, a sulky, frightened look upon his dark face. a voice, loud and angry, rang in my ears: "and so this is how the cherokees treat a stranger who feasts with them, when windango turns his back?" turning my head i saw the old chief, tomahawk in hand, standing fierce and motionless behind me, as he looked down disdainfully at the throng of savages, who had slunk away as a whipped dog will from his master. "speak!" he continued. "have the cherokees naught to say for themselves?" a chorus of voices arose. "the eagle had struck down chawanook. winona had given to the pale one the blue wampum belt. could the cherokees stand by and see such deeds as this? then, when they would have slain the eagle, winona caught mountawk's hand, and finally threw herself upon the eagle, to protect his life at the risk of her own." and they pointed to the girl, who, pale beneath her dusky skin, had arisen and stood with bent head near the old chief. windango with a wave of his hand silenced them. "leave the girl to me," he said hoarsely. "i am a man, and can deal with my own lodge. begone!" "and what of the eagle?" cried one, bolder than the rest. "shall he not die?" "is not windango a chief?" replied the old brave. "cannot he deal with the pale one? out of my sight, or i shall slay some of you in my rage." a moment thus the dark throng stood, undecided. they were as some fierce wild beast, who, as he is about to feast upon his bleeding quarry, is driven from it by another stronger than himself. but the habit of obedience was strong within them. even as they wavered, the chief put his fingers to his lips, and gave a long, quivering cry. an answer floated back from the trees, and the dark forms of the old warriors could be seen, as, weapons in hand, they hurried to the assistance of their leader. some twenty or thirty war-worn veterans had already pushed their way through the crowd and stood grouped around him, ready at a word to let fly their tomahawks, and as many more were hurrying to him. the whole village could muster no more than one hundred braves, and of these fully one-half would stand by windango. they were the older and more experienced men, and the other braves would be as chaff before them. the dark throng broke, and scattered into a hundred fragments. chapter xvii the death of denortier a light hand shook me by the shoulder. i moved uneasily, and rubbing my eyes looked about the hut; all was inky darkness. "hist!" said a voice, which i recognized as windango's, "let the eagle follow silently behind me." and taking my hand in his, he led me quietly across the hut and into the night air. as i looked down at the sleeping warrior in the doorway, i saw something red trickling slowly down his broad breast. bending over him, i looked. a great gash was over the heart, and from it was streaming a torrent of blood. the old chief had taken this means of silencing him effectually, and so straightening myself, i stepped to his side, where he stood in the shadow of the lodge. with a quick movement, he threw a deerskin over my head, so that nothing could be seen of my face. the night was dark and moonless, and from the deserted streets of the village no sound arose. he turned, and with me at his heels began a quick journey towards the woods. we met no one, as with bent heads we silently stole towards the shadow of the trees. the cabin in which i had been confined that night lay at the northern end of the village, and it was only a few moments until we reached the outskirts of the place. i started back in alarm, for before us there trod to and fro upon his beat a sentry. we could not pass him without being seen; but the chief by my side reassured me in a word. "it is a friend," he whispered. "once i saved his life from the tuscaroras, and he has not forgotten; the eagle need not fear." and with head still bent, he stole silently by the motionless figure, who, with his back turned toward us, stood gazing intently into the night. he must have heard us as we passed, but if so he made no sign as we trod softly by, and in a few moments we had reached the friendly shadow of the trees. never for an instant did windango relax his swinging trot, as he hurried through the forest. twice i tripped upon some root or branch, and came to the ground; but i was up in an instant, and after his dark shadow, which i could partly discern before me. through bushes and vines we tore, the briars scratching my hands and face; into trees i bumped, and stumbled into gulleys, as i hurried on after the chief. five good miles we must have trodden thus, and then crashing through a cluster of undergrowth and trees, we halted upon the banks of the river, the roanoke the natives called it. here, from underneath some bushes and vines, the indian brought out a canoe, and placed it upon the water. turning to me he spoke: "windango has kept his word, and has repaid the eagle for the life of winona, which he saved from the wild beast in the forest. it is not safe that the eagle should remain longer with the cherokees, for to-night they plot his life, and while it may be that windango could save him for this once, yet in the end they would slay him. let the eagle depart," and with a wave of his hand, he motioned me toward the canoe. "the eagle will not forget windango," i answered, as with a clasp of his hard hand, i stepped into the boat, and picking up the paddle dipped it into the water. "the memory of him will be as the sun upon the tired traveler after the storm has passed. but how shall the eagle know when he has reached the lodges of the pale ones?" "it is three suns' journey," answered the indian. "the eagle will see upon the banks of the river upon his right a broad rock which juts out into the water, and over it a withered oak. let him alight there, and take the trail which he will see; in an hour he will be at the lodges of the pale men." "the eagle thanks his brother," i said, and with a wave of my paddle, i pushed the little canoe into the stream, and made rapidly towards the east, down its wide current. i had left the indian behind, and with strong strokes, i made haste toward dunraven. overhead brooded the night, dark, silent; before me lay the great river, and somewhere beyond those dark trees was margaret. my foot struck something in the bottom of the canoe, which rang against the board. stooping, i picked it up; it was my gold-hilted sword--the companion of my wanderings--and beside it lay some food and a jar of water, placed there by the same kind hand. buckling the blade about my waist, around which was still fastened the blue wampum belt, i resumed my task, my mind engrossed in thought. why had not the cherokees attacked the settlement of dunraven, if they knew so well where it lay? it was only a few miles away, and i knew them too well to think they stood in awe of four men, however brave. no, there was something deeper than this somewhere. this was the secret of those steel hatchets and knives which i had seen among the indians; he had bought their friendship with these trinkets, and bribed them to hold me a captive among them. ah! there was a long reckoning to settle with my lord, when we should meet again. one which had been long in the making, and such as one mortal man could seldom count up against another. if i could only reach him with my sword, i would give worlds for the opportunity. a light sound of a paddle floated to my ears from behind me down the stream. someone was evidently following, but who i did not know. with a quick stroke of the paddle, i turned the head of the canoe towards the bank, and shot in among the overhanging trees and bushes. here i waited in silence; five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and i had almost persuaded myself that i heard only the sound of some beast from the forest, when again came that light sound. nearer, clearer, it again struck my ears, and in a moment i saw the dark body of a canoe upon the water. i strained my eyes to discover who were its occupants, but in the gloom i could see nothing. a pale glimmer of the moonlight for a moment came out from behind a cloud, and fell full upon the face of winona, as with her raised head she looked around her for a glimpse of my canoe. "winona!" i called softly, and in an instant i had paddled out from my hiding place, and to where the boat rocked. "thou must go back, child," i said. "what doest thou here?" she only answered with a storm of sobs. "thou canst not follow me, a wanderer upon the face of the earth," i continued. "what will thy father think of this, after he has saved my life? no, turn again to thy people," and i pushed her canoe around with my hands. "winona cannot return!" she cried. "her people will have naught to do with her after to-night. if the eagle refuses to let her follow him, she will cast herself into the river." i was sorely vexed; here i was about to go into the camp of the enemy; at the very time that i needed to be footloose, the indian girl must needs follow me--a plague on her! and there was margaret, heaven only knew what she would think; but the lass had saved my life, and i could not leave her alone and friendless in the wilderness. if it be true that her friends had cast her out, there was naught to do but carry her with me, and so with a sigh i turned my canoe, and in silence continued my journey up the river, with her little craft behind me. and so we journeyed for two long days. we were moving up the river, only a day's journey from dunraven now, and with paddle in hand i pushed the little boat for all there was in her. but a few more hours and i would face my lord, and with sword in hand would end his troubles. a low call floated out to me from the shore, and turning my head quickly, i saw standing upon the bank some fifty feet away, his face distorted by a ghastly smile, the apothecary, john marsden. if i had seen a vision, i could not have been more surprised. i looked at him in amazement, as he raised his hands and beckoned me to approach him. what ruse was this? did he but attempt to lure me to the shore, so that i would fall into the hands of some of dunraven's men, who concealed by the trees lay in wait for me? "quick!" he shouted, as my canoe lay motionless upon the water. "quick, sir thomas! for i know not what moment lord dunraven may appear, and if i fall into his hands, it will all be up with me." and he shuddered in such terror that, half convinced that his fear was genuine, i paddled towards him. "let me but come aboard," he said, as my canoe touched land; and he rushed forward in the boat and seated himself in the stern. "give me a paddle!" he cried, and seizing one, he never rested until we had pulled far out into the current; then he gave a sigh of relief. "if lord dunraven overtakes me, it will end the career of john marsden," he said, with another uneasy look at me. "what doest thou here?" i asked sternly, "and why flee from lord dunraven?--mind thee, the truth." "'twas on the day before yesterday at noon that i sat in the hut," he answered. "i was brooding over the failure of my lord to pay me the gold that he had promised, and the scornful way in which he treated me, when i approached him and begged for the reward which he held out to me. i heard a footfall on the floor behind me, and looking up i saw denortier." "'dost thou wish one thousand pounds sterling, marsden?' he said in a low voice. 'if so, thou hast but to speak.' what could i do? here was a vast treasure, sufficient to overthrow the honor of an angel and a way to revenge myself upon dunraven; so i answered that i would do his bidding for one thousand pounds. "'then listen to me,' he said, glancing around cautiously. 'the lady margaret carroll is imprisoned here, and languishes as the captive of lord dunraven. i would rescue and restore her to her lover, sir thomas winchester, but it is not to be, for last night as i lay upon my bed i dreamed a dream. as i looked, lo! there stood beside me the dead herrick, even as i had seen him often in life. i thought a look of sorrow was upon his face, and as i looked at him his lips opened and he spoke: "'thy time has come, my captain,' he said. 'long have i waited in this far land for thee, but now thy end draws nigh, and i am sent to warn thee. three days, and thou shalt join the shadowy throng of thy men; but do this before thou goest. send a messenger to sir thomas winchester to guide him to lady margaret carroll, whom he loves, and perchance it will avail thee much in the end." as he said this he vanished. "'i lay there in the silent room; i am not a person to fear either man or devil, but i feel within me this shade spoke truth, and it shall be as he has said. it matters little now, since i know that i cannot win the lady margaret carroll, for death is better than a weary existence without her. dost thou, therefore, marsden, go to sir thomas winchester and guide him here, while i stay and guard the lady until his arrival. hasten back when thou dost give the message.' "and he gave me the one thousand pounds, which i buried, and straightway i set out to find thee. praise be to god i have done it!" and he looked at me with an air of joy. "dost expect me to believe this?" i asked incredulously. "believe it or not--it is the truth," he said doggedly. "would i be likely to put myself in thy hands, if what i say were not true?" we were all this time making our way swiftly down the river, winona in her little boat behind us. "marsden," i said, "tell me the scheme of my abduction, all thou dost know of it--and then perhaps i may believe thee." "denortier had watched for several days to carry thee away from london," he answered, his face lighting up at the thought. "when thou didst walk abroad that night herrick was at thy heels. but thou gavest him the slip and they had given up all hope, until one of the crew who drank in a little inn saw thee come by and sent word to denortier. immediately he posted men at every lane which led from the tavern. as luck would have it, thou didst come up to the very one which he himself guarded, and he but had time to engage in a discussion with the drunken fool steele, when thou didst approach, and the rest thou knowest." "why did not denortier slay me when i was in his power?" i asked. "'twas not like him to let the opportunity slip." "he loved the same fair lady that dunraven and thyself sought to win," marsden replied. "whilst he had thee in his hands, he could play thee off against my lord, and so hold him in check," and he burst into a roar of laughter. "why dost thou shout so?" i asked sternly. "i see naught to laugh at." "i but thought of the tale i heard denortier tell one day in his cups, of how thou didst go into the cave to explore it. the old hag, neulta, cried out from a secret panel in the wall, and blew the candle out of thy hand with some of her secret power, and thou didst dash out of the cave as though the devil were at thy heels." he laughed again apologetically, and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. "thou knowest how dunraven entrapped the lady margaret," he continued, "and how they set sail in the 'betsy,' and making further south reached this coast a week before thou didst." "yes," i answered impatiently. "but how does the lady margaret bear her imprisonment?" "like an angel," he said, his crafty eyes lifted to mine to watch every expression. "not a murmur has ever crossed her lips, and denortier protects her from harm, for he stands ever between her and dunraven like a shield." "but i have something here that nearly concerns thee," he continued, drawing from his doublet a square package. "'tis thy father's will, which i stole from thy brother richard one night, thinking perhaps to sell it to thee at a propitious moment. it is thine for ten thousand pounds," and he waited impatiently for my reply. "wouldst give that much for the estates and title?" "thou art mad!" i replied. "even if i thought thou didst speak truth and that it were my father's will, which i do not believe, still he had no power to will the title and land from richard if he so desired, which is improbable, for the estates have been entailed for the benefit of the eldest son for ages." "old sir hugh richmond, thy grandfather, broke the entail by suffering a common recovery," he replied. "nay, do not look so incredulous, the proof is in this package. wilt give ten thousand pounds for the document?" "if what thou sayest be true, i am willing," i answered. "but how came my father to disinherit richard?" "'tis the same old tale," marsden rejoined. "richard, thinking he had the game in his own hands, turned loose all his ill-humor upon thy father after thou hadst left england, making the old lord's life a perfect hell on earth with his abuse and ill-treatment. four days before he died he sent for a scrivener, and deeded all of his property of whatsoever character to sir robert vane to hold in trust for thee. as the estate has been held in fee simple since the common recovery was suffered, he could so fix it that richard could not get at the property. i tell thee that old sergeant moore, who drew up the deed, has so tied up the estate that 'tis impossible to overturn the conveyance," and he chuckled at the thought. "but to resume my tale--the title cannot be disposed of as long as richard lives, but thy brother cannot of course maintain the dignity of his position without the estates to keep it up. he will be glad to relinquish it in thy behalf for a mere pittance, and thou canst have his action ratified by act of parliament, so thou wilt be safe in any event," and so saying, he put the package into my hands. it was composed of three papers. the first i laid aside after carelessly glancing at it. 'twas the common recovery by which sir hugh winchester barred the estate tail, and attached to it the instrument by which he took it back again to hold in fee simple. the next was a bulky document in which my father solemnly transferred all his estates to sir robert vane in trust. "nevertheless to hold the same for the benefit and advantage of my second son, now beyond the seas--thomas winchester." and below he had scrawled his name. i folded the document together again--so that homely old saying had come to pass, that "curses like chickens come home to roost." i had never loved my father, he had meant naught to me but a name, but at that moment i pitied him. he had hated me without a cause and his sin had brought its own punishment. and so thinking i opened the third and last paper--it ran thus: "richmond castle, april , . "thomas:--as i lie here to-night, i realize that in a few hours i must pass out to meet that god, whom i have never served or obeyed. i have done little of good in this world; have lived only for self, my own desire and enjoyment my only thought. i know of not one soul whom i have ever helped or assisted during the whole of my miserable life, but on the contrary there are many whom i have wronged and injured, who will rejoice as they hear the news of my death. "i have wronged thee most of all, for i allowed that villain, richard, to play upon my dislike of thee, until i did thee that last injury and drove thee from england. i have paid for my sin in agony and torture; my life since thou left has been a living death. there has been no night for months that i have not writhed in anguish, and to add to my sufferings, richard has done all in his power to be-devil me, thinking that he had the estates safe. "i have made what little reparation i could, and have disinherited him, and transferred all the property to thy friend sir robert vane, to hold in trust for thee; for something tells me thou art alive, and will yet come to claim thy own. death, my son, will be a boon to me--it will at last end my agony in this world. i trust that my god will take into consideration my suffering here, in measuring my punishment in the life to come. "and now i will close forever. i cannot ask thee to forgive me, i have sinned too deeply. i only ask thee to remember that if i have wronged thee i have been repaid; for every drop of suffering that has been wrung from thy brow, i have sweated two--for every groan thou hast uttered, i have groaned thrice. so thou dost see, that even in this world, we are repaid for our sins, for as a man makes his bed so shall he lie. "farewell, "richmond." i held the paper in my hand, and from my long dry eyes there fell a tear, as though in tribute to one who had sinned and suffered. i knew he had repented bitterly the injury he had done me, and from the bottom of my heart i forgave him. i looked up at marsden, who sat opposite, eying me as a cat gazes at a mouse. "but thou dost forget that i am a fugitive from justice, and if i set foot in england to claim the estate, the queen will hang me." he threw up his hands in despair. "i had forgotten that; thy estates are forfeited to the crown as those of a traitor, and thy father's disposition of them goes for naught. 'tis maddening with only that between thee and fortune--fool that i was not to think of it! shall i have the papers back again?" he said. "they are of no value to thee." "no," i answered. "did i give them back to thee, thou wouldst sell them to richard, and 'tis best that they remain in my hands." a scowl of fury came over marsden's pale face at my words, and he glanced about him. but he saw that i was prepared to meet him, so he arose to his feet. raising my head, i saw that the canoe lay by a little neck of land, and that even now he was preparing to step ashore. "what doest thou?" i asked in surprise. "i promised denortier to return as soon as i delivered the message," he said; "for the count needs help to protect lady margaret from dunraven." and resisting all remonstrances, he plunged into the woods, bidding me go by water. "dunraven might try to escape by the river, and 'tis best to surround him on all sides," he said, and seeing the wisdom of his words, i let him go and resumed my journey. all night long i paddled steadily, the canoe of winona behind me, and by morning we were nearing the goal for which i had struggled so long. four of the afternoon had arrived, and winona called to me that just ahead there lay the broad white rock which marked the end of our journey. yes, there to the left, jutting out into the water, was a broad flat rock, and above it hung a withered oak. "'tis the rock," said winona, and turning our canoes in that direction, we soon approached it. the girl caught the prow of my boat, and concealing both canoes in the high reeds that fringed the bank, with bow in hand she led the way along the little beaten path into the woods. so this was the beginning of the end i thought, as with my sword loosed in its scabbard, i followed the lithe figure of winona. with eyes bent upon the path, and step as proud and free as a young fawn, she tripped in front of me. for some minutes she walked thus, and then with an exclamation she pointed to the trail; for here there was a great place trodden smooth, as though some monarch of the forest had locked horns with an enemy in the death struggle. the earth was torn and furrowed, and a great pool of blood, which looked as though it had been shed only a few minutes before, was in front of us. "what is it, winona?" i asked. "have some bucks locked horns here?" "no," she answered gravely, as she gazed at the ground; "it is the pale faces--see!" and she pointed to the earth, where bending i could dimly see the print of a shoe. "let us go on, winona!" i cried, alarmed at the sight, and i followed the trail of blood, where it led out again to the path. "see!" she cried, and she pointed to the stream of blood. "one of the pale ones was struck down, but he sprang up and followed his enemies," and brushing by me, she ran on down the path. for a few minutes we kept on after the bloody track, then turning from the path, we followed the blood into the woods down a little hillock and up under a great oak, where i could dimly see the figure of a man, as with upturned face he lay quiet and still. "the wounded man almost caught one of those who struck him!" she cried excitedly, pointing to a deep track, as where one had leaped in terror and then sprang forward in desperation. i did not answer, but breaking into a run, i rushed by her and up the slope to where that ghastly figure lay beneath the tree. as i stood beside him, he stirred and opened his bloodshot eyes, wearily looking up at me--it was denortier, and wounded unto death, it required no leech to see that. beside him lay the dead body of the apothecary, marsden, a look of terror awful to behold upon his pale face. one stiff hand clutched some leaves, the other lay outstretched above his head, as though in despair. he had died like a trapped rat; the ghastly look upon his face was more significant than words, for it showed the agony and despair of the last moment, when the freebooter had struck him down. there still quivered in his lifeless frame the keen blade of a sword, which had been thrust through his body and deep into the ground, pinning him down to writhe and die like a butterfly transfixed by a needle. the count denortier looked at me a moment with his glassy eyes, and then drew back from me. "art come to torment me, pale shade?" he said. "away! a few moments and i will be even as thou art." "i am no shade," i answered, "but a man of flesh and blood like thyself." "who is it, cloaked and hooded, that stands gray and silent by thy side?" he continued in the same low voice, as though he had not heard me. "it looks even as one whom i have known in the long ago. speak, dim spectre! who art thou?" i looked behind me, there was no one there save the wondering indian girl. with a shout that resounded through the forest, he dragged himself to a sitting position, horror stamped upon every feature of his face. "it is sir samuel morton!" he shouted in an unearthly voice. "back! i slew thee, but it was in fair fight. why comest thou here to torment me? go! i said," and he fell back trembling upon the ground. "'tis no one, count," i said soothingly. "be calm--it is only the creation of thy fevered brain that thou seest." but with straight, unseeing eyes, already fixed in death, he stared past me. "'tis ever thus," he groaned, "ever i see rise around me the shadowy faces of those whom i have slain. they flock about with leering looks and outstretched fingers, taunting me as i lie thus. if there be a hell, as the lying priests would have us believe, it would be torture enough to listen through countless ages to their gibes, and to see about me their staring faces," and he lay back exhausted, with panting tongue. "water," he moaned--"would that i had but one drink of water." i cast my steel cap towards the motionless girl. "bring him some water, winona," i said. she bounded away to a little brook that glimmered through the trees near by. "dunraven," he screamed, rising again, "thou shalt not have her! i would rather that this sir thomas should win than thou; he is at least a man, whilst thou art a creeping serpent. i would rather see the maid cold in death, than to be the bride of such as thou." "how camest thou thus?" i said, seating myself by him. "what carest thou?" he answered, seeming to see me again. "what difference can it make to thee, thou who art a shadow, whether i live or die? but listen, if it be of any interest, and thou shalt hear how i came to be in this condition. "this dunraven had kept the maid captive for two long months in the cabin yonder, constantly threatening her and menacing her with i know not what, unless she would give her consent to let that imp of hell--the priest francis--marry her to him. i had landed the day after they did upon the coast; for i knew dunraven's plans, and that he would come directly here. i learned them from the spy, marsden, the rogue who lies beside me, who would have played me false. i followed hot on their trail and found them here. dunraven was furious that i should have tracked him, for he thought to have the maid in his power, and i was ever as a thorn in the flesh to him. "often wearied by the long resistance of lady margaret, he swore by heaven and earth to wed her. i took the part of the maiden--partly because i loved her--partly because down in my black heart i pitied her. for if ever woman bore herself nobly, under circumstances that would daunt a heart of iron, that woman is lady margaret carroll. "curse it!" he cried. "my throat burns and scorches, and yet i lie here and babble to amuse a pale shade, and thou wilt not give me a drop of water to cool my aching throat." "thou shalt have water," i answered; "have patience," and even as i spoke, i heard the step of the girl as she returned. taking the cup from her, i bent over the dying man, and lifting him up, held the cool water to his lips, while he gulped it down eagerly and resumed his story, a far-away look in his glassy eyes. "for the last week dunraven has been as one possessed, for one of the savages brought him tidings which set him wild, and it was only with the point of my sword i held him in check. "i strolled down to the great rock this morning, where i had dispatched marsden to find thee and bring thee here to rescue the lady. my agreement with the traitor was to meet him on his return at the rock. as i gazed upon the water, i heard a sound behind me, and turning i saw dunraven, with his henchman, the fat priest, and marsden, together with the indian whom my lord had ever with him. fool that i was to suspect nothing from dunraven's smiling face, as talking and chatting, he rode with me back to the cabins, the others following. "anxious i was to know what success marsden had met with, but i could say naught until i could get him apart from the others. so i came along with them, perhaps a mile, when the priest, leaning behind me, without a word plunged a long knife into my back. i turned on him, but like a flash the whole band were upon me. "i struggled furiously, and tried to draw my sword, but the indian had severed the belt with his knife. i fought for my life, unarmed and alone--but what could one man do? they bore me down to the ground, and thrusting their knives in me a last time, pursued their way, leaving me for dead. "'have no fear for the lady margaret!' dunraven cried, as with a smile he left me. 'i will care well for her.' i lay there and cursed the fate that had willed that i, a man who had slain a score of gallant gentlemen in fair fight, and held at bay for five long years the strength of europe, should die in an unknown hole of this great uninhabited country. "even as i lay thus, i heard a light step, and the ruffian marsden came stealing down, knife in hand, fearing that by some mischance i might betray the secret of his perfidy to dunraven. i waited quietly, with my eyes closed, until he bent over me, then gathering all my strength, even as a lamp flares up into a bright flame before it goes out forever, i sprang at him, and caught him by the throat. "with a yell of fear, he wrenched himself free and tore down the path, with me at his heels. i drew nearer and nearer to him until, with one last leap, i sprang upon his back and hurled him to the ground. then with his own sword i slew him. could i have only cut the throat of that fiend dunraven, i would die content. "and now, thou dweller of another sphere, one last thing to soothe thy troubled heart would i do, before i go to join thee. the lady margaret loves thee. would i could have told thee before thou hadst passed out of this mortal globe, but i only discovered it a few brief hours ago. they say that dying men see plainly into the future. i know not if that be true--i only know that something tells me that margaret carroll will be the bride of a nobler man than dunraven." he was nearing the end now, and with long-drawn breath and wildly groping hands, he fought for breath. suddenly he looked up at me with vacant gaze. "say that thou forgivest me for the share i had in thy detention!" he wildly cried. "as god is my witness, i have rued it oft and deeply. i have other and grievous sins to answer for, and would not go down to death with that blot unforgiven." "i forgive thee," i gently answered, as i bent over him, "and though 'twas a terrible thing, i bear thee no malice, and would not stand between thee and thy god." "i have done thee a great favor," he muttered. "thou wilt discover it sometime." he babbled on a few moments at random. of deeds of blood and terror, awful and ghastly; of men murdered in cold blood; of women and children put to death with torture, such as the mind of man could hardly conceive, by the thumbscrew and the stake; of burning ships and murdered crews. then a look of cunning and avarice came over his ghastly face, and he tried to raise himself, but was too weak. he could only beckon me to draw near. "nearer," he whispered, "i will tell thee a secret, that will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. it will be some recompense for the pain i have caused thee, and thou canst let a small portion be used in masses for my soul. no one knows where it is concealed, save myself and the dead herrick." "where is it hidden?" i asked listlessly, for in truth i cared little for the golden hoard, since one whom i loved could not share it with me. "nearer," he whispered, so low that only bending far over his white face, could i hear his voice. "those pale ones who bend beside thee shall not hear it; 'tis for thy ear alone. look upon the island eldorado, it is concealed----" he stiffened himself; even as he did so, i knew that his race was run, for i could feel beside me the presence of that one who had beckoned him, and who with waiting boat was preparing to waft him over the dark stream, and into the dim unknown region from which no traveler returns. the dying man had lifted himself until he sat erect, his dull, glazed eyes fixed far beyond me. he spoke, and with awe i recognized that his voice had regained all the strength and imperiousness with which it rang when he had reigned supreme, the lord and ruler of the savage crew. "some wine, josé!" he cried. "the wine of the king of spain. we will drink one more toast before we go; our time is short--long and weary the journey. now, men, fill up to the brim, for i give you a toast to-night, such as you have never drunk e'er this, nor will again. "'tis a lady, pure, beautiful, divine, such a one as never graced this rough earth before. had eve been such as she, 'tis no wonder that adam lost all, and counted it naught beside the glory of her deep eyes. had helen been one-half so fair, i wonder not that paris for her sake braved all greece and laughed at their rage. i give thee a lady, my comrades, more lovely than the pale blushing dawn, purer than the driven snow, with eyes whose deep blue outshines the azure sky, one whom england admires and adores--the lady margaret carroll!" he fell back upon the bank, the same calm smile upon his face. he made no sign or motion; bending forward, i saw that he had died without a struggle. with the help of winona i dug a trench and buried the count. so we left him to keep his last long watch; the snows of winter lie thick upon his grave, the sun and rain of summer beat upon it, but he heeds them not. he was a man with all his faults, and deep above his grave i carved upon a hemlock the simple words "requiescat in pace." it was night when the indian maid and myself resumed our journey. winona had buried marsden near denortier, and by the light of the moon we made our way down the rocky path and towards the cabins. no sound broke the gloom of the forest, as we strode rapidly on. i had lost precious time with denortier; during which perhaps the fox dunraven had taken the alarm, and fled still further into the vast country beyond the dim mountains of which manteo had told me. and now, as we silently turned a bend in the path, the glare of a fire met my eyes, only a few feet ahead, and to the left of where i stood. cautiously drawing my sword, with winona, bow in hand, at my heels, i stole forward, until i stood underneath the trees in the shadow. then quietly i looked out upon those who sat about the fire. in front and facing me, sat lord dunraven upon a huge log, his sheathed sword between his knees. to his right, and several feet away, was another figure, a woman in a white dress. the light from the fire shone upon her white neck and rounded arms, and a gold chain about her throat glistened and sparkled as the glow from the blazing embers fell upon it. one little foot peeped out from the hem of her skirt, and her burnished hair shone in the dim light, as though each strand were gold, mined from the far-off land of the indies. a fagot from the dying fire blazed up, and the light fell full upon her face, which was in the shadow. even before the firelight told me, i knew the maid was margaret. paler than it was her wont to be, but radiant with the same marvelous beauty. the last few months had defaced not one trace of loveliness, and even as i gazed upon her from my hiding-place, the same faint perfume floated across to me that i had ever noticed when in her presence. "and so denortier, a plague upon him, has gone out upon a longer journey than it has been his wont to take," dunraven said, a sneer upon his face. "he will find it, i fear, a rough voyage, and will meet on his arrival a warm greeting," and he looked up at the lady. "i would have gone to where he lay, and read to him from the holy scriptures," she said in a clear voice. "perhaps it would have soothed his last moments, but thou wouldst not let me do this." "no," he answered, his sneer deepening into an evil smile. "curse him! he has thwarted me long enough. had it not been for him, thou wouldst have been lady dunraven long ere this. but the fruit only grows more tempting with the waiting," and he laughed long and loud. the lady margaret had risen, and with tears in her eyes now faced him. "why dost thou persecute me thus?" she said, as though in despair. "thou knowest i will never willingly be thy bride; there are many fair ladies in england. why wilt thou persist in thy mad pursuit of me, when thou knowest i do not love thee?" my lord kept his seat, the smile still upon his face. "if thou for any reason dost look into thy mirror, thou needst wonder no further." "i seek not for compliments," she answered impatiently. "i would know the cause of thy unreasonable conduct." "thou seekest for a reason, behold thou hast it. margaret, i have spent a great treasure; have slain two gallant gentlemen; have left the luxuries and pleasures of my own country to become a wanderer in a strange land; have traversed countless leagues of trackless ocean and boundless forest, my very life at the mercy of these roving savages. have imperiled all, margaret--wealth, position, title, reputation, and for what?" "yes, for what?" she answered, her head held proudly erect. "it has been worse than wasted." "'tis for this," he cried, and he advanced a step nearer to her--"because i love thee." my lady's face had grown scornful, her eyes flashed, for she came of a noble line, and when once aroused, the carroll blood could be hot and fierce. "thou hadst best save thy breath," she answered contemptuously. "thou art like a child, that frets and whimpers for the moon." "art thou made of stone?" he cried, "that naught can touch thy cold heart? what more wouldst thou have. i have dared all, endured all, for thy sake, and yet thou still dost frown--hast thou no smile?" "not for such as thee," she answered calmly, turning her back upon him and looking out into the gloom. "perhaps thou thinkest that they be for sir thomas winchester," he said with a scowl. "fool not thyself, proud lady, thy lover is dead--died with such torture as thy mind knows not, devised with all the ingenuity that the savage indian can contrive. thy smile shall never more be for him." margaret had grown paler, but her courage did not fail her for an instant. "if he be dead," she replied piteously, "he was something that in thy whole life thou hast never been, nor conceived of--a brave and gallant gentleman." "it may be so," he answered, "but i had rather be a live man with the lady margaret carroll, than a dead gentleman, though he be a saint." "beast!" she cried, in anger and despair. "i loathe thee! even the very savages have some mercy on their helpless victims, but thou knowest not what mercy is." "not where thou art concerned," he answered steadily. "cost what it may, thou shalt be mine." and folding his arms upon his chest, he looked at her as though he would imprint every feature of her face indelibly upon his brain. "name my ransom," she said. "any price--though it take every penny of my estate, i will pay it gladly and willingly," and she turned again and faced him imploringly. "what wouldst thou do here, alone in this wilderness? thou wouldst lose thyself amid its dark shades; be devoured by some wild beast, or fall into the hands of the indians, beside which captivity in my hands would be a paradise." "it matters not," she cried eagerly, her face alight with hope. "better to die at the stake, than to endure such as this. name but thy price, and it shall be paid." "this is my answer," he replied slowly and deliberately, his dark eyes upon hers: "though each leaf upon every tree in all this vast continent were a golden sovereign, and all that vast treasure mine, should i but set thee free, i would turn my back upon it in scorn and disdain. not for aught that this great world holds would i forego my power to make thee mine." margaret had sunk back again upon the log from which she had risen, her hands over her face. i still lay where i was behind dunraven. i would wait until the moment arrived when he would attempt to carry his scheme into effect; then at the very instant when he held the cup to his lips, i would dash it to the ground. defeat would only seem the more bitter because he had been so near to victory. "so don thy fairest dress and thy brightest smile this evening, for i can wait no longer for the time when thou shalt be mine. with only the light of thine eyes to bask in, with thee to cheer me, this rough land would be an eden, and we like two children to wander hand in hand beneath the trees. such a life i have long dreamed of--such at last is at hand for me. the priest will make us one this very night. so prepare thee, for in a few brief moments he will be here." she raised her head, a look of determination in her blue eyes, which had grown hard and cold as steel. "i cannot tell what things the future holds in store for me, but this much is certain: before i would submit to such an indignity i would slay myself with my dagger and so end my misery. i warn thee that i am desperate. push me not to the wall, or i will do something that perchance thou wilt regret. be not so sure. at the last moment the cup may be dashed from thy hands." and she arose, courage and desperation upon her face. "there is no help for it," he answered. "thou canst do naught, margaret, but weep and wring thy white hands; there is no one to aid thee. thou art alone in my power--neither god nor man can help thee now." "be not so sure of that, my lord," i answered as i stepped out into the firelight, my sword raised. "thou knowest not what these dark woods contain." chapter xviii my lord takes his departure he wheeled upon me as i spoke. my lady had given one loud cry, whether of joy or fear i knew not, and with clasped hands stood gazing at me. "so thou dost come at last," he said coolly. "it is well; one of my enemies has stepped out of my path forever to-day. thou art the second and the last, and thou too shall go to join him. francis!" he cried, raising his voice into a shout. an answering call came back from the darkness, and i could see the light as it streamed from the half-open door of a cabin, a few yards away. "quick!" he cried. "'tis that dog, sir thomas! out, and at him!" a yell, and the rush of approaching feet, as they raced for me; i had sprung forward at the first shout and crossed swords with dunraven. he wore his steel breastplate, or i would have cut him down in a few seconds, for he lacked much of being my match with the sword; but there was naught for me to do but to make for his head, as my time was too short to pick and choose my point of attack. another cut at his head, which he parried, and replied by a vicious lunge at my throat, which i met--and then from out of the gloom his men sprang at me. the priest, a great cutlass in his hands, came down like a wild boar; behind him panted the fat skipper of the "betsy," his red face aglow, and at his heels an indian in his paint and feathers. and now four to one, on all sides of me, they cut and thrust; one man, no matter how splendid a fight he made, could not keep all of them at bay. a low cry from my lady caught my attention. she was swaying to and fro, both hands clutched at her breast--even as i glanced at her, she toppled and fell full length upon the ground. that one brief instant, when i turned my eyes from my assailants, proved my undoing. with a rush all four men were upon me. the priest caught the hilt of my sword and was endeavoring to wrench it from my hands; the others sprang upon my back and were trying to throw me to the ground. "drop all swords!" dunraven cried. "i would not have him hurt--he is reserved for a sweeter fate." i staggered under their combined weight; my hands were pinned to my sides, for the priest, having wrenched my sword from me with the help of the savage, now gripped my body and arms with a grasp of steel. the two, miles as dunraven called the fat skipper, and my lord himself, were upon my back, with the indian tugging at my knees. with a crash i went down, carrying them with me. what had become of winona, i thought as i fell. had she forsaken me? she was the equal of a man in a fight such as this; but when it came to the pinch, she had doubtless fled. the priest had loosed me as i fell, and catching up a long knife, he bent over me as i struggled with the others upon the ground. the old dark leer was upon his face. "and so we square accounts!" he cried triumphantly. "i have gloated over the thought of this moment ever since we last parted. die, thou carrion! may thy foul soul rot in hades with my old chief, the count denortier, for a million ages!" and he struck downwards at me. with a whistle an arrow whizzed towards him, and as i looked i saw its sharp point strike him in the throat, and passing through, project a foot beyond. a shrill, keen, quavering yell vibrated through the forest, as the priest staggered blindly, the knife still clutched in his hand. then another piercing cry rang out, as a second arrow struck him full in the back, and with a hideous shriek he sprawled out upon the ground. an answering yell came from the other side of the glade, and the woods rang and re-echoed with the blood-curdling cry. miles was struggling madly beneath me to rise. "it is the indians!" he cried. "up!--let me go!" dunraven sprang to his feet. "it is the cherokees!" he rushed to where the limp body of margaret lay, and catching her up in his arms, sword in hand, he dashed out of the grove. "save yourselves!" he shouted to his men. "as for myself, i must rescue the lady." the others were still struggling frantically with me, their only thought to escape. with another series of deafening yells, two figures sprang out of the trees and made for us. one of them was winona, i knew her by her short petticoat, and the other--yes, the firelight shone on his face an instant as he darted by--it was manteo. the indian with whom i fought had broken loose from me, and now dashed forward. i saw him rush upon manteo. the two grappled together, and fell rolling and struggling on the ground. miles, to whom terror had lent the strength of despair, was fighting manfully to free himself. his hand came in contact with the stone tomahawk which the indian had dropped in his fight with me; his fingers closed over the handle, and raising it with all his strength, he brought it down upon my left arm, where i held him by the hair, while with my right i pinned his body down. my arm fell limp and helpless to the ground. with a plunge he broke loose from me, and springing up he bounded full into the arms of winona, who caught him around the waist, and with a howl of terror he fought to break away. i leaped to my feet. dunraven had disappeared with margaret. i heard him crashing through the woods a hundred yards away, as he ran at the top of his speed. i dashed away in the direction of the sound, my arm dangling by my side. but i heeded it not, as like a hound at the heels of his quarry, i tore through trees and bushes, bareheaded and disheveled, after lord dunraven. it seemed as though i crawled at the speed of an ant, and yet i know now, that i ran as i had never done before. now i rushed through level plains, upon which the moonlight cast the shadows of the tall trees in strange fantastic shapes; then i would tear my way through a dense thicket, or splash into the water of some babbling brook and up a little knoll. at last i caught sight of dunraven. my eye glimpsed the flutter of margaret's dress, as with her upon his shoulder, he was running at the top of his speed, below me some fifty yards away. encumbered by the lady and bleeding from several wounds, he was losing ground at every step, and with a loud curse he shifted the limp body of margaret to his other shoulder, and halted a moment to shake a clenched fist at me. in grim silence i ran on--bending every nerve and sinew to overtake him. we were now on a long, level plateau, perhaps three hundred yards in length. i uttered one long, loud cry. startled by the nearness of the sound, he slackened his pace for an instant, and made as though to turn and meet me. but his heart failed him, and with an exclamation of despair, he cast the lady upon the ground, and abandoning her, rushed on. not for aught would i have halted then, for i was too near a final reckoning with this villain who had hounded me so long. to-night we would settle our quarrel for aye, and so swerving aside from margaret, who lay white and still where she had fallen, i ran on after him. i would overtake him, cost what it might, or die in the attempt. a few more bounds now, and he would be in my grasp. "curse thee!" he cried as i drew closer. "i believe 'tis as the priest says, that thou art leagued with the evil one himself." i made no answer. i was too near him to waste useless breath, for i needed all my wind and strength too in that mad race. "thou hast won at every point!" he shouted bitterly; "hast beaten me at every move, and for this i curse thee, now and hereafter. if it be possible i would sell my soul to the devil himself, if i might come back once more to earth to haunt and torment thee. i despise thee with a bitter, unrelenting hatred, such as i have never borne before for man or beast, for thou hast robbed me of her for whom i have plotted and schemed for weary months," and he gave a snarl of rage. i was upon him now, and with a cry of triumph i gathered myself for one great spring, which would land me upon his back. but even as i drew myself together to leap he threw up both hands and gave a scream of mortal despair as though he were in the grasp of death itself. as it rang out upon the night air he plunged forward, down, and out of sight, his hands clutching and grasping at the earth to save himself; for there, yawning dark and deep before me, was a great precipice, its deep sides falling abruptly away, with no tree or vegetation to check the fall below upon the solid rock. i dug my feet desperately into the ground to save myself, for if i went down there was no help for it, i would be dashed to pieces. my feet slipped forward over the brink of the precipice, and clutching despairingly at the stone ledge, i caught it with my right hand, and so hung over that yawning abyss by one hand; for my left arm was broken and useless. no words can describe my horror and despair, as i dangled between heaven and earth. i was too exhausted by my long, hard run to pull myself up in safety. i could only hang thus until my grasp would weaken and give way, and i would fall upon the rocks beneath. suddenly i heard a dull crash from below, and then silence. peering cautiously down i saw the figure of lord dunraven, crushed and mangled upon the rocks, a hundred feet below me--this was his end. he had sown in blood and crime, and so he also had reaped. my grasp was weakening fast; my arm seemed as though it would be torn from its socket with the strain. i had given myself up for lost, and was about to loose my hold, and so relieve my aching arm. a voice came from above me. it was as the sound of sweetest music to my ears. "where art thou?" cried winona, as she leaned over the cliff. "be careful," i answered, "there is a great chasm in front of thee, over which i hang by one arm. quick! or i must let loose and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below." a slight noise, and then she reached out, and with both hands grasped me by the collar, just as my hand slipped from the ledge, and drawing me slowly up placed me upon the ground. exhausted and unnerved i lay there, shaking and trembling like a leaf. the strain had been so great, that now i was safe, the reaction was almost more than i could stand in my worn-out condition. "where is the lady, winona?" i asked feebly, as she bent over me. "she lies below," she answered calmly. "i rushed on up here to find thee." "and thou didst leave her where she fell?" i cried in amazement. "yes," she answered stolidly. "and well for the eagle that i did, else he had not been here to tell the tale." with an exclamation i got upon my trembling feet, and back i went through the tall grass, the indian girl at my heels. thank god she was still there; i could see the white dress as it gleamed in the moonlight. reaching her side i bent over her; her eyes opened and she gazed up into mine. "i knew that thou wouldst come," she murmured. "they told me thou wert dead, but i knew it was false, and i have waited long and patiently, praying that thou wouldst take me from this place." "yes," i answered gently, "i have come. would that it had been sooner, but i have done my best. i grieve that thou shouldst have been subjected to the threats and terror of this man so long, but it is past now forever." "yes, gone," she repeated softly. "but take me away from here." bending over her, i took her up with my right arm, as though she had been a tired child, and with her head upon my shoulder, i retraced my steps to where i had met dunraven. never will i forget that walk with margaret in my arms; i was weary--yea, exhausted--my left arm broken, but i had forgotten these things--forgotten that my enemies lay cold and still in that silent forest, and would trouble me no more. i only knew that i held in my arms one that was more to me than all else in this great world, that she lay nestled close to my heart, her light breath gently fanning my cheek. for a few brief moments i tasted the ambrosial nectar of the gods, and was content. with margaret i could walk on forever through these dark forests, feeling neither hunger, thirst, nor cold. manteo had joined us, three fresh and bleeding scalps at his belt--one was the indian's, another the priest's, and the third that of the sailor, miles. without a word he led the way down the path to the boats, i following, with winona, her eyes fixed upon my slightest motion, behind. we had traveled perhaps one-half of the distance when margaret stirred. "i have recovered sufficiently to walk," she said. and looking down at her face in the moonlight, i could see the deep blush upon her cheek and neck. "but canst thou walk?" i answered, loath to loose her. "'tis but a few steps more to the boat." "nay," she replied, "i can walk now." and gently, but firmly, she loosed herself from my arm, and turned to follow manteo, who strode down the path ahead of me. "what is wrong with thy arm?" margaret cried in alarm, for a sudden faintness had seized me, and i staggered blindly as i caught with my sound hand at my left arm from which a stream of blood was spurting. "'tis naught," i answered. "only a sudden weakness which has passed." and i would have gone on had she not stopped me. "thinkest thou that i am blind?" she said indignantly. "stop this moment, sir, and have it dressed." and with a pretty, impetuous gesture she halted. manteo glided to my side, and with his knife cut away the deerskin from my arm, and glanced about him. "if manteo had someone to hold the eagle's arm while he cut a splint," he murmured, half to himself. my lady stepped forward, and despite my protest, caught my arm in both of her hands, and held it in the position which the chief indicated, while winona darted away for some water from a little brook to wash the wound. quickly the chief splintered my arm, and putting it in a deerskin sling, said that we were ready to proceed. "dost thou not wish winona to go back for some of thy dresses, lady margaret?" i asked, as we were about to start. she hesitated a moment. "if she would," she said uncertainly, and she looked at the indian girl who stood a little apart from us. turning to winona i bade her go to the hut, and bring back the contents of the chest which my lady described to me. she turned and bounded back down the path out of sight, while we moved on slowly towards the flat rock. "it is well that thou didst come when thou didst," margaret said, with a dainty little shudder, "else i know not what i would have done; for the count denortier, who had protected me heretofore from lord dunraven, was dead, and i was alone and helpless. is lord dunraven dead?" she asked suddenly, looking up at me. "yes," i answered slowly. "both he and the priest are dead. my lord fell over a deep precipice as i pursued him, and i had a narrow escape from the same fate." "i am glad," she said in a low voice. "i should have grieved if aught had befallen thee." "i thank thee," i said quietly, though my pulse bounded and danced at these simple words, which in her kindness she had spoken--and so we came to the boat. i helped her into the largest canoe (manteo had already broken a great hole in the other with his hatchet, so that it could not be used to pursue us) and stepping in after her, i took my seat. a few minutes we waited thus in silence, and then winona, panting and hot, came down the trail, a bundle in her arms which she, without a word, handed to me. she stepped into the canoe and picked up one of the paddles; manteo took the other, and they pushed out boldly into the stream. "manteo," i said, turning to him, as he knelt in the bottom of the canoe, and with powerful strokes urged her through the water, "it was just in time that thou didst arrive." "manteo has been delayed long upon the journey," he answered. "twice he nearly fell into the hands of hostile red men, and he only reached the lodges of the cherokees a few hours after thou hadst departed. the chief, windango, told me where thou hadst gone, so manteo followed hot after the eagle, and seeing the girl winona, as i crept near the fire, i recognized her as the daughter of the chief of the cherokees. in a few words she explained to me the trouble, and we gave the war whoop and rushed at them. of a truth they acted as if the whole cherokee nation were at their heels," and something like a smile crossed his dark face. "it sounded to me as though there must have been at least a hundred savages in the woods," i answered. "my brother manteo shouted as though he might have been threescore himself," and i laughed at him. my eyes fell upon margaret as she shivered in the stern, and catching up the great bearskin from the bottom of the boat, despite her protests, i wrapped it about her. "the beautiful one is more lovely than the dawn," said manteo, a look of admiration for a moment upon his face. "i wonder not that the eagle has traversed all these leagues to carry her back with him to his lodge." i looked at margaret. "wouldst thou know what the chief has said of thee, lady margaret?" i asked, a twinkle in my eye, for the chief had spoken in his own tongue. although he understood the english language, yet he would never express himself in it, but would always talk to me in his own soft speech. "what is it?" she asked, a faint smile upon her face as she noticed my glee. "nothing bad, i hope." "he says that thou art more lovely than the dawn," i answered, wisely judging that it would be better to suppress the latter part of his remark. the color deepened in her cheeks. "since when hast thou taught the very savages to turn a compliment?" she said. "truly, sir, thou hast not labored in vain." "they know no better than to tell the truth," i answered, a smile upon my face. "'tis from the heart, and not from the lips as in london." she made no answer, but turning her head looked out upon the dark river, as its waters glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. and i watched her lovely profile as she sat thus. "it is beautiful, is it not?" she said softly. "very beautiful," i answered, as i still gazed at her. i was thinking of her face, and if i but dared to lean over and press my lips to that soft cheek, which so lately had lain against my shoulder. she stamped her little foot. "where are thy wits?" she said. "thou lookest off as though in a dream, and i venture to say that thou knowest not one word that i have said." "margaret," i answered, "i would know one thing. the priest once showed me a paper in thy hand and stamped with thy crest, in which thou didst say that thou lovest dunraven, and would be his wife. it almost shook my faith in god and man, that thou, whom i believed so pure and noble, shouldst love one so black as he. i had thought to ask thee that night in the prison, but it slipped my mind. tell me, didst thou write such a note as this?" "and thou thinkest that i would do such a thing as that?" she answered, with a look of reproach. "for shame, sir thomas! have i ever in my whole life given thee cause to think thus of me?" "forgive me," i replied. "but the note was in thy handwriting, upon thy paper, and scented with thy perfume." "thou mightst have known better," she answered gravely, and she looked out again upon the river. "oh, man," she cried in scorn, "canst thou never believe that a woman cares naught but for wealth and fame; that she plans for naught but rank and position, and that her mind is ever filled with thoughts of conquest?" "i know of one lady who, i think is all that mortal should be," i answered; "whose pure soul can hold no unworthy thought." "and who pray may this person be? fain would i know such a one," and she looked up again at me, smiling faintly. "thou knowest her well," i answered quickly; "she is perhaps thy best friend." "i know not of whom thou speakest," she cried innocently, or was it but a subterfuge--"unless it be the lady jane porter." "'tis thyself, margaret," i answered. "thou art the one of whom i speak," and i bent forward to look into her face. but she had drawn herself up, as her eye caught sight of the silent indian maid behind me, who with keen gaze followed her every movement. "enough," she replied coldly. "i did not angle for a compliment," and she turned her head aside as though to end the conversation. "thou art tired," i said. "let me wrap thy robe about thee, and thou shalt rest in the bow of the canoe." "i am not tired," she replied, "and i would prefer to sit and watch the changing river as we glide along." but i insisted upon her taking some rest, and she finally consented; for though she would not acknowledge it, she was plainly tired. long i sat in the center of the canoe. the indian girl had relinquished her paddle, and was now slumbering behind me. only the tireless manteo urged the boat through the water, his steady strokes unflagging as hour after hour passed. i sat opposite him until after midnight. then despite his protest i took the paddle from his hands, and bidding him snatch some sleep, i took his post and with my sound arm made shift to paddle the canoe. so i sat until the dawn crept slowly above the trees. my lady was up early, and with a light song upon her lips, chided me for sitting up till day. she was like a little merry-hearted child this morning, as she ran to and fro upon the boat. i had seen her often and in many moods--as the stately lady of fashion in silks and satins; as the plain simple maid, dimpled with smiles, going for her walk in the city of london; had seen her as she archly tossed her head at some nicely-turned compliment; had seen her in tears, as on the night when she visited me in london--but i had never seen her half so lovely as now. even the silent manteo brightened up under the spell of my lady's good humor--only winona seemed moody and ill at ease. and so passed long, happy days for me, as we floated down the river. i cared not to return to the world again, for me it meant to lose margaret, and perhaps my head. it was hard, heaven knows, to sit and watch her face; to listen to the sound of her sweet, low voice, and to keep down the great wave of love for her that welled up in my heart; to speak no word of all those tender ones, that it seemed impossible to suppress. but i fought against my love like a man, for she was bobby's, the finest gentleman i had ever known and my best friend. moreover she was in my hands, and i would fulfill my trust; i would take no advantage of her position to pour my love into her unwilling ears. she should go back to england and bobby, and forget me. once when i mentioned bobby's name, i had seen a blush upon her cheek, and i thought her blue eye grew softer; the demon of jealously arose in my breast, and i mentioned his name no more. turning to her, i said: "lady margaret, wouldst thou grant me one favor?" "yes," she replied, and she turned her head away from me. "what is it, sir thomas?" "wilt thou, when thou raisest thy voice in prayer to god offer up one supplication for a wicked, sinful man, that he may triumph over the tempter, who daily and hourly besets him?" "yes," she answered gently, and a tear dropped from her blue eyes. "i will pray for thee, sir thomas, that thou mayest fight a brave fight, and win a noble victory over thyself." and now we had left the canoe, and under the guidance of manteo plunged again into the forest afoot. to my remonstrances that the lady could not endure the journey, he had turned a deaf ear. "better that, than to fall into the hands of the tuscaroras," he said stolidly. "here in the woods manteo can guard better against them than on the water," and so afoot we had gone. margaret had made light of my gloomy forebodings. "out upon thee, sir!" cried she archly. "one would think that i was some pretty toy, from which the rain would wash the paint, that i cannot keep the trail with thee in the forest." "fair lady, perhaps thou wilt remember my warning when thou art footsore from the march," i answered. "but if thou art determined, come!" and i led the way after the indian, with her at my side. the long journey was sweet to me, for i walked by her side much of the time. i helped her over some fallen log, or held aside an overhanging limb so that she might pass beneath it. often i would bring down some wild fowl with the indian's bow, with which i had become expert, and browning it upon the coals, would bring a choice piece to my lady, where she sat enthroned under some monarch of the forest, and dropping upon one knee, with mock humility would present it to her, while she with stately air, albeit with a merry twinkle in her eye, would accept it right royally. both manteo and i were her willing slaves, for the indian had fallen under her spell too, and worshiped the very ground upon which she stood. winona would have naught to do with margaret, but scornfully and disdainfully held herself aloof, and to all her advances turned a cold shoulder. we were nearing our journey's end now, and as i sat brooding moodily over the camp fire, my head bent low over my hands, i thought bitterly of the future. i could not return to england and see margaret become the bride of another. no, i would go back with manteo into the wilderness after i had seen my lady safely upon her ship, and there i would spend the remainder of my life with the faithful indian. but what if white, despairing of my return and finding no trace of the lost colony, had raised anchor and sailed back to england. what, then, would become of margaret? manteo had told me on his return, only a few days ago, that the governor had found no trace of the colonists, and but awaited my arrival to set sail. if he should tire of my long absence, what should i do with my lady? a selfish joy at the thought welled up within me, but i resolutely put it away. a light step interrupted my thoughts, and looking up, i saw before me winona. the girl had her bow in hand and on her shoulder was strapped a robe, as though ready for a journey. "what is it, winona?" i asked, as she stood motionless before me. "winona goes back again to the lodges of the cherokees," she answered. "long she has traveled from her people, and her heart yearns for the faces of her tribe. the eagle has flown far, and now he journeys with the beautiful one to the land of his home. winona cannot travel so far. her feet would tire, and she would return to where windango awaits her." "winona," i answered, "thou canst not return to the cherokees; they would slay thee. i am a wanderer upon the face of the earth and can do naught for thee myself, but i will ask the lady margaret to take thee with her. she is a great lady and thy lot would be an easy one, with so fair a mistress." "nay," she answered, "winona will remain with her people. windango is a great chief and i shall be safe with him--besides," and she hung her head. "what?" i asked kindly. "speak freely, thou needst fear naught." she raised her head proudly, her dark eyes looking into mine. "why should i fear to tell it?" she cried. "winona loves the eagle; she knows that his heart belongs to the beautiful one, and that he will fly far away with her to his wigwam. shall winona go to eat out her heart with sorrow at the bliss she cannot share? no, she returns to her own. thou art near thy journey's end. two days more and thou wilt stand on the island of roanoke--winona would leave thee now." "but, winona," i cried, "i go not back to england with lady margaret!" she looked intently at me. "dost love the beautiful one?" she asked fiercely. "answer me the truth at this last moment." "yes," i answered simply, "i love her." "and thou wouldst ask me to serve her?" she cried. "one whom thou lovest? wouldst thou have served the chief whom thou didst chase over the precipice, if the beautiful one had loved him?" "no," i answered. "thou knowest i would not." i could say no more, so i stood silent and waited. "winona will not forget the eagle," she said in a low voice. "when she grows to be an old woman, she will tell how she once knew and loved the great white chief. winona knows the eagle and the beautiful one will be happy." "winona," i said sadly, "the lady margaret loves another." "winona is not blind," she replied, "the beautiful one loves the eagle. sharp are the eyes of love to discover love. and now," she said, as i stood staggered by her last words, "winona would tell the eagle farewell, for she knows she will see him no more." and catching my hand in hers, she pressed it to her lips. then turning, she sped lightly away. "winona," i cried, "come back! go not thus!" but only the moaning of the pines answered me--she was gone. a light step from the other side of the fire, and my lady stood before me, her face wet with tears. one look at her, and i knew she had heard all. "she has gone!" she cried. "not back into the woods? quick! after her, thou mayest yet save her." "'tis useless," i answered quietly, "she is far into the depths of the forest by now--besides, why should i bring her back? she is better thus. thou hast heard what she said, and thou knowest why she left." "i but rested upon the other side of the fire," she answered hurriedly, "when her voice fell upon my ear. i could not withdraw without being seen by her, so i was forced to play the spy against my will." "it matters not," i replied; "there was naught said that i would not have thee know. but sit down, lady margaret. i have a few words to say to thee, before we part forever." i motioned her to a seat upon a stone in front of me. "i am about to reopen a painful subject for the last time, but as we part in a day or two, i would wish to speak of it again. i cannot go back to england; it would be sheer madness to return and face the queen. and after all, england holds naught for me but sorrow and pain. i have passed from the lives of those i once knew, as the dead leaves of last year's trees, and i shall return no more. "margaret," i said, "i cannot go back into those great wastes behind me, without telling thee of what my love for thee has been to me. it has been a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night; it has been the sweetest drop in the bitter cup of life. life would be worth the struggle, had it held naught else for me save this. see," i continued, "i found months ago by the trail, this little miniature of thee. i have kept it ever since where i could feast my eyes upon it. i am a better man because i have known and loved thee." "thou art the noblest gentleman i have ever known," she sobbed. "i am unworthy of such love as this." "no," i answered, "thou art worthy of a finer, truer man, and such a love thou hast. when thou art happy in thy far-away home, wilt thou not think of one who loves thee and wanders in exile in virginia? the grass is green in old england now, margaret, and the birds are singing on every hedge; greet the old place for me, and remember me to my old friends, bobby and steele, for i shall never see them more." "i will think of thee often," she answered, the tears still in her azure eyes. "must thou remain here, alone in this strange land?" "yes," i answered, "my place is here. i could not bear to see thee the bride of another." "am i to be wedded without my consent, sir?" she said archly, and she broke into a low, sweet laugh. "but thou dost love bobby? thou didst as good as tell me that in the prison yonder in england." "thou didst take it for granted," she said shyly. "i was overpowered with sorrow at thy sad plight, and thou didst jump at the conclusion that i loved sir robert," and she looked at me, a smile shining through her tears. "whom dost thou love, if not bobby?" i cried in wonder. "dost love anyone, margaret?" and i bent low over the golden head. "yes," she answered softly, "i love a gentleman, brave, strong, noble, with a heart as true as steel; one who has loved me long." "who is it, margaret?" she looked up at me, with a smile soft and sweet, at which my heart gave a great bound of joy--it could not be. no, i must be dreaming. "must i tell thee, stupid? are thy wits gone wool-gathering?" with a great cry of joy i took her in my arms, smiles, blushes, and tears, and held her close to my heart. "dear," i cried, "i never dreamed of this. why didst thou not tell me before now?" "because thou didst not ask me. oh, thomas, why didst thou not ask me that night in the prison?" "margaret," i said, "thou shouldst love one handsome and young like thyself. thou wilt be ashamed of me, sweet one, when thou seest me by the side of some gay, debonair, young gallant." but she gently placed one soft white hand over my lips. "hush, not one word more, or i will vanish into yonder woods. thou art more handsome in my eyes than any velvet gallant, for thou hast become a man of deeds, not words. thou wilt go back with me to england," she whispered, her face close to mine; "together we can face the queen, and i will have thee pardoned." "yes," i answered, "come what will, we go back together." "when didst thou first love me, margaret?" i asked, my eyes upon the bright head against my shoulder. "i do not know," she said. "i only know that as i stood beside thee in the prison cell in london, i knew that thy life was strangely precious to me. but good-night," she said, "i must keep my roses or thou wilt soon tire of me." and slipping from me, she tripped lightly away. a light hand touched my arm. i turned and saw manteo. "the beautiful one will go with the eagle to his lodge and be his squaw?" he said gravely. "yes," i answered, "she will go." "manteo is glad," he said simply, "for it is meet that the lady who is lovely beyond all mortal beauty, should go into the lodge with the eagle, who is a great chief." "i thank thee, manteo." and i followed him down by the camp fire, and stretched myself out upon my bearskin. my mind was in a whirl--i had not dreamed that margaret loved me. i--gray, penniless; she--young and beautiful beyond compare. and with thoughts such as these, and of the future, i fell asleep. chapter xix the journey's end "get up, lazy bones!" cried a merry voice in my ear, and arousing myself, i looked up into the arch face of my lady as, dimpled and smiling, she stood before me. the sun was high in the heavens, and margaret, an apron of deerskin about her slender waist, was getting breakfast. i had never seen her do this before. either manteo or myself always prepared the meals, but now with flushed face she tripped back to where a great haunch of venison browned over the fire on a spit, and with a look of anxiety, beautiful to see, turned it over to brown upon the other side. "see how industrious i am this morning," she cried laughingly. "i am getting thy breakfast while thou dost sleep. 'go to the ant, thou sluggard'!" "'tis the first time that thou hast ever done such a thing," i said lightly, as i bent over her, and catching both white hands, stick and all in mine, despite her laughing resistance, kissed her rosy lips. "'twas because thou wouldst not let me, sir," she answered saucily. "now seat thyself and behold me cook." i threw myself upon the ground opposite, and watched her as she ran to and fro, now putting a stick upon the fire, now turning the venison again. finally she stated with an air of wisdom, that breakfast was done. and so we sat down together. manteo had gone out for a little scout before breakfast, she told me. "venison from such a hand were thrice as sweet," i said, as she helped me to a generous slice. "'tis not sweet at all," she answered with a laugh. "so now, gallant sir, thy compliment is shattered." "say, then, is thrice more palatable," i replied, "and thou hast a compliment, perhaps less flowery, but more delicate and flattering," and i bowed to her mockingly. "oh, thomas," she cried, as she watched me eat, "that is the third great slice of venison that thou hast helped thyself to; never have i seen thee eat so much." "never had i such a cook," i answered. "i could eat forever with so dainty a maid to sit beside me. in truth this venison is to me as the nectar of the gods." and so feasting my eyes upon her, i sat looking into her face. "the eagle gazes at the beautiful one as a famished wolf at a fat, slick buck," said manteo, who had strode noiselessly up and who now stood behind me. "he looks as a man who had not tasted food for days would look, if he sat down to a great feast." i flushed guiltily at his words, and then i translated them to my lady, who had looked up at the sound of manteo's voice. she blushed a deep pink to the tips of her little ears, and her blue eyes fell beneath the admiring gaze i bent upon them. laughing at her pretty confusion, i arose and made ready our light baggage to take the trail. in a few moments we had resumed our journey. pleasant and sweet were those last two days to me, as i walked by margaret and whispered soft words of love to her. the very woods seemed transformed to me; from every tree there trilled some sweet-voiced songster; beautiful flowers lined our path and mingled with the many-tinted autumn leaves; while the sun shone brightly down on us, as though in pleasure at our happiness. hand in hand we trod after the indian, as with tireless step he led us on. sometimes we would come upon a little babbling brook and then, picking up margaret in my arms, i would wade through, and put her gently down upon the other side. and so, laughing and happy as two children, we came in sight of roanoke island. i gave a great shout as we emerged from the forest, for there, a few rods away, lay the ship of white, riding calmly at anchor, her consorts nowhere to be seen; probably they had sailed again for england. at the sound of my voice, a dozen men who were on the deck turned towards me, and as i waved my hands they lowered a boat and came toward us. in the bow of the approaching boat sat governor white, and he shouted at me all the way to the shore. "safe back again, at last!" he cried in joy, as the boat grated upon the beach, and springing ashore, he wrung my hand as though he would never loose it. "we feared thou hadst been slain by the savages, but i had determined to wait until thou didst appear or we had news of thee." "this is the lady margaret carroll of london," i said, turning to my lady as she stood beside me, stately and grand as any queen. "this is governor white, of whom thou hast frequently heard me speak." "this is indeed an unexpected pleasure," cried the governor, as with a deep bow he bent over her white hand. "'tis but poor accommodation we can offer to one so lovely and well-bred, but to such as we have thou art welcome." "i thank thee, sir," she answered, "and am sure that the company of governor white will recompense for much else." with another bow he took her hand and led her to the boat. the men had gathered around me, shaking my hand as though i were a long-lost brother. i was overcome by the warmth of their greeting, i, whom they had previously shunned as though i had the plague. with shouts and exclamations of pleasure they hovered about me, and followed even the indian, who met them with the same cold reserve as of yore. we stepped into the boat, and rowed toward the ship. as we drew near, i saw that the whole company had gathered upon deck, and as we touched the side, they raised a ringing shout. "three cheers for sir thomas winchester!" cried one, and with a will they roared them out. and so amid cheering shouts of welcome, i, who had moved among them in the past with sneers and scorn, came back amidst the plaudits of the throng. of such are made the fickle crowd; one moment ready to cut a man's throat--the next moment ready to crown him. my lady's face was flushed with delight, as with starry eyes she looked up at me. "see," she whispered proudly, "this is how thy fellows would honor thee." "what does it mean, governor?" i asked. "the 'dart' touched here a few days ago, on its way to harry the spanish towns upon the coast, and she brought for thee an open letter of pardon; 'tis under the hand of elizabeth and sealed with the great seal. it seems that denortier himself had sent a letter to the queen, a few months ago, before he sailed away, swearing upon his oath that the charge of the priest and the other men was false, and sworn to by the command of lord dunraven. this coincided with the tale of oliver gates, and so thy friends secured a pardon for thee; there is another bulky letter here, brought by the same vessel, which i have not opened." a great lump came into my throat and choked my speech, a mist dimmed my sight, and i could only shake the hand that white held out to me, and murmur a few words in answer to his hearty congratulations. this had been the favor that denortier tried to tell me of as he lay dying in those dark woods. i thought of how often i had abused him, and of the great hate i bore him; then too how he had stood like a bulwark between margaret and dunraven. there was something noble after all in a man who would do this for an enemy, and i wished i could shake his hand and thank him--but it was too late. i have never been able to solve the problem of why he wrote this letter to the queen. whether in a fit of remorse of conscience for all the evil he had done me, or to injure dunraven who was his strongest rival, i know not; and the only lips which could solve this unexplained riddle lay cold, silenced forever, in that vast unknown land behind me. and so we boarded the vessel. my lady had gone to the great cabin which the governor had given up to her, and i stood near the mast looking at the shore. white approached me, a long bulky package in his hand. "'tis the queen's pardon," he said. "and this is the other letter of which i spoke," and he placed them in my hand. seating myself, i broke the seal and opened the letter. it was from bobby--a long, rambling epistle, telling me of the disappearance of lady margaret and begging me to watch for her as he feared that lord dunraven, who he was sure had abducted her, would fly to this country. but it was the last part--i stared long, and read once, twice; it ran thus: "i have at last given up all hope of winning lady margaret, for i know that she loves thee, and so i am to be wedded in a few weeks to my lady's friend and sometime schoolmate, lady jane porter. so if thou dost discover margaret, i give thee my advice to capture her without more words. the queen has pardoned thee. but there is another piece of good fortune which i would acquaint thee with. "thy brother richard died but one week ago, here in london. he died without a will or issue, unexpectedly in the night. the leech was summoned, but when he arrived thy brother was speechless. they say he made frantic efforts to speak, but in vain--death had sealed his lips. it is probably fortunate that he was dumb, as he no doubt wished to disinherit thee, whom he hated. and so the title and estates are thine. with these and the queen's pardon in thy pocket, thy old place in london awaits thee. so come back--we stand with wide open arms to receive thee. no more at present, from "bobby." i looked up, the breeze had begun to freshen; already the sailors were running to and fro, making preparations to hoist anchor and set sail for home. my lady had come up again and stood beside me. "what is it?" she asked with a smile, as she saw the letter in my hand. "'tis from sir robert vane," i answered. "he tells me that he is about to wed lady jane porter; so thou seest, fair one, thou hast lost a lover," i said teasingly. "i care not," she replied. "i have also gained one, and i am glad he is to wed, for i feared he would take the news of my betrothal to heart.". "he also says my brother richard is dead, and the title and estates are now mine." and i placed the letter in her hand. "'tis too good to be true," she replied calmly, as she clapped her hands. "see, sir, i am thy good fairy; the minute i came to thee, fortune opened wide her lap and poured her treasure at thy feet." "had she brought me naught but thee, i had been content," i answered. i looked cautiously around. there was no one in sight, so catching her in my arms i stole a kiss. i was still looking down at her pink cheeks, when a step sounded, and governor white came around the corner. one glance at my lady was enough for the wily captain, and with a twinkle in his eye, he looked at me. "i think i may congratulate thee again, upon something of more importance than even thy pardon," he said. "and what may that be, governor?" i asked innocently, for i had no mind to give margaret away. "upon thy approaching wedding," he answered, a broad smile upon his face. "of a truth, sir thomas, thou art the most fortunate of men, and thou shouldst thank thy lucky star that thou hast won so lovely a bride." "i am indeed most fortunate," i answered, "for i would not to-day exchange places with a king. and this letter from a dear friend, tells me my father's estates and title are now mine." "this has of a truth been a day for thee long to be remembered," said the governor, "and i rejoice with thee, for i grew to know and esteem thee for thy worth and valor, whilst thou wert with me upon the ship." "not more than i did thee," i replied. "but hast thou heard aught of thy little grandchild and the lost colony since i left thee?" his old face saddened, and a look of grief came into his eyes. "no," he replied, "i have heard no word of them; they were probably captured by the savages and carried far into the interior, never to be seen again. poor little virginia!--so innocent, so bright and happy, 'tis a hard fate for her. rather would i have seen her in her grave; then would i have known she was beyond all harm and sorrow, and i could have come sometimes to drop a tear or lay a flower upon the mound. but this is worse than death," and he wrung his hands in grief, his haggard, care-worn face working with emotion. margaret bent towards him, a tear in her blue eyes. "god will watch over her, governor," she said softly. "safe in his protecting care, she is secure from harm." "i thank thee, lady margaret," he said huskily. "'tis a beautiful thought, and one that i shall treasure," and he strode rapidly away. coming towards us now i saw manteo; silently he made his way, until he stood in front of us. "the eagle and the beautiful one will in a few moments be upon the breast of the great water," he said. "manteo would say farewell to them before they go. he is glad that the beautiful one will be with the eagle in his tepee, to cheer him when manteo is gone." "surely thou too wilt not leave us, manteo?" i cried. "winona has gone back into the forest. wilt thou desert us too? i had planned many pleasant things for the future, when thou too shouldst walk with us the smooth sod of my own green country." "manteo thanks the eagle," he replied. "manteo loves him, and would wish him well, but the fish cannot live out of the water, nor the bird when it beats its wings against the cage; neither can manteo in that crowded land to which thou goest. his heart would yearn for the great, free forest; for the call of the wild bird to its mate; for the flowing river and the scent of the wild flowers--no, the eagle and the beautiful one will return again to their own land, and manteo will remain here." "but, manteo," cried margaret, "'twill cloud our happiness to leave thee behind--thou who hast done so much for us," and she cast a coaxing look toward him. "the beautiful one is kind to manteo," he answered, "still he cannot go to that far land. manteo first saw the light in this wild land, and here he has lived; his heart loves its shadowy depths and waving trees; here came into being his father, and their bones molder away among its sighing pines." and folding his robe about him he stood silent, as some old roman wrapped in his toga, his motionless eyes fixed upon me. the great ship came around in the breeze; the shouts of the men reached us, as they hoisted sail and prepared for the homeward journey. the little canoe of the indian had been placed upon the water, and now danced and eddied on the waves, as some impatient steed awaiting its rider. white came forward to where we stood; i with my heart full to overflowing, and my lady with wet eyes. i was about to part from a noble soul, who had stood by me, undaunted and unafraid, when all others had shrunk from me, and i was torn with sorrow. "if the indian would leave, it is high time, sir thomas," he said; "for in an instant we will make out for the open sea, and his little canoe could not safely float upon the ocean." margaret had taken a little gold pin from her dress, and held it out to the indian. "keep it, manteo," she said. "do not forget me. and shouldst thou ever come to england, i shall be proud to entertain thee." i unbuckled my gold-hilted sword from my side, and stepping forward, i fastened it around his waist. "take this sword," i said in a husky voice, "and when thou drawest it, manteo, remember to whom it once belonged. draw it not in an unworthy cause, nor sheath it in a just one; of all who have worn this blade, there has been none nobler and truer than thyself." the chief's bronze face worked with emotion. "manteo must go," he cried, "or he will forget that he is a warrior, and weep even as a woman. farewell! may the great spirit, who dost watch alike over all, both pale and red skin, guide your footsteps and keep you safe from harm," and with a steady step, he glided over to his canoe and dropped into it. his knife gleamed for an instant upon the line that bound the canoe to the vessel. released, the little boat fell back, and the great ship rose upon the water and began her outward trip. we stood at the rail, margaret and i, and watched the boat with the motionless figure in it, until a turn in the island hid him from our view. and so we parted from that true soul forever, bearing with the stoicism of his race his grief at the separation. a nobler type has there never been of a savage and barbarous race, whom its enemies have defamed and maligned. hospitable, generous, warm-hearted and true, quick to anger, and when aroused never forgetting nor forgiving a foe, but at the same time never betraying a friend, nor forgetting a favor. many foes of the race would do well to imitate its virtues, while with that knowledge that comes with superior advantages and opportunities they reject its failings. and of that untutored people, none there were who could boast of more of those qualities that go to make up a soldier and a gentleman, than he whom we left behind us that day--manteo, a chieftain of roanoke. * * * * * * * we were coming into london. after being long upon the brine, we had at last reached england. and now this bright december morning we sailed up the sparkling thames, passing swiftly the craft that, bent on business or pleasure, thronged its waters. rapidly we sailed by them one by one, and kept on our steady way to the harbor. each familiar spot i saw seemed to greet me as an old friend, and with margaret at my side, we laughed and jested, as we drew nearer and nearer to london and home. home--that gray old castle, where my forefathers had lived and died, was to be our home, for we had determined to stay in london only a few days. i had prevailed on margaret not to put me off any longer, and to-morrow morning, with only a few near friends to witness it, we were to be married quietly in a little chapel, and then would journey on to richmond castle, where, with her dear presence to cheer me, i was to take up the duties and responsibilities of my position. i would have much to do, for we had made many plans for the improvement of my estate, and for the well-being and advancement of the tenants. there together we would pass our days in peace and happiness. i had suffered much, sorrowed much in the past, and longed for the rest and quiet of the calm green country, where, surrounded by my friends, and far from the noise and turmoil of london, i could forget all, happy in the sweet sunshine of my lady's smiles. we had turned the last bend of the river, and a great roar went up from the men, as like little children they shouted and cried. many strong men, who had faced death unafraid, fell upon their knees, tears streaming from their bronzed faces, and thanked god that they had been spared to set foot on old england again. the culverins of our vessel screamed out a greeting, and from the shore the guns roared back a reply. my lady had given a little cry of joy as we looked, for there in front of us lay the great city, the docks dotted with the crowd which had gathered to greet the vessel. margaret laid her hand gently upon my arm. "look!" she cried, and following her outstretched finger, i saw, at the very edge of the water, a little group shouting and screaming to us. could it be possible? yes, there was oliver gates, dancing for joy, as he waved his hat and yelled like a savage; he had grown handsomer than ever, and looked stout and robust. behind him stood steele, his broad face wreathed in smiles, and leaning on his arm, his wife, stouter and more matronly than of yore, but still beautiful, a look of joy and welcome in her eyes. and bobby, dear old fellow, yelling at me as though he would split his throat. a little behind them there stood a larger group, old sir henry degray, francis drake, bacon, walter raleigh, sir william stone, the little doctor robbins, and a score of other whilom friends, who cried out a hearty welcome as we neared them, and with wide open arms stood awaiting us. i turned to margaret with a joyful face, and met her azure eyes smiling into mine. stretching out one of my tanned hands, i laid it upon her little white one, which rested lightly upon my arm. it fluttered for an instant like a little bird, and then lay quietly and trustfully in mine. behind me lay the river, its dark water rippling like the dead and forgotten past, with its pain and sorrow; before me stretched the bright sunshine and the greeting of my friends, like a prophecy of the joy to come. it seemed to reach out its welcoming hands, to draw us from the dim yesterday of travail and woe into the sunny to-day of happiness and light. all the dark gloom was behind us, and naught but sunshine lay before. so, with her hand in mine, we passed together out of the shadow and into the light. finis the tar heel library young people's history of north carolina by daniel harvey hill. pages, illustrations--written for a school history and adopted as such for exclusive use in the public schools. it has such high merit from the standpoint of historical accuracy, literary merit, and mechanical execution that it is rapidly finding a place in the public and private libraries. price c.; by mail c. for the love of lady margaret a story of the lost colony, by w. t. wilson; a stirring tale, well told. "attracted more attention during its serial publication in the _charlotte observer_ than any story we have ever published," says mr. vincent, the managing editor. price $ . , postpaid. defence of the mecklenburg declaration of independence by james h. moore. places the mecklenburg declaration upon a new pedestal, based upon the absolutely undisputed records and facts unearthed after one hundred years of controversy. it dates a new and advanced position, at every point invulnerable and unassailable. price $ . net; by mail $ . . _above at all bookstores or direct from_ stone & barringer co. publishers charlotte north carolina songs merry and sad by john charles mcneill. second edition, with portrait. price $ . net; by mail $ . . "mcneill was a poet because he looked life straight in the eyes, felt the virgin wonder and glory of it all, and knew how to body forth his feeling in lines of exquisite art and compelling appeal. i would rather have written 'songs merry and sad' than to have the costliest monument in the state erected to my memory. the equal of that little volume has not appeared in the south since sidney lanier fell on sleep twenty-six years ago."--_c. alphonso smith._ lyrics from cotton land by john charles mcneill. illustrated with drawings by a. b. frost and e. w. kemble and photographs by mrs. a. m. kibble, with portrait and biographical sketch of the author; also description and picture of famous "patterson" cup. price $ . , postpaid. "'lyrics from cotton land' will remain a priceless legacy to the children of the south. it is a voice that had become almost a memory. it is a key to the treasure-house of a period fast receding. it glorifies with simple and soulful melody 'the tender grace of a day that is dead.' 'uncle remus,' up to the advent of the brilliant young scotchman, was the most faithful and accurate exponent of 'mr. nigger' in the realm of letters; but joel chandler harris is not a whit more lifelike in his portrayal of the language as well as of the spirit of the old time darkey than john charles mcneill."--_charity & children._ stone & barringer co. publishers charlotte north carolina the glory of the conquered the story of a great love by susan glaspell to dr. a. l. hageboeck, who made this book possible contents part one i. ernestine ii. the letter iii. karl iv. jack and "higher truth" v. the home-coming vi. "gloria victis" vii. ernestine in her studio viii. science, art and love ix. as the surgeon saw it x. karl in his laboratory xi. pictures in the embers xii. a warning and a premonition xiii. an uncrossed bridge xiv. "to the great unwhimpering!" xv. the verdict xvi. "good luck, beason!" xvii. distant strains of triumph xviii. telling ernestine xix. into the dark part two xx. marriage and paper bags xxi. factory-made optimism xxii. a blind man's twilight xxiii. her vision xxiv. love challenges fate xxv. dr. parkman's way xxvi. old-fashioned love xxvii. learning to be karl's eyes xxviii. with broken sword xxix. unpainted masterpieces xxx. eyes for two xxxi. science and super-science xxxii. the doctor has his way xxxiii. love's own hour xxxiv. almost dawn xxxv. "oh, hurry--hurry!" xxxvi. with the outgoing tide part three xxxvii. beneath dead leaves xxxviii. patchwork quilts xxxix. ash heap and rose jar xl. "let there be light" xli. when the tide came in xlii. work, the saviour xliii. "and there was light" the glory of the conquered part one chapter i ernestine she had promised to marry a scientist! it was too overwhelming a thought to entertain standing there by the window. she sought the room's most comfortable chair and braced herself to the situation. if, one month before, a gossiping daughter of fate had come to her with--"shall i tell you something?--_you_ are going to marry a man of science!"--she would have smiled serenely at fate's amusing mistake and responded--"my good friend, it is quite true that great uncertainty attends this subject. so much to be expected is the unexpected, that i am quite willing to admit i _may_ marry the hurdy-gurdy man who plays beneath my window. i know life well enough to appreciate that i _may_ marry a pawnbroker or the sultan of turkey. i assert but one thing. i shall _not_ marry a 'man of science.'" and now, not only had she promised to marry a man of science, but she had quite overlooked the fact of his being one! and the thing which stripped her of the last shred of consistency was that she was to marry, not the every-day, average "man of science," but one of the foremost scientists of all the world! the powers in charge of things matrimonial must be smiling a quiet little smile to-night. but ah--here was the vindication! he had not _asked_ her to marry him. he had simply come and told her she _was_ to marry him. and he was a great, strong man--far more powerful than she. she had had positively nothing to do with it! was it _her_ fault that he chanced to be engaged in scientific pursuits? and when he took her face so tenderly in his two hands--looked so far down into her eyes--and told her in a voice she would follow to the ends of the earth that he _loved_ her--was there any time then to think of paltry non-essentials like art and science? but she thought of them a little now. how could she get away from them when each year of her past marched slowly in front of her, paused for an instant that she might get a full view, and then passed grinningly back to the abyss of things gone, from over the shoulder tossing straight into her consciousness a jeering, deep sinking "_you too?_" ernestine stanley--that was the name she read in one of her books open beside her. why her very _name_ stood for that quarrel which had rent all the years! until she was ten years old she had been nameless. she had been you--and baby--and dear--and mother's girl--and father's girl, but her mother and father had been unable to agree upon a name for her. each discussion served to send them a little farther apart. finally they spoke of ernestine and reached the point of agreement through separate channels. her father approved it for what it meant in the dictionary;--her mother for the music of its sound. that told the whole story; their attitudes toward her name spoke for the things of themselves bestowed upon her. her father had been a disciple of exact science,--a professor of biology. he believed only in that which could be reduced to a formula. the knowable was to him the only real. he viewed life microscopically and spent his portion of emotion in an aggressive hatred of all those things which he consigned to the rubbish heap labeled non-scientific. and her mother--she never thought of her mother without that sad little shake of her head--was a dreamer, a lover of things beautiful, a hater of all she felt to be at war with her gods. ernestine's loyalty did not permit the analysis to go further, except to deplore her mother's unhappiness as unnecessary. even when a very little girl she wondered why her father could not have his bottles and things, and her mother have her poems and the things she liked, and just let each other alone about it. she wondered that long before she appreciated its significance. as she grew a little older she used to wonder if something inside her would not some day be pulled in two. it seemed the desire of each of her parents to guide her from what they saw as the rocks surrounding her. elementary science was all mixed up with keats and heine and byron. another one of her early speculations was as to whether or not poetry and science really meant to make so much trouble. of course from the very first there had been the blackboard--the blackboard and all its logical successors. as perversity would have it, it was her father bought her that blackboard. it was to help turn her in the way she should go, for upon this blackboard she was to do her sums. but the sums executed thereon were all performed when some one was standing at her shoulder, while many were the hours spent in the drawing of cats and dogs and fish and birds, of lakes and trees and other little girls and boys. she never had that being-pulled-in-two feeling when she and the blackboard were alone together. the blackboard seemed the only thing which made her all one, and she often wished her father and mother loved their things as she did hers, for if they were only _sure_, as she was, then what some one else said would not matter at all. they lived in a university town, her father being a professor in the school. in the later years of her college life he forced her into the scientific courses which she hated. she sighed even now at the memory of those weary hours in the laboratory, though while hating the detail of it, she responded, as her father had never done, to the glimpses she caught of the thing as a whole. it was ironical enough that the only thing she seemed to get from her scientific studies was an enthusiasm for the poetry of science. in those days many thoughts beat hard against the door of ernestine's loyalty. why did not her mother see all this--and make her father see it? was there not a point at which they could have met--and did they not fail in meeting because neither of them went far enough? it was when she was in her senior year that her father died. she finished out her laboratory work with lavish conscientiousness, feeling a new tenderness of him in the consciousness that his ideas for her had failed. that hour before his funeral, when she sat beside him alone, stood out as among the very vivid moments of her life. the tragedy of his life seemed that he had failed in impressing himself. his keenness of mind had not made for bigness. life had left an aggressiveness, a certain sullenness in the lines of his face. his mind and his soul had never found one another--was it because his heart had closed the channel between the two? and then they went to new york and ernestine began her study of art. a great light seemed turned back over it all tonight. she understood much now which she had lived through wonderingly. she seemed now really to know that girl who went to new york with all the dreams of all her years calling upon her for fulfillment. she knew what that girl had dreamed when she dreamed she knew not what; knew what she thought when she thought the undefined. she smiled understandingly, tenderly, at thought of it all--the bounding joy and the stubborn determination, the fearing and the demanding and the resolving with which she began her work. she was a great deal like a child on the long-promised holiday, and much like the pilgrim at the shrine. somewhere between those two was ernestine that first winter in new york. it was after the second year, after that strange mixture of things within her had unified to fixed purpose, and after it had become quite certain her dreams had not played her false, that the other big change had come. her mother slipped away from the life which had never held her in the big grip of reality. she had been so long a longing looker-on from the outer circle that the slipping away was the less hard. ernestine stopped work in order to care for her, reproaching herself with never having been able to give to her mother with the unrestraint and bounteousness she had given to her work. during those last weeks she often found her mother's eyes--sombre, brooding eyes--following her about the room like the spirit of unrest. "try to be happy, ernestine," she said, when about to leave the house in which she had ever been a stranger. "life is so awful if you are not happy." she took her back to the little town and put her away beside the man with whom her soul had never been at peace. that first night she awakened in the dark hours and fancied she heard them quarreling. the hideous fancy would not let her go to sleep, though she told herself over and over that surely death would bring them the peace life had so long withheld. she went back to her work then with a new steadiness; loneliness feeding the fire of consecration. often when alone in her room at night she felt those disappointed eyes following her about, heard again that plaintive: "try to be happy, ernestine. life is so awful if you are not happy." she had many times opened the book in which her mother copied the poems written at intervals during the years, but always would come the feeling of their holding something at which it would be hard to look. to-night, with her new understanding, this wondrous new touchstone, she took them from her trunk with eagerness. she longed now to know the secret of her mother's life; she would know why happiness had passed her by. there was tragedy in those little poems--a soul's long tragedy in their halting lines, in the faltering breath with which they were sung. indeed they were not the songs of a poet at all; they were but the helpless reaching out of an unsatisfied, unanchored soul. the blackboard had never given back what it should; the crayon would not write. was it true there were countless souls who went away like this--leaving unsaid a word they had craved to say? "for our souls were not in tune"--was a line she found in one of the verses and which she sat a long time pondering. was not the secret of it here? this the rock which held the wreckage of their lives? she left her room and went out of doors. the night was very still. a tender peace brooded over the world. she lifted her eyes to the stars--her soul to the great wonder. enveloping her was life--drawing her straight to the heart of things was love. doubts and speculations and ominous memories seemed blown away by the breath of the night. the years had no lesson to teach save this--one must love! all that was wrong in the world came through too little loving. all that was great and beautiful sprang from love which knew not doubts nor fears. what was a "point of view" when one throbbed with the memory of his good-bye kiss! there was a force which moved the world. she was in the grip of that force to-night. all else was but the tiny whirlpool against the mighty current. and she was not afraid. love would deal kindly with her own. she lifted her soul to the great mother and father of the world. "oh take me and teach me!"--was her passionate prayer. chapter ii the letter what was that story the old greeks told about love being the union--or reunion--of the two halves of an originally perfect whole? the envious gods--who were a very bad lot--cut the original perfect being in two. then love is a finding of one's own--also, a getting ahead of the gods. i have more respect for the old greeks to-night than i ever had before! but you cannot know just how it is. you are younger than i, and i do not believe the fear of life passing you by ever entered and chilled your heart. you were always sure it was coming some time, weren't you, my new-found little one? you could not have had that calm, sweet look in those big eyes of yours had you feared the best of life might be withheld from you. but can you fancy what it would mean to have felt for many years that somewhere there was a cool, sweet spring of eternal joy, and to become fearful your footsteps might never lead you to those blessed waters? and then can you fancy the profound thankfulness that would fill one's being, when after long wandering, after several mistakes and disappointments, the music of those waters was borne to the ear? and when, almost fearful to believe, and yet very, very sure, one stepped a little nearer, can you fancy the joy in finding the cooling breeze from that eternal spring upon one's face, of seeing it there as one had ever dreamed of it, knowing that beside it one could drink deep--long and very deep--of those life-giving, soul-satisfying waters? can you fancy the all-pervading thankfulness, almost unbelievable joy, in that first hour of standing beside the long-desired, the half-despaired of water of life? "thank god i was not weak enough to resign the whole for the half! there was once a voice said to me: 'this is a pretty good spring. there is not much chance of your finding the other. why not take this?' but something--your voice from a far distance?--called me on. "a strange enough letter for a man to be writing the girl who has just promised to marry him! conventionally, i suppose, i should say to you: 'i never knew anything like this before.' and instead i am saying: 'there was something once of somewhat similar exterior. but i was mistaken. i was disappointed.' but doesn't this make you see--dear new love--dear _real_ love--how happy i am, and why? "but you poor little girl--how i've cheated you! why, liebchen--god bless the germans for inventing that name for you--you were entitled to weeks and weeks of beautiful, delicate courtship. will you forgive me for jumping right over those days when i should have sent you roses and nice pretty notes, and prepared you in proper and approved way for all of this? but i had been waiting for you so long that when i found you, i just couldn't wait a minute longer. "and it was georgia--my red-headed, freckled, foolish cousin georgia did this! why, liebchen, i'll take my oath right this minute georgia hasn't a freckle! i'm even willing--(oh lord, _am_ i?--yes, by the gods i _am_)--to read every abominable line she writes for that abominable paper. am i an ingrate? didn't georgia bring me to _you?_--and is anything too much, even to the reading of her stuff--yes, by jove, and _liking_ it? "now prepare yourself to receive the sympathy of every one you know when you tell them you are going to marry me. some kind of divine hallucination is upon you, acting for my good, and you do not see how profoundly you are to be pitied. but other people will see, and will tell you about it, only you will think _they_ are under a hallucination, which is one of the phases of _yours_. the truth is i am a grubbing old scientist. i prowl around in laboratories and don't know much of anything else, and more than half the time my hands are stained with unaesthetic colours you won't like at all. and they tell me i have a foolish way of sitting and thinking about one thing, and that sometimes i don't do things i say i am going to--meet my appointments and things like that, although of course that won't apply to you. and here you might have married some artist chap, or society fellow who would know all about the proper thing! "but never mind, poor little girl--i'll make it up to you. you may miss some of the lesser, but you'll have the greater. you'll have the love that enfolds one's whole being--the love that is eternal. yes, dear--eternal. the mariner has his compass, the astronomer his stars, the swiss peasant has his alps--and we have our love. it must mean all those eternal things to us. don't you feel that it will? "this train is rushing along jostling my hand so i can scarcely write. but then my heart is rushing on jostling my brain so i can scarcely think, so perhaps my handwriting matches my thoughts. "and we'll work! we'll work to prove how much we love--is there better reason for working than that? i can work now as i never did before, for don't i want to prove to this old world that i appreciate its bringing me to you? and you'll teach me about this art of yours, won't you, my little girl with the long, serious name? i'm ignorant, sweetheart, i don't know much about pictures, but don't you think that i can learn? why, liebchen, i'm learning already! i never knew what they meant by lights and shadows until i saw your face. "but tell me, how does it happen your hair grows back from your temples that way? why, no one else's hair does that. and where did you learn about tilting your chin forward like that and looking straight out of your eyes at one? it is so strange--no one else does any of those things. i've often thought of the many things in science i do not understand and never will, but they are the very simplest things imaginable in comparison with that puzzling way you smile, the wonderful way your face lights up when you are happy. "are you looking up at the stars? i think you are. and in the heavens do you see one newly discovered, unvanishable star? that is the star of our love, dear,--the star which has changed heaven and earth. are you dreaming about it all?--oh but i know you are. i will fulfill those dreams, dear girl. i have waited for you too long, i prize you too inestimably not to consecrate my life to the fulfilling of those dreams." chapter iii karl he was one of the men who go before. out in the great field of knowledge's unsurveyed territory he worked--a blazer of the trail, a voice crying from the wilderness: "i have opened up another few feet. you can come now a little farther." then they would come in and take possession, soon to become accustomed to the ground, forgetting that only a little while before it had been impassable, scarcely thinking of the little body of men who had opened the way for them, and now were out farther, where again the way was blocked, trying to beat down a few more of the barriers, open up a little more of that untrodden territory. and only the little band itself would ever know how stony that path, how deep the ditches, how thick and thorny the underbrush. "why this couldn't have been so bad," the crowd said, after it had flocked in--"strange it should have taken so long!" not that the little band sought popular acclaim, or desired it. "heavens!" he had once exclaimed to a laboratory assistant, after a reporter had been vainly trying to persuade him to "tell the whole story of his work in popular vein,"--"you don't suppose medical research is going to become a drawing-room lap dog!" but he need not have feared. a capricious fancy might rest upon them for the minute, but the big world which followed along behind would never come into any complete understanding of such as they. in an age of each man seeking what he himself can gain, how could there be understanding of the manner of man who would perhaps work all of his lifetime only to put up at the end the sign-board: "do not take this road. i have gone over it and found it profitless." failure is not the name they give to that. they say his wanderings astray brought others that much nearer to the goal. in his last year at the medical school one of his professors had put it to him like this: "you must make your choice. it is certain you can not do both. you will become a general practitioner, or you will go into the research work for which you have shown aptitude here. i am confident you would succeed as a surgeon. in that you would make more money, and, in all probability, a bigger name. that is certain. in this other, you take your chances. but if i were you, i would do whichever i cared for more." that settled it, for he had long before heard the cry from the unknown: "come out and take us! we are here--if only you know how to get us." there was in his blood that which thrilled to the thought of doing what had not been done before. with the abandonment of his intense and rugged nature, he yielded himself to the delights of the untravelled path. at the time of his falling in love, dr. karl hubers was thirty-nine years old. he had worked in european laboratories, notably the pasteur institute of paris, and among men of his kind was regarded as one to be reckoned with. within the profession his name already stood for vital things, and it was associated now with one of the big problems, the solving of which it was believed this generation would have to its credit. the scientific and medical journals were watching him, believing that when the great victory was won, his would be the name to reach round the world. three years before, the president of a great university, but newly sprung up by the side of a great lake, sitting in his high watch tower and with mammoth spy-glass looking around for men of initiative in the intellectual domain, had spied karl hubers, working away over there in europe. this man of the watch tower had a genius for perceiving when a man stood on the verge of great celebrity, and so he cried out now: "come over and do some teaching for us! we will give you just as good a laboratory as you have there and plenty of time for your own work." now, while he would be glad enough to have dr. hubers do the teaching, what he wanted most of all was to possess him, so that in the day of victory that young giant of a university would rise up with the peon: "see! _we_ have done it!" and dr. hubers, lured by the promise of time and facility for his own work, liking what he knew of the young university, had come over and established himself in chicago. in those three years he had not been disappointing. he had contributed steadily to the sum of the profession's knowledge, for he worked in little by-paths as well as on his central thing, and he himself felt, though he said but little, that he was coming nearer and nearer the goal he had set for himself. his place in the university was an enviable one. the enthusiasm of the students for him quite reached the borderland of reverence. to get some work in dr. hubers' laboratory was regarded, among the scientific students, as the triumph of a whole university career. and it was those students who worked as his assistants who came to know the fine fibre of the man. they could tell best the real story of his work. they it was who told him when he must go to his classes and when he must go to his meals, who kept him, in times of complete surrender to his idea, in so much of touch with the world about him as they felt a necessity. their hearts beat with his heart when a little of the way was cleared; their spirits sank in disappointment as they lived with him through the days of depression. and as they came day by day to know of the honesty of his mind, the steadfastness of his purpose, to feel that flame which glowed within him, they fairly spoke his name in different voice from that used for other things, and when they told their stories of his eccentricities, it was with a tenderness in their humour, never as though blurring his greatness, but rather as if his very little weaknesses and foibles set him apart from and above every one else. generations before, his ancestors up there in north europe had swept things before them with a mighty hand. with defeat and renunciation they did not reckon. if they loved a woman, they picked her up and took her away. and civilisation has not quite washed the blood of those men from the earth. germany gave to karl hubers something more than a scholar's mind. at any rate, he did a very unapproved and most uncivilised thing. when he fell in love and decided he wanted to marry ernestine stanley, and that he wanted to take her right over to europe and show her the things he loved there, he asked for his year's leave of absence before he went to find out whether miss stanley was kindly disposed to the idea of marrying him. now why he did that, it is not possible to state, but the thing proving him quite hopeless as a civilised product is that it never struck him there was anything so very peculiar in his order of procedure. his assistants had to do a great deal of reminding after he came back that week, and they never knew until afterwards that his abstraction was caused by something quite different from germs. they thought--unknowing assistants--that he was on a new trail, and judged from the expression of his face that it was going to prove most productive. chapter iv facts and "higher truth" "mr. beason," said georgia mccormick, looking across the dinner table at the new student who had come to live with them--almost every one who lived around the university had "students"--"if you had a dear cousin who had married a dear friend, if said dear cousin and dear friend had gone skipping away to europe, and for one year and a half had flitted gayly from country to country, looking into each other's eyes and murmuring sweet nothings all the while that _you_ had been earning your daily bread by telling daily untruths for a daily paper, if at the end of said period said cousin and friend, forced by a steadily diminishing bank account to return to the stern necessities of life, had written you a nonchalant little note telling you to 'look up a place for them to lay their heads'--which being translated in terms of action meant that you were to walk the streets looking for vacant houses when vacant houses there were none--if this combination of circumstances befell you, mr. beason--just what would you do?" beason pondered the matter carefully. mr. beason applied the scientific method to everything in life, and was not one to commit himself rashly. "i think," he announced, weightily, "that i would tell them to go to a hotel and stay there until they could look up their own house." "but mr. beason," she rambled on, eyes twinkling--georgia had decided this young man needed "waking up"--"suppose you loved them both very dearly--suppose they were positively the dearest people who ever walked the earth--and that breaking your neck for them was the greatest pleasure life could confer upon you--what would you do _then?_" "i'm sure i don't know," said beason, bluntly; "i never loved any one that dearly." "'tis better to love and break one's neck,"--began harry wyman, who aspired to the position of class poet. "if you had ever known ernestine and karl,"--a tenderness creeping into georgia's voice--"you'd be _almost_ willing to hunt houses for them. almost, i say--for i doubt if any affection on earth should be put to the house-hunting test. even my cousin dr. karl hubers------" "your--_cousin?_"--beason broke in. "_your--?_"--in telling the story georgia always spoke of the unflattering emphasis on the final your. but at the time she could think of nothing save the transformed face of john beason. the instantaneousness with which he had waked up was fairly gruesome. he was looking straight at georgia; all three were held by his manner. "now my dear mr. beason," she laughed finally, "don't be so hard on us. my mother and dr. hubers' mother were sisters, but please don't rub it in so unmercifully that poor mother has been altogether distanced in the matter of offspring. you see mother married an irish politician--hence me. while aunt katherine--karl's mother--married a german scholar--therefore karl. and the german scholar was the son of a german professor. in fact, from all i have been led to believe the hubers were busily engaged in the professoring business at the time julius caesar stalked up from italy." "now georgia," hastened mrs. mccormick earnestly, "this newspaper work gives you such a tendency to exaggerate. i never heard it said before that the family went _that_ far back." "perhaps not. but just because a thing has never been said before, isn't there all the more reason for saying it now? and i'm just trying to make mr. beason understand"--demurely--"why some people are scholars and others are not." but season's mind was working straight from the shoulder. "does he ever come here?" he demanded. "yes, indeed; he honours our poor board quite often with the light of his countenance." beason accepted that as unextravagant statement of fact. "well, do you--know about him?" he asked, bluntly. "that he's 'way up? oh, my, yes. and we're tremendously proud of him." "i should think you would be," said beason, rather grimly. "karl is indeed remarkable," said mrs. mccormick, blandly expansive, well pleased with both karl and her own appreciation of him. "i feel that our family has much to be proud of, to think both he and georgia have done so well with their work." the expression of beason's face was a study. georgia laughed over it for weeks afterwards. "now my chief interest," said wyman, who was at the stage where he put life in capital letters, and cherished harmless ideas about his own deep understanding of the human heart, "is in mrs. hubers. there, i fancy,"--it was his capital letter voice--"is a woman who understands." "a dandy girl," said georgia, briskly. "she has the artistic temperament?" he pursued. "oh, not disagreeably so," she retorted. "you see," turning to beason, who was plainly impatient at this shifting to anything so irrelevant as a wife, "i play quite a leading part in dr. hubers' life. i'm his cousin--that's the accident of birth; but i handed over to him his wife, for which he owes me undying gratitude. i'm looking for something really splendid from europe." "i wish i hadn't gone home so early that spring," sighed wyman. "i'd like to have seen that little affair. it must have been the real thing in romance." "but it was nothing of the sort! it was the most disgraceful thing i ever had anything to do with." "now georgia," protested her mother, "you know you are so apt to be misunderstood." "well i couldn't be misunderstood about this! oh, it was awful!--the suddenness of it, you know. you see miss stanley was an old college friend of mine. in fact, i roomed at their house,"--she paused and seemed to be thinking of other things--serious things. "a year ago last spring," she went on, "ernestine stopped here on her way home from new york. her parents had died, but an old aunt lived in their house, and she was going to see her. i had always told her about karl, but she had never met him, because when ernestine and i were together so much, he was in europe. so i wanted her to meet him--well, principally because he was a good deal of a celebrity, and i thought it would be nice. i'll be real honest and confess it never occurred to me there would be anything exciting doing. well, karl didn't want to come. first he said he would, and then he telephoned he was busy. so i just went over to the laboratory and _got_ him. i told him he was expected, and if he didn't come, mother and i never would forgive him. he washed his hands and came along, grumbling all the way about how one's relatives interfered with one's life--oh, karl and i are tremendously frank, and then when he got here--well, i'll just leave it to mother." "he did seem to be greatly impressed with georgia's friend." said mrs. mccormick, consciously conservative. "i never saw him act so stupid! oh, but i was mad at him! i wanted him to talk about europe and be brilliant, but he didn't do anything but sit and look at ernestine. fact of the matter is, ernestine doesn't look quite like the rest of us. at least karl thought she didn't, and evidently he made up his mind then and there he was going to have her. ernestine left chicago sooner than he thought she was going to, and what does he do but go after her--and get her! you see, all of karl's ancestors weren't meek and gentle scholars and wise professors. lots of them were soldiers and bloodthirsty brigands, and those are the ones he brags about most and in spite of his mind, and all that, those are the ones he is most like. i suppose it was in the blood to get what he wanted. i'm sure i don't know how he did it. lots of men had wanted ernestine, and she had the caring-for-her-art notion--she's made good tremendously, you know--but art took a back seat when dr. hubers arrived on the scene. that's all there is to it. i wouldn't call it a romance. it was more in the line of a hop, skip and jump." she had pushed back her chair a little, but laughed now, reminiscently. "oh it was just too funny! some of it was too rich to keep. karl came here the day after he returned--wanted to hear me talk of ernestine, you know. people in love aren't exactly versatile in their conversation. i did talk about her for two hours, and then i ventured to change the subject. 'karl,' i said, 'what do you think of the colour they're painting the new fifty-seventh street station?' "he had been sitting there in rapt silence and he looked up at me with a seraphic, far-away smile. 'colour,' he said, dreamily, 'was there ever such a colour before?' "'there certainly never was,' i replied, meaning of course the brick red of the aforesaid station. "'that divine brown,' he pursued,' that soft, dark, liquid brown of unfathomable depth!' now there," nodding laughingly at beason, "you have a sample of the great dr. hubers' mighty intellect." beason hovered around, hoping for a few more stray words, but as harry wyman and georgia were talking about some foolish newspaper affairs, he went to his room and tried to settle down to work. a half hour later wyman, who had also gone in to do a little studying, came out to where georgia was looking over the other evening papers. "say," he laughed, "you've got to do something for that fellow in there--he's crazy as a loon. you've got him all stirred up, and if you don't go in and get him calmed down he won't sleep a wink to-night, and neither will i. he says dr. hubers is the greatest man in the world. he says he won't except anybody--no, sir, not a living human soul! he's been walking up and down the floor talking about it. gee! you ought to hear him. he says he came to this university on purpose to get some work with dr. hubers, that his life will be ruined if he doesn't get it, and that he's going to make all kinds of a ten-strike, if he does. and you can't laugh at the fellow, for he's just dead down in earnest! he wanted me to come out here and ask you some questions--i can't remember 'em straight. how he worked--whether he was approachable. oh, he fired them at me thick. say now, he would appreciate it, if you'd just go in and give him a little talk about your cousin. kind of serious talk, you know. why, he'd just hang on every word." and georgia, laughing--georgia was strongly addicted to laughing--said if there was any man ready to hang upon her every word, that she, being twenty-seven and prospectless, must not let him get away. she told beason many things--some of them facts and some of them "higher truth," georgia holding that things which ought to be true were higher truth. she told him how karl had tried to burn down his father's house, when a very small boy, to see if something somebody had said about fire was true, how he dissected a strange and wonderful bird which came to the house on a visitor's hat, how he inspired a whole crew of small boys to run away from home as explorers, how he whipped a bigger boy most unmercifully for calling the germans big fools. georgia arranged for her cousin what she called a thoroughly consistent childhood. and then some less high truth about his working his way through college, getting money enough to go abroad, his absolute forgetfulness of everything when immersed in work--facts and higher truth tallied here. "karl's queer," she said. "he's roasted a good deal by the academic folks--pooh-hoos a lot of their stuff, you know. he seems to have a strange notion that science, learning, the whole business is for humanity. unique conception, isn't it?" after she went away, beason said he had no doubt that when one came to know miss mccormick, he would see, in spite of her lightness of manner, that she had many fine qualities. "qualities!" burst forth the enthusiastic wyman. "say--you just ought to hear the newspaper fellows talk about georgia mccormick! i tell you she's a peach, and more than that, she's a brick. she's the divide-her-last-penny kind--georgia mccormick is. and i want you to know that if ever any one had the joy of living stunt down pat, she's it. it's an honest fact that if she was put in the penitentiary and you went to see her after she'd been there awhile, she'd tell you so many funny and interesting things about the pen. that you'd feel sore to think you weren't in yourself. and _smart?_ and a hustler? well, her paper's done some fool things, but it's had sense to hold on to _her_ all right-all right." and beason replied that of course dr. hubers' cousin was bound to be smart. chapter v the home-coming "yes, suh, chicago only two hours, suh," and the porter smiled broadly. there was both memory and anticipation in that smile. the car was almost empty. across the aisle a man slept peacefully; a little farther ahead a young lady read of the joys and sorrows of a knight and his lady who had lived some several hundred years before, and still farther on a lady all in black was looking from the window, evidently lost to sorrows of more recent date. as no one was paying any attention to the man and woman back there in the rear of the car it was perfectly safe, when the porter passed on, for her hand to slip over into his. he responded with that quiet, protecting smile which always made it seem no bad thing could ever come to her. "almost home, dear," he said, and then for a long time neither of them spoke. many big forces flowed freely into the silence of that moment. she looked up at him at last with a smile which broke from her seriousness as a ripple breaks from a wave. "suppose we had to say everything in words!" "suppose we had to walk on one leg!" "oh, but that--you know, karl, it's a little like the rivers and the ocean. the words are the rivers flowing into the ocean of silence. rivers flow into oceans--but do they _make_ them? and then the ocean gives back to the rivers in the things which it breathes out. there are so many reasons why it seems like that." "ernestine, where did you get all this? i sometimes think i'm not square with you at all. why, i've been in all those places before! i saw the bay of naples long before i ever saw you--and yet i didn't really see it before at all. don't you see? eyes and appreciation and every decent thing i take from you. where did you get it all, ernestine?" she pushed back a little curl which was always coming loose,--he loved that little curl for always coming loose. "perhaps i 'got it' from that way you have of looking at me--the way you're looking at me now; or maybe i got it from the way you say 'ernestine'--the way you said it just now. but does it matter much what comes from which?"--with which bit of lucidity she wrinkled up her nose at him in a way which always vanquished argument and returned to the silence which seemed waiting to claim her. he watched her then; he loved so to do that--just see how far he could follow. ernestine seemed to draw things to her in a way very wonderful to him. "you know, liebchen,"--as he saw that steady light of resolution shine through the veil of her tenderness--"it seems so queer to me that you really _do_ anything." "well for a neatly turned compliment--" "i mean it seems so queer you should really _amount_ to anything." "now before you overwhelm me with further adulation, what _are_ you talking about?" "i'm talking about your being an artist. i can't get used to your being anything but _ernestine_! that day last spring when we went to see your salon picture, and when those chaps were talking to you, and i realised that they just simply accepted you as one of them--that you belonged, and that that was all there was about it--i, oh i had such a funny feeling that day. and now, a minute ago, when i saw that look, i had it again." "why, karl, you don't _mind_, do you?" "no, it's just that it seems queer. you see you're such a wonderful sweetheart, it's hard to think of you as anything else. i'll never forget that day over there. something just seemed to leap up within you. i--well i think i was a little scared--or was i awed? something that was shining from your eyes made me feel things in my backbone." "but you're glad?" she laughed. "of course i'm glad; and i'm proud. but it's--queer." she smiled at him understandingly; the understandingness of her smile always went beyond her words. it was a beautiful face upon which he watched the play of lights, saw the changing currents of thought and dreams and purpose. but the thing most rare in it, that which made one quite forget accepted standards, was the steadfastness with which a certain great light shone through the aura of her tenderness. there were moments in which she transcended both her beauty and her beauty's weaknesses. as the flower to the sun, naturally, quietly, inevitably, she had expanded under the breath of life. with the fullness of a rich nature she had responded to the touch of the spirit of living. love loved her for what she had been able to take. and in the year which had passed, life, with tender rather than defacing lines, had put upon her face the touch of sorrow. europe meant more to her than an old world civilisation, more than tradition, beauty or art. it even meant more than the place where she had spent those first dear months of her love. it meant to her the place where she had hoped with woman's dearest hope, and where she had given up the child which should have been hers. her tenderest, deepest thoughts were not of the wonders and beauties she had seen; they were of the dreams within, of the holy happiness of first knowledge, and then the grief in giving up the much desired, which she had known only in anticipation. the most cherished memories of their love were memories of those days in which he had comforted her, of the tenderness with which he had consoled, the strength with which he had upheld. those hours had reached far into her soul, deepening it, giving her, as if in compensation, new channels for love, new understanding of those innermost things of life. but in those first days, even while the soul of the woman was deepening, the bruised heart was as the heart of a child. it was as a child she had been to him in those days, and he had comforted her as one would comfort an idolised child, whose hurt one strove to take wholly unto one's self. the memory of those hours knit them together as no other thing could have done. looking down at her face now he saw that look he had come to know--that far-away, frightened, wistful look. very gently he laid his hand upon her knee. "i am going to make you so happy. life is going to be so beautiful," he said. she smiled at him, but the tears were in it. "yes, karl--i know. but now that we are coming home--together--alone, doesn't it seem--" he turned away. the man had suffered too. "and we are leaving it over there--over there, alone--away from us--the life that should have been--" with that he turned resolutely back to her. "ernestine, isn't there another way to look at it? it came of our love, and now, dear, it has gone back into our love. it isn't something apart from us,--something gone. we have taken it back unto ourselves. it is here with us. the greater love we have--that is it, dear." the flame of understanding leaped quickly to her eyes. "oh, i like that karl," she whispered. "i like that better than anything you ever said." she turned then and looked from the window. across the fields, over near the horizon, she could see a little house. the smoke was curling from the chimney. the autumn twilight had come on and they had lighted the lamp. a bit of home! the tears came to her eyes--tears of tender anticipation. she too was to make a home. and was it not good to think that smoke was coming from many chimneys and many lamps were being lighted? was it not good to feel that the dear world was full of homes? to the man this coming back to chicago, returning to his work after the year and a half he had been away, was charged with a happy significance. as they drew nearer and nearer, an impatience possessed him to begin at once; that desire of the worker to start in immediately. he had worked some over there, had done a few things which were most satisfactory, but he wanted now to settle down to actual work in his old place, 'with his own things. he fell to wondering if they had changed the laboratory, resentful at the possibility. "why look here, ernestine," he suddenly burst forth, turning to her eagerly, "to-morrow's a school day, we're late getting home, everything is in swing--they're waiting for me, and, by jove, i can just as well as not begin to-morrow!" a woman who never made one feel things in one's backbone might have resented the quick, eager plunge into work, but ernestine knew the love of work herself, and her eyes brightened to his spirit. "but dear me, karl," after a second's hesitation, "it seems you should take a day or two first." "why?" he demanded. "well,"--vaguely--"to get rested up." "rested up!" he stretched forth his arm and then doubled it back, and they both laughed. "that's a joke--my getting rested up. why i feel like a fighting cock!" "and crazy to get to work?" "getting that way. oh, i tell you, ernestine, there's nothing like it." again she did not mind; she understood. she looked at his glowing face, all alight with enthusiasm for the work to which he was going back. she was never tired of thinking how karl's face was just what karl's face should be--reflective of a clear-cut, far-seeing, deeply comprehending mind. it seemed all written there--all those things of mind and character, and something too of those other things--the things which were for her alone. ernestine held that one could tell by looking at karl that he was doing some great thing. "but see here, dr. hubers, a nice way you have of shirking your domestic duties! who is going to help me settle this famous house georgia tells about?" "i'll do it at night," he protested eagerly. "i'll work every night until the house is spick and span." ernestine sighed. "i have a sad feeling that our house never will be spick and span. but we'll have some fun,"--eagerly--"fixing it up." "of course we'll have fun fixing it up! georgia's sure to be on hand, and i'll make old parkman get busy too--do him good." "i don't care about knowing a lot of men--" "well i should _hope_ not" "you didn't let me finish. i was going to say that dr. parkman is one man i do want to know." "you'll like parkman; and he'll like you. by jove, he's got to! you mustn't mind if he snaps your head off occasionally. his life's made him savage, but even his life--he's had an awful one, ernestine--couldn't make him vicious. he's the gruffest, snarliest, biggest man i ever knew--meaner than the devil, and the best friend on top of earth. and lord, how he works! i don't know any other three men could swing the same load. and i tell you, ernestine, he's great. there's not a better surgeon in all europe. parkman's a tremendous help to me. oh, it's going to be _great_ to get back!" "we have some really nice things for our house," mused ernestine. "i'm glad we decided to take that rug for the library. of course it seemed pretty high, but a library without a nice rug wouldn't do at all--not for us." "no--that's right--library without a rug--now i wonder if i am to have my old eight o'clock lecture hour? i _want_ that hour! i want to get all the school business out of the way in the morning. i must have plenty of uninterrupted time for myself. i tell you what it is, ernestine, i'm going to _get_ it! what i saw over there of the other fellows makes me all the more sure of myself. and coming back now after being made all over new--you see there's such a thing as inspiration in my work, just as there is in yours. of course it's work--work--work, work your way through this and that, but there's something or other that leads you on--and i _know_ i'm going to do something now!" "i know it too, karl," she responded, and the steadfastness shone strong through the tenderness now. "we all know it." "i've got to," he murmured--"got to." and then his whole mind seized upon it; some suggestion had come to him, some of that inspiration of which he had spoken. he sat there looking straight ahead, brows drawn, eyes sometimes half closing, occasionally nodding his head as he saw a point more clearly. he looked in such moments as though indeed made for conquest,--indomitable. one could almost feel his mind at work, could fancy the skillful cutting away of error, the inevitable working ahead to truth. at last he turned to her. "there's no reason for not beginning to-morrow," he said, with the eagerness of a boy who would try a new gun or fishing rod. "there are a whole lot of things i want to get right at now." chapter vi "gloria victis" "we'll just put our russian friend back here in the corner, where the shelf suppresses him," said georgia, who seemed to have accepted the self-appointed position of head cataloguer. "some of the students might happen to call." "this," said dr. parkman, who was dusting gibbon's rome, "is the sort of thing that is called the backbone of a library." "consequently," replied georgia glibly, "we will put it up here on the top shelf. nobody wants a library's backbone. it's to be had, not read. now the trimmings, like our friend mr. shaw here, must be given places of accessibility." the host was picking his way around among the contents of a box which he had just emptied upon the floor. the hostess was yielding to the temptation of an interesting bit which had caught her eye in dusting "an attic philosopher in paris." "now here," said dr. hubers, picking up a thick, green book, "is walt whitman and that means trouble. no one is going to know whether he is prose or poetry." "when art weds science," observed georgia, "the resulting library is difficult to manage. mr. haeckel and mr. maeterlinck may not like being bumped up here together." "then put haeckel somewhere else," said ernestine, looking up from her book. "no, fire maeterlinck," commanded karl. "see," said georgia--"it's begun. strife and dissension have set in." "i'm neither a literary man nor a librarian," ventured dr. parkman, "but it seems a slight oversight to complete the list of poets and leave shakespeare lying out there on the floor." "got my goethe in?" asked karl, after shakespeare had been left immersed in georgia's vituperations. "i think browning and keats are over there under the encyclopedia britannica," said ernestine, roused to the necessity of securing a favourable position for her friends. "observe," said georgia, "how they have begun insisting on their favourite authors. this is one of the early stages." ernestine, looking over their shoulders, made some critical remark about the place accorded balzac's letters to madam hanska, which caused georgia to retort that perhaps it would be better if people arranged their own libraries, and then they could put things where they wanted them. then after she had given a resting place to what she denounced as some very disreputable french novels, she leaned against the shelves and declared it was time to rest. "this function," she began, "will make a nice little item for our society girl. usually she disdains people who do not live on the lake shore drive, but she will have to admit there is snap in this 'dr. and mrs. karl ludwig hubers,'"--pounding it out on a copy of walden as typewriter--"' but newly returned from foreign shores, entertained last night at a book dusting party. those present were dr. murray parkman, eminent surgeon, and miss georgia mccormick, well and unfavourably known in some parts of the city. rug beating and other athletic games were indulged in. the hostess wore a beautifully ruffled apron of white and kindly presented her guest with a kitchen apron of blue. beer was served freely during the evening.'" "is that last as close as your paper comes to the truth?" asked ernestine, piling up emerson that he might not be walked upon. "that last, my dear, is a hint--a good, straight-from-the-shoulder hint. i did it for dr. parkman. he looks warm and unhappy." dr. parkman protested that while a little warm, he was not at all unhappy, but upon further questioning as to thirst was led into damaging admissions. so the little party divided, georgia calling back over her shoulder that as the host was of teutonic origin, there need be no fear about the newly stocked larder. left alone a curious change came over the two men. they had entered with the heartiness of schoolboys into the raillery of a few minutes before, but all of that dropped from them now, and as they pulled up the big chairs and dr. parkman's "well?" brought the light of a great enthusiasm to the face of his friend, drawing him into the things he had been so eager to reach, one would not readily have associated them with the flippant conversation from which they had just turned. for here were men who in truth had little time for the lighter, gayer things of life. they stood well to the front in that proportionally small army of men who do the world's work. "tommy-_rot_!" dr. parkman had responded a few days before to a beautiful tribute some one was seeking to pay "the doctor"--"a doctor is a man who helps people make the best of their bad bargains--and damned sick he gets of his job. a man must make a living some way, so some of us earn our salt by bucking up against the law of the survival of the fittest, thereby rendering humanity the beautiful service of encumbering the earth with the weak. if the medical profession would just quit its damn meddling, nature might manage, in time, to do something worth while." but all the while, by day and by night, at the expense of leisure and pleasure,--often to the exclusion of sleep and food, he kept steadily at his "damn meddling,"--proving the most effective enemy nature had in that part of the country; and sadly enough--for his philosophy--he was even stripped of the vindication of earning his salt. in the one hour a day given to his business affairs, dr. parkman made more money than in the ten or twelve devoted to his profession. men said he had financial genius, and he admitted that possibly he had, stipulating only that financial genius was an inflated name for devil's luck. he liked the money game better than poker, and played it as his pet dissipation, his one real diversion. but having more salt than he could use during the remainder of his days, did not tend toward an abatement of this war he waged against nature's ultimate design. he himself would analyse that as a species of stubbornness, an egotistic desire to see how good an interference he could establish, but he gave body and brain and soul to his meddling with a fire suspiciously like consecration. they all knew that dr. parkman worked hard. some few knew that he overworked, and a very few knew why. of the personal things of his own life he never spoke, and though he was but fifty, his lined face and deep-set eyes made him seem much closer to sixty. the two men were an interesting contrast; dr. parkman was singularly, conspicuously dark, while karl hubers was a true teuton in colouring. dr. parkman was a large man, and all of him seemed to count for force. something about him made people prefer not to get in his way. it was his hands spoke for his work--superbly the surgeon's hands, that magical union of power and skill, hands for the strongest grip and the lightest touch, lithe, sure, relentless, fairly intuitive. his hands made one believe in him. with karl it was the eyes told most. they seemed to be looking such a long way ahead, and yet not missing the smallest thing close at hand. as he talked now, his face lighted with enthusiasm, it occurred to dr. parkman that hubers was a curious blending of the two kinds of men there were behind him. some of those men had been fighters and some had been thinkers, but karl was the thinker who fights. he had drawn from both of them, and that gave him peculiar fitness for the work he was doing. it was work for the thinker, the scholar, but work which must have the fighting blood. even his appearance bore the mark of the two kinds of things bequeathed him. he had the well-knit body of the soldier, the face of the student. he was not a large man, but he gave the sense of large things. he had the slight stoop of the laboratory, but when interested, aflame, he straightened up and was then in every line the man who fights. his eyes, to the understanding observer, told the story of much work with the microscope. they were curiously, though not unattractively, unlike. the left he used for observations, the right for making the accompanying drawings. that gave them a peculiarity only the man of science would understand. the things which the two men radiated were different things. one felt their different adjustment toward life. dr. parkman had turned to hard work as some men turn to strong drink, to submerge himself, to take him out of himself, to make life possible; while with karl hubers, work and life and love were all one great force. dr. parkman worked in order that he might not remember; karl in order that he might fulfill. their friendship had begun ten years before in vienna, one of those rare friendships which seem all the more intimate because formed in a foreign land; a friendship taking root in the rich soil of kindred interests,--comradeship which drew from the deep springs of understanding. to come close to karl's work had been one of the real joys of dr. parkman's very active but very barren life.--he loved karl; his own heart was wrapped up in the work his friend was doing. and the doctor meant much to karl; had done much for him. the one was the man of affairs; the other the man of thought; they supplemented and helped each other. as the practicing physician, dr. parkman could see many things from which the laboratory man would be shut out. he was karl's channel of communication with the human side of the work. and karl gave parkman his complete confidence; that was why there was so much to tell now. he must go over the story of his year's work, touch upon his plans, his new ideas. and the doctor had something to say of the observations he had made for karl; he told of an operation day after to-morrow he must see and said he had several cases worth watching. "you will have to come out to the laboratory," karl finally urged. "we can't begin to get at it here." "we're forgetting the hungry and thirsty men," said georgia, after they had been eagerly chatting across the kitchen table for ten or fifteen minutes. but ernestine said it did not matter. she knew what was going on in the library and how glad they were of their chance. she and georgia too had much to discuss: the work done in europe, georgia's work here, how splendid karl was, what a glorious time they had had, something of the good times they would all have together here, and then this house which georgia had found for them and into which they had gone at once. "i knew well enough," she said, buttering a sandwich in order to stay her conscience, "that you and karl didn't belong in a flat. there couldn't be a studio and a laboratory and library and various other exotic things in a flat. but only old settlers and millionaires live in detached houses here, so please appreciate my efforts. i thought this place looked like you--not that you're exactly old-fashioned and irregular." "i liked it at once. big enough and interestingly queer, and not savouring of chicago enterprise." "not that there is anything the matter with chicago enterprise," insisted georgia. "you like chicago, don't you, georgia?" "love it! i know one doesn't usually associate love with chicago, but i love even its abominations. you know i had a tough time here, but i won out, and most of us are vain enough to be awfully fond of the place where we've been up against it and come out on top. i haven't forgotten the days when i edited farm journals and wrote thirty-cent lives of great men and peddled feature stories from office to office, standing with my hand on door knobs fighting for nerve to go in, but now that it is all safely tucked away in the past, i'm not sorry i had to do it. it helps one understand a few things, and when new girls come to me i don't tell them, as i was told, that they'd better learn the millinery trade or do honest work in somebody's kitchen. none of that kind of talk do they get from me!" it was always absorbing to see georgia very much in earnest. her alert face kept pace with her words, and her emphatic little nods seemed to be clinching her thought. people who had good cause to know, said it was just as well not to turn the full tide of her emotions to wrath. she was a little taller than ernestine, very quick in her movements, and if one insisted on an adverse criticism it might be admitted she was rather lacking in repose. the people who liked her, put it the other way. they said she was so breezy and delightful. but even friendship could not deny her freckles, nor claim beauty for her bright, quick face. they seemed to fall naturally into more serious things when they met over what georgia called the evening bite. although differing so widely, they were homogeneous in that all were workers; they touched many things, their talk live with differences. "how do you like it?" asked ernestine, following dr. parkman's eyes to her favourite bronze, a copy of mercie's gloria victis, which she had unpacked just that day and given a place of honour on the mantel. "it's so christian," he objected laughingly. "oh, but is it?" "a defeated man being borne aloft? i call it the very essence of christianity. i can see submission and renunciation and other objectionable virtues in every line of it." "go after it, parkman," laughed karl. "ernestine and i all but came to blows over it. i wanted her to buy a napoleon instead. i tell her there is no glory in defeat." "i don't think of it as the glory of defeat," said ernestine. "i think of it as the glory of the conquered." "but even so, ernestine," said georgia, who had been looking it over carefully, "there's no real glory. when i fall down on an assignment, i fall down, and that's all there is to it--at least my city editor thinks so. if dr. parkman doesn't win a case, he loses it. his efforts may have been very worthy--but gloria's surely not the word for them. or take a football game," she laughed. "sometimes the defeated team really does better work than the winners--but wouldn't we rather our fellows would win on a fluke than go down to defeat putting up a good, steady fight? the thing is to _get there!_" "in football or in life," laughed karl. "defeat furnishes good material to the poets and the artists, but none of us care to have the glory of the conquered apply to _us._" they were all looking at the bronze and ernestine looked from one face to another, trying to understand why it moved none of them as it had her. karl's face was very purposeful tonight, reflecting the stimulus of his talk with his friend. filled with enthusiasm for this fight he was making, he had no eye in this hour for the triumph of the vanquished. "why i don't want to submit," he laughed just then. "i want to win!" "an idea which has done a great deal of harm," observed dr. parkman. "that 'you'll-get-your-reward-somewhere-else' doctrine is the worst possible armour for life. the poets, of course, have always coddled the weak, but i see more poetry in the to-hell-with-defeat spirit myself." that too she could understand--a simple matter of the arrogance of the successful. and with georgia it was that thing of "getting there"--the world's hard and fast standards of success and failure. she too turned to the statue. were they right, and she wrong? was it just the art of it, the effectiveness, which moved her, and was the thought back of it indeed weakening sentimentality? "defend it, ernestine," laughed karl; and then, affectionately, seeing her seriousness, "tell us what _you_ see in it." dr. parkman turned from the statue to her. he never forgot her face as it was then. he had decided during the evening that her great charm was her exquisite femininity; she seemed to have all those graces of both mind and body which make for perfect loving. it was the world force of love, splendidly manifest in gentleness, he had felt in her first. but now something new flamed up within her. here was power--power moving in the waves of passion through the channel of understanding. her face had grown fairly stern in its insistence. "but don't you _see_ the keynote of it is that stubborn grip on the broken sword. i should think every fighter would love it for that. and it is more than the glory of the good fight. it is the glory of the unconquerable will. look at the woman's face! the world calls him beaten. _she_ knows that he has won. i see behind it the world's battlefields--'way back from the first i see them all, and i see that the thing which has shaped the world is not the success or failure of individual battles one-half so much as it is this wresting of victory from defeat by simply _breathing_ victory even after the sword has been broken in the hand. what we call victory and defeat are incidents--things individual and temporal. the thing universal and eternal is this immortality of the spirit of victory. why, every time i look at that grip on the broken sword,"--laughing now, but eyes shining--"i can feel the world take a bound ahead!" chapter vii ernestine in her studio the next morning she went to work. she had never wanted anything with quite the eagerness that she wanted to work that morning. "what i want to know is," georgia had demanded the night before, "did either of you do any work? i hear a great deal about quaint little villages and festive cafes, but what did you actually do?" now if georgia were only here to repeat the question, she could answer jubilantly: "what did i do? why, i got ready for this morning! wasn't that a fine year's work?" it had seemed queer at first. "why don't i work," she would ask karl, "now that i am here where i always wanted to be?" but karl would only laugh, and say that was too obvious to explain. once he had talked a little about it. "i wouldn't worry, liebchen. isn't it possible that the creative instinct is being all used up? it's your dream time, sweetheart. it's your time to do nothing but love. after a while you'll turn to the work, and you'll do things easily then that were hard to do before." how had he known? for nothing had ever been more true than that. she knew this morning that she could do things easily now which had been hard to do before. one of the very best things about this curious, old-fashioned house was that it had an attic which had all the possibilities of a studio. just a little remodeling--and paris itself could do no better. to that attic she turned just as soon as karl had gone over to the university. her things had been carried up; now for a fine morning of sorting them out! but instead of attacking the unpacking and sorting and arranging she got no farther than a book of her sketches. sitting down on the floor she spread them all around her. despite the fact that she had not at once settled down to serious work, she made sketches everywhere, just rough, hasty little things--"bubbles of joy" she called them to karl. it seemed now that these were counting for more than she had thought. everything was counting for more than she had thought! something of the joy of it carried her back to the days when she was a little girl and had had such happy times with her blackboard. the thought came that now, out of her great happiness, she must pay back to the blackboard all that it had given her in those less happy days. work was but the overflow of love! during the last five months, when karl had been working in paris, she had studied with laplace. he had taken her in at once, rejoiced in her and scolded her. one day in an unguarded moment he said she knew something about colour. no one remembered his ever having said a thing like that before. and ernestine had seen a teardrop on his face when he stood before her picture of rain in the autumn woods. that teardrop was very precious to her. it seemed she could work years on just the memory of it. so there were many reasons why she felt like working this morning. all the loving and the living and the dreaming and the thinking and the working of a lifetime! karl had understood. her dream time! she loved that way of putting it. beautiful days to be cherished forever! how rich she was in the things she had known! how unstinted love had been with her! she wanted now to give with that same largeness, that same overwhelming richness, with which she had received. enthusiasm and desire and joy settled to fixed purpose. she began upon actual work. she kept at it until late in the afternoon. she had never had such a day, and the great thing about it was that it seemed a mere beginning, just an opening up. a new day had dawned; a day which meant, not the death of the dream days, but their reincarnation into life. those hours when she sat idly beneath blue skies, looking dreamily out upon beautiful vistas it seemed she should have been painting--how well, after all, they had done their work! dreams which she had not understood were making themselves plain to her now. the love days were translating themselves in terms of life and work. she wanted to glorify the world until it should be to all eyes as the eyes of love had made it to her. laplace had said once it was too bad she had married. she thought of that now, and smiled. she was sorry for any one who thought it too bad she had married! and then karl telephoned. would she come over to the university? he had been wanting to show her around, and this would be a good time. she dressed hurriedly, humming a little song they had heard often in paris. chapter viii science, art, and love from his window in the laboratory he saw her as she was coming across the campus, and waved. she waved back, and then wondered if it were proper to wave at learned professors who were looking from their windows. in one sense it was hard to comprehend that it was her karl who was such an important man about this great university. karl was so completely just her karl, so human and dear, and a great scientist seemed a remote abstraction. she must tell that to karl. he would enjoy himself as a remote abstraction. she was still smiling about karl's remoteness as she came into the building. he had come down to meet her. "you see i thought you might get lost," he explained. "i might have," she responded, and then laughed, for when people are very happy it is not at all difficult to laugh. "do you know what you look like?" he said. "you look like a kind of spiritualised rainbow--or like the flowers after the rain." "i dressed in five minutes," said ernestine, smoothing down her gown with the complacency of a woman who knows she has nothing to fear from scrutiny. "as if that had anything to do with it! you dress as the birds and flowers dress--by just being yourself." she let that bit of masculine ignorance pass with a wise little smile. they were in the laboratory now. "i came," said ernestine severely, "to listen to an elucidation of the mysteries of science." "then you had no business to come looking like this," he responded promptly. she was looking around the room. "and this is where all those great things are done?" "um--well this is where we make attempts at things." he was not quite through, and ernestine sat down by the window to wait for him. it seemed surprising, somehow, that it should be such a simple looking room. karl was doing something with some tubes, writing something on a chart-like thing. something in the expression of his face as he bent over the work carried her back to other days. "karl," she said abruptly, "why don't you and i have any quarrels about which is greater--science or art?" he looked up at her in such absolute astonishment that she laughed. "liebchen," he said, "don't you think that would be going a long way out of our road to hunt a quarrel? now i can think up much better subjects for a quarrel than that. for instance: do i love you more than you love me, or do you love me more than i love you? your subject makes me think of our old debating society. we used to get up and argue in thunderous tones something about which was worse--fire or water!" "but karl--it isn't logical that you and i should love each other this way!" he pushed back his work and turned squarely around to her. he was smiling in his tenderly humorous way. "well, sweetheart," he said, "would you rather be logical, or would you rather be happy?" "oh, i'm not insisting upon the logic. i'm just wondering about it." "isn't love greater than either a test tube or a paint brush?" karl asked softly. she nodded, smiling at him lovingly. he sat there looking a long way ahead. she knew he was thinking something out. "ernestine," he began, "do you ever think much about the _oneness_ of the world?" "why, yes--i do, but i didn't suppose you did." "but, liebchen--who would be more apt to think about it than i? doesn't my work teach oneness more than it teaches anything else? all the quarrelling comes through a failure to recognise the oneness. i often think of the different ways goethe and darwin got at evolution. goethe had the poetic conception of it all right; darwin worked it out step by step. who's ahead? and which has any business scoffing at the other?" he went back to his notes, and her thoughts returned to the battles she had heard fought in the name of science. she looked about the room, out at the great buildings all around, and then back to karl, who seemed soul of it all. how different all this was! what would her father think to hear a man like karl hubers giving to a poet place in the developing of the theory of evolution? what _was_ the difference between karl and her father? was it that the school to which they belonged was itself changing, or was it just a difference in type? or, perhaps, most of all, was it not a difference in degree? her father had only seen a little way, and that down a narrow path bounded by high walls of bigotry. karl had reached the heights from which he could see the oneness! and was it not love had helped him to those heights? a little later, when karl was seeking to explain what he evidently regarded as a very simple little thing, and just as a few glimmers of light were beginning to penetrate her darkness, she looked up and at the half open door saw a boy whose consternation at sight of her made it difficult for ernestine to repress a smile. "come in, beason," said karl, who had just noticed him. "i want you to meet mrs. hubers." ernestine looked at karl suspiciously--something in his voice signified he was enjoying something. but there was nothing about mr. beason which signified any kind of enjoyment. he advanced to meet her sturdily, as one determined to do his duty at any cost. the boy was rendered peculiar in appearance by an abnormally long, heavy jaw, which gave his face a heavy, stolid appearance which might or might not be characteristic. he had small, sharp eyes, and ernestine was quite sure from one look at his face that he did not laugh often, or see many things to laugh about. he was not impenetrable to graciousness, however, for within five minutes he had told her that he was born in southern indiana, that he lived in minneapolis now, and that he had come to chicago to get some work with dr. hubers. upon hearing that ernestine immediately noticed what a remarkably intelligent face he had, and felt sure that that heavy jaw gave him a phlegmatic look which was most misleading. karl laughed as the boy went away. "funny fellow--beason. he'll have to cut away a lot of the trees before he gets a good look at the woods. never in his life has one gleam of humour penetrated him. in fact if a few humour cells were to creep in by mistake, they'd be so alien as to make a tremendous disturbance." "he seems to think a great deal of you," said ernestine, a little reproachfully. "oh, yes; and i like him. i like the fellow first rate. he's a splendid worker--conscientious, absolutely to be depended upon. 'way ahead of lots of these fellows around here who think they know it all. but he has those uncompromising ideas about science; ready to fight for it at the drop of the hat. oh, beason's all right. we need his sort. i'll tell you whom i do want you to meet, ernestine, and that's hastings. you'll like him. he's such a success as a human being. he's more like the old-time professor of the small college, has a fatherly, benevolent feeling toward all the students. you see we're so big here that we haven't many of the small college characteristics about us. it's each fellow doing his own work, and not that close comradeship that there is in the small school. but hastings is a connecting link. then, on the other hand, there's lane. you must meet him too, for he's a rare specimen: pedantic, academic; i don't know just why they have him, he doesn't represent the spirit of the place at all. he's entirely too erudite to be of much use. but i'll let parkman tell you about lane. oh, but he hates him! they met here in the laboratory one day and upon my soul i thought parkman was going to pick him up and throw him out the window." as they were looking through the general laboratory they met professor hastings, and she could see at once what karl meant. he was apparently a man of about sixty, and kindness was written large upon him. ernestine could fancy his looking after students who were ill, and trying to devise some way of helping the poverty-stricken boy through another year in college. they left the building and sauntered slowly across the campus. almost in the centre of the quadrangle ernestine stopped and looked all around. she was beginning to feel what it was for which the university of chicago stood. it was not "college life," all those things vital to the undergraduate heart, which this university suggested. she fancied there might be things the undergraduate would miss here; she was even a little glad her own college days had been spent at the smaller school. as she stood looking about at building upon building she had visions, not of boys and girls singing their college songs, but of men and women working their way toward truth. she looked from one red roof to another, and each building seemed to her a separate channel through which men were working ahead to the light. it was a place for research, for striving for new knowledge, for clearing the way. she turned her face for the moment to the north; there was great chicago, where men fought for wealth and power, chicago, with all the enthusiasm of youth, and the arrogance of youthful success, with all the strength of youthful muscle, all the power and possibility of young brain and heart. this seemed far away from the board of trade, from state street and michigan avenue. but was not the spirit of it all one? this, too, was chicago, the chicago which had fought its way through criticism, indifference and jeers to a place in the world of scholarship. people who knew what they were talking about did not laugh at the university of chicago any more. it had too much to its credit to be passed over lightly. men were doing things here; she felt all about her the ideas here in embryo. how would they develop? where would they strike? what things now slumbering here would step, robust and mighty, into the next generation? and greatest of all these was karl! she turned to him with flushed, glowing face. he had been watching her, following much of her thought. "i like this place," she said--her eyes telling all the rest. "i was not sure i was going to, but i do." chapter ix as the surgeon saw it "but, karl, you _must!_" "i tell you, my dear, i can't!" "well, i think it's just--" "now, ernestine,"--in tones maddeningly calm and conciliatory--"you go on down to parkman's office and i'll come just as soon as i can. now be sensible--there's a good girl." "well, i call it _mean!_"--this after hanging up the receiver. "i don't care,"--still talking into the telephone, as if there were satisfaction in having something understand--"it's not _nice_ of karl." they had an engagement with dr. parkman for dinner at his club, to meet some people he wanted her to know, and now karl had telephoned from the laboratory at the last minute that he was not ready to leave and for her to go on down alone. "and he'll come late--and not dressed--and they'll think,"--she went over and sat down by the window to enjoy the mournful luxury of contemplating just what they would think. couldn't he go over to the laboratory a little earlier in the morning and finish up this terribly important thing? was it nice of a man to have people being _sorry_ for his wife? was it considerate of karl to ask her to put on this pearl-coloured dress and then let her go down in the train all alone? she would telephone dr. parkman that they could not come. then karl would be sorry! but no--severely and with dignity--she would show that one member of the family had some sense of the conventions. oh, yes--this in long-suffering vein--she would do _her_ part, and would also do her best to make up for karl. no doubt she might as well become accustomed to that first as last. going down in the train she had a very clear picture of herself as the poor, neglected wife of the man absorbed in his work. she saw so many reasons for being unhappy. was it kind the way karl had told her in that first letter about some other woman in his life, and then had never so much as revealed to her that other woman's name? where did this woman live? when had karl known her? how _well_ had he known her? and all the while her sense of humour was striving to make attacks upon her and the consciousness in her inmost heart that all this was absurd and most unworthy only made her the more persistently forlorn. she had never been to dr. parkman's office, and she was not very familiar with chicago--had it never occurred to karl she might get lost and have some unfortunate experience? but fate did not favour her mood, and she reached the office in safety. dr. parkman did not seem at all surprised at seeing her alone, which flamed the fire anew. "he hasn't backed out?" he demanded, laughing a little. she explained with considerable dignity that her husband had been detained at the laboratory, that he regretted it exceedingly, but would be with them just as soon as circumstances permitted. he took her into his private office, and ernestine was too sincere a lover of beautiful things to be wholly miserable in a room like that. "why, this doesn't look like an office," she exclaimed. "it's more like a pet room in a beautiful home." he laughed, not mirthfully. "i hardly think you could call it that, but this is where i spend a good deal of my time, so i tried to make it livable." he was busy at his desk, and she watched his hands. she was thinking that she would like to paint a picture and call it "the surgeon." she would leave the man's face and figure in shadow, concentrating the light upon those hands, letting them tell their own story. the whole man stood for force. she was sure that he always had his way about things, that he simply took for granted having his own way. yet there was something in which he had not had his way. karl had told her a little about that; she must ask him more about it. it seemed suddenly that there was something pathetic about this beautiful room. did it not reflect a man trying to make up to himself for the things he did not have? it was a room which suggested pleasant hours and fine, quiet enjoyment. the deep, leather chairs seemed made for long, intimate conversations. the dark red tapestry, the oak panelling, this richly toned rug, the few real pictures, the little odds and ends suggestive of remote corners of the world--it seemed a setting for some beautiful companionship, some close sympathy, a place where one would like to sit for hours and be just one's self. but was not dr. parkman's life lacking in the very things of which this bespoke an appreciation? there was a subtle pathos in a beautiful room which breathed loneliness. she thought of their own library at home, quick to sense the difference. the doctor went into an adjoining room, and her thoughts were broken by the low murmur of voices. then the inner door opened; he was showing a man through to the outer office. the man stumbled over the rug, and at his exclamation ernestine looked up. her own face paled; she half rose from her chair;--the native impulse to do something. she looked at dr. parkman. his face was entirely masked. the man passed into the outer room, leaving behind him something which caused ernestine's heart to beat fast. the doctor walked slowly over to his chair and sat down. he seemed unconscious of her for a moment, and then he looked at her and saw that she had seen and that she wanted to know. "you'd think a man would get used to it," he said in his short, gruff way. "you'd think it would become a matter of course, but it doesn't. that man's wife is dying of cancer. it's not an operable case. i told him that to-day. he asked for the truth and i gave it. i even gave my estimate of the time." he swung his chair around and looked out at the roof of the building below, and then turned sharply back to her. "you said a while ago that this looked like a home. well, it's not. it's like a good many other things--empty show. where that man lives, it's not much for looks, but it _is_ a home, and this means--breaking it up. in there a minute ago, i told him he had to lose the only thing in life he cares anything about. he--oh, well!" and with one of his abrupt changes, he turned away. but ernestine was leaning forward in her chair. her lips were parted. her eyes were very dark. "cancer--you say, doctor?"--her voice was so low he could barely catch it. "cancer?" he nodded, looking at her intently. "but that's what karl's working on! that's what karl's doing this very minute!" "yes, and do you ever think of it like that? do you ever think of the lives and homes he is going to save; the tragedies and heartbreaks he is going to avert; the children he is going to keep from being motherless or fatherless if he does do this thing?--and i believe with all my heart he will! i tell you, mrs. hubers, you want to help him! i'm not sorry you saw that little thing just now. it will show you the other side of it--the human side. and there wasn't anything unusual in it. all over the world, physicians are doing this same thing every day--telling people it's hopeless, admitting there's nothing to be done. then think of the tremendousness of this work karl hubers is doing!--where it strikes--the hearts breaking for it--the thousands praying for it! is it any wonder we're watching it? interested? i tell you _we_ know what it means." she was unconscious of the tear on her cheek, of the quivering of her face. "and karl is doing that? _that_ is what karl's work means?" "karl's work simply means giving into our hands the power to save more lives. now we're doing the best we can with what we have--but god knows we're short on power! we're groping around in the dark. karl's work means letting in the light." his voice had grown warm. something had fallen from him--leaving him himself. in his eyes was a wealth of unspeakable feeling. "doctor, i want to thank you!"--but it was her face thanked him most eloquently. she was glad when he left her for a minute before they finally went away. her heart was very full. this was karl! this the real meaning of karl's work! to think she had looked at it in that small, paltry way--that even in her thoughts she had put the slightest stumbling block in his path. this very afternoon had come new inspiration and she had resented it, had said small, mean things in her heart because he stayed to work out his precious thoughts. why, it would have been fairly criminal for karl to run away from that call of his work! she wanted to tell him all about it; she yearned to "make it up to him," make him more happy than he had ever been before. she dwelt upon it all until, when dr. parkman came in for her, he was startled at the light shining from her face. chapter x karl in his laboratory one of their favourite speculations, as the days went on, was as to whether any one had ever been so happy before. they argued it from all sides, in a purely unprejudiced and dispassionate manner, and always arrived at the conclusion that of course no one ever had. "because," ernestine would say, "no one ever had so many reasons for being happy." "and if they had," he would respond, "they would have said something about it." ernestine worked that winter as she had never worked before. that first day had not been a deceptive one. she had done some of the things which something within her heart assured her that day she could do. the best thing she had done she sent to laplace, as he had asked her to. "it's considered rather superior to disdain the salon," she said to karl, the day they packed the canvas, "but paris seems the only way of proving to americans that good can come out of america." she had heard from laplace that the picture would be hung. his brief comment had been that america could not be so bad as was sometimes said. she was eager now to hear more about it. she would surely have a letter very soon. and she and karl were so happy! it had been such a glorious, wholesome, splendidly worth while winter. it was one afternoon in early spring that over in the laboratory john beason and professor hastings were talking of dr. hubers. "but that isn't all of it," said professor hastings in the midst of a discussion. "this fanaticism for veracity huxley talks about isn't all of it by any means. any of us can get together a lot of facts. it takes the big man to know what the facts mean." "somebody said that truth was the soul of facts," said beason, in the uncertain way he talked of anything outside tabulated knowledge. "but i suppose that's just one of those things people say." "yes--but is it? isn't it true? why is hubers greater than the rest of us? it isn't that he works harder. we all work. it isn't that he's more exact. we're all exact. isn't it that very thing of having a genius for getting the soul out of his facts? that man looks a long way ahead--smells truth away off, as it were. i tell you, mr. beason, scientific training kills many men for research work. they're afraid to move more than inch by inch. they won't take any jumps. now dr. hubers jumps; i've seen him do it. of course, after he's made his jump he goes back and sees that there aren't any ditches in between, but he's not afraid of a leap in the dark. that's his own peculiar gift. most of us are not made for jumping." "but that doesn't sound like the scientific method," said beason, brows knitted. "i'll admit it wouldn't do for general practice," replied the older man, a twinkle in his eye. "the spirit has to move you, or you wouldn't gain anything but a broken neck." "yes, but that thing of a spirit moving you," said beason, more sure of himself here, "that does not belong in science at all; that is a part of religion." "and to a man like dr. hubers"--very quietly and firmly--"science is religion." beason pondered that a minute. "they're entirely distinct," was his conclusion. "so it seems to you; but i'm a year or two older than you are, mr. beason, and the longer i live the more firmly i believe that there is such a thing as an intuitive sense of truth. if there isn't, why is dr. hubers a greater man than i am?"--and with that he left him, smiling a little at how it had never occurred to beason to say anything polite. beason was in truth much perturbed. it was not pleasing to have the greatness of his idol explained on unscientific principles. he did not like that idea of the jumps. jumping sounded unscientific, and what could be worse than to say of a man that he was not scientific? preposterous to say the greatest things of science were achieved by unscientific methods! to-day dr. hubers had been all afternoon alone in his laboratory. some one had brought him in some luncheon at noon, but since one o'clock the door had not opened, and now it was almost five. what was going on in there? even beason had the imagination to wonder. could he have seen he would not have been much enlightened. the man was sitting before a table, his arms reaching out in front of him--some tubes, his microscope, other things he had been working with within reach, but unheeded now. for he was not seeing now the detail, the immediate. this was not one of those moments of advancing step by step. the light in those eyes of wonderful sight was the light from a farther distance. a way had opened ahead; far out across dim places he could see it now. the afternoon had been a momentous one. he had taken a step leading to a greater height, and with the greater height came a wider vision. a few of those minutes such as he was living now fires a man for months--yes, years, of work. ahead were days when the fires of inspiration would be in abeyance, when the work would be only a working of step by step--detail, some would call it drudgery. but it is in these moments of inspiration man qualifies for the fight. in the hours of working onward toward the light he may grow very weary, but he can never forget that one day, for just a moment, the light opened to him. moments such as karl hubers was living now mark the great man from the small. and his glowing moment was more than a promise; it was also a reward. it was spring now, and all through the winter he had worked hard. he had come back in the fall determining in the gratitude of his great happiness to do the best work of his life. he pulled his microscope over in front of him and looked over it after the manner of one dreaming. how many days he had come to it eager to note the slightest significance in its variations of colour, for the staining of the slides made colour count in his work almost as it did in ernestine's, only to be met with the non-essential, more of the husk and no sight of the kernel. he smiled a little to think what a bulky and stupid volume it would make were he to write down all he had done. if each hope, each possibility, each experiment and verification were to be put down, he could quite rival in bulk a government report. and if added to that should be a report of the cases he had watched, the operations he had attended, the attempts at getting living matter and of working with dead, how large and how useless that volume would be were it to contain it all! he had done days and days of useless work to get the slightest thing that was significant. only the week before ernestine had laughingly read him an article one of the popular magazines printed on cancer research. the whole thing is becoming a farce--so said the popular magazine. every once in a while some man issues a report saying the germ is in sight. then another man appears with a still more learned report saying it is not a germ at all. all doing different things, and all sure they are on the right track! meanwhile the disease is on the increase, surgery cannot meet it satisfactorily, and while laboratories pursue the peaceful tenor of their way, men and women are dying hard deaths which no one seems able to stay. truly, the man behind the microscope is a very slow man the article had concluded. no doubt that seemed true. he could see the writer's point of view well enough. the things the man behind the microscope did accomplish sounded so very easy that the on-looker could give only indolence and stupidity as the reason for not accomplishing a great deal more. and even from his own point of view, with his own knowledge of all the facts in the case, he had no doubt that once done it would sound so easy that he would stand amazed to think it had not been done before. let the unknown become the known, and even the trained worker cannot look upon it as other than a matter of course. it was so easy now to meet diphtheria. strange they had let so many children die of it! it was so very easy now to give a man an anesthetic. fearful how they had let a man suffer through every stroke of the knife, or die for need of it! should he blame the man outside for looking at it that way when even to him things accomplished took on that matter of course aspect? he began putting away his things. it was ernestine's birthday, and he had promised to be home early, for they were going to the theatre. "it will be like all the rest," he mused. "once done, it will seem so easy that we will wonder why it was not done long before." again the fire leaped high within him. to do it! perhaps after all he did see it too complexly. he must not let the husk dull his eye to the kernel. a man building a beautiful tower must erect a scaffold. but the scaffolding should not make him forget the tower! some way in this last hour his mind had seemed to clear. his immense amount of useless work was not hanging about his neck like a millstone. something had cut that away. he was free from it all. he could feel within himself that his approach to his problem was better than it had been before. perhaps he had made the mistake of the others of looking at it as something fearfully complex, something it would be the hardest thing in all the world for any man to do. it all looked more simple now. it was as if muscles strained to the point of tenseness had relaxed, and in an easy and natural way he foresaw victory as a logical part of his work. he was happy to-night, light-hearted. the windows of the laboratory were open to the soft air of that glorious day of early spring, and his spirit was open too, open to the soul of the world, taking unto itself the sweet and simple spirit of the men who have done the greatest things. from his window he could see one of the tennis courts. some of the students were playing. "good!" he exclaimed enthusiastically to himself, as he watched a return that had looked impossible. he was glad they were playing tennis. why shouldn't they? professor hastings heard him whistling softly to himself--a german love song--as he walked through the big laboratory, and catching a glimpse of the younger man's face, he nodded his head and smiled. it had been a good afternoon--that was plain. now let there be more afternoons like this--and then--to think it should be done right here under his very eyes! was not that joy enough for any man? on the steps of the building karl stopped suddenly, put his hand in his inner pocket and drew out a small box. yes, it was there all right, and a girl passing up the steps just then was amazed and much fluttered to think dr. hubers should be smiling so beautifully at her. in fact, dr. hubers did not know that the girl was passing. she had simply been in the direction of his smile; and he was smiling because it was ernestine's birthday, and because he had so beautiful a present for her. he walked along very fast. he could scarcely wait to see her face when he gave it to her. too bad he had kept her waiting so long! chapter xi pictures in the embers they were back home now. "why, mary has intuitions," laughed ernestine, when she saw that a fire had been lighted in the library, and was in just the proper state for seeing pictures. "a girl who knew we would want a fire has either been in love or ought to be. at any rate, she knows we are." "this is the kind of a night when a fire serves artistic purposes only. you don't need it, so you have to enjoy it all the more." "still, these spring evenings are damp," she insisted, defending the fire. "it doesn't feel at all uncomfortable." "and looks immense," he added, turning down the gas and pulling up a seat just right for sitting before the fire. she leaned over, holding her hand so close to the flame that he wondered at first what she was doing. "see!" she cried, "see my ruby in the firelight, karl! it's just a piece of it right up here on my hand!" "and i suppose,"--seeming to be injured--"that during the remainder of my life, i may play second fiddle to that ring. oh, ernestine--you're a woman! i was mortified to death at the theatre. you didn't look at the play at all. you just sat and looked down at that ring. oh, i saw through that thing of not being able to fasten your glove!" she was twisting her hand about to show off the stone--any woman of any land who has ever owned a ring knows just how to do it. "see, dear!" she laughed exultantly, "it _is_ fire! you can see things in it just as you can in the coals." but he was not looking at the ring. there were things to be seen in her face and he was looking at them. he loved this child in her. was it in all women when they love, he wondered, as many other men have wondered of other women, or was it just ernestine? "it was a dreadful thing for you to get it," she scolded,--these affectionate scoldings were a great joy to him. "it's a ridiculous thing for a poor college professor--that's you--to buy a ruby ring. why, rubies exist just to show millionaires how rich they are! and it's a scandalous thing for a poor man's wife--that's i--to be wearing a real ruby!" then her other hand went over the ring, and clasping both to her breast she laughed gleefully: "but it's mine! they'll not get it now!" "who wants it, foolish child?" he asked, pressing her head to his shoulder and holding the ring hand in his. she moved a little nearer to him. "see some pictures for me in the fire," she commanded. "see something nice." "i see a beautiful lady wearing a beautiful ring. see?--right under that top piece of coal. the ring is growing larger and larger and larger. now it is so large you can't see the lady at all, just nothing but the ring." she laughed. "now see one that isn't silly. see a beautiful one." "liebchen, i see two people who are growing old. see?--right down here. one of them must be sixty now, and one about seventy, but they're smiling just as they did when they were young. and they're whispering that they love each other a great deal better now than they did in those days of long ago; that it has grown and grown until it is a bigger thing than the love of youth ever dreamed of." "that _is_ nice," she murmured happily. "that would be a nice picture to paint." they were silent for a time, perhaps both seeing pictures of their own. "it's growing late," said ernestine, a little drowsily, "but then, i'll never have this birthday again." "and it was happy?" he asked tenderly. "just as happy as you wanted it to be?" "so happy that i hate to see it go. it was--just right." "weren't any of the others happy, dear?"--he was stroking her hair, thinking that it too had caught little touches of the fire-light. "none of the others were perfect. of course, last year was our first one together, and"--a shudder ran through her. "i know, dear," he hastened; "i know that wasn't a perfect day." "before that," she went on, after a minute of looking a long way into the fire, "something always happened. my birthday seemed ill-fated. that was why i wanted a happy one so much--to make up for all the others. this day began right by the work going so splendidly. is there anything much more satisfying than the feeling which comes at the close of a good day's work? it puts you on such good terms with yourself, convinces you that you have a perfect right to be alive. then this afternoon i read some things which i had read long ago and didn't understand then as i do now. you see, there was a great deal i didn't know before i loved you, karl; and books are just human enough to want to be met half way." "like men," he commented, meeting her then a trifle more than half way. "yes, they have to be petted and fussed over, just like men. now, karl, are you listening or are you not?" he assured her that he was listening. "then, this afternoon, georgia came out and we went for a row on the lagoon in jackson park. did you happen to look out and see how beautiful it was this afternoon, karl? i wish you would do that once in a while. germs and cells and things aren't so very aesthetic, you know, and i don't like to have you miss things. i was thinking about you as we passed the university. it seemed such a big, wonderful place, and i love to think of what it is your work really means. i _am_ so proud of you, karl!" "and was it nice down there?" he asked, just to bring her back to her story of the day. "so beautiful! you and i must go often now that the spring evenings have come. there is one place where you come out from a bridge, and can see the german building, left from the world's fair, across a great sweep of lights and shadows. people who want to go to europe and can't, should go down there and look at that. it's so old-worldish. "then georgia and i had a fine talk,"--after another warm, happy silence. "georgia never was so nice. she was telling me all about a man. i shouldn't wonder; but i mustn't tell even you--not yet. then i came home and here were the beautiful flowers from dr. parkman. karl--you _did_ tell him! honest now--you did--and it was awful. why didn't you put it in the university paper so that all the students could send me things? that nice boy, harry wyman, wrote a poem about me--'to the lovely lady'--now you needn't laugh! and oh, i don't know, but it all seemed so beautiful and right when i came home this afternoon. i love our house more and more. i love those funny knobs on the doors, and this library seems just _us_! i was so happy i couldn't keep from singing, and you know i can't sing at all. then _you_ came home! you had the box out in your hand--i saw it clear across the street. you were smiling just like a boy. i shall never forget how you looked as you gave me the ring. i think, after all, that look was my _real_ birthday gift.--now, karl, don't you _know_ you shouldn't have bought such a ring? but, oh!--i, _am_ so happy, sweetheart." he kissed her. his heart was very full. there was nothing he could say, so he kissed her again and laid his cheek upon her hair. he knew she was growing sleepy. sleep was coming to her as it does to the child who has had its long, happy day. but like the child, she would not give up until the last. it was true, he was sure, that she was loath to let the day go. "the play to-night was very nice," she said, rousing a little, "but so short-sighted." "short-sighted, liebchen? how?" "so many things in literature stop short when the people are married. i think that's such an immature point of view--just as if that were the end of the story. and when they write stories about married people they usually have them terribly unhappy about having to live together, and wishing they could live with some one else. it seems to me they leave out the best part." "the best part, i suppose, meaning us?" "yes!" "but, dear, if you and i were written up, just as we are, we'd be called two idiots." "would we?"--her head was caressing his coat. "have you ever thought how a stenographic or phonographic report of some of our conversations would sound?" "beautiful," she murmured. "crazy!" he insisted. "perhaps the world didn't mean people to be so happy as we are,"--her words stumbled drowsily. "the world isn't as good to many people as it is to us. oh, sweetheart--why,"--he held her closely but very tenderly, for he knew she was going to sleep--"why are we so happy?" "because i'm the--lovely--lady,"--it came from just outside the land of dreams. it was sweet to have her go to sleep in his arms like this. he trembled with the joy of holding her, looking at her face with eyes of tenderest love, rejoicing in her, worshipping her. he went over the things she had said, his whole being mellowed, divinely exultant, at thought of her going to sleep just because she was tired from her day of happiness. long ago his mother had taught him to pray, and he prayed now that he might keep her always as she was to-day, that he might guard her ever as she had that sense now of being guarded, that her only weariness might come as this had come, because she was so happy. how beautiful she was as she slept! the lovely lady--that boy had said it right, after all. and she was his!--his treasure--his joy--his sweetest thing in life! he had heard a discussion over at the university a few days before about the equality of man and woman. how foolish that seemed in this divine moment! god in his great far-sightedness had given to the world a masculine and a feminine soul. how insane to talk of their being alike, when the highest happiness in life came through their being so entirely different! and she was his! other men could send her flowers--write poems about her loveliness--but she was his, all his. his to love and cherish and protect--to work for--live for! he kissed her, and her eyes opened. "poor little girl's so tired; but she'll have to wake up enough to go to bed." she smiled, murmured something that sounded like "happy day," and went to sleep again. the fire had died low. he sat there a minute longer dreaming before it, thanking god for a home, for work and love and happiness. then he picked ernestine up in his arms as one would pick up the little child too tired to walk to bed. "oh, liebchen," he breathed in tender passion, as she nestled close to him,--"ich liebe dich!" chapter xii a warning and a premonition it put him very much out of patience to have his eyes bothering him just when he was so anxious to work. what in the world was the matter with them, he wondered, as he directed a couple of students on some work they were helping him with. it seemed that yesterday afternoon he had taken a new start; now he was eager to work things out while he felt like this. this was a very inopportune time for a cold, or whatever it was, to settle in his eyes. perhaps the lights at the theatre last night, and then the wind coming home--but he smiled an intimate little smile with himself at thought of last night and forgot all about that sandy feeling in his eyes. during the morning it almost passed away. when he thought of it at all, it was only to be thankful it was not amounting to anything, for he was anxious to do a good day's work. he would hate it if anything were to happen to his eyes and he had to wear glasses! he had never had the slightest trouble with them; in fact they had served him so well that he never gave them any thought. the idea came now of how impossible it would be to do anything without them. his work depended entirely on seeing things right; it was the appearance of things in their different stages which told the story. dr. hubers had a queer little trick with his eyes; the students who worked with him had often noticed it. he had a way of resting his finger in the corner of his eye when thinking. sometimes it would rest in one eye for awhile, and then if he became a little restless, moved under a new thought, he would slip his finger meditatively over his nose to the corner of the other eye. it did not signify anything in particular, merely an unconscious mannerism. some men pull their hair, others gnaw their under lip, and with him it was a queer little way of rubbing his finger in his eye. it was saturday, and that was always a good day for him as he could give all of his time to the laboratory. he was especially anxious to have things go well this morning, as he wanted to stop at two o'clock and go down to one of dr. parkman's operations. that end of it was very important and this was to be an especially good operation. he was thinking about dr. parkman on the way down;--of the man's splendid surgery. it was a real joy to see him work. he did big things so very easily and quietly; not at all as though they were overwhelming him. poor parkman--things should have gone differently with him. if it had been almost any other man, it would have mattered less, but it seemed a matter of a lifetime with parkman. he could understand that better now than he once had. to have found ernestine and then--then to have found she was _not_ ernestine! but of course in the case of ernestine that could not be. now if parkman had only found an ernestine--but then he couldn't very well, for there was only one! since the first of time, there had been only one--and she was his! he fell to dreaming of how she had looked last night in the fire-light, and almost forgot the station at which he was to get off. he was in very jubilant mood when they went down to dr. parkman's office after the operation. it had verified some of his own conclusions; seemed fairly to stand as an endorsement of what he held. he had never felt more sure of himself, had never seen his way more clearly. it was a great thing to have facts bear one out, to see made real what one had believed to be true. he went over it all with parkman, putting his case clearly, convincingly, his points standing out true and unassailable; throwing away all the irrelevant, picking out unerringly, the little kernel of truth;--a big mind this, a mind qualified to cope with big problems. dr. parkman had never seen so clearly as he did to-day how absolutely his friend possessed those peculiar qualities the work demanded. he had never felt more sure of karl's power; and power did not cover it--not quite. "something in your eye?" he asked when, just as karl was about to leave, he seemed to be bothered with his eye, and was rubbing it a little. "i don't know. it's felt off and on all day as though something was the matter with them both." "want me to take a look at them?" "oh no--no, it's nothing." "by the way, you have a bad trick with your eyes. i've noticed it several times lately and intended to tell you about it. you have a way of rubbing them;--not rubbing them exactly, but pressing your finger in them. i'd quit that if i were you. if you must put your finger somewhere, put it on your nose. a man dealing with the stuff you do can't be too careful." "why, what do you mean?" "simply what i say. one drop of some of those things you have out there would be--a drop too much." "now, look here, you don't think i'm any such a bungler as that, do you?" "hum! you ought to know your medical history well enough to know that all the victims haven't been bunglers, by a long sight." karl's hand was on the knob. "well, don't worry about me; i'm not built for a victim. i may be run over by an automobile--anybody is liable to be run over by yours, the way you run that thing--but i'm not liable to be killed by my own sword. that's not the way i work." "just the same, you'd better keep your hands out of your eyes!" "all right," he agreed laughingly. "it does sound like a fool's trick. it's new to me;--didn't know that i did it." when he was making some calls late that evening, dr. parkman passed the university and for some reason recalled what karl had said that afternoon about his eyes bothering him. why hadn't he examined them; or better still, one of the best oculists in the city was right there in the building--why hadn't he made karl go in to see him? it was criminal for a man like that to neglect his eyes! he was near the hubers now; he had an impulse to run over and make sure that everything was all right. he slowed up the machine and looked at his watch. no, it was almost eleven; he would not go now. after all he was silly to be attaching any weight to such a thing as a man's rubbing his eyes. he smiled a little as he thought of it that way. karl wasn't bothering about it; so why should he? but he had it on his mind, thinking of it frequently until he went to bed. and the thing which worried him most was that he was worrying a great deal more than the facts in the case warranted. he was not given to taking notions, and that was just what this seemed. one would suppose that a man like hubers would be able to look out for himself,--"but for a fool, give me a great man!" was the thought with which the doctor went to sleep. chapter xiii an uncrossed bridge karl awoke next morning with the sense of something wrong. something was making him uncomfortable, but he was not wide enough awake at first to locate the trouble. he lay there dozing for a few minutes and when he roused again he knew that his eyes were hurting badly. he awakened instantly then. his eyes? why, they had bothered him a little all day yesterday. was there something the matter with them? he got up, raised the shade and looked in the glass. they looked badly irritated, both of them. they felt wretchedly; he could scarcely keep looking into the glass. then leaning over the dressing table, he looked more closely. he thought he saw something he did not like. he took a hand mirror and went to the window. he could see better now, and the better light verified the other one. it was true that in the corner of one eye there was a drop of pus. in the other there was a suggestion of the same thing. he began to dress, proceeding slowly, his brows knitted, evidently thinking about something, and worried. then he opened a drawer, took out a handkerchief, got the drop of pus from his eye and arranged the handkerchief for preserving it. he would find out about that, and the sooner the better! he did not like it. he would see an oculist, too, this morning. it was plain he was going to have some trouble with his eyes. ernestine noticed them at once. what made them so red?--she wanted to know. did they hurt? and wasn't there something he could put in them? he told her he was going to look after them at once. he could not afford to lose any time, and of course he could do nothing without his eyes. immediately after breakfast he started over to the laboratory. it was sunday morning and there would be no one there, which was so much the better. he wanted to get this straightened out. he had his head down all the way over to the university, partly because his eyes bothered him and partly because he was thinking hard. the trouble had evidently been coming on yesterday. he stopped short. that trick parkman told him about! but of course--moving on a little--that could not have anything to do with this. he had no recollection--he was very sure--then he walked faster, and the lines of his mouth told that he was troubled. when he reached the laboratory he began immediately upon the microscopic examination. he hoped he could get at it through that, for the culture process meant a long wait. but after fifteen minutes of careful work the "smear" proved negative. there remained then only the longer route of the culture. he did not begin upon that immediately. he sat there trying to think back to just what it was he had been doing friday afternoon. the latter part of the afternoon he had been sitting here by this table. that was the time he was so buoyed up--getting so fine a light on the thing. it was the cancer problem then--but in the nature of things nothing could have happened with that. but there were always other things--all those things known to the pathological laboratory. he turned around toward the culture oven, opened the outer door and through the inner door of glass looked in at the row of tubes. he was trying to recall what it was he had been working with the earlier part of friday afternoon. he knew now; one of the tubes had brought it to him. yes, he knew now, and within him there was a pause, and a stillness. right over there was where he sat preparing some cultures. there were two things with which he had been working;--again a pause, and a stillness. one of them could not make any serious difference; he went that far firmly, and then his heart seemed to stand quite still, waiting for his thought to go on. but he did not go on; there was a little convulsive clutching of his consciousness, and a return, with acclaim, to the fact that _that_ could not make any serious difference. he clung there; he would not leave that; doggedly, defiantly, insistently, all-embracingly he affirmed that _that_ could not make any serious difference. it was without opening his thought to anything further that he got out his things and began preparing the culture. he was so accustomed to this that it went very mechanically and quickly. he took one of the test tubes arranged for the process in the culture oven and with the small wire instrument he had there, lifted the drop of pus on the handkerchief into the bullion of the tube. he did it all very carefully, very exactly, just as he always did. then he put the tuft of cotton over the top and placed the tube in that strange-looking box commonly called a culture oven. in twenty-four hours he would know the truth. he adjusted the gas with a firm hand, arranging with his usual precision this thing which outwardly was like any of his experiments and which in reality--but he would not go into that. now for an oculist. his eyes were hurting badly; it was time to do whatever there was to be done. after all he was rather jumping at conclusions. there was a big chance that this was just something characteristic to eyes and had no relation to the things of his work. he seized upon that, ridiculing himself for having looked right over the most simple and natural explanation of all. did not a great many people have trouble with their eyes? that nerved him up all the way down town. he was almost ready to think it a great joke, the way he had hurried over to the laboratory and had gone at it in that life-and-death fashion. he knew that the oculist in dr. parkman's building was a good one, and so he went there. it was a little disconcerting when he stepped into the elevator to meet dr. parkman himself. he had not thought of trying especially to avoid the doctor, but he had wanted to see the oculist first and get the thing straightened out. he was counting a great deal now on the oculist. "hello!" said the doctor, seeming startled at first, and then after one sharp glance: "going up to see me?" "well, yes, after a little. fact of the matter is i thought i'd run in and let this eye fellow take a look at me." "eyes bothering you?" "somewhat." he said it shortly, almost curtly. when they reached the fifth floor, dr. parkman stepped out with him, although he himself belonged farther up. "i know him pretty well," he explained, "i'll go with you." he could not very well say: "i would rather you would not," although for some reason he felt that way. it was soon clear to their initiated minds that the oculist did not know the exact nature of the trouble. he admitted that the case perplexed him. he, too, must make an examination of the pus. he treated karl's eyes, and advised that they begin upon an immediate and aggressive course of treatment. dr. parkman, observing karl's growing irritability, said that he would look after all that, see that the right thing was done. as he walked out of that office karl was a little dizzy. his avenue of hope had grown narrower. it was not, then, some affection characteristic of eyes. it was, after all, something from without. it was, in all probability, one of two things,--it was either--but again he did not go beyond the first, telling himself with nervous buoyancy that _that_ would not make any serious difference. they stepped into an elevator and went up. he knew parkman would ask him questions now, but it seemed he could not get away from the doctor if he tried. he felt just at present as though he had not strength to resist any one. that oculist, he admitted to himself, had taken a good deal of starch out of him. when they reached the office, dr. parkman offered him a drink; that irritated him considerably. "why no," he said, fretfully, "no--i don't want a drink. why should i take a drink? did you think i was all shot to pieces about something?" the doctor was looking over his mail, fingering it a great deal, but not seeming to accomplish much of anything with it. at last he wheeled around toward him. "what's the matter with your eyes?" he asked with disconcerting directness. "how should i know?" retorted karl, heatedly, almost angrily. "what do i know about it? if an oculist can't tell--you say he is a good one--why should you expect me to?" and then he added with a touch of eagerness, as if seizing upon a possibility: "i don't believe that fellow amounts to much. i think i'll go out now and hunt up somebody who knows something." "the man's all right," said dr. parkman shortly. his own foot was tapping the floor nervously. "you ought to have some idea," he added, with what he felt to be brutal insistence, "as to whether or not you got anything in your eyes." "well, i haven't! i don't know anything about it." but he was breathing hard. his whole manner told of fears and possibilities he was not willing to state. he would tell what he thought now in just a minute; the doctor knew that. he began with insisting, elaborately, that he never got things on his hands--that was not his way; and even if he did get something on his hands, he wouldn't get it in his eyes; even if he did rub his eyes sometimes--he didn't admit it--but even if he did, would he be such a fool as to rub them when he had something on his hands? but if, in spite of all those impossibilities, just admitting for the sake of argument, and because parkman insisted on being ominous, that it was something like that, there were two things it might be. it might be--he named the first with emphasis, and dr. parkman, after a minute's thought, heaved a big sigh of unmistakable relief. "now you see that couldn't make any vital difference," karl added, with a debonair manner, a thin veneer of aggressiveness. the doctor was leaning forward in his chair. he was beginning to grow fearful of the emphasis put upon this thing which could make no vital difference. karl stopped as though he had reached the end of his story. but the silence was wearing on him. his eyes had a hunted look. "why, you can see for yourself," he said--and this was the note of appeal--"that that could not make any vital difference." dr. parkman was looking at him narrowly. his own breath was coming hard. he saw at last that he would have to ask. "the--other?" he said, succeeding fairly well in gaining a tone of indifference. "heavens--how you fellows nag for details! how you drag at a man! well, the other--if you're so anxious to know"--the doctor's heart sank before the defiance of that--"the other is"--he looked all about him as one hunted, desperate, and then snapped it out and turned away, and instantly the room grew frightfully still. it struck dr. parkman like a blow from which one must have time to recover. steeled though he was to the hearing of tragic facts, he was helpless for the minute before this. and then, refusing to let it close in upon him, it was he who turned recklessly assertive, defiantly insistent. "any fool would know it's not that," he said, his gruff voice touched with bravado. there was one of those strange changes then. karl turned and faced him. "how do you know?" he asked, with a calm not to be thrust aside. "how do you know it's not that? you can't be sure," he pursued, and there was fairly cunning in forcing his friend upon it, cutting off all escape, "but there are just fifty chances out of a hundred that it _is_ that. and if it is," with a cold, impersonal sort of smile--"would you give very much for my chances of sight?" "you're talking like a fool!"--but beads of perspiration were on the doctor's forehead. and then, the professional man getting himself in hand: "you're overworked, karl. you're nervous. why i can fix this up for you. i'll just--" but before that steady, understanding gaze he could not go on. "not on me, parkman--," slowly and very quietly--"not on me. i know the ropes. don't try those little tricks on me. i don't need professional coddling, and i don't need professional lies. you see i happen to know just a little about the action of germs. we'll do the usual things, of course--that's mere scientific decency, but if this thing has really gotten in its work--oh i've studied these things a little too long, old man, i've watched them too many times, to be able to fool myself now." "well you will at least admit," said parkman--brusque because he was afraid to let himself be anything else--"that there are fifty chances out of a hundred in your favour?" karl nodded; he had leaned back in his chair; he seemed terribly tired. "come now, old chap--it isn't like you to surrender before the battle. we'll prepare to meet the foe--though i give you my word of honour i don't expect the enemy to show up. this isn't in the cards. i _know_ it." karl roused a little. there was a bracing note in that vehemence. "well, don't ask me to do any crossing of a bridge before i come to it. i think our friend down stairs is thinking of hospitals and nurses and all kinds of quirks that would drive me crazy. tell him i know what i'm about. tell him to let me alone!" "all right," laughed the doctor, knowing karl too well to press the matter further just then, "though, of course, common-sense demands quiet and a dark room." "ernestine will darken our rooms at home," said karl stubbornly. it was strange how quickly they could turn to the refuge of everyday phrases, could hide their innermost selves within their average selves as the only shelter which opened to them. there was something dr. parkman wanted to do for him, and they went into the treatment room. in there they spoke about meeting for dinner,--ernestine had asked the doctor to come out. georgia and her mother were coming too, karl told him, and the interview closed with some light word about not being late for dinner. chapter xiv "to the great unwhimpering!" "tell me some good stories about doctors," said georgia; "i want to use them in something i'm going to write." "isn't it dreadful?" said mrs. mccormick, turning to dr. parkman, "she even interviews people while they eat!" mrs. mccormick had that manner of some mothers of seeming to be constantly disapproving, while not in the least concealing her unqualified admiration. "i'm not interviewing them, mother. skillful interviewers never interview. they just get people to talk." "but what is it you're going to write," asked the doctor, "a eulogy or denunciation?" "both; something characteristic." "meaning that something characteristic about doctors would include both good and bad?" "well, they're pretty human, aren't they?" laughed georgia. "and think how grateful we should be," ventured karl, "for the inference of something good." dr. parkman looked over at him with a hearty: "that's right," relieved that his friend could enter into things at all. in the library before they came in, things had gone badly. mrs. mccormick held persistently to the topic of karl's eyes, putting forth all sorts of "home remedies" which would cure them in a night. he had grown nervous and irritable under it, and mrs. hubers several times had come to the rescue with her graciousness. she was worried herself; the doctor could see that in the way she looked from her husband to him, scenting something not on the surface. he was just beginning to fear the dinner was going to be miserable for them all, when miss mccormick broke the tension by asking for stories. "tell us what you're going to write, georgia," said ernestine, she too seizing at it gratefully, "and then our doctors will have a better idea of what you want." "well, i was talking to judge lee the other day, and he told me some good stories about lawyers--characteristic stories, you know. so i thought i would work up a little series--lawyers, doctors, ministers and so on, and see how nearly i could reach the characteristics of the professions through the stories i tell of them; not much of an idea, perhaps--but i know a man who will buy the stuff." ernestine was smiling in a knowing little way. "do you want to begin with something really characteristic?" she asked. "that's it. something to strike the nail on the head, first blow." "then lead off with the story of pasteur's forgetting to go to his own wedding. there's the most characteristic doctor story i know of." "that's a direct insult," laughed karl. "why, not at all, karl," protested mrs. mccormick, "every one knows you were on hand for _your_ wedding." "yes, and a good thing he was," declared ernestine. "i don't think i should have been as meek and gentle about it as the bride of pasteur. i fancy i would have said: 'oh, really now--if it's so much trouble, we'll just let it go.'" "no, ernestine," said mrs. mccormick, seriously, after the laugh, "i don't believe you would have said that,"--and then they laughed again. "well, it's a good story," she insisted; "and characteristic. i believe after all that pasteur was a chemist and not a doctor, but the doctors have appropriated him, so the story will be all right." "if you want to tell some stories about pasteur," said karl, "tell about his refusing the royal decoration. he told the emperor that the honour and pleasure of doing such work as his was its own reward, and that no decoration was needed. that story made a great hit in the scientific world." "but is it characteristic?" asked georgia, slyly. "well," he laughed, "it ought to be." "another one of the independent kind," said parkman, "is on bilroth. he was summoned to appear at a certain hour before the emperor of austria. bilroth was with a very sick patient until the eleventh hour and arrived a little late in business clothes. the scandalised chamberlain protested, telling him he could not go in like that. whereupon bilroth blustered out: 'i have no time to spare. tell his majesty if he wishes to see me, i am here. if he wants my dress suit, i will have a boy bring it around.'" "did he get in?" asked mrs. mccormick, anxiously. "i think he did, although undoubtedly miss mccormick will be too modern to say so." "there was a story i always liked about a vienna doctor," he continued; he was anxious to guide the stories, for karl had seemed suddenly to sink within himself. he understood why--he might have foreseen where this would lead. for there were other stories of medical men, stories which fitted a little too closely just now; he was especially sorry he had mentioned bilroth. "this shows another side of the doctor," he went on, after a minute, "and as you are going to give good as well as bad, this may help out on the good side--there's where you will be short. a woman came to see this doctor regarding her consumptive son. he told her there was nothing he could do for him, adding: 'if you want him to live, you must take him to italy.' the woman broke down and told him she could not do that, that she had no money. the doctor sat there thinking a moment, and then sent over to the bank and got her a letter of credit covering the amount involved. another doctor, who happened to be near, asked why he did that. 'you can't possibly support all your needy patients,' he said; 'why did you choose this particular case? of course,' he added, 'it was very good of you.' 'no,' said the doctor, 'it was not good of me. there was nothing good about it. but i was guilty of proposing to her something i knew she could not do. after opening up that possibility it was my obligation to see that she could fulfill it. i suggested what i knew to be the impossible; after i suggested it, it was my business to make it possible.' don't you think that a pretty good sense of justice?" he asked of ernestine. "what might be called an inner squareness," said georgia, as ernestine responded only with the fine lights the story had brought to her eyes. karl did not seem to have heard the story. ernestine looked toward him anxiously. "now i'm going to tell a story," she said, with a gaiety thrown out for rousing him, "a very fine story;--every one must listen." he looked over at her and smiled at that, listening for her story. "this man's name can't be printed, because he lives in chicago and it might embarrass him,"--karl and dr. parkman exchanged glances with a smile. "this is a characteristic story, as it shows a doctor's tyranny. there was a boy taken ill at a little town near chicago. the country doctor telephoned up to the boy's father, and the father telephoned the family physician who, from the meagre facts, scented appendicitis. i don't know how he knew it was bad, but i believe a good doctor is a pretty good guesser. at any rate he suspected this was serious, and told the father they would have to go down there at once. the father said there was no sunday train. 'then get a special,' said the doctor. 'we'll probably have to bring him up to the hospital to operate, and can't do it in the automobile.' the father protested against the special, saying it would be very expensive and that he did not think it necessary. the doctor said he did think it necessary or he would not have suggested it. the father demurred still more and the doctor rang off. then you called up the railroad office, yourself--wasn't that it?" turning to dr. parkman, who grew red and looked genuinely embarrassed. "oh dear,"--in mock dismay--"now i've mixed it up, haven't i? well, this doctor--i'm not saying anything about who he is--called up the railroad office and calmly ordered the special. i must not forget to say that the man who did not want to spend the money had an abundance of money to spend. then he called the boy's father and said, 'be at the station in twenty minutes. the special will be waiting. you will have nothing to do but sign the check.'" "well," said mrs. mccormick, when ernestine stopped as though through, "would the father pay for it, and did the boy have to have an operation, and did he get well?" "mother doesn't like this new way of telling a story," said georgia; "she likes to hear the got-married-and-lived-happily-ever-after part." "i'm sure no one said anything about getting married in this," said mrs. mccormick, serenely. "but don't you think that a fine doctor story?" ernestine asked smilingly of dr. parkman. "a very bad story to tell. miss mccormick's general reader will say--: 'oh yes, of course, he was just bound to have an operation.'" "georgia,"--this was from the man at the head of the table, and there was something in his voice to arrest them all--"if you are in earnest about wanting stories of doctors, why don't you tell some of the big ones? some of the stories medical men have a right to be proud of?" "what are they?" she asked, promptly. "tell me some of them." dr. parkman's eyes were on his plate. he was handling his fork a little nervously. "if i were going to tell any stories about medical men," karl went on, and in his quiet voice there was still that compelling note, "it seems to me i should want to say something about the doctors who died game--just a little something about the men who took their medicine and said nothing; men with the nerve to face even their own understanding--cut off, you see, from the refuge of fooling themselves. ask dr. parkman about the surgeons who lost their hands or their lives through infection. those are the stories he knows that are worth while. he's only giving you the surface of it, georgia. tell him you'd like a little of the real thing. ask him about the men who died slow deaths, looking a fatal future in the face from a long way off. he mentioned bilroth just now, telling a funny story about him. there's a better story than that to tell about bilroth. you know he was the man who knew so much about the heart; he probably understood the heart better than any other man. and by one of those leering tricks of fate, he had heart disease himself. he watched his own case and made notes on it, that his profession might profit by his destruction. there you have something worth writing about! in his last letter home, he said he had ten days to live--and he missed it by just one; he lived eleven. if you're going to tell any stories about bilroth, tell that one, georgia. and then a story or two showing that while many men take chances, it's the doctor who takes them most understandingly. why medical science is full of an almost grotesque courage! don't you begin to see how the doctor's been trifling with you, georgia?" he paused, but no one felt the impulse to speak. his eyes were hidden by the dark glasses he was wearing because of that cold, or whatever it was, in his eyes, but his face told the story of an alert mind, a heart responsive to the things of which he spoke. then he went on and talked a little, quietly enough, but with a passionateness, a high note of understanding, of the men who had had the nerve--eyes open--to face the things fate handed them. it was as if he were looking back over the whole sweep of the world and picking from many times and many places the men whose souls had not flinched to the death. and at the last he said, smiling--the kind of smile one meets with a tear--"let's have a little toast." he raised his glass of claret and for a minute looked at it in silence. and then he said slowly, his very quiet voice and that little smile tempering the words: "here's to all those fellows who went down without the banners or the trumpets!--to the boys who took the starch out of their own tragedies!--to those first class sports who made no fuss about their own funerals! here's to the great unwhimpering!" dr. parkman choked a little over his wine, the tightening in ernestine's throat made it hard for her with hers, georgia's cheeks were burning with enthusiasm for the story she saw now she could write, and even mrs. mccormick had no questions as to just what men had died that way. then it was karl himself who abruptly turned the conversation to the more shallow channels of dinner talk. after that he was not unlike a man who had had a little too much champagne. he startled them with the nimbleness of his wit, the light play of his fancy. it was as though he had a new vocabulary, a lighter one than was commonly his. there was a sort of delicate frolicsomeness in his thought. for a reason unknown to her, it troubled ernestine. she looked from karl to dr. parkman, but the doctor had that impenetrable look of his. what was the matter with him? he had talked so freely during the early part of the dinner, and now he seemed to have dropped out of it entirely. she caught him looking at karl once; the keen, narrow gaze of physician to patient. then she saw, distinctly, that his face darkened, and after that, when he smiled at the things which were being tossed back and forth between karl and georgia, it was what she called to herself a "made-up smile"; and once or twice when karl said something especially funny, she was quite sure she saw dr. parkman wince. a lump rose in ernestine's throat; karl seemed to have slipped away from her. this was a mood to which she could not respond and it seemed he did not expect her to. almost all of his talk was directed to georgia, who, with her quick wit and inherent high spirits, was enjoying the pace he set her. it seemed to resolve itself into a duel of quick, easy play of thought and words between those two. but the things they said did not make ernestine laugh. she smiled, as dr. parkman did, a "made-up" smile. she had always enjoyed karl's humour immensely, but now, though she had never seen him as brilliant, something about him pulled at her heart. she could not restrain a resentfulness at georgia for encouraging him. for she could not get away from the feeling that all of this was not grounded on the thing which was karl himself. it was like nothing in the world so much as the breeziness of a mind which had let itself go. she was glad when at last she could rise from the table. in the library it was as though he were holding on to georgia, determined not to let her out of the mood into which he had brought her. the things of which he talked were things having no bearing whatever upon himself. if she had not been there, had simply heard of the things said, she would not have recognised karl at all. for the first time since they had known one another, ernestine felt left out,--alone. mrs. mccormick said that they must go, but karl protested. "we're having such a good time," he said, "don't think of going." but georgia had an engagement. she insisted at last that they must go. dr. parkman had remained too, although ernestine was satisfied he was not enjoying things. "why, what in the world have you done to karl?" laughed georgia, pinning on her hat. "i haven't had such good fun for months. i had no idea he was such a gem of a dinner man." "i do not think karl is very well," said ernestine, a little coolly. "_well_? why, bless you, i never saw him in such exuberant mood." "didn't they make the words fly?" laughed mrs. mccormick. "my dear, you and the doctor and i were quite left behind." "it seemed that way," said ernestine, trying to keep her chin from quivering. when she returned to the library, dr. parkman and karl were evidently just closing a discussion for karl was saying, heatedly: "now just let me manage things in my own way!" the doctor seemed reluctant to leave. ernestine was alone with him for a minute in the hall, and she was sure he started to say something once and then changed it to something else. but when he did leave, it was with merely the conventional goodbye. she walked slowly back to the library. karl was sitting in the morris chair, his elbow upon one arm of it, his hand to his forehead. his whole bearing had changed; it was as though he had let down. again it seemed as though in the last hour he had been intoxicated, and this the depression to follow that kind of exuberance. but he looked up as he heard her, and smiled a little, a wan, tired smile. she was beside him in an instant. "you seemed so happy this afternoon, dear," she said, stroking his hair, "and now you seem so tired. aren't you well, karl?" she asked, a little timidly. his face then mirrored a dissatisfaction, a sort of resentment. "i talked like a fool this afternoon!" he said gruffly. "why, no, dear, only--not quite like yourself." "well, the fact of the matter is"--this after a minute's thought--"i have a frightful headache. i suppose it comes from this trouble with my eyes. i thought i wasn't going to be able to keep up, and in my efforts to do it, i"--he paused and then laughed rather harshly--"overdid it." he seemed anxious for her reply to that. "i knew it was something like that," she said simply. then, after a minute: "is there anything i can do for the head?" he told her no, but that he believed he would turn the chair around with his back to the light. "and i won't talk, dear," he said gently; "i'll just rest a little." she helped him with the chair and for a minute sat there on a low seat beside him. "you know, sweetheart," resting her cheek upon his hand, "i don't like those dark glasses at all. i'll be so glad when you don't have to wear them." "why?" he asked, his voice a little muffled. "because they shut me out. i always seem closer to you when i can look into your eyes.--oh--does it pain so?" as he drew sharply away. "that did hurt," he admitted, his voice low. "i--i'd better not talk for a little, dear." so she said if there was nothing she could do for his head, she would leave him while she wrote a couple of letters. for a long time he sat there without moving. it was the exhaustion which follows intoxication, for he had indeed intoxicated himself that afternoon, and with an idea. it had come about so strangely. after they sat down to dinner, he had been on the point a half a dozen times, of excusing himself on the plea of a bad headache. then when they began to talk about doctors, those other things had come to him, and it was as though the spirit of all those men who had gone down that way entered into him, came so close, possessed him so completely, that he could not hold back those words about them. a spirit quite beyond his control had moved him to that little toast. after that, something--perhaps a spark from the nerve of those men of whom he had spoken--brought his mind firmly into possession of the feeling that everything was all right. it was not that he argued himself out of his fears, but rather that something brought the assurance of its being all right, and after that there came a number of arguments sustaining the conviction. just before dinner he had gone over to the laboratory and looked at the culture. it had not shown anything at all. at the time he accepted that as a matter of course--it was not time for it to show anything. but looking back on it after this conviction came to him, he took the very fact of its not showing anything as proof that there was nothing there to show. his mind only grasped one side of it--that it showed nothing at all. brightening under that he began to talk lightly, to joke with georgia, and talking that way seemed to enable him to keep hold of the conviction that everything was all right. the more he talked, the more sure he was of it, the gayer he felt, the more disposed to let his mind run wild. he was a little afraid if he stopped talking, this beautiful conviction of its being all right would leave him. so he made georgia keep at it, georgia was the one could play that sort of game. as he talked, new arguments came to him. the oculist! at first he had thought it a bad thing that the oculist could not tell what was the matter. now he seized upon that as proving there was nothing the matter at all. and dr. parkman had said, at the last, that it did not amount to anything. at the time that had been a mere conventional phrase, but now, in his exhilaration, he seized upon it as indisputable truth. but always there was the feeling that he must keep on feeling this way, or the conviction, and all that it meant, would go. that was why he clung to georgia. finally he reached the point where he could distinctly remember getting the other stuff--the stuff which did not make any difference--on his hands. he could fairly see it on his hands, could remember distinctly getting it in his eye. and then georgia had said something about going, and he had begged her not to go. but she insisted, and he began to feel then that the exhilaration was wearing off, that he was coming back to face things; to the doubt, the uncertainty, the suffering. and now that he had come back to things as they were, he felt inexpressibly tired. he went over it again and again, trying to gain something now, not from any form of excitement, but from things as they were. suddenly his face brightened. he sat there in deep thought, and then at last he smiled a little. whatever happened must have occurred friday afternoon. but he had never in all his life felt as happy about his work as he did before he left the laboratory friday afternoon. could a man feel like that, would it be in the heart of things to let a man feel that way, if he had already entered upon the road of his destruction? it had been more than a happiness of the mind; it was a happiness of the soul, and would not a man's soul send out some note of warning? and then that same evening when he and ernestine sat before the fire! if already this grim fate had entered into their lives, would not their love, would not _her_ love, all intuition, deep-seeing, feeling that which it could not understand, have felt in that moment of supreme happiness, some token of what was ahead? it could not be that the world jeered at men like that. their love would have told them something was wrong. ernestine came in just then and he called her to him. "liebchen," he said, "i've been thinking about that evening of your birthday, about how beautiful it was. weren't you happy, dear, as we sat there before the fire?" "so happy, karl," she murmured, warmly glad to have her own karl again. "everything seemed so beautiful; everything seemed so perfectly right." he drew her to him with a passion she did not understand. his ernestine! his wife! she who communed with love, whose harmony with the great soul of things was perfect--they could not have deceived her like that! ernestine and love dwelt too closely together. she would have received some sign. for a time that calmed and sustained him; he believed in it; it was his weapon to use against the doubts and terrors which preyed upon him. but the gloom of his soul seemed to thicken with the deepening of the night. his heart grew cold with the coming of the shadows. the passing of day inspired in him fears not to be reasoned away. he grew very nervous during the evening and finally said he must go over to the laboratory and arrange some things for morning. ernestine protested against it--and if he must go would he not let her go with him? but he told her he believed it would be better for his head if he walked alone for just a little while. he did not have a headache more than once in five years, he assured her, laughing a little, and when he did, it was apt to upset him. when he came back at last--it seemed to her a very long time--she saw, watching from the window, that he was walking very slowly, almost as if exhausted she could not hold back her alarm at his white, worn face. something in it gripped at her heart. "is it worse, dear?" she asked anxiously. "it's a little bad--just now. i'll go to bed. it will be better then." he spoke slowly, as though very tired. "won't you take something for it, karl?" she persisted. "won't you?" "i do not know of anything to take that would do any good, ernestine,"--and he could not quite keep the quiver out of those words. "but other people take things. there _are_ things. let me go out and get you something." he shook his head. "doctors don't take much stock in medicine," he said, with a touch of his usual humour. she wanted to stay with him until he went to sleep. she wanted to put cold cloths on his head. it was hard to avoid ernestine's tenderness. "it did not show anything," he assured himself, pleadingly, when alone. "it only showed that it was going to show in the morning. i knew that. i knew all the time i was going to know in the morning. i'll not go to pieces. i'll not be a fool about it," he kept repeating. but a little later ernestine was sure she heard him groan. she could not keep away from that. "oh, sweetheart," she murmured, kneeling by his bed, "i can't bear it not to help you. let me do just some little thing," she pleaded. he put his hand over in hers. "hold it, dear; if you aren't too tired. i don't want to talk,--but hold on to my hand." his grip grew very tight after a minute. she was sure his head must be paining terribly. if only he would take something for it! in a little while he grew very quiet. soon she was sure that he was asleep. but after she had at last stolen away he turned and buried his face in his arms. chapter xv the verdict it was monday morning now. the hours of that night had been hours of torture. sleep had come once or twice, but sleep meant only the surrender of his mind to the horrors which preyed upon it. he could, in some measure, exert a mastery when awake, but no man is master of his dreams. his dreams put before him all those things his thoughts fought away. in his dreams, there was a fearful thing pursuing him, reaching out for him, gaining upon him with each step. or sometimes, it stalked beside him, not retreating, not advancing, but waiting, standing there beside him with grim, inexorable smile. it was after waking from such dreams that he breathed his prayer that this night pass. no matter what be ahead, he asked that this night pass away. after he was up he found himself able to go on in much the usual way. when ernestine came in and asked about his head, he told her it was better; when she wanted to know about his eyes, he said they were not any better yet, but that that was something which would simply have to run its course. she begged him not to go over to the university, but he told her it was especially important to go this morning. he added that he might not be there very long. he ate his usual breakfast. a truth that would shake the foundations of his life might be waiting for him just ahead, and yet he could make his usual laughing plea for a second cup of coffee. undoubtedly it was so with many men; beneath a mail of conventions and pleasantries they lived through their fears and sorrows alone. something clutched at his heart as he kissed ernestine good-bye and there was a momentary temptation. could he face it alone, if he had to face it? to have her with him! but he put that aside; not alone for her sake, but because he felt that after all there were things through which one must pass alone. but after he had reached the door, he came back and kissed her again. what if he were to go down into a place too deep for his voice to reach her? there was some solace, assurance, in the naturalness of things about him. everything else was just the same; it did not seem that it could be part of natural law then for his own life to be entirely overturned. and the world was so beautiful! it was a buoyant spring morning. there was assurance in the song of the birds, in the perfume of flowers and trees. the air upon his face was soft and reassuring. this seemed far away from the hideous phantoms of the night. why the world did not _feel_ like tragedy this morning! he had a lecture at eight o'clock, and he made up his mind he would give it. in the night he had thought of going first of all to the laboratory. the truth would be waiting for him there. but it was his business to give the lecture and he could not be sure of giving it if he went to the laboratory first. a man had no right to let his own affairs interfere with his work. oh yes--by all means, he would give the lecture. in spite of his prayer that the uncertainty should end, he reached out for another hour of holding it off. he knew as the hour advanced that he had never done better work in the lecture room. he pinned his mind to it with a rigidity which prompted him to put the subject as though it were the most vital thing in all the world. he threw the whole force of his will to filling his mind with the things of which he spoke that he might not yield so much as an inch to the things which waited just outside. he talked until the last minute; in fact, he went so much over his time that another class was waiting at the door. he clung to those last moments with the desperation of the drowning man to the splintered piece of board. after it was over, just as he was yielding the desk to the man who followed him, one of his students approached him with a question and the thankfulness, the appeal, almost, in the smile with which he received him, mystified the student until he stammered out his question bewilderedly. he could wait no longer now. that room belonged to others. the next period was his usual hour in the laboratory. it was an hour which on monday morning he could, if he wished, spend alone. his temples were beating, thundering. his hands were so cold that they seemed things apart from him. but his mouth--how parched it was!--was set very hard, and his steps, though slow, was firm. in the outer laboratory, professor hastings stopped him, remonstrating against his working when he was having trouble with his eyes. he assured him, elaborately, that he was taking care of them, that probably he would not be in there long. he opened the door of his laboratory and passed in. he closed it behind him, and stood there leaning against it. he was all alone now. there was nothing in the room but himself and the truth which was waiting for him. he put his book down upon the table. he walked over and sat down before the culture oven. he must get this over with! he was getting sick. he could not stand much more. with firm, quick hand he wrenched open the doors. he put his hand upon what he knew to be the tube. he pulled it out, turned around to the light and held it up between him and the window. for one moment he looked away;--how parched his mouth was! and then, a mighty will turning his eyes upon it, in one long gaze he read the plain, unmistakable, unalterable truth. he had never seen a better culture. science would perhaps commit itself no further than to say his eyes had become inoculated with the most virulent germ known to pathology. but out beyond the efforts which would be made to save him, he read--written large--the truth. he was going blind. chapter xvi "good luck, beason!" minutes passed and nothing happened. there was no sound of splintering glass. the tube did not fall from his hands. not so much as gasp or groan broke the stillness of the laboratory. he did not seem to have moved even the muscle of a finger. he faced it. he understood it. he faced it and understood it as he had no other truth in all his life. no merciful, mitigating force caused his mind to totter. with fairly cosmic regularity, cosmic inevitability, comprehension struck blow after blow. he was going blind. he had spent his life studying the action of such forces as this. _he knew them!_ a man who knew less would have hoped more. some idle dreamer might attempt to push one star closer to another. an astronomer would not do that. he was going blind. he could no more do his work without his eyes than the daylight could come without the sun. fate jeered at him: "your eyes are gone, but your life will remain." it was like saying to the sun: "you are not to give any more light, but you are to go on shining just the same." he was going blind. the world which had just opened to him--the world of sunsets and forests and mountains and seas gulped to black nothingness! blind! swept under by a trick he would not have believed possible from his most careless student! mastered by the things he had believed he controlled! meeting his life's destruction from the things which were to bring his life's triumph! in that moment of understanding's throwing wide her gates to torture, fate stood out as the master dramatist. making him do it himself! working it out of a mere fool's trick! blind?--_blind?_ but his eyes fitted his brain so perfectly it was through them all knowledge came to him. they were the world's great channel to his mind. it was through his eyes he knew his fellow beings. the lifting of an eyebrow, a queer twist to a smile--those things always told him more than words. and--but here he staggered. the mind could get this, as it had all else, but on this the heart broke. _ernestine!_--that smile--the love lights in her eyes--the glints of her dear, dear hair--the tube fell from his hand. his head sank to the table. he was buried now under an agony beyond all power to lift. whether it was minutes or hours which passed then, he never knew in the days which followed. time is not measured by common reckoning on the hill of calvary. the thing which brought him from under the blow at last was a blinding rage. he wanted to take a revolver and blow his brains out, then and there. he--a man supposed to have a mind! _he_--counted a master of those very things! and now, what? manhood, power, _himself_ gone. stumbling through his days! useless!--a curse to himself and everyone else. groping about in the dark--a thing to be pitied and treated well for pity's sake! cared for--looked after--_helped!_ that beat down the bounds of control. he did things then which he never remembered and would not have believed. it all rushed upon him--the birthday night--the crafty, insidious mockery through every bit of it, until everything to which he had held tottered about him, and goaded beyond all power to bear there came a slow, comprehending, soul-deep curse on the world and all that the world had done. and then, out of the darkness, through the blackened, dizzying, tottering mass--a voice, a face, a smile, a touch, a kiss, and the curses gave way to a sob and things steadied a little. no, not the world and everything it had done, for it was a world which held ernestine, a world which had given ernestine to him for his. he fought for it then: for his faith in the world, his belief in the things of love. it was the fight of his life, the fight for his own soul. come what might in the future, it was this hour which held the decisive battle. for if he could not master those things which were surging upon him, then the things which made him himself were gone for all time. and when sense of the underlying cunning of the blow brought the surrendering laugh close to his parched lips it was held back, held under, by that ever recurring memory of a touch, a voice, a face. it was ernestine, their love, fighting against the powers of damnation for the rescue of his soul. even in the battle's heat, he had full grasp of the battle's significance, knew that all the future hung upon making it right this hour with his own soul. his face grew grey and old, he concentrated days of force into minutes, but little by little, through a strength greater than that strength with which men conquer worlds, a force greater than the force with which the mind's big battles are won, by a force not given many since the first of time, he held away, beat back, the black tides ready to carry him over into that sea of bitterness from which lost souls send out their curses and their jeers and their unmeetable silences. he tried to see a way. he tried to reach out to something which should help him. standing there amid the wreck of his life, he tried to think, even while the ruins were still falling about him, of some plan of reconstruction. it was like rebuilding a great city destroyed by fire; the brave heart begins before the smoke has cleared away. but that task is a simple one. the city destroyed by fire may be rebuilded as before. but with him the master builder was gone. out of those poor, scarred, ungeneraled forces which remained, could he hope to bring anything to which the world would care to give place? he could see no way yet. all was chaos. and just then there came a knock at the door. he paid no heed at first. what right had the world to come knocking at his door? what could he do for any one now? the knock was repeated. but he would not go. if it were some student, what could he do for him? he could only say: "i can do nothing for you. go to some one else." and should it be one of his fellow professors, come to counsel with him, he could only say to him: "i have dropped out. go on without me. i wish you good luck." that message he had thought to give!--and now-- again the knock, timidly this time, fearing a too great persistency, but reluctant to go away. he would go in just a minute now. there would not come another knock. well, let him go. when all the powers of fate had gathered round to mock and jeer was it too much to ask that there be no other spectators? was not a man entitled to one hour alone among the ruins of his life? he who would gain entrance was starting, very slowly, to walk away. he listened to him take a few steps, and then suddenly rose and hurried to the door. he was not used to turning away his students unanswered. it was beason who turned eagerly around at sound of the opening door. beason--of all people--that boy who never in the world would understand! he was accustomed to reading faces quickly and even through his dark glasses his worried eyes read that beason was in trouble, moved by something from the path in which he was wont to go. "i'm sorry to interrupt you," stammered the boy, as he motioned him to a chair. "oh--that's all right; i wasn't doing anything, very important. just--finishing up something," he added, glad, when he heard his own voice, that it was only beason. "i'm in trouble," blurted out beason, "and i--i wanted to see you." the man was sitting close to a table, and he rested his elbow upon it, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "trouble?" his voice was kind, though a little unsteady. "why, what's the trouble?" "i've got to stop school! i've got to give up my work for a whole year!" the hand still shaded his darkened eyes. his mouth was twitching a little. "a year, beason?" he said--any one else would have been struck with the note in it--"you say--a year?" "yes," said beason, "a whole year. my father has had some hard luck and can't keep me here. i'd try to get work in chicago, and stay on, but i not only have to make my own way, but i must help my mother and sister. next year another deal my father's in will probably straighten things out, and then i suppose i can come back." the man very slowly nodded his head. "i see," he said, his voice coming from 'way off somewhere, "i see." "it's tough!" exclaimed beason bitterly--"pretty tough!" dr. hubers had turned his chair away from beason, and with closed eyes was facing the light from without. there was a long pause. beason waited patiently, supposing the man to be thinking what to say about so great a difficulty. "as i understand it," he said, turning around at last, "it's like this. you are to give up your work at the university for a year--just one short little year--and do something else; something not so much in your line, perhaps, but something which will be helping those you care for--making it easier for some one else. it's to be your privilege, as i understand it, to fill a man's place. that's about it, isn't it?" "but that's not the point! i thought,"--in an injured, almost tearful voice--"that you would understand." "oh, i do. i see the other point. you hate to stop work for,"--he cleared his throat--"for a year." "a year," said beason dismally, "is such a long time to lose." the man had nothing to say to that. his head sank a little. he seemed to be thinking. finally he came out of his reverie; seemed to come from a long way off. "and where are you going, my boy?" he asked kindly. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going clear out west," said beason gloomily. "father has something for me with a company in the northwest." "out there!"--an eager voice rang out, a voice which rested on a smothered sob. "great heavens, man, you're going out there? out there to the mountains and the forests? out there where you can see the sun come up and go down, can see--can see--" but his voice trailed off to a strange silence. "i never cared much for scenery," said beason bluntly, "and i care a lot for--all this i'm leaving." "we don't really leave a thing," said the man--his voice was low and tired--"when we're coming back to it. the only real leave-takings are the final ones." beason shifted in his chair. some of these things were not just what he had expected. "beason,"--something in his voice now made the boy move a little nearer--"i'm sorry for your disappointment, but i wish i could make you see how much you have to live for. get in the habit of looking at the sunsets, beason. take a good many long looks at the mountains and the rivers. it's not unscientific. you know,"--with a little whimsical toss of his head--"we only have so many looks to take in this world, and when we're about through we'd hate to think they'd all been into microscopes and culture ovens. and don't worry too much, beason, about things running into your plans and knocking them over. you know what that wise old omar had to say about it all." he paused, and then quoted, very slowly, each word seeming to stand for many things: and fear not lest existence closing your account, and mine, shall know the like no more; the eternal saki from that bowl has pour'd millions of bubbles like us, and will pour. "and--will--pour,"--he repeated the three words. and then his head drooped, his hands fell laxly at his sides. it seemed it was not of beason he had been thinking as he looked fate in the face with that taunt of the old persian poet. but he looked at him after a moment, came back to him. he saw that the boy was disappointed. the gloom with which he had come had not lifted from his face. that would not do. he was not going to fail his student like that. "why, look here, beason," he said in a new tone, all enthusiasm now, "maybe you'll shoot a bear. i have a presentiment, beason, that you will, and when you're eighty-five and have your great grandchild on your knee, you'll think a great deal more about that bear than you will about the year you missed here at school. now brace up! hard knocks wake a fellow up. you'll come back here and do better work for your year of roughing it--take my word for it, you will." beason had brightened. "and you think,"--he grew a little red--"that when i come back i can have my old place here with you?" the man drew in his breath, drew it in rather hard; something had taken the enthusiasm away. "i'll do my little part, beason," he said, exceedingly quietly, "to see that you are not overlooked when you come back." the boy rose to go. "i do feel better," he said clumsily, but with heartiness. he looked around the room. "i hate to leave it. i've had some good times here, and i'm--fond of it." the man was leaning against the wall. he did not say anything at all. then beason held out his hand. "good-bye," he said, "and--thank you." for a minute there was no reply, nothing save the very cold hand given in response to beason's. but that was only for the instant. and then the man in him, those things which made him more than a great scientist, things more than mind, not even to be comprehended under soul, those fundamental things which made him a man, rose up and conquered. he straightened up, smiled a little, and then heartily, quite sunnily, came the words: "take a brace, beason--take a good brace. and good luck to you, boy--good luck." the door had closed. at last he was alone again. dizzy with the strain he staggered to a chair. for a long time he sat there, many emotions struggling in his face. he could not see it yet--not quite. it was all very new, and uncertain. but 'way out there in the darkness it seemed there was perhaps something waiting for him to grasp. he would never give that other message, but it might be, if he worked hard enough, and never faltered, he could learn to say to the world which had given him this, say heartily, quite sunnily: "good luck to you. good luck." chapter xvii distant strains of triumph it worried ernestine when she saw dr. parkman's motor car stopping before the house early tuesday morning. he had been there the afternoon before, and then again late in the evening, bringing another doctor with him. he said that they simply came to help keep karl amused; but surely he would not be coming again this morning if there were not something more serious than she knew. karl had come home from the university about noon the day before, saying that his head was bad and he was going to consider himself "all in" for the day. something about him had frightened her, but he insisted that it only showed what a headache could do to a fellow who was not accustomed to it. he had remained in his darkened room all day, not even turning his face from the wall when she came in to do things for him. that worried her, and even the doctor's assurance that he was not going to be ill had not sufficed. in fact, she thought dr. parkman was acting strangely himself. "i was out in this part of town and thought i'd drop in," he told her, as she opened the door for him. "you're not worried about karl?" she demanded. he was hanging up his cap. "you see, i don't want him to get up and go over to the university," he said, after a minute's pause, in which she thought he had not heard her question. "that wouldn't be good for his eyes." "well, doctor, what is it about his eyes? is it just--something that must run its course?" "oh, yes," he answered, and she was a little hurt by the short way he said it. was it not the most natural thing in the world she should want to know? really, doctors might be a little more satisfactory, she thought, as she told him he would find karl in his room. she herself went into the library. down in the next block she saw the postman, and thought she would wait for him. she felt all unnerved this morning. things were happening which she did not understand, and then she felt so "left out of things." she wanted to do things for karl; she would love to hover over him while he was not well, but he seemed to prefer being let alone; and as for dr. parkman, there was no sense in his adopting so short and professional a manner with her. but as she stood there by the window, the bright morning sunlight fell upon her ruby, and she smiled. she loved her ring so! it was so dear of karl to get it for her. the warm, deep lights in it seemed to symbolise their love, and it would always be associated with that first night she had worn it, that beautiful hour when they sat together before the fire. that had been its baptism in love. the postman was at the door now, and she hurried to meet him. she was much interested in the mail these days, for surely she would hear any time now regarding her picture in paris. it had come! the topmost letter had a foreign stamp, and she recognised the writing of laplace. heart beating very fast, she started up to her studio. she wanted to be up there, all by herself, when she read this letter. as she passed karl's door she heard dr. parkman telling about having punctured a tire on his machine the night before. of course then everything really was all right, or he would not have talked about trivial things like that. her fingers fumbled so that she could scarcely open the envelope. and then she tried to laugh herself out of that, prepare for disappointment. why, what in the world did she expect? as she read the letter her face went very white, her fingers trembled more and more. then she had to go back and read it sentence by sentence. it was too much to take in all at once. it was not so much that it had been awarded a medal; not so much that a great london collector--laplace said he was the most discriminating collector he knew--wanted to buy it. the overwhelming thing was that the critics of paris treated it as something entitled to their very best consideration. the medal and the sale might have come by chance, but something about these clippings he had enclosed seemed to stand for achievement. they said that "the hidden waterfall," by a young american artist, was one of the most live and individual things of the exhibition. they mentioned things in her work which were poor--but not one of them passed her over lightly! she grew very quiet as she sat there thinking about it. the consciousness of it surged through and through her, but she sat quite motionless. it seemed too big a thing for mere rejoicing. for what it meant was that the years had not played her false. it meant the justification--exaltation--of something her inmost self. and it meant that the future was hers to take! she leaned forward as if looking into the coming years, eyes shining with aspiration, cheeks flushed with triumph. she quivered with desire--the desire to express what she knew was within her. it was while lost to her joy and her dreaming that she heard a step upon the stairs. she started up--instantly broken from the magic of the moment. perhaps karl needed her. and then before she reached the door she knew that it was karl himself. how very strange! "oh, karl!"--not able to contain it a minute--"i want to tell you--" and then, startled as he stumbled a little, and going down a few steps to meet him--"but isn't there too much light up here? shouldn't you stay down in the dark?" "i don't want to stay down in the dark!"--he said it with a low intensity which startled her, and then she laughed. "i've always heard there was nothing so perverse as a sick man. i'll tell you what's the matter with you. you're lonesome. you're tired of getting along without me--now aren't you? but we'll go down to the library, and down there i'll tell you--oh, _what_ i'll tell you! i thought dr. parkman was going to stay with you a while,"--as he did not speak--"or i shouldn't have come away." he had seated himself, and was rubbing his head, as though it pained him. his eyes were hidden, but his face, in this bright light, made her want to cry, it told so plainly of his suffering. he reached out his hand for hers. "i didn't want him any longer, liebchen,"--he said it much like a little child--"i want--you." "of course you do,"--tenderly--"and i'm the one for you to have. but not up here. the light is too bright up here." she pulled at his hand as if to induce him to rise. but he made no movement to do so, and he did not seem to have heard what she said. "ernestine," he said, in a low voice--there was something not just natural in karl's voice, a tiredness, a something gone from it--"will you do something for me?" she sat down on the arm of his chair, her arm about him with her warm impulsiveness. "why karl, dear"--a light kiss upon his hair--"you know i would do anything in the world for you." "i want you to show me your pictures,"--he said it abruptly, shortly. "i want to look at them this morning;--all of them." "but--but karl," she gasped, rising in her astonishment--"not _now_!" "yes--now. you promised. you said you'd do anything in the world for me." "but not something that will hurt you!" "it won't hurt me,"--still abruptly, shortly. "but i know better than that! why any one knows that eyes in bad condition mustn't be used. and looking at pictures--up here in this bright light--so needless--so crazy,"--she laughed, though she was puzzled and worried. he was silent, and something in his bearing went to her heart. his head, his shoulders, his whole being seemed bowed. it was so far from karl's real self. "any other time, dear," she said, very gently. "you know i would love to do it, but some time when you are better able to look at them." "i'm just as able to look at them now as i will ever be," he said, slowly. "ernestine--please." "but karl,"--her voice quivering--"i just can't bear to do a thing that will do you harm." "it won't do me harm. i give you my word of honour it won't make any serious difference." "but dr. parkman said--" "i give you my word of honour," he repeated, a little sharply. "all right, then," she relented, reluctantly, and darkened the room a little. "dear,"--sitting on a stool beside him--"you're perfectly sure this trouble with your eyes isn't any more serious than you think?" "yes," he answered, firmly enough, but something in his voice sounded queer, "i'm perfectly sure of that." "show me your pictures, ernestine," laying his hand upon her hair; "i've taken a particular notion that i want to see them." "but first"--carried back to it--"i want to tell you something." she laughed, excitedly. "i was coming down to tell you as soon as the doctor left. oh karl--my picture in paris--i heard from it this morning, and its success has been--tremendous!" she laughed happily over the word and did not think why it was karl's hand gripped her shoulder in that quick, tight way. "shall i read you all about it, dear? and then will you promise to cheer right up?" still that tight grip upon her shoulder! it hurt a little, but she did not mind--it just showed how much karl cared. the hand was still there as she read the letter, and then the clippings which told of the rare quality of her work, predicted the great things she was sure to do,--sometimes it tightened a little, and sometimes it relaxed, and once, with a quick movement he stooped down and turned her ring around, turning the stone to the inside of her hand. when she had finished he was quite still for a long minute. he was breathing hard;--karl was excited about it too! and then he stooped over and kissed her forehead, and it startled her to feel that his lips were very cold. "liebchen," he said, his voice trembling a bit--karl did care so much!--"i am glad." for a minute he was very still again, and then he added, seeming to mean a different thing by it--"i am very glad." "it's gone to my head a little, karl! oh i'm perfectly willing to admit it has. i don't think i should appreciate the gloria victis very much myself this morning," she laughed, happily. she was too absorbed to notice the quick little drawing in of his breath, or his silence. "after all, it would be a sorry thing if i didn't succeed," she pursued, gayly, "for you stand so for success that we couldn't be so close together--could we, dear--if i were a dismal failure?" "you think not?" he asked--and she wondered if he had taken a little cold; his voice sounded that way. "oh i don't mean that too literally. but i like the idea of our going through the same experiences--both succeeding. it seems to me i can understand you better this morning than i ever did before. i read a little poem last night, and at the time i liked it so much. it is about success, or rather about not succeeding. but i'm afraid it wouldn't appeal to me very much just now,"--again she laughed, happily, and it was well for the happiness that she was not looking at him then. "what was it?" he asked, as he saw she was going to turn around to him. "say it." "part of it was like this": 'not one of all the purple host who took the flag to-day can tell the definition so clear, of victory, as he, defeated, dying, on whose forbidden ear the distant strains of triumph break agonized and clear.' "say that last verse again," he said, his voice thick and low;--karl was so different when he was sick! "as he, defeated, dying, on whose forbidden ear the distant strains of triumph break agonized and clear." "it is beautiful, isn't it?" she said, as he did not speak. "beautiful? i don't know. i suppose it is. i was thinking that quite likely it is true." "but i didn't suppose you would care about it, karl. i supposed you would feel about it as you did about the statue." "i wonder," he began, slowly, not seeming sure of what he wanted to say--"how much the comprehension, the understanding of things, that the loss would bring, would make up for the success taken away? i wonder just what the defeated fellow could work out of that?" "but dearie, _is_ it true? why can failure comprehend success any more than success can comprehend failure?" "it's different," he said, shortly. "how do you know?" she asked banteringly. "what do you know about it? you don't even know how to spell the word failure!" he started to say something, but stopped, and then he stooped over and rested his head for a minute upon her hair. "tell me about your picture, ernestine," he said, quietly, after that. "tell me just what it is." "the hidden waterfall? why you know it, karl." "yes, but i want to hear you talk about it. i want to hear you tell just what it means." "well, you remember it is a child standing in a beautiful part of the woods. it is spring-time, as it seems best it should be when you are painting a child in the woods. i tried to make the picture breathe spring, and you know one of the writers said that the delicious thing about it was the way you got the smell of the woods;--that pleased me. behind the child, visible in the picture, but invisible to the child, is a waterfall. the most vital thing in the universe to me was to have that waterfall make a sound. i think it does, or the picture wouldn't mean anything at all. and then of course the heart of the picture is in the child's face--the puzzled surprise, the glad wonder, and then deeper than that the response to something which cannot be understood. it might have been called 'wondering,' or even 'mystery,' but i liked the simpler title better. and i like that idea of painting, not just nature, but what nature means to man. i want to get at the response--the thing awakened--the things given back. don't you see how that translates the spirit there is between nature and man--stands for the oneness?" he nodded, seeming to be thinking. "i see," he said at last. "i wonder if you know all that means?" "why, yes, i think i do. my next picture will get at it in a--um--a more mature way." "tell me about it." "i don't know that i can, very well. it's hard to put pictures into words. i fear it will sound very conventional as i tell it, but of course it is what one puts into it that makes for individuality. it is in the woods, too. you know, karl, how i love the woods. and i _know_ them! it is not spring now, but middle summer; no suggestion of fall, but mature summer. a girl--just about such a girl as i was before you came that day and changed everything--had gone into the woods with a couple of books. she had been sitting under a tree, reading. but in the picture she is standing up very straight, leaning against the tree, the books overturned and forgotten at her feet--drawn into the bigger book--see? it is not that she has consciously yielded herself. it is not that she is consciously doing anything. she is listening--oh how she listens and longs! for what, none of us know--she least of all. perhaps to the far off call of life and love speaking through the tender spirit of the woods. oh how i love that girl!--and believe in her--and hope for her. in her eyes are the dreams of centuries. and don't you see that it is the same idea--the oneness--the openness of nature to the soul open to it?" "and you are going to make the woods very beautiful?" he asked, after a little thought. "more than just the beauty of trees and grass and colour?" "yes, the beauty that calls to one. "then," he said this a little timidly--"might it not be striking to have your girl, not really seeing it with the eyes at all? have her eyes--closed, perhaps, but she feeling it, knowing it, in the higher sense really seeing it, just the same?" she thought about that a minute. "n--o, karl; i think not. it seems to me she must be open to it in every way to make it stand for life, in the sense i want it to." "perhaps," he said, his voice drooping a little. and then, abruptly: "have you done any of that?" "oh, just some little sketches." "show me the little sketches," he begged. "i want to see them all." "oh, but karl, they wouldn't convey the idea at all. wait until it is farther along." "no, please show them this morning,"--softly, persuasively. she was puzzled, and reluctant, but she got them out, and with them other things to show him. he asked many questions. in the sketches she was going to develop he would know just how she was going to elaborate them. he asked her to tell just how they would look when worked out. "i'm a sick boy home from school," he said, "and i must be amused." and then he looked at her finished pictures; she protested against the intentness with which he looked at some of them, insisting they were not worth the strain she could see it was on his eyes. "it's queer about finished pictures," she laughed; "they're not half so great and satisfying as the pictures you are going to do next." it went through her with a sharp pain to see karl hurting his eyes as she knew he was hurting them. she could not understand his insistence; it was not like him to be so unreasonable. and he looked so terribly--so worn and ill; if only he would go to bed and let her take care of him! but he seemed intent on knowing all there was to know about the pictures. a strange whim for him to cling to this way! as he looked he wanted her to talk about them--tell just what this and that meant, insisting upon getting the full significance of it all. he had never before appreciated her firm grasp. her work in these different stages of evolution gave him a clearer idea of how much she had worked and studied, how seriously and intelligently she had set out for the mastery of her craft. he had always known that the poetic impulses were there, the desire to express, the ideas, the delight in colour, but he saw now the other things; this was letting him into the workman's side of her work. he spoke of that, and she laughed. "yes, this is what they don't see. this is what they never know. poetic impulses don't paint pictures, karl. that's the incentive; the thing that keeps one at it, but you can't do it without these tricks of the trade which mean just downright work. i've never worked on a picture yet in which i wasn't almost fatally handicapped by this thing of not knowing enough. the bigger your idea, the more skill, cunning, fairly, you must have to force it into life." she told him at last that they were through. they had even looked at rude little sketches she had made of places they had cared for in europe. indeed he looked very long at some of those little sketches of places they had loved. "one thing more," he said; "you told me once you had some water colour daubs you did when a little girl. let me look at them. i just want to see," he laughed, "how they compare." and so she got them out, and they looked them over, laughing at them. "you've gone a long way," he said, pushing them aside, as if suddenly tired. he leaned back in his chair, his hand above his eyes, as she began gathering up the things. "and so here i am," she said, waving her hand to include the things about her, "surrounded by the things i've done. not a vast array, and some of it not amounting to much, but it's i, dear. it reflects me all through these years." "i know," he said--"that's just it,"--and at the way he said it she looked up quickly. "you're tired, karl. it's been too much. we'll go down stairs now, and rest." he watched her as she gathered the things together. it seemed he had never really known this ernestine before. here was indeed the atmosphere of work, the joy of working, all the earnestness and enthusiasm of the real worker. and then, with masterful effort, he roused himself. he had not yet touched what he had come to know. "i have been thinking," he began, "a little about the psychology of all this. you'll think i'm developing a wonderful interest in art, but you see i'm laid up and can't do my own work, so i'm entitled to some thoughts about art. now these things you paint grow out of a mental image--don't they, dear? the things you paint the mind sees first, so that the mental image is the true one, and then you--approximate. i should think then that it might help you to _tell_ about pictures. for instance, if in painting a picture you had to tell about it to some one who did not look at it, wouldn't that make your own mental image more clear, and so help make it more real to you?' "why, karl, i never thought of it, but,"--meditatively--"yes, i believe it would." he turned away that she might not see the gladness in his face. "and it would be interesting--wouldn't it--to see just how good a conception you could give of the picture through words?" "yes," she said, interested now--"it would be a way of feeling one's own grip on it." "of course," he continued, "that couldn't be done except in a case, like yours and mine, where people were close together." "yes," she assented, "and that in itself would show that they were close together." at that he laid a quick hand upon her hair, caressing it. "oh, after all, dear,"--gathering up the last of the sketches--"the greatest thing in the world is to do one's work--isn't it?" "yes," he said, and his voice was low and tired, "unless the greatest thing in the world is to submit to the inevitable." she looked up quickly. "that doesn't sound like you." "doesn't it? oh, well,"--with a little laugh--"you know a scientist is supposed to be capable of a good deal of change in the point of view." he had risen, and was at the door. "it's been good of you to do all this, ernestine." "why it has been a delight to me, dear; if only it hasn't hurt you. but it is time now to go down where it is dark." "yes," he assented wearily; "it is time now to go down where it is dark." chapter xviii telling ernestine he had thought to tell her on tuesday, but after their talk, when he took his last look at her pictures--it had tortured both eyes and heart to do that, but he knew in the days ahead that he would be unsatisfied with having passed it by--he could not bring himself then to do it. he could not keep it from her long now, but she was so happy that day in her triumph about the picture. he was going to darken all of her days to come; he would leave her this one more unclouded. but it was hard for him to go through with it. he longed for her so! he must have her help. he had asked for the pictures before telling her just because he knew it would be unbearable for them both, if she did know. it would need to be done in that casual way or not at all. it was strange how he felt he must see them. it was his longing to keep close to her. he could not bear the thought that his blindness might make him to her as something apart from life, even though the dearest thing of all. he must enter into every channel of her life. it was wednesday now, and he had told her. all the night before he had lain awake trying to think of words which would hurt her the least. he would put it very tenderly to his poor ernestine. he would even pretend he saw some way ahead, something to do. ernestine could not bear it unless he did that. it was the one thing which remained for him now--to make it easy for her. this was firmly fixed in his mind when he told her that morning he wanted to talk to her about something and asked her to come into the library. he was sure he had himself well in hand; the words were upon his lips. and then when he said: "i want to tell you something, dear--something that will hurt you very much. i never wanted to hurt you; i can not help it now,"--when he had said that, and she, with quick response to the sorrow in his voice, had knelt beside him, her arms about his neck, something,--the feel of her arms, the knowing there was some one now to help him--swept away the words and his broken-hearted cry had been: "oh, sweetheart--help me! i'm going blind!" those first moments took from her something of youth and gladness she would never regain. first frozen with horror, then clinging to him wildly, sobbing that it could not be so--that dr. parkman, some one, would do something about it; protesting in a fierce outburst of the love which rose within her that it did not matter, that she would make it all up to him--their love make it right--in one moment stricken dumb as comprehension of it grew upon her, in another wildly defying fate, but always clinging to him, holding him so close, trying, though frightened and broken, to stand between him and the awful thing as the mother would stand between the child and its destroyer, ernestine left with that hour things never to be claimed again. and when at last she began to sob--sobbing as he had never heard any one sob before--all his heart was roused for her, and he patted her head, kissed her hair, whispering: "little one, little one, don't. we'll bear it together--some way." during that hour she never loosened her arms about his neck. deep in his despairing heart there glowed one warm spark. ernestine would cling to him as she had never done before. god had not gone out of the world then. he had let fate strike a fearful blow, but he had left to the wounded heart such love as this. "dear," she said at last, her cheek against his, her dear, quivering voice trying so hard to be brave, "if you feel like telling me everything, i would like to know. i will be quiet. i will be good. but i want to bear every bit of it with you. every bit of it, darling--now, and always. that is all i ask--that you let me bear it with you." the love, the understanding, the longing to help, which were in her voice opened that innermost chamber of his heart to her. if she had not won this victory now, she could never have done so in the days ahead. this hour made possible the other hours of pouring out his heart to her, taking her into it all. he told her the story of how it happened, the long, hard story which only covered days, but seemed to extend through years. he told of those hours of the day and night on the rack of uncertainty, of trying with the force of mind and soul to banish that thing which had not claimed him then, but stood there beside him, not retreating,--waiting. he told her of that lecture hour monday morning when he literally divided himself into two parts, one part of him giving the lecture, giving it just as well as he had ever done, the other part battling with the phantom which he would vanquish or surrender to within an hour. and her only cry was: "you should have told me! you should have told me from the first!" and once he answered: "no, dear--no; before i knew i did not want to frighten you, and after--oh, ernestine, believe me, sweetheart, i would have shielded you forever, no matter at what cost to myself--if only i could have done it!" at last he had finished the story. he had told it all; of sitting there afraid to look, of looking and seeing and comprehending. oh how he had comprehended! it was as if his mind too, his mind trained to grasp things, had turned against him, was stabbing him with its relentless clearness of vision. he told her of the merciless comprehension with which he saw the giving up of his work, the changing of his life, the giving up--the eternal giving up. he told her of how it had seemed to mean the making over of his soul. for his soul had always cried for conquest, for victory, for doing things. how would he turn it now to submission, to surrender, to relinquishment? everything had been tumbling about him, he said, when that knock came at the door as the call from life, the intrusion of those everyday things which would not let him alone, even in an hour like that. and then of the boy with his paltry trouble which seemed great--the hurts--the final rising up of the instinct to help, despite it all. then of sitting there alone and seeing a faint light in the distance, wondering if, in all new and different ways, he could not keep his place in the world. "oh help me to do that, sweetheart! help me to keep right! don't let me lose out with those other things of life!" her arms about his neck! he would never forget how she clung to him. there was a long silence when their souls reached one another as they had never done before. the quivering of her body, her breath upon his cheek--they told him all. but after that, the words did come to her; broken words struggling to tell of what her love would do to make it right; how she would be with him, so close, so unfailing, that the darkness would never find him alone. his arms about her tightened. thank god--oh yes, a million times thank god for ernestine! then he felt her start; there came a sound as though she would say something, but choked it back. "yes, dear?" he said gently. "oh, karl, i shouldn't ask it. it will hurt you. i shouldn't ask." "i would rather you did, dear. ask anything. we are holding nothing from one another now." "i just happened to think--i wanted to know--oh karl, it wasn't in your eye on my birthday, was it? it hadn't happened--wasn't happening--when we sat there by the fire, happier than we had ever been before?" his impulse was to hold that back. why should he put that upon her, too, to hurt her as it had him, shake her faith as it had tried to shake his? but his moment of silence could not be redeemed. "karl,"--her voice was strangely quiet--"it wasn't, was it?" he groaned, and she had her answer. she sprang away from him, standing straight. "then," she cried--he would never have dreamed ernestine's voice could have sounded like that--"i hate the world! i despise it! i will not have anything to do with it! it fooled us--cheated us--_made fun of us_! i'll despise it--fight it"--the words became incoherent, the sobs grew very wild, she sank to the floor, crouching there, her hands clenched, sobbing: "i hate it! oh how i want to pay it back!" he was long in quieting her, but at last she would listen to him. "ernestine," he said, his voice almost stern, "if you start out like that you cannot help me. it is to you i look. if you love me, ernestine, help me not to hate the world. if we hate the world, we have given up. sweetheart,"--the voice changed on that word--"even yet--even yet in a different way, i want to win. i cannot do it alone. i cannot do it at all, if you hate the world. you are to be my eyes, ernestine. you are to see the beautiful things for me. you are to make me love them more than i ever did before. you are to be the light--don't you see, sweetheart? and you cannot do it, don't you see you cannot, if your own heart is not right with the world?" she did not answer, but she came back to his arms. her quick breath told him how hard she was trying. "see your statue up there, liebchen? remember how you always liked it? what you said about it that night? oh, ernestine"--crushing her to him--"help me to grip tight to my broken sword!" chapter xix into the dark she was with him as he went then into the dark. she did not fail him in anything: the hand in his, the little strokes of genius in holding his mind, and when they went into the deeps where words were not fitted for utterance she did not fail him in those other things. he knew that as she clung to him with loving arms, so her spirit reached out to him in the demand that it be permitted to sustain. through the day and through the night she was with him now. there was no time when he could not reach out to find her, no bad dream from which he could not awaken to put his hand upon her and know that she was there. and when, time after time, bitterness rose up to submerge his soul, he could always finally shake it off by thanking god for ernestine. for a time the pain in his eyes served as a kindly antidote. the light was going out with so intense a suffering as to mitigate the suffering in the consciousness of its going. it was the pain in his temples helped him hold off the pain of giving up his work. it was not a thing conquered; he knew that the deeper pain was waiting for him out there in the darkness when the pain of transition should have ceased, leaving only a blank, a darkness, no other thing to engage for him any part of his mind. there was blessedness in the temporary alleviation brought by the pain that was physical. there were many things for him to meet out there. they were willing to wait. now his fighting powers were so well engaged as to take something from the reality of a future battlefield. in many ways it was not as he would have imagined it had he known of such a thing. he would have thought of it as one long mood of despair, inflamed at times by the passion of rebellion. there were, in truth, many moods. in hours when he was quiet they spoke of the things they had seen and loved, of italy and the alps they spoke often, struggling for the words to paint a picture. sometimes she read a little to him--there would be much of that now. through it all, they seized upon anything which would sustain each other. once when he saw her faltering he told her that he thought after awhile he would write a book. he did not call it a text-book; did not speak of it as the kind of work to which a man sometimes turns when his creative work is done. he had always thought that when he was sixty or seventy he might write a few books. he would write them now at forty. and when there came times of its being utterly unbearable, they were either silent or trivial. bitter questionings filled ernestine's heart in those days. how was she going to watch him suffer and not hate a universe permitting his sufferings? how care for a world of beauty he could not see? how watch his heart break for the work taken from him and keep her belief in an order of things under which that was enacted? how love a world that had turned upon him like that? that was what he asked her to do. it seemed to her, now, impossible. with him, as the bearing of the physical pain grew mechanical and the other things grew nearer, the worst of it was wondering what he should do with the days that were ahead. his spirit would not go with his sight. his desire to do was not to be crushed with his ability for doing. what then of the empty days to come? how smother the passion for his work? and if he did smother it, what remained? while he lived, how deafen himself to the call of life? through what channel could he hope to work out the things that were in him? and how remain himself if constantly denying to himself the things which were his? it was that tormented him more than the relinquishing of the specific thing he had believed would crown the work of his life. his fight now would be a fight for clinging to that in him which was fundamental. but with what weapon should he fight? many times he failed to bear it in conformity with his ideal of bearing it. there were hours of not bearing it at all; hours of cursing his fate and damning the world. then it was her touch upon his hand, her tear upon his cheek, her broken word which could bring him again into the sphere of what he desired to be. his desire to help her in bearing it, his thankfulness in having her,--those the factors in his control. there were two weeks of that: weeks in which two frightened, baffled souls fought for strength to accept and power to readjust. their failures, the doubts, the rage, they sought to keep from each other; their hard won victories, their fought for courage they gave to the uttermost. a failure of one was a failure for one; but a victory of one was a victory for two. it was through that method courage succeeded in some measure in holding its own against bitter abandonment to despair. his last looks were at her face. it was that he would take with him into the darkness. as a man setting sail for a far country seeks to the last the face upon the shore, so his last seeing gaze rested yearningly upon the dear face that was to pass forever from his vision. and when the end had come, when hungering eyes turned to the face they could not see, and he knew with the certainty of encountered reality that he would never again see the love lights in her eyes, that others would respond to the smile that was gone from him forever, others read in her face the things from which he was shut out, when he knew he would never again watch the laughter creep into her eyes and the firelight play upon her hair, it came upon him as immeasurably beyond all power to endure, and in that hour he broke down and in the refuge of her arms gave way to the utter anguish of his heart. and she, all of her soul roused in the passion to comfort him, whispered hotly, the fierce tenderness of the defending mother in her voice: "you shall not suffer! you shall not! i will make it up to you! i will make it right!" part two chapter xx marriage and paper bags it was evident that peace did not sit enthroned in georgia's soul. her movements were not calm and self-contained as one by one she removed the paper bags from her typewriter. "so _silly!_"--she sputtered to herself. what were the men in this office, anyway? college freshmen? hanging paper bags all over her things every time she stepped out of the office--and just because one of her friends happened to be in the paper bag business! she'd like to know--as she pounded out her opening sentence with vindictiveness--if it wasn't just as good a business as newspaper reporting? it was not a good day for teasing georgia. she did not like the story she had been working on that morning. "go out to the university," the city editor had said, "and get a good first-day-of-school story. make the feature of it the reorganisation of dr. hubers' department, and use some human interest stuff about his old laboratory--the more of that the better." she hated it! were they never going to let karl alone? was it decent to put his own cousin on the story? georgia's chin quivered as she wrote that part about karl's laboratory. "if my own mother were killed in the street," she told herself, trying to blink back the tears, "i suppose they'd make _me_ handle it because i know more about her than any one else in the office!" resentment grew with the turning of each sentence. they knew that karl was her cousin, and almost as close to her as her own brother. she was sure they had seen the tear stains on some of that maudlin copy she had handed in about him. when she turned in her story she was unable to contain herself longer. "mr. lewis," she said, voice quivering, "here is another one of those outrageous stories about my cousin, dr. hubers. when you ask me to write the next one, you may consider it an invitation for my resignation." and then, cheeks very red, she went back to her desk and began getting up some stuff for her column "just dogs," which they had been running on the editorial page. when the city editor was passing her desk about half an hour later he stopped and asked, very respectfully and meekly--georgia was far too good to lose: "miss mccormick, will you see dr. parkman some time before to-morrow, and ask him about this hospital story? you know, miss mccormick, you're the only reporter in town he'll see." "very well," said georgia, with dignity. all summer long the papers had been printing stories about karl. it made her loathe newspaper work every time she thought about it. to think of their hacking at him like that--and he so quiet and dignified and brave! a picture printed the sunday before, of karl fumbling his way around, had made her more furious than she had ever been in all her life. she turned just in time to see a grinning reporter writing on the bulletin board: "miss g. mccormick--human interest story about the inner life of a paper bag." sometimes it might have brought a smile, usually it would have fired her to the desired rage, but to-day it contributed to her tearfulness. "oh they needn't worry," she murmured, bending her head over a drawer, and tossing things about furiously, "there's no getting married for me! this office has settled that!" the city editor seemed to take special delight in sending her out on every story which would "give married life a black eye." when the father left the little children destitute, when the mother ran away with the other man, or the jealous wife shot the other woman, georgia was always right on the spot because they said she was so clever at that sort of thing. "oh it makes one just _crazy_ to get married," she had said, witheringly, to joe one night. why did he want to marry her, anyway? when she _told_ him she didn't want to--wasn't that enough? was it respectful to treat her refusal as though it were a subtle kind of joke? various nice boys had wanted at various times to marry her, and she had always explained to them that it was impossible, and sent them, more or less cheerfully, on their various ways. but this man who made paper bags, this jolly, good-natured, seemingly easy-going fellow, who held that the most important thing in the world was for her, georgia, to have a good time, only seemed much amused at the idea of her not having time to marry him, and when she told him, with just as much conviction as she had ever told any of the others, that he had better begin looking around for some one else, he would reply, "all right--sure," and would straightway ask where she wished to go for dinner that night or whether she preferred an automobile ride to a spin in his new motor boat. now what was one to do with a man like that? a man who laughed at refusals and mellowed with each passing snub! "telephone, miss mccormick,"--the boy sang out from the booth. the opening "hello" was very short, but the voice changed oddly on the "oh, ernestine." her whole face softened. it was another georgia now. "why certainly--i'll get them for you; you know i love to do things for you down town, but my dear--what in the world do you want with flower seeds this time of year?"--"oh--i see; planted in the fall--but the flowers that bloom in the spring--tra la." they chatted for a little while and after georgia had hung up the receiver she sat there looking straight into the phone--her face as dreamy as georgia's freckled face well could be. "by jinks,"--she was saying to herself--"it _can_ be like that!" it was a most opportune time for the paper bag man to telephone. he wondered why her voice was so soft, and why there was not the usual plea about being too busy when he asked her to meet him at the little japanese place for a cup of tea. "and it's positively heroic of joe to drink that tea," she smiled to herself, as she wrestled with her shirt waist sleeves and her jacket. but out on the street she grew stern with herself. "now don't go and do any fool thing," she admonished. "don't jump at conclusions. you aren't ernestine, and he isn't karl. he's joseph tank--of all abominable names! and he makes paper bags--of all ridiculous things! tank's paper bags!" she guessed _not!_ suppose in some rash moment she did marry him. people would say: "what business is your husband in?" and she would choke down her rage and reply--"why--why he makes paper bags!" he was sitting there waiting for her, smiling. he was awfully good about waiting for her, and about smiling. it was nice to sit down in this cool, restful place and be looked after. he had a book which she had spoken about the week before, and he had a little pin, a dear little thing with a dog's head on it which he had seen in a window and thought should belong to her. and he was on track of the finest collie in the united states. after all, he thought it would be better for her to have a collie than a bulldog. she was losing ground! she was being very nice to him, and she had firmly intended telling him once for all that she could never marry a man whose name was tank, and who contributed to the atrocities of fate by making paper bags. and then she had a beautiful thought. perhaps he would be willing to go away somewhere and live it down. he might go to boston and go into the book publishing business. surely publishing books in boston would go a long way toward removing the stigma of having made paper bags in chicago. and meanwhile, sighing contentedly, and fastening on her new pin, as long as she was here she might as well forget about things and enjoy herself. chapter xxi factory-made optimism the usual congested conditions existed in dr. parkman's waiting room when georgia arrived a little after five. an attendant who knew her, and who had great respect for any girl dr. parkman would see on non-professional business, took her into the inner of inners, where, comfortably installed, sat professor hastings. "glad to have you join me," he said; "i feel like an imposter, getting in ahead of these people." "oh, i'm used to side doors," laughed georgia. they chatted about how it had begun to rain, how easy it was for it to rain in chicago, and in a few minutes the doctor came in. he nodded to them, almost staggered to a chair, sank into it, and leaning back, said nothing at all. "why, doctor," gasped georgia, after a minute, "can't you _take_ something? why you're simply all in!" he roused up then. "i am--a--little fagged. fearful day!" "well, for heaven's sake get up and take off that wet coat! here,"--rising to help him--"i've always heard that doctors had absolutely no sense. sitting around in a wet coat!" "i wonder," he said, after another minute of resting, "why any man ever takes it into his head he wants to be a doctor?" "and all day long," she laughed, "i've been wondering why any girl ever takes it into her head she wants to be a newspaper reporter." "speaking of the pleasant features of my business," she went on, "i may as well spring this first as last. here am i, a more or less sensible young woman, come to ask you, a man whose time is worth--well, let's say a thousand dollars a second--what you intend doing about those hospital interns getting drunk last night!" "my dear miss georgia,"--brushing out his hand in a characteristic way which seemed to be sweeping things aside--"go back to your paper and say that for all i care every intern in chicago may get drunk every night in the week." "_bully_ story!" "and furthermore, every paper in chicago may go to the devil, and every hospital may go trailing along for company. oh lord--i'm tired." he looked it. it seemed to georgia she had never understood what tiredness meant before. "such a hard day?" professor hastings asked. "oh--just one of the days when everything goes wrong. rotten business--anyway. eternally patching things up. i'd like to be a--well, a bridge builder for awhile, and see how it felt to get good stuff to start with." "and now, to round out your day pleasantly," laughed professor hastings, "i've come to tell you about a boy out there at the university who is in very bad need of patching up." "what about him?" and it was interesting to see that some of the tiredness seemed to fall from him as he straightened up to listen. georgia rose to go, but he told her to stay, he might feel more in the mood for drunken interns by and by. he arranged with professor hastings about the student; and it was when the older man was about to leave that he asked, a little hesitatingly, about dr. hubers. "i have been away all summer," he told the doctor, "and have not seen him yet." georgia was watching dr. parkman. his face just then told many things. "you will find him--quite natural," he answered, in a constrained voice. "one hardly sees how that can be possible," said the professor sadly. "oh, his pleasantness and naturalness will not deceive you much. your eyes can take in a few things, and then his voice--gives him away a little. but he won't have anything to say about--the change." he shook his head. "i'm afraid that's so much the worse." "perhaps, but--" "karl never was one to get much satisfaction out of telling his troubles," georgia finished for him. "hastings," said the doctor, jerkily, and he seemed almost like one speaking against his will--"what do you make out of it? don't you think it--pretty wasteful?" "yes--wasteful!" he went on, in response to the inquiring look. "i mean just that. there are a lot of people," he spoke passionately now, "who seem to think there is some sort of great design in the world. what in heaven's name would they say about this? do you see anything high and fine and harmonious about it?" that last with a sneer, and he stopped with an ugly laugh. "they make me tired--those people who have so much to say about the world being so right and lovely. they might travel with me on my rounds for a day or two. one day would finish a good deal of this factory-made optimism." "does dr. hubers feel--as you do?" hastings asked, not quite concealing the anxiety in the question. "how in god's name could he feel any other way?--though it's hard making him out,"--turning to georgia, who nodded understandingly. "just when he's ready to let himself go he'll pull himself together and say it's so nice to have plenty of time for reading, that ernestine has been reading a lot of great things to him this summer, and he believes now he is really going to begin to get an education. but does _that_ make you feel any better about it? god!--i was out there the other day, and when i saw the grey hairs in his head, the lines this summer has put in his face, when i saw he was digging his finger nails down into his hands to keep himself together while he talked to me about turning his cancer work over to some other man--i tell you it went just a little beyond my power to endure, and i turned in then and there and expressed my opinion of a god who would permit such things to happen! and then what did he do? got a little white around the lips for a minute, looked for just a second as though he were going to turn in with me, and then he smiled a little and said in a quiet, rather humorous way that made me feel about ten years old: 'oh, leave god out of it, parkman. i don't think he had much of a hand in this piece of work. if you must damn something, damn my own carelessness.'" "he said that? he can see it like that?"--there was no mistaking the approval in professor hastings' eager voice. "huh!"--the doctor was feeling too deeply to be conscious of the rudeness in the scoff. "so you figure it out like that--do you? and you get some satisfaction out of that way of looking at it? the scheme of things is very fine, but he must pay the penalty of his own oversight, weakness--carelessness--whatever you choose to call it. well, i don't think i care much about a system that fixes its penalties in that particular way. when i see men every day who violate every natural law and don't pay any heavier penalty than an inconvenience, when i see useless pieces of flesh and bone slapping nature in the face and not getting more than a mild little slap in return, and then when i see the biggest, most useful man i have ever known paying as a penalty his life's work--oh lord--that's rot! i have some hymn singing ancestors myself, and they left me a tendency to want to believe in something or other, so i had fine notions about the economy of nature--poetry of science. but this makes rather a joke of that, too--don't you think?" he paused, and georgia could see the hot beating in his temples and his throat. and then he added, with a quiet more unanswerable than the passion had been: "so the beautiful thing about having no gods at all is that you're so fixed you have no gods to lose." the telephone rang then, and there was a sharp fire of questions ending with, "yes--i'll see her before nine to-night." he hung up the receiver and sat there a minute in deep thought, seeming to concentrate his whole being upon this patient now commanding him. and then he turned to hastings with something about the boy out at the university, telling him at the last not to worry about the financial end of it, that he liked to do things for students who amounted to something. professor hastings was smiling a little as he walked down the corridor. he wondered why dr. parkman cared anything about slaving for so senseless and unsatisfying a world. he loved the doctor for his inconsistencies. chapter xxii a blind man's twilight "ready?" "all ready." "then, one--two--three--we're off!" a laugh and a scamper and one grand rush down to the back fence. "you go too fast," she laughed, gasping for breath. "and you're not steady. you jerk." "but this was a fine straight row. i can steer it just right when you don't push too hard. now--back." they always had a great deal of fun cutting the grass. ernestine used to wish the grass had to be cut every day. but karl did not seem to be enjoying it as much as usual to-day. "i'm going to desert you," he said, after a little while. "lazy man!" "yes--lazy good for nothing man--leaves all the work for his wife." she looked at him sharply. his voice sounded very tired. "i'll be in in just a few minutes, dear," she said. she did not go with him. she knew karl liked to find his own way just as much as he could. she understood far too well to do any unnecessary "helping." but she stood there and looked after him--watched him with deep pain in her eyes. he stooped a little, and of course he walked slowly, and uncertainly. all that happy spring and assurance had gone from his walk. she walked down to the rear of the yard, stood there leaning against the back fence. she had dropped more than one tear over that back fence. she too had lost something during the summer. struggle had sapped up some of the wine of youth. her face was thinner, but that was not the vital difference. the real change lay in the determination with which she had learned to set her jaw, the defiance with which she held her head, and the wistfulness, the pleading, with which her eyes seemed to be looking out into the future. the combination of things about her was a strange one. she looked to the west; the sun was low, the clouds very beautiful. for the minute she seemed to relax:--beauty always rested her. and then, with a sharp closing of her eyes, a bitter little shake of her head, she turned away. she could not look at beautiful things now without the consciousness that karl could not see them. they always sat together in the library that hour before dinner--"our hour" they had come to call it. she wondered, with a hot rush of tears, if they did not care for it because it marked the close of another day. she turned to the house, kicking the newly cut grass with her foot, walking slowly. she was waiting for something--fighting for it. karl needed her to-night, needed courage and cheer. she came so quietly, or else he was so deep in thought, that he did not hear her. for a minute she stood there in the library door. he was sitting in his morris chair, his hands upon the arms of it, his head leaning back. his eyes were closed, one could not tell in that moment that he was blind, but it was more than the dimness, the blankness in his eyes, more than scarred eyeballs, made for the change in karl's face. he and life did not dwell together as they had once; a freedom and a gladness and a sureness had gone. the loss of those things meant the loss of something fundamentally karl. and the sadness--and the longing--and the marks of struggle which the light of courage could not hide! she choked a little, and he heard her, and held out his hand, with a smile. it was the smile which came closest to bridging the change. he was very close to being karl when he smiled at her like that. she sat down on the low seat beside him, as was their fashion. "lazy man,"--brushing his hand tenderly with her lips--"wouldn't help his wife cut the grass!" she wondered, as they sat there in silence, how many lovers had loved that hour. it seemed mellowed with the dreams it had held from the first of time. ever since the world was very young, children of love had crept into the twilight hour and claimed it as their own. perhaps the lovers of to-day love it because unto it has been committed the soul of all love's yesterdays. she and karl had loved it from the very first: in those days when they were upon the sea, those supreme days of uncomprehended happiness. they sat in the twilight then and watched day withdraw and night spread itself over the waters. they loved the mystery of it, for it was one with the mystery of their love; they loved it for reasons to be told only in great silences, knowing unreasoningly, that they were most close together then. and after that they came to love the twilight for the things it bequeathed them. "don't you remember," he would say, "we left it just as the sun was setting. aren't you glad we can remember it so?" it was as if their love could take unto itself most readily that which came to it in the mystic hour of closing day. and when they returned, during that first year of joy in their work, they loved the hour of transition as an hour of rest. their day's work was done; in the evening they would study or read or in some way occupy themselves, but because they had worked all through the day they could rest for a short time in the twilight. and they would tell of what they had done; of what they hoped to do; if there had been discouragements they would tell of them, and with the telling they would draw away. in the light of closing day the future's picture was unblurred. they loved their hour then as true workers love it; it was good to sink with the day to the half lights of rest and peace. now it was all different, but they clung to their love for it still. through the heart of the day, during those hours which from his early boyhood had been to him working hours, this removal from life brought to the man a poignancy of realisation which beat with undiminishing force against the wall of his endurance. it was when he finished his breakfast and the day's work would naturally begin that it came home to him the hardest. they would go into the library, and ernestine would read to him--how she delved into the whole storehouse of literature for things to hold him best--and how great her joy when she found something to make the day pass a little less hard than was the day's wont! he would listen to her, loving her voice, and trying to bring his mind to what she read, but all the while his thoughts reaching out to what he would be doing if his life as worker were not blotted out. the call of his work tormented him all through the day, and the twilight was the time most bearable because it was an hour which had never been filled with the things of his work. in that short hour he sometimes, in slight measure found, if not peace, cessation from struggle. "this is what i would be doing now," he told himself, and with that, when the day had not drawn too heavily upon him, he could rest a little, perhaps, in some rare moments, almost forget. but to-night the spell of the hour was passing him by. ernestine saw that in the restless way his hand moved away from hers, the nervous little cough, the fretted shaking of the head. she understood why it was; the fall quarter at the university opened that day. it would have marked the beginning of his new year's work. very quietly she wiped the tears from her cheek. she tried never to let karl know that they were there. his head had fallen to his hand, and she moved closer to him and laid her face against the sleeve of his coat. she did not say anything, she did not touch him, or wind her arm, as she loved to do, about his neck. she had come to understand so well, and perhaps the greatest triumph of her love was in knowing when to say nothing at all. at last he raised his head. his voice, like his face, was tensely drawn. "ernestine, don't bother to stay. probably you want to be seeing about dinner, and i--i don't feel like talking." that too she understood. she only laid her hand for the moment upon his hair. then: "call me, dear, if you want me," and she slipped away, and in a little nook under the stairs sat looking out into their strange future with wondering, beseeching eyes--seeking passionately better resources, a more sustaining strength. left alone the man sat very still, his hands holding tight the arm of the chair. the tide of despair was coming in, was washing over the sands of resignation, beating against the rocks of courage. many times before it had come in, but there was something overwhelming in its volume to-night. it beat hard against the rocks. was it within its power to loosen and carry them away? carry them out with itself to be gone for all time? he rose and felt his way to the window. he pressed his hot forehead against the pane. outside was the dying light of day, but the glare of noonday, the quiet light of evening, the black of the night, were all one to him now. was it going to be so with his mind, his spirit? would all that other light, light of the mind and soul, be gulped into this black monotone, this nothingness? he had heard of the beautiful spirit of the blind, of the mastery of fate achieved, the things they were able, in spite of it all, to gain from life. ernestine had read him some of that; he had been glad to hear it, but it had not moved him much. most of those people had been blind for a long time. he too, in the course of ten or twenty years, when the best of his life was gone, would become accustomed to groping his way about, reading from those books, and having other people tell him how things looked. but so long as he remained himself at all how accustom himself to doing without his work? in the records and stories of the blind, it seemed if they had a work it was something which they could continue. but with him, the work which made his life was gone. over there was the university. it had been a busy day at the university--old faces and new faces, all the exuberance of a new start, the enthusiasm for a clean slate--students anxious to make some particular class--how well he knew it all! who was in his laboratory? who working with his old things? to whom was coming the joy he had thought would be his? what man of all the world's men would achieve the things he had believed would crown his own life? some day ernestine would read it to him. he had made her promise to do that, if it came. he would see it all--just how it had been worked out, and the momentary joy of the revelation would sweep him back into it and he would forget how completely it was a thing apart from him. and then ernestine would ask him if he wanted his chair a little higher or lower, or whether she should shut the window; and he would pick up one of his embossed books and try to read something, and he would know, as he had never known before, how the great world which did things was going right on without him. there were a few little petitions he sent out every once in a while. "i want to remain a man! i want to keep my nerve. i don't want to whine. i don't want to get sorry for myself. for god's sake help me to be a good fellow--a half way decent sort of chap!" and he had not tried in vain. his success, as to exteriors, had been good. mrs. mccormick said it was indeed surprising how well one could get along without one's sight. but within himself he had not gone far. ernestine knew something of that--though he had tried his best with ernestine, and parkman knew, for parkman had a way of knowing everything. and yet they did not know it all. the waking up in the night and knowing it would not be any more light in the morning! hearing the clock strike four or five, and thinking that in a little while he would be getting up and going to work, only to remember he would never be going to work in that old way again! the waking in the morning feeling like his old self, strength within him, his mind beseeching him to start in! no man had ever suffered with the craving for strong drink as he suffered for the work taken from him. he had, by what grit he could summon, gone along for five months. but ahead were five years, ten years, thirty years, perhaps, and what of them? each day was a struggle; the living of each day a triumph. through thousands of days should it be the same? it was the future which took hold of him then--smothered him. he went down before the vision of those unlived days, the grim vision of those relentless, inevitable days, standing there waiting to be lived. it was desolation. the surrender of a strong man who had tried to the uttermost. whether it was because he upset a chair, whether she heard him groan, or whether she just knew in that way of hers that it was time for her to be there, he did not know. but he felt her at the door, and held out beseeching arms. he crushed her to him very close. he wanted to bring her more close than she had ever come before. for he needed her as he had not needed her until this hour. "ernestine! ernestine!"--the sob in his voice was not to be denied--"what am i going to do?" "karl,"--after her moment of passionate silence--"tell me this. doesn't it get any better? one bit easier?" "no!"--that would have no denying; and then: "oh but i'm the brute to talk to you like this, after you've been"--again he swept her into his arms--"what you have been to me this summer." she guided him to a chair and knelt beside him. she held his hand for a minute as the mother holds the hand of the child in pain. and then she began, her voice tender, but quietly determined: "karl dear--let's be honest. let's not do so much pretending with each other. for just this once let's look it right in the face. i want to understand--oh how i want to! what's the very worst of it, dear? is it--the work?" "yes!"--the word leaped out as though let loose from a long bondage. "ernestine--no one but a man can quite see that. what _is_ a man without a man's work? what is there for him to do but sit around in namby-pamby fashion and be fussed over and coddled and cheered up! lord"--he threw away her hands and turned his face from her--"i'd rather be dead!" her utter silence recalled him to a sense of how she must be hurt. could he have looked into her eyes just then he would never have ceased to regret those words. there was contrition in his face as he turned back. he reached out for her hands--those faithful, loving hands he had thrust away. for just a minute she did not give them, but that was only for the minute--so quick was she to forgive, so eager to understand. "forget that, sweetheart--quick. i didn't know what i was saying. why, liebchen--it's only you makes it bearable at all. if i did not have you i should--choose the other way." "karl!"--in an instant clinging to him wildly--"you hadn't thought--you couldn't think--" "oh, sweetheart--you've misunderstood. now, dearie--don't--don't make me feel i've made you cry. all i meant, ernestine, was that without you it would be so utterly unbearable." he stroked her hair until she was quiet. "why, liebchen--do you think anything under heaven could be so bad that i should want to leave you?" "i should hope i had not failed--quite that completely," she whispered brokenly. "failed?--_you?_ come up here a little closer and i'll try to tell you just how far you've come from having failed." at first he could tell her best in the passionate kiss, the gentle stroking of her face, the tenderness with which his hands rested upon her eyes. and then words added a little. "everything, liebchen; everything of joy and comfort and beauty and light--light, sweetheart--everything of light and hope and consolation that comes to me now is through you. you've done more than i would have believed in human power. you have actually made me forget, and can you fancy how supreme a thing it is to make a man forget that he is blind? you've put the beautiful things before me in their most beautiful way. do you suppose that alone, or with any one else, i could see any beauty in anything? you've made me laugh! how did you ever do that--you wonderful little ernestine? and, sweetheart, you've helped me with my self-respect. you've saved me in a thousand little ways from the humiliations of being blind. why you actually must have some idea of what it is like yourself!" "i have, karl. i have imagined and thought about it and tried to--well, just trained myself, until i believe i do know something of what it is like." "you love me!" he murmured, carried with that from despair to exultation. "but if you could only know how _much._" "i do know. i do know, dear. i wish that all the world--i'd hate to have them know, for it's just ours--but for the sake of faltering faith they ought to know what you've been to me this summer." "then, karl,"--this after one of their precious silences--"i want to ask you something. it is hard to say it just right, but i'll try. you know that i love you--that we have one of those supreme loves which come at rare times--perhaps for the sake of what you call faltering faith. but, karl--this will sound hard--but after all, doesn't it fail? fail of being supreme? doesn't it fail if it is not--satisfying? i don't mean that it should make up to one for such a thing as being blind, but if in spite of love like ours life seems unbearable to you without your work--why then, dear, doesn't it fail?" he was long in answering, and then he only said, slowly: "i see. i see how you have reasoned it out. i wonder if i can make you understand?" "ernestine,"--the old enthusiasm had kindled in his face with the summoning of the thoughts--"no painter or sculptor ever loved his work more than i loved mine. and i had that same kind of joy in it; that delight in it as a beautiful thing to achieve. that may seem strange to you. but the working out of something i was able to do brought me the same delight the working out of a picture brings to you. dear, it was my very soul. and so, instead of there being two forces in my life after i had you, it was just the one big thing. you made me bigger and because i was bigger i wanted to do bigger things. don't you see that?" she held his hand a little more closely in response. he knew that she understood. "don't think i have given up--why of course i haven't. i will adjust myself in a little time--do what there is for me to do. i am going to see immediately about a secretary, a stenographer--no, ernestine, i don't want you to do that. it's merely routine work, and i want you to do your own work. one of us must do the work it was intended we should. i could have gone on with some lecture work at the university, but i--this year i couldn't quite do that. i'll be more used to handling myself by next year, have myself better in hand in every way. i couldn't quite stand the smell from the laboratory just now. this year i shall work on those books i've told you about; just class-room books--i never could write anything that would be literature--i'm not built for that; but these things will be useful, i've felt the need of something of the sort in my own classes. i'll always make a living, ernestine--don't you ever worry about that! and the world won't know--why should we let it know we're not satisfied? but i can't hide from you that it is the other, the creative work--the--oh, i tell you, ernestine, the fellows up there in the far north don't have all the fun! it may be great to push one's way through icebergs--but i know something that is greater than that! they say there is a joy in standing where no man ever stood before, and i can see that, for i too have stood where no man ever stood before! but i'm ahead of them--mine's the greater joy--for i knew that my territory was worth something--that the world would follow where i had led!"--the old force, fire, joyous enthusiasm had bounded into his voice. but it died away, and it was with a settling to sadness he said, "you see, little girl, if there was a wonderful picture you had conceived--your masterpiece, something you had reason to feel would stand as one of the world's great pictures, if you had begun on it, were in the heat of it, and then had to give it up, it would not quite satisfy you, would it, dear, to settle down and write some textbooks on art?" "karl--it's i who have been blind! i tried so hard to understand--but i--oh, karl--can't we do something? can't we _do_ something about it?" "i was selfish to tell you--but it is good to have you understand." but she had not let go that idea of something being done. "karl, _couldn't_ you go on with it? isn't there some way? can't we _find_ a way?" he shook his head. "i have thought of it by the hour--gone over every side of it. but work like that takes a man's whole being. it takes more than mere eyes and hands--more than just mind. you must have the spirit right for it--all things must work together. it's not the sort of work to do under a handicap. god knows i'd start in if i could see my way--but neither the world nor myself would have anything to gain. some one would have to be eyes for me--and so much more than eyes. it's all in how things look, dear--their appearance tells the story. an assistant could tell me what _he_ saw--but he could not bring to me what would be conveyed if i saw it myself. all that was individual in my work would be gone. minds do not work together like that. i should be too much in the dark," he concluded, sadly. for a long time her head was on his shoulder. she was giving him of that silent sympathy which came with an eternal freshness from her heart. "we'll manage pretty well," he went on, in a lighter tone which did not quite deceive her. "our life is not going to be one long spell of moping. it's time now for the year's work to begin. you must get at your pictures, and i'll get at the books. oh, i'll get interested in them, all right--and oh, liebchen"--with a tenderness which swept all else aside--"i have _you!_" chapter xxiii her vision some of the university people came over that night to see karl. ernestine was glad of that, for she had been dreading the evening. their talk of the afternoon had made it more clear and more hard than it had ever been before. her mothering instinct had been supreme that summer. it had dominated her so completely as to blur slightly the clearness of her intellectual vision. to be doing things for him, making him as comfortable as possible, to find occupation for him as one does for the convalescent, to hover about him, showering him with manifestations of her love and woman's protectiveness--it had stirred the mother in her, and in the depths of her sorrow there had been a sublime joy. now she could not see her way ahead. it was her constant doing things to "make it up to him" had made the summer bearable at all. with the clearing of her vision her sustaining power seemed taken from her. "and how has it gone with you this summer?" professor hastings asked, holding both of her hands for a minute in fatherly fashion as she met him in the hall. he scarcely heard her reply, for the thought came to him: "if he could only see her now!" it was her pride and her wistfulness, her courage and her appeal, the union of defiance and tenderness which held one strangely in the face of ernestine. she was as the figure of love standing there wounded but unvanquished before the blows of fate. "professor hastings has come to see you, karl," she said, as they entered the library; and as he rose she laid her hand very gently upon his arm, a touch which seemed more like an unconscious little movement of affection than an assistance. "good for hastings!" said karl, with genuine heartiness. "and have a good many thought waves from me come to you this summer?" he asked, shaking karl's hand with a warmth which conveyed the things he left unsaid. "yes, they've come," karl replied. "oh, we knew our friends were with us,"--a little hastily. "but we've had a pretty good summer--haven't we, ernestine?" turning his face to her. "in many ways it has been a delightful summer,"--her voice now had that blending of defiance and appeal, and as she looked at her husband and smiled it flashed through professor hastings' mind--"he knew she did that!" "you see,"--after they were seated--"i was really very uneducated. isn't it surprising, hastings, how much some of us don't know? now what do you know about the history of art? could you pass a sophomore examination in it? well, i couldn't until ernestine began coaching me up this summer. now i'm quite fit to appear before women's clubs as a lecturer on art. literature, too, i'm getting on with; i'm getting acquainted with all the swedes and the irishmen and the poles who ever put pen to paper." "karl," she protested--"swedes and irishmen and poles!" "isn't that what they are?" he demanded, innocently. "well they're not exactly a lot of immigrants." "yes they are; immigrants into the domain of my--shall i say intellectuality?" they laughed a little, and there was a moment's pause. "tell me about school," he said, abruptly, his voice all changed. professor hastings felt the censorship of ernestine's eyes upon him as he talked; they travelled with a frightened eagerness from the face of the man who spoke to him who listened. he could see them deepen as they touched dangerous ground, and he wondered how she could go on living with that intensity of feeling. "beason is back," he said, in telling of the returnings and the changes. "beason!"--dr. hubers' voice rang out charged with a significance the older man could not understand. "you say beason is back?"--the voice then was as if something had broken. "yes, it was unexpected. he had thought he would be west this year, but things turned out better than he had expected." "yes, he told me--in april, that he would be west this year." as he sank back, his face in repose, professor hastings saw something of what the summer had done. ernestine's eyes were upon him, a little reproachful, and beseeching. but before he could think of anything redeeming to say two other university men had been admitted. it was hard at first. dr. hubers did not rouse himself to more than the merest conventionality, and all the rest of it was left to his wife, who, however, rose to the situation with a superb graciousness. finally they touched a topic which roused karl. his mind reached out to it with his old eagerness and virility, and they were soon in the heat of one of those discussions which wage when men of active mind and kindred interest are brought together. ernestine sat for a little time listening to them, grateful for the relaxation of the tension, more grateful still for this touch of karl's old-time self. but following upon that the very consciousness that they saw the real karl so seldom now brought added pain. what would the future hold? what could it hold? must he not go farther and farther from this real self as he adjusted himself more and more fully to the new order of things? watching him then, as he talked and listened, she could appreciate anew what karl's eyes had meant to his personality. it almost broke her heart to see him lean forward and look in that half-eager, half-fretted way toward the man who was speaking, as though his blindness were a barrier between their minds, a barrier he instinctively tried to beat down. she wanted to get away, and she felt they would get along better now without her. so she left them, laughingly, to their cigars and their discussion. she wandered about the house listlessly, mechanically doing a few things here and there. and then, still aimlessly, she went up to her studio. she sat down on the floor, leaning her head against the couch. just then she looked like a very tired, disappointed child. and it was with something of a child's simplicity she saw things then. was it right to treat karl that way--karl who was so great and good--could do such big things? was it fair or right that karl should be unhappy--karl who did so much for other people, and who had all this sweetness and tenderness with the greatness? what could she do for karl? she loved him enough to lay down her life for him. then was there not some way she could use her life to make things better for him? and so she sat there, her thoughts brooding over him, too tired for anything but very simple thinking, too worn for passion, but filled with the sadness of a grieving child. it was after she had been looking straight at it for a long time that she realised she was looking at a picture on her easel. dimly, uncaringly, she knew what the picture was. but she was thinking only of karl. it was a long time before her mind really followed her eyes to the picture. it was a sketch of a woman's face. she remembered what a splendid model she had had for it. and then suddenly her mind went full upon it; her whole bearing changed; she leaned forward with a passionate intentness. unsatisfied longing, disappointed motherhood, deep, deep things stirred only to be denied! yes, the model had been a good one, but it was from her own soul the life things in that face had come. it brought them all back now--all those things she had put into it. a great wave of passion and yearning swept through her;--new questionings, sorrow touched with resentment, longing mingled with defiance. why could not this have gone right with them? what it would have meant to karl in these days!--sustained, comforted, kept strong. the pain of those first days was translated by the deeper understanding of these. her eyes were very deep, about her mouth an infinite yearning as she asked some of those questions for which god had no answer. but there was something about the picture she did not like. she looked at it with a growing dissatisfaction. and then she saw what it was. the woman was sinking to melancholy. she bowed under the hand of fate. she did not know why, this night of all others, she should resent that. what did she want? what could she expect? she stirred restlessly under the dissatisfaction. it seemed too much fate's triumph to leave it like this. not this surrender, but a little of the spartan, a touch of sternness, a little defiance in the hunger, an understanding--that was it!--a submission in which there was the dignity of understanding. ah--here it was!--a knowing that thousands had endured and must endure, but as an echo from the stoics--"well?" the idea fascinated her--swept through her with a strange, wild passion. she scarcely knew what she was doing, when, after a long time of looking at the picture, she began getting out her things. her face had wholly changed. she too had now the understanding, stern, all-comprehending--"well?"--for fate. she could work! that was the thing remained. she would not bow down under it and submit. she would work! she would erect something to stand for their love--something so great, so universal and eternal that it would make up for all taken away. she would crystallise their lives into something so big and supreme that karl himself, feeling, understanding that which he could not see, would come at the end into all the satisfaction of the victor! could she do greater things for him than that? she glowed under the idea. it filled, thrilled, intoxicated her. and she could do it! as she saw that a few master strokes were visualising her idea she came into greater consciousness of her power than she had ever had before. it all flowed into big new impetus for her work. a year before she had wanted to work because she was so happy, now with a fierce passion she turned to her work as the thing to make it right for their lives. out of all this she would rise to so great an understanding, so supreme a power that they too could hurl their defiant--"well?"--at the fate which had believed them conquered. in the glow and the passion and the exaltation of it she felt that nothing in the world, no trick of fate, no onslaught of god or man, could keep her from the work that was hers. she had a vision of hosts of men, all powers of fate, marching against her, and she, unfaltering, serene, confident, just doing her work! it was one of the perfect moments of the divine intoxication. it was in the very glow of it that the strange thing happened. the lights from her ruby, caught in a shaft of light, blurred her vision for an instant, and in that same instant, as if borne with the lights of the stone, there penetrated her glowing, exuberant mood--quick, piercing, like an arrow shot in with strong, true hand--"he loves his work just like this. you know now. you understand." her mood fell away like a pricked bubble. the divine glow, that passionate throbbing of conscious power, made way for the comprehension of that thing shot in upon her like a shaft.--"he loves his work just like this. you know now. you understand." she had been standing, and she sank to a chair. like all great changes it sapped up strength. the blood had cooled too suddenly, and she was weak and trembling--but, oh, how she understood! he himself did not understand it as she understood it now. pushing upon him--dominating him--clamouring--crowding for outlet when outlet had been closed--gathering, growing, and unable to find its valve of escape--why it would crowd upon him--kill him! beat it down? but it was the deathless in him. with human strength put out a fire that was divine? she covered her face with her hands to shut it out. but she could not shut it out; it was there--a thing to be faced, not evaded--a thing which would grow, not draw away. and she loved him so! in this moment of perfect understanding, this divine camaraderie of the soul--knowing that they were touched with the same touch--drew from a common fount--she felt within her a love for him, an understanding, which all of the centuries behind her, the eternity out of which she had come--had gone to make. and then, grim, stern, she put her intellect upon it. she went over everything he had said that afternoon. each thought of it opened up new channels, and she followed them all to their uttermost. and in that getting of it in hand there was more than insight, knowledge, conviction. there was a complete sensing of the truth, a comprehending of things just without the pale of reason. her face pale, her eyes looking into that far distance, she sat there for more than an hour, oblivious for the first time since his blindness to the thought that karl might be needing her, lost to all conventional instincts as hostess. hard and fast the thoughts beat upon her, and then at last in the wake of those thoughts, out beyond, there was born a great light. it staggered her at first; it seemed a light too great for human mind to bear. but time passed, and the light burned on, steady, fixed, not to pass away. and in that momentous hour which words are quite powerless to record, something was buried, and something born. chapter xxiv love challenges fate the doctor hung up the receiver slowly and with meditation. and when he turned from the telephone his thoughts did not leave the channel to which it had directed them. what was it mrs. hubers wanted? why was she coming to the office at four that afternoon? something in her voice made him wonder. he had offered to go out, but she preferred coming to the office. evidently then she wished to see him alone; and she had specified that she come when he could give her the most time. then there was something to talk over. he had asked for karl, and she answered, cheerfully, that he was well. "and you?" he pursued, and she had laughed with that--an underlying significance in that laugh perplexed him as he recalled it, and had answered buoyantly: "i? oh, splendid!" it did not leave his mind all day; he thought about it a great deal as he drove his car from place to place. it even came to him in the operating room, and it was not usual for anything to intrude there. he reached the office a few minutes ahead of the hour, but she was waiting for him. she rose as she saw him at the door and took an eager step forward. her cheeks were flushed, her eyes very bright, and her smile, as she held out her hand, had that same quality as her voice of the morning. she was so far removed from usual things that she resorted to no conventional pleasantries after they had entered the doctor's inner office, and she waited for him to attend to a few little things before giving her his attention. he knew by the way her eyes followed him about that she was eager to begin, and while there was a little timidity about her it seemed just a timidity of manner, of things exterior, while back of that he felt the force of her poise. he had never seen her so beautiful. she was wearing a brown velvet suit, a golden brown like some of the glints in her hair and some of the lights in her eyes. her eyes, too, held that something which puzzled him. it was a windy day, and her hair was a little disarranged, which made her look very young, and her veil was thrown back from her face just right to make a frame for it. why could not all women manage those big veils the way some women did, he wondered. he sat down in the chair before his desk, and swung it around facing her. then he waited for her to speak. that little timidity was upon her for the second, but she broke through it, seeming to shake it off with a little shake of her head. "dr. parkman," she said--her voice was low and well controlled--"i have come to you because i want you to help me." he liked that. very few people came out with the truth at the start that way. "i wonder if you know," she went on, looking at him with a very sweet seriousness, "that karl is very unhappy?" his face showed that that was unexpected. "why, yes," he assented, "i know that his heart has not been as philosophical as some of his words; but"--gently--"what can you expect?" she did not answer that, but pondered something a minute. "dr. parkman," she began abruptly, "just why do you think it is karl cannot go on with his work? i do not mean his lectures, but his own work in the laboratory, the research?" again he showed that she was surprising him. "why surely you understand that. it is self-evident, is it not? he cannot do his laboratory work because he has lost his eyes." "eyes--yes. but the eye is only an instrument; he has not lost his brain." the flush in her cheeks deepened. her eyes met his in challenge. her voice on that had been very firm. he was quick to read beyond the words. "you are asking, intending to ask, why he could not go on, working through some assistant?" "i want to know just what is your idea of why he cannot. all the things of mind and temperament--things which make him karl--are there as before. are we not letting a very little thing hold us back?"--there was much repression now, as though she must hold herself in check, and wait. "i've thought about it too!" he exclaimed. "heaven knows i've tried to see it that way. but my conclusion has always been like karl's: the handicap would be too great." "why?" she asked calmly. "why? why--because," he replied, almost impatiently, and then laughed a little at his woman's reason. "i'll tell you why!"--her eyes deepening. "i'll tell you the secret of your conclusion. you concluded he could not go on with his work just because no assistant could be in close enough touch with karl to make clear the things he saw." he thought a minute. then, "that's about it," he answered briefly. "you concluded that two men's brains could not work together in close enough harmony for one man's eyes to fit the other man's brain." "you put it very clearly," he assented. she paused, as though to be very sure of herself here. "then, doctor, looking a little farther into it, one sees something else. if there were some one close enough to karl to bring to his brain, through some other medium than eyes, the things the eyes would naturally carry; if there were some one close enough to make things just as plain as though karl were seeing them himself, then"--her voice gathered in intensity--"despite the loss of his eyes, he could go right on with his work." "um--well, yes, if such an impossible thing were possible." "but it _is_ possible! oh if i can only make you see this now! doctor, _don't_ you see it? _i_ am closer to him than any one in the world! _i_ am the one to take up his work!" he pushed back his chair and sat staring at her speechlessly. "dr. parkman," she began--and it seemed now that he had never known her at all before--"most of the biggest things ever proposed in this world have sounded very ridiculous to the people who first heard of them. the unprecedented has usually been called the impossible. now i ask you to do just one thing. don't hold my idea at arm's length as an impossibility. look it straight in the face without prejudice. who would do more for karl than any one else on earth? who is closer to him than any one else in the world? who can make him see without seeing?--yet, know without knowing? dr. parkman,"--voice eager, eyes very tender--"is there any question in your mind as to who can come closest to karl?" "but--but--" he gasped. "i know," she hastened--"much to talk over; so many things to overcome. but won't you be very fair to me and look at it first as a whole? the men in karl's laboratory know more about science than i do. but they do not know as much about karl. they have the science and i have the spirit. i can get the science but they could never get the spirit. after all, isn't there some meaning in that old phrase 'a labour of love'? doctor"--her smile made it so much clearer than her words--"did you ever hear of knowledge and skill working a miracle? do you know anything save love which can do the impossible?" he did not speak at once. he did not find it easy to answer words like that. "but, my dear mrs. hubers," he finally began--"you are simply assuming--" "yes,"--and the tenderness leaped suddenly to passion and the passion intensified to sternness--"i am simply assuming that it _can_ be done, and through obstacle and argument, from now until the end of my life, i am going on assuming that very thing, and furthermore, dr. parkman,"--relaxing a little and smiling at him under standingly--"just as soon as the light has fully dawned upon you, _you_ are going to begin assuming that, and you are the very man--oh, i know--to keep on assuming it in the face of all the obstacles which the university of chicago--yes, and all creation--may succeed in piling up. there is one thing on which you and i are going to stand very firmly together. that thing,"--with the deep quiet of finality--"is that karl shall go on with his work." dr. parkman had never been handled that way before; perhaps it was its newness which fascinated him; at any rate he seemed unable to say the things he felt he should be saying. "dr. parkman, the only weak people in this world are the people who sit down and say that things are impossible. the only big people are the people who stand up and declare in the face of whatsoever comes that nothing is impossible. for karl there is some excuse; the shock has been too great--his blindness has shut him in. but you and i are out in the light of day, doctor, and i say that you and i have been weaklings long enough." he had never been called a weakling before--he had never thought to be called a weakling, but the strangeness of that was less strange than something in her eyes, her voice, her spirit, which seemed drawing him on. "karl has lost his eyes. has he lost his brain--any of those things which make him karl? all that has been taken away is the channel of communication. i am not presuming to be his brain. all i ask is to carry things to the brain. why, doctor,--i'm ashamed, _mortified_--that we hadn't thought of it before!" "but--how?" he finally asked, weakly enough. "i will go into karl's laboratory and learn how to work--all that part of it i want you to arrange for me. after all, i have a good foundation. i think i told you about my father, and how hard he tried to make a scientist of me? and it was queer about my laboratory work. it was always easy for me. i could _see_ it, all right--enough my father's child for that, but you see my working enthusiasm and ambition were given to other things. now i'll make things within me join forces, for i _will_ love the work now, because of what it can do for karl. i need to be trained how to work, how to observe, and above all else learn to tell exactly what i see. i shall strive to become a perfectly constructed instrument--that's all. and i _will_ be better than the usual laboratory assistant, for not having any ideas of my own i will not intrude my individuality upon karl--to blur his vision. i shall not try to deduce--and mislead him with my wrong conclusions. i shall simply _see_. a man who knew more about it might not be able to separate what he saw from what he thought--and that would be standing between karl and the facts." he was looking at her strangely. "and your own work--what would be happening to it, if you were to do--this?" "i have given my own work up," she said, and she said it so simply that it might have seemed a very simply matter. "you can't do that," he met her, sharply. "yes,"--slowly--"i can. i love it, but i love karl more. if i have my work he cannot have his, and karl has been deprived of his eyes--he is giving up the sunlight--the stars--the face he loves--many things. i thought it all out last night, and the very simple justice of it is that karl is the one to have his work." she was dwelling upon it,--a wonderful tenderness lighting her face; for the minute she had forgotten him. then suddenly she came sharply back to the practical, brought herself ruthlessly back to it, as if fearing it was her practicality he would question. "besides, karl's work is the more important. nobody is going to die for a water colour or an oil painting; people are dying every day for the things karl can give. but, doctor,"--far too feminine not to press the advantage--"if i can do _that_, don't you think you can afford to break through your conservatism and--you _will_, doctor, won't you?" but dr. parkman had wheeled his chair about so that she could not see his face. his eyes had grown a little dim. "you see, doctor,"--gently,--"what i am going to give to it? not only the things any one else could give, but all my love for karl, and added to that all those things within myself which have heretofore been poured into my own work. i _can_ paint, doctor, you and i know that, and i think you know something of how i love it. something inside of me has always been given to it--a great big something for which there is no name. now i am going to just force all that into a new channel, and don't you see how much there will be to give? and in practical ways too i can make my own work count. i know how to use my hands--and there isn't a laboratory assistant in the whole university of chicago knows as much about colour as i do!"--she smiled like a pleased child. he looked at her then--a long look. he had forgotten the moisture in his eyes,--he did not mind. and it was many years since any one had seen upon dr. parkman's face the look which ernestine saw there now. "isn't it strange, doctor," she went on, after a pause, "how we think we understand, and then suddenly awake to find we have not been understanding at all? karl and i had a long talk yesterday, and in that talk he seemed able to let me right into it all. all summer long i did my best, but i see now i had not been understanding. and understanding as i do now--caring as i care--do you think i can sit quietly by and see karl make himself over to fit this miserable situation? do you think i am going to help him adjust himself to giving up the great thing in him? no--he is not going to accept it! i tell you karl is to be karl--he is to do karl's work--and find karl's place. why i tell you, dr. parkman, i will not _have_ it any other way!" it was a passionate tyranny of the spirit over which caution of mind seemed unable to prevail. his reason warned him--i cannot see how this and this and that are to be done, but the soul in her voice seemed drawing him to a light out beyond the darkness. "doctor,"--her eyes glowing with a tender pride--"think of it! think of karl doing his work in spite of his blindness! won't it stand as one of the greatest things in the whole history of science?" he nodded, the light of enthusiasm growing more steady in his own eye. "but i have not finished telling you. after our talk yesterday it seemed to me i could not go on at all. i didn't know what to do. in the evening i was up in my studio--"--she paused, striving to formulate it,--"no, i see i can't tell it, but suddenly things came to me, and, doctor, i understand it now better than karl understands it himself." he felt the things which she did not say; indeed through it all it was the unspoken drew him most irresistibly. "i'll not try to tell you how it all worked itself out, but i saw things very clearly then, and all the facts and all the reason and all the logic in the world could not make me believe i did not see the truth. my idea of taking it up myself, of my being the one to bring karl back to his work, seemed to come to me like some great divine light. i suppose," she concluded, simply, "that it was what you would call a moment of inspiration." she leaned her head back as though very tired, but smiling a little. he did not speak; he had too much the understanding heart to intrude upon the things shining from her face. "i could do good work, doctor. i've always felt it, and i have done just enough to justify me in knowing it. i don't believe any one ever loved his work more than i love mine, and last night when i saw things so clearly i saw how the longing for it would come to me--oh, i know. don't think i do not know. but something will sustain me; something will keep my courage high, and that something is the look there will be on karl's face when i tell him what i have done. you see we will not tell karl at first; we will keep it a great secret. he will know i am working hard, but will think it is my own work. if we told him now he would say it was impossible. his blindness, the helplessness that goes with it, has taken away some of his confidence, and he would say it could not be done. but what will he say,"--she laughed, almost gleefully--"when he finds i have gone ahead and made myself ready for him? when _you_ tell him i can do it--and the laboratory men tell him so? he will try it then, just out of gratitude to me. oh, it will not go very well at first. it is going to take practice--days and weeks and months of it--to learn how to work together. but, little by little, he will gain confidence in himself and in me, he will begin getting back his grip--enthusiasm--all the things of the old-time karl, and then some day when we have had a little success about something he will burst forth--'by jove--ernestine--i believe we _can_ make it go!'--and that," she concluded, softly, "will be worth it all to me." again a silence which sank deeper than words--a silence which sealed their compact. she came from it with the vigorously practical, "now, dr. parkman,"--sitting up very straight, with an assertive little gesture--"you go out to that university and fire their souls! wake them up! make them _see_ it! and when do you think i can begin?" that turned them to actual issues; he spoke freely of difficulties, and they discussed them together calmly. her enthusiasm was not builded on dreams alone; it was not of that volatile stuff which must perish in detail and difficulty. she was ready to meet it all, to ponder and plan. and where he had been carried by her enthusiasm he was held by her resourcefulness. "are august dignitaries of reason and judgment likely to rise up and make it very unpleasant for you after i've gone?" she asked him, laughingly, when she had risen to go. "very likely to," he laughed. "tell them it's not their affair! tell them to do what they're told and not ask too many questions!" "i'll try to put them in their proper place," he assured her. he watched her as she stood there buttoning her glove--slight, almost frail, scarcely one's idea of a "masterful woman." it struck him then as strange that she had not so much as asked for pledge of his allegiance. what was it about her--? she was holding out her hand. something in her eyes lighted and glorified her whole face. "thank you, doctor," she said, very low. for a long time he sat motionless before his desk. he was thinking of many things. "nothing in which to believe," he murmured at last, looking about the room still warm with the spirit she had left--"nothing in which to believe--when there is love such as this in the world?" chapter xxv dr. parkman's way the next morning dr. parkman turned his automobile in the direction of the university of chicago. there was a very grim look on his face as he sent the car, with the hand of an expert, through the crowded streets. he had his do-or-die expression, and the way he was letting the machine out would not indicate a shrinking back from what lay before him. he rather chuckled once; that is, it began in a chuckle, and ended with the semblance of a grunt, and when he finally swung the car down the midway, he was saying to himself: "glad of it! i've been wanting for a long time to tell that lane what i thought of him." inquiries over the telephone had developed the fact that through some shifting about, dr. george lane was temporary head of the department; it was to dr. george lane then that dr. parkman must go with the matter in hand this morning. that had seemed bad at first, for lane was one man out there he couldn't get on with and did not want to. they always clashed; upon their last meeting lane had said--"really now, dr. parkman, don't you feel that a broader culture is the real need of the medical profession?" and parkman had retorted, "shouldn't wonder, but has it ever struck you, dr. lane, that a little more horse sense is the real need of the university professor?" he declared, grimly, as he finally drew his car to a snorting stop at the university that he would have to try some other method than "firing his soul," as ernestine had bade him do. "in the first place," he figured it out, "he has no soul, and if he had, i wouldn't be the one to fire it with anything but rage." but the doctor was not worrying much about results. he thought he had a little ammunition in reserve which assured the outcome, and which would enable him, at the same time, to "let loose on lane," should the latter show a tendency to become too important. the erudite lane was a neatly built little fellow, very spick and span. first america and then england had done their best--or worst--by him. just as every hair on his head was properly brushed, so dr. parkman felt quite sure that every idea within the head was properly beaten down with a pair of intellectual military brushes, one of which he had acquired to the west, and the other to the east of the atlantic. "i suppose he's a scholar," mused the doctor, as he surveyed the back of the dignitary's head while waiting, "but what in god's name would he do if he were ever to be hit with an original idea?" "ah, yes, dr. parkman, we so seldom see you very busy men out here. we always appreciate it when you busy men look in upon us." now the tone did not appeal to dr. parkman, and with one of his quick decisions he bade tact take itself to the four winds, leaving him alone with his reserve guns. "i always appreciate it," he began abruptly, not attempting to deny that he was a busy man, "when people take as little of my time as possible. i will try to do unto others as i would that others do unto me." by the merest lifting of his eyebrows, lane signified that he would make no attempt at detaining the doctor longer than he wished to stay. he awaited punctiliously the other man's pleasure, silently emphasising that the interview was not of his bringing about. "thinks i'm a boor and a brute," mused parkman. "what i wanted to see you about," he began, "relates to dr. hubers." "ah, yes--poor hubers. a remarkable man, in many ways. it is one of those things which make one--very sad. we wanted him to go on with his lectures, but he did not seem to feel quite equal to it." "huh!"--that might mean a variety of things. the tone of patronage infuriated karl's friend. "jealous--sore--glad karl's out of it," he was interpreting it. then he delivered this very calmly: "well, the fact of the matter is, that among all medical men, and in that part of the scientific world which i may call the active part--the only part of any real value--karl hubers is regarded so far above every other man who ever set foot in this university that all the rest of the place is looked upon as something which surrounds him. over in europe, they say--chicago?--university of chicago? oh, yes--yes indeed, i remember now. that's where hubers is.'" "the professor," as dr. parkman frequently insisted on calling him, showed himself capable of a rush of red blood to the face, and of a very human engulfing of emotion in a hurried cough. "ah, i see you are a warm friend, dr. parkman," quickly regaining his impenetrable superiority, and smiling tolerantly. "but looking at it quite dispassionately, putting aside sympathy and all personal feeling, i have sometimes felt that dr. hubers, in spite of his--i may say gifts, in some directions, is a little lacking in that broad culture, that finer quality of universal scholarship which should dominate the ideal university man of to-day." dr. parkman was smiling in a knowing way to himself. "i see what you mean, professor, though i would put it a little differently. i wouldn't call him in the least lacking in broad culture, but he is rather lacking in pedantry, in limitations, in intellectual snobbery, in university folderols. and of course a man who is actually doing something in the world, who stands for real achievement, has a little less time to look after the fine quality of universal scholarship." perhaps lane would have been either more or less than human, had he not retorted to that: "but as to this great achievement--it has never been forthcoming, has it?" the doctor had a little nervous affection of his face. the corner of one eye and one corner of his mouth sometimes twitched a little. people who knew him well were apt to grow nervous themselves when they made that observation. but as no one who knew him chanced to be present, the storm broke all unannounced. "for which," he snarled out, "every cheap skate of a university professor who never did anything himself but paddle other men's canoes, for which every human phonograph and intellectual parrot sends out thanks from his two-by-four soul! but among men who are men, among physicians who have cause to know his worth, among scientists big enough to get out of their own shadows, and, thank god, among the people who haven't been fossilised by clammy universities out of all sense of human values--among them, i say, karl hubers is appreciated for what he was close to doing when this damnable fate stepped in and stopped him!" the man of broad culture, very white as to the face, rose to his fullest height. it should not be held against him that his fullest height failed in reaching the other man's shoulder. "if there is nothing further," he choked out, "perhaps we may consider the interview concluded?" "no," retorted parkman serenely, "the interview has just begun. it's your business, isn't it, to listen to matters relating to this department?" "it is; but as i am accustomed to meeting men of some--" "manners?" supplied the doctor pleasantly. "as i am accustomed to men of a somewhat different type,"--he picked the phrase punctiliously, manifestly a conservative, even in war--"i was naturally unprepared for the nature of your remarks." "oh well, the unexpected must be rather agreeable when one leads so cut and dried a life. but what i want to see you about," he went on, quite as though he had dropped the most pleasant thing in the world, "is just this. i want you to give the use of dr. hubers' laboratory, his equipment and at least one of his assistants, to dr. hubers' wife, that she may get in shape to work with him as his assistant, and enable him to carry on his work and do those things, which, as you correctly state, are still unachieved." now the delivering of that pleased dr. parkman very much. he scarcely attempted to conceal his righteous pride. "really, now," gasped the head of the department, after a minute of speechless staring, "really, now, dr. parkman, you astonish me."--"that's the truth, if he ever spoke it," thought the doctor grimly."--dr. hubers' wife, i understand you to say?"--and he of erudition was equal to a covert sneer--"just what has she to do with it, please?" "she has everything to do with it. in the first place, she is rather interested in dr. hubers. then she's a remarkable woman. needs to freshen up on some things, needs quite a little coaching, in fact; but in my judgment the best way for hubers to go on with his work--you didn't think for a moment he was out of it, did you?--is for his wife to get in shape to work with him. that can be arranged all right?" he concluded pleasantly. then dr. george lane spoke with the authority in him vested. "it certainly can not," he said, with an icy decisiveness. "but why not?" pursued parkman, innocently. "oh, now, don't misunderstand me, professor. i didn't for a minute expect that you were to give any of your valuable time to mrs. hubers. hastings is the fellow i'd like her turned over to. he's a friend of mine, and he's in sympathy, you know, with dr. hubers' work. all you'll have to do is to tell hastings to do it," explained the doctor, expansively. the head of the department quite gleamed with the pride of authority as he pronounced: "which you may be very certain i shall not do." "no?" said parkman, leaning over the desk a little and looking at him. "you say--no?" "i do," replied the man in authority, with brevity, emphasis and finality. dr. parkman leaned back in his chair and seemed to be in deep thought. "then the popular idea is all wrong, isn't it?" "i am at a loss to know to what popular idea you refer," said the professor, with a suitable indifference. "oh merely to the popular idea that this place amounts to something; that it has let go of a little mediaevalism, and is more than a crude, cheap pattern--funny what ideas people get, isn't it? now there are people who think the university here puts a value on individuality, that it would actually bend a rule or two to fit an individual case, in fact that it likes initiative, encourages originality, wouldn't in the least mind having a few actual achievements to its credit." "at the same time," goaded from his icy calm--"it does not propose to make itself ridiculous!" "and doing a rather unconventional thing, in order to bring about a very great thing, would be making itself ridiculous, would it?" "i fail to see how anything so preposterous could bring about good results," said the man in authority, introducing into that a note of dismissal. "do you?" replied parkman, not yet dismissed. "well, if you will pardon a little more plain speaking, i will say that this is something i know a good deal more about than you do." "we have made other arrangements for the laboratory," and the professor picked up a paper from his desk and looked it over, nice subtilties evidently being lost. "so? going to give it to some fellow who will devote himself, after the fashion of university men, to verifying other men's conclusions?" then dr. parkman rose. "well," he said, "you've had your chance. you had a chance to do something which would give this place an excuse for existing. i'm sorry you weren't big enough to take it. "i fear medical men may feel some little prejudice about this," he remarked, easily--not in the least as though dealing in heavy ammunition. "hubers commands the medical men, you know. they care more for him than for all the rest of the fellows out here put together. about that medical school of yours," he said, meditatively, "that you're pushing so hard just now,--to whom shall i tender my resignation as chairman of the committee i'm on? and, at the same time, i'll just be released from the lectures i was to give in the winter quarter. i'm entirely too busy to spend my time on a place that doesn't care for anything but dead men's bones. lewis and richmond will probably want to pull out too. of course," he went on, seemingly to himself, "a thing like this will unfortunately be noised about, and all doctors will be a little sore about your not caring to stand by hubers. but i suppose i had better see the president about all that. he gets home next week? and, come to think of it, i'm pretty close to a couple of members of the board. i operated on both lessing and tyler. both of those fellows have a notion they owe their lives to me. that makes people feel rather close to one, you know. but then, of course, you don't know--why should you? and, dear me--there's that rich old patient of mine, burley. now isn't it strange,"--turning genially to lane, as if merely interesting him in a philosophical proposition--"how one thing leads to another? i fear burley may not be so interested in making that gift to the new medical building, if he knows i've cut loose from the place. the president will feel rather sore about that, too,--you know how the president is about such things. but then,"--shrugging his shoulders indifferently--"he needn't feel sore at me." dr. george lane was swallowing very hard. though learned, he was not dull. word by word he had drunk in the bitter truth that this big, dark, gruff, ill-mannered man was not to be put down with impunity. call it bullying--any hard name you would, there was no evading the fact that it was power in sledge hammer strokes. "the professor" was just wise enough to see that there lay before him the unpleasant task of retraction. "ah--of course, doctor," he began, striving for nonchalance, "do not take this as too final. you see anything so unusual as this will have to come before the committee. you did not present it to me--ah--very fully, but the more i consider it, the more i am disposed to think it is a thing we--may care to undertake. i--will present it." "oh, don't bother about that," said the doctor pleasantly. "i wouldn't worry the committee about it, if i were you. i can get a down-town laboratory all right. i simply thought i would give the university a chance at the thing. it doesn't matter," he concluded, opening the door. "well now, i'll tell you, doctor," said lane, and part of his face was white, and part of it was red, "while you're out here, you would better go up and see hastings. i'm sure i can say--speaking for the committee--that we will be very glad to have mrs. hubers here." "i fired his soul all right," thought the doctor, grimly, as he walked up to find hastings. "those little two by fours!" chapter xxvi old-fashioned love karl's new secretary was what karl himself called "one of those philosophical ducks." "that is," he explained to ernestine, "he is one of those fellows who has been graduated from science into philosophy." "but wouldn't you get on better with one of the scientific students who hadn't been graduated yet?" she laughed. "oh, no; no, i don't mind having a graduate. ross can do the work all right. i'm lucky to get him. there aren't many of them who are stenographers, and then he can give me most of his time. he's finishing up for his ph.d." "and was he really a student of science in the beginning?" "well, after a fashion. the kind that is graduated into philosophy." "karl," she laughed, "despite your proud boast to the contrary, you're bigoted. it's the bigotry of science." "no, it's having science patronised by these fellows who don't know anything about it. if they'd once roll up their sleeves and do some actual work they'd give up that idea of being so easily graduated. but they want to get where they'll not have to work. philosophy's a lazy man's job." "there you go again! a clear case of the scientific arrogance." "no, they amuse me; that's all. 'i had a great deal of science in my undergraduate work,' mr. ross said, 'but i feel now that i want to go into the larger field of philosophy.'" "karl," she laughed, a little amused and a little indignant, "did he actually say that to you?" "he actually did. and with the pleasantest, most off-hand air. it was on the tip of my tongue to reply: 'fortunately, science never loses anything in these people she graduates so easily into philosophy.' "i wonder what they think," he went on, "when we turn them upside down two or three times a century? it doesn't seem to worry them any. 'give me some eggs and some milk and some sugar and i'll make a nice pudding,' they say--that's about what goes into a pudding, isn't it? and then they take the stuff in very thankless fashion, and when their pudding is done, they say--'isn't it pathetic the way some people spend their lives producing nothing but eggs and milk and sugar?' and the worst of it is that half the time they spoil our good stuff by putting it together wrong." "such a waste of good eggs and milk and sugar," she laughed. "but fortunately it is a superior kind of eggs and milk and sugar that can't be hurt by being thrown together wrong. the pudding is bad, but the good stuff in it is indestructible. and as we don't have to sit down to their table, why should we worry over their failures?" "why, indeed? but then, i don't agree that all puddings are bad." "no, not all of them. but it rubs me the wrong way to see bad cooks take such liberties with their materials." "because good eggs and milk and sugar aren't so easy to produce," she agreed. "some of us have paid a pretty good price for them," he said. that turned them to the things always close to them, and they were silent for a time. it was saturday evening, and on monday ernestine would begin her new work. dr. parkman had arranged it for her--she did not know how, but it had been done, and professor hastings, who would have her in charge, was eager to give all possible help. that day, while karl was busy, she had been reading a book dr. parkman had given her. he would keep her supplied with the best things for her to read, he said, selecting that which was vital, so that she would not waste time blundering through karl's library at random. dr. parkman was being so splendid about it all. he was a man to give himself to a thing without reservations; if he helped at all he made his help count to the uttermost. she felt him back of her as a force which would not fail. and she would show him his confidence was not misplaced--his support not given to a vain cause! resolution strengthened within her as the way was cleared. unconsciously she caught karl's hand and held it tight in both of hers. "you know, liebchen," he said, caressing her hand in response, "i've done considerable thinking of late. perhaps a fellow thinks more about things when he is not right in them, and it seemed to me to-day, when i was thinking over these things suggested by ross, that the reason most people don't get on better with their work is just because they don't care for it enough. you have to love a thing to do much with it. take it in any kind of scientific work; the work is hard, there is detail, drudgery, and discouragement. you're going to lose heart and grip unless you have that enthusiasm for the thing as a whole. you must see it big, and have that--well, call it fanaticism, if you want to--a willingness to give yourself up to it, at any rate. the reason these fellows want to get into the 'bigger field of philosophy' is because they've never known anything about the bigger field of science." she loved that fire in his voice, that rare, fine light which at times like this shone from his face. in such moments, he seemed a man set apart; as one divinely appointed. it filled her heart with a warm, glad rush to think it was she would bring him back to his own. it was she would reseat karl on his throne. and what awaited him then? might not his possibilities be greater than ever before? would not determination rise in him with new tremendousness, and would not hope, after its rebirth in despair, soar to undreamed of heights? would not the meditation of these days, the new understanding rising from relinquishment and suffering, bring him back to his work a scientist who was also philosopher? she believed that that would be true, that the things his blindness taught him to see would more than atone for the things shut away. and would not she herself come to love the work just because of what it meant to karl? care for it because of what it could do for him? loving it first because he loved it, would not she come to love it for itself? a quiver of pain had drawn the beautiful light from his face. "tell me about your work, dear," he said abruptly. "you haven't said much about it of late." she turned away her face. she was always forgetting that he could not see her face. "you know you must get to work, sweetheart," he went on as she did not answer. "i am expecting great things of my little girl." "i hope you will not be disappointed," she answered, very low. "of course i'll not be--if you just get to work. now when are you going to begin?" "i'm going to begin monday," replied ernestine. "good! painting some great picture?" she hesitated. "i hope it will be a great picture." "tell me about it." "i can tell you better, dear, when it is a little farther along." "you love your work, ernestine. you have the real, true, fundamental love for it. i always loved to see your face light up when you spoke of your work. is your face lighted up now?" he asked, a little whimsically, but earnestly. she laughed, but the laugh caught in her throat. "will you tell me about your picture as it progresses, dear? don't be afraid to talk to me of your work, ernestine. things will be less hard for me, if i think you are happy. and it will be good to know there is to be some great thing come of our love, dear. i want something to stand for it, something beautiful and great." "there will be!" she said passionately. "there is going to be." "i know," he said gently. "i am sure of it." he stroked her face lovingly then. he loved so to do that. "will you mind much, karl," she began, a little timidly, "if i am away from you some this year?" "away from me?" he asked, startled. "why, what do you mean, ernestine?" "oh, not that i am going away," she hastened. "but, as i say, i am going to begin my work on monday, and part of the time i shall be working, away from home." "you mean in some studio?" her face grew troubled; she frowned a little, bit her lip, but after a second's hesitation, answered: "yes." "found some fellow to study with?" and again she answered yes. "well now look here, liebchen, have i been such a brute that you thought i wouldn't want you to set foot out of the house? i didn't suppose there was anyone here you'd have much to gain from, but if there is, so much the better. i want you to go right ahead and do your best--don't you know that?" but there was a note of forced cheer in it. it would be hard for karl to feel she was not in the house, when he had come to depend on her for so many things. she could not tell him why she was willing to be away from him. it hurt her to think he might feel she did not understand. a little later georgia and her mother and georgia's mr. tank came over to see them. during the summer ernestine and karl had been bestowing an approving interest on georgia and joseph tank. karl liked him; he said the fellow laughed as though there was no reason why he shouldn't. "he doesn't know everything," he told ernestine, "but knows too much to seem to know what he doesn't." georgia had been disposed to be apologetic about mr. tank's paper bags, and karl had retorted: "great scott, georgia, is there anything the world needs much worse than paper bags?" to-night mr. tank was all enthusiasm about a ball game he had attended that afternoon. he gave karl the story of the game in the picturesque fashion of a man more eager to express what he wishes to say than to guard the purity of his english. "oh, it was hot stuff, clear through," he concluded. "bully good game!" "it is sometimes almost impossible for me to tell what georgia and mr. tank are talking about," sighed mrs. mccormick. "they use so many words which are not in the dictionary. now when people confine themselves to words which are in the dictionary, i am always able to ascertain their meaning." "i'm long for saying a thing the way i can get it said," laughed tank. "and i'm long for this new spelling. i never could get next to the old system, and now if they push this deal through, i can pat myself on the back and say, 'good for you, old boy. you were just waiting for them to start in right.' it would be such a good one on the teachers who bumped my head against the wall because i didn't begin pneumonia with a p and every other minute run in an i or an e i had sense enough to know had no business there at all. oh, i'm long for taking a fall out of the old spelling book." "i do hope, karl," admonished mrs. mccormick, "that you will use your influence with scholars to see that the dictionary is let alone. it is certainly a very profane and presumptuous thing to think of changing a dictionary,"--turning to ernestine for approval. "when i was a child," observed georgia, "i had a sublime and unquestioning faith in two things,--the bible and the dictionary. the bible was written by god and the dictionary by noah webster, and both were to remain intact to the end of time. but the university of chicago is re-writing the bible, and 'most any one who feels like it can take a hand at the dictionary, so what is there left for a poor girl to believe in?" "believe in the american dollar," said tank cheerfully. "that's the solidest thing i've ever been up against." mrs. mccormick left them to call upon a friend who lived next door, karl and mr. tank turned to frenzied finance, and georgia and ernestine wandered away by themselves--ernestine surmised that georgia wanted to talk to her. "how goes it at _the mail_?" she asked. "oh--so so," said georgia fretfully. "newspaper work is a thankless job." "why, georgia, i thought you loved it so." "oh, yes,--yes, in a way, i do. but it's thankless. and you never get anywhere. you break your neck one day, and then there's nothing to do the next, but start in and break it again. you're never any better to-day for yesterday's killing. now with you--when you paint a good picture, it stays painted." "why don't you get married?" asked ernestine, innocently. "married! pooh--that would be a nice thing!" "indeed it would. if you care for the man." georgia was fidgeting; it was plain she wanted to talk about marriage, if she could do so without seeming to be vitally interested in the subject. "i mean it, georgia," ernestine went on. "if you care for him, marry him." "care for whom?" georgia demanded, and then coloured and laughed at the folly of her evasion. "well, the fact of the matter is," she finally blurted out, "i don't know whether i do or not. now, in a way, i do. that is, i want him to care for me, and i shouldn't like it if he sailed away to the philippine islands and never showed up again, but at the same time--well, i don't think even _you_ could get up much sentiment about paper bags, and besides"--tempestuously--"the name tank's preposterous!" ernestine laughed. "what are those terms the lawyers are so fond of--immaterial, irrelevant, and something else? georgia, once when i was a little girl and went to visit my grandmother, i had a stubborn fit and wouldn't eat any dinner because the dining-room table had such ugly legs. and the dinner, georgia, was good." it was georgia who laughed then. "but ernestine"--with a swift turn to seriousness--"you're not a fair sample; you and karl are--exceptional. you see you have so _much_--intellectual companionship--sympathetic ideas--kindred tastes--don't you see what a fool i'd make of myself in judging the thing by you?"--she ended with a little gulp which might have been a laugh or might have been something else. ernestine was giving some affectionate rubs to her brass coffee pot. when she raised her head it was to look at georgia strangely. she continued to look, and the strangeness about her intensified. "shall i tell you something, georgia?"--her voice low and queer. "something i _know_? you wouldn't be willing to fight 'till you dropped for sympathetic ideas. you wouldn't be willing to lay down your life for intellectual companionship. you wouldn't be willing to go barefoot and hungry and friendless for kindred tastes. don't for one minute believe you would! the only thing for which you'd be willing to let the whole world slip away from you is an old-fashioned, out-of-date thing called love--just the primitive, fundamental love there is between a man and a woman. if you haven't it, georgia--hold back. if you have,"--a wonderful smile of understanding glowed through a rush of tears--"oh, georgia, if you _have_!" chapter xxvii learning to be karl's eyes she wondered many times in the next few months why she had put it in that very simple, self-evident way. for there are things harder than to go barefoot and hungry and friendless. those are the primitive things, to be met with one's endowment of primitive courage, elemental strength. but poise of spirit can not be wrested from elemental courage. to carry one's carefully wrapped up burden with the nonchalance of the day--nature forgot to make endowment for that; it is something then to be worked out wholly by one's self. persecution she could have endured like a spartan; but it was almost unendurable to be tolerated. she was sure it would have been easier if only they had been rude to her. to be openly jeered at would fire her soul. but there was so little in their manner either to kindle enthusiasm or stir aggressiveness. she began to think that the most trying thing in the world was to have people polite to one. the very first week was the worst of all. no one knew what to do with her; as this was her own idea, an idea no one else pretended to understand, it was expected she make some suggestions for the proper disposition of herself. but poor ernestine did not know enough about it to make disposition of herself. she could only smile with a courageous serenity, and ask that she be shown how to help about things. and so mr. willard, who was in charge of karl's laboratory, and who was karl without karl's genius, turned her over to mr. beason, his assistant. beason would show her how to "help." her sense of humour helped her there. it was amusing that one who was learning to "help" should be such an encumbrance. and there were many amusing things about mr. beason. he was afraid of her because she was a woman, for like reason disapproving of her presence in the laboratory, and yet there was an unconscious deference, the same kind of veneration he would have paid karl's old coat, or his pipe. john beason had never been shaken by a genuine emotion until the day he read that dr. karl hubers had lost his eyesight and must give up his work. in the horror, the rage and the grief which swept over him then, beason rose to the heights of a human being, never to be quite without humanship again. when he came back that fall, professor hastings was quick to sense the change. beason was given a place in dr. hubers' old laboratory, as one of mr. willard's assistants. that first morning, after he had been in there about an hour, he came out to professor hastings, who chanced to be alone. "i don't know whether i want to stay in there or not," the boy jerked out. he told him that dr. hubers would like to have him there. "you know he liked you," he said simply. beason sat a long time pondering. "well, they'll never have another man like him," he said at last, savagely, and choking a little. after the first few weeks his attitude toward ernestine took on a complexity an analysis of which would have greatly astounded mr. beason himself. he did a great deal of pondering as to whether it would really be possible for dr. hubers to go on with his work. it seemed to him it would not be, but a few things mrs. hubers had said in a very simple way had opened up a great deal of speculation as to what was possible and what was not. and the thing which made him grow so quickly into an unconscious respect for her was her assumption that the most important thing in the world was that dr. hubers should go on with his work. now that looked as though she had some sense, beason admitted. of course the ridiculous part was thinking _she_ was the one to bring it about, when anybody would know it would have to be some one--well, some one like himself. but then it was just like a woman to think she could do anything she took it into her head to do. of course she would very soon find out that she couldn't, but if she proved some one else could, why then she wouldn't be so bad, after all. ernestine was quick to see that the way to enlist mr. beason was to talk to him about karl. they were alone in the laboratory for an hour each morning, and during that period she always managed to say something about dr. hubers to leave beason closer to her at the end of the hour than he had been at the beginning. there were more ways than one of winning a scientific victory, she concluded, half humorously, but with a touch of sadness. she was beginning to see that it was a battle which demanded tact and diplomacy quite as much as brains and skill. she must not only furnish enthusiasm for herself, she must inspire all associated with her if she were to gain from them what they had to give. it was after she had one day spoken with unusual freedom of the suffering which surged beneath karl's calm acceptance of the inevitable that beason took his first firm stand in her behalf. "well now, of course," he conceded, after a long time of turning it over in his mind, "you really don't have to _know_ much, do you? the great thing for you to learn is to tell exactly how results look. it isn't as if you had to reason and think,"--that was beason's supreme rise to graciousness. "why, you have the idea exactly, mr. beason," she replied, admiringly, and beason grasped that he had manifested rare insight. "well now,"--doubtfully--"i suppose you might practice on me. practice is what you need. i haven't looked at any of those things over there. see if you can give me an idea of what they are." she did her best, blundering freely, and thinking with an inward smile that she had not counted on anything so difficult as translating things to beason. then he took the tube from her hand and explained how she had failed to get the significant things, and how valueless she would be unless she made the determining points stand out. he was very blunt and unflattering, but she was grateful to him from the bottom of her heart. "you see you do have to have some brains after all," he concluded with a sigh. but after that he frequently devoted his entire hour to helping her. he had come to accept her as one of his duties, and beason was not one to neglect his appointed task. day by day she gained a great deal from the uncompromising mr. beason. in fact, after those first uncertain weeks, she gained a great deal from every one. gradually it began to systematise itself, and ernestine's good sense, her earnestness, which was fairly devotion, her respect for every one's knowledge and gratitude for all help--to say nothing of her eyes and smile and voice--slowly penetrated even the conservatism of science. dr. parkman did not neglect her. he came out often and spent an hour in the laboratory, bringing things for her to work with. perhaps the doctor saw that quite as much as his help, she needed the prestige his attention would give. it was no small thing to have the great dr. parkman giving her his time. "upon my soul," mr. willard said one day, after the doctor had been there a long time and had seemed very much in earnest, "i don't believe parkman's the man to spend his time on a wild goose chase!" "it doesn't seem so, does it?" said professor hastings ingenuously. "why, think what that man's time is worth!" continued mr. willard, growing more and more impressed. "i don't know any one else out here who would get much of it," professor hastings ventured. "well, she is a remarkable woman," willard said then, insistently. and professor hastings--understanding many things about human beings--said he was really coming to feel that way himself. ernestine was alone in the laboratory one bright morning in december. mr. beason had just gone away after assuring her anew that she had a very great deal to learn. perhaps it was funny, but one was not always in the mood for humorous things. sometimes one felt more like putting one's head down on the table and having a good cry. her hands were not quite steady, as she went about the work beason had patronisingly left for her to do, and out of the mists which blinded her there came a picture of her own quiet studio at home, where she had worked with her own things, things with which she was supreme. she saw herself at her easel, working in that quick, sure way of hers, no one to tell her some one else could do it a great deal better, and that it was extremely doubtful whether she could ever do anything at all. a longing to be back there doing the things she knew she could do, a longing to have again that sure sense of her work as good, swept over her then. she was accustomed to a sense of mastery; it was that made some of these things so hard. it was not easy to make over one's soul, even when it was love called one on. as she went steadily ahead with her task, working out painstakingly the correction beason had made, she wondered whether there were as many tears back of other smiles as there had often been back of hers. but she had been able to smile!--that was something for which to give thanks. not even karl himself would ever know what she had gone through, but what she had gone through was of small consequence could she but push her way on to what she was confident awaited her. there was sustaining power in that thought: her hands did not tremble now, her eyes were clear; she worked on steadily and firmly. one thing which had unnerved her was that karl had seemed to hate to have her go away that morning. he had followed her out into the hall. "working so hard, liebchen?" he said--and was it not wistfully? perhaps he had not felt like work himself and had wanted her to stay at home with him. it hurt cruelly to think karl might not understand her willingness to be away from him so much. his presence was always with her in the laboratory. the days brought a very clear picture of karl at work there, a new understanding of his adjustment to his work, firmer comprehension of his love for it. often a sense of the terribleness and wrongness of his disaster would rush over her, crowding her heart with the old rebellion and bitterness. again and again she lived through the hour karl had spent there alone, facing the truth, and then a horror of those things with which she worked, those awful things which had destroyed karl's eyes, would take hold of her as a physical fear, a repulsion, almost impossible to fight. she was constantly brought to see the difference between him and these other men; every hour she spent there brought deeper appreciation of karl's greatness, clearer sense of it. and when their kindly patronage sometimes passed from the amusing to the insufferable, she would think how karl, master of them all, took her so unreservedly into his mind and heart, cherishing her ideas and opinions as quite the most vital things in all the world, and sometimes that would help her to smile, and not infrequently it made her long to hurl a test-tube at the self-satisfied head of mr. beason. but always, in the end, it caused her to set her whole being with new persistence, more passionate stubbornness, in this determination to achieve. it was while she was still alone that professor hastings came in with a note he had just received for her. "it's from dr. parkman," she said as she tore it open hastily. she read a little of it and then sat down. he thought for a moment that she was going to cry. "dr. parkman wants me to come down to one of his operations this afternoon,"--she looked up at him appealingly. "i--i never went to anything like that," she added, with a tremulous laugh. "what does he say about it?" he asked, anxiously. "merely--merely that it will be a good cancer operation, and that i had better begin on that part of the work. he says he would be willing to do that, but he thinks it will help me to be able to make some of the observations for dr. hubers myself. i--well, it sometimes makes me sick to see things i don't like,"--laughing a little, and plainly unnerved. "oh, no," he assured her; "it will not be that bad." but he added, uneasily: "dr. parkman seems anxious for you to come?" "no, not particularly anxious; he simply tells me to be there at two o'clock." "i suppose then you'd better go," he laughed. "you won't mind much. you may to-day, but you'll become accustomed to it very soon. and it is important. some one else might do it, but it will help your own understanding of the subject, make your equipment that much better. it's a great thing for you to have dr. parkman's help. and he is so pleased with your progress. he told me the other day that he thought it absolutely phenomenal the way you were getting on." "did he?" she asked eagerly, for she had learned to seize upon all which would buoy her up. "we all think so," he replied earnestly. "even mr. willard, who, as you may have observed, is not an enthusiast, said the other day that you were becoming really useful." she brightened, and then laughed. she had never supposed she would be inordinately pleased to have a man like mr. willard say she was really useful. "while mr. beason went so far as to assert that you had a general intelligence not unlike that of a man." she laughed heartily at that. "well, i'm afraid they won't think i have the nerve or sense of a man when i get in the operating room this afternoon," she said with a wry little face. "well, remember what it's all for," he said, in that simple way of his which went so far because it was so direct, "and remember that we are all believing in you." in response to that she went back to her work with new resolution. it was a little before two when her lagging footsteps brought her in sight of the hospital. "why, i act as though i were going to my own execution," she told herself scornfully. ever since receiving the note, she had been trying not to think about what was before her; but it was here now, a fact to be faced. conquering an impulse to turn about and beat a hasty retreat, she advanced with a brisk and business-like air she was sure would deceive the most knowing of hospital attendants. they seemed to know about her in the office, and took her up to one of the rooms adjoining the operating room. the hospital was a very large place, and there were a great many odours she did not like. she hated herself for being so silly about things! through the open door she saw many faces: white faces, thin faces, faces drawn with pain, faces robbed of hope, faces fretful, and faces indifferent, and she caught sight of one girl whose very happy eyes looked out from a face which bore the record of much pain. a story easy to read: she had been very ill, but now she was getting well. and how calm and well-ordered a place it was-- strange how they could keep so unruffled a surface over so turbulent a sea! a nurse upstairs said that dr. parkman had told her to look after mrs. hubers. she dressed her in a white gown and talked to her pleasantly about operations in general. ernestine was glad that this very rational being did not know how hard she was struggling to keep her teeth from chattering. in a minute, dr. parkman himself came in, he, too, in white gown, ready for the operation. he looked so strange; to her nervous vision, supernatural, a being from other worlds, holding the destiny of this one in those strong, supple, incisive fingers. "i don't suppose you'll enjoy this much," he said, "but you'd better get used to them. karl may need you to do some of this for him, and you wouldn't like it not to be able to." "no, indeed," she replied, heartily--very heartily. "i'm so glad to come." he looked at her in his keen, deep-seeing way. she had an uncomfortable sense that he had a distinct impulse toward a smile. "hughes, one of our young doctors, will point out a few things to you as we go along, and i'll go over it with you afterwards." then they went into the operating room. she fought hard against the smell of ether, and managed to hold herself quite firm against it. but there was a ghastliness in the whole thing which frightened her. the patient was lying there on the operating table, covered with sheets, looking as if dead. it was a woman who was to be operated on, and ernestine could not overcome the idea that it was a dreadful thing for her to be there alone, surrounded by strange people who were acting in so unconcerned a manner. they did not seem to be thinking in the least of what life and death meant to this woman. one young doctor was showing something to another, and they laughed right out loud! the woman whose life was at stake was not impressing them any more than--not any more than that terrible looking little instrument which the nurse handed to dr. parkman. her dizzy vision got dr. parkman's face as he leaned over his patient. she had never seen such a look of concentration; he did not know anything in the world then save the thing he was doing. and the concentration was enveloped in so tremendous a coolness. but her own face must have warned the nurse who was looking after her, for she whispered, "suppose you come over here by the window until they have started. there is no need for you to watch while they are making the incision." so she stood there with her back to them, looking out at a little park across from the hospital. down there, men and women were moving about quite as usual; one girl was laughing very heartily about something. strange that people should be laughing! "now you might come over here," said the nurse, as pleasantly and easily as though saying, "wouldn't you like a cup of tea?" she tried then with all her might to take it as the rest of them were taking it. but they were operating on the stomach, and her first glimpse caused an almost uncontrollable sinking in the knees. her ears began to pound, but by listening very hard she could hear what dr. hughes was saying. he was saying something about its being a very nice case, and she wondered if the woman were married, and if she had any children, and then she knew how irrelevant and unprofessional that was. dr. hughes was telling her to look at something, and she did look, and she saw dr. parkman's hands, only it seemed they were not human hands at all, but some infallible instrument, an instrument with an unconquerable soul,--and then everything was dancing before her eyes, her ears were pounding harder and harder, her knees sinking, everything swaying, some one had hold of her, and some one else, a great many miles away was saying--"take her out!" when she opened her eyes, she was lying on a couch in an anteroom, the nurse bending over her. the attendant smiled pleasantly, no more agitated than before. "too bad," she said; "a good many of us take it like that at first." but ernestine was not to be comforted. it meant too much to her. the tears were running down her face, but suddenly she brushed them angrily aside, and sat up. "i'm going back," she said resolutely. "oh, but you mustn't," protested the nurse,--"not today. it really wouldn't do. and anyway they must be almost through. dr. parkman works so rapidly." it was a very disheartened ernestine who sat there then alone. "what will dr. parkman think of me?" she bewailed to herself. "he will never want to have anything more to do with me. he will be so disgusted that he will let me alone now. and how am i to get along without him? oh, _why_ am i such a fool?" the whole day had been hard, she was tired out when she came, and this was too much. so she just lay back on the couch and cried. it was so that dr. parkman found her when he came briskly in at the close of the operation. "why, what's the matter?" he demanded. "heard some bad news?" "_bad_--news!" she choked out; "no, i haven't heard any bad news--except that i'm an utterly worthless, weak-minded fool!" "and where did you hear that?" he pursued. "oh, doctor--i'm so ashamed! but if you'll only give me another chance! if you'll just not give me up for a little while yet!" "give you up! now what kind of reviving fluid did miss lewis produce for you? what in the world are you talking about? do you think you're any grand exception in not seeing your first operation through? hum! ask some of these nurses around here. some of the doctors too, only they won't tell the truth. my first day in the dissecting room was a day of about thirty minutes. so you see you have plenty of company in your weak-mindedness." she brightened then to the extent of looking willing to be comforted. "but it's humiliating, doctor, to think you're going to accomplish some big thing and then be absolutely overcome by a little incidental thing that doesn't happen to appeal to your senses. it's awful to have your senses get ahead of your soul like that," she laughed. "hum!"--dr. parkman had a "hum" all his own. "there's nothing unique in that experience, either. the spirit is willing, but the stomach is weak--to put it in exact terms. as a matter of fact, that's what life is made up of--having great purposes overthrown by minor inconveniences. many a man can get hold of a great idea, but very few of them can stick by it through the things that make them uncomfortable. that's the reason most dreamers fail--they're not willing to come down out of the clouds and get to work at things that turn their stomachs!" "well, i'm not like that!" she flashed back at him. "you? i know you're not. some ancestor of yours gave you a big bump of stubbornness--for which you should look back to him with gratitude. stubborn people aren't easily put out of the race. now i'll tell you why i wanted you to come down here," he went on, more seriously. "i want you to see the thing just as it is. i want you to get the conception of it as a whole. i don't want you to become short-sighted. some people look so much through the microscope that they forget how to look any other way. that's the difference between karl and some of those fellows you're associated with now. that willard and lane and young beason are the scientific kind, too abominably scientific to forge ahead. don't lose sight of what you are doing. all these things you are doing now are simply a means to an end. you are to be one of the instruments employed--as you put it yourself one day--but make yourself such a highly-organised, responsive instrument that you're fairly alive with the idea yourself. see? that's where your real value will come in. you know,"--it was dr. parkman now who breathed the enthusiasm which draws one to a light out beyond obstacle and difficulty--"i'm beginning to see the thing more and more as actual fact. i caught the idea from the first, and then it seemed it simply had to be done because it was such a great thing to do, but i'm getting it more and more now just as a practical, matter-of-fact thing. and it isn't so far away,--not so very. you see, after all, mrs. hubers, you don't have to do it all. it would be stupid to set a race horse at a job that could be just as well accomplished by a plug. any well-trained man can do certain things for karl--but it's the touch of the artist--the things that make it real--it's making the blind man see--doing the impossible!--that's your work. why, i can fairly see the whole thing," he went on--"karl and you and some good assistant. he'll get both points of view then--he can't miss anything. the other fellow can give him certain technicalities you might miss--and then you'll turn in and bring it to his vision. a clear statement of facts could never make a blind man see. and then it will be your business to keep the spirit right--that's the real point, after all. why, i can see it just as clearly as i could see that work to be done in there!"-- pointing to the operating room. it was another ernestine now. she rose to it as the warrior to the trumpet call. he knew that the right word had been said. "now i don't think it will hurt you to see some of these operations," he went on, in more business like way. "not only to help with observations for karl, but--well, just to see it for yourself. nothing will make this quite so real and vital to you as to see it actually breaking down human organisms, destroying life. i want you to get an eye for the thing as a whole:--see it as it is now, see the need of making it some other way. you must have more than a desire to help karl--you must have an enthusiasm for the thing itself. you'll get so then that when you see an operation like this you won't see just some broken-down, diseased tissue that makes you feel weak-kneed, but you'll see something to get in and fight. oh, it's a battle--so get your fighting blood up! remember that you'll have to have enough for two. you know, what you must do for karl is not only give him back the weapons with which to fight, but you must rouse his soldier's blood,--see what i mean?" it was a joy to watch the response. he could see weariness and discouragement slipping from her as she spoke. he was thinking to himself that she was superb, but aloud he said, "this is a good specimen in here. if you'll just come into the next room i'd like to go over it with you. i think i can make a few things clear." she was radiant then, happy that he had so soon forgotten her first failure, appreciating his assumption that she was ready even now to go on with the fight. "she will carry it through," thought dr. parkman, as he finally left the hospital. "and, by the good lord, i believe that karl hubers is going to get back in the game and win! nasty blow to the woman haters," he mused, as he looked in upon an office full of waiting patients,--"a very nasty blow." chapter xxviii with broken sword he wished that ernestine would come home. he had let ross go at four, and it was lonesome there alone. in spite of the fact that she was away so much, ernestine was almost always there when he wanted her most. that was just one of the wonderful things about ernestine. something must have detained her to-day. he reached over on the table for his copy of "faust." it had become his habit to pick it up when he did not care to sit face to face with his own thoughts. it seemed to hold some word for everything in life. its universality made it a good friend. it was becoming easier to read with his fingers, but he had never come into the old joy in reading that there had been in the days when he could _see_ it. and it seemed to him that there was an unnecessary clumsiness about the whole thing. he had worked out a little idea of his own for which he was going to have a model made. he believed it might help some--at any rate he had enjoyed working it out. "if a fellow feels like inventing, he simply must invent something, whether it amounts to anything or not," he had explained to ernestine. he did not read consecutively to-night, but just a line here and there, getting a little of wit, a little of philosophy, a dash or two of sarcasm, an occasional gleam of sentiment; he liked to take it that way at times like this; it seemed if not one thing, then surely another, must keep him from the things into which it would be so easy to slip to-night. "restless activity proves the man!"--several times his fingers went over that, and his responsive face told that to his mind it brought a poignant meaning, and to his heart an understanding and a sadness. he closed the book, and sat there thinking. he seemed very self-contained--quiet, poised, but the understanding eye would have known that he was thinking deep thoughts, facing hard truths. once at a horse race he had seen a horse which had just been lamed tied near the track. it heard the ringing of the gong, heard the music of the other horses' feet, heard, saw, smelled, sensed in every way the race that was going on. a weakness in one foot could not kill the spirit of a race horse. tied there beside the track, watching others struggling for the race! he had wondered about that horse, then, had been sure from the quivering of its nostrils, the pawing of its foot, the passionate trembling of its whole superb body that it suffered. thinking back to it to-night he had good reason to know that he had been right that day. it was queer about life. in some ways so incomprehensively great and superb, and yet so easy to be overthrown. great purposes seemed very great, but was a thing really great when it was so easily undermined? was there not a dizzying instability about it all? he smiled a little as he lighted his pipe. he seemed to be doing a great deal of speculating these days. what if he too were to be graduated into the bigger field of philosophy? but he shook his head, still smiling a little. if he ever entered the bigger field of philosophy he was sure he would not be carried there in other men's elevators, that he would not arrive in the jaunty, well-groomed state of ross and his sort. no, if he ever found the bigger field of philosophy, it would be after he had scaled slippery crags and forded great rivers, after he had pushed his way through brambles and across sharp stones, after he had many times lost his footing, and had many times stopped to rest, believing he could go no farther. it was after some such quest that he might perhaps find his way up into the bigger field of philosophy. but he would not find ross there. ross and his fellows were down in a nice little garden that had been fixed up for them. that was it: the garden of philosophy,--a garden made by man, in which there were little artificial lakes and shrubbery set out in attractive designs. a very nice garden indeed, where the sun shone and where it was true pretty flowers would grow--but ah, one did not feel the wind upon one's face down in that sheltered garden as he believed one would feel it up there on the lonely heights to which one had climbed alone! and the garden of philosophy--he was smiling at his fancy, but it interested him--was electric lighted, while up there on the big wide sweep, one came very close to the stars. what was philosophy, anyway? with ross it seemed a matter of speaking the vocabulary of philosophers. it was so, he knew, with many men. and yet, as to the thing itself, it was not a mere learning a system of thought, acquiring the easy use of a peculiar kind of words. it was not fair, after all, to judge a thing by the people least fitted to understand it. perhaps philosophy was conquering life. perhaps it was learning to take life in good part, making up one's mind to write good text-books if it seemed certain the writing of text-books were to be one's part. perhaps it was just holding one's place. the mere thing of holding one's place seemed a bigger thing now than it once had. he wondered. he was wondering about many things these days, and perhaps he had already scaled a crag or two, for he was able sometimes, in spite of the deep sadness of his face, to smile a little in his wonderings. ernestine was her sweetest self when she came in a little later. "i'm glad you were late," he said, after her affectionate protestations regarding her shortcomings, "you haven't been this nice for a long time." she threw aside her hat and coat and took her favourite place on the low seat beside him. "don't you remember, liebchen, how it was over there in europe--after you'd treated me badly, you were always so nice, that i used to be quite tempted to make you be horrid?" "i never was horrid to you," she protested. "you're never horrid any more," he said, and, strangely enough, he said it sadly. "well, do you _want_ me to be?" "yes! i wish you'd turn in once in a while and call me an old brute, and say you wished you'd never seen me, and didn't know how in heaven's name you were going to go on living with me!" "karl," she gasped--"are you going _crazy_?" "no--at least i hope not. but you're just nice to me all the time, because--because i'm blind! i don't like it! i wish you'd _swear_ at me sometimes!" "well, in the first place," laughing, but serious too,--it had come so heatedly, "it isn't my way to swear at any one. i never did swear at you. why should i begin now?" "oh, swear was figurative language," he laughed. "and of all things for a man to harrow up his soul about! not liking it because his wife is never horrid to him!" "it's not as crazy as it sounds. are you and i a couple of plaster saints? well, hardly! then why don't we have any quarrels? it's just because you're sorry for me! i'll not have you being sorry for me!" he concluded, almost angrily. but when she kissed him, he could not resist a smile. "you don't know much, do you, karl? don't you know that we don't quarrel about little things, because we've had so many big things on hand? we don't swear at each other, because--" "because we have so many other things to swear at," he finished for her. "that's it. all our fighting emotion is being used up." "oh, you're such a genius for making things seem right! now looking at it that way, i'm quite reconciled to your being nice to me. still i want you to promise that if you ever feel like swearing, you will." "i promise," she responded solemnly. "don't do things--or not do things--because you're sorry for me, ernestine." "we are 'sorry for' people who are unequal to things. i'm sorry with you, not for you, karl." "ernestine,"--with an affectionate little laugh--"is there _anything_ you don't understand?" "you might play a little for me," he said after a silence. "play that thing that ends in a question." "of liszt's?" "yes; the one that leaves you wondering." at first she had resented bitterly her not being able to play more satisfyingly. if only music were her work! it seemed an almost malicious touch that fate, in taking away karl's own work, had also shut him out from hers. resentment at that had made it hard for her to play for him at all, at first. but she had overcome that, and had been able to make music mean much to them both. they loved especially the music which seemed to translate for them things within their own hearts. but to-night when ernestine had left him pondering a minute the question he said liszt always left with him, she turned, eagerly it seemed, to lighter things. she played a little nevin, played it with a lightness, gladsomeness, he had never felt in her touch before. he said nevin helped him to see things, that he could see leaves moving on their branches, could see the shadows falling on the hillsides where the cattle were grazing, as he listened to nevin. but it did not bring the pictures to-night. it opened up new fears. "ernestine," he said abruptly, "come here." "are you ever frightened, ernestine?" he asked of her, still in that abrupt, strange manner. "frightened--about what?" "frightened about having to live all your life with me!" for a moment she did not answer. then, her voice quiet with the quiet that would hold back anger: "karl, do you think you are treating me very kindly to-night? saying these strange things i cannot understand?" "but, ernestine--look here! you're young--beautiful--love life. doesn't it ever occur to you that you're not getting enough fun out of things?" "karl,"--and there was a quivering in the voice now--"do you think i have been thinking lately about 'getting fun out of things'?" "no, but that's just it! you _ought_ to be thinking about it! ernestine--_think_ of it! how are you going to go on forever loving a blind man?" for answer, she knelt down beside him, her arms about his neck, her cheek against his. "yes--i know--in that way. but in the old way of the first days? i was so different then. how _can_ you love me now, the way you did then? what do i do now but sit in a chair and try to be patient? look at a man like parkman! that's life. ernestine"--drawing her close, a sob in his voice--"liebchen,--_can_ you?" she longed to tell him then; it would mean so much to tell him now,--karl was so troubled to-night. but the time was not ripe yet; she must not spoil it all. and so instead she talked to him of how real power comprehended more than activity, how depth of understanding, great things of the soul, were more masterful than those outer forces men called "life." ernestine seldom failed in being convincing when she felt things as she now felt this. "you always have the right word," he said at last. "you can always get ahead of the little blue devils." "oh, karl," she murmured, very low, her heart too full to resist this--"some day i can show you better what i expect of life." "of course," he mused, after a silence, "you have your work." "yes," replied ernestine, and something in her voice puzzled him, "i have my work." he would have been startled could he have seen her face just then. for ernestine was so happy to-night. she had come away from the hospital with a song in her heart; a song of resolution and of triumph. she had never foreseen the future so clearly; the time had never seemed so close at hand; it had never been this real before. just in front of her as she sat there beside karl was the gloria victis, that statue for which he had cared so little at first, but which in these later days she often found him dwelling upon with his hands in lingering touch of appreciation. to her the statue had come to hold many meanings; she looked at it now with shining eyes. karl had held so tight to the broken sword--how splendid then that he should win the fight despite it all. and she felt she had never risen so completely to the idea of karl's greatness as she did to-day. what was there in the afternoon had meant so much to her? was it actually seeing things as they were, or was it the things dr. parkman had said to point the way anew? there was to-night a new tide of appreciation, a larger understanding, more passionate response to this thought of karl as greatest of them all. looking at his face as he sat there in deep thought, she saw the marks of his greatness upon it just as plainly as she saw those other marks of his suffering.--this man stop work? such as he out of the race? she remembered the letters they had received when the news of his blindness had gone out. she had wept over them many times, but it seemed she had never grasped their significance before. they were from men of science, from doctors, from students, and from many plain people unknown outside their small communities, who wrote to say they were sorry. they had seen about him once or twice in the magazines, they said, or perhaps their own doctor at home had told them of him, and they were so interested because their wife or husband or mother had died of cancer, and they knew what an awful thing it was. it should have been some one whom the world needed less than it needed him, these plain people said. her eyes filled with a rush of tears. this was her karl--he with whom all the world grieved! she recalled the editorials in the scientific papers, telling of the things he had done, the things it had been believed by them all he would achieve. this was her karl!--this man whose withdrawal from active participation had been told of by great scientists everywhere as a world-wide calamity. how quiet and unassuming and simple he had been about it all--he whose stepping-out had been felt around the world! and, now, some day before long she would come to him with: "karl, i have found a new way of fighting with broken swords; take a good grip on the sword, a good strong grip, and let us turn back to the fight!" she turned to him with that quick passionateness he loved in her so well. "i love you," she said, and though she had said it many times in other days, it had never sounded just like that before. chapter xxix unpainted masterpieces georgia was to be married. it was the week before christmas, and on the last day of the year she would become mrs. joseph tank. she had told joe that if they were to be married at all they might as well get it over with this year, and still there was no need of being married any earlier in the year than was necessary. she assured him that she married him simply because she was tired of having paper bags waved before her eyes everywhere she went, and she thought if she were once officially associated with him people would not flaunt his idiosyncrasies at her that way. and then ernestine approved of getting married, and ernestine's ideas were usually good. to all of which joe responded that she certainly had a splendid head to figure it out that way. joe said that to his mind reasons for doing things weren't very important anyhow; it was doing them that counted. yesterday had been her last day on the paper. she had felt queer about that thing of taking her last assignment, though it was hard to reach just the proper state, for the last story related to pork-packers, and pork-packing is not a setting favourable to sentimental regrets. it was just like the newspaper business not even to allow one a little sentimental harrowing over one's exodus from it. but the time for gentle melancholy came later on, when she was sorting her things at her desk just before leaving, and was wondering what girl would have that old desk--if they cared to risk another girl, and whether the other poor girl would slave through the years she should have been frivolous, only to have some man step in at the end and induce her to surrender the things she had gained through sacrifice and toil. as she wrote a final letter on her typewriter--she did hate letting the old machine go--georgia did considerable philosophising about the irony of working for things only to the end of giving them up. she had waded through snowdrifts and been drenched in pouring rains, she had been frozen with the cold and prostrated with the heat, she had been blown about by chicago wind until it was strange there was any of her left in one piece, she had had front doors--yes, and back doors too, slammed in her face, she had been the butt of the alleged wit of menials and hirelings, she had been patronised by vapid women as the poor girl who must make her living some way, she had been roasted by--but never mind--she had had a beat or two! and now she was to wind it all up by marrying joseph tank, who had made a great deal of money out of the manufacture of paper bags. this from her--who had always believed she would end her days in new york, or perhaps write a realistic novel exposing some mighty evil! "ah, well--it's all in the day's work!"--she had been saying that to herself as she covered her typewriter, and then, just as she was fearing that her exit would be a maudlin one, joe called up to say that he did not think it would be too cold for the machine, and why not spin out somewhere on the north shore for a good dinner? now that had been nice of joe, for it tided her over the good-byes. to-day she was engaged in the pre-nuptial rite of destroying her past, indulging in the letter destroying ceremonial which seems always to attend the eve of matrimony. it was so that ernestine found her when she stopped on her way from the university that afternoon. mrs. mccormick was sewing yards upon yards of lace on something when ernestine came in. "she's right in there," she said, referring to georgia in a sepulchral tone which might fittingly have been employed for: "the remains have been laid out in the front room." georgia herself, though not sepulchral, was subdued. "my, but i'm glad you've come," she said, brushing aside several hundred letters that ernestine might have a place to sit down. "i'm having the most terrible twinge of conscience." "why, what about?" georgia pointed to the clock. "think of my not being at the office! i ought to be hanging around now for an afternoon assignment." "you'll get over that," ernestine assured her, cheerfully. "oh, i suppose so. one gets over everything--even being alive. meanwhile, behold me,"--with a great sweep of her arms--"surrounded by my blighting past." "that one looks like freddie allen's writing," said ernestine, giving an envelope at her foot a little shove. "it is," said georgia, with feeling; "yes--it is. poor freddie--he was such a nice boy." "i suppose he's nice still," observed ernestine. "oh, i suppose so. i'm sure i don't know. he's way back there in the dim past." "well, do you want him up here in the sunny present?" ernestine inquired, much entertained. "no, oh no--if i had wanted him i would have had him," with which reversion to the normal georgia they laughed understandingly. she shook herself free of the dust of her past then, piled up the pillows and settled herself on the bed. "but we had some good times back there in the dim past, didn't we, ernestine?" "some of them were good times," replied ernestine, a little soberly. "of course our college life would have been happier if we had been able to pull down that sophomore flag. i've always thought jack stewart might have done a little better with that. but as long as we kept jim jones away from every party in his junior year, perhaps we should be satisfied." georgia sighed heavily. "and it is a joy to think back to your telling the dean he didn't have the courage of his convictions when he let them fire stone for heresy. oh there are a good many things to be thankful for. you always had lots of nerve when it came to a show-down. you looked so lady-like, and yet you really weren't at all." "well, i don't know whether i like that or not." "i mean not so lady-like that it interfered with anything you wanted to do. you'd speak up in the pleasantest, most agreeable voice and say the most dreadful things. i'll never forget the day you told "prof" moore in class that you had always had a peculiar aversion to the pilgrim fathers." "i always did," ernestine said fervently. "then one day when we had spent an hour trying to tell what shakespeare meant by some line you said you thought quite likely he put it in just because there had to be another line. and "prof" jennings conditioned you on the whole year's work--remember?" "i have reason to," laughed ernestine. "the funny part of it was that you never seemed to think you were saying anything startling. like the day you contended in ethics that you thought frequently it was better to be pleasant than truthful. kitty janeway was so shocked at that. i wonder if kitty janeway is any happier with her second husband than she was with her first?" "i'm sure i don't know," said ernestine in a rather far-away voice. "i'll send all the girls cards," said georgia, and again she sighed heavily. "the cards are going to look very nice," she added, a little more hopefully. "ernestine?"--after a little pause. "yes?" "you and i are hanging right over the ragged edge of thirty." "horrors!--georgia; is this your idea of furnishing pleasant entertainment for a guest?" "but i was just thinking how many things have happened to us since we were twenty-two." "i was thinking of that a minute ago myself." "to you, especially. now, i never supposed when we were in college that you were going to marry karl hubers." "no," laughed ernestine, "neither did i." "i mean i never associated you two with one another. and now i can't think of you separately. and then your father and mother, and then karl losing--heavens, but i'm cheerful! now, isn't it just like me," she demanded, angrily, "to act like a fool just because i'm going to be married? if i keep on i'll find myself weeping because socrates is dead. and i never do weep, either. i tell you that joe tank's a terrible man," she laughed, brushing away some tears. "i don't think you're going to have much to weep about, georgia. i know you're going to be happy." "well, if i'm not it won't be joe's fault. unless it is his fault on account of its _not_ being his fault. what i mean is that good-natured people are sometimes aggravating." "oh he'll not always be good-natured," she reassured her. ernestine said then that she must go, and was standing at the door when georgia burst forth: "oh ernestine--i'm so glad i remembered. you really must go down to the art institute and see those pictures by that norwegian artist--i shouldn't dream of pronouncing his name. they go away this week, and it would be awful for you to miss them." a wistfulness, fairly pain, revealed itself for an instant in ernestine's face. and then, as if coming into consciousness of the look: "i know," she said briefly. "i read about them. i've been--thinking about it. i did see some of them in europe, but of course i should love to see them again." "i wish you would, my dear; perhaps"--a little fearfully--"they'd make you feel like getting to work yourself. ernestine,"--gathering courage--"it's awful for you to let your work go this way. every one says so. i was talking to ryan the other day--you know who he is? he asked all about you, and if you were doing anything now, and when i told him i was afraid not he fairly flew into a rage, said that was just the way--the people who might be great didn't seem to have sense enough to care to be." that brought the quick colour. "perhaps mr. ryan does not understand everything in life," she said, coolly. "now, ernestine--he was lovely about you. would he have shown any feeling at all if he didn't care a great deal for your work? does any one fly into a rage at _my_ not painting? he said you were _one_ american woman who was an artist instead of 'a woman who paints.' it seems he saw the salon picture. oh, he said beautiful things about you." ernestine did not answer. she was standing there very quietly, her hand on the knob. "now, ernestine," georgia went on, after the manner of one bound to have it out, "i've tried all winter to cultivate repression. i don't know what it is you are trying to do over there in the laboratory. you asked me to do two things--not to ask you about it, and not to mention it to karl. i haven't done either, but i want to tell you right now if you have any idea of giving up your own work i think it's time for your friends to inquire into your mental workings! the very fact you don't want karl to know about it shows you know very well _he_ won't think it's right. anything that relates to his work can be done by people who do that kind of work a great deal better than you can. really, ernestine, the thing is positively fanatical. and anyway,"--this with the air of delivering the overpowering--"i don't think it is at all nice the way you are taking other men into your confidence and deceiving karl." she met that with a little laugh. "dear me--what laudable sentiment. i've always heard there was no one half so proper as the girl about to be married. never mind, georgia,"--a little more seriously, a little as if it would not be hard to cry--"karl will forgive me--some day." "but, ernestine, i want you to work! can't you see how awful it is for you not to--express yourself?" "i am going to express myself," she answered, lightly enough, but after she had gone georgia wondered just what she had meant by that. she decided, when she came out of the apartment building, that she would take a little walk. it was just cold enough to be exhilarating, and she felt the need of something bracing. she was wishing as she walked along very fast, responding to the keen, good air, that karl were with her now. karl did not exercise enough, and when he did yield to her supplications and go for a walk with her he did not seem to enjoy it as she wished he might. "after a while, liebchen," he would say. "i'll be more accustomed to things after a while. and meanwhile there's plenty of fresh air right here in our back yard." "but it isn't just getting the fresh air," she would protest, "it's enjoying it while you're getting it."--"wait till spring comes," he would sometimes answer. "i'm going to get out more then." when she saw she was near one of the stations of the illinois central she stopped, a little confused. could it be she had meant all the time to come here? looking to the south, she saw that at the next station, not three blocks away, the train which would take her to the city in ten minutes was just arriving. the art institute was only two blocks from the van buren street station;--those facts associated themselves quickly in her mind. she looked at her watch: not quite three. karl had said he would be busy with mr. ross until five. she stood there in hesitation. she had seen no pictures since--oh it was too long ago to remember. what harm could it do her? and anyway--this with something of the uprising of the truant child--it was christmas time! every one else was taking a vacation, why--but here it was all swept into the imperative consciousness that she had no time to lose, and she was at the ticket window before she was quite sure that she had made up her mind. it was all so strange then; exhilaration mounted high for a little while, but there followed a very tense excitement. she tried to laugh at herself, contend that she was coming for enjoyment, relaxation, that it was absurd to go to pieces this way; but things long suppressed called for their own, and the man to whom she gave her admission fee wondered for a long time after she had passed him just what it was about her seemed so strange. how good it was! how good to be back among her own kind of things! in the laboratory every one knew more than she did; there she was repressed, humble even, gratefully accepting the crumbs of knowledge falling from their tables. it was good to feel for a little while that she was some place where she knew a great deal about things. she wished mr. willard or mr. beason would happen along that she might give them some insight into the colossalness of their ignorance. she turned down the corridor leading to the room where she would find the special exhibit. she stopped before many of the pictures--reverting to that joy of the spirit in dominance. there was exultation, almost rapture, in this quick, firm rush of understanding; deep joy in just knowing the good from the bad. but when she reached the pictures she had come to see it was different. she walked to the middle of the room, and in one slow sweep of glance, punctuated with long pauses, took them in. and she responded to them with a warm, glad rush of tears. they fell upon her artist's soul as the very lovely rain upon the thirsty meadow. they drew her to them as the mother the homesick child, and like the homesick child, back at last after weary days, she knew only that she had come home. in this first overflowing moment there was no thought of colour--brush work--this or that triumphant audacity; it was a coming to her own, a home-coming of the spirit--the heart's passionate thankfulness, the heart's response. a few minutes of reverent pause, a high delight, deep response, and then--the inevitable. clear as a bell upon the midnight air was that call from soul to kindred soul. assurance and longing and demand possessed her beyond all power to stay. the work she stood before now called to her as naturally and inevitably as the bird to its mate, as undeniably as the sea to the river, as potently as spring calls upon earth for its own, as autumn calls to summer for harvest time. it frightened her. it seemed something within her over which she had no control. it surged through her as far beyond all reason as the tides of the sea are beyond the hand of man. it was procreative power demanding fulfillment as the child ready for birth demands that it be born. she was conscious of some one's having come into the room. that her face might not be seen she turned away and sat down before one of the pictures. she was quivering so passionately that it seemed almost impossible to hold herself within command. the girl who had come in was moving restlessly from one picture to another; at last she walked over and sat down on the seat by ernestine. "i think i like this one best," she said, abruptly, nodding to the picture before them. ernestine nodded in reply. she was not sure what would happen were she to speak. the girl she supposed to be one of the students there. "i would give anything in the world--just anything in the world--if i could do it too!" at the passion of that she turned quickly and looked at the girl. in spite of the real feeling of her tone a fretful look was predominant in her face. "do you--work hard?" she asked, merely to relieve the pause. "work--yes; but mere work won't do it. i can't do anything like this,"--it was in bitterness she said it. "very few can, you know," murmured ernestine. "yes--but i want to! i don't care anything about life--i don't care anything about anything--if i can't paint!" it struck her immediately as so entirely wrong. she looked at the girl, and then again at the pictures. all the great things they conveyed were passing her by. she missed the essence of it. the greatness of the work merely moved her to anger because she was not great herself. it was an attitude to close the soul. "but you should care for life," she said, in her very gentle way. "do the best you can with your own work, but work like this should, above everything else, make you care for life." the girl moved impatiently. "you don't understand. i guess you are not an artist," and she rose and went away. ernestine smiled a trifle, but the strange little interview had opened up a long vista. the girl represented, in extreme measure, but fundamentally, the professional attitude. most artists saw work in relation to themselves. pictures were either better or worse than they could do. they came to the great things like these, seeking something, usually some mechanical device, to take away to their own work. she could see so plainly now the shallowness of that. her own mood had changed,--broken. perhaps it was the consciousness that she too had been seeing it in relation to herself, or it may have been but natural reaction. the big uprising was dying down; the heat of the passion had passed; it was all different now, and in the wake of her brimming moment there came the calm that follows storm, the sadness of spirit which attends the re-enthronement of reason, but also the understanding, far-seeingness, which is the aftermath of great passion like that. there had come to her, as she sat there beside the girl, a throbbing determination to do both things. the thought had come before, but always to be banished. it came now with new insistence just because anything else seemed so impossible. there had never come, even to the outermost edge of her consciousness, the thought of giving up the work she was going to do for karl. her hardest hour had never even suggested the possibility of surrender. her love had seen its way; her life had been consecrated. but now, when it seemed no longer within her power to deny the work for which she had been ordained, it seemed that to fulfill both things was the one thing possible. but in this after-moment of unblurred understanding she saw she could do both things only by taking from the things she gave to karl. it would mean giving her soul to the one, and what she had left to the other. and she knew that she could never do what she meant to do for karl unless she gave everything within herself to that cause. the chief aim of her struggle in the laboratory had not been to acquire knowledge and usefulness--that she could do, she knew; her real aim had been to give to karl's work the things she had always given to her own. with a divided soul she could do no more for him than any other assistant. she was seeking to give him herself. oh no--it was simple enough; she had no thought of offering karl an empty vessel. her mind saw it all, her will never wavered, but the bruised, conquered spirit quivered under the pain. a long time she sat there, and as the hour went by a strange thing happened. the pictures were healing the spirit which they had torn. as they had first moved her to the frenzy for achievement, had then left her with the pain of relinquishment, they were bringing her now something of the balm of peace. how big they were!--first passion, then pain, then understanding, now strength. ernestine came in that hour to see a great truth. it was something she worked out for herself, something taught her by life and her own heart, and that is why it reached her soul as it could never have done had she but read it in books. she came to see that the greatest thing in life was to be in harmony with the soul of the world. she came into the understanding that to do that, one need not of necessity paint great pictures, one need not stand for any specific achievement, one need only so work out one's life that one made for harmony and not for discord. the greatest thing pictures could do was to draw men into this world harmony. these pictures were great because they reached the soul, and she came to see, and this is what few do see, that the soul which is reached is not less great than the soul which has spoken. she too could have been one of the souls to speak; she accepted that in the simplicity with which we receive the indisputable, but it was good to think that she would not have failed utterly in fulfilling herself, if at the end, no matter through what, she made for harmony, and not for discord. she grew so quiet then: the quiet of deep understanding. a long time she sat before a picture of light out beyond some trees. oh what a world--with the light coming through the trees like that, and men to see it, and make it seen! she wished karl might see these pictures; she looked at them with a new intentness,--she would tell karl all about them; he would be so glad she had come. she rose to go. once more she looked around at the pictures, and to her eyes there came a dimness, and to her spirit a deep and tender yearning. there would be joy in having done such work as this. but there were other things! to work out one's life as bravely and well as one knew how, to do what seemed best, to be faithful and unfailing to those who were nearest one, to be willing to lay down one's life for one's love,--perhaps when the end of the world was reached, and all things translated in terms of universal things, to have done that would itself mean the painting of a masterpiece. perhaps the god of things as they are would see the unpainted pictures. chapter xxx eyes for two "this day smells as though it had been made in the country," karl said, leaning from the dining room window which ernestine had thrown wide open as she rose from the breakfast table. "yes, and looks that way," she responded, leaning out herself, and taking a long draught of the spring. "let's take a walk," he said abruptly. "except when you asked me to marry you--you never proposed a more delightful thing," she responded with gayer laugh than he had heard for a long time. "suppose we walk down through the park and take a look at the lake," he suggested. "i call that a genuine inspiration!"--losing no time in getting karl's things and her own. nothing could have pleased her more than this. it seemed beginning the spring right. "i can fancy we are in europe," he said, after they had gone a little way, and she laughed understandingly;--this seemed closer to the spirit of the old days than they had come for a long time. her guiding hand was on his arm, but more as if she liked to have it there, than as though necessary. "your little finger could pilot me through hades" he said, lovingly, gratefully, as a light touch told him of a step to go down, and again she laughed; it was very easy to laugh this morning. the winter, full of hard things for them both, had gone now, and spring, as is spring's way, held promise. in the laboratory they no longer treated ernestine with mere courteous interest. that day in december when she went down to dr. parkman's operation had marked a change. since then there had been a light ahead, a light which shed its rays down the path she must go. what did it matter if she were a little stupid about this or that, if mr. beason was unconsciously rude or mr. willard consciously polite? for she _knew_ now--and did anything matter save the final things? with her own feeling of its not mattering their attitude had seemed to change; she became more as one with them--she was quick to get that difference. "you're arriving on the high speed," dr. parkman had assured her when he visited the laboratory a few days before. so she knew why she was happy, for added to all that was it not a glorious and propitious thing that karl felt like taking a walk? did it not argue a new interest in life--a new determination not to be shut off from it? and karl--why did he too seem to feel that the spring held new and better things? was it just the call of spring, or did karl sense the good things ahead? could it be that her soul, unable to contain itself longer, had whispered to his that new days were coming? "why, even a fellow on his way to the penitentiary for life would have to get some enjoyment out of this morning," he said, after they had stood still for a minute to listen to the song of a bird, and had caught the sweetness of a flowering tree. "and oh, karl," she laughed, joyously, "you're _not_ on your way to the penitentiary for life." "no," he said, and he seemed to be speaking to something within himself rather than to her,--"i'm _not_!" they had reached jackson park, and sat down for a little rest before they should wend their way on to the lake. "oh, ernestine," he said, taking it in in long breaths, feeling the dew upon his face, and hearing the murmur of many living things,--"_tell_ me about it, dear. i want to see it too!" "karl--every tree looks as though it were just as glad as we are! can't you feel that the trees feel just as we do about things? the leaves haven't all come out yet, some of them are holding themselves within themselves in a coy little way they have--although intending all the time to come out just as fast as ever they can. and it's that glorious, unspoiled green--the kind nature uses to make painters feel foolish. oh, nature's having much fun with the painters this morning. right over there,"--pointing with his finger--"is such a beautiful tree. i like it because all of its branches did not go in the way they were expected to go. several of them were very perverse children, who mother trunk thought at one time were going to ruin her life, but you know lives aren't so easily ruined after all. 'now you go right up there at an angle of twenty-two degrees,' she said to her eldest child. 'not at all,' said the firstborn, 'i intend to lean right over here at whatsoever angle will best express my individuality.' and though the mother grieved for a long time she knows now--karl--how foolish we are! but listen. you hear that bird who is trying to get all of his soul into his throat at once? he's 'way up there on the top branch, higher than everything else, and so pleased and proud that he is, and he's singing to a little blue cloud straight above him, and i tell you i never saw such blue--such blue within blue. its outside dress is a very filmy blue, but that's made over an under dress of deeper blue, and there's just a little part in it where you can see right into the heart, and that's a blue so deep and rich it makes you want to cry. and oh, karl--the heart itself has opened a little now, and you can get a suggestion, just a very indefinite suggestion--but then all inner things are indefinite--that inside the heart of the cloud is its soul, and you are permitted one fleeting glimpse to tell you that the soul of the cloud is such a blue as never was dreamed of on land or on sea." "i can see that cloud," he said,--"and the bird looking up at it, and the tree whose eldest child was so perverse and so--individual." "and, karl," she went on, in joyous eagerness, "can't you see how the earth heaved a sigh right here a couple of hundred centuries ago--now _don't_ tell me the park commissioners made them!--and that when it settled back from its sigh it never was quite the same again? it was a sigh of content--for the little slopes are so gentle. gentle little hills are sighs of content, and bigger ones are determinations, and mountains--what are mountains, karl?" "mountains are revolutionary instincts," he said, smiling at her fancifulness--ernestine was always fanciful when she was happy. "yes, that's it. sometimes i like the stormy upheavals which change the whole face of the earth, but this morning it's nice to have just the little sighs of content. and, dear--now turn around and look this way. you can't really see the lake at all--but you can tell by looking down that way that it is there." "how can you tell, liebchen?" he asked, just to hear her talk. "oh, i don't know _how_ you can. it's not scientific knowledge--it's--the other kind. the trees know that the lake is there." "let's walk down to the lake," he said. "i want to feel it on my face. and oh, liebchen--it's good to have you tell about things like this." as they walked she told him of all she saw: the people they met, and what she was sure the people were thinking about. once she laughed aloud, and when he asked what she was laughing at, she said, "oh, that chap we just passed was amusing. his eyes were saying--'my allowance is all gone and i haven't a red sou--but isn't it a bully day?'" "there's no reason why i should be shut out from the world, ernestine," he said vigorously, "when you have eyes for two." "why, that's just what i think!" she said, quickly, her voice low, and her heart beating fast. the shadows upon the grass, the nursemaids and the babies, the boys and girls playing tennis, or just strolling around happy to be alive--she could make karl see them all. and as they came in sight of the lake she began telling him how it looked in the distance, how it seemed at first just a cloud dropped down from the sky, but how, upon coming nearer, it was not the stuff that clouds are made of, but a live thing, a great live thing pulsing with joy in the morning sunshine. she told him how some of it was blue and some of it was green, while some of it was blue wedded to green, and some of it too elusive to have anything to do with the spectrum. "and, dearie--it is flirting with the sunlight--flirting shamefully; i'm almost ashamed for the lake, only it's so happy in its flirtation that perhaps it is not bothered with moral consciousness. but it seems to want the sunlight to catch it, and then it seems to want to get away, and sometimes a sunbeam gets a little wave that stayed too long and kisses it right here in open day--and isn't it awful--but isn't it nice?" in so many ways she told how the lake seemed to her--how it seemed to her eyes and how it seemed to her heart and how it seemed to her soul, how it looked, what it said, what it meant; what the clouds thought of it, and what the sunlight thought of it, what the wind thought of it, what the dear babies on the shore thought of it, and what it thought of itself. she could not have talked that way to any one else, but it was so easy for her heart to talk to karl's heart. one pair of eyes could do just as well as two when hearts were tuned like this! and then, when she did not feel like talking any more, they stood there and learned many things from the voice of the lake itself. "ernestine," he said, when they turned from it at last, "it seems to me i never saw lake michigan quite so well before." chapter xxxi science and super-science "insubordinate children who play off from school in the morning must work in the afternoon," karl said at luncheon, and they went to their work that afternoon with freshened spirit. when the mccormicks gave up their flat at christmas time, beason had come to live with the hubers. ernestine prided herself upon some cleverness in having rented two rooms without karl's suspecting it was a matter of renting the rooms. when he engaged ross as his secretary in the fall she said it would be more convenient for them all for mr. ross to have his room there. they had an extra room, so why not? she did not put it the other way--that she felt the house more expensive than they should have now. of course karl would make money in his books--that had been settled in advance, but things had changed for them, and ernestine felt the need of caution. then as to beason, she said there was that little room he could have, and it would do the boy good to be there. "you like john," she said to karl, "and as he has not yet been graduated into philosophy, he may be more companionable than mr. ross." and karl said by all means to have beason if it wouldn't bother her to have him around. she was glad of that for more reasons than a reduced rent; beason had become a great help to ernestine. after he came there to live they fitted up some things for her in her studio, and she managed to get in a number of extra hours when karl thought she was busy with her pictures. in her glow of spirit this afternoon--that walk in the park had meant so much as holding promise for the future--ernestine was even willing to admit, looking back upon it, that the winter had not been nearly so bad as one would suppose. mr. beason and mr. ross were both, in their differing ways, alert and interesting, and there had been some good wrangles around the evening fire. other people had found them out, and they had drawn to them an interesting group of friends. so the days had flowed steadily on, a brave struggle to meet life in good part, keep that good-fellowship of the spirit. one of the hardest things of all had been deceiving karl. her reason justified it, but it hurt her heart. they had been able to do it, however, better than she would have believed possible. mr. ross was with him most of the time when she was not, and had frequently been forced to intercept some caller who was close to an innocent remark about mrs. hubers being over at the university. several times karl had caught the odour of the laboratory about her, and she had been forced to explain it as the odour of the studio; and more than once, in the midst of a discussion, her interest had beguiled her into some surprisingly intelligent remark, and she had been obliged to invent laughing reasons for knowing anything about it. it hurt her deeply to take advantage of karl's blindness in keeping things from him, even though the motive was all love for karl, and determination to help. she would be so glad when all that was over, and she thought as she worked along very hard that afternoon that perhaps it would not be many days now until karl should know. that would be for dr. parkman to say; so many vital things seemed left to dr. parkman. "did you ever think," she said, turning to mr. beason, who was busy at the table beside her, "what the doctor really counts for in this world?" "yes--in a way," said beason, adjusting his microscope, "but then i never was sick much." "well, i didn't mean just taking one's pulse," she laughed. "it seems to me they mean more than prescriptions. for one thing, i think it's rather amusing the way they all practice christian science." "why--what do you mean?" he demanded, aroused now, and shocked. "oh, i've come to the conclusion that a modern, first-class doctor is a christian scientist who preserves his sanity"--she paused, laughing a little at beason's bewildered face, and at the thought of how little her formula would be appreciated in either camp. "i've noticed it down at dr. parkman's office," she went on. "it's quite a study to listen to him at the telephone. he will wrangle around all sorts of corners to get patients to admit something is in better shape than it was yesterday, and though they called up to say they were worse, they end in admitting they are much better. he just forces them into saying something is better, and then he says, triumphantly, 'oh--that's fine!'--and the patient rings off immensely cheered up." "that's a kind of trickery, though," said beason. "pretty good kind of trickery, if it helps people get well." "well i shouldn't care to be a practicing physician," beason declared, "just for that reason. that sort of business would be very distasteful to me." ernestine was about to say something, and then relegated it to the things better left unsaid; but she permitted herself a wise little smile. "i don't think it's such an awfully high grade of work," he went on. "in a way it is--of course. but there's so much repetition and routine; so much that doesn't count scientifically at all--doesn't count for anything but the patient." "but what is science for?" she demanded, aggravated now. "has medical science any value save in its relation to human beings?" "oh yes, i know--in the end," he admitted vaguely. "all this laboratory work is simply to throw more power into the hands of the general practitioner. it's to give him more light. it's just because his work _is_ so important that this work has any reason for being. dr. hubers saw it that way," she concluded, with the air of delivering the unanswerable. "but even that wasn't just what i meant," she went on, after they had worked silently for a few minutes. "what i was thinking about was the superdoctor." beason simply stared. "no, not entirely crazy," she laughed. "for instance: what can a man do for nervous indigestion without infusing a little hope? think of what doctors know--not only about people's bodies, but about their lives. cause and effect overlap--don't they? half the time a run down body means a broken spirit, or a twisted life. how can you set part of a thing right when the whole of it's wrong? how _can_ a doctor be just a doctor--if he's a good one?" but nothing "super" could be expected of beason. his very blank face recalled her to the absurdity of getting out of focus with one's audience. she herself felt it strongly. it seemed to her that dr. parkman's real gift was his endowment in intuition. when all was going well she heard nothing from him; but let things begin to drag, and the doctor appeared, rich in resources. he seemed to have in reserve a wide variety of stimulants. he looked in upon them often. whenever in their neighbourhood he stopped, and though frequently he could not so much as take time to sit down, the day always went a little better for his coming. "if the end of the world were upon us, dr. parkman could avert the calamity for a day or two--couldn't he, karl?" ernestine had laughed after one of his visits. this proved to be one of the days of his stopping in, and he arrived just as karl was dictating a few final sentences to mr. ross. while they were finishing--he said he was not in a hurry today--he took a keen look at karl's face. his colour was not good--the doctor thought; in fact several things were not to his liking. "too many hard times with himself," he summed it up.--"droopy. needs a bracer. needs to get back in the harness--that's the only medicine for him." he had been thinking about that very seriously of late. ernestine was at least in position now to show the possibilities of the situation, and working with karl would do more for her in a month than working along this way would do in five. why not? no matter how long they waited it was going to be hard at first. the deep lines in karl's face furnished the strongest argument against further waiting. "what have we here?" he asked, picking up one of the embossed books lying open on the table near karl. "i presume that's my bible," karl replied. "has it come to this?" the doctor asked dryly. "didn't we ever tell you the story of my bible?" "no. you never did. i never suspected you had one." "oh yes; the bible was the first book of this sort i had. it was sent to me by some home missionary society, some woman's organization--" "fools!" broke in parkman. "they saw in the paper about my eyes and so they said to themselves--'now here is a good chance to convert one of those ungodly scientists.' so they sent the bible along with a nice little note saying that now i would have time to read it, and perhaps all of this was the hand of god leading me--you can construct the rest. well." he paused with a laugh--"ernestine was mad." "i should hope so!" growled parkman. "she was so divinely angry that in having fun with her i overlooked being enraged myself. oh, if i could only give you any idea of how incensed she was! i think she intended notifying the chicago police. really i don't know to what lengths she would have gone had it not been for my restraining influence. and then she constructed a letter. it was a masterpiece--i can tell you that. she compared me to them--greatly to their disadvantage. she spoke of the various kinds of religious manifestation--again greatly to their disadvantage." "did she send it?" laughed the doctor. "no. i persuaded her that well-intentioned people should receive the same kindly tolerance we extend to the mentally defective. the writing of the letter in itself half way contented her--it was such a splendid expression of her emotions. poor old girl," he added musingly, "she was feeling pretty sore about things just then." "but the sequel is the queer part," he went on. "i began to read their bible, and i like it. it's part of the irony of fate that i haven't gotten from it the things they intended i should; but i tell you part of this old testament is immense reading. you know, parkman, i suppose we're prejudiced ourselves. we don't see the bible as it is itself. we see it in relation to a lot of people who surround it. and because we don't care for some of them we think we shouldn't care for it. whereas the thing in itself," he concluded cheerfully, "is just what we'd like." "and how go your own books?" dr. parkman asked him. karl shrugged one shoulder in a nervous little way he had acquired. "oh--so, so. pretty fair, i guess." his face settled into a gloom then, but almost immediately he roused himself from it to say, in a voice more cheerful than spontaneous: "they'll be finished in a couple of weeks. i'm both glad and sorry. don't know just what i'll go at then." again he seemed to settle into the gloom which the doctor could see was ever there waiting to receive him. but again he roused himself almost immediately. was it this way with the man all the time? a continuous fight against surrendering? "but i'm mighty thankful i've had the books," he said. "they've pulled me through the winter, and they've enabled me to make a living. lord, but a man would hate not to make a living!" he concluded, straightening up a trifle, more like the karl of old. the sheer pathos of it had never come home to the doctor as it did with that. a man who should have stood upon the very mountain peaks of fame now proudly claiming that he was able to make a living! but if it brought home the pathos of the situation it also brought new sense of the manhood of karl hubers. it was great--parkman told himself--great! a man who felt within himself all the forces which make for greatness could force himself into the place of the average man, and thank the lord that he was able to make a living! "here's a little scheme i've worked out," karl said, and opening one of the drawers of the library table, pulled out the model for the idea he had worked out for reading and writing in braille. it was the first dr. parkman had heard of it; he wanted to know all about it, and karl explained how it had seemed to him as soon as he learned how the blind read and wrote that the thing could be simplified and vastly improved. so he had worked this out; he explained its points of difference, and wanted to know what parkman thought of it. "why, man," exclaimed the doctor, "it strikes me you've revolutionized the whole business. but--why, karl--nobody ever thought of this before?" "the usual speech," laughed karl. "but in this case it seems so confoundedly true." "well i believe it will help some, and i'll be glad of that," he added simply. "oh i have some more schemes. if i've got to be blind i'm going to make blindness a better business." "our old friend the devil didn't do so well then after all," said dr. parkman quietly. "he closed up one channel, but he didn't figure on your burrowing another." karl laughed. "oh this won't worry him much; it came so easily i can't think it amounts to a great deal. but as long as i was used to scheming things out it--amused me, exercised a few cells that were in pretty bad need of a job. and i have other ideas," he repeated. parkman asked what karl intended to do with his model, offering some suggestions. the doctor was more than interested and pleased; he was deeply stirred. "why, confound the fellow," he was saying to himself,--"they _can't_ knock him out! they knock him down in one place, and he bobs up in another!" the ideas of this brain were as difficult to suppress as certain other things in nature. dam up one place--they find another. they smoked their cigars and talked intermittently then; they were close enough together to be silent when they chose. and all the while the undercurrent of dr. parkman's thought flowed steadily on. he was thinking that after all there were better things to do with fate than damn it. if ever a man would seem justified in spending his soul in the damning of fate, that man, it seemed to him, was the friend beside him. and while he had done some of it, perhaps a great deal more than any one knew, it had not been his master-passion. his master-passion had been to press on--press on to be knew not what--there was the glory of it! it was easy enough to work toward a goal sighted ahead; but it took a karl hubers to work on through the darkness. and ah, there was a good time coming! the doctor's sombre face relaxed to a smile. his own life seemed almost worth living now just because he had been able to take a hand--yes, and play a few good cards--in this little game. those things karl had shown him today made it seem there was all the finer joy in bringing him back to the things which were his own. he had been thrust from out the gates, but he had not sat whimpering outside the wall. he had gone on and sought to find a place in that outer world in which he found himself. and now he should come back to his own through gates of glory. karl asked him about ernestine then. how was she looking; was she thin--pale? her face felt pale to him, he said. he had urged her to work, because he knew she would be happier so, but parkman must see to it she did not overwork. had he seen the picture on which she was working so hard? he asked that wistfully; and the doctor's face was soft, and a gentleness crept into his voice as he said he believed he was to see the great picture very soon now. and then, after a silence, karl said, softly, very tenderly--"bless her gamey little heart!" chapter xxxii the doctor has his way it was in response to the doctor's telephone message that ernestine went down to his office one afternoon a few days later. dr. parkman had been detained at the hospital, they told her, but would be there very soon, and so she sat down in the waiting room, which was already well filled. were there always people there waiting for him--and did they not sometimes grow impatient and want to find a doctor who would not keep them waiting so long? the woman sitting near her looked friendly, and so she asked: "don't you get very tired waiting for dr. parkman?" "oh, yes," sighed the woman, "very tired." "then why don't you go to some doctor who would attend to you more quickly?" she pursued, moved chiefly by the desire to see what would happen. the woman stared, grew red, and replied frigidly: "because i do not wish to." all the other patients were staring at ernestine, too. "why don't you do that yourself?" asked a large woman with a sick-looking small boy. "i guess if there was anything much the matter with you, you'd be willing to wait," said a pale woman with a weary voice. and then a man--she was sure that man was a victim of cancer--said loftily: "a doctor you never have to wait for isn't the doctor you want." "the only thing seems queer to me," said a meek looking woman, taking advantage of the outbreak, "is that he don't look at your tongue. down in indiana, where i come from, they always look at your tongue. there's a lot of questions he don't ask," she ventured, looking around for either assent or information. "he asks all there's any need of," the first woman assured her. "i guess _you_ aren't very sick," turning, witheringly, to ernestine. and then they went back to their waiting; those who had rocking chairs rocking, those who had magazines reading, or turning leaves at least, some just sitting there and looking into space. it must take away all sense of freedom to feel that people like this, sick people for whom everything was hard, were always waiting for one. she would tell the doctor how she had been well-nigh mobbed by loyal patients. they were like a great family; she knew well enough they did considerable grumbling, but her remark put her without the fold, and from her as an alien, criticism was not to be brooked. by the glare with which the first woman still regarded her she was sure she was suspected of being an agent sent there by some inferior doctor to try and get dr. parkman's patients away from him. ernestine was tired, and she believed she would have to admit that she was nervous. she had been working harder, she supposed, than she should, but the further she went the more she saw to do, and something from within was eternally pushing her on. as she waited, her mind turned to the stories that office must hold. how much of anxiety and suffering and sorrow and tragedy--and occasional joy--it must know. the mothers who brought children whom others had declared incurable--how tense these moments of waiting must be for them! the husband and wife who came together to find out whether she would have to have the operation--how many of the crucial moments of life were lived in such places as this! the power in these doctors vested! the power of their voice, their slightest glance, in holding men from the brink of despair! who could know the human heart better than they? they did not meet the every day men and women well groomed with restraints and pretence. for it was an hour when the soul was stripped bare that the doctor looked in upon it. men were various things to various people, but to the doctor they came very close to being themselves. too much was at stake to dissemble here. when phantoms of fear and death took shape in the shadows one sought the doctor--and told the truth. she had a fancy which moved her then. she saw the men like dr. parkman fighting darkness down in the valley, while from the mountain peak adjacent men like karl turned on, as with mighty search-lights, more, and ever more, of the light. and what were the search-lights for if not to be turned down into the valley? "what time did you go to bed last night?" he demanded, after they had shaken hands in the inner office. "why--did you see the light?" she faltered;--she had made a promise against late hours. "the light--no; but i see your face now, and that's enough. was it two--or worse?" "just a mere trifle worse. and truly, doctor--i didn't mean to. but don't you know it's hard to stop when you feel just right for a thing? why, one can't always do things at the proper time," she expostulated. "no, and one can't always keep an abused nervous system from going to pieces either. did you ever stop to think of that?" "but you'll look after the nervous system," she replied ingenuously. "now that's where a lot of you make the mistake. i can't do anything at all without the cooperation of common-sense." "well i'm intending to be real good from this on," she laughed. "but it is so important that i know everything!" he laughed then too. "a very destructive notion." "tell me," he said, when he had settled himself in his chair in the particular way of settling himself when he intended having a talk with her, "have you been rewarded in all this by any pleasure in it whatsoever? i don't mean," he made clear, anticipating her, "just the pleasure of doing something for karl. but has your work given you any enthusiasm for the thing in itself?" "doctor--it has. and that was something i was afraid of. but you should have heard me talking to mr. ross the other day when he made one of his patronising remarks about mere science. i believe that when you work hard at almost anything you develop some enthusiasm for it." "um--a rather doubtful compliment for science." "it was rather beasonish," she laughed. "but you see in the beginning my face was turned the other way." he gave her one of those concentrated glances then. "and how about that? never feel any more like heading the other way?" she smiled, and the smile seemed to be covering a great deal. "oh sometimes the perverse side of me feels like turning the other way. there are many sides to us--aren't there? but never mind about that," she hastened. "that is just something between me and myself. i can suppress all insurrections." there was a pause. she leaned back in the big chair and was resting; he had seen from the first that she was very tired. "no desire to back out?"--he threw that out a little doubtfully. she sat up straight. she looked, first angry, and then as if she were going to cry. "doctor--tell me! am i _that_ unconvincing? hasn't the winter--" "this winter," he interrupted gently, "has proved that you knew what you were talking about when you came to me last fall. could i say more than that? i only asked the question," he explained, "because this is the last chance for retreat." and then he told her, watching the changing expressions of her responsive face. but at the last there was a timidity, a sort of frightened fluttering. "but doctor--am i ready? _can_ i really do it? there is so much i don't know!" "the consciousness of which is excellent proof of your progress. my idea is this. in any case it is going to be hard at the first. you might go on another year, and of course be in better shape, but i don't know just what karl would be doing in that year; he's in need of a big rousing up, and as for you, after working the year with him, you'll be a long way ahead of where you would be alone. so it argues itself that way from both standpoints. i made up my mind when i was out the other day that karl needs just what this is going to give." "you think he looks badly?" she flew at that, relinquishing all else. "you think karl's not well?" "i didn't mean that. but he needs the hope, the enthusiasm, activity, this is going to give." "hasn't he been splendid this winter?" she asked softly, those very deep warm lights in her eyes. "did you ever see anything like it, doctor?" "i thought i knew something about courage," he replied shortly, "but karl makes me think i didn't." "i don't believe there are many men could turn from big things to smaller ones, and grow bigger instead of smaller," she said, with a very tender pride. "they say scientists are narrow and bull-headed. wonder what they would say to this? and there's another thing to remember. we have seen the results of the victories. only karl hubers knows of the fights." "i know of some of them," said ernestine, simply. "yes," he corrected himself--"you. and before we quite deify karl we must reckon with you. he could not have done it without you." "he would not have tried," she said--and the man turned away. that look was not his to see. when she recalled herself it was with a sense of not having been kind. why did she say things like that to dr. parkman after karl had told her--? "and you, doctor," she said in rather timid reparation, "i wonder if you know what you have done for us both?" "oh, i haven't counted for much," he said almost curtly. "it would have worked itself out without me." but even as he spoke he was wishing with all his heart that there was some way of showing her what they had meant to him. he did not do it, for a soul which has been long apart grows fearful of sending itself out, fearful of making itself absurd. they talked it all out then, going at practical things in a very matter-of-fact way. "and now," said the doctor, "i have a suggestion. it is more than a suggestion. it is a request. a little more than a request, even; a--" "command?" she smiled at him. "you know," he began, "how it is with the athletes. sometimes they become overtrained, which is the worst thing could happen to them. a good trainer never puts overtrained men in the game. now, my dear enthusiastic friend,"--she was looking at him in that intent way of hers--"i've noticed two or three times that you've about jumped out of your chair at some meaningless noise in the other room. your eyes tell the story;--oh there are various ways of reading it. you're a little overtrained. before you tell karl the great secret i want you to go away by yourself for a couple of weeks and rest." "you mean that i should leave karl?" she demanded. "i do. i want you to have change, rest, and for that matter a little lonesomeness won't be a bad thing. you'll be in just the right mood then to put it all to him when you come back. he'll be in just the right mood to take it." "oh, but, doctor--you don't understand! i can't leave karl. there are things i do for him no one else could do. why you must remember he's blind!" she concluded, passionately. she was not easy to win, but he stated his case, and one by one met her arguments. yes--karl would be lonely. but when she came back he would be so glad to see her that he would be a much better subject for enthusiasm than he was now. she also would be in better mood. "if you tell him now," he said, "and he makes some objections, says it can't be done--ten to one, as you are now, you will begin to cry. a nice termination for your whole winter's work! you must go to him just as you came to me in the beginning--overwhelm him, take him whether or no. and you're not right for that now. it's just because i'm bound this thing shall go through, that i insist you do as i say." "couldn't karl go with me?" she asked, quite humbly, her eyes pleading eloquently. he showed her, kindly, but very decisively, that that would not make the point at all. there followed then but a few final protestations. where would karl think she was? what in the world would he think of her--going away and leaving him like that? who would look after him? what if he needed some help he didn't get? suppose he grew so lonesome and depressed he just couldn't stand it? on all of which points he somewhat banteringly reassured her. other men had been lonesome now and then, and it had not quite killed them. beason and ross were in the house, and there was a good maid, who adored dr. hubers. "as to where he thinks you are, i'll tell him half the truth. that you are a little nervous and i have prescribed change and rest." but she would not agree to that. "karl would worry," she said. "we'll tell him instead that i have to go to new york to see about my picture. it will be easier for karl if he thinks it is about my work." he yielded to her judgment in that, and agreed to the further compromise that if she found she could not possibly stay away two weeks she might come back in one. it was the change, the going away, the getting lonesome the doctor wanted most of all. he wanted to lift her clear up to her highest self that she might have all that was hers to give when she told her story to karl. "and of course, doctor," she asked anxiously, "when the time comes you will talk to him too--tell him you feel i can do it?" "trust me for that," he said briefly. "but where is it i am to go?" she laughed, as she was ready to leave. he told her then of a place in michigan. an old nurse of his had married and was living there, and he frequently sent patients to her as boarders. "i have written to her and she wants you to come," he said. "well--upon my word! before i so much as said i would go?" "why certainly," he answered, looking a trifle surprised. "for three days, perhaps five, i want you to sleep. you'll find you're very tired--once you let go. then you can walk in the woods--i think it's going to be warm enough for browsing around. and you can think of karl," he said with a touch of humour, and a touch of something else, "and of all this is going to mean. i've thought a great many times of what you said about the statue. there's something mighty stirring in that idea of unconquerableness." "there is!" she responded. "a great thing, you know, is worth making a few sacrifices for. you've made some pretty big ones for this, now make this one more. haven't you been laying claim to great faith in my judgment?" "oh yes--as a matter of judgment; only--" "very well then, be lonesome--if you must be lonesome. i hope you will be--it's part of the treatment. and then you'll come back and in your first bursts of delight tell karl just what you've done. when he says it's impossible, you'll just laugh. you'll get him to try and then the day is yours." out on the street she stopped half a dozen times in the first block, thinking she would go back and tell dr. parkman she couldn't possibly leave karl. "why, he's a terrible man," she mused, half humorously, half tearfully, "sending wives away from husbands like this--wanting people to be lonesome, just because he thinks it's good for them! i'll not do it--i'll go back and tell him i _won't!_" but she did not go back. she felt dr. parkman might look unpleasant if a patient came back to say: "i won't."--"no one would ever get up courage enough for that," she concluded mournfully, "so i'll just have to go." chapter xxxiii love's own hour it was sunday, and ernestine was going away next morning. she had told karl the day before; it alarmed him at first, for he telephoned dr. parkman, asking him to come out. when the doctor arrived he demanded the truth as to ernestine. had anything happened? was she not well? he was so relieved at the doctor's assurance that ernestine was perfectly well, and was going away because of her work, that he accepted the situation more easily than she had anticipated. "perhaps it will do me good, liebchen," he told her. "i fear i'm getting to be a selfish brute--taking everything for granted and not appreciating you half enough." but that afternoon it was ernestine herself who was forced to fight hard for cheerfulness. she did not want to go away. she was curiously depressed about it, and resentful. more than once she was on the point of telephoning to dr. parkman that she could not leave karl. georgia and joe and mrs. mccormick came in about five and georgia's spirit seemed to blow through the house like a strong, full current of bracing air. she and joe had returned from california the night before, and there were many things to tell about their trip. mrs. mccormick said it was indeed curious how some people always had so many more adventures than other people had. she wondered why it was she never met any of these amusing persons georgia was always telling about. their visit did ernestine much good. it was impossible to feel blue or have silly forebodings in the presence of so much naturalness and cheer as always emanated from georgia. those hearty laughs had cleared the atmosphere for her. "look here, liebchen," said karl, emerging from a brown study, "we must fix up a code." "a code, dear?" "for your writing to me. you see ross will have to read the letters, and how can you say in every other line you love me, with that duffer reading it out loud?" "oh, karl--how stupid of me not to learn writing the other way! you see it never occurred to me i would be away from you. couldn't i take that manual, and make it out from that?" "well--you might, but we'll do both; it will be fun to have a code. now, when you say--'i am a trifle tired,' you mean--'oh, sweetheart, i am so lonesome for you that i am never going away again!'" "but won't mr. ross think it strange if i say in each letter that i am a trifle tired?" "what do we care what he thinks? they're not his letters, are they? and when you say--'new york seems most attractive,'--you mean--'oh, dearest, i never dreamed i loved you so much! i am finding out in a thousand new ways how much i care, and never, never, shall we be separated again.'" "and when i say, 'i send you my love'--it will be perfectly proper for mr. ross to read that, i mean--'dear love--i send you a thousand kisses, and i would give the world for one minute now in your arms.'" and so they arranged it,--revising, enlarging, going over it a great many times to have it all certain--there was such a tender kind of fun in it. as to the other side of it, karl of course could write to her on his typewriter. it was a beautiful evening they had sitting there before the fire. she saw pictures for him, and he even saw some pictures for her,--he said a blind man could see certain pictures no one else could possibly see. they spoke of how they had never been separated since their marriage, of how strange it would seem to be apart, but always of how beautiful to be together again. there was such a sweetness, tenderness, in the sadness which hung about their parting. they made the most of their pain, as is the way of lovers, for it drew them together in a new way, and each kiss, each smallest caress, had a new and tender significance. "you'll be back in time for your birthday, ernestine?" "oh, yes; i'm only going to stay a week." "i thought you said, perhaps two?" "did i? well i've decided one will be enough." "ernestine, what have you been painting? tell me, dear. that's one thing i'm a little disappointed in. i do so want to keep close to your work." "well, karl," after a silence, "that picture i have been working on this winter is hard to tell about because it is in a field all new to me. it is a picture which emphasises, or tries to, what love means to the world,--a picture which is the outgrowth of our love. i am not sure that it is good in all its technical features, but i believe there is atmosphere in it, poetic feeling, and, back of that, thought, and soul, and truth. i think there is harmony and richness of colour. some people will say it is very daring, and no one will call it conventional, but i am hoping,"--ernestine's voice was so low and full of feeling he could scarcely get the words--"that it is going to be a very great picture--the greatest i have ever done. some of it has been hard for me, dear. in truth i have been much discouraged at times. but great things are not lightly achieved, karl, and if this is anything at all, it is one of the great things. as to the subject, detail, i am going to ask you to wait until i come back. i have been keeping it for you as a little surprise. perhaps it will help some of your lonely hours, dear"--her voice quivered--"to think about the beautiful surprise. and if it seems strange sometimes that i could bring myself to go away from you, will you not bear in mind, karl dear, that i am doing it simply that the great surprise may be made perfect for you? it is a whim of mine to keep this a great secret; in the end i know you will forgive the secrecy. and when i come back"--her voice was stronger, fuller now--"i am going to make you see it just as plainly as you ever saw anything in all your life!" "you must! i couldn't bear it to be shut out from your work." "you are not going to be shut out from my work!"--she said it with an intensity almost stern. "i want your life to be happy, ernestine," he said, after a time, and the words seemed to have a new meaning spoken out of this mood of very deep tenderness. "i don't want it to be darkened. i want my love to make you happy--in spite of it all." "it does," she breathed,--"it does." "but i want you to be--as you used to be! i haven't been fair in letting this make such a difference with us." "karl--how can you talk like that, when you have been so--splendid?" "but you see i don't want to be splendid," he said whimsically. "i'd rather be a brute than be splendid. and i want you to love me always as you did at first--just because you couldn't help yourself." "i can not help myself now," she laughed. "i am just as helpless as i ever was." and then a long and very precious silence. she was filled with many things too deep for utterance, even had she been free to speak. she thought of her birthday night a year before, their happiness then, all that had come to them since, all that love had meant, the great things it was to do for them. she looked at karl's face--his fine, strong face which seemed the very soul of the mellow fire-light. how would that dear face look when she told him what she had done? convinced him that great things were before him now? would it not be that his determination not to fail her would stir fires which, even in his most triumphant days, had slumbered? but from exultation in all that, she passed to the heart's pain in leaving him. she moved a little closer, took his hand and rested it lovingly against her cheek. she had never been away from karl. tears came at the thought of it now. and he must have been thinking of what ernestine had meant to him in the last year, for of a sudden he stooped down and with his old abandonment, with all the fullness of the first passion and the tender understanding of these later days, gathered her into his arms. "oh, ernestine," he whispered--breathing into her name all that was in his heart--"_ernestine!_" chapter xxxiv almost dawn she found that in the beginning at least it was as dr. parkman had said. it was good to sleep. it was good to go to bed at night with the sense of nothing to do in the morning, good to wake at the usual time only to feel she might go back to that comfortable, beautiful sleep. for ernestine was indeed very tired. since that day when the great idea had come to her there had been no time when she was free from the sense of all that lay before her. but now she could rest. strangely enough she did not worry greatly about karl. her first waking thoughts were of him, but fuller consciousness always brought the feeling that it was all right with karl; he was missing her, of course, but she was going back to him very soon and bring him the things he had believed shut away forever;--bring him the light!--that was the way she had come to think of it. the deliciousness of her rest was in the sense of its being right she should take it; she could best serve karl by resting until she was her strongest self. her room was so quiet and restful, the bed so comfortable, and mrs. rolfe, dr. parkman's old nurse, so good to her. it was soothing to be told to close her pretty eyes and go to sleep, sustaining to be met with--"now here is something for our little lady to eat." after many days of responsibility it was good to be "mothered" a little. but after the first revel in sleep had passed she did a great deal of languid, undisturbed thinking. she seemed detached from her life, and it passed before her, not poignantly, but merely as something to look upon, quietly muse about. soon she would step back into it, but now she was resting from it, simply viewing it as an interesting thing which kept passing before her. from the very first it came before her, from those days when she was a little girl at home, and she found much quiet entertainment in trying to connect herself of those days with herself of the now. "am i all one?" she would want to know, and in thinking that over would quite likely fall asleep again. she thought a great deal about her father and mother; they were more real to her than they had been for a long time; but it was hard to connect the ernestine of that home with the ernestine who belonged to karl. there was georgia, to be sure, who extended clear through. dear georgia--how well she had looked sunday in that beautiful black gown. she remembered such a funny thing, and such a dear thing, georgia had done once. they had become chums as freshmen and when they were sophomores georgia came to their house to live, and one night she inadvertently said something which started one of those terrible arguments, and ended in the saying of so many bitter things that ernestine could not bear it--especially before georgia, and as soon as she could she left the table and went up to her room. she did not cry, her mother cried so much that it seemed enough for the family, but she sat there very still looking straight ahead--denying herself even the luxury of tears. and then, just when that atmosphere of unhappiness and bitterness seemed pressing down upon her--crushing her--there had come a wild shriek from georgia--"ernestine--ernestine--get your things quick--let's go to the fire!" that was not to be resisted even by a nineteen-year-old girl. she remembered tumbling into her things, running two blocks, and then gasping--"where is it?" and georgia replied, gasping too--"don't know--small boys--said so." and then after running all over town they found there was no fire at all, and that had so overcome them with laughter that she forgot all about those other things which would have given her so miserable an evening. she had had just a little suspicion then, and now she had a firm conviction, that georgia never heard small boys say anything about fire that night. bless georgia's big heart--she loved her for just such things as inventing fires for unhappy people to go to. as she lay there resting, away from the current of her life, she thought a great deal about a little grave over in france, such a very, very small grave which represented a life which had really never come into the world at all. she could fancy her baby here with her now--patting her face, pulling her hair--so warm and dear and sweet. her arms ached for that little child which had been hers only in anticipation. and what it would have meant to karl!--the laughter of a very small voice, the cuddling of a very small head.... deep thoughts came then, and deeper yearnings, and when mrs. rolfe came in at one of those times she was startled at the look in the deep brown eyes of her patient, a look which seemed to be asking for something which no one could give, and when ernestine smiled at her, as she always did, the woman could scarcely keep back the answering--"never mind, dearie--never you mind." and through all of her thoughts there was karl--his greatness, his work, his love. she would be so happy when she did not have to keep things back from karl. it seemed it would be the happiest moment of her life when she could throw her soul wide open to him with--"there is never going to be another thing kept back from you!" she could not bear the thought of karl's believing she was in new york. but soon there would be no more of that, and karl himself would tell her she had done it because she cared so much. and most beautiful of all things to think about was the hour when she would tell him! how would he look? what would he say? on the fifth morning she awakened feeling quite different. those birds!--what were they singing about? she got up and raised the curtain, and then drew in a long breath of delight. for it was a radiant spring morning, breathing gladness and joy and all beautiful things. oh how beautiful off there in the trees!--the trees which were just coming back to life after their long sleep. she too had been asleep--but it was time now to wake up and be glad! she felt very much awake and alive this morning.--oh, how those birds were singing! she laughed in sheer happiness, and began to sing too. she would dress and go out of doors. to remain in her room one hour longer would be unbearable bondage. for all the world was awake and glad! she could scarcely wait to get out there among the birds and trees. she had never felt so alive, so well tuned to life, so passionately eager for its every manifestation as when, after a hurried breakfast, she started up the beautiful green hill to the trees where all the birds were singing--the soft breath of the spring enfolding her, her spirit lifting itself up to meet the caress of the spirit of spring. she walked with long, swinging step, smiling to herself, humming a glad little air, now and then tossing her head just to get the breath of spring upon her face in some new way. mrs. rolfe watched her from the kitchen door, smiling. on the hill-top she stopped, standing straight, breathing deep, revelling in the song of the birds--they were fairly intoxicated with joy at this morning--listening to the soft murmur of the spring beneath it all--happy--oh so happy, as she looked off to the far distances. the long winter had gone, and now the spring had come again--the dear spring she had always loved! it was with her too almost an intoxication--the throwing off of gloom, the taking on of joy. on such a morning nature calls unto her chosen, and they hear her call, and are glad. as she stood there on her hill-top her spirit lifted itself up in lyric utterance; her whole being responded to the songs of the returning birds. how well dr. parkman had planned it! she would go back now and tell karl what a great thing it was to be alive, how the spirit was everything, and could conquer all else. it seemed very easy now. it was all a matter of getting the spirit right;--how good of dr. parkman to think it out like this. but there was something a little wrong. she stopped for a minute, pondering. now she knew! karl!--why could he not be here too? all in an instant she saw it so clearly that she laughed aloud. she was rested now--ready to tell him--and _this_ the place! she would send for him! mr. ross--or perhaps the doctor himself--would come with him, and here where it was all so beautiful, where the call of the spring reached them and made them glad--she would tell him! and then, his spirit strong as hers was now strong, he would respond to it, be made ready for the fight. how simple and how splendid! how stupid not to have thought of this before! and then again she laughed. it would be fun to improve on dr. parkman's idea. that was all very well--but this a thousand times better. karl's spirit too needed lifting up;--what could do it as this? it was true he could not see it with his eyes--but there were so many other ways of being part of it: the singing of the birds, the scent of the budding trees, the rich breath of spring upon one's face. and even the vision should not be lost to him. she would make him see it! she would make him see the sunlight upon the trees, the roll of that farther hillside--one did not need to try to forget the park commissioners here!--and then she would say to him: "see, karl--even as i can make you see the trees and that little brook there in the hollow, just as plainly as i can make you see the sky and the hill come together off there--so plainly will i make you see the things in the laboratory which belong with your work." she would prove to him by the picture she drew of these green fields in spring-time that she could make plain to him all he must see. how glorious to prove it to him by the spring-time! and then, both of them uplifted, gladdened, both of them believing it could be done, loving each other more than they had ever done before, newly assured of the power of love, they would go back and with firm faith and deep joy begin the work which lay before them. she turned to walk back to the house. she would send a telegram to dr. parkman that karl must come. perhaps he could be here to-night;--to-morrow, surely. dear karl--who needed a vacation more than he? who needed the rejuvenation of the spring as karl needed it? she had walked but a little way when she stopped. someone was coming toward her, walking fast. had the sun grown a little dim--or was something passing before her eyes? the world seemed to darken. she looked again at mrs. rolfe, coming toward her. how strange that she shivered! was it a little chilly up here on the hill-top where a minute before it had been so soft and warm? she wanted to go to meet mrs. rolfe, but she did not; she stood strangely still, waiting. and why was it that the figure of mrs. rolfe was such a blur on the beauty of the hillside? but when at last she saw her face she did run to meet her. "what is the matter?"--her voice was quick and sharp. the woman hesitated. "tell me!" demanded ernestine. "i will not be treated like that!" "dr. parkman wants you to come home," the woman said, not looking ernestine in the face. "why?--karl?"--she caught roughly at the other woman's arm. she knew then that she could not temporise nor modify. "dr. hubers was taken sick yesterday. he was to have an operation. the telegram should have been delivered last night." she thought ernestine was going to fall--she swayed so, her face went so colourless, her hands so cold. but she did not fall. "that--is all you know?"--it came in hoarse, broken whisper. and when the woman answered, yes, ernestine started, running, for the house. chapter xxxv "oh, hurry--_hurry!_" that train!--she would go mad if it kept stopping like that. she kept leaning forward in her seat, every muscle tense, fairly pushing the train on with every nerve that was in her. never once did she relax--on--on--it must go on! she would _make_ it go faster! when it stopped she clenched her hands, her nails digging into the flesh--and then when it started again that same feeling that she, from within herself, must push it on. at times she looked from the window. now this field was past--they were so much nearer. soon they would be over there where the track curved--that was a long way ahead. they were going faster now. she would lean forward again--pushing on, trying through the straining of her own nerves to make the train go faster. mrs. rolfe had wanted to come with her, but she said no. it seemed she could get there faster by herself. there had been an hour's wait for the train; it made her sick, even now, to think back to that hour. at least this was doing something, getting somewhere. she had telegraphed to every one she could think of, but no reply had come up to the time the train started. she reasoned that out with herself, now for good, now for bad. and then--if he were better, if there were anything good to tell-- her temples were thumping more loudly than the train thumped. her heart was choking her. her throat was so tight she could not breathe. again and again she went over it to herself. dr. parkman had operated on karl. of course dr. parkman would do it right. he would not dare to operate on him without her being there unless he was absolutely sure it would be all right. and then close upon that--he would have waited for her if-- appendicitis--that was what those quick operations were. and most of them--especially with dr. parkman--came out all right. and karl was the doctor's best friend! would not a man save his best friend when he could save every one else? and karl himself--his will, his power, his love for her--why karl would _know_ that nothing must happen while she was away! but close upon that came awful visions--oh _why_ had dr. parkman sent her away and then done this thing? she would tell him when she got there--she would tell him-- it would all be right when she got there. if only the train would hurry! there was smoke off there. was it?--it _was_ the smoke of chicago! nothing had ever looked so beautiful before. very soon now! why, perhaps within a few hours she and karl would be laughing at this! "isn't it great the way i got on, liebchen?" he would say. "isn't parkman a dandy?" they were passing those houses on the outskirts. oh why was chicago so big! but she must be calm--very calm; she must not excite karl in the least. how sorry he would be that she had been frightened like this! they were passing larger buildings, coming closer to the city. she gritted her teeth hard, clenched her hands. karl was at the hospital--the telegram told that. she would get off at the stop just this side of the main station--that was a little nearer the hospital, she believed. she would take a cab--if only there were an automobile!--but the cabman would surely go very fast if she told him why she had to hurry like this. long before the train came to its stop she was standing at the door. she would not have waited for the standstill if the porter had not held her back. oh how she must hurry now! she ran to the nearest cabman. would he hurry very fast?--faster than he ever had before? it was life and death, it was--"yes--yes, lady," he said, putting her in. "yes, i understand. i'll hurry." "but faster," she kept saying to him--"oh _please_, faster!" she saw nothing either to the right or left. she saw only the straight line ahead which they must travel. and still everything from within her was pushing her on--oh if the man would only _hurry_! a big building at last--the hospital. only two blocks now, then one, and then the man had slowed up. she was out before he stopped, running up the steps--somebody in the hospital would pay--and up the stairs. the elevator was there--but her own feet would take her faster. "dr. hubers?--where is he?" she said in choked voice to a nurse in the hall. the nurse started to speak, but ernestine, looking ahead, saw dr. parkman standing in the door of a room. she rushed to him with outstretched hand, white, questioning, pleading face. her lips refused to move. chapter xxxvi with the outgoing tide he simply took her into the room, and there was karl--alive. that was all she grasped at first; it filled her so completely she could take in nothing else. he was lying there, seemingly half asleep, looking much as he always did, save that of course it was plain he was very sick. she stooped down and kissed him, and his face lighted up, and he smiled a little. "ernestine," he murmured, "did they frighten you?" it was as she had known! his thought was of her. and oh how sorry karl would be when he was quite well and she told him all! she nestled her head close to him, her arm thrown about him. the tears were running down her cheeks. of the blessedness of finding karl here--breathing, smiling upon her, sorry she had been frightened! she took his hand and it responded to her clasp. that thrilled her through and through. those awful fears--those never-to-be-forgotten fears--that karl's hand might never close over hers again! she leaned over him that she might feel his breath upon her face. in all her life there had never been so blessed a joy as this feeling karl's breath upon her cheek. nothing mattered now--work, eyes, nothing. she had him back; she asked nothing more of life. what could anything else matter now that those awful fears had drawn away? she was sobbing quietly to herself. again his hand closed over hers. then something made her look up, and at the foot of the bed she saw dr. parkman. one look at his face and she grew cold from head to foot; her throat grew painfully tight; strange things came before her eyes. she could not move. she simply remained there upon her knees, looking at dr. parkman's face, her own frozen with terror. the doctor came to her, took her hands, and helped her to rise. two nurses and another doctor were bending over karl--doing something. dr. parkman led ernestine into an adjoining room. she did not take her eyes from his face; the appeal, terror, in them seemed to strike him dumb. it was as though his own throat were closed, for several times he tried vainly to speak. "ernestine," he said at last, "karl is very sick." "how--sick?" she managed to whisper. "how--sick?" she repeated as he stood there looking at her helplessly. and, finally, he said, as if it were killing him to do it--"so sick that--" "don't say that!"--she fairly hissed it at him. "don't _dare_ say that! you _did_ it--you----" and then, sinking down beside him, catching hold of his hand, she sobbed out, wildly, heartbreakingly--"oh, dr. parkman--oh, please--_please_ tell me you _will_ save karl!" her sobs were becoming uncontrollable. "ernestine," he said, sharply--"be quiet. be quiet! you have got to help." the sobs stopped; she rose to her feet. he pulled up a chair for her, but she did not sit down. a few sobs still came, but her face was becoming stern, set. "tell me," she said, holding her two hands tight against her breast, and looking him straight in the face. and then he jerked it out. karl had been taken ill--pain, fever, he feared appendicitis. he had two other doctors see him; they agreed that he must be operated on immediately. they brought him here. they found--conditions awful. they did all that surgery could do--every known thing was being done now, but--they did not know. he had rallied a little from the operation; now he seemed to be drooping. he was in bad shape generally,--heart weakened by the shock of his blindness, intestines broken down by lack of exercise, whole system affected by changed conditions--all these things combined against him. he told the short story with his own lips white, swaying a little, seeming fairly to age as he stood there. her face had been changing as she listened. he had never seen a human face look as hers did then; he had never heard a human voice sound as hers sounded when she said: "dr. parkman, you are mistaken." she looked him straight in the eye--a look which held the whole force of her being. "i say you are mistaken. we will go back in here now to karl. you and i together are going to save him." there was the light from higher worlds in her eye as she went back, in her voice a force which men have never named or understood. and something which emanated from her took hold of every one who came into that room. there was more than the resources of medical science at work now. on her knees beside the bed, her arm about him, passionately shielding him from the dark forces around him, her face often touching his as if reassuring him, ernestine spoke to karl, quietly, tenderly, forcefully, love's own intuition telling her how much to say, when to speak. by her warm body which loved him, by her great spirit which claimed him, she would hold him from the outgoing tide. her voice could rouse him where other stimulants failed; the only effort he made was the tightening of his hand over hers, and sometimes he smiled a little as he felt her close to him. two hours went by; the lines in dr. parkman's face were deepening. they worked on unfalteringly--hypodermics, heat, rubbing, oxygen, all those things with which man seeks to deceive himself, and for which the foe, with the tolerance of power, is willing to wait. but their faces were changing. the call of the outgoing tide, that tide over which human determination has not learned to prevail, was coming close. they worked on, for they were trained to work on, even through the sense of their own futility. looking about her ernestine saw it all, and held him with a passionate protectiveness. if all else failed, her arms--arms to which he had ever come for help and consolation--could surely hold him! the cold fear crept farther and farther into her heart, and as it crept on her arms about him tightened. not while she held him like this! oh not while she held him like this! and then a frenzy possessed her. that she should sit here powerless--weeping--despairing, surrendering, while karl slipped from her! she must do something--say something--something to hold him firm--call him back--make him understand that he must fight! suddenly a light broke over her face. she looked at dr. parkman, who was bending over karl. "i will tell him," she whispered--"what i did--the secret--about the work." he hesitated; medically his judgment was against it; and then, white to the lips with the horror of the admission he faced the fact that this had passed beyond things medical. let her try where he had failed. through a rush of uncontrollable tears he nodded yes. and she did tell him,--in words which were not sentences, with sharp flashes of thought--such flashes as alone could penetrate the semi-consciousness into which she must reach; after a moment of pause in which to gather herself together for the great battle of her life, with concentration, illumination, with a piercing eloquence which brought hot tears to every cheek, and deep, deep prayers to hearts which would have said they did not know how to pray--a woman fighting for the man she loved, human love at its whitest heat pitted against destiny--she told him. "karl," at the last--"you _understand?_--that's the great secret!--_that's_ the great picture! i've not painted one stroke this winter! i've been working for _you_--working in your laboratory every day--studying day and night--getting ready to be your eyes--going to give you back your work--oh, karl--_karl_--won't you--" but the sobs could hold back no longer. she had reached him. he took it in, just a little at first, but comprehension was growing, and upon his face a great wondering, a softening. "old man,"--it was dr. parkman now--"you get that? see what you've got ahead? god, man--but it was splendid! she came to me with the idea--_her_ idea--thought it all out herself. karl was not happy--karl must have his work. karl--karl--it was nothing but karl. she was closer to him than any one in the world. she could make him see what others could not. then _she_ would be his eyes. man--do you know that this woman has fairly made over her soul for love of you? do you know that she has given up becoming one of the great painters of the world to become your assistant? do you get it, karl? so help me god it was the pluckiest fight i've ever seen or heard of. and she's won! i'm no fool--and i say she can do what she says she can. she's ready. she's ready to begin to-morrow. what do you say, old man? what do you think of ernestine now? isn't she worth taking a good brace and living for?" and then he got it all; he was taking it in, rising to it, understanding, glowing. and a look that was very wonderful was growing upon karl's face. "ernestine," he whispered, dwelling long upon the name, his voice a voice of wonder, "you did that--for me?" "i did it because i love you so!" she whispered, and it seemed that surely death itself could not withstand the tenderness of it. and then his whole face became transfigured. his blind eyes were opened to the light of love. his illumined face reflected it as the supreme moment of his life. in that moment he triumphed over all powers set against him. he rose out of suffering on wings of glory. he transcended sorrow and tragedy, blindness--yes, in that moment, death. he saw behind the veil; he saw into the glory of a soul; he comprehended the wonder of love. compensation for suffering and loss--understanding, victory, peace; it was the human face lighted with divine light. they did not dare to move or breathe as they looked upon the wonder of his face. "ernestine--little one," he whispered, the light not going from his face--"you loved me--like that?" "you see, karl,"--it was this must reach him--"what you have to live for now?" but he did not get that. he was filled with the wonder of that which he was seeing. "you see, old man," said parkman, sharply, "what you've got ahead of you?" but he only murmured, happily, faintly, as one about to fall asleep: "she loved me--like that." it terrified her; it seemed, not as though the great idea were holding him, but as though he were taking it away with him, even as though well content to go, having this to take with him from life. "karl--karl!" she sobbed--"don't you _see _how i love you?--don't you see you _must _live now--for me?" but he had far transcended all sense of suffering or loss, even her suffering and loss. her plea--she herself--could not reach him. he and the great idea were going away together. and that light did not leave his face. it was so that he sank into a sleep. he did not hear ernestine's sobs; he knew nothing of her pleading cries. in a frenzy of grief she felt him going out to where she could not reach him. she called to him, and he did not answer. she pressed close to him, and he did not know that she was there. but the great idea was with him. it lighted his face to the last. it was as if that were what he was taking with him from life. it was as if that, and that alone, he could keep. "karl--karl!" she cried, terrorised--"look at me! speak to me! i am here! ernestine is here!"--and then, the strongest word of woman to man--"i'm frightened! oh take care of me--karl--take care of me!" dr. parkman tried to take her away, but she resisted fiercely, and they let her stay. and during the few hours which followed she never ceased her pleading--to him to come back to her, to them to help. crazed with the consciousness of his slipping from her, wild beyond all reason with the thought that her kisses could not move him, her arms could not hold him, her passion lashed to the uttermost in the thought that she must claim him now or lose him forever, she pleaded with all the eloquence of human voice and human tears. she could not believe it--that he was there beside her and would not listen to her pleadings. again and again she told him that she was frightened and alone; that--surely that--he must hear. it could not be that he was there beside her, breathing, moving a little now and then, and did not hear her call for help. and when at last she heard some one speak a low word, and saw some one bend over him to close his eyes, she uttered one piercing, heartbreaking cry which they would bear with them so long as they lived. and then, throwing herself upon him, shielding him, keeping him, there came the wild, futile call of life to death--"karl!--karl!--_karl!_" part three chapter xxxvii beneath dead leaves the cold march rain drove steadily against the car window. his thoughts were like that,--cold, ugly, driving thoughts. looking out at the bleak country through which they were passing he saw that dead leaves were hanging forlornly to bare trees. his hopes were like that,--a few dead hopes clinging dismally to the barren tree of experience. so it seemed to dr. parkman as he looked from the car window at the country of hills and hollows through which he was passing. the out-lived winter's snow still in the hollows, last summer's leaves blown meaninglessly about, denied even the repose of burial, the cheerless wind and the cheerless rain--it matched his mood. almost a year had gone by, and dr. parkman was going out to see ernestine. every mile which brought him nearer, brought added uncertainty as to what he should say when he reached her. what was there for him to say? the dead leaves of her hopes were all huddled in the hollow. was he becoming so irrational as to think he could give life to things dead? was she not right in wishing to cover them up decently and let them be? was anything to be gained in blowing them about as last summer's leaves were being blown about now by the unsparing, uncaring winds of march? she was out where she had lived as a girl,--living in the very house which had once been her home. he had understood her going. it was the simple law of living things. the animal wounded beyond all thought of life seeks only a place of seclusion. but when georgia returned from her visit to ernestine the month before, she came to him with: "dr. parkman, you _must_ do something for ernestine!" and after she had told him many things, and he questioned still further, she said, in desperate desire to make it plain--"she is becoming a great deal like you!" and from then until the time of starting on this trip he had had no peace. he understood; understood far more deeply than she who would have him see. was any one better qualified to understand that thing than he? well,--what then? what now? was there any other thing to expect? was he, of all men, going to her with platitudes about courage and faith? and even so, would sophistry avail anything? did he not know ernestine far too well far that? his own face bore the deep marks of hard and bitter things. but the loss and the sorrow showed themselves in strange ways, little understood as manifestations of grief. he ran his automobile faster, showed even less caution than before in his business ventures, had less and less to say, was called more and more strange by those associated with him. and the thing which mocked him most of all was that the year had been attended with the greatest professional successes of his life. he never heard his plaudits sounded without a curse in his heart. "it went mighty hard with parkman not to be able to save hubers," medical men said with growing frequency as the year advanced. but there were none of them who dreamed into what deep and vital things the cut had gone. with his own will and his own skill he patched it up on the surface, not the man to leave his wound exposed to other eyes. but he knew its hopelessness too well ever to try and reach the bottom of the wound. it was not a good, clean, straight cut such as time expects to heal. indeed it was not a cut at all; nothing so wholesome and reachable as that. it was a destroying force, a thing burrowing at the springs of life, a thing which made its way through devious paths to vital sources. did a patched up surface mean anything to a thing like that? the evening of the day he had seen georgia, and she told him of ernestine, he sat a long time in his office alone. the grey ashes of his own life seemed spread around him. and it was he, who was asked, out of this, to rekindle a great flame? and what flame? what was there left for ernestine? ask her to come back--to what? fight--for what? he did not know, or at least he said he did not know, and yet he, like georgia, saw it as all wrong, unendurable, not to be countenanced, that ernestine should shut herself out from life. perhaps he was going to her because he knew so well the desolation of ashes. was it because he had lived so long among them that he hated to see another fire go out? could it be that a man who had dwelt long among ashes knew most surely the worth of the flame? he had reached the end of his journey. he had come to the western college town for which he had set out. from the window he could see some of the college buildings. yes, this was the place. he rose and put on his coat. a few minutes later he was standing on the station platform, watching the on-going train. then he turned, with decision, in the direction georgia had bade him go. chapter xxxviii patchwork quilts and now that the first ten minutes had passed he felt anew the futility of his errand. his first look into her face made him certain he might better have remained in chicago. the thing which cut off all approach was that she too had done some work on the surface. it seemed to him as he sat there in utter silence that he had been brutal, not alone to her heart, but to his own, that he asked too much, not only of her command, but of his. he had come to talk of ernestine and the future; the things about him drew him overmasteringly to karl and the past. she had taken him to her little sitting room up stairs, forced to do so because the fire down stairs had gone out. he understood now why it was she had faltered so in asking him to come up here. here was karl's big chair--many things from their library at home. it was where she lived with her past. she wanted no one here. she would make no attempt at helping him. she sat there in silence, her face white, almost stern. in her aloofness it was as though she were trying to hold herself, from the consciousness of his presence. he too remained silent. for he was filled with the very things against which he had come to protest. it was karl who was very close; it was the thoughts of karl's life which filled him. his heart had never been so warm for his friend, his appreciation had never been so great as now. karl, and all that karl meant, had never been so close, and so dear. and the words he finally said to ernestine, words of passionate tenderness spoken in utter unconsciousness of how far he had gone from his purpose, were: "i do not believe any of us half appreciated karl!" startled, she gave him a long, strange look. "no, dr. parkman,"--very low--"neither do i." "i have been looking into it since. i wanted to throw karl's results to the right man. he was head and shoulders above them all." there was a slow closing of her eyes, but she was not shrinking from him now;--this the kind of hurt she was able to bear. "if he had been left to work out his life--" but he stopped, brought suddenly to a sense of how far he had lost himself. she too saw it. "dr. parkman,"--with a smile which put him far from her--"_this_ is what you came to say? you think _i_ need any incitement? you needn't, dr. parkman,"--with rising passion--"you needn't. every time i leave this room two things are different. i have more love for karl--more hate for his destroyers. and those two passions will feed upon me to the end of my life!" instinctively he put out a protesting hand. it was too plain that it was as she said. "more love for karl--more hate for his destroyers,"--she repeated it with a passionate steadfastness as though it comprehended the creed of her life. "his--destroyers?" he faltered. "what do you mean--by that?" and she answered, with a directness before which dissembling and evasion crumbled away: "read the answer in your own heart. "and if you cannot look into your own heart," she went on, unsparingly, "if your own heart has been shut away so long that it is closed even to yourself, then look into your looking-glass and read the answer there. let the grey hairs in your own head, the lines in your own face,--yes, the words of your own mouth--tell you what you would know of karl's destroyers." he drew in his lips in that way of his; one side of his face twitched uncontrollably. he had come to reach her soul, reach it if must be through channels of suffering. he had not thought of her reaching his like this. but she could not stop. "and if you want to know what i have gone through, look back to what you have gone through yourself--then make some of those hours just as much stronger as love is stronger than friendship--and perhaps you can get some idea of what it has been to me!" he was dumb before that. putting it that way there was not a word to say. he saw now the real change. it was more than hollowed cheeks and eyes from which the light of other days had gone, more than soft curves surrendered to grief and youth eaten out by bitterness. it was a change at the root of things. a great tide had been turned the other way. but in the days when happiness softened her and love made it all harmonious he had never felt her force as he felt it now. reach this? turn this? the moment brought new understanding of the paltriness of words. it was she who spoke. "dr. parkman,"--looking at him with a keenness in which there was almost an affectionate understanding--"you did not say what you intended to say when you came into this room. you intended to speak of me--but the room swept you back to karl. oh--i know. and it is just because you _were_ swept back--care like this--that i am going to tell you something. "doctor,"--blinded with tears--"we never understood. none of us ever knew what it meant to karl to be blind. after--after he had gone--i found something. in this book"--reaching over to karl's copy of faust--"i found a letter--a very long letter karl wrote in those last few days, when he was there--alone. i found it the day i went out to the library alone--the day before they--broke it up. oh doctor--_what it told!_ i want you to know--" but she could not go on. when she raised her head the fierce light of hate was burning through the tears. "can you fancy how i hate the light? can you fancy with what feelings i wake in the morning and see it come--light from which karl was shut out--which he craved like that--and could not have? do you see how it symbolises all those other things taken from him and me? he talked of another light--light he must gain for himself--light which the soul must have. and karl was longing for the very light i was ready to bring! he would have believed in it--turned to it eagerly--the letter shows that. do you _wonder_ that there is nothing but darkness in my soul--that i want nothing else? look at karl's life! always cut off just this side of achievement! every battle stopped right in the hour of victory! made great only to have his greatness buffetted about like--_held up for sport!_--i _will_ say it! "--in fierce response to his protesting gesture--"it's true!" he tried to speak, but this was far too big for words which did not come straight from the soul. "do you know what i am doing now?" she laughed--and none of it had told as much as that laugh revealed. "i am making patchwork quilts! can you fancy anything more worthless in this world than a patchwork quilt?--cutting things up and then sewing them together again, and making them uglier in the end than they were in the beginning? do you know anything more futile to do with life than that? well that's where my life is now. my aunt had begun some, and i am finishing them up. and once--once--" but the sob in her voice gathered up the words. he wanted to speak then; that sob brought her nearer. but she went on: "i sit sewing those little pieces together--a foolish thing to do, but one must be doing something, and as i think how useless it is there comes the thought of whether it is any more useless than all the other things in life. is it any more useless than surgery? for can a great surgeon save his best friend? is it any more useless than science--for can science do anything for her own? is it any more useless than ambition and purpose and hope--for does not fate make sport of them all? is it any more useless than books--for can books reach the hearts which need them most? is it any more useless than art--for does art reach realities? is it any more useless than light--for can light penetrate the real darkness? is it,"--she wavered, quivered; she had been talking in low, quick voice, her eyes fixed on something straight ahead, as though reading her words out there before her. and now, as she held back, and he saw what she saw and could not say, he asked for her, slowly: "is it any more useless than love?" chapter xxxix ash heap and rose jar as she broke then to the sobs for which he had hoped, something of tremendous force stirred within the man; and he felt that if he could bring her from the outer darkness where she had been carried, back to the things which were her soul's own, that his own life, his whole life, with all of the dark things through which it had passed, would have found justification. he had tried to save karl, and failed. but there was left ernestine. and it seemed to him--he saw it simply, directly, unquestioningly--that after all he would not have failed karl if he could do what it was in his heart to do now for her. looking at her bowed head he saw it all--the complete overthrow, the rich field of life rendered barren waste. barren waste--but was that true for ernestine? did there not remain for her the scent of the field? the memory of that glorious, luxuriant growth? with _him_ barren waste--but for her did there not grow in the field of life some things which were everlasting? with the quickness with which he saw everything he saw that it was the picture of his own barrenness could show her most surely the things which for her remained. he drew back from the thought as one draws away from the rude touch upon a wound. lay bare the scars of his life that another profit by their ugliness? years of habit were against it; everything fundamentally himself was against it. but he was a man who had never yet shrunk from the thing he saw was right to do. the cost of an accomplishment never deterred him from a thing he saw must be accomplished. with each second of listening to her sobs, he was becoming once more the man who masters, the man ruthless and unsparing in his purposefulness. "ernestine," he began, and his voice was very strange, for it knew it was to carry things it had never carried before, "you and i are similarly placed in that we have both lost the great thing of life. but there is something remains to each of us. life has left something to us both. to you it has left a rose jar. to me--a heap of ashes." it came with the moment's need. it comprehended it so well the channels long closed seemed of themselves to open. in the clearness with which he saw it, the fullness with which he felt it, he lost himself. "do you know that you have no right to cry out against life? do you know that there are men and women who would lay down their lives--yes, and give up their immortal souls--for hours which you have had? do you know that you have no right to say karl hubers was mocked by fate, made sport of, buffetted about? do you know,"--his face went white as he said this, slowly--"that i would be a thousand times willing to give up my two eyes--yes, and lay down my life--just to _know_, as he knew, that love was great and life was good?" the tears remained undried upon her cheek. he held her. "look deeper. there is another way to read karl's life--a deeper truth than those truths you have been seeing. "ernestine, we all dream of love; we all desire it. it is only at rare, rare times it comes as it came to you. and i say to you--and i mean it from the bottom of my heart--that if you had been forced to give up your love in the first hour of its fulfillment, for all that you should thank god through the remainder of your life that it had been yours. for you _had_ it!--and nothing, loss, death, defeat, disappointment of every kind, can strip from your soul the consciousness that once, no matter for how short a time, love in its fullness and perfection was yours. long, lonely years may come, and all hard things may come, but through it all the thing to keep your soul in tune is the memory of some one perfect hour." stillness followed that, the stillness which was silence. she had not moved. "you dreamed your dream,"--and in his voice now the beautiful things of appreciation and understanding. "i know your dream. you dreamed of growing old together; of taking from life everything there was together; of achieving to the uttermost; of rejoicing in each other's victories, growing more and more close together. i know your dream--a beautiful dream. giving up some things as the changing years do their work, and taking on the other things, the more quiet, in fact finer things, that come with the years. oh, yes--don't think i do not know that dream. to walk together down the years, meet them fearlessly, gladly, in the thought that they but add to the fullness of your love--i know--i know. and now that it is not to be as you thought, you say life has left nothing to you; that you hate it; will have none of it. oh, ernestine, if you could only know how rich you are!" then harshly, rudely, the change; the voice which had seemed to caress each word was now like a lash. "suppose you didn't have the luxury of giving yourself up to your own heart? suppose that every day and night of your life, you had to fight memory, knowing it held nothing for you but jeers and mockery and things too damnable for words! suppose you had to fairly forbid yourself to think of the beautiful things of life! suppose that what had been the most beautiful moments of your life were made, by memory, the most hideous! suppose the memory of his kiss always brought with it the consciousness of his falseness; that his words of love never came back to you without the knowledge that he had been laughing at you in his heart all the time! suppose you could never get away from the damning truth that what you gave from the depth of your heart was tossed aside with a laugh! suppose you had given the great passion of your life, the best that was in you, to a liar and a hypocrite! suppose you had been made a fool of!--easy game! _then_ what of life?--your belief in love?--thoughts of fate? great god, woman, can't you see what you have got?" after the throbbing moment which followed that there came a great quiet; slowly passion settled to sadness. he seemed to have forgotten her, to be speaking instead to his own heart, as he said, very low, his voice touched with the tenderness of unrelinquished dreams: "to have had one hour--just one perfect hour, and then the memory of that untarnished forever--it would be enough." her heart rushed passionately to its own defence; she wanted to tell him no! she wanted to tell him it was cruel to be permitted to live for a time in a beautiful country, only to be turned out into the dark. she wanted to tell him that to know love was to need it forever. but his head had fallen to his hand; he seemed entirely lost to her, and even now she knew his answer to what she would say. "but you _had_ it," he would reply. "the cruel thing would be to awaken and find no such country had ever existed." they would get no closer than that, and with new passionateness her heart went out to karl. karl would understand it as it was to her! he too felt that they could come no closer than this. they sat there in the gathering twilight with their separate thoughts as souls sit together almost in the dark, seeing one another in shadow, across dim spaces. the tearing open of his heart had left him weakened with pain. perhaps that was why he was so very tired, and perhaps it was because he was so tired that this thought of growing old came back to him. it seemed to him now, leaning back in his chair and filled with the things of which he had spoken, that almost as great as a living presence with which to share the years, would be that thing of growing old with a beautiful memory. it would be a supreme thing to have a hand in your hand, a face against your face, a heart against your heart as you stepped on into the years; but if that could not be, and perfection is not given freely in this life, surely it would keep the note of cheer in one's voice, the kindly gleam in one's eye, to bring with one into old age the memory of a perfect love. it would be lonely then when one sat in the twilight and dreamed--but what another loneliness! if instead of holding one's self away from one's own heart, one could turn to it with: "she loved me like that. her arms have been about my neck in true affection; her whole being radiated love for me; she had no words to tell it and could tell it only with her eyes and with the richness and the lavishness of her kisses. she would have given up the world for me; she inspired me to my best deeds; she comforted me in my times of discouragement and rejoiced with me in my hours of cheer. she is not here now, and it is lonely, but she has left me, in spirit, the warmth of her presence, the consciousness that she loved me with a love in which there was no selfishness nor faltering, and the things she has left me i can carry through life and into eternity." and all of that was ernestine's could she but see her way to take it! he knew that it was growing late. "i must go," he said, but still he sat there, knowing he had not finished what he had come to say. but need he say it? would it avail anything? must not all human souls work their own way through the darkness? and when the right word came, must it not come from karl himself, through some memory, some strange breath of the spirit? _he_ knew, but she would have to see it for herself. that each one's seeing it for one's self was what made life hard. would there not surely come a day, somewhere in the upward scale, where souls could reach one another better than this? but he had stirred her; he knew that by the way she was looking at him now. finally she asked, tremblingly, a little resentfully: "dr. parkman, what is it you would have me do?" "do something with your life," was his prompt reply. "help make it right for karl." she caught that up breathlessly. "make it right for karl?" "you say he was always cut off just this side of achievement. then you achieve something which will at least show what he was able to inspire." that sunk so deep that her face went very white. "but you do not understand," she whispered passionately. "you mean that i should paint--and i tell you i _cannot_. i tell you it is _dead!_" "not necessarily that you should paint. not just now, if you cannot. but come back into touch with life. do something to force yourself back into it, and then let life itself show you that the other things are not dead after all." "but i do not want to!" came bitterly from her. "sometimes," he said, with more of his usual manner, "we do things we do not want to, and through the doing of them, we get to want to. do something!--whether you want to or not. stop doing futile things and dwelling on the sense of their futility. why, ernestine, come up to the hospital and go to work as a nurse! heaven knows i never expected to advise you to do that, but _anything_--painting pictures or scrubbing floors--that will bring you back to a sense of living--the obligations of life--show you that something is _yours_ that life and death and _hell_ can't take from you!" and still he sat there, thinking. in just a moment he must go--go away leaving her alone with the years which awaited her. for just an instant it seemed as though all of the past and all of the future were in his keeping. what word leave with her? he knew by her passionate breathing that he had reached her. and now he was going away. could he have done more--reached deeper? in this, too, had he failed? what word leave with her? his heart was so full of many things that his mind did not know what to choose. he remembered the day she had come to him filled with the spirit to ride down an adverse fate and win triumph from defeat. her splendid spirit then! would that spirit ever come again? could it? karl was very close in those final moments, and even more close than karl was the spirit of love. many precious things seemed in his keeping just then. "ernestine," he said at the last, and his face was white and his voice trembled, "you have known. it came to you. you had it. it came to you as june to the roses,--in season, right. i grant you it was short. i grant you it was hard to see it go. but you _had_ it! say that to yourself when you go to sleep at night. say it to yourself when you wake in the morning. and some day you will come to see what it means just to know that you know, and then your understanding and your heart will go out to all who have never known. you will pity all who scoff and all who yearn, and you will say to yourself: 'the world needs to know more about love. more than knowledge or science or any other thing, the world needs more faith in love.' then some day you will see that you not only know but have power to make it plain, and you will not hold back any longer then. and _there_ is to be the real victory and completion of karl hubers' life!--there the real triumph over fate--that triumph of the spirit of love. i see it now. i see it all now. and my good-bye word to you is just this--i do not believe you are going to withhold from karl the immortality which should be his." chapter xl "let there be light" hours had passed, and still she could not master the sobs. it seemed no one had ever been as cruel as dr. parkman had been to her that afternoon. karl would understand!--and in her passionate need of karl's understanding she turned at last to the letter of which she had spoken, the letter which always seemed a little like karl's voice speaking from out the silence. old and worn and blurred with the grief spent upon it, the letter bore upon itself the record of the year's desolation. it had lived through things never to be told,--never to be comprehended. "lonesome days, liebchen,"--he had written. "it would seem almost like a rush of light to feel you standing in the doorway now. "my letters which i send you will tell you i am well, getting along all right, that i love you. these are some other things. if i think they will hurt you, i will not let you see them. but i will feel better to get them said, and of course the easiest way to say them is to say them to you. "i can't write. i wish i could. there are things 'way back in my thoughts i should like to say, and say right. for i've done some thinking this year, liebchen--while i sat here writing text-books there came a good many thoughts. "text-books--any fool can write them! lectures on what other men have done--what do i care about them? i'll do it, for i have to, but i want somebody to know--i want _you_ to know that i know it doesn't amount to a hill of beans! "liebchen, you hear a lot of talk about the beauties of resignation. don't you ever believe any of it. we don't get resigned to things that really count. but what we do get, is courage to bear them. i'm not resigned and i don't want to be! but i will try to be game about it, and we can't be game while we are sore. i know that because the times i've been least game are the times i was most sore. wonder if anybody can make any sense out of that? "life's queer--you can't get around that. making us one thing and then making us be another. what are we to think of it, liebchen? seems as if we could get on better if we could just get a line on the scheme of things, understand what it is all about, and the why. or isn't there any why? i like a why for things. it gives them their place. i don't like disorder, and senselessness, and if there isn't any why--why then--see what i'm getting at? "what are you going to do when your force pushes you on to a thing which is closed to you? stop the force? well, doesn't that stop yourself? turn it somewhere else? easy to say in working out a philosophy,--not so easy to do. "where's the end of it?--that's what i want to know. i'm one of those practical chaps who wants to see an end in sight. "ernestine, light's a great thing. light's _the_ great thing. i never knew that until i went blind. you have to stay a long time in the darkness to know just what it is light means. "they call great men 'great lights.' 'and then came the light,' they say, regarding the solving of some great thing. 'he brought the light'--that's what i wanted to do! they tell about science bringing the light. i know now what a tribute they pay when they say that. light of understanding, light of truth--and ah, mein liebchen, the light of love--and well do i know how that light can shine into the darkness! "'more light'--goethe said, when he was going out into the dark. a great thing to ask for. i know how he felt!--'and god said--let there be light'--i don't wonder that story has lived a long time. "my books are finished. now what?--more books?--lectures?--some kind of old woman's make-shift? sit here and watch my red blood dry up? sit here like a plant shrivelling away in the darkness? be looked after and fussed over and have things made as easy for me as possible? i don't know--i can't see-- "there, liebchen--i've taken a brace. i took a long drink of courage, and i'm in better shape. often when i get like that i've been tempted to take a long drink of something else--but i never have. whiskey's for men who feel good; men who haven't much to fight. not for me--not any such finish as that. "i'm making bad business of this letter. i wanted to tell things, tell what light was and what darkness was; but i can't do it. many things have been circling around my thoughts and i thought i might get hold of a few of them and pull them in. but i can't seem to do it. i never was much good at writing things out; it's hard to get words for things that aren't even full-born thoughts. "my work was great, liebchen--great! a constant piercing of the darkness with light--a letting in of more light--new light. i can understand now why i loved it; where the joy was; what it was i was doing. "is life like that? don't we understand things until we are out of them? by jove, is it true that we have to _get_ out of them, in order to understand them? and if that's true, is it the understanding that's the goal? is it--oh, i don't know--i'm sure i don't know. "but look here, liebchen,--is it true that while i had the light, i didn't have it at all,--didn't know what it meant? did i have to lose it in order to get it? for isn't it _having_ a thing to understand it--more than it's having it to really have it and not understand? see what i mean? those are some of the things circling around on the outside. "sometimes i think so. sometimes i think the light was shut out that the greater light might come. sometimes i think we scientists haven't the right line on the world at all. why, ernestine, sometimes i think it's miles deeper than we ever dreamed! a hodge-podge--this letter. like my life, starting out one thing, and ending up another, or rather not ending up anything at all--a going to pieces in the midst of my philosophy--a not being sure of anything--a constant 'perhaps.'" "i'm lonesome. i'm tired. i don't feel well. the old ladies would say i'm 'under the weather.' why, i can't even keep feeling right when you're away. "i want you. i want you--here--now. i can't talk to you on this infernal machine, my hands groping around just as senselessly as my thoughts. i tell you, liebchen, blindness is bad business. it sounds well in a poem, but it's a bad thing to live with. it's bad to wake up in the night sometimes and think that it will be daylight soon and then remember that it will never be daylight for you again! "i wish you were here. i'm just in the mood for talking--not talking, perhaps, but having you close to me, and understanding. "there's one thing that there's no perhaps about. that's you. there's no perhaps when it comes to our love. there's no perhaps-- "now, that made me fall a-dreaming. i stopped writing and lighted my pipe and sat a long time, thinking of you. it's 'our hour'--i know that, because i heard the clock strike. where are you? why aren't you here? "i want you. believe i said that before, but if i said it a thousand times, i couldn't make it strong enough. i don't know why i want you like this--this soul want. it isn't just your kisses, your sweetness, the dear things about you. i want you to be here to understand--for you would--you do. "my light in the darkness, my ernestine! i shall never let you go away again. the darkness is too dark without you. "evening now, for again i stopped; too tired, too quiet, someway, to feel like writing. i am going to bed. i wish you were here for your good-night kiss. i wish you were here just to tell me that you understand all these things i have not been able to say. i wish you were here to tell me--what in my heart i know--that you are going to bring me the light, that love will light the way. i wish you were here to tell me that what my eyes cannot tell you, as they used to, you can read now just by the beating of my heart, just through the fullness of our silences. "oh, little one--your eyes--your dear eyes--your lovely hair--your smile--your arms about my neck--your whispered word in my ear--your soft cheek against mine--your laugh--your voice--your tenderness--i want it all to-night--and the ernestine of the silences--the ernestine who understands without knowing--helps without trying. "soon you will be back. that will be sunrise after long darkness. "good-night. it's hard to leave you--so lonesome--wanting you so. again, good-night, dear girl for whom my arms are yearning. bless you, sweetheart--god bless you--and does god, himself, know what you have been to me?" she read the last of it, as always, with sobs uncontrollable. dr. parkman--everything--was forgotten. it was karl alone in the library, longing for her, needing her--and she not there. "oh, karl--karl!" she sobbed across the black chasm of the year--"if i could only have had that hour!" chapter xli when the tide came in but the days which came then were different. dr. parkman had stirred her to a discontent with despair. she had come west with georgia and joe. for five days they had been at this little town on the oregon coast. through the day and through the night she listened to the call of the sea. it stirred her strangely. at times it frightened her. she did not know why she should have wished to come. perhaps it was because it seemed a reaching out to the unknown. after she had known she was to go, she would awaken in the night and hear the far-off roll of the pacific, and would lie there very still as if listening for something from the farther unknown. her whole being was stirred--drawn--unreasoningly expectant. there were moments when she seemed to just miss something to which she was very close. to-day she had walked clear around the bend. the little town and pleasant beach were hidden from view, and there was only the lighthouse out among the rocks, and the sea coming in wild and mighty to that coast to which no mariner would attempt to draw near. it was the hour of the in-coming tide, and as the sea beat against the rocks it seemed as omnipotent and relentless as that sea of fate against which nothing erected by man could hope to prevail. there was no human being in sight. man, and all to which man blinded one, were far away. she was alone with things as they were, alone with the forces which made the world and life, and as the tides of the sea brought close to her wave after wave, so the mind's tides were bringing close to her wave upon wave of understanding. fate had washed them away just as this ocean would wash away the child's playhouse built upon the sands. they had believed they could make their lives, that it was for their spirit to elect what they should do, their hands build as they had willed; and all that the spirit had willed to do, and all that the hands set about to achieve, was washed away by just one of those waves of fate which rolled in and took them with no more of regret, no more of compassion, than the sea would have in washing away the play-house built upon the sands. and if the sea were chidden for having taken away the house upon the sands, which meant much to some one, it would quite likely answer grimly: "i did not know that it was there." she laughed--and karl would have hated life for bringing ernestine to that laugh. but she laughed to think how she had looked fate in the face with the words: "i will prevail against you!" would the child, building its house upon the sand and saying to the ocean: "i will not let you take my house!" be more absurd than she? what she had believed to be the tremendous force of her spirit had been as one grain of sand against the tides of ocean. what was one to think of it all then--of human love which believed itself created for eternity, of dreams which one's soul persuaded one would come true, of aspirations born in a hallucination of power, of that spark within one which played one false, of believing one could master fate only to find one had erected a child's house upon the sands, and that what had been achieved in consciousness of great power could be swept away so easily that the ocean was not even conscious of having taken it unto itself? very sternly, very understandingly, their lives swept before her anew.... just one little wave from the tide of fate had lapped up, unknowingly, uncaringly, that house upon the sand which a delusion of the spirit had made seem a castle grounded in eternity. why blind one's self to the truth and call life fair? for what had they fought and suffered and believed and hoped? just to hear the mocking voice of the outgoing tide? the fury of the sea was creeping into her blood. rage possessed her. all of her spirit, mightier than ever before, went out to meet the spirit of the sea--hating it, defying it, understanding its own futility, and the more hot from the sense of impotence. that died to desolation. she had never been so wholly desolate--the sea so mighty, she so powerless. fate and human souls were like that. karl--where was he? swept out by the ocean of fate. to what shore had he been carried? what thought he of the tide which had carried him out from her? was his soul, like hers, spending itself in the passion of rebellion--so mighty as to shake the foundations of one's being, so futile as to prevail against not one drop of water in that sea of fate? time passed; the tide was still coming in, nearing its height. but to the sea there had come a change. the spirit of it seemed different. for a long time she sat there dimly conscious of a difference, and then it seemed as though the sea were trying to reach her with something it had to bring. she tried to shake herself free from so strange a fancy, but it held her, and for a long time she sat there motionless, looking out at the sea with all her eyes, reaching out to it with all her soul, becoming more and more still,--a hush upon her whole being,--moved, held, unreasoningly expectant. the sea seemed trying to make her ready. each wave which beat upon the rocks beat against her consciousness, driving against her mood and spirit, as if clearing a way, making her ready, open, to what would come. it seemed finally to have cleared her whole being, driven away all which might impede. it seemed now as though she could take in things not seen or heard. there was that strange openness of the spirit, that hush, that unreasoning expectancy. all at once it rushed upon her, filling her overwhelmingly. it said that there was a sea mightier than what she called the sea of fate; it told of a sea of human souls over which fate only seemed to prevail. a great rush of truth filled her with this--it was the belief in the omnipotence of fate which was the real delusion of the spirit. over and over again, with steadily rising tide, it told her that,--no more to be reasoned away than the sea, resistless as the tide. she never knew in after years just what it was happened in that hour. she could not have told it, for it was not a thing for words to compass. but after that great truth had rushed full upon her, sweeping away the philosophy of her bitterness, karl's spirit, something sent out from him to her, seemed to come in with the tide. he pleaded with her. he asked her to stop fighting and come back to the soul of things. he asked her to be ernestine--his ernestine. he told her that his own spirit could not find peace while hers was waging war and full of bitterness. he wanted her to make a place for them both in that great world-harmony of their belief. he told her that out where souls see in wider sweeps, they know that there is a spirit over which death and fate cannot prevail. darkness came on, but she had no thought of fear. and before she turned away something had risen from the dead. out of woe and despair, defeat and bitterness, out of loneliness and a broken heart, something was born again. karl asked that she make it right with the world. karl asked for a child of their love. and at the last it was the call of the child to the mother which she heard. it was the maternal instinct of the spirit which answered. very late that night, after she had sat long at her window, looking up at the stars, waiting, a great light seemed to appear, and shimmering against the sky, high above the tides of the sea, she saw the picture which she would paint. chapter xlii work the saviour for more than three years then they saw nothing of ernestine. she left this note for georgia: "i am sorry to seem erratic, but i cannot wait for you. i am going away at once. i am going first to new york, and then, i think, to paris. i am going to do something which i can do better there than anywhere else. thank you, georgia, for everything. it must be satisfying to feel one has succeeded as beautifully in anything as you have succeeded in being a friend to me. do not worry. there is nothing now to worry about. you will be glad to know that i am going back to my work." a little later dr. parkman had this from her from new york: "i am sailing for paris. i am going to work. i see it all now; all that you would have me see, and more. some day i will try to show you just how well i see it. "i do not know how i am going to bear part of it--the going back where we were so happy. but i _will_ bear it, for nothing shall keep me from the work i see before me. "thank you--for all that you have done, and most of all for all that you have been. my idea is all comprehended in this: to the very uttermost of my power, i am going to make it right for karl." six months later she wrote him this: "dear doctor: thank you for attending to those things for me. it infuriated me at first to think that the only thing in money left by the work of karl's great life was the money from those books which i resented so bitterly. but how wrong to see it that way--for karl would be so happy to know that the brave work he did after his blindness was helping me now. but i never spend a dollar of this money without thinking of the mood--the circumstances--out of which it was earned. "no--no money for the work he did for the blind. karl intended that as a gift. he would be so glad to know of its usefulness. he thought it all wrong that books for the blind were so expensive, and so many of the great things not to be had. "karl used to repeat a little verse of heine, which he translated like this:" 'at first i did not even hope, and to a hostile fate did bow-- but i learned to bear the burden-- only do not ask me how.' "i have learned to bear it here in paris--only do not ask me how. i could not say. i do not know. "but i want to tell you of a few of the good things. you would not believe what that work in the laboratory has done for me. it has given me a new understanding of colour--new sense of it, new power with eye and hand, a better sense of values. would you have thought of that? and do you not see the reasons for my being glad? "what i have done so far is but leading up to what i am going to do. that is so vital that it must not be done too quickly. i must get my hand in, gain what there is to be gained here, that the work i am going to do for karl may have the benefit of it all. but i have made innumerable sketches, and it is growing all the time. there need be no fear of my losing it. i could no more lose it than i could lose my own soul. it grows as i grow. sometimes i think i should wait ten years--but i shall not. "yes, the critics like the picture of which you speak. of course i am painting all the time--other things--various things. but it all seems like practice work to me--a mere getting ready." and then, after a long time, this:--"this is my birthday;--a day linked more closely than i could ever tell with karl, our life and work and love. if i had looked forward from one happy birthday i had and seen what was ahead--how it would be with me now--i never could have gone on. we go on by not knowing what is waiting for us, and day by day we bear what we would have said, looking ahead, we never could endure--and that is human life. "i have been so lonely to-day that i must write this little word to one who will understand. i turn to you as one close to us in those dear days, one who cared for and appreciated karl, understood something of the kind of love that was ours. doctor--it was so wonderful! so wonderful that it seems to me sometimes the universe must have existed through the centuries just that our love might be born. i think of it as the one perfect flower of creation. "i want you to know that i have come to see the worth--pricelessness--of my memories. karl's love for me lights up my life with a glory nothing can ever take away. i think we do not have even our memories until we have earned them. i have tried to come back to my own, to take my place. i am trying to be of that great harmony of the world in which karl and i believed, and as my spirit turns from discord and seeks harmony, i am given my memories, the memories of those many perfect days, and i am never too lonely nor too desolate to thank god that to me was left the scent of the roses. "oh, doctor--where is he now? do you ever think of all that? no one who has ever loved and lost can remain secure in his materialism. i begin to see that the beautiful thoughts, the poems, of immortality, eternity, of its all coming right, have sprung from the lonely hearts of great lovers. for they would not have it any other way--they could only endure it by having it so, and, ah, doctor--far greater than any proof of science or logic, is there not proof in this? lifting up their hearts in hours of desolation were not the men and women born for great loves and great sorrows granted a vision of the truth? "we do not know. none of them know. we hope and wait and long for the years to tell us the truth. and while we wait and hope, we work, and try to make our lives that which is worthy our love. that endeavour, and that alone, makes life bearable." after a year of silence he received this letter: "doctor, it is finished. i will not tell you the things they are saying of it here, for you will read it in the papers. the papers here are full of it; i think i have never seen so much about any picture. "but it is more important that i tell you this: they are seeing it, even now, as i intended it should be seen--a work of love, a memorial, an endeavour to make it right for him. i have cared more for what the scientific people, karl's own kind, have said of it, than the artists. they claim it as their own, say they are going to have it, get it some way,--_must_ have it. do you not see how that means the fulfillment of my desire? "of course you know that it is a picture of karl. but the critics here call it less a portrait than the incarnation of an idea. light and truth sweeping in upon a human soul--one of them expressed it. but why try to tell you of that? when you see it you will understand what it is i have tried to do. and you shall see it soon. after it is exhibited here they want it in vienna, and i cannot refuse, for karl loved vienna, and then a short time in london, and then i come with it to america, and to chicago. i am bringing it home, doctor, for even though it find final resting place in that great temple of science in paris, i have the feeling, in taking it to chicago, that i am bringing it home. and the first day it is exhibited there i want you and me to go to it together, as karl would like that we should. "i am so tired that i do not believe i shall ever be quite rested again. for the last three months i lived with the picture, my heart and mind knew nothing else. but the day i finished it my strongest feeling was a regret that it was finished, a yearning to go on with it forever. for doctor, i painted my heart, my life, everything that i had within myself, everything i had taken from karl, into that picture. i am lonely now without it, for it made my life. "it has revived karl's whole story. they tell it here--oh so lovingly. i heard one man from the institute telling it all to a younger man as they stood before it yesterday. i have moved them to a new sense of karl's greatness; it has been my glorious privilege to perpetuate him, make sure his place, _reveal_ him--for that is what i have sought to do. was not life good to me to give me power to do that thing? "we shall be together in chicago very soon--you and karl and i. for as the days go on karl comes closer. i hope, most of all, that the picture will bring him very close to you." that was three months before, and to-day he had this note from her, dated chicago:--"yes, i am here, and the picture is here. the public exhibit does not open for a few days, but the picture will be hung this morning, and we may see it this afternoon. i shall be there at three, waiting for you." chapter xliii "and there was light" he spent the intervening hours restlessly; the hands of his watch moved slowly; his duties occupied only a small portion of his mind. he was at the institute at just three, and they directed him where to go. his heart was beating fast as he walked down the corridor. the hand which he laid upon the door-knob shook a little. he opened the door, and a woman came toward him with outstretched hand. it was ernestine--but the three years had done much. older--greater--a more steady flame--a more conscious power--grief transmuted to understanding--despair risen to resolution--she had gone a long way. he looked at her in silence--reading, understanding. it was all written there--the story of deep thinking and deeper loving, of battles and victories, and other battles yet to fight, the poise which attends the victor--yes, she had gone a long way. and as she spoke his name, and smiled a little, and then could not repress the tears which his presence, all that it meant, brought, he saw, shining through her tears, that light of love's own days. she turned and walked to the other side of the room, and he knew that she was taking him to the picture. she watched his face as he took it in, and she knew then that she had done her work. for a long time he said nothing, and when at last he turned to her, eyes dim, voice husky, it was only to say: "i can say--nothing. there are--no words." he turned back to the picture, she standing silent beside him, reading in his face that with each moment he was coming into more perfect understanding. for she had painted karl's face as it was just before he went into the silence. she had caught the look which illumined his face that day on his death bed when she told him what she had done. she had painted karl as he was in that moment of perfect understanding--the joy which was uplift, the knowledge which was glory. she had perpetuated in her picture the things which karl took with him from life. it was karl in the supreme moment of his life--the moment of revelation, transfiguration, the moment which lighted all the years. it was triumph which she had perpetuated in the picture. she was saying to the world--he did not achieve what he set out to achieve, but can you say he failed when he left the world with a soul like this? he saw that it was what she had done with light which made the picture, from the standpoint of her art, supreme. the critics said that no one had ever done just that thing with light before--painted light in just that spirit of loving and understanding it; less light, indeed, than light's significance. they said that no one before had painted the kind of light which could make a blind man see. for he was blind--the picture told that, but it seemed no one had ever had light quite as understandingly as he had it there. "you feel it, doctor?" she asked at last, timidly. "you see it all?" he nodded. it seemed so far beyond any word of his. but she wanted to talk to him about it. "you see what it has meant to me? why i loved it and lived for it? oh doctor--i wanted to show that he was greater than all the great things he sought to do! the night this picture came to me it set my blood on fire, and at no moment since, no matter how tired or lonely or discouraged--have i lost my love for it--belief in it. it seems so right. it seems to stand for so many things. they call it a masterpiece of light--and isn't it fine--great--right, that karl's portrait should be a masterpiece of light?" for a long time he was lost to it. it was as she said--right. to the blind man had come the light; to the man of science the light of truth, and to the human soul, about to set out on another journey, had come the perfect understanding of what had lighted the way for him here. when he turned to her at last she was looking at the picture with such love in her eyes as he had never seen. her lips were parted--tremulous; there were tears upon her cheeks; her whole face quivered with love and longing. he saw then, in that one glance before he turned away, that time and death held no sway over such a love as this. "i did not mean to," she faltered. "but i have not seen the picture myself for a long time, and your being here--" she broke down there, and he summoned no word with which to answer her sobs. "dr. parkman,"--raising a passionate face--"i want you to know that if this were the greatest picture the world had ever seen--if it were a thousand times greater than anything the world had ever known--i would throw it away--obliterate it--gladly--joyously--for just one touch of karl's hand!" "yes," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "and if you were not like that you never could have done it." "what it cost!"--he heard her whisper. "what it _cost_!" he told her that it had ever been so. that the great things were paid for like that. that so many of the things which had lived longest and gone deepest had come from broken hearts and souls tried almost beyond their power for suffering. he told her that the future would accept this, as it had the others, without knowing of its cost, that a myriad of broken hearts had gone into the sum of the world's achievement. in the half hour which followed, as they sat there, speaking sometimes of karl, more often silent, some things seemed to pass from the man's heart, other things to come. and as at the last he rose to go, for he felt she would like a little time alone, he said, and his face and his voice gave much which the words missed: "ernestine, you have done more than you know. for me too--you have made it right." she sat a long time before her picture, dreaming of karl. she whispered his name, and he seemed to answer with, "liebchen--brave liebchen--you have been good to me." to her too the hour brought new light. it came to her now that she had won a victory for them, not because she had painted a great picture, but because she had brought them back to that world harmony from which they seemed for a time to have gone. she had won, not through the greatness of her achievement, but through having made it right with her own soul. the picture itself was a thing of canvas and paint; it was the spirit out of which it grew--his spirit and hers--was the thing everlasting. she was sure that karl too knew now that it was having the spirit right which counted. the "perhaps" of his letter was surely answered for him now. and out of this closeness to the past there opened to her a little of her own future--things she would do. for she must work,--theirs a love which made for work. there was much more to paint, much to show how she and karl loved the world, what they held it worth,--and all of it to speak for their love, glorify, immortalise it. she dreamed deeply and tenderly--the past so real to her, karl, their love, so great. now she must go. to-morrow many others would come. artists would come to pronounce her work good, wonder how she had done this or that. doctors and the university men would come, proud to speak of karl, claim him as their own. but ah--who would understand the tears and heart's blood out of which it had come? who would know? who could? "karl," she murmured at the last--eyes dim with loving tears--"dear karl,"--dwelling with a long tenderness upon the name--"did i indeed bring you the light?" in the land of the great snow bear a tale of love and heroism by gordon stables illustrations by gordon browne published by sunday school union, old bailey, london. in the land of the great snow bear, by gordon stables. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ in the land of the great snow bear, by gordon stables. chapter one. dunallan towers. even in the days of his boyhood--i had almost said infancy--there seems to have been much in the character and habits of claude alwyn that is unusual in children so young. some people tell us that the qualities of mind, developed by the individual, depend entirely on the nature of his associates and associations in early youth. i am not prepared to deny that there is a great deal of truth in this statement. but the facts therein do not account for everything, for individuality is stamped on a child from his very birth, and the power for good or for evil of the accidental association of after life may mould in a great measure, but cannot alter this. "many men many minds." a true though trite old saying is that, and there were, no doubt, a great many different opinions concerning young claude among those who dwelt in, or were in the habit of visiting at, dunallan towers. from an old journal or diary, which has been handed to me by its writer, with full permission to make whatever use i choose of it, i have gleaned much information bearing on the boy's character and peculiarities. dunallan towers, now so gloomy and desolate, was once the happiest and the homeliest, and at the same time the gayest and brightest of all the many beautiful mansions that grace the banks of the winding nith. this was shortly after the marriage of lord alwyn to the only daughter of an english baronet. there were those, however, about the country-side who did not hesitate to say that alwyn might have been content to take for himself a bride from among the many fair and high-born dames of the shire in which he lived. "the goshawk should never mate wi' the ringdove," said one stern old scottish lady, "nor the owl perch low in the nightingale's bower. our cauld highland hills will hardly suit the dainty limbs of alwyn's bonnie english bride. our wild forests are no' like scented southern groves, and the roaring nith is no' the placid thames. a'thing will be strange to her, everything foreign, wild, and queer. she'll no' stay lang. you'll see! you'll see! you'll see." but if this proud and ancient dame really meant to give herself out as a prophetess, she proved to be a false one; only, to her credit be it said, she was the very first to call on the lady of the towers, as people named the bride of lord alwyn--the first to call, and the first to become one of her best and firmest friends. as a bachelor hall, the towers had been somewhat of a failure; all that was altered after alwyn brought home his young wife--she looked so young, and in years, indeed, was little more than a girl. but her easy, pleasant manner captivated every one; and, whether it were winter, with the snow on lawns and park, and ice on the river's edge, or summer, with the roses all in bloom, and the wind sighing softly through the birch-clad glens, bright and happy faces never failed to encircle the dinner-table of our winsome lady of the towers. there was great rejoicing throughout all the parish on the birth of lord alwyn's heir. village bells were rung, and a huge bonfire was lighted on the very top of the highest hill: a bonfire that could be seen from house and hut for leagues and leagues around. the bonfire was kept burning all night long. meanwhile the village lads and lasses had assembled in a barn gaily bedecked with evergreens and flowers of every hue, and had made quite a ball-room of it. so the fire burned all the livelong night, and as long as the fire burned, the lads and lasses danced, till at last the grey dawn of a summer morning made fire and dancing both seem out of place. but alwyn's heir did not cease to be a wonder and a subject for talk for the traditional nine days at least, during which time there was not a living soul in or about dunallan towers who had not been honoured with a peep at his little full moon of a face. his nurse was so proud of her charge that she had even brought him as far as the top of the great hall-stair for peter, the cow-boy, to have just one glimpse at. peter--the diary informs me--had left his boots on the mat; and when he reached the stair-top, and the snowy-white wraps were down-folded from the child's face, the good-hearted cow-boy, thinking he was in duty bound to say something very complimentary in return for the high honour bestowed upon him, lifted both hands and eyes ceiling-wards, and ejaculated-- "my goodness! what a bonnie, bonnie bairn! i never saw the like o' that before in a' my born days!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i pause for a moment here, reader, and raise my head from the table at which i have been writing with the diary mentioned lying open before me. i look up because some one has just glided silently into the room. it is janet--janet who wrote the diary; janet who had been claude's nurse. she is very old now, her hair is as white as wreaths of drifted snow, but her face is still pleasant, and her eyes are bright, nor has the weight of years succeeded in bending her form. she stands by my side, erect. she places one hand--how thin it is!--on the pages of the journal. "you will not find everything there," she says, "about my dear boy claude." "sit down, janet," i say to her kindly. "i like to have you near me. take the book on your lap. read to me, or talk to me, or do both; i shall listen and presently i shall write." the apartment in which i am seated is what is called the red parlour of dunallan towers. it is in one of the many gables of the old mansion that abuts upon a green lawn, or brae, sloping somewhat steeply down to the river's bank. it is a lovely evening in early autumn. behind the purple hills in the west yonder, the sun has just set in a golden haze, and high up in the sky's blue there are a few feather-like clouds of brightest crimson. by-and-by these will change to grey, then shadows of night will creep up from glen and dell, the rooks will cease to caw, and we shall hear only the murmur of the river over its pebbly bed, and the wind moaning through the topmost branches and the crisp leaves of those tall swaying trees. janet's voice falls upon my ear in sad but pleasant monotone. it is like the voice of one chanting some old-world ballad. i do not think her eyes are turned on me as she speaks--mine are looking outwards into the twilight; and she is gazing back, as it were, to the far-distant past. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ why, it is dark! janet must have been talking for hours and hours, and has glided away as silently as she came. i awake from the reverie into which i had fallen and step out through the casement. how fresh the air is! how pleasant the wind's soft whisper and the river's song! the stars are out, and the round yellow moon is struggling up through a bank of clouds on the horizon. now and then a bat flits past; now and then an owl hoots mournfully from some turret or chimney, round which the darkling ivy creeps. not a light in any window. silence broods over dunallan towers. "the harp that once thro' tara's halls the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. "so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts that once beat high for praise now feel that pulse no more." the night air is keen. i re-enter the red parlour, close the casement, and light my reading-lamp. and now i write once more. no need for the journal's assistance any longer, though. every word that old janet said has sunk deep into my mind and rooted itself in my memory, and will never be effaced while i and time have any connection. chapter two. claude alwyn's boyhood. on the very day after the birth of alwyn's heir something strange occurred: a large flight of curious seagulls alighted in the park around dunallan towers. no one had ever remembered seeing such weird-looking birds there before, and janet had averred that their arrival betokened no good. she was not wrong, for that same night it came on to blow from the north, oh, such a fearful gale! many of the tallest and sturdiest trees were torn up by the roots, and even tossed about, and the towers shook and trembled as if the very earth were quaking. it was eerisome to hear, at the dark midnight hour, the shriek of frightened wild birds around the house, high above the fitful roaring of the wind. the nith, too, came down "in spate;" they could see its white flashing waters, nearly close up to the window of the red parlour in which i now am sitting at work. it brought along with it from the mountains, fallen trees, bushes, heather-clad turf, and boulders of solid rock, tons and tons in weight. all that night the storm raged, and though the wind went down about sunrise, the terrible rain still fell, and the river continued in raging spate. great was the damage done to the lower-lying lands seawards; huts and even houses were laid low, sheep and cattle were drowned and borne away, so great is the fury and strength of a highland river like the nith when it "comes down," as the people phrase it. but the sun shone forth at length, and the clouds went driving southwards, leaving lovely rifts of blue between them, and the rain ceased, and the poor people of the glens came forth to view the work of devastation and to mourn their losses. one of these, while walking in the park and not far from the mansion house, found, crouching under the gnarled root of an old tree, and gazing up at him with its bright crimson eye, or rather first with one eye then with the other, a snow-white gull of most graceful form. [note .] he caught it--one wing was injured--and brought it round to the kitchen, where it was much admired and tenderly cared for. in little over a week it seemed as well and strong as it must have been before the storm. yet it was in no hurry to leave. it stayed on and on and on, and became as tame as a dove, and most affectionate to all it knew. but to janet in particular it attached itself. one day it followed her into the room where alwyn's heir lay in his little crib. janet showed him the bird. he smiled and stretched out his arms with a fond cry, and next moment the snow-bird was nestling quietly on his breast. there was no keeping the gull out of claude's room after this, so it came to be called "baby's bird." when claude alwyn was about three years of age, an event happened down the glen that cast that gloom on dunallan towers that never yet has left it: lord alwyn was thrown from his horse and killed on the spot. her ladyship left the glen after this, and went south, and claude, childlike, would insist on taking his pet along with him. years flew by, summers passed and winters passed, but smoke was hardly ever seen to hover over the towers. then one day the old steward came down to the village all a-quiver with excitement. he wanted tradesmen of all kinds to come forthwith to the mansion house. lady alwyn and young claude--now grown a great lad, the steward felt sure of this--were to return in less than a month. smoke enough now began to curl high over turret and tree; even the rooks seemed to feel the importance of the coming occasion, and positively crowed themselves hoarse. at the appointed time the family carriage, a very stately and gigantic kind of a concern, rattled up the long avenue through the park, and soon after the widow of lord alwyn was once more lady of the towers. she was greatly altered. though still young and youthful in appearance, sorrow had stamped itself on her brow and saddened her eye. it was said that she seldom smiled. but she was even kinder to the poor of the district than she had been in the days of yore, and, wet day or dry day, she was never missed from the pew in church of a sunday. and beside her always sat a sturdy bright-faced boy of about thirteen, with blue eyes, and short irrepressible locks of soft fair hair, that nothing on earth except scissors could have kept from tumbling over his brow. he was always dressed in the highland garb as highland lads ought to be, but his jacket was of black velvet and his kilt of the sombrest coloured tartan. he was the favourite of every one on the estate, and so was his bird. wherever young claude--he was seldom called lord claude, because he did not like to be--wherever he went his snow-bird went as well. and claude was quite as fond of his pet as his pet was of him, and that was the secret of his success in taming this wild and strangely beautiful creature. only those who have seen the snow-bird in its own country, sailing around great icebergs or glittering glaciers, its plumage rivalling the snow in the purity of its whiteness, its shape more graceful than that of a swallow, can have any idea of the extreme loveliness of the creature. no wonder that the humble people of the glens, deeply imbued as they were with that superstition peculiar to the highland peasantry, often looked upon young claude and his matchless bird with something akin to awe. "it is his good angel and nothing else," one old crone used to remark, "his good angel, heaven bless the bonnie boy." yes, and a bonnie boy he looked at all times. had you seen him standing, alpenstock in hand, dressed in highland garb, on the brow of a hill, well defined against the sky, up to which his face was turned, and in which the snow-bird kept sailing and sailing, following every motion of claude's upstretched, waving arm, you could not have helped admiring him. claude spent much of his time fishing or shooting, but more particularly the former. little he recked if the fish did not bite. he would then throw himself on his back among the ferns and flowers on the banks of the stream and pull out his "burns" or his "scott." meanwhile the snow-bird would perch upon a mossy boulder, or water-washed stone, and watch for the tiny troutlets, which sought for shelter and sunshine in the shallower water. young lord though he was, claude was a "people's boy." it would be an exaggeration of speech to say that any of the villagers would have died for him; but it is true that claude brightened every doorstep he crossed. and this too, all and only, by means of his own handsome face, sunny smile, and kindly words. not that he did not bring the poor folks gifts, for he was often sent on errands of mercy by his mother, and he brought them also of his own accord many a goodly string of trout. in a wild country like that in which our young hero dwelt and wandered, there are many dangers to life and limb, and claude did not always escape quite scot-free. but when, on rushing down a lofty hillside once, he missed his foothold and fell over a crag full fifty feet high, he did not lose his presence of mind, but simply jumped up from the soft turf on which he had alighted, as if on a feather bed, and looked around for his bonnet, which he never saw again. the old shepherd who witnessed the involuntary exploit, told of it all over the parish, and the wise women alleged it was the bird that had saved him. when claude's gun burst in his hand and he escaped without a scratch, that too was in some way owing to the bird's protecting care. when a branch on which he was leaning snapped beneath his weight and precipitated claude into the roaring, foaming torrent beneath, where any one save a webb would have been drowned, and when bleeding and cut he safely scrambled out, who but the bird, averred the wise old women, helped him out? claude rather encouraged than otherwise the belief in the supernatural powers of this wonderful snow-bird of his. rather mischievous of him, it must be confessed, but then he was only a boy. "my bird tells me i must do this or that," he would often say; or, "i must consult my bird on that subject." then he would pretend to hold communication with it, and the creature looked as though it understood every word he said. during the winter, claude used to be at a distant school. then his bird stayed at the towers; but, although it suffered itself to be fed and petted by lady alwyn and by janet, it did little else but mope until spring returned, and with it claude. the library at dunallan towers was a very large one, and claude had the choosing of his own summer reading after forenoon lessons were over, and the books he took with him afield were always those of adventure, or some of the poets. it was often remarked that he never invited any of his tutors to accompany him in his rambles--only the bird. "mother," said claude one evening, "i'm going to be a sailor." "dear boy," replied his mother, "what has put such a notion in your head?" "my bird, perhaps, mother," said the boy, smiling. "no, claude, but those books you pore over. dear boy, hardly half of what you read bears any resemblance to the truth." "oh, mother," cried the boy, "if only one _half_ is true i must go and see that half i'm a good sailor already; you know how i enjoyed that voyage down the mediterranean. i dream of all i saw even till this day. mother, i must go to sea. "mother," he said again, after a long pause, during which lady alwyn was musing, and very sad and gloomy were her thoughts--"mother, do you know where my bird came from?" "it came from the wild mysterious region around the pole." "yes, i have been reading about that too, reading about it until i seem to have spent years and years of my life in the country. i have but to shut my eyes, any time i wish, and such pictures rise up before me as few but sailors ever see the reality of." young claude placed one hand across his eyes as he spoke. "here it is again, mother, a vast and lonely trackless waste of snow; great glaciers, against whose sides mountain waves for ever dash and foam; icebergs whose pinnacled heads taper upwards into a sky of cloudless blue. fields of ice on which white bears roam; dark, inky seas where the walrus plays and tumbles, and through which the solitude-loving narwhal pursues his finny prey; and crystalline caves where sea-bears roar. but the scene is changed: it is night--the long, long, polar night. oh, how bright and beautiful the aurora, with its ever-changing tints of crimson, green, and blue; and the stars, how near they seem; and the silence, how deep, how awful! but see, a storm is coming across the pack, and clouds are banking up and hiding the glorious aurora; now it is on us, and higher than the stars rise the clouds of whirling, drifting snow. hark! how the wind howls! there is danger on its wings; there is--" "stop, boy, stop?" cried lady alwyn, laying her hand on his arm. "speak not thus; you frighten me." there were tears in her eyes. claude made haste to soothe her. "dear mother, forgive me!" he cried. "i am so thoughtless; but i will not transgress so again. forgive and forget it." "you are all i have on earth to care for," she said, drawing him gently towards her; "but, claude, your happiness has always been, and ever will be, my first, my chief care. yes, i will forgive your heedless words. you did not mean to hurt me; but, claude,"--here she smiled, but it was a very sad smile--"i will not quite forget them. you love the sea." lady alwyn retired early to her room that evening, but it was long past midnight ere she slept. her last thoughts ere slumber sealed her eyelids were these-- "and so my boy, even my boy, will be taken away from me. he will be a sailor; it is his bent, and why should i do aught that would mar his happiness? heaven give me strength to bear my every trial here below, nor forget that on earth i have `no continuing city.'" lady alwyn was rich, though not surpassingly so. she could afford her boy a yacht, in which he made many a cruise as owner--not as master-- round the british islands and as far north as the shetlands; indeed more than once they ventured over to norway. and so claude grew up a sailor, so to speak. the smaller yacht gave place to a larger, and still a larger; and in a few years, when young lord alwyn had reached his twentieth year, he commanded, as well as owned, his ship himself. about this time an event occurred that in a great measure altered the old tenor of claude's life, and that of his mother too, and on this event our story hinges. in none of his cruises did his snow-bird accompany its master. lady alwyn was glad of this. "so long," she thought, "as the bird stays with me, my boy will return safely from sea." it will be seen that even lady alwyn was slightly superstitious. and claude's cruises were ever northwards. he had been several times to iceland itself, and one day he meant to make a far longer and much more adventurous voyage. in the words of the old norse song, it appeared as though-- "nought around howe'er so bright could win his stay or stop his flight from where he saw the pole-star's light shine o'er the north." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . probably the arctic tern or snow-bird, which is hardly ever seen below the latitude of iceland. chapter three. among iceland wilds. it was early morning. so early, indeed, that although it was sweet summer-time--and summer can he as sweet in iceland as in any other part of the world--the birds had hardly yet uttered a note. only the robin shook the dew from his wings [the american, not the english robin], and uttered a peevish twitter; and far away up among those wild hills, with their strange jagged peaks, you might have heard an occasional plaintive whistle or scream, the cry of the golden plover. yet, early though it was, though the stars had not yet all fled from the west, sea-fowl were gracefully circling round--the gull, the tern, and the thievish skua. there was no wind, not a breath, but the dew lay heavy on the moss, on the green heather and stunted shrubs, and draggled the snow-white plumes of the lovely cotton grass. the wild flowers had not yet opened their beautiful petals when poor claude alwyn opened his eyes. languidly, yet painfully, he raised himself on his elbow, and gazed dreamily around him. where was he? how had he come here? these were questions that he asked himself. what is that on a stone yonder? a snow-bird gazing at him with one beautiful eye, and seeming to pity him. a snow-bird? his snow-bird? "alba! alba!" he calls it; but the bird flies away. he was not at home, then, in bonnie scotland, by the green banks of the nith, as he had almost thought he was. no, no; for look, yonder is his horse at the foot of the cliff--dead. dead? surely not dead. he tries to crawl towards it. the movement gives him intense agony. he himself is wounded. and now he remembers all. how he left his yacht at reykjavik a week ago; how he had been travelling ever since in search of incident and adventure, making sketches, gathering wild flowers, and enjoying the scenery of this strange, weird island; and how he was belated the evening before, and fell headlong over a cliff. that was all, but a dreadful all. he closes his eyes again and tries to think. must he lie here and die? he shudders with cold and dread, starts up, and, despite the pain, staggers to his feet. he slowly passes the poor horse. yes, there is death in that glazed eye, death in the drooping neck and stiffened limbs. it takes claude nearly an hour to drag himself to a neighbouring knoll, for one limb is smashed, and he has lost blood. he throws himself down now, or rather he falls, and when next he becomes conscious the sun is shining down warm on him from a bright blue sky; birds are singing near, and the wild flowers are open and nodding to a gentle breeze. and yonder--oh, joy!--down there in the hollow, there is smoke curling up from an icelandic farm. he shouts till hoarse, but no one appears. wearily he leans back, and once again his eyes are closed, and he is back once more in his own room at dunallan towers. no pain now, for his sad-eyed but beautiful mother is bending over him, and soothing him. is it so? not quite. "jarl! jarl! wake, jarl, wake?" the jarl wakes. the jarl looks up. over him is bending a huge male figure, dressed in a long-sleeved waistcoat and lofty nightcap. pained though he is, claude cannot help thinking he is the ugliest man he ever saw. he is a giant in stature. he kneels beside young alwyn, and there is a kindness visible in his little grey eyes, as he strokes claude's face, just as if he had been a colt. byarnie, for such is this giant's name, soon finds out how matters stand, and gently he lifts claude in his arms and places him on his shoulder, and then marches off. preposterous and humorous thoughts will often pass through the mind, even when the body is in agony; and now, claude could not help recalling the story of jack the giant-killer, and fancied himself jack being carried away on the shoulders of blunderbore. but not to a castle with a lawn littered with skulls and bones was claude borne. he had probably fainted with pain, and when he again became sensible he was no longer on byarnie's back, but in a comfortable warm bed in an antique but well-furnished room, and being attended to by a couple of old dames, both dressed alike, in gowns of dark rustling silk, and elevated steeple-like skull-caps of white net. and both, too, were alike wrinkled and ugly. they had almost finished dressing his leg. "thou must not speak, dear; thou must lie still and sleep." good enough english, but spoken in a strange monotone--no rising or falling of the voice. in a few minutes the work was done, and poor claude found infinite relief. then they brought him coffee and milk, and made him drink, and a little dram of schnapps which he also had to swallow. they evidently thought him a child, and stroked his face as byarnie had done. one left the room, and the other took her seat beside the bed, and, still gently passing her hand downwards over claude's face, began to "croon" over that beautiful english lullaby-- "hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, holy angels guard thy bed; countless blessings without number, gently falling on thy head." the voice was quavering, but the music was sweet. how soft the pillows felt--they were eider-down. how light the quilt--that also was of the same. under such circumstances it is little wonder that claude soon forgot everything and fell into a deep and childlike slumber. the scenes, it seemed to claude, were continually shifting. he did not _feel_ that he had slept, only that he had just closed his eyes and opened them again, when lo! the crones were gone, the sunlight was no longer shimmering in through the crimson and yellow flowers in the little window as he had last seen it. the room was lighted by a lofty lamp that stood on an ancient high-backed oaken piano, throwing a flood of light over all the apartment. a great grey cat was singing herself to sleep on the piano stool, a fire was burning on the low hearth--a fire of peat and wood, that looked very cheerful--and above the window, in a tiny wicker cage, hung a tiny and miserable-looking snow-flea. claude took all this in at a glance. but none of these things interested him. his eyes were riveted on the only figure now in the room. a beautiful young girl, almost spirit-like she looked. so thought claude. she stood leaning against the piano reading a tiny gilt-edged book. she was dressed in a long flowing robe of crimson adorned with snow-white fur. her fair hair floated free over her shoulders, and her sweet face seemed very sad as she read, all unconscious of claude's wondering gaze. but presently she became aware of it. a slight tint of crimson suffused her face, but next moment she advanced boldly towards the bed, and laid her hand--such a tiny hand--on his brow. claude would have spoken, but she lifted a finger and beckoned him to lie silent. lie silent? yes. claude would not have disobeyed the behests of so sweet a nurse whatever they might have been. there was food to be partaken of; he took it. nauseous brown medicine also; he quaffed it. presently, however, there was a change of nurses. one of the droll old ladies came back, and remained an hour. claude thought it ten, and felt in the third heaven when his young nurse again returned. she seated herself at a little table facing claude, and without even knocking at the door, byarnie the giant stepped in, and placed a zither in front of her. it was a strange household, but, altogether, iceland is a strange place. she was going to play to soothe her patient. and sweetly she played too. old-world airs, but how delicate the touch, how tasteful the fingering. and now she sings. "_who_," thought claude, "can have taught her that wild sad song? can a girl so young as she have loved and lost?" "she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, and lovers around her are sighing; but coldly she turns to his grave and weeps, for her heart with her hero is lying." but claude's sorrow was to come. inflammation was succeeded by high fever, and for days he lay in a state of delirium--dreamful, racking, burning delirium. then came peace and calmness. chapter four. idyllic life in iceland. iceland! land of flowers and sunshine? ah no; but iceland! land of storms; land of the thunder-cloud; land of lordly hills, whose strange, jagged peaks pierce the clouds by day, and at night seem to nod to stars or moon; land of rugged shores, around which for ever toss and roll the arctic billows; land of glorious sunsets; land of the aurora; land of romance too, a romance of the olden time, for do not ancient vikings slumber on its shores in their wave-rocked graves? iceland! land of peace and innocence? yes. iceland! land of love? yes, land of love-- of love as pure and true, if not so passionate, as ever budded and bloomed beneath the sunny skies of fair italia. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was the evening of the eighth day since poor claude's accident. the fever had all gone and left him. he lay there pale and weak and thin, as quiet and as obedient as a child. it was very still in that ancient room; the purring of the great grey cat seemed very loud, so did the gentle twitter of the snow-flea in his wee wicker cage, and when an old raven, perched on a stool near the fire, rustled his feathers, the noise sounded harsh and startling. it was near sunset, for the window was in the west, and the sun shimmered in through the red and green and yellow of the flowers. "dear nursie, what is your name?" the words appeared to fall unconsciously from the lips of our stricken hero. in his fever dreams, he just dimly remembered hearing it, but he was not quite certain. anyhow, he wished to hear it from the girl herself. "dear nursie, what is your name?" "my name is meta?"--this from the maiden, with a blush and a smile. there was a pause. he would have liked her to have asked, "and what is yours?" but she did not. she only sat silently there, with the book on her lap, as she had been sitting for the last half-hour. "mine is claude," he said at last. "may i call you meta?" "ye-es," with modest hesitation. "do call me claude?" "claude," said the girl, advancing towards him with a very serious countenance, and laying a tiny hand on his pulse, "i think you are going to die. oh! i trust not. but there is a strange glitter in your eyes to-night--a look i like not, and your pulse flickers feebly. i will call aunt." she was hurrying away. "meta!" she came back. "meta, i will not die if--" he paused hesitatingly. "if what?" "if you--if you will stay and nurse me." "i will; but now sleep. you are very weak, and, see, twilight is creeping up from the fiord. close your eyes, and i will play to you." "meta," said claude next day. "yes, claude." claude felt happy to be called claude. remember, he was very weak and ill, and in this condition even men grow childish. "tell me something about yourself. you were not always in this island. you even talk sweetly beautiful english." "i am norwegian. my father was a sailor, the captain of a barque. he always took mother and me everywhere. we were all he had. thus i learned english. we often traded to reykjavik. my two aunts used to live there." "yes, meta; and your parents?" "alas! we were wrecked on this wild coast; both were drowned. my dear mother lies buried in the little graveyard yonder. my poor father was-- never--found." her face was hurriedly buried in her hands, and tears welled through her fingers. tears filled claude's eyes too, but he spoke not. he knew well how sacred grief and tears like hers are. but soon she lifted her tearful face. "they are both in heaven, claude," she said. claude hastened, with good tact, to change the subject. when he told her of his father's sad death and of his mother's perpetual sorrow, then even meta felt that something had suddenly grown up in their hearts to draw them together in friendship. we will be brother and sister, she thought; but, alas! he will go, and i shall see him never more again. after this, though meta still played, sung, and read to her patient as before, patient and nurse talked more together. meta told claude of her early life, and claude exchanged confidences. "i would dearly like to see your great lady mother," said meta one day, about two weeks after their first earnest conversation. "you may one day," said claude, thoughtfully. "what? she may come here?--here in your ship? is she very, _very_ proud? she might not deign to speak to a sailor's daughter," she added. "oh yes, dear meta," exclaimed claude, with enthusiasm; "she would speak to you. she would thank you--she would bless you for having saved the life of her only son." "my aunts did that; not i," said innocent meta. "no, meta, no; but you, and you alone, saved my worthless life-- worthless to all but my mother." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ there is a joy in returning health and strength that only those who have been really and dangerously ill can understand. it was still the sweet summer time when claude was able to go out once more. very feebly went be at first, but in the keen, fresh, mountain air, vigour came fast. he was soon able to take long rambles, then longer rides. how delightful these rides were; how glorious, but sometimes how terrible and awesome, was the scenery! they rode on ponies, meta and claude, while the great, unwieldy byarnie trotted along by their side, or ran on ahead; for often there were rivers to ford, and gorges to descend, without e'er a path except that found, extempore, by this honest, but ghoul-like groom. many and many a day after, when imprisoned in the icy north without hope of deliverance, except through the valley of death, did claude alwyn look back with joy and pleasure to these excursions. he remembered every feature of the scenery--the frowning cliffs, the towering mountains, the broad, shallow rivers, the deep ravines and glens, the cliffs and rocks, the great boulders that seemed about to topple over and hurry them to destruction, the wild birds, the green, green sward, the beautiful mosses, and the still more lovely wild flowers. but, above all, he remembered the innocent, childlike face of meta, that used to look into his so trustingly as she called him "brother claude." sometimes they would seat themselves together by the banks of a stream where byarnie would be fishing, and meta would tell her brother such wondrous tales--mostly icelandic and norse fairy stories, about which there is so great a charm. claude loved to hear her talk; there was such an earnestness about her while she related tales of folk-lore, as if she really believed them all herself. but when she came to speak of the ancient vikings, and their deeds of valour and prowess, then the maiden's eyes sparkled, and there came a brighter glow in her cheeks, that told of a bold heart that beat within her breast, a heart that could not only love but _dare_. so weeks sped on, so even months passed by, and surely paul and virginia led no more idyllic life than did claude and meta during this time. they sat near a geyser one lovely day in july. there was no great eruption that day, no startling and awful upthrow of boiling water, only now and then a bubbling, rumbling sound, which made a rude bass to the song of the birds that hovered near. giant byarnie had boiled some eggs in a spring. byarnie always provided luncheon for the party of one kind or another. he had placed the eggs in the sun, and had gone away to a distance to milk a cow. i am really afraid that byarnie was not particular whose cow it was. cows are often public property in iceland. anyhow he found a cow, two of them for that matter, so he went to pull some of the sweetest grass to lay before one to keep her quiet while he filled his pannikin. meanwhile meta and brother claude sat on a bank near the spring. the sunshine was very soft and warm, and the air was filled with the odour of wild thyme. meta was silent and sad, for to-morrow claude was going away--never, never, she thought to return again. she could not speak much. very little would have made her cry, and she felt determined not to do that. claude was silent also. and byarnie, away down in the valley yonder, went on milking his cow--or rather somebody else's cow--and singing in norse to himself. presently claude put out his hand and took that of meta. it was very cold. "dear sister meta," he said. she felt she wanted to cry more than ever now. "i am going away to-morrow--south to my mother, dear; south to my own bonnie land. i am going away--" oh, how the tears rained now! there was no keeping them back. she threw herself on the grass and sobbed as if her heart would really burst. claude could say nothing for a moment or two. "meta! meta!" he cried at last, "look up--speak to me. listen, dear; i am going south to tell my mother i will never many any one except you, dear meta. do not speak; i know you love me as i love you. i will not be long away. you will long for my return, even as my dear mother is longing now. my mother will be your mother, meta; my home and country will be yours." meta was smiling now through her tears. what more was said, if anything, may never be known, but when byarnie came floundering back with his pannikin of milk, he found his mistress and master, as he called them, both happy and gay, and wondered at this very much, because he had left them both sad and quiet. a little norse maiden knelt in prayer that night beside her dimity-curtained bed, and thanked the kind father for the hope and joy of pure love, the hope that as she had a mother in heaven, she yet might have one on earth as well. and claude's yacht spread her wings to the breeze, and south and south she flew. past the westmann isles, past lonely stramoe, past the rugged faroes, past the shetlands, past the hebrides themselves. and now claude slackens sail his men notice that he is no longer so buoyant and happy. he treads the deck with a quicker step, as if to keep time with those thoughts. "oh?" he was saying to himself, "what will mother say? how will mother take it? how will the proud lady alwyn look, when i tell her i am betrothed to a simple iceland maiden?" chapter five. "will he never come again?" not since the bright old days before the death of claude's father had dunallan towers looked so cheerful as it did the week before the arrival of the wanderer himself in glasgow waters. "i believe my boy will come to-day," lady alwyn would remark to her maid. "something tells me, too, he won't be long," janet would reply; "and do you know, my lady, that alba seems to know it also? he cried, `claude! claude! claude!' last night quite distinctly in his sleep, and the sound thrilled every nerve in my body. oh! i hope nothing has happened to him, my lady." "hush! hush!" replied her ladyship; "you are superstitious, janet; but you mustn't try to make me so." even as they spoke there came a patter of tiny feet along the passage, like the rattle of hail on a summer-house roof, and the next moment alba himself appeared. he flew up, and on to the back of a quaint old chair, and gazed first at janet and then at her mistress with his garnet eyes. lady alwyn smoothed the graceful creature, and it bent low on its perch, as if enjoying the gentle caress. "do you not notice," said the lady, "how white and snowy its plumage has become of late? it is always thus before my boy arrives." "dear lady alwyn, i did not like to tell you before; but all the three days you were at dumfries alba was lost, and i never thought to see him again. he was whiter when he came back than the snows on the mountains." "how strange!" said lady alwyn, meditatively. "claude, claude!" cried alba. there is nothing strange in hearing a seagull talking, and alba's vocabulary was not a small one. lady alwyn held out her hand; the bird perched on it, and presently was nestling fondly on her breast. this did not altogether please fingal, claude's favourite deerhound. he must needs get up from the skin on which he had been reclining, and lean his noble head on the lady's lap. and she could spare a hand to fondle the head. yes, everything was bright and pleasant. what though the early winter winds were raving through the leafless trees without, where swayed the rooks near their cheerless nests? what though the blasts were biting and cold in the uplands, and the nith--brown and swollen--roared angrily over its rocky bed? bright fires burned in every grate, and were reflected in patches of crimson from the massive mahogany furniture. and lady alwyn's face was cheerful too. resigned and calm though she always appeared, to-day there was a sparkle in her eyes, that made her look almost young. rat-tat! it was a double knock at the front hall door which resounded through all the house. lady alwyn started from her seat, and stood eager and expectant. she even went to meet the liveried servant, who presently entered with the telegram. "yes, yes!" she joyfully exclaimed in answer to janet's inquiring look. "my boy is coming to-day. i knew he would be. alba, your master is coming." she embraced the bird again. fingal, sure that something more than usual was on the _tapis_, began to scamper round the room, jumping over the chairs--a way he had when excited. he jumped all round the room twice, then he playfully snatched the telegram from lady alwyn's hand and went jumping round again with that. how much or how little of the truth fingal guessed i cannot pretend to say. it was but a telegram. had it been a _letter_ written by his loved master's hand, fingal would have known it, even had the wanderer been years away. so when claude stepped briskly out of the train at the little station of p--, there, sure enough, was the great stately old carriage, with its two splendid dark bays, in their silvered harness, waiting to receive him. his mother was not there; but fingal was, and almost pulled his master down in the exuberance of his joy. it was a long five-mile drive from the station to dunallan. charming enough, in all conscience, during the spring and summer months, and even when autumn tints were on the trees, but cold-looking and dreary now. all the more so that night was coming on apace, the little of lurid light which the sun had left in the west getting quickly absorbed in the heavy banks of rising cloud. claude's spirits fell lower now than they had yet fallen. there was something even in the sombre grandeur of the family carriage that brought dark clouds around his heart. not one thought except those of love for the fair and innocent maiden far away mingled with these. but his mother? his proud, good, gentle mother? how would the lady alwyn, the lady of the towers, herself of ancient family, like the idea of her only son marrying a poor iceland orphan unblessed with a pedigree? and he--a lord--lord alwyn! yes, lord alwyn. he could not deny it, though he hated the title, hated it now more than ever for the sake of meta. there was some relief from his present gloom and doubts and fears in placing his arm round great fingal--seated so lovingly by his side,--and breathing into his ears the strange story of his love. fingal could listen and sympathise, even if he did not know one whit what it was all about. fingal was a wise old dog, so he wisely held his peace, and offered no advice on the matter either way. he gave his master one lick on the cheek, however, as much as to say-- "whatever you think, dear master, must be right, and whatever you do can't be wrong in my eyes, so there?" mother and son had much to talk of that night. lady alwyn's life since the _alba_, her son's ship, bore away for the far north, had been uneventful enough; but _he_ had had adventures numerous indeed-- although, mind you, he did not speak of them as such. hardly ever is a rover off the stage heard making use of the word "adventures." modesty is one of the leading characteristics of your true hero. there were times on this first evening when claude would suddenly lapse into silence, almost into moodiness. he might be looking at his mother or not, but his mind was evidently abstracted, preoccupied, and his eyes had a far-away look in them. this did not escape his mother's notice. "could he have any grief?" she thought. "could he be ill and not know it?" "you are sure," she said once, "my dear claude, that you have quite recovered from your terrible accident?" "what, mother? accident? oh yes; indeed i had almost forgotten." "and your nurses, your kindly nurses, claude: you must never forget them, dear." "i'm not likely to," he said, with on emphasis which she thought almost strange. "never while i live." he gazed into the fire. "would not this be the right time," he was thinking, "to tell her all: to tell her i had three nurses instead of only two?" but no; he dared not just yet. he would not run the risk of bringing a care to her now happy face. he thought himself thus justified in putting the evil day--if evil day it were to be--further off. claude was no coward, as i believe the sequel of my story will show, but still he dreaded--oh, how he dreaded!--the effect which the intelligence he was bound soon to give her would have upon her. claude slept but little that night, and slept but ill. more than once he started from some frightful dream, in which his mother was strangely mixed up, and not his mother only, but his meta. it was about five o'clock, though it would not be daylight for a long while yet. claude was lying partially asleep: i say partially, because he seemed listening to the wind roaring through the leafless boughs of the trees, and every now and then causing the twiglets to tap and creak against the panes; but he thought he was at sea, and that the rushing sound was the rushing of waves, the creaking the yielding of the ship's timbers to the force of the seas. suddenly he sprang half up in bed and listened intently, painfully. he had distinctly heard some one in the room calling him. he could not be mistaken, and the voice seemed meta's. "claude! claude!" cried the voice again, and his heart almost stood still for a moment as he saw a figure, which his imagination magnified a hundredfold, near the bed. "claude?" next moment alba, the snow-bird, alighted on his breast. he slept soundly soon after this, but still when he appeared at breakfast he was so jaded looking and restless as to cause his mother considerable anxiety. he stoutly refused to see a medical man, however. "it is nothing," he laughed. "nothing, dear mother, only slight fatigue. a sailor like myself thinks little of travelling a thousand miles by sea, yet dreads the rolling, jolting train." there was plenty to do and think about all day, well calculated to banish care. the villagers, the tenants, and neighbours all round were delighted to see the manly face and handsome figure of young claude alwyn once more among them, still accompanied by his pet--his spirit-bird, as the older cottagers had come to call it. then, although grouse were wild, there were hares in plenty, and fish in the river ready to be wooed by the gentle art of so true a fisherman as claude alwyn. and the walking exercise, through the heather hills, the fresh air, and the balmy breath of pine trees, never failed to refresh and invigorate him both in mind and body, so that he always returned to dinner buoyant and hopeful. but ever at the breakfast-table there was that weary look of carking care in his face. he would go no further, however, in explaining it than confessing he did not sleep very well at night. "it is the change," he remarked, smiling, "from a hard mattress to one far too soft and luxuriant for a sailor. besides, mother, i dare say i miss the motion of the ship." his mother only sighed softly. there came to claude one night a dream as vivid as any reality. he was back again in iceland. he was gazing on the face and form of her whom he loved, though she did not seem to see him. she was seated on a hill-top, a favourite spot, where beside her he had often sat, when the fields beneath were green, the far-off sea an azure blue, when wild birds sang above and around them, and the perfume of wild flowers filled the summer air. but snow was all over the landscape now, save where dark rocks jutted through the white, and the ocean, foam-flecked, dashed high over the beetling cliffs. yes, there sat meta, but oh! the sad, sad look in those beautiful eyes! she opened her lips and spoke at last. "no, no, no!" she murmured; "he will never come again." he thought he sprang towards her, but she faded away like the mist from a geyser, and he was alone on the snow. he slept no more that night. but he formed a resolve. "no," he said to himself, "i am not a man; not a drop of proud alwyn's blood runs through my veins if i hesitate longer. it is a duty i owe to my mother and to her to speak my mind. yes, meta, i will come back again." were i an artist, i should delight in painting only beauty and peace: the fairest, holiest faces should be transferred to my canvas; the most smiling summer landscapes, the sunniest seas. but, alas! i am but an author, and no pen-and-ink depiction of life would be complete without the shade and shadow of sorrow. i will not needlessly dwell on the interview that took place in the very room in which i am sitting writing now, between the proud lady alwyn and her son. indeed, the interview was brief in itself: i have thus some excuse for being brevity personified in my description. pass we over, then, claude's introduction, his passionate declaration of love for meta, his glowing panegyrics on her person and mind, and even the statement that only his regard for his mother and fear of hurting her feelings caused him to conceal the truth so long from her, and then we come to the _denouement_. "but, dearest mother, i now know and feel that your constant desire to do everything for my happiness will cause you to receive my meta when i bring her home as my bride." if she had been silent till now, it was because she seemed as if thunder-struck. "my boy," she cried at last, "you are bewitched, or i am dreaming some hideous dream. tell me it is all but an ill-timed joke. you are but a child--" "i am a man." "you have been deceived, put upon, tempted by a designing--" "hold, mother, hold! though the few words you have uttered sound like the death-knell to hopes i have fondly cherished, go no further: forget not yourself so far as to speak one word against my bride-elect, lest i forget i am your son." "my son? _my son_?" exclaimed the proud lady of the towers almost tragically. "oh! would i could forget it, or that your ship had sunk in the blackest depths of ocean, rather than you had lived to bring this disgrace on the noble house of alwyn." "enough, mother; i will hear no more. you have thwarted me in the dearest wish of my heart, you whose love for a son ought to have conquered family pride. you have thrust me from the halls of my ancestors. i go forth into the world of adventure. i will seek in ambition, in ceaseless change, the only possible balm for the sorrow i have in parting from you." he turned on his heel as he spoke. he strode down the hall and through the avenue; he looked neither to right nor left, and never once behind him. his mother watched him with clasped hands, with anxious eyes, and with prayers on her pale and quivering lips. "would he turn? surely, surely he would turn." but nay; the trees soon hid him from view--hid him, and lastly fingal, who with tail and head bent low, as if he knew that sorrow had come, followed at young claude's heels. "widowed and childless!" these were her words as she sank apparently lifeless on the floor. janet, her maid, found her thus and lifted her gently on to the couch. but when memory came back, no words her maid could utter could give comfort. "i forgive him, janet," she said, "as he will forgive me. it is fate. he _may_ write, but he'll _never_ return: too well do i know the pride of the highland alwyns. but, but, dear janet,"--here all the woman's nature gushed out in tears--"janet," she sobbed, "poor fingal--too-- has--gone." sorrow had fallen like a dark cloud on dunallan towers, a cloud that was deepened in its darkness when one morning alba, the snow-bird, was missing. it was last seen flying listlessly around the great elm trees, then straight as lightning bearing northwards. it was janet who saw it, and it seemed to say-- "i hear a voice you cannot hear, that bids me not to stay; i see a hand you cannot see, that beckons me away." chapter six. "grief is the parent of fame." claude was miles away from home ere he noticed faithful fingal trotting near him. his first thought was to order him back, but this poor dog, as if reading his mind, crouched low at his feet, looking beseechingly up. "_this_ is my home," he appeared to plead. claude's next thought was to _take_ him back; his mother might even ere now have relented. but that highland pride, which has been at once the glory and the curse of auld scotland, stepped in and forbade. young claude went on. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "grief," says one of england's greatest novelists--lord lytton--"is the parent of fame." this is so true! many and many a grief-stricken, sorrow-laden man and woman in this world would faint and fail and die, did they not fall back upon work to support them. this is the tonic that sustains tens of thousands of sorely stricken ones, until time, the great healer, has assuaged the floods of their sorrow. young though claude was--but little more than twenty-one--he had already obtained some fame in the fields of literature. he had been a rover, and to some extent an explorer--more especially among those wild and lonely islands in the norland ocean. nor had he been content to merely cruise around these, watching only the ever-changing hues of the ocean, or the play of sunshine and shade on bold bluff crags and terraced cliffs. no, for he was as much on shore as afloat, mingling among their peoples when peoples there were, mingling among the birds if they were the only inhabitants, studying flora, studying fauna, reading even the great book of the rocks, that told him so much, but never yet had caused him to waver in his belief in a supreme being, who made the sea and all that is in it, the land and all it contains. he was a sportsman and naturalist; in fact, "a man of the world," in the only true and dignified sense of the term. his was an original mind, and a deep-thinking one, so that the sketches of his life and travels which he had been in the habit of sending from time to time to the organs of higher-class literature were sure to be welcome both to editors and readers. he was, moreover, a student of norse lore, and a speculator in the theories--many of them vague enough--concerning the mysterious regions that lie around the arctic pole. and it was his writings on these countries that first brought him into real notoriety among a class of very worthy _savants_ who, though seldom too willing to venture into extreme danger themselves, are, to their credit be it said, never averse to spend money in fitting out ships of research. on the very day of his rejoining his vessel at glasgow, a letter was handed to him by his chief mate, inviting him to london on important business in connection with discovery in the arctic regions. two hours afterwards claude was seated in a flying train, whirling rapidly on towards the borders. in nine hours more he was in town. another half-hour brought him to a shipping office in leadenhall street. "you are captain lord alwyn?" said the grey-haired clerk, looking at him over the rims of a pair of golden spectacles. "the same, at your service," returned claude. "we did not expect you quite so soon. but if you did come, i was told to hand you this note." it was simply an invitation to dine with professor hodson and a few friends next evening at richmond. when claude got there, the first person to greet him when announced was the learned professor himself, and a very bustling, dignified little man he was. "ha! ha!" he laughed, as he shook claude warmly by the hand. "i couldn't have believed it. really, it is strange!" "believe what?" said claude, bluntly. "why, that you were so young a man. should have thought from your writings you must be forty if a day." it was claude's turn to laugh. "but there, never mind. authors are always taken to be older men than they are. no, i don't think that youth will be an insuperable objection. besides, youth has courage, youth has fire and health, to say nothing of a recuperative power of rising again even after being floored by a thousand misfortunes." "difficulties, i dare say," said claude, "were made to be overcome." "to be sure. well, then, having heard and read a good deal about your doings up north, we thought we would send for you, and instead of having a learned day discussion round a green baize-covered table, to invite you to join us at dinner--quite a quiet affair--and just to chat matters over." it must be confessed that poor claude did not feel altogether at home among those extremely learned men. the conversation was all about previous voyages of scientific discovery. had those gentlemen been more practical and less theoretical, claude would have been all with them; but it was evident from the way they spoke that not one of them had ever been on blue water, much less on the stormy seas of the far north. when, by way of encouraging him to talk more, in the course of the evening they asked claude's advice concerning the practicability of the plans they had in view, then young claude spoke out like a man of business and a sailor. cool and collected to a degree, boldly banishing all theories, he hung on to facts. he did not ignore dangers and difficulties; he did not despise them, but professed himself willing to meet them, without for a moment holding out any promise of ultimate success in the adventurous undertaking. how dared he, he said, expect to do more than abler and better and braver men who had gone on the same track before him? if he did presume to hope to even a little more, it was because he should have all their bygone experiences to help him. if they entrusted the command of an exploring ship to him, there was but one thing he could boldly promise, and that was to do his best. he said much more to the same effect, and even enlarged upon the necessary equipment, victualling, and armament of a ship of the kind they proposed sending out, and when he at length concluded-- "spoken like a man and a sailor," said the professor, and a murmur of assent passed round the table: the _savants_ retired to another room to consult. when they came back, professor hodson advanced and shook hands with claude. "we are unanimous in thinking, lord alwyn," he said, "that you are just the man we want. the vessel you are to command already lies in southampton waters. there are doubtless a thousand alterations to be made: these you, with your experience, will be able to see to. do not spare expense. draw upon us. we want you to feel that it will be no fault of ours if the expedition be not crowned with success; and i have the support of my colleagues in adding that we sincerely believe it will be no fault of yours. other details," added the bold professor, "can be gone into whenever you please." it was a quiet little hotel that claude occupied that night, but one which he meant to make his home while in london. and why? smile if you like, reader, but the reason is this: the landlord did not object to the presence of noble fingal in his house. claude sat long in his sitting-room before retiring. the state of his feelings may be more easily imagined than described. his mind was by turns here, there, everywhere--back in his boyhood's home, afloat on the sea, with his mother at dunallan towers, then away in the far north with meta. his mind reverted to the past, and went forward again to the future. he was sad and hopeful by turns. but he had crossed the rubicon; he could not now draw back from anything he had done or promised to do. before he retired, he knelt and asked guidance from him in whose hands are all our ways, and he slept more soundly that night than he had done for weeks. chapter seven. a pleasure sail. "oh, mamma, i do hope the weather will be fine!" said pretty miss hodson. "well, my dear clara, isn't it fine? why, a more delightful day could not well be imagined." "yes, now, mamma; but i mean all along on this adventuresome voyage that we are about to take." "don't you bother your little head, my mouse," said her father, fondling one of her little hands in his. "i know enough about the weather to give a forecast a week beforehand, and a good deal about the sea, too, though i confess i've never been on it much. ahem!" the speakers were seated in a cab that was rattling along the quay of aberdeen on a lovely morning in april. there were monster boxes on top, another cab filled with luggage only came up behind, and still another containing three gentlemen. very distinguished men these were, indeed, though oddly ill-matched in appearance. number , let me call him, was a true type of a middle-aged john bull--tall, whiskered, stout, strong, yet calm and thoughtful withal. number might have been a boston editor or an edinburgh genius of the old school. he was medium in height, lanky rather, high in cheek-bone, deep in eye. he wore no beard, but had a bushy moustache and very long grey hair. number was evidently a fat frenchman, rotund to a degree, black as to hair, which was cropped as short as a convict's, and moustache, but _so_ fat! you could best describe his outline by letters, thus--take a big o and a little o and two letters l. now stick the little o on the top of the big o and you have his head and body. then clap on the two l's to represent his legs, and you have his lines complete. he was so stout that when he stuck out his little white hands, with their palms upwards, as frenchmen have a habit of doing in argument, the finger-tips did not project an inch beyond him in front. but number was no less an individual than sir thomas merino; number was the baron de bamber; and number , count koskowiskey himself. the little boys in aberdeen had never before seen such a strange procession of cabs, nor such a strange crew inside, so that they felt constrained to run alongside and wave their ragged bonnets and shout themselves hoarse. the _savants_, for such they were, thought to purchase peace with a shower of coppers. this only increased the crowd, and no beggars in cairo ever yelled for backsheesh as did those boys for "bawbees." but things do not last for ever, and at length the cabs drew up, one by one, at a gangway that stretched from the shore to the quarter-deck of the good ship _icebear_. the gangway was covered with scarlet cloth, a neatly dressed sailor stood at each side of the shore end to steady it, and captain claude alwyn stood at the other ready to receive his guests. he looked very handsome did our claude, in his peaked cap, reefing-jacket of simple blue, and gilt buttons. he doffed his cap as he handed the ladies on board, and was rewarded by a smile from mrs hodson, and a blushet--let me coin a word--from clara, her daughter. now, it was evident that professor hodson was the head of the party; for no sooner had every one of them taken a good look round the gallant ship than he remarked, "now, gentlemen, what do you say--shall we have an early dinner and then sail, or sail first and have a more comfortable one out at sea! i propose the latter plan." "professor," said his wife, sternly, "i propose the former; and ladies, i think, should carry the sway." "they generally do," sighed the professor, who looked subdued and henpecked, as distinguished _savants_ are apt to be. "your proposal is best, madam," put in claude, smiling. "it is best to have it over. you can sup afterwards; that is," he added mysteriously, "if any of you will care to." "oh, we shall all sup," said the professor. "the ocean always gives me an appetite." (n.b.--he had been three times from london to ramsgate by steamer.) "most sartainlee, capitaine," said the french _savant_. to have seen the way the gentlemen, and--pardon me, my lady readers--the ladies also, enjoyed that excellent dinner, one would have said there would be little need for supper. the saloon was long and comfortable, though there was nothing of the boudoir about it. claude himself had seen to everything personally. it was a very brilliant and select little party that assembled on deck about an hour afterwards. the _elite_, or rather the literary _elite_, of the city had come to wish the _icebear_ "god-speed?" "what am i to do with all these flowers, sir?" the steward asked that same afternoon, when he got a word with the captain. "keep the choicest for the saloon," was the reply, "and distribute the rest impartially for'ard." the _icebear_ was a lovely vessel, both fore and aft. she had been originally intended for a man-of-war to add to the navy of a far-off foreign potentate; but as the potentate in question did not, or could not, pay at the right moment, after waiting a goodly time the builder very properly put her in the market, and she was knocked down at a reasonable figure to our _savant_ friends. about tons burden she was, low in bulwarks, flush in deck, with no great breadth of beam, though with more than the coffin-ships they often send poor jack to sea in--things with no breadth at all to speak of, and that go over and down in a breeze, and in sea-way that a peterhead herring-boat would laugh at. the _icebear_ was sturdy and strong all over, had good engines, good shaft and screw--she carried a spare one. forward, the bows were of triple strength, moderately sharp, and shod with iron, to aid in boring through the ice. she had three respectable masts, not heavy enough to weigh her over on her beam-ends if a squall struck her broadside, nor light enough to snap like pea-sticks if a puff came. when under sail the screw could be hoisted up into a kind of covered well, and the advantage of this will be found when the ship gets farther north. not a yard of canvas, not a fathom of cordage, that had not been examined and tested by claude himself. so much for the exterior. "downstairs," as landsmen would say, she was fitted up with a view to the utmost comfort. the men's sleeping-berths forward and amidships were bunks and hammocks. the crew all told was ninety men, or would be when the vessel lay in at kirkwall to ship additional hands. remember, there was no lumber of any kind on the upper deck. no unsightly cabins or rooms, only forward was the winch and then the steerage cabin, the capstan, the midship companion; and aft the saloon and cabin skylights and companions, the wheel-house and binnacle. i hope i am not talking greek to my readers, who are probably not all nautical; but i wish it to be understood that the _icebear's_ decks were most roomy, nothing at all unnecessary being built or even lying thereon--a deck on which you could waltz with delight, or fight without discomfort. the captain's quarters, or rather his private room, occupied the after-part of the ship under the wheel-house, and was charmingly furnished, with a splendid stove, warm, soft carpets, a lounge, easy-chairs, a swing-cot, a library of choice books, and two ports that looked out over the sea. there, then i what more would you have in a private room afloat? and, mind you, it was the whole width of the ship. it had a private staircase. but the wardroom, or principal saloon, which lay under the quarter-deck, had cabins off it for the officers of the expedition, whose acquaintance we will make in good time. it may be asked what were two ladies and four learned landsmen doing on board a ship bound for the icy north? it was a proposal of mrs hodson, to which her husband knew he dared not say nay, that the party we now see on board should accompany the vessel as far as kirkwall, for what she called "the pleasure of a sail." well, the pleasure of the sail really commenced before they were beyond the pier-head of aberdeen. the long granite breakwater, which they were steaming past, was crowded with people, and, greatly to mrs hodson's delight, a lusty shore-porter sprang up to the top of a parapet and, commanding silence by a wave of his arm, proposed "three cheers for the two gallant ladies, who were sailing away to the north pole never to return." and the cheers were given too--not three, but three times three; and when mrs hodson smilingly bowed her acknowledgments, and pretty clara waved a handkerchief, which the crowd firmly believed to be wet with tears, then the cheering was redoubled, and kept up till the ship was over the bar. next, guns were fired from the fort; and when this salute was returned from the _icebear_, and the flag dipped and hoisted again, the voyage had commenced in earnest. all the way to peterhead it was most enjoyable, but as night stole over the ocean, and the sun dipped towards the sea, and just as professor hodson was proposing to go down to supper, the wind sprang up; then--let me say it in my own queer way--all on board that were sailors, _were_ sailors, and those on board who were not, were very much the reverse. surely this is better than saying that certain folks were sea-sick. but it was a pity that the cruel wind should blow so high, and that the waves should not have respected the _savants_ a single bit, nor mrs hodson either, nor even the pretty clara. it was not only a pity, but it was excessively annoying; for professor hodson, who had once written a treatise on the physical geography of the sea, had meant to give a scientific lecture in the forenoon; while sir thomas, the bold saxon, was to have lectured on astronomy under the stars, the dredging machine was to have been set to work, and the mysteries of the ocean depths revealed to the wondering gaze of poor jack; while mrs hodson had pictured to herself the pleasure she would have in presiding at the head of the table, and lecturing, not only her husband, but everybody else; and clara--she, too, had had her dreams. there could be no harm, clara had thought, in looking her best, and dressing her best, and even engaging in the delicatest of flirtations with the handsome lord claude. she had had a lovely sailor costume made, but, oh dear!--my heart bleeds to mention it--it was never worn, and the only miserable consolation left to her was to remember, that this nautical rig would do for henley regatta. ugh! but oh! the cruel, cruel ocean, and oh! the merciless waves, not one of all those dreamers left his or her cabin till the _icebear_ lay safe and sound in kirkwall. thus ended the pleasure sail from which so much joy had been expected. chapter eight. "till frozen seas do meet." "mr lloyd," said claude to his first mate, the morning after the _icebear_ sailed away from the orkneys on the wings of a favouring breeze, "i am not going to call my men together and make a speech. that style of thing is far too stagey. we have picked our crew, and i believe they will be good men and true, every one of them. well, i will try to be a kind and considerate captain; and i'll tell you now what i should like. i want, then, in a word, all the discipline and cleanliness of a man-o'-war, with a good deal of the cheerfulness and light-heartedness you find on a well-appointed yacht or best class of merchantmen. let them sing below if they like, or even on deck for'ard during smoking hours: i won't object to a little music. you understand?" "perfectly, my lord." claude held up a finger. "my lord is too formal for a ship's quarter-deck," he said. "beg pardon, sir. i really had forgotten for the moment." the captain and mate were on the quarter-deck, the latter taking his orders for the day. as shrewd and sturdy a sailor as ever faced the billows was lloyd. and not only a sailor, but a thorough iceman. he had been going "back and fore," as he phrased it, to greenland ever since he was a boy of ten, and he was now nearly thirty. he had come through every peril that one can think of; he had been cast away as often as he had fingers on his left hand--there were only four, one had been shot off--his ship had been burned at sea, and he had drifted for weeks on an iceberg, with nothing to eat at last except boot leather; he had once even been dragged under water by a shark, and was saved by his sea-boot coming off--one of the best pairs of boots he ever had, he used to tell his mates;--but, for all the dangers he had come through, he dearly loved the regions round the pole. "greenland has been like a mother to me," he had been heard to say; "and i hope to die there, and be frozen up in an iceberg, where i'll keep fresh till the crack of doom." [note .] that first day at sea--for these hardy mariners had not considered themselves afloat till now--was a very busy one. it was a very beautiful one too, for the matter of that, when one had time to look around him. when any one did, it was when the breeze slackened a bit, or blew stiffer, or changed its course a point or two, or did any one of the score of things that the wind that wafts a ship along is constantly doing. the captain walked all round the ship about eight bells, and found everything taut and trim and clear, and no complaints. the second and third officers had been with claude before for many voyages. the surgeon was a man of over forty, and as grey as a badger. it was not years alone that had changed the colour of his hair, however, but a lifetime of abstruse study. his studies had been of a very mixed nature--better call him a scientist at once and be done with it; but he was a musician and poet also. by the way, every naturalist is a poet, whether he writes or not; for true poetry consists, not in writing verses, but in being and in feeling yourself part and parcel of all the life and loveliness around you, of loving all things and all creatures, and thus, unwittingly it may be, worshipping in the truest way the great being who made them. but the surgeon's character will come out as we go on in our story; suffice it to say here that although claude had known him but a very few months, he already liked and respected him very much. claude felt happy and contented in having so good a crew, and officers he could trust by night or day. for though i may have seemed in my last chapter to be sneering at good professor hodson and his brother _savants_, they really were men who had the interests of science at heart, and this ship was going on no insignificant errand to the land of the snow bear. the sea got up towards evening, and sail was taken in; and as the breeze still freshened, still more sail, and she was practically made snug for the night. before leaving aberdeen--some days indeed--claude had written to his mother, filially and affectionately bidding her good-bye. thus far he had bent his pride; yes, and had she asked him to come home for a day-- well, perhaps he would have thrown all his pride to the winds and obeyed. but the time flew by, and there came no reply of any kind, and claude was sad about an hour before he sailed, a telegram was put into his hand. it was brief, thus-- "lady alwyn wishes her son well." so far the proud lady of the towers had melted. claude put the telegram in his bible. it was something precious, for he could read between the words. so he was happy. but he would not write again. the ship was steered for the nor'-nor'-west; and as it neared iceland, claude grew more and more impatient. how would meta look when she heard the news?--for in the few letters he had written--there were few mails to iceland--he had not told her _all_ the truth. when at length the _icebear_ cast anchor before the quaint, old-fashioned town of reykjavik, after what had appeared to claude an interminable time, they found their store-ship in waiting. claude boarded her; and finding that everything had gone all right, directed his men to pull him on shore. burning with impatience though he was to get away from the town--the reader will guess whither--it was hours before he could leave old friends, so warmly did they welcome him. free at last! free and away, and fleet was the sturdy pony that carried him. only an iceland horse could have done so, for even in summer the country is dangerous. summer had not yet come, and the hills still wore the garb of winter, and the higher paths were often slippery with melting ice. he sees the strange old cottage at last, and faster still he rides, for it is nearly night. he sees byarnie. byarnie sees him, and, after one wave of the arm to bid him welcome, rushes indoors. poor, innocent, beautiful meta had had no thought of his coming that night, but, strange to say, she was dressed exactly as he had first seen her. but now the love-light was in her eyes, and tear-drops quivered on their long lashes. "i thought," she said, "you would never, never come again." claude remembered his dream. the quaint old room when it was lit up looked cosier than ever, with the great fire of turf and wood burning on the hearth, the raven nodding on a log, the great cat on a stool, the snow-flea in its cage, the table laid for supper, the aunts--still witch-like and ugly--one sitting spinning like fate in a picture, the other with book and spectacles in a high-backed chair, and great, awkward byarnie laying supper. it was all like a vision of happiness to claude. he thought he should like to stay here all his life. perhaps meta could read his thoughts in his eyes. i do not myself believe in thought-reading; but if there be such a faculty, it surely is the gift of true lovers. "oh! stay with us for ever," she whispered. "would i could," he answered. "would that i could." "but you will for months?" "nay, but for one short week." the bright face fell, and tears again bedimmed the eyes. "dearest meta," he murmured-- "`i could not love thee half so much loved i not honour more.'" next day, when alone with her, he bravely told her all. she was convulsed with grief. he knew she would be so. he let her weep on for a time. tears bring such relief. "i love you just the same, and will marry you on my return." she turned to him, her face very pale and wet with tears, but calmness and heroic determination in her eyes. "lord alwyn," she said. then she noticed the pain the words gave him. "claude, then," she continued, "i will never marry you without the consent of your mother. that consent will not be given. so i will never marry you--_never_." there was a mournful cadence in her voice that rang through his heart. "then," he said, "you do not, you cannot lo--" "stay!" she interrupted; "stay, claude, stay!" she put her little hand on his as she spoke, and looked into his face with that holy truthful gaze of hers. "i love you. i will never love another. i will love you till frozen seas do meet." the earnestness of her voice and manner held poor claude spellbound for a time--spellbound and speechless. he could only gaze entranced on her lovely face, and never had it seemed to him more lovely than now. "sit down, dear meta," he said at last; "we still are lovers." "yes," in a low, sad voice. "tell me, meta, what did you mean by the strange words, `till frozen seas do meet'?" "there is a legend," she replied, "that long, long ago there dwelt among the rocks of the hills hereby an ancient but good man. he was called the hermit; he never courted the acquaintance of any one, never left the fastnesses where he dwelt; but people often went to seek advice from him, and brought him gifts of roots and milk. he taught them many things, and many believed him supernatural. _i_ do not think he was so, because his teachings were not all from the good book. he told them that the world was very old, but would be ages and ages older yet; that there lay at the south pole an ocean of ice just as at the north; that the world was cooling down by imperceptibly slow degrees; that these frozen seas were creeping nearer, advancing south and north; that they would encroach on southern africa and on europe; that the torrid zone would become temperate; that nearer and nearer the oceans of ice would creep, till at last they would all but meet on the equator; that ships would then cease to float; that men would even degenerate, and finally live for warmth in caves in the earth; and then _the frozen seas would meet_, and this world would be all one shining ball of ice-clad snow. but he said that a day would soon afterwards come when the elements would melt--the lost, the final day. that is the legend of the strange words i used. and,"--here she turned once more towards him, for she had been talking hitherto like one in a dream--"and i will love you, claude, _till frozen seas do_ meet." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . bodies have been found frozen, and in perfect condition, after a lapse of nearly half a century. chapter nine. the parting. among the northern nations, especially the norse, you meet types of men and women as utterly different from those of southern climes as if they belonged to another sphere. the same blessed religion nevertheless binds us all with its golden chain. natures like those of meta and honest byarnie--who, be it remembered, are not creatures of the imagination, but true examples of a class--i have never met elsewhere. the nearest approach to them in manners and ways of thinking, i have found in my own dear highlands of scotland. very many, both of the norse, such as those met with in shetland and iceland, as well as our highlanders, are very deeply imbued with the spirit and true sentiment of religion. it is part and parcel of their everyday existence. religion is the weft in the beautiful web of such lives as these. when women like meta love it is very pure love, for the very reason i have stated, for meta was not ashamed to go on her knees with her love. a very peculiar girl, you say? would to heaven there were millions like her in this fair land of ours. on the very evening of their reunion, claude left his bride-elect, and went thundering away through the moonlight along the stony path on his sure-footed pony. he would come again, next day or next, he told her, but duty was duty, and must be obeyed. he was more happy than might be expected--happy because hopeful. he found everything well on board, just as he had expected he would. "i've engaged a few more hands, sir," the mate told him. "the right metal i like a mixture of nationalities, and yet i don't. bother the foreign scum that they man british ships with nowadays, sir, leaving honest english jack on shore to starve.--but give me a crew like what we now have, sir--a crew mostly scotch and english; then i say one or two norwegians or danes don't do much harm." "right, mr lloyd. and now i must tell you i am going to engage an extra hand. can you make room?" "put him in a bunk, sir." "a bunk, mr lloyd? he'd never be able to get in, and if he did he couldn't stick his legs out. he is seven feet high and over, and broad in proportion." "ha, ha!" laughed the mate. "but i have it, sir; i've got a hammock big enough to hold an elephant." "that'll do. good night, then." as he took down his book to read before retiring, out dropped the telegram. he read it again and again with conflicting feelings. would his mother relent? his own fate, as far as meta was concerned, he determined should not be altered. she might never marry him, but he himself, in that case, would have but one bride for ever and ay--the sea. still, as he closed the bible that night and restored the telegram, he allowed himself to build just one castle in the air. in the cosy drawing-room of this castle his mother was seated, and meta and he were there, and all were happy. he slept and dreamt about this. duty kept him at reykjavik next day and the day after, but meta, lonely and weary through waiting, heard the well-known click-click of the pony's hoofs on the succeeding evening, and ran to the door to meet claude. it was raining, but byarnie took his cloak and the pony, and in he went, looking rosy, fresh, and beaming with joy. "have you got good news?" was meta's first question. she answered it herself before he got time to speak. "yes, you have," she said; "i see it in your eyes. what is it? a letter from your dear mamma?" claude's face fell just a little. "i wish it were," he replied. "no, meta, nothing so good as that, but something i received before i left aberdeen, and, strange to say, forgot to say a word to you about. a telegram." they went and sat down to read it. "i don't like it," she said. "why didn't she say more? why does she use such a funny bit of paper? why so formal? and how funnily she writes!" claude laughed, and explained all about telegrams, telling meta that people could not say all they wanted to in a semi-public document, but that generally a good deal was left to be inferred, that the receiver must often read between the lines. innocent meta held the telegram up between her and the evening sunshine. claude laughed again, and caught her hand. "i don't mean in that way, silly child," he said. "there; we will read between the words in the way i mean." then he told her a good deal of his own history, and how much he knew his mother loved him, and how he believed she really was sorry he had gone away, but that pride forbade her saying so, though she doubtless wanted him to be happy, and not to depart with a sore heart--and a deal more i need not note. "don't you see, meta?" "dark and dim, as through a glass," said meta, musing. "telegrams are queer things, claude, and i have never seen one before, but you must be right, because you look happy." "well, i am, because i feel she will relent." "i wonder what she is doing now?" and meta's question leads me to say a word or two about the lady of the towers. i lay down my pen and ring for old janet. i am still writing in the old red parlour at dunallan towers. i write by fits and starts, but i have been steady at it all day, because it has been raining in down-pouring torrents. i pity the very rooks on the swaying trees. surely on a day like this they must envy the owl in his shelter in the turret, though they roar at him and laugh at him on sunshiny days, and call him "diogenes?" but here comes janet at last. "just one question, janet, and i'll let you go. how did lady alwyn feel when claude went away?" "oh, sir," says janet, "she was far too proud to express her feelings to me in that way. you know, sir, when glad she always told me, but her sorrow she invariably kept to herself." "so, as she said nothing, you inferred she was unhappy?" "for that reason i knew she was. did i put in the diary, sir, that our poor boy, claude, told me about his dream--consulted me ere he had that terrible interview with her ladyship?" "yes, yes, janet, that is here." "well, sir, it was first fingal's going away, trotting so sad-like after his master, and _he_ never once looking back, and then the snow-bird going next. that, i think, nearly broke her heart. but oh, she was proud, sir." "she never owned her grief, then?" "no, sir; but i've caught her often in tears, though she tried to hide them. she grew far more active than ever after that. she seemed to hate the very sight of indoors, and, wet day or dry day, she would be always out." "doing good, doubtless?" "visiting the sick, sir; ay, and often sitting down sewing in a sick person's room. the neighbours noticed her grief. they all loved her, they all pitied her. but it was at night, i think, she suffered most. her room was next to mine, and it is often, often i've heard her pacing up and down the floor till nearly morning. on stormy nights, sir, when the wind was roaring round the old turrets, and howling in the trees then she would send for me. "`janet,' she would say, with her sad, beautiful smile, `i cannot sleep to-night. you must read to me.'" as janet is now feeling in her pocket for her handkerchief, and tears are choking her utterance, i gently dismiss her, and go on writing. "yes, meta," replied claude, "and i often wonder too; but there is one thing that does give me joy, and that is this: she _knows_ i love her and am not really unfilial." claude found meta much more hopeful next day, and more happy. sometimes she was almost gay. "by-the-by, claude," she said, "i've something to show you. you must promise to believe all i say." "implicitly." "and not laugh at me?" "never a smile." "well, follow me." claude did. she led him round to the back of the cottage, and there in a big aviary--evidently the work of byarnie's hands--were seven great sea-birds. "now you're going to laugh," cried meta, with a warning finger. "well, no wonder. such queer pets, meta!" "but they're not pets, claude, though i love them. they are all going with you." "all going with me! those funny old things! ha! ha! ha! forgive me, darling, i can't help it." "well, i do forgive you. and when i tell you that this particular seagull makes the best carrier in the world, far before any pigeon, because it can fly ten times as far, and never get lost at sea--" "i reared those from the shell," interrupted honest byarnie, his big face all smiles. "and i've reared many such." "byarnie," said claude, "you'll come with me, and look after these birds, eh?" byarnie jumped and laughed, clapped his hand upon his leg, and jumped and laughed again, and then went skipping round with all the grace of an infant elephant, till claude and meta also laughed to see his uncouth exuberance. "my brother will come here, and my sister too, and look after the house and farm," he cried. "he! he! ho! ho! byarnie's the happiest man 'tween reykjavik and christiansund." day after day went by, but still claude was at the little capital of iceland, or with meta. he was waiting the arrival of the mail: she had broken a shaft or something, and eager and able though he was to get away to the land of the northern lights and the sea of ice, he did not begrudge himself the respite. the mail was sighted and signalled at last, however, and came puffing and blowing in. claude had letters from his employers and from many a friend, but none from his mother. but janet's letter must in some measure have made up for this, else he would not have ridden right away out to meta's dwelling. ah, well, it was their last day together anyhow! there they were together now whom seas would soon sunder--two warm, loving, hoping hearts. would they ever meet again? chapter ten. in norland seas. "i shouldn't wonder if we get it from out yonder," said dr barrett, pointing away south and by west, the very direction in which the _icebear_ was steaming. there was a great billowy heave on the blue sea, blue everywhere, except where the light shadow of some white fleecy cloud made a patch of fleeting grey or grey-green. there was not a breath of wind "to swear by," as jack scott unpoetically put it, so the long rolling swell was as smooth as glass. this swell was meeting them too, and the ship rose and fell on it with a gentle dipping motion; only now and then, when a taller wave than usual dipped in under bows and keel, she gave a quick plunge forward. along the horizon ahead was a bank of rock-and-castle clouds, while far away astern the jagged snowcapped peaks of iceland were just visible above the rolling seas. flocks of malleys, shrill-screaming kittywakes, and different kinds of seagulls were tacking and half-tacking round the vessel, afar off, and the dark and ominous-like skua waited his chance to rob the malleys of whatever they might happen to pick up. "yes," the surgeon said; "i think we'll have it out of yonder." "seems so to me, too," said claude. "we are all ready for a blow, mr lloyd?" mr lloyd gave one glance forward and smiled. "ay, sir," he replied, "all ready for a buster; and many is the sneezer, sir, i've come through in these latitudes, and higher up north too." these officers were on the bridge. this latter was not the great elevated deck you see on passenger steamers right amidships. no, the _icebear's_ bridge was but a plank, comparatively speaking. not more than three feet wide, with a rope railing at one side, and a brass one at the other, with a step-ladder leading up to it from the quarter-deck, for it was between the bulwarks near the mizzen mast. the glass was going down, and the day was far spent. already the sun's rays were beginning to fall aslant the waves. "had we started sooner," remarked the doctor, "we would have been farther off the land ere now." "true, my good dr barrett, true," replied claude; "but _could_ we have done so?" "it would certainly have been difficult i admit; but if anything short of a hurricane comes along we can face it, and the night is short." no, it had not been easy getting away from reykjavik indeed. it so happens that the good people of that town are exceedingly hospitable, and it is a hospitality that comes straight away from the heart. so there had been a kind of farewell _levee_ on board claude's ship, and as there happened to lie in the roadstead a french merchantman and a danish man-of-war, and the officers from both attended it and talked much, this made matters worse--or better. but down went the sun, and ugly and angry were his parting gleams. he sank in a coppery haze, which lit up all the sea between. he seemed to squint and to leer at our heroes as much as to say, "you'll catch it before long; something's brewing. good night; i'm off to bed, for bed is the best place." down went the sun and up rose the wind. twilight is very long in these regions, and before it had quite given place to night, the sea from being rippled got rough. the breeze seemed uncertain at first where to come from, and went puffing about from three to four points of the compass. then it appeared to say to itself, "first thoughts are best; i'll follow the swell; i'll soon blow that down." so it came roaring out of the north-west. long before it did blow "a stiffener," as the mate called it, looking up ahead through the gloaming air, you could have seen mysterious-looking great grey blankets of clouds, drifting fast and furiously towards the south-east. they might have been a few miles high, but soon the stream of clouds was lowered and thickened and darkened, till the horizon was hardly three cables' length away all round. then it was night--night with an ever-increasing breeze and a choppy, frothy sea. the wind _did_ blow the swell pretty flat, but substituted in its place genuine waves, as ragged and jagged as the mountain peaks of iceland. and the good ship by-and-by creaked and groaned in every timber, and thick darkness fell, and claude had to trust to providence, to steam, and the compass. there were two men at the wheel at midnight, and at that time probably the gale was at its worst, for on heaving the log it was found she was barely making one knot an hour. the seas--whole water--were coming in over the bows by tons, and sweeping right aft like a miniature niagara; but the hatches had been battened down early in the evening, and the boats secured, so there was little injury done, though the load of water sadly hampered the vessel's motion: it was not able to get away fast enough. about two bells in the middle watch the _icebear_ struck. struck? but what or where? i know not; i cannot tell; it was no island, no rock. it may have been the carcase of some floating monster of the deep; or--who knows?--some wretched derelict or a portion of a wreck. it was a mystery. but she struck with a dull thud that quite stopped her way, and for a time made every heart beat with fear for her safety. she must have struck not only on the bows, but gone over something; all along her keel was the quivering grating felt, as if of a substance underneath. for a while, too, the rudder and screw were hampered and the vessel's way all but stopped. as it was she staggered and began to broach to. it was a moment of the greatest danger, but only a moment. then it was over, and the _icebear_ was struggling once more with the stormy head wind and raging sea. by morning light, though the wind still held, it was less furious, and the seas but broke in froth and spray against the descending bows, and went singing aft on each side, their tops twisting and curling in the gale. down in the darkened wardroom at breakfast that morning the talk was naturally about the storm. although claude retained his own quarters abaft, still he preferred taking all his meals with his officers. "what was it we struck, do i think?" said the doctor in answer to a question put by lloyd. "some unhappy fishing-boat or walrus-hunter on his way to the east shores of greenland." "heaven forbid!" said claude, with a slight shudder. "would we not have heard a scream or yell?" "never a scream or yell in that roaring gale," replied dr barrett, coolly. "bless you, sir, i've run them down before. steward, another cup of coffee, please." "you've been often to these regions, doctor?" "i've been often everywhere. i'm the veriest old son of a gun of a sea-dog of a doctor." "it's as well no one else said that about you." "i wouldn't mind. my skin is as hard as tortoise-shell. i've been married so often, you know." "have you really now?" said the second mate, a merry-eyed little dark man. "are all your wives dead?" "what a question!" said claude. "ah! never mind," quoth the surgeon; "i'll answer him, if he'll only cut me another slice of that delicious corn-beef. mind, it isn't for a lady, so you may cut it as thick as you please." "but about your wives?" "oh yes, the wives. i don't think many of them are dead." "doctor!" cried claude, "you dreadful man!" "well, you see," said the doctor, tapping the edge of his cup with the spoon as if counting, "i've been married just exactly fifty-nine times. my ships, messmates, are my wives." "well, you've had many a honeymoon," said lloyd. "ay," replied dr barrett; "and many more i hope to have." an able seaman popped his head in past the door curtain at this moment, and drew it out again. "don't duck your head out and in like an old turtle, man," cried the doctor; "come right in. anybody sick?" "which i didn't know, sir, the cap'n was 'ere. nobody sick, but knew ye liked curios, doctor, sir." "well?" "well, beggin' yer parding, sir, likus the cap'n's, but there be a bird wot our cook calls a sea-swallow a-perchin' on the main yard. shall one of us go up and fetch him? he's mighty sea-sick i knows, and couldn't fly to save his life." [note .] "certainly, bring it down." the officers went on with breakfast, and had forgotten all about tom scott and his sea-swallow, when suddenly the man appeared again, bearing under one arm a beautiful snow-bird. it escaped almost at once, and fluttering upwards alighted on the compass that depended from the skylight. all eyes were fixed on it. it did not seem a bit frightened, but looked downwards with one crimson saucy eye at the table. "it looks like a spirit," said lloyd, half afraid, for, like most sailors, he was superstitious. "it's a spirit that will bring us luck. they always do," said the second mate. "are you ill, sir?" exclaimed the doctor, addressing the captain. one might have thought so. his face was pale, mouth a little open, brows lowered, and eyes riveted on the bird. "were such a thing possible," he muttered, "i'd believe that was my snow-bird alba." to the amazement of every one, no sooner were the words uttered, than with one quick glance of recognition, down flew the bird and nestled, as it was wont to do, on its master's hand, held close up on his breast. yes, every one was astonished, but poor mcdonald, the third mate, was frightened; and when, after receiving a few caresses, alba jumped on to the table and began pattering around and saying, "poor alba wants his breakfast; alba wants a sop of food," mcdonald could stand it no longer: he left the table and hurried on deck. "it's no canny," he said to the steward; "it's no canny, and if i could steal a boat i'd leave the ship and brave the stormy ocean." "lord alwyn--i mean _sir_," said the mate, "a hundred years ago you'd have been burned for a witch." "or a wizard," remarked the doctor, laughing. "but i am not astonished. the captain has already told me the story of his snow-bird. the wonderful power of sight, scent, and probably hearing in gulls is scarcely yet known to naturalists; and the same may be said about nearly all sea-birds. they either have an instinct that we possess not, or the faculties they possess, in common with other animals, are most marvellously developed. [note .] just look at that lovely bird now, and listen to its marvellous prattle." pattering round the table went alba, in a very excited condition, only every now and then flying off to claude's breast as if he could hardly believe in his own happiness. he jumbled up his sentences, too, as most talking birds do when excited. "alba wants--alba wants--alba wants fingal's claude--fingal's--fingal-- claude--alba wants his breakfast." "that's better, alba," said dr barrett, lifting the cover from a dish of fish. next moment alba was in the third heaven. "you've made that bird your friend for life, doctor," said claude. fingal, the deerhound, got up from under the table and laid his great head on his master's knee. "of course i won't forget you, you silly old fingal, because alba has come. i have room in my heart for both." towards sunset that day the weather cleared, the wind having gone round to the nor'-east-and-by-east. the sea too went down with the sun, though it still ran high; a morsel of canvas was got up to steady her, and leaning over to it away she went, cutting merrily through the water as if she had been a veritable living thing. the stars shone that night _so_ brilliantly; it was as though you could have stretched out your hand and touched them, so large, lustrous, and near-like were they. a broad white gleam of auroral light was in the north, above it the sky was of a strange sea-green hue. but a whisper had gone around the ship that a spirit had come on board, and an anxious group was seated round the galley fire to discuss the situation. "if it's a spirit," said tom scott at last, "it's a good one. it has brought us good weather. hurrah, lads! give us a song somebody." the good ship _icebear_ had no more adventures for nearly a fortnight, by which time she had rounded cape farewell and reached the north-eastern ice. "and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold, and ice, mast-high, came floating by as green as emerald." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . sea-birds are usually unable to fly after they alight. a cape pigeon, for example, gets giddy and frightened at once when put on deck. note . the author could adduce very many instances in proof of the good surgeon's statement. chapter eleven. summer on the greenland ocean. there was not an officer nor able seaman on board the good ship _icebear_, who had not been in the arctic regions before. mostly englishmen they were, with just a sprinkling of scotch--"the leaven that leavened the lump," that is how rab mcdonald, the third officer, expressed it, and it is needless to say that rab himself was a scot. onward went the _icebear_, sometimes in a clear sea, though far into baffin's bay--for this was what is called an exceptional year--but at other times she had literally to plough her way through the heavy ice. when the weather was fine there was but little danger, unless, indeed, a swell rolled in, playing and toying with the monster pieces as schoolboys would with balls. but when a breeze sprang up, even if only half a gale, then indeed the scene was changed. then-- "through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of man nor beasts they ken-- the ice was all between. "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around; it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound." during calm weather and in the open water dr barrett was busy indeed, taking soundings, deep or otherwise, and dredging for living objects at the sea's bottom. very lovely and interesting indeed was the collection that soon grew up in his cabinet, under his magic spell. what could be in that tangled mass of mud and weed and sand, one would have asked, that was hauled on board, the sea-water dripping and trickling out of the bag? to dr barrett--and to the _savants_ at home--treasures more valuable than gold itself. and after he had secured a haul, washed them, put them up, perhaps on cards of jet to show their beauties off, the clever surgeon would have handed you his great glass and bade you look. it was like gazing at creatures from fairyland. all shapes and colours, but all so minute that they could not well be seen with the naked eye. here is a little fairy fish--no bigger is it than this letter `f.' take that glass, please. now look. no wonder an expression of amazement steals over your face! it is a perfect fish, yet, strange to say, transparent and colourless--that is, there is no fixed colour any more than there is in the arctic aurora, but greens dance and crimsons flit and play around it; and, stranger still, with a stronger glass, you can see its internal anatomy, see its heart beat and its pulses move! could anything be more wonderful? and here are shells that, lying on this morsel of black cardboard, are no bigger than the letters "a," or "e," or "c." look at these. no wonder you smile with delight; they, too, are faultless in shape and curious in form; they, too, are transparent as glass; they, too, display all the colours of the finest pearl. put this one--it is no bigger than a comma to the naked eye--under the microscope in a drop of water. lo! that drop of water is to it a small ocean, and round and round it crawls, legs all out and its shell high up on its shoulders, and of a bright translucent blue. i could sit here all the livelong night and write, sheet of foolscap after sheet of foolscap should flutter from my desk and fall upon the floor, and yet when the grey dawn of morning crept in through the casement of this red parlour, i should not have told you of one-half the mysterious and beautiful beings that this man of science dredged up from the dark depths of that mysterious sea. i pause here and listen. there was not a sound in the house when i penned the last sentence, only a mouse nibbling the crumbs that i placed for it in the corner, but now there comes from an adjoining room the voice of some one singing. it is only poor old janet. she does so every night before retiring; and, old though she be, i know she is very happy--happy with a happiness that can never be taken from her. but to-night the words she sings are so _en rapport_ with my own spirit while writing, that i cannot but give a line or two-- "god moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform; he plants his footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ as much as it was practicable to do so, the _icebear_ hugged the western shores of greenland, but here the ice was heaviest. as the summer advanced, however, the land became bare of snow; it was then that delightful excursions were made inland, up through the long, deep fiords that everywhere indent this coast. i do not like the word "indent," though i use it; for an indentation means fork-like incision, widest at the mouth--a bay, for example,--but these arctic fiords are, many of them, narrow at the inlet, then spread out as they go inland. there are thousands and thousands of them yet unexplored, and which never will be explored as long as the world lasts. not altogether for the sake of pleasure were these excursions made, but for the purpose of scientific discovery. i am sitting here to tell a story, and not to describe scenery, the yachting, the fishing, hunting, and all the pleasures that make a holiday in greenland north, during the short summer-time, so enthrallingly delightful--a something that once enjoyed can never be forgotten, while the life-blood circulates in our veins. claude himself was a lover of nature. in his soul he had all the poetry of a wordsworth, though there it remained, for he never wrote verses. he could love and admire every tiny flower, every moss or lichen or tender and beautiful saxifrage that clad the rocky uplands. neither could he classify them. dr barrett both admired and classified. he was ever on the outlook for new species, and i verily believe he dreamed about them by night. so his cabinet, of the rare and lovely specimens found on shore, grew even bigger than did his deep-sea collection. cold? no, it was not cold--these regions at this season. cool sometimes, but never cold. the _icebear_ would be cautiously steered up some of those fiords and the anchor let go, in an inland sea or harbour in which all the navies in the world, both mercantile and man-o'-war, could easily have ridden. while the doctor and his assistants would be prospecting among the hills, leaving the ship in charge of the mate, and, accompanied only by the faithful fingal and giant byarnie, claude would start in a small boat, a kind of elegant dingy, which he had had made on purpose, and go off up the fiords for miles with gun and fishing-rod. the snow-bird, strange to say, always remained on board. what truth there may be in the statement i do not know, but they say that a snow-bird, or tern, that has once been domesticated by mankind dare not return to its kindred birds under pain of death. claude used to enjoy those excursions on the fiords very much. here is how he generally spent the day: first, byarnie would pull him slowly about close to the rocks, where the fish were most numerous. a few dozen were speedily caught and thrown in the bottom of the boat. fingal used to take them in charge, apparently delighting in doing so, for his wise eyes never left them, and if one flopped fingal held it down with an air of seriousness on his rough hairy face that was highly amusing. but claude soon got tired of fishing, and put up the rod. then he told byarnie to pull him away out into the centre of the fiord, and let the boat float as she liked in the sweet sunshine. claude would have a book, perhaps, and very often, when his eyes were riveted on it, it was upside down, which showed where his thoughts were. just for fun then he would say to fingal, "speak, fingal." fingal would speak with a vengeance, till every hill and every rock re-echoed his bow-wow-wows. but the sound was sure to bring up a great head or two with goggle eyes out of the water, sea-lions, walruses, or saddle-back or bladder-nose seals, for they are all most inquisitive. lying very still sometimes, with the oars in, one single seal would pop his head out of the sun-glazed water and have a look at the boat. "sit still, byarnie; don't move," claude would say. the seal would come nearer and have another look; then down he would go, tail first, and in three minutes more the sea all around would be black with great heads and sweet, soft, wondering eyes. "well," they would seem to say, "we can't make it out. never mind, let us have a romp; the sunshine is so delightful. hurrah!" then a scene of diving, and chasing, and splashing, such as it is impossible to describe, would ensue; it was, in fact, a seals' ball. if byarnie would suddenly explode with a loud "ho! ho! ho!" of merriment, or if fingal barked, then, hey! presto, every head would sink as if by magic, and in a few minutes the sea would be as smooth as usual, with only the gulls, divers, or grebes floating lazily on it. next, claude would make byarnie tell him some wild old norse story--he was full of them--with sagas, or vikings, or fairies in it, and then sing. oh! byarnie could sing well, but a strange, monotonous kind of lilt it was--very pleasant, nevertheless, for it _never_ once failed to put claude to sleep. so sure, indeed, was claude of falling asleep when byarnie began to sing, that he used to lie down in the stern-sheets with a cushion beneath his head. sometimes he awoke with such a happy, happy half-dazed look on his handsome face, and say, "oh! byarnie, i've had such a pleasant dream!" next they would land, and claude would now read in earnest, while poor byarnie cooked the dinner in gipsy fashion. very often after this claude would keep his companion talking about iceland, with meta always the centre figure, for hours, till, when near sundown, they would probably hear the report of a rifle at some distance off. this was dr barrett signalling to his men, and not long after the whaler would come sweeping up, and the boats would return together, often enjoying the fun and frolic of a good race, for byarnie was a splendid oarsman; his skiff was light, and he, if not a feather, had the strength of three ordinary seamen. thus pleasantly passed the summer days on that lonesome greenland ocean. chapter twelve. among arctic fiords--a strange discovery. if the reader happens to possess a map of the polar regions, or even a good map of the world, and will take a glance or two at the discovered lands and seas beyond the arctic circle, he will be struck at once by their nomenclature. it would be interesting to know the why and the wherefore of many of these names, which i do not believe have, in any single instance, been given at random. the origin of some of them is evident enough--"lady franklin's sound," for example, or "hayes' inlet," or "peabody bay." but i do not wish to be told of the exact reasons that determined these names. knowing what i do about the polar regions, i would rather let my imagination have a little play. a little to the south of spitzbergen lies hope isle, or sea horse island; i happen to know that many walruses, sometimes called sea-horses, frequent the ice or the icy land there; but why called _hope_ island? some ship, perhaps, had been long imprisoned, north of this place, provisions exhausted, and the chances of ever getting clear small indeed; but, behold! the ice opens as if by magic, and by sawing and blasting they struggle as far south as this lone isle, where, though locked up once more in the icy embrace of king winter, they live in hope, and are eventually rewarded. down the east coast of greenland proper there is a point with an ugly name, "cape discord." was it mutiny or only mutiny threatened? did men struggle on slippery blood-bespattered decks, or was the discord confined to muttered threats, to black and angry looks and round-robins? [note .] "cape farewell" again--the southernmost point in greenland. the ship has been wintered in baffin's bay, and the men have undergone cold, misery, and privation; but hurrah! the last land is left behind, the blue open sea is all before them, cheerily sings the wind through the rigging, the sails are full, and the men's hearts are also so full that if they did not sing they would go mad. so "farewell, old greenland; our dear wives and sweethearts are waiting us at home in merry england. farewell, farewell." but round that point is cape desolation. look at those bluff, bare crags that overhang the sea, the home of hardly even a wild bird; see afar off the tree-lands covered with snow, leaden clouds athwart the sky, billows dashing in foam against the black rocks, and the cold wind blowing. ugh! let us leave it. it is pleasant to find a prince albert land and a victoria land up in the arctic ocean, side by side; and a north lincoln and north devon, separated only by jones's sound. we have been told that when the north pole is eventually discovered a scotchman will be found at the top of it. i should not wonder, for the most northerly land, if my memory serves me aright, is called grant's land, and everybody knows that grant is the name of a brave old scottish clan. obeying instructions from his employers, claude worked his ship north and north along the western shores of greenland, exploring every creek and fiord; the doctor being meanwhile very busy, as we have seen in the last chapter, taking scientific notes and collecting specimens. in their voyage out, the _icebear_ had only once spoken the _kittywake_. she was a schooner commanded by the ex-skipper of a dundee whaler, a man who knew the country well, and though but a small craft she was strong, and eminently suited for the work she had to perform, namely, to follow the _icebear_ with stores. she had received instructions to hug the western land, and, if a flagstaff was seen at the entrance to any creek, there to lay-to until the _icebear_ came out. but the _kittywake's_ powers of sailing were only of a very limited character, and steam she had none. so, after spoken, she was not seen again for a time. very few of these wonderful fiords, as i have already mentioned, are even known. now, it had occurred to our learned _savants_ at home that it would pay, not in one way, but in two, to explore the largest of them. untold wealth lies buried in greenland. scientific wealth, and the dross called gold, mayhap even diamonds, mayhap precious stones of a kind not yet known to the world. for why? was not greenland--that vast country which a single glance at the map tells you is as large in extent, as long and as wide as africa itself--was it not at one time, ages ago, they argued, an inhabited continent as free from ice as our fair england is at the present day? they believed that the mountains which now shoot their jagged peaks, covered with perpetual snow, up into the blue-green sky were once purple and crimson with gorgeous heath; that green valleys and lovely glens lay below, with placid lakes and rolling rivers, and cascades of sparkling water; that gigantic forest lands covered the greater part of the country, forests in which the bison and wild deer roamed and fed; that, in a word, greenland was once upon a time--while the torrid zone was but a fiery belt, uncrossable, uninhabitable--a fertile land of beauty, a land of mountain, forest, and stream. they even went farther. might not man himself, they said, have dwelt in this beautiful country--primeval man--and might not his remains be found even yet? there is, indeed, no length to which some learned _savants_ will not go, if they once give the reins to their imaginative power. while not for a moment feeling half so sanguine as his employers, claude, having undertaken a task, meant to do his duty, his best; and who can do more? as long as the summer lasted, and before the mists began to rise, claude continued his explorations. he came at last to a vast wall of solid rock, darkly frowning over the deep. he would have passed along it, never dreaming there could be any opening in there, had he not seen some bears swimming in the water. they disappeared on being followed by a boat, and the officer in charge, on returning, reported having discovered the inlet to a vast fiord. the _icebear_ was headed for the rock, and found the opening just soon enough to enter with safety. it was a bright, clear day, with little wind and hardly a cloud in the sky, with every indication that fine weather would continue for a time at least. all hands were on deck as the _icebear_ was turned shorewards and headed straight for the rocks. the boat that had gone in pursuit of the bears was ahead, guiding. to go steaming stem on to that adamantine wall seemed courting destruction, but lo! after a progress of a few hundred yards, the cliffs opened up as if by magic, showing a long channel of deep blue water. it got wider inland, but the cliffs were higher; gradually, however, they receded from the water's edge, and got lower and lower. the ship was now stopped, and a party sent on shore to climb the highest peak adjoining the sea, and plant thereon the flagstaff that should signal to the _kittywake_ the whereabouts of her consort. slowly on and on steamed the _icebear_, two men taking soundings from the chains, lest the water should suddenly shoal, but the beach at each side still continued rocky, though no longer high. "what do you think of this?" asked claude of dr barrett, who stood near him on the bridge. "i am rejoiced beyond measure at our discovery," was the reply. "why, this _would_ please professor hodson, for no slowly descending glaciers ever made this wonderful cutting--it is volcanic entirely. behold the rocks, captain alwyn." "you are right, doctor, beyond a doubt." "and i should not be surprised now what we came to." "nor i." "i wish," said mr lloyd, "i could see things with the eyes you seem to possess, doctor. how delightful it must be to be quite at-home-like with everything you see around you! you are a learned man, doctor." "nay, nay," cried the surgeon, laughing. "i am but a student--a baby student. were i to live for ten thousand years i should still be only reading in the first book of nature." "you are modest, at all events," claude said; "and i believe that is a sign of genius." "one cannot help feeling both modest and humble, captain alwyn, when standing face to face with the first facts of science, and knowing that the little knowledge he has acquired is to the vast unknown but as the light of a candle to the noonday sun." for days the _icebear_ followed the course of this estuary. sometimes it narrowed to a mere deep cutting or canal, anon it would widen out into a broad oblong lake. at length it ended in an inland gulf or sea, some thirty or forty miles square. in latitude this mysterious sheet of water was fully a degree and a half south of the inlet. dr barrett spent days in dredging, and in roaming over the hills, studying botany and geology. there were high mountains all around, and it was a strange sight for those on the deck of the _icebear_, which was anchored at some little distance from the shore, to witness mighty cataracts tumbling sheer over the very summits of these hills, and coming roaring and foaming down their sides. the men looked upon this as magical, but it is easily explained: there were other hills behind these--much higher ones--that were invisible from the ship's deck, and it was from these the waters poured down. as might have been supposed, they found the waters of this inland sea less salt than the ocean itself, though by no means brackish. "i think, sir," said dr barrett, when he came off one evening, "that we need hardly proceed farther north. we can hardly expect to find another such lake as this." "here, then, we shall winter," replied claude. "here, i believe, we ought, too. for look what i have dredged up." "coal!" "it is coal. i found it close in shore, and there is more of it. depend upon it, we have discovered a country rich in mineral wealth; and, if i am any judge, there is gold in abundance here, too. look at this. there are specimens for you." he handed him a few pieces of rock as he spoke. "pretty morsels of stone enough," said claude, as he bandied and weighed them in his palm. "would make nice ornaments for a mantelpiece. but do they really represent anything of value?" "well, i will tell you. you see i have numbered all these morsels of stone. here is number ." (number was a piece of dark brown stone mingled with patches of the darkest blue, in which little stars sparkled and shone.) "that," said dr barrett, "is carbonate of copper ore. number , you perceive, is black with streaks of green; that also is a copper ore of some value. number --take hold of it, mr mcdonald," continued the doctor, addressing the third mate. "what would you call it?" "i should call it a chucky-stone," was the scotchman's reply. "yes; well, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but that rough red-brown-black-spangled chucky-stone of yours is an argentiferous carbonate of lead. number is very heavy, and not unlike a piece of blacklead, only it shines more. that would give seventy ounces of solid silver from the ton of ore. here is number , a piece of quartz mixed with dark grey, and streaked with sea-green. that also is silver ore." "and this number ," said mcdonald, "looks to me like a bit of very bad coal. is it worth a doit?" "it is worth many doits. it will assay three hundred ounces or more of solid silver to the ton. number looks like a lump of petrified rhubarb root. number is somewhat similar, but mixed with quartz and a reddish brown material. both are auriferous; the last will yield pounds from each ton of ore." claude shook dr barrett by the hand. "you have indeed made important discoveries," he said. dr barrett smiled pleasantly. "my conscience!" cried mcdonald. "we'll be a' millionaires thegither, every mither's son o' us. wha could hae thocht it, and a' own to a wheen chucky-stones that i wadna hae gi'en a button for!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . a round-robin is a complaint or request, or even threat to the captain, from the men forward; the names to it being signed in a circle, so that no one can be marked as the instigator, though there must be a ringleader. chapter thirteen. the long dead arctic night--the battle of the snow-squalls. the scene was changed. summer had fled from the shores and from the braelands around the inland sea, where our travellers have taken up their abode. "away hath passed the heather-bell that bloomed so rich on needpath fell." thus sweetly sang the scottish bard. but here no heather-bell bloomed to vanish. but the lovely little stonecrops, white or yellow, the crimson ranunculus, the dark-tufted grasses, the wild dwarf poppies, and even the mosses and the hardy shrubs that blossomed for a time in the sloping rays of the sun--all have gone or lie deeply buried under the snow; they will appear no more till june again melts their covering and awakens them to sunshine and life. claude and his crew have not been idle. every preparation is already made to mitigate the rigours of a winter that is even now commenced. boats had been despatched to the inlet of the creek, to land and bury ship's stores in a sheltered nook not far from the sea. this was done with all despatch. captain watson's men of the _kittywake_ working with a will born of the knowledge that, as soon as their labours were over, they would once more embark and bear up for their own dear home in england. they had the good luck to find a cave large enough to contain all the provisions and ammunition on board the store-ship. there was accordingly no digging to be done, except the quarrying from the hillsides of great stones to build up the entrance to the cave. this done, it but remained for mr lloyd, who was in charge of the working party, to take his bearings, in order to easily find the place again, and deliver to captain watson his written orders to return south. lloyd's boats towed the _kittywake_ out to sea, or, rather, steered her, for the tide was running rapidly out. he remained on board the store-ship until the turn of the tide, then there were farewells said, and ringing cheers were re-echoed from the hills and from tall floating icebergs, and, sail being set, away went the _kittywake_ southward ho! the crew as merry as schoolboys at play. they were to bear tidings to the _savants_ in london of the successful voyage made by the _icebear_, the strange discovery of the inland sea, and the prospects claude and dr barrett entertained of the perfect success of the expedition. it may be as well to state here, and state it once for all, that the _kittywake_ was never more heard of, never more seen by mortal eye. whether she had sprung a leak in a gale, and foundered; been caught a-back in a squall, and thrown on her beam-ends, never to recover; or been crushed like a nut between some awful bergs, will never be known until-- "the sea gives up its dead." had our heroes known aught of the disaster to the store-ship, it would have cast a gloom over them that nothing could have dispelled. as it was they had nothing in their hearts but hope--hope that, when the long, dreary winter wore away, having more than accomplished the object of their cruise, the ice would break up, their imprisonment would be over, and, laden with riches and crowned with honour, they would bid farewell to the land of the aurora, and reach england in peace and safety. they could, therefore, mark with complacency the ever-shortening days, and the oncoming mists, and mists succeeded by stormy winds, and curling clouds of drifting snow. the sooner winter came the sooner it would be over. there came a day when these intrepid travellers were to look their last upon the sun for months to come. it was towards the end of october, but not severely frosty. indeed, the sky was altogether overcast, with the exception of a space on the southern horizon it was here that the sun last showed. red, large, and angry looking, he but deigned to cast a glance or two across the dreary landscape, then slowly sank to rest, but for two hours after he had gone down, a long stripe of bare, lurid, orange sky remained over the spot. it gradually assumed the appearance of the reflection of some great fire or burning mountain. the clouds above were purple red, mingled with leaden grey, but all this soon faded. there was neither moon nor stars, and the blackness of darkness was over the land. about noon every day for nearly a week there was a kind of twilight. it was even more than this, for when the sky was partially clear there was all the appearance of coming sunrise, the cloudlets grew crimson, and even the tall mountains were tipped with rosy red, and all between the glens were of a strange blue colour. but even this mid-day twilight ceased at last, then all was night. all the way north meta's gulls had been kept on deck in an aviary built for the purpose, and two had already been despatched with little messages in sealed quills, fastened to their legs. only one of these reached iceland. the other probably preferred his freedom. claude seldom doubted but that the gulls he sent off would eventually find meta's home. even before the daylight had entirely gone, and the long dead arctic night had descended upon the land, the birds and beasts migrated southwards, the malleys, and gulls, and terns, and skuas going first; then the guillemot the eider ducks, grebes, and divers. next went the bears, the wild oxen, and the foxes; finally even the inland sea itself seemed deserted. the walrus and seal no longer popped their whiskered faces above the water, nor courted the sun's rays on the rocky shore, and the lonesome unicorn was seen no more ploughing through the waves. the blackness of desolation and a silence deep as death was over all the scene. think not, reader, that the beautiful stars were always shining, or that even when a full moon was in the sky there was somewhat of light and cheerfulness. no, for there were days--ay, and weeks--when neither moon, stars, nor aurora were visible for the dark clouds and whirling drift and snow. at other times, perhaps, after a fall of silent snow, without as much wind as would serve to move one downy fleck, the clouds would disperse, and the stars would glitter like a million diamonds, when suddenly a murmuring roar would be heard among the mountains, and on looking in that direction from the ship's deck, or from the huts on shore, a sight would be presented to the wondering gaze of claude and his crew that my poor feeble pen would struggle in vain to describe. it seemed as if a wind from every point of the compass had marched forth to meet and do battle with each other among the hills, and that each wind was accompanied by a ghostly storm spirit. high as the stars were those whirling sheeted ghosts; if they crossed the moon's disc they looked unearthly and fearful; but see! they meet in fury, and all is a bewildering chaos. describe to me the foam of atlantic billows dashing high in the air after striking a black, bare rock in the sea; describe to me in words the smoky spray of a geyser, and i will try to paint to you the battle of the snow-squalls. but, behold! while we yet look, half awed at the rage of elements among the jagged mountain peaks, the chaotic tempest comes nearer and nearer, other ghosts arise and whirl along on the plains, and a moaning sound as if nature were in pain falls upon the ear. this may be but momentary, and ere you can dive below, the tempest is on the vessel, the war of elements is raging around it. the very masts bend and crack and yield, and high above the roar of the wind is heard wild shrieks and yells and groans, as if demons really danced and fought on every side. these latter sounds are emitted by the ice rubbing against the ship's hull. then, even while one is expecting every moment that some jagged edge of ice will penetrate through the vessel's timbers--lo! all becomes hushed and silent. you creep on deck as quickly as the drifted snow will permit you, and look around. the stars are all out again, the moon's rays throwing shadows from the mountain peaks, and all is still. and such a stillness! it is the silence of space--the silence of a dead and buried universe. you can almost fancy the stars are near enough to whisper to; that the flickering aurora borealis will presently emit some sound. if you talk aloud your own voice seems harsh, and you find yourself talking in a strangely subdued tone, as if nature were asleep-- as, indeed, she seems--and you dreaded to wake her. at all times in greenland, when no wind is blowing, the silence is fearfully impressive; but it is after a snow-squall such as i have endeavoured to depict that it is most so. "do you think," said claude to dr barrett one day--"do you think, doctor, i might venture to send off another seagull?" "i think," was the reply, "that the bird will be far more likely to fly southward now--to seek the sun--than it would in summer." so a little fond note was attached as usual to a seagull's thigh. "go!" whispered claude, pressing his lips to the soft, warm head for a moment. "go, beautiful and gentle bird, oh! southwards quickly go; though moon and stars shine bright above. how sad is all below! "no longer drooping here, confined in this cold prison, dwell; go, free to sunshine and to wind, sweet bird, go forth--farewell! "oh! beautiful and gentle bird, thy welcome sweet will be. and yonder thou shalt hear the voice of love's fond melody." i trust my hero may be forgiven for slightly altering the words of the gentle poet bowles. the graceful bird went tacking and tacking for a time around the ship as if he could not quite believe he had obtained his freedom, or were loath to leave his quarters; then, as if memories of a sunnier south had suddenly awakened in his breast, away he darted, and was lost in the darkness. chapter fourteen. in winter quarters--football among the snow. one portion of the cargo of the unfortunate _kittywake_--and a very important one it proved to be--was a pack of yack or eskimo sledge dogs. uncouth-looking rascals they are at the best of times, much given to quarrelling and fighting among themselves, and by no means inclined to be over-friendly to mankind. with them came two native keepers, who professed to, and i dare say did, know something about their uncouth pets, although their rule of the road proved to be a rough one, as far as the dogs were concerned. fingal was at first inclined to regard these animals with extreme distrust. he asked claude, in his own way of speaking, whether he mightn't begin the fun by charging the pack. "i am sure, master," said fingal, "i would soon make short work with one or two of them." "no," said claude, holding up a warning finger; "you must never attempt to molest them, fingal; you will come to love them yet." "i don't believe _that_," fingal seemed to reply. the dogs were taken on shore at once, and though the _icebear_ was anchored some little distance from the land, giving her plenty of room to swing round, the row these animals made the first night seemed unearthly. the men could not sleep, and roundly rated the new-comers. had the noise been a continuous one it would not have been so bad, but it was not so. the deep, deep silence of the arctic regions would be allowed to remain unbroken for, say, the space of fifteen minutes, then all at once such a chorus of barking, howling, and screaming arose as only the pen of a dante could describe adequately. this would continue for five minutes, mingled with the cracking of the keepers' whips and their wild shouting, then gradually the unearthly babel of sounds would die away, the men and officers on board would give sighs of relief and go to sleep once more, only to be disturbed again in the same fashion ere slumber had well sealed their eyelids. "frightful!" said claude, next morning, at the breakfast-table; "i'll put a stop to it." "you'll be very clever if you do," said the surgeon. "don't go meddling near them with a whip, captain," lloyd remarked. "poor sanderson of ours got drunk one night, and went on shore with a rope's end to settle, as he thought, a rumpus like what those beggars made last night. he was never seen again." "they killed him?" "yes, sir, and ate him afterwards, every bone of him. we never found a vestige of him, except the soles of his sea-boots, and we couldn't bury those in a christian way, you know, so we were saved the trouble of a funeral." "call the carpenter, steward," cried claude. "carpenter jones," he continued, when that worthy appeared, "build comfortable kennels for those dogs half a mile from the spot where our shore quarters are going to stand." "ay, ay, sir." "to the lee of a rock, you know." "yes, sir." and so the pack was soon disposed of, to the great satisfaction of every one. by the time, then, that the sun had set for the last time, and the long, icy, arctic winter had fairly commenced, the _icebear_ and her gallant crew were fairly settled in their winter quarters, and everybody felt as happy and jolly as possible under the circumstances. nor was their lot to be despised, after all. had they not every creature comfort that heart could wish? had not clever dr barrett found coals enough to keep fires burning constantly--fires big enough to roast a whole bear or a small ox, were they so inclined? had he not also discovered a gold and silver mine? not that much had yet been taken out of it, to be sure. but it gave them hope. well, they had never a care, although it must not be supposed they did not often think of home, for ah! the sailor does. to crown all, was there not a kind providence above them whose eyes could penetrate the darkness of even this dreary land, and watch over them? one thing, i believe, that contributed greatly to their happiness was this, everybody seemed determined to do the best he could, not for himself only, but for his shipmates as well. they had built a house of general entertainment on shore. also a store for extra provision and other things, in case the ship might be destroyed. in the storehouse one or other of the indian keepers always slept as sentry, or rather on guard. not that there was much fear of an attack on the stores by bears, for most of them had gone south, and the others were curled up asleep in caves and corners among the rocks. but bruin does _not_--in my poor judgment and experience--sleep all the winter through. when the weather is milder, even to a few degrees, he awakes, yawns, out-stretches himself, and goes for a turn round in the moonlight and on the snow. he is but the ghost of his former self; like the ghost of a bear revisiting scenes of a former existence. he stalks about, shaking his mighty head, and looking as melancholy as a barn owl. "how changed is everything!" he appears to soliloquise. "how dead and drear! how hungry i am too. shouldn't i like just one pawful out of the back of a fine fat seal now. [note .] ah! i would eat a whole seal, even the flippers, though there's not much on those, to be sure. but, mercy on me, how cold it is! bed's the best place, after all." and away he trots. but mr lloyd knew right well from experience what a hungry rascal like this could do even in a single night. "it isn't what they eat so much," he explained to claude, "as what they destroy. a bear will stave in the head of half a dozen casks of flour, perhaps, before he comes to a barrow of beef. and that doesn't satisfy him, for he argues that there may be something better in the other casks, and goes clawing away like an evil spirit." "talking about spirits," put in the second mate, "he is a strict teetotaller; he won't touch rum." "tins of _soupe-en-bouilli_, i suppose," said claude, "would also defy him." "not if he gets a tooth in one," replied warren; "and as for sardines-- my conscience! sir, he _is_ fond of them; if once he tastes them he'll swallow the boxes at a single bite." "boxes and all?" inquired claude, laughing. "well, i never saw the empty boxes left about anywhere." "must be a capital tonic, anyhow!" said dr barrett; "but a rather indigestible one." there had been wood enough brought on purpose to build huts on shore-- simply rough planks. the house of amusement was a famous one. built with stone as to its chimney, and with wood, filled in with dry moss, as to its walls. there was a capital fireplace, too, in it. the general routine of the day was somewhat as follows--that is, when there was any kind of bright star, or moonlight, or aurora gleams; though these last were very intermittent, and, like some of our electric lights, would go out without a moment's warning. there was breakfast at eight; muster to prayers afterwards, on the upper deck, which was almost entirely covered over. prayers are seldom more impressive than when repeated away out in the middle of the boundless ocean, but there is even more solemnity in them when heard amid the eternal silence of greenland wilds. i don't think there was one poor soul on board the _icebear_ who would have missed those morning prayers for anything. jack-the-sailor is a rough stick, i must confess, and, as a rule, a very jolly stick. yet, nevertheless, he has his solemn moments, as well as you, reader, who, maybe, never were afloat on blue water, have. "i feels some sentences o' them prayers, that the captain reads, go kind o' round my heart," said chips one day down in the half-deck mess. "that bit, for instance, `_o god, at whose command the wind blows, and lifts up the waves of the sea and stills the raging thereof_.'" "you hain't got the words what you might say altogether correct," said bos'n bowman; "but, howsomedever, you've got the main thing, and that's the sense." "well, pipes," replied chips, "you're more of a scollard than me." "and," put in spectioneer wray, "there's that bit, you know, `_when we gave up all for lost, our ship, our goods, our lives, thou didst mercifully look upon us, and wonderfully command a deliverance_.'" "i've often found the truth of that," said pipes. "so 'as most on us," said chips, solemnly. "but," continued pipes, "there's these words: `_that we may return in safety to enjoy the blessings of the land_.' don't they bring old england up before your mind, with her green valleys and flowery fields, and all that kind of thing, eh, maties?" "ay, and there's those as follows," said chips, who was a married man and hailed from rotherhithe, "`_enjoy the fruits of our labours_,' which means, o' course, take the missus and the children to margate for a whole month." after prayers, till "pipe for dinner," there were the various duties of the ship to be carried on, and there was not an officer or man, from claude himself to little saucy boy bounce, who emptied the cook's ashes, helped to clean the coppers, and attended to the aviary and the wants of fingal, who did not find something to do. dinner and smoking done, if the weather permitted, a pleasure party for the shore would be told off. the doctor and his merry men could do but little exploring now, and his mines lay some distance in the interior among the wild hills, and, from its colour, the ore could not easily be worked by lamplight. sometimes for whole weeks the darkness would be intense [note ], then the _icebear's_ crew had to seek their pleasures indoors or on board the ship. that house on shore was an incalculable boon to these forlorn adventurers. it was devoted, not to games--these could be played on board--but to music, dancing, acting, and to lectures. the musicians were several, and therefore a by no means bad ship's band was formed. those, therefore, who could not play could listen; moreover, many of those who could not play, could spin a yarn, dance, or sing. the lectures were given by good dr barrett, whose gentleness and thoughtfulness of the men had rendered him a very great favourite. these lectures of his, although often on such abstract subjects as chemistry, botany, geology, or astronomy, were always simple and always interesting, and often amusing. but there were games on the snow-covered ice--frolics we might call them--invented by the men themselves, but none the less exhilarating on that account. the sea about them might be as deep as the hills around were high, but no fear could be entertained of any one falling through-- a band of elephants might have frolicked and floundered on it without the least danger. the snow in some places had been swept off the ice by the wind, leaving it but a few inches deep. these were just the spots for a right roaring game of genuine football. but there was another game, invented by paddy o'connell, who was the life and soul of his mess, if not of the whole ship. it was carried on among _deep_ snow, and was very amusing and exciting. paddy called it "football." well, it was "irish football," for the only man in the ship who could kick the thing a yard was gigantic byarnie. "it was as large as the biggest pumpkin ever you saw, and quite as big as the largest," so said paddy. you had to throw it to begin with, and when you got it you had to run with it, and you did not run many yards before you fell with half a dozen on top of you. but the cream of the game lay in the fact that, however much light there might be, before you had played many minutes you could not tell who was your opponent and who not, everybody being as white as the dustiest of millers. when you were struggling for the ball, it was just as likely as not that you were trying to trip up a friend besides, often when you got it, and could have a fair shy, then, as you could not see well, what with the uncertain light, and what with the powdery snow, you perhaps threw it the wrong way. it was a rare game, and oh! did it not make you hungry! no wonder that on returning on board you could eat a hot supper with all the appetite of a highland drover. "paddy," said dr barrett once, as he patted him on the back, "you're a genius!" "thrue for you, sorr," says paddy, "and it's just that same me mother towld me. `paddy,' says she, `you're a born ganious, and there ain't the likes o' ye 'twixt killarney and cork.'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the shoulder of the seal is the bear's favourite tit-bit, and i have seldom seen him eat more of miss phoca, when sport was good and provisions (seal) plentiful--g.s. note . there are winters _and_ winters in greenland. sometimes for two or even three months together the darkness is deep and depressing, the whole country shrouded in a night that seems never-ending. chapter fifteen. paddy's adventure with the bear--fun on the ice--the little purple cloud. tobogganing? a strange word, is it not? we are indebted to the americans for it, as we are for many other handy, but hardly elegant, additions to our vocabulary. those who are fond of hunting for the origins of words, and who cannot live happily unless they find out how _this_ is _that_, tell us that the sport--and fine fun it is--was first suggested to mankind by the beavers. they say that these busy-brained active animals, by way of keeping their blood-heat up in winter-time, go in a crowd to some snow-clad hill, scurry up to the top of it with their broad flat tails behind them, and go sliding down all in a row, rushing up again as soon as they find themselves at the bottom, and joining the other end of the procession, and that they keep "the pot arboiling" for hours with the highest glee imaginable. well, perhaps the beavers do, but in one form or other the sport is as old, probably, as the days of noah. canada is perhaps the home of tobogganing, for there the frost is severe and lasts long. now, the scenery all round the "sea of dunallan," for thus had the waters in which our heroes lay been named by them, was very wild indeed. the hills close beside the beach were high and rounded; beyond these they were higher still, many of them rising into peaks that seemed to have their homes among the stars. it occurred to paddy o'connell, who seemed to be the inventive genius of the crew, and foremost wherever fun was to be had, that a species of tobogganing might be got up from which some "rale diversion" could be had. so one fine moonlight night, with the stars all shining as well as they could, for the tails and ribbons of brilliant aurora that were hanging in the sky, paddy went prospecting. "shall i come with you, paddy?" said byarnie, who was the best of friends with the "oirlander." "not to-night, me bhoy," replied paddy. "it's after a bit av diversion i'm going, and i think best when i'm all alone by me swate little self." "well, you might take a gun with you," suggested byarnie, "for there may be bears about, you know." "bad cess to them. no. there's never a fear of paddy." byarnie watched him disappear round the brow of a high knoll, about a quarter of a mile from the _icebear_; then went quietly below. the weather had been fine for weeks, and no snow had fallen. it was just the season when the sun might soon be expected. already, indeed, there was twilight at noon, so all hearts were gay and hopeful. paddy was in search of a hill, and he was very particular as to both its shape, its height, and its condition. at last his prospecting cruise was crowned with success. "c'dn't have been better," said paddy, talking to himself, half aloud, as he had a habit of doing; "c'dn't have been better if me own mother had made it." the one drawback was that it was fully a mile and a half from the ship; but, after all, that was a small matter. so paddy started to go back. it had been tedious work, and hours of it, and, feeling tired, he began to think of his pipe. to think was to act with this son of green erin. he stuck his alpenstock in the snow, and forthwith scratched a match and lit up. "that's comforting, anyhow," he said, after a few whiffs. "now, if i could only find a stone to sit upon. troth, i might as well look for a stone in the midst av the say, or the big bay of tralore, as--hullo! what's yonder, anyhow?" paddy was on the bare brow of a steep hill; but on rounding a hummock and looking back, he found one side of it was dark and free from snow. he returned, and gave the darkness a poke with his stick, and the stick struck--nothing. it was the entrance to a cave. "i'll just light a match and have a look," says paddy. the feeble glimmer revealed only a portion of what seemed a great vault. "i'll creep in for a moment, out av the cowld," says paddy, "and stand in a corner; sure there can't be any crayture worse than meself in the cave." it was an eerisome situation enough, but our gallant irishman did not mind it a bit. for fully five minutes he smoked, when he thought, or fancied he thought, he heard a sigh. "it's draining i am entoirely; who could be there; at all?" presently the sigh--a heavy, long-drawn one--was repeated. there could be no mistake about it this time. "ghost of saint patrick!" thinks paddy; "is it in the cave av an evil spirit i am? but never moind, it's sleeping he is, anyhow. i'll have a look, and chance it." taking half a dozen hearty puffs to give him courage, paddy quietly advanced. he had not gone three paces when--behold, curled up at his feet, a gigantic yellow bear! "is it there you are, me darlint?" paddy whispers to himself. "but troth, i just remember it's toime i was going, so good night, me dear, and bad drames to ye." now bruin has excellent scent, and paddy's tobacco was good and strong, so no wonder he awoke. he rose to his forepaws, opening a great red mouth that would have sheltered a coal-scuttle, and giving vent as he did so to a yawning roar that appeared to shake the very cave. paddy threw the almost extinct match into the gulf and fled, with bruin at his heels. byarnie was very fond of paddy o'connell, and when his friend stayed so long away, naturally grew anxious, and finally started off to look for him. he would not take a rifle, "because," he argued, "if paddy wasn't afraid, sure i'm not." but he armed himself with that most deadly weapon, a seal club, and away he strode. on and on went the giant over the snowy hills; but paddy's track, that he tried for a time to follow, was as devious as a rabbit's. when he was just about to give up in despair, who should he see but his friend himself coming round the brow of the hill--it could be nobody else. but when paddy disappeared suddenly from view as effectually as if he had sunk into the bowels of the earth, then no wonder big byarnie rubbed his eyes and stared in astonishment. byarnie was superstitious. "'twas his ghost," he thought; "poor paddy is dead, and that was his spirit!" and down there on his knees, under the flickering aurora, knelt big byarnie to pray. while thus devotionally engaged, he was startled by a roar that made him feel as if the earth was going to open and swallow him, and yonder behold poor paddy running towards him more quickly than he had ever run before, and followed by something large and yellow. byarnie spat on his hands, and threw away his cap. well, i do not wonder, mind you, at bruin's wrath. how would any one like to be wakened from sweet dreamland, and have the fiery end of a lucifer match pitched down his throat? "come on, paddy," roared byarnie. "sure ain't i coming as fast as i can?" cried poor innocent paddy. as the bear went floundering past, byarnie struck at him with terrible force. the steel point of the club entered his neck, but held there, and both byarnie and bruin rolled together on the ground, the former undermost, and the blood flew spattering over the snow. paddy was back in a moment. he had all his wits about him, and his first act was to free the seal club. his next act was one which only a brave, merry-hearted irishman would have thought of. he thrust the alpenstock into bruin's mouth as if it had been a horse's bit, and, mounting the brute's back, pinned him by seizing the staff close to the side of each jaw. "i've got him," he cried. crack went the alpenstock, and down went paddy; but byarnie was up, and in a second he had felled his terrible antagonist. there lay the dead bear on his side, his tongue lolling out, his dead eyes turned to the sky, and there stood byarnie and paddy, both puffing. "did you ever see the loikes?" says paddy. "no," byarnie replied; "but, thank heaven, you are safe. let us go home." but paddy carried out his tobogganing scheme all the same. it was a very simple one, but afforded no end of capital exercise and genuine fun. carpenter jones, _alias_ "chips," manufactured the tobogganing sledges. chips said he was glad of the job--anything to keep his hands in. with the help of his assistants he made a score of them in a single day. very simple they were, in shape somewhat similar to those used by the canadians, only these seated four abreast, so there was, so paddy said, four times the fun. the tobogganing hill was high and round, but not very steep; the top of it was a tableland; at the foot was an enormous bank of drifted snow, and here the fun came in again, as you will presently see. but let us go with the tobogganing party for just once in a way. it is eleven o'clock in the forenoon. there is a shimmer of yellowish white light in the east. there is a moon also. fancy moonlight at mid-day! what with these two lights, the aurora, which has been dancing so merrily for many hours, looks slightly pale, though the colours displayed are more glorious than any pantomimic transformation scene your mind could imagine. alongside the _icebear_ are two huge sledges; one is laden with the tobogganing boards and a few merry sailors, the other with men and officers, and such a row there is and such a din! what with the wild shouts of jack and joe, the eskimos; the cracking of whips; the snarling, barking, and yelping of the dogs, the noise is deafening and indescribable. but they are off at last. the men have breakfasted well, and, although it is very cold--ten degrees below zero--they are happy, nay, even boisterously merry. paddy starts a song and all join in the chorus. claude is there; he knows that paddy is a favourite, and lets him do pretty much as he pleases. the doctor is there also in case of an accident, and he sings and laughs like the rest, for he is quite a boy, although an old and very learned one. mercy on us! how those dogs do fly over the ground to be sure. they are as fleet as the reindeer. now and then one falls and is dragged a little way, but always manages to scramble up again. "hoorup, hooreeup, hooree--e?" screams joe. crack, crack, crack goes the whip. higher and wilder rises paddy's song and chorus. never before were the echoes of the mountains awakened by such boisterous mirth. even bears asleep in their dens and caves hear and arouse themselves to listen. "hoorup, hooreeup, hooree--ee--e?" the sledge goes over a rough bank, and tom tatters tumbles out. boy bounce waves his cap and laughs at him, but on goes the sledge, over the hills and round the hills and across some frozen streams, and at last straight up the side of the tobogganing hill, and two more men fall out here, and all the rest are thrown on their backs with their heels in the air--what sailors call catching crabs. "we--e, wee--e, woh--ip!" the sledge comes to a standstill on the flat top of the mountain, and the dogs stand still also, their tongues lolling out, and panting. the other sledge is coming up fast and furious, and soon is on the ground. then the fun begins. four men seat themselves on a tobogganing sledge, and others start them,--with a will too. down they shoot, the others watching. the sensation is like that of descending from a balloon with a sense of pleasure substituted for that of danger. the moon and stars are hardly seen by those bold tobogganers. faster and faster, they can hardly believe they have fairly started till they are at the bottom, and-- buried in the wreath of snow. they are completely buried. those above for some moments cannot see them at all. paddy o'connell was in the first lot, and he declared that "the dacint burial at the foot av the hill was the best av it entoirely." the fun has fairly commenced, and sledge follows sledge down the mountain-side, sometimes three abreast. even claude himself and the doctor embark at last, both in the same boat, and find the sensation so delightful that they keep it up. the dogs have exercise at this game too, for they have to gallop along the plateau to haul the sledges up again. it is a mad scene and a merry one. but lo! while the fun is at its fastest, "look! look!" cried dr barrett, pointing skywards; and every eye is turned upwards. a little purple cloud! it was twelve o'clock and almost daylight. what a shout rent the air then! the sun would rise to-morrow. claude and dr barrett shook hands, but neither spoke; their hearts were too full. perhaps both were at that moment breathing a prayer of thankfulness to the kind father who had hitherto protected them from every danger and from sickness itself. there were great doings that night in the _icebear_ and in the _icebear's_ snow-house. a supper on board, a concert on shore! paddy's irish jig was pronounced to be "a caution out and out," so the men phrased it. boy bounce's "break-down" almost outstripped it. even byarnie must take the floor to dance all by himself a wild norse "hoolichan." if you can imagine a rhinoceros tripping it on the light fantastic toe, then you see honest byarnie. if you cannot, then i have only to confess that figures of speech fail me. the doctor played a selection of airs on his violin, that the engineer, who, like most good engineers, was a scotchman, declared made him "laugh and greet (cry) by turns." why were those mariners--far away in the desolate regions of the pole-- so happy, so gay? because they were hopeful. the purple cloud had done it all. the sun was returning. the long arctic night had received notice to quit, and in two or three months at most summer would be with them; they would accomplish the object of their adventurous voyage, and bear up for home. home! what a charm it has for a sailor's heart! chapter sixteen. the sun's return--hopes and fears. both claude and the doctor were on a high hill-top next day to watch for the coming of the sun. nor were they disappointed. about noon the sun duly put in an appearance, looking fiery-fierce and angry through a kind of blue-grey haze that lay along the horizon. the doctor was ready prepared to take sights, and did so coolly enough, despite the sun's angry glare--coolly in more ways than one, for as he could only work with bare hands, whenever his fingers came in contact with the brass parts of his instruments they seemed to freeze thereto, and the sensation was that of touching red-hot metal. i do not know how it was, but after the sun had once more sunk, and twilight had commenced to deepen into night, the scenery of the bleak world around them--the rugged mountains, the rocks and cliffs that looked like bergs of ice, the wide expanse of snow-clad sea, with their vessel lying so cold and comfortless-looking--had a very saddening effect both on claude and the doctor. "it is like going back into the grave," said claude. "well," the doctor replied, "we must not forget that the sun will--rise again to-morrow and stay a little longer with us, and so on, longer and longer, until he rises not to set again." "while we are here?" "yes, while we are here. i pray it may be so, for we ought to be out into blue open water by the beginning of august, and homeward bound." "happy thought!" said claude, after a pause; "i'll send off another bird." "i would certainly do so; and say in your message the sun has come, that all is well and happy; give latitude and longitude exactly." "do you really think these birds ever reach home?" "now," said dr barrett, "that is a question that many would ask. many doubt the capabilities of flight or home instincts of sea-birds. i am as firmly convinced that a seagull, which has been reared in captivity from an egg procured from the parent nest and hatched under a duck or fowl, can be made the best of carriers of messages over sea and land, as i am that the sun we have just seen will rise again to-morrow." "it is not that i altogether doubt it," said claude; "but you know the story i have confided to you about my love for meta and my quarrel with my mother--alas! that i should have to give it so harsh a name. well, although i do not doubt, i sometimes fear." "i can fully appreciate your feelings, my dear sir," was the reply. "rough old sea-dog though i be, i, too, have had my little romance in life. yes, let the poor bird fly; it will reach in safety." but it may be as well to say at once here that the good doctor was rather sanguine, for of all the six sea-birds that had been, or would be, let fly, only two reached iceland safely. one of these had been thrown up near desolation point; it was that bird which reached home. "ought i to communicate the safety of her son to the proud lady alwyn?" had been meta's thought on receiving the welcome intelligence. she dreaded doing so; she feared to put harder feelings in the lady's heart against poor claude than she already possessed. "besides," argued meta, "the _kittywake_ will soon return and bring her the news that i do not doubt she is pining to hear, if she only loves him half as much as i do." the other bird that made its haven in iceland, though i ought not to anticipate, was one of the last sent up. of it i shall have more to say anon. as soon as the day was an hour long, with about an hour of twilight on each side to back it up, dr barrett recommenced his explorations in earnest. the ground all round the inland sea was of adamant; nor pick nor spade could dare on that. but to continue the mine begun the previous summer was far more feasible, for the snow that had filled it had kept out the frost. here, then, work was begun. it would keep the men at earnest exercise, at all events, the doctor said, and prevent sickness. the mine was soon so far advanced as to be a perfect shelter for the workers, even daring the worst of weather. when little morsels of nuggets of gold and silver came to be found the excitement grew intense. even the hands who did not strictly belong to the surgeon's party prayed the captain to permit them to "have a dig," as they called it, in their spare moments. and claude did not refuse. rab mcdonald, the third officer, was the first to make a lucky find. it was a nugget of pure gold as big as his thumb, and that was by no means a small one. "man! look!" he cried exultingly, showing it round to his fellows. "i'll soon be as rich as rothschild." his face fell somewhat when the doctor quietly told him that all the precious ore found belonged by rights to the company who had sent them out. a good many more faces fell also, but when claude explained that he would make such representations as would ensure a goodly percentage of the gold or silver dug out being given to the finders, the enthusiasm was restored, and all hands went to work with a will. for months the gold fever raged among the _icebear's_ crew, from february till nearly the end of may, and even sports would have been forgotten in the excitement; but about twice a week claude ordered all hands to play, if the weather was at all propitious. then football was resumed, and paddy's wild game of tobogganing also, to say nothing of fishing. fishing? you may repeat, in some surprise. yes, dear reader. it was done so: a hole was made in the ice, and baited hooks were lowered through. but jack and joe despised such cultivated plans of proceeding to business, and, if the truth must be told, they were quite as successful, if not more so, than the british sailors. the tackle these indians used and their method of using it were of the most primitive description. each had his own ice-hole, each had a short gut line with a strong strangely shaped bone hook. this was lowered into the water, and if fish even snapped at it--and many did, for the fish are hungry in greenland during winter--out they came, and they never got back. the days got longer and longer now, and the weather got sensibly less cold, till lo, and behold! about the middle of april the sun rose one morning and announced his intention of not going to bed again for three months and more to come. at all events, he did _not_ set that night. he only made pretence he would. he went so low on the northern horizon that our heroes fancied he meant disappearing altogether, then he began slowly climbing round again. do not imagine, however, that it was all sunshine even now. far from it. there were terrible gales of wind now, and whirling, drifting snow that seemed to rise as high as the highest mountain peaks. some of these hills were evidently extinct volcanoes, but how long ago it might have been since fire and smoke belched from their lofty summits, even dr barrett himself would hardly have dared to guess. but working down in their mine one day, about the end of april, the men were startled at hearing a hollow, rumbling sound apparently far down beneath them; it was like the noise of waggon wheels rattling over a rough road, only muffled. the surgeon and claude were both in the mine at the time. "don't be alarmed, men," said the former; "you may safely go on with your work. it is the noise of steam you hear, or rather of water and steam combined. that sound was sent to tell us summer is coming. it is a way the earth has in greenland." "you have heard something similar before?" asked claude. "i have, only not in greenland proper, but in caves among the hills in spitzbergen." now, giant cataracts began to tumble down from the cliffs of the mountains, and roaring rivers and torrents appeared where rivers had not been suspected before. water overflowed the inland sea all around the _icebear_, making the snow slush, and rendering the passage to and from the shore not only difficult but even dangerous. and this state of things increased, the sky being meanwhile thickly covered over with dark rolling cumulus, drifting onwards on the wings of a southern breeze. but in a day or two the wind fell flat, the clouds were lifted like a veil from east to west; in half an hour's time there was not a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone down cold and clear. strange adjectives to use when speaking of the sun, but none other could express my meaning, for this silver shield of a sun seemed shorn of its rays; you could look at it without pain or inconvenience, just as, raising my eyes, i now gaze upon the flame of the oil lamp by which i am writing. at eight bells next morning, everybody both fore and aft having breakfasted once, and the boy bounce twice at least, all hands were on deck waiting orders for the day. presently the captain and surgeon came up, and took a turn or two up and down the quarter-deck, laughing and talking. then came the order, "hands, lay aft." claude himself addressed them, laughingly. he did not often say much face to face thus to his men. "men," he said, "we're going to have a forenoon on the ice." "hurrah!" was the shout. round the ship, dear reader, and for no one knows how far out seaward, the water had been frozen into one smooth sheet of ice. who could resist it? all the skates in the ship were had up, and, although there were hardly enough, those who went without could slide. while the men waited the next order, there was a scream of terror sounded forward. the mate ran towards the fo'c'sle: there lay poor boy bounce, bleeding; and standing over him, datchet, the only black sheep in the ship. "what do you want with skates, hey?" he was saying. he had robbed boy bounce. when mr lloyd ordered datchet below for the day, the look--nay, scowl-- the man gave the mate was not easily forgotten. but boy bounce had the skates, his brow was bandaged, and when the order was given, "all hands over the side!" boy bounce was first to jump, and was the merriest of all the mad and merry crew on that never-to-be-forgotten morning. chapter seventeen. wild sports of the far north--an arctic storm--breaking up of the sea of ice. it was a matter of no small wonderment to the men of the _icebear_ why dr barrett should now, in a great measure, forsake the mine, where it seemed that wealth could be accumulated, slow though it might be in coming. but the worthy surgeon "ken't his ain ken," as the scotch say; in other words, he knew what he was about. he was not a gold-digger nor a silver-miner: he was sent out for the purpose of scientific discovery; not to load the _icebear_ with the spoils of this frozen wilderness, but to spy out the richness of the land. was it not possible, he argued with himself, that at some future day an expedition might be sent out, and a company formed to work mines here. it would give him, dr barrett, the greatest pleasure to be in charge of it meanwhile he was very busy indeed. dr barrett's character and habits were such as might well be imitated by the youth of the rising generation, both male and female. let me give one or two examples of it. one. he was never idle unless taking wholesome healthful recreation. two. he considered the strict performance of duty as a part and parcel of his religion, and its neglect a grievous and _cowardly_ sin. three. he was always ahead of the work he had to perform, and therefore always easy in his mind. four. he had method and exactness in carrying on his work. five. having done his duty he trusted all else to that kind providence who guides and rules everything here below. yes, the doctor was busy and kept his men busy. as long as the snow lay on the ground sledging expeditions were made every day, if it did not blow too high, or if the drifting snow was not blinding. very pleasant and delightful, sometimes, were those sledging trips, very dangerous at others. the sledges were large and strong; they had been built specially for the purpose, and were furnished, not only with plenty of provisions, but with all that would be necessary in an extended tour of, say, a week, though three days was generally about the limit the doctor gave himself. he was hardy himself, and cared little for fatigue; he was, in fact, an enthusiast, but he hesitated to expose his men too much. besides, he had sick patients on board, and an accident might happen at any time. there was plenty of capital sport to be got in these rambles. the animals that had returned to this country, however, were not yet very numerous. bears there were, but they could certainly as yet have but little to eat. they growled about among the rocks, and wandered by the side of ice-water swollen streams. probably they caught fish, perhaps they lived on love; but there they were, lean, long, and hungry looking, their great shaggy coats alone preventing them from having the appearance of downright starvation. but precisely in the ratio of their hunger was their ferocity. the very sight of a man made them howl with anger. "come on!" they seemed to cry. "i won't run away; i'm not afraid of such as you. come on, and be eaten up." there were two "hands" in the ship who took great delight in these pleasure parties; one was paddy, the other the boy bounce, and both constituted themselves dr barrett's special attendants and body-guard. paddy, of course, carried a rifle; and, after some preliminary training, boy bounce was permitted to do so likewise. and right proud was the lad to march at his master's heels with his gun and his shot-belts. his master was terribly absent-minded. boy bounce used to relate of an evening, to his special friend--on board--the cook, how many times a day he saved his master's life. "blowed if he wouldn't walk right into the river sometimes!" said boy bounce, "if i didn't holler at 'im; or over a cliff, if i didn't pull 'im back by the coat-tails." one fine sunny day the doctor was sitting sketching a pretty snow scene--ice, mountain, glen, and waterfall, and the boy bounce was lying not far from his feet, facing him. "ahem!" began the boy. "i say, sir." "well, well, well?" cried the doctor, impatiently. "it's a dee-licious morning--ain't it, sir?" the surgeon made no reply, but went on sketching. "think the frost'll hold, sir?" the doctor looked up now--he knew boy bounce's ways. "what else have you to say, boy, eh? out with it." "oh, nothing sir, only there's been a bear a-squatting yonder, and a-lookin' at ye for the last five minutes, and maybe he's going to spring." dr barrett sprang first though. the monster was within thirty yards of him. he seized boy bounce's rifle, and next moment bruin rolled over the ledge dead at their feet. "why didn't you hit him, you young goose?" "cause as 'ow, sir," said boy bounce, coolly, "you told me never to do nought 'athout first consulting you." "is it a bear?" said paddy, rushing to the scene of action. "well," replied the doctor, smiling as he resumed his work, "it is something very like it, paddy." "sure and it's meself ought to have killed him, and not that young spalpeen bounce." boy bounce smiled and took all the credit, and paddy at once set about taking bruin out of his jacket, singing to himself some wild irish lilt as he did so. there was one other individual who attached himself to these sleighing expeditions, who had really no business there, namely, the noble deerhound fingal. i have no idea what induced him to do so, unless it was to constitute himself captain over the two teams of dogs, and to enjoy good sport among the arctic foxes, to say nothing of the grand galloping he had. fingal used to fly along at the head of the foremost team, keeping well beyond reach, however, of the leader's fangs and of the driver's cracking thong. he used to hunt the foxes on his own account all day, and spent his whole night in keeping them off the camp. there is no end to the impudence these little animals possess, especially when snow is on the ground. they are then mostly white. i have an idea that, like scotch hares, they change their colour with the season of the year; at all events, in summer they are of many different hues, and they then keep farther away from the habitations of men. at night, in snow time, they are singularly annoying. they yelp and yap, and howl and fight, and unless you are very tired indeed, sleep is all but impossible. if you fire at one and wound it, the chances are he will not run off if he could. you march up to club him, and he grins and whines and fawns at you in the most ridiculous manner; in fact, he _argues with you_. well, what _can_ you do with a wounded animal who argues with you? you cannot brain him. no, you simply retire, feeling mightily ashamed of yourself for having fired at him. wounded monkeys have this same trick, and several other animals i could name. camping out by the river thames in the sweet summer-time, and camping in the shelter of a rock on the snowfields of the far north, are two very different things. the members of dr barrett's sledging parties and the doctor himself slept in the sledges; slept with their bodies in warm flannel-lined bags, with rags over this, and rags right over their heads. even then it was bitterly, oppressively cold. the men of the _icebear_ used to envy jack and joe, the eskimo indians, who slept on the snow near their dogs with no other covering except the clothes they had worn during the day. fingal, poor fellow, never rested by night--if night i dare call it, with the sun ablaze in the sky--he was constantly roaming round the camp doing sentry duty, and keeping off the gangs of foxes. often a horrid yelling would awaken all hands, and, on looking up, fingal would be seen shaking a fox as sarah jane shakes a mat or a carpet skin. one evening in may, when the sun was declining, or taking his dip towards the lower part of the northern sky, clouds began to bank rapidly up from the south-west. it had been clear and frosty before this. it soon grew quite dusk. the clouds were very dense and very black--in great rolling masses that certainly threatened something most unusual. dr barrett gazed with some uneasiness at the gathering storm. in less than half an hour the sky was entirely obscured, and the wind, which had blown at first as if to place the clouds in position, fell dead. so for a time matters remained, the clouds still in shapeless masses rolling around among each other without any apparent cause. gradually, however, they lost shape, and the whole firmament merged into one unbroken vault of darkest grey. then pellets of snow, not bigger than millet seeds, began to fall, faster and faster and faster. dr barrett gave orders for the camp to be made up at once, and supper to be cooked. the snow-pellets merged into great flakes larger than crown pieces, and it grew darker and darker. then there was a thunder-clap that appeared to shake the very earth. darker still. what with the gloom of this abnormal night, and the falling snow, the men could hardly see each other's faces. the thunder was now loud, awful, incessant; the lightning spread all round among the still fast-descending snow. it was lightning of a sort you never see except in greenland. you are enveloped in the blaze; it is around and above you everywhere--a white, dazzling bath of flame. poor byarnie knelt beside the sledge, and buried his head in his hands. the giant was praying, paddy crossed himself, and boy bounce began to cry. meanwhile the doctor sat on a bundle of bags, stolidly smoking, and fingal crouched close to his feet; and ever, in the intervals of the thunder-claps and their awful reverberation among the mountains, was heard the melancholy howling of the sledge dogs. "d'ye think, sorr," said paddy o'connell, touching the doctor gently on the sleeve,--"d'ye think there's any danger at all, at all?" "the danger is this, paddy," replied the doctor: "the snow is very soft and powdery. we are thirty miles from the ship; and if it comes on to blow, we will never reach her alive." "then, the lord help me mother and me poor sister biddy," said paddy, piously. but some time after midnight the thunderstorm retired, growling over the distant hills, and with it went every cloud. then oh! to see the beauty of the newly fallen snow, its purity, its whiteness, its stars of many shapes and ever-changing colours of light and radiance. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ after two days of a wind that blew steadily from the south, the silence of that great inland sea was suddenly broken. you might have imagined you were on some great battle-field, there was a constant series of rifle-like reports in all directions, with now and then a louder report, as if a piece of artillery had been discharged. and amid these ominous sounds you could hear, as it were, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying. it was the breaking up of the inland sea of ice, and the noise continued for a whole day, and still the soft wind blew from the south. chapter eighteen. "summer comes with one glad bound"--fire! spring or early summer is to all a season of hope and joy, but no one who has never lived in the drear cold regions around the pole in winter could understand or appreciate the glad feeling that is born in the heart when the sun once more ascends his throne and rules triumphant in all the land. some reason or other may be ascribed for all religions and forms of worship, even the most heathenish; and i have never been astonished to see a pious eskimo indian with his family kneel or throw himself on his face before the god of day, though i have felt sorry for him and for them. "but yonder comes the powerful king of day, rejoicing in the east. the lessening cloud, the kindling azure, and the mountains' brow illumed with fluid gold, his near approach betoken glad. he looks in boundless majesty abroad and sheds the shining day, that burnished play, on rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams high-gleaming from afar." summer seemed to come to the rocks and hills around the sea of dunallan with one glad bound. there were some few days of fog or mist, so dense that it was impossible even to see the point of the jibboom. this fog was, as it were, the curtain of nature's great theatre, dropped for a time while the grand transformation scene was being put on the stage behind it. then it was withdrawn--lifted, and behold summer on the hills, summer in the glens. glad streams and cataracts sparkling in the sunshine, the mountain-tops capped in silvery snow, streaks of silver running down their brown, white-flecked sides, but the ground all carpeted with green, which in a few days burst forth into the most charming variety of colours. the sea itself was scarcely rippled by the gentle breeze that blew steadily from the west; the air was so fresh and balmy that it was a pleasure to breathe it. everything seemed to feel the touch of the newly come summer, and to rejoice. flocks of birds of innumerable varieties went wheeling and circling round the ship, or floated on the water; there was music even in their wild glad shrieks. many a black head, too, popped up out of the water, some tusked and bearded, some as awful as a nightmare. and seals basked on the sunny side of the rocks, or on the sandy beach; while bears by the dozen and score prowled round, warily watching their chance to spring upon and make prey of these innocents. the bears seemed now to have no fear of man. nor did they appear anxious to attack any one; they were no longer an-hungered. the snow awnings were now taken down from the decks, a general spring cleaning was instituted, and, after this, even winter garments were put aside, and the men looked gay and felt happy in consequence. but for all this, the temperature was seldom a degree above degrees; and if ever it reached degrees, the men thought it uncomfortably hot. alba, the snow-bird, had pined a great deal during the long, dark winter day, and seldom cared to leave the cabin; but now she went screaming and flying all round the ship as if mad with joy, and hardly could claude tell her from the other birds of the same genus, only she usually came when called. fingal, when not on the war-path, used to lie on the snow-white deck and gasp, with about a quarter of a yard of crimson tongue lolling indolently out of his mouth. the doctor continued busy as ever, only the sledges were put away, and all expeditions had now to be undertaken on foot. very much to claude's surprise, they came one day in their wanderings, while a very long way from the ship, on a herd of tiny horned bisons quietly browsing on the sweet mosses in a wild glen. the strange creatures lifted their heads and sniffed the air as claude and paddy o'connell approached, but it was surprise, not fear, they exhibited. claude waited till the doctor and his party came up. "what are they, in the name of mystery?" asked claude. "they are musk oxen, without a doubt," was the reply; "but i never saw such small ones before. they are dwarfs of their species. truly this is a land of wonders. there is certainly," he continued, "no geological reason why these animals should not be here, only--" "look here, doctor," cried claude, "while you are preaching to paddy there, i'll have a shot." "by all means, let us have a specimen." "and troth," said paddy, "we'll have a specimen for the cook's coppers, doctor dear, as well as for the good of science." at the very first rifle shot, one of their number bit the dust; but, strange to say, the others fled not. they looked wild and startled, and in dread terror they sniffed at the blood of their dead companion, but they stood still. another was shot, and another; then at last there was a wild stampede, not from, but down _towards_ our sportsmen. were they charging to take revenge on the murderers of their companions? claude thought so. the surgeon knew better. "stand aside quickly!" he cried. hardly had they rushed a little way up the bank ere the whole herd rolled past. paddy had a parting shot, but missed, and looked very foolish. fingal could scarcely be restrained from going in pursuit. he thought he could easily pull at least one down, seeing they were but little bigger than newfoundland dogs. deer there were now among the hills in abundance, hares, and a strange kind of rabbit, that even dr barrett had never seen before. on the great lake itself, sport was to be had in abundance. jack and joe astonished every one by their marvellous dexterity in harpooning the huge and ferocious bladder-nose seal (_stemmatopus crisatus_), the sea bear (_ursus marinus_), the little _atak_, and the walrus himself. not from the boats of the _icebear_, however, did these wonderful indians work. no, for they built themselves kayaks, or light canoes, made principally of hide, and so light you could lift one with a single hand or wear it as a hat. in these frail skiffs they would venture for miles out to sea, and they seldom came back without an animal of some kind. but once jack came home without joe. "where is joe?" asked claude. "joe? you asked for my brooder?" "yes, your brother," replied claude. "oh!" said jack, indifferently, "he toomble up plenty quick. no can turn hims kayak again. p'r'aps he go drown, ha! ha?" it had never occurred to jack to go to his brother's assistance. when taxed with his callousness-- "what for i go?" he replied. "no plenty good. p'r'aps jack he catchee my kayak, and den we bof on us toomble. no, no, not plenty good enough." "call away the whalers," bawled claude. "call both away, mr lloyd." there was a trampling of feet, and a rattling of blocks and tackle, and in two minutes both took the water with a plash. "a guinea to the first boat that reaches the kayak," cried claude. there was a race on then--a very exciting one, though only to save the life of a poor eskimo indian. the kayak could be distinctly seen from the masthead, with poor deserted joe clinging to it. claude went himself to the crow's-nest, to guide the boats by means of the long fan used for such purpose by greenland-going ships. the poor fellow was at length rescued, very much exhausted. by the time he had reached the ship, however, what with the warm sunshine and a stimulant the spectioneer had administered to him, joe was all right and smiling. but his brother jack, as soon as joe came on board, pointed at him a stern finger of reproof. "i 'shamed o' you," he said. "i 'shamed o' you proper. you not can turn your kayak, ha! ha! you no true indian. suppose one shark snap your two legs off, dat do you plenty mooch good. bah!" the summer passed away only too quickly; it passed, but not in vain, for dr barrett had done much good for the cause of science; and, reader, science always does or always should bring us nearer to him who made all things and rules over them by unchangeable laws that he knows are good, whatever we finite beings may dare to imagine. the summer passed; claude and all his crew had enjoyed splendid sport. i wish i had space to tell of the adventures they had, some of them wild enough in all conscience. but while enjoying themselves there had been no neglect of duty, with one sad, solitary exception presently to be mentioned. "i am very glad to say," remarked dr barrett, one evening at dinner, "that i have succeeded in doing about all i believe that our learned friends in england wanted me to do, thanks to your good judgment, captain alwyn, in steering us to this wondrous country." "and so am i glad also," replied claude. he was thinking of home just then. "let me see," continued the doctor, musingly, "i have collected quite a museum of specimens of arctic flora and even fauna. to the lichen world i have, i think, added not a few species hitherto unknown. i have taken observations of every conceivable kind; there is a record of them in my notes. i have, or, pardon me for my egotism, we have discovered coal--that is of little use, perhaps; iron--that exists everywhere; tin--that is more to the purpose; silver and gold, and these are better still. we have also," he went on, "found the bones of extinct mammals, and the evidences on all sides that at one time the hills around us, or hills like them, were covered with forest and fern, and inhabited by a race of animals that we human beings too often, i think, call inferior. we have, moreover--" "i beg your pardon, sir," said the steward. "may i speak to you half a minute?" the doctor followed him into the steerage. he soon returned, looking serious and vexed. "beast!" he muttered. "i hope," said claude, "there is no one in this ship deserves that title, doctor." "will you come and see for yourself, sir?" "i will." claude followed the doctor out to the steerage and into the dispensary. there he pointed to an almost empty bottle of brandy. he said nothing. "do you mean me to infer," said claude, "that one of my crew has been guilty of a theft so vile?" the doctor nodded. "and who?" "who but datchet?" "mr lloyd," shouted alwyn, "bring datchet before me to-morrow morning." datchet was duly punished, dr barrett, however, begging mitigation of sentence on the plea that he had left temptation in the man's way. time went on, and everything was got ready for a start. in a few more days the order would be, "up anchor, and hey for merrie england!" all hands were happy. small wonder at that. it was friday night. the _icebear_ would sail on the monday, the stores having still to be got on board from the house on shore. friday night is, in many northern ships, held somewhat _en gala_, as the day is a salt-fish day, so to-night there was a huge sea-pie cooked for the half-deck officers, and several such for the men forward. everything seemed propitious as regards the weather, for though dense fogs had prevailed for a week or two--it was early in august--the sky was now clear and the glass slowly but steadily rising. so the men were right merry. paddy o'connell had never appeared to such advantage. the boy bounce was even allowed to tell a story and sing a london street ballad; while big byarnie sat in a corner, beaming over with gigantic smiles. but by ten o'clock sounds were hushed, and all hands in bed fore and aft. there was not now a sound to break the stillness, for the solitary sentry had gone below to smoke by the galley fire. an hour passed away; then a solitary figure might have been seen creeping aft on hands and knees. two hours. the captain is sleeping sound; his hand is over the coverlet. into this hand a cold wet nose is thrust. "go away and sleep, fingal," he mutters. but the dog whines, and finally barks, and then claude starts up, fully awake now. see, across the cabin yonder is the reflection of a strange light in the glass! he springs to the deck and rushes to the door, which is open. there is fire in the store-closet between his cabin and the wardroom. fire in the spirit-store! ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, went the bell two strokes to the second. ding, ding, ding, ding, and in a minute the whole ship is alive. chapter nineteen. the burning of the "icebear." all hands worked steadily, willingly, and well. there was not a sound to be heard, except the roar of the flames, the tramping of feet, an occasional word of command, and the steady clank, clank of the little pumping engine. no noise, no bustle, no confusion on board the burning ship. the flames had soon gained mastery over the captain's cabin, and over the wardroom as well, for the fire seemed to spread on both sides. claude was walking slowly up and down the deck, 'twixt main and foremast, quietly superintending everything. that he was here, and here only, showed the perfect confidence he had in his men and officers to carry out the terrible duties now imposed upon them. smoke and flames were pouring up through the companions aft, and it was evident that that portion of the ship was doomed. claude was hoping against hope. were the cabin and wardroom only destroyed and the fire here checked, the hull and the fore-part of the ship would be but little injured, and the voyage home be, after all, made in safety. the greatest danger of all rested in the fact that the magazine, containing a very considerable quantity of gunpowder and gun-cotton, lay close to--almost _in_--the seat of fire, and so quickly had the flames spread that it had been found impossible to remove the stores without the almost certainty of exploding the whole. so among the first orders given was for a volunteer to carry the end of the hose along the lower deck and flood the magazine. boy bounce was the first to spring forward. "can we trust him, mr lloyd?" "certainly, sir." "and i'm so small, you know; i can walk where a big 'un would 'ave to creep, sir." the boy seemed a long time gone, but he crawled back at last, and fell senseless at lloyd's feet. he was badly burned about the hands and even face, but as soon as he came to himself he went on working with the rest. hours flew by, one, two, three; still the fire raged; still the men worked steadily on. all seemed going well, when suddenly the wind shifted, and almost at the same time the smoke and flames came roaring forward, and one mast caught fire. the crew were driven from the pumps, and for the first time something like a panic spread fore and aft. it was evident now that the ship could not be saved. all further attempts at pumping were abandoned, and all hands set to work to remove stores. unfortunately, two of the boats that hung on davits aft were lost, so that only two remained. one of these boats was commanded by mcdonald, the other by dr barrett, claude and lloyd determining to remain on board till the bitter end. how bitter that end was to be no one could have guessed. all the stores that could, with apparent safety, be got out were landed; the boats were returning to the ship. claude had calculated that hours must elapse before the vessel blew up, or that she might sink without an explosion. orders had just been issued for the men to stand by to embark in the boats with regularity and quietness, when suddenly the after-part of the ship was blown up with fearful violence; masts, spars, deck, rigging, and bulwarks flew skywards, in a fountain of crimson flame. the sea was covered with the wreckage, and the _icebear_ began rapidly to sink stern foremost. "give way, men," shouted dr barrett. "give way with a will to the rescue." let the curtain drop over the terrible scene. suffice it to say that everything that man can do, or heroes accomplish, was done and dared by those in the boats to save their friends and messmates from drowning, and from worse--from being devoured by sharks; but out of all that crew of men, who, only a few short hours before, had been peacefully slumbering, and dreaming, perchance, of home and happiness, only thirty answered to their names that morning in the shore-house. some of these, too, were badly wounded, and nearly all exhausted. poor lloyd was among the drowned, so was warren, the second mate, and both pipes and chips had gone to their account. big byarnie had been sent ashore with one of the first boats. he was a giant to work, and did about three men's duty in unloading. he had taken the sea-birds with him. fingal had, dog-like, stayed with his master, and swam all the way to the shore with him after the explosion. boy bounce came floating on shore stride-legs on a spar, propelling himself with half an oar, which he had managed to pick up somehow or other. there was so much life and enthusiasm about paddy o'connell, that it is almost needless to say he got ashore. "somehow," said paddy; but how, he couldn't remember at all. a great fire was made in the shore-house, and the men who had been taken out of the water rendered as comfortable as circumstances would permit. when breakfast had been served and discussed--there was no ceremony now, no distinction between officers and men, those poor mariners in their terrible plight having formed themselves into a little republic--claude and dr barrett went out together. they walked for a time in silence up and down the beach, claude hardly daring to cast a glance seawards where the wreckage still was floating. the doctor was the first to speak. "this is a sad ending to all our hopes," he said slowly. "i cannot as yet realise it," replied claude. "my poor men! my poor men!" there were tears in his eyes as he spoke, tears of which he had no reason to be ashamed. dr barrett pressed his hand. "i am older than you," he said; "let me beseech you not to repine. it is almost cheering for me to think that the bitterness of death is past for those dear brave hearts who, remember, captain alwyn, died doing their duty nobly and manfully." "true, true, dr barrett; theirs must be a merciful judgment: but the drunken brute who caused this terrible accident!" "stay, sir, stay; he too is in god's hand. we cannot, dare not, set bounds or limits to his mercy. let us turn our thoughts to him, then," continued the doctor. "we have to submit to whatever is before us. we _must_ pray, `thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.'" "yes," replied claude, "but that portion of the beautiful prayer our saviour taught has always seemed to me more difficult than any other to utter from the heart while in grief or expecting grief." "i know it, captain claude alwyn, i know it. there are few kinds of grief in this world i have not tasted the bitterness of. but come," he went on, "you and i are still the chiefs of this expedition. let us, even now, bravely face the situation. let us see how we stand." "we are imprisoned in a living grave." "not quite so bad as that, my friend." "well, dr barrett, what do you propose?" "shortly this. we have still stores on shore here, but we must supplement them despatch one boat at once; if she returns before the snow falls, well and good. send her back for a further supply; if the snow falls ere she returns, do not wait, but despatch the sledges across country. as we are about one hundred miles south of the inlet, the sledges will take the short cut, and reach the cave stores in shorter time than the boat can." "good. i will lose no time, and as soon as our poor fellows are buried--" he paused and glanced seawards. "my dear captain alwyn," said the doctor, "our poor fellows are already buried; that water swarms with sharks." [note .] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ claude himself went in charge of the boat to visit the _kittywake_ stores. there would be, he reasoned with himself, about three hundred miles of water to row or sail over. the tide, however, that swept up and down the long creek which joined the ocean to the inland sea, had all the force of a mill-stream. he determined, therefore, to take advantage of that, and on his voyage out to anchor alongside the banks during the flow, and rush onward when the tide was ebbing. he returned to the camp far sooner than he had expected. he returned empty. a bridge of ice and snow had been encountered which, no doubt, extended all the way to the sea. "and so, even if my poor vessel had not been doomed to destruction, it would have been impossible to get clear this year." so spoke claude. "true, true," said dr barrett, "and now we must depend upon the sledges to bring us supplies from the stores. but," he added, "it is only right i should tell you what i think, captain alwyn--" "and that is?" "that they, too, will return empty." this melancholy surmise of dr barrett turned out far too true. they waited till the snow fell. then, in charge of the spectioneer, who had been among the saved, and mr mcdonald, third mate, the sledges set out. as usual, fingal trotted off with the rest. even to those in the sledges, the time seemed long. their adventures were many, the whole journey a toilsome and perilous one. but the goal was gained at last. there was the signal pole on the cliff top that had been raised to guide the _kittywake_ towards the creek, but where was the creek itself? _nowhere to be seen_. it had been frozen over in the winter, and the ravine, at the bottom of which it lay, filled entirely and completely level with snow. to find or even to guess at the whereabouts of the cave where the stores were buried under such circumstances was quite out of the question. a thousand men could hardly have found and rescued them. if the time seemed long for those who went on this expedition, it was doubly tedious for those who waited their return. at last, one evening, about sunset, amid thickly falling snow, fingal came bounding into camp. claude knew the sledges could not be far away. all rushed out to meet them. alas! and alas! for hope seemed to die even in dr barrett's heart at the dire news. they brought two bears, and these were cut in pieces and stored. "what is to be done now?" said claude. "are we to die like rats in a hole?" "not, i think," was the reply, "without making one last effort to save ourselves. were it the summer, we could live at all events as long as ammunition lasted, but we have hardly food enough to serve us to spring-time. so i propose that we get ready at once, that we provision the sledges, and make an attempt to reach the semi-eskimo, semi-danish settlement of sturmstadt." "it will be a terrible journey." "it will, indeed, but both jack and joe know the way. i have talked to them. their people have come on the hunting-path within a hundred miles of this place." "_for_ myself, i care not," said claude; "but i grieve to think of my poor fellows, perhaps sinking and dying by the way. would it not be almost better to rough it here through another winter, then, when the snow is gone, to walk the journey? every day would then be bringing us into a warmer and better climate." "no, captain, it would not, and for this one of many reasons. if we take the journey now we can go in almost a straight line, for the creeks and streams will be frozen over in a few days. in summer we know not what _detours_ we might not have to make, what streams or rivers to ford or even swim." "i will be guided by your experience," said claude. early next morning, outside the wooden tent, paddy o'connell and boy bounce were heard talking together loudly and excitedly. "is it true what you're telling me, and sorra a word av a lie in it?" "which i walked all the way over, and ran all the way back to see," was the boy's reply. "och! bladderips!" roared paddy; "och! the thieving spalpeens! bad cess to them evermore. sure if i had them i'd break every bone in their durty bodies. i'd murder every mother's son or the two o' them." he entered the tent as he spoke. "i know what you've come to say, paddy," said claude: "the eskimos have taken the sledges and deserted us." "true for you, sorr," said paddy. "it's all up wid us now, sorr. sure i could tear me hair and cry; and it isn't for meself either, sorr, i'd be after crying, but for me poor mother and biddy." "this is, indeed, terrible news, doctor," said claude. the doctor whistled a few bars of an operatic air thoughtfully before he made reply. "it may be all for the best, you know. hope, sir, hope, _hope_, _hope_. "`hope is a better companion than fear; providence, ever benignant and kind, gives with a smile what you take with a tear. all will be right; let us look to the light. morning is ever the daughter of night. cheerily, cheerily, then, cheer up!'" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ note . the _scymnus borealis_. some of these monsters obtain a length of nearly twenty feet, and at certain seasons of the year the sea in some places swarms with them. they are gregarious, and never fail to appear when men are drowning or seals being killed. they are terribly fierce and voracious. chapter twenty. sorrows never come singly. however cheerful dr barrett might try to appear, he was far from feeling easy at heart. hopeless he was not. he had seen too much of the world--the wide world, i mean--he had faced too many dangers not to know that there is seldom or never real reason to throw up one's arms in despair. but it behoved him to assume an air of cheerfulness, even under the distressing circumstances in which he and his companions were now plunged. the survivors of the unhappy _icebear_ were all his patients, all his charge and care, and he well knew the depressing effects of despondency, so he determined to do his duty, and keep up their hearts if possible. "give the men something to do," he said to claude on the same morning the news of the desertion of the eskimos had been brought to camp by busy boy bounce. "i'll overhaul stores to begin with." "good?" said the doctor. "and during the time yen are working i'll get on the top of the bench and play the fiddle to them." it may seem a menial kind of duty for a surgeon to fiddle to a ship's crew; nevertheless, duty it was, and the doctor did it. and the men were pleased; the gloomy shadows left their brows; their eyes grew brighter; they even laughed and joked a little as they worked, and i'm quite sure they got through the task in half the time. a good dinner followed. the cook, poor fellow, had been drowned, but he found a worthy successor in busy boy bounce. boy bounce to-day had made some excellent pea-soup. it was a good thing for these unfortunate sailors that this house and camp had been built on shore, and that it contained all the necessaries for cooking, etc, that they were likely to want. after the soup came preserved potatoes and pork, to say nothing of a delightful frizzly relish of young seal's liver. then all felt happier and more hopeful. there would be at least a whole month of daylight yet, though every day would be much shorter than its predecessor. then light would leave them, and merge into the long, long polar night. as long as there was anything like a day, the men were employed fishing and hunting. the bears had not yet left, and sometimes a deer was met with. why some of these animals should occasionally be left behind the migrating flock is a great puzzle. are they too delicate for the journey south, or are they left behind for punishment? the bears that meant remaining were already seeking holes and caves. the doctor knew their tricks and their manners, and had every likely hole and corner searched, often by torchlight, and several fine specimens were thus unearthed. the brutes always showed fight, and some fierce hand to hand encounters (if i may so name them) were the consequence. but the days grew shorter, and, despite all that dr barrett could do, a gloom settled down on the minds of the men that nothing seemed able to dispel. even paddy o'connell himself lost heart. "och! sure," he said one day, "it is our graves we are in already, and it's little use there is in trying to prolong our existence." dr barrett took him aside. "paddy," he said, "you must help me to keep up the men's spirits. i depend upon you. i am doing _my_ best. help me. will you?" the tears rushed to the good fellow's eyes. "doctor dear," he exclaimed, "i'd lay down my life to plaze ye, and it's the truth i'm telling you." "well, my good honest fellow, there needn't be any laying down of lives, only just you keep up _your_ heart, and i'll lay a wager the men will be merry enough, and that is half the battle. i will not conceal from you, paddy," continued the doctor, "that there is a hard struggle before us, a struggle perhaps for bare existence, but with god's help we'll get through it and conquer." "'deed, then, and well try, sorr." "yes, paddy; and if the worst comes to the worst, we have but once to die, you know." "true for ye, sorr. i never heard of any one dying twice, sorr." "no, paddy. and now you are my assistant--aren't you?" he extended his hand as he spoke, and paddy grasped it with the grip of a vice. but paddy did not speak, because there was a big lump in his throat. only from that moment the doctor and he understood each other. another faithful fellow whom the doctor greatly depended on was giant byarnie. so now, virtually, the four heads of the expedition were claude, the doctor, paddy, and byarnie. they used to hold little meetings by themselves, apart from the others, and talk together of their prospects. "if everything goes fairly well," said dr barrett one day, "what with rigid economy and no waste, we will manage to weather the winter, be it ever so hard." "what say you to bear-steak, captain alwyn?" "delicious, i'm sure, with hunger as sweet sauce." "well, we can have that in abundance, and we have, or can have, fish all the weary winter. the biscuit is scarce, but we have peas, and--" "and tobacco, sorr," put in paddy. "right you are, paddy. for that we ought to be thankful indeed.--what i lament most," continued the doctor, "is that our casks of cabbage have gone bad, and that we have saved no lime-juice from the burning ship. however," he added more cheerfully, "let us keep our minds easy, and hope for the best. how are the birds, byarnie?" "in fine wing, sir, the two that are left, for one died, you know, sir. but these are the strongest two, and were miss meta's favourites." it was determined to start them both--both to bear the self-same message. claude would not willingly have brought a tear to meta's eyes to own a throne, but it was agreed between the doctor and him that the best plan was to tell the whole truth, to hide nothing of the terrible extremities to which they were reduced. and claude took his advice, and with that message of love which those strong-winged birds bore away south with them, was something like a farewell, a long farewell, and a fear that, on earth, he--claude--would never meet his love again. "i think i can face death more bravely now," said claude. "and i too," was the reply. it will be seen that even dr barrett lacked the complete hope of being able to fight against the fearful odds before them. the men were set to work at the mines, but they did so with very little heart indeed. what is the good, they said, of slaving here like coal-heavers, for gold that can never benefit either ourselves or our families? faddy came to claude as spokesman. claude himself went personally to the men. he assured them that every nugget of gold they found would be their own; that they were now shipwrecked mariners; that they were to some extent, therefore, free agents, and could, if they chose, throw over allegiance to him, their former captain. "no, sir," the men cried, "we will never do that. we have lived together happily and cheerily enough, let us die together." "who talks of dying?" cried paddy o'connell. "sure we'll never die at all, at all. is it because the winter is with us, and darkness all around us, that we'd go and cry like a choild that has been sent to bed widout a light? troth, men, it's meself that's ashamed av ye entoirely. won't the sun come back and shine down on us wid de blessing o' heaven in a few or three months? then won't we take our guns under our arms and go marching thro' the country as bould as inniskilling dragoons? and won't there be such sport and such fun all the way south, as you never had the loikes of before? and sure, won't we reach the say at last, and go off in some ship or another to england and oirland? and och! won't our wives and sweethearts, if we've got any, be glad to see us just--the darlints that they thought they'd never see in loife again, because the big whales av greenland had eaten them up? and sure, won't me own dear mother, and biddy my sister, and the pig, the crayture, go wild wid the joy that'll be on to them when they see their patrick march in at the door again! hooch! hurrah! it's myself that's as happy as a king wid the thoughts av it all." paddy's speech had even greater effect in keeping up the men's spirits than had claude's. they resumed their work more cheerfully, and paddy constantly led them with song or with joke. lectures and concerts were resumed in the wooden tent, now their sole abode. but the singing lacked spirit, and the dancing was _nil_. they say that sorrows seldom come singly. it appeared even now, in december, that the proverb would hold good in the case of those forlorn mariners. for the winter turned out to be one of awful gloom and darkness. the aurora, that shone with such radiance the winter before, now showed only occasionally, and that only as a faint white glimmer among the clouds. no moon or stars were ever seen. sometimes, for a week at a time, the snow fell and the wind raged with such fearful and bitter force as to preclude the possibility of any one ever putting his head beyond the threshold of the door on pain of instant suffocation. at such times it taxed all the energies of claude and the doctor, and even of paddy himself, to keep the men from sinking into utter despondency. even fingal, and alba the snow-bird, seemed to partake of a portion of the general gloom. fingal lying quietly in his corner, dreaming, perhaps, of the bonnie heather hills of scotland; and alba, with drooping wings--her head under one--perched over claude's couch. chapter twenty one. a terrible time--the doctor's dream--the wondrous mirage. it was the month of mid-winter. sickness had come at last; the sickness that is born of privation and absence of vegetable food. the younger and more weakly of the men were first to succumb. they lost heart, felt weary, tired, depressed. they refused to work. even dr barrett could not find it in his heart to force them. they grew pale and thin, even to emaciation, and their dilated pupils glittered on their sunken eyeballs. their stronger companions tried to cheer them, ay, and many a time went without food themselves to give it to them. one dropped dead, and was carried away and buried in the ice-hole. "buried by the light of glaring torches," buried at sea you may call it,--a sailor's funeral, but what a sad one! it was magnus jansen, a fair-haired shetland lad, who had been a great favourite with his messmates, owing to his kind and gentle nature and his ever willingness to oblige. "we commit his body to the deep," read claude, "looking for the resurrection, when the sea shall give up her dead;" and more than one horny hand was raised to brush away a tear, as with deep and sullen plash the body sank into the sea. two more died in a week--died apparently of utter despondency and weariness. "i shall soon see the light," were the last words of one of these. he just smiled faintly, and passed away. three more in a fortnight. they nearly all seemed to go in the same way, of utter debility and hopelessness. byarnie was nurse-in-chief. he was always with them to the last; the great giant kneeling down beside their pallets, and breathing in their dying ears words that it is to be hoped often deprived even death of its victory. more than one died leaning against byarnie's broad breast. i have already said that byarnie's big fat face was far from handsome. ah! but it was _so_ honest; and had you seen him there by the bedsides of those dying sailors, you would have said that his face shone at times with almost a heavenly light. another, and still another, was borne slowly away to the ice-hole. then it seemed as if death was for a time satiated, and had claimed victims enough. for almost the first time this winter, the sky cleared, the stars shone like emeralds through the frosty glow, the moon put in an appearance, casting long shadows across the snowfields, from those who walked out. there was the aurora, too, a brighter display than any one ever remembered witnessing. away in the north, and overhead, the ever-changing colours shimmered and danced in a way that was magical, marvellous, and it seemed at times that you had but to put up your hand and touch the broad fringes of light that danced and flickered before your eyes. the sight of the sky evidently gave the men some heart, some hope. but after a week the stars and aurora disappeared, and the darkness of a polar night once more descended on the scene. with so many ill, with so many dead, it would have been but a mockery now to venture on anything approaching to gaiety or merriment. even paddy felt that; and though, like boy bounce, ever earnest, and energetic, and kind, he went about his work quieter and more subdued than probably he had ever been in his life before. instead of lecturing, dr barrett used in the evenings now to read books to his people; often books of a religious character, though not of the gloomy kind, but rather those that spoke of a father's love, and carried the thoughts away and away to that bright land where there shall be no more sorrow or crying. one morning in march, dr barrett appeared more than usually cheerful. there were now so many sick that hardly could those in comparative health attend to their wants. "i've had a dream," the doctor explained. "no," he added, smiling, "i shall not tell you what it is. you will know by-and-by, for my dream may not come true. byarnie," he said, "i'm going mining after breakfast. the morning is still and fine, and there are a lot of stars out. bring tools and a few men with you." "going mining?" said claude, in some surprise. "yes, mining, captain; but not for gold this time, but for what is ten times more precious--for health. get ready, byarnie, and we'll want torches, as well as a bucket." "you excite my curiosity," said claude. "may i go along with you?" "you'll do me pleasure." straight along the south coast of the inland sea went dr barrett, byarnie following up with his men. for more than half a mile he trudged on without looking either to the right or left. then he stopped just under a cliff, or rather a rounded braeland. "now, men, clear away the snow from the ice close to the edge." "i think it was here i saw them in my dream," he added, turning to claude. "i'm all in a fog," said claude. the snow was not very deep, and the ice was soon cleared. "now light up your torches, and you other men smash the ice and clear a big hole. no fear of drowning; the tide is well back." this was a more difficult task, but it was accomplished at last, all the more easily because there was no water beneath. "see anything down there?" the doctor asked of a man who had just lifted up a huge piece of ice. "only a thickish kind of seaweed, sir." "all right," cried the doctor, quite jubilant now. "fill this bucket with it." this was done, and soon the whole party reached camp again. "i am to be blamed," said dr barrett, "for not thinking of this marvellous seaweed before. it contains potash in abundance, and while mosses of all kinds are frozen to death on the hillsides, this, you see, survives. our poor fellows, now almost dead of the scurvy, may yet revive." not only those who were sick, but all hands partook of the esculent weed. the sick revived, those in health grew brighter, calmer, and happier. "if our food holds out, i think we may now weather the winter," said dr barrett. "i sincerely trust so," said claude, "and that we may all be well to commence the march." it seemed, however, that fate had still further affliction in store for them, for one day byarnie came to the doctor, and very sad he looked. no less than two casks of meat were found almost putrid, and the store of bears' flesh had also gone bad. this was indeed terrible news. when the third and last cask was opened it was found like the others, unfit even for the food of starving men! tinned meat was all they now had to depend upon, and there was very little of that; so they must go on short allowance at once. the men were far less cheerful after this, and the summer, that but yesterday had appeared so near at hand, was now apparently an illimitable distance away. another expedition was made to the caves among the hills, in the endeavour to find another bear. all in vain. hope now sunk in every heart. even the doctor himself, who had struggled so long, began to feel that the time was not far distant when he too must succumb, must lie down and--die. it was april, another month, another long, long four weeks--and early summer and sunshine would come and bring back with them the birds--the grebe, the auk, the wild duck and guillemot. two more had been added to the list of the dead. the boy bounce fell ill. "we are not going to let the boy die," said one of the men. "it is food he wants. let us make a subscription." the subscription was made. everybody gave a morsel of something for the poor boy, and his allowance came to be double instead of half big byarnie even gave up his blanket, and just slept a little closer to the fire and hugged fingal. poor boy bounce lived, and began cooking again, though in this matter, unfortunately, his labour was not now very arduous. claude was looking very pallid and worn; he did not speak much, he suffered in silence. the men would have fain had their captain to live better than they did, but he would not hear of such a thing. besides, he gave away a goodly portion of his meagre allowance to poor fingal. for fingal was ill. indeed, claude knew that fingal was dying, and the faithful old fellow appeared to know it himself. one day the hound was very much weaker, very much worse, and claude knew the end was very near. he was sitting by the couch on which the dog lay. alba, the snow-bird, jealous perhaps of her master's attentions to fingal, came and perched upon his shoulder. claude took the bird in his hands and slowly rose to his feet. "for once, alba," he said, "i must send you off." then he handed her to one of the men. "take her to the aviary." this was all he said. but he went back and knelt by fingal's bed. why did he put the bird away? those of my readers who love dogs will understand and appreciate his reasons: there was always a slight rivalry between the bird and the dog, and claude would have grieved to let fingal in his last moments feel that aught stood between his master's heart and his. as claude returned, fingal recognised him. he attempted to rise, tried even to crawl towards him, and in doing so fell. claude raised him--how light he was!--and replaced him in the softest part of his couch. then he sat beside his dying favourite with one arm over his shoulder. fingal knew he was there. he fell quietly and gently asleep. it was that sleep from which nor dogs nor men ever awaken. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the time rolled drearily on, and at length the sun rose, and the days got rapidly longer and longer; but starvation had done its work. not that more died, but several were down with sheer debility, all were weak and poor, claude could no longer stand. paddy o'connell held out, so did byarnie and the doctor, but the latter was quieter far than of yore. "the sooner," said claude, one day, "the sooner, doctor, it is all over the better." one day from the hill-top, byarnie saw a sight which suddenly struck him with fear and trembling, and sent him on his knees to pray. away in the southern sky, some distance above the horizon, was a wondrous vision. it faded away at last, and then byarnie hurried off to the camp, his clothes wet with the sweat of fear, to report the matter to the doctor. "it is all over with us," he said, "for i have seen a wonderful vision, even as ezekiel did in the days of the olden time." "have you been dreaming?" said dr barrett. "i have not even been asleep," replied byarnie. "i was there on the mountain-top alone, when suddenly in the sky there appeared before my sight this vision, as of men and sledges and dogs moving rapidly across the sky, among the very clouds." "were they all head-down?" "they were all head-down," said byarnie, "which makes the awful vision still more wondrous strange." "bless you, byarnie, for this news," cried the doctor. "hurrah! byarnie, we are saved! we are saved! be they indians, be they savages, they are coming, and we are saved. what you saw, my faithful fellow, was a mirage." chapter twenty two. meta's strange adventures. we are back once again in meta's cottage in iceland. there is but little change here since the day claude bade his betrothed a long farewell. it is evening. yonder by the fire sits one of meta's aunts, working away at her "rock and her reel," as she seemed always working, spinning, spinning, spinning. meta near her, with her zither. she had been playing, but her fingers now lay listlessly on her strings, only now and then some sweet wailing notes and chords were brought out as if the hands were _en rapport_ with her heart. "and you really say you saw him in your dreams, dear auntie?" _whirr--whirr--whirr_, went the wheel. "i saw him," replied the kindly but ancient dame. "i saw him. i can see him now as i saw him in my dream. he is lying on the ground, and his face hardly less pale than the snow." whirr--whirr--it--it. "oh, auntie, don't frighten me, dear!" "but kindly men are kneeling by him. they raise him. he revives. the blood returns to his cheeks. he will live!" "bless you, auntie, bless you!" whirr--whirr went the wheel. the snow-flea in his cage twittered fondly. the raven on his log, which he seemed never to leave, stretched himself a leg at a time, then both wings at once. he was very old, that raven, and poe's looked not more weird, and-- "his mate long dead, his nestlings flown, the moss had o'er his eyrie grown, while all the scenes his youth had known were changed and old." meta plays now; she is more happy. her aunt has given her hope. but somehow she does not play long; she is easily tired now, so she rises and lays aside the instrument, then stands by the window to watch the snowy mountain peaks changing to pink and to purple in the sun's parting rays. summer has fled from the norland hills. the songbirds have gone--the martin, and woodlark, and robin; the wild flowers have faded--the blue geraniums, the pink-eyed diapensias, the daisies, and the purple wild thyme; only the green of the creeping saxifrage bedecks the rocks, and hardy sea-pinks and ferns still grow in the glades and by the brook-sides. but autumn winds sigh mournfully through the leafless birch trees and drooping willows, and rustle the withered leaves of the wild myrtle on the braesides. with a sigh meta turns away from the window. almost at the same time there is a knock at the door, and guielmyun, brother to byarnie, and, like himself, a giant, rushed in. "the bird, the bird?" he cried, "he is--" but meta heard no more. next minute she was standing by the cage. panting, ragged, and wretched-looking and dripping wet was the messenger that had flown so far; but oh, bless it! it bore the little quill that contained the missive of sadness and love. there was no more weariness in meta's looks now, but stern, firm resolve. "i'll save him if i can," she said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "a young lady in the study wants to see _me_?" said professor hodson to his neat-handed waiting-maid. "bless my heart, what a strange thing!" but stranger still, five minutes after this the good old professor was sitting opposite this young lady, and had given orders that no one should come near the door till he rang the bell. "dear me, my dear, _de-ar_ me!" he was saying; "and you really tell me that a sea-bird carried this message all the way from the icy north? but there, there, i see, it is his own handwriting. and yours is a strange, not to say a sad story. but it will all come right in the end--perhaps, you know." "oh, sir!" cried meta, "you will make some effort to save him? you will not let him die in those terrible regions of gloom and desolation?" "gloom and desolation, dear? yes, yes, to be sure, you're quite right; they must be somewhat gloomy and desolate. no morning paper, no morning rolls or hot toast. well, well, we will see in a day or two what can be done. the _kittywake_, too, she has been posted long ago a lost ship and the insurance paid. but even she might turn up, you know. i only say she might. stranger things have happened." meta took the professor's soft white hand as she bade him good-bye in the doorway, and touched it reverently with her lips. "good-bye, my dear, good night. you've got nice lodgings? yes, i think you said you had. good night, good night. god bless you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the _savants_ are assembled in the largest room in the professor's house--a room where lectures are often given and wonderful experiments made, but a cosy room for all that, with two great fires burning in it, and a soft crimson light diffused throughout it from the great candelabra. there is a stranger here to-night--a stranger to us, i mean--a man about fifty, a sailor evidently, from his build and bronze. he is very pleasant in manner and voice; his face is handsome, and his smile strikes you as coming directly from the heart. they had been dining; the walnuts and wine were now on the table, and conversation was at its best. "well, gentlemen, i shall call the young lady, and you shall hear the marvellous tale from her own lips." somewhat abashed at first to find herself in such august company, and in a room more beautiful than anything she could ever have dreamed about, meta was soon reassured by the professor's kindly voice. he sat beside her, and held one hand in his. then she told her story, as she had told it to professor hodson in his study. she hid nothing, kept nothing back, told _all_ the truth, even about her love and betrothal to claude, talking low but earnestly, as innocently as a child repeating its prayer by its mother's knee. there was no more eager listener than captain jahnsen, the sailor i have mentioned. as long as she spoke his eyes were riveted on her face, sometimes he even changed colour in his seeming excitement. when she had finished, he stood up. "gentlemen," he said, "i have been all my life a man of action, not of words; and now what i have to say must be said briefly indeed. for the last many years i have been a sailor and adventurer combined. i have dug gold, ploughed the sea, and searched for diamonds; not unsuccessfully, as you are all aware. for years and years previous to that i was a greenland sailor, not hailing from any british port; not sailing in beautiful barques or full-rigged ships, but in an open boat from lapland. what made me so? fate. i once commanded as splendid a little craft as ever sailed the sea. i had on board my wife and my child-daughter. i was wrecked--a sailor's luck, you say, but mine was a sadder one than falls to the lot of most sailors. my dear wife--ah! gentlemen, the memory of that terrible night almost unmans me even yet-- was killed in my arms by a falling spar; my daughter was swept away. two sailors and i alone were saved by a lapland walrus boat. we lay-to for hours. no sign of life was visible; again i dropped insensible; i was ill, mad, raving for weeks. yet calmness and peace came at last. but never more dared i go near that awful coast. to me the very memory of it and of that night has ever been like a nightmare." "where were you wrecked?" asks professor hodson. "on the icelandic coast, north of reykjavik." meta has turned suddenly pale, and her eyes fill with tears. she timidly advances. "father," she murmurs. there is no wild excitement; no melodrama. captain jahnsen stoops and kisses his daughter's brow. "i'm sure, dear meta," he said, "we'll love each other very much." yet, though lacking melodramatic effect, the scene was touching in the extreme. poor professor hodson! he was fain to wipe his eyes. "dear me, dear me, dear me!" he said, in his quick, sharp way of speaking, "i never thought that i would shed tears again in my life. dear me, dear me!" "now, my child," said the professor to meta next morning, "i'm going to ran down to dunallan towers, and see her ladyship. no, as you wish me not to, i shall never breathe your name. good-bye; keep up your heart. i'll do the best i can." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ yes, lady alwyn was at home, and would see professor hodson. and presently she enters. very handsome yet, very stately, very sad withal. she beckons the professor to a seat. "you may not guess what i have come about?" "yes, i can," she says. "you bring no news of my son, but you think of sending a search-party out?" "that was mooted between my colleagues and me." "professor hodson, i fear--indeed, i know--i shall never see my son alive or dead again. i live but to mourn for him. i live but to repent the harsh words that drove him from my door--from our door--my boy's and mine. to see his poor pet dog following him with downcast head; to see even the bird fly away; i--oh, professor hodson!" here, woman-like, the poor lady burst into tears, and the tender-hearted professor feels very much inclined to follow suit. "we may find him yet?" "oh! is there a hope, a chance?" "there is, and we can but try. we have thought of fitting out a yacht." "there is _his_ yacht--his own yacht. take it, and welcome. if not strong enough, do everything for her. and, professor, all the expense _must_ be mine. and i, too, will sail in her in search of my boy." "your ladyship, i--" "deny me not. i will not be denied." "your ladyship little knows the danger--" "talk not of danger. i'll be happy every day to think i am braving the dangers my boy has braved before me. professor hodson," she says, after a long pause, during which the _savant_ has been musing on many matters, all of which revolve round meta--"professor hodson, i feel younger, happier since you have come." "your ladyship, then, must not be gainsaid. well, i will accept the terms you so generously propose. we will at once fit up the _alba_. all things promise well. we have in captain jahnsen a thorough gentleman, a sailor, and one who knows greenland well. he has a daughter, too, who has been to sea. might she not--" "oh yes, yes, if she would but come. she would be a companion to me and i to her." "well, well, well. we will consider it all arranged." the professor rubs his hands, and laughs a joyous laugh; and the lady, rising, smilingly leads the way to the room where they lunch together. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the _alba_ is at sea. it is a lovely day in the first week of april. well off the last of the shetland isles is she, and bearing west with a bit of northerly in it. not steaming, though she has been fitted with engines, and can boast of a funnel elegant and pretty enough for any one to admire. no, not steaming, for there is a ten-knot beam-wind blowing, and her sails are outfurled to it. white they are, and whiter still they look in the spring sunshine. the decks are white also, and the very ropes, so neatly coiled thereon, are swirls of snowy-white. everything about this natty yacht is neat and trim. the capstan is of polished mahogany, the binnacle is fit to be a drawing-room ornament. whatever ought to be black about her is like polished ebony, and the brasswork shines like burnished gold. on the deck sit two ladies. one, the elder, leans languidly back in her cane chair; the other--it is meta--is sitting on a footstool at her knee, reading aloud. a sailor would say the _alba_ is a trifle down by the head; only a sailor could notice it. the _alba_ is heavily fortified with wood and iron around and between the bows. but all water and stores will first be used from the foremost tanks, then she will ride the waves like a sea-bird. how delightful the breeze! how pleasant the sunshine! and the _alba_ herself appears to feel the importance of the charge she has on board of her, and is proud in consequence. she nods and curtsies to each passing wave, kisses some, turns coyly away from others, and altogether behaves as if she really were the thing of life the sailors on board half imagine she is. "so gaily goes the ship, when the wind blows free." chapter twenty three. an adventurous voyage--"they're coming! they're coming!" from the very day on which lady alwyn stepped on board the _alba_, and joined the search for her lost son, and for tidings, however meagre, of the good ship _kittywake_, a new life seemed to spring up within her. she seemed at once to have lost what she did not hesitate to call her narrow-mindedness. she began to see that all the world were brothers and sisters, and dependent upon each other, not only for comfort, but for happiness itself. she herself in her pride and exclusiveness had never really known what happiness was before, because she had never been free. accustomed to exact and to receive homage from almost every one around her, she had been living in a kind of fool's paradise, imagining that she was not as other people, that because she had, not riches, but birth and high pedigree, she was made of different material than the "_plebs_," the common herd, could boast of. now the scales seemed falling from her eyes. she could see arightly; she could even notice and learn that the world in general was independent of her, but that she was dependent on the world. those hardy seamen, who went merrily about at their work, talking, laughing, often singing, appeared not to know nor care that she, lady alwyn, was in existence. if jack at his duty came on the quarter-deck, and she were in the way, politely but firmly jack would tell her, "i'll trouble you to shift for a moment, ma'am." some of the politest of these offered an arm, and the proud lady alwyn was surprised at herself for accepting the kindly offered assistance. she was surprised at herself, too, for positively feeling lost, unless she had some one to talk to, and to find herself often conversing with captain jahnsen as if he had been a brother, or with meta as if she were a sister. the latter, indeed, became indispensable to lady alwyn even before the ship had reached the longitude of cape farewell. before another fortnight had passed i think she really loved meta; for meta had been so unremittingly kind and attentive to her. she had calmed her fears when the winds or seas were raging and the storm roaring through the rigging, and when the poor little yacht was surrounded with floating icebergs so tall and so terrible in their tallness and quiet but awful strength, that the vessel looked beside them like a tiny fly on a crystal epergne. meta used to read to her, play to her, sing to her, and tell her tales; but she never told her _the_ tale--she never told her the tale of her love. one day the book drooped listlessly in meta's lap, and there came such a sad far-away look in her eyes, that--they were alone in the cabin--lady alwyn took her gently by the hand. "what are you thinking about, dear child?" said the lady. "you have something on your mind--some grief, some sadness." for answer meta burst into tears. had she dared she would have told her ladyship everything now; for meta could not get over the idea that she was playing a double part, and night and day the thought troubled and vexed her. but dare she tell her? no, she feared her pride too much. she consoled herself by remembering her vow, that she would never, never marry claude without his mother's consent--not unless she joined her hands and blessed them. but then claude--might he not even now be lying cold in death? no wonder that meta wept. the _alba_ sailed on and on, or steamed on and on, encountering all the dangers usual to a passage out in these seas. but every danger was bravely faced by the ladies, every trial was cheerfully met, and but served to bind their hearts closer together in the bonds of friendship. then one day, towards the latter end of april, the sun went down in a yellow haze, through which he glared red and angrily. there was ice about everywhere, bergs of every conceivable shape and size, some so big that the _alba_ took long minutes to steam past them, others with pinnacled top so tall that they caught the sun's rays long after he had dipped down behind the western waves. there was a look of such unwonted anxiety on good captain jahnsen's face that meta must go and embrace him, and ask him if there was any danger. "a little, dear," he replied. "you're a sailor's daughter, you know, so comfort poor lady alwyn if it comes on to blow much, and keep up her heart." meta promised she would. the glass got suddenly hollow at top, and began to sink at an aggravatingly rapid rate. the night would not be a very long one, but it would be pitchy dark. a heavy swell, too, was coming in from the south, that showed a storm had been raging far out in the broad atlantic. again and again the captain went to the glass, tapping it uneasily. it fell, and fell, and fell. a bit of sail was got ready, only a morsel to steady her, and the fore-hatches were battened down none too soon. the storm came on, accompanied by blinding snow. lady alwyn could not sleep, though meta sang and played to her. music below, sweet, soft, and plaintive; on deck the roaring, whistling, and howling of the wind through the cordage; orders being almost incessantly given to the man at the wheel, and the ship's course thus altered a few points every minute. this was to avoid the clashing ice. bump, bump, bump, continually against smaller pieces that could not be avoided. the ship was proceeding very slowly, and the captain was forward transmitting his orders aft through the trumpet, when suddenly there came a terrible crash, and the shouting and screaming after this was so dreadful that lady alwyn was fain to put her fingers in her ears. the ship had been struck, her planks splintered and staved in right abaft the starboard bow. it was "two watches to the pumps" now, while the mate and a few hands endeavoured to stem the leak by placing blankets overboard against the hole and over it. in vain; the wind was too high, the waves too merciless. with frozen fingers, the mate and his men had to desist. short though the night was, it was a terrible one to the ladies below. they had quite prepared to meet death. but oh! death like this is death in a dreadful form. after what seemed an interminable time, the daylight shimmered in through the dead light on the deck of the ladies' cabin, and up and down across the glass in the scuttle the green seas could be seen washing and lap--lap--lapping. by-and-by they heard the captain's voice in the saloon, and immediately after he sent to tell them that the danger was over, and the storm had blown itself out. by noon next day the sea had gone so far down that temporary repairs were effected, and in a day or two more, in a calm blue sea, the ship was heeled over, and these repairs made good and substantial. then the _alba_ went on her adventurous voyage--adventurous, i mean, for so small a yacht--and the ladies took heart and came on deck to gaze and wonder at the marvels everywhere visible around them. into every creek went the _alba_ searching for tidings of the lost _kittywake_. in very few of these did they find inhabitants, and when they did, they had no news, or only sadly confusing news to give. one day captain jahnsen came off from a little yack village with a countenance beaming with hope and joy. "i think," he told lady alwyn, "i have got news of your son. bad news partly." "oh!" she cried, "it cannot be bad if he but lives." "some months ago he was alive. i have met two indians, who frankly confess they basely deserted the party after the ship had been burned, and a dearth of provisions followed. they are willing to be bribed to conduct us to the spot." the reader already knows who these indians were. no time was now lost in getting ready, provisioning, and equipping a sufficient number of strong and ice-worthy sledges. captain jahnsen made every endeavour to persuade lady alwyn from joining the toilsome and hazardous expedition, but in vain. the snows yet lay thick on hill and vale, though the sun had risen for the day--the long arctic day. the ice on rivers and creeks was firm and safe, so that the course the sledge party took was a straight one. as they had travelled the road before, jack and joe could not now mistake it. fast and well galloped the dogs, and wonderful was each day's work that they put behind them; yet to lady alwyn's mind and to meta's they could hardly go quickly enough. the camping out at night, or during the hours that should have been night, was terribly trying to poor lady alwyn. how much she must have loved her son, how much she must have repented her false pride, ere she could have exposed herself to hardships such as these. but the journey is nearly at an end, they have passed unscathed through every danger hitherto, and there is but a short fifty miles between them and the inland sea, when suddenly the sky began to darken over and a snow-wind to moan across the dreary wilderness. for days and days they sheltered in a cave. how trying to nerves and temper! would the storm never abate? would the wind never cease to howl and rave? it did at length, and joyfully the journey was resumed. as soon as they were visible, byarnie, who had been watching on an icy cliff top, must needs take off his jacket to wave it--a cap would not have met the requirements of the situation; then, still waving his jacket aloft and shouting, he rushed down to the camp like a maniac giant. "they're coming! they're coming! they're coming!" he cried. boy bounce ran out waving his ladle aloft; dr barrett himself ran to meet and welcome the expedition; the men rushed to the tent door, the hale supporting those who were maimed and sick, even claude being among the number. but paddy o'connell--why, nothing less than dancing a jig could satisfy paddy o'connell, or keep his feelings of joy in anything like control. "bedad!" he told a messmate many months afterwards, "if it hadn't been for that jig i'd have bursted entoirely, and it's the truth i'm telling ye, and never a word av a lie in it aither." chapter twenty four. "it is all like a dream." the journey back from the inland sea to the yack village had been full of adventure and toil, but all happy; and there is hardly anything a person will not do or encounter when buoyed up with hope and joy. they had stayed for two weeks at the village, that the invalids might recruit their health and strength; and then, with her sails outspread to a favouring breeze, southward she sped, literally on the wings of the wind. "it is all like a dream," said claude, as he sat by meta's side on the quarter-deck of the yacht _alba_, one beautiful summer's day just two months after the events related in the last chapter. "all like a dream, meta." the vessel was coasting along the western shores of scotland, many miles off the point of ardnamurchan. there was hardly a breath of air; just a little swell on, and a gentle ripple on each round heaving wave, with the sunshine weaving threads of brightest silver all through, and making rainbows in the spray and bubbles that floated away astern in the ship's wake. the _alba_ and her happy crew were returning to their native land, and if nothing occurred they would cast anchor by next morning, at the tail of the bank. "yes, dear," replied meta, "it is all like a dream--a long, long dismal dream." "i'm not sorry it all occurred, though, meta; it has tried your faith and mine as well; and perhaps, you know, if things had not turned out as they have done, my mother would never have consented to our union." "oh, i love your mother so, _so_ much!" exclaimed meta, enthusiastically. "i loved her before we were a week together in the ship; but then--" "then what, dearest?" "i was not happy, because, you must know, i thought i was deceiving her, that i was playing a double part, that i ought to have told her at once who i was." "do you know, meta," said claude, after a pause, "i do not think i shall ever doubt the goodness of providence again. oh! you cannot tell, love," he continued, "how dark my heart felt, how sad and gloomy, and how full of despair when poor paddy reported the desertion of jack and joe, the eskimo indians. and yet, meta, had they not deserted, your father would not have met them in the yack village, and the probability is you would not have found us, or found us dead." poor meta shuddered, and the tears rose to her eyes. claude hastened to change the subject. "do you think, dear," he said, "you will like our country?" meta had not been enough in society to be anything else but candid. "i'm sure i shall not at first," she replied; "only--" she paused. "i will be with you," said claude, beaming. "yes. and after a time i dare say i shall get used to--to scotland; but oh! never to england." "we will keep this yacht, meta." "that will be delightful." "and when tired of one place, we will go to another. i have a home in the wildest part of the highlands of ross; we will live much there. and we will sometimes cruise away north to norway, and to your dear icelandic home." meta was too happy to reply. claude's thoughts were also very pleasant, so the lovers relapsed into silence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ there are, to my way of thinking, few events more sad than the breaking up of a ship's company, on her return after a long voyage. at sea we have been a little community--nay, more, a family almost. we have learned each other's ways. we have learned to love our messmates, or at all events to regard them with friendship. we know their peculiarities, their habits, even their weak points and faults. we have been, indeed, more than a community; we have been a little world afloat, knowing as little for the time being of any other people as the inhabitants of one planet do about those of another. but now with the paying-off of the ship's crew all is over; from the moment the ship sails into the harbour all is changed, and every tie is ruthlessly snapped asunder. everything is now bustle, stir, and excitement. the very ship herself begins to look unkempt and untidy. she seems to become reckless and regardless of her personal appearance--ropes anyhow, rigging awry, dirty foot-prints on a deck that erst was snowy-white, tarnished brass and soiled mahogany. strangers, too, crowd on board--landsmen with long hats and umbrellas; lands-women who care less for a ship than they do for a barn. you feel the vessel is no longer your home, and you long to get away out of her. the crew is broken up; and on shore, if you meet some of the seamen you sailed with, you will hardly know them, for jack himself seems to have degenerated, and your smartest and tidiest sailor on board may, on shore, look a veritable rake or lubber. no; my ship never looks well in dock. let me have her leagues and leagues away out on the silent sea; be the water rough or smooth--be it blue, green, grey, or foam-flecked, i can love her then and be quietly, serenely happy. so the men of the _alba_ and the survivors of the unfortunate _icebear_ were scattered far and near, the yacht being left in charge of mcdonald and two hands. meta and claude parted for a time--meta going home to her father's beautiful villa at r--, on the banks of the romantic clyde. byarnie went with his mistress. dr barrett became the guest of the lady of the towers and of claude. the boy bounce was here also. he took up his abode in the kitchen, and settled down to serious eating, by way, perhaps, of making up for what he had lost in the arctic regions. and paddy o'connell went home to "ould oirland" to visit his mother and his sister biddy--"and the pig, the crayture." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ my little heroine--the bonnie, winsome, lovesome meta--had seen many changes even in her short lifetime. and now she is home for a time at her father's house. though a very beautiful and tastefully furnished mansion, captain jahnsen's home was by no means a palace, but compared to meta's cottage in iceland, surrounded by wild, bleak, and rugged scenery--scenery nearly as silent as the grave or greenland--her father's domains were almost a paradise. but meta was one of those girls that, however humble their early surroundings, if transplanted to a higher sphere, grace it meta, in her norland home, dressed in hodden grey or simple wincey, was a lady. meta, arrayed in the costliest and neatest garments a fashionable costumier could devise, and, through her father's fondness, "bedecked in jewels rare," was nothing more. she was artless, straightforward, innocent, and candid. what else can you wish for in a lady, young or old? and by-and-by meta would be the lady of dunallan towers, and claude's mother the dowager; and none to see her now could doubt she would fit and fill the proud position gracefully and well. after a few weeks at home, during which, however, he had made many a little run to captain jahnsen's house, going with all a lover's joyful ardour, returning with all a lover's sad, sweet reluctance, our hero ran his vessel down the clyde. it mattered but very little to claude where the beautiful yacht _alba_ lay while being altered and refitted, so she was moored not far from captain jahnsen's house. refitted? yes, because there were tons of iron and wood to come off her bows, and changes were to be made in her saloon and interior generally. she would sail no longer to the icy regions of the far north, but by way of change--and such a change!--to sunny lands beyond the torrid zone. there was a deal to be done to the interior of the _alba_. fewer hands would be needed now, and therefore a new saloon for the officers, with cabins off it, was built in the fore-part of the ship. it was by no means capacious, this room, but claude spared no expense in making it both elegant and comfortable. the after-part of the ship was to contain claude's private apartments, and here taste vied with elegance to make a suite of ship-rooms that nothing that is beautiful on board the finest liner could surpass. what a pleasure it was to claude, this refitting of what for many months was to be the ocean home of his bonnie bride! when the last clang of hammer was hushed on board, when every artisan had left the ship, then, and not till then, did claude invite captain jahnsen and his daughter to inspect the _alba_. is it necessary to say that meta wondered at and admired everything; asked a great many questions, and felt somewhat like a maiden under the spell of an enchanter? but honest captain jahnsen viewed all in silence. it was certainly the silence of admiration for claude's cleverness--nay, almost genius--in the art of turning a yacht into a lady's boudoir. but, after all, jahnsen was a very practical sailor, so no doubt he thought, although he said nothing, that he would just as soon sail in a less costly fitted barque. but then captain jansen was _not_ going in the _alba_. his sailing days were over, unless, as he said, something wonderful turned up to cause him to go to sea again. well, the _alba_ being completely fitted, it is only necessary to add that as many of claude's arctic messmates as he could find were easily prevailed upon to join the ship. among these i need only name boy bounce, who was rated wardroom steward; paddy o'connell, second officer--he was a good sailor, and true, as we already know; giant byarnie, head steward and general superintendent; and last, but not least, dr barrett, surgeon, of course. his duties were bound to be very light, and he was rejoiced to have an opportunity to get that rest in southern climes which his adventures in the arctic regions rendered a necessity. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was gay and happy company that sat down to breakfast on that beautiful autumn day on which claude and meta were married; and perhaps the happiest, the most calmly, serenely happy face at that festive board was that of the dowager lady alwyn. and claude, with his bride, went away to sea. but one thing is worthy of note in this place. before bidding his mother good-bye, he took the snow-bird from his shoulder and whispered some words in its ear. i do not for a moment wish any one to believe that the bird knew what was said, but one thing is certain: when claude placed alba in his mother's arms, it nestled there, and it never afterwards left dunallan towers. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ seated on a mossy bank, in a wooded ravine, i have been writing this last chapter, dear reader mine, while the nith goes wimpling through the glen close beneath me. summer winds are sighing and whispering among the silver birch trees, and their drooping branches, nodding, kiss the murmuring stream. there is a wealth of wild flowers everywhere--great banks of brambles starred over with pink-white blooms, and great banks of green and feathery breckans, up through which tower the crimson-belled stalks of the beautiful foxglove. musing on the story i have just completed, lulled by the river's lisping song, and mournful croodle of the wild pigeons in the dark spruce thicket, i have almost dropped into dreamland. but i start as a hand is laid on my shoulder. i start and stand up. no need to be frightened. it is only janet who confronts me--janet, with her silvery hair, her mild eyes, and chastened face. "janet," i say, "i have finished my story--your story." "the story of our boy," says janet, musingly, almost sadly. "and," she adds, "you have told all about the death of my dear dowager lady, and how claude never cares now to visit dunallan towers? have you told how weeds now grow in the great old garden, and dark, dank nettles where the roses bloomed? how owls usurp the place of the pigeons in the ivied battlements? how on the drear, dark days of autumn the raven flaps--" "stay, janet, stay," i cry; "no trace of melancholy or gloom must tinge my last pages. look, janet, look up. what does yonder sky forebode, evil or good?" it was the parting rays of the setting sun i pointed to, gleaming red upon a lovely reach of water far down the strath, and lighting up the dark pine trees and the hills that o'ertopped them with a glory not their own. it lighted up old janet's face, too, and her locks of silvery-grey, until her face shone--radiant. "ah!" she murmured, "that sky bodes a bright to-morrow." so, too, shall the sunset of your life and of mine be, dear reader, if our lives are spent in the discharge of duty--be it high, be it low--and if our hearts are ever brightened with a hope that is not of this world, but lies in--the far beyond. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. flora adair; or, love works wonders. _by a. m. donelan._ "in funiculis adam traham eos, in vinculis charitatis." _osee_ xi. . in two volumes. vol. ii. london: chapman and hall, , piccadilly. . flora adair. chapter i. would she have said so had she known that, although mr. earnscliffe _was_ in venice, all his thoughts were occupied about her? in proportion as he had been elated and happy with her, so did the next morning find him depressed and sad. he had given himself up completely to the enjoyment of that starlight walk. how pleasant he found it to watch the movements of flora's little slight figure as she walked by his side, and every now and then to have some thought or feeling which he expressed responded to by a look from her soft eyes. but even as he thought over it all he said to himself, "yes, it was very delightful; but will any good come of it? i knew such an evening long ago; then, too, i walked with one whom i loved and trusted, and she brought me only misery. life and hope and faith have been blighted by her. is it not worse than folly, then, to believe in a woman again?..." for the last few days he had cast all doubt from him. he only thought of how flora had acted towards mr. lyne; of how true she had been to him; so true that not even an unjust accusation could wring from her a word implying that he had proposed for her. but now came the reaction. it was not all at once that mr. earnscliffe could divest himself fully of that distrust of women which for years had been so rooted in his mind. then mary elton's words and his own dream forced themselves painfully upon him, and sounded like a warning which said, "stop, before it is too late." "but perhaps it is already too late," he thought. "could i forget her even now? have i ever forgotten her since the first day we met at frascati? all that time at capri was i not thinking of her, although persuading myself that i was not interested in her personally? how much less, then, could i forget her after these two happy evenings. yet, if ever any one had a presentiment of misfortune in adopting some particular course of action, i have. it is not possible, of course, to do otherwise than accompany them across the brenner, since i offered them my escort; but i need not go to meran; we can meet at botzen. if she is to be banished from my memory, it would be folly to put myself in the way of sweet associations; of seeing her constantly; of walking and riding with her; guiding her through all the lovely excursions about meran. then, indeed, i could never help yielding to the charm of having such a companion--a charm which i have never known before; for in those fatal days when i fancied myself in love, i was only caught by a beautiful casket. it was so beautiful that it dazzled me, and kept me from looking beyond. i took it for granted that the jewel contained in it must be priceless, until one day the casket flew open, and showed me that the supposed jewel was a false one. now it is just the contrary; the casket boasts of no great beauty or outward ornament, but may not the jewel within be precious? yes, i see it is the lighting up of that jewel which possesses so subtle a charm now, when no outward brilliancy could win a glance from me. were i sure of its intrinsic value, it would be well worth the trial; yet all kinds of dark forebodings seem to warn me back. but how that jewel's sparkle would brighten my cold, lonely existence! shall i, then, go to meran, or not?" ah! flora, you little know how important a moment this is for you! why are you not in venice, so that your presence might turn the scale in your own favour? will the memory of yesternight's walk suffice for it? it appears that at least it is sufficient to prevent sentence from being pronounced against you. the judge is evidently not sure of himself; not sure that he would have strength to carry it out, and therefore he wisely defers putting it on record. he will wait and see what time will do. so you may congratulate yourself on a half triumph, at all events; and occupy yourself with the sights of verona and the different beauties of the route to meran. in "fair verona's" amphitheatre, unmatched save by the giant coliseum of rome, we left the adairs standing, and when they had wandered up and down its tiers and given their meed of admiration, they drove to see the house of the capulets and the--so-called--tomb of romeo and juliet. on their way flora told marie the lovers' sad history, and showed her how doubly interesting the site is to natives of great britain, because enshrined in their great poet's genius. an afternoon they found sufficient to "do" the lions of verona, so the next morning they started by train for peschiera, and there took the steamer to riva. what a lovely sail it is across the lago di garda, with its boundary of castle-capp'd mountains and the little villages at their base, half buried in groves of lemon and orange tress! and, for lovers of classic memory, there are the ruins of the house where catullus dictated his ballads. in the days of virgil the lake was celebrated for looking like a little sea, foaming beneath the lash of the mountain winds, which seldom left it unruffled; and to-day it did not belie its reputation, as its blue waters tossed about in miniature fury, the white-crested waves rolling one over the other and dashing their spray afar. riva itself is a charming little place; and then the drive to trent--a drive which shows one of tyrol's greatest charms, that of uniting something of the wildness and grandeur of switzerland with the soft, fresh beauty of our home scenery.... now we see an isolated lake, so shut in by snowy mountains that the only egress from its shores seems to be a winding, giddy mountain path, to which we almost fear to trust ourselves; but if we venture and ascend it for a time, we find that it leads down, on the other side, into a smiling valley, with emerald green fields stretching far away in gentle undulations, and watered by little rivulets flowing between flowery banks and shady trees. or we come suddenly upon two rocky points spanned by a single plank, and at such a height that, looking at it from below, it appears as if it were suspended in the air; and beneath, a rushing torrent dashes over its rugged bed, gurgling and foaming at each attempted interruption to its headlong course. let us climb down from this wild spot, and we come upon an almost english scene of comfort and neatness; there is a pretty cottage with its shelving wooden roof and carved cross in front; the sheep and cows are grazing at a distance, and the shepherd boy is lying in the grass pulling the wild flowers which grow around him. the character of tyrol's inhabitants partakes too of all this; they have the open independent bearing of mountaineers, combined with rare simplicity and softness. there is not a spot in all tyrol without its own beauty, and we should travel far indeed before we met so fine a race of people; not only in their general character, but also in their outward appearance. the adairs slept that night at trent, and before leaving the next day they visited its churches, particularly the one where the great council was held, and there they saw a painting of it which contains portraits of several of the prelates who assisted thereat. towards evening they arrived at botzen, just as the last rays of the sun were lighting up the calvarienberg, as the mountain close to the entrance of the town is called, on account of the stations of the cross which lead up to the calvary on its summit. with one accord they all exclaimed, "how beautiful!" but in tyrol this is an exclamation which is called forth at every turn, and words are indeed too weak to express the different degrees of its loveliness. how glad flora felt at the prospect of getting to meran to-morrow! it would be the fourth day since they had left venice, the day upon which mr. earnscliffe had promised to meet them; and she looked forward anxiously to that meeting. once before she had parted from him in the utmost friendliness, and when next she saw him he scarcely spoke to her--would it be so now? these were her thoughts as they drove along the hill and castle-bordered route which leads from botzen to meran. no familiar face greeted them at the post hotel. the day waned, and flora stood leaning listlessly against one of the front windows, gazing down the road which they had traversed that morning, and sadly she thought: "so he is not coming--i suppose he will wait until the exact time when he thinks we shall want to cross the brenner; but, at least, he might have written to say so. it is rude of him thus to break the appointment without a word of apology. how slowly the days will now pass, even here in beautiful meran! beauty and pleasure are only accessories; they cannot give a particle of the happiness which we may feel, even in toil and trouble, when endured for one whom we love. moore was right when he said-- 'life is a waste of wearisome hours, which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns.'" but stay: flora's listless attitude changes; she bends eagerly forward over the window sill, then draws back and throws herself into an armchair beside it. her colour is bright and her eyes are dancing. whence this sudden change? we have only to look along the botzen road, and an approaching carriage with a single occupant will tell us the cause of it. flora adair's eyes had not deceived her. its occupant was mr. earnscliffe. we remember, that day when the adairs left venice, how he hesitated about joining them at meran; yet here he comes, although it would be difficult to say what had turned the balance in flora's favour. they started on tuesday, and that day and the next mr. earnscliffe spent in visiting different galleries with dogged perseverance, although they did not seem to afford him any great pleasure. he also went to see some italian artists and literary men with whom he was acquainted, and for the remainder of the time he made a feint of reading, whilst in reality he was pondering on the meran question. thursday came, and he half determined to be wise and stay away. if he were to do so, however, he felt that he must write to mrs. adair and say that he could not leave venice for some days, but would meet them at botzen a week hence, and have everything arranged for crossing the pass at once, if he did not send an apology, he must of course fulfil his promise to join them at meran; however, it would be time enough to write in the afternoon. he dawdled away the morning over some books which had been lent to him, and then prepared to go out; but just as he was about to do so, in came an italian who asked him to make one of a party of five or six, himself included, who were going by the next train to treviso to see the paintings of titian and domenichino, in the fine but yet unfinished cathedral, and also the villa manfrino; they would dine at treviso and return to venice in the evening. the italian named those who were to be of the party. mr. earnscliffe knew them all to be more or less well-informed, agreeable men, and among them were two excellent musicians and improvisatori; so at least the proposal held out to him the prospect of hearing some good singing, of which he was particularly fond; besides, it would spend the day for him, and if he were candid with himself he would acknowledge that he felt rather at a loss for something to do. accordingly he accepted the invitation and went off with his friend, without ever thinking of the note to mrs. adair. the day passed quickly away, and the dinner was excellent; the champagne abundant; the singing of the best; the conversation flowing and animated--mr. earnscliffe sustaining a prominent part in it. he spoke italian with perfect ease, and entering into the spirit of the hour, he showed how brilliant, without being shallow, were his powers of conversation, when he once cast off his habitual reserve. they only returned to venice by the last train, which arrived about eleven, and mr. earnscliffe, having wished his friends good-night and thanked them for the pleasant day which they had afforded him, got into a gondola and soon landed at his hotel, the "victoria." the night was as lovely as the one upon which he had parted from flora adair. the memory of that night now rose up vividly before him, and as it did so, he remembered with pleasure that he had _not_ written to mrs. adair, and that now it was too late to hesitate any longer; go he must. if he started by the first train in the morning, he could reach meran the same evening, and so keep his appointment, and this he determined to do; so as soon as he got into his room he rang for his servant, and told him that he was to have everything ready for them to leave venice by the six a.m. train next morning. the servant looked rather dismayed at this intelligence, but retired without making any remonstrance; for he knew that his master must be obeyed to the letter, and unhesitatingly too. as the door closed mr. earnscliffe exclaimed, "so for good or evil it is decided that i go to meran. perhaps it is as well that it should be so. i shall have an opportunity of knowing flora adair thoroughly. if she is all that i have dreamed of, and if i can win her love, it will be worth having suffered, even as i have done, in order to taste such unexpected bliss; and if she is not, it will be only one pang more, and what signifies that in such a life as mine? not to go would be to throw away a chance of possible happiness through fear of possible pain; and that at best would be more of cowardice than prudence. i am glad that i am going in spite of all my presentiments." on the following day mr. earnscliffe reached botzen about four. he dined there, and set out afterwards in an open carriage for meran, where we have seen him drive up to the hotel. he left his servant at botzen to make inquiries about the carriage and ascertain where was the best place for getting really good horses, and then he was to follow him to meran. mrs. adair and marie met mr. earnscliffe just as he got out of the carriage. they were returning from the friday evening devotions in the church, at which they had been present. flora did not accompany them, for she felt that even if she did go she would be only corporally in the church, that her mind and heart would be fixed on the botzen road and not on prayer; so she remained at home watching the setting sun, and with it fell her hopes of that longed-for arrival. the sun sank, but her hope rose and broke into bright certainty. marie ran into her room, crying, "flore, _monsieur earnscliffe est arrivé!_" the waning light and the shadow which the curtain threw over flora prevented the blush and conscious smile from being seen, as she answered, "indeed, then he has been punctual to his word, i see." "and we take tea downstairs with him, flore, madame adair has told me to tell you. are you ready?" "i shall be before you, mignonne, for i have only to brush my hair and wash my hands, and you have, besides all this, to take off your out-of-door things; but surely there is not any hurry if we are to wait for mr. earnscliffe,--he must have time to shake off the dust of the journey before he appears for the evening." chapter ii. a week is quickly passed in meran in visiting the different places of interest in its neighbourhood--all so rich in the beauties of nature, yet richer still in the memories of the late war of independence in , when tyrol's children, headed by her peasant-hero, andreas hofer, rose in defence of their religion and their liberty, and with rare heroism maintained the struggle almost single-handed for several months--austria having withdrawn her troops from tyrol in the august of --against the united and disciplined forces of france and bavaria. close to the town are the hill and castle of zeno, both so called because st. zeno was consecrated in the chapel which, with the exception of one of the entrance towers, is the only part of the castle still standing. looking from its summit over the broad range of the janfen mountains--whose passes were defended like so many thermopylæs--and the valleys which gave birth to those brave defenders, we cannot help recalling the following beautiful words of a german writer: "a wild river rushes by the castle-topped hill of zeno, and in vain do the red roses bend lovingly over it, as if to soothe its foaming waters with their kisses; in vain do the fig-trees spread over it the soft shade of their fresh green leaves; unheedingly it dashes on with a deep sullen roar. what sort of a river is it then? how comes it that the lovely flowers and the soft balmy shade cannot win it to anything like peace and rest? ah! that river is the passer! does it then entone an eternal lament over the heroes whose lullabies it once sung, or is it that with unbridled fury it dashes on to the etsch, so that, in union with it, it may look upon the land where the sandwirth of passeier laid down his heroic life." a little more distant from meran is the schloss tirol, the ancient residence of the country's princes, and from which it takes its name. there, too, it was that hofer and hormayer--tyrol's simple mountain son, and proud austria's baron--met on terms of equality to consult over the means to be taken in order to preserve the country's newly-won freedom. then the castle of schönna, magnificently situated at the entrance of the passeier valley, now in possession of archduke john's son, the count of meran, and many others scarcely less remarkable. but exceeding all other spots in interest is the sandwirthshof, the birthplace and home of andreas hofer, the pure noble-hearted patriot whom napoleon--to his everlasting shame--condemned to death and caused to be shot in mantua on the th of february, . thus from meran our friends made excursion after excursion, and mr. earnscliffe almost ceased to struggle with his daily increasing admiration for flora adair; yet he rarely betrayed it by word or look, even whilst wandering by her side through scenes where almost every hill and castle made her eyes light up with enthusiasm, as she talked of the deeds connected with them. he delighted in exciting her about her favourite tyrolese, and as they stood one evening a little in advance of mrs. adair and marie, leaning over the rocky bridge which runs into the lovely valley of kinele, with the sun's golden rays illuminating its narrow defile, he began to tease her about them, and spoke somewhat disparagingly of the passeier peasants in particular, as a stupid, stolid race--with the exception of andreas hofer, of course. she looked up at him exclaiming-- "oh, mr. earnscliffe, you cannot mean what you say! the people who combine unsurpassed bravery with the softest compassion of a woman's heart cannot be called 'stolid.' was there ever a war so remarkable for deeds of heroic humanity as this peasants' war? you know, of course, the grand act of the passeier, sebastian prünster, when he was one of the outpost watchers on the hill above volders--how, when he struck with the butt end of his gun the bavarian soldier who had crept close up to him through the underwood in order to shoot him, he felt horror-stricken as he saw him rolling towards the precipice, and at the risk of his own life dashed after him, caught him up in his arms, and carried him to the soft grass above, and having staunched his wound and given him bread and brandy to restore his strength, cried, 'ass that thou art! what brings thee up here? flee as far as thou canst from me. it pains my inmost heart to think that i should be obliged to kill thee thus without any good cause.'... how those who loved sebastian prünster must have gloried in him!" flora had never seemed so charming to mr. earnscliffe as now. she ceased speaking and stood with her slight figure drawn up triumphantly, and one little hand resting on the ridge beside her. he looked at her for a moment in silent admiration, and then, bending low over her hand--low enough for his lips to have touched it, but they did not--he murmured, more to himself than to her, "what would not any living man give to hear himself so spoken of by you!" the sound of these words fell faintly on flora's ear, and she scarcely dared to believe that she heard aright; nevertheless she blushed as she turned away, saying, "they are waiting for us." this was their last evening in meran; the next day they commenced the crossing of the brenner to innsbruck. if flora's enthusiasm for her favourite andreas hofer and his brave followers had been excited by visiting the peaceful haunts of their early days in the dark passeier valley, what must it be now when passing over the very sites of some of their most wonderful victories! and after spending some days in innsbruck, the focus and hotbed--the marathon of tyrol, as it has been called--of that glorious war, they set out for munich by the achen and tegernsee route. two hours of train travelling took them to jenbach, and thence an open carriage was to convey them to achensee, their journey's end for that day. about three o'clock they drove up to the pretty rustic little inn called scholastica, which stands at the top of the lake; and after an hour or two spent in resting and dining they went out to explore the beauties of achensee, and as the best way to do so they were told to row up to the other end of the lake and walk back along its shore. as they rowed slowly, and stopped every now and then to feast their eyes on its loveliness, it was tolerably late by the time they got out of the boat. mrs. adair and marie walked on at once along the path which leads back to the hotel; but mr. earnscliffe and flora stood gazing silently on the scene before them. what pen could give a true idea of achensee at any time?... it would indeed be rash to attempt to describe it on such an evening as this, when it lay bathed in a flood of mellow light shed from the golden slanting rays of the setting sun. what words could paint that lake, so closely shut in by mountains as to be almost hidden within their bosom--their peaks towering one above another with their still snow-covered summits glowing with the rich red tints of the dying day; the lengthening shadows creeping over its deep blue waters, and gathering round flora adair and the object of her love, as they stood on its brink? well do we know the indescribable beauty of achensee on a fine evening at sunset, for we too have stood on its brink at that hour, gazing into its waters, and watching the shadows flitting over them, but "alone the while," that is, with the heart's void unfilled save by a vague ideal. what must it be to stand there beside the one all-absorbing love of one's life! and flora knew what that was now, as she leaned against a tree with her hat in her hand, the light breeze ruffling her luxuriant hair. "miss adair," exclaimed mr. earnscliffe, suddenly, "can you not picture to yourself in such a scene as this the interview between rudens and bertha in schiller's 'william tell'?... oh! i can feel with rudens as he says, "könnt ihr mit mir euch in das stille thal entschliessen und der erde glanz entsagen-- o, dann ist meines strebens ziel gefunden; dann mag der storm der wildbewegten welt ans sichre ufer dieser berge schlagen-- kein flüchtiges verlangen hab' ich mehr hinaus zu senden in des lebens weiten-- dann mögen diese felsen um uns her die undurchdringlich feste mauer breiten, und dies verschlossne sel'ge thal allein zum himmel offen und gelichtet seyn!"[ ] flora, as if in a sort of dream, began bertha's answer-- "jetzt bist du ganz----" she stopped suddenly, and got very red. "why do you stop, miss adair?" asked mr. earnscliffe, eagerly. "why break the charm which you shed around me--that of being with one who responds to each implied thought and feeling?" "i see that we have been carried away by schiller's beautiful poetry even to the forgetting that mamma and marie have preceded us by some minutes towards home. pray let us make haste to overtake them," answered flora, blushing more than ever, and moving away. mr. earnscliffe was at her side in a moment, and said, "yes, we will follow them, but as we go you must hear me, miss adair. i can wait no longer to have my fate decided. over each hill and through each dale of this lovely land have i wandered before, but never until now have i _felt_ its beauty to the full; never until now have i known--to use your own poet's words--the 'soft magic' of having one, the beloved of my heart near me, 'to make every dear scene of enchantment more dear,' flora, will you hear me?" she made a slight motion of assent, but did not look up, and he continued, "yet i must not ask you for an answer until i have given you--though painful be the task--a short sketch of my life, so that you may know me as i _really_ am before you decide for or against me, and also that hereafter none may have the power to tell you aught of my earlier days that you have not already heard from my own lips.... left an orphan, whilst still almost a baby, i was consigned to the guardianship of an uncle, and most honourably did he fulfil the trust; but i could no more love that imperturbable, just man, who was _coldly_ kind upon principle, than fire and water could blend. he was not married, so i had no aunt or cousins to whom i could attach myself, and it was a joy rather than a grief to me that i was sent to school when very young. i applied with unusual ardour to study, and gloried in the power which i possessed of being first among my companions, and in my facility for mastering foreign tongues.... i lived among the ancients--those master spirits of old who by their nobility of soul rose above the debasing vice of their age, and stood forth as bright examples of the great power of man's own mind and will unaided and unrestrained by the fetters of modern society or christianity. thus i passed from a studious, dreamy youth, to man's estate. i was ardent and enthusiastic, full of glowing ideals of moral beauty and excellence, and, with all the prestige of high birth and wealth to assure me a favourable reception from the world, i was launched into the vortex of london life. i tasted of all its pleasures; i was courted and sought after; yet by most people i was looked upon as being 'among them, but not of them; in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.' but what cared they for that? i was rich and successful, and was, therefore, to be flattered. at lady m----'s ball--"... he paused, covered his eyes with his hand as if to shut out the stinging memories which now thronged before them; he mastered himself and went on, ... "pardon me, even now i cannot recall that time without a shudder, and only dare to pass cursorily over its events.... well, as i said, at lady m----'s ball i saw one who then appeared to me to be beautiful, and was introduced to her; i was completely captivated. i imagined--ah, _now_ i know, 'twas only imagination--that i loved her with a deep, true passion. i won her,--but scarcely had i time to congratulate myself on my conquest when i discovered--oh, that i should have to tell it!--that i had been deceived, betrayed by her; that she had accepted me only for my wealth and position, whilst her love was another's. to resolve to separate from her for ever was a moment's work, and i confided to the care of my lawyers all the necessary arrangements, and left england, to escape at least from the scene of my misery, and the rankling consciousness that men were laughing at the proud _exalté_ earnscliffe, who had been caught by the light beauty; then i awoke from the dream of careless enjoyment in which i had been living.... the face of nature in its calm repose seemed to mock at my wretchedness. everything gave testimony of a creative power; but of justice, of love, in that dread power, i could see no trace.... i had not asked for life; i had done nothing knowingly to merit the curse which had fallen upon me. why then was i subjected to a betrayal which blighted my every hope, dried up all the sources of happiness from which i used to drink?--for my belief in truth and goodness had been shattered.... i asked for what had i been created? why doomed to bear unasked-for existence?... i sought eagerly for comfort in religion, but i could find none. what consolation could any man's interpretation of scripture give me, since everything they said was vague and varying? i longed for some universal certainty--something upon which to lean with one's whole weight, but nowhere could i find it; the more i sought, the more incomprehensible did everything appear to me, seeing all around as lamartine says, 'evil where good might be.'--at last with wearied brain and aching heart i gave up the search. to end my life seemed to me to be a cowardly thing; to plunge into dissipation, as byron did, beneath me; so i resolved to be henceforth self-sufficing; noble and true, because such qualities alone make man great; but trusting in none, believing in nothing, and above all, not in a woman.... such has been my life for the last ten years. but a few months ago there came a break in its terrible monotony--i met you! accustomed as i was to be flattered and fawned upon by young ladies as a good match, your severe remark upon what i said to mrs. elton at frascati made me almost start with surprise, and during the time when i considered myself bound to visit you and try to relieve the wearisomeness of your imprisonment, i studied you as something new--unknown before. i became interested in the study, nevertheless i would not admit to myself the possibility that i could be attracted by a woman. i persuaded myself that i merely felt a curiosity about you; then i fancied that i had discovered you to be just like the rest of your sex, heartless and false, and, in spite of all my theories about not caring for you, i mourned over the supposed discovery. but a light was suddenly thrown upon your conduct, and you came out brighter than ever from under the cloud.... i followed you on chance to venice; i watched you closely day after day in your family circle; i saw how little the ordinary bagatelles and vanities which sum up the existence of most women occupied you, and i felt drawn towards you as to a kindred spirit; yet i dreaded to trust a woman again, and i struggled hard indeed before i yielded to the charm of loving you. but resistance was useless; the more i tried to think of you as of others whom i had known, the more i found you different, and at last i gave up the struggle. now i am yours wholly and entirely. refuse not then to receive the poor shipwrecked traveller, who, having confessed to you all his faults and misfortunes, clings to you as his last anchor of hope on earth.... flora do not hesitate--speak."... he caught her hand and pressed it tightly in his own. the rush of wild delight, which thrilled through every portion of flora's being at having thus offered to her a happiness so intense that she had not dared to expect it, was so great, that for a moment it deprived her of utterance; but raising her glistening eyes to his, she gave him _such_ a smile that he asked for no words to interpret its meaning, and drawing the already imprisoned hand within his arm, he held it there clasped to his heart, as he exclaimed-- "_my_ flora! this moment repays, nay, overpays me for all that i have suffered!... but why do you tremble? are you afraid of me? have you not faith in me?" it cost flora an effort to speak--to shake off the exquisite emotion which the warm clasp of his hand caused her to feel; but surely any lover would have thought it an answer worth waiting for when at length she said-- "you might as well ask me if i had not faith in my own existence. all that i am afraid of is the intensity of my happiness." "generous flora! not one word of doubt, although i could not offer you--what alone is worthy of you--a heart's _first_ homage; and yet in very truth i might say that i never really loved before. now, indeed, can i forgive and forget that faithless one----" "and _i_ can thank her for having left you free to offer me the treasure of your heart, and to receive mine in return whole and untouched--friendship only has it known until now! but 'tis all that i have to give, for fortune i have none, nor--as you see--beauty, and this last i would that i had for your dear sake." "but you have it for me, flora. your beauty i would not have exchanged for that of a venus di medici!" "nay, turn not flatterer, or i shall be forced to _begin_ to doubt. but tell me, why did you treat me so icily when we met you at the farnese palace--to say nothing of the celebrated night at mrs. elton's?" "so even then you noticed and felt my change of manner, flora?" he asked in a low, thrilling tone, as he bent down and tried to get a full look at her face; but he could only see the bright red colour spreading even over her neck as she quickly turned away her head, and said gaily-- "why, that is worthy of an irishman! you answer my question with another, which i certainly shall not take any notice of; and now please to reply to mine." "you shall be obeyed, my little queen.... the day before i met you at the farnese palace, mary elton told me that you were going to be married to mr. lyne, adding that, indeed, you could not _afford_ to refuse such an offer as his. prone as i was to believe that all women were ready to sell themselves, i scarcely doubted this to be true, although i knew that you did not particularly like mr. lyne. then everything seemed to confirm it. i met you with him the next day at the farnese palace, and at mrs. elton's ball. he was constantly at your side. i saw you together apart from everybody else, talking eagerly. at last he stood up, and held your hand in his for a moment before leaving you, and i believed this to be the signing of the sale. i left rome more embittered than ever against women; but a chance--a blessed chance--showed me how utterly mistaken i had been. i learned from helena elton that mr. lyne had proposed for you, but that you--with a truth and courage rarely to be found in woman--had refused him, rich as he was, and although you yourself were portionless. oh, flora! how my heart bounded to you from that moment! now you know all, and you see that i not only love you ardently, but that i have at the same time the highest esteem for you. come to me and be the chosen companion of my heart and mind, for in you i pay homage to a heart superior and a mind equal to my own!" "it is worth living for alone to hear such words! but, again, i must chide you for flattery and exaggeration, as it was both to say 'a mind equal to my own.' no: mine is not equal to yours--a woman's very education forbids it. had you said that i possessed a mind capable of understanding and following yours it might have been true. believe me, it is a woman's truest glory to admit the great superiority over herself of him whom she loves. what repose it is to trust entirely in a higher being than one's-self,--to know that henceforth you will be my lawgiver and teacher; for you will have much to teach me.... but how sweet will such lessons be!" "how could i have ever dreamed that i loved before, oh, my dearest!" "_i_ can scarcely answer that question; but we all know how tempting a bait is beauty of person to you lords of the creation--is it not so? but time wears, and i have much to say before we reach the hotel. you have told me all your feelings on religion. another would shudder at such a disclosure, and perhaps be scared from loving so daring a spirit; but _i must_ love you, whatever be your faults. i believe i almost love your faults themselves, because they prove what the strength and grandeur of your character is; but i do shudder _for_ you! how fearful it would be to think of such a soul as yours lost for all eternity, and like this glorious sun above us only shedding forth the rays of its light and power for a few short hours on earth, then setting into darkness, but unlike the material sun, never to rise again. this must not, shall not be if power or prayer of mine can aught avail!" her face flushed and her eyes lit up with the light of that long concentrated love which now burst its bonds. to mr. earnscliffe it was irresistible. he clasped her round the waist, drew her to him, and--let bulwer speak for us--"and still and solitary deepened the mystic and lovely night around them. how divine was that sense and consciousness of solitude! how, as it thrilled within them, they clung closer to each other! theirs was that blissful time, when the touch of their hands clasped together was in itself a happiness of emotion too deep for words!" at length flora said, as she walked on with his arm still encircling her waist, "yes, i do hope that i may help you more than any theologian to reach the one great source of truth. let me say a few words of my own experience.... like you, when at school i delighted in study, and enjoyed being first among my companions. this, added to a cold although invariably polite manner, caused me to be looked upon by the rest as proud and haughty, setting myself apart from them. but i was indifferent to others; study and the approbation of one of my mistresses, whom i dearly loved, were everything to me, and as far as it went, i was perfectly happy within those dear convent walls. my sorrow at leaving them was great; but i could not spend my life there. i too one day awoke from a dream of careless, thoughtless happiness. that day came when i left school to enter upon a young lady's inane existence. i felt, as schiller says, that 'empty occupation cannot fill the soul's void; there is a deeper happiness, there are other joys!' balls, visits, promenades and needle-work--what could they give to satisfy the heart or the mind? the people whom i met in society wearied me; i longed for something different. then i sought for rest and contentment in religion, but i found them not; and weary of the present and dreading the future, i too asked, 'can life be a gift? where am i to find the justice and goodness of god of which i am told? is it not he who has made me _what_ i am, and why, why render me incapable of finding contentment in the ordinary occupations of those with whom he chose to cast my fate?' all the other stumbling-blocks to human reason--predestination, the origin of evil--followed in the train of these thoughts; i was on the verge of losing all faith; but grace and the teaching of one of god's own ministers, one to whom i must ever owe the deepest gratitude, saved me. he showed me the evidences and truth of the fall of man--that key to all knowledge of him; he proved to me the existence of a divine teaching authority, by which man could learn his end, and the means of attaining it; he made me see how absurd was the attempt of finite reason to measure itself with the infinite; and he summed up all in these words, as he pointed to the crucifix, 'will you refuse to believe in the goodness of him who gave his only son to die on a cross for your sake? and, trusting to that goodness, can you not wait patiently until the few short years of life shall be over, and all shall be made clear as noonday to you? on the other hand, if you will not wait, if you refuse to submit your reason, what will you gain? you say that you are not happy now: will it make you happier not to believe in eternal happiness, and throw away all hope of attaining it?'... how true was all this! i could not doubt the life or divinity of our saviour: history itself proves it too clearly; then how could i deny the great testimony of love given in his crucifixion? again and again recurred to me that question: 'what will you gain if you refuse to submit your reason?' nothing, absolutely nothing: nay, more, i began to see that to dwell on these subjects, which are above, not against, human reason, could only lead to misery and perhaps to madness; and i determined to question no more, but to believe.... 'easier said than done,' perhaps you will answer.... true, it is easier said than done, but at least it is possible in the only religion which bears the impress of divine foundation, the only religion which dares to attribute to itself the delegated authority of god, and say, 'so far and no farther shalt thou go.'... study _that_ religion, examine the proofs upon which its authority rests; but you must go to that study, that examination, with the full determination that as soon as you recognise its divine foundation, you will trust to faith, and not to finite reason. i know it will ever be rebelling, but those rebellions must be crushed down with a firm hand. we cannot all be simple loving disciples like little marie, but we can do our utmost, and say, 'my god, i am what thou hast made me; accept then what i can give thee.'" she ceased speaking, and for a few moments they both remained silent; then mr. earnscliffe said gravely, "i _will_ make the examination which you desire, with all earnestness and sincerity, and god only knows how i have longed for truth and certainty; but i could not venture to give you much hope that your wishes and my own will be crowned with success; nevertheless, you _have_ done more towards making me a believer, my flora, than any theologian, even though you admit that your mode of persuasion is second-hand; but you speak from your own feelings and experience, and not from theory, and with such an advocate how could i reason coldly?" a look of love so inexpressibly tender rested on flora, that her heart thrilled again with the intensity of her happiness. but at this moment they caught sight of a figure coming along the shady walk, now dimly lighted by the pale rays of the rising moon, and flora gently disengaged herself from mr. earnscliffe's encircling arm. the approaching figure turned out to be marie, who, as soon as she saw them, cried out, "where are you gone? you have been so long time, mrs. adair is tired waiting you." flora could not think of any answer to give, but mr. earnscliffe said with mock gravity, "it is not at all wonderful, mademoiselle, that we have been a long time coming, for we have had such a fall; and if i could only tell you what we fell into, you would not be astonished at our delay." "_oh! vraiment_," said little simple marie, "i am so sorry; i hope flore has not done herself harm. relate me all that please." "never mind him, mignonne; it is not true," said flora, as well as she could speak from laughing. something, a nameless look about them both, suddenly struck her, and she exclaimed, "_j'y suis maintenant_, he means that--as you other english say--you have had a fall into love." flora, half indignant and half amused, said, "i declare you are too bad. i wonder what you will say next. but let us make haste to mamma; she must indeed be tired of waiting, and pray, mignonne, do be _sage_. i assure you"--with a gay glance at mr. earnscliffe--"that our conversation has been awfully serious;--death, judgment, hell and heaven, are not more solemn subjects than those upon which we have conversed." she took marie's arm and hurried on, followed by mr. earnscliffe, who said, "this is not fair, miss adair; you surrendered yourself prisoner at discretion to me, and then on the first occasion you run away from me." she laughed, but hurried on more than ever to the open space before the hotel, where mrs. adair was sitting admiring the silvery moonlit lake. "at last!" exclaimed mrs. adair as they came up; "i was almost getting frightened about you; and now let us go in and prepare for tea, which is no doubt ready." accordingly they went in, flora managing that her mother and marie should precede her, so that she might linger a moment to get one more fond clasp of mr. earnscliffe's hand and look of love. then she too went in. [ ] canst thou then dwell with me in this peaceful vale, and forego earth's pomp? oh, then the goal for which i struggled is attained, and the storms of the wildly agitated world may beat unheeded against the firm bulwarks of these mountains. not one more fleeting wish have i to send forth through life's whole expanse. oh, now may these rocks around us here spread into impenetrable encircling walls, and this blessed valley be alone open to and lighted by heaven. _bertha_--now art thou all---- chapter iii. shortly afterwards they came down to tea, flora feeling very shy and conscious. when they had finished, mr. earnscliffe said he would go out to smoke a cigar; and as he left the room, he gave flora a look which seemed to say that as soon as possible he would be glad to have some other company besides that of the cigar. marie, with delicate tact, followed his example, declaring that she must go to her room to mend her dress, which she had torn. then flora went and knelt beside her mother and said, "mamma, mr. earnscliffe has proposed to me." "what! mr. earnscliffe--the woman-hater, as you used to call him!" "he is not a _universal_ woman-hater now, mamma," replied flora, with a little smile of triumph. "so it seems; but what answer have you given?" "mamma! can you ask?" "which means, i suppose, that you have accepted him; but, my child, you know that he is not a believer in religion. if he were to become a christian, then, indeed, i should not object to him as a son-in-law; whilst he remains in his present sentiments, however, you surely will not think of marrying him." flora started up, saying, "not think of marrying him! oh! mamma! but he is virtually a believer in eternal truth, if a yearning desire to know it constitutes one; he could not be the man he is, nor could i worship him so fully as i do, if error had ever been capable of satisfying him. from his early youth he has had a craving for truth which has never yet been appeased; the right means only have been wanting to lead him into the body of the church, and to give rest to his soaring spirit. then, mamma, do not, do not in pity say that i must not marry him, or you will break my heart; you will divide it between the two whom i love best on earth. you know well that no other man ever excited in me even a passing fancy, and i love mr. earnscliffe as only a woman can who has never loved before. i was _so_ happy an hour ago when he asked me to be his, and now, mamma, you will not turn my happiness into wretchedness?" flora knelt down again, and hid her burning face in her mother's lap. mrs. adair's eyes filled with tears as she wound her arms round flora, and said, "i cannot make you wretched, my precious one, when my only object on earth is your happiness; so i will not _forbid_ you to marry him--besides, good seldom comes of _forbidding_ marriages--but i beseech you to pause; take time to see if he will really become a christian." "_i_ cannot oppose him, mamma; you may say anything you like to him about waiting, and if he consents to wait it is all right. i have no will but his, and i cannot begin to thwart him now when i ought to begin to practise that most sweet duty which is to be mine--the duty of obeying him even in trifles. besides, his life has been so unhappy that it would be cruel in _me_ to hesitate about granting whatever he wishes. go to him, mamma, and do all you can to persuade him to wait for whatever time you wish to name, but do not ask me to join in opposing him--only let me be neutral." "my poor child, i see yours is a hopeless case; but come with me, and i will say all that i think right before you." mrs. adair kissed her again and again, then stood up, and putting her arm round her waist, led her out to meet mr. earnscliffe. a little way down the walk they saw mr. earnscliffe leaning against a tree, and smoking furiously; as soon as he perceived them, he advanced quickly to meet them, and said, in an eager tone, "you are come to give me flora, mrs. adair, are you not?" "i cannot keep her from you, mr. earnscliffe; your conquest is indeed complete, so take her"--and she placed flora's hand in mr. earnscliffe's. he kissed flora's forehead warmly, then took mrs. adair's hand, and put it to his lips as he answered, "oh, that i knew how to thank you, mrs. adair! at least you shall see how i will guard the precious trust which you now place in my hands." "do not thank me, mr. earnscliffe; i give her to you not as a free gift. let us walk on,--i wish to speak to you very seriously." he turned, and drawing flora's arm within his own, he walked between her and mrs. adair, murmuring in a low tone to flora, "you are mine now, indeed." mrs. adair then began, "i said that i do not give you flora as a free gift, mr. earnscliffe, and it is because you are not a believer in religion. you possess everything else that i could possibly desire for her in a husband, but what is there that can make up for the want of faith? it is a fearful risk for a christian to marry an unbeliever; it is endangering that faith without which 'it is impossible to please god;' therefore i urged flora--as strongly as a parent could urge without using authority--not to accept you. but, 'tis true, one does not reason where one loves: she would not listen to anything, and so implored me not to make her wretched for life by refusing to let her marry you,--that i could not do so. but i think i have a right to ask that you should wait a year, and try if you cannot during that time see the truth of religion." "a year! mrs. adair! if you knew what my life has been, you would not ask me to wait so long before i may enjoy the only gleam of sunshine which has been granted to me during ten long lonely years. give her to me at once, and she will teach me better than any one else can. i hope you do not think so badly of me as to imagine that i would care less to arrive at the knowledge of truth because i had already won her. if you could feel what it would be to one who has been buffeted about as i have been from opinion to opinion, to find rest in certain truth, you would not dread my leaving any means untried in order to obtain it; and to keep flora from me can make no difference, as even for her dear sake i could not profess to believe unless i did so fully. however, it shall be as flora wishes. i will abide by her decision whatever it may cost me; i would serve fourteen years for her, as we are told that jacob did for rachel. now, flora, say, must i suffer on through another year of loneliness and misery? or will you trust me with yourself at once, and have sufficient confidence in me to believe that i will use every effort to do and be all that i can to make you happy here and hereafter?" he let go her hand as if to leave her perfectly free, but she pressed her face against his arm, as mrs. adair said earnestly, "flora, think what it is for a christian to marry an unbeliever! let there be this year's trial, and such a sacrifice to the advice of the church will merit happiness for you both." "yes," added mr. earnscliffe, bitterly, "and so needlessly inflict twelve long months of suffering on him whom you love, and who for ten years has known nothing else--this, too, merely in obedience to the advice of your church. if _it_ gives you leave to marry me at once, will _you_ refuse me? flora, is it to be so?" poor flora! what would she not have given not to be called upon to decide the question, to grant mr. earnscliffe's prayer. she knew that it was an act of weakness to consent to his wishes, but she had not the almost superhuman courage to inflict such pain as her refusal would give him, and from her own lips, too! no, she could not do it, and with her head still pressed against his arm, she murmured, "mamma, i told you that i could not oppose mr. earnscliffe in anything which was not in _contradiction_ to our holy faith. if he chooses me to marry him at once i must do it--that is, if i am permitted, and you do not positively forbid me." "my own true flora!" exclaimed mr. earnscliffe. "god help her, poor child!" said mrs. adair, with a sigh. "do not say god help, but god bless her, mrs. adair. had i your faith i would say god bless her ten thousand times over for her perfect trust in the world-wearied man." flora glided away from mr. earnscliffe's side, and went round to her mother, to whom she clung fondly, saying, "but you must not be angry with me, mamma; i could not help it; and _you_ must bless me too, or it will be a miserable closing to a happy day. you must not make me feel that my love for him is pain to you--it would be too dreadful if _the_ two strong feelings of my life were to clash." "they shall not clash, my darling child, and of course i will bless you. i only want you to be happy; but i fear that you are grasping _too_ eagerly at happiness--what if it were to be taken from you?" flora shuddered from head to foot, and cried, "oh, don't, don't, mamma dearest,--let me be happy whilst i may without thinking of dark possibilities; only bless me and"--in a low tone--"him!" mrs. adair kissed her with overweaning affection, and said, "god bless you, my own sweet child, and give him whom you love the great boon of faith. take her again, mr. earnscliffe, she is indeed yours." once more she placed her hand in mr. earnscliffe's, who again drew her round to his side as he replied-- "mrs. adair, i can only say, as before, that you shall see how little cause you will have to regret letting me have her at once. and let it be all arranged now. when may we be married?" "we expect to reach paris in about ten days; there, if you choose; all the necessary preparations can be made, and the marriage solemnized." "that will answer so nicely. from paris i can take a run to england, and have the settlements--of which you and i, mrs. adair, can speak at our leisure--drawn up." "there are not any settlements to be made, edwin," said flora, shyly, and for the first time calling him by his christian name; "you know i have not any fortune." "but i must make a provision for all future possibilities. suppose, for instance, that you were to be left a widow; you must have a jointure." "you are as bad as mamma, i declare--you both seem to foresee nothing but misfortunes for me." "heaven forbid!" exclaimed mrs. adair. "but we had better go in now; it is getting late and chilly." "chilly, mamma! why i find it quite hot, and it is so beautiful out here; really one does not know which to admire more, achensee by sunset or by moonlight--it is exquisite at both times." "i daresay _you_ find it so," replied mrs. adair; "but i can answer for it its beauty does not keep _me_ warm. besides we ought to go in to marie--she will feel so alone." "that's true--how selfish i was to forget poor little mignonne! she _will_ feel alone." they walked back to the hotel, and mrs. adair went in; mr. earnscliffe and flora remained out a few minutes more. he thought he had a right to get a parting embrace from his betrothed, and flora was not prude enough or coquette enough to try to withhold it from him. she could no more think of being capricious or tantalising towards her lover than she could of treating him coldly in order to increase his fervour,--as she had said to her mother, her only thought was how best to please him. the playfully capricious school of heroine is, we know, the favourite style in novels, but is not shakespeare's juliet a higher conception of a loving woman, as she says-- "but trust me, gentleman, i'll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange?" mrs. adair's voice was heard calling, "come, flora." mr. earnscliffe let her go, saying, "i believe, after all, i must learn quickly to love god, that in perfect faith i may be able to ask him to bless thee." they joined mrs. adair, who said, holding out her hand to mr. earnscliffe, "good-night. it is already late, and we start early to-morrow, so we must rest now." "so soon, mrs. adair? but you have granted me so great a boon to-night that i cannot object to anything you wish; you have made me your most grateful and obedient subject for ever. good-night then," and he kissed her hand. they looked round for flora, but she had disappeared. mrs. adair smiled, and said, "i dare say you have wished her good-night already, and she probably did not want to have the _private_ good-night spoiled by a public one, so ran away." mr. earnscliffe smiled too, as he handed mrs. adair her candle, and taking his hat he went out again. mrs. adair was right. flora had run away--she had gone up to marie. as she entered the room the light of the moon showed her marie sitting in the window, looking sadly dejected, and going over to her she put her arms round her, saying, "poor darling mignonne!" large tears rolled slowly down marie's cheeks as she said in french, "don't think me ill-natured, flore--don't imagine that i would not do anything that i could to promote your happiness, but i felt so lonely; i felt that i was a stranger amongst you. now that you are with me, however, and as fond as ever, it is all well, and i am so glad if you are happy, flore. but monsieur earnscliffe is not _un croyant_, so i suppose you cannot marry him until he becomes one?" flora felt almost angry with marie. was there never to be an end of this question of religion? she subdued the feeling, however, and answered gently, "mignonne, if mr. barkley were not a _croyant_, as you say, and if he came to you and told you how for years and years he had known only suffering, but that now he loved you and that you could make him forget it all if you would marry him at once, would you--could you say to him, 'no, suffer on until you become one of the body of the faithful?' could you condemn him you love to endure pain which _you_ could relieve? could you refuse, even for a time, to fulfil the office for which woman was created--that of consoling and rendering happy one whom she loves?" "i know it would be fearfully difficult," replied marie, looking very much puzzled; "but if you were told it was right to do so, what then?" "if the church _forbade_ me to marry him i would of course submit. but what misery it would be to make him endure one hour's suffering from which i might save him. thank god, i know that there is no _indispensable_ obstacle to my marrying him--it would be _too_ dreadful." "take care, flore, there may be some _indispensable_ obstacle although you know it not." "mignonne, wish me joy at having won the love of _such_ a man, rather than suggest obstacles to our happiness; it is a bad omen to hear of nothing but objections on the night of one's betrothal. god knows that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" and again flora shuddered. "i do wish you joy, flora, now and for ever, and i will daily pray that monsieur earnscliffe may soon be as firm a believer as you are yourself." "thanks, dear mignonne, it is so unselfish of you to think about me now in the midst of your own trial." "i was not unselfish a few minutes ago, flore, when i saw you and monsieur earnscliffe together, and his kiss of betrothal imprinted on your brow made me cry; yet indeed it was not that i envied you, flore, but it made me feel how different everything was for me." "you need not tell me that it was not envy, mignonne. i verily believe that you would not know envy if you were to see it, so you might indeed answer with regard to it as nelson did when somebody spoke to him of fear, 'what's fear? i never saw it.'" "it is very _gentil_ of you to say so, flore; but i want to talk about yourself. i want you to tell me all about it,--how long you have cared for monsieur earnscliffe; when you discovered that he liked you,--everything, _enfin_." "it will only pain you, mignonne,--only recall florence." "but it will be such sweet pain, flore; do tell me?" "yes, anything you like, darling," answered flora, who certainly was just in the mood to-night to do whatever could give anybody pleasure. so they had a long chat over this prolific subject to young ladies--a love affair. then flora went in to mrs. adair, and nearly an hour passed before she sought her own room. it was the last on the corridor, and had a balcony looking upon the lake, so she was tempted to go out and look again on the beautiful scene without. to any one achensee would have looked surpassingly lovely on that clear moonlight night, but to flora adair its beauty spoke with one of those voices "which set the inmost music of our souls a-going," singing a song which requires no words, yet breathing a prayer to heaven to be made more worthy of ministering to the object of our love, and to be enabled to make him happy. at length she muttered half aloud, "what bliss it was to hear him say that i had done him good!--my edwin!" "flora!" she started, but more with pleasure than fear, at the sound of her own name, as she saw mr. earnscliffe come from under the shadow of the trees and stand facing the balcony as he said, "i saw you come out, and i have been watching you ever since. it was so delightful to see you there, and know that you were thinking of me. i even heard a sound which seemed very like edwin; but it would have been still more delightful if i could have been standing up there beside you." flora blushed and laughed as she answered, "well, i must say it was very wicked of you to be out here eaves-dropping when you ought to have been in bed; and pray, why are you not there?" "might i not ask the same question, fair lady?" "no, it is quite a different thing for me. a lady may have work and a thousand other things to keep her up, but a man has no such excuse." "and does standing on a balcony in the moonlight get a lady's work done for her?" "_such_ a question does not merit any answer. but you will go in now, will you not? it is really very late." "do you _wish_ me to go?" "i think you ought to go." "that is not saying whether you _wish_ me to go or not; if you do, i will go." "unfortunately wish and ought are very often at variance, and so they are now; wish says, 'stay out and enjoy this beautiful night,' and ought, 'go in and to bed.' but now i must obey _ought_ for i have been very refractory of late." "in what?" "in not listening to its voice, which told me to wait a year before i gave a certain person of my acquaintance the right to plague me with his presence at all seasons and hours; so now good-night indeed." "stay a moment longer, flora; do not go yet." "if i stay a moment it may probably stretch into an hour, and it really must not be; good-bye again, but only till to-morrow." she retreated into her room as he kissed hands to her; the window was closed, and he too went in for good. we can imagine that, although it was very late when flora got to bed, she was up betimes next morning, and took a stroll before breakfast, and of course it is unnecessary to say that her stroll was not a solitary one. again they wandered down that walk which borders the lake,--that lake which evermore will be mirrored in flora's memory as she saw it at eventide with the snowy mountains around it, crimsoned by the setting sun; then as it lay calm and unruffled in the pale silvery moonlight; and lastly as on that morning when the sun shone full upon it, and a light breeze tossed its waters into sparkling, dancing waves. it will ever be to her "the greenest spot on memory's waste." when they got a little way from the hotel, mr. earnscliffe said, "mrs. adair was so kind as to say that all the arrangements for our marriage could be made in paris, and that she expects to arrive there in about ten days, but i want _you_ to name the day when you will give yourself to me 'for better, for worse.' i feel a feverish impatience to have you in my own keeping--to be certain that nothing on earth can separate us more." "what could separate us now, edwin?"--she pronounced his name shyly; then laughed and looked up at him, saying, "do you know that i still feel half afraid to call you by your christian name; it sounds so strange that _i_ should have the right to take such a liberty with so grand and unapproachable a personage as you are." "what, child, afraid of your captive! you ought rather to triumph in your victory over one who made so fierce a resistance; and pray don't have the least fear of wounding your captive's pride by taking _such_ liberties with him. you can never know how sweet it sounded to him last night when first he heard you say edwin." "well then, edwin, i ask again what could separate us now? surely you have ceased to doubt me, and know that the chains in which you hold me cannot be riveted any tighter; the marriage ceremony will only bless them, and give me its sacred sanction to dwell in the mighty shadow of your love." "ceased to doubt you, dearest! of course i have. there is no real love without trust; but i want you to be mine beyond the reach of all danger. i am like a man who has found some rich treasure in an open field, and can feel no rest or peace until he can convey it into his house and revel in its possession; until then he dreads, he knows not what, but that something may rob him of what is so precious to him. but does the treasure not wish to be taken home? would it rather be left where it is for some time longer?" "oh, edwin!" "then, the day, flora--the day!" she paused for a moment, and then said in a low tone-- "the happiest day i have ever known until now was the st of june, the great feast of my dear school days, and its happiness consisted in the power of being nearly all the time with my favourite mistress, the object of my girlish love; so let my wedding day be the st of june, that day which will give me the unutterable happiness of being always with the love of my riper years; and thus the st of june will be to me the happiest day of my life in youth as in childhood. are you satisfied, edwin?" she blushed all over as she spoke, and still more so when his answer was to fold her in his arms, and murmur-- "my wife, then, in a few weeks hence!" then he added, letting her go, but making her lean upon him again, "i will write to england immediately and desire all the papers to be got ready, so that i shall only have the signing work to do when i go there from paris." "but you will not be long away, edwin, will you?" "trust me, i'll not stay longer than is absolutely necessary; but i must pay a flying visit to earnscliffe court to give orders about its being fitted up for your reception. shall i take you to it--my real home--at once, darling?" "please, edwin. would it be possible to get there from paris without stopping on the way? that would be so pleasant." "so it would; and i'll think about how we can manage. the old place will bring up many painful memories, for i have not been there for more than ten years; but you will exorcise all those ghosts of the past, my flora." "it shall not be my fault if i do not, edwin." "then in september i must whirl you off to capri. i promised my poor fisherpeople there to go and see them again as soon as i could; but i almost doubt if they will know me, for i shall have grown so young-looking in this new atmosphere of happiness. how much i shall have to show you on those classic shores!" "how bright a picture, edwin: its brightness dazzles me. oh, that it may be realised!" "why should it not be realised? _now i_ may ask, why do you doubt it?" "because it is too--too bright for me, edwin. but we must return, or we shall be late for breakfast, and then mamma will not be pleased." when they got into the breakfast-room, they found mrs. adair and marie there. flora had jestingly told the latter that she must congratulate mr. earnscliffe the first time she met him; but, of course, never meant that she should take it seriously. however, as mr. earnscliffe shook hands with marie and wished her good-morning, she said, timidly-- "i wish you much happiness, mr. earnscliffe; and it would be very astonishing if you were not happy when you shall have flore." "i quite agree with you, mademoiselle mignonne: it _would_ be very astonishing. but what do you say of flora? if you were in her place, would you likewise say that it would be very astonishing if you were not to be happy?" "oh, that is all another thing, monsieur. i would have fear of you; but flora has not." this speech of marie's caused a general laugh, which covered the poor child with confusion; but flora said gaily-- "never mind, mignonne! what you said was perfectly true:--i am not dreadfully afraid of the formidable mr. earnscliffe. i don't suppose that he will chop me up into mincemeat. but here comes the coffee, and we must not let it get cold." chapter iv. about an hour after breakfast the carriage came to the door, and our friends set out for tegernsee, two of them, at least, looking back fondly on achensee's secluded shores, and promising themselves to visit them again when their happiness should be still more complete. promises, alas, which might never be fulfilled! live in the present, poor lovers--draw from the passing hour all its sweetness; but dream not of bliss to come! the dark curtain which veils the future may too soon be drawn aside, and leave you standing face to face with a stern reality. wander yet awhile in lovely tyrol!--feast your eyes on its green valleys, where graze the peaceful flocks, and the tinkling of their bells sounds musically through the clear air, and look up to the mountain's height where "mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been," or by the foaming torrent's course, and see there the touching symbols of their faith, raised by tyrol's sons to cheer and guide the daring chamois hunter on his lonely way. it is a land that breathes of love and peace. linger in it, then, and deem not that paris, with its false glitter and turmoil, will crown your happiness. passions fierce and angry dwell within that great city's walls and point their arrows towards you! immediately after leaving the village which lies at a little distance from the lake, the road to tegernsee enters the narrow pass of achen, bordered on one side by a rapid stream, and on the other by high mountains, which are so thickly wooded that even beneath a mid-day sun they make the pass look dark and solemn; whilst through breaks in the mountain's chain glimpses may be caught of smiling valleys, and here and there a solitary cottage. in passing by a shrine the driver raised his hat, and flora said in a low tone, "do you condemn that, edwin?" "not in these poor people, because they do not know that it is superstition." "but suppose that it is _not_ superstition, as you yourself will admit when you see the supernatural truth of religion, and god grant that that may be very soon." "amen! how i long for faith in _eternal_ happiness now, flora." his expressive eyes and the tone of his voice as it lingered over her name told all that words did not say of why it was that he so longed for such faith _now_. and flora read it all therein with deep delight as she answered, "how true it is that the more the heart loves, the more irresistibly is it drawn to divine faith, for _then_ we dare not believe that the grave is to be the end of everything. the great mystery of life and death would be too awful had we not faith and hope. so you must have them, edwin." "i shall have them, flora, if i can only find what i used to call my _ignis fatuus_--certainty--to rest them upon. i gave up the search for it long ago, as i told you, but now i will begin it again in a new territory and under new auspices, and if it will cease to be an _ignis fatuus_, and blaze into a steady flame, how grateful i shall be, and how i shall bless the star which lighted it up for me, and shed over me the halo of happiness for this world and for the next. but here we are at the baths of kreuth." "it is very pretty," replied flora, "although it cannot boast of achensee's grand wild beauty. what could rival that?" flora's smile seemed to say that achensee had more charms for her even than those which nature had bestowed upon it. at kreuth a rest and hot luncheon--or dinner, as it may be called--were very acceptable after their drive through the keen mountain air; and in about two hours they resumed their journey. some time before reaching kreuth they crossed the tyrolian boundary into south bavaria, where the scenery all the way to tegernsee is very lovely, although, as flora said, it cannot boast of great wildness or grandeur; and tegernsee itself is a sweet little spot, but wholly devoid of any of the characteristics of achensee. the lake is like an immense sheet of crystal, with pretty little villages and gardens running down to its very edge, and all around wooded hills and flowery meadows meet one's gaze, but there is nothing solemn or impressive about it. the dark blue lake shut in by ramparts of snowy mountains, the isolated cottages with their carved crosses, the oratory and the shrine--these all belong to tyrol. tegernsee charms the eye with its smiling prettiness and brightness, but it does not speak to the imagination as achensee does. our party stopped that evening and the next day at tegernsee, exploring its neighbourhood. walking was the order of the day. mr. earnscliffe managed that they should drive as little as possible; he declared that it was a shame not to walk when there were such beautiful shady alleys leading to all the different _points de vue_ and places of resort; or in other words, walking suited his taste better than driving, because then he could have flora more to himself, whilst mrs. adair and marie preceded or followed them, as the case might be. mr. earnscliffe was an exacting lover, but he could not be too much so for flora; she asked nothing better than to be with him, whether he spoke or was silent, and he was very often silent. on one occasion when they had walked for some distance in silence, he said, "you are so good to stay with me, flora, in whatever mood i may be. does not my silence sometimes weary you? i fear i seem but a sorry lover, and you never try to make me what you would wish me to be; you do not use your privilege of _fiancée_--that of ruling your lord elect." "how can you ask if your silence wearies me, edwin? do you not know that silence is often more eloquent than words? it is enough for me to be with you, and to feel that although you do not speak, you like to have me at your side, and would miss me were i to go away. and as to ruling you, it would be no privilege to me,--i want to be ruled. _our_ sovereignty consists in voluntarily yielding to one whom we love, whilst knowing that we have the power to give him happiness. this and this alone is our true sovereignty." "darling! what should i do if anything were to take you from me?" and he shivered. flora had observed that the fonder he appeared to be of her the more did he seem haunted by a morbid dread of losing her, and she asked, "what makes you fear that anything should take me from you?" "because you are so precious to me, child, and i am so unaccustomed to happiness that i can scarcely believe in its realisation. i wish we were married and that i had you safe at earnscliffe court." he could not tell her about mary elton and his strange dream;--of the former he was of course bound in honour not to speak, and of the latter it seemed so foolish and superstitious even to think; yet it was the remembrance of these which so often made him thoughtful and silent. flora saw that he was in a desponding mood, and in order to distract him from his gloomy thoughts, she began to question him about earnscliffe court, what the grounds and house were like, until by the time they reached the term of their walk he was talking gaily about the fitting up of the rooms for her reception, and as the others joined them he appealed to mrs. adair for advice on the subject. in such walks and talks time slipped quickly by--time, that tyrant which ever flees when we would have it stay its course, and drags when we would give worlds to have it accelerate its speed!... how its wheels are going now for mr. earnscliffe and flora! they are tearing up the hill at full speed, but at the summit the drag will be put on, and the descent will be slow and weary. the morning but one after their arrival at tegernsee they drove to holzkirchen, and there got into the train for munich. at the terminus mr. earnscliffe's servant, who had been sent on to engage rooms, met them with a carriage to take them to the hotel des quatre saisons, where apartments had been taken for them. how well does munich merit its title of the athens of germany, with all its art repositories! its fine wide streets and gay shops, too, claim for it a share of admiration from the lovers of handsome modern cities. a week passes quickly there, and even then we come away without having really seen all its treasures, as it would indeed take a long time to exhaust the resources of its different galleries. in the old pinacothek there are original paintings of the spanish, flemish, french, and italian schools. of the last-named school we see subjects from the pencil of its very earliest pupils,--cimabue, giotto, sodoma, and beato angelico. and standing before a picture of the _frate's_ we find mr. earnscliffe and flora, the day after their arrival in munich; mrs. adair and marie had just gone into one of the other rooms. "do you like fra angelico's pictures?" asked flora. "yes, he is an exquisite painter." "yet he was, according to your ideas, an ignorant monk, and a worshipper of images; nevertheless, i daresay that your enlightened landseer could not paint anything to equal his angels! yet he is generally considered to be one of your best painters." "but it's not fair, flora, to compare them," answered mr. earnscliffe, laughing at the mere idea of such a comparison; "fra angelico's and landseer's are altogether different styles." "of course they are. how could reason and truth, and superstition and ignorance produce the same style of painter? and it was just that which struck me;--the difference in elevation of style and subject shown by the disciple of truth and intellect over the poor superstitious monk!" mr. earnscliffe smiled, but remained silent, and flora said, "why do you not answer, edwin? have i annoyed you?" "annoyed me? no. i did not speak, because i was thinking over your words. it _is_ strange, no doubt, that the painters of the middle ages should be of so much higher an order than those of our own time. to be candid with you, this reflection has often occurred to me before now, but i turned away from it as one of the many riddles which reason could not explain--i wish it could be satisfactorily cleared up." "it _can_ be, edwin. but we shall lose mamma if we do not go on--she and marie have already left this hall...." it would be too fatiguing to follow them in all their sight-seeing labours. the only expedition in which we feel inclined to accompany them is the one which they made to the bavaria. mr. earnscliffe said that it was at a pleasant walking distance from the town; accordingly they went on foot, he leading the way with flora. both she and marie were most curious to see the statue of a woman whose head alone can contain six persons, and they found it difficult to believe that it did not look like an overgrown monster. but, on the contrary, when they reached it they saw only the form of a beautiful woman standing on a marble pedestal and a lion crouching by her side. its proportions are so admirable, that even when close to it they could hardly force themselves to credit its gigantic size. the girls said they would like to ascend, just for curiosity. mr. earnscliffe of course went with them. they sat down in the head, then looked through the eyes for a moment or two, but were glad enough to come down again, as the heat was excessive. when they returned and got again into the open air, they saw, much to their astonishment, a lady and gentleman speaking to mrs. adair, and heard her say, "how surprised they will be to see you here." the lady turned round, and they saw helena elton, looking brighter and gayer than ever. surprise was indeed depicted on all their countenances, but in mr. earnscliffe's there was another expression blended with it which was not so easily read. "helena elton!" exclaimed flora. "helena elton is no more," she said, laughing and blushing; "allow me to present my husband, mr. caulfield." when the excitement caused by this unexpected meeting had subsided a little, mrs. adair said, "had we not better return now? we dine at five to-day, so as to be ready to go to the opera, which begins at six." "we are going to do so also," added mr. caulfield. "then, helena, you might as well walk back with us; i want to hear a great deal of news," said flora, with a significant glance at mr. caulfield. "indeed, miss flora, and do you expect me to gratify your curiosity? but come, i will indulge you if you will promise to gratify mine in return." "if i had anything to tell which could gratify it, i might promise, but one can't make promises if there is nothing to be told; however, we can make terms as we go," answered flora, lightly. "very well, so be it. we drove here, but we can send away the carriage, can't we, harry?" "to be sure we can, cricket; i dare say the driver will not be inconsolable for the loss of our company if he gets our money. but, mrs. adair, can you not wait for a few moments to let us run up dame bavaria,--we want to be able to say that we have been in a woman's head." "yes, ten minutes cannot make any great difference." "oh, we shall do it in less time than that." as soon as they had got into the statue, mr. earnscliffe drew flora aside, and said, "do not tell her of our engagement. i will give you my reasons for not wishing it to be told to her, at another time." "it is enough to know your wishes in order to follow them, edwin; you can tell me the reason when you like, or not at all, if you choose. but i must caution mamma and marie." he pressed her hand as she turned away from him and went to her mother. shortly afterwards, mr. and mrs. caulfield came down again, and they all set out to walk home, mr. caulfield having first discharged their carriage. helena and flora walked together, as prearranged, and the latter thought the best way to keep from admitting her engagement was to begin by telling as much as she chose, and so prevent too much questioning; therefore, she said at once, "when you talked of my gratifying your curiosity, helena, i suppose you meant to allude to mr. earnscliffe's being with us, but, alas! for your gratification, there is very little to tell. we met him by chance in venice." "chance, flora?" interrupted helena. "yes, quite so; we did not even know that he was in venice. we happened then to speak of crossing the tyrol. mamma said we were going in the diligence,--as we were three unprotected females she did not like to take a carriage and trust altogether to the driver of it,--when mr. earnscliffe good-naturedly offered to escort us over the pass. that is all i have to tell you." "come, flora, you are not so verdant as to imagine that a grand mogul like mr. earnscliffe, who, as a general rule, dislikes ladies, would offer to dance attendance upon three of them out of mere good nature; it is quite evident that he would never have done so unless one of the three had pinioned him with cupid's fiery darts. admit, flora, that he is in love with you." "well, helena, your reasoning _is_ worthy of a woman, for it is utterly guiltless of all logic. because a gentleman offers to see us across a mountain pass, you jump to the conclusion that he must be in love with _me_. if even it were--which, of course, it is not--a necessary consequence of his travelling with us that he should be in love with one of the party, why, in the name of all that's wonderful, fix upon me? marie is much prettier. why, then, not upon her?" "prettier--yes; but you might as well talk of his being in love with me as with her. why, he considers _us_ merely good, gay little fools, that is, if he could for a moment bring down his great mind to think about us at all. of course, _you_ are the 'favourite;' and if he does not propose it will be very dishonourable." "how can you be so absurd, helena?" said flora, getting a little excited, yet feeling that too warm a defence might only betray her. "it would be too bad if a gentleman could not do a good-natured act to three ladies without being expected to propose for one of them, and surely an avowed woman-hater like mr. earnscliffe could do it most safely without giving cause for any such expectations. but never mind _him_,--i want to hear about yourself. i need scarcely say that i knew there was a flirtation between you and mr. caulfield in rome; but i had no idea that mrs. elton would approve of him as a suitor for your hand." "approve of him, indeed! what an idea! poor harry is not enough of a big-wig or rich enough to take my lady mother's fancy. our history is quite a romance." "then please to let me hear it, or a _résumé_ of it, at least, for we have not much time to spare." "well, then, to begin at the beginning. early in the winter harry and i became great friends, and at first mamma seemed to be amused with him, and used to laugh at our incessant skirmishing. then that day at frascati--you remember it, flora?--she suddenly got up the idea that i flirted _too_ much with him. she was particularly annoyed about it because that horribly slow mr. mainwaring was there. he is as rich as croesus, and mamma wanted me to marry him. but the evening crowned the day. i was in wild spirits, and danced all night with harry, and finally sat for a full half-hour alone with him in that recess where i had the pleasure of seeing you with mr. lyne. you can guess what tale it was that i listened to there, and what my answer was. in an evil moment mamma passed by and gave me a look of thunder. i saw that a storm was gathering, and hoping to avert it, i told harry that i would not dance with him any more that night, and that he must not attempt to speak to mamma until i gave him leave to do so, for i dreaded that she would 'cut up rough.' he didn't seem to like it. however, he was obliged to give me the required promise. no sooner were all the people gone than i got the most tremendous scolding that a poor mortal could have. i was peremptorily told that mr. caulfield was not a fit match for me, and that, therefore, the way in which i flirted with him was disgraceful, and, in fine, that there must be an end to it. i was in despair; but thought that i had better let the squall blow over and try to get mary on my side. mary behaved like an angel. she saw that i really loved harry, and so she did all she could to let us meet as often as possible, and in the meantime endeavoured to influence mamma in his favour. thus things went on as long as we remained in rome, and for some time after we got to naples. at last, one evening--by the way, mr. earnscliffe dined with us on that day--a bouquet girl came to the door ostensibly to sell bouquets, but in reality to bring me a note from harry. the note was to tell me that he had just received a letter announcing his sister's approaching marriage with an officer about to start for india immediately, and whose wedding must therefore take place at once; but harry declared that he would either take me with him as his bride, or never see me again. his note, i assure you, flora, was quite in the _romance_ style, calling upon me to choose between the man whom i professed to love, and a cruel, unreasonable parent. he concluded by saying that he _had_ waited months in the hope of her relenting, and that he would wait no longer, but on the next day would formally ask mamma for my hand, and if she refused her consent, it would remain with me to decide between them. there was no possibility of stopping him, for i could not write then, and afterwards it would have been too late; but, to say the truth, i did not want to do so. i was getting heartily tired of manoeuvring to see him, and to keep mamma from forbidding me to speak to him, so i was almost glad that it had come to a crisis. the next day up came the hero, and he was shown into the drawing-room, where mary and i were sitting in fear and trembling at the coming attack on the citadel. harry looked awfully determined and braced up to the fighting point as he came in, and walking up to mary, he said, 'miss elton, you are probably aware of what my object in coming here to-day is, and i hope i may count upon your seconding it.' mary bowed, and then he asked, 'can i see mrs. elton?' 'i will go and tell her that you are here,' answered mary. harry had only time to say a few words to me, when mamma came down, followed by mary. then commenced the battle in earnest. everything that mamma said was bitter and cutting, and i, of course, was crying like a fool. at last she concluded by saying, 'mr. caulfield, i told helena long ago that i disapproved of her flirtation, as i would never give my consent to her marriage with you, and i tell it to you now. my consent she shall never have. she has braved my displeasure hitherto, and i suppose she will continue to do so. i have not the power to prevent her from becoming your wife if she chooses to do it in spite of my prohibition; but if she does i will not give her any fortune whatsoever.' the brightest of smiles played over harry's face as he replied, eagerly, 'as for the fortune, mrs. elton, it is a matter of indifference to me. if helena can be satisfied to marry a comparatively poor man it's all right. i shall only regret her not having a fortune for her own sake. what do you say, helena?' my answer was to go and place my hand in his, and he put his arm round my waist, saying, 'it's all right, you see, mrs. elton.' i saw mamma's eyes fill with tears, and pushing harry away, i went and threw myself at her feet, and begged of her only to say that she would not be angry with me if i married him. i said that i did not want any money, but that i could not bear her displeasure. mary came to the rescue, and joined her prayers to mine, and we wrung from mamma a sort of half consent, which harry gladly seized on, and rushed off to the english chaplain to get everything arranged as quickly as possible. a fortnight after we were privately married. mary was my only bridesmaid, and mr. lyne harry's bridesman. poor mary looked heart-broken as she wished me good-bye, and i was so sorry to leave her; but i could not help wanting to go with harry"--(flora smiled)--"we travelled post-haste to rome, intending to sail from civita vecchia; but at his banker's in rome harry found a letter from his sister, informing him that her marriage was put off for a few weeks, as her future husband's regiment was not to sail so soon as they had expected. how harry laughed when he got that letter, declaring that if his sister had been playing into his hands, she could not have helped him better to his wife, and that he was sure if he had not taken mamma by storm and carried me off in a whirlwind, he would never have got me at all. we had now time to spare, and i proposed that we should come here, as we had neither of us seen munich, and go home by the rhine. there's the end of my story; but, tell me, wasn't it grand of harry not to care about my fortune when, naturally, he must have expected that i would have a large one? and mamma kept to it. she did not give me anything. but harry is such a darling, flora, you can't think!" "take care, helena; you are yet too young a wife to sing your husband's praises.... wait a little." "as if harry would change, indeed!" "well, i don't at all mean to say that he will; i only said that you must wait a while before you gain the right of singing his praises. but here we are at your hotel, for i see them all standing at the door waiting for us." "yes, we are staying at the bayrischer hof,--and you?" "at the vier jahreszeiten; but we shall meet at the theatre." "oh yes, we must spend this evening together, for i heard mrs. adair say that you were going away to-morrow; and i am not at all satisfied about mr. earnscliffe; i must try and pick his brains--or rather it is his heart that i want to pick--to-night at the theatre. as you are so close to it, suppose we call for you, and then we can all go in together." "yes, that will be the better plan; then please to be with us at a few minutes before six." as they came up mr. caulfield said, looking admiringly at helena's bright laughing face, "what a chatterbox my wife is, is she not, miss adair?" "not worse than her husband, at all events," answered helena, taking his arm and pinching it. she then wished her friends good-bye, until six, promising for herself and harry to be punctual. we may imagine what success helena had that evening in gleaning information from mr. earnscliffe about the state of his heart; and the next morning the adair party were in the train _en route_ for paris before the caulfields had finished their rather late breakfast. chapter v. when the adairs arrived in paris they found a letter waiting for them from madame de st. severan, stating that most unfortunately monsieur de st. severan had got a violent attack of the gout, which it was feared would detain him for some weeks at his chateau in the south, where they then were; therefore, to their deep regret, they were forced to give up the pleasure of going to paris to receive their dear child marie, and to thank her kind friends who had taken such care of her. but if mrs. adair would kindly write and say on what day marie would be ready to leave paris, they would send up a faithful old servant to take charge of her to the chateau. the letter concluded with a warm invitation to the adairs to spend some time with them as soon as monsieur de st. severan should be recovered. flora declared that marie must not go away before her wedding, but the difficulty was how to get leave from the de st. severans for her to stay, without giving the true reason, for flora did not wish them to be told of her marriage; she said it would be time enough to tell them just before it took place,--it was so disagreeable to have a thing of that kind spoken of beforehand. so mrs. adair could only write to madame de st. severan begging her to allow marie to stay with them until after the st, when they intended to leave france, and holding out a hope that if the de st. severans were not able to come to paris, then she would take marie to them herself. mrs. adair pressed so earnestly for consent to this arrangement that it was granted, although somewhat reluctantly, as colonel de st. severan was all impatience to see marie; however, the consent _was_ given, and marie remained--for the wedding. for nearly the first three weeks of their stay in paris mr. earnscliffe was in england, and, notwithstanding her occupation--one too in which ladies are supposed to take such delight, that of getting her _trousseau_--flora found the time pass very slowly, and voted the _trousseau_ a bore. marie, however, supplied for the bride elect's abstraction, and superintended all its most minute details. towards dusk one evening flora sat in the drawing-room window totally heedless of repeated calls from marie to come and see what pretty things they were planning for her; but she sat immovable in the half-dark silent room, whilst from the one next to it there came a streak of light and the sound of shrill french voices in full chatter. suddenly she started up and ran to the outer door of their apartment, which she opened as if by chance just as a gentleman was about to ring at it. it was too dark for him to see who the person was who opened it, particularly as she stood very much behind it, and he asked in a quick, eager tone, "_madame adair, est-elle chez elle?_" "_est-ce bien madame que monsieur veut voir?_" was the reply, in an odd muffled voice. "_les dames enfin_," he returned, impatiently, "_sont elles à la maison? dites moi donc vite._" a low laugh was now the only answer, but it seemed to satisfy mr. earnscliffe perfectly as to whether the _ladies_ were at home, for he did not repeat his question, but caught the respondent in his arms, and murmured between kisses, "wicked flora! to try my patience so, and keep me waiting for _this_." now time resumed its gallop for flora, and everything became interesting. being asked to decide between this dress or that was no longer tiresome, since mr. earnscliffe was there to say which he thought the prettier. it came to within about ten days of the eventful twenty-first, and everything seemed to bid fair to contradict the old saying that "the course of true love never did run smooth." but one evening as they drove home from the bois de boulogne, mrs. elton and mary passed them, driving very fast, but not before mary had time to recognise them and bow most markedly. "the eltons here!" exclaimed flora. "helena did not tell me that they were coming to paris." and she looked at mr. earnscliffe, but to her amazement she saw that he had become strangely pale, and seemed scarcely to hear her; then, with that sort of shudder which she had before observed, he said, "here! yes, i had no idea of it." he scarcely spoke again all the evening, yet he could not bear flora to be away from him for a moment. here was the first shadow: it was not a very great one, but it _was_ one. flora could no longer blind herself to the fact that in mr. earnscliffe's mind there was some sinister train of thought in connection with mary elton. to doubt mr. earnscliffe was an impossibility to her, and she only wished to know what it was that caused this gloom, whenever mary elton was named or seen, in order that she might better know how to cheer him and make him forget it. she could not speak to him on this subject, because, as he had not volunteered to tell her, any questioning or remarks upon it might look like distrust, and she could not bear to say anything which might wear the faintest semblance of such a feeling. so on that evening she could only exert all her powers of charm and affection to try to chase away his sadness. he stayed late, and when he was going away he held her for a moment longer than usual in his arms, and said, but more to himself than to her, "would that you were really mine, flora! then i should have nothing to dread, but now----" "what is that you dread now, edwin?" "you would laugh at me if i were to tell you, flora, and it does seem to be folly, but--oh, the power of a woman for good or evil is fearful! i have a right to dread it." "but tell me what it is that makes you sad, be it folly or not, and i will try to banish it away, edwin," she said with a smile. "that you would, darling, but i _must_ not tell you. i am bound in honour not to do so, and you gave me so good an example some time ago on this point, that i should be unpardonable if i were to say a word. but you will trust me." "trust you, edwin!" and her blue eyes, as they rested full on his face, looked worlds of trust. "my own dearest, good-night!" and he gave her the last kiss, adding, with a smile, as he turned away, "i must not stay any longer, or you would tempt me into telling you my foolish fears, to have them _petted_--which would be better far than reasoned--away." but mary elton: what were her feelings on thus seeing mr. earnscliffe driving in the carriage with her rival? in order to understand them fully, let us go back to that evening at naples, when, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement, she forgot all maidenly reserve, and allowed mr. earnscliffe to see her ungovernable passion for himself, and almost cursed flora adair. we remember that she rushed away from him down a side walk, as she heard the sound of an approaching step; but we did not see her a moment later, when, coming to a stone bench, she threw herself on the ground beside it, and pressed her burning face upon its cool surface. suddenly, however, she felt something flowing into her mouth, and raising her head, a stream of blood came from her lips. she tried to stop it with her handkerchief, and with her other hand she clung to the bench for support, for everything seemed to swim round her. thus helena found her, and she started back with fright as she saw her face, hands, and handkerchief all besmeared with blood; then putting her arms round her, she made her lean against her as she exclaimed, "oh, sister, what is the matter? what can i do for you? shall i call any one?" mary leaned her head heavily on helena's shoulder, as if to keep her from moving, and half opened her closed eyes. helena saw and understood well why it was so--that mary did not wish any one to see her in this state; so helena tried to remain quiet, but she felt so frightened about mary, and so powerless to do or to get anything for her, being afraid to leave her, that she fairly broke down and began to cry. it roused mary, however, for as helena's tears fell like rain-drops on her face, she opened her eyes and tried to say, "it is nothing, i shall be better in a few minutes;" and again, after a moment's pause, she whispered, "let me lean against the seat, and you go and dip your handkerchief in the fountain and bring it back to me." "but i am afraid to leave you, mary, darling!" "do not be afraid, go--oh, go!" helena did not venture to hesitate any longer, for fear of irritating mary and making her worse, so she settled her as comfortably as she could against the bench, went to the fountain, saturated her handkerchief well with cold water, and ran back with it to mary, who muttered, "put it upon my head." as helena did so, mary gave a deep drawn sigh of relief, then taking the wet handkerchief in her own hand, she rubbed it upon her face. "let me do it for you, mary," said helena, and she took the handkerchief from her and tried to remove the blood stains from mary's lips, whilst the latter said, in a stronger voice than she had yet spoken, "do you think you could take me up, helena, and help me to the fountain. if i could only get to it i should be all right." "i will try," answered helena, and after a little time she did get her up; and holding her tightly round the waist, and with mary's arm thrown across her shoulders, they at last got to the fountain. mary plunged her hands into the cold water, deluged her face with it, and repeated this process until all feeling of faintness was gone. helena stood by, watching her mournfully, until at length mary said, "there, now it's all over, and so don't look frightened any more, lena." "but, mary, what was all that blood? you have not burst a blood-vessel, surely!" "nonsense, child," said mary, quickly, although in her heart she thought that what helena said was true, that she had burst a blood-vessel; "i probably hurt myself against the bench, and my nose and mouth bled." "i hope it was only that, dear sister; and now please, please to believe that i did not willingly disobey you about flora. he found it out, mary, before i knew what i was saying,--forgive me, forgive me," and helena knelt before mary. "helena!" mary almost screamed, "never again dare to mention that subject to me, the past is buried, and"--with bitterness--"washed away in my blood. none know it but you, and none ever can know it but _through_ you; be silent as the grave upon it to me as well as to others! lena"--her voice changed and lost all its sternness--"do not thwart me by ever alluding to it; you are all that is left to me to love now. speak to me of yourself--of how i can help you--and i shall be glad to have anything good to do or to think about." helena kissed her fondly, and thinking that, as she herself said, it would be well for her to have something to do and to think about, she put mr. caulfield's letter into her hand. mary read it by the moonlight, which, as we may recollect, was very bright that night. then she said, "we must go in now; i will go upstairs and change my dress, and you can tell mamma that i have gone to do so, as i got it wet by sitting at the fountain; that is true, heaven knows." she held up her arms, and the water dripped from her light muslin sleeves. the first thing that mary did on getting to her own room was to drink off about twenty drops of sal-volatile, in the smallest possible quantity of water--she had latterly given herself the habit of taking these stimulants--and then as soon as she had changed her dress, and carefully folded up and put away the blood-stained one, together with her own and helena's handkerchief, she went down-stairs, and appeared to be very much as usual for the remainder of the evening. then next day, as we already know, began all the fuss and hurry about helena's marriage, and for the ensuing fortnight excitement kept mary up. but on the evening of helena's wedding day, after the bridal party had left, as mary sat before the dressing-table to have her hair arranged for dinner, the maid saw even in the glass that she suddenly changed countenance, and her lips formed the word "basin" although scarcely any sound came from them. she handed it to her with all possible speed, and again the blood streamed from mary's lips. the maid was able to reach the bell from where she stood at the dressing-table, and rang it violently. the house was soon in commotion, and mrs. elton, though evidently much agitated, was the only one who preserved any presence of mind. without a moment's delay, she sent off a messenger to their doctor, and in case that he should not be at home, she desired the former not to return without some good medical man; and having done this, she turned all her attention to trying to get mary stretched upon her bed, as she was sure that she would be better if she could be laid on her back. they succeeded in this, and the vomiting of blood ceased for the time being. dr. danvers, their regular physician, came quickly on the receipt of mrs. elton's urgent message. almost immediately after seeing mary he said that she had burst a blood-vessel from over excitement, but that as far as he could judge at present there was not any danger if she could be kept perfectly quiet. mrs. elton of course promised that this should be done, and dr. danvers, having written a prescription, and given all necessary directions for the night, took his leave, saying that he would see the patient early next morning. the first words which mary spoke were, "mamma, remember, you must not say that i am ill when you write to lena,--promise me this faithfully, or i shall have no rest." "of course i will promise it, dear child," answered mrs. elton; "everything shall be done that you wish, only keep yourself quiet, and then you will soon be well again. i never supposed that lena's leaving us would be such a blow to you, and yet how you urged on that marriage for her sake. how unselfishly you must love her, mary." mary's eyes filled with tears, and her mother, dreading any agitation for her, kissed her and went away. mary now progressed slowly but steadily from day to day, and before long she was able to go about again. but when dr. danvers was taking his final leave of her he said significantly, "young lady, beware of violent excitement. to break a blood-vessel about the heart a second time is most dangerous, a third time fatal. in persons of your temperament feeling should be given way to naturally, and not hidden and pent up in their own hearts, for then it swells and swells until it bursts, and inundations, we all know, sometimes destroy life. remember my words, young lady, if you would be long-lived. and now allow me to wish you good-bye, and at the same time health and happiness." dr. danvers might have spared his advice. there could be no natural outlet for that secret passion which mary kept "pent up" indeed in her own heart. she burned to know where mr. earnscliffe and flora adair--for she never doubted that they were together--were, and what was the result of their meeting. suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps they were in paris. she remembered that the adairs had said in rome that they expected to get to paris by the end of may. it was the first of june now, so in all probability they were there, and mary resolved that she and mrs elton should go too, murmuring at the same time, "i told him to dread me in the hour when he felt most sure of flora adair. for her he slighted my love, and i will snatch her from him yet--how, i know not--but i will do it or die." helena had not ventured to tell mary that she met the adairs and mr. earnscliffe in munich, so it was on chance that mary determined upon inducing her mother to go to paris, and mrs. elton at once consented, not wishing to oppose mary in anything just after her illness. accordingly they arrived in paris a day or two before that evening when they met the adairs and mr. earnscliffe in the champs elysées. mary had expected to see them together, yet the realisation of what she expected was a shock to her. a sharp pain shot across her heart, and tears of rage and jealousy started to her eyes, but, heedless of dr. danvers' parting admonition, she forced them back, and exerted herself to appear unconcerned, and when she retired to her own room for the night, she did not go to bed, but sat pale and exhausted in an armchair, meditating upon what she could do to separate them. "i saw him start as he caught sight of me, so he has not forgotten that night at naples, and it shall be recalled still more forcibly to his memory before long,--yet how? i do not even know where either he or the adairs are staying; however that i can find out. what then? oh, that i were iago to his othello! heavens! it is not possible that they are married and that i am too late!" she exclaimed, springing from her chair. "no, no, it cannot be, i should have heard of it; but even if they are, i am not too late,--revenge is still possible, only let me have the means! but it is of no use to think any more to-night; to-morrow i must find out where they are, and then--now, oh give me rest, rest!" the next morning she sent their courier to the police to inquire where a madame et mademoiselle adair et mademoiselle arbi were residing, and desired him to be shown up to her room the instant he came back.... she trembled as she heard his step approach, and it had seemed like ages to her until his knock came to the door. "_entrez_," she cried eagerly. he went in and gave her an answer, for which he received a most earnest "_merci beaucoup_." the answer was that the _three_ ladies were residing in an apartment in the avenue de marigny, . "now," thought mary, "we can go and call upon them, and there we shall hear where mr. earnscliffe is. so far all is well; i am still in time to keep my word to him. we had better go early to the adairs--about half-past one--so as to catch them at home; so i must go and tell mamma, as it must be long past twelve now." she entered the drawing-room, where mrs. elton was sitting reading, and was just going to propose the visit to the adairs, when thomas opened the door and announced "mr. maunsell." mary frowned with displeasure, for she feared that the visitor--she could not think of any one whom she knew of that name--might make them late in going to the adairs, and she felt indignant with thomas for allowing any one to come in at such an undue hour for visitors--"before one o'clock--preposterous!" but mrs. elton exclaimed, with a bright smile, as a venerable-looking, grey-haired old gentleman came in, "mr. maunsell, how delighted i am to see you!" mary saw with surprise that her mother's eyes were swimming in tears, and the old gentleman, whom she was sure _she_ had never seen before, kept her hand in his as he said, "poor william! you and he were together when last i saw you." they both remained silent for a second or two, and then mrs. elton said, "mary, come and make the acquaintance of an old friend of your dear father's. you have heard me speak of mr. maunsell often, and of having stayed at his country seat, near earnscliffe court, years ago." as if by magic mary's frown vanished, and her whole face lit up; even mrs. elton was astonished at the singular graciousness of her manner as she expressed her pleasure at being introduced to mr. maunsell; yet she was much gratified by it, for she looked upon it as a proof of how dear her father's memory was to mary; and mr. maunsell seemed to be quite touched as he said, "thank you, my dear, for receiving me so warmly; we old people value cordiality from the young so much." but neither of them had got the right key to her sudden change of manner,--that key was the word earnscliffe court. "he must know mr. earnscliffe then," she thought, "and possibly he might be of some use to her--who could tell?" when they were all seated mrs. elton said, "how did you know that we were in paris, mr. maunsell?" "well, by the merest chance," he answered. "i met earnscliffe unexpectedly--i did not know that he was here, either--and in the course of conversation i asked him if he knew you, adding that you and his parents had been intimate friends. he said he had met you in italy, and then i asked him if he had any idea where you were now; he answered, somewhat abruptly i thought, 'i suppose they are here, for i saw them driving in the champs elysées last evening, but i know nothing more about them.' i did not like to lose the chance of seeing you, without making some exertion, and accordingly i went to galignani, in hopes of finding your address, and as you see, i was successful." "it was so good of you to take the trouble of finding us out." "it was not goodness, my dear; i felt that it would be a gratification, even if a sad one, to me to see you again. but come, i must not make you think of bygones," he added, as he saw mrs. elton's eyes beginning to glisten again; "let us talk of something cheering. by the way, i think earnscliffe is going to be married again." mary felt as if the beating of her heart stood still, as mrs. elton exclaimed, "again! why, has he been married? is he a widower?" "married! to be sure he has been, but he is only a widower in law," answered mr. maunsell with a smile. mary could stay quiet no longer; she stood up and went to the window, apparently to arrange the blind, and then seated herself so that the shadow of the curtain fell upon her. "what do you mean?" asked mrs. elton. "we have resided so much out of england for the last twelve years, that i know nothing of all this. do tell us the whole history." mr. maunsell, who enjoyed telling a story, acceded to this request with the utmost willingness. "it must be somewhat more than ten years ago now, i should say, since the beautiful miss foster was the reigning belle in london. mr. foster had been lavishly extravagant all his life, and it was generally known that he depended upon his only child's making a rich marriage in order to stave off absolute ruin. if beauty can be called a fortune, amelia foster certainly had an ample dower. well, in the beginning of the season earnscliffe was abroad, but towards its close he returned to london, and was, of course, introduced to miss foster. from the first moment that he laid eyes upon her he was a doomed man, and by the end of the season he had proposed and was accepted. old foster was in a high state of triumph at having secured _such_ a son-in-law. he thought that there was nothing which he might not expect from earnscliffe, with his lordly possessions and well-known generosity; but it was observed by more than one that the young lady looked sad and dejected from the time of his proposal. she pleaded hard, i am told, not to be married until after her next birthday, which was some months off. earnscliffe chafed at so long an engagement; but he could not refuse her anything that she chose to ask for. i never saw a man more bewitched by a woman than he was, and she tried him pretty well. her worst prank was insisting on fulfilling a promise which she had made to go on a tour with her uncle's family through switzerland and germany. i used to see a good deal of him at the time, and although it was evident how much this tour annoyed him, he would not allow any one to find fault with her. accordingly, she went off with her uncle and aunt stanly, and her two cousins, john and alfred. john was the eldest son, and a quiet ordinary young man; but alfred was a handsome, gay, wild fellow, and it was whispered that if he and earnscliffe could have changed places with regard to the fair amelia, she would not have wanted to see switzerland just then. no one, however, ventured to say this to earnscliffe. you know it is not easy to take any liberty with him. poor fellow! he spent the time of her absence all alone at earnscliffe court, superintending the adorning of it for its future mistress. at last, late in october, she came back. i was not in london then; but i heard from friends there that miss foster looked wretchedly ill. however, she did not complain, and there was no further postponement of the marriage, and it was celebrated on the th of november. i remember the date well, for it was the day upon which i myself was married. and on that very day alfred stanly received the official announcement that he was nominated to a place in the home department of the foreign office, which earnscliffe had procured for him. i was one of the wedding guests, i went up to london especially for it, and i heard the stanlys showering thanks upon earnscliffe for his kindness to alfred as they took leave of him, and he led his bride to the carriage. they spent three weeks or so in the south of england, and then they came to earnscliffe court for christmas, which was to be kept there with grand festivities. the house was full of company, and among others was alfred stanly, who had just passed his examination for his new appointment. he was a clever fellow enough when he chose to exert himself. everything went off to perfection, and the bride was at times lively and charming; at others silent and abstracted; i often saw earnscliffe look at her with a melancholy puzzled air. at length all the guests went away except alfred stanly, who was to remain with them until the middle of january, when he was to begin his attendance at the office. one day i met them out driving, and earnscliffe told me that he was going to london that evening on business; but mrs. earnscliffe exclaimed eagerly, 'oh, mr. maunsell, you have influence with my husband--do try and persuade him not to go now. he might as well wait for alfred, who will be going to town in a fortnight, and they could go together!' i was going to try what i could do to forward her wishes, but earnscliffe said gravely, 'do you suppose, amelia, that i would stay at home at the request of another, when i thought it right to refuse you? i really must go at once; but i shall be back in a week.' 'a week!' she repeated, and i shall never forget the scared expression of her face: but she said no more. and i thought nothing further about them until five or six days afterwards, when the rumours spread through the country that late on the previous night earnscliffe had returned unexpectedly, but quitted his house not half an hour after he had entered it, drove back to the railway station, and took the night mail up to london, and also that mrs. earnscliffe and stanly left early next morning. the next thing we heard was that earnscliffe had sued for and obtained a divorce, and that his unfortunate wife had become mrs. alfred stanly. this morning was the first time since that dreadful affair that earnscliffe and i have met." "why, you have told us quite a romance," exclaimed mrs. elton; but she was prevented from saying anything more by mary's getting a violent fit of coughing: she made a sign to her, however, not to mind her, and with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth she stood up and left the room. "miss elton is not ill, i hope?" said mr. maunsell. "oh no!" answered mrs. elton; "she will probably be all right again in a moment. and now i will ring for luncheon. you must not run away from us until after that, at all events." mr. maunsell allowed himself to be prevailed upon to stay for it, and after a little time they repaired to the dining-room, where mary joined them, looking very pale, but her eyes sparkled brilliantly, and as she came into the room she said, "i was sorry that my tiresome cough obliged me to leave you just as you finished your interesting story, mr. maunsell; but you said that you thought mr. earnscliffe was going to marry again. and who is to be his second bride?" "that i can't tell you; for, as you may imagine, marriage is the last subject in the world upon which _i_ can speak to him. but i suppose he is going to be married, because earnscliffe court is being all refurnished, and i know that he was in england some time ago, and was very much with his lawyers,--that looks like settlements. then he told me to-day that he was going with some ladies to the grand ball at the hotel de ville, given for charity, which is to be to-morrow night." "going to the ball, is he, with her?" said mary, and she laughed a low, strange laugh; then added suddenly, "mr. maunsell will you escort us to it? they say it will be a grand sight!" "surely i am too old for going to balls, my dear!" "indeed you are not, and i want you to come with us," answered mary, with her sweetest smile. "now you must not refuse the first request of my father's daughter." "so you have already found out the way to make me do what you like!" "then you will come? oh, thank you!" "and you must come and dine with us," said mrs. elton; "then we can go late to the ball." "of course i cannot refuse _you_ after granting my young friend's less congenial request. at what hour do you dine?" "our usual hour is seven." "then i shall not fail to be with you by that time." chapter vi. soon after mr. maunsell left them, and mrs. elton said, "really, mary, i am quite uneasy about you; you look dreadfully flushed and excited, and that fit of coughing was almost convulsive. i must take you to dr. o----; and i do not think that i can allow you to go to the ball. i did not like to oppose you while mr. maunsell was here, but now that we are alone, i am sure that i have only to appeal to your own good sense in order to induce you to give it up, especially as i know that you do not care about balls." "but i _do_ care about this one," cried mary eagerly--however, she continued in a calmer tone as she saw her mother look at her in amazement--"and please to let me go to it; afterwards i will see any doctor you choose. this ball is the first amusement that i have felt a wish to partake of since lena's marriage, and to prevent me from going to it will only be a new cause of irritation." "well, i suppose it is the lesser of two evils to let you go, since you have set your heart upon it; but why is it so? you never liked balls before. there is something altogether strange about you--something that i do not understand, and that your grief for lena does not account for; that would not make your cheeks flush, nor your eyes flash as they do now. what is the cause of it all, mary?" "god knows! derangement of the nervous system, i suppose. but talking about it, mamma, can do no good; it can only increase the evil. wait till the ball is over, and then try what doctors can do for me," answered mary gloomily, as she hastily left the room. poor mrs. elton was sadly perplexed. she saw that there was some secret influence at work within mary's heart, yet she feared to question her any farther, as it seemed to increase her excitement so much, and in vain she tried to form any _clear_ idea of its cause. a faint suspicion crossed her mind that mr. earnscliffe had something to do with it; and as she thought over the events of the last few weeks it struck her that since that day when he dined with them at naples mary had never been quite herself, and this wild desire to go to the ball, after she heard that he was to be there, seemed to corroborate it all. the result of these meditations was to render mrs. elton sad, and thoughtfully serious, as she said to herself, "since william's death, i have had no thought on earth but to make my children happy and prosperous in the world, yet i do not appear to have succeeded. lena has made a poor match, in opposition to my wishes, and mary has some secret sorrow preying on her; yet how carefully i trained them to avoid all romance and love nonsense, and i thought at one time that mary, at least, was a model of sense and discretion; but i fear it is impossible to think so any more. can my teaching have been false? oh, my children, do not make me feel that i have been to blame in your regard,--you for whom alone i have lived through these long twelve years of widowhood!" then with a sigh she stood up, and went to mary's room to ask her what she would like to do for the afternoon. "to drive," was mary's laconic answer. she had evidently given up the projected visit to the adairs. and well she might; for there was nothing to be gained from it now. the tale which mr. maunsell had told was to her as if she had been suddenly shown a mine of gunpowder, over which her victims were unconsciously walking. she felt that she had but to apply the match to it in order to blast their happiness to atoms; and she revelled in this coming triumph of her revenge. her excitement was almost uncontrollable; it was killing her by inches, and she knew it; but she could not relinquish her triumph. come what would, she must go to the ball and fire the mine; after that she resolved to give herself up altogether into the hands of a doctor, and perhaps, even then, she thought it might still be time to save her life. mary, having so many catholic relations, knew--what mr. earnscliffe did not--that flora adair, according to her religion, must look upon a man who had got a divorce, but whose wife was still living, as a married man. therefore it was that mr. maunsell's revelations filled her heart with such savage delight. she pictured to herself flora's misery on hearing it; her struggles between love and religion; mr. earnscliffe's entreaties, reproaches, and final despair and indignation; and she laughed bitterly as she thought over each detail of the suffering which she was about to inflict. and if she could only make flora believe that mr. earnscliffe had intended to deceive her,--to marry her, although he knew from the first that it would be no marriage to her,--then, indeed, would her revenge be complete. the eventful night arrived. but when mary went up to dress she felt so ill that she could scarcely stand, and as she sighed heavily her mouth became full of blood. she spat it out hurriedly, and taking a bottle of lavender drops, she put it to her lips, and held it there until she felt herself reviving. she then put it down and corked it up, saying, "i hope to-morrow will not be too late to see dr. o----. but too late or not, i cannot help it now; i must go on and take my chance for the rest." she rang for her maid, and began to dress. when she went into the drawing-room in her flowing white dress, covered with light gauzy blue draperies, old as he was, mr. maunsell looked at her admiringly, and said, "you are as good, my dear, i hope, as you are handsome." "but i am not, mr. maunsell," she answered impetuously; and her voice trembled, for his words affected her strangely, and she did not speak again until they were in the midst of that most brilliant of sights--a ball at the hotel de ville in paris; its vast _salles_ one blaze of light, which together with the fountains, trees, and flowers, formed a scene of fairy-like splendour. the eltons had not been there much more than a quarter of an hour when the adair party arrived, with mr. earnscliffe, and another gentleman whom mary did not know. mrs. adair was leaning upon the strange gentleman's arm, and the two girls followed with mr. earnscliffe. mary longed to pounce upon her prey; but she considered that it would be wiser to defer the final stroke until she could get flora separated from the others. however, she might go and speak to them at once; so she said, "mamma, there are the adairs. shall we go and join them?" "if you like, dear," answered mrs. elton, watching her narrowly to try and discover if mr. earnscliffe had really anything to do with her feverish state of excitement. and when they got to the adairs she did imagine that she saw mary's hand tremble as she shook hands with him, whilst he scarcely touched hers. mrs. elton felt convinced that there was some mystery connected with him, and resolved to speak to mary gravely about it to-morrow. she was so occupied with her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed mrs. adair's saying to her, "allow me to introduce my son, mr. adair, to you, caroline." she bowed half mechanically, but recollecting herself, she said, "oh, _we_ must shake hands, mr. adair. your mother and i are old friends; we knew each other as girls. and here is my eldest daughter, mary. you have heard of her and her sister helena from flora, i dare say." "if he _has_ not," thought mary, as they shook hands, "he will hear of me from her. so he has come over for the wedding! but he might have spared himself the trouble, i can tell him. there will be _no_ wedding, or else his sister must abjure the errors of popery; but heaven forbid that she should do so, for then my revenge would be frustrated!" and her eyes glared on flora. flora did not see that angry glance, but mr. earnscliffe did, and he could not bear it. he felt that he must get flora away; and turning abruptly to her he said, "may i have the pleasure of dancing with you, miss adair?" it was a valse! flora looked at him in astonishment, but took his offered arm; and he led her away quickly into the crowd of dancers. flora could not understand it. she knew that he seldom danced himself, and that he did not like her to valse; therefore she had determined never to do so again, although _she_ saw nothing objectionable in it. what, then, could have come over him to-night to make him propose dancing it with her himself? and almost before she had time to recover from her astonishment he whirled her round and round at such a pace and holding her so tightly that she was quite out of breath when they stopped after a very few minutes of it. he piloted her out of the crush towards one of the fountains, where they found a nice shady seat close at hand, and she was very glad to sit down. he stood before her, looking at her anxiously, and said, "i fear i have tired you, flora." "not tired me," she answered with a smile; "but you have put me somewhat out of breath. and now do tell me what made you dance to-night? i thought you disliked dancing,--valsing especially." "valsing is not disagreeable _sometimes_," he returned gaily. "but the truth is that i wanted to get you away from those people; and i could think of no other way of doing it but by proposing to dance. how heated you look; where is your fan?" "i gave it to mamma to hold for me whilst i arranged my necklace, just before you asked me to dance." "then i will go and get it for you. i saw mrs. adair sit down near to where we were standing." "i do not want it, edwin. stay with me." "yes you do, dearest; you look so hot. i shall be back in a moment;" and he hastened away. but he would not have gone had he seen mary elton approaching from the other side, leaning on mr. maunsell. "so here you are all alone, flora," said mary, going up to her. "yes," replied flora. "mr. earnscliffe has just left me to go and get my fan from mamma. i was heated after valsing." "but, nevertheless, i dare say you enjoyed it with _such_ a partner. and now let me wish you joy, flora; i did not like to do it while there were so many by." flora blushed, but made no answer, as she wondered how mary had heard of her approaching marriage; and the latter continued, "but i did not know that you catholics recognised the law of divorce, even for those who are not in your church?" flora felt a sensation of icy cold creeping over her as she asked with a gasp, "what do you mean, mary?" "why, of course mr. earnscliffe has told you that he was obliged to divorce his wife about two months after their marriage, and that she is still living, and the wife of his rival. mr. earnscliffe's friend here, mr. maunsell, knew _mrs._ earnscliffe very well." surely, even in this moment of her triumph, mary must have felt a touch of pity as she saw poor flora's eyes close, and large drops of perspiration burst out on her forehead; but with a supreme effort at self-control, flora opened her eyes, and looking at mary, said, "you were right when you supposed that we catholics do not recognise the law of divorce; but what this has to do with mr. earnscliffe i can't see, for i have never said, nor has he, that there was any engagement between us. now, adieu for the present," and flora turned away her head. mary thought she saw mr. earnscliffe coming, and not wishing to meet him just then, she drew mr. maunsell away, but looked back with an almost pitying glance at flora, and murmured to herself, "she _is_ a brave girl! how she tried to bear up in order to save him from the imputation of having deceived her! yet the bare thought of it must rankle in her heart. my revenge is working well!" meanwhile, flora was writhing under this overwhelming blow. there was not a ray of comfort for her on any side, and the javelin of distrust which mary had so cleverly barbed was lacerating her heart, although she struggled with all her might to cast it from her. but did not this fatal disclosure clearly explain mr. earnscliffe's hitherto unaccountable dread of mary elton? to know that she must either give up him whom she loved, or her religion, was--heaven knows!--torture enough; but it would be nothing in comparison to being forced to believe him to be unworthy of that love--a deceiver, in short; that would be agony! and she exclaimed within herself, "no, it is not so,--he is _true_, if heaven is true!" at this moment mr. earnscliffe returned with the fan, but as he saw flora leaning back with closed eyes, and a look of terror in her face, he cried, as he threw himself on the seat beside her, "flora, speak, are you ill? what is the matter?" she looked at him earnestly, but did not answer; that look, however, was enough to make her feel, "yes, he _is_ true, and i cannot give him up." "flora, dearest," he called again, "answer me! what is the matter with you?" "the heat, or something, has been too much for me. take me home, edwin," she said, in a low, plaintive voice. "you must take something first--wine--champagne--what shall i get you?" "oh, do not leave me again, edwin!" "flora," he exclaimed, "something has happened during my absence which has put you into this state; tell me what it is?" "how hot it is," she murmured, putting her hand to her forehead. "good god! flora, you are not going to faint, i hope." he stood up hastily--"take my arm, and let us get out upon one of the balconies; the air will set you to rights." she took his arm silently, and leaned heavily upon it, as she passively allowed him to lead her where he liked. as soon as they got to the balcony he put his arm round her waist, and said, "now, my precious one, tell me, what is it all about?" she did feel a little revived, and it was so sweet to stand there in the cool night air, with his strong protecting arm round her; but how could she tell him what had happened? yet she must do it, if it were only to have her faith in his truth confirmed, so at last she said, "mary elton"--she felt his arm tremble; it made her start, and she asked, in a piteous tone of voice, "edwin! what has made you dread mary elton?" "go on, finish what you were going to tell me," was his only answer. to obey him was like an instinct to flora, and she began again timidly, "mary elton and a mr. maunsell--i think that was the name she said--came to me while you were away, and they began to talk of your--your marriage, long ago." "well, dearest, but why should this affect you so? you remember, i told you all about it at achensee; how, a short time after i had obtained possession of one whom i believed to be a treasure, i discovered that she had betrayed me. of course you understood that i got a divorce immediately; indeed, i told you that i put the case into the hands of my lawyers at once, and left england." flora forgot everything else in her wild joy at this perfect vindication of his truth, and she buried her face on his shoulder; but she was roused by his saying, as he placed his right hand on her head, "darling, you have not yet told me what it was that so frightened you." she shook all over as the sad reality was recalled to her, and his utter unconsciousness of what the fact of his first wife being still alive was to a catholic, increased her pain, as she answered, "i have been very stupid, edwin,--you did tell me everything of your past life, with your own truth and honour, but i misunderstood you. i thought that she of whom you spoke as having betrayed your love, was only your betrothed, not your wife, and--and--" she could get no further, and mr. earnscliffe said, quickly, "flora, i don't understand you. what difference does that mistake make to you? do you love me less because my misfortune has been deeper than even you supposed?" "_love_ you less, edwin!--more--more if it were possible, but--" the words came slowly, and with great agitation--"there is no--no such thing as divorce in the eyes of--of a catholic!" it was like an electric shock to him, and his voice trembled with emotion, as he cried, "but i was not married as a catholic; your laws cannot affect me! flora adair, you are not going to give me up for this,--it can be but mere prejudice!" flora fell from his encircling arm on her knees to the ground beside him, murmuring, as she clasped his hands in her own, "ask me nothing to-night,--i am bewildered and half maddened; take me to mamma now, and to-morrow morning come to me and you shall know all. god help me!" and flora moaned aloud. "flora," he cried again, raising her from the ground, "do you expect me to be able to pass the night in such suspense as this? if you are half maddened now, what should i be by that time? but here are people coming; i must take you out of this place. can i not see you to-night in your own house?" "no, edwin, that cannot be, unless i tell mamma and my brother, and then perhaps they would never let me see you again. do you wish me to tell them?" "no, no. i suppose it must be as you say. but if _you_ fail me--oh, flora, flora!" he said no more, but the agonised tone of his voice rang in flora's ears with a dull, heavy, crushing sound, and she whispered-- "take me to the cloak-room, and then go for mamma and the others. i shall escape observation better in that way. tell mamma that i do not feel well." mr. earnscliffe silently did as flora desired, and before many minutes her party joined her; but mr. earnscliffe did not come with them. they got into their carriage and drove home. flora hurriedly said good-night and went to her own room; and now that she was at last alone, and free from restraint, "all the winds" of passion did indeed "leap forth, each hurtling each, met in the wildness of a ghastly war," which was about to be waged in her heart.... will she come forth from that war victorious, although wounded and heart-broken? or conquered and fallen? will her one mainstay--her firm conviction in the truth and the divine authority of her religion--carry her triumphantly through it? or will she sink under the enemy's sharp blows from want of that child-like love and confidence in the goodness of god which would have blunted their edge? ah, who can tell? it is a fearful test to be called upon to dash away the cup which human happiness is "uplifting, pressing, and to lips like" hers! let us, then, follow her into her room and watch the warfare's course. she fastened the door, threw aside her cloak, and tearing off her pearl necklace--a gift of mr. earnscliffe's--as if its clasp round her neck were choking her, she walked up and down the room with rapid steps, and her hands nervously pressed together. at last she exclaimed-- "great god! it is as if thou didst sport with the heart of thy creature! it would seem as if it were to crush that heart with tenfold force that thou didst lead me through a youth of deep yearning after some object worthy of devoting myself to unreservedly, until i met one who filled the void; and then after opening up to me a vista of happiness and of a blessed work to be accomplished--that of healing his wounded spirit and leading it to the knowledge of truth which it has so long sought for in vain--thou callest upon me to give him up, and not only that, but at the same time, with my own hand, to inflict on him a blow which will cast him back into darkness and despair! is this love or justice?" she stopped short in her quick walk, and stood before the window gazing out on the now quiet, deserted avenue, and then she raised her eyes slowly to the blue starry sky above, as if, indeed, she would cry with promethus-- "o majesty of earth, my solemn mother! ............ earth and ether, ye i invoke to know the wrongs i suffer." with a groan she turned away, threw herself upon a chair, and covered up her face with her hands; but after a few minutes she took them down, and said slowly-- "but let me try to think calmly.... perhaps i have been too hasty in at once supposing that i must give him up. marriage, except among catholics, is not a sacrament: it is merely a civil contract made by law, and 'what the law can make it can break' is an old-established maxim, therefore edwin is evidently free." she paused; but again she resumed her soliloquy. "yet the church, i know, does not recognise the law of divorce even among those who are not her children; but if that decree be against reason, justice, and charity, am i bound to submit to it? it could not be a good deed to drive him to despair, and that, too, without being able to give him any sufficiently sound reason--at least, any which would appear so to him--for my conduct. he would think that my love for him was not strong enough to make me give up--as he would call it--a mere prejudice of my education. it would only make him hate, and keep him away from, religious truth. no, i cannot do this. there is no really good reason why i may not be your wife, my beloved, and that i will be! so now it is decided, i will marry him; and having begun the night in true heroine style, with a wild rhapsody, i had better finish it like a rational person and go to bed. but _how_ i wish that he had never been married, or that she" (flora gave her no name) "were dead!" she stood up, took off her ball dress, put on her dressing-gown, and began to take down her hair. has the battle, then, been fought and lost? is flora about to fall from light to darkness? will she be false to her own principle? will she cast herself into the chaos of uncertainty and shifting opinion from which she would have drawn her lover? does she forget, when she says that her refusal to marry him would keep him away from religious truth, that if she does marry him, she places a stronger barrier than ever between him and it? yet stay, the battle is not quite over; even if the enemy has gained possession of the colours for the moment, they may be regained by the poor combatant. flora had just finished unweaving the thick plaits of her hair, when she impetuously dashed it back from off her face, exclaiming, as she resumed her pacing up and down the room-- "what sophistry all this is with which i have been endeavouring to satisfy myself! religion declares that there can be no divorce but in death; and edwin earnscliffe's--ah!--wife lives! therefore, it is vain to try to compromise between my religion and my love. i must choose between them; and, o god, what a choice! fool that i was! i said that to refuse to marry him would keep him away from religious truth; but do i not know that to consent to it is to deny the principle of certainty, and to force him, even for my sake, to shut his eyes to truth? and thus i should be a curse instead of a blessing to him, not only in time, but in eternity. edwin, i must bear your reproaches and your misery; but i cannot be a curse to you! no--no!" and she fell upon her knees before an ivory crucifix which stood on a little side table, murmuring, "my god! now teach me to do thy will!..." and there let us leave her to find strength and grace, whilst we return to the hotel de ville to see what has become of mr. earnscliffe. when he left flora in the cloak-room, he lost not a moment in seeking out mrs. adair, with whom, fortunately, he found her son and marie, so that there was no delay in looking for any of the party, and they at once hastened down to flora. but mr earnscliffe had scarcely delivered her message, when he felt his arm touched, and turning round he saw mary elton standing beside her mother, who was sitting talking to some ladies near her. "mr. earnscliffe," mary said, in a low, impressive manner, "do you remember that i gave you a rendezvous that night in naples? i am here to keep it now. will you take me into the refreshment-room?" but without waiting for an answer, she took his arm. the touch of her hand was like the sting of an adder to him. in common politeness, however, he could not shake it off, and to avoid attracting attention he moved on, but did not speak. mary's eyes burned like two balls of fire as she looked at mr. earnscliffe silently for a moment or two; but with her iron will she kept down the fire which was raging fiercely within her, for there must be no scene, she must be outwardly cool and collected so as not to lose any of the triumph of her revenge; and again she spoke in measured accents. "yes, mr. earnscliffe, i told you that night to dread me in the hour when you only waited for religious rites to make flora adair yours, and i promised to be near you then, so you see i have kept my word. that night you spurned me for her sake--i who had known and loved you before you ever saw her--and i swore, if it were in human power to do it, that i would tear her from you. i have done that work to-night, and _you_ will _now_ know what it is to have your love spurned and cast aside by your own idol for the sake of some senseless code of doctrine. and to render my revenge more full and overflowing, i have planted in her heart the thorn of distrust by making it appear that you intended to deceive her by concealing your former marriage." "fiend as you are," he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed passion, "you have not succeeded in that! my peerless, trusting flora believes in me at this moment as fully as ever----" "how do you know that?" she interrupted eagerly. "because i have spoken to her since you have been trying to poison her mind against me." mary's coolness began to give way. was it then possible that flora would disappoint her of her revenge by giving up her religion rather than her lover? and she cried hotly, "and will she marry you all the same?" mr. earnscliffe ground his teeth with rage. he could not answer that question confidently. he hesitated, and in a moment all mary's coolness came back to her. she guessed how it was: that flora had been too confused to give any decided answer, but at the same time that he dreaded she would not marry him; and from that instant mary felt _sure_ of her revenge. so, resuming her calm, mocking tone, she said, "to-morrow, i suppose, you will go to her, and your 'peerless, trusting flora' will say to you, 'i am very sorry, but my church will not allow me to marry you,' and your love, your misery, and your reproaches will not be able to win from this passionless disciple of her church's teaching a single concession. it is i, too, who have brought all this to bear, in order to requite you for your appreciation of the gift which i once bestowed upon you; and my thanks are adequate, are they not, mr. earnscliffe? now take me back,--i have had all the refreshment which i wanted." mr. earnscliffe did not trust himself to answer. he feared to lose all mastery over himself, for if ever a man could be tempted to forget himself, he was then. every member trembled with the intensity of his passion as he muttered under his breath, "demon, and worse than demon! and yet i must allow her to go unchained." as soon as mary saw that they were near her mother, she let go his arm, and making him a mockingly gracious bow, she said, "good-night, mr. earnscliffe, and happy dreams." he hurried downstairs, and dashing on his opera hat, which he had in his hand, he walked out into the _place_, without ever thinking of asking for his coat, and it was between five and six in the morning when he appeared at his hotel door in full ball costume. in the mean time mary elton stood for about five minutes beside mrs. elton without speaking, and then said abruptly, "there is mr. maunsell, mamma; ask him to have the carriage called, and let us go home." mrs. elton had been speaking to some old acquaintances whom she had unexpectedly met a few moments before, but now she looked up at mary to see what had caused this sudden fancy, and she felt really frightened at her appearance. there were two deep red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes glittered with a strange light. mrs. elton said, "mary, you ought not to have been allowed to come to this ball; would that i had not consented to it; however you are right in wishing to go home now," and she beckoned to mr. maunsell to come to her, and asked him to get the carriage called. when they stopped at their own door mr. maunsell got out first, then mrs. elton, but mary did not move, and her mother called, "mary are you asleep?" no answer came, and mrs. elton exclaimed, "a light, for god's sake!" the servant pulled out one of the carriage lamps and held it inside, and there, with her head thrown back upon the cushions, and blood trickling from her lips, they saw mary. "oh my god!" cried her poor mother, whilst mr. maunsell and the servant took mary out of the carriage and carried her upstairs. mr. maunsell bent down his ear to catch some words which she was trying to utter, and as well as he could make out they were, "telegraph for lena." chapter vii. the great dr. o---- was instantly sent for, telegrams to helena and charles were despatched, and all that human skill or care could do was done to save mary; but while waiting for the doctor's sentence to be pronounced and helena's arrival from ireland, we shall turn our attention to our heroine and the coming interview with her lover. on this fatal morning after the ball, when flora went into the breakfast-room, where her mother and marie were before her, the former exclaimed as she kissed her, "my child, what is the matter? you look very ill; are you so?" "no," answered flora, speaking hurriedly to cover her intended _équivoque_, "not now; but i certainly did suffer during the night. neuralgia is dreadful torture. but where is edward?" "oh, he desired us not to wait breakfast for him, as he would probably be very late, and we are going out early." "for what?" asked flora, listlessly. "oh, you _méchante_ flore!" cried marie; "i do believe that you have forgotten the--the--_prise d'habit_--what you call it in english?--at the sacré coeur to-day." "you are right; i had forgotten it. but at all events _i_ cannot go: i have an appointment for this morning." but marie had no notion of letting her off so easily, and she said with a pout, "with whom then, flore? you were not free to make a rendezvous for this morning when you had already promised to come with us; it would disappoint me so, and you do not wish to make pain to your mignonne, flore; is it not so?" "it is impossible, mignonne; i expect mr. earnscliffe," replied flora shortly, and oh, how difficult she found it to utter that name calmly! "_o ce monsieur earnscliffe!_ you cede everything to him, flore. but why not see him in the afternoon? remit him until then. you can come very well if you like; can she not, mrs. adair?" flora looked at her mother so appealingly, as she would say, "spare me, by ending this discussion," that mrs. adair said with a smile, "oh, marie, you are too hard upon her. remember who it is that you ask her to give up for the reception; and she is tired from suffering and not sleeping last night; so we will not tease her any more, but go to get ourselves ready, and leave her love-sick highness to herself and her beloved." mrs. adair stood up, and taking marie by the hand, she drew her along with her, and left the room. as the door closed on them flora sank back in her chair with a deep sigh. how many home-thrusts had she not received in that short time! and from those who would have done anything in their power to save her from pain. when she heard their descending steps, and the drawing up of the carriage which was to take them to the rue de varennes, she went to the window and saw them drive away. then turning back to the table, she drank off the cup of strong tea which had for so long remained untouched before her, rang to have the breakfast things taken away, and proceeded to her own room. opening the _armoire_, she took out a box of exquisitely inlaid woods, and placed it upon the table. she raised the lid, and disclosed to view a perfectly fitted jewel case, with numerous and costly ornaments reposing in their velvet beds. but three of these were unfilled. did she seek their occupants as her eyes wandered round the room, and rested finally on the pearl necklace and bracelets lying on the dressing-table, where they had lain since she took them off last night? yes, it was these which she sought; but what stinging memories of that night's awful struggle did they call up! it almost seemed as if the struggle were going to begin over again, as, clasping her hands together, she cried, "it is too much! i cannot--cannot do it!" and once more she impatiently walked up and down the room.... what! after the murmured "my god, now teach me to do thy will!" and the hours passed on her knees before the crucifix, does she fall back into the old rebellious feelings? "it is very unheroine-like, very imperfect!" we hear our readers exclaim. and it is quite true; but we did not promise them a heroine even bordering on perfection. we know that it would be much more according to the general style of tale-writing to represent our heroine, after she has made the sacrifice, as a picture of sad, touching resignation, thinking beautiful thoughts about the sorrow and trials which are sent to us by an all-loving heavenly father, receiving them without a murmur because they come from him; but, alas! as we are painting from reality, we cannot draw flora different from what she is--one capable of making grand sacrifices, but unable to bear patiently the incessant pricking of that crown of thorns which now pressed her brows. to be really resigned, to endure without repining, hour after hour, and day after day, the weight of a great abiding sorrow, requires ardent faith and sensible love of god. all this flora had never possessed; her faith had always been more or less beset by struggles, and now has come the crowning one, which may never cease but in death. for her indeed, "henceforth time is sunless, and day a thing that is not." suddenly she stood still and said, "is this the way in which the heroes of old sacrificed themselves to save their country? and shall i be less brave than they were when the sacrifice which i am called upon to make is one required by god, and made to save--although he will not understand it _now_--him whom i love? no, no; even though their sacrifice was far less than mine; for they died, and were at rest, whilst i live to suffer. but, _fiat_!"... she took the necklace and bracelets and put them into their places; her fingers seemed to cling to them. ah, how happy she was when she put them on last night! and now--but she was determined to be strong, and hastily closing the box, she carried it into the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa. reader, do you know what it is to listen for a step whose sound makes all your pulses throb; to long for it, and yet dread it; to shudder if you think you hear it, and yet sink back with a feeling of weariness and disappointment if it comes not? if you do, we need not give any description of what flora's feelings were as she sat in the drawing-room awaiting the arrival of mr. earnscliffe, for you know them by experience, and if you do not, a description of them would be useless, for words could never give you any true idea of the reality. her state of suspense was ended at last; the servant opened the door and announced "monsieur earnscliffe." she stood up, but remained leaning with one hand on the arm of the sofa, not daring to look at him. he advanced towards her, and in a constrained tone said, "well, flora, how are we to meet?" "edwin!" and she raised her eyes to his. the look of suffering in her face put to flight his assumed coldness, and putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her forehead, drew her down on the sofa beside him, and said, "my poor darling! you look wretchedly ill; and no wonder, if you have passed as miserable a night as i have done. those dreadful words of yours at the ball haunted me, and presentiments of evil gave me no rest; but now that i am here they do not dare to assail me as before. now that my flora has had time to think calmly over our case, i am sure she will be to me like a good enchantress, and break all these dark spells; will she not?" flora could not speak. each word of his was driving in the sword deeper and deeper, and she was not deceived by his apparently cheerful conclusion, for she knew how agitated he must be when his "deep-toned voice faltered" as it did now. what could she say? how was she to begin? and the longer the silence continued, the more difficult did it become to her to break it. mr. earnscliffe, however, did that for her, as he said suddenly, "flora, you asked me last night what caused my dread of mary elton,"--his lips literally grew white as he named her, and the hoarse tone of his voice made flora look wonderingly at him,--"and i did not answer you; but now i think it right to do so, as it might appear that it proceeded from fear of her telling you about that unhappy divorce, although in reality i could not have had any dread of that, believing as i did that you understood it all perfectly before you promised to be mine." "edwin, i did not doubt you, though appearances were so strongly against you." "i know it, dearest; but it is better that you should be aware of what my real feelings were in regard to her. i offended her, but through no fault of mine, and in revenge she did all she could to keep me away from you; but when she saw that that was not possible, she swore, if it were in human power, to tear you from me. i had suffered so much from a woman before, that this threat of another's had a strangely powerful effect on me, and caused that morbid, and it seemed unreasonable, dread of her. i considered myself bound in honour not to tell you all this until now that she has openly interfered to separate us. but she will fail if you are only true to me, if you prove yourself to be what i have ever thought you--the first, the noblest of women, in mind as well as in heart." she looked up at him, and her lips moved, but no words could be heard; and she shook her head as if to say, "i cannot;" then let it fall back on the cushions of the sofa. "for god's sake, flora, say something! i can bear this no longer. if you love me, tell----" "if? oh, edwin!" her tone was so heart-broken, that he exclaimed, "forgive me, flora; but you madden me.... in pity speak!" he took her hand and held it tightly in his. "then, edwin," she said, with a kind of gasp, "you must try to listen to me quietly, and, above all, do not interrupt me, for i have scarcely strength to get through the miserable task which lies before me; yet it must be done. i tried to convince you in past happy days that there was to be found on earth that which you had so long sought for in vain, namely, an unerring source of truth; and its voice declares that there can be no divorce between those whom god has joined. therefore, were i even wicked enough to be ready to barter my own soul for the intense earthly happiness of being yours, i must not do it for _your_ sake; for if i did i should be only a curse to you--a curse which would prevent you from ever possessing the light of truth, that light which alone can satisfy your great mind. no, think it not, my beloved--even such unreserved love as mine could not satisfy you, unless you could look forward with undoubting hope to the continuance and perfecting of our happiness in an eternal union; then it would be bliss indeed! but as it is, my very worship of you forces me to say that we must part." her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she uttered the last word, but mr. earnscliffe heard it all too plainly, and for a moment he remained silent as if stunned; then dashing away her hand, he stood up, and looking at her almost with scorn, exclaimed-- "for _my_ sake, indeed! you might have left _that_ out; it is truly adding insult to injury. but i have deserved this for trusting, loving again a woman. fool that i was to imagine that i had found one whose mind and heart soared above their little world of petty triumphs, of inane occupations, and hemmed in by weak prejudices and laid-down maxims. you were only a deeper actress than the generality; yet, flora"--his voice softened almost unknown to himself--"your acting was fearfully real; but the first obstacle has unmasked you." he paused for a moment, but then burst forth again:--"yes, you are worthy of your sex.... where is now that love which could brave death itself for me? it seems that it is not strong enough to get over that narrow-minded prejudice of your church which says that i am married. as for what you said about your love causing you to act thus, and your being a curse to me if you did not do so, by preventing me from possessing the light of truth, it is too nonsensical. it cannot be the voice of truth or charity which tells you that you ought to break, to drive to desperation, the wounded heart which you had won and promised to heal, rather than to infringe an unreasonable regulation of your church; and this, forsooth! was the church of which you so wished me to be a member, and of whose truth you had in some degree convinced me! but this puts the finishing stroke to my wavering belief in your 'goodness of god.' adieu, flora! this is your work. you found me bereft of hope, but a calm fatalist; you send me from you a blasphemer." he turned away, and walked towards the door. flora lay like one in a trance; those bitter, cutting words appeared to have deprived her of consciousness. but again he turned, looked back, hesitated, and hastily retracing his steps, he knelt before her, saying-- "flora, with all the strong power of my manhood have i loved you!--do i love you! send me not from you to despair!" and the proud man almost sobbed. flora started up, and, grasping his outstretched hands, she cried-- "my own beloved! in mercy recall not those dreadful spirits with which i struggled the long night through--rebellion, infidelity, and all their satellites; for, as your terrible reproaches rang in my ear, they seemed to crowd around me with renewed strength; they borrowed your words, they spoke with your voice, they looked with your eyes. how, then, resist, with all my own feelings aiding them in trying to drag me from that standard to which i must cling, or else be the cause of your ruin as well as my own? reproach me and treat my words with scorn as much as you choose, but nevertheless it is true that it is the intensity of my love for you which, with god's grace, gives me strength to act thus; and you will feel this some day, edwin, though i may not live to see it, for it would be too dreadful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain. truth must dawn upon you at last, and then you will do me justice."... she let go his hands, and pointing to the jewel-case, she murmured--"it is mine no longer, edwin: when may i have it sent to you?" he sprang to his feet, exclaiming-- "you might have spared me that at least, flora. do what you like with the baubles; give them away--what you will--but i cannot have them: they would be like coals of fire burning into my heart." he strode to the other end of the room in a state of fierce agitation, and flora felt that she was growing very weak, that she could not bear up much longer; leaning heavily on the table upon which the casket stood, she held out her right hand, and in a faltering voice muttered-- "it must be said.... edwin--good-bye!" he seized her hand, looked into her eyes yearningly for an instant, then suddenly he caught her round the waist, clasped her to his heart, and whispered-- "_must_ i go now, flora?" it _was_ an ordeal for her. could she tear herself from those fond encircling arms, and raise her head from that dear resting-place on his shoulder? her colour came and went, and his breath fanned her cheek as he bent over her to catch the longed-for leave to stay. it was the supreme moment of her long struggle, and opening her closed eyes, she looked wildly round as if to ask for help; but help there was none for her, save from god. her lips moved, in prayer perhaps; and then she murmured-- "oh! it is cruel, edwin, to try me so; and yet i must resist, if i would not be a curse to you. in mercy leave me, whilst still i have sense to feel that----we must part!--edwin, go!" his pallor was fearful and his eyes flashed as he bent one look on the wan, suffering face lying on his shoulder; and then he pushed her from him, saying in a loud voice-- "mary elton was right: you are a cold, passionless disciple of a senseless code of doctrine!" and he walked towards the door. flora tottered to the sofa, fell heavily upon it, and lay there motionless; but the turning of the door-handle roused her. she looked up with a frightened expression; her eyes met mr. earnscliffe's in one long, last, passionate gaze, and the door closed, shutting out at the same moment from flora her life's light and the material light of day, for she had fainted. chapter viii. a little after eleven o'clock, mrs. adair and marie returned from the convent, and, as the latter opened the drawing-room door, she started back, exclaiming "mrs. adair, see flore!" "good heavens!" cried mrs. adair, as she rushed over to the sofa, where flora still lay unconscious; "what can have happened!" she guessed that this fainting fit must in some way or other be connected with mr. earnscliffe, and therefore she felt that it would be better not to call the maid; so she said, "marie, run and bring me cold water and _eau de cologne_, but do not tell any one of this." marie hastened away to get the desired restoratives, and when she returned mrs. adair bathed flora's temples with the cold water, and held the _eau de cologne_ to her nostrils, whilst marie rubbed her hands to try and bring a natural heat back to them. when, at length, flora opened her eyes, she found herself in her mother's arms, and saw marie kneeling beside her, chafing her hands. she looked at them vacantly for a moment, then with a shiver reclosed her eyes; but by degrees a slight colour came to her cheeks, and the icy cold of her hands began to yield to the warmth of returning circulation. mrs. adair saw that she was now really reviving, and she told marie to take away the cold water, and leave them alone. "now, my child," she said, as she kissed flora, and smoothed back her tossed hair, "try to tell me what has happened." "he called me cold, passionless; he does not believe in me any longer," murmured flora, as if to herself. "flora, darling, what is it all about? has mr. earnscliffe proved unworthy of you?" unconsciously mrs. adair had done the best thing in the world to rouse flora thoroughly, by thus seeming to blame mr. earnscliffe. she raised her head, and for the first time looked at her mother intelligently, as she said, "no, no; but it is all over between us;" and she sank back into her mother's arms. mrs. adair's heart bled for her idolised child as she clasped her to it; yet she thought that it would be better to force her to speak at once, and that she would be better afterwards, so she continued, "but what has caused this, dearest? you must endeavour to tell me collectedly all about it, as edward must be told immediately; and if it is right that he should do so, he will apply to mr. earnscliffe for an explanation of his conduct, which certainly appears to me to be most strange, for of course the cause of this break rests with him." "mamma," cried flora, excitedly, "do not say a word against him,--he is the soul of truth and honour. i--i am the only one in fault." she stopped for a moment, and pressing her hands nervously together, she added, "but you are right; i must try to give a collected account of it all, or you will blame him, though heaven knows he deserves it not. oh, edwin, edwin!" her voice died away in a low wail, and she trembled violently all over. mrs. adair threw her arms round her again, and said, "my precious child, i see that it is too much for you now. let me take you to your room, and after you have had some hours of rest you will be able to tell me." flora made no objection; she seemed to be utterly indifferent as to what she was to do, and without giving her mother any answer, she let her take her to her room, and settle her as comfortably as she could on the bed. mrs. adair arranged the quilt over her, and then, closing the shutters, she said, "now, darling, i am going to get you some quieting drink, and when you have taken it, you will go to sleep, and awake quite well." flora shivered--the thought of that awaking was so dreadful; but she remained silent, and mrs. adair left the room. she returned, however, after a short absence, with a strong sedative, which she made flora take, and then she seated herself beside the bed. flora was completely worn out by want of rest and violent agitation, so that the sedative, aided by exhausted nature, caused her soon to fall into a deep sleep; and when mrs. adair heard her heavy regular breathing continue for some time, she stood up softly, and stole away. she went to marie, who was anxiously waiting to hear of flora, and told her that she had fallen asleep; then mrs. adair repaired to the drawing-room to see her son, who had just come from his hotel. in answer to his question of where the girls were, and what it was that made her look so sad, she told him as much as she knew about this unfortunate affair of flora's. it quite enraged him, and he hotly declared that no matter what flora said, mr. earnscliffe must have behaved in some very strange manner, for that he never saw a girl so desperately in love as his sister was; therefore it was evident that _she_ would never have broken off the marriage unless mr. earnscliffe himself had forced her to do it. he would go at once to mr. earnscliffe, and demand a full explanation. mrs. adair was endeavouring to induce him to wait until flora could give them a tolerably clear account of what had occurred, for as yet they were completely in the dark about it all, when the servant came in, and handed mrs. adair a letter. it was from mr. earnscliffe, and commenced-- "madam, "i feel that it is due to myself to write you a statement of what my conduct to your daughter has been from the time that i declared my love to her. before i obtained from her a promise that she would become my wife, i told her the history of my life, although any allusion to the past was intensely painful to me; but i was determined that she should know what the great misfortune of my life had been before she accepted me. "i told miss adair accordingly that years ago i had loved a beautiful girl and won her, but no sooner had i done so than i found that i was betrayed for another, and without ever seeing her again, i hurried out of england, leaving everything in my lawyer's hands. miss adair treated me _then_ with angelic trustfulness, and, as you are aware, consented to be mine. "consequently i supposed that she accepted me fully understanding that it was after my marriage that i had been betrayed, and that i had got a divorce, for i had not the slightest idea that your church arrogated to itself the power of making laws even for those who do not belong to it. but it seems that miss adair misunderstood me; she imagined that it was my betrothed, and not my wife, who had been false to me, until last night, when chance revealed to her the true state of the case; and this morning she deliberately informed me that she preferred to obey one of her church's most daring and unreasonable fiats,--which declares that there is no such thing as divorce, even outside of its jurisdiction,--rather than act according to the dictates of reason, honour, and love, by fulfilling her promise to me. "i have written this letter of explanation in order to show that i had not, as appearances would lead one to believe, any intention of concealing my wretched marriage from miss adair; this would have been base deceit; and from such a charge you will, i am sure, as miss adair does most fully, exonerate me. early in life one woman betrayed me; ten years later another heartlessly sacrifices me to prejudice! truly i owe women no gratitude! "edwin earnscliffe. "hotel de douvres, "rue de la paix, paris, june th." "poor, poor flora! god help her!" exclaimed mrs. adair, as she finished reading the letter, and handed it to her son, who in his turn exclaimed, after having read it, "but how was it ever allowed to go so far without your knowing that earnscliffe had been married?" "edward, all retrospection is useless now," answered mrs. adair, sadly; "but i do not think that any one has been to blame in this unhappy case. mrs. elton introduced us to mr. earnscliffe, in rome, as an unmarried man, with whose father and mother her family had been very intimate, but they had died many many years ago, and she had lost sight of their son--he was a baby at the time of their death--until she met him on the continent. she spoke in high terms of his personal abilities, his social position and fortune, and of these two latter advantages we know she thinks a great deal. how could i suppose then that it was necessary to make any further inquiries about him? and, as he says in his letter, he gave flora a history of his life before he asked her to engage herself to him, which history she told me, but of course as she understood it, or, indeed, misunderstood it. all this misery has been caused by her unfortunate mistake; yet it was a most natural one. mr. earnscliffe evidently did not _distinctly_ say that it was his _wife_ who had been false to him; and flora, supposing everybody to know that the church does not recognise the divorce law, took it for granted that he had not been married, or else that he would not have thought of asking her--a catholic--to be his. the only thing about which i was not satisfied was as to mr. earnscliffe's sentiments upon religion, and i besought of flora not to marry him unless he would become a professed believer in christianity, and at all events to wait a year, and thus let him have time to study its doctrines. but she would listen to nothing of the kind; he was in the true faith, she declared, because he had such an ardent desire of the knowledge of truth. from the first he consented to all the conditions required by the church. poor child, she could not bear to insist upon his waiting a year, and now she is obliged to send him away for ever. you, yourself, edward, would scarcely have been able to keep up, if you had seen her as i did when we came in." "poor flo! when can i see her?" he said, and furtively brushed away a tear; then he added, "i see now, mother, that you are right,--no one has been to blame; but it is one of the strangest and saddest occurrences imaginable; it is really worthy of lady georgiana fullerton's title, 'too strange not to be true.' but tell me, when will poor flo be visible?" "not till the evening, at all events; it will be better for her to remain perfectly quiet all day. you will come to dinner, of course." "yes; and there is nothing to be done now, i suppose; there would be no object in my seeing earnscliffe?" "none in the world; it would only give him an opportunity of railing at religion, and, as he says, at flora's heartless sacrifice of his love to prejudice." "then i may as well go away, and try to kill time as well as i can until dinner; for of course you and marie will be occupied with poor flo. good-bye, then, for the present." as soon as he was gone, mrs. adair sat down and wrote:-- "my dear mr. earnscliffe, "i beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to assure you that we all exonerate you perfectly from having had any intention to deceive us. poor flora's mistake was a most unfortunate one; but as soon as she learned what the reality was--how she learned it i do not yet know, for she has been unable to tell me anything--she could not have acted otherwise than she has done. "however great _your_ sufferings may be, _hers_ far surpass them;--she has a double weight of sorrow to bear: her own, and the greater one--that of knowing that she has inflicted pain on one whom she loves, and that he has ceased to believe in her. her first words on being roused from the fainting fit in which i found her when i came in were, 'he called me cold, passionless; he does not believe in me any longer;' and then she relapsed into insensibility. if this is heartlessness, i leave it to you to judge. "adieu, and believe me to be very sincerely yours, "caroline adair. "paris, june th." having directed her letter, and desired it to be taken immediately to the hotel de douvres, for mr. earnscliffe, she went up to flora's darkened room, where she found marie watching beside the poor sleeper. mrs. adair's note was handed to mr. earnscliffe, as he sat in his room with folded arms and his head drooping upon his breast. he seized it eagerly, tore it open, and glanced his eye over it; then crushing it up in his hand, and with his teeth firmly set together, he muttered, "psha! let her church, to whose senseless maxims she sacrifices me, console her! but i will show what that church is, how its teaching is destructive of all the best qualities of the human heart and mind, since it can make such a creature as flora adair was act in direct contradiction to reason and love. it is too foolish to say that when a man is married _only_ according to the laws of the established church of england, that that church has not the right to annul its own act. if rome had had anything to do with my marriage, one could understand it; but as it is--damnation, it is unbearable!" and he stamped about the room,--then rang the bell furiously. his servant came up with a startled look in his face, and the expression of surprise to be read there increased as his master said, "desire my bill to be prepared, and have everything ready to start by the night train for strasbourg." "that's done," he exclaimed, as the servant retired. "by to-morrow i shall be in the black forest, and there i can stay for a day or two, and draw out the plan of my book; then if i settle myself in the neighbourhood of one of the large university towns, i shall not want for help in the way of books; and converse with the german philosophers will be pleasant and useful relaxation for me, so that in six months i may hope to have it in the publisher's hands. now i must write letters to england, to countermand all my orders. poor earnscliffe court! thou art doomed ever to be deserted! ever to be without a mistress!" sighing deeply, mr. earnscliffe opened his desk and began to write. chapter ix. at twelve o'clock that night--the hour when, on the previous one, they had all met in the brilliant _salle_ of the hotel de ville--an express train was whirling mr. earnscliffe away from paris, flora adair was walking restlessly up and down her room, and mary elton lay upon her deathbed. the doctor had just left her, after having, as gently as possible, told mrs. elton that the last ray of hope for her daughter's recovery was gone,--she was sinking, and now it was only a question of how long she might hold out. probably she might linger until the same time to-morrow, but it was also possible that the end might come much more quickly. the night-lamp burned dimly, the nurse dozed in an armchair, and mrs. elton knelt in despairing grief beside her dying child, her head pressed down upon the bed-clothes, as she tried to smother the sound of her convulsive sobs, and prevent them from disturbing mary; and she thought to herself, "i have killed her by letting her go to that ball. i saw that she was not fit to go, and yet through weakness i allowed it. mary, my most precious child, my firstborn, do not leave me! what can the others be to me, if you are taken? great god, in pity give me back this favourite one, or let me die with her!" mary was indeed mrs. elton's "most precious child;" she resembled her father strikingly in appearance, as also in many points of disposition, and far more than either charles or helena; therefore was she dearer to her mother than they were. her husband's memory was the passion of mrs. elton's existence, as he himself had been whilst he lived; so now she felt that to lose the child who resembled him most was like losing all that remained to her of him, and to this was added the torture of believing that she might have saved her if she had only been firm about the ball. her agony in her utter loneliness was piteous; her favourite child was dying, and the other two were far away; they had been telegraphed for, but neither of them could possibly have come to her as yet. helena was expected to arrive early in the morning, but mrs. elton could make no guess as to when her son might come. he was quartered far up in the north of scotland, and of course he could not start instantly on receipt of the telegram, as helena would; he must wait to get leave, and thus the time of his arrival could not be counted upon. mary scarcely ever spoke, save to ask, "can lena soon be here?" but this question she repeated almost every hour, and each time it wrung her mother's heart anew, for it showed her that mary felt herself to be dying, and that she feared she might not live to see her sister. mrs. elton saw with dismay that this dread was worrying her beloved child, yet she could do nothing to relieve it; and there are few sufferings more difficult to endure than this feeling of powerlessness even to give ease to one whom we love, although we must yield them up to the grave in a few short hours. through the whole of that lone night-watch mrs. elton remained on her knees beside the bed. several times the nurse had tried to induce her to sit down, but she never answered, or appeared even to hear her; she seemed insensible to everything except the dying girl, but to her slightest movement, or barely audible words, she was keenly alive. at last, about five in the morning, a carriage was heard to stop at the door. mary quivered all over, and murmured, "mamma, there is lena; go to her and tell her that she must not be frightened when she sees me. poor lena, it is too bad to ask her to come almost from her honeymoon to see me thus; and she has never looked upon approaching death before. and you, mamma, you must not grieve so wildly for me: i heard your sobs and passionate prayers all through the long night, but i did not dare to speak to you, i was so afraid of exhausting my strength before lena came. mamma, she is far more worthy of your affection than i have been,--give it all to her, and she will repay you well. go to her now." "i cannot," murmured mrs. elton. "nurse, go and receive mrs. caulfield, and beg of her to wait for a few moments in the drawing-room;" and, with an irrepressible sob, she added, as she clasped mary's hand in hers, "my own child, take me with you to your father! life without him and you will be too awful!" "shall i ever see him?" whispered mary fearfully. "but it is cruel to treat lena thus. mamma, go to her for my sake, and let me see her as soon as possible, and then you must go and rest for a few hours,--i insist upon it," she said with a faint smile; "and you know you cannot disobey me, as it will be the last time." mrs. elton turned away with a choking sensation in her throat, and left the room. from the time that mary had been carried from the carriage to her bed she felt that she had risked the last chance for her life, and lost it in order to gratify her revenge and gloat over the sight of her rival's misery; but even so she did not then regret it, for her triumph had been so full and complete, and every other thought was for the moment absorbed in the wish to see her sister; her affection for her being, as we have said before, the one pure feeling which not even the terrible passion of revenge could sully. but during the twenty-eight or thirty hours that she had lain on her dying bed she had been haunted by grim phantoms of terror regarding the unknown world to which she was going so fast, and she began to feel that the success of her revenge was far less sweet to think of than she had expected; now, however, helena's coming brought up vividly before her the remembrance of that miserable night at naples, and once more a flush of fierce satisfaction covered her face, as she muttered, "well, at least i paid him off to the last farthing!" as these words passed her lips the door opened, and helena entered, with the tears streaming from her eyes. "darling lena!" exclaimed mary, but without attempting to sit up, for the doctor had warned her that to do so would surely bring on a recurrence of the hemorrhage--"how good you were to come so quickly." helena threw herself on the bed beside mary, and kissed her again and again, but she could not speak; and as mary tried to soothe her, her tears only flowed the faster, until at last the former said in a broken voice, "lena, think how you are trying me, and i have so little strength left to talk to you, or even to listen to you. i think i hear the nurse coming. go and tell her not to come until you call her, and i begged mamma to lie down and rest for a little; so once more, lena, you and i can have a _tête-à-tête_ chat, as in days of old." helena silently rose, and did as mary desired her; then returning, she seated herself beside the bed, and took her sister's cold hand in hers and began to rub it, saying, "how cold your hands are, sister!--let me warm them for you." "they will never be warm again, lena," answered mary, with a sort of smile; "but never mind that now, tell me about yourself. are you as happy as you expected to be?" "oh, mary," rejoined helena, trying to suppress her tears, "until i received that miserable telegram my happiness was unalloyed, and i only longed for the time when i could get you to come and stay with me, that you might have the pleasure of seeing what your kindness and affection had done for me; for had you not been all that you were to me, i should never have had the happiness of being harry's. mary, you must live to see your own work." "lena, how can you talk so! has not mamma told you that by this time to-morrow i shall no longer be with you?" "yes," sobbed helena; "but while there is life there is hope--and i _will_ hope." "you _must_ not, lena, for there is none; this is the second since----" a spasm caught her breath, but she went on, although her voice was evidently getting weak--"since that evening when you found me half fainting by the stone bench." "mary," cried helena, almost angrily, "you have treated me shamefully in not letting me be told that you had an attack of this kind on the night of my wedding; and i saw by mamma that she blames me bitterly for having left you; she thinks that my doing so increased, even though it did not cause, your illness; and in justice to me, mary, you ought to have written to me. i could have been with you all these weeks past since harriet's marriage, and i might have saved you; being in your confidence, i could in some degree have prevented you from brooding over the past until it has killed you. why have you kept me away from you, sister? but tell me what is all this about the ball, and mr. earnscliffe, and flora adair? i could not understand anything from mamma's account of it." "you remember the first time in rome that you spoke of those two names together,--i said then that i would rather see him dead than loving and beloved by her; then in naples he spurned my love for her sake, and i swore to be revenged; and i have been!" "mary, for god's sake stop!" interrupted helena, with an expression of horror; "it is too awful to hear the dying speak of revenge!" but mary resumed with increasing vehemence, "by chance i heard that he had been married, and that his divorced wife was living. _i_ knew then that _she_ could not marry him, and at the same time i was certain that _he_ did not know enough of catholics to be aware that this would be a barrier, so in all probability he had not told her; therefore i could easily make it appear that he had intended to deceive her, and thus torture her doubly: and through my instrumentality, too, he should feel the bitter agony of having his love rejected by the being whom he loved. lena, i carried it all out at the ball, and i saw them both writhe under my blows! ay, i paid _him_ off fully for that night in naples! ah!----" she half rose from her recumbent posture, and then fell back heavily. helena caught her in her arms and screamed, "nurse!" the nurse was fortunately in the adjoining room, and she ran to helena's assistance at once. she saw that her patient had only a passing faintness; and under her experienced treatment mary soon rallied. helena then asked her to leave them alone again, and she did so, but gravely cautioned helena not to allow her sister to excite herself, as any violent agitation might be instantly fatal. helena promised to do her best to prevent it, and the nurse left them. for a full hour more the sisters' conference lasted, and then helena went into the next room, murmuring, through her tears, "nurse, desire a clergyman to be sent for; and wait: i must write a note, which can be left at its destination as the messenger goes to the clergyman." helena burst out crying afresh as she opened mary's desk and tried to write; at last she succeeded in scribbling these few lines:-- "my dear flora, "poor dearest mary we fear is dying. she would like to see you; so i hope you will come to us as soon as you can. "yours affectionately, "helena caulfield. "friday morning." as she gave the note to the nurse, mrs. elton came into the room, and helena told her that mary wished to see a clergyman, and also flora adair, and that the nurse had just gone to desire them to be sent for. mrs. elton passed on silently into mary's room, and it was only the nervous quivering of her lips which told that she understood what had been said to her. helena had hard work to make mary consent to receive a clergyman, and to see flora adair, in order to undo as far as she could the suffering which she had inflicted on her by calumniating mr. earnscliffe, and now she began to feel completely exhausted from fatigue and grief as she lay back in the chair after writing the note. but she was roused by mrs. elton, who lightly touched her shoulder, and said, like a person speaking in a dream, "mary says that you must go and take some rest, and they will bring you breakfast." she rang the bell, and her own maid answered it, to whom she said, "take miss helena to my room, and get her tea--breakfast--you know what to do." then mrs. elton turned away and went back to mary. helena followed the maid into mrs. elton's room, and gladly lay down upon the bed, as she said, "margaret"--the maid was an old acquaintance of hers--"if my husband comes--he went to an hotel to be out of the way at first--show him in here, and also miss adair; of course you will tell me at once if miss elton should get worse." "yes, miss--i beg your pardon--ma'am; and now i will go and get you some breakfast." "it will be useless to bring me anything but a cup of tea, margaret." after helena had taken the tea she fell asleep, and slept for about an hour, when she was awaked by a kiss, and the sound of somebody saying, "poor cricket, how unlike itself it looks, doesn't it, miss adair?" as she opened her eyes, and saw her husband and flora standing beside her, she exclaimed, "harry, i am so glad that you have come, and flora too; but----" she covered up her face in her hands, and the tears trickled through her closed fingers. margaret now came in, and said, "mrs. caulfield, miss elton has asked for you." "say that i will be with her in a moment," answered helena, springing off the bed, and hastening after margaret, as she said to mr. caulfield and flora, "wait here for me." she was only a few moments absent, and entering with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, she took flora's hand and led her in to mary, over whose countenance the livid colour of death was fast spreading. flora felt awe-stricken as she thought that not six-and-thirty hours had passed since she saw her in the ball-room, and silently she went over and knelt down beside the bed, as mary said in a hollow voice, "flora adair, can you forgive me?" "it was right that i should know it, mary." "yes, that i understand; but can you forgive me for having tried to lower you in his opinion by falsehood, and every means in my power, and finally for insinuating to you that he was deceiving you by not telling you of his marriage, although he knew that you could not be his wife in the sight of your church if that were known?" mary paused, and flora, shuddering, said, "it was very cruel, the bare suspicion of it tortured me; but i did not believe it, or it would have driven me mad. but, mary, what had i ever done to you that you should have thus sought to harm me?" "you gained the love of the man whom i loved with an overwhelming love, and for you he rejected me.... was this no cause to hate you? revenge became the object of my life, and i had it,--i saw _him_ suffer that night at the ball even as he had made me suffer; but that longed-for revenge has turned into bitterness, instead of sweetness, and my gentle sister there has won me to better thoughts, and induced me to send for you to ask your forgiveness, and to tell you distinctly what _i_ knew all along, that _he_ did not know the catholic rules about divorce. so again i ask your forgiveness." "you have it, mary; although god knows you have made us both suffer doubly!" flora rose and kissed her forehead, but she almost started at its cold, clammy touch, and mary murmured, "lena, it has been growing dark to me for a long time, but now it is nearly night, so call mamma and your husband; i must say good-bye to him,--i have not seen him since your wedding"--lena sobbed violently--"and the clergyman, he may come too if you like; he is with mamma. but he cannot throw light upon the darkness into which i am entering. o god!" and mary moaned. that moan was heard in the next room, where her mother, her brother-in-law, and the clergyman were waiting to be called; and they stood up and went into the sick room. surely we may draw a curtain over these last awful moments. poor mary!... _her_ dying words might have been similar to those of the great world poet--"light, light, more light!" half an hour later mrs. elton was carried in a state of utter unconsciousness from the room of her dead child, whilst helena sobbed away her grief in her husband's arms, and flora adair drove home more saddened even than when she left it some two hours before. chapter x. that evening charles elton arrived in paris to find his sister dead, and his mother stretched on her bed like a person in a trance, with her eyes wide open, but apparently unconscious of everything that was going on around her. she did not even speak or move when he went into the room and kissed her. some hours later, when he and helena were speaking in whispers about the preparations for the funeral, she, however, started up suddenly, and said, "she must be taken to england,--we will go with her and see her laid beside her father. charles, you will arrange all this." then slowly and deliberately she left the room and went into mary's, where she remained day and night in spite of all remonstrance, until the coffin was screwed down and carried away for transportation to england. she gazed after it with tearless eyes as she stood leaning against the bed from which it had been taken, but the despair of her look and attitude was such that it awed helena, who was sobbing passionately, into silence, and rising from her knees she went and wound her arms round her mother, and tried by her caresses to soften the bitterness of her grief, but mrs. elton seemed to shrink from her, and after a few minutes she said, coldly, "when do we start?" "at six this evening," murmured helena; "the packet leaves havre for southampton at twelve to-night." mrs. elton then disengaged herself from helena, and going into her own room she remained there alone with her sorrow, for helena did not venture to follow her. this unnatural composure and coldness in their mother rendered the journey to england even more sad and silent to helena and charles than it must have been under any circumstances, and had it not been for harry caulfield's comparative cheerfulness and activity of mind it would have been almost unbearable. the eltons had a beautiful place in the neighbourhood of southampton, and in the pretty retired cemetery close by, mary was, according to mrs. elton's wishes, to be laid beside her father. on the evening of the funeral, when the sun's last rays had faded into twilight, and all nature seemed settling into repose, mrs. elton contrived to steal out unperceived to visit the joint tomb of her beloved husband and child. at the sight of it, and the thought of the two idols of her heart lying there, side by side, but insensible and unknown to each other, her icy composure gave way, and with a heart-broken cry she cast herself on the dewy ground which covered them. then the long-suppressed tears burst forth in torrents, and an hour afterwards her two remaining children, after seeking her in vain all through the house, found her still crouched over the grave, weeping bitterly. it was a relief to them to see her cry, for now that her grief had a natural vent in tears they hoped that it would gradually become less overwhelming. they silently knelt down beside her, and their tears flowed too over a father and sister's grave. then gently they raised their mother from the ground and induced her to return home with them, but scarcely had she entered the house when she was seized with a violent fit of shivering. they got her to bed as quickly as possible, and made her take hot drinks, but the shivering fits returned at intervals, and the next morning they sent for a doctor. he at once pronounced her illness to be fever, and for three weeks life and death seemed to be hanging in equal balance; but life, for the present at least, outweighed death, and mrs. elton slowly began to amend. charles and helena had been devoted in their attendance upon her during those weary one-and-twenty days, and now, as she daily regained a little strength, she used silently to clasp their hands in hers, whilst her countenance showed how much she felt their affectionate solicitude about her. and when at last she was able to go about again, she was quite a changed person; all the seeming coldness and self-reliance of her character had vanished, and she appeared to lean on helena's affection. charles was obliged to rejoin his regiment, so the caulfields persuaded her to accompany them to ireland, and spend the remainder of the year with them, promising at the same time that they would return to england with her in the spring. and they did so, but, as it turned out, only to follow mrs. elton to her last home, for before spring's budding foliage had ripened into the maturity of summer, her weary spirit was set at rest, and she was laid beside the two whom she had so loved in life. here ends our record of the elton family, and the story returns to the adairs. mr. adair went back to ireland, regretting for his own sake as well as his sister's that fruitless visit to paris; and, as soon as the hapless st was past, the remainder of the party went down to the south of france, to the de st. severans, where they were received indeed with open arms. monsieur de st. severan was a favourable specimen of a frenchman of the old school, full of courtesy and compliment to ladies, but so delicately was the latter insinuated and interwoven in manner and speech that it never appeared fulsome or offensive. in appearance he was somewhat above the middle height, and very thin; his eyes were dark brown and his features marked and pointed; his countenance in repose was very grave, but his smile was like a sunbeam bursting through the clouds on a dull grey afternoon, it was so bright and genial. with such a smile did he welcome and fold marie in his arms, as he murmured, "_ma chère enfant, enfin je te revois_." madame de st. severan was quite different. she was a short, plump, merry-looking irishwoman, with frank, at times somewhat abrupt, cordial manners. she had evidently been pretty in her style, and even still retained a fair share of comeliness. she too received marie most affectionately, and warmly joined in her husband's elaborate expression of thanks to mrs. adair for thus conducting their adopted child to their very arms. it may be remembered that flora did not wish the de st. severans to be told of her intended marriage until it was on the eve of taking place, so now they knew nothing of her great sorrow. this was principally the reason why mrs. adair had induced her to consent to their accompanying marie to the chateau, as with the de st. severans she knew there would be a complete change of scene and association for her; there could be no allusions to the past, no recollections of bygone happy hours excited. besides, being with complete strangers, she would be obliged to exert herself more or less, and thus mrs. adair hoped she would be roused from that state of sad silent abstraction in which she now lived. for the first week the plan seemed to have succeeded. flora appeared to interest herself in everything, and quite won monsieur de st. severan's admiration; like most foreigners, he cared even more for agreeability than for beauty; but at the end of that week she was seized with a violent attack of neuralgia in the head; nothing seemed to give her any ease, and for four days the pain continued with almost maddening intensity; then, however, it began gradually to subside, and at length it ceased altogether; but almost her first words after she got ease were, "mamma, take me home,--this is too much for me." mrs. adair now saw what it was, and that it was better even to allow her to brood over her grief than to force her to make the exertion of mixing in society; and so, in spite of all the de st. severans' warm entreaties for a longer visit, they left the chateau after about a fortnight's stay, and journeyed slowly towards ireland. if flora had any wish, save not to be obliged to see people, it was to be near her friend mina blake; yet it scarcely amounted to a wish; even friendly conversation and sympathy could give her but little pleasure, for now she felt how true was the saying, "_mieux se taire que de parler faiblement de ce que l'on éprouve fortement_," and to speak of anything but that one subject was almost impossible to her, for in it was her whole mind absorbed. she had sent her lover from her rather than forswear the cause of truth, but to banish him from her thoughts and heart she did not attempt; indeed it would have been difficult to convince her that there was anything wrong in thus clinging to the memory of her short span of happiness. nevertheless she wished much to get home and have some settled occupation, to try to while away the weary, weary time. marie was, as she herself said, "_desolée_" at being separated from "flore," and her parting whisper was, "when you write you will sometimes tell me news of him, flore,--except through you, i shall never even hear his name again." flora, of course, promised to do so, and after the first burst of irrepressible tears which followed the adairs' departure, marie began to feel that indulging such grief for her friends might hurt her adopted parents, who lavished so much affection upon her, so for their sakes she tried with all her usual amiability to appear cheerful. the task was not an easy one, particularly at first; but by degrees it became less difficult as she lost all remnant of shyness with monsieur de st. severan, and treated him as a petted daughter would a doating father. madame de st. severan was very kind and indulgent to her; yet marie never felt towards her as she did to her "_cher père_." of companionship of her own age she had not much, and what she had did not give her much pleasure. there were a few families in the neighbourhood where there were young ladies, but, unlike herself, they were prim and apparently retiring, so that when marie did meet them it only made her think how different they were from "flore." therefore, notwithstanding all her praiseworthy exertions, and partly successful ones, to be cheerful and contented, it was a relief to her when october came, and they set out for paris, where she had the prospect of a gay winter before her, and much more variety of every kind than she could have in the country; besides, almost unacknowledged to herself did she cherish an expectation of meeting mr. barkley there. she had not forgotten one pleasant evening's walk on the banks of the golden arno, when he said something about intending to go to paris during the ensuing winter, and asked casually what was monsieur de st. severan's address there. she remembered, too, that he wrote down the address as soon as she told it to him, so it was a possibility that he might come and see them, and beyond that she did not venture to let her thoughts wander. christmas passed, however, and no mr. barkley appeared, but early in january there came a letter from flora, saying, she heard that he and his father were going immediately to paris to meet, it was said, their friends the molyneuxes, who were spending the winter there for the advantage of their only daughter, whom it was supposed lord barkley wanted his son to marry. poor marie! the realisation of her hope that edmund barkley would come to paris now promised to bring her pain rather than pleasure. she knew the molyneuxes well,--they were most intimate with the de st. severans. the young lady was to have an enormous fortune, and she was undoubtedly very handsome, but hers was indeed-- "a beauty for ever unchangingly bright, like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light, shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender." there were none of the lovely lights and shades of autumn. she was statuesque in appearance, and her manner was quite in keeping with her countenance, ever formal, cold, and inanimate. and this was the one for whom mr. barkley was expected to give up his bright, playful marie, whose soft prettiness "now melting in mist, now breaking in gleams," varied with every passing feeling. how true it is that we are always prone to think that our misfortune, whatever it might be, would be easier to bear if it were but different in this or that particular! so now marie thought if edith molyneux were another sort of person, one, in short, whom mr. barkley could have loved and been happy with, that she would not have found it so difficult to give him up to her; but as it was it seemed doubly hard to bear. then too she was obliged to try and hide it all away in the recesses of her own heart, for, except flora, no one knew anything of her unhappy love,--she had not had courage to make a confidant of monsieur de st. severan, although he sometimes questioned her anxiously as to what made her at times, when she thought herself unobserved, look so sad and thoughtful; and more than once she was on the point of telling him the whole history; but she was always stopped by the fear of his blaming mr. barkley and becoming prejudiced against him. some few nights after she had received flora's letter, she sat in company with monsieur de st. severan and the molyneuxes, in an opera box, listening with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes to mario's thrilling tones as they rang forth the "_non ti scordar di me_" of "_a che la morte_;" and so absorbed was she that she did not know that the box door had opened, and two gentlemen had entered unperceived by her, until a low murmur of voices from behind disturbed her enjoyment of the music, and looking round impatiently, her eyes met mr. barkley's. it was all she could do to repress the cry of joy which trembled on her lips as she gave him her hand. he pressed it silently, but his lips seemed to form and follow the passionate words which mario now sang, "_sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te_." the last eight months, miss molyneux, everything, did marie forget in that moment, save that her lover was with her, and apparently true, and the tears which stole down her cheeks, as the devoted but hapless leonora expired in the arms of her "true love," were mingled tears of real pleasure and fictitious sorrow. but as the curtain fell and the dewy mist cleared away from before her eyes, she saw a sight which dashed all her bright joy and recalled to her her real position. standing behind miss molyneux's chair, and leaning over it with marked attention, was an old gentleman bearing a strong resemblance to mr. barkley. marie, of course, knew that this must be his father even before mr. molyneux said-- "ah, mademoiselle marie! i must introduce you to my friend, lord barkley, though i see that you are already acquainted with his son." marie thought she perceived his lordship frown as he bowed to her, and said with a chilling smile-- "i have heard of mademoiselle arbi from my daughter, mrs. penton, who met her travelling in italy last year with some acquaintances of ours." and turning to colonel de st. severan, to whom he had been already introduced, he added more graciously--"her kind protector, colonel de st. severan's name is one too noted to be unknown to any one who has been much in france." colonel de st. severan seemed to be pleased at this, and said he hoped to have the "_honneur_" of receiving his lordship at his hotel. the two old gentlemen then fell into a conversation upon the african wars, and edmund, in obedience to a glance from his father, turned to miss molyneux, and tried to _make_ her talk; whilst marie leaned over the box's parapet, and feigned to be much occupied with the light afterpiece which followed the opera; yet had she been suddenly asked what it was about, she could no more have told than she could tell what was going on in algiers at that moment. mr. barkley did not, however, continue his efforts at "doing the agreeable" to miss molyneux very long, and marie's painful thoughts were broken in upon by his bending over her chair, and asking in a low tone-- "has miss arbi, then, forgotten italy and the friends whom she met there, and whom, in those days, she seemed to honour with her regard, for she has not once bid me welcome to paris?" marie looked up at him, and in her large truthful eyes might be read an expression of gentle but sorrowful reproach, as she said, "one forgets not always that which one ought to forget; also i have not forgotten italy, and if i have not _said_, be welcome, i felt it." "ah! mademoiselle, if you only knew how the memory of italy has haunted me, you would not be so chary of your acknowledgment that you too had not forgotten it. i may have the happiness of seeing you here, may i not?" "i have heard my dear father ask lord barkley to come to see us, and perhaps you will come with _monsieur votre père_." "can _you_ doubt it?" "but you will be very occupied with your friends the molyneuxes. you are come to paris to meet them, are you not?" and involuntarily she glanced at miss molyneux. "marie!" he whispered,--then looking towards the stage, as if he were alluding to the opera which they had just seen, he repeated aloud, "the words, '_sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te_,' harmonise so well with the air." "yes, '_a che la morte_,' it is a melody so sweet," she answered, endeavouring to follow his example in seeming to talk of the music; but a bright flush spread itself over her face as she now heard him utter the words which before she only imagined she saw his lips silently form. if such moments could only be lasting! but-- "the brightest still the fleetest." there was a general movement in the house; the performance was over and the audience all prepared to depart. lord barkley came forward and offered his arm to marie, saying, "you must allow an old man, mademoiselle, to have the pleasure of escorting you to your carriage, and so give him an opportunity of becoming somewhat better acquainted with you, and edmund will no doubt take good care of my old friend molyneux's fair daughter." "edmund" did _not_ look delighted with this arrangement, but there was no help for it now; so with as good a grace as he could command in the midst of his annoyance, he obeyed the parental injunction, and took miss molyneux down. meanwhile, marie timidly laid her hand on lord barkley's arm, as she tried to get a sidelong glimpse at his face, to see if he looked very sternly at her, and she felt a little reassured on finding that his countenance was quite the contrary of stern. his age might have been about sixty, and his hair and moustache were quite white. he had full ruddy cheeks, rather small blue eyes, full lips, and a thick nose, not quite guiltless of a suspicious vermilion tint. the expression of his face was altogether more that of a good-natured, jolly old _bon vivant_, than of a severe, unrelenting parent; and marie would not have been dissatisfied with the impression which she made on him, had she known that as he handed her into the carriage he said to himself, "by jove! i can't find fault with edmund's taste in preferring this pretty, coy little creature, to that stiff, juno-like beauty. if i were a young man myself, i should be sure to fall in love with the little one! therefore, i am doubly sorry to be obliged to thwart the poor fellow; but i must do it for the sake of the family as well as his own. he would be a poor man all his life if i let him marry without a large fortune." as the father and son walked home, the former said, "edmund, my boy, i have just a few words to say to you about miss arbi. i think her very charming." "so i perceived, sir," interposed edmund, drily; "you lingered over the putting-on of her cloak with the courtly grace of a leicester." "eh, boy, jealous are you?" replied the old man, with a chuckle; "but, seriously, i think her--as i have said--charming, and i should be delighted to see her your wife, if you could afford to marry without a good many thousands; therefore take my advice--don't go too far with her; that peppery old colonel mightn't like it. and i tell you again, i must do all i can not to allow you to ruin yourself by making an imprudent marriage; but if you will do it, i'll save the property, at least, by leaving it to marie's second boy." "this is the old story over again, sir," retorted his son, impatiently, "and i accompanied you to paris on the express condition that you would endeavour to learn what fortune monsieur de st. severan will give miss arbi, and that you would then think about whether you would grant me your consent or not. the moment i meet her, however, you begin to lecture me about being prudent and keeping clear of her. if this was to be the way of it, it would have been better for us to have remained at home. now, of course, i understand why you were so anxious that we should come to paris: it was to try and entangle me with that block of ice, miss molyneux; but i'll not have her, father." "very well, just as you like, my dear boy, but you certainly might do worse. she is very rich, very beautiful--as you must admit--and i have reason to know that her family would be very willing to receive you as a suitor for her hand. but, all the same, i'll keep my promise about miss arbi, and if i can avoid it i'll throw no obstacle in the way. however, to be candid with you, edmund, i feel certain that she can't have nearly enough for you. why, ten thousand pounds would be an immense fortune for a foreigner to have, and that would be of no earthly use to you. so, for your own sake and hers, don't be too much with her--don't, at all events, make her remarkable before her friends, the molyneuxes." "how very anxious you are about her, sir; but leave that to me,--i'll take care not to make her remarkable. good-night, sir," he added abruptly, as they got into the hotel; and he hastily took a candle and walked off in high dudgeon to his room. again mr. barkley was acting a cowardly, ungenerous part towards marie in making these professions of love, although he should have known in his heart that his father would not be satisfied with anything that colonel de st. severan could give her, and that he himself had not the courage to marry her in spite of that, and so risk the loss of his hereditary estate, which, as we have just heard, his father threatened to leave away from him if he married any one whose fortune was not sufficient to clear it. had he even been wholly dependent upon this, there might have been some excuse for him, but, on the contrary, he was actually in possession of a small property of about five hundred a year, which had been left to him by an uncle; but this seemed absolute penury to the luxurious heir of at least as many thousands per annum. he persuaded himself, however, that on the strength of his father's approbation of marie personally, and his promise to inquire what her fortune might be, he was authorised in devoting himself to please her. accordingly, he sought her society in every possible way; and through the molyneuxes, with whom his father was always pleased to see him, he contrived to get up riding parties, parties to operas, concerts, balls, &c. one day during a ride in the bois de boulogne, the party consisting of himself, marie, mr. and miss molyneux, the latter's horse became restive in the crowd, and mr. barkley suggested that they should get into some of the less-frequented alleys, where the animal would probably go quite quietly; he undertook to lead the way with marie, whilst mr. molyneux and his daughter followed. here on the first favourable occasion he renewed his protestations of undying love to marie, and won timid avowals of the same nature from her. he told her--with a slight colouring it is true--of his father's promise, and how he only lived in the hope of being soon able to ask colonel de st. severan for her hand. marie listened in delight, and thought to herself--"flore did not do him justice. how little he really cares about money; for notwithstanding miss molyneux's wealth, and beauty too, he is true to me." then she said aloud in her low, sweet voice, "how happy you have rendered me! but i must tell my dear father all this, or i would feel that i deceived him." "marie, for my sake you must not speak to him yet. only have a little patience. if you tell colonel de st. severan now, he will be sure to apply to my father at once in true french style, and then adieu to all my hopes. my father, taken thus suddenly, and before i have time to gain him over to all i wish, would peremptorily refuse his consent." "no, no. i would pray my dear father for love of me to say nothing of it to anybody; but he would be wounded if i hide from him the truth. i _must_ tell him, edmund!" mr. barkley drew himself up haughtily as he replied-- "pray do not suppose that i wish to bind you to secresy further than that i know if you speak to colonel de st. severan now there will be an end to everything between you and me; but if you are _satisfied_ that it should be so, i have no more to say. miss arbi is, of course, perfectly at liberty to act as she thinks right; only it would have been more candid had she told me from the beginning that she was not so deeply interested in the case as i flattered myself." a vivid colour rushed up to marie's face, mounting to her very temples, and for an instant her eyes flashed with indignation as she looked full at him; but it was only for a moment: the next, her bright eyes became suffused in tears, and without a word she turned away her head. marie had never appeared so lovely to mr. barkley as now. that sudden flash of anger, as he accused her of want of candour towards himself, which darted across her countenance, then faded into an expression of such deep sadness, seemed to him the prettiest and most touching thing he had ever seen, and he exclaimed, eagerly-- "forgive me, my sweet marie! how could i be so heartless as to say anything which could pain you? i know that you are all truth and candour; but the fact is, i scarcely know what i say. i am driven half wild between love of you and fear of not being able to marry you; and if you would not destroy all my hopes of ever having that happiness, do not tell colonel de st. severan for a few days longer, at all events. i know well that nothing you or any one else could say to him would prevent him from speaking to my father. marie, here come the others! will you promise me to be silent, at least until i can speak to you again on the subject?" there was no time to expostulate any farther, and, half frightened at the suppressed vehemence of his voice, she murmured--"yes." he looked his thanks as the others came alongside of them, and for the remainder of the ride he attached himself to miss molyneux's side. marie went home looking so pale and tired, that colonel de st. severan, with fond anxiety, blamed himself for allowing her to take such long rides. he little knew that it was not fatigue, but remorse for the promise which she had given to deceive him--as it seemed to her--even for a time, that made her look so pale, and every mark of affection which he bestowed upon her increased this feeling. things went on in the same state for about ten days. mr. barkley, marie thought, appeared to avoid any opportunity of speaking to her privately, although his manner to her, whenever he did meet her, was expressive of the utmost devotion; but her self-reproach for her conduct to her kind adopted father increased daily, and one afternoon, when she thought every one was out, she gave free vent to her tears as she lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, murmuring every now and then-- "edmund, edmund! why did you wring from me that unfortunate promise? my dear father, how much less unhappy i should be if i could tell you everything! it is terrible to feel that i am playing false to the one if i keep my word, and to the other if i break it! terrible to be divided between my lover and my father! _oh, mon père!_" "_ma chère enfant!_" said a voice close to her, and she was clasped in colonel de st. severan's arms. he had heard all: so now there could be no further secresy, and in answer to her cry on seeing him, "what have i done? edmund will say that i have broken my word to him!" he said-- "_i_ am the witness that you have kept it but too well, until it made you almost ill. had providence not sent me home unexpectedly to-day, i should still have been in ignorance, and you would have been suffering." when he had petted her into something like composure, he gently but firmly insisted upon hearing the whole history, assuring her that it was better he should know all than be left to form his own conjectures. she felt that he was right, and so she told him everything from the beginning in florence, and tried to make mr. barkley's conduct appear in as favourable a light as possible; but colonel de st. severan's countenance grew darker and darker as she proceeded, till she came to the account of how mr. barkley made her promise to be silent, in spite of all her entreaties to be allowed to tell him; then his indignation burst forth, and he denounced him as a _vaurien--un homme déshonorable_. but marie now fell into such a state of agitation that it almost frightened him, and so passionately did she plead for "edmund," that colonel de st. severan said at last-- "in order to save you from grief, _ma fille chèrie_, i will give this gentleman a chance. i know from molyneux that he has, independent of his father, an annual rent of from twelve to fifteen thousand francs, and i will give you a _dot_ of three hundred thousand francs; therefore, if he really loves you, he can marry you without any assistance from his father." marie's gratitude knew no bounds. poor confiding child, she never for a moment doubted her lover, and wild with joy she ran up to her room to wash away the traces of tears before madame de st. severan should come in. the next day was their reception day, and among other visitors came mr. barkley. he saw that mary looked flushed and excited, but gayer than he had ever seen her since the old days in florence; and her gaiety jarred upon him, as he himself was in wretched spirits, his father having just told him finally that he must either give up all idea of marrying miss arbi, or of ever possessing barkley castle. _neither_ could he resolve to give up, and his object in paying that visit to the de st. severans was to hear if they would be at the ambassador's ball that night, when he intended to have another conversation with marie. thus, his vexation was considerably increased on being told that they had sent an apology. marie having looked so ill for the last few days, they were determined not to allow her to undergo any new fatigue. he stood up to go away, feeling angry with the de st. severans for not going to the ball, and with marie for appearing gay when he was so miserable. colonel de st. severan left the room with him, and as soon as the drawing-room door was closed, he requested mr. barkley to grant him a few minutes' conversation in his study. "she has betrayed me!" he thought, as he followed colonel de st. severan into the study. marie contrived to escape from the drawing-room, and went into the library, where she could be alone. it happened to be next to the study, to which there were two doors, one opening into it, the other giving upon the passage. the sound of raised voices caught her ear and made her tremble as she hastily went to the other end of the room, so as not to overhear a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but the next moment she heard the far door of the study closed violently, and at the same time the one leading into the library flew open, and colonel de st. severan entered, his face all in a glow from anger and indignation. he started as he saw marie, who ran to him, exclaiming-- "my father! what has happened?" "marie, my dear child, i did not expect to find you here," he said, putting his arms round her, and looking earnestly at her; "but perhaps it is better as it is. henceforth you will teach your heart to forget _ce monsieur_. he is unworthy of you, and i have told him never to dare to address you again! my child, i know, will do her best to obey me when i tell her that she must think no more of him!" marie became pale as death. her lips quivered as she tried to answer; but instead of words there burst from her a long, low sob, and she remained passive in his arms. chapter xi. the interview between colonel de st. severan and mr. barkley was short but stormy. that morning the former had called upon lord barkley to learn what were his true feelings with regard to his son's marriage. lord barkley was a most plausible old gentleman, and liked to keep well with everybody; accordingly he bespattered colonel de st. severan with compliments, said that he himself found mademoiselle arbi charming, and that nothing grieved him more than being obliged to tell edmund that if he married without getting a fortune of thirty or forty thousand pounds, he must leave the ancestral estate, in order to preserve it in the family, away from him; but were it not for their unfortunate embarrassments he would be only too delighted to receive mademoiselle as his daughter-in-law. colonel de st. severan thanked him and took his leave. now that he had heard from lord barkley's own lips how much he approved of marie personally, and that he left his son free to marry her if he chose to brave the threat of the family estate being left away from him, colonel de st. severan felt himself authorised in making the proposal to mr. barkley of which he had spoken to marie. unfortunately for mr. barkley he had been out all the morning, and went to the de st. severans without having heard what had passed between his father and colonel de st. severan, so he was completely taken by surprise when the latter called him into his study, and having explained how it was that by chance he discovered the attachment which existed between him and marie, he proceeded to relate all that lord barkley had said to him; then in a concise but cutting manner he blamed mr. barkley for his conduct throughout the whole affair. he concluded by saying that it pained him deeply to think that marie should have bestowed her affections upon one who had acted towards her as mr. barkley had done, but that she had wrung from him a promise not to put any obstacle in the way of her happiness, and in compliance with this promise he named the fortune which he was ready to give marie, showing at the same time that he knew such a portion would enable mr. barkley to marry her--if he really loved her--independently of his father. mr. barkley was not, as we said before, in a serene mood when he entered the study, and this speech of colonel de st. severan's worked him up almost into a passion. it was forcing him to do the very thing which he did not wish to do--to choose at once between love and mammon. to give up the latter and resolve to live on the thousand or so a year which his own and marie's income would amount to, seemed to him too alarming a sacrifice. on the other hand he saw plainly that if he did not make it he must renounce marie for ever, as he had no excuse to give for any further hesitation, save the true one of his unwillingness to run the risk of being a comparatively poor man all his life; after what his father had said he had not the courage to plead that fear of displeasing him was his motive. he hated the colonel for placing him in such a position, and in vain he tried to think calmly how he could answer, until colonel de st. severan, tired of waiting for a reply, said-- "your silence, i suppose, is a tacit acknowledgment that you have been merely trifling with mademoiselle arbi all this time; but indeed it is only what one might have expected from the whole tenor of your past conduct." this was like applying a lighted match to a train of gunpowder. mr. barkley lost all control of himself, accused colonel de st. severan of false dealing, in having gone secretly to speak about him to his father, and said many other things which, had he been master of himself, he would never have uttered. colonel de st. severan interrupted him in a voice of thunder, commanded him to leave his presence instantly, and never to dare to speak to him or mademoiselle arbi again. he pointed to the door, and mr. barkley--awed by the dignity of his manner--obeyed the gesture silently, quailing like a bold schoolboy before the great and just anger of his superior. he rushed out of the house in a state of wild excitement, and, as the fates ordained, almost at the door he met some young frenchmen of his acquaintance. they said they were going to dine at the trois frères, and asked him to join them. mr. barkley, glad to have any company rather than that of his own thoughts, accepted the proposal, and away they went to the palais royal. the repast was most _recherché_, and naturally the wines were in keeping with it. mr. barkley drank freely of them all, and especially of champagne, until his spirits became quite exuberant, and when _écarté_ was suggested as a fitting wind-up to the evening, he eagerly expressed his pleasure at the suggestion. he played high and lost considerable sums, but the more he lost the more recklessly he played, and it was with difficulty that his companions got him away from the card-table in time to dress for the ambassador's ball, to which they were all going. it chanced that the molyneuxes and mr. barkley arrived about the same time, and he secured miss molyneux for the next valse. she looked dazzlingly handsome in some sort of a light-blue dress over white satin, and a necklace of turquoise. a buzz of admiration followed her as she moved in her stately manner through the crowd, leaning on her partner's arm, so that mr. barkley began to feel that at least she would be a wife that a man could be proud of; and the valse finished the matter. excitement, champagne, and that rapid dance all told upon him, and fired his heart with a momentary fancy for miss molyneux. he made desperate love to her, proposed, and was sobered by her calm acceptation of his offer. up to that moment he scarcely knew what he was saying, but her cool answer and suggestion that they should return to "papa" made him fully sensible of what he had done. it was as if a pail of iced water had been thrown over him, and he could scarcely help shivering as he offered his arm to his affianced bride to lead her to her parents. mr. barkley passed that night in all the torture of self-reproach. more than once, after he returned from the ambassador's, he attempted to write an apology to colonel de st. severan, but each time he tore up what he had written, feeling that it would look like a mockery to send an apology after that night's work, as he knew that of course the de st. severans must hear of his engagement. when he did at last go to bed, he lay tossing on it with sleepless eyes and a racking headache as well as _heartache_. the next morning he went into his father's room, about ten o'clock, looking so "_seedy_" and haggard that the latter exclaimed-- "why, edmund, you must have supped after the ball last night. you certainly look as if you had a good bout of it." "such an one, sir, as i shall never forget, only it was _at_ the ball and not after it," answered his son; "and i have come to tell you that my happiness is destroyed for life, but your wishes are gratified. miss molyneux is my affianced wife. i hope _she_ has money enough for you!" "my dear edmund, you amaze me! i should indeed have been delighted to hear of your engagement if you did not speak of it in this extraordinary manner. surely i did not insist upon your proposing to miss molyneux." "no, but you drove me to desperation by opposing my marriage with the woman i love. i behaved like a scoundrel to her and to colonel de st. severan; then to escape from my own thoughts i drank and gambled until i was half mad with excitement, and in that state i proposed to miss molyneux." "don't flurry yourself about it, my dear boy; under the circumstances, we can explain away anything a little too tender which you may have said to miss molyneux. i should be very sorry if you were to marry a girl whom you don't like; and as for the de st. severan affair, i don't understand what you mean. i saw the colonel yesterday morning and explained everything to him. why, we parted like the dearest friends in the world!" "i know it, sir, but i have seen colonel de st. severan since, and----, but, no, i cannot speak of it. now, with regard to miss molyneux," he continued, hurriedly; "you are mistaken in supposing that i merely said something too tender to her which could be explained away. i told you expressly that she was my affianced wife. i was not drunk enough--would that i had been--to talk nonsense; only enough to act like a madman. i proposed formally to miss molyneux, and she as--no far more--formally accepted me, and marched me up to 'papa.' as to not liking her, why i could no more like or dislike her than i could a beautiful piece of marble, so i may as well marry her as anybody else, since i am not to have the only one whom i love." "still, edmund, it appears to me that you would do well to think a little more about this before you go any further." "it's all very well for you, sir, to talk in this way now after you have driven me into it. i have twice said that i can't draw back unless i behave in the same manner to miss molyneux as i have done to that little angel, marie arbi. but let there be an end to all discussion. the die is cast. we must go to old molyneux this morning, and you may make any arrangements you like with him, but i leave paris to-morrow. i am not going to stay here to be a lasting insult to my poor lost darling. at what hour will you come with me to my future father-in-law?" "at twelve, if you like, my dear fellow; but i am really unhappy about the manner in which you take this up. i wish something could be done to get you out of it." "but nothing can be done, sir, and the greatest kindness you can show me is to say no more about it. we must only make the best of a bad case. at twelve i will meet you in the coffee-room." so saying mr. barkley returned to his own room and began to dress. the molyneuxes left paris a few days after this and went to london, whither lord barkley and his son had preceded them. the latter urged his father to get the settlements drawn up as quickly as possible, as he declared that the shorter time he had to sustain the lover's part towards his "marble bride" elect, the better it would be for them both, and he undertook to get miss molyneux to name an early day for the wedding. accordingly it was fixed for the second week in april. towards the end of the month--february--the barkleys left london for ireland, on the plea of seeing that all the preparations for receiving the bride were being properly executed. mr. barkley however was to return to london in a fortnight or three weeks. in the meantime he, as well as his father, was delighted to get home to their beautiful place, and the attractions of a country life; even the old lord was still a keen sportsman. a short time after their return there was to be a meet in the neighbourhood, and some eight or ten gentlemen were invited to dine and sleep at barkley castle the night before. it was a sort of farewell bachelor party, which mr. barkley induced his father to give. there was a good deal of joking about the approaching marriage, but the only answer which mr. barkley deigned to give to all the questions which were asked about his "ladye love" was--"when you see her you'll all acknowledge that i have imported something worth _looking_ at." lord barkley, however, saw by the impatient twitching of his lip how disagreeable the subject was to him, and although later in the evening he became boisterously gay, sang comic songs, and related many a good story, his father felt that his gaiety was forced, and more than ever did he regret the hastiness with which he had entered into the engagement with miss molyneux; yet he said to himself, "perhaps it is better so. once married he'll be proud of having such a magnificent looking wife, and they'll get on right well, i daresay. if he does not marry he would always have a hankering after that little marie; not that i am a bit astonished at it, for she is a sweet little creature, and the other is so stiff and cold; but it would be ruin for him not to get a large fortune, so it's all as well that he is going to be settled,--only i wish with all my heart that the poor fellow seemed to like the idea of it a little better." after this soliloquy his lordship sought his couch; nevertheless, as he rose next morning and donned his hunting suit, he could not shake off an unaccountable feeling of sadness and remorse about "edmund's" coming marriage, and the latter happening to go in to him to ask some question relative to the starting, he said, laying his hand upon his shoulder-- "come, boy, you and i must not go out to-day with any ill-will between us." "how now, father; surely you are not growing nervous?" "no, edmund, that's quite out of my line; but before we go i want to hear you say that you bear me no grudge for opposing you about miss arbi. you must feel that it was only your own interest that i had at heart in so doing. i shall be dead and gone in a few years at farthest, but you would have been a ruined man all your life if i had forwarded a marriage between her and you." mr. barkley winced at marie's name and turned away his head, but when his father ceased speaking he answered gently, although sorrowfully-- "i do not doubt that you acted for the best, father; but was wealth worth the sacrifice of happiness? i, however, as well as you, helped to make the sacrifice, therefore i cannot blame you more than i do myself, or, god knows! half as much; so if it's any satisfaction to you to hear me say so, i bear you no grudge about it, father. my marriage with miss molyneux is my own work, and i must make the best of it." "if the thought of it really makes you unhappy, edmund," exclaimed lord barkley, struck by the despondency of his son's tone, "let us try to break it off even now." "why break it off, father, and at the expense of my honour too, unless you are willing to try and win back for me the girl whom i love?" mr. barkley's eyes kindled for a moment as he looked half-questioningly at lord barkley, who felt almost tempted to answer, "yes, i _will_ get her back for you, and make you happy, my boy, if i can." but mammon whispered, "what! for a young man's foolish dream of love will you let your broad acres pass away from the family?" and he replied, looking out of the window to avoid meeting his son's earnest gaze--"true, edmund, your marriage could not be broken off now, as you say, except at the expense of your honour; and, after all, miss molyneux _is_ gloriously handsome." it was with difficulty that his son refrained from making an exclamation of impatience, but he did refrain, and left the room, merely saying, "i suppose it is nearly time for breakfast?" some hours afterwards how glad mr. barkley was that he had so restrained his impatience. chapter xii. it was such a morning as the old song describes: "a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning;" and a troop of about a dozen gentlemen rode gaily out of the courtyard, revelling in the enjoyment of expected pleasure. they were not disappointed in regard to the hunt itself; but a fatal accident, which occurred just at its close, threw a gloom over the day. reynard was making a last struggle for his life as the hunt galloped up to the yawning fence over which they had to pass in order to be in at the "death." there was an up-bank on the side next to the riders, and on the other a gaping dyke, brimfull of water. the two foremost horses took it gallantly, but the third jumped short, lost his footing, and slipped back into the water. his rider, however, succeeded in throwing himself off, and he clung to the side of the ditch, shouting at the same time to those behind to give him room. unfortunately, at that very moment a horse appeared at the top of the bank, and, startled by the shout just as he was rising for the spring, he swerved, reared, and fell backwards from the bank, crushing his hapless rider under him. the rider was lord barkley; and the gentlemen who immediately followed him reined in their horses and sprang to the ground to assist him. they had succeeded in getting the horse from over him, when they beheld his son standing on the top of the bank with a horror-stricken expression of countenance, and his clothes all saturated with water. mr. barkley was one of the two first horsemen who had so gallantly taken the leap; but the shout of the man who fell made him turn round in his saddle, and he saw his father's horse swerve and fall! a low cry escaped his lips as he glanced at the ditch to see if it were possible to take it from the side upon which he found himself; but even at such a moment he saw that it was almost impossible that any horse could do it, and dismounting hurriedly, he threw himself into the water, crossed, and scrambled up the bank, where, as we have seen, he stood looking with horror on the scene before him. but it was only for a moment that he stood there; the next, he was kneeling beside his father, and supporting his head on his knee. the only sign of life which lord barkley gave was to moan whenever they attempted to move him, until one of the gentlemen brought some water in his hat, and sprinkled it over him. he then opened his eyes, and recognising his son, he pressed his hand, and murmured, "good-bye, my boy; it's all over with me, but be happy in your own way." the rest was lost in indistinct sounds. mr. barkley bent his head lower and lower, until his dark locks mingled with his father's grey hair; and the gentlemen stood by silently, not venturing to disturb the mourner even to ask what could be done. a poor tenant, however, went up to him, and, touching him on the shoulder, said with rough good nature, "come now, misther barkley, be a man, and don't take on so. shure, maybe the good auld lord will come too, afther all; and isn't it a quare thing for yer honours to be all standing there and niver thinking what could be done to rekiver him. faix, and its close to b----town that we are, and what w'd ail a few boys like meself to take a twist over to it and bring back a stretcher or something of that soort for to carry his lordship? shure, and your honour's own docther lives there too; and couldn't we bring him along wid us?" "you are right, my good friend," answered mr. barkley, raising his head; "i ought to have thought of that. please, then, to go; but on horseback; and ride at full speed." when the doctor arrived, he tried to examine his poor old friend, in order to see what injuries he had received; but every touch seemed to give him such pain that the doctor desisted, and said, "we had better get him placed on the stretcher and carried as gently as possible to my house; then we can see better what is to be done." when the poor sufferer had been carefully raised and laid on the stretcher, the sad procession moved slowly on, mr. barkley and the doctor walking by the side of the bier, which four stalwart countrymen carried. before setting out, however, the former said in a broken voice to those about him, "gentlemen, i am most grateful to you for your kindness. i cannot speak about it now, but i shall never forget it." the same night--and little more than twelve hours after they all started in "gallant array" from barkley castle--lord barkley's spirit was at rest. from the first the doctor had seen that there was no hope of recovery, but he was able to do much towards alleviating the dying man's sufferings, who, although unable to speak, was evidently sensible to the last, and he received the church's sacraments with deep emotion. mr. barkley--or rather now lord barkley--was so stunned by the manner and suddenness of his father's death, that he could scarcely realise the fact that he who, a few hours ago, rode by his side in the full enjoyment of health and spirits, was now a corpse; and the only words which he spoke for long after death had taken place were, "thank god, 'twas not in anger that i spoke to him last!" next day the body was removed to barkley castle, and there laid out in state until the funeral, which was fixed for the fourth day after death. lord barkley begged his brother-in-law, mr. penton, to arrange everything without appealing to him, as he felt too confused to be able to think. mr. penton consequently acted on his own judgment as to whom he ought to invite for the funeral, and above all others he thought it right to ask mr. molyneux (the present lord's future father-in-law), although he thought it most unlikely that he would come. but on the contrary, he received a telegram to say that mr. molyneux would arrive at barkley castle the evening before the funeral. when this was told to lord barkley he appeared to be much agitated; and in answer to his sister's eager question as to whether her husband had done wrong in inviting mr. molyneux, he said, "no, maria; i am sure that george only did what ought to have been done, although i would rather not see mr. molyneux just yet." the late lord's dying words to his son, "be happy in your own way," made a deep impression upon him, for it was an acknowledgment at the last moment that his father regretted having urged him to sacrifice happiness for wealth, and that he did not wish the sacrifice to be completed. thus during the solemn hours that he watched beside the dead he could not help being struck by the greatness of the revelations which approaching death makes, even to a man who has toiled all his life for wealth, and was ready to give up everything in order to obtain it. and now, too, as he viewed his own conduct with the strong light of eternity shining upon it, he saw all its weakness and want of truth. he had acted treacherously both to the girl whom he loved and to the one to whom he was affianced, and with shame and sorrow he felt that however unhappy his life might be henceforth he must blame himself as the _chief_ cause of it. remorse and unhappiness, thus added to the natural grief which he felt for a parent who had loved him well though not wisely, made him look so haggard and worn as he stood with blanched cheeks and trembling lips, looking upon the closing of the vault over his father, that mr. molyneux went up to him and tried to lead him away. "come, edmund," said he, "let your second father help to console you for the loss which you have just sustained. my daughter's husband will be nearly as dear to me as a child of my own. only treat me as a father, and you will find that i am such to you by affection though not by nature." for the sake of his manhood lord barkley struggled hard to repress the tears which rose to his eyes as mr. molyneux spoke, and brushing them hastily away, he said sadly and humbly, "mr. molyneux, i am unworthy of your goodness,--i have deceived you all. you must let me make a full confession to you to-morrow morning, when i shall be more composed than i am now. you can never again think well of me after you have heard it, but it is the only reparation in my power to make, and you shall at least know me for what i am, before anything irrevocable has been done." mr. molyneux started, and was on the point of demanding an explanation at once, but as he looked at lord barkley walking beside him with drooping head, and wrapped in the mourner's garb of deep woe, he refrained through respect for unaffected grief, and determined to wait as patiently as he could until the time named. mr. penton acted as his brother-in-law's deputy in doing the honours of the house, as lord barkley retired to his own room immediately after the funeral and remained there all day. the next morning, however, about eleven, he sent to mr. molyneux to say that if it suited his convenience he would be glad to see him in the library. he repaired thither at once, and as he entered lord barkley said, "mr. molyneux, i do not offer you my hand until you have heard all that i am going to tell you, as perhaps you would not wish to shake hands with me, were you aware of what my conduct has been. you shall hear in as few words as possible how miserable and dishonourable a part weakness and habitual self-indulgence may lead a naturally honourable man to act. the shock of my poor father's sudden death, and the sad time for reflection which has followed it, have made me feel how shamefully i have behaved towards you and your daughter, and that at least i ought to tell you what have been and are my feelings towards her. may i count upon your forbearance to listen to me without interruption?" mr. molyneux assented, and lord barkley then shortly but fully detailed to him all that had passed from the time he had seen marie--without naming her of course--up to the night when he proposed to miss molyneux, adding, "now, mr. molyneux, that you have heard all, i have only to say i am quite ready to fulfil my engagement. i think i could promise to be a good and kind though not a loving husband to your daughter. i would take care never to look again upon the face of her whom i love, and endeavour to efface her image from my heart. what more can i do under the circumstances? and i think that at least it was truer to tell you all this than to continue to deceive you. i believe, too, from what i know of miss molyneux's character, that she would be quite satisfied with the sincere respect and affection which i feel for her. i should be the only sufferer, and fully do i acknowledge that i deserve any punishment which may be inflicted upon me. even you cannot blame me more bitterly than i have blamed myself, and there is no humiliation or expiation that you could impose upon me which i would not willingly accept. in the name, then, of your old friend--my poor father--who through too indulgent affection helped to make me what i am, i ask you to try not to think too harshly of me. do not even in your own mind brand me as one utterly devoid of honour and principle, but say what you wish me to do." mr. molyneux was one of the kindest, not to say most soft-hearted men that ever lived, and lord barkley's air of deep suffering and self-abasement touched him even in the midst of his anger and indignation. he thought of his own dead son, who would now be just about the same age as the poor culprit before him, and pushing away his chair he walked up and down the room muttering to himself. no one knew more thoroughly his daughter's cold, proud character than he did, or so mourned over it; and his grief for his passionate, affectionate boy had been redoubled and perpetuated by the feeling that he could find no real comfort in his remaining child. the more he looked at lord barkley, the more did the memory of his own edmund knock at his heart and intercede for indulgence towards the errors of a loving nature, which weakness and over indulgence had led astray; and knowing his daughter's character as he did, he felt that it would be punishing him too severely to ask him to fulfil his engagement with her whilst his young heart yearned for one who was evidently _not_ a statue. nevertheless he could not but feel indignant at the manner in which his daughter had been treated, and at last he said, sternly-- "lord barkley, you were right when you said that your conduct had merited for you the misery of being married to one woman whilst you loved another, and if i believed that the breaking off of this marriage would cause my daughter a moment's deep pain, i should not hesitate to require you to fulfil your engagement; but she is not one who would allow herself to _love_ any man until after he was her husband, and i know that i have only to tell her that from your own showing you were unworthy of her, and her self-respect will enable her to bear the separation without much regret. i will not, therefore, take upon myself to inflict upon you the fate which you deserve. you may, then, consider yourself released from the engagement, and i shall never say more than is necessary as to why this marriage was broken off; but you cannot object to my letting it be understood that it was your own conduct which caused it, and henceforth let us be as strangers to each other. for the sake of my dear lost boy, whose schoolfellow you were, rather than for that of the hardly true friend who urged you to treat us as you have done, have i been thus lenient to you, and i do not think that you could have asked more." "_i_ have asked more! god knows i had no right to expect such indulgence as you have shown me," answered lord barkley, raising his head, and mr. molyneux saw that his face was marked by traces of tears such as a man rarely sheds. after a moment's pause lord barkley resumed-- "your reproaches i could have borne better than such forbearance,--it is indeed heaping coals of fire upon my head. i dare not hope that you will ever take my hand in friendship again, but whilst i live no son of your own could look upon you with deeper feelings of gratitude and respect than i do. good-bye, and perhaps the spirit of your own lost son will plead for his weak, erring companion as it did to-day, and at last win back for him one ray of the old kindly feeling of former days." lord barkley looked so dejected and humbled that mr. molyneux had not the heart to leave him thus coldly, and turning hastily round from the door, which he had almost reached, he grasped his hand, saying, "good-bye, boy; i dare say you'll make as good a man as any of us after all." he gave the hand which he held a cordial shake and then hastened out of the room. chapter xiii. lord barkley being thus relieved from his engagement to miss molyneux, felt like a prisoner just set free, who rejoices in his newly-recovered freedom, although the remembrance of the acts which riveted the chains of bondage round his neck still fills his heart with shame and sorrow; and he set to work in earnest to try and make amends for all past self-indulgence and extravagance. for the three first months which followed his father's death, he applied himself with energy to the examination of his affairs. he found them in a dreadful state of confusion, and, totally unaccustomed as he was to business, it seemed to him almost impossible that he could ever get through the masses of ill-kept accounts which lay before him, and his evil genius--indolence--more than once suggested to him that it would have been unnecessary to do so had he married miss molyneux; but at such moments he had only to look back and recall his misery during the time of his engagement to her, in order to feel that anything--even breaking his head over accounts--was better than that; and then with renewed vigour he would pore over the long lines of figures, thinking to himself, "i would willingly go through all this if i could only hope that marie was not lost to me for ever; yet even on chance i will labour on, and endeavour to show that i am somewhat less unworthy of her than i was." lord barkley was naturally clever; all he had ever wanted was application and energy, and these were now lent to him by sorrow for the past, and hope, however faint it might be, for the future. notwithstanding many a weary hour, when his courage wavered, and he felt half inclined to abandon the task which he had set himself to do, he did at last succeed in making himself completely master of his position. he then saw that it was possible to retrieve the property without selling himself for a large fortune in marriage, but it could only be done by--what appeared to him--strict economy and attention to business. "i _will_ do it," he exclaimed one evening, as he locked up the papers which he had been studying. "if colonel de st. severan can be induced to give me marie, we could live abroad for some years, and everything would go swimmingly. but how can i dare to address him? i suppose he would neither see me nor receive a letter from me. and marie--ah! _she_ would not be too hard on me if i could only plead my own cause to her. but again, how am i to see her? i have it! flora adair can help me if she will; she can intercede for me with the de st. severans; and the old colonel likes her particularly, marie has often told me so. but _will_ she help me? god knows! however, _she_ will not refuse to see me, and perhaps when she hears all she may be persuaded to aid me when i am doing my utmost to repair the past. without marie i have no motive for exertion, and if she is really lost to me, then i am indeed lost. but i will try whether flora adair cannot be moved to help and save me. i will go to dublin to-morrow, and see if she is like so many others, who sternly refuse to assist the fallen when they try to rise to better things." the next day, before the usual visiting hour, flora adair was much surprised when lord barkley's card was handed to her, and the servant said that the gentleman earnestly begged miss adair would see him, even though she did not generally receive visitors when mrs. adair was out. flora hesitated a little, but finally said, "well then, show him up." when lord barkley entered the room, he was startled by the brilliant delicacy of her complexion, and exclaimed, "miss adair, have you been ill?" "i am not very well, lord barkley, and am scarcely able to receive any but my most intimate friends; however, i did not like to refuse you, as you asked so particularly to see me," she answered coldly, for she had never forgiven his lordship for his conduct to marie. "i am truly sorry to hear that you are not well, miss adair, and i am most grateful to you for not refusing to see me, for you, if any one, can help to restore me to happiness and peace of mind. will you listen to the confession of my sins against one who is dear to you, but dearer far to me; and then, if you deem me worthy of forgiveness, will you try to obtain it for me?" "i will hear whatever your lordship wishes to tell me, but i can make no promise for my after conduct." lord barkley then gave her a clear and full account of all that he had done from the time he went to paris until the present; in no way did he extenuate or gloss over any of his faults, or dwell upon his courageous determination during the last three months to battle with the difficulties of his position and conquer them. never had he appeared to flora in so favourable a light as now, when he humbly exposed all his past weakness, but showed by his conduct since his father's death that he did possess energy and strength of mind sufficient to repent and begin quite a new life; and he had gained her as an intercessor even before he concluded by saying, "if marie would trust me again with the blessing of her love, the work of amendment which has been begun in me would be perfected: for then i should have the strongest of motives to repair the past, and she, i do believe, would be angelic enough to forgive me all my weakness and infidelity to her. but i dare not venture to address colonel de st. severan,--i could not expect from him any of that indulgence which she, in the plenitude of her goodness, might grant me. if i wrote to him i suppose he would send me back my letter unread, but if you, miss adair, would deign to help me--if you would write to colonel de st. severan and marie in my favour, and enclose to each of them a letter from me, it would at least enable me to plead my own cause. i know how great was your contempt for my weakness even in florence, and then i had not behaved half so badly as i did afterwards; but what more can i do than mourn over my great faults, and try to rise to better things? will you, then, aid me in that attempt to rise, for without marie i have no hope?" "i will help you as far as i can, lord barkley," answered flora cordially, as she looked fixedly at him, and marked the worn, anxious expression of his countenance; "and now for the first time do i think you worthy of marie. there is no fault so great that true repentance cannot efface it, and i know that dear, gentle marie will not be too hard upon you, although you well-nigh broke her heart. your engagement to miss molyneux was a cruel wound to her confiding nature; but 'let the dead past bury its dead.' i will spare no exertion to induce colonel de st. severan to relent towards you; and marie, i dare say, will be a still warmer and a more powerful advocate for you than any one else. so send me the letters, and i will write at once; and now i must ask you to leave me, for i am very tired; yet you have done me good. to try to make marie happy is something pleasant to do and to think about." "i know no words strong enough to express my gratitude to you, miss adair. you have been to me like a good angel, bidding me hope that my repentance may win my pardon, even while suffering yourself, for your voice, everything, tells me that you, too, are suffering. may heaven reward you for your goodness to me!" he took her hand, raised it to his lips, and left her, promising to send her the letters that evening. as soon as flora received them she lost no time in forwarding them to the de st. severans, accompanied by a few lines from herself, both to marie and colonel de st. severan. and while these important letters are passing through the post, we shall precede them to the chateau, and learn how their contents are likely to be received by its occupants.... colonel de st. severan's mother was english, and from her he had learned a somewhat less matter-of-fact idea of marriage than the generality of french people entertain, and therefore he was wonderfully indulgent towards marie's grief when her _love_ match was broken off; nevertheless he _was_ a frenchman by birth and education, and he considered that the best cure for that grief would be to find her a handsome young husband, endowed with all the desirable advantages of position and fortune--"_enfin un établissement convenable sous tous les rapports_." shortly after their return to the country, which took place in easter week, colonel de st. severan was overjoyed at receiving a visit from an old friend and neighbour, the comte de morlaix, who came to propose an alliance between his eldest son, le comte charles de morlaix, and marie. he cordially assured his friend that nothing would make him happier than to see his dear marie united to so excellent and charming a young man as le comte charles, adding that he would let him know his adopted daughter's sentiments on the subject in a day or two, but that doubtless she would feel only too deeply gratified by the honour which the comte and comtesse de morlaix conferred upon her by thus desiring to welcome her into the family as their daughter-in-law. the comte de morlaix then took his leave, after having made a profusion of complimentary speeches, well satisfied in thinking that he had obtained for his son a pretty, an amiable, and a wealthy bride. colonel de st. severan was equally pleased with the prospect of presenting the handsome, gay young comte to marie as her future husband, and felt quite convinced that it would effectually banish any regret which she might _still_ feel for lord barkley. accordingly he hastened to find marie, in order to communicate this flattering proposal to her; but to his great disappointment she had no sooner heard it than she began to cry, and sobbingly declared that she would never marry, and only wanted to be allowed to live always with her "_cher père_." colonel de st. severan treated all this as girlish sentimentality, and told her to talk it all over with her good old friend, monsieur le curé, who would advise her as to what she ought to do. poor, gentle, yielding little marie! how could she resist the persuasion and the reasoning of her beloved adopted father and the good curé? she knew not how to answer when in measured accents they spoke of the dreadful consequences which any indulgence in romantic feelings might lead to, and counselled her to accept--as a safeguard against the dangerous inclination of her own heart for one who was about to become the husband of another--the pleasing and pious young comte who now sought her in marriage. she could not, as we have said, reason with them about it; but from her heart burst forth the cry, "oh, no! it cannot be right to marry the comte charles when i love another better than i can love him." "poor child!" replied the curé compassionately; "we only want to make you happy, and your loving father by adoption will not press you for an answer. in the meantime you can see monsieur le comte charles now and then, and think over all that we have said to you." marie at length consented to see her proposed suitor occasionally, but only on this condition, that he, or at least his father, should be told the whole truth. that is to say, that she was still smarting under the pain which a final separation from one whom she had loved caused her, and that consequently she did not feel inclined to entertain the thought of marrying at all. nevertheless, in compliance with the wishes of her _cher père_, she would, if _monsieur le comte de morlaix_ still wished it, receive the visits of his son in order that she might become better acquainted with him. but these visits were to be considered strictly as visits of friendship until after the expiration of two months, when she should have completed her twenty-first year, and then she would say if they were to assume another character, or cease altogether. these conditions were accepted, for the de morlaix were really most anxious to win marie for their son, and they had little doubt of his making a favourable impression upon the refractory young lady. marie was far too timid to assert her own sense of right by saying definitely, "i will not give my hand without my heart; for surely god cannot call upon me to swear falsely--to swear an allegiance to one for whom i have not even a very strong feeling of preference." she longed to escape from this proposed marriage; but when she saw that every one around her looked upon her disinclination to it as a wicked indulgence in forbidden memories, she began to doubt herself, and to suppose that although she could not understand it, it must be wrong of her to refuse the comte charles. her only hope of support was from flora adair; and she wrote her a long history of it all, begging her to say if _she_ too thought it right for her to marry the comte charles; "for," she added, candidly, "i believe it is true to say that it is the memory of what i once felt for another which makes me wish to refuse him. he is very good and kind, and had i never known edmund, i dare say i should have married him just because he is so good and kind, and because _mon cher père_ wishes it. but as it is---- flora, what shall i do? the thought of this marriage is hateful to me now." flora's answer, however, destroyed her last hope of support. it ran thus:-- "my poor darling mignonne, "i must not dare to advise you at such a time as the present, when peace, happiness, everything, depends upon your decision. i have no right to come between you and your adopted father, colonel de st. severan, and his friends. they have advised you, and now your own heart and conscience can alone decide the question. one word only will i say,--no _man's_ counsel is infallible; and outside the church's definitions of right and wrong, our conscience is the only code by which god will judge us. trust to him alone, and, under him, to your own sense of right, and you cannot go wrong. "write to me often, and tell me how you feel as the time for your decision approaches. but you must never ask me to give any opinion about it. do not think it cold and unkind of me, dearest, thus to throw you back upon yourself, and leave you to stand alone in this crisis of your life. heaven knows how much it costs me to act so; but i cannot do otherwise. colonel de st. severan would naturally resent any interference on my part; so in honour i am bound to be silent. "good-bye, then, dearest; and may god direct you. "ever your affectionate "flora adair." after the receipt of this letter marie felt more unhappy than ever. flora's words, "trust to god alone, and, under him, to your own sense of right," simply told her that she must act on her own responsibility; for she could not suppose that god would send down an angel to tell her what she ought to do. in vain she tried to conquer her repugnance to the idea of marrying. but when they said to her that this was a temptation and a clinging to the memory of one whom she had no longer any right to love, she felt that she had not the courage to say, "i will not marry." at length she began to look upon her union with the comte charles as a sort of fate, from which she could not escape by any act of her own. yet she prayed day after day that, if it were god's holy will, the marriage might never take place. thus time glided on, slowly and sadly for marie, and yet too quickly also; for it brought nearer and nearer the dreaded day when she was to give her final answer. one soft, hazy june morning, as she sat in an arbour with colonel de st. severan, he said, "_eh bien! mon enfant_, we are not far from your birthday, and then i hope you will make us all happy by allowing your _fiançailles_ to be celebrated." "but i need not give my answer until the very day, _mon père_," murmured marie, bending low over the work in her hand. "certainly not, my child," answered colonel de st. severan. "i promised not to ask for one until then. i cannot help hoping, however, that so charming and virtuous a young man as comte charles has succeeded in making you feel how much happier you will be as his honoured wife than in rejecting him and yielding to unauthorised recollections of a married man, as no doubt lord barkley is by this time. nevertheless, marie, you know that you are free to act as you will. i do not desire you under pain of my displeasure to accept him; but i shall be sorry if it be otherwise, and a little disappointed in my dear child." he laid his hand fondly on her head, whilst she struggled to keep down the sobs which were rising in her throat. just then a servant entered with some letters on a salver. colonel de st. severan took them up, read the addresses, and placing before marie an unusually large envelope, he said gaily, "there, little one, is a volume from your nice irish friend. just look how thick it is, too! why, it will give you something to do to read all that. and i, too, must see what my correspondents have to say to me." not many minutes had passed when colonel de st. severan was startled by a joyful cry from marie. "i am saved--saved--what joy!--what happiness! read, _mon père_." in her right hand she held up before him flora's open letter, and in her left another, upon which she gazed with rapture. but the reaction was too great for marie's strength, and she burst into so violent a fit of crying that colonel de st. severan was obliged to take her into the house before even he had time to read a line of the letter which had caused all this extraordinary agitation; but he guessed that in some way or other it must be connected with lord barkley, and the very thought of it enraged him. madame de st. severan happened to be passing through the hall as they entered, and colonel de st. severan hastily consigned marie to her care, and shut himself up in his study. by the same post flora wrote to marie and colonel de st. severan, enclosing lord barkley's respective letters to each of them; but the one addressed to colonel de st. severan, being mixed up among several other letters, had escaped his notice until he read her note to marie, in which she spoke of having also written to him. he then eagerly looked for it, and, having found it, tore open the envelope and read her letter and lord barkley's as attentively as his increasing indignation would allow him. lord barkley's letter was so frank and open in its acknowledgment of past unworthiness, and so humble in its appeal for forgiveness, that flora hoped it might soften colonel de st. severan's anger towards him; and her own letter closed with these words--"you cannot any longer doubt lord barkley's love for marie. think what it must have cost a man like him, and in his position, to humble himself as he has done both to you and mr. molyneux; yet he did it for her sake. and i need not say that she loves him. you know it well, since you thought, when he was engaged to another, that she was bound to guard even against the memory of that love by making a marriage of duty, to say the least of it. dreadful as it appeared to me that she should be induced to marry in this way, i forced myself to be silent until i learned that he whom she loved was free, and ready to make any atonement in order to obtain her hand. so now, dear colonel de st. severan, i hope you will pardon me for becoming lord barkley's mediatrix. marie needs no intercessor with you; your own deep affection for her will be a far more powerful advocate in favour of her happiness than anything which i could say. it will not let you see her suffer very long when you know that it is in your power to make her happy by forgiving her lover and receiving him as your adopted son-in-law." colonel de st. severan, however, passionately declared in his own mind, when he finished reading these letters, that he would never consent to give marie to a man who had treated her as lord barkley had done. repentance came too late; and, so far as he was concerned, he would sternly reject him. he was just about to write a few chilling lines to flora, re-enclosing lord barkley's letter, and expressing his astonishment that he should have had the presumption to address him, when he was called away on business which obliged him to absent himself from home for a few hours. when he returned he was met at the door by marie, who, all radiant with joy, threw herself into his arms, and gaily whispered, mimicking his words in the morning, "now, _mon père_, i am quite ready to make you all happy by allowing my _fiançailles_ to be celebrated as soon as you will. i will not even claim the fulfilment of your promise to wait for my answer until my birthday. see what a difference a name makes; now that i may be affianced to edmund instead of to charles, i ask for no delay. ah! how happy i am!" "marie! i am ashamed of you!" exclaimed colonel de st. severan, pushing her from him. "if you had the slightest sense of maidenly dignity you would consider it an insult that lord barkley should dare to address you again, instead of showing this unseemly joy and of heedlessly rejecting the honour of becoming the comte charles de morlaix's wife in order to give yourself to one who cast you off! but i will save you if i can. by this post i shall send back lord barkley's letter to miss adair, requesting that the subject may never be named to me again." this was a sad check to marie, to whom the possibility of his not forgiving her lover had never occurred. she only thought of all he had suffered, and longed to be able to console him and make him forget the unhappy past. but colonel de st. severan's words rudely dispelled this delicious dream, and the only concession which her prayers and tears could win from him was a promise that he would not send lord barkley's letter back to him; but he persisted in writing to flora, and begged of her to convey to her friend, lord barkley, his decided refusal even to tolerate the idea of his becoming marie's husband, and, as a favour, he asked flora not in any way to encourage marie in this misplaced affection. colonel de st. severan allowed marie to see the letter, and even consented that she should add a few lines. she accordingly wrote, with trembling fingers--"tell edmund, dearest flora, that i have forgiven and forgotten everything but his love for me; and would--so gladly!--prove to him how fully it is returned by giving myself to him at once. but, as you see from the above, my dear father refuses his consent to our marriage; and i could not be so ungrateful as to marry in the face of his prohibition. i will never, however, marry any one else. thank god! they cannot persuade me now that it is wrong to love him; and if he thinks me worth waiting for, we may yet be happy. my dear father, i feel sure, is too fond of me not to relent at last. pray, then, _ma flore_, for thy mignonne!" colonel de st. severan frowned as he read these lines, and folding up the letter, he said, "delude not yourself with false hopes, marie. you can of course marry lord barkley if you choose, but it must ever be against my consent." in spite of this, three months had not passed when flora adair received a letter from marie, saying that she thought colonel de st. severan was half inclined to yield; and if lord barkley were to try the bold stroke of coming over and seeking a personal interview with him, she hoped all would terminate happily. her hope was realised. colonel de st. severan had seen during these last few weeks that there was no chance of inducing marie to marry according to his wishes now that lord barkley was free,--now that they could no longer urge that she was bound to forget _him_ and become the wife of the comte charles; and that consequently he was only making her suffer to no purpose by continuing to refuse his consent to her wishes. so, when lord barkley unexpectedly presented himself before him, and pleaded his cause humbly and earnestly, as he had already done in writing, colonel de st. severan yielded, after a fair show of resistance, and led the grateful and happy lord barkley to marie, to receive from her lips the ratification of his pardon. and to her tender mercies we may surely leave him without fearing that she will inflict any severe penance on him for his past wanderings. chapter xiv. we said in our last chapter that when lord barkley saw flora adair he was startled by her delicate appearance, therefore we may infer that time, which a poet has called "the only comforter when the heart hath bled," had not been a comforter to her. one would have supposed that the pain of parting from mr. earnscliffe could hardly have been surpassed, for to flora indeed "light was but where he look'd--life where he moved." yet time had developed still greater degrees of suffering than that which the mere separation from him caused her to endure. as soon as they returned to ireland, flora devoted herself to reading works on the authority of the church, and as much as possible avoided going into society. had she been of a pious and passive temperament, she would naturally have had recourse to prayer, and to what are called the consolations of religion, in her great trial; but, unfortunately for her, she could find no solace in these, and reading such books as we have named was the only thing in which her restless, tortured spirit found even momentary rest. it seemed as if she had a craving for whatever could strengthen her still more in the conviction that the great principle of supernatural truth had positively demanded the tremendous sacrifice which she had made. sometimes, indeed, when she saw her mother looking unusually unhappy about her she would try to rouse herself, and go about among their friends, but she quickly flagged again, and returned to the one absorbing study. thus the summer and autumn passed away, and november--with its short, gloomy days, and grey, foggy atmosphere--had set in, when one day, as flora was looking over a list of new books, her hand suddenly trembled, and the paper almost fell from it, but she caught it in the other hand, and, with eager eyes, read over and over again to herself one title which appeared to grow until it covered the whole list, and she could see only it. that title was, "the catholic church: its teachings and its influence upon the human heart and mind," by edwin earnscliffe. "my child! what is the matter? you look so frightened!" exclaimed mrs. adair who was sitting opposite to her. "write for it, mamma," was flora's answer, as she handed her the list, and pointed to mr. earnscliffe's name. "i ---- something or other makes my hand shake to-day, so i would rather not write myself." "it is better for you not to get it, dearest--it can only give you pain." "mamma, not read _his_ book! i _must_ read it whatever it is. i can guess but too well what its spirit must be; but, believe me, it is better that i should _know_ its contents than that my imagination should picture them to me. mamma, it would be cruel to wish to keep _his_ book from me." "my poor child! i only meant to spare you more suffering, and therefore it is that i would rather not get that book for you." "yes, i know; but, as i said, to refuse it to me will only add to my suffering. write, mamma, please to write!" and flora stood up, got a writing-book, and placed it before her mother; then she knelt down beside her, and again said in a low, pleading tone, "write." "i cannot refuse you, darling," replied mrs. adair, "yet to read that book will only foster sad memories which you must forget if you are ever to have peace of mind again. would i could teach you to forget!" mrs. adair sighed deeply, and laid her hand on flora's head. "it would be as easy to teach the ivy to detach itself from the oak round which it twines, as to teach me to forget," rejoined flora slowly, as she looked up earnestly at her mother. again mrs. adair sighed as she silently took the pen and wrote the desired order. the book arrived from london by return of post, and flora eagerly seized it, and carried it off to her room. it possessed the almost irresistible fascination which such works always do possess when they appeal at the same time to the head and heart, and are written with the true eloquence flowing from "_une âme passionnée_." the eloquence of this book, however, flowed, alas! from the soul of one who, blinded by pride and passion, had turned away from light, and devoted his grand powers to the advocacy of darkness, but who cast upon the darkness a halo of seeming truth and beauty. over those pages, indeed, might angels have wept to see so much that was good and great perverted to evil. flora read that book in trembling, yet week after week she spent studying it almost line by line, until she must nearly have known it by heart. she would not, however, let even her mother read it, and when alone she would exclaim aloud, "it is too terrible to think that this is my work! it is as he himself said, 'you found me bereft of hope, but a calm fatalist; you send me from you a blasphemer!' when he was a calm fatalist he dragged none others down with him, but now that he has written this book, how many will be carried away by the powerful eloquence--gloomy and mysterious though it be--of his apparently profound reasoning! he will be responsible for the ruin of all those souls, but it is i who shall have made him become the cause of their ruin! o god! can he have been right when he said, 'it cannot be the voice of truth or charity which tells you that you ought to drive to desperation the wounded heart which you had won and promised to heal, rather than infringe a mere regulation of your church?'" then would ensue a fierce struggle between the great contending powers of faith and unbelief; but her constant study of truth during the last few months now came to her aid, and gradually she would become calm again, remembering what she herself had so often said to her lover, namely, that the principle of obedience to a revealed and an unerring source of truth upon earth, must be maintained at any cost, or else the mysteries of life and death, of good and evil, would be irreconcilable with the existence of a beneficent creator, and then life with its tremendous sufferings would be nothing short of a curse. the cup of human misery seemed now to be filled to the very brim for flora, and yet it was not; the last drop had to be added still, and the most bitter of all, for it was added by him whom she so loved, and that too when it depended on his own will alone to save her from any farther trouble. how true it is that the sufferings inflicted upon us by our fellow-creatures are almost always more difficult to bear than those which god sends us direct from his own hand! a few days before christmas mina blake went to see flora, and after the usual greetings were over she said, "poor flora, how pale and tired you look; but i think i know something that will bring the roses back to your cheeks and the light to your eyes." "ah, mina! you cannot know anything that would call the dead to life again; my roses and brightness, are buried for ever." "not so, flora.... would not the roses bloom and the eyes sparkle again, if the sun of former days could shine upon them once more?" "mina!" exclaimed flora, almost indignantly, "how can you trifle so cruelly with me?" "i am not trifling, flora; the same sun in whose light you once so loved to bask is now free to shine upon you with greater brilliancy than ever, and the one dark obstacle to your full enjoyment of it is removed. flora, mrs. stanly, alias mrs. earnscliffe, is no more!" how unspeakable is the delight of having the portals of hope re-opened when we believed them to be closed to us for ever in this world! flora uttered a cry of joy, as she heard that they were no longer closed to her; but then she covered up her face in her hands and did not speak again for some moments. at last, however, she said, putting down her hands and showing a face as flushed as it had been pale before, "how do you know it? mina, tell me quickly, are you certain that it is so?" "you surely can't suppose that i would have said anything to _you_ about it until i knew it beyond all doubt. a week ago i saw the death of a mrs. alfred stanly in the paper, and thought to myself, what joy it would be for you if she were the late mrs. earnscliffe; so without a moment's delay i wrote to a cousin of mine in london, to find out who the mrs. alfred stanly--wife to one of the higher officials in the foreign office--who was just dead, had been before her marriage to stanly. my cousin is a very matter-of-fact sort of person, so without many comments upon my curiosity about mrs. stanly, he wrote back to me saying that he had made the most particular inquiries about the deceased lady, and that after a little trouble he had succeeded in learning all about her. the 'all' was that she had been a miss foster; then the wife of a mr. earnscliffe, from whom she was divorced; and finally she became mrs. stanly. i received the glad tidings this morning, and, of course, rushed off to tell them to you at once." flora's joy, however, was not unmixed with anxiety; and when she was alone, and able to think with comparative calmness, there arose in her heart a timid dread that mr. earnscliffe would not value her love now that she was free to give it to him, having once persuaded himself that it was its weakness which had made her give him up. she knew well his proud nature, and how it must have galled him to think that what he called mere prejudice was stronger in her than her love for him; he could not brook not to be first in the heart of one whom he loved. as these thoughts filled her mind she exclaimed aloud, "god knows that edwin has been the first sole possessor of my heart! light--life--everything--he was to me from the time i first knew him. but how can i prove it to him? the proof he asked for i dared not give, or my love for him would not have been true; and yet this is my crime, in his eyes--to have obeyed god, and loved _him_ too well! oh, father of mercy, open his eyes,--let him see _how_ i have loved him!" flora could pray now as she had not done for a long time; she could now plead for re-union with her beloved, without wishing for the death of a fellow-creature; and the star of hope--hope even of earthly happiness--shone again for her, although the more she thought the dimmer grew its rays. every line of mr. earnscliffe's book was replete with concentrated anger against her, or, at least, against what her religion had made her in his sight; but yet through it all there still pierced a glimmer of that bright star of hope. she had sent mr. earnscliffe from her, so now she thought it only right that she should make the first advance towards a reconciliation, and therefore she wrote to him as follows:-- "your wife is dead, edwin, and now, indeed, am i free to devote myself to you, if you will accept my devotion. you are unhappy. your book tells it to me, even if my own heart had not made me feel it ever since we parted. let me then try to banish that unhappiness. let me heal the wounds that obedience to heaven forced me to inflict upon you! "as fondly as i loved you when we stood together at achensee, do i love you still--or, rather, far deeper is my love now, for it has been tested by the fierce fire of sacrifice." she did not know where he was, so she begged mina blake to enclose it to his bankers in london, with a request that it might be forwarded to him at once. when this was done, she thought to herself, "if he rejects me now, the last and sharpest point will have been placed in my thorny crown; but, o god, let my misery at least win for him eternal light and life!" for a time after this letter had been sent off, flora looked brighter and happier. but it was like the light before death; for when a full month had passed and no answer came, she fell into a state of despondency far more dark and gloomy than that which preceeded this momentary brightening. in her mother's presence she did her best to hide the despair which was gathering round her heart. but in vain she tried to apply herself to any occupation. the only thing that seemed to please her was to take long, solitary walks into the country; and every day, wet or dry, she went out for at least two or three hours, until at last she caught a heavy, feverish cold, and was obliged to keep her room for a week. but when she was able to go about again her love of walking had given place to a feeling of unconquerable lassitude; and she never expressed any wish save to be allowed to lie on the sofa. the illness of a cold was gone, but the cough remained, and the doctor talked about the necessity of rousing and amusing her. how this was to be done, was the question upon which poor mrs. adair daily and hourly pondered, as she watched with aching eyes her darling growing pale and thin. mina blake was unremitting in her attentions to her friend; driving out with her, sitting with her, talking to her, and trying by every means in her power to interest flora in the present, and prevent her from dwelling so much on the past. but her success was not in proportion to her exertions, and she saw that unless flora could be roused into interesting herself about something or other, there was no hope of saving her from falling into a gradual decline. summer came, but flora did not regain her strength; and when, in the beginning of june, lord barkley so unexpectedly called and earnestly begged to see her, she felt scarcely equal to receiving him; but for marie's sake she made the effort, and she thought herself richly rewarded when, at the end of a short time, marie wrote to announce that her happiness was complete, as colonel de st. severan had consented that she should be married to lord barkley in the following october; and to ask flora to be her bride's-maid. meanwhile flora's health had not improved; her weakness and languor were slowly but steadily increasing. the doctors looked grave, shook their heads, and suggested the usual resource in such cases--a winter on the continent--when they find that their skill fails to touch the patient's malady. so when marie's letter arrived it was decided that they should start at once for paris, rest there until after the wedding, and then go on to rome, for flora expressed so ardent a desire to spend the winter there in preference to any other place, that even the doctors said it was better not to thwart her, although the climate of rome was not exactly the one which they would have chosen for her. rome--frascati--the birthplace of her love, was most dear to flora, and in her own heart she thought, "if i could only die in rome! there where i first saw him, and where i feel certain he will one day bend in homage before the seat of divine truth living upon earth, then at last he will understand me, and weep tears of love and sorrow over my grave,--tears which will reach me in eternity and make me blest." even trials could not make flora a saint, and instead of praying like teresa to suffer or to die, or like mary magdalen of pazzi, to suffer and not to die, she prayed for death--for rest from earthly suffering.... chapter xv. one sunday morning in the month of october, two gentlemen were standing in the large room of the hotel sirene, at sorrento, which commands so matchless a view of the beautiful bay of naples. the two gentlemen were mr. blake--mina blake's uncle--and mr. earnscliffe. although they were not acquainted, mr. blake and his new companion were engaged in an animated conversation on the state of italy. whilst they talk together, let us take a short retrospective glance over mr. earnscliffe's life since we saw him in paris. he carried out his original intention of spending a short time in germany, and there, wandering from place to place, he traced out the plan of that book which had rendered flora adair so doubly unhappy. it was completed at gottingen during a residence there of some four or five months. no effort had been spared by him in order to render his reasoning forcible, and his burning indignation against her whom he loved--or, rather, against that religion which had made her what she was to him--lent to it the charm of which we have already spoken, namely, that of appealing to the heart as well as to the mind. whilst the latter reasoned for him, the former burned with feelings which infused into his writing a passionate earnestness well nigh irresistible. the title of his book gave a fair idea of its tendency. it sought to prove the destructive effect of an institution which claimed for itself unerring authority in its teaching, and demanded unquestioning obedience thereto. "were it needful to recognise such an authority," he asked, "of what use would reason be to man?" dryden could have told him, had he chosen to be taught, that "dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars to lonely, weary, wandering travellers, is reason to the soul: and as on high those rolling fires discover but the sky, not light us here; so reason's glimmering ray was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, but guide us upward to a better day. and as those mighty tapers disappear when day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere, so pale grows reason at religion's sight, so dies and so dissolves in supernatural light." but he listened only to the promptings of his proud will, and strove to deny the divine light enlightening the world by authoritative teaching. he was too well schooled a thinker not to know that the fact of a formal divine revelation being once recognised it naturally followed that it should be transmitted in an unerring manner, and not be left to the changeableness of human opinion. he struck, therefore, directly at the basis of all positive revelation by endeavouring to show that the only authority which claimed to speak exclusively in the name of god, sacrificed to its own thirst for domination all the best and highest powers of mankind. in thus losing sight of the distinction between what is human and what is divine in religion--branding st. peter as an unworthy teacher because he was "a sinful man"--and therewith of the holy precepts of charity, he condemned alike god and man, by seeking the divine guide in the human and--without an unerring teacher--unenlightened conscience. in so doing he flattered pride and self-sufficiency--those two great sources of error in the world--and hence he obtained the erring world's applause. when his book was finished he left gottingen and crossed the alps into italy; there he joined in the more active struggle between authority and its antagonists. nevertheless, he was not satisfied with himself, nor could he bring himself entirely to sympathise with the persons and actions of those whose cause he had espoused and so ardently endeavoured to defend. the image of flora adair, moreover, constantly rose up before him, and thinking of her as he had known her in all things, save in her tenacious clinging to her religious faith, he felt her softening influence often stealing upon him. it was a miserable weakness, he would try to persuade himself; and yet it was something which in his inmost heart he loved. it led him always, he saw, to better and more peaceful thoughts; so true is it that "_god is a centre of love towards which the weight of love directs every creature_." these, however, were but fugitive and passing thoughts, yet they awakened and kept alive in him that desire for good, that thirst after what is true, which is the ever-blessed fruit of all real love. at length he yielded to a strange and increasing yearning which he felt to go to capri. "i shall find there something real," he would often say to himself, "and little anina's joy will gladden my heart...." and what is like the joy of a faithful people? in vain do _they_ pretend to it who are without faith and hope in the world. the sunny smile, even more than the sunny sky, is the charm which attracts our less joyous wanderers to the faithful italian people. what wonder, then, that mr. earnscliffe found his old love returning with the happiness which his presence seemed to create around him in capri? anina's joy and that of her parents, however, was not without some alloy, since they all saw with pain his altered appearance, and his habitual expression sterner even than of old. his affection for anina seemed unchanged, and notwithstanding his more silent and reserved general manner, he liked to have her with him as much as ever, although he did not laugh and talk with her as he had formerly done. one day she timidly asked him if he were ill, "because," she said, "he looked so sad and grave now?" "no," he answered, "i am not ill, _carina_; but some one whom i loved dearly has made me very unhappy." "how wicked it is of any one to make _il caro signore_ unhappy!" exclaimed the child. "but i will ask the madonna to pray that he may be happy again!" "never name the madonna to me again, anina," said mr. earnscliffe with a dark frown, "if you do not wish to offend me!" the child wondered greatly as to what he meant by this, and for a long time did not venture to disobey the command, but all the more did she implore her loved madonna to pray for his happiness. during his quiet sojourn at capri, mr. earnscliffe heard of his wife's death, and there, too, he received flora's letter. his pride took fire even at the trustful love which she had shown to him. it was too much for him to receive with the meekness and thankfulness which it deserved, and so by turns he battled with and yielded to the sweet delight which it foreshadowed to him, as it recalled all the happiness which her confiding affection had given him from the well remembered evening at achensee to that of the fatal ball in paris. as our hero's struggle with himself continued and his egotism was from time to time overcome, a soft light would steal into his eyes, and he would stretch out his arms longing to clasp flora to his heart again and for ever; but that brightening--like the lightning's flash across a stormy sky--was gone almost as soon as seen, and left behind it only darkness. one day, with a look of proud despair, he turned away his head from the letter which lay before him, and muttered--"no, no! i am not so love-sick as to trust again to one who was so ready to sacrifice me to a senseless regulation of what she calls religion! flora adair, you _shall_ be torn from my heart whatever it may cost me!" he seized the letter and crushed it in his hand. after a few moments of seeming thought, however, he threw it, all crushed as it was, into a corner of his desk, and locked it up. like count azo, he was now, indeed, bearing within him "a heart which _would_ not yield nor _could_ forget." there were times when evidences of the heroic trust produced by the religion in which flora adair believed, crowded before his mind. these testimonies mr. earnscliffe had seen in the catacombs, in history, in the world around him, and, lastly, in flora's sacrifice of happiness to principle. but pride chased even these away, and his unbending will again and again perverted his better but weaker judgment. "it is impossible!" he would exclaim, "that i have been mistaken after all these years of thought and study! no! i see what this is: it is a weak clinging to a woman whose prejudice is stronger than her love; but i _will_ not yield to it! she shall know that i have sufficient strength to bear wretchedness and loneliness even rather than accept the second place in her heart!" yet the thought of that letter lying crushed in the corner of his desk haunted him. he longed to look upon her writing again--to read once more all those fond expressions of her constancy; for he was forced to admit that, at least, she had been _constant_; but he refused himself even that gratification. in this turmoil of his heart and mind mr. earnscliffe became a more ardent partisan than ever of italian independence, and we find him at sorrento, after an interview which he had come there to seek with one of the leaders of that party on the previous friday. he was about to return to capri, and even as he spoke with mr. blake he was expecting the arrival of paolo and anina, as he had promised the latter that she should accompany _il babbo_ whenever he came to fetch him home. in mixing himself up with all this party spirit, mr. earnscliffe's will had betrayed his judgment into a contradiction of his former respect for things established, his veneration for time-honoured institutions, and the wisdom which experience had tested. it was an endeavour to justify his new opinions to himself, and to quiet the misgivings which he now so often felt, that had led him to the conversation in which we now find him engaged. having reasoned in his book against the existence of any divine law promulgated in mankind by a living authority, he was endeavouring to persuade mr. blake--and perhaps himself--that opinion, or, as he sometimes more speciously called it, conviction and conscience, being the only guide in matters of divine government, by a stronger reason it was the only authority in human things, and that, therefore, "the voice of the people _is_ the voice of god." so far had he already, by the revolt of his will, drifted and well nigh stranded upon the quicksands of revolution! mr. blake was not a yielding listener; he was an older man than mr. earnscliffe, and one of those who distrusted the modern notions of progress and liberty; moreover, he did not believe that the same government is good for different peoples, and in his estimate of such things he took large account of "the age and body" of the nations governed. he had read de maistre, and was strongly inclined to think with him that "_toute nation a le gouvernement qu'elle mérite_." he disapproved of the italian revolution, not in a religious, but in a political point of view, and as the work of foreigners. it shocked his conservative mind to see the uprooting of so much that time had honoured, and principles, rights, and duties treated as if they were things of nought. "i do not like your revolutionary men," he continued, "much better than their opinions. i find them for the most part gain-seekers for themselves and their followers. it is the result of egotism in all time, and to me a pretty sure sign of wrong-doing. i am not of the pope's religion, although but a century ago my ancestors were, and there is much in it that i cannot comprehend; but it has _one_ charm for me which i confess is great--those who espouse this cause in general are thoughtful and steadfast, ever ready to make any sacrifice for their principles. it is a great test, and a great proof of sincerity." "sacrifice! you call it sacrifice? why, surely their's is the worst of all bondage, the enslaving of the heart, the mind, the whole being; and to what? to a system which governed the dark ages, and which our brighter civilisation has outrun,--the resolute enemy of all progress and enlightenment!" "whatever the system may be--and it is too great a question to draw hasty conclusions about--the present manner of dealing with it is, to my mind, unwise and unjust, and i must repeat, the men who are acting against it do not attract me by exhibiting what i consider to be the necessary virtues of true patriotism. we hear much about confiscation, spoliation, and self-interest in this new era, but steadfast adherence to settled principles, and respect for law and order, have become bywords here." "'the greatest happiness of the greatest number' is the object of all true patriotism; this i believe to be the object of these men, and therefore i espouse their cause." "so far so good," replied mr. blake; "but something remains which you all, i think, lose sight of; add to it, 'for the greatest length of time,' and then you will surely find strong motives for the self-sacrifice which i find wanting in these too-hastily-formed theories. 'the greatest happiness of the greatest number' is a phrase easily made use of to express 'the greatest happiness of myself and those who think with me.' it is the sacrifice of the present to the future, if necessary, that calls forth true devotedness. will your patience permit me to give you a striking illustration of this, which i was reminded of but yesterday in a letter from my niece, and which is still uppermost in my mind? it is of a young lady who has sacrificed her heart, her earthly happiness, and, as i greatly fear, even her life, to this very principle." "i shall listen to you with pleasure, but do not expect me to attach much value to _such_ sacrifices. when women take up particular opinions they cleave to them with far greater obstinacy even than men. weakness, you will grant me, is generally obstinate!" "there is not much of weakness, as you will see, in what i am going to tell you:-- "my young friend and a gentleman whom she met abroad fell in love with each other, and, unlike the usually uneven course of true love, all went smoothly until within a fortnight of the celebration of their marriage, when she learned that her lover had been married before, and that his divorced wife was still living. poor girl! her religion declares that there can be no such thing as divorce, so she had to choose between her faith and the earthly happiness already within her grasp. well, she was true to her religion, and made the necessary sacrifice of the present for the future life! her lover left her, as i am told, in great indignation, and she came home to ireland looking broken-hearted. she rarely visited anywhere; and my niece, an old schoolfellow of hers, was almost her only companion. in what, as i suppose, was a fit of selfish revenge, the man wrote a book, which, it seems, gave her greater pain than all, since she gathered from it that her very steadfastness had been made the cause of his bitter sarcasm against all that she held sacred. "one day the newspaper announced the death of his wife, and my niece was filled with joy in the hope that her friend's troubles would now be at an end; but no, the gentleman, it appears, was not so constant as she had been: he was now free to marry, but he did not come back to her. it is quite painful to watch her calm outward demeanour, and yet see, what is so evident, that a worm is in her heart. poor child! they say she is in a decline, and the doctors have prescribed for her that last resource, a winter in the south. i travelled as far as paris with her and her mother, and left my niece with them. i could not bear to take away that pleasure from her. they wait there for some family event--a marriage--and then come on to italy. now this steadfastness in what she believes to be true is what i call a cardinal virtue, carried to the point of heroism! if she dies, which is not improbable, it will be very like martyrdom. what do you think of it? judging from the effect to the cause, we can hardly help venerating a principle which produces such effects. when you can show such in favour of these modern theories, i may perhaps be inclined to think better of them; as it is, i see everywhere a display of selfishness, rather than this devotedness." every word that mr. blake uttered fell upon mr. earnscliffe as a bitter reproach and a sharp punishment. he had no need to ask that heroine's name,--he knew it almost from the beginning. a crowd of contending feelings rushed upon him as mr. blake proceeded; at last he murmured to himself, "and this it is which, in my selfish pride, i have spurned and mistrusted!" when mr. blake ceased speaking, mr. earnscliffe, with a sudden start, exclaimed, "yes, this _is_ something to admire; and the cause which produces it in such a creature as flora adair must be good! but do not tell me that her health is in real danger, that would be too much!" "good heavens, sir! what is all this?" cried mr. blake, shocked by the scared expression of mr. earnscliffe's face. "do you, then, know flora adair? is she a relation of yours, that you should be so startled on hearing this news of her?" "relation! no, bear with me, my dear sir, i am the unworthy cause of all her suffering!" "god be praised, then, that i have been led to see you! i have always felt that there must be some misunderstanding in this matter. cheer up, sir, all may yet be well!" the door opened, and a waiter came in to say that the boatman, paolo, was waiting to see _sua eccellenza_. mr. earnscliffe took mr. blake's hand, and pressed it warmly. "i can never repay you for what you have unknowingly done for me! i must leave you now. shall i find you here to-morrow? at three i will wait for you. let me count upon your secresy for the present, and until to-morrow adieu!" "_god is a centre of lore towards which the weight of love directs every creature._" the weight of love had all but overcome even the unruly will of mr. earnscliffe. how amply would flora adair have been repaid for all her suffering could she but have seen the power of her love now working in that proud man's heart! but love's brightest conquests are unseen, unknown even, save in that trustful consciousness felt only by those who truly love.... having directed that paolo should wait a moment for him, mr. earnscliffe turned into the long corridor of the hotel. his heart was too full, its flood-gates were yielding, the battle with his pride was nearly won. was joy or sorrow uppermost? he hardly knew; yet it was the forecoming of joy, the dawn of hope outstripping the darkness of his gloomy night! not the heart only, but the mind also, is drawn by love; and, as his _heart_ thrilled at the consciousness of flora's love, so his _mind_, no longer trammelled by his haughty will, not only began to recognise the greatness of her steadfastness under severe trial, but the justice too of its cause. drawn along for a time by this foreshadowing of coming happiness, he turned at length to himself, and saw the obstacle which had before shut out the vision of flora's heroism to him. that obstacle was himself--his own pride, his selfishness, his uneducated will, "weakened and inclined to evil," as is the common lot of all mankind. almost overwhelmed with these conflicting emotions, he returned to paolo and anina, who were standing outside waiting for him. as he approached them the child held out her little hand, and said gaily, "dear signore, now that we are at sorrento, will you not come and say one little prayer to our madonna with me? please me greatly, signore, and come with me before we return!" ah! who shall tell all we owe to these little ones!... the signore was in no frame of mind to refuse anina's request; nay, he even felt a secret pleasure in yielding to it. it was a shrine hallowed by that religion which had called forth flora's great trust in its eternal truth; he knew, too, that _she_ had the highest veneration for the mother of the saviour of men! these thoughts were passing in his mind as he suffered the child to lead him along. "and why am i incapable of such heroism?" he asked himself. "why have i no such trust even in myself? why have i not her faith?..." they had entered the church, and as they crossed the threshold anina let go his hand, and went and knelt before the statue of the madonna. she made the holy sign, and then closed her hands to pray.... "why am i so little in my own estimation before this peasant child?" again thought the signore. "why can i not be like her, and pray?" "_la conversion_," writes bossuet, "_est une illumination soudaine_." it was the saviour of mankind who said, "lo! i stand at the door and knock; if any man will hear my voice, and will open the door, i will come in and sup with him and he with me." the door was open--the proud man had been already led to acknowledge his insufficiency to himself, to envy even a little child's simple faith. the rays of grace had reached his heart, now no longer closed by pride, and light and heat had entered there together. a recollection came to him of words read long, long ago: "ask and receive, that your joy may be full." he yielded to the heavenly invitation, and he, too, fell upon his knees and prayed for guidance, light, and love!... * * * * * it has been said that if an insect could pray to us when we are about to tread upon it, its prayer would excite in us great compassion. the more lowly the place whence the lamentations of the heart arise, the more certain is the success of its prayer. it was "the _lowliness_ of his handmaiden" which the lord "regarded," when he "magnified" her whom he declared to be "blessed among women!" mr. earnscliffe's heart had become humble and meek, and before he returned to capri with his dear little anina, _his_ "soul," too, had begun "to magnify the lord, and _his_ spirit to rejoice in god _his_ saviour!" chapter xvi. the light which had dawned upon mr. earnscliffe showed him, indeed, the sanctuary wherein truth was to be found, but it showed too how much was required of him before he could be admitted within its precincts. he who had passed in judgment the works of the great sages of old had now to bend to instruction in the simple truths which every christian child knows; and he who had never acknowledged any other judge over his actions save his own proud will, had now to unfold even his erring heart's most secret thoughts to the apparently human tribunal at which he had so often scoffed. nevertheless he quailed not before the ordeal, nor tried to turn away his eyes from that truthful--yet to him dreadful--mirror, wherein he saw, as in a magnifying glass, the greatness of his erring; the terrible evil which his book might do in the world, and all the suffering which he had so cruelly inflicted upon one who loved him with rare devotedness, and to whom, in spite of himself, his heart had ever clung with passionate attachment. how vividly did the memory of their last interview rise up before him as he remembered flora's sad prophetic manner, when she said in answer to his bitter reproaches, "it would be fearful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain! truth _must_ dawn upon you at last, though i may not live to see that day, and then, edwin, you _will_ do me justice." his pulse seemed to stand still as he thought of what mr. blake had told him--of the more than possibility that her words might be fully verified--that she might die, just as he had learned to know the true beauty and value of the treasure which he had so madly thrown away. a feverish impatience to see her again took possession of him. "yet," he thought to himself, "i must not go to her until i can take with me the hard won flag of faith, and lay it at her feet as the glorious trophy of her heroism. this very day i will go to père d'aubin, and ask him to explain what is still dark to me in the faith for which she has so valiantly suffered." père d'aubin, or as the people called him, padre d'aubini, was a frenchman, who, when comparatively a young man, had been forced to leave his country by ill-health, and although he was now quite well again, he made no exertion to get himself removed from capri. his venerable appearance and genial manner had often attracted mr. earnscliffe's attention. from a few accidental conversations, too, which he had had with him, he knew him to be a man of no mean acquirements, and one who must have seen much of the world in his earlier days. yet there he was, devoting himself to the spiritual care of poor illiterate peasants, and making it seem that to be with them and to do them good was happiness to him, although deprived of home and friends and all real companionship. heretofore he had been an enigma to mr. earnscliffe, who could not ascribe his devotion to the priesthood, as he habitually did that of others, to ignorance, or desire of self-aggrandisement. père d'aubin might well have been called learned, yet he sought not a field where that learning could have been displayed, and have gained for him power and fame. what then _was_ it that rendered him apparently happy in the humble, simple life which he led on this poor island? this question was one of the many riddles which by degrees were being solved for mr. earnscliffe; and he felt that he could have no better guide in the path of truth than père d'aubin. on arriving at his hotel his first work was to open his desk, take out flora's letter which he had thrust into one of its corners, and press it to his lips. after a moment or two, however, of indulgence in old and sweet memories, he said, "but i must hasten on with the great work which is before me; then i will go to her and----and, yes i feel it, she will return me good for evil; the measure of her love and goodness will exceed even the measure of my offences." great was père d'aubin's wonder when his simple untrained servant burst into his room and whispered in an important tone, "_il gran signor inglese_." père d'aubin, however, rose to receive his unexpected visitor, with that dignified courtesy of manner which so characterised him; and his surprise was soon changed into joy as he learned why mr. earnscliffe had thus sought him. then with sincere emotion he bade him be welcome--thrice welcome, to the home of his eternal father. as père d'aubin gradually unfolded to him the science of christianity, he began to understand the saviour's words, "_to you it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them only in parables_"--for now indeed he found the key to all the _living_ mysteries which he saw carried on and perpetuated around him, and which not all the philosophers of ancient or modern times had ever been able to explain to him. it would be vain to say that _all_ his difficulties were over now--that the ascent from doubt and negation to the portals of _super_natural truth was henceforth plain and easy. on the contrary, every step on that upward road required a new effort--an effort made too at the cost of some old feeling or preconceived idea which early association and habit had rendered dear and familiar. but mr. earnscliffe did not want for courage, and his will being now submissive, he was able to recognise the proofs which he had hitherto _chosen_ to ignore,--so bravely he fought "the good fight." it was only after a conference of several hours that he left père d'aubin, but during that time the great victory had been gained, although he felt that there were many points upon which he still required much instruction. yet the time was very short, as he was anxious to be able to sail for marseilles without delay. accordingly he again sought père d'aubin at an early hour the next morning, and remained with him until he was obliged to go in order to keep his appointment with mr. blake. with emotion, such as perhaps few men can ever feel, was mr. earnscliffe's heart brimming over as he entered mr. blake's room and related the effect which his conversation of yesterday had had upon him. how it had all at once illumined his mind and brought about his seemingly sudden conversion,--"only _seemingly_ sudden," he continued, "for it was but the full development of thoughts and feelings which have for a long time been knocking at my heart, but to which i, in my great pride, deemed it weakness to listen. once more i thank you for having made me see myself as i am, and for having thus helped to break down the barriers which separated me from truth and happiness. now, perhaps, flora may yet be mine." mr. blake's good-natured interest in the happiness of his niece's friend prevailed over his natural feelings of annoyance upon being told that he himself had been instrumental in this work, and he exclaimed heartily, "upon my soul, i can't be very sorry for this, though of course i think you are deluding yourself sadly in going so far. it will be such joy, however, to that poor girl that it would be almost cruel to her to try and convince you of the extravagance of your present feelings. i suppose you intend to start for paris immediately." "yes, i go by the direct service to marseilles to-morrow evening. my object in coming here to-day was twofold: to thank you for the priceless good which you have done me, and to ask you where the adairs are staying in paris. i would ask you too for more information about _her_ health, only that i dread to hear unfavourable answers." "and much better not to ask me, my dear sir, as i could only tell you what the medical advisers say,--and it is quite plain that they cannot do much for her; but i have little doubt that you will prove a far more efficient doctor in _her_ case than any of them, and under your care i dare say all the bad symptoms will gradually disappear. i have not told you, however, where they are staying,--at the hotel de douvres, rue de la paix. they are waiting for the marriage of a mademoiselle arbi with a countryman of ours--lord barkley. it will take place, i believe, the end of next week." "ah! so little marie arbi is going to be married! she was to have been flora's bride's-maid,--now i suppose it will be the other way. but i must not think of all that now. i shall be in paris before then at all events; and god grant that it may be as you say, that i who have caused flora's illness may have the power to cure it!" mr. earnscliffe buried his face in his hands and remained silent for a few minutes; then standing up, he said in a husky voice, "mr. blake, you see how unfitted i am for any companionship save that of my own thoughts. to-morrow morning i am to be received into the church; i suppose i must not ask you to be present at _such_ a ceremony, but i will pray for you then as for one of my greatest benefactors. i may depend upon you, i am sure, not to name me even when you write to your niece; and now good-bye, and may god bless and reward you!" they pressed each other's hands silently, for neither felt inclined to speak. great agitation affects even unconcerned bystanders, so mr. blake could not witness unmoved that of mr. earnscliffe. there are in the lives of some persons such thrilling extremes of joy and sorrow that it is difficult to write of them without appearing to use extravagant language. one of these extremes mr. earnscliffe felt as he repaired on the following morning to the little church of capri, to enter fully into the communion of the faithful. in the humble, unpretending sanctuary, adorned only by the natural flowers with which the loving hands of maria and anina had decked it, knelt the once proud, scoffing earnscliffe. behind him were "poor, ignorant" italians; but before him, on the altar steps, stood the priest of god, who, having administered to him the sacraments of baptism and penance, was now about to admit him to the divine feast which our heavenly father bade _his servants_ to prepare for his children on their return home. to portray worthily even the outward features of the scene in that little church would require the pencil of a beato angelico. "the joy of a faithful people" could now indeed be seen sparkling in the expressive countenances of the humble witnesses of this august ceremony; and at its close there was scarcely a dry eye in the whole church. almost immediately after it was over père d'aubin was obliged to hurry mr. earnscliffe into the sacristy in order to save him from their tumultuous congratulations; and as the good _père_ pressed him in his fatherly arms, and called upon god to bless him with all good gifts, mr. earnscliffe fairly sobbed like a child. a gentle knock was heard at the door: père d'aubin opened it, and there stood anina, trembling with eagerness to see her dear _signore_, and carrying in her hand the little statue of the madonna which he had given her long ago. père d'aubin looked round at mr. earnscliffe to see if he wished that she should be admitted, but he said aloud, "_vieni figlia mia_,--my little guardian angel, i do believe, who gained for me the blessed _madonna's_ intercession!" anina sprang into his arms, saying, "you see, signore, i have brought her statue with me, because now i know you will not be sorry that you gave it to me." "sorry! ah, no!" he exclaimed, as he reverently took the statue from her and placed it on the table. a feast had been prepared in the garden of the priest's house for the poor people; but anina said that they were all waiting to see the signore before they would begin the repast; "and will the signore not come?" she added, pleadingly. "yes, _carina_," he answered, "but i can only stay a moment, as i must start for naples immediately. you remember, little one, that i told you i should be obliged to go, but i will come back very soon, and, i hope, bring with me a lady whom you must love even better than you love me." the child shook her little head at this, and gently drew the signore towards the garden. père d'aubin accompanied them in compliance with a look from mr. earnscliffe, which meant "come with us, for i depend upon you to get me away quickly." accordingly he and père d'aubin soon left the good italians to their feasting, and walked slowly back to the hotel. as mr. earnscliffe received his spiritual father's parting benediction, he murmured, "pray that all may be well with flora, and she will know how to thank you for what you have been to me." * * * * * marie's marriage was celebrated some days earlier than had been originally intended, in order that the adairs might be free to leave paris as soon as possible. at nine o'clock on the morning of saturday, the th of october, the wedding party assembled in the church of st. thomas d'aquin. the little bride looked pale, but charmingly pretty, in her long flowing dress of rich white satin, and veil of delicate lace, which descended nearly to her feet. near her stood her first bride's-maid, flora adair. she too was pale, but, unlike marie, no joyous light beamed from her eyes to redeem that paleness; and, as the ceremony proceeded, it seemed only to increase. at the close of the mass, and as lord barkley led his now blushing bride down the aisle, flora whispered to colonel de st. severan, "will you take mamma and mina in your carriage, and let me return to the hotel. i do not feel strong enough to be at the breakfast, but if i can i will see marie before she goes away. i must tell mamma, and then, i hope, you will help me to get home quietly." colonel de st. severan made some remonstrance, but as flora--after saying a few words to her mother--looked up in his face, he saw that she was scarcely able to stand, and quickly drawing her hand within his arm, he took her at once to the carriage, and desired marie's maid to go with her to the hotel. when they arrived there, flora thanked the maid for having left the gay scene to accompany her, desired the coachman to drive her back, and slowly went upstairs. that wedding had been, indeed, too much for her. she only just reached the sofa in time to save herself from falling; feebly she loosened the strings of her light tulle bonnet, and let it drop unheeded upon the floor, and murmured, "edwin! if i could only see you once more, and you would believe in me, i should die happy! but perhaps he has ceased to be angry with me--ceased even to think of me! yet no, he is not one likely to forget; it was not forgetfulness that made him so cruel as not even to acknowledge the receipt of my letter. ah! how differently he felt when he gave me this!" flora took from the little table beside her a beautifully bound and illustrated edition of schiller's "william tell," and sought out that scene between rudenz and bertha, the opening lines of which were so imprinted on her heart that she needed not a book to recall them to her memory; yet she loved to read them over and over again, out of _his_ present, and dream of the happy evening when he spoke them to her. to-day, however, as she came to the last line, she burst into a fit of sobbing, and the page became wet with her tears. at length, exhausted by her own emotion, she fell asleep.... meanwhile, mr. earnscliffe had travelled post-haste, or rather steam-haste, from naples. he reached marseilles late on thursday evening, and the following night he took possession of his old paris quarters, in the rue castiglione--the hotel de londres. that night seemed to him an eternity--an eternity which separated him from the object of all his hopes. vainly he tried to still the beating of his heart, so as to consider _calmly_ what he should do in the morning. should he go at once to mrs. adair, or should he write to her? but neither of these plans pleased him,--he could not think of anything to say or to write to mrs. adair, nor indeed of aught save flora herself; and thinking of her put every other thought to flight, for it conjured up visions which made him feel hot and cold by turns, as they varied from bright to dark and dark to bright. thus the night dragged through, and morning found him still more feverish and incapable of forming any definite idea of how he was to get over the interview with mrs. adair. he had quite discarded the idea of writing--and knew not how to reach flora's presence; but see _her_ he must, and as soon as possible, for he could bear this suspense no longer. he, of course, knew nothing of the change about marie's wedding, and naturally supposed that the adairs would certainly be at home about ten in the morning. much after this his impatience would not permit him to wait. the distance from the rue castiglione to the rue de la paix was so short that mr. earnscliffe preferred to walk; he hoped, besides, that the air and exercise would tend to calm him, yet it was in a hardly steady voice that he asked at the hotel de douvres for madame adair. the concierge looked to see if the key was in its appointed place, and not seeing it, he answered the question in the affirmative, and indicated the _étage_ and number of their apartment. tremblingly mr. earnscliffe knocked at the door, but he heard no answer. again he knocked,--still no answer. could the concierge have been mistaken about their being at home? they might have gone out and have taken the key with them. a sickening feeling of disappointment crept over him, and he was moving away, when it occurred to him that this door might only be an outer one, and that consequently his knocking might not have been heard, even if they were at home. he went back and turned the handle. it _was_ an outer door, and closing it behind him, he advanced to an inner one which was partly open. the sight which that half-open door disclosed to his view arrested his steps on the very threshold, and he stood for a moment like one transfixed. there was flora, in that strange, half-bridal costume, stretched upon the sofa, seemingly almost lifeless. those closed eyes--that pallor--what did it all mean? and striking his forehead with his clenched hand he murmured, "o god, make not my punishment greater than i can bear!" then stealing softly over to the sofa he knelt down beside her and listened with rapture to the low sound of her breathing, even whilst he marked the hectic appearance of her complexion; and well he remembered how different it was formerly! he tried to keep himself quiet in order not to disturb her, but as he looked at the little thin hand, resting upon the open book as if pointing even in sleep to those words of rudenz', he could not resist the temptation to touch it with his lips. even sleep could not deaden flora's sense of that electric touch; she started up, and gazing at him as one risen from the dead, cried, "edwin!" he, too, sprang to his feet, held open his arms, and forgetting all his intended prayers for pardon, he merely exclaimed, "my ever loved one! your words have come true--your sacrifice has won for me the light of divine truth, and at last i do you justice! flora, will you come to me now?" to her, his presence, his words, were like the rays of a fierce sun, which darted in at her eyes, at her ears, and piercing to her very brain, made her reel with delight, and she sank insensible into his arms. we have all read the fable of the statue into which life was infused by the strength of the sculptor's passion. thus did the ancients symbolise the power of love. may we not then justly infer that flora did not remain very long insensible in mr. earnscliffe's arms! and afterwards, as she listened to his recital of the dawning and progress of that supernatural light which now shone upon him, and recognised throughout her own influence in leading him to it, full indeed was her cup of happiness--happiness such as she could never have known had she not purchased it so dearly!... * * * * * to live in the enjoyment of fame and honour is not necessarily the reward of a brave soldier, and how often is the bravest cut down in the full flush of victory! when perhaps he has achieved some glorious deed, and is revelling in the proud consciousness of having served his country, the fatal blow falls, and with a last struggle he yields up the life which had just become so doubly dear to him. even so is it with the bravest soldiers in the great battle of life itself. the joys of earth were not the especial reward promised to them, and as they too are revelling in delight over some victory, so great that they had not dared to look forward to its achievement upon earth, they are often called upon to relinquish the sweet human happiness already within their grasp. it is the final test of courage and sacrifice which the divine commander asks at their hands, in order to crown all their past brave deeds, and entitle them to a still higher place in the realms of unfading glory and bliss, where the souls of those who have _truly_ loved here below will be united, to part no more, but to endure for ever in god.... such a triumph of the spirit over the flesh is great indeed, but oh! how painful to our poor weak human nature! therefore we will not stay to witness it, but will bid flora adair and edwin earnscliffe good-bye in their short hour of ineffable happiness. the end. transcriber's notes: italic text is represented by underscores. oe ligatures have been expanded. chapter ii is printed as chapter xviii in the original. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. inconsistent and archaic spelling choices have been preserved (including hyphenation, use of both -ise and -ize, "rudens"/"rudenz", "secresy", "doating", "overweaning", and "promethus"). page , "mireuch" changed to "mir euch" (ihr mit mir euch in) page , single closing quote added (hope of attaining it?'...) page , "rocognise" changed to "recognise" (time to recognise them) page , "recal" changed to "recall" (in mercy recall not) proofreading team in the palace of the king a love story of old madrid by f. marion crawford to my old friend george p. brett new york, october, contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx * * * * * chapter i two young girls sat in a high though very narrow room of the old moorish palace to which king philip the second had brought his court when he finally made madrid his capital. it was in the month of november, in the afternoon, and the light was cold and grey, for the two tall windows looked due north, and a fine rain had been falling all the morning. the stones in the court were drying now, in patches, but the sky was like a smooth vault of cast lead, closing over the city that lay to the northward, dark, wet and still, as if its life had shrunk down under ground, away from the bitter air and the penetrating damp. the room was scantily furnished, but the few objects it contained, the carved table, the high-backed chairs and the chiselled bronze brazier, bore the stamp of the time when art had not long been born again. on the walls there were broad tapestries of bold design, showing green forests populated by all sorts of animals in stiff attitudes, staring at one another in perpetual surprise. below the tapestry a carved walnut wainscoting went round the room, and the door was panelled and flanked by fluted doorposts of the same dark wood, on which rested corbels fashioned into curling acanthus leaves, to hold up the cornice, which itself made a high shelf over the door. three painted italian vases, filled with last summer's rose leaves and carefully sealed lest the faint perfume should be lost, stood symmetrically on this projection, their contents slowly ripening for future use. the heap of white ashes, under which the wood coals were still alive in the big brazier, diffused a little warmth through the chilly room. the two girls were sitting at opposite ends of the table. the one held a long goose-quill pen, and before her lay several large sheets of paper covered with fine writing. her eyes followed the lines slowly, and from time to time she made a correction in the manuscript. as she read, her lips moved to form words, but she made no sound. now and then a faint smile lent singular beauty to her face, and there was more light in her eyes, too; then it disappeared again, and she read on, carefully and intently, as if her soul were in the work. she was very fair, as spaniards sometimes are still, and were more often in those days, with golden hair and deep grey eyes; she had the high features, the smooth white throat, and the finely modelled ears that were the outward signs of the lordly gothic race. when she was not smiling, her face was sad, and sometimes the delicate colour left her clear cheek and she grew softly pale, till she seemed almost delicate. then the sensitive nostrils quivered almost imperceptibly, and the curving lips met closely as if to keep a secret; but that look came seldom, and for the most part her eyes were quiet and her mouth was kind. it was a face that expressed devotion, womanly courage, and sensitiveness rather than an active and dominating energy. the girl was indeed a full-grown woman, more than twenty years of age, but the early bloom of girlhood was on her still, and if there was a little sadness in the eyes, a man could guess well enough that it rose from the heart, and had but one simple source, which was neither a sudden grief nor a long-hidden sorrow, but only youth's one secret--love. maria dolores de mendoza knew all of fear for the man she loved, that any woman could know, and much of the hope that is love's early life; but she knew neither the grief, nor the disappointment, nor the shame for another, nor for herself, nor any of the bitterness that love may bring. she did not believe that such things could be wrung from hearts that were true and faithful; and in that she was right. the man to whom she had given her heart and soul and hope had given her his, and if she feared for him, it was not lest he should forget her or his own honour. he was a man among men, good and true; but he was a soldier, and a leader, who daily threw his life to the battle, as douglas threw the casket that held the bruce's heart into the thick of the fight, to win it back, or die. the man she loved was don john of austria, the son of the great dead emperor charles the fifth, the uncle of dead don carlos and the half brother of king philip of spain--the man who won glory by land and sea, who won back granada a second time from the moors, as bravely as his great grandfather ferdinand had won it, but less cruelly, who won lepanto, his brother's hatred and a death by poison, the foulest stain in spanish history. it was november now, and it had been june of the preceding year when he had ridden away from madrid to put down the moriscoes, who had risen savagely against the hard spanish rule. he had left dolores de mendoza an hour before he mounted, in the freshness of the early summer morning, where they had met many a time, on a lonely terrace above the king's apartments. there were roses there, growing almost wild in great earthen jars, where some moorish woman had planted them in older days, and dolores could go there unseen with her blind sister, who helped her faithfully, on pretence of taking the poor girl thither to breathe the sweet quiet air. for inez was painfully sensitive of her affliction, and suffered, besides blindness, all that an over-sensitive and imaginative being can feel. she was quite blind, with no memory of light, though she had been born seeing, as other children. a scarlet fever had destroyed her sight. motherless from her birth, her father often absent in long campaigns, she had been at the mercy of a heartless nurse, who had loved the fair little dolores and had secretly tormented the younger child, as soon as she was able to understand, bringing her up to believe that she was so repulsively ugly as to be almost a monster. later, when the nurse was gone, and dolores was a little older, the latter had done all she could to heal the cruel wound and to make her sister know that she had soft dark hair, a sad and gentle face, with eyes that were quite closed, and a delicate mouth that had a little half painful, half pathetic way of twitching when anything hurt her,--for she was easily hurt. very pale always, she turned her face more upwards than do people who have sight, and being of good average woman's height and very slender and finely made, this gave her carriage an air of dignity that seemed almost pride when she was offended or wounded. but the first hurt had been deep and lasting, and she could never quite believe that she was not offensive to the eyes of those who saw her, still less that she was sometimes almost beautiful in a shadowy, spiritual way. the blind, of all their sufferings, often feel most keenly the impossibility of knowing whether the truth is told them about their own looks; and he who will try and realize what it is to have been always sightless will understand that this is not vanity, but rather a sort of diffidence towards which all people should be very kind. of all necessities of this world, of all blessings, of all guides to truth, god made light first. there are many sharp pains, many terrible sufferings and sorrows in life that come and wrench body and soul, and pass at last either into alleviation or recovery, or into the rest of death; but of those that abide a lifetime and do not take life itself, the worst is hopeless darkness. we call ignorance 'blindness,' and rage 'blindness,' and we say a man is 'blind' with grief. inez sat opposite her sister, at the other end of the table, listening. she knew what dolores was doing, how during long months her sister had written a letter, from time to time, in little fragments, to give to the man she loved, to slip into his hand at the first brief meeting or to drop at his feet in her glove, or even, perhaps, to pass to him by the blind girl's quick fingers. for inez helped the lovers always, and don john was very gentle with her, talking with her when he could, and even leading her sometimes when she was in a room she did not know. dolores knew that she could only hope to exchange a word with him when he came back, and that the terrace was bleak and wet now, and the roses withered, and that her father feared for her, and might do some desperate thing if he found her lover talking with her where no one could see or hear. for old mendoza knew the world and the court, and he foresaw that sooner or later some royal marriage would be made for don john of austria, and that even if dolores were married to him, some tortuous means would be found to annul her marriage, whereby a great shame would darken his house. moreover, he was the king's man, devoted to philip body and soul, as his sovereign, ready to give his life ten times for his sovereign's word, and thinking it treason to doubt a royal thought or motive. he was a rigid old man, a spaniard of spain's great days, fearless, proud, intolerant, making spain's honour his idol, capable of gentleness only to his children, and loving them dearly, but with that sort of severity and hardness in all questions where his authority was concerned which can make a father's true affection the most intolerable burden to a girl of heart, and which, where a son is its object, leads sooner or later to fierce quarrels and lifelong estrangement. and so it had happened now. for the two girls had a brother much older than they, rodrigo; and he had borne to be treated like a boy until he could bear no more, and then he had left his father's house in anger to find out his own fortune in the world, as many did in his day,--a poor gentleman seeking distinction in an army of men as brave as himself, and as keen to win honour on every field. then, as if to oppose his father in everything, he had attached himself to don john, and was spoken of as the latter's friend, and mendoza feared lest his son should help don john to a marriage with dolores. but in this he was mistaken, for rodrigo was as keen, as much a spaniard, and as much devoted to the honour of his name as his father could be; and though he looked upon don john as the very ideal of what a soldier and a prince should be, he would have cut off his own right hand rather than let it give his leader the letter dolores had been writing so long; and she knew this and feared her brother, and tried to keep her secret from him. inez knew all, and she also was afraid of rodrigo and of her father, both for her sister's sake and her own. so, in that divided house, the father was against the son, and the daughters were allied against them both, not in hatred, but in terror and because of dolores' great love for don john of austria. as they sat at the table it began to rain again, and the big drops beat against the windows furiously for a few minutes. the panes were round and heavy, and of a greenish yellow colour, made of blown glass, each with a sort of knob in the middle, where the iron blowpipe had been separated from the hot mass. it was impossible to see through them at all distinctly, and when the sky was dark with rain they admitted only a lurid glare into the room, which grew cold and colourless again when the rain ceased. inez had been sitting motionless a long time, her elbow on the table, her chin resting upon her loosely clasped white hands, her blind face turned upward, listening to the turning of the pages and to the occasional scratching of her sister's pen. she sighed, moved, and let her hands fall upon the table before her in a helpless, half despairing way, as she leaned back in the big carved chair. dolores looked up at once, for she was used to helping her sister in her slightest needs and to giving her a ready sympathy in every mood. "what is it?" she asked quickly. "do you want anything, dear?" "have you almost finished?" the girl's voice would almost have told that she was blind. it was sweet and low, but it lacked life; though not weak, it was uncertain in strength and full of a longing that could never be satisfied, but that often seemed to come within possible reach of satisfaction. there was in the tones, too, the perpetual doubt of one from whom anything might be hidden by silence, or by the least tarn of words. every passing hope and fear, and every pleasure and pain, were translated into sound by its quick changes. it trusted but could not always quite promise to believe; it swelled and sank as the sensitive heart beat faster or slower. it came from a world without light, in which only sound had meaning, and only touch was certainty. "yes," answered dolores. "i have almost finished--there is only half a page more to read over." "and why do you read it over?" asked inez. "do you change what you have written? do you not think now exactly as you did when you wrote?" "no; i feel a great deal more--i want better words! and then it all seems so little, and so badly written, and i want to say things that no one ever said before, many, many things. he will laugh--no, not that! how could he? but my letter will seem childish to him. i know it will. i wish i had never written it i do you think i had better give it to him, after all?" "how can i tell?" asked inez hopelessly. "you have never read it to me. i do not know what you have said to him." "i have said that i love him as no man was ever loved before," answered dolores, and the true words seemed to thrill with a life of their own as she spoke them. then she was silent for a moment, and looked down at the written pages without seeing them. inez did not move, and seemed hardly to breathe. then dolores spoke again, pressing both her hands upon the paper before her unconsciously. "i have told him that i love him, and shall love him for ever and ever," she said; "that i will live for him, die for him, suffer for him, serve him! i have told him all that and much more." "more? that is much already. but he loves you, too. there is nothing you can promise which he will not promise, and keep, too, i think. but more! what more can you have said than that?" "there is nothing i would not say if i could find words!" there was a fullness of life in her voice which, to the other's uncertain tones, was as sunshine to moonlight. "you will find words when you see him this evening," said inez slowly. "and they will be better than anything you can write. am i to give him your letter?" dolores looked at her sister quickly, for there was a little constraint in the accent of the last phrase. "i do not know," she answered. "how can i tell what may happen, or how i shall see him first?" "you will see him from the window presently. i can hear the guards forming already to meet him--and you--you will be able to see him from the window." inez had stopped and had finished her speech, as if something had choked her. she turned sideways in her chair when she had spoken, as if to listen better, for she was seated with her back to the light. "i will tell you everything," said maria dolores softly. "it will be almost as if you could see him, too." "almost--" inez spoke the one word and broke off abruptly, and rose from her chair. in the familiar room she moved almost as securely as if she could see. she went to the window and listened. dolores came and stood beside her. "what is it, dear?" she asked. "what is the matter? what has hurt you? tell me!" "nothing," answered the blind girl, "nothing, dear. i was thinking--how lonely i shall be when you and he are married, and they send me to a convent, or to our dismal old house in valladolid." a faint colour came into her pale face, and feeling it she turned away from dolores; for she was not speaking the truth, or at least not half of it all. "i will not let you go!" answered dolores, putting one arm round her sister's waist. "they shall never take you from me. and if in many years from now we are married, you shall always be with us, and i will always take care of you as i do now." inez sighed and pressed her forehead and blind eyes to the cold window, almost withdrawing herself from the pressure of dolores' arm. down below there was tramping of heavy feet, as the companies of foot guards took their places, marching across the broad space, in their wrought steel caps and breastplates, carrying their tasselled halberds on their shoulders. an officer's voice gave sharp commands. the gust that had brought the rain had passed by, and a drizzling mist, caused by a sudden chill, now completely obscured the window. "can you see anything?" asked inez suddenly, in a low voice. "i think i hear trumpets far away." "i cannot see--there is mist on the glass, too. do you hear the trumpets clearly?" "i think i do. yes--i hear them clearly now." she stopped. "he is coming," she added under her breath. dolores listened, but she had not the almost supernatural hearing of the blind, and could distinguish nothing but the tramping of the soldiers below, and her sister's irregular breathing beside her, as inez held her breath again and again in order to catch the very faint and distant sound. "open the window," she said almost sharply, "i know i hear the trumpets." her delicate fingers felt for the bolts with almost feverish anxiety. dolores helped her and opened the window wide. a strain of distant clarions sounding a triumphant march came floating across the wet city. dolores started, and her face grew radiant, while her fresh lips opened a little as if to drink in the sound with the wintry air. beside her, inez grew slowly pale and held herself by the edge of the window frame, gripping it hard, and neither of the two girls felt any sensation of cold. dolores' grey eyes grew wide and bright as she gazed fixedly towards the city where the avenue that led to the palace began, but inez, bending a little, turned her ear in the same direction, as if she could not bear to lose a single note of the music that told her how don john of austria had come home in triumph, safe and whole, from his long campaign in the south. slowly it came nearer, strain upon strain, each more clear and loud and full of rejoicing. at first only the high-pitched clarions had sent their call to the window, but now the less shrill trumpets made rich harmonies to the melody, and the deep bass horns gave the marching time to the rest, in short full blasts that set the whole air shaking as with little peak of thunder. below, the mounted officers gave orders, exchanged short phrases, cantered to their places, and came back again a moment later to make some final arrangement--their splendid gold-inlaid corslets and the rich caparisons of their horses looking like great pieces of jewelry that moved hither and thither in the thin grey mist, while the dark red and yellow uniforms of the household guards surrounded the square on three sides with broad bands of colour. dolores could see her father, who commanded them and to whom the officers came for orders, sitting motionless and erect on his big black horse--a stern figure, with close-cut grey beard, clad all in black saving his heavily gilded breastplate and the silk sash he wore across it from shoulder to sword knot. she shrank back a little, for she would not have let him see her looking down from an upper window to welcome the returning visitor. "what is it? do you see him? is he there?" inez asked the questions in a breath, as she heard her sister move. "no--our father is below on his horse. he must not see us." and she moved further into the embrasure. "you will not be able to see," said inez anxiously. "how can you tell me--i mean, how can you see, where you are?" dolores laughed softly, but her laugh trembled with the happiness that was coming so soon. "oh, i see very well," she answered. "the window is wide open, you know." "yes--i know." inez leaned back against the wall beside the window, letting her hand drop in a hopeless gesture. the sample answer had hurt her, who could never see, by its mere thoughtlessness and by the joy that made her sister's voice quaver. the music grew louder and louder, and now there came with it the sound of a great multitude, cheering, singing the march with the trumpets, shouting for don john; and all at once as the throng burst from the street to the open avenue the voices drowned the clarions for a moment, and a vast cry of triumph filled the whole air. "he is there! he is there!" repeated inez, leaning towards the window and feeling for the stone sill. but dolores could not hear for the shouting. the clouds had lifted to the westward and northward; and as the afternoon sun sank lower they broke away, and the level rays drank up the gloom of the wintry day in an instant. dolores stood motionless before the window, undazzled, like a statue of ivory and gold in a stone niche. with the light, as the advancing procession sent the people before it, the trumpets rang high and clear again, and the bright breastplates of the trumpeters gleamed like dancing fire before the lofty standard that swayed with the slow pace of its bearer's horse. brighter and nearer came the colours, the blazing armour, the standard, the gorgeous procession of victorious men-at-arms; louder and louder blew the trumpets, higher and higher the clouds were lifted from the lowering sun. half the people of madrid went before, the rest flocked behind, all cheering or singing or shouting. the stream of colour and light became a river, the river a flood, and in the high tide of a young victor's glory don john of austria rode onward to the palace gate. the mounted trumpeters parted to each side before him, and the standard-bearer ranged his horse to the left, opposite the banner of the king, which held the right, and don john, on a grey arab mare, stood out alone at the head of his men, saluting his royal brother with lowered sword and bent head. a final blast from the trumpets sounded full and high, and again and again the shout of the great throng went up like thunder and echoed from the palace walls, as king philip, in his balcony above the gate, returned the salute with his hand, and bent a little forward over the stone railing. dolores de mendoza forgot her father and all that he might say, and stood at the open window, looking down. she had dreamed of this moment; she had seen visions of it in the daytime; she had told herself again and again what it would be, how it must be; but the reality was beyond her dreams and her visions and her imaginings, for she had to the full what few women have in any century, and what few have ever had in the blush of maidenhood,--the sight of the man she loved, and who loved her with all his heart, coming home in triumph from a hard-fought war, himself the leader and the victor, himself in youth's first spring, the young idol of a warlike nation, and the centre of military glory. when he had saluted the king he sat still a moment on his horse and looked upward, as if unconsciously drawn by the eyes that, of all others, welcomed him at that moment; and his own met them instantly and smiled, though his face betrayed nothing. but old mendoza, motionless in his saddle, followed the look, and saw; and although he would have praised the young leader with the best of his friends, and would have fought under him and for him as well as the bravest, yet at that moment he would gladly have seen don john of austria fall dead from his horse before his eyes. don john dismounted without haste, and advanced to the gate as the king disappeared from the balcony above. he was of very graceful figure and bearing, not short, but looking taller than he really was by the perfection of his proportions. the short reddish brown hair grew close and curling on his small head, but left the forehead high, while it set off the clear skin and the mobile features. a very small moustache shaded his lip without hiding the boyish mouth, and at that time he wore no beard. the lips, indeed, smiled often, and the expression of the mouth was rather careless and good-humoured than strong. the strength of the face was in the clean-cut jaw, while its real expression was in the deep-set, fiery blue eyes, that could turn angry and fierce at one moment, and tender as a woman's the next. he wore without exaggeration the military dress of his time,--a beautifully chiselled corslet inlaid with gold, black velvet sleeves, loose breeches of velvet and silk, so short that they did not descend half way to the knees, while his legs were covered by tight hose and leather boots, made like gaiters to clasp from the knee to the ankle and heel. over his shoulder hung a short embroidered cloak, and his head covering was a broad velvet cap, in which were fastened the black and yellow plumes of the house of austria. as he came near to the gate, many friends moved forward to greet him, and he gave his hand to all, with a frank smile and words of greeting. but old mendoza did not dismount nor move his horse a step nearer. don john, looking round before he went in, saw the grim face, and waved his hand to dolores' father; but the old man pretended that he saw nothing, and made no answering gesture. some one in the crowd of courtiers laughed lightly. old mendoza's face never changed; but his knees must have pressed the saddle suddenly, for his black horse stirred uneasily, and tried to rear a little. don john stopped short, and his eyes hardened and grew very light before the smile could fade from his lips, while he tried to find the face of the man whose laugh he had heard. but that was impossible, and his look was grave and stern as he went in under the great gate, the multitude cheering after him. from her high window dolores had seen and heard also, for she had followed every movement he made and every change of his expression, and had faithfully told her sister what she saw, until the laugh came, short and light, but cutting. and inez heard that, too, for she was leaning far forward upon the broad stone sill to listen for the sound of don john's voice. she drew back with a springing movement, and a sort of cry of pain. "some one is laughing at me!" she cried. "some one is laughing because i am trying to see!" instantly dolores drew her sister to her, kissing her tenderly, and soothing her as one does a frightened child. "no, dear, no! it was not that--i saw what it was. nobody was looking at you, my darling. do you know why some one laughed? it hurt me, too. he smiled and waved his hand to our father, who took no notice of him. the laugh was for that--and for me, because the man knew well enough that our father does not mean that we shall ever marry. do you see, dear? it was not meant for you." "did he really look up at us when you said so?" asked inez, in a smothered voice. "who? the man who laughed?" "no. i mean--" "don john? yes. he looked up to us and smiled--as he often does at me--with his eyes only, while his face was quite grave. he is not changed at all, except that he looks more determined, and handsomer, and braver, and stronger than ever! he does each time i see him!" but inez was not listening. "that was worth living for--worth being blind for," she said suddenly, "to hear the people shout and cheer for him as he came along. you who can see it all do not understand what the sound means to me. for a moment--only for a moment--i saw light--i know i saw a bright light before my eyes. i am not dreaming. it made my heart beat, and it made my head dizzy. it must have been light. do you think it could be, dolores?" "i do not know, dear," answered the other gently. but as the day faded and they sat together in the early dusk, dolores looked long and thoughtfully at the blind face. inez loved don john, though she did not know it, and without knowing it she had told her sister. * * * * * chapter ii when don john had disappeared within the palace the people lingered a little while, hoping that something might happen which would be worth seeing, and then, murmuring a little in perfectly unreasonable disappointment, they slowly dispersed. after that old mendoza gave his orders to the officers of the guards, the men tramped away, one detachment after another, in a regular order; the cavalry that had ridden up with don john wheeled at a signal from the trumpets, and began to ride slowly back to the city, pressing hard upon the multitude, and before it was quite dark the square before the palace was deserted again. the sky had cleared, the pavement was dry again, and the full moon was rising. two tall sentinels with halberds paced silently up and down in the shadow. dolores and her sister were still sitting in the dark when the door opened, and a grey-haired servant in red and yellow entered the room, bearing two lighted wax candles in heavy bronze candlesticks, which he set upon the table. a moment later he was followed by old mendoza, still in his breastplate, as he had dismounted, his great spurs jingling on his heavy boots, and his long basket-hilted sword trailing on the marble pavement. he was bareheaded now, and his short hair, smooth and grizzled, covered his energetic head like a close-fitting skull cap of iron-grey velvet. he stood still before the table, his bony right hand resting upon it and holding both his long gloves. the candlelight shone upward into his dark face, and gleamed yellow in his angry eyes. both the girls rose instinctively as their father entered; but they stood close together, their hands still linked as if to defend each other from a common enemy, though the hard man would have given his life for either of them at any moment since they had come into the world. they knew it, and trembled. "you have made me the laughing-stock of the court," he began slowly, and his voice shook with anger. "what have you to say in your defence?" he was speaking to dolores, and she turned a little pale. there was something so cruelly hard in his tone and bearing that she drew back a little, not exactly in bodily fear, but as a brave man may draw back a step when another suddenly draws a weapon upon him. instantly inez moved forward, raising one white hand in protest, and turning her blind face to her father's gleaming eyes. "i am not speaking to you," he said roughly, "but you," he went on, addressing dolores, and the heavy table shook under his hand. "what devil possessed you that you should shame me and yourself, standing at your window to smile at don john, as if he were the espadero at a bull fight and you the beauty of the ring--with all madrid there to look on, from his majesty the king to the beggar in the road? have you no modesty, no shame, no blood that can blush? and if not, have you not even so much woman's sense as should tell you that you are ruining your name and mine before the whole world?" "father! for the sake of heaven do not say such words--you must not! you shall not!" dolores' face was quite white now, as she gently pushed inez aside and faced the angry man. the table was between them. "have i said one word more than the very truth?" asked mendoza. "does not the whole court know that you love don john of austria--" "let the whole world know it!" cried the girl bravely. "am i ashamed to love the best and bravest man that breathes?" "let the whole world know that you are willing to be his toy, his plaything--" "his wife, sir!" dolores' voice was steady and clear as she interrupted her father. "his wife," she repeated proudly; "and to-morrow, if you and the king will not hinder us. god made you my father, but neither god nor man has given you the right to insult me, and you shall not be unanswered, so long as i have strength and breath to speak. but for you, i should be don john of austria's wife to-day--and then, then his 'toy,' his 'plaything'--yes, and his slave and his servant--what you will! i love him, and i would work for him with my hands, as i would give my blood and my life for his, if god would grant me that happiness and grace, since you will not let me be his wife!" "his wife!" exclaimed mendoza, with a savage sneer. "his wife--to be married to-day and cast off to-morrow by a turn of the pen and the twisting of a word that would prove your marriage void, in order that don john may be made the husband of some royal widowed lady, like queen mary of the scots! his wife!" he laughed bitterly. "you have an exalted opinion of your king, my father, since you suppose that he would permit such deeds in spain!" dolores had drawn herself up to her full height as she spoke, and she remained motionless as she awaited the answer to what she had said. it was long in coming, though mendoza's dark eyes met hers unflinchingly, and his lips moved more than once as if he were about to speak. she had struck a blow that was hard to parry, and she knew it. inez stood beside her, silent and breathing hard as she listened. "you think that i have nothing to say," he began at last, and his tone had changed and was more calm. "you are right, perhaps. what should i say to you, since you have lost all sense of shame and all thought of respect or obedience? do you expect that i shall argue with you, and try to convince you that i am right, instead of forcing you to respect me and yourself? thank heaven, i have never yet questioned my king's thoughts, nor his motives, nor his supreme right to do whatsoever may be for the honour and glory of spain. my life is his, and all i have is his, to do with it all as he pleases, by grace of his divine right. that is my creed and my law--and if i have failed to bring you up in the same belief, i have committed a great sin, and it will be counted against me hereafter, though i have done what i could, to the best of my knowledge." mendoza lifted his sheathed sword and laid his right hand upon the cross-bar of the basket hilt. "god--the king--spain!" he said solemnly, as he pressed his lips to it once for each article of his faith. "i do not wish to shake your belief," said dolores coldly. "i daresay that is impossible!" "as impossible as it is to make me change my determination," answered mendoza, letting his long sword rest on the pavement again. "and what may your determination be?" asked the girl, still facing him. something in his face forewarned her of near evil and danger, as he looked at her long without answering. she moved a little, so as to stand directly in front of inez. taking an attitude that was almost defiant, she began to speak rapidly, holding her hands behind her and pressing herself back against her sister to attract the latter's attention; and in her hand she held the letter she had written to don john, folded into the smallest possible space, for she had kept it ready in the wrist of her tight sleeve, not knowing what might happen any moment to give her an opportunity of sending it. "what have you determined?" she asked again, and then went on without waiting for a reply. "in what way are you going to exhibit your power over me? do you mean to take me away from the court to live in valladolid again? are you going to put me in the charge of some sour old woman who will never let me out of her sight from morning till morning?" she had found her sister's hand behind hers and had thrust the letter into the fingers that closed quickly upon it. then she laughed a little, almost gaily. "do you think that a score of sour old duennas could teach me to forget the man i love, or could prevent me from sending him a message every day if i chose? do you think you could hinder don john of austria, who came back an hour ago from his victory the idol of all spain, the favourite of the people--brave, young, powerful, rich, popular, beloved far more than the king himself, from seeing me every day if he chose, so long as he were not away in war? and then--i will ask you something more--do you think that father, or mother, or king, or law, or country has power to will away the love of a woman who loves with all her heart and soul and strength? then answer me and tell me what you have determined to do with me, and i will tell you my determination, too, for i have one of my own, and shall abide by it, come what may, and whatsoever you may do!" she paused, for she had heard inez softly close the door as she went out. the letter at least was safe, and if it were humanly possible, inez would find a means of delivering it; for she had all that strange ingenuity of the blind in escaping observation which it seems impossible that they should possess, but of which every one who has been much with them is fully aware. mendoza had seen inez go out, and was glad that she was gone, for her blind face sometimes disturbed him when he wished to assert his authority. "yes," he said, "i will tell you what i mean to do, and it is the only thing left to me, for you have given me no choice. you are disobedient and unruly, you have lost what little respect you ever had--or showed--for me. but that is not all. men have had unruly daughters before, and yet have married them well, and to men who in the end have ruled them. i do not speak of my affection for you both, since you have none for me. but now, you are going beyond disobedience and lawlessness, for you are ruining yourself and disgracing me, and i will neither permit the one nor suffer the other." his voice rose harshly. "do you understand me? i intend to protect my name from you, and yours from the world, in the only way possible. i intend to send you to las huelgas to-morrow morning. i am in earnest, and unless you consent to give up this folly and to marry as i wish, you shall stay there for the rest of your natural life. do you understand? and until to-morrow morning you shall stay within these doors. we shall see whether don john of austria will try to force my dwelling first and a convent of holy nuns afterwards. you will be safe from him, i give you my word of honour,--the word of a spanish gentleman and of your father. you shall be safe forever. and if don john tries to enter here to-night, i will kill him on the threshold. i swear that i will." he ceased speaking, turned, and began to walk up and down the small room, his spurs and sword clanking heavily at every step. he had folded his arms, and his head was bent low. a look of horror and fear had slowly risen in dolores' face, for she knew her father, and that he kept his word at every risk. she knew also that the king held him in very high esteem, and was as firmly opposed to her marriage as mendoza himself, and therefore ready to help him to do what he wished. it had never occurred to her that she could be suddenly thrust out of sight in a religious institution, to be kept there at her father's pleasure, even for her whole life. she was too young and too full of life to have thought of such a possibility. she had indeed heard that such things could be done, and had been done, but she had never known such a case, and had never realized that she was so completely at her father's mercy. for the first time in her life she felt real fear, and as it fell upon her there came the sickening conviction that she could not resist it, that her spirit was broken all at once, that in a moment more she would throw herself at her father's feet and implore mercy, making whatever promise he exacted, yet making it falsely, out of sheer terror, in an utter degradation and abasement of all moral strength, of which she had never even dreamed. she grew giddy as she felt it coming upon her, and the lights of the two candles moved strangely. already she saw herself on her knees, sobbing with fear, trying to take her father's hand, begging forgiveness, denying her love, vowing submission and dutiful obedience in an agony of terror. for on the other side she saw the dark corridors and gloomy cells of las huelgas, the veiled and silent nuns, the abomination of despair that was before her till she should die and escape at last,--the faint hope which would always prevent her from taking the veil herself, yet a hope fainter and fainter, crossed by the frightful uncertainty in which she should be kept by those who guarded her. they would not even tell her whether the man she loved were alive or dead, she could never know whether he had given up her love, himself in despair, or whether, then, as years went by, he would not lose the thread that took him back to the memory of her, and forget--and love again. but then her strong nature rose again, and the vision of fear began to fade as her faith in his love denied the last thought with scorn. many a time, when words could tell no more, and seemed exhausted just when trust was strongest, he had simply said, "i love you, as you love me," and somehow the little phrase meant all, and far more than the tender speeches that sometimes formed themselves so gracefully, and yet naturally and simply, because they, too, came straight from the heart. so now, in her extreme need, the plain words came back to her in his voice, "i love you, as you love me," with a sudden strength of faith in him that made her live again, and made fear seem impossible. while her father slowly paced the floor in silence, she thought what she should do, and whether there could be anything which she would not do, if don john of austria were kept a prisoner from her; and she felt sure that she could overcome every obstacle and laugh at every danger, for the hope of getting to him. if she would, so would he, since he loved her as she loved him. but for all the world, he would not have her throw herself upon her father's mercy and make false promises and sob out denials of her love, out of fear. death would be better than that. "do as you will with me, since you have the power," she said at last, quite calmly and steadily. instantly the old man stopped in his walk, and turned towards her, almost as if he himself were afraid now. to her amazement she saw that his dark eyes were moist with tears that clung but half shed to the rugged lids and rough lashes. he did not speak for some moments, while she gazed at him in wonder, for she could not understand. then all at once he lifted his brown hands and covered his face with a gesture of utter despair. "dolores! my child, my little girl!" he cried, in a broken voice. then he sat down, as it overcome, clasped his hands on the hilt of his sword, and rested his forehead against them, rocking himself with a barely perceptible motion. in twenty years, dolores had never understood, not even guessed, that the hard man, ever preaching of wholesome duty and strict obedience, always rebuking, never satisfied, ill pleased almost always, loved her with all his heart, and looked upon her as the very jewel of his soul. she guessed it now, in a sudden burst of understanding; but it was so new, so strange, that she could not have told what she felt. there was at best no triumph at the thought that, of the two, he had broken down first in the contest. pity came first, womanly, simple and kind, for the harsh nature that was so wounded at last. she came to his side, and laid one hand upon his shoulder, speaking softly. "i am very, very sorry that i have hurt you," she said, and waited for him to speak, pressing his shoulder with a gentle touch. he did not look up, and still he rocked himself gently, leaning on his sword. the girl suffered, too, to see him suffering so. a little while ago he had been hard, fierce, angry, cruel, threatening her with a living death that had filled her with horror. it had seemed quite impossible that there could be the least tenderness in him for any one--least of all for her. "god be merciful to me," he said at length in very low tones. "god forgive me if it is my fault--you do not love me--i am nothing to you but an unkind old man, and you are all the world to me, child!" he raised his head slowly and looked into her face. she was startled at the change in his own, as well as deeply touched by what he said. his dark cheeks had grown grey, and the tears that would not quite fall were like a glistening mist under the lids, and almost made him look sightless. indeed, he scarcely saw her distinctly. his clasped hands trembled a little on the hilt of the sword he still held. "how could i know?" cried dolores, suddenly kneeling down beside him. "how could i guess? you never let me see that you were fond of me--or i have been blind all these years--" "hush, child!" he said. "do not hurt me any more--it must have been my fault." he grew more calm, and though his face was very grave and sad, the natural dark colour was slowly coming back to it now, and his hands were steady again. the girl was too young, and far too different from him, to understand his nature, but she was fast realizing that he was not the man he had always seemed to her. "oh, if i had only known!" she cried, in deep distress. "if i had only guessed, i would have been so different! i was always frightened, always afraid of you, since i can remember--i thought you did not care for us and that we always displeased you--how could we know?" mendoza lifted one of his hands from the sword hilt, and took hers, with as much gentleness as was possible to him. his eyes became clear again, and the profound emotion he had shown subsided to the depths whence it had risen. "we shall never quite understand each other," he said quietly. "you cannot see that it is a man's duty to do what is right for his children, rather than to sacrifice that in order to make them love him." it seemed to dolores that there might be a way open between the two, but she said nothing, and left her hand in his, glad that he was kind, but feeling, as he felt, that there could never be any real understanding between them. the breach had existed too long, and it was far too wide. "you are headstrong, my dear," he said, nodding at each word. "you are very headstrong, if you will only reflect." "it is not my head, it is my heart," answered dolores. "and besides," she added with a smile, "i am your daughter, and you are not of a very gentle and yielding disposition, are you?" "no," he answered with hesitation, "perhaps not." then his face relaxed a little, and he almost smiled too. it seemed as if the peace were made and as if thereafter there need not be trouble again. but it was even then not far off, for it was as impossible for mendoza to yield as it would have been for dolores to give up her love for don john. she did not see this, and she fancied that a real change had taken place in his disposition, so that he would forget that he had threatened to send her to las huelgas, and not think of it again. "what is done cannot be undone," he said, with renewed sadness. "you will never quite believe that you have been everything to me during your life. how could you not be, my child? i am very lonely. your mother has been dead nearly eighteen years, and rodrigo--" he stopped short suddenly, for he had never spoken his son's name in the girl's hearing since rodrigo had left him to follow his own fortunes. "i think rodrigo broke my heart," said the old man, after a short pause, controlling his voice so that it sounded dry and indifferent. "and if there is anything left of it, you will break the rest." he rose, taking his hand from hers, and turning away, with the roughness of a strong, hard man, who has broken down once under great emotion and is capable of any harshness in his fear of yielding to it again. dolores started slightly and drew back. in her the kindly impression was still strong, but his tone and manner wounded her. "you are wrong," she said earnestly. "since you have shown me that you love me, i will indeed do my best not to hurt you or displease you. i will do what i can--what i can." she repeated the last words slowly and with unconscious emphasis. he turned his face to her again instantly. "then promise me that you will never see don john of austria again, that you will forget that you ever loved him, that you will put him altogether out of your thoughts, and that you will obediently accept the marriage i shall make for you." the words of refusal to any such obedience as that rose to the girl's lips, ready and sharp. but she would not speak them this time, lest more angry words should answer hers. she looked straight at her father's eyes, holding her head proudly high for a moment. then, smiling at the impossibility of what he asked, she turned from him and went to the window in silence. she opened it wide, leaned upon the stone sill and looked out. the moon had risen much higher now, and the court was white. she had meant to cut short the discussion without rousing anger again, but she could have taken no worse way to destroy whatever was left of her father's kindlier mood. he did not raise his voice now, as he followed her and spoke. "you refuse to do that?" he said, with an already ominous interrogation in his tone. "you ask the impossible," she answered, without looking round. "i have not refused, for i have no will in this, no choice. you can do what you please with me, for you have power over my outward life--and if you lacked it, the king would help you. but you have no power beyond that, neither over my heart nor over my soul. i love him--i have loved him long, and i shall love him till i die, and beyond that, forever and ever, beyond everything--beyond the great to-morrow of god's last judgment! how can i put him out of my thoughts, then? it is madness to ask it of me." she paused a moment, while he stood behind her, getting his teeth and slowly grinding the heel of one heavy boot on the pavement. "and as for threatening me," she continued, "you will not kill don john, nor even try to kill him, for he is the king's brother. if i can see him this evening, i will--and there will be no risk for him. you would not murder him by stealth, i suppose? no! then you will not attack him at all, and if i can see him, i will--i tell you so, frankly. to-morrow or the next day, when the festivities they have for him are over, and you yourself are at liberty, take me to las huelgas, if you will, and with as little scandal as possible. but when i am there, set a strong guard of armed men to keep me, for i shall escape unless you do. and i shall go to don john. that is all i have to say. that is my last word." "i gave you mine, and it was my word of honour," said mendoza. "if don john tries to enter here, to see you, i will kill him. to-morrow, you shall go to las huelgas." dolores made no answer and did not even turn her head. he left her and went out. she heard his heavy tread in the hall beyond, and she heard a bolt slipped at the further door. she was imprisoned for the night, for the entrance her father had fastened was the one which cut off the portion of the apartment in which the sisters lived from the smaller part which he had reserved for himself. these rooms, from which there was no other exit, opened, like the sitting-room, upon the same hall. when dolores knew that she was alone, she drew back from the window and shut it. it had served its purpose as a sort of refuge from her father, and the night air was cold. she sat down to think, and being in a somewhat desperate mood, she smiled at the idea of being locked into her room, supperless, like a naughty child. but her face grew grave instantly as she tried to discover some means of escape. inez was certainly not in the apartment--she must have gone to the other end of the palace, on pretence of seeing one of the court ladies, but really in the hope of giving don john the letter. it was more than probable that she would not be allowed to enter when she came back, for mendoza would distrust her. that meant that dolores could have no communication with any one outside her rooms during the evening and night, and she knew her father too well to doubt that he would send her to las huelgas in the morning, as he had sworn to do. possibly he would let her serving-woman come to her to prepare what she needed for the journey, but even that was unlikely, for he would suspect everybody. the situation looked hopeless, and the girl's face grew slowly pale as she realized that after all she might not even exchange a word with don john before going to the convent--she might not even be able to tell him whither they were sending her, and mendoza might keep the secret for years--and she would never be allowed to write, of course. she heard the further door opened again, the bolt running back with a sharp noise. then she heard her father's footsteps and his voice calling to inez, as he went from room to room. but there was no answer, and presently he went away, bolting the door a second time. there could be no more doubt about it now. dolores was quite alone. her heart beat heavily and slowly. but it was not over yet. again the bolt slipped in the outer hall, and again she heard the heavy steps. they came straight towards the door. he had perhaps changed his mind, or he had something more to say; she held her breath, but he did not come in. as if to make doubly sure, he bolted her into the little room, crossed the hall a last time, and bolted it for the night, perfectly certain that dolores was safely shut off from the outer world. for some minutes she sat quite still, profoundly disturbed, and utterly unable to find any way out of her difficulty, which was, indeed, that she was in a very secure prison. then again there was a sound at the door, but very soft this time, not half as loud in her ears as the beating of her own heart. there was something ghostly in it, for she had heard no footsteps. the bolt moved very slowly and gently--she had to strain her ears to hear it move. the sound ceased, and another followed it--that of the door being cautiously opened. a moment later inez was in the room--turning her head anxiously from side to side to hear dolores' breathing, and so to find out where she was. then as dolores rose, the blind girl put her finger to her lips, and felt for her sister's hand. "he has the letter," she whispered quickly. "i found him by accident, very quickly. i am to say to you that after he has been some time in the great hall, he will slip away and come here. you see our father will be on duty and cannot come up." dolores' hand trembled violently. "he swore to me that he would kill don john if he came here," she whispered. "he will do it, if it costs his own life! you must find him again--go quickly, dear, for the love of heaven!" her anxiety increased. "go--go, darling--do not lose a moment--he may come sooner--save him, save him!" "i cannot go," answered inez, in terror, as she understood the situation. "i had hidden myself, and i am locked in with you. he called me, but i kept quiet, for i knew he would not let me stay." she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud in an agony of fear. dolores' lips were white, and she steadied herself against a chair. * * * * * chapter iii dolores stood leaning against the back of the chair, neither hearing nor seeing her sister, conscious only that don john was in danger and that she could not warn him to be on his guard. she had not believed herself when she had told her father that he would not dare to lift his hand against the king's half brother. she had said the words to give herself courage, and perhaps in a rush of certainty that the man she loved was a match for other men, hand to hand, and something more. it was different now. little as she yet knew of human nature, she guessed without reasoning that a man who has been angry, who has wavered and given way to what he believes to be weakness, and whose anger has then burst out again, is much more dangerous than before, because his wrath is no longer roused against another only, but also against himself. more follies and crimes have been committed in that second tide of passion than under a first impulse. even if mendoza had not fully meant what he had said the first time, he had meant it all, and more, when he had last spoken. once more the vision of fear rose before dolores' eyes, nobler now; because it was fear for another and not for herself, but therefore also harder to conquer. inez had ceased from sobbing now, and was sitting quietly in her accustomed seat, in that attitude of concentrated expectancy of sounds which is so natural to the blind, that one can almost recognize blindness by the position of the head and body without seeing the face. the blind rarely lean back in a chair; more often the body is quite upright, or bent a little forward, the face is slightly turned up when there is total silence, often turned down when a sound is already heard distinctly; the knees are hardly ever crossed, the hands are seldom folded together, but are generally spread out, as if ready to help the hearing by the sense of touch--the lips are slightly parted, for the blind know that they hear by the mouth as well as with their ears--the expression of the face is one of expectation and extreme attention, still, not placid, calm, but the very contrary of indifferent. it was thus that inez sat, as she often sat for hours, listening, always and forever listening to the speech of things and of nature, as well as for human words. and in listening, she thought and reasoned patiently and continually, so that the slightest sounds had often long and accurate meanings for her. the deaf reason little or ill, and are very suspicious; the blind, on the contrary, are keen, thoughtful, and ingenious, and are distrustful of themselves rather than of others. inez sat quite still, listening, thinking, and planning a means of helping her sister. but dolores stood motionless as if she were paralyzed, watching the picture that «he could not chase away. for she saw the familiar figure of the man she loved coming down the gloomy corridor, alone and unarmed, past the deep embrasures through which the moonlight streamed, straight towards the oak door at the end; and then, from one of the windows another figure stood out, sword in hand, a gaunt man with a grey beard, and there were few words, and an uncertain quick confounding of shadows with a ray of cold light darting hither and thither, then a fall, and then stillness. as soon as it was over, it began again, with little change, save that it grew more distinct, till she could see don john's white face in the moonlight as he lay dead on the pavement of the corridor. it became intolerable at last, and she slowly raised one hand and covered her eyes to shut out the sight. "listen," said inez, as dolores stirred. "i have been thinking. you must see him to-night, even if you are not alone with him. there is only one way to do that; you must dress yourself for the court and go down to the great hall with the others and speak to him--then you can decide how to meet to-morrow." "inez--i have not told you the rest! to-morrow i am to be sent to las huelgas, and kept there like a prisoner." inez uttered a low cry of pain. "to a convent!" it seemed like death. dolores began to tell her all mendoza had said, but inez soon interrupted her. there was a dark flush in the blind girl's face. "and he would have you believe that he loves you?" she cried indignantly. "he has always been hard, and cruel, and unkind, he has never forgiven me for being blind---he will never forgive you for being young! the king! the king before everything and every one--before himself, yes, that is well, but before his children, his soul, his heart--he has no heart! what am i saying--" she stopped short. "and yet, in his strange way, he loves us both," said dolores. "i cannot understand it, but i saw his face when there were tears in his eyes, and i heard his voice. he would give his life for us." "and our lives, and hearts, and hopes to feed his conscience and to save his own soul!" inez was trembling with anger, leaning far forward, her face flushed, one slight hand clenched, the other clenching it hard. dolores was silent. it was not the first time that inez had spoken in this way, for the blind girl could be suddenly and violently angry for a good cause. but now her tone changed. "i will save you," she said suddenly, "but there is no time to be lost. he will not come back to our rooms now, and he knows well enough that don john cannot come here at this hour, so that he is not waiting for him. we have this part of the place to ourselves, and the outer door only is bolted now. it will take you an hour to dress--say three-quarters of an hour. as soon as you get out, you must go quickly round the palace to the duchess alvarez. our father will not go there, and you can go down with her, as usual--but tell her nothing. our father will be there, and he will see you, but he will not care to make an open scandal in the court. don john will come and speak to you; you must stay beside the duchess of course--but you can manage to exchange a few words." dolores listened intently, and her face brightened a little as inez went on, only to grow sad and hopeless again a moment later. it was all an impossible dream. "that would be possible if i could once get beyond the door of the hall," she said despondently. "it is of no use, dear! the door is bolted." "they will open it for me. old eudaldo is always within hearing, and he will do anything for me. besides, i shall seem to have been shut in by mistake, do you see? i shall say that i am hungry, thirsty, that i am cold, that in locking you in our father locked me in, too, because i was asleep. then eudaldo will open the door for me. i shall say that i am going to the duchess's." "yes--but then?" "you will cover yourself entirely with my black cloak and draw it over your head and face. we are of the same height--you only need to walk as i do--as if you were blind--across the hall to the left. eudaldo will open the outer door for you. you will just nod to thank him, without speaking, and when you are outside, touch the wall of the corridor with your left hand, and keep close to it. i always do, for fear of running against some one. if you meet any of the women, they will take you for me. there is never much light in the corridor, is there? there is one oil lamp half way down, i know, for i always smell it when i pass in the evening." "yes, it is almost dark there--it is a little lamp. do you really think this is possible?" "it is possible, not sure. if you hear footsteps in the corridor beyond the corner, you will have time to slip into one of the embrasures. but our father will not come now. he knows that don john is in his own apartments with many people. and besides, it is to be a great festival to-night, and all the court people and officers, and the archbishop, and all the rest who do not live in the palace will come from the city, so that our father will have to command the troops and give orders for the guards to march out, and a thousand things will take his time. don john cannot possibly come here till after the royal supper, and if our father can come away at all, it will be at the same time. that is the danger." dolores shivered and saw the vision in the corridor again. "but if you are seen talking with don john before supper, no one will suppose that in order to meet him you would risk coming back here, where you are sure to be caught and locked up again. do you see?" "it all depends upon whether i can get out," answered dolores, but there was more hope in her tone. "how am i to dress without a maid?" she asked suddenly. "trust me," said inez, with a laugh. "my hands are better than a serving-woman's eyes. you shall look as you never looked before. i know every lock of your hair, and just how it should be turned and curled and fastened in place so that it cannot possibly get loose. come, we are wasting time. take off your slippers as i have done, so that no one shall hear us walking through the hall to your room, and bring the candles with you if you choose--yes, you need them to pick out the colours you like." "if you think it will be safer in the dark, it does not matter," said dolores. "i know where everything is." "it would be safer," answered inez thoughtfully. "it is just possible that he might be in the court and might see the light in your window, whereas if it burns here steadily, he will suspect nothing. we will bolt the door of this room, as i found it. if by any possibility he comes back, he will think you are still here, and will probably not come in." "pray heaven he may not!" exclaimed dolores, and she began to go towards the door. inez was there before her, opening it very cautiously. "my hands are lighter than yours," she whispered. they both passed out, and inez slipped the bolt back into its place with infinite precaution. "is there light here?" she asked under her breath. "there is a very small lamp on the table. i can just see my door." "put it out as we pass," whispered inez. "i will lead you if you cannot find your way." they moved cautiously forward, and when they reached the table, dolores bent down to the small wick and blew out the flame. then she felt her sister's hand taking hers and leading her quickly to the other door. the blind girl was absolutely noiseless in her movements, and dolores had the strange impression that she was being led by a spirit through the darkness. inez stopped a moment, and then went slowly on; they had entered the room though dolores had not heard the door move, nor did she hear it closed behind her again. her own room was perfectly dark, for the heavy curtain that covered the window was drawn; she made a step alone, and cautiously, and struck her knee against a chair. "do not move," whispered inez. "you will make a noise. i can dress you where you stand, or if you want to find anything, i will lead you to the place where it is. remember that it is always day for me." dolores obeyed, and stood still, holding her breath a little in her intense excitement. it seemed impossible that inez could do all she promised without making a mistake, and dolores would not have been a woman had she not been visited just then by visions of ridicule. without light she was utterly helpless to do anything for herself, and she had never before then fully realized the enormous misfortune with which her sister had to contend. she had not guessed, either, what energy and quickness of thought inez possessed, and the sensation of being advised, guided, and helped by one she had always herself helped and protected was new. they spoke in quick whispers of what she was to wear and of how her hair was to be dressed, and inez found what was wanted without noise, and almost as quickly as dolores could have done in broad daylight, and placed a chair for her, making her sit down in it, and began to arrange her hair quickly and skilfully. dolores felt the spiritlike hands touching her lightly and deftly in the dark--they were very slight and soft, and did not offend her with a rough movement or a wrong turn, as her maid's sometimes did. she felt her golden hair undone, and swiftly drawn out and smoothed without catching, or tangling, or hurting her at all, in a way no woman had ever combed it, and the invisible hands gently divided it, and turned it upon her head, slipping the hairpins into the right places as if by magic, so that they were firm at the first trial, and there was a faint sound of little pearls tapping each other, and dolores felt the small string laid upon her hair and fastened in its place,--the only ornament a young girl could wear for a headdress,--and presently it was finished, and inez gave a sigh of satisfaction at her work, and lightly felt her sister's head here and there to be sure that all was right. it felt as if soft little birds were just touching the hair with the tips of their wings as they fluttered round it. dolores had no longer any fear of looking ill dressed in the blaze of light she was to face before long. the dressing of her hair was the most troublesome part, she knew, and though she could not have done it herself, she had felt that every touch and turn had been perfectly skilful. "what a wonderful creature you are!" she whispered, as inez bade her stand up. "you have beautiful hair," answered the blind girl, "and you are beautiful in other ways, but to-night you must be the most beautiful of all the court, for his sake--so that every woman may envy you, and every man envy him, when they see you talking together. and now we must be quick, for it has taken a long time, and i hear the soldiers marching out again to form in the square. that is always just an hour and a half before the king goes into the hall. here--this is the front of the skirt." "no--it is the back!" inez laughed softly, a whispering laugh that dolores could scarcely hear. "it is the front," she said. "you can trust me in the dark. put your arms down, and let me slip it over your head so as not to touch your hair. no---hold your arms down!" dolores had instinctively lifted her hands to protect her headdress. then all went quickly, the silence only broken by an occasional whispered word and by the rustle of silk, the long soft sound of the lacing as inez drew it through the eyelets of the bodice, the light tapping of her hands upon the folds and gatherings of the skirt and on the puffed velvet on the shoulders and elbows. "you must be beautiful, perfectly beautiful to-night," inez repeated more than once. she herself did not understand why she said it, unless it were that dolores' beauty was for don john of austria, and that nothing in the whole world could be too perfect for him, for the hero of her thoughts, the sun of her blindness, the immeasurably far-removed deity of her heart. she did not know that it was not for her sister's sake, but for his, that she had planned the escape and was taking such infinite pains that dolores might look her best. yet she felt a deep and delicious delight in what she did, like nothing she had ever felt before, for it was the first time in her life that she had been able to do something that could give him pleasure; and, behind that, there was the belief that he was in danger, that she could no longer go to him nor warn him now, and that only dolores herself could hinder him from coming unexpectedly against old mendoza, sword in hand, in the corridor. "and now my cloak over everything," she said. "wait here, for i must get it, and do not move!" dolores hardly knew whether inez left the room or not, so noiselessly did the girl move. then she felt the cloak laid upon her shoulders and drawn close round her to hide her dress, for skirts were short in those days and easily hidden. inez laid a soft silk handkerchief upon her sister's hair, lest it should be disarranged by the hood which she lightly drew over all, assuring herself that it would sufficiently hide the face. "now come with me," she whispered. i will lead you to the door that is bolted and place you just where it will open. then i will call eudaldo and speak to him, and beg him to let me out. if he does, bend your head and try to walk as i do. i shall be on one side of the door, and, as the room is dark, he cannot possibly see me. while he is opening the outer door for you, i will slip back into my own room. do you understand? and remember to hide in an embrasure if you hear a man's footsteps. are you quite sure you understand?" "yes; it will be easy if eudaldo opens. and i thank you, dear; i wish i knew how to thank you as i ought! it may have saved his life--" "and yours, too, perhaps," answered inez, beginning to lead her away. "you would die in the convent, and you must not come back--you must never come back to us here--never till you are married. good-by, dolores--dear sister. i have done nothing, and you have done everything for me all your life. good-by--one kiss--then we must go, for it is late." with her soft hands she drew dolores' head towards her, lifted the hood a little, and kissed her tenderly. all at once there were tears on both their faces, and the arms of each clasped the other almost desperately. "you must come to me, wherever i am," dolores said. "yes, i will come, wherever you are. i promise it." then she disengaged herself quickly, and more than ever she seemed a spirit as she went before, leading her sister by the hand. they reached the door, and she made dolores stand before the right hand panel, ready to slip out, and once more she touched the hood to be sure it hid the face. she listened a moment. a harsh and regular sound came from a distance, resembling that made by a pit-saw steadily grinding its way lengthwise through a log of soft pine wood. "eudaldo is asleep," said inez, and even at this moment she could hardly suppress a half-hysterical laugh. "i shall have to make a tremendous noise to wake him. the danger is that it may bring some one else,---the women, the rest of the servants." "what shall we do?" asked dolores, in a distressed whisper. she had braced her nerves to act the part of her sister at the dangerous moment, and her excitement made every instant of waiting seem ten times its length. inez did not answer the question at once. dolores repeated it still more anxiously. "i was trying to make up my mind," said the other at last. "you could pass eudaldo well enough, i am sure, but it might be another matter if the hall were full of servants, as it is certain that our father has given a general order that you are not to be allowed to go out. we may wait an hour for the man to wake." dolores instinctively tried the door, but it was solidly fastened from the outside. she felt hot and cold by turns as her anxiety grew more intolerable. each minute made it more possible that she might meet her father somewhere outside. "we must decide something!" she whispered desperately. "we cannot wait here." "i do not know what to do," answered inez. "i have done all i can; i never dreamt that eudaldo would be asleep. at least, it is a sure sign that our father is not in the house." "but he may come at any moment! we must, we must do something at once!" "i will knock softly," said inez. "any one who hears it will suppose it is a knock at the hall door. if he does not open, some one will go and wake him up, and then go away again so as not to be seen." she clenched her small hand, and knocked three times. such a sound could make not the slightest impression upon eudaldo's sound sleep, but her reasoning was good, as well as ingenious. after waiting a few moments, she knocked again, more loudly. dolores held her breath in the silence that followed. presently a door was opened, and a woman's voice was heard, low but sharp. "eudaldo, eudaldo! some one is knocking at the front door!" the woman probably shook the old man to rouse him, for his voice came next, growling and angry. "witch! hag! mother of malefactors! let me alone--i am asleep. are you trying to tear my sleeve off with your greasy claws? nobody is knocking; you probably hear the wine thumping in your ears!" the woman, who was the drudge and had been cleaning the kitchen, was probably used to eudaldo's manner of expressing himself, for she only laughed. "wine makes men sleep, but it does not knock at doors," she answered. "some one has knocked twice. you had better go and open the door." a shuffling sound and a deep yawn announced that eudaldo was getting out of his chair. the two girls heard him moving towards the outer entrance. then they heard the woman go away, shutting the other door behind her, as soon as she was sure that eudaldo was really awake. then inez called him softly. "eudaldo? here--it was i that knocked--you must let me out, please--come nearer." "doña inez?" asked the old man, standing still. "hush!" answered the girl. "come nearer." she waited, listening while he approached. "listen to me," she continued. "the general has locked me in, by mistake. he did not know i was here when he bolted the door. and i am hungry and thirsty and very cold, eudaldo--and you must let me out, and i will run to the duchess alvarez and stay with her little girl. indeed, eudaldo, the general did not mean to lock me in, too." "he said nothing about your ladyship to me," answered the servant doubtfully. "but i do not know--" he hesitated. "please, please, eudaldo," pleaded inez, "i am so cold and lonely here--" "but doña dolores is there, too," observed eudaldo. dolores held her breath and steadied herself against the panel. "he shut her into the inner sitting-room. how could i dare to open the door! you may go in and knock--she will not answer you." "is your ladyship sure that doña dolores is within?" asked eudaldo, in a more yielding tone. "absolutely, perfectly sure!" answered inez, with perfect truth. "oh, do please let me out." slowly the old man drew the bolt, while dolores' heart stood still, and she prepared herself for the danger; for she knew well enough that the faithful old servant feared his master much more than he feared the devil and all evil spirits, and would prevent her from passing, even with force, if he recognized her. "thank you, eudaldo--thank you!" cried inez, as the latch turned. "and open the front door for me, please," she said, putting her lips just where the panel was opening. then she drew back into the darkness. the door was wide open now, and eudaldo was already shuffling towards the entrance. dolores went forward, bending her head, and trying to affect her sister's step. no distance had ever seemed so long to her as that which separated her from the hall door which eudaldo was already opening for her. but she dared not hasten her step, for though inez moved with perfect certainty in the house, she always walked with a certain deliberate caution, and often stopped to listen, while crossing a room. the blind girl was listening now, with all her marvellous hearing, to be sure that all went well till dolores should be outside. she knew exactly how many steps there were from where she stood to the entrance, for she had often counted them. dolores must have been not more than three yards from the door, when inez started involuntarily, for she heard a sound from without, far off--so far that dolores could not possibly have heard it yet, but unmistakable to the blind girl's keener ear. she listened intently--there were dolores' last four steps to the open doorway, and there were others from beyond, still very far away in the vaulted corridors, but coming nearer. to call her sister back would have made all further attempt at escape hopeless--to let her go on seemed almost equally fatal--inez could have shrieked aloud. but dolores had already gone out, and a moment later the heavy door swung back to its place, and it was too late to call her. like an immaterial spirit, inez slipped away from the place where she stood and went back to dolores' room, knowing that eudaldo would very probably go and knock where he supposed her sister to be a prisoner, before slipping the outer bolt again. and so he did, muttering an imprecation upon the little lamp that had gone out and left the small hall in darkness. then he knocked, and spoke through the door, offering to bring her food, or fire, and repeating his words many times, in a supplicating tone, for he was devoted to both the sisters, though terror of old mendoza was the dominating element in his existence. at last he shook his head and turned despondently to light the little lamp again; and when he had done that, he went away and bolted the door after him, convinced that inez had gone out and that dolores had stayed behind in the last room. when she had heard him go away the last time, the blind girl threw herself upon dolores' bed, and buried her face in the down cushion, sobbing bitterly in her utter loneliness; weeping, too, for something she did not understand, but which she felt the more painfully because she could not understand it, something that was at once like a burning fire and an unspeakable emptiness craving to be filled, something that longed and feared, and feared longing, something that was a strong bodily pain but which she somehow knew might have been the source of all earthly delight,--an element detached from thought and yet holding it, above the body and yet binding it, touching the soul and growing upon it, but filling the soul itself with fear and unquietness, and making her heart cry out within her as if it were not hers and were pleading to be free. so, as she could not understand that this was love, which, as she had heard said, made women and men most happy, like gods and goddesses, above their kind, she lay alone in the darkness that was always as day to her, and wept her heart out in scalding tears. in the corridor outside, dolores made a few steps, remembering to put out her left hand to touch the wall, as inez had told her to do; and then she heard what had reached her sister's ears much sooner. she stood still an instant, strained her eyes to see in the dim light of the single lamp, saw nothing, and heard the sound coming nearer. then she quickly crossed the corridor to the nearest embrasure to hide herself. to her horror she realized that the light of the full moon was streaming in as bright as day, and that she could not be hid. inez knew nothing of moonlight. she pressed herself to the wall, on the side away from her own door, making herself as small as she could, for it was possible that whoever came by might pass without turning his head. nervous and exhausted by all she had felt and been made to feel since the afternoon, she held her breath and waited. the regular tread of a man booted and spurred came relentlessly towards her, without haste and without pause. no one who wore spurs but her father ever came that way. she listened breathlessly to the hollow echoes, and turned her eyes along the wall of the embrasure. in a moment she must see his gaunt figure, and the moonlight would be white on his short grey beard. * * * * * chapter iv dolores knew that there was no time to reflect as to what she should do, if her father found her hiding in the embrasure, and yet in those short seconds a hundred possibilities flashed through her disturbed thoughts. she might slip past him and run for her life down the corridor, or she might draw her hood over her face and try to pretend that she was some one else,--but he would recognize the hood itself as belonging to inez,--or she might turn and lean upon the window-sill, indifferently, as if she had a right to be there, and he might take her for some lady of the court, and pass on. and yet she could not decide which to attempt, and stood still, pressing herself against the wall of the embrasure, and quite forgetful of the fact that the bright moonlight fell unhindered through all the other windows upon the pavement, whereas she cast a shadow from the one in which she was standing, and that any one coming along the corridor would notice it and stop to see who was there. there was something fateful and paralyzing in the regular footfall that was followed instantly by the short echo from the vault above. it was close at hand now she was sure that at the very next instant she should see her father's face, yet nothing came, except the sound, for that deceived her in the silence and seemed far nearer than it was. she had heard horrible ghost stories of the old alcazar, and as a child she had been frightened by tales of evil things that haunted the corridors at night, of wraiths and goblins and moorish wizards who dwelt in secret vaults, where no one knew, and came out in the dark, when all was still, to wander in the moonlight, a terror to the living. the girl felt the thrill of unearthly fear at the roots of her hair, and trembled, and the sound seemed to be magnified till it reëchoed like thunder, though it was only the noise of an advancing footfall, with a little jingling of spurs. but at last there was no doubt. it was close to her, and she shut her eyes involuntarily. she heard one step more on the stones, and then there was silence. she knew that her father had seen her, had stopped before her, and was looking at her. she knew how his rough brows were knitting themselves together, and that even in the pale moonlight his eyes were fierce and angry, and that his left hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, the bony brown fingers tapping the basket nervously. an hour earlier, or little more, she had faced him as bravely as any man, but she could not face him now, and she dared not open her eyes. "madam, are you ill, or in trouble?" asked a young voice that was soft and deep. she opened her eyes with a sharp cry that was not of fear, and she threw back her hood with one hand as the looked. don john of austria was there, a step from her, the light full on his face, bareheaded, his cap in his hand, bending a little towards her, as one does towards a person one does not know, but who seems to be in distress and to need help. against the whiteness without he could not see her face, nor could he recognize her muffled figure. "can i not help you, madam?" asked the kind voice again, very gravely. then she put out her hands towards him and made a step, and as the hood fell quite back with the silk kerchief, he saw her golden hair in the silver light. slowly and in wonder, and still not quite believing, he moved to meet her movement, took her hands in his, drew her to him, turned her face gently, till he saw it well. then he, too, uttered a little sound that was neither a word nor a syllable nor a cry--a sound that was half fierce with strong delight as his lips met hers, and his hands were suddenly at her waist lifting her slowly to his own height, though he did not know it, pressing her closer and closer to him, as if that one kiss were the first and last that ever man gave woman. a minute passed, and yet neither he nor she could speak. she stood with her hands clasped round his neck, and her head resting on his breast just below the shoulder, as if she were saying tender words to the heart she heard beating so loud through the soft black velvet. she knew that it had never beaten in battle as it was beating now, and she loved it because it knew her and welcomed her; but her own stood still, and now and then it fluttered wildly, like a strong young bird in a barred cage, and then was quite still again. bending his face a little, he softly kissed her hair again and again, till at last the kisses formed themselves into syllables and words, which she felt rather than heard. "god in heaven, how i love you--heart of my heart--life of my life--love of my soul!" and again he repeated the same words, and many more like them, with little change, because at that moment he had neither thought nor care for anything else in the world, not for life nor death nor kingdom nor glory, in comparison with the woman he loved. he could not hear her answers, for she spoke without words to his heart, hiding her face where she heard it throbbing, while her lips pressed many kisses on the velvet. then, as thought returned, and the first thought was for him, she drew back a little with a quick movement, and looked up to him with frightened and imploring eyes. "we must go!" she cried anxiously, in a very low voice. "we cannot stay here. my father is very angry--he swore on his word of honour that he would kill you if you tried to see me to-night!" don john laughed gently, and his eyes brightened. before she could speak again, he held her close once more, and his kisses were on her cheeks and her eyes, on her forehead and on her hair, and then again upon her lips, till they would have hurt her if she had not loved them so, and given back every one. then she struggled again, and he loosed his hold. "it is death to stay here," she said very earnestly. "it is worse than death to leave you," he answered. "and i will not," he added an instant later, "neither for the king, nor for your father, nor for any royal marriage they may try to force upon me." she looked into his eyes for a moment, before she spoke, and there was deep and true trust in her own. "then you must save me," she said quietly. "he has vowed that i shall be sent to the convent of las huelgas to-morrow morning. he locked me into the inner room, but inez helped me to dress, and i got out under her cloak." she told him in a few words what she had done and had meant to do, in order to see him, and how she had taken his step for her father's. he listened gravely, and she saw his face harden slowly in an expression she had scarcely ever seen there. when she had finished her story he was silent for a moment. "we are quite safe here," he said at last, "safer than anywhere else, i think, for your father cannot come back until the king goes to supper. for myself, i have an hour, but i have been so surrounded and pestered by visitors in my apartments that i have not found time to put on a court dress--and without vanity, i presume that i am a necessary figure at court this evening. your father is with perez, who seems to be acting as master of ceremonies and of everything else, as well as the king's secretary--they have business together, and the general will not have a moment. i ascertained that, before coming here, or i should not have come at this hour. we are safe from him here, i am sure." "you know best," answered dolores, who was greatly reassured by what he said about mendoza. "let us sit down, then. you must be tired after all you have done. and we have much to say to each other." "how could i be tired now?" she asked, with a loving smile; but she sat down on the stone seat in the embrasure, close to the window. it was just wide enough for two to sit there, and don john took his place beside her, and drew one of her hands silently to him between both his own, and kissed the tips of her fingers a great many times. but he felt that she was watching his face, and he looked up and saw her eyes--and then, again, many seconds passed before either could speak. they were but a boy and girl together, loving each other in the tender first love of early youth, for the victor of the day, the subduer of the moors, the man who had won back granada, who was already high admiral of spain, and who in some ten months from that time was to win a decisive battle of the world at lepanto, was a stripling of twenty-three summers--and he had first seen dolores when he was twenty and she seventeen, and now it was nearly two years since they had met. he was the first to speak, for he was a man of quick and unerring determinations that led to actions as sudden as they were bold and brilliant, and what dolores had told him of her quarrel with her father was enough to rouse his whole energy at once. at all costs she must never be allowed to pass the gates of las huelgas. once within the convent, by the king's orders, and a close prisoner, nothing short of a sacrilegious assault and armed violence could ever bring her out into the world again. he knew that, and that he must act instantly to prevent it, for he knew mendoza's character also, and had no doubt but that he would do what he threatened. it was necessary to put dolores beyond his reach at once, and beyond the king's also, which was not an easy matter within the walls of the king's own palace, and on such a night. don john had been but little at the court and knew next to nothing of its intrigues, nor of the mutual relations of the ladies and high officers who had apartments in the alcazar. in his own train there were no women, of course. dolores' brother rodrigo, who had fought by his side at granada, had begged to be left behind with the garrison, in order that he might not be forced to meet his father. doña magdalena quixada, don john's adoptive mother, was far away at villagarcia. the duchess alvarez, though fond of dolores, was mistress of the robes to the young queen, and it was not to be hoped nor expected that she should risk the danger of utter ruin and disgrace if it were discovered that she had hidden the girl against the king's wishes. yet it was absolutely necessary that dolores should be safely hidden within an hour, and that she should be got out of the palace before morning, and if possible conveyed to villagarcia. don john saw in a moment that there was no one to whom he could turn. again he took dolores' hand in his, but with a sort of gravity and protecting authority that had not been in his touch the first time. moreover, he did not kiss her fingers now, and he resolutely looked at the wall opposite him. then, in a low and quiet voice, he laid the situation before her, while she anxiously listened. "you see," he said at last, "there is only one way left. dolores, do you altogether trust me?" she started a little, and her fingers pressed his hand suddenly. "trust you? ah, with all my soul!" "think well before you answer," he said. "you do not quite understand--it is a little hard to put it clearly, but i must. i know you trust me in many ways, to love you faithfully always, to speak truth to you always, to defend you always, to help you with my life when you shall be in need. you know that i love you so, as you love me. have we not often said it? you wrote it in your letter, too--ah, dear, i thank you for that. yes, i have read it--i have it here, near my heart, and i shall read it again before i sleep--" without a word, and still listening, she bent down and pressed her lips to the place where her letter lay. he touched her hair with his lips and went on speaking, as she leaned back against the wall again. "you must trust me even more than that, my beloved," he said. "to save you, you must be hidden by some one whom i myself can trust--and for such a matter there is no one in the palace nor in all madrid--no one to whom i can turn and know that you will be safe--not one human being, except myself." "except yourself!" dolores loved the words, and gently pressed his hand. "i thank you, dearest heart--but do you know what that means? do you understand that i must hide you myself, in my own apartments, and keep you there until i can take you out of the palace, before morning?" she was silent for a few moments, turning her face away from him. his heart sank. "no, dear," he said sadly, "you do not trust me enough for that--i see it--what woman could?" her hand trembled and started in his, then pressed it hard, and she turned her face quite to him. "you are wrong," she said, with a tremor in her voice. "i love you as no man was ever loved by any woman, far beyond all that all words can say, and i shall love you till i die, and after that, for ever--even if i can never be your wife. i love you as no one loves in these days, and when i say that it is as you love me, i mean a thousand fold for every word. i am not the child you left nearly two years ago. i am a woman now, for i have thought and seen much since then--and i love you better and more than then. god knows, there is enough to see and to learn in this court--that should be hidden deep from honest women's sight! you and i shall have a heaven on this earth, if god grants that we may be joined together--for i will live for you, and serve you, and smooth all trouble out of your way--and ask nothing of you but your love. and if we cannot marry, then i will live for you in my heart, and serve you with my soul, and pray heaven that harm may never touch you. i will pray so fervently that god must hear me. and so will you pray for me, as you would fight for me, if you could. remember, if you will, that when you are in battle for spain, your sword is drawn for spain's honour, and for the honour of every christian spanish woman that lives--and for mine, too!" the words pleased him, and his free hand was suddenly clenched. "you would make cowards fight like wolves, if you could speak to them like that!" he said. "i am not speaking to cowards," she answered, with a loving smile. "i am speaking to the man i love, to the best and bravest and truest man that breathes--and not to don john of austria, the victorious leader, but to you, my heart's love, my life, my all, to you who are good and brave and true to me, as no man ever was to any woman. no--" she laughed happily, and there were tears in her eyes--"no, there are no words for such love as ours." "may i be all you would have me, and much more," he said fervently, and his voice shook in the short speech. "i am giving you all i have, because it is not belief, it is certainty. i know you are all that i say you are, and more too. and i trust you, as you mean it, and as you need my trust to save me. take me where you will. hide me in your own room if you must, and bolt and bar it if need be. i shall be as safe with you as i should be with my mother in heaven. i put my hands between yours." again he heard her sweet low laughter, full of joy and trust, and she laid her hands together between his and looked into his eyes, straight and clear. then she spoke softly and solemnly. "into your hands i put my life, and my faith, and my maiden honour, trusting them all to you alone in this world, as i trust them to god." don john held her hands tightly for a moment, still looking into her eyes as if he could see her soul there, giving itself to his keeping. but he swore no great oath, and made no long speech; for a man who has led men to deeds of glory, and against whom no dishonourable thing was ever breathed, knows that his word is good. "you shall not regret that you trust me, and you will be quite safe," he said. she wanted no more. loving as she did, she believed in him without promises, yet she could not always believe that he quite knew how she loved him. "you are dearer to me than i knew," he said presently, breaking the silence that followed. "i love you even more, and i thought it could never be more, when i found you here a little while ago--because you do really trust me." "you knew it," the said, nestling to him. "but you wanted me to tell you. yes--we are nearer now." "far nearer--and a world more dear," he answered. "do you know? in all these months i have often and often again wondered how we should meet, whether it would be before many people, or only with your sister inez there--or perhaps alone. but i did not dare hope for that." "nor i. i have dreamt of meeting you a hundred times--and more than that! but there was always some one in the way. i suppose that if we had found each other in the court and had only been able to say a few words, it would have been a long time before we were quite ourselves together--but now, it seems as if we had never been parted at all, does it not?" "as if we could never be parted again," he answered softly. for a little while there was silence, and though there was to be a great gathering of the court, that night, all was very still where the lovers sat at the window, for the throne room and the great halls of state were far away on the other side of the palace, and the corridor looked upon a court through which few persons had to pass at night. suddenly from a distance there came the rhythmical beat of the spanish drums, as some detachment of troops marched by the outer gate. don john listened. "those are my men," he said. "we must go, for now that they are below i can send my people on errands with orders to them, until i am alone. then you must come in. at the end of my apartments there is a small room, beyond my own. it is furnished to be my study, and no one will expect to enter it at night. i must put you there, and lock the door and take the key with me, so that no one can go in while i am at court--or else you can lock it on the inside, yourself. that would be better, perhaps," he added rather hurriedly. "no," said the girl quietly. "i prefer that you should have the key. i shall feel even safer. but how can i get there without being seen? we cannot go so far together without meeting some one." he rose, and she stood up beside him. "my apartments open upon the broad terrace on the south side," he said. "at this time there will be only two or three officers there, and my two servants. follow me at a little distance, with your hood over your face, and when you reach the sentry-box at the corner where i turn off, go in. there will be no sentinel there, and the door looks outward. i shall send away every one, on different errands, in five minutes. when every one is gone i will come for you. is that clear?" "perfectly." she nodded, as if she had made quite sure of what he had explained. then she put up her hands, as if to say good-by. "oh, if we could only stay here in peace!" she cried. he said nothing, for he knew that there was still much danger, and he was anxious for her. he only pressed her hands and then led her away. they followed the corridor together, side by side, to the turning. then he whispered to her to drop behind, and she let him go on a dozen paces and followed him. the way was long, and ill lighted at intervals by oil lamps hung from the vault by small chains; they cast a broad black shadow beneath them, and shed a feeble light above. several times persons passed them, and dolores' heart beat furiously. a court lady, followed by a duenna and a serving-woman, stopped with a winning smile, and dropped a low courtesy to don john, who lifted his cap, bowed, and went on. they did not look at dolores. a man in a green cloth apron and loose slippers, carrying five lighted lamps in a greasy iron tray, passed with perfect indifference, and without paying the least attention to the victor of granada. it was his business to carry lamps in that part of the palace--he was not a human being, but a lamplighter. they went on, down a short flight of broad steps, and then through a wider corridor where the lights were better, though the night breeze was blowing in and made them flicker and flare. a corporal's guard of the household halberdiers came swinging down at a marching step, coming from the terrace beyond. the corporal crossed his halberd in salute, but don john stopped him, for he understood at once that a sentry had been set at his door. "i want no guard," he said. "take the man away." "the general ordered it, your highness," answered the man, respectfully. "request your captain to report to the general that i particularly desire no sentinel at my door. i have no possessions to guard except my reputation, and i can take care of that myself." he laughed good-naturedly. the corporal grinned--he was a very dark, broad-faced man, with high cheek bones, and ears that stuck out. he faced about with his three soldiers, and followed don john to the terrace--but in the distance he had seen the hooded figure of a woman. not knowing what to do, for she had heard the colloquy, dolores stood still a moment, for she did not care to pass the soldiers as they came back. then she turned and walked a little way in the other direction, to gain time, and kept on slowly. in less than a minute they returned, bringing the sentinel with them. she walked slowly and counted them as they went past her--and then she started as if she had been stung, and blushed scarlet under her hood, for she distinctly heard the big corporal laugh to himself when he had gone by. she knew, then, how she trusted the man she loved. when the soldiers had turned the corner and were out of sight, she ran back to the terrace and hid herself in the stone sentry-box just outside, still blushing and angry. on the side of the box towards don john's apartment there was a small square window just at the height of her eyes, and she looked through it, sure that her face could not be seen from without. she looked from mere curiosity, to see what sort of men the officers were, and don john's servants; for everything connected with him or belonging to him in any way interested her most intensely. two tall captains came out first, magnificent in polished breastplates with gold shoulder straps and sashes and gleaming basket-hilted swords, that stuck up behind them as their owners pressed down the hilts and strutted along, twisting their short black moustaches in the hope of meeting some court lady on their way. then another and older man passed, also in a soldier's dress, but with bent head, apparently deep in thought. after that no one came for some time--then a servant, who pulled something out of his pocket and began to eat it, before he was in the corridor. then a woman came past the little window. dolores saw her as distinctly as she had seen the four men. she came noiselessly and stealthily, putting down her foot delicately, like a cat. she was a lady, and she wore a loose cloak that covered all her gown, and on her head a thick veil, drawn fourfold across her face. her gait told the girl that she was young and graceful--something in the turn of the head made her sure that she was beautiful, too--something in the whole figure and bearing was familiar. the blood sank from dolores' cheeks, and she felt a chill slowly rising to her heart. the lady entered the corridor and went on quickly, turned, and was out of sight. then all at once, dolores laughed to herself, noiselessly, and was happy again, in spite of her danger. there was nothing to disturb her, she reflected. the terrace was long, there were doubtless other apartments beyond don john's, though she had not known it. the lady had indeed walked cautiously, but it might well be that she had reasons for not being seen there, and that the further rooms were not hers. the alcazar was only an old moorish castle, after all, restored and irregularly enlarged, and altogether very awkwardly built, so that many of the apartments could only be reached by crossing open terraces. when don john came to get her in the sentry-box, dolores' momentary doubt was gone, though not all her curiosity. she smiled as she came out of her hiding-place and met his eyes--clear and true as her own. she even hated herself for having thought that the lady could have come from his apartment at all. the light was streaming from his open door as he led her quickly towards it. there were three windows beyond it, and there the terrace ended. she looked at the front as they were passing, and counted again three windows between the open door and the corner where the sentry-box stood. "who lives in the rooms beyond you?" she asked quickly. "no one--the last is the one where you are to be." he seemed surprised. they had reached the open door, and he stood aside to let her go in. "and on this side?" she asked, speaking with a painful effort. "my drawing-room and dining-room," he answered. she paused and drew breath before she spoke again, and she pressed one hand to her side under her cloak. "who was the lady who came from here when all the men were gone?" she asked, very pale. * * * * * chapter v don john was a man not easily taken off his guard, but he started perceptibly at dolores' question. he did not change colour, however, nor did his eyes waver; he looked fixedly into her face. "no lady has been here," he answered quietly. dolores doubted the evidence of her own senses. her belief in the man she loved was so great that his words seemed at first to have destroyed and swept away what must have been a bad dream, or a horrible illusion, and her face was quiet and happy again as she passed him and went in through the open entrance. she found herself in a vestibule from which doors opened to the right and left. he turned in the latter direction, leading the way into the room. it was his bedchamber. built in the moorish manner, the vaulting began at the height of a man's head, springing upward in bold and graceful curves to a great height. the room was square and very large, and the wall below the vault was hung with very beautiful tapestries representing the battle of pavia, the surrender of francis the first, and a sort of apotheosis of the emperor charles, the father of don john. there were two tall windows, which were quite covered by curtains of a dark brocade, in which the coats of spain and the empire were woven in colours at regular intervals; and opposite them, with the head to the wall, stood a vast curtained bedstead with carved posts twice a man's height. the vaulting had been cut on that side, in order that the foot of the bed might stand back against the wall. the canopy had coats of arms at the four corners, and the curtains were of dark green corded silk, heavily embroidered with gold thread in the beautiful scrolls and arabesques of the period of the renascence. a carved table, dark and polished, stood half way between the foot of the bedstead and the space between the windows, where a magnificent kneeling-stool with red velvet cushions was placed under a large crucifix. half a dozen big chairs were ranged against the long walls on each side of the room, and two commodious folding chairs with cushions of embossed leather were beside the table. opposite the door by which dolores had entered, another communicated with the room beyond. both were carved and ornamented with scroll work of gilt bronze, but were without curtains. three or four eastern, rugs covered the greater part of the polished marble pavement, which here and there reflected the light of the tall wax torches that stood on the table in silver candlesticks, and on each side of the bed upon low stands. the vault above the tapestried walls was very dark blue, and decorated with gilded stars in relief. dolores thought the room gloomy, and almost funereal. the bed looked like a catafalque, the candles like funeral torches, and the whole place breathed the magnificent discomfort of royalty, and seemed hardly intended for a human habitation. dolores barely glanced at it all, as her companion locked the first door and led her on to the next room. he knew that he had not many minutes to spare, and was anxious that she should be in her hiding-place before his servants came back. she followed him and went in. unlike the bedchamber, the small study was scantily and severely furnished. it contained only a writing-table, two simple chairs, a straight-backed divan covered with leather, and a large chest of black oak bound with ornamented steel work. the window was curtained with dark stuff, and two wax candles burned steadily beside the writing-materials that were spread out ready for use. "this is the room," don john said, speaking for the first time since they had entered the apartments. dolores let her head fall back, and began to loosen her cloak at her throat without answering him. he helped her, and laid the long garment upon the divan. then he turned and saw her in the full light of the candles, looking at him, and he uttered an exclamation. "what is it?" she asked almost dreamily. "you are very beautiful," he answered in a low voice. "you are the most beautiful woman i ever saw." the merest girl knows the tone of a man whose genuine admiration breaks out unconsciously in plain words, and dolores was a grown woman. a faint colour rose in her cheek, and her lips parted to smile, but her eyes were grave and anxious, for the doubt had returned, and would not be thrust away. she had seen the lady in the cloak and veil during several seconds, and though dolores, who had been watching the men who passed, had not actually seen her come out of don john's apartments, but had been suddenly aware of her as she glided by, it seemed out of the question that she should have come from any other place. there was neither niche nor embrasure between the door and the corridor, in which the lady could have been hidden, and it was hardly conceivable that she should have been waiting outside for some mysterious purpose, and should not have fled as soon as she heard the two officers coming out, since she evidently wished to escape observation. on the other hand, don john had quietly denied that any woman had been there, which meant at all events that he had not seen any one. it could mean nothing else. dolores was neither foolishly jealous nor at all suspicious by nature, and the man was her ideal of truthfulness and honour. she stood looking at him, resting one hand on the table, while he came slowly towards her, moving almost unconsciously in the direction of her exquisite beauty, as a plant lifts itself to the sun at morning. he was near to her, and he stretched out his arms as if to draw her to him. she smiled then, for in his eyes she forgot her trouble for a moment, and she would have kissed him. but suddenly his face grew grave, and he set his teeth, and instead of taking her into his arms, he took one of her hands and raised it to his lips, as if it had been the hand of his brother's wife, the young queen. "why?" she asked in surprise, and with a little start. "you are here under my protection," he answered. "let me have my own way." "yes, i understand. how good you are to me!" she paused, and then went on, seating herself upon one of the chairs by the table as she spoke. "you must leave me now," she said. "you must lock me in and keep the key. then i shall know that i am safe; and in the meantime you must decide how i am to escape--it will not be easy." she stopped again. "i wonder who that woman was!" she exclaimed at last. "there was no woman here," replied don john, as quietly and assuredly as before. he was leaning upon the table at the other side, with both hands resting upon it, looking at her beautiful hair as she bent her head. "say that you did not see her," she said, "not that she was not here, for she passed me after all the men, walking very cautiously to make no noise; and when she was in the corridor she ran--she was young and light-footed. i could not see her face." "you believe me, do you not?" asked don john, bending over the table a little, and speaking very anxiously. she turned her face up instantly, her eyes wide and bright. "should i be here if i did not trust you and believe you?" she asked almost fiercely. "do you think--do you dare to think--that i would have passed your door if i had supposed that another woman had been here before me, and had been turned out to make room for me, and would have stayed here--here in your room--if you had not sent her away? if i had thought that, i would have left you at your door forever. i would have gone back to my father. i would have gone to las huelgas to-morrow, and not to be a prisoner, but to live and die there in the only life fit for a broken-hearted woman. oh, no! you dare not think that,--you who would dare anything! if you thought that, you could not love me as i love you,--believing, trusting, staking life and soul on your truth and faith!" the generous spirit had risen in her eyes, roused not against him, but by all his question might be made to mean; and as she met his look of grateful gladness her anger broke away, and left only perfect love and trust behind it. "a man would die for you, and wish he might die twice," he answered, standing upright, as if a weight had been taken from him and he were free to breathe. she looked up at the pale, strong features of the young fighter, who was so great and glorious almost before the down had thickened on his lip; and she saw something almost above nature in his face,--something high and angelic, yet manly and well fitted to face earthly battles. he was her sun, her young god, her perfect image of perfection, the very source of her trust. it would have killed her to doubt him. her whole soul went up to him in her eyes; and as he was ready to die for her, she knew that for him she would suffer every anguish death could hold, and not flinch. then she looked down, and suddenly laughed a little oddly, and her finger pointed towards the pens and paper. "she has left something behind," she said. "she was clever to get in here and slip out again without being seen." don john looked where she pointed, and saw a small letter folded round the stems of two white carnations, and neatly tied with a bit of twisted silk. it was laid between the paper and the bronze inkstand, and half hidden by the broad white feather of a goose-quill pen, that seemed to have been thrown carelessly across the flowers. it lay there as if meant to be found, only by one who wrote, and not to attract too much attention. "oh!" he exclaimed, in a rather singular tone, as he saw it, and a boyish blush reddened his face. then he took the letter and drew out the two flowers by the blossoms very carefully. dolores watched him. he seemed in doubt as to what he should do; and the blush subsided quickly, and gave way to a look of settled annoyance. the carnations were quite fresh, and had evidently not been plucked more than an hour. he held them up a moment and looked at them, then laid them down again and took the note. there was no writing on the outside. without opening it he held it to the flame of the candle, but dolores caught his wrist. "why do you not read it?" she asked quickly. "dear, i do not know who wrote it, and i do not wish to know anything you do not know also." "you have no idea who the woman is?" dolores looked at him wonderingly. "not the very least," he answered with a smile. "but i should like to know so much!" she cried. "do read it and tell me. i do not understand the thing at all." "i cannot do that." he shook his head. "that would be betraying a woman's secret. i do not know who it is, and i must not let you know, for that would not be honourable." "you are right," she said, after a pause. "you always are. burn it." he pushed the point of a steel erasing-knife through the piece of folded paper and held it over the flame. it turned brown, crackled and burst into a little blaze, and in a moment the black ashes fell fluttering to the table. "what do you suppose it was?" asked dolores innocently, as don john brushed the ashes away. "dear--it is very ridiculous--i am ashamed of it, and i do not quite know how to explain it to you." again he blushed a little. "it seems strange to speak of it--i never even told my mother. at first i used to open them, but now i generally burn them like this one." "generally! do you mean to say that you often find women's letters with flowers in them on your table?" "i find them everywhere," answered don john, with perfect simplicity. "i have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my sword--often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger who waits for an answer. once i found one on my pillow!" "but"--dolores hesitated--"but are they--are they all from the same person?" she asked timidly. don john laughed, and shook his head. "she would need to be a very persistent and industrious person," he answered. "do you not understand?" "no. who are these women who persecute you with their writing? and why do they write to you? do they want you to help them?" "not exactly that;" he was still smiling. "i ought not to laugh, i suppose. they are ladies of the court sometimes, and sometimes others, and i--i fancy that they want me to--how shall i say?--to begin by writing them letters of the same sort." "what sort of letters?" "why--love letters," answered don john, driven to extremity in spite of his resistance. "love letters!" cried dolores, understanding at last. "do you mean to say that there are women whom you do not know, who tell you that they love you before you have ever spoken to them? do you mean that a lady of the court, whom you have probably never even seen, wrote that note and tied it up with flowers and risked everything to bring it here, just in the hope that you might notice her? it is horrible! it is vile! it is shameless! it is beneath anything!" "you say she was a lady--you saw her. i did not. but that is what she did, whoever she may be." "and there are women like that--here, in the palace! how little i know!" "and the less you learn about the world, the better," answered the young soldier shortly. "but you have never answered one, have you?" asked dolores, with a scorn that showed how sure she was of his reply. "no." he spoke thoughtfully. "i once thought of answering one. i meant to tell her that she was out of her senses, but i changed my mind. that was long ago, before i knew you--when i was eighteen." "ever since you were a boy!" the look of wonder was not quite gone from her face yet, but she was beginning to understand more clearly, though still very far from distinctly. it did not occur to her once that such things could be temptations to the brilliant young leader whom every woman admired and every man flattered, and that only his devoted love for her had kept him out of ignoble adventures since he had grown to be a man. had she seen that, she would have loved him even better, if it were possible. it was all, as she had said, shameless and abominable. she had thought that she knew much of evil, and she had even told him so that evening, but this was far beyond anything she had dreamt of in her innocent thoughts, and she instinctively felt that there were lower depths of degradation to which a woman could fall, and of which she would not try to guess the vileness and horror. "shall i burn the flowers, too?" asked don john, taking them in his hand. "the flowers? no. they are innocent and fresh. what have they to do with her? give them to me." he raised them to his lips, looking at her, and then held them out. she took them, and kissed them, as he had done, and they both smiled happily. then she fastened them in her hair. "no one will see me to-night but you," she said. "i may wear flowers in my hair like a peasant woman!" "how they make the gold gleam!" he exclaimed, as he looked. "it is almost time that my men came back," he said sadly. "when i go down to the court, i shall dismiss them. after the royal supper i shall try and come here again and see you. by that time everything will be arranged. i have thought of almost everything already. my mother will provide you with everything you need. to-morrow evening i can leave this place myself to go and see her, as i always do." he always spoke of doña magdalena quixada as his mother--he had never known his own. dolores rose from her seat, for he was ready to go. "i trust you in everything," she said simply. "i do not need to know how you will accomplish it all--it is enough to know that you will. tell inez, if you can--protect her if my father is angry with her." he held out his hand to take hers, and she was going to give it, as she had done before. but it was too little. before he knew it she had thrown her arms round his neck, and was kissing him, with little cries and broken words of love. then she drew back suddenly. "i could not help it," she said. "now lock me in. no--do not say good-by--even for two hours!" "i will come back as soon as i can," he answered, and with a long look he left her, closed the door and locked it after him, leaving her alone. she stood a few moments looking at the panels as if her sight could pierce them and reach him on the other side, and she tried to hold the last look she had seen in his eyes. hardly two minutes had elapsed before she heard voices and footsteps in the bedchamber. don john spoke in short sentences now and then to his servants, and his voice was commanding though it was kindly. it seemed strange to be so near him in his life; she wondered whether she should some day always be near him, as she was now, and nearer; she blushed, all alone. so many things had happened, and he and she had found so much to say that nothing had been said at all of what was to follow her flight to villagarcia. she was to leave for the quixadas' house before morning, but quixada and his wife could not protect her against her father, if he found out where she was, unless she were married. after that, neither mendoza nor any one else, save the king himself, would presume to interfere with the liberty of don john of austria's wife. all spain would rise to protect her--she was sure of that. but they had said nothing about a marriage and had wasted time over that unknown woman's abominable letter. since she reasoned it out to herself, she saw that in all probability the ceremony would take place as soon as don john reached villagarcia. he was powerful enough to demand the necessary permission of the archbishop, and he would bring it with him; but no priest, even in the absence of a written order, would refuse to marry him if he desired it. between the real power he possessed and the vast popularity he enjoyed, he could command almost anything. she heard his voice distinctly just then, though she was not listening for it. he was telling a servant to bring white shoes. the fact struck her because she had never seen him wear any that were not black or yellow. she smiled and wished that she might bring him his white shoes and hang his order of the golden fleece round his neck, and breathe on the polished hilt of his sword and rub it with soft leather. she had seen eudaldo furbish her father's weapons in that way since she had been a child. it had all come so suddenly in the end. shading her eyes from the candles with her hand, she rested one elbow on the table, and tried to think of what should naturally have happened, of what must have happened if the unknown voice among the courtiers had not laughed and roused her father's anger and brought all the rest. don john would have come to the door, and eudaldo would have let him in--because no one could refuse him anything and he was the king's brother. he would have spent half an hour with her in the little drawing-room, and it would have been a constrained meeting, with inez near, though she would presently have left them alone. then, by this time, she would have gone down with the duchess alvarez and the other maids of honour, and by and by she would have followed the queen when she entered the throne room with the king and don john; and she might not have exchanged another word with the latter for a whole day, or two days. but now it seemed almost certain that she was to be his wife within the coming week. he was in the next room. "do not put the sword away," she heard him say. "leave it here on the table." of course; what should he do with a sword in his court dress? but if he had met her father in the corridor, coming to her after the supper, he would have been unarmed. her father, on the contrary, being on actual duty, wore the sword of his rank, like any other officer of the guards, and the king wore a rapier as a part of his state dress. she was astonished at the distinctness with which she heard what was said in the next room. that was doubtless due to the construction of the vault, as she vaguely guessed. it was true that don john spoke very clearly, but she could hear the servants' subdued answers almost as well, when she listened. it seemed to her that he took but a very short time to dress. "i have the key of that room," he said presently. "i have my papers there. you are at liberty till midnight. my hat, my gloves. call my gentlemen, one of you, and tell them to meet me in the corridor." she could almost hear him drawing on his gloves. one of the servants went out. "fadrique," said don john, "leave out my riding-cloak. i may like to walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and it is cold. have my drink ready at midnight and wait for me. send gil to sleep, for he was up last night." there was a strange pleasure in hearing his familiar orders and small directions and in seeing how thoughtful he was for his servants. she knew that he had always refused to be surrounded by valets and gentlemen-in-waiting, and lived very simply when he could, but it was different to be brought into such close contact with his life. there was a wonderful gentleness in his ways that contrasted widely with her father's despotic manner and harsh tone when he gave orders. mendoza believed himself the type and model of a soldier and a gentleman, and he maintained that without rigid discipline there could be no order and no safety at home or in the army. but between him and don john there was all the difference that separates the born leader of men from the mere martinet. dolores listened. it was clear that don john was not going to send fadrique away in order to see her again before he went down to the throne room, though she had almost hoped he might. on the contrary, some one else came. she heard fadrique announce him. "the captain don juan de escobedo is in waiting, your highness," said the servant. "there is also adonis." "adonis!" don john laughed, not at the name, for it was familiar to him, but at the mere mention of the person who bore it and who was the king's dwarf jester, miguel de antona, commonly known by his classic nickname. "bring adonis here--he is an old friend." the door opened again, and dolores heard the well-known voice of the hunchback, clear as a woman's, scornful and full of evil laughter,--the sort of voice that is heard instantly in a crowd, though it is not always recognizable. the fellow came in, talking loud. "ave cæsar!" he cried from the door. "hail, conqueror! all hail, thou favoured of heaven, of man,--and of the ladies!" "the ladies too?" laughed don john, probably amused by the dwarfs antics. "who told you that?" "the cook, sir. for as you rode up to the gate this afternoon a scullery maid saw you from the cellar grating and has been raving mad ever since, singing of the sun, moon, and undying love, until the kitchen is more like a mad-house than this house would be if the day of judgment came before or after lent." "do you fast in lent, adonis?" "i fast rigidly three times a day, my lord conqueror,--no, six, for i eat nothing either just before or just after my breakfast, my dinner, and my supper. no monk can do better than that, for at those times i eat nothing at all." "if you said your prayers as often as you fast, you would be in a good way," observed don john. "i do, sir. i say a short grace before and after eating. why have you come to madrid, my lord? do you not know that madrid is the worst, the wickedest, the dirtiest, vilest, and most damnable habitation devised by man for the corruption of humanity? especially in the month of november? has your lordship any reasonable reason for this unreason of coming here, when the streets are full of mud, and men's hearts are packed like saddle-bags with all the sins they have accumulated since easter and mean to unload at christmas? even your old friends are shocked to see so young and honest a prince in such a place!" "my old friends? who?" "i saw saint john the conqueror graciously wave his hand to a most highly respectable old nobleman this afternoon, and the nobleman was so much shocked that he could not stir an arm to return the salutation! his legs must have done something, though, for he seemed to kick his own horse up from the ground under him. the shock must have been terrible. as for me, i laughed aloud, which made both the old nobleman and don julius caesar of austria exceedingly angry. get before me, don fadrique! i am afraid of the terror of the moors,--and no shame to me either! a poor dwarf, against a man who tears armies to shreds,--and sends scullery maids into hysterics! what is a poor crippled jester compared with a powerful scullery maid or an army of heathen moriscoes? give me that sword, fadrique, or i am a dead man!" but don john was laughing good-naturedly. "so it was you, adonis? i might have-known your voice, i should think." "no one ever knows my voice, sir. it is not a voice, it is a freak of grammar. it is masculine, feminine, and neuter in gender, singular by nature, and generally accusative, and it is optative in mood and full of acute accents. if you can find such another voice in creation, sir, i will forfeit mine in the king's councils." adonis laughed now, and dolores remembered the laughter she had heard from the window. "does his majesty consult you on matters of state?" inquired don john. "answer quickly, for i must be going." "it takes twice as long to tell a story to two men, as to tell it to one,--when you have to tell them different stories," "go, fadrique," said don john, "and shut the door." the dwarf, seeing the servant gone, beckoned don john to the other side of the room. "it is no great secret, being only the king's," he said. "his majesty bids me tell your serene highness that he wishes to speak with you privately about some matters, and that he will come here soon after supper, and begs you to be alone." "i will be here--alone." "excellent, sir. now there is another matter of secrecy which is just the contrary of what i have told you, for it is a secret from the king. a lady laid a letter and two white carnations on your writing-table. if there is any answer to be taken, i will take it." "there is none," answered don john sternly, "tell the lady that i burned the letter without reading it. go, adonis, and the next time you come here, do not bring messages from women. fadrique!" "your highness burned the letter without reading it?" "yes. fadrique!" "i am sorry," said the dwarf, in a low voice. no more words were spoken, and in a few moments there was deep silence, for they were all gone, and dolores was alone, locked into the little room. * * * * * chapter vi the great throne room of the palace was crowded with courtiers long before the time when the king and queen and don john of austria were to appear, and the entries and halls by which it was approached were almost as full. though the late november air was keen, the state apartments were at summer heat, warmed by thousands of great wax candles that burned in chandeliers, and in huge sconces and on high candelabra that stood in every corner. the light was everywhere, and was very soft and yellow, while the odour of the wax itself was perceptible in the air, and helped the impression that the great concourse was gathered in a wide cathedral for some solemn function rather than in a throne room to welcome a victorious soldier. vast tapestries, dim and rich in the thick air, covered the walls between the tall moorish windows, and above them the great pointed vaulting, ornamented with the fantastically modelled stucco of the moors, was like the creamy crests of waves lashed into foam by the wind, thrown upright here, and there blown forward in swift spray, and then again breaking in the fall to thousands of light and exquisite shapes; and the whole vault thus gathered up the light of the candles into itself and shed it downward, distributing it into every corner and lighting every face in a soft and golden glow. at the upper end, between two great doors that were like the gateways of an eastern city, stood the vacant throne, on a platform approached by three broad steps and covered with deep red cloth; and there stood magnificent officers of the guard in gilded corslets and plumed steel caps, and other garments of scarlet and gold, with their drawn swords out. but mendoza was not there yet, for it was his duty to enter with the king's own guard, preceding the majorduomo. above the throne, a huge canopy of velvet, red and yellow, was reared up around the royal coat of arms. to the right and left, on the steps, stood carved stools with silken cushions--those on the right for the chief ministers and nobles of the kingdom, those on the left for the great ladies of the court. these would all enter in the king's train and take their places. for the throng of courtiers who filled the floor and the entries there were no seats, for only a score of the highest and greatest personages were suffered to sit in the royal presence. a few, who were near the windows, rested themselves surreptitiously on the high mouldings of the pilasters, pushing aside the curtains cautiously, and seeming from a distance to be standing while they were in reality comfortably seated, an object of laughing envy and of many witticisms to their less fortunate fellow-courtiers. the throng was not so close but that it was possible to move in the middle of the hall, and almost all the persons there were slowly changing place, some going forward to be nearer the throne, others searching for their friends among their many acquaintances, that they might help the tedious hour to pass more quickly. seen from the high gallery above the arch of the great entrance the hall was a golden cauldron full of rich hues that intermingled in streams, and made slow eddies with deep shadows, and then little waves of light that turned upon themselves, as the colours thrown into the dyeing vat slowly seethe and mix together in rivulets of dark blue and crimson, and of splendid purple that seems to turn black in places and then is suddenly shot through with flashes of golden and opalescent light. here and there also a silvery gleam flashed in the darker surface, like a pearl in wine, for a few of the court ladies were dressed all in white, with silver and many pearls, and diamonds that shed little rays of their own. the dwarf adonis had been there for a few moments behind the lattice which the moors had left, and as he stood there alone, where no one ever thought of going, he listened to the even and not unmusical sound that came up from the great assembly--the full chorus of speaking voices trained never to be harsh or high, and to use chosen words, with no loud exclamations, laughing only to please and little enough out of merriment; and they would not laugh at all after the king and queen came in, but would only murmur low and pleasant flatteries, the change as sudden as when the musician at the keys closes the full organ all at once and draws gentle harmonies from softer stops. the jester had stood there, and looked down with deep-set, eager eyes, his crooked face pathetically sad and drawn, but alive with a swift and meaning intelligence, while the thin and mobile lips expressed a sort of ready malice which could break out in bitterness or turn to a kindly irony according as the touch that moved the man's sensitive nature was cruel or friendly. he was scarcely taller than a boy of ten years old, but his full-grown arms hung down below his knees, and his man's head, with the long, keen face, was set far forward on his shapeless body, so that in speaking with persons of ordinary stature he looked up under his brows, a little sideways, to see better. smooth red hair covered his bony head, and grew in a carefully trimmed and pointed beard on his pointed chin. a loose doublet of crimson velvet hid the outlines of his crooked back and projecting breastbone, and the rest of his dress was of materials as rich, and all red. he was, moreover, extraordinarily careful of his appearance, and no courtier had whiter or more delicately tended hands or spent more time before the mirror in tying a shoulder knot, and in fastening the stiffened collar of white embroidered linen at the fashionable angle behind his neck. he had entered the latticed gallery on his way to don john's apartments with the king's message. a small and half-concealed door, known to few except the servants of the palace, opened upon it suddenly from a niche in one of the upper corridors. in moorish days the ladies of the harem had been wont to go there unseen to see the reception of ambassadors of state, and such ceremonies, at which, even veiled, they could never be present. he only stayed a few moments, and though his eyes were eager, it was by habit rather than because they were searching for any one in the crowd. it pleased him now and then to see the court world as a spectacle, as it delights the hard-worked actor to be for once a spectator at another's play. he was an integral part of the court himself, a man of whom most was often expected when he had the least to give, to whom it was scarcely permitted to say anything in ordinary language, but to whom almost any license of familiar speech was freely allowed. he was not a man, he was a tradition, a thing that had to be where it was from generation to generation; wherever the court had lived a jester lay buried, and often two and three, for they rarely lived an ordinary lifetime. adonis thought of that sometimes, when he was alone, or when he looked down at the crowd of delicately scented and richly dressed men and women, every one called by some noble name, who would doubtless laugh at some jest of his before the night was over. to their eyes the fool was a necessary servant, because there had always been a fool at court; he was as indispensable as a chief butler, a chief cook, or a state coachman, and much more amusing. but he was not a man, he had no name, he had no place among men, he was not supposed to have a mother, a wife, a home, anything that belonged to humanity. he was well lodged, indeed, where the last fool had died, and richly clothed as the other had been, and he fed delicately, and was given the fine wines of france to drink, lest his brain should be clouded by stronger liquor and he should fail to make the court laugh. but he knew well enough that somewhere in toledo or valladolid the next court jester was being trained to good manners and instructed in the art of wit, to take the vacant place when he should die. it pleased him therefore sometimes to look down at the great assemblies from the gallery and to reflect that all those magnificent fine gentlemen and tenderly nurtured beauties of spain were to die also, and that there was scarcely one of them, man or woman, for whose death some one was not waiting, and waiting perhaps with evil anxiety and longing. they were splendid to see, those fair women in their brocades and diamonds, those dark young princesses and duchesses in velvet and in pearls. he dreamed of them sometimes, fancying himself one of those djin of the southern mountains of whom the moors told blood-curdling tales, and in the dream he flew down from the gallery on broad, black wings and carried off the youngest and most beautiful, straight to his magic fortress above the sea. they never knew that he was sometimes up there, and on this evening he did not wait long, for he had his message to deliver and must be in waiting on the king before the royal train entered the throne room. after he was gone, the courtiers waited long, and more and more came in from without. now and then the crowd parted as best it might, to allow some grandee who wore the order of the golden fleece or of some other exalted order, to lead his lady nearer to the throne, as was his right, advancing with measured steps, and bowing gravely to the right and left as he passed up to the front among his peers. and just behind them, on one aide, the young girls, of whom many were to be presented to the king and queen that night, drew together and talked in laughing whispers, gathering in groups and knots of three and four, in a sort of irregular rank behind their mothers or the elder ladies who were to lead them to the royal presence and pronounce their names. there was more light where they were gathered, the shadows were few and soft, the colours tender as the tints of roses in a garden at sunset, and from the place where they stood the sound of young voices came silvery and clear. that should have been inez de mendoza's place if she had not been blind. but inez had never been willing to be there, though she had more than once found her way to the gallery where the dwarf had stood, and had listened, and smelled the odour of the wax candles and the perfumes that rose with the heated air. it was long before the great doors on the right hand of the canopy were thrown open, but courtiers are accustomed from their childhood to long waiting, and the greater part of their occupation at court is to see and to be seen, and those who can do both and can take pleasure in either are rarely impatient. moreover, many found an opportunity of exchanging quick words and of making sudden plans for meeting, who would have found it hard to exchange a written message, and who had few chances of seeing each other in the ordinary course of their lives; and others had waited long to deliver a cutting speech, well studied and tempered to hurt, and sought their enemies in the crowd with the winning smile a woman wears to deal her keenest thrust. there were men, too, who had great interests at stake and sought the influence of such as lived near the king, flattering every one who could possibly be of use, and coolly overlooking any who had a matter of their own to press, though they were of their own kin. many officers of don john's army were there, too, bright-eyed and bronzed from their campaigning, and ready to give their laurels for roses, leaf by leaf, with any lady of the court who would make a fair exchange--and of these there were not a few, and the time seemed short to them. there were also ecclesiastics, but not many, in sober black and violet garments, and they kept together in one corner and spoke a jargon of latin and spanish which the courtiers could not understand; and all who were there, the great courtiers and the small, the bishops and the canons, the stout princesses laced to suffocation and to the verge of apoplexy, and fanning themselves desperately in the heat, and their slim, dark-eyed daughters, cool and laughing--they were all gathered together to greet spain's youngest and greatest hero, don john of austria, who had won back granada from the moors. as the doors opened at last, a distant blast of silver trumpets rang in from without, and the full chorus of speaking voices was hushed to a mere breathing that died away to breathless silence during a few moments as the greatest sovereign of the age, and one of the strangest figures of all time, appeared before his court. the grand master of ceremonies entered first, in his robe of office, bearing a long white staff. in the stillness his voice rang out to the ends of the hall: "his majesty the king! her majesty the queen!" then came a score of halberdiers of the guard, picked men of great stature, marching in even steps, led by old mendoza himself, in his breastplate and helmet, sword in hand; and he drew up the guard at one side in a rank, making them pass him so that he stood next to the door. after the guards came philip the second, a tall and melancholy figure; and with him, on his left side, walked the young queen, a small, thin figure in white, with sad eyes and a pathetic face--wondering, perhaps, whether she was to follow soon those other queens who had walked by the same king to the same court, and had all died before their time--mary of portugal, mary of england, isabel of valois. the king was one of those men who seem marked by destiny rather than by nature, fateful, sombre, almost repellent in manner, born to inspire a vague fear at first sight, and foreordained to strange misfortune or to extraordinary success, one of those human beings from whom all men shrink instinctively, and before whom they easily lose their fluency of speech and confidence of thought. unnaturally still eyes, of an uncertain colour, gazed with a terrifying fixedness upon a human world, and were oddly set in the large and perfectly colourless face that was like an exaggerated waxen mask. the pale lips did not meet evenly, the lower one protruding, forced, outward by the phenomenal jaw that has descended to this day in the house of austria. a meagre beard, so fair that it looked faded, accentuated the chin rather than concealed it, and the hair on the head was of the same undecided tone, neither thin nor thick, neither long nor short, but parted, and combed with the utmost precision about the large but very finely moulded ears. the brow was very full as well as broad, and the forehead high, the whole face too large, even for a man so tall, and disquieting in its proportions. philip bent his head forward a little when at rest; when he looked about him it moved with something of the slow, sure motion of a piece of mechanism, stopping now and then, as the look in the eyes solidified to a stare, and then, moving again, until curiosity was satisfied and it resumed its first attitude, and remained motionless, whether the lips were speaking or not. very tall and thin, and narrow chested, the figure was clothed all in cream-coloured silk and silver, relieved only by the collar of the golden fleece, the solitary order the king wore. his step was ungraceful and slow, as if his thin limbs bore his light weight with difficulty, and he sometimes stumbled in walking. one hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he walked, and even under the white gloves the immense length of the fingers and the proportionate development of the long thumb were clearly apparent. no one could have guessed that in such a figure there could be much elasticity or strength, and yet, at rare moments and when younger, king philip displayed such strength and energy and quickness as might well have made him the match of ordinary men. as a rule his anger was slow, thoughtful, and dangerous, as all his schemes were vast and far-reaching. with the utmost deliberation, and without so much as glancing at the courtiers assembled, he advanced to the throne and sat down, resting both hands on the gilded arms of the great chair; and the queen took her place beside him. but before he had settled himself, there was a low sound of suppressed delight in the hall, a moving of heads, a brightening of women's eyes, a little swaying of men's shoulders as they tried to see better over those who stood before them; and voices rose here and there above the murmur, though not loudly, and were joined by others. then the king's waxen face darkened, though the expression did not change and the still eyes did not move, but as if something passed between it and the light, leaving it grey in the shadow. he did not turn to look, for he knew that his brother had entered the throne room and that every eye was upon him. don john was all in dazzling white--white velvet, white satin, white silk, white lace, white shoes, and wearing neither sword nor ornament of any kind, the most faultless vision of young and manly grace that ever glided through a woman's dream. his place was on the king's right, and he passed along the platform of the throne with an easy, unhesitating step, and an almost boyish smile of pleasure at the sounds he heard, and at the flutter of excitement that was in the air, rather to be felt than otherwise perceived. coming up the steps of the throne, he bent one knee before his brother, who held out his ungloved hand for him to kiss--and when that was done, he knelt again before the queen, who did likewise. then, bowing low as he passed back before the king, he descended one step and took the chair set for him in the place that was for the royal princes. he was alone there, for philip was again childless at his fourth marriage, and it was not until long afterwards that a son was born who lived to succeed him; and there were no royal princesses in madrid, so that don john was his brother's only near blood relation at the court, and since he had been acknowledged he would have had his place by right, even if he had not beaten the moriscoes in the south and won back granada. after him came the high ministers of state and the ambassadors in a rich and stately train, led in by don antonio perez, the king's new favourite, a man of profound and evil intelligence, upon whom philip was to rely almost entirely during ten years, whom he almost tortured to death for his crimes, and who in the end escaped him, outlived him, and died a natural death, in paris, when nearly eighty. with these came also the court ladies, the queen's mistress of the robes, and the maids of honour, and with the ladies was doña ana de la cerda, princess of eboli and melito and duchess of pastrana, the wife of old don ruy gomez de silva, the minister. it was said that she ruled her husband, and antonio perez and the king himself, and that she was faithless to all three. she was not more than thirty years of age at that time, and she looked younger when seen in profile. but one facing her might have thought her older from the extraordinary and almost masculine strength of her small head and face, compact as a young athlete's, too square for a woman's, with high cheekbones, deep-set black eyes and eyebrows that met between them, and a cruel red mouth that always curled a little just when she was going to speak, and showed extraordinarily perfect little teeth, when the lips parted. yet she was almost beautiful when she was not angry or in a hurtful mood. the dark complexion was as smooth as a perfect peach, and tinged with warm colour, and her eyes could be like black opals, and no woman in spain or andalusia could match her for grace of figure and lightness of step. others came after in the long train. then, last of all, at a little distance from the rest, the jester entered, affecting a very dejected air. he stood still a while on the platform, looking about as if to see whether a seat had been reserved for him, and then, shaking his head sadly, he crouched down, a heap of scarlet velvet with a man's face, just at don john's feet, and turning a little towards him, so as to watch his eyes. but don john would not look at him, and was surprised that he should put himself there, having just been dismissed with a sharp reprimand for bringing women's messages. the ceremony, if it can be called by that name, began almost as soon as all were seated. at a sign from the king, don antonio perez rose and read out a document which he had brought in his hand. it was a sort of throne speech, and set forth briefly, in very measured terms, the results of the long campaign against the moriscoes, according high praise to the army in general, and containing a few congratulatory phrases addressed to don john himself. the audience of nobles listened attentively, and whenever the leader's name occurred, the suppressed flutter of enthusiasm ran through the hall like a breeze that stirs forest leaves in summer; but when the king was mentioned the silence was dead and unbroken. don john sat quite still, looking down a little, and now and then his colour deepened perceptibly. the speech did not hint at any reward or further distinction to be conferred on him. when perez had finished reading, he paused a moment, and the hand that held the paper fell to his side. then he raised his voice to a higher key. "god save his majesty don philip second!" be cried. "long live the king!" the courtiers answered the cheer, but moderately, as a matter of course, and without enthusiasm, repeating it three times. but at the last time a single woman's voice, high and clear above all the rest, cried out other words. "god save don john of austria! long live don john of austria!" the whole multitude of men and women was stirred at once, for every heart was in the cheer, and in an instant, courtiers though they were, the king was forgotten, the time, the place, and the cry went up all at once, full, long and loud, shaming the one that had gone before it. king philip's hands strained at the arms of his great chair, and he half rose, as if to command silence; and don john, suddenly pale, had half risen, too, stretching out his open hand in a gesture of deprecation, while the queen watched him with timidly admiring eyes, and the dark princess of eboli's dusky lids drooped to hide her own, for she was watching him also, but with other thoughts. for a few seconds longer, the cheers followed each other, and then they died away to a comparative silence. the dwarf rocked himself, his head between his knees, at don john's feet. "god save the fool!" he cried softly, mimicking the cheer, and he seemed to shake all over, as he sat huddled together, swinging himself to and fro. but no one noticed what he said, for the king had risen to his feet as soon as there was silence. he spoke in a muffled tone that made his words hard to understand, and those who knew him best saw that he was very angry. the princess of eboli's red lips curled scornfully as she listened, and unnoticed she exchanged a meaning glance with antonio perez; for he and she were allies, and often of late they had talked long together, and had drawn sharp comparisons between the king and his brother, and the plan they had made was to destroy the king and to crown don john of austria in his place; but the woman's plot was deeper, and both were equally determined that don john should not marry without their consent, and that if he did, his marriage should not hold, unless, as was probable, his young wife should fall ill and die of a sickness unknown to physicians. all had risen with the king, and he addressed don john amidst the most profound silence. "my brother," he said, "your friends have taken upon themselves unnecessarily to use the words we would have used, and to express to you their enthusiasm for your success in a manner unknown at the court of spain. our one voice, rendering you the thanks that are your due, can hardly give you great satisfaction after what you have heard just now. yet we presume that the praise of others cannot altogether take the place of your sovereign's at such a moment, and we formally thank you for the admirable performance of the task entrusted to you, promising that before long your services shall be required for an even more arduous undertaking. it is not in our power to confer upon you any personal distinction or public office higher than you already hold, as our brother, and as high admiral of spain; but we trust the day is not far distant when a marriage befitting your rank may place you on a level with kings." don john had moved a step forward from his place and stood before the king, who, at the end of his short speech, put his long arms over his brother's shoulders, and proceeded to embrace him in a formal manner by applying one cheek to his and solemnly kissing the air behind don john's head, a process which the latter imitated as nearly as he could. the court looked on in silence at the ceremony, ill satisfied with philip's cold words. the king drew back, and don john returned to his place. as he reached it the dwarf jester made a ceremonious obeisance and handed him a glove which he had dropped as he came forward. as he took it he felt that it contained a letter, which made a slight sound when his hand crumpled it inside the glove. annoyed by the fool's persistence, don john's eyes hardened as he looked at the crooked face, and almost imperceptibly he shook his head. but the dwarf was as grave as he, and slightly bent his own, clasping his hands in a gesture of supplication. don john reflected that the matter must be one of importance this time, as adonis would not otherwise have incurred the risk of passing the letter to him under the eyes of the king and the whole court. then followed the long and tedious procession of the court past the royal pair, who remained seated, while all the rest stood up, including don john himself, to whom a master of ceremonies presented the persons unknown to him, and who were by far the more numerous. to the men, old and young, great or insignificant, he gave his hand with frank cordiality. to the women he courteously bowed his head. a full hour passed before it was over, and still he grasped the glove with the crumpled letter in his hand, while the dwarf stood at a little distance, watching in case it should fall; and as the duchess alvarez and the princess of eboli presented the ladies of madrid to the young queen, the princess often looked at don john and often at the jester from beneath her half-dropped lids. but she did not make a single mistake of names nor of etiquette, though her mind was much preoccupied with other matters. the queen was timidly gracious to every one; but philip's face was gloomy, and his fixed eyes hardly seemed to see the faces of the courtiers as they passed before him, nor did he open his lips to address a word to any of them, though some were old and faithful servants of his own and of his father's. in his manner, in his silence, in the formality of the ceremony, there was the whole spirit of the spanish dominion. it was sombrely magnificent, and it was gravely cruel; it adhered to the forms of sovereignty as rigidly as to the outward practices of religion; its power extended to the ends of the world, and the most remote countries sent their homage and obeisance to its head; and beneath the dark splendour that surrounded its gloomy sovereigns there was passion and hatred and intrigue. beside don john of austria stood antonio perez, and under the same roof with dolores de mendoza dwelt ana de la cerda, princess of eboli, and in the midst of them all miguel de antona, the king's fool. * * * * * chapter vii when the ceremony was over, and every one on the platform and steps of the throne moved a little in order to make way for the royal personages, making a slight momentary confusion, adonis crept up behind don john, and softly touched his sleeve to attract his attention. don john looked round quickly, and was annoyed to see the dwarf there. he did not notice the fact that doña ana de la cerda was watching them both, looking sideways without turning her head. "it is a matter of importance," said the jester, in a low voice. "read it before supper if you can." don john looked at him a moment, and turned away without answering, or even making a sign that he understood. the dwarf met doña ana's eyes, and grew slowly pale, till his face was a yellow mask; for he feared her. the door on the other side of the throne was opened, and the king and queen, followed by don john, and preceded by the master of ceremonies, went out. the dwarf, who was privileged, went after them with his strange, rolling step, his long arms hanging down and swinging irregularly, as if they did not belong to his body, but were only stuffed things that hung loose from his shoulders. as on all such state occasions, there were separate suppers, in separate apartments, one for the king, and one for the ministers of state and the high courtiers; thirdly, a vast collation was spread in a hall on the other side of the throne room for the many nobles who were but guests at the court and held no office nor had any special privileges. it was the custom at that time that the supper should last an hour, after which all reëntered the throne room to dance, except the king and queen, who either retired to the royal apartments, or came back for a short time and remained standing on the floor of the hall, in order to converse with a few of the grandees and ambassadors. the royal party supped in a sombre room of oval shape, dark with tapestries and splendid with gold. the king and queen sat side by side, and don john was placed opposite them at the table, of which the shape and outline corresponded on a small scale with those of the room. four or five gentlemen, whose office it was, served the royal couple, receiving the dishes and wines from the hands of the chief butler; and he, with two other servants in state liveries, waited on don john. everything was most exactly ordered according to the unchangeable rules of the most formal court in europe, not even excepting that of rome. philip sat in gloomy silence, eating nothing, but occasionally drinking a little tokay wine, brought with infinite precaution from hungary to madrid. as be said nothing, neither the queen nor don john could speak, it being ordained that the king must be the first to open his lips. the queen, however, being young and of a good constitution in spite of her almost delicate appearance, began to taste everything that was set before her, glancing timidly at her husband, who took no notice of her, or pretended not to do so. don john, soldier-like, made a sparing supper of the first thing that was offered to him, and then sat silently watching the other two. he understood very well that his brother wished to see him in private, and was annoyed that the queen should make the meal last longer than necessary. the dwarf understood also, and smiled to himself in the corner where he stood waiting in case the king should wish to be amused, which on that particular evening seemed far from likely. but sometimes he turned pale and his lips twisted a little as if he were suffering great pain; for don john had not yet read the letter that was hidden in his glove; and adonis saw in the dark corners of the room the princess of eboli's cruel half-closed eyes, and he fancied he heard her deep voice, that almost always spoke very sweetly, telling him again and again that if don john did not read her letter before he met the king alone that night, adonis should before very long cease to be court jester, and indeed cease to be anything at all that 'eats and drinks and sleeps and wears a coat'--as dante had said. what doña ana said she would do, was as good as done already, both then and for nine years from that time, but thereafter she paid for all her deeds, and more too. but this history is not concerned with those matters, being only the story of what happened in one night at the old alcazar of madrid. king philip sat a little bent in his chair, apparently staring at a point in space, and not opening his lips except to drink. but his presence filled the shadowy room, his large and yellowish face seemed to be all visible from every part of it, and his still eyes dominated everything and every one, except his brother. it was as if the possession of some supernatural and evil being were stealing slowly upon all who were there; as if a monstrous spider sat absolutely motionless in the midst of its web, drawing everything within reach to itself by the unnatural fascination of its lidless sight--as if the gentlemen in waiting were but helpless flies, circling nearer and nearer, to be caught at last in the meshes, and the queen a bright butterfly, and don john a white moth, already taken and soon to be devoured. the dwarf thought of this in his corner, and his blood was chilled, for three queens lay in their tombs in three dim cathedrals, and she who sat at table was the fourth who had supped with the royal spider in his web. adonis watched him, and the penetrating fear he had long known crept all through him like the chill that shakes a man before a marsh fever, so that he had to set his teeth with all his might, lest they should chatter audibly. as he looked, he fancied that in the light of the waxen torches the king's face turned by degrees to an ashy grey, and then more slowly to a shadowy yellow again, as he had seen a spider's ugly body change colour when the flies came nearer, and change again when one was entangled in the threads. he thought that the faces of all the people in the room changed, too, and that he saw in them the look that only near and certain death can bring, which is in the eyes of him who goes out with bound hands, at dawn, amongst other men who will see the rising sun shine on his dead face. that fear came on the dwarf sometimes, and he dreaded always lest at that moment the king should call to him and bid him sing or play with words. but this had never happened yet. there were others in the room, also, who knew something of that same terror, though in a less degree, perhaps because they knew philip less well than the jester, who was almost always near him. but don john sat quietly in his place, no more realizing that there could be danger than if he had been charging the moors at the head of his cavalry, or fighting a man hand to hand with drawn swords. but still the fear grew, and even the gentlemen and the servants wondered, for it had never happened that the king had not at last broken the silence at supper, so that all guessed trouble near at hand, and peril for themselves. the queen grew nervous and ceased to eat. she looked from philip to don john, and more than once seemed about to speak, but recollected herself and checked the words. her hand shook and her thin young nostrils quivered now and then. evil was gathering in the air, and she felt it approaching, though she could not tell whence it came. a sort of tension took possession of every one, like what people feel in southern countries when the southeast wind blows, or when, almost without warning, the fresh sea-breeze dies away to a dead calm and the blackness rises like a tide of pitch among the mountains of the coast, sending up enormous clouds above it to the pale sky, and lying quite still below; and the air grows lurid quickly, and heavy to breathe and sultry, till the tempest breaks in lightning and-thunder and drenching rain. in the midst of the brewing storm the dwarf saw only the spider in its web, illuminated by the unearthly glare of his own fear, and with it the frightened butterfly and the beautiful silver moth, that had never dreamed of danger. he shrank against the hangings, pressing backwards till he hurt his crooked back against the stone wall behind the tapestry, and could have shrieked with fear had not a greater fear made him dumb. he felt that the king was going to speak to him, and that he should not be able to answer him. a horrible thought suddenly seized him, and he fancied that the king had seen him slip the letter into don john's glove, and would ask for it, and take it, and read it--and that would be the end. thrills of torment ran through him, and he knew how it must feel to lie bound on the rack and to hear the executioner's hands on the wheel, ready to turn it again at the judge's word. he had seen a man tortured once, and remembered his face. he was sure that the king must have seen the letter, and that meant torment and death, and the king was angry also because the court had cheered don john. it was treason, and he knew it--yet it would have been certain death, too, to refuse to obey doña ana. there was destruction on either side, and he could not escape. don john had not read the writing yet, and if the king asked for it, he would probably give it to him without a thought, unopened, for he was far too simple to imagine that any one could accuse him of a treasonable thought, and too boyishly frank to fancy that his brother could be jealous of him--above all, he was too modest to suppose that there were thousands who would have risked their lives to set him on the throne of spain. he would therefore give the king the letter unopened, unless, believing it to be a love message from some foolish woman, he chose to tear it up unread. the wretched jester knew that either would mean his own disgrace and death, and he quivered with agony from head to foot. the lights moved up and down before his sight, the air grew heavier, the royal spider took gigantic proportions, and its motionless eyes were lurid with evil it was about to turn to him; he felt it turning already, and knew that it saw him in his corner, and meant to draw him to it, very slowly. in a moment he should fall to the floor a senseless heap, out of deadly fear--it would be well if his fear really killed him, but he could not even hope for that. his hands gripped the hangings on each side of him as he shrank and crushed his deformity against the wall. surely the king was taming his head. yes--he was right. he felt his short hair rising on his scalp and unearthly sounds screamed in his ears. the terrible eyes were upon him now, but he could not move hand or foot--if he had been nailed to the wall to die, he could not have been so helpless. philip eyed him with cold curiosity, for it was not an illusion, and he was really looking steadily at the dwarf. after a long time, his protruding lower lip moved two or three times before he spoke. the jester should have come forward at his first glance, to answer any question asked him. instead, his colourless lips were parted and tightly drawn back, and his teeth were chattering, do what he could to close them. the queen and don john followed the king's gaze and looked at the dwarf in surprise, for his agony was painfully visible. "he looks as if he were in an ague," observed philip, as though he were watching a sick dog. he had spoken at last, and the fear of silence was removed. an audible sigh of relief was heard in the room. "poor man!" exclaimed the queen. "i am afraid he is very ill!" "it is more like--" began don john, and then he checked himself, for he had been on the point of saying that the dwarfs fit looked more like physical fear than illness, for he had more than once seen men afraid of death; but he remembered the letter in his glove and thought the words might rouse philip's suspicions. "what was your serene highness about to say?" enquired the king, speaking coldly, and laying stress on the formal title which he had himself given don john the right to use. "as your majesty says, it is very like the chill of a fever," replied don john. but it was already passing, for adonis was not a natural coward, and the short conversation of the royal personages had broken the spell that held him, or had at least diminished its power. when he had entered the room he had been quite sure that no one except the princess had seen him slip the letter into don john's glove. that quieting belief began to return, his jaw became steady, and he relaxed his hold on the tapestries, and even advanced half a step towards the table. "and now he seems better," said the king, in evident surprise. "what sort of illness is this, fool? if you cannot explain it, you shall be sent to bed, and the physicians shall practise experiments upon your vile body, until they find out what your complaint is, for the advancement of their learning." "they would advance me more than their science, sire," answered adonis, in a voice that still quaked with past fear, "for they would send me to paradise at once and learn nothing that they wished to know." "that is probable," observed don john, thoughtfully, for he had little belief in medicine generally, and none at all in the present case. "may it please your majesty," said adonis, taking heart a little, "there are musk melons on the table." "well, what of that?" asked the king. "the sight of melons on your majesty's table almost kills me," answered the dwarf. "are you so fond of them that you cannot bear to see them? you shall have a dozen and be made to eat them all. that will cure your abominable greediness." "provided that the king had none himself, i would eat all the rest, until i died of a surfeit of melons like your majesty's great-grandsire of glorious and happy memory, the emperor maximilian." philip turned visibly pale, for he feared illness and death as few have feared either. "why has no one ever told me that?" he asked in a muffled and angry voice, looking round the room, so that the gentlemen and servants shrank back a little. no one answered his question, for though the fact was true, it had been long forgotten, and it would have been hard for any of those present to realize that the king would fear a danger so far removed. but the dwarf knew him well. "let there be no more melons," said philip, rising abruptly, and still pale. don john had suppressed a smile, and was taken unawares when the king rose, so that in standing up instantly, as was necessary according to the rules, his gloves slipped from his knees, where he had kept them during supper, to the floor, and a moment passed before he realized that they were not in his hand. he was still in his place, for the king had not yet left his own, being engaged in saying a latin grace in a low tone, he crossed himself devoutly, and an instant later don john stooped down and picked up what he had dropped. philip could not but notice the action, and his suspicions were instantly roused. "what have you found?" he asked sharply, his eyes fixing themselves again. "my gloves, sire. i dropped them." "and are gloves such precious possessions that don john of austria must stoop to pick them up himself?" adonis began to tremble again, and all his fear returned, so that he almost staggered against the wall. the queen looked on in surprise, for she had not been philip's wife many months. don john was unconcerned, and laughed in reply to the question. "it chances that after long campaigning these are the only new white gloves don john of austria possesses," he answered lightly. "let me see them," said the king, extending his hand, and smiling suddenly. with some deliberation don john presented one of the gloves to his brother, who took it and pretended to examine it critically, still smiling. he turned it over several times, while adonis looked on, gasping for breath, but unnoticed. "the other," said philip calmly. adonis tried to suppress a groan, and his eyes were fixed on don john's face. would he refuse? would he try to extract the letter from the glove under his brother's eyes? would he give it up? don john did none of those things, and there was not the least change of colour in his cheek. without any attempt at concealment he took the letter from its hiding-place, and held out the empty glove with his other hand. the king drew back, and his face grew very grey and shadowy with anger. "what have you in your other hand?" he asked in a voice indistinct with passion. "a lady's letter, sire," replied don john, unmoved. "give it to me at once!" "that, your majesty, is a request i will not grant to any gentleman in spain." he undid a button of his close-fitting doublet, thrust the letter into the opening and fastened the button again, before the king could speak. the dwarf's heart almost stood still with joy,--he could have crawled to don john's feet to kiss the dust from his shoes. the queen smiled nervously, between fear of the one man and admiration for the other. "your serene highness," answered philip, with a frightful stare, "is the first gentleman of spain who has disobeyed his sovereign." "may i be the last, your majesty," said don john, with a courtly gesture which showed well enough that he had no intention of changing his mind. the king turned from him coldly and spoke to adonis, who had almost got his courage back a second time. "you gave my message to his highness, fool?" he asked, controlling his voice, but not quite steadying it to a natural tone. "yes, sire." "go and tell don antonio perez to come at once to me in my own apartments." the dwarf bent till his crooked back was high above his head, and he stepped backwards towards the door through which the servants had entered and gone out. when he had disappeared, philip turned and, as if nothing had happened, gave his hand to the queen to lead her away with all the prescribed courtesy that was her due. the servants opened wide the door, two gentlemen placed themselves on each side of it, the chief gentleman in waiting went before, and the royal couple passed out, followed at a little distance by don john, who walked unconcernedly, swinging his right glove carelessly in his hand as he went. the four gentlemen walked last. in the hall beyond, mendoza was in waiting with the guards. a little while after they were all gone, adonis came back from his errand, with his rolling step, and searched for the other glove on the floor, where the king had dropped it. he found it there at once and hid it in his doubtlet. no one was in the room, for the servants had disappeared as soon as they could. the dwarf went quickly to don john's place, took a venetian goblet full of untasted wine that stood there and drank it at a draught. then he patted himself comfortably with his other hand and looked thoughtfully at the slices of musk melon that lay in the golden dish flanked by other dishes full of late grapes and pears. "god bless the emperor maximilian!" he said in a devout tone. "since he could not live for ever, it was a special grace of providence that his death should be by melons." then he went away again, and softly closed the door behind him, after looking back once more to be sure that no one was there after all, and perhaps, as people sometimes do on leaving a place where they have escaped a great danger, fixing its details unconsciously in his memory, with something almost akin to gratitude, as if the lifeless things had run the risk with them and thus earned their lasting friendship. thus every man who has been to sea knows how, when his vessel has been hove to in a storm for many hours, perhaps during more than one day, within a few miles of the same spot, the sea there grows familiar to him as a landscape to a landsman, so that when the force of the gale is broken at last and the sea subsides to a long swell, and the ship is wore to the wind and can lay her course once more, he looks astern at the grey water he has learned to know so well and feels that he should know it again if he passed that way, and he leaves it with a faint sensation of regret. so adonis, the jester, left the king's supper-room that night, devoutly thanking heaven that the emperor maximilian had died of eating too many melons more than a hundred and fifty years ago. meanwhile, the king had left the queen at the door of her apartments, and had dismissed don john in angry silence by a gesture only, as he went on to his study. and when there, he sent away his gentlemen and bade that no one should disturb him, and that only don antonio perez, the new favourite, should be admitted. the supper had scarcely lasted half an hour, and it was still early in the evening when he found himself alone and was able to reflect upon what had happened, and upon what it would be best to do to rid himself of his brother, the hero and idol of spain. he did not admit that don john of austria could be allowed to live on, unmolested, as if he had not openly refused to obey an express command and as if he were not secretly plotting to get possession of the throne. that was impossible. during more than two years, don john's popularity, not only with the people, but with the army, which was a much more serious matter, had been steadily growing; and with it and even faster than it, the king's jealousy and hatred had grown also, till it had become a matter of common discussion and jest among the soldiers when their officers were out of hearing. but though it was without real cause, it was not without apparent foundation. as philip slowly paced the floor of his most private room, with awkward, ungainly steps, stumbling more than once against a cushion that lay before his great armchair, he saw clearly before him the whole dimensions of that power to which he had unwillingly raised his brother. the time had been short, but the means used had been great, for they had been intended to be means of destruction, and the result was tremendous when they turned against him who used them. philip was old enough to have been don john's father, and he remembered how indifferent he had been to the graceful boy of twelve, whom they called juan quixada, when he had been brought to the old court at valladolid and acknowledged as a son of the emperor charles. though he was his brother, philip had not even granted him the privilege of living in the palace then, and had smiled at the idea that he should be addressed as "serene highness." even as a boy, he had been impatient to fight; and philip remembered how he was always practising with the sword or performing wild feats of skill and strength upon half-broken horses, except when he was kept to his books by doña magdalena quixada, the only person in the world whom he ever obeyed without question. every one had loved the boy from the first, and philip's jealousy had begun from that; for he, who was loved by none and feared by all, craved popularity and common affection, and was filled with bitter resentment against the world that obeyed him but refused him what he most desired. little more than ten years had passed since the boy had come, and he had neither died a natural death nor fallen in battle, and was grown up to young manhood, and was by far the greatest man in spain. he had been treated as an inferior, the people had set him up as a god. he had been sent out to command expeditions that be might fail and be disgraced; but he had shown deeper wisdom than his elders, and had come back covered with honour; and now he had been commanded to fight out the final battle of spain with the moriscoes, in the hope that he might die in the fight, since he could not be dishonoured, and instead he had returned in triumph, having utterly subdued the fiercest warriors in europe, to reap the ripe harvest of his military glory at an age when other men were in the leading-strings of war's school, and to be acclaimed a hero as well as a favourite by a court that could hardly raise a voice to cheer for its own king. ten years had done all that. ten more, or even five, might do the rest. the boy could not be without ambition, and there could be no ambition for him of which the object should be less than a throne. and yet no word had been breathed against him,--his young reputation was charmed, as his life was. in vain philip had bidden antonio perez and the princess of eboli use all their wits and skill to prove that he was plotting to seize the crown. they answered that he loved a girl of the court, mendoza's daughter, and that besides war, for war's sake, he cared for nothing in the world but dolores and his adopted mother. they spoke the truth, for they had reason to know it, having used every means in their power to find out whether he could be induced to quarrel with philip and enter upon a civil war, which could have had but one issue, since all spain would have risen to proclaim him king. he had been tempted by questions, and led into discussions in which it seemed certain that he must give them some hope. but they and their agents lost heart before the insuperable obstacle of the young prince's loyalty. it was simple, unaffected, and without exaggeration. he never drew his sword and kissed the blade, and swore by the blessed virgin to give his last drop of blood for his sovereign and his country. he never made solemn vows to accomplish ends that looked impossible. but when the charge sounded, he pressed his steel cap a little lower upon his brow, and settled himself in the saddle without any words and rode at death like the devil incarnate; and then men followed him, and the impossible was done, and that was all. or he could wait and watch, and manoeuvre for weeks, until he had his foe in his hand, with a patience that would have failed his officers and his men, had they not seen him always ready and cheerful, and fully sure that although he might fail twenty times to drive the foe into the pen, he should most certainly succeed in the end,--as he always did. philip paced the chamber in deep and angry thought. if at that moment any one had offered to rid him of his brother, the reward would have been ready, and worth a murderer's taking. but the king had long cherished the scheme of marrying don john to queen mary of scotland,--whose marriage with bothwell could easily be annulled--in order that his presumptuous ambition might be satisfied, and at the same time that he might make of his new kingdom a powerful ally of spain against elizabeth of england. it was for this reason that he had long determined to prevent his brother's marriage with maria dolores de mendoza. perez and doña ana de la cerda, on the other hand, feared that if don john were allowed to marry the girl he so devotedly loved, he would forget everything for her, give up campaigning, and settle to the insignificance of a thoroughly happy man. for they knew the world well from their own point of view. happiness is often like sadness, for it paralyzes those to whose lot it falls; but pain and danger rouse man's strength of mind and body. yet though the king and his treacherous favourite had diametrically opposite intentions, a similar thought had crossed the minds of both, even before don john had ridden up to the palace gate late on that afternoon, from his last camping ground outside the city walls. both had reasoned that whoever was to influence a man so straightforward and fearless must have in his power and keeping the person for whom don john would make the greatest sacrifice of his life; and that person, as both knew, was dolores herself. yet when antonio perez entered philip's study, neither had guessed the other's thought. * * * * * chapter viii the court had been still at supper when adonis had summoned don antonio perez to the king, and the secretary, as he was usually called, had been obliged to excuse his sudden departure by explaining that the king had sent for him unexpectedly. he was not even able to exchange a word with doña ana, who was seated at another of the three long tables and at some distance from him. she understood, however, and looked after him anxiously. his leaving was not signal for the others, but it caused a little stir which unhinged the solemn formality of the supper. the ambassador of the holy roman empire presently protested that he was suffering from an unbearable headache, and the princess of eboli, next to whom he was seated, begged him not to stand upon ceremony, since perez was gone from the room, but to order his coach at once; she found it hot, she said, and would be glad to escape. the two rose together, and others followed their example, until the few who would have stayed longer were constrained to imitate the majority. when mendoza, relieved at last from his duty, went towards the supper-room to take the place that was kept for him at one of the tables, he met doña ana in the private corridor through which the officers and ladies of the household passed to the state apartments. he stood still, surprised to see her there. "the supper is over," she said, stopping also, and trying to scrutinize the hard old face by the dim light of the lamps. "may i have a word with you, general? let us walk together to your apartments." "it is far, madam," observed mendoza, who suspected at once that she wished to see dolores. "i shall be glad to walk a little, and breathe the air," she answered. "your corridor has arches open to the air, i remember." she began to walk, and he was obliged to accompany her. "yes," she continued indifferently, "we have had such changeable weather to-day! this morning it almost snowed, then it rained, then it, began to freeze, and now it feels like summer! i hope dolores has not taken cold? is she ill? she was not at court before supper." "the weather is indeed very changeable," replied the general, who did not know what to say, and considered it beneath his dignity to lie except by order of the king. "yes--yes, i was saying so, was i not? but dolores--is she ill? please tell me." the princess spoke almost anxiously. "no, madam, my daughters are well, so far as i know." "but then, my dear general, it is strange that you should not have sent an excuse for dolores' not appearing. that is the rule, you know. may i ask why you ventured to break it?" her tone grew harder by degrees. "it was very sudden," said mendoza, trying to put her off. "i hope that your grace will excuse my daughter." "what was sudden?" enquired doña ana coldly. "you say she was not taken ill." "her--her not coming to court." mendoza hesitated and pulled at his grey beard as they went along. "she fully intended to come," he added, with perfect truth. doña ana walked more slowly, glancing sideways at his face, though she could hardly see it except when they passed by a lamp, for he was very tall, and she was short, though exquisitely proportioned. "i do not understand," she said, in a clear, metallic voice. "i have a right to an explanation, for it is quite impossible to give the ladies of the court who live in the palace full liberty to attend upon the queen or not, as they please. you will be singularly fortunate if don antonio perez does not mention the matter to the king." mendoza was silent, but the words had their effect upon him, and a very unpleasant one, for they contained a threat. "you see," continued the princess, pausing as they reached a flight of steps which they would have to ascend, "every one acknowledges the importance of your services, and that you have been very poorly rewarded for them. but that is in a degree your own fault, for you have refused to make friends when you might, and you have little interest with the king." "i know it," said the old soldier, rather bitterly. "princess," he continued, without giving her time to say more, "this is a private matter, which concerns only me and my daughter. i entreat you to overlook the irregularity and not to question me further. i will serve you in any way in my power--" "you cannot serve me in any way," answered doña ana cruelly. "i am trying to help you," she added, with a sudden change of tone. "you see, my dear general, you are no longer young. at your age, with your name and your past services, you should have been a grandee and a rich man. you have thrown away your opportunities of advancement, and you have contented yourself with an office which is highly honourable--but poorly paid, is it not? and there are younger men who court it for the honour alone, and who are willing to be served by their friends." "who is my successor?" asked mendoza, bravely controlling his voice though he felt that he was ruined. the skilful and cruel woman began to mount the steps in silence, in order to let him suffer a few moments, before she answered. reaching the top, she spoke, and her voice was soft and kind. "no one," she answered, "and there is nothing to prevent you from keeping your post as long as you like, even if you become infirm and have to appoint a deputy--but if there were any serious cause of complaint, like this extraordinary behaviour of dolores--why, perhaps--" she paused to give her words weight, for she knew their value. "madam," said mendoza, "the matter i keep from you does not touch my honour, and you may know it, so far as that is concerned. but it is one of which i entreat you not to force me to speak." doña ana softly passed her arm through his. "i am not used to walking so fast," she said, by way of explanation. "but, my dear mendoza," she went on, pressing his arm a little, "you do not think that i shall let what you tell me go further and reach any one else--do you? how can i be of any use to you, if you have no confidence in me? are we not relatives? you must treat me as i treat you." mendoza wished that he could. "madam," he said almost roughly, "i have shut my daughter up in her own room and bolted the door, and to-morrow i intend to send her to a convent, and there she shall stay until she changes her mind, for i will not change mine" "oh!" ejaculated doña ana, with a long intonation, as if grasping the position of affairs by degrees. "i understand," she said, after a long time. "but then you and i are of the same opinion, my dear friend. let us talk about this." mendoza did not wish to talk of the matter at all, and said nothing, as they slowly advanced. they had at last reached the passage that ended at his door, and he slackened his pace still more, obliging his companion, whose arm was still in his, to keep pace with him. the moonlight no longer shone in straight through the open embrasures, and there was a dim twilight in the corridor. "you do not wish dolores to marry don john of austria, then," said the princess presently, in very low tones. "then the king is on your side, and so am i. but i should like to know your reason for objecting to such a very great marriage." "simple enough, madam. whenever it should please his majesty's policy to marry his brother to a royal personage, such as queen mary of scotland, the first marriage would be proved null and void, because the king would command that it should be so, and my daughter would be a dishonoured woman, fit for nothing but a convent." "do you call that dishonour?" asked the princess thoughtfully. "even if that happened, you know that don john would probably not abandon dolores. he would keep her near him--and provide for her generously--" "madam!" cried the brave old soldier, interrupting her in sudden and generous anger, "neither man nor woman shall tell me that my daughter could ever fall to that!" she saw that she had made a mistake, and pressed his arm soothingly. "pray, do not be angry with me, my dear friend. i was thinking what the world would say--no, let me speak! i am quite of your opinion that dolores should be kept from seeing don john, even by quiet force if necessary, for they will certainly be married at the very first opportunity they can find. but you cannot do such things violently, you know. you will make a scandal. you cannot take your daughter away from court suddenly and shut her up in a convent without doing her a great injury. do you not see that? people will not understand that you will not let her marry don john--i mean that most people would find it hard to believe. yes, the world is bad, i know; what can one do? the world would say--promise me that you will not be angry, dear general! you can guess what the world would say."' "i see--i see!" exclaimed the old man, in sudden terror for his daughter's good name. "how wise you are!" "yes," answered doña ana, stopping at ten paces from the door, "i am wise, for i am obliged to be. now, if instead of locking dolores into her room two or three hours ago, you had come to me, and told me the truth, and put her under my protection, for our common good, i would have made it quite impossible for her to exchange a word with don john, and i would have taken such good care of her that instead of gossiping about her, the world would have said that she was high in favour, and would have begun to pay court to her. you know that i have the power to do that." "how very wise you are!" exclaimed mendoza again, with more emphasis. "very well. will you let me take her with me now, my dear friend? i will console her a little, for i daresay she has been crying all alone in her room, poor girl, and i can keep her with me till don john goes to villagarcia. then we shall see." old mendoza was a very simple-hearted man, as brave men often are, and a singularly spotless life spent chiefly in war and austere devotion had left him more than ignorant of the ways of the world. he had few friends, chiefly old comrades of his own age who did not live in the palace, and he detested gossip. had he known what the woman was with whom he was speaking, he would have risked dolores' life rather than give her into the keeping of doña ana. but to him, the latter was simply the wife of old don ruy gomez de silva, the minister of state, and she was the head of the queen's household. no one would have thought of repeating the story of a court intrigue to mendoza, but it was also true that every one feared doña ana, whose power was boundless, and no one wished to be heard speaking ill of her. to him, therefore, her proposition seemed both wise and kind. "i am very grateful," he said, with some emotion, for he believed that she was helping him to save his fortune and his honour, as was perhaps really the case, though she would have helped him to lose both with equally persuasive skill could his ruin have served her. "will you come in with me, princess?" he asked, beginning to move towards the door. "yes. take me to her room and leave me with her." "indeed, i would rather not see her myself this evening," said mendoza, feeling his anger still not very far from the surface. "you will be able to speak more wisely than i should." "i daresay," answered doña ana thoughtfully. "if you went with me to her, there might be angry words again, and that would make it much harder for me. if you will leave me at the door of her rooms, and then go away, i will promise to manage the rest. you are not sorry that you have told me, now, are you, my dear friend?" "i am most grateful to you. i shall do all i can to be of service to you, even though you said that it was not in my power to serve you." "i was annoyed," said doña ana sweetly. "i did not mean it--please forgive me." they reached the door, and as she withdrew her hand from his arm, he took it and ceremoniously kissed her gloved fingers, while she smiled graciously. then he knocked three times, and presently the shuffling of eudaldo's slippers was heard within, and the old servant opened sleepily. on seeing the princess enter first, he stiffened himself in a military fashion, for he had been a soldier and had fought under mendoza when both were younger. "eudaldo," said the general, in the stern tone he always used when giving orders, "her excellency the princess of eboli will take doña dolores to her own apartments this evening. tell the maid to follow later with whatever my daughter needs, and do you accompany the ladies with a candle." but at this doña ana protested strongly. there was moonlight, there were lamps, there was light everywhere, she said. she needed no one. mendoza, who had no man-servant in the house but eudaldo, and eked out his meagre establishment by making use of his halberdiers when he needed any one, yielded after very little persuasion. "open the door of my daughter's apartments," he said to eudaldo. "madam," he said, turning to the princess, "i have the honour to wish you good-night. i am your grace's most obedient servant. i must return to my duty." "good-night, my dear friend," answered doña ana, nodding graciously. mendoza bowed low, and went out again, eudaldo closing the door behind him. he would not be at liberty until the last of the grandees had gone home, and the time he had consumed in accompanying the princess was just what he could have spared for his supper. she gave a short sigh of relief as she heard his spurred heels and long sword on the stone pavement. he was gone, leaving dolores in her power, and she meant to use that power to the utmost. eudaldo shuffled silently across the hall, to the other door, and she followed him. he drew the bolt. "wait here," she said quietly. "i wish to see doña dolores alone." "her ladyship is in the farther room, excellency," said the servant, bowing and standing back. she entered and closed the door, and eudaldo returned to his big chair, to doze until she should come out. she had not taken two steps in the dim room, when a shadow flitted between her and the lamp, and it was almost instantly extinguished. she uttered an exclamation of surprise and stood still. anywhere save in mendoza's house, she would have run back and tried to open the door as quickly as possible, in fear of her life, for she had many enemies, and was constantly on her guard. but she guessed that the shadowy figure she had seen was dolores. she spoke, without hesitation, in a gentle voice. "dolores! are you there?" she asked. a moment later she felt a small hand on her arm. "who is it?" asked a whisper, which might have come from dolores' lips for all doña ana could tell. she had forgotten the existence of inez, whom she had rarely seen, and never noticed, though she knew that mendoza had a blind daughter. "it is i--the princess of eboli," she answered in the same gentle tone. "hush! whisper to me." "your father has gone back to his duty, my dear--you need not be afraid." "yes, but eudaldo is outside--he hears everything when he is not asleep. what is it, princess? why are you here?" "i wish to talk with you a little," replied doña ana, whispering now, to please the girl. "can we not get a light? why did you put out the lamp? i thought you were in another room." "i was frightened. i did not know who you were. we can talk in the dark, if you do not mind. i will lead you to a chair. i know just where everything is in this room." the princess suffered herself to be led a few steps, and presently she felt herself gently pushed into a seat. she was surprised, but realizing the girl's fear of her father, she thought it best to humour her. so far inez had said nothing that could lead her visitor to suppose that she was not dolores. intimate as the devoted sisters were, inez knew almost as much of the princess as dolores herself; the two girls were of the same height, and so long as the conversation was carried on in whispers, there was no possibility of detection by speech alone. the quick-witted blind girl reflected that it was strange if doña ana had not seen dolores, who must have been with the court the whole evening, and she feared some harm. that being the case, her first impulse was to help her sister if possible, but so long as she was a prisoner in dolores' place, she could do nothing, and she resolved that the princess should help her to escape. doña ana began to speak quickly and fluently in the dark. she said that she knew the girl's position, and had long known how tenderly she loved don john of austria, and was loved by him. she sympathized deeply with them both, and meant to do all in her power to help them. then she told how she had missed dolores at court that night. inez started involuntarily and drew her breath quickly, but doña ana thought it natural that dolores should give some expression to the disappointment she must have felt at being shut up a prisoner on such an occasion, when all the court was assembled to greet the man she loved. then the princess went on to tell how she had met mendoza and had come with him, and how with great difficulty she had learned the truth, and had undertaken dolores' care for a few days; and how mendoza had been satisfied, never suspecting that she really sympathized with the lovers. that was a state secret, but of course dolores must know it. the king privately desired the marriage, she said, because he was jealous of his brother and wished that he would tire of winning battles and live quietly, as happy men do. "don john will tell you, when you see him," she continued. "i sent him two letters this evening. the first he burned unopened, because he thought it was a love letter, but he has read the second by this time. he had it before supper." "what did you write to him?" asked inez, whispering low. "he will tell you. the substance was this: if he would only be prudent, and consent to wait two days, and not attempt to see you alone, which would make a scandal, and injure you, too, if any one knew it, the king would arrange everything at his own pleasure, and your father would give his consent. you have not seen don john since he arrived, have you?" she asked the question anxiously. "oh no!" answered the blind girl, with conviction. "i have not seen him. i wish to heaven i had!" "i am glad of that," whispered the princess. "but if you will come with me to my apartments, and stay with me till matters are arranged--well--i will not promise, because it might be dangerous, but perhaps you may see him for a moment." "really? do you think that is possible?" in the dark inez was smiling sadly. "perhaps. he might come to see me, for instance, or my husband, and i could leave you together a moment." "that would be heaven!" and the whisper came from the heart. "then come with me now, my dear, and i will do my best," answered the princess. "indeed i will! but will you wait one moment while i dress? i am in my old frock--it is hardly fit to be seen." this was quite true; but inez had reflected that dressed as she was she could not pass eudaldo and be taken by him for her sister, even with a hood over her head. the clothes dolores had worn before putting on her court dress were in her room, and dolores' hood was there, too. before the princess could answer, inez was gone, closing the door of the bedroom behind her. doña ana, a little taken by surprise again, was fain to wait where she was, in the dark, at the risk of hurting herself against the furniture. then it struck her that dolores must be dressing in the dark, for no light had come from the door as it was opened and shut. she remembered the blind sister then, and she wondered idly whether those who lived continually with the blind learned from them to move easily in the dark and to do everything without a light. the question did not interest her much, but while she was thinking of it the door opened again. a skirt and a bodice are soon changed. in a moment she felt her hand taken, and she rose to her feet. "i am ready, princess. i will open the door if you will come with me. i have covered my head and face," she added carelessly, though always whispering, "because i am afraid of the night air." "i was going to advise you to do it in any case, my dear. it is just as well that neither of us should be recognized by any one in the corridors so far from my apartments." the door opened and let in what seemed a flood of light by comparison with the darkness. the princess went forward, and eudaldo got upon his legs as quickly as he could to let the two ladies out, without looking at them as they crossed the hall. inez followed her companion's footfall exactly, keeping one step behind her by ear, and just pausing before passing out. the old servant saw dolores' dress and dolores' hood, which he expected to see, and no more suspected anything than he had when, as he supposed, inez, had gone out earlier. but inez herself had a far more difficult part to perform than her sister's. dolores had gone out alone, and no one had watched her beyond the door, and dolores had eyes, and could easily enough pretend that she could not see. it was another matter to be blind and to play at seeing, with a clever woman like the princess at one's elbow, ready to detect the slightest hesitation. besides, though she had got out of the predicament in which it had been necessary to place her, it was quite impossible to foresee what might happen when the princess discovered that she had been deceived, and that catastrophe must happen sooner or later, and might occur at any moment. the princess walked quickly, too, with a gliding, noiseless step that was hard to follow. fortunately inez was expected to keep to the left of a superior like her companion, and was accustomed to taking that side when she went anywhere alone in the palace. that made it easier, but trouble might come at one of the short flights of steps down and up which they would have to pass to reach the princess's apartments. and then, once there, discovery must come, to a certainty, and then, she knew not what. she had not run the risk for the sake of being shut up again. she had got out by a trick in order to help her sister, if she could find her, and in order to be at liberty the first thing necessary was to elude her companion. to go to the door of her apartments would be fatal, but she had not had time to think what she should do. she thought now, with all the concentration of her ingenuity. one chance presented itself to her mind at once. they most pass the pillar behind which was the concealed entrance to the moorish gallery above the throne room, and it was not at all likely that doña ana should know of its existence, for she never came to that part of the palace, and if inez lagged a little way behind, before they reached the spot, she could slip noiselessly behind the pillar and disappear. she could always trust herself not to attract attention when she had to open and shut a door. the princess spoke rarely, making little remarks now and then that hardly required an answer, but to which inez answered in monosyllables, speaking in a low voice through the thick veil she had drawn over her mantle under her hood, on pretence of fearing the cold. she thought it a little safer to speak aloud in that way, lest her companion should wonder at her total silence. she knew exactly where she was, for she touched each corner as she passed, and counted her steps between one well-known point and the next, and she allowed the princess to gain a little as they neared the last turning before reaching the place where she meant to make the attempt. she hoped in this way, by walking quite noiselessly, and then stopping suddenly just before she reached the pillar, to gain half a dozen paces, and the princess would take three more before she stopped also. inez had noticed that most people take at least three steps before they stop, if any one calls them suddenly when they are walking fast. it seems to need as much to balance the body when its speed is checked. she noticed everything that could be heard. she grew nervous. it seemed to her that her companion was walking more slowly, as if not wishing to leave her any distance behind. she quickened her own pace again, fearing that she had excited suspicion. then she heard the princess stop suddenly, and she had no choice but to do the same. her heart began to beat painfully, as she saw her chance slipping from her. she waited for doña ana to speak, wondering what was the matter. "i have mistaken the way," said the princess, in a tone of annoyance. "i do not know where i am. we had better go back and turn down the main staircase, even if we meet some one. you see, i never come to this part of the palace." "i think we are on the right corridor," said inez nervously. "let me go as far as the corner. there is a light there, and i can tell you in a moment." in her anxiety to seem to see, she had forgotten for the moment to muffle her voice in her veil. they went on rapidly, and the doña ana did what most people do when a companion offers to examine the way,--she stood still a moment and hesitated, looking after the girl, and then followed her with the slow step with which a person walks who is certain of having to turn back. inez walked lightly to the corner, hardly touching the wall, turned by the corner, and was out of sight in a moment. the princess walked faster, for though she believed that dolores trusted her, it seemed foolish to give the girl a chance. she reached the corner, where there was a lamp,--and she saw that the dim corridor was empty to the very end. * * * * * chapter ix the princess was far from suspecting, even then, that she had been deceived about her companion's identity as well as tricked at the last, when inez escaped from her. she would have laughed at the idea that any blind person could have moved as confidently as inez, or could afterwards have run the length of the next corridor in what had seemed but an instant, for she did not know of the niche behind the pillar, and there were pilasters all along, built into the wall. the construction of the high, springing vault that covered the whole throne room required them for its solidity, and only the one under the centre of the arch was built as a detached pillar, in order to give access to the gallery. seen from either end of the passage, it looked exactly like the rest, and few persons would have noticed that it differed from them, even in passing it. doña ana stood looking in the direction she supposed the girl to have taken. an angry flush rose in her cheek, she bit her lips till they almost bled, and at last she stamped once before she turned away, so that her little slipper sent a sharp echo along the corridor. pursuit was out of the question, of course, though she could run like a deer; some one might meet her at any turning, and in an hour the whole palace would know that she had been seen running at full speed after some unknown person. it would be bad enough if she were recognized walking alone at night at a distance from her own apartments. she drew her veil over her face so closely that she could hardly see her way, and began to retrace her steps towards the principal staircase, pondering as to what she should say to mendoza when he discovered that she had allowed his daughter to escape. she was a woman of manlike intelligence and not easily unbalanced by a single reverse, however, and before she had gone far her mind began to work clearly. dolores, she reasoned, would do one of two things. she would either go straight to don john's apartments, wait for him, and then tell him her story, in the hope that he would protect her, or she would go to the duchess alvarez and seek protection there. under no circumstances would she go down to the throne room without her court dress, for her mere appearance there, dressed as she was, would produce the most profound astonishment, and could do her no possible good. and as for her going to the duchess, that was impossible, too. if she had run away from doña ana, she had done so because the idea of not seeing don john for two days was intolerable, and she meant to try and see him at once. the duchess was in all probability with the queen, in the latter's private apartments, as dolores would know. on the whole, it seemed far more likely that she had done the rashest thing that had suggested itself to her, and had gone directly to the man she loved,--a man powerful enough to protect her against all comers, at the present time, and quite capable of facing even the king's displeasure. but the whole object of doña ana's manoeuvre had been to get possession of dolores' person, as a means of strongly influencing don john's actions, in order thus to lead him into a false position from which he should not be able to escape without a serious quarrel with king philip, which would be the first step towards the execution of the plot elaborated by doña ana and perez together. anything which could produce an open difference between the brothers would serve to produce two parties in spain, of which the one that would take don john's side would be by far the stronger. his power would be suddenly much increased, an organized agitation would be made throughout the country to set him on the throne, and his popularity, like cæsar's, would grow still more, when he refused the crown, as he would most certainly do. but just then king philip would die suddenly of a fever, or a cold, or an indigestion, as the conspirators thought best. there would be no direct male heir to the throne but don john himself, the acknowledged son of the emperor charles; and even don john would then be made to see that he could only serve his country by ruling it, since it cried out for his rule and would have no other. it was a hard and dangerous thing to lead king philip; it would be an easy matter to direct king john. an honest and unsuspicious soldier would be but as a child in such skilful hands. doña ana and perez would rule spain as they pleased, and by and by don john should be chosen emperor also by the electors of the holy roman empire, and the conspirators would rule the world, as charles the fifth had ruled it. there was no limit to their ambition, and no scruple would stand between them and any crime, and the stake was high and worth many risks. the princess walked slowly, weighing in the balance all there was to lose or gain. when she reached the head of the main staircase, she had not yet altogether decided how to act, and lest she should meet some one she returned, and walked up and down the lonely corridor nearly a quarter of an hour, in deep thought. suddenly a plan of action flashed upon her, and she went quickly on her way, to act at once. don john, meanwhile, had read the letter she had sent him by the dwarf jester. when the king had retired into his own apartments, don john found himself unexpectedly alone. mendoza and the guard had filed into the antechamber, the gentlemen in waiting, being temporarily at liberty, went to the room leading out of it on one side, which was appropriated to their use. the sentries were set at the king's door, and mendoza marched his halberdiers out again and off to their quarters, while the servants disappeared, and the hero of the day was left to himself. he smiled at his own surprise, recollecting that he should have ordered his own attendants to be in waiting after the supper, whereas he had dismissed them until midnight. he turned on his heel and walked away to find a quiet place where he might read the paper which had suddenly become of such importance, and paused at a moorish niche, where philip had caused a sacred picture to be placed, and before which a hanging silver lamp shed a clear light. the small sheet of paper contained but little writing. there were half a dozen sentences in a clear hand, without any signature--it was what has since then come to be called an anonymous letter. but it contained neither any threat, nor any evidence of spite; it set forth in plain language that if, as the writer supposed, don john wished to marry dolores de mendoza, it was as necessary for her personal safety as for the accomplishment of his desires, that he should make no attempt to see her for at least two days, and that, if he would accept this advice, he should have the support of every noble and minister at court, including the very highest, with the certainty that no further hindrance would be set in his way; it added that the letter he had burned had contained the same words, and that the two flowers had been intended to serve as a signal which it was now too late to use. it would be sufficient if he told the bearer of the present letter that he agreed to take the advice it contained. his assent in that way would, of course, be taken by the writer to mean that he promised, on his word. that was all. he did not like the last sentence, for it placed him in an awkward position, as a man of honour, since he had already seen dolores, and therefore could not under any circumstances agree to take advice contrary to which he had already acted. the most he could now say to the dwarf would be that he could give no answer and would act as carefully as possible. for the rest, the letter contained nothing treasonable, and was not at all what he had expected and believed it to be. it appeared to be written in a friendly spirit, and with the exception of his own brother and mendoza, he was not aware that he had an enemy in spain, in which he was almost right. nevertheless, bold and frank as he was by nature, he knew enough of real warfare to distrust appearances. the writer was attached to the king's person, or the letter might have been composed, and even written in an assumed hand, by the king himself, for philip was not above using the methods of a common conspirator. the limitation of time set upon his prudence was strange, too. if he had not seen her and agreed to the terms, he would have supposed that dolores was being kept out of his way during those two days, whereas in that time it would be possible to send her very far from madrid, or to place her secretly in a convent where it would be impossible to find her. it flashed upon him that in shutting up dolores that evening mendoza had been obeying the king's secret orders, as well as in telling her that she was to be taken to las huelgas at dawn. no one but philip could have written the letter--only the dwarf's fear of philip's displeasure could have made him so anxious that it should be read at once. it was all as clear as daylight now, and the king and mendoza were acting together. the first letter had been brought by a woman, who must have got out through the window of the study, which was so low that she could almost have stepped from it to the terrace without springing. she had watched until the officers and the servants had gone out and the way was clear. nothing could have been simpler or easier. he would have burnt the letter at the lamp before the picture, had he not feared that some one might see him do it, and he folded it again and thrust it back under his doublet. his face was grave as he turned away, for the position, as he understood it, was a very desperate one. he had meant to send dolores to villagarcia, but it was almost impossible that such a matter should remain unknown, and in the face of the king's personal opposition, it would probably ruin quixada and his wife. he, on his side, might send dolores to a convent, under an assumed name, and take her out again before she was found, and marry her. but that would be hard, too, for no places were more directly under the sovereign's control than convents and monasteries. somewhere she must go, for she could not possibly remain concealed in his study more than three or four hours. suddenly he fancied that she might be in danger even now. the woman who had brought the first letter had of course left the window unfastened. she, or the king, or any one, might get in by that way, and dolores was alone. they might have taken her away already. he cursed himself for not having looked to see that the window was bolted. the man who had won great battles felt a chill at his heart, and he walked at the best of his speed, careless whether he met any one or not. but no place is more deserted than the more distant parts of a royal palace when there is a great assembly in the state apartments. he met no one on his way, and entered his own door alone. ten minutes had not elapsed since the king had left the supper-room, and it was almost at that moment that doña ana met mendoza. dolores started to her feet as she heard his step in the next room and then the key in the lock, and as he entered her hands clasped themselves round his neck, and her eyes looked into his. he was very pale when he saw her at last, for the belief that she had been stolen away had grown with his speed, till it was an intolerable certainty. "what is it? what has happened?" she cried anxiously. "why are you so white? are you ill?" "i was frightened," he said simply. "i was afraid you were gone. look here!" he led her to the window, and drew the curtain to one side. the cool air rushed in, for the bolts were unfastened, and the window was ajar. he closed it and fastened it securely, and they both came back. "the woman got out that way," he said, in explanation. "i understand it all now--and some one might have come back." he told her quietly what had happened, and showed her the letter, which she read slowly to the end before she gave it back to him. "then the other was not a love letter, after all," she said, with a little laugh that had more of relief in it than amusement, though she did not know it herself. "no," he answered gravely. "i wish i had read it. i should at least have shut the window before leaving you!" careless of any danger to herself, she sat looking up into his anxious face, her clasped hands lying in his and quite covered by them, as he stood beside her. there was not a trace of fear in her own face, nor indeed of any feeling but perfect love and confidence. under the gaze of her deep grey eyes his expression relaxed for a moment, and grew like hers, so that it would have been hard to say which trusted the other the more. "what does anything matter, since we are together now?" she asked. "i am with you, can anything happen to me?" "not while i am alive," he answered, but the look of anxiety for her returned at once. "you cannot stay here." "no--you will take me away. i am ready--" "i do not mean that. you cannot stay in this room, nor in my apartments. the king is coming here in a few minutes. i cannot tell what he may do--he may insist on seeing whether any one is here, listening, for he is very suspicious, and he only comes here because he does not even trust his own apartments. he may wish to open the door--" "i will lock it on the inside. you can say that it is locked, and that you have not the key. if he calls men to open it, i will escape by the window, and hide in the old sentry-box. he will not stay talking with you till morning!" she laughed, and he saw that she was right, simply because there was no other place where she could be even as safe as where she was. he slowly nodded as she spoke. "you see," she cried, with another little laugh of happy satisfaction, "you must keep me here whether you will or not! you are really afraid--frightened like a boy! you! how men would stare if they could see you afraid!" "it is true," he answered, with a faint smile. "but i will give you courage!" she said. "the king cannot come yet. perez can only have just gone to him, you say. they will talk at least half an hour, and it is very likely that perez will persuade him not to come at all, because he is angry with you. perhaps perez will come instead, and he will be very smooth and flattering, and bring messages of reconciliation, and beg to make peace. he is very clever, but i do not like his face. he makes me think of a beautiful black fox! even if the king comes himself, we have more than half an hour. you can stay a little while with me--then go into your room and sit down and read, as if you were waiting for him. you can read my letter over, and i will sit here and say all the things i wrote, over and over again, and you will know that i am saying them--it will be almost as if i were with you, and could say them quite close to you--like this--i love you!" she had drawn his hand gently down to her while she was speaking, and she whispered the last words into his ear with a delicate little kiss that sent a thrill straight to his heart. "you are not afraid any more now, are you?" she asked, as she let him go, and he straightened himself suddenly as a man drawing back from something he both fears and loves. he opened and shut his hands quickly two or three times, as some nervous men do, as if trying to shake them clear from a spell, or an influence. then he began to walk up and down, talking to her. "i am at my wit's end," he said, speaking fast and not looking at her face, as he turned and turned again. "i cannot send you to villagarcia--there are things that neither you nor i could do, even for each other, things you would not have me do for you, dolores. it would be ruin and disgrace to my adopted mother and quixada--it might be worse, for the king can call anything he pleases high treason. it is impossible to take you there without some one knowing it--can i carry you in my arms? there are grooms, coachmen, servants, who will tell anything under examination--under torture! how can i send you there?" "i would not go," answered dolores quietly. "i cannot send you to a convent, either," he went on, for he had taken her answer for granted, as lovers do who trust each other. "you would be found in a day, for the king knows everything. there is only one place, where i am master--" he stopped short, and grew very pale again, looking at the wall, but seeing something very far away. "where?" asked dolores. "take me there! oh, take me where you are master--where there is no king but you, where we can be together all our lives, and no one can come between us!" he stood motionless, staring at the wall, contemplating in amazement the vastness of the temptation that arose before him. dolores could not understand, but she did what a loving women does when the man she loves seems to be in a great distress. she came and stood beside him, passing one arm through his and pressing it tenderly, without a word. there are times when a man needs only that to comfort him and give him strength. but even a woman does not always know them. very slowly he turned to her, almost as if he were trying to resist her eyes and could not. he took his arm from hers and his hands framed her face softly, and pushed the gold hair gently back on her forehead. but she grew frightened by degrees, for there was a look in his eyes she had never seen there, and that had never been in them before, neither in love nor in battle. his hands were quite cold, and his face was like a beautiful marble, but there was an evil something in it, as in a fallen angel's, a defiance of god, an irresistible strength to do harm, a terror such as no man would dare to meet. "you are worth it," he said in a tone so different from his natural voice that dolores started, and would have drawn back from him, but could not, for his hands held her, shaking a little fiercely. "what? what is it?" she asked, growing more and more frightened--half believing that he was going mad. "you are worth it," he repeated. "i tell you, you are worth that, and much more, and the world, and all the world holds for me, and all earth and heaven besides. you do not know how i love you--you can never guess--" her eyes grew tender again, and her hands went up and pressed his that still framed her face. "as i love you--dear love!" she answered, wondering, but happy. "no--not now. i love you more. you cannot guess--you shall see what i will do for your sake, and then you will understand." he uttered an incoherent exclamation, and his eyes dazzled her as he seized her in his arms and pressed her to him so that she could have cried out. and suddenly he kissed her, roughly, almost cruelly, as if he meant to hurt her, and knew that he could. she struggled in his arms, in an unknown terror of him, and her senses reeled. then all at once, he let her go, and turned from her quickly, leaving her half fainting, so that she leaned against the wall and pressed her cheek to the rough hanging. she felt a storm of tears, that she could not understand, rising in her heart and eyes and throat. he had crossed the room, getting as far as he could from her, and stood there, turned to the wall, his arms bent against it and his face buried in his sleeve. he breathed hard, and spoke as if to himself in broken words. "worth it? my god! what are you not worth?" there was such a ring of agony and struggling in his voice that dolores forgot herself and stood up listening, suddenly filled with anxiety for him again. he was surely going mad. she would have gone to him again, forgetting her terror that was barely past, the woman's instinct to help the suffering man overruling everything else. it was for his sake that she stayed where she was, lest if she touched him he should lose his senses altogether. "oh, there is one place, where i am master and lord!" he was saying. "there is one thing to do--one thing--" "what is the thing?" she asked very gently. "why are you suffering so? where is the place?" he turned suddenly, as he would have turned in his saddle in battle at a trumpet call, straight and strong, with fixed eyes and set lips, that spoke deliberately. "there is granada," he said. "do you understand now?" "no," she answered timidly. "i do not understand. granada? why there? it is so far away--" he laughed harshly. "you do not understand? yes, granada is far away--far enough to be another kingdom--so far that john of austria is master there--so far that with his army at his back he can be not only its master, but its king? do you understand now? do you see what i will do for your sake?" he made one step towards her, and she was very white. "i will take you, and go back to-morrow. do you think the moors are not men, because i beat them? i tell you that if i set up my standard in granada and call them to me, they will follow me--if i lead them to the gate of madrid. yes--and so will more than half the spanish army, if i will! but i do not want that--it is not the kingdom--what should i care for that? could i not have taken it and held it? it is for you, dear love--for your sake only--that we may have a world of our own--a kingdom in which you are queen! let there be war--why should i care? i will set the world ablaze and let it burn to its own ashes, but i will not let them take you from me, neither now, nor ever, while i am alive!" he came quickly towards her now, and she could not draw back, for the wall was behind her. but she thrust out her hands against him to keep him off. the gesture stopped him, just when he would have taken her in his arms. "no, no!" she cried vehemently. "you must not say such things, you must not think such thoughts! you are beside yourself, and you will drive me mad, too!" "but it will be so easy--you shall see--" she cut his words short. "it must not be easy, it must not be possible, it must not be at all! do you believe that i love you and that i would let you do such deeds? oh, no! that would not be love at all--it would be hate, it would be treason to you, and worse treason than yours against your brother!" the fierce light was sinking from his face. he had folded his arms and stood very still, listening to her. "you!" she cried, with rising energy. "you, the brave soldier, the spotless man, the very soul of honour made flesh and blood! you, who have but just come back in triumph from fighting your king's enemies--you against whom no living being has ever dared to breathe a slander or a slighting word. oh, no, no, no, no! i could not bear that you should betray your faith and your country and yourself, and be called traitor for my sake! not for ten lives of mine shall you ruin yours. and not because i might love you less if you had done that deed. god help me! i think i should love you if you committed any crime! the shame is the more to me--i know it. i am only a woman! but rather than let my love ruin you, make a traitor of you and lose you in this world and the next, my soul shall go first--life, soul, honour, everything! you shall not do it! you think that you love me more than i love you, but you do not. for to save you as you are, i love you so dearly that i will leave you--leave you to honour, leave you to your king, leave you to the undying glory of the life you have lived, and will live, in memory of my love!" the splendid words rang from her lips like a voice from heaven, and her eyes were divinely lightened. for they looked up, and not at him, calling heaven to witness that she would keep her promise. as her open hand unconsciously went out, he took it tenderly, and felt her fingers softly closing on his own, as if she would lift him to himself again, and to the dear light of her own thoughts. there was silence for a moment. "you are better and wiser than i," he said, and his tone told her that the madness was past. "and you know that i am right? you see that i must leave you, to save you from me?" "leave me--now?" he cried. "you only said that--you meant me to understand--you did not mean that you would leave me now?" "i do mean it," she said, in a great effort. "it is all i can do, to show you how i love you. as long as i am in your life you will be in danger--you will never be safe from yourself--i see it all now! i stand between you and all the world would give you--i will not stand between you and honour!" she was breaking down, fight as she would against the pain. he could say nothing, for he could not believe that she really was in earnest. "i must!" she exclaimed suddenly. "it is all i can do for you--it is my life--take it!" the tears broke from her eyes, but she held her head high, and let them fall unheeded. "take it!" she repeated. "it is all i have to give for yours and your honour. good-by--oh, love, i love you so dearly! once more, before i go--" she almost, fell into his arms as she buried her face on his shoulder and clasped his throat as she was wont. he kissed her hair gently, and from time to time her whole frame shook with the sobs she was choking down. "it kills me," she said in a broken voice. "i cannot--i thought i was so strong! oh, i am the most miserable living woman in the world!" she broke away from him wildly and threw herself upon a chair, turning from him to its cushion and hiding her face in her hands, choking, pressing the furious tears back upon her eyes, shaking from head to foot. "you cannot go! you cannot!" he cried, falling on his knees beside her and trying to take her hands in his. "dolores--look at me! i will do anything--promise anything--you will believe me! listen, love--i give you my word--i swear before god--" "no--swear nothing--" she said, between the sobs that broke her voice. "but i will!" he insisted, drawing her hands down till she looked at him. "i swear upon my honour that i will never raise my hand against the king--that i will defend him, and fight for him, and be loyal to him, whatever he may do to me--and that even for you, i will never strike a blow in battle nor speak a word in peace that is not all honourable, through and through,--even as i have fought and spoken until now!" as she listened to his words her weeping subsided, and her tearful eyes took light and life again. she drew him close, and kissed him on the forehead. "i am so glad--so happy!" she cried softly. "i should never have had strength to really say good-by!" * * * * * chapter x don john smoothed her golden hair. never since he had known that he loved her, had she seemed so beautiful as then, and his thought tried to hold her as she was, that she might in memory be always the same. there was colour in her cheeks, a soft flush of happiness that destroyed all traces of her tears, so that they only left her grey eyes dark and tender under the long wet lashes. "it was a cruel dream, dear love! it was not true!" finding him again, her voice was low, and sweet with joy. he smiled, too, and his own eyes were quiet and young, now that the tempest had passed away, almost out of recollection. it had raged but for a few moments, but in that time both he and she had lived and loved as it were through years, and their love had grown better and braver. she knew that his word was enough, and that he would die rather than break it; but though she had called herself weak, and had seemed to break down in despair, she would have left him for ever rather than believe that he was still in danger through her. she did not again ask herself whether her sudden resolution had been all for his sake, and had not formed itself because she dreaded to think of being bound to one who betrayed his country. she knew it and needed no further self-questioning to satisfy her. if such a man could have committed crimes, she would have hated them, not him, she would have pardoned him, not them, she would still have laid her hand in his before the whole world, though it should mean shame and infamy, because she loved him and would always love him, and could never have left him for her own sake, come all that might. she had said it was a shame to her that she would have loved him still; yet if it had been so, she would have gloried in being shamed for his sake, for even then her love might have brought him back from the depths of evil and made him again for her in truth what he had once seemed to the whole world. she could have done that, and if in the end she had saved him she would have counted the price of her name as very little to set against his salvation from himself. she would have given that and much more, for her love, as she would freely give all for him and even for his memory, if he were dead, and if by some unimaginable circumstances her ruin before the world could keep his name spotless, and his glory unsullied. for there is nothing that a true-hearted loving woman will not give and do for him she loves and believes and trusts; and though she will give the greatest thing last of all, she will give it in the end, if it can save him from infamy and destruction. for it is the woman's glory to give, as it is the man's to use strength in the hour of battle and gentleness in the day of peace, and to follow honour always. "forget it all," answered don john presently. "forget it, dear, and forgive me for it all." "i can forget it, because it was only a dream," she said, "and i have nothing to forgive. listen to me. if it were true--even if i believed that we had not been dreaming, you and i, could i have anything to forgive you? what?" "the mere thought that i could betray a trust, turn against my sovereign and ruin my country," he answered bravely, and a blush of honest shame rose in his boyish cheeks. "it was for me," said dolores. that should explain all, her heart said. but he was not satisfied, and being a man he began to insist. "not even for you should i have thought of it," he said. "and there is the thought to forgive, if nothing else." "no--you are wrong, love. because it was for me, it does not need my forgiveness. it is different--you do not understand yet. it is i who should have never forgiven myself on earth nor expected pardon hereafter, if i had let myself be the cause of such deeds, if i had let my love stand between you and honour. do you see?" "i see," he answered. "you are very brave and kind and good. i did not know that a woman could be like you." "a woman could be anything--for you--dare anything, do anything, sacrifice anything! did i not tell you so, long ago? you only half believed me, dear--perhaps you do not quite believe me now--" "indeed, indeed i do, with all my soul! i believe you as i love you, as i believe in your love--" "yes. tell me that you do--and tell me that you love me! it is so good to hear, now that the bad dream is gone." "shall i tell you?" he smiled, playing with her hand. "how can i? there are so few words in which to say so much. but i will tell you this--i would give my word for you. does that sound little? you should know, for you know at what price you would have saved my honour a while ago. i believe in you so truly that i would stake my word, and my honour, and my christian oath upon your faith, and promise for you before god or man that you will always love me as you do to-day." "you may pledge all three. i will, and i will give you all i have that is not god's--and if that is not enough, i will give my soul for yours, if i may, to suffer in your stead." she spoke quietly enough, but there was a little quaver of true earnestness in her voice, that made each word a solemn promise. "and besides that," she added, "you see how i trust you." she smiled again as she looked at him, and knew how safe she was, far safer now than when she had first come with him to the door. something told her that he had mastered himself--she would not have wished to think that she had ruled him? it was enough if she had shown him the way, and had helped him. he pressed her hand to his cheek and looked down thoughtfully, wishing that he could find such simple words that could say so much, but not trusting himself to speak. for though, in love, a man speaks first, he always finds the least to say of love when it has strongest hold of him; but a woman has words then, true and tender, that come from her heart unsought. yet by and by, if love is not enduring, so that both tire of it, the man plays the better comedy, because he has the greater strength, and sometimes what he says has the old ring in it, because it is so well said, and the woman smiles and wonders that his love should have lasted longer than hers, and desiring the illusion, she finds old phrases again; yet there is no life in them, because when love is dead she thinks of herself, and instead, it was only of him she thought in the good days when her heart used to beat at the sound of his footfall, and the light grew dim and unsteady as she felt his kiss. but the love of these two was not born to tire; and because he was so young, and knew the world little, save at his sword's point, he was ashamed that he could not speak of love as well as she. "find words for me," he said, "and i will say them, for yours are better than mine." "say, 'i love you, dear,' very softly and gently--not roughly, as you sometimes do. i want to hear it gently now, that, and nothing else." she turned a little, leaning towards him, her face near his, her eyes quiet and warm, and she took his hands and held them together before her as if he were her prisoner--and indeed she meant that he should not suddenly take her in his arms, as he often did. "i love you, dear," he repeated, smiling, and pretending to be very docile. "that is not quite the way," she said, with a girlish laugh. "say it again--quite as softly, but more tenderly! you must be very much in earnest, you know, but you must not be in the least violent." she laughed again. "it is like teaching a young lion," she added. "he may eat you up at any moment, instead of obeying you. tell me, you have a little lion that follows you like a dog when you are in your camp, have you not? you have not told me about him yet. how did you teach him?" "i did not try to make him say 'i love you, dear,'" answered don john, laughing in his turn. as he spoke a distant sound caught his ear, and the smile vanished from his face, for though he heard only the far off rumbling of a coach in the great court, it recalled him to reality. "we are playing with life and death," he said suddenly. "it is late, the king may be here at any moment, and we have decided nothing." he rose. "is it late?" asked dolores, passing her hand over her eyes dreamily. "i had forgotten--it seems so short. give me the key on my side of the door--we had decided that, you know. go and sit down in your room, as we agreed. shall you read my letter again, love? it may be half an hoar still before the king comes. when he is gone, we shall have all the night in which to decide, and the nights are very long now. oh, i hate to lose one minute of you! what shall you say to the king?" "i do not know what he may say to me," answered don john. "listen and you shall hear--i would rather know that you hear everything i say. it will be as if i were speaking before you, and of course i should tell you everything the king says. he will speak of you, i think." "indeed, it would be hard not to listen," said dolores. "i should have to stop my ears, for one cannot help hearing every word that is said in the next room. do you know? i heard you ask for your white shoes! i hardly dared to breathe for fear the servants should find out that i was here." "so much the better then. sit in this chair near the door. but be careful to make no noise, for the king is very suspicious." "i know. do not be afraid; i will be as quiet as a mouse. go, love, go! it is time--oh, how i hate to let you leave me! you will be careful? you will not be angry at what he says? you would be wiser if you knew i were not hearing everything; you will want to defend me if he says the least word you do not like, but let him say what he will! anything is better than an open quarrel between you and the king! promise me to be very moderate in what you say, and very patient. remember that he is the king!" "and my brother," said don john, with some bitterness. "do not fear. you know what i have promised you. i will bear anything he may say that concerns me as well as i can, but if he says anything slighting of you--" "but he may--that is the danger. promise me not to be angry--" "how can i promise that, if he insults you?" "no, i did not mean that exactly. promise that you will not forget everything and raise your hand against him. you see i know you would." "no, i will not raise my hand against him. that was in the promise i made you. and as for being angry, i will do my best to keep my temper." "i know you will. now you must go. good-by, love! good-by, for a little while." "for such a little time shall we say good-by? i hate the word; it makes me think of the day when i left you last." "how can i tell what may happen to you when you are out of my sight?" asked dolores. "and what is 'good-by' but a blessing each prays for the other? that is all it means. it does not mean that we part for long, love. why, i would say it for an hour! good-by, dear love, good-by!" she put up her face to kiss him, and it was so full of trust and happiness that the word lost all the bitterness it has gathered through ages of partings, and seemed, what she said it was, a loving blessing. yet she said it very tenderly, for it was hard to let him go even for less than an hour. he said it, too, to please her; but yet the syllables came mournfully, as if they meant a world more than hers, and the sound of them half frightened her, so that she was sorry she had asked him for the word. "not so!" she cried, in quick alarm. "you are not keeping anything from me? you are only going to the next room to meet the king--are you sure?" "that is all. you see, the word frightened you. it seems such a sad word to me--i will not say it again." he kissed her gently, as if to soothe her fear, and then he opened the door and set the key in the lock on the inside. then when he was outside, he lingered a moment, and their lips met once more without a word, and they nodded and smiled to one another a last time, and he closed the door and heard her lock it. when she was alone, she turned away as if he were gone from her altogether instead of being in the next room, where she could hear him moving now and then, as he placed his chair near the light to read and arranged the candlesticks on the table. then he went to the other door and opened it and opened the one beyond upon the terrace, and she knew that he was looking out to see if any one were there. but presently he came back and sat down, and she distinctly heard the rustle of the strong writing-paper as he unfolded a letter. it was hers. he was going to read it, as they had agreed. so she sat down where she could look at the door, and she tried to force her eyes to see through it, to make him feel that she was watching him, that she came near him and stood beside him, and softly read the words for him, but without looking at them, because she knew them all by heart. but it was not the same as if she had seen him, and it was very hard to be shut off from his sight by an impenetrable piece of wood, to lose all the moments that might pass before the king chose to come. another hour might pass. no one could even tell whether he would come at all after he had consulted with antonio perez. the skilful favourite desired a quarrel between his master and don john with all his heart, but he was not ready for it yet. he must have possession of dolores first and hide her safely; and when the quarrel came, don john should believe that the king had stolen her and imprisoned her, and that she was treated ill; and for the woman he loved, don john would tear down the walls of madrid, if need be, and if at the last he found her dead, there would be no harm done, thought perez, and don john would hate his brother even to death, and all spain would cry out in sympathy and horror. but all this dolores could neither know nor even suspect. she only felt sure that the king and perez were even now consulting together to hinder her marriage with don john, and that perez might persuade the king not to see his brother that night. it was almost intolerable to think that she might wait there for hours, wasting the minutes for which she would have given drops of blood. surely they both were overcautious. the door could be left open, so that they could talk, and at the first sound without, she could lock it again and sit down. that would be quite as safe. she rose and was almost in the act of opening the door again when she stopped and hesitated. it was possible that at any moment the king might be at the door; for though she could hear every sound that came from the next room, the thick curtains that hid the window effectually shut out all sound from without. it struck her that she could go to the window, however, and look out. yet a ray of light might betray her presence in the room to any one outside, and if she drew aside the curtain the light would shine out upon the terrace. she listened at don john's door, and presently she heard him turn her letter in his hand, and all her heart went out to him, and she stood noiselessly kissing the panels and saying over again in her heart that she loved him more than any words could tell. if she could only see out of the window and assure herself that no one was coming yet, there would be time to go to him again, for one moment only, and say the words once more. then she sat down and told herself how foolish she was. she had been separated from him for many long and empty months, and now she had been with him and talked long with him twice in leas than three hours, and yet she could not bear that he should be out of her sight five minutes without wishing to risk everything to see him again. she tried to laugh at herself, repeating over and over again that she was very, very foolish, and that she should have a just contempt for any woman who could be as foolish as she. for some moments she sat still, staring at the wall. in the thought of him that filled her heart and soul and mind, she saw that her own life had begun when he had first spoken to her, and she felt that it would end with the last good-by, because if he should die or cease to love her, there would be nothing more to live for. her early girlhood seemed dim and far away, dull and lifeless, as if it had not been hers at all, and had no connection with the present. she saw herself in the past, as she could not see herself now, and the child she remembered seemed not herself but another--a fair-haired girl living in the gloomy old house in valladolid, with her blind sister and an old maiden cousin of her father's, who had offered to bring up the two and to teach them, being a woman of some learning, and who fulfilled her promise in such a conscientious and austere way as made their lives something of a burden under her strict rule. but that was all forgotten now, and though she still lived in valladolid she had probably changed but little in the few years since dolores had seen her; she was part of the past, a relic of something that had hardly ever had a real existence, and which it was not at all necessary to remember. there was one great light in the girl's simple existence, it had come all at once, and it was with her still. there was nothing dim nor dark nor forgotten about the day when she had been presented at court by the duchess alvarez, and she had first seen don john, and he had first seen her and had spoken to her, when he had talked with the duchess herself. at the first glance--and it was her first sight of the great world--she had seen that of all the men in the great hall, there was no one at all like him. she had no sooner looked into his face and cast her eyes upon his slender figure, all in white then, as he was dressed to-night, than she began to compare him with the rest. she looked so quickly from one to another that any one might have thought her to be anxiously searching for a friend in the crowd. but she had none then, and she was but assuring herself once, and for all her life, that the man she was to love was immeasurably beyond all other men, though the others were the very flower of spain's young chivalry. of course, as she told herself now, she had not loved him then, nor even when she heard his voice speaking to her the first time and was almost too happy to understand his words. but she had remembered them. he had asked her whether she lived in madrid. she had told him that she lived in the alcazar itself, since her father commanded the guards and had his quarters in the palace. and then don john had looked at her very fixedly for a moment, and had seemed pleased, for he smiled and said that he hoped he might see her often, and that if it were in his power to be of use to her father, he would do what he could. she was sure that she had not loved him then, though she had dreamed of his winning face and voice and had thought of little else all the next day, and the day after that, with a sort of feverish longing to see him again, and had asked the duchess alvarez so many questions about him that the duchess had smiled oddly, and had shaken her handsome young head a little, saying that it was better not to think too much about don john of austria. surely, she had not loved him already, at first sight. but on the evening of the third day, towards sunset, when she had been walking with inez on a deserted terrace where no one but the two sisters ever went, don john had suddenly appeared, sauntering idly out with one of his gentlemen on his left, as if he expected nothing at all; and he had seemed very much surprised to see her, and had bowed low, and somehow very soon, blind inez, who was little more than a child three years ago, was leading the gentleman about the terrace, to show him where the best roses grew, which she knew by their touch and smell, and don john and dolores were seated on an old stone bench, talking earnestly together. even to herself she admitted that she had loved him from that evening, and whenever she thought of it she smelt the first scent of roses, and saw his face with the blaze of the sunset in his eyes, and heard his voice saying that he should come to the terrace again at that hour, in which matter he had kept his word as faithfully as he always did, and presumably without any especial effort. so she had known him as he really was, without the formalities of the court life, of which she was herself a somewhat insignificant part; and it was only when he said a few words to her before the other ladies that she took pains to say 'your highness' to him once or twice, and he called her 'doña dolores,' and enquired in a friendly manner about her father's health. but on the terrace they managed to talk without any such formal mode of address, and used no names at all for each other, until one day--but she would not think of that now. if she let her memory run all its course, she could not sit there with the door closed between him and her, for something stronger than she would force her to go and open it, and make sure he was there. this method, indeed, would be a very certain one, leaving no doubt whatever, but at the present moment it would be foolish to resort to it, and, perhaps, it would be dangerous, too. the past was so beautiful and peaceful; she could think its history through many times up to that point, where thinking was sure to end suddenly in something which was too present for memory and too well remembered not to be present. it came back to her so vividly that she left her seat again and went to the curtained window, as if to get as far as possible from the irresistible attraction. standing there she looked back and saw the key in the lock. it was foolish, girlish, childish, at such a time, but she felt that as long as it was there she should want to turn it. with a sudden resolution and a smile that was for her own weakness, she went to the door again, listened for footsteps, and then quietly took the key from the lock. instantly don john was on the other side, calling to her softly. "what is it?" he asked. "for heaven's sake do not come in, for i think i hear him coming." "no," she answered through the panel. "i was afraid i should turn the key, so i have taken it out." she paused. "i love you!" she said, so that he could hear, and she kissed the wood, where she thought his face must be, just above her own. "i love you with all my heart!" he answered gently. "hush, dear love, he is coming!" they were like two children, playing at a game; but they were playing on the very verge of tragedy, playing at life with death at the door and the safety of a great nation hanging in the balance. a moment later, dolores heard don john opening and shutting the other doors again, and then there were voices. she heard her father's name spoken in the king's unmistakable tones, at once harsh and muffled. every word came to her from the other room, as if she were present. "mendoza," said philip, "i have private matters to discuss with his highness. i desire you to wait before the entrance, on the terrace, and to let no one pass in, as we do not wish to be disturbed." her father did not speak, but she knew how he was bending a little stiffly, before he went backwards through the open door. it closed behind him, and the two brothers were alone. dolores' heart beat a little faster, and her face grew paler as she concentrated her attention upon making no noise. if they could hear her as she heard them, a mere rustling of her silk gown would be enough to betray her, and if then the king bade her father take her with him, all would be over, for don john would certainly not use any violence to protect her. "this is your bedchamber," said philip's voice. he was evidently examining the room, as don john had anticipated that he would, for he was moving about. there was no mistaking his heavy steps for his brother's elastic tread. "there is no one behind the curtain," said the king, by which it was clear that he was making search for a possible concealed listener. he was by no means above such precautions. "and that door?" he said, with a question. "what is there?" dolores' heart almost stood still, as she held her breath, and heard the clumsy footfall coming nearer. "it is locked," said don john, with undisturbed calm. "i have not the key. i do not know where it is,--it is not here." as dolores had taken it from the lock, even the last statement was true to the letter, and in spite of her anxiety she smiled as she heard it, but the next moment she trembled, for the king was trying the door, and it shook under his hand, as if it must fly open. "it is certainly locked," he said, in a discontented tone. "but i do not like locked doors, unless i know what is beyond them." he crossed the room again and called out to mendoza, who answered at once. "mendoza, come here with me. there is a door here, of which his highness has not the key. can you open it?" "i will try, your majesty," answered the general's hard voice. a moment later the panels shook violently under the old man's weight, for he was stronger than one might have thought, being lean and tough rather than muscular. dolores took the moment when the noise was loudest and ran a few steps towards the window. then the sounds ceased suddenly, and she stood still. "i cannot open it, your majesty," said mendoza, in a disconsolate tone. "then go and get the key," answered the king almost angrily. * * * * * chapter xi inez remained hidden a quarter of an hour in the gallery over the throne room, before she ventured to open the door noiselessly and listen for any sound that might come from the passage. she was quite safe there, as long as she chose to remain, for the princess had believed that she had fled far beyond and was altogether out of reach of any one whose dignity would not allow of running a race. it must be remembered that at the time she entered the gallery mendoza had returned to his duty below, and that some time afterwards he had accompanied the king to don john's apartments, and had then been sent in search of the key to the locked door. the blind girl was of course wholly ignorant of his whereabouts, and believed him to be in or about the throne room. her instinct told her that since dolores had not gone to the court, as she had intended, with the duchess alvarez, she must have made some last attempt to see don john alone. in her perfect innocence such an idea seemed natural enough to inez, and it at first occurred to her that the two might have arranged to meet on the deserted terrace where they had spent so many hours in former times. she went there first, finding her way with some little difficulty from the corridor where the gallery was, for the region was not the one to which she was most accustomed, though there was hardly a corner of the upper story where she had never been. reaching the terrace, she went out and called softly, but there was no answer, nor could she hear any sound. the night was not cold now, but the breeze chilled her a little, and just then the melancholy cry of a screech owl pierced the air, and she shivered and went in again. she would have gone to the duchess alvarez had she not been sure that the latter was below with the queen, and even as it was, she would have taken refuge in the duchess's apartments with the women, and she might have learned something of dolores there. but her touch reminded her that she was dressed in her sister's clothes, and that many questions might be asked her which it would be hard to answer. and again, it grew quite clear to her that dolores must be somewhere near don john, perhaps waiting in some concealed corner until all should be quiet. it was more than probable that he would get her out of the palace secretly during the night and send her to his adoptive mother at villagarcia. she had not believed the princess's words in the least, but she had not forgotten them, and had argued rightly enough to their real meaning. in the upper story all was still now. she and dolores had known where don john was to be lodged in the palace nearly a month before he had returned, and they had been there more than once, when no one was on the terrace, and dolores had made her touch the door and the six windows, three on each side of it. she could get there without difficulty, provided that no one stopped her. she went a little way in the right direction and then hesitated. there was more danger to dolores than to herself if she should be recognized, and, after all, if dolores was near don john she was safer than she could be anywhere else. inez could not help her very much in any way if she found her there, and it would be hard to find her if she had met mendoza at first and if he had placed her in the keeping of a third person. she imagined what his astonishment would have been had he found the real dolores in her court dress a few moments after inez had been delivered over to the princess disguised in dolores' clothes, and she almost smiled. but then a great loneliness and a sense of helplessness came over her, and she turned back and went out upon the deserted terrace again and sat down upon the old stone seat, listening for the screech owl and the fluttering of the bats that flew aimlessly in and out, attracted by the light and then scared away by it again because the moon was at the full. inez had never before then wandered about the palace at night, and though darkness and daylight were one to her, there was something in the air that frightened her, and made her feel how really helpless she was in spite of her almost superhuman hearing and her wonderful sense of touch. it was very still--it was never so still by day. it seemed as if people must be lying in wait for her, holding their breath lest she should hear even that. she had never felt blind before; she had never so completely realized the difference between her life and the lives of others. by day, she could wander where she pleased on the upper story--it was cheerful, familiar; now and then some one passed and perhaps spoke to her kindly, as every one did who knew her; and then there was the warm sunlight at the windows, and the cool breath of the living day in the corridors. the sounds guided her, the sun warmed her, the air fanned her, the voices of the people made her feel that she was one of them. but now, the place was like an empty church, full of tombs and silent as the dead that lay there. she felt horribly lonely, and cold, and miserable, and she would have given anything to be in bed in her own room. she could not go there. eudaldo would not understand her return, after being told that she was to stay with the princess, and she would be obliged to give him some explanation. then her voice would betray her, and there would be terrible trouble. if only she had kept her own cloak to cover dolores' frock, she could have gone back and the servant would have thought it quite natural indeed, by this time he would be expecting her. it would be almost better to go in after all, and tell him some story of her having mistaken her sister's skirt for her own, and beg him to say nothing. she could easily confuse him a little so that he would not really understand--and then in a few minutes she could be in her own room, safe and in bed, and far away from the dismal place where she was sitting and shivering as she listened to the owls. she rose and began to walk towards her father's quarters. but suddenly she felt that it was cowardly to go back without accomplishing the least part of her purpose, and without even finding out whether dolores was in safety after all. there was but one chance of finding her, and that lay in searching the neighbourhood of don john's lodging. without hesitating any longer, she began to find her way thither at once. she determined that if she were stopped, either by her father or the princess, she would throw back her head and show her face at once. that would be the safest way in the end. she reached don john's windows unhindered at last. she had felt every corner, and had been into the empty sentry-box; and once or twice, after listening a long time, she had called dolores in a very low tone. she listened by the first window, and by the second and third, and at the door, and then beyond, till she came to the last. there were voices there, and her heart beat quickly for a moment. it was impossible to distinguish the words that were spoken, through the closed window and the heavy curtains, but the mere tones told her that don john and dolores were there together. that was enough for her, and she could go back to her room; for it seemed quite natural to her that her sister should be in the keeping of the man she loved,--she was out of harm's way and beyond their father's power, and that was all that was necessary. she would go back to her room at once, and explain the matter of her dress to eudaldo as best she might. after all, why should he care what she wore or where she had been, or whether in the princess's apartments she had for some reason exchanged gowns with dolores. perhaps he would not even notice the dress at all. she meant to go at once, but she stood quite still, her hands resting on the low sill of the window, while her forehead pressed against the cold round panes of glass. something hurt her which she could not understand, as she tried to fancy the two beautiful young beings who were within,--for she knew what beauty they had, and dolores had described don john to her as a young god. his voice came to her like strains of very distant sweet music, that connect themselves to an unknown melody in the fancy of him who faintly hears. but dolores was hearing every word he said, and it was all for her; and dolores not only heard, but saw; and seeing and hearing, she was loved by the man who spoke to her, as dearly as she loved him. then utter loneliness fell upon the blind girl as she leaned against the window. she had expected nothing, she had asked nothing, even in her heart; and she had less than nothing, since never on earth, nor in heaven hereafter, could don john say a loving word to her. and yet she felt that something had been taken from her and given to her sister,--something that was more to her than life, and dearer than the thought of sight to her blindness. she had taken what had not been given her, in innocent girlish thoughts that were only dreams, and could hurt no one. he had always spoken gently to her, and touched her hand kindly; and many a time, sitting alone in the sun, she had set those words to the well-remembered music of his voice, and she had let the memory of his light touch on her fingers thrill her strangely to the very quick. it had been but the reflection of a reflection in her darkness, wherein the shadow of a shadow seemed as bright as day. it had been all she had to make her feel that she was a part of the living, loving world she could never see. somehow she had unconsciously fancied that with a little dreaming she could live happy in dolores' happiness, as by a proxy, and she had never called it love, any more than she would have dared to hope for love in return. yet it was that, and nothing else,--the love that is so hopeless and starving, and yet so innocent, that it can draw the illusion of an airy nourishment from that which to another nature would be the fountain of all jealousy and hatred. but now, without reason and without warning, even that was taken from her, and in its place something burned that she did not know, save that it was a bad thing, and made even blackness blacker. she heard their voices still. they were happy together, while she was alone outside, her forehead resting against the chill glass, and her hands half numb upon the stone; and so it would always be hereafter. they would go, and take her life with them, and she should be left behind, alone for ever; and a great revolt against her fate rose quickly in her breast like a flame before the wind, and then, as if finding nothing to consume, sank down again into its own ashes, and left her more lonely than before. the voices had ceased now, or else the lovers were speaking very low, fearing, perhaps, that some one might be listening at the window. if inez had heard their words at first, she would have stopped her ears or gone to a distance, for the child knew what that sort of honour meant, and had done as much before. but the unformed sound had been good to hear, and she missed it. perhaps they were sitting close and, hand in hand, reading all the sweet unsaid things in one another's eyes. there must be silent voices in eyes that could see, she thought. she took little thought of the time, yet it seemed long to her since they had spoken. perhaps they had gone to another room. she moved to the next window and listened there, but no sound came from within. then she heard footfalls, and one was her father's. two men were coming out by the corridor, and she had not time to reach the sentry-box. with her hands out before her, she went lightly away from the windows to the outer side of the broad terrace, and cowered down by the balustrade as she ran against it, not knowing whether she was in the moonlight or the shade. she had crossed like a shadow and was crouching there before mendoza and the king came out. she knew by their steady tread, that ended at the door, that they had not noticed her; and as the door closed behind them, she ran back to the window again and listened, expecting to hear loud and angry words, for she could not doubt that the king and her father had discovered that dolores was there, and had come to take her away. the princess must have told mendoza that dolores had escaped. but she only heard men's voices speaking in an ordinary tone, and she understood that dolores was concealed. almost at once, and to her dismay, she heard her father's step in the hall, and now she could neither pass the door nor run across the terrace again. a moment later the king called him from within. instantly she slipped across to the other side, and listened again. they were shaking a door,--they were in the very act of finding dolores. her heart hurt her. but then the noise stopped, as if they had given up the attempt, and presently she heard her father's step again. thinking that he would remain in the hall until the king called him,--for she could not possibly guess what had happened,--she stood quite still. the door opened without warning, and he was almost upon her before she knew it. to hesitate an instant was out of the question, and for the second time that night she fled, running madly to the corridor, which was not ten steps from where she had been standing, and as she entered it the light fell upon her from the swinging lamp, though she did not know it. old as he was, mendoza sprang forward in pursuit when he saw her figure in the dimness, flying before him, but as she reached the light of the lamp he stopped himself, staggering one or two steps and then reeling against the wall. he had recognized dolores' dress and hood, and there was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that it was herself. in that same dress he had seen her in the late afternoon, she had been wearing it when he had locked her into the sitting-room, and, still clad in it, she must have come out with the princess. and now she was running before him from don john's lodging. doubtless she had been in another room and had slipped out while he was trying the door within. he passed his hand over his eyes and breathed hard as he leaned against the wall, for her appearance there could only mean one thing, and that was ruin to her and disgrace to his name--the very end of all things in his life, in which all had been based upon his honour and every action had been a tribute to it. he was too much stunned to ask himself how the lovers had met, if there had been any agreement between them, but the frightful conviction took hold of him that this was not the first time, that long ago, before don john had led the army to granada, dolores had found her way to that same door and had spent long hours with her lover when no one knew. else she could not have gone to him without agreement, at an instant's notice, on the very night of his return. despair took possession of the unhappy man from that moment. but that the king was with don john, mendoza would have gone back at that moment to kill his enemy and himself afterwards, if need be. he remembered his errand then. no doubt that was the very room where dolores had been concealed, and she had escaped from it by some other way, of which her father did not know. he was too dazed to think connectedly, but he had the king's commands to execute at once. he straightened himself with a great effort, for the weight of his years had come upon him suddenly and bowed him like a burden. with the exertion of his will came the thirst for the satisfaction of blood, and he saw that the sooner he returned with the key, the sooner he should be near his enemy. but the pulses came and went in his throbbing temples, as when a man is almost spent in a struggle with death, and at first he walked uncertainly, as if he felt no ground under his feet. by the time he had gone a hundred yards he had recovered a sort of mechanical self-possession, such as comes upon men at very desperate times, when they must not allow themselves to stop and think of what is before them. they were pictures, rather than thoughts, that formed themselves in his brain as he went along, for he saw all the past years again, from the day when his young wife had died, he being then already in middle age, until that afternoon. one by one the years came back, and the central figure in each was the fair-haired little child, growing steadily to be a woman, all coming nearer and nearer to the end he had seen but now, which was unutterable shame and disgrace, and beyond which there was nothing. he heard the baby voice again, and felt the little hands upon his brow, and saw the serious grey eyes close to his own; and then the girl, gravely lovely--and her far-off laugh that hardly ever rippled through the room when he was there; and then the stealing softness of grown maidenhood, winning the features one by one, and bringing back from death to life the face he had loved best, and the voice with long-forgotten tones that touched his soul's quick, and dimmed his sight with a mist, so that he grew hard and stern as he fought within him against the tenderness he loved and feared. all this he saw and heard and felt again, knowing that each picture must end but in one way, in the one sight he had seen and that had told his shame--a guilty woman stealing by night from her lover's door. not only that, either, for there was the almost certain knowledge that she had deceived him for years, and that while he had been fighting so hard to save her from what seemed but a show of marriage, she had been already lost to him for ever and ruined beyond all hope of honesty. they were not thoughts, but pictures of the false and of the true, that rose and glowed an instant and then sank like the inner darkness of his soul, leaving only that last most terrible one of all behind them, burned into his eyes till death should put out their light and bid him rest at last, if he could rest even in heaven with such a memory. it was too much, and though he walked upright and gazed before him, he did not know his way, and his feet took him to his own door instead of on the king's errand. his hand was raised to knock before he understood, and it fell to his side in a helpless, hopeless way, when he saw where he was. then he turned stiffly, as a man turns on parade, and gathered his strength and marched away with a measured tread. for the world and what it held he would not have entered his dwelling then, for he felt that his daughter was there before him, and that if he once saw her face he should not be able to hold his hand. he would not see her again on earth, lest he should take her life for what she had done. he was more aware of outward things after that, though he almost commanded himself to do what he had to do, as he would have given orders to one of his soldiers. he went to the chief steward's office and demanded the key of the room in the king's name. but it was not forthcoming, and the fact that it could not be found strengthened his conviction that don john had it in his keeping. yet, for the sake of form, he insisted sternly, saying that the king was waiting for it even then. servants were called and examined and threatened, but those who knew anything about it unanimously declared that it had been left in the door, while those who knew nothing supported their fellow-servants by the same unhesitating assertion, till mendoza was convinced that he had done enough, and turned his back on them all and went out with a grey look of despair on his face. he walked rapidly now, for he knew that he was going back to meet his enemy, and he was trying not to think what he should do when he should see don john before him and at arm's length, but defended by the king's presence from any sudden violence. he knew that in his heart there was the wild resolve to tell the truth before his master and then to take the payment of blood with one thrust and destroy himself with the next, but though he was half mad with despair, he would not let the thought become a resolve. in his soldier's nature, high above everything else and dominating his austere conscience of right and wrong, as well as every other instinct of his heart, there was the respect of his sovereign and the loyalty to him at all costs, good or bad, which sent self out of sight where his duty to the king was concerned. * * * * * chapter xii when he had sent away mendoza, the king remained standing and began to pace the floor, while don john stood by the table watching him and waiting for him to speak. it was clear that he was still angry, for his anger, though sometimes suddenly roused, was very slow to reach its height, and slower still to subside; and when at last it had cooled, it generally left behind it an enduring hatred, such as could be satisfied only by the final destruction of the object that had caused it. that lasting hate was perhaps more dangerous than the sudden outburst had been, but in moments of furious passion philip was undoubtedly a man to be feared. he was evidently not inclined to speak until he had ascertained that no one was listening in the next room, but as he looked from time to time at don john his still eyes seemed to grow almost yellow, and his lower lip moved uneasily. he knew, perhaps, that mendoza could not at once find the servant in whose keeping the key of the door was supposed to be, and he grew impatient by quick degrees until his rising temper got the better of his caution. don john instinctively drew himself up, as a man does who expects to be attacked. he was close to the table, and remained almost motionless during the discussion that followed, while philip paced up and down, sometimes pausing before his brother for a moment, and then turning again to resume his walk. his voice was muffled always, and was hard to hear; now and then it became thick and indistinct with rage, and he cleared his throat roughly, as if he were angry with it, too. at first he maintained the outward forms of courtesy in words if not in tone, but long before his wrath had reached its final climax he forgot them altogether. "i had hoped to speak with you in privacy, on matters of great importance. it has pleased your highness to make that impossible by your extraordinary behaviour." don john raised his eyebrows a little incredulously, and answered with perfect calmness. "i do not recollect doing anything which should seem extraordinary to your majesty." "you contradict me," retorted philip. "that is extraordinary enough, i should think. i am not aware that it is usual for subjects to contradict the king. what have you to say in explanation?" "nothing. the facts explain themselves well enough." "we are not in camp," said philip. "your highness is not in command here, and i am not your subordinate. i desire you to remember whom you are addressing, for your words will be remembered." "i never said anything which i wished another to forget," answered don john proudly. "take care, then!" the king spoke sullenly, and turned away, for he was slow at retort until he was greatly roused. don john did not answer, for he had no wish to produce such a result, and moreover he was much more preoccupied by the serious question of dolores' safety than by any other consideration. so far the king had said nothing which, but for some derogation from his dignity, might not have been said before any one, and don john expected that he would maintain the same tone until mendoza returned. it was hard to predict what might happen then. in all probability dolores would escape by the window and endeavour to hide herself in the empty sentry-box until the interview was over. he could then bring her back in safety, but the discussion promised to be long and stormy, and meanwhile she would be in constant danger of discovery. but there was a worse possibility, not even quite beyond the bounds of the probable. in his present mood, philip, if he lost his temper altogether, would perhaps be capable of placing don john under arrest. he was all powerful, he hated his brother, and he was very angry. his last words had been a menace, or had sounded like one, and another word, when mendoza returned, could put the threat into execution. don john reflected, if such thought could be called reflection, upon the situation that must ensue, and upon the probable fate of the woman he loved. he wondered whether she were still in the room, for hearing that the door was to be opened, she might have thought it best to escape at once, while her father was absent from the terrace on his errand. if not, she could certainly go out by the window as soon as she heard him coming back. it was clearly of the greatest importance to prevent the king's anger from going any further. antonio perez had recognized the same truth from a very different point of view, and had spent nearly three-quarters of an hour in flattering his master with the consummate skill which he alone possessed. he believed that he had succeeded when the king had dismissed him, saying that he would not see don john until the morning. five minutes after perez was gone, philip was threading the corridors, completely disguised in a long black cloak, with the ever-loyal mendoza at his heels. it was not the first time that he had deceived his deceivers. he paced the room in silence after he had last spoken. as soon as don john realized that his liberty might be endangered, he saw that he must say what he could in honour and justice to save himself from arrest, since nothing else could save dolores. "i greatly regret having done anything to anger your majesty," he said, with quiet dignity. "i was placed in a very difficult position by unforeseen circumstances. if there had been time to reflect, i might have acted otherwise." "might have acted otherwise!" repeated philip harshly. "i do not like those words. you might have acted otherwise than to defy your sovereign before the queen! i trusted you might, indeed!" he was silent again, his protruding lip working angrily, as if he had tasted something he disliked. don john's half apology had not been received with much grace, but he saw no way open save to insist that it was genuine. "it is certainly true that i have lived much in camps of late," he answered, "and that a camp is not a school of manners, any more than the habit of commanding others accustoms a man to courtly submission." "precisely. you have learned to forget that you have a superior in spain, or in the world. you already begin to affect the manners and speech of a sovereign--you will soon claim the dignity of one, too, i have no doubt. the sooner we procure you a kingdom of your own, the better, for your highness will before long become an element of discord in ours." "rather than that," answered don john, "i will live in retirement for the rest of my life." "we may require it of your highness," replied philip, standing still and facing his brother. "it may be necessary for our own safety that you should spend some time at least in very close retirement--very!" he almost laughed. "i should prefer that to the possibility of causing any disturbance in your majesty's kingdom." nothing could have been more gravely submissive than don john's tone, but the king was apparently determined to rouse his anger. "your deeds belie your words," he retorted, beginning to walk again. "there is too much loyalty in what you say, and too much of a rebellious spirit in what you do. the two do not agree together. you mock me." "god forbid that!" cried don john. "i desire no praise for what i may have done, but such as my deeds have been they have produced peace and submission in your majesty's kingdom, and not rebellion--" "and is it because you have beaten a handful of ill-armed moriscoes, in the short space of two years, that the people follow you in throngs wherever you go, shouting for you, singing your praises, bringing petitions to you by hundreds, as if you were king--as if you were more than that, a sort of god before whom every one must bow down? am i so simple as to believe that what you have done with such leisure is enough to rouse all spain, and to make the whole court break out into cries of wonder and applause as soon as you appear? if you publicly defy me and disobey me, do i not know that you believe yourself able to do so, and think your power equal to mine? and how could that all be brought about, save by a party that is for you, by your secret agents everywhere, high and low, forever praising you and telling men, and women, too, of your graces, and your generosities, and your victories, and saying that it is a pity so good and brave a prince should be but a leader of the king's armies, and then contrasting the king himself with you, the cruel king, the grasping king, the scheming king, the king who has every fault that is not found in don john of austria, the people's god! is that peace and submission? or is it the beginning of rebellion, and revolution, and civil war, which is to set don john of austria on the throne of spain, and send king philip to another world as soon as all is ready?" don john listened in amazement. it had never occurred to him any one could believe him capable of the least of the deeds philip was attributing to him, and in spite of his resolution his anger began to rise. then, suddenly, as if cold water had been dashed in his face, he remembered that an hour had not passed since he had held dolores in his arms, swearing to do that of which he was now accused, and that her words only had held him back. it all seemed monstrous now. as she had said, it had been only a bad dream and he had wakened to himself again. yet the thought of rebellion had more than crossed his mind, for in a moment it had taken possession of him and had seemed to change all his nature from good to bad. in his own eyes he was rebuked, and he did not answer at once. "you have nothing to say!" exclaimed philip scornfully. "is there any reason why i should not try you for high treason?" don john started at the words, but his anger was gone, and he thought only of dolores' safety in the near future. "your majesty is far too just to accuse an innocent man who has served you faithfully," he answered. philip stopped and looked at him curiously and long, trying to detect some sign of anxiety if not of fear. he was accustomed to torture men with words well enough, before he used other means, and he himself had not believed what he had said. it had been only an experiment tried on a mere chance, and it had failed. at the root of his anger there was only jealousy and personal hatred of the brother who had every grace and charm which he himself had not. "more kind than just, perhaps," he said, with a slight change of tone towards condescension. "i am willing to admit that i have no proofs against you, but the evidence of circumstances is not in your favour. take care, for you are observed. you are too much before the world, too imposing a figure to escape observation." "my actions will bear it. i only beg that your majesty will take account of them rather than listen to such interpretation as may be put upon them by other men." "other men do nothing but praise you," said philip bluntly. "their opinion of you is not worth having! i thought i had explained that matter sufficiently. you are the idol of the people, and as if that were not enough, you are the darling of the court, besides being the women's favourite. that is too much for one man to be--take care, i say, take care! be at more pains for my favour, and at less trouble for your popularity." "so far as that goes," answered don john, with some pride, "i think that if men praise me it is because i have served the king as well as i could, and with success. if your majesty is not satisfied with what i have done, let me have more to do. i shall try to do even the impossible." "that will please the ladies," retorted philip, with a sneer. "you will be overwhelmed with correspondence--your gloves will not hold it all" don john did not answer, for it seemed wiser to let the king take this ground than return to his former position. "you will have plenty of agreeable occupation in time of peace. but it is better that you should be married soon, before you become so entangled with the ladies of madrid as to make your marriage impossible." "saving the last clause," said don john boldly, "i am altogether of your majesty's opinion. but i fear no entanglements here." "no--you do not fear them. on the contrary, you live in them as if they were your element." "no man can say that," answered don john. "you contradict me again. pray, if you have no entanglements, how comes it that you have a lady's letter in your glove?" "i cannot tell whether it was a lady's letter or a man's." "have you not read it?" "yes." "and you refused to show it to me on the ground that it was a woman's secret?" "i had not read it then. it was not signed, and it might well have been written by a man." don john watched the king's face. it was for from improbable, he thought, that the king had caused it to be written, or had written it himself, that he supposed his brother to have read it, and desired to regain possession of it as soon as possible. philip seemed to hesitate whether to continue his cross-examination or not, and he looked at the door leading into the antechamber, suddenly wondering why mendoza had not returned. then he began to speak again, but he did not wish, angry though he was, to face alone a second refusal to deliver the document to him. his dignity would have suffered too much. "the facts of the case are these," he said, as if he were recapitulating what had gone before in his mind. "it is my desire to marry you to the widowed queen of scots, as you know. you are doing all you can to oppose me, and you have determined to marry the dowerless daughter of a poor soldier. i am equally determined that you shall not disgrace yourself by such an alliance." "disgrace!" cried don john loudly, almost before the word had passed the king's lips, and he made half a step forward. "you are braver than i thought you, if you dare use that word to me!" philip stepped back, growing livid, and his hand was on his rapier. don john was unarmed, but his sword lay on the table within his reach. seeing the king afraid, he stepped back. "no," he said scornfully, "i was mistaken. you are a coward." he laughed as he glanced at philip's hand, still on the hilt of his weapon and ready to draw it. in the next room dolores drew frightened breath, for the tones of the two men's voices had changed suddenly. yet her heart had leapt for joy when she had heard don john's cry of anger at the king's insulting word. but don john was right, for philip was a coward at heart, and though he inwardly resolved that his brother should be placed under arrest as soon as mendoza returned, his present instinct was not to rouse him further. he was indeed in danger, between his anger and his fear, for at any moment he might speak some bitter word, accustomed as he was to the perpetual protection of his guards, but at the next his brother's hands might be on his throat, for he had the coward's true instinct to recognize the man who was quite fearless. "you strangely forget yourself," he said, with an appearance of dignity. "you spring forward as if you were going to grapple with me, and then you are surprised that i should be ready to defend myself." "i barely moved a step from where i stand," answered don john, with profound contempt. "i am unarmed, too. there lies my sword, on the table. but since you are the king as well as my brother, i make all excuses to your majesty for having been the cause of your fright." dolores understood what had happened, as don john meant that she should. she knew also that her position was growing more and more desperate and untenable at every moment; yet she could not blame her lover for what he had said. even to save her, she would not have had him cringe to the king and ask pardon for his hasty word and movement, still less could she have borne that he should not cry out in protest at a word that insulted her, though ever so lightly. "i do not desire to insist upon our kinship," said philip coldly. "if i chose to acknowledge it when you were a boy, it was out of respect for the memory of the emperor. it was not in the expectation of being called brother by the son of a german burgher's daughter." don john did not wince, for the words, being literally true and without exaggeration, could hardly be treated as an insult, though they were meant for one, and hurt him, as all reference to his real mother always did. "yes," he said, still scornfully. "i am the son of a german burgher's daughter, neither better nor worse. but i am your brother, for all that, and though i shall not forget that you are king and i am subject, when we are before the world, yet here, we are man and man, you and i, brother and brother, and there is neither king nor prince. but i shall not hurt you, so you need fear nothing. i respect the brother far too little for that, and the sovereign too much." there was a bad yellow light in philip's face, and instead of walking towards don john and away from him, as he had done hitherto, he began to pace up and down, crossing and recrossing before him, from the foot of the great canopied bed to one of the curtained windows, keeping his eyes upon his brother almost all the time. "i warned you when i came here that your words should be remembered," he said. "and your actions shall not be forgotten, either. there are safe places, even in madrid, where you can live in the retirement you desire so much, even in total solitude." "if it pleases your majesty to imprison don john of austria, you have the power. for my part, i shall make no resistance." "who shall, then?" asked the king angrily. "do you expect that there will be a general rising of the people to liberate you, or that there will be a revolution within the palace, brought on by your party, which shall force me to set you free for reasons of state? we are not in paris that you should expect the one, nor in constantinople where the other might be possible. we are in spain, and i am master, and my will shall be done, and no one shall cry out against it. i am too gentle with you, too kind! for the half of what you have said and done, elizabeth of england would have had your life to-morrow--yes, i consent to give you a chance, the benefit of a doubt there is still in my thoughts about you, because justice shall not be offended and turned into an instrument of revenge. yes--i am kind, i am clement. we shall see whether you can save yourself. you shall have the chance." "what chance is that?" asked don john, growing very quiet, for he saw the real danger near at hand again. "you shall have an opportunity of proving that a subject is at liberty to insult his sovereign, and that the king is not free to speak his mind to a subject. can you prove that?" "i cannot." "then you can be convicted of high treason," answered philip, his evil mouth curling. "there are several methods of interrogating the accused," he continued. "i daresay you have heard of them." "do you expect to frighten me by talking of torture?" asked don john, with a smile at the implied suggestion. "witnesses are also examined," replied the king, his voice thickening again in anticipation of the effect he was going to produce upon the man who would not fear him. "with them, even more painful methods are often employed. witnesses may be men or women, you know, my dear brother--" he pronounced the word with a sneer--"and among the many ladies of your acquaintance--" "there are very few." "it will be the easier to find the two or three, or perhaps the only one, whom it will be necessary to interrogate--in your presence, most probably, and by torture." "i was right to call you a coward," said don john, slowly turning pale till his face was almost as white as the white silks and satins of his doublet. "will you give me the letter you were reading when i came here?" "no." "not to save yourself from the executioner's hands?" "no." "not to save--" philip paused, and a frightful stare of hatred fixed his eyes on his brother. "will you give me that letter to save dolores de mendoza from being torn piecemeal?" "coward!" by instinct don john's hand went to the hilt of his sheathed sword this time, as he cried out in rage, and sprang forward. even then he would have remembered the promise he had given and would not have raised his hand to strike. but the first movement was enough, and philip drew his rapier in a flash of light, fearing for his life. without waiting for an attack he made a furious pass at his brother's body. don john's hand went out with the sheathed sword in a desperate attempt to parry the thrust, but the weapon was entangled in the belt that hung to it, and philip's lunge had been strong and quick as lightning. with a cry of anger don john fell straight backwards, his feet seeming to slip from under him on the smooth marble pavement, and with his fall, as he threw out his hands to save himself, the sword flew high into the air, sheathed as it was, and landed far away. he lay at full length with one arm stretched out, and for a moment the hand twitched in quick spasms. then it was quite still. at his feet stood philip, his rapier in his hand, and blood on its fine point. his eyes shone yellow in the candlelight, his jaw had dropped a little, and he bent forwards, looking intently at the still, white face. he had longed for that moment ever since he had entered his brother's room, though even he himself had not guessed that he wanted his brother's life. there was not a sound in the room as he looked at what he had done, and two or three drops of blood fell one by one, very slowly, upon the marble. on the dazzling white of don john's doublet there was a small red stain. as philip watched it, he thought it grew wider and brighter. beyond the door, dolores had fallen upon her knees, pressing her hands to her temples in an agony beyond thought or expression. her fear had risen to terror while she listened to the last words that had been exchanged, and the king's threat had chilled her blood like ice, though she was brave. she had longed to cry out to don john to give up her letter or the other, whichever the king wanted--she had almost tried to raise her voice, in spite of every other fear, when she had heard don john's single word of scorn, and the quick footsteps, the drawing of the rapier from its sheath, the desperate scuffle that had not lasted five seconds, and then the dull fall which meant that one was hurt. it could only be the king,--but that was terrible enough,--and yet, if the king had fallen, don john would have come to the door the next instant. all was still in the room, but her terror made wild noises in her ears. the two men might have spoken now and she could not have heard them,--nor the opening of a door, nor any ordinary sound. it was no longer the fear of being heard, either, that made her silent. her throat was parched and her tongue paralyzed. she remembered suddenly that don john had been unarmed, and how he had pointed out to philip that his sword lay on the table. it was the king who had drawn his own, then, and had killed his unarmed brother. she felt as if something heavy were striking her head as the thoughts made broken words, and flashes of light danced before her eyes. with her hands she tried to press feeling and reason and silence back into her brain that would not be quieted, but the certainty grew upon her that don john was killed, and the tide of despair rose higher with every breath. the sensation came upon her that she was dying, then and there, of a pain human nature could not endure, far beyond the torments philip had threatened, and the thought was merciful, for she could not have lived an hour in such agony,--something would have broken before then. she was dying, there, on her knees before the door beyond which her lover lay suddenly dead. it would be easy to die. in a moment more she would be with him, for ever, and in peace. they would find her there, dead, and perhaps they would be merciful and bury her near him. but that would matter little, since she should be with him always now. in the first grief that struck her, and bruised her, and numbed her as with material blows, she had no tears, but there was a sort of choking fire in her throat, and her eyes burned her like hot iron. she did not know how long she knelt, waiting for death. she was dying, and there was no time any more, nor any outward world, nor anything but her lover's dead body on the floor in the next room, and his soul waiting for hers, waiting beside her for her to die also, that they might go together. she was so sure now, that she was wondering dreamily why it took so long to die, seeing that death had taken him so quickly. could one shaft be aimed so straight and could the next miss the mark? she shook all over, as a new dread seized her. she was not dying,--her life clung too closely to her suffering body, her heart was too young and strong to stand still in her breast for grief. she was to live, and bear that same pain a lifetime. she rocked herself gently on her knees, bowing her head almost to the floor. she was roused by the sound of her father's voice, and the words he was speaking sent a fresh shock of horror through her unutterable grief, for they told her that don john was dead, and then something else so strange that she could not understand it. philip had stood only a few moments, sword in hand, over his brother's body, staring down at his face, when the door opened. on the threshold stood old mendoza, half-stunned by the sight he saw. philip heard, stood up, and drew back as his eyes fell upon the old soldier. he knew that mendoza, if no one else, knew the truth now, beyond any power of his to conceal it. his anger had subsided, and a sort of horror that could never be remorse, had come over him for what he had done. it must have been in his face, for mendoza understood, and he came forward quickly and knelt down upon the floor to listen for the beating of the heart, and to try whether there was any breath to dim the brightness of his polished scabbard. philip looked on in silence. like many an old soldier mendoza had some little skill, but he saw the bright spot on the white doublet, and the still face and the hands relaxed, and there was neither breath nor beating of the heart to give hope. he rose silently, and shook his head. still looking down he saw the red drops that had fallen upon the pavement from philip's rapier, and looking at that, saw that the point was dark. with a gesture of excuse he took the sword from the king's hand and wiped it quite dry and bright upon his own handkerchief, and gave it back to philip, who sheathed it by his side, but never spoke. together the two looked at the body for a full minute and more, each silently debating what should be done with it. at last mendoza raised his head, and there was a strange look in his old eyes and a sort of wan greatness came over his war-worn face. it was then that he spoke the words dolores heard. "i throw myself upon your majesty's mercy! i have killed don john of austria in a private quarrel, and he was unarmed." philip understood well enough, and a faint smile of satisfaction flitted through the shadows of his face. it was out of the question that the world should ever know who had killed his brother, and he knew the man who offered to sacrifice himself by bearing the blame of the deed. mendoza would die, on the scaffold if need be, and it would be enough for him to know that his death saved his king. no word would ever pass his lips. the man's loyalty would bear any proof; he could feel horror at the thought that philip could have done such a deed, but the king's name must be saved at all costs, and the king's divine right must be sustained before the world. he felt no hesitation from the moment when he saw clearly how this must be done. to accuse some unknown murderer and let it be supposed that he had escaped would have been worse than useless; the court and half spain knew of the king's jealousy of his brother, every one had seen that philip had been very angry when the courtiers had shouted for don john; already the story of the quarrel about the glove was being repeated from mouth to mouth in the throne room, where the nobles had reassembled after supper. as soon as it was known that don john was dead, it would be believed by every one in the palace that the king had killed him or had caused him to be murdered. but if mendoza took the blame upon himself, the court would believe him, for many knew of dolores' love for don john, and knew also how bitterly the old soldier was opposed to their marriage, on the ground that it would be no marriage at all, but his daughter's present ruin. there was no one else in the palace who could accuse himself of the murder and who would be believed to have done it without the king's orders, and mendoza knew this, when he offered his life to shield philip's honour. philip knew it, too, and while he wondered at the old man's simple devotion, he accepted it without protest, as his vast selfishness would have permitted the destruction of all mankind, that it might be satisfied and filled. he looked once more at the motionless body at his feet, and once more at the faithful old man. then he bent his head with condescending gravity, as if he were signifying his pleasure to receive kindly, for the giver's sake, a gift of little value. "so be it," he said slowly. mendoza bowed his head, too, as if in thanks, and then taking up the long dark cloak which the king had thrown off on entering, he put it upon philip's shoulders, and went before him to the door. and philip followed him without looking back, and both went out upon the terrace, leaving both doors ajar after them. they exchanged a few words more as they walked slowly in the direction of the corridor. "it is necessary that your majesty should return at once to the throne room, as if nothing had happened," said mendoza. "your majesty should be talking unconcernedly with some ambassador or minister when the news is brought that his highness is dead." "and who shall bring the news?" asked philip calmly, as if he were speaking to an indifferent person. "i will, sire," answered mendoza firmly. "they will tear you in pieces before i can save you," returned philip, in a thoughtful tone. "so much the better. i shall die for my king, and your majesty will be spared the difficulty of pardoning a deed which will be unpardonable in the eyes of the whole world." "that is true," said the king meditatively. "but i do not wish you to die, mendoza," he added, as an afterthought. "you must escape to france or to england." "i could not make my escape without your majesty's help, and that would soon be known. it would then be believed that i had done the deed by your majesty's orders, and no good end would have been gained." "you may be right. you are a very brave man, mendoza--the bravest i have ever known. i thank you. if it is possible to save you, you shall be saved." "it will not be possible," replied the soldier, in a low and steady voice. "if your majesty will return at once to the throne room, it may be soon over. besides, it is growing late, and it must be done before the whole court." they entered the corridor, and the king walked a few steps before mendoza, covering his head with the hood of his cloak lest any one should recognize him, and gradually increasing his distance as the old man fell behind. descending by a private staircase, philip reëntered his own apartments by a small door that gave access to his study without obliging him to pass through the antechamber, and by which he often came and went unobserved. alone in his innermost room, and divested of his hood and cloak, the king went to a venetian mirror that stood upon a pier table between the windows, and examined his face attentively. not a trace of excitement or emotion was visible in the features he saw, but his hair was a little disarranged, and he smoothed it carefully and adjusted it about his ears. from a silver box on the table he took a little scented lozenge and put it into his mouth. no reasonable being would have suspected from his appearance that he had been moved to furious anger and had done a murderous deed less than twenty minutes earlier. his still eyes were quite calm now, and the yellow gleam in them had given place to their naturally uncertain colour. with a smile of admiration for his own extraordinary powers, he turned and left the room. he was enjoying one of his rare moments of satisfaction, for the rival he had long hated and was beginning to dread was never to stand in his way again nor to rob him of the least of his attributes of sovereignty. * * * * * chapter xiii dolores had not understood her father's words. all that was clear to her was that don john was dead and that his murderers were gone. had there been danger still for herself, she could not have felt it; but there was none now as she laid her hand upon the key to enter the bedchamber. at first the lock would not open, as it had been injured in some way by being so roughly shaken when mendoza had tried it. but dolores' desperate fingers wound themselves upon the key like little ropes of white silk, slender but very strong, and she wrenched at the thing furiously till it turned. the door flew open, and she stood motionless a moment on the threshold. mendoza had said that don john was dead, but she had not quite believed it. he lay on his back as he had fallen, his feet towards her, his graceful limbs relaxed, one arm beside him, the other thrown back beyond his head, the colourless fingers just bent a little and showing the nervous beauty of the hand. the beautiful young face was white as marble, and the eyes were half open, very dark under the waxen lids. there was one little spot of scarlet on the white satin coat, near the left breast. dolores saw it all in the bright light of the candles, and she neither moved nor closed her fixed eyes as she gazed. she felt that she was at the end of life; she stood still to see it all and to understand. but though she tried to think, it was as if she had no mind left, no capacity for grasping any new thought, and no power to connect those that had disturbed her brain with the present that stared her in the face. an earthquake might have torn the world open under her feet at that moment, swallowing up the old alcazar with the living and the dead, and dolores would have gone down to destruction as she stood, unconscious of her fate, her eyes fixed upon don john's dead features, her own life already suspended and waiting to follow his. it seemed as if she might stand there till her horror should stop the beating of her own heart, unless something came to rouse her from the stupor she was in. but gradually a change came over her face, her lids drooped and quivered, her face turned a little upward, and she grasped the doorpost with one hand, lest she should reel and fall. then, knowing that she could stand no longer, instinct made a last effort upon her; its invisible power thrust her violently forward in a few swift steps, till her strength broke all at once, and she fell and lay almost upon the body of her lover, her face hidden upon his silent breast, one hand seeking his hand, the other pressing his cold forehead. it was not probable that any one should find her there for a long time. the servants and gentlemen had been dismissed, and until it was known that don john was dead, no one would come. even if she could have thought at all, she would not have cared who saw her lying there; but thought was altogether gone now, and there was nothing left but the ancient instinct of the primeval woman mourning her dead mate alone, with long-drawn, hopeless weeping and blinding tears. they came, too, when she had lain upon his breast a little while and when understanding had wholly ceased and given way to nature. then her body shook and her breast heaved strongly, almost throwing her upon her side as she lay, and sounds that were hardly human came from her lips; for the first dissolving of a woman's despair into tears is most like the death agony of those who die young in their strength, when the limbs are wrung at the joints and the light breaks in the upturned eyes, when the bosom heaves and would take in the whole world at one breath, when the voice makes sounds of fear that are beyond words and worse to hear than any words could be. her weeping was wild at first, measureless and violent, broken by sharp cries that hurt her heart like jagged knives, then strangled to a choking silence again and again, as the merciless consciousness that could have killed, if it had prevailed, almost had her by the throat, but was forced back again with cruel pain by the young life that would not die, though living was agony and death would have been as welcome as air. then her loud grief subsided to a lower key, and her voice grew by degrees monotonous and despairing as the turning tide on a quicksand, before bad weather,--not diminished, but deeper drawn within itself; and the low moan came regularly with each breath, while the tears flowed steadily. the first wild tempest had swept by, and the more enduring storm followed in its track. so she lay a long time weeping; and then strong hands were upon her, lifting her up and dragging her away, without warning and without word. she did not understand, and she fancied herself in the arms of some supernatural being of monstrous strength that was tearing her from what was left of life and love. she struggled senselessly, but she could find no foothold as she was swept through the open door. she gasped for breath, as one does in bad dreams, and bodily fear almost reached her heart through its sevenfold armour of such grief as makes fear ridiculous and turns mortal danger to an empty show. the time had seemed an age since she had fallen upon dead don john--it had measured but a short few minutes; it seemed as if she were being dragged the whole length of the dim palace as the strong hands bore her along, yet she was only carried from the room to the terrace; and when her eyes could see, she knew that she was in the open air on a stone seat in the moonlight, the cool night breeze fanning her face, while a gentle hand supported her head,--the same hand that had been so masterfully strong a moment earlier. a face she knew and did not dread, though it was unlike other faces, was just at the same height with her own, though the man was standing beside her and she was seated; and the moonlight made very soft shadows in the ill-drawn features of the dwarf, so that his thin and twisted lips were kind and his deep-set eyes were overflowing with human sympathy. when he understood that she saw him and was not fainting, he gently drew away his hand and let her head rest against the stone parapet. she was dazed still, and the tears veiled her sight. he stood before her, as if guarding her, ready in case she should move and try to leave him. his long arms hung by his sides, but not quite motionless, so that he could have caught her instantly had she attempted to spring past him; and he was wise and guessed rightly what she would do. her eyes brightened suddenly, and she half rose before he held her again. "no, no!" she said desperately. "i must go to him--let me go--let me go back!" but his hands were on her shoulders in an instant, and she was in a vise, forced back to her seat. "how dare you touch me!" she cried, in the furious anger of a woman beside herself with grief. "how dare you lay hands on me!" she repeated in a rising key, but struggling in vain against his greater strength. "you would have died, if i had left you there," answered the jester. "and besides, the people will come soon, and they would have found you there, lying on his body, and your good name would have gone forever." "my name! what does a name matter? or anything? oh, let me go! no one must touch him--no hands that do not love him must come near him--let me get up--let me go in again!" she tried to force the dwarf from her--she would have struck him, crushed him, thrown him from the terrace, if she could. she was strong, too, in her grief; but his vast arms were like iron bars, growing from his misshapen body. his face was very grave and kind, and his eyes more tender than they had ever been in his life. "no," he said gently. "you must not go. by and by you shall see him again, but not now. do not try, for i am much stronger than you, and i will not let you go back into the room." then her strength relaxed, and she turned to the stone parapet, burying her face in her crossed arms, and her tears came again. for this the jester was glad, knowing that tears quench the first white heat of such sorrows as can burn out the soul and drive the brain raving mad, when life can bear the torture. he stood still before her, watching her and guarding her, but he felt that the worst was past, and that before very long he could lead her away to a place of greater safety. he had indeed taken her as far as he could from don john's door, and out of sight of it, where the long terrace turned to the westward, and where it was not likely that any one should pass at that hour. it had been the impulse of the moment, and he himself had not recovered from the shock of finding don john's body lifeless on the floor. he had known nothing of what had happened, but lurking in a corner to see the king pass on his way back from his brother's quarters, he had made sure that don john was alone, and had gone to his apartment to find out, if he could, how matters had fared, and whether he himself were in further danger or not. he meant to escape from the palace, or to take his own life, rather than be put to the torture, if the king suspected him of being involved in a conspiracy. he was not a common coward, but he feared bodily pain as only such sensitive organizations can, and the vision of the rack and the boot had been before him since he had seen philip's face at supper. don john was kind, and would have warned him if he were in danger, and so all might have been well, and by flight or death he might have escaped being torn limb from limb. so he had gone boldly in, and had found the door ajar and had entered the bedchamber, and when he had seen what was there, he would have fled at once, for his own safety, not only because don john's murder was sure to produce terrible trouble, and many enquiries and trials, in the course of which he was almost sure to be lost, but also for the more immediate reason that if he were seen near the body when it was discovered, he should certainly be put to the question ordinary and extraordinary for his evidence. but he was not a common coward, and in spite of his own pardonable terror, he thought first of the innocent girl whose name and fame would be gone if she were found lying upon her murdered lover's body, and so far as he could, he saved her before he thought of saving himself, though with infinite difficulty and against her will. half paralyzed by her immeasurable grief, she lay against the parapet, and the great sobs came evenly, as if they were counted, shaking her from her head to her waist, and just leaving her a breathing space between each one and the next. the jester felt that he could do nothing. so long as she had seemed unconscious, he had tried to help her a little by supporting her head with his hand and arm, as tenderly as if she had been his own child. so long as she did not know what he was doing, she was only a human being in distress, and a woman, and deep down in the jester's nature there was a marvellous depth of pity for all things that suffered--the deeper and truer because his own sufferings in the world were great. but it was quite different now that she knew where she was and recognized him. she was no longer a woman now, but a high-born lady, one of the queen's maids of honour, a being infinitely far removed above his sphere, and whose hand he was not worthy to touch. he would have dared to be much more familiar with the king himself than with this young girl whom fate had placed in his keeping for a moment. in the moonlight he watched her, and as he gazed upon her graceful figure and small head and slender, bending arms, it seemed to him that she had come down from an altar to suffer in life, and that it had been almost sacrilege to lay his hands upon her shoulders and keep her from doing her own will. he almost wondered how he had found courage to be so rough and commanding. he was gentle of heart, though it was his trade to make sharp speeches, and there were wonderful delicacies of thought and feeling far down in his suffering cripple's nature. "come," he said softly, when he had waited a long time, and when he thought she was growing more quiet. "you must let me take you away, doña maria dolores, for we cannot stay here." "take me back to him," she answered. "let me go back to him!" "no--to your father--i cannot take you to him. you will be safe there." dolores sprang to her feet before the dwarf could prevent her. "to my father? oh, no, no, no! never, as long as i live! i will go anywhere, but not to him! take your hands from me--do not touch me! i am not strong, but i shall kill you if you try to take me to my father!" her small hands grasped the dwarfs wrists and wrung them with desperate energy, and she tried to push him away, so that she might pass him. but he resisted her quietly, planting himself in a position of resistance on his short bowed legs, and opposing the whole strength of his great arms to her girlish violence. her hands relaxed suddenly in despair. "not to my father!" she pleaded, in a broken voice. "oh, please, please--not to my father!" the jester did not fully understand, but he yielded, for he could not carry her to mendoza's apartments by force. "but what can i do to put you in a place of safety?" he asked, in growing distress. "you cannot stay here." while he was speaking a light figure glided out from the shadows, with outstretched hands, and a low voice called dolores' name, trembling with terror and emotion. dolores broke from the dwarf and clasped her sister in her arms. "is it true?" moaned inez. "is it true? is he dead?" and her voice broke. * * * * * chapter xiv the courtiers had assembled again in the great throne room after supper, and the stately dancing, for which the court of spain was even then famous throughout europe, had begun. the orchestra was placed under the great arch of the central window on a small raised platform draped with velvets and brocades that hung from a railing, high enough to conceal the musicians as they sat, though some of the instruments and the moving bows of the violins could be seen above it. the masked dancing, if it were dancing at all, which had been general in the days of the emperor maximilian, and which had not yet gone out of fashion altogether at the imperial court of vienna, had long been relegated to the past in spain, and the beautiful "pavane" dances, of which awkward travesties survive in our day, had been introduced instead. as now, the older ladies of the court withdrew to the sides of the hall, leaving the polished floor free for those who danced, and sets formed themselves in the order of their rank from the foot of the throne dais to the lower end. as now, too, the older and graver men congregated together in outer rooms; and there gaming-tables were set out, and the nobles lost vast sums at games now long forgotten, by the express authorization of the pious philip, who saw that everything which could injure the fortunes of the grandees must consolidate his own, by depriving them of some of that immense wealth which was an ever-ready element of revolution. he did everything in his power to promote the ruin of the most powerful grandees in the kingdom by encouraging gaming and all imaginable forms of extravagance, and he looked with suspicion and displeasure upon those more prudent men who guarded their riches carefully, as their fathers had done before them. but these were few, for it was a part of a noble's dignity to lose enormous sums of money without the slightest outward sign of emotion or annoyance. it had been announced that the king and queen would not return after supper, and the magnificent gravity of the most formal court in the world was a little relaxed when this was known. between the strains of music, the voices of the courtiers rose in unbroken conversation, and now and then there was a ripple of fresh young laughter that echoed sweetly under the high moorish vault, and died away just as it rose again from below. yet the dancing was a matter of state, and solemn enough, though it was very graceful. magnificent young nobles in scarlet, in pale green, in straw colour, in tender shades of blue, all satin and silk and velvet and embroidery, led lovely women slowly forward with long and gliding steps that kept perfect time to the music, and turned and went back, and wound mazy figures with the rest, under the waxen light of the waxen torches, and returned to their places with deep curtsies on the one side, and sweeping obeisance on the other. the dresses of the women were richer by far with gold and silver, and pearls and other jewels, than those of the men, but were generally darker in tone, for that was the fashion then. their skirts were straight and barely touched the floor, being made for a time when dancing was a part of court life, and when every one within certain limits of age was expected to dance well. there was no exaggeration of the ruffle then, nor had the awkward hoop skirt been introduced in spain. those were the earlier days of queen elizabeth's reign, before queen mary was imprisoned; it was the time, indeed, when the rough bothwell had lately carried her off and married her, after a fashion, with so little ceremony that philip paid no attention to the marriage at all, and deliberately proposed to make her don john's wife. the matter was freely talked of on that night by the noble ladies of elder years who gossiped while they watched the dancing. that was indeed such a court as had not been seen before, nor was ever seen again, whether one count beauty first, or riches and magnificence, or the marvel of splendid ceremony and the faultless grace of studied manners, or even the cool recklessness of great lords and ladies who could lose a fortune at play, as if they were throwing a handful of coin to a beggar in the street. the princess of eboli stood a little apart from the rest, having just returned to the ball-room, and her eyes searched for dolores in the crowd, though she scarcely expected to see her there. it would have been almost impossible for the girl to put on a court dress in so short a time, though since her father had allowed her to leave her room, she could have gone back to dress if she had chosen. the princess had rarely been at a loss in her evil life, and had seldom been baffled in anything she had undertaken, since that memorable occasion on which her husband, soon after her marriage, had forcibly shut her up in a convent for several months, in the vain hope of cooling her indomitable temper. but now she was nervous and uncertain of herself. not only had dolores escaped her, but don john had disappeared also, and the princess had not the least doubt but that the two were somewhere together, and she was very far from being sure that they had not already left the palace. antonio perez had informed her that the king had promised not to see don john that night, and for once she was foolish enough to believe the king's word. perez came up to her as she was debating what she should do. she told him her thoughts, laughing gaily from time to time, as if she were telling him some very witty story, for she did not wish those who watched them to guess that the conversation was serious. perez laughed, too, and answered in low tones, with many gestures meant to deceive the court. "the king did not take my advice," he said. "i had scarcely left him, when he went to don john's apartments." "how do you know that?" asked the princess, with some anxiety. "he found the door of an inner room locked, and he sent mendoza to find the key. fortunately for the old man's feelings it could not be found! he would have had an unpleasant surprise." "why?" "because his daughter was in the room that was locked," laughed perez. "when? how? how long ago was that?" "half an hour--not more." "that is impossible. half an hour ago dolores de mendoza was with me." "then there was another lady in the room." perez laughed again. "better two than one," he added. "you are wrong," said the princess, and her face darkened. "don john has not so much as deigned to look at any other woman these two years." "you should know that best," returned the secretary, with a little malice in his smile. it was well known in the court that two or three years earlier, during the horrible intrigue that ended in the death of don carlos, the princess of eboli had done her best to bring don john of austria to her feet, and had failed notoriously, because he was already in love with dolores. she was angry now, and the rich colour came into her handsome dark face. "don antonio perez," she said, "take care! i have made you. i can also unmake you." perez assumed an air of simple and innocent surprise, as if he were quite sure that he had said nothing to annoy her, still less to wound her deeply. he believed that she really loved him and that he could play with her as if his own intelligence far surpassed hers. in the first matter he was right, but he was very much mistaken in the second. "i do not understand," he said. "if i have done anything to offend you, pray forgive my ignorance, and believe in the unchanging devotion of your most faithful slave." his dark eyes became very expressive as he bowed a little, with a graceful gesture of deprecation. the princess laughed lightly, but there was still a spark of annoyance in her look. "why does don john not come?" she asked impatiently. "we should have danced together. something must have happened--can you not find out?" others were asking the same question in surprise, for it had been expected that don john would enter immediately after the supper. his name was heard from end to end of the hall, in every conversation, wherever two or three persons were talking together. it was in the air, like his popularity, everywhere and in everything, and the expectation of his coming produced a sort of tension that was felt by every one. the men grew more witty, the younger women's eyes brightened, though they constantly glanced towards the door of the state apartments by which don john should enter, and as the men's conversation became more brilliant the women paid less attention to it, for there was hardly one of them who did not hope that don john might notice her before the evening was over,--there was not one who did not fancy herself a little in love with him, as there was hardly a man there who would not have drawn his sword for him and fought for him with all his heart. many, though they dared not say so, secretly wished that some evil might befall philip, and that he might soon die childless, since he had destroyed his only son and only heir, and that don john might be king in his stead. the princess of eboli and perez knew well enough that their plan would be popular, if they could ever bring it to maturity. the music swelled and softened, and rose again in those swaying strains that inspire an irresistible bodily longing for rhythmical motion, and which have infinite power to call up all manner of thoughts, passionate, gentle, hopeful, regretful, by turns. in the middle of the hall, more than a hundred dancers moved, swayed, and glided in time with the sound, changed places, and touched hands in the measure, tripped forward and back and sideways, and met and parted again without pause, the colours of their dresses mingling to rich unknown hues in the soft candlelight, as the figure brought many together, and separating into a hundred elements again, when the next steps scattered them again; the jewels in the women's hair, the clasps of diamonds and precious stones at throat, and shoulder, and waist, all moved with an intricate motion, in orbits that crossed and recrossed in the tinted sea of silk, and flashed all at once, as the returning burden of the music brought the dancers to stand and turn at the same beat of the measure. yet it was all unlike the square dancing of these days, which is either no dancing at all, but a disorderly walk, or else is so stiffly regular and awkward that it makes one think of a squad of recruits exercising on the drill ground. there was not a motion, then, that lacked grace, or ease, or a certain purpose of beauty, nor any, perhaps, that was not a phrase in the allegory of love, from which all dancing is, and was, and always must be, drawn. swift, slow, by turns, now languorous, now passionate, now full of delicious regret, singing love's triumph, breathing love's fire, sighing in love's despair, the dance and its music were one, so was sight intermingled with sound, and motion a part of both. and at each pause, lips parted and glance sought glance in the light, while hearts found words in the music that answered the language of love. men laugh at dancing and love it, and women, too, and no one can tell where its charm is, but few have not felt it, or longed to feel it, and its beginnings are very far away in primeval humanity, beyond the reach of theory, unless instinct may explain all simply, as it well may. for light and grace and sweet sound are things of beauty which last for ever, and love is the source of the future and the explanation of the past; and that which can bring into itself both love and melody, and grace and light, must needs be a spell to charm men and women. there was more than that in the air on that night, for don john's return had set free that most intoxicating essence of victory, which turns to a mad fire in the veins of a rejoicing people, making the least man of them feel himself a soldier, and a conqueror, and a sharer in undying fame. they had loved him from a child, they had seen him outgrow them in beauty, and skill, and courage, and they had loved him still the more for being the better man; and now he had done a great deed, and had fulfilled and overfilled their greatest expectations, and in an instant he leapt from the favourite's place in their hearts to the hero's height on the altar of their wonder, to be the young god of a nation that loved him. not a man, on that night, but would have sworn that don john was braver than alexander, wiser than charlemagne, greater than cæsar himself; not a man but would have drawn his sword to prove it on the body of any who should dare to contradict him,--not a mother was there, who did not pray that her sons might be but ever so little like him, no girl of spain but dreamt she heard his soft voice speaking low in her ear. not often in the world's story has a man so young done such great things as he had done and was to do before his short life was ended; never, perhaps, was any man so honoured by his own people, so trusted, and so loved. they could talk only of him, wondering more and more that he stayed away from them on such a night, yet sure that he would come, and join the dancing, for as he fought with a skill beyond that of other swordsmen, so he danced with the most surpassing grace. they longed to see him, to look into his face, to hear his voice, perhaps to touch his hand; for he was free of manner and gentle to all, and if he came he would go from one to another, and remember each with royal memory, and find kind words for every one. they wanted him among them, they felt a sort of tense desire to see him again, and even to shout for him again, as the vulgar herd did in the streets,--as they themselves had done but an hour ago when he had stood out beside the throne. and still the dancers danced through the endless measures, laughing and talking at each pause, and repeating his name till it was impossible not to hear it, wherever one might be in the hall, and there was no one, old or young, who did not speak it at least once in every five minutes. there was a sort of intoxication in its very sound, and the more they heard it, the more they wished to hear it, coupled with every word of praise that the language possessed. from admiration they rose to enthusiasm, from enthusiasm to a generous patriotic passion in which spain was the world and don john was spain, and all the rest of everything was but a dull and lifeless blank which could have no possible interest for natural people. young men, darkly flushed from dancing, swore that whenever don john should be next sent with an army, they would go, too, and win his battles and share in his immortal glory; and grand, grey men who wore the golden fleece, men who had seen great battles in the emperor's day, stood together and talked of him, and praised god that spain had another hero of the austrian house, to strike terror to the heart of france, to humble england at last, and to grasp what little of the world was not already gathered in the hollow of spain's vast hand. antonio perez and the princess of eboli parted and went among the courtiers, listening to all that was to be heard and feeding the fire of enthusiasm, and met again to exchange glances of satisfaction, for they were well pleased with the direction matters were taking, and the talk grew more free from minute to minute, till many, carried away by a force they could not understand and did not seek to question, were openly talking of the succession to the throne, of philip's apparent ill health, and of the chance that they might before long be doing service to his majesty king john. the music ceased again, and the couples dispersed about the hall, to collect again in groups. there was a momentary lull in the talk, too, as often happens when a dance is just over, and at that moment the great door beside the throne was opened, with a noise that attracted the attention of all; and all believed that don john was returning, while all eyes were fixed upon the entrance to catch the first glimpse of him, and every one pronounced his name at once in short, glad tones of satisfaction. "don john is coming! it is don john of austria! don john is there!" it was almost a universal cry of welcome. an instant later a dead silence followed as a chamberlain's clear voice announced the royal presence, and king philip advanced upon the platform of the throne. for several seconds not a sound broke the stillness, and he came slowly forward followed by half a dozen nobles in immediate attendance upon him. but though he must have heard his brother's name in the general chorus of voices as soon as the door had been thrown open, he seemed by no means disconcerted; on the contrary, he smiled almost affably, and his eyes were less fixed than usual, as he looked about him with something like an air of satisfaction. as soon as it was clear that he meant to descend the steps to the floor of the hall, the chief courtiers came forward, ruy gomez de silva, prince of eboli, alvarez de toledo, the terrible duke of alva, the dukes of medina sidonia and of infantado, don antonio perez the chief secretary, the ambassadors of queen elizabeth of england and of france, and a dozen others, bowing so low that the plumes of their hats literally touched the floor beside them. "why is there no dancing?" asked philip, addressing ruy gomez, with a smile. the minister explained that one of the dances was but just over. "let there be more at once," answered the king. "let there be dancing and music without end to-night. we have good reason to keep the day with rejoicing, since the war is over, and don john of austria has come back in triumph." the command was obeyed instantly, as ruy gomez made a sign to the leader of the musicians, who was watching him intently in expectation of the order. the king smiled again as the long strain broke the silence and the conversation began again all through the hall, though in a far more subdued tone than before, and with much more caution. philip turned to the english ambassador. "it is a pity," he said, "that my sister of england cannot be here with us on such a night as this. we saw no such sights in london in my day, my lord." "there have been changes since then, sire," answered the ambassador. "the queen is very much inclined to magnificence and to great entertainments, and does not hesitate to dance herself, being of a very vital and pleasant temper. nevertheless, your majesty's court is by far the most splendid in the world." "there you are right, my lord!" exclaimed the king. "and for that matter, we have beauty also, such as is found nowhere else." the princess of eboli was close by, waiting for him to speak to her, and his eyes fixed themselves upon her face with a sort of cold and snakelike admiration, to which she was well accustomed, but which even now made her nervous. the ambassador was not slow to take up the cue of flattery, for englishmen still knew how to flatter in elizabeth's day. "the inheritance of universal conquest," he said, bowing and smiling to the princess. "even the victories of don john of austria must yield to that." the princess laughed carelessly. had perez spoken the words, she would have frowned, but the king's eyes were watching her. "his highness has fled from the field without striking a blow," she said. "we have not seen him this evening." as she spoke she met the king's gaze with a look of enquiry. "don john will be here presently, no doubt," he said, as if answering a question. "has he not been here at all since supper?" "no, sire; though every one expected him to come at once." "that is strange," said philip, with perfect self-possession. "he is fond of dancing, too--no one can dance better than he. have you ever known a man so roundly gifted as my brother, my lord?" "a most admirable prince," answered the ambassador, gravely and without enthusiasm, for he feared that the king was about to speak of his brother's possible marriage with queen mary of scots. "and a most affectionate and gentle nature," said philip, musing. "i remember from the time when he was a boy that every one loved him and praised him, and yet he is not spoiled. he is always the same. he is my brother--how often have i wished for such a son! well, he may yet be king. who should, if not he, when i am gone?" "your majesty need not anticipate such a frightful calamity!" cried the princess fervently, though she was at that moment weighing the comparative advantage of several mortal diseases by which, in appearance at least, his exit from the world might be accelerated. "life is very uncertain, princess," observed the king. "my lord," he turned to the english ambassador again, "do you consider melons indigestible in england? i have lately heard much against them." "a melon is a poor thing, of a watery constitution, your majesty," replied the ambassador glibly. "there can be but little sustenance in a hollow piece of water that is sucked from a marsh and enclosed in a green rind. to tell the truth, i hear it ill spoken of by our physicians, but i cannot well speak of the matter, for i never ate one in my life, and please god i never will!" "why not!" enquired the king, who took an extraordinary interest in the subject. "you fear them, then! yet you seem to be exceedingly strong and healthy." "sire, i have sometimes drunk a little water for my stomach's sake, but i will not eat it." the king smiled pleasantly. "how wise the english are!" he said. "we may yet learn much of them." philip turned away from the ambassador and watched the dance in silence. the courtiers now stood in a wide half circle to the right and left of him as he faced the hall, and the dancers passed backwards and forwards across the open space. his slow eyes followed one figure without seeing the rest. in the set nearest to him a beautiful girl was dancing with one of don john's officers. she was of the rarest type of andalusian beauty, tall, pliant, and slenderly strong, with raven's-wing hair and splendidly languorous eyes, her creamy cheek as smooth as velvet, and a mouth like a small ripe fruit. as she moved she bent from the waist as easily and naturally as a child, and every movement followed a new curve of beauty from her white throat to the small arched foot that darted into sight as she stepped forward now and then, to disappear instantly under the shadow of the gold-embroidered skirt. as she glanced towards the king, her shadowy lids half hid her eyes and the long black lashes almost brushed her cheek. philip could not look away from her. but suddenly there was a stir among the courtiers, and a shadow came between the king and the vision he was watching. he started a little, annoyed by the interruption and at being rudely reminded of what had happened half an hour earlier, for the shadow was cast by mendoza, tall and grim in his armour, his face as grey as his grey beard, and his eyes hard and fixed. without bending, like a soldier on parade, he stood there, waiting by force of habit until philip should speak to him. the king's brows bent together, and he almost unconsciously raised one hand to signify that the music should cease. it stopped in the midst of a bar, leaving the dancers at a standstill in their measure, and all the moving sea of light and colour and gleaming jewels was arrested instantly in its motion, while every look was turned towards the king. the change from sound to silence, from motion to immobility, was so sudden that every one was startled, as if some frightful accident had happened, or as if an earthquake had shaken the alcazar to its deep foundation. mendoza's harsh voice spoke out alone in accents that were heard to the end of the hall. "don john of austria is dead! i, mendoza, have killed him unarmed." it was long before a sound was heard, before any man or woman in the hall had breath to utter a word. philip's voice was heard first. "the man is mad," he said, with undisturbed coolness. "see to him, perez." "no, no!" cried mendoza. "i am not mad. i have killed don john. you shall find him in his room as he fell, with the wound in his breast." one moment more the silence lasted, while philip's stony face never moved. a single woman's shriek rang out first, long, ear-piercing, agonized, and then, without warning, a cry went up such as the old hall had never heard before. it was a bad cry to hear, for it clamoured for blood to be shed for blood, and though it was not for him, philip turned livid and shrank back a step. but mendoza stood like a rock, waiting to be taken. in another moment furious confusion filled the hall. from every side at once rose women's cries, and the deep shouts of angry men, and high, clear yells of rage and hate. the men pushed past the ladies of the court to the front, and some came singly, but a serried rank moved up from behind, pushing the others before them. "kill him! kill him at the king's feet! kill him where he stands!" and suddenly something made blue flashes of light high over the heads of all; a rapier was out and wheeled in quick circles from a pliant wrist. an officer of mendoza's guard had drawn it, and a dozen more were in the air in an instant, and then daggers by scores, keen, short, and strong, held high at arm's length, each shaking with the fury of the hand that held it. "sangre! sangre!" some one had screamed out the wild cry of the spanish soldiers--'blood! blood!'--and the young men took it up in a mad yell, as they pushed forwards furiously, while the few who stood in front tried to keep a space open round the king and mendoza. the old man never winced, and disdained to turn his head, though he heard the cry of death behind him, and the quick, soft sound of daggers drawn from leathern sheaths, and the pressing of men who would be upon him in another moment to tear him limb from limb with their knives. tall old ruy gomez had stepped forwards to stem the tide of death, and beside him the english ambassador, quietly determined to see fair play or to be hurt himself in preventing murder. "back!" thundered ruy gomez, in a voice that was heard. "back, i say! are you gentlemen of spain, or are you executioners yourselves that you would take this man's blood? stand back!" "sangre! sangre!" echoed the hall. "then take mine first!" shouted the brave old prince, spreading his short cloak out behind him with his hands to cover mendoza more completely. but still the crowd of splendid young nobles surged up to him, and back a little, out of sheer respect for his station and his old age, and forwards again, dagger in hand, with blazing eyes. "sangre! sangre! sangre!" they cried, blind with fury. but meanwhile, the guards filed in, for the prudent perez had hastened to throw wide the doors and summon them. weapons in hand and ready, they formed a square round the king and mendoza and ruy gomez, and at the sight of their steel caps and breastplates and long-tasselled halberds, the yells of the courtiers subsided a little and turned to deep curses and execrations and oaths of vengeance. a high voice pierced the low roar, keen and cutting as a knife, but no one knew whose it was, and philip almost reeled as he heard the words. "remember don carlos! don john of austria is gone to join don carlos and queen isabel!" again a deadly silence fell upon the multitude, and the king leaned on perez' arm. some woman's hate had bared the truth in a flash, and there were hundreds of hands in the hall that were ready to take his life instead of mendoza's; and he knew it, and was afraid. * * * * * chapter xv the agonized cry that had been first heard in the hall had come from inez's lips. when she had fled from her father, she had regained her hiding-place in the gallery above the throne room. she would not go to her own room, for she felt that rest was out of the question while dolores was in such danger; and yet there would have been no object in going to don john's door again, to risk being caught by her father or met by the king himself. she had therefore determined to let an hour pass before attempting another move. so she slipped into the gallery again, and sat upon the little wooden bench that had been made for the moorish women in old times; and she listened to the music and the sound of the dancers' feet far below, and to the hum of voices, in which she often distinguished the name of don john. she had heard all,--the cries when it was thought that he was coming, the chamberlain's voice announcing the king, and then the change of key in the sounds that had followed. lastly, she had heard plainly every syllable of her father's speech, so that when she realized what it meant, she had shrieked aloud, and had fled from the gallery to find her sister if she could, to find don john's body most certainly where it lay on the marble floor, with the death wound at the breast. her instinct--she could not have reasoned then--told her that her father must have found the lovers together, and that in sudden rage he had stabbed don john, defenceless. dolores' tears answered her sister's question well enough when the two girls were clasped in one another's arms at last. there was not a doubt left in the mind of either. inez spoke first. she said that she had hidden in the gallery. "our father must have come in some time after the king," she said, in broken sentences, and almost choking. "suddenly the music stopped. i could hear every word. he said that he had done it,--that he had murdered don john,--and then i ran here, for i was afraid he had killed you, too." "would god he had!" cried dolores. "would to heaven that i were dead beside the man i love!" "and i!" moaned inez pitifully, and she began to sob wildly, as dolores had sobbed at first. but dolores was silent now, as if she had shed all her tears at once, and had none left. she held her sister in her arms, and soothed her almost unconsciously, as if she had been a little child. but her own thoughts were taking shape quickly, for she was strong; and after the first paroxysm of her grief, she saw the immediate future as clearly as the present. when she spoke again she had the mastery of her voice, and it was clear and low. "you say that our father confessed before the whole court that he had murdered don john?" she said, with a question. "what happened then? did the king speak? was our father arrested? can you remember?" "i only heard loud cries," sobbed inez. "i came to you--as quickly as i could--i was afraid." "we shall never see our father again--unless we see him on the morning when he is to die." "dolores! they will not kill him, too?" in sudden and greater fear than before, inez ceased sobbing. "he will die on the scaffold," answered dolores, in the same clear tone, as if she were speaking in a dream, or of things that did not come near her. "there is no pardon possible. he will die to-morrow or the next day." the present truth stood out in all its frightful distinctness. whoever had done the murder--since mendoza had confessed it, he would be made to die for it,--of that she was sure. she could not have guessed what had really happened; and though the evidence of the sounds she had heard through the door would have gone to show that philip had done the deed himself, yet there had been no doubt about mendoza's words, spoken to the king alone over don john's dead body, and repeated before the great assembly in the ball-room. if she guessed at an explanation, it was that her father, entering the bedchamber during the quarrel, and supposing from what he saw that don john was about to attack the king, had drawn and killed the prince without hesitation. the only thing quite clear was that mendoza was to suffer, and seemed strangely determined to suffer, for what he had or had not done. the dark shadow of the scaffold rose before dolores' eyes. it had seemed impossible that she could be made to bear more than she had borne that night, when she had fallen upon don john's body to weep her heart out for her dead love. but she saw that there was more to bear, and dimly she guessed that there might be something for her to do. there was inez first, and she must be cared for and placed in safety, for she was beside herself with grief. it was only on that afternoon by the window that dolores had guessed the blind girl's secret, which inez herself hardly suspected even now, though she was half mad with grief and utterly broken-hearted. dolores felt almost helpless, but she understood that she and her sister were henceforth to be more really alone in what remained of life than if they had been orphans from their earliest childhood. the vision of the convent, that had been unbearable but an hour since, held all her hope of peace and safety now, unless her father could be saved from his fate by some miracle of heaven. but that was impossible. he had given himself up as if he were determined to die. he had been out of his mind, beside himself, stark mad, in his fear that don john might bring harm upon his daughter. that was why he had killed him--there could be no other reason, unless he had guessed that she was in the locked room, and had judged her then and at once, and forever. the thought had not crossed her mind till then, and it was a new torture now, so that she shrank under it as under a bodily blow; and her grasp tightened violently upon her sister's arm, rousing the half-fainting girl again to the full consciousness of pain. it was no wonder that mendoza should have done such a deed, since he had believed her ruined and lost to honour beyond salvation. that explained all. he had guessed that she had been long with don john, who had locked her hastily into the inner room to hide her from the king. had the king been don john, had she loved philip as she loved his brother, her father would have killed his sovereign as unhesitatingly, and would have suffered any death without flinching. she believed that, and there was enough of his nature in herself to understand it. she was as innocent as the blind girl who lay in her arms, but suddenly it flashed upon her that no one would believe it, since her own father would not, and that her maiden honour and good name were gone for ever, gone with her dead lover, who alone could have cleared her before the world. she cared little for the court now, but she cared tenfold more earnestly for her father's thought of her, and she knew him and the terrible tenacity of his conviction when he believed himself to be right. he had proved that by what he had done. since she understood all, she no longer doubted that he had killed don john with the fullest intention, to avenge her, and almost knowing that she was within hearing, as indeed she had been. he had taken a royal life in atonement for her honour, but he was to give his own, and was to die a shameful death on the scaffold, within a few hours, or, at the latest, within a few days, for her sake. then she remembered how on that afternoon she had seen tears in his eyes, and had heard the tremor in his voice when he had said that she was everything to him, that she had been all his life since her mother had died--he had proved that, too; and though he had killed the man she loved, she shrank from herself again as she thought what he must have suffered in her dishonour. for it was nothing else. there was neither man nor woman nor girl in spain who would believe her innocent against such evidence. the world might have believed don john, if he had lived, because the world had loved him and trusted him, and could never have heard falsehood in his voice; but it would not believe her though she were dying, and though she should swear upon the most sacred and true things. the world would turn from her with an unbelieving laugh, and she was to be left alone in her dishonour, and people would judge that she was not even a fit companion for her blind sister in their solitude. the king would send her to las huelgas, or to some other distant convent of a severe order, that she might wear out her useless life in grief and silence and penance as quickly as possible. she bowed her head. it was too hard to bear. inez was more quiet now, and the two sat side by side in mournful silence, leaning against the parapet. they had forgotten the dwarf, and he had disappeared, waiting, perhaps, in the shadow at a distance, in case he might be of use to them. but if he was within hearing, they did not see him. at last inez spoke, almost in a whisper, as if she were in the presence of the dead. "were you there, dear?" she asked. "did you see?" "i was in the next room," dolores answered. "i could not see, but i heard. i heard him fall," she added almost inaudibly, and choking. inez shuddered and pressed nearer to her sister, leaning against her, but she did not begin to sob again. she was thinking. "can we not help our father, at least?" she asked presently. "is there nothing we can say, or do? we ought to help him if we can, dolores--though he did it." "i would save him with my life, if i could. god knows, i would! he was mad when he struck the blow. he did it for my sake, because he thought don john had ruined my good name. and we should have been married the day after to-morrow! god of heaven, have mercy!" her grief took hold of her again, like a material power, shaking her from head to foot, and bowing her down upon herself and wringing her hands together, so that inez, calmer than she, touched her gently and tried to comfort her without any words, for there were none to say, since nothing mattered now, and life was over at its very beginning. little by little the sharp agony subsided to dull pain once more, and dolores sat upright. but inez was thinking still, and even in her sorrow and fright she was gathering all her innocent ingenuity to her aid. "is there no way?" she asked, speaking more to herself than to her sister. "could we not say that we were there, that it was not our father but some one else? perhaps some one would believe us. if we told the judges that we were quite, quite sure that he did not do it, do you not think--but then," she checked herself--"then it could only have been the king." "only the king himself," echoed dolores, half unconsciously, and in a dreamy tone. "that would be terrible," said inez. "but we could say that the king was not there, you know--that it was some one else, some one we did not know--" dolores rose abruptly from the seat and laid her hand upon the parapet steadily, as if an unnatural strength had suddenly grown up in her. inez went on speaking, confusing herself in the details she was trying to put together to make a plan, and losing the thread of her idea as she attempted to build up falsehoods, for she was truthful as their father was. but dolores did not hear her. "you can do nothing, child," she said at last, in a firm tone. "but i may. you have made me think of something that i may do--it is just possible--it may help a little. let me think." inez waited in silence for her to go on, and dolores stood as motionless as a statue, contemplating in thought the step she meant to take if it offered the slightest hope of saving her father. the thought was worthy of her, but the sacrifice was great even then. she had not believed that the world still held anything with which she would not willingly part, but there was one thing yet. it might be taken from her, though her father had slain don john of austria to save it, and was to die for it himself. she could give it before she could be robbed of it, perhaps, and it might buy his life. she could still forfeit her good name of her own free will, and call herself what she was not. in words she could give her honour to the dead man, and the dead could not rise up and deny her nor refuse the gift. and it seemed to her that when the people should hear her, they would believe her, seeing that it was her shame, a shame such as no maiden who had honour left would bear before the world. but it was hard to do. for honour was her last and only possession now that all was taken from her. it was not the so-called honour of society, either, based on long-forgotten traditions, and depending on convention for its being--not the sort of honour within which a man may ruin an honest woman and suffer no retribution, but which decrees that he must take his own life if he cannot pay a debt of play made on his promise to a friend, which allows him to lie like a cheat, but ordains that he must give or require satisfaction of blood for the imaginary insult of a hasty word--the honour which is to chivalry what black superstition is to the true christian faith, which compares with real courage and truth and honesty, as an ape compares with a man. it was not that, and dolores knew it, as every maiden knows it; for the honour of woman is the fact on which the whole world turns, and has turned and will turn to the end of things; but what is called the honour of society has been a fiction these many centuries, and though it came first of a high parentage, of honest thought wedded to brave deed, and though there are honourable men yet, these are for the most part the few who talk least loudly about honour's code, and the belief they hold has come to be a secret and a persecuted faith, at which the common gentleman thinks fit to laugh lest some one should presume to measure him by it and should find him wanting. dolores did not mean to hesitate, after she had decided what to do. but she could not avoid the struggle, and it was long and hard, though she saw the end plainly before her and did not waver. inez did not understand and kept silence while it lasted. it was only a word to say, but it was the word which would be repeated against her as long as she lived, and which nothing she could ever say or do afterwards could take back when it had once been spoken--it would leave the mark that a lifetime could not efface. but she meant to speak it. she could not see what her father would see, that he would rather die, justly or unjustly, than let his daughter be dishonoured before the world. that was a part of a man's code, perhaps, but it should not hinder her from saving her father's life, or trying to, at whatever cost. what she was fighting against was something much harder to understand in herself. what could it matter now, that the world should think her fallen from her maiden estate? the world was nothing to her, surely. it held nothing, it meant nothing, it was nothing. her world had been her lover, and he lay dead in his room. in heaven, he knew that she was innocent, as he was himself, and he would see that she was going to accuse herself that she might save her father. in heaven, he had forgiven his murderer, and he would understand. as for the world and what it said, she knew that she must leave it instantly, and go from the confession she was about to make to the convent where she was to die, and whence her spotless soul would soon be wafted away to join her true lover beyond the earth. there was no reason why she should find it hard to do, and yet it was harder than anything she had ever dreamed of doing. but she was fighting the deepest and strongest instinct of woman's nature, and the fight went hard. she fancied the scene, the court, the grey-haired nobles, the fair and honourable women, the brave young soldiers, the thoughtless courtiers, the whole throng she was about to face, for she meant to speak before them all, and to her own shame. she was as white as marble, but when she thought of what was coming the blood sprang to her face and tingled in her forehead, and she felt her eyes fall and her proud head bend, as the storm of humiliation descended upon her. she could hear beforehand the sounds that would follow her words, the sharp, short laugh of jealous women who hated her, the murmur of surprise among the men. then the sea of faces would seem to rise and fall before her in waves, the lights would dance, her cheeks would burn like flames, and she would grow dizzy. that would be the end. afterwards she could go out alone. perhaps the women would shrink from her, no man would be brave enough to lead her kindly from the room. yet all that she would bear, for the mere hope of saving her father. the worst, by far the worst and hardest to endure, would be something within herself, for which she had neither words nor true understanding, but which was more real than anything she could define, for it was in the very core of her heart and in the secret of her soul, a sort of despairing shame of herself and a desolate longing for something she could never recover. she closed her tired eyes and pressed her hand heavily upon the stone coping of the parapet. it was the supreme effort, and when she looked down at inez again she knew that she should live to the end of the ordeal without wavering. "i am going down to the throne room," she said, very quietly and gently. "you had better go to our apartment, dear, and wait for me there. i am going to try and save our father's life--do not ask me how. it will not take long to say what i have to say, and then i will come to you." inez had risen now, and was standing beside her, laying a hand upon her arm. "let me come, too," she said. "i can help you, i am sure i can help you." "no," answered dolores, with authority. "you cannot help me, dearest, and it would hurt you, and you must not come." "then i will stay here," said inez sorrowfully. "i shall be nearer to him," she added under her breath. "stay here--yes. i will come back to you, and then--then we will go in together, and say a prayer--his soul can hear us still--we will go and say good-by to him--together." her voice was almost firm, and inez could not see the agony in her white face. then dolores clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead and her blind eyes very lovingly, and pressed her head to her own shoulders and patted it and smoothed the girl's dark hair. "i will come back," she said, "and, inez--you know the truth, my darling. whatever evil they may say of me after to-night, remember that i have said it of myself for our father's sake, and that it is not true." "no one will believe it," answered inez. "they will not believe anything bad of you." "then our father must die." dolores kissed her once more and made her sit down, then turned and went away. she walked quickly along the corridors and descended the second staircase, to enter the throne room by the side door reserved for the officers of the household and the maids of honour. she walked swiftly, her head erect, one hand holding the folds of her cloak pressed to her bosom, and the other, nervously clenched, and hanging down, as if she were expecting to strike a blow. she reached the door, and for a moment her heart stopped beating, and her eyes closed. she heard many loud voices within, and she knew that most of the court must still be assembled. it was better that all the world should hear her--even the king, if he were still there. she pushed the door open and went in by the familiar way, letting the dark cloak that covered her court dress fall to the ground as she passed the threshold. half a dozen young nobles, grouped near the entrance, made way for her to pass. when they recognized her, their voices dropped suddenly, and they stared after her in astonishment that she should appear at such a time. she was doubtless in ignorance of what had happened, they thought. as for the throng in the hall, there was no restraint upon their talk now, and words were spoken freely which would have been high treason half an hour earlier. there was the noise, the tension, the ceaseless talking, the excited air, that belong to great palace revolutions. the press was closer near the steps of the throne, where the king and mendoza had stood, for after they had left the hall, surrounded and protected by the guards, the courtiers had crowded upon one another, and those near the further door and outside it in the outer apartments had pressed in till there was scarcely standing room on the floor of the hall. dolores found it hard to advance. some made way for her with low exclamations of surprise, but others, not looking to see who she was, offered a passive resistance to her movements. "will you kindly let me pass?" she asked at last, in a gentle tone, "i am dolores de mendoza." at the name the group that barred her passage started and made way, and going through she came upon the prince of eboli, not far from the steps of the throne. the english ambassador, who meant to stay as long as there was anything for him to observe, was still by the prince's side. dolores addressed the latter without hesitation. "don ruy gomez," she said, "i ask your help. my father is innocent, and i can prove it. but the court must hear me--every one must hear the truth. will you help me? can you make them listen?" ruy gomez looked down at dolores' pale and determined features in courteous astonishment. "i am at your service," he answered. "but what are you going to say? the court is in a dangerous mood to-night." "i must speak to all," said dolores. "i am not afraid. what i have to say cannot be said twice--not even if i had the strength. i can save my father--" "why not go to the king at once?" argued the prince, who feared trouble. "for the love of god, help me to do as i wish!" dolores grasped his arm, and spoke with an effort. "let me tell them all, how i know that my father is not guilty of the murder. after that take me to the king if you will." she spoke very earnestly, and he no longer opposed her. he knew the temper of the court well enough, and was sure that whatever proved mendoza innocent would be welcome just then, and though he was far too loyal to wish the suspicion of the deed to be fixed upon the king, he was too just not to desire mendoza to be exculpated if he were innocent. "come with me," he said briefly, and he took dolores by the hand, and led her up the first three steps of the platform, so that she could see over the heads of all present. it was no time to think of court ceremonies or customs, for there was danger in the air. ruy gomez did not stop to make any long ceremony. drawing himself up to his commanding height, he held up his white gloves at arm's length to attract the attention of the courtiers, and in a few moments there was silence. they seemed an hour of torture to dolores. ruy gomez raised his voice. "grandees! the daughter of don diego de mendoza stands here at my side to prove to you that he is innocent of don john of austria's death!" the words had hardly left his lips when a shout went up, like a ringing cheer. but again he raised his hand. "hear doña maria dolores de mendoza!" he cried. then he stepped a little away from dolores, and looked towards her. she was dead white, and her lips trembled. there was an almost glassy look in her eyes, and still she pressed one hand to her bosom, and the other hung by her side, the fingers twitching nervously against the folds of her skirt. a few seconds passed before she could speak. "grandees of spain!" she began, and at the first words she found strength in her voice so that it reached the ends of the hall, clear and vibrating. the silence was intense, as she proceeded. "my father has accused himself of a fearful crime. he is innocent. he would no more have raised his hand against don john of austria than against the king's own person. i cannot tell why he wishes to sacrifice his life by taking upon himself the guilt. but this i know. he did not do the deed. you ask me how i know that, how i can prove it? i was there, i, dolores de mendoza, his daughter, was there unseen in my lover's chamber when he was murdered. while he was alive i gave him all, my heart, my soul, my maiden honour; and i was there to-night, and had been with him long. but now that he is dead, i will pay for my father's life with my dishonour. he must not die, for he is innocent. grandees of spain, as you are men of honour, he must not die, for he is one of you, and this foul deed was not his." she ceased, her lids drooped till her eyes were half closed and she swayed a little as she stood. roy gomez made one long stride and held her, for he thought she was fainting. but she bit her lips, and forced her eyes to open and face the crowd again. "that is all," she said in a low voice, but distinctly, "it is done. i am a ruined woman. help me to go out." the old prince gently led her down the steps. the silence had lasted long after she had spoken, but people were beginning to talk again in lower tones. it was as she had foreseen it. she heard a scornful woman's laugh, and as she passed along, she saw how the older ladies shrank from her and how the young ones eyed her with a look of hard curiosity, as if she were some wild creature, dangerous to approach, though worth seeing from a distance. but the men pressed close to her as she passed, and she heard them tell each other that she was a brave woman who could dare to save her father by such means, and there were quick applauding words as she passed, and one said audibly that he could die for a girl who had such a true heart, and another answered that he would marry her if she could forget don john. and they did not speak without respect, but in earnest, and out of the fulness of their admiration. at last she was at the door, and she paused to speak before going out. "have i saved his life?" she asked, looking up to the old prince's kind face. "will they believe me?" "they believe you," he answered. "but your father's life is in the king's hands. you should go to his majesty without wasting time. shall i go with you? he will see you, i think, if i ask it." "why should i tell the king?" asked dolores. "he was there--he saw it all--he knows the truth." she hardly realized what she was saying. * * * * * chapter xvi ruy gomez was as loyal, in his way, as mendoza himself, but his loyalty was of a very different sort, for it was tempered by a diplomatic spirit which made it more serviceable on ordinary occasions, and its object was altogether a principle rather than a person. mendoza could not conceive of monarchy, in its abstract, without a concrete individuality represented by king philip; but ruy gomez could not imagine the world without the spanish monarchy, though he was well able to gauge his sovereign's weaknesses and to deplore his crimes. he himself was somewhat easily deceived, as good men often are, and it was he who had given the king his new secretary, antonio perez; yet from the moment when mendoza had announced don john's death, he had been convinced that the deed had either been done by philip himself or by his orders, and that mendoza had bravely sacrificed himself to shield his master. what dolores had said only confirmed his previous opinion, so far as her father's innocence was at stake. as for her own confession, he believed it, and in spite of himself he could not help admiring the girl's heroic courage. dolores might have been in reality ten times worse than she had chosen to represent herself; she would still have been a model of all virtue compared with his own wife, though he did not know half of the princess's doings, and was certainly ignorant of her relations with the king. he was not at all surprised when dolores told him at the door that philip knew the truth about the supposed murder, but he saw how dangerous it might be for dolores to say as much to others of the court. she wished to go away alone, as she had come, but he insisted on going with her. "you must see his majesty," he said authoritatively. "i will try to arrange it at once. and i entreat you to be discreet, my dear, for your father's sake, if not for any other reason. you have said too much already. it was not wise of you, though it showed amazing courage. you are your father's own daughter in that--he is one of the bravest men i ever knew in my life." "it is easy to be brave when one is dead already!" said dolores, in low tones. "courage, my dear, courage!" answered the old prince, in a fatherly tone, as they went along. "you are not as brave as you think, since you talk of death. your life is not over yet." "there is little left of it. i wish it were ended already." she could hardly speak, for an inevitable and overwhelming reaction had followed on the great effort she had made. she put out her hand and caught her companion's arm for support. he led her quickly to the small entrance of the king's apartments, by which it was his privilege to pass in. they reached a small waiting-room where there were a few chairs and a marble table, on which two big wax candles were burning. dolores sank into a seat, and leaned back, closing her eyes, while ruy gomez went into the antechamber beyond and exchanged a few words with the chamberlain on duty. he came back almost immediately. "your father is alone with the king," he said. "we must wait." dolores scarcely heard what he said, and did not change her position nor open her eyes. the old man looked at her, sighed, and sat down near a brazier of wood coals, over which he slowly warmed his transparent hands, from time to time turning his rings slowly on his fingers, as if to warm them, too. outside, the chamberlain in attendance walked slowly up and down, again and again passing the open door, through which he glanced at dolores' face. the antechamber was little more than a short, broad corridor, and led to the king's study. this corridor had other doors, however, and it was through it that the king's private rooms communicated with the hall of the royal apartments. as ruy gomez had learned, mendoza was with philip, but not alone. the old officer was standing on one side of the room, erect and grave, and king philip sat opposite him, in a huge chair, his still eyes staring at the fire that blazed in the vast chimney, and sent sudden flashes of yellow through the calm atmosphere of light shed by a score of tall candles. at a table on one side sat antonio perez, the secretary. he was provided with writing-materials and appeared to be taking down the conversation as it proceeded. philip asked a question from time to time, which mendoza answered in a strange voice unlike his own, and between the questions there were long intervals of silence. "you say that you had long entertained feelings of resentment against his highness," said the king, "you admit that, do you?" "i beg your majesty's pardon. i did not say resentment. i said that i had long looked upon his highness's passion for my daughter with great anxiety." "is that what he said, perez?" asked philip, speaking to the secretary without looking at him. "read that." "he said: i have long resented his highness's admiration for my daughter," answered perez, reading from his notes. "you see," said the king. "you resented it. that is resentment. i was right. be careful, mendoza, for your words may be used against you to-morrow. say precisely what you mean, and nothing but what you mean." mendoza inclined his head rather proudly, for he detested antonio perez, and it appeared to him that the king was playing a sort of comedy for the secretary's benefit. it seemed an unworthy interlude in what was really a solemn tragedy. "why did you resent his highness's courtship of your daughter?" enquired philip presently, continuing his cross-examination. "because i never believed that there could be a real marriage," answered mendoza boldly. "i believed that my child must become the toy and plaything of don john of austria, or else that if his highness married her, the marriage would soon be declared void, in order that he might marry a more important personage." "set that down," said the king to perez, in a sharp tone. "set that down exactly. it is important." he waited till the secretary's pen stopped before he went on. his next question came suddenly. "how could a marriage consecrated by our holy religion ever be declared null and void?" "easily enough, if your majesty wished it," answered mendoza unguardedly, for his temper was slowly heating. "write down that answer, perez. in other words, mendoza, you think that i have no respect for the sacrament of marriage, which i would at any time cause to be revoked to suit my political purposes. is that what you think?" "i did not say that, sire. i said that even if don john married my daughter--" "i know quite well what you said," interrupted the king suavely. "perez has got every word of it on paper." the secretary's bad black eyes looked up from his writing, and he slowly nodded as he looked at mendoza. he understood the situation perfectly, though the soldier was far too honourable to suspect the truth. "i have confessed publicly that i killed don john defenceless," he said, in rough tones. "is not that enough?" "oh, no!" philip almost smiled, "that is not enough. we must also know why you committed such on abominable crime. you do not seem to understand that in taking your evidence here myself, i am sparing you the indignity of an examination before a tribunal, and under torture--in all probability. you ought to be very grateful, my dear mendoza." "i thank your majesty," said the brave old soldier coldly. "that is right. so we know that your hatred of his highness was of long standing, and you had probably determined some time ago that you would murder him on his return." the king paused a moment and then continued. "do you deny that on this very afternoon you swore that if don john attempted to see your daughter, you would kill him at once?" mendoza was taken by surprise, and his haggard eyes opened wide as he stared at philip. "you said that, did you not?" asked the king, insisting upon the point. "on your honour, did you say it?" "yes, i said that," answered mendoza at last. "but how did your majesty know that i did?" the king's enormous under lip thrust itself forward, and two ugly lines of amusement were drawn in his colourless cheeks. his jaw moved slowly, as if he were biting something of which he found the taste agreeable. "i know everything," he said slowly. "i am well served in my own house. perez, be careful. write down everything. we also know, i think, that your daughter met his highness this evening. you no doubt found that out as others did. the girl is imprudent. do you confess to knowing that the two had met this evening?" mendoza ground his teeth as if he were suffering bodily torture. his brows contracted, and as perez looked up, he faced him with such a look of hatred and anger that the secretary could hot meet his eyes. the king was a sacred and semi-divine personage, privileged to ask any question he chose and theoretically incapable of doing wrong, but it was unbearable that this sleek black fox should have the right to hear diego de mendoza confess his daughter's dishonour. antonio perez was not an adventurer of low birth, as many have gratuitously supposed, for his father had held an honourable post at court before him; but he was very far from being the equal of one who, though poor and far removed from the head of his own family, bore one of the most noble names in spain. "let your majesty dismiss don antonio perez," said mendoza boldly. "i will then tell your majesty all i know." perez smiled as he bent over his notes, for he knew what the answer would be to such a demand. it came sharply. "it is not the privilege of a man convicted of murder to choose his hearers. answer my questions or be silent. do you confess that you knew of your daughter's meeting with don john this evening?" mendoza's lips set themselves tightly under his grey beard, and he uttered no sound. he interpreted the king's words literally. "well, what have you to say?" "nothing, sire, since i have your majesty's permission to be silent." "it does not matter," said philip indifferently. "note that he refuses to answer the question, perez. note that this is equivalent to confessing the fact, since he would otherwise deny it. his silence is & reason, however, for allowing the case to go to the tribunal to be examined in the usual way--the usual way," he repeated, looking hard at mendoza and emphasizing the words strongly. "since i do not deny the deed, i entreat your majesty to let me suffer for it quickly. i am ready to die, god knows. let it be to-morrow morning or to-night. your majesty need only sign the warrant for my execution, which don antonio perez has, no doubt, already prepared." "not at all, not at all," answered the king, with horrible coolness. "i mean that you shall have a fair and open trial and every possible opportunity of justifying yourself. there must be nothing secret about this. so horrible a crime must be treated in the most public manner. though it is very painful to me to refer to such a matter, you must remember that after it had pleased heaven, in its infinite justice, to bereave me of my unfortunate son, don carlos, the heir to the throne, there were not wanting ill-disposed and wicked persons who actually said that i had caused his life to be shortened by various inhuman cruelties. no, no! we cannot have too much publicity. consider how terrible a thing it would be if any one should dare to suppose that my own brother had been murdered with my consent! you should love your country too much not to fear such a result; for though you have murdered my brother in cold blood, i am too just to forget that you have proved your patriotism through a long and hitherto honourable career. it is my duty to see that the causes of your atrocious action are perfectly clear to my subjects, so that no doubt may exist even in the most prejudiced minds. do you understand? i repeat that if i have condescended to examine you alone, i have done so only out of a merciful desire to spare an old soldier the suffering and mortification of an examination by the tribunal that is to judge you. understand that." "i understand that and much more besides," answered mendoza, in low and savage tones. "it is not necessary that you should understand or think that you understand anything more than what i say," returned the king coldly. "at what time did you go to his highness's apartments this evening?" "your majesty knows." "i know nothing of it," said the king, with the utmost calm. "you were on duty after supper. you escorted me to my apartments afterwards. i had already sent for perez, who came at once, and we remained here, busy with affairs, until i returned to the throne room, five minutes before you came and confessed the murder; did we not, perez?" "most certainly, sire," answered the secretary gravely. "your majesty must have been at work with me an hour, at least, before returning to the throne room." "and your majesty did not go with me by the private staircase to don john of austria's apartment?" asked mendoza, thunderstruck by the enormous falsehood. "with you?" cried the king, in admirably feigned astonishment. "what madness is this? do not write that down, perez. i really believe the man is beside himself!" mendoza groaned aloud, for he saw that he had been frightfully deceived. in his magnificent generosity, he had assumed the guilt of the crime, being ready and willing to die for it quickly to save the king from blame and to put an end to his own miserable existence. but he had expected death quickly, mercifully, within a few hours. had he suspected what philip had meant to do,--that he was to be publicly tried for a murder he had not committed, and held up to public hatred and ignominy for days and perhaps weeks together, while a slow tribunal dragged out its endless procedure,--neither his loyalty nor his desire for death could have had power to bring his pride to such a sacrifice. and now he saw that he was caught in a vise, and that no accusation he could bring against the king could save him, even if he were willing to resort to such a measure and so take back his word. there was no witness for him but himself. don john was dead, and the infamous perez was ready to swear that philip had not left the room in which they had been closeted together. there was not a living being to prove that mendoza had not gone alone to don john's apartments with the deliberate intention of killing him. he had, indeed, been to the chief steward's office in search of a key, saying that the king desired to have it and was waiting; but it would be said that he had used the king's authority to try and get the key for himself because he knew that his daughter was hidden in the locked room. he had foolishly fancied that the king would send for him and see him alone before he died, that his sovereign would thank him for the service that was costing his life, would embrace him and send him to his death for the good of spain and the divine right of monarchy. truly, he had been most bitterly deceived. "you said," continued philip mercilessly, "that you killed his highness when he was unarmed. is that true?" "his highness was unarmed," said mendoza, almost through his closed teeth, for he was suffering beyond words. "unarmed," repeated the king, nodding to perez, who wrote rapidly. "you might have given him a chance for his life. it would have been more soldier-like. had you any words before you drew upon him? was there any quarrel?" "none. we did not speak to each other." mendoza tried to make philip meet his eyes, but the king would not look at him. "there was no altercation," said the king, looking at perez. "that proves that the murder was premeditated. put it down--it is very important. you could hardly have stabbed him in the back, i suppose. he must have turned when he heard you enter. where was the wound?" "the wound that killed his highness will be found near the heart." "cruel!" philip looked down at his own hands, and he shook his head very sadly. "cruel, most cruel," he repeated in a low tone. "i admit that it was a very cruel deed," said mendoza, looking at him fixedly. "in that, your majesty is right." "did you see your daughter before or after you had committed the murder?" asked the king calmly. "i have not seen my daughter since the murder was committed." "but you saw her before? be careful, perez. write down every word. you say that you saw your daughter before you did it." "i did not say that," answered mendoza firmly. "it makes very little difference," said the king, "if you had seen her with his highness, the murder would have seemed less cold-blooded, that is all. there would then have been something like a natural provocation for it." there was a low sound, as of some one scratching at the door. that was the usual way of asking admittance to the king's room on very urgent matters. perez rose instantly, the king nodded to him, and he went to the door. on opening, someone handed him a folded paper on a gold salver. he brought it to philip, dropped on one knee very ceremoniously, and presented it. philip took the note and opened it, and perez returned to his seat at once. the king unfolded the small sheet carefully. the room was so full of light that he could read it when he sat, without moving. his eyes followed the lines quickly to the end, and returned to the beginning, and he read the missive again more carefully. not the slightest change of expression was visible in his face, as he folded the paper neatly again in the exact shape in which he had received it. then he remained silent a few moments. perez held his pen ready to write, moving it mechanically now and then as if he were writing in the air, and staring at the fire, absorbed in his own thoughts, though his ear was on the alert. "you refuse to admit that you found your daughter and don john together, then?" the king spoke with an interrogation. "i did not find them together," answered mendoza. "i have said so." he was becoming exasperated under the protracted cross-examination. "you have not said so. my memory is very good, but if it should fail we have everything written down. i believe you merely refused to answer when i asked if you knew of their meeting--which meant that you did know of it. is that it, perez?" "exactly so, sire." the secretary had already found the place among his notes. "do you persistently refuse to admit that you had positive evidence of your daughter's guilt before the murder?" "i will not admit that, sire, for it would not be true." "your daughter has given her evidence since," said the king, holding up the folded note, and fixing his eyes at last on his victim's face. if it were possible, mendoza turned more ashy pale than before, and he started perceptibly at the king's words. "i shall never believe that!" he cried in a voice which nevertheless betrayed his terror for his child. "a few moments before this note was written," said philip calmly, "your daughter entered the throne room, and addressed the court, standing upon the steps of the throne--a very improper proceeding and one which ruy gomez should not have allowed. your daughter dolores--is that the girl's name? yes. your daughter dolores, amidst the most profound silence, confessed that she--it is so monstrous that i can hardly bring myself to say it--that she had yielded to the importunities of his late highness, that she was with him in his room a long time this evening, and that, in fact, she was actually in his bedchamber when he was murdered." "it is a lie!" cried mendoza vehemently. "it is an abominable lie--she was not in the room!" "she has said that she was," answered philip. "you can hardly suppose a girl capable of inventing such damning evidence against herself, even for the sake of saving her own father. she added that his highness was not killed by you. but that is puerile. she evidently saw you do it, and has boldly confessed that she was in the room--hidden somewhere, perhaps, since you absolutely refuse to admit that you saw her there. it is quite clear that you found the two together and that you killed his highness before your daughter's eyes. why not admit that, mendoza? it makes you seem a little less cold-blooded. the provocation was great--" "she was not there," protested mendoza, interrupting the king, for he hardly knew what he was doing. "she was there, since she confesses to have been in the room. i do not tolerate interruption when i am speaking. she was there, and her evidence will be considered. even if you did not see her, how can you be sure that your daughter was not there? did you search the room? did you look behind the curtains?" "i did not." the stern old man seemed to shrink bodily under the frightful humiliation to which he was subjected. "very well, then you cannot swear that she was not in the room. but you did not see her there. then i am sorry to say that there can have been no extenuating circumstances. you entered his highness's bedchamber, you did not even speak to him, you drew your sword and you killed him. all this shows that you went there fully determined to commit the crime. but with regard to its motive, this strange confession of your daughter's makes that quite clear. she had been extremely imprudent with don john, you were aware of the fact, and you revenged yourself in the most brutal way. such vengeance never can produce any but the most fatal results. you yourself must die, in the first place, a degrading and painful death on the scaffold, and you die leaving behind you a ruined girl, who must bury herself in a convent and never be seen by her worldly equals again. and besides that, you have deprived your king of a beloved brother, and spain of her most brilliant general. could anything be worse?" "yes. there are worse things than that, your majesty, and worse things have been done. it would have been a thousand times worse if i had done the deed and cast the blame of it on a man so devoted to me that he would bear the guilt in my stead, and a hundred thousand times worse if i had then held up that man to the execration of mankind, and tortured him with every distortion of evidence which great falsehoods can put upon a little truth. that would indeed have been far worse than anything i have done. god may find forgiveness for murderers, but there is only hell for traitors, and the hell of hells is the place of men who betray their friends." "his mind is unsettled, i fear," said the king, speaking to perez. "these are signs of madness." "indeed i fear so, sire," answered the smooth secretary, shaking his head solemnly. "he does not know what he says." "i am not mad, and i know what i am saying, for i am a man under the hand of death." mendoza's eyes glared at the king savagely as he spoke, and then at perez, but neither could look at him, for neither dared to meet his gaze. "as for this confession my daughter has made, i do not believe in it. but if she has said these things, you might have let me die without the bitterness of knowing them, since that was in your power. and god knows that i have staked my life freely for your majesty and for spain these many years, and would again if i had it to lose instead of having thrown it away. and god knows, too, that for what i have done, be it good or bad, i will bear whatsoever your majesty shall choose to say to me alone in the way of reproach. but as i am a dying man i will not forgive that scribbler there for having seen a spanish gentleman's honour torn to rags, and an old soldier's last humiliation, and i pray heaven with my dying breath, that he may some day be tormented as he has seen me tormented, and worse, till he shall cry out for mercy--as i will not!" the cruelly injured man's prayer was answered eight years from that day, and even now perez turned slowly pale as he heard the words, for they were spoken with all the vehemence of a dying man's curse. but philip was unmoved. he was probably not making mendoza suffer merely for the pleasure of watching his pain, though others' suffering seems always to have caused him a sort of morbid satisfaction. what he desired most was to establish a logical reason for which mendoza might have committed the crime, lest in the absence of sound evidence he himself should be suspected of having instigated it. he had no intention whatever of allowing mendoza to be subjected to torture during the trial that was to ensue. on the contrary, he intended to prepare all the evidence for the judges and to prevent mendoza from saying anything in self-defence. to that end it was necessary that the facts elicited should be clearly connected from first cause to final effect, and by the skill of antonio perez in writing down only the words which contributed to that end, the king's purpose was now accomplished. he heard every word of mendoza's imprecation and thought it proper to rebuke him for speaking so freely. "you forget yourself, sir," he said coldly. "don antonio perez is my private secretary, and you must respect him. while you belonged to the court his position was higher and more important than your own; now that you stand convicted of an outrageous murder in cold blood, you need not forget that he is an innocent man. i have done, mendoza. you will not see me again, for you will be kept in confinement until your trial, which can only have one issue. come here." he sat upright in his chair and held out his hand, while mendoza approached with unsteady steps, and knelt upon one knee, as was the custom. "i am not unforgiving," said the king. "forgiveness is a very beautiful christian virtue, which we are taught to exercise from our earliest childhood. you have cut off my dearly loved brother in the flower of his youth, but you shall not die believing that i bear you any malice. so far as i am able, i freely forgive you for what you have done, and in token i give you my hand, that you may have that comfort at the last." with incredible calmness philip took mendoza's hand as he spoke, held it for a moment in his, and pressed it almost warmly at the last words. the old man's loyalty to his sovereign had been a devotion almost amounting to real adoration, and bitterly as he had suffered throughout the terrible interview, he well-nigh forgot every suffering as he felt the pressure of the royal fingers. in an instant he had told himself that it had all been but a play, necessary to deceive perez, and to clear the king from suspicion before the world, and that in this sense the unbearable agony he had borne had served his sovereign. he forgot all for a moment, and bending his iron-grey head, he kissed the thin and yellow hand fervently, and looked up to philip's cold face and felt that there were tears of gratitude in his own eyes, of gratitude at being allowed to leave the world he hated with the certainty that his death was to serve his sovereign idol. "i shall be faithful to your majesty until the end," he said simply, as the king withdrew his fingers, and he rose to his feet. the king nodded slowly, and his stony look watched mendoza with a sort of fixed curiosity. even he had not known that such men lived. "call the guards to the door, perez," he said coldly. "tell the officer to take don diego mendoza to the west tower for to-night, and to treat him with every consideration." perez obeyed. a detachment of halberdiers with an officer were stationed in the short, broad corridor that led to the room where dolores was waiting. perez gave the lieutenant his orders. mendoza walked backwards to the door from the king's presence, making three low bows as he went. at the door he turned, taking no notice of the secretary, marched out with head erect, and gave himself up to the soldiers. * * * * * chapter xvii the halberdiers closed round their old chief, but did not press upon him. three went before him, three behind, and one walked on each side, and the lieutenant led the little detachment. the men were too much accustomed to seeing courtiers in the extremes of favour and disfavour to be much surprised at the arrest of mendoza, and they felt no great sympathy for him. he had always been too rigidly exacting for their taste, and they longed for a younger commander who should devote more time to his own pleasure and less to inspecting uniforms and finding fault with details. yet mendoza had been a very just man, and he possessed the eminently military bearing and temper which always impose themselves on soldiers. at the present moment, too, they were more inclined to pity him than to treat him roughly, for if they did not guess what had really taken place, they were quite sure that don john of austria had been murdered by the king's orders, like don carlos and queen isabel and a fair number of other unfortunate persons; and if the king had chosen mendoza to do the deed, the soldiers thought that he was probably not meant to suffer for it in the end, and that before long he would be restored to his command. it would, therefore, be the better for them, later, if they showed him a certain deference in his misfortune. besides, they had heard antonio perez tell their officer that mendoza was to be treated with every consideration. they marched in time, with heavy tread and the swinging gait to right and left that is natural to a soldier who carries for a weapon a long halberd with a very heavy head. mendoza was as tall as any of them, and kept their step, holding his head high. he was bareheaded, but was otherwise still in the complete uniform he wore when on duty on state occasions. the corridor, which seemed short on account of its breadth and in comparison with the great size of the halls in the palace, was some thirty paces long and lighted by a number of chandeliers that hung from the painted vault. the party reached the door of the waiting room and halted a moment, while one of the king's footmen opened the doors wide. don ruy gomez and dolores were waiting within. the servant passed rapidly through to open the doors beyond. ruy gomez stood up and drew his chair aside, somewhat surprised at the entrance of the soldiers, who rarely passed that way. dolores opened her eyes at the sound of marching, but in the uncertain light of the candles she did not at first see mendoza, half hidden as he was by the men who guarded him. she paid little attention, for she was accustomed to seeing such detachments of halberdiers marching through the corridors when the sentries were relieved, and as she had never been in the king's apartments she was not surprised by the sudden appearance of the soldiers, as her companion was. but as the latter made way for them he lifted his hat, which as a grandee he wore even in the king's presence, and he bent his head courteously as mendoza went by. he hoped that dolores would not see her father, but his own recognition of the prisoner had attracted her attention. she sprang to her feet with a cry. mendoza turned his head and saw her before she could reach him, for she was moving forward. he stood still, and the soldiers halted instinctively and parted before her, for they all knew their commander's daughter. "father!" she cried, and she tried to take his hand. but he pushed her away and turned his face resolutely towards the door before him. "close up! forward--march!" he said, in his harsh tone of command. the men obeyed, gently forcing dolores aside. they made two steps forward, but ruy gomez stopped them by a gesture, standing in their way and raising one hand, while he laid the other on the young lieutenant's shoulder. ruy gomez was one of the greatest personages in spain; he was the majorduomo of the palace, and had almost unlimited authority. but the officer had his orders directly from the king and felt bound to carry them out to the letter. "his majesty has directed me to convey don diego de mendoza to the west tower without delay," he said. "i beg your excellency to let us proceed." ruy gomez still held him by the shoulder with a gentle pressure. "that i will not," he said firmly; "and if you are blamed for being slow in the execution of your duty, say that ruy gomez de silva hindered you, and fear nothing. it is not right that father and daughter should part as these two are parting." "i have nothing to say to my daughter," said mendoza harshly; but the words seemed to hurt him. "don diego," answered ruy gomez, "the deed of which you have accused yourself is as much worse than anything your child has done as hatred is worse than love. by the right of mere humanity i take upon myself to say that you shall be left here a while with your daughter, that you may take leave of one another." he turned to the officer. "withdraw your men, sir," he said. "wait at the door. you have my word for the security of your prisoner, and my authority for what you do. i will call you when it is time." he spoke in a tone that admitted of no refusal, and he was obeyed. the officers and the men filed out, and ruy gomez closed the door after them. he himself recrossed the room and went out by the other way into the broad corridor. he meant to wait there. his orders had been carried out so quickly that mendoza found himself alone with dolores, almost as by a surprise. in his desperate mood he resented what ruy gomez had done, as an interference in his family affairs, and he bent his bushy brows together as he stood facing dolores, with folded arms. four hours had not passed since they had last spoken together alone in his own dwelling; there was a lifetime of tragedy between that moment and this. dolores had not spoken since he had pushed her away. she stood beside a chair, resting one hand upon it, dead white, with the dark shadow of pain under her eyes, her lips almost colourless, but firm, and evenly closed. there were lines of suffering in her young face that looked as if they never could be effaced. it seemed to her that the worst conflict of all was raging in her heart as she watched her father's face, waiting for the sound of his voice; and as for him, he would rather have gone back to the king's presence to be tormented under the eyes of antonio perez than stand there, forced to see her and speak to her. in his eyes, in the light of what he had been told, she was a ruined and shameless woman, who had deceived him day in, day out, for more than two years. and to her, so far as she could understand, he was the condemned murderer of the man she had so innocently and truly loved. but yet, she had a doubt, and for that possibility, she had cast her good name to the winds in the hope of saving his life. at one moment, in a vision of dread, she saw his armed hand striking at her lover--at the next she felt that he could never have struck the blow, and that there was an unsolved mystery behind it all. never were two innocent human beings so utterly deceived, each about the other. "father," she said, at last, in a trembling tone, "can you not speak to me, if i can find heart to hear you?" "what can we two say to each other?" he asked sternly. "why did you stop me? i am ready to die for killing the man who ruined you. i am glad. why should i say anything to you, and what words can you have for me? i hope your end may come quickly, with such peace as you can find from your shame at the last. that is what i wish for you, and it is a good wish, for you have made death on the scaffold look easy to me, so that i long for it. do you understand?" "condemned to death!" she cried out, almost incoherently, before he had finished speaking. "but they cannot condemn you--i have told them that i was there--that it was not you--they must believe me--o god of mercy!" "they believe you--yes. they believe that i found you together and killed him. i shall be tried by judges, but i am condemned beforehand, and i must die." he spoke calmly enough. "your mad confession before the court only made my conviction more certain," he said. "it gave the reason for the deed--and it burned away the last doubt i had. if they are slow in trying me, you will have been before the executioner, for he will find me dead--by your hand. you might have spared me that--and spared yourself. you still had the remnant of a good name, and your lover being dead, you might have worn the rag of your honour still. you have chosen to throw it away, and let me know my full disgrace before i die a disgraceful death. and yet you wish to speak to me. do you expect my blessing?" dolores had lost the power of speech. passing her hand now and then across her forehead, as though trying to brush away a material veil, she stood half paralyzed, staring wildly at him while he spoke. but when she saw him turn away from her towards the door, as if he would go out and leave her there, her strength was loosed from the spell, and she sprang before him and caught his wrists with her hands. "i am as innocent as when my mother bore me," she said, and her low voice rang with the truth. "i told the lie to save your life. do you believe me now?" he gazed at her with haggard eyes for many moments before he spoke. "how can it be true?" he asked, but his voice shook in his throat. "you were there--i saw you leave his room--" "no, that you never saw!" she cried, well knowing how impossible it was, since she had been locked in till after he had gone away. "i saw your dress--not this one--what you wore this afternoon." "not this one? i put on this court dress before i got out of the room in which you had locked me up. inez helped me--i pretended that i was she, and wore her cloak, and slipped away, and i have not been back again. you did not see me." mendoza passed his hand over his eyes and drew back from her. if what she said were true, the strongest link was gone from the chain of facts by which he had argued so much sorrow and shame. forgetting himself and his own near fate, he looked at the court dress she wore, and a mere glance convinced him that it was not the one he had seen. "but--" he was suddenly confused--"but why did you need to disguise yourself? i left the princess of eboli with you, and i gave her permission to take you away to stay with her. you needed no disguise." "i never saw her. she must have found inez in the room. i was gone long before that." "gone--where?" mendoza was fast losing the thread of it all--in his confusion of ideas he grasped the clue of his chief sorrow, which was far beyond any thought for himself. "but if you are innocent--pray god you may be, as you say--how is it possible--oh, no! i cannot believe it--i cannot! no woman could do that--no innocent girl could stand out before a multitude of men and women, and say what you said--" "i hoped to save your life. i had the strength. i did it." her clear grey eyes looked into his, and his doubt began to break away before the truth. "make me believe it!" he cried, his voice breaking. "oh, god! make me believe it before i die!" "it is true," she cried, in a low, strong voice that carried belief to his breast in spite of such reasoning as still had some power over him. "it is true, and you shall believe it; and if you will not, the man you have killed, the man i loved and trusted, the dead man who knows the whole truth as i know it, will come back from the dead to prove it true--for i swear it upon his soul in heaven, and upon yours and mine that will not be long on earth--as i will swear it in the hour of your death and mine, since we must die!" he could not take his eyes from hers that held him, and suddenly in the pure depths he seemed to see her soul facing him without fear, and he knew that what she said was true, and his tortured heart leapt up at the good certainty. "i believe you, my child," he said at last, and then his grey lids half closed over his eyes and he bent down to her, and put his arm round her. but she shuddered at the touch of his right hand, and though she knew that he was a condemned man, and that she might never see him again, she could not bear to receive his parting kiss upon her forehead. "oh, father, why did you kill him?" she asked, turning her head away and moving to escape from his hold. but mendoza did not answer. his arm dropped by his side, and his face grew white and stony. she was asking him to give up the king's secret, to keep which he was giving his life. he felt that it would be treason to tell even her. and besides, she would not keep the secret--what woman could, what daughter would? it must go out of the world with him, if it was to be safe. he glanced at her and saw her face ravaged by an hour's grief. yet she would not mourn don john the less if she knew whose hand had done the deed. it could make but a little difference to her, though to himself that difference would be great, if she knew that he died innocent. and then began a struggle fierce and grim, that tore his soul and wounded his heart as no death agony could have hurt him. since he had judged her unjustly, since it had all been a hideous dream, since she was still the child that had been all in all to him throughout her life, since all was changed, he did not wish to die, he bore the dead man no hatred, it was no soothing satisfaction to his outraged heart to know him dead of a sword wound in the breast, far away in the room where they had left him, there was no fierce regret that he had not driven the thrust himself. the man was as innocent as the innocent girl, and he himself, as innocent as both, was to be led out to die to shield the king--no more. his life was to be taken for that only, and he no longer set its value at naught nor wished it over. he was the mere scapegoat, to suffer for his master's crime, since crime it was and nothing better. and since he was willing to bear the punishment, or since there was now no escape from it, had he not at least the human right to proclaim his innocence to the only being he really loved? it would be monstrous to deny it. what could she do, after all, even if she knew the truth? nothing. no one would dare to believe her if she accused the king. she would be shut up in a convent as a mad woman, but in any case, she would certainly disappear to end her life in some religious house as soon as he was dead. poor girl--she had loved don john with all her heart--what could the world hold for her, even if the disgrace of her father's death were not to shut her out of the world altogether, as it inevitably must. she would not live long, but she would live in the profoundest sorrow. it would be an alleviation, almost the greatest possible, to know that her father's hand was not stained by such a deed. the temptation to speak out was overwhelming, and he knew that the time was short. at any moment ruy gomez might open the door, and bid him part from her, and there would be small chance for him of seeing her again. he stood uncertain, with bent head and folded arms, and she watched him, trying to bring herself to touch his hand again and bear his kiss. his loyalty to the king, that was like a sort of madness, stood between him and the words he longed to say. it was the habit of his long soldier's life, unbending as the corslet he wore and enclosing his soul as the steel encased his body, proof against every cruelty, every unkindness, every insult. it was better to die a traitor's death for the king's secret than to live for his own honour. so it had always seemed to him, since he had been a boy and had learned to fight under the great emperor. but now he knew that he wavered as he had never done in the most desperate charge, when life was but a missile to be flung in the enemy's face, and found or not, when the fray was over. there was no intoxication of fury now, there was no far ring of glory in the air, there was no victory to be won. the hard and hideous fact stared him in the face, that he was to die like a malefactor by the hangman's hand, and that the sovereign who had graciously deigned to accept the sacrifice had tortured him for nearly half an hour without mercy in the presence of an inferior, in order to get a few facts on paper which might help his own royal credit. and as if that were not enough, his own daughter was to live after him, believing that he had cruelly murdered the man she most dearly loved. it was more than humanity could bear. his brow unbent, his arms unfolded themselves, and he held them out to dolores with a smile almost gentle. "there is no blood on these hands, my little girl," he said tenderly. "i did not do it, child. let me hold you in my arms once, and kiss you before i go. we are both innocent--we can bless one another before we part for ever." the pure, grey eyes opened wide in amazement. dolores could hardly believe her ears, as she made a step towards him, and then stopped, shrinking, and then made one step more. her lips moved and wondering words came to him, so low that he could hardly understand, save that she questioned him. "you did not do it!" she breathed. "you did not kill him after all? but then--who--why?" still she hesitated, though she came slowly nearer, and a faint light warmed her sorrowful face. "you must try to guess who and why," he said, in a tone as low as her own. "i must not tell you that." "i cannot guess," she answered; but she was close to him now, and she had taken one of his hands softly in both her own, while she gazed into his eyes. "how can i understand unless you tell me? is it so great a secret that you must die for it, and never tell it? oh, father, father! are you sure--quite sure?" "he was dead already when i came into the room," mendoza answered. "i did not even see him hurt." "but then--yes--then"--her voice sank to a whisper--"then it was the king!" he saw the words on her lips rather than heard them, and she saw in his face that she was right. she dropped his hand and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her bosom to his breastplate; and suddenly her love for him awoke, and she began to know how she might have loved him if she had known him through all the years that were gone. "it cannot be that he will let you die!" she cried softly. "you shall not die!" she cried again, with sudden strength, and her light frame shook his as if she would wrench him back from inevitable fate. "my little girl," he answered, most tenderly clasping her to him, and most thoughtfully, lest his armour should hurt her, "i can die happy now, for i have found all of you again." "you shall not die! you shall not die!" she cried. "i will not let you go--they must take me, too--" "no power can save me now, my darling," he answered. "but it does not matter, since you know. it will be easy now." she could only hold him with her small hands, and say over and over again that she would not let him go. "ah! why have you never loved me before in all these years?" he cried. "it was my fault--all my fault." "i love you now with all my heart," she answered, "and i will save you, even from the king; and you and i and inez will go far away, and you two shall comfort me and love me till i go to him." mendoza shook his head sadly, looking over her shoulder as he held her, for he knew that there was no hope now. had he known, or half guessed, but an hour or two ago, he would have turned on his heel from the door of don john's chamber, and he would have left the king to bear the blame or shift it as he could. "it is too late, dolores. god bless you, my dear, dear child! it will soon be over--two days at most, for the people will cry out for the blood of don john's murderer; and when they see mine they will be satisfied. it is too late now. good-by, my little girl, good-by! the blessing of all heaven be on your dear head!" dolores nestled against him, as she had never done before, with the feeling that she had found something that had been wanting in her life, at the very moment when the world, with all it held for her, was slipping over the edge of eternity. "i will not leave you," she cried again. "they shall take me to your prison, and i will stay with you and take care of you, and never leave you; and at last i shall save your life, and then--" the door of the corridor opened, and she saw ruy gomez standing in the entrance, as if he were waiting. his face was calm and grave as usual, but she saw a profound pity in his eyes. "no, no!" she cried to him, "not yet--one moment more!" but mendoza turned his head at her words, looking over his shoulder, and he saw the prince also. "i am ready," he said briefly, and he tried to take dolores' hands from his neck. "it is time," he said to her. "be brave, my darling! we have found each other at last. it will not be long before we are together for ever." he kissed her tenderly once more, and loosed her hold, putting her two hands together and kissing them also. "i will not say good-by," she said. "it is not good-by--it shall not be. i shall be with you soon." his eyes lingered upon hers for a moment, and then he broke away, setting his teeth lest he should choke and break down. he opened the door and presented himself to the halberdiers. dolores heard his familiar voice give the words of command. "close up! forward, march!" the heavy tramp she knew so well began at once, and echoed along the outer entries, growing slowly less distinct till it was only a distant and rumbling echo, and then died away altogether. her hand was still on the open door, and ruy gomez was standing beside her. he gently drew her away, and closed the door again. she let him lead her to a chair, and sat down where she had sat before. but this time she did not lean back exhausted, with half-closed eyes,--she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she tried to think connectedly to a conclusion. she remembered all the details of the past hours one by one, and she felt that the determination to save her father had given her strength to live. "don ruy gomez," she said at last, looking up to the tall old nobleman, who stood by the brazier warming his hands again, "can i see the king alone?" "that is more than i can promise," answered the prince. "i have asked an audience for you, and the chamberlain will bring word presently whether his majesty is willing to see you. but if you are admitted, i cannot tell whether perez will be there or not. he generally is. his presence need make no difference to you. he is an excellent young man, full of heart. i have great confidence in him,--so much so that i recommended him to his majesty as secretary. i am sure that he will do all he can to be of use to you." dolores looked up incredulously, and with a certain wonder at the prince's extreme simplicity. yet he had been married ten years to the clever woman who ruled him and perez and king philip, and made each one believe that she was devoted to him only, body and soul. of the three, perez alone may have guessed the truth, but though it was degrading enough, he would not let it stand in the way of his advancement; and in the end it was he who escaped, leaving her to perish, the victim of the king's implacable anger, dolores could not help shaking her head in answer to the prince of eboli's speech. "people are very unjust to perez," he said. "but the king trusts him. if he is there, try to conciliate him, for he has much influence with his majesty." dolores said nothing, and resuming her attitude, returned to her sad meditations, and to the study of some immediate plan. but she could think of no way. her only fixed intention was to see the king himself. ruy gomez could do no more to help her than he had done already, and that indeed was not little, since it was to his kindly impulse that she owed her meeting with her father. "and if perez is not inclined to help don diego," said the prince, after a long pause which had not interrupted the slow progression of, his kindly thought, "i will request my wife to speak to him. i have often noticed that the princess can make perez do almost anything she wishes. women are far cleverer than men, my dear--they have ways we do not understand. yes, i will interest my wife in the affair. it would be a sad thing if your father--" the old man stopped short, and dolores wondered vaguely what he had been going to say. ruy gomez was a very strange compound of almost childlike and most honourable simplicity, and of the experienced wisdom with regard to the truth of matters in which he was not concerned, which sometimes belongs to very honourable and simple men. "you do not believe that my father is guilty," said dolores, boldly asserting what she suspected. "my dear child," answered ruy gomez, twisting his rings on his fingers as he spread his hands above the coals in the brazier, "i have lived in this court for fifty years, and i have learned in that time that where great matters are at stake those who do not know the whole truth are often greatly deceived by appearances. i know nothing of the real matter now, but it would not surprise me if a great change took place before to-morrow night. a man who has committed a crime so horrible as the one your father confessed before us all rarely finds it expedient to make such a confession, and a young girl, my dear, who has really been a little too imprudently in love with a royal prince, would be a great deal too wise to make a dramatic statement of her fault to the assembled grandees of spain." he looked across at dolores and smiled gently. but she only shook her head gravely in answer, though she wondered at what he said, and wondered, too, whether there might not be a great many persons in the court who thought as he did. she was silent, too, because it hurt her to talk when she could not draw breath without remembering that what she had lived for was lying dead in that dim room on the upper story. the door opened, and a chamberlain entered the room. "his majesty is pleased to receive doña dolores de mendoza, in private audience," he said. ruy gomez rose and led dolores out into the corridor. * * * * * chapter xviii dolores had prepared no speech with which to appeal to the king, and she had not counted upon her own feelings towards him when she found herself in the room where mendoza had been questioned, and heard the door closed behind her by the chamberlain who had announced her coming. she stood still a moment, dazzled by the brilliant lights after having been so long in the dimmer waiting room. she had never before been in the king's study, and she had fancied it very different from what it really was when she had tried to picture to herself the coming interview. she had supposed the room small, sombre, littered with books and papers, and cold; it was, on the contrary, so spacious as to be almost a hall, it was brightly illuminated and warmed by the big wood fire. magnificent tapestries covered the walls with glowing colour, and upon one of these, in barbaric bad taste, was hung a single great picture by titian, philip's favourite master. dolores blushed as she recognized in the face of the insolent venus the features of the princess of eboli. prom his accustomed chair, the king could see this painting. everywhere in the room there were rich objects that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that detracted from the beauty of each, and made dolores feel that she had been suddenly transported out of her own element into another that was hard to breathe and in which it was bad to live. it oppressed her, and though her courage was undiminished, the air of the place seemed to stifle her thought and speech. as she entered she saw the king in profile, seated in his great chair at some distance from the fire, but looking at it steadily. he did not notice her presence at first. antonio perez sat at the table, busily writing, and he only glanced at dolores sideways when he heard the door close after her. she sank almost to the ground as she made the first court curtsey before advancing, and she came forward into the light. as her skirt swept the ground a second time, philip looked slowly round, and his dull stare followed her as she came round in a quarter of a wide circle and curtsied a third time immediately in front of him. she was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to speak, and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold contempt in her white face such as no living person had ever dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her deep grey eyes. but for the presence of the secretary, she would have spoken first, regardless of court ceremony. philip looked at her attentively, mentally comparing her with his young queen's placidly dull personality and with the princess of eboli's fast disappearing and somewhat coarse beauty. for the princess had changed much since titian had painted his very flattering picture, and though she was only thirty years of age, she was already the mother of many children. philip stared steadily at the beautiful girl who stood waiting before him, and he wondered why she had never seemed so lovely to him before. there was a half morbid, half bitter savour in what he felt, too,--he had just condemned the beauty's father to death, and she must therefore hate him with all her heart. it pleased him to think of that; she was beautiful and he stared at her long. "be seated, doña dolores," he said at last, in a muffled voice that was not harsh. "i am glad that you have come, for i have much to say to you." without lifting his wrist from the arm of the chair on which it rested, the king moved his hand, and his long forefinger pointed to a low cushioned stool that was placed near him. dolores came forward unwillingly and sat down. perez watched the two thoughtfully, and forgot his writing. he did not remember that any one excepting the princess of eboli had been allowed to be seated in the king's study. the queen never came there. perez' work exempted him in private, of course, from much of the tedious ceremonial upon which philip insisted. dolores sat upon the edge of the stool, very erect, with her hands folded on her knees. "doña dolores is pale," observed the king. "bring a cordial, perez, or a glass of oporto wine." "i thank your majesty," said the young girl quickly. "i need nothing." "i will be your physician," answered philip, very suavely. "i shall insist upon your taking the medicine i prescribe." he did not turn his eyes from her as perez brought a gold salver and offered dolores the glass. it was impossible to refuse, so she lifted it to her lips and sipped a little. "i thank your majesty," she said again. "i thank you, sir," she said gravely to perez as she set down the glass, but she did not raise her eyes to his face as she spoke any more than she would have done if he had been a footman. "i have much to say to you, and some questions to ask of you," the king began, speaking very slowly, but with extreme suavity. he paused, and coughed a little, but dolores said nothing. then he began to look at her again, and while he spoke he steadily examined every detail of her appearance till his inscrutable gaze had travelled from her headdress to the points of her velvet slippers, and finally remained fixed upon her mouth in a way that disturbed her even more than the speech he made. perez had resumed his seat. "in my life," he began, speaking of himself quite without formality, "i have suffered more than most men, in being bereaved of the persons to whom i have been most sincerely attached. the most fortunate and successful sovereign in the world has been and is the most unhappy man in his kingdom. one after another, those i have loved have been taken from me, until i am almost alone in the world that is so largely mine. i suppose you cannot understand that, my dear, for my sorrows began before you were born. but they have reached their crown and culmination to-day in the death of my dear brother." he paused, watching her mouth, and he saw that she was making a superhuman effort to control herself, pressing the beautiful lips together, though they moved gainfully in spite of her, and visibly lost colour. "perez," he said after a moment, "you may go and take some rest. i will send for you when i need you." the secretary rose, bowed low, and left the room by a small masked door in a corner. the king waited till he saw it close before he spoke again. his tone changed a little then and his words came quickly, as if he felt here constraint. "i feel," he said, "that we are united by a common calamity, my dear. i intend to take you under my most particular care and protection from this very hour. yes, i know!" he held up his hand o deprecate any interruption, for dolores seemed about to speak. "i know why you come to me, you wish to intercede for your father. that is natural, and you are right to come to me yourself, for i would rather hear your voice than that of another speaking for you, and i would rather grant any mercy in my power to you directly than to some personage of the court who would be seeking his own interest as much as yours." "i ask justice, not mercy, sire," said dolores, in a firm, low voice, and the fire lightened in her eyes. "your father shall have both," answered philip, "for they are compatible." "he needs no mercy," returned the young girl, "for he has done no harm. your majesty knows that as well as i." "if i knew that, my dear, your father would not be under arrest. i cannot guess what you know or do not know--" "i know the truth." she spoke so confidently that the king's expression changed a little. "i wish i did," he answered, with as much suavity as ever. "but tell me what you think you know about this matter. you may help me to sift it, and then i shall be the better able to help you, if such a thing be possible. what do you know?" dolores leaned forward toward him from her seat, almost rising as she lowered her voice to a whisper, her eyes fixed on his face. "i was close behind the door your majesty wished to open," she said. "i heard every word; i heard your sword drawn and i heard don john fall--and then it was some time before i heard my father's voice, taking the blame upon himself, lest it should be said that the king had murdered his own brother in his room, unarmed. is that the truth, or not?" while she was speaking, a greenish hue overspread philip's face, ghastly in the candlelight. he sat upright in his chair, his hands straining on its arms and pushing, as if he would have got farther back if he could. he had foreseen everything except that dolores had been in the next room, for his secret spies had informed him through perez that her father had kept her a prisoner during the early part of the evening and until after supper. "when you were both gone," dolores continued, holding him under her terrible eyes, "i came in, and i found him dead, with the wound in his left breast, and he was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life. there is blood upon my dress where it touched his--the blood of the man i loved, shed by you. ah, he was right to call you coward, and he died for me, because you said things of me that no loving man would bear. he was right to call you coward--it was well said--it was the last word he spoke, and i shall not forget it. he had borne everything you heaped upon himself, your insults, your scorn of his mother, but he would not let you cast a slur upon my name, and if you had not killed him out of sheer cowardice, he would have struck you in the face. he was a man! and then my father took the blame to save you from the monstrous accusation, and that all might believe him guilty he told the lie that saved you before them all. do i know the truth? is one word of that not true?" she had quite risen now and stood before him like an accusing angel. and he, who was seldom taken unawares, and was very hard to hurt, leaned back and suffered, slowly turning his head from side to side against the back of the high carved chair. "confess that it is true!" she cried, in concentrated tones. "can you not even find courage for that? you are not the king now, you are your brother's murderer, and the murderer of the man i loved, whose wife i should have been to-morrow. look at me, and confess that i have told the truth. i am a spanish woman, and i would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders, and if you will confess and save my father, i will keep your secret for my country's sake. but if not--then you must either kill me here, as you slew him, or by the god that made you and the mother that bore you, i will tell all spain what you are, and the men who loved don john of austria shall rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die, as you killed, like the coward you are!" the king's eyes were closed, and still his great pale head moved slowly from side to side; for he was suffering, and the torture of mind he had made mendoza bear was avenged already. but he was silent. "will you not speak?" asked the young girl, with blazing eyes. "then find some weapon and kill me here before i go, for i shall not wait till you find many words." she was silent, and she stood upright in the act to go. he made no sound, and she moved towards the door, stood still, then moved again and then again, pausing for his answer at each step. he heard her, but could not bring himself to speak the words she demanded of him. she began to walk quickly. her hand was almost on the door when he raised himself by the arms of his chair, and cried out to her in a frightened voice:-- "no, no! stay here--you must not go--what do you want me to say?" she advanced a step again, and once more stood still and met his scared eyes as he turned his face towards her. "say, 'you have spoken the truth,'" she answered, dictating to him as if she were the sovereign and he a guilty subject. she waited a moment and then moved as if she would go out. "stay--yes--it is true--i did it--for god's mercy do not betray me!" he almost screamed the words out to her, half rising, his body bent, his face livid in his extreme fear. she came slowly back towards him, keeping her eyes upon him as if he were some dangerous wild animal that she controlled by her look alone. "that is not all," she said. "that was for me, that i might hear the words from your own lips. there is something more." "what more do you want of me?" asked philip, in thick tones, leaning back exhausted in his chair. "my father's freedom and safety," answered dolores. "i must have an order for his instant release. he can hardly have reached his prison yet. send for him. let him come here at once, as a free man." "that is impossible," replied philip. "he has confessed the deed before the whole court--he cannot possibly be set at liberty without a trial. you forget what you are asking--indeed you forget yourself altogether too much." he was gathering his dignity again, by force of habit, as his terror subsided, but dolores was too strong for him. "i am not asking anything of your majesty; i am dictating terms to my lover's murderer," she said proudly. "this is past bearing, girl!" cried philip hoarsely. "you are out of your mind--i shall call servants to take you away to a place of safety. we shall see what you will do then. you shall not impose your insolence upon me any longer." dolores reflected that it was probably in his power to carry out the threat, and to have her carried off by the private door through which perez had gone out. she saw in a flash how great her danger was, for she was the only witness against him, and if he could put her out of the way in a place of silence, he could send her father to trial and execution without risk to himself, as he had certainly intended to do. on the other hand, she had been able to terrify him to submission a few moments earlier. in the instant working of her woman's mind, she recollected how his fright had increased as she had approached the door by which she had entered. his only chance of accomplishing her disappearance lay in having her taken away by some secret passage, where no open scandal could be possible. before she answered his last angry speech, she had almost reached the main entrance again. "call whom you will," she said contemptuously. "you cannot save yourself. don ruy gomez is on the other side of that door, and there are chamberlains and guards there, too. i shall have told them all the truth before your men can lay hands on me. if you will not write the order to release my father, i shall go out at once. in ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. spain has not forgotten don carlos yet! there are those alive who saw you give queen isabel the draught that killed her--with your own hand. are you mad enough to think that no one knows those things, that your spies, who spy on others, do not spy on you, that you alone, of all mankind, can commit every crime with impunity?" "take care, girl! take care!" "beware--don philip of austria, king of spain and half the world, lest a girl's voice be heard above yours, and a girl's hand loosen the foundation of your throne, lest all mankind rise up to-morrow and take your life for the lives you have destroyed! outside this door here, there are men who guess the truth already, who hate you as they hate satan, and who loved your brother as every living being loved him--except you. one moment more--order my father to be set free, or i will open and speak. one moment! you will not? it is too late--you are lost!" her hand went out to open, but philip was already on his feet, and with quick, clumsy steps he reached the writing-table, seized the pen perez had thrown down, and began to scrawl words rapidly in his great angular handwriting. he threw sand upon it to dry the ink, and then poured the grains back into the silver sandbox, glanced at the paper and held it out to dolores without a word. his other hand slipped along the table to a silver bell, used for calling his private attendants, but the girl saw the movement and instinctively suspected his treachery. he meant her to come to the table, when he would ring the bell and then catch her and hold her by main force till help came. her faculties were furiously awake under the strain she bore, and outran his slow cunning. "if you ring that bell, i will open," she said imperiously. "i must have the paper here, where i am safe, and i must read it myself before i shall be satisfied." "you are a terrible woman," said the king, but she did not like his smile as he came towards her, holding out the document. she took it from his hand, keeping her eyes on his, for something told her that he would try to seize her and draw her from the door while she was reading it. for some seconds they faced each other in silence, and she knew by his determined attitude that she was right, and that it would not be safe to look down. she wondered why he did not catch her in his arms as she stood, and then she realized that her free hand was on the latch of the door, and that he knew it. she slowly turned the handle, and drew the door to her, and she saw his face fall. she moved to one side so that she could have sprung out if he had tried violence, and then at last she allowed her eyes to glance at the paper. it was in order and would be obeyed; she saw that, at a glance, for it said that don diego de mendoza was to be set at liberty instantly and unconditionally. "i humbly thank your majesty, and take my leave," she said, throwing the door wide open and curtseying low. a chamberlain who had seen the door move on its hinges stepped in to shut it, for it opened inward. the king beckoned him in, and closed it, but before it was quite shut, he heard dolores' voice. "don ruy gomez," she was saying, "this is an order to set my father at liberty unconditionally and at once. i do not know to whom it should be given. will you take it for me and see to it?" "i will go to the west tower myself," he said, beginning to walk with her. "such good news is even better when a friend brings it." "thank you. tell him from me that he is safe, for his majesty has told me that he knows the whole truth. will you do that? you have been very kind to me to-night, prince--let me thank you with all my heart now, for we may not meet again. you will not see me at court after this, and i trust my father will take us back to valladolid and live with us." "that would be wise," answered ruy gomez. "as for any help i have given you, it has been little enough and freely given. i will not keep your father waiting for his liberty. good-night, doña dolores." * * * * * chapter xix all that had happened from the time when don john had fallen in his room to the moment when dolores left her sister on the terrace had occupied little more than half an hour, during which the king had descended to the hall, mendoza had claimed the guilt of don john's murder, and the two had gone out under the protection of the guards. as soon as dolores was out of hearing, inez rose and crept along the terrace to don john's door. in the confusion that had ensued upon the announcement of his death no one had thought of going to him; every one took it for granted that some one else had done what was necessary, and that his apartments were filled with physicians and servants. it was not the first time in history that a royal personage had thus been left alone an hour, either dead or dying, because no one was immediately responsible, and such things have happened since. inez stole along the terrace and found the outer door open, as the dwarf had left it when he had carried dolores out in his arms. she remembered that the voices she had heard earlier had come from rooms on the left of the door, and she felt her way to the entrance of the bedchamber, and then went in without hesitation. bending very low, so that her hands touched the floor from time to time, she crept along, feeling for the body she expected to find. suddenly she started and stood upright in an instant. she had heard a deep sigh in the room, not far off. she listened intently, but even her ears could detect no sound after that. she was a little frightened, not with any supernatural fear, for the blind, who live in the dark for ever, are generally singularly exempt from such terrors, but because she had thought herself alone with the dead man, and did not wish to be discovered. "who is here?" she asked quickly, but there was no answer out of the dead stillness. she stood quite still a few seconds and then crept forward again, bending down and feeling before her along the floor. a moment later her hand touched velvet, and she knew that she had found what she sought. with a low moan she fell upon her knees and felt for the cold hand that lay stretched out upon the marble pavement beyond the thick carpet. her hand followed the arm, reached the shoulder and then the face. her fingers fluttered lightly upon the features, while her own heart almost stood still she felt no horror of death, though she had never been near a dead person before; and those who were fond of her had allowed her to feel their features with her gentle hands, and she knew beauty through her touch, by its shape. though her heart was breaking, she had felt that once, before it was too late, she must know the face she had long loved in dreams. her longing satisfied, her grief broke out again, and she let herself fall her length upon the floor beside don john, one arm across his chest, her head resting against the motionless shoulder, her face almost hidden against the gathered velvet and silk of his doublet. once or twice she sobbed convulsively, and then she lay quite still, trying with all her might to die there, on his arm, before any one came to disturb her. it seemed very simple, just to stop living and stay with him for ever. again she heard a sound of deep-drawn breath--but it was close to her now, and her own arm moved with it on his chest--the dead man had moved, he had sighed. she started up wildly, with a sharp cry, half of paralyzing fear, and half of mad delight in a hope altogether impossible. then, he drew his breath again, and it issued from his lips with a low groan. he was not quite dead yet, he might speak to her still, he could hear her voice, perhaps, before he really died. she could never have found courage to kiss him, even then she could have blushed scarlet at the thought, but she bent down to his face, very close to it, till her cheek almost touched his as she spoke in a very trembling, low voice. "not yet--not yet--come back for one moment, only for one little moment! oh, let it be god's miracle for me!" she hardly knew what she said, but the miracle was there, for she heard his breath come again and again, and as she stared into her everlasting night, strange flashes, like light, shot through her brain, her bosom trembled, and her hands stiffened in the spasm of a delirious joy. "come back!" she cried again. "come back!" her hands shook as they felt his body move. his voice came again, not in a word yet, but yet not in a groan of pain. his eyes, that had been half open and staring, closed with a look of rest, and colour rose slowly in his cheeks. then he felt her breath, and his strength returned for an instant, his arms contracted and clasped her to him violently. "dolores!" he cried, and in a moment his lips rained kisses on her face, while his eyes were still closed. then he sank back again exhausted, and her arm kept his head from striking the marble floor. the girl's cheek flushed a deep red, as she tried to speak, and her words came broken and indistinct. "i am not dolores," she managed to say. "i am inez--" but he did not hear, for he was swooning again, and the painful blush sank down again, as she realized that he was once more unconscious. she wondered whether the room were dark or whether there were lights, or whether he had not opened his eyes when he had kissed her. his head was very heavy on her arm. with her other hand she drew off the hood she wore and rolled it together, and lifting him a little she made a pillow of it so that he rested easily. he had not recognized her, and she believed he was dying, he had kissed her, and all eternity could not take from her the memory of that moment. in the wild confusion of her thoughts she was almost content that he should die now, for she had felt what she had never dared to feel in sweetest dreams, and it had been true, and no one could steal it away now, nor should any one ever know it, not even dolores herself. the jealous thought was there, in the whirlwind of her brain, with all the rest, sudden, fierce, and strong, as if don john had been hers in life, and as if the sister she loved so dearly had tried to win him from her. he was hers in death, and should be hers for ever, and no one should ever know. it did not matter that he had taken her for another, his kisses were her own. once only had a man's lips, not her father's, touched her cheek, and they had been the lips of the fairest, and best, and bravest man in the world, her idol and her earthly god. he might die now, and she would follow him, and in the world beyond god would make it right somehow, and he, and she, and her sister would all be but one loving soul for ever and ever. there was no reasoning in all that--it was but the flash of wild thoughts that all seemed certainties. but don john of austria was neither dead nor dying. his brother's sword had pierced his doublet and run through the outer flesh beneath his left arm, as he stood sideways with his right thrust forward. the wound was a mere scratch, as soldiers count wounds, and though the young blood had followed quickly, it had now ceased to flow. it was the fall that had hurt him, not the stab. the carpet had slipped from under his feet, and he had fallen backwards to his full length, as a man falls on ice, and his head had struck the marble floor so violently that he had lain half an hour almost in a swoon, like a dead man at first, with neither breath nor beating of the heart to give a sign of life, till after dolores had left him; and then he had sighed back to consciousness by very slow degrees, because no one was there to help him, to raise his head a few inches from the floor, to dash a little cold water into his face. he stirred uneasily now, and moved his hands again, and his eyes opened wide. inez felt the slight motion and heard his regular breathing, and an instinct told her that he was conscious, and not in a dream as he had been when he had kissed her. "i am inez," she said, almost mechanically, and not knowing why she had feared that he should take her for her sister. "i found your highness here--they all think that you are dead." "dead?" there was surprise in his voice, and his eyes looked at her and about the room as he spoke, though he did not yet lift his head from the hood on which it lay. "dead?" he repeated, dazed still. "no--i must have fallen. my head hurts me." he uttered a sharp sound as he moved again, more of annoyance than of suffering, as strong men do who unexpectedly find themselves hurt or helpless, or both. then, as his eyes fell upon the open door of the inner room, he forgot his pain instantly and raised himself upon his hand with startled eyes. "where is dolores?" he cried, in utmost anxiety. "where have they taken her? did she get out by the window?" "she is safe," answered inez, hardly knowing what she said, for he turned pale instantly and had barely heard her answer, when he reeled as he half sat and almost fell against her. she held him as well as she could, but the position was strained and she was not very strong. half mad now, between fear lest he should die in her arms and the instinctive belief that he was to live, she wished with all her heart that some one would come and help her, or send for a physician. he might die for lack of some simple aid she did not know how to give him. but he had only been dizzy with the unconscious effort he had made, and presently he rested on his own hand again. "thank god dolores is safe!" he said, in a weak voice. "can you help me to get to a chair, my dear child? i must have been badly stunned. i wonder how long i have been here. i remember--" he paused and passed one hand over his eyes. the first instinct of strong persons who have been unconscious is to think aloud, and to try and recall every detail of the accident that left them unconscious. "i remember--the king was here--we talked and we quarrelled--oh!" the short exclamation ended his speech, as complete recollection returned, and he knew that the secret must be kept, for his brother's sake. he laid one head on the slight girl's shoulder to steady himself, and with his other he helped himself to kneel on one knee. "i am very dizzy," he said. "try and help me to a chair, inez." she rose swiftly, holding his hand, and then putting one arm round him under his own. he struggled to his feet and leaned his weight upon her, and breathed hard. the effort hurt him where the flesh was torn. "i am wounded, too," he said quietly, as he glanced at the blood on his vest. "but it is nothing serious, i think." with the instinct of the soldier hurt in the chest, he brushed his lips with the small lace ruffle of his sleeve, and looked at it, expecting to see the bright red stains that might mean death. there was nothing. "it is only a scratch," he said, with an accent of indifference. "help me to the chair, my dear." "where?" she asked. "i do not know the room." "one forgets that you are blind," he answered, with a smile, and leaning heavily upon her, he led her by his weight, till he could touch the chair in which he had sat reading dolores' letter when the king had entered an hour earlier. he sat down with a sigh of relief, and stretched first one leg and then the other, and leaned back with half-closed eyes. "where is dolores?" he asked at last. "why did she go away?" "the jester took her away, i think," answered inez. "i found them together on the terrace. she was trying to come back to you, but he prevented her. they thought you were dead." "that was wise of him." he spoke faintly still, and when he opened his eyes, the room swam with him. "and then?" "then i told her what had happened at court; i had heard everything from the gallery. and dolores went down alone. i could not understand what she was going to do, but she is trying to save our father." "your father!" don john looked at her in surprise, forgetting his hurt, but it was as if some one had struck his head again, and he closed his eyes. "what has happened?" he asked faintly. "try and tell me. i do not understand." "my father thought he had killed you," answered inez, in surprise. "he came into the great hall when the king was there, and he cried out in a loud voice that he had killed you, unarmed." "your father?" he forgot his suffering altogether now. "your father was not even in the room when--when i fell! and did the king say nothing? tell me quickly!" "there was a great uproar, and i ran away to find dolores. i do not know what happened afterwards." don john turned painfully in his chair and lifted his hand to the back of his head. but he said nothing at first, for he was beginning to understand, and he would not betray the secret of his accident even to inez. "i knew he could not have done it! i thought he was mad--he most have been! but i also thought your highness was dead." "dear child!" don john's voice was very kind. "you brought me to life. your father was not here. it was some one else who hurt me. do you think you could find dolores or send some one to tell her--to tell every one that i am alive? say that i had a bad fall and was stunned for a while. never mind the scratch--it is nothing--do not speak of it. if you could find adonis, he could go." he groaned now, for the pain of speaking was almost intolerable. inez put out her hand towards him. "does it hurt very much?" she asked, with a sort of pathetic, childlike sympathy. "yes, my head hurts, but i shall not faint. there is something to drink by the bed, i think--on this side. if you could only find it. i cannot walk there yet, i am so giddy." "some one is coming!" exclaimed inez, instead of answering him. "i hear some one on the terrace. hark!" she listened with bent head. "it is adonis. i know his step. there he is!" almost as she spoke the last words the dwarf was in the doorway. he stood still, transfixed with astonishment. "mercy of heaven!" he exclaimed devoutly. "his highness is alive after all!" "yes," said inez, in a glad tone. "the prince was only stunned by the fall. go and tell dolores--go out and tell every one--bring every one here to me!" "no!" cried don john. "try and bring doña dolores alone, and let no one else know. the rest can wait." "but your highness needs a physician," protested the dwarf, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "your highness is wounded, and must therefore be bled at once. i will call the doctor galdos--" "i tell you it is nothing," interrupted don john. "do as i order you, and bring doña dolores. give me that drink there, first--from the little table. in a quarter of an hour i shall be quite well again. i have been as badly stunned before when my horse has fallen with me at a barrier." the jester swung quickly to the table, in his awkward, bow-legged gait, and brought the beaker that stood there. don john drank eagerly, for his lips were parched with pain. "go!" he said imperatively. "and come back quickly." "i will go," said adonis. "but i may not come back quickly, for i believe that doña dolores is with his majesty at this moment, or with her father, unless the three are together. since it has pleased your highness not to remain dead, it would have been much simpler not to die at all, for your highness's premature death has caused trouble which your highness's premature resurrection may not quickly set right." "the sooner you bring doña dolores, the sooner the tremble will be over," said don john. "go at once, and do your best." adonis rolled away, shaking his head and almost touching the floor with his hands as he walked. "so the last trumpet is not merely another of those priests' tales!" he muttered. "i shall meet don carlos on the terrace, and the emperor in the corridor, no doubt! they might give a man time to confess his sins. it was unnecessary that the end of the world should come so suddenly!" the last words of his jest were spoken to himself, for he was already outside when he uttered them, and he had no intention of wasting time in bearing the good news to dolores. the difficulty was to find her. he had been a witness of the scene in the hall from the balcony, and he guessed that when she left the hall with ruy gomez she would go either to her father or the king. it would not be an easy matter to see her, and it was by no means beyond the bounds of possibility that he might be altogether hindered from doing so, unless he at once announced to every one he met the astounding fact that don john was alive after all. he was strongly tempted to do that, without waiting, for it seemed by far the most sensible thing to do in the disturbed state of the court; but it was his business to serve and amuse many masters, and his office, if not his life, depended upon obeying each in turn and finding the right jest for each. he placed the king highest, of course, among those he had to please, and before he had gone far in the corridor he slackened his pace to give himself time to think over the situation. either the king had meant to kill don john himself, or he had ordered mendoza to do so. that much was clear to any one who had known the secret of don carlos' death, and the dwarf had been one of the last who had talked with the unfortunate prince before that dark tragedy. and on this present night he had seen everything, and knew more of the thoughts of each of the actors in the drama than any one else, so that he had no doubt as to his conclusions. if, then, the king had wished to get rid of don john, he would be very much displeased to learn that the latter was alive after all. it would not be good to be the bearer of that news, and it was more than likely that philip would let mendoza go to the scaffold for the attempt, as he long afterwards condemned antonio perez to death for the murder of escobedo, don john's secretary, though he himself had ordered perez to do that deed; as he had already allowed the ecclesiastic doctor cazalla to be burned alive, though innocent, rather than displease the judges who had condemned him. the dwarf well knew that there was no crime, however monstrous, of which philip was not capable, and of the righteous necessity of which he could not persuade himself if he chose. nothing could possibly be more dangerous than to stand between him and the perpetration of any evil he considered politically necessary, except perhaps to hinder him in the pursuit of his gloomy and secret pleasures. adonis decided at once that he would not be the means of enlightening the king on the present occasion. he most go to some one else. the second person in command of his life, and whom he dreaded most after philip himself, was the princess of eboli. he knew her secret, too, as he had formerly known how she had forged the letters that brought about the deaths of don carlos and of queen isabel; for the princess ruled him by fear, and knew that she could trust him as long as he stood in terror of her. he knew, therefore, that she had not only forgiven don john for not yielding to her charm in former days, but that she now hoped that he might ascend the throne in philip's stead, by fair means or foul, and that the news of his death must have been a destructive blow to her hopes. he made up his mind to tell her first that he was alive, unless he could get speech with dolores alone, which seemed improbable. having decided this, he hastened his walk again. before he reached the lower story of the palace he composed his face to an expression of solemnity, not to say mourning, for he remembered that as no one knew the truth but himself, he must not go about with too gay a look. in the great vestibule of the hall he found a throng of courtiers, talking excitedly in low tones, but neither dolores nor ruy gomez was there. he sidled up to a tall officer of the guards who was standing alone, looking on. "could you inform me, sir," he asked, "what became of doña dolores de mendoza when she left the hall with the prince of eboli?" the officer looked down at the dwarf, with whom he had never spoken before, but who, in his way, was considered to be a personage of importance by the less exalted members of the royal household. indeed, adonis was by no means given to making acquaintance at haphazard with all those who wished to know him in the hope that he might say a good word for them when the king was in a pleasant humour. "i do not know, master adonis," answered the magnificent lieutenant, very politely. "but if you wish it, i will enquire." "you are most kind and courteous, sir," answered the dwarf ceremoniously. "i have a message for the lady." the officer turned away and went towards the king's apartments, leaving the jester in the corner. adonis knew that he might wait some time before his informant returned, and he shrank into the shadow to avoid attracting attention. that was easy enough, so long as the crowd was moving and did not diminish, but before long he heard some one speaking within the hall, as if addressing a number of persons at once, and the others began to leave the vestibule in order to hear what was passing. though the light did not fall upon him directly, the dwarf, in his scarlet dress, became a conspicuous object. yet he did not dare to go away, for fear of missing the officer when the latter should return. his anxiety to escape observation was not without cause, since he really wished to give don john's message to dolores before any one else knew the truth. in a few moments he saw the princess of eboli coming towards him, leaning on the arm of the duke of medina sidonia. she came from the hall as if she had been listening to the person who was still speaking near the door, and her handsome face wore a look of profound dejection and disappointment. she had evidently seen the dwarf, for she walked directly towards him, and at half a dozen paces she stopped and dismissed her companion, who bowed low, kissed the tips of her fingers, and withdrew. adonis drew down the corners of his mouth, bent his head still lower, and tried to look as unhappy as possible, in imitation of the princess's expression. she stood still before him, and spoke briefly in imperious tones. "what is the meaning of all this?" she asked. "tell me the truth at once. it will be the better for you." "madam," answered adonis, with all the assurance he could muster, "i think your excellency knows the truth much better than i." the princess bent her black brows and her eyes began to gleam angrily. titian would not have recognized in her stern face the smiling features of his portrait of her--of the insolently beautiful venus painted by order of king philip when the princess was in the height of his favour. "my friend," she said, in a mocking tone, "i know nothing, and you know everything. at the present moment your disappearance from the court will not attract even the smallest attention compared with the things that are happening. if you do not tell me what you know, you will not be here to-morrow, and i will see that you are burned alive for a sorcerer next week. do you understand? now tell me who killed don john of austria, and why. be quick, i have no time to lose." adonis made up his mind very suddenly that it would be better to disobey don john than the angry woman who was speaking to him. "nobody killed him," he answered bluntly. the princess was naturally violent, especially with her inferiors, and when she was angry she easily lost all dignity. she seized the dwarf by the arm and shook him. "no jesting!" she cried. "he did not kill himself--who did it?" "nobody," repeated adonis doggedly, and quite without fear, for he knew how glad she would be to know the truth. "his highness is not dead at all--" "you little hound!" the princess shook him furiously again and threatened to strike him with her other hand. he only laughed. "before heaven, madam," he said, "the prince is alive and recovered, and is sitting in his chair. i have just been talking with him. will you go with me to his highness's apartment? if he is not there, and safe, burn me for a heretic to-morrow." the princess's hands dropped by her sides in sheer amazement, for she saw that the jester was in earnest. "he had a scratch in the scuffle," he continued, "but it was the fall that killed him, his resurrection followed soon afterwards--and i trust that his ascension may be no further distant than your excellency desires." he laughed at his blasphemous jest, and the princess laughed too, a little wildly, for she could hardly control her joy. "and who wounded him?" she asked suddenly. "you know everything, you must know that also." "madam," said the dwarf, fixing his eyes on hers, "we both know the name of the person who wounded don john, very well indeed, i regret that i should not be able to recall it at this moment. his highness has forgotten it too, i am sure." the princess's expression did not change, but she returned his gaze steadily during several seconds, and then nodded slowly to show that she understood. then she looked away and was silent for a moment. "i am sorry i was rough with you, adonis," she said at last, thoughtfully. "it was hard to believe you at first, and if the prince had been dead, as we all believed, your jesting would have been abominable. there,"--she unclasped a diamond brooch from her bodice--"take that, adonis--you can turn it into money." the princess's financial troubles were notorious, and she hardly ever possessed any ready gold. "i shall keep it as the most precious of my possessions," answered the dwarf readily. "no," she said quickly. "sell it. the king--i mean--some one may see it if you keep it." "it shall be sold to-morrow, then," replied the jester, bending his head to hide his smile, for he understood what she meant. "one thing more," she said; "don john did not send you down to tell this news to the court without warning. he meant that i should know it before any one else. you have told me--now go away and do not tell others." adonis hesitated a moment. he wished to do don john's bidding if he could, but he knew his danger, and that he should be forgiven if, to save his own head, he did not execute the commission. the princess wished an immediate answer, and she had no difficulty in guessing the truth. "his highness sent you to find doña dolores," she said. "is that not true?" "it is true," replied adonis. "but," he added, anticipating her wish out of fear, "it is not easy to find doña dolores." "it is impossible. did you expect to find her by waiting in this corner! adonis, it is safer for you to serve me than don john, and in serving me you will help his interests. you know that. listen to me--doña dolores must believe him dead till to-morrow morning. she must on no account find out that he is alive." at that moment the officer who had offered to get information for the dwarf returned. seeing the latter in conversation with such a great personage, he waited at a little distance. "if you have found out where doña dolores de mendoza is at this moment, my dear sir," said adonis, "pray tell the princess of eboli, who is very anxious to know." the officer bowed and came nearer. "doña dolores de mendoza is in his majesty's inner apartment," he said. * * * * * chapter xx dolores and ruy gomez had passed through the outer vestibule, and he left her to pursue his way towards the western end of the alcazar, which was at a considerable distance from the royal apartments. dolores went down the corridor till she came to the niche and the picture before which don john had paused to read the princess of eboli's letter after supper. she stopped a moment, for she suddenly felt that her strength was exhausted and that she must rest or break down altogether. she leaned her weight against the elaborately carved railing that shut off the niche like a shrine, and looked at the painting, which was one of raphael's smaller masterpieces, a holy family so smoothly and delicately painted that it jarred upon her at that moment as something untrue and out of all keeping with possibility. though most perfectly drawn and coloured, the spotlessly neat figures with their airs of complacent satisfaction seemed horribly out of place in the world of suffering she was condemned to dwell in, and she fancied, somewhat irreverently and resentfully, that they would look as much out of keeping with their surroundings in a heaven that must be won by the endurance of pain. their complacent smiles seemed meant for her anguish, and she turned from the picture in displeasure, and went on. she was going back to her sister on the terrace, and she was going to kneel once more beside the dear head of the man she had loved, and to say one last prayer before his face was covered for ever. at the thought she felt that she needed no rest again, for the vision drew her to the sorrowful presence of its reality, and she could not have stopped again if she had wished to. she must go straight on, on to the staircase, up the long flight of steps, through the lonely corridors, and out at hist to the moonlit terrace where inez was waiting. she went forward in a dream, without pausing. since she had freed her father she had a right to go back to her grief. but as she went along, lightly and quickly, it seemed beyond her own belief that she should have found strength for what she had done that night. for the strength of youth is elastic and far beyond its own knowledge. dolores had reached the last passage that led out upon the terrace, when she heard hurrying footsteps behind her, and a woman in a cloak slipped beside her, walking very easily and smoothly. it was the princess of eboli. she had left the dwarf, after frightening him into giving up his search for dolores, and she was hastening to don john's rooms to make sure that the jester had not deceived her or been himself deceived in some way she could not understand. dolores had lost her cloak in the hall, and was bareheaded, in her court dress. the princess recognized her in the gloom and stopped her. "i have looked for you everywhere," she said. "why did you run away from me before?" "it was my blind sister who was with you," answered dolores, who knew her voice at once and had understood from her father what had happened. "where are you going now?" she asked, without giving the princess time to put a question. "i was looking for you. i wish you to come and stay with me to-night--" "i will stay with my father. i thank you for your kindness, but i would not on any account leave him now." "your father is in prison--in the west tower--he has just been sent there. how can you stay with him?" "you are well informed," said dolores quietly. "but your husband is just now gone to release him. i gave don ruy gomez the order which his majesty had himself placed in my hands, and the prince was kind enough to take it to the west tower himself. my father is unconditionally free." the princess looked fixedly at dolores while the girl was speaking, but it was very dark in the corridor and the lamp was flickering to go out in the night breeze. the only explanation of mendoza's release lay in the fact that the king was already aware that don john was alive and in no danger. in that case dolores knew it, too. it was no great matter, though she had hoped to keep the girl out of the way of hearing the news for a day or two. dolores' mournful face might have told her that she was mistaken, if there had been more light; but it was far too dark to see shades of colour or expression. "so your father is free!" she said. "of course, that was to be expected, but i am glad that he has been set at liberty at once." "i do not think it was exactly to be expected," answered dolores, in some surprise, and wondering whether there could have been any simpler way of getting what she had obtained by such extraordinary means. "he might have been kept under arrest until to-morrow morning, i suppose," said the princess quietly. "but the king is of course anxious to destroy the unpleasant impression produced by this absurd affair, as soon as possible." "absurd!" dolores' anger rose and overflowed at the word. "do you dare to use such a word to me to-night?" "my dear dolores, why do you lose your temper about such a thing?" asked the princess, in a conciliatory tone. "of course if it had all ended as we expected it would, i never should use such a word--if don john had died--" "what do you mean?" dolores held her by the wrist in an instant and the maddest excitement was in her voice. "what i mean? why--" the princess stopped short, realizing that dolores might not know the truth after all. "what did i say?" she asked, to gain time. "why do you hold my hand like that?" "you called the murder of don john an absurd affair, and then you said, 'if don john had died'--as if he were not lying there dead in his room, twenty paces from where you stand! are you mad? are you playing some heartless comedy with me? what does it all mean?" the princess was very worldly wise, and she saw at a glance that she must tell dolores the truth. if she did not, the girl would soon learn it from some one else, but if she did, dolores would always remember who had told her the good news. "my dear," she said very gently, "let my wrist go and let me take your arm. we do not understand each other, or you would not be so angry with me. something has happened of which you do not know--" "oh, no! i know the whole truth!" dolores interrupted her, and resisted being led along in a slow walk. "let me go to him!" she cried. "i only wish to see him once more--" "but, dearest child, listen to me--if i do not tell you everything at once, it is because the shock might hurt you. there is some hope that he may not die--" "hope! oh no, no, no! i saw him lying dead--" "he had fainted, dear. he was not dead--" "not dead?" dolores' voice broke. "tell me--tell me quickly." she pressed her hand to her side. "no. he came to himself after you had left him--he is alive. no--listen to me--yes, dear, he is alive and not much hurt. the wound was a scratch, and he was only stunned--he is well--to-morrow he will be as well as ever--ah, dear, i told you so!" dolores had borne grief, shame, torment of mind that night, as bravely as ever a woman bore all three, but the joy of the truth that he lived almost ended her life then and there. she fell back upon the princess's arm and threw out her hands wildly, as if she were fighting for breath, and the lids of her eyes quivered violently and then were quite still, and she uttered a short, unnatural sound that was more like a groan of pain than a cry of happiness. the princess was very strong, and held her, steadying herself against the wall, thinking anything better than to let her slip to the floor and lie swooning on the stone pavement. but the girl was not unconscious, and in a moment her own strength returned. "let me go!" she cried wildly. "let me go to him, or i shall die!" "go, child--go," said the princess, with an accent of womanly kindness that was rare in her voice. but dolores did not hear it, for she was already gone. dolores saw nothing in the room, as she entered, but the eyes of the man she loved, though inez was still beside him. dolores threw herself wildly into his arms and hid her face, crying out incoherent words between little showers of happy tears; and her hands softly beat upon his shoulders and against his neck, and stole up wondering to his cheeks and touched his hair, as she drew back her head and held him still to look at him and see that he was whole. she had no speech left, for it was altogether beyond the belief of any sense but touch itself that a man should rise unhurt from the dead, to go on living as if nothing not common had happened in his life, to have his strength at once, to look into her eyes and rain kisses on the lids still dark with grief for his death. sight could not believe the sight, hearing could not but doubt the sound, yet her hands held him and touched him, and it was he, unhurt saving for a scratch and a bruise. in her overwhelming happiness, she had no questions, and the first syllables that her lips could shape made broken words of love, and of thanks to heaven that he had been saved alive for her, while her hands still fluttered to his face and beat gently and quickly on his shoulders and his arms, as if fearing lest he should turn to incorporeal light, without substance under her touch, and vanish then in air, as happiness does in a dream, leaving only pain behind. but at last she threw back her head and let him go, and her hands brushed away the last tears from her grey eyes, and she looked into his face and smiled with parted lips, drinking the sight of him with her breath and eyes and heart. one moment so, and then they kissed as only man and woman can when there has been death between them and it is gone not to come back again. then memory returned, though very slowly and broken in many places, for it seemed to her as if she had not been separated from him a moment, and as if he must know all she had done without hearing her story in words. the time had been so short since she had kissed him last, in the little room beyond: there had been the minutes of waiting until the king had come, and then the trying of the door, and then the quarrel, that had lasted a short ten minutes to end in don john's fall; then the half hour during which he had lain unconscious and alone till inez had come at the moment when dolores had gone down to the throne room; and after that the short few minutes in which she had met her father, and then her interview with the king, which had not lasted long, and now she was with him again; and it was not two hours since they had parted--a lifetime of two hours. "i cannot believe it!" she cried, and now she laughed at last. "i cannot, i cannot! it is impossible!" "we are both alive," he answered. "we are both flesh and blood, and breathing. i feel as if i had been in an illness or in a sleep that had lasted very long." "and i in an awful dream." her face grew grave as she thought of what was but just passed. "you must know it all--surely you know it already--oh, yes! i need not tell it all." "something inez has told me," he replied, "and some things i guess, but i do not know everything. you must try and tell me--but you should not be here--it is late. when my servants know that i am living, they will come back, and my gentlemen and my officers. they would have left me here all night, if i had been really dead, lest being seen near my body should send them to trial for my death." he laughed. "they were wise enough in their way. but you cannot stay here." "if the whole court found me here, it would not matter," answered dolores. "their tongues can take nothing from my name which my own words have not given them to feed on." "i do not understand," he said, suddenly anxious. "what have you said? what have you done?" inez came near them from the window, by which she had been standing. she laid a hand on dolores' arm. "i will watch," she said. "if i hear anything, i will warn you, and you can go into the small room again." she went out almost before either of them could thank her. they had, indeed, forgotten her presence in the room, being accustomed to her being near them; but she could no longer bear to stay, listening to their loving words that made her loneliness so very dark. and now, too, she had memories of her own, which she would keep secret to the end of her life,--beautiful and happy recollections of that sweet moment when the man that seemed dead had breathed and had clasped her in his arms, taking her for the other, and had kissed her as he would have kissed the one he loved. she knew at last what a kiss might be, and that was much; but she knew also what it was to kneel by her dead love and to feel his life come back, breath by breath and beat by beat, till he was all alive; and few women have felt that or can guess how great it is to feel. it was better to go out into the dark and listen, lest any one should disturb the two, than to let her memories of short happiness be marred by hearing words that were not meant for her. "she found you?" asked dolores, when she was gone. "yes, she found me. you had gone down, she said, to try and save your father. he is safe now!" he laughed. "she found you alive." dolores lingered on the words. "i never envied her before, i think; and it is not because if i had stayed i should have suffered less, dear." she put up her hands upon his shoulders again. "it is not for that, but to have thought you dead and to have seen you grow alive again, to have watched your face, to have seen your eyes wake and the colour come back to your cheeks and the warmth to your dear hands! i would have given anything for that, and you would rather that i should have been there, would you not?" she laughed low and kissed away the answer from his lips. "if i had stayed beside you, it would have been sooner, love. you would have felt me there even in your dream of death, and you would have put out your hand to come back to me. say that you would! you could not have let me lie there many minutes longer breaking my heart over you and wanting to die, too, so that we might be buried together. surely my kisses would have brought you back!" "i dreamed they did, as mine would you." "sit down beside me," she said presently. "it will be very hard to tell--and it cannot be very long before they come. oh, they may find me here! it cannot matter now, for i told them all that i had been long in your room to-night." "told them all? told whom? the king? what did you say?" his face was grave again. "the king, the court, the whole world. but it is harder to tell you." she blushed and looked away. "it was the king that wounded you--i heard you fall." "scratched me. i was only stunned for a while." "he drew his sword, for i heard it. you know the sound a sword makes when it is drawn from a leathern sheath? of course--you are a soldier! i have often watched my father draw his, and i know the soft, long pull. the king drew quickly, and i knew you were unarmed, and besides--you had promised me that you would not raise your hand against him." "i remember that my sword was on the table in its scabbard. i got it into my hand, sheathed as it was, to guard myself. where is it? i had forgotten that. it must be somewhere on the floor." "never mind--your men will find it. you fell, and then there was silence, and presently i heard my father's voice saying that he had killed you defenceless. they went away. i was half dead myself when i fell there beside you on the floor. there--do you see? you lay with your head towards the door and one arm out. i shall see you so till i die, whenever i think of it. then--i forget. adonis must have found me there, and he carried me away, and inez met me on the terrace and she had heard my father tell the king that he had murdered you--and it was the king who had done it! do you understand?" "i see, yes. go on!" don john was listening breathlessly, forgetting the pain he still suffered from time to time. "and then i went down, and i made don ruy gomez stand beside me on the steps, and the whole court was there--the grandees and the great dukes--alva, medina sidonia, medina cali, infantado, the princess of eboli--the ambassadors, everyone, all the maids of honour, hundreds and hundreds--an ocean of faces, and they knew me, almost all of them." "what did you say?" asked don john very anxiously. "what did you tell them all? that you had been here?" "yes--more than that, much more. it was not true, but i hoped they would believe it i said--" the colour filled her face and she caught her breath. "oh, how can i tell you? can you not guess what i said?" "that we were married already, secretly?" he asked. "you might have said that." "no. not that--no one would have believed me. i told them," she paused and gathered her strength, and then the words came quickly, ashamed of being heard--"i told them that i knew my father had no share in the crime, because i had been here long to-night, in this room, and even when you were killed, and that i was here because i had given you all, my life, my soul, my honour, everything." "great god!" exclaimed don john starting. "and you did that to save your father?" she had covered her face with her hands for a moment. then suddenly she rose and turned away from him, and paced the floor. "yes. i did that. what was there for me to do? it was better that i should be ruined and end in a convent than that my father should die on the scaffold. what would have become of inez?" "what would have become of you?" don john's eyes followed her in loving wonder. "it would not have mattered. but i had thrown away my name for nothing. they believed me, i think, but the king, to spare himself, was determined that my father should die. we met as he was led away to prison. then i went to the king himself--and when i came away i had my father's release in my hand. oh, i wish i had that to do again! i wish you had been there, for you would have been proud of me, then. i told him he had killed you, i heard him confess it, i threatened to tell the court, the world, all spain, if he would not set my father free. but the other--can you forgive me, dear?" she stood before him now, and the colour was fainter in her cheeks, for she trusted him with all her heart, and she put out her hands. "forgive you? what? for doing the bravest thing a woman ever did?" "i thought you would know it in heaven and understand," she said. "it is better that you know it on earth--but it was hard to tell." he held her hands together and pressed them to his lips. he had no words to tell her what he thought. again and again he silently kissed the firm white fingers folded in his own. "it was magnificent," he said at last. "but it will be hard to undo, very hard." "what will it ever matter, since we know it is not true?" she asked. "let the world think what it will, say what it likes--" "the world shall never say a slighting word of you," he interrupted. "do you think that i will let the world say openly what i would not hear from the king alone between these four walls? there is no fear of that, love. i will die sooner." "oh, no!" she cried, in sudden fear. "oh, do not speak of death again to-night! i cannot bear the word!" "of life, then, of life together,--of all our lives in peace and love! but first this must be set right. it is late, but this must be done now--at once. there is only one way, there is only one thing to be done." he was silent for a moment, and his eyes looked quickly to the door and back to dolores' face. "i cannot go away," she cried, nestling to him. "you will not make me go? what does it matter?" "it matters much. it will matter much more hereafter." he was on his feet, and all his energy and graceful strength came back as if he had received no hurt. "there is little time left, but what there is, is ours. inez!" he was at the door. "is no one there upon the terrace? is there no servant, no sentry? ho, there! who are you? come here, man! let me see your face! adonis?" inez and the dwarf were in the door. dolores was behind him, looking out, not knowing what he meant to do. he had his hand on the dwarf's arm in his haste. the crooked creature looked up, half in fear. "quick! go!" cried don john. "get me a priest, a monk, a bishop,--anything that wears a frock and can speak latin. bring him here. threaten his life, in my name, if you like. tell him don john of austria is in extreme need, and must have a priest. quick, man! fly! your life and fortune are in your legs! off, man! off!" adonis was already gone, rolling through the gloom with swinging arms, more like a huge bat than anything human, and at a rate of speed none would have guessed latent in his little twisted legs. don john drew back within the door. "stay within," he said to dolores, gently pressing her backwards into the room. "i will let no one pass till the priest comes; and then the world may come, too, and welcome,--and the court and the king, and the devil and all his angels!" he laughed aloud in his excitement. "you have not told me," dolores began, but her eyes laughed in his. "but you know without words," he answered. "when that is done which a priest can do in an instant, and no one else, the world is ours, with all it holds, in spite of men and women and kings!" "it is ours already," she cried happily. "but is this wise, love? are you not too quick?" "would you have me slow when you and your name and my honour are all at stake on one quick throw? can we play too quickly at such a game with fate? there will be time, just time, no more. for when the news is known, it will spread like fire. i wonder that no one comes yet." he listened, and inez' hearing was ten times more sensitive than his, but there was no sound. for besides dolores and inez only the dwarf and the princess of eboli knew that don john was living; and the princess had imposed silence on the jester and was in no haste to tell the news until she should decide who was to know it first and how her own advantage could be secured. so there was time, and adonis swung himself along the dim corridor and up winding stairs that be knew, and roused the little wizened priest who lived in the west tower all alone, and whose duty it was to say a mass each morning for any prisoner who chanced to be locked up there; and when there was no one in confinement he said his mass for himself in the small chapel which was divided from the prison only by a heavy iron grating. the jester sometimes visited him in his lonely dwelling and shocked and delighted him with alternate tales of the court's wickedness and with harmless jokes that made his wizened cheeks pucker and wrinkle into unaccustomed smiles. and he had some hopes of converting the poor jester to a pious life. so they were friends. but when the old priest heard that don john of austria was suddenly dying in his room and that there was no one to shrive him,--for that was the tale adonis told,--he trembled from head to foot like a paralytic, and the buttons of his cassock became as drops of quicksilver and slipped from his weak fingers everywhere except into the buttonholes, so that the dwarf had to fasten them for him in a furious hurry, and find his stole, and set his hat upon his head, and polish away the tears of excitement from his cheeks with his own silk handkerchief. yet it was well done, though so quickly, and he had a kind old face and was a good priest. but when adonis had almost carried him to don john's door, and pushed him into the room, and when he saw that the man he supposed to be dying was standing upright, holding a most beautiful lady by the hand, he drew back, seeing that he had been deceived, and suspecting that he was to be asked to do something for which he had no authority. the dwarf's long arm was behind him, however, and he could not escape. "this is the priest of the west tower, your highness," said adonis. "he is a good priest, but he is a little frightened now." "you need fear nothing," said don john kindly. "i am don john of austria. this lady is doña maria dolores de mendoza. marry us without delay. we take each other for man and wife." "but--" the little priest hesitated--"but, your highness--the banns--or the bishop's license--" "i am above banns and licenses, my good sir," answered don john, "and if there is anything lacking in the formalities, i take it upon myself to set all right to-morrow. i will protect you, never fear. make haste, for i cannot wait. begin, sir, lose no time, and take my word for the right of what you do." "the witnesses of this," faltered the old man, seeing that he must yield, but doubtful still. "this lady is doña inez de mendoza," said don john, "and this is miguel de antona, the court jester. they are sufficient." so it chanced that the witnesses of don john of austria's secret marriage were a blind girl and the king's fool. the aged priest cleared his throat and began to say the words in latin, and don john and dolores held their clasped hands before him, not knowing what else to do, and each looked into the other's eyes and saw there the whole world that had any meaning for them, while the priest said things they but half understood, but that made the world's difference to them, then and afterwards. it was soon done, and he raised his trembling hand and blessed them, saying the words very softly and clearly and without stumbling, for they were familiar, and meant much; and having reached them, his haste was over. the dwarf was on his knees, his rough red head bent reverently low, and on the other side inez knelt with joined hands, her blind eyes turned upward to her sister's face, while she prayed that all blessings of life and joy might be on the two she loved so well, and that they might have for ever and unbroken the infinite happiness she had felt for one instant that night, not meant for her, but dearer to her than all memories or hopes. then as the priest's words died away in the silent room, there was a sound of many feet and of many voices on the terrace outside, coming nearer and nearer to the door, very quickly; and the priest looked round in terror, not knowing what new thing was to come upon him, and wishing with all his heart that he were safe in his tower room again and out of all harm's way. but don john smiled, while he still held dolores' hand, and the dwarf rose quickly and led the priest into the study where dolores had been shut up so long, and closed the door behind him. that was hardly done when the outer door was opened wide, and a clear, formal voice was heard speaking outside. "his majesty the king!" cried the chamberlain who walked before philip. dolores dropped don john's hand and stood beside him, growing a little pale; but his face was serene and high, and he smiled quietly as he went forward to meet his brother. the king advanced also, with outstretched arms, and he formally embraced don john, to exhibit his joy at such an unexpected recovery. behind him came in torch-bearers and guards and many of the court who had joined the train, and in the front rank mendoza, grim and erect, but no longer ashy pale, and ruy gomez with him, and the princess of eboli, and all the chief grandees of spain, filling the wide bedchamber from side to side with a flood of rich colour in which the little constellations of their jewels shone here and there with changing lights. out of respect for the king they did not speak, and yet there was a soft sound of rejoicing in the room, and their very breathing was like a murmur of deep satisfaction. then the king spoke, and all at once the silence was profound. "i wished to be the first to welcome my dear brother back to life," he said. "the court has been in mourning for you these two hours, and none has mourned you more deeply and sorrowfully than i. we would all know the cause of your highness's accident, the meaning of our friend mendoza's strange self-accusation, and of other things we cannot understand without a word from you." the chair in which don john had sat to read dolores' letter was brought forward, and the king took his seat in it, while the chief officers of the household grouped themselves round him. don john remained standing, facing him and all the rest, while dolores drew back a little into the shadow not far from him. the king's unmoving eyes watched him closely, even anxiously. "the story is short, sire, and if it is not all clear, i shall crave your majesty's pardon for being silent on certain points which concern my private life. i was alone this evening in my room here, after your majesty had left supper, and i was reading. a man came to visit me then whom i have known and trusted long. we were alone, we have had differences before, to-night sharp words passed between us. i ask your majesty's permission not to name that man, for i would not do him an injury, though it should cost me my life." his eyes were fixed on the king, who slowly nodded his assent. he had known that he could trust his brother not to betray him, and he wondered what was to come next. don john smiled a little as he went on. "there were sharp words," he said, "and being men, steel was soon out, and i received this scratch here--a mere nothing. but as chance would have it i fell backward and was so stunned that i seemed dead. and then, as i learn, my friend mendoza there came in, either while we fought, or afterwards, and understood--and so, as i suppose, in generous fear for my good name, lest it should be told that i had been killed in some dishonest brawl, or for a woman's sake--my friend mendoza, in the madness of generosity, and because my love for his beautiful daughter might give the tale some colour, takes all the blame upon himself, owns himself murderer, loses his wits, and well-nigh loses his head, too. so i understand the matter, sire." he paused a moment, and again the king slowly nodded, but this time he smiled also, and seemed much pleased. "for what remains," don john continued, "that is soon explained. this brave and noble lady whom you found here, you all know. i have loved her long and faithfully, and with all my heart. those who know me, know that my word is good, and here before your majesty, before man and before heaven, i solemnly swear upon my most sacred word that no harm has ever come near her, by me, or by another. yet, in the hope of saving her father's life, believing and yet not believing that he might have hurt me in some quarrel, she went among you, and told you the tale you know. i ask your majesty to say that my word and oath are good, and thereby to give your majesty's authority to what i say. and if there is any man here, or in spain, among your majesty's subjects, who doubts the word i give, let him say so, for this is a grave matter, and i wish to be believed before i say more." a third time the king nodded, and this time not ungraciously, since matters had gone well for him. "for myself," he said, "i would take your word against another man's oath, and i think there is no one bold enough to question what we both believe." "i thank your majesty. and moreover, i desire permission to present to your majesty--" he took dolores' hand and drew her forward, though she came a little unwillingly, and was pale, and her deep grey eyes gazed steadily at the king's face. "--my wedded wife," said don john, completing the sentence. "your wife!" exclaimed the king, in great surprise. "are you married already?" "wedded man and wife, sire," answered don john, in tones that all could hear. "and what does mendoza say to this?" asked philip, looking round at the veteran soldier. "that his highness has done my house a great honour, your majesty; and i pray that my daughter and i be not needlessly separated hereafter." his glance went to dolores' triumphant eyes almost timidly, and then rested on her face with a look she had never seen in his, save on that evening, but which she always found there afterwards. and at the same time the hard old man drew inez close to him, for she had found him among the officers, and she stood by him and rested her arm on his with a new confidence. then, as the king rose, there was a sound of glad voices in the room, as all talked at once and each told the other that an evil adventure was well ended, and that don john of austria was the bravest and the handsomest and the most honourable prince in the world, and that maria dolores de mendoza had not her equal among women for beauty and high womanly courage and perfect devotion. but there were a few who were ill pleased; for antonio perez said nothing, and absently smoothed his black hair with his immaculate white hand, and the princess of eboli was very silent, too, for it seemed to her that don john's sudden marriage, and his reconciliation with his brother, had set back the beginning of her plan beyond the bounds of possible accomplishment; and she was right in that, and the beginning of her resentment against don john for having succeeded in marrying dolores in spite of every one was the beginning of the chain that led her to her own dark fate. for though she held the cards long in her hands after that, and played for high stakes, as she had done before, fortune failed her at the last, and she came to unutterable ruin. it may be, too, that don john's splendid destiny was measured on that night, and cut off beforehand, though his most daring fights were not yet fought, nor his greatest victories won. to tell more here would be to tell too much, and much, too, that is well told elsewhere. but this is true, that he loved dolores with all his heart; that the marriage remained a court secret; and that she bore him one fair daughter, and died, and the child grew up under another reign, a holy nun, and was abbess of the convent of las huelgas whither dolores was to have gone on the morning after that most eventful night. [illustration: "never mind the ink, old horse. it'll soak in."] love among the chickens a story of the haps and mishaps on an english chicken farm by p. g. wodehouse illustrated by armand both new york the circle publishing company _copyright, , by_ a. e. baerman * * * * * contents chapter i. --a letter with a postscript ii. --ukridge's scheme iii. --waterloo, some fellow-travelers, and a girl with brown hair iv. --the arrival v. --buckling to vi. --mr. garnet's narrative. has to do with a reunion vii. --the entente cordiale is sealed viii. --a little dinner at ukridge's ix. --dies irÆ x. --i enlist the services of a minion xi. --the brave preserver xii. --some emotions and yellow lubin xiii. --tea and tennis xiv. --a council of war xv. --the arrival of nemesis xvi. --a chance meeting xvii. --of a sentimental nature xviii. --ukridge gives me advice xix. --i ask papa xx. --scientific golf xxi. --the calm before the storm xxii. --the storm breaks xxiii. --after the storm epilogue * * * * * list of illustrations "never mind the ink, old horse. it'll soak in" _frontispiece_ they had a momentary vision of an excited dog, framed in the doorway "i've only bin and drove 'im further up," said mrs. beale things were not going very well on our model chicken farm "mr. garnet," he said, "we parted recently in anger. i hope that bygones will be bygones" "i did think mr. garnet would have fainted when the best man said, 'i can't find it, old horse'" * * * * * _a letter with a postscript_ i mr. jeremy garnet stood with his back to the empty grate--for the time was summer--watching with a jaundiced eye the removal of his breakfast things. "mrs. medley," he said. "sir?" "would it bore you if i became auto-biographical?" "sir?" "never mind. i merely wish to sketch for your benefit a portion of my life's history. at eleven o'clock last night i went to bed, and at once sank into a dreamless sleep. about four hours later there was a clattering on the stairs which shook the house like a jelly. it was the gentleman in the top room--i forget his name--returning to roost. he was humming a patriotic song. a little while later there were a couple of loud crashes. he had removed his boots. all this while snatches of the patriotic song came to me through the ceiling of my bedroom. at about four-thirty there was a lull, and i managed to get to sleep again. i wish when you see that gentleman, mrs. medley, you would give him my compliments, and ask him if he could shorten his program another night. he might cut out the song, for a start." "he's a very young gentleman, sir," said mrs. medley, in vague defense of her top room. "and it's highly improbable," said garnet, "that he will ever grow old, if he repeats his last night's performance. i have no wish to shed blood wantonly, but there are moments when one must lay aside one's personal prejudices, and act for the good of the race. a man who hums patriotic songs at four o'clock in the morning doesn't seem to me to fit into the scheme of universal happiness. so you will mention it to him, won't you?" "very well, sir," said mrs. medley, placidly. on the strength of the fact that he wrote for the newspapers and had published two novels, mrs. medley regarded mr. garnet as an eccentric individual who had to be humored. whatever he did or said filled her with a mild amusement. she received his daily harangues in the same spirit as that in which a nurse listens to the outpourings of the family baby. she was surprised when he said anything sensible enough for her to understand. his table being clear of breakfast and his room free from disturbing influences, the exhilaration caused by his chat with his landlady left mr. garnet. life seemed very gray to him. he was a conscientious young man, and he knew that he ought to sit down and do some work. on the other hand, his brain felt like a cauliflower, and he could not think what to write about. this is one of the things which sour the young author even more than do those long envelopes which so tastefully decorate his table of a morning. he felt particularly unfitted for writing at that moment. the morning is not the time for inventive work. an article may be polished then, or a half-finished story completed, but a.m. is not the hour at which to invent. jerry garnet wandered restlessly about his sitting room. rarely had it seemed so dull and depressing to him as it did then. the photographs on the mantelpiece irritated him. there was no change in them. they struck him as the concrete expression of monotony. his eye was caught by a picture hanging out of the straight. he jerked it to one side, and the effect became worse. he jerked it back again, and the thing looked as if it had been hung in a dim light by an astigmatic drunkard. five minutes' pulling and hauling brought it back to a position only a shade less crooked than that in which he had found it, and by that time his restlessness had grown like a mushroom. he looked out of the window. the sunlight was playing on the house opposite. he looked at his boots. at this point conscience prodded him sharply. "i won't," he muttered fiercely, "i will work. i'll turn out something, even if it's the worst rot ever written." with which admirable sentiment he tracked his blotting pad to its hiding place (mrs. medley found a fresh one every day), collected ink and pens, and sat down. there was a distant thud from above, and shortly afterwards a thin tenor voice made itself heard above a vigorous splashing. the young gentleman on the top floor was starting another day. "oi'll--er--sing thee saw-ongs"--brief pause, then in a triumphant burst, as if the singer had just remembered the name--"ovarraby." mr. garnet breathed a prayer and glared at the ceiling. the voice continued: "ahnd--er--ta-ales of fa-arr cahsh-meerer." sudden and grewsome pause. the splashing ceased. the singer could hardly have been drowned in a hip bath, but mr. garnet hoped for the best. his hopes were shattered. "come," resumed the young gentleman persuasively, "into the garden, maud, for ther black batter nah-eet hath--er--florn." jerry garnet sprang from his seat and paced the room. "this is getting perfectly impossible," he said to himself. "i must get out of this. a fellow can't work in london. i'll go down to some farmhouse in the country. i can't think here. you might just as well try to work at a musical 'at home.'" here followed certain remarks about the young man upstairs, who was now, in lighter vein, putting in a spell at a popular melody from the gaiety theater. he resumed his seat and set himself resolutely to hammer out something which, though it might not be literature, would at least be capable of being printed. a search through his commonplace book brought no balm. a commonplace book is the author's rag bag. in it he places all the insane ideas that come to him, in the groundless hope that some day he will be able to convert them with magic touch into marketable plots. this was the luminous item which first met mr. garnet's eye: _mem._ dead body found in railway carriage under seat. only one living occupant of carriage. he is suspected of being the murderer, but proves that he only entered carriage at twelve o'clock in the morning, while the body has been dead since the previous night. to this bright scheme were appended the words: this will want some working up. j. g. "it will," thought jerry garnet grimly, "but it will have to go on wanting as far as i'm concerned." the next entry he found was a perfectly inscrutable lyric outburst. there are moments of annoyance, void of every kind of joyance, in the complicated course of man's affairs; but the very worst of any he experiences when he meets a young, but active, lion on the stairs. sentiment unexceptionable. but as to the reason for the existence of the fragment, his mind was a blank. he shut the book impatiently. it was plain that no assistance was to be derived from it. his thoughts wandered back to the idea of leaving london. london might have suited dr. johnson, but he had come to the conclusion that what he wanted to enable him to give the public of his best (as the reviewer of the _academy_, dealing with his last work, had expressed a polite hope that he would continue to do) was country air. a farmhouse by the sea somewhere ... cows ... spreading boughs ... rooks ... brooks ... cream. in london the day stretches before a man, if he has no regular and appointed work to do, like a long, white, dusty road. it seems impossible to get to the end of it without vast effort. but in the country every hour has its amusements. up with the lark. morning dip. cheery greetings. local color. huge breakfast. long walks. flannels. the ungirt loin. good, steady spell of work from dinner till bedtime. the prospect fascinated him. his third novel was already in a nebulous state in his brain. a quiet week or two in the country would enable him to get it into shape. he took from the pocket of his blazer a letter which had arrived some days before from an artist friend of his who was on a sketching tour in devonshire and somerset. there was a penciled memorandum on the envelope in his own handwriting: _mem._ might work k. l.'s story about m. and the w--s's into comic yarn for one of the weeklies. he gazed at this for a while, with a last hope that in it might be contained the germ of something which would enable him to turn out a morning's work; but having completely forgotten who k. l. was, and especially what was his (or her) story about m., whoever he (or she) might be, he abandoned this hope and turned to the letter in the envelope. the earlier portions of the letter dealt tantalizingly with the scenery. "bits," come upon by accident at the end of disused lanes and transferred with speed to canvas, were described concisely but with sufficient breadth to make garnet long to see them for himself. there were brief _résumés_ of dialogues between lickford (the writer) and weird rustics. the whole letter breathed of the country and the open air. the atmosphere of garnet's sitting room seemed to him to become stuffier with every sentence he read. the postscript interested him. "... by the way, at yeovil i came across an old friend of yours. stanley featherstonhaugh ukridge, of all people. as large as life--quite six foot two, and tremendously filled out. i thought he was abroad. the last i heard of him was that he had started for buenos ayres in a cattle-ship. it seems he has been in england sometime. i met him in the refreshment room at yeovil station. i was waiting for a down train; he had changed on his way to town. as i opened the door i heard a huge voice in a more or less violent altercation, and there was s. f. u., in a villainous old suit of gray flannels (i'll swear it was the same one that he had on last time i saw him), and a mackintosh, though it was a blazing hot day. his pince-nez were tacked onto his ears with wire as usual. he greeted me with effusive shouts, and drew me aside. then after a few commonplaces of greeting, he fumbled in his pockets, looked pained and surprised. "'look here, licky,' he said. 'you know i never borrow. it's against my principles. but i _must_ have a shilling, or i'm a ruined man. i seem to have had my pocket picked by some scoundrelly blackguard. can you, my dear fellow, oblige me with a shilling until next tuesday afternoon at three-thirty? i never borrow, so i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll let you have this (producing a beastly little three-penny-bit with a hole in it) until i can pay you back. this is of more value to me than i can well express, licky, my boy. a very, very dear friend gave it to me when we parted, years ago. it's a wrench to part with it. but grim necessity ... i can hardly do it.... still, no, no, ... you must take it, you must take it. licky, old man, shake hands! shake hands, my boy!' "he then asked after you, and said you were the noblest man--except me--on earth. i gave him your address, not being able to get out of it, but if i were you i should fly while there is yet time." "that," said jerry garnet, "is the soundest bit of advice i've heard. i will." "mrs. medley," he said, when that lady made her appearance. "sir?" "i'm going away for a few weeks. you can let the rooms if you like. i'll drop you a line when i think of coming back." "yes, sir. and your letters. where shall i send them, sir?" "till further notice," said jerry garnet, pulling out a giant portmanteau from a corner of the room and flinging it open, "care of the dalai lama, no. younghusband terrace, tibet." "yes, sir," said mrs. medley placidly. "i'll write you my address to-night. i don't know where i'm going yet. is that an a. b. c. over there? good. give my love to that bright young spirit on the top floor, and tell him that i hope my not being here to listen won't interfere in any way with his morning popular concerts." "yes, sir." "and, mrs. medley, if a man named ----" mrs. medley had drifted silently away. during his last speech a thunderous knocking had begun on the front door. jerry garnet stood and listened, transfixed. something seemed to tell him who was at the business end of that knocker. he heard mrs. medley's footsteps pass along the hall and pause at the door. then there was the click of the latch. then a volume of sound rushed up to him where he stood over his empty portmanteau. "is mr. garnet in?" mrs. medley's reply was inaudible, but apparently in the affirmative. "where is he?" boomed the voice. "show me the old horse. first floor. thank you. where is the man of wrath?" there followed a crashing on the stairs such as even the young gentleman of the top floor had been unable to produce in his nocturnal rovings. the house shook. and with the tramping came the thunderous voice, as the visitor once more gave tongue. "garnet! garnet!! garnet!!!" ukridge's scheme ii mr. stanley featherstonhaugh ukridge dashed into the room, uttering a roar of welcome as he caught sight of garnet, still standing petrified athwart his portmanteau. "my dear old man," he shouted, springing at him and seizing his hand in a clutch that effectually woke garnet from his stupor. "how _are_ you, old chap? this is good. by jove, this is good! this is fine, what?" he dashed back to the door and looked out. "come on, millie," he shouted. garnet was wondering who in the name of fortune millie could possibly be, when there appeared on the further side of mr. ukridge the figure of a young woman. she paused in the doorway, and smiled pleasantly. "garnet, old horse," said ukridge with some pride, "let me introduce you to my wife. millie, this is old garnet. you've heard me talk about him." "oh, yes," said mrs. ukridge. garnet bowed awkwardly. the idea of ukridge married was something too overpowering to be assimilated on the instant. if ever there was a man designed by nature to be a bachelor, stanley ukridge was that man. garnet could feel that he himself was not looking his best. he knew in a vague, impersonal way that his eyebrows were still somewhere in the middle of his forehead, whither they had sprung in the first moment of surprise, and that his jaw, which had dropped, had not yet resumed its normal posture. before committing himself to speech he made a determined effort to revise his facial expression. "buck up, old horse," said ukridge. he had a painful habit of addressing all and sundry by that title. in his school-master days he had made use of it while interviewing the parents of new pupils, and the latter had gone away, as a rule, with a feeling that this must be either the easy manner of genius or spirits, and hoping for the best. later, he had used it to perfect strangers in the streets. on one occasion he had been heard to address a bishop by that title. "surprised to find me married, what? garny, old boy"--sinking his voice to what was intended to be a whisper--"take my tip. you go and do the same. you feel another man. give up this bachelor business. it's a mug's game. go and get married, my boy, go and get married. by gad, i've forgotten to pay the cabby. half a moment." he was out of the door and on his way downstairs before the echoes of his last remark had ceased to shake the window of the sitting room. garnet was left to entertain mrs. ukridge. so far her share in the conversation had been small. nobody talked very much when ukridge was on the scene. she sat on the edge of garnet's big basket chair, looking very small and quiet. she smiled pleasantly, as she had done during the whole of the preceding dialogue. it was apparently her chief form of expression. jerry garnet felt very friendly toward her. he could not help pitying her. ukridge, he thought, was a very good person to know casually, but a little of him, as his former headmaster had once said in a moody, reflective voice, went a very long way. to be bound to him for life was not the ideal state for a girl. if he had been a girl, he felt, he would as soon have married a volcano. "and she's so young," he thought, as he looked across at the basket chair. "quite a kid." "you and stanley have known each other a long time, haven't you?" said the object of his pity, breaking the silence. "yes. oh, yes," said garnet. "several years. we were masters at the same school together." mrs. ukridge leaned forward with round, shining eyes. "isn't he a _wonderful_ man, mr. garnet!" she said ecstatically. not yet, to judge from her expression and the tone of her voice, had she had experience of the disadvantages attached to the position of mrs. stanley ukridge. garnet could agree with her there. "yes, he is certainly wonderful," he said. "i believe he could do anything." "yes," said garnet. he believed that ukridge was at least capable of anything. "he has done so many things. have you ever kept fowls?" she broke off with apparent irrelevance. "no," said garnet. "you see, i spend so much of my time in town. i should find it difficult." mrs. ukridge looked disappointed. "i was hoping you might have had some experience. stanley, of course, can turn his hand to anything, but i think experience is such a good thing, don't you?" "it is," said garnet, mystified. "but--" "i have bought a shilling book called 'fowls and all about them,' but it is very hard to understand. you see, we--but here is stanley. he will explain it all." "well, garnet, old horse," said ukridge, reëntering the room after another energetic passage of the stairs, "settle down and let's talk business. found cabby gibbering on doorstep. wouldn't believe i didn't want to bilk him. had to give him an extra shilling. but now, about business. lucky to find you in, because i've got a scheme for you, garny, old boy. yes, sir, the idea of a thousand years. now listen to me for a moment." he sat down on the table and dragged a chair up as a leg rest. then he took off his pince-nez, wiped them, readjusted the wire behind his ears, and, having hit a brown patch on the knee of his gray flannel trousers several times in the apparent hope of removing it, began to speak. "about fowls," he said. "what about them?" asked garnet. the subject was beginning to interest him. it showed a curious tendency to creep into the conversation. "i want you to give me your undivided attention for a moment," said ukridge. "i was saying to my wife only the other day: 'garnet's the man. clever man, garnet. full of ideas.' didn't i, millie?" "yes, dear," said mrs. ukridge, smiling. "well?" said garnet. "the fact is," said ukridge, with a micawber-like burst of candor, "we are going to keep fowls." he stopped and looked at garnet in order to see the effect of the information. garnet bore it with fortitude. "yes?" he said. ukridge shifted himself farther on to the table and upset the inkpot. "never mind," he said, "it'll soak in. don't you worry about that, you keep listening to me. when i said we meant to keep fowls, i didn't mean in a small sort of way--two cocks and a couple of hens and a ping-pong ball for a nest egg. we are going to do it on a large scale. we are going to keep," he concluded impressively, "a chicken farm!" "a chicken farm," echoed mrs. ukridge with an affectionate and admiring glance at her husband. "ah," said garnet, who felt his responsibilities as chorus. "i've thought it all out," continued ukridge, "and it's as clear as mud. no expenses, large profits, quick returns. chickens, eggs, and no work. by jove, old man, it's the idea of a lifetime. just listen to me for a moment. you buy your hen--" "one hen?" inquired garnet. "call it one for the sake of argument. it makes my calculations clearer. very well, then. you buy your hen. it lays an egg every day of the week. you sell the eggs--say--six for fivepence. keep of hen costs nothing. profit at least fourpence, three farthings on every half-dozen eggs. what do you think of that, bartholomew?" garnet admitted that it sounded like an attractive scheme, but expressed a wish to overhaul the figures in case of error. "error!" shouted ukridge, pounding the table with such energy that it groaned beneath him. "error? not a bit of it. can't you follow a simple calculation like that? the thing is, you see, you get your original hen for next to nothing. that's to say, on tick. anybody will let you have a hen on tick. now listen to me for a moment. you let your hen set, and hatch chickens. suppose you have a dozen hens. very well, then. when each of the dozen has a dozen chickens, you send the old hens back with thanks for the kind loan, and there you are, starting business with a hundred and forty-four free chickens to your name. and after a bit, when the chickens grow up and begin to lay, all you have to do is to sit back in your chair and gather in the big checks. isn't that so, millie?" "yes, dear," said mrs. ukridge with shining eyes. "we've fixed it all up. do you know lyme regis, in dorsetshire? on the borders of devon. quiet little fishing village. bathing. sea air. splendid scenery. just the place for a chicken farm. i've been looking after that. a friend of my wife's has lent us a jolly old house with large grounds. all we've got to do is to get in the fowls. that's all right. i've ordered the first lot. we shall find them waiting for us when we arrive." "well," said garnet, "i'm sure i wish you luck. mind you let me know how you get on." "let you know!" roared ukridge. "why, old horse, you've got to come, too. we shall take no refusal. shall we, millie?" "no, dear," murmured mrs. ukridge. "of course not," said ukridge. "no refusal of any sort. pack up to-night, and meet us at waterloo to-morrow." "it's awfully good of you--" began garnet a little blankly. "not a bit of it, not a bit of it. this is pure business. i was saying to my wife when we came in that you were the very man for us. 'if old garnet's in town,' i said, 'we'll have him. a man with his flow of ideas will be invaluable on a chicken farm.' didn't i, millie?" mrs. ukridge murmured the response. "you see, i'm one of these practical men. i go straight ahead, following my nose. what you want in a business of this sort is a touch of the dreamer to help out the practical mind. we look to you for suggestions, montmorency. timely suggestions with respect to the comfort and upbringing of the fowls. and you can work. i've seen you. of course you take your share of the profits. that's understood. yes, yes, i must insist. strict business between friends. we must arrange it all when we get down there. my wife is the secretary of the firm. she has been writing letters to people, asking for fowls. so you see it's a thoroughly organized concern. there's money in it, old horse. don't you forget that." "we should be so disappointed if you did not come," said mrs. ukridge, lifting her childlike eyes to garnet's face. garnet stood against the mantelpiece and pondered. in after years he recognized that that moment marked an epoch in his life. if he had refused the invitation, he would not have--but, to quote the old novelists, we anticipate. at any rate, he would have missed a remarkable experience. it is not given to everyone to see mr. stanley ukridge manage a chicken farm. "the fact is," he said at last, "i was thinking of going somewhere where i could get some golf." ukridge leaped on the table triumphantly. "lyme regis is just the place for you, then. perfect hotbed of golf. fine links at the top of the hill, not half a mile from the farm. bring your clubs. you'll be able to have a round or two in the afternoons. get through serious work by lunch time." "you know," said garnet, "i am absolutely inexperienced as regards fowls." "excellent!" said ukridge. "then you're just the man. you will bring to the work a mind entirely unclouded by theories. you will act solely by the light of your intelligence." "er--yes," said garnet. "i wouldn't have a professional chicken farmer about the place if he paid to come. natural intelligence is what we want. then we can rely on you?" "very well," said garnet slowly. "it's very kind of you to ask me." "it's business, cuthbert, business. very well, then. we shall catch the eleven-twenty at waterloo. don't miss it. you book to axminster. look out for me on the platform. if i see you first, i'll shout." garnet felt that that promise rang true. "then good-by for the present. millie, we must be off. till to-morrow, garnet." "good-by, mr. garnet," said mrs. ukridge. looking back at the affair after the lapse of years, garnet was accustomed to come to the conclusion that she was the one pathetic figure in the farce. under what circumstances she had married ukridge he did not learn till later. he was also uncertain whether at any moment in her career she regretted it. but it was certainly pathetic to witness her growing bewilderment during the weeks that followed, as the working of ukridge's giant mind was unfolded to her little by little. life, as ukridge understood the word, must have struck her as a shade too full of incident to be really comfortable. garnet was wont to console himself by the hope that her very genuine love for her husband, and his equally genuine love for her, was sufficient to smooth out the rough places of life. as he returned to his room, after showing his visitors to the door, the young man upstairs, who had apparently just finished breakfast, burst once more into song: "we'll never come back no more, boys, we'll never come back no more." garnet could hear him wedding appropriate dance to the music. "not for a few weeks, at any rate," he said to himself, as he started his packing at the point where he had left off. a girl with brown hair iii waterloo station is one of the things which no fellow can understand. thousands come to it, thousands go from it. porters grow gray-headed beneath its roof. buns, once fresh and tender, become hard and misanthropic in its refreshment rooms, and look as if they had seen the littleness of existence and were disillusioned. but there the station stands, year after year, wrapped in a discreet gloom, always the same, always baffling and inscrutable. not even the porters understand it. "i couldn't say, sir," is the civil but unsatisfying reply with which research is met. now and then one, more gifted than his colleagues, will inform the traveler that his train starts from "no. or no. ," but a moment's reflection and he hedges with no. . waterloo is the home of imperfect knowledge. the booking clerks cannot state in a few words where tickets may be bought for any station. they are only certain that they themselves cannot sell them. * * * * * the gloom of the station was lightened on the following morning at ten minutes to eleven when mr. garnet arrived to catch the train to axminster, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustle and movement on the various platforms. a cheery activity pervaded the place. porters on every hand were giving their celebrated imitations of the car of juggernaut, throwing as a sop to the wounded a crisp "by your leave." agitated ladies were pouring forth questions with the rapidity of machine guns. long queues surged at the mouths of the booking offices, inside which soured clerks, sending lost sheep empty away, were learning once more their lesson of the innate folly of mankind. other crowds collected at the bookstalls, and the bookstall keeper was eying with dislike men who were under the impression that they were in a free library. an optimistic porter had relieved garnet of his portmanteau and golf clubs as he stepped out of his cab, and had arranged to meet him on no. platform, from which, he asserted, with the quiet confidence which has made englishmen what they are, the eleven-twenty would start on its journey to axminster. unless, he added, it went from no. . garnet, having bought a ticket, after drawing blank at two booking offices, made his way to the bookstall. here he inquired, in a loud, penetrating voice, if they had got "mr. jeremy garnet's last novel, 'the maneuvers of arthur.'" being informed that they had not, he clicked his tongue cynically, advised the man in charge to order that work, as the demand for it might be expected shortly to be large, and spent a shilling on a magazine and some weekly papers. then, with ten minutes to spare, he went off in search of ukridge. he found him on platform no. . the porter's first choice was, it seemed, correct. the eleven-twenty was already alongside the platform, and presently garnet observed his porter cleaving a path toward him with the portmanteau and golf clubs. "here you are!" shouted ukridge. "good for you. thought you were going to miss it." garnet shook hands with the smiling mrs. ukridge. "i've got a carriage," said ukridge, "and collared two corner seats. my wife goes down in another. she dislikes the smell of smoke when she's traveling. let's pray that we get the carriage to ourselves. but all london seems to be here this morning. get in, old horse. i'll just see her ladyship into her carriage and come back to you." garnet entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in order, after the friendly manner of the traveling briton, to thwart an invasion of fellow-travelers. then he withdrew his head suddenly and sat down. an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a girl, was coming toward him. it was not this type of fellow-traveler whom he hoped to keep out. he had noticed the girl at the booking office. she had waited by the side of the line, while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets, and he had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. for five minutes he had debated with himself as to whether her hair should rightly be described as brown or golden. he had decided finally on brown. it then became imperative that he should ascertain the color of her eyes. once only had he met them, and then only for a second. they might be blue. they might be gray. he could not be certain. the elderly gentleman came to the door of the compartment and looked in. "this seems tolerably empty, my dear phyllis," he said. garnet, his glance fixed on his magazine, made a note of the name. it harmonized admirably with the hair and the eyes of elusive color. "you are sure you do not object to a smoking carriage, my dear?" "oh, no, father. not at all." garnet told himself that the voice was just the right sort of voice to go with the hair, the eyes, and the name. "then i think--" said the elderly gentleman, getting in. the inflection of his voice suggested the irishman. it was not a brogue. there were no strange words. but the general effect was irish. garnet congratulated himself. irishmen are generally good company. an irishman with a pretty daughter should be unusually good company. the bustle on the platform had increased momently, until now, when, from the snorting of the engine, it seemed likely that the train might start at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. shrill cries echoed down the platform. lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushed to and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in the search for seats. piercing cries ordered unknown "tommies" and "ernies" to "keep by aunty, now." just as ukridge returned, the dreaded "get in anywhere" began to be heard, and the next moment an avalanche of warm humanity poured into the carriage. a silent but bitter curse framed itself on garnet's lips. his chance of pleasant conversation with the lady of the brown hair and the eyes that were either gray or blue was at an end. the newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as aunty; a youth called albert, subsequently described by garnet as the rudest boy on earth--a proud title, honestly won; lastly, a niece of some twenty years, stolid and seemingly without interest in life. ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling albert, who had made a dive in that direction. albert regarded him fixedly for a space, then sank into the seat beside garnet and began to chew something grewsome that smelled of aniseed. aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her weight evenly between the toes of the irish gentleman and those of his daughter, as she leaned out of the window to converse with a lady friend in a straw hat and hair curlers. phyllis, he noticed, was bearing it with angelic calm. her profile, when he caught sight of it round aunty, struck him as a little cold, even haughty. that, however, might be due to what she was suffering. it is unfair to judge a lady's character from her face, at a moment when she is in a position of physical discomfort. the train moved off with a jerk in the middle of a request on the part of the straw-hatted lady that her friend would "remember that, you know, about _him_," and aunty, staggering back, sat down on a bag of food which albert had placed on the seat beside him. "clumsy!" observed albert tersely. "al_bert_, you mustn't speak to aunty so." "wodyer want sit on my bag for, then?" inquired albert. they argued the point. garnet, who should have been busy studying character for a novel of the lower classes, took up his magazine and began to read. the odor of aniseed became more and more painful. ukridge had lighted a cigar, and garnet understood why mrs. ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment. for "in his hand he bore the brand which none but he might smoke." garnet looked stealthily across the carriage to see how his lady of the hair and eyes was enduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she, too, had begun to read. and as she put down the book to look out of the window at the last view of london, he saw with a thrill that it was "the maneuvers of arthur." never before had he come upon a stranger reading his work. and if "the maneuvers of arthur" could make the reader oblivious to surroundings such as these, then, felt garnet, it was no common book--a fact which he had long since suspected. the train raced on toward the sea. it was a warm day, and a torpid peace began to settle down on the carriage. soon only garnet, the irishman, and the lady were awake. "what's your book, me dear?" asked the irishman. "'the maneuvers of arthur,' father," said phyllis. "by jeremy garnet." garnet would not have believed without the evidence of his ears that his name could possibly have sounded so well. "dolly strange gave it to me when i left the abbey," continued phyllis. "she keeps a shelf of books for her guests when they are going away. books that she considers rubbish and doesn't want, you know." garnet hated dolly strange without further evidence. "and what do you think of it, me dear?" "i like it," said phyllis decidedly. the carriage swam before garnet's eyes. "i think it is very clever. i shall keep it." "bless you," thought garnet, "and i will write my precious autograph on every page, if you want it." "i wonder who jeremy garnet is?" said phyllis. "i imagine him rather an old young man, probably with an eyeglass and conceited. he must be conceited. i can tell that from the style. and i should think he didn't know many girls. at least, if he thinks pamela grant an ordinary sort of girl." "is she not?" asked her father. "she's a cr-r-reature," said phyllis emphatically. this was a blow to garnet, and demolished the self-satisfaction which her earlier criticisms had caused to grow within him. he had always looked on pamela as something very much out of the ordinary run of feminine character studies. that scene between her and the curate in the conservatory.... and when she finds arthur at the meet of the blankshire.... he was sorry she did not like pamela. somehow it lowered pamela in his estimation. "but i like arthur," said phyllis, and she smiled--the first time garnet had seen her do so. garnet also smiled to himself. arthur was the hero. he was a young writer. ergo, arthur was himself. the train was beginning to slow down. signs of returning animation began to be noticeable among the sleepers. a whistle from the engine, and the train drew up in a station. looking out of the window, garnet saw that it was yeovil. there was a general exodus. aunty became instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shook albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally headed a stampede out of the door. to garnet's chagrin the irish gentleman and his daughter also rose. apparently this was to be the end of their brief acquaintanceship. they alighted and walked down the platform. "where are we?" said ukridge sleepily, opening his eyes. "yeovil? not far now, old horse." with which remark he closed his eyes again and returned to his slumbers. garnet's eye, roving disconsolately over the carriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. it was the criticized "maneuvers of arthur." the girl had left it behind. what follows shows the vanity that obsesses our young and rising authors. it did not enter into his mind that the book might have been left behind of set purpose, as being of no further use to the owner. it only occurred to him that if he did not act swiftly the lady of the hair and eyes would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse or a hand bag were trivial. he acted swiftly. five seconds later he was at the end of the platform, flushed but courteous. "excuse me," he said, "i think--" "thank you," said the girl. garnet made his way back to his carriage. "they are blue," he said. the arrival iv from axminster to lyme regis the line runs through country as pretty as any that can be found in the island, and the train, as if in appreciation of this fact, does not hurry over the journey. it was late afternoon by the time the chicken farmers reached their destination. the arrangements for the carrying of luggage at lyme regis border on the primitive. boxes are left on the platform, and later, when he thinks of it, a carrier looks in and conveys them down into the valley and up the hill on the opposite side to the address written on the labels. the owner walks. lyme regis is not a place for the halt and maimed. ukridge led his band in the direction of the farm, which lay across the valley, looking through woods to the sea. the place was visible from the station, from which, indeed, standing as it did on the top of a hill, the view was extensive. halfway up the slope on the other side of the valley the party left the road and made their way across a spongy field, ukridge explaining that this was a short cut. they climbed through a hedge, crossed a stream and another field, and after negotiating a difficult bank topped with barbed wire, found themselves in a kitchen garden. ukridge mopped his forehead and restored his pince-nez to their original position, from which the passage of the barbed wire had dislodged them. "this is the place," he said. "we have come in by the back way. it saves time. tired, millie?" "no, dear, thank you." "without being tired," said garnet, "i am distinctly ready for tea. what are the prospects?" "that'll be all right," said ukridge, "don't you worry. a most competent man, of the name of beale, and his wife are in charge at present. i wrote to them telling them that we were coming to-day. they will be ready for us." they were at the front door by this time. ukridge rang the bell. the noise reëchoed through the house, but there were no answering footsteps. he rang again. there is no mistaking the note of a bell in an empty house. it was plain that the most competent man and his wife were out. "now what are you going to do?" said garnet. mrs. ukridge looked at her husband with quiet confidence. ukridge fell back on reminiscence. "this," he said, leaning against the door and endeavoring to button his collar at the back, "reminds me of an afternoon in the argentine. two other men and myself tried for three quarters of an hour to get into an empty house, where there looked as if there might be something to eat, and we'd just got the door open when the owner turned up from behind a tree with a shotgun. it was a little difficult to explain. there was a dog, too. we were glad to say good-by." at this moment history partially repeated itself. from the other side of the door came a dissatisfied whine, followed by a short bark. "halloo," said ukridge, "beale has a dog." "and the dog," said garnet, "will have us if we're not careful. what are you going to do?" "let's try the back," said ukridge. "we must get in. what right," he added with pathos, "has a beastly mongrel belonging to a man i employ to keep me out of my own house? it's a little hard. here am i, slaving to support beale, and when i try to get into my house, his infernal dog barks at me. but we will try kindness first. let me get to the keyhole. i will parley with the animal." he put his mouth to the keyhole and roared the soothing words "goo' dog!" through it. instantly the door shook as some heavy object hurled itself against it. the barking rang through the house. "kindness seems to be a drug in the market," said garnet. "do you see your way to trying a little force?" "i'll tell you what we'll do," said ukridge, rising. "we'll go round and get in at the kitchen window." "and how long are we to stay there? till the dog dies?" "i never saw such a man as you," protested ukridge. "you have a perfect mania for looking on the dark side. the dog won't guard the kitchen door. we shall manage to shut him up somewhere." "oh," said garnet. "and now let's get in and have something to eat, for goodness' sake." the kitchen window proved to be insecurely latched. ukridge flung it open and they climbed in. the dog, hearing the sound of voices, raced back along the passage and flung himself at the door. he then proceeded to scratch at the panels in the persevering way of one who feels that he is engaged upon a business at which he is a specialist. inside the kitchen, ukridge took command. "never mind the dog," he said, "let it scratch." "i thought," said garnet, "we were going to shut it up somewhere?" "go out and shut it into the dining room, then. personally, i mean to have some tea. millie, you know how to light a fire. garnet and i will be collecting cups and things. when that scoundrel beale arrives, i shall tear him limb from limb. deserting us like this! the man must be a thorough fraud. he told me he was an old soldier. if this was the sort of discipline they used to keep in his regiment, i don't wonder that the service is going to the dogs. there goes a plate! how is the fire getting on, millie? i'll chop beale into little bits. what's that you've got there, garny, old horse? tea? good! where's the bread? there! another plate. look here, i'll give that dog three minutes, and if it doesn't stop scratching that door by then, i'll take the bread knife and go out and have a soul-to-soul talk with it. it's a little hard. my own house, and the first thing i find in it when i arrive is somebody else's beastly dog scratching holes in the doors. stop it, you beast!" the dog's reply was to continue his operations _piu mosso_. ukridge's eyes gleamed behind their glasses. "give me a good large jug," he said with ominous calm. he took the largest of the jugs from the dresser and strode with it into the scullery, whence came the sound of running water. he returned carrying the jug in both hands. his mien was that of a general who sees his way to a master stroke of strategy. "garny, old horse," he said, "tack on to the handle, and when i give the word fling wide the gates. then watch that beast beyond the door get the surprise of its lifetime." garnet attached himself to the handle as directed. ukridge gave the word. they had a momentary vision of an excited dog of the mongrel class framed in the open doorway, all eyes and teeth; then the passage was occupied by a spreading pool, and indignant barks from the distance told that the mongrel was thinking the thing over in some safe retreat. "settled _his_ hash," said ukridge complacently. "nothing like resource, garnet, my boy. some men would have gone on letting a good door be ruined." "and spoiled the dog for a ha-porth of water," said garnet. "i suppose we shall have to clean up that mess some time." "there you go," said ukridge, "looking on the dark side. be an optimist, my boy, be an optimist. beale and mrs. beale shall clean that passage as a penance. how is the fire, millie?" "the kettle is just boiling, dear." over a cup of tea ukridge became the man of business. [illustration: they had a momentary vision of an excited dog, framed in the doorway.] "i wonder when those fowls are going to arrive. they should have been here to-day. if they don't come to-morrow, i shall lodge a complaint. there must be no slackness. they must bustle about. after tea i'll show you the garden, and we will choose a place for a fowl run. to-morrow we must buckle to. serious work will begin immediately after breakfast." "suppose," said garnet, "the fowls arrive before we are ready for them?" "why, then, they must wait." "but you can't keep fowls cooped up indefinitely in a crate. i suppose they will come in a crate. i don't know much about these things." "oh, that'll be all right. there's a basement to this house. we'll let 'em run about there till we're ready for them. there's always a way of doing things if you look for it." "i hope you are going to let the hens hatch some of the eggs, stanley, dear," said mrs. ukridge. "i should so love to have some dear little chickens." "of course," said ukridge. "my idea was this: these people will send us fifty fowls of sorts. that means--call it forty eggs a day. let 'em hatch out thirty a day, and we will use the other ten for the table. we shall want at least ten. well, i'm hanged, that dog again! where's that jug?" but this time an unforeseen interruption prevented the maneuver from being the success it had been before. garnet had turned the handle, and was just about to pull the door open, while ukridge, looking like some modern and dilapidated version of discobolus, stood beside him with his jug poised, when a hoarse voice spoke from the window. "stand still!" said the voice, "or i'll corpse you." garnet dropped the handle, ukridge dropped the jug, mrs. ukridge screamed. at the window, with a double-barreled gun in his hands, stood a short, square, red-headed man. the muzzle of his gun, which rested on the sill, was pointing in a straight line at the third button of garnet's waistcoat. with a distant recollection of the deadwood dick literature of his childhood, garnet flung both hands above his head. ukridge emitted a roar like that of a hungry lion. "beale!" he shouted. "you scoundrelly, unprincipled blackguard! what are you doing with that gun? why were you out? what have you been doing? why did you shout like that? look what you've made me do." he pointed to the floor. broken crockery, spreading water, his own shoes--exceedingly old tennis shoes--well soaked, attested the fact that damage had been done. "lor'! mr. ukridge, sir, is that you?" said the red-headed man calmly. "i thought you was burglars." a sharp bark from the other side of the kitchen door, followed by a renewal of the scratching, drew mr. beale's attention to his faithful hound. "that's bob," he said. "i don't know what you call the brute," said ukridge. "come in and tie him up." "'ow am i to get in, mr. ukridge, sir?" "come in through the window, and mind what you're doing with that gun. after you've finished with the dog, i should like a brief chat with you, if you can spare the time and have no other engagements." mr. beale, having carefully deposited his gun against the wall of the kitchen, and dropped a pair of very limp rabbits with a thud to the floor, proceeded to climb through the window. this operation performed, he stood on one side while the besieged garrison passed out by the same road. "you will find me in the garden, beale," said ukridge. "i have one or two little things to say to you." mr. beale grinned affably. the cool air of the garden was grateful after the warmth of the kitchen. it was a pretty garden, or would have been, if it had not been so neglected. garnet seemed to see himself sitting in a deck chair on the lawn, looking through the leaves of the trees at the harbor below. it was a spot, he felt, in which it would be an easy and pleasant task to shape the plot of his novel. he was glad he had come. about now, outside his lodgings in town, a particularly lethal barrel organ would be striking up the latest revolting air with which the halls had inflicted london. "here you are, beale," said ukridge, as the red-headed man approached. "now, then, what have you to say?" the hired man looked thoughtful for a while, then observed that it was a fine evening. garnet felt that he was begging the question. he was a strong, healthy man, and should have scorned to beg. "fine evening?" shouted ukridge. "what--on--earth has that got to do with it? i want to know why you and mrs. beale were both out when we arrived?" "the missus went to axminster, mr. ukridge, sir." "she had no right to go to axminster. i don't pay her large sums to go to axminster. you knew i was coming this evening." "no, mr. ukridge, sir." "you didn't!" "no, mr. ukridge, sir." "beale," said ukridge with studied calm, "one of us two is a fool." "i noticed that, sir." "let us sift this matter to the bottom. you got my letter?" "no, mr. ukridge, sir." "my letter saying that i should arrive to-night. you did not get it?" "no, sir." "now look here, beale," said ukridge, "i am certain that that letter was posted. i remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. it is not there now. see. these are all the contents of my--well, i'm hanged!" he stood looking at the envelope he had produced from his breast pocket. mr. beale coughed. "beale," said ukridge, "you--er--there seems to have been a mistake." "yes, sir." "you are not so much to blame as i thought." "no, sir." "anyhow," said ukridge, in inspired tones, "i'll go and slay that infernal dog. where's your gun, beale?" but better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out unexpectedly strong with brainy and diverting tricks. buckling to v sunshine, streaming into his bedroom through the open window, woke garnet next day as distant clocks were striking eight. it was a lovely morning, cool and fresh. the grass of the lawn, wet with dew, sparkled in the sun. a thrush, who knew all about early birds and their perquisites, was filling in the time before the arrival of the worm with a song or two as he sat in the bushes. in the ivy a colony of sparrows were opening the day well with a little brisk fighting. on the gravel in front of the house lay the mongrel bob, blinking lazily. the gleam of the sea through the trees turned garnet's thoughts to bathing. he dressed quickly and went out. bob rose to meet him, waving an absurdly long tail. the hatchet was definitely buried now. that little matter of the jug of water was forgotten. "well, bob," said garnet, "coming down to watch me bathe?" bob uttered a bark of approval and ran before him to the gate. a walk of five minutes brought garnet to the sleepy little town. he passed through the narrow street, and turned on to the beach, walking in the direction of the cob, that combination of pier and breakwater which the misadventures of one of jane austen's young misses have made known to the outside public. the tide was high, and garnet, leaving his clothes to the care of bob, dived into twelve feet of clear, cold water. as he swam he compared it with the morning tub of town, and felt that he had done well to come with ukridge to this pleasant spot. but he could not rely on unbroken calm during the whole of his visit. he did not know a great deal about chicken farming, but he was certain that ukridge knew less. there would be some strenuous moments before that farm became a profitable commercial speculation. at the thought of ukridge toiling on a hot afternoon to manage an undisciplined mob of fowls, and becoming more and more heated and voluble in the struggle, he laughed and promptly swallowed a generous mouthful of salt water. there are few things which depress the swimmer more than an involuntary draught of water. garnet turned and swam back to bob and the clothes. as he strolled back along the beach he came upon a small, elderly gentleman toweling his head in a vigorous manner. hearing garnet's footsteps, he suspended this operation for a moment and peered out at him from beneath a turban of towel. it was the elderly irishman of the journey, the father of the blue-eyed phyllis. then they had come on to lyme regis after all. garnet stopped, with some idea of going back and speaking to him; but realizing that they were perfect strangers, he postponed this action and followed bob up the hill. in a small place like lyme regis it would surely not be difficult to find somebody who would introduce them. he cursed the custom which made such a thing necessary. in a properly constituted country everybody would know everybody else without fuss or trouble. he found ukridge, in his shirt sleeves and minus a collar, assailing a large ham. mrs. ukridge, looking younger and more childlike than ever in brown holland, smiled at him over the teapot. "here he is!" shouted ukridge, catching sight of him. "where have you been, old horse? i went to your room, but you weren't there. bathing? hope it's made you feel fit for work, because we've got to buckle to this morning." "the fowls have arrived, mr. garnet," said mrs. ukridge, opening her eyes till she looked like an astonished kitten. "_such_ a lot of them! they're making such a noise!" and to support her statement there floated through the window a cackling, which, for volume and variety of key, beat anything that garnet had ever heard. judging from the noise, it seemed as if england had been drained of fowls and the entire tribe of them dumped into the yard of the ukridge's farm. "there seems to have been no stint," he said, sitting down. "did you order a million or only nine hundred thousand?" "good many, aren't there?" said ukridge complacently. "but that's what we want. no good starting on a small scale. the more you have, the bigger the profits." "what sort have you got mostly?" "oh, all sorts. bless you, people don't mind what breed a fowl is, so long as it _is_ a fowl. these dealer chaps were so infernally particular. 'any dorkings?' they said. 'all right,' i said, 'bring on your dorkings.' 'or perhaps you want a few minorcas?' 'very well,' i said, 'show minorcas.' they were going on--they'd have gone on for hours, but i stopped 'em. 'look here, maximilian,' i said to the manager johnny--decent old chap, with the manners of a marquis--'look here,' i said, 'life is short, and we're neither of us as young as we used to be. don't let us waste the golden hours playing guessing games. i want fowls. you sell fowls. so give me some of all sorts.' and he has, by jove! there must be one of every breed ever invented." "where are you going to put them?" "that spot we chose by the paddock. that's the place. plenty of mud for them to scratch about in, and they can go into the field when they want to, and pick up worms, or whatever they feed on. we must rig them up some sort of a shanty, i suppose, this morning. we'll go and tell 'em to send up some wire netting and stuff from the town." "then we shall want hencoops. we shall have to make those." "of course. so we shall. millie, didn't i tell you that old garnet was the man to think of things! i forgot the coops. we can't buy some, i suppose? on tick?" "cheaper to make them. suppose we get a lot of boxes. soap boxes are as good as any. it won't take long to knock up a few coops." ukridge thumped the table with enthusiasm. "garny, old horse, you're a marvel. you think of everything. we'll buckle to right away. what a noise those fowls are making. i suppose they don't feel at home in the yard. wait till they see the a residential mansions we're going to put up for them. finished breakfast? then let's go out. come along, millie." the red-headed beale, discovered leaning in an attitude of thought on the yard gate, and observing the feathered mob below, was roused from his reflections and dispatched to the town for the wire and soap boxes. ukridge, taking his place at the gate, gazed at the fowls with the affectionate eye of a proprietor. "well, they have certainly taken you at your word," said garnet, "as far as variety is concerned." the man with the manners of a marquis seemed to have been at great pains to send a really representative supply of fowls. there were blue ones, black ones, white, gray, yellow, brown, big, little, dorkings, minorcas, cochin chinas, bantams, orpingtons, wyandottes, and a host more. it was an imposing spectacle. the hired man returned toward the end of the morning, preceded by a cart containing the necessary wire and boxes, and ukridge, whose enthusiasm brooked no delay, started immediately the task of fashioning the coops, while garnet, assisted by beale, draped the wire netting about the chosen spot next to the paddock. there were little unpleasantnesses--once a roar of anguish told that ukridge's hammer had found the wrong billet, and on another occasion garnet's flannel trousers suffered on the wire--but the work proceeded steadily. by the middle of the afternoon things were in a sufficiently advanced state to suggest to ukridge the advisability of a halt for refreshments. "that's the way to do it," said he. "at this rate we shall have the place in a condition before bedtime. what do you think of those for coops, beale?" the hired man examined them gravely. "i've seen worse, sir." he continued his examination. "but not many," he added. beale's passion for truth had made him unpopular in three regiments. "they aren't so bad," said garnet, "but i'm glad i'm not a fowl." "so you ought to be," said ukridge, "considering the way you've put up that wire. you'll have them strangling themselves." in spite of earnest labor, the housing arrangements of the fowls were still in an incomplete state at the end of the day. the details of the evening's work are preserved in a letter which garnet wrote that night to his friend lickford. * * * * * "... have you ever played a game called 'pigs in clover'? we have just finished a bout of it (with hens instead of marbles) which has lasted for an hour and a half. we are all dead tired except the hired man, who seems to be made of india rubber. he has just gone for a stroll to the beach. wants some exercise, i suppose. personally, i feel as if i should never move again. i have run faster and farther than i have done since i was at school. you have no conception of the difficulty of rounding up fowls and getting them safely to bed. having no proper place to put them, we were obliged to stow some of them inside soap boxes and the rest in the basement. it has only just occurred to me that they ought to have had perches to roost on. it didn't strike me before. i shall not mention it to ukridge, or that indomitable man will start making some, and drag me into it, too. after all, a hen can rough it for one night, and if i did a stroke more work i should collapse. my idea was to do the thing on the slow but sure principle. that is to say, take each bird singly and carry it to bed. it would have taken some time, but there would have been no confusion. but you can imagine that that sort of thing would not appeal to ukridge. there is a touch of the napoleon about him. he likes his maneuvers to be daring and on a large scale. he said: 'open the yard gate and let the fowls come out into the open, then sail in and drive them in a mass through the back door into the basement.' it was a great idea, but there was one fatal flaw in it. it didn't allow for the hens scattering. we opened the gate, and out they all came like an audience coming out of a theater. then we closed in on them to bring off the big drive. for about three seconds it looked as if we might do it. then bob, the hired man's dog, an animal who likes to be in whatever's going on, rushed out of the house into the middle of them, barking. there was a perfect stampede, and heaven only knows where some of those fowls are now. there was one in particular, a large yellow bird, which, i should imagine, is nearing london by this time. the last i saw of it, it was navigating at the rate of knots, so to speak, in that direction, with bob after it barking his hardest. presently bob came back, panting, having evidently given up the job. we, in the meantime, were chasing the rest of the birds all over the garden. the thing had now resolved itself into the course of action i had suggested originally, except that instead of collecting them quietly and at our leisure, we had to run miles for each one we captured. after a time we introduced some sort of system into it. mrs. ukridge (fancy him married; did you know?) stood at the door. we chased the hens and brought them in. then as we put each through into the basement, she shut the door on it. we also arranged ukridge's soap-box coops in a row, and when we caught a fowl we put it into the coop and stuck a board in front of it. by these strenuous means we gathered in about two thirds of the lot. the rest are all over england. a few may be in dorsetshire, but i should not like to bet on it. "so you see things are being managed on the up-to-date chicken farm on good, sound, ukridge principles. this is only the beginning. i look with confidence for further exciting events. i believe, if ukridge kept white mice, he would manage to knock some feverish excitement out of it. he is at present lying on the sofa, smoking one of his infernal brand of cigars. from the basement i can hear faintly the murmur of innumerable fowls. we are a happy family; we are, we _are_, we are! "p. s. have you ever caught a fowl and carried it to roost? you take it under the wings, and the feel of it sets one's teeth on edge. it is a grisly experience. all the time you are carrying it, it makes faint protesting noises and struggles feebly to escape. "p. p. s. you know the opinion of pythagoras respecting fowls. that 'the soul of our granddam might haply inhabit a bird.' i hope that yellow hen which bob chased into the purple night is not the grandmamma of any friend of mine." a reunion vi the day was thursday, the date july the twenty-second. we had been chicken farmers for a whole week, and things were beginning to settle down to a certain extent. the coops were finished. they were not masterpieces, and i have seen chickens pause before them in deep thought, as who should say: "now what in the world have we struck here?" but they were coops, within the meaning of the act, and we induced the hens to become tenants. the hardest work had been the fixing of the wire netting. this was the department of the hired man and myself. beale and i worked ourselves into a fever in the sun, while the senior partner of the firm sat in the house, writing out plans and ideas and scribbling down his accounts (which must have been complicated) on gilt-edged correspondence cards. from time to time he abused his creditors, who were numerous. ukridge's financial methods were always puzzling to the ordinary mind. we had hardly been at the farm a day before he began to order in a vast supply of necessary and unnecessary articles--all on credit. some he got from the village, others from neighboring towns. he has a way with him, like father o'flynn, and the tradesmen behaved beautifully. the things began to pour in from all sides--suits, groceries (of the very best), a piano, a gramophone, and pictures of all kinds. he was not one of those men who want but little here below. he wanted a great deal, and of a superior quality. if a tradesman suggested that a small check on account would not be taken amiss, as one or two sordid fellows of the village did, he became pathetic. "confound it, sir," he would say with tears in his voice, laying a hand on the man's shoulder in an elder brotherly way, "it's a trifle hard when a gentleman comes to settle here, that you should dun him for things before he has settled the preliminary expenses about his house." this sounded well, and suggested the disbursement of huge sums for rent. the fact that the house had been lent him rent free was kept with some care in the background. having weakened the man with pathos, he would strike a sterner note. "a little more of this," he would go on, "and i'll close my account. as it is, i think i will remove my patronage to a firm which will treat me civilly. why, sir, i've never heard anything like it in all my experience." upon which the man would knuckle under and go away forgiven, with a large order for more goods. once, when ukridge and i were alone, i ventured to expostulate. high finance was always beyond my mental grasp. "pay?" he exclaimed, "of course we shall pay. you don't seem to realize the possibilities of this business. garny, my boy, we are on to a big thing. the money isn't coming in yet. we must give it time. but soon we shall be turning over hundreds every week. i am in touch with whiteley's and harrod's and all the big places. perfectly simple business matter. here i am, i said, with a large chicken farm with all the modern improvements. you want eggs, i said. i supply them. i will let you have so many hundred eggs a week, i said; what will you give for them? well, their terms did not come up to my scheduled prices, i admit, but we mustn't sneer at small prices at first." the upshot of it was that the firms mentioned supplied us with a quantity of goods, agreeing to receive phantom eggs in exchange. this satisfied ukridge. he had a faith in the laying powers of his hens which would have flattered those birds if they could have known of it. it might also have stimulated their efforts in that direction, which up to date were feeble. this, however, i attributed to the fact that the majority of our fowls--perhaps through some sinister practical joke on the part of the manager who had the manners of a marquis--were cocks. it vexed ukridge. "here we are," he said complainingly, "living well and drinking well, in a newly furnished house, having to keep a servant and maintain our position in life, with expenses mounting and not a penny coming in. it's absurd. we've got hundreds of hens (most of them cocks, it's true, but i forgot they didn't lay), and getting not even enough eggs for our own table. we must make some more arrangements. come on in and let us think the thing out." but this speech was the outcome of a rare moment of pessimism. in his brighter moods he continued to express unbounded faith in the hens, and was willing to leave the thing to time. meanwhile, we were creating quite a small sensation in the neighborhood. the interest of the natives was aroused at first by the fact that nearly all of them received informal visits from our fowls, which had strayed. small boys would arrive in platoons, each bearing his quota of stragglers. "be these your 'ens, zur?" was the formula. "if they be, we've got twenty-fower mower in our yard. could 'ee coom over and fetch 'em?" however, after the hired retainer and i had completed our work with the wire netting, desertions became less frequent. people poured in from villages for miles around to look at the up-to-date chicken farm. it was a pleasing and instructive spectacle to see ukridge, in a pink shirt without a collar, and very dirty flannel trousers, lecturing to the intelligent natives on the breeding of fowls. they used to go away with the dazed air of men who have heard strange matters, and ukridge, unexhausted, would turn to interview the next batch. i fancy we gave lyme regis something to think about. ukridge must have been in the nature of a staggerer to the rustic mind. it was now, as i have said, thursday, the twenty-second of july, a memorable date to me. a glorious, sunny morning, of the kind which nature provides occasionally, in an ebullition of benevolence. it is at times such as this that we dream our dreams and compose our masterpieces. and a masterpiece i was, indeed, making. the new novel was growing nobly. striking scenes and freshets of scintillating dialogue rushed through my mind. i had neglected my writing for the past week in favor of the tending of fowls, but i was making up for lost time now. another uninterrupted quarter of an hour, and i firmly believe i should have completed the framework of a novel that would have placed me with the great, in that select band whose members have no christian names. another quarter of an hour and posterity would have known me as "garnet." but it was not to be. i had just framed the most poignant, searching conversation between my heroine and my hero, and was about to proceed, flushed with great thoughts, to further triumphs, when a distant shout brought me to earth. "stop her! catch her! garnet!" i was in the paddock at the time. coming toward me at her best pace was a small hen. behind the hen was bob, doing, as usual, the thing that he ought not to have done. behind bob--some way behind--was ukridge. it was his shout that i had heard. "after her, garny, old horse!" he repeated. "a valuable bird. must not be lost." when not in a catalepsy of literary composition, i am essentially the man of action. i laid aside my novel for future reference, and, after a fruitless lunge at the hen as it passed, joined bob in the chase. we passed out of the paddock in the following order: first, the hen, as fresh as paint, and good for a five-mile spin; next, bob, panting but fit for anything; lastly, myself, determined, but mistrustful of my powers of pedestrianism. in the distance ukridge gesticulated and shouted advice. after the first field bob gave up the chase, and sauntered off to scratch at a rabbit hole. he seemed to think that he had done all that could be expected of him in setting the thing going. his air suggested that he knew the affair was in competent hands, and relied on me to do the right thing. the exertions of the past few days had left me in very fair condition, but i could not help feeling that in competition with the hen i was overmatched. neither in speed nor in staying power was i its equal. but i pounded along doggedly. whenever i find myself fairly started on any business i am reluctant to give it up. i began to set an extravagant value on the capture of the small hen. all the abstract desire for fame which had filled my mind five minutes before was concentrated now on that one feat. in a calmer moment i might have realized that one bird more or less would not make a great deal of difference to the fortunes of the chicken farm, but now my power of logical reasoning had left me. all our fortunes seemed to me to center in the hen, now half a field in front of me. we had been traveling downhill all this time, but at this point we crossed the road and the ground began to rise. i was in that painful condition which occurs when one has lost one's first wind and has not yet got one's second. i was hotter than i had ever been in my life. whether the hen, too, was beginning to feel the effects of its run i do not know, but it slowed down to a walk, and even began to peck in a tentative manner at the grass. this assumption on its part that the chase was at an end irritated me. i felt that i should not be worthy of the name of englishman if i allowed myself to be treated as a cipher by a mere bird. it should realize yet that it was no light matter to be pursued by j. garnet, author of "the maneuvers of arthur," etc. a judicious increase of pace brought me within a yard or two of my quarry. but it darted from me with a startled exclamation and moved off rapidly up the hill. i followed, distressed. the pace was proving too much for me. the sun blazed down. it seemed to concentrate its rays on my back, to the exclusion of the surrounding scenery, in much the same way as the moon behaves to the heroine of a melodrama. a student of the drama has put it on record that he has seen the moon follow the heroine round the stage, and go off with her (left). the sun was just as attentive to me. we were on level ground now. the hen had again slowed to a walk, and i was capable of no better pace. very gradually i closed in on it. there was a high boxwood hedge in front of us. just as i came close enough to stake my all on a single grab, the hen dived into this and struggled through in the mysterious way in which birds do get through hedges. i was in the middle of the obstacle, very hot, tired, and dirty, when from the other side i heard a sudden shout of "mark over! bird to the right!" and the next moment i found myself emerging, with a black face and tottering knees, on to the gravel path of a private garden. beyond the path was a croquet lawn, on which i perceived, as through a glass darkly, three figures. the mist cleared from my eyes and i recognized two of the trio. one was my irish fellow-traveler, the other was his daughter. the third member of the party was a man, a stranger to me. by some miracle of adroitness he had captured the hen, and was holding it, protesting, in a workman-like manner behind the wings. the entente cordiale vii it has been well observed that there are moments and moments. the present, as far as i was concerned, belonged to the more painful variety. even to my exhausted mind it was plain that there was need here for explanations. an irishman's croquet lawn is his castle, and strangers cannot plunge on to it unannounced through hedges without being prepared to give reasons. unfortunately, speech was beyond me. i could have done many things at that moment. i could have emptied a water butt, lain down and gone to sleep, or melted ice with a touch of the finger. but i could not speak. the conversation was opened by the other man, in whose soothing hand the hen now lay, apparently resigned to its fate. "come right in," he said pleasantly. "don't knock. your bird, i think?" i stood there panting. i must have presented a quaint appearance. my hair was full of twigs and other foreign substances. my face was moist and grimy. my mouth hung open. i wanted to sit down. my legs felt as if they had ceased to belong to me. "i must apologize--" i began, and ended the sentence with gasps. conversation languished. the elderly gentleman looked at me with what seemed to me indignant surprise. his daughter looked through me. the man regarded me with a friendly smile, as if i were some old crony dropped in unexpectedly. "i'm afraid--" i said, and stopped again. "hard work, big-game hunting in this weather," said the man. "take a long breath." i took several and felt better. "i must apologize for this intrusion," i said successfully. "unwarrantable" would have rounded off the sentence nicely, but instinct told me not to risk it. it would have been mere bravado to have attempted unnecessary words of five syllables at that juncture. i paused. "say on," said the man with the hen encouragingly, "i'm a human being just like yourself." "the fact is," i said, "i didn't--didn't know there was a private garden beyond the hedge. if you will give me my hen--" "it's hard to say good-by," said the man, stroking the bird's head with the first finger of his disengaged hand. "she and i are just beginning to know and appreciate each other. however, if it must be--" he extended the hand which held the bird, and at this point a hitch occurred. he did his part of the business--the letting go. it was in my department--the taking hold--that the thing was bungled. the hen slipped from my grasp like an eel, stood for a moment overcome by the surprise of being at liberty once more, then fled and intrenched itself in some bushes at the farther end of the lawn. there are times when the most resolute man feels that he can battle no longer with fate; when everything seems against him and the only course left is a dignified retreat. but there is one thing essential to a dignified retreat. one must know the way out. it was that fact which kept me standing there, looking more foolish than anyone has ever looked since the world began. i could hardly ask to be conducted off the premises like the honored guest. nor would it do to retire by the way i had come. if i could have leaped the hedge with a single bound, that would have made a sufficiently dashing and debonair exit. but the hedge was high, and i was incapable at the moment of achieving a debonair leap over a footstool. the man saved the situation. he seemed to possess that magnetic power over his fellows which marks the born leader. under his command we became an organized army. the common object, the pursuit of the hen, made us friends. in the first minute of the proceedings the irishman was addressing me as "me dear boy," and the other man, who had introduced himself rapidly as tom chase, lieutenant in his majesty's navy, was shouting directions to me by name. i have never assisted at any ceremony at which formality was so completely dispensed with. the ice was not merely broken, it was shivered into a million fragments. "go in and drive her out, garnet," shouted mr. chase. "in my direction, if you can. look out on the left, phyllis." even in that disturbing moment i could not help noticing his use of the christian name. it seemed to me sinister. i did not like the idea of dashing young lieutenants in the royal navy calling a girl phyllis whose eyes had haunted me for just over a week--since, in fact, i had first seen them. nevertheless, i crawled into the bushes and dislodged the hen. she emerged at the spot where mr. chase was waiting with his coat off, and was promptly enveloped in that garment and captured. "the essence of strategy," observed mr. chase approvingly, "is surprise. a devilish neat piece of work." i thanked him. he deprecated the thanks. he had, he said, only done his duty, as a man is bound to do. he then introduced me to the elderly irishman, who was, it seemed, a professor--of what i do not know--at dublin university. by name, derrick. he informed me that he always spent the summer at lyme regis. "i was surprised to see you at lyme regis," i said. "when you got out at yeovil, i thought i had seen the last of you." i think i am gifted beyond other men as regards the unfortunate turning of sentences. "i meant," i added speedily, "i was afraid i had." "ah, of course," he said, "you were in our carriage coming down. i was confident i had seen you before. i never forget a face." "it would be a kindness," said mr. chase, "if you would forget garnet's as now exhibited. you'll excuse the personality, but you seem to have collected a good deal of the professor's property coming through that hedge." "i was wondering," i said with gratitude. "a wash--if i might?" "of course, me boy, of course," said the professor. "tom, take mr. garnet off to your room, and then we'll have some lunch. you'll stay to lunch, mr. garnet?" i thanked him for his kindness and went off with my friend, the lieutenant, to the house. we imprisoned the hen in the stables, to its profound indignation, gave directions for lunch to be served to it, and made our way to mr. chase's room. "so you've met the professor before?" he said, hospitably laying out a change of raiment for me--we were fortunately much of a height and build. "i have never spoken to him," i said. "we traveled down together in a very full carriage, and i saw him next day on the beach." "he's a dear old boy, if you rub him the right way." "yes?" i said. "but--i'm telling you this for your good and guidance--he can cut up rough. and when he does, he goes off like a four point seven. i think, if i were you--you don't mind my saying this?--i think, if i were you, i should _not_ mention mr. tim healy at lunch." i promised that i would try to resist the temptation. "and if you _could_ manage not to discuss home rule--" "i will make an effort." "on any other topic he will be delighted to hear your views. chatty remarks on bimetallism would meet with his earnest attention. a lecture on what to do with the cold mutton would be welcomed. but not ireland, if you don't mind. shall we go down?" we got to know one another very well at lunch. "do you hunt hens," asked mr. chase, who was mixing the salad--he was one of those men who seem to do everything a shade better than anyone else, "for amusement or by your doctor's orders?" "neither," i said, "and particularly not for amusement. the fact is i have been lured down here by a friend of mine who has started a chicken farm--" i was interrupted. all three of them burst into laughter. mr. chase in his emotion allowed the vinegar to trickle on to the cloth, missing the salad bowl by a clear two inches. "you don't mean to tell us," he said, "that you really come from the one and only chicken farm?" i could not deny it. "why, you're the man we've all been praying to meet for days past. haven't we, professor?" "you're right, tom," chuckled mr. derrick. "we want to know all about it, mr. garnet," said phyllis derrick. "do you know," continued mr. chase, "that you are the talk of the town? everybody is discussing you. your methods are quite new and original, aren't they?" "probably," i replied. "ukridge knows nothing about fowls. i know less. he considers it an advantage. he said our minds ought to be unbiased by any previous experience." "ukridge!" said the professor. "that was the name old dawlish, the grocer, said. i never forget a name. he is the gentleman who lectures on the breeding of poultry, is he not? you do not?" i hastened to disclaim any such feat. "his lectures are very popular," said phyllis with a little splutter of mirth. "he enjoys them," i said. "look here, garnet," said mr. chase, "i hope you won't consider all these questions impertinent, but you've no notion of the thrilling interest we all take--at a distance--in your farm. we have been talking of nothing else for a week. i have dreamed of it three nights running. is mr. ukridge doing this as a commercial speculation, or is he an eccentric millionaire?" "he's not a millionaire. i believe he intends to be, though, before long, with the assistance of the fowls. but i hope you won't look on me as in any way responsible for the arrangements at the farm. i am merely a laborer. the brain work of the business lies in ukridge's department." "tell me, mr. garnet," said phyllis, "do you use an incubator?" "oh, yes, we have an incubator." "i suppose you find it very useful?" "i'm afraid we use it chiefly for drying our boots when they get wet," i said. only that morning ukridge's spare pair of tennis shoes had permanently spoiled the future of half-a-dozen eggs which were being hatched on the spot where the shoes happened to be placed. ukridge had been quite annoyed. "i came down here principally," i said, "in search of golf. i was told there were links, but up to the present my professional duties have monopolized me." "golf," said professor derrick. "why, yes. we must have a round or two together. i am very fond of golf. i generally spend the summer down here improving my game." i said i should be delighted. * * * * * there was croquet after lunch--a game at which i am a poor performer. miss derrick and i played the professor and chase. chase was a little better than myself; the professor, by dint of extreme earnestness and care, managed to play a fair game; and phyllis was an expert. "i was reading a book," said she, as we stood together watching the professor shaping at his ball at the other end of the lawn, "by an author of the same surname as you, mr. garnet. is he a relation of yours?" "i am afraid i am the person, miss derrick," i said. "you wrote the book?" "a man must live," i said apologetically. "then you must have--oh, nothing." "i could not help it, i'm afraid. but your criticism was very kind." "did you know what i was going to say?" "i guessed." "it was lucky i liked it," she said with a smile. "lucky for me," i said. "why?" "it will encourage me to write another book. so you see what you have to answer for. i hope it will not trouble your conscience." at the other end of the lawn the professor was still patting the balls about, chase the while advising him to allow for windage and elevation and other mysterious things. "i should not have thought," she said, "that an author cared a bit for the opinion of an amateur." "it all depends." "on the author?" "on the amateur." it was my turn to play at this point. i missed--as usual. "i didn't like your heroine, mr. garnet." "that was the one crumpled rose leaf. i have been wondering why ever since. i tried to make her nice. three of the critics liked her." "really?" "and the modern reviewer is an intelligent young man. what is a 'creature,' miss derrick?" "pamela in your book is a creature," she replied unsatisfactorily, with the slightest tilt of the chin. "my next heroine shall be a triumph," i said. she should be a portrait, i resolved, from life. shortly after, the game came somehow to an end. i do not understand the intricacies of croquet. but phyllis did something brilliant and remarkable with the balls, and we adjourned for tea, which had been made ready at the edge of the lawn while we played. the sun was setting as i left to return to the farm, with the hen stored neatly in a basket in my hand. the air was deliciously cool and full of that strange quiet which follows soothingly on the skirts of a broiling midsummer afternoon. far away--the sound seemed almost to come from another world--the tinkle of a sheep bell made itself heard, deepening the silence. alone in a sky of the palest blue there twinkled a small bright star. i addressed this star. "she was certainly very nice to me," i said. "very nice, indeed." the star said nothing. "on the other hand," i went on, "i don't like that naval man. he is a good chap, but he overdoes it." the star winked sympathetically. "he calls her phyllis," i said. "charawk," said the hen satirically from her basket. a little dinner viii "edwin comes to-day," said mrs. ukridge. "and the derricks," said ukridge, sawing at the bread in his energetic way. "don't forget the derricks, millie." "no, dear. mrs. beale is going to give us a very nice dinner. we talked it over yesterday." "who is edwin?" i asked. we were finishing breakfast on the second morning after my visit to the derricks. i had related my adventures to the staff of the farm on my return, laying stress on the merits of our neighbors and their interest in our doings, and the hired retainer had been sent off next morning with a note from mrs. ukridge, inviting them to look over the farm and stay to dinner. "edwin?" said ukridge. "beast of a cat." "o stanley!" said mrs. ukridge plaintively. "he's not. he's such a dear, mr. garnet. a beautiful, pure-bred persian. he has taken prizes." "he's always taking something--generally food. that's why he didn't come down with us." "a great, horrid _beast_ of a dog bit him, mr. garnet." mrs. ukridge's eyes became round and shining. "and poor edwin had to go to a cats' hospital." "and i hope," said ukridge, "the experience will do him good. sneaked a dog's bone, garnet, under his very nose, if you please. naturally, the dog lodged a protest." "i'm so afraid that he will be frightened of bob. he will be very timid, and bob's so exceedingly boisterous. isn't he, mr. garnet?" i owned that bob's manner was not that of a vere de vere. "that's all right," said ukridge; "bob won't hurt him, unless he tries to steal his bone. in that case we will have edwin made into a rug." "stanley doesn't like edwin," said mrs. ukridge plaintively. * * * * * edwin arrived early in the afternoon, and was shut into the kitchen. he struck me as a handsome cat, but nervous. he had an excited eye. the derricks followed two hours later. mr. chase was not of the party. "tom had to go to london," explained the professor, "or he would have been delighted to come. it was a disappointment to the boy, for he wanted to see the farm." "he must come some other time," said ukridge. "we invite inspection. look here," he broke off suddenly--we were nearing the fowl run now, mrs. ukridge walking in front with phyllis derrick--"were you ever at bristol?" "never, sir," said the professor. "because i knew just such another fat little buffer there a few years ago. gay old bird, he was. he--" "this is the fowl run, professor," i broke in, with a moist, tingling feeling across my forehead and up my spine. i saw the professor stiffen as he walked, while his face deepened in color. ukridge's breezy way of expressing himself is apt to electrify the stranger. "you will notice the able way--ha, ha!--in which the wire netting is arranged," i continued feverishly. "took some doing, that. by jove! yes. it was hot work. nice lot of fowls, aren't they? rather a mixed lot, of course. ha, ha! that's the dealer's fault, though. we are getting quite a number of eggs now. hens wouldn't lay at first. couldn't make them." i babbled on till from the corner of my eye i saw the flush fade from the professor's face and his back gradually relax its pokerlike attitude. the situation was saved for the moment, but there was no knowing what further excesses ukridge might indulge in. i managed to draw him aside as we went through the fowl run, and expostulated. "for goodness' sake, be careful," i whispered. "you've no notion how touchy the professor is." "but _i_ said nothing," he replied, amazed. "hang it, you know, nobody likes to be called a fat little buffer to his face." "what else could i call him? nobody minds a little thing like that. we can't be stilted and formal. it's ever so much more friendly to relax and be chummy." here we rejoined the others, and i was left with a leaden foreboding of grewsome things in store. i knew what manner of man ukridge was when he relaxed and became chummy. friendships of years' standing had failed to survive the test. for the time being, however, all went well. in his rôle of lecturer he offended no one, and phyllis and her father behaved admirably. they received the strangest theories without a twitch of the mouth. "ah," the professor would say, "now, is that really so? very interesting, indeed." only once, when ukridge was describing some more than usually original device for the furthering of the interests of his fowls, did a slight spasm disturb phyllis's look of attentive reverence. "and you have really had no previous experience in chicken farming?" she said. "none," said ukridge, beaming through his glasses, "not an atom. but i can turn my hand to anything, you know. things seem to come naturally to me, somehow." "i see," said phyllis. it was while matters were progressing with such beautiful smoothness that i observed the square form of the hired retainer approaching us. somehow--i cannot say why--i had a feeling that he came with bad news. perhaps it was his air of quiet satisfaction which struck me as ominous. "beg pardon, mr. ukridge, sir." ukridge was in the middle of a very eloquent excursus on the feeding of fowls. the interruption annoyed him. "well, beale," he said, "what is it?" "that there cat, sir, what came to-day." "o beale," cried mrs. ukridge in agitation, "_what_ has happened?" "having something to say to the missus--" "what has happened? o beale, don't say that edwin has been hurt? where is he? oh, _poor_ edwin!" "having something to say to the missus--" "if bob has bitten him, i hope he had his nose _well_ scratched," said mrs. ukridge vindictively. "having something to say to the missus," resumed the hired retainer tranquilly, "i went into the kitchen ten minutes back. the cat was sitting on the mat." beale's narrative style closely resembled that of a certain book i had read in my infancy. i wish i could remember its title. it was a well-written book. "yes, beale, yes?" said mrs. ukridge. "oh, do go on!" "'halloo, puss,' i says to him, 'and 'ow are you, sir?' 'be careful,' says the missus. ''e's that timid,' she says, 'you wouldn't believe,' she says. ''e's only just settled down, as you may say,' she says. 'ho, don't you fret,' i says to her, ''im and me we understands each other. 'im and me,' i says, 'is old friends. 'e's me dear old pal, corporal banks, of the skrimshankers.' she grinned at that, ma'am, corporal banks being a man we'd 'ad many a 'earty laugh at in the old days. 'e was, in a manner of speaking, a joke between us." "oh, do--go--on, beale! what has happened to edwin?" the hired retainer proceeded in calm, even tones. "we was talking there, ma'am, when bob, which had followed me unknown, trotted in. when the cat ketched sight of 'im sniffing about, there was such a spitting and swearing as you never 'eard, and blowed," said mr. beale amusedly, as if the recollection tickled him, "blowed if the old cat didn't give one jump and move in quick time up the chimley, where 'e now remains, paying no 'eed to the missus's attempts to get him down again." sensation, as they say in the reports. "but he'll be cooked," cried phyllis, open-eyed. ukridge uttered a roar of dismay. "no, he won't. nor will our dinner. mrs. beale always lets the kitchen fire out during the afternoon. it's a cold dinner we'll get to-night, if that cat doesn't come down." the professor's face fell. i had remarked on the occasion when i had lunched with him his evident fondness for the pleasures of the table. cold, impromptu dinners were plainly not to his taste. we went to the kitchen in a body. mrs. beale was standing in front of the empty grate making seductive cat noises up the chimney. "what's all this, mrs. beale?" said ukridge. "he won't come down, sir, not while he thinks bob's about. and how i'm to cook dinner for five with him up the chimney i don't see, sir." "prod at him with a broom handle, mrs. beale," urged ukridge. "i 'ave tried that, sir, but i can't reach him, and i've only bin and drove 'im further up. what must be," added mrs. beale philosophically, "must be. he may come down of his own accord in the night. bein' 'ungry." "then what we must do," said ukridge in a jovial manner which to me at least seemed out of place, "is to have a regular, jolly, picnic dinner, what? whack up whatever we have in the larder, and eat that." "a regular, jolly, picnic dinner," repeated the professor gloomily. i could read what was passing in his mind. "that will be delightful," said phyllis. [illustration: "i've only bin and drove 'im further up," said mrs. beale.] "er--i think, my dear sir," said her father, "it would be hardly fair of us to give any further trouble to mrs. ukridge and yourself. if you will allow me, therefore, i will--" ukridge became gushingly hospitable. he refused to think of allowing his guests to go empty away. he would be able to whack up something, he said. there was quite a good deal of the ham left, he was sure. he appealed to me to indorse his view that there was a tin of sardines and part of a cold fowl and plenty of bread and cheese. "and after all," he said, speaking for the whole company in the generous, comprehensive way enthusiasts have, "what more do we want in weather like this? a nice, light, cold dinner is ever so much better for us than a lot of hot things." the professor said nothing. he looked wan and unhappy. we strolled out again into the garden, but somehow things seemed to drag. conversation was fitful, except on the part of ukridge, who continued to talk easily on all subjects, unconscious of the fact that the party was depressed, and at least one of his guests rapidly becoming irritable. i watched the professor furtively as ukridge talked on, and that ominous phrase of mr. chase's concerning four-point-seven guns kept coming into my mind. if ukridge were to tread on any of his pet corns, as he might at any minute, there would be an explosion. the snatching of the dinner from his very mouth, as it were, and the substitution of a bread-and-cheese and sardines menu had brought him to the frame of mind when men turn and rend their nearest and dearest. the sight of the table, when at length we filed into the dining room, sent a chill through me. it was a meal for the very young or the very hungry. the uncompromising coldness and solidity of the viands was enough to appall a man conscious that his digestion needed humoring. a huge cheese faced us in almost a swash-buckling way, and i noticed that the professor shivered slightly as he saw it. sardines, looking more oily and uninviting than anything i had ever seen, appeared in their native tin beyond the loaf of bread. there was a ham, in its third quarter, and a chicken which had suffered heavily during a previous visit to the table. we got through the meal somehow, and did our best to delude ourselves into the idea that it was all great fun, but it was a shallow pretense. the professor was very silent by the time we had finished. ukridge had been terrible. when the professor began a story--his stories would have been the better for a little more briskness and condensation--ukridge interrupted him before he had got halfway through, without a word of apology, and began some anecdote of his own. he disagreed with nearly every opinion he expressed. it is true that he did it all in such a perfectly friendly way, and was obviously so innocent of any intention of giving offense, that another man might have overlooked the matter. but the professor, robbed of his good dinner, was at the stage when he had to attack somebody. every moment i had been expecting the storm to burst. it burst after dinner. we were strolling in the garden when some demon urged ukridge, apropos of the professor's mention of dublin, to start upon the irish question. my heart stood still. ukridge had boomed forth some very positive opinions of his own on the subject of ireland before i could get near enough to him to stop him. when i did, i suppose i must have whispered louder than i had intended, for the professor heard my words, and they acted as the match to the powder. "he's touchy on the irish question, is he?" he thundered. "drop it, is it? and why? why, sir? i'm one of the best-tempered men that ever came from ireland, let me tell you, and i will not stay here to be insulted by the insinuation that i cannot discuss irish affairs as calmly as anyone." "but, professor--" "take your hand off my arm, mr. garnet. i will not be treated like a child. i am as competent to discuss the affairs of ireland without heat as any man, let me tell you." "father--" "and let me tell you, mr. ukridge, that i consider your opinions poisonous. poisonous, sir. and you know nothing whatever about the subject, sir. i don't wish to see you or to speak to you again. understand that, sir. our acquaintance began to-day, and it will cease to-day. good night to you. come, phyllis, me dear. mrs. ukridge, good night." mr. chase, when he spoke of four-point-seven guns, had known what he was talking about. dies irÆ ix why is it, i wonder, that stories of retribution calling at the wrong address strike us as funny instead of pathetic? i myself had been amused by them many a time. in a book which i had just read, a shop woman, being vexed with an omnibus conductor, had thrown a superannuated orange at him. it had found its billet not on him, but on a perfectly inoffensive spectator. the missile, we are told, "'it a young copper full in the hyeball." i had enjoyed this when i read it, but now that fate had arranged a precisely similar situation, with myself in the rôle of the young copper, the fun of the thing appealed to me not at all. it was ukridge who was to blame for the professor's regrettable explosion and departure, and he ought by all laws of justice to have suffered for it. as it was, i was the only person materially affected. it did not matter to ukridge. he did not care twopence one way or the other. if the professor were friendly, he was willing to talk to him by the hour on any subject, pleasant or unpleasant. if, on the other hand, he wished to have nothing more to do with us, it did not worry him. he was content to let him go. ukridge was a self-sufficing person. but to me it was a serious matter. more than serious. if i have done my work as historian with any adequate degree of skill, the reader should have gathered by this time the state of my feelings. my love had grown with the days. mr. j. holt schooling, or somebody else with a taste for juggling with figures, might write a very readable page or so of statistics in connection with the growth of love in the heart of a man. in some cases it is, i believe, slow. in my own i can only say that jack's beanstalk was a backward plant in comparison. it is true that we had not seen a great deal of one another, and that, when we had met, our interviews had been brief and our conversation conventional; but it is the intervals between the meetings that do the real damage. absence, as the poet neatly remarks, makes the heart grow fonder. and now, thanks to ukridge's amazing idiocy, a barrier had been thrust between us. as if the business of fishing for a girl's heart were not sufficiently difficult and delicate without the addition of needless obstacles! it was terrible to have to reëstablish myself in the good graces of the professor before i could so much as begin to dream of phyllis. ukridge gave me no balm. "well, after all," he said, when i pointed out to him quietly but plainly my opinion of his tactlessness, "what does it matter? there are other people in the world besides the old buffer. and we haven't time to waste making friends, as a matter of fact. the farm ought to keep us busy. i've noticed, garny, old boy, that you haven't seemed such a whale for work lately as you might be. you must buckle to, old horse. we are at a critical stage. on our work now depends the success of the speculation. look at those cocks. they're always fighting. fling a stone at them. what's the matter with you? can't get the novel off your chest, what? you take my tip, and give your mind a rest. nothing like manual labor for clearing the brain. all the doctors say so. those coops ought to be painted to-day or to-morrow. mind you, i think old derrick would be all right if one persevered--" "and didn't call him a fat old buffer, and contradict everything he said and spoil all his stories by breaking in with chestnuts of your own in the middle," i interrupted with bitterness. "oh, rot, old boy! he didn't mind being called a fat old buffer. you keep harping on that. a man likes one to be chatty with him. what was the matter with old derrick was a touch of liver. you should have stopped him taking that cheese. i say, old man, just fling another stone at those cocks, will you? they'll eat one another." i had hoped, fearing the while that there was not much chance of such a thing happening, that the professor might get over his feeling of injury during the night, and be as friendly as ever next day. but he was evidently a man who had no objection whatever to letting the sun go down upon his wrath, for, when i met him on the beach the following morning, he cut me in the most uncompromising fashion. phyllis was with him at the time, and also another girl who was, i supposed from the strong likeness between them, her sister. she had the same soft mass of brown hair. but to me she appeared almost commonplace in comparison. it is never pleasant to be cut dead. it produces the same sort of feeling as is experienced when one treads on nothing where one imagined a stair to be. in the present instance the pang was mitigated to a certain extent--not largely--by the fact that phyllis looked at me. she did not move her head, and i could not have declared positively that she moved her eyes; but nevertheless she certainly looked at me. it was something. she seemed to say that duty compelled her to follow her father's lead, and that the act must not be taken as evidence of any personal animus. that, at least, was how i read off the message. two days later i met mr. chase in the village. "halloo! so you're back," i said. "you've discovered my secret," said he. "will you have a cigar or a cocoanut?" there was a pause. "trouble, i hear, while i was away," he said. i nodded. "the man i live with, ukridge, did it. touched on the irish question." "home rule?" "he mentioned it among other things." "and the professor went off?" "like a bomb." "he would. it's a pity." i agreed. i am glad to say that i suppressed the desire to ask him to use his influence, if any, with professor derrick to effect a reconciliation. i felt that i must play the game. "i ought not to be speaking to you, you know," said mr. chase. "you're under arrest." "he's still--" i stopped for a word. "very much so. i'll do what i can." "it's very good of you." "but the time is not yet ripe. he may be said at present to be simmering down." "i see. thanks. good-by." "so long." and mr. chase walked on with long strides to the cob. * * * * * the days passed slowly. i saw nothing more of phyllis or her sister. the professor i met once or twice on the links. i had taken earnestly to golf in this time of stress. golf, it has been said, is the game of disappointed lovers. on the other hand, it has further been pointed out that it does not follow that, because a man is a failure as a lover, he will be any good at all on the links. my game was distinctly poor at first. but a round or two put me back into my proper form, which is fair. the professor's demeanor at these accidental meetings on the links was a faithful reproduction of his attitude on the beach. only by a studied imitation of the absolute stranger did he show that he had observed my presence. once or twice after dinner, when ukridge was smoking one of his special cigars while mrs. ukridge petted edwin (now moving in society once more, and in his right mind), i walked out across the fields through the cool summer night till i came to the hedge that shut off the derricks' grounds. not the hedge through which i had made my first entrance, but another, lower, and nearer the house. standing there under the shade of a tree i could see the lighted windows of the drawing-room. generally there was music inside, and, the windows being opened on account of the warmth of the night, i was able to make myself a little more miserable by hearing phyllis sing. it deepened the feeling of banishment. i shall never forget those furtive visits. the intense stillness of the night, broken by an occasional rustling in the grass or the hedge; the smell of the flowers in the garden beyond; the distant drone of the sea. "god makes sech nights, all white and still, fur'z you can look and listen." another day had generally begun before i moved from my hiding place, and started for home, surprised to find my limbs stiff and my clothes bathed with dew. life seemed a poor institution during these days. i enlist a minion's services x it would be interesting to know to what extent the work of authors is influenced by their private affairs. if life is flowing smoothly for them, are the novels they write in that period of content colored with optimism? and if things are running crosswise, do they work off the resultant gloom on their faithful public? if, for instance, mr. w. w. jacobs had toothache, would he write like mr. hall caine? if maxim gorky were invited to lunch by the czar, would he sit down and dash off a trifle in the vein of mr. dooley? probably great authors have the power of detaching their writing self from their living, workaday self. for my own part, the frame of mind in which i now found myself completely altered the scheme of my novel. i had designed it as a light-comedy effort. here and there a page or two to steady the reader, and show him what i could do in the way of pathos if i cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter. but now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the scheme of it. characters whom i had hitherto looked upon as altogether robust developed fatal illnesses. a magnificent despondency became the keynote of the book. instead of marrying, my hero and heroine had a big scene in the last chapter, at the end of which she informed him that she was already secretly wedded to another, a man with whom she had not even a sporting chance of being happy. i could see myself correcting proofs made pulpy by the tears of emotional printers. it would not do. i felt that i must make a determined effort to shake off my depression. more than ever the need for conciliating the professor was borne in upon me. day and night i spurred my brain to think of some suitable means of engineering a reconciliation. in the meantime i worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on the links, and swam about the harbor when the affairs of the farm did not require my attention. things were not going very well on our model chicken farm. little accidents marred the harmony of life in the fowl run. on one occasion a hen fell into a pot of tar, and came out an unspeakable object. chickens kept straying into the wrong coops, and, in accordance with fowl etiquette, were promptly pecked to death by the resident. edwin murdered a couple of wyandottes, and was only saved from execution by the tears of mrs. ukridge. in spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism never deserted ukridge. they were incidents, annoying, but in no way affecting the prosperity of the farm. "after all," he said, "what's one bird more or less? yes, i know i was angry when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that was more for the principle of the thing. i'm not going to pay large sums for chickens so that a beastly cat can lunch well. still, we've plenty left, and the eggs are coming in better now, though we've a deal of leeway to make up yet in that line. i got a letter from whiteley's this morning asking when my first consignment was to arrive. you know, these people make a mistake in hurrying a man. it annoys him. it irritates him. when we really get going, garny, my boy, i shall drop whiteley's. i shall cut them out of my list, and send my eggs to their trade rivals. they shall have a sharp lesson. it's a little hard. here am i, worked to death looking after things down here, and these men have the impertinence to bother me about their wretched business!" [illustration: things were not going very well on our model chicken farm.] it was on the morning after this that i heard him calling me in a voice in which i detected agitation. i was strolling about the paddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about phyllis and my wretched novel. i had just framed a more than usually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, when ukridge shouted to me from the fowl run. "garnet, come here," he cried, "i want you to see the most astounding thing." i joined him. "what's the matter?" i asked. "blest if i know. look at those chickens. they've been doing that for the last half hour." i inspected the chickens. there was certainly something the matter with them. they were yawning broadly, as if we bored them. they stood about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. it was an uncanny spectacle. "what's the matter with them?" "it looks to me," i said, "as if they were tired of life. they seem hipped." "oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop," said mrs. ukridge sympathetically, "i'm sure it's not well. see, it's lying down. what _can_ be the matter with it?" "can a chicken get a fit of the blues?" i asked. "because, if so, that's what they've got. i never saw a more bored-looking lot of birds." "i'll tell you what we'll do," said ukridge. "we'll ask beale. he once lived with an aunt who kept fowls. he'll know all about it. beale!" no answer. "_beale_!!" a sturdy form in shirt sleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a boot. we seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it. "beale, you know about fowls. what's the matter with these chickens?" the hired retainer examined the _blasé_ birds with a wooden expression on his face. "well?" said ukridge. "the 'ole thing 'ere," said the hired retainer, "is these 'ere fowls have bin and got the roop." i had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded quite horrifying. "is that what makes them yawn like that?" said mrs. ukridge. "yes, ma'am." "poor things!" "yes, ma'am." "and have they all got it?" "yes, ma'am." "what ought we to do?" asked ukridge. the hired retainer perpended. "well, my aunt, sir, when 'er fowls 'ad the roop, she give them snuff. give them snuff, she did," he repeated with relish, "every morning." "snuff!" said mrs. ukridge. "yes, ma'am. she give them snuff till their eyes bubbled." mrs. ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word painting. "and did it cure them?" asked ukridge. "no, sir," responded the expert soothingly. "they died." "oh, go away, beale, and clean your beastly boots," said ukridge. "you're no use. wait a minute. who would know about this infernal roop thing? one of those farmer chaps would, i suppose. beale, go off to farmer leigh at up lyme, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he does when his fowls get the roop." "yes, sir." "no, i'll go, ukridge," i said, "i want some exercise." i whistled to bob, who was investigating a mole heap in the paddock, and set off to consult farmer leigh. he had sold us some fowls shortly after our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in their ailing families. the path to up lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. at intervals it passes over a stream by means of foot bridges. the stream curls through the meadows like a snake. and at the first of these bridges i met phyllis. i came upon her quite suddenly. the other end of the bridge was hidden from my view. i could hear somebody coming through the grass, but not till i was on the bridge did i see who it was. we reached the bridge simultaneously. she was alone. she carried a sketching block. all nice girls sketch a little. there was room for one alone on the foot bridge, and i drew back to let her pass. as it is the privilege of woman to make the first sign of recognition, i said nothing. i merely lifted my hat in a noncommitting fashion. "are you going to cut me, i wonder?" i said to myself. she answered the unspoken question as i hoped it would be answered. "mr. garnet," she said, stopping at the end of the bridge. "miss derrick?" "i couldn't tell you so before, but i am so sorry this has happened." "you are very kind," i said, realizing as i said it the miserable inadequacy of the english language. at a crisis when i would have given a month's income to have said something neat, epigrammatic, suggestive, yet withal courteous and respectful, i could only find a hackneyed, unenthusiastic phrase which i should have used in accepting an invitation from a bore to lunch with him at his club. "of course you understand my friends must be my father's friends." "yes," i said gloomily, "i suppose so." "so you must not think me rude if i--i--" "cut me," said i with masculine coarseness. "don't seem to see you," said she, with feminine delicacy, "when i am with my father. you will understand?" "i shall understand." "you see"--she smiled--"you are under arrest, as tom says." tom! "i see," i said. "good-by." "good-by." i watched her out of sight, and went on to interview mr. leigh. we had a long and intensely uninteresting conversation about the maladies to which chickens are subject. he was verbose and reminiscent. he took me over his farm, pointing out as he went dorkings and cochin chinas which he had cured of diseases generally fatal, with, as far as i could gather, christian science principles. i left at last with instructions to paint the throats of the stricken birds with turpentine--a task imagination boggled at, and one which i proposed to leave exclusively to ukridge and the hired retainer. as i had a slight headache, a visit to the cob would, i thought, do me good. i had missed my bath that morning, and was in need of a breath of sea air. it was high tide, and there was deep water on three sides of the cob. in a small boat in the offing professor derrick appeared, fishing. i had seen him engaged in this pursuit once or twice before. his only companion was a gigantic boatman, by name harry hawk. i sat on the seat at the end of the cob, and watched the professor. it was an instructive sight, an object lesson to those who hold that optimism has died out of the race. i had never seen him catch a fish. he did not look to me as if he were at all likely to catch a fish. yet he persevered. there are few things more restful than to watch some one else busy under a warm sun. as i sat there, my mind ranged idly over large subjects and small. i thought of love and chicken farming. i mused on the immortality of the soul. in the end i always returned to the professor. sitting, as i did, with my back to the beach, i could see nothing but his boat. it had the ocean to itself. i began to ponder over the professor. i wondered dreamily if he were very hot. i tried to picture his boyhood. i speculated on his future, and the pleasure he extracted from life. it was only when i heard him call out to hawk to be careful, when a movement on the part of that oarsman set the boat rocking, that i began to weave romances round him in which i myself figured. but, once started, i progressed rapidly. i imagined a sudden upset. professor struggling in water. myself (heroically): "courage! i'm coming!" a few rapid strokes. saved! sequel: a subdued professor, dripping salt water and tears of gratitude, urging me to become his son-in-law. that sort of thing happened in fiction. it was a shame that it should not happen in real life. in my hot youth i once had seven stories in seven weekly penny papers in the same month all dealing with a situation of the kind. only the details differed. in "not really a coward," vincent devereux had rescued the earl's daughter from a fire, whereas in "hilda's hero" it was the peppery old father whom tom slingsby saved. singularly enough, from drowning. in other words, i, a very mediocre scribbler, had effected seven times in a single month what the powers of the universe could not manage once, even on the smallest scale. i was a little annoyed with the powers of the universe. * * * * * it was at precisely three minutes to twelve--for i had just consulted my watch--that the great idea surged into my brain. at four minutes to twelve i had been grumbling impotently at providence. by two minutes to twelve i had determined upon a manly and independent course of action. briefly, it was this. since dramatic accident and rescue would not happen of its own accord, i would arrange one for myself. hawk looked to me the sort of man who would do anything in a friendly way for a few shillings. * * * * * that afternoon i interviewed mr. hawk at the net and mackerel. "hawk," i said to him darkly, over a mystic and conspirator-like pot, "i want you, the next time you take professor derrick out fishing"--here i glanced round, to make sure that we were not overheard--"to upset him." his astonished face rose slowly from the rim of the pot, like a full moon. "what 'ud i do that for?" he gasped. "five shillings, i hope," said i; "but i am prepared to go to ten." he gurgled. i argued with the man. i was eloquent, but at the same time concise. my choice of words was superb. i crystallized my ideas into pithy sentences which a child could have understood. at the end of half an hour he had grasped all the salient points of the scheme. also he imagined that i wished the professor upset by way of a practical joke. he gave me to understand that this was the type of humor which was to be expected from a gentleman from london. i am afraid he must at one period of his career have lived at one of those watering places to which trippers congregate. he did not seem to think highly of the londoner. i let it rest at that. i could not give my true reason, and this served as well as any. at the last moment he recollected that he, too, would get wet when the accident took place, and raised his price to a sovereign. a mercenary man. it is painful to see how rapidly the old simple spirit is dying out in rural districts. twenty years ago a fisherman would have been charmed to do a little job like that for a shilling. the brave preserver xi i could have wished, during the next few days, that mr. harry hawk's attitude toward myself had not been so unctuously confidential and mysterious. it was unnecessary, in my opinion, for him to grin meaningly whenever he met me in the street. his sly wink when we passed each other on the cob struck me as in indifferent taste. the thing had been definitely arranged (half down and half when it was over), and there was no need for any cloak and dark-lantern effects. i objected strongly to being treated as the villain of a melodrama. i was merely an ordinary well-meaning man, forced by circumstances into doing the work of providence. mr. hawk's demeanor seemed to say: "we are two reckless scoundrels, but bless you, _i_ won't give away your guilty secret." the climax came one morning as i was going along the street toward the beach. i was passing a dark doorway, when out shimmered mr. hawk as if he had been a specter instead of the most substantial man within a radius of ten miles. "st!" he whispered. "now look here, hawk," i said wrathfully, for the start he had given me had made me bite my tongue, "this has got to stop. i refuse to be haunted in this way. what is it now?" "mr. derrick goes out this morning, zur." "thank goodness for that," i said. "get it over this morning, then, without fail. i couldn't stand another day of this." i went on to the cob, where i sat down. i was excited. deeds of great import must shortly be done. i felt a little nervous. it would never do to bungle the thing. suppose by some accident i were to drown the professor, or suppose that, after all, he contented himself with a mere formal expression of thanks and refused to let bygones be bygones. these things did not bear thinking of. i got up and began to pace restlessly to and fro. presently from the farther end of the harbor there put off mr. hawk's boat, bearing its precious cargo. my mouth became dry with excitement. very slowly mr. hawk pulled round the end of the cob, coming to a standstill some dozen yards from where i was performing my beat. it was evidently here that the scene of the gallant rescue had been fixed. my eyes were glued upon mr. hawk's broad back. the boat lay almost motionless on the water. i had never seen the sea smoother. it seemed as if this perfect calm might continue for ever. mr. hawk made no movement. then suddenly the whole scene changed to one of vast activity. i heard mr. hawk utter a hoarse cry, and saw him plunge violently in his seat. the professor turned half round, and i caught sight of his indignant face, pink with emotion. then the scene changed again with the rapidity of a dissolving view. i saw mr. hawk give another plunge, and the next moment the boat was upside down in the water, and i was shooting head foremost to the bottom, oppressed with the indescribably clammy sensation which comes when one's clothes are thoroughly wet. i rose to the surface close to the upturned boat. the first sight i saw was the spluttering face of mr. hawk. i ignored him and swam to where the professor's head bobbed on the waters. "keep cool," i said. a silly remark in the circumstances. he was swimming energetically but unskillfully. in his shore clothes it would have taken him at least a week to struggle to land. i knew all about saving people from drowning. we used to practice it with a dummy in the swimming bath at school. i attacked him from the rear and got a good grip of him by the shoulders. i then swam on my back in the direction of land, and beached him at the feet of an admiring crowd. i had thought of putting him under once or twice just to show him he was being rescued, but decided against such a course as needlessly realistic. as it was, i fancy he had swallowed two or three hearty draughts of sea water. the crowd was enthusiastic. "brave young feller," said somebody. i blushed. this was fame. "jumped in, he did, sure enough, an' saved the gentleman!" "be the old soul drownded?" "that girt fule, 'arry 'awk!" i was sorry for mr. hawk. popular opinion, in which the professor wrathfully joined, was against him. i could not help thinking that my fellow-conspirator did well to keep out of it all. he was now sitting in the boat, which he had restored to its normal position, baling pensively with an old tin can. to satire from the shore he paid no attention. the professor stood up and stretched out his hand to me. i grasped it. "mr. garnet," he said, for all the world as if he had been the father of the heroine of "hilda's hero," "we parted recently in anger. let me thank you for your gallant conduct, and hope that bygones will be bygones." [illustration: "mr. garnet," he said, "we parted recently in anger. i hope that bygones will be bygones."] like mr. samuel weller, i liked his conversation much. it was "werry pretty." i came out strong. i continued to hold his hand. the crowd raised a sympathetic cheer. i said: "professor, the fault was mine. show that you have forgiven me by coming up to the farm and putting on something dry." "an excellent idea, me boy. i _am_ a little wet." we walked briskly up the hill to the farm. ukridge met us at the gate. he diagnosed the situation rapidly. "you're all wet," he said. i admitted it. "professor derrick has had an unfortunate boating accident," i explained. "and mr. garnet heroically dived in, in all his clothes, and saved me life," broke in the professor. "a hero, sir. _a-choo!_" "you're catching cold, old horse," said ukridge, all friendliness and concern, his little differences with the professor having vanished like thawed snow. "this'll never do. come upstairs and get into something of garnet's. my own toggery wouldn't fit, what? come along, come along. i'll get you some hot water. mrs. beale--mrs. _beale_! we want a large can of hot water. at once. what? yes, immediately. what? very well, then, as soon as you can. now, then, garny, my boy, out with the duds. what do you think of this, now, professor? a sweetly pretty thing in gray flannel. here's a shirt. get out of that wet toggery, and mrs. beale shall dry it. don't attempt to tell me about it till you've changed. socks? socks forward. show socks. here you are. coat? try this blazer. that's right. that's right." he bustled about till the professor was clothed, then marched him downstairs and gave him a cigar. "now, what's all this? what happened?" the professor explained. he was severe in his narration upon the unlucky mr. hawk. "i was fishing, mr. ukridge, with me back turned, when i felt the boat rock violently from one side to the other to such an extent that i nearly lost me equilibrium. and then the boat upset. the man's a fool, sir. i could not see what had happened, my back being turned, as i say." "garnet must have seen. what happened, marmaduke?" i tried to smooth things over for mr. hawk. "it was very sudden," i said. "it seemed to me as if the man had got an attack of cramp. that would account for it. he has the reputation of being a most sober and trustworthy fellow." "never trust that sort of man," said ukridge. "they are always the worst. it's plain to me that this man was beastly drunk, and upset the boat while trying to do a dance." the professor was in the best of tempers, and i worked strenuously to keep him so. my scheme had been so successful that its iniquity did not worry me. i have noticed that this is usually the case in matters of this kind. it is the bungled crime that brings remorse. "we must go round the links together one of these days, mr. garnet," said the professor. "i have noticed you there on several occasions, playing a strong game. i have lately taken to using a schenectady putter. it is wonderful what a difference it makes." golf is a great bond of union. we wandered about the grounds discussing the game, the _entente cordiale_ growing more firmly established every moment. "we must certainly arrange a meeting," concluded the professor. "i shall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another. i have improved my game considerably since i have been down here--considerably." "my only feat worthy of mention since i started the game," i said, "has been to halve a round with angus mclurkin at st. andrew's." "_the_ mclurkin?" asked the professor, impressed. "yes. but it was one of his very off days, i fancy. he must have had gout, or something. and i have certainly never played so well since." "still--" said the professor. "yes, we must really arrange to meet." with ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he became very friendly. ukridge's ready agreement with his strictures on the erring hawk had a great deal to do with this. when a man has a grievance he feels drawn to those who will hear him patiently and sympathize. ukridge was all sympathy. "the man is an unprincipled scoundrel," he said, "and should be torn limb from limb. take my advice, cholmondeley, and don't go out with him again. show him that you are not a man to be trifled with. the spilled child dreads the water, what? human life isn't safe with such men as hawk roaming about." "you are perfectly right, sir. the man can have no defense. i shall not employ him again." i felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on the subject of the man whom i had lured from the straight and narrow path. but my attempts at excusing him were ill received. indeed, the professor showed such distinct signs of becoming heated that i abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fate with extreme promptness. after all, an addition to the stipulated reward--one of these days--would compensate him for any loss which he might sustain from the withdrawal of the professor's custom. mr. harry hawk was in good enough case. i would see that he did not suffer. filled with these philanthropic feelings, i turned once more to talk with the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done in three without a brassy. we were a merry party at lunch--a lunch, fortunately, in mrs. beale's best vein, consisting of a roast chicken and sweets. chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on our daily bill of fare. we saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and i turned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than i had known for a long time. i whistled rag-time airs as i worked. "rum old buffer," said ukridge meditatively. "my goodness, i should have liked to see him in the water. why do i miss these good things?" some emotions xii the fame which came to me through that gallant rescue was a little embarrassing. i was a marked man. did i walk through the village, heads emerged from windows, and eyes followed me out of sight. did i sit on the beach, groups formed behind me and watched in silent admiration. i was the man of the moment. "if we'd wanted an advertisement for the farm," said ukridge on one of these occasions, "we couldn't have had a better one than you, garny, my boy. you have brought us three distinct orders for eggs during the last week. and i'll tell you what it is, we need all the orders we can get that'll bring us in ready money. the farm is in a critical condition, marmaduke. the coffers are low, decidedly low. and i'll tell you another thing. i'm getting precious tired of living on nothing but chicken and eggs. so's millie, though she doesn't say so." "so am i," i said, "and i don't feel like imitating your wife's proud reserve. i never want to see a chicken again except alive." for the last week monotony had been the keynote of our commissariat. we had cold chicken and eggs for breakfast, boiled chicken and eggs for lunch, and roast chicken and eggs for dinner. meals became a nuisance, and mrs. beale complained bitterly that we did not give her a chance. she was a cook who would have graced an alderman's house, and served up noble dinners for gourmets, and here she was in this remote corner of the world ringing the changes on boiled chicken and roast chicken and boiled eggs and poached eggs. mr. whistler, set to paint signboards for public houses, might have felt the same restless discontent. as for her husband, the hired retainer, he took life as tranquilly as ever, and seemed to regard the whole thing as the most exhilarating farce he had ever been in. i think he looked on ukridge as an amiable lunatic, and was content to rough it a little in order to enjoy the privilege of observing his movements. he made no complaints of the food. when a man has supported life for a number of years on incessant army beef, the monotony of daily chicken and eggs scarcely strikes him. "the fact is," said ukridge, "these tradesmen round here seem to be a sordid, suspicious lot. they clamor for money." he mentioned a few examples. vickers, the butcher, had been the first to strike, with the remark that he would like to see the color of mr. ukridge's money before supplying further joints. dawlish, the grocer, had expressed almost exactly similar sentiments two days later, and the ranks of these passive resisters had been receiving fresh recruits ever since. to a man the tradesmen of lyme regis seemed as deficient in simple faith as they were in norman blood. "can't you pay some of them a little on account?" i suggested. "it would set them going again." "my dear old man," said ukridge impressively, "we need every penny of ready money we can raise for the farm. the place simply eats money. that infernal roop let us in for i don't know what." that insidious epidemic had indeed proved costly. we had painted the throats of the chickens with the best turpentine--at least, ukridge and beale had--but in spite of their efforts dozens had died, and we had been obliged to sink much more money than was pleasant in restocking the run. "no," said ukridge, summing up, "these men must wait. we can't help their troubles. why, good gracious, it isn't as if they'd been waiting for the money long. we've not been down here much over a month. i never heard such a scandalous thing. 'pon my word, i've a good mind to go round and have a straight talk with one or two of them. i come and settle down here, and stimulate trade, and give them large orders, and they worry me with bills when they know i'm up to my eyes in work, looking after the fowls. one can't attend to everything. this business is just now at its most crucial point. it would be fatal to pay any attention to anything else with things as they are. these scoundrels will get paid all in good time." it is a peculiarity of situations of this kind that the ideas of debtor and creditor as to what constitutes good time never coincide. i am afraid that, despite the urgent need for strict attention to business, i was inclined to neglect my duties about this time. i had got into the habit of wandering off, either to the links, where i generally found the professor and sometimes phyllis, or on long walks by myself. there was one particular walk, along the ware cliff, through some of the most beautiful scenery i have ever set eyes on, which more than any other suited my mood. i would work my way through the woods till i came to a small clearing on the very edge of the cliff. there i would sit by the hour. somehow i found that my ideas flowed more readily in that spot than in any other. my novel was taking shape. it was to be called, by the way, if it ever won through to the goal of a title, "the brown-haired girl." i had not been inside the professor's grounds since the occasion when i had gone in through the boxwood hedge. but on the afternoon following my financial conversation with ukridge i made my way thither after a toilet which, from its length, should have produced better results than it did. not for four whole days had i caught so much as a glimpse of phyllis. i had been to the links three times, and had met the professor twice, but on both occasions she had been absent. i had not had the courage to ask after her. i had an absurd idea that my voice or my manner would betray me in some way. the professor was not at home. nor was mr. chase. nor was miss norah derrick, the lady i had met on the beach with the professor. miss phyllis, said the maid, was in the garden. i went into the garden. she was sitting under the cedar by the tennis lawn, reading. she looked up as i approached. to walk any distance under observation is one of the most trying things i know. i advanced in bad order, hoping that my hands did not really look as big as they felt. the same remark applied to my feet. in emergencies of this kind a diffident man could very well dispense with extremities. i should have liked to be wheeled up in a bath chair. i said it was a lovely afternoon; after which there was a lull in the conversation. i was filled with a horrid fear that i was boring her. i had probably arrived at the very moment when she was most interested in her book. she must, i thought, even now be regarding me as a nuisance, and was probably rehearsing bitter things to say to the servant for not having had the sense to explain that she was out. "i--er--called in the hope of seeing professor derrick," i said. "you would find him on the links," she replied. it seemed to me that she spoke wistfully. "oh, it--it doesn't matter," i said. "it wasn't anything important." this was true. if the professor had appeared then and there, i should have found it difficult to think of anything to say to him which would have accounted for my anxiety to see him. we paused again. "how are the chickens, mr. garnet?" said she. the situation was saved. conversationally, i am like a clockwork toy. i have to be set going. on the affairs of the farm i could speak fluently. i sketched for her the progress we had made since her visit. i was humorous concerning roop, epigrammatic on the subject of the hired retainer and edwin. "then the cat did come down from the chimney?" said phyllis. we both laughed, and--i can answer for myself--felt the better for it. "he came down next day," i said, "and made an excellent lunch off one of our best fowls. he also killed another, and only just escaped death himself at the hands of ukridge." "mr. ukridge doesn't like him, does he?" "if he does, he dissembles his love. edwin is mrs. ukridge's pet. he is the only subject on which they disagree. edwin is certainly in the way on a chicken farm. he has got over his fear of bob, and is now perfectly lawless. we have to keep a constant eye on him." "and have you had any success with the incubator? i love incubators. i have always wanted to have one of my own, but we have never kept fowls." "the incubator has not done all that it should have done," i said. "ukridge looks after it, and i fancy his methods are not the right methods. i don't know if i have got the figures absolutely correct, but ukridge reasons on these lines. he says you are supposed to keep the temperature up to a hundred and five degrees. i think he said a hundred and five. then the eggs are supposed to hatch out in a week or so. he argues that you may just as well keep the temperature at seventy-two, and wait a fortnight for your chickens. i am certain there's a fallacy in the system somewhere, because we never seem to get as far as the chickens. but ukridge says his theory is mathematically sound and he sticks to it." "are you quite sure that the way you are doing it is the best way to manage a chicken farm?" "i should very much doubt it. i am a child in these matters. i had only seen a chicken in its wild state once or twice before we came down here. i had never dreamed of being an active assistant on a real farm. the whole thing began like mr. george ade's fable of the author. an author--myself--was sitting at his desk trying to turn out something that could be converted into breakfast food, when a friend came in and sat down on the table and told him to go right on and not mind him." "did mr. ukridge do that?" "very nearly that. he called at my rooms one beautiful morning when i was feeling desperately tired of london and overworked and dying for a holiday, and suggested that i should come to lyme regis with him and help him farm chickens. i have not regretted it." "it is a lovely place, isn't it?" "the loveliest i have ever seen. how charming your garden is." "shall we go and look at it? you have not seen the whole of it." as she rose i saw her book, which she had laid face downward on the grass beside her. it was that same much-enduring copy of "the maneuvers of arthur." i was thrilled. this patient perseverance must surely mean something. she saw me looking at it. "did you draw pamela from anybody?" she asked suddenly. i was glad now that i had not done so. the wretched pamela, once my pride, was for some reason unpopular with the only critic about whose opinion i cared, and had fallen accordingly from her pedestal. as we wandered down the gravel paths she gave me her opinion of the book. in the main it was appreciative. i shall always associate the scent of yellow lubin with the higher criticism. "of course i don't know anything about writing books," she said. "yes?" my tone implied, or i hoped it did, that she was an expert on books, and that if she was not it didn't matter. "but i don't think you do your heroines well. i have got 'the outsider'--" (my other novel. bastable & kirby, six shillings. satirical. all about society, of which i know less than i know about chicken farming. slated by _times_ and _spectator_. well received by the _pelican_.) "--and," continued phyllis, "lady maud is exactly the same as pamela in 'the maneuvers of arthur.' i thought you must have drawn both characters from some one you knew." "no," i said; "no." "i am so glad," said phyllis. and then neither of us seemed to have anything to say. my knees began to tremble. i realized that the moment had arrived when my fate must be put to the touch, and i feared that the moment was premature. we cannot arrange these things to suit ourselves. i knew that the time was not yet ripe, but the magic scent of the yellow lubin was too much for me. "miss derrick--" i said hoarsely. phyllis was looking with more intentness than the attractions of the flower justified at a rose she held in her hand. the bees hummed in the lubin. "miss derrick--" i said, and stopped again. "i say, you people," said a cheerful voice, "tea is ready. halloo, garnet, how are you? that medal arrived yet from the humane society?" i spun round. mr. tom chase was standing at the end of the path. i grinned a sickly grin. "well, tom," said phyllis. and there was, i thought, just the faintest trace of annoyance in her voice. "i've been bathing," said mr. chase. "oh," i replied. "and i wish," i added, "that you'd drowned yourself." but i added it silently to myself. tea and tennis xiii "met the professor's late boatman on the cob," said mr. chase, dissecting a chocolate cake. "clumsy man," said phyllis, "i hope he was ashamed of himself. i shall never forgive him for trying to drown papa." my heart bled for mr. henry hawk, that modern martyr. "when i met him," said tom chase, "he looked as if he had been trying to drown his sorrow as well." "i knew he drank," said phyllis severely, "the very first time i saw him." "you might have warned the professor," murmured mr. chase. "he couldn't have upset the boat if he had been sober." "you never know. he may have done it on purpose." "how absurd!" "rather rough on the man, aren't you?" i said. "merely a suggestion," continued mr. chase airily. "i've been reading sensational novels lately, and it seems to me that hawk's cut out to be a minion. probably some secret foe of the professor's bribed him." my heart stood still. did he know, i wondered, and was this all a roundabout way of telling me that he knew? "the professor may be a member of an anarchist league, or something, and this is his punishment for refusing to assassinate the kaiser." "have another cup of tea, tom, and stop talking nonsense." mr. chase handed in his cup. "what gave me the idea that the upset was done on purpose was this. i saw the whole thing from the ware cliff. the spill looked to me just like dozens i had seen at malta." "why do they upset themselves on purpose at malta particularly?" inquired phyllis. "listen carefully, my dear, and you'll know more about the ways of the navy that guards your coasts than you did before. when men are allowed on shore at malta, the owner has a fancy to see them snugly on board again at a certain reasonable hour. after that hour any maltese policeman who brings them aboard gets one sovereign, cash. but he has to do all the bringing part of it on his own. consequence is, you see boats rowing out to the ship, carrying men who have overstayed their leave; and, when they get near enough, the able-bodied gentleman in custody jumps to his feet, upsets the boat, and swims to the gangway. the policemen, if they aren't drowned--they sometimes are--race him, and whichever gets there first wins. if it's the policeman, he gets his sovereign. if it's the sailor, he is considered to have arrived not in a state of custody, and gets off easier. what a judicious remark that was of the governor of north carolina to the governor of south carolina! just one more cup, please, phyllis." "but how does all that apply?" i asked, dry-mouthed. "why, hawk upset the professor just as those maltese were upset. there's a patent way of doing it. furthermore, by judicious questioning, i found that hawk was once in the navy, and stationed at malta. _now_, who's going to drag in sherlock holmes?" "you don't really think--" i said, feeling like a criminal in the dock when the case is going against him. "i think friend hawk has been reënacting the joys of his vanished youth, so to speak." "he ought to be prosecuted," said phyllis, blazing with indignation. alas, poor hawk! "nobody's safe with a man of that sort hiring out a boat." oh, miserable hawk! "but why on earth," i asked, as calmly as possible, "should he play a trick like that on professor derrick, chase?" "pure animal spirits, probably. or he may, as i say, be a minion." i was hot all over. "i shall tell father that," said phyllis in her most decided voice, "and see what he says. i don't wonder at the man taking to drink after doing such a thing." "i--i think you're making a mistake," i said. "i never make mistakes," mr. chase replied. "i am called archibald the all right, for i am infallible. i propose to keep a reflective eye upon the jovial hawk." he helped himself to another section of the chocolate cake. "haven't you finished yet, tom?" inquired phyllis. "i'm sure mr. garnet's getting tired of sitting talking here." i shot out a polite negative. mr. chase explained with his mouth full that he had by no means finished. chocolate cake, it appeared, was the dream of his life. when at sea he was accustomed to lie awake o' nights thinking of it. "you don't seem to realize," he said, "that i have just come from a cruise on a torpedo boat. there was such a sea on, as a rule, that cooking operations were entirely suspended, and we lived on ham and sardines--without bread." "how horrible!" "on the other hand," added mr. chase philosophically, "it didn't matter much, because we were all ill most of the time." "don't be nasty, tom." "i was merely defending myself. i hope mr. hawk will be able to do as well when his turn comes. my aim, my dear phyllis, is to show you in a series of impressionist pictures the sort of thing i have to go through when i'm not here. then perhaps you won't rend me so savagely over a matter of five minutes' lateness for breakfast." "five minutes! it was three quarters of an hour, and everything was simply frozen." "quite right, too, in weather like this. you're a slave to convention, phyllis. you think breakfast ought to be hot, so you always have it hot. on occasion i prefer mine cold. mine is the truer wisdom. i have scoffed the better part, as the good kipling has it. you can give the cook my compliments, phyllis, and tell her--gently, for i don't wish the glad news to overwhelm her--that i enjoyed that cake. say that i shall be glad to hear from her again. care for a game of tennis, garnet?" "what a pity norah isn't here," said phyllis. "we could have had a four." "but she is at present wasting her sweetness on the desert air of yeovil. you had better sit out and watch us, phyllis. tennis in this sort of weather is no job for the delicately nurtured feminine. i will explain the finer points of my play as we go on. look out particularly for the doherty back-handed slosh. a winning stroke every time." we proceeded to the tennis court. i played with the sun in my eyes. i might, if i chose, emphasize that fact, and attribute my subsequent rout to it, adding, by way of solidifying the excuse, that i was playing in a strange court with a borrowed racket, and that my mind was preoccupied--firstly, with _l'affaire_ hawk; secondly, and chiefly, with the gloomy thought that phyllis and my opponent seemed to be on fiendishly good terms with each other. their manner at tea had been almost that of an engaged couple. there was a thorough understanding between them. i will not, however, take refuge behind excuses. i admit, without qualifying the statement, that mr. chase was too good for me. i had always been under the impression that lieutenants in the royal navy were not brilliant at tennis. i had met them at various houses, but they had never shone conspicuously. they had played an earnest, unobtrusive game, and generally seemed glad when it was over. mr. chase was not of this sort. his service was bottled lightning. his returns behaved like jumping crackers. he won the first game in precisely four strokes. he served. i know now how soldiers feel under fire. the balls whistled at me like live things. only once did i take the service with the full face of the racket, and then i seemed to be stopping a bullet. i returned it into the net. "game," said mr. chase. i felt a worm, and no man. phyllis, i thought, would probably judge my entire character from this exhibition. a man, she would reflect, who could be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not be good for much in any department of life. she would compare me instructively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliance with my own inefficiency. somehow, the massacre was beginning to have a bad effect on my character. my self-respect was ebbing. a little more of this, and i should become crushed--a mere human jelly. it was my turn to serve. service is my strong point at tennis. i am inaccurate but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayable shot. one or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and i might be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect. i opened with two faults. the sight of phyllis, sitting calm and cool in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me. i served another fault. and yet another. "here, i say, garnet," observed mr. chase plaintively, "do put me out of this hideous suspense. i'm becoming a mere bundle of quivering ganglions." i loath facetiousness in moments of stress. i frowned austerely, made no reply, and served another fault, my fifth. matters had reached a crisis. even if i had to lob it under hand, i must send the ball over the net with this next stroke. i restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigor which had marked my previous efforts. the ball flew in a slow semicircle, and pitched inside the correct court. at least, i told myself, i had not served a fault. what happened then i cannot exactly say. i saw my opponent spring forward like a panther and whirl his racket. the next moment the back net was shaking violently and the ball was rolling swiftly along the ground on a return journey to the other court. "love--forty," said mr. chase. "phyllis!" "yes?" "that was the doherty slosh." "i thought it must be," said phyllis. the game ended with another brace of faults. in the third game i managed to score fifteen. by the merest chance i returned one of his red-hot serves, and--probably through surprise--he failed to send it back again. in the fourth and fifth games i omitted to score. we began the sixth game. and now for some reason i played really well. i struck a little vein of brilliance. i was serving, and this time a proportion of my serves went over the net instead of trying to get through. the score went from fifteen all to forty-fifteen. hope began to surge through my veins. if i could keep this up, i might win yet. the doherty slosh diminished my lead by fifteen. the renshaw slam brought the score to deuce. then i got in a really fine serve, which beat him. 'vantage in. another slosh. deuce. another slam. 'vantage out. it was an awesome moment. there is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood--i served. fault. i served again--a beauty. he returned it like a flash into the corner of the court. with a supreme effort i got to it. we rallied. i was playing like a professor. then whizz! the doherty slosh had beaten me on the post. "game _and_--" said mr. chase, twirling his racket into the air and catching it by the handle. "good game that last one." i turned to see what phyllis thought of it. at the eleventh hour i had shown her of what stuff i was made. she had disappeared. "looking for miss derrick?" said chase, jumping the net, and joining me in my court; "she's gone into the house." "when did she go?" "at the end of the fifth game," said chase. "gone to dress for dinner, i suppose," he continued. "it must be getting late. i think i ought to be going, too, if you don't mind. the professor gets a little restive if i keep him waiting for his daily bread. great scott, that watch can't be right! what do you make it? yes, so do i. i really think i must run. you won't mind? good night, then. see you to-morrow, i hope." i walked slowly out across the fields. that same star, in which i had confided on a former occasion, was at its post. it looked placid and cheerful. _it_ never got beaten by six games to love under the eyes of its particular lady star. _it_ was never cut out ignominiously by infernally capable lieutenants in his majesty's navy. no wonder it was cheerful. it must be pleasant to be a star. a council of war xiv "the fact is," said ukridge, "if things go on as they are now, old horse, we shall be in the cart. this business wants bucking up. we don't seem to be making headway. what we want is time. if only these scoundrels of tradesmen would leave us alone for a spell, we might get things going properly. but we're hampered and worried and rattled all the time. aren't we, millie?" "yes, dear." "you don't let me see the financial side of the thing," i said, "except at intervals. i didn't know we were in such a bad way. the fowls look fit enough, and edwin hasn't had one for a week." "edwin knows as well as possible when he's done wrong, mr. garnet," said mrs. ukridge. "he was so sorry after he had killed those other two." "yes," said ukridge. "i saw to that." "as far as i can see," i continued, "we're going strong. chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, but look at the business we're doing. we sold a whole heap of eggs last week." "it's not enough, garny, my boy. we sell a dozen eggs where we ought to be selling a hundred, carting them off in trucks for the london market. harrod's and whiteley's and the rest of them are beginning to get on their hind legs, and talk. that's what they're doing. you see, marmaduke, there's no denying it--we _did_ touch them for a lot of things on account, and they agreed to take it out in eggs. they seem to be getting tired of waiting." "their last letter was quite pathetic," said mrs. ukridge. i had a vision of an eggless london. i seemed to see homes rendered desolate and lives embittered by the slump, and millionaires bidding against one another for the few specimens ukridge had actually managed to dispatch to brompton and bayswater. "i told them in my last letter but three," continued ukridge complainingly, "that i proposed to let them have the eggs on the _times_ installment system, and they said i was frivolous. they said that to send thirteen eggs as payment for goods supplied to the value of twenty-five pounds one shilling and sixpence was mere trifling. trifling! when those thirteen eggs were absolutely all we had over that week after mrs. beale had taken what she wanted for the kitchen. i tell you what it is, old boy, that woman literally eats eggs." "the habit is not confined to her," i said. "what i mean to say is, she seems to bathe in them." an impressive picture to one who knew mrs. beale. "she says she needs so many for puddings, dear," said mrs. ukridge. "i spoke to her about it yesterday. and, of course, we often have omelets." "she can't make omelets without breakings eggs," i urged. "she can't make them without breaking us," said ukridge. "one or two more omelets and we're done for. another thing," he continued, "that incubator thing won't work. _i_ don't know what's wrong with it." "perhaps it's your dodge of letting down the temperature." i had touched upon a tender point. "my dear fellow," he said earnestly, "there's nothing the matter with my figures. it's a mathematical certainty. what's the good of mathematics if not to help you work out that sort of thing? no, there's something wrong with the machine itself, and i shall probably make a complaint to the people i got it from. where did we get the incubator, millie?" "harrod's, i think, dear. yes, it was harrod's. it came down with the first lot of things from there." "then," said ukridge, banging the table with his fist, while his glasses flashed triumph, "we've got 'em! write and answer that letter of theirs to-night, millie. sit on them." "yes, dear." "and tell 'em that we'd have sent 'em their confounded eggs weeks ago if only their rotten, twopenny-ha'penny incubator had worked with any approach to decency." "or words to that effect," i suggested. "add in a postscript that i consider that the manufacturer of the thing ought to rent a padded cell at earlswood, and that they are scoundrels for palming off a groggy machine of that sort on me. i'll teach them!" "yes, dear." "the ceremony of opening the morning's letters at harrod's ought to be full of interest and excitement to-morrow," i said. this dashing counter stroke served to relieve ukridge's pessimistic mood. he seldom looked on the dark side of things for long at a time. he began now to speak hopefully of the future. he planned out ingenious, if somewhat impracticable, improvements in the farm. our fowls were to multiply so rapidly and consistently that within a short space of time dorsetshire would be paved with them. our eggs were to increase in size till they broke records, and got three-line notices in the "items of interest" column of the _daily mail_. briefly, each hen was to become a happy combination of rabbit and ostrich. "there is certainly a good time coming," i said. "may it be soon. meanwhile, there remain the local tradesmen. what of them?" ukridge relapsed once more into pessimism. "they are the worst of the lot," he said. "i don't mind about the london men so much. they only write. and a letter or two hurts nobody. but when it comes to butchers and bakers and grocers and fishmongers and fruiterers, and what not, coming up to one's house and dunning one in one's own garden--well, it's a little hard, what?" it may be wondered why, before things came to such a crisis, i had not placed my balance at the bank at the disposal of the senior partner for use on behalf of the firm. the fact was that my balance was at the moment small. i have not yet in the course of this narrative gone into my pecuniary position, but i may state here that it was an inconvenient one. it was big with possibilities, but of ready cash there was but a meager supply. my parents had been poor, but i had a wealthy uncle. uncles are notoriously careless of the comfort of their nephews. mine was no exception. he had views. he was a great believer in matrimony, as, having married three wives--not, i should add, simultaneously--he had every right to be. he was also of opinion that the less money the young bachelor possessed, the better. the consequence was that he announced his intention of giving me a handsome allowance from the day that i married, but not an instant before. till that glad day i would have to shift for myself. and i am bound to admit that--for an uncle--it was a remarkably sensible idea. i am also of opinion that it is greatly to my credit, and a proof of my pure and unmercenary nature, that i did not instantly put myself up to be raffled for, or rush out into the streets and propose marriage to the first lady i met. i was making enough with my pen to support myself, and, be it ever so humble, there is something pleasant in a bachelor existence, or so i had thought until very recently. i had thus no great stake in ukridge's chicken farm. i had contributed a modest five pounds to the preliminary expenses, and another five pounds after the roop incident. but further i could not go with safety. when his income is dependent on the whims of editors and publishers, the prudent man keeps something up his sleeve against a sudden slump in his particular wares. i did not wish to have to make a hurried choice between matrimony and the workhouse. having exhausted the subject of finance--or, rather, when i began to feel that it was exhausting me--i took my clubs and strolled up the hill to the links to play off a match with a sportsman from the village. i had entered some days previously a competition for a trophy (i quote the printed notice) presented by a local supporter of the game, in which up to the present i was getting on nicely. i had survived two rounds, and expected to beat my present opponent, which would bring me into the semi-final. unless i had bad luck, i felt that i ought to get into the final, and win it. as far as i could gather from watching the play of my rivals, the professor was the best of them, and i was convinced that i should have no difficulty with him. but he had the most extraordinary luck at golf, though he never admitted it. he also exercised quite an uncanny influence on his opponent. i have seen men put completely off their stroke by his good fortune. i disposed of my man without difficulty. we parted a little coldly. he decapitated his brassy on the occasion of his striking dorsetshire instead of his ball, and he was slow in recovering from the complex emotions which such an episode induces. in the clubhouse i met the professor, whose demeanor was a welcome contrast to that of my late antagonist. the professor had just routed his opponent, and so won through to the semi-final. he was warm but jubilant. i congratulated him, and left the place. phyllis was waiting outside. she often went round the course with him. "good afternoon," i said. "have you been round with the professor?" "yes. we must have been in front of you. father won his match." "so he was telling me. i was very glad to hear it." "did you win, mr. garnet?" "yes. pretty easily. my opponent had bad luck all through. bunkers seemed to have a magnetic attraction for him." "so you and father are both in the semi-final? i hope you will play very badly." "thank you, miss derrick," i said. "yes, it does sound rude, doesn't it? but father has set his heart on winning this year. do you know that he has played in the final round two years running now?" "really?" "both times he was beaten by the same man." "who was that? mr. derrick plays a much better game than anybody i have seen on these links." "it was nobody who is here now. it was a colonel jervis. he has not come to lyme regis this year. that is why father is hopeful." "logically," i said, "he ought to be certain to win." "yes; but, you see, you were not playing last year, mr. garnet." "oh, the professor can make rings round me," i said. "what did you go round in to-day?" "we were playing match play, and only did the first dozen holes; but my average round is somewhere in the late eighties." "the best father has ever done is ninety, and that was only once. so you see, mr. garnet, there's going to be another tragedy this year." "you make me feel a perfect brute. but it's more than likely, you must remember, that i shall fail miserably if i ever do play your father in the final. there are days when i play golf very badly." phyllis smiled. "do you really have your off days?" "nearly always. there are days when i slice with my driver as if it were a bread knife." "really?" "and when i couldn't putt to hit a haystack." "then i hope it will be on one of those days that you play father." "i hope so, too," i said. "you hope so?" "yes." "but don't you want to win?" "i should prefer to please you." mr. lewis waller could not have said it better. "really, how very unselfish of you, mr. garnet," she replied with a laugh. "i had no idea that such chivalry existed. i thought a golfer would sacrifice anything to win a game." "most things." "and trample on the feelings of anybody." "not everybody," i said. at this point the professor joined us. xv the arrival of nemesis some people do not believe in presentiments. they attribute that curious feeling that something unpleasant is going to happen to such mundane causes as liver or a chill or the weather. for my own part, i think there is more in the matter than the casual observer might imagine. i awoke three days after my meeting with the professor at the clubhouse filled with a dull foreboding. somehow i seemed to know that that day was going to turn out badly for me. it may have been liver or a chill, but it was certainly not the weather. the morning was perfect, the most glorious of a glorious summer. there was a haze over the valley and out to sea which suggested a warm noon, when the sun should have begun the serious duties of the day. the birds were singing in the trees and breakfasting on the lawn, while edwin, seated on one of the flower beds, watched them with the eye of a connoisseur. occasionally, when a sparrow hopped in his direction, he would make a sudden spring, and the bird would fly away to the other side of the lawn. i had never seen edwin catch a sparrow. i believe they looked on him as a bit of a crank, and humored him by coming within springing distance, just to keep him amused. dashing young cock sparrows would show off before their particular hen sparrows, and earn a cheap reputation for dare-deviltry by going within so many yards of edwin's lair and then darting away. bob was in his favorite place on the gravel. i took him with me down to the cob to watch me bathe. "what's the matter with me to-day, robert, old man?" i asked him as i dried myself. he blinked lazily, but contributed no suggestion. "it's no good looking bored," i went on, "because i'm going to talk about myself, however much it bores you. here am i, as fit as a prize fighter; living in the open air for i don't know how long; eating good, plain food; bathing every morning--sea bathing, mind you; and yet what's the result? i feel beastly." bob yawned and gave a little whine. "yes," i said, "i know i'm in love. but that can't be it, because i was in love just as much a week ago, and i felt all right then. but isn't she an angel, bob? eh? isn't she? but how about tom chase? don't you think he's a dangerous man? he calls her by her christian name, you know, and behaves generally as if she belonged to him. and then he sees her every day, while i have to trust to meeting her at odd times, and then i generally feel like such a fool i can't think of anything to talk about except golf and the weather. he probably sings duets with her after dinner. and you know what comes of duets after dinner." here bob, who had been trying for some time to find a decent excuse for getting away, pretended to see something of importance at the other end of the cob, and trotted off to investigate it, leaving me to finish dressing by myself. "of course," i said to myself, "it may be merely hunger. i may be all right after breakfast, but at present i seem to be working up for a really fine fit of the blues." i whistled for bob and started for home. on the beach i saw the professor some little distance away and waved my towel in a friendly manner. he made no reply. of course it was possible that he had not seen me, but for some reason his attitude struck me as ominous. as far as i could see, he was looking straight at me, and he was not a shortsighted man. i could think of no reason why he should cut me. we had met on the links on the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself. he had called me "me dear boy," supplied me with ginger beer at the clubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been david and i jonathan. yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains out of mole-hills, and i went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with a distinct impression that i had received the cut direct. i felt hurt. what had i done that providence should make things so unpleasant for me? it would be a little hard, as ukridge would have said, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered some fresh crow to pluck with me. perhaps ukridge had been irritating him again. i wished he would not identify me so completely with ukridge. i could not be expected to control the man. then i reflected that they could hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from the professor at the clubhouse and my meeting with him on the beach. ukridge rarely left the farm. when he was not working among the fowls, he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind. i came to the conclusion that, after all, the professor had not seen me. "i'm an idiot, bob," i said, as we turned in at the farm gate, "and i let my imagination run away with me." bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment. breakfast was ready when i got in. there was a cold chicken on the sideboard, deviled chicken on the table, and a trio of boiled eggs, and a dish of scrambled eggs. i helped myself to the latter and sat down. ukridge was sorting the letters. "morning, garny," he said. "one for you, millie." "it's from aunt elizabeth," said mrs. ukridge, looking at the envelope. "wish she'd inclose a check. she could spare it." "i think she would, dear, if she knew how much it was needed. but i don't like to ask her. she's so curious and says such horrid things." "she does," said ukridge gloomily. he probably spoke from experience. "two for you, sebastian. all the rest for me. eighteen of them, and all bills." he spread them out on the table like a pack of cards, and drew one at a venture. "whiteley's," he said. "getting jumpy. are in receipt of my favor of the th inst, and are at a loss to understand--all sorts of things. would like something on account." "grasping of them," i said. "they seem to think i'm doing it for fun. how can i let them have their money when there isn't any?" "sounds difficult." "here's one from dorchester--smith, the man i got the gramophone from. wants to know when i'm going to settle up for sixteen records." "sordid man!" i wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but ukridge was one of those men who compel one's attention when they are talking. "the chicken men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay up for the first lot of hens. considering that they all died of roop, and that i was going to send them back, anyhow, after i'd got them to hatch out a few chickens, i call that cool. i can't afford to pay heavy sums for birds which die off quicker than i can get them in. it isn't business." it was not my business, at any rate, so i switched off my attention from ukridge's troubles and was opening the first of my two letters when an exclamation from mrs. ukridge made me look up. she had dropped the letter she had been reading and was staring indignantly in front of her. there were two little red spots on her cheeks. "i shall never speak to aunt elizabeth again," she said. "what's the matter, old chap?" inquired ukridge affectionately, glancing up from his pile of bills. "aunt elizabeth been getting on your nerves again? what's she been saying this time?" mrs. ukridge left the room with a sob. ukridge sprang at the letter. "if that demon doesn't stop writing letters and upsetting millie i shall lynch her," he said. i had never seen him so genuinely angry. he turned over the pages till he came to the passage which had caused the trouble. "listen to this, garnet. 'i'm sorry, but not surprised, to hear that the chicken farm is not proving a great success. i think you know my opinion of your husband. he is perfectly helpless in any matter requiring the exercise of a little common sense and business capability.' i like that! 'pon my soul, i like that! you've known me longer than she has, garny, and you know that it's just in matters requiring common sense that i come out strong. what?" "of course, old man," i replied dutifully. "the woman must be a fool." "that's what she calls me two lines farther on. no wonder millie was upset. why can't these cats leave people alone?" "o woman, woman!" i threw in helpfully. "always interfering--" "beastly!" "--and backbiting--" "awful!" "i shan't stand it!" "i shouldn't." "look here! on the next page she calls me a gaby!" "it's time you took a strong hand." "and in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin. what's a guffin, garny, old boy?" "it sounds indecent." "i believe it's actionable." "i shouldn't wonder." ukridge rushed to the door. "millie!" he shouted. no answer. he slammed the door, and i heard him dashing upstairs. i turned with a sense of relief to my letters. one was from lickford. it bore a cornish postmark. i glanced through it, and laid it aside for a more exhaustive perusal later on. the other was in a strange handwriting. i looked at the signature. patrick derrick. this was queer. what had the professor to say to me? the next moment my heart seemed to spring to my throat. "sir," the letter began. a pleasant, cheery beginning! then it got off the mark, so to speak, like lightning. there was no sparring for an opening, no dignified parade of set phrases leading up to the main point. it was the letter of a man who was almost too furious to write. it gave me the impression that, if he had not written it, he would have been obliged to have taken some very violent form of exercise by way of relief to his soul. "you will be good enough," he wrote, "to look on our acquaintance as closed. i have no wish to associate with persons of your stamp. if we should happen to meet, you will be good enough to treat me as a total stranger, as i shall treat you. and, if i may be allowed to give you a word of advice, i should recommend you in future, when you wish to exercise your humor, to do so in some less practical manner than by bribing boatmen to upset your" (_friends_ crossed out thickly, and _acquaintances_ substituted). "if you require further enlightenment in this matter, the inclosed letter may be of service to you." with which he remained mine faithfully, patrick derrick. the inclosed letter was from one jane muspratt. it was bright and interesting. dear sir: my harry, mr. hawk, sas to me how it was him upseting the boat and you, not because he is not steddy in a boat which he is no man more so in lyme regis but because one of the gentmen what keeps chikkens up the hill, the little one, mr. garnick his name is, says to him hawk, i'll give you a sovrin to upset mr. derrick in your boat, and my harry being esily led was took in and did but he's sory now and wishes he hadn't, and he sas he'll niver do a prackticle joke again for anyone even for a bank note. yours obedly jane muspratt. o woman, woman! at the bottom of everything! history is full of cruel tragedies caused by the lethal sex. who lost mark antony the world? a woman. who let samson in so atrociously? woman again. why did bill bailey leave home? once more, because of a woman. and here was i, jerry garnet, harmless, well-meaning writer of minor novels, going through the same old mill. i cursed jane muspratt. what chance had i with phyllis now? could i hope to win over the professor again? i cursed jane muspratt for the second time. my thoughts wandered to mr. harry hawk. the villain! the scoundrel! what business had he to betray me? well, i could settle with him. the man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is justly disliked by society; so the woman muspratt, culpable as she was, was safe from me. but what of the man hawk? there no such considerations swayed me. i would interview the man hawk. i would give him the most hectic ten minutes of his career. i would say things to him the recollection of which would make him start up shrieking in his bed in the small hours of the night. i would arise, and be a man and slay him--take him grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes, broad-blown, as flush as may; at gaming, swearing, or about some act that had no relish of salvation in it. the demon! my life--ruined. my future--gray and blank. my heart--shattered. and why? because of the scoundrel--hawk. phyllis would meet me in the village, on the cob, on the links, and pass by as if i were the invisible man. and why? because of the reptile--hawk. the worm--hawk. the varlet--hawk. i crammed my hat on and hurried out of the house toward the village. a chance meeting xvi i roamed the place in search of the varlet for the space of half an hour, and, after having drawn all his familiar haunts, found him at length leaning over the sea wall near the church, gazing thoughtfully into the waters below. i confronted him. "well," i said, "you're a beauty, aren't you?" he eyed me owlishly. even at this early hour, i was grieved to see, he showed signs of having looked on the bitter while it was brown. "beauty?" he echoed. "what have you got to say for yourself?" it was plain that he was engaged in pulling his faculties together by some laborious process known only to himself. at present my words conveyed no meaning to him. he was trying to identify me. he had seen me before somewhere, he was certain, but he could not say where, or who i was. "i want to know," i said, "what induced you to be such an abject idiot as to let our arrangement get known?" i spoke quietly. i was not going to waste the choicer flowers of speech on a man who was incapable of understanding them. later on, when he had awakened to a sense of his position, i would begin really to talk to him. he continued to stare at me. then a sudden flash of intelligence lit up his features. "mr. garnick," he said. "you've got it at last." he stretched out a huge hand. "i want to know," i said distinctly, "what you've got to say for yourself after letting our affair with the professor become public property?" he paused a while in thought. "dear sir," he said at last, as if he were dictating a letter, "dear sir, i owe you--ex--exp--" "you do," said i grimly. "i should like to hear it." "dear sir, listen me." "go on, then." "you came me. you said, 'hawk, hawk, ol' fren', listen me. you tip this ol' bufflehead into sea,' you said, 'an' gormed if i don't give 'ee a gould savrin.' that's what you said me. isn't that what you said me?" i did not deny it. "ve' well. i said you, 'right,' i said. i tipped the ol' soul into sea, and i got the gould savrin." "yes, you took care of that. all this is quite true, but it's beside the point. we are not disputing about what happened. what i want to know for the third time--is what made you let the cat out of the bag? why couldn't you keep quiet about it?" he waved his hand. "dear sir," he replied. "this way. listen me." it was a tragic story that he unfolded. my wrath ebbed as i listened. after all, the fellow was not so greatly to blame. i felt that in his place i should have acted as he had done. fate was culpable, and fate alone. it appeared that he had not come well out of the matter of the accident. i had not looked at it hitherto from his point of view. while the rescue had left me the popular hero, it had had quite the opposite result for him. he had upset his boat and would have drowned his passenger, said public opinion, if the young hero from london--myself--had not plunged in, and at the risk of his life brought the professor to shore. consequently, he was despised by all as an inefficient boatman. he became a laughing stock. the local wags made laborious jests when he passed. they offered him fabulous sums to take their worst enemies out for a row with him. they wanted to know when he was going to school to learn his business. in fact, they behaved as wags do and always have done at all times all the world over. now, all this mr. hawk, it seemed, would have borne cheerfully and patiently for my sake, or, at any rate, for the sake of the good golden sovereign i had given him. but a fresh factor appeared in the problem, complicating it grievously. to wit, miss jane muspratt. "she said me," explained mr. hawk with pathos, "'harry 'awk,' she said, 'yeou'm a girt fule, an' i don't marry noone as is ain't to be trusted in a boat by hisself, and what has jokes made about him by that tom leigh.' i punched tom leigh," observed mr. hawk parenthetically. "'so,' she said me, 'yeou can go away, an' i don't want to see yeou again.'" this heartless conduct on the part of miss muspratt had had the natural result of making him confess all in self-defense, and she had written to the professor the same night. i forgave mr. hawk. i think he was hardly sober enough to understand, for he betrayed no emotion. "it is fate, hawk," i said, "simply fate. there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will, and it's no good grumbling." "yiss," said mr. hawk, after chewing this sentiment for a while in silence, "so she said me, 'hawk,' she said--like that--'you're a girt fule--'" "that's all right," i replied. "i quite understand. as i say, it's simply fate. good-by." and i left him. as i was going back, i met the professor and phyllis. they passed me without a look. i wandered on in quite a fervor of self-pity. i was in one of those moods when life suddenly seems to become irksome, when the future stretches blank and gray in front of one. in such a mood it is imperative that one should seek distraction. the shining example of mr. harry hawk did not lure me. taking to drink would be a nuisance. work was what i wanted. i would toil like a navvy all day among the fowls, separating them when they fought, gathering in the eggs when they laid, chasing them across country when they got away, and even, if necessity arose, painting their throats with turpentine when they were stricken with roop. then, after dinner, when the lamps were lit, and mrs. ukridge petted edwin and sewed, and ukridge smoked cigars and incited the gramophone to murder "mumbling mose," i would steal away to my bedroom and write--and write--and _write_--and go on writing till my fingers were numb and my eyes refused to do their duty. and, when time had passed, i might come to feel that it was all for the best. a man must go through the fire before he can write his masterpiece. we learn in suffering what we teach in song. what we lose on the swings we make up on the roundabouts. jerry garnet, the man, might become a depressed, hopeless wreck, with the iron planted irremovably in his soul; but jeremy garnet, the author, should turn out such a novel of gloom that strong critics would weep and the public jostle for copies till mudie's doorways became a shambles. thus might i some day feel that all this anguish was really a blessing--effectively disguised. but i doubted it. we were none of us very cheerful now at the farm. even ukridge's spirit was a little daunted by the bills which poured in by every post. it was as if the tradesmen of the neighborhood had formed a league and were working in concert. or it may have been due to thought waves. little accounts came not in single spies but in battalions. the popular demand for a sight of the color of his money grew daily. every morning at breakfast he would give us fresh bulletins of the state of mind of each of our creditors, and thrill us with the announcement that whiteley's were getting cross and harrod's jumpy, or that the bearings of dawlish, the grocer, were becoming over-heated. we lived in a continual atmosphere of worry. chicken and nothing but chicken at meals, and chicken and nothing but chicken between meals, had frayed our nerves. an air of defeat hung over the place. we were a beaten side, and we realized it. we had been playing an uphill game for nearly two months, and the strain was beginning to tell. ukridge became uncannily silent. mrs. ukridge, though she did not understand, i fancy, the details of the matter, was worried because ukridge was. mrs. beale had long since been turned into a soured cynic by the lack of chances vouchsafed her for the exercise of her art. and as for me, i have never since spent so profoundly miserable a week. i was not even permitted the anodyne of work. there seemed to be nothing to do on the farm. the chickens were quite happy, and only asked to be let alone and allowed to have their meals at regular intervals. and every day one or more of their number would vanish into the kitchen, and mrs. beale would serve up the corpse in some cunning disguise, and we would try to delude ourselves into the idea that it was something altogether different. there was one solitary gleam of variety in our menu. an editor sent me a check for a guinea for a set of verses. we cashed that check and trooped round the town in a body, laying out the money. we bought a leg of mutton and a tongue and sardines and pineapple chunks and potted meat and many other noble things, and had a perfect banquet. after that we relapsed into routine again. deprived of physical labor, with the exception of golf and bathing--trivial sports compared with work in the fowl runs at its hardest--i tried to make up for it by working at my novel. it refused to materialize. i felt, like the man in the fable, as if some one had played a mean trick on me, and substituted for my brain a side order of cauliflower. by no manner of means could i get the plot to shape itself. i could not detach my mind from my own painful case. instead of thinking of my characters, i sat in my chair and thought miserably of phyllis. the only progress i achieved was with my villain. i drew him from the professor and made him a blackmailer. he had several other social defects, but that was his profession. that was the thing he did really well. it was on one of the many occasions on which i had sat in my room, pen in hand, through the whole of a lovely afternoon, with no better result than a slight headache, that i bethought me of that little paradise on the ware cliff, hung over the sea and backed by green woods. i had not been there for sometime, owing principally to an entirely erroneous idea that i could do more solid work sitting in a straight, hard chair at a table than lying on soft turf with the sea wind in my eyes. but now the desire to visit that little clearing again drove me from my room. in the drawing-room below, the gramophone was dealing brassily with "mister blackman." outside, the sun was just thinking of setting. the ware cliff was the best medicine for me. what does kipling say? and soon you will find that the sun and the wind and the djinn of the garden, too, have lightened the hump, cameelious hump, the hump that is black and blue. his instructions include digging with a hoe and a shovel also, but i could omit that. the sun and wind were what i needed. i took the upper road. in certain moods i preferred it to the path along the cliff. i walked fast. the exercise was soothing. to reach my favorite clearing i had to take to the fields on the left and strike down hill in the direction of the sea. i hurried down the narrow path. i broke into the clearing at a jog trot, and stood panting. and at the same moment, looking cool and beautiful in her white dress, phyllis entered it from the other side. phyllis--without the professor. of a sentimental nature xvii she was wearing a panama, and she carried a sketching block and camp stool. "good evening," i said. "good evening," said she. it is curious how different the same words can sound when spoken by different people. my "good evening" might have been that of a man with a particularly guilty conscience caught in the act of doing something more than usually ignoble. she spoke like a somewhat offended angel. "it's a lovely evening," i went on pluckily. "very." "the sunset!" "yes." "er--" she raised a pair of blue eyes, devoid of all expression save a faint suggestion of surprise, gazed through me for a moment at some object a couple of thousand miles away, and lowered them again, leaving me with a vague feeling that there was something wrong with my personal appearance. very calmly she moved to the edge of the cliff, arranged her camp stool, and sat down. neither of us spoke a word. i watched her while she filled a little mug with water from a little bottle, opened her paint box, selected a brush, and placed her sketching block in position. she began to paint. now, by all the laws of good taste, i should before this have made a dignified exit. when a lady shows a gentleman that his presence is unwelcome, it is up to him, as an american friend of mine pithily observed to me on one occasion, to get busy and chase himself, and see if he can make the tall timber in two jumps. in other words, to retire. it was plain that i was not regarded as an essential ornament of this portion of the ware cliff. by now, if i had been the perfect gentleman, i ought to have been a quarter of a mile away. but there is a definite limit to what a man can do. i remained. the sinking sun flung a carpet of gold across the sea. phyllis's hair was tinged with it. little waves tumbled lazily on the beach below. except for the song of a distant blackbird running through its repertory before retiring for the night, everything was silent. especially phyllis. she sat there, dipping and painting and dipping again, with never a word for me--standing patiently and humbly behind her. "miss derrick," i said. she half turned her head. "yes?" one of the most valuable things which a lifetime devoted to sport teaches a man is "never play the goose game." bold attack is the safest rule in nine cases out of ten, wherever you are and whatever you may be doing. if you are batting, attack the ball. if you are boxing, get after your man. if you are talking, go to the point. "why won't you speak to me?" i said. "i don't understand you." "why won't you speak to me?" "i think you know, mr. garnet." "it is because of that boat accident?" "accident!" "episode," i amended. she went on painting in silence. from where i stood i could see her profile. her chin was tilted. her expression was determined. "is it?" i said. "need we discuss it?" "not if you do not wish." i paused. "but," i added, "i should have liked a chance to defend myself.... what glorious sunsets there have been these last few days. i believe we shall have this sort of weather for another month." "i should not have thought that possible." "the glass is going up," i said. "i was not talking about the weather." "it was dull of me to introduce such a worn-out topic." "you said you could defend yourself." "i said i should like the chance to do so." "then you shall have it." "that is very kind of you. thank you." "is there any reason for gratitude?" "every reason." "go on, mr. garnet. i can listen while i paint. but please sit down. i don't like being talked to from a height." i sat down on the grass in front of her, feeling as i did so that the change of position in a manner clipped my wings. it is difficult to speak movingly while sitting on the ground. instinctively, i avoided eloquence. standing up, i might have been pathetic and pleading. sitting down, i was compelled to be matter of fact. "you remember, of course, the night you and professor derrick dined with us? when i say dined, i use the word in a loose sense." for a moment i thought she was going to smile. we were both thinking of edwin. but it was only for a moment, and then her face grew cold once more, and the chin resumed its angle of determination. "yes," she said. "you remember the unfortunate ending of the festivities?" "well?" "i naturally wished to mend matters. it occurred to me that an excellent way would be by doing your father a service. it was seeing him fishing that put the idea of a boat accident into my head. i hoped for a genuine boat accident. but those things only happen when one does not want them. so i determined to engineer one." "you didn't think of the shock to my father." "i did. it worried me very much." "but you upset him all the same." "reluctantly." she looked up and our eyes met. i could detect no trace of forgiveness in hers. "you behaved abominably," she said. "i played a risky game, and i lost. and i shall now take the consequences. with luck i should have won. i did not have luck, and i am not going to grumble about it. but i am grateful to you for letting me explain. i should not have liked you to go on thinking that i played practical jokes on my friends. that is all i have to say, i think. it was kind of you to listen. good-by, miss derrick." i got up. "are you going?" "why not?" "please sit down again." "but you wish to be alone--" "please sit down!" there was a flush on the fair cheek turned toward me, and the chin was tilted higher. i sat down. to westward the sky had changed to the hue of a bruised cherry. the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the sea looked cold and leaden. the blackbird had long since gone to bed. "i am glad you told me, mr. garnet." she dipped her brush in the water. "because i don't like to think badly of--people." she bent her head over her painting. "though i still think you behaved very wrongly. and i am afraid my father will never forgive you for what you did." her father! as if he counted! "but you do?" i said eagerly. "i think you are less to blame than i thought you were at first." "no more than that?" "you can't expect to escape all consequences. you did a very stupid thing." "consider the temptation." the sky was a dull gray now. it was growing dusk. the grass on which i sat was wet with dew. i stood up. "isn't it getting a little dark for painting?" i said. "are you sure you won't catch cold? it's very damp." "perhaps it is. and it is late, too." she shut her paint box and emptied the little mug on the grass. "you will let me carry your things?" i said. i think she hesitated, but only for a moment. i possessed myself of the camp stool, and we started on our homeward journey. we were both silent. the spell of the quiet summer evening was on us. "'and all the air a solemn stillness holds,'" she said softly. "i love this cliff, mr. garnet. it's the most soothing place in the world." "i have found it so this evening." she glanced at me quickly. "you're not looking well," she said. "are you sure you are not overworking yourself?" "no, it's not that." somehow we had stopped, as if by agreement, and were facing each other. there was a look in her eyes i had never seen there before. the twilight hung like a curtain between us and the world. we were alone together in a world of our own. "it is because i had displeased you," i said. she laughed nervously. "i have loved you ever since i first saw you," i said doggedly. ukridge gives me advice xviii hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which our ways divided. we stopped, and i felt as if i had been suddenly cast back into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet. i think phyllis must have had something of the same sensation, for we both became on the instant intensely practical and businesslike. "but about your father," i said briskly. i was not even holding her hand. "that's the difficulty." "he won't give his consent?" "i'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it." "you can't persuade him?" "i can in most things, but not in this. you see, even if nothing had happened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of norah." "norah!" "my sister. she's going to be married in october. i wonder if we shall ever be as happy as they will?" i laughed scornfully. "happy! they will be miserable compared with us. not that i know who the man is." "why, tom, of course. do you mean to say you really didn't know?" "tom! tom chase?" "of course." i gasped. "well, i'm--hanged," i said. "when i think of the torments i've been through because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, i don't know what to say." "don't you like tom?" "very much. i always did. but i was awfully jealous of him." "you weren't! how silly of you." "of course i was. he was always about with you, and called you phyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine and hero of a musical comedy, so what else could i think? i heard you singing duets after dinner once. i drew the worst conclusions." "when was that?" "it was shortly after ukridge had got on your father's nerves, and nipped our acquaintance in the bud. i used to come every night to the hedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour." "poor old boy!" "hoping to hear you sing. and when you did sing, and he joined in all flat, i used to scold. you'll probably find most of the bark worn off the tree i leaned against." "poor old man! still, it's all over now, isn't it?" "and when i was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis, you went away just as i got into form." "i'm very sorry, but i couldn't know--could i? i thought you always played like that." "i know. i knew you would. it nearly turned my hair white. i didn't see how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis." "one doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis." "what _does_ a girl see to love in a man?" i inquired abruptly; and paused on the verge of a great discovery. "oh, i don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily. and i could draw no views from her. "but about father," said she. "what _are_ we to do?" "he objects to me." "he's perfectly furious with you." "blow, blow," i said, "thou winter wind. thou art not so unkind--" "he'll never forgive you." "as man's ingratitude. i saved his life--at the risk of my own. why, i believe i've got a legal claim on him. whoever heard of a man having his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserver wanted to marry his daughter? your father is striking at the very root of the short-story writer's little earnings. he mustn't be allowed to do it." "jerry!" i started. "again!" i said. "what?" "say it again. do, please. now." "very well. jerry!" "it was the first time you had called me by my christian name. i don't suppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you say it. there is something poetical, something almost holy, about it." "jerry, please!" "say on." "do be sensible. don't you see how serious this is? we must think how we can make father consent." "all right," i said. "we'll tackle the point. i'm sorry to be frivolous, but i'm so happy i can't keep it all in. i've got you, and i can't think of anything else." "try." "i'll pull myself together.... now, say on once more." "we can't marry without father's consent." "why not?" i said, not having a marked respect for the professor's whims. "gretna green is out of date, but there are registrars." "i hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision. "besides--" "well?" "poor father would never get over it. we've always been such friends. if i married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know--not let me come near him again, and not write to me. and he would hate it all the time he was doing it. he would be bored to death without me." "anybody would," i said. "because, you see, norah has never been quite the same. she has spent such a lot of her time on visits to people that she and father don't understand each other so well as he and i do. she would try and be nice to him, but she wouldn't know him as i do. and, besides, she will be with him such a little, now she's going to be married." "but, look here," i said, "this is absurd. you say your father would never see you again, and so on, if you married me. why? it's nonsense. it isn't as if i were a sort of social outcast. we were the best of friends till that man hawk gave me away like that." "i know. but he's very obstinate about some things. you see, he thinks the whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him a long time to forgive you for that." i realized the truth of this. one can pardon any injury to oneself, unless it hurts one's vanity. moreover, even in a genuine case of rescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with his rescuer when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. he must regard him unconsciously as the super regards the actor manager, indebted to him for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him the lime light and the center of the stage and the applause. besides, everyone instinctively dislikes being under an obligation which he can never wholly repay. and when a man discovers that he has experienced all these mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, his wrath is likely to be no slight thing. taking everything into consideration, i could not but feel that it would require more than a little persuasion to make the professor bestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see in our fathers-in-law elect. "you don't think," i said, "that time, the great healer, and so on--he won't feel kindlier disposed toward me--say in a month's time?" "of course, he _might_," said phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully. "he strikes me, from what i have seen of him, as a man of moods. i might do something one of these days which would completely alter his views. we will hope for the best." "about telling father--" "need we tell him?" i asked. "yes, we must. i couldn't bear to think that i was keeping it from him. i don't think i've ever kept anything from him in my life. nothing bad, i mean." "you count this among your darker crimes, then?" "i was looking at it from father's point of view. he will be awfully angry. i don't know how i shall begin telling him." "good heavens!" i cried, "you surely don't think i'm going to let you do that! keep safely out of the way while you tell him? not much. i'm coming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together." "no, not to-night. he may be tired and rather cross. we had better wait till to-morrow. you might speak to him in the morning." "where shall i find him?" "he is certain to go to the beach before breakfast to bathe." "good. to-morrow, do thy worst, for i have lived to-day. i'll be there." * * * * * "ukridge," i said, when i got back, "can you give me audience for a brief space? i want your advice." this stirred him like a trumpet blast. when a man is in the habit of giving unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is as invigorating as an electric shock to him to be asked for it spontaneously. "what's up, old horse?" he asked eagerly. "i'll tell you what to do. get on to it. bang it out. here, let's go into the garden." i approved of this. i can always talk more readily in the dark, and i did not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of the hired retainer or mrs. beale. we walked down to the paddock. ukridge lit a cigar. "i'm in love, ukridge," i said. "what!" "more--i'm engaged." a huge hand whistled through the darkness and smote me heavily between the shoulder blades. "thanks," i said; "that felt congratulatory." "by jove! old boy, i wish you luck. 'pon my word, i do. fancy you engaged! best thing in the world for you. never knew what happiness was till i married. a man wants a helpmeet--" "and this man," i said, "seems likely to go on wanting. that's where i need your advice. i'm engaged to miss derrick." "miss derrick!" he spoke as if he hardly knew whom i meant. "you can't have forgotten her! good heavens, what eyes some men have! why, if i'd only seen her once, i should have remembered her all my life." "i know now. she came to dinner here with her father, that fat little buffer." "as you were careful to call him at the time. thereby starting all the trouble." "you fished him out of the water afterwards." "quite right." "why, it's a perfect romance, old horse. it's like the stories you read." "and write. but they all end happily. 'there is none, my brave young preserver, to whom i would more willingly intrust my daughter's happiness.' unfortunately, in my little drama, the heavy father seems likely to forget his cue." "the old man won't give his consent?" "probably not." "but why? what's the matter with you? if you marry, you'll come into your uncle's money, and all that." "true. affluence stares me in the face." "and you fished him out of the water." "after previously chucking him in." "what!" "at any rate, by proxy." i explained. ukridge, i regret to say, laughed. "you vagabond!" he said. "'pon my word, old horse, to look at you, one would never have thought you'd have had it in you." "i can't help looking respectable." "what are you going to do about it? the old man's got it up against you good and strong, there's no doubt of that." "that's where i wanted your advice. you're a man of resource. what would you do if you were in my place?" ukridge tapped me impressively on the shoulder. "marmaduke," he said, "there's one thing that'll carry you through any mess." "and that is--" "cheek, my boy--cheek! gall! why, take my case. i never told you how i came to marry, did i? i thought not. well, it was this way. you've heard us mention millie's aunt elizabeth--what? well, then, when i tell you that she was millie's nearest relative, and it was her consent i had to gather, you'll see that it wasn't a walk-over." "well?" i said. "first time i saw millie was in a first-class carriage on the underground. i'd got a third-class ticket, by the way. we weren't alone. it was five a side. but she sat opposite me, and i fell in love with her there and then. we both got out at south kensington. i followed her. she went to a house in thurloe square. i waited outside and thought it over. i had got to get into that house and make her acquaintance. so i rang the bell. 'is lady lichenhall at home?' i asked. you note the artfulness? my asking for lady lichenhall made 'em think i was one of the upper ten--what?" "how were you dressed?" i could not help asking. "oh, it was one of my frock-coat days. i'd been to see a man about tutoring his son. there was nothing the matter with my appearance. 'no,' said the servant, 'nobody of that name lives here. this is lady lakenheath's house.' so, you see, i had luck at the start, because the two names were a bit alike. well, i got the servant to show me in somehow, and, once in, you can wager i talked for all i was worth. kept up a flow of conversation about being misdirected and coming to the wrong house, and so on. went away, and called a few days later. called regularly. met 'em at every theater they went to, and bowed, and finally got away with millie before her aunt could tell what was happening, or who i was or what i was doing or anything." "and what's the moral?" i said. "why, go in hard. rush 'em. bustle 'em. don't give 'em a moment's rest." "don't play the goose game," i said with that curious thrill we feel when somebody's independent view of a matter coincides with one's own. "that's it. don't play the goose game. don't give 'em time to think. why, if i'd given millie's aunt time to think, where should we have been? not at lyme regis together, i'll bet." "ukridge," i said, "you inspire me. you would inspire a caterpillar. i will go to the professor--i was going anyhow--but now i shall go aggressively, and bustle him. i will surprise a father's blessing out of him, if i have to do it with a crowbar!" i ask papa xix reviewing the matter later, i see that i made a poor choice of time and place. but at the moment this did not strike me. it is a simple thing, i reflected, for a man to pass another by haughtily and without recognition, when they meet on dry land; but when the said man, being an indifferent swimmer, is accosted in the water and out of his depth, the feat becomes a hard one. when, therefore, having undressed on the cob on the following morning, i spied in the distance, as i was about to dive, the gray head of the professor bobbing on the face of the waters, i did not hesitate. i plunged in and swam rapidly toward him. his face was turned in the opposite direction when i came up with him, and it was soon evident that he had not observed my approach. for when, treading water easily in his immediate rear, i wished him good morning in my most conciliatory tones, he stood not upon the order of his sinking, but went under like so much pig iron. i waited courteously until he rose to the surface once more, when i repeated my remark. he expelled the last remnant of water from his mouth with a wrathful splutter, and cleared his eyes with the back of his hand. "the water is delightfully warm," i said. "oh, it's you!" said he, and i could not cheat myself into believing that he spoke cordially. "you are swimming splendidly this morning," i said, feeling that an ounce of flattery is often worth a pound of rhetoric. "if," i added, "you will allow me to say so." "i will not," he snapped. "i--" here a small wave, noticing that his mouth was open, walked in. "i wish," he resumed warmly, "as i said in me letter, to have nothing to do with you. i consider ye've behaved in a manner that can only be described as abominable, and i will thank ye to leave me alone." "but, allow me--" "i will not allow ye, sir. i will allow ye nothing. is it not enough to make me the laughingstock, the butt, sir, of this town, without pursuing me in this manner when i wish to enjoy a quiet swim?" his remarks, which i have placed on paper as if they were continuous and uninterrupted, were punctuated in reality by a series of gasps and puffings as he received and ejected the successors of the wave he had swallowed at the beginning of our little chat. the art of conducting bright conversation while in the water is not given to every swimmer. this he seemed to realize, for, as if to close the interview, he proceeded to make his way as quickly as he could toward the shore. using my best stroke, i shot beyond him and turned, treading water as before. "but, professor," i said, "one moment." i was growing annoyed with the man. i could have ducked him but for the reflection that my prospects of obtaining his consent to my engagement with phyllis would hardly have been enhanced thereby. no more convincing proof of my devotion can be given than this, that i did not seize that little man by the top of his head, thrust him under water, and keep him there. i restrained myself. i was suave. soothing, even. "but, professor," i said, "one moment." "not one," he spluttered. "go away, sir. i will have nothing to say to you." "i shan't keep you a minute." he had been trying all this while to pass me and escape to the shore, but i kept always directly in front of him. he now gave up the attempt and came to standstill. "well?" he said. without preamble i gave out the text of the address i was about to deliver to him. "i love your daughter phyllis, mr. derrick. she loves me. in fact, we are engaged," i said. he went under as if he had been seized with cramp. it was a little trying having to argue with a man, of whom one could not predict with certainty that at any given moment he would not be under water. it tended to spoil one's flow of eloquence. the best of arguments is useless if the listener suddenly disappears in the middle of it. however, i persevered. "mr. derrick," i said, as his head emerged, "you are naturally surprised." "you--you--you--" so far from cooling him, liberal doses of water seemed to make him more heated. "you impudent scoundrel!" he said that--not i. what i said was more gentlemanly, more courteous, on a higher plane altogether. i said winningly: "mr. derrick, cannot we let bygones be bygones?" from his expression i gathered that we could not. i continued. i was under the unfortunate necessity of having to condense my remarks. i was not able to let myself go as i could have wished, for time was an important consideration. erelong, swallowing water at his present rate, the professor must inevitably become waterlogged. it behooved me to be succinct. "i have loved your daughter," i said rapidly, "ever since i first saw her. i learned last night that she loved me. but she will not marry me without your consent. stretch your arms out straight from the shoulders and fill your lungs well, and you can't sink. so i have come this morning to ask for your consent. i know we have not been on the best of terms lately." "you--" "for heaven's sake, don't try to talk. your one chance of remaining on the surface is to keep your lungs well filled. the fault," i said generously, "was mine. but when you have heard my explanation, i am sure you will forgive me. there, i told you so." he reappeared some few feet to the left. i swam up and resumed: "when you left us so abruptly after our little dinner party, you put me in a very awkward position. i was desperately in love with your daughter, and as long as you were in the frame of mind in which you left, i could not hope to find an opportunity of telling her so. you see what a fix i was in, don't you? i thought for hours and hours, to try and find some means of bringing about a reconciliation. you wouldn't believe how hard i thought. at last, seeing you fishing one morning when i was on the cob, it struck me all of a sudden that the very best way would be to arrange a little boating accident. i was confident that i could rescue you all right." "you young blackguard!" he managed to slip past me, and made for the shore again. "strike out--but hear me," i said, swimming by his side. "look at the thing from the standpoint of a philosopher. the fact that the rescue was arranged oughtn't really to influence you in the least. you didn't know it at the time, therefore relatively it was not, and you were genuinely saved from a watery grave." i felt that i was becoming a shade too metaphysical, but i could not help it. what i wanted to point out was that i had certainly pulled him out of the water, and that the fact that i had caused him to be pushed in had nothing to do with the case. either a man is a gallant rescuer or he is not a gallant rescuer. there is no middle course. i had saved his life, for he would have drowned if he had been left to himself, and was consequently entitled to his gratitude. and that was all that there was to be said about it. these things i endeavored to make plain to him as we swam along. but whether it was that the salt water he had swallowed dulled his intelligence or that my power of stating a case neatly was to seek, the fact remains that he reached the beach an unconvinced man. we faced one another, dripping. "then may i consider," i said, "that your objections are removed? we have your consent?" he stamped angrily, and his bare foot came down on a small but singularly sharp pebble. with a brief exclamation he seized the foot with one hand and hopped. while hopping, he delivered his ultimatum. probably this is the only instance on record of a father adopting this attitude in dismissing a suitor. "you may not," he said. "you may not consider any such thing. my objections were never more--absolute. you detain me in the water till i am blue, sir, blue with cold, in order to listen to the most preposterous and impudent nonsense i ever heard." this was unjust. if he had heard me attentively from the first and avoided interruptions and not behaved like a submarine, we should have got through our little business in half the time. we might both have been dry and clothed by now. i endeavored to point this out to him. "don't talk to me, sir," he roared, hobbling off across the beach to his dressing tent. "i will not listen to you. i will have nothing to do with you. i consider you impudent, sir." "i am sure it was unintentional, mr. derrick." "isch!" he said--being the first occasion and the last on which i ever heard that remarkable word proceed from the mouth of man. and he vanished into his tent, while i, wading in once more, swam back to the cob and put on my clothes. and so home, as pepys would have said, to breakfast, feeling depressed. scientific golf xx as i stood with ukridge in the fowl run on the morning following my maritime conversation with the professor, regarding a hen that had posed before us, obviously with a view to inspection, there appeared a man carrying an envelope. ukridge, who by this time saw, as calverley almost said, "under every hat a dun," and imagined that no envelope could contain anything but a small account, softly and silently vanished away, leaving me to interview the enemy. "mr. garnet, sir?" said the foe. i recognized him. he was professor derrick's gardener. what did this portend? had the merits of my pleadings come home to the professor when he thought them over, and was there a father's blessing inclosed in the envelope which was being held out to me? i opened the envelope. no, father's blessings were absent. the letter was in the third person. professor derrick begged to inform mr. garnet that, by defeating mr. saul potter, he had qualified for the final round of the lyme regis golf tournament, in which, he understood, mr. garnet was to be his opponent. if it would be convenient for mr. garnet to play off the match on the present afternoon, professor derrick would be obliged if he would be at the clubhouse at half-past two. if this hour and day were unsuitable, would he kindly arrange others. the bearer would wait. the bearer did wait, and then trudged off with a note, beautifully written in the third person, in which mr. garnet, after numerous compliments and thanks, begged to inform professor derrick that he would be at the clubhouse at the hour mentioned. "and," i added--to myself, not in the note--"i will give him such a licking that he'll brain himself with a cleek." for i was not pleased with the professor. i was conscious of a malicious joy at the prospect of snatching the prize from him. i knew he had set his heart on winning the tournament this year. to be runner-up two years in succession stimulates the desire for the first place. it would be doubly bitter to him to be beaten by a newcomer, after the absence of his rival, the colonel, had awakened hope in him. and i knew i could do it. even allowing for bad luck--and i am never a very unlucky golfer--i could rely almost with certainty on crushing the man. "and i'll do it," i said to bob, who had trotted up. i often make bob the recipient of my confidences. he listens appreciatively and never interrupts. and he never has grievances of his own. if there is one person i dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when i wish to air mine. "bob," i said, running his tail through my fingers, "listen to me. if i am in form this afternoon, and i feel in my bones that i shall be, i shall nurse the professor. i shall play with him. do you understand the principles of match play at golf, robert? you score by holes, not strokes. there are eighteen holes. i shall toy with the professor, bob. i shall let him get ahead, and then catch him up. i shall go ahead myself, and let him catch me up. i shall race him neck and neck till the very end. then, when his hair has turned white with the strain, and he's lost a couple of stone in weight, and his eyes are starting out of his head, i shall go ahead and beat him by a hole. _i'll_ teach him, robert. he shall taste of my despair, and learn by proof in some wild hour how much the wretched dare. and when it's all over, and he's torn all his hair out and smashed all his clubs, i shall go and commit suicide off the cob. because, you see, if i can't marry phyllis, i shan't have any use for life." bob wagged his tail cheerfully. "i mean it," i said, rolling him on his back and punching him on the chest till his breathing became stertorous. "you don't see the sense of it, i know. but then you've got none of the finer feelings. you're a jolly good dog, robert, but you're a rank materialist. bones and cheese and potatoes with gravy over them make you happy. you don't know what it is to be in love. you'd better get right side up now, or you'll have apoplexy." it has been my aim in the course of this narrative to extenuate nothing, nor set down aught in malice. like the gentleman who played euchre with the heathen chinee, i state but the facts. i do not, therefore, slur over my scheme for disturbing the professor's peace of mind. i am not always good and noble. i am the hero of this story, but i have my off moments. i felt ruthless toward the professor. i cannot plead ignorance of the golfer's point of view as an excuse for my plottings. i knew that to one whose soul is in the game, as the professor's was, the agony of being just beaten in an important match exceeds in bitterness all other agonies. i knew that if i scraped through by the smallest possible margin, his appetite would be destroyed, his sleep o' nights broken. he would wake from fitful slumber moaning that if he had only used his iron at the tenth hole all would have been well; that if he had aimed more carefully on the seventh green, life would not be drear and blank; that a more judicious manipulation of his brassy throughout might have given him something to live for. all these things i knew. and they did not touch me. i was adamant. * * * * * the professor was waiting for me at the clubhouse, and greeted me with a cold and stately inclination of the head. "beautiful day for golf," i observed in my gay, chatty manner. he bowed in silence. "very well," i thought. "wait--just wait." "miss derrick is well, i hope?" i added aloud. that drew him. he started. his aspect became doubly forbidding. "miss derrick is perfectly well, sir, i thank you." "and you? no bad effect, i hope, from your dip yesterday?" "mr. garnet, i came here for golf, not conversation," he said. we made it so. i drove off from the first tee. it was a splendid drive. i should not say so if there were anyone else to say so for me. modesty would forbid. but, as there is no one, i must repeat the statement. it was one of the best drives of my experience. the ball flashed through the air, took the bunker with a dozen feet to spare, and rolled onto the green. i had felt all along that i should be in form. unless my opponent was equally above himself, he was a lost man. the excellence of my drive had not been without its effect on the professor. i could see that he was not confident. he addressed his ball more strangely and at greater length than anyone i had ever seen. he waggled his club over it as if he were going to perform a conjuring trick. then he struck and topped it. the ball rolled two yards. he looked at it in silence. then he looked at me--also in silence. i was gazing seaward. when i looked round, he was getting to work with a brassy. this time he hit the bunker and rolled back. he repeated this maneuver twice. "hard luck!" i murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, thereby going as near to being slain with an iron as it has ever been my lot to go. your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune, and there was a red gleam in the eye the professor turned to me. "i shall pick my ball up," he growled. we walked on in silence to the second tee. he did the second hole in four, which was good. i won it in three, which--unfortunately for him--was better. i won the third hole. i won the fourth hole. i won the fifth hole. i glanced at my opponent out of the corner of my eyes. the man was suffering. beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. his play had become wilder and wilder at each hole in arithmetical progression. if he had been a plow, he could hardly have turned up more soil. the imagination recoiled from the thought of what he would be doing in another half hour if he deteriorated at his present speed. a feeling of calm and content stole over me. i was not sorry for him. all the viciousness of my nature was uppermost in me. once, when he missed the ball clean at the fifth tee, his eye met mine, and we stood staring at each other for a full half minute without moving. i believe if i had smiled then, he would have attacked me without hesitation. there is a type of golfer who really almost ceases to be human under stress of the wild agony of a series of foozles. the sixth hole involves the player in a somewhat tricky piece of cross-country work. there is a nasty ditch to be negotiated. many an optimist has been reduced to blank pessimism by that ditch. "all hope abandon, ye who enter here," might be written on a notice board over it. the professor "entered there." the unhappy man sent his ball into its very jaws. and then madness seized him. the merciful laws of golf, framed by kindly men who do not wish to see the asylums of great britain overcrowded, enact that in such a case the player may take his ball and throw it over his shoulder. the same to count as one stroke. but vaulting ambition is apt to try and drive out from the ditch, thinking thereby to win through without losing a stroke. this way madness lies. it was a grisly sight to see the professor, head and shoulders above the ditch, hewing at his obstinate haskell. "_sixteen_!" said the professor at last between his teeth. then, having made one or two further comments, he stooped and picked up his ball. "i give you this hole," he said. we walked on. i won the seventh hole. i won the eighth hole. the ninth we halved, for in the black depth of my soul i had formed a plan of fiendish subtlety. i intended to allow him to win--with extreme labor--eight holes in succession. then, when hope was once more strong in him, i would win the last, and he would go mad. * * * * * i watched him carefully as we trudged on. emotions chased one another across his face. when he won the tenth hole he merely refrained from oaths. when he won the eleventh a sort of sullen pleasure showed in his face. it was at the thirteenth that i detected the first dawning of hope. from then onward it grew. when, with a sequence of shocking shots, he took the seventeenth hole in eight, he was in a parlous condition. his run of success had engendered within him a desire for conversation. he wanted, as it were, to flap his wings and crow. i could see dignity wrestling with talkativeness. i gave him a lead. "you have got back your form now," i said. talkativeness had it. dignity retired hurt. speech came from him with a rush. when he brought off an excellent drive from the eighteenth tee, he seemed to forget everything. "me dear boy--" he began, and stopped abruptly in some confusion. silence once more brooded over us as we played ourselves up the fairway and on to the green. he was on the green in four. i reached it in three. his sixth stroke took him out. i putted carefully to the very mouth of the hole. i walked up to my ball and paused. i looked at the professor. he looked at me. "go on," he said hoarsely. suddenly a wave of compassion flooded over me. what right had i to torture the man like this? he had not behaved well to me, but in the main it was my fault. in his place i should have acted in precisely the same way. in a flash i made up my mind. "professor," i said. "go on," he repeated. "that looks a simple shot," i said, eyeing him steadily, "but i might easily miss it." he started. "and then you would win the championship." he dabbed at his forehead with a wet ball of a handkerchief. "it would be very pleasant for you after getting so near it the last two years." "go on," he said for the third time. but there was a note of hesitation in his voice. "sudden joy," i said, "would almost certainly make me miss it." we looked at each other. he had the golf fever in his eyes. "if," i said slowly, lifting my putter, "you were to give your consent to my marriage with phyllis--" he looked from me to the ball, from the ball to me, and back again to the ball. it was very, very near the hole. "i love her," i said, "and i have discovered she loves me.... i shall be a rich man from the day i marry--" his eyes were still fixed on the ball. "why not?" i said. he looked up, and burst into a roar of laughter. "you young divil," said he, smiting his thigh, "you young divil, you've beaten me." i swung my putter, and drove the ball far beyond the green. "on the contrary," i said, "you have beaten me." * * * * * i left the professor at the clubhouse and raced back to the farm. i wanted to pour my joys into a sympathetic ear. ukridge, i knew, would offer that same sympathetic ear. a good fellow, ukridge. always interested in what you had to tell him--never bored. "ukridge," i shouted. no answer. i flung open the dining-room door. nobody. i went into the drawing-room. it was empty. i searched through the garden, and looked into his bedroom. he was not in either. "he must have gone for a stroll," i said. i rang the bell. the hired retainer appeared, calm and imperturbable as ever. "sir?" "oh, where is mr. ukridge, beale?" "mr. ukridge, sir," said the hired retainer nonchalantly, "has gone." "gone!" "yes, sir. mr. ukridge and mrs. ukridge went away together by the three o'clock train." the calm before the storm xxi "beale," i said, "what do you mean? where have they gone?" "don't know, sir. london, i expect." "when did they go? oh, you told me that. didn't they say why they were going?" "no, sir." "didn't you ask? when you saw them packing up and going to the station, didn't you do anything?" "no, sir." "why on earth not?" "i didn't see them, sir. i only found out as they'd gone after they'd been and went, sir. walking down by the 'net and mackerel,' met one of them coastguards. 'oh,' says he, 'so you're moving?' 'who's a-moving?' i says to him. 'well,' he says to me, 'i seen your mr. ukridge and his missus get into the three o'clock train for axminster. i thought as you was all a-moving.' 'ho!' i says, 'ho!' wondering, and i goes on. when i gets back, i asks the missus did she see them packing their boxes, and she says, 'no,' she says, they didn't pack no boxes as she knowed of. and blowed if they had, mr. garnet, sir." "what, they didn't pack!" "no, sir." we looked at one another. "beale," i said. "sir?" "do you know what i think?" "yes, sir." "they've bolted." "so i says to the missus, sir. it struck me right off, in a manner of speaking." "this is awful," i said. "yes, sir." his face betrayed no emotion, but he was one of those men whose expression never varies. it's a way they have in the army. "this wants thinking out, beale," i said. "yes, sir." "you'd better ask mrs. beale to give me some dinner, and then i'll think it out." "yes, sir." i was in an unpleasant position. ukridge, by his defection, had left me in charge of the farm. i could dissolve the concern, i supposed, if i wished, and return to london; but i particularly desired to remain in lyme regis. to complete the victory i had won on the links, it was necessary for me to continue as i had begun. i was in the position of a general who has conquered a hostile country, and is obliged to soothe the feelings of the conquered people before his labors can be considered at an end. i had rushed the professor. it must now be my aim to keep him from regretting that he had been rushed. i must, therefore, stick to my post with the tenacity of a boy on a burning deck. there would be trouble. of that i was certain. as soon as the news got about that ukridge had gone, the deluge would begin. his creditors would abandon their passive tactics and take active steps. the siege of port arthur would be nothing to it. there was a chance that aggressive measures would be confined to the enemy at our gates, the tradesmen of lyme regis. but the probability was that the news would spread and the injured merchants of dorchester and axminster rush to the scene of hostilities. i foresaw unpleasantness. i summoned beale after dinner and held a council of war. it was no time for airy persiflage. i said, "beale, we're in the cart." "sir?" "mr. ukridge going away like this has left me in a most unpleasant position. i would like to talk it over with you. i dare say you know that we--that mr. ukridge owes a considerable amount of money roundabout here to tradesmen?" "yes, sir." "well, when they find out that he has--er--" "shot the moon, sir," suggested the hired retainer helpfully. "gone up to town," i said. "when they find that he has gone up to town, they are likely to come bothering us a good deal." "yes, sir." "i fancy that we shall have them all round here by the day after to-morrow at the latest. probably earlier. news of this sort always spreads quickly. the point is, then, what are we to do?" he propounded no scheme, but stood in an easy attitude of attention, waiting for me to continue. i continued. "let's see exactly how we stand," i said. "my point is that i particularly wish to go on living down here for at least another fortnight. of course, my position is simple. i am mr. ukridge's guest. i shall go on living as i have been doing up to the present. he asked me down here to help him look after the fowls, so i shall go on looking after them. i shall want a chicken a day, i suppose, or perhaps two, for my meals, and there the thing ends, as far i am concerned. complications set in when we come to consider you and mrs. beale. i suppose you won't care to stop on after this?" the hired retainer scratched his chin and glanced out of the window. the moon was up and the garden looked cool and mysterious in the dim light. "it's a pretty place, mr. garnet, sir," he said. "it is," i said, "but about other considerations? there's the matter of wages. are yours in arrears?" "yes, sir. a month." "and mrs. beale's the same, i suppose?" "yes, sir. a month." "h'm. well, it seems to me, beale, you can't lose anything by stopping on." "i can't be paid any less than i have been, sir," he agreed. "exactly. and, as you say, it's a pretty place. you might just as well stop on and help me in the fowl run. what do you think?" "very well, sir." "and mrs. beale will do the same?" "yes, sir." "that's excellent. you're a hero, beale. i sha'n't forget you. there's a check coming to me from a magazine in another week for a short story. when it arrives i'll look into that matter of back wages. tell mrs. beale i'm much obliged to her, will you?" "yes, sir." having concluded that delicate business, i strolled out into the garden with bob. it was abominable of ukridge to desert me in this way. even if i had not been his friend, it would have been bad. the fact that we had known each other for years made it doubly discreditable. he might at least have warned me and given me the option of leaving the sinking ship with him. but, i reflected, i ought not to be surprised. his whole career, as long as i had known him, had been dotted with little eccentricities of a type which an unfeeling world generally stigmatizes as shady. they were small things, it was true; but they ought to have warned me. we are most of us wise after the event. when the wind has blown we generally discover a multitude of straws which should have shown us which way it was blowing. once, i remembered, in our school-master days, when guineas, though regular, were few, he had had occasion to increase his wardrobe. if i recollect rightly, he thought he had a chance of a good position in the tutoring line, and only needed good clothes to make it his. he took four pounds of his salary in advance--he was in the habit of doing this; he never had any of his salary left by the end of term, it having vanished in advance loans beforehand. with this he was to buy two suits, a hat, new boots, and collars. when it came to making the purchases, he found, what he had overlooked previously in his optimistic way, that four pounds did not go very far. at the time, i remember, i thought his method of grappling with the situation humorous. he bought a hat for three and sixpence, and got the suits and the boots on the installment system, paying a small sum in advance, as earnest of more to come. he then pawned one suit to pay the first few installments, and finally departed, to be known no more. his address he had given, with a false name, at an empty house, and when the tailor arrived with the minions of the law, all he found was an annoyed caretaker and a pile of letters written by himself, containing his bill in its various stages of evolution. or again. there was a bicycle and photograph shop near the school. he blew into this one day and his roving eye fell on a tandem bicycle. he did not want a tandem bicycle, but that influenced him not at all. he ordered it, provisionally. he also ordered an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic lantern. the order was booked and the goods were to be delivered when he had made up his mind concerning them. after a week the shopman sent round to ask if there were any further particulars which mr. ukridge would like to learn before definitely ordering them. mr. ukridge sent word back that he was considering the matter, and that in the meantime would he be so good as to let him have that little clockwork man in his window, which walked when wound up? having got this, and not paid for it, ukridge thought that he had done handsomely by the bicycle and photograph man, and that things were square between them. the latter met him a few days afterwards and expostulated plaintively. ukridge explained. "my good man," he said, "you know, i really think we need say no more about the matter. really, you've come out of it very well. now, look here, which would you rather be owed for? a clockwork man, which is broken, and you can have it back, or a tandem bicycle, an enlarging camera, a kodak, and a magic lantern? what?" his reasoning was too subtle for the uneducated mind. the man retired, puzzled and unpaid, and ukridge kept the clockwork toy. a remarkable financier, ukridge. i sometimes think that he would have done well in the city. i did not go to bed till late that night. there was something so peaceful in the silence that brooded over everything that i stayed on, enjoying it. perhaps it struck me as all the more peaceful because i could not help thinking of the troublous times that were to come. already i seemed to hear the horrid roar of a herd of infuriated creditors. i seemed to see fierce brawlings and sackings in progress in this very garden. "it will be a coarse, brutal spectacle, robert," i said. bob uttered a little whine, as if he, too, were endowed with powers of prophecy. the storm breaks xxii rather to my surprise, the next morning passed off uneventfully. by lunch time i had come to the conclusion that the expected trouble would not occur that day, and i felt that i might well leave my post for the afternoon while i went to the professor's to pay my respects. the professor was out when i arrived. phyllis was in, and as we had a good many things of no importance to say to each other, it was not till the evening that i started for the farm again. as i approached the sound of voices smote my ears. i stopped. i could hear beale speaking. then came the rich notes of vickers, the butcher. then beale again. then dawlish, the grocer. then a chorus. the storm had burst, and in my absence. i blushed for myself. i was in command, and i had deserted the fort in time of need. what must the faithful hired man be thinking of me? probably he placed me, as he had placed ukridge, in the ragged ranks of those who have shot the moon. fortunately, having just come from the professor's, i was in the costume which of all my wardrobe was most calculated to impress. to a casual observer i should probably suggest wealth and respectability. i stopped for a moment to cool myself, for, as is my habit when pleased with life, i had been walking fast, then i opened the gate and strode in, trying to look as opulent as possible. it was an animated scene that met my eyes. in the middle of the lawn stood the devoted beale, a little more flushed than i had seen him hitherto, parleying with a burly and excited young man without a coat. grouped round the pair were some dozen men, young, middle-aged, and old, all talking their hardest. i could distinguish nothing of what they were saying. i noticed that beale's left cheek bone was a little discolored, and there was a hard, dogged expression on his face. he, too, was in his shirt sleeves. my entry created no sensation. nobody, apparently, had heard the latch click, and nobody had caught sight of me. their eyes were fixed on the young man and beale. i stood at the gate and watched them. there seemed to have been trouble already. looking more closely i perceived sitting on the grass apart a second young man. his face was obscured by a dirty pocket handkerchief, with which he dabbed tenderly at his features. every now and then the shirt-sleeved young man flung his hand toward him with an indignant gesture, talking hard the while. it did not need a preternaturally keen observer to deduce what had happened. beale must have fallen out with the young man who was sitting on the grass and smitten him, and now his friend had taken up the quarrel. "now this," i said to myself, "is rather interesting. here in this one farm we have the only three known methods of dealing with duns. beale is evidently an exponent of the violent method. ukridge is an apostle of evasion. i shall try conciliation. i wonder which of us will be the most successful." meanwhile, not to spoil beale's efforts by allowing him too little scope for experiment, i refrained from making my presence known, and continued to stand by the gate, an interested spectator. things were evidently moving now. the young man's gestures became more vigorous. the dogged look on beale's face deepened. the comments of the ring increased in point and pungency. "what did you hit him for, then?" this question was put, always in the same words and with the same air of quiet triumph, at intervals of thirty seconds by a little man in a snuff-colored suit with a purple tie. nobody ever answered him or appeared to listen to him, but he seemed each time to think that he had clinched the matter and cornered his opponent. other voices chimed in. "you hit him, charlie. go on. you hit him." "we'll have the law." "go on, charlie." flushed with the favor of the many-headed, charlie now proceeded from threats to action. his right fist swung round suddenly. but beale was on the alert. he ducked sharply, and the next minute charlie was sitting on the ground beside his fallen friend. a hush fell on the ring, and the little man in the purple tie was left repeating his formula without support. i advanced. it seemed to me that the time had come to be conciliatory. charlie was struggling to his feet, obviously anxious for a second round, and beale was getting into position once more. in another five minutes conciliation would be out of the question. "what's all this?" i said. my advent caused a stir. excited men left beale and rallied round me. charlie, rising to his feet, found himself dethroned from his position of man of the moment, and stood blinking at the setting sun and opening and shutting his mouth. there was a buzz of conversation. "don't all speak at once, please," i said. "i can't possibly follow what you say. perhaps you will tell me what you want?" i singled out a short, stout man in gray. he wore the largest whiskers ever seen on human face. "it's like this, sir. we all of us want to know where we are." "i can tell you that," i said, "you're on our lawn, and i should be much obliged if you would stop digging your heels into it." this was not, i suppose, conciliation in the strictest and best sense of the word, but the thing had to be said. "you don't understand me, sir," he said excitedly. "when i said we didn't know where we were, it was a manner of speaking. we want to know how we stand." "on your heels," i replied gently, "as i pointed out before." "i am brass, sir, of axminster. my account with mr. ukridge is ten pounds eight shillings and fourpence. i want to know--" the whole strength of the company now joined in. "you know me, mr. garnet. appleby, in the high--" (voice lost in the general roar) "... and eightpence." "my account with mr. uk----" "... settle--" "i represent bodger--" a diversion occurred at this point. charlie, who had long been eyeing beale sourly, dashed at him with swinging fists and was knocked down again. the whole trend of the meeting altered once more. conciliation became a drug. violence was what the public wanted. beale had three fights in rapid succession. i was helpless. instinct prompted me to join the fray, but prudence told me that such a course would be fatal. at last, in a lull, i managed to catch the hired retainer by the arm as he drew back from the prostrate form of his latest victim. "drop it, beale," i whispered hotly, "drop it. we shall never manage these people if you knock them about. go indoors and stay there while i talk to them." "mr. garnet, sir," said he, the light of battle dying out of his eyes, "it's 'ard. it's cruel 'ard. i ain't 'ad a turn-up, not to _call_ a turn-up, since i've bin a time-expired man. i ain't hitting of 'em, mr. garnet, sir, not hard i ain't. that there first one of 'em he played me dirty, hittin' at me when i wasn't looking. they can't say as i started it." "that's all right, beale," i said soothingly. "i know it wasn't your fault, and i know it's hard on you to have to stop, but i wish you would go indoors. i must talk to these men, and we sha'n't have a moment's peace while you're here. cut along." "very well, sir. but it's 'ard. mayn't i 'ave just one go at that charlie, mr. garnet?" he asked wistfully. "no, no. go in." "and if they goes for you, sir, and tries to wipe the face off you?" "they won't, they won't. if they do, i'll shout for you." he went reluctantly into the house, and i turned again to my audience. "if you will kindly be quiet for a moment--" i said. "i am appleby, mr. garnet, in the high street. mr. ukridge--" "eighteen pounds fourteen shillings--" "kindly glance--" i waved my hands wildly above my head. "stop! stop! stop!" i shouted. the babble continued, but diminished gradually in volume. through the trees, as i waited, i caught a glimpse of the sea. i wished i was out on the cob, where beyond these voices there was peace. my head was beginning to ache, and i felt faint for want of food. "gentlemen!" i cried, as the noise died away. the latch of the gate clicked. i looked up and saw a tall thin young man in a frock coat and silk hat enter the garden. it was the first time i had seen the costume in the country. he approached me. "mr. ukridge, sir?" he said. "my name is garnet. mr. ukridge is away at the moment." "i come from whiteley's, mr. garnet. our mr. blenkinsop having written on several occasions to mr. ukridge, calling his attention to the fact that his account has been allowed to mount to a considerable figure, and having received no satisfactory reply, desired me to visit him. i am sorry that he is not at home." "so am i," i said with feeling. "do you expect him to return shortly?" "no," i said, "i do not." he was looking curiously at the expectant band of duns. i forestalled his question. "those are some of mr. ukridge's creditors," i said. "i am just about to address them. perhaps you will take a seat. the grass is quite dry. my remarks will embrace you as well as them." comprehension came into his eyes, and the natural man in him peeped through the polish. "great scott, has he done a bunk?" he cried. "to the best of my knowledge, yes," i said. he whistled. i turned again to the local talent. "gentlemen!" i shouted. "hear, hear!" said some idiot. "gentlemen, i intend to be quite frank with you. we must decide just how matters stand between us." (a voice: "where's ukridge?") "mr. ukridge left for london suddenly (bitter laughter) yesterday afternoon. personally i think he will come back very shortly." hoots of derision greeted this prophecy. i resumed: "i fail to see your object in coming here. i have nothing for you. i couldn't pay your bills if i wanted to." it began to be borne in upon me that i was becoming unpopular. "i am here simply as mr. ukridge's guest," i proceeded. after all, why should i spare the man? "i have nothing whatever to do with his business affairs. i refuse absolutely to be regarded as in any way indebted to you. i am sorry for you. you have my sympathy. that is all i can give you, sympathy--and good advice." dissatisfaction. i was getting myself disliked. and i had meant to be so conciliatory, to speak to these unfortunates words of cheer which should be as olive oil poured into a wound. for i really did sympathize with them. i considered that ukridge had used them disgracefully. but i was irritated. my head ached abominably. "then am i to tell our mr. blenkinsop," asked the frock-coated one, "that the money is not and will not be forthcoming?" "when next you smoke a quiet cigar with your mr. blenkinsop," i replied courteously, "and find conversation flagging, i rather think i _should_ say something of the sort." "we shall, of course, instruct our solicitors at once to institute legal proceedings against your mr. ukridge." "don't call him my mr. ukridge. you can do whatever you please." "that is your last word on the subject." "i hope so." "where's our money?" demanded a discontented voice from the crowd. then charlie, filled with the lust of revenge, proposed that the company should sack the place. "we can't see the color of our money," he said pithily, "but we can have our own back." that settled it. the battle was over. the most skillful general must sometimes recognize defeat. i could do nothing further with them. i had done my best for the farm. i could do no more. i lit my pipe and strolled into the paddock. chaos followed. indoors and out of doors they raged without check. even beale gave the thing up. he knocked charlie into a flower bed and then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. it was growing dusk. from inside the house came faint sounds of mirth, as the sacking party emptied the rooms of their contents. in the fowl run a hen was crooning sleepily in its coop. it was a very soft, liquid, soothing sound. presently out came the invaders with their loot--one with a picture, another with a vase, another bearing the gramophone upside down. then i heard somebody--charlie again, it seemed to me--propose a raid on the fowl run. the fowls had had their moments of unrest since they had been our property, but what they had gone through with us was peace compared with what befell them then. not even on that second evening of our visit, when we had run unmeasured miles in pursuit of them, had there been such confusion. roused abruptly from their beauty sleep, they fled in all directions. the summer evening was made hideous with the noise of them. "disgraceful, sir. is it not disgraceful!" said a voice at my ear. the young man from whiteley's stood beside me. he did not look happy. his forehead was damp. somebody seemed to have stepped on his hat and his coat was smeared with mold. i was turning to answer him, when from the dusk in the direction of the house came a sudden roar. a passionate appeal to the world in general to tell the speaker what all this meant. there was only one man of my acquaintance with a voice like that. i walked without hurry toward him. "good evening, ukridge," i said. after the storm xxiii a yell of welcome drowned the tumult of the looters. "is that you, garny, old horse? what's up? what's the matter? has everybody gone mad? who are those blackguardly scoundrels in the fowl run? what are they doing? what's been happening?" "i have been entertaining a little meeting of your creditors," i said. "and now they are entertaining themselves." "but what did you let them do it for?" "what is one among so many?" i said. "oh," moaned ukridge, as a hen flashed past us, pursued by a criminal, "it's a little hard. i can't go away for a day--" "you can't," i said. "you're right there. you can't go away without a word--" "without a word? what do you mean? garny, old boy, pull yourself together. you're overexcited. do you mean to tell me you didn't get my note?" "what note?" "the one i left on the dining-room table." "there was no note there." "what!" i was reminded of the scene that had taken place on the first day of our visit. "feel in your pockets," i said. and history repeated itself. one of the first things he pulled out was the note. "why, here it is!" he said in amazement. "of course. where did you expect it to be? was it important?" "why, it explained the whole thing." "then," i said, "i wish you'd let me read it. a note that can explain what's happened ought to be worth reading." i took the envelope from his hand and opened it. it was too dark to read, so i lit a match. a puff of wind extinguished it. there is always just enough wind to extinguish a match. i pocketed the note. "i can't read it now," i said. "tell me what it was about." "it was telling you to sit tight and not to worry about us going away--" "that's good about worrying. you're a thoughtful chap, ukridge." "--because we should be back in a day or two." "and what sent you up to town?" "why, we went to touch millie's aunt elizabeth." a light began to shine on my darkness. "oh!" i said. "you remember aunt elizabeth? we got a letter from her not so long ago." "i know whom you mean. she called you a gaby." "and a guffin." "of course. i remember thinking her a shrewd and discriminating old lady, with a great gift of description. so you went to touch her?" "that's it. i suddenly found that things were getting into an a tangle, and that we must have more money. so i naturally thought of aunt elizabeth. she isn't what you might call an admirer of mine, but she's very fond of millie, and would do anything for her if she's allowed to chuck about a few home-truths before doing it. so we went off together, looked her up at her house, stated our painful case, and corralled the money. millie and i shared the work. she did the asking, while i inquired after the rheumatism. she mentioned the precise figure that would clear us. i patted the toy pomeranian. little beast! got after me quick, when i wasn't looking, and chewed my ankle." "thank heaven for that," i said. "in the end millie got the money and i got the home truths." "did she call you a gaby?" "twice. and a guffin three times." "but you got the money?" "rather. and i'll tell you another thing. i scored heavily at the end of the visit. lady lakenheath was doing stunts with proverbs--" "i beg your pardon?" "quoting proverbs, you know, bearing on the situation. 'ah, my dear,' she said to millie, 'marry in haste, repent at leisure!' 'i'm afraid that proverb doesn't apply to us,' said millie, 'because i haven't repented.' what do you think of that, old horse?" "millie's an angel," i replied. just then the angel joined us. she had been exploring the house, and noting the damage done. her eyes were open to their fullest extent as she shook hands with me. "oh, mr. garnet," she said, "_couldn't_ you have stopped them?" i felt a cur. had i done as much as i might have done to stem the tide? "i'm awfully sorry, mrs. ukridge," i said. "i really don't think i could have done more. we tried every method. beale had seven fights, and i made a speech on the lawn, but it was all no good." "perhaps we can collect these men and explain things," i added. "i don't believe any of them know you've come back." "send beale round," said ukridge. "beale!" the hired retainer came running out at the sound of the well-known voice. "lumme, mr. ukridge, sir!" he gasped. it was the first time beale had ever betrayed any real emotion in my presence. to him, i suppose, the return of ukridge was as sensational and astounding an event as the reappearance of one from the tomb would have been. he was not accustomed to find those who had shot the moon revisiting their old haunts. "go round the place and tell those blackguards that i've come back, and would like to have a word with them on the lawn. and if you find any of them stealing my fowls, knock them down." "i 'ave knocked down one or two," said beale with approval. "that charlie--" "that's right, beale. you're an excellent man, and i will pay you your back wages to-night before i go to bed." "those fellers, sir," said beale, having expressed his gratification, "they've been and scattered most of them birds already, sir. they've been chasin' of 'em for this hour back." ukridge groaned. "demons!" he said. "demons!" beale went off. the audience assembled on the lawn in the moonlight. ukridge, with his cap well over his eyes and his mackintosh hanging around him like a roman toga, surveyed them stonily, and finally began his speech. "you--you--you--you blackguards!" he said. i always like to think of ukridge as he appeared at that moment. there have been times when his conduct did not recommend itself to me. it has sometimes happened that i have seen flaws in him. but on this occasion he was at his best. he was eloquent. he dominated his audience. he poured scorn upon his hearers, and they quailed. he flung invective at them, and they wilted. it was hard, he said, it was a little hard that a gentleman could not run up to london for a couple of days on business without having his private grounds turned upside down. he had intended to deal well by the tradesmen of the town, to put business in their way, to give them large orders. but would he? not much. as soon as ever the sun had risen and another day begun, their miserable accounts should be paid in full and their connection with him be cut off. afterwards it was probable that he would institute legal proceedings against them for trespass and damage to property, and if they didn't all go to prison they might consider themselves uncommonly lucky, and if they didn't fly the spot within the brief space of two ticks he would get among them with a shotgun. he was sick of them. they were no gentlemen, but cads. scoundrels. creatures that it would be rank flattery to describe as human beings. that's the sort of things _they_ were. and now they might go--_quick_! the meeting then dispersed, without the usual vote of thanks. * * * * * we were quiet at the farm that night. ukridge sat like marius among the ruins of carthage and refused to speak. eventually he took bob with him and went for a walk. half an hour later i, too, wearied of the scene of desolation. my errant steps took me in the direction of the sea. as i approached i was aware of a figure standing in the moonlight, gazing moodily out over the waters. beside the figure was a dog. i would not disturb his thoughts. the dark moments of massive minds are sacred. i forebore to speak to him. as readily might one of the generals of the grand army have opened conversation with napoleon during the retreat from moscow. i turned softly and walked the other way. when i looked back he was still there. [illustration: "i did think mr. garnet would have fainted when the best man said, 'i can't find it, old horse!'"] epilogue argument. from the _morning post: "... and graceful, wore a simple gown of stiff satin and old lace, and a heavy lace veil fell in soft folds over the shimmering skirt. a reception was subsequently held by mrs. o'brien, aunt of the bride, at her house in ennismore gardens."_ in the servants' hall the cook. ... and as pretty a wedding, mr. hill, as ever i did see. the butler. indeed, mrs. minchley? and how did our niece look? the cook (_closing her eyes in silent rapture_). well, _there_! that lace! (_in a burst of ecstacy_.) well, _there_!! words can't describe it, mr. hill. the butler. indeed, mrs. minchley? the cook. and miss phyllis--mrs. garnet, i _should_ say--she was as calm as calm. and looking beautiful as--well, there! now, mr. garnet, he _did_ look nervous, if you like, and when the best man--such a queer-looking awkward man, in a frock coat that _i_ wouldn't have been best man at a wedding in--when he lost the ring and said--quite loud, everybody could hear him--"i can't find it, old horse!" why i did think mr. garnet would have fainted away, and so i said to jane, as was sitting beside me. but he found it at the last moment, and all went on as merrily, as you may say, as a wedding bell. jane (_sentimentally_). reely, these weddings, you know, they do give you a sort of feeling, if you catch my meaning, mrs. minchley. the butler (_with the air of a high priest who condescends for once to unbend and frolic with lesser mortals_). ah! it'll be your turn next, miss jane. jane (_who has long had designs on this dignified bachelor_). oh, mr. hill, reely! you do poke your fun. [_raises her eyes to his, and drops them swiftly, leaving him with a pleasant sensation of having said a good thing particularly neatly, and a growing idea that he might do worse than marry jane, take a nice little house in chelsea somewhere, and let lodgings. he thinks it over._ tilby (_a flighty young person who, when she has a moment or two to spare from the higher flirtation with the local policeman, puts in a little light work about the bedrooms_). oh, i say, this'll be one in the eye for riggetts, pore little feller. (_assuming an air of advanced melodrama._) ow! she 'as forsiken me! i'll go and blow me little 'ead off with a blunderbuss! ow that one so fair could be so false! master thomas riggetts (_the page boy, whose passion for the lady who has just become mrs. garnet has for many months been a byword in the servants' hall_). huh! (_to himself bitterly._) tike care, tike care, lest some day you drive me too far. [_is left brooding darkly._ upstairs the bride. ... thank you.... oh, thank you.... thank you so much.... thank you _so_ much ... oh, thank you.... thank you.... thank you _so_ much. the bridegroom. thanks.... oh, thanks.... thanks awf'lly.... thanks awf'lly.... thanks awf'lly.... oh, thanks awf'lly ... (_with a brilliant burst of invention, amounting almost to genius_) thanks _frightfully_. the bride (_to herself, rapturously_). a-a-a-h! the bridegroom (_dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief during a lull_). i shall drop. the best man (_appearing suddenly at his side with a glass_). bellows to mend, old horse, what? keep going. you're doing fine. bless you. bless you. [_drifts away._ elderly stranger (_to bridegroom_). sir, i have jigged your wife on my knee. the bridegroom (_with absent politeness_). ah! lately? elderly stranger. when she was a baby, sir. the bridegroom (_from force of habit_). oh, thanks. thanks awf'lly. the bride (_to herself_). _why_ can't one get married every day!... (_catching sight of a young gentleman whose bi-weekly conversation with her in the past was wont to consist of two remarks on the weather and one proposal of marriage_). _oh_! oh, what a _shame_ inviting poor little freddy fraddle! aunt kathleen _must_ have known! how could she be so cruel! poor little fellow, he must be suffering dreadfully! poor little freddy fraddle (_addressing his immortal soul as he catches sight of the bridegroom, with a set smile on his face, shaking hands with an obvious bore_). poor devil, poor, poor devil! and to think that i--! well, well! there but for the grace of god goes frederick fraddle. the bridegroom (_to the_ obvious bore). thanks. thanks awf'lly. the obvious bore (_in measured tones_).... are going, as you say, to wales for your honeymoon, you should on no account miss the opportunity of seeing the picturesque ruins of llanxwrg castle, which are among the most prominent spectacles of carnarvonshire, a county, which i understand you to say, you propose to include in your visit. the ruins are really part of the village of twdyd-prtsplgnd, but your best station would be golgdn. there is a good train service to and from that spot. if you mention my name to the custodian of the ruins, he will allow you to inspect the grave of the celebrated ---- immaculate youth (_interrupting_). hello, garnet, old man. don't know if you remember me. latimer, of oriel. i was a fresher in your third year. gratters! the bridegroom (_with real sincerity for once_). thanks. thanks awf'lly. [_they proceed to talk oxford shop together, to the exclusion of the o. b., who glides off in search of another victim_. in the street the coachman (_to his horse_). _kim_ up, then! the horse (_to itself_). deuce of a time these people are. why don't they hurry. i want to be off. i'm certain we shall miss that train. the best man (_to crowd of perfect strangers, with whom in some mysterious way he has managed to strike up a warm friendship_). now, then, you men, stand by. wait till they come out, then blaze away. good handful first shot. that's what you want. the cook (_in the area, to_ jane). oh, i do 'ope they won't miss that train, don't you? oh, here they come. oh, don't miss phyllis--mrs. garnet--look--well, there. and i can remember her a little slip of a girl only so high, and she used to come to my kitchen, and she used to say, "mrs. minchley," she used to say--it seems only yesterday--"mrs. minchley, i want--" [_left reminiscing._ the bride (_as the page boy's gloomy eye catches hers, "smiles as she was wont to smile_"). master riggetts (_with a happy recollection of his latest-read work of fiction--"sir rupert of the hall": meadowsweet library--to himself_). "good-by, proud lady. fare you well. and may you never regret. may--you--nevorrr--regret!" [_dives passionately into larder, and consoles himself with jam._ the best man (_to his gang of bravoes_). now, then, you men, bang it in. [_they bang it in._ the bridegroom (_retrieving his hat_). oh-- [_recollects himself in time._ the best man. oh, shot, sir! shot, indeed! [_the_ bride _and_ bridegroom _enter the carriage amid a storm of rice._ the best man (_coming to carriage window_). garny, old horse. the bridegroom. well? the best man. just a moment. look here, i've got a new idea. the best ever, 'pon my word it is. i'm going to start a duck farm and run it without water. what? you'll miss your train? oh, no, you won't. there's plenty of time. my theory is, you see, that ducks get thin by taking exercise and swimming about and so on, don't you know, so that, if you kept them on land always, they'd get jolly fat in about half the time--and no trouble and expense. see? what? you bring the missus down there. i'll write you the address. good-by. bless you. good-by, mrs. garnet. the bride and bridegroom (_simultaneously, with a smile apiece_). good-by. [_they catch the train and live happily ever afterwards._] * * * * * the lady of the barge and other stories by w. w. jacobs cupboard love in the comfortable living-room at negget's farm, half parlour and half kitchen, three people sat at tea in the waning light of a november afternoon. conversation, which had been brisk, had languished somewhat, owing to mrs. negget glancing at frequent intervals toward the door, behind which she was convinced the servant was listening, and checking the finest periods and the most startling suggestions with a warning _'ssh!_ "go on, uncle," she said, after one of these interruptions. "i forget where i was," said mr. martin bodfish, shortly. "under our bed," mr. negget reminded him. "yes, watching," said mrs. negget, eagerly. it was an odd place for an ex-policeman, especially as a small legacy added to his pension had considerably improved his social position, but mr. bodfish had himself suggested it in the professional hope that the person who had taken mrs. negget's gold brooch might try for further loot. he had, indeed, suggested baiting the dressing-table with the farmer's watch, an idea which mr. negget had promptly vetoed. "i can't help thinking that mrs. pottle knows something about it," said mrs. negget, with an indignant glance at her husband. "mrs. pottle," said the farmer, rising slowly and taking a seat on the oak settle built in the fireplace, "has been away from the village for near a fortnit." "i didn't say she took it," snapped his wife. "i said i believe she knows something about it, and so i do. she's a horrid woman. look at the way she encouraged her girl looey to run after that young traveller from smithson's. the whole fact of the matter is, it isn't your brooch, so you don't care." "i said--" began mr. negget. "i know what you said," retorted his wife, sharply, "and i wish you'd be quiet and not interrupt uncle. here's my uncle been in the police twenty-five years, and you won't let him put a word in edgeways.' "my way o' looking at it," said the ex-policeman, slowly, "is different to that o' the law; my idea is, an' always has been, that everybody is guilty until they've proved their innocence." "it's a wonderful thing to me," said mr. negget in a low voice to his pipe, "as they should come to a house with a retired policeman living in it. looks to me like somebody that ain't got much respect for the police." the ex-policeman got up from the table, and taking a seat on the settle opposite the speaker, slowly filled a long clay and took a spill from the fireplace. his pipe lit, he turned to his niece, and slowly bade her go over the account of her loss once more. "i missed it this morning," said mrs. negget, rapidly, "at ten minutes past twelve o'clock by the clock, and half-past five by my watch which wants looking to. i'd just put the batch of bread into the oven, and gone upstairs and opened the box that stands on my drawers to get a lozenge, and i missed the brooch." "do you keep it in that box?" asked the ex-policeman, slowly. "always," replied his niece. "i at once came down stairs and told emma that the brooch had been stolen. i said that i named no names, and didn't wish to think bad of anybody, and that if i found the brooch back in the box when i went up stairs again, i should forgive whoever took it." "and what did emma say?" inquired mr. bodfish. "emma said a lot o' things," replied mrs. negget, angrily. "i'm sure by the lot she had to say you'd ha' thought she was the missis and me the servant. i gave her a month's notice at once, and she went straight up stairs and sat on her box and cried." "sat on her box?" repeated the ex-constable, impressively. "oh!" "that's what i thought," said his niece, "but it wasn't, because i got her off at last and searched it through and through. i never saw anything like her clothes in all my life. there was hardly a button or a tape on; and as for her stockings--" "she don't get much time," said mr. negget, slowly. "that's right; i thought you'd speak up for her," cried his wife, shrilly. "look here--" began mr. negget, laying his pipe on the seat by his side and rising slowly. "keep to the case in hand," said the ex-constable, waving him back to his seat again. "now, lizzie." "i searched her box through and through," said his niece, "but it wasn't there; then i came down again and had a rare good cry all to myself." "that's the best way for you to have it," remarked mr. negget, feelingly. mrs. negget's uncle instinctively motioned his niece to silence, and holding his chin in his hand, scowled frightfully in the intensity of thought. "see a cloo?" inquired mr. negget, affably. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, george," said his wife, angrily; "speaking to uncle when he's looking like that." mr. bodfish said nothing; it is doubtful whether he even heard these remarks; but he drew a huge notebook from his pocket, and after vainly trying to point his pencil by suction, took a knife from the table and hastily sharpened it. "was the brooch there last night?" he inquired. "it were," said mr. negget, promptly. "lizzie made me get up just as the owd clock were striking twelve to get her a lozenge." "it seems pretty certain that the brooch went since then," mused mr. bodfish. "it would seem like it to a plain man," said mr. negget, guardedly. "i should like to see the box," said mr. bodfish. mrs. negget went up and fetched it and stood eyeing him eagerly as he raised the lid and inspected the contents. it contained only a few lozenges and some bone studs. mr. negget helped himself to a lozenge, and going back to his seat, breathed peppermint. "properly speaking, that ought not to have been touched," said the ex-constable, regarding him with some severity. "eh!" said the startled farmer, putting his finger to his lips. "never mind," said the other, shaking his head. "it's too late now." "he doesn't care a bit," said mrs. negget, somewhat sadly. "he used to keep buttons in that box with the lozenges until one night he gave me one by mistake. yes, you may laugh--i'm glad you can laugh." mr. negget, feeling that his mirth was certainly ill-timed, shook for some time in a noble effort to control himself, and despairing at length, went into the back place to recover. sounds of blows indicative of emma slapping him on the back did not add to mrs. negget's serenity. "the point is," said the ex-constable, "could anybody have come into your room while you was asleep and taken it?" "no," said mrs. negget, decisively. i'm a very poor sleeper, and i'd have woke at once, but if a flock of elephants was to come in the room they wouldn't wake george. he'd sleep through anything." "except her feeling under my piller for her handkerchief," corroborated mr. negget, returning to the sitting-room. mr. bodfish waved them to silence, and again gave way to deep thought. three times he took up his pencil, and laying it down again, sat and drummed on the table with his fingers. then he arose, and with bent head walked slowly round and round the room until he stumbled over a stool. "nobody came to the house this morning, i suppose?" he said at length, resuming his seat. "only mrs. driver," said his niece. "what time did she come?" inquired mr. bodfish. "here! look here!" interposed mr. negget. "i've known mrs. driver thirty year a'most." "what time did she come?" repeated the ex-constable, pitilessly. his niece shook her head. "it might have been eleven, and again it might have been earlier," she replied. "i was out when she came." "out!" almost shouted the other. mrs. negget nodded. "she was sitting in here when i came back." her uncle looked up and glanced at the door behind which a small staircase led to the room above. "what was to prevent mrs. driver going up there while you were away?" he demanded. "i shouldn't like to think that of mrs. driver," said his niece, shaking her head; "but then in these days one never knows what might happen. never. i've given up thinking about it. however, when i came back, mrs. driver was here, sitting in that very chair you are sitting in now." mr. bodfish pursed up his lips and made another note. then he took a spill from the fireplace, and lighting a candle, went slowly and carefully up the stairs. he found nothing on them but two caked rims of mud, and being too busy to notice mr. negget's frantic signalling, called his niece's attention to them. "what do you think of that?" he demanded, triumphantly. "somebody's been up there," said his niece. "it isn't emma, because she hasn't been outside the house all day; and it can't be george, because he promised me faithful he'd never go up there in his dirty boots." mr. negget coughed, and approaching the stairs, gazed with the eye of a stranger at the relics as mr. bodfish hotly rebuked a suggestion of his niece's to sweep them up. "seems to me," said the conscience-stricken mr. negget, feebly, "as they're rather large for a woman." "mud cakes," said mr. bodfish, with his most professional manner; "a small boot would pick up a lot this weather." "so it would," said mr. negget, and with brazen effrontery not only met his wife's eye without quailing, but actually glanced down at her boots. mr. bodfish came back to his chair and ruminated. then he looked up and spoke. "it was missed this morning at ten minutes past twelve," he said, slowly; "it was there last night. at eleven o'clock you came in and found mrs. driver sitting in that chair." "no, the one you're in," interrupted his niece. "it don't signify," said her uncle. "nobody else has been near the place, and emma's box has been searched. "thoroughly searched," testified mrs. negget. "now the point is, what did mrs. driver come for this morning?" resumed the ex-constable. "did she come--" he broke off and eyed with dignified surprise a fine piece of wireless telegraphy between husband and wife. it appeared that mr. negget sent off a humorous message with his left eye, the right being for some reason closed, to which mrs. negget replied with a series of frowns and staccato shakes of the head, which her husband found easily translatable. under the austere stare of mr. bodfish their faces at once regained their wonted calm, and the ex-constable in a somewhat offended manner resumed his inquiries. "mrs. driver has been here a good bit lately," he remarked, slowly. mr. negget's eyes watered, and his mouth worked piteously. "if you can't behave yourself, george--began began his wife, fiercely. "what is the matter?" demanded mr. bodfish. "i'm not aware that i've said anything to be laughed at." "no more you have, uncle," retorted his niece; "only george is such a stupid. he's got an idea in his silly head that mrs. driver--but it's all nonsense, of course." "i've merely got a bit of an idea that it's a wedding-ring, not a brooch, mrs. driver is after," said the farmer to the perplexed constable. mr. bodfish looked from one to the other. "but you always keep yours on, lizzie, don't you?" he asked. "yes, of course," replied his niece, hurriedly; "but george has always got such strange ideas. don't take no notice of him." her uncle sat back in his chair, his face still wrinkled perplexedly; then the wrinkles vanished suddenly, chased away by a huge glow, and he rose wrathfully and towered over the match-making mr. negget. "how dare you?" he gasped. mr. negget made no reply, but in a cowardly fashion jerked his thumb toward his wife. "oh! george! how can you say so?" said the latter. "i should never ha' thought of it by myself," said the farmer; "but i think they'd make a very nice couple, and i'm sure mrs. driver thinks so." the ex-constable sat down in wrathful confusion, and taking up his notebook again, watched over the top of it the silent charges and countercharges of his niece and her husband. "if i put my finger on the culprit," he asked at length, turning to his niece, "what do you wish done to her?" mrs. negget regarded him with an expression which contained all the christian virtues rolled into one. "nothing," she said, softly. "i only want my brooch back." the ex-constable shook his head at this leniency. "well, do as you please," he said, slowly. "in the first place, i want you to ask mrs. driver here to tea to-morrow--oh, i don't mind negget's ridiculous ideas--pity he hasn't got something better to think of; if she's guilty, i'll soon find it out. i'll play with her like a cat with a mouse. i'll make her convict herself." "look here!" said mr. negget, with sudden vigour. "i won't have it. i won't have no woman asked here to tea to be got at like that. there's only my friends comes here to tea, and if any friend stole anything o' mine, i'd be one o' the first to hush it up." "if they were all like you, george," said his wife, angrily, "where would the law be?" "or the police?" demanded mr. bodfish, staring at him. "i won't have it!" repeated the farmer, loudly. "i'm the law here, and i'm the police here. that little tiny bit o' dirt was off my boots, i dare say. i don't care if it was." "very good," said mr. bodfish, turning to his indignant niece; "if he likes to look at it that way, there's nothing more to be said. i only wanted to get your brooch back for you, that's all; but if he's against it--" "i'm against your asking mrs. driver here to my house to be got at," said the farmer. "o' course if you can find out who took the brooch, and get it back again anyway, that's another matter." mr. bodfish leaned over the table toward his niece. "if i get an opportunity, i'll search her cottage," he said, in a low voice. "strictly speaking, it ain't quite a legal thing to do, o course, but many o' the finest pieces of detective work have been done by breaking the law. if she's a kleptomaniac, it's very likely lying about somewhere in the house." he eyed mr. negget closely, as though half expecting another outburst, but none being forthcoming, sat back in his chair again and smoked in silence, while mrs. negget, with a carpet-brush which almost spoke, swept the pieces of dried mud from the stairs. mr. negget was the last to go to bed that night, and finishing his pipe over the dying fire, sat for some time in deep thought. he had from the first raised objections to the presence of mr. bodfish at the farm, but family affection, coupled with an idea of testamentary benefits, had so wrought with his wife that he had allowed her to have her own way. now he half fancied that he saw a chance of getting rid of him. if he could only enable the widow to catch him searching her house, it was highly probable that the ex-constable would find the village somewhat too hot to hold him. he gave his right leg a congratulatory slap as he thought of it, and knocking the ashes from his pipe, went slowly up to bed. he was so amiable next morning that mr. bodfish, who was trying to explain to mrs. negget the difference between theft and kleptomania, spoke before him freely. the ex-constable defined kleptomania as a sort of amiable weakness found chiefly among the upper circles, and cited the case of a lady of title whose love of diamonds, combined with great hospitality, was a source of much embarrassment to her guests. for the whole of that day mr. bodfish hung about in the neighbourhood of the widow's cottage, but in vain, and it would be hard to say whether he or mr. negget, who had been discreetly shadowing him, felt the disappointment most. on the day following, however, the ex-constable from a distant hedge saw a friend of the widow's enter the cottage, and a little later both ladies emerged and walked up the road. he watched them turn the corner, and then, with a cautious glance round, which failed, however, to discover mr. negget, the ex-constable strolled casually in the direction of the cottage, and approaching it from the rear, turned the handle of the door and slipped in. he searched the parlour hastily, and then, after a glance from the window, ventured up stairs. and he was in the thick of his self-imposed task when his graceless nephew by marriage, who had met mrs. driver and referred pathetically to a raging thirst which he had hoped to have quenched with some of her home-brewed, brought the ladies hastily back again. "i'll go round the back way," said the wily negget as they approached the cottage. "i just want to have a look at that pig of yours." he reached the back door at the same time as mr. bodfish, and placing his legs apart, held it firmly against the frantic efforts of the exconstable. the struggle ceased suddenly, and the door opened easily just as mrs. driver and her friend appeared in the front room, and the farmer, with a keen glance at the door of the larder which had just closed, took a chair while his hostess drew a glass of beer from the barrel in the kitchen. mr. negget drank gratefully and praised the brew. from beer the conversation turned naturally to the police, and from the police to the listening mr. bodfish, who was economizing space by sitting on the bread- pan, and trembling with agitation. "he's a lonely man," said negget, shaking his head and glancing from the corner of his eye at the door of the larder. in his wildest dreams he had not imagined so choice a position, and he resolved to give full play to an idea which suddenly occurred to him. "i dare say," said mrs. driver, carelessly, conscious that her friend was watching her. "and the heart of a little child," said negget; "you wouldn't believe how simple he is." mrs. clowes said that it did him credit, but, speaking for herself, she hadn't noticed it. "he was talking about you night before last," said negget, turning to his hostess; "not that that's anything fresh. he always is talking about you nowadays." the widow coughed confusedly and told him not to be foolish. "ask my wife," said the farmer, impressively; "they were talking about you for hours. he's a very shy man is my wife's uncle, but you should see his face change when your name's mentioned." as a matter of fact, mr. bodfish's face was at that very moment taking on a deeper shade of crimson. "everything you do seems to interest him," continued the farmer, disregarding mrs. driver's manifest distress; "he was asking lizzie about your calling on monday; how long you stayed, and where you sat; and after she'd told him, i'm blest if he didn't go and sit in the same chair!" this romantic setting to a perfectly casual action on the part of mr. bodfish affected the widow visibly, but its effect on the ex-constable nearly upset the bread-pan. "but here," continued mr. negget, with another glance at the larder, "he might go on like that for years. he's a wunnerful shy man--big, and gentle, and shy. he wanted lizzie to ask you to tea yesterday." "now, mr. negget," said the blushing widow. "do be quiet." "fact," replied the farmer; "solemn fact, i assure you. and he asked her whether you were fond of jewellery." "i met him twice in the road near here yesterday," said mrs. clowes, suddenly. "perhaps he was waiting for you to come out." "i dare say," replied the farmer. "i shouldn't wonder but what he's hanging about somewhere near now, unable to tear himself away." mr. bodfish wrung his hands, and his thoughts reverted instinctively to instances in his memory in which charges of murder had been altered by the direction of a sensible judge to manslaughter. he held his breath for the next words. mr. negget drank a little more ale and looked at mrs. driver. [illustration: mrs. driver fell rack beore the emerging form of mr. bodfish] "i wonder whether you've got a morsel of bread and cheese?" he said, slowly. "i've come over that hungry--" the widow and mr. bodfish rose simultaneously. it required not the brain of a trained detective to know that the cheese was in the larder. the unconscious mrs. driver opened the door, and then with a wild scream fell back before the emerging form of mr. bodfish into the arms of mrs. clowes. the glass of mr. negget smashed on the floor, and the farmer himself, with every appearance of astonishment, stared at the apparition open-mouthed. "mr.--bodfish!" he said at length, slowly. mr. bodfish, incapable of speech, glared at him ferociously. "leave him alone," said mrs. clowes, who was ministering to her friend. "can't you see the man's upset at frightening her? she's coming round, mr. bodfish; don't be alarmed." "very good," said the farmer, who found his injured relative's gaze somewhat trying. "i'll go, and leave him to explain to mrs. driver why he was hidden in her larder. it don't seem a proper thing to me." "why, you silly man," said mrs. clowes, gleefully, as she paused at the door, "that don't want any explanation. now, mr. bodfish, we're giving you your chance. mind you make the most of it, and don't be too shy." she walked excitedly up the road with the farmer, and bidding him good-bye at the corner, went off hastily to spread the news. mr. negget walked home soberly, and hardly staying long enough to listen to his wife's account of the finding of the brooch between the chest of drawers and the wall, went off to spend the evening with a friend, and ended by making a night of it. http://www.freeliterature.org (scans generously made available by the hathi trust) the pearl of the andes a tale of love and adventure by gustave aimard author of "the adventurers," "trail-hunter," "pirates of the prairies," "trapper's daughter," "tiger slayer," etc. revised and edited by percy b. st. john new york john w. lovell company and vesey street contents i. in the cabildo xxiii. plan of campaign ii. joan xxiv. a disagreeable mission iii. the pursuit xxv. the kite and the dove iv. serpent and viper xxvi. the end of don ramÓn's journey v. an indian's love xxvii. the auca-coyog vi. preparations for deliverance xxviii. the human sacrifice vii. a countermine xxix. the king of darkness viii. el canyon del rio seco xxx. the battle of conderkanki ix. before the fight xxxi. conqueror and prisoner x. the passage of the defile xxxii. after the battle xi. the journey xxxiii. first hours of captivity xii. information xxxiv. the ultimatum xiii. the ambuscade xxxv. a fury xiv. the fortress xxxvi. a thunderclap xv. proposals xxxvii. upon the track xvi. the messenger xxxviii. the lynx xvii. in the wolf's mouth xxxix. the black serpents xviii. the capitulation xl. the hurricane xix. the appeal xli. la barranca xx. the council xlii. the quipu xxi. diamond cut diamond xliii. the rock xxii. delirium xliv. cÆsar the pearl of the andes chapter i. in the cabildo while doña rosario effected her escape by the assistance of curumilla, as recorded in the "adventurers," don tadeo was not long in regaining his senses. on opening his eyes he cast a bewildered look around him, but as soon as memory threw light into his brain, he let his head sink into his hands, and gave a free vent to his grief. don tadeo wept! don tadeo, the king of darkness, who a hundred times had smilingly looked death in the face--who had had such a miraculous escape--the man whose iron will had so rapidly crushed everything that opposed the execution of his projects; who by a word, a gesture, a frown, governed thousands of men submissive to his caprices, wept. but don tadeo was not a man whom grief, however intense, could depress for a length of time. "oh, all is not ended yet," he cried. "but courage! i have a people to save before i avenge my daughter." he clapped his hands, and don gregorio appeared. he saw at a glance the ravages which grief had made in the mind of his friend, but he saw that the king of darkness had subdued the father. it was about seven o'clock in the morning. "what are your intentions with regard to general bustamente?" gregorio asked. don tadeo was calm, cold, and impassive; all traces of emotion had disappeared from his face, which had the whiteness and rigidity of marble. "my friend," he replied, "we yesterday saved the liberty of our country, which was on the verge of ruin; but if, thanks to you and to all the devoted patriots who fought on our side, i have for ever overthrown don bustamente, and annihilated his ambitious projects, i have not on that account taken his place." "but you are the only man--" "do not say that," don tadeo interrupted, "i do not recognise in myself the right of imposing upon my fellow citizens ideas and views which may be very good, or which i believe to be so, but which, perhaps, are not theirs. the right of freely choosing the man who is henceforward to govern them." "and who tells you, my friend, that that man is not yourself?" "i do!" don tadeo observed in a firm voice. don gregorio gave a start of surprise. "that astonishes you, does it not, my friend? but what is to be said? so it is. i am only anxious to lay down power, which is a burden too heavy for my worn-out strength, and to return again to private life." "oh! do not say that," don gregorio replied warmly; "the gratitude of the people is eternal." "all smoke, my friend," don tadeo observed, ironically. "are you sure the people are pleased with what i have done? but let us end this; my resolution is taken, and nothing can change it." "but--" don gregorio wished to add. "one word more," said don tadeo. "to be a statesman, my friend, a man must march alone in the way he has marked out for himself; he must have neither children, relations, nor friends. the man who is in power ought to be only human in appearance." "what do you mean to do, then?" "in the first place to send general bustamente to santiago: although the man merits death, i will not take upon myself the responsibility of his condemnation; enough blood has been shed by my orders. he shall depart tomorrow with general cornejo and the senator sandias, sufficiently escorted to secure him from a _coup de main_." "your orders shall be punctually obeyed." "they are the last you will receive from me." "but why?" "because this very day i will transfer my power to your hands." "but, my friend--" "not a word more, i beg of you. now come with me to this poor young frenchman, who has so nobly defended my unfortunate daughter." don gregorio followed him without reply. the count had been placed in a chamber where he had received the greatest attention. his situation was satisfactory, and excepting great weakness, he felt himself much better. loss of blood alone caused the weakness. don tadeo went towards him, and said warmly-- "my friend, it is god who has thrown you and your companion upon my passage. i have only known you a few months, and i have already contracted towards you a debt which it is impossible i can ever discharge." "why attach so high a value to the little i have been able to do, don tadeo." said louis. "alas! i would have given my life to preserve doña rosario." "we shall find her again!" don tadeo observed, energetically. "oh! if i were able to get on horseback," the young man cried. at this moment the door opened, and a peon who entered said a few words in a low voice to don tadeo. "let him come in! let him come in!" the latter cried, and turning towards louis added, "we are about to hear some news." an indian entered; it was joan, the man curumilla had been unwilling to kill. chapter ii. joan. the sordid clothes which covered the person of the indian were stained with mud, and torn by thorns and briers. it was evident that he had made a hasty journey through woods and along bad roads. he bowed with modest grace to the three gentlemen, and waited. "does not my brother belong to the valiant tribe of the black serpents?" don tadeo asked. the indian made a sign in the affirmative. don tadeo was well acquainted with the indians, and knew that they only spoke when necessity required. "what is my brother's name?" he resumed. "joan," the indian said; "in remembrance of a warrior of the palefaces whom i killed." "good," don tadeo replied, with a melancholy smile; "my brother is a chief renowned in his tribe." joan smiled haughtily. "my brother has arrived from his village; he has, no doubt, business to transact with the palefaces." "my father is mistaken," the indian replied sharply; "joan asks the help of no one; when he is insulted, his own lance avenges him." "my brother will excuse me," don tadeo said; "he must have some reason for coming to me." "i have one," said the indian. "let my brother explain himself then." "i will answer my father's questions." said joan, bowing. don tadeo knew what sort of man he had to do with. a secret presentiment told him that he was the bearer of important news: he, therefore, followed up his questions. "whence does my brother come?" "from the toldería of san miguel." "that is some distance from the city; is it long since my brother left it?" "the moon was about to disappear and the southern cross alone shed its splendid light upon the earth, when joan commenced his journey." it was nearly eighteen leagues from the village of san miguel to the city of valdivia. don tadeo was astonished. he took from the table a glass, which he filled to the brim with aguardiente, and presented it to the messenger, saying-- "my brother will drink this coui of firewater; probably, the dust of the road sticking to his palate prevents him from speaking as easily as he could wish." the indian smiled; his eyes sparkled greedily; he took the glass and emptied it at a draught. "good," he said, smacking his lips. "my father is hospitable; he is truly the great eagle of the whites." "does my brother come from the chief of his tribe?" don tadeo continued. "no." joan replied; "it was curumilla that sent me." "curumilla!" the three men cried. don tadeo breathed more freely. "curumilla is my friend," he said; "no harm has happened to him, i hope?" "here are his poncho and his hat," joan replied. "heavens!" louis exclaimed--"he is dead!" "no," said the indian, "curumilla is brave and wise. joan had carried off the young, pale, blue-eyed maiden; curumilla might have killed joan; he was not willing to do so; he preferred making a friend of him." "curumilla is good," don tadeo replied; "his heart is large and his soul is not cruel." "joan was the chief of those who carried off the young white girl. curumilla changed clothes with him," the indian continued, sententiously; "and said 'go and seek the great eagle of the whites, and tell him that curumilla will save the young maiden, or perish!' joan has come." "my brother has acted well," said don tadeo. "my father is satisfied," he said--"that is enough." "and my brother carried off the pale girl? was he well paid for that?" "the great _cavale_ with the black eyes is generous," the indian said, smiling. "ah! i knew it!" cried don tadeo, "still that woman!--still that demon!" louis rose and said, in a voice trembling with emotion, "my friend, doña rosario must be saved!" "thanks, boundless thanks, for your devotion, my friend!" said don tadeo; "but, you are very weak." "of what consequence is that!" the young man exclaimed eagerly. "were i to perish in the task, i swear to you, don tadeo de león, by the honour of my name, that i will not rest till doña rosario is free." "my friend," don tadeo said, "three men--three devoted men, are already on the trail of my daughter." "your daughter?" louis said with astonishment. "alas! yes, my friend, my daughter! why should i have any secrets from you? that blue-eyed angel is my daughter! the only joy left to me in this world." "oh! we will recover her! we must!" louis cried with great emotion. "my friend," don tadeo continued, "the three men of whom i spoke to you are at this moment endeavouring to deliver the poor child. however dearly it costs me, i think it is best to wait." louis moved uneasily. "yes, i comprehend that this inaction is painful to you. alas! do you think it is less so to a father's heart? don louis, i endure frightful torments. but i resign myself, while shedding tears of blood at not being able to do anything." "that is true," the wounded man admitted; "we must wait, poor father! poor daughter!" "yes," said don tadeo, faintly, "pity me, my friend, pity me!" "but," the frenchman continued, "this inactivity cannot last. you see i am strong, i can walk." "you are a hero as to heart and devotion," don tadeo said with a smile; "and i know not how to thank you." "oh! how much the better if you regain hope," cried louis, who had blushed at his friend's words. don tadeo turned towards joan. "does my brother remain here?" he asked. "i am at my father's orders," the indian replied. "may i trust my brother?" "joan has but one heart and one life." "my brother has spoken well; i will be grateful to him." the indian bowed. "let my brother return here on the third sun; he shall place us upon the track of curumilla." "on the third sun joan will be ready." and saluting the three gentlemen gracefully, the indian retired to take a few hours of a repose which his great exertions had rendered necessary. chapter iii. the pursuit. we will return to curumilla. the night was gloomy--the darkness profound. urging their horses on with voice and gesture, the fugitives made the best of their way towards a forest which, if they could but reach, they would be safe. a leaden silence brooded over the desert. they galloped on without uttering a word--without looking behind them. all at once the neighing of a horse fell upon their ears like the gloomy alarm call of a clarion. "we are lost!" curumilla exclaimed. "what is to be done?" rosario asked anxiously. "stop," he at length cried. the young girl left everything to her guide. the indian requested her to dismount. "have confidence in me," he said; "whatever a man can do i will undertake, to save you." "i know you will!" she replied gratefully. curumilla lifted her up in his arms, and carried her with as much facility as if she had been a child. "why do you carry me thus?" she asked. "we must leave no sign," he replied shortly. he placed her on the ground with great precaution at the foot of a tree. "this tree is hollow, my sister will conceal herself in it; she will not stir till i return." "oh! you will not abandon me," she said. "i am going to make a false track, i shall soon return." the poor girl hesitated, she was frightened. curumilla divined what she felt. "it is our only chance of safety," he said, mournfully, "if my sister is not willing, i can remain." rosario was not one of the weak, puling daughters of our great european cities, who wither before they bloom. her resolution was formed with the rapidity of lightning; she bore up against the fear which had taken possession of her mind, and replied in a firm voice-- "i will do what my brother desires." "good!" the indian said. "let my sister conceal herself, then." he cautiously removed the cactus and creepers which surrounded the lower part of the tree, and exposed a cavity, into which the young girl crept, all trembling, like a poor sparrow in the eyrie of an eagle. as soon as rosario was comfortably placed in the hollow of the tree, the indian restored the plants to their primitive state, and completely concealed her hiding place with this transparent curtain. then he regained the horses, mounted his own, led the other, and galloped off. he galloped thus for many minutes without relaxing his speed, and when he thought himself sufficiently far from the place where doña rosario was concealed, he dismounted, listened for an instant, untied the sheep skins from the horses' feet and set off again with the speed of an arrow. he soon heard the galloping of horses behind him; at first distant, but rapidly drawing near and at last becoming distinct. curumilla had a ray of hope, for his manoeuvre had succeeded. he still pressed on his horse, and leaving his heavy wooden stirrups, with their sharp angles, to beat against the sides of the still galloping animal, he stuck his long lance into the ground, threw his weight upon it, and raising himself by the strength of his wrists, sprang lightly to the ground, whilst the two abandoned horses held on their furious course. curumilla glided in among the bushes, and made the best of his way back towards rosario, persuaded that the horsemen would be misled by the false track. antinahuel had sent out his mosotones in all directions, in order to discover the traces of the fugitives, but himself had remained in the village. antinahuel was too experienced a warrior to allow himself to be misled. his scouts returned, one after another, without having discovered anything. the last two that returned brought with them two stray horses bathed in steam. these were the two horses abandoned by curumilla. "will she escape us then?" the linda asked. "my sister," the toqui replied, coolly, with a sinister smile, "when antinahuel pursues an enemy, he does not escape." "and yet----" she said. "patience," he replied; "they had a chance; their horses gave them a great advantage over me; but, thanks to my precautions, i have forced them to abandon their horses, which alone could have saved them. within an hour they will be in our hands." "to horse, then; and let us delay no longer," doña maria exclaimed impatiently. "to horse, then, be it!" replied the chief. this time no false route was pursued; they followed in a straight line the track by which the prisoners had escaped. in the meantime curumilla had rejoined rosario. "well?" she asked, in a voice half choked by fear. "in a few moments we shall be taken," the chief replied mournfully. "what! have we no hope left?" "none! we are surrounded on all sides." "oh, my maker! what have i done?" the poor girl sobbed. curumilla reclined upon the ground; he had taken his weapons from his belt, and placed them beside him; and with the stoical fatalism of the indian when he knows that he cannot escape a destiny that threatens him, he waited impassively, his arms crossed upon his breast, the arrival of the enemy. they heard the tramp of the horses drawing nearer and nearer. in a quarter of an hour all would be over. "let my sister prepare," curumilla said coolly: "antinahuel approaches." "poor man," said rosario; "why did you endeavour to save me?" "the young blue-eyed maiden is the friend of my pale brothers; i would lay down my life for her." "you must not die, chief," she said, in her soft clear tones; "you shall not!" "why not? i do not dread torture; my sister shall see how a chief can die." "listen to me. you have heard the threats of that woman; my life is in no danger." he replied by a gesture of assent. "but," she continued, "if you remain with me, if you are taken, they will kill you." "yes," he remarked, coolly. "then who will inform my friends of my fate? if you die, chief, what can they do to deliver me?" "that is true; they can do nothing." "you must live, then, chief, for my sake." "does my sister wish it?" "i insist upon it." "good!" said the indian. "i will go, then; but let not my sister be cast down." at this moment the noise of the approaching cavalcade resounded with a loudness that announced they were close at hand. the chief gathered up his arms, replaced them in his belt, and, after bestowing a last sign of encouragement upon rosario, he glided among the high grass and disappeared. antinahuel and the linda were within ten paces of her. "here i am," she said, in a firm voice; "do with me what you please." her persecutors, struck with such an exhibition of courage, pulled up their horses in astonishment. the courageous girl had saved curumilla. chapter iv. serpent and viper. doña rosario stood motionless, her arms crossed, her head haughtily raised, and her look disdainful. the linda leaped from her horse, and seizing her by the arm, shook her violently. "oh, oh!" she said, in a bitterly mocking tone, "my pretty dear! this is the way you oblige people to come after you: is it?" doña rosario only replied to this flood of words by a look of cold contempt. "ah!" the exasperated courtesan exclaimed, clutching her arm, "i will bring down that proud spirit!" "madam," rosario replied, mildly, "you hurt me very much." "serpent!" the linda shrieked, "why can i not crush you beneath my heel?" rosario staggered a few paces; her foot struck against a root, and she fell. in her fall her forehead came in contact with a sharp stone; she uttered a feeble cry of pain, and fainted. the indian chief, at the sight of the large gash in the young girl's forehead, uttered a roar like that of a wild beast. he leant over her raised her tenderly, and endeavoured to stop the bleeding. "fie!" said the linda, with a jeering laugh; "are you going to play the old woman--you, the first chief of your nation?" antinahuel remained silent; for an instant he felt an inclination to stab the fury: he darted a glance at her so loaded with anger and hatred, that she was terrified, and instinctively made a movement as if to put herself on the defensive. as yet the attentions of antinahuel had no effect; rosario remained still senseless. in a few minutes the linda was reassured by observing that love occupied more of the thoughts of the chief than hatred. "come, tie the creature upon a horse," she said. "this woman belongs to me," antinahuel replied, "and i alone have the right of disposing of her." "not yet, chief; a fair exchange: when you have delivered the general, i will give her up to you." "my sister forgets," said antinahuel, "that i have fifty mosotones with me." "what does that signify?" she replied. "it signifies," he replied, "that i am the stronger." "indeed!" she said, sneeringly, "is that the way you keep your promises?" "i love this woman," he said, in a deep voice. "_caray!_ i know that well enough," she replied. "i will not have her suffer." "see there, now," she cried, still jeering; "i give her up to you expressly that she may suffer." "if such is my sisters thought, she is mistaken." "chief, my friend, you do not know what you are talking about; you are ignorant of the hearts of white women." "i do not understand my sister." "no; you do not comprehend that this woman will never love you--that she will never entertain for you anything but contempt and disdain." "oh!" antinahuel replied, "i am too great a chief to be thus despised by a woman." "you will see you are, though; in the meantime i demand my prisoner." "my sister shall not have her." "then try to take her from me!" she shrieked; and springing like a tiger cat, she pushed away the chief, and seized the young girl, to whose throat she applied her dagger so closely that blood stained the point. antinahuel uttered a terrible cry. "stop!" he shouted in consternation; "i consent to everything." "ah!" cried the linda, with a smile of triumph, "i knew i should have the last word." the chief bit his fingers with powerless rage but he was too well acquainted with this woman to continue a struggle which he knew must infallibly terminate in the maiden's death. by a prodigy of self command he forced his face to assume a smile, and said in a mild voice-- "wah! my sister is excited! of what consequence is it to me whether this woman is mine now or in a few hours hence?" "yes, but only when general bustamente is no longer in the hands of his enemies, chief." "be it so!" he said, "since my sister requires it; let her act as she thinks fit." "very well; but my brother must prove his faith to me." "what security can i give my sister, that will thoroughly satisfy her?" he said with a bitter smile. "this," she replied, with a sneer; "let my brother swear by the bones of his ancestors that he will not oppose anything it shall please me to do, till the general is free." the chief hesitated; the oath the linda requested him to take was one held sacred by the indians, and they dreaded breaking it in the highest degree; such is their respect for the ashes of their fathers. but antinahuel had fallen into a snare, from which it was impossible for him to extricate himself. "good!" he said, smiling; "let my sister be satisfied. i swear upon the bones of my father that i will not oppose her in anything she may please to do." "thank you," the linda answered; "my brother is a great warrior." antinahuel had no other plausible pretext for remaining: he slowly, and, as if regretfully, rejoined his mosotones, got into his saddle, and set off, darting at the linda a last glance, that would have congealed her with fear if she had seen it. "poor puling creature!" she said. "don tadeo, it is you i wound in torturing your leman! shall i at length force you to restore to me my daughter?" the indian peons attached to her service had remained with her. in the heat of the pursuit the horses, abandoned by curumilla and brought back by the scouts, had remained with the troop. "bring hither one of those horses!" she commanded. the courtesan had the poor girl placed across one of the horses, with her face towards the sky; then she ordered that the feet and hands of her victim should be brought under the belly of the animal and solidly fastened with cords by the ankles and wrists. "the woman is not firm upon her legs," she said, with a dry, nervous laugh. the poor girl gave scarcely any signs of life; her countenance had an earthy, cadaverous hue, and the blood flowed copiously. her body, horribly cramped by the frightful posture in which she was tied, had nervous starts, and dreadfully hurt her wrists and ankles, into which the cords began to enter. a hollow rattle escaped from her oppressed chest. chapter v. an indian's love. the linda rejoined antinahuel, who, knowing what torture she was preparing to inflict on the young girl, had stopped at a short distance from the spot where he had left her. when they reached the toldería, the horsemen dismounted and the maiden was untied and transported, half dead, into the same cuarto where, an hour before, she had, for the first time, found herself in the presence of the courtesan. the appearance of rosario was really frightful, and would have excited pity in anybody but the tigress whose delight it was to treat her so cruelly. her long hair hung in loose disorder upon her half-naked shoulders, and at various spots adhered to her face through the blood which had flowed from her wound; her face, soiled with blood and dirt, wore a greenish cast, and her half-closed lips showed that her teeth were tightly clenched. her wrists and ankles, to which still hung strips of the thick cord by which she had been fastened to the horse, were frightfully bruised and discoloured. her delicate frame was convulsed with nervous quiverings, and her faint breathing painfully issued from her heaving chest. "poor girl!" the chief murmured. "why, chief!" said the linda, with a sardonic smile. "i scarcely know you! good heavens! how love can change a man! what, you, intrepid warrior, pity the fate of this poor maudlin chit! i really believe you will weep over her like a woman, next!" "yes," the chief said; "my sister speaks truly, i scarcely know myself! oh!" he added, bitterly, "is it possible that i, antinahuel, to whom the huincas have done so much wrong, can be so? this woman is of an accursed race; she is in my power, i could avenge myself upon her, satisfy the hatred that devours me, make her endure the must atrocious injuries!--and, i dare not!--no, i dare not!" "does my brother, then, love this woman so much?" the linda asked, in a soft, insinuating tone. antinahuel looked at her as if she had awakened him suddenly from his sleep; he fixed his dull eyes upon her, and exclaimed-- "do i love her?--love her!--let my sister listen. before dying, and going to hunt in the blessed prairies with the just warriors, my father called me to him, and placing his mouth to my ear--'my son, he said, thou art the last of our race; don tadeo de león is also the last of his; since the coming of the palefaces, the family of that man has been always fatally opposed to ours, everywhere and under all circumstances. swear to kill that man whom it has never been in my power to reach!' i swore to do it. good!' he said, pillian loves children who obey their father; let my son mount his best horse, and go in search of his enemy. then, with a sigh, my father bade me depart. without replying, i saddled, as he had commanded me, my best horse, and went to the city called santiago, resolved to kill my enemy." "well?" the linda asked, seeing him stop short. "well!" he resumed, "i saw this woman, and my enemy still lives." the linda cast upon him a look of disdain; but antinahuel did not remark it--he continued-- "one day this woman found me dying, pierced with wounds; she made her peons bear me to a stone toldo, where for three months she watched over me, driving back the death which had hung over me." "and when my brother was cured?" the linda asked eagerly. "when i was cured," he resumed, passionately, "i fled away like a wounded tiger, bearing in my heart an incurable wound! two suns ago, when i was quitting my toldería, my mother, whom i loved and venerated, wished to oppose my departure; she knew that it was love that attracted me from her, that it was to see this woman i left her. well, my mother----" "your mother?" the courtesan said, breathlessly. "as she persisted in not allowing me to depart, i trampled her, without pity, beneath the hoofs of my horse!" he cried, in almost a shriek. "oh!" exclaimed the linda, recoiling. "yes! it is horrible, is it not, to kill one's mother? now!" he added, with a frightful mocking laugh, "will my sister ask again if i love this woman? for her sake, to see her, to hear her address to me one of those sweet words which she used to speak near me, or only to see her smile, i would joyfully sacrifice the most sacred interests. i would wade through the blood of my dearest friends--nothing should stop me!" the linda, as she listened to him and observed him, reflected deeply, and as soon as he ceased she said-- "i see that my brother really loves this woman. i was deceived, i must repair my fault." "what does my sister mean?" "i mean, that if i had known, i should not have inflicted so severe a chastisement." "poor girl!" he sighed. the linda smiled ironically to herself. "but my brother does not know what palefaced women are," she continued; "they are vipers, which you endeavour in vain to crush, and which always rise up again to sting the heel of him who places his foot upon them. it is of no use to argue with passion, were it not so i would say to my brother, 'be thankful to me, for in killing this woman i preserve you from atrocious sorrow.'" antinahuel moved uneasily. "but," she continued, "my brother loves, and i will restore this woman to him; within an hour i will give her up to him." "oh! if my sister does that," antinahuel exclaimed, intoxicated with joy, "i will be her slave!" doña maria smiled with an undefinable expression. "i will do it," she said, "but time presses, we cannot stay here any longer--my brother doubtless forgets." antinahuel darted a suspicious glance at her. "i forget nothing," he replied; "the friend of my sister shall be released." "good! my brother will succeed." "still, i will not depart till the blue-eyed maiden has recovered her senses." "let my brother hasten to give orders for our departure in ten minutes." "it is good!" said antinahuel; "in ten minutes i shall be here." he left the cuarto with a hasty step. as soon as he was gone, the linda knelt down by the young girl, removed the cords that still cut her flesh, washed her face with cold water, fastened up her hair, and carefully bandaged the wound on her forehead. "oh!" she thought, "through this woman i hold you, demon!" she softly raised the maiden, placed her in a high-backed chair, remedied, as well as she was able, the disorder in her dress, and then applied a phial of powerful salts to her nostrils. these salts were not long in producing their effect; she breathed a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, casting round vague and languid looks. but suddenly her eye fell upon the woman who was lavishing her cares upon her; a fresh pallor covered the features, which had begun to be slightly tinged with red, she closed her eyes, and was on the point of fainting again. the linda shrugged her shoulders, took a second phial from her bosom, and opening the poor girls mouth introduced a few drops of cordial between her livid lips. at that moment antinahuel returned. "everything is ready," he said; "we can depart immediately." "when you please," doña maria replied. "what is to be done with this girl?" "she will remain here: i have arranged everything." "let us be gone, then!" and turning towards rosario, she said, with a malignant smile. "farewell, till we meet again, señorita!" doña rosario rose, and said in an earnest tone, "i do not curse you; but god grant, if you ever have children, that they may never be exposed to the tortures you have condemned me to endure." on hearing this speech, which seared her heart like a red-hot iron, the linda uttered a cry of terror; a cold perspiration beaded on her pale forehead, and she staggered out of the apartment. "my mother! my mother!" cried rosario; "if you still live, where are you? why do you not come to the help of your daughter?" chapter vi. preparations for deliverance the little troop of cavalry, at the head of which antinahuel and the linda rode, advanced rapidly and silently along the road from san miguel towards the valley in which, the day before, the renewal of the treaties had been accomplished. at sunrise they debouched into the plain. they had scarcely advanced fifty paces when they saw a horseman coming at full speed towards them. this horseman was black stag: antinahuel halted his escort. "what is the use of this halt?" doña maria observed. "is my sister a soldier?" antinahuel asked. doña maria, mortified at this rude speech, reined in her horse and remained a few paces in the rear, so that antinahuel was left alone at the head of his troop. at the expiration of five minutes black stag pulled up his horse. "has my father returned among his children?" he said, bowing his head as a salutation to the chief. "yes!" antinahuel replied. "what has my son done during my absence?" "i have executed the orders of my father." "all of them?" "all!" "good! has my son received any news of the palefaces?" "a strong body of the chiaplos is preparing to quit valdivia to repair to santiago." "good! with what purpose?" "they are taking to santiago the prisoner named general bustamente." antinahuel turned towards the linda, and exchanged a glance of intelligence with her. "for what day have the huincas fixed their departure?" "they are to set out the day after tomorrow." antinahuel reflected for a few minutes. "this is what my son will do," he said. "in two hours he will strike his camp, and direct his course toward the canyon del rio seco, where i will go and wait for him." "i will obey!" said the black stag, bowing his head affirmatively. "good! my son is an experienced warrior; he will execute my orders with intelligence." the man smiled with pleasure at receiving this praise from his chief; after bowing respectfully before him, he made his horse curvet gracefully, and set off with his followers. antinahuel took the road towards the mountains at a sharp trot. after riding silently for some time by the side of doña maria, he turned towards her graciously, and said-- "does my sister understand the tenor of the order i have just given?" "no!" she replied, with a slight tinge of irony; "as my brother has well remarked, i am not a soldier." "my intentions are very simple," he replied; "the canyon del rio seco is in a narrow defile which the palefaces are obliged to cross. fifty chosen warriors can here contend with advantage against twenty times their number. it is in that place i am determined to wait for the huincas. the moluchos will take possession of the heights; and when the palefaces have entered that passage without suspicion, i will attack them on all sides." "does there, then, exist no other road to santiago?" "none; they must go that way." "then they are doomed!" she joyfully exclaimed. "without doubt!" he said proudly; "the canyon del rio seco is celebrated in our history." "then my brother can answer for saving don pancho bustamente?" "yes, unless the sky falls!" he said, with a smile. chapter vii. a countermine. as trangoil-lanec had predicted, louis recovered from the effects of his wounds with surprising rapidity. whether it was owing to his ardent desire to commence his researches, or to the goodness of his condition, we will not say; but on the eve of the day fixed for the departure he was quite on the alert, and told don tadeo he was ready to start whenever he pleased. he was the more anxious to depart in that valentine, his dog cæsar, and trangoil-lanec had been absent three days, and no tidings had been received. curumilla had not come back. all these circumstances augmented in an enormous degree the impatience of the count; whilst, on his part, don tadeo was not much more easy. the poor father shuddered at the idea of the suffering to which his child was exposed. and yet there was mingled an undefinable joy at thinking of the tortures he should inflict, in his turn, upon doña maria, when revealing to her that the person she had taken so much delight in martyrizing was her own daughter. don tadeo, a man of elevated mind, endeavoured to shake off this unworthy thought, but it persisted in recurring with tenacity. don gregorio, in whose hands don tadeo had placed his power and authority, urged on by louis, hastened the preparations for the departure on the morrow. at about eight o'clock in the evening. don gregorio, after giving certain instructions in one of the private apartments of the cabildo to general cornejo and the senator sandias, who were to conduct don pancho to santiago, had dismissed them, and was conversing with don tadeo, when the door was thrown open, and a man entered. on seeing him, they uttered a general cry of joy and astonishment. it was curumilla! "at last!" louis and don tadeo exclaimed. "i am here!" the ulmen replied, sorrowfully. as the poor indian seemed quite exhausted with fatigue and want of food, they made him sit down. in spite of all his indian stoicism, curumilla literally seized the food as soon as it appeared, and devoured it greedily. as soon as the keenness of his appetite was a little abated, curumilla related the full details of all that had happened since his departure from the camp, the manner in which he had delivered the young lady, and how, an hour after, she had been recaptured by her enemies. when he quitted doña rosario the brave indian had only kept at a sufficient distance from her to avoid being himself taken by her ravishers. don tadeo and the count warmly thanked him. "i have done nothing yet," he said, "since all must be begun again; and now," he added, "it will be more difficult, for they will be on their guard." "tomorrow," don tadeo replied, warmly, "we will set out all together on the track." "yes," the chief said, "i am aware you are to depart tomorrow." the three men looked at each other with astonishment; they could not understand how the news of their movements should be known. "there are no secrets for aucas, when they wish to know them," the chief said with a smile. "it is impossible!" don gregorio exclaimed angrily. "let my brother listen," the chief replied quietly. "tomorrow, at sunrise, a detachment of a thousand white soldiers will leave valdivia to conduct the prisoner bustamente to santiago. is it not so?" "yes," don gregorio replied, "i must admit that what you say is correct." "well," said the ulmen smiling, "i cannot deny that the man who gave me these details had no suspicion that i overheard him." "explain yourself, chief, i implore you!" don tadeo cried; "we are upon burning coals." "i have told you that i followed antinahuel's party; i must add that occasionally i got before them. the day before yesterday, at sunrise, the black stag, who was left with antinahuel's warriors during his absence, was on the prairie of the treaties, and as soon as he saw his chief, galloped to meet him. as i had no doubt that these two men, during their conference, would allow some words to escape that might afterwards be of service to me, i drew as close to them as possible, and that is the way they placed me in possession of their projects." "of their projects?" don gregorio asked, "are they mad enough, then, to think of attacking us?" "the pale woman has made antinahuel swear to deliver her friend, who is a prisoner." "well! and what then?" "antinahuel will deliver him." "ay, ay!" said don gregorio, "but that project is more easily formed than executed, chief." "the soldiers are obliged to traverse the canyon del rio seco." "no doubt they are." "it is there that antinahuel will attack the palefaces with his mosotones." "sangre de cristo!" don gregorio exclaimed, "what is to be done?" "the escort will be defeated," don tadeo observed. curumilla remained silent. "perhaps not!" said the count: "i know the chief; he is not the man to cause his friends embarrassment without having the means of showing them how to avoid the peril he reveals to them." "unfortunately," don tadeo replied, "there exists no other passage but that cursed defile; it must absolutely be cleared, and five hundred resolute men might not there only hold a whole army in check, but cut it to pieces." "that may be all very true," the young man replied persistently; "but i repeat what i have said--the chief is a skilful warrior, his mind is fertile in resources." curumilla smiled and nodded. "i was sure of it!" louis cried. "now then, chief, speak out! do you not know a means of enabling us to avoid this dangerous passage?" "i will not certify that," the ulmen replied; "but if my brothers the palefaces will consent to allow me to act, i will undertake to foil the plans of antinahuel and his companions." "speak! speak, chief!" the count exclaimed, vehemently; "explain to us the plan you have formed; these caballeros rely entirely upon you." "yes," don tadeo replied, "we are listening to you anxiously, chief." "but," curumilla resumed, "my brothers must act with caution. i require to be left absolute master." "you have my word, ulmen," said don gregorio; "we will only act as you command us." "good!" said the chief; "let my brothers listen." and without more delay he detailed to them the plan he had formed, and which, as might be expected, obtained the general assent. don tadeo and the count entered enthusiastically into it, promising themselves the happiest results. by the time the last measures were agreed to and all was arranged the night was far advanced, and the four speakers stood in need of some repose. curumilla in particular, having slept but little for several days, was literally sinking with fatigue. louis alone appeared to require no repair for his strength. but prudence demanded that a few hours should be given to sleep, and, in spite of the counts remonstrances, they separated. the young man, forced to submit to the reasons of the experienced men who surrounded him, retired with a very bad grace, promising himself _in petto_ not to let his friends forget the hour fixed upon for their departure. louis felt it was impossible to follow their example, and impatience and love--those two tyrants of youth--heated his brain, he ascended to the roof of the palace, and with his eyes fixed upon the lofty mountains, whose dark shadows were thrown across the horizon, he gave all his thoughts to the fair rosario. louis, abandoning himself to delightful thoughts, thus dreamed through the night, and did not think of descending till the stars successively disappeared in the depths of the heavens, and a pale whiteness began to tinge the horizon. in that climate this announced the speedy approach of day. chapter viii. el canyon del rio seco. at about ten leagues from san miguel de la frontera, a miserable town peopled by some twenty or thirty huiliche shepherds, on the road to arauca, the land rises rapidly, and suddenly forms an imposing wall of granite, the summit of which is covered with virgin forests of firs and oaks, impenetrable to the sun. a passage of twenty yards at most, is opened by nature through this wall. its length is more than a mile, forming a crowd of capricious, inextricable windings, which appear constantly to turn back upon themselves. on each side of this formidable defile, the ground, covered with trees and underwood, stage above stage, is capable, in case of need, of offering impregnable intrenchments to those who defend the passage. this place is named el canyon del rio seco, a name common in america, because not only has vegetation long since covered the face of this wall with an emerald carpet, but it is evident that in remote periods a channel by which the waters of the upper plateaus of the andes, overflowing, either in consequence of an earthquake or some natural inundation, pour down to the plain--had violently and naturally cut itself a passage to the sea. antinahuel, followed closely by the linda, who wished to see everything for herself, visited the posts, gave short and precise instructions to the ulmens, and then regained the bivouac he had chosen, and which formed the advanced guard of the ambuscade. "now, what are we going to do?" doña maria asked. "wait," he replied. and folding himself in his poncho, he laid down on the ground and closed his eyes. on their side, the spaniards had set out a little before daybreak. they formed a compact troop of five hundred horsemen, in the centre of whom rode without arms, and between two lancers, charged to blow out his brains at the least suspicious action, general bustamente. in advance of this troop, there was another of an almost equal force; this was, in appearance, composed of indians. we say in appearance, because the men were in reality chilians, but their araucano costume, their arms, even to the caparison of their horses, in short, everything in their disguise, was so exact, that at a short distance it was impossible for even the experienced eyes of the indians themselves to detect them. these apparent indians were commanded by joan. when arrived at mid-distance between valdivia and the canyon, the hindermost troop halted, whilst that commanded by joan continued its march, but slowly, and with increased precaution. four horsemen closed the rear; don tadeo, don gregorio, the count, and curumilla, who were engaged in earnest conversation. "then you persist in having nobody with you?" said don gregorio. "nobody; we two will be quite sufficient," curumilla replied, pointing to the young frenchman. "why will you not take me with you?" don tadeo asked. "i thought you would prefer remaining with your soldiers." "i am anxious to join my daughter as soon as possible." "come, then, by all means. you," turning to don gregorio, "will remember that nothing must induce you to enter the defile before you see a fire blazing on the summit of the corcovado." "that is perfectly understood, so now farewell." after exchanging hearty shakes of the hand, the four men separated. don gregorio galloped after his troops, whilst don tadeo and the count, guided by curumilla, began to climb the mountain. they continued to ascend for more than an hour, and at last reached a platform of considerable extent. "dismount," he said; curumilla setting the example, which his companions followed. "let us unsaddle our horses," the chief continued. "we shall not want the poor beasts for some time. i know a place, not far off, where they will be comfortably sheltered, and where we can find them when we come back--if we do come back," he added. "holloa, chief!" louis exclaimed, "are you beginning to be apprehensive?" "och!" the ulmen replied, "my brother is young, his blood is very warm; curumilla is older, he is wise." "thanks," the young man said, "it is impossible to tell a friend that he is a fool more politely." the three men continued to ascend, dragging their horses after them by their bridles, which was no easy matter in a narrow path where the animals stumbled at every step. at length, however, they gained the entrance of a natural grotto, into which they coaxed the noble creatures. they supplied them with food, and then closed up the entrance of the grotto with large stones, leaving only a narrow passage of air. "now let us begone," said curumilla. they threw their guns upon their shoulders, and set forward with a resolute step. after three quarters of an hour of this painful ascent the ulmen stopped. "this is the place," he said. the three men had attained the summit of an elevated peak, from the top of which an immense and splendid panorama lay unrolled before their eyes. chapter ix before the fight. as soon as they had set foot on the platform, don tadeo and the count sank exhausted. curumilla left them undisturbed for a few minutes to recover their breath, then requested them to look around them. beneath their feet was the canyon del rio seco, with its imposing granite masses and its thick clumps of verdure. "oh!" louis exclaimed, enthusiastically, "how splendid this is!" don tadeo, accustomed from his infancy to such sublime panoramas, only cast an absent glance over the magnificent prospect. his mind was intent upon his daughter, the beloved child whom he hoped soon to deliver. "are we going to remain here long?" he asked. "for a few minutes," curumilla replied. "what is the name of this place?" the count said. "it is the peak which the palefaces call the corcovado." said the ulmen. "the one upon which you appointed to light the signal fire?" "yes; let us hasten to prepare it." the three men constructed an immense pile of wood. "now," said curumilla, "rest, and do not stir till my return." and without entering into further detail, curumilla sprang down the steep declivity of the mountain, and disappeared among the trees. the two friends sat down near the pile, and waited pensively the return of the ulmen. the troop commanded by joan approached the defile, simulating all the movements of indians, and were soon within gunshot of the canyon. antinahuel had perceived them, and had for some time been watching their movements. notwithstanding all his cunning, the toqui did not for an instant suspect a stratagem. the presence of joan at the head of the troop, whom at the first glance he had recognised, completed his conviction. joan plunged into the defile without evincing the least hesitation; but scarcely had he proceeded a dozen yards when an indian sprang out of a thicket, and stood in front of him. this indian was antinahuel himself. "my son comes late," said the toqui, casting a suspicious glance at him. "my father will pardon me," joan replied, respectfully; "i had notice only last night." "good," continued the chief; "i know my son is prudent. how many lances does he bring with him?" "a thousand." as may be perceived, joan bravely doubled the number of his soldiers. "oh! oh!" said the toqui, joyfully, "a man may be pardoned for coming late when he brings so numerous a troop with him." "my father knows i am devoted," the indian replied. "i know you are; my son is a brave warrior. has he seen the huincas?" "i have seen them." "are they far distant?" "no; they are coming--in less than three-quarters of an hour they will be here." "we have not an instant to lose. my son will place his warriors in ambush." "good! it shall be done; my father may leave it to me." at this moment the troop of false indians appeared at the entrance of the defile, into which they boldly entered, after the example of their leader. "my son will use all possible diligence," said antinahuel, and hastened back to his post. joan and his men went forward at full gallop; they were watched by from a thousand to fifteen hundred invisible spies, who, at the smallest suspicion, created by a doubtful gesture even, would have massacred them without mercy. joan, after having made his men dismount and conceal their horses in the rear, distributed them with a calmness and collectedness that must have banished the suspicions of the chief. ten minutes later the defile appeared as solitary as before. joan had scarcely gone six paces into the thicket when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. he turned sharply round; curumilla was before him. "good!" the latter murmured, in a voice low as a breath; "let my son follow me with his men." joan nodded assent, and with extreme precaution and in perfect silence three hundred soldiers began to escalade the rocks in imitation of the ulmen. the three hundred men led by joan, who had escaladed the wall of the defile on the opposite side of the canyon, were divided into two troops. the first had taken up a position above black stag, and the second, a hundred strong, were massed as a rear post. as soon as curumilla had prepared the manoeuvre we have just described, he quitted joan and rejoined his companions. "at last!" they cried, both in a breath. "i began to be afraid something had happened to you, chief," said the count. upon which curumilla only smiled. "everything is ready," he said; "and when the palefaces please, they can penetrate into the defile." "do you think your plan will succeed?" don tadeo asked anxiously. "i hope it will," the indian replied. "what are we to do now?" "light the fire, and depart." "how depart? our friends?" "they stand in no need of us; as soon as the fire is alight we will set out in search of the young maiden." "god grant that we may save her!" curumilla, after lighting a bit of tinder which he had in a horn box, collected with his feet a heap of dried leaves, placed the tinder beneath them, and began to blow with all his might. the fire, acted upon by the breeze, which at that height blew strongly, was rapidly communicated, and shortly a thick column of flame mounted roaring to the sky. "good!" said curumilla to his companions; "they see the signal." "let us begone, then, without delay," cried the count, impatiently. "come on, then," said don tadeo. the three men plunged into the immense virgin forest which covered the summit of the mountain, leaving behind them that sinister beacon--a signal for murder and destruction. on the plain, don gregorio, fearing to advance before he knew what he had positively to trust to, had given orders to his troops to halt. he did not conceal from himself the dangers of his position, so that if he fell in the battle he was about to fight, his honour would be safe and his memory without reproach. "general," he said, addressing cornejo, who as well as the senator was close to him, "you are accustomed to war, are an intrepid soldier, and i will not conceal from you that we are in a position of peril. "oh! oh!" said the general; "explain, don gregorio, explain!" "the indians are in ambush in great numbers, to dispute the passage of the defile with us." "the rascals! only see now! why, they will knock us all on the head," the general, still calm, said. "oh! it is a horrible trap!" the senator cried. "caspita! a trap, i believe it is, indeed!" the general continued. "but you will be able to give us your opinion presently; if, as is not very probable, you come safely through, my friend." "but i will not go and run my head into that frightful fox's hole!" cried don ramón, beside himself. "bah! you will fight as an amateur, which will be very handsome on your part." "sir," said don gregorio, coldly, "so much the worse for you; if you had remained quietly at santiago, you would not be in this position." "that is true, my friend," the general followed up, with a hearty laugh. "how did it happen that you, who are as great a coward as a hare, troubled yourself with military politics?" the senator made no reply to this cruel apostrophe. "whatever may happen, can i reckon upon you, general?" don gregorio asked. "i can only promise you one thing," the old soldier answered, nobly; "that i will not shrink, and if it should come to that, will sell my life dearly. as to this cowardly fellow, i undertake to make him perform prodigies of valour." at this threat the unhappy senator felt a cold sweat inundate his whole body. a long column of flame burst from the top of the mountain. don gregorio cried, "caballeros! forward! and god protect chili!" "forward!" the general repeated, unsheathing his sword. chapter x. the passage of the defile. while these things were going on in the defile, a few words exchanged between antinahuel and the linda filled the toqui with uneasiness, by making him vaguely suspicious of some treachery. "what is the matter?" doña maria asked. "nothing very extraordinary," he replied, carelessly; "some reinforcements have arrived rather late, upon which i did not reckon." "good heavens!" said doña maria, "i have been perhaps deceived by an extraordinary resemblance; but, if the man i mean were not forty leagues off, i should declare it is he who commands that troop." "let my sister explain herself," said antinahuel. "tell me, in the first place, chief," the linda continued, "the name of the warrior to whom you spoke?" "his name is joan." "that is impossible! joan is at this moment more than forty leagues from this place, detained by his love for a white woman," the linda cried. "my sister must be mistaken, because i have just been conversing with him." "then he is a traitor!" she said passionately. the chief's brow became thoughtful. "this has an awkward appearance," he said. "can i have been betrayed?" he added in a deep tone. "what are you going to do?" the linda asked, stopping him. "to demand of joan an account of his ambiguous conduct." "it is too late," the linda continued, pointing with her finger to the chilians. "oh!" antinahuel cried, with rage, "woe be to him if he prove a traitor." "it is no longer time for recrimination and threats; you must fight." "yes," he replied, fervently; "we will fight now. after the victory it will be time enough to chastise traitors." the plan of the araucanos was of the most simple kind: to allow the spaniards to enter the defile, then to attack them at once in front and in rear, whilst the warriors in ambush on the flanks poured down upon them enormous stones and fragments of rock. a party of the indians had bravely thrown themselves both in front and rear of the spaniards to bar their passage. antinahuel sprang up, and encouraging his warriors with voice and gesture, he rolled down an immense stone amongst his enemies. all at once a shower of bullets came pattering down upon his troops. the false indians, led by joan, showed themselves, and charged him resolutely to the cry of "chili! chili!" "we are betrayed!" antinahuel shouted, "kill, kill!" some horsemen charged in troops at speed, whilst others galloped at random among the terrified infantry. the araucanos did not yield an inch--the chilians did not advance a step. the mêlée undulated like the waves of the sea in a tempest; the earth was red with blood. the combat had assumed heroic proportions. at length, by a desperate effort antinahuel succeeded in breaking through the close ranks of the enemies who enveloped him, and rushed into the defile, followed by his warriors, and waving his heavy hatchet over his head. black stag contrived to effect the same movement; but joan's chilian horse advanced from behind the rising ground which had concealed them, with loud cries, and came on sabring all before them. the linda followed closely the steps of antinahuel, her eyes flashing, her lips compressed. "forward!--forward!" don gregorio cried in a voice of thunder. "chili! chili!" the general repeated, cutting down a man at every blow. more dead than alive, don ramón fought like a demon; he waved his sword, rode down all in his way with the weight of his horse, and uttered inarticulate cries with the gestures of one possessed. in the meantime, don bustamente snatched a sword from one of the soldiers, made his horse plunge violently, and dashed forward, crying with a loud voice-- "to the rescue!--to the rescue!" to this appeal the araucanos replied by shouts of joy, and flew towards him. "ay, ay," a scoffing voice cried; "but you are not free yet, don pancho." general bustamente turned sharply round, and found himself face to face with general cornejo, who had leaped his horse over a heap of dead bodies. the two men, after exchanging a look of hatred, rushed against each other with raised swords. the shock was terrible; the two horses fell with it. don pancho received a slight wound in the head; the arm of general cornejo was cut through by the weapon of his adversary. with a bound don pancho was again on his feet; general cornejo would willingly have been so, likewise, but suddenly a knee pressed heavily upon his chest, and obliged him to sink upon the ground. "pancho! pancho!" doña maria cried, with the laugh of a demon, for it was she, "see how i kill your enemies!" don pancho had not even heard the exclamation of the courtesan, so fully was he engaged in defending himself. at the sight of the odious murder committed by the linda, don ramón shouted-- "viper! i will not kill you, because you are a woman; but i will mar your future means of doing evil." the linda sank beneath his blow with a shriek of pain; he had slashed her down the cheek from top to bottom! her hyena-like cry was so frightful that it even brought to a pause the combatants engaged around her. bustamente heard her, and with one bound of his horse was by the side of his ancient mistress, whom the wound on her face rendered hideous. he stooped slightly down, and seizing her by her long hair, threw her across the neck of his horse; then plunging his spurs into the animals flanks, he dashed, headforemost, into the thickest of the _mêlée_. in spite of the efforts of the chilians to recapture the fugitive, he succeeded in escaping. at a signal from antinahuel, the indians threw themselves on each side of the defile, and scaled the rocks with incredible velocity under a shower of bullets. the combat was over. the araucanos had disappeared. the chilians counted their losses, and found them great; seventy men had been killed, and a hundred and forty-three were wounded. several officers, among whom was general cornejo, had fallen. it was in vain they searched for joan. the intrepid indian had become invisible. don gregorio was in despair at the escape of general bustamente. it was now useless for don gregorio to return to santiago; on the contrary, it was urgent that he should return to valdivia, in order to secure the tranquillity of that province which would, no doubt, be disturbed by the news of the generals escape; but, on the other hand, it was quite as important that the authorities of the capital should be placed upon their guard. don gregorio was in great trouble about choosing a person whom he could trust with this commission, when the senator came to his relief. the worthy don ramón had finished by taking courage in reality; he actually, and in good faith, believed himself the most valiant man in chili, and, unconsciously, assumed the most ridiculously extravagant airs. above all, he burned with the desire of returning to santiago. don gregorio asked the senator to be the bearer of the double news of the battle gained over the indians--a battle in which he, don ramón, had taken so large a share of the glory--and the unexpected escape of general bustamente. don ramón accepted with a proud smile of satisfaction a mission in every way so honourable to him. as soon as the despatches, which don gregorio wrote at once, were ready, he mounted his horse, and, escorted by fifty lancers, set out for santiago. chapter xi. the journey. after his interview with don tadeo, valentine had scarcely taken time to bid the young count farewell, but had instantly departed, followed by trangoil-lanec and his inseparable newfoundland dog. the morning on which the sanguinary battle we have described was fought in the canyon del rio seco, valentine and trangoil-lanec were marching side by side, followed closely by cæsar. the two men were talking while they cracked a biscuit, which they washed down from time to time with a little smilax water, contained in a gourd, which hung at the girdle of trangoil-lanec. "why chief," said valentine, laughing, "you drive me to despair with your indifference." "what does my brother mean?" the astonished indian said. "caramba! we are traversing the most ravishing landscape in the world, and you pay no more attention to all these beauties than to the granite masses yonder in the horizon." "my brother is young." trangoil-lanec observed: "he is an enthusiast." "i do not know whether i am an enthusiast or not," replied the young man, warmly; "i only know this--that nature is magnificent." "yes," said the chief, solemnly, "pillian is great; it is he who made all things." "god, you mean, chief; but that is all one; our thought is the same, and we won't quarrel about a name." "in my brother's island," the indian asked curiously, "are there no mountains and trees?" "i have already told you, chief, more than once that my country is not an island, but a land as large as this; there is no want of trees, thank god! there are even a great many, and as to mountains, we have some lofty ones, montmartre among the rest." "hum," said the indian, not understanding. "yes!" valentine resumed, "we have mountains, but compared to these they are but little hills." "my land is the most beautiful in the world," the indian replied proudly. "why do the palefaces wish to dispossess us of it." "there is a great deal of truth in what you say, chief." "good!" said the chief; "all men cannot be born in my country." "that is true, and that is why i was born somewhere else." cæsar at this moment growled surlily. "what is the matter, old fellow?" said valentine. trangoil-lanec remarked quietly-- "the dog has scented an aucas." so it was, for scarcely had he spoken, when an indian horseman appeared at the turning of the road. he advanced at full gallop towards the two men, whom he saluted, and went on his way. shortly afterwards the travellers arrived, almost without being aware of it, at the entrance of the village. "so now, i suppose, we are at san miguel?" remarked valentine. "yes," the other replied. "and is it your opinion that doña rosario is no longer here?" "no," said the indian, shaking his head. "let my brother look around him." "well," said the young man, turning his eyes in all directions, "i see nothing." "if the prisoner were here, my brother would see warriors and horses; the village would be alive." "corbleu!" thought valentine; "these savages are wonderful men; they see everything, they divine everything. chief," he added, "you are wise; tell me, i beg of you, who taught you all these things." the indian stopped; with a majestic gesture he indicated the horizon to the young man, and said, in a voice the solemn accent of which made him start-- "brother, it was the desert. "yes," the frenchman replied, convinced by these few words; "for it is there alone that man sees god face to face." they now entered the village, and, as trangoil-lanec had said, it seemed deserted. they saw a few sick persons, who, reclining upon sheepskins, were complaining lamemtably. "caramba!" said valentine, much disappointed, "you have guessed so truly, chief, that there are even no dogs to bite our heels." all at once cæsar sprang forward barking, and, stopping in front of an isolated hut, began to munch the ground with his claws, uttering furious cries. the two men ran hastily towards the hut, and cæsar continued his howlings. chapter xii. information. when valentine and trangoil-lanec gained the front of the hut, the door was opened, and a woman presented herself. this woman had in her countenance a marked expression of mildness, mixed with a melancholy cast; she appeared to be suffering pain. her dress, entirely composed of blue cloth, consisted of a tunic which fell to her feet, but was very narrow, which makes the women of that country take short steps; a short mantle, called an ichcha, covered her shoulders and was crossed upon her breast, where it was drawn together by means of a silver buckle. as soon as this woman opened the door, cæsar rushed so violently into the interior of the hut that he almost knocked her down in his passage. she staggered, and was obliged to hold herself up by the wall. "i know what troubles the animal thus," the woman said mildly; "my brothers are travellers; let them enter this poor hut, which belongs to them; their slave will serve them." so saying, the mistress of the hut stood on one side to allow the strangers to enter. they found cæsar crouching in the middle of the cuarto, with his nose close to the ground, sniffing, snatching, and growling. "good god!" valentine muttered anxiously, "what has been done here?" without saying a word trangoil-lanec placed himself close to the dog; stretched along upon the ground, with his eyes intently fixed upon it, he examined it as closely as if he thought his glance could penetrate it. at the end of a minute he arose, and seated himself by valentine, who seeing his companion had got a fit of indian silence, found it necessary to speak first. "well, chief," he asked, "what is there fresh?" "nothing," the ulmen replied; "these traces are at least four days old." "what traces are you speaking of, chief?" "traces of blood." "of blood!" the young man cried. "can doña rosario have been assassinated?" "no," the chief replied, "if this blood belonged to her, she has only been wounded; her wound has been dressed." "dressed! come, that is too strong, chief!" "my brother is quick--he does not reflect. let him look here." and he opened his right hand, and displayed an object enclosed in it. "caramba!" valentine replied, quite out of humour, "an old dried leaf! what on earth can that teach?" "everything," said the indian. "pardieu? if you can prove that, chief, i shall consider you the greatest machi in all araucania." "it is very simple. this leaf is the oregano leaf; the oregano so valuable for stopping the effusion of blood." "here are traces of blood; a person has been wounded; and on the same spot i find an oregano leaf: that leaf did not come there of itself, consequently that person's wounds have been dressed." the woman now entered, bearing two ox horns full of harina tostada; they ate their horn of meal heartily, and drank more than one cup of chicha each. as soon as they had ended this light repast, the indian presented the maté to them, which they tossed off with great pleasure, and then they lit their cigars. "my sister is kind," trangoil-lanec said; "will she talk a minute with us!" "i will do as my brothers please." valentine took two piastres from his pocket, and presented them to the woman, saying, "will my sister permit me to offer her this trifle to make earrings?" "i thank my brother," said the poor woman; "my brother is a muruche; perhaps he is the relation of the young paleface girl who was here?" "i am not her relation," he said, "i am her friend. i confess that if my sister can give me any intelligence of her, she will render me happy." "some days ago," said the woman, "a great woman of the palefaces arrived here towards evening, followed by half a score of mosotones; i am not well, and that is why, for a month past, i have remained in the village. this woman asked me to allow her to pass the night in my hut. towards the middle of the night there was a great noise of horses in the village, and several horsemen arrived, bringing with them a young palefaced maiden of a mild and sad countenance; she was a prisoner to the other, as i afterwards learnt. i do not know how the young girl managed it, but she succeeded in escaping. this woman and the toqui went in search of the young girl, whom they soon brought back across a horse, with her head cut. the poor child had fainted; her blood flowed in abundance; she was in a pitiable state. i do not know what passed, but the woman suddenly changed her manner of acting towards the young girl; she dressed her wound, and took the most affectionate care at her. after that, antinahuel and the woman departed, leaving the young girl in my hut, with ten mosotones to guard her. one of these mosotones told me that the girl belonged to the toqui, who intended to make her his wife." "yesterday the paleface squaw was much better, and the mosotones set off with her, about three o'clock." "and the young girl," trangoil-lanec asked, "did she say nothing to my sister before she departed?" "nothing," the woman answered; "the poor child wept; she was unwilling to go, but they made her get on horseback by threatening to tie her on." "which way did they go?" said trangoil-lanec. "the mosotones talked among themselves of the tribe of the red vulture." "thanks to my sister," the ulmen replied; "she may retire, the men are going to hold a council." the woman arose and left the cuarto. "now," the chief asked, "what is my brother's intention?" "pardieu! we must follow the track of the ravishers." "good! that is also my advice; only, two men are not enough to accomplish such a project." "true; but what else are we to do?" "not to set out till this evening." "why so?" "because curumilla will have rejoined us by that time." valentine, knowing that he had several hours to pass in this place, resolved to take advantage of the opportunity; he stretched himself upon the ground, placed a stone under his head, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. trangoil-lanec did not sleep, but, with a piece of cord which he picked up in a corner of the hut, he measured all the footprints left upon the ground of the hut. after carefully tying the end of the cord to his belt, he, in his turn, lay down upon the ground close to valentine. chapter xiii. the ambuscade curumilla and his two companions descended the steep sides of the corcovado; if the ascent had been difficult, the descent was not less so. everywhere escaped thousands of hideous creatures; and not unfrequently they caught glimpses of snakes, unfolding their threatening rings under the dead leaves which on all sides covered the ground. sometimes they were obliged to crawl on their knees, at others to jump from branch to branch. this painful and fatiguing march lasted nearly three hours. at the end of that time they found themselves again at the entrance of the grotto where they had left their horses. the two white men were literally knocked up, particularly the count. as for curumilla, he was as fresh and active as if he had not gone a step. physical fatigue seems to have no hold on the iron organisation of the indians. "my brothers require test," he said; "we will remain here for them to recover their strength." a half hour passed away without a word being exchanged. curumilla had disappeared for a time. when he returned he drew from his belt a small box which he presented to the count, saying, "take this." "oh!" cried don tadeo, joyfully, "coca!" "yes," said the indian, "my father can take some." "what is all that to do?" said the count. "my friend," said don tadeo, "america is the promised land; its privileged soil produces everything: as we have the herb of paraguay, which is so good a substitute for tea, we have coca, which, i assure you, advantageously supplies the place of the betel, and has the faculty of restoring the strength and reviving the courage." "the deuce!" said the young man. "you are too serious, don tadeo, to leave me for an instant to suppose you wish to impose upon my credulity; give me quickly, i beg, some of this precious drug." don tadeo held out to the count the coca he had prepared. the latter put it into his mouth without hesitation. curumilla, after having carefully reclosed the box and returned it to his belt, saddled the horses. all at once a sharp firing was heard. "what is all that?" louis cried, springing up. "the fight beginning," curumilla replied coolly. at that moment the cries became redoubled. "come!" said don tadeo; "one hour's delay cannot cause any great harm to my daughter." "to horse, then," said the chief. as they drew nearer, the noise of the fierce fight that was raging in the defile became more distinct; they recognised perfectly the war cry of the chilians mixed with the howlings of the araucanos; now and then bullets were flattened against the trees, or whizzed around them. "halt!" cried the ulmen suddenly. the horsemen checked their horses, which were bathed in sweat. curumilla had conducted his friends to a place which entirely commanded the outlet of the defile on the side of santiago. it was a species of natural fortress, composed of blocks of granite, strangely heaped upon one another by some convulsion of nature, perhaps an earthquake. these rocks, at a distance, bore a striking resemblance to a tower; and their total height was about thirty feet. in a word, it was a real fortress, from which a siege might be sustained. "what a fine position," don tadeo observed. they dismounted: curumilla relieved the horses of their equipments, and let them loose in the woods. a slight movement was heard from among the leaves, the boughs of the underwood parted, and a man appeared. the ulmen cocked his gun. the man who had so unexpectedly arrived had a gun thrown on his back, and he had in his hand a sword, crimson to the hilt. he ran on, looking around him on all sides, not like a man who is flying, but, on the contrary, as if seeking for somebody. curumilla uttered an exclamation of surprise, quitted his hiding place, and advanced towards the newcomer. "i was seeking my father," he said earnestly. "good!" curumilla replied; "here i am." "let my son follow me," said curumilla, "we cannot stay here." the two indians climbed the rocks, at the summit of which don tadeo and the young count had already arrived. the two whites were surprised at the presence of the newcomer, who was no other than joan; but the moment was not propitious for asking explanations; the four men hastened to erect a parapet. this labour completed, they rested for a while. "when i saw," he said, "that the prisoner had succeeded in escaping, in spite of the valiant efforts of the men who escorted him. i thought it would be best you should be acquainted with this news, and i plunged into the forest, and came in search of you." "oh!" said don tadeo, "if that man is free, all is lost." the four men placed themselves, gun in hand, on the edge of the platform. the number of the fugitives increased every instant. the whole plain, just before so calm and solitary, presented one of the most animated spectacles. from time to time men were to be seen falling, many of them never to rise again; others, more fortunate, who were only wounded, made incredible efforts to rise. a squadron of chilian horsemen came out at a gallop, driving before them the araucanos, who still resisted. in advance of this troop a man mounted on a black horse, across the neck of which a fainting woman was reclining, was riding with the rapidity of an arrow. he gained ground constantly upon the soldiers. "it is he," cried the don, "it is the general." at the same time the count and curumilla fired. the horse stopped short, reared perfectly upright, fought the air with its forefeet, appeared to stagger for an instant, and then fell like lead, dragging its rider down with it. the indians, struck with terror at this unexpected attack, redoubled their speed, and fled across the plain. chapter xiv. the fortress. "quick, quick!" the count cried, springing up, "let us secure the general." "one instant!" said curumilla, phlegmatically; "the odds are not equal, let my brother look." at the moment a crowd of indians debouched from the defile. but these wore a good countenance. marching in close older, they withdrew step by step, not like cowards who fled, but like warriors proudly abandoning a field of battle which they contested no longer, but retreated from in good order. as a rearguard a platoon of a hundred men sustained this brave retreat. all at once a fusillade broke out with a sinister hissing, and some chilian horsemen appeared, charging at speed. the indians, without giving way an inch, received them on the points of their long lances. most of the fugitives scattered over the plain had rallied to their companions and faced the enemy. there was during a few minutes a hand-to-hand fight, in which our adventurers wished to take a part. four shots were suddenly fired from the temporary fortress, the summit of which was covered with a wreath of smoke. the two indian chiefs rolled upon the ground. the araucanos uttered a loud cry of terror and rage, and rushed forward to prevent the carrying off of their fallen chiefs. but with the quickness of lightning antinahuel and black stag abandoned their horses and sprang up, brandishing their weapons, and shouting their war cry. the chilians, whose intention was only to drive back their enemies out of the defile, retired in good older, and soon disappeared. the araucanos continued their retreat. general bustamente had disappeared some time before. "we can continue our route," said don tadeo rising. "you see the plain is clear; the araucanos and the chilians have retired each their own way. "there are too many eyes concealed there," said curumilla, pointing to the forest. "you are mistaken, chief," don tadeo objected; "the araucanos have been beaten. why should they persist in remaining here, where they have no longer anything to do?" "my father is not acquainted with the warriors of my nation," curumilla replied; "they never leave enemies behind them, when they have any hope of destroying them." "which means?" don tadeo interrupted. "that antinahuel has been wounded, and will not depart without vengeance." don tadeo was struck with the just reasoning of the indian. "for all that, we cannot remain here," said the young man. "it is incontestable that in a few days we shall fall into the hands of these demons." "yes," said curumilla. "well, i confess," the count continued, "that this prospect is not flattering. but i think there exists no position so bad that men cannot be extricated from." "does my brother know any means?" the ulmen asked. "in two hours night will be here. then, when the indians have fallen asleep, we will depart silently." "indians do not sleep," said curumilla, coolly. "the devil!" the young man exclaimed; "if it must be so, we will pass over their dead bodies." "i allow," said don tadeo, "that this plan does not appear to me absolutely hopeless, i think, towards the middle of the night we might try to put it into execution." "good!" replied curumilla, "i will act as my brothers please." since the departure of valentine in the morning, the four men had not had time to eat, and hunger began to assert its claims, therefore they took advantage of the repose the enemy allowed them to satisfy it. the repast consisted of nothing but harina tostada soaked in water--rather poor food, but which want of better made our adventurers think excellent. they were abundantly furnished with provisions--in fact, by economizing them, they had enough for a fortnight; but all the water they possessed did not exceed six leather bottles full, therefore it was thirst which they had most to dread. the sun declined rapidly towards the horizon; the sky, by degrees, assumed the darkest line; the tops of the distant mountains became lost in thick clouds of mist--in short, everything announced that night would shortly cover the earth. a troop composed of fifty chilian lancers issued from the defile; on gaining the plain they diverged slightly to the left, and took the route that led to santiago. "they are palefaces," said curumilla, coolly. these horsemen formed the escort which don gregorio had assigned to don ramón, to accompany him to santiago. all at once a horrible war cry, repeated by the echoes of the quebradas, resounded close to them, and a cloud of araucanos assailed them on all sides at once. the spaniards, taken by surprise, and terrified by the suddenness of the attack, offered but a feeble resistance. the indians pursued them inveterately, and soon all were killed or taken. then, as if by enchantment. indians and chilians all disappeared, and the plain once more became calm and solitary. "well," said curumilla to don tadeo, "what does my father think now. have the indians gone?" "you are right, chief, i cannot but allow. alas!" he added, "who will save my daughter?" "i will, please heaven!" cried the count. "listen to me. we have committed the incredible folly of thrusting ourselves into this rathole; we must get out, cost what it may; if valentine were here his inventive genius would find us means, i am convinced. i will bring him back with me." "yes," said curumilla, "my paleface brothers are right; our friend is indispensable to us: a man shall go, but that man shall he joan." with his knife curumilla cut off a piece of his poncho, about four fingers in width, and gave it to joan, saying--"my son will give this to trangoil-lanec, that he may know from whom he comes." "good!" said joan; "where shall i find the chief?" "in the toldería of san miguel." the three men shook hands with him warmly. the indian bowed, and began to descend. by the last glimpses of daylight they saw him creep along to the first trees of the mountain of corcovado; when there, he turned round, waved his hand to them, and disappeared in the high grass. a gunshot, then, almost immediately followed by a second, resounded in the direction taken by their emissary. "he is dead!" the count cried in despair. "perhaps he is!" replied curumilla, after some hesitation; "but my brother may now perceive that we are really surrounded." "that is true!" don tadeo murmured. and he let his head sink down into his hands. chapter xv. proposals. don tadeo and his companions set to work to fortify themselves. they raised a sort of wall, by piling stones upon one another to the height of eight feet; and as in that country the dews are very heavy, by means of curumilla's lance, and that of joan, which he had left behind him, they established something like a tent, by stretching upon them two ponchos. these labours occupied the greater part of the night. towards three o'clock in the morning curumilla approached his two companions, who were struggling in vain against the sleep and fatigue that oppressed them. "my brothers can sleep for a few hours," he said. the two men threw themselves down on the horsecloths and very soon were fast asleep. curumilla now glided down the declivity of the rocks, and arrived at the base of the fortress. the chief took off his poncho, stretched himself on the ground, and covered himself with it. this precaution being taken, he took his mechero from his belt, and struck the flint without fearing, thanks to the means of concealment he had adopted, that the sparks should be seen in the darkness. as soon as he had procured a light, he collected some dry leaves at the foot of a bush, blew patiently to kindle the fire till the smoke had assumed a certain consistency, then crept away as he had come, and regained the summit of the rocks. his companions still slept. "hugh!" he said to himself, with satisfaction, "we need not now be afraid that the marksmen will hide in the bushes beneath us." shortly a red light gleamed through the darkness, which increased by degrees. the flames gained so rapidly that the summit of the mountain appeared almost immediately to be on fire. the object curumilla had proposed to himself was attained; places which an hour before had offered excellent shelter had become completely exposed. don tadeo and the count, awakened by the cries of the indians, naturally thought an attack was being made, and hastily joined the ulmen. "eh!" said don tadeo, "who lighted this bonfire?" "i!" curumilla replied; "see how the half-roasted bandits are scuttling away!" his two companions took part in his glee. from want of aliment, the fire was extinguished as rapidly as it had been lighted, and the adventurers turned their eyes towards the plain. they uttered a simultaneous cry of surprise and alarm. by the first rays of the rising sun, and the dying flames of the conflagration, they perceived an indian camp surrounded by a wide ditch. "hum!" said the count, "i do not see how we shall extricate ourselves." "look there!" don tadeo exclaimed, "it seems as if they wanted to demand a parley. let us hear what they have to say." several men had left the camp, and these men were unarmed. one of them, with his right hand, waved over his head one of those starred flags which serve the araucanos as standards. "let one of you come down," a voice shouted, which don tadeo recognised as that of general bustamente, "in order that we may lay before you our conditions." "if one of us descends," said the count, "will he be at liberty to rejoin his companions if your proposals are not accepted?" "yes," the general replied, "on the honour of a soldier." "i will come," the young man cried. he then laid down his arms, and with the activity of a chamois, leaped from rock to rock and at the end of five minutes found himself face to face with the leaders of the enemy. they were four: antinahuel, black stag, bustamente and another. the general and antinahuel had wounds in the head and the breast, while black stag wore his arm in a sling. "caballero," said don pancho, with a half smile, "the sun is very hot here; are you willing to follow us to the camp? you have nothing to fear." "señor," the young man replied, haughtily, "i fear nothing--my actions might satisfy you of that. i will follow." "if you are afraid, señor," said the general, "you can return." "general," retorted the young man, haughtily. "i have your word of honour, besides which there is one thing you are ignorant of." "what is that, señor?" "that i am a frenchman, general." "your hand, señor," he said; "you are a brave young man, and it will not be my fault, i swear to you, if you do not go back satisfied." the five personages now proceeded silently for several minutes through the camp, till they came to a tent much larger than the rest, where a number of long lances tied together, with scarlet pennons at their points, stuck in the ground, denoted that it was the hut of a chief. buffalo skulls, lying here and there, served as seats. in one corner, upon a heap of dry leaves, reclined a woman, with her head enveloped in bandages. this was the linda. she appeared to be sleeping. on the entrance of the party, however, a flash of her wild-looking eye gleamed through the darkness of the hut. everyone seated himself, as well as he could, upon a skull. when all were placed, the general said, in a short, clear manner-- "now, then, señor, let us know upon what conditions you will agree to surrender?" "your pardon, señor," the young man answered; "we do not agree to surrender on any conditions whatever. it is you who have proposals to make." chapter xvi. the messenger. joan remained a short time, crouched in the high grass, reflecting. presently he began to run. satisfied that he was alone, he unrolled his lasso, pulled out the running noose, and fastened it to the end of a bush. upon this bush he tied his hat so that it could not fall; he then retreated with great caution, unrolling his lasso as he went. when he had gained the extremity of the lasso, he drew it gently, by little pulls, towards him, giving a slight oscillating movement to the bush. this movement was perceived by the sentinels; they sprang towards the bush, saw the hat, and fired. in the meantime, joan scampered away, with the swiftness of a guanaco. he arrived within sight of san miguel at three o'clock in the morning. when he entered the toldería, shadow and silence prevailed on all sides; the inhabitants were asleep, a few dogs were baying the moon; he did not know how to find the men he was in search of, when the door of a hut opened, and two men, followed by an enormous newfoundland dog, appeared upon the road. joan remembered having seen at valdivia, with the frenchmen, a dog like the one that had given him so formidable a welcome; and, being a man of prompt resolution, he formed his without hesitation, and cried with a loud voice-- "are you the muruche, the friend of curumilla?" "curumilla!" trangoil-lanec exclaimed, as he drew nearer; "if he sends you to us, you must have something to report to us?" "are you the persons i seek?" joan asked. "yes, but in the hut, and by the light of a candle, we shall recognise each other better than here." the three men entered the hut, followed by the dog. without losing time, trangoil-lanec took out his mechero, struck a light, and lit a candle. "good!" he said, "it is he whom curumilla once sent to valdivia." "yes," joan replied. joan pressed that loyal hand, trangoil-lanec turned towards joan, saying-- "i expected last night, at sunset, the arrival of curumilla and two friends." joan bowed respectfully, and drew from his belt the piece of stuff which curumilla had sent. "a piece of curumilla's poncho!" trangoil-lanec exclaimed violently. "of what terrible news are you the bearer?" "the news i bring is bad; nevertheless, at the time i left them, curumilla and his companions were in safety, and unwounded." "curumilla cut this piece off his poncho, saying, as he gave it to me, 'go and find my brothers, show them this stuff, then they will believe you.' i set out, i have travelled twelve leagues since sunset, and here i am." joan then made the recital they required of him, to which valentine and the ulmen listened with the greatest attention. what was to be done? these three indomitable men found themselves opposed by an impossibility, which rose implacable and terrible before them. valentine was the first to decide. "good heavens!" he exclaimed, "since we have nothing left but to die with our friends, let us hasten to join them." "come, then," the two indians replied. they left the hut just as the sun was rising. the two men leaned into their saddles. then commenced a desperate journey. it lasted six hours, then in sight of corcovado. "here we must dismount," said joan. the horses were abandoned, and the three companions began to climb the mountain. "wait here for me," said joan; "i will see how the land lies after a while." his companions threw themselves on the ground, and he crept away. instead of ascending higher, the indian soon disappeared behind one of the numerous masses of granite. his absence was so long, that his friends were preparing to resume their march, at whatever risk, when they saw him come running quickly. "well, what is going on?" valentine asked. "what makes you have such a joyful countenance?" "curumilla," joan replied, "has burnt the forest behind the rocks." "what good advantage can that conflagration procure us?" "an immense one. the warriors of antinahuel were concealed among the bushes and beneath the trees; they have been forced to retire." "come on, then," cried valentine. "let us be gone," said valentine, "it will be hard if, with the assistance of these three resolute men, i cannot save my poor louis." followed by his dog cæsar, who looked at him, wagging his tail, he followed trangoil-lanec, who trod in the steps of joan. in twenty minutes they found themselves at the foot of the rocks, from which don tadeo and curumilla made them joyous signals of welcome. chapter xvii. in the wolf's mouth. we are compelled to interrupt our recital here to relate the various incidents that took place in the camp of the aucas, after the battle with the spaniards. the men placed in ambush at the top of the rocks had made them suffer serious losses. the principal leader, who had escaped safe and sound from the desperate fight of the morning, had been grievously wounded, struck by invisible hands. general bustamente, thrown from his horse, had received a bullet, which, fortunately for him, had inflicted only a flesh wound. don pancho was carried fainting off the field of battle, and concealed in the woods, as was the linda. "what line of conduct will my brother pursue?" the general asked. "the great eagle has my word," the chief replied, with an ambiguous look; "let him keep his word." "i have no double tongue," the general said; "let me regain my power, and i will restore to the people the territory which once belonged to them." "in that case, let my father command," replied antinahuel. a proud smile curled the lips of the general; he perceived all was not lost. "where are we?" he asked. "in ambush in front of the palefaces who so roughly saluted us an hour ago." "and what is my brother's intention?" "to capture them somehow," antinahuel replied. after speaking these words, he bowed to the general and retired. don pancho remained plunged in serious reflection. he turned round with surprise, and with difficulty repressed a cry of horror--it was doña maria, her clothes torn and stained with blood and dirt, and her face enveloped in bandages and bloody linen. "i appear horrible to you, don pancho," she said, in a low voice. "señora;" the general began, warmly; but she interrupted him. "do not debase yourself by a lie unworthy of you and of me." "señora, i beg you to believe----" "you no longer love me, i tell you, don pancho," she replied, bitterly; "besides, have i not sacrificed everything to you? i had nothing left but my beauty--i gave you that, joyfully." "i will not reply to the disguised recriminations you address to me." "oh, a truce with these trivialities," she interrupted violently. "if love can no longer unite us, hatred can, we have the same enemy." "don tadeo de león," he said angrily. "yes--don tadeo de león." "ah! i am free now!" he shouted in a furious tone. "thanks to me," she said pointedly. "yes," he replied, "that is true." "such are women. you are aware of the ability and cool bravery of your enemy; if you give him time, in a few days he will become a colossus." "yes," he murmured, as if speaking to himself, "i know it, i feel it." "hark!" she said, leaning her head forward, "do you hear that noise?" there was a great commotion in the wood; it was the escort of don ramón being surrounded. antinahuel shortly appeared, leading in don ramón sandias. on perceiving the linda he gave a start of terror. "miserable scoundrel!" cried the general. "hold!" said the linda. "what! do _you_ defend this man?" the astonished general exclaimed. "the accomplice of cornejo, it was he who inflicted upon you that frightful wound." "oh! i know all that," the linda replied with a smile; "but i forget and forgive don ramón sandias." "very well," he said, "since you desire it, doña maria; i pardon as you do." the senator could not believe his ears; but, at all hazards, he seized the extended hand, and shook it with all his might, antinahuel smiled contemptuously. "if this is the case," he said, "i will leave you together; it is useless to bind the prisoner." "oh! my dear benefactors!" exclaimed don ramón, rushing towards them. "stop a bit, caballero!" cried don pancho; "we must now have a little talk together." at which words the senator stopped in confusion. "you are aware, are you not, that you are perfectly in our power!" said the linda. "now," the general added, "answer categorically the questions which will be put to you." "how came you here?" "i have just been surprised by the indians." "where were you going?" "to santiago." "alone?" "oh, lord! no; i had an escort of fifty horsemen." "what were you going to do at santiago?" "alas! i am tired of politics: my intention was to retire to my quinta in the bosom of my family." "had you no other object?" the general asked. "i was only charged with a despatch; here it is." the general seized it, broke the seal, and rapidly read its contents. "bah!" he said, crushing the paper, "there is not even common sense in this despatch." doña maria put an end to this by saying-- "go to antinahuel, don pancho; he must demand an interview with the adventurers who are perched like owls at the summit of the rocks." "i will, as you desire it so earnestly." the general succeeded; when he rejoined the linda, she was terminating her conversation with the senator, by saying to him in a sardonic voice-- "manage it as well as you are able, my dear señor; if you fail, i will give you up to the indians." "hum!" said the terrified senator; "and if they learn it is i who have done that, what will happen?" "you will be burnt." "demonios! the prospect is not an agreeable one." chapter xviii. the capitulation. let us return to the hut of council, into which the count had been introduced by the general. don bustamente had too much personal courage not to like and appreciate that quality in another. bowing he said, "your observation is perfectly just, señor----" "count de prébois-crancé;" the frenchman finished the sentence with a bow. "before any other question," said don pancho, "permit me, count, to ask you how you have become personally mixed up with the men we are besieging?" "in the simplest way possible, señor," louis replied, with an arch smile, "i am travelling with some friends and servants; yesterday the noise of a battle reached our ears; i naturally inquired what was going on; after this, several spanish soldiers, running away along the crest or the mountains, intrenched themselves on the rock where i had myself sought refuge. the battle begun in the defile was continued on the plain; the soldiers, listening to nothing but their courage, fired upon their enemy." the general and the senator knew perfectly what degree of faith to place in the veracity of this narration, in which, nevertheless, as men of the world, they had the appearance of placing the utmost alliance. "so then, count," the general replied, "you are head of the garrison?" "yes, señor--" "general don pancho bustamente." "and is this garrison numerous?" he resumed. "hum! tolerably so." "some thirty men, perhaps?" said the general, with an insinuating smile. "thereabouts," the count replied, without hesitation. the general rose. "what, count," he exclaimed, with feigned anger, "do you pretend, with thirty men, to resist the five hundred araucano warriors who surround you?" "any why not?" the young man replied coolly. "why, it is madness!" the general replied. "not at all, señor, it is courage." the general knitted his brow, for the interview was taking a direction not at all agreeable to him: he resumed, "these are my conditions; you, count, and all the frenchmen that accompany you, shall free to retire; but chilians and aucas, whoever may be found among your troop, shall be immediately given up." the count's brow became clouded; he, however, bowed to all present with great courtesy, but then walked resolutely straight out of the hut. "where are you going, señor?" the general said, "and why do you leave us thus suddenly?" "señor," the count remarked, "after such a proposal reply is useless." whilst speaking thus the count kept walking on, and the five persons had left the camp, in some sort without perceiving it, and found themselves at a very short distance from the improvised citadel. "stay, señor," the general observed; "before refusing, you ought, at least, to warn your companions." "you are right, general," said the count. he took out his pocketbook, wrote a few words on one of the leaves, tore it out, and folded it. "you shall be satisfied on the spot," he added. "throw down a lasso!" he cried, with a loud voice. almost immediately a long leathern cord passed through one of the crevices, and came floating to within a foot of the ground. the count took a stone, enveloped it in the sheet of paper, and tied the whole to the end of the lasso, which was quickly drawn up. "you will soon have an answer," he said. all at once the moveable fortifications heaped upon the rock disappeared at if by enchantment, and the platform appeared covered with chilian soldiers armed with muskets; a little in advance of them stood valentine and his dog cæsar. "count!" valentine cried, in a voice that sounded like a trumpet, "in the name of your companions, you have very properly rejected the shameful proposals made to you; we are here a hundred and fifty resolute men, resolved to perish rather than accept them." "that is understood," he cried to valentine; then addressing the chief--"you see," he said, "my companions are of my opinion." "what does my brother wish then?" antinahuel demanded. "pardieu! simply to go away," the young man replied. antinahuel, black stag, and the general consulted for a moment; then antinahuel said--"we agree to your terms; my young paleface brother is a great heart." "that is well," the count replied; "you are a brave warrior, chief, and i thank you; but i have still one favour to ask you." "let my brother explain; if i can grant it i will," antinahuel observed. "well!" the young man replied; "you yesterday took many prisoners--give them up to me." "those prisoners are free," the toqui said with a forced smile; "they have already rejoined their brothers." louis now understood whence the unexpected increase of the garrison had come. "i have nothing more to do, then, but to retire," he continued. "oh! your pardon! your pardon!" the senator exclaimed, "i was one of the prisoners!" "that is true," don pancho observed; "what does my brother say?" "oh! let the man go," antinahuel replied. don ramón did not require this to be repeated; he followed the count closely. louis bowed courteously to the chiefs, and regained the summit of the rock, where his companions awaited him with great anxiety. a few hours later the gorge had fallen back again into its customary solitude, which was alone troubled at intervals by the flight of condors, or the terrified course of guanacos. chapter xix. the appeal. the araucanos had faithfully observed the conditions of the treaty; and the chilians quietly retired, without perceiving a single enemy's scout. they took the road to valdivia. but it was night; the darkness which enveloped the earth confounded all objects, and rendered the march exceedingly painful. the tired horses advanced with difficulty, stumbling at every step. valentine dreaded with reason, losing his way in the darkness; when they arrived, therefore, on the bank of a river, which he recognised as that which, a few days before, had been the spot where the treaties had been renewed, he halted and encamped for the night. everyone rummaging in his alforjas, a species of large pockets, drew forth the charqui and harina tostada which were to comprise his supper. the repasts of men fatigued with a long journey are short, for sleep is their principal want. an hour later, with the exception of the sentinels, who watched over the common safety, all the soldiers were sleeping soundly. seven men alone, seated round an immense fire, in the centre of the camp, were talking and smoking. "my friends," said valentine, taking his cigar from his mouth, "we are not far, i think, from valdivia." "scarcely ten leagues," joan replied. "i believe, with deference to better advice," valentine continued, "that we shall do best before we take that rest of which we stand so much in need, to examine our position." all bowed in sign of assent. "what occasion is there for discussion, my friend?" said don tadeo warmly; "tomorrow, at daybreak, we will proceed toward the mountains, leaving the soldiers to continue their march to valdivia, under the conduct of don ramón." "that is the best plan," said the senator: "we are all well armed; the few leagues before us present no appearance of serious danger: tomorrow, at daybreak, we will separate." "now then, i will ask our araucano friends," valentine went on, "if they still intend to follow us?" "it is now a long time since my brothers quitted their village; they may have a desire to see their wives and children again." "my brother has spoken well," said trangoil-lanec: "his is a loyal heart; when he speaks his heart is always on his lips, so that his voice comes to my ear like the melodious song of the maukawis. i am happy when i listen to him. trangoil-lanec is one of the chiefs of his nation. antinahuel is not his friend! trangoil-lanec will follow his paleface friend wherever he may go." "thanks, chief; i was sure of your answer." "good!" said curumilla, "my brother will say no more upon the subject." "faith, not i!" valentine answered gaily; "i am but too happy to have terminated the affair." here cæsar, who had been crouching comfortably near the fire, began to bark furiously. "hello!" said valentine, "what is going to happen now?" everyone listened anxiously, whilst seeking his arms instinctively. "to arms!" valentine commanded in a low voice; "we know not with whom we may have to do, it is as well to be on our guard." in a few minutes all the camp was roused. the noise drew nearer and nearer. "¿quién vive?" the sentinel cried. "chile!" replied a powerful voice. "¿qué gente?" went on the soldier. "gente de paz," said the voice, and immediately added, "don gregorio peralta." "come on! come on!" cried valentine. "caspita! caballeros," don gregorio replied warmly, shaking the hands that were on all sides held out to him--"what a fortunate chance." with don gregorio thirty horsemen entered the camp. "what do you mean by 'quickly?'" don tadeo asked. "were you in search of us, my friend?" "caray! it was expressly to find you that i left valdivia a few hours ago." "i do not understand you," said don tadeo. don gregorio did not appear to notice him, but, making a sign to the two frenchmen and don tadeo to follow him, he retired a few paces. "you have asked me why i sought you, don tadeo;" he continued, "yesterday i set out, sent to you by our brothers, the patriots, and by all the dark hearts of chili, of whom you are the leader and the king, with the mission to repeat this to you when i met with you: 'king of darkness, our country is in danger! one man alone can save it; that man is yourself." don tadeo made no reply; he seemed a prey to a poignant grief. "listen to the news i bring you," don gregorio continued. "general bustamente has escaped!" "i knew he had," he murmured faintly. "yes; but what you do not know is, that the scoundrel has succeeded in winning the araucanos to his interests." "this news----" objected don tadeo. "is certain," don gregorio interrupted warmly; "a faithful spy has brought it to us." "you know, my friend, i resigned all power into your hands." "when you resigned the power into my hands, don tadeo, the enemy was conquered and a prisoner--the liberty was victorious: but now everything is changed. the peril is greater than ever." "my friend," don tadeo replied, with an accent of profound sadness, "another voice calls me likewise." "public safety is superior to family affections! remember your oath!" said don gregorio sternly. "but my daughter!--my poor child!--the only comfort i possess!" he exclaimed. "remember your oath, king of darkness!" don gregorio repeated with the same solemnity of voice. "oh!" the unhappy father exclaimed, "will you not have pity on a parent?" "it is well," don gregorio replied with asperity. "i will go back, don tadeo. for ten years we have sacrificed everything for the cause you now betray; we know how to die for that liberty which you abandon! farewell, don tadeo! the chilian people will succumb, but you will recover your daughter. farewell! i know you no longer!" "oh, stop! stop!" don tadeo cried, "retract those frightful words! i will die with you! let us be gone!--let us be gone! my daughter!" he added--"pardon me!" "oh! i have found my brother again!" don gregorio exclaimed. "no! with such a champion liberty can never perish!" "don tadeo," valentine cried, "go where duty calls you; i swear to you by my god that we will restore your daughter to you! "yes." said the count, pressing his hand, "if we perish in the attempt!" don gregorio was not willing to pass the night in the camp. every horseman took a foot soldier behind him, and set off, as fast as their horses could bear their double load, on their way to valdivia. the troop of chilians soon disappeared, and there remained in the camp only valentine, the count, curumilla, joan, and trangoil-lanec. the five adventurers wrapped themselves in their ponchos, lay down with their feet to the fire, and went to sleep under the guardianship of cæsar. chapter xx. the council. about midnight the storm broke out, but towards morning the hurricane became a little calmer, and the sun on rising, quite dispersed it. it was then that the five adventurers were able to discover the disasters produced by the tempest; some trees were broken and twisted like straws, while others, uprooted by the blast, lay with their roots in the air. the prairie was one vast marsh. the river, generally so calm, so limpid, so inoffensive, had invaded everything, rolling muddy waters, laying flat grass and plants, and digging deep ravines. valentine congratulated himself on having in the evening established his camp upon the declivity of the mountain instead of descending into the plain, swallowed up by the furious waters. the first care of the travellers was to rekindle their fire. trangoil-lanec looked about for a large flat stone. upon this stone he laid a bed of leaves, with which the fire was at length lighted. upon the damp earth it would have been impossible to obtain any. soon a column of clear flame ascended towards the heavens, and revived the courage of the travellers. when breakfast was ended, gaiety returned, the sufferings or the night were forgotten, and the five men only thought of past miseries as an encouragement to support patiently those which still awaited them. valentine began-- "we were wrong last night," he said, "to let don tadeo leave us." "why so?" louis asked. "good heavens! we were at that moment under the effects of a terrible impression, and did not reflect on one thing which has just occurred to me." "and what is that?" "this: as soon as don tadeo has accomplished the duties of a good citizen, it is evident to all of us that he will resign immediately a power he has accepted quite against his will." "that is evident enough." "what, then, will be his most anxious desire?" "to set off in search of his daughter," said louis. "or to join us." "that is all the same thing." "granted; but there an impassable obstacle will rise." "and what can that be?" "the want of a guide to conduct him to us." "that is true," the four men exclaimed. "what is to be done?" louis asked. "fortunately," valentine continued, "it is not yet too late. don tadeo requires to have with him a man entirely devoted to him, perfectly acquainted with the country we propose to search, who could follow us on our track." "yes," said trangoil-lanec. "well," valentine resumed, "that man is joan." "that is true," the indian observed, "i will be his guide." "joan will leave us, i will give him a letter which louis will write, and in which i will inform don tadeo of the mission with which our friend is charged." "good," said curumilla, "our friend thinks of everything; let louis write the letter." "well," cried valentine, "now i think of it, it is all the better that this idea did not occur to me before." "why so?" said louis in astonishment. "because poor don tadeo will be so happy to hear from us." "that is true," said the count. "is it not? well then, write the note, brother." the count did not require to be told twice, but set to work immediately, joan on his side. "brother," valentine said to him on giving him the note, which the indian concealed under the ribbon which bound his hair, "i have no instructions to give you; you are an experienced warrior." "has my brother nothing to say to me?" joan replied, with a smile. "i leave my heart with you; i shall know where to find it again." he bowed to his friends; then the brave indian departed rapidly, bounding like a guanaco through the high grass. "brave fellow!" valentine exclaimed, as he re-seated himself before the fire. "he is a warrior," trangoil-lanec said proudly. "now, chief," continued the spahi, "suppose we have a little chat." "i listen to my brother." "well, i will explain myself; the task we have undertaken is a difficult one! i would even add, it is impossible, if we had not you with us; louis and i, notwithstanding our courage, would be obliged to renounce it; for in this country, the eyes of the white man, however good they may be, are powerless to direct him." trangoil-lanec reflected for a few minutes, and then replied-- "my brother has spoken well; yes, the route is long and bristling with perils, but let my pale brothers leave it to us; brought up in the desert, it has no mysteries for us." "that is exactly what i mean, chief," said valentine; "as to us, we have only to obey." "this point agreed upon," the count observed, "there is another not less important." "what is that point, brother?" valentine asked. "that of knowing which way we are to direct our course, and when we shall set off." "immediately," trangoil-lanec replied; "only we ought to adopt a line from which we will not deviate." "that is reasoning like a prudent man, chief; submit your observations to us." "i think," said trangoil-lanec, "that to recover the track of the pale blue-eyed maiden, we must return to san miguel." "that is my opinion," said valentine; "i cannot, indeed, see how we can do otherwise." curumilla shook his head dissentingly. "no," he said, "that track would mislead us." the two frenchmen looked at him with astonishment, whilst trangoil-lanec continued smoking. "i do not comprehend you, chief," said valentine. "let my brothers listen," exclaimed curumilla. "antinahuel is a powerful and formidable chief; he is the greatest of the araucano warriors. he has declared war against the palefaces; this war he will carry on cruelly, because he has with him a huincas man and woman, who, for their own purposes, will urge him to invade their country. antinahuel will assemble his warriors, but he will not return to his village. the blue-eyed maiden was carried off by the woman with a viper's heart, in order to induce the chief to enter upon this war. in order to discover the track of the female puma, the hunters follow that of the male; to find the track of the maiden, we must follow that of antinahuel." he ceased, reclined his head upon his breast, and waited. "in good truth," said the count, "the reasons the chief has given seem good." "yes," valentine added, "i believe that my brother curumilla has hit the mark. it is evident that antinahuel loves doña rosario, and that it was for the purpose of giving her up to him that that hideous creature had the poor girl carried off. what do you think, trangoil-lanec?" "curumilla is one of the most prudent ulmens of his nation; he has the courage of the jaguar and the cunning of the fox. he alone has judged properly." "let us then follow the track of antinahuel," said valentine gaily. "that will not be difficult." trangoil-lanec shook his head. "my brother is mistaken; we will follow the track of antinahuel, but we will do so after the indian fashion." "that is to say?" "in the air." "pardieu!" valentine said, stupefied. the chief could not help smiling. "if we were to blindly follow the track of the toqui," he said, "as he has two days in advance of us, and he is on horseback, and we on foot." "caramba!" said the young man, "that is true. i did not think of that. how can we procure horses?" "we do not require any in the mountains; we travel more quickly on foot. we will cut the track in a straight line; every time we fall in with it we will carefully note its direction, and we will continue acting thus till we feel certain of finding that of the pale maiden." "yes," valentine replied; "your plan is ingenious; you are certain not to lose your way or your time." "let my brother be satisfied on those points." "tell me, travelling thus, as the bird flies, when do you think we are likely to overtake the man?" "by the evening of the day after tomorrow." "what! so quickly as that? it is incredible!" "my brother will reflect; whilst our enemy will travel four leagues across the plain, by following the road we are about to take, we shall travel eight on the mountains." "pardieu! we must apply to you to know how to overcome distance. act exactly as you think best, chief." "shall we start at once, then?" valentine asked. "not yet," replied the ulmen; "everything is a guide in the desert; if it should happen that we who pursue, should, in our turn, be pursued, your boots would betray us. take them off, and the araucano warriors will be blind." without making a reply, valentine took off his boots, and took moccasins. "now," said the parisian, laughing, "i suppose i may as well throw the boots into the river." "by no means, my brother!" trangoil-lanec replied seriously; "the boots must be taken care of." the two young men had each a leathern knapsack, which they carried on their shoulders, and containing their absolute necessaries. without a word, they fastened the boots to the knapsack, and buckled it on their shoulders. curumilla had soon finished his job, and he gave each of them a pair of moccasins, exactly like his own, which he tied on for them. chapter xxi. diamond cut diamond. as soon as the chilians had evacuated the rock, antinahuel turned with an air of ill-humour towards general bustamente. "i have done as my brother desired," he said; "what more does he wish?" "nothing at present, chief, unless you, on your part, consent also to depart." "my brother is right; we are no longer of any use." "absolutely none; but since, henceforward, we are free to act as we please, if agreeable to my brother we will go to the council lodge." "good!" the toqui replied, following with a malevolent glance the last ranks of the chilian soldiers. the general placed his hand resolutely on his shoulder, at which the toqui turned sharply round. "what does the white chief want?" he asked. "to tell you this, chief," the general replied, coolly; "of what consequence are thirty men, when you can immolate thousands? what you have done today is the height of policy. by sending away these soldiers, you appear to accept your defeat, and renounce, as feeling yourself too weak, all hopes of vengeance." the brow of the chief expanded, and his look became less savage. "yes," he murmured, as if speaking to himself, "there is truth in what my brother says; in war we must often abandon a hen to obtain a horse afterwards. let us go to the council lodge." antinahuel and the general, followed by black stag, returned to the toldo. "that young man who presented himself here possesses a great heart," antinahuel said, looking at don pancho; "my brother, doubtless knows him?" "on my word no," the general remarked; "i saw him this morning for the first time; he is one of those vagabonds from europe who come to rob us of our wealth." "no; that young man is a chief." "hum i you seem interested about him." "yes; as we are naturally interested in a brave man. i should be happy to meet him again." "unfortunately," the general said, "that is not very probable." "who knows?" the chief observed in a pensive tone, "but let my brother listen; a toqui is going to speak." "i listen," the general replied. "whilst that young man was here," antinahuel resumed impassively, "i examined him attentively; when he did not think my brother was looking at him, he cast strange glances at him." "i do not know him, i tell you, chief," the general replied; "and suppose he should be my enemy?" "an enemy should never be despised," said antinahuel; "the meanest are often the most dangerous. but let us return to the subject of our meeting: what are my brother's present intentions?" "listen to me in your turn, chief; we are henceforward bound to each other by our common interests. i am convinced that if we mutually aid each other, and support each other frankly and loyally, we shall obtain magnificent results." "good! my brother will explain his views." "i will not beat about the bush; this is the treaty i propose to you: help me frankly in recovering the power i have lost--give me the means of avenging myself on my enemies, and i will abandon to you for ever, in full proprietorship, not only the entire province of valdivia, but, still further, that of concepción as far as talca." at this magnificent offer the countenance of antinahuel did not betray the least trace of emotion. "my brother," said he; "gives what is not his." "that is true," the general replied, curtly; "but i shall have it if you assist me, and without me you will never have it." the chief slightly knitted his brow; the general feigned not to perceive it, but continued-- "it is for you to take it or leave it, chief; time passes." the matter being put to him so shortly, the toqui reflected a minute, then turned towards the general. "who will guarantee the execution of my brother's promise?" he said, looking him full in the face. "let my brother name what guarantee he demands," said the general. "a smile of undefinable expression curled antinahuels lips. he made a sign to black stag, who rose and left the tent." "let my brother wait a moment," said the toqui. the general bowed without replying. at the end of a few minutes black stag returned, followed by an araucano warrior bearing a kind of rickety table, hastily knocked together, of badly-jointed pieces of wood. upon this table the toqui silently placed paper, pens, and ink. "the palefaces," he said, "possess much learning; they know more than we poor ignorant indians do; my brother knows that. i have been among the whites, and have seen many of their customs; let my brother take this pen, and let him repeat to me there," he added, "what he has just said to me; then, as i shall keep his words, the wind will not be able to carry them away." the general seized the pen, and dipped it in the ink. "since my brother mistrusts my words," he said, in a tone of pique, "i am ready to do what he desires." "my brother has ill-understood my words," antinahuel replied, "i have the greatest confidence in him, i in no way mean to offend him; only i represent my nation." don pancho saw there remained no subterfuge by which he could escape. turning towards antinahuel, therefore, he said with a smile-- "so be it! my brother is right; i will do what he desires." the toqui bowed gravely, the general placed the paper before him, wrote a few lines rapidly, and signed them. "there, chief," he said, presenting the paper to antinahuel; "that is what you require." "good!" the latter replied, taking it. he turned it this way and he turned it that, as if to make out what the general had written; but as may be supposed, all his efforts produced no results. don pancho and doña maria watched him closely. at the expiration of a minute, the chief made another sign to black stag, who went out, but in a very short time returned, followed by two indians leading a chilian soldier between them. "moro huinca," he said, in a rough voice, "can you explain what is set down on this paper?" "what?" the soldier replied. the general then added:-- "the chief asks you if you can read." "yes, señor," the wounded man stammered. "good!" said antinahuel; "then explain it." and he gave him the paper. the soldier took it mechanically. it was evident that the poor wretch, stupefied by terror, did not understand what was required of him. "my friend," said the general, "as you know how to read, have the goodness to explain to us what is written on this paper. is not that what you desire, chief?" he said, addressing the toqui. the soldier, whose terror was a little calmed by the friendly tone of the general, at last comprehended what was expected of him; he cast his eyes over the paper, and read as follows:-- "i, the undersigned, don pancho bustamente, general of division, ex-minister at war of the chilian republic, engage, in favour of antinahuel, grand toqui of the araucanos, to abandon, in all proprietorship, to him and to his people, to enjoy and dispose of at their pleasure now and for ever, without anyone being able to contest with them the legitimate proprietorship: first, the province of valdivia; second, the province of concepción, to within twenty miles of the city of talca. this territory shall belong, in all its breadth and in all its length, to the araucano people, if the toqui antinahuel, by the help of an army, reinstates me in the power i have lost, and gives me the means to retain it in my hands." "in faith of which i have signed with my name, prenames, and qualities." "don pancho bustamente," "general of division, ex minister of war of the chilian republic." whilst the soldier was reading, antinahuel leaning over his shoulder, appeared endeavouring to read also; when he had ended, with one hand he snatched the paper roughly from him, and with the other he plunged his poniard into his heart. "what have you done?" the general said. "wah!" the chief replied; "this fellow might have talked hereafter, perhaps." "that is true." said don pancho. an araucano warrior took up the body, placed it upon his shoulders, and carried it out of the toldo. "well?" the general resumed. "my brother may depend upon me," said antinahuel; "i must now return to my village." "stay, chief," the general objected; "that is losing time." "interests of the highest importance oblige me." "that is useless," said doña maria, coolly. "what does my sister mean?" antinahuel asked. "i have comprehended the impatience which devours the heart of my brother; this morning i myself despatched a _chasqui_ after the mosotones who were conducting the pale maiden to the toldería of the puelches, with an order to retrace their steps." the countenance of the chief cleared up. "my sister is good!" he said; "antinahuel, he will remember." "let my brother consent, then, to do what the great warrior of the palefaces desires." "let my brother speak," the chief continued gravely. "we must, if we wish to succeed, act with the rapidity of lightning," said don pancho; "collect all your warriors, and let their rendezvous be upon the bio bio. we will gain possession of concepción by a _coup-de-main;_ and if our movements are prompt, we shall be masters of santiago, the capital, before they have time to raise the necessary troops to oppose their passage." "good!" antinahuel replied. "my brother is a skilful chief; he will succeed." "yes, but we must use despatch above everything." "my brother will see," the toqui said, laconically. "my brother," he added to black stag, "will send off the quipu and the lance of fire; in ten suns, thirty thousand warriors will be assembled on the plain of conderkanki. i have spoken--begone." the black stag bowed, and left the cuarto without reply. "is my brother content?" asked antinahuel. "yes," the general replied; "and i will soon prove to my brother that i also can keep my promises." the toqui gave orders for striking the camp. an hour later, a long file of horsemen disappeared in the depths of the virgin forest which formed the limits of the plain. doña maria and bustamente were in high spirits; they both thought their object nearly obtained; they imagined they were on the point of seeing realised the hope they had so long nourished. chapter xxii. delirium. it had been very unwillingly that don tadeo de león consented to resume that power which he had so gladly once laid down when he thought tranquillity was re-established. dull and silent he followed the troop, who appeared rather to escort a state prisoner than the man they judged to be alone able to save his country. for some time the storm had been expending its fury, and don tadeo seemed to be revived by the fiery breath of the tempest; he cast away his hat, that the rain might bathe his burning brow; with his hair flowing in the wind and his eyes flashing wildly, he dug his spurs into his horse's sides, and rushed forward shouting-- "hurrah! hurrah! my faithful fellows! hurrah for our country! forward! forward!" his companions, in the sinister flashes of the lightning, caught occasional glimpses of the imposing shadow galloping before them, his horse bounding over every obstacle that came in his way. suddenly electrified by this strange vision, they rushed wildly forward in pursuit of him, uttering cries resembling his own, across the inundated plain, through trees twisted and tortured by the powerful hand of the hurricane, which roared furiously. a mad ride, beyond the power of language to describe, then ensued. don tadeo, with his eyes flashing fire, felt himself fatally carried away by the furious delirium which compressed his temples like a vice. at intervals he turned sharply round, uttering inarticulate cries, and then, as suddenly, he lifted his horse with his spurs and his knees, and galloped forward in pursuit of some imaginary enemy. the soldiers, terrified at this terrible crisis, of which they could not divine the cause, and filled with grief at seeing him in this unhappy state, rode after him without knowing in what way to restore him the reason which seemed to be abandoning him. on approaching valdivia, although still at some distance from it, they were surprised to see, at this advanced hour of the night, innumerable lights shining in the direction of the city. don gregorio, don tadeos most faithful friend, was overpowered with grief at beholding him in such a dreadful state, and tried every means to restore to him that reason which appeared every moment to be about to leave him perhaps for ever. all at once an idea struck him, and don gregorio urged his horse forward, pricking it with point of his dagger to increase its speed. the noble animal lowered its head, snorted loudly, and darted off like an arrow. after a few minutes of this wild course, don gregorio turned his horse short round upon its hind quarters, and without relaxing his speed, retraced his steps like a whirlwind. he and don tadeo were now galloping in a contrary direction, and must inevitably cross or clash. as they met, don gregorio seized the curb rein of his friend's horse with a grasp of iron, and giving it a sudden check, stopped it short. "don tadeo de león!" don gregorio cried; "have you forgotten doña rosario, your daughter?" at the name of his daughter, a convulsive trembling ran over don tadeos limbs. "my daughter!" he cried in a piercing tone, "oh i restore me my daughter!" suddenly a cadaverous paleness covered his countenance, his eyes closed, the reins dropped from his hands, and he sank backwards. but, quick as thought, his friend had sprung to the earth, and caught him in his arms; don tadeo had fainted. "he is saved!" said don gregorio. all these rough soldiers, whom no danger had the power to astonish or move, breathed a sigh of relief at hearing this word of hope. several blankets and cloaks were quickly suspended to the branches of the tree under which the chief was placed for shelter. and all, mute and motionless, with their bridles passed under their arms, stood awaiting with anxiety the restoration to life of the man whom they loved as a father. nearly an hour passed away. don gregorio, bending over his friend, watched with an anxious eye the progress of the crisis. by degrees, the convulsive trembling which shook the body grew calmer, and he sank into complete immobility. then don gregorio tore open don tadeo's sleeve, stripped his right arm, drew his dagger and opened a vein. no blood issued at first; but, at length, after a few seconds, a black drop, of the size of a pins head, appeared at the mouth of the wound; it increased progressively, and, at length, then followed by a second, and at the expiration of two minutes, a long stream of foaming black blood sprang from the orifice. at length his teeth, which had remained clenched moved, and he heaved a sigh. the blood had lost the bituminous colour it at first wore, and had become red. he opened his eyes, and cast around an astonished look. "where am i?" he murmured faintly. "thank god! you are safe, dear friend!" don gregorio answered, he placed his thumb upon the wound; "what a fright you have given us!" "what does all this mean?" said don tadeo, in a firmer voice; "tell me, don gregorio, what has happened?" "faith! it is all my fault," the latter replied. "this will teach me to choose my horses myself another time, and not leave it to a peon." "pray explain yourself, my friend; i do not understand you; i am so weak." "well you may be; you have had a terrible fall." "ah!" said don tadeo, "do you think so?" "caspita! do i think so? ask these caballeros. a miracle has saved you!" "it is very singular! i cannot recollect anything of what you speak. when we left our friends all at once, the storm broke out." "that was it! and your recollection is correct. your horse took fright at a flash of lightning and ran away. when we came up with you, you were lying senseless in a ravine." "what you say must be true, for i feel bruised, and my whole frame seems weak and exhausted." "that is it! but, i repeat, fortunately you are not wounded; only i thought it best to bleed you." "i thank you; the bleeding has done me good, my head is not so hot, my ideas are more calm! thank you, my friend," he added, taking his hand. "perhaps you are not strong enough yet to sit on horseback," he said. "yes, i assure you, my strength is completely restored; besides, time presses." saying these words, don tadeo rose, and asked for his horse. a soldier was holding it by the bridle. don tadeo examined it attentively. the poor animal was filthy; it looked as if it had literally been rolled in the mud. don tadeo knitted his brow; he could not make it out. don gregorio laughed in his sleeve; it was by his orders that, to mislead his friend, the horse had been put in this condition. "i can but wonder," said don tadeo, "when looking at this poor beast, how we both escaped!" "is it not incomprehensible?" don gregorio replied; "we can none of us account for it." "are we far from the city?" "a league at most." "let us hasten on, then;" and the troop set off at a gallop. this time don tadeo and his friend rode side by side, talking as they went, in a low voice of the means to be taken to thwart the attempts of general bustamente. don tadeo had recovered all his coolness. his ideas had again become clear. one man alone was a stranger to all we have related. this was don ramón sandias. the poor senator, soaked with rain, terrified at the storm, and muffled in his cloak up to the eyes, seemed to live quite mechanically. he only wished for one thing, and that was to gain some place of shelter; so he kept on and on, without knowing what he did, or whether the others followed him or not. he arrived in this manner at valdivia, and was about to pass on when he was stopped by a man who seized his bridle. "hola? eh, caballero, are you asleep?" a rough voice cried. he started with fear, and ventured to uncover one eye. "no," he said, in a hoarse voice; "on the contrary, i am but too wide awake." "where do you come from, alone, so late?" the man who had before spoken continued. "what do you mean by 'alone'?" said don ramón, recovering his spirits a little--"do you take my companions for nothing?" "your companions! what companions are you talking about?" cried several voices. don ramón looked round with a terrified air. "well, that's true!" he said. "i am alone. what on earth has become of the others?" "what others?" the first speaker rejoined; "we see nobody." "caramba!" the senator impatiently replied, "i mean don gregorio and his soldiers." "what! are you part of don gregorios troop?" the people cried from all sides. "to be sure i am," said the senator; "but pray let me get under shelter, for the rain pours terribly." "you need not mind that," said a joker; "you can't be wetter than you are!" "that's true," he replied. "do you know whether don gregorio has met with don tadeo de león?" several voices asked simultaneously. "yes, they are coming together." "are they far off?" "how the devil can i tell?" at hearing this, the people who had stopped him dispersed in all directions, crying. "don tadeo is coming!" without taking any further notice of the half-drowned senator, who implored them in vain to direct him to a place of shelter. no one replied to him; all were busy lighting torches, or rousing the inhabitants of the houses, either by knocking at their doors, or calling them by their names. "válgame dios!" the senator murmured in despair; "these people are all mad to run about the streets in such weather as this! am i going to be present at another revolution?" and spurring his horse, which was almost knocked up, he moved on with much ado, shaking his head dismally, to seek some hospitable roof where he might dry his clothes and get a few hours of repose. chapter xxiii. plan of campaign. don tadeo's entrance into valdivia was truly a triumphant one. notwithstanding the rain, which fell in torrents, the whole population was drawn up in the streets as he passed through, holding in their hands torches, whose flames, agitated by the wind, shed a pale, broken light, which was mingled with that of the constant electric flashes. the cries of joy of the inhabitants, the rolling of drums, were mingled with the peals of thunder and the furious hissing of the tempest. don tadeo was much moved by this proof of love which the population offered him. he felt that, however great private interests may be, they are small in comparison with those of a people; that it is great and noble to sacrifice them to it, and that he who knows how to die bravely for the welfare of his fellow citizens fulfils a holy and a grand mission. his determination was formed at once. he drew his head proudly up, and saluted with a smile the joyous groups which pressed around him on his passage, clapping their hands and shouting "¡viva chile!" he arrived at the cabildo thus escorted. he dismounted, ascended the steps of the palace, and turned towards the crowd. the immense square was paved with heads. the windows of the houses were thronged with people; and all the crowd were uttering deafening cries of joy. don tadeo saw that a few words were expected from him. he made a gesture, and a profound silence immediately prevailed. "dear fellow citizens!" said the king of darkness, "my heart is touched more than i can express with the extraordinary mark of sympathy you have given me. you shall always see me in the front rank of those who fight for liberty. be always united for the public welfare, and tyranny will never succeed in conquering you." this little warm address was hailed with reiterated "¡bravos!" and prolonged cries of "¡viva chile!" don tadeo entered the palace. he there found assembled the superior officers, the alcaldes, and the principal leader of the dark hearts. all rose at his entrance. since the king of darkness had regained his popular enthusiasm he had recovered all his faculties. "caballeros," he said, "i am happy to find you assembled at the cabildo. moments are precious. general bustamente has allied himself with antinahuel, the grand toqui of the araucanos, in order the more easily to regain his power. this is the reason why he made his pronunciamiento in this remote province. delivered by the araucanos, he has taken refuge among them. we shall soon see him at the head of those ferocious warriors, invading our frontiers and desolating our richest provinces. i repeat to you our moments are precious! a bold initiative alone can save us. but, to take the initiative, i must have on my part, i whom you have made your leader, regular powers granted by the senate." these words, whose justice every one acknowledged, created a profound sensation. to the serious objection raised by don tadeo, it was difficult to make a reply. don gregorio approached him, holding a folded paper in his hand. "take this," he said, presenting the open paper to don tadeo: "this is the reply of the senate of santiago to the manifesto you addressed to them after the fall of the tyrant; it is an order which invests you with supreme power. as, after the victory, you resigned the power into my hands, i had kept this order secret. the moment is come to render it public. don tadeo de león! you are our leader." at this intelligence all present arose with delight, crying with enthusiasm, "¡viva don tadeo de león!" he took the paper and ran his eyes over the contents. "that is well," he said, returning it to don gregorio, with a smile, "now i am free to act." the members of the assembly resumed their seats. "caballeros," don tadeo continued, "as i told you, a bold initiative alone can save us. we must defeat our adversary by promptness. you know the man, you know he possesses all the necessary qualities for a good general; he will not therefore fall asleep in a false security; while his ally, antinahuel, is an intrepid chief, endowed with boundless ambition. these two men, united by the same interests, may, if we do not take care, give us a great deal to do; we must therefore attack them both at once. this is what i propose: if the plan i am about to submit to you appears vicious, as we are assembled in council, you will discuss it." he continued-- "we will divide our forces into two parts; the first shall go by forced marches, and attack arauca. this expedition, the sole object of which is to divide the forces of our adversaries, ought to be made in a manner which will oblige them to send important reinforcements. a second division, composed of all the men in the province capable of bearing arms, will march upon the bio bio, in order to lend a hand to the troops of the province of concepción. "but," a superior officer objected, "permit me, don tadeo, to say that in your plan you forget one thing." "what is that, señor?" "is not this province more exposed than any other?" "you connect the events which are about to take place there with those that have preceded them." "doubtless i do." "and that is where your error lies. when don pancho bustamente caused himself to be proclaimed in valdivia, he had good reasons. this province is remote--isolated; the general hoped to make a war depot of it, and to establish himself solidly there, thanks to his allies. that plan was well conceived, it offered great chances of success. but at the present moment the question is completely changed: the general has no longer anything to rely on in this province. in my opinion we must bar his road to the capital, and force him to accept battle. as to the province of valdivia, it is not threatened in any way; only, as in such circumstances we cannot employ too much prudence, a civil militia must be instituted in order to defend its hearths. don gregorio, you will take the command of the troops destined to act against arauca. i reserve for myself the command of the army of the bio bio. this morning, at daybreak, señor the alcalde mayor, you will cause a bando to be published in all the provinces announcing that voluntary enrolments, at a demi-piastre per day, are opened. you, colonel gutierrez, i name governor of the province; your first care must be to organise the civic guard." "your excellency may depend upon me," the colonel replied. "i have known you for a length of time, colonel, and i know i can leave you to act with full confidence," said tadeo, with a smile. the members of the assembly retired, after having again proclaimed their devotion to the good cause. don tadeo and don gregorio were left alone. don tadeo was quite another man. don gregorio looked at him with astonishment. "brother," said don tadeo, "this time we must conquer or die. you will be near me in the hour of battle; you will leave your command when at a few leagues from the city, for it is at my side you must fight." "thanks!" said don gregorio, "thanks." "this tyrant, against whom we are going once more to measure ourselves must die." "he shall die." "from among the dark hearts select ten men, who must be employed specially in pursuit of bustamente." "depend upon me." "send directly don ramón sandias to the governor of concepción, to warn him to be upon his guard." don gregorio bowed, and retired laughing. chapter xxiv. a disagreeable mission. instead of taking a few hours of repose, don tadeo, as soon as he was alone, seated himself at a table, and began to send off orders. several hours had passed away thus; the morning was advanced, and don tadeo had despatched all his couriers. at this moment don ramón sandias appeared. "well, don ramón," don tadeo said in a friendly accent, "you are still among us." "yes, excellency," the senator replied. "have you cause to complain, don ramón?" asked don tadeo. "oh, no!" said the senator, "quite the contrary." "i am ready to weep tears of blood when i reflect that i have allowed myself to be seduced by a silly ambition, which--" "well, what you have lost, if you like, i will restore to you," said don tadeo. "oh! speak! speak! what would i not do for that?" "even return among the aucas?" said don tadeo. "why, no--" "stop a moment!" don tadeo interrupted; "this is what i expect of you: listen attentively." "i listen, your excellency," the senator replied, bowing humbly. don gregorio entered. "what is the matter?" asked don tadeo. "the indian named joan, who once served you as a guide, has just arrived." "let him come in! let him come in!" cried don tadeo, rising. joan now entered. "what brings you here?" asked don tadeo. "speak! my friend!" "the white chiefs are preparing to set out upon the track of antinahuel." "god bless them! they are noble hearts!" don tadeo exclaimed. "my father was sad last night when he parted from us." "yes, yes," the poor father murmured. "before taking the track, don valentine felt his heart softened at the thoughts of the uneasiness you would doubtless experience; he therefore made his brother with the dove's eyes trace this necklace." saying these words, he drew out the letter which was carefully concealed under the ribbon that confined his hair, and presented it to don tadeo. "thanks!" cried the father as he placed the letter in his bosom and held out his hand graciously to the warrior; "thanks to those who sent you, and thanks to you, my brother: you shall remain with me, and when the moment arrives you shall conduct me to my daughter." "i will do so; my father may depend upon me." "i do depend upon you, joan." "i am at the service of my father, as is the horse which the warrior mounts," joan replied, respectfully. "one instant," said don tadeo, clapping his hands, to which a servant responded. "i desire," he said, in an emphatic manner, "that every respect he paid to this warrior: he is my friend, and is at liberty to do just as he likes; let everything be given to him that he asks for." the indian warrior left the apartment. "a noble nature!" cried don tadeo. "yes." said don ramón, "for a savage." the king of darkness was recalled to himself by the voice which thus mingled its harsh notes with his thoughts; his eyes fell upon the senator, whom he no longer thought of. "ah!" said he, "i had forgotten you, don ramón." the latter bit his tongue and repented too late. "did you not tell me," don tadeo resumed, "that you would give a great deal to be at your hacienda?" the senator shook his head affirmatively. "i will offer you," don tadeo continued, "a chance of regaining the happiness you sigh for. you will set out immediately for concepción. one would think you did not like the mission." "i will go." "that is well; a pleasant journey to you." the senator asked-- "if the araucanians surprise me, and get possession of this paper?" "you will be shot--that's all," said don tadeo. "why, this is a trap!" the terrified senator exclaimed. "you have but twenty minutes to make the preparations for your departure." the senator seized the letter eagerly, and, without replying, rushed out of the room like a madman. don tadeo could not repress a smile at his extreme terror, and said to himself-- "poor devil! he little suspects that i should be highly pleased if the araucanians obtained the paper." "everything is ready," said don gregorio, entering. "that is well. let the troops be drawn up in two bodies just outside the city. where is joan?" "i am here," the latter replied, coming forward. "i wish to confide to my brother a mission of life and death." "i will accomplish it, or die in the attempt." "deliver this necklace to the spanish general, fuentes, who commands in concepción." don tadeo drew from his breast a dagger of a curious shape, the bronze knob of which served as a seal. "my brother will also take this dagger; on seeing it the general will know that joan comes from me." "good," the warrior replied, taking the weapon. "that weapon is poisoned--: the slightest scratch will inflict certain death." "oh--oh!" said the indian, "that is indeed a good weapon! when shall i set out?" "a horse shall be given to my brother, to whom i have only one more word to say: let him take care not to get killed; i would have him return to me." "i shall come back again," said the indian, confidently. "farewell." don tadeo and don gregorio left the cabildo. the orders of the king of darkness had been executed with the greatest punctuality and promptitude. two bodies of troops were drawn up; one, of nine hundred men, was charged with the attack on arauca, the other, of nearly two thousand, under the immediate orders of don tadeo himself. in addition to a numerous troop of cavalry, the chilians took with them ten pieces of mountain artillery. the troops filed off at a quick step before the inhabitants, who saluted them with hearty shouts. when they were about to separate, don tadeo took his friend aside. "this evening, when you have established your camp for the night, don gregorio," he said, "you will give up the command to your lieutenant and rejoin me." "that is understood; i thank you for the favour you confer upon me." after a last shake of the hands the two leaders separated, to place themselves at the head of their respective troops, which were advancing rapidly into the plain. chapter xxv. the kite and the dove. general bustamente had taken advantage of the sudden good-will that antinahuel had shown towards him; so that two days after the events we have related the araucanian army was strongly entrenched upon the bio bio. antinahuel, like an experienced chief, had established his camp at the summit of a wooded hill. a screen of trees had been left to conceal the presence of the army. the various contingents had arrived in great haste at the rendezvous, and more came in every minute. the total force of the army was, at that moment, about nine thousand men. black stag, with a troop of chosen warriors, beat the country in all directions, in order to surprise the enemy's scouts. antinahuel had retired under his toldo with the linda and doña rosario. she bore upon her pale countenance traces of the fatigues she had undergone. she stood, with downcast eyes, before the toqui. "my brother sees that i have kept my promise," said the linda. "yes," the toqui replied; "i thank my sister." "my brother is a great warrior, he has but one word; before entering the territories of the huincas, it will be as well to determine the fate of his prisoner." "this young maiden is not my prisoner," antinahuel remarked; "she shall be my wife." "so be it," said the linda, shrugging her shoulders. "my sister is fatigued," said the chief. "a toldo is prepared for my sister; she shall repose a few hours." "chief," she replied, "my body feels no fatigue; i am strong. your mosotones were very kind to me." "their chief had ordered them to do so," antinahuel said, gallantly. "i thank you for having given these orders." "i love my sister," said the toqui. the young lady did not at all understand this blunt declaration of love. "oh, yes!" she exclaimed, innocently, "you love me--you have pity on me." "i will make every effort to make my sister happy." "oh! it would be so easy to do that, if you really wished it!" she cried. "what must i do for that? i am ready to obey my sister." "is that really true?" "let my sister speak," said the chief. "the tears of a poor girl can only render a great warrior like you sad!" "that is truth," he remarked, mildly. "restore me to my friends!" she cried, in an excited manner. antinahuel drew back quite astounded, biting his lips with anger. the linda burst into a loud laugh. "you see," she said, "it is very easy for you to render her happy." the chief knitted his brow still more ferociously. "come, brother," the linda continued, "do not be angry; leave me to have a moment's chat with her." "what to do?" the toqui asked, impatiently. "caramba! why, to explain your intentions clearly to her." "well, then----" "only be so kind as to observe that in nowise will i answer for disposing her in your favour." "ah! to what purpose, then, will you talk?" "i will undertake that, after our conversation, she shall know perfectly what she has to expect from you with regard to herself." "my sister has a golden tongue--she will prevail." "hum! i do not think so; nevertheless i will try, in order to make myself agreeable," she added. "very well; and during that conversation i will visit the camp." "do so," said the linda. antinahuel went out, after darting at the young girl a look which made her cast down her eyes. left alone with rosario, the linda examined her for an instant with such an expression of malignant hatred, that the poor girl felt herself tremble. the sight of this woman produced upon her the strange effect attributed to the look of the serpent; she felt herself fascinated by the cold glance of the green eyes that were fixed upon her in a manner which she could not endure. after a few minutes the linda said, in a cutting voice-- "poor girl! although you have been nearly a month a prisoner, can you at all divine what induced me to have carried you off?" "i do not comprehend you, señora," the young lady replied, mildly; "your words are enigmas to me; i in vain endeavour to discover their meaning." "oh! poor, innocent thing!" the courtesan replied, with a mocking laugh; "and yet i fancy that on the night we were face to face at the village of san miguel, i spoke to you pretty plainly." "all it was possible for me to understand, señora, was, that you hate me." "as the fact exists, of what importance is the reason? yes, i hate you, insignificant thing! but i do not even know you! while avenging myself upon you, it is not you i hate; but the man who loves you; whose heart is broken at your tears! but the torments i reserve for you are nothing, if he is ignorant of them." "god is just, señora," the maiden replied, firmly. "i do not know what crimes you meditate, but he will watch over me." "god! miserable, puny creature!" cried the linda. "god is but a word; he does not exist." "he will not fail me, señora," doña rosario replied. "beware! lest soon bowed by his powerful hand, you, in your turn, may implore his mercy in vain." "begone, miserable child; your threats only inspire me with contempt." "i do not threaten, señora; i am an unfortunate young girl. i only endeavour to soften you." "vain are your prayers," she added; "when my hour comes i will ask for no more mercy than i have had for you." "god pardon you the evil you wish to do." for the second time the linda experienced an indefinable emotion, of which she in vain sought to explain the cause; but she fortified herself against this secret presentiment which appeared to warn her that her vengeance would mislead herself. "listen!" she said, in a short, sharp tone; "it was i who had you carried off, as you are aware; but you know not for what purpose, do you? the man who has just left us, antinahuel, the chief of the araucanos, is a vile wretch! he has conceived a passion for you, an impure, monstrous passion. his mother wished to divert his mind from this passion, and he killed his mother." "oh!" the young girl exclaimed, penetrated with horror. "you tremble, do you not?" the linda continued; "that man is an abject being! he has no heart but for crime! he knows no laws but those which his passions and vices impose upon him! well, this hideous being--this odious villain loves you; i tell you he is in love with you--do you understand me?" "oh, you cannot have sold me to this man!" the maiden shrieked in a state of stupefaction. "i have," she replied, grinding her teeth; "and were it to be begun again, i would do it again! oh, you do not know what happiness i experience in seeing you, a white dove, rolled in the mud." "but have you no heart, señora?" "no, i no longer have; it is long since it was tortured and broken by despair." for a moment the maiden was overcome. "pity, señora!" she cried, in a piercing tone; "oh, you have said you had a heart once! you have loved! in the name of him you loved, have pity--pity for me." "no, no pity, none was felt for me!" and she pushed her away. "señora! in the name of one you have loved, pity." "i love nothing now but vengeance!" she cried; "it is good to hate; a woman forgets her insults through it." doña rosario did not hear these frightful words; a prey to despair, she continued to weep and supplicate; but the word child struck her ear; a light flashed across her brain. "oh, señora!" she cried, "i knew you were good, and that i should succeed in softening you!" "what does this folly mean?" said the linda. "señora!" rosario implored, "you have had children! you have loved them! oh, loved them dearly!" "silence, unhappy wretch!" cried the linda; "silence; speak not to me of my daughter!" "yes," rosario continued, "that is it; it was a daughter. oh, you adored her, señora!" "adored my daughter!" cried the linda, with the roar of a hyena. "in the name of that beloved daughter, pity!" the linda broke suddenly into a frantic laugh. "miserable fool! what a remembrance have you evoked!--it is to avenge my daughter! my daughter! who was stolen from me, that i wish to make of you the most unhappy of creatures." doña rosario remained for an instant as if struck by a thunderbolt, but looking the courtesan full in the face, said-- "señora, you have no heart--be then accursed. as to me, i shall be taught how to extricate myself from the outrages you vainly threaten me with." and, with a movement as quick as thought, she snatched from the girdle of the linda a narrow, sharp-pointed dagger. the linda sprang towards her. "stop, señora," the maiden said to her, resolutely; "one step farther, and i stab myself! oh, i no longer fear you!" doña rosarios look was so firm, her countenance so determined, that the linda stopped. "well," rosario resumed, with a smile of contempt, "you no longer triumph now; you are no longer certain of your vengeance; let the man you threaten me with dare to approach me, and i will plunge this dagger into my heart." the linda looked at her, but made no reply; she was conquered. at that moment a great tumult was heard in the camp; hurried steps approached the toldo in which the two women were. the linda resumed her seat, and composed her features. doña rosario, with a joyful smile, concealed the dagger. chapter xxvi. the end of don ramÓn's journey. in the meantime don ramón had left valdivia. this time the senator was alone--alone with his horse, a poor, lean, half-foundered beast, which hobbled along with its head and ears down, and appeared in all points to harmonise with the sad thoughts which doubtless occupied its master's mind. the future by no means appeared to him pleasant. he had left valdivia under a threat of death; at every step he expected to be aimed at by some invisible gun. being conscious that he could not impose upon the enemies, doubtless disseminated over his route, by any appearance of strength or power, he determined to impose upon them by his weakness--that is to say, he got rid of all his arms. at a few leagues distance from valdivia he had been passed by joan. don ramón watched him for a long time with a look of envy. "what happy fellows these indians are!" he grumbled; "the desert belongs to them. ah!" he added, with a sigh; "if i were but at casa azul." casa azul was the senator's quinta--that quinta with white walls, green blinds, and leafy bowers, which he so much regretted having left in a moment of silly ambition, and which he never hoped to see again. when he passed by a wood, or along a narrow way between two mountains, he cast terrified glances around him, and entered the suspicious passage, murmuring-- "this is where they are waiting for me!" and when the wood was passed, and the dangerous lane cleared, instead of felicitating himself upon being still safe and sound, he said, with a shake of the head-- "hum! the pícaros! they know very well i cannot escape them, and they are playing with me as a cat does with a mouse." and yet two days had passed away without a mishap, nothing had occurred to corroborate the senator's suspicions and uneasiness. he had that morning crossed the ford of the carampangne, and was drawing near to the bio bio which he hoped to reach by sunset. but the bio bio had to be crossed, and there lay the difficulty. the river has but one ford, a little above concepción. the senator knew it perfectly well but a secret presentiment told him not to approach it. unfortunately don ramón had no choice, he could take no other road. the senator hesitated as long as cæsar did at the famous passage of the rubicon; at length, as there were no means of doing otherwise, don ramón very unwillingly spurred on his horse, and advanced towards the ford, recommending himself to the protection of all the saints of the spanish golden legend. the horse was tired, but the smell of the water renovated its strength, and it cantered gaily on with the infallible instinct of these noble beasts, without pausing in the inextricable windings which crossed each other in the high grass. although the river was not yet visible, don ramón could hear the roaring of the waters. he was passing by, at the moment, a dark hill, from the thickly-wooded sides of which proceeded, at intervals, sounds which he could not make out. the animal too, as much alarmed as its master, pricked up its ears and redoubled its speed. don ramón scarcely ventured to breathe, and looked in all directions with the greatest terror. he was close to the ford, when suddenly a rough voice smote his ear and rendered him as motionless as if he had been changed into a block of marble. half a score indian warriors surrounded him on all sides; these warriors were commanded by black stag. it was a strange circumstance, but when the first moment of terror was past, the senator completely recovered himself--now that he knew what he had to trust to, the danger which he had so long dreaded was before him, but less terrific than he had supposed it to be. black stag examined him carefully, and at length placed his hand upon the bridle of his horse, saying, as he endeavoured to recall a half-effaced remembrance-- "it seems to me that i have seen the paleface somewhere?" "to be sure," the senator replied; "we are old friends." "i am not the friend of the huincas," the indian said, sternly. "i mean," don ramón corrected himself, "we are old acquaintances." "good! what is the chiapla doing here?" "hum!" the senator said; "i am doing nothing." "let the paleface reply clearly; a chief is questioning him," black stag said, frowning. "i ask no better," don ramón replied, in a conciliating tone. "question me." "where is the paleface going?" "where am i going? when you stopped me i was preparing to cross the bio bio." "good! and when you had crossed the bio bio?" "oh, then i should have hastened to gain my quinta, which i am very sorry i ever quitted." "doubtless the paleface is charged with some mission?" "who, i?" said the senator, in the most careless way possible; "who do you think would charge me with a mission?" "good! where is the necklace?" "what necklace do you mean?" "the one which you have to deliver to the chief of concepción." "who! i?" "yes, you." "i have none." "my brother speaks well: aucas warriors are not women, they know how to discover what is hidden." any resistance was impossible, and if it had not been, don ramón was not the man to have attempted it; hence he obeyed, and his horse was led away. "the paleface will follow me," black stag commanded. "hum!" said don ramón, "where are you going?" "to the toqui and the great eagle of the whites." "oh, dear! oh, dear!" said don ramón to himself. the warriors led their prisoner among the coppice. after a short ascent they arrived at the camp. general bustamente and antinahuel were conversing as they walked about. "what have you there?" asked the general. "a prisoner," black stag replied. "eh, what!" said the general, "it is my honourable friend, don ramón!" "yes--worse luck--" "how can that be? were you not seeking me?" "god forbid!" the senator cried. "look there, now; why, then, where were you going alone thus?" "i was going to my own home." the general and antinahuel exchanged a few words. "come with us, don ramón," the general rejoined, "the toqui wishes to have some conversation." "with pleasure," said don ramón; and cursing his evil star he followed the two men into the toldo. the warriors who had brought the senator remained without, to execute the orders they might receive. "you said," the general continued, as soon as they were in the toldo, "that you were going home at casa azul." "yes, general." "why that sigh? nothing that i am aware of will be opposed to the continuation of your journey." "do you mean that?" the senator exclaimed. "hum! that depends entirely upon yourself." "how so?" "deliver up to the toqui the order which don tadeo de león has charged you." "what order do you mean, general?" "why, the one you probably have." "you are mistaken, general; i am not charged with any mission to general fuentes, i am sure." "and yet the toqui asserts the contrary." "this man lies; he must have a necklace," said antinahuel. "it is very easy to ascertain that." said the general, coolly. "black stag, my friend, please to have this caballero suspended by the thumbs to the next tree." the senator shuddered. "i beg you to observe," the general continued, "that we do not commit the rudeness of searching you." "but i assure you i have no order." "bah! and i am certain you will find one--there is nothing like being suspended by the thumbs." "come," said black stag. the senator bounded away from him with fear. "well, i think i recollect----" he stammered. "there, you see." "that i am the bearer of a letter." "just as i said you were." "but i am ignorant of its contents." "caramba! that is very likely." "well, to general fuentes, i suppose. but if i give you up the paper shall i be free?" he asked. "hum! the position is changed. if you had given it up with a good grace i could have guaranteed your freedom." "still!" "come, give it to me." "here it is," said the senator, drawing it from his bosom. the general took the paper, ran his eye rapidly over it, then drawing antinahuel to the other extremity of the toldo, they talked together for some minutes in a low voice. at length the general turned towards the senator. "unhappy fool!" he said, sternly; "is it thus you betray me, after the proofs of friendship i have given you?" "i assure you, general--" the other began. "silence, you miserable spy!" the general replied; "you wished to sell me to my enemies, but god has not permitted the execution of so black a project." the senator was annihilated. "take away this man," said antinahuel. the poor wretch struggled in vain in the hands of the indian warriors, who seized him roughly, and dragged him out of the toldo, in spite of his cries and tears. black stag led them to the foot of an enormous espino, whose thick branches formed a wide shadow on the hill. when they arrived there, don ramón made a last and powerful effort, escaped from the hands of his surprised guards, and darted away like a madman up the steep acclivity of the mountain. but this wild race lasted only a few minutes, and quite exhausted his strength. when the indian warriors overtook him, which they easily did, terror had already nearly killed him. the warriors placed the noose of a lasso round his neck, and then threw it up over the principal branch of the espino. but he was dead when they hanged him--fright had killed him. it was written that poor don ramón sandias, the victim of a foolish ambition, should never see casa azul again. chapter xxvii. the auca-coyog. the tragical death of the senator was only the consequence of his well-known pusillanimity. if the general had believed it possible to place any reliance upon his word, he would have released him immediately. immediately after the execution of the senator, the heralds convened the chiefs to a grand auca-coyog. thirty ulmens and apo-ulmens were quickly assembled at the place appointed. antinahuel soon appeared, followed by general bustamente. antinahuel held in his hand the letter taken from don ramón, and he spoke as follows:-- "ulmens, apo-ulmens, and chiefs of the four uthal-mapus of the araucanian confederacy, i have convoked you by the heralds to communicate to you a necklace taken from the spy who by my order has just been put to death. this necklace will cause us to alter our arrangements, i think, for the malocca, on account of which we have assembled. our ally, the great eagle of the whites, will explain it to you. let my brother read," he added, turning towards the general. the latter read with a loud voice:-- "'my dear general,--i have submitted to the council assembled at valdivia the objections you have thought it your duty to make on the subject of the plan of the campaign. these objections have been found just; consequently the following plan has been modified according to your observations. you will continue, then, to cover the province of concepción, by holding the line of the bio bio, which you will not cross without fresh orders. on my side, with seven thousand men, i will march upon arauca, of which i will take possession and destroy. this plan offers us the more chances of success, from the enemy being, as we learn from trustworthy spies, in a deceitful security with regard to our movements. the bearer of this order is a person you know, whose nullity itself will facilitate the means of passing through the enemy's lines. you will get rid of this individual by sending him to his home, with an injunction not to leave it.'" "'signed, don tadeo de leÓn,'" "'dictator and general-in-chief of'" "'the army of liberation." the reading of this despatch was listened to by the chiefs with the deepest attention. "this necklace," said antinahuel, "was traced in private characters, which our brother the paleface has succeeded in deciphering. what do the ulmens think?" one of the ancient toquis arose. "the palefaces are very cunning," he said; "they are foxes in malice and jaguars in ferocity. this order is a snare for the good faith of the aucas. but aucas warriors are wise; they will laugh at the machinations of the huincas, and will continue to guard the ford of the bio bio. the communications of the whites are cut off, like a serpent whose body has been divided by a stroke of the hatchet: they in vain seek to unite the various trunks of their army, but they will not succeed. i have spoken." this speech, pronounced in a firm, clear voice, by one of the most justly respected chiefs of the nation, produced a certain effect. "the chief has spoken well," said the general; "i coincide entirely with his opinion." another chief then arose and spoke in his turn. "the whites are very cunning, as my father has said; they are foxes without courage--they can only massacre women and children, and run away at the sight of an aucas warrior. but this necklace tells the truth, and translates their thoughts literally. chiefs, we all have wives and children, and we ought in the first place to think of their safety. let us be prudent, chiefs; let us not throw ourselves into a snare while we think we are laying one for our enemies." the araucanos have a deep affection for their families; and the idea of leaving them behind, exposed to the disasters of war, gave them great uneasiness. general bustamente anxiously followed the fluctuations of the council. "what my brother has remarked is just, but his opinions only rest upon an hypothesis; the whites do not employ forces in such numbers to attempt an invasion of the araucano territory. let my brothers leave in the camp a thousand resolute warriors to defend the passage, and at nightfall cross the bio bio boldly, and i will answer for their success." "my brother is a skilful warrior," said antinahuel; "the plan he proposes shows his experience. as he says, until i have proof to the contrary, i shall believe the necklace to be a deceit; and that we ought, this very night, to invade the territories of the whites." the general breathed freely; his cause, he thought, was gained. suddenly black stag entered, and took his place in the assembly. "what is going on?" the toqui asked. "listen!" said black stag, in a solemn tone; "illecura, borea, and nagotten have been given up to the flames, and the inhabitants put to the sword; another body of troops, still more considerable than the first, is acting in the flat country in the same manner as the other in the maritime country." the most violent agitation seized on the ulmens; nothing was heard but cries of rage and despair. "what do we wait for, chiefs of the aucas?" cried the chief who had advised retreat, in a shrill, excited tone; "do you not hear the cries of your wives and children calling upon you for succour? do you not see the flames which are consuming your dwellings and devouring your harvests? to arms! warriors, to arms!" "to arms!" the warriors yelled, rising as one man. indescribable confusion followed. general bustamente retired with death in his heart. "well!" the linda asked, on seeing him enter, "what is going on? what mean these cries and this frightful tumult? have the indians revolted?" "no," the general explained, "don tadeo, that demon, bent upon my destruction, has disconcerted all my plans. the indian army is about to retreat." "to retreat!" the linda cried furiously, and rushing towards antinahuel-- "what! you! you fly! you confess yourself conquered! don tadeo de león, the executioner of your family, is marching against you, and you are frightened! coward! coward! put on petticoats; you are not a warrior! you are not a man; you are an old woman." the toqui put her back with disdain. "woman, you are mad!" he said. "what can one man do against fate? i do not fly from my enemy, i go to meet him." "my sister cannot remain here," he said, in a softened tone; "the camp is about to be broken up." the poor girl followed mechanically, without reply. a few minutes later the camp was struck, and the araucanos abandoned the impregnable position. at the reiterated entreaties of bustamente, antinahuel consented to leave a chosen band of eight hundred warriors to defend the passage. black stag was a prudent warrior. as soon as the night came on, he dispersed scouts in all directions upon the banks of the river. yielding, in spite of himself, to the influence produced by the report of the spies, he had, in the first moment, advised retreat; but, upon reflection, it was not long before he suspected a _ruse de guerre_. his suspicions had not deceived him. between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, his scouts came hastily in to warn him that a long line of horsemen had lately left the chilian bank, and were gliding along like an immense serpent near the ford. black stag had but two hundred and fifty warriors armed with guns, so he placed them in the first line upon the bank, supported by his lancers. when they deemed them within range the araucano warriors made a discharge upon the horsemen who were crossing the river. several fell. at the same instant four pieces of cannon were unmasked on the opposite bank, which spread death and terror among the indians. a strong detachment had, in the meantime, cleared the ford, and fell upon them with the utmost fury. from that time the struggle had no equality. the aucas, notwithstanding their courage, were obliged to give ground, leaving nearly two hundred dead on the banks of the river. the plan conceived by don tadeo de león had completely succeeded. the army of general fuentes had forced the passage of the bio bio. thus, thanks to the ruse employed by the dictator, the ground upon which the quarrel was to be decided was changed, and the aucas were forced to defend themselves at home. instead of invaders, as they wished to be, they found themselves, on the contrary, the invaded; the campaign might now be terminated by the gaining of a single battle. chapter xxviii. the human sacrifice. the army commanded by general fuentes was composed of two thousand foot, eight hundred horse, and six pieces of cannon. it was an imposing force for these countries, where the population is very small, and where infinite pains are often required to raise an army half as numerous. as soon as the passage was effected, and the banks cleared of the fugitives, the general encamped his troops, resolved to give them a few hours' repose before resuming his march to form a junction with don tadeo de león. after giving these orders, as he was entering his marquee, an indian came towards him. "what do you want, joan?" asked he. "the great chief no longer needs me; joan wishes to return to him who sent him." "you are at liberty to do as you please, my friend; but i think you had better accompany the army." the indian shook his head. "i promised my father to return immediately," he said. "go, then; i neither can nor wish to detain you; you can report what you have seen; a letter might compromise you in case of a surprise." "i will do as the great chief commands." "well, good fortune attend you; but be particularly careful not to be taken in passing the enemy's lines." "joan will not be taken." "farewell! then, my friend," said the general, waving his hand as he entered his tent. joan took advantage of the permission granted and left the camp without delay. the night was dark; the moon was concealed behind thick clouds. the indian directed his course with difficulty in the obscurity. he was more than once forced to retrace his steps, and to go wide about to avoid places which he thought dangerous. he proceeded thus, feeling his way as it were, till daybreak. at the first glimmering of dawn he glided like a serpent through the high grass, raising his head occasionally, and trembling in spite of himself, for he found he had, in the darkness, stumbled upon an indian encampment. he had, inadvertently, got into the midst of the detachment commanded by black stag, who had succeeded in collecting the remains of his troops, and who, at that moment, formed the rearguard of the araucanian army, whose bivouac fires smoked on the horizon, within distance of two leagues at the most. but joan was not a man to be easily disconcerted; he noticed that the sentinels had not yet perceived him, and he did not despair of getting out of the scrape he had blundered into. he did not, however deceive himself or attempt to fancy his position not critical; but as he confronted it coolly, he resolved to do all he could to extricate himself, and took his measures accordingly. after reflecting for a few seconds, he crept in a direction opposite to that he had before followed, stopping at intervals to listen. everything went on well for a few minutes; nothing stirred. a profound silence seemed to hover over the country; joan was beginning to breathe freely; in a few minutes he should be safe. unfortunately, at that moment chance brought black stag directly before him; the vigilant chief had been making the round of his posts. the vice-toqui turned his horse towards him. "my brother must be tired; he has crept through the grass like a viper so long," he said, with an ironical smile; "he had better change his position." "that is just what i am going to do," said joan, without displaying the least astonishment. and bounding up like a panther, he leaped upon the horse behind the chief, and seized him round the body. "help!" black stag cried, in a loud voice. "one word more and you are a dead man!" joan whispered in a threatening tone. but it was too late; the chief's cry of alarm had been heard, and a crowd of warriors hastened to his succour. "cowardly dog!" said joan, who saw his chance was gone, but who did not yet despair; "die then!" he plunged his poisoned dagger between his shoulders and cast him onto the ground, where the chief writhed in the agonies of death, and expired as if struck by thunderbolt. joan lifted his horse with his knees and dashed full speed against the indians who barred his passage. this attempt was a wild one. a warrior armed with a gun took a steady aim, the horse rolled upon the ground, with its skull crushed, and dragging its rider with it in the fall. twenty warriors rushed upon joan, and bound him before he could make a movement to defend himself. but he had time to conceal the dagger, which the indians did not even think of looking for, as they did not know what weapon he had employed. the death of black stag, one of the most respected warriors of the nation, threw the araucanos into a state of consternation. an ulmen immediately took the command in his place, and joan and a chilian soldier captured in the preceding combat, were sent together to the camp of antinahuel. the latter felt great regret at receiving the news of the death of black stag; it was more than a friend he had lost, it was a right arm! antinahuel, in order to reanimate the courage of his people, resolved to make an example, and sacrifice the prisoners to guecubu, the genius of evil--a sacrifice which we must admit is becoming more and more rare among the aucas, but to which they have recourse sometimes when they wish to strike their enemies with terror, and to prove that they mean to carry on a war without mercy. time pressed, the army must continue its march, therefore antinahuel determined that the sacrifice should take place at once. at some distance beyond the camp the principal ulmens and warriors formed a circle, in the centre of which was planted the toqui's hatchet. the prisoners were brought thither. they were not bound, but in derision were mounted upon a horse without ears and without a tail. joan, as the more culpable, was to be sacrificed last, and witness the death of his companion as a foretaste. but if at that fatal moment everything seemed to have abandoned the valiant indian, he had not abandoned himself. the chilian prisoner was a rough soldier, well acquainted with araucanian manners, who knew perfectly what fate awaited him. he was placed near the hatchet, with his face turned toward the chilian frontiers. they made him dismount from his horse, placed in his hands a bundle of small rods and a pointed stick, with which they obliged him to dig a trench, in which to plant one after the other the little wands, while pronouncing the names of the araucano warriors he had killed in the course of his long career. to every name the soldier pronounced, he added some cutting speech addressed to his enemies who replied to him by horrible execrations. when all the wands were planted antinahuel approached. "the huinca is a brave warrior," said antinahuel; "he will fill up this trench with earth in order that the glory and valour of which he has given proofs during his life may remain buried in this place." "so be it!" said the soldier; "but you will soon see that the chilians possess more valiant soldiers." and he carelessly threw the earth into the trench. this terminated, the toqui made him a sign to place himself close to the hatchet; the soldier obeyed. antinahuel raised his club and crushed his skull. the poor wretch fell, but was not quite dead, and he struggled convulsively. two machis immediately sprang upon him, opened his breast and tore out his heart, which they presented, palpitating as it was, to the toqui. the latter sucked the blood, and then passed the heart to the ulmens, who followed his example. in the meantime, the crowd of warriors seized upon the carcass, which they cut to pieces in a few minutes, reserving the bones to make war whistles of. they then placed the head of the prisoner on a pike, and danced round it to the sound of a frightful song, accompanied by the pipes made from the bones. joan's eye and ear were on the watch at the moment when this frightful saturnalia were at their apogee, he judged the time propitious, turned his horse, and fled as fast as he could. a few minutes confusion ensued, of which joan took full advantage; but the araucanos hastened to pursue him. he soon perceived that the distance between him and his enemies rapidly diminished. he was passing by the side of a hill, whose steep ascent could not be climbed by horses, and with the quickness of conception peculiar to brave men he divined that this would be his only chance of safety. he guided his horse so as, in a manner, to brush the hill, and get upright in his saddle. the araucanos came up, uttering loud cries. all at once, seizing a strong branch of a tree, he sprang from his saddle, and climbed up the branch with the velocity of a tiger cat. the warriors shouted with rage and astonishment at beholding this extraordinary feat. nevertheless, the araucanos had by no means given up all hopes of retaking their prisoner. they left their horses at the foot of the mountain, and half a score of the most zealous and active set off upon joan's track. but the latter had now some space in advance. he continued to mount, clinging by feet and hands, and only stopping when nature commanded to take breath. but he found that a longer struggle would be useless; that at length he was really lost. the araucanos came up panting from their long run, brandishing their lances and clubs with cries of triumph. they were not more than fifty paces from him at the most. at this awful moment joan heard a voice whisper-- "lower your head!" he obeyed, without thinking of what was going on around him, or of whence this recommendation could come. the sound of four shots rattled sharply in his ears, and four indian warriors rolled lifeless on the ground before him. restored to himself by this unhoped-for succour, joan bounded forward and stabbed one of his adversaries, whilst four fresh shots stretched four more upon the earth. joan was saved! he looked around him to ascertain to whom he owed his life. valentine, louis, and the two indian chiefs stood beside him. these were the four friends who, watching from a distance the camp of the araucanos, had witnessed the desperate flight of joan, and had come bravely to his aid. "well, joan, old fellow!" said valentine, laughing, "you have had a narrow escape!" "thanks!" said joan, warmly; "i shall not forget." "i think we should act wisely if we now placed ourselves in safety," louis observed. "don louis is right." said trangoil-lanec. the five men plunged into the woods of the mountain; but they had no occasion to dread an attack. antinahuel, upon hearing the reports which the warriors who had escaped the frenchmen's rifles gave of the number of enemies they had to combat, was persuaded that the position was occupied by a strong detachment of the chilian army: consequently, he struck his camp, and went away in one direction, whilst the adventurers escaped in another. chapter xxix. the king of darkness. don tadeo de león had manoeuvred with the greatest skill and promptitude: supporting his left upon the sea, and pivoting upon arauca, the capital of the confederation, he had extended his right along the mountains, so as to cut off the communications of the enemy, who, by his junction with general fuentes, found themselves placed between two fires. antinahuel, deceived by the false message found on don ramón, had committed the unpardonable fault of raising his camp of the bio bio, and thus leaving a free passage for general fuentes. general bustamente had viewed with despair the faults his ally had committed, faults which the latter would not allow till it was too late to remedy. doña maria, the woman who had been his evil genius, abandoned him now. the linda, faithful to her hatred, only thought of one thing--to make doña rosario suffer as much as she could. antinahuel had endeavoured to throw himself into the mountains, but all his efforts had been in vain, and he had only obtained the result he wished to avoid--that is to say, he had placed himself between three _corps d'armée_, which, by degrees, closed round him, and had ended by placing him in the annoying obligation of fighting upon ground which it pleased the enemy to choose instead of in his own country, don gregorio peralta closed up his passage towards the sea; don tadeo de león on the side of the arauca; whilst general fuentes defended the approach to the mountains. all the marches and counter-marches which led to this result had lasted a fortnight. don tadeo was anxious to strike a great blow, and terminate the war in a single battle. on the day with which we resume the course of our narrative, the araucanos and chilians were at length in presence: don tadeo de león, shut up in his tent with don gregorio, general fuentes, and several other superior officers of his staff, was giving them his last orders, when a summons of trumpets was heard from without. the chilians immediately replied; an aide-de-camp entered the tent, and announced that the grand toqui of the araucanos demanded an interview. "do not go, don tadeo," said general fuentes; "it is nothing but some villainy these demons have planned." "i am not of your opinion, general," the dictator replied. "i ought, as leader, to seek every means of preventing the effusion of blood; that is my duty, and nothing will make me fail in it." "caspita!" said don gregorio, "you wish to prevent our taking them in spite of you." the place chosen for the conference was a small eminence, situated between the two camps. a chilian flag and an araucanian flag were planted at twenty paces from each other; at the foot of these flags forty aucas lancers on the one side, and a similar number of chilian soldiers placed themselves. when these diverse precautions were taken, don tadeo, followed by two aides-de-camp advanced toward antinahuel, who came to meet him with two ulmens. when they arrived near their respective soldiers, the two leaders ordered their officers to wait for them, and met in the space left free for them. antinahuel was the first to break the silence. "the aucas know and venerate my father," he said, bowing courteously; "they know that he is good, and loves his indian children. a cloud has arisen between him and his sons; is it impossible to dissipate it?" "chief," said don tadeo, "the whites have always protected the indians. often have they given them arms to defend themselves with, corn to feed them, and warm clothing to cover them in winter. but the araucanos are ungrateful--when the evil is past they forget the service rendered. why have they today taken up arms against the whites? let the chief reply in his turn; i am ready to hear all he can advance in his defence." "the chief will not defend himself," antinahuel said, deferentially; "he acknowledges his errors; he is convinced of them; he is ready to accept the conditions it shall please his white father to impose." "tell me, in the first place, what conditions you offer, chief; i shall see if they are just." antinahuel hesitated, and then said-- "my father knows that his indian sons are ignorant. a great chief of the whites presented himself to them; he offered them immense territories, much pillage, and fair women if the araucanos would consent to defend his interests. the indians are children; they allowed themselves to be seduced by this man who deceived them." "very well," said don tadeo. "the indians," antinahuel continued, "are ready, if my father desires it, to give up to him this man." "chief," replied don tadeo, with indignation, "are these the proposals you have to make me? what! do you pretend to expiate one treachery by committing one still greater and more odious? the araucanian people are a chivalrous people, unacquainted with treachery: not one of your companions can have possibly suggested anything so infamous; you alone, chief, you alone must have conceived it!" antinahuel knitted his brows; but quickly resuming his indian impassiveness, he said-- "i have been wrong; my father will pardon me: i wait to hear the condition he will impose." "the conditions are these: the araucanian army will lay down their arms, the two women who are in their camp will be placed this very day in my hands, the grand toqui, and twelve of the principal apo-ulmens, shall remain as hostages at santiago, until i think proper to send them back." a smile, of disdain curled the thin lips of antinahuel. "will my father not impose less harsh conditions?" "no," don tadeo answered, firmly. the toqui drew himself up proudly. "we are ten thousand warriors resolved to die; my father must not drive us to despair," he said. "tomorrow that army will have fallen under the blows of my soldiers, like corn beneath the sickle of the reaper." "listen, you who impose such arrogant conditions upon me," the chief replied; "do you know who i am--i who have humbled myself before you?" "of what consequence is it to me? i will retire." "one instant more! i am the great-grandson of the toqui cadegual; a hereditary hatred divides us; i have sworn to kill you, dog! rabbit! thief!" and, with a movement as quick as thought, he drew out his hand, and struck don tadeo with a dagger full in the breast. but the arm of the assassin was seized and dislocated by the iron-muscled hand of the king of darkness, and the weapon was broken like glass against the cuirass which he had put on under his clothes, to guard against treachery. "do not fire!" he said to the soldiers; "the wretch is sufficiently punished, since his execrable project has failed. go back, assassin!" he added, contemptuously; "return and hide your shame among your warriors. begone, unclean dog!" without saying a word more, don tadeo turned his back and regained his camp. "oh!" antinahuel said, stamping with rage, "all is not ended yet! tomorrow i shall have my turn." "well," don pancho asked, as soon as he saw him, "what have you obtained?" antinahuel gave him an ironical glance. "what have i obtained?" he replied; "that man has baffled me." "tomorrow we will fight," said the general. "who knows? all is not lost yet." "who knows?" the chief exclaimed, violently; "tomorrow, if it costs me all my warriors, that man shall be in my power!" without condescending to give any further explanation, the toqui shut himself up in his toldo with some of his chiefs. don tadeo returned to his tent. "well!" cried general fuentes, "i told you to beware of treachery!" "you are right, general," the dictator replied, with a smile. "but the wretch is punished." "no," the old soldier retorted, somewhat angrily; "when we meet with a viper in our path, we crush it without mercy beneath the heel of our boot; if we did not, it would rise and bite the imprudent man who had spared it or disdained it." "come, come, general!" don tadeo said, gaily; "you are a bird of ill-omen. think no more about the wretch, other cares call upon us." the general shook his head with an air of doubt, and went to visit the outposts. chapter xxx. the battle of conderkanki. it was the fourth of october. the araucano warriors came out proudly from their entrenchments, and drew up in order of battle to the sound of their warlike instruments. the araucanos have a system of battle from which they never deviate: this unchangeable order is as follows: the cavalry form the two wings, and the infantry is in the centre, divided by battalions. the ranks of these battalions are by turns composed of men armed with pikes and men armed with clubs, so that between two pikes there is always one club. the vice-toqui commands the right wing, an apo-ulmen the left wing. as to the toqui, he flies to all points, exhorting the troops to fight courageously for liberty. the araucanian army, drawn up as we have described, had an imposing and martial appearance. all these warriors knew they were supporting a lost cause, that they were marching to an almost certain death, and yet they waited impassively, their eyes burning with ardour for the signal for battle. antinahuel, with his right arm tied down to his body by leather strap, brandishing a heavy club in his left hand, mounted a magnificent courser, as black as jet, which he governed with his knees, and rode through the ranks of his warriors. before leaving the camp, general bustamente exchanged a few words with the linda. their short conversation ended with these words, which did not fail to make an impression upon the woman's heart-- "farewell, señora!" he said, in a melancholy voice; "i am going to die--thanks to the bad influence you have exercised over me--in the ranks of those to whom my duty orders me to be opposed! i am going to die the death of a traitor, hated and despised by all! i pardon you the evil you have done me. repent!--there is still time! farewell!" he coldly bowed to the dejected doña maria, and rejoined the troop. the chilian army was formed in squares of echelons. at the instant don tadeo was leaving his tent he uttered an exclamation of joy at beholding two men. "don louis! don valentine!" he exclaimed; "you here?" "faith! yes, here we are," valentine replied, laughing; "cæsar and all, who has a great inclination to taste an araucano; haven't you, old dog?" he said. "we thought," said the count, "that on a day like this you could not have too many of your friends round you; we have left the two chiefs concealed in the woods a short distance off, and have come to you." "i thank you. you will not leave me, i hope." "pardieu! we came on purpose to stick to you." don tadeo ordered each to be furnished with a superb charger, and all three set off at a gallop to place themselves in the centre square. the plain of conderkanki, into which don tadeo had at length succeeded in driving the indians, has the form of an immense triangle. the araucanos occupied the summit of the triangle, and found themselves hemmed in between the sea and the mountains. "well," valentine asked don tadeo, "is not the battle going to begin?" "directly," the latter replied, "and be assured you will find it sharp enough." the dictator then raised his sword. the drums beat, the bugles sounded the charge, and the chilian army advanced at quick step. the signal being given, the araucanos advanced in their turn resolutely, uttering frightful yells. as soon as their enemies were within a proper distance the chilian lines opened--a discharge of artillery roared forth its thunders, and swept the front ranks of the araucanos; then the squares as suddenly closed, and the soldiers waited in their ranks, with bayonets at charge. the shock was terrible. the aucas, decimated by the artillery which ploughed their ranks, front, flank, and rear, faced about on all sides at once, and rushed with fury upon the chilian bayonets. as soon as the first rank succumbed beneath the bullets, the second and third resolutely replaced it. and yet the savage warriors retained self-command in all their eagerness; they followed with exactness and rapidity the orders of their ulmens, and executed with the greatest regularity the various evolutions which were commanded. in spite of the close discharges of the musketry which cut them to pieces, they rushed headlong upon the front ranks of the chilians, and at length attacked them hand to hand. the chilian cavalry then dashed in, and charged them to the very centre. but general bustamente had foreseen this movement. on his side he executed the same manoeuvre, so that the two bodies of cavalry came in contact with a noise like thunder. calm and cool at the head of his squadron, the general charged. as don tadeo had predicted to valentine, the battle was rudely contested along the whole line; the araucanos, with their tenacity which nothing can repel, and their contempt of death, allowed themselves to be slaughtered by the chilian bayonets without yielding. antinahuel was in the van of his warriors, animating them with his gestures and his voice. "what men!" the count could not refrain from exclaiming; "what mad rashness!" "is it not?" don tadeo replied; "they are demons." "pardieu!" valentine cried. "what brave soldiers! why, they will all be killed if they go on so." "all!" don tadeo replied. the principal efforts of the araucanians were directed against the square where the general-in-chief was, surrounded by his staff. there the fight was changed into a butchery; firearms had become useless, bayonets, hatchets, sabres, and clubs furrowed breasts and crushed skulls. antinahuel looked around him. his followers were falling like ears of ripe corn; the forest of bayonets which barred their passage must be broken through at all hazards. "aucas!" he cried, in a voice of thunder "forward!" with a movement rapid as thought, he lifted his horse, made it plunge, and hurled it upon the front ranks of the enemy. the breach was opened by this stroke of extraordinary audacity; the warriors rushed in after him. a frightful carnage ensued--a tumult impossible to be described! with every blow a man fell. the aucas had plunged like a wedge into the square, and had broken it. "well," don tadeo asked of valentine, "what do you think of these adversaries?" "they are more than men!" he answered. "forward, forward! chili! chili!" don tadeo shouted, urging on his horse. followed by about fifty men, among whom were the two frenchmen, he plunged into the thickest of the enemy's ranks. don gregorio and general fuentes had divined from the persistency with which the araucanos attacked the great square that their object was to take the general-in-chief prisoner. therefore, they had hastened their movements, effected their junction, and enclosed the aucas within a circle of steel. at a glance antinahuel perceived the critical position in which he was placed. he shouted to bustamente a cry of anxious appeal. he also was aware of the dangerous position of the indian army. "let us save our warriors," he shouted. "we will save them," the indians howled. all at once the general found himself immediately opposed to the squadron commanded by don tadeo. "oh!" he cried, "i shall die at last." from the commencement of the action joan had fought by the side of don tadeo, who, intent upon his duties as leader, often neglected to parry the blows aimed at him; but the brave indian parried them for him, and seemed to multiply himself for the sake of protecting the man he had sworn to defend. joan instinctively divined the intention of general bustamente. "oh!" the general shouted; "my god, i thank thee. i shall not die by the hand of a brother." joan's horse came full in contact with that of the general. "ah! ah!" the latter murmured, "you also are a traitor to your country; you also are fighting against your brothers. die, wretch!" and he aimed a heavy sabre stroke at the indian. but joan avoided it, and seized the general round the body. the two horses, abandoned to themselves, and rendered furious by the noise of the battle, dragged along the two men, who clung to each other like serpents. this furious struggle could not last long, and both men rolled on the ground. they disengaged themselves from their stirrups, and instantly stood face to face. after a contest of skill for a few minutes, the general, who was an expert swordsman, succeeded in planting a sabre cut which cleft the skull of the indian; but before falling joan collected his strength, and threw himself headlong upon his antagonist, who was surprised by this unexpected attack, and plunged his poisoned dagger into his breast. the two enemies staggered for a moment, and then fell, side by side--dead! chapter xxxi. conqueror and prisoner. on seeing general bustamente fall, the chilians uttered a loud cry of triumph. "poor joan!" valentine murmured, as he cleft the skull of an indian; "poor joan! he was a brave, faithful fellow." "his death was a glorious one," louis replied. "by dying thus bravely," don tadeo observed, "joan has rendered us a last service. "bah!" valentine philosophically rejoined, "he is happy. must we not all die, one day or another?" valentine was in his element; he had never been present at such a festival, he absolutely fought with pleasure. "pardieu! we did wisely in quitting france," he said, "there is nothing like travelling." louis laughed heartily at hearing him moralize. "you seem to be enjoying yourself, brother," he said. "prodigiously." valentine replied. his courage was so great, so audacious, so spontaneous, that the chilians looked at him with admiration, and felt themselves electrified by his example. cæsar, covered by his master with a kind of cuirass of leather and armed with an enormous collar edged with steel points, inspired the indians with the greatest terror--they knew not what to make of such a creature. the battle raged as fiercely as ever; both chilians and araucanos fought upon heaps of carcases. the indians gave up all hopes of conquering, but they did not even think of flying; resolved all to die, they determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible, and fought with the terrible despair of brave men who neither expect nor ask for quarter. the chilian army drew nearer and nearer around them. a few minutes more and the araucano army would have ceased to exist. antinahuel shed tears of rage; he felt his heart bursting in his breast at seeing his dearest companions thus fall around him. all these men, the victims of the ambition of their chief, died without a complaint, without a reproach. suddenly a smile of strange character curled his thin lips; he beckoned to the ulmens, who were fighting near him, and exchanged a few words. after making a sign of acquiescence in reply to the orders they had received, the ulmens immediately regained their respective posts, and during some minutes the battle continued to rage with the same fury. but all at once a mass of fifteen hundred indians simultaneously rushed with inexpressible force against the centre squadron, in which don tadeo fought, and enveloped it on all sides. "caramba!" shouted valentine, "we are surrounded! mon dieu! we must disengage ourselves, or these demons will cut us up." and he dashed headlong into the thickest of the combatants, followed by the rest of his party. after a hot struggle of three or four minutes, they were safe and sound outside of the fatal circle. "hum!" said valentine, "rather sharp work. but, thank god, here we are." "yes," the count replied, "we have had a narrow escape! but where is don tadeo?" "that is true," valentine observed. "oh," he added, striking his brow with anger, "i see it all now. quick, to the rescue!" the two young men placed themselves at the head of the horsemen who accompanied them, and rode back furiously into the _mêlée_. they soon perceived the person they were in search of; don tadeo, supported by only four or five men, was fighting desperately. "hold out! hold out!" valentine shouted. "we are here! courage, we are here!" the count cried. their voices reached don tadeo, and he smiled. "thanks," he replied despondingly; "but all is useless. i am lost." "caramba!" said valentine, biting his moustache with rage; "i will save him, or perish with him." and he redoubled his efforts. in vain the aucas warriors opposed his passage, every stroke of his sabre cut down a man. at length the impetuosity of the two frenchmen prevailed over the courage of the indians, and they penetrated into the circle--don tadeo had disappeared. all at once, the indian army, feeling, no doubt, the impossibility of maintaining a longer contest with superior forces which threatened to annihilate them, dispersed. the victory of the chilians was brilliant, and, probably, for a long time the araucanos would have no inclination to recommence a war. of ten thousand warriors who had formed their line of battle, the indians had left seven thousand on the field. general bustamente, the instigator of this war, was killed; his body was found with the dagger still sticking in his breast; and, strange coincidence! the pommel of the dagger bore the distinctive sign of the dark hearts. the results obtained by the winning of this battle were immense. unfortunately, these results were lessened, if not compromised, by a public disaster of immense consequence, which was the disappearance, and perhaps the death, of don tadeo de león, the only man whose energy and severity of principles could save the country. the chilian army in the midst of its triumph was plunged in grief. the army encamped upon the field of battle; valentine, the count, and don gregorio, passed the whole night in searching amongst this immense charnel house, upon which the vultures had already fallen with hideous cries of joy. the three men had the courage to lift and examine heaps of carcases; but all without success, they could not find the body of their friend. the next morning at daybreak the army set forward on its march towards the bio bio, to re-enter chili. it took with it, as hostages, thirty ulmens. "come with us," said don gregorio; "now our friend is dead, you can have nothing more to do." "i am not of your opinion," valentine replied; "i do not think don tadeo is dead." "what makes you suppose that?" don gregorio asked; "have you any proofs?" "unfortunately, none." "and yet you must have some reason?" "why, yes, i have one." "then tell it me." "i am afraid it will appear futile to you." "well, but tell it me, nevertheless." "well, since you insist upon it, i must confess that i feel a secret presentiment." "upon what do you ground that supposition? you are too intelligent to jest." "you only do me justice. i perceived the absence of don tadeo. i went back again, in quick time. don tadeo, though closely pressed, was fighting vigorously, and i shouted out to him to stand his ground." "and did he hear you?" "certainly he did, for he answered me. i redoubled my efforts--he had disappeared, and left no traces behind." "and you thence conclude--" "that his numerous enemies seized him and carried him off." "but who can tell whether, after having killed him, they have not carried away the body?" "why should they do that? don tadeo dead, could only inconvenience them, whereas, as prisoner, they probably hope that by restoring him to liberty. or perhaps, by threatening to kill him, they will have their hostages given up." don gregorio was struck with the justness of this reasoning. "it is possible," he replied; "there is a great deal of truth in what you say--what do you mean to do?" "a very simple thing, my friend. in the environs are concealed two indian chiefs." "well?" "these men are devoted to louis and me, and they will serve us as guides." don gregorio looked at him for an instant in deep emotion, and tears glistened in his eyes; he took the young man's hand pressed it warmly, and said, in a voice tremulous with tenderness-- "don valentine, pardon me i did not know you; i have not appreciated your heart at its just value. don valentine, will you permit me to embrace you?" "with all my heart, my brave friend," the young man replied. "then you are going?" don gregorio resumed. "immediately." "come on," said valentine to his foster brother, as he whistled to cæsar and clapped spurs to his horse. "i am with you," louis replied, promptly. and they set off. chapter xxxii. after the battle. for some time the young men followed at a distance the march of the chilian army, which advanced slowly, though in good order, towards the bio bio. they crossed, at a foot's pace, the plain where the day before the sanguinary battle had been fought between the indians and the chilians. "why do we not hasten to quit this accursed place?" valentine asked. "we have a duty to fulfil," louis replied solemnly. "a duty to fulfil?" said valentine. "yes," the young me continued, "would you leave our poor joan without sepulture?" "thank you for having reminded me of it; oh, you are better than i am, you forget nothing." "do not calumniate yourself." in a short time they arrived at the spot where joan and general bustamente had fallen. the foster brothers remained for a few instants, drew their sabres and dug a deep hole, in which they buried the two enemies. "farewell!" said valentine. "farewell, joan! sleep in peace, at the spot where you valiantly fought; the remembrance of you will not be easily effaced." "farewell, joan!" said the count, in his turn. "sleep in peace, good friend." cæsar had watched with intelligent attention the movements of his masters; at this moment he placed his forepaws upon the grave, smelt the earth, and then gave two lugubrious howls. the young men felt their spirits very much depressed; they remounted their horses silently, and after having taken one last farewell look at the spot where the brave araucano lay, they departed. they had by degrees diverged a little towards the right to get nearer to the mountains and were following a narrow path traced along the rather sharp descent of a wooded hill. cæsar suddenly pricked up his ears, and sprang forward, wagging his tail. "we are getting near," said louis. "yes," valentine replied, laconically. they soon reached a place where the path formed a bend, round which the newfoundland disappeared. after passing this elbow, the frenchmen suddenly found themselves in front of a fire, before which a quarter of a guanaco was roasting; two men, reclined upon the grass at a short distance, were smoking comfortably, whilst cæsar, gravely seated on his tail, followed with a jealous eye the progress of the cooking of the guanaco. these two men were curumilla and trangoil-lanec. at the sight of their friends, the frenchmen dismounted. valentine led the horses up to those of the indians, hobbled them, unsaddled them, and gave them some provender; then he took his place by the fire. not a word had been exchanged between the four men. "well?" trangoil-lanec asked, at length. "the battle has been a fierce one," valentine replied. "i know it has," said the indian, shaking his head; "the araucanos are conquered; i saw them flying." "they supported a bad cause," observed curumilla. "they are our brothers," trangoil-lanec said. curumilla bowed his head at this reproach. "he who placed arms in their hands is dead," said valentine. "good! and does my brother know the name of the warrior who killed him?" "yes, i know it," valentine said mournfully. "let my brother tell me that name that i may keep it in my memory." "joan, our friend, killed that man." "that is true," said curumilla; "but why is not joan here?" "my brothers will never see joan again," said valentine. the two chiefs exchanged a look of sorrow. "he had a noble heart," they murmured. "yes," added valentine; "and he was a friend." a short silence ensued; then the two chiefs suddenly rose and went towards their horses, without speaking a word. "where are our brothers going?" the count asked. "to give sepulture to a warrior; the body of joan must not become the prey of urubus," trangoil-lanec replied, gravely. "my brothers can take their places again," louis said. the chiefs re-seated themselves silently. "do trangoil-lanec and curumilla know their brothers so ill," louis continued, "as to suppose they would leave the body of a friend without sepulture? joan was buried by us before we rejoined our brothers." "good!" said trangoil-lanec. "the muruches are not huincas," curumilla said. "but a great misfortune has happened to us," louis continued sorrowfully; "don tadeo, our dearest friend--" "well?" curumilla interrupted. "he is dead," said valentine; "he was killed in the battle yesterday." "is my brother certain of what he states?" "at least i suppose so, as his body has not been found." "let my brothers be consoled," said the ulmen; "the great eagle of the whites is not dead." "does the chief know that?" the two young men exclaimed in a breath. "i do know it," replied trangoil-lanec. "let my brothers listen. curumilla and i are chiefs in our tribe; if our opinions prevented us from fighting for antinahuel, they prevented us also from bearing arms against our nation. our friends wished to go and join the great eagle; we left them to act as they pleased. they wished to protect a friend; they were right. we allowed them to go; but after their departure we thought of the young maiden of the palefaces, and we reflected that if the aucas lost the battle, the maiden, according to the orders of the toqui, would be the first placed in safety; in consequence we squatted among the bushes by the side of the road which, according to all probability, the mosotones would take when flying with their charge. the battle lasted long; as they always do, the aucas died bravely." "you may justly be proud of them, chief," valentine exclaimed warmly. "for that reason they are called aucas--free men," replied trangoil-lanec. "suddenly a noise like thunder struck our ears, and between twenty and thirty mosotones passed by us like the wind. they took with them two women; one was the viper face, and the other the blue-eyed maiden." "oh!" the count exclaimed. "a few minutes later," trangoil-lanec continued, "another troop, much more numerous than the first, arrived with equal swiftness; this was led by antinahuel in person." "he is wounded," valentine observed. "by his side galloped the great eagle of the whites." "was he wounded?" louis asked, anxiously. "no, he carried himself upright." "oh! if he is not dead, we will save him." "save him? yes, don valentine." "when shall we take the track?" "at daybreak. we will save the daughter, and we will deliver the father," said trangoil-lanec. "good, chief," valentine replied with delight; "i am happy to hear you speak so; all is not lost yet." "far from it," said the ulmen. "now, my brothers, that we feel reassured," louis observed, "if you will take my advice, we will enjoy a few hours of repose." chapter xxxiii. first hours of captivity. trangoil-lanec had not been deceived, it was really don tadeo whom he had seen galloping by the side of the toqui. the king of darkness was not dead, he was not even wounded, but he was the prisoner of antinahuel. after don tadeo saw his faithful followers fall one after the other by his side, and he was left alone, he still continued fighting. it was then that he heard the cries of encouragement from valentine and the count. antinahuel had also heard the shouts of the frenchmen, and on seeing the incredible efforts they made to succour their friend, he perceived that if he delayed the capture, his prey would escape him; hence he tore off his poncho and threw it skilfully over the head of don tadeo, who, blinded and embarrassed in the folds of the ample woollen vestment, was disarmed. antinahuel, whilst flying with the swiftness of an arrow, contrived to rally around him a good number of horsemen, so that at the end of about twenty minutes, he found himself at the head of five hundred warriors. the toqui formed of these warriors a compact squadron, and turning round several times, like a tiger pursued by the hunters, he charged the chilian horse vigorously. when arrived at a certain distance, and the conquerors had renounced the pursuit, he stopped to look after his prisoner, and allow his troop to take breath. since his capture don tadeo had given no signs of life, and antinahuel feared with reason that, deprived of air, and shaken by the rapidity and roughness of the course, he should find him in a dangerous state. he hastened to untie the lasso, the numerous twists of which cut the prisoner in all parts of his body, and then took off the poncho which covered him--don tadeo had fainted. want of air alone caused this result, so that as soon as he breathed freely he opened his eyes. at this happy result a smile of indefinable meaning lighted the features of the toqui for a second. don tadeo cast around a look of astonishment, and appeared to sink into deep reflection; memory, however, returned by degrees, he recollected what had taken place, and how he came into the hands of the chief. he rose crossed his arms upon his breast, and looking steadfastly at the great chief--waited. "does my father feel himself better?" "yes," don tadeo replied laconically. "can we then set on again?" "is it for me to give you orders?" "if my father were not sufficiently recovered to sit on horseback we would wait a little." "oh, oh!" said don tadeo. "i should be very sorry if any inconvenience befell my father." don tadeo shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, and antinahuel resumed-- "we are about to depart; will my father give me his word of honour not to attempt to escape? if he do so, i will allow him to be free amongst us." "will you have faith in my word?" "i am but a poor indian, my father is a caballero." "before i reply, tell me whither you are taking me." "i am taking my father to the country of the puelches, my brothers." a feeling of joy rushed into the prisoner's heart, he should see his daughter. "how long is this journey likely to last?" "only three days." "i give you my word of honour not to attempt to escape for three days." "good," the chief replied, in a solemn voice. "when my father is ready, we will depart," antinahuel said. don tadeo mounted, the toqui followed his example, and the troop set off at a smart pace. the sun had sunk low in the horizon when the chief commanded a halt. the spot was admirably chosen; it was a narrow valley, situated on the not very high summit of a hill, the position of which rendered a surprise almost impossible. antinahuel seemed to have forgotten his hatred for don tadeo; he spoke to him with the greatest deference. confiding in his word of honour, he left him entirely free. as soon as the repast was terminated, sentinels were placed, and everyone sought repose. don tadeo in vain courted sleep, for a too powerful anxiety devoured him to allow him to close his eyes. seated at the foot of a tree, his head reclining on his breast, he passed the whole night in reflecting upon the strange events which for some months passed had assailed him. the rising sun found him plunged in these sad thoughts, and sleep had not for an instant closed his weary eyelids. but everybody was in motion in the camp; the horses were saddled, and after a hasty repast the march was continued. the day passed away without any incident worthy of being recorded. in the evening they encamped, as they had done the night before, on the summit of a hill; the sole difference was that, as the araucanos now knew themselves to be beyond the danger of a surprise, they did not take such great precautions as on the preceding occasion; but still they raised entrenchments. don tadeo, overcome by fatigue, sank into a leaden sleep, from which he was not roused till the moment for departure. chapter xxxiv. the ultimatum. antinahuel had rejoined the mosotones to whom he had confided doña rosario two days previously. the two troops now formed but one. the toqui had at first entertained the intention of crossing the first plateau of the andes. but the battle they had lost had produced terrible consequences; their principal tolderías had been burned by the spaniards, their towns sacked, and the inhabitants either killed or carried away. such as had been able to fly had at first wandered about the woods without an object; but as soon as they learned that the toqui had succeeded in escaping, they re-assembled, and sent envoys to him to demand assistance. antinahuel rejoiced at the movement of reaction which was going on among his countrymen. he changed his itinerary, and had, at the head of a hundred men only, returned back in the direction of the bio bio; whilst by his order his other warriors dispersed throughout the aucas territory for the purpose of rousing the people to arms. the toqui had no intention now of extending the araucanian dominions; his only desire now was to obtain, arms in hand, a peace which might not be too disadvantageous for his country. for a reason only known to antinahuel, don tadeo and rosario were completely ignorant that they were so near to each other. antinahuel had pitched his camp at the summit of the mountain, where some days before he had been with the whole indian army, in the strong position which commanded the ford of the bio bio. it was about two o'clock in the afternoon. with the exception of a few araucanian sentinels, leaning motionless upon their long lances, the camp appeared a desert; silence reigned everywhere. suddenly a trumpet call was sounded from the opposite side of the river. the ulmen charged with the care of the advanced posts ordered a reply to be sounded, and went out to inquire the cause. three horsemen, clothed in rich uniforms, stood upon the bank; close to them was a trumpeter, waving a flag of truce. the ulmen hoisted a similar flag, and advanced into the water to meet the horsemen. "what do the chiefs of the white faces want?" the ulmen asked, haughtily. one of the horsemen immediately replied-- "go and tell the toqui that a general officer has an important communication to make to him." the wild eye of the indian flashed at this insult; but he said, disdainfully-- "i will go and inquire whether our great toqui is disposed to receive you; but i much doubt whether he will condescend to listen to cheapolo-huincas." "fool!" the other replied angrily; "make haste." "be patient, don gregorio, in heaven's name!" one of the two officers exclaimed. at the expiration of a few minutes a sign was made from the bank that the chilians might advance. antinahuel, seated under the shade of a magnificent espino, awaited the officers. they stopped before him, and remained motionless. "what is your will?" he asked, in a stern voice. "listen to my words, and mark them carefully," don gregorio replied. "speak, and be brief," said antinahuel. don gregorio shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, "don tadeo de león is in your hands," he said. "yes; the man is my prisoner." "very well. if tomorrow, by the third hour of the day, he is not given up to us safe and sound, the hostages we have taken, and more than eighty others, will be shot within sight of the two camps." "you will do as you please, but this man shall die!" the chief replied, coldly. "oh! that is the case, is it? very well! i, don gregorio peralta, swear to you, on my part, that i will strictly keep the promise i have made you." and turning his horse sharply round he departed. and yet there was more bravado than anything else in the threat made by antinahuel. if pride had not prevented him, he would have renewed the parley. he returned to his camp buried in thought, and went straight to his toldo. the linda, who was seated in a corner upon sheepskins, was as much absorbed in thought as the chief; doña rosario had fallen asleep. at the sight of the young girl the chief experienced a peculiar emotion, the blood flowed back forcibly to his heart, and springing towards her, he imprinted a burning kiss upon her half-open lips, doña rosario, suddenly awakened, bounded to the extremity of the toldo, uttering a cry of terror. "what is the meaning of all this?" the chief exclaimed angrily; "whence comes this terror?" and he took several steps towards her. "advance no further! advance no further! in heavens name!" she shrieked. "what is the use of all this folly? you are mine." "never!" she said, in an agony of grief. "nonsense!" he said; "i am not a paleface, the tears of women have no effect upon me." and he advanced again towards her. the linda, still apparently buried in her reflections, seemed not to be aware of what was going on. "señora, señora!" the maiden cried; "in the name of all that is sacred defend me, i implore you!" the linda raised her head, looked at her coldly, and, with a dry nervous laugh, said-- "have i not told you what you had to expect?" then she thrust her roughly from her. "oh!" cried doña rosario, in a piercing voice, "maldición on you, heartless woman!" again the chief approached, and again his victim darted to the other side of the apartment, but unfortunately as she passed he caught her dress in his iron grasp. and now the noble energy that never deserts virtue in distress returned to her. she drew herself up proudly, and fixed her eyes steadfastly on her pursuer. "stand back!" she cried, brandishing her dagger. "stand back! or i will kill myself!" in spite of himself the demon stood motionless. he was convinced that it was not a vain threat the girl uttered. at that moment the hideous, scarred, grinning face of the linda was bent towards his ear. "appear to yield," she whispered; "i will tame her, leave her to me!" antinahuel looked at her with a suspicious eye. the linda smiled. "do you promise me?" he said, in a hoarse voice. "on my soul i do," she replied. in the meantime doña rosario--her arm elevated and her body bent forward--awaited the denouement of this frightful scene. with a facility which the indians alone possess, antinahuel composed his countenance so as entirely to change its expression. "my sister will pardon me," he said, in a soft voice; "i was mad, reason is restored to my mind." after again bowing to the young lady, who did not know to what to attribute this sudden change, he left the toldo. upon reflection, antinahuel resolved to strike his camp and depart. the linda and doña rosario were sent in advance, under the guard of some mosotones. the young girl, weakened by the terrible emotions she had undergone, could scarcely sit her horse; a burning fever had seized her. "i am thirsty--so thirsty!" she murmured. at a sign from the linda one of the mosotones approached her, and unfastened a gourd. "let my sister drink," he said. the maiden seized the gourd eagerly, applied it to her lips, and drank a large draught. "good!" said the linda to herself. "thank you," doña rosario murmured, restoring the gourd almost empty. but ere long her eyes gradually grew heavy, and she sank back, murmuring in a faint voice-- "good heaven! what can be the matter with me? i am dying." one of the mosotones caught her in his arms, and placed her before him on his saddle. all at once she for a moment recovered herself as if by an electric shock, opened her eyes, and cried with a piercing voice, "help, help!" and relapsed into insensibility. on hearing this agonised cry, the linda, in spite of herself, felt her heart fail her, but quickly recovering, she said, with a bitter smile-- "am i growing foolish?" she made a sign to the mosotone who carried doña rosario to draw nearer, and examined her attentively. "she is asleep," she muttered, with an expression of satisfied hatred; "when she awakes i shall be avenged." at this moment antinahuels position was very critical. too weak to attempt anything serious against the chilians, whom he wished to induce to make a peace advantageous for his country, he endeavoured to gain time by moving about on the frontier, so that his enemies, not knowing where to find him, could not force conditions upon him which he ought not to accept. although the aucas responded to the appeal of his emissaries, and rose eagerly to come and join his ranks, it was necessary to give the tribes, most of them remote, time to concentrate upon the point he had named. on their side the spaniards, whose internal tranquillity was for the future secured by the death of general bustamente, had very little desire to carry on a war which had no longer any interest for them. they stood in need of peace to repair the evils created by the civil war, they therefore confined themselves to arming their frontiers, and endeavoured by every means to bring about serious conferences with the principal araucan chiefs. don gregorio peralta had been blamed for the threat he had so hastily made to antinahuel, and he himself acknowledged the folly of his conduct when he heard of the toquis departure with his prisoner. another system had in consequence been adopted. only ten of the principal chiefs were detained as hostages. the others, well instructed and loaded with presents, were set at liberty. everything rendered it probable that these chiefs on their return to their respective tribes would employ their influence to conclude a peace, and unmask before the council the proceedings of antinahuel, proceedings which had brought the nation to the verge of ruin. the araucanos are passionate in their love of liberty; for them every consideration gives way to that of being free. hence it was easy to foresee that the aucas, in spite of their veneration for their toqui, would not hesitate to depose him when their chiefs on the one part and the friendly captains on the other, made it clear to them that that liberty was compromised, and that they exposed themselves to being deprived of it forever, and falling under the spanish yoke if they continued their aggressive policy. chapter xxxv. a fury. after a march of five or six leagues at most, antinahuel ordered his troop to bivouac. the warriors who accompanied him were almost all of his own tribe. as soon as the fires were lighted the linda approached him. "i have kept my promise," she said. "then, the young girl----?" he asked. "is asleep!" she replied, with a hideous smile. "good," he murmured, joyfully, and bent his steps towards the toldo, erected in haste, beneath which his victim had been transported. "no," he said, "presently!" and then turning to his accomplice added, "for how long a time has my sister sent the young girl to sleep?" "she will not awake before daybreak." a smile of satisfaction lit up the chief's features. "that is well--my sister is skilful, and i should like to show my sister," he continued, "that i am not ungrateful, and that i also keep my word faithfully." the linda fixed a searching look upon him. "of what word is my brother speaking?" "my sister has an enemy whom she has pursued for a long time, without being able to destroy him," antinahuel said, with a smile. "don tadeo?" "yes, and that enemy is also mine." "well?" "he is in my power." "don tadeo is my brother's prisoner?" "he is here." "at last," she cried, triumphantly. "then i will repay him all the tortures he has inflicted upon me." "yes; she is at liberty to make him undergo all the insults her inventive spirit can furnish her with." "oh!" she cried, in a voice that almost made the hardened chief shudder, "i will only inflict one punishment upon him, but it shall be terrible." "but be careful, woman." antinahuel replied; "be careful not to let your hatred carry you too far; this man's life is mine, and i will deprive him of it with my own hands." "oh!" she said, with a hideous, mocking laugh, "do not be afraid; i will return your victim to you safe and sound. i am not a man--my weapon is my tongue." "yes; but that weapon is double-edged," "i will restore him to you, i tell you." "there," the chief replied, pointing to a hut made of branches; "but beware forget not what i said." "i will not forget," she retorted, with a savage leer. and she sprang towards the hut. "it is only women that know how to hate," antinahuel murmured, looking after her. a score of warriors waited for their chief at the entrance of the camp. he sprang into his saddle and departed with them. although through pride he had allowed nothing to appear, the threats of don gregorio had produced a strong impression upon antinahuel. he had reason to fear that the chilian officer would massacre his prisoners and hostages. the consequences of this action would be terrible to him, and would make him lose beyond recovery the prestige he still enjoyed among his compatriots; therefore, forced for the first time in his life to bend, he had resolved to retrace his steps, and confer with this man. endowed with great finesse, antinahuel flattered himself he could obtain from don gregorio a delay which would enable him to sacrifice his prisoner without being called to an account for it. but time pressed. it was scarcely eight o'clock in the evening, and antinahuel had but six leagues to ride; he flattered himself, therefore, that if nothing thwarted his plans, he should arrive long before the time, and even return to his camp ere sunrise. we have said that the linda entered the hut which sheltered don tadeo. she found him seated upon a heap of dry leaves in a corner of the hut, his back leaning against a tree, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his head drooping on his chest. absorbed by the bitter thoughts which weighed upon his heart, he did not perceive the entrance of the linda, who, standing motionless within two paces of him, contemplated him with an expression of rage and satisfied hatred. "well?" said a shrill, incisive voice, "what are you thinking of, don tadeo?" he started at the too well-known sound, and raised his head. "ah!" he replied, bitterly, "is that you? i wondered i had not seen you before." "it is strange, is it not?" she replied. "well, we are once more face to face." "like a hyena, the odour of blood attracts you." "who--i, don tadeo? you mistake my character strangely. no, no; am i not your wife--the woman whom you loved so much?" don tadeo shrugged his shoulders with an expression of disgust. "you ought to be grateful for what i do," she replied. "listen to me," said don tadeo, "your insults can never rise to the height of my contempt. do, act, speak, insult me, invent the most atrocious calumnies your infernal genius can inspire, i will not answer you! concentrated in myself, your insults, like a vain sound, will strike my ear without my mind making the least effort to understand them." "oh!" she cried, "i know well how to compel you to listen to me, my beloved husband. you men are all alike! you arrogate to yourselves all the rights, as you have done all the virtues! we are contemptible beings, creatures without heart; condemned to be your very humble servants, and to endure, with a smile upon our lips, all the insults you please to heap upon us! it was i who was always wrong; you are right; it was i who stole your child from you, was it not?" at the end of a minute she resumed-- "come, let there be no feigning between us; let us speak for the last time openly. you are the prisoner of your most implacable enemy; the most frightful tortures await you. in a few instants, perhaps, the punishment which threatens you will fall like a thunderbolt upon your proud head. well, i can enable you to escape this punishment; that life, which you now reckon only by seconds, i can restore to you, happy, long, and glorious! in a word, i can with one sentence, one gesture, one sign, restore you to liberty immediately! i only ask one thing of you--i mistake, not a thing, a word--utter that word, don tadeo, where is my daughter?" don tadeo shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply. "oh!" she exclaimed, with a gesture of fury, "this man is a bar of iron; nothing can touch him--no words are sufficiently strong to move him! demon! demon! oh, with what joy i could tear you to pieces! but no," she added, after a moment's pause, "i am wrong, don tadeo; pardon me, i know not what i say; grief makes me mad! have pity on me! i am a woman--i am a mother. i adore my child, my poor little girl whom i have not seen so long, who has lived deprived of my kisses and my love! restore her to me, don tadeo. see, i am on my knees at your feet! i supplicate you, i weep! don tadeo, restore me my child!" she cast herself at the feet of don tadeo, and seized his poncho. "begone, señora, begone!" "and is that all?" she cried, in a choked, husky voice; "is that all? i implore you, i drag myself panting with grief through the dust at your feet, and you laugh at me. prayers and threats are equally powerless with you. beware, don tadeo, beware!" don tadeo smiled disdainfully. "what punishment can you impose upon me more terrible than your presence?" he said. "senseless man!" she resumed; "fool! do you imagine, then, that you alone are in my power?" "what do you mean by that?" don tadeo cried, starting up. "ah, ah!" she exclaimed, with an expression of ferocious joy, "i have hit the mark this time, have i?" "speak, speak!" he exclaimed, in great agitation. "and suppose i should not please to do so?" she replied ironically. and she laughed like a demon. "but no," she continued, in a bitterly sarcastic tone, "i cannot bear malice: come along with me, don tadeo; i will lead you to her whom you have so long sought for in vain, and whom but for me you would never see again. and see how generous i am," she added, jeeringly. "come along with me, don tadeo." she hastily left the hut, and don tadeo followed her, struck by a horrible presentiment. chapter xxxvi. a thunderclap. the araucanos, spread about the camp, saw with surprise these two persons, both in apparent agitation, pass them. doña maria rushed into the toldo, followed by don tadeo. doña rosario was fast asleep upon a bed of dry leaves, covered with sheepskins. she had the appearance of a dead person. don tadeo, deceived by this, sprang towards her, exclaiming in a tone of despair-- "she is dead! oh, heavens, she is dead!" "no, no," said the linda, "she is asleep." "still," he exclaimed, "this sleep cannot be natural, for our coming in should have awakened her." "well! perhaps it is not natural." don tadeo cast an inquiring glance at her. "oh," she said, ironically, "she is alive; only it was necessary to send her to sleep for awhile." don tadeo was mute with confused astonishment. "you do not understand me," she resumed. "well, i will explain; this girl whom you love so much--" "oh, yes, i love her!" he interrupted. "it was i who took her from you," said the linda, with a bitter smile. "wretch, miserable wretch!" "why, i hated you, and i avenged myself; i knew the deep love you bear this creature. to take her from you was aiming a blow at your heart." "miserable!" don tadeo cried. "ah, yes," the linda replied, smiling, "that revenge was miserable; it did not at all amount to what i intended; but chance offered me what could alone satisfy me, by breaking your very heart." "what frightful infamy can this monster have imagined?" don tadeo murmured. "antinahuel, the enemy of your race, your enemy, became enamoured of this woman." "what!" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror. "yes, after his fashion, he loved her," she continued, coolly; "so i resolved to sell her to him, and i did so; but when the chief wished to avail himself of the rights i had given him, she resisted, and arming herself suddenly with a dagger, threatened to plunge it into her own heart." "noble girl!" he exclaimed, deeply affected. "is she not?" said the linda, with her malign vacant smile; "so i took pity on her, and as i had no particular wish for her death, but a very anxious one for her dishonour, i this evening gave her some opium, which will place her, without means of defence, in the power of antinahuel. have i attained my object this time?" don tadeo made no reply, this utter depravity in a woman absolutely terrified him. "well," she continued, in a mocking tone, "have you nothing to say?" "mad woman, mad woman!" he cried, in a loud voice, "you have avenged yourself, you say? mad woman! could you a mother, pretending to adore your daughter, coolly, unhesitatingly, conceive such crimes? i say, do you know what you have done?" "my daughter, you named my daughter! restore her to me! tell me where she is, and i will save this woman. oh! if i could but see her!" "your daughter, wretch? you serpent bursting with venom! is it possible you think of her?" "oh, if i found her again, i would love her so." "do you fancy that possible?" said don tadeo. "oh, yes, a daughter cannot hate her mother." "ask herself, then!" he cried, in a voice of thunder. "what! what! what!" she shrieked. in a tone of thrilling agony, and springing up as if electrified; "what did you say? what did you say, don tadeo?" "i say, miserable wretch! that the innocent creature whom you have pursued with the inveteracy of a hungry hyena, is your daughter!--do you hear me? your daughter! she whom you pretend to love so dearly, and whom, a few minutes ago, you demanded of me so earnestly." the linda remained for an instant motionless, as if thunderstruck; and then exclaimed, with a loud, demoniac laugh-- "well played, don tadeo! well played, by heaven! for a moment i believed you were telling the truth." "oh!" don tadeo murmured, "this wretched being cannot recognise her own child." "no, i do not believe it! it is not possible! nature would have warned me that it was my child!" "god renders those blind whom he would destroy, miserable woman! an exemplary punishment was due to his insulted justice!" the linda turned about in the toldo like a wild beast in a cage, uttering inarticulate cries, incessantly repeating in a broken voice-- "no, no! she cannot be my daughter!" don tadeo experienced a feeling of deadly hatred, in spite of his better nature, at beholding this profound grief; he also wished to avenge himself. "senseless woman," he said, "had the child i stole from you no sign, no mark whatever, by which it would be possible for you to recognise her?" "yes, yes," she cried, roused from her stupor; "wait! wait!" and she threw herself down upon her knees, leant over the sleeping rosario, and tore the covering from her neck and shoulder. "my child!" she exclaimed; "it is she! it is my child!" she had perceived three small moles upon the young girl's right shoulder. suddenly her body became agitated by convulsive movements, her face was horribly distorted, her glaring eyes seemed staring from their sockets; she, clasped her hands tightly to her breast, uttered a deep rattle, more like a roar than a sound from a human mouth, and rolled upon the ground, crying with an accent impossible to describe-- "my daughter! my daughter! oh, i will save her!" she crawled, with the action of a wild beast, to the feet of the poor girl. "rosario, my daughter!" she cried, in a voice broken by sobs; "it is i, it is your mother! know me, dear!" "it is you who have killed her," don tadeo said, implacably; "unnatural mother, who coolly planned the dishonour of your own child." "oh, do not speak so!" she cried, clasping her hands; "she shall not die! i will not let her die! she must live! i will save her, i tell you!" "it is too late." "i tell you i will save her," she repeated, in a deep tone. at this moment the steps of horses resounded. "here is antinahuel!" said don tadeo. "yes," she replied, with a short, determined accent, "of what consequence is his arrival? woe be to him if he touch my child!" the curtain of the toldo was lifted by a firm hand, and an indian appeared: it was antinahuel. a warrior followed with a torch. "eh, eh!" said the chief, with an ironical smile. "yes," linda replied smiling; "my brother arrives opportunely." "has my sister had a satisfactory conversation with her husband?" "yes," she replied. "good! the great eagle of the whites is an intrepid warrior; the aucas warriors will soon put his courage to the test." this brutal allusion to the fate that was reserved for him was perfectly understood by don tadeo. "men of my temperament do not allow themselves to be frightened by vain threats," he retorted. the linda drew the chief aside. "antinahuel is my brother," she said, in a low voice; "we were brought up together." "has my sister anything to ask for?" "yes, and for his own sake my brother would do well to grant it me." antinahuel looked at her earnestly. "speak," he said, coolly. "everything my brother has desired i have done." the chief bowed his head affirmatively. "this woman, who resisted him," she continued, "i have given up to him without defence." "good!" "my brother knows that the palefaces have secrets which they alone possess?" "i know they have." "if my brother pleases it shall not be a woman cold, motionless, and buried in sleep, that i surrender to him." the eye of the indian kindled with a strange light. "i do not understand my sister," he said. "i am able," the linda replied, earnestly, "in three days so completely to change this woman's feelings for my brother, that she will be towards him loving and devoted." "can my sister do that?" he asked, doubtingly. "i can do it," she replied, resolutely. antinahuel reflected for a few minutes. "why did my sister wait so long to do this?" "because i did not think it would be necessary." "ooch!" said the indian, thoughtfully. "besides," she added, carelessly, "if i say anything about it now, it is only from friendship for my brother." whilst pronouncing these words, an internal shudder agitated her whole frame. "and will it require three days to effect this change?" "three days." "antinahuel is a wise chief--he will wait." the linda experienced great inward joy; if the chief had refused, her resolution was formed--she would have stabbed him to the heart. "good!" she said; "my brother may depend upon my promise." "yes," the toqui replied; "the girl is sick; it would be better she should be cured." the linda smiled with an undefinable expression. "the eagle will follow me," said antinahuel; "unless he prefers giving me his word." "no!" don tadeo answered. the two men left the toldo together. antinahuel commanded his warriors to guard the prisoner strictly. at sunrise the camp was struck, and the aucas marched during the whole day into the mountains without any determinate object. "has my sister commenced?" asked the chief of linda. "i have commenced," she replied. the truth was she had passed the whole day in vainly endeavouring to induce the maiden to speak to her; the latter had constantly refused, but the linda was not a woman to be easily repulsed. as soon as the chief had left her, she went to doña rosario, and stooping to her ear, said in a low, melancholy voice-- "pardon me all the ill i have done you--i did not know who you were; in the name of heaven, have pity on me--i am your mother!" at this avowal, the young girl staggered as if she were thunderstruck. the linda sprang towards her, but doña rosario repulsed her with a cry of horror, and fled into her toldo. "oh!" the linda cried, with tears in her eyes, "i will love her so that she must pardon me." chapter xxxvii. upon the track. it was the evening of the eighth day, after twenty leagues from arauca. in a virgin forest of myrtles, cypresses, and espinos, which cover with their green shade the lower parts of the cordilleras--four men were seated round a fire. of these four men, two wore the indian costume, and were no other than trangoil-lanec and curumilla; the others were the count and valentine. the spot on which our travellers had halted was one of those glades so common in american forests. it was a vast space covered with the trunks of trees that have died from age, or been struck by lightning, deeply inclosed between two hills. the indians were too experienced to commit the fault of stopping of their own accord in this place; and it was only from the impossibility of going further that they had consented to pass the night there. the day had been a rough one, but the night promised to be mild and tranquil. the travellers attacked their supper bravely, in order to be the sooner able to enjoy the repose they stood so much in need of. they did not exchange a word during the repast; the last morsel swallowed, the indians threw upon the fire a few armfuls of dry wood, of which they had an ample provision at hand, then folded themselves in their ponchos, and fell asleep. valentine and cæsar alone were left to keep guard. it was almost an hour since he had taken valentine's place, when cæsar, who had till that time lain carelessly stretched before the fire, sharply raised his head, sniffed the air in all directions, and gave a surly growl. "well, cæsar," said the young man whilst patting the animal, "what's the matter, my good dog?" the newfoundland fixed his large intelligent eyes upon the count, wagged his tail, and uttered a growl much stronger than the first. "very well," said louis; "we will go on the lookout. come along, cæsar." the count examined his rifle and his pistols, and made a sign to the dog, who watched all his motions. "now, cesar," he said, "look out, my fine fellow!" the animal, as if he had only waited for this order, sprang forward, followed step by step by his master, who examined the bushes, and stopped at intervals to cast an inquiring glance around him. at length, after numberless windings, the dog crouched, turned its head towards the young man, and uttered one of those plaintive howls, so like a human complaint, which are peculiar to the race. the count started; putting the bushes and leaves apart with precaution, he looked, and with difficulty repressed a cry of painful astonishment at the strange spectacle which presented itself to his eyes. within twenty paces from him, in the centre of a vast glade, fifty indians were lying round a fire, buried in the sleep of intoxication, as could be divined from the leather bottles scattered without order upon the sand, some full of aguardiente, others empty. but what attracted the particular attention of the young man was the sigh of two persons, a man and a woman, firmly bound to two trees. the head of the man reclined upon his breast, his large eyes were flooded with tears; deep sighs seemed to rise from his very heart, as he looked towards a young girl standing bound before him. "oh!" the count murmured, "don tadeo de león! my god! grant that that woman be not his daughter!" alas! it was she. at their feet lay the linda, bound to an enormous post. the young man felt the blood flow back to his heart; forgetful of his own preservation, he seized a pistol in each hand, and was about to spring forward, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear-- "prudence!" "prudence!" the young man repeated, in a tone of painful reproach; "look there!" "i have seen," replied trangoil-lanec, "but my brother will look in his turn," he added. and he pointed to a dozen indians, who, awakened by the cold of the night, or perhaps by the involuntary noise made by the two men, in spite of their precaution, rose and looked suspiciously around. "that is true!" louis murmured, quite overcome. "oh, my god! will you not come to our aid?" the chief took advantage of the momentary prostration into which his friend had fallen, to lead him back a little, so as to avoid increasing the aroused suspicions of the indians. "still," the young man exclaimed, "we shall save them, shall we not, chief?" the araucano shook his head. "at this moment it is impossible," he replied. "brother, now that we have recovered their track, which we had lost, they must be saved." a smile passed over the lips of the indian warrior. "we will try," he said. "thanks! thanks, chief," the young man cried. "let us return to the camp," said trangoil-lanec. "patience, my brother," the indian added in a solemn voice; "nothing is urgent--in an hour we shall be on their track again." "that is true," the young man said, hanging down his head with forced resignation. the two men regained their encampment, where they found curumilla and valentine still asleep. chapter xxxviii. the lynx. in the course of the past few days certain events had taken place in araucania which we must explain. the policy adopted by general fuentes had produced the best results. the chiefs restored to liberty had returned to their tribes, where they had warmly persuaded their mosotones to conclude a definite peace. these persuasions had been eagerly listened to. the huiliches, who asked no better than to resume the course of their peaceful labours in safety, warmly gave their adhesion to the conditions their ulmens submitted to them. a grand council was solemnly convoked on the banks of the carampangne, at the closing of which six deputies, chosen from among the wisest and most respected chiefs, having at their head an apo-ulmen named the lynx, and followed by a thousand well-armed horsemen, were sent to antinahuel, in order to communicate to him the resolutions of the council, and demand his assent. when he perceived at a distance this numerous troop advancing amidst clouds of dust, antinahuel breathed a sigh of satisfaction, thinking what a noble reinforcement was coming: for the malocca which he was so anxious to attempt upon the chilian frontier. the troop which antinahuel had perceived continued to approach, and soon came within speaking distance. the toqui then observed with secret dissatisfaction that it was commanded by the lynx, who had always been tacitly opposed to him. when the horsemen had arrived within ten paces of the camp the lynx made a sign, and the troop halted; a herald stopped in front of the chiefs, and saluted them respectfully. "toqui of the four uthal-mapus," he said, in a loud voice, "and you ulmens who hear me--the lynx, the venerated apo-ulmen of arauca, followed by six ulmens no less celebrated than himself, is sent to you to enjoin obedience to the orders emanating from the supreme auca-coyog." after speaking thus the herald bowed respectfully and retired. antinahuel and his ulmens looked at each other in astonishment, for they could not comprehend what it all meant. the toqui alone suspected some treachery planned against himself; but his countenance remained impassive, and he asked his ulmens to accompany him to the council fire. at the expiration of a minute the lynx arose, made two steps forward, and spoke as follows:-- "the grand auca-coyog of arauca, in the name of the people, to all persons who are at the head of warriors, salutation! certain that all our compatriots keep their faith, we wish them peace in that genius of goodness, in which alone reside true health and holy obedience. this is what we have resolved: war has fallen unexpectedly upon our rich plains, and has changed them into deserts; our harvests have been trampled under the feet of horses, our cattle have been killed or driven away by the enemy, our crops are lost, our toldos are burnt, our wives and children have disappeared in the tempest. we will have no more war, and peace must be immediately concluded with the palefaces. i have spoken." a profound silence followed this speech. antinahuel's ulmens were struck with stupor, and looked towards their chief with great anxiety. "and upon what conditions has this peace been concluded?" asked the toqui. "the conditions are these," the lynx replied; "antinahuel will immediately release the white prisoners; he will dismiss the army; the araucanos will pay the palefaces two thousand sheep, five hundred vicunas, and eight hundred head of cattle; and the war hatchet is to be buried." "hum!" said the toqui with a bitter smile; "these are hard conditions. if i should on my part refuse to ratify this shameful peace?" "but my father will not refuse," the lynx suggested. "but i do refuse!" he replied, loudly. "good! my father will reflect; it is impossible that can be his last word." antinahuel, cunning as he was, had no suspicion of the snare that was laid for him. "i repeat to you. lynx," he said, in a loud voice, "and to all the chiefs who surround me, that i refuse to ratify these dishonourable conditions. so, now you can return whence you came." "not yet!" said the lynx, in his turn, as sharply as the toqui. "i have not finished yet!" "what else have you to tell me?" "the council, which is composed of the wise men of all the tribes, has foreseen the refusal of my father." "ah!" antinahuel cried. "what have they decreed in consequence?" "this: the hatchet of toqui is withdrawn from my father; all the araucanian warriors are released from their oath of fidelity to him; fire and water are refused to my father; he is declared a traitor to his country, as are all those who do not obey, and remain with him. the araucanian nation will no longer serve as a plaything, and be the victim of the wild ambition of a man unworthy of commanding it." during this terrific peroration antinahuel had remained motionless, his arms crossed upon his breast. "have you finished?" he asked. "i have finished," the lynx replied; "now the herald will go and proclaim in your camp what i have told you at the council fire." "well, let him go!" antinahuel replied. "you are welcome to withdraw from me the hatchet of toqui. of what importance is that vain dignity to me? you may declare me a traitor to my country; i have on my side my own conscience, which absolves me; but what you wish above all else to have you shall not have and that is my prisoners. farewell!" and with a step as firm as if nothing had happened to him, he returned to his camp. but there a great mortification awaited him. at the summons of the herald all his warriors abandoned him. one after the other, some with joy, others with sorrow. he who five minutes before counted more than eight hundred warriors under his orders, saw their numbers diminish so rapidly that soon only thirty-eight were left. the lynx called out an ironical farewell to him from a distance, and departed at a gallop with all his troop. when antinahuel counted the small number of friends left to him, an immense grief weighed upon his heart; he sank down at the foot of a tree, covered his face with his poncho, and wept. in the meantime, thanks to the facilities which the linda had procured don tadeo, the latter had been able for some days past to approach rosario. the presence of the man who had brought her up was a great consolation to the young lady; but when don tadeo, who had thenceforward no reasons for secrecy, confessed to her that he was her father, an inexpressible joy took possession of the poor child. it appeared to her that she now had no longer anything to dread, and that since her father was with her she should easily escape the horrible love of antinahuel. the linda, whom don tadeo allowed from pity to be near her, beheld with childish joy the father and daughter talking together. this woman was really a mother, with all the devotedness and all the abnegation which the title implies. she no longer lived for anything but her daughter. whilst the events we have described were taking place, the three chilians, crouched in a corner of the camp, absorbed by their own feelings, had attended to nothing--seen or heard nothing. don tadeo and rosario were seated at the foot of a tree, and at some distance the linda, without daring to mingle in their conversation, contemplated them with delight. his first grief calmed, antinahuel recovered himself, and was as haughty and as implacable as ever. on raising his eyes his looks fell mechanically upon his prisoners. antinahuel, whose attention was roused, had watched maria carefully, and was not long in acquiring the moral proof of a plot being laid against him by his ancient accomplice. the indian was too cunning to let them be aware of his suspicions; still he held himself on his guard, waiting for the first opportunity to change them into certainty. he ordered his mosotones to tie each of his prisoners to a tree, which order was immediately executed. at sight of this, the linda forgot her prudence; she rushed, dagger in hand, towards the chief, and reproached him with his baseness. antinahuel disdained to reply to her reproaches; he merely snatched the dagger from her hand, threw her down upon the ground, and ordered her to be tied to a large post with her face turned towards the ground. "since my sister is so fond of the prisoners," he said "it is but just that she should share their fate." "cowardly wretch!" she replied, vainly endeavouring to release herself. the chief turned from her in apparent contempt; then, as he fancied that he must reward the fidelity of the warriors who followed his fortunes, he gave them several bottles of aguardiente. it was at the end of these orgies that they were discovered by the count, thanks to the sagacity of the newfoundland dog. chapter xxxix. the black serpents. as soon as curumilla and valentine had been awakened, they saddled the horses, then the indians sat down by the fire, making a sign to the frenchmen to imitate them. the count was driven to despair by the slowness of his friends; if he had only listened to his own feelings, he would have instantly set out in pursuit of the ravishers; but he could not help seeing how necessary the support of the ulmens must be to him in the decisive struggle he was about to undertake, whether for attack, defence, or following the track of the aucas. after a tolerably long interval, employed by our four personages in conscientiously burning their tobacco leaf, the last, trangoil-lanec spoke-- "the warriors are numerous," he said, "therefore we cannot hope to conquer by force. since we have been upon their track many events must have occurred; we ought to ascertain what antinahuel means to do with his prisoners, and whether they are really in danger. antinahuel is ignorant of the ties which connect me with those who are in his power, he will not suspect me." "very well!" said curumilla, "my brother is prudent, he will succeed. but let him carefully calculate his actions and his words whilst he is amongst them." valentine looked at his foster brother with astonishment. "what does all this mean?" he asked. "is antinahuels track found again?" "yes, brother," louis replied, in a melancholy tone, "doña rosario and her father are within half a league of us, and in danger of death!" "vive dieu!" the young man cried, "and we are here prating." "alas!" louis murmured, "what can four men do against fifty?" "that is too true," he replied, returning dejectedly to his place. "as trangoil-lanec says, fighting will not avail us, we must manoeuvre." "chief," louis observed, "your plan is good, but i think of two material ameliorations." "my brother can speak, he is wise," trangoil-lanec replied, bowing courteously. "we must provide against all that may happen. go to the camp, we will follow your steps; but if you cannot rejoin us as quickly as we may wish, agree upon a signal which may inform us why, and agree also upon another signal in case your life may be in danger." "very well," said curumilla; "if the chief requires our presence, he will imitate the cry of the water-hawk; if he is obliged to remain with the aucas the song of the goldfinch will warn us of it." "that is settled," trangoil-lanec answered; "but what is my brother's second observation?" the count rummaged in his haversack, took out some paper, wrote a few words upon a sheet, which he folded and handed to the chief, saying-- "it is particularly important that those whom we wish to deliver should not thwart our plans; perhaps don tadeo may not recognise my brother. the chief will slip this necklace into the hands of the young pale woman." "that shall be done; the young blue-eyed maiden shall have the necklace, the chief replied with a smile. "well, now," said curumilla, "let us take the track." "yes, time presses," said valentine. towards the evening of the second day, trangoil-lanec, leaving his companions to establish their encampment upon the declivity of a little hill, at the entrance of a natural grotto, clapped spurs to his horse, and was soon out of sight. he directed his course towards the spot where the black serpents had stopped for the night--a spot announced to the clear-sighted indian by a thin thread of white smoke. when he arrived at a certain distance from the camp, the chief saw two indian black serpents suddenly spring up before him, clothed in their war costume. "where is my brother going?" one of the black serpents asked, advancing towards him. "good!" the chief replied, throwing his gun, which he held in his left hand, on his shoulder. "trangoil-lanec has recognised the trail of his brothers the black serpents, and he wishes to smoke at their fire." "my brother will follow me," the indian remarked. he made an imperceptible sign to his companion, who quitted his hiding place. trangoil-lanec followed them, casting around an apparently careless glance. in a few minutes they reached the camp, whose situation was admirably chosen. the arrival of the warrior created a stir in the camp, which was, however, quickly repressed. trangoil-lanec was conducted into the presence of the chief, and as his reputation was high among his compatriots, antinahuel, to do him honour, received him in the most elevated part or the camp. the two chiefs saluted each other. "is my brother antinahuel hunting with his young men?" asked trangoil-lanec. "yes," the toqui replied, laconically. "has my brother been fortunate in his hunting?" "very fortunate," said antinahuel, with a sinister smile; "let my brother open his eyes." "wah!" said trangoil-lanec, "palefaces! my brother has had good sport indeed; he will get a heavy ransom for his prisoners." "the toldo of antinahuel is solitary--he wants a squaw to inhabit it." "good! i understand; my brother will take one of the pale women." "the blue-eyed maiden will be the wife of a chief." "wah! but why does my brother detain the great eagle?" antinahuel only replied by a smile, the expression of which the chief could not mistake. "oh, good!" he rejoined; "my brother is a great chief--who is able to fathom his thoughts?" the araucano warrior rose, quitted antinahuel, and walked about the camp, the order and position of which he feigned to admire, but in reality he drew nearer and nearer, in an almost imperceptible manner, to that part at which the prisoners were seated. "let my brother look," antinahuel said, pointing to doña rosario; "does not that woman deserve to espouse a chief?" "she is pretty!" trangoil-lanec replied, coldly; "but i would give all the palefaces in the world for one bottle of such firewater as i have here." "has my brother some firewater?" antinahuel asked, whose eyes sparkled at the thought. "yes," the chief replied; "look!" the toqui turned round, and the aucas profited by the movement to cleverly let fall upon rosario's lap the paper committed to his charge by louis. "look!" he said "the sun is sinking, the maukawis is singing his first evening song; my brother will follow me, he and his warriors will empty these bottles." the two chiefs walked away, and a few minutes after all the indians were satisfactorily employed in emptying the bottles brought by the ulmen. doña rosario could not at first imagine what a message sent to her in such a curious manner could mean, and she looked at her father. "read, my rosario!" don tadeo said, softly. the young girl tremblingly took the note, opened it, and read it with a secret joy. it contained only these few laconic words, but they were sufficient to cause a smile. "take courage, señorita, we are preparing everything for saving you at last." after having read, or rather devoured these words, she gave the note to her father. "who can this friend be who is watching over us? what can he do?" "why should we doubt the infinite goodness of god, my child?" said don tadeo. "ungrateful girl! have you forgotten the two brave frenchmen?" the young girl smiled through her tears, leaning fondly upon her father. the linda could not suppress a feeling of jealousy at this caress of which she had no share; but the hope that her daughter would soon be liberated, rendered her quite happy. in the meantime the indians continued drinking. many of the aucas were in a helpless state of intoxication. trangoil-lanec and antinahuel were at length the only drinkers. but even the strength of the renowned toqui was not of avail against the insidious poison he quaffed so greedily; his eyes closed, and he fell backwards--fast asleep. trangoil-lanec waited for a few moments, carefully surveying the camp in which he and the prisoners were the only persons awake; then, when he had ascertained to a certainty that the black serpents had really allowed themselves to be caught in the snare he had laid for them, he rose cautiously, made a sign of encouragement to the prisoners, and disappeared into the forest. "is that an enemy or a friend?" murmured the linda anxiously. "oh, i have long known that man!" replied don tadeo; "his is a noble heart! he is devoted body and soul to our friends." chapter xl. the hurricane. louis had not been able to restrain himself; instead of waiting, he had persuaded valentine and curumilla to follow him, and all three had advanced, gliding through bushes and underwood, to within twenty paces of the indian camp, so that trangoil-lanec met them almost immediately. "well?" the count asked anxiously. "all is right! come on!" the chief quickly retraced his steps, and led his friends towards the prisoners. at the sight of the four men a smile of ineffable sweetness lit up the beautiful countenance of rosario; even her prudence could not repress a half-uttered cry of joy, don tadeo arose, and was beginning to thank them. "caballero," cried the count, who was upon hot coals, "let us be quick. these men will soon be awake again." "yes," valentine added; "because if they were to surprise us we should be compelled to have a brush." all were aware of the justness of this observation and trangoil-lanec having unfastened the horses of the prisoners, which were grazing quietly among those of the aucas, don tadeo and his daughter mounted. the linda, of whom nobody seemed to take any notice, sprang upon a horse. if valentine had not been afraid of her giving the alarm, he would have compelled her to remain behind. the little troop set off without impediment, and directed their course towards the natural grotto where the horses had been left. as soon as they arrived, valentine made a sign. "you had better rest here for a short time," he said; "the night is very dark; in a few hours we will set off again; you will find in this grotto two beds of leaves." these words, pronounced in the usual blunt, offhand style of the parisian, brought a cheerful smile to the lips of the chilians. when they had lain down upon the leaves heaped up in the grotto, the count called his sagacious dog to him, and said-- "pay attention to what i order you, cæsar: you see this young lady, do you not, my good dog? you must be answerable for her to me." cæsar listened to his master, staring at him with his large intelligent eyes and gently wagging his tail; he then laid himself quietly down at the feet of rosario, licking her hand. the young girl seized his great head in her arms, and hugged him several times, smiling at the count. poor louis blushed to the eyes, and left the grotto, staggering like a drunken man--happiness almost deprived him of his senses. he went and threw himself on the ground at a short distance to think over, at leisure the joy which inundated his heart. he did not observe valentine, who leaning against a tree, followed him with a melancholy look, for valentine also loved doña rosario. yes, the sight of doña rosario had revealed to him a thing which he had hardly thought possible, and that was, that besides this so warm and so strong feeling, there was in his heart room for another at least as warm and as strong. leaning against a tree, with his eye fixed upon the entrance to the grotto, and his chest heaving, he recalled the smallest incidents of his meeting with the young lady, their journey through the forest, the words she addressed to him and smiled delightedly at the remembrance of those delicious moments, without suspecting the danger of these remembrances of the new feeling which had been just born in his soul. two hours had thus glided away, and valentine had taken no heed of their passage, so absorbed was he in his fantastic contemplation, when the two indians came up to him-- "is our brother asleep that he does not see us?" "no," valentine replied, passing his hand over his burning brow, "i was thinking." "my brother was with the genius of dreams; he was happy," trangoil-lanec remarked, with a smile. "do you want me?" "whilst my brother has been reflecting, we have returned to the camp of the black serpents. we have taken their horses, and after leading them to a considerable distance have let them loose on the plain." "if that is the case we may be at our ease for a few hours?" valentine suggested. "i hope so," said trangoil-lanec, "but we must not be too confident, the black serpents are cunning fellows." "what had we better do, then?" "mislead our enemies by putting them upon a false track. i will set off with the three horses of the palefaces, whilst my brother, his friend, and curumilla descend the rivulet, walking in its bed." trangoil-lanec cut a reed a foot and a half long, and fastened each extremity of it to the bits of the horses, in order that they might not be able to approach each other too near, and then set off. valentine entered the grotto, where he found the linda seated near her husband and daughter, guarding their slumbers. louis had prepared everything; he placed don tadeo upon valentine's horse, and the linda and rosario upon his own, and led them into the rivulet, after having carefully effaced their footsteps in the sand. the little caravan advanced silently, listening to the noises of the forest, watching the movements of the bushes, fearing at every instant to see the ferocious eye of a black serpent gleam through the shade. towards four o'clock in the morning the islet of the guanaco appeared to the delighted eyes of our travellers like a port of safety, after the fatigues of a journey made entirely in the water. on the most advanced point of the islet a horseman stood motionless--it was trangoil-lanec; and near him the horses of the spaniards were peaceably grazing upon the high grass of the banks. the travellers found a fire ready lighted, upon which was cooking the quarter of a doe, camotes and maize tortillas. "eat," said trangoil-lanec, laconically; "but, above all, eat quickly!" without asking the chief for any explanation, the hungry travellers sat down in a circle, and vigorously attacked the provisions. "bah!" said valentine, gaily; "after us the end of the world--let us eat while we can! here is a roast joint that appears to me to be tolerably well cooked!" at these words of the spahi doña rosario looked a little surprised; the young man was struck dumb, blushing at his rudeness, and began to eat without venturing another word. as soon as breakfast was over; trangoil-lanec, assisted by curumilla, employed himself in preparing one of those canoes, made of buffalo hides sewn together, which are employed by the indians to cross the rivers in the desert. after placing it in the water, the chief requested the three spaniards to take their seats in it. the indians afterwards entered it for the purpose of steering it; whilst the two frenchmen, still in the water, led the horses by their bridles. the passage was not long; at the end of an hour they landed, and they continued their journey by land. for some hours past, as it often happens in that country, the weather had completely changed. the sun had assumed a red tint, and appeared to swim in an ocean of vapour, which intercepted its warm rays. "what do you think of this weather, chief?" the count asked anxiously to trangoil-lanec. "bad--very bad," the latter replied, "unless we could possibly pass the sorcerer's leap." "are we in danger, then?" "we are lost," the indian replied. "hum! that is not very comforting," said valentine. "do you think, then, that the peril is so great?" "much greater than i can tell my brother. do you think it possible to resist the hurricane, here?" "that is true," valentine muttered, hanging his head. "may heaven preserve us!" in fact the situation of the travellers appeared desperate. they were following one of those roads cut in the living rock which wind round the andes, a road of scarcely four feet in its greatest width, which on one side was bordered by a wall of granite more than a thousand feet high, and on the other by precipices of incalculable depth, at the bottom of which invisible waters coursed with dull, mysterious murmurs. in such a spot all hope of safety seemed little short of madness. and yet the travellers proceeded, advancing in indian file--that is, one after the other, silent and gloomy. "are we still far from the sorcerer's leap?" valentine asked, after a long silence. "we are approaching it," trangoil-lanec replied. suddenly the brown veil which concealed the horizon was rent violently asunder, a pale flash of lightning illuminated the heavens. "dismount!" trangoil-lanec shouted, "dismount, for your lives! lie down on the ground, and cling to the points of the rocks!" everyone followed the advice of the chief. the animals, left to themselves, understood the danger instinctively, folded their legs under them, and laid themselves down also upon the ground. all at once the thunder burst forth in frightful peals, and the rain fell like a deluge. it is not given to human pen to describe the awful hurricane which vented its fury upon those mountains. enormous blocks of rock, yielding to the force of the wind and undermined by the waters, were precipitated from the top to the bottom of the ravines with a horrible crash; trees, hundreds of years old, were twisted and torn up by the roots by the blast. suddenly a piercing cry of agony filled the air. "my daughter!--save my daughter!" heedless of the danger to which he exposed himself, don tadeo stood upright in the road, his arms extended towards heaven, his hair floating in the wind, and the lightning playing around his brow. doña rosario, too weak and too delicate to cling to the sharp points of the rocks by which her fingers were torn had been seized and carried away, and dashed down the precipice by the tempest. the linda, without pronouncing a word, turned and plunged into the gulf. "oh!" the count cried frantically, "i will bring her back or----" and he sprang forward; but a powerful hand withheld him. "stay, brother," said valentine, in a melancholy but firm tone--"let me encounter this peril." "but, valentine!" "i insist upon it!--of what consequence is it if i die?" he added, with an expression of bitterness. "i am not beloved!" and turning towards don tadeo he said, "courage my friend. i will restore your daughter or perish with her!" and whistling his dog--"find her, cæsar--find her." he said. the noble animal uttered a plaintive howl, sniffed the air for an instant in all directions, then, after a minute's hesitation wagged his tail, turned towards his master, and dashed down the steep precipice. chapter xli. la barranca. as soon as valentine was suspended from the abrupt edge of the precipice, and obliged to ascertain carefully where to place his foot, his excitement was dispersed to give place to the cool and lucid determination of the brave man. the task he had undertaken was not an easy one. in his perilous descent his eyes became useless to him; his hands and feet were his only guides. often did he feel the stone upon which he thought he had placed his foot firmly crumble as he began to trust his weight to it, and the branch he had seized break in his grasp. but firm in his resolution, he kept descending, following as far as was possible the track of his dog, who at a short distance beneath him stopped, from time to time, to guide him by his yelpings. presently he stopped to take breath, still continuing to repeat to his dog the words he had never ceased to cry from the commencement of his descent-- "find her, cæsar, find her!" suddenly the dog was mute. much alarmed, valentine renewed his call. it then appeared to him that, at about twenty feet below the spot where he then was, he could perceive a white form; but its outlines were so vague and indistinct that he thought he must be the sport of an illusion, and he ventured to lean still further over, to assure himself that he was not deceived. at this moment, he felt himself strongly pulled back. like a man delivered from a frightful nightmare, he took a confused glance around him. cæsar with his forepaws firmly fixed upon the rock, was holding the end of his poncho in his clenched teeth. "can you reply to me now?" the linda said. "perfectly, señorita," he replied. "you will help me to save my daughter?" "it was in search of her that i descended." "thanks, caballero!" she said, fervently; "she is close by." doña rosario was lying insensible caught in some thick bushes hanging over an abyss of more than a thousand feet in depth! on perceiving her, valentine's first impression was a feeling of wild terror. but as soon as the first moment was past, and he could look at her coolly, he became satisfied that she was in perfect safety. all this had required much time, and the storm had subsided by degrees; the mist was clearing off and the sun had reappeared. valentine then became aware of all the horror of the situation which the darkness had till then concealed from him. to reascend was impossible; to descend was still worse. from the clump of myrtles near which they were, the walls of the precipice descended in a plumb line, without any salient point upon which a foot could be placed. one step forward was death. the linda saw nothing, thought of nothing, for she had her daughter to look at. in vain valentine racked his brains to discover some means of overcoming this apparently insuperable difficulty. a bark from cæsar made him raise his head. louis had found the means which valentine had despaired of finding. collecting the lassos which chilian horsemen always have suspended from their saddles, he had fastened them tightly together and had formed two ropes, which he let down the precipice. valentine uttered a cry of joy. rosario was saved! as soon as the lassos were within his reach he seized them and quickly constructed a chair; but here a new difficulty presented itself; how was it possible to get the insensible girl from amidst the tangled growth? "wait a minute!" exclaimed linda, and bounding like a panther, she sprang into the centre of the tangled mass, which bent under her feet, took her daughter in her arms, and with a spring as sure and as rapid as the first, regained the edge of the precipice. the young man then tied doña rosario in the chair, and then made a signal for hoisting it. the aucas warriors, directed by louis, drew the lassos gently and firmly upwards, whilst valentine and the linda, clinging as well as they could to points of rocks and bushes, kept the young lady steady, and secured her from collision with the sharp stones that might have wounded her. as soon as don tadeo perceived his daughter, he rushed towards her with a hoarse articulate cry, and pressing her to his panting breast he sobbed aloud, shedding a flood of tears. "oh!" cried the girl, clinging with childish terror to her father, and clasping her arms round his neck, "father! father! i thought i must have died!" "my child," said don tadeo, "your mother was the first to fly to your assistance." the linda's face glowed with happiness, and she held out her arms to her daughter, with a supplicating look. rosario looked at her with a mixture of fear and tenderness, and made a motion as if to throw herself into the arms that were open to her; but she suddenly checked herself. "oh i cannot! i cannot!" the linda heaved a heavy sigh, wiped the tears which inundated her cheeks, and retired on one side. the two frenchmen inwardly enjoyed the sight of the happiness of don tadeo, happiness which in part he owed to them. the chilian approached them, pressed their hands warmly, and then turning to rosario, said-- "my child, love these two gentlemen, you never can discharge your debt to them." both the young men blushed. "come, come, don tadeo," cried valentine, "we have lost too much time already. to horse, and let us be gone!" in spite of the roughness of this reply, doña rosario, who comprehended the delicacy that had dictated it, gave the young man a look of ineffable sweetness. the party resumed their march. the linda was henceforward treated with respect by all. the pardon of don tadeo, a pardon so nobly granted, had reinstated her in their eyes. doña rosario herself sometimes unconsciously smiled upon her, although she could not yet feel courage enough to respond to her caresses. at the expiration of an hour they reached the "sorcerer's leap." at this place the mountain was divided in two by a fissure of inconceivable depth, and about twenty-five feet wide. this difficult passage has been thus named by the aucas because, according to the legend, at the period when the conquest of araucania was attempted, a huiliche sorcerer, being closely pursued by castilian soldiers, leaped without hesitation over the chasm, sustained in his perilous passage by the genii of the air. whatever be the truth of this legend, a bridge exists now, and our travellers passed over it without accident. "ah!" trangoil-lanec exclaimed, "now we have room before us, we are safe!" "not yet," curumilla replied, pointing with his finger to a thin column of blue smoke, which curled up towards the heavens. "ooch!" replied the chief, "can that be the black serpents again? can they have preceded instead of pursuing us? how does it happen that they venture in this manner upon the chilian territory? we had better retire for the night." chapter xlii. the quipu. after a frugal repast, the travellers were preparing to take a little repose, when cæsar barked furiously. everyone flew to his arms. at length the noise of steps was heard, the bushes were thrust apart, and an indian appeared. it was antinahuel. at the sight of this man, rosario could not repress a cry of terror. her mother threw herself before her. antinahuel did not appear to perceive the presence of the young lady or of the linda; he advanced slowly, without moving a muscle of his face. when within a few paces of trangoil-lanec, he stopped and saluted him. "i come to sit at the fireside of my brother," he said. "my brother is welcome," the chief replied. "no, i only wish to smoke with my brother, for the sake of communicating to him some important news." "it shall be as my brother desires," trangoil-lanec replied. the three indians sat down with the ceremony usual upon such occasions. they lit their pipes, and smoked silently. at length, after a considerable time, antinahuel began-- "here," said he, "is the quipu, which the herald who came from paki-pulli handed at about the seventh hour to me, antinahuel, the son of the black jackal." he drew from under his poncho a light piece of wood, about ten inches long, very thick split, and holding a human finger. "my brother sees," antinahuel continued, "that upon the black wool there are four knots, to indicate that the herald left paki-pulli four days after the moon; upon the white there are ten knots, which signify that ten days after that period, that is to say, in three days, the four confederated uthal-mapus will take up arms, as has been agreed in a grand auca-coyog convoked by the toquis; upon the red i have made a knot, which means that the warriors placed under my orders will join the expedition, and that the chiefs may depend upon my concurrence. will my brothers follow my example?" "my brother has forgotten to tell me one thing," trangoil-lanec replied. "let my brother explain himself," said antinahuel. "against whom is this expedition?" "against the palefaces," he said, with a tone of mortal hatred. "very well," said trangoil-lanec, "my brother is a powerful chief, he will give me the quipu." antinahuel handed it to him. the araucano warrior received the quipu, examined it, seized the red fringe and the blue fringe, he joined them, made a knot over them, and passed the piece of wood to curumilla, who followed his example. "my brothers, then," he said, "refuse their aid?" "the chiefs of the four nations can do without us. the war is ended, and this quipu is false. why, when we came here, instead of presenting us this false quipu, did not antinahuel tell us frankly that he came in search of his white prisoners, who have escaped? we would have replied to him that these prisoners are henceforward under our protection." "is that your resolution," said antinahuel. "yes; and my brother may be assured that we are not men to be easily deceived." the toqui rose with rage in his heart. "you are dogs and old women!" he said; "tomorrow i will come to retake my prisoners." the two indians smiled contemptuously, and bowed gravely as a parting salute to their enemy. the toqui disdained to reply to this ironical courtesy; he turned his back, and re-entered the wood with the same slow, solemn step with which he had arrived, appearing to set his adversaries at defiance. he had scarcely quitted the little camp, when trangoil-lanec set off in his track. trangoil-lanec was not long absent; he returned in less than an hour. his companions saw him return with the greatest joy. "let my brothers open their ears," he said. "we are listening, depend upon it," valentine remarked. "antinahuel is encamped within a short distance; he knows now that we are not strong enough to contend with him. what will my brothers do? our position is a serious one." "why did we not kill him?" linda cried. "no," he replied; "the indian law prevented me; he presented himself as a friend at my fireside; a guest is sacred." "what is done cannot be undone," said valentine; "so it is of no use talking about it. we are in a scrape." "we will die sooner than allow the wretch to take his prisoners again," said the count. "that of course; but before we have recourse to that extreme measure, we might find another." "but, perhaps, we ought not to abandon ourselves to despondendency," valentine rejoined, energetically; "we are four men of courage; we ought not to despair." since don tadeo had recovered his daughter, he was no longer the same man; he seemed only to live for her and through her. at that moment, seated at the foot of a tree, he held rosario on his knees, and was rocking her like an infant. but, at valentine's question, he raised his head quickly. "i will not have my daughter fall again into the hands of antinahuel," he said, loudly; "happen what may, i will save her." "we are all willing to do that, only the indian chiefs are not acquainted with the country; you, who are a chilian, perhaps can give us some useful information." don tadeo reflected for an instant; he cast an inquiring glance round upon the mountains, and then said: "those means i can furnish you with; we cannot be more than ten leagues from one of my haciendas." "are you certain of that?" "yes, thank heaven!" "to be sure we are not!" the linda cried, joyfully. "and you believe that if we could reach that hacienda----" "we shall be safe," don tadeo interrupted; "for i have there five hundred devoted peons." "oh!" said the linda, "do not lose an instant. don tadeo; write a word to your major-domo; tell him what a desperate situation you are in, and order him to hasten to your assistance." "it is heaven that inspires you, señora!" don tadeo cried. "oh!" the linda replied, "it is because i would save my daughter!" doña rosario fixed upon her eyes moist with tears, and said, in a voice tremulous with tenderness: "thank you, my mother!" her daughter had pardoned her! the poor woman fell upon her knees on the ground and clasped her hands. in the meantime, don tadeo had written a few words in haste. "we have no time to read the note now; someone must go at once," said the count; "i undertake to convey it, only point me out the road." "i know it," said curumilla phlegmatically. "very well, in that case you shall accompany me." "ooch! i know a road by which we can be there in less than two hours." "let us begone, then." "watch over her!" said louis. "bring back assistance quickly," valentine replied. "i will, or die in the attempt," replied the other. and, clapping spurs to their horses, the two men were soon lost in a cloud of dust. valentine looked after his foster brother as long as he was to be seen, then turning toward trangoil-lanec, said; "and we must start directly?" "everything is ready," the chief replied. "now," valentine said to don tadeo, "our fate is in the hands of god: we have done everything it was humanly possible to do to escape capture or death; upon his will now depends our safety." "valentine! valentine!" don tadeo cried, warmly, "you are as devout as you are intelligent. god will not abandon us." "i trust he will hear you!" the young man said, in a melancholy tone. "courage, my daughter!" said the linda, with an expression of infinite tenderness. "oh! i fear nothing now," rosario replied, with a cheerful smile; "have i not my father near me, and--my mother, too," she added, kindly. the linda raised her eyes, humid with gratitude, towards heaven. within ten minutes they were all mounted, and quitting the wood, they followed at a sharp trot the road which the count and curumilla had taken at full speed. chapter xliii. the rock. but when setting forward so hastily, valentine had considered the peril of the situation more than the possibility of travelling far at a quick pace. at the end of a very few miles the horses, overridden for two days together, and exceedingly weakened by the hurricane, could scarcely be kept going; whip and spur were obliged to be constantly applied to keep them on their legs. at length, after an hour spent in fruitless efforts. don tadeo, whose horse, a noble, well-bred animal had just stumbled twice from sheer weakness, was the first to call valentines attention to the impossibility of going farther at present. "i know it--i feel it!" the young man replied; "the poor animals are foundered; but what can we do? we must kill them, if it be necessary!" "let us proceed, then, whatever may happen!" said don tadeo. "besides," the young man continued, "a minute gained is an age for us; by break of day louis may be back. if our horses had been rested, we might have reached the hacienda tonight; only the farther we get the better the chance of escaping those who are pursuing us. but, your pardon, don tadeo, the indian chief is making me a sign." after leaving don tadeo, he drew nearer to the ulmen. "well, chief?" he asked. "does my brother reckon upon being able to go much farther?" said the indian. "pardieu! chief, you have put exactly the same question to me that don tadeo has." "what does the great chief say?" "why, he says that our horses are completely knocked up." "ooch! and what does my brother with the golden hair mean to do?" "how can i tell? let trangoil-lanec advise me; he is a warrior, renowned in his tribe." "i think i have a good idea." "pray let us have it, chief; your ideas are always excellent." the indian bowed modestly. "let my brother listen to me," he said. "perhaps antinahuel is already on our track; if he is not, it will not be long before he is. if he comes up with us we shall be killed. what can three men do against sixty? but not far distant from hence i know a place where we can easily defend ourselves. many moons ago, ten warriors of my tribe and myself stood our ground at that place for fourteen whole days against two hundred palefaces. does my brother understand?" "perfectly, perfectly, chief! guide us to this place; and if it please god that we reach it, i swear that antinahuel and his mosotones shall find somebody to answer them." trangoil-lanec then took the guidance of the little troop, and led them slightly aside from the road. in the interior of south america what we in europe agree to call roads do not exist; but there are instead an infinite number of paths traced by wild animals, which all finish, after numberless meanderings, by leading to rivulets or rivers, which for ages have served as drinking places to the beasts of the desert. the indians alone possess the secret of directing their course with certainty in these apparently inextricable labyrinths; so after a march of twenty minutes our travellers found themselves, without knowing how, on the banks of a charming river. in the centre of which arose an enormous block of granite. valentine uttered a cry of joy at sight of this natural fortress. the horses, as if they understood that they had at length arrived at a place of safety, entered the water willingly. this block of granite was hollow. by a gentle ascent it was easy to mount to the summit, which formed a platform of more than forty square feet. the horses were concealed in a corner of the grotto, where they seemed glad to lie down. valentine did his best to barricade the entrance to the fortress. this being done, a fire was lighted. cæsar had of his own accord posted himself on the platform--a vigilant sentinel. the frenchman kept awake, whilst his companions, yielding to fatigue, slept soundly. "i will go and take a little rest," valentine said to trangoil-lanec, who awoke, casting an anxious look around him; "the night is over." "silence!" the chief murmured. the two men listened: a stifled growl fell upon their ears. "that is my dog!--it is cæsar warning us!" the young man cried. he and the chief sprang simultaneously to the platform. in vain he looked around on all sides, nothing appeared, the same tranquillity seemed to reign around them. nothing denoted movement but the high grass on the banks of the river, which waved gently, as if bent by the breeze. valentine, for a minute, thought his dog was deceived, and was preparing to descend, when he suddenly seized him by the middle and forced him to lie flat upon the platform, while several shots resounded, half a score balls came hissing to be flattened against the rock, and a number of arrows flew over the platform--a second more, and valentine would have been killed. this attack was succeeded by a horrible yelling which was repeated by the echoes of the two banks. this was the war cry of the aucas, who, to the number of more than forty, appeared upon the shore. valentine and the chief discharged their guns almost at hazard among the crowd. two men fell, and the indians suddenly disappeared among the thick bushes and high grass. the silence, for an instance disturbed, was restored so promptly, that if the bodies of the two indians had not remained stretched upon the sand, the scene might have passed for a dream. the young man took advantage of the minutes respite afforded by the enemy to descend into the grotto. at the noise of the fusillade and of the cry of the indians, doña rosario had started from her sleep in great terror. seeing her father seize his gun to mount to the platform, she threw herself into his arms, imploring him not to leave her. "father! father!" she cried, "pray do not leave me alone, or let me follow you! here i should become mad with terror!" "my daughter," don tadeo replied, "your mother will remain with you, i must join your friends; would you wish that i should abandon them in such circumstances? it is my cause they are defending; my place is with them! come! courage, my darling rosario, time is precious!" the young girl sank helplessly on the ground. "that is true!" she said; "pardon me, my father." for her part, without speaking a word, the linda had drawn her dagger, and placed herself at the entrance of the grotto. at this moment valentine appeared. "thanks, don tadeo," he said, "but we can dispense with your presence above. the black serpents will, no doubt, attempt to cross the river and gain entrance to the grotto, of which they certainly know the existence. remain here, then, if you please, and watch their movements carefully." valentine had calculated rightly. the indians perceiving the inutility of firing at a block of granite against which their balls were flattened, changed their tactics. they divided themselves into two bands, one of which kept firing; whilst the other, led by antinahuel, ascended the course of the river. when they arrived at a certain distance, the indians hastily constructed rafts, upon which they allowed themselves to float upon the stream straight toward the rock. valentine and his companions, knowing that they had nothing to fear from those who kept firing at the rock from the bank, descended to the grotto. the young man's first care was to place doña rosario in safety. this duty performed, he took his post with his companions. a raft, mounted by seven indians, tossed about violently by the current, all at once was dashed against the rock, and the indians, howling their war cry, sprang off, brandishing their arms; but the three men, with the linda, who insisted upon joining them, threw themselves upon them, and, before they had secured their footing, beat them down with the stocks of their guns, and cast back their bodies into the river. but scarcely had they got rid of these when two other rafts came down, followed almost immediately by a third and a fourth, carrying at least thirty men in the whole. for an instant the _mêlée_ was terrible in that confined spot, where they fought man to man, foot to foot. the linda, trembling for her daughter, with her hair streaming and her eyes flashing, defended herself like a lioness, powerfully seconded by her three companions, who performed prodigies of valour. but, overpowered by numbers, the besieged men were at length obliged to give ground. a minutes truce ensued, during which the auras counted their numbers. six of them were stretched dead. on the side of the besieged, valentine had received a cut from a hatchet on the head; but as he had seen it coming, and had moved promptly on one side, it was not a deep wound. trangoil-lanec's left arm was severely wounded. don tadeo and the linda were unhurt. valentine cast a painful glance towards the spot which served as a shelter for rosario, and then thought of nothing but nobly sacrificing his life. he was the first to recommence the fight. suddenly a violent fusillade was heard. "courage," valentine shouted--"courage!--here are our friends!" followed by his companions, a second time he scaled the barricade, and threw himself into the _mêlée_. all at once a cry for help of the most heart-rending agony resounded from the grotto. the linda turned round, and uttering a shriek more like the roar of a wild beast than the cry of a woman, threw herself upon antinahuel, in whose arms rosario was struggling. antinahuel, surprised by this unexpected attack, left his hold of the young girl, and recognised the linda. "stand back!" he said, in a deep guttural voice. but the linda, without replying, sprang headlong upon him, and plunged her dagger into his chest. "die, she wolf!" he howled. the linda fell. "my mother--oh, my mother!" rosario cried, in agony, kneeling down close to her, and covering her with kisses. the chief stooped to seize the young girl again, but then a new adversary stood firmly before him; it was valentine. the toqui rushed upon the frenchman. valentine was brave, active, and vigorous, but he had to contend with a man whom he would never have been able to resist if he had not been weakened by his wounds. the oily body of the indian presented no hold for the frenchman, whilst his enemy, on the contrary, had seized him by the cravat. neither trangoil-lanec nor don tadeo could render their companion any assistance, occupied as they were in defending themselves against the aucas. it was all over with valentine. already his ideas began to lose their lucidity, he only resisted mechanically, when he felt the fingers which grasped his neck gradually relax; with a last concentration of rage, he collected all his strength, and succeeded in disengaging himself. but his enemy, far from attacking him, fell backwards--he was dead! "ah!" the linda cried, with an expression impossible to be conveyed, "she is saved!" and she sank back fainting in the arms of her daughter, clasping tightly in her hand the dagger with which she had pierced antinahuel to the heart. all eagerly assembled round the unfortunate woman, who, by killing the inveterate enemy of her daughter, had so nobly retrieved her faults. at length she sighed faintly, opened her eyes, and fixing a dim look upon those who surrounded her, she convulsively seized her daughter and don tadeo, drew them towards her, and contemplated them. "oh! i was too happy! both of you had pardoned me; but god decreed that it should not be! will this terrible death disarm his justice? pray--pray for me!--that--that--hereafter--we may meet again in heaven!" she was dead! "my god!" said don tadeo, "have pity on her!" and he knelt down by the body. his companions piously imitated him. chapter xliv. cÆsar. a month after the events we have related, two men, seated side by side in a clump of nopals, were conversing earnestly whilst admiring a magnificent sunrise. these two men were valentine guillois and the count de prébois-crancé. the frenchmen were watching this reawakening of nature. the count, rendered uneasy by the obstinate silence which valentine preserved, at length spoke. "when you awoke me an hour ago," he said, "you brought me hither, in order, as you said, that we might talk at our ease, and i followed you without an observation. well, we have been seated in this grove for twenty minutes, and you have not even begun to explain yourself; your silence makes me very uneasy, brother, and i do not know what to attribute it to. have you any ill news to announce to me?" valentine raised his head quickly. "pardon me, louis," he replied, "i have no ill news to announce to you, but the hour for a thorough explanation between us has arrived." "what do you mean by that?" "you will soon understand me. when, about a year ago, reduced to despair, and resolved to take refuge in death, you summoned me to your apartments in the champs-Élysées, i pledged myself, if you would consent to live, to restore you that which you had lost, not by your own fault, but through your inexperience; you placed faith in me; you unhesitatingly abandoned france, you bade farewell for ever to the life of a gentleman, and you resolutely accompanied me to america. now it is for me to perform, in my turn, the promise made you--" "valentine!" "listen to me; you love doña rosario, and i am certain that on her part she feels for you a true and profound affection; the services we have rendered her father, authorise us to have an explanation with him, which i am convinced he expects, and the result of which must render you happy for ever. this explanation, which i would not risk without speaking to you first, i will have this morning, and speak frankly to don tadeo." a melancholy smile flitted across the young man's lips, and he let his head sink on his breast without replying. "what is the matter with you?" valentine cried anxiously; "why is it that this determination, which is to fulfil all your wishes, plunges you into such grief? explain yourself, louis!" "what good will it do to explain myself? why should we speak today to don tadeo? what hurry is there?" the young man remarked evasively. valentine shook his head, looking at him with astonishment; he could not comprehend his friend's conduct at all; he, however, determined to drive him into his last entrenchments. "well, this is the reason why: i wish to assure your happiness as soon as possible," he said. "the life i have been leading for a month past in this hacienda is oppressive to me. since my arrival in america my character has changed: the sight of great forests, lofty mountains, in short, of all the sublime magnificence which god has spread with a bountiful hand in the desert, has developed the instincts of a traveller, the germ of which i carried at the bottom of my heart; the constantly recurring changes of the adventurous life which i have led for some time, cause me to experience pleasures without bounds: in a word, i have become a passionate wood ranger, and i pant for the moment when i shall be permitted to resume my aimless rambles in the desert." a silence of some minutes ensued. "yes," the count murmured at length, "that life is indeed full of charms----" "that is why i am so eager to launch again into these scenes of excitement." "what prevents our resuming them?" "what! why you, pardieu!" "you are mistaken, brother. i am weary as you can be of the life we are leading; we will depart as soon as you please." "that is not my meaning; be frank with me: it is impossible that the ardent love you felt for doña rosario could have evaporated thus all at once." "what makes you think i do not love her?" "come!--come!" valentine replied, "let us have an end of all this; if you love doña rosario, why do you want to leave this place, and why do you refuse to marry her?" "it is not i who refuse," the young man murmured with a sigh, "it is she!" "she! no--no! come! that is not possible!" "brother, a long time ago, the very next day after the night when at santiago we delivered her from the hands of the bandits who were carrying her off, she herself told me that we never could be united. she ordered me to avoid her presence, and demanded my word of honour that i would never seek to see her again. why, then, should i lull myself with a wild chimera! you see, brother, i have no hope left." "perhaps!--but so many things have taken place since that period that the intentions of doña rosario may have changed." "no," the count replied, despondingly. "what makes you suppose so?" "her coolness--her indifference to me; the care she takes to avoid me; everything, in short, proves that i have remained here too long, and that i ought to leave her dangerous society." "why do not you have an explanation with her?" "i have sworn, and whatever it costs i will accomplish my vow." valentine hung his head, but made no reply. "i implore you!" the count resumed, "let us remain no longer here; the sight of her i love increases my anguish." "have you reflected seriously upon this?" "oh, yes!" the young man replied, with an air of real or forced resolution. "well," said valentine, shaking his head, "if such is your will, so it must be; we will begone, then!" "yes, and as soon as possible; do not you think so?" the young man said, with an involuntary sigh. "oh! this very day; i am only waiting for curumilla, whom i have requested to go and procure horses. as soon as he returns we will start. "and we will return to the toldería of the tribe of the great hare, where we can live happily." "that is a good idea; in that way our existence will not be a useless one, since we can contribute to the happiness of those around us. and who knows?" valentine added, smiling--"we may perhaps, become great warriors in araucania." louis's only reply to this pleasantry was a sigh, which did not escape the notice of his friend. "oh!" valentine murmured, "he must and shall be happy in spite of himself." curumilla and trangoil-lanec appeared in the distance amidst a cloud of dust, galloping towards the hacienda with several horses. the two young men rose to go and meet them. scarcely had they left the little grove when doña rosario put aside some low branches and came out. she paused thoughtfully for a minute, looking after the two frenchmen, who were walking away sad and gloomy; then suddenly raising her head with a saucy air, her blue eye brightened, a smile stole over her lips, and she murmured with a pretty nod of her head-- "hum! ah!--we shall see!" then she returned to the hacienda, bounding along like a frightened antelope. every morning at eight o'clock, in spanish-american countries, the bells ring, to assemble at the same table the inhabitants of the hacienda--rom the owner who sits in the centre to the humblest peon who places himself modestly at the lower end. the breakfast is the hour chosen to meet each other and to pay the compliments of the morning, previous to commencing the rough labours of the day. at the first stroke of eight don tadeo descended to the hall and stood before the table, his daughter being on his right hand. he saluted with a smile or a friendly word every one of the persons employed on the farm as they entered. the two frenchmen came in last. after cordially shaking hands with them, don tadeo assured himself by a glance that no one was wanting at the meeting, took off his hat, in which he was imitated by all present, and slowly and solemnly pronounced the blessing. at a wave of his hand all took their places. the repast was short; it lasted little more than a quarter of an hour. the peons then returned to their labours under the order of the major-domo, and don tadeo desired the maté to be served. no one remained in the hall but don tadeo, his daughter, the foster brothers, the two indian chiefs, and cæsar--if it be permissible to reckon a dog as company; the noble animal was crouched at the feet of doña rosario. in a few minutes the maté had made its round on the company, and, yet without any apparent cause, a painful silence prevailed. don tadeo was thoughtful; doña rosario was twisting her taper, rose-tipped fingers in the long silky ears of the dog, who had placed his great head upon her knees, with his large, intelligent eyes fixed upon her face. the count and his foster brother were anxious, and yet afraid to open the subject that weighed upon their hearts; at length, however, valentine became tired of this false position, and resolutely began. "well," he said, "what reply do you mean to make to don gregorio peralta, don tadeo?" "what i told you, my friend," said don tadeo, turning towards him. "chili, henceforward liberated from the man who was dragging the country to destruction, no longer stands in need of me. i am determined to trouble myself no longer with politics. i have long enough devoted my life to the ungrateful labours i imposed upon myself to secure the independence of my country, and deliver it from the ambitious man who wished to enslave it. i have accomplished my task; the hour of repose has struck for me. i peremptorily refuse the presidency which don gregorio offers me in the name of the people, and will devote myself entirely to the happiness of my daughter." "i cannot blame your resolution; it is noble and beautiful, don tadeo; it is worthy of you," the count replied. "and do you mean to send off this answer soon?" said valentine. "in a few minutes; but why do you ask me that question, pray?" "because," valentine replied, "my friend and i will undertake, if you please, to convey it." don tadeo opened his eyes with astonishment. "how so?" he cried, "what do you mean by that? can you think of leaving us?" a melancholy smile played for a moment round the young man's lips; the ice was broken; the sacrifice must be bravely made, and he did not hesitate. "heaven is my witness," he said, shaking his head, "that it would be my most ardent wish to remain here." "yes," the count interrupted, taking, in spite of himself, a furtive glance at rosario, who appeared to have no interest in what was passing; "yes, we have too long forgotten ourselves in your charming retreat. this delightful life enervates us; if we do not hasten to tear ourselves from it, we shall soon find it impossible to do so." "you must leave us!" don tadeo repeated, whose countenance became cloudy, and his eyebrows contracted; "and what for?" "do you not know?" louis replied, who took courage from the apparent carelessness of rosario, "that when for the first time we had the good fortune to meet with you----" "good fortune for me!" don tadeo interrupted, warmly. "be it so!" said valentine, striking in to assist his friend; "we were then in search of fortune. well, and now," he continued, gaily, "thanks to heaven that our assistance is no longer necessary to you, we are not willing to abuse your kind hospitality any longer." "what does this mean?" don tadeo exclaimed, rising. "what do you call abusing my hospitality? why do you employ such futile pretexts with me?" "we must go!" the young man repeated, coldly. "oh! i cannot believe it is the thirst for gold which urges you to leave me. your heart is too noble for that odious passion to gain possession of it." "don tadeo, you do us but justice," the count replied; "it is not the thirst for gold which actuates us, for our intention on leaving you is to retire among the aucas indians." don tadeo looked perfectly astonished. "do not form a bad opinion of us," the young man continued; "be assured that if a powerful motive did not oblige us to depart, i, at least, should be most happy to remain with you." don tadeo walked up and down the hall in great agitation. "can you not tell me the motive you speak of," he said in an affectionate tone. the young lady turned her head imperceptibly. "i cannot!" louis murmured, bowing his head. rosario shrugged her shoulders with an air of disappointment. "very well, caballero," don tadeo replied, with cold dignity; "you and your friend are free to act as to you seems best. pardon me the questions i have put to you, but your resolution, which i in vain endeavour to account for, has destroyed past recovery a cherished hope, which i should have been most happy to have seen realised. here is my letter to don gregorio peralta; when do you wish to set out?" "this very instant!" the count replied; "my friend and i intended to bid you farewell immediately after breakfast." "yes," valentine continued, who perceived that his foster brother, overcome by his feelings, could not say any more; "we beg you to accept our thanks for the friendship you have deigned to display towards us, and to assure you that the remembrance of you will live in the bottom of our hearts." "farewell, then!" don tadeo said, with great emotion. "god grant that you may find elsewhere the happiness that awaited you here." valentine bowed without replying; his tears choked his utterance. "adieu, señorita!" murmured the count, in a tremulous low voice; "may you be happy?" she made no reply: deeply wounded, he turned away quickly, and strode towards the door. in spite of all their resolution, when on the point of going out, the young men cast one look behind them, to salute for the last time persons who were so dear to them, and whom they were abandoning for ever. don tadeo stood motionless in the same place, apparently still as much surprised as hurt. doña rosario continued playing mechanically with the ears of the dog. "cæsar!" shouted valentine. at the voice of his master, the newfoundland dog disengaged himself quickly from the arms of the young girl, and bounded to his side. "cæsar!" rosario murmured faintly. and then, in spite of the signs and orders of his master, the animal laid itself down at her feet. with a bursting heart, the count made a violent effort, and sprang towards the door. "louis!" rosario cried. "louis, you have sworn never to be separated from cæsar." louis staggered, as if struck by lightning; a glow of inexpressible joy lit up his face; he let the letter fall, and gently thrust forward by valentine, fell at the feet of the lovely and now smiling girl. "my father!" rosario implored, throwing her arm round his neck, "i well knew that he loved me." valentine felt an acute pang mixed with an immense joy at this denouement. "it is i," he said, picking up the letter with a smile, of which none but such a man is capable, "who must carry the answer." "oh, no!" doña rosario said, with a playful pout, "you will not leave us, my friend; are you not the dearly beloved brother of my louis? oh, we will not let you go!" valentine kissed the hand extended to him, and secretly wiped away a tear, but he made no reply. the day passed away rapidly and happily for all; when night was come-- "farewell, brother!" said valentine, with deep emotion. "thank heaven, you are henceforth sheltered from all misfortune." the count looked at him anxiously. "brother," he said, "are you unhappy?" "who, i?" said valentine, endeavouring to smile, "i never was so happy in my life!" after embracing the count, who gave way to him, though astonished at the sudden appearance of grief in such a man, he strode away. louis watched him depart, saying to himself-- "what can be the matter with him? oh, tomorrow he shall explain himself!" but on the morrow valentine had disappeared. he also loved doña rosario. the young people waited for him a long time. at length, three months after his departure, when all hopes of his return had completely vanished, the count de prébois-crancé married doña rosario. but valentine was wanting. * * * * * those of our readers who have taken an interest in valentine, and we hope that they are numerous, will find his further adventures recorded in the "tiger-slayer." the end. the little red chimney [illustration: the candy man] the little red chimney _being the love story of a candy man_ by mary finley leonard illustrations in silhouette by katharine gassaway new york--duffield & company-- copyright, , by duffield & company * * * * * contents _chapter i_ in which the curtain rises on the candy wagon, and the leading characters are thrown together in a perfectly logical manner by fate. _chapter ii_ in which the candy man walks abroad in citizen's clothes, and is mistaken for a person of wealth and social importance. _chapter iii_ in which the little red chimney appears on the horizon, but without a clue to its importance. in which also the candy man has a glimpse of high life and is foolishly depressed by it. _chapter iv_ in which the candy man again sees the grey suit, and virginia continues the story of the little red chimney. _chapter v_ in which the double life of the heroine is explained, and augustus mcallister proves an alibi. _chapter vi_ in which margaret elizabeth is discussed at the breakfast table; in which also, later on, she and virginia and uncle bob talk before the fire, and in which finally margaret elizabeth seeks consolation by relating to uncle bob her adventure in the park. _chapter vii_ shows how the candy wagon is visited in behalf of the squirrel, and how pride suffers a fall; how miss bentley turns to vedantic philosophy to drown her annoyance, and discovers how hard it is to forget when you wish to. _chapter viii_ in which the miser's past history is touched upon; which shows how his solitude is again invaded, and how he makes a new friend. _chapter ix_ shows how miss bentley and the reporter take refuge in a cave, and how, in the course of the conversation which follows, she hears something which disposes her to feel more kindly toward the candy man; shows also how uncle bob proves faithless to his trust and his niece finds herself locked out in consequence. _chapter x_ in which the little red chimney keeps festival, and the candy man receives an unexpected invitation. _chapter xi_ in which a radical change of atmosphere is at once noticed; which shows how miss bentley repents of a too coming-on disposition, and lends an ear to the advantages of wealth. _chapter xii_ which shows miss bentley recovering from a fit of what uncle bob calls cantankerousness; in which a shipwrecked letter is brought to light, and dr. prue is called again to visit the child of the park superintendent. _chapter xiii_ in which the candy man relates his story, and the miser comes upon volume i of the shabby book with the funny name. _chapter xiv_ shows how mrs. gerrard pennington, unhappy and distraught, beseeches uncle bob to help her save margaret elizabeth; also how mr. gerrard pennington comes to the rescue, and how in the end his wife submits gracefully to the inevitable, which is not so bad after all. _chapter xv_ in which the fairy godmother society is again mentioned, among other things. illustrations the candy man margaret elizabeth virginia dr. prue uncle bob the miser cousin augustus mrs. gerrard pennington * * * * * to george madden martin * * * * * the little red chimney chapter one _in which the curtain rises on the candy wagon, and the leading characters are thrown together in a perfectly logical manner by fate_. the candy wagon stood in its accustomed place on the y.m.c.a. corner. the season was late october, and the leaves from the old sycamores, in league with the east wind, after waging a merry war with the janitor all morning, had swept, a triumphant host, across the broad sidewalk, to lie in heaps of golden brown along the curb and beneath the wheels of the candy wagon. in the intervals of trade, never brisk before noon, the candy man had watched the game, taking sides with the leaves. down the steps of the y.m.c.a. building sauntered the reporter. perceiving the candy wagon at the curb he paused, scrutinising it jauntily, through a monocle formed by a thumb and finger. the wagon, freshly emblazoned in legends of red, yellow and blue which advertised the character and merits of its wares, stood with its horseless shafts turned back and upward, in something of a prayerful attitude. the reporter, advancing, lifted his arms in imitation, and recited: "confident that upon investigation you will find everything as represented, we remain yours to command, in fresh warpaint." he seated himself upon the adjacent carriage block and grinned widely at the candy man. in spite of a former determination to confine his intercourse with the reporter to strictly business lines, the candy man could not help a responsive grin. the representative of the press demanded chewing gum, and receiving it, proceeded to remove its threefold wrappings and allow them to slip through his fingers to the street. "women," he said, with seeming irrelevance and in a tone of defiance, "used to be at the bottom of everything; now they're on top." the candy man was quick at putting two and two together. "i infer you are not in sympathy with the efforts of the woman's club and the outdoor league to promote order and cleanliness in our home city," he observed, his eye on the débris so carelessly deposited upon the public thoroughfare. "right you are. your inference is absolutely correct. the foundations of this american commonwealth are threatened, and the _evening record_ don't stand for it. life's made a burden, liberty curtailed, happiness pursued at the point of the dust-pan. here is the democratic party of the state pledged to school suffrage. the equal rights association is to meet here next month, and--the mischief is, the pretty ones are taking it up! the first thing you know the girl of all others will be saying, 'embrace me, embrace my cause.' why, my cousin augustus met a regular peach of a girl at the country club,--visiting at the gerrard penningtons', don't you know, and almost the first question she asked him was did he believe in equal rights?" the reporter paused for breath, pushing his hat back to the farthest limit and regarding the candy man curiously. "it is funny," he added, "how much you look like my cousin augustus. i wonder now if he could have been twins, and one stolen by the gypsies? you don't chance to have been stolen in infancy?" this innocent question annoyed the candy man, although he ignored it, murmuring something to the effect that the reporter's talents pointed to the stump. it might have been a guilty conscience or merely impatience at such flagrant nonsense, for surely he could not reasonably object to resembling cousin augustus. the candy man was a well-enough looking young fellow in his white jacket and cap, but nothing to brag of, that he need be haughty about a likeness to one so far above him in the social scale, whom in fact he had never seen. the reporter lingered in thoughtful silence while some westbound transfers purchased refreshment, then as a trio of theological students paused at the candy wagon, he restored his hat to its normal position and strolled away. on the y.m.c.a. corner business had waked up. for some time the candy wagon continued to reap a harvest from the rush of high school boys and younger children. morning became afternoon, the clouds which the east wind had been industriously beating up gathered in force, and a fine rain began to fall. the throng on the street perceptibly lessened; the candy man had leisure once more to look about him. a penetrating mist was veiling everything; the stone church, the seminary buildings, the tall apartment houses, the few old residences not yet crowded out, the drug store, the confectionery--all were softly blurred. the asphalt became a grey lake in which all the colour and movement of the busy street was reflected, and upon whose bosom the candy wagon seemed afloat. as the candy man watched, gleams of light presently began to pierce the mist, from a hundred windows, from passing street cars and cabs, from darting machines now transformed into strange, double-eyed demons. it was a scene of enchantment, and with pleasure he felt himself part of it, as in his turn he lit up his wagon. the traffic officer, whose shrill whistle sounded continually above the clang of the trolley cars and the hoarse screams of impatient machines, probably viewed the situation differently. given slippery streets, intersecting car lines, an increasing throng of vehicles and pedestrians, with a fog growing denser each moment, and the utmost vigilance is often helpless to avert an accident. so it was now. the candy man did not actually see the occurrence, but later it developed that an automobile, in attempting to turn the corner, skidded, grazing the front of a car which had stopped to discharge some passengers, then crashing into a telegraph pole on the opposite side of the street. what he did see was the frightened rush of the crowd to the sidewalk, and in the rush, a girl, just stepping from the car, caught and carried forward and jostled in such a manner that she lost her footing and fell almost beneath the wheels of the candy wagon, and dangerously near the hoofs of a huge draught horse, brought by its driver to a halt in the nick of time. the candy man was out and at her side in an instant, assisting her to rise. the panic swept past them, leaving only a long-legged child in a red tam, and a sad-faced elderly man in its wake. the candy man had seen all three before. the wearer of the red tam was one of the apartment-house children, the sad man was popularly known to the neighbourhood as the miser, and the girl, to whose assistance he had sprung--well, he had seen her on two previous occasions. as she stood in some bewilderment looking ruefully at the mud on her gloves and skirt, the merest glance showed her to be the sort of girl any one might have been glad to help. "thank you, i am not hurt--only rather shaken," she said in answer to the candy man. "here's your bag," announced the long-legged child, fishing it out of the soggy mass of leaves beneath the wagon. "and you need not worry about your skirt. take it to bauer's just round the corner; they'll clean it," she added. the owner of the bag received it and the accompanying advice with an adorable smile in which there was merriment as well as appreciation. the miser plucked the candy man by the sleeve and asked if the young lady did not wish a cab. she answered for herself. "thank you, no; i am quite all right--only muddy. but was it a bad accident? what happened?" the miser crossed the street where the crowd had gathered, to investigate, and returning reported the chauffeur probably done for. while he was gone the conductor of the street car appeared in quest of the names and addresses of everybody within a radius of ten blocks. in this way the candy man learned that her name was bentley. she gave it reluctantly, as persons do on such occasions, and he failed to catch her street and number. "i'm very sorry! i suppose there is nothing one can do?" she exclaimed, apropos of the chauffeur, and the next the candy man knew she was walking away in the mist hand in hand with the long-legged child. "an unusually charming face," the miser remarked, raising his umbrella. to the sober mind "unusually charming" would seem a not unworthy compliment, but the candy man, as he resumed his place in the wagon, smiled scornfully at what he was pleased to consider its grotesque inadequacy. if he had anything better to offer, the miser did not stay to hear it, but with a courteous "good evening" disappeared in his turn in the mist. an ambulance carried away the injured man, the crowd dispersed; the remains of the machine were towed away to a near-by garage. night fell; the throng grew less, the rain gathered courage and became a downpour. there would be little doing in the way of business to-night. as he made ready for early closing the candy man fell to thinking of the girl whose name was bentley. not that the name interested him save as a means of further identification. it was a phrase used by the reporter this morning that occurred to him now as peculiarly applicable to her. the girl of all others! he rolled it as a sweet morsel under his tongue, undisturbed by the reflection that such descriptive titles are at present overworked--in dreams one has no need to be original. neither did it strike him as incongruous that he should have seen her first in the grocery kept by mr. simms, who catered to the needs of such as got their own breakfasts, and whose boiled ham was becoming famous, because it was really done. he went back to the experience, dwelling with pleasure upon each detail of it, even his annoyance at the grocer's daughter, who exchanged crochet patterns with the tailor's wife, after the manner of a french exercise, and ignored him. it was early and business had not yet begun on the y.m.c.a. corner; still he could not wait forever. the grocer himself, who was attending to the wants of a lean and hungry-looking student, had just handed his rolls and smoked sausage across the counter, with a cheery "breakfast is ready, ring the bell," when the door opened and the girl of all others came in. she was tallish, but not very tall, and somewhat slight. she wore a grey suit--the same which had suffered this afternoon from contact with the street, and a soft felt hat of the same colour jammed down anyhow on her bright hair and pinned with a pinkish quill--or so it looked. the face beneath the bright hair was---- but at this point in his recollections the candy man all but lost himself in a maze of adjectives and adverbs. we know, at least, how the long-legged child ran to help, and finally went off hand in hand with her, and what the miser said of her, and after all the best the candy man could do was to go back to the reporter's phrase. he had withdrawn a little behind a stack of breakfast foods where he could watch her, wondering that the clerks did not drop their several customers without ceremony and fly to do her bidding. she stood beside the counter and made overtures to a large maltese cat who reposed there in solemn majesty. beside the maltese rose a pyramid of canned goods, and a placard announced, "of interest to light house keepers." upon this her eyes rested in evident surprise. "i didn't know there were any lighthouses in this part of the country," she said half aloud. [illustration: margaret elizabeth] the maltese laid a protesting paw upon her arm. it was not, however, the absurdity of her remark, but the cessation of her caresses he protested against. at the same moment her eyes met those of the candy man, across the stack of breakfast foods. his were laughing, and hers were instantly withdrawn. he saw her colour mounting as she exclaimed, addressing the cat, "how perfectly idiotic!" he longed to assure her it was a perfectly natural mistake, the placard being but an amateurish affair; but he lacked the courage. and then the grocer, having disposed of another customer, advanced to serve her, and the grocer's daughter, it seemed, was also at leisure; and though he would have preferred to watch the girl of all others doing the family marketing in a most competent manner, a thoughtful finger upon her lip, the candy man was forced to attend to his own business. in selecting a basket of grapes and ordering them sent to st. mary's hospital, he presently lost sight of her. once since then she had passed his corner on her way up the street. that was all until to-night. it seemed probable that she lived in the neighbourhood. perhaps the reporter would know. just here the recollection that he was a candy man brought him up short. his bright dreams began to fade. the girl of all others should of course be able to recognise true worth, even in a candy wagon, but such is the power of convention he was forced to own to himself it was more than possible she might not. or if she did, her friends---- but these disheartening reflections were curtailed by the sudden appearance of a stout, grey horse under the conduct of a small boy. the shafts were lowered, the grey horse placed between them, and, after a few more preliminaries, the candy wagon, candy man and all, were removed from the scene of action, leaving the y.m.c.a. corner to the rain and the fog, the gleaming lights, and the ceaseless clang of the trolley cars. chapter two _in which the candy man walks abroad in citizen's clothes, and is mistaken for a person of wealth and social importance._ the candy man strolled along a park path. the october day was crisp, the sky the bluest blue, the sunny landscape glowing with autumn's fairest colours. it was a sunday morning not many days after the events of the first chapter, and back in the city the church bells were ringing for eleven o'clock service. in citizen's clothes, and well-fitting ones at that, the candy man was a presentable young fellow. if his face seemed at first glance a trifle stern, this sternness was offset by the light in his eyes; a steady, purposeful glow, through which played at the smallest excuse a humorous twinkle. after the ceaseless stir of the y.m.c.a. corner, the stillness of the park was most grateful. at this hour on sunday, if he avoided the golf grounds, it was to all intents his own. his objective point was a rustic arbour hung with rose vines and clematis, where was to be had a view of the river as it made an abrupt turn around the opposite hills. here he might read, or gaze and dream, as it pleased him, reasonably secure from interruption once he had possession. the candy man breathed deeply, and smiled to himself. it was a day to inspire confident dreams, for the joy of fulfilment was over the land. was it the sudden fear that some other dreamer might be before him, or a subconscious prevision of what actually awaited him, that caused him to quicken his steps as he neared the arbour? however it may have been, as he took at a bound the three steps which led up to it, he came with startling suddenness upon miss bentley entering from the other side, her arms full of flowers. their eyes met in a flash of recognition which there was no time to control. she bowed, not ungraciously, yet distantly, and with a faint puzzled frown on her brow, and he, as he lifted his hat, spoke her name, which, as he was not supposed to know it, he had no business to do; then they both laughed at the way in which they had bounced in at the same moment from opposite directions. with some remark about the delightful day, the candy man, as a gentleman should, tried to pretend he was merely passing through, and though it was but a feeble performance, miss bentley should have accepted it without protest, then all would have been well. instead, she said, still with that puzzled half frown, "don't go, i am only waiting here a moment for my cousin, who has stopped at the superintendent's cottage." she motioned over her shoulder to a vine-covered dwelling just visible through the trees. "please do not put it in that way," he protested. "as if your being here did not add tremendously to my desire to remain. i am conscious of rushing in most unceremoniously upon you, and----" hesitating there, hat in hand, his manners were disarmingly frank. miss bentley laughed again as she deposited her flowers, a mass of pink and white cosmos, upon a bench, and sat down beside them. she seemed willing to have him put it as he liked. she wore the same grey suit and soft felt hat, jammed down any way on her bright hair and pinned with a pinkish quill, and was somehow, more emphatically than before, the girl of all others. how could a candy man be expected to know what he was about? what wonder that his next remark should be a hope that she had suffered no ill effects from the accident? "none at all, thank you," miss bentley replied, and the puzzled expression faded. it was as if she inwardly exclaimed, "now i know!" "aunt eleanor," she added, "was needlessly alarmed. i seem rather given to accidents of late." thus saying she began to arrange her flowers. the candy man dropped down on the step where the view--of miss bentley--was most charming, as she softly laid one bloom upon another in caressing fashion, her curling lashes now almost touching her cheek, now lifted as she looked away to the river, or bent her gaze upon the occupant of the step. "do you often come here?" she asked, adding when he replied that this was the third time, that she thought he had rather an air of proprietorship. he laughed at this, and explained how he had set out to pay a visit to a sick boy at st. mary's hospital, but had allowed the glorious day to tempt him to the park. below them on the terraced hillside a guard sat reading his paper; across the meadow a few golfers were to be seen against the horizon. all about them the birds and squirrels were busily minding their own affairs; above them smiled the blue, blue sky, and the cousin, whoever he or she might be, considerately lingered. like the shining river their talk flowed on. beginning like it as a shallow stream, it broadened and deepened on its way, till presently fairy godmothers became its theme. miss bentley was never able to recall what led up to it. the candy man only remembered her face, as, holding a crimson bloom against her cheek, she smiled down upon him thoughtfully, and asked him to guess what she meant to do when some one left her a fortune. "i have a strange presentiment that some one is going to," she said. "how delightful!" he exclaimed, but did not hazard a guess, and she continued without giving him a chance: "i shall establish a fairy godmother fund, the purpose of which shall be the distribution of good times; of pleasures large and small, among people who have few or none." "it sounds," was the candy man's comment, "like the minutes of the first meeting. please explain further. how will you select your beneficiaries?" "i don't like your word," she objected. "beneficiaries and fairy godmothers somehow do not go together. still, i see what you mean, and while i have not as yet worked out the plan, i'm confident it could be managed. suppose we know a poor teacher, for instance, who has nothing left over from her meagre salary after the necessary things are provided for, and who is, we'll say, hungry for grand opera. we would enclose opera tickets with a note asking her to go and have a good time, signed, 'your fairy godmother,' and with a postscript something like this, 'if you cannot use them, hand them on to another of my godchildren.' don't you think she would accept them?" under the spell of those lovely, serious eyes, the candy man rather thought she would. "of course," miss bentley went on, "it must be a secret society, never mentioned in the papers, unknown to those you call its beneficiaries. in this way there will be no occasion or demand for gratitude. no obligations will be imposed upon the recipients--that word is as bad as yours--let's call them godchildren--and the fairy godmother will have her fun in giving the good times, without bothering over whether they are properly grateful." "you seem to have a grievance against gratitude," said the candy man laughing. "i have," she owned. "there are people who contend that there is little or none of it in the world," he added. "and i am not sure it was meant there should be--much of it, i mean. it is an emotion--would you call it an emotion?" "you might," said the candy man. "well, an emotion that turns to dust and ashes when you try to experience it, or demand it of others," concluded miss bentley with emphasis. "and you needn't laugh," she added. the candy man disclaimed any thought of such a thing. he was profoundly serious. "it is really a great idea," he said. "a human agency whose benefits could be received as we receive those of nature or providence--as impersonally." she nodded appreciatively. "you understand." and they were both aware of a sense of comradeship scarcely justified by the length of their acquaintance. "may i ask your ideas as to the amount of this fund?" he said. she considered a moment. "well, say a hundred thousand," she suggested. "you are expecting a large bequest, then." "an income of five thousand would not be too much," insisted miss bentley. "we should wish to do bigger things than opera tickets, you know." "there are persons who perhaps need a fairy godmother, whom money cannot help," the candy man continued thoughtfully. "there's an old man--not so old either--a sad grey man, whom the children on our block call the miser. i am not an adept in reading faces, but i am sure there is nothing mean in his. it is only sad. i get interested in people," he added. "so do i," cried his companion. "and of course, you are right. the fairy godmother society would have to have more than one department. naturally opera tickets would not do your man any good--unless we could get him to send them." they laughed over this clever idea, and the candy man went on to say that there were lonely people in the world, who, through no fault of their own, were so circumstanced as to be cut off from those common human relationships which have much to do with the flavour of life. "i don't quite understand," miss bentley began. but these young persons were not to be left to settle the affairs of the universe in one morning. a handkerchief waved in the distance by a stoutish lady, interrupted. "there's cousin prue," miss bentley cried, springing to her feet. hastily dividing her flowers into two bunches, she thrust one upon the candy man. "for your sick boy. you won't mind, as it isn't far. i have so enjoyed talking to you, mr. mcallister. i shall hope to see you soon again. aunt eleanor often speaks of you." this sudden descent to the conventional greatly embarrassed the candy man, but he had no time for a word. miss bentley was off like a flash, across the grass, before he could collect his scattered wits. he looked after her, till, in company with the stout lady, she disappeared from view. then with a whimsical expression on his countenance, he took a leather case from his breast pocket, and opening it glanced at one of the cards within. it was as if he doubted his own identity and wished to be reassured. the name engraved on the card was not mcallister, but robert deane reynolds. chapter three _in which the little red chimney appears on the horizon, but without a clue to its importance. in which also the candy man has a glimpse of high life and is foolishly depressed by it._ starting from the y.m.c.a. corner, walking up the avenue a block, then turning south, you came in a few steps to a modest grey house with a grass plat in front of it, a freshly reddened brick walk, and flower boxes in its windows. it was modest, not merely in the sense of being unpretentious, but also in that of a restrained propriety. you felt it to be a dwelling of character, wherein what should be done to-day, was never put off till to-morrow; where there was a place for everything and everything in it. yet mingling with this propriety was an all-pervading cheer that appealed strongly to the homeless passerby. the grey house presented a gable end to the street, and stretched a wing comfortably on either side. in one of these was a glass door, with "office hours - ," which caused you to glance again at the sign on the iron gate: "dr. prudence vandegrift." the other ell, which was of one story, had a double window, before which a rose bush grew, and when the blinds were up you had sometimes a glimpse of an opposite window, indicating that it was but one room deep. from its roof rose a small chimney that stood out from all the other chimneys, because, while they were grey like the house and its slate roof, it was red. strolling by in a leisure hour the candy man had remarked it and wondered why, and found himself continuing to wonder. somehow that little red chimney took hold on his imagination. it was a magical chimney, poetic, alluring, at once a cheering and a depressing little chimney, for it stirred him to delicious dreams, which, when they faded, left him forlorn. it was to virginia he owed enlightenment. virginia was the long-legged child who had fished miss bentley's bag from beneath the candy wagon, the indomitable leader of the apartment house pigeons, as the candy man had named them. the apartment house did not exclude children, neither did it encourage them, and when their individual quarters became too contracted to contain their exuberance, they perforce sought the street. like pigeons they would descend in a flock, here, there, everywhere; perching in a blissful row before the soda fountain in the drug store; or if the state of the public purse did not warrant this, the curbstone and the wares of the candy wagon were cheerfully substituted. by virtue no doubt of her long legs and masterful spirit, virginia ruled the flock. under her guidance they made existence a weariness to the several janitors on the block. as in defiance of law and order they circled one day on their roller skates, down the avenue and up the broad alley behind the y.m.c.a., round and round, virginia issued her orders: "you all go on, i want to talk to the candy man." being without as yet any theories, consistently democratic, she regarded him as a friend and brother. a state of society in which the position of candy man was next the throne, would have seemed perfectly logical to virginia. [illustration: virginia] "you don't look much like tim," she volunteered, dangling her legs from the carriage block. her hair was dark and severely bobbed; her miniature nose was covered with freckles, and she squinted a little. "no?" responded the candy man. "tim was irish," she continued. during business hours conversation of necessity took on a disjointed character. unless you had great power of concentration you forgot in the intervals what you had been talking about. when a group of high school boys had been served and had gone their hilarious way virginia began again. "you know the house with the little red chimney?" she asked. the candy man did. "well, a nice old man named uncle bob lives there, and i asked him why that chimney was red, and he said because it was new. a branch of a tree fell on the old one. the tree where the squirrel house is, you know." the candy man remembered the tree. "he said the doctor was going to have it painted, but he kind of liked it red, and so did her ladyship." "and who might her ladyship be?" the candy man inquired. "that's what i asked him, and he said, 'you come over and see,' and then he said--now listen to this, for it's just like a story." virginia lifted an admonishing finger. "he said, whenever i saw smoke coming out of that little red chimney, i might know her ladyship had come to town. you'd better believe i'm going to watch. and what do you think! i can see it from our dining-room window!" she concluded. "most interesting," said the candy man politely, without the least idea how interesting it really was. virginia's gaze suddenly fastened on a small book lying on the seat of the candy wagon, and she had seized it before its owner could protest. "what a funny name," she said. "'e p i c t e t u s.' what does that spell? and what made you cut a hole in this page? it looks like a window." the page was a fly leaf, from which a name, possibly that of a former owner, had been removed. below it the candy man's own name was now written. "it was so when i got it," he answered, holding out his hand for it. he had no mind to have his book in any other keeping, for somewhere within its leaves lay a crimson flower. before she returned it virginia examined the back. "vol. i, what does that mean?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer she tossed it back to him, and ran to join the other pigeons. from this time virginia began to be almost as constant a visitor as the reporter. she had a way of bursting into conversation without any preface whatever, speaking entirely from the fullness of her heart at the moment. "i'd give anything in the world to be pretty," she remarked one day, resting her school bag on the carriage block and sighing deeply. "but now honestly," said the candy man, regarding her gravely, "it seems to me you are a very nice-looking little girl, and who knows but you may turn out a great beauty some day? that is the way it happens in story books." virginia returned his gaze steadily. "do you really think there is any chance? you are not laughing?" he assured her he was intensely serious. "well, you are the first person who ever told me that. uncle harry said, 'is it possible, cornelia, that this is your child?' cornelia is my mother, and she is a beauty. my brother is awfully good looking, too. everybody thinks he ought to have been the girl. i'll tell you who i want to look like when i grow up. don't you know that young lady who fell in the mud?" oh, yes, the candy man knew, and applauded virginia's ambition. he would have been pleased to enlarge on the subject, even to the extent of neglecting business, but just as she began to be interesting virginia remembered an errand to the drug store, and ran away. that sunday morning meeting with miss bentley had been reviewed by the candy man from every possible standpoint, and always, in conclusion, with the same questions. could he have done otherwise? what would she think when she discovered her mistake? who was his unknown double? the opportunity offering, he made some guarded inquiries of the reporter. "bentley?" repeated that gentleman, as he sharpened a bright yellow pencil. "seem to have heard the name somewhere recently." it was a matter of no particular importance to the candy man. he had chanced to hear the name given to the conductor by the young lady who was thrown down the night of the accident, and wondered---- the reporter, who wasn't listening, here exclaimed: "i have it! it was this a.m. maimie mchugh was interviewing mrs. gerrard pennington over the office 'phone in regard to a luncheon she is giving this week in honour of her niece. said niece's name me-thinks was bentley. you will see it all in the social notes later. covers for twelve, decorations in pink, la france roses, place cards from somewhere." he paused to laugh. "maimie was doing it up brown, but she lacks tact. what does she do but ask for miss bentley's picture for the saturday edition! i tried to stop her, but it was too late. you should have heard the 'phone buzz. 'my niece's picture in the _evening record_!' 'i don't care, mean old thing,' says maimie, when she hung up. 'nicer people than she is do it, and are glad to. 'that's all right, my honey,' i told her, 'but there are nice people and nice people, and it's up to you to know the variety you are dealing with, unless you like to be snubbed.' still," the reporter added reflectively, "mrs. gerrard pennington and little mchugh can't afford to quarrel. after the luncheon mrs. g.p. will probably send maimie a pair of long white gloves, and when their pristine freshness has departed, maimie will wear them to the office a time or two." the candy man wished to know who mrs. gerrard pennington was, anyway. "she, my ignorant friend, is a four-ply colonial dame, so to speak. distinguished grandfathers to burn, and the dough to support them, unlike another friend of mine who possessed every qualification needed to become a c.d. except on the clothes line." "the joke," observed the candy man, "is old, but worth repeating. but did i understand you to say _another_ friend? and am i to infer----?" "you are far too keen for a candy man," said the reporter, laughing. "mrs. g.p. is friendly with the wealthy branch of our family. she regards my cousin augustus as a son. now i think of it, your miss bentley cannot be her niece. she could scarcely fall out of a street car. a victoria or a limousine would be necessary in her case." the candy man did not see his way clear to disclaim proprietorship in miss bentley, so let it pass. certainly, on other grounds his miss bentley, to call her so, could not be mrs. gerrard pennington's niece. not that she lacked the charm to grace any position however high, but her simplicity and friendliness, the fact that she walked in the country with a stoutish relative who was intimate with the family of the park superintendent, the marketing he had witnessed, all went to prove his point. yet on the occasion of a fashionable noon wedding at the stone church near the y.m.c.a. corner, all this impressive evidence was brought to naught. in the crush of machines and carriages the candy wagon was all but engulfed in high life. when the crowd surged out after the bridal party, the congestion for a few minutes baffled the efforts of the corps of police. the candy man, looking on with much amusement at the well-dressed throng, presently received a thrill at the sound of a clear young voice exclaiming, "here is the car, aunt eleanor--over here." the haughtiest of limousines had taken up its station just beyond the candy wagon, and toward this the owner of the voice was piloting a majestic and breathless personage. if the candy man could have doubted his ears, he could not doubt his eyes. here was the grace, the sparkle, the everything that made her his miss bentley, the girl of all others--except the grey suit. now she wore velvet, and wonderful white plumes framed her face and touched her bright hair. no, there was no mistaking her. reviewing the evidence he found it baffling. that absurd exclamation about lighthouses alone might be taken as indicating an unfamiliarity with the humbler walks of life. the reporter was at this time in daily attendance upon a convention in progress in a neighbouring hall, and he rarely failed to stop at the carriage block and pass the time of day on his way to and fro. "ah ha!" he exclaimed, on one of these occasions, after perusing in silence the first edition of the _evening record_; "i see my cousin augustus, on his return from new york, is to give a dinner dance in honour of mrs. gerrard pennington's niece." "i appreciate your innocent pride in cousin augustus, but may i inquire if by chance he possesses another name?" the candy man spoke with uncalled-for asperity. "sure," responded the reporter, with a quizzical glance at his questioner; "several of 'em. augustus vincent mcallister is what he calls himself every day." chapter four _in which the candy man again sees the grey suit, and virginia continues the story of the little red chimney._ it was saturday afternoon, possibly the very next saturday, or at most the saturday after that, and the candy wagon was making money. the day of the week was unmistakable, for the working classes were getting home early; fathers of families with something extra for sunday in paper bags under their arms. and the hat boxes! they passed the candy man's corner by the hundreds. every feminine person in the big apartment houses must be intending to wear a new hat to-morrow. there was something special going on at the country club--the candy man had taken to reading the social column--and the people of leisure and semi-leisure were to be well represented there, to judge by the machines speeding up the avenue; among them quite probably miss bentley and mr. augustus mcallister. this not altogether pleasing reflection had scarcely taken shape in his mind, when, in the act of handing change to a customer, he beheld miss bentley coming toward him; without a doubt his miss bentley this time, for she wore the grey suit and the felt hat, jammed down any way on her bright hair and pinned with the pinkish quill. she was not alone. by her side walked a rather shabby, elderly man, with a rosy face, whose pockets bulged with newspapers, and who carried a large parcel. she was looking at him and he was looking at her, and they were both laughing. comradeship of the most delightful kind was indicated. without a glance in the direction of the candy wagon they passed. well, at any rate she wasn't at the country club. but how queer! earlier in the afternoon virginia had gone by in dancing-school array, accompanied by an absurdly youthful mother. "i've got something to tell you," she called, and the candy man could see her being reproved for this unseemly familiarity. his curiosity was but mildly stirred; indeed, having other things to think of, he had quite forgotten the incident, when on monday she presented herself swinging her school bag. "say," she began, "i have found out about her ladyship and the little red chimney." "oh, have you?" he answered vaguely. virginia, resting her bag on the carriage block, looked disappointed. "i have been crazy to tell you, and now you don't care a bit." "indeed i do," the candy man protested. "i'm a trifle absent-minded, that's all." thus reassured she began: "don't you know i told you i could see that chimney from our dining-room, and that i was going to watch it? well, the other day at lunch i happened to look toward the window, and i jumped right out of my chair and clapped my hands and said, 'it's smoking, it's smoking!' there was company, and mother said, 'good gracious, virginia! what's smoking? you do make me so nervous!' then i was sorry i'd said anything, because she wouldn't understand, you know. well, after lunch i took one of ted's balls, and went over to uncle bob's, and i got a little darkey boy to throw it in the yard, and then i went in to look for it. you see if uncle bob wasn't there and anybody asked me what i was doing, i could say i was looking for my brother's ball." "i fear you are a deep one," remarked the candy man. "no, i'm not, but i'm rather good at thinking of things," virginia owned complacently. "and then," she continued, "i poked around the rose bush, and peeped in at the window, and sure enough she was there, brushing the hearth. she saw me and came to the window, and when i ran away, 'cause i thought maybe she was mad, she rapped, and then opened the window and called: 'come in, little girl, and talk to me.' and now who do you think she turned out to be?" a suspicion had been deepening in the candy man's breast for the last few moments. his heart actually thumped. "not--you don't mean----?" virginia nodded violently. "yes, the lady who fell and got muddy. and she's perfectly lovely, and i'm going there again. she asked me to." why, oh, why should such luck fall to the lot of a long-legged, freckle-nosed little girl, and not to him, the candy man wondered. he burned to ask innumerable questions, but compromised on one. did virginia know whether or not she had come to stay? "why, i guess so. she didn't have her hat on, and she was cleaning up--dusting, you know, and taking things out of a box." "what sort of things?" "books and sofa pillows and pictures. i helped her, and by and by uncle bob came in." "and what did he say?" asked the candy man, just to keep her going. "why, he said, didn't he tell me so? and wasn't it great to have her ladyship there?" "and what did her ladyship say?" "she said he was a dear, and i forget what else. oh, but listen! i'll bet you can't guess what her name is." he couldn't. he had racked his brain for a name at once sweet enough and possessing sufficient dignity. he had not found it for the good reason that no such name has been invented. "it's a long name," said virginia, "as long as mine. i am named for my grandmother, mary virginia, but they don't call me all of it." she paused to watch two white-plumed masons on their way to the commandery on the next block. "well?" said the candy man. she laughed. "oh, i forgot. why, it is margaret elizabeth. the doctor came in; she's a lady doctor, you know, and said, 'margaret elizabeth, there'll be muffins for tea.' and she said, 'all right. dr. prue.' and dr. prue said, 'and cherry preserves, if you and uncle bob want them,' and margaret elizabeth said, 'goody!' and i must go now," virginia finished. "there's betty looking for me." virginia might go and welcome. he had enough to occupy his thought for the present. margaret elizabeth! such a name would never have suggested itself to him, yet it suited her. beneath her young gaiety and charm there was something the name fitted. margaret elizabeth! he loved it already. why had he not guessed that the little red chimney belonged to her? had not the sight of it stirred his heart? and why should that have been so, except for some subtle fairy godmother suggestion? the picture of margaret elizabeth and uncle bob eating cherry preserves was a pleasant one. it brought her nearer. the candy man was inclined to like uncle bob, to think of him as a broad-minded person whose prejudices against candy men, granting he had them, might in time be overcome. from being a bit low in his mind, the candy man's mood became positively jovial. when the sad grey man known to the children as the miser, and invested with mysterious and awful powers, stopped to buy some hoarhound drops, he wished him a cheery good afternoon. the miser was evidently surprised, but responded courteously, and recalling the accident of two weeks ago, asked if the candy man had heard anything of the injured chauffeur. it chanced that he had heard the reporter say, only yesterday, that the man was doing well and likely to recover. "and the young lady? i think i saw her the other day going into a house across the street from my own." "the house with the little red chimney?" asked the candy man indiscreetly, forgetting himself for the moment. a smile slowly dawned on the face of the sad man, but quickly faded, as a flock of naughty pigeons tore by, screaming, "lizer, lizer, look out for the miser!" if he had been about to make a comment, he thought better of it, and turned away. having identified the little red chimney as the property of the girl of all others, the candy man now made a new discovery. he had a room in one of the old residences of the neighbourhood, so many of which in these days were being given over to boarding and lodging. its windows overlooked a back yard, in which grew a great ash, and he had been interested to observe how long after other trees were bare this one kept its foliage. he found it one morning, however, giving up its leaves by the wholesale, under the touch of a sharp frost; and, wonder of wonders! through its bared branches that magical chimney came into view, with a corner of grey roof. not far away rose the big smoke stack belonging to the apartment houses, impressive in its loftiness, but to his fancy the little red chimney held its own with dignity, standing for something unattainable by great smoke stacks, however important. the candy man, it will be seen, did not attempt to reconcile conflicting evidence. he took what suited him and ignored the rest. was miss bentley the niece of mrs. gerrard pennington? she was also the niece of uncle bob. did she ride in haughty limousines? she also rode in street cars. was she wined and dined by the rich? she also ate muffins and cherry preserves, and brushed up the hearth of the little red chimney. chapter five _in which the double life led by the heroine is explained, and augustus mcallister proves an alibi._ "yes," said miss bentley, "i liked him. he turned out to be altogether different from my first impressions. that afternoon at the country club he seemed rather stiff--nice, assured manners, of course, but unresponsive. but then the way in which we bounced in upon each other was enough to break any amount of ice." she laughed at the recollection, clasping her hands behind her head. instead of the little grey hat jammed down anyhow, she wore this morning the most bewitching and frivolous of boudoir caps upon her bright head, and a shimmery, lacy empire something, that clung caressingly about her, and fell back becomingly from her round white arms. miles and miles away from the candy wagon was margaret elizabeth, who had so recently hobnobbed down the avenue with uncle bob. mrs. gerrard pennington, in a similar garb, leaned an elbow on her desk, a dainty french trifle, and gazed, perhaps a bit wistfully, at margaret elizabeth's endearing young charms. "i am delighted that you like augustus. he is a young man of sterling qualities. his mother and i were warm friends; i take a deep interest in him. of course he is not showy; perhaps he might be called a little slow; but he is substantial, and while i should be the last to place an undue emphasis upon wealth, one need not overlook its advantages. augustus has had unusual opportunities." "is mr. mcallister rich?" margaret elizabeth dropped her arms in a surprise which in its turn stirred a like emotion in her aunt's breast, for miss bentley put rather a peculiar emphasis, it would seem, upon the word rich. "i should never have guessed it," she added. if mrs. pennington had been perfectly honest with herself, she would have perceived that her own surprise indicated a suspicion that minus his wealth the aforesaid sterling qualities were something of a dead weight, but not for worlds would she have owned this. it would be a great thing for margaret elizabeth, if she liked him. if she could be the means of establishing dear old richard's child in a position such as the future mrs. augustus would occupy, she would feel she had done her full duty. mrs. pennington was strong in the matter of duty. "i should never have guessed it," margaret elizabeth repeated, after a minute spent in a quick review of that talk in the summer house. "it is not always possible, surely, to gauge a person's bank account in the course of one conversation," her aunt suggested. "i don't mean that; but don't you think, aunt eleanor, you can usually tell very rich people? they are apt to be limited, in a way. not always, of course, but often. i can't explain it exactly. perhaps it is over-refined." "if to be refined is to be limited, i prefer to be limited," mrs. pennington remarked. it was plain that unless margaret elizabeth went to the length of retailing the whole of that sunday morning conversation, which was out of the question, she could not hope to make her meaning clear. "what surprises me," her aunt went on, "is that you should have met augustus in a public park. it is very unlike him. i wonder what he thought of you?" this brought out miss bentley's dimples, as she owned he had seemed not displeased to meet her. "i explained that i was waiting for dr. prue, who had gone in to see one of the superintendent's children." she further assured her aunt that river bend park was a delightful place in which to enjoy nature, on sunday morning or any other time. "i confess i do not choose a public park when i wish to enjoy nature--except for driving, of course. perhaps," added mrs. pennington, "that is what you call over-refined." margaret elizabeth considered this thoughtfully. "perhaps it is," she said. "not being able to enjoy things that are free to everybody." but margaret elizabeth in that frivolously-becoming cap was an antidote to her own remarks. mrs. pennington smiled indulgently. richard's daughter came honestly by some eccentricities, not to mention those vandegrifts, whose influence she greatly deplored. "you will outgrow these socialistic ideas, my dear," she said. "but i am still puzzled, the more i think of it, at your meeting augustus on sunday morning. was it two weeks ago? i am under the impression he left for new york that very day." "he didn't mention it, but there are afternoon trains," answered margaret elizabeth. "he merely said something about a sick boy he was going to see at st. mary's." this again was very unlike augustus, but mrs. pennington said no more. meanwhile the faintest shadow of a doubt was dawning in her niece's mind; so shadowy she was scarcely aware of it, until, glowing from her walk across the park, she entered the drawing-room that afternoon. there is, by the way, a difference between walking in sunset park, the abode of the elect, with a huge st. bernard in leash, and taking the same exercise at river bend, unchaperoned save by a chance guard. any right-minded person must see this. a young man, who sat talking to mrs. gerrard pennington before the fire, rose at her entrance. "i am glad you have come, margaret elizabeth," her aunt exclaimed. "i think you know mr. mcallister? but we have rather a good joke on you, for august says he was never in his life in river bend park." "how do you do, miss bentley. awfully glad to see you. that is, except to motor through, don't you know, mrs. pennington." miss bentley's brown eyes met mr. mcallister's blue ones, and in the period of one brief glance she experienced almost as many sensations, and reviewed as much past history, as the proverbial drowning man. the casual resemblance was striking. but the eyes--these were not the friendly, merry eyes to which she had confided the fairy godmother nonsense. fancy so much as mentioning fairy godmothers in the presence of these steely orbs. margaret elizabeth was game, however. "i was mistaken, of course," she owned lightly, as she shook hands. "i have met so many people, and am stupid at connecting names and faces. i recall mr. mcallister perfectly." and straightway she plunged into new york and what was going on there. had he seen "grumpy" and wasn't it dear? and so on, and so on. margaret elizabeth could talk, and more than this she could look bewitching, and did, when she slipped out of her long coat, and with many graceful upward motions, removed her hat and fluffed her hair. she would make tea, she loved to, in fact she seemed bent upon luring augustus away from the fire and mrs. pennington. this young gentleman, whose mental processes were not rapid, and who habitually overworked any idea that found lodgment in his mind, was disposed to dwell upon river bend park and miss bentley's strange mistake in thinking she had seen him there, when actually, don't you know, he was on his way to new york. it was just as well not to have the situation complicated by the presence of her more alert relative, whose amused glances kept the glow on margaret elizabeth's cheek at a most becoming pitch. perhaps, too, the subconscious thinking concerning that same queer mistake, which went on while she chatted so gaily, so skilfully leading the way to safer ground, had something to do with it. augustus, unaware that he was led, was as clay in her hands. he warmed to her expressions of pleasure in the proposed dinner dance, which were indeed entirely genuine. a dance was a dance, and miss bentley was young. as she poured tea her curling lashes rested now on her cheek, were now lifted in smiling glances at the complacent augustus, much as when on a certain sunday morning, while softly laying bloom against bloom, her eyes had now and again met the eyes of the candy man. there were other callers, other tea drinkers, but to none did mr. mcallister surrender his place of vantage. "if she keeps on like this, augustus is hers--if she wants him," mr. gerrard pennington remarked to his wife later in the evening. "if i could have her all to myself," mrs. pennington sighed; "but any impression i may make is neutralised by her association with those vandegrifts. it is an absurd arrangement, spending half her time down there." "i think you are rather in the lead, aren't you, my dear?" mrs. pennington shrugged her shoulders, but there was some triumph in her smile. "she is a dear child, in spite of some absurd notions, and i long to see her well and safely settled. i don't quite know in what her charm most lies, but she has it." "oh, it's her youth, and the conviction that it is all so jolly well worth while. she is so keen about everything." there was an odd twinkle in mr. pennington's eyes, usually so piercing beneath their bushy grey brows. margaret elizabeth called him uncle gerry. it was amusing. he liked it, and enjoyed playing the part of uncle gerry. "of course she's bound to get over that. still, i shouldn't be in any haste to settle her." his wife thought of her brother, the professor of archæology, now in the far east. "it is queer, but dick never has," she said, answering the first part of his sentence. but when she spoke again, it was to say energetically: "the towers needs a mistress, and august is irreproachable. really, i am devoted to the boy." mr. pennington found this amusing. "if only it were a colonial house. it is handsome, but i prefer simpler lines," mrs. pennington continued meditatively. the towers was a combination of feudal castle and swiss châlet erected thirty years before by the parents of augustus, and occupying a commanding position on sunset ridge. the irreverent sometimes referred to it as the salt shakers. margaret elizabeth meanwhile, in the solitude of her own room, was asking herself questions, for which she found no answers. "who--oh, who was this person with the nice friendly eyes that led one on to talk about fairy godmothers?" she considered it in profound seriousness for a time, then suddenly broke into unrestrained laughter. chapter six _in which margaret elizabeth is discussed at the breakfast table; in which also, later on, she and virginia and uncle bob talk before the fire, and in which finally margaret elizabeth seeks consolation by relating to uncle bob her adventure in the park._ "no, she is not regularly beautiful," remarked dr. prue in her diagnostician manner as she poured her father's second cup of coffee, "but there is much that is captivating about her. her hair grows prettily on her forehead, the firmness of her chin, the line of her lips in repose----" "mercy on us! you talk like a novel," interrupted uncle bob, who was longing to get in an oar. "now i like her best when she laughs." "but i was speaking of her face in repose." "and any way," persisted uncle bob, "if she isn't a beauty, i don't know what you call it. she has the witchingest ways!" "we were speaking of features, not ways. if you dissect her----" "good heavens, prue! find another word." "if you dissect her," the doctor repeated firmly, "you will find nothing remarkable in her separate features." "but i insist," uncle bob spoke in a loud tone, and brought his fist down so emphatically his coffee spilled over into the saucer, "that beauty is a complex thing consisting of ways as well as features." the sentence was concluded in a milder tone, owing to the coffee. "nancy, give mr. vandegrift another saucer," said dr. prue. "my dear, there is no need. i can pour this back," he protested. then, a fresh saucer having been substituted, he went on: "take a landscape----" "i haven't time for landscapes this morning, father. i am due at the hospital at nine. you'll have to excuse me." "well, what i was going to say is, that it is the combination of all her separate qualities and characteristics, manifested in ways and otherwise, that is beautiful--that constitutes beauty. the something that makes her margaret elizabeth, that subtle--" uncle bob was talking against time. "now, father," dr. prue pushed back her chair and rose, "there is nothing subtle about margaret elizabeth, and you know it. she is a thoroughly nice, quite pretty girl, and that is all there is to it. if those penningtons don't spoil her." with this the doctor disappeared. "miss prue and her pa do argufy to beat the band," nancy remarked to jenny the cook as she waited for hot cakes. "that's all, nancy. i shan't want any more," her master told her when she carried them into the dining-room. "you needn't wait." as the door closed behind her he smiled to himself. he always enjoyed the leisurely comfort of those last cakes. the morning sun shone in brightly, emphasising the pleasant, substantial appointments of the room and the breakfast table. its glint in the old silver coffee pot was a joy to him; the unopened paper at his elbow spoke to him of the interests of a day, like it, not yet unfolded. uncle bob after his own fashion savoured life.... [illustration: dr. prue] the sun had travelled around the house and was looking in at the west window of the little red chimney room, when virginia discovered her ladyship sitting on a low stool by her hearthstone deep in meditation. "i saw the smoke," she announced, "so i thought i'd come over." "i am glad to see you," margaret elizabeth said, waking up. "but what smoke do you mean?" and now it developed that although miss bentley was of course aware of the little red chimney, and indeed preferred it red, she had not understood its significance. in amused interest she listened while virginia explained. "that dear, ridiculous uncle bob!" she cried, hugging her knees. "and what fun, virginia!" virginia nodded. "like a fairy-tale," she said. "so it is," miss bentley agreed, and became again lost in thought. from the other side of the hearth virginia watched her. her ladyship to-day wore a grey-blue gown with a broad white collar, and she contrasted harmoniously with the soft browns and greens of her surroundings. uncle bob should have been there to enjoy the glint of the sunshine in her hair. it was an unobtrusive room, abounding in pleasant suggestions if you sat still and let them sink in: books around the walls, a few water colours and bits of porcelain, an open piano, a work table, a broad divan with many cushions, ferns in the windows, and the fire. virginia, however, saw nothing of this; she was looking at margaret elizabeth. "the candy man wanted to know where you stayed when you weren't here," she remarked at length. miss bentley came out of her brown study in great surprise. who in the world was the candy man? "why, you know the candy wagon on the y.m.c.a. corner! and don't you remember how you fell in the mud, and the candy man helped you up, and i gave you your bag, and the miser was there too?" virginia spoke in patient toleration of miss bentley's strange lapse of memory. "naturally i was rather shaken and didn't notice. was it a candy man who picked me up? and a miser, you say?" chin in hand margaret elizabeth regarded her visitor. "it is all very interesting, but why should the candy man wish to know about me?" virginia owned that she had mentioned the little red chimney to him, and that when the identity of her ladyship had come to light, he had exclaimed, "i might have guessed!" "well, really," said miss bentley, sitting up very straight, "what business is it of his to be guessing about me?" "he isn't irish like tim," virginia hastened to assure her. "he's very nice. he's a friend of mine." margaret elizabeth laughed. "that makes it all right, i suppose; and if he picked me up--but who is the miser?" "he lives over there," virginia pointed toward the front window, "in that stone house with the vine on it. aleck says he has rooms and rooms full of money." the house she indicated was almost black with time and soot, but its fine proportions suggested spacious, high-ceiled rooms, and whatever its present condition, a past of dignity and importance. "how extremely interesting! what a remarkable neighbourhood this seems to be!" "is it like a fairy-tale where you stay when you aren't here?" virginia asked. sudden illumination came to margaret elizabeth. "that is just what it isn't," she cried. "it's splendid and beautiful, and all sorts of things, except a fairy-tale. i wonder why? i love fairy-tales and little red chimneys." "so does the candy man," exclaimed virginia, charmed at the coincidence. "it must be fun to be a candy man," she continued. "it isn't much like a fairy-tale where i live. i should like to live in a sure-enough house with stairs." "you talk like a squirrel who lives in a tree. and speaking of squirrels, you and i must buy some nuts for our bunny sometime, from this candy man. if he picked me up i suppose i ought to patronise him. all the same, virginia," and now miss bentley spoke with great seriousness, "i wish you not to say anything about me to him. it is rather silly, you know." virginia did not know, but she longed to do in every particular what miss bentley desired, so she promised. the opal lights in the western sky were the only reminders left of the sunny day, when uncle bob, seated comfortably in the big armchair, listened to margaret elizabeth's confession, the flames dancing and curling around a fresh log meanwhile. in size it was but a modest log, for the fireplace was neither wide nor deep like those at pennington park, but the little red chimney did its part so merrily and well that upon no other hearth could the flames dance and curl so gaily. at least so it had seemed to margaret elizabeth, sitting there chin in hand, after virginia's departure. "and you are certain you never met him before?" uncle bob ran his fingers through his hair and frowned thoughtfully. "perfectly certain. you see the resemblance was remarkable, all but the eyes, and i thought mr. mcallister had simply waked up. people are sometimes stiff when you first meet them. he knew who i was, for he called me miss bentley. naturally i thought it was some one i had met--particularly when he mentioned the accident. you see, in getting out of the machine at the country club a day or two before i caught my skirt in the door and fell, striking my elbow. it didn't amount to anything, though it hurt for a minute, but aunt eleanor made a great fuss. he may have been somewhere about at the time, but i didn't meet him. and it makes me furious," margaret elizabeth continued, "when i think of his not telling me." "telling you that you didn't know him?" asked uncle bob. "certainly, he should have said at the very beginning, 'miss bentley, you are mistaken in thinking you know me.'" "ha! ha!" laughed uncle bob. "now what are you laughing at?" his niece demanded. "honestly, don't you think he should have?" but she laughed herself. "well, perhaps," he owned, reflecting, however, that if margaret elizabeth looked half so alluring that morning as she did now in her grey-blue frock, with her bright hair a bit tumbled, it was asking a good deal of human nature. "now, of course, uncle bob, this is strictly confidential. i wouldn't have dr. prue know for the world. it is bad enough to have aunt eleanor smiling sarcastically, though she doesn't know half. i think i have at length quieted her, and the great augustus is entirely mollified." she paused to laugh again, then continued tragically, "sympathy is what i need now. to begin with, it was the most perfect day--the sort to make you forget tiresome conventions." uncle bob nodded. "perhaps he forgot, too," he suggested. margaret elizabeth bit her lip. "that's true. i must try to be fair. he had nice eyes, uncle bob--with a twinkle in them." a smile played over her lips, her dimple came and went. she gazed absently at the curling flame. suddenly she rose from her ottoman, and seated herself bolt upright on the sofa with one of the plumpest cushions behind her. "all the same it was inexcusable in me," she declared sternly. "what was?" asked her uncle. "the nonsense i talked. about a fairy godmother society! no doubt he was laughing in his sleeve all the time." "oh, i guess not. it sounds quite original and interesting. have you copyrighted the idea?" "uncle bob, you are a dear. some time i'll tell you all about it--when i get over feeling so terribly, if i ever do." "now, really," insisted uncle bob, "i don't see why you should worry. you are almost certain to meet him again, and----" "i shall die if i do," margaret elizabeth declared; but somehow the assertion failed to ring true. "from what you have said he is plainly a gentleman, and altogether matters might be worse," uncle bob concluded. miss bentley shook her head. "i don't see how they could be," she insisted. chapter seven _shows how the candy wagon is visited in behalf of the squirrel, and how pride suffers a fall; how miss bentley turns to vedantic philosophy to drown her annoyance, and discovers how hard it is to forget when you wish to._ "when i reflect upon the small weight attaching to true worth unsupported by personal charm, i am tempted to turn cynic." dr. prue closed her bag with a snap and lifted her arms to adjust a hatpin. "youth and beauty take the trick, that's a fact." uncle bob laughed as if he found it a delicious comedy. they stood before the office window. at the gate the apartment pigeons were fluttering around margaret elizabeth, while her ladyship gravely admonished them for some piece of mischief. "i believe she is taming the terrors," remarked the doctor. "she had them all in the other afternoon," said uncle bob, "sitting cross-legged on the floor like little orientals, while she told them stories. margaret elizabeth can manage them!" his tone thrilled with pride. "yes, and miss kitty molloy will drop anything she has on hand to work for miss bentley; the market-man picks out his choicest fruit for her; and so it goes, if you call it managing. well, i must be off. good-by." as dr. prue went out, margaret elizabeth, having dismissed the pigeons for the time being, came in, and sat down at her desk to finish a letter. she wrote: "yes, uncle bob and cousin prue argue as much as ever, and i suspect that more often than not i am the subject upon which they disagree. i am in a state of disagreement about myself, father dear. society is absorbing beyond anything i dreamed of, and if i had not promised you to stop and think for at least ten minutes out of the fourteen hundred and forty, i fear i should have already become a real society person." at this point uncle bob looked in. "well, how many parties on hand now?" he asked. margaret elizabeth laid down her pen and counted them off on her fingers, beginning with a tea at five, theatre and supper afterward, and so on, till the supply of fingers threatened to become exhausted. "go on, i'll lend you mine," said uncle bob. "prue says," he added, "that it is enough to kill you, but you look pretty strong." "she wouldn't mind if i worked my fingers to the bone for her hospital or the suffrage association, but i want a little fun first, uncle bob." margaret elizabeth supported an adorable chin in a pink palm and regarded her relative appealingly. "that's what i tell prue. it is natural you should like best to stay at pennington park, and go about in a splendid machine. i don't blame you in the least, and i don't wish you to feel bound to come down here when you don't really care to. much as i love to have you, i shall not be hurt." uncle bob nodded at margaret elizabeth with a reassuring smile that in spite of intentions was a bit wistful too. "i don't believe you understand, and for that matter, neither do i. i love you best, and the little red chimney, and this darling room. there aren't any fairies at pennington park, but--i do like the whirl, the fun, the pretty things, and----" "the admiration, margaret elizabeth; out with it. you'll feel better," said uncle bob. "well, yes, people _do_ like me, and oh, i must show you something!" she sprang up, and from a box lying on the sofa she took a filmy, rose-coloured fabric. "what do you think of this?" she demanded, shaking out the shimmering folds before his surprised eyes. he rose nobly to the occasion. "why, it looks like a sunset cloud. is it to wear?" "certainly. it is a pattern robe. miss kitty across the street is going to put it together for me. she is a genius. sunset cloud is very poetic. thank you, uncle bob. and now i must finish my letter before i go over to miss kitty's, and then i promised the children i'd go with them to buy some nuts for the squirrel. a bunny who has the courage to live so far downtown should be rewarded. i wish you had been here, uncle bob, to join our society." margaret elizabeth sat down with the rosy cloud all about her, and laughed at the recollection. "never again will they throw a stone at his bunnyship. we laid our hands together so, and swore by the paw of the cinnamon bear and the ear of the tailless cat, to take the part of our brother beasts and birds. it was all on the spur of the moment, or i might have done better, but they were impressed." [illustration: uncle bob] "i should think so, indeed," remarked her uncle. "you are a sort of philanthropist after all." "yes, i have a very marked bump. that reminds me, if i don't see dr. prue, you tell her, please, that i am going to take augustus mcallister to the suffrage meeting." having returned her robe to its box, miss bentley sat down at her desk and wrote furiously for five minutes, then folded her letter, put it in the envelope, and addressed, stamped, and sealed it, concluding the business with a resolute fist. shortly after, in the familiar grey suit, with the little grey hat jammed down anyhow on her bright hair, she went forth, the box containing the sunset cloud under her arm. homage and admiration attended upon her within miss kitty's humble establishment, and waited outside in the persons of the adoring pigeons. virginia, having been unable to keep the story of the little red chimney to herself, must now in consequence share her ladyship with the flock. but certain privileges were hers--to walk next to miss bentley and clasp her disengaged hand; to carry her bag or book; to act as her prime minister in keeping order. thus miss bentley went her triumphant way that afternoon, all unconscious that there was any triumph about it. not that she was wholly unaware of her own charm. as she confessed to uncle bob, she knew people liked her, and the knowledge was pleasing. she was now on her way to be gracious to the candy man, and in this connection she had rehearsed a neat little scene in which she stood by and allowed the children to make their purchases, and then at the right moment asked easily if there had been any more accidents on the corner of late, adding something about his kindness in helping her up, and so on. the candy man would of course touch his cap, for from virginia's account he was rather a nice candy man, and reply, "not at all, miss," or "that's all right"; then she would smile upon him and the incident would be closed. the first half of the scene went off perfectly. the candy man was selling taffy to a nurse-maid when they approached, and if he saw who was coming, and if his heart was in his mouth, and if he felt a wild longing to escape from the candy wagon, he gave no sign. to margaret elizabeth, as they waited, he was a candy man in white jacket and cap, and nothing more. the pigeons fluttered joyously. miss bentley uttered an impersonal good afternoon, virginia advanced, a silver quarter in her palm, and demanded chestnuts for the squirrel. the bag was filled and held out to her, and as she handed over the quarter in exchange she explained, gratuitously, "we'll perhaps eat _some_ of them ourselves." at this the candy man looked up with a smile in his eyes, and met the glance of miss bentley, who immediately forgot all she had intended to say, for these were the eyes that were not the eyes of augustus. there was no excuse for arguing the question. she knew it. the point was, after all, margaret elizabeth concluded in the solitude of her own hearth-stone, not whether she had been equal to the occasion to-day--and she hadn't--but that he on a former occasion had been guilty of base behaviour. if this were a real candy man, one might excuse him, but he plainly was not. there was a mystery, and she loathed mysteries. she was annoyed to the point of exasperation. she would dismiss him from her mind now and forever. uncle bob, reading the evening paper in the dining-room while nancy set the table, admitting as she passed back and forth an occasional savoury odor from the kitchen region, became aware of sounds in the hall which betokened some one descending the stairs in haste. the next moment margaret elizabeth stood in the doorway. "uncle bob," she said, as she drew a long white glove over her elbow, her face shadowed by her plumy hat, "you remember you said it might be worse, and i insisted it couldn't be? you were right, it is infinitely worse." with this she was gone, and a premonitory buzz of great dignity and reserve from the street presently indicated that she was being borne away in the pennington car. and now it was that miss bentley discovered how impossible it is to forget when you wish to. you may assist a treacherous memory with a memorandum, but no corresponding resource offers when you wish to forget. you may succeed in diverting your thoughts for a time, but sooner or later, ten to one, in the most illogical manner, the very thing you seek to avoid forces itself upon your attention. what could have seemed further away from the candy man than ancient hindoo philosophy? and into this she plunged to drown her annoyance, and incidentally help a fellow member of the tuesday club. margaret elizabeth was ever ready to fill in a breach, and when miss allen came to her in despair, having been positively forbidden to use her eyes, she obligingly agreed to help her. the subject grew, as all subjects have a way of doing. it was a providential ordering, uncle bob remarked, enabling the writers of papers to take refuge from criticism in the impressive statement that it is impossible to treat of the matter adequately in so short a space. margaret elizabeth laughed, and crossed out a paragraph at the bottom of her first page, and then set out for the public library. seated in the reference room, with more books than she could read in a year on the table before her, behold miss bentley presently inconsolable for lack of a certain authority she chanced to remember in the college library at home. the whole force of the reference room mourned with her, for margaret elizabeth in the part of earnest student was no less captivating than in her other roles. "i know where there is a copy," said the youngest and wisest of the force, "but it won't do you any good. mr. knight, the man the children call the miser, has one." "i'll go and ask him to let me see it. i'd like to know a real live miser." margaret elizabeth closed the book she had in hand and rose. the force gasped at her temerity. they had heard he was a horrid old man; but the youngest observed wisely that probably he wouldn't bite. miss bentley, however, having recently developed a bump of discretion, did first consult dr. prue in the matter, who responded, "why certainly, i see no objection to your asking to see the book. mr. knight is a harmless, studious man. i have met him on two occasions when i was called in to attend his housekeeper, mrs. sampson, and he was courtesy itself. i will go with you and introduce you, if you like." virginia, hanging around and overhearing, begged to be allowed to go too. "i'd love to see the inside of his house," she urged. she was assured she would find it stupid, but this was as nothing compared with the glory of entering the abode of the miser in company with her ladyship, and the other pigeons looking enviously on outside. dr. prue, of course, had no time to waste, so margaret elizabeth hastened to find her pad and pencil, and across the street they went forthwith. the miser was discovered in his library, a spacious, shabby room, yet not too shabby for dignity, full of valuable and even rare things, such as old prints and engravings, and most of all of books, which overflowed their shelves in a scholarly disorder not unfamiliar to margaret elizabeth. with businesslike brevity dr. vandegrift presented her cousin and her credentials to mr. knight, who, with a quaint and formal courtesy, was happy to oblige the daughter of an author so distinguished in his chosen field. miss bentley in her turn presented, with suitable gravity, miss virginia brooks, who promised to be quiet as a mouse, and whose eyes betrayed her disappointment on discovering the inside of the miser's house to be so much like any other. after the necessary stir attending upon the finding of the desired volume, and getting settled to work, profound quiet again rested upon the library. margaret elizabeth wrote busily, her book propped upon a small stand before her, while across the room virginia softly turned the leaves of a huge volume of engravings, pausing now and then to rest her cheek in her palm and regard the miser steadily for a moment. the master of the library had the air of having forgotten their presence altogether. aided by a microscope, with a grave absorbed face, he studied and compared a series of prints spread before him. so quiet was it all, that the crackle and purr of the coal fire in the old-fashioned grate made itself quite audible, and the leisurely tick of the clock in the hall marked time solemnly. margaret elizabeth's interest in vedantic philosophy began after a time to wane, and she allowed her attention to wander about the room, from object to object, until it concentrated upon the student himself. was he really a miser? she wondered. he did not look it. his was rather the face of an ascetic. suddenly it flashed into her mind that here was the sad, grey man of that unforgettable conversation in the park. virginia slipped down and came to her side. "is there really a room full of gold?" she whispered. margaret elizabeth shook her head sternly. it was time they were going. her hand was tired. she would ask permission to come again. as she returned her book to the shelf, she displaced a smaller one, a shabby leather-bound book, at which she scarcely glanced, but upon which virginia seized. "the candy man has one like this," she said. "such a funny name! see? only his is vol. one and this is vol. two." miss bentley cared not at all what strange books the candy man owned, and said so, frowning so severely you could scarcely have believed her to be the same person who only a few minutes later was thanking the miser with such alluring grace of manner. she was welcome to come when she chose, she was assured, with grave politeness. his library was at her disposal. "you have many beautiful things," said margaret elizabeth. "this portrait above the mantel, for instance, seems to me very interesting." the portrait in question was rather a splendid one of a military-looking man probably in his thirties. one of the best examples of jouett's work it was generally considered, mr. knight explained, and said to have been an admirable likeness of his uncle, general waite, at the time it was painted. it was inexplicable that as margaret elizabeth gazed up at the general the eyes beneath the stern brows should become the eyes of the candy man. but her exasperation at this absurd illusion passed quickly into horrified embarrassment, when virginia, edging toward the master of the house, asked explosively, "say, have you really got a room full of gold?" "there is one thing certain, you can never go there with me again," said miss bentley, on their way across the street. "but aleck said----" began the culprit. "never mind what he said. aleck is a very ignorant little boy. people don't keep gold in rooms. if they have it they put it in the bank or send it to the mint." chapter eight _in which the miser's past history is touched upon; which shows how his solitude is again invaded, and how he makes a new friend._ "there isn't any mystery about _him_, so far as i know," said the reporter, who was seated as usual upon the carriage block. the candy wagon continued to act as a magnet for him, and in season and out his genial presence confronted the candy man. if his emphasis upon the pronoun was noticed, it was ignored. the mystery was, the candy man replied, how with such a face he could be a miser. "oh, he's a bit nutty, of course. my grandmother says his money came to him unexpectedly and the shock was too much for him. they say he has a notion he is holding it in trust. he is rational enough in every other way, a shrewd investor, in fact. his uncle, general waite, who left him the money, was a connection of my grandmother's." "the miser is a cousin then?" "not on your tintype, my friend. old knight was a nephew of the general's wife, you see." "and there were no other heirs?" asked the candy man. "there was an own nephew, i have heard, who mysteriously disappeared shortly before the general's death. i have heard my grandmother mention it, but it was long before my day. why are you interested?" even to himself the candy man could not quite explain his interest in this sad and lonely man, except that, as he had told miss bentley in their first and only conversation, he had a habit of getting interested in people. for example, in the house where he roomed there was a young couple who just now engaged his sympathies. the husband, a teacher in the boys' high school, had been ill with typhoid, and the little wife's anxious face haunted the candy man. the husband was recovering, but of course the long illness had overtaxed their small resources, and--but, oh dear! weren't there hundreds of such cases? what was the good of thinking about it! yet suppose there were a fairy godmother society? the candy man was a foolish dreamer, and his favourite dream in these days was of some time sitting beside the little red chimney hearth, and discussing the fairy godmother society with miss bentley. these bright dreams, however, were interspersed by moments of extreme depression, in which he cursed the day upon which he had become a candy man; moments when the horrified surprise in the eyes of miss bentley as she recognised him, rose up to torment him. it was in one of these that the reporter had presented himself this time, and when he was gone the candy man returned to his gloom. having nothing else to do just then he opened the shabby book with the funny name, and looked at the crimson flower. through the stain of the flower he read: _"if a person is fearful and abject, what else is necessary but to apply for permission to bury him as if he were dead."_ the book had come into his possession by a curious chance not long before, and he treasured it, not so much for its sturdy philosophy, as because it was in some sort a link to the shadowy past of his early childhood. the adjectives "fearful" and "abject" brought him up short. what manner of man was he to be so quickly overwhelmed by difficulties? as for being a candy man, did he not owe to this despised position his good fortune in meeting miss bentley at all? somewhere about eight o'clock the next evening, being sunday, he might have been seen strolling by the house of the little red chimney. that particular architectural feature had lost its identity in the shades of evening, but he was indulging the characteristic desire of a lover to gaze at his lady's window under the kindly cover of the night. the blind was drawn within a few inches of the sill, but these inches allowed him a glimpse of a blazing fire, and while he lingered a shadow flitted across the curtain in its direction, and then another, until in his mind's eye he beheld margaret elizabeth and uncle bob seated beside the hearth. for aught he knew, it might be augustus mcallister making an evening call, but the candy man was just then too determinedly optimistic to harbour such an idea. [illustration: the miser] as he passed on he was occupied in trying to picture to himself her ladyship sitting before her fire, but that familiar little grey hat, which was so entirely inappropriate, would persist, in spite of all he could do, in getting into the picture. only once, when curling plumes took its place, had he seen her without it, and though for an instant he would succeed in removing it, presto! before he knew it, there it was again, jammed down anyhow on her bright hair. with odds in favour of the hat, the struggle came to a sudden pause at sight of a tall figure leaning heavily and in evident pain against one of the ornamental iron fences which prevailed along this street. at once proffering his assistance, he recognised mr. knight, the miser. it was plain the sufferer would have preferred to decline help. it would soon pass. it was nothing. he had had such attacks before. he spoke brokenly, adding, "i thank you," in a tone of dismissal. the candy man showed himself to be, when occasion demanded, a masterful person. without arguing the point, he supported the miser with a firm arm and began to urge him in the direction of his home. mr. knight, half fainting as he was, submitted without a word until his door was reached; then, there being no response to his companion's vigorous ring, he murmured something about the servants having gone, and began to fumble in his pocket. the candy man, taking the latch key from his trembling fingers, opened the door, and ignoring the evident expectation conveyed in his renewed thanks, continued to assert authority, supporting the invalid into his library. "i shall not leave you alone until you are relieved," he said. again mr. knight submitted to his captor's will, and lying back in his arm-chair directed him to the restorative that was prescribed for these seizures. when it had been administered he lay quiet with closed eyes. the candy man now turned his attention to the fire, which had burned low, coaxing it skilfully out of its sullen apathy. he was brushing up tidily, when mr. knight, to whose face the colour was returning, spoke. "you are very kind," he said, adding as the candy man felt his pulse and nodded his satisfaction, "are you a physician?" "no," was the smiling answer. "merely something of a nurse. my father was an invalid for some years." the sick man said "ah!" his eyes resting, perhaps a little wistfully, upon the vigorous young fellow before him. "don't let me keep you," he added. "i am quite relieved, and my housekeeper will return very shortly from church." instead of leaving him the candy man sat down. "i have nothing to do this evening, mr. knight, and unless you turn me out forcibly i mean to stay with you till some member of your household comes in." "i fear my strength is hardly equal to turning you out," the miser replied with a smile. "you are most kind." then after a pause he added apologetically: "will you kindly tell me your name? your face is familiar, but my memory is at fault." "my name is reynolds, robert reynolds, and i am at present conducting a candy wagon on the y.m.c.a. corner. that is where you have seen me." he had no mind to sail under false colours again. the sick man's "indeed!" was spoken with careful courtesy, but his surprise was plain enough. the candy man leaned forward, an arm on his crossed knee; his eyes met those of the older man frankly. "it is not my chosen profession," he said. "i happened to be free to follow any chance impulse, and the opportunity offered to help in this way a friend in need. it may have been foolish. i am alone in the world, and entirely unacquainted here. i should not care for the permanent job, but there's more in it than you would suppose. more enjoyment, i mean." "i recall now you mentioned the little red chimney," said mr. knight. the candy man grew red. why had he been so imprudent? the miser's memory certainly might be worse. "and now i know why your face is so familiar," the invalid went on. "i sat opposite to you in the car going to the park one sunday morning. my physician prescribes fresh air. and later i saw you with that bright-faced young girl, miss bentley. you were talking together in the pavilion near the river. you both seemed exceedingly merry. i envied you. i seemed to realise how old and lonely i am. i think i envied you her friendship." "your impression is natural," answered the candy man, "but the truth is i do not know miss bentley. we met unexpectedly in the pavilion that morning. i did not at the time realise it, i was unpardonably dense, but she took me for some one else. on the occasion of the accident that foggy evening--you perhaps remember it--i overheard the name she gave to the conductor. well, it seems she had no idea she was talking to a candy man that morning in the park, and i should have known it." the miser leaned his head on a thin hand, and certainly there was nothing sordid, nothing mean, in the eyes which looked so kindly at his companion. it was not perhaps a strong face, nor yet quite a weak one; rather it indicated an over-sensitive, brooding nature. "you will not always be a candy man," he said. "i have made miss bentley's acquaintance recently. she is friendliness itself." at this moment a grey slip of a woman, with a prayer-book in her hand, entered, and was presented as mrs. sampson, the housekeeper. the candy man rose to go, but mr. knight seemed now in no haste to release him. "i should be glad to see you again, if some evening you have nothing better to do," he said. "you may perhaps be interested in some of my treasures." he glanced about the room. "you say you too are alone in the world?" "quite," the candy man answered. "everyone i know has some relative, or at least an hereditary friend, but owing to the peculiar circumstances of my life, i have none. i do not mean i am friendless, you understand. i have some school and college friends, good ones. it is in background i am particularly lacking," he concluded. "i have allowed my friends to slip away from me," confessed the miser. "it was the force of circumstances in my case, too, though i brought it upon myself. i have been justly misunderstood." "'justly misunderstood.'" the candy man repeated the words to himself as he walked home in the frosty night. they were strange words, but he did not believe them irrational. chapter nine _shows how miss bentley and the reporter take refuge in a cave, and how in the course of the conversation which follows, she hears something which disposes her to feel more kindly toward the candy man; shows also how uncle bob proves faithless to his trust, and his niece finds herself locked out in consequence._ "let's pretend we are pursued by wild indians and take refuge in this cave." the scene was one of those afternoon crushes which everybody attends and few enjoy. miss bentley, struggling with an ice, which the state of the atmosphere rendered eminently desirable, and the density of the crowd made indulgence in precarious, addressed her next neighbour, whom she had catalogued as a nice, friendly boy. "it's mr. brown, isn't it?" she added in triumph at so easily associating the name with the face. the young man's beaming countenance showed his delight. "good for you, miss bentley! it would be great. let me have your plate while you squeeze in." this corner behind a mass of greens seemed to have been left with the intention of protecting an elaborate cabinet that occupied a shallow recess. however it might be, here was a refuge, difficult of access, but possible. margaret elizabeth held on to her hat and dived in. "grand!" she cried. "this is beyond my wildest hopes," and she perched herself on a short step-ladder, left here no doubt by the decorators, and held out her hands for the plates. mr. brown found a more lowly seat beneath a bay tree. they looked at each other and laughed. "my position is a ticklish one, so to speak," he observed, vainly trying to dodge the palm leaves to the right of him; "but i think we are reasonably safe from pursuit." "i haven't the remotest idea where my aunt is," margaret elizabeth remarked, eating her ice in serene unconcern. "say, miss bentley, i have heard my cousin speak of you--augustus mcallister, you know." "are you mr. mcallister's cousin?" miss bentley's tone and smile left it to be inferred that this fact above any other was a passport to her favour. it must be regretfully recognised, however, that it would have been the same if mr. brown had mentioned the market-man. having thus successfully established his claim to notice, the reporter, as was his custom, went on to explain that he belonged to the moneyless branch of the family. margaret elizabeth assured him, in a grandmotherly manner, that it was much better for a young man to have his way to make in the world than to have too much money. the reporter owned this seemed to be the consensus of opinion. how the strange notion had gained such vogue he could not understand, but there was no use kicking when you were up against it. "of course, it must be hard work, but it must be interesting. don't you have exciting experiences?" miss bentley asked. oh, he had, certainly, and met such queer people, too. there was a fellow who ran a candy wagon on the y.m.c.a. corner, for instance. "you ought to meet him, really, miss bentley, though, of course, you couldn't very well. he's a character, and i have puzzled my brains to discover what he's doing it for." miss bentley was interested and requested further enlightenment. "well, i have two theories in regard to him. he is an educated man, and a gentleman, so far as i can tell, and i think he is either studying some social problem, or he is a detective on some trail." "i never thought----" began margaret elizabeth. "i mean," hastily correcting herself, "i should never have thought of such an explanation." "he's up to something, you may be sure," mr. brown continued. "i like to talk to him, and do, every chance i get." margaret elizabeth certainly showed a flattering interest in all the reporter had to say. "some day when you have become a great editor," she assured him at parting, "i shall refer proudly to the afternoon when we sat together in a cave and ate ice cream." "oh, now, miss bentley," the reporter protested in some embarrassment, "i'm sure i shall always think of it with pride, whatever i get to be, though that probably won't be much." this conversation was not without its influence upon miss bentley's subsequent attitude toward the candy man. that some one else had found him a unique and interesting personality was reassuring, and the thought that he might be engaged on some secret mission was novel and suggestive. she began to reconsider and readjust, and in future, although she still avoided the y.m.c.a. corner, she allowed her thoughts to turn once in a while in that direction. meanwhile she paid two more visits to the miser's library, on these occasions laying deliberate siege to his reserve with all the charm of her bright friendliness. she asked questions about his beloved prints; intelligent questions, for margaret elizabeth had grown up in an atmosphere of appreciation for things rare and fine. she chatted about her father and his work, and even ventured some wise advice about fresh air and its tonic effect. indeed, it is a cause for wonder that she was able at the same time to collect the material which took shape later in that most erudite paper. under this invasion of youth and gaiety, the sombre, student atmosphere became charged with a new, electric current. it was not owing solely to miss bentley, however, for sunday evening now frequently found the candy man dropping in sociably to chat with mr. knight in his library. in these days the miser often sat leaning his head on his hand, a meditative, half whimsical expression on his face, as if he found both wonder and amusement in the chance that had so strangely brought these young people across his threshold. one sunday afternoon the pennington motor, having deposited margaret elizabeth at the vandegrift gate, with a scornful snort went on its swift way to more select regions. it was the first really cold weather of the season, and while she waited at the door margaret elizabeth examined the thermometer, and then buried her nose in her muff. "dear me!" she exclaimed impatiently. "why doesn't somebody come?" she rang again with no uncertain touch upon the button this time, and then, crunching across the frozen grass, peeped in at her own window, where a glimpse of smouldering fire rewarded her. she returned to the door to ring and rap, still with no response. this was a most unusual state of affairs, for it was an inexorable decree of dr. prue's that the telephone must never be left alone. somebody must have gone to sleep. the cold and the darkness deepened and it became more and more evident that she was locked out. what should she do? after canvassing the situation thoroughly, she could think of nothing for it but to seek refuge with the miser. her acquaintance in the neighbourhood was limited. miss kitty the dressmaker had gone to vespers, and her cottage was dark. the apartment house was too far away. from the miser's library she could watch for the light which would betoken the waking up of the delinquent one. so across the street, her nose in her muff, ran margaret elizabeth. the little housekeeper, mrs. sampson, who opened the door, was all solicitude. such a cold evening to be locked out! she knew mr. knight would be glad to have her wait in the library. he had stepped out for a little walk, though she had warned him it was too cold. thus saying, mrs. sampson ushered her in, and followed to see if the fire was all it should be. it was, for the candy man had just given it a vigorous poking and put on fresh coal. the room was full of its pleasant light. mrs. sampson was surprised to find him there. "miss bentley, this is mr. reynolds, a friend of mr. knight's," she explained, adding that miss bentley was locked out, and wished to sit by the window and watch for her uncle to come back. "and if you'll excuse me, miss bentley, the cook has her sunday evenings out, and i get supper myself," she added as she withdrew. margaret elizabeth and the candy man faced each other in silence for a second or two, then she said, very gravely indeed, "i am glad to meet you, mr. reynolds." "thank you, miss bentley. may i give you a chair?" he asked. "thank you, i will sit here by the window." the window was some distance from the fire, but as she sat down margaret elizabeth loosened her furs as if she felt its heat. the candy man waited, uncertain what course he should pursue. "please sit down, mr. reynolds. i should like to talk to you, now the opportunity has so unexpectedly offered." she regarded him still seriously, her hands clasped within her large muff. "i think you owe me an explanation." "i am not sure i understand." the candy man's heart was beating in an absurd and disconcerting way, but he would keep his head and follow her lead. "of course you are aware that you allowed me to talk to you that morning in the park, in a--most unsuitable manner, without even----" "how could i?" cried the candy man entreatingly. "i did not know." "did not know what?" demanded miss bentley sternly, as he hesitated. "i thought perhaps--i was dreadfully lonely, you see, and i thought--it was preposterous--but i hoped you--don't you see?--didn't mind talking to an unknown candy man." "oh! was that it?" exclaimed margaret elizabeth in a tone difficult to interpret. did she think it preposterous, or not? it seemed to indicate she found something preposterous. "then you were disappointed in me," she added. never would the candy man admit such a thing. he had realised since then what a cad he must have seemed, but---- "that, however, is neither here nor there," she continued, "since i did not recognise you. it was----" "preposterous?" he suggested. "yes, preposterous, to suppose that i could. why, it was nearly dark that afternoon, and i----" "please don't rub it in. i know. you see i knew you so well." "me?" cried margaret elizabeth. "i had seen you pass, i mean." again miss bentley said "oh!" adding: "you are also the person who laughed when i made an idiotic remark about lighthouses in the grocery." the candy man protested. he had not laughed. "your eyes laughed. that is how i first discovered my mistake. your resemblance to mr. mcallister is remarkable." "so i have been told." the candy man shrugged his shoulders, ever so little. "however, to go back, i think you owe me an explanation, mr. reynolds, considering how you allowed me to talk to you under a false impression. i am not absolutely lacking in grey matter," she added, while a smile curled her lips, "and i think you owe it to me to tell me why you became a candy man." "in return for the fairy godmother idea?" he asked mischievously. miss bentley's brows drew together. "if you knew how bitterly i have regretted all the foolish things i said that day, you would not laugh," she cried. "do not say that, please, miss bentley. i beg your pardon, and i am not laughing. i could not. if you only knew what it all meant to me. how i----" his distress was so genuine that margaret elizabeth was touched. "well, never mind now. it can't be helped, and i am willing to have it in return for the fairy godmother nonsense, if you choose to put it so." and now perforce the candy man must explain himself. "you see," he began, "i had been knocked out of everything through a bad accident that occurred at my home near chicago--a runaway. speaking of grey matter, there was some doubt for a time whether mine was not permanently injured. however, i gradually recovered, but i was still forbidden for another six months at least to do any brain work, and ordered by my doctor to loaf in the fresh air. doing nothing when you are longing to get to work is no easy job. i left home with the intention of going south, and stopped off here for no particular reason. perhaps i should have said that i have no family. my father died something over a year ago. oddly enough, in front of the station here i met an irish woman, once a servant in my father's house. she was overjoyed to see me, and poured out her troubles. her son, who ran a candy wagon, had been taken ill with fever, and his employers would not promise to keep the place for him, and altogether she was in hard lines, this boy being the main support of a large family. so now you see how the idea occurred to me. to amuse myself and keep the boy's place. and having no family or friends to be disgraced----" "no one has intimated there was any disgrace about it," miss bentley interrupted. "at worst it can be called eccentric. it was also very, very kind." "oh, now, miss bentley, thank you, but i can't let you overrate that. any help i have given was merely by the way. you must remember i was in need of some occupation, and i assure you it has been very much of a lark." "yes?" said miss bentley. "then no doubt before long you will be writing 'the impressions of a candy man,' or 'life as seen from a candy wagon.' it will be new." "thanks for the suggestion, i'll consider it. but for the chance that made me a candy man i should have missed a great deal--for one thing, a realisation of the opportunity that awaits the fairy godmother society." "but tim will soon be about again," said margaret elizabeth. "then i must look out for another job; but your remark implies some further knowledge of tim. i was not aware i had mentioned his name even." miss bentley bit her lip, then decided to smile frankly. "i met tim the other day," she said. "my cousin, dr. vandegrift, often visits st. mary's, and i sometimes go with her. tim is a nice boy, and full of praises for the kind gentleman who has done so much for him." "and also, let me add, for the lovely young lady who gave him a red rose, and----" margaret elizabeth laughed. there was no getting ahead of this candy man. had he known all along, or had he just guessed? "i see a light at last," she said, rising. "i must go, or they will be wondering what has become of me." ... "yes, i know it was my afternoon in," said uncle bob plaintively, while margaret elizabeth made toast at the grate and dr. prue set the table. "i merely ran over to the drug store for a second, but barlow was there and i got to talking." "it is quite unnecessary to explain, but i do wish, father, you would refrain from speaking as if you were required to stay in. it was your own proposition to let nancy go. i could have made other arrangements." dr. prue was aggrieved. there was no telling how many telephone calls had been unanswered. margaret elizabeth laughed. "you are absolutely untrustworthy, uncle bob. hereafter i shall carry a latch key." "by the way, who was that young man who brought you home?" the doctor asked. "his name is reynolds. he is a stranger here. i have met him once or twice." this casual explanation was accompanied by side glances which indicated to uncle bob that there was more in it than appeared on the surface. margaret elizabeth had been extremely reserved upon the subject of the candy man. uncle bob had not heard a word of it till now, when, beside the little red chimney hearth, supper having been cleared away, and dr. prue resting with a book on the office lounge, she told him the whole story. "you don't say so! that beats anything i ever heard. well, i said it would come out all right, didn't i?" margaret elizabeth's narrative was punctured, as mrs. partington would have said, with many exclamations such as these. "i own you were right. it isn't as bad as it seemed. he is really very gentlemanly and nice. still, it is a bit awkward too," she added thoughtfully. it is possible she was thinking of mrs. gerrard pennington at the moment. chapter ten _in which the little red chimney keeps festival, and the candy man receives an unexpected invitation._ the candy man, letting himself in at his lodging house, one gloomy sunday afternoon, stumbled upon a deputation of pigeons, in a state of fluttering impatience. "she said to wait, and we thought you were never, never coming!" was their chorus. "never is a long day," said the candy man. "what will you have?" it appeared they were the bearers of a missive which read briefly and to the point: "her ladyship requests the pleasure of the candy man's presence at the pigeons' christmas tree, at four o'clock this afternoon." it had seemed to the candy man that he was altogether outside the holiday world, that for him christmas had ended with his visit to the hospital that afternoon. he had ventured to send a basket of fruit to his fellow lodgers, the invalid professor and his wife, and had played santa claus to two or three newsboys who frequented the y.m.c.a. corner and to the small malones, and the state of his exchequer scarcely warranted anything more. the social calendar in the morning paper overflowed with festivities for the week, and he had pleased his fancy by picturing miss bentley, radiant and lovely, in the midst of them. he, the lonely candy man, without the pale, could yet enjoy her pleasure in imagination. and lo! this lonely candy man was bidden to a tree on christmas eve, by her ladyship. he could not believe his eyes. "it takes you a long time to read it," said virginia. "you'd better come. it's late." dark was beginning to fall outside, but the little red chimney room was full of firelight when the candy man was ushered in, in the wake of the children, by cordial uncle bob. it was a frolicsome, magical light that played about a row of red stockings hanging from the shelf above it; that advanced to the farthest corner and then retreated; that coaxed and dared the unlighted christmas tree by the piano to wake up and do its part; that gleamed in miss bentley's hair as she seated the pigeons in a semicircle on the rug. was it the magic of the firelight, or the absence of the grey hat, or the blue frock with its deep white collar, or, or--the candy man got no further with his questions, for just then margaret elizabeth turned and gave him her hand, explaining that they were so much stiller when they sat on the floor. she added that it was very good of him to come--a purely conventional and entirely inaccurate statement. he was also instructed to sit on the sofa with uncle bob. "and now," began miss bentley, standing with her back to the row of red stockings and looking into the upturned faces, "we are going to be rather quiet, for this, you know, is both christmas eve and sunday. first, we'll sing 'while shepherds watched,' very softly." she sat down at the piano and struck a few chords, then her voice rose, clear and sweet, the pigeons following her lead, a bit quaveringly at first, but doing wonderfully well considering they were not song birds. "she's been training them for weeks," uncle bob whispered. after this came "stille nacht," and uncle bob joined in, and then the candy man, and presently the entrance of dr. prue was proclaimed by a vigorous alto. the effect was most gratifying to the performers, and from the piano margaret elizabeth murmured, "very good." when the singing was over she took her seat on a low ottoman in the midst of the children, who drew closer. "next," she said, patting the hand virginia slipped within her arm, "comes the story, which on christmas eve everybody should either hear or read for himself." stillness fell on the little red chimney room, the pigeons listened in breathless absorption, while, forgetting herself and her audience, her hands loosely clasped on her knees, margaret elizabeth began the story which, as often as it may be told, yet throbs with tenderness and wonder. as she went on her eyes grew dark and deep, and in her face shone something more than the sweetness and charm hitherto so endearing. was it a prophecy? a glimpse into the unsounded heart of her? dr. prue shaded her eyes with her hand; uncle bob wiped his glasses; the candy man's soul was stirred within him, but he gave no sign. "and they brought gifts, gold, frankincense and myrrh, to the little child in the manger; so now in keeping his birthday, we give each other gifts and are happy because of the wonderful night so long ago," ended margaret elizabeth. after that it was no longer still in the little red chimney room. uncle bob set the tree alight, and her ladyship distributed the red stockings. nobody was left out, not even the candy man, or nancy and jenny hovering in the background. upon occasions like the pigeons' christmas tree we long to linger, but they are evanescent. the candy man must see the children home after a few brief words with miss bentley. "the fairy godmother society must have been organised, and my name entered among its beneficiaries," he told her. "i am glad if you liked it," she replied. "i thought you would. to-morrow i am going to pennington park to stay till after new year's, but christmas eve belonged by rights to the little red chimney." she smiled, and the candy man nodded understandingly. this much in the midst of the chatter that accompanied the putting on of small coats and leggings. "and i may hope that i am forgiven?" he had a chance to add as she gave him her hand at parting. miss bentley's eyes twinkled. "it will do no harm to hope," she told him. the candy man, his red stocking protruding from his overcoat pocket, conducted the noisy flock to their homes, then turning southward he walked on and on toward the edge of the town. as is fitting on christmas eve, a fine snow had begun to fall, sifting silently over everything, transforming even the ugly and pitiful with a mantle of beauty. the candy man, striding on through the night, felt an unreasoning joy as he thought of margaret elizabeth telling the story with the firelight on her face. the world seemed throbbing with expectancy. who could tell what splendid event awaited its near fulfilment? chapter eleven _in which a radical change of atmosphere is at once noticed; which shows how miss bentley repents of a too coming-on disposition, and lends an ear to the advantages of wealth._ the christmas fire was not cold upon the hearth of the little red chimney before miss bentley was whisked away to other scenes, into an atmosphere so different that of necessity things took on another aspect. mrs. gerrard pennington found intense satisfaction in her niece's social success. given every advantage, she pointed out, one could never tell how a girl would take, and dick had brought up his daughter in such an odd way. yet in spite of everything, even this awkward arrangement of living in two places, margaret elizabeth was popular beyond her fondest hopes. there were not wanting those who remarked that it would be a marvel if she were not spoiled. probably they were right, and margaret elizabeth, at the flood tide of her social career, courted, fêted, the kingdoms of this world at her feet, was in danger. "and who sent this?" mrs. pennington demanded. it was christmas day, and "this" was an indian basket of holly and mistletoe, conspicuous, among many costly floral offerings, by its simplicity. the card which accompanied it read, "to her ladyship, from the candy man," but this mrs. pennington had not seen. "oh," answered her niece, "i don't know how to tell you who he is. he is a stranger here--a mr. reynolds. i met him at mr. knight's, where you remember i went to get some material for my paper for the tuesday club." this was all true, and, unaccompanied by a heightened colour, might have allayed her aunt's lurking suspicions, born of that unexplained interview in the park with some one who was not augustus. only once had mrs. pennington referred to this, asking half jokingly if margaret elizabeth had ever discovered the identity of that person; putting a somewhat disdainful emphasis upon "person." "never," margaret elizabeth could at that time assure her, and she added, "i do not expect to, and certainly do not wish to." mrs. pennington, however, had her intuitions in regard to this unknown individual. she anticipated his reappearance, and, like a wise general, in time of peace prepared for war. keeping her vague fears to herself, she increased her vigilance. annoyed because of that uncalled-for blush, far away from the little red chimney, with fairy-tales forgot, margaret elizabeth repeated her aunt's question. after all, who was mr. reynolds? that which had so lately seemed an adventure compounded of kindliness and fun, she now beheld only as an awkward situation. she began to feel that she had overstepped the bounds in asking him to the christmas tree; and the red stocking! what nonsense! why should she have felt concerned over his loneliness? were there not many lonely people in the world? might he not infer from it all a rather excessive interest in him and his affairs? her interview with tim at the hospital, for instance, though it had come about by the purest chance, looked on the surface as if she had been bent upon investigating him. the candy man's offering, which she at first found so happily significant and appropriate, now began to seem almost a piece of presumption. it lay ignored if not forgotten, till its brown and withered contents were tossed into the fire by one of the maids. did miss bentley wish her to save the basket? no, miss bentley cared nothing for it. or, wait--she liked sweet grass, and on second thought she would keep it. never had the holiday season been so gay. there was not time for a minute's connected thought. margaret elizabeth honestly tried to keep her promise to stop and reflect for at least ten minutes a day, but either she went to sleep, or fell into a waking dream that bore small relation to the sober realities upon which she was supposed to dwell. there were guests at pennington park for the holidays--english friends of her uncle and aunt, persons of a broader culture than margaret elizabeth had ever before encountered. they afforded her an object lesson of the best that accrues from wealth and tradition, and is only to be attained by means of them. within herself she was aware of an aptitude of her own for these things. but half divining her niece's mood, mrs. gerrard pennington skilfully and subtly fostered it, and augustus mcallister, with unexpected tact, followed her lead. augustus was genuinely in love, and it brought out the best that was in him. for the first time in his life something resembling humility manifested itself, a humility which sat gracefully upon the possessor of variously estimated millions. it seemed to say: "here is one who, although not brilliant, may be led into any desirable path." and with his other substantial attractions he combined his full share of good looks. to be unresponsive was not in miss bentley's make-up, and the attentions of augustus assumed in these days a delicate and pleasing character. what girl could be indifferent to the prestige born of the generally accepted opinion that the position of mistress of the towers was hers for the word? in truth, all this homage--and augustus was far from being alone in it--was to margaret elizabeth an exciting game, that need not be taken too seriously. it was only when she thought of the candy man that she became serious and annoyed. how impossible, in the atmosphere of pennington park, appeared any explanation or justification of so absurd a position as his! [illustration: cousin augustus] when, after a morning recital by the musical club, miss bentley was seen walking down the avenue with augustus mcallister, society seized upon it as confirming an interesting rumour. it was absurd, of course. margaret elizabeth did it quite innocently. she really felt the need of exercise in the open air, and could not very easily dismiss mr. mcallister, who had accompanied her aunt and herself to the concert, and who also felt the need of air. did she think of the candy man when they passed the y.m.c.a. corner? yes, she did. though she gave not so much as half a glance in the direction of the candy wagon, she hoped he was not too busy to observe. it might counteract possible false impressions in the past. a few days later there appeared in a column of the _evening record_, given up to such matters, an item regarding the soon-to-be-announced engagement of a certain charming and beautiful girl, only recently a resident of the city, and a young man of wealth and social position. it brought miss bentley up short. she disliked newspaper gossip extremely, and an allusion so faintly veiled that everyone must understand, was under the circumstances most embarrassing, for the truth was she had not been asked. her cheeks burned. yet it was thanks only to some clever fencing on her part, and perhaps some words of caution to augustus from his mentor, that she had not been, and she knew in her heart it must come soon. just when you were having a good time and did not wish to be bothered, it was tiresome to have to decide momentous questions, she told herself almost fretfully, as she was borne swiftly and smoothly downtown one afternoon. there was the usual detention at the y.m.c.a. corner, and margaret elizabeth looked out and almost into the candy wagon before she knew it. but there was no cause for alarm. beneath the white cap of the candy man shone the round irish countenance of tim malone. was it tim after all who had viewed her triumphal walk down the avenue? the question brought not a hint of a smile to miss bentley's lips; and this was a very grave symptom. if uncle bob had been within reach! but he wasn't. he had run down to florida to look after his orange grove, and dr. prue was up to her eyes in grip cases. there was every reason why margaret elizabeth should stay on at pennington park. so the little red chimney had no chance to get in its work. in vain virginia looked from the dining-room window for its curling smoke. in vain did the invalid sister of miss kitty, the dressmaker, dream of the beautiful young lady who brought her roses. in vain did the postman and the market-man inquire of nancy when miss bentley was coming back. to the miser alone, who from his study window had also noted the deadness of the little red chimney, was the privilege of a word with the enchantress accorded. it came about through mrs. gerrard pennington's interest in the furnishing of the new quarters of the colonial dames. hearing of a desirable print owned by mr. knight, which it was understood he might be induced to part with, she drove thither to canvass the matter, accompanied by her niece. on the way they picked up augustus, who knew nothing of prints, but was pleased to join the expedition. the miser, beneath his grave courtesy, seemed taken aback by this invasion of his solitude. mrs. pennington's conventional suavity plainly embarrassed him. he smiled indeed at margaret elizabeth, remarking as he spread out his engravings that it had been long since he last saw her. the impulse was strong upon her to follow him to his desk and ask if he had any news of the candy man. there were moments when she thought it strange she had had no word. these were but fleeting moments, however; for the most part she succeeded, or thought she succeeded, in dismissing him to the limbo of the past. so now she resisted the impulse to ask news of him. when it came to negotiations margaret elizabeth and augustus, leaving mrs. pennington to conduct them, moved about the room, viewing the miser's curios. "do you care for mezzotints?" she asked him. "i don't know the first thing about them," augustus owned. "in fact never saw one." she laughed. "oh, yes, you have. ever so many of the reynolds and romney portraits were reproduced in mezzotint. if i am not mistaken there is one hanging in your own hall." augustus gazed at her in undisguised admiration. "i don't see how you learn so much, miss bentley. i have no doubt i have a lot of things you could help me to appreciate." from this dangerous ground she moved hastily, calling attention to the portrait above the mantel. mr. mcallister was more at home here. "a rattling good picture. general waite, by the way," he informed her, "was own cousin to my grandmother on my mother's side. my great grandfather and his father were brothers, don't you know." "indeed!" said margaret elizabeth, politely. the relationship did not interest her, but she wondered, in annoyance, why the cousin of augustus, on his mother's side, should look down on her with the eyes of the candy man. stern eyes they were, with a sparkle of humour behind the sternness. on the way home mrs. pennington was stirred to reminiscence. "one of the first parties i ever attended was in that old house," she said. "it must have been thirty-five years ago. i was a very young girl--barely seventeen. general waite was a most courtly man, and his wife was quite famous for her beauty. it was there i met mr. pennington. he and the general's nephew, robert waite, were great friends. they went to college together. he disappeared strangely. i remember gerrard was dread fully upset about it at the time. it was just before our marriage." to all this margaret elizabeth only half listened. the eyes of the general lingered reproachfully with her, and perhaps were at the bottom of that policy of postponement with which augustus was met when the inevitable moment came. just a little time was all she asked. mr. mcallister was talking of a trip to panama; let him go, and on his return he should have his answer. miss bentley was very sweet as she spoke thus; eminently worth waiting for. so augustus went to panama, and she was left to argue matters with herself. during the process she grew pale. mixed up with her arguments was that foolish idea that she ought to have heard something from the candy man. had he seen that item in the _evening record_? mrs. pennington noticed the pallor, but treated it lightly. margaret elizabeth was tired out, but now lent was here she would rest. she was worn to death herself, but she would recuperate, and surely her niece, who was years younger, could do the same. she failed to take into consideration the complications lacking in her own case. in fact, having brought matters to the present status, mrs. pennington allowed herself to relax. mr. gerrard pennington looked at margaret elizabeth from beneath his bushy brows. confound them, what were they doing to her? she had a way of joining him in the library, and sitting with a book in her lap, which she seldom read. one day, laying down his paper, and after a cautious glance over his shoulder, he remarked: "did it ever occur to you, margaret elizabeth, that you don't have to marry anybody?" she stared at him with surprised eyes, in which a smile slowly dawned. "why, uncle gerry, what do you mean? of course i don't have to." "there is a great deal in suggestion," continued mr. pennington. "keep telling people a certain thing, confront them with it on all occasions, and they will be influenced in spite of themselves; and it has occurred to me----" "yes?" said margaret elizabeth. "well, that it applies in your case." mr. pennington cleared his throat. "a certain person whom we know has behaved very well of late; better than i thought was in him, but--unless you are pretty sure you can't live without him--now this is rank treason on my part, but don't be too soft-hearted, margaret elizabeth." mr. pennington returned to his stock-market reports, and silence reigned, but presently two hands rested on his shoulders, and a velvet cheek touched his for a moment. "thank you, uncle gerry," said margaret elizabeth. chapter twelve _which shows miss bentley recovering from a fit of what uncle bob calls cantankerousness; in which a shipwrecked letter is brought to light, and dr. prue is called again to visit the child of the park superintendent._ "and he turned into a splendid prince (he had been one all the time really, you know), and he laid all his riches at violetta's feet, and made her a princess, because she had been true to him through thick and thin." virginia's voice rose in triumphant climax. "that's all very fine in a fairy-tale, virginia, and it is an extremely good one for a little girl like you to make up out of her own head. but you know in real life it is different." margaret elizabeth gazed pensively into the fire. virginia, prone upon the hearth-rug, was disposed to argue what she did not understand. "how different?" "well, in a fairy-tale you can have things as you want them, but in real life you get tangled up in what other people want, and with duty and common sense; and when you determine to follow your--" margaret elizabeth was going to say "heart," but changed to "intuitions," "you are left high and dry on a desert island." virginia was to be excused if she failed to make head or tail of this. "i wish the candy man would come back," she remarked irrelevantly. "he was much nicer than tim. he liked fairy-tales. he said he was coming some time." "oh, did he?" said miss bentley. the reference to a desert island, and a disposition to quarrel with fairy-tales, go to show that while she was decidedly more like herself than in the last chapter, her recovery was not yet complete. in fact margaret elizabeth was suffering from the irritability that so often accompanies convalescence. cantankerousness was uncle bob's word for it, and he defended it with all the eloquence of which he was master, his finger on the page in the dictionary where it was to be found in good and regular standing. it really did not matter what you called it; the point was, that in an argument with her aunt, margaret elizabeth had gone further than she intended; had said what had better have been left unsaid. this she confessed to dr. prue. "let me see your tongue," commanded that professional lady, regarding her searchingly. margaret elizabeth displayed the unruly member, laughing as she did so. "what did you say to mrs. pennington?" "we were speaking," margaret elizabeth answered meekly, "of gratitude, and aunt eleanor said, as you are always hearing people say, that there is little or none of it in the world. you see, in some matter which came up in the colonial dames, nancy lane sided against her. 'and after all i've done for her!' cried aunt eleanor. i said i thought gratitude was an overrated virtue anyway, and that to expect a person to vote your way because you had been good to her, was a kind of graft." "humph!" said dr. prue. "i know it was a dreadful, dreadful thing to say." tears were in margaret elizabeth's eyes. "when she has been loveliness itself to me. there it is, you see. i have thought about it, and thought about it, until i'm all mixed up." "what did your aunt say?" "she was very dignified. she had not expected to hear such a thing from me. then she walked away." "i hope you asked her pardon." "i had no chance. she has gone to chicago--was on her way to the station then. i will, of course." "for a young thing your ideas are not bad, though your problem is entangled in foolish convention, personal pride and so on. but neither you nor i was born to set the world right. now cheer up and think no more about it for the present. be ready at two o'clock to go to the park with me. the superintendent's child is ill again." having delivered her prescription, dr. prue left, and her patient returned to her hearth-stone and an endeavour to be honest with herself. virginia had interrupted this most difficult process with her fairy-tale. while it could not be said to bear upon the situation, after she had left margaret elizabeth was conscious of a faint lightening of the fog. as they sped smoothly toward the park, in the new electric, margaret elizabeth driving, dr. prue exclaimed, "there, i'm forgetting that letter again." unfastening her bag she held it open while she continued, "i hope you'll forgive whoever is to blame, but when the hall was being cleaned yesterday, james fished this out of the umbrella jar. dear knows how it got there or when; it looks as if it had been in a shipwreck." she produced a stained and sorry-looking missive from her bag. "you can just make out the address, the postmark is quite gone," she added, laying it in her companion's lap. "you haven't missed an important letter, have you?" "not that i know of," margaret elizabeth replied with a laugh that was a bit unsteady. "it is probably nothing of value." she kept her gaze on the road ahead. "just slip it in my pocket, please." all the rest of the way to the park her heart thumped uncomfortably. could it be? of course not, it was an advertisement. why get excited? meanwhile she chatted pleasantly with dr. prue. "all you need is fresh air and a simple life for a while. your colour has come back wonderfully," the doctor remarked as they drew up at the cottage gate. "will you wait for me here?" "if you don't mind, i think i'll go into the park, and if i'm not back by the time you are ready, don't wait. i can take the street car." turning in at the entrance to the park, margaret elizabeth was for a fleeting moment aware of a candy wagon standing at the curb a few yards away. there was nothing unusual in this except the odd way in which it fitted into the situation, and the next moment she had forgotten everything but the letter in her hand. she walked slowly down the path. the april sunshine sifted through a faint and feathery greenness overhead, the air was clear and fresh. she was thinking that she had seen just one little scrap of the candy man's writing--on the card accompanying the christmas basket; and this on the letter was blurred and stained, yet she was sure of it. he had written. she had been sure he would. she was glad. she would be honest with herself. she wanted him for a friend. in many ways she liked him better than any one she had met this winter. she wanted to know more about him. she tried to tear the letter open, but for all it was so damaged the paper had remained tough. she would wait to read it till she reached the summer house. that little vine-hung arbour had been in her thought ever since dr. prue proposed to bring her down to the park. she had a foolish desire to sit there and look at the river, and go on being honest with herself. margaret elizabeth, mounting the steps and looking at her letter as she did so, was confronted by somebody who started up in surprise from the bench where she had sat with her flowers that autumn day. for one surprised moment she and the stranger faced each other, then miss bentley exclaimed, "i saw the wagon at the gate, but i didn't know it was yours." and then the mischief faded into simple honest gladness as she held out her hand. "i certainly did not expect to see you," she added, "but you are an unexpected sort of person." "nothing so wonderful as the chance of meeting you occurred to me for a moment," the candy man assured her. "in fact i was not certain you cared to see me." those same pleasant eyes, so emphatically not the eyes of augustus, looked into hers questioningly. margaret elizabeth held up the letter. "it was shipwrecked," she said. "i got it only a few minutes ago. i haven't read it. i thought it was you who didn't care to be friends." the candy man did not exactly understand how a letter could be shipwrecked in an overland journey of ten hours, but he dismissed it as of no importance. "it isn't worth reading now," he said. "it was just to make my adieus and ask if some time when i had lived down my past," here he smiled, "i might come back and tell you my strange story. i was counting on your willingness to be friends. you remember you said it would do no harm to hope." "oh, did i? and when you did not hear from me, what did you think? honestly," asked margaret elizabeth. "i thought of course there must be a reason. a shipwreck did not occur to me." "do you mean a reason for not being friends? but you came." "the suspense was too much for me. i haven't many friends; and besides, this is on the way to texas." "so you are going to texas this time?" it seemed the candy man had heard of an opening there. margaret elizabeth wanted to ask why he had come to the park, but something told her not to; instead she said, looking away to the shining river, "i know of no reason why we should not be friends. so i am ready to hear the story you speak of. is it more strange than the adventures of a candy wagon?" her eyes came back and met his as they had done the day when the conversation turned upon fairy godmothers. margaret elizabeth was not spoiled. "it is more serious," was his reply. "in fact, it is very serious. the candy wagon was a mere episode. what i wish to tell you now goes deeper." chapter thirteen _in which the candy man relates his story, and the miser comes upon volume i of the shabby book with the funny name._ "i want you to know all about me," began the candy man, taking from his pocket the shabby little book virginia had once remarked on, "so there may be no more wrong impressions." they sat in the sunshine on the top step of the little pavilion, facing the river. margaret elizabeth, supporting her chin in her hand, regarded him gravely. the west wind was cool on their faces. "i have often imagined myself telling you," he went on. "not that there is much to it, besides its strangeness. in fact, to be brief, i don't know who i am." the surprise in miss bentley's eyes caused him to add quickly: "not that i am a foundling. but my father and mother were lost at sea when i was three years old. we were coming from victoria to san francisco, when the steamer went down. only a few of the passengers were saved, i among them." "how sad and terrible!" cried margaret elizabeth. "can you remember it? how lost and lonely you must have been! poor little child!" "i recall it only in a vague way," he answered, "confused with what has since been told me. when it was known that my parents were lost, a man and his wife, fellow passengers, offered to adopt me. beyond the name 'robert deane, wife and child,' on the list at the ship's office, they were unable to learn anything about me, and i was too young and bewildered to give any clue." "that is very strange," said margaret elizabeth. "your new father and mother were kind to you?" "so kind i soon forgot the terror and loneliness, and grew happy and content. everything was done to make me forget, and i think while they made every effort to find out something about me, they were glad when they failed. i wish now that my childish memories might have been fostered, for i find myself reaching back into a mist full of vague shapes. "my new father was a civil engineer, whose work took him here, there and everywhere throughout the broad west. i never knew a permanent home. my adopted mother died when i was twelve. after that came boarding school and college. about the time i left college my father's health failed, and for several years he was helpless and very dependent upon me, so i gave up my plan of entering a mining school. "it was during his illness that he began to speak to me of my own parents. he had talked to them on several occasions during the voyage, and he described them as young people of refinement and education. my mother, he thought from her speech, was english. they rather held aloof, he said, and seemed disinclined to mention their own affairs. while he was ill the news came to us of the finding in a storage warehouse in san francisco of an old trunk which it seemed probable had belonged to my parents. without going into detail, i may say it was through an old acquaintance of my adopted father's, who knew the circumstances of my adoption, that we heard of it. he had some interest in the warehouse, which was about to be torn down and rebuilt. this trunk was found in some forgotten corner where it had lain for twenty-five years." "and did it throw any light?" asked margaret elizabeth. "not much, it rather deepened the mystery. there was little of significance in it, but this book and a package of letters. from them i learned nothing definite, but gathered the unwelcome probability that my father was under some sort of cloud, and was not using his real name. this was a matter of inference--of deduction, largely, but it was plain he had left his home in some sort of trouble. "it is not easy to piece together scattered allusions, when you have no clue. the letters were most of them written by my father to my mother, just before and soon after their marriage, with one or two from her to him. one of these, which i found between the leaves of this little book, i want you to read. it concludes my story, and to my mind lightens it a little." the letter the candy man held out to margaret elizabeth was written on thin paper, in a delicate angular hand. "ought i to read it?" she demurred. "are you sure she would like it?" "somehow i am very sure," he answered. "and i feel that it will be a grip on our friendship. i have told you the worst, i wish you to know the best of me." she acquiesced, and, an elbow on her knee, shading her eyes with her hand, she read the letter, whose date was thirty years ago. far back in the past this seemed to margaret elizabeth, yet it was a girl like herself who wrote. the first sentences were almost meaningless, so strong was the feeling that she had no right to be reading it at all, but as she went on she forgot her scruples. it was evidently a reply to a letter from her lover in which he had spoken of the cloud that hung over his name, and it was a confession of her faith in him, girlish, sweet and tender. "i trust you, robert," it said. "it is in you to do heedless things, to be reckless, if only because you are young and eager and strong; but it is not in you to be dishonourable; of this i am as certain as i am of anything in life. some day the truth will be known and you will be cleared, but whether it is or no, i choose to walk beside you. i choose it gladly, happily. i write the words again, gladly, happily, robert. yours, mary." "oh!" cried margaret elizabeth, lifting a glowing face, "i love mary." "she was brave and unselfish," said the candy man. margaret elizabeth nodded. "yes, that is one side of it. still, you see, she was sure, and it was, as she says, a joy to cast in her lot with him. 'gladly, happily.'" her eyes shone. she gazed far away down the river. the wind blew little tendrils of bright hair across her cheek. "it must be so when you care very much," she went on. "but," argued the candy man, "under the stress of very noble feeling people sometimes do foolish things, do they not?" "but this was not. do you think for a moment mary ever regretted it? i see what you mean by the best of you. it is something to have such credentials." margaret elizabeth's gaze met the candy man's, and her eyes were deep as they had been on christmas eve, in the firelight. oh, margaret elizabeth, it is your own fault, for being so dear, so unworldly! could you, can you, cast in your lot with an unknown candy man? he has no business to ask you. he did not mean to, but only to prepare the way. he knows he is no great catch, even from the point of view of a little red chimney. these are not the precise words of the candy man, but something like them.... so absorbed was margaret elizabeth in the thought of mary, she was a bit slow in taking in their meaning. she gave him one startled glance, and then looked down, as it happened, upon the shabby little book which lay on the step between them. absently she drew it toward her, and with fingers that trembled, opened it, as if to find her answer in its pages. then a smile began faintly to curl about her lips, and she read aloud from the book: _"what we find then to accord with love and reason, that we may safely pronounce right and good."_ "judged at the bar of reason i fear my case is hopeless," protested the candy man, putting out his hand to close the book. but margaret elizabeth clasped it to her breast. "i see nothing unreasonable in it," she declared stoutly. as she spoke a faded crimson flower fell in her lap. somewhat later in the afternoon, miss bentley and the candy man, walking together along the river path, had they not been so engrossed in their own affairs, might have recognised the tall, stooping figure of the miser strolling slowly ahead of them. it was for a minute only, for near a turn in the path he bent forward and disappeared in a thicket of althea bushes. at this season it was not a dense thicket, and mr. knight, poking in the soft mould with his cane in search of a certain tiny plant, had no thought of hiding, but, as it chanced, was unobserved by his friends. "oh, margaret elizabeth," her companion was saying as they passed, "you are so dear! i have no business to be telling you so, but indeed i can't help it." and she with a little laugh replied: "i am glad you can't, candy man." and the next moment they were gone around the turn. that was all, but it was enough. what rarer flower was likely to come the miser's way, on this or any day? he stood and looked after them. these two had brought into his grey life the touch of golden youth. he began to tremble under the force of a wonderful thought. he sought a bench and sank upon it. it would be a solution of his problem. he had come out to-day into the spring sunshine, feeling his burden more than he could bear, for in his pocket was a letter which put an end to the hope he had long cherished of at length righting a great wrong. there must be a way of doing what he wished. the consent of the candy man once gained, that hateful fortune, which through these years had been slowly crushing him, might become a minister of joy and well being, might make possible for others those best things of life that he had missed. the thought thrilled him. he rose and walked on, back to the pavilion, where he paused again to rest. there on the step lay the shabby book with the funny name and the small oval bit cut from the fly leaf, beneath which was the candy man's name, robert deane reynolds. chapter fourteen _shows how mrs. gerrard pennington, unhappy and distraught, beseeches uncle bob to help her save margaret elisabeth; also how mr. gerrard pennington comes to the rescue, and how in the end his wife submits gracefully to the inevitable, which is not so bad after all._ when mrs. gerrard pennington was shown into the room of the little red chimney, there was nobody there. a chilly wind outside, which dashed the rain against the windows, only served to call attention to the pleasantness within. it was indeed an aggressively cheerful room, entirely out of keeping with mrs. pennington's mood. the open piano, the row of thrifty ferns on the window-sill, the new novel on the table with a foreign letter between its leaves, and the work basket beside it--which, by the way, was of sweet grass--all sang the same song to the accompaniment of the fire's quiet crackle. the burden of the song was margaret elizabeth. you saw her sitting bolt upright on the sofa, being very intense about something, or lost in thought, elbows on knees, on the ottoman beside the hearth, or occupied with that bit of embroidery, her curling lashes almost on her cheek. oh, margaret elizabeth, how could you? how could you? mrs. pennington, pacing uneasily back and forth, glanced at the music on the piano rack. "oh, stay at home, my heart, and rest, home-keeping hearts are happiest," it admonished her. in this disarming atmosphere she began to feel herself the victim of some wretched dream. yet here in her bag was margaret elizabeth's note, found awaiting her on her return from chicago an hour ago. in it her niece apologised contritely for the inexcusable manner in which she had spoken, and continued: "it makes me unhappy, dearest aunt eleanor, to think of disappointing you, for you have been the kindest aunt in the world, but i have discovered in the last few days what i ought to have known all along, that i cannot marry mr. mcallister. the reason is there is some one else. he is neither rich nor of distinguished family, but there are things that count for more, at least to me. i shall see you very soon, and explain more fully. in the meantime think kindly, if you can, of your niece, margaret elizabeth." [illustration: mrs. gerrard pennington] this as it stood was bad enough, wrecking her dearest hopes at the moment when they had seemed most secure; but taken in connection with a story related in artless innocence by her travelling companion of yesterday, teddy brown, to use one of that gentleman's cherished phrases, it spelled tragedy. the reporter had not been bent on mischief. far from it. he was merely grappling bravely with the task of being agreeable to the great lady. surely it was but natural that in the course of a long conversation the candy man's curious resemblance to augustus should suggest itself as a topic; and given a gleam of something like interest in his companion's eyes, it was easy to continue from bad to worse. he lived in the same apartment house as virginia, and from her he had heard of the christmas tree, and the candy man's presence on the occasion; also of that old accident on the corner in which the candy man had figured as miss bentley's rescuer. no wonder those intuitions regarding a person who was not augustus should have risen to torture mrs. pennington. all this circumstantial evidence was very black against margaret elizabeth, seemingly so honest and frank. no wonder mrs. pennington was distraught. meanwhile, wherever her heart might be, margaret elizabeth herself was out. uncle bob, coming in, paper in hand, to greet the visitor cordially, could not imagine where she had gone, and peered around the room as if after all she might have escaped their notice. if she wasn't in, he was confident she would be, in the course of a few minutes, which confidence was not a logical deduction from known facts, but merely an untrustworthy inference, born of his surprise at finding her out at all. placing a chair for mrs. pennington, he took one himself and regarded her genially. some minutes of polite conversation followed, in the course of which mrs. pennington, concealing her agitation, spoke of her journey to chicago in quest of colonial furnishings. mr. vandegrift in his turn brought forward florida and orange groves. but margaret elizabeth delayed her coming, and mrs. pennington could stand it no longer. "mr. vandegrift," she began, after the silence that followed the last word on oranges, "i regret that my niece is not here, yet it may be as well to speak to you first. i may say, to make an appeal to you. you are, i am sure, fond of margaret elizabeth." she played nervously with the fastening of her shopping bag. uncle bob looked at her in surprise, then at the toe of his shoe. "i think i may safely admit it," he owned, crossing his knees and nodding his head. "then, mr. vandegrift, i beseech you, with all the feeling of which i am capable, to unite with me in saving this misguided girl." at this point all her intuitions and fears rallied around mrs. pennington, and gave a quiver to her voice. uncle bob was astonished at her tone, and said so. "i assure you, mr. vandegrift, i have her own word for it." she produced a note from her bag. "her word for what?" he asked. "why, for--oh, mr. vandegrift, let us not waste time in futile fencing. you must know that margaret elizabeth has deceived me; has been guilty of base ingratitude; has been meeting clandestinely a person--a mere adventurer. i can scarcely bring myself to say it. my brother richard's daughter!" mrs. pennington had recourse to her handkerchief. uncle bob uncrossed his knees and sat bolt upright. "madame," he exclaimed, "i am sorry for your distress, whatever its cause, but let me assure you, you are under some grave mistake. my niece has met no one clandestinely, and is incapable of deceit and treachery." "do i understand then that it was with your connivance?" "i have connived at nothing, madame, and i know of no adventurer." uncle bob took his penknife from his pocket and tapped on the table with it. his manner was legal in the extreme. he was enjoying himself. mrs. pennington looked over her handkerchief. "but she says, herself----" "says she has been guilty of deceit and treachery? has been meeting an adventurer clandestinely? pardon me, but this is incredible." "what is incredible, uncle bob?" came a voice from the half-open door, unmistakably that of the accused. "i'll be there as soon as i get off my raincoat," it added. "it is hopeless to try to make you understand," mrs. pennington almost sobbed, the while sounds from the hall indicated that some one beside margaret elizabeth was removing a raincoat. a horrible dread suddenly smote her, lest it be that person. a sleepless night and her distress had unnerved her. she felt herself unequal to the encounter. she glanced about helplessly for a way of escape, but there was none. "tell him not to come in. i cannot see him now," she begged tragically of uncle bob, who, honestly mystified now, stood between her and the door, looking from it to her. "she says not to come in," he repeated to margaret elizabeth's companion, who was following her in. "why, aunt eleanor, i didn't know it was you! they told me your train was late. and oh, what is the matter? what are you crying about? is it i?" margaret elizabeth, with raindrops on her hair, knelt beside her aunt and embraced her, pressing a cool cheek against that lady's fevered one. mrs. pennington, her face hidden in her hands, continued to murmur, "i cannot see him. i cannot see him." "in the name of heaven, eleanor, why can't you see me? why must i not come in?" demanded a familiar voice which brought her to with a shock. "gerrard!" she cried, in her surprise revealing a sadly tear-stained countenance. uncle bob beat a retreat into the hall, where he paused, chuckling to himself. "certainly it is i. who should it be?" said her husband, taking a seat beside her. "why are you making such a sight of yourself, my dear? when i telephoned out to know if you had arrived, they said you had and had gone out again immediately, no one knew where. i came out to talk over some business with william knight, and when i was leaving i saw your car over here, and thought i'd join you; but if my presence is unbearable, i will withdraw." mr. pennington smiled at margaret elizabeth. "don't be silly, please, i have had a most trying day. i don't expect you to understand." mrs. pennington was recovering her poise. there was something irresistibly steadying in her husband's matter-of-fact statement, and in the sight of her niece sitting back on her heels and looking up at her with lovely, solicitous eyes. treachery and deceit became meaningless terms in such connection. "you haven't given us a chance to understand, eleanor. what is the trouble?" mr. pennington demanded. "uncle gerry, i am afraid it is i," said margaret elizabeth, picking up the note from the floor where it had fallen. "i am sorry, you know i am, that i can't do as she wishes, but you understand that i can't. tell her, please, that i did honestly try to think i could, but it wasn't of any use." "oh, come now, eleanor, if that is it, of course we wanted margaret elizabeth up at the park; but the young people of this generation like to manage their own affairs, as we did before them." mr. pennington looked quizzically at his niece. "she's been getting up a bit of melodrama for our benefit, that's all. if you will pardon the suggestion, my dear, i think possibly it is you who do not understand." margaret elizabeth, rising from her lowly position, threw him a kiss over her aunt's head. "how can i be expected to, with everything shrouded in mystery?" cried mrs. pennington. "why have i never heard of this person before? why was i left to be told dreadful things by a reporter?" "a reporter!" cried margaret elizabeth, in her turn aghast. "nonsense! if you heard anything dreadful you know margaret elizabeth well enough to know it was not true. but how in the world could a reporter have got hold of it?" "you speak so confidently, gerrard, tell me, what do you know about this man?" mrs. pennington looked from her niece to her husband. "margaret elizabeth seems to have completely won you to her side," she added. "it is really a very strange story, eleanor, and to begin at the end of it, we have quite sufficient evidence, in my opinion, to prove that he is the son of my old comrade, robert waite." mrs. pennington fixed surprised eyes upon her husband. margaret elizabeth sat down and folded her hands in her lap. "you recall how rob disappeared, without a word to any of his friends? it was not till some years after the general's death that i had the least clue to it; then william knight came to me to know if i could give any help in tracing him. he owned that there had been some trouble between general waite and robert, and that the latter had been unjustly treated. i couldn't give him any assistance, and i never discussed it with him again. knight was always close-mouthed, and it was only the other day that i learned what the trouble was. it seems the general suspected his nephew of taking a large sum of money from the safe in his library. it was one of those cases of complete circumstantial evidence. rob was known to have lost money on the races. he was the only one beside the general himself who had access to the safe, and who knew that this money, several thousand dollars, was there at this time. that is, so it was supposed. "knowing them both, one can easily understand the outcome. robert disappeared, and a few years later, when the general died, he left his fortune to william knight, his wife's nephew. then after some little time the real thief turned up. i won't go into that, further than to say that it was through a deathbed confession to a priest. since then knight has been searching far and wide for some trace of robert, only to receive last week the evidence of his death twenty-five years ago. and now comes the strange part of the story. the very day on which he received this news, knight came by chance upon a book which he recognised as once the property of robert waite. the owner's name was cut from the fly leaf, but below it was written the name of a young man whose acquaintance he had made last winter, robert deane reynolds. deane was rob's middle name, so naturally it led to an investigation." mr. pennington looked over at margaret elizabeth. "have i told a straight story?" he asked. "there were letters, you know," she prompted. "oh, yes. this young man had letters which i could have identified anywhere." mrs. pennington was interested. she asked questions. that absurd story about a candy wagon was untrue then? but how had margaret elizabeth met this person? she still referred to him as a person. and somehow the united efforts of margaret elizabeth and mr. pennington failed to clear up the mystery, though they did their best. even if the candy wagon episode was to be regarded as humorous, though it did not present itself in that light to mrs. pennington, how could margaret elizabeth have asked a candy man to her christmas tree? "but you see, by that time i knew he wasn't real, aunt eleanor, and anyway--" "now go slow, margaret elizabeth," cautioned her uncle. "at heart you are a confounded little socialist, but take my advice and keep it to yourself." he was thinking of what she had said to him only the day before: "you see, uncle gerry, you can't have everything. you have to choose. and while i like bigness and richness, i like little red chimneys and what they stand for, best. i want to be on speaking terms with both ends, you see." "it is odd," mr. pennington went on, "the tricks heredity plays, and that this young man and augustus mcallister should both hark back to a common ancestor for their general characteristics of build and feature. i was struck with the resemblance, myself." "it was what first attracted me," owned margaret elizabeth demurely. the name of augustus still had painful associations for mrs. pennington. she rose. "really we must be going," she said. at some future time she felt she might be able to meet mr. reynolds or waite, or whatever his name was, with equanimity, but now she was thankful to hear he had gone back to chicago for some papers. she received margaret elizabeth's farewell embrace languidly. "since there is such weight of authority in your favour, and matters have developed so strangely, there is nothing for me to say. i dislike mystery, and prefer to have things go on regularly and according to precedent. it is your welfare i have at heart." mr. pennington's good-by was different. "i don't wonder you like it down here, margaret elizabeth--this room, you know," he said. as they drove homeward mrs. pennington was engaged in mentally reconstructing affairs. "of course," she heard herself saying, "it was a disappointment to me, but romantic girls are not to be controlled by common-sense aunts, and really it might be worse." and she remarked aloud: "the fact that he is a nephew of general waite means something." "that's so," assented her husband. "something like half a million. old knight is determined to hand it all over." he smiled to himself, then added: "he came to see me--the young man, i mean. i liked him. he suggested rob a little without resembling him. very gentlemanly; nice eyes." chapter fifteen _in which the fairy godmother society is again mentioned, among other things_. "but it is really embarrassing when i had made up my mind to marry a poor candy man to have it turn out so. i rather liked defying common sense," said margaret elizabeth. the candy man had made a hurried journey to chicago, and was back before the rain was over, and while it was still cold enough for a fire, so that his old dream of sometime sitting by the little red chimney's hearth was coming true. margaret elizabeth in the blue dress, by request, though she declared it wasn't fit to be seen, occupied the ottoman, her elbows on her knees, the firelight playing in her bright hair. "it is the way it happens in fairy-tales," urged the candy man. "and i really couldn't help it." "of course you are right," she agreed. "as virginia's story runs, 'he turned into a prince, and because violetta had been true to him through thick and thin, he made her a princess.' anyhow, candy man, i'm glad i chose you before your good fortune came." "it was an extremely venturesome thing to do, girl of all others, as i have told you before, though immensely flattering to me. i have to take the money, there is no way out of it. i believe it would break our miser's heart if i refused. do you know what he was proposing to do before he found the book?" "what?" asked margaret elizabeth. "to adopt me. you see we had come to be pretty good friends last winter, and i think he suspected from the start that i had rather lofty aspirations for a candy man. in a little red chimney direction--you understand?" "perfectly--go on." "well, he saw us in the park----" "and his suspicions were confirmed, i suppose," put in margaret elizabeth, coolly. "exactly. and knowing from what i had told him previously that i had my fortune to seek, it occurred to him that as the channel he had been hoping for had been closed, the next best thing would be to make it possible for two young persons to----" "the dear old miser!" interrupted margaret elizabeth. "but why is he so unwilling to use the money himself? it is honestly his." "i may not fully understand, but i think from things he has said, that as a boy he was jealous of my father. this feeling would naturally make him, when it came to the test, not unwilling to believe in his guilt. then, being reticent and introspective, he magnified all this a thousandfold when the truth came out, and he realised he had profited by the unjust suspicion. by dwelling upon it he came to feel as if he had actually obtained the money himself by unfair means. but i am convinced that if he did encourage his uncle to believe in my father's guilt, it was because he firmly believed it himself. never since the facts were known has he regarded the money as his, and not until he had almost exhausted his own means in the effort to trace the rightful owner, as he regarded him, did he use a penny of it." "it is so touching to see his surprise and gratitude that i do not feel resentful toward him," added the candy man. "his joy at handing over this fortune is wonderful. he already looks a different man." "we must make it up to him in some way," said margaret elizabeth. "i mean for all these lonely years. speaking of money, i'll tell you what i have been thinking. when we build our house, as i suppose we shall some day, when we come back from our search for the archæologist----" "by all means. that is one mitigating circumstance. we can build a house," responded the candy man. "well, as i was going to say, we must have a little red chimney. the house will be broad and low," she extended her arms, "and with wings; i love wings. one of them shall have a little red chimney all its own. it shall stand for our ideals. if we should be tempted to a sort of life that separates us from our fellows, it will remind us, you, that you once sat in a candy wagon, me, that i fell in love with a candy man. and i'll tell you what, speaking of the miser. don't you remember? it was he you meant that day when we were talking about the fairy godmother society, and----" of course the candy man remembered. "then, let's organise and make him chief agent while we are gone. i know of a number of things to be done." "so do i," said the candy man. "there is my fellow lodger, the one i told you about, a teacher in the high school. he needs a real change this summer, he and his wife." "oh, i am sure we can work it out," cried margaret elizabeth. "i am sure we can," he assented. "you see it will begin where organised charity leaves off, of necessity. also where that can't possibly penetrate, and it will be singularly free, because secret." "again you sound like the minutes of the first meeting," said the candy man. "margaret elizabeth!" it was uncle bob's voice at the door. "i hate to disturb you, but that old bore at the club wants your father's address." "you aren't disturbing. come in and hear about the fairy godmother society." "you don't mean really?" uncle bob stood before the hearth and looked from his niece to the candy man. "indeed we do," she answered. "you see we have ten times as much money as we thought we had. so why not?" "quite correct, as we thought we hadn't any," murmured the candy man. uncle bob rubbed his hands in delight. "i told prue you'd do something of the sort; that you wouldn't just settle down to be ordinary rich people. but prue says riches bring caution." margaret elizabeth, going to her desk for the address, laughed. "we aren't going to forget our humble beginning," she said; "and we'll act quickly before we are inured to our new estate." "but then, you know, there is another side to it," her uncle interposed, in a sudden access of prudence. "you must consider the matter carefully with an eye to the future. for instance now, there may be heirs." a silence fell. the fire crackled, and the clock ticked with unusual distinctness. then margaret elizabeth spoke. "here's the address," she said. "i'll put it in your pocket, where you can't forget it." and as she tucked it in, she added, stoutly, with a lovely deepening of the colour in her cheek: "if there are, uncle bob, they will be fairy god-brothers and sisters, so it will be all right." it was after the door had closed upon uncle bob, and margaret elizabeth was back on her low seat again, that the candy man left his chair and sat on the rug beside her. "girl of all others, is there any one else in the world as happy as i?" he asked. margaret elizabeth smiled at him with eyes that answered the question before she spoke. then she said, slipping her hand into his, "one other." the end the city of delight a love drama of the siege and fall of jerusalem by elizabeth miller author of _the yoke_ and _saul of tarsus_ with illustrations by f.x. leyendecker indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers march [illustration] to my elder brother otto miller contents chapter page i a prince's bride ii on the road to jerusalem iii the shepherd of pella iv the travelers v by the wayside vi dawn in the hills vii imperial cæsar viii greek and jew ix the young titus x the story of a divine tragedy xi the house of offense xii the prince returns xiii a new pretender xiv the pride of amaryllis xv the image of jealousy xvi the spread net xvii the tangled web xviii in the sunless crypt xix the false prophet xx as the foam upon water xxi the faithful servant xxii vanished hopes xxiii the fulfilment xxiv the road to pella the city of delight chapter i a prince's bride the chief merchant of ascalon stood in the guest-chamber of his house. although it was a late winter day the old man was clad in the free white garments of a midsummer afternoon, for to the sorrow of philistia the cold season of the year sixty-nine had been warm, wet and miasmic. an old woman entering presently glanced at the closed windows of the apartment when she noted the flushed face of the merchant but she made no movement to have them opened. more than the warmth of the day was engaging the attention of the grave old man, and the woman, by dress and manner of equal rank with him, stood aside until he could give her a moment. his porter bowed at his side. "the servants of philip of tyre are without," he said. "shall they enter?" "they have come for the furnishings," costobarus answered. "take thou all the household but momus and hiram, and dismantle the rooms for them. begin in the library; then the sleeping-rooms; this chamber next; the kitchen last of all. send hiram to the stables to except three good camels from the herd for our use. let momus look to the baggage. where is keturah?" a woman servant hastening after a line of men bearing a great divan, picking up the draperies and pillows that had dropped, stopped and salaamed to her master. "is our apparel ready?" he asked. "prepared, master," was the response. "then send hither--" but at that moment a man-servant dressed in the garb of a physician hastened into the chamber. without awaiting the notice of his master he hurried up and whispered in his ear. costobarus' face grew instantly grave. "how near?" he asked anxiously. "in the next house--but a moment since. the household hath fled," was the low answer. "haste, haste!" costobarus cried to the rush of servants about him. "lose no time. we must be gone from this place before mid-afternoon. laodice! where is laodice?" he inquired. then his wife who had stood aside spoke. "she is not yet prepared," she explained unreadily. "she needs a frieze cloak--" costobarus broke in by beckoning his wife to one side, where the servants could not hear him say compassionately, "let there be no delay for small things, hannah. let us haste, for laodice is going on the lord's business." "a matter of a day only," hannah urged. "a delay that is further necessary, for aquila's horse is lame." the old man shook his head and looked away to see a man-servant stagger out under a load of splendid carpets. the old woman came close. "the wayside is ambushed and the wilderness is patrolled with danger, costobarus," she said. "of a certainty you will not take laodice out into a country perilous for caravans and armies!" "these very perils are the signs of the call of the hour," he maintained. "she dare not fail to respond. the deliverer cometh; every prophecy is fulfilled. rather rejoice that you have prepared your daughter for this great use. be glad that you have borne her." but in hannah's face wavered signs of another interpretation of these things. she broke in on him without the patience to wait until he had completed his sentence. "are they prophecies of hope which are fulfilled, or the words of the prophet of despair?" she insisted. "what saith daniel of this hour? did he not name it the abomination of desolation? said he not that the city and the sanctuary should be destroyed, that there should be a flood and that unto the end of the war desolations shall be determined? desolations, costobarus! and laodice is but a child and delicately reared!" "all these things may come to pass and not a hair of the heads of the chosen people be harmed," he assured her. "but laodice is too young to have part in the conflict of nations, the business of heaven and earth and the end of all things!" a courier strode into the hall and approached costobarus, saw that he was engaged in conversation and stopped. the merchant noted him and withdrew to read the message which the man carried. "a letter from philadelphus," he said over his shoulder, as he moved away from hannah. "he hath landed in cæsarea with his cousin julian of ephesus. he will proceed at once to jerusalem. we have no time to lose. ah, momus?" he spoke to a servant who had limped into the hall and stood waiting for his notice. he was the ruin of a man, physically powerful but as a tree wrecked by storm and grown strong again in spite of its mutilation. pestilence in years long past had attacked him and had left him dumb, distorted of feature, wry-necked and stiffened in the right leg and arm. his left arm, forced to double duty, had become tremendously muscular, his left hand unusually dexterous. much of his facial distortion was the result of his efforts to convey his ideas by expression and by his attempts to overcome the interference of his wry neck with the sweep of his vision. "whom have we in our party, momus?" costobarus asked. as the man made rapid, uncouth signs, the master interpreted. "keturah, hiram and aquila--and thou and i, momus. three camels, one of which is the beast of burden. good! aquila will ride a horse; ha! a horse in a party of camels--well, perhaps--if he were bought in ascalon. how? what? st--t! the physician told me even now. let none of the household know it--above all things not thy mistress!" the last sentence was delivered in a whisper in response to certain uneasy gestures the mute had made. the man bowed and withdrew. a second servitor now approached with papers which the merchant inspected and signed hastily with ink and stylus which the clerk bore. when this last item was disposed of, hannah was again at her husband's side. "costobarus," she whispered, "it is known that the east gate of the temple, which twenty levites can close only with effort, opened of itself in the sixth hour of the night!" "a sign that god reëntereth his house," the merchant explained. "a sign, o my husband, that the security of the holy house is dissolved of its own accord for the advantage of its enemies!" costobarus observed two huge ethiopians who appeared bewildered at the threshold of the unfamiliar interior, looking for the master of the house to tell them what to do. the merchant motioned toward a tall ebony case that stood against one of the walls and showed them that they were to carry it out. hannah continued: "and thou hast not forgotten that night when the priests at the pentecost, entering the inner court, were thrown down by the trembling of the temple and that a vast multitude, which they could not see, cried: 'let us go hence!' and that dreadful sunset which we watched and which all israel saw when armies were seen fighting in the skies and cities with toppling towers and rocking walls fell into red clouds and vanished!" "what of thyself, hannah?" he broke in. "art thou ready to depart for tyre? philip will leave to-morrow. do not delay him. go and prepare." but the woman rushed on to indiscretion, in her desperate intent to stop the journey to jerusalem at any cost. "but there are those of good repute here in ascalon, sober men and excellent women, who say that our hope for the branch of david is too late--that israel is come to judgment, this hour--for he is come and gone and we received him not!" costobarus turned upon her sharply. "what is this?" he demanded. "o my husband," she insisted hopefully, "it measures up with prophecy! and they who speak thus confidently say that he prophesied the end of the holy city, and that this is not the advent, but doom!" "it is the nazarene apostasy," he exclaimed in alarm, "alive though the power of rome and the diligence of the sanhedrim have striven to destroy it these forty years! now the poison hath entered mine own house!" a servant bowed within earshot. costobarus turned to him hastily. "philip of tyre," the attendant announced. "let him enter," costobarus said. "go, hannah; make laodice ready--preparations are almost complete; be not her obstacle." "but--but," she insisted with whitening lips, "i have not said that i believe all this. i only urge that, in view of this time of war, of contending prophecies and of all known peril, that we should keep her, who is our one ewe lamb, our tender flower, our rose of sharon, yet within shelter until the signs are manifest and the purpose of the lord god is made clear." he turned to her slowly. there was pain on his face, suffering that she knew her words had evoked and, more than that, a yearning to relent. she was ashamed and not hopeful, but her mother-love was stronger than her wifely pity. "must i command you, hannah?" he asked. her figure, drawn up with the intensity of her wishfulness, relaxed. her head drooped and slowly she turned away. costobarus looked after her and struggled with rising emotion. but the curtain dropped behind her and left him alone. a moment later the curtains over the arch parted and a middle-aged jew, richly habited, stood there. he raised his hand for the blessing of the threshold, then embraced costobarus with more warmth than ceremony. "what is this i hear?" he demanded with affectionate concern. "thou leavest ascalon for the peril of jerusalem?" "can jerusalem be more perilous than ascalon this hour?" costobarus asked. "yes, by our fathers!" philip declared. "nothing can be so bad as the condition of the holy city. but what has happened? three days ago thou wast as securely settled here as a barnacle on a shore-rock! to-day thou sendest me word: 'lo! the time long expected hath come; i go hence to jerusalem.' what is it, my brother?" "sit and listen." philip looked about him. the divan was there, stripped of its covering of fine rugs, but the room otherwise was without furniture. prepared for surprise, the tyrian let no sign of his curiosity escape him, and, sitting, leaned on his knees and waited. "philadelphus maccabaeus hath sent to me, bidding me send laodice to him--in jerusalem," costobarus said in a low voice. philip's eyes widened with sudden comprehension. "he hath returned!" he exclaimed in a whisper. for a time there was silence between the two old men, while they gazed at each other. then philip's manner became intensely confident. "i see!" he exclaimed again, in the same whisper. "the throne is empty! he means to possess it, now that agrippa hath abandoned it!" costobarus pressed his lips together and bowed his head emphatically. again there was silence. "think of it!" philip exclaimed presently. "i have done nothing else since his messenger arrived at daybreak. little, little, did i think when i married laodice to him, fourteen years ago, that the lad of ten and the little child of four might one day be king and queen over judea!" philip shook his head slowly and his gaze settled to the pavement. presently he drew in a long breath. "he is twenty-four," he began thoughtfully. "he has all the learning of the pagans, both of letters and of war; he--ah! but is he capable?" "he is the great-grandson of judas maccabaeus! that is enough! i have not seen him since the day he wedded laodice and left her to go to ephesus, but no man can change the blood of his fathers in him. and philip--he shall have no excuse to fail. he shall be moneyed; he shall be moneyed!" costobarus leaned toward his friend and with a sweep of his hand indicated the stripped room. it was a noble chamber. the stamp of the elegant simplicity of cyrus, the persian, was upon it. the ancient blue and white mosaics that had been laid by the parsee builder and the fretwork and twisted pillars were there, but the silky carpets, the censers and the chairs of fine woods were gone. costobarus looked steadily at the perplexed countenance of philip. "seest thou how much i believe in this youth?" he asked. a shade of uneasiness crossed philip's forehead. "thou art no longer young, costobarus," he said, "and disappointments go hard with us, at our age--especially, especially." "i shall not be disappointed," costobarus declared. the friendly jew looked doubtful. "the nation is in a sad state," he observed. "we have cause. the procurators have been of a nature with their patrons, the emperors. it is enough but to say that! but vespasian cæsar is another kind of man. he is tractable. young titus, who will succeed him, is well-named the darling of mankind. we could get much redress from these if we would be content with redress. but no! we must revert to the days of saul!" "yes; but they declare they will have no king but god; no commander but the messiah to come; no order but primitive impulse! but the maccabee will change all that! it is but the far swing of the first revolt. jerusalem is ready for reason at this hour, it is said." "yes," philip assented with a little more spirit. "it hath reached us, who have dealings with the east, that there is a better feeling in the city. such slaughter has been done there among the sadducees, such hordes of rebels from outlying subjugated towns have poured their license and violence in upon the safe city of delight, that the citizens of jerusalem actually look forward to the coming of titus as a deliverance from the afflictions which their own people have visited upon them." "the hour for the maccabee, indeed," costobarus ruminated. "and the hour for him whom we all expect," philip added in a low tone. costobarus bowed his head. presently he drew a scroll from the folds of his ample robe. "hear what philadelphus writes me: cæsarea, ii kal. jul. xx. to costobarus, greetings and these by messenger; i learn on arriving in this city that judea is in truth no man's country. wherefore it can be mine by cession or conquest. it is mine, however, by right. i shall possess it. i go hence to jerusalem. fail not to send my wife thither and her dowry. aquila, my emissary, will safely conduct her. trust him. proceed with despatch and husband the dowry of your daughter, since it is to be the corner-stone of a new israel. peace to you and yours. to my wife my affection and my loyalty. philadelphus maccabaeus. nota bene. julian of ephesus accompanies me. he is my cousin. he will in all probability meet your daughter at the gate. maccabaeus." slowly the old man rolled the writing. "he wastes no words," philip mused. "he writes as a siege-engine talks--without quarter." costobarus nodded. "so i am giving him two hundred talents," he said deliberately. "two hundred talents!" philip echoed. "and i summoned thee, philip, to say that in addition to my house and its goods, thou canst have my shipping, my trade, my caravans, which thou hast coveted so long at a price--at that price. i shall give laodice two hundred talents." "two hundred talents!" philip echoed again, somewhat taken aback. costobarus went to a cabinet on the wall and drew forth a shittim-wood case which he unlocked. therefrom he took a small casket and opened it. he then held it so that the sun, falling into it, set fire to a bed of loose gems mingled without care for kind or value--a heap of glowing color emitting sparks. "here are one hundred of the talents," costobarus said. a flash of understanding lighted philip's face not unmingled with the satisfaction of a shrewd jew who has pleased himself at business. one hundred talents, then, for the best establishment in five cities, in all the philistine country. but why? costobarus supplied the answer at that instant. "i would depart with my daughter by mid-afternoon," he said. "i doubt the counting houses; if i had known sooner--" philip began. "aquila arrived only this morning. i sent a messenger to you at once." philip rose. "we waste time in talk. i shall inform thee by messenger presently. god speed thee! my blessings on thy son-in-law and on thy daughter!" costobarus rose and took his friend's hand. "thou shalt have the portion of the wise-hearted man in this kingdom. and this yet further, my friend. if perchance the uncertainties of travel in this distressed land should prove disastrous and i should not return, i shall leave a widow here--" "and in that instance, be at peace. i am thy brother." costobarus pressed philip's hand. "farewell," he said; and philip embraced him and went forth. costobarus turned to one of his closed windows and thrust it open, for the influence of the spring sun had made itself felt in the past important hour for costobarus. noon stood beautiful and golden over the city. the sky was clean-washed and blue, and the surface of the mediterranean, glimpsed over white house-tops that dropped away toward the sea-front, was a wandering sheet of flashing silver. here and there were the ruins of the last year's warfare, but over the fallen walls of gray earth the charity of running vines and the new growth of the spring spread a beauty, both tender and compassionate. in such open spaces inner gardens were exposed and almond trees tossed their crowns of white bloom over pleached arbors of old grape-vines. here the mediterranean birds sang with poignant sweetness while the new-budded limbs of the oleanders tilted suddenly under their weight as they circled from covert to covert. but the energy of the young spring was alive only in the birds and the blossoming orchards. wherever the solid houses fronted in unbroken rows the passages between, there were no open windows, no carpets swung from latticed balconies; no buyers moved up the roofed-over street of bazaars. not in all the range of the old man's vision was to be seen a living human being. for the chief city of the philistine country ascalon was nerveless and still. at times immense and ponderous creaking sounded in the distance, as if a great rusted crane swung in the wind. again there were distant, voluminous flutterings, as if neglected and loosened sails flapped. idle roaming donkeys brayed and a dog shut up and forgotten in a compound barked incessantly. presently there came faint, far-off, failing cries that faded into silence. the jew's brow contracted but he did not move. from his position, he could see the port to the east packed with lifeless vessels. the stretches of stone wharf and the mole were vacant and littered with rubbish. the yard-arms of abandoned freighters were peculiarly beaded with tiny black shapes that moved from time to time. far out at sea, so far that a blue mist embraced its base and set its sails mysteriously afloat in air, a great galley, with all canvas crowded on, sped like a frightened bird past the port that had once been its haven. a strange compelling odor stole up from the city. costobarus glanced down into his garden below him. it was a terraced court, with vine-covered earthen retaining walls supporting each successive tier and terminating against a domed gate flanked on either side by a tall conical cypress. he noted, on the flagging of the walk leading by flights of steps down to the gate, a heap of garments with broad brown and yellow stripes. wondering at the untidiness of his gardener in leaving his tunic here while he worked, costobarus looked away toward the large stones that lay here and there in gutters and on grass-plots, remnants of the work of the roman catapults the previous summer. in the walls of houses were unrepaired breaches, where the wounds of the missiles showed. on a slight eminence overlooking the city from the west center-poles of native cedar which had supported roman tents were still standing. but no garrison was there now, though the signs of the savage roman obsession still lay on the remnants of the prostrate western wall. so as costobarus' gaze wandered he did not see far above that heap of striped garments in his garden walk, fixed like an enchanted thing, moveless, dead-calm, a great desert vulture poised in air. presently another and yet another materialized out of the blue, growing larger as they fell down to the level of their fellow. slowly the three swooped down over the heap on the garden walk. the tiny black shapes that beaded the yard-arms in port spread great wings and soared solemnly into ascalon. the three vultures dropped noiselessly on the pavement. cries began suddenly somewhere nearer and instantly the tremendous booming of a great oriental gong from the heathen quarters swept heavy floods of sound over the outcry and drowned it. the vultures flew up hastily and costobarus saw them for the first time. a chill rushed over him; revulsion of feeling showed vividly on his face. he shut the window. noon was high over ascalon and pestilence was cæsar within its walls. it was the penalty of warfare, the long black shadow that the passage of a great army casts upon a battling nation. physicians could not give it a name. it seized upon healthy victims, rent them, blasted them and cast them dead and distorted in their tracks, before help could reach them. it passed like fire on a high wind through whole countries and left behind it silence and feeding vultures. as costobarus turned from his window to pace up and down his chamber, hannah's argument came back to him with new energy. he felt with a kind of panic that his confident answer to her might have been wrong. when a girl appeared in the archway, he moved impulsively toward her, as if to retract the command that would send her out into this land that the lord had spoken against, but the strength and repose in her face communicated itself to him. above all other suggestions in her presence was that overpowering richness of oriental beauty which no other kind in the world may surpass in its appeal to the loves of men. enough of the roman stock in her line had given structural firmness and stature to a type which at her age would have developed weight and duskiness, but she was taller and more slender than the women of her race, and supple and alive and splendid. about her hips was knotted a silken scarf of red and white and green with long undulant fringes that added to the lithe grace in her movements. under it was a glistening garment of silver tissue that reached to the small ankles laced about by the ribbons of white sandals. for sleeves there were netted fringes through which the fine luster of her arms was visible. about her wrists, her throat and in her hair, heavy and shining black, were golden coins that marked her steps with stealthy tinkling. costobarus, in spite of the shock of doubt and fear in his brain, looked at her as if with the happy eyes of the astonished maccabee. in those full tender lips, in the slope of those black, silken brows, in the sparkling behind the dusky slumbrous eyes, there was all the fire and generosity and limitless charm that should make her lover's world a place of delight and perfume and music. "how is it with you, laodice?" he asked, faltering a little. "i am prepared, my father," she answered. "i commend your despatch. i would be gone within an hour." she bowed and costobarus regarded her with growing wistfulness. at this last moment his love was to become his obstacle, his fear for his child his one cowardice. "dost thou remember him?" he asked without preliminary. laodice answered as if the thought were first in her mind. "not at all; and yet, if i could remember him, i may not discover in the man of four-and-twenty anything of the lad of ten." "he may not have changed. there are such natures, and, as i recall him, his may well be one of these. his disposition from childhood to boyhood did not change. when i knew him in jerusalem, he was worthy the notice of a man. the manner he had there he bore with him to this, a smaller city, and hence to ephesus, a city of another kind. it was good to see him examine the world, reject this and that and look upon his choice proudly. he made the schools observe him, consider him. he did not enter them for alteration, nor was he shut up in a shell of self-satisfaction. he entered them as a citizen of the world and as an examiner of all philosophy. yet the world taught him nothing. it gave him merely the open school where regulation and atmosphere helped him to teach himself. o wife of a child, thou shalt not be ashamed of thy husband, man-grown!" "how is he favored?" she asked with the first maiden hesitation showing in the question. "he was slender and dark and promised to be tall. he was quick in movement, quick in temper, resourceful, aye, even shifty, i should say; stubborn, cold in heart, hard to please." "fit attributes for a king," she said, half to herself, "yet he will be no soft husband." costobarus looked away from her and was silent for a time. "daughter," he said finally, "thou hast learned indeed that thine is to be no luxurious life. in thy restrained heart there are no dreams. let not thy youth, when thou seest him, put obstacle in the way of thy duty. whether thou lovest him or lovest him not, he is thy husband, thy fellow in a great labor for god and for israel. remember the times and the portents and shut thine ears against selfish desire. thou seest judea. that which the lord hath uttered against it through the prophets has come to pass. abandon thy hopes in all save the son of god; forget thyself; prepare to give all and expect nothing but the coming of the king! for verily thou lookest over the edge of the world past the very end of time!" the solemn announcement of the advent by this white-bearded prophet should have discovered in her a very human and terrified girl. but it was no new tidings to her. since her earliest recollection she had heard it, expected it, contemplated it, till the magnitude and terror of it had been lost in its familiarity. she clasped her hands and dropped her eyes and her lips moved in a silent prayer. costobarus remained for a space sunk in glorified meditation. but presently he raised himself, with signs of his recent feeling showing on his face. "send hither thy mother; bid aquila and our servants stand here before me a little later." she bowed and withdrew. as she passed out a servant stepped aside to give her room and at a sign from his master approached. "a messenger from philip of tyre," he said. a moment later an old courier carrying a sheepskin wallet came into the chamber. he salaamed and produced a tablet which he handed to costobarus. herewith, o my brother, i send thee one hundred talents. may it prove part of the corner-stone of a new israel. peace to thee and thine! philip of tyre. costobarus looked up at the old courier. "take my blessings to thy master. may he come to a high seat in that new israel which he hath helped to build! farewell." the courier withdrew. when his footsteps died away the old merchant reached under the divan and drew forth the shittim-wood box. producing a key he unlocked and opened it. from his bosom he drew forth the letter from philadelphus and laid it within. "let her take it with her," he said, speaking aloud. "here," lifting a cylinder of old silver exquisitely chased, "are her marriage papers; this," lifting delicately embroidered squares of linen, "her marriage tokens, and here, her dowry." he opened the inner box and laid the sheepskin wallet in upon the gems. he closed the lid, and, locking the case, lifted it and set it beside him on the divan. when he looked up, he saw a man standing within a few paces of him and perfunctorily gazing at anything but the display of laodice's fortune. he was lean, muscular, somewhat younger than forty but already gray at the temples, of nervous temperament, direct of gaze and of attractive presence. he wore a tunic of gray wool bordered with red, and a gray mantle hung negligently from his shoulders. limbs and arms were bare and his head-covering of red wool hung from his arm. costobarus, a little discomfited that he had been surprised with laodice's dowry exposed, spoke briskly. "well, aquila? prepared?" "everything is in order. i am ready to proceed at once." "how many in your party?" "but myself." "have you ever been to jerusalem?" "never." "how, then," costobarus asked, with a keen look, "came philadelphus to appoint you to conduct laodice to the city?" "his retinue is small; he could not come himself, and he chose me as safer than the other member of his party," was the direct reply. costobarus studied this reply before he questioned his son-in-law's courier further. "jerusalem, they say, is in disorder. how will you get my daughter to shelter when you have reached the city?" "philadelphus hath instructed me that there will be a greek at the sun gate daily, awaiting us. he will wear a purple turban embroidered with a golden star. he will conduct us to the house of amaryllis the seleucid, who is pledged to the maccabee's cause. philadelphus will be in her house." "why hers?" costobarus persisted. "because it is the only secure house in jerusalem. she stands in the good graces of john of gischala and she is safe." costobarus ruminated. "there is too much detail; too many people to depend upon and therefore too many who may fail you. aquila!" "sir?" "i am going to jerusalem with you." he turned without waiting to see the effect of this speech upon the maccabee's courier and clapped his hands for an attendant. to the servitor who responded he said: "send hither our party. it is time. bring me my cloak." he looked then suddenly at aquila. the roman's face had cleared of its astonishment and discomfiture. "well enough," the courier said bluntly and closed his lips. the servitor reappeared with his master's cloak and kerchief. after him came keturah, the handmaiden, and hiram, a camel-driver, prepared for a journey. the mute momus presently appeared. costobarus got into his cloak without help, made inquiry for this detail and that of his business and of his journey, gave instruction to his attendants, and then asked for laodice. there was a moment of silence more distressed than embarrassed. momus dropped his eyes; keturah looked at her master with moving lips and sudden flushing of color, as if she were on the point of tears. aquila stared absently out of the arch beyond. costobarus glanced from one to the other of his company and then went toward the corridor to call his daughter. as he lifted the curtain, he started and stopped. [illustration: at her feet hannah knelt.] the lifted curtain had revealed laodice. at her feet hannah knelt, as if she had flung herself in her daughter's path, her arms clasping the young figure close to her and an agony of appeal stamped on her upraised face. the last of the rich color had died out of the girl's face and with pitiful eyes and quivering lips she was stroking the desperate hands that meant to keep her for ever. except for the sudden sobbing of the woman servant, tense and anguished silence prevailed. the old merchant was confronted with a perplexity that found him without fortitude to solve. he felt his strength slip from him. he, too, covered his face with his hands. at the opposite arch another house servant appeared, lifted a distorted, blackening face and, doubling like a wounded snake, fell upon the floor. a moment of stupefied silence in which hannah, with her mother instincts never so acutely alive, turned her strained vision upon the writhing figure. then shrieks broke from the lips of the serving-woman; the hall filled with panic. hannah leaped to her feet and thrust laodice toward her father. "away!" she cried. "the pestilence! the pestilence is upon us!" chapter ii on the road to jerusalem news of the appearance of the plague in the house of costobarus traveled fast after the death of the gardener, who had fallen in the open and in sight of the watchful inhabitants of ascalon. so by the time the house servants of the merchant were made aware of their peril by the death of one of their own number, philip of tyre with the courage of affection and loyalty stood on the threshold of the guest-chamber informed of the situation and prepared to help. hannah, supported by the tyrian's assurance of her rescue and protection, succeeded in urging costobarus and laodice not to delay for her to the peril of the thrice precious daughter. so with his house yet ringing with the first convulsion of terror costobarus ordered his party with all haste to the camels. keturah, laodice's handmaiden, had fainted with terror and was carried parcel-wise over the great arm of momus, the mute, out into the street and deposited summarily on the floor of laodice's bamboo howdah. the camel-driver, hiram, seemed only a little less stupefied than she. the mute, with a face as determined and threatening as an uplifted gad, drove him from the shelter of a dark corner out to his place on the neck of his master's camel. aquila, the emissary, showed the immemorial composure in the face of disaster that was the badge of the roman in the days of the degenerate cæsars, and, mounting his horse when the rest of the party were in their places, headed the procession toward the northeast. from an upper window behind a lattice, hannah cried her farewells and fluttered her scarf. she was smiling the drawn, white smile of a mother who is forcing herself to be cheerful in the face of danger, for the peace of those she loves. laodice understood the tender deception and when a sharp turn of the street cut off the sight of the plumy trees of the garden, she covered her face and wept inconsolably. on either side of the passage there came muffled sounds from houses; out of open alleys leading into interior courts stole the fetor of death that even the spice of burning unguents could not smother. the whole air shuddered with the drumming of heathen physicians in the pagan quarters, through which the silence of long stretches of ominously quiet houses shouted its meaning. at times frantic barefoot flights could be glimpsed as households deserted stricken houses, but whatever outcry arose came from bedsides. ascalon fled as a frightened animal flees, silently and under cover. they rode now through a shrieking wind, burdened with sallow smoke and dreadful odors. denser and denser the cloud grew till the streets ahead were hidden in yellow vapor and near-by houses loomed with dim outlines as if far off, and even the sounds of death and disaster became choked in the immense prevalence of smell. blinded, with scarf and kerchief wrapped over mouth and nostril, the fleeing party swept down upon the very heart of that stifling mystery. through it presently, as the houses thinned out, they saw cores of great heat surmounted by black-tipped flames that crackled savagely. momus, now in the lead, turned sharply to his right and the next instant had the wind behind him. almost involuntarily each member of the party looked back. outside the breach of the broken wall, standing clear to view with the wind from the hills sweeping townward from them, were diabolical figures, naked and black, feeding immense pyres with hideous fuel. past this grisly line, a camel with a single rider swept in from seaward. the traveler lifted an arm and signaled to the party. aquila seemed not to see this hail, and rode on; but costobarus, after the traveler motioned to them once more, spoke: "does not this person make signs to us, aquila?" the pagan looked back. "why should he?" he asked. "he can tell us," the master observed and spoke to momus and hiram, who drew up their camels. the traveler raced alongside. it was a woman, veiled and wrapped with all the jealous care of the east against the curious eyes of strangers. aquila took in her featureless presence with a single irritated look and apparently lost interest. "greeting, lady," costobarus said. "peace, sir, and greeting," she replied respectfully. her tones were marked with the deference of the serving-class and costobarus gave her permission to speak. "art thou a jew and master of this train?" she asked. costobarus assented. "i was journeying to jerusalem with a caravan of which my master was owner, but the romans came upon us and took every one prisoner, except myself. i escaped, but i am without protection and without friends. in jerusalem, i have relatives who will care for me, yet i fear to make the journey alone. i pray thee, with the generosity of a jew and the authority of a master, permit me to go in the protection of thy company!" costobarus reflected and while he hesitated he became aware that momus was looking at him with warning in his eyes. but laodice, so filled with loneliness and apprehension, was moved to sympathy for the solitary and friendless woman. she leaned toward her father and said in a low voice: "let her come with us, father; she is a woman and afraid." aquila heard that low petition and he flashed a look at the stranger that seemed reproachful. but costobarus was speaking. "ride with us, then, and be welcome," he said. the woman bowed her shawled head and murmured with emotion after a silence: "the blessings of a servant be upon you and yours; may the god of israel be with you for evermore." she dropped back to the rear of the party and the train moved on. meanwhile, keturah, who sat huddled on the floor of laodice's howdah, had not moved since they had left the doorway of costobarus' house. momus, on the neck of laodice's camel, had observed her once or twice, and now he reached back and touched her. he jerked his hand away and brought up his camel with a wrench. hiram, following close behind, by dint of main strength managed to avoid a collision with momus' beast so suddenly halted. the mute leaped down from his place and in an instant costobarus joined him. alarmed without understanding, laodice had risen and was drawn as far as she might from the serving-woman. momus, lifting himself by the stirrup, seized the stiff figure and laid it down upon the sands. aquila dismounted and the three men bent over the woman. then costobarus glanced up quickly at laodice, made a sign to momus, who, with a face devoid of expression, climbed back into his place on the neck of the camel. the strange woman who had stood her ground was heard to say in a low voice, half lost in the muffling of her wrappings: "one!" momus drove on leisurely and laodice, knowing that she must not look, slipped down in her place and wrapped her vitta over her face. pestilence was riding with them. after a long time, costobarus' camel ambled up beside hers, and she ventured to uncover her eyes. her father smiled at her with that same heart-breaking smile which her mother had for her in face of trouble. "the frosts! the frosts!" he whispered to momus, and the mute laid goad about his camel. aquila, seeing this haste, checked his horse's gait and fell back beside the strange woman. together they permitted the rest of the party to ride ahead, while they talked in voices too restrained to be heard. "there is pestilence in this company," aquila said angrily; "will that not persuade you to abandon this plan?" "no. when all of you are like to die and leave this great treasure sitting out in the wilderness without a guardian?" she said lightly. there was no trace of a servant's humility in her tone. "hast had the plague that thou seem'st to feel secure from it?" he demanded. "o no; then there would be no risk in this game. there is no sport in an unfair advantage over conditions. no! but how comes this costobarus with you?" "he would not trust his daughter and a dowry to me, alone." "how shall we get to emmaus, then?" she asked. "we shall not get to emmaus; so you must inform julian, who will expect us there," he declared. the woman played with the silken reins of her camel. behind her veil a sarcastic smile played about the corners of her mouth. aquila watched her resentfully, waiting with an immense reserve of caustic words for her refusal to accept the charge. "so, my mars of the gray temples, thou meanest in all faith to deliver up this lady and her treasure to julian?" "by those same gray temples, i do! and hold thy peace about my white hairs. nothing made them so but thyself--and this evil plot in which i am tangled. what does julian mean to do with this poor creature?" "he has not got her yet and by the complication thou seest now, wearing its turban over one ear in yonder howdah, it may come to pass that he will never have her--and her dowry." "pfui! how little you know this julian! besides, i am pledged to deliver him--at least the treasure." "and thou meanest to line his purse with this great treasure because he paid thee to do it?" "i shall; and be rid of it!" the woman smiled sarcastically. "and scorn it for thyself?" aquila made no answer, but rode on in sulky silence. "perpol, it must be pleasant to be a queen," the woman observed with an assumption of childishness in her voice. "peril's own habit!" aquila declared. "peril! fie! that is half the pleasure of this game of life. it is tiresome to live any other way than hazardously." "thou shalt have pleasure enough in this journey thou art to take," aquila declared a little threateningly. the woman laughed. when aquila spoke again, his voice was full of concern. "i was a fool for not forcing you to stay in ascalon. you are reckless--reckless!" "it was that which made me attractive," the woman broke in, "to nero, to vitellius and to you." "reckless and useless!" aquila went on decisively. "hear me, now; i trifle no longer. sometime to-night thou'lt leave us and journey to emmaus and inform julian what has wrecked his plans, and send him with despatch to zorah. this thou wilt do, by all the furies, or when i do catch thee as i shall, since there is no other fool in judea who will undertake to feed thee, i shall leave the print of my displeasure on thee from thy head to thy heel! mark me!" the woman laughed aloud, with such peculiar insolence and amusement that one of the servants heard her and turned his head that way. "pah! what a timid villain thou art," the woman said, when the servant looked away again. "how much better it would have been had julian fixed upon _me_ as his confederate!" "not for julian! you plot against him even now. but say what you will, you go to emmaus to-night, without fail. i have spoken!" aquila touched his horse and riding away from the woman came up beside costobarus who was gazing over the country through which they were passing. it was a great plain, advancing by benches and slopes to the edge of a rocky shore. without forests, spotted only with verdure, vast, barren, exhausted with the constant production of fourteen centuries, it was a cheerless sea-front at its best. to the west the wash of the tideless mediterranean tumbled along an unindented coast; to the east the sallow stony earth went up and up, toward an ever receding sallow horizon. between lay humbled towns, wholly abandoned to the bats and to the ignoble wild life of the judean wilderness. there were no sheep or cattle. vespasian had passed that way and required the flocks of the nation for the subsistence of his four legions. there were no olive or fig groves. they had been the first to fall under the roman ax, for the policy of roman warfare was that the first step in subduing a rebellious province was to starve it. the vineyards had suffered the same end. the enriched soil of these inclosures, made one now with the wild at the leveling of their hedges, produced acres of profitless weeds, green against the rising brown bosom of the hill-fronts. here and there were the fallen walls of isolated homes--wastes of masonry already losing all domestic signs. there were no gardens; it had been two seasons since the wheat and the barley had been reaped last, and the seaboard of southern judea, in the path of rome the destroyer, was a wilderness. over all this immense slope the eyes of costobarus wandered. however he had felt in the preceding days when he looked upon this ruin of the land of milk and honey, he realized now suddenly and in all its fearful actuality the predicament of judea, its despair and the gigantic travail before those who would save it from the united sentence passed upon it by god and the powers. immense dejection seized him. he looked from the face of the country, upon which not a single thing of profit showed, toward the bowed head and oppressed figure of his young and inexperienced daughter who was to put her tender self between ruin and its victim. chills, succeeded by flashes of fever, swept over him. he raised himself as if to give command to aquila but settled back under the canopy, grown immeasurably older and feebler in that moment of helpless surrender to conditions of which he had been part an artificer. it was not as if he had made an incautious move in a political game; it was, as it seemed to him undeniably then, that he had advanced against the lord god of hosts, and there was no turning back! he settled slowly into a stunned anguish that seemed to rise gradually, like a filling tide, shutting out the sunset and the seaboard, the bald earth and the streaming wind, and engulfing him in roaring darkness and intense cold. they were in sight of a cluster of syrian huts, the first inhabited village they had come upon since leaving ascalon, but he was not aware of it. the sudden halting of his camel and a hoarse strained cry at hand seemed to bear some relation to his condition, but he did not care. he felt his howdah lurch to one side as some one leaped up beside him; he felt remotely the great grasp of hands on him, which must have been momus'; the quick military voice of aquila he heard and then, keen and distinct as a call upon him, the sound of laodice's tones made sharp with terror. he opened his eyes and saw her, holding him in her arms. somewhere in the background were the faces of momus and aquila. between the pagan and the old servant passed a look that the old man caught. then he heard aquila say: "the village--his sole chance, if there is a physician there." laodice held him fast only for a moment, when it seemed that she was wrenched away. the dying man was glad. if this were pestilence, she should not come near. the hiss of the lash and the bound of the stung camel disturbed him but he lapsed into the immense cold again as they raced down the slight declivity toward the syrian village. but pestilence was riding with them and the odds were with it. but the dwellers of that little huddle of huts had nothing to do but to sit in their doorways and suspect. whatever came their way from the sea for many months had brought them disaster and long since they had learned to defend themselves. so now, when a party riding at breakneck speed, bearing with them an old man on whom the inertia of death was plain, came across the frontiers of their little town, they met them with the convenient stones of their rocky streets, with their savage, stark-ribbed dogs, with offal from kitchen heap and donkey stall and with insults and curses. "away, ye bringers of plague! out, lepers; be gone, ye unclean!" laodice and aquila who rode in the open were fair targets for half the hail that fell about them. the girl groaned as the missiles fell into the howdah upon the helpless shape of costobarus, who did not lift a hand to fend off the stones. the pagan, bruised and raging, drew his weapon and spurred his horse to ride down his assailants, but they scattered before him and from safe refuge continued their assault with redoubled determination. momus, seeing only injury in attempting to enforce hospitality, turned his camel and, swinging around the outermost limits of the settlement, fled. aquila followed him, and a moment later the rest of the party joined them. without the range of the village, the party halted. momus and aquila lifted costobarus down and laid him on a rug that laodice had spread for him. but when she would have knelt by him, he motioned to aquila not to permit her to approach. the mute stood by his master. in that countenance fast passing under shade was written charge and injunction as solemn as the darkness that approached him. "here, o faithful servant, is the wife of a prince, the daughter of thy master, the joy of thine own declining days. shield her against wrong and misfortune by all the strength that in thee lies, as thou hopest in the king to come and the reward of the steadfast. promise!" they were silent lips that once knew the art and the sound of speech. the old habit never entirely fell away from them. under this anguish they moved--fruitlessly; over the deformed face flitted the keen agony of regret; then he lifted his great left arm and bent it upward at the elbow; the huge, even monstrous muscles, knotted and kinked from shoulder to elbow, sank down under the broad barbarian bracelet of bronze and rippled under and rose again from elbow to wrist, ferocious, superhuman! in that movement the dying man read the mute's consecration of his one great strength to the protection of the tenderly loved laodice. costobarus motioned to the shittim-wood casket and momus undid it and strapped it on his own belt. "the frosts! the frosts!" the dying man whispered. the mute understood. then the father's eyes wandered toward the figure of his daughter fended away from him by the pagan. the agony of her suffering and the agony of his distress for her bridged the space between them. and while they yearned toward each other in a silence that quivered with pain, the light darkened in costobarus' eyes. when laodice came to herself, she was laid upon a spot of rough grass, in the shelter of an overhanging bluff. it was not the scene upon which her sorrow-stunned eyes had closed a while before. the village was nowhere in sight; the plain had been left behind; any further view was shut off by aquila's horse, and the two camels whose bridles were in the hands of hiram. beside the stricken girl knelt momus and aquila; standing at her feet was a new-comer, on whom her wandering and half-conscious gaze rested. he was an old man, clad in a short tunic, ragged of hem and girt about him with a rope. barefoot, bareheaded and provided only with a staff and a small wallet, he was to outward appearances little more than one of the legion of mendicants that infested the poverty-stricken land of judea. but his large eyes, under the tangle of wind-blown white hair and white shelving brows, were infinitely intelligent and refined. now, they beamed with pity and concern on the bereaved girl. but she forgot him the next instant, for returning consciousness brought back like a blow the memory of the death of her father. from time to time she caught snatches of conversation between the old wayfarer and aquila. they were spoken in low tones and only from time to time did they reach her. "he was costobarus, principal merchant of this coast," she heard aquila explain shortly. "i shall go on to ascalon; i do not fear," the old man said next. "i shall bring his people to fetch his body. i marked the spot. comfort her with that, when she can bear to talk of it." "we go to jerusalem," aquila went on, some time later, "else we should turn back with him ourselves. but we dare not risk the pestilence on her account, for it seems that she is very necessary to the jews at this hour--very necessary." "i follow to the holy city," the old wayfarer added at last. "the passover is celebrated there within two weeks. but i shall not fail; nothing will harm me." "what talisman do you carry to protect you?" the pagan asked a little irritably. "no talisman, but the love of jesus christ, the saviour!" "a christian!" aquila exclaimed. even through her stupor of grief and hopelessness, laodice heard this exclamation. here, then, was one of the nazarenes, that mysterious sect whose tenets she had never been permitted to hear; but also, she knew that the old apostate had braved the plague and had buried her father. she turned to look at him in time to see him extend his hands in blessing over her. "_the grace of the lord jesus christ and his comfort be with you, for ever; amen_. farewell." he was gone. momus raised her in his arms and, lifting her into her howdah, laid her tenderly on the improvised reclining seat that had been made of the chair therein. in a twinkling the whole party had mounted, and passed swiftly on toward jerusalem. as they moved forward, the strange woman murmured softly: "two!" laodice's camel mounted the slope toward the east and stretched away on a comparative level toward an immense white moon. aquila's horse kept up with the matchless speed of the tall camel only at times, and laodice, dully sensing that they were going at hot haste, realized that a race was on between them and the pestilence. momus was wielding the goad for a run to the frosts. a camel raced up beside aquila. "look!" the woman said to him in a lowered tone, showing back over the road by which they had come. aquila turned in his saddle and looked. momus rose in his seat and looked. behind them only one camel rocked along in their wake. the other and its driver had disappeared. "deserted!" aquila exclaimed under his breath. "three!" the woman said. "a pest on your counting for a charon's toll-taker!" aquila whispered savagely. "we will have no more of it!" "no?" the woman said with a meaning that made the pagan shiver. momus laid goad about his camel. the way continually ascended toward the east; the soil was no longer sandy, but rocky; no longer given up to desolate gardens, but black with groves of cedars and highland shrubs. they swung off a plateau that would have ended in a cliff, down a shaly sheep-path into a wady. under the moonlight, the bottom was seen to be scarred with marks of hoof and wheel. it debouched suddenly into a roman road, straight, level, magnificently built and running as a bird flies on to jerusalem. the camel's gait increased. momus settled himself in a securer position and laodice, careless of the outcome of this breathless hurry, yielded herself to the careen of her howdah. at times, her indifferent vision caught, through moonlit notches and gaps, glimpses of great blue vapors, crowned with pale fire and piled in glorious disorder low on the eastern horizon. they were the hills encompassing jerusalem. the stream of wind on her face cooled and drove stronger. aquila rode closer to her, his horse panting under the effort. his face looked strange and distressed. "lady," he said in low tones, "necessity forces me to speak to you in your grief; do not blame me for indifference to your desire to be alone. but we must care for you, though in your heart this moment you may resent a wish to live. but your father commanded me!" she gave him attention. "let us not carry peril with us," he added in a half-whisper. "let us not carry food for pestilence with us." "i do not understand," she answered, adopting his low tone. "the more we are, the more of us to die. you must live; i must live," he explained, nodding toward momus. after a little silence, she asked: "do we not ride toward the frosts?" "yes; but even now pestilence may ride on beside us--your servant and this woman. let us save ourselves." "abandon them?" she questioned. "lest they go on without us," he added. momus turned suddenly and gazed at aquila. then he imperiously signed the pagan to fall back. they rode on. the pagan slackened his horse's gallop and reined in beside the woman. they talked together, argumentatively, for a single tense minute and then aquila, with a bitter word, put spurs to his animal and dashed up beside laodice's camel. in his one uplifted hand a knife gleamed. the other reached toward the casket bound to momus' hip. laodice, raised to an upright attitude in her fresh fright, saw that his face was black and twisted and that he wavered stiffly in his saddle. but the mute did not await the attack. he seized the pagan's outstretched hands with that monstrous left and flung him backward. without an effort to save himself, falling rigidly and with a strange cry, aquila dropped back over his horse's crupper into the dust of the road. "momus!" laodice screamed. back of her the woman cried out: "on! on! it is the pestilence!" momus wielded his goad. laodice, shaking and crying aloud, looked back to see the strange woman swerve her camel past the dark shape lying with out-flung arms in the road and sweep quickly on after them. the scourge had overtaken aquila. all night the camels fled east, all night the soft footfall of the woman's beast pursued them; all night the wind freshened until laodice's bared face stiffened with the cold and the breath of the mute that sat upon her camel's neck steamed in the moonlight. up and up, by steep and winding wadies they mounted; under overhanging cliffs and past bald towers of hill-rock staring white in the moon, along black passes between brooding eminences of solid night, crowned with ghost-light; over high plateaus darkened with groves, down dales with singing, invisible streams running seaward and up again and on until the hills engulfed them wholly and those before were higher than any they had seen. then their flying beasts, leaving the roman road over which they had sped for some distance, followed a sheep-path and burst into an open immersed in moonlight. below in the distance was a cluster of huts, white and lifeless. but abroad, over the crisp grass and misty white on all the exposed slopes, sparkled the deep hoar frost! chapter iii the shepherd of pella momus drew up his camel. the woman who had followed halted. except for the hurried breathing of their beasts, a critical silence brooded over the moon-silvered wilderness. the moment was tense with the agony of human bitterness against the immitigable despatch of death. there could be no thanksgiving for their own safety from those who were not glad to be given life. laodice resented her preservation; old momus, aside from the wound of personal loss sore in his heart, was stricken with the realization of the grief of his young mistress, which he could not help. he did not raise his eyes to her face when he turned toward her; there was no speech. in the young woman's heart the pain was too great for her to venture expression safely. the silence was poignant with unnatural restraint. presently momus inquired of her by signs if she wished to go on to the lifeless village below the camp. she did not observe his gestures, and momus decided for her. he drove on and the woman, who had wrapped her cloak about her as the biting wind of the hills heightened through the narrow defiles to the north, followed. but almost the next instant momus drew up his mount so suddenly that laodice was roused. he turned and began to make rapid signs. laodice half rose as she read them and pressed her hands together. "seven days!" she exclaimed in dismay. there was silence. momus made the camel kneel. he dismounted slowly, and began to undo the tent-cloth in a roll beside the howdah. the woman rode up and instantly the mute stepped between her and his young mistress and went on with his work. laodice understood the question in the woman's attitude although, with true sense of an inferior's place, the stranger did not speak. "we are unclean," laodice said with effort. "we have come from a pestilential city and we have touched the dead. we can not enter a town with these defilements upon us, except to present ourselves to a priest for examination and separation. furthermore, we must burn our unessential belongings. if you are a jewess all these things are known to you." the woman extended her hands, palms upward, with a grace that was almost dainty. "lady," she said behind her unlifted veil, "i am an unlettered woman and have been accustomed to the instruction of my masters. i am obedient to the laws of our people." "you would have been in less peril to have ridden alone," laodice sighed. "our company has been no help to you." "we can not say that confidently. there are worse things than pestilence in the wilderness," the woman replied. momus seemed to observe more confidence than was natural in the ready answers of this professed servant, and before he would leave laodice to pitch camp, he helped her to alight and drew her with him. the woman remained on her mount. gathering up sticks, dead needles of cedar and last year's leaves, he made a fire upon which he heaped fuel till it lighted up the near-by slopes of the hills and roared jovially in the broad wind. it was a pocket in the heart of high hills into which they had fled. the bold, sure line of a roman road divided it, cutting tyrannically through the cowed hovels of the town as an arrow drives through a flock of pigeons. on either side were the dim shapes of great rocks and semi-recumbent cedars. retiring into shadow were the darker outlines of the surrounding circle of hills, rived by intervals of black night where wadies entered. from their summits the flying arch of the heavens sprang, printed with a few faint stars, but all silvered with the flood-light of a moon cold and pure as the frost itself. it was unsympathetic, aloof and wild--a cold place into which to bring broken hearts to assume banishment from the comfort and companionship of mankind. laodice slowly and with effort began to separate those belongings which were to be laid upon the fire from those which were too necessary to be burned. the woman alighted but, on offering to assist, was warned away from the girl with a menacing gesture of momus' great arm. the stranger drew herself up suddenly with a wrath that she hardly controlled but came no nearer laodice. when the girl finally finished her selection, the woman begged permission to attend to the camels and getting the beasts on their feet led them together to be tethered. laodice, assisted by momus, took up the condemned supplies and flung them one at a time upon the roaring fire. little by little, with growing reluctance, the heap of spare belongings was examined and condemned, until finally only the garments they wore, the tents that were to shelter them and the essential harness of the camels were left. then momus drew from his wallet a fragment of aromatic gum and cast it on the blaze. while it ignited and burned with great vapors of penetrating incense, he unstrapped the precious casket, set it down between his feet, stripped off his comfortable woolen tunic and passed it through the volumes of white smoke piling up from the fire. and while he stood thus a deft hand seized the casket from behind. there was a sharp, warning cry from laodice. the old man staggered only a moment from the tripping that the wrench gave him, but in that instant of hesitation the pillager vanished. the old mute shouted the infuriated, half-animal yell of the dumb and started in pursuit, but at his second step he saw the fleeter camel swing down the declivity, at top-speed, with the other trailing with difficulty at full length of its bridle behind. the next instant the muffled beat of the padded hooves drummed the solid bed of the roman road, and the shapes of camels and fugitive were lost in blue darkness beyond the town. there was no need for the pair left behind to await a realization of all that the loss meant to them. one running swiftly as a fine young creature can run when spurred by desperation, and the other, lamely but doggedly, as an old determined man, rushed down the rough side of the slope, leaped into the roadway and ran irrationally after the fugitive mounted upon a camel, fleeter than the fastest horse. momus saw with fear that laodice on this straight inviting road would out-distance him to her peril. he shouted inarticulately after her, but her reply came back, high with desperation and terror. "the corner-stone of israel! all his treasure! god's portion, lost, lost!" she was out of his sight. the sudden barking of dogs told him that she had crossed the outskirts of the village, and groaning with alarm for her the old man stumbled on after her. he saw lights flash out; heard shouts, and out of the confusion distinguished laodice's, vehement and urging. the yapping of the town curs became less threatening and, by the time momus reached the settlement, half-dressed jews were hurrying east out of the village after the flying feet of the girl, in pursuit of the robber. for unmeasured time, while the moon crossed its meridian and sloped down the west, the search continued. momus did not overtake the fleet-footed party that preceded him. stragglers that lost interest dropped back with him from time to time; but finding him dumb and immensely distressed, they disappeared eventually and returned to the town. one by one, at times by twos and threes the party dropped off. the three or four who remained helpful continued against hope, for simple pity for the girl. but when she dropped suddenly by the wayside, exhausted with the strain of many troubles, they stopped to tell her that the chase was fruitless and to offer their rough condolences. then momus hobbled up to them. laodice refused to raise her head to listen to them and they turned to the old man. but by signs, he showed them that his tongue was dead, and finally, with suppressed remarks upon the exceeding misfortune of the pair, they, too, disappeared. a thoughtful one invited them to return to the village. laodice, careless now of what he should think of his exposure to pestilence, told him bluntly that they were unclean. hastily he exclaimed at the sum of their troubles, hastily blessed them, and hastily departed. there was a pallor along the under-rim of the east; the wind freshened with the sweet vigor of early morning. over the stunned silence came the sound of the infinite trotting of tiny hooves and a high, wild, youthful yell. laodice, too worn to observe, sat still; but momus, with a rush of old fairy-tales in mind, sprang to her side and seized her arm. his alarmed eyes searched the dark landscape for whatever visitation it had to reveal. there was the rush of countless hoof-beats and a low cloud of dust obscured the crest of the hill just above them. the soft tremolo of multitudinous bleating came out of it. the quick excited bark of a fresh natolian sheep-dog wakened an echo in one of the ravines through a hill on the opposite side of the road, while strong and insistent and happy the young cry preceded this sudden animation in the wilderness. there was a fall of gravel on the slope over their heads and the next instant a fourteen-year-old boy descended upon the pair in a fall of earth, his sandaled feet planted one ahead of the other, his bare arms thrown above his head as he balanced himself, his long, stiff, crinkled black locks blowing backward, his face bright with the eager enjoyment of his simple feat. after him came a veritable avalanche of syrian sheep, scrambling to right and left as they parted behind momus and laodice and eddying around the young shepherd who stopped at seeing the pair. his yell died away at once, though the effort of sliding down a frozen, rocky slope had not interfered with a single note. he might well have been a young satyr, fresh from the groves of achaia, with his big, serious mouth and its range of glittering teeth, his shining deer-like eyes, wide apart, his faun curls low on his forehead, his big head set on a short neck, his shoulders yet childish, his slim brown body half smothered in skins, half bare as he was born, his large hard hand gripping a crook of horn and wood. his gaze at momus was frank with boyish curiosity. his bright eyes plainly remarked on the oddity of the old servant's appearance. having catalogued old momus as worthy of further inspection, he looked then at laodice. under the lowering moon and the listless effort of coming day, her unmantled dress of silver tissue made of her a moon-spirit, banished out of her world of pallor and solitude. before her splendid young beauty, pale with distress and weariness, he was not abashed. his simple eyes studied her with equal frankness, but with an admiration beyond words. feeling somehow that his sudden appearance might have distressed her, he said finally: "go on, lady, or stay as it pleases you. i will not hurt you." momus' shoulders submerged his ears in an indignant shrug. that this young calf of the pastures should insure him safe passage! but laodice was still filled with the calamity of her loss. "hast seen a robber, here, along this road?" she asked. "many of them," was the prompt answer. "with a chest of jewels?" the boy shook his head. "i never examined their booty," he said with perfect respect. "or then a woman riding one camel and leading another?" "never anything like that." laodice, with this hope gone, let her face fall into her hands. "his fortune given freely to israel," she groaned. "his whole life's ambition reduced to material form for the help of his brethren--gone, gone!" the shepherd grew instantly distressed. he looked at momus and asked in a whisper what had happened. but the old servant signed to his lips irritably, and stroked his young mistress' hair in a dumb effort to comfort her. the silence grew painful. in his anxiety to relieve them, he bethought him of their uncovered heads and houseless state. "do you live in the village; or do you camp near by?" momus shook his head. laodice appreciated the boy's concern for them but could not make an attempt to explain. "then," he offered promptly, "come have my fire and my rock. it is the best rock in all these hills; and my tent," he added, showing the skins that wrapped him. "i wear my tent; it saves my carrying it. indeed i do not need it; you may have it. come!" he spoke hurriedly, as if he would thrust his desire to comfort between her and the wave of disconsolation that he felt was about to cover her. old momus, sensibly accepting the boy's suggestion as the wisest course, raised laodice and motioning the shepherd to lead on, led his young mistress up the hill as the boy retraced his steps. the flood of syrian sheep turned back with him and followed bleating between the urging of the sheep-dog, as the boy climbed. on a slope to the west as a wady bent upon itself abruptly before it debouched upon the hillside, there was a deep glow illuminating a space in the depression. the shepherd dropped down out of sight. his voice came over the shuffle and bleat of the sheep. "follow me; this is my house." momus led his mistress over to the wady. there the shepherd with uplifted hands helped her down with the superior courtesy of a householder offering hospitality. there was a red circle of fire in the sandy bottom of the dry wady, and beside it was a flat boulder at the foot of which were prints of the shepherd's sandals and, on the bank behind it, the mark where his shoulders had comfortably rested. he made no apology for the poverty of his entertainment; he had never known anything better. "now, brother," he said busily to momus, "if thou'lt lend me of thy height, thou shalt have of my agility and we will set up a douar for the lady." with frank composure he stripped off the burden of skins that covered him until he stood forth in a single hide of wool, with a tumble of sheep pelts at his feet. in each one was a thorn preserved for use and with these he pinned them all together, scrambled out on the bank, emitting his startling cry at the sheep that obstructed his path. from above he shouted down to momus. "stretch it, brother, over thy head. i shall pin it down with stones on either side. now, unless some jackal dislodges these weights before morning, ye will be safe covered from the cold. there! god never made a man till he prepared him a cave to sleep under! i've never slept in the open, yet. how is it with thee now, lady?" he was down again before her with the red light of the great bed of coals illuminating him with a glow that was almost an expression of his charity. she saw that he had the straight serious features of the ishmaelite, but lacked the fierce yet wondering gaze of the arab. aside from these superior indications in his face there was nothing to separate him from any other shepherd that ranged the mountainous pastures of palestine. she, who all her life had never known anything but to expect the tenderest of ministrations, was humbly surprised and grateful at the free-handed generosity of the young stranger. momus looked at him with grudging approval. "it is kindly shelter," she said finally with effort, "and it is warm. you are very good to us!" "but you have not eaten of my salt," he declared. momus showed interest. it had been long since the last meal in the luxurious house of costobarus. the boy in the meantime produced unleavened loaves from the carry-all of sheepskin that hung over his shoulders, and without explanation disappeared among his flock. presently he returned with a small skin of milk. "we have goats in the flock," he said. "a shepherd can not live without a goat. you do not know about shepherds," he added. laodice thought that she detected tactful inquiry in his last remark and roused herself painfully to make due explanations to her host. but he waved his hands at her, with the desert-man's courtesy which covers fine points better than the greater ones. "eat my fare; i do not purchase thy history with salt and shelter," he said, with a certain sublimity of honor. momus ate, and looked with growing grace at his young host. but laodice succeeded only in drinking the goat's milk and lapsed into benumbed gazing at the red glow of fire that cast its warmth about her. the shepherd talked on, attempting to interest her in something other than her consuming sorrow. "these be christian sheep about you, friends," he said, "and i am a christian shepherd." momus sat up suddenly with a bit of the boy's bread arrested on its way to his lips. he was eating the fare of an apostate, of a despised nazarene. the boy went on composedly. "we are from pella, the christian city. we are, my sheep, my city and i, the only secure people in all judea. we, i and the sheep, have been in the hills since the first new grass in february. we are many leagues from home." "so am i," laodice said wearily. "jerusalem?" the shepherd asked, glad he had brought out a response. "no? yet all judea is going to jerusalem at this time. are you fugitives?" momus nodded. "come then to pella," the shepherd urged. "you will be fed there; titus will not come there. we are poor but we are happy--and we are safe." laodice thanked him so inertly that he sensed her disinterest, and while he sat looking at her, searching his heart for something kind to say, she put out her hand impulsively and took his. "god keep thee and forget thy heresy," she said. "if thou livest in pella, pella is indeed happy." he laughed with a flush stealing up under the brown of his cheeks. a faint light came into laodice's eyes as she looked at him; he returned her gaze with a gradual softening that was intensely complimentary. between the two was effected instant and lasting fellowship. before momus' indignant eyes the shepherd was blushing happily. "who art thou?" laodice asked. "they call me joseph, son of thomas." after a silence she said softly, "i am not at liberty to tell my name." she remembered the secrecy of philadelphus' mission. "yet perchance if the god of my fathers prosper me and my husband, i may come to pella--as thy queen." the boy's eyes brightened and he drew in a sharp breath, but almost instantly the animation died and he looked at her sorrowfully. it seemed that she read dissent and sympathy commingled in his gaze. but he was a christian; he could not believe and hope as she hoped. "can i do aught for you?" he asked disjointedly. "our duty is rather toward you, child," she answered, suddenly arousing to the peril they might bring their free-handed host. "we have newly come from a country where there is pestilence." but he smiled down on her uplifted face, with immense confidence. "i am not afraid. besides, if i perish giving you comfort, i have done only as jesus would have me do." "who is jesus?" laodice asked. the shepherd made a little sign and bent his knee. "the christ!" he responded. momus plucked quickly at laodice's sleeve and shook his head at her in an admonitory manner. he had laid down his bread unfinished. but the shepherd looked at him sympathetically. "never fear," he said. "it will not hurt her to hear about him. he makes pella safe from armies. let her come there and see for herself." laodice pressed his hand. "i shall come," she said. he heaved a contented sigh--contented with himself, contented with her promise to come. then he drew his hands away. "the sheep are noisy; they will not let you sleep. we shall go." then as if afraid of her thanks he drew away, and halted at the threshold of the shelter. then the boy extended his hands with a gesture so solemn that both of his guests bowed their heads instinctively. "_the grace of our lord jesus christ be with you for evermore_. farewell," he said in a half-whisper. he was gone. presently the rush of little feet swept after him and his high, wild, youthful yell rang faintly in the distance. the delicate crackling from the heated bed of coals was all that was heard in the sheltered wady roofed with skins. for the second time within the past few hours, laodice had met a christian. both had helped her; both had blessed her. and one was an old man and one was a child. the interest of the recent interview and the excitement of the night slowly died away, leaving laodice in the dead hopelessness of weary despair. she lay down suddenly with her face against the warmed sand and wept. momus sat down beside her, covered her with a leopard skin taken from his own swarthy shoulders, and soothed her with awkward touches on cheek and hair, till her tears exhausted her and she slept. stealthily then the old man rolled up her own mantle and put it under her head and prepared to watch. and then as he sat with his knee drawn up, his head bowed upon it, the weakness of slumber gradually stole away his watchfulness and his concern. some time later, before the deliberate dawn of a march day had put out the last of the greater stars, two men on horses descended the declivity just above the shelter of sheepskins and attracted by the dull glow of the fire drew up cautiously. at a word from one of the men, the other alighted and, peering from the shelter of a prostrate cedar, inspected the pair. after assuring himself that there were but two about the camp, one a woman and both asleep, he tiptoed back to his fellow. "only a man and a woman," he said. "jews on their way to the passover. their fire is almost out. let us ride on." "what haste!" the one who had kept his saddle said. "one would think it were you going forward to meet a bride and her dowry! i am hungry. let us borrow of this fire and get breakfast." "emmaus is only a little farther on," the first man protested. "i am tired of wayside meals, philadelphus. i would eat at a khan again before i forget the custom." "how is the pair favored?" the other said provokingly. "i did not approach near enough," the other retorted. "it seemed to be an old man and a girl." "pretty?" the one called philadelphus asked. "i did not see." "married, julian?" "how could i tell?" julian flared. philadelphus laughed, and dismounted. "i shall see for myself," he declared, walking over to the sheltering cedar to look. julian followed him nervously, saying under his breath: "you waste time deliberately!" "tut! you merely wish to keep me from seeing this girl," philadelphus retorted. he, too, stopped at the prostrate cedar and gazed under the sagging shelter of skins. "shade of helen!" he exclaimed under his breath as the firelight gave him perfect view of the sleeping girl. "what have we here?" julian made no response. he drew nearer and looked in silence. "now what are they to each other?" philadelphus continued. "father and daughter; lady and servant or--a courtezan and her manager?" at the continued silence of his companion, he argued his question himself. "no such ill-fashioned peasant loins as his ever begat such sweet patrician perfection as that!" he declared. "and a lady rich enough to have one servant would travel with more than one or not at all--" julian broke in with sudden avid interest. "look at that deal of feminine flummery--that dress of silver tissue, the ends of that silken scarf you see below the covering--all those jewels and trinkets! odd garb for travel afoot, is it not? it is a badge not to be put off even in as barren a market as this. she is going to jerusalem for the passover. he will carry the purse, however, mark me." "how well you know the marks of delinquency!" philadelphus said with a glimmer of resentment in his eyes. "who does not? what do the jewish psalmists and proverbialists and purists depict so minutely as that migrating iniquity, the strange woman?" "but look at her!" philadelphus insisted. "i have not seen anything so bewitching since i left ephesus!" "no; nor a long time before!" julian declared. "i must have a nearer look." "careful! you will wake her!" julian's face showed a sneer at his companion's concern. "i'll have a care not to wake the old boeotian," he said. he stepped between laodice and her sleeping servant. the mute with the stupor of slumber further to disable his dulled hearing, did not move. "young!" philadelphus exclaimed in a whisper. "and new to the life!" "pfui!" julian scoffed. "sleep makes even venus look innocent!" "then this is the most innocent wickedness i have seen in months!" "so you catalogue innocence as a charm! it's not here. but if she had no beauty but that eyelash i'd be speared upon it!" philadelphus turned toward the old servant plunged in the exhausted sleep of weary age. "thou grizzled nightmare!" he exclaimed vindictively. he glanced again at the girl. julian had knelt beside her. between the two men passed a look that was mutually understood. "remember," julian whispered, "you are a married man." philadelphus paled suddenly with anger as the intent of his companion dawned upon him, but he put off his temper shrewdly. "and so approaching a time when wayside beauties will no longer be free to me," he said, cutting off his fellow in the beginning of his preëmption. "and you have a long freedom before you." there was so much challenge in his manner that julian accepted it. he reached into his tunic and drew forth a pair of dice. "we will play for her," he said. the maccabee put the tesserae aside. "we will not use them," he said. "i know them to be cogged. let us have the judgment of a coin." a bronze coin of agrippa was produced. julian in getting at his purse brushed against the sleeping girl and as the pair glanced at her before they tossed, her large eyes opened full in julian's face. a moment, almost breathless for the two, and terror flared up in her eyes. she started up, but julian's hand dropped on her. "peace, phryne!" he said. she shrank from his touch, literally into the arms upon which philadelphus rested his weight. she looked up into his eyes, and saw them soften with a smile, and moved no farther. philadelphus took the coin. "let vespasian decide for me," he said. "for me fortunatus," said julian. philadelphus filliped the coin and flung out a strong and fending hand against his fellow covering it. under the brightening day, the lowering profile of the old plebeian emperor vespasian showed distinctly on the newly minted bronze. julian made a sharp menacing sound, and with clenched hands rose on his knees. but philadelphus looked at him steadily, half-amused at the implied threat, half-inviting its fulfilment, and under his gaze, julian rose slowly and drew away. philadelphus tossed the coin after him. his cousin picked it up and put it in his purse. [illustration: philadelphus looked down upon his prize.] philadelphus looked down at his prize. she had not flinched from him when she had found him beside her, with julian threatening her. but now her wide open eyes fixed upon his brimmed with an agony of appeal. innocent of the world's wickedness, she could only sense supreme peril in this mysterious game without understanding the stake. momus was not in sight--dead for all she knew--and the desert was an ally against her. over her, now, bent a face characteristic of a great spirit, yet one which was coeval with the times--times of violence and the supremacy of force. his lips were thin, the contour of his face angular at the jaw, the nose straight and long, his brows black and low over dark blue eyes of a fathomless depth, the forehead strongly molded, and marked with deep perpendicular lines between the eyes. he was dark, heavy-haired, young, lean, broad and of fine height even as he knelt beside her. laodice did not note any of these things. she was only conscious of the immense power her terror and her helplessness had to combat. back of all this iron selfishness, she hoped that somewhere was a gentleness, even if inert and useless. all her strength was concentrated in the effort to bring it to life. he gazed at her, apparently unconscious of the desperation in the face lifted to him. the slow smile that presently grew again in his eyes was none the less unthoughted. he slipped his hand under a strand of her rich hair that had fallen and drew it out, slowly, at full length. slowly his eyes followed it as inch by inch it slipped through his fingers. old memories seemed to struggle to the surface; old tendernesses; recollection of pure hours and holy things; paganism dropped from him like a husk and the spiritual hauteur of a jew brought the expression of the unhumbled house of judah into his face. through a notch in the hills a golden beam shot from the sun and penetrating this inwalled valley lay like an illuminating fire on the man's face and glorified it. laodice's breath stopped. slowly his fingers slipped along the fine silken length of that shining strand until his arm extended to the full; and the end of the lock yet rested on her breast. thus might have been the hair of that rahab, who was no less a patriot because she was frail; thus, the hair of bathsheba, who was the mother of the wisest israelite though she sinned; thus the hair of that mother of samson, who slew armies single-handed! badge of judah, mark of the haughty strength of the oldest enlightenment in the world! he would not initiate his succor of israel with violence against its purest type. he smiled slowly; slowly let the strand fall through his fingers. he looked into her eyes and she saw a sudden light immeasurably compassionate and tender grow there. a weakness swept over her; she felt that she had been longing for that light. then he rose quickly and moved away. old momus, the mute, with his head on his knees slept on. julian, who had been halted involuntarily by the attitude of his companion and had been an amazed witness of this extraordinary end of the incident, looked at philadelphus' face in frank stupefaction. but philadelphus laid a hand so forceful and compelling on his companion's shoulder that it left the pink print of his fingers on the flesh, turned him toward the horses and led him away. "we will breakfast farther on," he said. a moment and they were swinging down the stony side of the hill toward the east, and laodice, with her hand clutching her excited heart, had not thought of flinging herself upon momus. she raised herself gradually to watch them as far as she could see, and her fixed and stunned gaze rested with immense homesickness and longing on the taller man radiant against the background of a risen sun. chapter iv the travelers the maccabee rode on, unconscious of julian's critical gaze. the smile on his lips flickered now brightly, now very faint. the incident in the hills had not made him entirely happy, but it had awakened in him something which was latent in him, something which he had never felt before, but which held a sweet familiarity that the blood of his fathers in him had recognized. julian was intensely disgusted and disappointed. but there was still a sensation of shock on his shoulder where the maccabee's iron hand had rested and his famous caution stood him in stead at this moment when a quarrel with such intense and executive earnestness in his companion's manner might prove disastrous. if quarrel they must before they reached emmaus, now but a few leagues east of them, he must insure himself against defeat much less likely to be suffered from a man reluctant to quarrel. he had been hunting for a pretext ever since they had left cæsarea, but this one, suddenly opened to him, startled him. he admitted now that it would not be wise to force a fight. whatever must be done should be done with least danger to himself. it were better, he believed, to allay suspicion. he spoke. "how far is it to jerusalem?" "about eighty furlongs." "then if we continue, we shall approach the gates after nightfall." "we shall not continue," philadelphus remarked. "we shall halt at emmaus." "do you think it would be better for us to camp here in the hills rather than to stop without the walls of jerusalem between the city forces and the winter garrison of titus and await the opening of the gates?" julian asked after thought. "we shall wait in emmaus," the maccabee repeated, his soul too filled with dream to note the change in his companion's manner. "you have already lost three days," julian charged him irritably. "jerusalem may be besieged; it may be long before i can ride in the wilderness again," the maccabee answered. "right; your next journey through this place may be afoot--at the end of a chain," julian averred. the maccabee raised his brows. "losing courage at the last end of the journey?" he inquired. "no! i never have believed in this project," julian declared. "why?" "who believes in the prospects of a man determined to leap into hades?" but the maccabee was already riding on with his head lifted, his eyes set upon the blue shadows on the western slopes of hills, lifted against the early morning sun. julian went on. "you go, cousin, on a mission mad enough to measure up with the antics of the frantic citizens of jerusalem. it will not be even a glorious defeat. you will be swallowed up in an immense calamity too tremendous to offer publicity to so infinitesimal a detail as the death of one philadelphus maccabaeus. agrippa has deserted the city and when a herod lets go of his own, his own is not worth the holding. the city is torn between factions as implacable as the sea and the land. the conservatives are either dead or fled; pillage and disorder are the main motives of all that are left. and titus advances with four legions. what can you hope for this mob of crazed jews?" julian's words had been more lively than the maccabee had expected. he was obliged to give attention before his kinsman made an end. "you are fond of summaries, julian," he said, "dealt in your own coin. look you, now, at my hope. you confess that these jews lack a leader. they have lacked him so long that they hunger and thirst for one. also they have suffered the distresses of disorder so intensely that peace in any form is most welcome to them. titus approacheth reluctantly. he had rather deliver jerusalem than besiege it. i am of the loved and dethroned maccabaean line--acceptable to every faction of jewry, from the essenes to the sicarii. titus is my friend, unless he suspects me as coming to undermine his better friend, the pretty herod. i shall help jerusalem help herself; i shall make peace with rome; i shall be king of the jews!--behold, is not my summary as practical as yours?" julian laughed with an amusement that had a ring of contempt in it. "there is naught to keep an astronomer from planning a rearrangement of the stars," he said. but the maccabee rode on calmly. julian sighed. after a while he spoke. "well, how do you proceed? you tell me that these very visionaries whom you would succor have never laid eyes on you. what marks you as royal--as a sprig of the great, just and dead maccabee?" "i bear proofs, roman documents of my family and of my birth. certain of my party are already organized in jerusalem and are expecting me, and i wear the maccabaean signet. is not that enough?" "nothing of it worth the security of private citizenship and a whole head!" "no? not when there is a dowry of two hundred talents awaiting my courage to come and get it?" "ha! that wife! but will you enter that sure death for a woman you do not know?" "and for a fortune i have not possessed and for a kingdom that i never owned." "she will not be there! old costobarus is not so mired in folly as to send his daughter into the pit to provide you with money to--pay charon." "aquila sent me a messenger at cæsarea," philadelphus continued calmly, "saying that costobarus was transfigured when he had my summons. he feels that his god has been good to him to choose his daughter to share the throne of judea. hence, by this time my lady awaits me in jerusalem." again julian sighed. "and there is none in jerusalem who knows your face?" he asked after a silence. "none, except amaryllis, and she has not seen me since i was sixteen years old." "and there also is an obstacle which i had forgotten to enumerate," julian said argumentatively. "you have put your trust in a frail woman." "amaryllis may be frail," the maccabee admitted, "but she is sufficiently manly to have all that you and i demand of a man to put faith in him. she is a good companion and she will not lie." "impossible! she is a woman!" julian exclaimed. "even then," the maccabee returned patiently, "her own ambition safeguards me. she can not succeed except as i am successful, and her purposes are of another kind than mine. she helps herself when she helps me. therefore i am depending on her selfishness. it is usually a dependable thing." "what does she want?" "the old classic times of the _heterae_ in greece. she wants to be the pioneer of art in jerusalem. it is a fertile and a neglected field. she had rather be known as the mother of refinement in judea than as the queen of kings over the world." "a modest ambition!" "a great one. how many monarchs are forgotten while aspasia is remembered! who were the reigning kings during sappho's time?" "but go on. you repose much on her influence. perhaps she has the will but not the power to help you." "power! she is the mistress of john of gischala and actual potentate over jerusalem at this hour." "unless simon bar gioras hath taken the upper hand within the last few days. remember the fortunes of factionists are ephemeral." philadelphus jingled his harness. he was sorry that he had permitted this discussion. now its continuance was particularly irritating, when he had rather think of something else. he was near jerusalem; but he was not going forward, now, with the same eagerness, nor with the same enthusiasm for his cause. the incident in the hills had marked the change in him. it was not, then, with a patient tongue that he defended his intentions, which had grown less inviting in the last hour. "how little your wife will enjoy her," julian's smooth voice broke in once more, "seeing that the frail one is lovely." "i do not know that she is lovely." "what!" julian exclaimed in genuine amazement. "you do not know that she is lovely! years of correspondence with a woman whom you do not know to be lovely! reposing kingdoms on a woman's influence whom you do not know to be beautiful!" "beauty is no tie," the maccabee retorted. "have you forgotten salome, the jewish actress who could play aphrodite in the theaters of ephesus, to the confusion of the goddess herself? they said she snared three procurators and an emperor at one performance and lost them in a day!" "have you seen her?" julian asked with a sidelong glance. "till your own eyes prove it, you should not accept that she is so bewitching." "there is no need that i should see her; aquila swears it! and i would take his word against the testimony of even mine own eyes." julian looked up in a startled manner and hurriedly looked away again. a half-frightened, half-amused smile played about his lips. "aquila is no judge of woman," he said finally. "and furthermore, they say she got to trifling with magic and prowling about the temples to see if the gods came true. they were afraid she would get them blasted along with her sometime for her sacrilege. i know all this because aquila declared she attached herself to him in sheer poverty in ephesus and swore to follow him to the ends of the earth." the maccabee smiled. "nevertheless, he told me that he was afraid of her, but that she was a woman and in need and he could not reject her." julian's eyes grew insinuating. "how much then your behavior this morning would have shocked him!" he murmured. the smile died on the maccabee's face. reference to the girl in the hills seemed blasphemy on this man's lips. "and you do not recall your wife's face?" julian persisted. the maccabee's face hardened more. but he shook his head. "fourteen years can change a woman from a beauty to--a--a christian, ugly and old and cold," julian augured. the maccabee turned his head away from his tormentor and julian's laughter trailed off into a half-jocular groan. "how much you harp on beauty!" the maccabee said deliberately. "are you then going to regret the actresses you left behind when i tore you from your exalted calling as the forelegs of the elephant in the theaters at ephesus?" julian's face blackened. a foolhardy daring born of rage resolved him at that instant. he flung himself out from his saddle and raised his hand with a knife clenched in it. but the maccabee with a composed laugh caught the hand and wrenching it about, dropped it, red and contracting with pain, at his companion's side. "tut! julian, you are a bad combatant. if you must make way with a man," the maccabee advised, "stab him in the back. it is sure--for you. ha! is this emmaus we see?" they had ridden up a slight eminence and below them was a disorder of fallen or decrepit syrian huts in the hollow place in the hills. it had been the history of emmaus for centuries to be known. the feet of the crucified one had pressed its ruined streets and his devoted chroniclers had not failed to set it down in their illuminated gospels. army after army in endless procession had thundered through it since the first invader humbled the glory of canaan, and few of the historians had forgotten to record the unimportant incident. warfare had hurtled about it for centuries; the roman army had come upon it and would continue to come. it had not the spirit to resist; it was not worthy of conquest. it simply stood in the path of events. a single citizen appeared at the doorway of the most habitable house and looked absently over the heads of the new-comers. as they approached, the villager did not observe them. instead, he looked at the near horizon lifted on the shoulder of the hills and meditated on the signs of the weather. it was emmaus' habit to find strangers at its door. julian, with natural desire to be first on this perilous ground and away from the side of the man who had defeated him and laughed at him, rode up to the door. the villager, seeing the traveler stop, gazed at him. julian had about him an air of blood and breeding first to be remarked even before his features. the grace of his bearing and the excellence of his bodily condition were highly aristocratic. his height was good, his figure modestly athletic as an observance of fine form rather than a preparation for the arena. he was simply dressed in a light blue woolen tunic. a handkerchief was bound about his head. his forehead was very white and half hidden by loose, curling black locks that escaped with boyish negligence from his head-dress. his eyes were black, his cheeks tanned but colorless, his mouth mirthful and red but hard in its outlines. clean-shaven, lithe, supple, he did not appear to be more than twenty-two. but there was an even-tempered cynicism and sophistication in the half-droop of his level lids, indifference, hauteur and self-reliance in the uplift of his chin. his soul was therefore older, more seasoned and set than the frame that housed it. now there was considerable agitation in his manner, enough to make him sharp in his speech to the villager. "is there a khan in emmaus?" he demanded. "there is," the villager responded calmly. "where?" the citizen motioned toward a low-roofed rambling structure of stone picked up on the native hills. "ask there," he said and passing out of his door went his way. julian touched his horse and rode through the worn passage and into the court of the decrepit khan of emmaus. the maccabee followed. the syrian host who was both waiter and hostler met julian entering first. "quick!" julian said, leaning from his horse. "is there a young man here with gray temples? a pagan?" the syrian, attracted by the anxiety in the demand, followed a train of surmise before his answer. "no pagans, here. naught but jews," he observed finally. "or a young woman of wealth? quick!" "no wealth at all; but plenty of women. the passover pilgrims." julian heaved a sigh of relief and dismounted. the maccabee rode into the court of the khan at that instant. the khan-keeper took their horses and a little later the two men were led into the single cobwebby chamber, low-ceiled, gloomy, cold and cheerless as a cave. there they were given food and afterward a corner of the hall where a straw pallet had been laid and a stone trough filled with water for a bath. after refreshing himself the maccabee lay down and slept with supreme indifference to the rancor of the man who had attempted to kill him. but julian had another idea than pressing his vengeful advantage at that time. he went out into emmaus and engaging the unemployed of the thriftless town sent them broadcast into the hills in search of a pagan who was young, yet gray at the temples. some of them went--and they were chiefly boys who were not old enough to know that these strangers who come in pagan guise to emmaus are full of guile. but none returned to him. they had neither seen nor heard of a pagan who was young though the white hair of an old man snowed on his temples. so julian storming within went out into the hills himself, to search. meanwhile the maccabee, a light sleeper and readily restored, awoke and found himself alone. the khan-keeper informed him on inquiry that julian had ridden away. "too fair a hope to think that he has deserted me," the maccabee observed. "i shall await him a decent time. he will return." he tramped about the chamber waiting for something that was not julian, intending to do something but unable to define that thing. there was a vague admission that this last pause before his entry into jerusalem where he must accomplish so much was an opportunity for some sort of preparation, but he lacked direction and resource. he was irritable and purposeless. out of the low door that opened into the lewen of the khan he caught glimpses of the town spread over the tilt of the hill before him. it had become active since he had looked upon it in the very early hours of the day. over the gate he could see the toss of canopies and the heads of camels passing; he could hear the ring of mule-hooves on the stones and the tramp of wayfarers. there were shoutings and debate; the cries of servants and the gossip of parties. all this moved on always in the direction of jerusalem. few paused. the single shop in emmaus became active; the khan caught a little of the drift, but the great body of what seemed to be an unending stream of pilgrims passed on. the maccabee spoke to his host. "what is this?" he asked. the publican raised his brows. "hast never heard of the passover?" he asked. the maccabee started. how far he had drifted from the customs of his people, to fail to remember its vital feast--he who meant to be king over the jews! he turned away a little abashed. the train of thought awakened by the khan-keeper's answer led him back to the hieratic customs of his race. what was his status as a jew after all these years of delinquency? what atonement did he owe, what offering should he make? he went out over the cobbled pavement of the lewen to the gate. here he should see part of his people and learn from simple observation what material he would have in his work for israel. from his memories of the old passovers of his boyhood, he saw instantly that there had come a change over judea and the worshiping sons of abraham. they went in bodies, in numbers from a handful from some remote but pious hamlet to great armies from the leveled cities of joppa, ptolemais and anthedon, from cæsarea and tyre and sidon, from the enthusiastic towns in galilee, and even from far-off antioch and ephesus. they were not fewer in number, because of a year of warfare and the menace of an approaching army upon the city in which they were to take refuge. but there were more--double, even triple the number that usually went up to jerusalem at this time. for of the millions of inhabitants in judea in the unhappy year of a.d., a third of them were plundered and homeless refugees from ruined cities. therefore, instead of the armies of men, happy, hopeful and enthusiastic, who had journeyed in former years to jerusalem, there passed before the maccabee a mixed multitude of men and women and children. thousands carried with them all that warfare had left to them--pitiful parcels of treasure or household goods, or extra clothing; other thousands bore nothing in their hands, and by the wear in their garments and the hunger in their faces, it seemed that they owned nothing to carry. the maccabee noted finally the entire absence of the travelers who fared in state. not in all that long procession that wound up the stony passage from the west, did he see a single sadducee. there went mobs of laborers and farmers, tradesmen, servants and small merchants, but the jewish friends of rome that had once made part of the passover pilgrimage a royal progress were nowhere to be seen. under the vast, vivid blue of the mountain skies they moved, indifferent to the splendid benevolence of the untroubled day. the pure wind swept in from the radiance in the east, flinging out multi-colored garments and scarves, rushing with its bracing chill without obstruction through even the compactest mass of wayfarers. the cedars on the hills about the little town whistled continuously and at times some extremely narrow defile with an uninterrupted draft would take voice and cry humanly. but there was no responsive exhilaration to the vigor of morning on a mountain-top. the great ever-growing migration was dark, dangerous and moody. somewhere beyond the highest of the blue hills to the east, the white walls of the city of david were receiving all this. somewhere to the west the four brassy legions of titus were marching down upon all this. about the maccabee were assembling all the circumstances that govern a tremendous struggle. eagerness, earnestness, all the strength and resolution of his strong and resolute nature surged into his soul. it was his hour. it should find him prepared. he turned out of the gate and crowding along by the stone wall to pass in the opposite direction from the flood of pilgrims pouring through emmaus, he searched for the synagogue of the little town. he came upon it, a solid square building of stone with an egyptic façade and an architrave carved with a great stone flower set in an olive wreath. without was the proseuchae, paved with boulders now worn smooth by the summer sittings of the congregation who gathered around the reader's stone. the maccabee stopped at the gate and unlacing his pagan sandals set them outside the threshold. once over the stone sill with the imminent gloom covering him, he felt the old sanctity envelop him with a reproach in its forgotten familiarity. old incense, old litanies, old rites rushed back to him with the smell of the stagnant fragrance. he heard again from the farther depths of the dark interior the musical monotone of a rabbi reciting a ritual. the voice was young and low. presently he heard the responses spoken in a woman's voice, so tender, so soft and so sad that he sensed instantly the meaning of the sympathy in the young priest's voice. out of the incense-laden dusk he found old custom stealing back upon him. his lips anticipated words unreadily; gladly he realized that he could say these formulas, also; he had not forgotten; he had not forgotten! in this little synagogue in a poor town there were no privacies; communicants had to depend on the courtesy of their fellows for uninterrupted devotion. the wanderer had not forgotten this. so he effaced himself in the darkness and awaited his own turn. he hardly knew why he had come. for what should he ask--forgiveness or for the hope of the king who was to come? what should he do--make atonement or promises; give an offering or ask encouragement? he did not doubt for an instant that he had done wisely in seeking the synagogue, but what had he for it, or what had it for him? meanwhile the voice of the priest, disembodied in the gloom, had put off its ritualistic tone and was delivering a charge: "since you are in haste to reach jerusalem, you may depart, so that you will give me your word that you will in all faith abide upon the road seven days; and that at the end of the separation you will present yourselves for examination and cleansing at jerusalem, and that you will in nowise transgress the law of separation on the journey hence." the maccabee heard the woman give her word. after a little further communication, he heard them move toward the entrance. the white light from the day without revealed to him in a few steps, a veiled woman, a deformed old man and a young rabbi. he did not need to take the evidence of her dress or of her companion to recognize under this veil the girl whom he had won from julian of ephesus, in the hills, that very morning. as if in response to his inner hope that she would see him, she raised her eyes at the moment she passed, and started quickly. even under the shelter of her veil he saw her flush. the next instant she was out of the synagogue and gone. the maccabee hesitated restlessly, forgot his mission to the synagogue and then, with no definite purpose, followed. at the edge of town, where the huddle of huts left off and the gravel and rock and cedar began, he saw the priest dismiss the pair with his blessing and turn back. undecided, restless and regretful, the maccabee lingered, looking after her as she went into the hills, unattended, except for an anomalous old man. the sun of noon shone on her silver dress that the dust of the wayside had not tarnished. he was gloomy and wistful without understanding his discomfort, and afraid for the beautiful unknown going out for seven days into the unfriendly wilderness. there was the click of a horse's hoof beside him. he glanced up with a nervous start to see julian of ephesus, scowling, at hand. "it is time," he said, "for us to be off." the maccabee instantly determined that julian of ephesus should not come up with this defenseless girl again. "i am not ready," he returned promptly. "it was three days, this morning, that you have lost. to-morrow it will be four." "and sabbath, it will be seven. a long time, a long time!" the maccabee turned and went back to the khan. a gap in the hills had hidden the girl in the silver tissue, and the blitheness of the maccabee's spirit had gone with her. chapter v by the wayside by sunset, the maccabee and julian of ephesus had taken the road to jerusalem again. as they reached the crest of a series of ridges there lay before them a long gentle slope smooth and dun-colored as some soft pelt, dropping down into a tender vale with levels of purple vapor hanging over it. at the end of this declivity, leagues in length, was a faint blue shape, cloudlike and almost merged with the cold color of the eastern horizon, but suddenly developing at its summit a delicate white peak. the sunset reaching it as they rode changed the point to a pinnacle of ruby before their eyes. their shadows that had ridden before them merged with the shade over the world. then with a soft, whispery, ghost-like intaking of the breath, a quantity of sand on the straight road before them got up under their horses' feet and moved away to another spot and dropped again with a peppering sound and was dead moveless earth again. the little breath of wind from under the edge of the sky had fallen. in the silence between the muffled beat of hooves the maccabee heard at his ears the quick lively throb of a busy pump. with it went the firm rush of a subdued stream. he was hearing his own heart-beat, his own life flowing through his veins. since nature in him had hurried him out of the synagogue after its own desire, he seemed to have become primitive, conscious of the human creature in him. now, though he rode through a bewitching air through an enchanted land, he did not ride in a dream. all his being was alert and sagacious. though the confusion of footprints in the dust showed plainly where men had passed by thousands, he did not follow their lead. over the tangle of marks lay a slim paw-printed, confident, careless trail of a jackal, following the scent to a well. the maccabee was obedient to the instinct of the animal instead of the reason of man. at the end of that trail, surer than ariadne's scarlet thread in the labyrinth, he knew that thirst had taken the girl in the dress of silver tissue. so as he rode along this faultless highway that fared level and undeviating by arches, causeways and bridges across mountains, over black marshes and profound valleys, he kept his eyes on the jackal's trail. long after moonrise they came to a spot in the road where the human marks passed on, by hundreds, by other hundreds deserted the road and clambered up the side of the hill. over this deviation the jackal had trotted. the maccabee, tall on his horse, raised his fine head and searched all the brooding shapes of the hills about. the road at this point ran through a defile. on either side the slopes crowded upon the pass. above them were bold summits with groves of cedars, and in one of these the maccabee made out a thin curl of smoke dimly illuminated by a moon-drowned fire. up there in the covert of the trees the girl in the silver tissue was resting from her perilous and outlawed journey. "we will eat here," the maccabee said abruptly to julian. "eat!" julian exclaimed. "what?" the maccabee signed to the pack on julian's horse. julian dismounted, shaking his head. "what a savage appetite this travel in the untaught wilds of judea hath bred in you, my cousin! you, whom once a crust of bread and a cup of wine would satisfy!" but the maccabee climbed out of the roadway and, finding a sheltered spot behind a boulder, kicked together some of the dead weeds and twigs and set fire to the heap with flint and steel. then he lost interest in the preparation of his comforts. he turned to look up at the faint column of illumination in the little copse of cedars and presently, stealthily, went that way. it was a poor encampment that he came upon. from the low-growing limbs of a couple of gnarly cedars, old momus had stretched the sheepskins which joseph, the shepherd, had given them. three sides of the shelter were protected thus, and the fourth side opened down-hill, with a low fire screening them from the mountain wind. within this inclosure, wrapped in the coarse mantle of her servant, sat laodice. she had raised her veil and its misty texture flowed like a web of frost over her brilliant hair and framed her face in cold vapor. in spite of the marks of grief that had exhausted her tears, the fatigue and discomfort, she seemed, to the maccabee's eyes, more than ever lovely. he was angry with the hieratic banishment that sent her out to subsist by the roadside for seven days in early spring; angry with the harsh inhospitality of the hills; and angrier that he could not change it all. he looked at the old mute to see that he was carefully putting away the remnants of a meal of durra bread and curds. the primitive gallantry of the original man stirred in the maccabee. he had come unseen; with silent step he departed. a little later he stepped boldly into the circle of light from their camp-fire. to laodice, in her lowly position, he seemed superhumanly big and splendid. without mantle or any of the accessories that would show preparation against the cold, his bare arms and limbs and dark face, tanned, hardy and resolute, seemed to be those of a strong aborigine, sturdy friend of all of nature's rougher moods. he did not look at momus, who got up as quickly as he might at the intrusion of the big stranger. his dark eyes rested on laodice, who sat transfixed with her sudden recognition of the visitor. he held in one hand a brace of fowls, in the other a skin of wine. when he spoke the polish of the ephesian andronitis in his voice and manner destroyed the primitive illusion. "lady, i heard in the synagogue at emmaus to-day the exclusion that is laid upon you for seven days. this is a hungry country and no man should waste food. i shall enter jerusalem to-morrow by daybreak; we, my companion and i, have no further use for these. they are milesian ducks, fattened on nuts. and this is falernian--roman. i pray you, allow me to leave them with your servant with my obeisances." without waiting for her reply the maccabee passed fowls and skin into the hands of momus who stood near. "sir," she answered unreadily, with her small hands gripping each other before her and her eyes veiled, "i thank you. it was not the least of my anxieties how we should provide ourselves with food under prohibition and in a country perilous with war. you have made to-morrow easy for us. i thank you." "to-morrow; yes," he argued, seizing upon a discussion for an excuse to remain, "but the next day, and the next five days, what shall you do?" "perchance," she said gravely, "god will send us another stranger of a generous heart, with more than he needs for himself." not likely, indeed, he thought, would such beauty as hers go hungry as long as there were hearts in the wilderness as impressionable as his. but the thought of another than himself providing for her did not make him happy. there was nothing more to be said, but he did not go. in his face gathered signs of his interest in her identity. "is there more that i can do for you?" he asked. "have you friends in jerusalem? i will bear your messages gladly." but it was a grateful privilege which she had to refuse with reluctance. if her husband awaited her in jerusalem, he must wait, rather than be informed of the cause of her delay at peril of exposing his presence in the city. she shook her head. "there is nothing more," she added. "i thank you." dismissal was so evident in her voice that he prepared to depart. "shall you move on, then, in the morning?" he asked. "we have seven days in the wilderness," she explained. "we can not hasten. it is only a little way to jerusalem." "but it is a long road and a weary one for tender feet," he answered; "and it is a time of warfare and much uncertainty." she lifted her eyes now with trouble in them. "is there any less dangerous way than this?" she asked. the maccabee sat down and clasped his hands about his knees. this grasping at the slightest excuse to remain exasperated the perplexed momus, who could not understand the stranger's assurance. but the maccabee failed to see him. "there is," he said to laodice. "one can journey with you. i am under no restriction, and the rabbis do not bind you against me. i can secure you comforts along the way, and give you protection. there in no such dire need that i enter jerusalem under seven days." laodice was confused by this sudden offer of help from a stranger in whom her confidence was not entirely settled. nevertheless a warmth and pleasure crept into her heart benumbed with sorrow. she did not look at momus, fearing instinctively that the command in her old servant's eyes would not be of a kind with the grateful response she meant to give this stranger. "i have no right to expect so much--from a stranger," she said. "then i shall not be a stranger," he declared promptly. "call me--hesper--of ephesus." "ephesus!" she echoed, looking up quickly. "the maddest city in the world," he replied. "dost know it?" she hesitated. could she say with entire truth that she did not know ephesus? had she not read those letters that philadelphus had written to her father, which were glowing with praise of the proud city of diana? was it not as if she had seen the odeum and the great theater, the temple with its golden cows, the mount and the plain and the broad wandering of the rivers hermus, caÿster and maenander? had she not made maps of it from her young husband's accounts and then with enthusiasm traced his steps by its stony, hilly streets from forum to stadium and from school to museum? had she not dreamed of its shallow port, its rugged highways and its skyey marshes? it had been her pride to know ephesus, although she had never laid eyes upon it. even she had come to believe that she would know an ephesian by his aggressive joy in life! it went hard with her to deny that she knew that city which she had all but seen. the maccabee observed her hesitation and when she looked up to answer, his eyes full of question were resting upon her. "i do not know ephesus," she said quickly. "are--are you a native?" "no." she wanted mightily to know if he had met the young philadelphus in that city, but she feared to ask further lest she betray him. "a great city," he went on, "but there are greater pagan cities. it is not like jerusalem, which has no counterpart in the world. even the most intolerant pagan is curious about jerusalem." she looked again at his face. it was not greek or roman, neither more indicative of her own blood. "are you a jew?" she asked. he remembered that she had seen him in a synagogue. "i was," he said after a silence. she looked at him a moment before she made comment. "i never heard a jew say it that way before." he acknowledged the rebuke with the flash of a smile that appeared only in his eyes. "a jew entirely jewish wears the mark on him. you have had to ask if i were a jew. would i be consistent to claim to be that which in no wise shows to be in me?" "it is time to be a jew or against the jews," she said gravely. "there is no middle ground concerning judea at this hour." serious words from the lips of a woman in whom a man expects to find entertainment are obtrusive, a paradox. still the new generosity in his heart for this girl made any manner she chose, engaging, so that it showed him the sight of her face and gave him the sound of her voice. "seeing," he said, "that it is the hour of the jewish hope, is it politic for us to declare ourselves for its benefits?" "the call at this hour," she exclaimed reproachfully, "is to be great in sacrifice--not for reward. it is the word of the prophets that we shall not attain glory until we have suffered for it. we have not yet made the beginning." she touched so familiarly on his own thoughts which had haunted him since ambition had awakened in him in his boyhood, that his interest in his own hope surged to the fore. "how goes it in jerusalem?" he asked earnestly. "evilly, they say," she answered, "but i have not been in the city. yet you see judea. that which has destroyed it threatens the city. jews have no friends abroad over the world. we need then our own, our own!" "trust me, lady, for a good jew. i have said that i had been one, because i admit how far i have drifted from my people. but i am going back!" somehow that strong avowal touched the deep springs of her grief. she knew the pleasure that her father would have felt in it. with the greatness of his sacrifice in mind, she filled with the determination that his work should not have been in vain. she rose and flung back the cumbrous striped mantle on her shoulders and put out her hands to the maccabee. "hast seen these pilgrims going to the passover?" she exclaimed, with color rising as her emotion grew. "all day they have passed; army after army of jews, not only strong, but filled with the spirit that makes men die for a cause! hast seen judea, which was once the land of milk and honey? wasted! a sight to make jews gnash their teeth and die of hate and rage! what hast thou said of jerusalem? 'the perfection of beauty and the joy of the whole earth!' threatened with this same blight that hath made a wilderness of canaan! if the hour and the circumstance and the cause will but unite us, this unweaponed host will stretch away at once in majestic orders of tens of thousands--legions upon legions that would shame xerxes for numbers and that first cæsar for strength. then--oh, i can see that calm battle-line pass like the ocean tide over the stony roman front, and forget as the sea forgets the pebbles that opposed it!" she halted suddenly on the edge of tears. the maccabee, astonished and moved, looked at her in silence. this, then, was what even the women of the shut chambers of palestine expected of him--if he freed judea! if such spirit prevailed over the armies of men assembling in the holy city, what might he not achieve with their help! the maccabee felt confidence and enthusiasm fill his heart to the full. he rose. "our blows will never weaken nor our hearts grow faint," he said, "if we have such eloquence and such beauty to inspire us." she drew back a little. his persistent happiness of mood fell cruelly on her flinching heart at that moment. he noted her sudden relapse into dejection, with disappointment. "do not be sad," he said. "discomforts do not last for ever." "it is not that," she said in a low voice. "i have buried beloved dead on this journey and i have surrendered all my substance to a pillager." there was the silence of arrested thought. the maccabee was taken aback and embarrassed. he felt that he was an intruder. but even the flush on her face in restraining emotion made her loveliness more than ever winsome. he let his hand drop softly on hers. but in the genuineness of his sympathy he was not too moved to feel that her hand warmed under his clasp. "the difference between a fool and a blunderer," he said contritely, "is that the blunderer is always sorry for his mistakes. i will go. none has a right to refuse another his hour to weep." he hesitated a moment, as if he would have kissed her hand. she glanced up at him with eyes too filled with the darkness of grief for words. the slow unconscious smile that had worked such perfect transformation that first morning grew in his eyes. it was comfort, compliment and protection all in one. then he went away into the moonlight. within a few feet he came upon julian of ephesus with immense rancor written on his face. the maccabee was disturbed. it was not well that this conscienceless man should have discovered that they were traveling near this girl and her old servant. much as the young man wished to loiter along the road to jerusalem to keep her in sight while he could, he saw plainly that to defend her from julian he must ride on and leave her. "your meal," said julian, "is as cold as jugurtha's bath." "i have lost my appetite," the maccabee said carelessly. "saddle and let us ride on." at his words, a picture of his own comfortable progress to jerusalem compared to her long foot-weary tramp for days over the inhospitable hills appeared to him. the instant impulse did not permit himself to argue the immoderation of his care of her. julian clung to his side until they were ready to depart. then the maccabee, using subterfuge to give him opportunity to escape the vigilant eyes of the ephesian, suddenly clapped his hand to his hip, exclaiming that he had left his weapon at the camp. before julian's sneer reached him, he mounted quickly and rode up the hill, meaning to offer his horse to the girl. the bed of coals still glowed cheerily, but the shelter of sheepskins, the old servant and the girl in the tissue of woven moonbeams were gone. he stood still, vexed, disappointed and resentful. "the old incubus has made her go on, purposely, to get rid of me!" he decided finally. "perpol! he won't!" chapter vi dawn in the hills it was a night that the maccabee did not readily forget. since the girl had moved on to avoid him, he had become alive to a delinquency that was more of a sensation than an admission. his thought of her, that had been a diversion before, now seemed to be a transgression. an incident of this nature during the fourteen years of his life in ephesus would have engaged his conscience only a moment if at all, but at this last hour it amounted to a deflection from his newly resolved uprightness. julian rode in a constant air of expectancy and increasing irritation. the slightest sound from the haunted hills elicited a start from him and his intense attention until the origin of the sound proved itself. many passover pilgrims who had proceeded by night passed under his close scrutiny and from time to time he stopped the maccabee in a speech with a peremptory command to listen. all this engaged the maccabee's interest, but he made no comment until, on occasion of his casual word in praise of the fidelity of aquila, julian flew into a rage and reviled the emissary until the maccabee brought him up with a sharp word. "enough of that!" he exclaimed. "what ails you, man?" julian caught his breath and after a silence replied in a voice considerably sweetened that aquila was a conscienceless pagan and not to be praised till he was dead. but the maccabee, with the girl uppermost in his mind, believed that his cousin was inwardly resenting his preëmption of the pretty stranger. the fact that julian had changed the pace of their advance confirmed him in this suspicion. from the smart trot that they had maintained from the time they had left cæsarea, they had declined to a walk. julian next showed inclination to loiter. he spent an unusual length of time at every spring at which they watered their horses; an unseen break in his harness engaged a prolonged halt on the road; he stopped at an unroofed hut to rouse sleeping passover pilgrims who had taken refuge within to ask how far they were from jerusalem, and wrangled with the sleepy jew for many minutes over the hazy estimate the man had given him. with each of these pretenses the maccabee's conviction grew that the girl had something to do with the altered behavior of his cousin. and with that growing conviction, he became the more convinced that he ought to maintain an espionage of julian. at midnight they were both tired, exasperated, moody, and determined against each other. they had not journeyed thirty furlongs. in one of the high valleys in the hills a great well bubbled up from a hollow by the road, overflowed the stone basin that the ancients had built for it and wasted itself in the undrained soil about. here, then, was one of the few marshes in judea. the road by a series of arches crossed it and continued up the shoulder of the hills toward the east. all about it flourished the young growth of the rough sedge grass, green as emerald. the spot was treeless and marked with broad low hummocks of new sod. julian halted. "shall we camp here?" he asked. "it hath the recommendation of variety," the maccabee said wearily. "eheu! how i shall miss the greensward of ephesus! yes, we'll camp!" they dismounted and while julian unpacked their blankets, the maccabee collected dead reeds and cedar twigs and built a fire. then he stretched himself by the sweet-smelling flame. "she can not have kept up with our horses; indeed it is unlikely that they moved far," he thought, and thus assured that there was no danger to the girl for whom he had become a self-constituted guardian, he ate a piece of bread, drank a cup of wine and fell asleep. his slumber was not entirely unconscious. so long as the movements of his cousin continued regular about him, he lay still, but once, when julian approached too near, his eyes opened full in the face of the man about to lean over him. the ephesian raised himself hastily and the maccabee's eyes closed again. "a pest on an eye that only half sleeps!" julian said to himself. "he hasn't lost count on the minutes since he left cæsarea!" the morning broke, the sun mounted, the deserted road became populous with all the previous day's host of pilgrims, and the silence in the hills failed before the procession that should not cease till night fell again. through all the shouting at camel and mule, the talk of parties and the dogged trudging of lonely and uncompanionable solitaries, the maccabee slept. from time to time julian, who had wakened early, gazed with smoldering eyes at the insolent composure of his enemy sleeping. but slumber with so little control over the senses of a man was not to be depended upon for any work that demanded stealth. at times the gaze he bent upon the long lazy shape half buried in the raw-edged grass was malevolent with uneasiness and hate. again, some one of the passing travelers that bore a resemblance to the expected aquila would bring the ephesian to his feet, only to sink back again with a muttered imprecation at his disappointment. "a pest on the waxen-hearted satyr!" he said to himself finally. "why should he have been more faithful to me than to his first employer! i am old enough to have learned by this time not to trust my success to any man but myself. now where am i to look for him--ephesus, syene, gaul, medea? jerusalem first! by hecate, the fellow is handsome! and these jewesses are impressionable!" the rumination was broken off suddenly by a glimpse of an old deformed man bearing a burden on his shoulders, followed by a slender figure, jealously wrapped in a plebeian mantle that left only a hem of silver tissue under its border. they were skirting along the brow of the hill opposite, away from the rest of the pilgrims on the road. both were walking slowly and the old man seemed to be examining the farther slope, as if meditating a halt. julian got upon his feet and watched. he saw the old man sign to the girl presently and they moved down the farther side of the hill and were lost to view. julian cast a look at the sleeper and hesitated. then he scanned the road; he might miss aquila. he seemed to relinquish the intent that had risen in him, and sat down again. after a while as his constant gaze at the passers-by led him again toward the overflowing well, he saw there, standing in a long line, awaiting turn to dip a vessel in the water, the old bowed servant, with a skin in his hand. the girl was nowhere to be seen. julian sprang to his feet and, hastening across the road, considerably below the well, climbed the hill in the direction in which he had seen the girl disappear. that watchful alarm in the brain which, at moments of demand, is instantly alive in certain sleepers, aroused the maccabee almost as soon as the stealthy, receding footsteps of julian died away. he stirred, sat up and looked about him. julian was nowhere to be seen. both horses were feeding a little distance away. the maccabee sprang up and looked toward the well. there patiently but apprehensively waiting was old momus. the girl was not with him. suspicion grew vivid in the maccabee's brain. the tender rank grass about him showed the print of his cousin's steps as they led away toward the road. he followed intently. the slim marks of the well-shod feet led him across the dust of the road up into gravel on the slope and finally eluded him on the escarpment that soared away above him. the maccabee hurried to the top of the declivity to gain whatever aid that point of vantage might offer and from that height saw below him to the west a single nook shaped of rock and hummock and a tree out of which rose a blue thread of smoke. he dropped down the farther slope at a pace little short of a run. he mounted the slight ridge that overlooked the depression in time to see julian of ephesus appear over the opposite side. within, with her mantle laid off, her veil thrown back, the girl knelt over a bed of coals, baking one of the maccabee's milesian ducks. julian had made a sound; the maccabee had come silently. she looked up and saw the less kindly man first, flashed white with terror, sprang to her feet with a cry, and whirled to flee up the other side. there she confronted the maccabee with hands extended to ward off the encroachment of his cousin. without an instant's hesitation she flew into the maccabee's arms. his clasp closed around her and she shrank against him, clinging to the folds of his tunic over his breast with hands that were tremulous. her flight to him for refuge achieved an instant change in the maccabee. the fear of defeat, the primal hate of a rival, died in him. all that remained was big wrath at the presumption and effrontery of julian of ephesus. he had no definite memory of what followed, because of the rush of blood in his veins, the whirl of pleasurable sensation in his brain and the weight of a sweet frightened figure pressed to him. the ephesian went, leaving an impression of a most vindictive threat in the glittering smile and the motion of his shapely hand clenched at the victorious maccabee. the girl drew away hastily. the veil was over her face and through its silken meshes he saw the glow on her cheeks and the sweep of her lowered lashes down upon that bloom. she was faltering her thanks and her apologies. "it is mine to ask pardon," he exclaimed, still smoldering with wrath. "i had no part in this, except to interfere with this bad companion of mine. i did not follow you; believe me." it confused her to know that he had guessed why she had moved from their encampment the night before. as necessary as old momus had made it seem to her then, it seemed now to have been ungrateful. she could make no reply to that portion of his speech. "my servant went to the well," she said. "he will return presently. i am not afraid now." "i am; you ought to be. i shall wait till your extraordinary servant returns." at this decided speech laodice showed a little panic. "no, no! i am not afraid. he--" but the maccabee ignored the implied dismissal. "i owe him both a reproof and thanks for leaving you here alone for any wayfarer to approach--and for me to discover. i wish," gazing abroad over the broken horizon, "there were no well between here and jerusalem, and that he were as thirsty as tantalus." she made no reply to this remark, but her whole presence expressed discomfort in his determination to remain. "heathen hecate ought to get him in these wilds for forcing that cruel journey on you last night, when you were so weary and sad! there was no good in it. he wanted simply to get you away from me! let us hope that titus has got him for his museum by this time, and be at ease!" she raised her head and reproach flashed through the meshes of her veil. "momus is a good man," she said. "he can not be," he insisted. "have i not set forth his iniquities even now?" "it was a short task," she maintained. "but time is not long enough to count his virtues." "i can spend time better," he declared. he saw her silken brows lower in a spirited frown and he was glad. she was showing some other feeling than that dead level of unhappiness that had possessed her from the first moment he had seen her. his was not the heart contented to go astray after a tear. men fall in search of joy. "momus is carrying a burden under which more brilliant men would falter," she averred. "i am beyond reckoning his debtor!" "since he has shifted that sweet burden for a time on my shoulders, i will forgive him for his looks. if he will stay away, i'll be his debtor further. but enough of momus! i came to ask after your health, when your long journey by night is done." "i am well; we did not journey all night." "sit, i pray you. there is no need for you to stand with that air of finality. i am not going, yet. i went back to your camp last night within a short time after i left you and found the camp broken and your fire lonely. i wanted to offer you my horse." "we did not walk all night. we camped a little farther on, and moved at daybreak this morning," she explained. he cast a reflective look at the sun and considered how much time julian of ephesus had lost for him upon the road, or else how long he had slept, that this pair, who had camped all night and had journeyed afoot by day, had caught up with him. "still it was a cruel journey--for those little feet," he said. she glanced involuntarily at her sandals, worn and dusty. "yes," he said compassionately, following her eyes. "but let me see no more, else i meet this good and burdened momus with the flat of my hand when he comes! what is he to you?" "my servant--now almost my father!" she insisted, trying to cover the tacit accusation that she had made in admitting by a glance that she was weary. "he orders all things for my good. do you think that each of the stones over which i stumbled to-day did not hurt him worse because they hurt me? do you think he would have me go on, unless the stake were worth the pain i had to endure? say no more against him!" the maccabee shrugged his shoulders; then noting that she still stood, he smoothed down a spot of the sand with his foot, tossed upon it one of the sheepskins that momus had unrolled, and extending his hand politely pressed her down on the place he had made. then he dropped down beside her, lounging on his elbow. "what is the stake?" he asked after he had composed himself. she hesitated, regretting that her defense of momus had led her to hint her mission and touch upon her husband's ambition. "the welfare of hosts!" she replied finally. "heavens! what a menace i was!" the maccabee smiled. she colored quickly and he resented the veil that was shutting away so much that was fine and fleeting by way of expression under its folds. "but you are just as dangerous," he declared. "now, we should be in jerusalem this hour. our welfare and the welfare of others depend upon us--i mean my companion and me. but there is no devoted prodigy to bear me away--thank fortune! i have come out of a great turmoil; i must plunge into a greater one before many days. let me rest between them. it will be a long time before i shall possess anything so sweet as the smell of this cedar fire and the picture of you against this fair sky!" she looked down quickly. "was ephesus in turmoil?" she asked disconnectedly. "ephesus was never in any other state! a fit preparation for the disorder in jerusalem! i was met at cæsarea with such tales as depressed me until it required such delight as you are to bring back my spirits again! what takes you to jerusalem?" he asked earnestly. "the passover? god will forgive you if you neglect it one year. nothing but the sternest necessity should send any one there at this hour." "my necessity is stern--it is judea's necessity," she answered. "more similarity!" he exclaimed. "that is why i go! certainly judea's fortunes have bettered with you and me both hastening to her rescue. come, let us compare further. i am going to crown a king over judea!" she raised her veil to look at him with startled eyes. the glimpse of her face, for ever a delight and an astonishment to him because of its extraordinary loveliness, swept him out of the half-serious air into which he had fallen. he stopped and looked at her with pleased, boyish, happy eyes. "aurora!" he said softly. "i see now why day comes gradually. mankind would die of excitement if the dawn were unveiled to them like this suddenly every morning!" she released the veil hurriedly, but before it fell he put out a hand, caught it and tossed it back over her head. "be consistent with your part," he said, still smiling. "no man ever saw day cancel her dawn and live." it was pleasant, this sweet possession and command. how much like an overgrown boy he had become, since she had wakened to find herself in his power that morning in the hills! the harshness and inflexibility had left his atmosphere entirely. she was only afraid of him now because he had refused to be dismissed. but she drew down the veil. "i, too, expect a king," she said in a lowered tone. "a conqueror and a redeemer." "the messiah?" he said, and she knew by the inflection that he had not meant that king when he had spoken. he noted that her hair was coiled upon her head when he threw back her veil and he turned to that at once. "you wear your hair in a fashion," he said, "that once meant that which men dislike to discover of a woman whom they greatly admire. i hope it is no longer significant." "i go," she said after a silence, "to join my husband in jerusalem." the maccabee's lips parted and an expression of disappointment with an admixture of surprise and vexation came over his face. but what did it matter? were she as free as air, he was a married man. the humor of the situation appealed to him. he dropped his head into the bend of his elbow and laughed. "welladay, this is a respite for us both, then," he said. but realizing that an admission that he was married might hopelessly reduce their hour to a formal basis, he took refuge in a falsehood. "my companion expects to meet a wife in jerusalem," he continued. "a royal creature, daughter of an ancient and haughty family, with all her life purpose congealed in lofty and serious intent, her coffers lined with gold and her face as determined and unbending as juno's with her jealousy stirred. he is not delighted, poor lad!" laodice sat very still and listened. there was enough similarity in this story to interest her. the maccabee, seeing that he had made an impression with this deception and feeling somehow a relief in making it, went on, delighted with his deceit. "he has not seen her since he married her in his childhood, but he knows full well how she will look when he meets her." surprise paralyzed laodice. was the smiling and dangerous companion of this man, her husband? the maccabee, meanwhile, deliberately remarked her charms and recounted their antithesis in making up a picture of the woman he expected to meet as his wife. "she will, according to his expectations, be meager and thin, not plump! thoughtful women and women with a purpose are never plump! and she will be black and pale, all eyes, with a nose which is not the noble nose of our race. she will be religious and it will not make her happy. she will realize her value to her husband and he will not be permitted to forget it. she will be ambitious and full of schemes. she will be the larger part of his family, though by the balance she will weigh not so much as an omer of barley." laodice got upon her feet in her agitation and raised her veil to stare at this slander. was this a picture of herself she heard? the maccabee was enjoying himself uncommonly. "she will wear the garments of a queen, but--how little a slip of silver tissue will become her!" laodice looked down in alarm at her gleaming garment, and reached for her mantle. the maccabee had no idea how much pleasure he was to derive in making his own story, julian's. he continued, almost recklessly, now. "small wonder that he is so delinquent in the wilderness, with such square-shouldered righteousness awaiting him in town! forgive him, lady, for his iniquities now, for he will be a good man after he reaches jerusalem; by my soul, you may be sure he will be good!" laodice gasped under the pressure of astonishment and indignation. it was bad enough to be pictured thus unprepossessing, but to be suddenly made aware of her husband in a man whom she feared, was desperate. she stared with frank and horrified eyes at her tormentor. "but--but--" she stammered. "true," he sighed. "one can not know what calamity forces another into misdeeds. now were i my unfortunate friend, perhaps i should afflict you with my hunger for sweetness also." and that smooth, insinuating, violent pagan was philadelphus maccabaeus! but what had her father said of him, as a child? "quick in temper, resourceful, aye, even shifty, stubborn, cold in heart, hard to please!" and to this man she must present herself, late, penniless and unhelpful. panic seized her! how could she go on to jerusalem! that long graceful figure stretched on the sand was speaking. what was it in his voice that drew her so mightily from any terror that possessed her at any time? "sit down, sit down! i have more to say," he was urging her. she obeyed him numbly. "he gets worse as he approaches the city. i think i ought to leave him. it will not be safe to be near him when his moneyed lady claims him for her own!" "she--she--" laodice burst out, "is--may be such a woman!" "such a woman as you! no; she will not be. that is what makes him bad. and now that i bethink me, perhaps it is just as well that you proceed to jerusalem. he may comfort himself with a sight of you, now and then." "i? i comfort him?" she exclaimed. "by my soul i know it! what blunders fortune makes in bestowing wives! perchance your husband could have got on as well without so radiant a spouse, while my poor beauty-loving friend must needs be paired with a--alas! there is too much marrying in this world!" there was a ring of genuine dejection in his voice and when she looked down at him, she saw that his eyes were larger and more sorrowful than she believed they could be. he was hurting himself with his own deceit. she looked away hastily, frightened at the sudden tenderness that his pathetic gaze had wakened in her. "alas!" he went on. "the greatest sacrifice and the frequentest in this world of cross-purposes never gets into poetry. i--" he halted a moment and looked away, "i ought to be sorry for her, too. she is not getting the best of men." "verily!" she exclaimed impulsively. he whirled his head toward her, stared; then with a flash of intense expression in his eyes burst into a ringing laugh that shook him from head to foot. he flung out his hand and catching hers passed it across his lips without kissing it, and let it go before he regained composure enough to speak. "no! not a good man! verily! but hath he no cause to be delinquent?" "no!" she said stubbornly. "he has judged her without seeing her, when, by your own words, he expects her to bring him fortune and position. what is he bringing her?" the maccabee looked at her thoughtfully before he answered. "nothing! not even his heart!" he vowed. laodice caught her breath in an agony of indignation and distress. "he does not in any way deserve--" she stopped precipitately. she was about to add "the great fortune he is to get," when she realized that she was taking this husband nothing--not even her own heart. she went on, for the first time a little glad that she was penniless. "he may find--neither fortune, nor position, nor heart awaiting him!" she finished pointedly. the maccabee pulled one of his stubborn locks that had fallen over his eyes. the smile grew less vivid. he had no comment to make to this. meanwhile laodice looked at him. "shall--you be with--your friend in jerusalem?" she asked. "it depends on his wife," he retorted with a grimace. she would be glad if this tall, comely trifler, with a voice as musical as some grave-toned viol, were to be seen from time to time to relieve the tedium of life with the offensive philadelphus. this admission instantly brought a shock to her. she had learned to study herself in these last few days since she had become aware of the ways of the world. life was to be no longer a period of obedience to laws which the torah had laid down; it was to be a long resistance against desirable things that she yearned for but which she dared not have. she learned at this moment that she could be her own chief stumbling-block, and that love, the most precious illumination in every life, might be a destruction and a consuming fire. she looked at this man, who lounged beside her, with a new sensation. he was winsome, and therefore the more perilous. that smooth insulting stranger whom this man had revealed as her husband with all his violence and license was a humble and harmless thing compared to this one, who had snared her by his care of her and by his charming self. she felt a desire to cry out for momus to take her back to the inner chamber of the shut house in ascalon, away from her danger to herself and from the sight of the man who had done her no harm--yet. she did not know how plainly all this wrote itself on her candid face. wise pupil of that unbridled school, the city of diana, he could read in that slight frown on her forehead and the pathetic curve of her lips, that she was contented with him--that she was not glad to go on to that husband in jerusalem. he was near to her before she knew he had moved. "after all," he was saying in a low voice, "i am glad you are going to jerusalem. you shall not be lost from me again. whose house shall i ask for when i can not endure separation longer?" she moved away from him. there was a step behind her and laodice, coloring shamedly, looked straight into the accusing eyes of momus who stood there. the stranger rose. "i shall see you again," he said to her. he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. the next instant he was gone. chapter vii imperial cÆsar when the maccabee had returned to the spot in the sedgy valley where he and julian had halted, he found the ephesian white to the lips and with ignited eyes awaiting him. "how much longer?" the ephesian demanded. "what! fast and slow!" the maccabee said calmly. "last night you wasted hours to spite me. to-day you begrudge me a moment's talk with a lovely wayfarer. or is it because she prefers me? you have ordered our progress long enough. i shall move when it pleases me." he sat down by the fire, clasping his hands back of his head, and half-closed his eyes. the ephesian rose and tramped restlessly about. as he glanced down at the reposeful attitude of the man whom he could not exasperate he saw the sun glitter on the maccabaean signet on the hand clasped back of philadelphus' head. the sight of it in a way collected julian's purposes. he knew that by some misadventure he had missed aquila whom he had hoped to meet in emmaus, bearing treasure stolen from the daughter of costobarus. by this time, then, the maccabee's emissary had doubtless arrived in jerusalem--the last possible point for the two conspirators to meet. to proceed to jerusalem without the maccabee, with whatever excuse he could invent, would not deliver the dowry of the bride into his hands, in the event that aquila had not succeeded in his instructions to make way with laodice before he reached jerusalem. nothing occurred to julian at that moment but to impersonate the maccabee until it was possible to get possession of the two hundred talents from those friends in jerusalem who were interested in his cousin's welfare. no one in jerusalem knew philadelphus maccabaeus. aquila, as fellow-conspirator, would not dare to expose him if julian appeared as his cousin. perilous at best, it seemed the only plan by which he was to get possession of a fortune which even cæsar would be glad to have. the resolution formed itself in a brain turbulent with passion and desperation. he halted silently back of his cousin and with a sudden flare of intent on his dead white face snatched a dagger from his girdle and drove it between the shoulders of the maccabee. without a word, philadelphus turned upon his assailant and started to his feet. but julian, catching a glimpse of the dire purpose in his cousin's darkened eyes, struck again. the knife, blindly wielded, glanced on the maccabee's head with wild force. under a veil of scarlet philadelphus sank to the earth. julian with a sob of terror sprang out of range of his victim's gaze. after a time he took courage and looked. the lids were fallen and the breast was still. julian bent hastily and snatched the signet from the nerveless hand and fumbling in the bosom drew forth the wallet there. he opened it, finding within ancient parchments with heavy seals, new writings, rolls of notes and a packet of letters. he rose, trembling violently, and backed away. after a moment's fascinated gaze at the roadway to see if the pilgrims passing had seen what he had done, he whirled about, mounted his horse and galloped frantically toward jerusalem. meanwhile the midday activity on the roman roadway swept by the smoldering fire and the motionless figure lying in the grass some distance back from the highway. along the splendid causeway the passover pilgrims fared, men afoot, men on camels, families and solitary travelers; the poor, the once rich, the humble and the haughty; figures in burnooses, gabardines, gowns and tunics; striped and checkered woolens, linens or rags; noisy or silent, angry or sad, hour in and hour out, until the hills were a-throb with the human atmosphere. time and again the sweet invitation of the rare grass along the marsh invited the way-weary to halt to tie a sandal, to bind up a wound, to eat a crust spread with curds or simply to rest. no one approached the silent man who had fallen beside a dying fire. they were tired enough to refrain from disturbing a man who slept. so, though they looked at him from where they sat and two or three asked each other if he were asleep or merely weary, he was left alone. one by one they who halted took up their journey again and the figure in the grass lay still. finally near the noon hour there came from the summit of a hill overhanging the road, a high, wild, youthful yell that cut with startling distinctness through the dead level of human communication on the highway. each of the travelers below looked up to see a young shepherd in sheepskins with long-blowing stiff crinkled locks flying back from a dusky face, with eyes soft and shining as those of some wild thing. around him eddied a mob of sheep as wild as he, and a natolian dog raced hither and thither in a cloud of dust, rounding the edge of the flock and shaping it to the advance of the young faun that mastered it. "sheep! by the prophets!" one of the sedate jews exclaimed. "the only flock in existence in judea, i venture!" his companion declared. "and so hopelessly doomed to roman possession that it can not be called in existence." "heigh! hello! young david!" one of the younger men called up to the shepherd. "does titus pay you for minding his mutton?" "salute, neighbors!" another shouted. "here is the roman commissary!" "ill-fathered son of an ishmaelite!" a tyrian said to this jester. "that you should make sport of judea's humiliation!" the shepherd who had paused amid his whirlpool of sheep wisely held his peace. there was a division of sentiment here that were better not aggravated. he halted long enough for the road to clear below him and then descended into the valley and crossed to the low meadow on the opposite side. his scamper of sheep flocked into the sedge, parting around the prostrate figure by a circle of coals now dead, and plunged into the pasture. the boy inspected the earth and shook his head. it was too wet for a long stay, inviting as it seemed. but here his flock might pasture for a day without injury. he glanced at the sleeper as he passed and continued to the farther side where the opposite hill sloped down into the depression. here he found for himself a comfortable spot and lay down, prepared to watch all day. from time to time he looked across at the motionless figure in the grass and commented to himself that it was a weary man who slept so soundly, and then lost interest in the maze of dreams that can entangle the wits of a shepherd who is a boy. the march of the passover pilgrims continued to jerusalem. in mid-afternoon there came interruption. along the level highway came the rapid beat of hooves and the musical jingle of harness. every soul within sound of that un-jewish mode of travel turned apprehensively and looked back. bearing down upon them from the west came a stampede of roman cavalry scouting. the sunshine on their brass armor transformed them into shapes of gold, and the recklessness of their advance swept the pilgrims out of their path as far as could be seen. right and left the jews scattered; some ran into the hills and hid themselves; others merely stepped aside and with darkening faces waited defiantly for the approach of the oppressor. the young shepherd full of excitement sprang to his feet. neither the fleeing jews nor the jews that had stood their ground attracted the attention of the approaching legionaries. it was the close-packed, avid-feeding sheep, deep in the grass, that won their instant and enthusiastic notice. the decurion in charge of the squad brought up his gray horse with such suddenness that the animal's feet slid in the gravel. "sheep, by the wings of mercury!" he shouted. "dismount, fellows! here's for a feast this night and an offering to mars to-morrow!" the ten in brazen armor threw themselves from their horses with the enthusiasm of boys and spread a panic of whooping and of waving arms about the startled flock. the young shepherd, too long a fugitive from the encroachments of this same army to misunderstand the nature of the attack, ran into the thick of the shouting romans. his valiant dog with exposed teeth flew straight at the nearest legionary. "cerberus!" the soldier howled, dodging. "your pike, paulus! quick! by hector, it is a wolf!" but the quickest soldier would not have been quick enough to elude the enraged beast had not the shepherd with a spring and a warning cry seized his dog by the ears and stopped him mid-bound. "down, urge!" he cried. "take away your men!" he shouted to the decurion. "i can not hold him long." "only so long," paulus growled, raising his pike over the snarling dog. "drop it!" the decurion ordered him peremptorily. "we are ten to one and a dog. no blood-letting this day. it is titus' order. boy, get you gone; these sheep are confiscate." "i have been told they are only common stock," the boy remonstrated gravely, "but you may be right. howbeit, they are not mine and i can not leave them." "you have been misinformed," the decurion said gravely, while his men, circling around the growling dog, went on with their work. "these are roman sheep, with the flavian coat of arms and the mark of the army in black on their hides--if you shear them. but if you make away as fast as you can i shall not tell titus which way you went." the sheep had started pell-mell toward the roman road. the decurion turned back to his horse. the shepherd released his dog, which ran after the flock, and stepped into the decurion's way. "however these sheep look when they are sheared," he said, "this seems to be robbery to me." "robbery!" the good-natured decurion exclaimed. "this is but a religious rite that mercury got out of the cradle at two days to establish. only he took apollo's cattle while we are contenting ourselves with the sheep of mortal ownership. robbery! what an inelegant word!" meanwhile the stampeded sheep were making in a cloud of dust back over the road toward the west from which the romans had come. "what shall i say to the citizens of pella?" the little shepherd shouted, pursuing the decurion who was making back to his horse as fast as he could go. "salute them for me," the decurion shouted back, "and make them my obeisances, and say that i shall report on the flavor of the sheep by messenger from jerusalem." in a moment the boy sprang into the decurion's way so suddenly that the soldier almost fell over him. "be fair!" the boy exclaimed. "at least leave me half!" the decurion was losing patience and the shepherd had grown more than ever serious. "fair!" the roman echoed. "why, i have been indulgent! this is war! it is almost a breach of discipline to argue with you. out of the way!" "the roman army has all the world to feed it; pella has only its sheep. we, then, must face hunger and cold because your appetites crave mutton this day!" the boy returned resentfully. the decurion pointed down the road. "why waste your breath! there go the sheep." the boy's dark eyes filled with tears. the decurion swung around him and went back to the horses that waited in the road. he knotted their bridles together and, leading one of the number, remounted and rode west after the receding cloud of dust which hid the flock. the shepherd's head sank on his heaving breast and he stood still. "lord jesus, i pray thee, give me my sheep again!" he prayed. a deep prolonged thunder that had been filling the hills with sound began to multiply as the nearest slopes caught it and tossed it from echo to echo. it was not loud but immensely prevalent. those wayfarers who had fled came back to the brink of the hill and those who had stood their ground walked out into the grass to look back. around the curve of a buttress of rock that stood out at the line of the road, the head of a column of roman cavalry appeared. the superb color-bearer bore on his hip the staff supporting the imperial standard. at the forefront rode a young general; on either side a tribune. behind came a detachment of six hundred horse. the sheep huddling in the way were swept like a scurry of leaves out into the meadow alongside the road, and one of the tribunes and the general turned in their saddles to look at the confiscated flock. the second tribune observed their interest in this trivial incident with disgust. the young general, whose military cloak flaunted a purple border, called the decurion boyishly: "well done, sergius! a samnos of wine for your company to-night for this." the decurion saluted. "where did you get them?" the tribune demanded. the shepherd who had withdrawn to the side of the road on the approach of the column looked at the questioner with resentful eyes from which the moisture had not vanished. "from me!" he said. both the purple-wearing young general and his tribune looked at him amusedly. "how many killed and wounded, sergius?" the tribune asked. the silent and disapproving tribune, observing that the commanding officer had not given an order to halt, brought the six hundred to, lest they ride their general down. "you!" the general exclaimed with his eyes on the young shepherd. the boy looked up into the face of the roman who sat above him on a snow-white horse. it was a young face, tanned by the sun of alexandria, but bright with an emanation of light that somehow was made tangible by the flash of his teeth as he talked and the sparkle of his lively eyes. for a soldier exposed to the open air and the ruffian life of the camp and burdened with the grave task of subduing a desperate nation, he was free of disfigurements. his brows were knitted as if to give his full soft eyes protection and the frown, with the laughing cut of his youthful lips, gave his face a quizzical expression that was entirely winning. in countenance and figure he was handsome, refined and thoroughly roman. the little shepherd was won to him instantly. without knowing that the world from one border to the other had already named this charming young roman the darling of mankind, the little shepherd, had his lips been shaped to poetry, would have called him that. so joseph, the shepherd, son of thomas, the christian, and titus, son of vespasian, emperor of the world, looked at each other with perfect fellowship. "those are sheep from pella," joseph said soberly, "in my care. they were taken from me because," he paused till a more tactful statement should suggest itself, but, lacking it, drove ahead with spirit, "there was not more of me to stop your soldiers." "i believe you," titus replied heartily. "but that is the fortune of war. still, you jews have a habit of refusing to accept defeat rationally." "i am not a jew," joseph explained. "i am born of arab blood, and i am a christian." "worse and worse," said titus. joseph shifted his position argumentatively. "is it?" he asked. "are you making war on pella or jerusalem? was it pella or the hundred jewish towns that cost rome so much of late? pella is not exactly your friend, though neither are most of your provinces; but are you going to pillage egypt or persia because judea is in rebellion?" titus threw his plump leg over the horn of his saddle and sat sidewise. one of his tribunes looked at the other with a flickering smile that was not entirely free of contempt. but his fellow returned a stare that for immobility would have done credit to the memnon. "now," titus began, "i have heard of this fault in the christians. they don't understand warfare." "we don't," joseph declared bluntly. "we do not see why you should take my sheep to feed your army, when we have had nothing to do with bringing your army over here. we haven't cost you one drop of roman blood or one denarius of roman money, and yet you are taking at one act the whole of our substance and punishing us for the misdeeds of others--others whom you haven't succeeded in punishing yet." "that is bad judgment," titus said, frowning at the last sentence. "unpleasant truth always is," joseph retorted. one of the tribunes laughed impulsively and titus looked around at him reproachfully. "come, come, carus," he said. "thy pardon, cæsar," the tribune replied, "but we'll be whipped in this wordy battle. and even a small defeat were an unpropitious sign on this expedition." "to hades with your signs! if i am whipped with six hundred back of me, i ought to be! boy, we have your sheep by conquest; you will have to take them back the same way." joseph's face fell. "i have had them since i was nine years old. i've tended them since they were lambs and their mothers before them. it is like surrendering so many children," he said dejectedly. "in truth i can fight for them even if it be but to lose, and i am bidden not to fight at that." "by hector, that is not a jewish tenet!" titus exclaimed. joseph said nothing. he stood still in the path of the roman six hundred with his curly head sunk on his breast. there was silence. "is it?" titus demanded uncomfortably. "no; and for that reason you are still fighting them and will fight and lose and lose and lose, before you win. still, it is no safeguard not to fight you; you take our substance anyhow. be we peace-lovers or not, there is warfare; if we do not fight we are fought against." titus thrust his helmet back from his full front of intensely black curls and wiped his forehead. "the sun is hot in these hills," he said disjointedly to the tribune he had called carus, "and the wind is cold. uncomfortable climate." carus said nothing. "is it not?" titus demanded irritably. "very," carus observed hastily. the little shepherd stood in the road and the six hundred were silent. "well," said titus with a tone of finality, "you never remember the wrongs the strong man endured--wrongs that the weak man did him because of his weakness." "it never hurts the strong man," joseph said softly, "to give the weak one another chance." titus closed his lips at that, and the tribune who had smiled sarcastically looked with sudden intent at carus. carus silently moved his horse to the sarcastic tribune's side with such threatening expression on his face that the other discreetly held his peace. "perhaps," titus said thoughtfully, but the boy failed to see more in that word than the simple expression. in his search for some further plea that would give him his sheep again, the presence of the young roman appealed to him with hope. surely one so young and laughing, so ready to stop an army to argue with a child, could not be beyond reach of persuasion. with the simple frankness so innocent of guile as to make charming that which upon other lips would have been the broadest insincerity, he put that moment's thought into words. "i thought," he said slowly, "because your horse is so white and your dress so golden and your face so beautiful that i would have but to ask--and i would have my sheep again." titus looked at him, not with the idea that his compliment was effective, but with the thought that the boy was yet too young to have lost faith in attractive things; that another than himself would have to teach the shepherd that lesson in disappointment. "have you examined these sheep for disease, sergius?" he demanded, with a show of severity. "i never saw a flock in this country that was not full of peril for the cavalry." sergius, wisely catching excuse in this demand, saluted. "i did not," he replied. "so? well, do it hereafter. go stop those legionaries and turn loose that flock. we lost five hundred horse in cæsarea for just such negligence." joseph flung up his head, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks aglow, his whole figure alive with a gratitude so potent that it was painful. titus, with the deep tide of a blush crawling over his forehead, scowled down at this joy. "look well," he continued severely to sergius, "and if they are healthy--" but joseph laughed and stepped out of the young general's path. "and," said titus, his face clearing before that laugh as he directed his words to the little shepherd, "jerusalem shall have another chance." transfiguration brightened the small dusky face. he put up his hands for that blessing that was a part of his farewell. "_may my god supply all thy need according to his riches in glory, by jesus christ. amen!_" titus, with a bowed head, touched his horse, and in response to a silent flash of an uplifted sword the picked six hundred of cæsar's army rode on in the subdued thunder of hoof and the music of jingling harness toward jerusalem. after a long time there came the quick patter of a running flock and the multitudinous complaint of lambs, and up from the east rushed the mob of sheep. behind them trotting comfortably were the mounted scouts. the ten privates wore scornful countenances highly expressive of their contempt for the unwarlike restitution they had been forced to make, but as they rode past when the sheep swept out of the road to their tender, sergius, the decurion, dropped back and with his tongue in his cheek made such jovial threatening signs that the little shepherd laughed again. the squad galloped after the main body and were lost to view. many of the jews called to the little shepherd, but after a time travel was resumed on the road and deep monotonous composure settled upon the valley again. but joseph, the christian, turned into the high grass of the meadow with bowed head and clasped hands. "lord jesus, what may i do for thee?" he asked impulsively. he stopped suddenly. at his feet lay the silent sleeper in the grass. on the tall growth upstanding about the prostrate form were clear shining scarlet drops. the little shepherd turned white and threw himself down on his knees beside the still figure and put his hand over the heart. then he lifted his face to the skies. "_i was sick and ye visited me_," he whispered radiantly. [illustration: he threw himself down by the still figure.] chapter viii greek and jew julian of ephesus, now the presumptive philadelphus maccabaeus, rode up the broad brown bosom of a hill that had confronted him for miles to the south, and the sun had sloped until its early spring rays struck level from the west. at the summit, he drew up his horse suddenly with a quick intaking of the breath. below him lay jerusalem. south and east the barren summits of brown hills shaped a depression in which the city lay. north, clean-white and regular, the wall of agrippa was printed against the cold blue of the sky. below on three lesser mounts and overflowing the vales between was the goodliest city in all asia. about it and through it climbed such walls, planted on such bold natural escarpment, that made it the most inaccessible fortification in the world. on its highest hill stood a vision of marble and gold--a fortress in gemstone--the temple. behind it towered roman antonia. westward the tyropean bridge spanned a deep, populous ravine. the high broad street upon which the giant causeway terminated was marked by the solemn cenotaphs of mariamne and phaselis and ended against the tower of hippicus--a vast and unflinching citadel of stone. under the shadow of this pile was the high place of the herods; in sight was a second herodian palace. south was the open space of the great markets; near the southernmost segment of the outer wall was the semicircular hippodrome. cut off from its neighbor by ancient walls were ophlas, overlooking tophet and under the shadow of the temple; mount zion which the lord had established, akra of the valley, moriah, the holy hill, and coenopolis or bezetha which agrippa i had walled. about the immense outer fortifications crawled the shadowy valleys of tophet, of brook kedron and of hinnom. thickly scattered like fallen patches of skies the pools of siloam, gihon, shiloh, en-rogel, the great pool, the serpent's pool and the dragon's well reflected the color of the mountain heavens. between them wandered the blue threads of certain aqueducts that supplied them. everywhere rose the shafts of monuments and memorials, old as the pride of absalom, new as the folly of the herods; everywhere the aggressive paganism of rome and greece, which would have paganized this monotheistic race out of very rancor against its uprightness, violated with insolent beauty the hieratic severity of the city's face. rich, bold, strong, beautiful, jerusalem was at that hour, as viewed from the hill to the north, the perfection of beauty and the joy of the whole earth. for a moment ambition struggled nobly in the breast of the man that overlooked it. except for the obstacles he had placed in his own way by his misdeeds, julian of ephesus at that moment might have become great. but he had struck down his kinsman on the way, and such deeds were remembered even in war-ridden judea; he had come to jerusalem wearing his kinsman's name that he might despoil that kinsman's bride of her dowry; a hundred other crimes of his commission stood in the way to peace and success. but about him the passover pilgrims, catching their first glimpse of the holy city, gave way to the storm of emotion that had gradually gathered as they drew near to the threatened city of delight. it had moved him to look upon this most majestic fortification, embattled and begirt for resistance against the most majestic nation in the world. but he who came as a stranger could not feel within him the tenderness of old love, the sanctity of old tradition, and the desperation of kin in his blood as he gazed upon jerusalem. yonder was a roof-garden; to him, no more than that. but the inspired jews beside him knew that in that place the sun of noon had shone upon bathsheba, the beautiful; and in that neighboring high place the heart of the singing king had melted; to the north was a stretch of monotonous ground overgrown with a new suburb; but that was the camp of sennacherib, the assyrian whom the angel of the lord smote and his army of one hundred and four score and five thousand, before the morning. yonder were squalid streets, older than any others. but the kings had walked them; the prophets had helped wear trenches in their stones; the heroes and the strong-hearted women of the ancient days had gone that way. no house but was holy with tradition; no street but was sanctified by event. small wonder, then, that these who came to this passover, the most momentous one since that calamity which had occurred forty years ago on golgotha, wept, cried aloud to heaven; became beatified and made prophecies; railed; anathematized jerusalem's enemies; assumed vows and were threatening. julian of ephesus was shaken. he looked about him on the tempestuous host, then touched his horse and rode down to the city. on the hill scopus over which he approached an inferior number of romans were camped, and these had maintained a semblance of siege only sufficiently effective to close all the gates on three sides. the sun gate to the south of the city was therefore the most accessible point of entry for the pilgrims. following the people who had preceded him, julian approached this portal, left his horse with the stable-keeper without and prepared to enter jerusalem. collecting at the causeway of the sun gate the pilgrims came with such impetus that the foremost were rushed struggling and protesting through the tunnel under the wall and forced well into jerusalem before they could control their own motion. once within, the host spread out so that one looking at the immense space they instantly covered wondered how so great a mass ever passed through the circumscribed limits of a fifty-foot gate. at times stopping was impossible. again there were momentary lulls, as when the sea recoils upon itself and is stilled for an instant. they who stood to watch, wearied of days of such invasion, unconsciously wished that the interval might endure till they could rest their number-wearied brains. but, as if the stagnation were the result of congestion somewhere without the walls, when the wave returned it came with redoubled height and power and the sun gate would roar with the noise of their entry. after the ephesian had been swept in with his own company of pilgrims, he saw that which even few of the new-comers had expected to see. the immediate vicinity of the gate was laid waste. up mount zion opposite hippicus and along the margin of the tyropean valley where the herodian and sadducean palaces had seemed so fair from the north were great blackened shells of walls and leaning pillars, partly buried in ruin and rubbish. far and wide the streets were littered with debris and charred fragments of burned timbers. at another place on the breast of zion was a chaos of rock where a mansion had been literally pulled down. somewhere near akra pale columns of pungent, wind-blown smoke still rose from a colossal heap of fused matter that the ephesian could not identify. about it were neglected houses; not a sign of festivity was apparent; windows hung open carelessly; the hangings in colonnades were stripped away entirely or whipped loose from the fastenings and abandoned to the winds. numbers of dwellings appeared to have been sacked; others were so closely barred and fortified that their exteriors appeared as inhospitable as jails. confusion prevailed on the smoked and untidy marble walk of the purified leading down from the temple. here those who held fast to the law met and contested for their old exclusiveness with wild heathen idumean soldiers, starvelings, ruffians and strange women from out-lying towns. far and wide were wandering crowds, surly, defiant, discourteous, exacting. manifestly it was the visitors who were the aggressors. they had been overthrown and driven from their own into an unsubjugated city which was secure. they felt the rage of the defeated which are not subdued, and the resentment against another's unearned immunity. the citizens of jerusalem had not welcomed them and they were enraged. half a dozen fights of more or less seriousness were in sight at once. a column of black wiry men in some semblance of uniform pushed across the open space toward the essene gate. they took no heed for any in their path. those who could not escape were overturned and trampled on. meeting a rush at the gate they drew swords and coolly hacked their way through screams of fear and pain and amazement. after them went a wave of curses and complaint. citizens against the visitors; visitors against the citizens; soldiers against them all! "and this cousin of mine meant to pacify all this!" the ephesian exclaimed to himself. jerusalem, that had for fifteen hundred years adorned herself at this time with tabrets and had gone forth in the dance of them that make merry, was drunken with wormwood and covered with ashes. all at once the ephesian saw four soldiers standing together and with them, manifestly under their protection, was a greek of striking beauty. he wore on his fine head a purple turban embroidered with a golden star. without a moment's hesitation, the ephesian approached. the spears of the four soldiers fell and formed a barrier around the greek. the new-comer smiled confidently. "greeting, servant of amaryllis," he said. "i am your lady's expected guest." the greek came forth from the square formed by his guard. "i am that servant of amaryllis," he said courteously. "but show me yet another sign." the ephesian drew from his bosom the maccabaean signet and flashed its blue fires at the greek. the servant stepped hastily between the soldiers and the new-comer. "thy name?" he asked in a whisper. "i am philadelphus maccabaeus." the servant bent and taking the hem of the woolen tunic pressed it to his lips. "happy hour!" he exclaimed. "i pray you follow me." the pretender breathed a relieved sigh and joined his protector. they passed down into akra and approached the straight column of pungent smoke towering up from a charred heap that the ephesian in spite of his haste inspected curiously. "what is that?" he asked of the greek. "that, master, is the city granaries." "the granaries!" the ephesian cried, aghast. the greek inclined his head. "what--what--fired them?" the ephesian asked. "john and simon differed on the point of its control and each fired it to keep the other from possessing it!" for a moment the ephesian was thunderstruck. then he quickened his pace. "by the horns of capricornus!" he avowed. "the sooner one gets out of this, the wiser he must be counted!" the greek looked at him with lifted brows and led on. they crossed the tyropean valley and approached a small new house of stone, abutting the vast retaining wall that was built against moriah. a line of soldiers was thrown out from the entrance to the house and his conductor, after whispering a word to the captain, led the way up to a double-barred door. a long time after he had rapped, there was the sound of falling chains and the door swung open. a second greek servant of no less beauty bowed the new-comer and his companion within. the noise of the streets was suddenly cut off. soft dusk and quiet proved that the doors of amaryllis had been shut upon unhappy jerusalem. the second servant drew a cord and a roller of matting lifted and showed a skylight. philadelphus the pretender was in the andronitis of a greek house. it was typical. none but a greek with the purest taste had planned it. walls and pavement were of unpolished marble, lusterless white. a marble exedra built in a semicircle sat in the farther end, facing a chair wholly of ivory set beside a lectern of dull brass. at either end of the exedra on a pedestal formed by the arms, a brass staff upheld a flat lamp that cast its luster down on the seat by night. against an opposite wall built at full length of the hall, was a pigeonholed case, which was stacked with brass cylinders. this was the library of the greek. at a third side was a compound arch concealed by a heavy white curtain. there were low couches spread with costly white material which were used when amaryllis set her table in her andronitis, and at the arches leading into the interior of the house there were draperies. but the chamber, with all its richness, had a splendid emptiness that made it imposing, not luxurious. after a single admiring survey of the hall in which he had been left alone, the pretended philadelphus fortified himself against his most critical test. without a sound, without even so much as the rustling of a garment to announce her, a woman emerged from a passage leading into the interior of the house. he confronted the only person in jerusalem who might know him as an impostor. the woolen chiton of her countrywomen draped a figure almost too slender, yet perfect in its delicate modeling. though her eyes were black, her hair was fair and brilliant with a wash of gold powder. her features were hellenic, cold, pure and classic, and for all her youth and beauty there was an atmosphere about her of middle-age, immense experience, and old sagacity. the pretender braced himself for the scrutiny the eyes made of him. "you are that philadelphus, as my servant tells me?" she asked. "i am he." she inclined her head. "welcome; in the name of all the need of you!" after a silence he came closer and lifted her hand to his lips. he added nothing, but presently raised his eyes softened with feeling and unexpressed appreciation. "certainly you have suffered, lady," he said finally in a subdued tone. "but please god you will not suffer alone hereafter." amaryllis' non-committal front changed. "you are gentler of speech than is common among the maccabees," she said. "nevertheless the maccabees are the more touched by devotion," he maintained. he led her to the exedra, unslung his wallet and laid it on the lectern before them. "when thou hast leisure, perchance thou wilt find interest in these papers here." she thanked him and there was a moment's silence. under his lashes the impostor saw that he had not filled her fancied picture of the maccabee made from long years of correspondence. she was disappointed; her intuition was perplexed. he would complete his work and get away in time. "my wife is here?" he asked. "she came yesterday," amaryllis responded, clapping her hands in summons. a female servant of such prepossessing appearance that philadelphus looked at her again, bowed in the archway. "send hither the princess," amaryllis said. "the princess," philadelphus repeated to himself. "then, by ate, i am the prince!" "while we wait," amaryllis continued, "let us talk of details which you may not have patience to hear after she comes. jerusalem, as you have learned, is in grave danger--" "jerusalem should fear the roman army less than herself. i have seen its disease." "the citizens will hail titus as a deliverer. but this week's ceremonies are bringing us disaster. should titus be forced to lay siege about us, how shall we feed this multitude of a million on the supplies gathered for only a third of that number?" "gathered and burned." "even so. but of your creature comforts. my house is open to your chief enemy. it must be so. you must be hidden--not concealed, but disguised. you know my weakness for people of charm and people of ability. my house is full of them. the master of this place is indulgent; he permits me to add to my collection whatever pleases me in the way of society. therefore, you are come as a student of this wonderful drama to be enacted in jerusalem presently. you may live under part of your name. substitute, however, your city for your surname. be philadelphus of ephesus. no one then will question your presence here. "i have bound to me by oath and by fear one hundred idumeans who will rise or fall with you. they are of john's own army and alienated to you without his knowledge. hence they are in armor and ready at any propitious moment. this house is provisioned and equipped for siege; everything is prepared." "at what cost, my amaryllis?" he asked tenderly. she drew away from him quickly, as if his tone had touched a place of deeper disappointment. "that i do not remember. i am your minister; you need no other. more than the one would be multiplying chances for betrayal." "and what wilt thou have out of all this for thyself?" he asked. slowly she turned her face back to him. "i would have it said that i made a king," she said. there was a step in the corridor leading into the andronitis, and, smiling, amaryllis rose. philadelphus got upon his feet and looked to catch the first glimpse of the woman who was bringing him two hundred talents. a woman entered the hall. behind her came a servant bearing a shittim-wood casket. had amaryllis been looking for suspicious signs, she would have observed in the intense silence that fell, in the arrested attitude of the pair, more than a natural embarrassment. any one informed that these were a pair of impostors would have seen that there was no confusion here, but amazement, chagrin and no little fear. instead, amaryllis, nothing suspecting, glanced from one set face to the other and laughed. "poor children! married fourteen years and more than strangers to each other! i will take myself off until you recover." she signed to the servant to follow her and passed out of the hall. philadelphus then put off his stony quiet and gazed wrathfully at the woman who had entered. hers was a fine frame, broad and square of shoulder, tall and lank of hip as some great tiger-cat, and splendid in its sinuosity. she had walked with a long stride and as she dropped into the chair she crossed her limbs so that her well-turned ankles showed and the hands she clasped about her knees were long and strong, white and remarkably tapering. her features were almost too perfect; her beauty was sensuous, insolent and dazzling. withal her presence intimated tremendous primal charm and the mystery of undiscovered potentialities. and she was royal! no mere upstart of an impostor could have assumed that perfect hauteur, that patrician bearing. but the pretended philadelphus was not impressed by this beauty. "how now, salome?" he demanded. "what play is this?" the ephesian actress motioned toward the shittim-wood casket. "for that," she said calmly. her voice became, instantly, her foremost charm. it was a deep voice; the profoundest contralto with an illimitable strength in suggestion. "where is--what is that?" "two hundred talents." philadelphus took a step toward her. "what!" he exclaimed evilly. "whose two hundred talents?" "mine." there was silence in which the man's fingers bent, as if he felt her throat between them. then he recovered himself. "but--this woman--where is she?" the actress lifted her shapely shoulders. "where is the maccabee?" she asked in return. he made no answer. "did you get that treasure here--since yesterday?" he asked at last querulously. "no, by pluto! i got it in the hills near to emmaus. you would have had it in another day." she laughed impudently, in spite of the murderous blackening in his face. "then, since you are such a shrewd thief, why did you come here at all, since you had the gold?" he demanded, astonished in spite of his rage. she waved a pair of jeweled hands. "they said that the maccabee was strong and ambitious and forceful, that he would be king over judea. knowing you, i believed he would still come to jerusalem in spite of you. how did you do it? in his sleep? now, i," she continued with an assumption of concern, "failed in that detail. she was guarded by a monster. i could not get near her. but i got the casket." "she will come here then!" philadelphus exclaimed. "what of it! amaryllis does not know her; no one else does. and i have her proofs--and her dowry!" after a silence in which she read the expression on his face, she rose and came near him with determination in her manner. "you will have the wisdom not to recognize her," she said, "lest i suddenly discover that you are not the philadelphus i expected." he made rapid survey of her advantage over him, and submitted. "but there will be no need of waiting for such an issue," he fumed, after a silence. "i am here and not the maccabee, whose crown you coveted. we shall get out of this perilous city." "so?" she said, lifting her finely penciled brows. "no, we shall not." "why?" he stormed. "because," she answered, "john of gischala may yet be king of judea--and john hath a queen's diadem for sale at two hundred talents--or a heart which i can have for nothing." there was malevolent and impotent silence in the andronitis of amaryllis, the greek. chapter ix the young titus they who stood on the wall by the tower of psephinos in coenopolis of jerusalem on a day in march, a.d., saw prophecy fulfilled. since the hour in which the roman eagles had appeared above the horizon to the west in their circling over the rebellious province of judea there had not been one day of peace. then their coming had meant the approach of an enemy. but in a short time such implacable and fierce oppressors, with such genius for ferocity and bloodshed, had developed among the jews' own factions that the miserable citizens had turned to the tyrant rome for rescue. they who had risen against florus and had driven him out would have willingly accepted him again in place of simon bar gioras and john of gischala, before two years had elapsed. now, their plight was so desperate that they clambered daily upon the walls of their unhappy city to look for the first glimpse of the approaching enemy, titus, whom they had learned to call the deliverer. near noon of this day in march certain citizens on the wall beside hippicus saw a flash down the road to the west beyond the serpent's pool near herod's monuments. again they saw it and again, until they observed that its appearance was rhythmic, striking through a soft colored cloud of judean dust. out of that yellow haze, rolling nearer, they saw now the glittering roman standards emerge, one by one; saw the spiky level of shouldered spears; saw the shapes of horses, saw the shapes of men; heard the soft thunder of six hundred horse on the packed earth, heard the music of six hundred whetting harnesses; heard like a tender, far-off song the winding of a roman bugle and heard then in their own hearts, the shout: "he has come! the deliverer!" it was the hour of the city's last hope. on the near side of the pool of the serpent, they saw the body of horse break into a light trot and, wheeling in that fine concord in which even the dumb beasts were perfect, turn the broadside of the splendid column to jerusalem as it swept up hill gareb to the north. the citizens clambered down from the wall by hippicus and, speeding silently but with moving lips and shining eyes through alleys and byways, came finally to an angle in agrippa's wall that stood out toward gareb. here was built the tower of psephinos. dumb and callous as beasts to the blows and commands of the sentries there mounted, the citizens clambered up on the fortifications and, with their chins on the battlements that stood shoulder-high, gazed avidly at the sight they saw. scattered confidently over the uneven country the six hundred had broken file and were in easy disarray all over gareb. spears were at rest, standards grounded, many were dismounted, whole companies slouched in their saddles. the jews, long used to rigid military discipline among the romans, looked in amazement. then a light click of a hoof attracted their attention to the bridle-path immediately under the overhanging battlements. there a solitary horseman rode. not a scale of armor was upon his horse; not a weapon, not even a shield depended from his harness. his head was uncovered and a sheeny purple fillet showed in the tumbled, dusty black hair. there was no guard on the hand that held the bridle; the cloak that floated from his shoulders was white wool; the tunic was the simple light garment that soldiers usually wear under armor; the shoes alone were mailed. it seemed that the young roman had stripped off his helmet, breast-plate and greaves to ride less encumbered or to appear less warlike. but the jews who looked at him understood. here was titus come in peace! the horse went with loosened rein, while the young roman's eyes raised to the great wall towering over him had more of admiration and a generous foe's appreciation of his enemy's strength than of the note-making search of a spy in them. "ha! by hector, that penurious herod was a builder!" they seemed to say. "there is enough stone insolence in these walls to trouble rome for a while!" rod after rod of the slowly rising ground he traversed; rod after rod of the tall fortification passed under his inspection, and now the twin women's towers rose upon the ashes and scarped rock to the north. titus spoke to his horse and rode faster. meanwhile silent dozens climbed panting and dumbly resisting the sentries up beside the first jews. they were citizens who dared not rejoice aloud. they followed the young roman with brightened eyes, saying each within his heart: "thus david came up against saul, unto israel!" but there was an increase of uproar in the city below, as if news of the coming of titus had spread abroad. titus was now almost a mile from the nearest of his soldiers. he passed the gate of the women's towers. hedges, gardens, ditches and wind-breaks of cedars of lebanon from time to time obscured him. when he came in sight again, he had placed obstruction between himself and retreat. the next instant the gate of the women's towers swung in. out of it rushed a sortie of motley soldiery, brandishing weapons and shouting the war-cries of simon and john. the citizens on the walls pressed their hands to their temples and watched, transfixed with horror. jerusalem's defenders had gone out against the deliverer! the attack had been seen by the disorganized troops on gareb and the rapid trumpet-calls showed formation. but between the time of their movement and the moment of their relief a company could have been unhorsed. meanwhile titus, with nothing less than fate preserving him for its own work, dodged javelins and, enraging the white stallion that he rode, kept out of reach of hand-to-hand encounter with his assailants. back and forward he rode, his horse carrying him at times out of range of missiles; again, all but surrounded by the unorganized enemy. about his head whizzed axes and spears, wild, and frequently slaying their own. far up the slope of gareb the six hundred gathered itself and swept in mass down upon the conflict. between them and titus lay two furlongs. to join his column with all honor to himself, he had to work back over the wadies he had crossed and circle the gardens that stood in his way. but a hedge pressed too close upon the space he must pass, between it and the enemy, before he could return to his men. an ax glanced beside his ear; he wavered in his saddle. then, that happened which a roman of that day could not be forced to do and forget. titus wheeled his horse and, plunging his spurs into its sides, fled on into the open country to the north, with the jeers of the men of simon and john following him. his troops rushed down upon his assailants. but the wary soldiers turned when the roman had fled and the gate of the women's towers closed upon them. up from the visitors within the wall rose a shout: "a sign, a sign! an omen! thus shall the children of god overthrow the heathen in battle!" but one of the jews on the wall thrust his fingers under his turban and seized his hair. "jerusalem is fallen! woe! woe to the wicked city!" he turned in his place and leaped a good twenty feet to the ground. when he raised himself the look of a maniac had settled on his face. tearing his garments from him as he went, he entered a narrow street that made its ascent toward zion by steps and cobbled slants. here he came upon great crowds of terror-stricken citizens who had rushed together as the news spread abroad over jerusalem that the men of simon and john had gone out against the deliverer. no definite news of the outcome of the sortie had reached them and they were moving in a dense pack down toward the walls to hear the worst. the whole hurrying mass seemed to vibrate with suspense and dread. the maniac met them. "woe, woe to jerusalem!" he cried. a lean, apish, half-naked, lash-scarred idiot in the street, instantly, as if in echo to that mad cry, shouted in a voice of the most prodigious volume: "a voice from the east, a voice from the west, a voice from the four winds, a voice against jerusalem and the holy house, a voice against the bridegrooms and the brides and a voice against this whole people!" the temper of the crowd had reached that point of tension that needed only a little more strain to become panic. some one received the discordant cries of the maniacs with piercing rapid screams. instantly the choked passage filled with frantic uproar. scores attempting to flee blindly trampled over those transfixed with fear. they fought, men with women, youths with old age, children with one another. hundreds attracted by the tumult rushed in on the panic and added fresh victims and new death. out of the horror rose the fearful cries of the madmen: "woe, woe to this wicked city!" meanwhile, the soldiers of simon and john came to prevent citizens from gathering in bodies, and with sword and spear drove into the struggle and added murder to it all. the spirit of terror then issued out of that bloody alley and seized upon street by street. far and wide the tumult ran, growing in volume with every accession, until the raging and humiliated titus, among his six hundred, heard jerusalem howl like a beaten slave and hushed his pagan curses to listen. late that same afternoon, the esquiline gate, inaccessible, despised and sealed, was broken open from within and under it and down its difficult and dangerous approach poured a silent multitude, numbering thousands. they were abandoning the rock of david to its fate. among them went the last remnants of that sect of christians who had tarried long after their brethren had been warned away, hoping against hope. they were not missed among the numbers in jerusalem, for the passover hosts still poured through the gates to the south and took their places in the unhappy city. and with these that same afternoon laodice and her old servant came into jerusalem. it was the eighth day after they had applied to the priest at emmaus whither they had fled in their search for the frosts, a good three leagues north of the direct road to jerusalem. they had stopped at the lavatory outside the walls, washed themselves and had purchased the white garments of the purified. old momus carried with him the price of the lambs, of the fine flour and the oil for their cleansing and the two were ready to present themselves for their purification at the temple. but all the roar and disorder of the great city in its warfare and its discord confused them. ascalon had not a thousandth part of this turmoil at its busiest season. neither was there a servant in a purple turban with the gold star to meet them and they were bewildered and lost. the rest of the visitors to the passover hurried into the heart of the city; wave after wave of new-comers replaced them; but the young woman and her dumb old servant stood aside just within reach of the shadow of the immemorial portal and waited. time and again wolfish idumean soldiers who were numerous about the place noted the pair and commented to one another or spoke insolently to the shrinking girl who hid ineffectually behind her veil. hour after hour they stood with growing distress and no friendly face in all that army of hurrying, restless, quarreling jews welcomed them. the afternoon waned. laodice thought of the darkness and trembled. an old man fumbling a talisman of bone drew near them. laodice took courage and approached him. "i pray thee, sir, i seek amaryllis, the seleucid." the old man turned large, grave eyes upon her. "daughter, what dost thou know of this woman?" he asked. "my husband knows her; i do not. i am to join him under her roof." the old man looked reassured. "follow this street unto one intersecting it on the summit of zion. that will be a broad street and a straight one, terminating on a bridge. go thence to the hither side of that bridge, pass down the ravine and cross to the other side against moriah. there thou shalt see a new greek house. it is the residence of amaryllis." laodice thanked her informant and began the pursuit of the cloudy directions to her destination. twice before she brought up at the sentry line before the house of the seleucid, she asked further of other citizens. many times she met affront, once or twice she perilously escaped disaster. at last, near sunset, she stood before the dwelling-place of the one secure citizen of the holy city. a sentry dropped his spear across her path and she had not the countersign to give him. there she and her helpless old attendant stood and looked hopelessly at the refuge denied them. presently a man appeared in the colonnade across the front of the house and descending to the sentry line called to him the officer in command. they stood within a few paces of laodice and she heard the soldier address the man as john, and heard him deliver a report of the day. when the soldier withdrew to his place, laodice stepped forward and called to the gischalan. he stopped, noted that she was beautiful and waited. "i would speak with the lady amaryllis," she hesitated. "have you the countersign?" he asked. "no; else i should have entered. but amaryllis will know me." "enter then," the gischalan said. in a moment she was admitted at the solid doors and led into a vestibule. here, a porter took charge of momus and showed him into a side passage, while laodice followed her conductor through a corridor into an interior hall of splendid simplicity. lounging on an exedra was a young woman in a woolen chiton, barefoot and trifling with the greek ampyx that bound her golden hair. laodice put up her veil and looked with hurrying heart at her hostess. before she could get a preliminary idea of the woman she was to meet, john spoke lightly: "be wearied no longer. i have brought you a mystery--a stranger, without the countersign, asking audience with you." "go back to the fortress," the young woman answered. "sometime you will find strangers awaiting you there, also without the password. you will lose jerusalem trifling with me. i have spoken!" john filliped her ear as he passed through into a corridor which must have led into the temple precincts. under the light, laodice saw that he was a middle-aged jew, not handsome, but luxuriant with virility. his face showed great ability with no conscience, and force and charm without balance or morals. here, then, thought laodice, is the first of philadelphus' enemies. the idler in the exedra, meanwhile, was awaiting the speech of her visitor. "art thou she whom i seek?" laodice asked. "amaryllis, the seleucid?" "i am called by that name." "i was bidden," laodice continued, "by one whom we both know, to seek asylum with thee." "so? who may that be?" laodice whispered the name. "philadelphus maccabaeus." the greek's eyes took on a puzzled look. then she surveyed the girl and as a full conception of the beauty of the young creature before her formed in the greek's mind, the perplexity left her expression. her air changed; a subtle smile played about her lips. "he sent you to me for protection?" "until he arrives in jerusalem," laodice assented. "but he is already here." it was the moment that laodice had avoided fearfully ever since she had gathered from that winsome stranger by the roadside that his companion was her husband. although, after that fact had been made known to her, she had felt that she ought to join philadelphus and proceed with him to the holy city, she had endured the exposure of the hills, the want and discomfort of insufficient supplies and the affronts of wayfarers, that she might spare herself as long as possible her union with the unsafe man who had become even more hateful by comparison with the one who had called himself hesper. "perchance thou wilt lead me to him," laodice said finally. amaryllis made no immediate answer. it would have been a natural impulse for her to wish to inquire for the girl's business with the man that the greek as hostess was expected to conceal. but amaryllis had her own explanation for this visit. it had been plain to less observant eyes than hers that the newly arrived philadelphus was not delighted with the bride he had met. the greek summoned a servant. "go summon thy master, prisca; and haste. i doubt not i have for him a sweet relief." the woman bowed. "if it please thee, madam, the master is without in the vestibule, returning from the city." amaryllis signed to the ivory chair before her. "sit, lady," she said to laodice. "he will come at once." the young woman dropped into the seat and gazed wistfully at her hostess. instinctively, she knew that in this woman was no relief from the darkened life she was to lead with her husband. the greek's face, palely lighted by a thoughtful smile, vanished in sudden darkness. laodice saw instead an image of a strong intent face, brightening under the sunrise, saw it relax, soften, grow inexpressibly kind, then pass, as a tender memory taking leave for ever. she was brought to herself by the greek's rising suddenly. the ephesian appeared at the arch, tossing mantle and kerchief to the porter as he entered. laodice rose to her feet with difficulty. it was he, indeed! he was kissing amaryllis' hand. the greek was smiling an accusing, conscious smile. she indicated laodice. the ephesian's face showed startlement, suspicion and a quick recovery. he bowed low and waited for explanation. "then i will go," amaryllis said with amusement in her eyes, "if you are acting pretenses for my sake." [illustration: amaryllis the greek.] she turned toward the arch which led into the interior of the house. the pretender glanced again at laodice and again at the greek. "what is the play, lady?" he asked. amaryllis looked at laodice standing stony white at her place, and lost her confident smile. "is this not he?" she asked. "is this philadelphus maccabaeus?" laodice asked. the ephesian's face changed quickly. enlightenment mixed with discomfiture appeared there for an instant. "i am he," he said evenly. "then," laodice said, "i am she whom thou hast expected." philadelphus smiled and dropped his head as if in thought. "one always expects the pleasurable," he essayed, "but at times one does not recognize it when it comes. who art thou, lady?" "pestilence, war and the evil devices of men have desolated me," she said coldly. "i have only a name. i am laodice." "laodice!" he repeated amiably. "a familiar name; eh, amaryllis?" laodice waited. philadelphus looked again at her and appeared to wait. "i am laodice," the girl repeated, a little disconcerted, "thy wife." "so!" philadelphus exclaimed. there was such well-assumed astonishment in the exclamation that she raised her eyes quickly to his face. there was another expression there; one wholly incredulous. "now did i in the profligacy of mine extreme youth marry two laodices?" he said. "for another laodice, wife to me, joined me some days since." laodice gazed at him without comprehending. "i say," he repeated, "that my wife laodice joined me some time ago." "why, i--i am laodice, daughter to costobarus, and thy wife!" she exclaimed, while her eyes fixed upon him the full force of her astonishment. he turned to amaryllis. "what labyrinth is this, o my friend," he asked, "in which thou hast set my feet?" "i do not know," amaryllis laughed suddenly. "call the princess." philadelphus summoned a servant and instructed her to bring his wife. for a short space the three did not speak, though laodice's lips parted and she stroked her forehead in a bewildered way. then salome, late actress in the theaters at ephesus, came into the hall. amaryllis bowed to her and the impostor gave her a chair. he turned to laodice and with the faintest shadow of a grimace motioned toward the new-comer. "this," he said, "is laodice, daughter of costobarus." laodice blazed at the insolent beauty who stared at her with curious eyes. "that!" she cried. "the daughter of costobarus!" the fine brown eyes of the woman smoldered a little, but she continued to gaze without the least discomposure. "who is this, sir?" she asked of philadelphus. "that," said philadelphus evenly, to the actress, "is laodice, daughter of costobarus." "i do not understand," the actress said disgustedly. "you are clumsy, philadelphus, when you are playful. if this is all, i shall return to my chamber." she rose, but laodice sprang into her path. "hold!" she cried. "philadelphus, hast thou accepted this woman without proofs?" philadelphus smiled and shook his head. "and by the by," he asked, "what proof have you?" up to that moment laodice had burned with confident rage, feeling that, by force of the justice of her cause, she might overthrow this preposterous villainy, but at philadelphus' question she suddenly chilled and blanched and shrank back. a new and supreme disadvantage of her loss presented itself to her at last. she could not prove her identity! meanwhile, seeing laodice falter, the woman's lip curled. "weak! very weak, philadelphus," she said. "you must invent something better. the success of a jest is all that pardons a jester." "she robbed me!" laodice panted impotently. "robbed me, after my father had given her refuge!" "of what?" the greek asked. "my proofs--and two hundred talents!" "lady," the actress said to amaryllis, "my husband's emissary, aquila, was a pagan. he had with him, on our journey, this woman and her old deformed father who fled when the plague broke out among us. she hoped, i surmise, that we should all die on the way. even samson gave up secrets to delilah, and this aquila was no better than samson." oriental fury fulminated in the eyes of laodice. philadelphus, fearing that she was about to spring at the throat of her traducer, sprang between the two women. in his eyes shone immense admiration at that moment. there was an instant of critical silence. then laodice drew herself up with a sudden accession of strength. "madam," she said coldly to amaryllis, "with-hold thy judgment a few days. i shall send my servant back to ascalon for other proof. _he_ can go safely, for he has had the plague." philadelphus started; the actress flinched. "friend," philadelphus said in his smooth way, "i came upon this woman by the wayside in the hills. i and a wayfarer cast a coin for possession of her--and the other man won. give thyself no concern." laodice flung her hands over her face and shrank in an agony of shame down upon the exedra. amaryllis looked down on her bowed head. "is it true?" she asked. after a moment laodice raised herself. "god of israel," she said in a low voice, "how hast thy servant deserved these things!" there was a space of silence, in which the two impostors turned together and talking between themselves of anything but the recent interview walked out of the chamber. after a time laodice lifted her head and spoke to the greek. "if thou wilt give me shelter, madam, for a few days only, i promise thee thou shalt not regret it," she said. the girl was interesting and amaryllis had been disappointed in philadelphus. nothing tender or compassionate; only a little curiosity, a little rancor, a little ennui and a faint instinctive hope that something of interest might yet develop, moved the greek. "send your servant to ascalon for proofs," she said. "i shall give you shelter here until you are proved undeserving of it. and since the times are uncertain, do not delay." chapter x the story of a divine tragedy the following morning, there was a rap at the door of the chamber to which laodice had been led and informed that it was her own. she had passed a sleepless night and had risen early, but the knock came late in the morning. she opened the door. without stood a ten year old girl, of the most bewitching beauty, as barely clad as ever the children of her blood went over the green meadows of achaia. her golden hair was knotted on the back of her pretty head and held in place by an ampyx. on her feet were tiny sheepskin buskins; about her perfect little body, worn carelessly, was a simple chiton, out of which her dimpled shoulders and small round arms showed pink and tender as field-flowers. nothing could have been more composed than her gaze at laodice. "we breakfast in the hall, now. you are to join us," she said. laodice stepped, out of the chamber into the court and followed her little guide. "the mistress and her guests rise late," the child went on. "that perforce starves the rest of us until mid-morning. eheu! it is the one injustice in this house." laodice dumbly wondered if she were to be classed with the house servants while she waited until the return of her devoted old mute. she was led into a long narrow room, showing the same simple elegance that marked all the house of amaryllis, the greek. down the center were two tables, separated by a cluster of tall plants that almost screened one from the other. at the first table place was laid for one. at the other, she found by the talk and laughter the rest of the company were gathered. the little girl led laodice to the single place, seated her, and kissing her hand to her with an almost too-practised bow, fled around the cluster of tall plants. there she heard her childish voice imperiously ordering a servant to attend the mistress' latest guest. prisca appeared and silently served laodice with melon, honey-cakes and milk. other of the house-servants were visible from time to time. this, then, manifestly was not the breakfast of the menials. she glanced toward the cluster of tall plants. through an interstice she was able to see all the persons seated at the other table. there first was the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl. beside her was a youth, slim, dark, exquisitely fashioned, with limbs and arms as strong as were ever displayed in the games, yet powerful without brutality, graceful without weakness--marks of the ideal athlete that had long since disappeared with the coming of the roman gladiator. opposite was a grown man, tall, broad and deep chested, with prominent eyes wide apart and a large mouth. there was a singleness of attitude in him, as in all persons reared to a purpose. it was that certain self-centeredness which is not egotism, yet a subconsciousness of self in all acts. he was the finished product of a specific, life-long training, and the confidence in his atmosphere was the confidence of one aware of his skill and prepared at all times. besides these three, there were two women, both in the garments of the ancient atelier. one was bemarked with clay; the other was stained with paint. laodice knew at a glance that she looked at a gathering of artists. "evidently a gift from john," the little girl was saying. "he can not see that our lady does anything but collect curiosities in this her search after art, and so he must needs add a contribution in this stygian monster we saw yesterday evening." laodice knew that they discussed momus. "perhaps," the athlete said, "he bought this left-handed catapult thinking he might throw the discus farther than i can throw it." "well enough," the woman with paint on her tunic put in; "she sent the monster packing. he went out of the gates post-haste last night, they say." "the pretty stranger that came with him stayed, i observe," the athlete said. "pst!" the girl said in a low voice. "where are the man's eyes in your head, that you do not see her?" "looking at you!" the athlete answered. "too soon!" the child retorted. "a good six years before i shall know what your looks mean!" "is she, this pretty stranger, something of john's taste?" the woman who had blue clay on her garment asked. "tut!" the athlete broke in. "john never departed from his ancient barbarism to that extent. that, unless i misjudge my own inclinations in a similar matter, is something this mysterious philadelphus hath arranged to relieve the tedium of--" "tedium!" the girl exclaimed. "by hector, this jewish wife of his would open his ephesian eyes were she to let loose all i suspect in her!" "brrr! but you are suspicious!" the athlete shivered. the little girl shaped her lips into a kiss and the athlete leaning across the table snatched it from her before she could avoid him. the women caught him by the back of his tunic and pulled him down in his chair. "sit down!" they whispered. "don't you see that juventius is about to speak?" the athlete glanced at the grown man, who had looked down into his plate at the youth's frolic with the child, with the utmost disdain and boredom in his expression. now that the silence became noticeable, he spoke in an affected voice, but one of the deepest music. "alas, these jews!" he said. "how little they know about art! how long has it been since he introduced one of the temple singers into our lady's hall to show what a piercing high note could be reached by a male voice? and he had the creature sing to prove his contention. i thought i should die! it was worse than awful; it was criminal!" the athlete laughed. "any singer, then, but juventius therefore is a malefactor!" he said. "no, it does not follow," juventius protested in all seriousness, while the child flashed a look of intense amusement at the athlete. "but," waving a pair of long white hands, "none should trifle with music. it is one of the graces of nature, divine and elemental. wherefore, anything short of a perfect production becometh a mockery and a mockery against divine things is blasphemy. ergo, the poor musician is in danger of hades!" "the monster is safe, safe!" the girl protested. "he does not sing, and from what i caught through the crack of the door, the pretty stranger had better not. my lady, the princess, had a merry time with my lord, the prince, at breakfast this morning, all about this same pretty one. so this is why she breakfasts with us--the second table." laodice heard this with a sinking heart. this was a strange house in which to live at no definite status, with a future blank and inscrutable. "is it, then, that you are wary of offending the over-nice exactions of music, that you do not sing?" the athlete demanded of juventius. "song," replied the singer gravely, "is originally the expression of the highest exaltation. to sing before the high mark of feeling is reached is an insincerity." "alas, juventius," the girl was saying, "how much difficulty you lay up for yourself in determining the limits of art! teach broadly and the fulfilment of your laws will not be such a task for the overworked and irritable gods of art." "child!" juventius cried passionately. "your ignorance outreaches your presumption!" "fie! fie!" the athlete put in comfortably. "let us make a truce, for i announce to you the opportunity each to have whatever you wish. we are to have at the proper moment, according to the jews, a celestial visitation which will enable us to have what we most desire." "you announce it!" the girl scoffed indignantly. "i have heard of that ever since i was born!" "i, too, have heard it," said juventius. "well," said the unabashed athlete, "the pharisee that brings amaryllis her fruit is so full of it that he gets prophecies mixed with his prices and the patriarchs with his fruit. he says that there are those that declare he is already in the city." "that he has been seen?" juventius asked, after a little silence. "no; merely suspected. they say that things go on in the temple which seem to show that some resident of their olympus already inhabits the air." "i saw seraiah to-day," one of the women said in a low voice. "silent as ever? spotless as ever? mysterious as ever?" the athlete asked. the woman who had spoken shook her head at him as if alarmed. "i can not bear to hear him ridiculed," she said. "somehow it seems blasphemous. they say he marks every one who laughs in his hearing." "they are not many," the girl said. "for the most part, the citizens of jerusalem feel as apprehensive about him as you do." "i wonder that john will stay in the temple with a god in it," juventius said, as if he had not heard the rest of the discussion. "john!" the athlete exclaimed. "john is an adventurer that believes in nothing, has no cause and furthers this warfare for loot and the possible chance of escape when the conflict comes." "simon is different," another said. "now he is wild and mad and insolent and foolhardy, because he believes that, no matter what tangle the situation is in, the celestial emissary he expects will straighten it out for him." "in short, he means to work such a complexity here that the man who unravels it must needs be divine." at this moment the door that cut off the rest of the house from this dining-room opened smartly and the supposed philadelphus stepped in. he closed the door behind him and glanced at the filled table. those there seated rose. he spoke to each one by name, and after they had greeted him, they filed out into the court and the servants began to remove the remnants of their meal. laodice rose at sign of this concerted deference to philadelphus but sat down again, with her lips compressed. however they had disposed her, she would not accept the menial attitude. she had not finished her honey-cakes. he came round to her, drew up a chair and sat down beside her. she ignored him, making a feint that was not entirely successful at interest in her fruit. "who art thou, in truth?" he asked finally. "laodice," she answered coldly. he sighed and she added nothing more. "what can your purpose be in this?" he asked. she ignored the question. after a longer silence, he said in an altered and softened tone: "what an innocent you are! certainly this is your first attempt! what marplot told you that such a thing as you have essayed was possible?" she put aside her plate and her cup, and turned to him. "by your leave i will retire," she said. "not yet," he answered, smiling. "it is my duty as a jew to help you while there is time." she settled back in her chair and looked at the cluster of plants while he talked. "nothing so damages the beauty of a woman as trickery. no bad woman is beautiful very long. there comes a canker on her soul's beauty, in her face, that disfigures her, soon or late. whoever you are, whatever your condition, you are lovely yet. be beautiful; of a surety then you must be good." it was the same old hypocritical pose that the bad man assumes to cloak himself before innocence. laodice remembered the incident in the hills. "where," she asked coldly, "is he who was with you at emmaus?" the pretender started a little, but the increase of alarm on his face showed that he realized next that here was a peril in this woman which he had overlooked. "gone," he said unreadily, "gone back to ephesus." she did not know what pain this announcement of that winsome stranger's desertion would waken in her heart. her eyes fell; her brows lifted a little; the corners of her mouth became pathetic. the pretender, casting a sidelong glance at her, saw to his own safety that she had believed him. "he was a parasite," he sighed, "living off my bounty. but even that did not invite him when he neared the peril of this city. so he turned back. i--i do not blame him," he added with a little laugh. "blame him?" she said quickly. "you--you do not blame him?" "no! any place, any condition is more desirable than residence in jerusalem at this hour." "if one seeks but to be comfortable. but here is a place for work and for achievement," she declared. "too desperate an extreme. nothing can be done here," he observed, shrugging his shoulders. she gazed at him with immense contempt. "that from a son of judas maccabaeus!" she exclaimed. he looked disconcerted. "why not?" he urged. "it is neither rational nor practical to attempt the impossible. jerusalem is doomed. i would but add myself to the sacrifice did i interfere between destruction and its sure prey." after a silence in which she confronted him with many emotions showing on her face, she said with infinite pity and disappointment: "o philadelphus, you to throw greatness away!" "where, o my mysterious genius, are my army, my engines, my subsistence, my advantage and the prize?" "what was that dowry which was stolen from me to purchase for you but these things? i brought it for this purpose. another than myself delivered it to you; the end is achieved; what use will you make of it?" "there is no nation here for that dowry to defend, no crown for it to support. but for this same madness which possesses my lady, the princess, i should depart this day for a safer venture, in some safer country!" she faced him intently. "and you will do nothing for judea?" she asked. "what can be done?" he asked, throwing out his hands with a careless gesture. "oh," she exclaimed with a rush of passionate feeling, "that i were you! you, with the materials for empire-building at your feet! you, with the hour beseeching you, with a people searching for you, with a treasury filled for you, with ancient prophecy establishing you, ancient precept teaching you, and the cause of god arming you! philadelphus, son of a great patriot, what are you saying! what can there be done! oh rather, how dare you not do! what have you about you but the inevitable end of judah, living contrary to god's plan for it! it is the conscience of israel rising against its sin and submission! it is the blood of david rebelling against the heathen yoke! it is the hour foretold by isaiah and jeremiah and ezekiel and daniel and the twelve, when israel shall repent and be chastened and return to the heritage of jacob. be the repairer of the breach! be the restorer of the paths to dwell in, my husband! go out and let israel behold you! help them to wipe out the shame of babylonia and persia and macedonia and rome! make jerusalem not only a sanctuary but a capital! restore the glory of david and the peace of solomon, for those were god's days and judah can not prosper except as it returns to them! philadelphus--" laodice halted abruptly in her appeal, breathless with feeling. the amusement had gone out of his face and his expression was one of mingled discomfort and surprise at her speech. "since you are a thinking woman," he answered, "i must answer you soberly. even i, expecting disorder and uproar in jerusalem, when i came from ephesus, was not prepared for this chaos! never was such a time! order is not possible in this extreme. it is unthinkable. nothing human can save jerusalem!" she laid her hand upon him. "nothing human!" she repeated quickly. "seest not that this is the time of the messiah? be ready to be helped of god!" philadelphus drew away from her uneasily and looked at her from under lowered brows. "they say," he said in a suppressed voice, as fearing his own words, "that he has come and gone!" she looked at him blankly. he was glad he had thought of this; it would divert her from a discourse momently growing unpleasant for him. and yet he was afraid of the thing he had said. "what dost thou say?" she asked. "he is come and gone--they say." "come and gone!" he nodded irritably. it made him nervous to dwell on the subject. "who say?" she demanded. "many! many!" he whispered. "it is not--do you believe it?" she persisted, with strange terror waiting upon his answer. he moved uneasily but he answered the truth. it was superstition in him that spoke. "something in me says it is true," philadelphus whispered. she stood transfixed; then all her horror rose in her and cried out against the story. "it can not be!" she cried. "see the misery and oppression, here, tenfold! nothing has been done! nobody heard of him! he could not fail! what a blasphemy, what a travesty on his word, to come and fulfil it not and go hence unnoticed! it can not be!" "but, but--" he protested, somehow terrified by her denial, "only you have not heard. everywhere are those who believe it and i saw--i saw--" the growing violence of dissent on her face urged him to speak what his shamed and guilty tongue hesitated to pronounce. "i saw in ephesus one who saw him; i saw in patmos one who had reclined on his breast!" "a--a--woman?" she whispered. "no! no!" he returned in a panic. "a man, a prisoner, old and white and terrible! but it was in his youth! he told me! and the one in ephesus, a red-beard, hunchbacked and half-blind and even more terrible than the first! he saw him after he was dead!" "dead!" her lips shaped the word. "they--yes! he was crucified!" her lips parted as if to speak the word, but her mind failed to grasp it certainly. she stood moveless in an actual pain of horror. "but he rose again from the dead," he persisted, "and left the earth to its own devices hereafter. and so behold jerusalem! "and there was one woman," he added, "who had been a scarlet woman. she had anointed his feet with precious oil and wiped them with her hair. and i saw her also--i sought them all out, because they could do miracles and foretell events. thousands upon thousands believe in them." "crucified!" she whispered. "they say," he went on, "that he pronounced judgment on jerusalem and that it now cometh to pass!" the accumulated effect of the calamitous recital was to stun her. she gazed at him with unintelligent eyes, and her lips moved without speaking. for one reared in constant contemplation of god's nearness to his children, acquainted with divine politics, divine literature and divine law, cut off from the world and devoted wholly to religion, the story of a divine tragedy carried with it the full force of its fearful import. philadelphus' narrative meant to her the crumbling of earth and the effacement of heaven. she cried wildly her unbelief when words returned to her. but under the fury of her denunciation, unconsciously directed against the conviction that the story was true, she felt her hope of a restored kingdom of david wavering toward a fall. while she stood thus, amaryllis, languid and pre-occupied, entered the room with john of gischala at her side. the greek noted philadelphus with a quick accession of interest. john's attention had been instantly arrested by the presence of the other man. philadelphus turned with fine ease to meet the man whom he must regard as his enemy and laodice shrank back in an attempt to get out of sight of the trio. "welcome!" said amaryllis to philadelphus. "a fortunate visit that makes possible an amnesty for two of my friends at once. this, john, is philadelphus of ephesus, a seeker of diversion out of mine own country come to see the end of this great struggle thou wagest against rome. and thou, philadelphus, seest before thee, john of gischala, the arbiter of judea's future. be friends." with a comprehensive sweeping glance john inspected the man before him. "john of gischala," he repeated in his feline voice, "the oppressor john. art thou not afraid of me, sir?" "dost thou meditate harm for me, sir?" philadelphus smiled. "art thou, in that case, against me, sir?" john parried. "on that hingeth his answer," amaryllis said, glancing at laodice. "and here is this same pretty stranger who bewitched thee yesterday. know her as laodice. let that be parentage, history, ambition and religion for her. she, too, seeks diversion in jerusalem, and is my guest for a while." the gischalan took laodice's hand and held it. "welcome, thou," he said. "i will tolerate another man under thy roof if thou wilt but make this pretty bird of passage a permanency," he said to the greek, after a silent study of laodice's beauty. "let her be a hostage dependent on thy good behavior. lapse, and i shall send her back to olympus where they keep such nymphs." philadelphus smiled at laodice, but the shock of their recent talk had shaken her too much to enter into this idle chaff on the lips of those upon whom the fortunes of israel depended at that very hour. john looked at her for a long time. "amaryllis veils thee in the enchantment of mystery. i think she is tired of me and would have me interested in another woman. she does all things well. who art thou, in truth?" the greek lifted her head and gazed with overt anxiety at the girl; philadelphus turned toward her uneasily. here was an opportunity for laodice either as a disappointed adventuress or as a supplanted wife, to take revenge by exposing this pair of conspirators pledged to undermine the gischalan. but the girl had no such thought. "i am laodice," she said unreadily. "what history i have belongs to another. what future shall be mine depends on others. i wait." "if you mean to throw me off, amaryllis, i shall not miss you," said john. the greek smiled and plucking philadelphus' sleeve led both men away. "do not commit yourself," she said to john, "there is yet another woman under this roof. you shall have a choice." they disappeared in the direction of her hall. laodice, stunned, amazed and shaken, stood still. the stock of her troubles amounted to a sum of such magnitude that she could not grasp it clearly. the entire structure which her life training and all her purposes, the hope of her house and her husband's, the future of judea and the king to come, had constituted, had been attacked and threatened to crumble and be swept away in a few hours' time. out of the wreck she rescued one hope. momus would return from the west with proofs in a few days' time--only a few days! chapter xi the house of offense on his way to the oaken door that was for ever double-barred, in that small hall which led to the apartments of amaryllis' corps of artists, philadelphus met salome, the actress. he would have passed her without a word, but the woman, armed with the nettle of a small triumph over the man who held her in contempt, could not forbear piercing him as he passed. "hieing away to excite your disappointment further?" she said. "has the forlorn lady convinced you, yet, that she is indeed your wife?" "had i that two hundred talents, i would confess her!" he declared. "cruel obstacle! but that two hundred talents is locked away safely, out of your reach. why do you not run away with this pretty creature?" philadelphus glowered at her. "i have been known to make way with those who stood in my way," he declared. "i sleep with my door locked," she answered, "and i ever face you. i need never be afraid, therefore." for a moment he was silent, while she sensed that overweening hate and menace which charged the air about him. "it is not all as it should be," he said finally. "you are not rid of me. i shall stay." "you should," she responded comfortably. "you are a show of domesticity which lends color to our claim of wedded state. but you may go or stay. as usual, you are not essential." "i have been known to be superfluous. however it may be, i get much pleasure in the companionship of this lovely creature, the single flaw in the fine fabric of your villainy. do not fear her convincing me. she might convince others." there was no response; after a silence he said as he moved on: "i shall warn her to feed a morsel of her food to the parrots ere she tastes it, however." he was gone. the woman felt of the keys that swung under the folds of her robes. then she, too, went on. the oaken door was still fast closed when philadelphus reached it, but he knew that the girl, who lived within, came out to walk in the sunshine of amaryllis' court at certain hours while the household was engaged within doors. he had not long to wait. she came out in a little while, and glanced up and down the hall; but he had heard the turn of the bolt and had stepped into shadow in time. reassured that no one was near, she emerged and passing down the hall entered the court. and there presently he joined her. he sat down on one of the stone seats and smiled at her. "do i appear excited?" he asked. she glanced at him indifferently. "no," she said. "i have this day seen destruction resolved for the city." she took his easy declaration with a frown. if it were true he should not show that flippancy; if it were not he should not have jested. "i saw," he continued, "titus and his beloved nicanor ride around the walls. though they were the full length of a bow-shot from me, i knew what they talked about. now, this young nicanor is a gad that tickles titus when his soft heart would urge him into tendernesses toward the enemy. but for nicanor, titus would have withdrawn his legions long ago and left jerusalem to die of its own violences. "on the day that you came into jerusalem, titus, as a display of amicable intentions, rode up to the walls without arms or armor, trusting to the jews' soldierly honor in refusing to attack an unarmed man. but the jews have never been instructed in the nice points of military courtesy, so they went out against him by thousands. and but for the fact that he is practised in dodging arrows and his horse is used to running away, emperor vespasian would have to leave the ægis to the unlovely domitian. "any roman but titus would remember this against the jews until he had put the last one in bondage, but titus is not a roman. i think some-times that he is a christian, since it is their boast to love their enemies. whatever his feelings after that ignominious adventure of a few days ago, forth he rides this morning; beside him the gad, nicanor; behind him, that sweet traitor, josephus. "the darling of mankind rode so meditatively, so dejectedly, that i knew by his attitude, he said: 'alack, it galls me to go against this goodly city!' "by the swagger of the gad i knew he said: 'dost gall thee, in truth? then truly, alack! withhold thy hand until the city comes out against thee, so thou canst hush thy conscience saying that they began it!' "saith the darling, 'but there be babes and innocent men and women within those walls, who, deserving most of all, shall suffer the greatest!' "'by hecate!' quoth the gad, 'there is not a yearling within that city possessing the power to pucker its lips but would spit upon thee!' "'it would be sacred innocence!' declares titus. "'or an old man that would not burn thine ears with malediction!' "'that would be holy dotage!' "'or a fine young man but would pale thee on a pike!' "'then let some one whom they hate less venomously, beseech them to their own salvation,' implores the darling. "whereupon the gad beckons insinuatingly to josephus. "'josephus,' says he, 'let us, being more lovable men than titus, go up unto these walls and give the jews a chance to be kind.' "josephus turns pale, but nicanor rides upon jerusalem. and at that what should a miscreant jew do but string an arrow and plunge it nicely, like a bodkin in a pincushion, in the fat shoulder of the gad! alas! it was the ruin of the holy city! when titus, pale with concern, reaches his friend kicking on the ground, does the gad curse the jews and inveigh against the hardy walls that contain them? not he! he struggles about so that he may look into the eyes of titus and commands him to make war on them instantly under pain of the accusation of partiality to them against his friends! and behold, war is declared. i, with mine own eyes, saw siege laid effectively about our unhappy city!" she gazed at him with alarmed, angry, accusing eyes. "and yet you do nothing!" she said to him. he smiled and let his lazy glance slip over her, but he made no response. "o philadelphus," she said to him, "how you affront opportunity!" "there are more captivating things than such opportunity. i have known from the beginning that there was nothing here." she looked at him with unquiet eyes. why, then, had he written so confidently to her father, if he had not believed in the hope for judea? "from the beginning?" she repeated with inquiry. "you wrote my father from cæsarea--" "your father?" he repeated, smiling with insinuation. "my father!" "who is your father?" he asked. she turned away from him and walked to the other end of the garden. he had never meant to aspire to the judean throne! he had simply written so determinedly to costobarus, that the merchant of ascalon would have no hesitancy in giving him two hundred talents! in these past days, she had learned enough that was blameworthy in this philadelphus to make him more than despicable in her eyes. again, as hourly since the last interview in the depression in the hills beyond the well, the fine bigness of that lovable companion of his, that had vanished for all time from her life, rose in radiant contrast. she turned back to her husband, with the pallor of longing and homesickness in her face. "does this other woman see no fault in this, your idleness?" she demanded. "she! by the shades, she sees nothing in me but fault! i would get me up like a sane man and go out of this mad place, but she hath locked up her dowry away from me, which was the simple cause that invited me to join her, and bids me go without her. and i might--but for one other attraction, dearer than the treasure, which also i would take with me." "even if she forces you into deeds, i shall forgive her," she declared at last. he smiled a baffling smile and she looked at him in despair. the very charm of his personal appearance awakened resentment in her; his deft and easy complaisance angered her because it could be effective. she hated the superficial excellence in him which made him a pleasant companion. he had refused to discuss her identity further, except to prevent her in her own attempts to identify herself. he did not refer to the incidents of their journey to jerusalem, but she felt that he was conscious of all these things, and her resentment was so great that she put it out of sight, lest at the time when she should be proved she would have come to hate him to the further thwarting of their work for israel. "it is sweet to have you concerned for me. now you may understand how much i am troubled for your own welfare. do not regard me with that unbending gaze. i am, first and before all else, your friend." "you have changed," she said slowly. "i did not find in you this solicitude in the hills." "unhappiness," he sighed, "makes most men law-less. i should be even now as bad, were i not sure of the sympathy you feel for me." she looked at him with large disdain. "does not this woman treat you well?" she asked with the first glimmer of sarcasm in her eyes. "her displeasure in me is that i do not make her a queen; yours, however, that i can not save this doomed nation! her ambitions are for herself; yours are for me. which waketh the response in my heart, lady?" "what have i lived for?" she burst out. "for what was i brought up and schooled? for what have i sacrificed all the light and desirable things of my youth, but for--" "nay! do not show me, yet, that you are only bent on being queen!" he exclaimed. "i care for nothing but the rescue of judea!" she cried passionately. "there is nothing left to me but that!" "then your ambitions are still for me. alas, that the messiah has come and gone!" it was his first reference to the great calamity he had told to her a short time before. its recurrence after she had resolved to regard it as an impossible and blasphemous tale brought a chill to her heart. "if i can prove to you that there is no hope for jerusalem, what then?" he asked suddenly. she flung off the question with a gesture. "answer me. what then?" "it is unimaginable what shall come to pass when god deserts his own." "no need for imaginings. look at jerusalem and observe the fact. and if we be abandoned, what fealty do we owe to a god that deserts us? if you believe or not you are lost. let us go out and live." "if god has deserted us," she said scornfully, "how shall we be happier elsewhere than here?" "every god to its own country. the olympians are a jovial lot. i have seen joy's very self in heathendom." she moved away but he rose and followed her. "whoever you are," he said in another tone, "your heritage of innocence and earnestness is plain as an open scroll upon your face. nothing in all the world so appeals to the generosity in the heart of a man as the purity of the woman who is pure. i have said that i am your friend. i do not hold it against you that you doubt that word. nothing remains but the deed to confirm it. this place is lost--as good as a heap of ashes and splintered rock, this hour! come away! i'll sacrifice the treasure to protect you!" "philadelphus," she said gravely, "we were sent hither to succeed or to suffer the penalty of our failure. my father died that we might have this opportunity. we must use it, or perish with it!" he shook his head and walked away a step or two. "you have not the true meaning of life," he said. "indeed how few of us understand! obstacles are not an incentive toward attaining impossible things. they are barriers set up by the kindly disposed gods to inform man that he is opposing destiny when he aspires to things he should not have. we were not made to fling ourselves against mighty opposition throughout the little daylight we have; to wound ourselves, to deny ourselves, to alienate that winsome sprite pleasure, to attain something which was not intended for us by the signs of the obstructions placed in our paths. who are we that we should achieve mightily! what are we when the gods have done with us, but a handful of dust! who saves himself from age and unloveliness and ultimate imbecility, by all the superhuman efforts he may exert! a pest on the first morose man that made dismal endeavor a virtue!" she looked at him with amazement, though until that hour she believed that this man could astonish her no more. "misfortune comes often enough without our knocking at her door," he continued. "mankind is the only creature with conceit enough to seek to emulate the gods. it is wrong to think that to be moral is to be miserable. nature's scheme for us, faithfully fulfilled, is always pleasurable. we have only to recognize it, and receive its benefits. nothing on earth is luckier than man, if he but knew it. a murrain on ambition! let us be glad!" how could she be glad with such a man! the time, the call of the hour, the need of her nation, the obligation to her dead father--all these things stood in her way. how had she felt, were this that engaging stranger who had called himself hesper, urging her to be glad with him! she felt, then and there, the recurrence of guilt which the sight of the reproachful face of momus had brought to her when she found herself forgetting her loyalty in the presence of that winsome man. the thought stopped the bitter speech that rose to her lips. she looked away and made no answer. he was close beside her. "come away and let this woman who wishes the kingdom have it. she had liefer be rid of me than not." she gazed at him with a peculiar blankness stealing over her face. "oh, for the quintessence of all compounded oaths to charge my vow!" he said. "for what?" she asked. "my love, phryne!" at the old pagan name with which he had affronted her that morning in the hills, laodice drew back sharply. "dost thou believe in me?" she asked. "believe what?" "that i am thy wife." "tut! back to the old quarrel! no! but by heaven, thou art my sweetheart!" she stopped at the edge of an exclamation and looked at him with widening eyes. "come, let us get out of this place. i can get the dowry! let her stay here and be queen over this place if she will. i had rather possess you than all the kingdoms!" but laodice flung him off while a flame of anger crimsoned her face. "thou to insult me, thy lawful wife!" she brought out between clenched teeth. "thou to offer affront to thine own marriage! i to live in shame with mine own husband!" the insult in his speech overwhelmed her and after a moment's lingering for words to express her rage, she turned and fled back to her room and barred her door upon him. after sunset the lights leaped up in the hall of amaryllis the greek. presently there came a knock at laodice's door. the girl, fearing that philadelphus stood without, sat still and made no answer. a moment later the visitor spoke. it was the little girl who acted as page for the greek. "open, lady; it is i, myrrha." laodice went to the windows. "amaryllis sends thee greeting and would speak with thee, in her hall," the girl said. reluctantly laodice, who feared the revelation which the light might have to make of her stunned and revolted face, followed the page. the greek was standing, as if in evidence that the interview would not be long. she noted the intense change on the face of her young guest and watched her narrowly for any new light which her disclosure would bring. "i have sent for thee," the greek began smoothly, "to tell thee somewhat that i should perhaps withhold, that thou shouldst sleep well, this night. but it is a perplexity perhaps thou wouldst face at once." laodice bowed her head. "it is this: titus and his friend, nicanor, approached too close the walls this day, and nicanor was wounded by an arrow. in retaliation, perfect siege hath been laid about the walls. none may come into the city." "and--momus, my servant," laodice cried, waking for the first time to the calamity in this blockade, "he can not come back to me?" "no. if he attempts it, he will be captured and put to death." laodice clasped her hands, while drop by drop the color left her face. "in god's name," she whispered, "what will become of me?" amaryllis made no answer. "can--can i not go out?" laodice asked presently, depending entirely on the greek as adviser. "you can--but to what fortune? perhaps--" she stopped a moment. "no," she continued, "you have never been in a camp. no; you can not go out." "what, then, am i to do?" laodice cried with increasing alarm. amaryllis shrugged her shoulders. "i can advise with john," she said. "doubtless he will allow you to remain here until you can provide yourself with other shelter." laodice heard this cold sentence with a chill of fear that was new to her. faint pictures of hunger and violence, terrifying in the extreme, confronted her. yet not any of them frightened her more than the offered favor of the gischalan. her indignation at the woman who had supplanted her swept over her with a reflexive flush of heat. "god of my fathers, judge her in her lies, and pour the fire of thy wrath upon her!" she exclaimed vehemently. amaryllis gazed curiously at the girl. in her soul, she asked herself if there might not be unsounded depths of fierceness in this nature which she ought not to stir up. "thou hast hope," she said tactfully. "she hath no such beauty as thine!" "nothing but my proofs!" laodice broke in. "and philadelphus is a young man." "rejecting her only because i am fairer than she! he is no just man!" laodice cried hotly. "softly, child," the greek said, smiling; "thou hast said that he is thy husband." laodice turned away, her brain whirling with anger, fear and shame. "well?" said the greek coolly, after a silence. "where shall i go?" laodice asked. "thou hast been too tenderly nurtured to go into the streets. i shall ask john to shelter thee until thou canst care for thyself." laodice looked at her without understanding. "thou canst not stay here for long because the wife to philadelphus is in a way a power in my house and she will not suffer it. but never fear; jerusalem is not yet so far gone that it would not enjoy a pretty stranger." the curious sense of indignation that possessed laodice was purely instinctive. her mind could not sense the actual insult in the greek's words. "i would advise you to be kind to philadelphus." "but, but--" laodice cried, struggling with tears and shame, "he has this day offered insult to his own marriage with me, by asking that i live in shame with him till it could be proved that i am his wife!" the greek's smile did not change. "if we weigh all the unpleasantness of wedded life in too delicate a balance, my friend, i fear there would be little, indeed, that would escape condemnation as humiliating." laodice raised her scarlet face to look in wonder at the greek. the cold smiling lips dismayed her for a moment. "and thou seest no shame in this?" she faltered. "thou sayest he is thy husband; why resent it?" "dost thou not see--see that--what am i but a shameless woman, if i live with him, though i be married to him thrice over!" "after all," said the greek, after a silence which said more than words, "it is the consciousness of your own integrity which must influence you; not what others think of you. it is not as if your husband thought better of you than you really are." "and you believe that i--" laodice began and stopped, bewildered. amaryllis, smiling, moved toward the inner corridor of her house. at the threshold of the arch she called back: "please yourself, my friend," and was gone. laodice was, by this time, stunned and intensely repelled. the hand on which amaryllis had laid hers in passing tingled under the touch. unconsciously she shook off the sensation of contact. the whole clear white interior of the hall became instantly unclean. her standards of right and wrong were shaken; the wholesale assaults on her ideals left her shocked and unconfident. she felt the panic that all innocent women feel when suddenly aroused to the unfitness of their surroundings. when she turned to hurry to her room, a flood of scarlet rushed into her cheeks and she shrank back, shaken with surprise and delight. before her stood a man, pale and thin, with his eyes upon her. chapter xii the prince returns joseph, the shepherd, son of thomas of pella, moved out of the green marsh before sunset, as he had planned to do, but not for the original motive. the sheep, indeed, would not have flourished in that dampness, rich as it was in young grass, but, more than that, there was no shelter for the wounded man who lay by the roadside. the shepherd, who knew the hills of judea as far as the plain of esdraelon as well as he knew the stony streets of the christian city, located the nearest roof as one which a fagot-maker had occupied two years before. it was some distance up in the hills to the west. since the scourge of war had passed over palestine, there were scores of such hovels, vacant and abandoned to the bats and the small wild life about the countryside, and the boy doubted seriously if the thatch that covered it were still whole. but he attracted the attention of a pair of robust young galileans on the way to the passover, and, by their help, carried the wounded man to shelter in this hut. urge, the sheep-dog, rushed the sheep out of the sedge and hurried them after his master, and in an hour joseph was once more settled, his sheep were once more nosing over the rocky slants of a hill, his dog once more flat on his belly, watching. but it was a different day, after all. the hut of the fagot-maker was the four walls and a roof and the earth that floored it, but it was wealth because it was shelter. it had two doors which were merely openings in the sides and between them lay the man on sheep-pelts with a cotton abas, which one of the galileans had left, over him. at one of these doors, sitting sidewise, so that he could watch in or out, sat joseph. all night the man on the sheepskins spoke to the blackened thatch above him of the siege of jerusalem and the treachery of julian of ephesus. he read letters from costobarus and instructed aquila over and over again. then he tossed a coin and spent hours counting the hairs in the long locks that fell from the shining head of the moon down upon his breast, at midnight. at times the boy, with the exquisite beauty of sleep on his heavy lids, would creep over from his vigil at the door and lay his cool hand on the sick man's forehead. and the sick man would speak in a low controlled voice, saying: "naaman being a leper, my friend, why was not the law fulfilled against him?" but the soothing influence of that touch did not endure. again, he took census of the fighting-men of judea, by the roman statistics which he had from the decurion, and searched through his tunic for his wallet to write down the result. failing to find it, he raised himself to shout for julian to return his property. again the cool hands would stroke the fevered forehead and the sick man would say: "good my lord, they fetched snow from the mountains to cool this wine." but how white the hands of that fair girl in the hills! why, these hands beside hers were as satyrs' hooves to anemones! her lashes were so long, and he knew that her lips were as cool as the heart of a melon; but that husband of hers knew better than he! and he, grandson of the just maccabee, allied by marriage to the noble line of costobarus through his daughter, laodice, the bride with the greatest dowry in judea, had staked his soul on the toss of a coin and had lost it! at this the shepherd boy straightened himself and gave attention. but he was wholly lost, the sick man would go on, rolling his head from side to side; he could not join laodice because he had loved a woman of the wayside and could not cast out that love; he was not a jew because he had rather linger with this strange beauty in the hills than hasten on the rescue of jerusalem; he had not apostatized, though he was as wholly lost as if he had done so; he hated the heathen and would not be one of them. he would abide in the wilderness and perish, if this young spirit that abode by his side, with a face like michael's and a form so like the shepherd david's, would only suffer the darkness to come at him. "unless i mistake," the little shepherd said at such times, "there is more than a wound troubling this head." thus day in and day out the shepherd watched by the sick man who had no medicine but the recuperative powers of his strong young body. so there came a night when the boy, rousing from a doze into which he had dropped, saw the sick man stretched upon his pallet motionless as he had not been for days. the shepherd felt the forehead and the wrists and sank again into slumber. at dawn he rose from the earth which had been his bed throughout this time and went forth to attend his flocks, and when he was gone, the sick man opened his eyes. he looked up at the blackened rafters; he looked out at either door and frowned perplexed, first at the hills, then at the valley. he raised his head and dropped it suddenly with great amazement and much weariness. finally he ventured to lift a wilted and fragile hand and looked at it. it was not white; but it was unsteady as a laurel leaf beside a waterfall. after a moment's rest from the exertion he parted his lips to speak, but a whisper faint as the sound of the air in the shrubs issued from them. he listened but there was no answer. there was the activity of birds and insects, moving leaves and bleating sheep without, but it was all blithely indifferent to him. finally he extended his arms and pressing them on his pallet tried to rise, but he could have lifted the earth as easily. falling back and dazed with weakness, he lay still and slept again. when he awoke rested sufficiently to think, he recalled that he had been twice stabbed by julian of ephesus by the marsh on the road to jerusalem. he had probably been carried to this place and nursed back to life by the householder. then he remembered. in his search after cause for his cousin's attack upon him, he readily fixed upon julian's rage at the maccabee's preëmption of the beautiful girl in the hills. instantly, the disgrace of violence committed in a quarrel between himself and his cousin over the possession of a woman, appealed to him. and even as instantly, his defiant heart accepted its shame and persisted in its fault. it is an extreme of love, indeed, if no circumstance however impelling raises a regret in the heart of a man; for he flung off with a weak gesture any chiding of conscience against cherishing his dream, and abandoned himself wholly to his yearning for the girl in the tissue of moonbeams. there was a quiet step on the earth at the threshold. joseph, the shepherd, stood there. the two looked at each other; one with inquiry and weakness in his face; the other with good-will and reassurance. "boy," said the maccabee feebly, "i have been sick." "friend, i am witness to that. i am your nurse," the boy replied. after a little silence the maccabee extended his hand. the boy took it with a sudden flush of emotion, but feeling its weakness, refrained from pressing it too hard, and laid it back with great care on his patient's breast. the maccabee looked out at the door, away from the full eyes of his young host. he was touched presently, and a cup of milk was silently put to his lips. he drank and turning himself with effort fell asleep. when he awoke again, after many hours, it was night. in the door with his head dropped back between his shoulders gazing up at the sky overhead, sat the boy. "where," the maccabee began, "are the rest of you?" the boy turned around quickly, and answered with all seriousness. "i am all here." "did you," the maccabee began again, after silence, "care for me alone?" "there has been no one here but us," the boy said, hesitating at the symptoms of gratitude in the maccabee's voice. "us?" "you and me." after another silence, the maccabee laughed weakly. "it requires two to constitute 'us' and i am, by all signs, not a whole one!" "but you will be in a few days," the boy declared admiringly. "you are an excellent sick man." the maccabee looked at him meditatively. "i am merely perverse," he said darkly; "i knew it would be so much pleasure to my murderer to know that i died, duly." the shepherd repressed his curiosity, as the best thing for his patient's welfare, and suggested another subject rather disjointedly. "i have been thinking," he said, "about jerusalem. i was there once upon a time." "once!" the maccabee said. "you are old enough to attend the passover." "but our people do not attend the feast. we are christians." the maccabee moved so that he could look at the boy. he might have known it, he exclaimed to himself. it was just such an extreme act of mercy, this assuming the care of a stranger in a wilderness, as he had ever known christians to do in that city of irrational faiths, ephesus. "well?" he said, hoping the boy would go on and spare him an expression on that announcement. "i can not forget jerusalem." "no one forgets jerusalem--except one that falls in love by the wayside," the man said. again the boy detected a ring of unexplained melancholy in his patient's voice, and talked on as a preventive. "urban, the pastor, took me there. it was in the days of mine instruction for baptism. he went to jerusalem to trial, but there was disorder in the city about the procurator, who was driven out that day, and urban was not called. but he remained, lest he be accused of fleeing, and then it was he took me over the walks of jesus." "jesus--that is the name," the maccabee said to himself. "they are born, given in marriage, fall or flourish, live and die in that name. likewise they pick up a wounded stranger and care for him in that name. they are a strange people, a strange people!" "they would not let us into the temple," joseph went on, "because i am an arab, born a christian. so i could not see where jesus was presented, in infancy. but we went to the synagogues where he taught; we went out upon olivet to gethsemane where he suffered in the garden; we climbed that hill to the south from which he looked upon the city and wept over it, and prophesied this hour. then we sought the ravine where judas betrayed him with a kiss, and afterward urban led me over the streets by which he was taken first to annas and to caiaphas and thence to pilate and to herod. after that, by the way of the cross to golgotha; from there to his tomb. and when we had seen the guest-chamber and stood upon the place of the ascension, i needed no further instruction." the boy had forgotten his guest. by the rapt light in his eyes, the maccabee knew that the boy was once more journeying over the stones of the streets of the holy city, or standing awed on the polished pavements of its lordly interiors, or on the topmost point of her hills with the broad-winged wind from the east flying his long locks. "_if i forget thee, o jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. if i do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if i prefer not jerusalem above my chief joy_," the maccabee said, half to himself. the boy heard him, but his patient's words merged with the dream that held him entranced. the maccabee went on. "so said the psalmist to himself," he said. "what had he to do for jerusalem; what did he fear would win him away from that labor for jerusalem, that he took that vow? it was easy enough to revile babylon, the oppressor, that stood between him and jerusalem; but what if he had been the captive of beauty, and chained by the bonds of lovely hair!" the boy turned now and looked at the maccabee. the eyes of the two met fair. then the maccabee unburdened his soul and told of the girl to this child, who was a christian and a humble shepherd in the starved hills of judea. "i met her," the boy said after a long silence. "and by what i learned of her spirit that night, she will not be happy to know that you have stepped aside for her sake." "you met her, also; and you loved her, too?" the boy assented gravely. the maccabee slowly lifted his eyes from the young shepherd's face, till they rested on the slope of sky filled with stars visible through the open door. "and she would have me go on to this city, to the one who awaits me there and whom i shall not be glad to see; take up the labor that will be robbed of its chief joy in its success and live the long, long days of life without her?" the boy made no answer to this; he knew that this white-faced man was wrestling with himself and comment from him was not expected. by the light of the failing fire without, he saw that face sober, take on shadow and grow immeasurably sad. the minutes passed and he knew that the maccabee would not speak again. thereafter followed three days of silence, except the essential communication or the mutterings of the maccabee against his weakness and unsteadiness. on the fourth day the maccabee declared that he was able to travel. joseph protested, but not for long. he had learned in the sojourn of his guest that this man was in the habit of doing as he pleased. so the shepherd sighed and let him go reluctantly. "but," he insisted to the last moment, "remember that pella is a city of refuge. if jerusalem ceases to be hospitable, come to pella." a thought struck him. "she," he said in a low tone, "promised that she would come." "then expect me," the maccabee said. the shepherd boy smiled contentedly and blessed the maccabee and let him go. as long as the man could see, his young host watched him, and at the summit of the hill the maccabee turned to wave his final farewell. when the path dipped down the other side of the hill, the man felt that more than the sunshine had been cut off by its great shadow. he did not go forward with a light heart. the whole of his purpose had suddenly resolved itself into duty. there had been a certain nervous expectancy that was almost fear in the thought of meeting the grown woman he had married in her babyhood. he had lived in ephesus with an unengaged heart in all the crowd of opportunities for love, good and bad. he had magnetism, strength, aloofness and a certain beauty--four qualifications which had made him over and over again immensely attractive to all classes of ephesian women. but whatever his response to them, he had not loved. love and marriage were things so apart from his activities as to be uninteresting. when finally he was called in full manhood to assume without preliminary both of these things, he was uncomfortable and apprehensive. but after he had met the girl in the hills, his sensations of reluctance became emphatic, became an actual dread, so that he thrust away all thought of the domestic side of the life that confronted him, and bitterly resigned all hope in the tender things that were the portion of all men. the villainy of julian of ephesus engaged him chiefly, and his punishment. after that, then the establishment of his kingdom, politics, conquest and power--but not love! late that afternoon, he stepped out of a wady west of jerusalem and halted. ahead of him ran a road depressed between worn, hard, bare banks of earth, past a deserted pool, marged with stone, up shining surfaces of outcropping rock, through avenues of clustered tombs, pillars, pagan monuments which were tracks of the herods, dead and abandoned, splendid pleasure gardens, suburban palaces lifeless and still, toward the looming tower of hippicus, brooding over a fast-closed gate. the maccabee nodded. it was as he had expected. the city was besieged. it was afternoon, a week-day at the busiest portal of jerusalem; but save for the fixed and pygmy sentry upon the tower, there was no living thing to be seen, no single sound to be heard. beyond the mounting hills of the city of david stood up, shouldering like mantles of snow their burden of sun-whitened houses. above it all, supreme over the blackened masonry of roman antonia, stood a glittering vision in marble and gold--the temple. at a distance it could not be seen that any of those inwalled splendors lacked; jerusalem appeared intact, but the multitudes at the gate were absent and the voice of the city was stilled. for one expecting to find jerusalem animated and beholding it still and lifeless, how quickly its white walls, its white houses and its sparkling temple became haunted, dead crypts and sepulchers. but presently there came across the considerable distance that lay between him and jerusalem, a sound remarkably distinct because of the utter stillness that prevailed. it was the jingle of harness and the ring of hoof-beats upon stones embedded in the gray earth. a roman in armor polished like gold, with a floating mantle significantly bordered in purple, rode slowly into the open space, drew up his horse and stopped. the maccabee looked at him sharply, then quitted his shelter and walked down toward the rider. at sight of him, the horseman clapped his hand to his short sword, but the maccabee put up his empty hands and smiled at the man of all superior advantage. then the light of recognition broke over the roman's face. "you!" he cried. "i, cæsar," the maccabee responded. for a moment there was silence in which the jew watched the flickering of amazement and perplexity on titus' face. "what do you here, away from ephesus, and worse, attempting to run my lines?" he demanded finally. the maccabee signed toward the walls. "my wife is there," he said briefly. the roman made an exclamation which showed the sudden change to enlightenment. "solicitous after these many years?" he demanded. "she has two hundred talents," the maccabee replied. titus smiled and shook his head. "i ought to keep her there. rome must get treasure enough out of that rebellious city to repay her for her pains in subjugating it." "pay yourself out of another pocket than mine. it will take two hundred talents to repay me for all that i have suffered to get it. i want the countersign, titus. you owe me it." "will you come out of there, at once?" the roman demanded. "not that i suspect you will make the city harder to take, but i should dislike to make war on an old comrade in my ephesian revels." the maccabee looked doubtful. "i can not promise," he said. "at least do not hold off the siege until you see me again without the walls. it might lose you prestige in rome." titus swung his bridle while he gazed at the maccabee. "i wish nicanor were here," he said finally. "he might be able to see harm in you; but i never could. you will have to promise me something--anything so it is a promise--before i can let you in. something to appease nicanor, else i shall never hear the last of this." the maccabee laughed, the sudden harsh laugh of one impelled to amusement unexpectedly. "assure nicanor, for me, that i shall come out of jerusalem one day. dead or alive, i shall do it! you need not add that i did not specify the date of my exodus. what is the word?" "berenice. and jove help you! farewell." titus rode on. a little later, after a parley with the roman sentries and again with the sentries at the gate of hippicus, the maccabee was admitted to the holy city. about him as he passed through the gates were the soldiers of simon. they were not such men as he expected to see defending the city of david. there was an extravagant, half-pastoral manner about them, a pose of which they should not have been conscious at this hour of peril for the nation and the hierarchy. he looked at their incomplete, meaningless uniform, at their arms, half savage, at their faces, half mad, and believed that he, with an army rationally organized and effectually equipped, would have little difficulty in subduing the unbalanced forces of simon. since siege was laid, he did not expect to be met by amaryllis' servant in the purple turban. he approached a citizen. "i seek amaryllis, the seleucid," he said. the eye of the jew traveled over him, with some disapproval. "the mistress of the gischalan?" was the returned inquiry. the maccabee assented calmly. the young man indicated a broad street moving with people which led with tolerable directness toward the base of moriah. "hence to the tyropean bridge at the end of this street; thence down beside the bridge into gihon. cross to the wall supporting moriah and builded against it thou wilt find a new house, of the fashion of the greeks. if thou canst pass her sentries, thou wilt find her within." the maccabee thanked his informant and turned through the passover hosts to follow the directions. to a visitor recently familiar with the city, jerusalem would have been strange; he would have been lost in its ruined and disordered streets. but this man came with only the four corners of the compass to direct him and the temple as a landmark to guide him. therefore though he entered upon territory which he had not traversed since childhood he went forward confidently. it was not simple; it was not readily done; but the darkness found him at his destination. when he was within a rod of the house, he was halted by a jewish soldier. he whispered to the man the word which amaryllis had sent to him, and the soldier stepped aside and let him pass. in another moment he was admitted to the house of amaryllis. a wick coated with aromatic wax burned in the brass bowl on a tripod and cast a crystal clear light down upon the exedra and the delicate lectern with its rolls of parchment and brass cylinders from which they had been withdrawn. opposite, with her arms close down to her sides, her hands clenched, her shoulders drawn up, stood the girl he had played for and won in the hills of judea! chapter xiii a new pretender a sudden wave of delight, a sudden rush of blood through his veins, swept before it and away for that time all memory of his struggle and his resolution to renounce her. all that was left was the irresistible storm of impulse upon his reserve and his self-control. when she recognized him, she started violently, smote her hands together and gazed at him with such overweening joy written on her face, that he would have swept her into his arms, but for her quick recovery and retreat. in shelter behind the exedra she halted, fended from him by the marble seat. he gazed across its back at her with all the love of his determined soul shining in his eyes. "you! you!" she cried. "but you!" he cried back at her across the exedra. the preposterousness of their greetings appealed to them at that moment and they both laughed. he started around the exedra; she moved away. "stay!" he begged. "i want only to touch--your hand." shyly, she let him take both of her hands, and he lifted them in spite of her little show of resistance and kissed them. "we might have saved ourselves farewells and journeyed together," he said blithely. "but i thought you had gone back to ephesus," she said. "what! after you had told me you were going to jerusalem? no. i have been nursing a knife wound in a sheep hovel in the hills since an hour after i saw you last." her lips parted and her face grew grave, deeply compassionate and grieved. if there remained any weakness in his frame before that moment, the spell of her pity enchanted him to strength again. he found himself searching for words to describe his pain, that he might elicit more of that curative sweet. "i was very near to death," he added seriously. "what--what happened?" she asked, noting the pallor on his face under the suffusion which his pleasure had made there. "there was one more in the party than was needed; so my amiable companion reduced the number by stabbing me in the back," he explained. there was instant silence. slowly she drew away from him. entire pallor covered her face and in her eyes grew a horror. "did--do you say that philadelphus stabbed--you--in the back?" she asked, speaking slowly. "phila--" he stopped on the brink of a puzzled inquiry, and for a space they regarded each other, each turning over his own perplexity for himself. "ask me that again," he commanded her suddenly. "i did not understand." she hesitated and closed her lips. her husband had stabbed this man in the back! because of her? no! philadelphus had refused to believe her. why then should he have committed such a deed? "so you are not ready to believe it of this--philadelphus?" he asked, venturing his question on an immense surmise that was forcing itself upon him. she looked at him with beseeching eyes. how was she to regard herself in this matter? a partizan of the man she hated, or a sympathizer with this stranger who had already given her too much joy? was she never to know any good of this man to whom she was wedded? for a moment losing sight of her concern for judea and her resolution that her father should not have died in vain, she was rejoiced that another woman had taken her place by his side. the quasi liberty made her interest in this stranger at least not entirely sinful. "who are you?" he demanded finally. how, then, could she tell him that she was the wife of the man who had treacherously attempted his life? how, also, since she was denied by every one in that house, expect him to believe her? the bitterness of her recent interview with amaryllis rose to the surface again. "i am nothing; i have no name; i am nobody!" she cried. he was startled. "what is this? are you not welcome in this house?" he demanded. "yes--and no! amaryllis is good--but--" "but what?" she shook her head. "surely, thou canst speak without fear to me," he said gently. "there is--only amaryllis is kind," she essayed finally. he laid his hand on her wrist. "is it--the woman from ascalon?" he asked, his suspicion lighting instantly upon the wife whom he had expected to meet. she flung up her head and gazed at him with startled eyes. he believed that he had touched upon the fact. "so!" he exclaimed. "she has deceived philadelphus--" she whispered defensively, but he broke in sharply. "whom hath she deceived?" she closed her lips and looked at him perplexed. certainly this was the companion of philadelphus, who had told her freely half of her husband's ambitions, long before he had come to jerusalem. she could not have betrayed her husband in thus mentioning his name. "your companion of the journey hither--whom you even now accused--philadelphus maccabaeus." there was a dead pause in which his fingers still held her wrist and his deep eyes were fixed on her face. he was recalling by immense mental bounds all the evidence that would tend to confirm the suspicion in his brain. he had told her his own story but had invested it in julian of ephesus. his wallet, with all its proofs, was gone; the ephesian had examined him carefully to know if any one in jerusalem would recognize him; and lastly, without cause, julian had stabbed him in the back. could it be possible that julian of ephesus, believing that he had made way with the maccabee, had come to jerusalem, masquerading under his name? while he stood thus gazing, hardly seeing the face that looked up at him with such troubled wonder, he saw her turn her eyes quickly, shrink; and then wrenching her hands from his, she fled. he looked up. two women were standing before him. "i seek amaryllis, the seleucid," he said, recovering himself. "i am she," the greek said, stepping forward. "thou entertainest laodice, daughter of costobarus of ascalon?" he added. the greek bowed. "i would see her," he said bluntly. amaryllis signed to the woman at her side. "this is she," she said simply. the maccabee looked quickly at the woman. after his close communication with the beautiful girl for whom his heart warmed as it had never done before, he was instantly aware of an immense contrast between her and the woman who had been introduced to him at that moment. they were both jewesses; both were beautiful, each in her own way; both appeared intelligent and winsome. but he loved the girl, and this woman stood in the way of that love. therefore her charms were nullified; her latent faults intensified; all in all she repelled him because she was an obstacle. the injustice in his feelings toward her did not occur to him. he was angry because she had come; he hated her for her stateliness; he found himself looking for defects in her and belittling her undeniable graces. confused and for the moment without plan, he looked at her frowning, and with cold astonishment the woman gazed back at him. "thou art laodice, daughter of costobarus?" he asked, to gain time. she inclined her head. "when--when dost thou expect philadelphus?" he asked next. "why do you ask?" she parried. "i--i have a message for him," he essayed finally. "is he here?" "tell me, who art thou?" the woman asked pointedly. a vision of the girl, flushed and trembling with pleasure at sight of him, flashed with poignant effect upon him at that moment. the warmth and softness of her hands under the pressure of his happy lips was still with him. it would be infidelity to his own feelings to renounce her then. it was becoming a physical impossibility for him to accept this other woman. he hesitated and reddened. an old subterfuge occurred to him at a desperate minute. "i--i am hesper--of ephesus," he essayed. "what is thy business with philadelphus?" the woman persisted. again the maccabee floundered. it had been easy to invent a story to keep the woman he loved from discovering that he was a married man, but the point in question was different. now, filled with dismay and indignation, apprehension and reluctance, his fertile mind failed him at the moment of its greatest need. and the eyes of the greek, filling with suspicion and intense interest, rested upon him. "i asked," the actress repeated calmly, "thy business with philadelphus." at that instant a tremendous shock shook the house to its foundations; the hanging lamps lurched; the exedra jarred and in an instant several of the servants appeared at various openings into passages. before any of the group could stir, a second thunderous shock sent a tremor over the room, and a fragment of marble detached from a support overhead and dropped to the pavement. "it is an attack!" amaryllis cried. "on this house?" salome demanded. there was a clatter of arms and several men in jewish armor rushed through the chamber from the passage that led in from the temple. "i shall see," said the maccabee, and followed the men at once. without he saw the night sky overhead crossed by dark stones flying over the wall to the east. warfare had begun. but the attack was simply preliminary and desultory. it ceased while he waited. presently it began farther toward the north. the catapult had been moved. the maccabee hesitated in the colonnade. the beautiful girl in the house of amaryllis was in no further danger. the interruption had saved him at a critical moment. he walked down the steps and out into the night. "liberty!" he whispered with a sigh of relief. "now what to do?" chapter xiv the pride of amaryllis the night following the wounding of nicanor, john spent on his fortifications expecting an attack. it was one of the few nights when the gischalan kept vigil, for he refused to contribute fatigue to the prospering of his cause. sometime in mid-morning he appeared in the house of amaryllis and sent a servant to her asking her to breakfast with him. the greek sent him in return a wax tablet on which she had written that she was shut up in her chamber writing verse, but that she had provided him a companion as entertaining as she. when he passed into the greek's dining-room, the woman who called herself wife to philadelphus awaited him at the table. when he sat she dropped into a chair beside him and laid before him a bunch of grapes from crete, preserved throughout the winter in casks filled with ground cork. "it is the last, amaryllis says," she observed. "and siege is laid." john looked ruefully at the fruit. "perhaps," he said after thought, "were i a thrifty man and a spiteful one, i would not eat them. instead, i should have the same cluster served me every morning that i might say to mine enemies, with truth, that i have cretan grapes for breakfast daily. they will keep," he added presently, "for it is tradition that stores laid up for siege never decay." "obviously," said the woman, "they do not last long enough." john plucked off one of the light green grapes and ate it with relish. "since thou doubtest the tradition, i shall not have these spoil." "but you destroy even a better boast over your enemy. then you could say to him, 'we can not consume all our food. behold the grapes rot in the lofts!'" john smiled. "half of the lies go to preserve another's opinion of us. how much we respect our fellows!" "be comforted; there are as many lying for our sakes! but how goes it without on the walls?" "against rome or against simon?" "both." "ill enough. but when titus presses too close simon will lay down his hostility toward me; and when titus becomes too effective, we are to have a divine interference, so our prophets say." "i observe," the woman said, "we jews at this time are relying much on the prophets to fight our battles. behold, our stores will hold out, we say, because it is said; and we shall fight indifferently, because daniel hath bespoken a deliverer for us at this time!" john, with his wine-glass between thumb and finger, looked at her. "i should expect a heretic to be so critical for us," he said. the woman sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, gazing moodily at the sunlight falling through the brass grill over the windows on the court. she ignored his remark, but answered presently in another tone. "there is nothing to employ a surfeited mind in this city." "no?" he said lightly, while interest began to awaken in his eyes. "the making of enjoyment is here. i have found it so." "perchance you have," but she halted and resumed her moody gaze at the flood of sunlight. "are you weary?" he asked. "what is it?" "idleness! eating, sleeping--no; not even that; for idleness steals away my appetite and my repose." "strange restiveness for one reared in the quiet inner chambers of a jewish house," he observed. her eyes dropped away to the floor; he saw that she was breathing quickly. "i dreamed of a free life once," she said in a restrained way. "i have not since been satisfied. i dreamed of cities and kings, that were mine! of crises that i dared, of--of things that i did!" there was indignation and pride in the words, too much recollection of an actuality to rise from the reminiscences of a dream. john watched her alertly. "enough will happen here in time to divert you," he said. she made a motion with her hand that swept the round of masonry about her. "not until this falls." "come, then, up into my fortress and see my fellows from gischala," he offered. "they fled with me from that city when titus took it and together we came to this place. they are hardened to disaster; they and death are fellow-jesters." "soldiers?" "everything! better athletes than soldiers, better mummers than athletes; villains most engaging of all!" she showed no interest and, after a critical pause, he continued: "they robbed the booth of some costumer whom the sadducees had made rich and captured a maid whom they held until she had taught them how to use henna and kohl. so i had a garrison of swearing girls until they wearied of the fatigue of stepping mincingly and untangling their garments. it was that which robbed the sport of its pleasure and changed my harem back to a fortress. but while it lasted they were kings over jerusalem. and what dear mad dangerous wantons they were! what confusion to short-sighted citizens; what affrights to sociable maidens! even i laughed at them." "what antics indeed!" she murmured perfunctorily. "now they want new entertainment; something immense and different," he said. she looked up at him; in her eyes he read, "even as i do!" "but they are not unique in that," he continued. "all the world seeks diversion. observe the pretty stranger come here fresh from some lady's tiring-room, hunting adventure, bearding thee and wearing thy name!" her eyes sparkled. "she shall have adventure enough," she declared. "i hear," john pursued, "that she does not expect her servant to return, whom she sent to ascalon for proofs." "no?" the woman cried, sitting up. "how can she, when the siege is laid?" there was a moment of silence. the woman drew in a deep breath that was wholly one of relief. "now what will she do?" she asked. "she expects," john answered, "the mediation of the messiah. it is the talk among the slaves that he is in the city and she has heard it. she seems not to be overconfident, however." "it is her end," the woman remarked with meaning. "perchance not. she is a good jew, it seems, whatever else she may be, and every good jew may have his wishes come to pass if the messiah come. so it has become the national habit to expect the messiah in every individual difficulty. now, according to prophecies, the time is of a surety ripe and the whole city is expectant. she may have her wish." she stared at him coolly. there was implied disbelief in this speech. she debated with herself if it would serve to resent his doubt. whatever her conclusion she added no more to the discussion of laodice's hopes. "are you expectant?" she asked. "i see the need of a messiah," he responded. "doubtless. you and simon do not unite the city; nothing but an united, confident and supremely capable people can resist rome in even this most majestic fortification in the world--unless miracle be performed, indeed." "nothing but a divine visitor can achieve union here." "what an event to behold!" she mused. "that would be an excitement! surely that would be a new thing! no one really ever beheld a god before." "what learned things dreams are! what things of experience!" he remarked with a sly smile. she refused to observe his insisted disbelief in her claim, but went on as if to herself. "whatever jove can do, man can do!" she declared. "i never heard that the gods do more than change maidens into trees or themselves into swans for an old mortal purpose that even man's a better adept at. why can there not rise one who is greater than alexander and of stouter heart than julius cæsar? there is no limit to the greatness of mankind. behold, here is a city rich beyond even the wealth of croesus; and a country which the emperor is longing to bestow upon some orderly king! heavens, what an opportunity! i could pray, jerusalem should pray, that the hour may bring forth the man!" her eyes shone with an unnatural yearning. the immense scope of her desires suddenly brought a smile to his lips that he checked in time. he had remembered offering his idumeans in women's clothing for her diversion. hunger for power, the next greatest hunger after hunger for love! he felt that he stood in the presence of a desire so immense that it belittled his own hopes. he was not too much of a jew to have sympathy with the ambition that dwells in the breasts of women. cleopatra had been an evil that he had admired profoundly, because she had attained that which his own soul yearned after but which had eluded him. yet he was large enough not to be envious of a success. he was made of the stuff that seekers of excitement are made of. if he could not furnish the intoxication of activity he was a ready supporter of that one who could. "what disorder, then, in the world," she went on, as if she had followed a train of imagination through the triumph of the risen great man. "rome, the ruler of nations humbled! conquest from germany to the first cataract, from gaul to the dry rocks of ecbatana! a world in anarchy, for one greater than alexander to subjugate! the ancient splendor of asia, the wisdom of africa and the virginity of europe to be his, and the homage of the four corners of the earth to be to him!" john said nothing. before him, the woman had entirely stripped off her disguise. now for the purpose! at that moment one of amaryllis' servants, who had stood guard without the door, dodged apprehensively into the room and fled across to the opposite arch. there he paused, ready for flight, and looked back with wide eyes. john turned hastily but with an impatient gesture fell again to his neglected meal. the actress looked to see what had annoyed him. there passed in from the outer corridor a young man, tall, magnificently formed, covered with a turban and draped in quaint garments, which to her who was familiar with all the guises of the theater seemed to be buddhistic. he looked neither to the right nor left, but passed with a step infinitely soft and gliding across to the arch, from which the terrified servant vanished instantly. the stranger stayed only a dramatic instant on the threshold and then disappeared into the corridor which led up into the temple. when he had gone the startled actress retained a picture of a face, fearless, beatified, mystic to the very edge of the supernatural. "who was that?" she asked of the gischalan, who was gazing at the color of his wine, sitting in a shaft of sunlight. "seraiah! but more than that, no one knows. he appeared with the slaying of zechariah the just. he haunts the garrisons. hence his name--soldier of jehovah!" "he did not speak; why did he come?" "he never speaks; he goes where he will; no one would dare to stop him!" then suddenly realizing that he was showing disinterest the gischalan drew himself up and smiled. "he is mad; i believe he is mad. the city is full of demoniacs." "there is something great about him!" the woman declared. "he seems to be the instrument of miracle." "is it that?" john asked in an amused tone. she studied him for a moment that was tense with meaning. "do you know," she began slowly, "that neither you nor simon, nor any of these who aspire to the control of jerusalem, have come upon the plan which will best appeal to your distracted subjects?" "have we not?" he repeated. "we have bought them and bullied them; we are fighting the romans for them; we are preaching patience in the will of the lord. what more, lady?" "what have you to offer them in their hope of a messiah?" she said pointedly. "messiah! what else is preached in the temple but the messiah, or in the proseuchae or the streets or on the walls? we eat, drink, sleep, fight, buy, sell, rob or restore in the name of the messiah! they are surfeited with religion." "are they?" she asked sententiously. "but you haven't given them a messiah." he looked at her without comprehending. "you have a mad city here; you can not reason with it; indulge it, then, as you indulge your lunatics," she suggested. he shook his head, smiling that he did not understand her. she turned again to seraiah. "watch him," she insisted. "he possesses me." after a long silence in which john trifled with his wine, she prepared to rise. "send me the roll of the law," the woman said suddenly. "posthumus shall bring it. he is another lunatic. experiment with him and learn how i shall act toward the city." "well said," she averred; "and i will see your idumeans. is it proper for me to appear in the temple?" the gischalan's eyes flashed a sudden elation and delight. he bent low and kissed her hand. "and i will fetch somewhat which will divert us," she added and was gone. when a few moments later john passed again into the greek's apartment, amaryllis entered from an inner corridor. before she spoke to the master of the house she addressed a servant who had been a moment before summoned. "send hither my guest." "the stranger?" john asked. "is she still with you?" "i mean to add her to my household, if you will," she explained. "keep her or dismiss her at your pleasure." "it shall be for my pleasure. she has a charm that besets me. it will be entertainment to discover her history." "i see no mystery in her. it is plain enough that there is between her and this married philadelphus some cause for her coming. his wife is much more engaging." she sighed and dropped into her ivory chair, pushed back the locks of fair hair that had loosened from their fillet and waited languidly. john studied her critically. in the last hour the slowly dissolving bond between them seemed to have vanished, wholly, at once. "o queen of kings," he said, "art thou lonely in this mad place?" "i have found diversion," she answered. "with these new guests?" "with these new guests. observe them; there are a pair of lovers among them, mersed in difficulty, hampering themselves, multiplying sorrow and sure to accomplish the same end as if they had proceeded happily." "interested no longer in thine own passion? alas, my amaryllis, that love is dead that is interested no longer in itself." "o thou bearded warrior, are we then still in the self-centered period of our romance?" "i fear not; i see the twilight." amaryllis looked down and her face grew more weary. "you have maintained a long fidelity, john," she said. he gazed at her, waiting a further remark, and she went on at last. "i wonder why?" he flung out his hands. "shall i be faithless to sheba? is the charm of the queen of kings faded? shall i turn from aphrodite or weary of the lips of astarte?" "nothing so stamps your love of me as wicked, in your own eyes, as the paganism you fall into when you speak of it!" he laughed. "but it is not that i am lovely which made you a lover--until now," she went on. "i have seen men faithful to women unlovely as hecate. it is not that. and i am still as i was, but--" he looked down on the triple bands of the ampyx that bound her gold-powdered hair and said: "it is you who have grown weary; not i." she astutely drew back from the ground upon which she had entered. it lay in the power of this gischalan to refuse further protection to her out of sheer spite if she made her disaffection too patent. "o leader of hosts, canst thou be mummer, languishing poet, pettish woman and spoiled princeling all in one? no! and i shall love the clanking of arms and thy mailed footsteps all the more if thou permittest me to look upon irresponsible folly while thou art absent." "have thy way. i have mine. furthermore, i wish to thank thee for the companion thou sentest me at breakfast. he who dines alone with her, hath his table full. farewell." chapter xv the image of jealousy the maccabee resolved that in spite of his heart-hunger, he must not be a frequent visitor to the house of amaryllis because of the imminent risk of confronting the impostor julian and the danger of exposure. not danger to his life, but danger to his freedom to court the beautiful girl, which an unmasking might accomplish. besides, he had made an extraordinary entry into the greek's house in the beginning, and he was not prepared to explain himself even now, if he returned. but his longing to look at her again was stronger than his caution. much had happened since he had left the house of the greek on the evening of his first day in jerusalem, and he feared that his absorption in his own plans might result in the loss of her soon or late. so when the evening of the second week to a day of his sojourn in the city came round, unable to endure longer, he turned his steps with considerable apprehension toward the house of amaryllis. when he was led across the threshold of the greek's hall, he saw amaryllis sitting in her exedra, her slim white arms crossed back of her head, her tiring-woman, summoned for a casual attention, busy with a parted ribbon on the sandal of the lady's foot. the maccabee awaited her invitation. her eyes flashed a sudden pleasure when she looked up and saw him. "enter," she said, with an unwonted lightness in her voice that was usually low and grave; "and be welcome." he came to the place she indicated at her side and sat. in silence he waited until the tiring-woman had finished her service and departed. then it was amaryllis who spoke. "you left us abruptly on occasion of your first visit." "the siege was of greater interest to you than i was. when i discovered the cause of the disturbance, you would have failed to remember me." "yet i recall you readily after many days." "the city is in disorder; conventions can not always be observed in war-time. i returned when i could." "our interest in you as our guest has not abated. philadelphus is ready to see you, at any time," she said, watching his face. "and in time of war," he answered composedly, "we intend many things in the first place which we do not carry out in the second. i do not care to see--philadelphus." she lifted her brows. he answered the implied question. "i was a familiar to this philadelphus; he is young and boastful, talkative as a woman. if he means to be king, as those who knew him in ephesus were given to believe, it is not unnatural that some of us, without fortune or tie to keep us home, should follow him--as parasites, if you will--to share in the largess which he will surely give his friends if he succeeds." he did not face her when he made this speech, and he did not observe the amusement that crept into her eyes. he could not sense his own greatness of presence sufficiently to know that his claim to be a parasite upon so incapable a creature as the false philadelphus would awaken doubt in the mind of an intelligent woman like amaryllis. he felt that he was not covering his tracks well, and put his ingenuity to a test. "the boon-craver therefore should not sit like a dog, begging crumbs, till the table is laid. my hunger would appear as competition, if i showed it him, while he is yet unfed. of a truth, i would not have him know i am here." "i will keep thy secret," she promised, smiling. "i thank you," he said gravely. "i came, on this occasion, to ask after the young woman, whose name i have not learned--her whom you have sheltered." amaryllis' smiling eyes darkened suddenly. "pouf!" she said. "i had begun to hope that you had come to see me!" "i had not john's permission," he objected. "have you philadelphus' permission to see her?" he looked his perplexity. "what," she exclaimed, "has she not laid her claim before you yet?" the maccabee shook his head. "know, then, that this pretty nameless creature claims to be the wife of this same philadelphus." he sat up in his earnestness. "what!" he cried. "even so! insists upon it in the face of the lady princess' proofs and philadelphus' denial!" the maccabee's brows dropped while he gazed down at the greek. julian of ephesus was then the husband that she was to join in jerusalem! small wonder she had been indignant when he, the maccabee, in the spirit of mischief, had laid a wife to julian's door and had described her as most unprepossessing. and that was why her terror of julian had been so abject! that was why she had flown to him, a stranger, rather than be left alone with a husband who, it seemed, would be rid of her that he might pursue his ends the better! "what think you of it!" he exclaimed aloud, but to himself. "and i never saw in all my life such pretensions of probity!" the greek continued. "she is outraged by any little word that questions her virtue; she holds herself aloof from me as if she were not certain that i am fit for her companionship; and she flies with fluffed feathers and cries of rage in the face of the least compliment that comes from any lips--even philadelphus!" the maccabee continued to gaze at the greek. he did not see the woman's search of his face for an assent to her speech. he was struggling with a desire to tell her that he was eager to exchange his wife for julian's. "perchance she is right," he said instead. "what know we of this paganized young jew? he has been separated from his lady from childhood. it is right easy to marry, once we fall into the way." "no, no! her claim is hopeless. she confesses it. but she maintains the assumption, nevertheless." "absolutely? no little sign of lapse among thy handsome servants, here?" "i do not see her when she is with the servants," she said astutely. "what will you do with her?" he asked. "she is beautiful, unique, and so eligible to my collection of arts and artists under this roof. she shall stay till fate shows its hand for all of us." "you have housed discord under your roof, then," he said. "laodice, the wife to this philadelphus, will not be a happy woman; and i--i shall not be a happy man. let me return favor for your favor to me. i will take her away." she laughed, though it seemed that a hard note had entered her voice. "you will permit me, then, to surmise for myself why you came to jerusalem. you seem to have known this girl before. i shall not ask you; in return for that promise that i may conclude what i will." "if you are too discerning, lady," he answered, while his eyes sought down the corridor for a glimpse of the one he had come to see, "you are dangerous." "and what then?" "i must devise a way to silence you." she lifted her brows. in that very speech was the portrait of the maccabee that she had come to love through letters. "there is something familiar in your mood," she said thoughtfully. "it seems that i have known you--for many years." he made no answer. he had said all that he wished to say to this woman. she noted his silence and rose. "i shall send the girl to you." "thou art good," he answered and she withdrew. a moment later laodice came into the chamber. she was not startled. in her innocent soul she did not realize that this was a sign of the depth of her love for him. he rose and met her half-way across the hall; took her hand and held it while they walked back to the exedra, and gazed at her face for evidence that her sojourn in this house had been unhappy or otherwise; noted that she had let down her hair and braided it; observed every infinitesimal change that can attract only the lover's eye. "sit," he said, giving her a place beside him. "i came of habit to see you. of habit, i was interrupted. is there no way that i can talk to you without the resentment of some one who flourishes a better right to be with you than i can show?" "where hast thou been," laodice asked, "so long?" "was it long," he demanded impulsively, "to you?" "new places, new faces, uncertainty and other things make time seem long," she explained hastily. "nay, then," he said, "i have been busy. i have been attending to that labor i had in mind for judea, of which we spoke in the hills that morning." laodice drew in a quick breath. then some one, if not herself or the husband who had denied her, was at work for judea. "there is no nation, here, for a king," he went on. "it is a great horde that needs organization. it wants a leader. i am ambitious and judea will be the prize to the ablest man. seest thou mine intent?" "you--you aspire--" she began and halted, suddenly impressed with the complication his announcement had effected. "go on," he said. "you would take judea?" "i would." "but it belongs of descent to the maccabees!" "to philadelphus maccabaeus, yes; but what is he doing?" she dropped her head. "nothing," she said in a half-whisper. "no? but let me tell you what i have done already. three days ago titus took revenge upon coenopolis for her sortie against nicanor by firing the suburbs. the citizens could not spare water to fight the fire, and after futile attempts they gathered up food and treasure and fled into jerusalem. now, a thousand householders in the streets of this oppressed city, with their gods and their goods in their arms, made the pillagers of simon and john laugh aloud. they fell upon these wandering, bewildered, treasure-laden people and robbed them as readily and as joyously as a husbandman gathers olives in a fat year. oh, it was a merry time for the men of simon and the men of john! but i in my wanderings over the city came upon a party of bezethans, reluctant to surrender their goods for the asking, and they were fighting with right good will a body of idumeans twice their number. in fact they fought so well, so unanimously, so silently that i saw they lacked the essential part of the fight--the shouting. that i supplied. and when they had whipped the idumeans and had a chance for flight before reinforcements came, they obeyed my voice in so far as they followed me into a subterranean chamber beneath a burned ruin on zion. "we were not followed and our hiding-place was not discovered. in fact, their resistance was a complete success. whereupon, they were ready to unite and take jerusalem! no--it was not strange! it is the nature of men. i never saw a wine-merchant in ephesus, who, after clearing his shop of brawlers single-handed, was not ready thereupon to march upon rome and besiege cæsar on the palatine! so it was with these bezethans. "i, with my voice, expressed the yearnings that they felt in their victorious breasts, and plotted for them. after council and organization we went forth by night and finding idumean patrols by the score sleepy and inert from overfeeding we robbed them of that which was our own. then we sought out hungry bezethans and fed them when they promised to become of our party. nothing was more simple! by dawn we had a hundred under our ruin, bound to us by oath and the enticements of our larder, and hungry only for fight! will you believe me when i boast that i have an army in jerusalem?" she heard him with a strange confusion of emotions. in her soul she was excited and eager for his success; but here was a strong and growing enemy to philadelphus, who was reluctant to become a king! her impulsive joy in a forceful man struggled with her sense of duty to the man she could not love. "why do you tell me these things?" she said uneasily. "it is perilous for any one to know that you are constructing sedition against these ferocious powers in jerusalem." "ah, but you fear for me; therefore you will not betray me. none else but those as deeply committed know of it." he had confided in her, and because of it his ambitions took stealthy hold upon her. "but--but is there no other way to take jerusalem, except--by predatory warfare?" she hesitated. "no," he laughed. "we are fighting thieves and murderers; they do not understand the open field; we must go into the dark to find them." "then--then if your soldiers have the good of the city and the love of their fellows in their hearts, and if you feed them and shelter them--why shall you not succeed?" she asked, speaking slowly as the sum of his advantages occurred to her. he dropped his hand on hers. "it lacks one thing; if i have discouragement in my soul, it will weaken my arm, and so the arm of all my army." intuition bade her hesitate to ask for that essential thing; his eyes named it to her and she looked away from him quickly that he might not see the sudden flush which she could not repress. "tell me," she said, "more of that night--" "that would be recounting the same incident many times. but one thing unusual happened; nay, two things. in the middle of the night, after we had brought in our second enlistment of patriots, we were feeding them and i was giving them instruction. at the entrance, i had posted a sentry; none of us believed that any one had seen us take refuge in that crypt. indeed, we were all frank in our congratulations and defiant in our security. suddenly, i saw half of my army scuttle to cover; the rest stood transfixed in their tracks. i looked up and there before me in the firelight stood a young man, whom i had not, i am convinced, brought in with me. he was tall, comely, dressed as i have seen the hindu priests dress in ephesus, but in garments that were fairly radiant for whiteness. but his face gave cause enough to make any man lose his tongue. believe me, when i say he looked as if he had seen angels, and had talked with the dead. his eyes gazed through us as if we had been thin air. so dreadful they were in their unseeing look that every man asked himself what would happen if that gaze should light upon him. he stood a moment, walked as soft-footed and as swiftly as some shade through our burrow and vanished as he had come. in all the time he tarried, he made not one sound!" laodice was looking at him with awed, but understanding eyes. "it was seraiah," she said in a low voice. "he entered this place on a day last week. all the city is afraid of him." "so my soldiers told me afterward, between chattering teeth. he almost damped our patriotism. we uttered our bombast, sealed our vows and made our sorties, thereafter, every man of us, with our chins over our shoulders! spare me seraiah! he has too much influence!" "is he a madman?" she asked. "or else a supernatural man. would i could manage men by the fall of my foot, as he does. i should have jerusalem's fealty by to-morrow night. but it was near early morning that the other incident occurred. that was of another nature. we stumbled upon a pair huddled in the shadow of a building. we stumbled upon many figures in shadows, but one of these murmured a name that i heard once in the hills hereabout, and i had profited by that name, so i halted. it was an old man, starved and weary and ill; with him was a gray ghost of a creature with long white hair, that seemed to be struck with terror the instant it heard my voice. at first i thought it was a withered old woman, but it proved to be a man--somehow seeming young in spite of the snow-white hair and wasted frame. i had them taken up, the gray ghost resisting mightily, and carried to my burrow where they now lie. they eat; they take up space; they add nothing to my cause. but i can not turn them out. the old man disarms me by that name." he looked down at her with softening eyes. "and the shepherd held thy hand?" he said softly. she turned upon him in astonishment. how much of joy and surprise and hope he could bring in a single visit, she thought. now, behold he had met that same delightsome child that had passed like a dash of sunlight across her dark day. "did you meet the shepherd of pella?" she asked. instant deduction supplied her the name that had moved him to compassion. "and did he serve you in the name of his prophet?" she whispered. "he saved my life in the name of his christ, but was tender of me in thy name," he replied. "his is a sweet apostasy," she ventured bravely, "if it be his apostasy that made him kind. and i--i owe him much, that he repaired that for which i feel at fault." he smiled at her and stroked her hand once, soothingly. "let us not remember blames or injury. it damages my happiness. but of this apostasy that the shepherd preached me. i passed the stones of the palace of antipas to-day, a ruin, black and shapeless. thought i, where is the majesty of order and the beauty of strength that was this place? and then," his voice fell to a whisper, "beshrew the boy's tattle, i said, the footprints of his prophet before the throne of herod are erased." "even then," she whispered when he paused, "you do not forget!" "no! why, these streets, that should ring for me with the footsteps of all the great from the days of david, are marked by the passage of that prophet. i might forget that felix and florus and gessius were legates in that roman residence, but i do not fail to remember that they took that prophet before pilate there. by my soul, the street that leads north hath become the way of the cross, and there are three crosses for me on the hill of the skull!" she looked at him gravely and with alarm. what was it in this history of the nazarene which won aristocrats and shepherds alike? she would see from this man if there were indeed any truth in the story that philadelphus had told her. "i have heard," she began, faltering, "i have heard that--" she stopped. her tongue would not shape the story. but after a glance at her, he understood. "and thou hast heard it, also?" he whispered. "thou believest it?" it seemed that to acknowledge her fear that the king had come and gone would establish the fact. "no!" she cried. "it is enough," he said nervously. "we do not well to talk of it. i came for another reason. tell me; hast thou other shelter than this house?" "no," she answered. "hast thou talked with this philadelphus, here?" he asked after silence. she assented with averted face. "is he that one who was with me in the hills?" he persisted. again she assented, with surprise. his hands clenched and for a moment he struggled with his rage. "this house is no place for you!" he declared at last. "what manner of house is this?" she asked pathetically. "it is so strange!" "why did you come here?" "because there was nowhere else to go." he was silent. "who is this amaryllis?" she asked. "john's mistress." she shrank away from him and looked at him with horror-stricken eyes. "hast thou not yet seen him, who buys thy bread and meat and insures this safe roof?" he persisted. "and--and i eat bread--bought--bought by--" she stammered. "even so!" her hands dropped at her sides. "are the good all dead?" she said. "in jerusalem, yes; for virtue gets hungry, at times." she had risen and moved away from him, but he followed her with interested eyes. "then--then--" she began, hesitating under a rush of convictions. "that is why--why i can not--why he--he--" he knew she spoke of philadelphus. "go on," he said. "why i can not live in safety near him!" he, too, arose. until that moment it had not occurred to him that julian of ephesus, as repugnant to her as she had shown him ever to be, might prove a peril to her life as he had been to the maccabee who had stood in his way. "what has he said to you?" he demanded fiercely. "how do you live, here in this house?" she threw up her head, seeing another meaning in his question. "shut in! locked!" she said between her teeth. "but even then you are not safe!" she drew back hastily and looked at him with alarm. what did he mean? he was beside her. "tell me, in truth, who you are," he said tenderly, "and i shall reveal myself." then, indeed, amaryllis had told him her claim and had convinced him that it was fraudulent. "and she told you?" she said wearily. "tell me," he insisted. "i have truly a revelation worth hearing!" she made no answer. "you owe it me," he added presently. "behold what damaging things i have intrusted to you. you can ruin me by the droop of an eyelash." "i should have told you at first who i am," she said finally. "i will not betray what you told me in ignorance--" "but amaryllis told me this before you came." "nevertheless, tell me no more; if i must be a partizan, i shall be a partizan to my husband." "there is nothing for you here, clinging to this man," he continued persuasively. "this woman brought him a great dowry. she is ambitious and therefore jealous. you will win nothing but mistreatment, and worse, if you stay here for him." "it is my place," she said. after a moment's helpless silence, he demanded bitterly: "dost thou love that man?" the truth leaped to her lips with such wilful force that he read the reply on her face, though her eyes were down and by intense resolution she restrained the denial. he was close to her, speaking quickly under the pressure of his earnestness. "i have sacrificed name, birthright, fortune--even honor--that i might be free to love thee!" she drew back from him hurriedly, afraid that his very insistence would destroy her fortitude. "let me not have bankrupted myself for a trust thou wilt not give!" "it--it is not mine to give," she stammered. "otherwise--otherwise--" he prompted, leaning near her. but she put him back from her, desperately. "go, go!" she whispered. "i hear--i hear philadelphus!" he turned from her obediently. "it is not my last hope," he said to himself. "neither has she suffered her last perplexity in this house. i shall come again." he passed out into the streets of jerusalem. chapter xvi the spread net beginning with the moment that the maccabee first entered her hall, amaryllis struggled with a perplexity. certain discrepancies in the hastily concocted story which that stern compelling stranger who had called himself hesper of ephesus had told had started into life a doubt so feeble that it was little more than a sensation. love and its signs had been a lifelong study to her; she knew its stubbornness; she was wise in the judgment of human nature to know that love in this stranger was no light thing to be dislodged. and to finish the sum of her perplexities, she felt in her own heart the kindling of a sorrowful longing to be preferred by a spirit strong, forceful and magnetic as was that of the man who had called himself hesper of ephesus. with the egotism of the courtezan she summarized her charms. even there were spirits in that fleshly land of judea to whom the delicate refinement of her beauty, the reserve of her bearing and the power of her mentality had appealed more strongly than a mere opulence of physical attraction. she had her ambitions; not the least of these was to be loved by an understanding nature. the greater the congeniality, the greater the attraction, she argued; but behold, was this iron hesper, the man of all force, to be dashed and shaken by the rich loveliness of laodice, who was simply a woman? "such attachments do not last," she argued hopefully. "such attachments make unfaithful husbands. they are monotonous and wearisome. she is but a mirror giving back the blaze of the sun, one-surfaced and blinding. it is the many lights of the diamond that make it charming." she had arrived at no definite resolution when she met laodice in the hall that led to the quarters of the artists, as the greek went that way for her day's observation of their work. "what an unrefreshed face!" the greek said softly, as the light from the cancelli showed the weariness and distress that had begun to make inroads on the animation of the girl's beauty. "no woman who would preserve her loveliness should let her cares trouble her dreams." "how am i to do that?" laodice asked with a flare of scorn. "do i perceive in that a desire for advice or an explanation of a situation?" "both." amaryllis smiled thoughtfully at the girl, while the light of sudden intent appeared on her face. "you are unhappy, my dear, through your prejudices," she began. "we call convictions prejudices when they are other than our own beliefs. by that sign, you shall know that i am going to take issue with you. i am, perhaps, the ideal of that which you would not be. but no man will say that my lot is not enviable." "are you happy?" laodice asked in a low voice. "are you?" the greek returned. "no," she went on after a pause. "a woman has the less happy part in life, though the greater one, if she will permit herself to make it great. it was not her purpose on earth to be happy, but to make happy." "you take issue with philadelphus in that," laodice interposed. "it is his preachment to me that all that is expected of all mankind is to be happy." "he is a man, arguing from the man's view. it is inevitable law that one must be gladder than another. woman has the greater capacity for suffering, hence her feeling for the suffering of others is the quicker to respond. and some creature of the gods must be compassionate, else creation long since had perished from the earth." laodice made no answer. this was new philosophy to her, who had been taught only to aspire at great sacrifice as long as god gave her strength. she could not know that this strange and purposeful creed might some day appeal to her beyond her strength. "yet," amaryllis added presently in a brighter tone, "there is much that is sweet in the life of a woman." laodice played with the tassels of her girdle and did not look up. what was all this to lead to? "i have spoken to philadelphus about you," the greek continued. "he has no doubt of this woman who hath established her claim to his name by proofs but without the manner of the wife he expected. yet he can not turn her out. the siege hath put an end to your efforts in your own behalf and it is time to face your condition and make the best of it. john feels restive; i dare not ask too much of him. my household was already full, before you came." laodice was looking at her, now with enlightenment in her face. "philadelphus," amaryllis continued, following up her advantage, "is nothing more than a man and you are very lovely." "all this," laodice said, rousing, "is to persuade me to--" "there are two standards for women," the greek interposed before laodice finished her indignant sentence. "yours and another's. as between yours, who would have love from him whom you have married, and hers, who hath love from him whom she hath not married, there is only the difference of a formula. between her condition and yours, she is the freer; between her soul and yours, she is the more willingly faithful. if woman be born to a purpose, she fulfils it; if not she hath not consecrated her life to a mistake. you overrate the importance of marriage. it is your whole purpose to preserve yourself for a ceremony. it is too much pains for too trivial an end. at least, there are many things which are farther reaching and less selfish in intent. and who, by the way, holds the longest claim on history? your kind or this other? the world does not perpetuate in its chronicles the continence of women; it is too small, too personal, too common to be noted. cleopatra were lost among the horde of forgotten sovereigns, had she wedded duly and scorned mark antony; aspasia would have been buried in a gynaeconitis had she wedded pericles, and sappho--but the list is too long; i will not bury you in testimony." laodice raised her head. "you reason well," she said. "it never occurred to me how wickedness could justify itself by reason. but i observe now how serviceable a thing it is. it seems that you can reason away any truth, any fact, any ideal. perhaps you can banish god by reason, or defend crime by reason; reason, i shall not be surprised to learn, can make all things possible or impossible. but--does reason hush that strange speaking voice in you, which we jews call conscience? tell me; have you reasoned till it ceases to rebuke you?" "ah, how hard you are to accommodate," amaryllis smiled. "i mean to show you how you can abide here. i can ask no more of john. philadelphus alone is master of your fate. i have not sought to change you before i sought to change philadelphus. he will not change so long as you are beautiful. this is life, my dear. you may as well prepare for it now." laodice gazed with wide, terrorized eyes at the greek. she saw force gathering against her. amaryllis shaped her device to its end. "and if you do not accept this shelter," she concluded, "what else is there for you?" hesper, many times her refuge, rose before the hard-pressed girl. "there is another in jerusalem who will help me," she declared. "and that one?" amaryllis asked coolly. "is he who calls himself hesper, the ephesian," laodice answered. "why should you trust him?" the greek asked pointedly. "he--when philadelphus--you remember that philadelphus told you what happened--" "that he tossed a coin with a wayfarer in the hills for you?" the greek asked. laodice dropped her head painfully. "this hesper let me go then, and afterward--" "he has repented of that by this time. it is not safe to try him a second time. besides, if you must risk yourself to the protection of men, why turn from him whom you call your husband for this stranger?" the question was deft and telling. laodice started with the suddenness of the accusation embodied in it. and while she stood, wrestling with the intolerable alternative, the greek smiled at her and went her way. laodice stood where amaryllis had left her, at times motionless with helplessness, at others struck with panic. on no occasion did homelessness in the war-ridden city of jerusalem appear half so terrible as shelter under the roof of that hateful house. the little golden-haired girl from the chamber of artists beyond skipped by her. "hast seen demetrius?" she called back as she passed. "demetrius, the athlete, stupid!" laodice turned away from her. "nay, then," the girl declared; "if i have insulted you let me heal over the wound with the best jest, yet! john hath written a sonnet on philadelphus' wife and our lady amaryllis is truing his meter for him. ha! gods! what a place this is for a child to be brought up! i would not give a denarius for my morals when i am grown. there's demetrius! now for a laugh!" she was gone. where was that ancient rigor of atmosphere in which she had been reared? thought laodice. had it existed only in the shut house of costobarus? was all the world wicked except that which was confined within the four walls of her father's house? could she survive long in this unanimously bad environment? but she remembered joseph of pella, the shepherd; even then his wholesomeness was not without its canker. he was a christian! philadelphus was at her side. she flinched from him and would have fled, but he stopped her with a sign. "my lady objects to your presence in this house," he said. "you have not made it worth my while to insist on your shelter here." "your lady," she said hotly, "is two-fold evilly engaged, then. she has time to ruin you, while she furnishes john with all the inspiration he would have for sonnets." "so she refrains from furnishing john with my two hundred talents, i shall not quarrel with her. you have your own difficulties to adjust, and mine, only in so far as they concern you." his voice had lost none of its smoothness, but it had become hard and purposeful. "i have come to that point, philadelphus, where my difficulties and not yours concern me," she replied. "i had nothing to give you but my good will. you have outraged even that. hereafter, no tie binds us." "no? you cast off our ties as lightly as you assumed them. with a word you announce me wedded to you; with another you speak our divorcement. and i, poor clod, suffer it? the first, yes; but the last, no. you see, i have fallen in love with you." she turned her clear eyes away from him and waited calmly till she could escape. "you have spent your greatest argument in persuading me to be a king. kings, lady, are essentially tyrants, in these bad days. wherefore, if i am to be one, i shall not fail to be the other. and you--ah, you! will you endure the oppressor that you made?" there was enough that was different in his manner and his words for her to believe that something worthy of attention was to follow. she looked at him, now. "this roof, since the alienation of john to my wife, is mine empire. within it, i am despot. from its lady mistress, the greek, to the meanest slave, i have homage and subjection. even thou wilt be submissive to me--for having lost one wife through indulgence, i shall be most tyrannical to the one yet in my power!" she drew herself up in splendid defiance. "i have not submitted!" she said. "i will not submit!" "no? nothing stands in your way now but yourself. your supplanter hath removed herself. and i shall make your submission easy." she turned from him and would have hurried back into the greek's andronitis, but he put himself in her way. "listen!" he said, suddenly lifting his hand. in the stillness which she finally was able to observe over the tumultuous beating of her enraged heart, a profound moan of great volume as from immense but remote struggle came into the corridor. through it at times cut a sharp accession of sound, as if violence heightened at intervals, and steadily over it pulsated the throb of tireless siege-engines. it was the groan of the city of delight in mortal anguish. "this," he said in a soft voice touching his breast, "or that," motioning toward the dying city. "choose. and by midnight!" while she stood, gazing at him transfixed with the horror of her predicament, there was the sweeping of garments, the soft tinkle of pendants as they struck together, and salome, the actress, was beside the pair. close at hand was amaryllis. the greek showed for the first time discomfiture and an inability to rise to the demand of the occasion. the glance she shot at laodice was full of cold anger that she had permitted herself to be surprised in company with philadelphus. philadelphus drew back a step, but made no further movement toward withdrawing. laodice would have retreated, but the actress stood in her way. with a motion full of stately indignation, salome turned to amaryllis. "it so occurs, madam, that i can point out to you the disease which saps my husband's ambition. you observe that he is diverted now, as all men are diverted six weeks after marriage--by another woman. i am not a jealous woman. i am only concerned for his welfare and the welfare of the city of our fathers. for it is not himself that his luxurious indolence affects; but all the unhappy city which is suffering while he is able to help it. he must be saved. and i shall go with him out of this house into want and peril, but he shall be saved." laodice said nothing. she stood drawn up intensely; her brows knitted; her teeth on her lip; her insulted pride and growing resolution effecting a certain magnificence in her pose. "i can find her another house," amaryllis said. "also my husband can find it," the woman broke in. "let the streets do their will with the woman of the streets. bread and shelter are too precious to waste on the iniquitous this hour." amaryllis turned to laodice. "what wilt thou do?" she asked. "the streets can offer me no more insult than is offered me in this house," she said slowly. it was in her mind that there were certainly unprotected gates at which she could get out of the city and return to ascalon. at least the peril for her in this house was already too imminent for her to remain longer. she continued to amaryllis: "lady, you have been kind to me--in your way. you have been so in the face of your doubt that i am what i claim to be. how happy, then, you would have made my lot had i not been supplanted and denied! for all this i thank you. mine would be a poor gratitude if i stay to make you regret your generosity. wherefore i will go." she slipped past the three and entered her room. before amaryllis could gather resolution to protest, she was out again, clothed in mantle and vitta and, walking swiftly, disappeared into the vestibule. as they sat in the darkening hall, the three heard the doors close behind her. "she will return," said philadelphus coolly, moving away. gathering her robes about her, salome swept out of the corridor and away. amaryllis stood alone. somewhere out in the city was hesper the ephesian. amaryllis knew that laodice would not return. chapter xvii the tangled web meanwhile jerusalem was in the fury of barbarous warfare. at this ravine and that debouching upon golgotha, the vale of hinnom and the valley of tophet, whole legions of besiegers were stationed. along the walls the men of simon and the men of john tramped in armor. from the various gates furious sorties were made by swarms of unorganized jews who fell upon the romans unused to frantic warfare, and slaughtered, set fire to engines, destroyed banks and threw down fortifications and retreated within the gates before the demoralized romans could rally. catapult and ballista upon the eminences outside the walls kept up an unceasing rain of enormous stones which whistled and screamed in the air and shook jerusalem to its foundations. the reverberating boom and the tremor of earth were varied from time to time by the splintering crash of houses crushing and the increase of uproar, as scores of luckless inhabitants went down under the falling rock. giant cranes with huge, ludicrous awkward arms, heaved up pots of burning pitch and oil and flung them ponderously into the city to do whatever horror of fire and torture had not been done by the engines. hourly the rattle of small stones increased, merely to attract the attention of the citizens to an activity to which they were so accustomed that it was almost unnoticed. at times citizens and soldiers rushed upon a threatened gate or segment of the wall and lent strength to keep the romans out; at other times the defenses were forsaken while the besieged fell upon one another. back from the broad summit of olivet, which was the mountain of peace, the echoes gave all day long the shudder of the struggling city. the sun daily grew more heated; the cisterns and pools within the city began to shrink so rapidly that the inhabitants feared that the enemy had come at the source of the waters of jerusalem and had cut them off. hundreds of the wounded were allowed to die, simply as a defense of the wells and store-houses. burial became too gigantic a labor, and john and simon ordered the bodies thrown over the walls to prevent pestilence. titus riding around the city on a day came upon a heap of this outcast dead and turned suddenly white. he rode back to his camp and within the hour there approached the walls under a flag of truce an imposing jew of middle-age, with a superb beard and a veritable mantle of rich black hair escaping from his turban and falling heavy with life and strength upon a pair of great shoulders. he was simply dressed, but his stately carriage and splendid presence made a kingly garment out of his white gown. those upon the wall knew him and though they were obliged to respect the banner under which he approached, they gnashed their teeth and greeted him with epithets, poisonous with hate. he was flavius josephus, one time patriot and enemy of rome, but now secure under titus' patronage, abettor of his patron against his fellow-countrymen. the maccabee, among the fighting-men on the wall, saw his approach and discreetly stepped behind a soldier that he might not be singled out as a familiar toward which the approaching mediator would logically direct his appeal. he had no desire to be addressed by his name before this precarious mob already mad with rage at a turncoat. and thus concealed the maccabee heard josephus appeal to the jews with apparent sincerity and affection, promise amnesty, protection and justice in his patron's name; heard his overtures greeted with fury and finally saw the jews swarm over the walls and drive him to fly for his life up gareb to the camp of titus. it was not the first incident he had seen which showed him his own fate if it became known that he intended to treat with rome. he put aside his calculations in that direction as a detail not yet in order, and turned to the organization of his army. here again he met obstacle. among his council of bezethans he found an enthusiasm for some intangible purpose, objection to his own plans and a certain hauteur that he could not understand. "what is it you hope for, brethren?" he asked one night as he stood in the gloom of the crypt under the ruin with fifty of his ablest thinkers and soldiers about him. "the days of samuel before israel cursed itself with a king," one man declared. the others were suddenly silent. "those days will not come to you," he answered patiently. "you must fight for them." "we will fight." "good! let us unite and i will lead you," the maccabee offered. "but after you have led us, perhaps to victory, then what?" they asked pointedly. the maccabee saw that they were sounding him for his ambitions, and discreetly effaced them. "do with me what you will; or if you doubt me, choose a leader among yourselves." they shook their heads. "then enlist under simon and john and fight with them," he cried, losing patience. murmurs and angry looks greeted this suggestion, and the maccabee put out his hands toward them hopelessly. "then what will you do?" he asked. "it shall be shown us," they replied; and with this answer, with his organization yet uneffected, his plans more than ever chaotic, the maccabee began another day. shrewd and resourceful as he believed himself to be, he beheld plan after plan reveal its inefficiency. forced by some act of the city to abandon one idea, the next that followed found a new intractability. it seemed that there were no two heads in jerusalem of a similar thought. whoever was not demoralized by panic was fatally stubborn or mad. the single purpose that seemed to prevail was to hold out against reason. finally he determined to pick the most rational of his men and shape an army that would be distinctly jewish and enviable. nothing roman should mar its organization. he would have again the six hundred gibborim of david, and after he had formed them into a body he would trust to the existing circumstances to direct him how to proceed to the assistance of jerusalem with them. he should be the sole captain, the sole authority, the single commander of them all. he would not have an unwieldy army, but one perfectly devoted. he would lead by his own genius, attract and command by his own personality. with six hundred absolutely subject to his will, trained in endurance and steadfastness, he could achieve more surely than with an undisciplined horde which first of all must be fed. throughout those days of predatory warfare he made careful selection of material for his army. as yet, while famine had not reduced jerusalem to a skeleton, he could select for bodily strength and mental balance. he worked swiftly, sparing his men daily to the defense of the city against the roman and daily sacrificing precious numbers of them to the pit of the dead just over the wall. they were weary days--days of increasing storm and multiplying calamity. famine in some quarters of the city reached appalling proportions. insurrections in these regions were so vigorously suppressed that the victims chose to starve and live rather than to revolt and perish. pestilence broke out among the inhabitants near the eastern wall, against the other side of which the dead had been cast by hundreds; and a general flight from the city was stopped in full flood by the spectacle of some scores of unfortunates crucified by the roman soldiers and set up in sight of the walls. simon and john had a disastrous quarrel and during the interval, when the sentries and the fighting-men were killing each other, the romans possessed the first fortification around jerusalem, the wall of agrippa. the following day titus pitched his camp within the limits of the holy city, upon the site of sennacherib's assyrian bivouac. at sight of this signal advance, tumult broke out afresh in the city and for days titus lay calmly by, merely harassing the jews while he watched jerusalem weaken itself by internal combat. the maccabee, steadily training his picked gibborim, saw these lulls as signs that titus was still in the hope that the city would submit to occupation and spare him the repugnant task of slaughtering half a nation. in his soul he knew that at no time would titus be unwilling to receive the voluntary capitulation of the city. so, composed and intent through struggle and terror, he continued to prepare for the day when an organized army could take the unhappy inhabitants out of the bloody hands of the two factionists, simon and john. during one of the casual attacks on the second wall, a lean, lash-scarred maniac that had not ceased to cry night or day for seven years, "woe unto jerusalem!" mounted the old second wall, and there pointed to his breast and added, "woe unto me also!" at that instant a great stone struck him and tumbling with it to the ground, he was crushed into the earth and left so buried for all time. with the hushing of that embodiment of doom, silence fell upon the city and after that, panic; and during that titus heaved his four legions against the second wall and took it. simon was seized with frenzy, and with a body of crazed idumeans rushed out upon the banks of the romans and in one hour's time overthrew the army's work of days and so thoroughly set back the advance of the besieger that titus resolved that no more insane sorties should be made from the gates. he retired to his camp and in a short time soldiers appeared with tape, stakes, sledges and spades and laid out an immense circle, all but compassing the great city of jerusalem. the maccabee saw all this. he stood on the wall above the roar and frenzy and looked across bleached stretches of sunny, rocky earth toward the orderly ranks of soldiers, the simple business, the tranquil speed of rome making war, and understood that peaceful despatch as deadly. he saw the young general ride down to this circle, dismount and, catching a spade from the nearest legionary, drive it into the earth. when he tossed out the first clay, each of the men in the visible segment of that great cordon struck his implement into the ground. and even as the maccabee watched, he saw grow up under his eyes a wall! he understood. titus was walling against a wall; turning upon the jews that same thing which they had reared against him. as the maccabee stood gazing transfixed at this grim work, he heard beside him an old voice say, with terrible conviction: "_o jerusalem, jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would i have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!... for the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation._" the maccabee, shaken with the culmination of rome's resolution and afraid in spite of himself, whirled angrily upon that voice speaking doom at his side. there in the old ragged tunic bound about him with rope, stood the old man he had rescued and had sheltered persistently for many days. the old man faced the young man's rage with supernatural composure and strength. with clenched hands, the maccabee stood away from him and felt that he threatened with his fists a hoary citadel that armies had beaten themselves against in vain. the maccabee did not speak to his old pensioner. he felt the futility of words against this thing which seemed to be a revelation, denying absolutely all of his ambitions. he dropped from his position and, pushing his way through the distress upon the city, turned toward the house of amaryllis. it was a climacteric hour, when men should look well to the protection of all that was near and dear to them. when he was gone a strange, bent figure with long white hair and a gray distorted face came from the shadow of one of the towers and plucked the old christian's tunic. the christian turned and seeing who stood beside him said with intense surety in his tones: "it is proven. accept the lord jesus while it is time, my son, for behold the hour of the last day of this city is fulfilled!" the apparition lifted a palsied hand on which the skin was yet fair and young and pointed after the maccabee, losing himself in the groaning mass in the city. "if i believe, i must tell him!" he said. "whatever thou hast done against that man must be amended," the christian declared. the palsied figure shrank and wringing his hands about each other said in a whisper that sounded like wind among dried leaves: "i, who saw the candor of perfect trust in his eyes, once, i can not behold their reproach--i, who love him, and sold him--for a handful of gold!" the old christian laid his hand on the other's arm. "another judas?" he said. the apparition made no answer. "nay, then; tell it me," the christian urged. but the other shrank away from him, while distrust collected in his eyes. "i fear thee; the evil man fears the good one, even more than the good man fears the evil one. i will not tell thee." "but thou hast thy bread from this hesper; thou hast thy shelter from him. he will not injure thee." "injure me! not with his hands, perhaps. but he would look at me, he would kill me with his eyes! thou canst not dream what evil i have done him!" the old christian looked at him for a time, but with the hopefulness of the spiritually confident. "christ spare thee, till thou hast the strength to do right!" he exclaimed. but the palsied man covered his face with his hands and groaned. the old christian took him by the arm and led him down from the wall and back to the cavern under the ruins. "in thy good time, o lord," he said to himself, beginning with that incident a ministry that should not end. it was dark when the maccabee came down into the ravine in which the greek's house was builded. in the shadow the house cast before it he saw some one pass the sentry lines. the soldiers looked after that figure. presently, emerging into the lesser darkness of the open streets, it proved to be a woman. the maccabee stopped. by the movements, now hurried, now slow, he believed that the night was full of apprehension for this unknown faring into the disordered city. she was coming in his direction. he stepped into shadow to see who would come forth from shelter at such an hour. the next instant she hurried by his hiding-place and the maccabee saw with amazement that it was the girl he loved. he sprang out to speak to her, but the sound of his footsteps frightened her and she ran. the whole hilly foreground of jerusalem was lifted like a black and impending cloud over her, a-throb with violence and strife. here and there were lights on the bosom of the looming blackness, but they only emphasized the darkness pressing on the outskirts of the radiance. every area way and alley had its sound. the air was full of footsteps; behind her a voice called to her. she dashed by yawning darkness that was an open alley, hurried toward lights, halted precipitately at signals of danger and veered aside at unexpected sounds. once she stumbled upon the body of a sleeper who had come down into the darkness of the ravine to pass the night. at her suppressed cry the maccabee sprang forward, but she caught herself and ran faster. he ceased then to attempt to stop her. curiosity to know what brought her out into danger at night impelled him to follow near enough to protect her, but unsuspected until she had revealed her mission to him. a hungry dog, probably the last one to escape the execution which had been meted out to all useless consumers of food, barked at her heels and brought her up sharply. the beast in his siege of her circled in the dark around near enough to the maccabee hidden in the darkness for him to deliver a vindictive kick in the staring ribs of the brute. when the howl of the surprised dog faded up the black ravine, laodice ran on. the maccabee, silently pursuing, heard with a contracting heart that she was crying softly from terror and bewilderment. not yet, however, had she approached the danger of jerusalem, which john had kept far removed from the precincts of amaryllis' house. she was entering akra. the heap of grain, yet burning, showed a dull black-red mound over which towered a column of strong incense. here, for the night was cool, lay in circles many of the unhoused passover guests. here, also, was wakefulness and the hatchment of evil. the running girl was upon them before she knew it. one of the figures that sat with its back to the dull glow saw her approaching. instantly he rose upon one knee and snatched her dress as she ran. jerked from her balance, she screamed and threw out her hands to keep from falling upon the shoulders of her assailant. one or two others with unintelligible sounds struggled up, and as she fell, the maccabee leaped from the darkness, wrenched her from the grasp of her captor, and warding off attack with his knife, fled with her into the darkness. the transfer of control over her had been made so swiftly that in her stupor of terror she hardly realized it. she was struggling silently and strongly in his hold, when he clasped her to him with a firmer impulsive embrace and whispered to her: "comfort thee, dear heart! it is i, hesper!" she ceased to resist so suddenly and was so tensely still that he knew the shock of immense reaction was having its way with her. he knew without asking that she had been forced to leave the shelter of the greek's roof, and though his rage threatened to rise up and blind him he was not entirely unaware of the benefit the inhospitality of others had given him. at last she was with him; entirely in his care. it was a safe shelter into which she was brought, but no luxurious one. there was light enough from the single torch stuck in a crevice in the ancient rock to show that it was habitable. the immense floor was packed hard by the trampling of many feet; overhead, lost in gloom, there must have been a rocky roof, but it was invisible. on the ledges of rocks were belongings by heaps and collections, showing that this was an abiding-place for great numbers. in the far shadows she distinguished long, silent, mummied windrows of men wrapped in blankets, sleeping. huge gloomy piles of provisions filled up shadowy corners; about under the light was the litter left in the wake of human counsel; over all was the air of repose and occupancy that made a home out of the burrow. though the place held a great number of refugees, the footstep of the maccabee wakened resounding emptiness. at the threshold he slackened his step and looked with pathetic anxiety at whatever light on laodice's face would show her opinion of her refuge. but the uncertain torch revealed nothing and he led her in and across to a solitary place where rugs from some looted house had been folded up for a pallet and spread about for carpets. she sat down and awaited his speech. he motioned to the spacious barrenness about him. "canst thou content thyself in this place?" he asked, hesitating. she nodded, but feeling that her reply had not shown all that words might, she lifted her face that he might see therein that which she could not trust her lips to say. it was her undoing. her weakness overwhelmed her and burying her face in the folds of her mantle, she wept. after a dismayed silence, he bent over her and said with a quiver of distress in his voice: "i--i have work, here, to do, but i shall take thee out of the city for better refuge--" that she should seem to be grieving over the nature of the shelter given her, stirred her deeply. she half rose and with the light shining on her face, filled with gratitude in spite of her tears, took his hand in both of hers and pressed it with pathetic insistence. he understood her. he laid a hand unsteady with its tremor of delight and young eagerness upon the vitta and it slipped off her hair. as it dropped, the subtle warm fragrance of the heavy locks, now braided in maidenly style, reached him; the liveliness of her relaxed young figure communicated itself to him without his touch; all the invitation of her helplessness swept him to the very edge of abandoning his restraint. on his dark face a transformation occurred. all the hardness, even his years and his experience vanished from him and a soft recovering flush faintly colored his cheeks. in that sudden bloom of beauty in his face was stamped a realization of the far progress of his triumph. she was in his house and dependent on him, within the very reach of his arms. when she looked up at him again, she read all this in his face, and instantly there returned to her, with warning intensity, the fear of her love of him. the last obstacle but her own conscience that stood between her and his perfect supremacy over her life had suddenly been swept away. she started away from him, and put up her hands to ward off his touch. "if you do that," she said in a tone sharp with distress, "it is sin and i shall be cursed! i shall have to go back to him!" then she had voluntarily left julian, perhaps to seek him! "you shall not go back to him!" he exclaimed. "after i have given up everything but my life to have you for myself!" "you must not think of me in that way!" she commanded him vehemently. "i am a married woman! you shall remember that! if you forget it, i will go out into the streets and ask the idumeans to kill me!" "nay, peace, peace! i shall do you no harm! you are frightened! i will do nothing that you would not have me do! be comforted. not any one in all the world has your happiness at heart so much as i. believe me!" "believe _me_!" she insisted. "i am weary of doubt and denial. i am only safe if you recognize me as that which i claim to be. answer me! you do believe i am the wife of philadelphus?" "i believed it, at once," he said frankly. "then--then--" but she flung her hands over her face and slipped down on the rugs. for a moment he hesitated, restraining the impulse to break over the limits she had laid down for him. then he rose and, summoning one of the women who had taken refuge in the crypt, sent her to remain with the girl, and departed, shaken and uncertain, to his own place. chapter xviii in the sunless crypt the twilight of the cavern rarely revealed enough of the features of her fellows to laodice for her to identify them or for them to identify her. she lived among them a dusky shadow among shadows. and because of her fear that philadelphus might be searching for her, she stayed in the sunless crypt day by day until the maccabee, noting with affectionate distress that she was growing white and weak, bade her take one of the women and venture up to the light. there were, besides the women, two men who took no part in the preparation for war which went on about them in the cavern day and night. while weapons and armor were made and tramping ranks formed and broke before the commands of the lithe dark commander of that fortress and subdued but fierce councils took place around torches--while all this went on, they kept back, even apart from the women, and said nothing. laodice saw that they were physically unfit; that one was very old and the other very feeble and her heart warmed again to that stern master who saw them fed as abundantly as his most valued men. these, then, were those christians whom he had taken into his protection because of the name which had inspired a shepherd boy to save his life. when he commanded laodice to go up into the sunlight, he approached the corner in which the two useless men hid and bade them, too, to go up into the air. "let us have no sickness in this place," he said bluntly and turned on his heel and left them to obey. laodice took one of the older women and timidly climbing the steps from which the rubbish had been pushed away by the climbing hundreds, went through the dusk of the passage that terminated in a brilliancy that dazzled her. and as she walked she heard the footsteps of the two men behind her. up in the chaos of fallen columns, she stood a moment with her hands pressed over her eyes. only little by little was she able to permit the full blaze of the judean sun to reach them. the uproar on jerusalem after the muffled silence of the underground cavern filled her with terror, and she pressed close to the shelter of the entrance until the woman at her side reassured her. "it is nothing," the woman said, with a dreary patience. "it is as it was yesterday. i come here every day. i know." after a while laodice looked about her. the entrance to their refuge was about the middle of the ruin and therefore a great many paces back from the streets, so that she did not see jerusalem's agonies face to face. but she saw enough to make her cold and to turn her shivering and panic-stricken into the darkness of the crypt below. she saw the ascending streets of zion and the tall fortifications mounting the heights within the city's limits. there she saw the flash of swords, swung afar off, spears brandished and the running hither and thither of defenders on the wall. below she saw the remote constricted passages between rows of desolate houses, moving with people, sounding with clamor. there she saw combats, terrible scenes of frenzy, deaths and unnamable horrors; starvelings gnawing their nails; shadows of infants pressed to hollow bosoms; old men too weak to walk that went on hands and knees; young men and young women in rags that failed to cover them, and wandering skeletons screaming, "woe!" meanwhile huge stones mounted over the walls and fell within the city; three great towers planted beyond the walls, out of range of the jewish engines and equipped with superior machines, were steadily devastating the entire quarter near which they were erected. here two-thirds of the forces of jerusalem were concentrated in a vain effort to resist the dire inroads of these effective engines. here, the maccabee and his gibborim stood shoulder to shoulder with the idumeans and fanatics of simon and john, and here the half-mad defenders awakened at last to the fact that only divine interference could save the city against rome. in the south and the east conflagrations roared and crackled, where burning oil had been scattered over some remaining structures near the walls. when a great ram began its thunder somewhere near the sheep gate, there came a hollow booming noise of deafening volume from the charnel pits outside the walls and a black cloud of incredible depth soared up into the skies. laodice, dumb with horror, looked at the prodigy without understanding, but the woman at her side shuddered. "god help us!" she exclaimed. "they are vultures!" laodice turned to rush back into the cavern and so faced the two men who stood behind her. one, at sight of her, shrank with a gasp, and, averting his shaggy head till the long white locks covered his face, fled back into the crypt. the other was gazing with unseeing eyes across groaning jerusalem. "_i am the man_," he was saying aloud, but to himself, "_that hath seen affliction by the rod of his wrath._" the sight of him had a paralyzing effect upon laodice. she saw, before her, nathan, the christian, who had buried her father, who had blessed her, who would know and could testify to a surety that she was the wife of philadelphus! she slipped by him without a sound and hurried down into the darkest corner of the cavern. circumstance had found her in her refuge and would drive her away from this sweet home back to that hateful house, to the man she did not love! for many days, with increasing distress, laodice avoided nathan, the christian. with that fascinated terror which at times forces human creatures to examine a peril, she felt irresistibly impelled to try his memory of events, that she might know if indeed he would recognize her. though she turned cold and flashed white when he came upon her one day in the darkness of their shelter, she felt nevertheless the relief of approaching a solution to her perplexity. "they tell me," he said with the deliberate speech of the old, "that titus is once more permitting citizens to depart from jerusalem unharmed." "then," she said, grasping at this hope, "why do you stay here in this peril?" "why should i leave it? even with the singers who wept by the waters of babylon, i prefer jerusalem above my chief joy. except for the time when we of the way were warned to depart, i have been in jerusalem all my life. then, though i had gone as far as cæsarea on my way to antioch to join the brethren there, homesickness overtook me and i turned in my tracks, saying no man farewell, and came back." "a weary journey for one so old," she said gently. would he remember also that it had been dangerous? "nay, but a journey full of works and reward. and i discovered at the end of it that i had lived in error forty years; that christ never ceases to prove himself." already the forbidden tenets of the nazarene faith had entered into his words. but feeling somehow that her deflection from uprightness covered her whole life, there was no reason why she should not hear what these people believed and have done with it. "art thou a christian?" she asked timidly. "i am a believer in christ, but whether i may call myself one of the blessed i do not know, for they have had faith. but i demanded a sign. behold it! the ruin of the city of david!" her eyes widened with alarm. "is there no hope?" she exclaimed. he looked at her, even in his old age impressed with the immense importance life and love must have to so beautiful and beloved a woman. presently he said, as if to himself: "yea, be thou blessed, o thou redeemer, that givest life to them to whom life is dear and death approacheth." her concern for concealment vanished entirely in her rising terror for the future of the holy city. "i pray thee, rabbi," she said in a low voice, drawing close to him, "tell me what thy people believe about the city. i have heard--but it can not be true!" "do not be troubled about the city," he answered. "ask me rather how to become safeguarded against any disaster, greater even than the fall of cities." "it is not for myself," she protested earnestly, "but for the world. is there not a king to come to israel?" "there is, but not yet, my daughter. of that day and hour no man knoweth. now is daniel's abomination of desolation; the generation passeth and the prophecy is fulfilled. jerusalem is perishing." seeing the wave of panic sweep over her, he put out a soothing hand. "yet, do not fear. for such as you the redeemer died; for your kind the kingdom of heaven is built, and the king whom the earth did not receive is for ever lord of it." the veiled reference to the tragedy which philadelphus had recounted stood out with more prominence than the promise in his words. "whom the earth did not receive?" she repeated. "o prophet, as thou boasteth truthful lips and a hoary head, tell me what hath befallen us." "hear it not as a calamity," he said reassuringly. "thou canst make it of all things the most profitable, if thou wilt. forget the city. i, who would forget it but can not, bid thee do this. behold, there is another jerusalem which shall not fall. look to that and be not afraid." her lips, parted to protest against the vague answer, closed at the final sentence and the christian pressed his advantage. "of that jerusalem there is no like on earth. against its walls no enemy ever comes; neither warfare nor hunger nor thirst nor suffering nor death. this which david builded is a poor city, a humble city compared to that new jerusalem. there the king is already come; there the citizens are at peace and in love with one another. there thou shalt have all that thy heart yearneth after, and all that thy heart yearneth after shall be right." in that city would it be right that she love hesper instead of philadelphus, and that she should have her lover instead of her lawful husband? while she turned these things over in her mind, he wisely went on with his story. shrewdly sensing the young woman's anxiety, the old christian guessed the interest to her of the messiah's history before his teaching and began with prophecy to support the authenticity of the wonderful galilean's claim to divinity. it was no fisherman or weaver of tent-cloth who brought forth the declarations of the comforter of hezekiah, the captive prophet and the priest in the land of the chaldeans. his was no barbarous manner or slipshod tongue of the market-place and the wheat-fields, but the polish and the clean-cut flawless language of the synagogues and the colleges. laodice saw in the gesture and phrase the refinement of her father, costobarus, of the gentlest judean blood. "i saw him," he went on in a low voice. laodice with her intent gaze on the beatified face put her hand to her heart. "forty years ago," the old voice continued, "i saw him first in galilee. there he was disbelieved and cast out. he came then unto jerusalem and i saw him there heal lepers, cast out evil spirits, cure the blind and the sick and the palsied. and in the house of jairus and at nain, i saw him raise the dead. "i saw him come to jerusalem. multitudes followed him and accompanied him, casting their mantles and palm-branches in the way that his mule might tread upon them." the old man pointed south toward the single summit from which christ approaching could overlook jerusalem. "on that hill," he said, "while the multitudes hailed him and the sound of alleluia shook the air, he reined in his meek beast and looked upon this city, and wept over it. when he spoke, he said, _if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. for the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation._ [illustration: "and there his enemies crucified him."] "and three days later, i saw the rock of david and all that multitude follow him unto the hill of the skull and there his enemies crucified him!" after a paralyzed silence, laodice whispered with frozen lips, "in god's name, why?" but he wisely did not pause with the calamity. he had the whole of the beginnings of christianity to tell, a long narrative that contained as yet no dogma. paul had seen the great light on the road to damascus, and accepting apostleship to all the world had fought a good fight and had come unto his crown of righteousness; peter had established the church and had fed the sheep and had been offered up by the beast who was nero; john the divine was seeing visions of the apocalypse in the island of patmos; herod antipas, "that fox," had passed to his own place, prisoner and exile, sacrifice to a mad cæsar's imaginings; judas had hanged himself; pilate had drowned himself; thousands of the saints had died for the faith by fire and sword and wild beasts; kings had been converted and of the believers in rome it was said, _your faith is spoken of throughout the whole world_. laodice sat with clasped hands, intent on each word as it fell from the lips of the aged teacher, seeing at one and the same time the kingdom of heaven constructed and her dream of an earthly empire falling. "he said," the christian continued, "_they that are whole need not a physician; but they that are sick. i came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance._" repentance was a rite for laodice, a payment of offering, a process to the righteously inclined, a thing that could in no wise purify the sinner as to make him worthy of association with the upright. the old christian's use of the word was different; he had said that the messiah came to the sinner, and not to the righteous. had the young jewess been less in need of comfort in her own consciousness of spiritual delinquency she would have set down the old teacher as one of the idlest dealers in contradiction. but now she listened with keener zest; perchance in this doctrine there was balm for her hurt. she made some answer which showed the awakening of this new interest and then with infinite poetry and earnestness he began to unfold the teachings of christ. a woman came to them with wine and food, for the midday had come, but neither noticed it. in his fervor to enlighten this tender soul, the old man forgot his weariness; in her wonder at the strangely gentle doctrine which had contradicted all the world's previous usage, the girl forgot her prejudice. she listened; and with such signs as change of expression, flushes of emotion, movements of surprise and brightenings of interest to encourage him, the old christian talked. when he had progressed sufficiently to round out the theory of christianity, she had grasped a new standard. the contrast between the old and the new made itself instantly felt. on one hand was the simple and logical; on the other the complex and dogmatic. the christian was able to measure proportionately how much should be laid upon her mind for study at once and while she still waited, he rose from his place. "there is more; yet there are other days," he said. but she caught his hand as he rose and with a sudden yearning in her eyes whispered: "o rabbi, what said he of love?" "love?" he repeated, with a softening about his lips. "the master blessed love between man and woman." "but, but--" she faltered, "if one love another than one's wedded spouse, then what?" his face grew grave. "that is not lawful even among you, who are still of the old faith." "but suppose--" he laid a kindly hand on the one that held his. "suffer but sin not. he that endureth unto the end shall be saved." "what end?" "death." she was silent while she gazed at him with change showing on her gradually paling face. "then--then what is in thy faith for the forlorn in love?" she exclaimed. "peace, and the consciousness of the joy of christ in your steadfastness," he said. she rose. how much longer had she to live? "and thou sayest we die?" "_fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul_," he said gently. fear hesper, then, but not the roman. while she stood in the immense debate of heart and conscience he laid a tender hand on her head. "perchance in his mercy thou shalt be welcomed there first by thy father, whom i buried, and by thy mother." the sudden recurrence to that past tragedy and the unfolding of his recognition fairly swept laodice off her feet with shock and alarm. if he noted her feeling, he was sorry he had not succeeded in comforting her with a promise of reunion with her beloved in that other land. he took away his tremulous hand from her hair. leaving her transfixed with all he had said, he moved painfully away, stiffened by long sitting while he discoursed. chapter xix the false prophet it was a different amaryllis that the pretended philadelphus faced now, from the one who had welcomed him on his arrival in jerusalem months ago. then she had been so cold and self-contained that it would have been effrontery to discuss her hopes with her. now, with the avarice of love in her eyes, with wishfulness and defeat making their sorry signs on her face, she was a creature that even the humblest would have longed to help. philadelphus sat opposite her in the ivory chair which was hers by right. she sat in the exedra and listened eagerly to the things he said with her finger-tips on her lips and her eyes gazing from under her brow as her head drooped. she had ceased long ago to debate idly on the actual identity of the man who had called himself hesper of ephesus. there was another question that absorbed her. of late, it had been brought home to her that the charm of laodice for the stranger from ephesus, to whom the greek knew the girl had fled, had been her purity. why should it matter so much about virtue? she had asked herself. why should it weigh so immeasurably more than the noble gifts of wit and beauty and strength and charm? behold, she was wise enough to educate a barbarous nation, beautiful enough to bewitch potentates--for a time--strong enough to take a city; yet hesper, who best of all could appreciate the value of these things, had turned from her to laodice, who was merely chaste. the greater part of the jealous and bitter passion that had shaken her then was dumb regret that the measure of charm was so irrational--and that she had not believed in it, in time, in time! now, however, since she had become convinced that laodice had gone to hesper for refuge, hope had awakened in her, but so filled with uncertainty and lack of confidence in another's weakness that it was little more than a torture to her. if laodice had gone to this winsome stranger, either claiming to be the wife of philadelphus or acknowledging the imposture, there was now no difference between laodice and herself! but, she asked herself, was it not possible that this lovely girl who had shown signs of illimitable fortitude, could live in the shelter of the captivating hesper as uprightly as she had lived under the roof of the man she called her husband? in one exigency, the hopes of amaryllis budded; in the other, her intuitive belief in the strength of laodice discouraged her. and while she alternately hoped and doubted, philadelphus, in the chair opposite her, talked. "it follows that you and i must work together to gain diverse ends. if our fortunes are to be tragic, we are undoing each other in this conjunction. since i in all frankness prefer it to turn out comedy, let us make no error. are you weary of john? do you seek a new diversion?" she looked at him, at first puzzled, then with a frown. it leaped to her lips, grown impatient with suffering, to tell him all that she had evolved of the histories of himself, his lady and of hesper; but there seemed to be an element of recklessness in that which threatened to do away with a means for her success. he did not wait for her answer. "and i," he said with mock intensity, "am done to death with weariness--with my moneyer, this lady of mine. let us be diverted while we live, for by the signs we shall all die soon." "where," he began when her mind wandered entirely from him, "dost thou think the mysterious man hath taken my other wife? "i would i knew," he continued, conducting his inquiry alone. "it will be right simple to have her beauty spoiled in this hungry town, unless he takes tenderest care of her." there was still no comment, but the lively sparkle in the greek's eye showed that he had touched upon a jealous spot. "and by the by," he pursued, "what does this stranger, whom i can not remember having known, look like? a villain?" she answered now in a voice filled with rancor. "win away the girl from him and thou wilt know thyself to be the better man; but study how much he hath outstripped thee and thou shalt decide for thyself, then, that he is handsomer, more winsome, stronger and more profitable. describe him for thyself." "out upon you! how irritable misfortune makes most of us! now, here is my lady. she would fail to see the humor in my fetching back this pretty impostor. alas! were i deucalion or pyrrha or whoever else it was that repeopled the world, i should have left jealousy out of the make-up of wives. it is a needless element. it gives them no pleasure, and jove! how inconvenient it is for husbands! now, i am not jealous of my wife. in fact, had any man the hardihood to supplant me, i should not discourage him; i should not, by my soul!" "why," she burst out again, irritated beyond control at his manner, "do you not leave this place?" he swung his foot idly and smiled. "i shall when i can take with me this dear pretty impostor who is so determined to have me," he answered lightly. "will you?" she asked eagerly. "is that why you remain?" "and for my lady's dowry. she keeps the key. but had i the girl cloaked and hooded for flight, i might go, even without the treasure. the times are precarious, you observe." she rose almost precipitately and hurried over to the swaying curtain of some heavy white material like samite, covering that which appeared to be a blind arch in the wall. she drew the hanging aside. it had hidden the black mouth of a tunnel, closed by a brass wicket which was locked. "here," she said rapidly, "is what strengthens john in his folly. this is a passage that leads under the temple through moriah into tophet. the whole city is underlaid with these galleries, but this is the only one which leads to safety." she dropped the curtain and approached him. "but thou canst not go out of that passage alone!" he smiled, and then with that boyish impulsiveness that he had cultivated to cover the evil in his nature, he thrust out his hand to her. "here is my hand on it!" he exclaimed. "go, then, and cease not till you have found her. then, by any or all the gods, i shall see that you do not go out of that passage empty-handed." he smiled at her radiantly and went at once to his chambers. when he reached the apartments, he found them silent and deserted. he seized upon the opportunity as most propitious for a search for the possible hiding-place of the dowry of two hundred talents. when he opened first the great press in which his lady kept her raiment he was confronted by emptiness. dismayed, he turned to look into the room and found the chests for the most part open and rifled. on the brazier, now cold, lay a wax tablet. he snatched it up and read: received of julian of ephesus the appended salvage in good repair. items: one wife, two hundred talents. john, king of jerusalem. he went back to the andronitis of amaryllis. "i have lost interest in the treasure," he said whimsically. "but i'll go out and look for the girl. i--i should like to discover of a truth if the passage leads out of jerusalem." amaryllis closed her lips firmly. philadelphus read in the look that he could not escape without laodice. without further speech, he went to the vestibule, took his cloak and kerchief from the porter and went out into the city. it was nearly midnight when he passed into the streets. the tumult of assault on the walls had ceased. the long lines of beacon-fires on the walls showed only a few men in arms posted there. without there came no sound of activity in the camp of the roman. the streets below, lighted up by the ever-burning beacons, showed its usual restless tramping of houseless, hungry ones. but there was no talk; each one who walked the passages went wrapped in his own dismal thoughts; the thousands took no notice of one another. jerusalem was as silent as a city stricken with plague. from the summit of zion, which philadelphus mounted, he could see three roman war-towers, planted along the outer works, dimly lighted, and manned by a vigilant garrison of legionaries. these had been a dread and a destruction which the jews had been unable to overthrow; coigns of vantage from which the enemy had been able to deal the sturdiest blows of the campaign. they had permitted no rest to the defenders on the wall; they had spread ruin by fire and carnage, by arrow and sling for days. sorties against them had resulted in the death of their assailants, only. jewish engines accomplished nothing against them. the three, alone, were taking jerusalem. philadelphus looked at their tall shapes, black against the remote illumination of the roman camp, and inwardly hoped that they would hold off complete destruction of the city, until he had found the desirable woman. no one noticed him; men passed him like shadows with their eyes ever on the ground; no one spoke; nothing disturbed the deadly quiet of the falling city. but the next minute, philadelphus, who walked alertly, saw people step out into gutters or press against walls, as if to allow some one to pass. awakening interest ran abroad over the street ahead of him. a lane between the wandering multitude opened almost by magic. through it, walking swiftly, his head up, his mystic eyes ignited, came seraiah, soldier of jehovah. there was no sound of his footfall. his garments flashed in the light of the beacons, but there was not even a whisper of their motion. but he had changed. there was fierce, superhuman intent in the despatch of his gait and in the uplift of his superb head. after him, as he passed, ran whispers. each one stopped and looked. he went down the uneven slope of zion as some great shade borne on a swift air. two or three bold ones began to move after him. others followed. the little nucleus grew. philadelphus was caught in it. numbers were added as courage grew with numbers. from intersecting streets people came. some, although oppressed by the silence, asked what it was and were silenced quickly. others began to mutter unintelligible predictions, and their neighbors shook their heads without understanding that which was said. the news of seraiah's mysterious progress communicated itself to rank and rank and spread abroad. faces appeared against a background of lights at barred windows, along the balustrades of house-tops, from areas and ruins. philadelphus, fascinated and astonished at this curious demonstration, was contented to pass with it. silence, except for the rustling of garments and the multitudinous footfall, fell about the vicinity. ahead of them, seraiah moved. his steps, finely balanced, passed over obstructions where most of his followers stumbled, and when he turned across akra and faced the old wall, the excitement became painful. his pace was flying; many of his followers were running. it seemed that he was going against the wall. dozens anticipated that course and skirting through short ways clambered up on the fortifications and clung there though menaced by the sentries until seraiah appeared. at a narrow point in the street that ended against the wall, seraiah met that jew who had become a maniac on the day jerusalem attacked titus. without warning the maniac leaped up into an intensely rigid posture; his legs spread, his lean arms upstretched at painful tension, his mouth wide, his eyes dilated immensely in their hollow depths. seraiah passed him as if no man stood in his way. instantly the maniac wheeled, as a huge spread-eagle wind-vane on its staff, and stood at gaze, the broad uninterrupted light of the beacon shining down on him and the mysterious man. the street ended short of the wall. about the base of the fortification was an open space, in which was planted a scaling-ladder. seraiah climbed this, an infinitesimal detail on the great blank of blackened stone. hundreds, rushing upon the wall, though a goodly distance from the point at which the strange man had mounted, climbed it and beat off the sentries. and the foremost who reached the top saw the roman tower directly opposite seraiah shudder suddenly and sink in a roaring cloud of dust upon itself to the earth. instantly the maniac below broke the tense silence with a scream that was heard in the paralyzed roman camp: "it is he, the deliverer! come!" of the thousands of jews that heard the madman's cry, every heart credited it. hundreds melted away suddenly, as if stricken with terror at what they might see; other hundreds scrambled down from their places to run purposelessly, crying aimless things to the night over the city; yet others covered their faces with their arms and fell in their places, expecting the end of the world; and of the rest, the less imaginative, the more composed and the more curious, remained on the walls to see enacted a further miracle. uproar had broken out instantly among the four stolid legions of titus on the assyrian bivouac. lights flashed out everywhere; great running to and fro could be distinguished; rapid trumpet-calls and the prolonged roll of drums from company quarters to quarters were echoed back from antonia and from hippicus. the startled shouts of commanders; the nervous dropping of arms; the sharp excited response to roll-call; the sound of sentries challenging, the curt response by countersign, showed everywhere irregularities and the symptoms of panic in the immovable ranks of titus. seraiah meanwhile had disappeared from his place as mysteriously as he had come. many of the jews who remained on the wall believed that he had passed into the roman camp and was troubling it. the fall of the tower, and the confusion it had wrought in the roman camp, never occurred to them to have been fortuitous incidents with which seraiah had nothing to do. of the thousands that witnessed that miracle, most of them were convinced that the hour had come. meanwhile jerusalem was roaring with excitement. the city was ready for a messiah. seraiah had arisen at the psychological moment. earlier the jews would have been too critical to accept him readily; later they would have reviled him for coming too late. whatever his advent lacked in thunders, in darkness, voices, and shaking of the earth, had been passed by his miraculous work against the romans. philadelphus, who had seen the fall of the tower, and had dropped down from the wall as soon as he had explained it all to himself, came upon new disorders. great concourses of awakened jews were hurrying to the walls to see what had happened, or to behold the roman army wiped out by the angel of death as the army of sennacherib had perished. others collected at the end of the tyropean bridge and watched the pinnacle of the temple for the miracle which should restore the city. but the burned ruin where the herodian palace had stood was the center of the most characteristic frenzy. there thousands were congregated. a great bonfire had been kindled and above the multitude, on a colossal architrave fallen at one end from the giant columns that had supported it, stood a figure, redly illuminated by the fire, tiny as compared to the immense ruin of its high place, but titan in its control over the wild mob below it. it was a woman, a jewess, dressed in faithful imitation of the archaic garb of the prophetesses, mantled with a storm of flying black hair, stripped of veil or cloak, and splendidly defiant of the restrictions laid upon woman long after the days of deborah. over the heads of the panting multitude she shook a pair of arms that glistened for whiteness, and bewitched by the spell of their motion. from under her half-fallen lids shot gleams of fire that transfixed any upon whom they fell; from her supple body shaken at times with the power of its own dynamic force her hearers caught the grosser infection of physical excitement; they swayed with her as blown by the wind; they ceased to breathe in her periods; they groaned as the intensity of her fervor pressed upon them for response that they could not shape in words; they wept, they shouted, they prophesied, and over them swept ever the witchery of her wonderful voice, preaching impiety--the worship of seraiah! philadelphus looked at this frantic work with a creeping chill. he knew the sorceress. salome of ephesus, who could send the sated theaters wild with her appeal to their senses, had found enchantment of a half-mad city not hard. aside from the impiety, in fear of which his own irreligious spirit stood, he saw suddenly opened to him the immense scope of her influence. not simon, not john, not titus, had discovered the logical appeal to the city's unbalanced impulses. but the reckless woman, robing herself in the ancient garb of the days to which the citizens would revert, assuming the pose of a woman they had sanctified, preaching the dogma they would hear, showing them the sign that helped them most, held jerusalem, at least for that hour, in her hands. he realized at once that to attempt to denounce her would expose him to destruction at the wolfish hands of the frenzied mob. there were not soldiers enough in the city to destroy her influence, for she had achieved in her followers that infatuation that goes down to death before it relinquishes its conviction. her control was complete. seraiah was the anointed one, but the prophetess, the instigator, the founder of the worship, as follows in all apostasies, was the final recipient of the benefits of that devotion. philadelphus walked away from the sight of salome's triumph. he had surrendered instantly his hope of regaining the treasure. the whole of mad jerusalem had ranged itself with her to protect it. and laodice was not yet found. chapter xx as the foam upon water the madness on jerusalem poured like an overwhelming flood into the cavern under the ruin of the herodian palaces. there was hesper, with most of his gibborim gathered, preparing to proceed to the defense of the first wall in akra against which the roman would hurl himself in the morning. for days he had controlled his men only by the force of his fierce will. restlessness, little short of turbulence, had changed his six hundred from earnest recruits to bright-eyed, contentious, irresponsible enthusiasts whom only intimidation could manage. they seemed to be balanced, prepared, ready at the least whisper in the wind to scatter madly, each in his own direction, after a vagary, albeit the end were destruction. throughout these latter days the maccabee had become strained and unnatural in his manner. there was a vehemence in all he did which seemed to be a final resolution against despair. his decisions were arbitrary; his methods extreme. laodice, sensing something climacteric in his atmosphere, kept aloof from him, and regarded him from the dusk of her corner with wonder and a pity that she could not explain. the christian on the other hand seemed always in an unobtrusive way to be at the maccabee's elbow. the apparition with the long white hair, however, ran away and was found on the streets by the christian and brought back to the cavern, where he hid in a dark shadow in the remote end of the crypt and was not seen. of late the cavern was always full of suppressed excitement; unpremeditated conferences among the gibborim, which hesper harshly forbade; and general sharp resentment against imposed regulations and military drill. on several occasions the six hundred were sent in defense of the walls only by sheer force of their leader's will-power. and there they fell in at once with the irregular methods of the idumeans and fanatics that fought each after his own liking, and the careful instruction of the maccabee was disregarded. only so long as he cowed them, they obeyed him; and he seemed to feel, as they seemed to indicate, that when that thing happened which all jerusalem indefinitely expected and could not name, his control over them would be lost beyond restoration. on the night of the fall of the roman tower, the maccabee's forces had been withdrawn for rest to their retreat and at midnight were formed again for return to the fortifications. by the strange inscrutable spread of rumor, sweeping with the air, the tidings of the miracle and the rise of seraiah poured in upon the restive hundreds that the maccabee was attempting to form in his fortress. it came like the gradual velocity of a burning star across the sky. from the ranks nearest the exit from the burrow the murmur issued, growing into intelligible sound, mounting to the wildness of hysteria and prevailing wholly over the gibborim in the space between heart-beats. everywhere they cast down their spears and their weapons, everywhere they gazed at him with brilliant threatening eyes and cried in loud voices so that the things each mad mind put into expression were lost in a great unintelligible raving. laodice, the christian and that white-haired trembler in his refuge, saw the maccabee raise himself to his full height and lifting his sword confront in one grand effort at command a mob of six hundred madmen! perhaps that manifestation of iron courage and strength, which the crazy lot somehow realized, saved him from death. instead of falling upon him they turned away from the scene of the last vain effort for their own salvation and rushed, trampling one another, into the mad city of jerusalem. from without, the hoarse uproar of their desertion was heard to merge with the great tumult over the holy city. tense silence fell in the crypt. the light of the torch wavered up and down the tall figure of the maccabee as he stood transfixed in the attitude of command that had achieved nothing. it seemed the final inclination beyond the perpendicular that precedes the fall. the christian started from his place and hurried toward the tense figure in the torch-light. laodice, unconscious of what she did, approached him with an agony of distress for him written in her face. the white-haired apparition crept out a little way on his knees and putting aside his tangled locks gazed with burning eyes at the defeated man. laodice, in her anxiety, moved into the range of the maccabee's vision. the next instant he had thrown away his sword and had caught her in a crushing embrace to him. his voice, blunted and repressed as if something had him by the throat, was stunning her ear. "and thou!" he was saying. "what from thee, now? hate! curses! ingratitude! hast thou poison for me, or a knife? or worse, yet, scorn? speak! it is a day of enlightenment! i'll brook anything but deceit!" she stopped him in the midst of his vehement despair, by laying her hands on his hair. there surged to her lips all the eloquence of her love and sympathy, but beside her old nathan stood--an embodiment of her conscience, watching. twice she essayed to put into words the comfort of her submission to his love. twice her lips failed her; but the third time she turned to the christian. "rabbi, what shall i do?" she implored. "tell me out of thy wisdom!" "what is it?" he asked, feeling that there was more than sympathy for the defeated man in her heart. "what would thy christ have me to do?" she insisted. "this stranger, here, is the joy of my heart; i am like to die if i can not give him the love that i feel for him this hour!" the startled christian looked at her with suspicion growing in his eyes. "art thou a wife? wedded to another than this man?" he asked gravely. "wedded," she whispered, "to one who hath denied me, affronted me and cast me out of his house! in this man i have found favor from the beginning. he has been tender of me, he has sheltered me, and he has strengthened me against himself to this hour. there has been nothing sinful between us!" the old christian's face grew immeasurably sad. "there is but one thing for you to do," he said. she wrenched herself away from the maccabee, who had been angrily protesting against her carrying his case to another for decision, and confronted nathan. "but he rejected me!" she cried with earnestness. "that alone is enough among our people for divorcement!" the christian shook his head sadly. he was not happy to lay down this prohibition before them who suffered. "there is no help in thy faith for such as i am. in that thy religion fails!" she cried. "love, now, is all in all to thee, daughter. it is but the speech of thy young blood running through thy veins, the claim of thy youth to thy use upon earth. resist it; for when thy years are as many as mine thou wilt lose thy rebellious spirit and the fervor will have died out of thy heart. then, if thou hast fallen in this hour, how vain and worthless it will seem to thee! divine fires in the heart of men never become changed in value. love purely and thou wilt never repent; but i say unto thee thou fashionest for thyself humbled and shamed old age if thou transgressest the law!" "what mercy, then, since thou preachest mercy, in filling me with this weakness if my life must be darkened resisting it, and my future show no relief for it?" she insisted passionately. it was the cry old as the world. he looked at her sadly, hopelessly. "as for god, his way is perfect," he said. "_how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!_ thou shalt struggle with the truth, my daughter, but without fail and most readily thou shalt know when thou hast sinned!" she was past the influence of argument. impulse controlled her now entirely. she would see if there were not an intelligence, even a religion which would see her sorrow from her own heart's position. she listened now to the words of her lover. "he is an exclaimer, a prophet of doom!" he was crying. "love me and let us die!" without in the entrance of the crypt some great-lunged fanatic was calling the multitude to harken to the prophetess. the maccabee's lips were against her cheek as he continued to speak. "it is the end! there is no help for us. love me, and let me be happy an hour before we perish! the nazarene is right! the city is cursed! god's wrath is upon us. the hour is still ours. love me and let us die!" without the great voice, like an unwearying bell, was calling: "a sign! a sign! behold the deliverer! come all ye who would share his triumph and hear! hear! come ye and be fed, ye hungry; be drunken, ye thirsty; love and be loved, ye forlorn!" laodice stiffened in the maccabee's clasp. "dost thou hear?" she whispered. "it may be true!" he shook his head that he had bowed upon her shoulder. "let us go," she urged. "perchance he has comfort for us. come, hesper; let us see what he has for the forlorn." "who?" he asked dully. "they say the deliverer has come." he shook his head again, but with her two hands she lifted his face from its refuge, and urging with her eyes and her hands and her lips she led him toward the stairs. the christian looked after them. "_for there shall arise false christs; and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect_," he said sorrowfully. the horror of the city augmented hour by hour. the jerusalem laodice locked upon now was infinitely more afflicted than the one she had seen in the daylight days before. the walls were now outlined by fire which illuminated all the city that lay directly beneath the beacons. to the north gnomish outlines by hundreds against the flames showed where the soldiers of the factionists were placing the topmost stones upon an inner wall or curtain erected just within the old wall, which was by this time shaking and cracking under the assaults of a great siege-engine without. titus, awakened by the fall of his tower, had immediately renewed the attack, although the morning was still some hours distant. but the citizens were no longer disinterested, no longer wrapped in hopelessness and dull misery. hungry, sleepless, houseless, diseased and mad though they were, their hollow eyes gleamed now with hope that was almost defiant. around the maccabee and laodice roared the comment of the multitude. "they say he climbed to the summit of the outer wall overlooking tophet and remains there a target for the roman arrows, which rebound from him!" cried one. "one of john's men says that the heads of the arrows are blunted and the most of them snapped in two when they are picked up." "the romans have ceased to shoot at him!" "they say that his footprints in the dust on the tyropean bridge are hebrew letters writing 'elia' in gold!" "it is said that the inner temple is rocking with trumpet blasts and that john is struck dead!" "they say that those who believe in him shall ask for whatever they would have and have it!" "the breaches in the first wall have been healed; the old rock is back in its place!" "they say that the dead beyond the wall in tophet are prophesying!" "there is a bolt of lightning fixed in the sky over titus' camp. we are called to go forth and see it fall!" a voice swept by distantly crying that a woman had eaten her child. crazed posthumus, self-elected guardian of the law, with the sacred roll under his arm, declaimed, without any of his audience attending, that prophecy which this horror fulfilled. all jerusalem was in the streets; all jerusalem poured into the immense open space where some palatial ruin stood, and melted in the giant concourse that gathered to hear the prophetess. laodice and the maccabee were unable to see the woman; only her voice, mystic, musical, pitched at a singing monotone, intoning rather than speaking, reached them from the distance. the long harangue, delivered as a chant, had long ago had a mesmerizing effect on her audience. absolutely she controlled them; along the dead level of her preaching they maintained a low continuous murmur, accompanied by a slight slow swaying of the body; in the climaxes of the appeal they responded with cries and wild gestures, flinging themselves about in attitudes characteristic of their frenzy. in their faces was the reflection of a peculiar light that proved that derangement had settled over jerusalem. it was the end of the reign of reason. "it is the abomination of desolation. even so, it is finished! it is the time, it is full time, and michael hath come. there are seventy weeks; behold them. the transgression is finished and the end hereto of all sins. approacheth the hour for the reconciliation for iniquity and to bring in everlasting righteousness and to seal up the vision and prophecy and to anoint the most holy! prepare ye!" somewhere in the city a voice that was heard even by the fighting-men on the wall in akra cried: "the sacrifice has failed! the oblation is ceased! there is no offering for the altar; none is left to offer it!" the vast gathering heard it, and immediately from the high place of the prophetess came back the words, prompt and effective: "_and he shall confirm the covenant with many for one week: and in the midst of the week he shall cause the sacrifice and the oblation to cease!_" posthumus, buried in the midst of the crowd, was shouting, but over him the splendid mesmerism of the prophetess' voice soared. "_the hands of the pitiful women have sodden their own children; they were their meat in the destruction of the daughter of my people ... the punishment of thine iniquity is accomplished, o daughter of zion; ... and for the overspreading of abominations he shall make it desolate, even until the consummation, and that determined shall be poured upon the desolate_!" among the crowd now growing frantic, people began to cry: "a sign! a sign!" others shouted: "lead us!" "persecute and destroy them in anger from under the heaven of the lord!" "lead us!" they still shouted. they were hungry; they had been abstinent; they had surrendered their riches and their comforts. it was not independence but necessities that they wanted now. the primal wants were at the surface. "come up and be filled!" she cried. "ask and it shall be given unto you! eat of the grapes and the honey; drink of wine and warm milk; sleep as kings; be housed in mansions; be rulers; command potentates! let kings bow at your footstools! be replenished; be great! suffering hath been your portion since the earth was; but the end is come. draw nigh and have your recompense. laugh, you whose eyes have trickled down with the waters of affliction! you in the low dungeon come forth and range all the free boundaries of the world. whosoever hath gravel between his teeth, let them be grapes! he who sitteth alone, gather company and revel unto him! feast, ye hungry; be drunken, ye thirsty; love and be loved, ye forlorn!" laodice leaned forward suddenly and hung on the woman's words. "the time for sacrifice and humiliation is paid out! it was a long time! now, behold in the generosity of his repentance, ye shall ask and nothing shall be denied. speak! ask! the whole world, heaven and earth and the delights of all the years are yours, now and for all time!" at laodice's side was amaryllis. the greek's face was pale but lighted with a certain enlightenment that was almost threatening. startled and frightened laodice moved back from the greek, who moved with her, without a glance at the maccabee. the voice of the prophetess swept on: "ye have bowed to tyrants and bent your necks to murderers; ye have waged wars for pillagers and shared not in the spoils. why are ye hungry now? who is full-fed in these days of want, yourselves or your masters? a sword, a sword is drawn; uphold the arm that wields it!" "sedition!" amaryllis whispered, as the mob began to murmur and stir at this new doctrine. "for behold, he shall go forth with great fury to destroy and utterly to make away many!" amaryllis bent so she could whisper in laodice's ear. "john hath taken him a new woman to keep him cheerful this hour. i was not daring enough. philadelphus' wife hath supplanted me. your place with him is vacant. go back and possess it!" "why was appetite and desire and thirst of power and the love of riches lighted in you, but to be satisfied?" the prophetess' words swept in after laodice's sudden fear of returning to philadelphus. "we have expiated the sin of adam, the greed of jacob and the fault of david. the judgment is run out; ye have come to your own! verily, i say unto you, if ye follow me in the name of him who hath come unto you, the world shall be yours!" amaryllis still continued to whisper, and laodice, fearing that the maccabee might hear, drew farther away. he stood where she had left him, with his head lowered, waiting--at last a creature dependent on another's will. "listen!" amaryllis said. "i have been seeking you since midnight! philadelphus' doubt was awakened in this woman. he questioned her, so minutely that she betrayed ignorance of many things she should have known had she been the real daughter of costobarus. and when finally he taxed her with imposture, she robbed him of the dowry and fled to john. convinced that you are his wife, he set forth and hath since searched for you without ceasing! see, over there! he seeks you, now!" laodice looked the way the greek pointed and saw philadelphus, standing with lifted head and stretched to his full height, as if searching over the crowd for her. panic seized her. she wrenched herself from the greek's hold and, forgetting even the protection of hesper who was within touch of her, she threw herself into the crowd behind her and struggled out of the press. nathan, the christian, saw her turn and followed instantly in the path she made. once out, she turned in a bewildered manner this way and that. what refuge, now, for her, indeed, but the cavern under the ruin and the care of hesper, until the end which should swallow them all! a trembling hand was laid on her arm. she whirled, expecting to find philadelphus. beside her, his old face radiant with emotion, stood momus! chapter xxi the faithful servant within the roman lines was a bent and deformed figure of an old waif that the soldiers had picked up attempting to run the lines into jerusalem the second day after the siege had been laid about the holy city. the old man, though wrinkled and twisted and bowed, had fought with such terrible savagery and had incontinently laid in the dust in succession three of the camp's best fighting-men, that the roman soldiers, for ever partizan to the strong man, had finally with great difficulty succeeded in trussing the old belligerent and had brought him before titus. there they laid the twisted old burden before the young general and shamelessly told how he, thrice the age of the vanquished men, had finished them with despatch. it was evident that the old man was a jew; it became also apparent that he was dumb and partly deaf, and further to their amazement and admiration, they discovered that his right leg and arm were too stiff for ordinary use and that he had done his wonderful execution with terrific left limbs. this saved his life and gave him a partial liberty. titus, however, admitted to carus that the old man's distress at being kept out of jerusalem was pitiable enough to urge the young general to deport him and get him out of sight. for it was manifest that the old minotaur was in deep trouble. but his paralyzed tongue would not serve him, and his menial ignorance had not provided him with the means of telling his desire by writing. titus was unable to understand from his signs anything further than that he wished to get into the city. the young general in one of his outbursts of generosity would have permitted this, but that nicanor happened in at an evil moment and drew such pictures of calamitous effect in passing the old servant into jerusalem that titus was forced reluctantly and irritably to be convinced of the folly of his kindness. so here, through the terrible days of the siege, old momus at times desperate and savage, at others piteously suppliant, wore on the sentries' peace of mind and stood like a shadow, for ever watching the white walls of the besieged city. the romans were now within the city. only zion and the temple held against them. a wall built with the thoroughness of david, the ancient, and solidified by the mortising of time, ran directly from hippicus to the tyropean valley, joining the tremendous fortifications of moriah and so cut off zion from the advance of the army. securely intrenched within that quarter and the temple, simon and john began the last resistance which should tax roman endurance and roman patience as it had not been taxed before. titus no longer lagged. famine had long since become a powerful ally and the honor of the flavian house rested upon his immediate subjugation of the rebellious city. he no longer expected capitulation; yet he did not neglect to be prepared for it and to encourage it. though the heart of the historian josephus broke, he did not fail to serve his patron as mediator, though without hope. titus himself, as from time to time the horror of his work impressed itself upon him, made overtures to the factionists, neglecting no art or inducement which should convince the seditious that their resistance was foolhardy, even mad. at such times, nicanor's face became contemptuous and carus himself frowned at the young general's attitude. but the spirit of a roman and the traditions of a soldier even could not prevent the young man from weakening at times before the charnel pit in tophet where countless thousands of vultures fattened with roaring of wings and hissing of combat. but under an ever-thickening veil of horrid airs, the struggle went on. the roman ides of july arrived. titus had erected banks upon which his engines were raised to batter the walls of the temple. from titus' camp, the romans on sick leave, the commissaries, those attached to the army who were not fighting-men, and old momus, saw first, before the attack on the temple began, a soft increasing dun-colored vapor rise between the temple and antonia. it issued from the cloister at the northwest which joined the roman tower. as they watched, they saw that vapor grow into a pale but intensely luminous smoke, as if fine woods and burning metals were consumed together. in a moment the whole north-west section was embraced in a sublime pall of fire. john was burning away the connection between the temple and the tower and was making the sacred edifice four-square. as soon as it became confirmed, in the minds of the watchers in the roman camp, that the temple had been fired, the old mute among them seemed to become wholly unbalanced. without warning, he leaped upon the nearest sentry who, not expecting the attack, went down with a clatter of armor and a shout of astonishment. the next instant the old man was making across the intervening space between the camp and jerusalem as fast as his stiff legs could carry him. the purple sentry sprang to his feet and strung an arrow, but before he could send it singing, the old minotaur was mixed with a second soldier in such confusion that the first sentry hesitated to shoot lest he should kill his fellow. another moment and a second soldier was struggling in the impediment of his armor in the dust and the old mute was again hobbling straight away toward the walls of jerusalem. he was now a fair mark for the first sentry, but that roman's rancor died after he had seen his own disgrace covered by the overthrow of his fellow. two of titus' scouts next stood in the path of the running old man. one went to the ground so suddenly and so violently that the watchers, now breaking into howls of delight, knew that he had been tripped. the other stood but a moment longer, than he, too, rolled into the dust. the old man might have gone no farther at this juncture, for at every latest triumph he left a crimson soldier murderous with shame. but before the arrow next strung to overtake him could fly, titus, carus and nicanor, accompanied by their escort, rode between the fugitive and the men he had defeated. "there goes our minotaur," carus said quietly. titus drew up his horse and looked. nicanor with a sidelong glance awaited the young roman's command to his escort to ride down the fugitive. but he waited, and continued to wait, while titus with lifted head and with indecision in his eyes watched the deformed old shape hobble on toward the wall of circumvallation. "shall we let him go?" nicanor inquired coldly. "if some of my legionaries or those erratic jews fail to get him between here and jerusalem, he shall get into jerusalem. but by hector, he will earn his entry!" they saw the old man mount by the causeway of earth which the romans had built over the siege wall for the passage of the troops, saw him an instant outlined against the sky on the summit, and the next instant he disappeared. titus touched his horse and rode at a trot toward the causeway himself. he would see the end of this mad venture. in the hour of sunrise the sentinel above the north gate in the old wall saw among the ruins of the houses of coenopolis a figure dodging painfully hither and thither. it was not habited in the brasses of the roman armor. also, it hobbled as if lame and ran toward the gate fast closed below the sentry. the jew, too intensely interested in the great climax enacting in the city below, ceased to remark on this figure. presently, however, he looked again into ruined coenopolis. he saw there this un-uniformed figure wrapped in fierce embrace with a young legionary. almost before the sentry's astonishment shaped itself into exclamation, the legionary was tumbled aside as if crushed and the old figure hobbled on. suddenly there appeared in the path of the wayfarer a galloping horseman, who drew his mount back on his haunches, then spurred him to ride down the old man. the sentry on the old wall made a choked sound, unslung his bow and sent an arrow singing. there was a shout and the figure of the horseman plunged from his saddle face down on the earth. the wayfarer flung himself away and rushed toward the wall, only a little distance away. but all coenopolis seemed to swarm now with legionaries, afoot or horseback. the jewish sentry rushed to the edge of the tower overhanging the gate. "open!" he shouted below. "one cometh!" with a rattle and clang of falling bars and chains the gate of the old wall swung. disregarding the known wishes of titus, two of the legionaries simultaneously let fly their javelins. but the mute, hobbling uncertainly, was not a steady mark and under the whistle of arrows received and sent, he blundered up the causeway leading to the gate of the old wall, and the portal slowly and ponderously closed behind him. wild howls of derision and exultation went up from the jews. many of the soldiers clambered down to satisfy their curiosity about the latest addition to the starving garrison. but he proved to be a deformed old man, mute and weary, who was distressed for fear he would be detained by them and who hobbled out into the besieged city and posted as fast as his legs could carry him toward the house of amaryllis, the seleucid. but at the edge of a great open space where the herodian palaces had stood he came upon a concourse which seemed to be all jerusalem. it was a gaunt horde, shouting, raging, prophesying and drowning the roar of battle at the temple fortifications with the sound of religious frenzy. momus, fresh from the orderly camp of titus, was struck with terror. he would have retreated and followed some side street toward his destination, when he caught sight of a girl on the very outskirts of this mob. momus laid a trembling hand on her arm. she threw up her head with a start. chapter xxii vanished hopes the tremulous old man, weakened from his long and superhuman struggle to enter the doomed city, held laodice to his breast while she stroked his rough cheeks and murmured things that he did not hear and which she did not realize in the rush of her helplessness and dismay. at the corner of moriah and the old wall, the tumult was infernal. out of the suffocating sallow smoke from the tuns of burning tar heaved over the fortification upon the engines and their managers, the stones from the catapults soared into view and fell upon the sun-colored marbles that paved the court of the gentiles. clouded by the vapor, targets for the immense missiles, the jews heaving and writhing in personal encounters appeared black and inhuman. every combatant shouted; the great stones screamed; the boiling pitch hissed and roared, and the thunder of the conflict shook the temple to its very foundations. without, the romans planted scaling ladders, mounted them and were pitched backward into the moat regularly. regularly, the ladders were set up again after struggle, mounted without hesitation and thrown down again, with an inevitability which furnished a grim travesty to the struggle. the two remaining towers were set in position against the base of moriah and resumed execution. one after another the engines of the romans were hauled into position, and worked unceasingly until covered with burning oil from the battlements above and consumed. others were hauled into place; fresh detachments of romans seized upon the scaling-ladders or mounted to the towers, and the roar of the conflict never abated. meanwhile on the slopes of zion the whole of jerusalem, gaunt, dying and demoniacal, was packed in the ruins of the palace of herod. old momus with triumph and tearful exultation was holding out to laodice a heavy roll of writings, dangling important seals, ancient papers showing yellow beside the fresh parchment, and an old record dark with long handling. here were the proofs of her identity! laodice shrank from him with a gasp that was almost a cry. behold, the faithful old servant had suffered she knew not what to bring such evidence as would force her to do that which she believed she could not do and survive! momus sought to put the papers in her hands, but she thrust them away and he stood looking at her in amazement and sorrow. nathan, the christian, stood close to her. from the opposite side, philadelphus rounded the outskirts of the mob, searching. he did not see her. she flung herself between momus and nathan and cowered down until philadelphus had passed from sight. when she lifted her head, momus was gazing at her with the light of shocked comprehension growing in his eyes. nathan, the christian, touched her. "who was that man?" he asked gravely. she rose and laid her hands on the christian's shoulders. "my husband," she said. something had happened at the temple. she saw the jews at the wall recoil from the dust of battle, rally, plunge in and disappear. from out that presently shone now and again, then with increasing frequency and finally in great numbers, the brass mail of roman legionaries. titus' forces had scaled the wall. from her position, she saw running toward them john of gischala, with his long garments whipping about him, wrapping his tall figure in live cerements. he was disarmed and bleeding. she saw next amaryllis, with compassionate uplifted hands stop in his way; saw next the gischalan thrust her aside with a blow and the next instant disappear as if the earth had swallowed him. nathan was speaking to her. "how often, o my daughter, we recognize truth and deny it because it does not give us our way! god put a sense of the right in us. we transgress it oftener than we mistake it!" the roar of the turning battle and the mob about her drowned his next words, except, "you can not be happy in iniquity; neither blessed; but you are sure to be afraid. right has its own terror, but there is at least courage in being right, against your desires." he was talking continuously, but only at times did the wind from the uproar sweep his fervent words to her. "christ had his own conflict with himself. what had become of us had he listened to the tempter in the wilderness, or failed to accept the cup in the garden of gethsemane! how much we have the happiness of christ in our hands! alas! that his should be a sorrowful countenance in heaven! "the love of a man for a woman was near to the master's heart! how can you feel that you must love and be loved in spite of him! pity yourself all you may you can not then be pitied so much as he pities you! "love as long and as wilfully as you will, and then it is only a little space. the time of the supremacy of christ cometh surely, and that is all eternity! which will you do--please yourself for an hour, or be pleased by the will of god through all time? love is in the hands of the lord; you can not consign it longer than the little span of your life to the hands of the devil." momus, in whose mind had passed an immense surmise, was again at her side. "o daughter of a noble father," his dumb gaze said, "wilt thou put away that virtue which was born in thee and let my labor come to naught?" but the preaching of nathan and the reproach of momus were feeble, compared to the great tumult that went on in her soul. she had seen john of gischala cast amaryllis aside. even the greek's sympathy was hateful to him. yet when laodice had first entered the house of amaryllis, the woman had been obliged to dismiss john from her presence for his own welfare and the welfare of the city. why this change? amaryllis was no less beautiful, no less brilliant, no less attractive than she had once been; but the gischalan had wearied of her. laodice recalled that she had not been surprised to see the man throw amaryllis aside. it seemed to be the logical outcome of love such as theirs. how, then, was she to escape that which no other woman escaped who loved without law? in the soul of that stranger who had called himself hesper, were lofty ideals, which had not been the least charm which had attracted her to him. was she, then, to dislodge these holy convictions, to take her place in his heart as one falling short of them, or were they still to exist as standards which he loved and which she could not reach? in either event, how long would he love--what was the length of her probation before she, too, would encounter the inevitable weariness? it occurred to her, then, how nearly the natural law of such love paralleled the religious prohibition that the christian had shown to her. however harsh and unjust the sentence seemed, it was rational. with her own eyes she had seen its predictions borne out. already the relief of the sorrowing righteous possessed her. she turned to the christian. "take me to my husband," she said. "now! while i have strength." momus caught the old christian by the arm and, signing eagerly that he would lead, hurried away in advance of the two down into the ravine and crossed to the house of amaryllis. there were no soldiers to stop them about the house. when no response was made to her knock, laodice opened the door and passed in. her old conductors followed her. amaryllis sat in her ivory chair; opposite her in the exedra was philadelphus. at sight of him, the last of the soft color went out of laodice's face. a curve of despair marked the corners of her mouth and she seemed to grow old before those that looked at her. philadelphus and the greek sprang to their feet, the instant the group entered. laodice waited for no preliminary. amaryllis' design was patent to her; it was part of her sorrow that now hesper would be free to the devices of this deceitful woman. so she did not look at the greek. she addressed philadelphus in a voice from which all hope and vivacity had gone. "i have brought proofs. behold them!" nathan, the christian, stood forth. "i, nathan of jerusalem, met and talked with this laodice, daughter of costobarus, in company with aquila, the ephesian, three men-servants in all the panoply and state of a coming princess three leagues out of ascalon, her native city. i buried by the roadside her father, who died of pestilence on their journey hither. i bear witness that she is the daughter of costobarus and thy wedded wife." a great light sprang into the face of the greek. philadelphus, nervous, albeit the news he heard filled him with pleasure, stood and waited. the christian stepped back and momus, bowing, approached and handed the leather roll into the none too steady hands of the ephesian. he opened it and drew forth parchments. aloud he read a minute description of laodice from the rabbi of the synagogue in ascalon; under the great seals of the roman state, he found and read the oath of the prefect, that such a maiden as the rabbi had described had been married before him to philadelphus maccabaeus fourteen years before. then followed the depositions of forty jews and gentiles who were nurses, tradesmen and other people like to have daily contact with the young woman in her house, setting entirely at naught any claim that laodice was other than the wife who had been supplanted by an adventuress. philadelphus did not read them all. before he made an end he dropped the documents and flung wide his arms. but laodice with a countenance frozen with suffering held him off for a moment. "go," she said to the old christian, "unto hesper and lead him into the belief of the lord jesus christ which is mine." the old christian approached the fountain in the center of the andronitis and taking up water in his palm sprinkled a few drops on her hair while she knelt. "in the name of the father and the son and the holy ghost, i baptize thee, laodice. amen!" while she knelt, he said: "i shall search for him also. christ have mercy on thee now and for ever. farewell." he was gone. chapter xxiii the fulfilment when nathan, the christian, stepped into the streets once more there was an immense accession of tumult about him. he turned to look toward the corner of the old wall in time to behold jews in armor and romans in blazing brass rush together in a great cloud of dust as the old wall went in and titus swept down upon jerusalem. at the same instant from the ruined high place upon zion came a roar of stupendous menace. the christian, with sublime indifference to danger, kept his path toward the concourse from which he had taken laodice. as he ascended the opposite slope of the ravine, he saw, descending toward the battle, the front of a rushing multitude, as irresistible and as destructive as a great sea in a storm. he saw that the mob was turning toward akra, and to avoid it, the christian climbed up to the tyropean bridge, and from that point viewed the whole of jerusalem sweeping down upon the heathen. at the head of the inundation passed a melodious voice crying: "an end, an end is come upon the four corners of the land! draw near every man with his destroying weapon in his hands for the glory of the lord! for his house is filled with cloud and the court is full of the brightness of the lord's glory! a sword! a sword is sharpened! the way is appointed that the sword may come! for the time for favor to zion is here; yea, the set time is come!" after this poured a gaunt horde numbering tens of thousands. they bore paving-stones, stakes, posts, railings, garden implements, weapons from kitchens, from hardware booths and from armories; anything that one man or a body of men could wield; torches and kettles of tar; chains and ropes; knotted whips, and bundles of fagots; iron spikes, instruments of torture, anything and everything which could be turned as a weapon or to inflict pain upon the roman, who believed at this moment that jerusalem was his! the christian overlooked this ferocious inundation and shook his head. on a mound near him stood the spirit of the mob concentrated and personified. it was crazed posthumus. he was screaming: "it is finished; the law is run out! all prophecy is fulfilled!" and over his head he was swinging a parchment fiercely burning. it was the scroll of the law! after uncounted minutes, vibrating with roar, the terrible flood rushed by. feeble arms clasped the christian about the knees and he looked down on the tangled white locks of the palsied man, who had searched for him until he had found him. the christian laid his hand on the man's head but did not speak. at the breach in the old wall, the watchers on that almost deserted street saw the brazen wave of four legions gather and sweep forward to gain ground in the city before the mob swept down on them. between the two warring bodies, one orderly, prepared but apprehensive, the other mad and perishing, was a considerable space. fighting still went on at the breach in the walls, but the supreme conflict of a comparatively small body of soldiers and an uncounted horde was not yet precipitated. ordinarily, the roman army could have reduced any popular insurrection with half that number of men. but at present the legionaries confronted desperate citizens who were simply choosing their own way to die. reason and human fear long since had ceased to inspire them. they were believing now and following a prophet because it was the final respite before despair. there was no alternative. it was death whatever they did, unless, in truth, this splendid sorceress was indeed the voice of the risen prince. force would be of no avail against them. madness had flung them against rome; only some other madness would turn them back. the christian, from his commanding position, expected anything. it was the moment which would show if the false prophet would triumph. if the four legions went down before the multitude, it would mean the ascendancy of a strange woman over israel, and the obliteration of the faith in jesus christ in the holy land. it can not be said that the christian watched the crisis with a calm spirit. he did not wish to see the heathen overthrow the ancient people of god, nor could he behold the triumph of a false christ. he put his hands together and prayed. a figure appeared between the two bodies of combatants, rushing on intensely, to grapple. it was a tall commanding form, clothed in garments that glittered for whiteness. by the step, by the poise of the head, the christian recognized seraiah. the front of the multitude fell on their faces at that moment as if he had struck them down. out of the forefront, the prophetess appeared. the christian heard her splendid voice out of the uproar, and while he gazed, he saw mad seraiah turn away from her, with the front of the mob turning after him, as a needle turns to the pole. in that fatal moment of pause, out of which the warning cry of the prophetess rang wildly, the roman tribune, in view for a moment under the blowing veils of smoke, flung up his sword, the roman bugle sang, and the brassy legions of titus hurled themselves upon the halted mob. the christian dropped his head into the bend of his elbow and strove to shut out the sound. the nervous arms of the palsied man at his feet gripped him frantically. up from the corner of the old wall, came the prolonged "a-a-a-a!" of dying thousands. jerusalem had fallen. the foremost of the mob, turning with seraiah, escaped the onslaught of the romans, and as the mad pretender strode toward the broad street from which the tyropean bridge crossed to the demesnes of the temple, they followed him fatuously, blind to the death behind them and the oncoming slaughter in which they might fall. seraiah passed above the spot where the sorrowful christian stood, crossed the great causeway leading toward the royal portico and after him six thousand blind and insane enthusiasts followed, expecting imminent miracle. above them towered the heights of moriah, now veiled in smoke. up the great white bank of stairs they rushed after him, facing an ordeal which must mean a baptism in fire, and on through a curtain of luminous smoke into a gate pillared in flame, up into the royal portico, resounding with the tread of the advancing destroyer, out into the great court of gentiles wrapped in cloud through which the temple showed, a stupendous cube of heat, through the gate beautiful where the keeper no longer stood, thence into the women's court, raftered with red coals, up smoking stones tier upon tier till the roof of the royal portico was reached. at the brink of the pinnacle, they saw through tumbling clouds seraiah towering. he was looking down through masses of smoke upon the city of delight, perishing. they who had followed watched, uplifted with terror and frenzy, and while they waited for the miracle which should save, the roof crumbled under them and a grave of thrice heated rock received them and covered them up. below, nathan, the christian, seized upon the shoulders of the maccabee as he was dashing after the thousands. his face was black with terror for laodice. he struggled to throw off nathan, crying futilely against the uproar that laodice was perishing. "comfort thee!" the christian shouted in his ear. "she is saved. she sent me to thee." the maccabee stopped, as if he realized that he need not go on, but had not comprehended what was said to him. nathan dragged him out of the way, still choked with people struggling to pass on to the temple or to flee from it. half-way down the vale of gihon, where speech was a little more possible, the maccabee, who had been crying questions, made the old man hear. "where is she? where is she?" "she has returned to her husband. in love with thee, she has done that only which she could do and escape sin. she has gone to shelter with him whom she does not love!" the maccabee seized his head in his hands. "it is like her--like her!" he groaned. in the christian's heart he knew how narrowly laodice had made her lover's mark for her. "it is her wish," nathan continued, "that i teach thee christ whom she hath received." "how can i receive him, when he sent her from me?" the unhappy man groaned, unconscious of his contradictions. "how canst thou reject him when his teaching led thy love to do that which thine own lips have confessed to be the better thing?" "then what of myself, when i love where i should not love?" the maccabee insisted. "you may suffer and sin not," the christian said kindly. the unhappy man dropped to his knees. "o christ, why should i resist thee!" he groaned. "thou hast stripped me and made me see that my loss is good!" the christian laid his hands on the maccabee's head. "dost thou believe?" he asked. "will christ accept me, coming because i must?" "it is not laid down how we shall baptize in the thirst of a famine," nathan said, "yet he who sees fit to deny water never yet hath denied grace." but the christian's hand extended over the kneeling man was caught in a grip steadied with intense emotion. the unknown had seized him. but for his feeling that this interruption was necessary to the welfare of another soul, the christian would not have paused in his ministry. the phantom straightened himself with a superb reinvestment of manhood. "thou, son of the maccabee, philadelphus!" he exclaimed to the kneeling man. the ephesian's arms sank. "who art thou that knoweth me?" he asked in a dead voice. "i am all that plague and sin hath left of thy servant aquila," the phantom declared. the maccabee lifted his face for what should follow this revelation. it was only a manifestation of his subjection to another will than his own. he was not interested--he who was hoping to die. "hear me, and curse me!" aquila went on. "but save thy wife yet. i say unto thee, master, that she whom thou hast sheltered in the cavern is thy wife, laodice!" the maccabee struggled up to his feet and gazed with stunned and unbelieving eyes at this wreck of his pagan servant, who went on precipitately. "her i plotted against at the instigation of julian of ephesus. her, my mistress, salome the cyprian, robbed and hath impersonated thus long to her safety in the house of the greek. this hour, through ignorance of thine own identity, through my fault, she hath gone reluctantly to his arms. curse me and let me die!" the maccabee seized the hair at his temples. for a moment the awful gaze he bent upon aquila seemed to show that the gentler spirit had been dislodged from his heart. then he cried: "god help us both, aquila! my fault was greater than thine!" he turned and fled toward the house of the greek. the four legions of titus swept after him. aquila lifted his eyes for the first time and gazed at nathan. "i cursed thee for sparing me to such an existence as was mine! behold, father, thou didst bless me, instead. i am ready to die." "wait," the christian said peacefully. a moment later, the maccabee dashed into the andronitis of amaryllis. after him sprang a terrified servant crying: "the roman! the roman is upon us!" a roar of such magnitude that it penetrated the stone walls of amaryllis' house, swept in after the servant. quaking menials began to pour into the hall. among them came the blue-eyed girl, the athlete and juventius the swan. these three joined their mistress who stood under a hanging lamp. into the passage from the court, left open by the frightened servants, swept the prolonged outcry of perishing jerusalem. over it all thundered the boom of the siege-engines shaking the earth. the slaves slipped down upon their knees and began to groan together. the silver coins on the lamp began to swing; the brass cyanthus which amaryllis had recently drained of her last drink of wine moved gradually to the edge of the pedestal upon which she had placed it. the dual nature of the uproar was now distinct; organized warfare and popular disaster at the same time. the roman was sweeping up the ancient ravine. jerusalem had fallen. the gradual crescendo now attained deafening proportions; the hanging lamp increased its swing; the silver coins began to strike together with keen and exquisitely fine music. juventius the swan, with his dim eyes filled with horror, was looking at them. the peculiar desperate indifference of the wholly hopeless seized him. his long white hands began to move with the motion of the lamp; the music of the meeting coins became regular; he caught the note, and mounting, with a bound, the rostrum that had been his olympus all his life, began to sing. the melody of his glorious voice struggled only a moment for supremacy with the uproar of imminent death and then his increasing exaltation gave him triumph. the great hall shook with the magnificent power of his only song! the maccabee confronted amaryllis, with fierce question in his eyes. she pointed calmly at the heavy white curtain pulled to one side and caught on a bracket. the brass wicket over the black mouth of the tunnel was wide. without a word, the maccabee plunged into it and was swallowed up. amaryllis looked after him. "and no farewell?" she said. the thunder of assault began at her door. juventius sang it down. the athlete and the girl crept toward the mouth of the black passage, wavered a moment and plunged in. after them tumbled a confusion of artists and servants who were swallowed up, and the hall was filled only with music. the woman by the lectern and the singer on the rostrum had chosen. to live without beauty and to live without love were not possible to the one who had known beauty all his life, to the one who had learned love so late--after she had been beggared of her dowry of purity. there was hardly an appreciable interval between the time of the desertion of her artists and the thunder of assault at her door, but in that space there passed before amaryllis that useless retrospect which is death's recapitulation of the life it means to take. and out of that long procession, she singled one conviction which made the step of the roman on her threshold welcome. it was an old, old moral, so old that it had never had weight with her, who believed it was time to reconstruct the whole artistic attitude of the world. and that was why she waited impatiently at her doorway for death, which was a kinder thing than life. chapter xxiv the road to pella there was no incident in the maccabee's long struggle through the inky blackness of the tunnel leading under moriah. it was night when the first new air from the outside world reached him. so he rushed into great open darkness, lighted with stars, before he knew that he had emerged from the underground passage. entire silence after the turmoil which had shaken jerusalem for many months fell almost like a blow upon his unaccustomed ears. the air was sweet. he had not breathed sweet air since may. the hills were solitary. week in and week out, he had never been away from the sound of groaning thousands. not since he had assumed his disguise to laodice in the wilderness had he been close to the immemorial repose of nature. all his primitive manhood rushed back to him, now infuriated with a fear that his love was the spoil of another. all instinct became alert; all his intelligence and resource assembled to his aid. it came to him as inspiration always occurs at such times, that if the pair proceeded rationally, they would move toward a secure place at once. pella occurred to him in a happy moment. he took his bearings by the stars and hurried north and east. he came upon a road presently, almost obliterated by a summer's drift of dust and sand. it had been long since any one had gone up that way to jerusalem. there was no moon to show him whether there were any recent marks of fugitives fleeing that way. he did not expect that julian of ephesus would have courage to halt within sight of the glow on the western horizon which was the burning from the temple. he expected the ephesian to flee far and long, and in that consciousness of the cowardice of his enemy he based his hope. but he ran tirelessly, seeking right and left, led on by instinct toward the christian city in the north. at times, his terror for laodice made him cry out; again, he made violent pictures of his revenge upon julian; and at other moments, he believed, while drops stood on his forehead from the effort of faith, that his new christ would save her yet. there were moments when he was ready to die of despair, when he wondered at himself attempting to trace julian with all the directions of wild judea to invite the fugitives. why might they not have fled toward arabia as well, or even toward the sea? perhaps they had not gone far, but had hidden in the rock, and had been left behind. conflicting argument strove to turn him from his path, but the old instinct, final resource after the mind gives up the puzzle, kept him straight on the road to pella. he came upon the rear of a flock of sheep, heading away from him. a natolian sheep-dog, galloping hither and thither in his labor at keeping them moving, scented the new-comer. there was a quick savage bark that heightened at the end in an excited yelp of welcome. the shepherd, a dim figure at the head of the flock, turned in time to see his dog leaping upon the maccabee. "down, urge," the shepherd cried. "joseph, in the name of god," the maccabee cried, "where is laodice?" he threw off the excited dog and rushed toward the boy, who turned back at the cry with extended hands. "true to thy promise, friend, friend!" the boy cried. "she is here!" the maccabee stiffened. "is there one with her?" he demanded fiercely. "a man and her servant." the maccabee threw off the boy's hands. "where?" he cried. "ahead of the sheep," the boy said a little uncertainly. the maccabee dashed through the flock and rounding a turn in the road came upon laodice walking; behind her momus; at her side was julian of ephesus. immense strain had sharpened their sense of fear until it was as acute as an instinct. before the sound of the maccabee's furious approach reached julian, the ephesian whirled. towering over him, the very picture of retribution, was the man he had left, apparently dead by his hand, by the roadside in the hills of judea months and months before. for an instant, julian stood petrified. over his lips came a faint, frozen whisper that laodice heard--that was proof enough to her, the moment after. "philadelphus--maccabaeus!" when his outraged kinsman put out vengeful hands to seize him, the maccabee grasped the air. julian of ephesus had vanished! * * * * * among the rocks at the base of the cliff that sheltered christian pella from the rude winds of the perean mountains, the procurator of the city, philadelphus maccabaeus, and his wife, laodice, sat side by side in the morning sun. there was a path little wider than a man's hand wandering along below them toward a well in the hollow of the rocks. along this way, in early morning, joseph, the shepherd, was in the habit of driving his sheep to drink. and hither the procurator and his wife came to visit the boy from time to time. within their hall, there was too much state. something in the wild open of judea with its winds gave them all an ease whenever they wished to talk with joseph. but the shepherd was not in sight. the pair sat down and waited for him. laodice rested against her husband's arm, laid along the rock behind her. presently he freed that arm and with the ease of much usage withdrew the bodkins from her hair. the heavy coil dropped over his breast down to his knee. with delicate touches he began to free from the splendid tangle a single strand of glistening white hair. when she saw it shining like spun silver across the back of his hand, she looked up at him. with infinite care he searched her face, while she waited with questioning in her tender eyes. "this," he said, lifting the hand that supported the silver threads, "is the sole evidence that thou hast seen the abomination of desolation." "and that came the night i journeyed away from jerusalem, without you," she declared. "but, my philadelphus," she said, turning herself a little that she might hide her face away from him, "had i stayed with you against my conscience, i had been by this time wholly white." he kissed her. "i did not expect you to stay," he said. "i knew from the beginning that you would not. ask joseph. he will bear me out." low on the slope of the hill, the shepherd approached, calling his sheep that trailed after him contentedly by the hundreds. the excited bark of urge, the sheep-dog, came up faintly to them. while they leaned watching them, old momus, bent and broken, stood before them. laodice hurriedly drew away from her husband's clasp. it was a habit she had never entirely shaken off, whenever the mute appeared, in spite of the old man's pathetic dumb protest. he handed a linen scroll to his master. it read: the captives whom thou hast asked for freedom at cæsar's hand are this day sent to thee, philadelphus, under escort. they should reach thee a little later than this messenger. however, it is cæsar's pain to inform thee that the greek amaryllis as well as the actress salome were not to be found. julian of ephesus, who named the woman for us, is here at cæsarea, but being a roman citizen, is not a captive. however it shall be seen to that his liberty is sufficiently curtailed for the welfare of the public. also, i send herewith a shittim-wood casket found with john of gischala when he was captured in a cavern under jerusalem. it contains treasure and certain writings which identify it as property of thy wife. there were other features in it which, coming to my hand first, made it advisable that the state should not know of its existence. and privately, it will be wise in thee to destroy them. the maccabee stopped at this point and looked at laodice. "what does he mean?" he asked. "my father put your last letter in the case," she said, with a little panic in her face. the maccabee laughed, and went on, those that go forward to thee are nathan of jerusalem and aquila of ephesus. to thy wife my obeisances. to thyself, greeting. carus, tribune. the end [illustration: "come here and sit down and write a letter to your mother!"--page .] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ benefits forgot a story of lincoln and mother love by honorÉ willsie author of "still jim," "lydia of the pines," etc. with illustrations by charles e. cartwright publishers frederick a. stokes company new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents chapter page i the donation party ii the circuit rider iii war iv mr. lincoln ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i the donation party [illustration] i the donation party brother meaker rose from his pew and looked at jason appraisingly. "i don't know, brethren," he said. "of course, he's a growing boy. just turned twelve, didn't you say, ma'am?" jason's mother nodded faintly without looking up, and brother meaker went on. "as i said, he's a growing boy, but he's dark and wiry. and i've always noted, the dark wiry kind eat smaller than any other kind. i should take at least twelve pounds of sugar off the allowance for the year and four gallon less of molasses than you was calculatin' on." he sat down and sister cantwell rose. she was a fat woman, famous in the southern ohio country for the lavish table she set. "short sweetening," she said in a thin high voice, "is dreadful high. i said to hiram yesterday that the last sugar loaf i bought was worth its weight in silver. i should say, cut down on short sweetening. long sweetening is all right except for holidays." jason whispered to his mother, "what's long sweetening, mother?" "they must mean molasses," she whispered in return, with a glance at jason's father, who sat at the far end of the pew reading his bible as he always did at this annual ordeal. jason looked from his mother's quiet, sensitive face, like yet so unlike his own, to the bare pulpit of the little country church, then back at brother ames, who was conducting the meeting. this annual conference and the annual donation party were the black spots in jason's year. his mother, he suspected, suffered as he did: her face told him that. her tender lips, usually so wistful and eager, were at these times thin and compressed. her brown eyes, that except at times of death or illness always held a remote twinkle, were inscrutable. jason's face was so like, yet already so unlike his mother's! the same brown eyes, with the same twinkle, but tonight instead of being inscrutable, boyishly hard. the same tender mouth, with tonight an unboyish sardonic twist. what jason's father's face might have said one could not know, for it was hidden under a close-cropped brown beard. he turned the leaves of his bible composedly, looking up only as the meeting reached a final triumphant conclusion with brother ames' announcement: "so, brother wilkins, there you are, a liberal allowance if i must say it. two hundred and fifty dollars for the year, with the usual donation party to take place in the fall of the year." brother wilkins, who was jason's father, rose, bowed and said: "i thank you, brethren. let us pray!" the fifty or sixty souls in the church knelt, and jason's father, his eyes closed, lifted his great bass voice in prayer: "o god, you have led our feeble and trusting steps to this town of high hill, ohio. you have put into the hearts and minds of these people, o god, the purpose of feeding and clothing us. whether they do it well or ill, concerns them and you, o god, and not us. we are but your humble servants, doing your divine bidding. yet this is perhaps the proper occasion, our heavenly father, to thank you that you have sent us but one child and that unlike solomon, your servant has but one wife. and now, o god, bless these people in their giving. and make me, in my solitary circuit riding in the hills and valleys a proper mouthpiece of your will. for lord jesus' sake, amen." there was a short pause after the rich voice stopped, then a few weak "amens" came from different corners of the church and brother ames, jumping to his feet, exclaimed: "let us close the meeting by singing 'how tedious and tasteless the hours when jesus no longer i see--'" this ended jason's first day at high hill. the salary was small, even for a methodist circuit rider, in the decade before the civil war. it was smaller by fifty dollars than what they had been allowed the year before. yet, high hill, as mrs. wilkins pointed out to jason the next day, was much more attractive than any town they had been in for years. there was a good school, and the ohio river-packet stopped twice a week, and a mr. inchpin in the town was reported to be the owner of a number of books. jason's mother was an eastern woman and sometimes the loneliness and hardship of her life made her find solace in what seemed to jason inconsequential things. still, he was glad of the school, for he was a first-class student and already had decided to take his father's and mother's advice that he study medicine. and the packet, warping in twice a week, was, after all, something to which one might look forward and mr. inchpin's books would be wonderful. jason was sure that the ohio valley in which he had spent the whole of his short life was the most beautiful spot in the world. the lovely green heights rolling back into the kentucky sky line, were, he thought, great enough for david, whose cattle fed upon a thousand hills. the fine headlands on the ohio side, wooded, mysterious, were, he was sure, clad in verdure like the utmost bound of the everlasting hills of jacob. and high hill with its fifteen hundred souls was "a city, builded on a hill that could not be laid." for jason was brought up on the bible. his father believed that it ought to be, outside of his school text books, his only literature. his mother, with her eastern traditions, thought otherwise. a methodist circuit rider before the civil war moved every year, and every year mrs. wilkins combed each new community for books. it was wonderful how she and jason scented them out. they had been in high hill about a week when jason came panting into the house late one afternoon. his father was writing a sermon in the sitting room. jason tip-toed into the kitchen, where his mother was preparing supper. "the packet's in, mother, and i carried a man's carpet bag up to the hotel and look--what he gave me!" his slender boyish brown hands fairly trembled as he held a torn and soiled magazine toward his mother. she dropped the biscuit she was molding and seized it. "_harper's monthly!_ o jason dear, how wonderful! you shall read it aloud to me after supper." "it's prayer meeting night," said jason in a sick voice. his mother flushed a little. "so it is! my goodness, jason! print makes a heathen of me and you're most as bad. you haven't fed the horse or milked." "so i won't get a look at it till tomorrow," cried jason, bitterly. mrs. wilkins glanced toward the closed door that led into the sitting room. then she looked at jason's wide brown eyes, at the round-about she had cut over from his father's old sermon coat, at the darned stockings and the trousers that had belonged to the rich boy of the town they had lived in the year before. "jason," she said, "you ought to get plenty of sleep because you're a growing boy. but a thing like this won't happen for years again--and--well, i've saved up several candle ends, hoping to get some sewing done nights when your father was using the lamp. when you go up to bed tonight, take those and read your magazine." "but you ought to keep them," protested jason. "not at all," exclaimed his mother, vigorously, "it's all for your education. run along now and milk." so jason reveled in his _harper's monthly_, and the next day as he wiped the dishes for his mother, he produced his great idea. "if i can earn the money, this summer, mother, can i subscribe to _harper's monthly_ for a year?" "my goodness, jason, it's five dollars and this is the first of august! school begins in a month." "i know all that," replied jason impatiently, "but if i earn the money can i have it for _harpers monthly_?" "of course you can. it's all for your education, my dear. i never forget that." a money paying job for a boy of twelve was a hard thing to find in high hill and jason was late for supper that night. but his brown eyes were shining with triumph when he slid into his seat and held out his bowl for his evening meal of mush and milk. "i've got a job," he said. "a job?" queried his father. he smiled a little at jason's mother. "yes, sir. mr. inchpin is having a new barn built on the hill back of his house. the brook runs at the foot of it and i'm going to haul gravel and sand and water up to the building site. it'll take about a month. he provides the horse and wagon." "and how much will he pay you?" asked mrs. wilkins. "he says he can't tell till he's through. but i'm going to ask him for five dollars." jason's father looked amused and a little troubled. "jason, i hope you're not too interested in mammon. but i must say i'm glad to see you have your mother's energy." "or your father's," said mrs. wilkins, smiling into the blue eyes opposite hers. "nobody can say that a circuit rider lacks energy." and so during the hot august days, jason toiled on mr. inchpin's new barn, never once visiting the swimming hole in the brook, never once heeding the long-drawn invitation of the cicada to loll under the trees with one of mr. inchpin's books, never once breaking away when the toot of the packet reverberated among the hills. "he's a fine lad," mr. inchpin told jason's father. "i never have seen such determination in a little fellow." brother wilkins looked gratified, but when he repeated the little compliment to jason's mother he added, "i don't believe i understand jason altogether." "i do," said mrs. wilkins, stoutly. august came to an end with cool nights and shorter days and mr. inchpin's barn was finished of a saturday evening. he called jason into the house, into the library where there were bound volumes of _godey's lady's book_ and blackwood, and handed him three paper dollars. "there you are, my man. i'd intended to give you only two. but you've done well, by ginger, so here's three dollars." jason looked up at him dumbly, mumbled something, stuffed the bills into his trousers pocket and bolted for home. he burst in on his mother in the kitchen, buried his face against her bosom and sobbed. "i can't have it after all! he only gave me three dollars! i can't have it! and now i'll never know how that story 'bleak house' ended." jason's father came into the kitchen, hastily: "what in the world--" "jason! jason! don't sob so!" cried mrs. wilkins. "we'll raise the rest of the money some way. i'll find it. hush, dear, hush! mercy, the mush is burning!" jason's father took the boy's grimy blistered hand, such a strong slender hand and so like his mother's, and sitting down in the kitchen chair, he pulled jason to him. "tell me, jason," he urged gently, "what money?" jason still torn with occasional sobs, managed to tell the story. "_harper's monthly_," exclaimed brother wilkins. "dear! dear! i had hoped you'd give the money to a foreign mission, jason." "foreign mission!" cried jason's mother. "well, i guess not! jason's education is going to be taken care of before the heathen." "but how'll we get the extra dollars?" asked brother wilkins, helplessly. "i'll manage," replied jason's mother, her gentle voice a little louder than usual. "then let us eat supper," said jason's father, clearing his throat for grace. jason's mother sold a girlhood treasure, a little silver-tipped hair-pin, to the storekeeper's wife, the following monday, for two dollars, and the jubilant jason exchanged the single bills for a single note. the note was cut in two and sent in separate letters to new york, this being the before the war method of safeguarding loss of money in the mail. there was a period of several weeks of waiting during which jason met every mail. then a third letter was sent by jason's mother, asking why the delay, and telling jason's little story. jason met the return packet, his heart now high, now low. he had met so many futile packets since the first of september. but this time there was a letter explaining that but one-half of the note had arrived in new york, but that on faith, the editors were sending the back numbers of the magazine requested and that the rest of the year's subscription would follow. and jason never did know whether or not the second half of the note arrived. and there they were, a fat pile of magazines! jason clasped them in his arms and rushed home with them. a tag tail of boys followed him and by nightfall most of the town knew that jason wilkins had four numbers of _harper's monthly_ on hand. jason was out milking the cow when mr. inchpin arrived. "heard jason had some new magazines in hand. don't s'pose you could lend me a few, over night?" jason's mother was in the kitchen. it was donation party night and she had been cooking all day in preparation. "surely, surely," said jason's father, picking up the pile of magazines. "jason can't get at them before the end of the week. take them and welcome." mr. inchpin rode away. jason came in with the milk pail and the family sat down to a hasty supper. "won't i have a minute of time to look at my magazines, mother?" asked jason. "o, i hate donation parties!" "jason!" thundered his father. "would you show ingratitude to god? and the books are not here anyway. i loaned them to mr. inchpin." "father!" "o ethan!" brother wilkins' eyes were steel gray, instead of blue. "jason can read his bible until the end of the week. his ingratitude deserves punishment." jason rushed from the table and flung himself sobbing into the hay loft. his mother found him there a few moments later. "i know, dear! i know! it's hard. but father doesn't love books as you and i do, so he doesn't understand. and you must hurry and get ready for the party." "i don't want the donation party, i want my magazines," sobbed jason. "i know. but life seldom, so very seldom, gives us what we want, dear heart. just be thankful that you will be happy at the end of the week and come and help mother with the party." as donation parties go, this one was a huge success. fully a hundred people attended it. they played games, they sang hymns, they ate a month's provisions and mrs. wilkins' chance of a new dress in the cake and coffee she provided. they left behind them a pile of potatoes and apples that filled two barrels and a heap of old clothing that jason, candle in hand, turned over with his foot. "there's billy ames' striped pants," he grumbled. "every time his mother licked him into wearing 'em, i know he prayed i'd get 'em, the ugly beasts, and i have. and there's seven old patched shirts. i suppose i'll get the tails sewed together into school shirts for me and there's old mrs. arley's plush dress--i suppose poor mother'll have to fix that up and wear it to church. why don't they give stuff father'll have to wear, too? i wonder why a minister's supposed to be so much better than his wife or son." "what's that you're saying, jason?" asked his father sharply as he brought the little oil lamp from the sitting room into the kitchen. mrs. wilkins followed. this was a detestable job, the sorting of the donation debris, and was best gotten through with, at once. jason, shading the candle light from his eyes, with one slender hand, looked at his father belligerently. "i was saying," he said, "that it was too bad you don't have to wear some of the old rags sometimes, then you'd know how mother and i feel about donation parties." there was absolute silence for a moment in the little kitchen. a late october cricket chirped somewhere. then, "o jason!" gasped his mother. the boy was only twelve, but he had been bred in a difficult school and was old for his years. he looked again at the heaps of cast-off clothing on the floor and his gorge rose within him. "i tell you," he cried, before his father could speak, "that i'll never wear another donation party pair of pants. no, nor a shirt-tail shirt, either. i'm through with having the boys make fun of me. i'll earn my own clothes every summer and i'll earn mother's too." "you'll do nothing of the sort, sir," thundered jason's father, his great bass voice rising as it did in revival meetings. "you'll do nothing but wear donation clothes as long as you're under my roof. i've long noted your tendency to vanity and mammon. to my prayers, i shall begin to add stout measures." jason threw back his head, a finely shaped head it was with good breadth between the eyes. "i tell you, sir, i'm through with donation pants. if folks don't think enough of the religion you preach to pay you for it i'd--i'd advise you to get another religion." under his beard, ethan wilkins went white, but not so white as jason's mother. but she spoke quietly. "jason, apologize to your father at once." "i couldn't accept an apology now," said the minister. "i shall have to pray to get my mind into shape. in the meantime jason shall be punished for this. not until everyone in the town who desires to read his _harper's monthlies_ has done so, can jason touch them." "o father, not that," cried jason. "i'll apologize! i'll wear the pants! why, it would be christmas before i'd see them again!" "i can't accept your apology now. neither your spirit nor mine is right. and i cannot retract. your punishment must stand." jason was all child now. "mother," he cried, "don't let him! don't let him!" mrs. wilkins' lips quivered. for a moment she could not speak. then with an inscrutable look into her husband's eyes she said: "you must obey your father, jason. you have been very wicked." jason put down his candle and sobbed. "i know it. but i'll be good. let me have my magazines. they're mine. i paid for them." "no!" roared the minister. "go to bed, sir, and see to it that you pray for a better heart." jason's sobs sounded through the little house long after his father and mother had gone to bed. the minister sighed and turned restlessly. "why was i given such a rebellious son, do you suppose?" he asked finally. "perhaps god hopes it'll make you have a better understanding of children," replied mrs. wilkins. "christ said that unless you became like one of them you could not enter the kingdom." there was another silence with jason's sobs growing fainter, then, "but he was wicked, mary, and he deserved punishment." "but not such a punishment. of course, i had to support you, no matter what i thought. but o ethan, ethan, it's so easy to kill the fineness in a proud and sensitive heart like jason's." "nevertheless," returned the minister, "when he spurns the giving hand of god, forgiveness is god's, not mine. we'll discuss it no more." nor was the matter discussed again. jason appeared at breakfast, with dark rings about his eyes, after having done his chores, as usual. once, it seemed to his mother that he looked at her with a gaze half wondering, half hurt, as if she had failed him when his trust and need had been greatest. but he said nothing and she hoped that her mind had suggested what was in her aching heart and that jason's was only a child's hurt that would soon heal. he never again asked for the magazines. on christmas morning his father placed them, tattered and marred, from their many lendings, beside his plate. jason did not take them when he left the table and later on his mother carried them up to his room. whether he read them or not, she did not know. but she was glad to see him begin again to watch for the packet and read the current numbers as they arrived. she dyed billy ames' striped pants in walnut juice and they really looked very well. jason wore them without comment as he did the shirts she fashioned for him from many shirt tails. and in the spring they left high hill for a valley town. [illustration] ii the circuit rider [illustration] ii the circuit rider the years sped on with unbelievable swiftness as they are very prone to do after the corner into the teens is turned. jason worked every summer, but he did not offer to buy his mother a dress nor did he buy himself either clothing or books. he put all he earned by toward his course in medicine. when he was a little fellow, his mother had given him a lacquered sewing box that had belonged to her french mother. it had proved an admirable treasure box for childish hoardings. jason, the summer he was thirteen, cleared it out and put into it his summer earnings, ten dollars. with his newly acquired reticence, he did not speak of the box, nor did he mention the extra bills, quarters and dollars that appeared there from time to time. the little hoard grew slowly, very slowly, in spite of these anonymous additions--it grew as slowly as the years sped rapidly, it seemed to jason's mother. jason must have been sixteen, the summer he went with his father on one of the sunday circuit trips. he never had been on one before. but it had been decided that he was to begin his medical studies in the fall. he was to be apprenticed to a doctor in baltimore and his mother was anxious for father and son to draw together if possible before the son went into the world. not that jason and the minister quarreled. but there never had been the understanding between the two that except for the unfortunate magazine episode, always had existed between jason and his mother. the trip lay in the hills of west virginia. brother wilkins rode his old horse, charley, a handsome gray. jason rode an old brown mare, borrowed from a parishioner for the trip. mrs. wilkins, standing in the door, watched the two ride off together with a thrill of pride. jason was almost as tall in the saddle as his father. he had shot up amazingly of late. the minister was getting very gray. he had been late in his thirties when he married. but he sat a horse as though bred to the saddle and old charley was a beauty. brother wilkins was very fond of horses and was a good judge of horse flesh. sometimes mrs. wilkins had thought, that if ethan had not chosen to be a methodist minister he would have made a first-class country squire. she watched the two out of sight down the valley road, then with a little sigh turned back to the empty home. jason, though always a little self-conscious when alone with his father, was delighted with the idea of the trip. they crossed the ohio on the ferry and rode rapidly into the west virginia hills. the minister made a great effort to be entertaining and jason was astonished at his father's intimate knowledge of the countryside. "i don't see how you remember all the places, father," he said at noon, when the minister had turned to a side road to find a farmer whom he wished to greet. "i had this circuit years ago before you were born, my boy. i know the people intimately." "don't you get tired of it?" asked jason, suddenly. "tired of saving souls?" returned his father. "do you think you'll ever get tired of saving bodies?" "o that's different," answered the boy. "you've got something to take hold of, with a body." "and the body ceases to exist when the soul departs. never forget that, my boy." "but you work so hard," insisted jason, "and you get so little for it. i don't mean money alone," flushing as if at some memory, "but it doesn't seem as if the people care. they'll take all they can get out of each minister as he comes along, and then forget him." brother wilkins looked at jason, thoughtfully. "sixteen is very young, jason. i'm afraid you were born carnal minded. i pray every night of my life that as you grow older, you'll grow toward christ and not away from him." again jason flushed uncomfortably and a silence fell that lasted until they reached the remote hill settlement where service was to be held that night. the settlement consisted of a log church, surrounded by a scattered handful of log houses, each already with its tiny glow of light, for night comes early in the hills. the two had eaten a cold lunch in the saddles, for church service would begin as soon as they arrived. there were twenty-five or thirty people in the rough little church. they crowded round brother wilkins enthusiastically when he entered and he called them all by name as he shook hands with them. jason slid into a back seat. his father mounted to the pulpit. "let us open by singing 'how tedious and tasteless the hours when jesus no longer i see--'" the old familiar tune! jason wondered how many meetings his father had opened with it. the audience sang it with a will. in fact with too much will. a group of young men on the rear seat opposite jason sang with unnecessary fervor, quite drowning out the female voices in the congregation. jason saw his father, his face heavily shadowed in the candle-light, glance askance at the rear seat. "let us pray," said brother wilkins. there was a rustle as the congregation knelt. "o god, i have come to you again in this mountain place after many years and many wanderings. i thank you for giving me this privilege. i have greeted old friends who have not forgotten me and who all these years have remembered you and christ, your only begotten son. tonight, o heavenly father, i have brought with me to this sacred fold my own one lamb that he might see how sacred and how great is your power. look on him tonight, o supreme master, and mark him for your own. and remember, that if the young men in the rear seat plan any disturbance tonight, o heavenly father, that the arm of thy priest is strong and the soul of thy servant is resolute. for jesus christ's sake, amen." the boom of "amens" from the back seat was tremendous. brother wilkins, rising after his prayer, looked at the four young men for a long moment, over his glasses. then he said: "let us sing 'from greenland's icy mountains to india's coral strands.'" this was sung with tremendous vim, and the minister began his sermon. jason's father was a good preacher. his vocabulary was rich and his ideas those of a thinking man whose religion was a passion. but the young men on the rear seat were unimpressed. one of them snored. brother wilkins stopped his sermon. "be silent, ye sons of satan," he thundered. there was silence and he took up the thread of his talk. a low cat call interrupted him. the minister stopped and slipped off his coat, folding it carefully as he laid it on his desk. it was old and the seams would not stand strain. he rolled up his cuffs as he descended from the pulpit, the congregation watching him spell-bound. jason had seen his father in action before and was deeply embarrassed but not surprised. brother wilkins strode up to the pew where the offenders sat and seized by the ear the largest of the group, a hulk of twenty-one or so, larger than the minister. he led the young man into the aisle and reached up and boxed his ears, with the sound of impact of a club on an empty barrel. "now leave this house of god," roared the minister. the young fellow sneaked out the door. brother wilkins turned back to the pew. "don't you tech me or i'll brain ye," cried the youth who was about brother wilkins' own size. "hah!" snorted the minister. there was the sound of blows, a quick scuffling of feet and the second offender was booted out of the door. the remaining two made a quick and unassisted exit. breathing a little heavily, brother wilkins returned to his sermon; and to his hypnotized and immensely regaled congregation it seemed that the rest of his preaching was as from one inspired by god. jason sat brooding deeply. something within him revolted at the spectacle of his father descending from the pulpit to beat recalcitrant members of his congregation. an old and familiar sense of shame enveloped him, and he was thankful when once again darkness had enveloped them and they were traveling rapidly along the mountain road. they were to have a late supper and spend the night at a cabin well along the road they must travel on the morrow. brother wilkins was in the abstracted state that always followed his preaching and jason was glad to respect his silence, until it had lasted so long that he became uneasy. "father, didn't you say that herd's was five miles beyond the church?" the minister pulled up his horse. in the darkness jason could barely see the outlines of his body. "heavens, jason! why didn't you rouse me sooner? this isn't the main traveled road. when did we leave it?" "i don't know, sir. i thought you knew this part of the country so well--" "so i do, ordinarily. but i can't recognize by-paths on a night like this. wait, isn't that a light up the mountainside yonder? come along, my boy, we'll find out where we are." the light glowed only faintly from the open door of a cabin. an old woman, with a pipe in her mouth, sat crooning over a little fire in the crude fireplace. she looked up in astonishment when the two appeared in the doorway. "why, it's brother wilkins!" she cackled. "lord's sake, what you doin' clar up hyar!" "why, sister clark! i am glad to see you," exclaimed jason's father, shaking one of the old woman's hands, and shouting into her other, which she cupped round her ear. "my son and i must have got off the main road five miles back. we're on our way to milton." sister clark was visibly excited. "ye ain't going on a step tonight. i can fix a shake-down for ye. thing like this don't happen to a lone old woman twice in a lifetime. bring in your saddle-bags--but lord!" she stopped aghast. "i ain't got a bit of pork in the house, nor there ain't a chicken on the place. all i got is corn-meal and molasses." "plenty, sister clark! plenty! get the saddle-bags, jason, and tie the horses to graze." they ate their supper by candle-light after their hostess had cooked the mush in a kettle hanging from the crane. brother wilkins had a violent choking fit during the meal and sister clark pounded him on the back, apologizing as she did so for her familiarity with the minister. jason slept profoundly on his share of the shake-down that night, and at dawn, after more mush, they were up and away. twice on this day, sunday, brother wilkins held service in the mountains and it was nine o'clock at night when they started toward the ohio again. it was not until they had reached the river at dawn and had roused the ferryman that the minister recovered from his sunday abstraction. "did you have a pleasant trip, jason?" he asked as they led the horses into the boat. "yes, father," answered jason dutifully. brother wilkins looked at the boy, as if he were beholding him from a new angle. "you don't look as much like your dear mother as you did in your childhood, my boy. sometimes--i wonder--jason, do you think this life has been too hard on your mother?" "yes, sir, i do. it's hard on a boy, why shouldn't it be doubly hard on a woman?" the minister sighed. "your reply is hardly polite, jason, though i suppose my question merited it." then with sudden heat: "never mistake this cold frankness of yours for courage, my son. it takes more courage usually to be courteous than to be impolite. did you notice that i coughed violently yesterday evening at sister clark's?" "yes, sir." "well, the cause of it was this. she went down to the spring and fetched a pail of water for the mush. when i was eating my helping, i felt a lump in my mouth. but the old lady had her eye on me every minute for fear i wouldn't enjoy the frugal meal, so i could only investigate with my tongue. i found that she had cooked a little bit of a frog in the mush. now, jason, if she had discovered that she never would have recovered from the mortification. the only time in her life the minister stopped with her. so, though it made me choke, i swallowed it. that, sir, is my idea of courtesy. i wish you not to forget it." jason's cool, speculative young gaze was on his father's face as he answered: "i understand, father." the minister turned away. "no, you don't. i doubt if you ever do." and he did not speak again until they reached home. [illustration] iii war [illustration] iii war and so jason went away to study medicine. he worked very hard and progressed very rapidly. by the time he was twenty he was no longer "the doctor's boy." he was a real assistant in all but fees. he had no share in the doctor's income and always was desperately hard up. at first, he did not ask his father and mother for help. he did all sorts of odd chores to pay his way. but as he progressed in his profession, he had less and less time for earning his up-keep and had finally to write home for money. his mother always answered his letters and she never failed to send him money when he asked for it. how she managed it, jason never asked. perhaps he was ashamed to know. in all these four years he did not come home. he would have liked to but the trip was prohibitively expensive. late in the fall of , he received a letter from his mother containing a ten-dollar bill. it was a short letter. "your father can't live more than a week. come at once." jason put his head down on that letter and sobbed, then dried his eyes and sought the doctor, who loaned him the rest of the money needed for the trip. the minister's circuit had swung him round again to high hill. jason disembarked from the packet late one november afternoon, carrying his carpet bag. even in november, high hill was beautiful. through his sadness, jason again felt the thrill of the giant headlands, the thousand hills of his boyish imaginings. there was the same little cottage, more weather-beaten than he had remembered it. his mother was waiting for him at the door. the four years had changed her, yet she seemed to jason more beautiful than his mental picture of her had been. she kissed him with trembling lips. "he's still with us," she whispered. "i'm sure he waited for you." "what is the matter with him?" asked jason, huskily, as he deposited his carpet bag on the sitting-room table. "lung fever. he took a bad cold a month ago coming home from west virginia in the rain. he was absent-minded, you know. if it hadn't been for pilgrim, i don't think he'd ever got here." "pilgrim?" asked jason, warming his hands at the fire. "surely i've written you about pilgrim. father bought him soon after you left. he's the wisest horse that ever lived. if you're warm, now, jason, come to your father." he followed her into the bedroom which opened off the kitchen. his father lay on the feather bed, his eyes closed. o how worn--o how changed! young jason was hardened to suffering and death. he had not realized that to the sickness and death of one's own, nothing can harden us. he stood breathing hard while his mother stooped over the bed. "ethan," she said softly, "our boy is here." brother wilkins opened his eyes and smiled faintly. he tried to say something and jason sprang to take his hand. "oh, he wants to speak to you and can't. o my poor dear! o ethan, my dearest." jason's mother broke down. jason put his finger on his father's wrist. after a long moment, "mother, he's gone," he whispered. after the funeral, jason wandered about the village for a day or so, trying to plan for his mother's future and his own. all the townspeople were kind to him. "haven't forgot how you loaned me those _harper's monthlies_ before you read 'em yourself," said mr. inchpin. "anything i can do for you or your mother, let me know." the two had met in hardwich's store, which was also the post office and the evening club for the males of high hill. jason had dropped in to post a letter. a tall scraggly man joined in. "your father was the best preacher in ohio. we was all glad when he got back here." "he had the gift of prayer," said an old man, in the back of the store. there was a silence which jason struggled in vain to break. then a young fellow who carried a buggy whip and smoked a cigar said, "how does the doctoring go, jason?" "well, thanks," returned jason, looking at the young fellow, intently. it was billy ames, he of the striped pants. back through jason's heart, until now strangely softened by the happenings of the past few days, surged the accumulated bitterness of his poverty-stricken youth. he turned abruptly and left the store. his mother was watching for him, anxiously. "jason, pilgrim had an accident. he's got a frightful cut on his right fore shoulder. he must have got caught on a nail somehow." "let's have a look at him," said jason. the big gray was standing stolidly in his stall. mrs. wilkins held the candle while jason examined him. on the right fore shoulder was a great three-cornered tear from which the skin hung in a bloody fold. "i'll have to sew it up." jason was all surgeon now. "do you think he'll stand still for us?" "stand still," replied jason's mother, indignantly. "why, he'll know exactly what you are doing, and why." "all right then. you get me some clean rags and a darning-needle and i'll get the rest of the things i'll need." in a few moments the operation was well in hand. pilgrim kept his ears back and his eyes on his mistress. he breathed heavily, but otherwise he did not stir. he was a large horse, with a small, intelligent head and a mighty chest. jason's mother held the candle with one hand while she stroked the big gray's nose with the other. "be careful, jason, do!" she said softly. jason grunted. "you keep him from biting or kicking and i'll do my share," he said. "pilgrim bite!" cried jason's mother indignantly. again jason grunted, working swiftly, with the skill of trained and accustomed fingers. the candle flickered on his cool young face, on his black hair and on his long, strong, surgeon's fingers. it flickered too on his mother's sweet lips, on her tired brown eyes and iron-gray hair. it put high-lights on the cameo at her throat and made a grotesque shadow of her hoop-skirts on the stable wall. finally jason straightened himself with a sigh and wiped his hands on a towel. "that's a good job," he said. "must be some bad spikes here or in the pasture fence to have given him that rip. i'll hunt them up tomorrow.--get over there!" this last to pilgrim, who suddenly had put his head on jason's shoulder with a soft nuzzling of his nose against the young doctor's cheek and a little whinny that was almost human. "why, jason, he's thanking you!" cried his mother. "he'll never forget what you've done for him tonight." jason gave the horse a careless slap and started out the stable door. "you'll be having it that he speaks greek next," he said. "you don't know him," replied jason's mother. "this is the first time you ever saw him, remember. these last three years of your father's life he's been like one of the family." she followed jason into the cottage. "often and often before your poor father died he said he'd never have been able to keep on with the circuit-riding and the preaching if he'd had to depend on any other horse than pilgrim. that horse just knew father was forgetful. he wouldn't budge if father forgot the saddle-bags. when pilgrim balked, father always knew he'd forgotten something and he'd go back for it. i'll have supper on by the time you've washed up, jason." the little stove that was set in the fireplace roared lustily. the kettle was singing. the old yellow cat slept cozily in the wooden rocker on the patch-work cushion. all the furniture, so simple and worn, was as familiar to jason as the back of his hand. jason washed at the bench in the corner, then sat down while his mother put the supper before him--fried mush, fried salt pork, tea and apple sauce. "well," said jason soberly, "what are we going to do now, mother? father's gone and--" his mother's trembling lips warned him to stop. "it doesn't seem possible," she said, "that it's only a week since we laid him away." jason interrupted gently. "i know, mother; but you and i have got to go on living!" "it's you i'm worrying about," said his mother. "i've been wondering if you hadn't better come back to baltimore with me," mused jason. "i can eke out a living somehow for the two of us." "no," said mrs. wilkins decidedly. "you've got burden enough to take care of yourself. i can get along till you're doctoring for yourself. mr. inchpin will let me have the cottage near the wharf if i'll go up to his house and cook his dinner for him. then with a little sewing and a little nursing here in the village, the cow, the chickens and pilgrim, i can get along. but i don't see how i can send you anything, jason." jason had brightened perceptibly. "if i can just get through this year, mother, i'll be on my feet. but i've got to pay dr. edwards back. he's a hard driver. if we can get together enough for that, i'll manage, somehow." jason's mother sighed. "it does seem as if, all through the years, i ought to have saved something, but i haven't, not a cent, except what i raked and scraped together for your doctoring. two hundred and fifty dollars a year beside donation parties is quite a sum, jason, and i feel guilty that i haven't saved anything for you. but it all went, especially after father got sickly. i've sold a lot of things, jason, so as to send you the money. i'm most at my wit's end now. grandma's silver teapot, that kept you three months, and your father's watch, nearly six. that's the way the things have gone. my, how thankful i was we had 'em." jason was still so very like his mother, so very unlike. where her face was sweet and tremulous, his was cool and still. his brown eyes were careless and yet eager. hers were not inscrutable now. the light had gone out of them from weeping. jason's long, strong hands were smooth and quiet. hers were knotted and work calloused and a little uncertain. as if something in her words irritated him, jason said quickly, "well, what did you and father start me on this doctor idea for, if you thought it was going to cost too much?" "o, jason, you know that thought never occurred to either of us! there are still some things to go that i've sort of hung on to. take the st. bartholomew candlestick to mr. inchpin. that will give you the money you need right now." jason looked up at the queerly wrought silver candlestick that was more like an old oil lamp than a candlestick. his mother's people had brought it from france with them. the family legend was that some huguenot ancestor had come through the massacre of st. bartholomew with this only relic of his home wrapped in his bosom. "good!" said jason eagerly. "the old thing is neither fish nor flesh, anyhow. too big mouthed for a candle and folks are going to use coal oil more and more, anyhow. i can be off tomorrow." "tomorrow's thanksgiving, jason." "i'll be glad to forget it," grumbled jason. "what have we to be thankful for?" his mother looked at him a little curiously, but she said nothing. jason caught the expression in her eyes. "don't look at me that way, mother," he burst forth angrily, "i can't forgive father, with his big brain and body for doing so little for you and me. i can't forgive him for what he dragged us through--those donation parties! he had no right to put me through what he did that year at high hill. and what did he get out of his life? they lay him away with the remark that he had a gift of prayer! and his widow may starve, for all of them." "jason, be silent," cried his mother. she had risen and stood facing him, her face deathly white. "not one word against your father. because you never could appreciate him, you needn't belittle him now. not one word," as jason would have spoken. "he was my husband and i loved him, god knows. o ethan, ethan, how shall i finish my span of years alone!" she broke down utterly. jason put his arms about her. "mother, i didn't mean to hurt you. truly i didn't. it's only that--" he stopped and set his lips tightly while he petted her in silence. "i pray, jason," said his mother, finally, "that you will never have a grief or a punishment great enough to soften your heart." jason did not answer. he went up to see mr. inchpin that night, and the following day started back east again. [illustration] iv mr. lincoln [illustration] iv mr. lincoln three times a week during the year that followed, jason's mother saddled pilgrim and rode him to the post office after the shrieks of the whistle had warned her that the tri-weekly packet had come and gone. four times during the year she heard from jason. "april , . "dear mother: "i am very well indeed, and hope that you are not overworking. things are not going very well here. everybody is hard pressed because of the war and dr. edwards simply can't make any collections. we get a good many soldiers who are sent home half cured and, of course, we get nothing at all from them--don't want to, in fact. is there any way we could raise just a little money? not a cent that you've earned, understand, but perhaps you could sell your old mahogany hat-box. mrs. chadwick always wanted it. i never did care for those old things and i don't think you do. after i get started in practice, i'll buy you a dozen hat-boxes. won't it be great when you can come down here and live with me? "your loving son, "jason." "june , . "dear mother: "i have been quite sick with a sore hand--almost got gangrene from a soldier. that's why you haven't been hearing from me. i received the ten dollars. thank you very much. i didn't think the old trap would bring that much. dr. edwards said yesterday that i had a genius for surgery. the ten dollars paid my board for six weeks, giving me a chance to take some extra cases for the doctor. the war looks bad, doesn't it? they need surgeons and though i'm doing something in patching up these poor fellows and sending them back, i wonder often if i oughtn't to go into a war hospital. do you remember the little cameo pin you used to wear till father thought it was too dressy for you? if you haven't lost it, i wish you'd send it down here for me to pawn. i can get it back after the war. i think of you often though i don't write. don't work too hard. "your loving son, "jason." "sept. , . "dear mother: "could you possibly sell something to get five dollars to me by return packet? will write fully later. "jason." but there was nothing more to sell. "my dear boy," wrote jason's mother, "i am heartbroken, for i know how hard you are working, but truly, i have nothing left of the least value. the cameo pin was the last. am very much worried lest you are sick. do let me know. i am very well and the neighbors are kind. pilgrim is well, too, though the scar is there on his shoulder. i'm sure he will always remember what you did for him. he is all but human. _please_ write me. "a hug and kiss, from mother." jason's fourth letter was urgent and prompt in reply. "dear mother: "i am going into the army, mother. the need for surgeons is urgent and i've got to help lick the south. i thought, barring the five from you, i could raise enough to buy into practice with dr. edwards before i leave, so that if i live, i will have that to return to. it will cost a hundred dollars. but i can't do it. so i guess you'll have to sell pilgrim. i hate to ask it of you but after all he's only an expense to you and i'll buy you another, after the war. sell him to the government for an army horse. mr. inchpin will attend to it for you. "lovingly, "jason." jason's mother read the letter with tears running down her cheeks. it was november. drearily the kentucky hills rolled back from the river and drearily the ohio valleys stretched inland. pilgrim plodded patiently toward the stable and his mistress, huddled in the saddle, gave him no heed until pilgrim stamped impatiently at the stable door. then she dismounted and the great horse stamped into his stall. "o pilgrim," she sobbed, "jason is going to war. jason is going to war. i can't lose him too!" the horse turned his fine head and nickered softly as he rubbed his soft nose on her shoulder. "and i've got to let you go, old friend," she added. "i know that i don't need you, pilgrim. it's just that you are like a living bit of father--and if jason would only seem to understand that, it wouldn't be so hard to let you go. i wonder if all young folks are like jason?" old pilgrim leaned his head over his stall and in the november gloaming he looked long at his mistress with his wise and gentle eyes. it was as if he would tell her that he had learned that youth is always a little hard; that only long years in harness with always the back-breaking load to pull, not for oneself, but for others, can make the really grateful heart. one of the sweet, deep compensations of the years, the gray horse seemed to say, is that gratitude grows in the soul. so jason and old pilgrim both went to war. they did not see each other, but each one, in his own way, made a brilliant record. pilgrim learned the sights and sounds and smells of war. the fearful pools of blood ceased to send him plunging and rearing in harness. the screams of utter fear or of mortal agony no longer set him to neighing or sweating in sympathy. pilgrim, superb in strength and superb in intelligence, plodded efficiently through a battle just as he had plodded efficiently over the circuit of jason's methodist father. and jason, cool and clear-headed, with his wonderful long strong hands, sawed and sewed and probed and purged his way through field hospital after field hospital, until the men began to hear of his skill and to ask for him when the fear of death was on them. his work absorbed him more and more, until months went by, and he neglected to write to his mother! just why, who can say? each of us looking into his heart, perhaps can find some answer. but jason was young, and work and world hungry. he did not ask himself embarrassing questions. the months slipped into a year, and the first year into a second year. still jason did not write to his mother, nor did he longer hear from her. in november of the second year jason was stationed in a hospital near washington. one rainy morning as he made his way to the cot of a man who was dying of gangrene, an orderly stopped him. "this is dr. jason wilkins?" "yes." "sorry, doctor, but i've got to arrest you and take you to washington--" jason looked the orderly over incredulously. "you've got the wrong man, friend." the soldier drew a heavy envelop carefully from his breast pocket, and handed it to jason. jason opened it uneasily, and gasped. this is what he read: "show this to surgeon jason wilkins, ---- regiment. arrest him. bring him to me immediately.--a. lincoln." jason whitened. "what's up?" he asked the orderly. "i didn't ask the president," replied the orderly dryly. "we'll start at once, if you please, doctor." in a daze, jason left for washington. he thought of all the minor offenses he had committed. but they were only such as any young fellow might have committed. he could not believe that any of them had reached mr. lincoln's ears, or that, if they had, the great man in the white house would have heeded them. jason was locked in a room in a washington boarding-house for one night. the next day at noon the orderly called for him. weak-kneed, jason followed him up the long drive to the door of the white house, and into a room where there were more orderlies and a man at a desk writing. an hour of dazed waiting, then a man came out of a door and spoke to the man at the desk. "surgeon jason wilkins," said the sentry. "here!" answered jason. "this way," jerked the orderly, and jason found himself in the inner room, with the door closed behind him. the room was empty, yet filled. there was but one man in it besides jason, but that man was mr. lincoln. he sat at a desk, with his somber eyes on jason's face--still a cool young face, despite trembling knees. "you are jason wilkins?" said mr. lincoln. "yes, mr. president," replied the young surgeon. "where are you from?" "high hill, ohio." "have you any relatives?" "only my mother is living." "yes, only a mother! well, young man, how is your mother?" jason stammered. "why, why--i don't know." "you don't know!" thundered lincoln. "and why don't you know? is she living or dead?" "i don't know," said jason. "to tell the truth, i've neglected to write and i don't suppose she knows where i am." there was a silence in the room. mr. lincoln clenched a great fist on his desk, and his eyes scorched jason. "i had a letter from her. she supposes you dead and asked me to trace your grave. what was the matter with her? no good? like most mothers, a poor sort? eh? answer me, sir?" jason bristled a little. "the best woman that ever lived, mr. president." "ah!" breathed mr. lincoln. "still you have no reason to be grateful to her! how'd you get your training as a surgeon? who paid for it? your father?" jason reddened. "well, no; father was a poor methodist preacher. mother raised the money, though i worked for my board mostly." "yes, how'd she raise the money?" jason's lips were stiff. "selling things, mr. president." "what did she sell?" "father's watch--the old silver teapot--the mahogany hat-box--the st. bartholomew candlestick. old things mostly; beyond use except in museums." again silence in the room, while a look of contempt gathered in abraham lincoln's eyes that seared jason's cool young soul till it scorched him. "you poor fool!" said lincoln. "you poor worm! her household treasures--one by one--for you. 'useless things--fit for museums!' oh, you fool!" jason flushed angrily and bit his lips. suddenly the president rose and pointed a long, bony finger at his desk. "come here and sit down and write a letter to your mother!" jason stalked obediently over and sat down in the president's seat. anger and mortification were ill inspirations for letter-writing, but under lincoln's burning eyes jason seized a pen and wrote his mother a stilted note. lincoln paced the floor, pausing now and again to look over jason's shoulder. "address it and give it to me," said the president. "i'll see that it gets to her." then, his stern voice rising a little: "and now, jason wilkins, as long as you are in the army, you write to your mother once a week. if i have reason to correct you on the matter again, i'll have you court-martialed." jason rose and handed the letter to the president, then stood, angry and silent, awaiting further orders. abraham lincoln took another turn or two up and down the room. then he paused before the window and looked from it a long, long time. finally he turned to jason. "my boy," he said gently, "there's no finer quality in the world than gratitude. there is nothing a man can have in his heart so mean, so low as ingratitude. even a dog appreciates a kindness, never forgets a soft word, or a bone. to my mind, the noblest holiday in the world is thanksgiving. and, next the creator, there is no one the holiday should be dedicated to as much as to mothers." again lincoln paused, and looked from the boyish face of the young surgeon out of the window at the bleak november skies, and lincoln said to jason, with god knows what tragedy of memory in his lonely heart: "freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, thou dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot." another pause. "you may go, my boy." and lincoln shook hands with jason, who stumbled from the room, his mind a chaos of resentment and anger. he made his way down pennsylvania avenue, pausing as two army officers rode up to a hotel and dismounted, leaving their horses. something about the big gray that one of the officers rode seemed vaguely familiar to the young doctor. the gray turned his small, intelligent head toward jason, then with a sudden soft whinny, laid his head on jason's shoulder and nuzzled his cheek gently. jason looked at the right fore shoulder. a three-cornered scar was there. jason and old pilgrim never had met but once, and yet--jason was little more than a boy. suddenly he threw his arms around old pilgrim's neck, and sobbed into the silky mane. passers-by glanced curiously and then went on. washington was full of tears those days. pilgrim whinnied and waited patiently. finally jason dried his eyes, then stood in thought. the officer who had ridden pilgrim came out at last. jason saluted. [illustration] "captain, i'd like to buy that horse from you." the captain laughed. "there are a number of others like you." "no, but let me tell you about him, captain. give me ten minutes. i'm dr. wilkins of ---- hospital." "o yes, i know of your work. what's the story, doctor?" jason told pilgrim's history. "she gave him up for me and now i've found him," he finished. "i want to buy him back, get a furlough and take him home to her, myself. i've been saving my money." "you may have him for just what i paid for him, doctor," said the captain, who was considerably jason's senior. "tell your mother i wish my own mother were living and that i do this in her memory." "thank you, sir," said jason. a week later jason led pilgrim out of the freight car in which he had traveled from washington to a railway station twenty-five miles from home. the river packets were not running and this was the nearest station to high hill. it was noon and cold. jason mounted and started south briskly and once more the ohio valley opened up before him. it seemed to jason that he was seeing the hills for absolutely the first time. and yet that could not be, for back with the first sight of the distant river came all his old boyish reverence for the headlands. the last time he had ridden horseback in the hills had been in the west virginia circuit, with his father. for the first time since his interview with the president, jason began to think of his father. all his newly awakened sense of gratitude had been centered on his mother. did he then owe his father nothing? it took courage, it took nerve, it took stomach to patch together the bloody wrecks on the field of battle. it had taken tenacity to an ideal to starve and toil for his profession as he had done in baltimore. whence had come these qualities to jason? he thought once more of his father on that trip on the west virginian circuit, of the boys expelled from the church, of sister clark, of his own sense of mortification and his own contempt. and he dropped his head on his breast with a groan. and so as the sun set, pilgrim with the scar on his right fore shoulder and jason with the scar on his soul that only remorse implants there, stopped before the cottage in high hill. and through the window, jason's mother saw them. she rushed to the door and jason, dismounting, ran up to her, and dropping on his knees, threw his arms about her waist and sobbed against her bosom: "o mother! o mother! forgive me! i didn't realize. i didn't know!" just as many, many sons have done before, and just as many more will do, please god, as long as love and gratitude endure. file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) your uncle sam owns a great navy a very important adjunct of government.--you and everybody must be interested in it. [illustration: a submarine boat. a new "wrinkle" in warfare.] the american battleship and life in the navy by thos. beyer, a bluejacket is the most authoritative as well as the most readable book published on the subject. also humorous man-o'-war yarns. = full-page half-tones, including rear-admiral evans' flagship "connecticut," and a lithographed map, in four colors, of the cruise around the world by the u. s. fleet, - .= extra silk cloth, gold title, $ . at all bookstores and book supply houses, or sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by laird & lee, publishers, - wabash avenue, chicago [illustration: dressed in her husband's clothes, she led them to the tobacco barn.] "_a fence between makes love more keen_." the night riders a thrilling story of love, hate and adventure, graphically depicting the tobacco uprising in kentucky by henry c. wood "_who warms in his bosom the eggs of hatred hatches a nest of snakes_." [illustration: publisher's logo.] chicago laird & lee, publishers entered according to act of congress, in the year , by william h. lee, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington, d. c. dramatic rights reserved by the author. _preface_ _the author has cleverly interwoven a tale of absorbing heart interest with a graphically depicted view of the present tobacco troubles in kentucky and the exciting times when the people formed into bands, known as the night riders, to protest against what they considered the unjust tax of the toll gate system. these protests were of a strenuous nature, not unlike those of the tobacco-growing section today, and as the characters in the story are real, live beings, who did things, the reader's interest never flags._ _the publishers._ [illustration: a troop of riders] [illustration: bracing himself in his stirrups, milt cried hurriedly to judson: "leap up behind me!"--_page _.] [illustration: title and author with the image of a rider.] the night riders by henry cleveland wood chapter i. the early morning sunlight entered boldly through the small panes of glass into the kitchen of the toll-house and fell in a checkered band across the breakfast table set against the sill of the one long, low window. the meal was a simple one, plainly served, but a touch of gold and purple--royal colors of the season--was given it by a bunch of autumn flowers, golden-rod and wild aster, stuck in a glass jar set on the window sill. a glance at the two seated at each end of the narrow table would have enabled one to decide quickly to whom was due this desire for ornamentation, for the mother was a sharp-featured, rather untidy-looking woman, on whom the burden of hard work and poverty had laid certain harsh lines not easily eradicated, while the daughter's youth and comeliness had overcome them as a fine jewel may assert its beauty despite a cheap setting. the sun's lambent rays, falling across the girl's shapely head and shoulders, touched to deeper richness the auburn hair, gathered in a large, loose coil, that rested low upon her neck, and also accentuated the clear, delicately-tinted complexion like a semi-transparency that is given rare old china when the light illumines it. the meal was eaten almost in silence, but toward the end of the breakfast mrs. brown looked up suddenly, her cup of coffee raised partly to her lips, and said, in her querulous treble: "sally, foster crain says aigs air fetchin' fo'hteen an' a half cents in town. count what's stored away in the big gourd, when you git through eatin', an' take 'em in this mornin'." "how am i to go?" asked her daughter, looking up from her plate. "joe's limping from that nail he picked up yesterday." "likely somebody'll be passin' the gate that'll give you a seat. the squire may be along soon." a certain inflection crept into the speaker's voice. "i'll walk," announced sally, with sudden determination. "it's cool and pleasant, and i'd as soon walk as ride." the mother looked across furtively to where her daughter sat. "i don't see what makes you so set ag'in the squire," she said, plaintively, a few moments later, as if she had divined her daughter's unuttered thoughts. "he's an old fool!" declared sally, promptly. "an' it strikes me that you're somethin' of a young one!" retorted her mother sharply. the girl made no answer, save a perceptible shrug of her pretty shoulders, and soon afterward got up and began to clear away the breakfast dishes. mrs. brown sighed deeply. "most girls would be powerful vain to have the squire even notice 'em," the mother continued, in a more persuasive tone, as a sort of balm offering to the girl's wounded feelings. she placed her cup and saucer in her plate and put back a small piece of unused butter on the side of the butter dish, then slowly arose from the table. "it's seldom a po' gyurl has such a good chance to better her condition, if she was only willin' to do so," she continued argumentatively, for the subject was a favorite theme with her, and she had rung its changes for the listener's benefit on more than one occasion. she gave her daughter a sidelong glance--partly of inquiry, partly of reproach--and turned to her work. sally, with something like an impatient jerk, lifted from the stove the steaming kettle and poured a part of the hot contents into the dish-pan on the table, but she made no answer, though soon the clatter of tins and dishes--perhaps they rattled a little louder than usual--mingled as a sort of accompaniment to the reminiscent monologue that mrs. brown carried on at intervals during her work. "it's all owin' to the squire's kindness an' interest in us that we're fixed this comfortable, for, dear knows i'd never got the toll-gate in the first place if it hadn't been for his influence, an' now, if you'd only give him any encouragement at all, you might be a grand sight better off. such chances don't grow as thick as blackberries in summer, i can tell you." the dishes and tins rattled angrily, but sally said not a word. "about the only good showin' a poor gyurl has in this world is to marry as well as she can, an' when she neglects to do this, she's got nobody to blame but herself--not a soul." sally had the dishes all washed and laid in a row on the table to drain, and now she caught them up, one by one, and began to polish away vigorously, as if the effort afforded a certain relief to her feelings, since she had chosen to take refuge in silence. "s'posin' he _is_ old an' ugly," soliloquized mrs. brown, abruptly breaking into speech again, and seemingly addressing her remarks to the skillet she was then cleaning, and which she held up before her and gazed into intently, as a lady of fashion might do a hand glass at her toilet. "what o' that? beauty's only skin deep, an' old age is likely to come to us all sooner or later. it's all the better if he is along in years," she added, with a sudden chuckle and a second furtive glance over the top of the skillet toward the girl, to see if she was listening. "then he ain't so likely to live forever, an' a trim young widow, with property of her own an' money in bank, can mighty soon find a chance to marry ag'in, if she's a mind to." a cloud of anger swept over the listener's face, which the mother failed to see, as the skillet again intervened. "there ain't nothin' like havin' a home of your own, an' knowin' you've got a shelter for your old age--no, indeed, they ain't! the squire's mighty well fixed; he's got a real good farm, an' turnpike stock, an' cash, an' a nice, comfortable house besides." "comfortable!" exclaimed sally, with a toss of her head, and breaking her resolve to keep silent. "it looks like a ha'nted barn stuck back amongst them cedar trees down in the hollow. no wonder his first wife went crazy an' hung herself up in the attic, poor thing! they say he treated her shameful mean." sally had looked upon this house many times and with conflicting thoughts as she passed it now and then. an air of neglect and loneliness hung about the spot. the house, hopelessly ugly and angular, was set far back from the road in the midst of a large yard given over to weeds and untrimmed shrubbery, while a clump of gloomy-looking cedars defied even the brightness of sun and sky. "you can't put credit into everything you hear," admonished mrs. brown, breaking ruthlessly into her daughter's musings. "besides, a spry young girl can pretty much have her own way when she marries a man so much older than herself. "there's serena lowe, that use' to be," she continued, reminiscently. "she an' her fam'ly was about as poor as job's turkey when we went to school together, an' many's the time i've divided my dinner with her because she didn't seem to have any too much of her own. "but she had a downright pretty face--all white an' pink, like a doll's--an' it helped her to ketch old bartholomew rice, an' now she rides around in her own kerridge an' pair, mind you, an' no prouder woman ever lived this minute. you'd think from the airs she gives herself that she was born in the best front room on a sunday. "the squire's as good as hinted to me that if he could marry the one he wants, he wouldn't in the least mind goin' to the expense of paintin' an' fixin' up the place till you wouldn't know it," insinuated mrs. brown, dropping her voice to a more confidential tone. "he'd have to paint an' fix hisself up, too, till you wouldn't know _him_, either, before i'd even so much as look at him," tartly asserted sally. "a tidy young wife could change his looks an' the looks of the house in a mighty little while, if she only had a mind to do so," suggested mrs. brown, in subtly persuasive tones. "it must be dreadful lonesome livin' as he does, with nobody to look after things." "he might have kept his nephew for company," insisted sally, with a sudden ring of resentment in her voice. "he drove him away." "which likely he wouldn't have done if milt hadn't been so headstrong an' wild. you know the squire's goin' to have his own way about things." "about _some_ things," corrected sally. "mebbe about all, sooner or later," said mrs. brown, in hopeful prediction. "he ain't a man to give up easy when he sets his mind in a certain direction." "perhaps his nephew isn't, either," suggested her daughter, with a little tinge of color deepening in each cheek. "no, an' that's just the cause an' upshot of the whole trouble!" cried the mother, in a sudden flash of vehemence, dropping the persuasive tones she had heretofore employed for resentful chiding. "his nephew's at the bottom of it all, an' you seem ready an' willin' to throw away a good chance of a nice, comfortable home an' deprive me of a shelter in my old age just for the sake of that no-account milt derr, who happens to have smooth ways an' a nimble tongue. it looks like he's fairly bewitched you." chapter ii. a little later in the morning sally tied on her sunbonnet, whose pale blue lining made a charming framing for her fresh complexion and pretty face, concealing it just sufficiently to make one keenly inquisitive to take a second longer glance beneath the ruffled rim. with the basket of eggs swung coquettishly on her plump arm, and a stray wisp or two of wavy hair escaping from its confines down her shapely, curving neck and throat, in protest at imprisonment, the girl set out walking toward the town, a mile away. mrs. brown had ingeniously delayed her daughter's going by finding several little duties for her to perform, hoping the while that before the girl should be ready to start the squire would make his appearance and leave her no alternative but to accept a ride with him. the morning grew apace, however, and finally sally set out alone, quite grateful for the squire's tardiness, and partly amused, partly vexed, by her mother's thinly-veiled excuses for delay. as the girl walked along the road with the springing, elastic step of youth and perfect health, and the freedom of the far-stretching fields as a heritage, the fresh morning air caressing her cheeks brought forth a bloom as soft and delicate as the rose of a summer dawn, while her spirits, which had become somewhat dampened under her mother's recent bickerings, gradually grew soothed and calmed under the tranquil charm of the new-born day. now and then a bird, startled at her approach, flew from hedge to hedge across the road, piping loudly in affected alarm as it went, while in a softer strain came the gentle lowing of cattle from a pasture near at hand, and in the tall grass and dusty weeds along the way the autumnal chorus of insects had begun, conducted by the shrill-toned cricket. at the top of the first hill that arose between the gate and town sally paused a moment--not that she was tired, or even spent of breath--and looked back. the picture that she saw was one of serene beauty, with wide stretches of fallow fields, bathed in the golden tranquility of a perfect october day, and dumb with the spell of restfulness and mystic brooding that this season brings. in the far distance a long, ragged line of hills melted into the soft blue sky-line, and over these shadowy sentinels, standing a-row, the purplish haze of autumn hung like a diaphanous curtain stretching between the lowlands and the hill country. from her elevated vantage ground the girl could see the toll-house very distinctly, though she herself was partly hidden by a small clump of young locusts under which she had paused. as she looked toward her home the squire's old buggy came in sight around a curve of the road and stopped at the gate. her mother came out and presently pointed in the direction of town, while the squire gave his horse a cut of the whip and started up the road at a much brisker pace, it seemed to sally, than before the gate was reached. "mother's told him that he might overtake me," she muttered, grimly smiling at the thought. "i'll see that he don't," she added, resolutely. she stood for a few moments debating the situation, then looked toward the town. the distance was but half traveled, and the squire must certainly overtake her before her destination was reached. there was a smaller hill beyond, and toward this she now set out briskly, fully determined to cover as much of the way as possible, so that, if finally overtaken, the ride would prove but a short one at best. when she reached the brow of the second hill the squire was lost to sight behind the first one, and just then a plan of escape happily suggested itself as she reached a low stone wall running for some distance along one side of the road. she lightly climbed the moss-covered stones and crouched down behind them in a clump of golden-rod, waiting in covert until the squire should pass. soon she heard an approaching vehicle, which she knew to be the squire's from the familiar joggle of loose bolts, and close upon its coming another sound fell on her alert ear, as if a horseman were riding from the direction of the town. the person on horseback and squire bixler met and came to a halt in the middle of the road, almost in front of that portion of the stone wall behind which the girl had taken refuge. after the exchange of a brief greeting, the squire said, abruptly: "well, what progress have you made? any?" "well, squire, i think he's goin' to jine," answered the horseman, in the peculiar drawling tones suggestive of the hill country, whose boundary lay purple and hazy along the distant horizon. "you _think_ he is?" cried the squire impatiently, with a ripping oath. "what do you _know_ about it?" "that when i see him again he is to tell me if he's made up his mind to come to the next meetin' place. if he does, of course, he'll jine the band." "and what does the band propose doing?" asked the squire. "to git free roads." "how?" "not by waitin' on the courts; the people have tried that long enough. they're goin' to take things into their own hands a bit. they mean business." "yes, and damn 'em, they'll find that others mean business, too!" retorted the squire, impetuously. "however, keep your eyes and ears open, and you'll soon hear the jingle of money in your pockets." "i'll try to keep you posted, but it's risky business for me." "you're all safe," insisted the squire, "and you're sure of good pay. i'd like to get the young rascal in the clutches of the law," added the speaker, with sudden vindictiveness, "and if ever i do, i'll promise to make it hot for him." "you can trap him before a great while, i think, or at least get him in so tight a place that it will be safer for him to leave this part of the country." "well, if i can't run him to ground, i'd at least like to run him away," admitted the squire, frankly. "it's your best chance for winnin' the gal," said the horseman, with a meaning laugh. "you keep an eye on his movements, and i'll attend to winning the girl," answered the other with a touch of resentment manifest in his tone. "did you meet anybody between here and town?" "no. was you expectin' to overtake some one?" questioned the horseman. "well, nobody in particular," answered the squire, evasively. "i was just thinking that there wasn't much travel over the road this morning." "not as much as there will be when there's no toll to pay," said the other, with a meaning laugh, as he rode away. the girl, crouching amid the tall weeds, waited until the rattling vehicle was well over the intervening hill before she ventured from her hiding place. when she gained the road once more her face wore a grave and thoughtful look. it was evident that mischief was brewing in this quarter for somebody. who was it the squire was so eager to get into the clutches of the law, and what band was this person about to join? it seemed to be some secret and illegal organization. no names had been called, yet a sudden subtle intuition warned sally that she was, in point of fact, one of the interested parties to the conversation just overheard, and that the other person who had gained the squire's avowed enmity, and for whose speedy undoing he was even now planning, was none other than his own nephew and her sweetheart--milton derr. chapter iii. when the pretty toll-taker reached town she disposed of her basket of eggs at even a higher price than foster crain, the poultry vendor, had quoted--she was a famous hand at bargaining and a shrewd trader--then set about making some purchases. she saw the squire's horse and buggy standing at a hitching post near the courthouse, and determined that she would wait until the vehicle had disappeared before she started back home. therefore she dallied over her shopping in a truly feminine way, and dropped in to have a friendly chat with an acquaintance or two; then, noting the horse and buggy had gone, she finally started homeward. the day was now hastening toward noon, the sun had grown oppressive, and, with several bundles to carry, sally felt that the return would not be so pleasant as the coming had been. she looked about her, hoping to find some one--that is, some one besides the squire--who might be going in the direction of the new pike gate, and with a seat to offer, but no one seemed to be in town from her neighborhood on this morning, and so she set out alone. just as sally reached the edge of the town, where two streets intersected, who should drive up the other street but the squire? the meeting was wholly an accidental one, but after her persistent efforts to avoid him all the morning, the encounter seemed like the especial workings of a perverse fate. the squire was close upon her before she even saw him. there was no chance for escape or subterfuge. "ah, miss sally! good morning to you!" he cried, with one of his amatory ogles that always sent a cold chill over her and strongly aroused within her bosom a spirit of determined opposition. "i have been looking for you all the morning. where have you been hiding yourself?" he asked, as he drove up to where she had reluctantly stopped on hearing her name called. "behind the stone wall," sally was half tempted to answer, wishing, at the moment, that she could have availed herself of its protection in the present instance; but she only nodded gravely and said that she had been making a few purchases for her mother. "i tried to overtake you early this morning," continued the squire, glibly. "your mother said you had been gone but a little while when i passed the gate. you must have walked pretty fast." "i did," acknowledged sally, with a covert smile. "it was cool and pleasant walking." "well, come! put your bundles down in front and jump in," said her companion. "riding's better than walking any day, and good company's better than either," he added, with a tender leer at her, which sally pretended not to see. there was nothing for it but to accept the proffered seat. she did not dare openly to offend the squire by a refusal to ride with him, though she would willingly have chosen the long, warm walk, even with the additional burden of her bundles, in preference to his company. as her mother had said only that morning, it was through his influence that she had been appointed keeper of the new pike gate, and it was due to him she now kept it, so sally civilly thanked him and got into the buggy. "if i had counted on such good company, i would have had this old rattletrap cleaned up a bit," said the squire, apologetically, as they drove off. "but, never mind!" he added, jocosely. "when we start out on our wedding trip, i'll buy a brand-new, shiny rig, out an' out." "_we?_" echoed sally, with a certain sharpness of tone. "you don't suppose i'd care to go on a bridal trip alone, do you?" inquired the squire, laconically, and with a wink of one watery eye. "i'm afraid you will, if you depend on me to go along with you," answered sally, dryly. "now, my dear, you surely wouldn't be that cruel?" said the squire, edging a little closer to sally, who as promptly moved away. "haven't i been depending on your going all the while, and haven't i said that i wouldn't have any other girl but you, though there's plenty would be only too glad to go for the asking?" "an' there's one that wouldn't," announced sally, coolly. [illustration: "when we start on our wedding trip i'll buy a brand new, shiny rig."] "then i can show her where she stands mightily in her own light," said the squire, suddenly dropping into a more serious tone. "how so?" "by giving her some very good reasons why she should act differently." "what reasons?" asked sally, arousing to some slight show of interest. "well, now, we'll suppose, for instance, the girl to be you," began the squire, argumentatively. "you and your mother are depending on the toll-gate for a living, and it makes you a comfortable one, at any rate. did you know the toll-gate raiders were at work?" asked the squire, abruptly. the girl caught her breath with a quick start. "no," she answered, quickly. "where?" "right here in this very county. they burned a toll-house just on the boundary line only the other night, and cut down the pole of one gate in the edge of this county last night, so i was told today," said the squire, impressively. "i'm afraid we're going to have a deal of trouble over the matter before it's ended," he continued, thoughtfully, shrewdly following the impression he had evidently made on the mind of his hearer. "the spirit of lawlessness seems to be widely spreading." "do you think there's any danger of the raiders payin' a visit to the new pike gate?" questioned sally, anxiously. "i shouldn't be the least surprised," answered her companion, with a dubious shake of the head. "the night-riders seem determined to make way with all the toll-gates in this part of the country if they can." "i can't think they would harm us," insisted sally, "two poor, helpless women." "likely not, but if the raiders have made up their minds to have free roads, as they appear to have done, they would not hesitate to burn the toll-house over your heads, which would leave you and your mother without a shelter, don't you see?" the squire paused, and the girl sat buried in deep thought for some moments. "in that case, what could you do or where could you go?" asked the squire, at last breaking the silence that had fallen between them. "heaven only knows!" cried the girl, earnestly. "now, affairs stand just in this way," continued the squire, craftily. "if the raiders should burn the toll-house--and it is a most probable thing, i fear--it would leave you two women in rather a bad plight. but if you'll only agree to marry me, why, there's a nice home waiting for you, and your mother will also have a comfortable shelter in her old age, and neither of you will have cause to worry about the future." the squire paused, but sally made no answer. she knew full well that his words were quite true concerning the dependence of her mother and herself on the toll-gate for a living. she also knew that as long as the squire entertained the faintest hope of ultimately winning her the gate was secured to her mother, and therefore she had not felt troubled on this score; but now that a new and unlooked-for danger threatened in the unusual and unexpected presence of the raiders, she tremulously asked herself, "what, indeed, if the toll-houses were destroyed, would become of her and her mother?" the girl felt no fears for herself regarding the future--she was energetic and had been familiar with work all her life; it held no terrors for her; she could hire out--wash, cook, sew--perhaps some day marry the man of her choice when he should be in a position to take unto himself a wife; but, with her mother's welfare also to be considered, the matter grew far more complex. "don't you see just how matters stand?" asked the squire, persuasively, almost tenderly, breaking the long silence. sally gravely nodded her head. "i see," she answered, in a low tone. chapter iv. it was close upon o'clock at night--a late hour for a lonely traveler in this remote locality amid the hills--and milton derr was homeward bound. as he neared the vicinity of alder creek meeting-house, up in the hill country, another horseman came out of a lane into the public road just as he was passing. hailing a fellow voyager, as was the custom of the neighborhood, derr recognized an acquaintance and promptly checked his horse until the other came alongside. "hello, steve! isn't it a little late for an honest man to be abroad?" milton asked, after friendly greeting from his companion. "well, yes, and it seems i'm not the only one in that plight," retorted the other, with the quick repartee belonging to these people. his companion laughed good-naturedly at the thrust, and the two rode on together for some little distance, when milton derr, suddenly changing the drift of the talk said: "well, i've been thinking over that matter we were speaking about the other day." "to what purpose?" asked the other. "i'm in half a notion to become a member of the band." "the other half's needed before you can get in, you know," answered steve, laconically. "well, i'm nearing that point now," admitted derr, after a thoughtful pause. "i think i should like to have some voice in this question of free roads myself, as it promises to be an important one." "in that case i can easily arrange it for you. there'll be but few men around here who won't belong to the band before toll-gate raiding is over," said the other, impressively. "folks have been bled by fat corporations long enough." "when could i join?" asked derr, after some moments of meditative silence. "when?" echoed his companion. "tonight, if your mind's made up." "well, then, it is," said derr, decisively. "how am i to go about it?" "just follow me. if you really mean business, i can take you straight to where the band is holding a meeting this very night." "all right," answered the prospective candidate. "lead the way!" the two turned into a dirt lane beyond the meeting-house, derr keeping close by the side of his guide, while the hoofbeats of the two horses suddenly grew muffled by the softer bed of the lane in exchange for the macadamized pike. there was no moon to light the way, and the faint starlight that had made easily traceable the white, dust-covered surface of the highway was now absorbed and lost in the dull clay of the lane. where the trees and bushes overhung the path a dense obscurity prevailed. both man and beast were familiar with night riding along country byways, however, so the two travelers rode rapidly on, unmindful of the darkness or the twisting road. a mile farther on they quitted the lane, passing through a gate into a fallow field adjoining, which they crossed, and finally came to the outer fringe of a dense thicket. here they halted, while steve, placing his fingers to his lips in a certain manner, blew a low, peculiar whistle, like the call of some sombre night bird, which was answered later from somewhere amid the bushes. close upon the answering call a dark form emerged from the shadowy copse near at hand, and a voice asked gruffly: "who goes there?" "friends." "what are you seeking?" "free roads." "dismount!" steve dropped from his horse and went forward to where the dark form stood, while derr, with his ears alert and lively interest aroused, heard him announce that he had brought one who craved membership with the band. after learning the name of the candidate for initiation, the figure seemed to melt into darkness again, while steve came back to his horse and companion to await the return of the messenger. "it's all right; come along!" said steve at another signal from amidst the bushes. the two men quickly hitched their horses to some saplings growing near, and found a narrow path leading down between the underbrush. steve led the way, milton following close upon his footsteps, while the mysterious messenger, who wore a half-mask over the upper part of his face, brought up the rear. there was a tinge of romantic adventure about the whole affair that strongly appealed to the new candidate. the path led down to a secluded hollow in the midst of the thicket--a remote and lonely spot, far removed from human habitation, it seemed, and little liable to intrusion--a spot well chosen for a secret midnight rendezvous. in the midst of the copse lay a small clearing, and in its center the three men came suddenly upon a group gathered around a smouldering fire, built of brushwood piled against a log. the uncertain blaze but dimly lighted the scene, but it was sufficient to bring into clearer view the dark forms of a body of men vaguely outlined against the darker bushes surrounding them, while the faces of the members of this secret band were partly concealed under soft slouch hats, and strips of black cloth, such as the guide wore, tied over the upper part of the face, with holes cut in the cloth for the eyes. this partial concealment of the features gave an air of weird mystery to the secret conclave--a touch of the uncanny mingling with the strange and romantic. a swift thought darted into milton derr's brain as he suddenly recalled his sweetheart's words of warning given him at meeting the sunday before, that perhaps he had been led into a trap, of whose setting his uncle was cognizant, and that the members of this secret organization meant to do him bodily harm. if such should be their will and purpose, he was entirely at their mercy. no friendly aid could reach him in this remote and dismal spot, where even a cry for help would die unheeded upon the still night air. yet, as these disturbing thoughts darted through his excited brain, he stood erect and motionless, and his calm face gave no sign of inward fear. if he was called upon to yield his life it should be rendered as became a brave man, but he would endeavor to sell it as dearly as possible. standing in that sombre spot, the spirit of distrust bearing heavily upon him, he gave a swift, sweeping glance of inquiry around, noting the shadowy forms of the men that seemed to merge into the impenetrable darkness, while the uncertain, flickering blaze of the fire but dimly lighted the gloomy depths of foliage beyond, rising like a mysterious barrier to shut out freedom and the outer world. the grim silence of the group surrounding him still further served to deeply impress the new candidate for initiation, and to make manifest the fact that whatever of good or evil might be in store for him, it was now too late to retract the words that had helped to bring him thither. the young man found himself vaguely hoping, as he glanced keenly from one to another of the silent brotherhood, that among these masked faces, whose fantastically concealed features were turned darkly in his direction, there might be at least some friendly and familiar ones if uncovered to the light. at the conclusion of the initiation, made yet more impressive to the candidate because of his lively imagination, aided and fed by the remoteness of the spot and the gloom of the night, after derr had taken the solemn oath of the order to obey its captain and preserve all secrets, the raiders began to bare their faces to the new member. as the half-masks were raised, one by one, milton derr saw that several members of the band were acquaintances of his, one or two were more intimate friends, while others he knew only by sight and some were strangers. the captain was the last to remove his mask, and as he did so the new raider recognized in him the one man, of all others dwelling amid these hills, he least desired or expected to serve under--jade beddow. chapter v. "now, boys, to business!" cried the captain, briskly, as some of milt's acquaintances gathered around him to give him a welcoming hand. "we have a little work before us tonight." soon the sound of a small cavalcade, riding rapidly along the country roads, broke into the quiet of the night, perchance arousing some light sleeper as it passed, who, after listening drowsily to the retreating hoof-beats as they died away in the distance, would turn and mutter, "the night riders," then drift into slumber again. "where are we going?" asked milt, who rode by the side of steve. "to make one less toll-gate." "which one?" asked milt, with an interest he did not care to betray. "it's the cross-roads gate, i think. you can look for a lot o' fun tonight if it's that one, an' we get maggie o'flynn stirred up. she's a regular circus in herself." steve chuckled audibly at the prospective entertainment. "it will be something like stirring up a den of wild-cats, not counting in pat at all," milt admitted. "pat don't count; he's a coward, through and through. the fun will all be furnished by maggie." "and we fellows had better look sharp," cautioned milt. "maggie's a pretty good shot, i've heard." "we've seen to it that she won't have a chance to draw a bead on any of us," admitted steve. "she keeps a rifle at the gate, but one of the neighbors borrowed it this very mornin' to shoot a hawk, an' somehow forgot to carry it back. he won't think of it till in the mornin'. maggie's tongue is all that's left to guard the gate." "and under ordinary circumstances that's sufficient," admitted milt. the raiders soon came out upon a turnpike, and after a ride of a mile or two they reached a spot where the pike was intersected by another, crossed at right angles. at the juncture of the two roads stood the toll-house which had been chosen for the night's raid. a raider was stationed about a hundred yards from the gate to guard the approach from that direction, while the rest rode forward to where the double poles were now raised at this mid-hour of the night. three of the horsemen passed through and took positions on the farther side of the toll-house, at about equal distances from it along the two roads. in the meantime the captain selected a man from among the members of the band, who was least known to the locality, to act as spokesman, and while the remaining raiders grouped themselves about the gate, a resounding knock was given at the toll-house door. "all roight! i'm afther comin'. ye needn't break the dure down," answered a sleepy man's voice, deeply tinged with celtic brogue. "what the divil do ye want, anyway? the poles are raised!" the voice demanded immediately after. "we want these poles cut down," announced the spokesman of the band. "begorra! an' it's the raiders!" pat said in a husky voice to his awakened spouse. "the phwat?" asked maggie, in a shrill tone, evidently raising up in bed. "whist, honey! the raiders!" repeated pat, in more cautious tones. "an' phwat do they want?" asked maggie, in a still higher key. "they want the poles cut down," faltered pat. "indade! an' phwat do they mane wakin' up honest people this dead o' the night, axin' the loike o' that?" demanded his wife, shrilly. "get the gun, pat, an' shoot the dirty thaves!" pat, shaking with excitement or fear, in a low, tremulous voice, inaudible to those without, reminded his spouse that the gun had been loaned out and was no longer there. "an' bad luck to the man that borrowed it!" cried the undaunted maggie. "it's betther used to shoot raiders with thin hawks." "get us an axe!" commanded the spokesman of the band, rapping sharply on the door. "it's out at the wood pile beyant the house," answered pat, meekly. "hush, you fool!" cried his wife, shrilly. "phwat did ye tell 'em for? i'd 'a' seen the last wan o' thim to the divil first, where they'll go quick enough." two of the raiders went in search of the axe, and soon its dull blows were heard on the hard, seasoned wood of one of the poles, while the sound of the cutting seemed to infuriate maggie as nothing else had done. she sprang out of bed like a wildcat in nimbleness, and it took all the strength and persuasion that pat could muster to keep her from opening the door and coming out into the midst of the raiders. "whist, darlint! be aisy, for the love of hiven!" implored her frightened spouse. "ye'll bring down the wrath o' the whole gang on us wid sich wild cacklin'. be quiet!" "be quiet, indade! an' let thim prowlin' thaves cut down the poles an' take away our livin'? not much!" cried maggie, fiercely. "if i only had a gun, i'd loike to shoot the last wan o' thim--the dirty blackguards!" "hush, me jewel, an' mebbe they'll only cut down the poles an' l'ave us in peace!" pleaded pat. "i _won't_ hush!" screeched maggie, growing angrier each moment. "if ye're skeert, ye c'n crawl under the bed an' hide, ye cowardly cur! i'll go out an' run the last murdherin' wan o' thim away." "ye'll git the both of us kilt intoirely if ye don't dhry up wid yer clatter!" entreated pat. "i know ivery dhirty mother's son av ye!" screamed maggie, putting her mouth close to the keyhole of the door, from which pat had taken the key, and hidden it. "i know ye all, an' i'll have ye in the pinitintiary by termorrer night, ye bloodthirsty divils--ye--" the rest of the sentence was suddenly muffled, as if pat's hand had interposed, while a scuffling sound was heard inside the room that suggested he was trying to drag maggie away from the door. the raiders crowded around the platform of the toll-house, listening in an ecstasy of delight. presently a resounding whack was heard, followed by a howl of pain from pat, whom maggie had struck, and speedily she was back at the keyhole again. "cut down the poles av ye want to, ye night-prowlin' rascals!" she bawled lustily. "i'll have 'em both up ag'in by daylight, an' i'd loike to see any sneakin' dog av ye git by an' not pay toll, ye thavin' robbers!" "she'll do it, too," muttered steve, who was standing near the captain. "she'll have bran'-new poles up almost before we can get home." "the only way to get rid of this gate is to burn it, i think," said the captain, with an oath. "as she wants to come out so much, suppose we give her a chance. get an armful of straw from the stable an' bring it here! we'll smoke her out." while steve hurried off to obey the order, two of the others gathered up some of the dry chips and splinters of wood from the cut poles, and when steve returned with the straw a fire was kindled on the platform in a sheltered corner, farthest from the door. as the flames quickly leaped up the walls of the toll-house, igniting the dry timbers, the flash of light, the smoke, the crackle of burning wood, all speedily revealed to the two within the building what was taking place without. "i tould ye to shut up, ye screechin' varmint!" cried pat, in a terror-stricken voice. "they're burnin' us up aloive. the howly saints protect us!" maggie gave a loud whoop, this time rather of fear than of rage, though the two were strongly blended. "help! murdher!" she shrieked. "i thought she'd change her tune, the wildcat!" muttered the captain, grimly. a few minutes later the back door of the toll-house was thrown quickly open, but as the two terror-stricken inmates of the burning building appeared in the doorway, ready to flee into the night, they were confronted by a couple of raiders with masks and drawn pistols. "go back!" the men sternly commanded. "for the love o' hiven, don't shoot!" pleaded pat. "go back!" the men repeated, leveling their weapons threateningly. in silent terror the two obeyed and shiveringly drew back into the burning house. dark spirals of smoke were by this time curling from the roof in several places, and soon little jets of flame thickly dotted it, shooting up from between the smoking shingles; then finally one broad sheet of flame overspread the top--a canopy of fire. milt looked on in a sort of spell-bound fascination. what did the raiders mean to do? surely not to burn these two helpless people within the toll-house. that were a crime far too serious for even this spirit of outlawry. he stood silent, watching with a growing fear the smoke escaping from the roof, then the little spurting jets of flame, and when they united in a broad, livid sheet, he felt no longer able to restrain his pity, but started to where the captain sat on his horse, calmly watching the proceedings, intending to petition him for mercy toward the two hapless ones within the doomed toll-house. before he reached the leader of the band, however, the captain blew a sharp call on his whistle, and while the three outlying guards beyond the gate dashed up in answer to the summons, two of the raiders, at a sign from their leader, had broken in the front door, then, mounting their horses, the band rode swiftly down the road, after a shrill cry of "free roads! down with the toll-gates!" when milt looked back he felt a wave of regret surge over him, as he saw, by the glare of the light, which was illuminating the landscape around, maggie's lank figure looming up, tall and straight, in the middle of the pike, her long arms stretched out menacingly toward the retreating raiders, at whom she was doubtless hurling bitter, celtic-tinged invectives, while pat was rushing wildly in and out of the burning building, striving to save some of the few household effects--then a curve in the turnpike shut off a further view. chapter vi. squire bixler, president of the new pike road, sat before his wood fire, nodding under the genial warmth the flickering flames threw out across the broad hearth. the weekly town paper, over which he dozed and wakened by turns, now lay on the floor by his chair, having dropped from his relaxed fingers during his latest nap, while his spectacles, gradually slipping forward as his head dropped lower on his tobacco-stained shirt, now finally rested on the tip of his red nose, and threatened to fall each moment. short puffs, as if he were still smoking, came at regular intervals from between his thick, partly-opened lips, although his cob pipe had followed his paper to the floor, and the spectacles seemed on the point of speedily joining them. to the most careless observer it was all too evident that no wifely care was present in the house of bixler. a motley disorder, revealing many unsightly things, occupied the chimney corners, and encroached upon the hearth. from some nails upon the wall hung a saddle and harness, opposite stretched a line filled with long green tobacco like clothes swung out to dry. the tall mantelshelf was given over to old bottles, cob pipes, and a conglomerate mass of odds and ends of things--the accumulation of many moons, while dust and cobwebs gathered freely over all--a fitting tribute to the absence of womanhood. it was past the squire's bedtime. in evidence he had removed his shoes, but seemed to have dropped asleep while looking over his paper, unless he had intentionally delayed his usual hour for retiring. suddenly the sharp striking of several small pebbles thrown lightly against the window shutters partly aroused him from his nap, but not until the sound was repeated did he awake sufficiently to give heed to the signal. lifting his head with a start, as one who has dropped asleep unwittingly, he adroitly caught his spectacles, with the skill of frequent practice, as they dropped from his nose, then glancing at the clock he got up hastily and went to the window whence the sound seemed to come. cautiously raising the sash, that the servants might not be awakened in the ell of the house, the squire opened one of the shutters carefully and looked furtively out. an interrogation followed, and an answer came from the darkness. "all right! i'll let you in." the squire closed shutter and sash, caught up the candle, which was burning low in the socket, and went into the front hall. when he had unlocked and unbarred the door, a sudden gust of wind blew out the candle's flame as the visitor was admitted, but the fire-light served as a beacon, and while the host was fastening the door the belated visitor passed through the hall into the squire's sitting room, and walked over to where the fire threw out a grateful warmth over his chilled frame. "it's keen and frosty out tonight," said the visitor, spreading his hands wide to the blaze. "i am more interested in other news you may bring," answered the host, setting down the candle, from whose black wick a tiny spiral of smoke arose and floated away into the dim shadows that hovered about the room. the squire clung to early customs, and would not use a lamp. "an invention of man and the devil," he insisted. "well, i've got some news for you this time--some good news," the visitor said, slowly cracking the joints of his fingers as he stood before the fire. "let's have it!" insisted the squire briefly. "somethin' you'll be right glad to hear," continued the other, dallying with the subject, as if loth to part with so choice a morsel. "well, i'm waiting to hear it," yawning, to call attention to the late hour. "i'm chilled through an' through," muttered the visitor, apparently unmindful of the squire's impatience, and giving a shiver, partly genuine, partly affected, as he glanced up at the motley collection of bottles on the chimney shelf. "don't you keep anything warmin'?" he added, turning to the host. "do you want a dram?" the guest chuckled audibly at the squire's powers of divination, and with eager eyes followed the portly figure to a small press in the side of the chimney. the host brought forth a bottle and glass, which he placed on the candle stand, and, without further invitation, the guest quickly caught up the bottle and poured the amber liquor into the glass, filling it to the brim. he emptied it at a gulp, then slowly refilled the glass and reluctantly handed back the bottle to the squire, who reached out impatiently for it. "that warms me up powerful," said the visitor, draining the glass with evident enjoyment, eyeing the bottle longingly as he spoke, though the squire did not again offer it. "i felt like an ice house just now." "let's do business," the host suggested. "well, he's j'ined the night riders." "when?" "the night they burned the cross roads gate." "so he had a hand in that deviltry?" "yes." "i'm glad to hear it; what else?" "the raiders air a-goin' to make another raid." "when?" "tomorrow night, i think. i'll find out for certain tomorrow, an' post you. it's court day, you know, an' the word will be passed around among the men when they come to town." "where shall i see you?" asked the squire. "we mustn't be seen talkin' together," said the visitor thoughtfully. "it might help to fasten suspicion on an innocent man, you see," he added, with a leer of cunning. "i'll tell you what would be a better plan. i'll start back home just at five, by the town clock. i've got a good ways to go, an' likely's not many will be on the road at that hour of the day. you can leave a little earlier than five, an' i'll overtake you about the top of the first hill, under the big elm." "very well," agreed the squire. "i think i've about earned one hundred of that money already, squire," suggested the visitor, looking keenly at his companion. "won't tomorrow do? this may be a false alarm," objected the squire. "no, it isn't; an' besides, i've told you some other things you wanted to know." "but you're in no particular hurry," the old man insisted, the ruling passion of avarice strong upon him. "yes, i'm a-needin' it bad. i've got to have some money early tomorrow, an' i couldn't very well be seen followin' you around on court day. you promised to pay when i brought the word." "here, then," said the squire reluctantly unlocking a small drawer in the base of the tall clock and bringing forth a roll of bills wrapped in a piece of newspaper. "here's a hundred dollars in small bills. count them over." "it's two hundred dollars for givin' information that will lead to the arrest of any of the raiders," said the visitor meditatively, after he had carefully counted the money. "two hundred's the reward." "yes, one hundred tonight, which you have now received, and the other when the raiders have been caught. an extra hundred comes out of my own pocket, you understand, when a certain kinsman of mine is safe behind the jail bars. this is good money, easily made." "well, i d'no' as it's so easy when you risk your neck to git it, as i've done." "what gate do you think they will raid next?" asked the squire. "i don't know yet, but i'll be posted by tomorrow evenin'. there's another thing, too, i wanted to say to you," added the visitor impressively. "it's concernin' the safety of a particular friend of mine who belongs to the raiders. i must have your promise not to trap him along with the others." "how can that be done if he's with the band?" "mighty easy. i'll see that he's sent on a little ahead of the others to guard the road in front, and you must give strict orders that no firing is to be done until this one is safely through the gate. when he hears the first shot he can then look out for hisself, an' let the ones behind do the best they can." "so _you_ want to come out with a whole skin?" said the squire, with a keen glance at his visitor. "i didn't say anything about myself; i said a friend." "all right! i understand. the man in front is to get away, but the rest are to be bagged. you'll give me the full particulars of the proposed raid tomorrow evening, then?" said the squire, rising from his chair, to signify that the interview was at an end. "yes; an' when i come again, you'll have the rest of the money ready for me?" the squire nodded. "have it in small bills," the visitor suggested. "i can pass 'em easier." a few minutes later the front door was closed upon the mysterious visitor, and the squire came back into the room softly rubbing his hands with apparent satisfaction. indeed, his next words signified as much. "ah! my dear nephew!" he cried, gleefully; "before many more nights have passed i think i will have you in a ticklish position where your love affairs will not run as smoothly as you might wish. then comes _my_ opportunity." chapter vii. court day brought ever a large and motley crowd to town. it is the farmer's levee, his monthly holiday--a proper time for friendly intercourse and barter. usually busied in the field or about the farm, he sees little of the social or business world except through the medium of county court day. on such occasions most of the tillers of the soil quit work and come in from the surrounding country and the neighboring hills--even from further outlying villages and adjacent counties. some come on business, some on pleasure bent, but whether for recreation or profit, a goodly crowd convenes, the day in itself an all-sufficient excuse for the act. a kentucky court day possesses a marked social feature peculiarly its own. the men meet friends and neighbors in a social mood; renew acquaintances of long standing, and enjoy making new ones; they exchange political opinions, disseminate local news, trade, swap, buy or sell; the women come to town, exchange country produce for shopping bargains, and learn something of the prevailing mode from their more stylish sisters who are in closer touch with the outer world. occasionally it comes to pass that personal grievances and feuds of long standing, or even family differences, are settled by a court day encounter, wherein the all-too-ready knife or pistol helps to play the tragic part; but oftener a spirit of good-fellowship prevails, and the social glass binds friendly neighbors into boon companions. there is yet a more god-fearing element--the bone and sinew of pioneer strength and hardy manhood, men of simple faith, who walk sedately in the paths of sobriety and peace, whose lives are as quiet and gentle as the folk who once "dwelt in the basin of minas." and in all, it is a strangely mixed gathering of good and evil--a kentucky court day. a larger crowd than usual was in town on this particular october morning. most of the crops had been laid by, and even the more careful husbandmen felt as if they might safely indulge in a holiday without disquieting thoughts of work done and duties neglected; but there were other reasons yet to account for the large attendance on this day. an undercurrent of suppressed excitement was manifest throughout the community, for the recent toll-gate raids, and the rumored threats against gates still standing in the county, made the question of free roads an all-absorbing topic. the greater number of farmers were in favor of no toll, as was naturally the case, though some suggested a new and lower scale of rates, while the more conservative looked with apprehension on the spirit of lawlessness that seemed suddenly to flame into a passion that might grow alarmingly akin to anarchy, if the destructive tendency were left unchecked. these more prudent, law-abiding men counseled patience and forbearance until the voice of the people should decide the question of free roads at the next election, and the slow-moving machinery of legislation give by purchase the right of travel without the payment of toll, which many cried out against as an unjust and excessive tariff. a discordant note had for a long time prevailed among these dwellers of the hills in opposition to the turnpike corporations, and this antagonistic spirit had intensified and spread, slowly leavening the disquiet, until it had become dangerously like a hot-bed of communism, only waiting for a daring hand to stir it into flame and action, and now this had finally come to pass. the recent bold work of the raiders was guardedly discussed in public, for one did not always know but that a partisan to the cause might be the listener. a few non-partisans who had been overbold in their denunciation of the raiders' methods of acquiring free roads, had received anonymous letters warning them to silence, while a crude drawing of hangman's noose, or skull and crossbones lent significant weight to the message. since the burning of the cross roads gate, the county court had offered a reward of two hundred dollars for information that would lead to the apprehension and capture of any of the raiders, while numerous rumors were afloat concerning them. it was hinted that maggie o'flynn had recognized two or three members of the band the night of the attack on the gate, and that several arrests would soon follow. men from adjacent counties brought the news of toll-gates raided near their homes. the infection was rapidly spreading, and it seemed that the fiat had gone forth dooming the collecting of tolls, and forecasting the speedy downfall of all the gates. several times through the day squire bixler saw the man with whom he had held converse the previous night, but on meeting him now, in the broad light of day, an indifferent nod on the one hand, and a friendly, "howdy, squire!" on the other, was all that passed between the two men. milton derr was also in town, but no recognition whatever took place between him and his uncle when they met by chance some two or three times, face to face, on the crowded street. the squire shrewdly kept his eyes open and tried to bear in mind the different persons his confidential informant held converse with during the day; but this one was here and there, with a nod, a hand-shake or a friendly greeting, having, it seemed, no especial business with any one. along toward five o'clock (for the dusk came on early these brief october days) the squire got his horse and started homeward. he had chosen to ride a horse on this occasion, for he did not wish to be importuned to give any one a seat in his buggy on the way back, and there was no prospect of having the pretty toll-gate keeper for company, for she was helping her mother collect toll, as it was court day. moreover, for special reasons of his own, the squire desired to be alone. he jogged along at a moderate pace until he reached the top of the first hill; then he let his horse drop into a slow walk, for, on looking back, he saw in the waning light a horseman approaching from the town, and judging that it was the person he wanted to see, he came to a halt in the road when the overhanging elm was reached. "what news?" asked he, as the other rode up. "the night riders will be out again tonight, sure an' certain." "about what time will they make a raid?" "along towards midnight--perhaps a little later." "and what gate will they attack?" "this one," answered his companion, nodding down the road. "what! the new pike gate?" exclaimed the squire. "yes, it was decided at the last moment by the captain." "humph! i shouldn't think milt would want to take a hand in that," muttered the squire, reflectively. "he don't know yet that it's to be this one, i think; but even if he did, he wouldn't dare to refuse to go along. he's taken the oath to obey the orders that are given him, an' now he'll have to do it, whether it pleases him or not. you'll have that other hundred all right when i come to see you tomorrow night or the next?" "that's what i agreed to do, isn't it?" demanded the squire, testily. "yes, of course, squire, of course, only i wanted to remind you so you wouldn't forget to have it on hand, an' in small bills, too. a man don't feel like riskin' his neck at this business, you know, unless he's sure of gettin' well paid for it." "you've already received more than yours is worth, i'm thinking," growled the squire. "if things turn out all right, though, and the young man is safely jailed, i shan't mind giving you the extra hundred out of my own pocket," added he, melting into good humor again, as he rode off homeward. chapter viii. early on the morning of this october court day, sophronia saunders, a friend and former schoolmate of the pretty toll-taker, went over to a neighbor's to see the housewife about weaving a rag carpet, the materials for which were already cut and sewed and rolled into balls ready for the loom. sophronia had taken an early start, for she wished to know just how much carpet chain would be needed, so that her father could bring it from town with him when he returned. the air was full of crisp freshness, which brought a wholesome glow to the girl's plump cheeks as she walked briskly along down the dirt lane. fallow fields stretched out on either hand, unrolling rich, varying shades of yellow and brown, reaching away in undulating waves to where the frost-painted hills stood in brave array, like gay canvases belonging to some gorgeous theatrical scene. far to the southward they extended--a long, irregular chain, whose rugged heights were gradually softened and subdued by distance and the october mists until they finally seemed but jagged banks of amethystine clouds piled high against the horizon. presently the girl reached a small wood that lay between her and her destination, and after a moment's pause, and a glance of maidenly precaution around, she agilely climbed the rail fence that enclosed its boundary, and started in a diagonal line across the wooded space to shorten her walk. within the wood the pensive presence of autumn dwelt. the low, gentle rustling of falling leaves in a plaintive murmuring, as if regretful at approaching dissolution, greeted the sensitive ear at every turn. the drowsy air seemed haunted by vague faint-spirited voices whispering tenderly of the past summer's joys, while in sharp contrast, now and men, the sound of a dropping hickory nut from high up amid the branches where some frisky squirrels were at play, broke as a discordant note into the softer leaf-music of the trees. the ground beneath her feet was soft-carpeted with fallen leaves, drifting into rich mosaics, changing with each passing wind to new kaleidoscopic patterns of beauty and color. at the further edge the woodland terminated abruptly in a deep ravine, which the girl must cross before her destination was reached. it was a lonely, picturesque spot, skirted by underbrush and cedar bushes, and lined with gray, lichen-clad boulders, jutting out boldly in fantastic shapes on either hand. overarching trees and vines shut out the brighter daylight, and made a subdued twilight that kept the spot cool and shadowy even on the warmest of summer days--a hidden sylvan retreat fit for woodland nymph or dryad. when the girl reached this ravine she skirted its edge until she should come to a place where an easier descent could be made into its shadowy depths, and had gone but a little way along its rim when, on glancing through an opening between the bushes, she caught sight of her neighbor, steve judson, coming up the dry, rocky bed of the stream, which in the rainy season was changed into a brawling torrent. he had neither seen her nor heard her approach, and was quite unaware that anyone was near. sophronia was just on the point of calling out and asking him to give her a helping hand in crossing the ravine, when something in his manner--a certain cautiousness of movement and an alertness of bearing--caught her attention and aroused her curiosity; so, keeping silent, she drew back amid the bushes and peered through a small space between the branches. steve clambered up the rocky defile until he reached a spot almost opposite to where sophronia stood concealed. after a cautious glance around, he drew from under his coat an object that looked, from her point of observation, like an ordinary fruit jar. he held the jar up in front of him a few moments, looking into it with close attention, turning it slowly around as he did so, then crossed over to the opposite side of the ravine, where, after placing his burden carefully at the foot of a cedar tree, he began to dig a hole in the ground near by. the earth was light and yielding--the rich deposit of leaf mold of many years accumulation--and in a short time a hole was dug sufficiently deep for its purpose, the jar was placed in it and covered with dirt. some fallen leaves and loose pebbles were next scattered over the recently disturbed spot, and finally a large, flat rock laid just above the place where the jar had been buried. after another cautious look of inquiry about him, when steve had arisen to his feet, he turned and went down the ravine in the direction of his house. sophronia, wondering vainly what it was that her neighbor had hidden so carefully, and with such an air of secrecy, waited until he had been lost to sight amid the foliage, then slowly followed the course he had taken. soon she reached her destination. the judson home was but a humble one, a dilapidated log cabin perched on the top of a rocky hill that gradually descended to the ravine which its owner had but lately quitted. an air of neglect and shiftlessness hung heavily about the spot, for steve was a person who would willingly sit for hours on a rail fence industriously whittling and talking politics, which was a favorite theme, but when it came to the driving of a needed nail in a loose plank, or repairing a break in a fence, he seldom had the time or inclination to engage in so prosaic an occupation. selling off the stock was preferable to mending the fence, and when a shed tumbled down the broad canopy of heaven must thenceforth of necessity be a shelter. judson was making ready to go to town when the visitor arrived. he had not missed a court day since early boyhood, and no farm work was ever sufficiently important to keep him at home on such occasion. when the girl explained her errand, he readily agreed to deliver any message she might wish to send her father, and to see to the bringing out of the needed carpet chain, while mrs. judson said, persuasively: "'phrony, i do wish you'd stay an' show me about cuttin' out a sack pattern. i'm as lost as if i was in the roosian sea when it comes to cuttin' out things." "an' it won't be puttin' you to too much trouble to see about the chain?" the girl asked of the man. "it's just as easy as rollin' off a log," answered the complaisant host, who was of a most obliging disposition, and ever ready to attend to anybody's and everybody's business save his own. "now, steve judson, don't you forgit that carpet chain!" his wife called out admonishingly, in a shrill treble, as her husband rode off. "men air sech forgitful critters 'bout rememberin'," she added complainingly to her visitor. it was close upon noon when sophronia started home, and she once more shortened the distance, choosing the ravine, and the way through the woods. "i do wonder what he was buryin' so carefully up there?" she asked herself as she stopped in the ravine and looked up its shadowy depths. the spot at which she had seen her neighbor digging was only a short distance away; in fact, she could almost see the exact location from where she now stood. she hesitated and gazed longingly up the ravine. a daughter of eve, the impulse of investigation was strong upon her. if she only dared to venture farther up the shaded recesses to the spot where steve had been digging! and why should she not dare? she would be quite free from interruption, for her neighbor was safe in town by now, and this remote place was rarely frequented. she dallied with the temptation, casting yearning glances toward the charmed locality, and finally, almost before she realized the fact, she was standing beneath the very tree at whose foot the mysterious interment had taken place but a few hours ago. with a glance of caution about her, such as he, too, had given, she suddenly stooped down and with some little difficulty moved the large flat rock that had been placed to mark the spot. near by she found a sharp-pointed stick, the same that he had used, and with it began to scrape away the loose earth which hid the object of her search. it proved to be a glass fruit jar, a plain jar having a metal top screwed down on a ring of rubber, and within was a roll of something wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. what in the world could it be? sophronia tried the lid, but it was firmly screwed on. as she had gone this far, however, she did not mean to be thwarted at such an early stage of her investigation, so grasping the jar tightly between her knees, she made a more effective effort at loosening the lid, and soon had the top off and the contents of the jar in her lap. she gave a low exclamation of astonishment as she unrolled to view a number of bank notes, mostly new, and of small denominations--ones, twos and fives. as sophronia carefully fingered the bills, noting their value and the number the roll contained, her eyes opened wide with surprise at the sight of so much money. no wonder her neighbor had exercised such caution in concealing his treasure. here was a larger amount of money than she had ever imagined he would possess. how had he ever come into the ownership of such a sum? could he have stolen it, and from whom? the girl hastily counted the bills. "_goodness!_" she exclaimed. it was ninety-five dollars in all--a small fortune indeed for a person in judson's situation. how came he with such booty, for booty it must be, since he had never been known to save a dollar in his life, yet here was quite a snug little fortune that had been acquired by some unknown means. [illustration: sophronia soon had the lid off, and the contents of the jar in her lap.] as sophronia puzzled over the matter, her eyes chanced to fall on the scrap of paper in which the money had been wrapped, and smoothing out the paper, she slowly read the reward offered by the president of the turnpike corporation, for any information that would lead to the arrest and conviction of the raiders, whose recent deeds of violence were a menace to the community. so this, then, was a solution to the problem vexing her brain! steve judson must have betrayed the raiders, and this money was the larger part of the spoils he had received. he certainly could not have accumulated such an amount otherwise, for his ill-kept, sterile patch of ground scarcely yielded a poor living. as sophronia sat looking first at the money then at the printed reward, the fear of detection suddenly came over her. whether it was ill-gotten gain, or not, the money certainly was not hers, and she had no right to thus unearth it from its secret hiding place. suppose some one should discover her in the act! alarmed at the mere thought, she hastily wrapped the scrap of paper around the money, and dropping the roll in the jar, screwed on the lid and reburied the treasure, taking care to leave the place looking quite as she had found it. then she hastily quitted the spot. chapter ix. night. the dark forms of a group of men were brought out in sharp contrast against the fitful light of a small brushwood fire built in a sheltered spot among the hills. a few faint stars dotted the moonless sky, and the night air was raw with the frosty breath of late october. some of the men were sitting about on scattered blocks of rejected stone, left in the abandoned quarry years before when the abutment of a bridge had been built over a small, swift stream near by, but the great number of raiders stood in careless attitudes around the fire, talking or smoking. "captain's late," one of the men in the foreground said. "i heard the ring of black devil's hoofs comin' up the hill just a moment ago," a raider answered. as he spoke, he thrust a fresh supply of brush into the fire, and briskly stirred the bed of embers until it glowed with sudden fervor, while a shower of sparks arose and fluttered into the night like a swarm of fireflies rudely disturbed. "be saving of the brush," cautioned one of the raiders. "there may be officers of the law abroad tonight." "it is money to them if they bag us," answered the other, with an expressive shrug of the shoulders and a hoarse laugh. "there's a reward of two hundred dollars offered for information concerning the raiders, or night-riders, as some folks call us." "perhaps some one's after it," suggested another. "and what good 'd the reward be? it would melt or burn where we'd send him." "is it the gate at the stone bridge tonight?" "no, i have heard it's to be another--one more familiar to some of our members," the speaker continued, casting a furtive glance at a number of the band standing near. "suppose it should be the pole of the new pike gate, and milt was chosen to do the cutting?" the man at the fire spoke tauntingly. "the pole of the new pike gate won't be cut tonight, i'm thinking," said derr quietly. "not if the captain commands it?" "no." "listen, you fellows--hear what this man's sayin'!" "and what's more to the point, i'm willing to bet that he isn't going to insist on me cutting it, either," added derr, glancing about him with a half-defiant air in which there was also the suggestion of a threat. quickly the attention of the others was drawn to the speaker, who had unconsciously straightened to his full six feet, while the rich color in his cheeks, augmented by the ruddy glow of the firelight, deepened perceptibly, and quickly spread to his throat and neck, which were partly revealed in their robust outlines, where the heavy coat was thrown back to the warmth of the fire. "any special reasons for not wantin' to cut down the pole of the new pike gate?" asked one of the band, with a wink on the sly at his companions. "i have," answered milt frankly and seriously. "one good reason i will state a little later, the other can be given right now. it seems a cowardly thing to do--the chopping down of a gate that's kept by two lone women. now if it was a man, the case would be altogether different." "it ain't the women folks we've got the grudge ag'in," spoke up one of the men. "it's the graspin' turnpike companies back of 'em we're after." "yes, but it's taking away the living of two worthy women," protested derr. "that can't be helped, though," argued the other raider. "if we're goin' to do away with toll-gates, an' have free roads, we can't play favorites, you know, by cuttin' down some poles, an' leavin' others standin', just on account o' family relations," he said. "what's the talk?" the deep voice came from the outer gloom, and as the men glanced in its direction, the captain emerged from the shadows hovering close about the circle and joined the group. an embarrassing silence fell suddenly upon the company, at the leader's presence, and each man waited for his neighbor to make reply. as no one seemed inclined to answer, finally derr spoke. "it was concerning the new pike gate. some one suggested that i would be chosen to do the cutting of the pole." "well!" the captain fixed his steel cold eyes full on the speaker, while the semblance of a sarcastic smile hovered about his mouth. "i have good and sufficient reasons for not wanting to cut down that pole, and especially if i was called upon tonight," continued the speaker quietly, his eyes meeting the captain's gaze unflinchingly. "have your reasons been called for?" demanded the leader with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "among other reasons," continued derr, ignoring the question, "i don't see the need of disturbing that gate for the present, when so many others around here tonight might claim our attention." the little groups merged into a large one, and general attention was quickly centered in the two men, for trouble seemed brewing in this quarter. as they stood face to face, eyeing each other keenly and coolly, the spirit of unfriendliness that had long held a place in each bosom was plainly evident, and a clashing of strong wills appeared imminent. there had ever been a feeling of rivalry, dating far back to the days they had gone to school together in alder creek glen, and pretty little sally brown was the figurative apple of discord between the two. "his reasons for not wanting that gate disturbed may not be hard to guess," said the captain, a sneer lingering on his heavy lips. "he's in love with the pretty toll-taker." "and the captain's rather sore because she's jilted him," retorted derr in clear, deliberate tones. the leader's face flushed crimson with anger at the words that carried with them the sting of truth, and a look of hatred blazed for an instant in his eyes as he turned them full on the speaker, standing calm and disdainful, meeting the look fearlessly. perhaps this utter lack of fear deterred the captain from his first impulse, for he knew that to press his adversary further at this moment meant a speedy settlement of old scores. jade beddow was not ready for such a course just yet, indeed he knew a better plan of revenge, so with strong effort he managed to control the rage that filled him, and to bring himself to a more fitting realization of his present course of conduct. "we haven't met tonight to settle personal grievances," he said, letting his eyes slowly wander to the men surrounding him. "these can be left to another time an' place. our business tonight is to strike another blow for our just cause, and the new pike gate is the one to go down. let those who are not cowards follow me. to your horses, boys!" chapter x. a little before eight o'clock, while the young girl was still busied in the kitchen with the supper dishes, for on court days this meal was always a late one, squire bixler again passed through the new pike gate on his way to town. sally's mother raised the gate for him, and curious to know the cause of his speedy return, straightway began to ply him with questions. when she came into the house after he had ridden on, the seal of secrecy being the price the squire required of her for the information he had imparted, she heaved so deep a sigh, and looked so full of melancholy forebodings that her daughter quickly inquired the cause. "nothin'," answered the old woman evasively, but the tone and her actions suggested quite the contrary. indeed, her face bore the unmistakable impression of an impending disaster. the girl's curiosity was at once aroused and piqued by her mother's bearing and words. "but there is certainly something troubling you," insisted sally. "you look quite put out." "well," admitted the other grudgingly, "perhaps i am." "then what's the matter?" "i'm under solemn promise not to tell anybody, not even you, but when a person don't know what minute they're liable to lose the very shelter over their heads, it's high time for dismal looks i should say." "are we in any such danger?" asked the girl quickly. "i'm not sayin' as we air or ain't," yet the speaker gave a most gloomy shake of her head along with the noncommittal answer. "but you act like something serious was the matter." "i can't well help showin' what's on my mind, i suppose." "then why on earth don't you say what's troubling you?" "when you're told a thing, an' then told positively not to tell it, how is a person to do?" asked mrs. brown in dire perplexity. her pledge to the squire was already beginning to weigh heavily upon her. "i don't see why you hesitate to tell me," said sally emphatically; "i'm not a child that can't be trusted with a secret." "i don't see the harm myself in your knowin' it," acknowledged her mother, "and that, too, when you'd be sure to find it out in a mighty little while, for as soon as the guards come, you'd know that somethin' was wrong." "the guards?" echoed the girl. "then it's something about the raiders?" "i didn't say," answered her mother with exasperating evasiveness. "but it is," cried the girl. "surely i've quite as much right to know as you. don't it concern me equally as much?" "of course, but then the squire didn't seem to want to make you uneasy any sooner than was necessary. that's why he cautioned me about tellin' you, i suppose." "and very thoughtful it was of him, too," declared the girl with shrewdly feigned graciousness. "so it was the squire that told you about the raiders?" "yes, and it goes to prove how much he really thinks of you, not to want you worried." "that's true," the girl's manner took on a careless indifference, "he was speaking to me the other day about the raiders; what did he have to say to you?" she asked in an off-hand way that threw the mother quite off her guard for the moment. "he was sayin' that he feared you'd be badly frightened if you knew the raiders would be here tonight." "tonight?" cried the girl excitedly, no longer acting a part. "there! i've gone and let the cat out of the bag, after all!" exclaimed mrs. brown in sudden contrition. "you partly guessed it, though. i didn't tell you out and out." she came a little closer to sally, while her voice dropped to a tragic whisper. "yes, the raiders air comin' this very night." "how does he know?" "he didn't tell me, but he's found out somehow." "what will become of us?" cried her hearer in genuine apprehension. "dear knows!" answered her mother melting into tears at the thought of the impending raid. "we'll likely have the roof burned over our very heads, and tomorrow will find ourselves without a shelter." "well, there, don't worry!" urged the girl, touched by her mother's evident distress of mind. "there's another shelter been offered us, if the worst comes to the worst." "whose?" questioned mrs. brown quickly, for the moment forgetful of impending danger in the thirst for further knowledge of this generous offer. "has the squire offered us a home?" she questioned eagerly, eyeing her daughter askant. "yes, he has," acknowledged the girl with a little show of hesitation; "not that i mean to accept it," she added to herself, with a pretended flare of courage that was far from real. "what does the squire think the raiders will be apt to do?" she questioned, returning to the primary subject under discussion. "he don't intend they shall do us any harm if he can help it. he's gone to town now to get men to come an' guard the gate, an' he hopes to ketch the last one of them lawless raiders before mornin'," declared the elder toll-taker. "i hope not!" cried the girl impulsively as a sudden fear crossed her brain. "you hope not?" repeated mrs. brown in open-eyed wonder, turning on her daughter in quick wrath. "is milt derr one of them night riders that you talk like that, sally brown?" "of course not, mother, else they wouldn't be coming _here_," answered sally with quick wit to repair the slip of her tongue. "i mean on account of the trouble it would bring to a lot of innocent people," she hastened to explain. "of course these raiders have friends and kinfolks, likely some of 'em acquaintances of ours up in the hills. besides, the raiders think they're mightily down-trodden and oppressed, for toll-rates _are_ high, there's no denying the fact." "sally brown! i'm downright ashamed of you, that i am!" cried her mother sharply. "the idea of you takin' up for them miserable law-breakers, an' them tryin' to burn the very roof over our heads, an' take the daily bread out of our mouths. you must have gone clean daft." "i didn't say i thought they were right," persisted sally. "i said it likely seemed so to them." "an' you got no cause to say even that," insisted mrs. brown, "you, that's dependin' on a livin' by takin' of the toll. it's nothin' short of downright treason!" chapter xi. the girl had been dreading just such news as her mother had revealed, yet since the conversation with the squire the day sally had so unwillingly ridden with him from town, she had been hourly expecting it. now that the ill news had really come, her present uneasiness was not altogether on her mother's account, nor her own. it was probable that her sweetheart was now affiliated with the band of raiders, yet if this was true, it seemed a little strange that the new pike gate was the one to be attacked. when sally sat down to her sewing a little later, after her various household duties had been attended to for the evening, her thoughts were very far removed from her present work, and she was much more troubled and perplexed in spirit and mind than she cared to show. at the time she had heard the talk between the squire and his unknown informant, it was evident that milton derr had not then joined the raiders, but from the trend of that conversation it seemed likely he would soon become a member of the band. he was evidently debating the feasibility of joining them. had he done so, and was he now powerless to change or divert their plans? it was not alone the news that the gate would be attacked which was troubling the girl, but the further information her mother had given that the plans of the raiders were known, and the squire was even then in town organizing a posse to resist the attack and capture the band. supposing her sweetheart was now a member of it, and some subtle intuition was urging her to such belief, what would be the outcome of it all? this then was the trap the squire was adroitly laying for his nephew. she had warned milt of the danger, but had he heeded? the band was probably composed of men he knew well, and was doubtless gathered from the ready material to be found among the rugged hills wherein he dwelt. there had ever seemed to exist among these people a certain wild spirit of adventure and reckless daring, which one naturally imbibed along with the very air of these free remote hills, and the squire's nephew was of that restive nature too easily attracted by anything savoring of excitement or danger, such as these lawless escapades might readily furnish. on recalling a talk she had held with her sweetheart the sunday evening before, when they rode together from alder creek meeting-house, she felt that her very own words may have had some weight in influencing him to cast his fortunes with the raiders. though she warned him of such a course, yet in almost the same breath she told him of the squire's prediction that the new pike gate would be wrecked, leaving her mother and herself homeless, but she wisely said nothing about the squire's offer of marriage, deeming it prudent to remain silent on this point for the present, at least. she had appealed to the nephew to do what he could to prevent the destruction of the new pike gate, and had meant to enlist his aid only so far as the exercising of his influence over any personal friends who might belong to the band of raiders. as things now stood, a great danger lay in the fact that the posse of men now being gathered together in town, would probably make speedy war on those who threatened destruction to the gate. there would doubtless be fighting, some might be killed, wounded or taken prisoners, and her sweetheart was as liable to be among the first as the latter, if he were a raider. what great relief it would be at this moment to know that he was not connected with those who had lately declared warfare on the toll-gates throughout the country! if she could but manage to see him, even for a brief moment, a simple word of warning might avert serious trouble. there was still left her a faint chance for such warning to be given, for milton derr had gone to town that morning, and she had not seen him return, though it might be that he had passed the gate on his homeward way, while she was busied with her household duties. she felt a growing eagerness to know if her mother had seen him pass, yet dared not ask. finally she decided on a little subterfuge. "dear me!" she cried, suddenly pausing in her work and glancing at her mother inquiringly, "i forgot to send phrony that skirt pattern she asked me to hunt for her. has every one passed living up that way?" "i s'pose they have," answered mrs. brown grumpily. "it's gettin' late, an' if the country folks ain't at home by now, they oughter be." the girl made a show of hunting up the pattern, then sat down with it and her sewing near the front door. several belated travelers passed, some rather the worse for having imbibed too freely of the cup that cheers, but the one she wished to see was not among them. along toward nine o'clock a small party of horsemen came galloping along the pike, loudly hallooing and firing their pistols as they came, and for a moment the girl thought the raiders were surely at hand. then quickly realizing that the cavalcade was coming not from the direction of the hill country, but the town, and that the night was yet too young for raiders to be abroad, she understood that it was merely a drunken crowd on their homeward way, therefore she hurried out and raised the pole, then fled into the house and blew out the light, as the horsemen went dashing by, in a volley of shouts and oaths, like a miniature whirlwind. just as the clock was striking nine, and when her mother had once more fallen asleep after her recent rude awakening, the girl's attentive ear caught the sound of a horse's familiar tread, and tiptoeing lightly out on the platform, she softly closed the door behind her and awaited the rider. she was not at fault in her surmise, for the horseman was the one she had hoped to see, and at her low summons he rode close up to the platform where she stood, all impatient to divulge her message. "i thought you'd never come, or else that you had already passed the gate without me seeing you!" cried sally in an eager undertone when he drew rein. "i would certainly have started earlier if i'd known you were waiting," answered the rider contritely. "did you know we are expecting the raiders to pay us a visit tonight?" she asked hurriedly, coming at once to the point. "pay this gate a visit?" queried milt in genuine surprise that proved her words news to him. "yes." "are you quite sure about that?" he asked thoughtfully, "how do you know it's to be this gate?" "the squire came by on his way to town only a little while ago, and told mother. he's gone now to raise a posse of men to guard the gate." "here's trickery," thought milt. "i was led to believe it was to be some other gate for tonight's raid, or else i've got things badly mixed. the squire said it was this gate?" he added aloud. "that's what he told mother. i didn't see him. you mustn't ever tell that i told you, never!" she insisted. "i never will," he declared fervently. "and how did the squire know about it?" he added thoughtfully. "i don't know, likely from the man who is acting the spy for him." "i wonder who that man can be?" "i don't know, but the squire's got somebody in his pay who is not only spying on the raiders but on you also. he's acting a double part." "and you say the gate is to be guarded tonight?" "yes, the guards will be here soon." "well, perhaps that may scare the raiders away," said the young man reassuringly. "i'm awful glad you told me about it." "i thought you ought to know," said sally in a low tone, "for perhaps you have friends that might be interested in such news." "this gate shall never be molested as long as i can do anything to prevent it," said milton derr earnestly, bending sideways until his arm encircled the waist of the pretty toll-taker on the platform; "and if it ever is, you can understand that i am powerless to save it. good night, sweetheart!" chapter xii. the girl stole quietly into the toll-house after her lover had ridden away toward the misty hills. she found her mother still sleeping soundly in her chair, quite oblivious of surroundings, and little dreaming that the secret the squire had urged her to keep so securely had reached a third pair of ears already in its swift journeyings. catching up her sewing again, which she had quickly dropped on the floor in her eagerness to see the belated rider, sally began to sew away industriously to make up for lost time, while her thoughts flew a good deal faster than her needle. her surcharged mind was now happily relieved of a portion of its burden of fears. there was no longer any danger threatening her sweetheart, so far as the present intended raid was concerned, and possibly this itself would fail of fruition. soon after ten o'clock the sheriff and a posse of armed men appeared. "you keep late hours, miss sally," he said when she and her mother came out to receive them. "i expected to find you both asleep." "not when we are expecting company," the girl answered with a laugh that was somewhat forced; "that wouldn't be good manners, you know." "it's no use to go to bed," insisted mrs. brown. "i couldn't sleep a wink, not if my life depended on it, that i couldn't." sally smiled faintly, thinking of the recent long nap her mother had taken, and of the warning that had been given, quite unknown to the sleeper, thanks to this period of oblivion. "i do hope none of you will get hurt!" cried the girl in deep concern. "it seems dreadful to think that perhaps before morning a very battle may be fought right around this quiet spot." "don't be alarmed," the sheriff insisted. "i look for little trouble or bloodshed either." "no more do i," thought the pretty toll-taker, with a secret satisfaction she admirably concealed. "i expect to take the rascals so completely by surprise they will have a chance to make but little resistance," the officer continued reassuringly, for the girl's apparent fear appealed to him. "perhaps we may be able to capture the whole band without loss of a single man." a feeling almost bordering on resignation had gradually supplanted the disturbed condition of mrs. brown's mind since her daughter's reassuring confession that the squire had placed a shelter at their disposal, in case the raiders deprived them of the one they now had. she began to feel that the threatened calamity might, after all, take on the characteristics of a disguised blessing, since it would help to bring to a climax a state of affairs she had long striven, though unsuccessfully, to mold to her purpose, and that through the raiders the squire might also manage to get him a wife, which, up to the present moment at least had proven a most elusive quantity. with the coming of the posse to guard the gate, mrs. brown's spirits took on almost a jubilant turn, for though the raiders might fail in their present venture, they would ultimately succeed in the destruction of the new pike gate, and its doom would probably not be far distant, in spite of officers or guard, while the price of its downfall would be the speedy realization of the mother's fondest dreams concerning her daughter's future. "we might just as well lay down on the outside of the bed, dressed as we are," said mrs. brown, as she led the way into the house, after the men had been placed on guard. "it's no use stayin' up, though, of course, i don't expect to close my eyes the entire night, for nobody can tell what may take place before mornin'." "the raiders may not come, after all," ventured sally, hoping to allay her mother's evident fears, "though, as you say, it's just as well to look presentable, in case we should be turned out of the house and home in the middle of the night." she gave a covert glance in the small looking glass on the tall dresser as she spoke. "there's at least one that will not be captured tonight, whether he is a raider, or whether he isn't, and the squire may find that his traps are not as carefully set as he thinks," said the girl to herself as she blew out the light, and lay down. the incidents of the past few days came crowding confusedly through her brain as she lay thinking over the many entanglements that seemed tightening their meshes closer and closer about her. as the night grew on apace, a suggestive sound by her side proclaimed that her mother had fallen asleep, despite all predictions of a watchful vigil, and as the girl lay and listened to the droning monotone, it finally lulled her into forgetfulness and slumber. darkness and silence hovered over the new pike gate, and while its inmates slept on through threatened danger, others were yet awake and watchful along the opposite side of the road, their alert and crouching figures hidden in the gloom of the sheltering stone wall as the guard impatiently awaited the coming of the raiders. chapter xiii. at the captain's arrogant words, flung at derr in the wake of a scornful laugh, the riders began to move slowly in the direction of a near-by cedar thicket darkening the entrance to the quarry. at this spot the horses were hitched, guarded by a member of the band, who at the same time guarded the approach to the rendezvous. milton derr stood motionless, silent and defiant, with tightly compressed lips, and in his dark eyes a vengeful, half exultant light. should he let them go unwarned? this was an easy and speedy way to even up with jade beddow for his insulting words, and his intended blow to derr through the downfall of the new pike gate. silence on the part of his enemy would surely bring harm this night to the captain of the band, and also to the raiders themselves, yet many of these were milt's friends, and must not be sacrificed to his own hot anger and hatred of one man. this were cowardly. it was his duty to speak out plainly for their sakes. understanding this, he made a sudden move forward, and called out sharply: "listen to what i have to say!" as the men looked back he raised his hand warningly. "the captain has given you _his_ reasons as to why i have so frankly spoken against raiding the new pike gate tonight, now i will give you _mine_." he paused a moment and looked around on the waiting crowd. "it's because the plans of the night-riders have been found out, and a posse of men are now waiting at the gate to give a warm welcome to those who come." at his words a sudden confusion fell among his listeners, as when a bomb is exploded in the ranks. the men stood irresolute, alarmed, looking first at the captain, then toward the spokesman, whose tall dark figure loomed up against the background of gray rock dimly outlined by the expiring fire. the captain hesitated, uncertain what move to make; then he came back a few steps to where derr stood. "how do you know this?" he asked sharply. "i know it," answered the other quietly, "and that's enough." "but how do you know it? who told you?" the leader grew insistent. derr compressed his lips and made no answer. the captain gazed at him steadfastly some moments, then turned abruptly toward his men. "you have heard what he says, boys, that our plans are found out, and the gate under guard. if this is true, there's a traitor in our midst, and this is his work." a deep silence followed these suggestive words. the men glanced furtively at one another, as if a sudden distrust had arisen, specter-like, among them. the band separated into little groups and fell to talking in low tones among themselves, with now and then a suspicious look shot in milton derr's direction, but he stood silent and impassive, a little apart from the others, seemingly oblivious of these glances, or of the words to which they gave rise. "this may be only a hatched up tale to scare us off," suggested the captain at last, looking inquiringly around him. "remember i have given you all fair warning," milt said quietly, looking beyond the leader to where the men stood in scattered groups. "who is your authority for this report?" the captain once more asked. "i learned it, that is all you need to know." "when did you hear it?" "in time to warn you." the captain turned away with an impatient gesture and a muttered oath. "perhaps it wouldn't be a hard matter to tell how the toll-gate people learned of it," he said with meaning emphasis in his tone. "there may be something in this, after all, so what's the use of running into danger when you can steer clear of it?" asked one of the raiders. "the new pike gate will keep till another time." "but if there's a traitor in our midst, what other time is so safe for us?" the leader interrogated. "the only course before us is to strike now and as often as we can, guards or no guards. for my own part i don't believe the gate is guarded." a warm discussion arose among the men, and hot words were bandied to and fro. a few favored the postponement of the intended raid. several, along with the captain, were inclined to discredit the story that the gate was under guard, and the majority advocated a bold assault, even in the face of danger, which served to lend a certain zest to the act. through it all milton derr stood silent, and offered no advice. "well! what shall we do, boys--go or not?" asked the leader impatiently. "put it to a vote." "agreed!" the leader answered. "all who favor making the raid, step to the right. how many of you? twenty. a fine showing, my trusty lads! cowards are in the minority tonight. if one goes, all should go. only a traitor would hesitate. to your horses!" "free roads! down with the toll-gates!" the cry arose in a hoarse howl as the men moved quickly in the direction of their horses. derr stood hesitating, abashed and vanquished. if he now refused to go along with the others it was but the signing of his own death warrant, and the invoking of swift punishment. he would be proclaimed a traitor, branded as one. rather would he run the risk of getting killed by the officers of the law than thus incur the enmity of the band, and perhaps suffer the penalty of a traitor's deed. by his presence he might still be of some benefit to the inmates of the toll-house threatened, and possibly through the influence of friends among the raiders the building might be spared and only the pole cut down. if the captain persisted in venting his anger and spite on a couple of helpless and defenseless women, and was fully determined to burn the new pike-gate, and make a repetition of the cross roads affair then--milt's hand unconsciously grasped the handle of his pistol--the band might be speedily called upon to elect a new leader. milt slowly followed the raiders down the hill and joined them at the thicket. at a word from the captain the cavalcade set out through the keen frosty air, the clang of many hoofs on the loose stones along the way echoing amid the silent hills, and breaking sharply into the quiet of the night. now and then, a tiny trail of sparks flashed beneath the flying iron shoes like a nest of glow-worms scattered into the darkness. around the base of frowning, tall, uprising hills the raiders swept in a swift gallop, now through gloomy rock-bound ways, past quiet farm-houses, by fallow fields, following the winding courses of the road that trailed under the dim starlight like a ribbon of mist between the silent, opaque hills. still on and on the horsemen rode, sometimes dropping into a slower gait, then spurring their horses anew, with never a jest as they rode along, nor a fling of laughter or song to the darkness--a shadowy, silent band with suggestion of deep-set purpose in the ominous quiet they maintained. when at last they swung around the curve of the pike and came in sight of the new pike gate, the captain drew rein and called a brief halt. "go forward!" he commanded, selecting derr for the mission. "let me go! i'm not afraid!" hastily cried another member of the band, as milton hesitated and seemed on the point of refusing. it was steve judson who spoke, and there was a touch of eagerness in his voice as he made the request. "i have chosen the one to go," said the leader sternly. "if the gate is guarded, as he seems to think is the case, he is on better terms with the toll-takers an' their protectors than any of us." "aw, let me go!" persisted steve. "that's always been my duty, an' i'm not afraid to shirk it now. send me ahead!" "you stay here!" commanded the captain decisively. "i've got other work for you when the time comes." "go forward!" the captain continued, addressing milt. "if you find the coast clear, ride on beyond the gate, then signal us, an' guard the road from that point." "i have told you that i believe the gate to be guarded," answered derr quietly. "i have warned you that it was to be. do you command me to ride into almost certain danger?" "if you know it to be guarded, you stand in no danger from your friends," answered the leader coldly. "if we find you have betrayed us you will stand in very great danger from your enemies." "i have not betrayed you, i have only warned you," insisted milt. "then you should be willing to share the danger with us. a brave man never fears danger if his duty demands it. go!" "i will go, then, since you command it. remember, though, comrades," he added, turning to the members of the band who were nearest to him, "if i fail to get back, my blood be upon this man!" he turned and rode quickly through the darkness toward the new pike gate. [illustration: he turned and rode through the darkness.] chapter xiv. on the squire's return to town, zealously urged by his mission to warn the officers of the law of the intended attack on the new pike gate, he felt that supreme elation of spirits belonging to a man who already scents splendid victory in the near future. indeed, it promised to be a double one, for not only would he be enabled to strike an effective blow at the raiders, whose warfare on the toll-gates threatened him with a considerable financial loss, but he would also have it in his power to crush one whose ever-unwelcome presence in the neighborhood seemed likely to deprive the squire of winning a wife. the wily old man reasoned with himself that he would much prefer to have his nephew alive and in the penitentiary than simply dead. incarceration would prove a far more lasting and complete revenge than death. in death there would only come a quick oblivion to the squire's victory, on the nephew's part, while in a long imprisonment, which to the victim would be a living death, there would yet remain a daily and hourly comprehension of unhappy facts, besetting the helpless prisoner like a pack of hungry wolves attacking their prey--an ever-present hideous knowledge of his own powerless condition, and his uncle's complete mastery of the situation. it was this wish, this growing hope to place his nephew in just such a living tomb, that fanned the hatred of the squire into a glowing heat, and made him all the more determined that milt should soon feel the blighting power of his wrath, even through walls of massive stone, and behind barred doors. all the way to town the old man fed his sluggish imagination by picturing his kinsman and rival thus imprisoned, slowly eating away his heart in rage and solitude, understanding full well that his sweetheart had become the wife of the man he most hated in all the world. ah! what could be a greater punishment than this? death would prove sweet compared to it. the squire chuckled to himself in a sort of fiendish delight at the mental picture of anguish he had conjured up. in their last bitter quarrel, when the young man had been driven from the squire's home, the nephew had boldly laughed in his uncle's face, taunting him with his age and decrepitude, and declaring that he would yet win the girl in spite of all that the old man might do. youth and manly beauty are a powerful offset to wealth and age in the eyes of a young woman. the squire understood this fully, and chafed under the knowledge, but he resolutely determined to see what craft and cunning could accomplish in the unequal struggle. he made up his mind to marry the pretty toll-taker, though there were a dozen importunate suitors in the way. he would ruthlessly trample them all underfoot, or sweep them aside, as he meant to do his nephew, showing neither pity nor mercy. ofttimes perseverance is even more effective than love, and the squire was not of the kind to be easily thwarted when he had once made up his mind to attain a desired result. stubbornness and determination were his strongest characteristics. these two traits, cleverly united, have carried many a man to success. deep down in his wicked old heart he had carefully considered the plan of having his nephew put quietly out of the way--the squire knew a man that money could easily buy for this purpose--but the squire disliked to part with money, and besides he did not care to place himself in a position to be bled by a hireling. for obvious reasons, therefore, it would serve his purpose much better if milt got himself hopelessly entangled in the meshes of the law by his own acts, rather than the squire should be accused of helping to bring about his nephew's ruin. there would be much less difficulty in winning the girl, the old man thought, ignorant of what she already knew. as matters now stood, everything was working beautifully to his interest, and with the exercise of a little diplomacy, such as he well knew how to employ when occasion demanded, his plans would soon be happily accomplished, and his nephew's downfall speedily brought about. when squire bixler got home again, after an interview with the sheriff, he replenished the fire, closed the shutters, and discarding his heavy boots for his carpet slippers, he gathered the papers about him, and sat down to read. although his usual bedtime had passed, he only yawned occasionally, and consulted his heavy time-piece, or glanced at the tall clock in the corner. along toward the midhour of the night he suddenly aroused himself from the stupor of sleep that was beginning to lay hold of him, and, straightening himself in his arm-chair, listened attentively. a sound which seemed at first elusive grew clearer to his alert ear, arousing his drowsy faculties to fuller consciousness. it was an easy matter to interpret that sound aright--indeed, his ear had done so quickly. it was a welcome sound for which he had been impatiently listening all these long, weary hours, and it signified the raiders were abroad. the old man sat motionless, listening intently. clear and distinct, in measures musical as steel hammers on an anvil, came the rapid hoofbeat of horses along the pike, now louder where the open fields spread out on either side of the road, now dull and muffled when a hillock intervened. as the sound grew nearer the squire hastily arose, and blowing out his candle went to the window and opened it. the body of horsemen were even then passing his avenue gate. now the raiders were climbing the little hill that arose between his place and the toll-house, each fall of the iron shoes seemed a sharp, clear note, played in staccato time, on the hard, white surface of the pike, then the notes grew less distinct, softened and shaded as by a soft pedal, when the raiders descended the farther side of the hill. they must soon be at the very gate. the squire listened. there came a pause in the hoof music, then a solitary horseman took up the refrain. the listener recalled to mind the request that his recent nocturnal visitor had made concerning this advance guard--that harm should not come to him--and a grim smile played over the old man's face as he silently hoped that this one, too, might fall. the squire had urged upon the sheriff that no man should escape--not one. suddenly a shot rang out--then another--two, three--a half-dozen. quickly a volley poured forth, startling the night with clamorous echoes. the fight was on in fierce earnestness between the raiders and defenders of the gate. [illustration: a rider.] chapter xv. the distance that milton derr had to go to reach the new pike gate, from where the raiders halted and held parley, was but a short one, measured by paces, yet during that brief ride many irrelevant things came crowding fast upon his memory--indeed, it seemed that his whole life's history was swiftly reviewed in that brief period. his boyhood days arose to his mind--those careless, happy days of early youth that were spent amid the wild, sweet freedom of the hills, from which he had just now ridden--the old schoolhouse in alder creek glen, that unforgotten spot where pretty sally brown had first ensnared his boyish heart and held it a willing captive ever since. he recalled to mind the sharp pangs of jealousy jade beddow took a delight in arousing in his youthful bosom by showing marked attention to the object of their mutual admiration--then of gloomier matters, his mother's illness and her death, which had wrung his heart with the bitterest grief that had ever crept into his young life. there came to mind a memory of the subsequent home with his uncle--a home that meant little else than a mere shelter, and an opportunity for much hard work, for the squire was a grasping man, close and calculating, and required of every one the last atom of effort. most clear in his memory was that eventful day when his uncle first learned that the smiles of the pretty toll-taker were rather for the nephew than for the uncle, and this discovery seemed suddenly to change the squire's indifference toward his ward into an intense hatred, which smoldered for a while, then at last broke forth into a fierce flame of passion, when there was a bitter quarrel, and the young man was driven from his uncle's roof, and went back to live amid his native hills once more. when milton derr made up his mind to join the raiders, he was actuated by the two strongest passions that sway the human heart--love and hate. the first and uppermost one urged him to join the band in order that he might be able to influence the members to spare the new pike gate, for the present, at least; the second made it evident that, by aiding in the general destruction of toll-houses throughout the county, and the abolishment of tolls, he would be in a position to do his kinsman much damage, and affect the most vulnerable spot in evidence--his pocket. thus, in derr's bosom, love and hate held almost equal sway. all these things passed in hurried view through the rider's excited mind, like a fleeting panorama, brief, yet clear and intense as the glimpse of a surrounding landscape seen by the flash of the lightning's path across the starless heavens. he once more recalled to mind the conversation that his sweetheart had overheard and repeated to him, which had taken place between his uncle and some unknown man upon the public highway. could this mysterious person have been jade beddow, and had they arranged it between them to have him sent forward so that he might be shot, or taken prisoner? this was evidently the trap that had been so adroitly set, and into which he was now riding, though not without protest. won to this belief, he still rode onward unflinchingly toward the toll-house now looming up before him like a ghostly warning, and dimly outlined against the cold gray midnight sky. nature herself seemed steeped in profound slumber at this wan, late hour, and neither life nor movement was visible about the place. the solitary horseman appeared to be the only living object in all that cheerless, dimly-defined landscape. there was no sign of danger on any hand, no suspicious movement of a lurking enemy. the deep silence of night's midhour brooded over the quiet scene, and its peace fell heavily upon it like the mantle of darkness round about. the lone rider began to look about him with growing confidence. it was all so quiet, so still, so filled with the hush of midnight--surely the monition he had received that the gate would be guarded must have been built on mere rumor without the foundation of fact. when he came to the gate, he found the pole up, as it was wont to be at so late an hour of the night, and after pausing a brief moment, thinking tenderly of one within the darkened toll-house, he passed from under the raised pole, and rode a short distance along the road. once again he paused, and looked back, and listened. no sight or sound betrayed the presence of guard or officer. it must be that the posse had failed to materialize, believing the rumor of an impending attack mere idle talk. with a feeling of relief the horseman raised a whistle to his lips and blew a sharp call as a signal that the raiders might advance. in quick response the clatter of many hoofs came beating down the road in rhythmic measure. suddenly--breaking harshly into the musical ring of the hurrying hoof-beats--rang the discordant note of a shot from out the darkness, and quick upon it came another, while the advance rider, startled and surprised by its unexpectedness, heard the bullet singing keenly past his ear. an answering fire from the oncoming raiders, shooting at random, seeking an unseen and hidden foe, awoke the echoes, and speedily a volley of shots from both raiders and guards filled the quiet night with tumultuous sounds. for a brief space of time derr sat motionless on his horse, making no effort to escape, stunned by the surprise of his attack, then realizing that a fight was really on, that the gate was under guard, and, despite his warnings, the band had gotten themselves into a jeopardous situation, while he, being a sworn member, must now stand or fall with it. he turned quickly about and dashed back to join his comrades. the first shot had been the premature discharge of a gun in the hands of a nervous guard, who had fired before the raiders had reached the spot where the men lay in waiting. this, coupled with the fact that the stone wall behind which the guards were concealed, was on a stretch of ground sloping from the road, caused the later volley of shots fired on the raiders to speed harmlessly overhead, while the raiders' answering fire was quite as futile. the latter had been quick to respond to their unseen assailants, and had pressed on, reassured by the first single shot, but when met by a determined volley, the captain gave orders for a hasty retreat, quickly realizing that the band had ridden recklessly into an ambush, and that the odds were greatly against his men. as the raiders turned, the advance rider dashed back to join them. several bullets sang a keen note of danger as he galloped by, but he was unscathed. a little beyond the gate one of the riders fell, or was thrown from his horse, which seemed to stumble, then quickly regain his feet, and, riderless now, dashed along the road after the retreating band. as milt came up, he suddenly checked his horse at the spot where the accident occurred, for the fallen man had risen to his feet, and was sorely in need of succor, since his horse had taken flight without him. as he stood in the road, a dark shadow on a light background, seemingly dazed and uncertain what to do, derr pulled up alongside, and bracing himself in his stirrups, leaned forward and cried hurriedly, "leap up behind me!" the man quickly obeyed, though clumsily, for his right arm appeared to be of little service to him, but with the mounted man's assistance he managed to climb up behind, and throw one arm around his deliverer, then both men bowed low over the saddle, yet not a moment too soon to avoid a parting volley fired at the two on the fleeing horse. "the rest rid off an' left me, but you risked your life to take me up," muttered steve judson, as they galloped on through the night. "milt derr, i promise you i won't forget tonight." "that's all right; hang on!" chapter xvi. the lurking shadows along the stone wall suddenly grew into animated forms, and the silence was broken by excited speech. the raiders faded as quickly into the night as they had come, while the faint echoes of retreating hoofs betokened a rapid flight of the band toward the hill country. "have we bagged any game?" the guards hastily scrambled over the rock fence after a parting volley had been sent after the last retreating horseman, who had tarried a brief while in his retreat, and each guard was eager to find an answer to the leader's question. "one man fell or dropped from his horse, i'll swear to that," the sheriff made reply, looking along the gloom of the road with expectant eyes. "we must surely have wounded one of them. it cannot have been a total loss of lead." "no, for i'm hit," a voice made the doleful assertion out of the darkness farther along the fence line. "hello! scott! is that you? are you much hurt?" "shot in the shoulder." "is that so?" asked the sheriff concernedly. "i'll look after your case at once. anybody else hurt?" "i believe a bullet went through my hat and grazed my skull"--this a second voice tinged with grave anxiety. "if so, it probably flattened the bullet," was the unfeeling remark of a companion. the girl from the toll-house appeared just then on the platform--a sudden apparition, startled of face, and with a hand that shook perceptibly as she carried an old tin lantern. "is anybody hurt?" she anxiously inquired. "a wound in the shoulder of one of our men; nothing serious, i hope," and the sheriff came forward to reassure her. "and the raiders--what of them?" the girl's query was hastily made. "one fell from his horse, but we can find no trace of him. he seems to have escaped. lend us your lantern," the sheriff added; "perhaps he crawled off into the weeds." "here's a hat i found in the road!" the words came from an excited guard. "fetch it to the light!" this from the sheriff. the guard obeyed. as the hat was held close to the light of the lantern, which the girl held obligingly over the rail, the men crowded around, eager to examine the one trophy of battle. "there's blood on it!" some voice exclaimed. "we must have wounded one of the rascals at least. likely he's in hiding now, close by." "lend us your lantern, miss sally." the sheriff reached out for it, but before his fingers closed over the handle, the girl's nervous hand suddenly relaxed its hold, and the lantern fell to the hard bed of the pike. the glass in the sides shivered as it struck, while the candle rolled out and was quickly extinguished in the white dust of the road. the girl became the picture of consternation. "oh!" she cried, "just see what i have done!" "perhaps it's the sight of blood. it makes some folks grow faint." the sheriff spoke consolingly, pitying the girl's embarrassment, and covertly regretting the accident. "i'm all upset!" acknowledged the pretty toll-taker frankly. she looked it, seemingly so innocent the while, one would scarcely have suspected the accident to have been hastily planned by woman's nimble wit, in order to gain yet more time before a further search could be made for the wounded man. when the hat was held up to the light, the girl recognized it almost instantly as one milton derr was in the habit of wearing. he had worn it that very day when he passed through the new pike gate. its recent discovery by the guard, and the fresh stains of blood upon it, now filled her with sudden terror and consternation. was milton derr among the raiders? the hat was a silent witness to the fact. had her lover been wounded? the blood stains gave conclusive evidence. was it possible that milt had ventured back with the raiders in the very face of the warning sally had given him? why had he risked so much? ah! was it for her sake? she asked herself this with a sudden glow in her heart, set aflame by her lover's devotion, and a quick resolve was formed to aid him in his present strait. many perplexing thoughts arose. why had he not in turn warned the raiders as she had expected him to do? perhaps he had done so, but without avail. could they have ignored the warning, or have forced him to come back with them? possibly he came of his own accord to be of whatever assistance he could in the face of danger that threatened the inmates of the toll-house. the girl was in a sea of grave perplexities and conflicting thoughts. the voice of the sheriff close at hand broke into her bewildered train of thought and recalled her abruptly to a sense of her surroundings. "miss sally! i have stepped on the piece of candle and broken it. can you get me another?" "yes, certainly; i'll go at once," she answered hurriedly, glad to escape into the toll-house, where her mother was busied hunting bandages with which to dress the arm of the wounded man. "it seemed as if i'd never be able to find another piece of candle," said the girl in apology when she finally came out after quite a little search. "my wits have left me completely--i'm dazed." "hadn't you better leave the hat with me?" she asked with affected indifference as the sheriff and his posse started off with the light to look for the wounded raider along the road. "i might as well do so;" then, as he was about to comply, the sheriff added on second thought, "no, i'll take it along to shield the candle from the wind, now that the lantern glass is broken." at the spot where the hat had been picked up the searchers found some dark splotches sprinkling the dust of the pike, as if blood had fallen there, but the owner of the lost hat was nowhere to be found. the men searched carefully some distance along the way, and closely examined the patches of dusty weeds in the fence corners, but without reward. "i am positive one of the raiders carried him off," insisted the guard. "but for gregory getting excited and firing before the raiders had gotten in close range, we would certainly have killed or captured some of them, perhaps have bagged the whole band by closing in upon them from each end of the road. this comes of having green recruits," the sheriff added grimly. when the posse had gone with the lantern, sally went once more into the house and began to assist her mother in caring for the wounded guard, but the girl's thoughts were far from being centered on the object of her present skill and care, and she listened momentarily and with growing anxiety for additional news concerning the owner of the lost hat. could it be that it was not milton's, after all? she felt almost positive that she had made no mistake in regard to its ownership, and she had suggested the leaving of the hat with her that she might give it a closer scrutiny and satisfy herself on this point. if the hat were really milton derr's, on the under lining, inside the band, was his name and hers, both done in red ink, along with an arrow-pierced heart, and the date on which the names had been written--september th. there had been a little picnic on this date. she and milton, along with sophronia and her beau, and a few others, had gone for an outing up in the hills. the usual rain that invariably and maliciously awaits such gatherings suddenly came up, and the party had taken shelter for a time in the old schoolhouse in alder creek glen--the very log building where sally's first girlish fancy had been captured by milt's dark eyes and ruddy face. here, as a stripling, he had fought battles for his lady love, and jade beddow had sought in vain to supplant him in her affections. while the picnic party had waited for the rain to abate, milt had usurped one of the children's desks, and written the two names on the inner lining of his hat-band, covertly showing the results of his skill to sally. if these names should be discovered, and discovery was imminent, it would clearly fasten the ownership of the hat on milton derr, even if no one could identify it otherwise. she felt a growing eagerness to get possession of the hat, and tear out the tell-tale lining, yet she dared not betray her anxiety, lest it arouse suspicion and hasten the discovery she would gladly avert. in the midst of her uncertainties and fears she caught sound of squire bixler's voice outside the toll-house. he had hurriedly put on his shoes and great coat, and ridden over to the gate to learn the results of the fight between raiders and guards, prudently waiting, however, until the firing had ceased; and he had heard, with deep disappointment and regret, the retreating hoof-beats of horses galloping toward the hills. despite the sound, he hoped that one raider at least had been left behind. the squire's chagrin was poignant when he learned that not a single member of the band had been either killed or captured, and that the sole spoil of battle, on which he had so largely counted, was but a gray felt hat, streaked with blood, that had been picked up in the middle of the dusty road. "by heaven!" cried the squire wrathfully, when this single trophy was shown him, "i'll find the owner of that hat and punish him, if it takes every detective in the state to help me to do it." chapter xvii. the morning following the exciting experiences of the raiders' attack and repulse at the new pike gate, soon after the clearing away of the breakfast dishes, sally, on the alert, caught sight of squire bixler's buggy coming over the hill, the loose side-curtains idly flapping to and fro in the fresh morning breeze like the wings of some bird of ill-omen. indeed, she felt, on seeing the vehicle, that its very appearance presaged evil, if not to her, at least to one very dear to her. usually she let her mother open the gate to the squire if his coming was noticed in time for an avoidance, but this morning she made it convenient to be out on the platform, sweeping away industriously, when he drove up. "good morning, miss sally! i suppose you are quite glad to find yourself alive, and with the toll-house roof still over you." "yes," she answered promptly, "glad and grateful, too!" "what brings you out so early this morning?" she asked, smiling pleasantly on the squire as she raised the gate which had so fortunately escaped the raider's axe the night previous. "business," answered he with emphasis, "important business. before the day is over, i hope to have a warrant served on the owner of that hat which was picked up last night. if i can get only one of the rascals caught and safely jailed, it will not be such a difficult matter to ferret out the rest of the gang." "have you discovered anything more?" asked sally, trying to disguise the anxiety in her tones as she made the inquiry. "nothing definite, although there's one man among the guards who thinks he can identify the hat. i'm taking it to town now to show to the merchant that probably sold it." the girl's heart sank within her at the words. it would be little short of a miracle if the tell-tale names were not found and the hat's ownership revealed. while the squire was speaking, mrs. brown came out on the platform. "let me see that hat," she said. "it's likely i may know the wearer myself. i was so busy last night attendin' to george scott's arm that i didn't do more than glance at the hat." the squire handed out a package done up in a piece of newspaper, which mrs. brown opened, and taking the hat held it up at arm's length, perched on her outspread fingers, viewing it critically, her head slightly askew. "i've seen that hat before," she said thoughtfully; "now who was a-wearin' it?" "there's likely a hundred such hats in the county," interposed sally quickly. "i've seen a dozen or more myself." "no, you don't see so many of these light gray felts," avowed her mother, bringing the hat nearer. "mebbe it's got a cost mark, or the maker's name; that would tell a body more concernin' it." she turned the hat upside down and looked carefully at the lining. "let me take it into the house and brush some of the dust off it," interposed sally hastily, fearing every moment that the hidden names would be revealed, under her mother's inquisitive scrutiny. "no! no! let it be, just as it is," said the squire, perchance put on the alert by sally's manner, and suspicious of her ill-concealed desire to get the hat in her possession. "look here! what's this on the underside of the lining of this band?" asked mrs. brown, as she ran her fingers around the inside of the crown, and pulled down the lining. "it looks like writing, only it's red," she added, squinting her eyes after the manner of one whose vision has begun to fail. at that moment sally felt as though she fairly hated her mother's prying nature. "what is it, sally?" asked her mother; "your eyes are younger than mine." the girl, after a careless glance, but with a sickening sense of fear taking possession of her as she recognized the arrow-pierced heart and the two names written underneath, answered in as calm and collected voice as she could command, "it looks like streaks of blood." she partly averted her face as she spoke, for she felt that her mother or the squire would read in her very eyes the secret she was striving to hide. there was no longer a doubt of the hat's ownership. it was milton's derr's beyond all questioning, and the discovery of his name and hers written therein was now but a matter of brief delay, as the squire's next words seemed to indicate. "i'll have it closely examined when i get to town. it will not be a hard matter to locate its owner, i think." "would you mind giving me a seat to town?" asked the girl suddenly, beset with a new resolve. "certainly not." the squire was plainly tickled. "i'll be only too glad of your company," he said, smiling genially. "what's goin' to happen?" asked mrs. brown wonderingly. it was a new mood for sally. "i've just thought of something that i've got to do, and if the squire'll take me along with him, it'll save me the trouble of saddling joe. i'll be ready as soon as i get my cloak and hat," added she, disappearing in the house. "humph!" exclaimed mrs. brown, looking first after her daughter, then at the squire. "this looks a little as if sally was comin' to her senses at last." "just give her a little time, my dear madam, a little time," advised the squire, smiling all over his fat, red face. "she'll come around all right by and by." when the squire and sally drove off, she seemed lost in thought, and only answered in monosyllables to her companion's gallant attempts to be agreeable. "what's the matter, miss sally?" he asked at last, piqued at her silence and indifference. "you act as if you might be in love," he added with a jocose look. "perhaps i am," acknowledged sally turning the full battery of her pretty eyes upon her companion, until his pulse quickened as it had not done in years. he made an effort to speak, but the words failed him, and he only edged a little closer to her. for a wonder, she did not attempt to draw farther away. was she really coming to her senses, as her mother had predicted? "do you remember the ride we took a few weeks ago, an' what you said to me?" she asked slowly, and with averted eyes. "my dear, i have thought of little else, i do assure you," answered the squire promptly, suddenly finding speech, now that the dazzling battery was withdrawn. "well, i have thought a good deal of it myself of late," admitted sally thoughtfully. "you profess to think a lot of me, but i expect you would refuse me the least little favor i might ask of you." "have you usually found me a hard-hearted old skinflint?" asked the squire reproachfully. "i've never put your kindness to a very great test, as yet. i thought i would begin with asking a little favor. you wouldn't refuse me that now, would you?" the girl looked up smiling into the old man's face, and brought all the coquetry at her command into play. "what is the favor?" asked the squire shrewdly. "i never like to make a promise till i know what i'm promising." "it's about the smallest possession you have, and the one least valuable to you." "well, what is it?" "i want the hat that was picked up last night." "hum--m--m!" said the squire meditatively. "in what manner does that hat concern you?" "how it concerns me, does not concern _you_," retorted the girl promptly, with an arch glance. "i don't know about that. whatever concerns you, concerns me deeply, ducky!" "will you give me that hat?" persisted sally. "you fear it will be recognized?" ventured the squire, and the girl winced under the words. "well, it will be, before i've done with it. of course i know it's that rascally milt's hat," added the squire shrewdly following up the clue the girl's manner and request had given him. "haven't i seen him wear it, time and again? he had it on court day," hazarded the speaker. he noted the quick start his companion gave, and the look of fear that overspread her face and crept into her eyes. a sudden thought occurred to him. he was now in a better position to strike a bargain than he soon would be again. "now, suppose we put this matter on a strictly business footing," he said blandly. "you want the hat and i want a wife. a fair exchange is no robbery." "don't say that!" exclaimed sally, as though a sharp pain had suddenly entered her heart. "you are cruel!" "not in the least!" retorted the squire. "it's you that's cruel, my dear! you have it in your power to make me the happiest of men, and incidentally keep a friend of yours out of the penitentiary. the whole matter rests with you." the girl made no answer. "the case stands thus," he persisted. "if my nephew is a lawbreaker, he deserves punishment. as i am president of this road, and a large stockholder, too, and he's doing his utmost to injure and destroy my property, i fail to see why i should show him any sympathy or favor. if i do, it will be solely on your account, not his. it's up to you whether milt goes free or is punished." "on just what conditions will you let him go free?" asked the girl quickly. "on your promise to marry me." "oh, no!" she cried sharply, "not that!" "just that," insisted the squire. "and if i don't promise?" she asked in a low tone. "it puts him in a place where you can't marry _him_," answered her companion promptly. they drove on in silence until the edge of the town was reached. "here we are in town," the squire said. "shall i drive you to the sheriff's office with me?" "why are you going there?" asked his companion faintly. "to give up this hat and swear out a warrant for its owner." "don't go!" pleaded sally. "it all rests with you as to whether i go or not," replied the squire, his bold, unpitying eyes bent full upon her. "milt can either be a free man or a felon--which shall it be?" his eyes were fixed on hers in a concentrated gaze that seemed to fascinate her like the gaze of the wily serpent charms the ensnared bird. there was a confused buzzing in her head, a thousand small voices crying out, "save milt! save milt!" her very power of will appeared to be ebbing away. she saw only those hard, unyielding eyes, she heard only those inner voices crying out in her lover's behalf. "i'll promise!" she faltered. "when?" asked the squire. "i don't know, some of these days," she cried desperately, quite at her wits' end. "that's too indefinite," insisted her companion. "s'pose you marry me a week from to-day?" "oh! no! no! not that soon! give me a little more time," she pleaded. something would surely come to her aid, if she gained time, she knew not what. a wild thought came into her head that perhaps she might yet run away with her lover. at all events, a delay would give him time to get away, whether she went or not. "two weeks, then," said the squire slowly, "no longer." "well," she said faintly. "then you'll agree to marry me?" "yes," she answered recklessly. "two weeks from to-day?" he insisted. "yes," she answered again, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "all right! a bargain's a bargain!" cried the squire gleefully. "i'll drive to the sheriff's and tell him i lost the hat coming to town." "give it to me!" asked the girl eagerly. "oh, no, my dear, not yet!" he answered, with a grimace, thrusting the bundle into an inner pocket of his great-coat. "i'll just keep it next to my heart as a reminder of your promise. i'll give it to you the morning of our wedding--as a token of love and affection," added he with a chuckle of satisfaction. chapter xviii. a larger number than usual of possible customers and evident idlers were gathered at billy west's country store on the tuesday morning following court day, discussing the latest news. the building was a small one-room frame, set in an angle made by the willis mill dirt lane and the new pike, an ideal spot for an exchange of news, often bordering on gossip, and a convenient halfway resting place for those homeward bound, or else on their way to mill or town. the proprietor's small stock of merchandise consisted of a heterogeneous collection, well suited to the needs of the locality, and ranging in variety from knitting needles, for the industrious matron at her fireside in the long winter evenings, to plow-shares, which her sturdy spouse might grasp when the soil demanded tilling in the spring. the varied mixture of farming implements, groceries and clothing presented the appearance of having been deposited by some friendly passing whirlwind, for the owner was of far too sociable a nature to devote much time to "stock-keeping." when an article was wanted, it generally had to be hunted for, unless it chanced to fall under the immediate range of vision of salesman or customer, while the crowded shelves and counters presented a bewildering array of tinware, glassware, patent medicines, clocks, trimmed hats, churns, gaudy neckwear, cheap clothing, mock jewelry, hair-oils and colored perfumes put up in glass bottles of seductive shapes, along with sundry articles great and small necessary to the needs and adornment of the people of the surrounding country. it was not for lack of time that billy allowed his stock to fall into this chaotic confusion, for he had much leisure on his hands, but, as i have before remarked, he was of a sociable nature, and usually spent his spare moments tilted back in a well-worn chair under a locust tree, if the weather was warm, indulging in neighborhood news, or else was engaged in an exhaustive argument with his circle of solons as to how the government should be properly run. if the season necessitated shelter, the usual coterie removed its sittings to the rear of the store, while during the rigorous winter months checker-playing afforded amusement, the board being of white pine, home-made, in alternate inked squares, and the checkers of black and white horn buttons supplied from the general stock. on the morning i have mentioned, the air was yet cool from a frosty night, but the sun shone brightly, giving promise of speedy warmth, as the day advanced, and the little company chose the sunlight, being sheltered from the breeze by the front of the building, which faced the east. moses hunn, an old stager, was descanting on the previous night's raid, having first borrowed a chew of long-green tobacco from his nearest neighbor. moses was an inveterate chewer and had been relying on his friends for tobacco for the last twenty years. "yes, sir, they say them night-riders fit like wild cats." "the guards didn't seem to be of much use," interposed billy. "they were pretty good at stopping bullets," moses averred. "george scott was shot three times in the leg an' twice in the body, i heard, an' four bullets grazed joe waters' skull." "it must be bullet-proof," a voice insisted. "the news is they've shot one of the riders, too. leastways, blood was found on the pike, an' also on a hat one of the raiders dropped." "any of you wearin' new hats this mornin'?" asked billy with an affected show of inspecting the head-gear of the crowd. "i noticed mose limpin' as he come up," a voice declared. "mose has been drawin' a pension for that same limp for a good many years past, so i don't think the guards can be charged with _that_," affirmed the storekeeper. "well, folks seem bent on havin' free roads," remarked the owner of the limp, as he sighted a knot-hole in a box near by, and, with the aim of a practiced chewer, adroitly sent a squirt of tobacco juice through it. "yes, an' i'm mightily afraid folks'll have the worst of the bargain when they do get free roads," answered billy, with a dubious shake of his head. "we won't have no such good roads as we've got now." "free roads'll make dead agin you, billy," insisted mose. "i'm not blamin' you for not favorin' 'em, for when folks can go to town, an' it not costin' 'em a cent, of course they're goin' so you'll lose many a good nickle that now drops in your till." "how did the sheriff get wind of the raid?" asked billy, changing an unpleasant subject. "there must be a traitor." "lordy! i wouldn't care to be in his shoes if they ever find him." "they'll find him all right enough." "an' swing him, high as haman." "sure!" along in the evening, soon after sundown, billy west closed his store a full half-hour earlier than usual, and went to his boarding house, not a great distance away. a little later he might have been seen cantering down the pike on his chestnut filly, arrayed in his best suit, and wearing the reddest and most conspicuous necktie his stock afforded, while the oily smoothness of his locks, and the odor of cheap cologne that hung persistently about him, announced the fact that he was on pleasure bent. to one acquainted with the state of his affections, it was an easy matter to guess that old man saunders' was his probable destination. this proved to be the case. only the day before he had made an engagement with sophronia to escort her to the new pike gate, where she was to spend the night with her bosom friend, sally, then go on to town the next day to do some shopping. "i scarcely knew whether to come for you or not, after what happened last night," said the cavalier apologetically, when he reached mr. saunders'. "i couldn't have blamed you, if you hadn't come," declared sophronia frankly. "is it safe to go?" she asked in sudden perplexity. "i don't think you'll be disturbed tonight, after the failure the riders made last night. there's an old sayin' that lightnin' seldom strikes twice in the same place." "but night-riders may," insisted sophronia. "i doubt it. even if they should come, they wouldn't want _you_. i really don't know of but one person that does," billy added with an engagingly meaning look. "i could name half a dozen, at least," retorted sophronia, with a coquettish toss of her head, as her cavalier assisted her to mount. sally was most glad to see her visitors, for she earnestly hoped through sophronia or her beau, at least, to learn something of milton derr--whether there were any rumors of his being hurt, or if either of them had seen him since yesterday. if not, it augered ill for the owner of the blood-stained hat which had been picked up in the road near the toll-house. finally, when her mother had gone out of the room, sally hurriedly asked concerning the young man, and on learning that he had not been seen, she added that she had an important message for him, and asked billy to tell him so within the next day or two, if possible. that night in the privacy of her room, and under a promise of the deepest secrecy on sophronia's part, sally confided to her bosom friend the besetting fear that milt had been wounded the night before. "try and see him for me. if he's much hurt, let me know at once, but if he isn't, tell him to leave here as quickly as possible, that he is strongly suspected of being a raider, and to go away before any arrests are made. tell him to go at once." "how did you find out about the night-riders coming?" asked sophronia. "through squire bixler. he's got a spy that's keeping him posted, and, i believe, this spy told him they would come last night." "how do you know there's a spy?" asked her friend thoughtfully. "i overheard him talking to the squire one day when i was hid behind the stone wall that runs along the pike," and straightway the girl related the whole occurrence to her friend. "it's a hatched-up plot between the squire and this man to get milt into trouble," she added in conclusion. "didn't you see who the other man was?" asked sophronia, beginning to connect this fact with some other circumstances in her mind, as links are added to a chain. "no i was afraid to peep over the fence for fear they might see me." "could it have been jade beddow?" "no, i would have known his voice. it wasn't him, i'm certain of that. there was something about the man's voice that held a familiar sound, as if i had heard it before, but i can't place it." "do you think you would recognize it if you should hear it again?" "yes, i'm sure i should." "then i b'lieve i can run that spy to the ground," said sophronia decisively. "i believe i know the man an' the place where he's buried the money he got for tellin' on the raiders." "you don't say!" cried sally, in open-eyed wonder. "yes," answered her friend impulsively. "you go back with me to-morrow noon, when i come from town, an' i'll take you to the very spot, an' show you the very man." chapter xix. sally needed but little persuasion to consent to go home with her friend the next day, for in addition to sophronia's promise to show her the supposed spy--the man who was in league with the squire against his own nephew--she had also promised sally to get word to milton derr to come to her house that night. in case the young man was wounded and could not come, a trusted messenger, either billy west or sophronia herself, would see that he received sally's message of warning. shortly after the two girls reached mr. saunders', they set out to pay a casual visit to mrs. judson's, ostensibly to learn how the rag carpet was progressing, but chiefly that sally might see and hear the master of the place, and so decide if steve judson were really the man she had overheard plotting with the squire. the edge of the ravine was reached, and sally was taken to the clump of cedar bushes from behind which her friend had covertly watched the secret burial of the jar containing the money. "i wonder if the money's still there?" asked sally in a low tone, as the tree was pointed out to her. "i reckon so," answered sophronia. "we might go look, only there's a possible danger of his coming upon us in the act. hush! listen!" she cautioned, almost in the same breath, warningly pressing her companion's arm. "i hear somebody comin' up the ravine, now. don't move! i shouldn't be surprised if it wasn't steve himself," she added in a whisper. "he's comin' to see if his judas money is safe!" "suppose he should spy us?" asked sally in sudden trepidation. "but he can't, these bushes will hide us securely." "yes, it's him," she continued softly, as she cautiously parted the thick foliage and peered through; "he's comin' up the ravine, an' he's got his arm in a sling," she added a minute or two later as she withdrew her face from the opening and signalled sally to take her place. thus the two, alternating their keen watch, saw steve reach the spot sophronia had pointed out but the moment before, as the secret burial place of the treasure, and when he had reached it he immediately began to dig with one hand in the ground to unearth the glass jar. he was some little time in doing this, hampered as he was with one arm in a sling, but at last the job was happily accomplished, and holding the jar between his knees, as sophronia remembered also to have done, he unscrewed the lid with his free hand, and was soon deeply engaged in counting over the bills. "hello! steve! what in the devil air you doin'?" so intent was judson in his pleasant and unusual occupation, and so interested the two spectators behind the cedar bushes, that the presence of a fourth party was quite unknown and unsuspected by all until a voice broke abruptly and startlingly on the quiet of the spot. steve gave a nervous start, as if he had received an electric shock, and almost dropped the roll of bills that was spread out on his knee, while the quick move he made overturned the jar at his feet, and sent it rolling down the declivity, until it broke with a sharp crash on the rocks in the dry bed of the stream below. even the two girls came near betraying their presence by a cry of surprise at the unexpected intrusion. close upon the words of the new-comer, and before steve could gather up his money and hide it, the bushes on the opposite side of the ravine, right above steve, were parted, and a man caught hold of a wild grape-vine hanging from a tree, jutting out over a ledge, and lightly swung himself down to within a few feet of where steve sat. it was jade beddow. "i went to your house huntin' you, an' your wife said you was down in this direction somewheres. how's your arm gettin'?" the speaker suddenly caught sight of the bank bills on steve's knee, and broke into a low whistle of astonishment. "well,--great--je--ru--sa--_lem_! where'd you git all that money?" he asked in frank surprise. "i--i--i've been savin' it up for a rainy day," stammered steve, nervously clutching the bills in his one hand, and crushing them into his broad palm, as if to hide them from jade's keen eyes. "how much 've you got there?" questioned his companion curiously. "i don't know," answered steve, hurriedly. "not much, though--i was just countin' it when you come." "it rather surprised you, didn't it?" asked jade with a laugh. "i should think so," acknowledged steve. "you must have slipped down here mighty quiet." "i did," admitted jade. "i wanted to see what mischief you was up to. i didn't expect to catch you countin' money like some banker. what's this hole in the ground? been buryin' it, you d--n miser?" "it's safer than riskin' it in a bank, where you don't know who's going' to steal it." "that's true," agreed jade, stooping to pick up the scrap of paper which had been wrapped around the money, and had now dropped on the ground at steve's side. it was the identical scrap that had given sophronia a clue as to how this money had come into steve's possession, and when jade picked it up, she waited anxiously to see if he would also make a similar discovery. at first the intruder glanced at it carelessly and seemed about to crumple it up in his hand, then suddenly the whole expression of his face changed as his eyes fell on the printed matter. he read it hastily, and quickly turned on steve in accusing anger. "you scoundrel!" he cried, shaking the scrap of paper in his companion's face. "you got this money by sellin' out. you've betrayed us!" "i haven't," steve stoutly denied, although his face turned a sallow white as he spoke. "who says i told on the band?" "the proof's right here," affirmed jade, again shaking the scrap of paper violently in steve's face. "here's the reward offered for information concernin' the riders. you're the traitor, and you alone!" "i'm not!" persisted the accused, though his voice seemed less assertive than before, and held in its tone a quality of fear. "you've no right to say so. i picked up that scrap of paper on the side of the road the other day." "yes, an' you also picked up the traitor's price along with it," sneered jade beddow. "i'll just save this for future use," he added, folding the paper and thrusting it in his pocket. "what use?" asked steve nervously. "as evidence when you come to be tried for a spy," answered jade calmly. "you haven't forgot this soon the penalty of betrayin' our band, have you?" he continued in a sterner voice, fixing his cold, piercing eyes full upon his companion. "i never done it," muttered steve, letting his eyes drop before the close scrutiny of jade's gaze. "you cain't prove it." a sudden thought came to the accuser as he stood looking at the culprit, who squirmed about uneasily under the penetrating eyes, and the tones that jade next employed suggested rather an argument than a threat. his voice dropped into almost a persuasive key. "now look here, steve!" he said quietly, "i've caught you dead to rights, an' you cain't squirm our of it, so you needn't try. you sold yourself for this money, don't deny it. you haven't saved up fifty cents in the last ten years, you know it, yet here you sit with a handful of crisp new bank-notes, tellin' me you earned 'em honestly. ha! ha! that's a good one! the devil himself would laugh at a joke like that." jade beddow folded his arms and looked down on the poor wretch at his feet, who gave no evidence of the humor of the situation. "now see here, steve! you're in a tight fix, sure an' certain, but if you'll do just as i tell you, i'll promise to get you out." "how?" asked steve hoarsely, a growing sign of weakness manifest. "by fixin' the deed on somebody else." "who?" "milt derr." steve remained silent. "fix it on him, an' it saves you. you'll have to lie a bit, but you're good at that." "i cain't put it on him--don't ask me!" cried steve sharply. "he done me a good turn only the other night. i cain't lie on him now." jade gave a sudden, short, harsh laugh. "your conscience is gittin' mighty tender, all of a sudden," he said derisively. "he stopped an' took me up behind him, after the rest of you had rid off. but for him i'd be in jail, right now." "all right! you can do as you please about the matter," answered jade coolly. "only there's a much hotter plac'n the jail, they say, which you stand a mighty good chance of reachin', an' d--n quick, too. if you want to suffer a traitor's fate, you can do so, i'll see that you get your just desserts, an' quickly. i've showed you an easy way to escape. you can take it or leave it, just as you choose." he turned as if to go, while steve caught at him, as a drowning man at a straw. "i'll testify ag'in him!" cried steve despairingly. "very well! that's a bargain. we're goin' to have a meetin' to-night, at the old stone quarry near the bridge. be on hand without fail, an' remember, that it's _him_ or _you_," he added significantly. chapter xx. the two girls clung closely to one another, after the manner of frightened womankind, striving vainly to abstract a grain of courage from a united fear--in the eyes of each a growing terror. "we must find milt and give him warning!" gasped sally faintly to her companion, at last gaining courage and voice as the two men went slowly down the ravine, their voices dropping lower and lower until they grew but a dull, unintelligible murmur to the attentive ears bent keenly to catch their meaning. "yes," agreed sophronia, "without delay. is steve judson the man you overheard talking to the squire?" "the very one. i recollected his voice the minute he begun to speak." "a pretty pair of villains they are,--him an' jade, too!" sally was already busied with her plans for her sweetheart's safety. "i'll try to beat 'em at their very own game," she said determinedly. "the first thing to be done is to see milt." "yes, we must find him at once," agreed her companion. "let's go straight home, get our horses, and ride over to mr. pepper's where milt works. we must see milt himself, not trust to a message." "he can't be badly wounded, else they wouldn't expect to try him tonight," said sally thoughtfully, hope springing anew in her breast. "neither jade, nor steve talked like he was hurt at all. perhaps he isn't." as the girls talked and planned, beset by many fears and uncertainties, they walked hurriedly across the fields, keeping pace with their nimble tongues, and when mr. saunders' house was reached, they quickly saddled the horses, and set out forthwith on their quest. disappointment awaited them at their journey's end, for when they came to mr. pepper's place, they learned that milt had gone across country to attend to some business for his employer, and it was uncertain at what hour he would return. sophronia and sally looked at one another in dire perplexity. "want to leave a message?" asked mr. pepper. "if mr. derr comes any hour before midnight, tell him to ride over to my house," said sophronia. "i have a very important message for him." they turned away. "he evidently isn't wounded, an' likely he won't get back in time to be summoned by the raiders," she added hopefully, as she and her companion rode homeward. "now, what's to be done in the meantime?" "i'm goin' straight home," declared sally, "an' keep a sharp look-out at the gate. mr. pepper said milt might come back by way of town. i can trump up some excuse to mother about not staying all night with you, as i intended. if milt comes back to mr. pepper's you'll get to see an' warn him, an' if he comes by the gate--i'll get to do it. that's all we can do." "suppose we both fail?" "then i'll go to the old quarry tonight," answered sally. "no!" cried her companion aghast. "indeed, i will," insisted sally, coolly, "i'll not only go, but i'll see that milt's not convicted on the false words of those two lying villains." "you're really not in earnest, sally brown!" cried sophronia, half in astonishment, half in admiration at the daring announcement. "but i am, i mean every word of it." the girl had inherited from her forbears a touch of that intrepid spirit that prevailed amid the hills. "i wouldn't go for worlds!" cried sophronia shuddering. "i guess you would, if it was _your_ sweetheart that was in danger." "i don't believe i could go, even then," admitted sophronia. "they'll kill you!" she declared in growing terror. "not when i tell them i sent a warning to the band by milt, and point out the very man that did betray them." "but remember, the leader of the night-raiders is jade beddow. he will surely do you an' milt all the injury he can. oh, sally, don't think of running such a risk! let's find billy west an' ask him to go." [illustration: "you're really not in earnest, sally brown!"] "it wouldn't be as safe as for me to go," demurred sally. "i'm not afraid. they're not goin' to hurt me. let me have your father's pistol when we get back. i'll take it along, an' use it, too, if there's need." as the two girls excitedly discussed the situation, sally decided that she would not go back home as she had first intended. there were too many chances of missing her sweetheart by so doing. besides, if the two girls separated, sally would not know whether her friend had seen milt or not. this was a point they had both overlooked. it was agreed, then, that the safer plan would be for sally to remain at mr. saunders' until late bedtime, then, if milt had not come, she would manage, with sophronia's help, to slip quietly out of the house, saddle joe and go direct to the old abandoned quarry where the farce of a trial would be held. when bedtime came, and no sign of derr, the two girls succeeded in slipping out of the house without detection, when they quickly saddled the patient joe, and later parted in the darkness, sophronia still urging her companion to think once again before starting forth on so perilous a journey. unshaken by her friend's forebodings, the toll-taker set out courageously into the lonely night, bent on accomplishing her sweetheart's release. she was familiar with the location of the dirt lane, at which she must turn off in order to reach the quarry, yet, in the haste of her mission and the perturbation of mind under which she was laboring, she turned into the wrong lane, and had gone some distance before discovering her mistake. by the time she had retraced her way many valuable moments were lost. the night was wearing on. in the hilly and sparsely settled region through which she rode, it seemed already past midnight, and her road was solitary and forbidding. even the rocks, and trees and clumps of bushes along the way took on grotesque and often threatening shapes to her excited imagination as she passed them in the semi-darkness. at times, these dimly defined forms became terrifying monsters of the night, guarding the road along which she passed, like fabulous creatures of fairy-land protecting the approach to some magic domain. vague, silent, mysterious, they loomed up on either hand--gigantic, somber sentinels. the chill of the night air, which lay heavily in the shadowy ravines, between the uplifting hills, penetrated her clothing and seemed to reach with its benumbing breath her very heart, yet she pressed on, undaunted. she paused a brief moment at a small brook that crossed the road on the way to the quarry, and as she listened there came the dull hoof-tread of approaching horses--a cavalcade, it seemed, as she hearkened in sudden nervous terror, for the raiders were evidently close at hand. were they coming from, or going to the quarry? for the moment she could not decide whether the sound was behind or in front of her. the reverberant hills seemed to be playing pranks with the echoes, and as she sat motionless on her horse and listened, a feeling of faintness came over her at the possibility of the sound's direction. what if she were too late, and the raiders, returning from the old quarry, had already wreaked their vengeance on the hapless victim? the thought appalled her in its cruel suggestion, and her heart grew heavy with forebodings; then close upon her terror and despair the glad fact rushed to her relief that the horsemen were behind, not in front of her, and there was yet time in which to state her lover's case. the raiders' rendezvous lay beyond, some little distance up the road, as she remembered its location in bygone days. there was scarcely time to reach it before the hurrying horses. perhaps it would be the better plan to conceal herself somewhere amid the shadows along the road until the cavalcade had passed, then quickly follow. she recalled to mind that a little further down the brook was a thicket of water willows, now a splotch of blackness in the vague landscape, and, after a moment's hesitation, she turned her horse's head in this direction. scarcely had the obscurity of the spot enfolded her, when the raiders came sweeping by--an ominous shadowy band, crossing the shallow stream at the place she had but recently quitted, then galloping rapidly along the road which rose sharply toward the hill where lay the place of meeting. the quarry was hollowed out of the far side of the hill, around whose base the stream wound lazily, and to go by way of the winding road was a more circuitous route, while to climb the hill shortened the distance greatly. the girl decided on this latter route--she would climb the hill on foot. it would take less time, and time was now most precious. possibly the raiders would place a sentry at the entrance of the quarry, so that she might not be able to gain access, even if she should go around by the road as she had at first intended. acting on this sudden decision, she quietly slipped from the saddle to the ground, hurriedly tied the bridle to a bending willow, and, after giving joe a friendly, reassuring pat, started to climb the hill. the way was rough and unfamiliar, and in the darkness, made yet more dense by clumps of cedar trees and bushes that thickly clothed the hillside, she was often compelled to grope her way along to keep from stumbling over the knotted roots of the trees that crept out from between crevices in the rocks, twisting over the ground like monster, hideous serpents, guarding the approach to the rendezvous. the ascent was slow and tedious. finally the summit was reached, and choosing her bearings from its commanding height, she began to descend the opposite side toward the quarry, the long accumulation of fallen cedar spines deadening the sound of her light footstep until she was able to reach the very edge of the excavated portion of the hill without detection, guided thither by a dim light below the surface that faintly defined its rugged outline. spent of breath, she crouched down in the shadows behind a clump of dwarfed cedar bushes fringing the ragged edge of broken rock, and peered cautiously into the quarry. a scant fire had been hastily kindled close against the rocky wall, and in a semi-circle around it the raiders were now gathered. the wide-brimmed, slouch hats they wore partly concealed the faces beneath, and the girl's eager eyes traveled anxiously from one dark form to another. finally they rested on the object sought. standing almost beneath the spot where she crouched in hiding was the accused, his head boldly erect, his bearing defiant, as if he feared no man, and cared naught for the two who had come to bear false witness against him, and to swear away his life. chapter xxi. the raiders were gathered in a small alcove of the quarry, sheltered on three sides by walls of rough-faced limestone, jagged and broken as the quarrymen had left them years before, and this secluded spot made a counsel chamber little liable to intrusion, and well-suited to its present use. milton derr was standing nearest the fire in an angle made by the walls, while others of the band were ranged in a semi-circle across the wider space opening into the larger part of the quarry, the captain standing at the end of the line furthest from the prisoner. above them the girl crouched in hiding, screened by the overhanging darkness and the fringe of cedar bushes along the edge, yet from her vantage ground she could clearly see what was taking place below, and easily overhear all that was said. steve judson was called to testify. she heard him coolly bear witness to having seen the accused stop at the new pike gate, and hold earnest converse with "that brown gal" as he designated sally. steve claimed to have come up in the darkness and recognized the two at the gate as he passed through. he wove quite a plausible story out of whole cloth, saying that on recognizing milt, and knowing his fondness for the girl at the toll-house, he, steve, at once suspected that the plans of the raiders for that night were being discussed. to satisfy himself on this point, after riding along the road a little distance, he dismounted, climbed the stone wall and crept back quietly, keeping in the shadow of it, until he was near enough to hear a part of the conversation that took place at the gate, and then he overheard the prisoner tell of the raid that was to be made a few hours later. at the conclusion of steve's story, the captain called attention to the fact that on this same night, before the hour of attack, milton derr had been boasting among his comrades at the place of rendezvous that the pole of the new pike gate would not be cut down on that night. he, alone of all the raiders, seemed to know that the plans for an attack were known, and the gate would be under guard. twice had the captain asked, in the presence of the members of the band, to be given the name of milt's informant, and twice had milt refused to answer. more than once during steve's false testimony the listening girl, with eyes blazing forth something of the fierce indignation she felt, nervously sought the pistol at her belt, in a stern resolve to use it on the accomplished liar, who was thus deliberately swearing her lover's life away. she remembered, however, that this man was but the frightened tool of another. at heart, the witness did not wish to do milt an injury. steve had admitted as much that afternoon in the ravine, while talking to the captain. jade beddow was really the one who was at the bottom of this piece of villainy. his hatred of milt, coupled with a desire to be revenged on the girl who had scorned him, was prompting jade to this present step. "this fellow is a liar and an ingrate!" cried milt fearlessly at the conclusion of steve's testimony. "the story just told is false in every particular." "yet the man who declares these charges false is the only one amongst us who knew that the gate would be guarded," said the captain, turning to his men. "i gave you all warning of the fact," answered milt. "the warning was likely given more to shield yourself than us," retorted the leader with a sneer. "if you went, you would be as liable to injury as the rest of us; if you prevented us from goin' it would serve your purpose; if you sneaked out of the affair, it would fasten the guilt of a traitor on you. this is the sum an' substance of it all." the captain turned once more to his men. "if it was known that the gate was to be attacked on this night, it is proof we have a traitor in our midst. if this man is the only one who knew the gate would be guarded, it stands to reason he is the only one who told it was to be attacked. who else but the prisoner had an interest in protecting the new pike gate? the case is as plain as day." "i was told under a pledge of secrecy the gate would be guarded. i gave you the benefit of that warning!" protested derr. "if there had been no traitor there would be no need of any warning," answered the captain, then his words took on a greater force of meaning-- "brothers! comrades! there is a traitor in our midst. the repulse we met with the other night proves beyond a doubt that our most secret plans are made known to our enemies. who, then, is this traitor? cain't you pick him out? i know of only one person among us who would like to see the new pike gate still stand after all others had gone down. i think you also know who this man is, for the testimony just now given has made it clear. "no one but milt derr seemed to know the gate would be guarded the other night, no one but the girl at the gate knew it was to be attacked. it was to the interest of each that the other should know the plans of raider and officer,--a touching and mutual exchange of confidence," the speaker suggested sneeringly. "if the prisoner was warned, as he says he was, who but the girl at the gate could have warned him? if this was the case, how did she know the gate was to be raided unless told by her sweetheart? who else but the man in love with the toll-taker would run the risk of betraying his comrades, knowing full well the penalty of the act?" then the captain broke into a fierce tirade as he shook his hand menacingly at the prisoner. jade possessed a certain rude power of oratory that could at times be made strongly effective on his followers--the peculiar magnetism of a fierce, headstrong nature that over-powered and controlled weaker ones. "there stands the traitor before you! your liberty and lives are threatened by a constant danger so long as it lies in this man's power to betray you. he has already used that power--he will use it again if he can. as you each and every one know, there never was, and never can be but one sort of a safe traitor, an' that is--_a dead one_. it is your liberty, or his--which shall it be? the hour to decide is at hand. there is no time for delay. choose!" when the captain had ceased speaking, a deep silence fell upon the group of waiting men, and so deep did it seem in the stillness of the night and the great loneliness of the spot, that the listener, crouched in the shadows above, was almost won to the belief that the loud beatings of her heart, or her stifled breathing, would be heard by those gathered below, and her hiding-place revealed. the captain waited expectantly, looking closely from one face to another, noting keenly and exultantly the dawning of distrust and fear that slowly overspread each countenance, as troubled waters communicate their motion until the whole silent pool is disturbed; then he spoke again, slowly, deliberately: "the case is in your hands, comrades! we have a common interest in the protection of our liberty an' ourselves. shall it be freedom for him, or imprisonment for us? what shall be done?" "draw for the red bean!" a voice called out sharply and discordantly. it was steve judson who spoke. "yes! yes! the red bean!" a chorus of voices clamored, quickly seizing the suggestion as a solution of the problem confronting them. a look of approval came to the captain's face, while his eyes flashed forth a malignant triumph. "you shall draw for it," he answers briefly, taking from his pocket a small leathern pouch, which he shook vigorously, then untied and opened. "draw!" he commanded, holding out the pouch to the man nearest him. the raider hesitated a moment, then put his thumb and forefinger into the pouch and drew forth a bean, which he concealed within the palm of his hand without a glance at it. stepping aside, the first man gave way to another member of the band, and thus in succession the drawing continued until each raider, save the prisoner, had drawn from out the leathern pouch a bean, and held it within the hollow of his hand, while neither he nor his neighbor knew whether it was a bean of white, or the fatal one of red that had been drawn. steve was the last to draw. as he stepped forward, no one saw the captain slightly relax the fingers of the hand holding the pouch, nor suspected that the small object they had retained until this moment was covertly released and dropped to the bottom of the pouch as it was held out to steve. "hands up! your oath!" each man obeyed, the last man to draw holding his left hand aloft as his right was in a sling. thus, with hand upraised, every man swore to a strict performance of his duty, taking upon himself the oath that if he held the red bean he would visit upon the traitor wherever found, whoever he might be, the punishment that a traitor's act justly merited, or that having failed in his oath, the same judgment he had withheld might be visited on himself who had foresworn his oath. then each man came singly before the captain, and opened the palm of the hand that both might know who held the fatal red bean. the fire had been replenished and stirred into renewed brightness while the drawing was taking place, and as steve came forward and opened his palm, a bright flame suddenly shot up from the fire, a slender, wavering torch, shedding a momentary light on the group, and on the two standing together. as the captain and steve looked downward into the latter's outstretched palm, each saw a round, red object lying there like a great drop of blood. [illustration: a typical night rider.] chapter xxii. all this while the girl crouched close to earth, immovable, breathless, keenly alert amid the gruesome shadows hovering along the broken line of rock. there was a strange and terrible fascination in the scene enacted below her--a fascination she would fain shake off, yet felt powerless to overcome, like the fatal spell a serpent weaves when it charms a victim. to her perturbed brain it seemed an oppressive dream, an unhappy nightmare, born of the surrounding gloom, and still she understood that it was most real, that the little drama, with its environment of night and secrecy and threatened crime, was one of momentous import to her and to her lover. was it now time for her to act, to take her part in it, or must she wait a little longer for her cue? should she reveal her presence and appeal to the members of this lawless band, denouncing its unscrupulous leader, and his traitorous ally? would the raiders believe her story, and listen to a petition for her sweetheart's liberty, after having heard steve judson's strong testimony, strengthened by the captain's philippic? true, she might conduct them to the very spot wherein the real traitor had concealed his ill-gotten gains, and where she had overheard him plotting with the captain against the prisoner, but the money was no longer there, and with steve and the captain both against her, she could hope to accomplish little. neither would hesitate to go to any length to prove her statements false; besides, there was no time to prove words true--it was a moment for action, not for words. whatever was done must be done this very night--at once. on one point her mind was fully set--harm should not befall the innocent victim of this foul conspiracy, while she could raise a voice or hand to prevent it. a plan of succor must be speedily decided upon. persuasion seemed the only feasible one in her present strait. might she not state the whole case calmly and dispassionately to them? surely they would not be deaf to reason or entreaty. when they were brought to realize the fact that it was through her the band had been warned of the gate being under guard the night of the attack, their gratitude alone should insure her both justice and mercy for the one whose cause she pleaded. among these lawless men there were two who stood in the way of milt's liberty, the others were negative save as their own personal safety was concerned, and of these two active enemies, the captain was by far the most dangerous. with his evil influence removed, steve would no longer be an enemy to the prisoner. yet how could that influence be taken away in time to be of benefit to milt? a sudden thought came to the girl that startled and terrified her with its meaning. there was a solution to the problem. the means for removing this baneful influence was close at hand--within her very grasp. but could she do this deed? had she the courage to attempt it? she resolutely nerved herself to the effort. slowly drawing the pistol from her belt, and noiselessly sinking on one knee, that she might the better rest her arm and take a more accurate aim, the girl carefully sighted the captain's dark form, while her finger trembled nervously on the hammer of the weapon. just a slight pressure--the mere movement of a finger--and a soul would be sent quickly into eternity. yet what an evil soul it was and to what lasting punishment! as she thought of it, in all its terrible import, her own soul turned faint, and her fingers grew limp and purposeless. oh! it was a fearful thing to do, to shoot one down like a wild beast, and far worse to hurry one so deeply charged with wickedness into eternity, without a moment's time in which to cry out for forgiveness for his evil life. were she to commit this deed, would not its terror abide with her for all time--a hideous ever-present spectre, that would follow her through life? she recalled to mind a sermon she had once heard in alder creek glen, in which had been pictured in powerful intensity the wrong of taking human life, and the murderer's unrest and troubled conscience forever after. must she be a taker of human life? then would her own soul be stained with crime, her own hand prove the fatal instrument for sending a lost soul to a judgment in which there could be no hope, from which there was no appeal. the word of god himself was against such an act, for in letters of flame the sentence seemed to flash into her brain--"vengeance is mine, saith the lord, i will repay." no! no! she must not blot her soul with this awful act, there was surely some other means to employ, some method less dreadful by which she could save the one in peril. she would wait a little longer, hoping without hope as it were. her arm rested idly on her knee, her finger fell away from the trigger she had come so near to pressing, while a half exultant joy leaped in her soul that she had not obeyed the first savage impulse to which her troubled mind gave birth. not yet had she usurped god's prerogative. "am i to be shot down like a dog?" cried the prisoner sharply. "a traitor may meet his death by rope, bullet, or knife. he deserves to suffer by each separate means," said the leader with a significant glance rather at steve than at the prisoner. "see that the prisoner is safely bound." at his command steve stepped forward and closely examined the cords with which milt's ankles and wrists were bound. his hands were tied behind him, and with his feet in the shadow the watcher on the rocky ledge above had not noticed until this moment how utterly helpless he was. once more she grasped the pistol with a determined grip, and breathlessly looked down on the group beneath her. a crisis was surely approaching. the captain gave a brief command. two of his henchmen--men as unscrupulous and callous as he--began to remove some flat stones that were laid on a pile of cedar logs near the rocky sides of the quarry just beyond the prisoner. this spot was partly in the shadow, and sally had not noticed it until her attention was directed thither. she leaned forward cautiously, and looked down in wonder and perplexity while the stones were lifted off, then two of the logs were shifted to one side, while a dark, irregular opening was revealed in the rock floor, as if the mouth of a small cave had been uncovered. indeed, such was the case, for on blasting away the rock, some years before, this aperture had been discovered, and as it was a dangerous opening, descending far downward into the very heart of the hill, it had been closed by means of the cedar logs, and the large flat stones laid on top of them. as the logs were lifted to one side, a member of the band standing near, dropped a loose stone into the opening, while the girl anxiously listening, quickly caught her breath as she heard the object falling down and down, striking against the uneven sides of the pit in its descent until it seemed to have penetrated the very bowels of the earth. the man who had dropped the stone shuddered and turned away. "the devil take me! if i believe that hole has any bottom to it," he said in an awed voice, and quickly the thought flashed into sally's brain as to the purpose for which the pit had been uncovered, and why the abandoned quarry had been selected for a meeting-place this night. was a human body to be sacrificed to the fearsome depths of that dark cavern? the thought appalled her more than all else that had gone before, and she grew faint with terror. even the prisoner seemed to look in speechless horror toward the black opening as if he, also, guessed the peril that threatened him. the very members of the secret conclave gazed with awe-stricken faces on the yawning, ominous hole, as though they were beginning to weaken at so dire a punishment. even the act of a traitor seemed scarcely to merit a fate this terrible. only the captain and his ally appeared unmoved and unrelenting. on the former's face a look of fiendish triumph slowly settled, as he gazed steadfastly into the awesome blackness of the cave-like opening--a hard, evil face it was, that held neither pity nor regret. "to your horses, boys!" the leader spoke quickly, commandingly, for his keen eyes saw signs of weakening among his followers. "remember your oath! remember your safety!" he called out warningly. "and remember the blood of an innocent man is on your hands!" cried the doomed man despairingly. "i sought to save your lives--you are wrongfully taking mine!" "he lies!" thundered the captain. "he sold himself to the officers of the law, an' but for a premature shot we might all now be dead, or in prison. they did not fire on him, bear in mind, but waited until he had passed on, an' given the signal that all was safe, an' we come near ridin' into the trap that was laid for us. he is a traitor to us, an' to our cause, an' deserves a traitor's death!" the accused began again to speak, but the captain cut short his words, fearful of their effect on the hearers. "gag the prisoner!" he commanded, and despite milt's protests, the order was speedily carried out, and soon the prisoner was lying bound and gagged, close to the dark opening piercing the very earth. "to your horses!" the leader cried savagely, "and to hell with all traitors." for a moment the members of the little band appeared to hesitate, moved by conflicting impulses, but the instinct of self-preservation is strongly implanted in the human breast, and will crowd out many noble qualities. the vacillation was but momentary; slowly and silently the men began to move away, each one eyeing his neighbor askance, as if to discover who held the fatal red bean within his keeping. thus they melted into the night, stealing like dissolving shadows down to the thicket below where the horses were hitched. soon after the tread of many horses' feet broke into the hush of the lonely scene. some seemed going in one direction, some in another, and on the sleeping hills a darkness lay heavily--a darkness such as hides many a ghastly crime. chapter xxiii. the cheering light of hope began to break upon the crouching figure on the ragged edge of rock above the quarry, as she watched the men disappear, one by one, into the darkness on their way to their horses. it suddenly dawned upon her that the hapless prisoner was to be left, bound and gagged, in this lonely spot until the return of that member of the band who had drawn the red bean. some subtle intuition warned the alert onlooker that this one was either the captain or steve. possibly both might return on the murderous mission, and, but for her, only the few faint pitying stars of heaven would be witnesses of a dastardly crime, darker than the night itself. supremely glad the girl felt at this moment that she had not been unduly hasty in her actions, for, by waiting, she would now have but one, or two at furthest, to overcome in order that milt derr might go free. swift upon the thought came another--that by acting quickly she might be able to liberate the hapless prisoner before even these two should return. if she were but swift enough in her movements to reach the quarry and give her sweetheart the pistol she carried, then would it bode evil to the one who should come to wreak the oath of vengeance against the victim. she waited impatiently yet a little longer until the spot should be utterly deserted, and when her ears at last caught the sound of retreating hoofs descending the rocky hill, she tightly grasped one of the cedar bushes and leaning over the edge of the jutting rocks called softly: "milt! milt! i'm here. i'll soon set you free. don't lose heart!" she understood that he could make no response, that the cruel gag prevented it, but as she listened intently, after her low-uttered words of encouragement, she heard him raise his fettered feet and strike them on the rock floor, one--twice--as if in response to her words of cheer. the light from the smouldering fire had grown too dim for her to see the movement, or note the look of bewilderment and incredulous surprise that swept over the prisoner's face, as he turned his body slightly, and looked up in the direction from which the voice had seemed to come. "i'm on the ledge of rock above the quarry," sally continued, hurriedly. "it's too steep to climb down, but i'll go around, and come to you." quick upon her words, she sprang to her feet, eager to skirt the edge of the quarry, the light of love, which is stronger than sun or moon, guiding her steps through the night's labyrinth. had not her thoughts been entirely absorbed by the great eagerness in her heart to reach her lover and set him free before the return of his enemies, she would have marveled at the ease and speed with which she moved in making her way down the rugged hill toward its entrance. and still it seemed an interminable journey, each step haunted by the fear that the one on whom the fatal choice of executioner had fallen might return and wreak his vengeful mission before she could reach the spot by the circuitous route she had to take. this fear, while it startled her, also urged her footsteps to greater haste, and at times she almost ran. suddenly her feet became entangled in one of the many creeping wild vines that spread a tangled network in her path, and unable to recover her poise, she fell headlong to the ground, striking heavily. in a wilted heap she lay there for some minutes, stunned by the fall, seemingly not caring to move; then, on slowly regaining her scattered wits, and recalling the haste and importance of her mission, she made an effort to regain her feet. along with the effort a sharp pain darted through her ankle--so sharp and severe that she came near crying out, and after making a step or two forward, she sank, with a little moan, down on the ground again, clasping her spent ankle with both hands. a swarm of terrifying thoughts came crowding swiftly upon her. had she broken it? if so, what should she do in her utter helplessness? a most unenviable situation it was--alone and crippled, far from human aid, a solitary object for pity, lying helpless amid those silent, gloomy hills, while the only person on whom she might have called in her dire extremity, was even more helpless than she, and urgently needed her assistance even now to avert the terrible fate that was drawing very near to him. as she sat thus in her abject misery, aloof from succor or sympathy, rubbing her sprained ankle aimlessly the while, and bemoaning by turns her misfortune and suffering, and the cruel situation of the bound and helpless prisoner within the stone quarry, she finally attempted to move her foot gently to and fro, and found to her surprise that the accident was only a sudden wrench, painful but not lasting. hope once more buoyed her up, yet all this delay was a waste of precious time she could ill afford to lose. after a little prudent waiting she once more gained her feet and carefully took a step or two forward, and though the effort cost her some agony, it was not so intense as before, and seemed gradually wearing away, so with renewed determination she struggled bravely on, at times compelled to sit down on the ground and tightly clasp her ankle with both hands to deaden the pain. as she sat thus, rocking to and fro in her suffering, her ear caught the sound of a horse coming up the hill in the direction of the quarry. up she again started, in a fresh frenzy of terror, her physical pain giving way to the greater mental agony that beset her. forgetful of her recent accident, only remembering that the thing she had most dreaded might speedily come to pass, despite her efforts to prevent it, she struggled on. the pain seemed suddenly to go as quickly as it had come, and she pushed resolutely onward, unmindful of her weak ankle or of the darkness, praying fervently the while that strength might remain to her, and enable her to reach the quarry before the horseman did. the sound of the hoofbeats ceased. it was probable the rider had dismounted and was making his way on foot to where his victim lay. she was tempted to scream out--to rend the very silence with frantic cries for help, yet to what purpose? it might only serve to hasten the dastardly work. oh, that she had waited at the edge of the quarry, and sought to defend her loved from that secure vantage ground! she gasped a prayer for aid, for strength, and redoubled her speed. at last the quarry's entrance was reached, and she had to pause a brief moment to catch her spent breath. then, in an agony of suspense, she peered anxiously forward into the darkness and silence of the place. from out the gloom she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. her heart stood still. was she, indeed, too late? had the cruel messenger already accomplished his bloody mission, and was he now returning from the scene of his dark crime? as these questions flew to her troubled brain, there came the perplexing knowledge that the sounds she heard were those of two men coming toward her, not one, and she felt, rather than saw, the presence of two dark forms rapidly approaching. had jade beddow come back with steve? they must both have ridden one horse. she would soon be discovered. her life would surely pay the penalty of her presence there. but at least milt's death should be avenged. she cared for naught else that might happen. she drew the pistol from its holder and leveled it at the two shadowy forms looming up before her. suddenly from out the darkness and gloom there came the sound of a voice, low and guarded, yet the voice she most cared to hear in all the world--the voice of milton derr. it seemed as if the very dead had spoken. "did you come back alone?" the voice asked of the companion shadow. "yes, but the captain may also soon return. why do you ask?" "as i lay in yonder place, another voice than yours spoke to me out of the gloom, and bade me have courage." "you must have dreamed it," insisted steve, for it was he. "we two must be the only livin' bein's on this hill, unless some other member of the band came back to set you free, as i have done. whose voice was it?" "a woman's." "then i know you dreamed it. what woman would be in this lonely spot at such an hour of the night? but let's not waste time in idle talk. you must get away from here, an' that quickly. put as many miles as you can between this place an' daybreak. they turned your horse loose, but perhaps it would be better for you to make your way on foot. you must not be seen in this part of the country again, for if the captain finds out i have not kept my oath, i will have to suffer in your place." "how can i get away, where can i go?" milt anxiously asked. "go up into the mountains--out west, anywhere except near this spot," urged his companion. "here's a little money to take along with you." the two men were now close upon sally, as she crouched in a dark angle of the rocky wall, and, although they spoke in low tones, she heard each word. so near were they, in fact, she could have touched them by stretching forth her hand. "you have done me a good turn, steve. i shall never forget it!" cried milton derr, gratefully. "you don't owe me any favors," answered steve, hastily, almost roughly. "the captain had me in a tight fix, an' i had to say what i did, an' do what he told me to do, but i never meant to harm you. i haven't forgot the other night. good-by, milt, take good care of yourself!" [illustration: a rider.] chapter xxiv. after steve judson had gone rapidly down the hill to where his horse was hitched and his companion was about to follow, sally quickly put forth a detaining hand, and lightly touched him. "milt!" she whispered. twice before, on this same night, he had heard that familiar voice calling to him through the darkness, and there seemed something strange and uncanny in its mysterious repetition. was it a trick of his lively imagination, or could there be something at fault with his brain? yet the touch reassured him. the presence must be something tangible. "sally!" he breathed in a low tone, filled with wonder. "yes, i'm here," she hastened to reply, at the same moment emerging from the dark angle of the wall and stepping to his side, while he stood rooted to the path in utter amazement at her presence. "sally," he again said, taking her into his arms and softly kissing her lips. "is it really you? what brought you to this lonely spot?" "the fear that harm might come to you," she answered, simply. "but how did you know i was here? how came you to find this secret place?" he asked, still sorely puzzled. "i'll tell you as you go back," she answered hurriedly. "there's no time now. it's a long story. let's leave this place as quickly as possible. it is a dangerous spot, and each moment we tarry increases the danger." "but how in the world did you get here?" he persisted, as they started down the hill. "i rode old joe. he's hidden in the willow thicket down by the branch. he will carry double," she continued. "let's go to where he's hitched, an' i'll take you as far as the new pike gate, then you can ride him to the station, and take the first early train. just turn joe loose. he'll find his way back home." "then it was you who called to me as i lay in the quarry, gagged and bound," said milton, as they hurried onward through the darkness, sally directing the way to the clump of willows, and as they went along she told him something of what transpired during the eventful day. "i was half tempted to believe i had heard a spirit voice," continued her companion, tenderly, speaking of his own unhappy experiences at the quarry. "it seemed as if you had really spoken, yet, as i lay and listened, i could not imagine how you could be so near me at that hour and place. it must be a dream, i reasoned, a blessed dream, born of the darkness to cheer and comfort me in my last moments on earth, for such i believed them to be. you cannot understand what a solace it was to me, even to feel that your spirit was near me." "i did not intend that harm should come to you if i could prevent it," said the girl, earnestly. "if worse had come to worst, i had a bullet for jade beddow's heart, and one for steve's, too," she added, with emphasis. "then you heard them go through the farce of trying me?" "every word of it. i was looking down into the quarry all the while. once i drew a bead on that villain, jade beddow, but something prompted me to wait yet a little longer. how glad i am that i did so. for you are now free, and, thank heaven! there's no bloodstain upon my hands." soon joe was gratefully turning his head toward home, though his burden was a double one. "and so steve is the real traitor?" said milt, as sally gave an account of the interview she had overheard between the captain and steve in the ravine near the latter's home. "yes, jade beddow worked on steve's fears in order to make him lay the deed at your door." "it seems that steve is not altogether bad. he still has a spark of gratitude in his bosom, but was forced to make charges against me in order to shield himself." "jade beddow is at the bottom of it all," insisted sally, "either he or your uncle. they both want you out of the way, and will stop at nothing to carry out their plans. i don't know which is the greater villain of the two." "perhaps i'd better stay around here a day or two longer, and settle some old scores before i go," said milt, thoughtfully. "no! no!" the girl interposed, hastily. "you must leave here to-night. there are far too many dangers threatening you here, besides, your staying would bring speedy vengeance on steve judson. both his safety and yours depends on your getting away as quickly and secretly as possible. no one must see you go, no one must suspect you have gone." "and if i go far away?" questioned milton, with a deep touch of tenderness creeping into his voice, "if i find a home elsewhere, and can get steady employment, will you come to me when i shall send for you?" "yes," was the exultant answer that quickly arose to her lips, but suddenly she remembered her promise to the squire, and this bitter recollection brought with it a sickening sense of the binding obligation she was under for the sake of another's safety, and the unhappy knowledge stifled the one small word that was trembling for eager utterance on her very lips. "will you come, sweetheart?" persisted the young man, in tones of persuasive tenderness, mistaking her silence for maidenly reserve, "or shall i come back for you when the time is at hand to claim you for my own?" "no! no! milt, you must not think of coming back, when once you are safely away!" she cried impetuously. "then you will come to me?" "wait until you see what the future has in store," she answered evasively. "there's only one thing i care for it to have in store for me, and that is _you_. you will come to me?" he persisted. "if nothing prevents, i will come," she stammered. "but one cannot always tell what lies before." "what is there to prevent?" he demanded, sharply, a ring of jealousy creeping into his tones. "what could there be?" "a hundred things might arise that we know nothing of now," she answered hurriedly, understanding full well that she stood on most dangerous ground, that to confess to her lover the one thing that stood in the way of her going, would be to shatter all the plans she had laid for his own safety. she knew that rather than have her keep faith with the squire, the nephew would deliberately give himself up to the officers of the law, and loudly proclaim the ownership of the hat which was about to cost sally so great a price. no hope could she have to get her sweetheart away did he but suspect the sacrifice she was about to make for his sake. neither prayers nor entreaties could avail in the face of such knowledge. for one brief moment a thought of escape came to her. she was sorely tempted to break her promise with the squire, to delay her marriage with him, finding one excuse and another until she could hear from the absent one, and make her preparations to join him. then all might yet end well. but there was her mother to be considered. she was about to forget this very important item in such an arrangement. what would become of her mother, should sally do such a thing? she could not be left to the squire's wrath, nor could she go along with her daughter. it seemed the meshes of fate were drawing tighter and tighter around the girl. all avenues of escape appeared closed to her. "to-day and to-night have been too trying for me!" cried sally, wearily. "we both know what the past has been, we neither can tell about the future, so let us talk only of the present. that concerns us most." "but i don't understand," began milton. "this seems a new mood. it isn't like you, sally. you don't mean that you are beginning to care less for me?" "have i acted to-night as if i was?" she asked sharply; his words had stung her into sudden resentment. "did my going to the old deserted quarry for your sake, look as if i was caring less?" "no! no! forgive me!" he cried, humbly, abashed by the reproof of her words. "i did not mean that. i know your heart is mine, else you would not have been the brave and fearless girl you were to-night. god bless you!" chapter xxv. to sally the next few days were more full of disturbing thoughts than events. so far as milton derr's safety was concerned, her mind was at ease, for he had succeeded in getting away, and no one was the wiser regarding his going--no one but herself and steve. the horse that milt had ridden on the night of his mysterious disappearance, and which had been turned loose by the raiders, had gone back to mr. peppers', and the general impression seemed to be that its rider had left that part of the country on account of the toll-gate troubles, with which his name was now being connected. sally had arisen even earlier than usual the morning following her night journey to the old quarry, and, as she had expected, she found joe waiting patiently at the lot gate to be let in. this she managed to do before her mother was up; therefore, no explanations were necessary, save to explain that she had not stayed overnight with sophronia, and had quietly let herself in by means of the back door, so as not to disturb her mother, who had gone to bed. with each day slipping stealthily by, like the waters of a deep stream, whose surface seems almost stagnant, the time was drawing near to hand when the girl had promised to purchase her sweetheart's liberty with her own bondage. now that milton derr was spirited safely away, quite beyond the reach of the squire's hatred and vengeance, the temptation fell heavily upon the pretty toll-taker to repudiate her part of the bargain, given under such stress of anxiety. such a promise should not be held inviolable. the squire had deliberately forced her into it by his threats against his nephew. yet the promise had been given in good earnest at the time, and accepted in good faith. the squire had abided by his promise, she must now do likewise. apart from all this--independent of the right or wrong, justice or injustice of the matter, the fact was self-evident, that though the nephew might be beyond the reach of the squire's anger, she and her mother were not. his rage must of necessity fall on the defenseless heads of both, and the girl felt far more helpless now than before her champion had gone, for, in losing him, she had lost the only knight who might valiantly fight her battles. looking at her helpless condition, there seemed but one thing left her--a marriage to the squire. what though it should be a loveless one? such marriages took place day after day, and some of them appeared to even bear the seal of contentment, if not of happiness. not that this could ever prove true in her case. it were a thing impossible, with the memory of one she really loved ever enshrined in her heart. fate, however, seemed determined to require a sacrifice of her, so why not make it and end the unequal struggle? milton derr was now not only a fugitive from justice, but debarred from ever returning, by the edict of the band, which had believed itself betrayed by him. to its members he was literally dead. for his own sake, as well as for judson's safety, he could not hope to come back. there was still less hope that she could ever go to him, with her mother also to be provided for, and so--what did it matter if she paid the debt she had incurred? there was no one to suffer but herself. the squire had confided to her mother the girl's promise to marry him, and mrs. brown was diligently spreading the news daily, despite her daughter's wishes to the contrary. soon the announcement of the wedding was made in the town paper, to the girl's great disgust and indignation. both the squire and mrs. brown had conspired in this public notice of the approaching marriage, and the hapless girl began to feel, as they had intended, that matters had gone too far for her to rue the bargain. every allusion to the affair made her heartsick and miserable. mrs. brown, who was filled with plans regarding the event, strongly urged a church wedding in town--it would have proven a morsel of supreme delight to her, but sally steadfastly refused to consider the matter even for a single moment. she would be married at the toll-house, and at no other place. no one should witness the marriage but her mother, not even sophronia was to be invited. this decision was a great grief to the mother. she had hoped and planned for far more elaborate things. in vain she reasoned and expostulated. it was all to little purpose--the girl was determined and obdurate. arguments and entreaties were of no avail, not even inducements, for the squire had given mrs. brown a sum of money quite sufficient to purchase the prospective bride a handsome wedding outfit. sally was also firm and immovable in her rejection of this proposed expenditure. she would not receive any wedding finery from the squire, nor would she marry in any that his money had purchased. "he must take me as i am, or not at all," she said. "sally, i don't know what to make of you!" cried her mother, in dismay. "refusin' a bran'-new weddin' dress that's offered you." "he can buy me dresses after he's bought me," answered sally, bitterly. "i won't accept them now." [illustration: "sally, i don't know what to make of you," cried her mother.] the moments sped like birds of evil passage. nearer and nearer drew the hour of sacrifice. each day that might have been so full of joy, under other circumstances, was one of prolonged unhappiness, and she scarcely knew whether to rejoice or grieve when it was ended, for the morrow would be but a repetition of the day that had passed, and one day nearer the goal of her misery. the squire would have proven a most ardent suitor had sally consented, but she would have none of it. he hovered about the toll house, with the persistency of a youthful swain, fired by his first grand passion; but the bride elect very promptly sent him about his business, whenever he came spooning around, and curtly announced that she was busy getting ready to marry him, and, therefore, had no time for sentimental dallying. if, notwithstanding these repeated rebuffs, he chose to linger, it fell to mrs. brown to entertain him, which she generally did by finding excuses for sally's brusque manners and strange words. "skittish colts make the tamest ones in harness," said she. "when they're properly broke," thought the squire, with a quiet chuckle of satisfaction. on the evening before the wedding the prospective groom presented himself at the new pike gate. his efforts at rejuvenation, in dress and manner, would have struck sally as comically grotesque but for the part she was to play in the tragic comedy. "i thought i'd drop in to see if there's anything you wished done before to-morrow," said he, in a half apologetic way, as he readily interpreted the look on sally's face to mean disapproval of his presence. the girl's heart gave a sudden leap of terror. to-morrow! was it possible that her marriage was this near? she had tried to put away the thought of it, day by day, as if this could lengthen time, or stay the unhappy event, and now the hour was almost at hand. she might no longer forget, or put the fact aside. the shadow of its actual presence overshadowed her and chilled her very heart. a wild impulse flooded her brain, like a tidal wave from the sea of her despair. she would appeal to the squire for a release from her promise--humbly petition his better self to spare her the misery of a marriage, loveless at least on her part. it could only bring sorrow to her, and doubtless unhappiness to him; since he could not wish to wed a wife, who brought him no love, and only deep aversion. yes, she would appeal to him--it was the one final hope left her. he must not, could not refuse to release her after such a confession. when at last he started to go, the girl quickly caught up her hat, and said, "i will ride with you along the road a little way." "and after to-morrow, it will be all the way in life together, eh?" asked the old man jocosely, chucking her under the chin with one of his clumsy fingers. she instinctively shrank from his touch, but followed him into the night. without, the elements seemed as foreboding as the girl's own unhappy thoughts. an ominous sky brooded in gloom. in the north a huge pile of clouds, sullen and heavy, lay banked high above the horizon, threatening hills of blackness that seemed to hem in her little world of woe. gusts of wind from time to time came sweeping by, boisterous heralds, precursors of threatening storm. as the girl and the old man stood on the platform, after the door was shut behind them, he was the first to speak, as she unconsciously drew a little nearer to his side before a passing gust. "i must have a kiss, my dear--one little kiss, on this, our marriage eve." her first impulse was to push him rudely from her, to deny him flatly such a request, though surely a lover's prerogative on the eve of marriage. then, remembering the purpose for which she had followed him into the night, and the appeal she was about to make, she quickly realized that she must touch his compassion, not arouse his prejudice, if she would hope to win. perhaps a submissive acquiescence on her part at this important moment might help to gain her cause. she paused a brief moment, nerving herself for the trying ordeal, then resolutely putting aside her aversion, holding in check all mutinous thoughts, she hastily put up her lips and lightly touched his red, coarse cheek. as she did so, a sudden flash from the muttering sky, like a reproof from heaven itself, for the act, made day of the night for one brief instant, and the clearly defined scene was enveloped in darkness again. the squire's back was partly turned toward the road, but sally, looking out full upon it, saw in that brief flash of vivid light, clearly defined against the white background of the pike, milton derr standing in the road not ten paces away. chapter xxvi. a pall of swiftly enveloping blackness closed about the toll-house and its surroundings, which had been revealed for one short space. the girl started back with a sharp cry, wrung from her in surprise and consternation at the sudden apparition she had beheld, while the squire, naturally mistook her perturbation for fear of the storm. "come! don't be afraid, my dear, you are quite safe," he said, soothingly, striving clumsily at the words to slip his arm about her waist. but she adroitly avoided the movement and retreated toward the door of the toll-house. "hurry home!" she cried anxiously, thinking rather of ridding herself of his presence, than of entertaining a fear for his safety. "the storm is near at hand." "it's a good deal bluster," answered the squire calmly, after a critical glance heavenward, "it may not rain at all. i hope it may not, as to-morrow's our wedding--only think of that, chickie, our wedding day!" "hurry home!" repeated sally, faintly, scarcely knowing what she was saying, and only desirous of hastening his departure, and ridding herself of his hateful presence--doubly hateful at this moment. there was a touch of very entreaty in her voice. "i thought you were going to ride with me a little way," remonstrated the squire in disappointed tones. "you said you were." "no! no!" answered the girl hastily, "it's dangerous--besides, it's growing late." "that's scarcely treating me fair," protested the squire, but he good-naturedly shambled along the platform, and went to get his buggy. "we won't begin to quarrel this early," he added with a laugh, "so--good night, my dear! and pleasant dreams to you!" "good night!" echoed sally, mechanically. she stood motionless until the sound of the vehicle grew faint in the distance, then, with quaking frame, she hurriedly jumped off the platform into the road, and groped her way to the spot where she had seen the dark, solitary figure standing fully revealed in that brief, intense light. she had heard no sound, save the squire's clumsy movements, and later the rumble of his buggy along the pike, and as she eagerly started forward, the thought came to her that perhaps she was the dupe of her own vivid imagination--that the motionless figure imprinted on the retina of her eye, as it had been etched on the background of the night, was the creature of her excited brain, and had no part in the darkness without. "milt!" she called out softly, inquiringly. she strained her ear attentively to the silence. the sound of labored breathing near at hand betrayed the presence she sought, and putting forth her hand fearlessly she touched the substance of the shadow she had seen. "milt!" she once more called aloud. with a gesture of impatience, or anger, she knew not which, he roughly shook off the hand laid lightly upon him, with the impatient mumbling of a fierce oath. "so, it's true," he said at last; but his voice sounded strange and harsh, and totally unlike the familiar caressing tones she had so longed to hear once more. [illustration: "so it's true," he said, but his voice sounded strange and harsh.] a deep silence fell between them, and in its strained quiet she could hear her heart beating loudly in her bosom, as if it were the pendulum of some muffled clock ticking off the dreary moments of a life. "yes," she answered, finally breaking the intense silence, her voice scarcely more than a faint whisper. it seemed that an age had passed since the question was asked. "sally!" he cried sharply, as if her reply had been a keen knife thrust. "you don't mean it!" "it is true," she said, simply. "and i would not believe it, even though i read it by chance in one of the papers from here. i said it was a lie. i really thought it was one--a wicked lie--a damnable one--i didn't know women," he added, with a bitter laugh. "don't blame me, milt," she faltered. "i did it for the best." "for the best?" he echoed, scornfully, swift anger following close upon his words. "is it for the best to wreck my life--my faith in you?" "it need not wreck your life, it must not," answered sally, earnestly. "i'm not worth it. oh! why did you come back?" she asked sorrowfully. "i came back to convince myself that it was a lie. i was a fool for coming, i'll admit that; but women have made fools of men ever since the days of eve." the two walked on up the road, further away from the toll-house. "you should not have come back," persisted the girl. "i hoped you never would. i beg you to go away again, this very night. it is best for us both. some day you will find a true woman who is worthy of your love," she added with a sob rising in her throat, but milt in his anger and resentment failed to rightly interpret its meaning. "then you have been fooling me all the while!" he cried, hot with indignation. "you have made me believe that you cared nothing for him--that you loathed him, even--well, perhaps you did, but you loved his money--you've sold yourself for that." "no! no! milt, don't say that!" cried the girl imploringly. "i may have sold myself to him, but not for money--don't think that of me!" "if not for money--for what?" demanded derr, sternly. "for what else but his houses and lands?" once again the impulse was strong upon her to confess the truth, yet swift to follow the impulse came the unhappy knowledge that to do this would be to seal milt's fate. if she would save him, she must sacrifice herself. for his sake her lips must remain mute now, and perhaps forever. "it _is_ a sale, an outright sale!" persisted derr. "you really don't care for him, you never did. it is only his money you are after--money, not love has won the day, it always will. i might have known as much, but i was simple, and had a simple faith. i didn't understand the falseness of women's hearts." "would i have risked my life, as i did, to get you out of the clutches of the raiders that night, if i had cared nothing for you?" asked sally in sharp earnestness, unable longer to bear his reproaches in silence. "and to what purpose?" demanded her companion. "why didn't you let them kill me, as they proposed doing? it would have been kinder to have let them put me out of the way," he added bitterly. "oh, why didn't you stay away, when once you had gone?" she asked. "it would have been far kinder to me." "i begin to understand now why you were so anxious to have me go," he said. "probably you feared i would make trouble. did you think i might attempt to harm your youthful, handsome lover?" he asked, sneeringly. "no wonder you only cared to talk of the present, not of the future that night we parted. no wonder you parried my questions when i asked if you would some day come to me. i marveled then at your strange silence, but the reason is now as clear as day. all the while you were urging me to go away, you were expecting to marry him after i had gone! confess now--wasn't your word given to him before i went away?" "yes," acknowledged sally, "but let me explain a few things you do not understand, i"-- "it is unnecessary," quickly interrupted milt. "those things i _do_ understand are all-sufficient for me. you wanted me away from here, and you succeeded in getting me to go--you preferred the squire's money to my poverty, and you are on the eve of getting his money, too. perhaps you are in league with those rascals who may have meant only to frighten me, and cause me to run away, like a cowardly cur. they might not have harmed me--i doubt now if they intended to. "it is not too late, though, to thwart your plans and his," continued the speaker with increasing anger. "you are not yet married to that brute, and, by heaven! you shall not be! i swear it! i will kill him first--the scoundrel! the hound!" he cried passionately, overswept by the rage that swayed him, like a tree twisted by the storm. "milt, milt, don't talk that way! you mustn't harm him! you shall not!" cried the girl, terror-stricken by the passionate utterances of her companion. her words were but fuel to the flame. they goaded him into a sort of frenzy. "so you beg for him, do you? you don't want him hurt--your lover, your husband that is soon to be. by heaven! i'll wring his wrinkled, villainous neck like i would a chicken's, d--n him. he's driven me from his roof, he's taken you from me, but i'll even up old scores at last." as the maddened man started up the road, sally frantically caught hold of him, striving to pacify his anger, to reason with him, to make him understand his unjustness toward her, but he roughly shook himself free, and moved the faster. "milt! milt! come back!" she cried entreatingly, but he made no answer, and hurried on. "milt, listen to me! it's all my fault. i, alone, am to blame. come back! for god's sake, don't do anything rash!" again she tried to overtake him, to lay hold of him, but he broke into a run, and left her far behind, crying entreatingly to him through the darkness. chapter xxvii. the darkness enveloped the hurrying man as it had done once before this night, when he stood silent and motionless in the middle of the road, near the toll-house, yet the girl still followed his retreating figure persistently through the gloom, beseeching him to return, to relinquish his fell purpose. she stopped at last, understanding that it was futile to follow further, that he was deaf to her entreaties to turn back, and that she could no longer hope to overtake him. as she stood still and listened, she heard his retreating footsteps growing fainter and fainter far up the road. some minutes later, a second vivid band of light revealed his tall, dark figure sharply silhouetted against the sky, from the brow of the hill he had climbed, then darkness came again, like a black curtain, and blotted him from sight. the girl stood for some time in the middle of the road, with hands clasped tightly together, and tear-stained face, striving to think connectedly, to reason calmly in the face of a new trouble. what must she do? which way to turn? she well knew milt's disposition--a veritable powder magazine it was, readily ignited by an angry spark, yet soon over with, a flash in the pan, one might say, without a bullet behind to be sped on its mission of evil. such dire threats as he had just uttered, were but the violent outburst of a sudden passion, and signified no durability of purpose, no fixed resolve. long before he could reach the squire's place, his better judgment would surely prevail--the calm after a spent storm. probably he was already beginning to repent his hot temper, and regret his hasty speech. that it was without cause sally could not aver. from milton's standpoint, at least, he must feel that he had been most shamefully used, not so much at the hands of the squire, in the present instance, as by the girl herself. how meanly he must think of her--heartless, mercenary, hypocritical! and yet she dared not defend her actions by telling him the truth. as she stood thus, uncertain and confused, looking anxiously toward the hill where she had last seen the solitary figure crowning it, a reassuring thought came to her. even should milt go as far as the squire's, he would not be able to gain entrance to the house, for his uncle had doubtless reached home before this, and he would be little likely to admit any one into his house at that hour of the night, especially an avowed enemy, such as he knew his nephew to be. if milt attempted to make any trouble at all, he would wait until the morrow--her wedding day. how hateful the thought of this event now seemed to her! she felt at the moment that if milt would only come back and tempt her to flight, this unhappy marriage would never take place. she would risk anything, everything, and marry the younger man despite all else. why had she not thought of this sooner? oh! yes, she remembered, it was on her mother's account. what would become of her? as the unhappy girl recalled her lover's angry words, she felt that she deserved them all--each word of harsh reproach, of fierce anger, and just scorn. it was a very wonder he had not offered to strike her dead as she stood before him. to think he had even been a witness to her kiss, and had moreover heard from her very own lips the confession that she was about to wed his hated kinsman. it was little wonder that milt was half crazed by jealousy and rage. if he did but know the terrible sacrifice she was about to make for his sake, he must surely pity her, and no longer taunt her for her seeming perfidy and falseness of heart. the girl found herself wondering that her lover's anger had not centered on herself rather than the squire. she was the one on whom the younger man should have avenged himself. perhaps it was a fortunate thing, after all, that she had not followed him further into the night. he might have been tempted, in his ungovernable rage, to wreak his vengeance on her as well as on his hated kinsman. a strange, unusual timidity suddenly took possession of her--a feeling that was near akin, to dread of the younger man, irresponsible in his jealous rage, though scarcely a fear of the man himself, so much as of the demon of jealousy she had aroused in him. beset with this new sensation, she peered cautiously into the night, as though one might be lurking in hiding near by, ready to spring forth upon her, then realizing that nothing but darkness lay around her, she abruptly turned her steps toward the toll-house. alas! the bitter disappointment of life. thus had come to naught all the efforts in milton derr's behalf, her own sacrifice a useless thing, since, instead of averting the dangers that threatened him, she had unwittingly been the cause of involving him in yet greater perils. even though his threats against the squire were but idle ones--blasted buds of evil without promise of fruition, as she believed them to be, still, if milt persisted in tarrying longer in the locality, he was not only putting his own life in jeopardy, but would also bring on steve judson swift retribution as well. she had tried to impress these facts on milt's mind before he had gone away. why had he not remained away as she had entreated him to do, on parting? then she remembered that he would not have returned--that he would probably have known nothing of her marriage until it was too late, if he had not read an announcement of it in the papers. her mother was really at the bottom of it all, she was chiefly to blame for milt's return; for many things, in fact, now bearing the bitter fruit of sorrow. mrs. brown had caused the notice of the marriage to be put in the paper without her daughter's knowledge or consent. sally had begged her mother to say as little about the wedding as possible, and if that obdurate person had only heeded the request, all this present trouble might easily have been avoided. beset with anxious doubts, intangible fears, disquieting thoughts, feeling the while most bitterly toward her mother for the officious part she had persistently played in all this unhappy affair, sally retraced her steps slowly to the toll-house. poor girl! truly her marriage eve was not a propitious one. the first objects on which the girl's eyes rested the next morning, when she awoke after a troubled sleep, were the simple wedding garments spread out carefully on some chairs near her bed, and as she lay and looked at them in bitterness of heart and spirit, she heard her mother astir in the kitchen preparing breakfast. sally half rose in bed. her very heart seemed faint within her as she gazed on all this hateful reminder of what the day held in store, and with a quick sob she buried her face in her hands. as she sat thus--a tearful, sobbing figure--surely a strange posture for a prospective bride on her bridal morn, she heard a horse galloping swiftly along the road, and as the sound came nearer, she found her attention gradually absorbed by it. there seemed something of undue haste in the rider's speed. a moment later the winded animal stopped at the toll-house gate, while a loud knock quickly summoned mrs. brown to the door. sally's alert ear caught the sound of a negro's voice without, speaking rapidly and excitedly, then a sharp exclamation from the toll-taker followed. the listening bride-elect could not distinguish the negro's hurried words, nor guess the import of his message, but finally she caught one single word that her mother uttered, and that word was--"murdered." scarcely had it reached the girl's strained attention, when she sprang hurriedly out of bed, and catching up her wedding dress threw it hastily over her shoulders. then her strength seemed suddenly to go, and she stood trembling and white, her eyes fixed on the door of her room in a vacant stare, her mind a blank to all surroundings. her mother found her thus when she came into the room a few moments later, visibly agitated. "you heard it then?" she said huskily, looking into sally's terror-stricken face. "he could not have done it!" gasped sally, brokenly. "it was only an idle threat," she added, her voice sinking to a whisper. "of course he didn't do it!" exclaimed her mother, catching only her daughter's first words. "he was murdered--murdered in cold blood!" the girl opened her mouth as if to speak again, but the sound crumbled to unintelligible murmurs, as the fear of uttering words no ear must ever hear flashed through her bewildered mind, so she stood looking blankly at her mother, with wide-open eyes of horror, while the color fled from her face, leaving a ghastly pallor instead. all the dreadful interval she was thinking of milton derr rather than his victim, and she started like a guilty thing at her mother's next words: "there's but one person in the whole wide world who could have done this, to my thinkin', an' that's milt derr!" chapter xxviii. throughout the day there seemed an interminable passing the new pike gate. many stopped to condole with its inmates, a few through genuine sympathy, a greater number urged by a secret desire to see how the bride-elect bore up under the dire misfortune that had come almost with the suddenness of the lightning's stroke. the curiosity of these was baffled, for the girl shut herself closely in her own room, and denied herself to all. when the news of the tragedy reached town the coroner came out to the squire's place to hold an inquest, while numerous others followed in his wake, drawn thither by the morbid interest that attracts many to the scene of similar crimes. mrs. brown waited on the gate, eager to know all that was thought or said of the deplorable affair, and though her daughter asked not a single word, the mother, who plied with voluble questioning almost every soul that passed through the gate, told her from time to time of the rumors that were afloat. thus the girl learned of the verdict on the coroner's return--that squire bixler had met his death in his own room the night before, by a knife-thrust at the hand of some person or persons unknown. the victim had evidently been dead several hours when his body was found by one of the servants who came to see why the squire was so tardy on his wedding morn. robbery may have been a cause, for the squire's pocket-book was found lying open and empty at his side, and a small drawer in the tall clock had been pulled out and searched yet the victim's heavy gold watch had not been taken, and nothing else in the room seemed to have been disturbed or molested. the murderer had not broken into the house, evidently, for the front door was found to be unlocked, and an entrance and exit had doubtless been effected through that. considering this fact, it seemed a highly plausible theory that the murderer must have been admitted to the house by the squire himself, and that it was doubtless some one whom the squire well knew, else the door had not been unlocked to this one in the late hours of the night. the squire was dressed, with the exception of his coat and shoes, and had evidently not gone to bed, therefore the murder must have been committed along in the early part of the night, before his usual bedtime. the body lay on the floor near a candle-stand before the fire. the candle had burned entirely down in its socket, and the melted tallow had afterward hardened into a cake round the bowl of the stick. amid the embers in the fireplace, under the charred end of a log that had burned in two and fallen to one side, was found the remnant of a gray felt hat. from the position and range of the cut in the body, the blow had probably been given while the victim was standing up facing his assailant. his murderer had not stolen upon him unawares. the blow had been a true one, and had gone straight to the heart. the one thrust had been sufficient, and the victim had dropped at the feet of his slayer. when all these various facts had been learned, active minds began to cast about for some clue as to the identity of the murderer, and for some motive besides robbery. while the squire had never been a very popular man, in a general way, he was not known to have a single enemy who would be likely to do so dastardly a deed. neither was the squire in the habit of keeping money about the house, so that if the murderer knew the ways of his victim, he could not hope to gain a rich reward, therefore some motive besides robbery must have actuated the crime. what this motive was, had yet to be discovered, provided the adage came true that "murder will out." of those who were unfriendly to the squire, none was so prominent to mind as his nephew, milton derr, no one would be more profited by the squire's death than he, for he was next of kin, and, his uncle being unmarried, the property would revert to him. this point was especially emphasized--the uncle being unmarried, and the fact was strongly commented upon, that it was on the very eve of the squire's marriage that he was murdered. could the motive have been jealousy? the cause of the open rupture between the two men was generally known--that a woman was at the bottom of it and this woman was the one to whom the squire was to have been wedded. the whole story was told and retold with many variations. the neighbors spoke of these things in guarded undertones and with grave shakings of the head, and although no outspoken accusations were made, there was an undercurrent of suspicion, deepening into belief, and growing hourly, like a stream that rapidly swells beyond its banks when fed by countless minor tributaries. public opinion was slowly and surely fastening the deed on the nephew's shoulders. these vague rumors and surmises were conveyed from time to time by mrs. brown to her daughter's ears, and while the girl steadfastly and persistently asserted milton derr's innocence, there was, nevertheless, a horrible and slowly strengthening conviction at work in her own bosom which she could neither silence nor subdue--a conviction that warned her she was building on false hopes, which might at any moment crumble at the touch of circumstantial evidence, and reveal her lover not only to the world, but to her own prejudiced eyes, as a murderer whose soul was stained with a dark crime. closely allied to this harassing fear was a far different feeling that she could neither still nor repress, though it seemed a heartless and even cruel one--a feeling of great thankfulness that the squire's untimely death had relieved her of a sacrifice that would have been but a living death to her. how could she be sorry that he was no longer alive to claim this sacrifice? to pretend to a grief she did not feel was but base hypocrisy. within her heart of hearts she was glad that she was free. her only sorrow lay in the tragic manner of his death, and in the secret fear that milton derr, half crazed with a passionate jealousy, was responsible for it. had it been possible to recall the squire to life again, and so blot out the fearful act of the past night, she would most gladly have done so, and accepted her fate without a murmur, if its reward had been milton's safety and innocence. possibly she was the only one who knew of derr's presence in the neighborhood the night before. if such was the case, and he had succeeded in getting away without being seen by others, she would keep the dreadful secret securely locked in her own bosom, and no one should ever suspect its presence. she centered all hope of his safety on this supposition. along toward noon, some one passing the new pike gate on the way from town, brought the latest news bearing on the tragedy. as mrs. brown sought her daughter's presence, as soon as the informant had gone, her tone was almost jubilant, as she said: "well, they've caught the murderer." the girl looked up at her mother mutely, almost piteously, as if she would be spared the unhappy tidings, of whose evil import some subtle intuition had already reached her brain. "it's just as i expected," continued mrs. brown, full of the news she had brought. "they caught milt derr as he was gettin' on the cars at grigg's station, fifteen miles from here. the sheriff had telephoned to all the places around to be on the lookout for him. he had sold his watch, and was about to buy a ticket somewheres out west when they arrested him. they've brought him to town, an' he's safe in jail there now, thank goodness! there'll soon be a first-class hanging in this neighborhood. i hope," she added, with fervor. chapter xxix. the next day the squire was buried. the funeral seemed one of especial sadness, shadowed as it was with the stain and mystery of a dark crime, and with neither kith nor kin present to mourn, for milton derr was behind iron bars, and the girl flatly refused to attend the funeral, despite her mother's urging. "i won't add a hypocrite's tears to my other shortcomings, and neither will i be a show to some folks who will go more out of idle curiosity than sympathy," said the girl, decisively, and so her mother went alone. the toll gate was thrown open to the public during the funeral, which was no more than a proper mark of respect to the squire's memory, for he had long been president of the road, and was a large stockholder, besides. the day itself was one of gloom and dreariness, with low-hanging clouds surcharged with sullen rain, while at each frequent blast of wind there was a skurrying of fallen leaves, seeking, like sentient things, to find shelter from the pitiless rain. the interment was in the family burying ground, where the first wife lay at rest, and the tall weeds and grasses of the enclosure were trampled by many eager feet. during the services, which were held in the house, the women and children huddled together in the "best room," looking about them with awed, half-frightened faces, as if a ghostly visitant might suddenly stalk forth out some gloomy corner, while the men stood in little groups in the hall, or the squire's "living room," and when they spoke in low tones, it was mostly of the man within the prison cell, and little of the one within his coffin. the coming of mrs. brown, unaccompanied by her daughter, gave new food for comment, and for a time following her arrival, the victim and the accused were both forgotten in the fact of the strange absence of one who might almost be called a "widowed bride." early that morning, on looking from the toll-house window, the first sight to greet the unhappy girl had been the hearse containing the casket for the squire coming along the road from the town, and the sight had so unnerved her that she once more shut herself in her room, a prey to harrowing thoughts. long after the mother had gone to the funeral she sat motionless and dazed, listening in a sort of hopeless apathy to the sound of vehicles rolling by, carrying those to pay their last tribute of respect to the dead; then, after ages, it seemed, she heard the sound of their return, and understood that "earth had been given to earth," and still no widow's weeds were necessary for her, no blinding tears need be shed--in truth, they would have been but a cruel mockery. she felt a profound pity for the one whose life had gone out so quickly, and in so tragic a manner, yet there was a deeper pity, and--god forgive her!--a changeless love in her heart for the poor, unfortunate being, whose insane jealousy had brought him to his present strait. yet why blame him? she, herself, was the cause of it all. she could not help but remember this; indeed, she did not wish to forget it. it was his great love for her, and her own seeming unworthiness that had wrought his ruin. she was the guilty one in the eye of god, not milton derr. a day or two after the funeral, billy west came by the gate one afternoon on his way from town, and brought word to the unhappy girl that milton had asked to see her, and begged that she would come to the jail. he had something of importance to say to her. "how does he look? how does he seem to bear up under the strain?" asked sally, anxiously. "he's broken down considerable," admitted billy. "he looks ten years older, to my thinkin'. of course, i said what i could to cheer him up, but i'm afraid he's got himself into a pretty bad box." "i don't believe he did it," affirmed sally, faintly, but she turned her eyes away as she made the denial. "it don't look possible," agreed billy. "it really don't. i never would have thought it of him. i hope he can prove himself clear of the deed." "won't you ask sophronia to come by to-morrow and go with me?" asked sally, thoughtfully, "i hate to go alone." "yes, to be sure," answered billy, "i'll ride over to-night an' see her." on the morrow sophronia came. mrs. brown at once suspected sally's motives in going to town, and when she put the question point-blank to her daughter, sally frankly confessed that she was going to see milton. "sally brown!" cried her mother, with her hands upraised. "the idea of your standin' there, an' tellin' me you air goin' to see that miserable murderer, that's not only cheated you out of a good husband, but out of a lot o' property besides. he ought to be hung, an' you know it!" "he sent for me, and i'm going," answered sally, simply. "well, go!" cried her mother, wrathfully, "go! an' soon folks will be sayin' that, like as not, you also had a hand in gettin' the squire put out of the way. it seems a hard thing to say about your own child, but i declare it begins to look like it," added mrs. brown, bitterly. quick upon the words the girl's eyes flashed forth something of the indignation she felt at their cruel significance, and an angry torrent of denial rose to her lips, and yet it was suddenly stayed by an inner voice that seemed to say--"who but you has brought it all about?" she did, indeed, have a hand in it, but not in the way her mother suggested. sally turned away and made no answer. when she was brought face to face with the prisoner, the gloom of the place, the grated cell, the dismal air of confinement, burst upon her in startling reality, and forced on her lively imagination the full significance of her lover's peril. milt looking pale and careworn, while in his dark eyes lingered the look of the hunted, supplanting the frank, free gaze they had worn in his careless freedom. he was a prisoner, and the sweet freedom of the hills was no longer his portion. it was some moments before the girl could trust herself to speak, and in milt's eyes there also lingered a suspicious moisture. the jailer and sophronia had discreetly withdrawn to the further end of the dim corridor, and were talking over milton's case in low voices of deep concern. "sally," said the prisoner, in an undertone that reached only her ears, "i have sent for you to put myself right in your eyes. after what happened the other night, and what i had said to you in my ungovernable jealousy, there's only one thing you could think of me in connection with this miserable affair, and i can't blame you in the least for thinking it. you, of all others, have the best right to call me a murderer, but as god in heaven is my judge, i swear to you, by the sacred memory of my dead mother, that i did not commit that crime!" "i couldn't bring myself to believe you would do so dreadful a thing," said the girl, tearfully, looking into his dark eyes with the mists of doubt clearing her own, despite all the damaging circumstances. "i didn't do it!" asserted milt, vehemently. "i know that everything points to me as the guilty man, in your eyes, at least, but i am not guilty. it is true that i was in a frenzy, and quite beside myself with anger when i made those foolish threats. if i could have met my uncle, then and there, i think i could have throttled him and been glad of the chance. "before i had gone half the distance to his house, i began to understand what a fool i had been, and i was half tempted to turn back and beg your forgiveness, but pride would not let me, and i walked on almost to my uncle's gate that leads into the avenue. "as i walked along, i began to reason more calmly with myself. why should i burden my soul with a crime on account of a woman that had treated me thus falsely? what good could come of it? i was a fool for ever coming back. i should have stayed when once i had gotten safely away. "to be seen in this locality was only courting death, not only for myself, but for steve judson, who had befriended me. after the risk he had run to save my life, it would be perfidy to bring vengeance on his head by my return. i truly hope he has left this part of the country since they have caught me," added milton, earnestly. "while i was thinking over all these things," he continued, "i heard a horseman coming along the road, and fearing that a flash of lightning might reveal my presence to some one i knew, i hastily climbed a fence opposite my uncle's place, and started off across the country in the direction of grigg's station, fully determined that i would take the first train possible, and forever leave this spot. "imagine my consternation when i was arrested the next morning, charged with the very crime i had threatened to commit the night before in my blind passion. "i could scarcely believe that it was not some hideous joke that was being played on me, as a just punishment for my wicked thoughts, and when they told me my uncle was dead--murdered--and that i was accused of the crime, my own actions must have led them to believe me guilty. i almost began to wonder, if, in some insane moment of self-forgetfulness, i could really have committed the deed. then calmer judgment came to my rescue and proclaimed my innocence. this is the truth, the whole truth, of that wretched night, sally!" cried milt. "i believe you, every word" said the girl simply. "that is why i sent for you. i wanted you to know the full facts in the case. if you believe me innocent, i can stand the censure of the whole world." "and now that the squire is dead, and can no longer harm you, i too, have something to confess," admitted the girl. "i am now free to tell why i promised to marry him. i did it for your sake, milt." "for my sake!" he echoed. "yes, the night the new pike gate was attacked, your hat was found near the toll-house, in the dusty road. don't you remember you had written both our names under the lining the day of the picnic last september? squire bixler had that hat in his possession, and was taking it to town to give it to the officers. i knew if they closely examined the hat, they would find our names, and i knew you would be arrested and sent to prison. so i promised to marry the squire if he would give me that hat, and let you go free." "and you did this for my sake?" asked milton derr, falteringly. "sally! sally! can you ever forgive me?" he cried penitently. but even as he looked, pleadingly, anxiously, into her upturned face, the light of forgiveness had already illumined the gentle, tear dimmed eyes. chapter xxx. the fall term of court was now in session, and milton derr was put on trial for his life. the case, deeply tinged with romance and mystery, aroused a lively and unusual interest, both in the town and county, and during the progress of the trial the courtroom was crowded with interested spectators. while the prisoner had seemed at first both careless and indifferent regarding his fate, now, since his interview with his former sweetheart, he began to feel a strong and urgent desire to prove his innocence, and to do what he could to help clear the mystery of the murder. the girl had given him a point to unravel. "do you remember telling me that a horseman came down the road the night you were near the squire's gate?" she asked of derr on her second visit to the jail. "yes, it was the fear of meeting this horseman, and perhaps being recognized by him in the lightning's sudden glare, that led me to quit the highway and take to the fields." "well, that horseman never passed me, and i feel sure he never passed through the new pike gate," said sally, thoughtfully. "i waited in the road some little time, hoping you would turn back, and even after i had gone to bed it was a long time before i fell asleep. i heard no sound of passing. whoever that rider was, he stopped at, or near squire bixler's place, and came no further. if we could manage to find out who this person was, the mystery of the murder might be solved." there was little evidence to be introduced on either side during the progress of the trial, and what little there was helped to weigh against the prisoner. his movements at grigg's station were those of a man striving to avoid notice, indeed, his whole bearing before and after his arrest was that of a guilty person seeking to make good his escape. the accused offered no explanation of his presence at the station, where he was on the point of buying a ticket to the west when arrested. to have done so he would have had to disclose his connection with the raiders, the cause of his flight and return, and his presence in the immediate neighborhood of his uncle's farm on that fatal night. he was in an unfortunate position, it seemed, when everything appeared to work to his disadvantage, and help throw suspicion on his movements, and yet he dared not turn the needed light on them. he knew he was safe, so far as sally was concerned, in regard to meeting her at the toll-gate, and the idle threats he had uttered against the squire in the first heat of passion and jealousy. his enmity toward his uncle was too well known, however, to escape comment, and was easily proven, along with sundry angry words he had uttered against his kinsman when first he had left his uncle's roof, words that had lost nothing of their sharpness by the lapse of time, and were now repeated with such embellishments that even the speaker had difficulty in recalling or recognizing the original form in which they had been first uttered. moreover, the great benefits that the nephew would derive from his uncle's death, should it occur before a marriage could take place, were clearly brought forth, and a strong incentive shown for the commission of such a deed, at the especial time it occurred--the eve of the squire's wedding. when the evidence had been gathered--it was scant enough at best, and sadly damaging,--the case was presented to the jury by the speakers on each side, with facts so skilfully juggled, now and then, that an impartial listener would scarcely know how to place them aright. sometimes flowery rhetorical effects were used where facts were few, that words might count instead, until there seemed never to have lived so just, upright and beloved a man as the squire, or so damnable and blood-thirsty a villain as his nephew. sally came to court each day, along with sophronia and her father. the three sat anxiously throughout the trial, hopeful and despondent by turns, as the prisoner was upheld or denounced, one hearer, at least, never wavering in the belief of his innocence from beginning to end. late one afternoon the case was finished and submitted to the jury, but scarcely a soul quitted the courtroom, so deep an interest was felt, each one remaining, impatiently waiting for the verdict, which might come early or late, no man knew. when the doors had closed upon the retiring jury, the judge picked up a newspaper on his desk, and leaning back in his chair began to read, while sally, noting the act, wondered within herself how one could seem so calm and indifferent, when a man's very life hung trembling in the scales of justice. her own brain was in a whirl of excitement and anxiety. she was scarcely able to think connectedly, and to her narrowed range of thought it seemed the very world must pause in anxiety while so weighty a matter was in the balance. the afternoon grew on apace. the dull gray shadows within the corners of the courtroom deepened and spread until the rows of expectant faces became a blurred and indistinct mass, except where the bands of light, falling through the windows, gave them a certain ashen pallor. once or twice mr. saunders moved uneasily in his seat. he knew it was growing late, with many things at home demanding his attention--the stock to be fed, the horses watered, the night's chores to be done--yet he felt he could not pull himself away until he had heard some message from the jury room, either of good or evil. the others waited, too. a vague hum of voices talking in low undertones gradually overcame the quiet that had fallen on the waiting crowd, and from time to time anxious and impatient glances were shot toward the closed doors, through which the jury were to come. the gray evening shadows without, presaging the approach of night, perhaps the prisoner's doom, silently crept into the room, mingling with the gloomier shadows within the building. presently the janitor came and lighted some ill-smelling lamps, one upon the judge's desk, the others clinging to the grimy walls, and soon these lights began to struggle through the smoky chimneys, striving against the deepening shadows in unequal battle, as the good frequently combats with the evil in our natures. at last, after interminable hours of suspense, it seemed to the waiting girl, the slow tramp--tramp--of the jury down the stairway from the room above, struck her expectant ear like the doleful tread of a funeral procession. nearer and nearer came the sound, then the courtroom doors were thrown open, and the twelve men entered, two by two, and quietly took their places in the jury box. the judge had laid aside his paper, and was leaning attentively on the desk, while every neck was craned forward in eager expectancy. a profound hush fell, and each ear was bent to hear the verdict, whose grave import many already guessed. those in the rear of the room were tiptoeing and peering anxiously over the heads of the ones in front, while a few who had been waiting on the outside of the building now hurried in and pressed quickly forward. sally sat immovable, her hands clenched tightly in an agony of cruel suspense, her heart-throbs sounding in her ears like funeral bells, her face immobile as stone. she had given one swift, piercing look toward the jury as they entered, as if to read in advance the verdict they had brought, and the grave, stern faces she saw froze her very heart with the dire import of that verdict. from the jury her eyes had centered on the prisoner, who had lifted his head, and was calmly awaiting the words that were to give him freedom, or--he dared not think further--life had suddenly grown very sweet to him. the clear voice of the judge broke in upon the profound silence that had fallen on the entrance of the jury: "gentlemen, have you found a verdict?" "we have," the foreman answered. "the court is ready to hear it." the foreman stepped forward, and, clearing his throat, began to speak: "your honor we, the jury, find the prisoner is"-- a slight commotion made itself manifest at the door of the courtroom. the judge cast an inquiring glance in its direction, and rapping sharply on his desk cried out: "silence in court!" the noise increased. a voice was heard calling, "hold! hold!" at the sound, sophronia turned quickly and looked in the direction whence it came. billy west was calling out, and pressing through the crowd, holding aloft a legal-looking document which he waved excitedly toward the judge. "hold, your honor!" he cried again. "stay the proceedings of the court! an innocent man is on trial! i have here a sworn confession from the one who killed squire bixler. it was steve judson. steve was shot about noon to-day by jade beddow, who was also killed in the fight. steve sent for me to come an' bring a notary public along. "here is steve's dyin' statement. squire bixler owed him some money and refused to pay it. steve went to his house that night to collect it, and in a quarrel that followed, he stabbed the squire. milton derr had nothin' to do with the crime. he's innocent!" the excited messenger strode forward and thrust the paper he carried into the outstretched hand of the judge. a wave of surprise swept over the courtroom, and the murmur of voices grew louder until it finally broke into a loud cheer of victory for the prisoner. after the introduction of this new testimony, the jury promptly retired, and in a few moments brought in a verdict of "not guilty." in all the confusion that arose with the clamor of many voices around him, milton derr seemed to hear but one faint voice close to his ear, to feel the pressure of one gentle hand alone, to look into but one pair of tender, truthful eyes--all the rest was but a blurred and indistinct memory. chapter xxxi. ten years after "sally, those awful night riders are around again." "no, milt, you don't really mean it?" sally looked up quickly from her sewing across the hearth to where her stalwart husband sat with crossed legs, making of his swinging right foot a make-believe skittish horse for milton, junior, age three. "father, what does night riders mean?" asked a young girl of nine or ten standing near, who had her mother's fair complexion and richly tinted hair, but her father's dark and expressive eyes. "they are men who band together and ride through the country at night for the purpose of forcing people to do certain things that the band demands. the members usually go masked so that they may not be recognized." "then they must be wicked men," continued alice frankly, "if they are so afraid they will be seen. did you ever see a night rider, father?" "a long time ago," answered milt soberly, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he glanced across at his wife, "and he was a pretty sorry sight, i must say." "has ma seen one, too?" persisted alice, with the insistence of childhood. "yes, dear, when i was a girl and lived with your grandma before she died, at a toll-gate just down the road apiece, i saw a night rider then." "what was he like?" questioned alice, deeply interested, "was he scary looking?" "no," said her mother hesitatingly, "i thought him rather good-looking at the time," and she smiled over at her husband. "was he as good-looking as father?" asked alice, following the glance with her keen young eyes. "nothing like," affirmed sally emphatically, and then she and milt both laughed. "what are the night riders after now?" she inquired some time later, after the children had gone to bed, and the two sat talking by the fire. "there are no more toll-gates to be raided." "it's the tobacco question now, instead of free roads, and it's becoming a very serious one." "i knew that in some parts of the old blue grass state the tobacco growers were having considerable trouble, but i hadn't heard that mischief was brewing in this quarter." "yes, the trouble is spreading generally throughout the tobacco growing regions of the state. successful raids have been made on several cities and towns, and the large independent warehouses burned; buyers for some of these houses have been severely whipped, and in some cases ordered to leave the state. troops have been ordered to several points to protect property and maintain order, and the governor has been called upon to suppress the lawlessness that is abroad." "why, this is worse than during the toll-gate troubles," said sally. "much worse," assented her husband. "the loss of property is very much greater. barns have been burned filled with tobacco, and hundreds of plant beds scraped, and a promise is being exacted from the growers not to produce a crop this present season. it's a sort of triangular war in which the grasping trust--the pooled tobacco association and the independent growers, all figure," added milt. "and have you agreed to pool your tobacco?" asked sally, when the serious situation had been more fully discussed. "no, i think i have the right to dispose of it as i see fit. i am a free man, and live in a free country, and i don't intend to be coerced. i have sold my last year's crop to an independent buyer, and will begin delivering it sometime within the next few days." "i hope there'll be no trouble over it if you do," said his wife earnestly. "i have had quite enough experience along the line of night riding to last me for several years to come." "i scarcely think any attempt will be made to intimidate _me_" asserted milt confidently. "in some places threatening letters and warnings have been sent to persons who have fallen under the displeasure of the band, but nothing of the kind has occurred about here." "don't you think it would have been a wise plan to let the growing of tobacco alone until these troubles are settled?" inquired his wife. "no, i do not. they are trying to force the farmer to cut out his crop of tobacco this year, but--as i have said before--this is a free country, and it seems to me a man should be allowed to grow what he chooses on his own land." "it would seem so, and yet when to do this is to invite trouble, it appears to me that the wisest thing would be to leave the matter alone." "i hate to be driven against my will," argued milt. "i have set out to raise a crop of tobacco this season, and i don't want to back down. that is why i have put my plant bed in the garden near the house, so i can protect it, if necessary. i think, though, there need be no uneasiness along this line." the next morning on going to his barn, milton derr found tied to the barn-door a bundle of switches and a crudely written note to which was fastened some matches and a cartridge. [illustration: derr found a bundle of switches and a crude note on his tobacco barn door.] the note ran as follows: "milt derr, you'r bein watched, we have an eye on you, we hear you air goin' to turn dumper an' sell yore crop to independents, also air fixin' to raise another crop. better not, these three things air for sech as you. yore weed may go up in smoke before it's ready for the pipe. go slow. n. r." milton derr slowly read over this illiterate note some two or three times before he seemed to gather its full meaning, then he carefully folded it up and put it in his pocket. surely someone must be trying to play a practical joke on him by sending such a communication as this, and yet, taking into consideration the numerous rumors of happenings in other localities, this ill-spelled epistle possessed all the ear marks of a genuine note of warning from the terrible night riders. "i must keep this from sally," he muttered, "at least until i can get my tobacco safely delivered, and it's up to me to deliver it at once, before the night riders conclude to pay me a visit, as this note intimates they may do in the near future." "sally was not so far from wrong after all, when she said trouble would come of this," he added. "when once i can get my crop safely delivered and out of my barn, there is little further danger to apprehend." acting on this supposition, milt immediately after breakfast began preparations for removing his crop, and with the aid of two hired men was ready by noon to start for the point of delivery some miles distant, telling his wife that he would return sometime during the night. after supper sally sat down to do some mending, and among other things to fix the pocket-linings of the coat her husband had laid aside for a heavier one during his long drive, and this note of warning, which he intended to keep from her knowledge for the present was the first thing she came across during her self-imposed task. chapter xxxii. on reading the threatening anonymous missive which her husband had put in his pocket and forgot to change to his other coat, sally quickly found food for disquieting thoughts. what if the night riders should learn that he was away delivering his tobacco, and were to come during his absence? still, if they intended coming, she hoped that it might be on this special night while her husband was away from home. she did not fear for herself but only on his account. then she fell to wondering when her husband had received this warning--there was no date on the note from which to learn. milt had made no mention of its receipt, even when he was talking about the riders to her the night before. this silence on his part, and the fact that he had so suddenly decided on delivering his tobacco at once, won her to the belief that the threat was a thing of very recent occurrence, perhaps of the past few hours, and that to it was due his present haste to get his barn empty before any unwelcome nocturnal visit should be made. suppose the riders had spies out, and were aware of the fact that her husband was even then delivering his crop to independent buyers, and should try to capture him on his way home. a great uneasiness took possession of her at this thought, and after several futile attempts at sewing, she finally let the garment drop to the floor, and with clasped hands sat staring intently into the fire, and listening anxiously for some sound betokening her husband's return. every now and then she went to the front door, and looked anxiously out. the early spring night was crisp and cool and the stars shone brightly. each time there was no disturbing sound to mar the deep stillness that greeted her, and after listening awhile, she went again within doors and sat down by the fire. the night slowly wore on as she sat there listening, almost in the same spot where the squire had sat ten or twelve years before, as he, too, listened anxiously to hear the approaching hoofbeats that would advise him the night riders were on their way to attack the new pike gate, and that the desired capture of his nephew was but a matter of brief delay. on the third or fourth trip to the front door, sally heard the sound of approaching horses, not the ones that milton and his men had used for the hauling of the tobacco, but a small cavalcade, coming rapidly down the road. there was a certain familiar ring of the iron shoe on the hard surface of the pike, that struck a sudden key-note of fear in her bosom as she listened. she remembered that ominous sound as she rode alone to the old stone quarry the night that milt was put on trial as a traitor. perhaps the band was still inclined to look upon him as one, although the evil influence of jade beddow was no longer to be feared. sally found herself mentally tracing the approach of the cavalcade along the public highway from the direction of the hill country whence it came. now the horsemen were galloping along a level stretch of road some distance away, then there was a curve and the sound diminished, and presently almost died away as a deep cut in a hillside was reached. again it grew clearly distinct, increasing as the horsemen drew nearer the avenue gate. would they pass on by? the listener fervently hoped that this might be the case, but no, close upon the hope, there was a brief cessation of hoofbeats, then she heard the click of the avenue gate-latch as the cavalcade came through. the night riders were again a thing of actual reality. her first thought was one of thankfulness that milt with his rash impetuous nature was not there to defy or enrage them, her second a regret at her own utter helplessness. she closed the door softly, locking it, and went into the room where she had been sitting. she remembered also to close the door between this room and the smaller one beyond, in which the children were soundly sleeping, then she stood still waiting. the subdued sound of horsemen coming down the avenue and circling around the house reached her acute ears, and soon upon this came a clear sharp "hello!" [illustration: the tobacco night-riders call on milt derr.] she went slowly to the window, and raising it, partly opened a shutter and looked out. "what is wanted?" she asked. "we want milt derr. tell him to come out." sally was on the point of saying that her husband was not at home, when suddenly there flashed into her mind the thought that perhaps she might be able to pacify them and send they away before milt should return. "what do you want of him?" she asked. "we want to talk over the tobacco question." as sally glanced back into the room and saw milt's coat lying on the floor where it had dropped from her idle fingers, a scheme quickly popped into her head that she resolved to put into execution. "all right!" she answered, "i will call him and have him dress and come out." some minutes later the front door opened and the muffled figure of a young man in a large overcoat, and with a hat slouched over his face, stepped out into the starlight. "show us your tobacco beds," a voice demanded. the figure nodded assent and went slowly in the direction of the garden, while several of the masked horsemen followed close upon its footsteps. when the garden-gate was opened, the figure silently pointed to a long white stretch of canvas running the length of the north boundary fence, and protected by it. "tear off that canvas!" demanded the leader, and as the covering of thin cotton was stripped from the bed, two or three of the horsemen rode up and down it, crushing the young plants and grinding them into the yielding soil, then a portion of the frame of the bed was dragged the entire length of the bed, scraping from its surface whatever plants had escaped the trampling iron hoofs. when this had been accomplished, the torn canvas was gathered up by the horsemen, and the silent guide ordered to lead the way to the tobacco barn. on reaching it, two of the riders dismounted and went within, carrying the cloth with them, but soon they reappeared. [illustration: dressed in her husband's clothes, she led them to the tobacco barn.] "the barn is empty, the tobacco has been removed," they announced to the leader. "empty, is it?" he answered with an oath, "then fix it so it will not shelter another crop." the men went inside again, and soon a dull light began to glimmer through the cracks between the boards, rapidly growing in brightness as the flames began to fasten over the dry surface of the wooden framework, aided and fed by the tobacco sticks that were being piled like fagots high upon the spreading blaze. short tongues of flame leaped upward, and crept out here and there along the blazing walls, while spirals of copper-colored smoke began to uncoil into the night like fiery serpents, scattering myriads of sparks in their trail. the scene began to light up weirdly, throwing a ruddy glow against the sky, and bringing into sharp relief the surrounding objects. the horses and their masked riders stood boldly out like statues of ebony from the background of bright light. "boys, give the dumper twenty-five lashes!" cried the leader. the two men afoot, who had fired the barn, started toward the motionless figure that had looked on helplessly and silently, keeping as much in the shadow as possible. almost at this moment a slight commotion was heard in the direction of the barn-lot gate, and several masked men came through the gateway, bringing with them a prisoner. "here is the dumper who has sold his tobacco!" they cried. "he is just getting in from delivering it. we took him off the wagon just now." "what fellow is this?" demanded the leader looking in the direction of the shrinking figure the two riders were about to lay hold upon. sally, throwing back the heavy coat and pulling the slouch hat from her head, answered: "it is i. a woman." chapter xxxiii. for a brief while only the crackle of the flames, eating their way through the dry oak framework of the barn, disturbed the silence that followed this unexpected declaration, then a murmur of surprise ran from horseman to horseman, while milt broke into astonished speech: "why, sally, what are you doing dressed up in my clothes?" "my fear for you made me bold. i didn't want them to know you were away delivering your tobacco, for fear they would follow you, and so i tried to make them think i was you," she answered falteringly, and then, her courage ebbing low, woman-like she began to cry. whether the sight of her tears, or the pluckiness of her attempt at passing off for her husband appealed the stronger to the leader of the night riders i cannot say, but the captain of the band turned suddenly to milton derr and said: "i think we have shown you in strong enough terms that we do not approve of the stand you have taken on this tobacco question, and have made it perfectly clear that there must be no more tobacco crop grown by you this coming season. "the crisis in the tobacco situation is near at hand. if all the growers will agree to control the production and pool their crops they can soon control the prices as well. it is such dumpers and renegades as you that have delayed the victory this long, but despite your stubbornness and the many difficulties you have helped to throw in the way, the victory will surely come, and the long down-trodden grower will conquer. "for the sake of your wife here, we are going to omit a part of the punishment you deserve, but i cannot promise as much if we have to pay you a future visit. to your horses boys!" the men afoot quickly vaulted into their saddles, the little cavalcade wheeled about and like shadows, horses and riders soon faded into the night, red-tinged with the glow of the burning building. [illustration: "revenge is sweet!" said derr. "no, no, milt! you are unharmed, that is all i ask."] as the ring of hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter along the highway, milton and sally, hand in hand, stood watching the fire gradually die down, and the swarms of sparks grow less and less as they floated off into the darkness, then the two slowly went to the house. "the villains! i'd like to hang the last one of them!" cried milt in a sudden outburst of wrath as the full extent of his losses dawned upon him. "hush! milt, i am more than satisfied that things are no worse," answered his wife gratefully. "but my barn is burned and my plant bed destroyed!" exclaimed milt. "you are unharmed, and that is all i ask." "i'd like to get even with them for this night's work, and i will," he announced vindictively. "no! no! milt, you must do nothing of the kind," declared sally. "let the matter rest just where it is. remember, you are looking from just the opposite standpoint from which you looked a few years back. it is now _your_ property that is being destroyed, and not other people's. this makes all the difference in the world. you must not be too severe on these night riders, for my sake, if for nothing else. you see," she added coyly, "i married one of them myself." the end. the standard domestic science cook book by william h. lee and jennie a. hansey [illustration: the book.] departments about , recipes from famous chefs, expert caterers, cooks and housekeepers skilled in the art of cookery --also-- special menus and table d'hote dinners household management, bride's department, the chafing dish, fruits, melons and nuts suitable for the smallest and largest homes, hotels and restaurants =cross-indexed, making it easy to find any recipe at once= special departments:--formal and informal invitations, regrets, etc.; the fireless cook stove; golden thoughts, things to know and to remember; dictionary of french terms used in cookery, with english equivalents; kitchen and table suggestions, food analysis, average cooking time, time required for digestion, kitchen measures, maxims and quotations for table and menu. thoroughly illustrated. an entirely new departure leather, marbled edges, patent thumb index to departments, full-page halftones, showing various dishes $ . washable keratol (a very durable cover), without thumb index full-page line drawings . at all bookstores and book supply houses, or send postpaid, on receipt of price, by laird & lee, publishers, - wabash ave., chicago how to be happy by.... grace gold [illustration: the book.] the life book advice for the young and old. instruction and counsel of value to all, and covering every sphere of activity from the cradle to the grave. a casket of brilliant gems hundreds of extracts from the writings of famous authors, poets and orators, in prose and verse an ideal gift book now offered to the trade for the first time. subscription edition formerly sold at $ . =large mo, cloth, ornamental cover, $ . = =paper cover, special design, . = at all bookstores and book supply houses, or sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by laird & lee, publishers, - wabash avenue, chicago hoyle's standard games --and-- bridge whist, " ," solo, fan tan, skat, hearts, etc. [illustration: the book.] rules for playing all modern card games whist, euchre, penochle, forty-five, loto, sixty-six, cassino, vingt-un ( ), loo, pedro sancho, all fours, auction pitch, california jack, speculation, cribbage, blind hookey brag, poker, matrimony, quadrille, piquet, ecarte, fan tan, bagatelle, lottery, boston, also =billiards, pool, bowling, dominoes, checkers four-handed checkers, etc.= complete index--illustrated-- pages paper cover, in colors, = cents= board cover, cloth back = cents= at all bookstores and book supply houses, or sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by laird & lee, publishers, - wabash avenue, chicago * * * * * transcriber's notes obvious punctuation errors repaired. the following words are spelled both with and without hyphens and have not been changed: "blood[-]thirsty", "fire[-]light", "half[-]tones", "hoof[-]beats", "look[-]out", "mid[-]hour", "to[-]day", "to-morrow", "to[-]night". hyphens added: "toll[-]gate" (page ), "toll[-]house" (page ). hyphens removed: "over[-]heard" (page ). page : "he" changed to "the" (the host suggested). page : "chargin" changed to "chagrin" (the squire's chagrin). page : "sophonia" changed to "sophronia" (declared sophronia frankly). page : "latters'" changed to "latter's" (the latter's outstretched palm). page : added "of" (worthy of your love). page : "him" changed to "his" (she heard his retreating footsteps). page : "vengence" changed to "vengeance" (to wreak his vengeance). page : "dartardly" changed to "dastardly" (so dastardly deed). page : "aserted" changed to "asserted" (persistently asserted milton derr's innocence). page : "horsmen" changed to "horsemen" (subdued sound of horsemen). page : "horseman" changed to "horsement" (several of the masked horsemen). at the sign of the sword a story of love and war in belgium by william le queux published by sully and kleintech, new york. this edition dated . at the sign of the sword, by william le queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ at the sign of the sword, by william le queux. chapter one. the waters of the meuse. warm, brilliant, and cloudless was the july noon. beneath the summer sun the broad, shallow waters of the meuse sparkled as they rippled swiftly onward through the deep, winding valley of grey rocks and cool woods on their way from the mountains of lorraine, through peaceful, prosperous belgium, towards the sea. that quiet, smiling land of the ardennes was, in july in the year of grace , surely one of the most romantic in all europe--a green, peaceful land, undisturbed by modern progress; a land where the peasantry were still both honest and simple, retaining many of their primitive customs; a land where the herdsmen still called home the cattle by the blast of the horn as they had done for past centuries, where the feudal castles studding the country--mostly now in ruins--were once the abodes of robber-knights. in that long, deep green valley, which wound from namur up past dinant to the french frontier at givet, the people had advanced but little. legend and history, poetry and fiction, provoked an interesting reminiscence at almost every turn, for it was, indeed, a land that fascinated those used to the mad hurry of our modern money-making life. not far from quaint, old-world dinant, with its church with the slate-covered, bulgy spire nestling beneath its fortress-crowned rock, its narrow cobbled streets, and its picturesque little place, lay the pretty riverside village of anseremme, the favourite resort of artists, being situated at the junction of the lesse--one of the loveliest of rivers--with the meuse. seated at a shaded table eating their _dejeuner_, upon the rose-embowered _terrasse_ of the unpretending little hotel beau sejour, which ran beside the rippling meuse, sat a young man with a girl. that the pair had met clandestinely was apparent to the white-aproned _patron_--who also acted as _chef_--from the fact that the young man had arrived on foot with rather dusty boots an hour before, had seated himself, ordered an _aperitif_ and idled somewhat impatiently over the _independance belge_, until, from the direction of givet, a fine grey car, sweeping along the road and raising a cloud of dust, suddenly pulled up before the hotel. from it a well-dressed young girl had alighted, and as she passed on to the _terrasse_, the young man had sprang up, uttered a loud cry of welcome, and bent over her hand. meanwhile, the chauffeur had discreetly moved on to the hotel de la meuse, where he apparently intended to get his luncheon. the young girl was distinctly handsome, as she sat leaning her elbows upon the table, gazing into her companion's eyes, and bending forward to listen to the low words he was uttering. she was little more than twenty, with dark hair, regular, well-chiselled features; a small, pretty mouth, which puckered when she smiled; soft, delicate cheeks, and a pair of those great, dark-brown liquid eyes, which are so characteristically belgian. her dark-blue serge gown was a model of tailored neatness, while her little, close-fitting hat, in black straw, suited admirably a delicate, refined face, about which there could be no two opinions. the poise of her head, the white, delicate throat, discreetly open, and upon which hung a beautiful diamond and pearl pendant; the smallness of her white, ungloved hands, and the daintiness of her grey suede shoes and silk stockings to match, all combined to produce a _chic_ which was that of one living in a smart circle of the _haut monde_. both speech and gesture betrayed an education in france, for her accent was not of the bruxellois but, like her graceful bearing, that of the true parisienne. she was laughing merrily at some remark the young man had made, and in her eyes, as they fixed themselves upon his, there showed the love-light--that one expression that can never be feigned by any man or woman in the world. her companion, a dark, oval-faced, well-set-up young fellow, was under thirty, above the average height for a belgian, perhaps, with a pair of keen, shrewd eyes, in which was a kindly, sympathetic look, closely trimmed hair, and a small dark moustache cut in english fashion. he was broad-shouldered, strong, and manly, and by his gesture and attitude the keen observer would have marked that he had had more military training than was usual in the circle in brussels in which he moved. he was dressed in a suit of well-cut grey tweeds, with straw hat, while the silver watch set in the well-worn leather wristlet gave him an altogether english air. indeed, he had lived five years in london--in lodgings in shepherd's bush--when a student, and, as a consequence, spoke english fairly well. that they were a handsome pair monsieur le patron of the hotel, quizzing them through the low-set window of his kitchen which looked out upon the _terrasse_, could not disguise from himself. often he had seen the big car sweep past, but of its ownership he was in ignorance. yet more than once the interesting pair had met at his hotel and had lunched quietly together, while signs had not been wanting that those meetings were in secret. jules, the little bald-headed waiter from rochefort, had flicked out the white cloth and spread it between them; he had placed two yard-long loaves crosswise upon it, with serviettes flat upon the plates and single knives and forks, when aimee, with a light musical laugh, exclaimed in french: "i had the greatest difficulty to get away to-day, edmond. at the very last moment i feared lest i should disappoint you. my mother wanted some lace from teitz's, in brussels, and i, of course, last night volunteered to go shopping for her. but this morning, while i was taking my _petit dejeuner_, melanie came to me to say that mother had made up her mind to come with me, as she wanted to see the countess d'echternach before she went to england. she and her husband are taking their yacht to cowes, and we had been asked to join the party, as you know, but father unfortunately is kept at home because of important meetings of the senate." "then your mother, the baroness, may suspect--eh?" exclaimed edmond valentin with some apprehension. "no. i think not," reflected the girl. "but at first i didn't know what to do. i knew that by that time you had already left brussels, and i could not telephone and stop you. suddenly i recollected that mother has a bad memory, so presently i reminded her of a purely fictitious engagement she had made with the committee of the archaeological society of antwerp on that day, and succeeded in inducing her to remain to receive the burgomaster and his antiquarian friends, to whom her father had granted a permit to see over the chateau." "and so you succeeded in escaping!" he laughed; "and instead of shopping in brussels and lunching with old madame garnier, you are here. splendid!" then, glancing round to reassure himself that nobody was present, his fingers tenderly closed over the tiny hand which lay upon the tablecloth. "but, dearest," he went on in french, with a grave expression in his kind, dark eyes, "when you did not come at eleven o'clock i began to fear--fear what i am, alas! always fearing--" "what?" she asked quickly. he hesitated for a few seconds. "that somebody may have discovered the truth, and told the baron-- aimee," he replied very slowly. "really, edmond, i don't see what there is to fear. i know you have enemies, and further, that my father does not view you in exactly a friendly spirit, simply because you are not rich, like arnaud--" "arnaud rigaux!" interrupted edmond angrily. "i hate to hear the very name of the fellow! your father, the baron, wishes you to marry him, in order to cement the two greatest financial houses in belgium--that of neuville freres and the banque de tervueren. besides, he must be at least thirty years your senior, aimee." "this is really unkind of you, edmond," exclaimed the girl in reproach, withdrawing her hand. "i came to meet you, so that we might spend a pleasant day in the country. surely you believe that i love you, and that being so, how could i possibly consent to marry monsieur rigaux?" "but i am only a mere obscure brussels lawyer, aimee," he said. "how can i ever hope to marry you?" the girl did not reply. her heart was too full for mere words. they were alone upon that shady _terrasse_, with the great river swirling and rippling past them, while at the moment the quiet was broken by the sweet carillon of old church bells somewhere, chiming the hour of noon. "i know, my darling," he said in a low voice, in english, so that none should overhear and understand, as he looked at her across the table, "that your father and his friends hold the money-strings of our little nation. they reckon the world by its millions of francs, and the finances of belgium are in their hands. he will make the most strenuous effort to force you to marry rigaux, and so strengthen the position of both houses." "i will never marry the man--_never_!" aimee de neuville declared emphatically in good english. "i hate him!" "you swear that?" he demanded quickly, a fierce light suddenly in his eyes. "i do, edmond." "ah?" he sighed in deep relief. "then i am satisfied. let us discuss the subject no further." and at that moment old jules reappeared with the plate of tempting _hors d'oeuvres_ and the _carafe_ of _vin-blanc ordinaire_. edmond valentin, the _avocat_, who struggled hard and fought for small fees in that most palatial palais de justice in the world, sat for a few moments gazing thoughtfully across the broad sunlit meuse, where, on the opposite bank, a train, looking like a small toy, was following the bend of the river on its way to france, leaving a long trail of white smoke behind. he was thinking--thinking of something he knew--a secret--and as it arose in his mind his strong hands clenched themselves tightly beneath the table. the girl, watching his countenance, wondered when she saw that strange expression of fierce hatred flit across his broad brow. but next second it had vanished, and smiling upon her, he began to help her to the anchovies and salad which the bald-headed waiter had placed before them. they were truly a striking pair, she pretty and dainty, with a soft, sweet expression that men always found so charming, while he was particularly smart and handsome, without the slightest trace of foreign effeminacy, a fine, well-set-up fellow, who, but for the depth and largeness of his eyes, might easily have been mistaken for an englishman. yet their social positions were wide as the poles. she was the only child of baron henri de neuville, the great financier, whose money controlled railways and tramways in half a dozen countries in europe, and whose splendid old chateau de severac, higher up the river, was one of the show-places of belgium. ex-minister of finance and a member of the senate, his position gave his wife, the baroness, and her daughter, the _entree_ to the court circle in brussels, hence aimee moved in the most exclusive set. her companion, however, was the son of the late burgomaster of ghent, an estimable man, who had amassed a considerable fortune and possessed much land around antwerp, but who had, with hundreds of others, been completely ruined by dabbling in a wild-cat scheme on the congo, and who had died penniless, save for the little pittance which his son edmond could afford him. love, however, laughs at money-bags, and aimee, while she was passionately fond of the man before her, detested that thin-faced, black-haired, narrow-eyed man, monsieur rigaux, whose praises the baron was so constantly singing when they sat at table together. there was an indescribable look in the financier's eyes which had, for the past four years--ever since she returned from school at roedean--always frightened her. it was an expression which, though with her woman's intuition she distrusted, yet she could neither describe it, nor the feeling which it always aroused within her. what we too often term natural antipathy, is a silent, mysterious warning which springs from our innermost conscience, and surely should never be dismissed. the little cloud which had descended between the pair had quickly lifted, and as they sat eating their _dejeuner_, childishly happy in each other's love, two officers of the th chasseurs, in their braided tunics and undress caps, came along the _terrasse_, and, seeing a lady, saluted as they passed, and took seats at a little table at the farther end. "my old regiment!" edmond remarked. "sometimes, aimee, i regret that i resigned to take up law," he added, with a sigh and a wistful look as he glanced at the two men in uniform. "but you are making a name at the courts," the girl declared. "i read in the paper yesterday a case in which you are defending--the affaire of the rue du trone, they call it--a murder-mystery." "yes," the man answered, with a touch of bitterness in his voice. "i am defending the man sigart, though i myself am convinced of his guilt." "and yet you defend him?" edmond valentin shrugged his shoulder. "an advocate is forced to serve whichever side engages him," he replied. "that is why the profession of arms is so much more honest." "granted," his companion said. "it gives you an _entree_ to the better houses--you can become a member of the _cercle militaire_, and all that, but is it not all useless? the war, which has been predicted all these years, has never come--nor, in my belief, will it ever come. germany only raises a bogey from time to time, in order to terrify europe, as my father puts it," the girl added. "ah! i fear the baron is a little too optimistic," replied her lover. "war, when it comes--as it most assuredly will--will come in the hour when we least expect it. then, when the teuton hordes burst their bonds, woe-betide the nations they attack." "well, edmond, we have one consolation, that they will never attack us. we are neutral, and the powers--even germany herself--have agreed to respect our neutrality." "ah, aimee, that remains to be seen," was his slow, apprehensive reply. "germany, when she fights, will fight for world-wide power, irrespective of treaties or of agreements. the kaiser is the great war lord, and his intention is to vindicate his self-assumed title, and to rule the world." "father, who is behind the scenes of international politics, quite disputes that view." "the baron will not admit it--nobody in belgium will admit it--because no cloud appears to-day upon the political horizon. but the dark cloud will arise ere long, depend upon it, and then we shall, every man of us, be compelled to fight for our lives, and for all we hold most dear." a silence fell between them. the young man slowly stirred his coffee, and then, taking a cigarette from his case, lit it, with a word of apology at having expressed such words of warning, and daring to disagree with the view held by the baron de neuville. "but do you really fear war, edmond?" asked the girl at last, having reflected deeply upon her lover's words. "oh, i didn't mean to alarm you, dearest," he laughed quickly. "war will, i believe, break out in europe; but not yet--probably not for years to come. germany is not ready; and besides, she fears both france and england. nevertheless, she is preparing to conquer the world. of that, one has evidence everywhere in germany." "my father does not believe it." "because, like so many others all the world over who are piling up their money and reaping rich dividends, he does not wish to believe it. he, like millions of others, is content in the blissful paradise which he himself creates. but there, dearest, enough of my controversial subjects. let us enjoy this glorious day," and he blew a cloud of blue cigarette smoke from his lips, and laughed at her merrily across the little coffee-cup which he raised to his lips. then presently, edmond having settled the account, the blissful pair entered the great grey car, in which antoine, the baron's clean-shaven chauffeur, loyal to his young mistress, drove them rapidly away, up the white, winding road which led due east into the heart of the peaceful, picturesque ardennes. chapter two. the rising cloud. a fortnight later--the second day of august, to be exact. the taverne joseph, that popular restaurant in the boulevard d'anspach, in brussels, where, beneath the shadow of the bourse, the business-man gets such delicious _plats du jour_, was crowded, as it always is each day at noon. the many little tables set out upon the pavement, along which the life of the bright little belgian capital ebbed and flowed, were filled by men who daily, year in and year out, ate their midday meal, gossiped, and drank long glasses of iced _bock_. at one table, in a corner by the glass screen which divided the pavement before joseph's establishment from that belonging to a restaurant next door, edmond valentin sat alone. he had every reason to congratulate himself most heartily. an hour ago, after making a most brilliant and impassioned speech for the defence in the assize court, the trial of the affaire of the rue du trone had at last ended. the chemist's assistant, sigart, a cruel-hearted assassin who had killed his young wife by administering gelsiminium--as the prosecution had alleged--had been acquitted, and upon edmond's remarkable success he had been everywhere congratulated by his _confreres_ in the great atrium of the courts. as he sat alone, idly watching the passers-by, he was wondering what aimee would think. she would read in the _petit bleu_ that night the account of the trial, which she was so closely following, he knew. what would she say when she saw that he had been successful--that he had made a name in the legal world at last! he was in the act of lighting a cigarette, one of a special brand of egyptians which were sold only at the little _mosque_ in the courtyard of the grand hotel opposite, when a strident voice reached his ear, and next second a perspiring young vendor of newspapers, in a peaked cap, thrust under his nose a newspaper, crying in french, "german ultimatum to belgium!--_v'la le journal_!" he paid his sou, and eagerly opened the thin damp sheet. his quick eyes scanned the sinister news which the paper contained, to the effect that the german minister in brussels had, at seven o'clock on the previous evening, offered belgium an _entente_ with germany in return for her facilitating german military operations. a pistol was held at belgium's head. she had been given till seven o'clock that morning to reply. a council meeting had been held which had lasted till midnight, after which messieurs hymans and van den heuvel had drafted a reply, which for three hours further had been discussed. belgium relied upon the treaty to which germany herself had been signatory, guaranteeing her neutrality, and had therefore replied that she could not accept the proposal. edmond valentin held his breath as he read those significant lines of print. half the men in the restaurant eagerly bought papers, were silent for a moment, and then the greatest excitement was apparent everywhere. "_war with germany_!" yelled the newsvendors in strident tones as they rushed along the boulevard, and even the police--the most correct in europe--were so dumbfounded that they did not raise a voice in protest at this unseemly breach of the regulation which prohibits the crying of news. belgium had defied the great and terrible machine of prussian militarism. she had told the kaiser, openly and plainly, that she would, like holland, remain neutral, in accordance with the solemn treaty to which the powers had put their signatures. "well, my friend," remarked a fat stockbroker, to whom valentin was known as having his lunch daily at the joseph. "this is defiance--eh? we have held up our hand to stop the great war lord of germany. we have no quarrel with our neighbours. this is only newspaper gossip. there will be no war, i assure you. a bourse canard--perhaps." "but if germany attacks us?" queried the young lawyer, placing his newspaper on the table. "bah! that she will never do. we know the kaiser and his mailed fist of old. if russia has mobilised, surely it cannot concern us?" "but france and great britain are russia's allies, remember." "exactly. germany will never dare to face europe with only austria, an effete nation, as an ally. your agreement supports mine, my dear friend," laughed the fat over-dressed man, who wore a large diamond in his cravat. "but are there not already violations of the french frontier, and also in luxembourg? the germans have also occupied frontier towns in russia," edmond argued. "_bien_! but it is only a menace on the part of germany--and menace is not war. do not forget the agadir incident. no, no, m'sieur. the coming war is not yet--not yet, although i quite admit that we have felt the unrest on the bourse this morning." "unrest?" echoed edmond. "i tell you that to-day there is war in the air, m'sieur! the german emperor has created, by his clever chicanery, a diplomatic position in europe which is impossible. the preparations of prussia are complete. that the emperor means war is apparent to those who have studied events, as i have, ever since the deplorable assassinations in sarajevo." "ah! _mon ami_, i see you are pessimistic," laughed the stockbroker, draining his glass of benedictine. "it would be bad for belgium if all her sons were alarmists like yourself." "no, m'sieur, pardon?" was edmond valentin's quick response. "if all were like yourself, we should be lulled to deep by the assurances of our bitter enemy--the enemy who intends to march through this capital of ours to antwerp, and the sea." "bah! the old story told to us for so many years!" laughed the man at the next table as he rose slowly and took his straw hat. "we shall meet here again--say this day week, and then you will be forced to admit the truth of my argument." "well--let us hope so, m'sieur. we shall see," valentin replied with a gesture of apprehension, which showed him to be concerned. the fat man wished him a merry "_bon jour_," and passed out upon the sun-baked pavement, where the excited crowds were now hurrying, eagerly discussing the alarming news. "war! _war_! war!" the word was upon everyone's lips throughout the length and breadth of the animated little capital of _les braves belges_--the people so long sneered at by their superiors in paris until the very expression had become synonymous of a populace actuated by timid arrogance, and who merely aped all the culture and most of the vices of the parisians. when the optimistical stockbroker had gone, edmond again took up his paper and read how sir edward grey had made a statement in the house of commons, in london, regarding the obligations of honour, and of national security involved in the maintenance by great britain of belgian neutrality. france and russia were already in a state of war with germany. would great britain stand by belgium? upon the _terrasse_ of the crowded restaurant and within, the sole topic of the excited conversation was the seriousness of the situation. old men who had been scared times without number by the war-clouds which had risen over europe, laughed to scorn the idea of a great conflict. "my dear jules?" shouted a thin-faced, white-bearded man--the head of a great commercial house--across the restaurant. "do not give it another thought. there will be no war. the germans are not yet ready, and the diplomats will arrange it all, as they always do. they are paid for it. the kaiser's bark is worse than his bite." whereat many laughed. but not so edmond valentin. he had been a close student of international politics, and in order to supplement his income at the criminal bar, he had often written articles upon international politics for the _independance belge_, and the _matin_ of antwerp. what he had feared and predicted was, alas! coming rapidly true. germany, with her horde of spies everywhere in belgium, france, and england, and her closely guarded military and naval secrets had deceived europe. she was fully prepared--and her emperor intended to make war, and to crush civilisation beneath the despotic heel of prussian militarism. the cross of christ was to be overthrown by the brutal agnosticism of nietzsche, the blasphemous "philosopher" who died in a madhouse. edmond valentin held his breath, and replacing the paper again upon the table, while the buzz of dispute and argument was still in his ears, stared straight before him into the busy, glaring thoroughfare. war! _war_! war! at length he rose, and making his way blindly to the bourse, only a few steps away, he boarded one of the open-air trains, and ascended the steep, winding streets, the narrow marche aux herbes, and the rue de la madeline, until he reached the broad rue de la regence, which led straight up to the great facade of the domed palais de justice. half-way up the street he alighted and, entering a block of offices, ascended to his bureau. the city was agog with excitement. in that hot, blazing noontide, everyone seemed outside discussing the grave peril in which belgium was now placed by daring to stem the overwhelming tide of teutons. "if they come they will not hurt us," a man in the tram had laughed. "they will simply march through belgium--that is all. what on earth have we to fear?" edmond had overheard those words. they represented the opinion of the populace, who had been frightened by the bogey of threatened war so many times, until now they had grown to regard the regularly rising cloud over europe as part of the german policy, the brag and swagger of the great war lord. edmond was alone. his one clerk was still away at his _dejeuner_ as usual, from noon till two o'clock. from the open window of the small, dingy room he watched the animated scene below--watched like a man in a dream. at the moment he was not thinking of the threatened war, but of the man arnaud rigaux. an imprecation escaped his set teeth, as his face assumed a dark, threatening expression, his strong hands clenched, as they always did when certain thoughts arose. "one day ere long," he murmured, "we will settle the account between us, m'sieur. with us it is an eye for an eye, but you little dream what form my revenge will take. the hour is now fast approaching--depend upon it!" turning suddenly from the window, he lit a cigarette, for, like most belgians, he was an inveterate smoker as well as something of a dandy in his attire, and seating himself at his big writing-table he began to scribble hastily memorandum after memorandum. for fully two hours he continued. old andre, his clerk, returned, and placed a copy of a newspaper containing the report of the affaire of the rue du trone at his elbow, saying: "the press are full of your praise, m'sieur. is it not splendid-- magnificent!" but his master took no heed, so intent was he upon his writing, referring to various bundles of legal papers before him, as he scribbled on. then, at last, just before four o'clock, he put on his hat and went forth again, walking to the palais de justice, where, after searching through the courts, he found, in the dark panelled court of appeal, a _confrere_ of his--a tall, thin man, with a bushy black beard. his friend congratulated him heartily upon his success in the _cause celebre_ that morning, after which they both went out into the atrium and sat upon a bench, while edmond valentin gave him a number of instructions. afterwards, just before five, edmond emerged again, crossed into the wide, leafy avenue louise, and boarding a tram, rode straight up that splendid boulevard of fine private residences, to the gates of the pretty natural park of which bruxellois are so proud, the bois de la cambre. upon a seat in one of the secluded paths, not far from the entrance, he found aimee, dressed in white embroidered muslin, awaiting him. "ah, edmond!" she cried, springing up. "terrible, is it not? there will be war! you were right--quite right--dearest. germany intends to encroach upon our land?" "yes, darling," he replied, bending over her little gloved hand with _deep_ apology at being late. "i fear that it is so, and that we shall be compelled to defend ourselves," he sighed. "the terror of war is upon us." "but there will not be fighting in belgium--surely?" the girl declared. "colonel maclean, the british military attache, was at lunch with us to-day, and he told my father that england did not anticipate war. it is only the german nature to be aggressive against russia." "ah! no. do not believe the optimists, my darling," the man said, seating himself at her side. "do not believe in the soft words and the self-styled culture of the germans. they are the natural enemies of europe, and the camarilla of potsdam intends now to fight for world-power." she was silent, tracing a semicircle on the gravel with the ferrule of her white silk sunshade. it was a pretty, leafy nook where they were sitting--a spot where it was often their habit to meet in secret when she was in brussels. that big white mansion of the baron henri de neuville he had passed half-way up the avenue louise was one of the largest and most handsome private residences in brussels, with its imposing gates of ornamental ironwork surmounted by a gilt coronet, and huge glass-covered winter-garden--a place pointed out to _messieurs_, the tourists of the agence cook, who passed daily in the motor char-a-banc, as the "town-house of the baron de neuville, the great belgian millionaire," as the uniformed guide put it each morning in his parrot-like english, when he conducted his charges on their way to the field of waterloo. "do you know, aimee," exclaimed her companion seriously at last, "i have decided to return to my old regiment, and to act my part--the part of a true belgian. i can at once return as _sous-officier_." "what?" gasped the girl in quick alarm. "but, edmond--you--you--you might be wounded if war really broke out! you might even be killed! no! for my sake, dear, don't go," she implored, placing her trembling little hand upon his arm and looking up appealingly into his eyes. "war will be upon us, if not to-day, then to-morrow. my place is in the ranks of the defenders," he said firmly. "i have no money-bags to protect, as your father the baron has. my profession will be at an end with war, hence i have decided. i have made all arrangements for my friend verbruggen to take my cases in the courts." "and you will really rejoin the chasseurs-a-pied?" she asked anxiously. "i shall. it is only my duty, dearest. against the great germany our little belgium will require every man who can hold a rifle," replied her lover. "the german kaiser means war--and war means the shedding of blood in our land." "but think--if you were killed, edmond!" she gasped, staring at him. "i should at least die knowing that we loved each other, darling," he answered, taking her hand tenderly in his own and raising it to his lips. "you are mine, and i am yours; only death can part us." he glanced up and down. they were alone in that narrow, leafy way, with the birds twittering gaily above them, and the hot sunshine filtering through the branches; for the charm of the bois was its rural picturesqueness, near as it was to the centre of the gay, vivacious little capital. his arm stole very slowly around her waist, and she fell back into his embrace in the supreme ecstasy of that moment. "though the barrier between us--the barrier of money--is insurmountable, aimee, i love you better--ah! better than my own life, sweetheart. to-day, though the sun still shines over our dear belgium, it is, alas! the darkest day of our history. the terror of the uhlan is already over our land. your father, the baron, will, i know, endeavour to snatch you from me, and marry you to the man whom i have so just a cause to hate-- enemy as he is of my own race, my name, my country. but, darling, i refuse, in this hour of deadly peril, to remain inactive. i love you, and, my darling, i know that you love me. our dear country is threatened by the invader, who intends to smash and to crush us, to sweep our smiling, peaceful land with fire and sword; to stamp out our national life, and to grind us beneath the millstones of a blasphemous autocracy. and, as an officer of the belgian army, my place is with my regiment--to defend our country; to defend our innocent women--to defend you, my own beloved." tears welled in her great dark eyes as she listened to his words, and he bent until his lips pressed hers. his argument was complete. how could she protest further? her secret lover was a fine, manly man--far more manly than any she had ever met in her own select circle of that vain bejewelled society, where mammon was god, and where finance daily juggled with the destiny of nations. to rejoin his regiment was, after all, her lover's duty. she knew it in her innermost consciousness. yes, he was right. though a lieutenant, he could rejoin as _sous-officier_. the war-cloud, so black and lowering, must burst within a few hours. as a true daughter of belgium she was at heart a patriot, even though, in her own home, the only patriotism ever taught her had been the love of self-esteem. he was silent, not daring to utter further word; and she, looking into his dark, thoughtful, serious eyes, in silence, wept. yet in the ears of both of them rang that single word of such awful and such fatal significance: war! _war_! war! chapter three. the heart's desire. at ten o'clock on the same evening the baron henri de neuville sat smoking a cigar in a small, luxuriously furnished room in the great white mansion in the avenue louise. a broad-shouldered, grey-haired, slightly bald man, whose heavy jaws were fringed by short grey side-whiskers, and whose deep-set eyes were rendered darker by the natural pallor of his complexion. his hair was well brushed to hide his baldness, and in his well-cut evening clothes he looked younger than he really was. he had been commanded to the palace earlier in the evening, for the king had consulted him in connection with some secret financial transaction affecting the nation, and therefore at his throat he wore the ribbon and cross of the order of leopold. with him sat his friend, arnaud rigaux, a dandified thin-faced man, a few years his junior, with black hair plastered down upon his head, a pair of narrow-set beady eyes, a countenance of distinctly hebrew cast, and a small pointed black moustache, unmistakably dyed. the shrivelled thinness of his hands was certainly not in keeping with the artificial youth of his face, and, on second glance, the most casual observer would have realised that he was one of those men who, by reason of a fast life, have aged prematurely, and who endeavour to remain young, and believe themselves still attractive to the fair sex. he had, in years past, been a rather handsome man. but the life he had led had left its mark indelibly upon him, for he looked what he was, a _roue_ who had run the whole gamut of the gaieties of europe, from the casino at aix to the villa regala at bucharest, and from the haunts of the _demi-monde_ on the riviera to the night-cafes of berlin and the _cabarets_ of the montmarte. as he lounged back in the big, soft, saddle-bag chair, the fine diamond glistening in his shirt, he presented a picture of the affluent parvenu, that type of wealthy financier of hebrew strain, which is so familiar the world over. the baron was certainly of a refined and gentlemanly type, though there was in his face that shrewd, hard expression which seems inseparable from the financial mind. yet his companion was of an entirely different stamp--coarse, unsympathetic, with sensuality stamped upon his loose lips. he removed the cigar from his mouth, and lifting his narrow eyes to his companion, remarked: "i am relieved to hear your opinion, my dear henri. it agrees entirely with mine. though the bourses show signs of panic, i cannot but think that war is impossible." "the minister orts was at the palace, and i had a few words with him," the baron said. "they had, at the ministry, a telegram from our minister in london only an hour ago. war is not anticipated there." "nor here--only by the ignorant," laughed rigaux. "germany cannot--nay, she dare not--attack europe." "it is whispered that the king has appealed to king george of england to uphold our neutrality. but in one or two quarters i hear it alleged that the fixed purpose to provoke a general war has underlain germany's policy for many years, and now, with austria as her ally, she has wantonly flung down the gauntlet to all europe." "i don't believe it at all," declared the other. "the kaiser cannot commit such an outrage on all justice and all public right. our neutrality was guaranteed by germany herself. how can she dishonour her own signature?" "but germany aspires to supremacy, we must not forget, my dear friend, and to supremacy as complete as that claimed by napoleon. she intends that all the other powers shall be her subordinate allies. she would drag them all in her wake." "bah! england will not bargain away to germany her obligations to us, depend upon it," was the other's reply. "the kaiser fears the british fleet. he is not yet ready, my dear baron. so let us dismiss the so-called peril, for it does not exist, i assure you." the baron rose from his chair, and stepped out upon the long balcony into the close, breathless night. a regiment of lancers were clattering along the broad avenue, just distinguishable among the trees, and the people were cheering wildly as they passed. war was in the air. notwithstanding the assurances of his friend rigaux, the baron could not disguise from himself the serious apprehension that had so suddenly arisen in his mind. hitherto, he had been loudest in his expressions that war would not be yet, but since he had been at the palace, an hour ago, and seen the serious expression upon the faces of his sovereign, and of certain officials, he had become suspicious of the worst. what if england defied this sabre-rattling of germany, and declared war to protect belgium? he pondered as he stood there, glancing down into the leafy avenue where the people were shouting, "_a bas les allemands_!" he had his back turned to his friend, who still sat smoking. had he turned, he might, however, have seen something which would have aroused wonder within him, for while he stood there, looking down upon the straight, leafy way, bright under its lines of lamps, his friend, behind his back, had clenched his fists fiercely. arnaud rigaux's teeth were set, and upon his countenance was a fierce look of hatred of the man whom he was trying to lull into a false sense of security. a distinctly evil expression played about the corners of his sensuous mouth, as his narrow-set eyes glinted with the fire of a detestation which, until that moment, he had so cleverly concealed. though posing as an intensely patriotic belgian, he was, if the truth be told, one of the few men in brussels who knew the german intentions, and who, for a fortnight past, had been fully prepared. war must come, he was well aware. it had all been arranged two years ago, yet the belgian government, and even the baron de neuville, its chief financial adviser, had remained in utter ignorance. they had never suspected the kaiser's treachery. rigaux smiled as he reflected how cleverly the secret of it all had been kept. great britain must now certainly fall into the trap so cunningly prepared for her, and then europe would, as the kaiser intended, be drenched in blood. in those moments, while the baron stood outside, he reflected upon the private audience he had had with the emperor at potsdam nine months before, of the secret reports he had furnished regarding the financial situation of belgium, and other matters, and the preparations for war in luxembourg and along the frontier, which were revealed to him by a high official in the wilhelmstrasse. he had returned from his "business-visit" to berlin, and not a soul in brussels had ever dreamed that he had been received by the most highest. the secret policy of the kaiser was to court the good-will of certain financiers who, most of them, willingly became his agents and cats'-paws, and kept the war office in berlin well informed of the trend of events. it was so in the case of the clever, wealthy, and unscrupulous arnaud rigaux. the baron turned, but in an instant the face of his friend reassumed its expression of easy-going carelessness. "this silly war-scare seems to please the people--eh?" he laughed aloud. "hark at them shouting! it is to be hoped they will not attack the german legation, burn the german flag, or commit some ridiculous outrage of that sort." "let's hope not, or it might be misconstrued into an act of war," the baron agreed, as he stepped again into the small, cosy, but exquisitely furnished room. "probably the garde civile have taken every precaution to avoid demonstrations. nevertheless," he added, "i do not like the outlook at all, my dear arnaud. i confess i do not like it at all." "_mon cher ami_, surely you, of all men, are not being led away by this sensation in the newspapers!" exclaimed his friend, pursing his thick lips. "we both know the value to be placed upon _messieurs les journalistes_. we buy them all whenever we desire their favour--do we not?" but the baron cast himself into his chair and shook his head gravely, saying: "i fear, notwithstanding, that the outlook is very black for belgium. war would mean ruin to us both. we have, both of us, large interests in france and germany," he added, ignorant of the vile treachery of which his friend had been guilty. "if war came in europe, i should be ruined." "exactly," responded the other. "that is why, in such circumstances as these, a union of our houses would be so intensely desirable. have you spoken to mademoiselle aimee again?" he asked, regarding the baron with those narrow, crafty eyes of his. "yes," was the reply. "and what has mademoiselle said?" "up to the present," sighed the baron, "she is still obdurate." "because of that good-looking _avocat_--eh?" he retorted. "why do you allow her still to meet the fellow?" "she does not meet him to my knowledge." "she does--almost daily. i have set watch upon them. they met to-day-- in the bois, at five o'clock." the baron was again silent for a few moments. then he said: "valentin has, it seems, made quite a sensational success in the affaire of the rue du trone. there is a long account in to-night's papers. berton, the minister of justice, was speaking of it." "but surely you will not allow your daughter to marry a penniless lawyer?" protested the financier. "think what you and i could do, if only we amalgamated upon fair and equivalent business lines. as you well know, i am extremely fond of aimee." "you have spoken to her, she tells me." "i have. but, unfortunately, she treats me with a calm and utter indifference." "perhaps she will, eventually, grow tired of edmond valentin's attentions," her father suggested. "never," growled rigaux. "i believe she loves the fellow. but if you were only firm, my dear friend, she would, in the end, consent to marry me." "i am firm." "yet you allow them to meet daily!" "how can i prevent it?" "by sending her away--say to england. i will go to england also." "my own opinion is that you would fare no better in england than here. aimee is a girl of spirit. she may be led, but driven never," her father declared emphatically. "but cannot you compel her to give up this man?" urged rigaux eagerly. "have i not tried, for weeks and weeks? personally, my friend, i don't think you dance attendance sufficiently upon her, if you really mean to win her. she has been spoiled ever since a child, and likes lots of attention." arnaud rigaux's brows narrowed slightly, for he at once realised that what the baron said was the truth. he had certainly been deficient in his amorous advances, for, truth to tell, he had become so utterly _blase_ that few women nowadays attracted him. "yes," he sighed grossly. "perhaps you are right, baron. is she at home this evening?" "she's alone in the _petit salon_, reading, i believe. my wife is out at dinner with the wife of the roumanian minister." "then, if there is nothing else for us to discuss, i will go down and spend an hour with her--eh?" "_tres bien_," acceded the baron, while rigaux, casting away his cigar, settled his cravat before a big mirror at the end of the room, smoothed his hair with both his hands, and left. passing down the softly carpeted corridor he paused before a door, and opening it entered, to find himself in a good-sized salon carpeted in saxe blue, with white enamelled walls and gilt furniture of the style of louis quatorze. over the elegant apartment was suffused a soft light, the source of which was cunningly concealed behind the wide cornice running round the walls, the electric glow being thrown down by the white ceiling itself. upon a side-table stood a great silver bowl of la france roses, which filled the room with their fragrance, and near it, in a comfortable _chaise-longue_, reclined aimee, looking sweet and dainty in a soft, filmy evening-gown of palest carnation pink. she looked up from her book, startled, as the door opened, and then, recognising her visitor, rose, rather stiffly, to greet him. "what, all alone, my dear mademoiselle?" exclaimed rigaux, as though in surprise, as he bowed over her hand. "i have been chatting with the baron, but i expected to find madame here. well, and what do you think of all this very alarming news--eh?" "awful--is it not?" the girl replied, inviting him to a chair. "the baron and i have just been discussing it, and we are of opinion that there will be no war. i notice, however, in the papers to-night, a report of monsieur valentin's great success in the affaire of the rue du trone. i must congratulate him--and yourself." the girl blushed slightly. it was the first time this man, whom she so heartily hated, had ever mentioned her lover. indeed, she was not, until that moment, quite certain whether he was aware of her secret-- whether the baron had told him. "yes," she managed to reply at last. "it should secure him a foothold in his profession. the papers say that his speech for the defence was apparently one of the most clever and brilliant ever heard in the courts." "and you, of course, must be justly proud, eh, mademoiselle?" he remarked, looking straight into her beautiful eyes. "well, i suppose so," she laughed, her fingers toying nervously with the leaves of bazin's latest romance. he sighed deeply. then, after a pause, said: "ah! i only wish that you entertained one little thought for me, aimee--one kindly reflection regarding myself--i who love you so." and, bending, he stretched forth his hand to seize hers. but she swiftly withdrew it. "oh, why return to that subject again, m'sieur!" she protested impatiently. "its discussion only pains us both. i am fully aware that my father is anxious, for business reasons, that we should marry, but i assure you, once and for all, that i will never accept any man whom i do not love." "you put it--well, a trifle bluntly, mademoiselle." "i only speak the truth, quite openly and frankly," she responded, her big serious eyes turned upon his. "would you have me accept, and afterwards fool you!" her question--a somewhat disconcerting one--held him silent for some moments. "remember, aimee," he said at last, in a deep voice, "i have known you ever since you were a tiny child. i have watched you grow to become a woman, and gradually i have realised that there is no woman in the whole world whom i love--except your own dear self. can you doubt me?" and with an earnest expression that was well feigned, he looked straight into her pale, set countenance. "no, m'sieur, i do not doubt you," was the girl's quiet response, and he fancied he saw her trembling slightly. "but when, the other day, you asked if i could ever love you, i told you the bare truth--brutal as it may have appeared. yet i am not mistress of my own heart, and i tell you that i do not love you--i can never love you--_never_!" "i am too old," he murmured bitterly. "not that," she responded, shaking her well-poised head. "age matters nothing when a woman really loves." "you love that man edmond valentin," he snapped, almost savagely. she nodded in the affirmative, but no word escaped her lips. arnaud rigaux set his teeth, and his fingers clenched themselves into his palms. but only for a second, and she, with her eyes cast down upon the carpet, did not detect the fire of hatred which shone, for a second, in his crafty, narrow-set eyes. next second his manner entirely changed. he was one of those men whose cunning enables them to conceal their feelings so cleverly that, while they smile and hold out the hand of friendship, murder lurks within their heart. this attribute is, alas! one of the elements of success in business in our modern days, and is a habit cultivated by the man whom the world admires as "keen and smart." "but, my darling?" he exclaimed, in a voice broken by an emotion which was so cleverly feigned that it deceived even her woman's sharp observance, "you do not know how very deeply i love you," he declared, bending to her, and again trying to take her hand, which, however, she again snatched away and placed behind her. "all these years i have watched you grow up, and i have longed and longed for the day when i might beg of you to become my wife. think of what our marriage would mean to you--to your father, the baron, and to myself. he and i, united, could rule the whole finances of the nation; we could dictate terms to the chamber, and we should be the greatest power in belgium-- next to his majesty himself. surely your position as my wife would be preferable to that of the wife of a poor struggling lawyer, however estimable he may be." she sat listening without interrupting him. she had heard this man's praises sung daily by her father for so long that at last they now fell upon deaf ears. she listened quite coldly to his outpourings, yet, at the moment, she despised him in her innermost heart. what edmond had declared was the bare, naked truth. arnaud rigaux was only seeking to gain further personal riches and aggrandisement by doing her the honour of offering her his hand in marriage. her anger arose within her as his words fell upon her ears. she had not been blind to his stealthy unscrupulousness, for she remembered how, on one occasion, she had overheard her father upbraid him for participating in some shady financial transaction with some electric tramways in italy, the details of which she, as a woman, had been unable to follow. but her father's bitter words of reproach had been, to her, all-sufficient. the baron had told him, openly and plainly, that he had swindled the italian company, and she had always remembered his outspoken words. the man seated before her suddenly rose, and unable to take her hand because she was holding it behind her, placed his sensuous grasp upon her shoulder, and bent in an attempt to kiss her. she turned her head swiftly from his foetid breath. it was nauseous. it caused her a fierce revulsion of feeling. she sprang up, her eyes aflame in an instant. "m'sieur rigaux! this is intolerable!" she protested, drawing herself up in proud defiance. "i wish you to remember who i am, and further, i wish you to go to my father and tell him, that no matter what may happen, no matter what pressure he may place upon me, no matter if i die unmarried, i will never become the wife of arnaud rigaux. _you hear_!" he drew back at this obstinate rebuff--he whose money bought women's smiles from end to aid of europe. in a second he became apologetic. "but, mademoiselle, i--" "please leave this room," she ordered, very firmly. "if not, i shall ring for the servants. go!" and she pointed determinedly to the door. "go! describe this scene to my father, and tell him from me, once and for all, that i love edmond valentin, and that i intend to marry him." the man's loose lips hardened. he murmured something which the girl could not catch, but she saw in his eyes, for the first time, the light of a fierce and terrible hatred, as he bowed stiffly, and, turning on his heel, took his _conge_, and with a fierce imprecation upon his lips strode out of the pretty, artistic room, wherein she stood, an imperious and defiant figure, in the centre of the carpet. chapter four. the man from cologne. two hours later arnaud rigaux entered his small, well-furnished den in the big house on the broad boulevard de waterloo, close to the medieval porte de hal, that medieval castle-like structure, now the fine musee d'armes, known to every traveller in brussds. scarcely had he crossed the threshold when his man, a white-haired, ultra respectable-looking valet, ushered in a rather stout, middle-aged man of military bearing, with fair hair and blue-grey eyes. he was wearing a cap and a motor dust-coat. "ah! my dear guillaume! i must apologise," rigaux said. "i had no idea you had been waiting for me." "your servant was unaware where you were. we telephoned to a dozen places. i arrived from cologne just after nine o'clock." rigaux glanced at the closed door rather apprehensively, and then in a low voice asked: "what does it all mean?" "war," replied the other in a whisper. "the emperor is in cologne in secret. i had audience with him at three o'clock, and he sent me to you. i have to return at once. i was to tell you that his majesty wishes for your final report." for a moment the financier's narrow eyes grew serious, and his lips quivered. "the reply from england has not yet been received," his visitor went on, speaking in excellent french, though he was undoubtedly german. "but whatever it may be, the result will be the same. eight army corps are moving upon the luxembourg frontier. they will soon be in belgium. what a surprise our big howitzers will be for the forts of namur and liege--eh?" and he laughed lightly, chuckling to himself. captain wilhelm von silberfeld, of the famous death's head hussars, was a trusted messenger of the kaiser, a man who had performed many a secret mission for his imperial master. he was attached to the general staff in berlin, and for hours he had sat in the fast two-seated motor-car, travelling swiftly over the hundred and sixty miles or so of long, straight white roads which led from cologne to the belgian capital. "in four days we shall be in belgium," the german officer whispered. "the emperor, as you know, decided upon war three months ago, and ever since we have been steadily and carefully making the final preparations. what is the opinion here?" "the cabinet meets to-night. the government do not, even now, believe that germany really intends to defy europe, and i, of course, have endeavoured still to lull them to sleep," responded the financier. "but i have not been idle these past three days. my reports are all prepared. the last was written at seven o'clock this evening." and crossing to a big, heavy book-case, which occupied the whole of one side of the room, he opened one of the glass doors. then, pulling forward a section of the books which swung round upon a pivot, there was disclosed the green-painted door of a safe, securely built into the wall. this he opened with a key upon his chain, and from a drawer took out a large envelope filled with papers, which he handed to his visitor. "all are here?" asked the other. "yes. according to instructions i received by courier yesterday, i have prepared the list of names of influential persons in liege and louvain-- the banks, and what cash i believe them to hold. how are you proceeding in antwerp?" "antwerp is practically a german city. we have, outside the city, six concrete platforms ready for our big howitzers. they were put down two years ago by german residents in their gardens--for the english game of tennis," and he laughed. "besides, we have three secret wireless installations of wide range communicating with nauen, as we also have here in brussels. is your wireless here in working order?" "s-s-sh, my friend?" rigaux said warningly. "i will send michel out on a pretext, and you shall see. he is loyal, but i trust no man. i never let him know too much." then he rang, and his man, white-haired and humble, appeared. "michel, go down to the grand hotel at once and ask for monsieur legrand. tell him i wish to see him. if he will kindly come up here in a taxi." "_bien, m'sieur_!" and the grave-faced servant bowed and withdrew. a few moments later arnaud rigaux took from a drawer in his library table an electric torch and led the way up the great wide staircase, through his own bedroom, past a door into a smaller dressing-room, in which was a huge mahogany wardrobe. the door of this he opened, and pushing the back outwards through a line of coats hanging there, a dark opening was revealed. into this both men passed, finding themselves upon a wooden flight of dusty stairs, up which they ascended for two floors, until they arrived in a long, low attic, beneath the sloping roof of which were suspended, upon porcelain insulators, many thin, black-enamelled wires. "come! you shall hear for yourself," rigaux exclaimed; and passing along to the gable-end of the main wall of the house, he paused before two tables, upon which were set out a most complete set of wireless instruments. to the uninitiated eye those two tables were filled with a most complicated assortment of weird electrical apparatus connected by india-rubber covered wires. to the expert, however, all was quite clear. on the one table stood a receiving-set of the latest pattern, while upon the other was what is technically known as "a five kilowatt set," which would transmit wireless messages as far as nauen, the great wireless station near potsdam, and, indeed, over a radius of nearly a thousand miles. it was a marconi set, not telefunken. arnaud rigaux seated himself upon a stool before the receiving-table, while overhead, insulated from the rafters of the roof, were a hundred bare copper wires strung across and across. his example was followed by captain von silberfeld, both clamping the double head-telephones over their ears, listening. next instant both heard the buzzing ticks of wireless, so weird and uncanny to those uninitiated. "da-de, da-de-da. da-de, da-de-da." it was a call. then followed the code-letters, "b.b.n." with "b.y.b." "hush!" rigaux exclaimed, glancing at the book at his elbow. "the british admiralty station at cleethorpes are calling the battleship _london_." the big wireless code-book--a book which could be bought in berne for five francs--lay open before him. there was a quick response in the 'phones. "the _london_ is off the west coast of ireland," he remarked, bending with interest. "there's the reply. here is `london.'" he touched the "tuner," one of the round ebonite handles upon a long mahogany box, and next moment a little "click" of quite a different note was heard in the head 'phones. "listen?" rigaux exclaimed, and then for a moment he was again all attention. "marseilles is speaking to one of your north german lloyd liners on her way from alexandria." then he paused. "are you satisfied that i am leaving to your army a complete set, quite in working order-- eh?" "entirely. why, it is splendid," declared the captain, who, though he had no expert knowledge of wireless, had seen quite enough to convince him that the secret installation was practically perfect. "this," he added, "will surely be of great use to us before many weeks are over. it is splendid!" "let us descend," rigaux said. "michel may now be back. this part of the house is, of course, unknown to my servants." when they were again back in the financier's snug little business-room, wherein he received visitors privately, he asked earnestly: "tell me, count, is all complete?" "everything. we shall advance to-morrow, or next day. we have mobilised secretly, though europe is in entire ignorance. first belgium is to be occupied--then we shall cross to england. paris is only a secondary affair. london is our chief goal. we shall crush for ever the arrogant english with our zeppelins and our submarines. oh! what an unpleasant surprise they will have?" and he laughed. "but you will not conquer belgium--eh?" "not if she offers no defence. if she does, then i tell you--in confidence--the kaiser means to sweep this country with fire and sword; we shall wipe villages and towns completely out of existence, so as to strike terror and horror into the heart of europe. war is war, you know." "do you advise me to leave brussels?" "well, not yet--wait and see. your safety is assured. you already have your safe-conduct, have you not?" "that has already been arranged." "his majesty told me to give you his imperial assurance. the final draft in your favour on the dresdner bank has been passed, and you will receive it in due course, paid into your bank in london," replied the german officer. "but what do you advise me to do, my friend? remember, i may yet be discovered as having assisted you. and it will be awkward--very awkward?" "remain here for a time, and then go back to the coast. you can, as a patriotic belgian, always cross from ostend to england as a wealthy refugee--when the time arrives. and that will not be very long, i assure you," he added, with a grim smile. "the brave belgians have to-day ended their career. our big howitzers will come along. pouf! and belgium is no more. in a few days we shall be at the mouth of the scheldt, and at ostend--in front of dover. besides, our grand fleet of zeppelins are ready in their secret sheds. later, when belgium is devastated, they will glide forth for the conquest of our dear, sleepy friends, the british--whom god preserve. meanwhile, we have a very satisfactory army of secret agents over yonder making ready to undermine any poor, puny defence that they--with all their vaunted might of empire--can possibly put up." both men laughed heartily as they stood there together, conversing in low tones. "the intention, then, is first to destroy belgium?" asked rigaux, suddenly growing serious. "yes. to seize this country, notwithstanding any defence which may be offered. the grand duchy of luxembourg we shall only march through. but the general staff know that, in belgium, there may be a desperate resistance, if britain--the broken reed--is to be relied upon. hence we shall smash her--and britain afterwards." "but is great britain, with her splendid navy, really a broken reed?" queried the financier very seriously. "personally, i do not at all agree. i only tell you the declaration of our general staff." "britain has a very mysterious way of asserting her own superiority," said the banker, shaking his head dubiously. "france is still, as she has ever been, a nation of great emotions. but great britain, with her enormous colonial possessions, her deep-seated loyalty, and her huge wealth, is a tremendous power--a power which i believe the kaiser has never yet estimated at its true value." "bah! my dear arnaud. we, in berlin, know all that is in progress. surely you must know, you must feel, the irresistible power of our militarism--of our great and formidable war-machine. germany is the greatest nation at war that the world has ever seen, and--" "and england still rules the seas," interrupted the financier in a hard voice. "the seas! bah!" declared his dusty, travel-worn visitor. "we shall first win on land; then our grand fleet will face those overbearing british. we shall, like the dutch, place a broom upon the mast-head of the flag-ship of grand admiral von tirpitz, and sweep the british clean off the seas." "you are optimistical--to say the least." "i am, my dear arnaud," he admitted, "because i, as one of the general staff, know what has been arranged, and what is intended. i know the great surprises we have in store for europe--those great guns, which will smash and pulverise to dust the strongest fortresses which man can devise, and aircraft which will hurl down five tons of high explosive at a time," he added, with an exultant laugh. "but, i had almost forgotten. have you had any report from our friend van meenen, in ostend?" "it came yesterday, and is included in the papers you have there. our friends in liege have been warned, i suppose?" "they have been warned to-day. doctor wilberz, brave belgian, of course, has a secret wireless in his house, while sixty of our trusty agents are living there, quite unsuspected." "wilberz was here in brussels a month ago, and told me what he was doing. truly the ring of forts will stand a very poor chance when you make the attack." "belgium will never dare to resist, we feel sure," declared captain von silberfeld. "in a month the crown prince will enter paris. but i must get away at once. i have to be back in cologne with the dawn. the staff are awaiting your reports with eagerness, especially those upon the financial position." "i have supplied every detail," responded the banker. "the position is not good, and even my friend the baron de neuville cannot, i happen to know, come to the rescue at the present moment." "good," exclaimed the captain, dropping into german. "adieu!" he said, placing the bulky envelope beneath his cotton dust-coat. "what excitement there is in the streets--eh?" the banker laughed grimly. "it will increase very soon, i suppose," he said. "yes," whispered the other, as they descended to the front entrance together, where the long, powerful, low-built car stood with its glaring headlights, in charge of a smart chauffeur, who saluted in military fashion. "adieu, my dear arnaud. i must hasten," he whispered, "for to-morrow's dawn will bring to us `the day'!" and with a triumphant wave of his hand he mounted beside the driver, and a moment later the car moved swiftly and silently down the hill on its long journey to the german frontier, carrying with it the final secret report of the many made through the last ten years by the traitor arnaud rigaux to the prussian general staff. the man who had sold his country for german gold stood for a few seconds watching the car disappear into the night, and then, as the roar of the crowd making a demonstration before the french consulate farther up the boulevard fell upon his ears, he turned, and with a bitter laugh of triumph, went within and closed the great oaken door. a silence fell. no one was near. suddenly, a few moments later, the dark figure of a man, who had evidently been watching the departure of the car, as he stood back in the deep shadow of the trees in the centre of the boulevard, emerged, crossed the road, and hurried down the hill in the direction the car had taken. chapter five. bursting of the storm. a great, long, old-fashioned room with a rather low ceiling, across which ran black oaken-beams, around were lancet windows, high and narrow, with ancient leaded panes and green glass, the walls panelled with rare but faded tapestries, the carpet dull and also faded, and the heavy furniture genuinely flemish of the sixteenth century. on a long, padded seat in the recess of the central window, the depth of which showed the great strength of the walls, aimee de neuville sat, her white pointed chin resting upon her hand, gazing away over a marvellous panorama of winding river and wooded slopes, the deep beautiful valley of the meuse, which lay far below that high-up chateau, once the fortress of the robber-knights of hauteroche. the splendid old chateau de severac, standing as it did half-way between quaint old-world dinant, the resent of british tourists, and the french frontier at givet, commanded a wide sweep of the beautiful valley with the blue, misty high-lands towards luxembourg. the great place with its ponderous three-foot-thick walls, its round towers with slated roofs, and its deep, cavernous dungeons with inscribed stones, dated from the twelfth century, a fine feudal castle, which had played a leading part in the history of the meuse valley--indeed, in the history of europe. built high upon its steep limestone cliff, around which the river swept suddenly in a semicircle, it had, in the days of its builders, been a fortress impregnable. its private chapel bore the arms of the knights-templars, and in that very room, where the pale-faced young girl sat, the emperor charles v had sat, after the capture of metz in . a place full of historic memories, for the very walls spoke mutely of those turbulent times, when that valley was the chief theatre of all the fierce wars in western europe. but the knights of hauteroche had defended it always from the attack of their bitterest foes, until, in , it had passed from their hands, and having fallen to ruin, had, in the last days of the nineteenth century, been acquired by the rich baron de neuville, who was reputed to have spent half a million sterling upon its restoration, and a similar sum in furnishing it just as it had been in the sixteenth century. few such splendid strongholds existed in europe. for years the baron's agents had travelled up and down the continent with open commissions to purchase antique furniture, tapestry, and armour of the period, with the result that the castle was now unique. inside its courtyard one was at once back in the days of the emperor charles v, the illusion being complete, even to the great kitchen of the robber-knights, where, upon the huge spit, an ox could be turned and roasted whole, so that the retainers--the bowmen of the forest--could be regaled and rewarded after their doughty exploits. from every corner of the world, tourists--many of them loud-speaking americans with their red-bound baedekers--craved of the baron's major-domo, a vinegar-faced frenchman, permission to pass through the splendid apartments, and when "the family" were not in residence, permission was generally accorded, for--as with all financiers, from twickenham to timbuctoo--the baron, in secret, liked to be talked about. indeed, the late king leopold, who had on several occasions stretched his long legs in that room wherein aimee now sat, had declared that the view from the window up the river to be one of the finest in all europe. looking up the peaceful valley, where the meuse wound far below in the august sunshine, there lay on the right bank grey rugged rocks descending sheer into the water green and deep, making a sudden bend; while on the left lay green pastures and spreading woodlands, with range upon range of hills away to the blue haze of the frontier of france. beside the river, the road followed like a white ribbon along its bank, and upon it the dusty old post-diligence, with its four weedy horses and its jingling bells, was travelling, just as it had travelled for two centuries past. truly that reach of the meuse was the most rural, peaceful, and picturesque spot in all the ardennes, and little wonder was it, indeed, that the baron de neuville, when the great ruined castle had been offered for sale, had immediately purchased it, and renovated it to its present perfect state. "i can't think why father should have made us come here just in these troublous times," the girl exclaimed petulantly to her mother, a grave, white-haired, well-preserved lady in black, who, seated at the farther end of the room, was busy with her fancy needlework. and then the girl beat an impatient tattoo upon one of the small leaded window-panes with the tips of her slim white fingers. "your father thinks it is more pleasant for us here than in brussels just now, with all the silly excitement in progress, my dear," the baroness replied. "i have just had a telegram. he will be here to-night." "does he give any further news of the situation?" "none." "but when we left in the car yesterday, it was believed that we might be at war at any moment," the girl said. her mother, a calm-faced, rather stout woman, and typically belgian, sighed deeply. "what will happen we cannot tell, my girl." "but if the germans come, what shall we do?" queried aimee, for she was thinking of edmond, from whom she had had a hastily scribbled letter that morning. he had rejoined his regiment as _sous-officier_, and he said they expected to leave that day for the frontier. "do?" echoed the baroness. "why, nothing. they will simply march along the valley down yonder, and we shall be quite safe up here. the germans are, after all, men of culture. they are gentlemen." as she spoke, melanie, aimee's french maid, entered the room, saying: "a gentleman wishes to speak to m'sieur le baron on the telephone. will you speak, mademoiselle?" she asked. "who is he?" "the name he gave was huart, mademoiselle." "huart," exclaimed the baroness. "that is surely the name of the manager of the sirault ironworks at liege. go and speak to him, aimee." the girl descended to her father's small business-room situated in the base of one of the round-slated turrets of the castle, and took up the telephone-receiver from the table. "hello?" she asked. "is the baron there?" demanded a man's rough voice. "no, m'sieur. but i am mademoiselle de neuville. can i give him any message? he is in brussels, and will, i think, be here this evening." "i am huart, speaking from the works at liege. war has broken out." "war?" gasped the girl, holding her breath. "yes. eighty thousand germans are advancing towards the river, and we are already defending liege against them. terrible fighting is taking place. hark! listen to our forts! can you hear?" the girl listened, and for the first time heard the thunder of war--a dull, low roar in the receiver. "that was one of the big guns in fort loncin, general leman is defending the city, but the germans are burning all the villages around. from my window here i can see the smoke across the river." "oh! this is awful!" the girl cried. "i will telephone to my father and tell him--if i can find him." "yes, mademoiselle--tell him that i fear the worst. the first reports of the enemy reached here at dawn, and liege seems to swarm with german spies. a dozen or so were caught signalling to the enemy with flags from the tops of high houses. they have all been shot--outside here, against the wall." "they were not belgians." "they posed as such. one of them was one of my foremen. i always believed him to be a belgian. it is a revelation, mademoiselle." "but can the germans enter the city?" "no, mademoiselle. last night all the bridges over the river were destroyed." and then, even as she listened, a dull roar fell upon her ear. it was fort loncin speaking again with its steel throat. "please tell the baron that i shall remain here pending further instructions from the company. we shall hold out here. soldiers are pouring into the town. the first regiment of the guides, and the second, fourth, and eighth chasseurs-a-pied passed here early this morning, having come poste-haste from brussels. they have gone along the river-bank. liege will not suffer much, but the country around is already in flames. it is terrible, mademoiselle--_terrible_!" the eighth regiment of chasseurs-a-pied! then edmond valentin was already at the front! he was with them, along the river-bank! "but are they killing people?" asked the girl, in frantic excitement. "i fear they are, mademoiselle," replied the voice, dying away slowly, and being succeeded by a loud electrical buzzing. "reports have just come in that at vise and argenteau some townspeople fired at the soldiers, and in consequence the germans are killing them, and burning down the houses. it is awful." "but that can't really be true," she cried, "the germans are surely not savages like that!" "i fear that the reports are only too true, mademoiselle. one came over the telephone from the burgomaster of cheratte, close to argenteau. as an eye-witness of fearful atrocities, he reported them to the prefect, with a request that they be immediately transmitted to the minister of justice, in brussels." "but it seems utterly incredible," the girl declared. "as incredible as the swarms of spies here in the town. to-day, one does not know enemy from friend! but please tell your father that i will speak to him this evening--if the wires are not cut. they are already cut to maastricht, verviers, and aix." "yes, do ring us up, m'sieur, and tell us what is happening," implored the girl. "tell me what the eighth chasseurs are doing, and where they are. will you, please? i have a friend in them--an officer." "certainly, mademoiselle, i will do what i can, and--_mon dieu_!" the voice broke off short. "m'sieur! m'sieur huart! hello!--hello?" cried the girl in wonder and apprehension. there was no response, only a slight buzz. she replaced the receiver upon the instrument, and turned the handle quickly. then she listened again. all was silence. "hello! hello?" she called. "hello, liege! hello, liege!" the wire was dead--cut, perhaps by a german shell! again and yet again she tried to obtain response to her call. their nearest exchange was that at dinant. "hello, dinant! _dinant_!" she kept repeating. "_hello, dinant_!" but from dinant there was no reply. upon her the blow had fallen. edmond, so manly and brave, was already at the front--one of the first to go forth against the giant invader of their gallant little nation. those words from her father's employe in liege had conveyed volumes to her. war was no longer an eventuality. it was a fact. already the kaiser was hurling his legions of pikelhauben westwards towards the sea. the teutons had burst their bonds, and edmond's prophesy had, alas! proved only to be true. the ambitious kaiser meant war--war at all hazards and at all costs, in order to retain his imperial crown, and in order to justify, with his clamorous people, his title of the great war lord of the twentieth century and ruler of the world. but there had been many war lords in the world ages before him--rameses, herod, caesar, attila, and napoleon. after all, the kaiser, surrounded by his disgracefully degenerate camarilla, was but a pinchbeck edition of bonaparte; a monarch who, while holding the outstretched hand of friendship to great britain, had been hourly plotting to conquer her. the quintessence of treachery, the zenith of personal egotism existed, with the wildest dreams of avarice, in the heart of that deformed monarch, who was as warped in his brain as in his body. in his gaudy tinsel, and in all his panoply of uniform, and his tin crosses which he believed to be iron, he was but the pliable puppet of the degenerates of potsdam. he believed himself to be the sword of god--as he had insanely declared to his troops--and stood as the idol of the people of "kultur" yet tottering upon his pedestal. his fierce antagonism towards civilisation, as opposed to the prussian militarism, had been betrayed by his undying words, which would live in history through the ages. the fierce war lord, in his pitiable arrogance, had actually incited his troops to murder and debauchery by the words he had spoken--words that would be for ever registered against him upon his downfall: "when you meet the foe you will defeat him," he had said. "no quarter will be given, no prisoners will be taken. let all who fall into your hands be at your mercy. gain a reputation like the huns under attila." that reputation was, apparently, what his hordes were achieving in the burning of vise and argenteau. attila, in his expedition across greece, reduced seventy of the finest cities to smoking ruins and shambles. he was the black demon of ruin and destruction, and this modern murder-monarch of the huns, if that report over the telephone be true, was emulating the blood-guilty ruffian. pale and breathless, aimee de neuville rushed up the great staircase to relate to her mother the appalling news that germany had, at last, swept down upon peaceful little belgium with fire and sword. the war-cloud had burst! the kaiser, in his eagerness to plunge europe into blood, had not waited for great britain's reply. his lustful, grey-coated hordes of braided uhlans, infantry and artillery, with all their endless streams of lumbering guns, heavy waggons, motor-cars, and loaded motor-lorries, had crossed the frontier, and with the fierceness of hell-hounds let loose, were already sweeping the valley of that peaceful-flowing river which wound below the great chateau de severac. war! _war_! war! the girl, pale and excited, held her breath as she placed her thin, trembling fingers upon the handle of the door of that room wherein her mother sat in calm ignorance of the awful truth. war! _war_! war! and edmond, the man whom she loved, the man whose last final kiss she still felt upon her brow, had marched into liege with his regiment, to face the treacherous germans, to fight for home and freedom, and to stem the great oncoming teuton tide. should she tell the baroness the truth? for a second the girl, pale with agitation, hesitated. the awfulness of such sudden news might unnerve her. she had a weak heart. no. she would conceal her knowledge of the awful fact. she drew a deep breath and, opening the door, entered smiling, as she exclaimed with a wonderfully careless and nonchalant air: "oh! the man only wants to talk to father on business, i told him he would be here to-night to dinner." chapter six. in the trenches before liege. at that same moment when aimee had listened to the dread news over the telephone, edmond valentin, in the uniform of a _sous-officier_ of chasseurs-a-pied, in his heavy dark-green overcoat and peaked shako, with his bulging haversack upon his back, was kneeling in a hastily dug trench firing steadily across the broad sunlit river, which lay deep in its valley. on the opposite bank ran the railway from liege, across the dutch frontier to maastricht, and from beyond the line there appeared all along, for miles, light puffs of smoke which betrayed the position of the enemy, who had crossed those picturesque green hills of the frontier, and who were endeavouring to force a passage across the meuse. on the right, over the hills where the river wound, could be heard the loud roar of the german guns which had been brought up against liege, while from the left came the eternal rattle of the machine-guns. in that trench, before which the river and the canal ran parallel, the men on either ride of edmond uttered no word. they were silent, firing with regularity, fascinated by the novel scene. most of them had played the war-game at the annual manoeuvres, when one stood up in trenches and laughed in the face of blank cartridge. yet here was real war. already more than one of their comrades had fallen on their faces struck by german bullets, and not far away a shell had just burst behind one of their machine-guns. the din and rattle of it all struck a strange, uncanny note upon that quiet countryside. for nearly half an hour edmond had been plugging away with his men, when of a sudden a machine-gun section ran up close to them. room was made in the trench, and the gun, carried in parts by half a dozen sturdy soldiers, was quickly assembled. then, the belt of cartridges having been adjusted, at the word of command the terrible engine of destruction suddenly spat its hail of death across the river. the _onder-officier_ with the gun laughed gaily to edmond, saying in flemish: "our friends yonder will not like this--eh?" "_oy hebt gelyk_," (you are right), laughed edmond. "but see over there! what is that smoke; there--away to the left?" "that is vise," was the reply, shouted above the rattle of the machine-gun. "the enemy must have set the place on fire--the brutes! look?" and as both watched they saw a great column of black smoke rising slowly into the clear, cloudless sky. "if they cross at the bridge there they will have the road open to them to tongres and st trond--the main road to brussels. i suppose we are defending it," said the _onder-officier_, a man with a red moustache. "_ja_! let's hope so," said edmond, raising his mauser rifle mechanically again, and discharging the five cartridges from its magazine. at that instant the trench was suddenly swept by a perfect hail of lead from across the river, while from over the heights beyond came a taube aeroplane, which noisily buzzed as it rose higher and higher, and then, out of range, made a complete circle, in order to reconnoitre the defenders' position. dozens of men in the trenches raised their rifles and fired at it. but it had already risen high out of harm's way, and gaily it circled round and round over the line of the meuse, noting all the belgian positions on the north bank of the river, and signalling to the enemy from time to time. the spot where edmond was stationed with his regiment was situated about eight miles from liege, and one from vise. just to his right was a bridge, which the belgians had not destroyed, and which the enemy were now protecting from destruction by means peculiar to the "blonde beasts" of the kaiser. placed upon it were two big furniture-vans, which had been hastily daubed in the belgian colours--red, black, and yellow. and these were filled with belgian soldiers, prisoners in german hands. by adopting these dastardly methods, they knew that the defenders would not shell the bridge and destroy it. edmond's regiment did not present any picture of uniformity. some men about him were dressed in the military fashion of thirty years ago--caps with enormous peaks, and wide-flowing capes covering green and yellow uniforms--while others, including himself, were in the dark-green modern uniform which has lately been adopted, and had been served out to those who had hurriedly rejoined the colours. while the enemy were all in the new service kit of greenish-grey cloth, which at a distance was exceedingly difficult to distinguish--with heavy leather boots reaching half-way up their calves--the belgians marched in garments of all colours, from the sombre black of the carabineers to the bright amaranthe and green of the guides. in war some curious sights are seen in the trenches. close to where valentin was crouching there knelt a smart lancer, with a basket containing carrier-pigeons strapped to his back like a knapsack. amid the roar and din the poor birds fluttered about restlessly inside their _cage_, eager to escape to their homes. but if the brave little belgian nation lacked uniforms and accoutrements, it never lacked courage. all was a hubbub of hope, and a talk of victory. "_a bas les alboches_!" "_vive la guerre_!" had been shouted from ostend to givet, and the spirits of the nation--soldiers and civilians alike--were of the highest, for now that england had declared war, belgium was fighting the battles of two great nations, france and britain. both french and british soldiers would soon come to their aid, if they could only hold out. "they will never silence our forts at liege," declared the lancer with the pigeons. but just as he uttered the words, edmond valentin heard a sound like the shrill yell of a small dog in the distance, and the next second there occurred near them a terrific explosion. the deadly german artillery were getting the range! again and again came the familiar yell, followed by the inevitable crash. a dozen or so men were lying about him, shattered, dead, or dying. but the pom-pom continued to deal death, slackening only now and then when a fresh belt was adjusted. adding to the roar of heavy guns, and quite close to them, lay the hidden fort of pontisse, while forts barchon, evegnee, and fleron, on the heists across the river, were thundering and dealing death in the enemy's ranks. behind them, to the left, lay three other forts--liers, lanlin, and loncin--defending the city of liege, and forming a further portion of the ring. time after time their huge guns roared, and the very earth quaked. time after time the enemy across the river were decimated by the terrible fire. then, every now and then, the ear was deafened by the loud crackling of musketry, which sounded like the loading of granite blocks into a cart. they were of two pitches, the deeper from the rifles of the infantry, and the sharper from the cavalry carbines. and above it all--above the constant explosions of shrapnel--sounded the regular pom-pom-pom-pom, steady as the tick of a rapid clockwork motor--adding to the deadly fire now sweeping the valley for nearly twenty miles. edmond, quite cool and determined, lay there firing away in the direction of the little puffs of grey smoke, which were hardly distinguishable behind the distant railway line. it was his first experience of being under fire, and after the first few minutes he grew quite unconcerned, even though he saw that many of his comrades had, alas! been bowled over. the primeval fury of the male beast bent on fighting, which seizes every man who is called upon to defend his life, had also seized him. "they say that the french will be at liege to-night," remarked the _onder-officier_ with the red moustache, in charge of the machine-gun. "if they are, we will teach those german brutes a lesson. we will--" next instant he reeled and fell forward upon his face. a bullet entering his jaw had passed through his head, carrying with it a large piece of his skull. death had been instantaneous. with hope of victory upon his lips the brave fellow had passed, in a single second, into that land which lies beyond the human ken. the four chasseurs serving the gun stopped and turned him over, but saw at once that he no longer lived. a few seconds later edmond heard sharp words of command from his lieutenant, who had crawled along to him, and in obedience he ceased firing his mauser, took the dead man's place and assumed charge of the machine-gun, which, within another half-minute, was continuing its work, while the body of the _onder-officier_ was dragged aside. "curse the grey devils! they shall pay for that!" cried one of the men fiercely. just then, however, there came a lull in the firing. the shells had ceased, and the enemy was slackening in his attack all along the line. was the fight subsiding? a dull, distant roar was heard from boncelles, where the steel cupolas were rising, and the big guns hurling death at the grey hordes of the kaiser, and then disappearing. then silence. suddenly another loud crackling of rifles, and again edmond's pom-pom recommenced its rapid rhythmic rattle. more mausers crackling, the shrill yell of a shell passing over them, and then a blood-red explosion some distance behind them. another shouted word of command, and the whole line of rifles were again discharged. it seemed almost as a signal for the fight to recommence, for next moment the attack was renewed with redoubled vigour. the short, sharp reports of the enemy's artillery reverberated along the valley, and shells were now exploding unpleasantly near the trenches. "i thought they had had enough," growled one of the men to edmond, in french, "but it seems they haven't. _bien_, we will show the kaiser and his brigands that we mean defiance. see, over there, m'sieur! they are burning vise, and argenteau too! i lived in vise when a boy. my sister is there now--unless she has escaped into holland. i pray to god the poor girl has done so." "i sincerely hope she has," edmond declared. "it surely is no place for a woman down yonder." "_ah, mon vieux_, they've been killing women and children, the savages," growled another man with set teeth, as he took out a fresh belt of cartridges. "i heard so as we came along from liege. but i can't believe it to be true. the germans are surely not savages, but a cultured race." "culture?" snapped the first man, a somewhat rough, uncouth fellow, plainly of the peasant class. "if they were cultured, as it is said, they would not burn those undefended villages yonder, and massacre the inhabitants as they are doing. it is horrible--awful!" "ah, but the massacres are only hearsay," edmond remarked. "no. one man, an eye-witness, has escaped from vise. he swam the river, told the terrible truth, and the report was telephoned this morning to brussels. i overheard our captain tell the major as we were on the march here. the germans have shot down dozens of men and women, and even little children. some of them have been deliberately burned alive in their homes. that, m'sieur, is the way germany makes war! but surely that is not war--it is savage butchery, m'sieur. culture, bah!" and the man bent again to his gun. could those brave belgians have seen what was, at that moment, happening in those unoffending villages about them, they would surely have left their trenches and, even regardless of the pitiless fire of the enemy, dashed to the rescue of the poor unoffending inhabitants. on that warm, bright sunlit august day, whole villages were being put to the sword by the ruthless soldiery of the kaiser, upon the flimsy pretext that the villagers, being non-combatants, had fired upon the troops. yet the truth came out that such massacres of the inhabitants were actually part of the general plan of campaign. the kaiser had ordered those cold-blooded atrocities for purely strategical considerations. they were not merely the riotous and isolated outbursts of marauding and buccaneering soldiers, but were ordered by imperial command. over there, among those green hillsides sloping to the river, the teutonic wave had burst its bounds. fiendish tortures were being inflicted on helpless old men, women, and children. peaceful villagers were hanged to trees, sometimes stark naked, and their bodies riddled by bullets. innocent children were savagely sabred by german officers who, only a week before, were strutting in civilised drawing-rooms, the scented and elegant darlings of the ladies of berlin. at that hour, while edmond valentin crouched beside his newly acquired pom-pom, pouring a deadly fire away across the river, there were being enacted scenes of outrage, plunder, and massacre too terrible even to bear description--scenes in which blood-guilty ruffians of the great war lord of germany performed their grim and terrible work, a work so dastardly and inhuman as to have no parallel; atrocious acts actually ordered by the officers themselves, and which would for ever be handed down in history as an indelible blot upon the escutcheon of those blasphemous and barbarous brigands who loved to call their country the fatherland. that strip of green, smiling, undulating country between the german frontier and the meuse, dotted by small prosperous villages, many of them filled by factory-hands and work-people, was that day swept by the fierce fiery hurricane of war, and so suddenly had it all come upon them that most of the people had not had time to realise what war meant ere they found the swaggering uhlans clattering up the streets, shouting at and insulting the inhabitants, shooting down men, women, and children, and laughing heartily at the panic which their appearance caused. from where edmond valentin was posted he could only see the columns of black smoke as it rose steadily from the farms and villages now burning in all directions. he, like nearly everyone else, disbelieved the stories of murder and mutilation, for they were really in credible. surely the kaiser would never treat little belgium in such a manner after his empire solemnly guaranteeing its neutrality! if so, of what use were treaties? why should anybody's signature be honoured further, either in business or in social life? bang! there was a blood-red flash, the air was filled with blue-grey smoke and a poisonous odour which made one's eyes smart. for a second, edmond was staggered by the terrible force of the concussion, for he had been dealt a blow from behind which sent him reeling forward heavily. the air was filled with flying fragments, and he held his breath. it was as though an earthquake had occurred. then, when the smoke cleared, he saw a dozen of his comrades lying shattered about him, including two of the men at his gun. not far away the scorched grass had been torn up, and a great hole showed in the brown earth. he set his teeth, and bent over the two fallen men. one had been wounded in the stomach by a fragment of the shell, and was writhing on the ground in his death agony, uttering fearful curses upon the enemy and the kaiser in particular; while the other, after a final convulsive shudder which shook his whole frame and told its own tale to anybody who had been under fire in battle, turned slowly over and then lay quite still. the shell alas! had only been too truly placed, for not only were a dozen brave fellows lying shattered, but a splinter had also struck the breech of edmond's gun, and it had jammed in consequence. when serving before with the chasseurs he had been in charge of a machine-gun, and hence was thoroughly familiar with its mechanism. therefore, quite calmly, as though no fight were in progress, he quickly unscrewed the parts, discovered that a pin was bent and knocked it straight, and within five minutes the pom-pom was again pouring forth, its rain of lead sweeping to and fro across the railway line opposite. suddenly, with a roar and flash, another earthquake occurred. the air instantly became filled with black acrid smoke and flying fragments of shell from one of the enemy's howitzers beyond the hills, and at that moment the trench became a perfect inferno, for deadly shells were falling upon it, and dozens of edmond's comrades were being maimed or killed on every hand. as the smoke cleared slightly he bent again to sight the gun, when his eye caught the bridge below, whereon the dastardly enemy had placed that vanload of brave belgians as a parti-coloured screen. just as he looked, he saw a shell, fired deliberately by a german gunner, strike the van, explode, and next second there remained only a heap of wreckage, among which the twenty poor fellows who had been imprisoned in it were lying heaped, dead and dying, some of them shattered out of all recognition. "the murderers!" cried edmond, while his men, who also noticed what had happened, loudly cursed the ruthless barbarians with whom they now found themselves confronted. bang! the explosion was deafening. edmond again felt the concussion where he was crouching. it knocked his shako aside, and for a second he believed he had been hit. yet, by a miracle, he was unharmed. next second an order was shouted--the order to retire! the germans, now using their artillery and shelling the belgian trenches, were advancing. they were crossing the bridge below, and a pontoon section had already begun its work under fire. bang! bang! bang! shells were falling thickly now. their defence had, alas! been all in vain. edmond heard the order shouted in flemish. "_vlucht! vlucht_!" shouted the lieutenant. edmond stood for a second like a man in a dream. the earth everywhere was being whipped by bullets. then he directed his men to dismantle the gun and, two others helping, each quickly shouldering a piece, the little party made off with the chasseurs over the crest of the hill and down the other side, leaving behind them, alas! many hundreds of their poor comrades. bang! yet another shell fell, rending a great hole in the trench at the very spot where, only a few moments before, edmond valentin's gun had been standing. chapter seven. in the eagle's claws. two days later the sixth brigade, to which the eighth chasseurs belonged, had been christened by the men "the flying column," for it had been designed to support the other brigades in action. since their retreat from the meuse, edmond valentin had marched with his regiment hither and thither; marched until he was footsore, with few intervals of rest, sometimes engaging the enemy, and then moving forward again to some new position, blindly, but with the knowledge that it was upon some general, previously conceived plan. war is truly a strange experience. the mere man in the fighting-line shoots in a trench, lies low, smokes a cigarette and chaffs his comrades, shoots again, then advances--or retreats, as the case may be. rumours pass from mouth to mouth of success or of defeat; he knows not which is the truth. retire or advance, what does it matter? if one retires it is for strategic purposes; if one advances it does not mean victory. edmond valentin, _sous-officier_ of infantry, was but a mere little pawn in that colossal game of world-power. they had made a great detour around liege, behind the forts of lanlin, loncin, and flemalle, and as the fighting had now become intense near fort boncelles, they had been called up to assist the attacked brigade. it was night when they reached the little village of esneux, prettily situated on the river. on the previous day the place had been occupied by the germans under von emmich, but the big guns from boncelles had been turned upon them, and the bavarians had been compelled to evacuate the place, not, however, before they had driven out the poor frightened inhabitants and sacked it. but the heavy shell-fire from the boncelles fort had wrecked the town and set fire to it, so that when the chasseurs arrived they found it only a heap of still smoking ruins. about nine o'clock that evening edmond's company took up a position in a dark wood close to an old ruined chateau above the burnt-out village, but presently, with about thirty others, he was ordered out to the edge of the wood where the highroad ran to liege. once there, every one of them was left to his own thoughts, and edmond, having fixed his gun in position in a ditch well covered behind a wall, sat back with his men, lit a cigarette and reflected. he was thinking of aimee, as he thought of her always every hour, wondering whether she had fled from belgium, now that invasion was an accomplished fact. that day the wildest rumours had reached them-- rumours of german successes everywhere, save at liege. it was declared, from mouth to mouth, that the french had been driven back all along the line, and that the enemy were already marching through holland on to antwerp--german-made lies which were, later on, proved to have been circulated to create panic. as they waited there, gazing anxiously across the river where blood-red glares showed away in the distance--farms and homesteads fired deliberately by the uhlans--the moon rose brightly in the clear sky. now and then could be heard the distant rumble of heavy artillery, while at infrequent intervals the forts of embourg across the river and boncelles on their left roared forth, showing sharp, angry flashes in the night. close by where edmond had taken up his position was a small stone-built hut, roofless and in ruins; but upon its walls he noticed that a big white paper had been pasted. he strode up to it, and in the moonlight examined it. the poster was one of the enemy's proclamations which had been printed in berlin in readiness months before, and he read as follows: au peuple belge! c'est a mon plus grand regret que les troupes allemandes se voient forcees de franchir la frontiere de la belgique. elles agissant sous la contrainte d'une necessite inevitable la neutralite de la belgique ayant ete deja violee par des officiers francais qui, sous un deguisement, aient traverse le territoire belge en automobile pour penetrer en allemagne. belges! c'est notre plus grand desir qu'il y ait encore moyen d'eviter un combat entre deux peuples qui etaient amis jusqu'a present, jadis meme allies. souvenez vous au glorieux jour de waterloo ou c'etaient les armes allemandes qui ont contribue a fonder et etablir l'independance et la prosperite de votre patrie. mais il nous faut le chemin libre. des destructions de ponts, de tunnels, de voies ferrees devront etre regardees comme des actions hostiles. belges, vous avez a choisir. j'espere donc que l'armee allemande de la meuse ne sera pas contrainte de vous combattre. un chemin libre pour attaquer celui qui voulait nous attaquer, c'est tout ce que nous desirons. je donne des garanties formelles a la population belge qu'elle n'aura rien a souffrir des horreurs de la guerre; que nous payerons en monnaye les vivres qu'il faudra prendre du pays; que nos soldats se montreront les meilleurs amis d'un peuple pour lequel nous eprouvons la plus haute estime, la plus grand sympathie. c'est de votre sagesse et d'un patriotisme bien compris qu'il depend d'eviter a votre pays les horreurs de la guerre. le general commandant en chef l'armee de la meuse! von emmich. it was a proclamation which was now posted everywhere, not only in the districts occupied by the germans, but it had also been secretly affixed to walls by spies in liege, louvain, charleroi, and even in brussels itself. by it, the germans were hoping to secure the allegiance of the belgian people. while this proclamation expressed regret that the german troops found themselves obliged to cross the belgian frontier, it pointed out that only necessity compelled them to do so because french officers had violated belgian territory by crossing from france into germany by motor-cars. a poor excuse surely for the burning and sacking of all those little undefended frontier towns--vise, argenteau, soumagne, poulseur, and the rest. "belgians?" it went on. "it is our great desire that there may still be means to avoid a combat between two peoples who were friends until now, and were formerly even allies. remember the glorious day of waterloo, where fought the german armies who contributed to found and establish the independence and prosperity of your country. "but we must have an open road. any destruction of bridges, tunnels, or railways must be regarded as hostile actions. belgians, it is for you to choose! "i hope, then, that the german army of the meuse will not be compelled to wage war with you. an open way to attack those who wish to attack us: that is all we desire. "i give these formal guarantees to the belgian population: that it will suffer nothing from the horrors of war; that we will pay in gold for the provisions that we find necessary to take from your country; that our soldiers will show themselves to be the best friends of a people for whom we cherish the highest esteem and the greatest sympathy. "by your wisdom and patriotism, which we fully recognise, your country will be spared the horrors of war. "general commander-in-chief of the army of the meuse,-- "von emmich." and yet the poor inhabitants of vise had been outraged and shot by the kaiser's unrestrained savages! in all those villages lying across the rippling ourthe and the broad meuse, the treatment of the inoffensive civilians had been ruthless and merciless. removal from the face of the earth--a favourite phrase of the germans themselves--was, from the first, the invader's idea of how best to deal with the unarmed, unoffending villagers, the only crime of whose hard-working people was that they had fallen in the path of the blasphemous prussian militarism. a private who was reading the proclamation remarked to edmond: "what trickery--eh? i hear that the uhlans yesterday shot the burgomaster of esneux, over yonder, and propped his body against a wall all day as a warning--because he had carried a revolver. thirty men were afterwards shot in the place without any trial whatever, and women and children were outraged and bayoneted and their bodies flung into the river. our women, they say, are being treated infamously, and all the possessions of the villagers are being destroyed. may god curse those germans!" "yes," replied the _sous-officier_, and as he turned away with a sigh a red light behind the hill gradually appeared, and then quickly grew brighter. "there is another village on fire, over there. i suppose the uhlans will drive our people to reprisals so that excuse for further cruelty may be found." "and yet they post up this proclamation!" cried the man in flemish, and with the point of his bayonet he succeeded in tearing holes in the notice, and eventually mutilated and obliterated it, saying: "death to the alboches! death to the kaiser's murderers and brigands! after all, the emperor who makes war upon women and children is only a brigand, just like those in sicily. surely a prize should be offered for his head!" just as the man spoke they both saw, in the distance, sudden little red flashes, which told that the troops were vomiting death upon the enemy again, so they dashed back to their ditch, while in the trees above them could already be heard the "phit" of the enemy's bullets as they struck the branches. ere a few moments the order was given to fire, and quickly edmond's pom-pom again began its regular spitting of death, whilst on the flank their invisible batteries also opened fire with destructive shrapnel. the night grew darker, and the moon became, for a time, obscured behind a bank of swiftly-drifting cloud. in the distance the fires lit up the battle scene with a red, sinister glare, while, far away upon the hills on the right, could be seen moving masses of belgian soldiers, a dantean vision of hell, and whilst the men lay in their shallow ditch firing away with monotonous regularity, bullets were whistling past, striking the trees, or flattening themselves with muffled noise in the earth. the fight was a hot one. in front were the millions of the kaiser, oncoming like a great irresistible tide, yet the gallant little belgian army, which for years had been jeered at by every frenchman, soldier or civilian, as a comic-opera force, were defending their country in a manner so patriotic and desperate that it held the whole world in surprise. confronted by a big and arrogant empire, which for years had laid its cunningly-devised plots for their destruction, the belgian army stood undaunted, and meant to strive on and defend their soil until france and great britain could come to their aid. that the germans should never take belgium had been resolved in the hearts of all king albert's subjects, while his majesty himself, in the uniform of a private of infantry, was daily in the trenches, and often spoke quiet, homely words of encouragement to private and general alike. the whole army knew how, two days before, he had been in the trenches at herstal, and had given private soldiers cigarettes with his own hands. in some cases he had not, at first, been recognised, dressed in a shabby, dusty uniform, just like themselves. but he was a king--a king eventually without a country--and his name will for ever go down in history as a wonderful example of self-denial, personal bravery, and of human sympathy with his crushed and desolated nation. suddenly, while edmond was commanding his gun, a shrapnel burst just behind him. a bullet struck his water-bottle, and a splinter passing through it the water ran out down his leg. but at the same moment another bullet struck in the head a man to whom he was giving an order and he fell heavily forward on his face--dead. in a moment the place seemed swept by lead. two or three shells fell in quick succession, the enemy having apparently advanced to a long copse just across the river-bank. "the brutes have occupied esneux again, i believe," remarked a man close by. away on the crest of one of the hills a small but very bright light showed. it was flashing in morse code. a signaller quite near read it aloud. "the enemy!" he shouted. "the message is in german!" yet they still plugged away with their rifles, undaunted at the enemy's advance. the forts were speaking more frequently now, and continually the very earth trembled beneath the great crashes of modern artillery of the brailmont system of defence. along that dark line of low hills was seen constant flashing in the blackness; storm clouds had arisen to obscure the moon, and rain was now threatening. the whole sky was now a deep, angry red, with patches of crimson heightening and dying down--the reflections of the inferno of war. the noise was deafening, and on every hand the gallant defenders were sustaining heavy losses. of a sudden, before indeed they were aware of it, the whole edge of the wood became lit up by an intense white brilliance, so dazzling that one could not discern anything in front. a thousand headlights of motor-cars seemed to be there focussed into one. the germans had turned one of their great field searchlights upon them, and a second later shells fell and burst in all directions in the vicinity. handicapped by want of such modern appliances, the belgians were unable to retaliate. they could only remain there, in the actual zone of the enemy's pitiless fire. dozens of brave men fell shattered or dead amid that awful whirlwind of bullets and fragments of steel, as slowly the long ray of intense light moved along the line, searching for its prey, followed by the enemy's artillery which never failed to keep up a pitiless, relentless fire, with wonderful accuracy for a night engagement. from end to end swept that white line of brilliancy; then slowly--very slowly--it came back again, causing the men to lie flat upon their stomachs and wait in breathless anxiety until it had passed. time after time that long, shallow trench which was, after all, only a ditch, for no opportunity had been afforded for military engineering--was swept by both light and fire from end to end, and each time edmond's comrades were being placed _hors de combat_. that the situation was critical, he knew. yet not a single man stood dismayed. their mausers crackled with just the same regularity, and, thanks to the fine spirit of his men, his pom-pom continued to rain lead upon the trenches of von emmich's walls of men across the river. at last the "retire" was sounded. the position had by this time become quite untenable. edmond valentin bit his nether lip. the same order always. they retired, but never advanced. for them, the teuton tide seemed utterly overwhelming. yet their spirit was never broken. the belgian is ever an optimist. surely belgium would never fall beneath the kaiser's rule, to be ground under his iron heel and smashed by that "mailed fist" which had so long been the favourite joke of the great caricaturists of europe. impossible! with alacrity the maxim was dismounted, and with calm orderliness the retirement was commenced at a moment when that annoying searchlight had turned its attention to the right flank, and the great white beam lay full upon it. they were to withdraw towards liege, first retiring into the wood. "_wat sullen wy doen_?" (what is to be done?) asked one of edmond's men in flemish--the thickset man who had read the proclamation. "our general knows best, my comrade," edmond reassured him in his own language. "this may be only a strategic move. we shall sweep them off our soil before long--depend upon it." "_gy hebt gelyk_," (you are right), muttered the man, panting beneath his load--the barrel of the maxim strapped across his shoulder. "_ik stem geheel met u_!" (i quite agree with you), murmured another of the men in his soft, musical flemish. "we will never surrender to those brigands! never, while there is breath left in us. they are assassins, not soldiers!" they marched forward along the wide, dark, dusty road, safe from the enemy's fire at that point because of the rising ground between them and the winding, peaceful valley of the ourthe. in their faces stood liege, five miles distant. they were moving forward, still in high spirits. many of the men were whistling to themselves as they marched, sturdy and undaunted. the eighth chasseurs was one of the first regiments of king albert, all men of splendid bravery, and of finer physique than the average belgian. from liege came still the continuous boom of artillery, for the forts untaken were keeping up a regular fire, and the enemy, it was known, were sustaining terrible losses both night and day. the forts, built in a ring in the environs of the city, were safe enough. but not so the town. the germans, aided by their swarms of spies in the place, had made a dozen attempts to take it during the past forty-eight hours, but had always been repulsed. they had resorted to every ruse. one party of germans had dressed themselves in british uniforms--whence they obtained them nobody has ever known--and on entering the town were at once welcomed enthusiastically as allies. but, fortunately, the ruse was discovered when one was overheard to speak in german, and all were promptly shot. then another party appeared as belgian red cross men, and they, on being discovered to be enemies, shared a similar fate: they were shot in the place cockerill. the germans had requested an armistice for twenty-four hours to bury their dead. this, however, was refused, because it was well known that the big krupp howitzers--"the german surprise to europe"--were being brought up, each drawn by forty horses, and that the cessation of hostilities asked for was really craved in order to gain time to get these ponderous engines of destruction into position. as they were marching, the moon again shone out over the doomed city of liege, when of a sudden edmond saw over it, in the sky, three black points which immediately changed into a light cloud, and soon flames were rising from the town. the germans were now firing petrol-shells upon the place! they gained a small village called angleur, a quaint little whitewashed place, over which shot and shell had swept for the past three days, until the villagers now took no notice. here generous hearts offered comfort to the tired soldiers, jugs of fresh milk and bread were brought out though it was the middle of the night. but they had no time to accept those gifts. presently they met some terrified people--men, women, and children-- fleeing from outside liege, carrying bundles, all they could save from their wrecked homes. "the germans are in the wood!" they cried. before them lay a blazing village. edmond's captain gave an order to halt, and they drew up. then they saw the disappearance into the red furnace of entire companies, and soon afterwards the stretchers and ambulance corps following each other in quick succession told them of the splendid heroism of their glorious defenders. again they went forward, every man's mouth hard-set and determined, yet in some cases with a grim joke upon their lips, for they resolved to defend the lives of their dearly-loved ones, and to account for as many of the enemy as they could. "for god and belgium?" shouted one man, a stout private from malines, who had lost his shako and his kit. then they all ran to death with but little hope left in them. such an illustration of bravery had been rare in this present century. the remembrance of the almighty, shouted by that fat private, had an effect upon the religious men in the ranks, officers and privates alike, and in that red glare of war, with blood showing in the very sky, they dashed on with renewed hope and a spirit of splendid patriotism unbroken. they took cover in an orchard and, pulling down the hedges frantically, soon saw, descending from the hill on their right, the batteries and remains of their own much-tested regiments. stretchers were taken up to the woods on the left, and soon came down again with the wounded. edmond's "flying column" was protecting the transport of these "braves," but an order was shouted that they had to withdraw away up on to the plateaux. then they rushed to the fort of flemalle, where they took up fighting positions. but the germans did not want to make another attempt. the mission of the eighth chasseurs was over. three hours later they moved forward again. the forts would now defend their position in the campaigning army. such was a typical night of the defence of liege. chapter eight. the double face. at the chateau de severac the hot, fevered days were passing but slowly. aimee and the baroness were still there, and now they had been joined by the baron, who had in brussels been assured that the enemy would respect the houses of the rich, and that at his splendid home, perched high on that rock above the meuse, they would have nothing to fear. rigaux, indeed, had declared to his friend that at the chateau they would be far safer than in any of the towns, which might be invested or bombarded-- safer even than in brussels itself. hence they had remained there, full of hourly anxiety as to what really would be the outcome of it all. the baron de neuville had suggested that his wife and aimee should flee to england. but while aimee felt that so long as she remained in belgium she might at least have a chance of seeing edmond very soon, the baroness, on her part, refused to leave her husband's side, while he, in his responsible position as financial adviser to the government, could not leave belgium. from time to time they received scraps of terrifying news over the telephone from brussels. aimee, indeed, each hour rang up her father's secretary in brussels, and listened to the latest news from the scene of the fighting. but, alas! it was a tale of repeated disaster, until she became sick at heart. of the whereabouts of the eighth chasseurs she could glean nothing. she had heard nothing whatsoever of them since they passed through liege on their way to the front. for aught she knew, they might have shared the same fate as that of other regiments, or been swept out of existence by the terrible fire of the enemy's machine-guns. often she would step out upon the balcony which led from her own room and gave such a wonderful panorama of river and woods, and there she would listen attentively. sometimes she fancied she could hear the far-distant booming of the guns. and yet the world about her, warm and sunlit, without a cloud in the brilliant summer sky, seemed so very peaceful. the birds sang merrily, and the peasants, undisturbed after the first days of war, were now garnering in the yellow corn. the first panic of war had passed, and the dull-eyed walloons, who composed the major part of the population in that district, clattered along in their wooden sabots and declared that the enemy were going straight on towards brussels. they would never come near them. they were unaware as yet of the frightful deeds being done beyond liege in those warm summer days, acts of merciless savagery and every refinement of cruelty which degenerate minds, filled with the blood-lust of war, could conceive. they knew not of the dastardly practice, made by the kaiser's "cultured" troops, of placing before them innocent women and children to act as a living screen, in the hope that the allies would not, from motives of humanity, fire upon them. the whole world was being thrilled and shocked by the unspeakable acts of these blonde beasts who, at the behest of their arrogant kaiser, had simply become hordes of savages, and whose atrocious acts could only be compared with those of the troops of african wilds. but in belgium little was known of it all, save in the devastated villages themselves, and by monsieur carton de wiart, the minister of justice in brussels, who was preparing an official report to present to the powers. the hideous atrocities perpetrated during that bloody fortnight, from august th to the th, during which the country north of liege was being swept by fire and sword, were being hidden from the gallant little nation. in the great high-up chateau de severac they only knew of them by rumour, and whenever aimee told what she had heard over the telephone to her father sitting there so grave and morose, he always shook his head and declared that they were only wild rumours. "the german soldiers are civilised. they do not shoot women, my dear girl," he would always declare. the true stories of the kaiser's "frightful examples"--which his bloody majesty himself admitted--had not yet been told. the baron and his family did not know how, at aerschot, the male inhabitants who crossed their thresholds were seized and shot under the eyes of their wives and children; how poor monsieur thielemans, the burgomaster, and his fifteen-year-old son, with a dozen prominent citizens, were set up against a wall and shot, and their bodies cast unceremoniously into a hole. they knew not how young girls, and even little children, had been raped at orsmael; how wounded belgian soldiers were tied to telegraph poles and shot; how, constantly, red cross waggons bearing doctors and wounded were deliberately fired upon; or how these teuton apostles of "kultur" had actually mounted machine-guns in their own red cross vans and fired at the unsuspecting! of the awful scenes in st trond, velm, and haelen, rumour only gave the faintest outline, which was dismissed as imaginary and without foundation. alas! however, it was the bitter and terrible truth. abominable deeds were committed not only in those places, but at sempst men had their arms and hands cut off; at corbeek loo women and girls were bayoneted; at seraing the blood-guilty ruffians massacred several hundred people, and in more than one village terrified women were made to pass in front of machine-guns amid the laughter of the drunken german soldiers and their threats to blow them out of existence at any moment. was it any wonder that many poor wretches went stark mad with terror? over this stricken country, between liege and louvain, towards brussels, the "flying column" were fighting--struggling along bravely from day to day against the most fearful odds. while aimee sat, hour after hour in silence, watching and wondering, edmond with his maxim was doing terrible execution. yet of what use was it all? they were being gradually driven back towards brussels, compelled to leave the villagers to their fate. the roads were crowded by homeless men, women, and children, poor wretched people who had watched their homes sacked and burnt. for years they had been thrifty, and saved until they could live in quiet comfort, still working hard. yet in one short fortnight all had gone from them; all they now possessed was piled into a wheelbarrow, perambulator, or cart, or else carried in a sack upon their backs. the scenes on that wide, open main road leading through louvain and tirlemont to brussels, a well-kept highway, lined in places by tall poplars, were enough to cause one's heart to bleed. edmond looked upon them with a sigh. beneath the pitiless sun the never-ceasing crowd moved westward, driven on by the advancing german army. all sorts of ramshackle vehicles were mixed up in the slowly moving mass of humanity who were tramping their way, day and night, on and on to some place of safety--where, they knew not--brussels, antwerp, or to ghent, ostend, or perhaps the sea. the iron of despair was in their souls. such a human tide as this, naturally, hampered the belgian army severely. weary, footsore, and sad-eyed, many old persons fainted by the wayside, and those who were friendless were left there to die. everybody was thinking of his or her own family. they had no time for sympathy with others. most of them were dressed in their best clothes-- in order to save them--and all had fearful tales to tell of the behaviour of the uhlans. many of those poor, red-eyed, hatless women in black had seen their husbands, brothers, sons, or lovers shot down before their eyes. some had been falsely accused of firing at the troops; some had simply been seized by drunken, laughing soldiers; some had been questioned by swaggering german officers, others had not. with all, trial or no trial, the end was the same--death. and their corpses had been left to rot where they fell, and the village fired by those little black cubes of a highly inflammable chemical substance, which the brutes carried with them for that one purpose. the fog of war was over everything. "it is not warfare, father," declared aimee one evening, as she sat with her parents in a big, handsome salon, wherein the last blood-red light of the fiery afterglow was fast fading. "it is massacre. they have just told me, over the telephone, of fearful things that have happened in aerschot. the germans have wrecked the beautiful church, smashed the holy statues, desecrated the crucifix, and stabled their horses there. and these are the troops upon whom the kaiser is beseeching god's blessing. it is all too awful for words!" "yes, child," replied the grey-haired baroness, looking up from her embroidery--for in these days of excitement she tried to occupy her mind with her needlework. "the kaiser respects neither the laws of nations, nor the laws of almighty god, whose aid he asks. his evil deeds cry aloud to heaven, and to us who, horror-struck, are watching." "the emperor is carrying out the policy, which i read yesterday in the _independance_, advocated by bismarck," said the baron. "the iron chancellor laid it down, as a maxim, that true strategy consisted in hitting the enemy hard, and in inflicting on the inhabitants of invaded towns the maximum of suffering, so that they might bring pressure upon their government to discontinue it. he is declared to have said: `you must leave the people through whom you march only their eyes to weep with.'" "the inhuman brute!" ejaculated the baroness. "but our dear belgium will never sue for peace." "never," declared the baron fiercely, rising and passing to the window, an erect, refined figure. "we have the british on our side. they will quickly wipe the germans from the seas, and then come here to our assistance. the speech of asquith in the house of commons shows their intentions. besides, have we not russia--a colossal power in europe when she commences to move? so we may rest assured that for every evil and unwarrantable act committed upon our soil, ample vengeance will be exacted when the cossacks are let loose upon our friends of berlin." "they say that at liege and in other places, german spies have been discovered," aimee remarked. "i hear that at the entrance to liege, the german soldiers were actually met by spies--hitherto respectable inhabitants of the place--who acted as their guides through the city, and pointed out the principal buildings and the residences of the rich." "exaggerated stories," declared the baron. "i do not believe in the existence of german spies in belgium." "but they have arrested many both in brussels and antwerp." "spy-mania seems to arise in every war," was his reply. "but germany has been long preparing. her spies are said to be everywhere," declared the girl with emphasis. "no game is too low or despicable for the enemy to play, it seems." at that moment the liveried footman entered and, bowing, announced to the baron: "monsieur rigaux has arrived." "ah! show him in. he may have news," cried his master, eagerly. next moment the thin-faced, dark-haired man, wearing a smart grey suit and yellow gloves, came forward all smiles and graces, as he bowed low over the baroness's hand and then over aimee's. "well, my dear arnaud?" the baron commenced anxiously. "what is the latest from the front? have you motored from brussels?" "yes. and the news is disquieting--distinctly disquieting. max, the burgomaster, is already taking precautions in anticipation of the occupation of the capital by the enemy. our troops are evacuating the city." mother and daughter exchanged glances, both pale-faced and startled at such a turn of events. "then we have again been defeated," exclaimed the baron in a hard voice. "it seems so. the news is out that liege has fallen at last. the forts are silent--reduced to rubbish-heaps." "liege fallen!" gasped both mother and daughter. "yes. it seems that several days ago the germans brought up some big krupp howitzers, the secret of which has been so admirably kept, and--" "why do you say so admirably, m'sieur rigaux?" interrupted aimee quickly. "such words would make it appear that you admire the germans." the man started. his eyes narrowed, and his face assumed a sinister look. but only for a second. he saw the slip he had made, and hastily corrected it. "my dear mademoiselle," he laughed. "surely you cannot suspect me of pro-german sympathies? i hate the kaiser, and all his abominable works. i used the words `admirably kept' because in germany they really know how to keep a secret. they are not like the english, for example, who will show any foreigner of distinction over their latest dreadnoughts, or their strongest defences." "well, the tone in which you spoke was certainly as though you entertained pro-german tendencies," said the girl frankly, adding "but what about these wonderful guns?" "ah! mademoiselle. they are wonderful, alas! as soon as they got these fearful engines of destruction into position they simply pulverised the forts. poor general leman was taken out of the ruins, unconscious, and is now a prisoner in germany." "leman a prisoner?" gasped the baron. "why, it was only a month ago that he dined here with us." "poor fellow!" exclaimed the baroness. "but why was he unconscious?" "owing to the deadly fumes from the explosion. one of the big shells from the german howitzer penetrated to the magazine, and it blew up." "ah! but leman did not surrender." "certainly not," said rigaux, who was, in secret, very well informed of all that was in progress along the front. his wireless--worked by a german naval wireless operator who lived in seclusion in his house at brussels--had, for days been picking up all the official messages, the operator having in his pocket the key to the war-cipher. not a move on land or on sea on the part of the germans but was known at once to arnaud rigaux, who daily handed to the fair-haired young operator a brief report of what was in progress in brussels. this the young man reduced to code and transmitted it, after having called up the german station at nauen. other stations heard it, but the message being in a code specially supplied for the purpose, it conveyed to them no meaning. arnaud rigaux, the most clever and most dangerous spy which germany possessed on belgian soil, was, because of his high position as a financier, still unsuspected. from his manner the baron could see that his friend had come out from brussels hastily, in order to tell him something which he hesitated to do in the presence of the ladies. "so an advance is really being made towards brussels and the government has moved to antwerp?" aimee asked anxiously. "the papers are so vague about it all." "i fear that is so," was rigaux's reply. "it seems, too, that the british are moving uncommonly slowly. they have not yet, it is said, embarked their expeditionary force, as we fully expected they would have done days ago." "the british, if they move slowly, always move very surely," was the girl's reply. "i was at school in england, you know, and i am quite aware of their slowness." "it is fatal in war, mademoiselle. why are they not here to help us-- eh? we have relied upon them." "they will be here soon, and when they come they will give a good account of themselves, never fear. they are tried soldiers. the germans have never seen a modern war. they are only swaggerers." "true. but they are at least scientific in their campaign. the english are not." "well, arnaud, if you continue to talk like that i shall begin to agree with aimee, and accuse you of taking the german side," laughed her father. "_diable_! i hate them too much. look what i have lost--what i stand to further lose--eh?" protested the thin-faced man, with a quick gesture of the hands. "all i hope is that the english army will be in belgium before the enemy enters brussels." "but the french," suggested the baron. "what are they doing? one hears so very little of general joffre and his army!" "ah! he, too, is moving slowly. at verdun, and along the line of alsace-lorraine, there has been some fierce fighting, i hear." "how do you know?" asked the girl. "by the papers." "but the papers have published no reports," she said in surprise. "what journal has given the news? we have them all, and i read them very carefully." again rigaux was, for a second, nonplussed. "oh! i think it was in the antwerp _matin_--the day before yesterday-- if i recollect aright." the truth was that he had heard it over his secret wireless only that morning. "who won?" "unfortunately, the germans." "ah!" sighed the girl. "it is always so. when shall we ever have a victory?" "who knows, mademoiselle? let us hope it will be very soon. belgium will never be crushed." "not so long as a single man remains alive who can carry a gun," declared the baron fiercely. "i wish i were younger. i'd go to the front at once and do my share." "as edmond valentin has gone," aimee remarked, more in order to spite arnaud rigaux than anything else. in a second the spy's face was wreathed in smiles. "ah, how is m'sieur valentin? where is he, mademoiselle?" he inquired. "he is with the eighth chasseurs-a-pied, somewhere near liege." "he is not near liege now," their visitor said. "the whole country, up to louvain, is now held by the enemy. his brigade has, i expect, been thrown back to somewhere near brussels--unless, of course, it has come south, towards namur." in an instant the girl was eager and anxious. namur, with its great forts, believed to be impregnable, was only a few miles away. "would they come across in this direction, do you think?" she asked eagerly. "certainly. if they were in the meuse valley they might follow it up towards huy, and onward." "but there has been no sign of the enemy along there." "there will be soon, i fear, mademoiselle. we are not sufficiently strong to keep them back." as a matter of fact, he knew that uhlan patrols were in the woods within fifteen miles of them, and that very soon the whole meuse valley would probably run with blood. the potsdam plan of campaign was to sweep every part of belgium, from the frontier to the sea, with the fire of war. "what shall we do if they come?" asked the pale-faced girl, dismayed. "is it best to stay here?" "i believe so. you are far safer here in your chateau than in brussels." "but what will happen to us?" "oh, you may have a visit, perhaps, from a polite german officer who may billet some of his men here for the night. he will simply apologise for the inconvenience he causes. that is all." "but they have been massacring people north of liege," aimee remarked. "bah! those are simply exaggerated tales of the country-people. do not credit them, mademoiselle. nobody in brussels believes them. in war, such tales are always told," he said assuringly. "who is commanding the eighth chasseurs? do you know?" asked the girl anxiously. "well, yes, i happen to know because jacques, my second chauffeur, is in the regiment of monsieur valentin. they belong to the sixth brigade under general paul thalmann." "thalmann!" echoed the baroness. "ah, we know him quite well. he was commandant at bruges a year ago. then he was moved to ghent. aimee and i stayed with him for three days during the exhibition. a fine old soldier. one of the best men in all belgium." arnaud rigaux smiled curiously. the hebrew came out in him at that moment. "yes," he said, with slight hesitation. "but a gambler, my dear baroness. he is in my debt to a considerable extent. besides, i--well, i suspect him." "of what?" asked the great financier. "of dealings with the enemy." aimee started. "what do you mean, m'sieur?" she asked quickly. "i simply mean what i say, mademoiselle. general thalmann has, to my knowledge, been on the verge of bankruptcy for the past three years. he is a bosom friend of a certain karl schnerb, whom i have long suspected of being a secret agent of germany. after his acquaintance with schnerb, the general began to repay me some of what i had lent him. _voila tout_!" "you say, then, that general thalmann is in the pay of our enemies?" asked aimee quickly. "you surely don't mean that, arnaud?" asked her father at the same moment. "i only tell you facts that i know, my dear baron," was their visitor's reply. "and for that reason, and that alone, i say: `may god help our poor little belgium.'" aimee was silent. was it possible that a traitor was in command of edmond's brigade? the girl held her breath. if what arnaud rigaux had alleged was the actual truth--and he always knew the truth--if such things were, then poor little belgium was, alas! doomed. chapter nine. the kaiser's secret agent. "the position is a very grave one, henri," rigaux explained when, a few minutes later, they were alone together in a small, circular, book-lined room, that room below one of the high round towers of the chateau, which the baron used as a bureau. "i hesitated to speak very openly before your wife, because it would cause her undue alarm. there is no doubt-- indeed, there has been abundant proof in these last four days--that belgium swarms with german spies. they are everywhere. our enemies have been most crafty and cunning in their preparations for our undoing. they have arrested and shot sixteen german agents in antwerp alone. they had carrier-pigeons, secret wireless, code-books, german ammunition, secret stores of petrol, and other things, which showed, only too plainly, their intentions. now your telephone was cut at noon to-day, was it not, and you are wondering? well, the truth is that the germans occupied brussels at eleven o'clock this morning?" "_they are in brussels_!" gasped the baron, starting up. "you must be joking!" "i am not, i regret to say. to-day, at eleven, burgomaster max met the german commander in the chausee de louvain. there was no resistance, and the enemy marched into the city, doing the goose-step as they passed the gare du nord." "impossible?" gasped de neuville, pale as death. "but it is the unfortunate truth. the germans are asking for an indemnity of eight millions sterling. the minister of finance has asked me to negotiate the loan. will you and your friends take part in it?" for a moment the baron de neuville was silent. he knew the financial straits of the government at that moment, and he was reflecting. at last he said, in a low, earnest voice: "arnaud, if i touch it at all, my friends in london and myself will make the whole loan." "what, you will bear the eight millions?" asked rigaux, with some surprise. "yes. i feel it my duty to assist in the present crisis." "but i only asked for a portion. i can do some myself, and obtain the remainder in holland." "i tell you i will arrange to bear the whole responsibility. i will send word to monsieur max to-night. i can arrange with good substantial friends in london to assist me." rigaux was silent for a few seconds. "well," he said enthusiastically at last, "yours is indeed a fine example of patriotism, henri, i will let max know your generous offer. there is no telegraphic or telephonic communication with brussels now." he did not add that in his pocket was a special pass, signed by the german commander, which allowed him to go through the enemy's lines, backwards and forwards, at will. if the baron and his friends paid over eight millions to the enemy, then his friends in berlin would be highly pleased at his clever diplomacy. "you return to brussels to-night--eh?" "yes, at once. it is a risky business to be on the roads at night nowadays." "i shall go to brussels to-morrow, and make the offer personally," the baron said. "but, if you do so, you will not leave your wife and daughter here. if i were you i would send them to ostend, where, if further trouble occurs, they can easily cross to england. they should not be left here alone. one never knows what may happen." the baron did not reply. he was still reassured by the words of certain highly-placed officials in brussels that the baroness and aimee would be quite safe at severac, and rigaux, on his part, did not think it worth while to tell him of the close proximity of the uhlans. "i shall see you in brussels to-morrow," the baron said briefly. "yes. may i tell max that you will be at the hotel de ville at noon-- eh?" asked the secret agent of the kaiser, "and that you and your english friends will, if necessary, guarantee the loan to the municipality of the eight millions demanded?" "yes," was his friend's reply. "ah, henri," cried arnaud rigaux, "you are a true patriot. you, the wealthiest man in belgium, to come forward at such a time," and, judas-like, he took the baron's hand--he who was now secretly acting as financial agent of the german government. "monsieur max has been made responsible for the good behaviour of the capital, and they have handed him back his scarf of office. the surrender was a sad and impressive scene, i can assure you," he added. "ah, yes," replied the baron very gravely. "i had no idea that the enemy were already in brussels." "yes. they have taken liege, tirlemont, and louvain, and are now coming up to bombard namur." "so near!" cried the broad-shouldered baron, amazed. "yes. that is why i suggest to you, privately, that the ladies should be sent at once to the coast." "thanks for your hint, my dear arnaud. i will certainly consider it," was the other's reply. he handed rigaux the big silver box of cigarettes, and when both had lit up, the footman brought, in response to his master's summons, two tiny bohemian liqueur glasses and filled them with fine old cognac. they tossed them off, in belgian fashion, and soon afterwards rigaux gripped his friend's hand, saying: "_au revoir_, till to-morrow. and all belgians will thank you, henri, for saving their capital from the kaiser's brigands." the baron de neuville smiled, and shrugged his thickset shoulders. "it is but my duty as a loyal belgian. i cannot fight side by side with our brave men, as i certainly would if i were younger. so i will help as far as my means permit." and then arnaud rigaux, with those winds in his ears, waved his hand and descended the winding stairway to the great hall, outside which in the courtyard his fast, open car was in waiting. having put on his holland dust-coat, he flung himself into the bucket-seat next the driver, and then they moved away cautiously down the steep hill into the peaceful valley, where the summer twilight was fast darkening into night. many groups of homeless, despairing people, hauling along great packages and tramping towards an unknown bourne, were upon the road, and now and then suspicious cars passed without salute or challenge. once they met a patrol of uhlans riding merrily along, big-booted fellows with lances, who chatted gaily, and who seemed to take no notice of them, knowing that in that particular area there was no opposition. suddenly rigaux, who had now become very alert, remarked to the driver: "be careful. we are getting near loverai, outside charleroi." before them had suddenly showed points of light from lanterns in the road, and then, a few hundred yards further on, they heard a gruff challenge in german, and a stern command to halt. the driver drew up at once, and the car was instantly surrounded by half a dozen stalwart german outposts, their fixed bayonets shining in the headlights, demanding to know the destination of the travellers. "to brussels," replied rigaux, in german. "here is my official permit from headquarters, signed by the commander-in-chief of the army of the meuse." the sentry, in his spiked helmet, examined it beneath the flickering light of a lantern held by one of his comrades, and while doing so a lieutenant strolled up and also carefully scrutinised it. yet for the moment the motorists were under arrest. "herr rigaux--eh?--and chauffeur?" the officer read. "a general secret service pass from headquarters. you are going to brussels, i suppose?" arnaud rigaux replied in the affirmative, whereupon the lieutenant gave an order and the half-dozen men drew up in the dark, clicking their heels together, and presented arms in salute. "you are free to pass, herr rigaux," said the officer. "take the left-hand road, and you will avoid the outposts of charleroi and get to nivelles. our lines are two miles farther on, but with your pass you will have no difficulty. i see that you are one of us." rigaux remounted into his car, and with a merry good night they swept along the dark, wide road, which at that point ran between two rows of high poplars, which were swaying and rustling slightly in the cool night wind, so refreshing after the broiling day. half a dozen times the car had been challenged in as many miles, but on each occasion the permit to travel was scrutinised closely, and as they went forward they saw in the sky, on the far-off horizon, the dull, red glare of the fires of war. they had left charleroi on their right--the town of hardware, which the germans had now surrounded, and intended on the morrow to reduce--and had now set their faces straight for the capital. the pass which that morning rigaux had received, on application to the headquarters at the hotel cosmopolite, in brussels, proved an open-sesame everywhere, for it was one of those cryptic passports which the german empire had issued to all its spies, from the lowly to the wealthy. that small piece of grey paper, stamped, signed, and countersigned, rendered its bearer immune from arrest, and provided safe conduct everywhere. what would his friends the belgians say, or do, if they had known he had possessed such a document? time after time, on that dark, straight road between charleroi and brussels, the car was held up by men in spiked helmets, who covered both master and chauffeur threateningly with their rifles. but sight of that paper was magical. arnaud rigaux was bowed to with politeness, and urged onward with cautionary words to the next post. brussels lay thirty miles from charleroi. they were now within the enemy's lines, and were passing many burnt-out cottages and villages, some of the debris of which, strewn in the roadway, still glowed red in the night. before them, in the dark, heavy sky, showed the glare of the lights of brussels, the gay little city which now lay crushed and invested by the teuton invaders. the reflection of the light was not red, as in the case of a burning town. the germans were committing no atrocities there, for the simple reason that, in the capital, they were beneath the eyes of the representatives of neutral powers. in the country it mattered not, and could easily be denied, but in brussels the commander-in-chief had decreed that all should preserve a correct attitude and present the quintessence of german "culture." it was nearly one o'clock in the morning when at last, rigaux having pulled his cap over his eyes, they passed the sentries outside the station of uccle, and were allowed to proceed down the long, straight avenue brugmann and the chausee to the end of the avenue louise. half the street lamps of brussels were out, and no one was in the streets save german sentries at the corners, acting as policemen, their fixed bayonets glinting in the brilliance of the car's headlights. brussels, with her civil guard disbanded, was in the grip of the invader, who modestly demanded eight millions as its ransom. the car turned into the small place louise, past the cafe in the corner, and de boek's hotel so long a famous "english house," turned to the left, and then ran along the tree-lined boulevard to where rigaux lived. there was now no secrecy of presence of the fair-haired german naval wireless operator, for the enemy had occupied the capital. indeed, as soon as arnaud rigaux arrived home he met him in the hall, and accompanied him to the room in the roof, in which was that powerful wireless plant run off the electric-light main. the young fellow seated himself at once at his table, and, touching a morse-key, a long blue spark was emitted and crackled across the big coil. "call up nauen," rigaux said, his holland dust-coat not yet removed. "give them this message: that the baron de neuville has consented, upon representations i have made, to negotiate the whole of the indemnity of eight millions levied upon the city of brussels. let me know of the acknowledgment of the receipt of the message by r.x." "certainly, m'sieur," was the operator's reply in good french, and he began to tap out the preliminary "da-de-da-de-da," the call-signal, followed by the code-letters indicating that he wished to speak with nauen. then he switched over, and adjusting his headphones to his ears, listened attentively. again he repeated the call, with dexterous rapidity, when, a few seconds later, he heard the answering ticks of the telefunken near potsdam, after which he reduced to code the significant message which rigaux had given him for transmission, and tapped it out. chapter ten. the hotel de l'epee. the quaint, old-world little town of dinant, with its crooked cobbled streets--the resort of painters and dreamers--lay in a narrow ravine on both sides of the winding meuse, connected by a long iron bridge. high limestone cliffs towered above the town, crowned by a good-sized but out-of-date citadel--a fort which dominated the whole country. across the river lay the railway station, and some modern hotels, while the modern town was built upon the pleasant wooded slopes behind. it was here that edmond valentin found himself with the sixth brigade. five days ago they had arrived, after a forced march under the hot sun, from gembloux, beyond namur, and, having joined the french force which had crossed the frontier between sedan and givet, they were occupying the heights above the town. indeed, from where edmond stood on that bright, sunny morning, he could look down upon the tiny little white village of anseremme, just beyond dinant, the place where he had, on that memorable day before the war, lunched with aimee so happily on the long rose-embowered _terrasse_ beside the river, now sparkling in the sun. had the red tide of war yet reached high-up severac, he wondered? it was not far off--perhaps fifteen miles or so beyond those blue hills. daily--nay, hourly--he thought of her, wondering how she fared in those hot, breathless days when belgium was fighting so desperately for her very existence as a nation. the sixth brigade, under general thalmann--the fine, grey-moustached, well-set-up man, who had been so grossly calumnified by rigaux for his own crafty purposes--had been in the very thick of the fighting ever since that day when they had so suddenly arrived in liege and found themselves in the firing-line. they had helped to repulse the german cavalry at haelen, and had then fought their way desperately up to tirlemont, to gembloux, and back to the meuse again. with scarce any sleep they had been in touch with the enemy practically the whole time, and were, indeed, "the flying column" of the belgian army. their losses around charleroi had been considerable, and though so weary, dusty, and worn, not a man among them was dismayed. the spirit of the men was admirable. general joffre had already held council with the belgian commander-in-chief, a council at which general thalmann had been present, and from information they had gathered it was well known that the germans intended to make an assault upon the town of dinant, and take the citadel as one of the important and strategic points on the meuse. the peaceful inhabitants of the place--which, besides being a tourist centre, possessed a thriving trade in beaten brass-ware, and the making of those grotesquely-shaped cakes of honey and flour called _conques_, two industries which had survived in the place ever since the middle ages--were, of course, in ignorance, and the authorities did not deem it expedient to express their fears, in order, if possible, to avoid panic. edmond knew that the french army, on its way up the meuse valley, must have passed beneath the great old chateau of severac. if so, aimee must have watched those long, interminable lines of red-trousered infantry, trudging on with their piled-up haversacks, the squadrons of heavily-booted cavalry, and the snake-like processions of lumbering field-guns, motor transport wagons, and drab vans marked with the red cross. away across those blue hills, in the direction of france, aimee was probably watching and waiting in patience. he longed to write to her, to send her words of hope and courage. but it was all utterly impossible. no letter could ever reach her now, unless he could find means to deliver it himself. there was fighting in progress behind them--fierce fighting at charleroi--for they had learnt, only an hour ago over the field-telephone, that the germans were attacking the place, and that a big battle had already opened. the first few hours of that hot, breathless day were hours of inactivity, welcome indeed to the hard-pressed sixth brigade. edmond's company had piled their arms, and were lying about on the sun-scorched grass behind the citadel, smoking cigarettes and laughing as gaily as though they were at manoeuvres, when of a sudden a german taube aeroplane, distinguishable by its shape, was seen crossing them at a great altitude, whereupon many rifles were raised at it. but it was far beyond range, and circled round and round over their camp, taking observations. "the enemy must be near," remarked a thin, little, dust-covered lieutenant to a brother-officer. "they intend to attack, without a doubt." hardly had he spoken when the aeroplane dropped two smoke-balls, indicating the position of the defenders, and then sailed away across the hills and was lost to view. the old fortress in front of edmond was occupied by belgian artillery ready for a desperate defence; but the force, though a gallant one, was, unfortunately, not large. another hour went by. the men were still at ease, for perhaps, after all, the enemy, with the strongly fortified town of namur before them lower down the river, might not think dinant worth attack. suddenly, however, the truth became revealed. somewhere over in the direction of severac the enemy had taken up positions, and without warning a shell fell unexpectedly upon the railway station, narrowly missing the dock, crashing through the roof, and exploding with a crash which reverberated along the whole valley. in a moment bugles sounded and the defenders were instantly on the alert. a second shell tore out part of the front of the hotel des postes, opposite the station, and then, from the citadel the guns thundered in reply, sending shells in the direction where the grey masses of the enemy were seen to be. to watch the battle from that height was fascinating to edmond. below, a french captain and a squad of couriers on motor-cycles crossed the bridge rapidly and disappeared on the road to namur, while, in the town, a few french troops of the line regiments were marching. the inhabitants were all indoors with closed doors and shutters, most of them crowding into the cellars in fear. soon the cliffs resounded with rifle and gun fire, while away in the east could be heard the continual rumble of the field howitzers of the enemy. the germans had, it seemed, also brought up several mountain-batteries along the hills. the enemy were advancing rapidly. the bridge was being defended strongly by the french troops, while, very soon, members of the volunteer hospital corps began hurrying along the streets in search of the wounded. in half an hour the quiet, prosperous little town where, from the bulgy slate-covered steeple of the church the bells had, for centuries, sent their sweet carillon over the river, became swept by lead. beneath the pitiless shell-fire the houses in the narrow rue grande were suffering severely and, at certain spots the street were covered with falling debris, a rubble of stones and mortar mixed with articles of furniture. half-way down that long, narrow street, so well known to summer visitors to the ardennes, there stood, on the left, a quaint old-fashioned little inn called the hotel de l'epee--the hotel of the sword--one of the most ancient houses in dinant, for it dated from the fifteenth century, and had then been part of a franciscan monastery. the rooms were small, with their original old oaten panelling; the floors were of great stone slabs hollowed by the feet of many generations, and though the little place was typical of the ardennes, there was a curious medieval air about it which was genuine. the hotel of the sword was kept by a stout, prosperous, red-faced old belgian named francois mazy, who usually wore the blue linen blouse of the ardennois. "uncle francois" was known to all dinant, on account of his cheery good-nature and charitable disposition. and to his homely inn, each summer, went many well-known people of brussels, because there they fared exceedingly well--uncle francois doing the cooking himself, and charging his visitors, in each of whom he took a real personal interest, only very modestly as compared with the more modern houses. to uncle francois' hundreds of the townspeople, men, women, and terrified children, now fled, because beneath the house, and running far under the cobbled street, were huge vaulted cellars hewn in the limestone rock--the cellars of the ancient monastery, the entrance to which had, only a few years before, been discovered behind a walled-up archway. there, lit by flickering candles and one or two evil-smelling lamps, the great cavernous vaults of the monks of old, were filled by those poor excited and terrified people, who had taken refuge from the sudden horrors of war. many of them were women, anxious for their husbands' safety, and little children with big wide-open wondering eyes, while uncle francois himself, with marie, his stout, middle-aged daughter, moved among the crowd in that hot, stifling atmosphere, uttering cheering words in his native walloon, and trying to comfort them. "all will be well soon, my friends," he declared. "it is only a skirmish." meanwhile, the fight was growing hotter every moment. edmond, with his ever-ready maxim, had found cover behind a piece of thick, broken wall, one of the ancient earthworks of the citadel, and from there he and his men kept up a terrible rain of lead upon the oncoming germans, who were now fighting in the place below. of a sudden, a shell struck the spire of the church, blowing off part of the pumpkin-shaped top which fell into the place with a heavy crash and clouds of dust, the beautiful bells, which had rung out there so musically for ages, coming down also. on the long bridge, terrible fighting was now in progress. the defenders were in cover under the abutment wings of the bridge, which were about three feet high. edmond could witness it all from where he was, three hundred feet or so above. suddenly there was a red flash over the river, a great roar, and the air was filled with smoke and debris. the defenders had retired suddenly and blown up the bridge across the meuse, to prevent the enemy's advance. it was magnificent--yet it was terrible. on every side the town seemed to be now attacked by the enemy, who had sprung from nowhere. in the position they had taken up, the belgian chausseurs were barely two companies strong, and though they fought so bravely, they could see that the enemy were surely, if slowly, advancing upon the citadel. for another hour the fearful fight went on. from behind the debris of the bridge the red-breeched french were replying gallantly to the enemy. one could hear nothing save the irregular explosions of rifles, the machine-like splutterings of the mitrailleuse punctuated by the shock of shell-fire, and now and then, on explosion which caused the earth to tremble. owing to the heavy firing, clouds now obscured the sun. the heavens darkened, and it began to rain, but the firing in no way abated. from where edmond crouched behind his gun he could see what was happening below in the place, and across beyond the blown-up bridge, which lay a mass of wreckage and twisted girders across the stream. a sudden increase in the firing told that reinforcements had arrived, and he saw a half-company of a line regiment hurriedly enter the hotel opposite the station, expecting to find there a good field of fire. they brought with them a dozen terrified, shrieking women, whom they had found hiding in the waiting-room at the railway station. an hour after noon the fire slackened, and the rain ceased. a few limping figures, the french in blue coats and red trousers--that unfortunately flamboyant uniform which always drew fire--staggered into the hotel, while, during the lull, a hatless woman in black calmly crossed the little place and, quite unconcerned, dropped a card into the letter-box! at that moment edmond's company heard the order to retire. retire! every man held his breath. their spirits fell. dinant had fallen, after all, notwithstanding the defence of the combined french and belgian forces. it was hopeless. the germans meant to crush them and to swarm over belgium. in perfect order the sixth brigade retired back, down the steep, grassy slopes behind the citadel, and within half an hour the hated german flag was, even as edmond stood watching through his glasses a couple of miles away, hoisted over the captured citadel. he uttered a malediction beneath his breath, and turned to hand his glasses to one of his men. sight of that flag was a signal for renewed fighting. two french batteries had, happily, arrived, and having taken up a position close to them, opened fire upon the citadel from the rear. the enemy's flag had roused the defenders to fury, and one of the first shots from the french field-guns cut the german flag right across, at which the belgians cheered wildly to the echo. the french batteries threw their sheik upon the ancient citadel with marvellous accuracy, and the fire was heavy and incessant. another french line regiment arrived to reinforce the belgians, marching gaily in those fatal red trousers of theirs, and then so smothering was their fire that, through his glasses, edmond could see the heads of the germans, dotting the ramparts of the fort, begin to gradually disappear. for four long hot hours the desperate struggle continued without a moment's cessation. the belgians were determined to drive the enemy from their position, while the enemy were equally determined to hold it, and the slaughter on all sides became terrible. one of edmond's men fell forward, dead, with a bullet in his brow. suddenly heavier firing was heard from across the river. the french were shelling the citadel from the other side of the meuse, and this they continued to do until, at six o'clock, a long pontoon bridge, just completed by the germans a little higher up the river, was suddenly swept by a hail of shell and destroyed. a regiment of german infantry, who were at that moment upon it, in the act of crossing, were shattered and swept into the river, the clear waters of which became tinged with their blood. the french had waited until that moment, allowing the germans to construct the pontoon, and had then wiped it out. so heavy had now become the attack of the allies upon the citadel, that not a living thing was to be seen upon the ramparts. shell after shell fell upon them, exploding, shattering the thick masonry everywhere, and sending up columns of dense black smoke which hovered in the still evening air. then, of a sudden, there was a roar, and a terrific explosion of greater force than all the others before, which completely tore out one angle of the fortress, some of the heavy masonry falling with a huge crash down the hill-side into the place below, which was already thick with dead and dying. a great cheer sounded somewhere in french, for another fresh regiment had suddenly arrived. orders were swiftly given to the sixth brigade to re-advance, and in half an hour edmond found that victory was theirs after all--they had retaken the fort! the german flag was hauled down and, in wrath, destroyed, and amid vociferous cheering, the belgian red, black, and yellow tricolour was hoisted again in its place, edmond at last regaining the position he had held in the early morning. looking down upon the stricken town once again, he saw at what frightful cost the fort had been retaken. that morning peace had reigned--but alas, now? the streets and the river-banks were dotted with the dead, french, belgian and german, lying in all sorts of contorted attitudes, the blue coats of the french infantry splashed with red, and their red trousers, alas! stained a deeper hue. the germans had retired away towards namur, it was said. the fire had ceased, and some belgian infantry--in their round caps and blue greatcoats--moving down the narrow street from the place, were cheered lustily. but the yells of triumph died from their lips as they saw the ambulances eagerly and silently at work, and they paused at that grim, awful testimony of what war really meant. a big grey armoured car of the french, with the muzzle of a machine-gun pointing out, tried to pass out of the town, but was unable to do so because of the bodies heaped in the streets, for the fronts of several houses were lying across the roadway. then, at that moment, there was heard in the air, the whirr of a scouting aeroplane which, at a second's glance, was seen to be french, observing what positions the enemy were taking up for the night. the sun had set, and the red afterglow--that crimson light of war--was showing in the west over where lay great britain, the chief objective of the kaiser and his barbaric hordes of brigands, hangmen, executioners, and fire-bugs--the men doing the bidding of that blasphemous antichrist who was daily lifting his hands to heaven and invoking god's blessing upon his hell-hound impieties. in the twilight, sparks of fire were beginning to show in the shadows across the river, where the french were encamped, while below, in the town, after that thirteen hours of fierce bombardment, the dinantais, much relieved, came forth from every cellar and every shelter to assemble in animated groups and discuss the terrible events of that never-to-be-forgotten day--a day unequalled since charles the bold reduced the old tower of creve-coeur--the tower of the broken heart-- opposite at bouvignes, and the streets of the town had run with blood. slowly--very slowly--the twilight faded and night crept on. the quiet of death spread over the historic little town. the streets were not lit, because the electric plant had been wrecked. the great vaulted cellars of the hotel of the sword had disgorged its crowd of terrified refugees, and all, thankful that they had survived that fierce attack, returned to their fire-swept homes again, while the allies holding the town prepared their evening meal and tended their wounded, of whom, alas! there were so very many. and as night fell, edmond valentin, who had flung aside his shako, flung himself upon the ground near his gun, and fell to wondering--wondering as he always did--how aimee, his dearly beloved, was faring now that the enemy had advanced up the valley, from the misty hills of the german frontier. the men about him were smoking, laughing, and joking, but he heard them not. one thought alone filled his mind--that of aimee, always aimee. chapter eleven. this word of the uhlan. the german tidal-wave was steadily advancing. prussia had set her heel upon belgium. a perfect horde of jack-booted uhlans had swarmed over the country, and had already made themselves hated by their mad, murderous acts of cruelty and pillage. they were--as the blasphemous kaiser had intended they should be when making his plans at potsdam--agents of the terror. of the nineteen regiments of them in the german army, no fewer than fourteen were being employed to terrorise the inoffensive villagers of poor little belgium; yet so bravely did the belgian army fight that within twelve days the larger part of this force, in their gaily-braided uniforms and carrying their ready lances--upon which they sometimes impaled children--were either killed, wounded, or held prisoners. these brutes, who had boasted of their "kultur," and commanded by noblemen, had been sent out to live upon the country; but they had been entrapped everywhere, and revenged themselves by acts of the most fiendish and horrible cruelty unequalled in modern history. the uhlans! as in the war of , so now in belgium, their very name struck terror into the hearts of the hard-working, thrifty people of eastern belgium. therefore it was hardly surprising when, one evening a week after dinant had been stormed, aimee, who had just ascended to her room to tidy her hair prior to sitting down to dinner with her mother, should stand white-faced and aghast when melanie, her dark, good-looking _femme-de-chambre_, burst in, crying: "ah, mademoiselle, it is terrible--_terrible_! the uhlans are here! they are already in the chateau, asking for m'sieur le baron!" "the uhlans _here_!" she gasped, in an instant pale to the lips. "what can they want?" "_mon dieu_! who knows? i hope they will not kill us all?" cried the trembling maid, her face pale and scared. "i have just seen gustave talking excitedly with two soldiers down in the great hall, while outside, in the outer courtyard, there are a lot of horses." aimee dashed from her pretty chintz-hung room, across to a spare room at the rear of the chateau, and looking down, saw, in the falling twilight, a number of horses champing their bits in the big, paved courtyard, while heavily-booted and spurred uhlans, in their grey service uniforms, were standing astride in groups, talking and laughing. she held her breath. she and her mother were alone and defenceless, the baron being in brussels. what could they do? how should they act? war was suddenly at their doors! without a moment's hesitation she ran quickly down to the great _salle-a-manger_, the walls of which were hung with rare tapestries, and where, on the table already laid with fine old silver and flowers, candles were burning in their handsome silver candelabra. the baroness, grey-haired and stately, sitting in an ancient high-backed chair, looked up in surprise from her book when aimee rushed in, and exclaimed in reproof: "my dear child, whatever has happened? are you mad?" "ah! mother," cried the girl in frantic apprehension, "the uhlans are here! they are asking below for father. the germans are upon us at last!" "_the germans_!" echoed the baroness, quite unperturbed, looking eagerly over her gold-rimmed glasses. "what can they want with us? we are doing them no harm." "they are demanding to see father." at that moment the liveried footman entered, trembling and pale-faced, saying: "a german officer is demanding to see the baron, madame. he refuses to believe that the master is absent in brussels. he therefore demands to see you, madame." the baroness knit her brows and drew herself up with hauteur, preserving a wonderful calm in their defenceless circumstances. "very well," she sighed, "i suppose i had really better see him." a moment later a big, broad-shouldered uhlan officer, a fair-haired saxon, not bad-looking save for the ugly sabre-scar of his student days upon his left cheek, strode into the handsome apartment, and halting before the two ladies, clicked his spurred heels together and saluted. in his long military boots and his uhlan helmet this officer of the war lord of germany looked taller and more forbidding than he really was, yet his politeness to the baroness and her daughter was at once reassuring. "i sincerely regret this intrusion, madame," he said, in almost perfect french. "i am extremely sorry i am unable to respect the privacy of your home, but, alas! it is war--the quarrel of nations." and taking from within his grey tunic a card, he handed it to her. the baroness glanced at it, and saw that the name was "baron wernher von meyeren." "i am in command of my platoon of the tenth uhlans, and we are compelled to billet upon you," he explained. "i did not wish to disturb you, ladies, but i find that the baron himself is absent, hence i have to intrude myself upon you." "my husband is in brussels, at a council meeting at the ministry of finance," replied the baroness de neuville. "he gave me to understand, however, that here we should be quite safe from molestation." the german officer, his strong hand upon the hilt of his sword, smiled grimly. he looked worn and dusty, and had the appearance of a man who had ridden far at the bidding of his superiors. "i fear, baronne, that nobody is now safe from molestation, here, in belgium. i am no politician, only a soldier, but it seems that your gallant little country has decided to defend itself--a mouse against a lion--with unfortunate and very regrettable results. i have with me forty-five men, upon whom i have imposed the strictest orders to behave with proper decorum in your beautiful chateau. if you will please order your servants to give them food--of which they are sorely in need--they will make themselves comfortable for the night in any corner they may find." then, turning to aimee, he added politely: "mademoiselle need have no fear. it is but the fortunes of war." the baroness, still quite cool, looked at him steadily for a few seconds. then she asked: "cannot you billet your men upon the villagers below, in the valley?" "ah, i regret, baronne, that that is impossible. some of the villagers, though non-combatants, have fired at my men and killed them; therefore, in accordance with international law, their houses have been set on fire. the peaceful villages are all occupied by troops to-night, so we have been compelled to come up here." "we have m'sieur rigaux to thank for this?" cried aimee to her mother. "he told us we should be quite safe here?" the big uhlan officer shrugged his shoulders, and glancing at the table already set, said: "the unfortunate situation need not, i think, be discussed, mademoiselle. i merely ask if i, with my two subordinate officers, may be permitted to join you at table this evening?" the baroness hesitated, still holding the uhlan's card in her hand. his rank equalled that of her husband, and though they were strangers, she foresaw that any resistance might have unpleasant results for them. the german tide was undoubtedly advancing. "baron von meyeren," she said at last, with considerable dignity, "this indignity you place upon us, two defenceless women, compelled as we are to entertain our enemies, is, i suppose, but the fortune of war. you and your officers are quite welcome here at my table, but i would ask you to order your men to behave with decency, for i heard--only yesterday--some terrible stories of the conduct of uhlans further up the valley." the officer bowed. "madame," he said, "i assure you that you need not have the slightest apprehension. in the german army we punish disobedience by death. my men know that--by examples already set them." "my daughter and i have your word, m'sieur--eh?" asked the baroness. "madame," he replied, "you certainly have my solemn word. to-morrow morning we shall, i hope, relieve you of this incubus, and i trust that you will, by that time, have discovered that we are not the bloodthirsty savages which the world reports us to be." the baroness then called the footman and gave certain orders that the troopers below should be entertained, while half an hour later baron von meyeren, who had suddenly betrayed a sabre-rattling overbearing towards the ladies, sat down at the dinner table with his two younger officers, apparently young fops from berlin. the baroness and her daughter refused to sit at table with their enemies. the swaggering german baron did not ask for what he wanted. he simply ordered it from his orderly who stood behind him. the wine served did not exactly suit his palate, whereupon he told the orderly to go down into the cellars and ascertain what they contained. "bring us up some good wine," he added in german. "the best these people have. they are sure to have something worth drinking. and give the men some also. it will keep up their spirits." the two women were sitting at the further end of the long room, watching the weird scene, the three men laughing and eating beneath the zone of light shed by the dozen or so lighted candles. soon the orderly returned with six bottles of baron de neuville's choicest champagne. these they opened themselves, and in loud, harsh voices, brutally drank the health of their hostess and her daughter. beneath a veneer of polish and culture which that trio of the enemy wore, was a coarseness and brutality which were at once revealed, for they laughed uproariously, gossiping together in german, with coarse remarks, which only aimee, sitting in silence, understood. they swallowed the wine in tumblers--the choice wine of belgium's great millionaire--and very soon they demanded that the baroness and her daughter should sit with them at table. again they refused, but both women discerned the drunken leers in the eyes of the men, yet believing the assurance of the uhlan commander, the word of a german nobleman, they were not frightened. nevertheless the swords those men wore at their sides bore the blood of the innocent people massacred to provide the "frightful examples" which the kaiser had laughingly given to their brave little nation, which had no quarrel with the bombastic and treacherous monarch who had self-styled himself the war lord of europe. "come, mademoiselle!" cried von meyeren. "do not sit over there. we are enemies, but we will not hurt you. and you, baroness!" he cried, rising and going across to them, "i insist upon your having dinner. it is not fair, is it, heinrich?" he asked, addressing the elder of the pair. "no. the baroness must join us. she must," he said. the two women refused, but with their heads elevated by wine the three men insisted, and at last, in order to pacify them, the mother and daughter consented to sit at the further end of the table, though they would eat nothing. "here's health to the fatherland?" cried the younger of the three, getting up unsteadily and spilling his wine as he raised it to his lips amid the "hochs" of his two companions. the scene was surely as disgraceful as it was unexpected. baron de neuville's wife and daughter left there, alone and unprotected, in that great mediaeval chateau, had accepted the word of honour of a saxon nobleman. they had never expected to witness such a scene of drunkenness as that! suddenly, from somewhere below, sounded men's shouts and women's screams. were the men below drunk, like their officers? again and again was the uproar repeated. the baroness rang the bell, but there was no response. "whatever can be happening below?" asked aimee, full of fear. now that the officers were drunk, what hope was there for the kaiser's barbaric savages in the servants' hall? again the bell was rung, when melanie, in her cap and apron, dashed into the room, crying: "ah! madame! it is terrible--_terrible_! the soldiers are wrecking the _salon_. they are ripping the furniture with their swords. they are all drunk, madame--the beasts are all drunk?" the girl was flushed and dishevelled. her hair was down, and she was panting, having, truth to tell, just escaped the embraces of a too amorous german in his cups. the cultured baron wernher von meyeren heard the maid's complaint to her mistress, and laughed heartily. "our men are evidently enjoying themselves," he remarked in german to his two brother-officers. "this baron de neuville is the richest man in belgium. it is fun to be in his house--is it not? and his daughter is pretty too. what do you think--eh?" aimee overheard the words of the "blonde beast." she stood boldly before him, and turned upon him like a tiger. "you uhlan?" cried her mother. "your very regiment is synonymous of all that is treacherous and ill-begotten. if you do not respect women, then i believe all that is told of you. let your god-cursed emperor let loose his hordes upon us, but the day will come, and is not far distant, when the finger of god will be placed upon you, and you, a nobleman of saxony, will be withered and die as a stickleback will die beneath the sun." "oh, mother! do be careful what you say. pray be careful!" urged aimee, clinging to her beseechingly. the gallant baron, with crimson face, rose unsteadily, gripping the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling, and in fierce anger cried: "for those words to us, woman, your house shall suffer," and drawing his sword, he swept from the table the beautiful epergnes of flowers and china baskets of fruit, and, staggering to the wall, he slashed viciously the fine old tapestries, in his frantic drunken rage. "ernst," he hiccoughed to one of the officers, "tell the men below that this belgian woman has insulted us while we are her guests, and let them make an example of this fine baron's castle." "no, no?" shrieked aimee. "no, i beg of you, baron--i beg of you to spare our home. remember your word to us!" cried the girl frantically in german. but he only laughed triumphantly in her face, and the man he addressed as ernst, having left to do his bidding, he with the other officer and two grey-coated orderlies, gleefully commenced to wreck the splendid room, while the two terrified women, clinging to each other, stood in a corner watching how they vented their mad ire upon all on which they could lay their hands. in a few moments they were slashing the upholstery with their swords, tearing down and destroying the ancient flemish tapestries, while the baron himself paid particular attention to the pictures--all valuable old masters--defacing and destroying them one by one. "see, woman! what we will now do with this snug home of yours?" he said in his drunken frenzy as, taking up an iron poker from the big open grate, he attacked the beautiful old chandelier of venetian glass suspended in the centre of the room, smashing it to fragments. the yells of the men in the adjoining apartments mingled with the smashing of furniture and loud, drunken laughter, reached them where they stood. they told their own tale. everywhere in that splendid old chateau destruction was being carried on at the express orders of the cultured baron von meyeren, one of germany's noblemen. "wreck the place?" he yelled to half a dozen burly uhlans who burst in, two of them holding bottles in their hands. "and we will make a bonfire afterwards. this woman has cursed us, and we, as german soldiers, will teach her a lesson she will not easily forget!" poor melanie had disappeared, but above the terrible disorder and wild shouting were the shrieks of the female servants below, while a smell of fire suddenly greeted their nostrils. "look, mother! there's smoke!" gasped aimee in terror. "they have set the chateau on fire?" as she spoke, two of the uhlans had torn down a huge picture--part of an altar-piece from a church at antwerp--which occupied the whole of the end wall of the room, and were kicking their big boots through the priceless canvas. it was a picture attributed to rubens. "come, child, let us go," whispered the baroness, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her face pale and set. they turned to leave, but as they did so, the baron caught aimee roughly by the shoulder, and leering at her, patted her beneath the chin. in an instant the girl, resenting such familiarity, turned upon him like a tigress and slapped his flabby face so heavily that he drew back in surprise, while the others witnessing the rebuff, laughed at his discomfiture. he raised his sword with an oath, and would have cut her down had not the man called ernst rushed forth and stayed his hand. "go, ladies," urged the man in french. "escape, while there is yet time." "hold that girl!" shouted von meyeren, fiercely struggling to get free from his brother-officer. but the latter held him, and barred his passage while the two terrified women dashed down the stairs, up which the black smoke was already slowly curling. darkness had fallen, and only here and there had the lamps been lit. therefore the baroness and her daughter were enabled to obtain hats and wraps and to creep down a steep, winding back staircase which was seldom used, and which the uhlans had, fortunately, not yet discovered. the scene was a terrible one of wholesale, wanton destruction. some of the men were busy getting together the plate and valuables, while, just as they left, they caught sight of one man who emerged into the courtyard with the baroness' jewel-case beneath his arm. the thieves and murderers of the kaiser were repeating in the beautiful chateau of severac, the same disgraceful methods which they had pursued in the villages of the meuse. they respected neither god nor man, neither old age nor youth. they made war upon women, and shot down the unarmed and defenceless. indeed, this great army of "kultur" was, in reality, but a disciplined horde of barbarians. the baroness and her daughter, with wraps hastily thrown about them, succeeded in escaping from the house by the postern gate, which gave entrance to a wood, but ere they left, a red glare from one of the lower rooms, shining away across the river, told only too plainly that the dastardly uhlans had used some of their famous inflammable "confetti," and were burning the place. the fierce, exultant yells of the drunken soldiery fell upon their ears as they plunged into the dark wood, part of the baron's wide domain, the intricate by-paths of which were well known to aimee. breathlessly they hastened on, until in the darkness beneath the trees they were compelled to slowly grope their way. their fear was lest the woods be searched, and they might be captured, for the brutes--inflamed as they were with wine--were now in the mood for torture and for murder. woe-betide them if they fell into their hands. mother and daughter pushed eagerly, breathlessly on, terrified at the fearful orgie of destruction they had just witnessed. for a full half-hour they walked, aimee leading the way through the narrow, winding shooting-paths, until at last they came forth into the open fields. then they paused, scarce daring to look behind them. alas! at the bend of the valley, high upon its rock, severac stood out vividly with flames belching fiercely from the windows of its high, round towers, and casting a blood-red glare upon the waters and across to the woods on the opposite bank. "_dieu_!" gasped the baroness--"the fiends!--those hell-fiends of the emperor?" "mother," exclaimed aimee, quite calm again now that they had escaped from the hands of that brigandish band, "remember there is a god of justice, with whom vengeance lies for wrong, and most assuredly will he, if we place our trust in him, mete out the dread fate of death and obscurity to the arrogant kaiser, and to all his dastardly barbarians. let us get back to brussels somehow. there, at least, we shall be safe." and as they stood watching the fierce flames leap up around those ancient towers which had withstood the wars of charles the bold, they knew not the awful scene taking place in the courtyard, where gustave, melanie, and seven other of the servants, male and female, were shot one after the other in cold blood, as they emerged in terror from the burning place. appearance of each was being hailed by the drunken laughter of the assembled soldiers, and in escaping the fire they fell victims of the blood-lust of the brutes. "the red cock is crowing all over belgium!" shouted the baron von meyeren thickly, alluding to the incendiary acts of germans being committed everywhere. "we shall make a bonfire of namur, to-morrow, my men! hurrah! for god and the fatherland." and as he passed across the courtyard, for the atmosphere had now become hot and stifling, he savagely kicked aside the body of one of the young female servants who, poor thing, had been sabred in her attempt to escape. chapter twelve. the fugitives. that flight proved indeed a hideous nightmare. throughout those hot, stifling hours of oppressive darkness, the baroness de neuville--as homeless as those hundreds of poor people on the roads, even though wife of a millionaire--wandered on, aimee taking her arm tenderly. on, and still on they went, along the straight, open road which, leaving the meuse, led over the hills to the straggling little whitewashed village of winenne, which they at last reached. there they joined a hustling crowd of terror-stricken fugitives of all classes, sad-eyed men, frightened women, and wondering children, some stern, some crying bitterly, but all carrying bundles, or pushing wheelbarrows or perambulators containing all they had saved from their lowly homes. from winenne, the baroness and her daughter, after trudging on with the crowd for some distance, left the high road and took a by-way, which aimee knew by motoring frequently over it, led due south across the hill, for ten miles or so, to bourseigne, where lived the baronne's brother, a large landed proprietor. in his house they had decided to seek protection. the red flush of dawn had given place to the light of day ere they came in sight of the little place, lying deep in its hollow, but as they looked eagerly upon "the chateau"--as the long, white, old-fashioned house was termed--their spirits fell, for it was roofless, and its grim, blackened walls, alas! told their own tale. a peasant on the road told them the story. three days ago the germans had arrived and occupied the place, which was only three miles from the french frontier. monsieur hannaerts, the seigneur of the place, had been arrested as hostage for the good behaviour of the village, but, because a half-witted youth had discharged a toy-pistol at a german soldier, the unhappy gentleman had been bound to a telegraph pole at the roadside, and shot in the presence of the villagers. an hour later the british, under general sir john french, who had arrived at charleroi and had extended their line towards mezieres, began to shell the village, with the result that it had been partially destroyed, the chateau, which had been the enemy's headquarters, suffering most severely. the tide of war, however, had now passed by, and when the two weary, footsore women entered the village, they found life proceeding almost as usual. those who had not been killed had returned to their wrecked and shattered homes, and were full of stories of the fierce brutality of the invader, which the gallant "anglais" in khaki had so swiftly driven out. naturally, much distressed at the news of her brother's murder, the baronne entered the place with fixed, terror-stricken eyes, that same set expression of woe and hopelessness which was seen everywhere in belgium, now that the gallant little kingdom had fallen beneath the fire and sword of a relentless barbarian. on every hand great holes showed in the walls, torn open by the british shells, many houses were completely demolished, and in some places only rubble heaps remained to show the site where houses had stood. in others, walls stood gaunt and blackened where the fire had gutted them, causing roofs and windows to fall in. wandering pigs were grunting in the long street, and big-eyed little children, now that the roar of war had ceased, were playing merrily among the ruins and finding all sorts of oddments half burned in the debris. one, evidently a humourist, had put on the spiked helmet of a dead german, and was striking comic attitudes, to the delight of his playfellows. his head being completely buried in the canvas-covered helmet, he presented a most ludicrous appearance. "let us find m'sieur labarre, mother," suggested aimee, for she knew the place well, as they had often been her uncle's guests at the now ruined chateau. "yes," murmured the baronne. "i feel so very faint, dear, that i really can go no farther?" and, indeed, the poor woman, refined and cultured, having tramped all through that terrible night in her thin shoes, and having been challenged so constantly by soldiers in the darkness--each challenge being a fright lest it be that of the enemy--she was entirely exhausted and unnerved. labarre was a farmer, who held some land belonging to aimee's unde, and it was not long before they entered his modest house--a long, ugly, grey-slated place surrounded by haystacks and outhouses. labarre, a stout, ruddy-faced man, of middle age, in a blue linen blouse, typical of the walloon farmer, welcomed the poor ladies warmly and in great surprise, and soon they were in the hands of his stout wife, elise, and were drinking cups of hot _bouillon_, for, in the farms of the ardennes, the stock-pot is usually simmering upon the fire. the long, old-fashioned room, with its heavy beams, its stone-paving, its row of copper cooking-utensils shining in the sun, and its wide chimney and wooden chairs was, indeed, a haven of rest after the terrors of that night. and while they drank the _bouillon_, the fat farmer lifted his hands as he told them the story of the german occupation. "ah! baronne! it was terrible--very terrible," he cried in his walloon dialect. "those pigs of germans came here, took all the corn i had, smashed my piano and thieved two of my horses. but the brave english drove them out. we fled when the english shells began to fall, but, fortunately, not one did any damage to our house, though the big barn was set on fire with two haystacks, and destroyed." having remained under the farmer's hospitable roof for a day, aimee, who had now completely recovered, resolved to leave her mother in madame labarre's charge, and endeavour to reach dinant where, it was said, the telephone with brussels had been repaired. by that means she could, she hoped, communicate with her father, and ascertain what they should do. the british soldiers in khaki were now in possession of bourseigne, and that communication was open from dinant to brussels, aimee had learnt from a lieutenant of the gloucesters, a good-looking young fellow named dick fortescue, whom she had met in the little place having some trouble with the walloon language in a purchase of fodder he was making, and had offered to interpret. what fortescue had told her caused her to decide, therefore, two hours later, there being no trains nor any conveyance available, she set out alone, a slim, pathetic little figure in dusty black, wearing a black shawl borrowed from the farmer's wife, and turned her face westward along that white road so familiar to her, a highway which ran over green hills and along deep valleys, and which was the main road over which the lumbering, old-fashioned post _diligences_, with their jingling bells, still passed, in peace time, between sedan and dinant. with her face to the deep glow of the sunset she trudged forward, her thoughts reverting, as they always did, to edmond--her edmond! "where is he?" she murmured, as her white, hard-set lips moved. "what can have happened to him?" was he lying still and dead--buried perhaps in a nameless grave--or was he still fighting valiantly in defence of his country and his king? if he were, he would, wherever he might be, still be thinking of her. of that she was confident, for they loved each other with a firm, all-absorbing and eternal love, a love that could never be shaken, and that could never die. the light of the fading day darkened into the blood-red afterglow, and before her there rose the lowering clouds of night, as alone and unprotected she still bent forward, with sixteen miles to cover ere she reached the narrow, cobbled streets of dinant. ten miles away on her left stood severac, now, alas! but a smouldering ruin, and over in that direction she could hear the distant booming of heavy guns, for that evening the british, acquitting themselves so bravely, were fighting von kluck all along the line from mons, through charleroi, to near mezieres. they were stemming the german invasion, and while the flower of the german army was being hurled against them, they swept them off even though the kaiser, in his insane arrogance, had issued as his "imperial command" that general french's "contemptible little army" should be crushed out of existence. in her torn and dusty black gown, and patent leather shoes, worn badly down by the long tramp from severac, aimee, though weary and footsore, did not lose heart. she was gratified that her mother was in a place of safety, and now, if she could only communicate with her father, they would, no doubt, be able to get to ostend, and perhaps over to england. so she went forward with the distant rumble of artillery ever in her ears, while as darkness fell, she turned aside to notice a fierce red glare in the sky far away across the meuse, in the direction of phillipeville. over there another town had no doubt been given to the flames. at the village of malvoisin she met several thousands of refugees coming towards france, raising clouds of suffocating dust. they were peasants driven by the enemy out of the peaceful valley of the winding ourthe, and were hoping to find shelter across the frontier in france. now and then there passed clattering squadrons of belgian cavalry, the little yellow tassels hanging gaily from the front of their caps, while ever and anon there lumbered past, in the dim light, great grey-painted siege-guns, long trains of ammunition-wagons, red cross motor-ambulances, and endless lines of transports of all sorts. squads of infantry marched gaily to martial airs, or the men sang the latest popular songs of the _cafe-chantant_, while there also passed several machine-guns drawn by their dog-teams. presently aimee joined three tearful, homeless women, one of whom trundled an old rickety perambulator filled with her household goods. they had come from rossignol, forty miles distant, which had been sacked and burned by a uhlan patrol, and they described to her the terrible scene. therefore, in company, the trio pushed forward until at length they entered a long dark street of shattered houses, which aimee recognised, to her amazement, as that of anseremme. yes! there was the little hotel beau sejour where she and edmond had spent so many sunny hours in secret together, but alas! its walls were now gaunt and roofless. it had been gutted by fire, while the pleasant little _terrasse_ beside the river was heaped with the debris of fallen walls. she sighed as she passed the place which held for her so many fond memories, and again pressed forward with blistered feet, on past that great high split rock, through which the road runs beside the river, known as the roche bayard, until at length she found herself in the long dark street of half-ruined houses that led straight into the little place at dinant. arrived there, she halted aghast. the long bridge had fallen, a wreck, into the river, and there were signs everywhere of the ruthless bombardment a week before, when happily the germans had been driven out and had retired. but at that hour, about half-past ten o'clock, the place was as silent as the grave. everywhere was ruin and desolation, while in the air was still the pungent odour of burnt wood, the woodwork of houses set on fire by the german shells. there being neither gas nor electricity, an oil lamp had been hung upon a nail on a wall, and it was near this that the girl was standing. she was well known in dinant as daughter of the baron who held the purse-strings of belgium, and, with her mother, frequently came to the little town in their car. she stood hesitating as to whom she should ask a favour and allow her to telephone to brussels, when she was suddenly startled by a familiar voice behind her, and holding her breath, she faced the man who had addressed her. it was a belgian soldier. it was edmond valentin! chapter thirteen. before the storm. "aimee?" he gasped. "_you_!" "_dieu_! edmond. you!--fancy _you here_, just at the moment when--" "when--what?" he echoed. "tell me, why are you here--in this place? why are you not in brussels? it is not safe for you here, my darling!" and he placed his hand tenderly upon her shoulder and, in the dim light of the lantern, looked straight into her dear face. she gazed at him. he was in his heavy military overcoat, with a rifle slung upon his shoulder, for he had come down into the town from the fortress above, where his machine-gun was posted, in order to take a message from his captain to the captain of infantry holding the head of the wrecked bridge close by. a few brief, hasty words sufficed to explain the terrible scene at severac; how she and her mother had fled, and the reason of her long tramp to dinant. there, in that dark, silent little square before the ruined church, with the high ruined old fortress on the cliff above, he drew her weary head down upon his breast, imprinting upon her white brow a long, passionate kiss, and murmuring: "ah! my darling, i have prayed to god that i might be spared to see you once again--if only just once--for the last time!" "no, no," she cried, lifting her lips to his, and kissing him long and fervently. "no. we shall win, edmond, and you will live. right and justice are, surely, upon our side, and we shall vanquish this german enemy of civilisation. brute force can never win in the face of providence and god's good-will." "true, darling. but you must save yourself," he urged. and, hastily, he told her of the attack upon liege, the retreat to the meuse, the bombardment of dinant, and the valiant manner in which the defenders had fought and retaken the citadel. in those five minutes in which the devoted pair stood together in the dim, flickering light, he held her in his strong embrace. their affection was a fierce and passionate devotion, the fire of a love unquenchable. he repeated in her ear his fervent love for her, and then he added in a hard voice: "aimee, if in this terrible fight for life i fall, and we do not meet again, i want you to promise me one thing. will you, darling?" "of course, edmond. what is it?" "that you will never consent to marry that man, arnaud rigaux--our enemy?" "i will never marry him, edmond. i would rather die first?" "you promise me that?" he asked eagerly. "i promise you. before i consent i would rather take my own life. i swear to you that i will never be the wife of arnaud rigaux." "_bien_! remember always that he is our mutual enemy--yours and mine," he said in a hard, determined tone. then he again kissed her, reassured by her fervent promise. as they stood beneath the lamplight, a sentry passed them, his bayonet gleaming beneath the fitful light. but they were both in ignorance that, away in the shadow of a doorway, a man who had just entered the square had withdrawn to watch the affectionate pair--out of curiosity perhaps. lovers are always interesting to the curious, yet this man who had hitherto walked very briskly, had suddenly stopped and withdrawn to the shadow, so suddenly indeed, that the heavy-footed sentry had not detected his light steps. had edmond valentin known that he was being spied upon, then woe-betide the watcher! the belgians were again in occupation of the town, and any suspicious character was at once arrested as a german spy, of whom there were so many hundreds swarming all over the country. as it was, the pair stood in utter ignorance of the sharp watchful eyes upon them, and in the silence of the night, continued in low undertones their assurances of affection. away across the river--beyond the ruins of the old chateau of creve-coeur--a fierce red light rose until it glared in the night sky, the toll of war paid by the poor defenceless peasantry, to those barbaric hordes of "kultur" who were sweeping across belgium with rapine, fire, and sword. at no crime or outrage, torture or desecration, were those hirelings of the master criminal of earth now hesitating. the modern judas, who had stretched out the hand of friendship to great britain, to russia, to france and to belgium, falsely proclaiming himself the apostle of peace, and endeavouring to blind the world to his true intentions, had now revealed himself as the world's bitterest, most dastardly, and most low-down enemy, who was making what he was pleased to term "frightful examples" in an endeavour to terrify and to stagger humanity. "i fear that you will not be able to telephone to your father, darling," edmond was saying. "only an hour ago communication was again interrupted. some uhlans have cut the wires, i suppose. they do so every day. your only chance will be to try and get through to brussels yourself--only it is so far away, now that there is no rail or motors-- sixty miles, or more." "but what shall i do?" she asked. "what do you advise, edmond?" what could he advise? he stood before her, unable to reply. so engrossed were they in their conversation that they did not notice that, after the sentry had passed across the square to the corner of the narrow rue grande, up which aimee had trudged, the dark civilian figure in the doorway had slipped across the grand place, and was again engulfed in the shadows. "you can go no further to-night, dearest," he said. "you know this place--dinant. why not go to the hotel de l'epee yonder, up the street, and remain there till morning? then i will get permission to come and see you, and we can decide upon some plan." "ah! yes!" she cried. "uncle francois! i know the dear old fellow. his son was in our service as chauffeur two years ago. what an excellent idea! yes. i will go at once. but without money will he take me in?" she queried with hesitancy. "never fear, darling?" he laughed. "the daughter of the baron de neuville has unlimited credit in any town in belgium. but alas?" he added, "i must go, sweetheart, for i have to deliver an immediate message, and obtain a reply. i may be too late if i do not hurry." "yes--go, edmond," she said, just a little reluctantly. "carry out your duty. i know my way to uncle francois' quite well. _au revoir_!" "till to-morrow, my own darling," he said, and holding her again in his strong embrace for a few seconds, he imprinted upon her white, open brow, fond passionate caresses in all the ecstasy of their mutual love. as he held her in his arms, in the dark silent grand place, the sharp sound of a bugle broke upon their ears. it was blown from the citadel above. "the alarm!" gasped her lover breathlessly. "_dieu_! what can have happened?" in a moment the call was repeated, and echoed across the river, while next second there was the rattle of rifle-shots in the darkness, and from the rock, above where they stood, opened out long white beams of intense light which slowly swept the valley up and down. suddenly the quick pom-pom-pom of a maxim--edmond's maxim--broke the quiet, followed by a red flash and a terrific explosion above them. the belgians had discovered that the enemy, under cover of darkness, were making another attack upon the town! "you cannot stay here, darling," edmond cried, in frantic haste. "run along to uncle francois'. he has big cellars there. remain below in them until the storm has passed. i must get back to my gun." and he kissed her again breathlessly, saying, "good-bye, darling--till to-morrow." once more the heavy guns upon the citadel flashed and roared. no time was now to be lost. "we are attacked again?" cried valentin. "run along to the epee! you will be safe there. run quickly!"--and he kissed her in hasty farewell. then they parted. she had only a couple of hundred yards to go to gain the old-fashioned inn. he watched her disappear around the corner, then, as fast as his legs could carry him, he ascended the hill-side to where his men, posted with their machine-gun, were already firing. by this time, however, the whole town was agog. the alarm signals had aroused everyone. it was, indeed, an awful nightmare. the barbaric enemy were again upon them for a second time! a german armoured motor-car had suddenly swept down the rue st jacques--which ran behind the rue grande--and was firing with its machine-gun into the windows of houses without warning or provocation. behind it, rode a large body of uhlans, who at once ran through, with their lances, those of the peaceful inhabitants who opened their doors to ascertain the cause of the firing. aimee succeeded in gaining the door of the ancient inn only just in time, knocking frantically, and obtaining admittance, while uncle francois, recognising her, was at once eager for information as to what had happened to the baron. at the moment the girl entered the shelter of the house, bullets were already sweeping up the streets. dinant had been attacked suddenly by a force under lieutenant-colond beeger, one of the most arrogant huns of the kaiser--a monster, who dealt death upon defenceless women and children, and who had been sent by his superiors to repeat the "frightful examples" of aerschot and of vise. the sharp, relentless talons of the prussian eagle had, alas! been set into the little place, peaceful, quiet, and unoffending as it had always been throughout the ages. within five minutes the town arose from its silence to a pandemonium of noise. edmond, who had climbed up the four hundred steps leading to the citadel to his machine-gun, saw but little of the dantean scene below. his pom-pom was now spitting death down into the grand place, but suddenly he slackened the fire in fear lest he might be sending to the grave any of those brave dinantais, whom he could not distinguish from the enemy in the darkness. meanwhile, aimee stood in the great cellars of the hotel of the sword, huddled with a hundred others of all ages and all classes, and fearing for her lover in that violent storm which had so suddenly burst upon them. how would it end? what could the end be? chapter fourteen. held by the enemy. the long, narrow street was being swept by a hail of lead. once again was dinant stricken. the germans--ordered by the assassin who led them--were firing indiscriminately into the houses as they rode along. a woman sleeping in the top room of the hotel was killed, while, in the next house, a poor little child was mortally wounded, and died in its mother's arms. those who opened their doors, startled at the commotion, were all ruthlessly shot down. the marauders, more savage than the warriors of the khalifa, spared nobody. aimee, seated upon a mouldy wine-barrel in the stuffy cellar amid that crowd of terrified women, listened to the firing, keenly apprehensive of edmond's fate. that sudden and unexpected meeting now seemed to her like some strange dream. hiding there, she knew not the savage, awful acts that were being committed by the kaiser's assassins, acts which were but the prelude of a reign of terror. "do not be distressed, mademoiselle," urged old uncle francois, placing his big, heavy hand kindly upon the girl's shoulder. "you are safe here, and besides, our soldiers will soon drive out the enemy, as they did before." as he spoke, the earth shook beneath the roar of a big field-gun. "hark! they are firing upon them from the citadel?" he added. that night proved one of breathless suspense. the sound of intermittent firing could be heard, even down in that vaulted cellar, together with the heavier explosions which, ever and anon, shook the ancient place to its very foundations. uncle francois and his daughter busied themselves in making coffee for the refugees, poor, frantic women, who dreaded what fate might befall their husbands and brothers. many of them knelt piously and aloud besought the protection of the almighty against the barbarians. dawn came at last, and with it large masses of german troops swept into the town. some sharp fighting had occurred along the heights above the meuse, but during the night the gallant defenders had been driven out of the town, being compelled to fall back along the wide valley towards namur. edmond valentin worked his gun valiantly, with a fierce, dogged determination not to leave aimee in the hands of the brutal soldiery. but it was all to no purpose. the order was given to retire, and he was compelled to withdraw with his comrades under cover of darkness. "the pigs shall die?" he muttered fiercely to himself. he clenched his teeth, and, even after the order to "cease fire," he still worked his maxim, mowing down a squad of twenty or so german infantrymen who had just entered the place below, at the spot where he and aimee had stood together only a short time before. aimee was down there, in that stricken town! could he thus abandon her to her fate! he blamed himself for advising her to go to the house of uncle francois. she should have kept on the road towards namur, for had she done so, she would have now been beyond the danger zone. a shrapnel bullet had grazed his left wrist, and around it he had hastily wrapped a piece of dirty rag, which was now already saturated with blood. but in his chagrin at their compulsory retreat, he heeded not his injury. the welfare of the sweet girl, whom he loved more dearly than his own life, was his only thought. his brigade, thus driven from their position, withdrew in the darkness over the hills to behind the village of houx, where the long railway-bridge crossing the meuse, destroyed a few days ago by the defenders, was now lying a wreck of twisted ironwork in the stream. there they took up a second defensive position. but meanwhile in dinant the germans, filled with the blood-lust of triumph, and urged on by their cultured "darlings" of berlin drawing-rooms--those degenerate elegants who were receiving tin crosses from their kaiser because of the "frightful examples" they were making-- were now committing atrocities more abominable even than those once committed in bulgaria, and denounced by the whole civilised world. into the big, ill-lit cellar descended a terrified woman who told an awful story. german soldiers were smashing in the doors of every house, and murdering everybody found within. "my poor husband has just been killed before my very eyes!" shrieked the poor, half-demented creature. "my two children also! the imites! they stabbed them with their bayonets! i flew, and they did not catch me. they are arresting all women, and taking them up to the monastery. they will be here soon." "here!" gasped aimee, her face suddenly white as death. "surely they will not come here?" she cried. "they will?" shouted the frantic, half-crazed woman, who had seen her beloved husband fall beneath the bullets of the soldiers ere they, laughingly, set fire to her house. "they will?" scarcely had she spoken before a young man, pierre fievet, a nephew of uncle francois, limped down the broken steps into the cellar, wounded in the foot, and, calling the old man aside, said in a low voice in his native walloon dialect: "don't alarm the women. but the situation outside is fearful." he was a young doctor, and well known in dinant. "about sixty workmen at the cotton-mill, together with our friend himmer, the manager, have just been found in hiding under a culvert," he added. "they have all been shot--everyone of them. the soldiers are using bombs to set fire to the houses everywhere. it is a raging furnace outside?" "_dieu_!" gasped the old man. "what shall we do?" "heaven help us! i do not know," replied the young doctor. "i only just managed to escape with my life. i saw, only a minute or two ago, in the place d'armes, quite two hundred men and boys--old men of seventy-five and boys of twelve, many of whom i knew--drawn up, and then shot down by a machine-gun. pere jules, our old friend, was among them--and surely he was fully eighty!" "holy jesu! may god place his curse upon these germans?" cried the old fellow fervently. "as surely as there is a god in heaven, so assuredly shall we be avenged by a hand which is stronger and more relentless than the kaiser's in wreaking vengeance. what else do you know?" he inquired eagerly. "xavier wasseige, manager of the banque de la meuse, has been shot, together with his two sons, and camille finette and his little boy of twelve have also been murdered. they are wiping out the whole, district of saint medart, between the station and the bridge. all is in flames. the soldiers are worse than african savages. the new post-office has been burnt and blown up. it is only a heap of ruins." uncle francois knit his grey brows, and gazed steadily into his nephew's eyes. "look here! are you lying, pierre?" he asked. "have you really seen all this?" "yes. i have seen it with my own eyes." "i don't believe you," declared the old man bluntly. "i will go out and see for myself what these german fiends are doing." "oh! in the name of god, don't!" cried his nephew in quick apprehension. "you will certainly be killed. the whole of the rue sax, along by the river-bank, is burning. not a single house has escaped. they intend, it seems, to destroy all our town, on both sides of the river, now that they have repaired their pontoon. think that we have lived in dinant to witness this!" "but what shall we do?" gasped the poor old fellow. "how can we save these poor women?" his words were overheard by aimee, who rose quickly and came forward, asking: "what has happened?" and, indicating the young man, she asked, "what has this gentleman been telling you?" "oh--well--nothing very important, mademoiselle," francois answered with hesitation. "this is doctor pierre fievet, my nephew, and he has just brought me a message. there is no real danger, mademoiselle," he assured her. "our splendid troops are still close by, and will drive the invaders out, as before. the brigand, von emmich, will meet his deserts before long, depend upon it, my dear mademoiselle." the girl, thus assured, withdrew to allow the two men to continue their conversation, which she believed to be of a private character. "don't alarm these women, pierre," whispered old francois. "poor creatures, they are suffering enough already," "but what will you do? what can you do? at any moment they may burn down this place--and you will all be suffocated like rats in a hole." "and, surely, that will be a far better fate for the women, than if the soldiers seize them," was the old man's hard response. "i, and your cousin marie, will die with them here--if it is necessary. i, for one, am not afraid to die. i have made my peace with god. i am too old and feeble to handle a rifle, but when i was young i was a soldier of belgium. our little country has shown the world that she can fight. if the great wave of germany sweeps further upon us we must necessarily be crushed out of existence. but the powers, france, england, and russia, will see that our memory--our grave--is avenged. i still believe, pierre, in our country, and in our good king albert!" "forty men over at the brewery of nicaise freres, who were found in the cellars an hour ago, were brought out and shot," the young man said. "but ah! _mon oncle_, you should have witnessed the scene in the place d'armes--how they placed our poor, innocent townspeople against the wall--ranging them in rows, under pretence that the german colonel was to address them. a miserable spy, who spoke walloon as fluently as i do myself, shouted that colonel beeger wished to speak to them, and to urge them to bow to the inevitable, and become german subjects. they were all attention, ready to listen, and little dreaming the awful fate in store for them. they never foresaw the german treachery until a little grey machine-gun at the corner, with the four men behind it, suddenly rattled out, and in a few moments the whole of them were wallowing in their own life-blood. ah! it was fearful, cruel, inhuman--_ghastly_! and this is in our civilised age!" "pierre," exclaimed the good-natured old fellow softly, so that the women in that dank dantesque vault should not overhear. "our god is the god of justice and of righteousness. these murderers may wreck and desecrate our churches; they may kill our dear devoted priests; they may ridicule our religion, yet the great god who watches over us will, most assuredly, grind in his mill the arrogant nation that has sought to crush the world beneath prussian despotism. we may die to-day in our good cause, but the kaiser to-morrow will be hurled down and die accursed by humanity, and damned to hell by his creator!" "true, our poor people are falling beneath german bullets--though they have committed no offence against the german nation--yet what can you do here? you seem to be caught in a trap. what shall you do with these women?" "heaven knows?" gasped the honest old fellow. "what can i do? what do you suggest?" and he wrung his hands. at that moment a white-haired old man, nearly eighty years of age, staggered down the broken steps, shrieking: "ah! let me die! let me die! the brutes are shooting men and boys in the place, and now the soldiers are here--_to kill us all_!" a terrible panic ensued at those significant words. the women huddled together, shrieked and screamed, for there, sure enough, came down the stone steps a grey-coated german soldier in spiked canvas-covered helmet, shouting roughly some command in german, and carrying his gleaming bayonet fixed before him. "you women must all come up out of here!" cried a stern voice in bad french, as several other soldiers followed the first who had descended, until a dozen stood in the cellar. the poor frightened creatures shrieked, wailed, and prayed for protection. but the brutal soldiers, led by a swaggering young lieutenant of the brandenburg infantry, were obdurate and commenced to roughly ill-treat the women, and cuff them towards the steps. uncle francois raised his voice in loud protest, but next second a shot rang sharply out, and he fell dead upon the stones, a bullet through his heart, while the brute who had shot him roughly kicked his body aside with a german oath. such an action cowed them all. a silence fell--the grim, terrible silence of those caught in a death-trap, for the women were now held by the enemy, and they knew, alas! too well, what their fate would now be--either dishonour or death. chapter fifteen. betrays the traitor. the few moments that followed were indeed full of grim horror. an old peasant woman, standing by aimee, in her frenzy, spat at one of the german soldiers, whereupon he struck her in the breast with his bayonet, and, with a piercing shriek, the poor thing fell, her thin, bony hands clutching at the stones in her death agony. "come! no loitering!" shouted the young officer brutally, in french. "we must have you cellar-rats out above ground." then, catching sight of aimee, he approached her, and spoke some words in german. she knew the language well, but did not reply, pretending that she did not understand. at that moment there was a struggle on the stone stairway, which was narrow and winding, and his attention became diverted from her, whereupon the big, grey-coated infantryman, who had shot poor uncle francois, strode up to her and leered in her face. she turned her head. he placed his heavy hand upon her shoulder, saying, in his bad french: "my girl, you are young and very pretty--to be sure?" and then she saw, by his flushed face and bright eyes, that he had been drinking. the germans drank up whatever they could loot--spirits, wine, beer, liqueurs, aperitifs--all the contents of the cafes. the girl, though defenceless, drew herself up quickly, and replied in german, with the words: "i see no reason why you should insult me?" "insult!" he laughed roughly. "ah, you will see. we shall teach you rats, who live down here in holes, a lesson. get along--and quickly." and he prodded her with his bayonet towards where the others, driven like sheep, were stumbling up the dark, slippery steps of the ancient vault. she went forward without a murmur. the fate of the others was to be hers also. where was edmond? if he were there he would certainly teach those brutes a severe lesson. but alas! he was not there. the belgians had been driven out, and they, weak and defenceless, were held by a fierce relentless set of savages. the whole world was now learning the vanity of attempting to distinguish between the germany of "culture" and the panoplied brutality of prussian arrogance. with the others, aimee had ascended the steps and had gained the big ancient kitchen of the inn. a number of the elder women had been pushed forward out into the street, where some screamed in sudden madness at seeing the bodies of men lying in the roadway. but aimee, with half a dozen or so of the younger women, were detained by the officer, who had just given a sharp order to his men. suddenly the young elegant in command went outside, leaving the women to suffer the indignities of a dozen or so soldiers left to guard them. the big infantryman again approached aimee, but the would speak no further word. suddenly, in the doorway, there appeared the figure of a major, at whose word the men quickly drew up to attention. aimee looked at him, scarce believing her own eyes. was she dreaming? she stood staring at him. though his uniform was strange, his face was only too familiar. it was arnaud rigaux. "m'sieur rigaux! you!" she gasped. "_you--a german_!" "yes, mademoiselle," he laughed. "i have been searching everywhere for you. it is indeed fortunate that i am here in time. this, surely, is no place for you." "searching for me?" she echoed. "how did you know i was here--in dinant? and, tell me--why are you, a belgian--wearing the prussian uniform?" truly the meeting was a dramatic one. he laughed lightly, replying hastily: "my dear aimee, i will explain all that later. come. get away with me, while there is yet time." then, whispering in her ear, he added: "these men are mostly drunk. quick! come with me, and i will place you in safety." "but i cannot understand," the girl cried, still in hesitation. "why are you here--with the enemy, and in the enemy's uniform?" "this is surely no time for questions or explanations," he urged. and, turning to the soldiers, he gave an order to march the remaining women out of the house. "let me save you, aimee," he added in french, turning to her. "how? how can you save me?" she inquired, instinctively mistrusting him. the very fact that he was dressed as a german officer had aroused grave suspicion in her mind. "i have my car in waiting, away beyond the german lines. come with me. don't hesitate. trust yourself in my care, i beg of you, mademoiselle." "i want to get to my father," she said, still hesitating. "he is in brussels. i will take you to him--on one condition," and he placed his hand upon her arm and looked earnestly into her pale, agitated countenance. "what condition?" she inquired, starting quickly at his touch. he made conditions, even in that hour of direst peril! dinant was aflame, and hundreds of innocent people were now being murdered by the kaiser's huns. "the condition, aimee," he said, looking straight into her eyes very seriously, "is that you will become my wife." "your wife, m'sieur rigaux--_never_!" "you refuse?" he cried, a brutal note in his hard voice. "you refuse, mademoiselle," he added threateningly--"and so you prefer to remain here, in the hands of the soldiery. they will have but little respect for the daughter of the baron de neuville, i assure you." she turned upon him fiercely, like a tigress, retorting: "those men, assassins as they have proved themselves to be, will have just as much respect for me as you yourself have--you, a traitor who, though a belgian, are now wearing a prussian uniform?" the man laughed in her face, and she saw in his countenance a fierce, fiendish, even terrible expression such as she had never seen there before. gradually it was beginning to dawn upon her that this man who could move backwards and forwards through the opposing lines, dressed as a german officer, must be a spy. "very well," he said. "if you so desire, i will leave you to your fate--the wretched fate of those women who have just been driven out from here. the enemy has set his hand heavily upon you at last," he laughed. "and you belgians may expect neither pity nor respect." "ah, then i know you?" she cried. "you are not belgian--but german-- you, who have posed so long as my father's intimate friend--you, who thought to mislead us--who schemed to bring the enemy into our midst. though you have uttered words of love to me, i see you now, exposed as a spy--as an enemy--as one who should be tried and shot as a traitor?" she did not spare her words in the mad frenzy of the moment. "you speak harshly," he growled. "if you do not have a care, you shall pay for this?" "i will. i would rather die here now, than become the wife of a low, cunning spy, who has posed as one of ourselves while he has been in secret relation with the enemy all the time. i hate you, arnaud rigaux--_i hate you_!" shrieked the girl. "do your worst to me! the worst cannot be worse than death--and even that i prefer, to further association with one who wears the prussian uniform, and who is leading the enemy into our country. your cultured friends have burned and sacked severac. let them sack the whole of belgium if they will, but our men have still the spirit to defend themselves, just as i have to-day. i defy you, clever, cunning spy that you are. hear me?" she cried, her white teeth set, her head low upon her shoulders, and her hands clenched as she stood before him, half crouched as a hunted animal ready to spring. "you men who make war upon women may try and crush us, but you will never crush me. go, and escape in your car if you will. pass through the belgian lines back to brussels. but, though only a defenceless girl, i am safer even in the hands of this barbarian enemy than in the hands of a traitor like you?" "very well, girl--choose your own fate," laughed the man roughly. "you refuse to go with me--eh?" "yes," she said. "i refuse. i hate the sight of your treacherous face. already i have told my father so." "your father is no longer a person to be regarded," the man declared. "he is already ruined financially. i have seen to that, never fear. you are no longer the daughter of baron de neuville, but the daughter of a man whom this war has brought to ruin and to bankruptcy. it should be an honour to you, daughter of a ruined man, that i should offer you marriage." "i am engaged to marry edmond valentin," she replied. "bah! a mere soldier. if he is not already dead he soon will be. germany flicks away the belgian army like so many grains of sawdust before the wind." "no. edmond is honest and just. he will live," she cried. "and you, the spy and traitor, will die an ignoble death!" "well," he laughed defiantly. "we shall see all about that, mademoiselle. we have been long preparing for this _coup_--for the destruction of your snug little kingdom, and now we are here we shall follow bismarck's plan, and not leave your country even their eyes to weep with. it will be swept from end to end--and swept still again and again, until it is belgian no longer, but german--part of the world-empire of our great kaiser." the fellow did not further disguise that he was a german agent--he who had posed as a patriotic belgian, was there in dinant, dressed in prussian uniform. the trembling girl stood amazed. the ghastly truth was, to her, one horrible, awful nightmare. "your great kaiser, as you call him, does not intimidate me," she replied boldly. "go, arnaud rigaux, and leave me to my fate, whatever you decide it to be. i will never accept the friendly offices of a man who is a traitor and a spy." rigaux bit his lip. those were the hardest words that had ever been spoken to him. he had been on a mission into the german lines, and only by pure chance had he recognised her with valentin, standing in the place on the previous night. his cunning brain was already working out a swift yet subtle revenge. aimee had attracted him, and he had marked her down as his victim by fair means or by foul. but her defiance had now upset all his calculations. to his surprise she preferred death itself, to the renunciation of her vow to edmond valentin. he hesitated. he held her in his relentless hands. that she knew. death was to be her fate, and she stood, with pale face, bold and defiant--prepared to meet it. chapter sixteen. the fire of fate. outside in the streets could be heard the sound of rifle-fire, while the air was filled with the pungent odour of powder, and of burning wood. the whole town had, by that time, become a veritable hell. not far along the street, indeed in sight of the hotel of the sword, forty or so innocent men--honest workers at a neighbouring factory--had been drawn up against a wall. the front row was ordered to kneel, with their hands up, the others remaining standing behind them. a platoon of soldiers suddenly drew up in face of these unhappy men, with their rifles ready. in vain did the frantic women beg for mercy for their sons, husbands, and brothers. but the officer, grinning, ordered his men to fire. some fell forward, dead, others were only slightly wounded. but the soldiers, to make sure, fired three volleys into that heap of men in their death throes. such fell, hellish work had been ordered "as examples" by the glittering war lord--the man who declared that god was his guide in his arrogant desire to rule the world. those poor fellows were, even while their bodies were still warm, thrown into a pit dug in a neighbouring garden. further up the same street, a poor old paralytic was shot in his invalid-chair, together with a bright little boy of twelve, and their bodies were kicked aside into a doorway, while, at the same time, a man of sixty-five, his wife, his son and his daughter, were set up against the wall of their burning house and shot. and none of them had committed any crime! here and there were loud explosions. the soldiers, who had pillaged the cafes and drunk indiscriminately all they could find, were blowing open the safes of merchants and shopkeepers with dynamite, and stealing all they could discover. they were mere brigands. the faubourg de leffe, near the broken viaduct of the railway, was already in flames. soldiers were using their inflammable confetti provided them by the fatherland, which they were sprinkling everywhere, for the monster in command had given the order that dinant, after being sacked, and its people massacred, should be burnt. as the slim, pale-faced girl stood facing her father's false friend, she could hear the wild shrieks of the defenceless women outside--those poor creatures dragged forth to witness the heartless murder of those dearest to them. "well," rigaux asked again, with an evil grin upon his face. "so you are quite decided--eh?" "i am quite decided, m'sieur, that you are my bitterest enemy," was her hard, defiant answer. "i have been caught here, helpless. but i have no hope, therefore i have no fear. to whatever fate you, as spy of the accursed kaiser of germany, may condemn me, i am quite prepared." for a few seconds he remained silent. her coolness and bold defiance, in face of that awful scene, absolutely staggered him. he never credited her with such nerve. "but will you not accept my offer, and escape with me?" "no. i will not accept the assistance of one who has openly confessed himself to be a traitor," she responded. "but you cannot remain here--you will be killed--perhaps even meet with a worse fate. you do not know what awful scenes are in progress in dinant at this moment," he said. "the soldiers are collecting up the people, men, women, and children, and mowing them down with their machine-guns. you cannot remain here while this awful work of destruction, theft, and incendiarism is in progress!" "and whose work, pray, is this? it is men such as you who are responsible--men who have sold belgium into her enemy's hands," she cried bitterly, her big eyes glaring at him in her woman's undisguised hatred. "merely the fortunes of war, mademoiselle," he replied with a smile, as he shrugged his shoulders, quite unperturbed by her violent denunciation. "then go, and leave me to face this terrible fate to which i have been consigned. shoot me with that revolver i see you have in your belt," she cried wildly. "shoot me, if you will. i am quite ready." but he grinned horribly in her face--the grin of a man who intended a demoniacal revenge. she knew herself to be defenceless--utterly helpless in his hands. men and women of dinant, known to her from childhood, lay stiffening in death in that narrow street wherein hell had been let loose by the orders of the arrogant war lord--that pinchbeck napoleon who dangled his tin crosses before his troops to incite them to deeds of barbarism, which were afterwards magnified and distorted into those of valour. "no," the man laughed. "if you, as daughter of the baron de neuville, still disregard my well-meant efforts to rescue you from this awful abyss of dishonour and death, then i have no more to say. i can only leave you to the same fate as that of the women of the town." "no!" shrieked the girl. "shoot me." and she stood before him ready to fall beneath the bullet of his revolver. "shoot me--have mercy upon me and _shoot me_!" she felt his hot, foetid breath once again upon her cheek; she heard the report of the rifles outside, the loud, piercing shrieks of defenceless women, the exultant shouts and laughter of the germans, and the rapid crackling of a machine-gun in the immediate vicinity. she struggled violently to free herself, but he was the stronger. his sensuous lips were upon hers, his big eyes looked fiercely into hers, while her slim figure was held within his strong, desperate grasp. she saw the evil, wicked look in his eyes. "let me go, you brute--you spy of germany!" she shrieked in french. "_let me go, i say_!" "no, no," he laughed in triumph. "you are mine--_mine_! i have brought ruin upon your miserable little country, upon your father, upon your fine chateau, and now, because you still defy me--i bring it upon you!" "_bien_! and what do you intend?" she asked. "i intend to take you out yonder, into the street, and to hand you over to the tender mercies of those most unpolite troops of germany--the bavarians. there are three thousand in the town, and they are having a really reckless time--i can assure you." "you hell-scoundrel!" cried the poor girl in her frantic, almost insane terror. "you--you who have sat at our table and eaten with us--you, whom my father has trusted, and to whom my mother has sent presents at noel. ah! i now see you unmasked, yet you--" "enough!" cried the fellow, springing upon her and putting his thick, loose lips to hers. "a last kiss, and then you go to the late which every belgian woman goes to-day where our kaiser and his troops are victorious," and he kissed her though she still struggled fiercely to evade his grasp. suddenly both started, for in the room sounded a loud deafening report. aimee started and drew back, breathless and shocked, for from that hated face thrust into hers, before her, one eye disappeared. the hateful face receded, the body reeled and suddenly falling backward, rolled over the stone flags of the kitchen. a bullet had entered the eye of arnaud rigaux, and, passing through his brain, had taken away a portion of his skull, causing instant death. that left eye, as he reeled and fell backwards, was blotted out, for it was only a clot of blood. "aimee!" shouted a voice. the girl, startled, turned to encounter a man in a grey uniform--a german infantryman! he wore a small round grey cap, and in its front the little circular cockade of blue and white--the mark of the bavarian. "_aimee_!" the girl stared into the face of her rescuer. it was edmond--edmond--_her own dear edmond_--and dressed as a bavarian! "the infernal spy!" he cried in a hard, rough voice. "i caught the fellow just in time, my darling. for two years past i have known the truth--that in addition to being our worst enemy--he has also been a traitor to our king and country, and your father's false friend." "but edmond?" gasped the girl, staring at him like one in a dream. "why are you here--dressed as a german?" "hush!" he whispered. "if i am caught i shall be shot as a spy! i must not talk, or i may betray myself. come with me. we must get back at once to the belgian line." "but--but how?" she gasped, for now the truth had dawned upon her--the truth of the great risk her lover ran in penetrating to the invested town. "come with me. have no fear, my darling. if god wills that we die, we will at least die together. come," he whispered, "appear as though you go with me unwillingly, or somebody may suspect us. come along now," he shouted, and taking her wrist roughly pretended to drag her forth into the street, where dead men and women were lying about in the roadway, and the houses only a few yards away were already ablaze. he dragged her along that narrow street, so full of haunting horrors, urging her beneath his breath to pretend a deadly hatred of him. they passed crowds of drunken germans. some were smashing in windows with the butt ends of their rifles, and pouring petrol into the rooms from cans which others carried. others were dragging along women and girls, or forcing them to march before them at the points of bayonets, and laughing immoderately at the terror such proceeding caused. a swaggering young officer of the seventieth regiment of the rhine staggered past them with a champagne bottle in his hand. he addressed some command to edmond valentin. for a second aimee's heart stood still. but edmond, seeing that the lieutenant was intoxicated, merely saluted and passed on, hurrying round the corner into the square where, against the wall near the church, they saw a line of bodies--the bodies of those innocent townspeople whom the bloodthirsty horde had swept out of existence with their machine-guns. on every side ugly stains of blood showed upon the stones. a dark red stream trickled slowly into the gutters, so awful had been the massacre an hour before. as they crossed the square they witnessed a frightful scene. some men and women, who had hidden in a cellar, were driven out upon the pavement ruthlessly, and shot down. the officer who gave the order, smoking a cigarette and laughing the while. aimee stood for a second with closed eyes, not bearing to witness such a fearful sight. those shrill cries of despair from the terrified women and children rang in her ears for a moment. then the rifles crackled, and there were no more cries--only a huddled heap of dead humanity. edmond dragged her forward. german soldiers whom they passed laughed merrily at the conquest apparently made by one of their comrades. and as they went by the ruined church, and out upon the road towards leffe, the scene of pillage and drunkenness that met their eyes, was indeed revolting. though the belgian government has since issued an official report to the powers concerning the wild orgies of that awful day in dinant, the story, in all its true hideousness, will, perhaps, never be known. those seven hundred or so poor creatures who could testify to the fiendish torture practised upon them: how some were mutilated, outraged, bound, covered with straw and burned alive, and even buried alive, are all in their graves, their lips, alas! sealed for ever. another officer, a major of the seventeenth uhlans, rode past, and edmond saluted. they were, indeed, treading dangerous ground. if edmond were discovered, both he and she would be shot as spies against the nearest wall. how she refrained from fainting she knew not. but she bore that terrible ordeal bravely, her spirit sustained by her great, boundless love for the man at her side. the road they had taken led by the river-bank, and just as a body of uhlans had clattered past, raising a cloud of dust, they saw across the hills at bouvigne, a heliograph at work, signalling towards namur. above them a taube aeroplane was slowly circling. chapter seventeen. in deadly peril. not only was dinant itself being decimated, but in the faubourg of leffe, through which they were now passing, the german soldiers, the majority of them infantrymen wearing on their caps the green and white cockade denoting that they were from saxony, including also many from baden, were busy pillaging the houses, and in one spot an officer had drawn up a number of terrified women and children, and was compelling them to cry "_vive l'allemagne_!" each house, after being sacked, was systematically burned down. in safety they passed through all the terrors which filled the little place, yet in fear each moment of detection. but the soldiers and officers seemed so intent upon their fell work of wanton destruction that, happily, no notice was taken of the fugitives. at last they gained the high road which, following the bold of the meuse, ran in the direction of namur. ten miles or so beyond lay the german front, and that would have to be passed, if they were to escape with their lives. on the road were many german soldiers, and passing them constantly were rumbling guns, ammunition-wagons, and motor-cars containing staff-officers. aimee knew the roads in the vicinity well, and in a whisper suggested that they should turn off into a narrow lane on the right. she knew of a path which led through the wood to a village called assesse, she said. "assesse!" echoed her lover. "you know the way, darling! _bien_, it is near that place we must get. close by there i hid my belgian uniform, and dressed in these clothes--clothes i took from a bavarian shot by us while on outpost duty." they turned into the lane, where they found themselves alone. "i think," the girl said, "that it would be best if we did not walk together. we might be suspected. i will go ahead, and you follow me. it is nearly five miles, but when we enter the wood the path is quite straight, through two other woods and over a brook--until we reach the village." "very well, dearest," he said, reluctantly obliged to admit that her advice was sound. he would certainly stand a better chance of escape alone, now they were in the open country over which the germans were swarming, than if they were together. yet neither could disguise from themselves the fact that their lives now hung by a single thread. should any soldier they met accost edmond, then he would certainly be betrayed, and death would, most assuredly, be their lot. having parted, however, the girl, dusty, dishevelled, and hatless, went forward, he following her at a short distance, in fear lest she might fall into the hands of one of the prussian brutes. at last, however, they came to the wood, but both noticed that, near by, were half a dozen uhlans drawn up on outpost duty. they quickly caught sight of the girl, but regarded her as harmless, and then, when edmond came swinging along, they allowed him also to pass, believing him to be one of their comrades-in-arms. within the wood they were practically safe, and had hurried forward a couple of miles, when aimee suddenly heard voices and loud laughter ahead. a number of uhlans were riding in single file up the path in their direction, therefore, in an instant she dashed away into the undergrowth until they had passed, an example followed by edmond. then, when the enemy had gone, they once more went forward again, but full of caution lest they should be taken by surprise. those five miles were the longest either of them had ever covered, for every yard was full of breathless terror. they knew not where, an outpost might be lurking, for they were gradually approaching the belgian front. it was nearly two o'clock in the afternoon when, on emerging from the wood into the hot sunshine again, they found themselves above a tiny whitewashed village, with slated roofs and thin church spire--the village of assesse. this place they carefully avoided lest it should be occupied by the enemy, but approaching a field not far away, edmond said: "see yonder! darling, that old black shed. in there, my uniform is hidden beneath some straw. until night comes on i dare not change." "then let us hide in the shed till night," she suggested. "you can change after dark, and we can then go forward." he sighed. the situation was, he knew, critical. "you know the risk we shall run, darling. are you really prepared for it?" "i will face any danger at your side, edmond. you have saved my life to-day, remember, and at imminent risk of your own." "because i love you, my own darling," was his quick response. "i have thought only of you, and of you alone. i must save you, and god will surely assist me in so doing." "yes. we are in his hands," she declared fervently. "let us go over yonder, and hide till it grows dark." "but you must be hungry," he suggested. "no, edmond," she laughed. "don't think of me--think of yourself, of your own safety." so they crept forward, unobserved, until they reached the shed--a mere shelter for cows. in one corner of the dirty place lay a great heap of mouldering straw, and edmond, having worked away until he had made a hole large enough to admit them both, they both crept in and lightly covered themselves. and then, as she found herself in his strong arms, she felt his fond kisses raining upon her brow, fierce, passionate caresses, that told her plainly how deep and how sacred was his great love for her--how strong was his affection and devotion. for seven long hours they remained there, conversing in whispers, he recounting to her the various engagements in which he had been since the outbreak of the war. he explained to her, too, how by reason of a law-case brought to him by a client, his suspicions had, two years before, been aroused that arnaud rigaux, the great brussels financier, was a secret agent of the german government. for months he had watched closely until, only a fortnight before the war, rigaux's suspicions had been aroused that he was being watched. the spy feared him--feared lest he should go to the minister of war and disclose his suspicions. this course, however, edmond had hesitated to take. "why?" asked aimee. "was it not your duty to tell the truth?" "it was my duty, i admit. but had i done so, you, dearest, not knowing the true facts, would have believed me guilty of trying to remove my rival by an underhand method. i should have lost your esteem. therefore i preferred to wait until i could strike an effective blow, and still, at the same time, reveal to you that i had just cause for so doing." "your just cause was revealed to-day, edmond," she said. "you have avenged our country, which that mean, despicable spy sought to undermine and destroy, and at the same time, dear, you saved me." "i had no idea that the scoundrel was in dinant, watching the wanton work of his prussian friends. he hated belgium, and all belgians, and so he went, i suppose, to witness a scene of destruction unparalleled in modern history. "last night, after we had been driven back over the hills, i resolved at all hazards to return to you; therefore, as i have explained, i took the clothes from a dead bavarian and succeeded in passing the german outposts just before the dawn. it was an exciting journey back to dinant, i can assure you," and he smiled grimly. "ah! it must have been. and you risked your life--you are risking it now--in order to save me," she said. slowly the light faded and a ray of red sunset, shining in at the doorway of the shed, lit up the place with crimson light. suddenly they heard sounds of voices. they both held their breath. aimee, who knew german, heard one of the men exclaim, as they approached: "this would, i think, be a snug place in which to spend the night, karl." her heart beat quickly. she could hear it thumping. the man's companion muttered some response gruffly, and they both entered with heavy tramp. she could see that they were tall, broad-shouldered uhlans, in grey braided tunics, jack boots, and helmets. they looked around for a few seconds, whereupon the gruff-voiced man exclaimed in disgust: "no. it's too dirty. let us get further along. we shall surely find a better place than that." and then they strode out, remounted their horses and rode away. the pair in hiding drew long breaths of relief. that had, surely, been a narrow escape. when it had grown quite dark and the rats began to scamper, edmond, foraging about, discovered his torn worn-out belgian uniform, and quickly exchanged his bavarian dress for his own clothes. then he having carefully stolen out and reconnoitred, they both crept away across the fields to where the trees of a plantation showed like a black, jagged line against the night sky. in his belgian uniform edmond valentin was now in even greater danger than before, for at any moment they might be challenged, when he would, assuredly, be shot. but, keeping closely in the shadows, they went on until they gained the plantation. the night was close and oppressive. in the distance, every now and then could be heard the thunder of guns, while in the sky before them, the long straight beams of the searchlights, sweeping backwards and forwards, showed the direction of the belgian front, now that they had retired from the meuse. "i left the regiment about three miles from the edge of this wood," edmond whispered. "they were yonder, where that second searchlight is showing. but probably they have retired farther, towards namur, or our outposts would certainly have been here. we must have a care, and avoid the german sentries." then they crept forward and entered the dark, silent plantation. there was not a breath of wind; not a leaf stirred, hence their footsteps sounded loudly as they stole forward, holding their breath, and halting every now and then to listen. once they heard voices--men speaking in german and laughing. even the scent of tobacco reached their nostrils. they halted, drew back and waited, so escaping detection. that was truly a weird and exciting night adventure, for they were now very near the german outposts. they could see the twinkling lights of camp-fires upon a hill-side on their right, and once the far-off sound of a bugle fell upon their ears. presently they emerged from the plantation, and edmond, having paused for a few moments to take his bearings, struck off down a narrow lane, where the trees overhung until their branches met above. for nearly a mile further they went along, leaving the roadway whenever they heard the tramp of soldiers approaching, and once very narrowly running right into the arms of a german sentry, who was standing hidden in the shadow of a haystack. it was only by drawing up suddenly, bending behind a bush, and waiting through some ten minutes of breathless agony, that they were able to extricate themselves from a very tight corner. and at last, when they were aide to creep forward unseen, they again found themselves almost beneath the hoofs of a cavalry patrol, riding along across some open pasture-land. when that further danger had passed, edmond whispered to his beloved: "we have, i believe, passed the german outposts now, dearest. yet we must be very careful. we may not have got quite through yet. come, we will cross that low hill yonder. no, the valley, perhaps, will be best," he added. "i see there's a farmhouse on the hill. the uhlans may be there--in quarters for the night. we must avoid that." so they descended over the grass land, where the country dipped towards the low ridge of hills, beyond which lay the belgians on the defensive. a few moments later they found themselves in a field of standing corn which had, alas! been sadly trampled by the enemy, and still crept along in the shadow of a high bank. on their right ran a shallow brook, rippling musically over the stones, one of those many trout streams, the undisturbed haunt of the heron, with which the picturesque ardennes abound. all was quiet, and nobody appeared to be in the vicinity. yet edmond knew that the whole of the enemy's lines must be so well patrolled that it would be most difficult for them to escape across to the belgians with their lives. the german sentry system is as near perfect as the military brain can render it. not a cat could slip by the german lines, now that they were advancing to the conquest. still he had come through on the previous night, and he was bent, for the sake of aimee, upon getting her back safely. of a sudden, a voice sounded a short distance away--a loud gruff expression in german. the pair drew up and waited, holding their breath. straight before them the long, bright beam of a searchlight was slowly sweeping the sky, searching for german aeroplanes. the men were against a line of bushes. "be careful, edmond!" whispered the girl. "they are coming this way." but they were not, for they could see that the dark figures silhouetted against the night sky were receding. straight before them was another dark copse, which led up the side of the low hill. when the germans had gone, aimee and her lover crept forward noiselessly, making their way to the cover afforded by the copse which, edmond had concluded, lay between the opposing lines. they had, however, not gone more than a hundred yards when a german sentry sprang suddenly forth from the shadow, with fixed bayonet, and uttered a loud, gruff challenge in german: "halt! who goes there?" aimee, startled, drew back in terror, clinging to her lover's arm. but only for a second. then she drew herself up again, and stood motionless at his side. "who goes there?" again demanded the sentry, in a tone of quick suspicion. "come forward," he commanded in an imperious voice. "who are you?" neither spoke. in their ignorance they were walking right into the enemy's camp! they were entrapped! chapter eighteen. the gulf of shadows. "we must fly for our lives, aimee!" her lover whispered. "follow me!" "_bien_! i am ready!" she answered, quite cool in that moment of their supreme peril. the terrors of that day had not unnerved her, because of edmond's presence. she thought only of him. between where they stood there, half concealed by the low bushes and the dark shadow of the copse before them, was a distance of some ten yards, or so. to escape, they must make a dash across that small open space. the german sentry repeated his challenge loudly. not an instant was now to be lost. it was a matter of life or death. "now, darling!" cried edmond, and together they held their breath and together sped towards the copse. next instant a rifle flashed, and there was a loud report, followed, a second later, by another sharp shot, and then another, and yet another. the alarm had been given, and, in a moment, the whole line of the enemy's sentries were on the alert. aimee heard the bullets scream past her as she ran. she heard, too, edmond gasp and ejaculate an expression of surprise. but until they were safe in the copse, speeding along together as fast as their feet could carry them, she was unaware that her lover's right arm was hanging limp and useless--that he had received an ugly wound through the shoulder. "why?" she gasped in dismay, pulling up suddenly. "you are hurt-- dearest! you are wounded!" la the darkness she felt some warm sticky fluid upon her hand. "it's nothing, really, aimee. just a graze--that's all," he declared. "come, for heaven's sake. let us get on, or we may yet be caught! our own outposts must be somewhere close by. let us hope they are beyond this copse. come--let us hurry--_hurry_!" those final words of his were uttered because he felt his strength giving way, and before he fell exhausted, as he must do, he meant still to strive with his last effort to place his beloved in safety. she, noticing that his voice had somehow changed, and knowing that the blood was streaming from his shoulder, took his left arm and assisted him stealthily along. suddenly, by a mere chance, they struck a narrow path in the darkness, and this led them to the further end of the copse. scarcely, however, had they come out into the open, when another voice challenged them loudly--_in french_! those words, startling them for a second, caused them next moment to gasp with relief. edmond answered the challenge cheerily, and they walked forward to where stood the friendly belgian outpost. in a few quick words valentin explained to the cavalryman how they had passed through the german lines, but being suspicious of spies, the man, quite rightly, called up four of his comrades, and then both fugitives were conducted along a high road for a considerable distance to the belgian camp. before general thalmann, commanding the sixth brigade, seated in his tent, edmond valentin quickly established the fact that he was no spy, and, indeed, he was able to give some very valuable information regarding the disposition of the enemy, and related for the first time, the terrible story of the sack and destruction of dinant. the grey-moustached general, having complimented him upon his gallant conduct and his wonderful escape, ordered him to at once have his wound dressed. then, rising from his camp-chair, he bowed politely to aimee, saying: "i also wish to offer my heartiest congratulations to you, mademoiselle, upon your providential escape from dinant. i allow you to accompany _sous-officier_ valentin to the base hospital. captain dulac, he added, turning to one of his officers present, please sign the necessary order. and note that i bestow the highest praise upon _sous-officier_ valentin, of the eighth chasseurs, for penetrating into the enemy's lines and obtaining much valuable intelligence." "i may add, general, that i discovered, in dinant, the brussels financier, arnaud rigaux, dressed as a german major, and, having myself proved that he was a spy, shot him?" "you shot arnaud rigaux!" exclaimed the general, staring at him. "is that true?" "yes, m'sieur." "you are quite certain of this?" "quite certain. mademoiselle was present." "then please make a note of that also, captain dulac," the commander said. "only yesterday i received word from headquarters that he was to be captured, and wherever found, sent for trial by court-martial at antwerp. so you, valentin, it seems, have put a sudden end to this man's dastardly career--eh?" and the well-set-up, grey-moustached man-- one of belgium's bravest generals--grinned with satisfaction. "well, i congratulate you, and you may rest assured that your distinguished services will not go unrewarded. _bon soir, mademoiselle--bon soir, valentin_." and the pair were then led forth from the tent, away to that of the medical service, where a doctor quickly investigated edmond's wound. aimee, fortunately perhaps, remained outside, for scarcely had her lover entered the tent, than he fell fainting. restoratives were quickly administered, and the bullet was extracted under an anaesthetic, while she waited in patience outside. edmond's wound was, alas! of a far more serious character than the gallant soldier of belgium had at first believed. in consequence of medical advice he was sent, next day, by train to the military hospital in antwerp, aimee, by order of the general, being allowed to accompany him in the military train. from antwerp aimee was able to communicate with both her mother and father, and a fortnight after her arrival there she received, with intense satisfaction, the joyful news that they had both met at ostend, and had gone to london, brussels being, of course, in the hands of the enemy. the baroness wrote several times, urging her daughter to come to london--to the langham hotel, where they had taken up their temporary quarters--but the girl replied that she would not leave edmond's side, she having volunteered as a red cross nurse at the st elizabeth hospital. for over a month edmond valentin, eager to return to the front and to still bear his part in the fighting, lay in his narrow bed in the long ward now filled to overflowing with wounded. his shoulder had been shattered, and more than one medical consultation had been held regarding it. aimee, in her neat uniform as nurse, with the big scarlet cross upon the breast of her white apron, had learned the sad truth--that, in all probability, edmond might never be able to use his right arm again, though no one had told him the painful fact. as he lay there he was ever dreaming of going back to again work that innocent-looking little machine-gun of his, which had sent to their deaths so many of the huns of the kaiser. the bitter truth was, however, told to him one day. the enemy, under general von baseler, were advancing upon antwerp. they had destroyed malines, and were almost at the gates of belgium's principal port. it was the third day in october, and british troops had now arrived to assist in the defence of antwerp. all the wounded who could walk were ordered to leave. and so it happened that edmond valentin, accompanied by aimee, resolved at last to escape to london, where the girl could rejoin her parents. with a huge crowd of refugees of all classes, the pair, ever faithful to each other--yet, be it said, greatly to edmond's regret--crossed one grey wintry afternoon to dover, where, on the pier, the pair woe met by the baron and baroness, and carried with delight to that haven of the stricken--that sanctuary of the war--london. the gallant conduct of the _sous-officier_ of belgian chasseurs, in a shabby blue military great-coat, worn and torn, and with the right arm bandaged across his chest, had reached england through the press long before. in the papers there had been brief accounts of his fearless penetration into the enemy's lines, and the gallant rescue of the woman he so dearly loved. king albert had bestowed upon him the cross of the order of leopold, and his photograph--together with that of aimee--had been published in many of the newspapers. little wonder was it, therefore, that a little over a month later--on that well-remembered day in november when the british monitors from the sea assisted the belgians and our own troops in the splendid defence of the straits of dover--newspaper reporters and photographers stood so eagerly upon that long flight of stone steps which lead up to the entrance of st martin's church, in trafalgar square, where a wedding of belgian refugees was to take place. the happy couple emerged from the church at last man and wife, and edmond valentin, still in his shabby dark-blue great-coat, and with his arm bandaged, did not escape the ubiquitous photographers any more than did aimee de neuville--now little madame valentin. but both were modest in the happy denouement of the great human drama, preferring to remain blissful in each other's love, rather than to court any further publicity. true, most of the newspapers next day,--and especially the illustrated ones,--reported that the wedding had taken place, but there was only the vaguest hint of the real and actual romance which i have--perhaps somewhat indiscreetly--attempted to describe in the foregoing pages--the romance of those terribly dramatic happenings at the sign of the sword. the end. a volunteer with pike _the true narrative of one dr. john robinson and of his love for the fair señorita vallois_ by robert ames bennet author of "for the white christ," "into the primitive," etc. _with four illustrations in color by_ charlotte weber-ditzler chicago a. c. mcclurg & co. copyright by a. c. mcclurg & co. published october , entered at stationers' hall, london _all rights reserved_ the university press, cambridge, u. s. a. to one who followed after pike to the grand peak half a century later my father [illustration: "'we go in now, señorita,' i said, offering her my arm"] _contents_ i. the rose in the mire ii. plain thomas jefferson iii. at the president's house iv. seÑorita alisanda v. gulf and barrier vi. the web of the plotter vii. ship and crew viii. the hospitable blennerhassetts ix. my indian tale x. the father of waters xi. general wilkinson xii. au revoir xiii. against the current xiv. the lure xv. the pawnee peril xvi. the barrier of rock xvii. the grand peak xviii. famine and frost xix. beyond the barrier xx. a message to my lady xxi. ho for chihuahua! xxii. glimpses of fate xxiii. the house of vallois xxiv. the serenade xxv. a victory xxvi. a defeat xxvii. heart to heart xxviii. a spanish ball xxix. the insult xxx. the duel xxxi. my cross xxxii. the message xxxiii. impressed xxxiv. shame xxxv. under the lash xxxvi. across the gulf _illustrations_ "'we go in now, señorita,' i said, offering her my arm" "we swung out into the current and drifted swiftly away" "'the grand peak!' i shouted. 'we'll name it for you'" "he fell like a steer: my sword blade broke clean off, a span beyond the hilt" _a volunteer with pike_ _the true narrative of one dr. john robinson and of his love for the fair señorita vallois_ chapter i the rose in the mire the first time i was blessed with a sight of the señorita was on the day of my arrival in the federal city,--in fact, it was upon my arrival. an inquiry in the neighborhood of the president's house for my sole acquaintance in the city, senator adair of kentucky, had resulted in my being directed to conrad's boarding house on the capitol hill. in the fall of indian summer had lingered on through the month of november. as a consequence, so i had been informed, pennsylvania avenue was in a state of unprecedented passableness for the season. yet as, weary and travel-begrimed, i urged my jaded nag along the broad way of yellow mud toward the majestic capitol on its lofty hill, i observed more than one coach and chariot in trouble from the chuck-holes of semi-liquid clay. it was midway of the avenue that i came upon _her_ coach, fast as a grounded flatboat, both of the forewheels being mired to the hub. the driver, a blear-eyed fellow, sat tugging at the reins and alternately plying the whip and swearing villanously. i have ever been a lover of horseflesh, and it cut me to see the sleek-coated, spirited pair plunge and strain at the harness, in their brave efforts to perform a task utterly beyond them. i drew rein alongside. the driver stopped his cursing to stare at me, purple-faced. "are you blind drunk?" i demanded. "they'll never make it without a lift to the wheels." "lift!" he spluttered--"lift! git along, ye greasy cooncap!" he raised his whip as if to strike me. i reined my horse within arm's-length. "put down that whip, or i'll put you down under the wheel," i said cheerfully. he looked me in the eye for a moment; then he dropped his gaze, and thrust the whipstock into its socket. "good! you are well advised. now keep your mouth shut, and get off your coat." again i smiled, and again he obeyed. we western men have a reputation on the seaboard. it may have been this, or it may have been the fact that my buckskin shirt draped a pair of lean shoulders quite a bit broader than the average. at the least, the fellow kept his mouth closed and started to strip off his coat. i rode over to the nearest fence and borrowed two of the top rails. returning, i found the fellow in his shirt-sleeves. yet he seemed not over-willing to jump down into the mud. one more smile fetched him. he took his rail and descended on the far side, muttering, while i swung off at the head of his lathered team and stroked them. once they had been soothed and quieted, i dropped back, took the reins in hand, and thrust my rail beneath the hub of the wheel. i heard the driver do the same on his side. "ready?" i called. "ready, sir!" he answered. a voice came from over my shoulder "_por dios!_ it is not possible, señor, to lift. first i will descend." the knowledge that i had put my shoulder to the wheel for a spaniard caused my tightening muscles to relax in disgust. but the don had spoken courteously, his one thought being to relieve us of his weight, at the risk of ruining his aristocratic boots. "sit still. _quien sabe?_" i replied, without looking about, and bore up on the rail. "heave away!" the rails bowed under the strain, but the clay held tenaciously to the embedded wheels. i drew the reins well in and called to the willing team. they put their weight against the breast bands steadily and gallantly. the wheels rose a little, the coach gave forward. "heave!" i called. the wheels drew up and forward. "steady! steady, boys! pull away!" out came the forewheels; in went the rear. we caught them on the turn. one last gallant tug, and all was clear. the driver plodded around by the rear, a hand at his forelock. "return the rails," i said. "i'll hold them." he took my rail with his own and toiled over to the roadside. i called up my horse and swung into the saddle, little the worse for my descent into the midst of the redoubtable avenue, for my legs had already been smeared and spattered to the thigh before i entered the bounds of the city. again i heard the voice at the coach window: "_muchas gracias_, señor! a thousand thanks--and this." he proved to be what i had surmised,--a long-faced spanish don. what i had not expected to see was the hand extended with the piece of silver. there was more than mere politeness in his smile. it was evident he meant well. none the less, i was of the west, where, in common opinion, spaniards are rated with the "varmints." i took the coin and dropped it into the mire. he stared at me, astonished. "your pardon, señor," i said, "i am not a _spanish_ gentleman." the shot hit, as i could see by the quick change in the nature of his smile. "it is i who should ask pardon," he replied with the haughtiness of your true spanish hidalgo. "yet the señor will admit that his appearance--to a foreigner--" "few riders wear frills on the long road from pittsburgh," i replied. he bowed grandly and withdrew his head into the coach's dark interior. i was about to turn around, when i heard a liquid murmuring of spanish in a lady's voice, followed by a protest from the don: "_nada_, alisanda! there is no need. he is but an anglo-american." the voice riveted my gaze to the coach window in eager anticipation. nor was i disappointed. in a moment the cherry-wood of the opening framed a face which caused me to snatch the coonskin cap from my wigless yellow curls. after four years of social life among the spanish and french of st. louis and new orleans, i had thought myself well versed in all the possibilities of latin beauty. the señorita alisanda was to all those creole belles as a queen to kitchen maids. eyes of velvety black, full of pride and fire and languor; silky hair, not of the hard, glossy hue of the raven's wing, but soft and warming to chestnut where the sun shone through a straying lock; face oval and of that clear, warm pallor unknown to women of northern blood; a straight nose with well-opened, sensitive nostrils; a scarlet-lipped mouth, whose kiss would have thrilled a dying man. but he is a fool who seeks to set down beauty in a catalogue. it was not at her eyes or hair or face that i gazed; it was at her, at the radiant spirit which shone out through that lovely mask of flesh. she met my gaze with a directness which showed english training, as did also the slightness of her accent. her manner was most gracious, without a trace of condescension, yet with an underlying note of haughtiness, forgotten in the liquid melody of her voice. "señor, i trust that you will pardon the error of my kinsman,--my uncle,--and that you will accept our thanks for the service." "i am repaid,--a thousand times,--señorita!" i stammered, the while my dazzled eyes drank in her radiant beauty. she bowed composedly and withdrew into the gloom of the coach. that was all. but it left me half dazed. not until the driver trudged back and reached for the reins did it come upon me that i was staring blankly in through the empty window at the outline of the don's shoulder. the best i can say is that i did not find my mouth agape. a touch of my heel and a hint at the bit sent my nag jogging on toward the capitol, leaving the rescued coach to flounder along its opposite way as best it could, through the avenue already famous for its two miles of length, its hundred yards of width, and its two feet of depth. wearied as i was by the last of many days' hard riding from the ohio, i was the lighter for carrying with me a scarlet-lipped vision with eyes like sloes. chapter ii plain thomas jefferson it was the third day after my arrival in washington. the clear sky, which in the forenoon had lured me down from the capitol hill along the forest-clad banks of the little tiber, had brought at the noon hour a warmth of sunshine that made by no means ungrateful the shade of a giant tulip poplar. i was lolling at my ease on the bank of the beautiful stream when a rider broke cover from a thicket of azaleas and cantered toward me down along the bank. the first glance at his horse brought me to my feet, eager-eyed. it was one of the most mettlesome and shapely mounts i had ever had the pleasure to view. the rider, attracted perhaps by my ill-concealed admiration, drew up before me with the easy control of a perfect horseman, and touched his cocked hat. "a pleasant day, sir, for a lover of wild nature," he said. his tone, though easy almost to familiarity, was underlaid with a quiet dignity and reserve that brought my hand in turn to my high, stiff beaver and my eyes to his face. "a day, sir, to tempt even a botanist to forget his classifying," i ventured at sight of the rooted plant of goldenrod in his hand. he shook his long gray locks with a whimsical manner. "on the contrary, i am of the opinion that the enjoyment of nature should add zest to the pursuits of science." "since you put it so aptly, sir, i cannot but agree," i made answer, smiling at his shrewdness. "in truth," i added, "this unusual opportunity of enjoying _solidago odora_ so late in the season loses nothing by the knowledge that the infusion of those selfsame fragrant leaves is of service medicinally." he met the careless glance accompanying my words with deepened interest in his thoughtful eyes. having had the greater part of my attention thus far fixed upon the noble horse, i had not gone beyond my first impression that the man was an overseer from some near-by plantation on the potomac. now, roused to closer observation by his gaze, i perceived that behind his homely features lay the brain of a man of much thought and learning. with this i gave heed to the fact that his clothes, for all their carelessness of cut and condition, were of the finest materials. i swept him the best of the bows i had acquired from the french creoles of new orleans. "can it be, sir, that chance has favored me with the acquaintance of a fellow physician in what mr. gouverneur morris has so aptly termed the spoiled wilderness of washington?" i asked. "if so, permit me to introduce myself as a young but aspiring practitioner of the healing art. my name, sir, is one often in the mouths of men,--robinson,--dr. john h. robinson." smiling at my attempt at wit, the gentleman swung to the ground before me, and twitched the reins over the head of his spirited mount. "you were walking toward the capitol?" he inquired. i nodded assent. "then, by your leave, i will accompany you part of the way,--not that i can claim the honor of membership in your most useful profession. i am no more than a browser in the lush fields of philosophy. my name, sir, is thomas jefferson." for a moment i stood like a dolt. my hand went up to jerk off my coonskin cap, and knocked smartly against the stiff brim of my beaver. the touch recalled me to my dignity, and i flattered myself that my bow and words would alike prove acceptable: "your excellency will pardon me! had i been aware--" "you would have known that there are few things i hold in greater detestation than such high-flown, aristocratic terms of address and such undemocratic bendings," he cut in upon me, with a touch of asperity in his quiet voice. "i stand corrected, sir," i replied, straightening to my full six feet, and seeking to cover my confusion with a smile. "it is not necessarily proof of sycophancy that one has acquired his manners in new orleans." "true--true, and that is full explanation of what i must confess puzzled me. you are from the far west, if i do not mistake, and our frontiersmen, as a rule, are as deficient in courtly graces as the european aristocrats are sycophantic. by your leave, we will be moving." we swung about and sauntered up the stream bank, the horse following at his master's heels, docile as a well-trained hound. for a time the attention of my distinguished companion seemed fixed upon the romantic arbors of wild grapes which overran the neighboring thickets. but as i was about to remark on the beauty of the autumnal foliage, he turned to me with a direct question: "have you close acquaintance, sir, among the people of st. louis and new orleans?" "i have practised in both towns, sir, since the cession of louisiana territory." "and you found the former subjects of spain and france well disposed toward the republic?" "i regret to have to say, sir, that governor claiborne is not popular even among our american residents of new orleans." the president looked at me doubtfully. "claiborne is a man of undisputed integrity." "the creoles, your excellency, could better appreciate a degree of tact. governor claiborne is too much the western man in his attitude toward people of another race." "i cannot but trust that our release of them from subjection to despotism--" he paused to study my face with a mild yet penetrating gaze. we walked on for several paces before he again spoke. "i esteem you to be a man of some little discernment, dr. robinson." "you compliment me, sir. having gone to the mississippi fresh from my medical studies in new york, it may be that i observed some features of the louisiana situation unnoted by the local factions. though a westerner myself, i trust that four years in college on the seaboard has enabled me to look upon events with a little less of our natural trans-alleghany prejudice." "ah! you are also acquainted in st. louis--with general wilkinson? perhaps you are intimate?" "no!" i said. before my mental vision rose the whiskey-flushed face and portly figure of the pompous, fussy old general. "you speak emphatically." "sir, i give you common opinion when i say there are few men of standing in the upper territory, or in the lower, for that matter, who would trust the general out of sight either with their reputations or with their purses." my companion frowned as severely as it seemed his philosophic temperament would permit. "you forget, sir, that you are speaking of the commander-in-chief of the army of the republic." "a commander whose appointment, it is said, was urged on the grounds that it would keep him out of mischief,--a man who is charged with having been implicated in all the separatist plots of the nineties." "and if so, what then? with the removal of the misguided federalists from the control of public affairs, and the purchase of louisiana territory, insuring for our western river commerce the freedom of port at new orleans, all basis for the just complaints of the west have been removed. i trust implicitly in the loyalty of the people of that great region." "what of the ovations given to mr. aaron burr during his trip this past season?" "greatly as i deplored, and still deplore, the death of mr. hamilton, it is a fact that the duel terminated the political career of his slayer,--the man whom we alike distrusted." "yet colonel burr was received with enthusiasm by nearly every man of prominence west of pittsburg. i might mention senator adair, young general jackson of the tennessee militia, general wilkinson, and our richest new orleans merchant, mr. daniel clark." "very true; and easily accounted for by the reaction of sentiment against the federalist and partisan animus which procured colonel burr's disfranchisement in the state of new york and his indictment for murder in new jersey. no; once for all, colonel burr has been removed as a disturbing element in the politics of the republic." having delivered this confident opinion, mr. jefferson stooped to pick up an odd pebble, and after gazing at it a moment, abruptly changed the subject. "the west takes some little interest, i trust, in the expedition which i had some share in planning." "you refer, sir, to the northwest expedition under the command of captain lewis and the brother of clark of vincennes fame." "the furtherance of unremunerative scientific research is one of the few functions properly within the scope of an ideal government. i am hopeful of valuable results from this expedition as regards the advancement alike of geography, botany, zoölogy, and mineralogy." "i trust, sir, that you will be equally gratified by the results of the exploration of the mississippi by my friend lieutenant pike." "pike?--pike?--ah, the son of major zebulon pike of the revolution. general wilkinson duly informed the secretary of war that he had sent young pike up the river with a small party. but it is a purely military expedition, equipped by the general on his own initiative; although i may add that his action in the matter has since received the approval of the government." "that last statement, sir, is of no little satisfaction to myself as a friend of lieutenant pike. i am sure that he will quit himself of his service with no small credit. allow me to speak of him as one of the republic's most able and patriotic young soldiers." "so i have been informed. on the other hand, the young man lacks the scientific attainments most desirable in the leader of such an expedition." my heart gave a bound that sent the blood tingling to my finger-tips. "mr. president," i exclaimed, "the government is doubtless aware that general wilkinson has in view another expedition,--one to proceed westward to treat with the tribes of the great plains and to explore the western boundaries between louisiana territory and new spain. i am, sir, only too well aware of my lack of standing alike with the general and with the government, yet i believe i can say, with all due modesty, that i possess somewhat the scientific attainments you mention as desirable--" i stopped short upon meeting the growing reserve in my companion's mild gaze. he smiled not unkindly. "i did not state, dr. robinson, that such attainments were the sole requisites. moreover, this expedition, if in truth such a one is contemplated, rests wholly upon the discretion of general wilkinson, and will no doubt be of a military character." "yet, if i may venture, could not your excellency--" the president stopped and regarded me with severity. "i have already remarked, sir, that such adulatory titles--" "pardon me, mr. jefferson!" i cried. his look did not relax. "nor 'mister' jefferson, if you please, sir. i am thomas jefferson, the servant of the people and a plain citizen of the republic,--no more, no less." knowing the greatness of the man behind this small foible, i bowed acquiescence to the statement, and he, smiling gravely in response, added with cordiality: "as i have intimated, the executive will not interfere with any proper plans which general wilkinson may deem expedient. yet i will say that, in the event he carries out the contemplated expedition to our western boundaries, i should be pleased to hear of such a well-qualified assistant as yourself being included in the party as a volunteer." i covered my disappointment with the best smile i could muster: "in that event, sir, i fear that i must repress my adventurous longings." i bowed and stepped aside for him to pass on. he mounted with easy agility, but checked his over-willing horse for a parting remark: "sir, i am pleased to have met you. i shall be more pleased to meet you at my table this evening." before i could recover from my astonishment he had touched his hat civilly, and was cantering away across country. chapter iii at the president's house it will not be thought strange that my invitation to dine with the president put me in high conceit with myself, and this notwithstanding such information as i had already acquired as to the looseness and informality of the white house etiquette since the retirement of president adams. although mr. jefferson's custom was to invite many kinds of persons to his elegant little dinners, the guests were generally selected for their compatibility. on the other hand, my elation was tempered by the fact that another result of my chance meeting with his excellency in the woods had been a sharp dashing of the hopes which had brought me to washington. i refer to the matter of general wilkinson's contemplated expedition to the west. having reasons of my own for not wishing to apply to the commander-in-chief for the leadership of the expedition, i had come on to the federal city in the fond hope of receiving the appointment from the secretary of war. fate had given me the opportunity of making my modest request direct to the source of all federal patronage, with the results which have been stated. it was therefore without undue elation that, dressed in my small-clothes and new coat, my best shirt-frill, and highest pudding cravat, i jogged north along the redoubtable avenue which, only three days before, had seen me ride south in my buckskins. my horse, feeling his oats after his days in stall, fretted at the sober pace i set him. a word or even a touch would have put him into full gallop, for all the depth of the mire. yet, even had i not been in so grave a frame of mind, i had my silk stockings and fine buckled shoes to consider. in due time we came to the grassy common about the presidential mansion, and entered the iron gate in the high rock wall built by mr. jefferson to enclose the noble building. on dismounting, my first surprise of the evening was that i should be ushered in by a white attendant. i had expected that mr. jefferson would be served by slaves from his great plantation at monticello. later i learned that he preferred to hire his entire corps of servants, some thirty or more, all of whom were white. upon giving my name as one of the dinner guests, i was shown into a pleasant, spacious room, which, from a remark dropped by the attendant, i understood to be the president's cabinet. my first glance took in a view of walls lined with well-filled bookcases, globes, charts, and maps; my second, a brighter picture of window recesses filled with roses and geraniums, in the midst of which was embowered a cage with a mocking-bird; my third glance followed down the long table in the centre of the room to where the tall, slender figure of my illustrious host was rising in courteous greeting. my second surprise of the evening lay in my recognition of the handsome, dashing little man who sat regarding me, alert and keen-eyed, from the far corner of the table. i had seen that sanguine, high-spirited face before, many a weary mile west of washington. the president met my advance with a benignant smile: "you are in very good season, dr. robinson. i am pleased that you did not forget my hasty invitation." "one does not easily forget such an honor from thomas jefferson," i responded. "tut, tut!" he reproved, and turning to his companion, who rose with graceful ease and quickness, said, "colonel burr, i wish to introduce dr. robinson--dr. john h. robinson of new orleans--" "now of st. louis," i corrected. "of st. louis." had i been the president himself, colonel burr's bow could not have been more considerate or his smile more winning. "if i missed the pleasure of an introduction to dr. robinson in new orleans, it was not due to lack of desire on my part," he said. "governor claiborne and mr. daniel clark alike spoke highly of your merits, sir." "that colonel burr should remember such chance remarks concerning an unknown young doctor is indeed a compliment," i replied. "you were pointed out to me, sir, at the dinner given you by governor claiborne. an urgent professional call compelled me to leave before i could obtain an introduction. but my misfortune in missing the honor of meeting you, alike in new orleans and upon your subsequent visit to st. louis, will now, i trust, be offset by the pleasure of your company as a fellow guest." "i had in mind that you would count yourself among the western well-wishers of colonel burr," remarked mr. jefferson, eying me as i thought with a certain sharpness. "my idea for this dinner was a party whose members would share a common interest in louisiana affairs." as he finished speaking, the president stepped past me toward the door by which i had entered. colonel burr promptly took his place, still smiling suavely, but keen-eyed as a hawk. "sir," he asked, in a low and eager voice, "may i indeed count you among my western friends?" it may have been the magnetism of the man, or possibly only the suddenness of the question, but i found myself answering without thought, "we are all your well-wishers, sir." he smiled and gave me a significant glance which i did not half understand and liked still less. the words were on my tongue's tip to correct his evident misconception of my hasty answer, when he, in turn, stepped past me, bowing and smiling. i turned about, and received my third surprise. the president and mr. burr were exchanging bows with my spanish don of the mired carriage! great as was my astonishment, i intercepted and unconsciously made mental note of the look of understanding which as i turned was passing between the don and colonel burr. the former flashed a glance of inquiry from myself to the president, who met it with his ungraceful but ready courtesy--"don pedro vallois, dr. john h. robinson." "and my good friend, señor!" added mr. burr, with a warmth of tone that astonished me. señor vallois responded to my bow with one as punctiliously polite as it was haughty. there was no sign of recognition in his cold eyes. the opportunity was too tempting to forgo. "i trust, señor, that you were not again stalled, and have not been required to inhabit the centre of the avenue these past three days," i remarked. at this he gazed at me with more interest. no doubt my voice jogged his memory, for in a moment his eye kindled, and he grasped my hand with the heartiness of an englishman. "_por dios!_ it is our _caballero_ of the mire!" "the same, señor. it is good fortune which brings us together as guests of his excellency the president," i replied, thinking to divert the conversation. it was in vain. "how?--what is this, señor? you know dr. robinson?" questioned colonel burr, his eyes sparkling not altogether pleasantly, and his lips tightening beneath their smile. señor vallois waved his hand for attention and proceeded, with much detail and elaboration, to recount my simple feat with the fence rails. in the midst entered the honorable henry dearborn, the secretary of war, to whom i had been introduced on the day of my arrival by senator adair. his curt nod of recognition forestalled an introduction by mr. jefferson, and the señor's account proceeded to the end without interruption. mr. jefferson and colonel burr were alike pleased to give the señor close attention. the former was first to make his comment,--"a friendly deed, and one seldom met with nowadays." colonel burr was not content so to spare my modesty. "friendly!" he exclaimed, "friendly! gallant is the word, sir! we read of raleigh spreading his cloak for a queen. here is an american gentleman who plunges into the mire to pry out a lady's coach, an act by far the more gallant!" he faced about to give me a knowing smile. "you saw the lady beckoning from the carriage window, and, of course, beauty in distress--" "_santisima virgen!_ my niece beckon to a stranger in the highway!" protested señor vallois, in a tone that would have compelled a far duller man than colonel burr to realize his mistake. "your pardon, señor!" he hastened to explain. "a mere figure of speech. i infer that the lady looked out, and dr. robinson, chancing to see her--" "no, no, colonel!" i broke in. "i cannot lay claim to the gallantry with which you would credit me. it was the needless lashing of the horses which prompted me to the action." "the more credit to your kindliness, sir," remarked mr. jefferson, with a heartiness which added to my embarrassment. the nod of assent and warm glance of general dearborn in part consoled me for the stress of the situation. whether the grave look of señor vallois indicated approval or disapproval of my disclaimer of gallantry i could not tell. but colonel burr was open in his protest. "what! what!" he cried. "is this the manner of the coming generation? have romance and gallantry fled with the peruke?" he looked from my loose, unpowdered curls to the spaniard's costly wig. "youth will have its day," said general dearborn, offering him his snuff-box. mr. burr took a pinch with the affected elegance of a beau. the dose was of such strength that the sneeze which followed flapped the colonel's queue and lifted a cloud of powder from his hair. the president, señor vallois, and myself having in turn declined the box, general dearborn complemented the colonel with a sneeze that stirred his own thin queue and powder. mr. jefferson made some remark commending the growing simplicity of fashion with regard to the dressing of the hair. he was interrupted by the entrance of a small, stoutish gentleman in black broadcloth, who bowed familiarly to the president and general dearborn, and formally to colonel burr. i learned without delay that the newcomer was no less a personage than the secretary of state, for mr. jefferson at once presented to him first the señor and then myself. the introduction brought me to a full realization of the honor which had been conferred upon me. that such notable men as my fellow guests should be dining with the president was a matter of course, but that i should be present as a member of so distinguished a party was, i flattered myself, a most signal honor for an unknown young doctor. the situation was in part explained by the president, who, as mr. madison met my bow with a penetrating glance of his mild blue eyes, remarked, in his easy, informal manner: "my secretary had a fall while riding to the hounds, and dr. robinson has been so good as to take his place with us this evening. dr. robinson is conversant with matters pertaining to louisiana territory." a servant appeared at the door of the drawing-room, and mr. jefferson moved forward beside señor vallois, with a word of explanation: "we will join the ladies, gentlemen." chapter iv seÑorita alisanda my wits would have been those of a dolt had i not foreseen the possibility of the presence of señorita alisanda in the drawing-room. the chance of so favorable a meeting set my nerves to tingling between delighted anticipation and dread of disappointment. thanks to my ruddy coloring and a natural erectness of bearing, i followed the others to the door with a fair show of confidence, notwithstanding that i had to endure the contrast of so polished a gentleman as mr. burr. as we advanced, he had promptly placed himself at my side, in the rear of the others, his yielding of precedence being, as i was not too dull to perceive, a most subtle attempt to flatter me. that i was flattered was not strange, as may be testified to by those who have come in personal contact with the man. yet for all his winning manner i gave little heed to his words, my thoughts being fixed on the delicious possibility of an immediate meeting with my glorious lady of the avenue. imagine the bitterness of my disappointment, upon entering the drawing-room, to see no one in the remotest degree resembling the señorita among the ladies who awaited our presence. while señor vallois was being introduced i had a moment to glance about the room, with the disheartening result that i nowhere saw the graceful figure which i had hoped to discover screened by the shabby crimson damask of the furniture. the voice of mr. jefferson recalled me to the ladies, and i found myself making a melancholy bow to mrs. randolph, his surviving daughter. she in turn presented me to the other ladies,--of whose persons and appearance, out of the medley of muslins and fans, bright eyes, bared busts, and thinly veiled forms, i retain only the remembrance that one was mrs. dearborn, another a mrs. smith, daughter of the renowned senator bayard of delaware, and a third mrs. madison. of the fourth lady, whose name i did not catch, i recall that she was an elderly dame of sedate manners, but far other than sedate in her compliance with the extreme mode. her gray curls were all but dripping with pomade, and the gore in the left side of her narrow skirt extended up above mid-thigh. her jewelled garter was the handsomest one visible, for which reason, i presume, it was more openly displayed than those of the other ladies. mrs. madison, petite and charming, notwithstanding her plainness of feature and the fact that she was nearer forty than thirty, promptly rallied me upon my look of depression. the colonel and mrs. smith joined forces with "dolly," as the latter addressed her, so that i was compelled to smile, if only to save myself from a general onslaught. "that is better!" exclaimed mrs. madison. "he, a doctor! to think of dining with so gloomy a countenance!" "above all, to think of any other than a smiling face in _your_ presence!" chimed in mr. burr. "i had not thought it possible of one who has proved that he can be gallant even to horses." at this there was a chorus of curious questions. i turned, seeking a way of escape, and discovered that i was all but touching elbows with my lady of the mire! presently i found myself bowing. though still half bewildered, i realized that i was being introduced to her as miss vallois, the niece of señor vallois. colonel burr, who had been introduced with the other gentlemen while i stood in my daze, now sought to engage her attention. his eye for feminine charm and beauty is as well known as is his success with the ladies. with such a rival, my utter loss of composure doubtless would have resulted quickly in the more serious loss of the lady's attention, had she not at the last moment recognized me as the buckskin _caballero_. with a glance of frank pleasure which came near to finishing me on the spot, she signed gracefully to her uncle: "_santa maria!_ it is he--the _caballero_ who so kindly came to our assistance!" "i have already expressed to the señor the full measure of our gratitude for his service," replied don pedro, in a tone which recalled the girl to her first manner of polite hauteur. "permit me to join my thanks to those of my kinsman," she said to me. nettled by the condescension of her tone and bearing, i shook off my daze, and rejoined with more wit than courtesy, "believe me, señorita, no thanks are due me other than from your coach horses." another chorus of questions demanded the explanation, and colonel burr responded by telling over don pedro's account in the form of a wittily brilliant anecdote. i listened unheeding, for my gaze was fixed upon señorita alisanda. at my rude reply her eyes had flashed with a look before which my own dropped,--though not to the floor. as she drew back a step in her displeasure, my gaze dwelt adoringly upon the graces of her lissome form. she was tall, yet not unduly slender, and the queenly dignity and beauty of her presence were enhanced by the flowing lines of her dress. of the dress itself i can only say that it was of scarlet sarsenet, covered in part by an overdrape of silver spangles on white _crêpe_, and, in compliance with the empire mode, cut low enough in the waist to expose her dazzling shoulders and bosom. her arms, rounding up from the small hands and slender wrists as if carved from new ivory, were bare to the bows of black ribbon on her shoulders. close about her perfect throat, in place of the usual ruffs, was a double string of black pearls. notwithstanding the universal acceptance of the new fashions, i had great pleasure in the fact that she had not sacrificed her beautiful hair for a wig. but, needless to say, i gave slight heed to her dress. my fascinated eyes dropped their gaze to the little arched foot which peeped from beneath the raised front of her dress, snugly cased in its diamond-buckled slipper of scarlet satin. the foot drew back out of view, and i looked up in time to catch a faint tinge of pink beneath the clear ivory of my lady's cheeks. her look was, if possible, more haughty than before. yet, emboldened by that faint blush and the intoxication of her beauty, i met her gaze with such a glow in my steel-gray eyes that this time it was hers that lowered. a change in the light chatter of the company forced me to spare them a glance. señor vallois and mrs. randolph were leading the way to the dining-room, and the others were pairing off to follow, in a most informal manner. i saw colonel burr turning toward us, which spurred me to instant action. "we go in now, señorita," i said, offering her my arm. mr. burr flashed me a whimsical glance, between disappointment and commendation, and turned to the nearest lady. at the same time the señorita looked up. seeing the others all in couples, she hesitated only a moment before accepting my arm. of the dining-room i can state no more than that it was a very long apartment, that the furniture was exceedingly plain, and that we sat at an oval table, whose shape was supposed to bring all present face to face. thanks to the close imitation of parisian society at new orleans, to which i had enjoyed the _entrée_, i managed to conduct my unwilling partner to the table with a _haut ton_ that brought an uplift in the brows of more than one of my fellow guests. my elation over this success was short-lived. colonel burr adroitly placed himself on her other hand, and for a time i saw no more of her scarlet lips and dusky eyes. both were given freely to the colonel, whose reputation was only too well known. i might have sought to console myself with the rareness of the wines and the epicurean delicacy of the food. the service was simple, yet refined, the cooking such that i at once recognized the art of a frenchman. yet even the madeira failed to cheer me. i could only sit silent over my plate and steal lackadaisical glances at the rounded shoulder which my partner so cruelly turned upon me, and at the silky maze of sable hair which crowned her shapely head. until now my feeling toward colonel burr had been uncertain, vaguely doubtful, yet by no means hostile. it now hardened of a sudden into deep-seated aversion. so little has reason to do with the affairs of men--and women! to show the depth of resentment into which my passion flung me, i need only say that i conned over in my memory the fatal meeting between mr. burr and mr. hamilton, and exulted that i might be able to avenge the great federalist and myself at the same time by challenging the colonel to a like encounter. for all his sinister reputation as a duellist, at that moment i would gladly have met him with any weapons he might choose. either because of my look, or, what was the more probable, because of his well-known aversion to a divided conversation at table, mr. jefferson broke in upon the colonel's _tête-à-tête_ with so shrewd a question regarding the louisiana situation that mr. burr was required to answer at some length. this fresh turn of the conversation the president, with seeming ingenuousness, deflected to me, so that, from being the one silent member of the party, i found myself most unexpectedly the main speaker and the centre of attention. by keeping well within the bounds of my certain information, i was able to hold my own in the general discussion which followed, and to reply to all questions with a fair degree of fluency, although subjected by each of the gentlemen in turn to a cross-examination as keen and pointed as it was lightly uttered. "and your opinion of the spanish boundaries?" asked mr. madison at last. it was a question which i had expected from the first,--the question of all questions among my fellow-denizens of louisiana territory. "we have him there!" said colonel burr, as i paused over my reply. even the ladies bent forward to catch my words, and i was not surprised to see that señor vallois betrayed still more interest than the other gentlemen. for the first time my partner turned and fixed her eyes upon me. i stated my opinion without further hesitancy. "as to the west florida boundary," i said, "there can be no doubt. spain is in the right." "your proof?" demanded colonel burr. i cited such clauses bearing upon the point in the spanish and french treaties as were known, and other facts which i had heard mentioned by mr. daniel clark. "a plausible statement," remarked general dearborn. "but with regard to the other spanish line--the texas boundary?" "as to that, would not the opinions of señor vallois and colonel burr be more authoritative?" i countered. "colonel burr at least should be well-grounded as to the points in controversy, in view of his high standing as a lawyer and the commonly accredited report in the west that he is negotiating for permission to found a colony within the spanish territory." "it is the first i have heard of the undertaking," remarked the president, with evident surprise. "you did not mention it to me, colonel, at our meeting the other day." "had your excellency then considered it expedient to give me the ministry for which i asked, i should have had no need to enter upon speculative projects," returned mr. burr, exposing his humiliating rebuff by mr. jefferson with a cynical frankness which it was plainly to be seen disconcerted not only the president but his eminent secretaries as well. mr. burr paused a moment to enjoy the confusion of his great adversary, then continued: "the project of a colony is as yet indefinite in my mind. i have considered the possibility of retrieving my fortunes by the purchase of four or five hundred thousand acres in the midst of the most fertile tract of texas,--on the washita river." "ah, texas!" exclaimed mrs. madison, turning to señor vallois. "is it not the question of the texas line which most threatens to terminate our fair relations with your government?" "such is the fact, señora," replied the don, with marked reserve. mrs. randolph addressed my partner: "your uncle takes you to chihuahua by way of texas, i believe you said, miss vallois." "no, madam. i fear i was not clear in my explanations. señor vallois had intended to return that way before it was decided that i should accompany him from england." "we go by way of vera cruz," explained señor vallois. "so long a voyage!" exclaimed mrs. smith. "i should have imagined the passage from england would have wearied you of the water for a lifetime." "we came in one of your american packet ships, and were only twenty-seven days in crossing," replied the señorita. "only twenty-seven days on the ocean!" i exclaimed--"twenty-seven days!" "it is not an extraordinarily quick passage, with favorable weather and our american-built ships," remarked mr. madison. "believe me, sir, it was not the shortness but the length of the voyage which compelled my exclamation," i explained. "miss vallois will pardon me if i express my admiration of her heroism. i once made a trip from new york to boston by schooner. i came back on a horse." this statement was met with a gust of mirth, no doubt due more to the wine which had gone before it than to its wit. yet it served to throw the conversation into a lighter vein, that ended in a run of repartee as sparkling as the champagne with which it was accompanied. in this contest of wit and airy nothings i soon found myself as far out-distanced as the others were outstripped by colonel burr. again my partner gave me her shoulder, and my sole consolation for the slight was that she joined but little in the contest, and met the colonel's gallantry with a reserve unmistakably evident in the poise of her head and the coldness of her perfect profile. she could be haughty with others no less than with myself. although she did not favor me with a single glance, the half-averted view of her adorably curved cheek and an occasional glimpse of her profile were far preferable to nothing. all too early, mrs. randolph gave the signal for the ladies to withdraw. in rising, whether by accident or design, the señorita turned toward me. her eyes were nearer on a level with my own than those of any other young lady i had ever faced, and the erectness of her carriage, so different from the drooping french pose, added to the effect of proud height. she met me with a full open gaze, as devoid of allurement as it was of repellence and hauteur. i seemed to be looking down into the depths of fathomless wells, within which was nothing but velvety darkness. it was but a moment, and she had turned away with the others, leaving me mystified. nor could i puzzle out the meaning of the look during the two hours i sat with the other gentlemen, matching them glass after glass, and with them growing steadily more mirthful over the witticisms of colonel burr, which were more notable for point than for decorum. the fine and costly wines of our illustrious host stirred me to this false mirth, behind which, as behind a mask, i found my inner self constantly reverting to the thought of my lady's strange glance. but try as i might, i could not so much as guess at its meaning. as i have said, it had held nothing either of attraction or of repulsion; it had not expressed even the barest curiosity--only that fathomless depth of mystery. all the more was i eager for the signal to rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. another look, i thought, would give me the key to the puzzle, a trace to point me along the way of her meaning. at last mr. jefferson saw fit to lead us in to the ladies, a servant following with the coffee. i pressed in close after señor vallois, and, like him, looked about in vain for his niece. mrs. randolph hastened to explain to him that miss vallois had only just withdrawn, on the plea of a slight indisposition. the señor immediately excused himself, saluting us all with punctilious bows and a sonorous "_adios!_" and withdrew. after his departure the ladies were pleased to bestow on me some little attention, and in their seemingly artless manner drew from me much regarding my family, my education, and my fortune,--or, as i should say, my ambitions; for my fortune as yet lay mostly in the future. presently, to my surprise, i found myself invited to call at as many homes as there were ladies present. this was an honor entirely unexpected by me, in view of the fact that i could claim neither political prestige nor distinguished birth. the disregard for the latter may have been due to mr. jefferson's well-known jacobin principles, the reflection of which is clearly perceptible in the attitude of the greater number of his intimates. the gentlemen were almost equally cordial when the time came for me to withdraw, general dearborn alone maintaining a certain reserve, due, as i surmised, to anticipations of a formal application for government favors. at the last moment colonel burr remarked that he intended to stop over another day before going on to philadelphia, and gave me his address, followed by a cordial invitation to call. i replied with an expression of thanks for the honor and withdrew before he could pin me down to an outright acceptance. chapter v gulf and barrier there may be more disagreeable tasks than waiting on the uncertain favor of public officials. if so, i have never chanced upon them. backed by letters of introduction from prominent men in new orleans and st. louis and by my father's old-time friend senator adair of kentucky, i had thought to obtain the coveted leadership of the westward expedition for the asking. to my surprise, even the letter of so great a merchant as daniel clark met with scant consideration from the eastern office-holders, and senator adair soon confessed to his lack of influence with the government with regard to my interest. at the same time he intimated to me that should i be able to gain the good word of colonel burr, it was not unlikely i might receive my appointment direct from general wilkinson. "but, sir," i protested, "what has colonel burr to do with a military expedition planned by the commander-in-chief of the army?" the senator gave me a sharp glance, and considered for some moments before replying: "young man, one of the greatest aids to success in life is the ability to recognize helpful friends. i have received a letter from colonel burr in the last philadelphia post. you met him at the president's house, and i gather from his remarks regarding the occasion that he was greatly taken with yourself." "unfortunately the favorable impression was not mutual," i said. "it is indeed unfortunate--for you, john," reproved the senator. "such men as colonel burr can pick and choose from thousands." "i am willing to be passed over." "tut! a boyish whim! do not say no to me. you will cultivate the friendship of the colonel." i made an impatient gesture. "at the least, you will not rebuff him." "sir, i have not sought his advances. but since it is you who ask, i will not take positive stand against him." "that is better. it might be more--yet enough for the time. let me tell you, john, colonel burr is still a man of mark in this republic, and i shall be vastly surprised if he does not add laurels to those he has already gathered." "it is i who am surprised," i replied. "a once successful politician, now discredited from maine to virginia,--a man who seven years ago tied with mr. jefferson in the vote for the presidency, and last election was all but unanimously rejected, alike by the people and by the electoral college,--for you to speak of such a man winning other laurels!" "you forget the west." "the west?" "consider his reception west of the alleghanies this past year,--his triumphant progress from pittsburg to new orleans and return." "the west will elect no presidents in many years to come." the senator gave me an odd look. "perhaps not--perhaps not. these people of the original states would not consider it a possibility even of the remotest future," he murmured. again he considered. at last, "has it occurred to you, john, that this expedition may have other object than the exploration of our western boundaries?" "there will be treaties to make with the powerful tribes of plains indians,--the pawnees and perhaps the ietans, or comanches, as some call them." "ah, yes; with the pawnees--and others. did you never hear it said that, could an overland trade with santa fe be established, it would be of no small profit to those fortunate enough to obtain the concession from the spanish authorities? santa fe is the nearest gateway to the mines of mexico,--to el dorado." "i know a certain señor liza of st. louis who would not forego a chance to join in such a venture," i replied. "true--true. but he is a spanish creole, and, i fear, not too well disposed toward us. my point is, would it be too great an improbability that a certain projected expedition should chance to come in friendly touch with the authorities of northern new spain?" having given me food for thought to last me many a day, the senator dropped the subject. during all my subsequent months of waiting i could not induce him to discuss it again. the time of this conversation was the third week of my stay in washington. being well supplied with funds and on agreeable terms both socially and professionally with dr. frederick may, i had settled down in my comfortable boarding-house, prepared, if need were, to besiege the government throughout the winter. should i fail to attain my desired end, i had only to return west to find a fair practice awaiting me either at st. louis or new orleans. at the worst there would be ample recompense for my expenditures in the experience of a winter in the federal city. even had i been certain of the rejection of the formal application which, a few days after the dinner at the white house, i had placed on file in the war office, i should have prolonged my stay for some time. within the week i had taken advantage of the invitations to call tendered me by the ladies of the president's party. within another week i found myself fairly launched in the social swim. it is not remarkable that a man well under thirty, who has spent many of his years riding the wilderness traces, should plunge into social affairs with a zest unknown to the city dweller. to this zest there was added in my case the keen desire to meet again my haughty señorita alisanda. yet devote myself as i might to attendance at balls, _fêtes_, dinners, routs, and calls innumerable, it was only to meet with repeated disappointments. although, thanks to the kindness of dr. may and my lady patronesses, there were few social gatherings, small or great, to which i was not invited, i failed to gain another meeting with the lady of my heart. she was not present even at the grand new year's _fête_ at the white house, when mr. jefferson, as was his custom, received and entertained all washington. that i was desperately in love with the señorita i had soon found myself compelled to admit. for nothing less than the depth and passion of my feeling could have prevented me from laughing myself out of it for the sheer absurdity of such a thing. reared among a people whose daughters marry at sixteen and their sons at nineteen and twenty, i had safely survived my calf-love, had even run the seductive gantlet of the creole belles of new orleans,--only to fall victim in my mature twenties to the first glance of this haughty spanish señorita. what could i hope from one who doubtless regarded me as our western girls regard the red indian? i do not mean with the like horror, but with a like contempt. not alone was she a spanish catholic, to whom marriage with a heretic would mean little less than sacrilege,--she was the daughter of a castilian family whose name implied kinship with one of the royal houses of france. i was a man without a grandfather, and, what gave me real concern, a citizen of a republic which, in return for the carrying trade of the world, was grovelling at the feet of england and france, submissive to their contemptuous kicks. true, spain also bowed beneath the iron hand of napoleon, but it was because of the might of that hand, and not, as with us, because of a willingness to endure shame rather than part with the commerce of which our humiliation was the price. far better war and death than such barter of principles for gold! as i thought of my abject countrymen i did not wonder that my lady had looked upon me with hauteur; and yet i could not but reflect on the graciousness of her thanks from the carriage window and that inscrutable glance at our last parting. hope interpreted the glance to mean that she was heart-free and to be won by him who could stir her heart. despair said that she had gone forever beyond my reach, to the far distant home of her uncle in new spain. one answer to this last was the wild fancy that, could i but attain the leadership of the western expedition, i might penetrate the wilderness and seek her out in the midst of her people. at the height of my fantastic scheming, gossip at last enlightened me to the fact that my lady was yet in the city, stopping with a humble family of catholics, and precluded from attendance at social functions by the absence of her uncle on a trip to philadelphia. rumor added that the señor had gone to the old capitol in company with colonel burr, who, having spent much time at the british legation with mr. merry, the english minister, had hurried north to confer with the marquis de casa yrujo. but rumor and colonel burr were old bedmates, and i gave little heed to the report at the time. my interest was centred on the joyous news that the señorita was still in washington, not upon the curious information that her uncle and colonel burr were supposed to have business with the spanish minister, who, though he had severed diplomatic relations with our government some months since, yet lingered at philadelphia. significant as should have been this report to one with my interests and information, i must confess that not even the mention of señor vallois drew second thought from me. for the time being my whole intent was to find myself once more in the presence of the señorita. the question was how and where? she was not to be seen in society, and i was not quite so mad as to thrust myself in upon her at her retreat. hope flamed up again when all seemed darkest. as is well known to all people of information, the sunday assemblage in the hall of representatives at the capitol is frequently varied by the preaching of distinguished clergymen of various sects and denominations. being rather given to free thought, though not to atheism, i had thus far refrained from attending these quasi-official services, much as i had heard about them as the social levees of the city. chance, however, brought to washington a noted catholic bishop, and the announcement that he would preach the following sabbath in place of the chaplain stirred me with the hope of a pleasant possibility. that sunday i went early to the assemblage hall, dressed in my best attire, my chin swathed high enough by my pudding cravat to shame a london beau, my trousers cut to the most modish, baggy shape and flapping loosely about my shins. early as i arrived, i found no small part of the crowd ahead of me, and i had to thrust and elbow my way here and there among the beaux, across the hall, before i could satisfy myself that the señorita was not present. dashed, but by no means disheartened, i chose a post of vantage on the elevated edge of a niche, from which i could watch the entrance. already i had had occasion to make my bows to the fashionably costumed dames and misses whose gay talk and manners lent to the hall more the aspect of a ballroom than that of a house of worship or a legislative chamber. as the company thronged in the gallant representatives yielded their seats to the ladies and stood beside them if acquainted, or, if the fair ones came attended, left the aisles to the escorts and withdrew into the lobbies or warmed themselves at the fireplaces. seeing the rapidity with which the seats were being filled by the ladies, it occurred to me to pay one of the house attendants to bring me a chair. by the time the man fetched it the aisles were so crowded with extra seats and the throng of standing men that the only available space left for a chair was in the statueless niche behind me. though the width of the hall lay between it and the platform behind the speaker's chair, i could do no better, and the elevation of the position would, as i had found, enable one to see, if not hear, over the heads of the noisy assembly. the nearness to the entrance was in another way a decided advantage, since it would enable me to address the señorita without abandoning my seat to capture by the nearest beau of the many chairless ladies. from the moment the chair was handed me i was subjected to the wordless attack of numerous fair ones, whose glances ranged all the way from soft appeal to scornful reproach. and still the señorita failed to appear! mr. jefferson, as negligently dressed as usual, had come in and taken his seat beside his secretary; and the marine band, a resplendent cluster of scarlet uniforms and polished brass instruments in the gallery, had played the opening bars of "hail columbia," when a stir at the entrance caused me to redouble my despairing vigil. greatly to my disappointment, i saw only the stately form of the catholic bishop. ushered by an attendant, the priest made his way with serene dignity through the laughing, chattering crowds whom he was to address. my heart sank into my boots. the service had begun, the hall was packed almost to suffocation, the bishop had arrived, and still the señorita failed to appear. to have kept waiting longer the nearest of the ladies who had signalled to me for my chair would have been most ungracious. i turned to speak to the lady's friend, hesitated, and turned back for a last look at the entrance. a rawboned irishwoman was thrusting her way in through a group of men, who seemed none too willing to give passage to her. the plainness of her dress was enough of explanation for that, even had not the crowd been so close. as she paused for breath, her big face red from exertion and the quick anger of her race, it flashed upon me what a just mockery of the beaux' gallantry it would be to give the woman my cherished seat. no sooner had the thought entered my head than i caught her eye and beckoned her to the chair. the woman stared. i nodded and repeated my gesture. promptly she pushed a little to one side and turned half about. the movement brought to my view the figure of another woman who had followed her in. my heart sprang into my throat. though the face of the second woman was downbent and her dress all of black, it was enough for my enlightenment that the covering of her graceful head was a spanish mantilla. at a word from the irish woman she looked up and toward me, and i thrilled at the level gaze of her glorious eyes. i bowed and pointed to my chair. without a sign of recognition she turned to look across the hall. unmasked to the men about her by the changed position of her attendant, they were already making room for her beauty where the rude strength of the woman had met with counter elbowing. nine in ten of those who surrounded her would gladly have given her their seats had they been in possession of chair or bench. but mine was the only vacant seat in the hall. the irishwoman, who stood half a span taller even than the señorita, had already perceived the fact. i saw her bend to whisper. this time the señorita met my salute with a slight bow of recognition, and advanced toward me, followed closely by her duenna. had there been no other ladies in the throng her passage would have been along an open lane of admiring gallants. but not until she was within arm's-length did i dare step down from my post of defence to meet her. we alike had the other ladies to face and avoid. half a dozen beaux were already before me to proffer their assistance. i thrust aside the nearest and offered my hand. she placed her gloved fingers in my big palm and stepped up, without so much as a word or a glance. for all that i found myself in an exultant glow. had i not had the forethought to procure the chair for her? and, what was far more, had i not exercised sufficient courage to retain it for her, despite the other ladies? the big irishwoman gave me a glance as kindly as it was shrewd, and took up her position beside me, her coal-scuttle bonnet on a level with my curls. having done the señorita a service, it seemed to me fitting that i should wait for her to speak before pressing her with further attentions. accordingly i stood with unturned head, gazing across toward the speaker's stand, and drinking in with appreciative ears the sonorous bars of "columbia." with the last note of the national anthem ringing in my ears i became aware of a far more musical sound,--the low-pitched voice of the señorita: "there is space for one to stand beside the chair. dr. robinson has my permission to step up and discover for me if mrs. merry is present." "dr. robinson accepts the invitation of señorita vallois with pleasure," i replied, hoping to bring a smile to the scarlet lips. they did not bend, and i could see nothing but hauteur in her pale face and the drooping lashes of her eyes. i stepped up into the narrow space beside the chair, but it was not to stare about in search of mrs. merry. "you do not look," she said with a trace of impatience. "there is no need," i replied, my gaze downbent upon her cheek. "no need?" "the wife of the british minister is not here." "you have heard that she is ill?" "no, señorita." "then how should you know that she is not here?" "because i have looked into the face of every lady present." she smiled with a touch of scorn. "i had not thought the american gentlemen so gallant!" "i looked into the faces of all, señorita, searching for one." to this she made no reply; and i, fearing that i had gone too far, stood silent, under pretence of listening to the service. it was indeed a pretence, for had i been in sober earnest i could have heard little other than the band above the whispering and giggling all about the room, the occasional loud talk in the lobbies, and the open laughter and conversation of the young ladies and their lovers warming themselves at the fireplaces. throughout the service these gay young couples came and went from their seats whenever the ladies felt chilled or took the whim, the freedom of their movements seemingly limited only by the closeness of the aisles. when the time came for the bishop to preach there was a lull, owing to his stately appearance and forceful oratory. the lull was brief. once more the young couples fell to whispering and tittering. a group of representatives and a senator near us began a muttered disputation about the question of naval appropriations. the señorita bent forward, straining her ears to catch the words of the bishop. it was hopeless. in the most favorable circumstances the hall of representatives has a bad name for its wretched acoustic properties. in the midst, at the stroke of noon, the attendant who had brought my chair, came in with a great sack and, escorted by an officer of the house, passed across the hall through the thick of the throng to the letter-box on the far side. having emptied the box, he returned with his official escort in the same fashion, the bag on his shoulder bulging with letters. the spectacle did not tend to lessen the lively spirits of the assembly. for the first time since i had taken my place beside her the señorita looked up at me. her face was still cold, but in the sombre depths of her eyes glowed a fire of anger. "is it so you republican heretics meet the words of a most venerable prelate?" she demanded. "from what i hear, señorita, preachers of other churches receive, if anything, still less consideration than this." "it is a mockery of worship!" "with the thoughtless, perhaps. i see many who listen. another time it would be advisable to come early and find a seat nearer the speaker." "there will be no other time." "señorita!" i murmured, "you leave?" "within the week." "so soon! you go by water. would that i were a sailor in the west indian trade!" she gave me a curious glance. "why in the west indian trade?" "ships carry passengers. aboard even the greatest of ships the sailors have glimpses of the passengers." "sometimes passengers stay below, in the cabin," she said coldly. "that may well be in times of storm," i replied. "then the sailor is above, striving to save those who are in his care from shipwreck. but in the warm waters of the gulf the passengers show themselves on deck, pleased to leave the narrow bounds of their staterooms." "there are some who would rather stifle in their staterooms than be stared at by the common herd." "there are others, born in state, who would rather stand beneath the open sky, side by side with a true man, than share the tinsel display of kings," i persisted. "rousseau is somewhat out of style." "no less is royalty." "the french murdered their king, and god sent them a tyrant." "a tyrant not for france alone. all europe trembles at the word of the corsican." "and your country, the glorious free republic." the bitter words forced past my lips: "my country writhes and bends beneath the insults of the fighting bullies, and clutches eagerly at the price of shame,--the carrying trades of the world." she raised her eyes to mine, grave but no longer scornful. "at last i have found an american!" "there are others beyond the alleghanies. we of the west are not sold to the shipping trade." "no; you do not take by commerce. you have ever been given to taking by force." "we have conquered the indian with our rifles, and the wilderness with our axes." "yet you turned to your east for it to buy you louisiana, through a conspiracy with that arch-liar the corsican!" "no conspiracy, señorita! it is well known that napoleon bought louisiana from spain for the sole purpose of extending his empire to the new world. it was the fear of losing new orleans to england that induced him to sell the territory to us--that alone." "yet he had given his pledge to my country not to sell!" "let your people look to it that he does not sell spain itself." "ah, my poor country!" she murmured, and her head sank forward. "i had gathered that your uncle was among those who seek to free mexico from spanish rule," i said. "those whose misrule rests so heavily upon my people in new spain have little more regard for the welfare of my people in the mother country." again there was silence between us, this time until the close of the bishop's sermon. as the prelate left the stand, the irishwoman turned about with an expectant look. "enough of this mockery!" said the señorita. i stepped down at the word, and had the pleasure of receiving her hand the second time. she made no objection to my escorting her from the hall and to the outer door. in the portico she stopped for the irishwoman to come up on her other hand. "you have my thanks, señor," she said. i was not prepared to receive my dismissal so soon. "with your kind permission, señorita, i will see you to your door," i ventured, astonished at my own audacity. whatever her own feeling, she turned without so much as a lift of her black eyebrows, and signed the woman to drop behind again. we descended the marble steps together, and passed down a side street. she walked as she spoke, flowingly, her step the perfect poetry of motion as her voice was the poetry of sound. her mere presence at my side should have been enough to content me. but my thoughts returned to the dismal news of her intended departure. "you go within the week?" i questioned. "without regret," she replied. i passed over the thrust. "you have been nowhere. it must have been dull." "less so than may be thought. i have spent much of my time in the company of mrs. merry." "lord have mercy upon us!" i mocked. "if you have been imbibing the opinions of the lady of the british legation--!" "i have heard some sharp truths regarding the ridiculousness of your republican regime." "and could tell of as many, from your own observation, regarding the court of st. james." it was a chance shot, but it hit the mark. "i had not thought you so quick," she said, with a note of sincerity under the mockery. "i am not quick, señorita," i replied. "it is no more than the reflection of your own wit." "that does not ring true." "it is true that you raise me above my dull self." "have i said that i have found you dull?" "i have never succeeded in acquiring the modish smartness of the gallants and the wits." "that, señor, is beyond the power of a man to acquire." i looked for mockery in her eyes, and saw only gravity. the scarlet lips were curved in scorn, but not of myself. "it is only those born as brainless magpies who can chatter. you were right when you said that i could tell of truths from my own observation. i left england with as little regret as i shall--" "do not say it, señorita!" i protested. "you americans! you have the persistence of the british, with no small share of french alertness!" "we are a mixed people--" i began. "mongrel!" she thrust at me, with a flash of hauteur. "not so ill a name for a race," i replied. "history tells of a people called iberians. the ph[oe]nicians and carthagenians landed on their shores. then came the romans; later, the barbaric hordes from the north,--goths, vandals, suevi; later still, the moors." the last was too much for her restraint. "moors!--moors! mohammedan slaves!" she exclaimed. "we drove them out--man, woman, and child--before your land was so much as discovered." "yet not before they had done what little could be done toward civilizing barbaric europe, and not before their blood had mingled--" "_santisima virgen!_" she cried, in a passion which was all the more striking for the restraint that held it in leash--"i, a daughter of such blood!--you say it?" "i do not say it, señorita," i replied, with such steadiness as i could command under the flashing anger of her glance. "then what?" she demanded. "i spoke of your race in general, señorita. there are self-evident facts. even were the fact which you so abhor true as to yourself, would your eyes be any the less wondrously glorious? your dusky hair--" she burst into a rippling laugh, more musical than the notes of any instrument. "_santa maria!_" she murmured. "you miss few opportunities--for an anglo-american!" "a man asks only for reasonable opportunities, señorita,--a fair field and no favors." "the last is easy to grant." "you mean--?" "no favors." she had me hard. i rallied as best i could. "but a fair field--?" "can there be such?" she countered. "you are anglo-american; i am spanish." "vallois has a french sound." her chin rose a trifle higher. "it is a name that crowns the most glorious pages in the history of france." i thought of st. bartholomew, and smiled grimly. "i, too, can trace back to one ancestor of french blood. he died by command of charles de valois. he was a shoemaker and a huguenot." she looked at me with a level gaze. "it is evident you are one who does not fear to face the truth. you have yourself named the barrier and the gulf between us." "barriers have been leaped; gulfs spanned." "none such as these!" "señorita, we each had four grandparents, they each had four. that is sixteen in the fourth generation back. how many in ten generations? who can say he is of this blood or that?" "i do not pretend to the skill to refute specious logic, and--here is the gate. my thanks to you." "señorita!" i protested. "_adios_, señor! open your eyes to the barrier and the gulf." "i see them, and they shall not stop me from crossing!" again i encountered the inscrutable glance that opened to me the darkness in the fathomless depths of her eyes. "i swear it!" i vowed. still gazing full at me, she replied: "it may be that in the spring we shall pass through new orleans." i would have protested--asked for a word more to add to this meagre information. but she turned in at the gate, and the irishwoman was at my elbow. "till then, if not before, _au revoir_, señorita!" i called in parting. she did not glance about or speak. chapter vi the web of the plotter three days of waiting was the utmost i could force myself to endure. on the afternoon of the fourth i called at the house on the side street. the door was opened by the irishwoman, who met me with a broad grin. "oi looked for ye sooner, sor!" was her greeting. "señorita vallois--?" "flown, sor,--more's th' pity! ye're a loikely lad, sor, if ye'll oxcuse th' liberty." "gone?" i muttered. "her uncle--?" "came an' packed her off, bag an' baggage, two days gone." "two days!--where?" "'tis yersilf, sor, is to foind out th' same," she chuckled. i held out a piece of silver. "will that jog your memory, mistress?" "divil take ye!" she cried, and she struck the quarter dollar from my hand. "am oi a black traitor to sell a fellay christian to a heretic?" after that there was nothing to do but turn on my heel and leave the virago. by one false move i had lost her friendship beyond recall. for weeks i sought to trace the señorita and her uncle. all i could discover was that the don had come from philadelphia in his private coach, called at the british legation, and carried away his niece by a route unknown. left with no more than that doubtful mention of new orleans, i plunged back into the social swim of the federal city; not to forget her,--that i could not have done had i wished,--but to wear away the months of waiting and to perfect myself in the social graces so far as lay within my capacity. at the same time i did not forget to press my application with secretary dearborn and other members of the government, who, i found, were all too ready to forget me. it was a hopeless quest, and i was well assured of the fact before midwinter. yet it served its part as a time-killer; and the season being too far advanced for the descent of the ohio by boat, it was far more agreeable as well as advantageous for me to while away my enforced holiday in washington than needlessly to punish myself by the long and wearisome horseback journey to the mississippi. so i lingered on, dancing attendance on officials who frowned, and dancing the minuet with ladies who smiled. each served its purpose in carrying me over what would otherwise have been a most tedious winter. march came and dragged along more than the due number of weeks of foul weather. yet with the approach of the vernal equinox i began to overhaul my buckskins. being well able to imagine the state of the roads, i had started a chest with the bulk of my wardrobe by wagon to pittsburg ten days in advance, and all my preparations had been made to follow after, when the post from philadelphia brought me a letter which caused me to change my plans in a twinkling. i should rather have termed the missive a note. it was without date, and ran thus: "if dr. robinson is interested in learning of a project contemplated by two parties whom he met at dinner,--to wit, a certain foreign gentleman and the writer,--he will, on his return west, come by way of philadelphia, and call upon the writer. "a. b." much as this language smacked of intrigue, i had no hesitancy in changing my route to comply with the note. it was not that i felt any interest in the projects of colonel burr or his associates. the point was that to my mind "foreign gentleman" spelled "señor," and i had met but one señor at dinner in the company of aaron burr. if señor, why not señorita? the rest follows as a matter of course. my faithful nag had not gone unridden through the winter. a man does not always give over the habit of a daily outing because of balls and routs and tea-sippings. yet the roads north might have been better--which is not saying much,--and there are limits to the endurance of a beast, though not to the miriness of a seaboard road in the spring rains. i did not make the trip to philadelphia in record time. upon my arrival i found that even the beast's master would be the better for a night's rest. directed to the plow tavern, i demanded food and drink for man and horse, and having washed and supped, soon found myself pressing the clean linen of my quaker host. business justifies calls at early hours, and i did not breakfast late. it was as well, perhaps, that i missed my way in the square-laid but narrow quaker streets, and did not find myself upon the doorstep of colonel burr until midmorning. even as it was, i had a wait of several minutes in the drawing-room before the colonel entered, wigless, unshaven, and loosely attired in nightgown and slippers. while waiting, a casual survey of the room had surprised me with its evidences of a lavish establishment. gossip had reported that the colonel was not meeting all his extensive indebtednesses when due. he greeted me with bland cordiality, notwithstanding the inapt hour of my call. "welcome, doctor, welcome!" he exclaimed. "better late than never, eh?" "you are kind," i replied. "i fancied that i had come too early." he glanced at his dress with a shrug. "wine and late hours carry through many a successful conference. you will join me in a cup of coffee and a roll?" though i had no wish for food, i assented, for i saw that he had not yet breakfasted. we were soon seated in a snug little den of a room, sipping as good coffee as i had ever tasted at any other than a creole table. few men whom i have met have greater command of their features than has colonel burr. on the other hand, few are as over-sanguine. he must have inferred that my speedy response to his note meant outright eagerness to share in the projects at which he had hinted. scarcely pausing for a few civil inquiries as to mutual acquaintances in the federal city, he interrupted my answers in the midst. "let that wait, let it wait, doctor!" he exclaimed, with an ingratiating smile. "there is something of greater moment to us both. i take it from this personal response to my note that you are not uninterested in the plans of señor vallois and myself." the mention of the señor's name drew from me a sharp nod of assent. the plans of señor vallois could not but concern his niece, and consequently myself. the colonel nodded back, and his smile deepened. "you are aware," he began, "that i have contemplated the purchase of a large tract of land beyond the mississippi, within the spanish boundary, on a tributary of the red river." "the project was mentioned by you at the president's house," i replied. "but the ulterior purpose of the scheme--" "it is reported that you have planned for a colony." "as a move necessary to the advancement of the real project," he explained. my look of interest was not assumed. for months past many hundreds of persons, enemies no less than well-wishers of the astute colonel, had been guessing at the real object behind his rumored schemes. he nodded shrewdly, and went on, almost in the words of senator adair: "have you considered, doctor, the fortune in store for whoever opens an overland trade with santa fe?" "granted, sir. no less have i considered the improbability of obtaining such trade concessions from the spanish authorities. it is only too well known that their policy is set upon jealous exclusion. their desire for contact with our western borderers is as slight as their racial and religious aversions are deep-seated and abiding." "say rather, their political aversion. better still, say the political aversion of the authorities alone. i have reason to believe that the people of mexico would welcome closer relations with us." "it is not possible!" i protested. "have you never thought that the spanish colonies may be as desirous of achieving independence from foreign oppression as were our own?" "there is the contemplated expedition of miranda to caracas to speak for that," i assented. "we have the outcry of our insolent friend the marquis of casa yrujo to testify as to the spanish view of miranda. the point is, if an expedition to south america, why not one to mexico?" "a conquest?" i inquired--"an extension of the vast westward boundaries of louisiana territory? it is true that war with spain now seems inevitable. there is no doubt that the government would proceed to hostilities, were it not that the french minister intimates that the emperor will not permit the war." he gave me a cunning look. "ay! with a napoleon behind him, general torreau has no difficulty in intimidating our meek philosopher of the white house. yet the emperor is powerless. england's fleets guard the high seas. the time is ripe to strike at spain. we shall precipitate the war, and to us shall fall the prize! let our object remain unnamed. enough that señor vallois speaks for certain fellow haciendados of wealth and influence living in the northern part of new spain, that portion of the country above the territory of the viceroyalty and under the government of general salcedo." "whom they term the governor-general of the internal provinces?" the colonel nodded. "these friends of señor vallois are far from content with present conditions. they would gladly throw off the yoke of spain if the occasion presented itself. my plan is to present the occasion by means of an army of invasion, to be allied with the revolutionary party. there are thousands of adventurous riflemen west of the alleghanies not unready to follow an able leader to the land of the montezumas." "i have lived on the frontier too long, sir, to doubt that the tide of our westward emigration will roll on until it breaks on the vast desert of the western plains." "i care not for the tide, sir! we shall set in motion a wave that will roll across the desert into the golden paradise of el dorado!" "and you would tell me a man of señor vallois's intelligence invites the entrance of that wave?" again the colonel gave me a knowing smile. "it will be for the mexicans to care for their own interests when the time comes. men do not traverse deserts and destroy governments without thought of reward. my fiery friend general jackson of tennessee is champing with eagerness to share in the conquest of the spaniard. would he be so eager were it explained to him that the object of the invasion went no further than the freeing of the people of that remote land? but there will be glory and recompense for all, and to spare. i have pledged señor vallois that he and his friends shall gain a free government, and with it security for their estates. it is his own concern if he and they misconstrue the statement too much in their own favor. on the other hand, jackson is a man far hungrier for glory than for gold. he will lead our victorious army south into the viceroyalty, to capture the city of mexico, while we are shaping the new government for the whole." the magnitude of the scheme struck me dumb. the colonel noted the fact with satisfaction. he tapped the table significantly. "that government, doctor, is already in process of formation. as originator and leader of the project, i claim the supreme office. certain other of the higher offices are allotted. but you, sir, are a man of scientific attainments and proven courage, and, what is no less important in a royal court, you are a gentleman." "royal court?" i muttered, wondering what more might follow. "the spanish-american is not qualified to enjoy a republican form of government. upon this señor vallois and myself are clearly agreed. the plan is a constitutional monarchy or empire, with a restricted franchise, the voters to be confined to the ranks of the wealthy and the intellectual." "in neither of which classes will be found the bulk of your invading army. i foresee a revolution to cap your conquest," was my comment. "men can be managed," he replied. "there will not be lacking the spoils of office and the plunder of the enemy to lull their discontent. with all their leaders bound to us by self-interest, it will not be difficult to hold the mass in check. señor vallois guarantees a stout auxiliary force of native militia." "with whom our rough frontiersmen will make short work, in sport, if not in deadly earnest." "perhaps,--if brought in contact while not under the fire of the common enemy. pray do not imagine me so dull, sir. the point has been foreseen, and has been discussed with men of military training. the army of invasion will remain the army of invasion. west of nuevo mexico is the remote pacific province of the californias; south of the city of mexico--" "you think to conquer an empire!" i cried, overwhelmed. "why not?" he returned, with an assurance which for the time swept me off my feet in the current of his flashing dreams. but this giddiness was not alone due to his bare statement. behind the daring words i had seen what to me was the lure of lures. i had been offered in substance, if not in words, an office of dignity in the court of this future royal personage, among whose lieutenants was numbered the kinsman of señorita vallois. what wonder if for the moment i forgot the worth of republican citizenship in the glittering dream of titled office? what wonder if in the intoxication of the moment i saw the barrier flung down between myself and her, and thought to barter my birthright as an american for a vassal estate which should bring me within reach of her? "an empire!" i repeated. "the spoils to the victor--and to his followers. at what, sir, do you appraise my worth?" his answer was ready to glibness: "the title of marquis, an estate to support the dignity, and a seat in my privy council, or such other office as your merits may indicate during the consummation of our projects." "you have made sure of señor vallois?" i demanded. "he is with us hand and glove. i have planned to cross the alleghanies about midsummer. señor vallois has gone before, to negotiate with certain persons at st. louis and new orleans, whom otherwise i might find difficult of approach." "he has gone west?" i repeated, unable to credit my ears. "at my request. it was required that he should go by way of new orleans, in any event, and the coastwise voyage is far from pleasant at this season. hatteras has an evil name in equinoctial weather. also there is danger of spanish pirates off cuba and in the gulf. it is hard to find passage in other than an american ship, and a cannon-ball or musket shot fired by a spanish pirate at a yankee hull would not turn aside to avoid the spanish don who chanced to be aboard that selfsame yankee." masking my eagerness with a smile at the conceit he pictured, i remarked in as casual a tone as i could command: "the don, then, is well on his way to st. louis?" "not he!" snapped the colonel. "it is now only seven--no, eight days since he started. knowing the condition of the roads, i advised that he should take to the saddle, and leave his charming niece to continue her visit with my daughter theodosia, who, as doubtless you have heard, is the wife of senator allston of south carolina. i may mention in confidence that my son-in-law is one of the foremost of all those interested in our grand project. when i begin my second western tour, both he and my beloved theodosia and my little grandson will accompany me." "from all that i have heard, sir, mrs. allston has only to make an acquaintance to find a friend," i said. his fond ear was quick to catch the sincerity of my tone, and a look of the most profound and unselfish love ennobled his crafty face. but my own love cried out for an ending of the bitter-sweet suspense. "so señor vallois was so ill advised as to take with him his niece?--or was she not his daughter?" i commented. "his niece. did you not meet her at the table of our jacobin philosopher? to be sure you did! i have not so soon forgotten that gallant exploit with the fence rails!... thanks to the obstinacy of her uncle, she will be muddying that dainty arched foot in the wayside bog for days to come. there will be few dr. robinsons between here and pittsburg to pry out the carriage of the bemired dulcinea." "ah, well," i observed, "doubtless the señor will arrive in time enough to take advantage of the spring fresh. what he loses on the road he will regain by the added swiftness of the ohio's current." "true--true." "i had myself thought to take advantage of the early floods. my interests impel me to return to louisiana as speedily as possible." the colonel gave me another of his shrewd looks. "you will not take it amiss, doctor," he said, "if i repeat current gossip that the object of your winter in the federal city was not attained." i nodded, without show of offence, and he added quickly, "as well, as well, my dear sir! it has brought you better fortune, and your wish atop! you shall have a letter from me to general wilkinson." the suddenness of this took me unawares, but he had turned at the words to summon the servant, and did not observe my confusion. calling for pen, ink, and paper, he turned again to me with outstretched hand. "your hand to it, doctor!" he cried. "you are with us?--you cast in your fortune with the future empire of the west?" "a word, sir," i protested. "the heritage left me by my father was scant as to property, but i have found it rich in wisdom. it included this old adage, 'look before you leap.'" "good! good, sir! most excellent advice! yet have i not shown you the prospect?" "you have, sir, and not without avail. it is an alluring prospect. i confess myself tempted. yet--i have seen what the french term the mirage. i should prefer to hold my decision until i have dipped my cup in the lake and found it filled." "eh! eh!" he chuckled. "i'll wager there's scotch blood in your veins--scotch blood!" "at the least, i would look closer at the water," i insisted. "you shall, sir--my word for it!" he responded, with an assurance which shook my last doubt. "you shall have the letter to wilkinson. when it has brought you your wish, then, and not until then, need you consider your pledge binding." "sir," i said, tempted beyond my strength, "i accept the terms." "your hand to it!" he cried, and his soft white fingers closed about mine with a strength of grip that astonished me. "to you, sir, shall be entrusted the double mission of opening communication across the western boundaries with our mexican allies, and of negotiating with the present spanish authorities for the santa fe trade. i need hardly mention to a man of your intelligence that such projects as we contemplate are not carried to completion without funds. to me falls the task of collecting the sinews of war." "to me the leadership of the scouts!" i cried. "i am doubly hot to take the road. dawn shall see me in the saddle!" "the fire of youth!" he exclaimed, again clasping my hand. "go, make your preparations. you will ride none the less swiftly that you carry a packet of letters for me." "willingly!" "you think to go south to new orleans?" i bowed. "then a letter as well to daniel clark." "i am known to him." "true; but i have word to send him--no less to wilkinson--regarding the death of pitt." "it is months since that event," i remarked. "the prime minister died in january." "the post to louisiana is uncertain. wilkinson at least may not have heard, and i have comments to make. you will deliver the letters for me?" "i should be pleased to do so, sir. it is a small enough favor to undertake, even for a chance acquaintance." "but a favor that shall be remembered, doctor. your lodging?" "the plow inn." "the packet shall be in your hands by evening," he replied. i rose at the words, and he showed me to the door, with repeated assurances of confidence and esteem. chapter vii ship and crew the promised packet of letters was delivered to me at the plow shortly after dark, by the man who had served coffee at the colonel's. it was accompanied by a note in which mr. burr pleaded pressing business as an excuse for not delivering the packet in person. to this he had added a postscript empowering me to break the seal of the packet upon my arrival at st. louis. it struck me as most odd that the packet should have been sealed at all. but upon reflection, i concluded that this was a very proper precaution against a chance inspection of the contents by prying busy-bodies who should happen to handle the packet. the letters might well contain statements open to misconstruction by the colonel's numerous and powerful enemies, or details of plans, publicity of which, owing to the necessity of secrecy, might disconcert the progress of the great project. the instruction to me to open the packet upon my arrival prevented any questioning of the colonel's confidence in myself. thanks to a large hostler-fee, my horse came from the stable after his day of rest as fresh as when we left washington, and hardened by the trip. he had need for all the endurance within his nature. before dawn his hoofs were clattering across the great new bridge over the schuylkill. in the dense night of the bridge's enclosed roof and sides, it was like riding through a hall of vast length, with no guidance other than the faint starlight at the far end. the thought struck me that this was apt symbol of my love-quest. the darkness was as the night of my lady's fathomless eyes, through which in the uncertain distance i could no more than fancy a dim starlight of hope. musing on the conceit, i continued the allegory as we left the bridge and splattered away on the old colonial road to the monongahela, with the fancy that in spirit, as in body, i had passed from the shut-in blackness out into the openness of space, and that before me was promise of fair dawn. the day's dawn came as promised, bringing me still greater elevation of spirit. and within the mile a mischievous farmer's brat by the wayside tumbled me from heaven to muddy earth by howling in a voice of lively concern that my horse had lost his tail. so near does the ridiculous skirt the sublime! i had begun my journey on the day of all fools. perish superstition! who but the ignorant believes in signs and omens? and if mine was in truth a wild-goose chase, the sooner i reached the end of my running the better. i neither would nor could have checked myself had the thought come to me to turn back. a journey tedious enough in the best of seasons is not improved by april rains and boggy roads. on the other hand, i had that drawing me westward which would have spurred the tortoise into striving for the hare's leap. it is sufficient evidence of my haste to state that, for all the condition of the roads, i made in fifteen days the trip which is considered well covered if ridden in nineteen. let me hasten to add that this was not done on one nag. even had not my love of man's second friend served to prevent so brutal an attempt, failure would have been inevitable. with the best of roads, not a horse in the republic could have carried through a man of my weight in the time. the attempt was not necessary. thanks to a kindly acquaintance here and there along my route and to a sufficiency of silver in my saddlebags, i managed to obtain a fresh mount on an average of twice in every three days. with such relays, i was able to ride post-haste, yet leave behind me each horse, in turn, none the worse for his part in the race. up hill and down dale, pound, splatter, and chug, i pushed my mounts to their best pace, along the old philadelphia road. in other circumstances and under clearer skies i might have paused now and again to enjoy the pleasant aspect of the alleghany scenery,--its winding rivers and brooks, its romantic heights and budding woods. but from the first my thoughts were ever flying ahead to the monongahela, and the sole interest i turned to my surroundings was centred upon such urgent matters as food, lodging, and fresh mounts. at the end of the journey i found myself in clear memory of but three incidents,--a tavern brawl with a dozen or more carousing young farmers, who chose to consider themselves insulted by my refusal to take more than one glass of their raw whiskey; the swimming of the susquehanna river, because of a disablement of the ferry; and a brush with a trio of highwaymen at nightfall in the thick of a dense wood. the rascals did not catch me with damp priming. when they sprang out at me, i knocked over the foremost, as he reached for the bridle, with a thrust of my rifle muzzle, and swung the barrel around in time to shatter the shoulder of the second fellow with a shot fired from the hip. the third would have done for me had not his priming flashed in the pan. he turned and leaped back into the thicket, while i was quite content to clap spurs to my horse and gallop on up the road. but even this last adventure failed to hold a place in my thoughts when at last, near mid-afternoon of the fifteenth day, i came in view of elizabethtown on the monongahela. here it was i had reason to hope that i might overtake señor vallois and his party. with roads so difficult, it was more to be expected that he would take boat from this lively little shipping point than rag on through the mire to pittsburg. cheered by the thought, i urged my horse into a jog trot, which, however, soon fell back into a walk as the weary beast floundered through the deeper mire of the town's main street. i rode as directly as possible toward the leading tavern. señor vallois was not the man to lie at any other than the best of inns when choice offered. with quick-beating heart i made out the sign of the tavern i sought, and again attempted to urge my horse into a jog. he was slow to respond either to word or spur, and i suddenly gave over the effort at sight of a tall and dignified figure which stepped from the inn door and swung easily upon the horse which a half-grown lad had been holding in wait. the first glance had told me what i most wished to know. my chase had not been fruitless. the spanish cloak and hat and high riding boots of the don were unmistakable, even had i not recognized the spanish dignity of his bearing. certain of his identity, i would have preferred to postpone a meeting until i had found opportunity to bathe and to change to the one shift of linen and clothes which i carried behind the cantle of my saddle. yet i made no attempt to avoid him when he wheeled his horse about and rode directly toward me. had it not been for our first meeting in the yellow clay of washington's famous avenue, i doubt if the don were unmistakable, even had i not recognized buckskins. with that memory in mind, it is not unlikely that my mud-smirched condition only served to add to the quickness of his perception. we were almost passing, when he raised his eyes, which had been staring down into the miry road in frowning abstraction. his glance swept over me and rested on my face. a moment later he had drawn rein and was bowing to me. "_por dios!_ it is our gallant _caballero_ of the mire!--_buenos dias_, dr. robinson!" "to you the same, señor vallois!" i returned. "it is a strange chance which brings us to a meeting in this wilderness bog," he remarked, with what i thought was a shade of suspicion in his proud black eyes. there was every reason for me to seek at once to place myself on the footing with him that i desired. meeting his glance with a careless nod, i answered readily: "it is a pleasant chance which brings us together here, but not a strange one. little travel comes from philadelphia to the ohio other than on the road we both have such cause to remember." "from philadelphia?" he questioned. "i carry despatches from colonel burr." "you!" he cried, thrown out of his aristocratic reserve. but in the same breath he was bowing his apologies. "your pardon, señor! i was not aware that you and colonel burr--" "nor he, señor, until a few days ago," i hastened to explain. "senator adair of kentucky was formerly my father's friend and camp-mate. he advised me to see colonel burr. when i started upon my return west, i came by way of philadelphia. it did not take me long to come to an agreement with--" i lowered my voice and leaned nearer the don--"the man who professes an intention to strike off the fetters of a land dear to señor vallois." "_poder de dios!_" cried the don, reaching his hand to me with a fiery impetuosity of which i had believed him incapable--"_santisima virgen!_ you are one of us! you have cast in your lot with the new league of freedom!" it angered me that i must qualify. "hold, señor! i did not say that. i have not gone so far--as yet." "as yet?" he demanded. "your pardon, señor, but many such projects are schemed, and in the end prove to be--'castles in spain.'" he smiled gravely and without offence. "señor, i give you my word that i and my friends are prepared to build the western wall of the castle." "your word, señor, is sufficient. but there remains the eastern wall, and i am doubtful of the builders. i did not ask for colonel burr's word. i preferred something more substantial. he has promised that i shall receive such proof upon my arrival at st. louis." "then you, too, go to the--to st. louis?" "to the general," i responded, surmising that it was general wilkinson whom he had hesitated to name. "you spoke of despatches." "letters from the colonel to parties we both seek, in st. louis and new orleans." "colonel burr entrusted me with numerous despatches." "he mentioned the day of my visit with him in philadelphia as the eighth after your departure. that week may have seen developments or changes which required fresh despatches." "_poder de dios!_" he exclaimed. "you left philadelphia eight days later--and are here!" "at your service, señor." "_santisima virgen!_ and i had four horses to my carriage!" "i had nine horses beneath my saddle, in succession." "_virgen!_ what a _caballero_!" "when a man is in haste to see his journey's end, señor, he does not loll about taverns on the way. you came in yesterday?" he bowed. "then you may be able to tell me what are the chances of obtaining quick passage down the river." he looked across toward the shipyards with a frown. "i am now on my way to inquire, señor," he answered. "against the better counsel of colonel burr, i was so ill advised as to bring a seaman from the seaboard to have charge of the water journey." "a salt-water sailor on an ohio flat!" i exclaimed. "the señor forgets that i am a stranger to his forest wilderness." "your pardon, señor vallois!--permit me to ride with you. it may be i can assist you." "_na-da-a!_" he protested. "i cannot permit it. you have ridden for fifteen days at more than post speed. you must first refresh yourself." "the señor forgets that i am no less eager than himself to arrange for the river passage. rest assured i am good for another day in the saddle, if need be, at your service, señor." as i wheeled around, and we started for the riverside, he looked me up and down with a wondering glance. "_por dios!_" he muttered. "i had thought none could ride as ride our _vaqueros_. you are a man of iron." "i am the son of my father," i replied. "how other than hard could be the sons of the men who wrested this western land from the savages,--who have driven the cherokees, creeks, and choctaws south of tennessee, and pressed back the northwest indians to their present fastnesses about the great lakes?" "it is true," he said. "i have been told no little of that most cruel and ferocious warfare waged by your savage enemies. i myself know the fearsomeness of the raids of our equally ferocious apaches and yaquis. therefore i do not wonder that the men and the sons of the men who met their painted enemies in this gloomy wilderness should have become not only hard, but rude and harsh in their manners." "given that and the prevailing craze for raw whiskey, and we have--what we have. yet they are the men whose fathers met the indian on his own ground; who themselves have met the ravaging war parties, and who will doubtless again meet them,--though i trust not again on the banks of the ohio." "may the virgin grant that your trust is well founded!" returned the señor, with deep earnestness. "yet the british soldiers still hold your lake forts, and it is rumored that the british agents are ever at work conspiring with the northern tribes against the interests of your people. let me predict that unless britain is humbled by the great emperor, she will make excuse of your many differences to crush your republic and regain these lost colonies." "let her try!" i cried. "let her turn loose her savage allies upon us, and we will hurl them back into the lakes! we will cross over and drive redcoats and redskins alike down the st. lawrence into the sea! even the abject people of the seaboard, who now lick the foot that spurns them, will remember their fathers of the revolution, and strike the enemy as paul jones and his fellows struck them,--on the sea." the señor met my enthused glance with unmoved gravity. "i have heard mention of what is called president jefferson's mosquito fleet." our arrival at the shipyards gave me welcome excuse to change the subject. i pointed to the scores of river craft, afloat in the stream or in course of construction. "had you in mind, señor, to take a bateau or a flat?" "bateau?--flat?" he repeated. "your pardon, doctor, but the terms--?" "a bateau is a boat of flat bottom but with keel. a flat is a great scow without keel, and often provided with deal cabins." "i had been told how to proceed, but left all to that rascal of a seaman. immediately upon our arrival, he told me, with many foul oaths, that he intended to make no ventures on fresh water, and to show his contempt for the saltless fluid, has sat ever since in the taproom of the inn, guzzling whiskey." "you are better off without the fellow," i said. "there are scores of men to be hired here who are well used to river travel. is it your intention to hire passage, or to purchase your own boat?" "privacy is desirable. i have disposed of my coach and horses with less loss than i had feared. if boats are not too high in price--" "rest easy as to that, señor. boats are one of the cheapest products of the shipping towns. the question first to decide is whether you prefer a keelboat or a flat." "señor, i must rely upon your good advice," he replied. i pointed at the swollen, turbid current of the monongahela, swirling high along its banks. "as you see, the river is in full flood. it is what the rivermen term the spring fresh. the ohio now runs no less swiftly, at times fully eight miles an hour. i should advise you to choose a flat, because it will travel little less speedily than a bateau, and with its house, will prove a far more comfortable craft for so long a voyage." "comfort is an important consideration, doctor. with me travels my niece, whom you may remember." i kept such command of my features as i could. "i have a clear memory of señorita vallois. it is unfortunate." "unfortunate!" he exclaimed, with a lift of his black brows. "that you have no servant skilled in handling a river boat." "ah--that!" "a single man could manage your flat, provided you were willing to lend a hand on occasion at steer-oar or pole--a few minutes, it might be, once or twice a day. there are, as i have said, numbers of skilled rivermen to be hired. but--" i paused as if to consider--"no. i could bring you more than one for whose faithfulness i could vouch, but none who is not foul-mouthed and--to a foreigner--insolent." shifting my gaze to the nearest flat, i waited in eager suspense. he answered with a question: "do i understand you to say that with my help one man could guide so clumsy a craft?" i nodded, with assumed carelessness. "and you are yourself skilled as a riverman, señor?" again i nodded. i could not trust myself to speak. he continued with polite hesitancy: "would you, then, think it odd, dr. robinson, if i requested you to make the river journey with me?" "señor!" i cried, "it would give me great pleasure!" "_carambo!_" he muttered, at sight of my glowing face. a moment's hesitancy would have lost me all the vantage i had gained. i held my left hand level before me, and swept off the upturned palm with my right. there are few of the indian signs which do not pass current from the lakes of the north and the swamps of the south to the most remote of the tribes in the far west. i was right in my surmise that they were known even across the spanish borders. the señor bowed in quick apology: "a thousand pardons, señor robinson!" "a man does not ride post-haste without expense," i said, with a seriousness which was not all feigned. "a thousand pardons!" he repeated. "my purse is at your disposal, señor robinson. i do not speak in empty compliment. such funds as you may require--" "_muchas gracias!_" i broke in. "i have enough silver left to jingle in my pocket. my thought was that it would be more agreeable to work my passage with an acquaintance than with strangers. at this season it is unusual for persons of culture to undertake the river trip. the voyage is becoming quite the fashion among young gentlemen of means and enterprise, but they seldom venture over the mountains before settled weather, and the rivermen, as i have remarked, are not always the best of company." "señor, no more! we share this voyage as fellow-travellers--my boat and your skill. is it not so?" "señor, my thanks!" i replied. "yet first, there is the question of señorita vallois's pleasure. it is a long voyage. i would not thrust myself upon your intimacy against the lady's inclinations." "my niece will be no less pleased than myself to travel in company with a gentleman of your acquaintance. i will answer for that. my niece has lived for three years in england. while we travel in anglo-america, we are agreed to comply with such customs of the country as do not differ too widely from our own." i bowed low to hide my extreme satisfaction. it was the rarest of good fortune to have penetrated the reserve with which a spanish gentleman surrounds the ladies of his family. but it was not my part to dwell upon the fact. i hastened to point out a flatboat which had caught my eye when we first rode down to the bank. "what is your opinion of that craft?" i asked. "so large a boat--for two men? _santa maria!_" "hardly forty feet over all," i replied. "let us go aboard." he swung to the ground as quickly as myself, and we hitched our horses to the nearest stump. as the flat was moored alongside the rough wharf, we had only to step aboard. the height of the water brought the craft almost on a level with the wharf. a glance or two showed me that the boat was already fitted out with steer-oar, sweeps and poles, a kedge with ample line, and a light skiff, snugly stowed in the ten-foot space of open prow. having next made sure that she was well calked and dry, i led the señor through the house. it was divided into three apartments or rooms, of which the one nearest the stern was some five feet the longest. "here," i said, pointing to the rude but well-built fireplace, "is the kitchen, salon, and dining-room of our floating inn." we passed on through the middle and forward rooms. like the kitchen, both were limited to a width of seven feet by the need of a runway without, along each side of the boat. but señor vallois looked about approvingly. "we could share this cabin," he said, glancing about the forward room. "my thanks, señor, but i can make shift to sleep on deck," i replied. "there will be rain--there is always rain in this northern country of yours. no. you will do me the favor of sharing this cabin with me. there are two berths, as you see." i looked gravely at the rude bunks built, one above the other, on the left wall, and bowed my acceptance of the offer. "it is well," he continued. "my niece and her woman will share the middle room. there remains only the question of purchase." "leave the bargaining to me," i said quickly, at sight of the shrewd-faced yankee who came down the wharf as we stepped out into the open prow. "the affair is entirely in your hands, doctor," assented the señor. the yankee stepped aboard with an air of brisk business. "i cal'clate ye want a boat," he began. "let ye have this 'un dirt cheap." "how much?" i demanded. "one seventy-five." "lumber cordelled by keelboat from new orleans?" i rallied him in smiling irony. he looked me up and down with a speculative eye. "we-ell, stranger, i might knock off ten dollars." "you mean fifty." again he surveyed me; then appraised the rich broadcloth of my companion. "be ye buyin' fer him?" he queried. "we make the trip together. i can go as high as a hundred and twenty-five. we could do better at pittsburg, but are willing to give you the bargain, to save our boots." he looked again from my mud-smeared buckskins to the señor's fine apparel, and smiled sourly. "ye'll git no such boat at the price, here or at pittsburg, if ye wait till the next freeze. one fifty is my best offer. take it or leave it." "skiff, kedge, sweeps, poles, and steer-oar included," i stipulated. he assented, with well-feigned reluctance: "as she stands--lock, stock, and barrel." i handed him a five-bit piece. "taken! yet i'd have had you down fifteen more if we were not in haste." "i'd ha' eased your high-nosed don of a round two hundred, my lad, had he done his own dickering," muttered he, as, at a word from me, the señor drew out a bulging purse and counted into my palm the hundred and fifty dollars in american gold. chapter viii the hospitable blennerhassets while our sour-faced boat-dealer made out his bill of sale, i wrote down a list of provisions and furnishings for the boat. upon reading this to the señor, he suggested the addition of some articles which i would have regarded as needless luxuries. leaving these to his own selection, i jogged to the store of a gruff old german ship-chandler, one of the hessians against whom my father had fought at monmouth and trenton, and whose wife, on my last trip, i had been so fortunate as to cure of a quinsy. the good frau came in as i was giving my list into the charge of her husband, and would not take a refusal to her offer of hospitality. horse, list, and all were taken from me before i could defend myself, and i am not sure but what the frau would herself have put me into the tub she made ready in the bedroom had i not begged for a dish of her sauerkraut and corned beef. cleansed and filled, i was given no peace until she had me safe between clean, dry sheets in their canopied fourposter. having then been given sufficient respite to write a note of explanation to the señor, i rolled over and sank into that profound slumber of which i had so great need. i awoke to find the sun up a good two hours and the hospitable couple beaming upon me as brightly as the sunrays which shone in through the diamond panes of the latticed window. the frau held up my buckskins, all cleansed and dried and softened; the man showed my list, with every item checked and double checked, and a receipt from the party to whom i had agreed to deliver my last mount. between them i soon learned that the flatboat was well stocked for the voyage, and that the señor had sent word he was about to go aboard with his party. this last would have forced me to rise and accept the good wife's intended assistance with my dressing, had she not feared that i should rush off before she could serve my breakfast. i gulped my coffee while she tied on my moccasins. there was no question of other garments than my buckskins, since saddle and all had been stored aboard the flat. when i at last made my escape, it was with a hot sausage in either hand. these german delicacies followed the rye bread and coffee which had gone before, while i was riding to the wharf in my host's rattling ox-cart. greatly to my relief, despite the plodding pace of our beasts, we were first to reach the boat. i had time to overhaul the craft and say farewell to my good german friend. as he drove off, gruff-voiced but beaming, the well-remembered cherry-wood carriage came churning through the mire. the señor had retained the right to use it for this last service. i was at the door, with my hand on the knob, as the driver swung around. the señor stepped out, with a sonorous, "_buenos dias_, doctor!" for a fraction of a moment he seemed about to turn. then he stepped aside, and left my way clear. my lady drew out an arm from the depths of her great ermine muff. her plump, bare little hand lay in my brown fingers like a snowy jasmine bloom. there was mockery in the depths of her eyes, but the scarlet lips arched in a not unkindly smile. "_buenos dias_, señor!" she greeted me. "it is truly a good day which brings me sight again of señorita vallois," i replied. "may this clear sky prove true augury of the voyage we are to share!" "may it prove true augury of clear sunshine to follow! these weeping skies of england and your republic! i long for a week of dry weather." she shivered in her single-sleeved french cloak, whose white floss net and tassels added little to the warmth of her gauzy muslins. as for her head, even her light mantilla would have been more suitable to the weather than the jaunty cap of velvet and tigerskin. "you are cold!" i said. "there is a fire aboard our craft." i drew her hand beneath my arm and started to lead her down the wharf as a swarthy, hard-featured woman stepped from the carriage. the señorita spoke a few words in spanish, and the woman turned to help the driver lift down the chests and boxes from behind, under the direction of señor vallois. handing the señorita down into the boat's stern, i led her into the living-room, or kitchen, and laid more fagots upon the fire which i had kindled. in another moment i had her seated before the blaze, with a blanket about her graceful shoulders. as i knelt to place a stool for her little feet, she gazed down with the velvety eyes which had looked out upon me from the coach window in washington. "_maria purisima!_" she murmured. "there are tales of gallant knights--" "who served and adored their ladies!" i added. she glanced about at her uncle, who was entering through the middle room. "_madre de los dolores!_" she called. "these physicians! pray, reassure him, my uncle. he is convinced i shall suffer a chill." "not after the precautions i have taken," i rejoined with professional gravity as i rose. "the wonder is that señorita vallois has so long survived the sudden changes of our seaboard climate. i know little of temperatures abroad, but on this side of the atlantic these thin empire gowns are sheer murder." "granted," replied the señor. "yet as a physician you have doubtless long since learned the futility of arguing the cut or material of a gown with a woman." "only too well, señor! fortunately every day will now carry us both nearer a milder climate and nearer the summer. your chests are all aboard?" "all. and yours, señor?" "mine will be waiting on the wharf at pittsburg. we will put in for it as we drift past." "it is well," he replied. i moved toward the outer door. "a moment, if you please, doctor. we voyage together many leagues. among my friends i am addressed as don pedro." "and i as alisanda," added the señorita gayly. her uncle raised his brows, but said nothing. she called toward the inner door, "chita!--chita!" the woman appeared, and at a sign from her mistress, crossed toward me. "dr. robinson, you have not before met my faithful chita, because she was ill and had to be left in philadelphia when we went to washington. chita, this is he of whom i spoke." the woman courtesied with a grace which belied her stout figure, her beady eyes riveted upon my face. when she straightened i ventured to surmise from the half smile which hovered about her hard mouth that if she was not already well-disposed toward me, she was at least not an enemy. "it is well," said don pedro. "all well--and ready to cast off," i added. "if the señorita--" "alisanda!" she corrected, with a flashing glance. "if--alisanda is quite warm, she may wish to witness the event." "i will join you immediately," she responded. with that i led don pedro out to the steer-oar and showed him how to hold it to aid in bringing us about. as our craft lay in a slow eddy, i had no difficulty in casting off. the townfolk and shipyard workers were far too busy with the rush of the spring shipping to give heed to so common an event as the departure of a flat. but it was enough to call out all my skill and strength that i thrust off under the eyes of alisanda. a side shove from the prow, and a rear thrust from the inner corner of the stern as the prow swung out, cleared us from the wharf and sent us gliding out aslant the eddy. the river was in such full flood that the bottom, even alongside the wharf, was beyond poling depth. but i called don pedro to aid me with the sweeps, and a few long strokes carried us out into the swirling current of midstream. our voyage had begun. we were afloat in the grasp of the river, and for the time need only to fold our arms and gaze at the changing vistas of forest-clad hills on either bank, past which the current swept us along at more than post speed. before the noon meal we had passed in turn the important shipping town of mckeesport, at the mouth of the youghiogheny, and the hillside ravine near turtle creek, where, within a gunshot of the river bank, the british general braddock met with his disastrous defeat at the hands of the french and indians, and where he whose life was to prove so precious to his countrymen came so near to losing it beneath the edge of the tomahawk. in the midst of our meal we came so close under the heights of pittsburg that i had need to leave the table to take advantage of a slant in the current which would bring us shoreward. before the others joined me, i had the boat fast alongside the warehouse wharf where i hoped to find the chest of clothes i had sent on from washington. my expectations were not of the firmest, for i knew the cumberland pike to be quite as miry as the philadelphia road. it had been, indeed, a close shave, for on inquiring of the warehouse keeper, i learned that my box had come down from redstone by skiff only the previous evening. we had no letters to deliver in pittsburg, and no desire either to wade the unpaved streets or to linger beneath a sky whose shower of soot bore out only too well the boast of the townsfolk that good coal could be bought in their streets at five cents a bushel. for my part, i would prefer to pay more for wood fires, and escape the smearing of house and garments with lampblack. however, the residents may consider this inconvenience offset by their numerous social and cultural advantages, which are unequalled among all our trans-alleghany towns, unless it may be at lexington or cincinnati. as we put off again into the stream, i pointed out the site of fort pitt, built by the british to replace the french fort duquesne. but a storm cloud drove down over the pittsburg hills, and alisanda hastened to withdraw with her uncle into the cabin to escape the april rain which soon poured upon us in torrents. it was not, as i had hoped, a mere squall. with the passing of the first roaring wind gusts that rocked our heavy craft, the rain settled into a steady drizzle, which obscured river and banks for the rest of the afternoon, and sheeted us in like a black pall throughout the night. with the nightfall, trusting to the height of the flood to carry us over all shoals and rocks, i made no attempt to effect a landing or to tie up to the half-submerged willows along the bank. we had wood enough aboard to last for three days or more, and our fireplace, with its pots and ranger, saved the necessity of a shore camp to prepare food. as there was no call for don pedro to suffer a needless wetting, i argued that i could not trust him on watch so dark a night,--which was no more than the truth of the matter. my supper was brought to me in the prow by chita, and her peppery stew was doubly welcome after my afternoon's drenching. she carried back with her instructions to obtain one of my dry suits from don pedro and take it through to the kitchen. about midnight, the boat chancing to swing about stern foremost in the current, i left my watch long enough to shift into dry garments before a crackling fire. with the first gray glimmer of dawn through the breaking rain clouds, don pedro came to take my post, and chita slipped out in her nightshift to set on her coffee pot. by the time i had breakfasted, the sun had dispelled the mists, and i saw that we were already in the long reach, having passed during the night by steubenville and wheeling. it was a run possible only at the height of the spring fresh. upon my inquiry, don pedro informed me that he did not wish to stop at marietta, that prim new england village planted by rufus putnam and his fellow yankees on the site of old wyandot town. he had, however, a letter to deliver to mr. harmon blennerhasset, owner of an island some fourteen or fifteen miles below marietta. so, having made a rough calculation of the speed of the current, i went in to my bunk, after explaining that they need not waken me before midday, unless the boat tended to leave the current. sharp upon the noon hour i was roused by the don, and informed that we had already passed marietta, some five miles back. his description of the muskingum river and the block houses and other buildings of the town would have convinced me that it was indeed marietta, had i not known that it was the only settlement of the size between wheeling and gallipolis. what was more, i recognized the greater width of the river bottoms, which were now flooded to the higher levels, the many islands which divided the current, and the lowness of the densely wooded hills. but having, as i felt sure, something over an hour to wait before sighting mr. blennerhasset's well-known island, i made my toilet, and leaving don pedro at the steer-oar, indulged myself in the great pleasure of sitting down at table with the señorita. either because of her determination to live up to the customs of the country, or owing to my watch in the rain,--which any riverman would have taken as a matter of course,--she was most friendly and gracious in her manner, greeting me with a smile and giving me her hand to salute. not content with this, she saw to it that chita served me with particular attention, and herself pressed food and drink upon me. only one who has lived among the spanish people can realize what a privilege it was to be thus received into the intimate society of my travelling companions. we conversed with cousinly gaiety and freedom on all subjects which came to mind, from the ambition of the great corsican to the latest fashionable ditties, and alisanda filled me with delightful anticipations by stating that amongst her baggage was a guitar, which she and don pedro were not unskilled in fingering. after the dessert of sweets, or _dulces_, to use the spanish term, i went out to relieve don pedro at the steer-oar and to inquire whether he wished to stop over at the island. he replied that it might be necessary to confer at some length with mr. blennerhasset. a half-hour later we were sheering our craft toward the virginia bank, to make the wharf which faced the ohio shore, near the upper end of blennerhasset island. as the channel which separated the island from virginia was scarcely a stone's-throw across, our course brought us well to the left of the river's centre. with the ready aid of don pedro at the steer-oar, i managed, between sculling and poling, to bring the flat alongside the wharf. before i could leap out, a negro ran down the bank and made fast the line tossed him from the stern by chita. another slave who had sighted us from the crest of the bank turned and ran with the news of our landing, so that before we could straighten our garments and step ashore, mr. blennerhasset himself came hastening down the bank to welcome us. our visit had been unheralded, and, so far as he knew at the moment, we were no more than chance strangers. but it was enough for this cultured, unworldly irish gentleman that persons of quality had stopped at his gate. señor vallois introduced alisanda and myself with all the stateliness of a spanish hidalgo, and followed by delivering over the letter from colonel burr. with no more than a glance at the address, mr. blennerhasset thrust the letter into his pocket, and pressed us to accompany him at once to his house, where, he said, mrs. blennerhasset would be anxiously awaiting her guests. such warmth of hospitality would have melted even a reluctant visitor, and we were far from unwilling to view the famed beauties of the place. my one regret was that i could not claim the privilege of escorting the señorita. don pedro and i ascended the bank behind the others, chita remaining aboard the boat. entering through the handsome stone-columned gateway at the top of the bank, we passed between the shrubbery and a meadow, along a gravelled walk, for somewhat over a hundred paces, to the front of the mansion. the façade was remarkable for the semi-circular shape of the pillared porticos which curved forward from each front corner of the main body of the house. though built of wood, the handsome proportions and two stories of the mansion lent to it an air of distinction rarely to be found west of the mountains. mr. blennerhasset bowed us into a small front parlor, where we found his comely and charming wife waiting to receive us, in the company of their two little sons. after we had been welcomed by this pleasant lady no less cordially than by her husband, don pedro stated that there might be matters of mutual interest to discuss when our host had read his letter. at this mrs. blennerhasset suggested that the gentlemen should be left to their privacy, and don pedro invited me to share in the conference. but i explained that i did not consider myself at liberty to do so, in view of the fact that i was not yet irrevocably committed to the projects of mr. burr. mrs. blennerhasset at once invited me to join with her and alisanda in an inspection of the mansion. we entered first a dining-room of ample proportions, where our hostess gave the little boys into the charge of their nurse. the apartment was furnished with a richness and taste which compelled a look of surprise even from the señorita. we were soon to learn that the mansion was furnished throughout in the same lavish style. what most interested me at the time was mr. blennerhasset's scientific workroom in the rear of a second parlor which led off behind from the dining-room. here it was our host conducted his experiments in chemistry and physics, and here he had properly arranged a fair-sized apothecary's stock. upon my remarking that i wished to purchase a quantity of peruvian bark and calomel,--my stock of which, in my haste, i had neglected to replenish before leaving washington,--the lady immediately requested me to measure out the quantity i desired, and absolutely refused any compensation. we next visited the library at the end of one of the curved porticos. here, much against my desire, i was given permission to remain while the ladies visited the kitchens in the other wing. tactfully as i was dismissed, the shaft rankled none the less sorely. yet happening to open a choice volume of european travels, i so lost myself in the printed pages that the appearance of my host some two hours later came as a surprise. he explained that arrangements had been made for our party to join them at dinner, and would not take a refusal from me. a servant had already been sent aboard the boat, that chita might attend on her mistress. the man had orders to remain until morning, should i, following the example of señor vallois and his niece, agree to lie the night in the house. unwilling to tax their hospitality so far, i excused myself from this last, on the plea of my duties as boat captain, but before leaving i gladly accepted his invitation to return and join them at dinner. in due time i returned, and i trust that my appearance did full credit to my country. enough said that nay hat, shoes, breeches and waistcoat were of the latest mode, that my coatcuffs extended to my finger tips, that my shirt-frill was like a snowy waterfall, and that my coatfront was padded to the fulness of a swelling bullfrog. as for my luckless throat, it was so swathed about with its bandages of cambric that my chin had a most supercilious elevation, and to look about i must first turn my body. the neck was all but immovable. this martyrdom was, however, small price to pay for my evening. of all costumes calculated to reveal and enhance the lovelinesses of women, the empire modes are by far the foremost. indeed, such is the thinness of gauzy materials and the scantness of breadth required, that,--if i may venture my opinion not alone as a physician but as a gentleman,--the flimsy, graceful costumes, though to be praised for the absence of injurious stays, are too apt to over-expose the forms of the fair sex. yet a modest woman, by stopping short of the utmost extremes of fashion, and no less by comporting herself with dignity and decorum, can suggest thoughts no less elevating than enravishing through the graces of this mode. with this by way of guide to my meaning, i shall not be misunderstood when i speak of my rapture over the swell of my lady's firm white bosom and the exquisite curves of her lissome young body beneath the clinging sarsenet of her low-cut waist and narrow skirt. i looked and adored as the artist adores the perfect lines of a masterpiece. yet with my adoration there flamed a fire of passion of so white a heat that it burned away all dross of base imaginings. i say nothing of our hostess,--not that she lacked in beauty or charm; but who looks at the moon when the sun is in the sky? the dinner did not disappoint the expectations roused by the lavish display of the household; though i cannot say that mr. blennerhasset's wines compared well with those of president jefferson, unless it might be the madeira. upon the withdrawal of the ladies, mrs. blennerhasset urged me so cordially to join them soon, and alisanda seconded the invitation with so sweet a smile, that i did not linger at table above half an hour. my going was hastened by the conjecture that our host and don pedro might wish to resume their conference. that i was not mistaken in this was evidenced by the fact that they did not follow me for two hours or more. in the meantime i had been led up a spacious stairway to the drawing-room, directly above where we had dined. the room was notable for the stucco work of the rounded cornices and ceiling, and the harmonious tones of the wall-hangings, of which those above the chair rail were green, bordered with gold, and those below reddish gray. my entrance found the ladies seated together at a large forte piano, in the execution of a duet which gave full display alike to their accomplished skill and to the genius of the composer, the noted german musician beethoven. after the duet, our hostess favored us with a ballad, and alisanda no less readily followed with a castilian song in the spanish. her voice, even better trained than mrs. blennerhasset's fine high soprano, was a liquid contralto that had in it the murmur of sparkling waters, the sweetness of silver bells, and the sadness of tears. i was affected almost beyond self-control, and it was as much this as the disability from my high cravat which forced me to decline my turn. at my request, the ladies returned to another round of duet and song, and followed with the reverse,--playing solos and singing a duet. in the end they persuaded me to join them in a trio, and afterwards were so gracious as to compliment me on my baritone. on the whole, it was the most heavenly evening i had ever known, and when, upon the appearance of the other gentlemen, i begged my leave of our hostess, it was to dance my way down to the boat on winged feet. such a feast of divine music and diviner beauty seldom falls to the lot of mere mortals. chapter ix my indian tale dawn found me clad in my buckskins, ready for the start. all my articles of finery lay again in their snug retreat, and with those nightmares of beaudom disposed of in a way to give me most comfort, i was once more at my ease. of all costumes suitable to action, there is none to equal our old-time forest ranger's dress of fur cap, buckskin shirt, thigh leggings, and good elk or buffalo moccasins. to my surprise, the spanish woman came aboard while i was toasting my bacon, with word that her mistress and don pedro would follow as soon as they had risen from the breakfast table. alisanda had sent her down to prepare food for me. the announcement of this brought a glow to my face which i saw did not pass unnoticed by the woman. but she masked all expression under her hard stolidity, and when i declined her services, set about arranging her mistress's evening attire and returning it to its box. shortly afterwards mr. blennerhasset and his wife made their appearance, escorting my fellow travellers to the river bank and down to the boat itself. i hastened to add my adieus to the others, and the tactful couple, seeing that i was impatient to be under way, cut short what had threatened to be a protracted parting. with repeated last calls of farewell and wavings of hat and handkerchief, we swung out into the current and drifted swiftly away from our over-hospitable host and hostess. a few minutes carried us below the cultivated upper portion of the island, and i noticed don pedro eying the wooded remainder with a peculiar intentness. afterwards i was told that certain of the huge cypresses shadowed a bayou, in which at the time we passed there were already being collected boats and munitions for the flotilla that was to form the nucleus of colonel burr's ill-starred expedition. [illustration: "we swung out into the current and drifted swiftly away"] of this and the nefarious plans since charged to that great dreamer, i then had not the remotest suspicion, and soon turned my attention from the pondering señor. scattered up and down the midchannel for three miles or more was a string of barges, flats, and keelboats, laden with flour, lumber, and other up-river products, for the market at new orleans. like ourselves, they were coming down from the higher shipping-ports with the spring fresh. at my request, alisanda kept within the house, until, by a vigorous bit of sculling, i had sent our craft beyond earshot of the nearest of these barges. the huge, clumsy craft, which must have been upwards of four hundred tons burden, was manned by the usual crew of twenty-five or thirty rowdy, drunken rivermen, whose ribaldry and rude jests were unfitted for the ears of a gentlewoman. by adroit steering and an occasional return to my sculling, we were fortunate enough to keep our distance from these other boats, and for the greater part of the day i had the pleasure of pointing out to alisanda the beauties of the river scenery. rightful in fact, and most appropriate in truth, is the interpretation which tells us that "ohio" means "the beautiful river." a day of clear, warm sunshine, marred by only one shower, gave us our first chance to share the ever-shifting views of headlands and rolling, wooded hills. though the forest was as yet only half in leaf, and the height of the flood covered all other than the highest of the bottoms, the nature of the scene was an unending wonder to my companions, who in turn compared it with the sterile mountains of old spain and the deserts of new spain. they could not liken it to the tamed woodlands of england; for, notwithstanding a generation of settlement, with the river long since the main artery of a great commerce, these banks were as yet in many places unbroken wilderness, the abode of elk and deer and wolf, of tigerish panther and lumbering bear. high above us soared eagles and turkey buzzards, spying for carrion and live prey, each according to his nature, as they had soared and spied in the late sixties and early seventies, when gist and boone and the great washington first threaded the untraced wilderness and skimmed downstream in their bark canoes to the dark and bloody hunting-grounds of the hostile tribes. since then what vast changes had come over the land! what thousands of homesteads hewn out of the gloomy depths of beech and oak, walnut and maple forest! what scores of settlements and towns, ranging in size up to cincinnati, with its three hundred and more houses, many of brick and stone, its fifteen hundred whites and thousand slaves, its genteel coaches and chariots, and its educational institutions! yet, aside from the slaughtered buffalo and the backward-driven savage, how small the change in the forest life! along the rocky banks the deadly rattlesnake and copperhead still lay coiled in wait; the deer came timidly down to the water along old game traces where the panther still lurked; and flocks of screaming, chattering paroquets still flew up river from the southwest, their emerald plumage contrasting with the bright hues of the redbirds and woodpeckers, the orioles and kingfishers. the following day, below the mouth of the scioto river, we had view of one of the strangest sights of the west,--a flight of passenger pigeons. the flock passed upstream above the left shore in a dense column and with a tremendous roaring sound of their millions of wings. though we were going in a contrary direction, hours passed before we saw the last stragglers of their amazing multitude, and this despite the fact that they are among the swiftest of birds. while making a southward bend of the stream, we came beneath them, the lowermost flying so near overhead that i was able to kill a number simply by flinging fagots among them. as their flesh, though dark, is choice eating, we enjoyed a most savory pie at the evening meal. during the night the boat caught me nodding and gave itself into the grasp of an eddy, which held it fast for two hours or more. my regret over the delay was short-lived, since at dawn i made the welcome discovery that it had caused us to part company with the last of the cargo flotilla. the rivermen were well supplied with skiffs, and as some of them are not above theft and even outright piracy, i had spent most of these two nights in vigilant watch, with my rifle and don pedro's pistols charged and primed against a night attack. less welcome than the absence of such consorts was the cold rain which set in before dawn and lasted well along toward noon, with now and then a slashing drive of sleet. i spent the dreary hours fast asleep in my bunk, for don pedro insisted upon his right to share the hardships of our voyage. when i turned out, the sun had burst through, and the leaden clouds were rolling away to the eastward. my first act was to sweep the ohio shore with an anxious glance. the swiftly changing vistas of winding river and pleasant hills that undulated beneath their cloak of budding green, told me that we had entered upon the run of the great bend. by good fortune, i was just in time to sight the well-remembered hills of my childhood home. another twist of the channel brought us in view of the little miami. cap in hand, i stepped to the side of the flat, and stood quiet and apart, gazing at the rough, white stone that rose clear against the sky-line on the first crest below the stream's mouth. what memories of childhood rushed in upon me! what bitterness and grief! at last the envious river swept us around a masking hill. i turned slowly about, with all my heaviness plainly written in my look. less than three paces behind me stood the señorita, her dark eyes fixed upon me with a soft pity far different from their usual mockery. "you grieve!" she murmured. "it is the grave of my mother." don pedro dropped the handle of the steer-oar and turned to me with a courtesy that went far deeper than outer form. "your mother? may the virgin bless her!" alisanda made the sign of the cross, and her lips moved in quick prayer: "_ave maria purisima_--" after a little the don ventured a word of consolation: "it is a beautiful place for a tomb,--serene and grand on its solitary hillcrest. when my own time comes, may i rest as well!" serene!--beautiful! the words roused me from my unmanly weakness. "you do not know!" i cried. "her grave was dug among the ashes of our home. she was murdered by the shawnees." "you speak of the indian savages?" murmured alisanda. "is it so long ago as that?" "in my boyhood--in ninety-one--the spring before st. clair's terrible defeat. the northern tribes raided the settlements from above pittsburg to the lower kentucky, with a fury before unknown. the ferocious braves crept by night through the very streets of cincinnati and under the walls of fort washington. our home, outlying yonder on the little miami, was one of the first struck. the memory of that morning is burned deep into my brain. my father had gone into town to barter some skins for flour, and my mother was part way down the hillside, ploughing for corn. i had gone up to the cabin to fetch a jug of cider, and was half-way back, when a score of shawnees in their black war paint leaped from the ravine and set upon my mother. "i ran to help her, but she, striking bravely at the treacherous savages with the ox-goad, screamed to me to fly for the guns. i turned as she fell under the stroke of a tomahawk. the murderers leaped after me, yelling and firing. rifle balls and arrows whistled about me, some piercing my shirt. but i gained the cabin unhurt. on the pegs beside the door lay my father's rifle and his old queen anne musket of the revolution, which i had that morning charged half to the muzzle with swanshot in preparation for a bear which had been stealing our porkers. "barring the door with one hand, i caught down the musket with the other, and fired through the nearest loophole. my pursuers were coming on fairly in a body, and the distance was such that the swanshot scattered just enough to cover the foremost warriors. one fell dead and three more were wounded. in a twinkling all others than the one killed leaped to either side and checked their rush. "but their chief came bounding up from the rear through their midst, flourishing his bloody tomahawk and yelling to them to come on. young as i was, if given a support for the heavy barrel, i could handle my father's rifle as well as he himself. the chief fell within twenty paces of the door, with the hole of the rifle ball between his glaring eyes. at this, fearful that they had run upon a trap, the red warriors ran dodging and side-leaping to the nearest brush, while i caught up a knife and rushed out to scalp the chief--" "_por dios!_" cried don pedro. "you ran out!--you took the scalp of the chief under the eyes of his followers?" "my mother's scalp hung at his belt. i was mad with fury. i would have struck the murderer even had the others already turned." "they did turn?" asked alisanda, her eyes widening with the horror of the vision she pictured. "they turned as i burst from the cabin. i was surrounded--seized fast--but not before i had torn off the scalp of their chief and shaken it in their painted faces!" my eyes flamed at the memory of that fierce vengeance. "_madre de dios!_" breathed the spaniard--"you stung them to wildest fury!" "i sought to make them strike me down. better death under the tomahawk than the slow agony of torture at the stake. what greater shame to them than for a boy of twelve to kill two of their most famous warriors,--to taunt them with the bloody scalp of their chief?" "yet they spared you!" whispered alisanda, her eyes fixed upon my flushed face. "for the torture. when they took me north to the shawnee towns, i was made to run the gantlet. being quick-footed and nimble, i avoided most of the heavier blows and midway of the line dodged out sideways, tripping up the old squaw who sought to stop me. before the rabble could overtake me, i had set myself in the midst of the chiefs and foremost warriors of the village, whose dignity had prevented them from joining in the lesser torture. "my craft in tripping the squaw and avoiding the greater number of my tormentors won me the protection of the chiefs, and while they waved off the boys and squaws, the young warrior tecumseh, one of the brothers of the chief i had killed, claimed me for adoption in place of his kinsman. the other brother, elskwatawa, promptly seconded tecumseh. after much dispute, their claim was allowed, and for three years i lived as a member of the tribe, always watched against escape, yet treated with utmost kindness. "that fall the leading members of my tribe were present with the braves of the miamis, delawares, wyandots, iroquois, and other tribes, who made a second braddock's defeat of their battle with general st. clair. they brought back no captives, but such quantities of plunder and such tales of slaughter that i could hardly credit either my eyes or my ears. "after this i was taken to the neighborhood of the british fort near the maumee rapids, where the notorious renegade mckee proved that even the worst of men have their better nature. he sought to ransom me from my adopted brothers. this was refused, but i was permitted to come and go freely to the fort. one day, chancing upon a book of physic in the scant library of the post surgeon, i showed such interest that the portly old doctor seized upon me as a _protégé_. "within a year i was forced to return to the shawnee towns, but with me i took a latin grammar and my precious treatise on physic. again i was brought to the maumee, and there placed for safekeeping in the fort during general wayne's cautious but steady advance north from fort washington. this meant months more of study under the tuition of my kindly surgeon; so that upon the day of wayne's glorious victory at fallen timbers, when he drove the routed warriors of the allied tribes past the very walls of the fort, i was further advanced in my studies than many an english schoolboy of seventeen or eighteen, and, i must confess, fast acquiring british sympathies. "but the sight of wayne's victorious cavalry, who rode up defiantly within pistol-shot of the palisades, roused in me such a feverish desire to escape that i should have flung myself upon the bayonets of the sentinels rather than have remained. fortunately the garrison was so intent upon the burning of the dwellings and trading establishments without the fort by our army, that i was able to slip over the stockade with the aid of a rope, and make off safely in the darkness." alisanda sighed her relief of the suspense that had held her tense. "so you escaped!" she exclaimed. "to the american camp where i found both my father and my mother's cousin, captain van rensselaer. the captain had been shot from his saddle during the battle, but was able to return with us to cincinnati when my father's term of service as a mounted volunteer expired. it was captain rensselaer who, upon his return to new york, sent for me to complete my medical and other studies in columbia college." "_por dios!_ what a life!" cried don pedro. "we also have our indian battles. but to live among the ferocious savages--_santa maria_! small wonder you men of the forest wilderness are men of iron!" "many settlers of soft fibre have come over the mountains since the days of peace. but the men who first hewed their homes in the wilderness had to be of iron. such are those who now press on to the new frontiers of the south, the lakes, and the mississippi." "among whom is our friend don juan," replied alisanda. i looked, thinking to see a mocking glance, and instead found myself gazing down into the fathomless depths of her eyes. chapter x the father of waters so far i have written at some length of our voyage, for it was these first days that set the stamp upon the relations of our little party. from the hills of cincinnati, which we sighted as i ended the story of my boyhood, on down the long descent to natchez, i was as one of don pedro's own kinsmen. the name spoken by alisanda, seemingly in jest, became the name by which all addressed me, only that before we entered the mississippi both the señor and she had begun to drop the "don" in favor of the familiar "juan." so "juan" and "alisanda" it became between my lady and me, and don pedro looked on and smiled. yet with and beneath it all, both held to a subtle reserve which told me plainer than words that the barriers were down only for a truce, and not for a treaty,--that our freedom of conduct as fellow-travellers would at the journey's end be barred by a return to customs not of the country. at times when alone on watch at night, i thought with misgiving of the approaching days when my lady would resume her fine castilian hauteur and don pedro his punctilious politeness. but on the whole i was content to make the most of my opportunities,--to drift with the current of our companionship as the boat drifted with the stream. milder days came to us as we floated down into the southwest,--days of grateful sunshine and lessening rains,--heavenly hours beneath the blue sky, when, inspired by the blossoming springtime upon the verdant shores, we sat together in the open stern and sang solos and duets and trios to the accompaniment of the guitar. with the coming of nightfall i learned to look longingly for fog or wet, for a clear moon meant a night on watch, that we might lose nothing of the drift. but a dark sky gave me excuse to tie up to the bank for the night and join in an evening of music and genteel talk about our crackling beechwood fire. then there were lessons for me in spanish from the don, and in the playing of the guitar by alisanda. it was strange how clumsy were my fingers and how repeatedly i had to ask my fair teacher to place them correctly. and so we swept on down the beautiful river, the swirling depth of the spring fresh bearing us clear over the rocks of the ohio falls at louisville, as over the hundreds of miles of inundated flats and shoals above and below. at lusk's ferry don pedro had planned to leave the river and cut across country horseback, over the forty-league road to kaskaskia, which would have saved nearly half the keelboat journey up the mississippi from the mouth of the ohio to st. louis. for this we should have taken aboard our horses at louisville or at the little settlement of shawnee town below the wabash, since at lusk's ferry suitable mounts for our party were not to be had at any price. in the outcome, however, the miscarriage of plans proved truly fortunate. having no other choice, we dropped on downstream past the cumberland and tennessee rivers, to fort massac, our lonesome american stockade, built near the site of the old french post of the same name. we tied up to the steep bank of clay and gravel, and i made a landing. upon inquiry at the post, captain bissell, the commandant, whom i had met the previous fall on my eastward journey, informed me at some length as to the movements of general wilkinson. report having been received that general herrera, the spanish commander in texas, was gathering a force to march upon natchitoches, the commander-in-chief had descended the mississippi for the double purpose of strengthening the forts at new orleans and of assembling a force to repel the expected invasion. i intimated to the captain that señor vallois was not averse to a war which might give his country opportunity to throw off the spanish yoke. at this he confided to me as his opinion that the long-impending hostilities seemed now inevitable, and that he would welcome a change which would not only relieve him of his _ennui_ in this solitary post, but would tend to break up the general stagnation of the service. his urgent invitation brought don pedro and alisanda ashore for a much needed change. neither had set foot on shore for days, and i persuaded don pedro that the recreation was well worth the delay. but my pleasure over the enjoyment of the exercise was not added to by the sight of the gallant captain and his no less gallant lieutenant receiving the smiles of alisanda for their attentions. as a good excuse for avoiding the painful spectacle, i secured some spare jars of sweetmeats from chita, and bartered them in the little settlement near the fort stockade for chickens, eggs, and butter,--all of which would be still higher in price and harder to obtain after we entered the mississippi. soon after the landing of my companions, so strong a head wind set in that we were forced to lie moored over night. toward morning it fell to a pleasant breeze, and i put off at dawn, without waiting to rouse the others. midday found us afloat on the broad bosom of the father of waters, whose noble flood, swollen above st. louis by the silty downpourings of the missouri, and here by the spring torrent of the ohio, rolled on gulfwards in full-banked majesty. it was a grand sight, but one to which don pedro and alisanda gave more thought than myself. captain bissell had dropped me a word of warning as to possible trouble from canoe parties of chickasaw and other indians, which, in view of alisanda's presence, gave me no little uneasiness. that night and the next i called upon don pedro to watch, turn about, with myself. i even went so far as to land at new madrid; but the villagers knew nothing of the indians. at last, late in the afternoon of the third day, we sighted a canoe full of warriors putting out from the left bank, with the evident intention of intercepting us. at my command alisanda and her woman sought shelter in their room, while i left the steering to the don, and stood ready with my rifle and his pistols. when i signed the party to hold off at hailing distance, the foremost warrior signed back that they were friends. but they were now near enough for me to see their black war paint. again i signed the leader to keep off, and he in turn hailed me in shawnee, demanding lead and gunpowder. before i realized what i was saying, i had answered him in his own tongue, telling him to bring his party around under our stern. at this unexpected address, the chief raised the hand which i knew had been grasping his rifle. i responded with three or four quick signs that drew a guttural exclamation from the least stolid of the warriors. they were not used to meeting white men who could claim fellowship in their tribe. but as they paddled nearer, i stared back at their chief, hardly less astonished. there could be no mistaking his noble, powerful features. he was my adopted brother tecumseh! the instant i recognized him with certainty, i laid down my rifle, and called to him in shawanese: "tecumseh, many years have come and gone since we parted at the british fort on the maumee, yet do you not know again your white brother scalp boy?" at the word he rose from his knees and stood grandly erect in the bow of the canoe, staring at me from beneath his levelled palm. the craft was now within twenty yards of us, and don pedro could not withhold a muttered exclamation of apprehension and warning. almost at the same moment tecumseh stooped, and catching up a corner of his blanket, wiped the grim war paint from his face. the paddlers at once paused to follow his example. "_santisima!_" muttered don pedro. "why do they rub their faces?" "they remove the war paint in proof of friendship. their chief is one of my indian brothers, who saved me from torture." "but they come close! you will not permit them to enter the boat, with alisanda--" "fear nothing," i hastened to assure him. "we are safer now than when we were alone. my brother and his people can be trusted with our lives and our property." "it is true, señor," remarked tecumseh in clear though guttural english. "scalp boy and his friends are sacred in the eyes of all shawnees. he is a member of our tribe and my brother." i reached out and grasped the hand of the chief as the canoe came alongside. "come aboard and feast with us," i said. he shook his head. "no, scalp boy; that may not be. it warms my heart to again grasp your hand; but you are an american white man; you have long ago forgotten your shawnee kindred--" "no, no, tecumseh! i have always remembered you and elskwatawa, my true-hearted brothers--" "tecumseh does not blame his white brother for returning to his white kindred. there is no enmity between us. but elskwatawa our brother has become a communer with the great spirit, and he has told the redman how evil are the customs and food and firewater of the white man. it is evil for the redman to mingle with the white people." "have you then taken the warpath, my brother? is that why you came out against us in war paint?" i asked. "we came out to attack you because we had need of powder, and i would not beg. but we are not on the warpath." "you are far from home," i remarked. he swept his hand around in a grand gesture. "elskwatawa the prophet and i make a great journey to our red cousins. we visit all the tribes from the great lakes to that greater water in the south which the white people call the gulf." "to form a great conspiracy against my people!" i exclaimed. "your people!" he repeated. "no, we seek to convince the tribes of my people that they are all brothers, and should join in one nation." "that they may seek to destroy the white people!" "that they may hold back the white man from stealing any more of their land." he had me there. i could only look my regret; for i knew that, whatever his intent, the result must be war. he returned to the object of his averted attack. "give us powder and lead, scalp boy. we cannot eat the white man's food. we need powder and lead to shoot game." "not to make war?" i asked. "i speak with a straight tongue," he said. at this i went into the cabin and fetched out a small keg of powder and a quarter-hundredweight of lead. he motioned me to hand the gifts to the warrior in the stern of the canoe, and when i turned again to him, he held out a beautifully wrought belt of wampum. "it is little i can give to my brother," he said. "i take the gift because my brother offers it," i replied. "what i have given is nothing. all that i could give would not repay what tecumseh did for me in my boyhood!" he looked me up and down with an approving glance. "scalp boy has grown to be a great warrior. i will ask the great spirit that we may never meet on the battlefield." before i could respond, he signed his warriors to push off, and the canoe shot away at arrowy speed. at once alisanda slipped out of the cabin, to peer after the darting craft and the grim savages, whose naked, bronzed forebodies, fantastically streaked with the war paint, swayed to the paddle strokes so vigorously as to bob their plumed war locks about in a most comical manner. it was a sight she was not apt to see again even on the mississippi, if only because of the redman's dislike to exert himself except when hunting or on the warpath. though we had come so well through this adventure, the accident of our escape from attack did not lessen my fear of visits from indians belonging to other tribes. to my vast relief, the following day brought us safely in the approach of a great flotilla of flour-laden flats, whose draught of water gave them better headway than our boat. the drift of our craft, which sat so much higher in the water, was at times more retarded by the head winds. the difference was so slight that we were able to keep the others in sight until another flotilla overtook us. in fact, so vast was the extent of the river traffic that from this point until our landing at natchez, we were never beyond view of one or more descending vessels, while even keelboats, ascending under sail or poles, were not uncommon. though far from as swift as the flooded ohio, the mississippi bore us rapidly on our way. divided by island after island and contorted this way and that by out-jutting points, its mighty current, swollen to vast width, yet swept on in majestic grandeur past towering bluffs and inundated lowlands and wildernesses as virgin as in the remote days of de soto the spaniard, and la salle the frenchman, other than for an occasional plantation and, at longer intervals, the log cabins of the little settlements. i will not speak of our difficulties from snags and sawyers and delaying eddies, or of the extreme difficulty of shooting the waterfowl, which, though abundant, had long since been taught wariness by the guns aboard the swarming river craft. i shot a swan and now and then a duck, but for the most part was held too close to the navigation of our awkward flat to hunt such shy game. on the other hand, our well-stocked larder supplied us with all else than fresh meat and milk, and to obtain fish we had only to trail a line over the stern. the season was favorable to the avoidance of fevers and agues; the high water obviated in a measure the danger of shoals and sawyers, and i had had the forethought to provide nettings, which saved us when within the cabin the torments which at night we would otherwise have suffered from mosquitoes and gnats, even out in midchannel. so, on the whole, our days would have passed pleasantly, even without those joys of companionship of which i have written. aside from an occasional fierce thunder storm, our may days on the lower river were ideal to southern-born persons like my companions, though the fervid sunrays on the water darkened don pedro's aristocratic face to a coffee brown, and burned my ruddy complexion until it presented one unvaried expanse of brick red. when not at work, chita was accustomed to doze, uncovered, in the full blaze, mumbling in answer to my repeated warnings, that it would take a lifetime of basking to draw the fog and wet of england and my country from her bones. but she took great care that her mistress should never venture out into the sun-glare unmasked. though the señorita could endure the heat as well as herself, there was always the señorita's complexion to be considered. chapter xi general wilkinson by tacit agreement, throughout our long voyage no mention had been made of its purpose since the evening of our visit with the blennerhassets. intimate as had been my relations with alisanda and her uncle, it was not the part of an honorable man to receive confidences bearing on don pedro's plans, until i had seen general wilkinson and learned whether colonel burr's test of influence would stand. unless committed to the furtherance of the far-reaching projects which the colonel had outlined to me, i felt that i had no right to share the secrets of the scheme. in compliance with my wish, don pedro had refrained from all allusion to the subject, going so far as seldom to mention his home and country. in consequence, this being alisanda's first voyage to new spain, i learned so little of their plans that when we landed at natchez i knew only that they expected to sail from new orleans to vera cruz, and from there to travel either by _diligencia_ or private coach to a town named chihuahua, in the desert interior, where the don was possessed of a great estate. even of the nature and customs of the country i had gathered few facts to add to the vague information acquired in past years from the spanish creoles. but with our approach to natchez, that which had been least in my thoughts became the uppermost. general wilkinson was at natchez, and the nature of his response to my letters from colonel burr was a matter of vital importance to me. a few days after our arrival would bring about my inevitable parting from alisanda. if that parting took place without the knitting of new ties for the future, what hope had i of ever again looking into the depths of her dark eyes? but should the commander-in-chief prove the feasibility of colonel burr's plans by agreeing to precipitate war and support the invasion of mexico, and should he, in addition, give to me the leadership of the western expedition, how strong my cause for hope! at once i could enter into the plans of don pedro, and while he journeyed back to chihuahua, to prepare his friends for the revolution, i could lead my expedition across the great plains, my approach to santa fe to be the signal for the uprising. with war raging on the sabine river and in texas, the interior provinces would be drained of spanish troops; so that the revolution could be gotten well under way before the viceroy could send up an army from the city of mexico. though not a man of military training, i then believed, and am still convinced, that this plan of campaign would have met with certain success. thousands of our hardy frontiersmen were ready at the word to fling themselves across the spanish borders, and with such men as the fiery general jackson to lead them, they would have soon crushed all the forces which general herrera could have brought against them. their march across texas and to the city of mexico would have been marked by an unbroken succession of victories, while i, fighting side by side with don pedro in the revolutionary army of mexico, with alisanda to win!-- but enough of idle dreams! those who base their plans on the leadership of wild schemers and double-dyed traitors should be grateful if the outcome finds them unsmirched by the company they have kept. we moored to the wharf under the bluff at natchez, and i, dressed fittingly for the occasion, had the pleasure of escorting alisanda up to the little town on the hilly slope behind the bluff-crest,--my companion finding much to interest her in the motley crowd of spanish and french creoles, americans, negro slaves, and chickasaw indians. the don had not expected to stop at this seat of the government of mississippi territory; else i have no doubt colonel burr would have provided him with a letter to insure hospitality from the persons who had so _fêted_ that statesman the preceding fall. as it was, i arranged for the best accommodation to be had at mickie's hotel, and at once set about the disposal of our floating home. it being understood that i might be required to hasten north to st. louis, don pedro had decided to sell the flat, since, without my company, it would be more convenient to continue the voyage to new orleans in a passenger boat. a flat is worth so little at this end of the river trade that i was glad to bargain the craft for twenty dollars to a family of french creoles. at new orleans i might have sought in vain for a purchaser. scores of flats are there abandoned by the rivermen, many of whom return to the upper shipping towns afoot. after some hours of delay at the water front, i returned to mickie's tavern with a cartload of impedimenta, including my own chest. don pedro met me at the door, with the information that he had already seen general wilkinson, who, upon learning that i also bore despatches, had sent him to summon me to the headquarters. the don's expression, so far as one might read his proud features, told me that the interview had not been over-satisfactory. "you are not pleased at general wilkinson?" i asked. "_nada_, john," he answered with a terseness which spoke volumes. i could well imagine what he would have said, had not his courtesy prevented. "i will hasten," i said. "it may be he will meet you in a more favorable mood after he has seen the letters i bear." "god knows! who can tell?" he murmured in spanish. "i hope to know within the hour," i replied. "_sabe dios--quien sabe?_" he repeated, as i set off. i found the general's headquarters without difficulty, and upon mentioning my name, was at once passed in by the sentinel on guard in the piazza. when i entered the office, i found the general studying a map of lower louisiana, in company with colonel cushing, his second in command. for a moment he stared at me with stupid pomposity, as if he had been overcome with the whiskey, a bottle of which stood on the table before him. but even as i gave my name, he recognized me and beckoned me to a seat at the table, with a fussy show of cordiality. "of course, of course, dr. robinson! take a seat! i'm pestered with all kinds of visitors in these days of impending war. but a gentleman is always welcome. colonel cushing, you have met dr. robinson?--no?--one of our most promising young physicians,--already favorably known for his skill, both in the upper and lower territory. he has, i understand, a private claim to present for my consideration. that is my understanding, doctor." "you have been so kind, sir, as to give me opportunity to present a matter of private business, if i am not mistaken." colonel cushing promptly rose, excused himself, and withdrew. the general leaned toward me, his fat, red face flushing still deeper, his breath hurried and labored. "you bring me letters?" he puffed. i took out my packet, broke the seal before his eyes, and handed over the first two letters, which were addressed to him. he tore open both with pudgy fingers that shook, either from excitement or excess of drink. the more bulky one he stared at for a moment, with knitted brows, only to fling it into a drawer. "cypher again!" he muttered. "you spoke to me, sir?" i asked. he glared across at me, with what i could have sworn was panicky fear. his voice shook: "you--you--do you know what is in these letters?" "you saw me break the seal of the packet," i replied. "i do not know the contents of colonel burr's messages; though, from what he told me, one letter relates to myself, and the other bears upon the death of pitt." "pitt!--pitt dead?" he gasped, losing thought of the one fear in another. "have you not heard?" i asked, astonished. "it is months since his death--midwinter." "but--but--that puts another face on the plans! without pitt--without the british ships--" "british ships!" i exclaimed. he started, and sought to gather together his scattered wits, hastily pouring out and drinking half a glass of raw whiskey before again speaking. i waved aside the bottle and a second glass which he thrust toward me, and pointed to the other letter. "your excellency, may i ask you to read what colonel burr has written with regard to myself?" he caught up the letter, and after a hasty glance about the room from door to window, began to read. i could see by the quickness with which his eyes followed the lines that, unlike the first, it was written in a legible hand. at the end he went back and re-read the latter part. coming again to the end, he laid the letter down, and addressed me with a most bombastic assumption of dignity: "sir, colonel burr takes too much upon himself--far too much! the granting of your request, sir, is impossible--impossible!" away puffed my aircastles at a word, and left me stunned and heartsick. i had not looked for so sudden a blow. yet i managed to protest: "your excellency, i have ventured to imagine that i am not altogether lacking in the qualities needed by the leader of such an expedition." he unbent a trifle. "sir, i do not question your qualifications." "then what prevents my appointment, your excellency? is it that you wish further recommendations? if only my friend lieutenant pike were here to speak for me!" "that, sir, is the point. i cannot give you the place, because lieutenant pike has already been assigned to it." "he!" i cried. "but he is at the sources of the mississippi!" "he was, sir, and the government shall hear of it, to his just credit. he has explored the headwaters of the river; entered into treaties with the powerful tribes of the sioux and chippewas; hauled down the british flags at the fur-trading posts, and compelled an agreement of the northwest company to pay us our import duties at michilmackinac." "and he has returned!" i muttered. "in april. by now he is fitting out this present expedition." i rose and bowed. "such being the case, your excellency, permit me to wish you good-day." "one moment," he said, leaning toward me, with a leer which doubtless he meant for an ingratiating glance. "has your ambition so narrow a range, doctor?" "my ambition?" i inquired. "your ambition and your interest in the projects of one who shall at present go unnamed. i must read and consider what the gentleman has written to me. whatever my decision as to--those matters, i cannot give you what you have asked; but--you will understand--there may be possibilities--vast possibilities!--a vast empire, stretching westward from the alleghanies--" "alleghanies!" i cried, astounded. at sight of my face, his own turned a mottled gray. he caught at the whiskey bottle and poured himself out a second drink. fortified by the draught, he gasped something about an attack of bilious fever, and added, with a crafty smile: "you, sir, as a physician, know how this cursed malaria flies to the head. i have the word arkansas on my tongue, yet say alleghany." the explanation at once allayed the terrible suspicion which had flashed into my mind. it was common knowledge throughout the west that this man had been involved with innes and other conspirators of the separatist plots in the nineties. but that he or colonel burr or any other man not insane could dream of such treason to the republic in these days was a thought seemingly so preposterous that it needed only the pompous old fellow's word of explanation to make me banish the suspicion. yet i realized that i had had quite enough of his company. "sir," i said, "my interest in the affairs of colonel burr hinged entirely upon this question of the expedition. since the honor of its leadership has fallen to my friend lieutenant pike, i have nothing to ask of you." "you will remain in natchez a day or two?" he inquired. "i cannot say." "it might prove to your interest to delay over. i may again send for you, notwithstanding your reluctance to receive other favors than the one i cannot grant." i bowed and withdrew, leaving him in the act of pouring a third drink of whiskey. chapter xii au revoir it was not with a light heart that i returned to mickie's hotel. i had made my cast, and fortune was against me. in the afternoon i had left alisanda smiling down upon me from the balcony of her inn window; i was returning at nightfall to meet--señorita vallois. though to the last she and don pedro might hold to the familiar "juan," how little might even her smiles lighten the shadow of a hopeless parting! as i entered the inn door, mickie bustled forward to inform me, with an air of vast importance, that at the request of the spanish grandee, he had arranged to serve the evening meal to the señor's party above stairs. when he added that a plate was to be laid for myself, i hastened to my own room for a change of linen. my heart was too heavy for me to linger over foppish details of dress. it was not long before i found myself at the door of the room set apart for the private dining-parlor. chita, who was overlooking the spreading of the cloth by the negro attendants of the inn, conducted me through to the balcony, where i found the don indolently puffing at his _cigarro_. before i could take the seat to which he waved me, alisanda floated out into the moonlight from the window behind him. she was a vision all heavenly white but for her scarlet lips and sombre eyes and brows. even the soft tresses of her hair were hidden beneath the gauzy white drape of tulle and lace which took the place of her black mantilla. "_buenas noches_, juan," she greeted me, in a tone of liquid silver. "god be with you, alisanda!" i responded. "be seated, _amigo_," urged don pedro. "you have a weary look." "i bring what to me is heavy news," i replied. "you had in mind to ask a favor of general wilkinson," said alisanda. "you have asked the favor, and--he has refused it?" the note of sympathy in her voice soothed my despairing anger. i did not stop to wonder at the intuition by which she had divined the object of my visit to the general. it was enough for me that she had perceived my heaviness, and held out to me her sympathy. "it is true," i said, and in a few words i told them of my shattered plans,--how i had hoped to gain fame by leading an expedition of exploration to the west, as lewis and clark were exploring the northwest, and as my friend pike had explored the headwaters of the mississippi; and how the statements of colonel burr had led me to hope for still greater fame as a sharer in the freeing of mexico. don pedro leaned toward me, his eyes glowing with friendly fire. "_por dios!_ your one thought was to help us break the yoke! you would give your life for the winning of liberty!" i looked across at alisanda, and the soft loveliness of her beauty in the moonlight filled me to overflowing with the bitterness of my blasted hopes. "do not think me so noble!" i replied. "i thought to fight for the freedom of your country, but it was in hope of a reward a thousandfold greater than my service!" alisanda raised her fan and gazed at me above its fluted edge with widened eyes,--i feared in resentful wonder at my audacity. but don pedro was too intent upon his own thoughts to perceive the meaning of my words. "_por dios!_" he protested. "those who have risen against spanish oppression have ever met with short shrift. shall not they who brave death in our cause look for glorious reward in the hour of victory?" "that is true of those who may be blessed with the chance to join your ranks. as for me, the opportunity which i had thought to be golden has turned to ashes in my grasp." "_sabe dios!_" murmured alisanda in so soft a tone that the words came to me like a whisper of the evening breeze. was it possible that after all i still had cause for hope? chita's voice, drawling the usual spanish phrase, summoned us to the table. we rose, and alisanda accepted my arm with a queenly graciousness of manner which in the same moment thrilled and disheartened me. i read it to mean that she was in a kindly mood, but that the kindliness was due to the condescension of señorita vallois, and not to the frank companionship of my fellow-traveller alisanda. this surmise was borne out by her manner at table, where she rallied her uncle and myself upon our gravity, and with subtle skill, confined the talk to the lightest of topics. the don was as abstemious as most of his countrymen, and mickie's wine was a libel on the name, yet he soon mellowed to the gay chit-chat of his niece. it was beyond me to enter into this spirit of merriment. i forced myself to smile outwardly and to meet their lively quips and sallies with such nimbleness of wit as i possessed. but it went no deeper than show on my part. the longer we sat, the heavier grew my heart. i had no joy of my food. even the peaches and the other fruits of the lower river tasted bitter in my mouth. for with each fresh turn of the conversation i saw my alisanda slipping farther away from me, her kindly glance giving place to the haughty gaze of the spanish lady of blood, her familiar address cooling to stately condescension. i was no longer "juan," but "doctor" and "señor," and, near the end, "doctor robinson." we had come to the sweetmeats, and i noted with despair that she was on the point of withdrawing. she had even thrust back her chair to rise, when, with scant ceremony, a young soldier in uniform entered and stated that his excellency, general wilkinson, desired the immediate presence of señor vallois. "_carambo!_" exclaimed don pedro, looking regretfully at the sweetmeats. "he might have chosen a fitter time! it is in my mind to wait." "is not your business with him the affair of others no less than your own?" murmured alisanda. "_santisima virgen!_ you do well to remind me! juan, with your permission--" "_adios!_ good fortune to you!" i cried, as he rose. another moment and he and the soldier had left the room. i was alone with alisanda. she rose, with a trace of inquietude beneath her calm hauteur. i moved around the table to join her. "spare yourself the trouble," she said, with repellent sharpness. "it is unkind to take a man of english blood from his wine." "señorita," i answered, "since we came in to table, you have told me all too plainly that you no longer wish to conform to the customs of the country. i do not wonder. our voyage as fellow-travellers is at an end. there is no longer need for such slight service as i was able to render--" "service?" she repeated, with a curl of her scarlet lip. though cut to the quick, i could not give over. "alisanda," i said, "has it been nothing to you, all these golden days since we met on the monongahela?" she raised her hand to arrange her scarf, letting fall a loose strand of hair down her cheek. "_santisima virgen!_" she murmured, with fine-drawn irony. "it has ever been a marvel to me--so chance a meeting." "chance, indeed!" i replied. "chance that the utmost of my effort could not trace the road by which you left washington; chance that colonel burr gave me the clew for which i sought; chance that of the nine horses i rode to a stand between philadelphia and elizabethtown, none failed me in my need." she gave me a mocking glance over her fan. "_madre de los dolores!_ what a pity! a little time, and the gulf will roll between." "i will cross that gulf!" "not so; for it is the gulf of the cross," she mocked. "i go the way of vera cruz--the true cross. no heretic may pass that way." the words struck down my last hope. it was the truth--a double truth. the way of my body was barred by the city of the cross; the way of my spirit by that which to her the cross symbolized. "so this is the end," i replied. "we have come to the parting of the ways. do not fear that i shall weary you with annoying persistence. i shall go my way before sunrise to-morrow. only--let me ask that this last hour with you may hold its share of sweetness with the bitterness of parting,--alisanda!" "an hour?" she repeated. "the air in here is close." she laid her fingers lightly upon my arm, and we passed out into the moonlit balcony. for a time we sat silent, she gazing out across the broken slopes of the town, i gazing at her still white face and shadowy eyes. her loveliness was part with the night and the moonlight and the scarlet bloom of the climber upon the balcony rail. at last i could no longer endure the thought that she was lost to me; i could no longer deny utterance to my love and longing. "alisanda! dearest one! is there then no hope that i may win you? i have no gallant speeches--my love is voiceless; no less is it a love that shall endure always. alisanda! _my_ dearest one! is my love of no worth to you? let your heart speak! can it not give me one word of hope?" my voice failed me. throughout my passionate appeal i failed to see the slightest change in her calm face. i had failed to stir her even to mockery. truly all was now at an end! i bowed my head and groaned in most unmanly fashion. the low murmur of her voice roused me to despairing eagerness. she spoke in a tone of light inconsequence, yet i seized upon the words as the drowning man clutches at straws. "love?--love?" she repeated. "the word has become a jest. men protest that they know the meaning of love--that they suffer its bitterest pangs. yet speak to them of the days of chivalry, when gallant knights bore the colors of their ladies through deadly battle, and the ogling beaux turn an epigram on _les sauvages nous ancêtres_!" "show me the way to the battlefield--i ask no more!" i cried. "words--words!" she mocked. "the cid would have found his way to the field of glory without asking. were the way barred, el campeador would have hewn his way through, though the barrier were of solid rock! but the men of to-day--!" "wait!" i broke in. "have you not yourself said that the way of the gulf is impassable for me?" "true," she assented, "true! and not alone the gulf, but the barrier--the gulf of water and of the cross; the barrier of rock and of blood." "blue blood and red have been known to intermingle," i argued. "with love for solvent!" she murmured. the softness was only for the instant. "yet what of that other barrier?" she demanded. "between your land and the land to which i go lies the blood of christ." "is it then religion that is the insurmountable barrier--the impassable gulf? you have not lived all your life in spain. i had hoped that not even your faith could close your heart against me, if only i might prove to you the greatness of my love." she sat silent for what seemed an endless time, toying idly with her fan. when at last she spoke, it was again in that light, inconsequential tone: "to the eastward or northeastward of santa fe lies a vast snow-clad sierra. my kinsman once saw it from a great distance. he says it is called the _sangre de cristo_." "_sangre de cristo_--the blood of christ!" i said, lost in wonderment. then a great light flashed upon me. i knelt on one knee and caught to my lips a white hand that did not seek to escape my grasp. "the barrier--the barrier of rock!--alisanda! you give me hope! if i come to you there--if i cross that barrier? dearest one!--dearest! can you doubt it? though i have to find my way alone among the fierce savages of the vast prairies; though i find that snowy range a mountain of ice and fire, i will come to you, alisanda--my love!" i saw the quick rise of her bosom and the blush that suffused her cheeks with glorious scarlet before she could raise her masking fan. "_santisima virgen!_" she murmured, and broke into a little quavering, uncertain laugh. "they speak of the cold blood of your race!" "alisanda!--dearest one! tell me i may come!" she rose quietly, already calm again, and cold as the moonlight which shone full upon her face. i rose with her, still clasping her hand. "tell me, alisanda, may i come?" "why ask me that?" she said, in an even voice. "could i prevent if you wished to try?" "if i cross the barrier, may i hope?" "there would yet be the gulf." "gulf or barrier, i swear i will find my way to you, though it be through fire and flood! i will seek you out and win you, though you hide your beauty beneath a nun's veil!" such was the force of my passion, i again saw her bosom rise to a deep-drawn breath and the edges of her sensitive nostrils quiver. yet this time she did not blush, and her voice cut with its fine-drawn irony: "words--words!" "i offer love. i ask nothing in turn but a word or a token--nothing but--my lady's colors." she turned and opened her eyes full to my gaze as she had opened them at our parting in far-off washington, and i looked down into their depths, vainly seeking to penetrate the darkness. at last it seemed to me i saw a gleam far down in the wells of mystery--a glow, faint yet warm, that seemed to light my way to hope. suddenly the glow burst into a flame of golden glory--she was swaying toward me, a line of pearls showing between her curving lips. but even as i sought to clasp her in my arms, she eluded me and glided away, vanishing through the farther window. half mad with delight, yet unable to believe my own eyes, i sought to follow, the blood drumming in my ears from the wild intoxication of my love. none too soon i heard behind me the sharp call of don pedro: "_hola, amigo!_ have you gone deaf, that you do not answer?" this, then, was why she had eluded me! it was his return which had robbed me of that moment of all moments. my look as i turned was as bitter as his was keen. my voice sounded to me like that of another man: "what! back so soon, señor?" "señor?" he repeated, taken aback by the formal address. "yet it is as well, juan. all our plans are blasted. hereafter it would seem we are to be strangers. i have no faith in the promises of that man." "you do well to distrust him," i said. "i might have foreseen the outcome of plans in which he was to play a part." "whom can we trust in this self-seeking age! i find myself doubting even the fair promises of your great statesman burr." "of our discredited politician burr!" i cried. "don pedro, he has no claim upon me, and you have many. let me tell you, i begin to doubt him, even as i doubt our pompous general. i have reason to believe that colonel burr plans to take your country from spain, not for the benefit of you and your friends, but for his own aggrandizement. he thinks himself a second napoleon." "_por dios!_ i see it now. he plots to sell us to spain, that spain may aid his plot to make himself king of your western country,--king of all that part which extends from the alleghanies even here to new orleans and north and west to the pacific. i know; for did he not enter into negotiations with marquis de casa yrujo?" "with the spanish minister?" i exclaimed. "with casa yrujo, after the death of pitt deprived him of the hope of british ships and money." "so--he is but a crack-brained trickster," i muttered. "we have chased his rainbows and landed in the mire. this is the end, señor. i go now. tomorrow's sun will see me on my way up-river to st. louis. may you find brave men enough in your own land to win freedom, without the costly aid of tricksters!" "there are others than tricksters that share my plans--true-hearted men at new orleans. the mexican association stands pledged,--three hundred and more loyal workers in the cause of my country's freedom." "creoles," i said. "you could count upon a hundred of my backwoods countrymen to do more, should it come to the setting of triggers." "we shall see. but there are others than creoles in the association. already señor clark has made two voyages to vera cruz, to spy out the defences. i go now to tell him more. you know something as to the power of our religious orders. at new orleans are two such. but what is all this to you now?" "much, don pedro! my heart is with the success of your plans!" "_muchas gracias, amigo!_ would that you might journey with me to my people! but the gate at vera cruz is narrow for heretics. _adios!_" "_adios_, don pedro. may we meet under brighter skies!" "god grant it, juan!" he cried, with unfeigned friendliness. i clasped his hand, and hastened away. my heart was too full for words. early as i expected to start in the morning, i did not seek my bed. i could not sleep. having bargained for my upstream passage with a st. louis friend, in command of a keelboat, i wandered out and strolled through the sloping streets of the town. but even the wild revelry of the rivermen, for which natchez is so evilly noted, failed to win from me more than passing heed. my own thoughts were in wilder turmoil. in beside the memory of the golden love-glory which had shone in her eyes, and fit mate to the bitter disappointment of the loss that don pedro's entrance had cost me, there had crept into my mind a maddening doubt that i had seen clearly,--a fear that the glow in her eyes, the swaying of her dear form nearer to me, had been only the fantasies of my passion. unable to endure the torment of such doubt, i hastened back, to linger in the shadow beneath my lady's balcony. after a time, so great was my longing, i found courage to murmur the refrain of a song we had sung together on the river. i dared not raise my voice for fear don pedro would hear and divine my purpose, and my low notes seemed lost in the drunken ditties and outcries of the carousers in the tavern taproom. an hour dragged by its weary length, and no soft whisper floated down to me from above, no graceful vision appeared at the vine-clad balustrade. despair settled heavily upon my heart. the cadenced spanish vowels died away upon my lips. i turned to go. a small white object dropped lightly from above and fell at my feet. in a trice my despair had given place to hope and joy no less extravagant. i snatched up the message, and rushed in to open it before the waxen taper, in the privacy of my room. the wrapping was a lace-edged handkerchief of finest linen, in the corner of which was an embroidered "a. v."--my lady's initials. but when i opened it, thinking to find a written missive, there appeared only a great, sweet-scented magnolia bloom. yet was not this enough? was it not far more than i had expected--than had been my right to expect? i held it close before my eyes, my thoughts upon the sender, whose cheeks were still more delicate in texture than these creamy petals. i turned the blossom around to view its perfections. she had held it in her hand! upon one of the delicate petals faint lines had appeared. they darkened into clear letters under my gaze, and those letters spelled "_au revoir_!" chapter xiii against the current had i been in funds, i should have preferred a horse for the up-river trip. as it was, i was glad of the opportunity to make the passage by boat with my friend the captain, and in so doing, to earn a pocketful of wages. it is not, however, a proceeding i should advise to be undertaken by one who lacks the strength and experience necessary for poling and cordelling. at times, to be sure, we were able to relieve our labors by an occasional resort to the sails, when the wind chanced to be fair. but in the very nature of the case, this aid could never be more than temporary, since the windings of the river were bound, sooner or later, to make a headwind of what had been a fair breeze. so, for the most part, our voyage all the way from natchez to st. louis meant one continuous round, from morning till night, of setting our poles at the boat's prow, each in his turn, and tramping to the stern along the side gangways, or walking-boards,--there to raise our poles and return to the prow, to repeat the laborious proceeding. i can say that keelboat poling is a splendid method of developing the muscles of the back and lower limbs, provided the man who attempts it begins with a sufficient stock of strength and endurance to carry him over the first week. this does not mean that i enjoyed the trip. softened by my winter in washington, the first few days out of natchez were as trying to me as to the regular members of the crew after their carousals and excesses in new orleans and natchez. our boat, which had come down with a cargo of lead from the mines about st. louis, was returning with a consignment of the cheap calicos and the coarse broadcloth called strouding, which form the basis of the indian barter in the fur trade; and cloth in bolts, closely stowed, is not the lightest of cargoes. but, once we had worked ourselves into condition, we shoved our craft upstream from daylight till nightfall at an average speed of over three miles an hour. whenever the bank and channel permitted, we eased our labor at the poles by passing a towline ashore and cordelling the boat, while our captain, one of the best on the river, was ever alert to hoist sail with every favorable breeze. if i did not enjoy the voyage, i nevertheless had cause to feel thankful for the hard work which held my melancholy thoughts in check and sent me to my bunk at night so outspent that i slept as soundly as any man aboard. a man treading the walking-boards, bowed over his pole, may brood on his troubles for a week or two, but none could do so longer unless his system were full of malaria. for the constant, vigorous exercise in the open air is bound to send the good red blood coursing through every vein of the body, until even the most clouded brain must throw off its vapors. once free from the melancholy which had oppressed me the first few days, i gave most of my thought to the problem of how i should fulfil my vow to cross the barrier that was so soon to lie between my lady and myself. my main hope lay in the possibility of obtaining lieutenant pike's permission to join his expedition as a volunteer. but he was so strict in his adherence to the most rigid requirements of his position as an officer, that there was grave reason to doubt whether he would accept my services without an order from the general. there were other plans to be considered, one of which was that i should throw in my fortunes with señor liza and his creole fellows. the idea was distasteful, yet, reflecting on what little i had learned of the plans of colonel burr and his friends, i was not so sure but that liza's party were quite as loyal. at the least, i could see no harm in aiding liza to carry a trading expedition into santa fe. so far as my own plans were concerned, the venture would promise more at the other end than if i joined pike's party. if i reached that other end, i should be going among the people of new spain in company with persons of their own blood. there remained the most desperate plan of all. i could set out alone, and trust to my unaided craft and single rifle to carry me safe across the hundreds of miles of desert and the snowy mountains of which alisanda had spoken. i had travelled the wilderness traces and the trackless forests too often alone to have any fear of wild beasts. but there was the uncertainty of being able to kill enough meat to keep from starving in the western wilds, and on the other hand the certainty of encountering bands of the little-known pawnees and ietans. rather than not go at all, i was resolved to attempt this desperate venture. but my plan was to seek first to attach myself to my friend's party, and, failing that, to open negotiations with liza. after a brief stop at kaskaskia, that century-old trading post of the french, we undertook the last run to st. louis with much spirit. the greater part of the crew were eager to reach st. louis in time for the celebration of independence day. in this we were disappointed, being so set back by headwinds that we did not tie up to the home wharf until the evening of the sixth of july. my first inquiries relieved me of my fear that lieutenant pike had already started. he was waiting with his party, fourteen or fifteen miles upstream, at the cantonment belle fontaine, established the previous year by general wilkinson. i had already learned at kaskaskia that the general had passed us in his barge far down the river, and had arrived in st. louis several days before us. to this was now added the news that he had gone on up to belle fontaine. such an opportunity to meet the general and my friend together was not to be lost. i made my plans over-night in st. louis, stored my chest, provided myself with a new hunter's suit, and obtained letters of recommendation to the general from two gentlemen of influence. dawn found me at the convenient river front which gives st. louis such an advantage over the other up-river settlements of twice its size and age. the rock bank not only prevents the incutting of the current, but, owing to its lowness, gives easy access to and from the water, unlike the high bluffs upon which most of the settlements have been located. looking about for an up-river party, i was so fortunate as to fall in with mr. daniel boone, who with his son-in-law, flanders calloway, had come down from la charette with a bateau-load of furs. seeing me in hunting dress, the old gentleman showed the keenest interest in my intentions, and upon learning that my immediate purpose was to reach belle fontaine, invited me aboard their bateau. on the way upstream he made me sit beside him in the stern-sheets, and his look betrayed such an eagerness over my plans that i could not resist confiding them to him. it was sad to see the youthful fire flash and sparkle in his bright old eyes, only to dull and fade to the grayness of forced resignation. "my days are past, john," he said, in his quiet, almost gentle voice. "you have heard me tell of the trip i took with your father through the choctaw nation; but i'm now past my threescore years and ten, lad. take off the ten, and i'd be with you on this traceless quest to the spanish country. it's hard to be tied down to a scant fifty miles or so of free range. but my old bones stiffen and call for rest after their wanderings. i reckon, though, i've done a man's share in my time. not that i make any boast of it; only i feel that i was an instrument in god's providence to open the wilderness to our people. i feel it none the less that there were all those others before me. captain morgan founded new madrid in sixty-six--" "but that was under spanish rule," i exclaimed. "yours was the first of the advanced american settlements in kentucky. if only i may have a share in a like tracing of our great western plains!" he gave me a shrewd glance. "you fear they won't let you go with the expedition. why not follow their trace, and join their party in the pawnee country? this young lieutenant is your friend, you say. he will be sure to take you into camp." simple as was this stratagem, it had not occurred to me in all my scheming. yet it was so practicable that i at once assured mr. boone i would, if need were, carry out the suggestion. a few minutes later he landed me at belle fontaine, and we parted with a warm handshake. though deprived by litigation of the bulk of his spanish grant on the femme osage, as he had been in the early nineties of his kentucky lands, mr. boone remains one of the most even-tempered and kindliest men i know. upon reaching the cantonment, my first intention had been to seek out general wilkinson. but within a few paces i caught sight of a company of the second infantry on parade, and one glance was enough to tell me that the officer in command was my friend lieutenant pike. though i could see only his trim back, there was no mistaking the odd manner in which he stood with his head so bent to the right that the tip of his chapeau touched his shoulder. before many minutes he dismissed the company, and turning about, saw me waiting within a dozen paces. in another moment he was grasping my hand, his blue eyes beaming and his fair cheeks flushing like a girl's beneath their sunburn. "good fortune, john!" he cried. "i feared you had gone on down to settle in new orleans. the general spoke of meeting you in natchez." "did he tell you the cause of that meeting--and the outcome?" "surely you cannot blame him!" "no, no, montgomery!--since it was you who had forestalled me!" "yet you must have had your heart set upon leading the expedition." "it was to obtain the leadership that i went on to washington." "no!" "a wild goose chase, as you see. but, worst of all, i am now more than ever anxious to go." "yet--even if the general should remove me--" "he would not give the place to me. nor could i ask your removal. yet i _must_ go with you, montgomery!" "you are not in the service." "i will offer myself as a volunteer." "nothing could give me greater pleasure! and we need a surgeon. still--" "i am aware that the general does not regard me with favor. yet if you should second my application--" "by all means! have you met the general's son, lieutenant james wilkinson?" i shook my head. "here he comes. i will introduce you. he is my second in this expedition. stop and talk with him, while i see the general. i will have you on with us if it can be done." i turned and saw approaching a tall young lieutenant whose sallow but pleasant face was altogether unlike that of his father. owing to this and to his cordial greeting when we were introduced, i was able to enter into a lively conversation with him, while my friend hastened away. a few remarks brought us to the subject of the expedition, and i found the lieutenant so agreeable when i intimated my desire to volunteer that i ventured to ask his good services in the affair. to this he very readily assented, and upon the return of my friend, held a conference with him, the decision of which was that i should wait over a day, in view of the fact that the general had received pike's intervention in my behalf with disfavor. it was an irksome wait, little as was the time given me to brood. young wilkinson put me up in his own quarters, but mrs. pike insisted that i should take all my meals with the family. i repaid this hospitality as best i could by detailed descriptions of all that i had seen during my visit in washington, which proved no less interesting to the lieutenant than to mrs. pike. also i was able to cure the children of a slight seasonable indisposition. of his own affairs my friend had little to say. his modesty and reserve prevented him from giving any other than the most meagre information as to his recent trip, while my first inquiry regarding the present expedition was met by the prompt statement that he was under orders not to discuss it. the most i learned was that, with few exceptions, his party was made up of the men who had proved themselves so brave and enduring on his mississippi trip. on my part, i contrived to say nothing about my dealings with colonel burr, and so little with regard to alisanda that not even mrs. pike divined my romance. this was not that i shrank from confiding in them. my idea was to keep the information as a last resort, in the event that i should be compelled to undertake the stratagem suggested by mr. boone. the confession of my love-quest would then add strength to my appeal to be taken into camp. shortly after noon of the following day pike brought me the welcome news that young wilkinson advised an immediate call upon his father. i hastened over to headquarters, and, upon sending in my name, was shown into the presence of the general. he was still seated at table, and with the same gesture that dismissed his waiter, waved me to a seat across from him. "so," he puffed, eying me curiously, "i understand that you have reconsidered the position you took at natchez." "i confess, your excellency, i have become so infatuated with the idea of this adventurous expedition that i wish to join it, even though in a subordinate position." "your reasons?" he demanded, with unconcealed suspicion. "there is the love of adventure for its own sake, your excellency. i was born on the frontier. for another thing, i should perhaps gain some little standing by reporting on the mineralogical and other scientific features encountered by the expedition." "you would be willing to give your services as surgeon?" "certainly, sir!" he pushed across a glass and his whiskey bottle, and i thought it discreet to accept the invitation. as i sipped my toddy, he drew a sealed document from his pocket, and fixed me with what was meant for a penetrating stare. "you are willing to do all within your power to further the success of the expedition?" though certain that this covered something more than my medical services, i answered without hesitancy: "anything within my power, sir!" "good," he replied, and he nodded. "here is a question to test that--supposing the expedition, in exploring our unknown boundaries, should chance to find itself in the vicinity of the spanish settlements--" i started, and leaned toward him, eager-eyed. "yes!" i cried. "you mean--?" "by ----!" he muttered. "what do _you_ mean? you're like a hound on a blood trace!" "who is not eager to get at the secrets of el dorado?" i parried. "so?" he said. "i fear that colonel burr has been plying you with his harebrained schemes." "he spoke to me of the mexican mines." "you are not the first of his dupes." "dupe, sir! i thought that you were yourself one of his friends." "friend?--to him!" the general swelled with what seemed to me over-acted indignation. "but i forgive you your ignorance, sir. let us return to the point under discussion. the question is, would you, under the supposition i have stated, be willing to risk yourself among the spaniards?" "you mean, sir, as a spy?" "it is a question of patriotism, sir, patriotism!" he puffed. "though war now seems averted for the time being, hostilities may occur even before this expedition can return. in the event of war, i need hardly mention to you that information bearing upon the situation of the spanish in their northern provinces would be of inestimable value to our country." "your excellency," i said, "i bear the spanish authorities no love, and my country much. i will undertake what you have mentioned, so far as lies within my power." "lieutenant pike has assured me as to your abilities. you speak french and some spanish?" "some french, sir; very little spanish." "enough to serve." he took up the document, with its beribboned seal. "here is a paper for your consideration. it is a claim upon the spanish authorities, prepared according to the treaties between the united states and spain. two years ago mr. william morrison of kaskaskia intrusted one baptiste le lande with a large stock of trade goods for barter among the western tribes. according to reports which have lately come to mr. morrison through the indians, le lande has reached santa fe and there settled, without intention of accounting for the property intrusted to him." "i understand, your excellency," said i. "this claim is to serve as a cloak for my spying." "no need to use so harsh a term," he mumbled. "it is the term the spanish authorities will use if they detect me," i answered. "we are at peace with spain. i reached a good understanding with general herrera before coming up the river. there will be no hostilities for some months, at the least. the spaniards will not dare to resort to extremes against you." "their authorities bear us no love," i rejoined. "those in so remote a province as nuevo mexico may well argue that it will be quite safe to hang a spy, war or no war." he took up the document, with a frown. "then you do not care to venture it?" "your excellency mistakes me. i wish merely to point out the risk. in my opinion, the danger could be no greater if hostilities had already begun." "and if i admit the risk?" he demanded. "it is, in a sense, a military service. supposing it successful, is it not your excellency's opinion that a recommendation to a commission might be in order?" he studied me for some moments. then: "a commission as a subaltern--possibly." "sir, i could obtain that by means of a little political begging. i had in mind a captaincy." "captaincy!" he repeated, taken aback by my audacity. "captaincy! that is beyond all reason." "yet if i succeed beyond reason--?" "in such event--but let that wait until your return." "if ever i do return," i added. "true; but you can thank yourself that you are thrusting your head into the noose, with your eyes open." "then your excellency gives me leave to join as a volunteer?" "we shall see--we shall see." "but, your excellency, a man likes time for preparations." "that is your own affair, sir,--though i may say that, at present, i feel disposed to grant you the favor. i shall let you know in good time." with this i was forced to be content. the general rose to enter his office, with a pompous gesture of dismissal. but upon my return to my friend's quarters, he and mrs. pike and lieutenant wilkinson joined in assuring me that, since the general had not refused me point blank, i had every reason to expect a favorable decision. chapter xiv the lure it was well in line with the general's character that he kept me on tenterhooks until the very afternoon before the intended day of marching. then, as it were at the eleventh hour, he included in his written orders to lieutenant pike, to march the following day, a brief paragraph to the effect that i was to accompany the expedition as a volunteer surgeon. notwithstanding the orders of the general, we did not start in the morning, but were forced to wait over until the fifteenth of july, owing to the unreadiness of our savage charges, the osage captives who had been rescued from the pottawattomies and who were to be returned to their people under our escort. the first stage of our journey, up the devious osage river, was one tedious to all and exceedingly laborious to those whose duties confined them to the navigation of the boats. in confirmation i need only add that the summer was fast nearing its close before we arrived at the osage towns. there, instead of the generosity which we had a right to expect from an indian tribe to whom we had restored so many members, we were delayed many days by their ungrateful reluctance to supply us with horses, and in the end obtained with greatest difficulty only a few of their least desirable animals. yet, relieved of the boats and our indian charges and possessed of these few pack-beasts and saddle horses, our march on toward the pawnee republic, when at last we did get under way again, soon carried us into the prairie which lies westward of the three-hundred-mile belt of half-forested lands along the mississippi. we had come to that vast extent of desert plains which, though abounding in game, is all but destitute of timber. in consequence of this fact, young wilkinson and i agreed with pike that the arid waste is destined to serve forever as the western boundary of the republic's settled population. about the middle of september i was sent on ahead of the party to the pawnee republic, accompanied by a young pawnee called frank, one of the half-dozen of his people attached to the expedition at st. louis. we were well mounted, and travelled rapidly in a northwesterly direction, across the lower fork of the kansas river and the three branches which flow into the republican fork from the south and west. at first we kept a sharp outlook for hunting and war parties of the kans, who at the time were not on the best of terms with their cousins the osages. but throughout our trip we saw nothing more dangerous than the numerous panthers which thrive on the superabundant game. though bold, these tawny beasts were too well fed to trouble us. the same was true of the gray wolves, a small pack of which followed us day after day to feast upon the carcasses of the buffaloes we killed. evening of the fourth day brought us into the vicinity of the pawnee republic. we were riding along over a broken, hilly country, and my savage companion was telling me, in a mixture of bad french and worse english, that we should soon come within sight of the republican fork and his home village, when suddenly we rode into a broad track which could only have been made by a large body of horsemen, over two hundred at the very least. "hold!" i cried, reining up and pointing at the signs. "look. many people went south, on horses, two or three weeks ago. your people? they have gone to the arkansas?" "_non!_" grunted frank, and leaping off, he caught up and handed to me a tent pin. "pawnee? _non!_ stick no grow in pawnee hunting-ground. white man's knife cut him. _voilà!_" "white man!" i repeated in amazement. how was it possible that there could have been so large a party of white men traversing this remote wilderness? as i sat staring at the wooden pin, studying its grain and shape, frank circled around through the beaten grass in search of further signs. a guttural cry from him compelled my attention. he was holding up a broken spur. "españa!" he called. one glance was enough to convince me that he was not mistaken. the spur was of spanish make. more puzzled than ever, we clapped heels to our horses, and galloped up the track, which frank declared led direct from the village. within a few minutes we topped a line of high hills, and found ourselves looking down into the valley of the republican and upon the rounded roofs of the big pawnee lodges. one look was enough to relieve our fears regarding the safety of the village. i had never seen a more peaceful-appearing indian town. the women were at work dressing buffalo robes near the lodges or harvesting their corn and pumpkins in the little patches of field near-by. the children were scattered far and wide, the girls playing with their puppies or tagging their mothers, the boys practising with bows and arrows or watching the hoop-and-pole games of the few men who were to be seen. the young warriors, probably, were off on hunting or war parties, and of the men who remained in the village, most were dozing in their lodges or lolling in the shade outside. but i did not look long at the savages. my eye was almost immediately caught by a red-and-yellow flag afloat above the front of the great council-lodge. even at that distance i could not fail to recognize it as the flag of spain. so astonished was i at the sight that i drew up short, unable to credit my eyes. the flag solved the mystery of the track, only to raise the puzzling question of the presence of so large a body of spaniards at so great a distance from their present boundaries. a loud shouting and commotion in the village roused me from my bewilderment. we had been sighted. the women and children were fleeing to the lodges, and all the men capable of bearing arms were advancing toward us, with threatening guns and bows and lances. however, frank at once made the wolf-ear sign which showed them that he was a pawnee, while i held up the wampum belt intrusted to me by pike. a moment later frank was recognized, and the news shouted back to the village. at the same time the men, both mounted and afoot, charged down upon us, whooping and piercing the air with their shrill war whistle and flourishing their weapons as if about to tear us to pieces. a man unused to indians, no matter how brave, might well have trembled at finding himself thus confronted by hundreds of yelling, half-naked savages. the pawnee warriors are particularly formidable-looking, being tall and well shaped, and their height accentuated by the bristling roach of short hair which runs back over their shaven heads to the feathered scalp-lock. i was, however, too well versed in the indian character either to show or to feel any trepidation. as the wild band closed about us in mock attack, a stately warrior whom frank said was characterish, or white wolf, the grand chief of the nation, forced his horse through the mob and greeted me with a guttural "_bon jour_!" upon my return of the salute, he invited me to his lodge. this was gratifying, for i could see by the spanish grand medal he wore suspended from his neck that he had been particularly favored by the spaniards, and so might very well have felt ill-disposed toward all americans. when we advanced, escorted by the warriors, we were met by all the rest of the population, running and shouting and leaping with excitement at the arrival of their fellow-tribesman and the white man. but at a word from characterish, not only the women and children but the warriors as well quitted their clamor and gave us free passage into the village. unlike the mat and slab lodges of the osages, the pawnee houses are substantial structures. their wattled walls and grassed roof, supported by a double circle of posts, are covered with a thick layer of sods and earth above and over all. this makes them cool in summer and warm in cold weather; yet, like the osages, the pawnees always move down into the timbers for the winter. arriving at the lodge of white wolf, i was shown in through the covered portico which gave the lodge quite the aspect of a civilized home. within i found the chief's wives and men-servants busily cooking a meal for us on the fire in the middle of the wide pit which occupied the greater part of the lodge's interior. that there might be no doubt of his hospitality, the chief at once assigned to me one of the snug little curtained compartments built against the wall, around the edge of the pit. my room was in the place of honor, beneath the sacred medicine bundle, on the far side of the lodge. by the time i had my rifle and saddle stowed away, the chief's cook, a maimed old warrior, called us to come and eat. i sat down with my host and his two sons to a none too savory stew of dried buffalo meat, thickened with pumpkin. to this was added a mess of corn cooked in buffalo grease. but a prairie traveller is seldom troubled with a dainty stomach, and i managed to compliment my host by making a hearty meal of it. as soon as we had eaten, white wolf sent out a crier to call in the chiefs and a few of the foremost warriors of the village. they seated themselves with us in a circle, and the head chief's calumet was passed around without any man refusing to smoke. when the pipe came back around to white wolf, he addressed me in pawnee, which was interpreted by frank: "let the white man speak; tell why he come pawnee terre." i held up the wampum belt, and answered briefly: "i come in friendship from the war chief of the great white father at washington." "ugh! washington!" grunted the least stolid of the warriors. even these remote prairie savages knew that illustrious name. "--from the war chief sent by the high chief of my people to bring gifts and peace to the pawnee people," i continued. "it is his wish that you send out your young men to guide him to your town as a guest." as frank interpreted this i thought i could detect a shade of change beneath the stolid look of the grim warriors. what was still more ominous, when the pipe was passed around the second time, no one smoked. but when it came back to white wolf, after some delay and hesitation, he smoked, and thereupon announced laconically: "i go--heap grand comp'ny meet white capitan." again the pipe was started around. it was taken by one of the sub-chiefs. when he had smoked, he rose majestically, and, drawing up his buffalo robe about his naked body, pointed dramatically to the westward. there could be no mistaking the menace in his terse, guttural declamation. i looked to frank, who explained, with evident trepidation: "he pitaleshar, grand war chief. he say: ''merican white braves no go to setting sun; no march over pawnee hunting-grounds. españa chief grand--heap big; pawnees grand--heap big; 'merican soldiers _non_!' _voilà! comprenez-vous?_" "that's to be seen!" i muttered. "tell them: what the white chief will do is for him to say when he comes." whatever impression this made, none present gave any sign, and the emptying of the ashes of the sacred calumet by white wolf's pipe-bearer brought the council to an end. as it was now close upon sunset, and i was greatly wearied from my long journey, i at once sought my fur-padded couch in the rear of the lodge, and gave myself over to profound slumber. upon wakening, i was astonished to find that the sun was well up the sky, and that white wolf and iskatappe, the second chief of the town, had already set out, with a large party, to meet the expedition. the old warrior cook, who had been left to attend me, and who spoke a little french, went on to explain that frank, having like myself been found asleep, had also been left undisturbed. at this i hurriedly bolted my buffalo stew, and stepped outside the lodge, intending to look for frank. but as i paused before the entrance of the huge council-lodge to glance about and drink in the pure, sunny air, the flapping of the spanish flag in the morning breeze compelled my attention. the first glimpse of those red and yellow folds was sufficient to catch and hold my gaze. they spoke to me of my lady--of my alisanda!--and of the tyrannical power of that government whose hatred of foreigners interposed between us a barrier harder to pass than the snowy sierras of which she had told me. such at least was the dread that seized upon me as i gazed up at that symbol of lust for gold and blood. presently, as i yet stared at the mocking banner, my glance was caught by a little tracing of white lines on the outer corner. prompted by idle curiosity,--or it may have been by an unconscious premonition,--i waited until a lull in the breeze brought the flag drooping down within my reach. i grasped it to look closer at the tracing. whether i stood gaping at that little sign for a few brief seconds or many minutes i cannot say. i was too overcome with wonder and delight to sense the passage of time. all i can say is that, rousing at last to action, i slashed off the corner of the flag with my knife and thrust it into my bosom. the tracing was a duplicate of that upon the lace handkerchief which, wrapped about a withered magnolia blossom, i carried in an inner pocket of my hunting-shirt. it consisted of two letters embroidered in white silk, and those two letters were--"a. v." what a volume of joyous news those few stitches of dainty needlework conveyed to me! my lady had arrived at chihuahua before the starting of the spanish expedition; she had known at least something of the plans of the spanish commander, and she had placed her initials upon the flag as a message to me should i be attempting to cross the barrier and chance to meet her countrymen. chapter xv the pawnee peril the escort party led by white wolf returned three or four days after their start, but without the expedition. they had gone almost due east, which had brought them north of our party. great was their disgust when frank explained how, when leaving the osage villages, our osage guides, in their dread of the kans, had led our party far around to the south of the direct course. at once frank was sent out with two or three other runners on the right track, and by forenoon of the next day one of the scouts came back with word that the others were bringing in the americans. immediately the chiefs rode out with all the warriors, to receive the visitors in state. the ceremonies opened with a mock charge, during which the balls from the old fusils and trade guns of the savages flew about far too promiscuously for comfort. there followed a horse-smoke, in which some of the pawnees presented ponies to the few osages with the party. after this white wolf shook hands with pike, and invited him and myself to dine at his lodge. we did so, while wilkinson marched the party on across the river to a strong position on a hill. this welcome to the village could not have been more ceremonious and friendly. but a few days later, when we met the chiefs and warriors in grand council, the situation took on a much less favorable aspect. lieutenant pike effected a burial of the hatchet between the osages and three or four kans warriors who had come down from their village on the kansas river. he then distributed honorary presents and a quantity of goods to the pawnee chiefs, explaining that president jefferson was now their great father, instead of the spanish governor-general salcedo, and that he had been sent with these gifts to show the good-will of their new father. the pawnees accepted the presents readily enough, but i doubt if they either understood or cared about the transfer of louisiana territory. to them the prairies,--north, south, east, and west,--were their own land so far as their guns and bows could hold back the other prairie tribes. judging from what little they knew of the two rival nations of white men, they had better reasons to turn to the spaniards than to us, for the mexican expedition had come among them with a force fifteen times greater than our little band. yet in the face of this disadvantage, pike was determined to press home his point to the great ring of chiefs and headmen which encircled us and to the crowds of younger warriors without. owing to the great number who had wished to share in the council or to witness the proceedings, we had met in the open space before the entrance of the council-lodge. standing thus in the midst of the hundreds of red warriors, with none but wilkinson, myself, and baroney the interpreter to back him, pike turned and pointed to the spanish flag. "men of the pawnee nation, how comes that flag here?" he demanded. "is that the flag of your father in washington, from whose people you receive in barter all your guns and powder and lead, your strouding and beads? no! it is the flag of a far-off chief, who lives beyond your deadly foes, the ietans. this land is no longer under his hand; that flag has no right to float over these prairies. take it down and give it to me." "it is a gift to us from those other white men," protested white wolf. "it is the flag of a people who have no right in this land," rejoined pike, and he unrolled the glorious stars and stripes which he held in his hand. "chiefs and men of the pawnee republic, this is the flag of your great father. i command you to hand over that flag of spain to me and raise instead the banner of my chief!" at this audacious demand, even the stolidity of the chiefs could not hide their concern, and the warriors began to mutter and scowl. yet pike stood stern and resolute, awaiting the answer. after a full minute, one of the older warriors rose, took our flag, and going to the lodge, raised it in the place of the spanish banner, which he handed to pike. at this i am not ashamed to confess that inwardly we all breathed a sigh of relief. i say inwardly, for it was no time to show other than a bold front. the pawnees were not so successful in the concealment of their feelings. it was all too evident from their looks that they were in deadly fear that this insult to the spanish flag would bring upon them the vengeance of the white men of the southwest. for it seems the spanish leader had told them his people would return the following year in great numbers, to build a large town. but pike, having gained his point, relieved their fears by at once returning the flag, under condition that it should not again be raised during our stay. throughout this exchange of colors, my apprehensions of a treacherous outbreak had not prevented me from watching for some one to discover and remark upon the tattered corner of the spanish banner. but if it was noticed at all, the mutilation was probably laid to the thieving hand of some young brave who might have thought himself in need of a bit of bright cloth. pike now stated the wish of the great father at washington that the pawnee chiefs should make him a visit, in company with a few of their kans brothers. to this white wolf replied that the matter would be considered. next pike explained that he wished to secure the services of one of their ietan, or comanche, prisoners, to act as interpreter on our westward trip; also that he wished to barter for several good horses. again white wolf replied that the wishes of the white chief would be considered. with that the council rose. there followed some days of anxious waiting, during which our savage hosts suddenly took on a hostile attitude. in the end we were given to understand that they would not comply with any of our requests, but on the contrary would seek to prevent our marching on westward, according to their agreement with the spaniards. it was in the midst of the stress and anxiety caused by this delay and the menacing actions of the pawnees, that we received from two french traders the joyful news how lewis and clark had brought their expedition safely back from the far pacific, and should by now have gone on down the missouri to st. louis. a few days later, near the beginning of the second week in october, having at last secured a few miserable horses out of the splendid herds of the pawnees, we struck our tents and packed for the march. it was a ticklish moment, for there was not a man among us who did not fear that noon might find our scalps dangling above the pawnee lodges. our little party, barely over a score, all told, was about to defy the power of an indian town which numbered over five hundred warriors. for the first time since our start at belle fontaine i had occasion to observe the mettle of our eighteen soldiers. not one among them required the admonitions of the lieutenants to ram full charges into their muskets, to fix bayonets, and look to their priming. i was no less ready, having provided myself with a sabre, in addition to my rifle and tomahawk and brace of duelling pistols. i told pike that i did not consider myself bound by his orders to reserve fire, in the event of an attack, until the enemy were within half a dozen paces. after a little argument on the point, he consented that i should seek out their chiefs with my rifle the moment the savages commenced hostilities. with indians, no less than with whites, it is good strategy to pick off those in command at the beginning of an engagement. by way of explanation of what followed, it is as well to state that during the night two of our horses had been stolen by our light-fingered neighbors, and though one had at once been delivered up when we sent over to the village, the other was still missing. as we fell in about the pack horses, i saw pike turn back to address a question to young john sparks, his waiter. the bright-eyed lad saluted and stepped out, with evident eagerness, to mount one of the led horses. pike signed him to take position at the head of our little column, and himself rode forward with baroney. the moment they reached the van, he gave the order to march, and we swung away down the hill toward the river. across in the village we could see that the savages had made preparations which bore out in most menacing fashion their threats to oppose our march westward. every woman and child had been sent away during the night or else hidden in the lodges. this of itself was a most ominous sign. but that was the least of it. all about the lodges we could see swarms of warriors, armed with guns, bows, and lances, while here and there one of the naked young braves showed the hideous black and vermilion markings of the war paint. but if the savages thought to awe and turn us back by this warlike display, they were never so mistaken. the osages had slipped off at dawn, with the explanation that they wished to hunt, and would join us later in the day. none of our men wished to hunt. they swung along down the slope as steadily as on parade, some of the younger ones a trifle flushed, some of the older a shade paler beneath their tan and sunburn. sergeant ballenger marched along as stiff as his ramrod. sergeant meek rocked a little in his step from sheer exuberance of feeling over the prospect of a fight. his grim, scarred face fairly glowed. we came down to the river bank a little above the town, and crossed over without breaking column, those on foot holding their muskets and powder horns well up above the water. when all were across, command was given to halt and look to the primings. again the order was given to close up and march. we swung steadily up the bank, but obliquely, that we might pass by the village. already we could see every movement of the savages, who swarmed over to the near side of the village, waving their buffalo-hide shields and their weapons and shouting insults at us. once or twice we heard the shrill pawnee war whistle. in the midst of this wild uproar, when we were directly opposite the upper side of the village, pike wheeled and raised his hand. "halt!" he shouted. "stand ready to repel attack according to orders. baroney, sparks, follow!" wheeling again, he galloped straight at the yelling mob of savages, followed closely by baroney and sparks. the pawnees trained their guns upon him and levelled their lances. without checking the pace of his horse, he held out his bare palm to them. they opened their ranks to let pass the three mad white men, and closed quickly in their rear. but pike and his two followers galloped on without check until they came to the lodge of white wolf. we now perceived that the head chief was standing before the entrance of the lodge, wrapped about in his buffalo robe; but whether or not he held his weapons concealed beneath the cloak we could not tell. he waved back with a grand gesture the warriors who would have crowded around, and stood like a statue while pike, sitting his horse no less calm and impassive, addressed him with the aid of baroney. the savages, yet more astonished than ourselves at this strange parley, for the most part turned to stare at the mad white chief who had so dauntlessly ridden into their very midst. we had looked to see them instantly fling themselves upon our three lone comrades and massacre them before our eyes. in anticipation of the murder, more than one among us picked his man for reprisals, wilkinson singling out pitaleshar, the war chief, while i drew a bead on white wolf. iskatappe was not to be seen. the very air seemed to tingle with that feeling which thrills a man's nerves and sends the blood leaping through his veins when lives hang by a thread. more than one of the younger warriors, infuriated at the delay in the attack, bent their bows. had a single arrow been shot at us another instant would have seen us in the midst of a bloody battle. all hung upon the will of white wolf. he had only to make a sign, and my ball would pierce his brain, pike and his companions would be stabbed and mutilated, and we ourselves rushed by a furious mob of bloodthirsty savages. fortunately for all alike, white wolf had arrived at years of wisdom. as they watched his impassive face, the warriors gradually stilled their ferocious yells and gestures. within two minutes all was so quiet that we could hear the quick, guttural syllables of baroney's translations. "it is over!" said wilkinson, as white wolf suddenly made a gesture of assent. we saw pike turn to sparks, who promptly dismounted and walked into the chief's lodge. baroney took the riderless horse in lead, and rode back to us with pike, through the now silent but still scowling crowds of warriors. the moment they had joined us, our leader, as cool and steady as throughout his daring venture, gave the word to march. the savages continued to stand silent and motionless, watching us slip out of their clutches without so much as a parting yell. yet had it not been for the unequalled courage and firmness and sheer cool audacity of our leader, there can be no doubt we should have been in for a most desperate fight. in justice to the rank and file, i must add that the men had borne themselves throughout the affair in a manner fully creditable to their leader, who afterwards told us that he had counted upon our disposing of at least a hundred of the enemy before being ourselves rendered _hors de combat_. the men, i believe, half regretted that they had not had the opportunity to test the accuracy of this estimate. this was certainly true of meek, than whom no man was ever more maligned by his name. baroney was no less courageous than the enlisted men, as was shown by the cool manner in which he returned the following day to look for sparks. both the brave lads overtook us during the afternoon, safe and sound, and sparks riding the stolen horse! they arrived shortly before we came upon the first outgoing encampment of the spaniards, and relieved by their safe return, we swung away at our best pace in the tracks of the invaders. our immediate purpose was to follow the trace made by these soldiers of his most catholic majesty, and so discover in what direction their expedition had turned after the visit to the pawnees. chapter xvi the barrier of rock after several adventures and misadventures, during a march of several days to the southward, over a broken, hilly country, in which we lost the spanish trace, we came to the broad, shallow channel of the arkansas river. here lieutenant wilkinson and a party consisting of sergeant ballenger, four privates, and the two or three osages who had continued with us thus far, were detached to descend the river for the purpose of exploring the unknown reaches of its lower course to its junction with the mississippi. a canoe was hewn out for them from the trunk of a cottonwood tree, and another made of skins on a frame of branches, and they set off bravely downstream, though the river was at the time covered with drifting ice. having seen our companions embarked on their perilous voyage through the almost unknown country to the southeast, we set off westward on our ascent of the stream which they were descending. despite a snowstorm and the ice in the river, we crossed and recrossed the channel, until at last we rediscovered the camps and trace of the spaniards, which here indicated a force of fully six hundred soldiers. after this we marched steadily upstream, along the trace, for over two weeks, despite the hindrance and annoyance resulting from the weakness of the greater number of our horses, three or four of which had finally to be abandoned. unfortunately we lacked both the skill and the means to replace the beasts from the herds of spirited wild horses which we frequently saw interspersed among the great droves of buffaloes. yet despite the depletion of our pack train and the grim prospect of being weather-bound for the winter out on these bleak plains, we felt assured that where the spaniards had led the way we could follow, and so pushed on into the wilderness, ever farther and farther from home and civilization. since the second day after leaving the pawnee republic we had encountered none of the savage habitants of the prairies. but now at last we were again put on our guard by the discovery of occasional indian signs along the river banks. as a precaution against falling into an ambuscade, pike and i took to scouting some little distance in advance of the party. on the fifteenth of november, a day ever memorable to us, we were riding along in this manner, when, two hours or so after noon, as we topped one of the numerous hills, the lieutenant abruptly drew rein and pointed off to the right. "indians?" i demanded, looking to the priming of my rifle. "no," he replied. "wait." at the sight of his levelled spyglass, i too stared off a little to north of west, and at once made out what appeared to be a faint, half-luminous point of cloud. its color was a spectral silvery blue, much like that of the moon when seen in the daytime. before i could utter the word that sprang to my lips, my friend forestalled me. "'tis a mountain!--the mexican mountains, john!" i caught the spyglass which he thrust out to me, and fixed it upon that distant peak with burning eagerness. the mexican mountains, the fabled sierras of new spain! had we at last sighted the snowy crest of their nearest peak? was this one of that sierra of which alisanda had spoken, my barrier of rock, the sangre de cristo? we rode on, too overcome to speak, held in throbbing suspense between delight over our discovery and dread lest it should prove to be some illusion of cloud and light. but within another two miles there came an end to all doubt. before us, from one of the higher hill-tops there stretched out along the western horizon an enormous barrier of snowy mountains, extending to the north and south farther than eye or glass could see. my heart gave a great leap at that wonderful sight. in my mind there was no longer the slightest doubt. i knew that before me upreared the barrier that i must cross to reach my lady. not until the men came up with us and burst into cheers for the great white mountains of mexico did i rouse from my daydream of alisanda. before me, as real as life, i had seen imaged her beautiful pale face, with the scarlet lips parting from the pearly teeth, and the velvety black eyes gazing at me full from beneath the edge of the veiling mantilla. such was the vision--whose reality i knew to be awaiting me somewhere south and west, beyond that snowy sierra. i drew in a full breath and joined in the loud cheering of my comrades. while the air yet rang with the last of our wild cheers, our commander faced about, with upraised hand, and called in resolute tones: "men! we have toiled, we have undergone dangers. we know not what dangers lie before us: winter is at hand; our horses are fast failing; we are outfitted only for summer travel. yet what of all that? we have outfaced the pawnees; we have traversed this vast desert; we have held to the track of the spanish invaders of our territories. before our eyes uprear the unknown mountains of the west,--mountains upon which our countrymen have never before set eyes; of which no american has ever heard, unless it be the vague and misleading reports of the spaniards. men! we will not turn back with the goal of our toilsome marches in view!" "no! no! lead us on, sir!" shouted sergeant meek, and every man caught up the cry: "lead us on, sir! lead us on! no turning back!" our commander flushed, and his blue eyes sparkled. "ah, my brave men! i was certain of your mettle! we will ascend these mountains; we will explore the utmost boundaries of louisiana; and if the spaniards seek to check us--" "we'll raise a little dust, sir!" cried young sparks, flourishing his musket. "perhaps!" returned the lieutenant, looking about at us with a shrewd smile. "if it comes to that, they will not find us backward. but do not count too much on hostilities. we are here, not to fight, but to explore the limits of the territory." "but, sir, should we fall in with the spaniards?" ventured meek. "should we meet a spanish party, we may be invited to go in with them to santa fe. it would serve our purpose no little to be the guests of the spanish authorities. enough. fall in! by to-morrow night we should be encamped at the foot of that grand peak." he wheeled his horse about, and rode off again in front. i hastened to join him, my thought intent upon a surmise drawn from his last speech. when we had ridden ahead beyond earshot of the others, i put my thought into words. "montgomery," i said, "you have other orders from general wilkinson than those given out. it is not i alone whose instructions are to attempt communications with the spaniards." "and if your guess is right?" he asked. "god forbid!" i cried. "what! i see no cause for dismay in the simple fact that i am to further your efforts to obtain information. i and the party will be in much less danger from the spanish authorities than yourself, john. "it is not that," i muttered. "what, then? i declare, john, there are times when i cannot bear the thought of your venturing in among the spaniards alone. it is now my resolve to march into santa fe with you." "no, no!" i protested. "you must not--cannot!" "cannot? do you think i fear the danger?" "of death, no; but of dishonor." "dishonor! should the spanish dare--" "no, not the spaniards--not that. but our own people." "explain!" he demanded. i opened my mouth to accuse his general--and paused. after all, what proof had i of wilkinson's connivance in the plans of colonel burr? what proof had i that even burr's plans were treasonable? i should have been an outright imbecile to have entertained the slightest doubt of the zealous loyalty and patriotism of my friend,--and wilkinson was his general and his patron. why poison his mind against one who had shown him great favors and was in a position as commander-in-chief to show him even greater favors? we could not now hope to return to the mississippi settlements for several months. why fill my friend's mind with anxieties over plots and projects which might never develop, or which, even if _not_ stillborn, might well be counted upon to reach maturity long before we should have a chance to oppose them? so, instead of wilkinson's name, it was burr's which passed my hesitating lips; and in my account of the little i knew of the late vice-president's grand projects, i took care to omit the name of wilkinson. my companion listened with his usual seriousness, but at the end smilingly shook his head, and declared that he believed the colonel's schemes were all based on pure speculation, and would end in air. as i have stated, i could not tell him my reasons for suspecting that his general had plotted with burr. yet this was the very crux of the affair. it was evident, in my opinion, that at about the time of my visit to him in natchez wilkinson had become frightened, and was rapidly coming to the decision of withdrawing from burr's projects. but supposing he, the military chief of the army and the governor of the upper territory, should gain heart to cast in his fortunes with the great plotter, would those projects then be so visionary? my friend went on with an argument which proved only how little he suspected any connection between our expedition and burr's plot. he explained at great length--to his own satisfaction, though not to mine--that our secret instructions to spy upon the spaniards related only to the far-from-probable event of war between their country and our own. on his part, he then came at me with a shrewd inquiry as to my real motive for volunteering with the expedition. i immediately confided to him everything relating to my romance. there was now no reason why i should hold back anything about alisanda, and indeed i should have told him all long before, had it not been that since our start from belle fontaine we had never chanced to be alone together other than at times when matters of great concern to ourselves or the expedition absorbed our interest. my confession won me, as i had foreseen, a most ardent ally. he listened with all the joyful sympathy of one who has been happy in the love of a true-hearted, beautiful wife. "john! john! to think of it! all these months, and you never so much as whispered a word! a señorita from old spain? never fear!" he looked me up and down with an air of severe appraisal. "she'll take you; she's bound to take you!" he went on with a list of reasons as long as my arm. there is nothing like a friend to lay it on with regard to your good qualities, when he is in the mood. "hold! hold!" i broke in on him. "save that to tell to señorita vallois. i'd rather you'd inform me as to how soon i'm to reach santa fe." "that's the question," he replied. "we've first to round the headwaters of this stream, then those of the red river. afterwards it is not unlikely we can manage so to lose ourselves as to contrive to wander into the midst of the spanish settlements." i stared glumly at the snowy peaks towering upon the western horizon. "that may be months hence. we cannot travel fast among the mountains. why not strike first for santa fe?" "the spanish settlements must all lie to the southward of yonder grand peak. santa fe is rumored to have a mild climate; hence it must lie to the south of our present position," he argued. "therefore we must first explore the sources of the arkansas. when we go south among the spaniards, there is no telling what they will do with us, but it is fair to presume that they will at least do their best to check our explorations." "very true," i assented. "suppose, then, that i part company from you here, and strike out to cross my barrier alone?" "no!" he exclaimed. "why not?" "you surely would perish. i could not spare you a horse. we shall need all for the packs before the week is out. without a horse, and alone, you surely would perish, either in this bleak desert or among those mountain wilds." "yet i am willing to chance it. i hoped to have crossed the barrier--to have reached her side--before now." "if not for your own sake, john, then for ours! you are the best shot among us. since wilkinson left, you have in effect taken his place as second in command. you know how highly the men regard you. should aught happen to me, you are the only one of our number capable of taking my place and carrying out the various objects of the expedition." "meek is a fine soldier," i said. "a good sergeant and a brave man--so brave that we could count upon him to 'raise a little dust' at the first opportunity. he's brave to rashness, but quite incapable of keeping notes, either of our route or of the many scientific features which we are certain to encounter." "yet--to wait, it may be months longer!" "we need you, john." "very well," i replied. i could not do other than give way to that argument. such was the quenching of my newly aroused hopes. i should cross the barrier to alisanda; i vowed i would cross it, or die. but the attempt must now wait until we had penetrated to the headwaters of the arkansas; until we had rounded the sources of the red river,--if in truth we were ever to find the unknown upper reaches of that stream; until we had spent weeks, and it might be months, wandering about the snowy wildernesses of these vast western mountains. it was a sickening prospect for my eager love to contemplate. yet i needed only the quiet words of my friend to realize what i already knew in my heart. it was true what he said. i could be of service to my comrades. there was my duty to them, if not my patriotism, to bind me to their company. i could not have left them at the time, even though the way to santa fe and on to chihuahua had been an open highway before my feet, and the season midspring. chapter xvii the grand peak the lieutenant's prediction that the following evening should see us encamped at the foot of the grand peak was not borne out by the event. notwithstanding our many days on the prairies, we were yet far from realizing the deception of distances in this high altitude and clear, dry atmosphere. that next day we lost many hours on a large fork of the river, where the turning of the spanish trace led us to believe that the party had set off southward. finding that they had returned and continued their ascent of the main stream, we did likewise. this gave us but little progress for that day. but the next morning we set out, confident that we should reach the grand peak within a few hours. our astonishment was great when, after marching nearly twenty-five miles, we found ourselves at evening seemingly no nearer the mountains than at sunrise. yet we had thought to encamp at their base that night! the following two days we spent in hunting buffalo and jerking the meat. the marrow bones gave us a feast fit for a king,--fit even for citizens of the republic. the second day of our march onward, still keeping to the spanish trace, we at last found ourselves appreciably nearing the mountains. what was not so welcome, we came upon the fresh traces of two indians who had ascended the river very recently. warned by this, we proceeded in the morning more than ever wary of ambuscades. there was good reason for our precautions. scarcely had the lieutenant, baroney, and myself ridden out in advance of the party, when of a sudden the interpreter sang out: "_voilà! les sauvages!_" a moment later we also caught sight of the indians, a number of whom were circling about us on the high ground, while others raced directly upon us out of the dense groves of cottonwoods. all were afoot; which, taken with the unmistakable cut of their hair and their red and black paint, told us all too plainly that they were a war party of pawnees returning from an unsuccessful raid upon one of the western tribes. knowing well how apt are the warriors to be evil-tempered after the humiliation of a failure to strike their enemy, i prepared to sell my life as dearly as might be. all the probabilities pointed to the supposition that the party was made up of skidis, or loups, and i, for one, had no desire to become a captive in their hands. it was enough to have escaped in my boyhood from the stake and fire of the shawnees. i had no intention of now letting myself be crucified and mangled and burned as a sacrifice to the morning star by these prairie savages. but pike, cool as ever, restrained baroney and myself from firing, and the indians seemed to justify his moderation by flinging down their weapons and running to us with outstretched arms. in a moment they were all about us, in a jostling, jabbering crowd, patting and hugging us as though we had been blood kinsmen. so urgent were they with their friendly requests for us to dismount that we finally complied. on the instant an indian was upon each horse and riding off. still the others held to their friendly gestures, and upon looking back, we could see the rest of their party making no less friendly demonstrations among our soldiers. we were partly reassured when we learned that the warriors were not loups, but a party from the grand pawnee. but the confirmation of our surmise that they were returning from an unsuccessful raid upon the tetans, or ietans,--whom the spaniards call comanches,--caused us to fall back upon our main party and work it around to a camp in a little grove as speedily as possible. during this man[oe]uvre more than one of our unwelcome visitors bent their bows. but the firm insistence of our gallant leader won its way with the savages. soon all sixty were seated about us in a ring. the lieutenant then sat down opposite their chief, with the council pipe laid out before him. at his orders, gifts of tobacco, knives, and flints were placed beside the chief. the present was greeted with guttural cries of dissatisfaction, and the chief demanded with great insolence that we should give them a quantity of our most valuable equipage, from ammunition to blankets and kettles. to this, despite the advice and even urgent plea of baroney, our commander firmly refused to accede. at last, after no little grumbling and threatening, they presented us with a vessel of water, and drank and smoked with us, in token of amity. not satisfied with this, and warned by baroney, i kept on my feet, watching the treacherous warriors. our wariness was justified by the contemptuous manner in which many of their number threw away their presents. when, immediately after this, we began to reload our pack horses, the entire band pressed into our midst and began to pilfer right and left. for a time all was in the most perilous confusion, pike and i having to mount our horses to save the very pistols in our holsters. on every side the savages were snatching articles, which the soldiers were doing their best to wrest from them. "the rogues!" cried pike. "baroney, command the chief to call off his men. i'll not submit to open robbery!" even while baroney interpreted the order, the chief slipped a knife from the belt of one of the privates who was turned the other way, and hid it behind his shield. almost in the same moment he faced the lieutenant, and flung out his hand in a gesture of injured innocence. baroney hastily interpreted his ironic, hypocritical reply: "the great white chief has an open hand, a good heart. it cannot be he grudges his poor red friends a few small gifts. my braves are wretched; they are needy; they hunger." "hungry, are they?" shouted pike. "then we'll give them lead to eat! stand ready to fire, men!" he rose in his stirrups and pointed his pistol at the chief. "by the almighty! i'll shoot the next scoundrel who touches our goods!" i looked for an instant acceptance of the challenge. intermingled among us as they were and so greatly superior in numbers, the savages had every advantage. in hand to hand fighting their clubs and knives and stone tomahawks would have been as efficient as our weapons, while our firearms, once emptied, would have taken us more time to reload than an indian would require to shoot a quiverful of arrows. for a long moment our fate hung in the balance, while the enraged pilferers gripped their weapons and glared at us with murderous hate. the tense silence was broken only by the sharp clicking of our hammers. suddenly sergeant meek, far too well disciplined to fire without orders, yet unable to restrain his pugnacity, seized a brawny young warrior by the shoulder, and whirling him around like a child, sent him flying off with a tremendous kick. "begone, ye varmint!" he roared. it was the last straw to the savages. overawed by our unquailing boldness in the face of their superior numbers, they followed their staggering fellow, sullen and scowling, muttering threats, yet afraid to strike. we waited with finger on trigger, until the last of their long file had glided beyond gunshot. then the lieutenant, half choking with rage, ordered us to take stock of our losses. it did not soothe him to find that the thieves had managed to make away with some thirty or forty dollars' worth of our property. not even the ferocious sioux and chippewas had dared to rob him in this brazen fashion. but with only sixteen guns, all told, it was wiser for us to submit to the outrage than to imperil the expedition and perhaps lose our lives in an attempt to follow and punish the rascals. that evening the lieutenant and i went back and lay in wait beside our trace, thinking that the thieves might return and attempt to steal our horses. it would have been only too well in keeping with the habits of these savages, for the pawnees are the most noted horse-thieves of all the prairie tribes. fortunately our watch proved needless. by noon of the day after this encounter we came to the third large southern branch of the river, immediately beyond which a fork on the north bank ran off about northwest toward the grand peak which we had first sighted so far out on the prairies. as the peak now seemed only a day's journey distant, the lieutenant decided to attempt its ascent with a small party. but first we joined in erecting a breastwork,--the first american building in all this vast wilderness; the first structure south of the missouri and west of the pawnee republic to float the glorious stars and stripes! shortly after noon of the second day the lieutenant marched for the peak with miller, brown, and myself. instead of reaching the foot of the peak by nightfall, as we had expected, we were compelled to camp under a cedar tree, out on the bleak prairie. severe as was the cold, we felt still greater discomfort from the lack of water. again we marched for the great mountain, in the fond expectation of encamping that night upon its summit. instead, we hardly reached the base of the lofty rise. fortunately we there found a number of springs, and succeeded in killing two buffaloes. still untaught by experience, we foolishly left our blankets and all other than a pocketful of provision at our bivouac, and set off up the mountain at dawn, assured that we could reach the top by noon and descend again by nightfall. almost at the start i brought down a deer of a species unknown to us, it being larger than the ordinary animal, and its ears much like those of a mule. the carcass was flayed without delay, and the skin hung well up in a pitch-pine, together with the saddle. made impatient by the delay, we began our climb with a will, determined to reach the summit even earlier than we had planned. in this, however, we were to be most sadly disappointed. after clambering up the steep slopes and precipices all day without arriving at the crest, we were forced to take refuge for the night in a cave. while preparing to creep into this cheerless shelter, our discomfort over the utter lack of blankets, food, and water was for the moment forgotten in the curious sensation of standing under a clear sky and gazing at a snowstorm far below us down the mountain. morning found us half famished with thirst and hunger and bruised by our rocky beds, but we needed no urging to resume our laborious ascent. the view from our lofty mountain side was the grandest i had ever seen. above us arched the translucent sky in an illimitable dome of purest sapphire, rimmed before our upturned eyes by gaunt, jagged rocks and fields of dazzling snow. behind and below us the vast desert of prairies stretched away to east and north and south, far beyond the reach of human eye, its tawny surface closely overhung by a sea of billowy white clouds. far to the south, at least a hundred miles distant, we noted in particular a vast double, or twin, peak, which stood out from and overtopped the heights of the front range even as our grand peak dwarfed its neighbors. but we did not linger long to gaze at this sublime prospect. though our thermometer here registered well below zero, we struggled on upward through the waist-deep snow to the first of the summits which rose before us. an hour found us close upon what we took to be the goal of our efforts. at last, panting from our exertions and the rarity of the air, we floundered up the final rise to the crest. in this wild, scrambling rush brown dropped to the rear, while the lieutenant, though physically the least robust of the party, forged ahead even of myself, upborne by his zealous spirit. he, the leader of the expedition, should be--must be--the first to set foot upon the summit of the grand peak! with a final rally of his wiry strength, he uttered a shout and dashed up over the thin, hard-crusted snow of the summit to the crest,--only to stop short and stand staring off beyond, in bitter disappointment. "look!" he cried. "the grand peak!" "the grand peak!" i shouted back, too excited to perceive the import of his tone and bearing. "the grand peak! we'll name it for you,--for the first american to sight it; the first to mount its crest; the first--" [illustration: "'the grand peak!' i shouted. 'we'll name it for you'"] my exultant cry died away on my lips. i halted and stood gaping in speechless amazement at the peak that loomed skyward over beyond the lesser height we had mounted. what we had taken for the grand peak was no more than a satellite that had masked the titan from our view! as we gazed from our hard-won crest, there uprose before us, grander than ever, the vast bulk of the mighty mountain, its sublime summit glittering with eternal snows. but the nearest ridge of its stupendous pyramidal base was yet a full sixteen miles distant! i turned and shouted the discovery to miller and brown, who toiled up beside us to stare at the awesome beauty of the peak in dull wonderment. at last pike regained his usual firm composure. "we will begin the return march," he ordered, without betraying a trace of his keen disappointment either in look or voice. "send them back," i replied, nodding toward brown and miller. "let us go on and make the attempt alone." "my thanks to you, john!" he exclaimed. "but it would be madness, sheer madness. through these snows we could not reach the base of the peak short of a day's march; and look at that ascent! i doubt if any man could scale those heights." "not at this season. yet, if you give the word to make the attempt--" "no!" he rejoined. "without food, and clad as we are in summer wear, no! it is enough to have ascended this peak, without our being so mad as to attempt the impossible." "then the sooner we reach the plain, the better," i said, pointing to the mountain side behind us. while we had stood viewing the indescribable grandeur and sublimity of the peak and the snow-clad sierras which stretched away in savage majesty to north and south of their mighty chieftain, the clouds below us were rolling upwards, were enveloping the entire mountain upon which we stood. fearful of being lost in a snowstorm upon these bleak heights, we descended rapidly down a cleft, and regained our bivouac at the foot of the mountain just as the snow began to fall. here we found our blankets and other camp equipment as we had left them. but the ravens had robbed us of all our food, other than an unstripped fragment of the deer's ribs. though one of the men had killed a partridge during our descent, the bird and the lean deer bones together formed a scant enough meal for four men who had not eaten in two days. about noon the next day we shot two buffaloes, upon whose flesh we gorged ourselves like indians, and i, for one, am convinced that we had well earned the full meal. in the valley, all up and down the creek, we found many old comanche camps, but the indians had undoubtedly gone south for the winter. the next day brought us back to our little stockade on the arkansas. chapter xviii famine and frost many even of our western-bred officers would have considered themselves justified in lying about camp for at least a day after such a trip. not so pike. toward noon of the next day, which was the last of november, our entire party marched on up the main stream, in the thick of a heavy snowstorm. we had at last come to the real hardships of our voyage. within the week two or three of the men suffered frosted feet. the temperature fell to nearly twenty degrees below zero, so that even i felt the cold keenly through my hunting clothes, while the lieutenant and the others, clad only in their cotton wear, suffered still more from the stinging frost. yet, despite all the troubles and hardships of ourselves and our half-starved horses, we held to our explorations, day after day, killing an occasional buffalo or deer, and gradually working our way into the midst of the mighty mountains, northward and westward behind the grand peak, along what we thought to be the spanish trace. at last we came to a large stream, which, to our astonishment, ran to the northeast. though against all our previous theories, we were forced to believe that this must be the river la platte. ascending the stream in a northwesterly direction, all alike suffering greatly from the cold of these high valleys, we passed signs of an immense encampment of indians. but we saw no more of the spanish trace, or rather of the indian trace which we had followed into the mountains, thinking it to be the spanish. turning back upon our own trace some little distance, we crossed over a pass in the mountains to the southwest, and descending a small stream, came upon what we thought to be the upper waters of the red river. here, while our wretched, famished beasts were recruiting themselves upon a favorable bit of pasture land, the lieutenant marched with a small party to explore upstream. at the same time baroney and i marched down the river, our mission being to kill game for the others, who were to follow us in a day or two. it was not, however, until three days later, on christmas eve, that our party found itself reunited in one camp. after two days of unsuccessful hunting, baroney and i had at last killed four buffaloes, and young sparks had shot four more. in view of the fact that we had all been for two days without food, the meeting brought us great happiness. yet i cannot say that christmas day, which we spent in camp, smoking and drying our meat, was as merry as it might have been. the contrast with all our previous experiences of that holiday was far too sombre. some of the men even drew unfavorable comparisons between this and the past year, when they were at the head of the mississippi. though then in a still colder climate and among the fierce chippewas, they had at least enjoyed far better food and shelter. as for our present food, though now for the first time in weeks we had an abundant supply, it was limited to the one item of meat, which we must eat without so much as a pinch of salt. our summery clothes were rent and tattered; many of our blankets torn up for stockings; our outer footwear reduced to clumsy moccasins of raw buffalo hide. to these physical privations was added the consciousness of the grim fact that between us and the nearest of our far-distant frontier settlements lay all the mountain wilderness we had traversed, and more than seven hundred miles of desert plains. yet, taken all in all, we managed to spend the day in fairly good cheer, despite the snow which came whirling down upon us. on the afternoon of the next day we marched down to where the mountains closed in on the river valley. from here on, each succeeding day until the fifth of january found our way rougher and more difficult. the valley became ever deeper and narrower, so that we had to cross and recross the river repeatedly, our horses frequently falling upon the ice. even harder upon them were their no less frequent slips among the rocks of the banks. much to my relief, i was not required to witness the sufferings of the poor beasts coming down through the worst of that terrible canyon. on new year's day brown and i were sent ahead to hunt. within the first few hours we had the good fortune to bring down a huge-horned mountain ram. leaving this in our path for the others to skin and dress, we struggled on down the ever-narrowing valley all that day and the next without sighting any other game. on the third of january we found ourselves fighting our way along in the gloomy depths of a cleft that wound and twisted through the very bowels of the mountains. the bottom of this tremendous gorge was almost filled with the foaming, roaring torrent of the river, while on either side the cliffs towered skyward in sheer, precipitous precipices, thousands of feet high. never before had i seen or heard of such a terrific chasm, and may i never again be caught in its like! leaping and slipping over the icy rocks beside the furious rapids and falls, and creeping along the narrow ledges of ice that here and there rimmed the less torrential stretches of the stream, we at last gained a spot where a little ravine ran up through the face of the precipice. we saw that it was impossible for us to descend that gloomy gorge even a few yards farther. the icy waters of the roaring cascades swept the bed of the chasm from wall to wall. yet to ascend the side cleft seemed no less beyond our power. the water, running down from above earlier in the season, had coated the rocky surface from top to bottom with an unbroken slide of ice. it seemed outright madness to attempt that dizzy ascent. however, a man never knows what he can do until he has tried. we set to, i with my tomahawk and brown with his axe, and by cutting footholds, turn about, in the ice of the ravine's bottom, we slowly worked our way up the giddy rise. again and again we came near to slipping and so plunging headlong down that glassy slide. after the first hundred feet, we dared no longer look back below, for fear of being overcome with dizziness. yet at last we came to easier climbing, and, scaling the side of the ravine, found ourselves safe on the mountain ridge, far above the river and its cavernous gorge. here we soon killed a deer, and leaving the greater part of the carcass for our companions, pushed on another day across the mountains. we had at last sighted the prairies from our lofty heights, when, pressed by hunger, i was so ill advised as to eat some of the berries we found hanging to the bushes. as a result i suffered such vertigo that i was compelled to lie quiet in camp. but brown put in the time very well by killing no less than six deer. early in the forenoon of the sixth, as we hastened down out of the mountains, we again came within earshot of the torrential river of the gorge. drawn by the sound, we scrambled around the point of an out-jutting ridge, and found ourselves on the river bank where it flowed from the gorge. it was not the first time i had stood on that selfsame spot. "good god!" i groaned. "after all our toil, and only this!" "you may well say it, john," echoed a melancholy voice from beneath the cliff upstream. "montgomery!" i cried. "you here?" he appeared from around a big rock, sad and dejected; but at sight of my companion, instantly assumed a look of unbending resolve. "we scattered," he explained, as i grasped his hand. "the others took the horses up out of the gorge by the least difficult of the side ravines. i followed your trace down into the midst of that awesome cleft and up the icy ascent. but i lost the trace on the mountain top, and so came on down here--" "to find that, after all our toil and privation, it is not the red river!" i cried. "ah, well, it is something to have rounded the headwaters of the arkansas," he replied. he turned to brown: "you will find two of your fellows downstream at the old camp. join them, and see what the three of you can do toward killing meat against the coming of the others." "aye, sir!" responded brown, with ready salute. he was striding off when i interrupted: "wait! montgomery, he has six deer already hung." "good! the more the better! fetch the other lads, brown, and bring in your game. if you see more deer, do what you can to bring them in too." brown saluted the second time, and started off at a dogtrot. i looked inquiringly into the lieutenant's darkening face and thought i read his purpose. "if any of the horses come through alive, they will nevertheless be too outworn for farther travel within many weeks. you propose to go into winter quarters?" "no!" he answered almost angrily. "yet the horses?" i argued. "poor beasts!" he sighed. "would that i might put them out of their misery--such of their number as the men may bring alive out of that rocky waste! yet we cannot spare them, and the fewer the survivors, the greater our need to cherish them. we will build a stockade, and leave the beasts here in the charge of two or three of the men." "leave them! and what of ourselves?" "we will go on in search of the red river." "afoot? in midwinter?" "southward. there must be passes over the mountains to the southwest,--passes leading over into the warmer valleys. all reports agree that the spanish settlements enjoy a mild climate." "the spanish settlements!" i cried. "you would head for the spanish settlements! give the word, montgomery; the sooner the better. ho, for nuevo mexico and my lady!" he shook his head soberly. "it is well you are not in command, john, else i fear you would have even less chance than now of winning your way to your lady. it is a desperate move we are about to undertake." i smiled. "can anything be more desperate than our present situation?" "we must leave the horses to recuperate," he replied. "with the horses we must leave a guard. two men will be as many as we can spare. they must have a stockade for defence should they be attacked by indians or spaniards." "come!" i exclaimed. "only show me the place, an axe, and a grove of pines. i will have your stockade well under way by nightfall." he took me at my word, and at once led the way downstream to the site of our last camp on the river before we struck off into the mountains behind the grand peak. on the way we met brown and his two companions, going to fetch his deer. we borrowed from them two of their axes, and, arriving at the camp, at once set about felling pines. before nightfall we were rejoined by brown's party and two others, the latter bringing in four sadly disabled horses. the least wearied of the men were at once sent back in search of the remaining parties, carrying a plentiful supply of deer meat to supply those who might be famished. to make a long story short, the ninth of january saw the last member of the expedition in camp, safe and sound, with a loss all told of only four horses. to hunt down a sufficient store of game and complete the blockhouse for baroney and smith, the two men detailed to stay in charge of the bruised and half-famished beasts, occupied the party a full five days. but between times in helping and directing the others, pike and i managed to take several observations to determine the latitude and longitude of the camp. i also spent much time copying the records of all our courses and distances up to the time of our entry into the mountains, and in elaborating my own notes on the mineralogy, etc., of the vast rocky ranges traversed by us. when finally we started on our next desperate venture, it was with hearts far lighter than backs. i was overjoyed at the thought that i was at last to march toward the spanish settlements--and alisanda! the others had their own good reasons to be pleased. ignorant of what lay before us, we were alike happy in the thought that our faces were now turned southward, and gladly shouldered our heavy packs for the march. each one of us carried a forty-five pound load, made up of indian presents, tools, ammunition, and scientific instruments. to this were added our weapons and other necessary equipage and a small quantity of half-dried meat, bringing our burdens up to an average weight of seventy pounds. some packed a few pounds more, some less, each according to his strength. our leader was among those who carried more. as for myself, being the biggest man of the party, i found that i could make shift to start off with a hundredweight. thus, as we thought, well provided for our trip, we struck out boldly over a ridge and southwardly up a valley which lay behind the front, or easternmost range of mountains. we had taken to calling these the blue mountains, for though at this season they were where barren hardly less snow-clad than the stupendous sierra to the westward of them, the pine-clad ridges of their slopes, no matter how far distant, appeared colored a clear dark blue, without a trace of haze. at the beginning of our journey the white sierra stood so far to the westward, and our course lay up a winding stream through such hilly country that we did not sight their towering peaks until the morning of the fourth day. after this they remained always in view, for the range trended to the east of south in such manner as gradually to approach the front range, or blue mountains, which trended south and seemingly a little to the west. meantime on the second day, the lieutenant, sparks and myself had the good fortune each to bring down a deer. deceived by this seeming abundance of game, we added little of the fresh meat to our already over-heavy loads, and some of the men even threw away what remained of the dried meat in their packs. far better had we cast away our indian trinkets, and even the greater part of our tools! within half a day the very last of our food was exhausted, and as no more game was seen, we at once found ourselves face to face with famine. to add to our distress, in crossing over the valley toward the white mountains two days later, to reach a belt of woods, we had to wade the creek, and the cold coming on extreme, the feet of nine of the men were severely frozen before we could get fuel and warm ourselves. we did what we could to draw out the frost with snow-chafing, but in several instances the injury had gone beyond that remedy. our camp that night was in truth a most miserable one. not an ounce of food had we eaten in nearly two days, and though we had an abundance of pitch-pine for fuel, this meant only that we were free to crouch before the fires, in our thin tatters, and roast one side, while the other was pierced by the terrible frost. hungry, exhausted, and shivering, we huddled about the fires, even those who were suffering the least being hardly able to obtain a few hours of broken sleep. it was all too evident that we must soon find food, or perish of starvation in this fearful mountain wilderness. at dawn pike and i took our rifles and set out, aware that the lives of all depended upon the success of our hunt. spurred on though we were by this dreadful necessity, our wide circuits through the pine groves and around the hills brought us no sight of any game throughout that dreary day. at last, near nightfall, we came upon a gaunt old buffalo bull, and stalked him with extreme care. but though we succeeded in creeping within range and wounding him three times, our aim was so unsteady that none of our balls reached a vital spot. he made off and escaped us. bitterly disappointed, and weary from our long hunt, we sought shelter in a group of rocks, and spent a sleepless night, without food or fire. neither of us had the heart to go into camp and tell our starving companions of our failure. the long hours of midwinter frost and darkness at last drew to an end, and, half dead from cold and hunger, we set off again, in the first gray light of dawn. after hours of searching, we sighted a small drove of buffalo. immediately we circled about to get down the wind from them, and, by creeping on all fours nearly a mile through the snow, stalked within fair range of the nearest. by this time, however, we were both so faint and quivering from starvation and over-exertion that neither of us could hold his gun steady. again and again we fired and reloaded, the stupid beasts standing all unconcerned at the report of our guns, though we repeatedly hit the nearer members of their band. with muskets we could surely have soon brought down one or more, if only from their loss of blood. but the tiny wound made by a rifle ball is of little effect unless a vital part is pierced. in the end we must have succeeded by a chance shot. but while we were yet blazing away as fast as we could load and fire, one of the herd chanced to drift around to where a flaw in the wind bore our scent to his sensitive nostrils. in an instant he had alarmed the herd, and all raced off, snorting with fear, the wounded running no less swiftly than their fellows. to follow such a stampede was useless. once started, the animals would run for hours. we staggered to our feet and gazed after the fleeing herd in utter despair. "it is the end!" i groaned--"the end! we have lost our last chance!" "we are outspent!" murmured my companion. "we can do no more! my poor lads! faithful ever to their rash leader! to think that i have led them into this death-trap!" "they are men!" i cried in bitter anger. "what is death to men?--even this hideous agony of hunger? we can bear that. but to die now--my god!--that i should die before seeing her!--my alisanda!" "no! not now!" he turned upon me with a flicker of feverish resolve in his hollow, bloodshot eyes. "not now, not here! we are not cowards to give up the struggle while we can yet drag ourselves along." "as well here as a few paces farther on," i muttered. he dragged at my arm to rouse me from the black stupor of mind and body into which i was fast sinking. "john! think of her!" he cried. "you'll not give up! keep fighting, for her sake, keep fighting, lad!" "for her sake," i whispered. i caught at his clutching hand and sought to rally from that benumbing stupor. "for her sake!" "and i--for the sake of those--who await the return of husband and father!" he panted. "come! we'll fight--to the last!" death alone might conquer that indomitable spirit! we staggered on through the bleak wild, our eyes inflamed and half blinded by the snow, peering about in vain search for game. we did not turn back. to return to camp empty-handed would have been the bitterest of mockeries, supposing we could have found strength to go so far.... we staggered on, but we were upon the verge; we had all but reached the utmost limit of human endurance. for four days we had marched over broken ground and through the snowdrifts in this midwinter cold--four days without food! even pike's iron resolve could not force his wasted muscles to perform miracles. i found myself dulling even to the thought of alisanda. the end was close upon us. a darkness was gathering about me. we were upon the verge of exhaustion. several times pike fell, half fainting, and presently i also began to stumble and sink down at the slightest misstep. certain that we were about to perish, we bent every effort to reach the nearest trees, reeling and staggering like drunken men, or crawling, between times, when we found ourselves unable to stand. half stunned by one of my falls, i lay outstretched, gasping and quivering, when i heard pike utter a stifled cry. i strained my head about, and to my astonishment saw that he was on his feet and running forward. staring beyond, over a snowdrift, i caught sight of a little herd of buffaloes advancing at an angle to our course. for a little my strength came back as had my friend's. staggering up, i tottered after him. by the most fortunate of chances, the wind was in our favor, so that the dull-sighted beasts came on without heeding us. pike had already gained a clump of cedar trees. resting the long barrel of his rifle across one of the low branches, he took quick aim and fired. the shot struck the young cow which was at the head of the herd. she stopped short. the others, sighting us, wheeled and made off at their lumbering gallop. but to our amazement and joy, the wounded animal stood as if dazed. i rested my rifle across a limb, and managed to give the beast a second wound. a moment later pike flung out his ramrod and fired his second shot. the cow wheeled half about, and moved slowly off to the left. i had already poured a double charge of powder down my rifle barrel. upon this i drove home a ball without stopping to patch it, and dashing the pan full of priming, took hasty aim behind the animal's shoulder. by good chance the ball struck her to the heart. yet even when she fell we kept our places, hastily reloading our rifles. not until she had lain for some moments with outstretched head did we venture to advance, for even a desperately wounded beast is apt to leap up and make off at sight of the hunters. our hunger and exhaustion were so great that, once beside our kill, we could not even wait to devour the raw flesh, but slashed open a vein in the neck and drank the warm blood. nothing could have revived us more quickly. before many minutes we were strong enough to set about the dressing of our game. as we worked, we devoured bits of meat, which eased our famished stomachs and added yet more to our slowly returning strength. by nightfall we had managed to butcher the carcass, and loading ourselves with as much of the meat as we could carry, we staggered off in search of the camp. when at last we sighted the welcome blaze of the fires and dragged ourselves into camp, it was past midnight. neither of us could have gone another furlong. as we threw off our loads and sank down beside the fire, pike was seized with so severe a vertigo that it was some time before he could sense the joyful greetings of our camp-mates. even before they caught sight of the burdens we bore, the brave sufferers had hailed our approach with heroic cheerfulness. now, with every mouthful of frozen meat, our leader recovered from his dizziness, and generous strips of steak sizzling on the green-wood spits, the spirits of all rose even to the pitch of merriment. desperate as was still our situation, it yet seemed like paradise after the anguish of body and mind through which we had passed. no men, i venture to say, ever bore pain and privation and hardship with more heroic fortitude than was shown by these poor fellows. all but three had been compelled to endure the agony of their frozen feet, in addition to the pangs of starvation, and the sad truth that these injuries went beyond a mere frosting was all too evident in the morning, when, upon examining the men, i found that two of them, at the best, would have to give up their packs and hobble along with the aid of crutches. as for dougherty and sparks, both were too disabled to march at all. chapter xix beyond the barrier but i will dwell no more in detail upon our sufferings in that terrible valley of frost and famine. enough said that, after bringing in the remainder of the meat for sparks and dougherty, we left them and struggled onward in search of a pass. to linger in camp with our disabled comrades would have meant certain death to all. but many among us wept at the parting, for few believed we should ever return. indeed, having eaten in one scant meal all the meat we had found heart to take from the injured men, we again suffered a famine, this time of three days' duration. it was then, for the first and only time during all our privations, that one of the men murmured openly. so evident was it that his outcry had been wrung from him by anguish and despair that the lieutenant, instead of shooting him down in his tracks in accordance with the usual rigor of military discipline, chose to pretend that he had not heard the mutinous words. a few hours later we were the second time saved from starvation by a fortunate kill of buffalo, and it was then, after we had feasted to repletion around a roaring camp-fire, that pike called the mutineer before him and reproved the repentant man for his conduct. at this camp we left the greater part of the meat of the four buffaloes killed, in the charge of hugh menaugh, one of the two men who, aside from sparks and dougherty, had suffered the worst from the frost. this time, however, meat being so abundant, we did not fail to take with us on our onward march enough of provisions to last us for several days. though recuperated by two days of feasting,--for we had lingered that length of time with menaugh,--our first march out of his camp proved one of the very hardest we had yet made. we were by now near the top of a high plateau, where the travelling was even more difficult than in the lower valley; yet we could discover no break in the white barrier, which, despite our high altitude, still towered up many hundred feet above us. it was almost nightfall, and pike and i--as usual in the lead breaking a way through the drifts for the others--were beginning to look about for a favorable camp-site, when, topping a knoll, we found ourselves staring down upon a little stream whose course ran to the westward. "look!" i shouted. "a pass! that brook flows to the mountains--into the mountains!" "it may twist about again to south and east. we have reached the top of a divide," cautioned pike. "no, no! it cannot be!" i cried, wild with delight. "i see a cleft in the mountain side! the sun dazzles our eyes, but look beneath, in the shadow." "thank god!" he sighed. "it is a cleft! it must be that the stream flows through the mountains. if only we can find a way down its bed!" "we can--we must!" i wheeled about to the weary men. "hurrah, lads! stiffen your knees! we've found our pass! another day will see us beyond the mountains!" the brave fellows answered with a ringing cheer. drooping heads straightened; tottering steps gave place to firm, eager strides. buoyed up by renewed hope, we hurried down the hillside and along the stream bank until in the gathering twilight we could see with certainty where the stream wound its way into the mountain cleft. assured of this all-important fact, we made our bivouac in a grove of pines, and settled down to the happiest night we had known in weeks. bright and early in the morning we broke camp and trudged along through the snow, down the bank of the creek. soon we found ourselves within the flanking shoulders of the mountains, descending a gorge that was walled on either side with almost sheer cliffs. i should speak of these precipices as stupendous had i not first seen the terrific chasm of the far narrower and deeper gorge of the arkansas. to our vast relief, the bed of the pass proved to be broad and open throughout, being clear even of blocking snowdrifts. that it was habitually open was evident from the number of trees we found painted with indian signs, clear proof that this was one of the accustomed paths of the roaming savages of the far west. what most astonished us was the length of the gorge, which wound and twisted its way through the heart of the white mountains in seemingly endless extent. at last, after we had marched downward for twelve or fourteen miles, a sudden turn unmasked to our gaze a view that brought us up short in our tracks, with cries of astonishment and delight. instead of the narrow mountain valley that we had expected to open before us, there burst upon our vision the panorama of a vast park-like country, dotted with scattered woods and groves, through which meandered numerous branching streams whose main trunk flowed to the southward. it was many miles across to the mountain range which bounded the western side of this beautiful valley. pike was the first among us to find his voice. "men," he said simply, "we have won free. the worst is now behind us. this western country is far lower than the plateau on the east side. it must be less cold; see the wide stretches of open ground. there must be game--" "ay! look!" i said, pointing to a multitude of black dots drifting across a snowy hillside. "deer! a herd!" "an' more on 'em to yan side, sir!" sang out one of the men. "no more fear of famine!" exulted pike. "we're safe at last!" "but how as to savages?" i rejoined. "i see no smoke; yet in a country so abounding in game--" "say rather, the spaniards, john." "what! you surely do not think--yet that main stream runs southward. all the accounts tell how the rio grande del norte flows from the north down through the province of nuevo mexico. montgomery! can it be--" he checked me with a gesture. but the twinkle in his eyes belied the soberness of his answer: "we have crossed the mountains in search of the red river. who among us can swear that yonder stream is not the red?" "yet i, for one, am ready to wager it is the rio grande!" i cried. "the rio grande! only think what that means to us--to me! i have only to descend its banks to the spanish settlements--" "to land in a spanish gaol!" he rejoined. "no, john; it is for the red river we have been seeking, and the red river it shall be, at the least until we have built a stockade and brought up all the members of our party." "you would defy the spaniards!" i exclaimed. "we will at least put ourselves into a position of defence before seeking to communicate with them." "but a stockade on spanish territory?" "a small party should be conceded the right to provide against the attacks of savages. besides, we have wandered far into a region unknown to us. if this is the red river, our side of the stream lies within the boundaries of louisiana territory." i nodded my understanding of his position. "you are right. we have a very fair argument, and can present it to don spaniard quite favorably--from behind the walls of a stockade." "or without any walls, sir!" put in sergeant meek. "even with this dwindled squad, sir, give us a bunch of trees or scrub, and we'd stand off a troop of spanish dragoons, or my name's not meek." "small doubt of that, you old fire-eater!" rejoined the lieutenant. "it's harder to keep you in hand than it will be to whip any enemy we are like to find in this region." the men all chuckled appreciatively at the joke. "but just a little brush to liven us up, sir!" pleaded meek. "that may come, all too soon! yet it is not our game. we did not come here to fight the spaniards, any more than we ascended the mississippi to fight sioux and chippewas and british fur-traders. no. bear in mind that this is a peaceful expedition. so far am i from desiring a hostile encounter with the spaniards, it is by no means certain that i could bring myself to refuse an invitation to visit their settlements, should they tender us their hospitality." again catching the twinkle in his blue eyes, i exclaimed impulsively: "true! why not? why not march on down the rio grande without delay?" he shook his head. "hold hard, john. you forget that this is supposedly the red river. also you forget your own observation as to how much more convincing is an argument when made from behind a fortification, and," his voice sobered, "you forget those whom we must first rescue." "god forgive me!" i cried. "that i should for a moment lose thought of those poor lads! give me a detail, if no more than a single man. i will go back at once and fetch them." "no," he replied. "we are still weak; you could not bear them through the drifts, and they cannot walk as yet. we must first build a stockade yonder in the valley. they had food enough to last many days. in good time i will send back a detachment to the arkansas for the pack train. the injured lads can be brought through on horseback." "i will go now!" "you will go with us," he commanded. "if, as is possible, we have come within measurable distance of the spanish settlements, we must establish a fort without delay. it is imperative. i need every man of you." when the lieutenant spoke in that tone, there was nothing to do but obey. i turned on my heel and swung away down the pass, all the more eager to advance, since i might not turn back. to advance! the word thrilled me throughout every fibre of my being. to advance! well enough was it for pike to express doubts--to talk solemnly of the red river. he had to bear in mind the problem of diplomatic explanations to the spaniards. but as for myself, i rejoiced in the conviction that the stream before us was in truth the spanish river of the north; that within the distance of a few days' journey southward lay the upper spanish settlements, beyond which, somewhere in the interior of new spain, lay chihuahua, the seat of government for the northern provinces, and the goal of my love-quest! i no longer doubted, i knew! we had crossed the sangre de cristo! i had passed the barrier! small wonder was it that i chafed during the many days which yet intervened before i was free to fare away on the road which led toward my lady! first of all came our check at the west base of the mountains, where a vast line of sand hills blocked our advance into the valley and compelled us to skirt along some distance to the south before we could march out toward the river. it took yet two more days for us to reach the main stream and cross over, up one of its tributaries, to a favorable site for our stockade. the first few days of february we spent in hunting and in hewing down cottonwood trees for the stockade. of buffalo we saw no sign in the valley, but succeeded in killing a few deer, and sighted such vast droves that the last thought of famine was dispelled. as soon as we had made some progress on the fort, i pressed the lieutenant to permit me to return for our comrades on the back track. but he, knowing the keenness of my desire to be off southward, positively forbade my returning, and instead detailed corporal jackson and four men to bring in sparks, dougherty, and menaugh, together with the four packs we had been forced to leave behind. baroney and smith, we thought, could wait on the arkansas until later, when the horses should have had more time to regain strength. it had been arranged that jackson and his men should leave on the afternoon of the seventh. but i did not linger to see them start. making hasty preparation, i marched in the opposite direction at sunrise of the same day. the parting with my fellows in the midst of this remote and unknown wilderness affected me deeply. despite all our sharing of famine and toil and bitter cold, i had not before realized the warmth of attachment between us. the men crowded around to grasp my hand and wish me godspeed, and one and all swore that if i came to harm among the spaniards, they would follow their commander to the death in his effort to avenge me. after this pike walked out with me half a mile or so on my way, where we could say our farewells in private, and none might see the tears which would come despite our efforts at calmness. by now he was quite convinced that i was going to my death. "farewell, my friend, my companion!" he exclaimed, wringing my hand. "god keep you from harm!" "wish me more than that, montgomery," i protested. "ah, more--more, with all my heart!" he cried. "god grant you win your way to your lady--that you win her sweet self!" "my thanks, dear friend!" i choked, gripping him by the shoulders. "we talk of patriotism; but i know, and you know, it is for her sake alone i am putting my neck into the noose." "no, no," he rejoined. "it is not alone love, it is duty as well that calls you. and i fear the worst. would that i might even now dissuade you from the attempt!" "dissuade me?--now? i should go, even though i felt as sure as you do that the outcome will be the garrotte or a blank wall and a firing squad. no; what grieves me most is the thought that we may never again meet. i hope to win my way to chihuahua; i must win my way to--her! but can i then leave new spain? never one of nolan's men has come home." "it may chance that you will wish to stay, john." "no, not even for her sake, unless--" i hesitated--"unless the spanish creoles rise and throw off the rule of old spain." "a revolution? that would be a grand opening for you!" his eyes flashed with militant fire, only to darken again with grief. "but the people of new spain are too dispirited to revolt. if you linger in that tyrannical land, it will be as a prisoner in one of their foul gaols--or worse!" "for her i'd risk the worst a thousand times over! take cheer! they will never suspect me as a spy. the le lande claim will carry me through." "god grant it!" he cried. i gave his hand a last grip. "farewell for a long time, my friend! that you may not waste thought over the chance of my return, i confess that i have resolved to go to my lady, whatever may befall." "then you will not come back even if they rebuff you at the upper settlements?" "i have crossed the barrier. now i go to chihuahua." "farewell; god keep you!" he repeated. a final glance at the little log fort, with its shallow moat, bristling, staked abatis, and loopholed walls, above which floated our glorious banner, then i tore myself from him, and started off on my solitary journey. having meat enough to last me some time, i did not stop to hunt, but continued on at my best pace, southwest and then more nearly south. mid-morning of the second day i came upon a pair of the ugliest indians i had ever seen. fortunately they were not so stupid as their swarthy, flat faces made them appear. after no little sign talk, i at last overcame their fear of me, and by an offer of a few trinkets, gained their assent to take me into the spanish settlements. for the night they took me to a camp in the woods where their women were waiting. being unacquainted with the customs of these savages,--who i afterwards learned were yutahs,--i passed the night without sleep, for fear of treachery. but whether because of my rifle and pistols, or owing to their treaty with the spanish whites, my ugly guides made no attempt to attack me. next morning we set out upon our way to agua caliente, the first of the spanish towns, which we reached mid-afternoon of the same day. it was with the keenest of emotions that i first made out what i took to be the mud-wall stockade, or rampart, of this northernmost of the spanish settlements. at last i had arrived at the inhabited parts of new spain,--i was about to venture into the midst of our secretly, if not openly, hostile spanish neighbors. for all i knew, the long-threatened war might have broken out months past; it might now be raging with utmost fury. yet even the thought of this far from improbable situation did not cause me to waver for an instant. i needs must go on in search of my lady, though a thousand spaniards lined the road with guns loaded and primed to shoot me down. as we drew near the town gate, one of the tame indians of the place ran in with the news of my coming. i stopped, and was in the midst of paying over the agreed articles to my guides, when a bewhiskered spanish corporal and a squad of dragoons came charging out as if to ride me down. some held their long lances levelled at my breast; others, who had rushed off without their lances, flourished the short rifles which they call _escopettes_; while one man had only his big horse pistol. all, however, carried their thick leather shields, which it seems the soldiers in these parts bear as a protection against the arrows of the savages. greatly to my relief, i soon perceived that all this display of weapons and horsemanship was intended rather as a greeting than a menace. as they replaced their lances in the sockets and brought their curvetting mounts to a stand, the corporal saluted me in a most hospitable manner. at this, having good reasons for concealing what little knowledge of spanish i possessed, i demanded, in french, to be taken before the commanding officer of the place. whether or not the fellow understood my words, he sprang off courteously beside me, and made a sign for me to accompany him into the town. the others took his horse in lead, and followed us at a few paces. as we passed the gate, i perceived that what i had taken for a great stockade of unbaked mud brick was in fact no other than the rear walls of a continuous row of houses, built in the form of a hollow square, and with inward-facing doors. the town was thus of itself a most effectual fortification against the savages of this region, the walls of the houses extending up above the flat roofs so as to form a convenient parapet for the defenders against the arrows and even the guns of their assailants. very few of these southwest indians, however, possess firearms, and as they also lack scaling ladders, it does not detract from the effectiveness of the defence that none of the houses is above a story in height. this last was also true of the rows of like buildings laid off in streets within the square. at the time, however, i had little opportunity to observe either this moorish architecture, which the spaniards brought with them from old spain, or the curious appearance of the tame indians, who made up the majority of the town's inhabitants. the corporal at once led me into the presence of the commandant, who, finding that i claimed to be of french blood, expressed himself in french as vastly astonished at the presence of an american in this remote region, particularly in view of the season. before we had finished our interview, i was no less astonished to learn that i was not the first american to arrive in the country. this does not refer to the french creole le lande, who had settled between here and santa fe and had done so well with his stolen goods that he was already known as a _rico_. something over a year before our coming, one of our daring western fur-hunters named pursley, an american by blood as well as allegiance, had traversed the prairies from the missouri, and falling in with a great party of kyoways and comanches near our grand peak, had come down with them to the spanish settlements. i received this account while dining with the commandant, he being so hospitable as to invite me to his table, notwithstanding my tattered and wretched appearance. but first, having learned my ostensible reason for coming to new mexico, he had sent off a soldier, post-haste, with despatches to governor allencaster at santa fe. after weeks and months of dieting on the flesh of wild game, much of the time without salt, and even longer without so much as corn to vary the monotony, it was only with the greatest effort that i could restrain myself from gluttonizing on my host's fiery _chili con carne_, his hot corn-cakes and beans, his delicious chocolate and _dulces_. all the time he was repeating polite apologies for the meagreness of his fare. to me it was no less than a banquet, and i feasted until prudence forced me to deny myself another mouthful. that night, for the first time in seven months, i slept upon a mattress, which, according to the custom of new spain, was laid upon the floor. the nearest approach to a bedstead in this benighted land is a bench-like bank of mud brick along the wall, in some of the houses. chairs and divans are none too plentiful, even in the homes of the cultured rich, the people in general preferring to recline or to sit turk-fashion upon mats or mattresses laid along the floor. early in the morning i was informed that an escort was in waiting to guide me to santa fe. the kindness of the commandant in providing me with numerous articles of civilized comfort induced me to accede without protest to his politely worded hint that it would be better for me to leave behind my weapons and ammunition, which he promised to send on in a few days. having given myself singly into the hands of the spanish, i knew that diplomacy was now my sole resource, the thought of a resort to force being sheer madness. chapter xx a message to my lady during the journey to santa fe, while stopping over at the town of san juan, where i was treated with the utmost warmth of hospitality, i was able to inform myself as to the prosperous condition of the trader le lande, who had married and settled in the vicinity. but my apprehensions as to my reception by the governor of this remote province prevented me from taking as deep an interest either in that rascal or in the strange customs and appearance of these mexican people as i should have felt in easier circumstances. unlike agua caliente and some of the other small settlements we had passed, i found santa fe a town widely scattered in the outskirts. many of the low adobe buildings which made up the bulk of the place stood each in its tiny patch of field, which, early as was the season, the people were beginning to cultivate with their rude ploughs and mattocks. within these suburbs, however, the houses crowded closer and closer together, until they were for the most part separated only by streets that were no less narrow and crooked than dirty. a more striking difference between this two-century-old settlement and the ones up-country was the presence of the two huge adobe churches which towered among the hovels, all the more imposing for the contrast. their windows, like those of the better houses, were glazed with sheets of thin, transparent talc. i was at once taken past the rectangle of the soldiers' barracks to the great open court, or plaza, in the midst of the town, where we came to the house of the governor. by this time i and my escort were surrounded by a number of _mestizos_ and tame indians, all of whom, however, drew away when we entered the palace through an open, brick-paved portico, or shed. after the plainness of the exterior, i was astonished by the ornate furnishings of the rooms within, whose limed walls were hung with bright-figured drapes and whose floors of beaten clay were spread with skin rugs. little time was given me to wonder at what to my unaccustomed eyes seemed most magnificent decorations. i was quickly shown on into a large apartment, at the upper end of which sat a sallow-faced, corpulent spanish don. i had no need to look at the secretary and the other attendants grouped about his high chair to realize that i was in the presence of don joachin allencaster. the harshness of his glance as i was led before him was enough of proof; for until now, all whom i had met, even to the most ignorant and dogmatic of the priests, had treated me with the deference of true hospitality. not until this moment had i fully realized the wretchedness of my appearance. though the kindness of the commandant at agua caliente had provided me with a bath and a cotton shirt, i still wore my tattered buckskins; upon my head was my old coonskin cap, which had been half singed by a fall in the fire; my limbs and feet were clad in moccasins and leggings of fresh buffalo hide, the raw surface outward; while about my shoulders my unkempt hair fell down in loose and shaggy locks, as barbarous as the eight months' beard upon my lean, starved face. "_por dios!_" exclaimed his excellency. having doubtless been informed in the despatches that i claimed to be a frenchman, he addressed me in that language: "_sacre!_ you have come here, the second american in two years, to spy upon my province!" "your excellency," i replied, "i had thought the commandant of agua caliente wrote you regarding the purpose of my visit to new spain. as to this pursley, if it is to him you refer as my fellow spy, i had never before so much as heard of the man until told at agua caliente. the commandant can tell you how astonished i was when he informed me of pursley's exploit in penetrating the wilderness. for my part, i should surmise that he is no more than one of our venturesome fur-hunters. but if you insist upon your suspicions, why not include baptiste le lande with us in a trio of spies?" throughout this the governor had continued to regard me with great austerity. quite unmoved by my attempt at lightness, he now signed to his secretary, and spoke to me in a most peremptory tone: "your papers, fellow!" i drew out the documents relating to the le lande claim and handed them over to the secretary. his excellency demanded their purport, which i gave as clearly and briefly as my french would permit. "we shall see," he commented, when i ended my account. "your papers will be examined, and i will send for le lande. meantime you will consider yourself under arrest. you will be given quarters in the rooms assigned for officers in confinement, but you are at liberty within the bounds of the town, if accompanied by your guard." with this, he appointed a corporal of the regular dragoons to attend upon me both as guard and waiter, and i was promptly led out. during the short delay which followed, i had no cause to complain of my treatment. the corporal proved a most accommodating servant, and my meals were sent to me from his excellency's own table. in addition, the hospitality of the leading people of santa fe was so cordial that i should have enjoyed greatly the two days i had to wait, had it not been for my fears that the governor might detain me for an indefinite period, or send me eastward out of the province, into the country of the comanches. when, therefore, he again called me before him, and stated that he had inquired and found that le lande was incapable of discharging the claim presented by me, i declared boldly that i knew this to be a mistake, and that it appeared to me his excellency was seeking to shelter a refugee debtor of my country, in violation of the treaties between spain and the united states. "look to it, your excellency!" i concluded, with all the heat and indignation i could affect. "look to it! this is no light matter. the man is an outright thief, and the treaty rights of monsieur morrison are clear. i insist upon the payment of this claim. if i cannot obtain justice of your excellency, i will appeal to the governor-general." this last stirred him out of the daze of astonishment into which he had been thrown by the audacity of my heated protest. governors of spanish provinces are not accustomed to being bearded by their inferiors in rank, much less by lone foreigners suspected of espionage. but at my mention of his superior, he found his voice. "ah!" he exclaimed, and i marked the change in his tone. "_madre de dios!_ you would go to chihuahua?" "no offence to your excellency," i hastened to protest, affecting to believe him alarmed for himself. "it may well be that your authority is so limited that you cannot satisfy my claim. my complaint against your refusal will be purely formal. in truth, i prefer to have the decision of the governor-general, if only to obtain a precedent in the adjudication of similar claims which may be presented in other provinces under his rule." "_por dios!_ you wish to go to chihuahua!" he repeated. i believe he would have been less amazed had i urged him to let me go to the gallows. "to chihuahua! to salcedo!" he murmured. "why not, your excellency?" i inquired. his sallow cheeks darkened with a sudden return of his suspicions, and he sought to transfix me with his glance. "_caramba!_" he muttered. "tell me clearly how you came across all that vast desert. you came from the northward. did you then cross the mountains?" i described briefly that terrible march south and west from the grand peak. he listened with growing wonderment. "_poder de dios!_ it is impossible!" he cried. "malgares has told me of that gigantic peak and the sierra you crossed. it is not possible! the sangre de cristo, and in midwinter--afoot!" "yet it is true, your excellency." again his eye sought to pierce me with its suspicious stare. "your party?" he demanded. "you have spoken of hunters. who are they?--and where?" having now some of the details of pursley's adventures to copy, i told a connected tale of having accompanied some osages from st. louis to the pawnee country, in search of the recreant le lande, when, learning of his flight to new mexico, i had wandered westward with a small party of hunters to the grand peak and then southwest over the mountains, until we came to what was supposed to be the red river, where my companions had stopped to hunt. at the end of my recital, he sat for some moments studying me. then, with a most disconcerting suddenness: "señor, you will honor me with your presence at table." he rose at the words, and leaving all the others gaping, conducted me down a corridor to his dining-room. it was now high noon, and we found the table already spread for the midday meal, which is the principal repast of the day among the spaniards in mexico. a plate was laid for myself opposite his excellency's, and we sat down in civilized fashion to a meal which would have graced the table of the richest spanish creole in all louisiana. there were trout from the neighboring streams, a variety of meats and fowl, good wheaten bread altogether unlike the unappetizing corn _tortillas_ of the commonfolk, chocolate and _dulces_, fine raisins from the paso del norte, and a bottle or two of most excellent wine. throughout our repast his excellency addressed himself to me as one gentleman to another, so that i found myself continually in a stress of excitement between apprehension and hope. our conversation was for the most part directed to european topics, dwelling much, as must every discussion of transatlantic affairs, upon the career of that most marvellous of men, the emperor of the french. but with the wine and the _cigarros_, his excellency seemed to recollect for the first time the small but none the less important affairs of our own personal concern. "i begin to be convinced, señor physician, that you are indeed a man of genteel breeding," he said. "if, however, you will pardon the remark, i have grave doubt whether a frenchman of your education would commit so many errors in the use of his native language." i smiled. "_mon dieu!_ your excellency, we of st. louis have not the facilities for visiting _la belle_ france possessed by our fellow creoles of new orleans. it is a century or more since my ancestors came to the new world." "and you have dwelt much among the anglo-americans," he insinuated. "it is true," i replied with candor. "i obtained my diploma as a physician from the college of columbia in the city of new york." he stiffened with a sudden return of austerity. "señor, i no longer doubt that you are a _caballero_--a gentleman. i will not press you to confess your ulterior motive in coming into the domains of his most catholic majesty. yet, if you carry secret documents (i am disinclined to have you searched), i ask you to give me your word whether or not you carry such despatches." "your excellency," i answered, "i give you my word that i do not. the documents i handed over into your excellency's keeping were all i brought with me." "_satanas!_" he cried, his face flushing with sudden violent anger. "such duplicity! such treachery!" "if you will be so kind as to explain, señor," i said with unaffected astonishment. "you hold to it? _carrajo!_ how then of the packet in your bosom?" "that?" i exclaimed, at once perceiving the cause of his continued suspicion. some one had spied upon me and seen the packet. i reached my hand into my hunting-shirt, only to hesitate and draw it out again, empty. it seemed a profanation to expose my treasures to his gaze. "you pause! you dare not produce the packet! in it lies your condemnation!" he cried. the folly of my course flashed upon me. why should i set a mere fanciful sentiment against the lulling of his suspicions? if i did not myself hand over the packet, he would have it taken from me by force. he started to rise, but i caught the little bundle from my bosom and reached it across the table. instead of rising, he bent forward, and, with forced deliberation, began to open the folds of the waxed parchment cover. first exposed was the corner of the flag. "aha!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing across at me in fieriest anger. "explain that, if you can!--a malicious desecration of the flag of his most catholic majesty!" "not so!" i flung back at him. "look what is marked upon it. those letters were a message to me. i found it within the undisputed boundaries of my country, at the town of the pawnee republicans. it was a message to me, and i took it, for it was mine." "ah! ah! a message! you confess, señor spy!" i pointed to the last unwrapped fold. he turned it open, his face keen with exultant expectation. the now powdered leaves of the magnolia bloom puzzled him for the moment. not so the handkerchief. his eye was instantly caught by the initials in the corner. without a second glance, he averted his gaze until he had drawn up the edge of the snowy damask cloth over my stained and crumpled treasures. "_perdone, hermano!_" he murmured, with a most apologetic bow. "be pleased to regain your property." with that he left the table and stood with his back to me until i had folded up the packet and replaced it within my bosom. "your excellency," i said, "the world has heard much about the chivalrous gallantry of your people. i am now convinced the half has not been told of it!" "_muchas gracias_, señor!" he returned. "you pardon my stupid error? yours is the act of a true _caballero!_ if the question does not trench upon delicate ground, may i venture an inquiry as to the possible relation of your daring journey--?" "i have reason to believe that the lady is at chihuahua, your excellency," i explained. "ah! ah! now i perceive! yet what an _amor_ to bring any man across the vast desert!--above all, over the sangre de cristo in midwinter!" "it was the barrier which lay between myself and my lady, your excellency." "_por dios!_ you _americanos!_ you will yet be flying to the moon! malgares told me fully of the perils of the desert, and he had six hundred men, and it was in the pleasant season. but one man or a mere handful, however brave--_santisima virgen!_" "malgares?" i repeated. "lieutenant malgares, who led the expedition to the savages of the east and north. on your way to chihuahua you will have opportunity to learn that he is a true _caballero_." "chihuahua?" i exclaimed. "your excellency will then permit me to go to chihuahua?" "_quien sabe?_" he smiled. "god alone knows the future! but i will send despatches, and it may well happen that they will not be in disfavor of your going. but as for the decision, that is with his excellency, don nimesio salcedo, the commandant-general." a sudden thought aided me to rally from my disappointment. "your excellency," i asked, "if i should seal and address one article contained in my packet before your eyes, might i not ask the favor that it be delivered at chihuahua to the lady addressed?" "_santa maria!_" he returned, "it is always a pleasure to aid a lover. come now! we will seal your message with my own seal. there are those between us and your dulcinea who might otherwise peer within the cover. the address you shall write upon it in private with my own quill, and none shall see the name of the señorita. she is not married?" (i signed that she was not.) "none shall see her name except my messenger when he opens the despatch-pouch for delivery at chihuahua." "_muchas gracias_, your excellency!" i murmured, overcome. "ah! ah!" he murmured, leaning upon my bony shoulder as we started. "the years pass, but i, too, once had my romance, señor!" chapter xxi ho for chihuahua! so it was that for the time being i found myself received into the society of the most powerful official of the north province with a favor as cloudless and warm as the blue sky above his chief town. yet, on the other hand, having been requested by his excellency to prescribe for the dropsy with which he was afflicted, i laid myself open to trouble by giving a treatment different from that previously prescribed by the monk who was his regular physician. the result was soon evident in the poisoning of his excellency's mind against the heretic. but in the few hours of practical liberty which intervened, i had the good fortune to meet my fellow-countryman, james pursley. he proved to be one of our typical gaunt, long-legged kentuckians, with a bearded face as resolute and formidable as that of our fighting sergeant meek. still better proof of his daring character lay in the fact that he had been wandering on the prairies for two years or more before he fell in with the great company of comanches and kyoways whose encampment we had found on the headwaters of the platte, and with whom he had come south to the vicinity of the spanish settlements. venturing into santa fe, he had been fairly well received by the spanish, and though forbidden to leave certain bounds, was otherwise free, and doing quite well as a carpenter. as my attendant corporal knew nothing else than spanish, pursley and i were able to talk with the utmost freedom. when, in the midst of the account of his truly remarkable adventures, he told how he had found gold on the upper reaches of the platte, westerly of the grand peak, and how he had refused to divulge the place to the spaniards because it might lie within the bounds of louisiana territory, i became so convinced of his stanch loyalty and patriotism that i confided in him the circumstances of our party. he was immensely interested, but shook his head over my suggestion that he should attempt to join the expedition. he did not see how this could be of any benefit either to the party or to himself, especially, he explained, as allencaster had already sent out well-mounted spies to find and report on the party of hunters with whom i claimed companionship. he, pursley, could not hope to overtake these expert horsemen; while, on the other hand, if caught trying to escape, he would surely be jailed in the terrible _calabozo_. in the midst of our argument of the question, i was summoned into the presence of the governor. he met me with a frown, and showed how closely i had been watched by peremptorily ordering me to hold no further communication with pursley. my attempt at a french shrug flung him into a passion, in which he decreed my exile to san fernandez, a tiny village four days south of santa fe, there to remain in the charge of lieutenant malgares until word should come from chihuahua. finding his excellency thus once more harshly disposed, i was not altogether reluctant at being banished, more especially as my exile was in the direction i wished to travel. nor did i regret the change when i came to san fernandez and made the acquaintance of lieutenant don faciendo malgares. he was, i soon learned, the son of one of the royal judges of the kingdom of new spain, and immensely wealthy. but neither his birth nor his wealth prevented him from being the most courteous gentleman i have ever met. that he was a daring and dashing officer was evident from his modest account of that remarkable excursion through the heart of the comanche country and north to the pawnees. the question of his expedition chanced to come up within a week after my arrival, and having already gauged his gallant character, i felt free to rally him upon his invasion of our domain. "_nom de dieu!_" i mocked, as he concluded by telling how his party had returned southward from the arkansas, along the outer face of the front range of mountains, and into santa fe through an easy pass eastward of that town. "_nom de dieu!_ you invade territory indisputably ours with a force little short of a regiment; yet when i would repay the compliment,--one lone man, lost in the western wilds, your righteous governor has a mind to garrotte me!" "not he, señor," replied malgares. "rest assured he will leave that to the decision of the governor-general." "he will send me to chihuahua!" i exclaimed. "i fear as much, señor. there can be little doubt that general salcedo will order you before him." "_quien sabe?_" i muttered, affecting a doleful tone. my fear had been that i might be sent the other way. a sudden thought brought my hand to my bosom. "_perdone_, señor lieutenant, if i seem impertinent, but is it usual for spanish officers to present savages with banners embroidered by the ladies?" he stared at me blankly. "embroidered banners?" "i chanced to visit that pawnee town some three weeks after yourself. examining the flag you left, i observed upon its lower corner--" "ah!" he interrupted, "i comprehend. the flag from señorita vallois. but i assure you, señor robinson, it was the lady's own whim. she requested me to fly her banner at the point where i should make nearest approach to your settlements." "ah!" i exclaimed, in turn, masking my delight with difficulty. "so your spanish señoritas still send out their knights errant bearing their colors." "true," he replied. "yet you mistake in part. it was not señora malgares who gave me the banner in question, but her friend, señorita vallois." "vallois?" i repeated;--"vallois? that is a french name." "no less is it spanish, señor; though it is in point that my friend don pedro claims descent from french royalty. one can well believe the claim in the presence of his niece." "my word to that!" i cried. "she's the most beautiful lady under heaven!" "_santisima virgen!_" he exclaimed. "you know her?" "i had the honor of meeting her in my own country." by a flash of intuition he divined all on the instant. "_dios!_" he murmured, and he swept me a wide bow. "a love that could draw a man across that vast desolation of desert and sierra! most unjust the fate that would not requite the deed!" "you have seen her. do you wonder that i should have made the venture?" "less than a year has passed since i won my own lady," he said. "the virgin grant that i may be the one to escort you to chihuahua! i have not seen my señora since i marched north, last year." when a spaniard opens his heart to you, count on it you have found a friend. i nodded understandingly. "ah, my dolores! my _niña_!" he sighed. "but she is yours; you have already won her; while i--!" he nodded, in turn. "my dolores writes that every bachelor of chihuahua, from the greatest _haciendados_ to the youngest sub-lieutenants, are suitors for the hand of señorita alisanda. yet take heart. at the last writing, not even medina had won recognition from her." "medina?" i inquired, full of jealous inquietude. "salcedo's favorite aide-de-camp,--a braggadocio fellow." "could you not take it upon yourself to hurry me south at once?" i urged. "_poder de dios!_ i, a soldier, to march without orders? but be assured. the order will come before many weeks. in the meantime we should prepare." he looked me over smilingly. "it will never do for you to come before your lady in this savage costume. great is my regret that in this remote village we cannot find you garments after the european mode, yet there are worse attires than that of a spanish country gentleman--a _caballero rusticano_." notwithstanding my protests against imposing upon his generosity, he insisted upon at once conducting me to a man qualified to tailor the spanish modes. within the next fortnight i was completely fitted out _à la española_ from top to toe. but although it was the first time i had ever worn the costume, i cannot say that in the company of similarly attired spaniards i felt ill at ease in these garments. in part at least they were well adapted to the needs of this hot, arid climate, particularly the broad-brimmed shade-hat, or sombrero. silk stockings and spanish breeches, buttoned down the outer seams and open below the knees, took the place of my tattered pantaloons and buffalo leggings. for belt i wore a sash of scarlet silk, with ends dangling like a lady's drape. above it was a waistcoat as large as the jacket was short, while the circular cloak over all gave me quite the air of an hidalgo. my one difficulty was with the stiff jack-boots upon which jangled my barbarously gaffed spurs. after months of freedom in pliant moccasins, my feet found this hard confinement barely endurable even when i was mounted. in return for the numberless courtesies of malgares, i was able to make part payment by practising gratis among the people. it was, at the same time, a most interesting experience to come into intimate contact with the population, from the _gachupines_, or spaniards of old spain, and the native-born spaniards, whom we call creoles, to the far more numerous _mestizos_, or mixed-bloods, and their half-brothers, the pueblo, or tame indians. one day i had gone up to see a patient at atrisco, a little village next below albuquerque. it was, as i remember, the seventh of march, exactly a month after i had left my comrades at the stockade in the valley. the commandant, at whose house i was staying, had borrowed for me a spanish grammar from father ambrosio, and i was deep in the verbs, when my host stepped into the room, with a bow and a sonorous introduction: "_perdone, hermano!_ present _usted_ señor el capitan mun-go-meri-paike, your compatriot." i started up, and found myself confronting--pike! he stared back at me, half in doubt that it could be i, so vast was the change in my appearance and health. "john!" he exclaimed. "it cannot be!" "yet it is," i replied, aglow with delight. there could be no mistaking him, if only that he still wore his scarlet fur-lined cap and blanket cloak,--though much of his dress was new, and his face presented far other than the ghastly, emaciated aspect it had worn at our parting. but as i reached out to clasp his hand, he suddenly recalled our agreement not to recognize one another, and drew back with feigned hauteur. "who are you, sir? i do not know you." "'t is of no use, montgomery!" i cried. "i cannot hide my friendship. i should call out to you though they had the garrotte at my neck. what is more, the secret is out. i have already confessed my connection with the expedition to lieutenant malgares, who, though a spaniard, has proved himself a true friend. i could no longer endure the thought of concealment from him. it has not cost me his friendship; and i am prepared to risk the worst his superiors can inflict upon me." "no, no, john!" he protested. "we shall all come through safely, and you shall win your lady." "ah! alisanda! my thanks for the good wish. but you?" i demanded. "are you and the men also prisoners in the hands of that capricious governor?" "prisoners!" he repeated, dropping his hand on his sword-hilt. "does this look like it? no! they lured us into santa fe with false promises. but my men still carry their guns and ammunition. let the tyrants so much as raise a finger against us, and we will flee to their enemies the apaches, and lead the savages against their settlements!" "we could do it!" i cried. "yet first--" "first you would go to chihuahua; and so would i," he assented, his blue eyes twinkling. "i made a loud protest when this over-wise governor said it was necessary for me to go south. but we are going as 'guests under constraint'--not as prisoners, please note, john. the addle-pated don did not know enough to send us packing the shortest way out of the country, to the red river,--which, it seems, lies far to the eastward, in the comanche nation. no! he must needs march us down through the heart of the northern provinces. could we ask more?" "not if salcedo sets you free." "sets me free? no less yourself, john!" i shook my head dubiously. but at the moment there entered a captain d'almansa, whom i had met at santa fe, and who, i now learned, was conducting down the lieutenant and his men to place them under the escort of malgares. when pike explained to him that i had been a member of the expedition, the old captain smiled knowingly. few among the spaniards had doubted my connection with the mad _americanos_ after the party was brought in. we left d'almansa in the house, seated over a bottle of ardent spirits with my host, and went out to where the six privates who had come with the lieutenant from the stockade were in waiting. i was rejoiced to see that, though still for the most part clad in their tatters, their rounding cheeks showed the welcome effects of spanish hospitality, and that the ones worst frosted now hardly limped in their gait. not one of them had been required to walk a mile since leaving the fort, horses having been provided them from the first. it was no less affecting than amusing to see the manner in which, obedient to orders, they stared at me with an air of stolid indifference even when i came up to them with their lieutenant. but the moment he had explained that all was discovered, they crowded about me with exclamations of joy. it was truly a happy meeting for us all, despite the uncertainty of what might befall us in the hands of the tyrannical spanish authorities. as soon as i had sketched my adventures, pike, in turn, told theirs. "for several days after you left," he began, "i spent the time in hunting, reading, and exploring the valley around the fort. but a fortnight ago, while out with brown, we fell in with a dragoon and an indian of the militia, who, after telling us of your arrival at santa fe, insisted upon following us to the fort. in the morning, after we had made them a few gifts, they started back to santa fe, from which place they had been sent out to spy upon us." "true!" i broke in. "allencaster must have suspected from the first that my party of hunters was no less than the american expedition. i have learned that señor lisa sent word from st. louis of the expedition's plans, to the spanish authorities in texas. all the northern provinces have been on the lookout for us for months, and malgares has told me that the real purpose of his great expedition was either to capture us or to turn us back." "that i have myself learned," replied pike. "well, they have us now. may they have joy of their find! but to return. the same day that the spies left, jackson and his party came in with menaugh. but poor sparks and dougherty, alas! neither had been able to take a dozen steps, and the others could not bear them through those deep drifts." "good god!" i cried. "they left their comrades again, in that terrible valley, famished, crippled, sick! had i but gone--!" "no, john, they are not famished, nor are they sick. jackson found them well nourished. the gangrene had not spread. they will recover. you yourself said they would recover if the disease did not spread in this time. jackson restocked them with meat, and within three days after his return meek and miller volunteered for a second rescue-party. as their orders were to go first for baroney and smith and the horses, there can be no doubt that this time our poor lads will be brought in." "then they are not at the fort?" i asked. "i cannot say. they had not yet come in when the spanish dragoons came to lure us away. but you know the obstinacy and combativeness of meek. _he_ will bring them in. yes, by now they must be over the mountains and on their way to santa fe, guided by the spaniards left at the fort for that purpose. allencaster has promised to send them after us as soon as they can march. by the way, he has complimented you with the return of your rifle and pistols. as i positively refused to be disarmed, the diplomatic supposition is that we need our weapons to provide against attacks of the apaches." "your papers?" i inquired, "all those invaluable charts and journals?" he gave me a rueful look. "the enemy have them trapped in my little paper trunk, most of them. when we first came into santa fe all the more valuable ones were concealed in the clothes of these lads." he shook his head sadly at the six privates. "but the over-hospitable ladies plied them so freely with wine and ardent spirits that i feared some of the papers might be lost during their tipsy antics. so i returned to the trunk all except your copy of my courses. immediately afterwards the trunk was seized, and is now in the charge of our escort." "they may be returned," i argued. he shook his head. "you say they lured you into santa fe?" "upon the report of his spies, allencaster sent out a force of a hundred men, under pretence that the yutah indians were about to attack us. they were extremely courteous, and invited me to come into santa fe, stating that the governor wished to know our reasons for entering his territories. when i had expressed our strategic supposition that we were on the red river, and they had explained that these were the waters of the rio del norte, i at once hauled down our flag and agreed to accompany them. "as with yourself, allencaster was at first exceedingly haughty to me. but after i had expressed my opinion of their invasion of our territories, and stated that i had come in merely to be directed how to find the red river, that my party might follow it down to natchitoches, he mellowed exceedingly. i believe the old fox thought he was playing me a sly trick in thus sending us south through the heart of his country." "he will be hoist by his own petard!" i cried. "papers or no papers, salcedo is bound to free you at least, and you have a fine memory. my fate will not affect the splendid advantages which will accrue to our country from this blunder of the dons." "your fate?" he demanded. "i am now a spy confessed. but enough of that when we reach chihuahua! until then we shall have no cause for complaint. we go under the escort of malgares, than whom there is no truer gentleman under the sky." pike shook his head doubtfully. but the next day i had the great pleasure of introducing him to malgares, who promptly talked himself into the lieutenant's good graces, and entertained us that evening by ordering a _fandango_ to be danced in our honor by the prettiest girls of the vicinity. of our southward journey, which we began on the ninth of march, i will mention only that the first stage alone carried us some three hundred and fifty miles down the valley of the rio del norte, to el paso. the most prominent features of this trip were a notorious arid desert called the jornada del muerto, or journey of the dead man, which we avoided by a long detour, and two ranges of mountains to the eastward of the river,--the glittering, snow-clad sierra blanca and the sierra de los organos,--in whose fastnesses lurk the murderous apaches, said by spaniards to be the most terrible of all indians. the second day south of el paso we had to toil across a region of shifting sand hills similar to those at the west end of our pass through the sangre de cristo. the stop that evening was made at the presidio of carrazal, where, for the first time since our meetings with governor allencaster, we were received without the effusive hospitality to which we had become accustomed. when malgares introduced us to the commandant, the latter bowed with utmost coolness, and muttered in spanish an ungracious statement to the effect that malgares was welcome to his quarters, but that _los hereticos_ could lodge themselves, together with their privates of infantry, in the common hovel provided for travellers. malgares bowed his grandest. "_perdone_, señor!" he replied. "i could not bring myself to trouble your hospitality. what is good enough for my friends is good enough for me." such was malgares's stateliness of manner that the commandant, although his superior officer, was bowing in most apologetic fashion before our friend had ceased speaking. "_perdone, hermano!_" he murmured. "i erred most deplorably in imagining that _los señores americanos_ came as persons under constraint. _con permiso_, i hasten to rectify my error by urging them to honor my humble abode with their presence." "i fear that the señor commandant will have to excuse _los americanos_," i said. "the sky is ever a welcome roof to us," added pike, no less offended than myself. "but that is impossible, señores!" urged the commandant, with growing concern. he turned appealingly to malgares--"pray persuade them, don faciendo! should they refuse my hospitality i could never forgive myself!" "from the first our countrymen have given them the warmest of welcomes," remarked malgares, his chin still high. "_por dios!_ do i deny it? yet consider, i have but now received the gazette from the city of mexico." "the gazette?" inquired malgares, unbending. "with the account of the terrible colonel burr." "señor, we will be pleased to accept your hospitality," said pike. immediately there was a general exchange of amicable bows, and the commandant conducted us to his quarters. i could see that malgares was hardly less eager than pike and myself to hear the news about burr. but diplomacy, no less than etiquette, compelled us to repress our burning curiosity until our host had exemplified his hospitality with a light evening meal. as we rose from the table, he remarked that we might better enjoy our _cigarros_ under the starlight, on the _azotea_. "_perdone, amigo_," replied malgares, suavely. "you spoke of the gazette. i would hardly venture to say how old was the last gazette which i saw at santa fe." "_con permiso_, señores," said the commandant, bowing to pike and myself. at his command the attendant fetched the gazette, which he took into his own hands and tendered to us, with a polite bow. when we shook our heads over the spanish text, he waved us back to our seats, and proceeded to translate into french a most extraordinary mess of wild and contradictory rumors regarding aaron burr. the redoubtable colonel had descended the ohio with an immense army; he had invaded the province of texas; he was marching upon santa fe; he had captured new orleans; he was operating against pensacola, with a view to the conquest of the floridas; he had joined forces with the british fleet and had sailed to invest vera cruz; he was fighting the eastern _americanos_; no! the atheist jacobin jefferson had sent a second army to help him to conquer new spain. only the firm stand of the honest and most upright _americano_ commander-in-chief, general wilkinson, had prevented _los hereticos_ from breaking their sacred pledge by crossing the sabine river into the disputed territory. risking the anger of the hypocritical jefferson, the brave wilkinson had met the treacherous and ferocious burr in a terrific battle; had defeated the desperadoes and either slain or captured the would-be conqueror of the domains of his most catholic majesty, king ferdinand. so the account ran--a bushel of chaff heaped about a few scant grains of fact. yet even out of these garbled and fantastic details of an evidently panic-stricken spanish scribe, we could extract at least an inkling of the truth. there could be no doubt that colonel burr had actually embarked upon one or more of his venturesome enterprises, and that there had ensued more or less public agitation, if not an armed conflict. to my wider knowledge of the colonel's schemes many things were clear which puzzled and bewildered my friend, and i was not altogether surprised to see by malgares's look that he understood the situation nearly as well as myself. when, however, at the first opportunity, i sought to obtain an intimation that he had been a sharer in the mexican end of the great project, he avoided the inquiry with his usual tactful reserve. for my own part, i concluded that my worst suspicions regarding the treasonable intentions of colonel burr were all too true. evidently relying upon wilkinson to force hostilities on the texas border, he had planned to sweep down the ohio and the mississippi, with the rallying cry of "war with spain!" to bring the frontiersmen flocking after him in a vast army. with all the loyal-hearted marching to the conquest of mexico under wilkinson and jackson, it would then have been a simple matter to seize new orleans, declare a separation of the west from the east, and appeal to the states and territories west of the alleghanies to join in creating an empire which should extend westward to the far distant pacific and south to remote panama. that the west was, and for years had been, far too loyal to listen to the traitorous proposal, was not the question. the point was, that, had wilkinson supported the arch-plotter so far as the seizure of new orleans, the result would have been a bloody internecine war among our people, with france and england alike gloating upon our dissensions, and waiting, eager-fingered, to tear us asunder at the first opportunity. so it was that, taking matters at their face value in so far as i could conjecture the facts, i gladly gave general wilkinson credit for the part he seemed to have played in checkmating the alleged invasion of the lower mississippi by burr. the manner in which our host watched our faces as he read the gazette to us, explained the discourtesy of his first greeting. it was evident that he regarded our expedition as a reconnoitring party sent out by the hated _americanos_ to explore a road for the expected army of invasion. for my part, i firmly believe it was in fact so intended by general wilkinson, who had been known to boast that he could take all new mexico in a single campaign. but whether or not he had intended to use our discoveries to further the treasonable projects of burr, i will leave to the verdict of history. at the time, it was enough for me that he had not joined forces with burr, but, on the contrary, it would seem had averted the possibility of the dashing colonel's capture of new orleans. chapter xxii glimpses of fate the day before our arrival at chihuahua, when lieutenant malgares despatched ahead a courier with letters to his wife's father and general salcedo, i was suddenly struck with the fact that this first of april, like that other day of all fools out of philadelphia, was bringing me to the señorita high in hopes yet none the less uncertain. then i had chilled with the dread that my journey's end would find her dear presence vanished beyond my reach; now i suffered the far more poignant fear that i might find her heart lost to another. with such a thought lying like a torpid snake upon my breast, it is not strange that i slept ill that night. but i was astir in the morning no earlier than malgares, who betrayed the liveliest apprehension over his coming interview with the commandant-general. it was the first time that he had been permitted to come south to the seat of government since leaving it for his daring expedition into our territories, nearly a year past. pike and i were astonished to find that he was not beaming with expectation of the rewards his gallant exploit deserved. instead he rode along between us in silence, his fine castilian face creased with lines of anxiety, almost of dread. we were now passing over the last few miles of the vast mountain-encircled plain which surrounds the city of chihuahua and upon which, as well as similar vast ranges in this province of nuevo viscaya, _los haciendados_ pasture herds of thousands and tens of thousands of cattle. only in the most favored spots was the dreary landscape broken by trees, most of them the acacia-like mesquite, which here grows to a height of thirty or forty feet. there was little cultivation of the soil in this region, whose inhabitants depend upon cattle and the rich silver mines for their subsistence. a far from pleasant proof of this fact was to be seen in the great number of smoking ore furnaces and the enormous extent of the cinder heaps all about the city. from the time we swung into our high-pommelled, high-cantled saddles, my gaze was fixed through the smoke haze of the furnaces upon the lofty towers of the _parroquia_--the magnificent parish church of chihuahua--and the older and lower structure of the jesuit church of the campañia. noticing my intentness, even in his distraction, malgares courteously told the story of how the _parroquia_ had been paid for by a contribution from the silver produced by the great santa eulalia mine, in all something over a million dollars, estimated in our money. aside from the _parroquia_ and a few other imposing stone edifices, such as the royal treasury, the hospital, the military academy, and the three or four lesser churches, the city of chihuahua proved to be interesting but not magnificent. a few of the private buildings were of stone and of more than one story, but the greater part of the city was built of the ubiquitous unbaked mud brick. passing within sight of the huge arches of the great aqueduct, or waterway, which bends around from the south to the east side of the city, we at last found ourselves in the neat, close outskirts of chihuahua. our course carried us toward the plaza through the better streets, and it was evident from the number of ladies who crowded out into their balconies to see us pass that the news of our coming had been announced. that malgares was well and favorably known among these bright-eyed señoras and señoritas soon became apparent as we swept along at the head of our clattering, swashbuckling dragoons. fans were waved, _rebozas_ and mantillas fluttered, and greetings called. despite the anxiety which damped his spirit, our companion responded with the most gallant of bows and compliments. in the midst, a gay young señorita, more daring than her sisters, cried out: "_viva, los americanos!_" our response, i trust, was as gallant in spirit if not in effect as the bows of malgares. i qualify because pike had to endure the mortification of riding beneath the gaze of all those sparkling eyes in a costume better fitting a backwoods farmer than a military gentleman. he was still in his scarlet cap and blanket cloak. yet, encouraged by our acknowledgment of the first greeting, others of the ladies caught up the cry, until we found ourselves being welcomed no less warmly and frequently than malgares himself. this should have been fair enough augury to reassure the most despondent of travellers. but as we jingled past house after house, i found myself, between bows, scanning the gay groups on the balconies with a sinking heart. we were nearing the plaza. i could see the trees between the blank, bare walls of the dwellings which flanked the narrow street. in a little more we should pass the last of the balconies,--and i had seen no sign of my lady. we neared the last balcony. upon it were only three ladies, one of whom held back behind the others, so much of her head and shoulders as showed being muffled in a silk _reboza_, the mexican head-drape or shawl. the other two leaned eagerly forward over the balustrade, and the younger, a plump beauty with the blackest and most brilliant of eyes, flashed at malgares a look that told me she was his wife, even before he called to her in terms of extravagant endearment. unlike so many of the spanish marriages, his had been a love match. the señora and her yet plumper companion at the rail called down a welcome to _los americanos_. pike and i swept off our hats and bowed our handsomest. i straightened and looked up. malgares had not checked his horse for an instant, so that we were now opposite the balcony, and i, being on the right, was almost directly beneath it. my heart gave a great leap. smiling down upon me, over the rail, i saw the lovely face of my lady. i started to cry out her name: "al--" but already her finger was on her scarlet lips. i checked myself so quickly that my exclamation sounded more like an "ah!" my lady let fall her _reboza_ over her face and drew back out of view. when at last i gave over craning my head about, malgares met me with a smile. "so you have discovered her already, don juan!" he remarked in french. "my señorita!" i murmured. "she is the loveliest lady in the world!" "the most beautiful--that is true, but i cannot admit that she is the loveliest," he returned, with the loyalty of a true gentleman. "i trust soon to repeat that last to your señora!" i exclaimed. "she was the one to whom you called." he bowed in confirmation of my surmise. "it is the house of señor vallois. that other was señora marguerite vallois, his wife. the house of my wife's father is on the cross-street. she came to the house of her friends to see me pass, for she knew i could not turn out of my direct way to the _palacio_." "what! not a few moments to greet your lady after an absence of almost a year?" i cried. "this is not a free republic as is your country. our ruler--" he checked himself, and looked from me to pike with an anxious glance. "friends, i have not darkened your journey with sombre anticipations. but now is the time for warning. do not be surprised if a few hours hence you find yourselves in the _calabozo_." "no!" said pike, without raising his voice, but speaking in a tone of indomitable resolution. "your people may kill us, don faciendo, but they shall neither disarm nor imprison us so long as there is breath left in our bodies. my men have their orders." malgares shook his head sadly. "you free-born _americanos_! you do not yet know what it means to stand before a despot!" he glanced back over his shoulder as if fearful of being overheard. the nearest of the escort was beyond earshot. he drew in a deep breath, and murmured bitterly: "you see what it means. i am not accounted a coward, yet i turn cold at the very thought of the man who can dishonor me." "dishonor!" i repeated. "death is a little thing! but who does not fear a life--or death--of disgrace?" our looks assured him of our sympathy. we came into the _alamo_, or shaded ride, through the plaza. he pointed across at the fort-like mass of the governor's residence. "there lies the fate of all the northern provinces, from the borders of louisiana territory to the pacific, in the grasp of one man!" "you have an appeal to his catholic majesty," remarked pike. malgares shrugged his shoulders in the manner of a frenchman, a gesture of which we would have considered his haughty pride incapable. "it is a long journey to old spain to one who would oppose the commandant-general, and a far longer journey through the court to the hall of justice. no, _amigos_. be advised. discretion is sometimes the better part of valor. diplomacy wins many victories beyond reach of the sword." "you have our thanks, don faciendo," replied my friend, soberly. "i shall not forget that i am here as an officer of the army of the republic. my first and only concern is the interests of my country, and i will use all means to conserve those interests." we were by now approaching the great arched gateway which gaped in the centre of the _palacio's_ stuccoed _façade_. the guard turned out with a smartness which i could see impressed pike not a little. there was a moment's halt, and then we all clattered through the tunnel-like archway into the brick-paved court enclosed by the building. this was not the first _patio_ we had entered, but it was by far the largest. here and there the court was ornamented with small trees and potted shrubs, some already in flower. a line of them screened off in the rear the view of the kitchens and stables. all around this court ran the arched entrances of the building's inner tiers of rooms, the gallery of the upper story being reached with outside stairways in opposite corners. as the audience chamber was on the lower floor, we were ushered with malgares into the hall of the guards by one of the aides-de-camp, a heavy-set, dark-browed andalusian whom malgares introduced as lieutenant don jesus maria de gonzales y medina. our six privates were left outside in the care of the dragoons of the escort, with whom they had long since come to the best of terms. word had at once been taken in to the captain-general that we were awaiting his pleasure. presently an aide appeared and bowed to malgares. this left pike and me seated alone on a stone bench, under the eyes of the guard and of a rabble of house and stable servants, who had pressed in to gape at those strange creatures, _los anglo-americanos_. it was no easy test for my temper to bear, nor, i judge, for pike's. added to this, we were by now fairly on needles and pins as to the manner in which this despotic ruler should choose to receive us. lieutenant medina had withdrawn. in his place appeared a ferret-eyed little frenchman, who snuffled complaints of how he had been abused in this vile land, and sought to draw from us expressions of opinion regarding the spanish government. suspecting him to be a spy, pike pointed to the outer door, and gave him his _congé_ in spanish: "_vaya, carrejo!_" the scoundrel went, followed by a muffled yet none the less hearty laugh over his discomfiture from the rough, honest soldiers. after a time medina returned with a sandy, pale-eyed but well-built young officer whom he introduced as alferez don juan pedro walker. the newcomer hastened to explain, in english, that he was the same john peter walker of new orleans who in aided mr. ellicott in surveying the florida line. at this moment malgares appeared in the doorway of the audience chamber, and requested pike to enter. i started to follow, but he waved me back, with an anxious frown. this boded ill for us. to conceal my concern, i expressed to walker my surprise that an american should have entered the service of spain. he answered quickly that he was not my countryman, since his father was english and his mother french, and he had been born and reared in new orleans under spanish rule. while he was explaining this, in rather an apologetic tone, medina was called away. there followed a summons to walker to attend upon the governor-general, and i found myself left quite alone in the midst of the gaping, muttering rabble. this was no throng of simple, hospitable rustics such as i had met and liked in the north province; but a stable and kitchen mob, the low scullions and hostlers and lackeys of a great man, puffed with reflected pride and saucy with second-hand arrogance. soon i began to overhear jeers and scurrilous flings, of which the word "spy" was the least galling. before long all my apprehensions as to the governor-general were drowned in the swelling tide of my indignation and anger. it was unendurable to sit for what seemed an endless time before the insolent leers and coarse raillery of this scum. the soldiers looked on, without attempting either to join in their scoffs or to silence them. at last, when i was about to seize the foremost two of the rascals by the scruff of the neck and crack their heads together, the aide-de-camp medina sauntered back from out in the court. i cried to him sharply in spanish: "señor lieutenant! do you not know whether it is time to take me in?" such at least was what i intended to say. but, in my heat, i must have slipped on my spanish verb. the aide, mistaking me to mean that i had been summoned before the governor-general, immediately ushered me into the audience chamber. my first glance gave me a general impression of a large apartment, severe in its furnishings; the second took in a table at which sat pike and walker and two or three others, all engaged in sorting books and papers which i ruefully recognized as the charts and journals of our expedition. the sight of malgares, staring at me in open consternation, caused me to fix my gaze upon the gray-headed, irascible little man at the head of the table. we had expected a great show of regalia and the other trumpery of court display about the commandant-general. of this there was no sign to be seen anywhere in the room. yet the bearing of the man at the head of the table and the attitude of all others present in facing him, told me that this was none less than his excellency, don nimesio salcedo, the despotic ruler of provinces greater in total extent than the united states and all their possessions other than louisiana territory. yet by now i was so goaded to indignant anger that i held my head high and met his stern glance with the curtest of bows. "_caramba!_" he swore, turning to malgares. "whom have we here?" "señor juan robinson, your excellency," explained malgares--"that most excellent physician of whom i spoke, the surgeon attached to the expedition of lieutenant don montgomery pike." it was only a fair example of malgares's noble courtesy and friendliness to seek thus to mollify in my favor the man whose single word could send me to the garrotte as a spy. i thanked him with a look. salcedo flashed a fiery glance at the luckless medina. "why do you bring him in--_imbecil_? let him retire." i turned on my heel, too heated now to care, whatever the tyrant might have in mind to do. but the moment the door closed behind me, i found lieutenant medina at my elbow, and he was as angry as myself. "_satanas!_" he hissed, his little beady eyes snapping with fury. "i have lost standing with his excellency by this frightful blunder. explain! you told me i was to conduct you in! explain!" "_na-da!_" i drawled. "i did not tell you." "you said it!" he insisted. i gave him the spanish equivalent for our adage not to cry over spilt milk, adding that i preferred his room to his company. at this he went off fairly boiling with rage, fearful, i take it, that if he stayed he would explode, and so draw upon himself the wrath of his lord and master. as by this time the rabble had dispersed, i was left to my own bitter reflections. surely if salcedo had not scrupled to seize the records of the expedition, he would not scruple to treat me as an outright spy. the best i could forecast from that meant an indefinite confinement in the terrible spanish _calabozo_, compared with which the worst of our filthy flea-and-fever-infested seaboard gaols is a palace of comfort. yet the thought of alisanda spurred me to wild resolve. let them fling me into their dungeons. i would break through their bars and stone walls. i had not crossed the barrier to be daunted now. nothing should keep me from her! in the midst of my angry scheming, the door opened to permit the exit of walker, pike, and malgares. walker bowed, and addressed me in french, out of courtesy to malgares: "if you please, dr. robinson, the general has expressed his wish that yourself and lieutenant pike should honor me by becoming my guests while you are in chihuahua. we go now to permit yourself and lieutenant pike to arrange your dress before returning to dine with his excellency." this was decidedly different from being invited to descend into a dungeon. i bowed my acknowledgments. malgares held out a hearty hand to pike and myself. "god with you!" he exclaimed. "pardon my haste. but i will see you again at dinner. now i fly to my dolores!" "_vaya usted con dios!_" we replied, waving him not to linger. it would have been cruel to delay his departure an instant, seeing that he had been separated from his señora for the greater part of a year. i saw pike heave a sigh, and knew he was thinking of the beloved wife and children whom he had not seen for so many months, and might not see for many other weary months to come, possibly never. my own thoughts, however, turned back to alisanda. as walker conducted us across the plaza to the house where, in company with other young bachelor officers, he had his quarters, a question or two set him to gossiping upon the ladies, and, inevitably, to singing the praises of señorita vallois. that was music to which i could have listened unwearying for hours. but time pressed. walker insisted upon loaning both of us neckcloths, and pike various other articles of dress suitable to the occasion. he would have been as insistent upon sharing his wardrobe with myself had not my size prevented. i had to content myself with the neckcloth and a pair of silk stockings which i had in my saddlebags. in our prinking we enjoyed the officious services of walker's quaint old negro servant cæsar, who had been taken in texas with other members of captain nolan's party, and was said by walker to be the only man of his race in all this region. washed and dressed, we returned to the _palacio_ still escorted by walker, who had seen to it that we should not for an instant find opportunity to speak a word in private. arriving at our destination, we found malgares there before us, his fine eyes still beaming from the meeting with his loving señora. this time we were shown in without delay to the _sala_, or salon, where salcedo received us with a formal bow, and then directed his attentions to pike and malgares with an urbanity which belied the gash-like crease between his shaggy gray brows. i was introduced to señor trujillo, the treasurer, who, however, paired off with walker. this left me to go into table with the portly padre father rocus, who was the only other member of the party. our seats proved to be at the far end of the longish board, and as the padre at once contrived to divert and hold my attention, i heard and saw little of what took place among the others. unlike the native-born priests i had met in the north, father rocus was a man of profound learning and ability. without allowing the conversation to interfere in the least with his enjoyment of our elegant french-cooked repast and the very superior wines, he quickly sounded the none too profound depths of my learning in the sciences. he then touched adroitly upon politics and religion. the thought flashed upon me that he was seeking to lead me into some snare, yet i stated my convictions candidly. if salcedo wished to condemn me, he would condemn me, and that was all there was in it. at the end father rocus sat for some moments sipping his wine, holding the glass as daintily and caressingly between his plump white fingers as i would have held my lady's hand. he set it down to be refilled by the assiduous lackey at his elbow, and addressed me in english: "republican, heretic, and anglo-american--it is unfortunate. none are popular in the domains of his most catholic majesty." "i did not come here to curry favor with your people, padre," i replied. "not with all, perhaps, but--" again he raised his glass and sipped for several moments. yet i observed that his half-shut eyes were fixed upon me in a penetrating gaze. "you are acquainted in chihuahua?" he remarked, in a tone as much of statement as inquiry. "lieutenant malgares has honored us with his friendship." "are there not others?" he queried. "if so, i am not at liberty to mention their names," i said. "good!" he commented. "discretion is the one quality in which i thought you lacking. i now feel justified in returning to you an article which i have reason to believe is your property." "an article--my property?" i repeated, not a little puzzled. he smiled, and, unobserved by the attendants, handed me my lady's handkerchief. i gazed at it, first astounded, then dismayed. it was all too clear that my message had been intercepted, probably by don pedro, and intrusted to this priest, to be returned as a courteous hint that my suit for the niece's hand was not acceptable. but as, greatly downcast, i thrust the handkerchief into my bosom, the padre raised his brows, and spoke in evident surprise: "you do not appear pleased, señor doctor. from what she said, i was led to infer--" "what she said?" i broke in. "she? you mean--" "a certain señorita who voyaged down a long river in company with her uncle and a certain gallant young heretic," he answered over his glass. "she--my alisanda! then it is from her you bring the kerchief! you are our friend!" "i am her confessor, and, i trust, her best friend," he replied. "as for yourself, god grant i may also become your friend and confessor." "friend--yes!" i assented eagerly. "and confessor!" he urged. "remember, you are now in the kingdom of new spain. it is in point to remark that a heretic was burned at the city of mexico within the last three years." my head sank forward in gloomy meditation. i had crossed the barrier, it is true; but now i saw yawning before me the abyss of the gulf. chapter xxiii the house of vallois before i could pluck up my depressed spirits sufficiently to ask father rocus the thousand and one questions about my lady which for months i had been longing to have answered, the governor-general rose from the table with an abruptness that surprised us. though by now somewhat informed as to the spanish-mexican custom of the siesta, we had supposed that at a formal dinner, served in the usual mode, there would be some lingering over the wine. we had sat scarcely an hour, all told. yet his excellency led us into the _sala_, and awaited our adieus with a manner which, though urbane, did not encourage extended farewells. as his bearing toward myself was markedly less gracious than toward pike and malgares, i for one was not so ill-pleased as i might have been over this hurried leave-taking. in the outer gateway malgares for the second time excused himself to gallop off to his señora, while we returned afoot across the plaza with the ubiquitous walker. upon reaching his quarters, the latter invited us to recline on the mattresses which had been provided for us by old cæsar. he himself preferred one of the long net hammocks such as are used among the spaniards of the tropical coast lands. we chatted a few minutes over our _cigarros_, and then walker dropped asleep. pike at once informed me that salcedo had taken possession of all the papers in his little despatch trunk other than the letters from mrs. pike. these last, prompted by the same chivalry which had induced allencaster to restore me my treasures, the governor-general had permitted my friend to pocket without examination, upon the statement that they were from a lady. but that all the really valuable papers, such as our charts, astronomical observations, and journals, would be retained the lieutenant now had little doubt. "however," he concluded, "worse come to worse, we have your copy of the courses and distances, covering everything except that side excursion to the platte and down the upper arkansas." "and there is your keen eye and retentive memory," i added. "we have already seen enough of new spain for the information to more than offset the loss of the papers--if they really are lost. had we headed straight for the red from the rio del norte, we should have saved the papers, but should have gone home as ignorant of new spain as we came." "and you without seeing your señorita!" "ah, that!" i murmured. "it may be i shall pay dearly for the venture. you saw how salcedo varied his manner toward me. but it is worth the risk. i could not have done otherwise!" "i believe you, john. i myself caught a glimpse of your lady. i no longer wonder! but if salcedo really is ill-disposed toward you, the sooner you get in touch with the señorita and her people the better. it may be they have influence." "i shall make every effort to do so before the day is over," i said. "the difficulty is this walker." "he is an informer," said pike. "of that i have no doubts. i propose to give him enough and to spare of material for his tale-bearing." "good!" i cried. "a bold front is the best. salcedo is bound to release you; while as for myself, if they garrotte me, they shall not have the satisfaction of saying that i cringed. no! we will tell this informer what we think of matters spanish." before pike could reply, we were startled by a sudden out-clanging of bells in the towers of the _parroquia_. walker started up and stared at us. pike yawned, stretched, and remarked to me, in a casual tone: "you're right. this government is one fit only for masters and slaves." "you mean, a master and slaves," i returned. "no--one master here and one in old spain." "why not put it, a master there and an overseer here? the comparison is in point between this arrangement and that of one of our virginia or carolina plantation-owners who lives in town and leaves his estate under the care of an overseer. you could hardly call the overseer a master." "the difference is that he drives people of a race born for slavery, while here--" "here," broke in walker, his face quivering--"here some who were not born to slavery fall into it unawares!" "what!" i said. "do you, who voluntarily joined the cavalry of new spain, complain of the government to which you owe allegiance?" "voluntarily?--no, gentlemen. new orleans is not chihuahua, nor was it so even under spanish rule. i did not realize what i was venturing when i entered this service. i have attempted to withdraw, but they refuse to accept my resignation." "ah, well," said pike, "since it seems we are to be your guests, lieutenant, i am pleased that you understand and share our opinion of this despotic government. discontent is a hopeful sign when tyranny is rampant. only let a few of the bolder spirits among you pluck up courage to seek open redress for your wrongs, and mexico will soon fling off the yoke of spain, as our glorious states broke their bondage to britain." i saw our host's eyes begin to widen. to keep the ball rolling, i chimed in along the same line. walker did not again speak, but sat staring in open amazement at our audacity,--of course with both ears wide. having started off at such a pace, we were almost out of material when cæsar thrust in his woolly head and announced señor vallois. walker promptly called out a floridly complimentary invitation for the visitor to enter. don pedro came in, every inch the gentleman and grand _haciendado_. as he straightened from his bows to our host, i had time only to observe that since our parting his face had lost several shades of tan and gained many deep lines of anxiety. a moment later he gripped my hand and shook it with cordial heartiness. but at the end, instead of releasing his clasp, he slipped his left arm around my waist and pressed himself to me until our cheeks touched. it was the first time i had either seen or experienced this curious custom of the country, and it so surprised me that i stood unbending to his embrace. "how is this, don juan?" he demanded. "are your friends so soon forgot?" "no, no, don pedro! it is only that i did not look for so warm a greeting from you. you must be aware that i am here under a cloud." "the more reason for your friends to support you!" he protested with generous fervor. "señor, i should have known that so noble a gentleman as yourself could have done none else!" we bowed together, and i then introduced him to pike, adding for walker's benefit that the don was an acquaintance i had met in washington. so far we had held to the french. now the don delighted pike by addressing him in english: "sir, i am more than pleased to meet you. i have heard rumors of your extraordinary trip to the headwaters of the mississippi." "you are kind, sir. but it was nothing worth mentioning. the soldiers of the republic are accustomed to doing their duty." "but this present expedition!" added the don. "i understand that you crossed the sangre de cristo in february." "it was cross over--or perish." "_madre de dios!_ that is the point. it seems that you and don juan did cross over when most men would have perished. do you then marvel that my wife is desirous of meeting two such heroes?" he turned to walker with a bow. "with your kind permission, lieutenant walker, i will borrow your guests for the evening." "ah--yes--indeed--" hesitated walker. "my sincerest regrets, sir," broke in pike. "you will pardon my declining the kind invitation. this long ride from santa fe and the heat have fatigued me more than i realized." "_santisima virgen!_" exclaimed don pedro, unfeignedly disappointed. "yet as you need rest, i must console myself with the hope that you will honor us with your presence in the near future. as to this evening, however, i must urge don juan to accompany me." "by all means!" i assented. this, as was plainly evident from his manner, put walker into a quandary. to have ordered me to remain would have exposed the hand of the governor-general. yet how could he watch both pike and myself if we separated? it was an impossibility. he hesitated for a long moment, and then bowed to don pedro: "with your kind permission, señor, i will pay respects to señora vallois. lieutenant don montgomery should be allowed to repose in quiet." "your pleasure is mine, señor," replied don pedro, with a punctilious note in his politeness that told me he was not altogether pleased at walker's self-invitation. it occurred to me that the governor-general might have as much or more reason to spy upon him as upon myself. if the don was in the thick of a revolutionary conspiracy, as might well be, he was vastly more dangerous to the government than myself. the thought filled me with sudden dread for the safety of my lady's kinsman. but on the heels of this fright came the reassurance that, after all, walker's interest might well be accounted for by the presence of a certain señorita in the home of don pedro. we had taken for granted that he was an informer. yet his present course was quite as reasonably explained by his desire to see señorita vallois. leaving pike to his own devices, we left the house and walked leisurely around the edge of the plaza. this brought us past a number of the city's largest merchandise establishments, to which groups of _reboza_-veiled señoras and señoritas were beginning to saunter for the evening's shopping. now and again a bright, coquettish eye peeped out at us from among the folds of a close-drawn headwrap. but i was not curious to look twice at any of these over-rotund brunettes. to me there was only one lady in all the world, and now i was going to see her, to hear her exquisite voice, after almost a year of separation. a few minutes, which to my impatience seemed hours, brought us to the door of don pedro. i should say, to the wicket in the great iron gate of the archway. at sight of us the porter within sprang to free the bolt. but before we could enter there sounded a clatter of hoofs in the nearest side street, and malgares came galloping into view. don pedro paused for him to ride up, and a moment later they were exchanging that curious salute of handshake and cheek-to-cheek embrace. malgares then explained that his wife was at the house of don pedro, and that he had just secured relief from his duties to follow her. as we entered, a groom ran forward to take charge of malgares's horse, while the don conducted us up the stairway in the nearest corner of his beautiful garden-court. a short turn along the gallery brought us to the entrance of a large _sala_. by now i was so wrought up that i found it necessary to pause beside the open doorway to regain my composure, the result of which was that all the others passed in before me. i followed close behind walker. the first glance showed me that my lady was not in the room. malgares, who had entered with don pedro, stood before his wife and señora vallois, clasping the hand of the latter. the ladies, i observed, wore the full petticoats and short jackets of their countrywomen, though their costumes were of the richest and most elegant materials. as i stood gazing at them, i was astonished to see malgares and the rotund lady exchange that same odd embrace of greeting with which our host had favored myself and don faciendo. knowing the fiery jealousy of the spaniards, i looked for don pedro to strike the audacious soldier, and doña dolores to burst into angry tears. instead, they stood by, beaming at the affectionate pair with utmost complacency. malgares turned to his smiling wife, and señora vallois gave walker her hand to salute. when he also stepped aside, don pedro introduced me, first to his señora, and then to doña dolores malgares. each permitted me to salute her hand. straightening from my second bow, i was overjoyed to see alisanda crossing the room toward us. but malgares was before me. he met her with a bow. they grasped hands in that cordial manner, exchanged a few words of greeting, and--embraced! this was too much! it might be the custom of the country--doubtless it was the custom of the country--but for my lady to welcome another man than myself, not of her family, was more than i could endure. i stepped forward, frowning. alisanda slipped from malgares's embrace and came to meet me, her lips parting in a demurely mischievous smile. "_hola, amigo!_" she murmured. "it is joyous to meet a friend after so many months!" "it is heaven!" i mumbled, attempting to read her eyes. but she drooped her long lashes. i clasped her little hand and bent to kiss it. again i was frustrated. she drew the hand back. but her firm clasp did not relax. in the excess of my emotion, i did not realize her purpose until she had drawn me close, and her left arm began to encircle me. then the truth flashed upon me. she had welcomed malgares according to the custom of the country that i too might enjoy that most delightful of greetings! the discovery was too much for my discretion to withstand. swept away by my love and adoration, i caught the dear girl to me and kissed her fairly upon her sweet lips. i heard a sharp exclamation from don pedro, and alisanda thrust herself free from me, her pale cheeks suddenly gone as scarlet as her lips. her dark eyes flashed at me a glance of scorn and anger which sobered me on the instant. i half turned to the others, who were all alike staring at me in angry amazement. "señora vallois!" i exclaimed, "can you not pardon this blunder--my deplorable ignorance of your customs? this is my first experience with your gracious salute of friends. the offence was absolutely unintentional. believe me, my esteem and respect for señorita vallois is such that nothing could cause me greater grief than the consciousness i had offended her." "do not apologize further, señor robinson," replied the señora, melting more at my tone and look of concern than at the words. "your explanation is quite sufficient. i am certain my niece will pardon you the error." "if only she may!" i cried, turning to alisanda. "señorita, will you not forgive me? do not hold it against me that in attempting to conform to your etiquette i passed the bounds! you must know that no disrespect was intended--far from it! i meant only to express my great esteem." "my aunt has spoken for me, señor robinson," she answered coldly. "the incident is already forgotten." "but not señor robinson," remarked señora malgares. "i am consumed with curiosity to hear more about his marvellous adventures. my beloved faciendo has told me that the señor doctor and his fellow _americanos_ crossed and recrossed the northern mountains in the very midst of the winter." "they were a barrier in our way, señora. we could do none else than cross them," i replied, with a side-glance at alisanda. this time she met me with that calm, level gaze which i had always found so inscrutable. now, as then, i looked deep into those lovely eyes and saw only mystery. but doña dolores would not be denied. "_santa maria!_" she exclaimed. "when am i to hear about your heroic journey, señor robinson?" "pardon me, señora," i replied. "don faciendo is better qualified to serve as historian. he insisted upon learning the facts alike from lieutenant pike and myself." "if don faciendo will graciously ease our impatience," urged señora vallois. "nothing could give me greater pleasure, doña marguerite," assented malgares. "be seated, friends. i am sure we are all eager to hear," said the señora. even walker bowed quick assent to this. "i am most interested of all present, because señor robinson showered endless courtesies and favors upon my beloved pedro and alisanda while they were journeying through his country." "believe me, señora," i protested, "what little i was able to do fell far short of the favors i received." "one word or glance from señorita vallois were worth the service of a lifetime!" put in walker. my feeling went too deep for verbal compliments. i stood dumb, and watched walker receive a smile over my lady's fan that repaid him a hundredfold. the others were now moving toward the end of the _sala_, where were grouped three or four low divans. alisanda glided after doña dolores, and walker promptly stepped out beside her. i followed last of all, too fearful of another false move to force myself forward. yet somehow, when we came to seat ourselves, i was delighted to find myself beside alisanda at the end of the divan, while walker was hedged off from her on the other side by doña dolores. as the plump little señora chose to tuck up her limbs turk-fashion, the interval was not narrow. walker had to perch on the extreme far corner of the divan. malgares and our host sat across from us, while doña marguerite reclined upon the third divan. alisanda was the only one of the ladies who sat upright. she did not look at me. but for the moment it was enough that her shoulder touched my arm. when all were settled, malgares plunged into his account, which he rendered in a crisp, clear french that made every statement stand out like a cameo. first of all he gave a brief and modest recital of his own remarkable expedition, dwelling strongest upon his arrangements with the savages to stop us; the vast extent of the all but treeless prairies, and the grandeur of the mighty snow mountains of the north. he then described how our little party had come to the pawnees and braved their might; how, late as was the season, we had pushed on westward, and how, in the midst of the midwinter's cold, we had clambered about among those huge sierras of rock and snow. as told by him, the account drew _bravo_ after _bravo_ from the little audience. when he described our ascent of what we had supposed to be the grand peak, alisanda flashed at me a glance that put me into a glow of bliss. malgares was a flattering historian. but he was not satisfied with his own efforts. when it came to the descent of the terrific gorge of the arkansas by brown and myself, he broke off in the midst and insisted upon my picturing that awful canyon in my own words. "_nada_," i hesitated. "i cannot tell it." "you must, juan!" murmured my lady. to say "no" to her was impossible. i went on with the tale as best i could in my rude french, and related how brown and i had made our way up the icy ascent of the side ravine. as i described the cutting of footholds and our slow clambering higher and higher out of the chasm, alisanda's eyes widened and her hands met in a convulsive clasp. before i had finished she was breathing hard with excitement. the other ladies were hardly less thrilled. women are so easily startled by the recital of dangers which a man risks as a matter of course. but when i came to our terrible journey in the valley of starvation it was not alone the ladies who were moved. aside from walker i felt that all my listeners were friends, and i could not forego the opportunity to describe fully the heroic fortitude with which my indomitable friend and his men had endured their sufferings and struggled on against all odds. if my eyes were wet when i told of the injuries of the poor lads sparks and dougherty, there was at least one present who did not consider my emotion unmanly. she bowed her head in her hands and wept. i went on to tell how the unfortunate men had sent the bones from their frozen feet, in pitiful appeal to their commander, and how they were being brought after us, maimed and unable to walk. it was not my desire to harrow my listeners needlessly, but i knew that the malgares and the vallois were among the richest families in new spain, and felt certain that to tell them the piteous truth would insure the injured men the best of care so long as they should be detained by the governor-general. having covered this point, i went back and described how we had fought our way on up the desolate plateau and across the sangre de cristo, and had at last found relief from toil and frost and famine in the broad valley of the rio del norte. "so there was an end of our hardships," i concluded. "we had crossed the barrier." "you had crossed the barrier!" murmured my lady, and through the tears which still glistened in her eyes she shot me a glance that repaid in full for all my months of journeying to find her. "but that is not the end, señor robinson!" cried doña dolores, with the sweet petulance of a young bride. "faciendo, you must let them know how don juan left his companions and came alone all the way to santa fe, fearless of the hideous apaches." "the apaches do not range so far north, _niña_," corrected her husband. "yet is it dangerous for a man to go alone among any of the wild tribes, or even among the tame indians, if they have reason to believe his murder will not be discovered. that, however, was a small matter compared to the courage required to brave condemnation as a spy." "spy?" exclaimed señor vallois. i saw alisanda shrink at the word, and walker bend forward to catch the answer. "you must remember that don juan and his companions had been absent from the nearest of their frontier settlements for seven or eight months," explained malgares. "how was he to foresee whether or not war had been declared?" "war or not," interrupted walker, "señor robinson not only invaded our territories in company with a military force, but, as i understand the event, he ventured into santa fe in disguise and without acknowledging his relation to lieutenant pike." "how about it, don faciendo?" i asked. "is an incursion into the territories of a neighboring government necessarily an act of war?" "_por dios!_" he laughed. "you have us there! i trust that his excellency will consider his own proceedings, and be moved to look with a lenient eye upon the mistake of our _americano_ friends." "so exalted a personage must be a man of discretion," i said, looking fixedly at walker. "his excellency will think twice before exacting vengeance for so small an offence. the garrotting or imprisonment of one or all the members of the expedition would be a bad bargain if it resulted in the loss to his catholic majesty of the floridas. mr. walker can tell you that the riflemen who muster for our backwoods militia could, unaided, sweep the floridas from louisiana to the atlantic. what is more, they will do it at the first excuse. they are already at full cock over the manner in which the british agents are allowed by your people to come up from the gulf and foment trouble against us among the creeks, cherokees, and choctaws. let general salcedo go to extremes with our peaceful expedition, and there will be a setting of triggers from georgia to louisiana." "_madre de dios!_ be prudent, i pray you, juan!" warned don pedro. "such words are best left unsaid." "are they?" i demanded. "if to-morrow every free-minded man in new spain spoke out his real thoughts, to-morrow this land would be free from old spain." "_maria santisima!_" gasped doña marguerite, dropping her fan and sitting erect. "we forget that don juan is a citizen of the anglo-american republic," said alisanda, calmly. "in his land men are not accustomed to wear muzzles." "because our fathers rebelled and triumphed over the tyrant who oppressed them," i added. there followed a tense silence. the sun had set, and i could barely distinguish the features of the others in the fast gathering twilight. there was a shadow upon them, not alone of the night. before any one spoke, the silence was broken by the peal of a huge church bell. instantly all others than myself bent forward, crossing themselves and murmuring hasty prayers--"_ave maria purisima!_" "_ave maria santisima!_"--while slowly the great bell pealed forth its deep and sonorous note. in the midst a little hand slipped out and rested for a moment upon my hard knuckles. i turned my palm about to clasp the visitor, but it flitted like a butterfly. an instant later _la oracion_ was brought to a close by a merry chime of smaller bells. the señoras began to chat in lively tones, and servants hastened in with waxen tapers to relieve the deepening gloom. greatly to my annoyance, walker rose to leave. i might have surmised that he was prompted to the action by jealousy, but my ignorance of local etiquette made me apprehensive of another blunder. this forced me to follow his lead and join in his polite refusals of the pressing invitations of our host and hostess to remain for the evening. in a land where, upon an introduction to a man in the plaza, he presents you with his house, and later is not at home to you when you call at that same house, it is as well to take the most urgent of invitations with a grain of salt. as we bowed to the ladies, doña dolores demurely slipped aside and drew the attention of the others by a piquant remark about one of the fine paintings upon the wall. alisanda took the opportunity to flash me a glance which set my heart to leaping with the certainty that i had lost nothing by my crossing of the barrier. just what i had gained was yet to be seen. i knew i had gone far toward winning my lady's heart--i had crossed the barrier of nationality and birth. but i did not forget that i had yet to cross the gulf of religion. with that one swift glance, she drew back, and don pedro escorted us to the door. we exchanged bows with him, and moved down the gallery to the head of the stairway. here we turned and again exchanged bows. we descended to the first landing, and paused to return the bow which he made to us over the gallery rail. another exchange of bows from the edge of the beautiful flower-and-shrub-embowered court, and we at last escaped out through the tunnel-like passage to the great gate. passing through the wicket into the street, which was lit up by the red glare of a resin torch, we found ourselves face to face with father rocus and lieutenant don jesus maria de gonzales y medina. the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and stared from walker to myself with a glance of fiery jealousy. i gave him a curt nod, and hastened to grasp the proffered hand of the beaming padre. "god be with you, my son!" he exclaimed. "my thanks for the kind wish, padre!" i replied "i see you are coming to call upon my friend señor vallois." "your friend!" muttered medina, for i had spoken in french. "my friend," i repeated. "i had the pleasure of meeting don pedro in my own country. but now, señor, with regard to our misunderstanding this morning, i wish to express my regrets and to explain that the error was committed through inadvertence." "ah--if you apologize," he said, with a complacent half-sneer. "you mistake me, señor. i do not apologize. i merely explain." he turned, without answering, and swaggered in through the archway. "you _americanos_!" protested father rocus, reaching up to lay a hand upon my shoulder. "can you never be prudent? medina is a swordsman. your friend here will tell you that out of five duels, the aide has to his credit three deaths on the black record of satanas." "if he is a swordsman, i am a pistol shot," i rejoined. "then all turns upon the chance of who challenges and who has choice of weapons. god grant the choice fall to you! he is in strong need of a lesson." "that is true!" muttered walker, with a shrug. "meantime, my son, it will be well for you to consider the peril of your soul and come often to the _parroquia_ to hear me preach," admonished the padre. he spoke in a severe tone, but i fancied i caught a twinkle in his eye as he turned to enter the gate. walker took me familiarly by the arm, and as we sauntered back to his quarters, first inquired particularly as to my skill with the pistol, and then went into the details of medina's duels. before he had finished i divined that he and others of the officers at chihuahua would be more than pleased to see some one trim the comb of the braggadocio aide-de-camp. if an outsider could be inveigled into taking the risk, so much the better. chapter xxiv the serenade the following morning i assisted pike in the preparation of a sketch of our trip, which had been most courteously requested by salcedo. walker offered his services, and would take no refusal. but we found more than one opportunity for a word apart, and pike told me that he was already in touch with the woolly-headed old cæsar, who had at once offered to help us to obtain information as to the country's mines, ranches, and government. he had begun by pointing out to my friend the closet in which were secreted the government maps that had hung on the walls before our arrival. after dinner and the siesta, we received calls from a number of the most prominent gentlemen of chihuahua, including malgares's father-in-law, colonel mayron, and don manuel zuloaga, one of the under secretaries. almost in the first breath the latter insisted upon our visiting him that evening, and as he chanced to be the first in the field, we assented. other invitations showered upon us thick and fast, so that it soon became apparent we should not lack for social entertainment, despite our equivocal position in the eyes of the governor-general. more than once we were urged to move to the luxurious homes of these generous gentlemen, but declined because salcedo had intimated his wish that we should stay in walker's quarters. otherwise there seemed to be no check upon our liberty. we were free to come and go in the city as we chose. to save us the annoyance of arrest by the night patrols, we were even given the especial countersign of "_americanos_." during the afternoon malgares and señor vallois pressed pike and myself to receive loans from them of sufficient money to replenish our wardrobes. we declined, but later accepted a loan from señor zuloaga, on his representations that salcedo would soon comply with my friend's application for an official loan, and that we owed it to the dignity of our country to present a favorable appearance. accordingly, we went out with him to his tailor and to the stores, and made provisions for complete costumes in the prevailing mode of europe and our own country. this occupied us until vespers, or _la oracion_, after which, having donned such articles of our new outfit as were ready for wear, we accompanied señor zuloaga to his house. as the señor was a bachelor, we spent a most interesting hour alone with him on the _azotea_, or flat earthen roof of his house, discussing the great questions of politics and religion. our host talked with freedom, telling us, among other things, there was reason to dread that emperor napoleon had designs to seize spain and dethrone king ferdinand. in such event, he added, many of the loyal subjects in new spain would consider it the highest patriotism to declare for independence. as americans, pike and i heartily commended this revolutionary sentiment. before we could further sound the position of our host, other callers arrived, and he shifted the conversation to less perilous topics. we descended to the _sala_, where there soon gathered a number of our new acquaintances and other persons of wealth and station who expressed themselves as eager for an introduction to the _anglo-americano caballeros_. my truculent friend lieutenant medina came in early with walker, to whom he seemed to have much to say on the side. he greeted pike effusively, myself with marked reserve. after this he avoided us both, and soon sat down to gamble at cards with other officers. the rest of the company stood around or lolled on the divans, puffing their _cigarros_, and _cigarritos_, the younger men chatting about women and horses, the older ones adding to these stock topics the third one of fortune. as politics was a subject unmentioned, pike attached himself to the group which seemed most disposed to discuss silver and gold mining and the other important industry of stock-raising. i kept more among the younger men, gleaning in the chaff of their sensual anecdotes for grains of information on military affairs. my harvest was so scant that i gave over the attempt at the serving of the _dulces_ and wine, an hour or two before midnight. this light refreshment proved to be the signal for a general change. the gamblers gave over their cards, the others their barren chatter. a guitar was brought in, and lieutenant medina sang a rollicking wine song, nearly all present joining in the refrain. the aide was gifted with a rather fine tenor voice--and knew it. at the end of the song, he tendered the guitar, with a flourish, to the _americano_ lieutenant. pike declined the honor; upon which medina turned to me, with a yet deeper bow, his lip curled in a smile of malicious anticipation. there was a general flash of surprise when i gravely accepted the instrument and set about readjusting the strings to my own key. i did not look at medina, for i had need to keep a cool head. after so many months my fingers bent stiffly to the strings. but i had not forgotten my lady's lessons, and as the refrain of the first song had enabled me to test my voice, i was able to render a spanish love ditty with some little success. "bravo!" exclaimed our host as i handed him the guitar. "i did not know that you _americanos_ were singers." "we are not, as a rule," said pike. "for the most part, our people have been too intent upon hewing their way through the wilderness and fighting for life and freedom to find time for skilled voice-training. yet we have our singing-schools even on the outer frontiers." "it is quite evident that señor robinson has found time to cultivate his fine voice," remarked one of the crowd. "there will soon be a baritone beneath the balconies," added medina. "beware, all you who have wives and daughters!" señor zuloaga handed the guitar back to me. "pray accept this little gift from a friend, don juan," he said. "the señoritas of chihuahua will be deprived of a great pleasure if you lack the means to serenade them." "señor," i replied, accepting the guitar, "it would be most ungallant to refuse a gift presented in such terms. though i lack the skill and voice of lieutenant medina, i will do my best. may i ask if his excellency, the governor-general, is the father of one of your charming señoritas?" a sudden hush fell upon the company at the mere mention of their master. the silence was broken by pike. "better sheer off from that shore, john. should your ditties fail to please his excellency, you are apt to land in the _calabozo_." "and the other fathers are apt to drop tiles upon my head," i sighed. "not they," reassured zuloaga. "keep in the shadow, and it will not be known but that you are the suitor favored by the parents." "yet what if i am discovered to be a stranger?" i inquired, with feigned concern. a dozen voices hastened to reassure me that a serenade from one of the gallant _americanos_ would be taken in good part by the most hard-hearted of parents. "but how do you find the window of the fair one?" i asked. "that is to be seen, señor doctor," put in medina. "my way is to station myself across the street and sing the first verse. that never fails to lure the coyest of coquettes from her secrecy." "but, then, you have the voice," i mocked. "it is true," he replied, taking me seriously. "but what if the señorita's chamber is located in a remote part of the house?" i questioned. "you are in truth a stranger to the women," he jeered. "count upon it that every señorita in chihuahua, however ugly, has a balconied chamber, either upon the front or the side street." "_muchas gracias_, don lieutenant," i said, and turned to pike. "_hola_, don montgomery! would you keep the ladies waiting for their serenade?" this raised a polite laugh, in the midst of which pike, walker, and i essayed the prolonged ceremony of leave-taking. at the door of the _sala_ an attendant relieved me of the guitar, and for a little i thought zuloaga's presentation had been a mere formality. but as we passed the gate into the street the attendant returned the instrument, in a handsome case. "you are in fortune, doctor," remarked walker. "that is as fine a guitar as is to be found in chihuahua." "so?" i said. "then i really believe i will try it to-night." "you may lose yourself, or be struck down by the knife of some murderous _ladrone_," he objected. "not he," reassured pike. "i'd back him to out-wrestle a panther." "what is more, i carry one of my pistols," i added. "so if, between you, my guitar case will not prove too much of a burden--" "_sacre!_" muttered walker. "you may fall into trouble." "that's my risk," i replied with unaffected cheerfulness, and handing the guitar case to my friend, i swung away up a side street before our _dueño_ could interpose further objections. as i sped along in the shadow of the houses, i could have leaped up and cracked my heels together for joy. i was alone and free for the first time since joining company with the two yutahs in the valley north of agua caliente. but my coltish impulse was short-lived. i had not questioned and planned for the last hour, to caper about in solitary darkness now. the street up which i had bolted did not lead in the direction in which i wished to go. this was soon mended by turning at the first corner. the towers of the _parroquia_, looming high against the starlit sky, guided me to the plaza. i then needed only to skirt edge of the square to come to the street corner upon which stood the great mansion of don pedro. more than once on my way i had heard the long-drawn notes of serenaders, and the thought that there might already be one beneath my lady's balcony hurried me into a run. but when, mindful of the counsel of the complacent medina, i slipped into a shadowy archway across from the stone _façade_ of the vallois mansion, i could hear no music within two or three hundred paces. this surprised me not a little, and i stood for some moments wondering at it, for my brief stay in chihuahua had already confirmed all that doña dolores had written to malgares as to the great popularity of alisanda. it was, however, no time to ponder mysteries. whatever reasons her other suitors might have for staying away, i was here to woo her, and woo her i would. i keyed my strings, and with my gaze roving from one to the other of the balconied windows across, began to sing that love ditty i had sung beneath my lady's window at natchez. the first verse brought me no response. every balcony remained empty, every window gaped black between its open hangings. after a short interval i sang the second verse. but though i stared at the dim, ghostly outlines of the white stone mansion until my eyes ached, i saw no sign of my lady. it then occurred to me that her chamber might face upon the side street. i stepped out from my dark archway, to walk around. but as i crossed over i could not resist gazing up at the nearest balcony and whispering her dear name: "alisanda! alisanda! it is i--john." almost instantly a little white object darted out over the balcony rail and came fluttering down through the limpid darkness. i caught it in the air, and felt in my closing palm a roll of paper twisted through a ring. that it was a note and from my lady i had no doubts. but i could not read it here, and my love made me too impatient to be able to content myself with this dumb favor. i thrust the missive into my pocket, and called again: "alisanda!--alisanda! speak to me, dearest one!" i waited a full minute. but she gave no sign. by now i was in desperate earnestness. "alisanda!" i appealed to her, "is it for this i have come to you all these many leagues? speak to me, dearest! i will not go--i cannot--until you speak to me!" this time i did not call in vain. a shadowy form glided out the window and bent over the balcony rail, and the sweet notes of my lady's voice came down to me in heavenly music. "juan! juan!" she murmured, in tender distress, "you must not take this risk! you will lose all! go now, dear friend, before you are discovered. go, read what i have written." "what is a little risk, alisanda, to one who has crossed the barrier to reach you?" "you do not know! the risk is that you may find you have crossed the barrier in vain. there is yet the gulf. go quickly! i hear a step--some one comes! he is almost here!" "but, dearest one--!" i protested, as she vanished. there came a sound of quick steps behind me, and an angry voice muttered the fierce oath, "_carrajo!_" a man reared in the wilderness acquires the instinct of the wild creatures to act first and consider afterwards. i leaped away from that angry voice before the last syllable of the oath hissed out. even at that i felt the prick of a sword point beneath my shoulder as i bounded away. the owner of the voice had thrust--and thrust to kill. as my feet touched earth again i had out my pistol; as i spun about, i set the hair-trigger. the glint of a steel blade directed my gaze on the instant to the dim figure crouching to spring after me. "halt, señor assassin!" i commanded. "take a step, and i shoot you down like a dog!" "_peste!_" he cried, lowering his sword point. "it is the _americano_ physician." "and you are medina!" i muttered between my hard-set teeth--"medina, the aide-de-camp and bravo of salcedo,--medina the assassin." "_peste!_" he repeated. "it is a lie." "you had better pray than swear," i warned him. "the trigger of my pistol is set. the slightest touch of my finger, and you go straight to hell." "_santisima virgen!_" he protested, a trace of concern beneath the continued anger of his tone. "you do not comprehend." "i comprehend that you, an officer in the service of his most catholic majesty, sought to stab me in the back without warning. it was vile--it was cowardly! can you name a single reason why i should not shoot you?" "you do not comprehend!" he insisted. "i mistook you for one of those whom i have warned." "mistook me?" i repeated, catching at the chance for an explanation. it is not pleasant to think of a gentleman and officer turned assassin. "yes," he answered. "i have made this my privilege. any man in chihuahua who wishes to serenade señorita vallois has my pledge that i will kill him." "i am in chihuahua, and i have serenaded señorita vallois," i replied. "but you did not know of my pledge. i will spare you this time." "_muchas gracias_, señor. yet it seems to me it is a question of my sparing you." "in that case, señor robinson might do well to consider that his excellency, the governor-general, would gladly welcome an excuse to garrotte a certain _americano_ spy." "that may be. still, a sword prick in the back is fair evidence against a dead assassin, even in a prejudiced court." "true. then it may be that the _americano caballero_ is sufficiently gallant to consider the scandal of a slaying beneath the window of a señorita of his acquaintance." "a scandal which, it seems, one lieutenant medina did not consider. for all that, the argument is sound, _vaya!_" i ordered, lowering my pistol. "no!" he rejoined. "i will not go and leave you here." "you shall!" "_nada!_" for a moment i stood quivering with fury, wild to leap in, sword or no sword, and strike him down with my bare fist. but he had spoken truth. a death, or even a loud quarrel, beneath my lady's balcony, would draw upon her the talk of all chihuahua. "you are right in this," i forced myself to say; "we owe it to the lady not to involve her in any scandal. you will give me your word, and i will give you mine, to start in opposite directions, and neither return here to-night." "agreed!" he responded. "you have my word to it, señor physician." "and you mine," i said, wheeling. with punctilious precision he wheeled the other way and swaggered up the street as i stalked down. with a last glance at the empty balcony of my lady, i darted off across the corner of the plaza. almost in front of walker's quarters i ran plump into the midst of a night patrol. "_arreste!_" cried the officer in charge, and i stopped short with half a dozen lances at my breast. "_americano!_" i exclaimed. "_vaya_," said the officer. the lance points flew up. i darted on through the gateway and around the court to the rooms assigned to walker. our host and pike had retired, but old cæsar was dozing beside the door. i sent him hobbling to bed with a few _medios_ to tickle his black palm, and the moment he had disappeared, drew out my precious missive in the light of the guttering candle. the ring was a plain gold band without any setting. yet to me it was far more precious than any seal or gemmed ring, for on the inner side were engraved my lady's initials. i kissed the band and hastily forced it upon my little finger, that i might read my note without further delay. though the message was written in english, the paper had been so crumpled that i had to smooth it out with care before i could decipher her dear words. "my knight," it began, "you have proved yourself a true champion. there is now no barrier between us. i pray the blessed virgin that you may also cross the gulf! but you still wear my colors. you have not honored them with your faith and courage to shrink now from the greater task! you should know, dear friend, that according to the spanish law my uncle, who is my guardian, has the bestowal of my hand. therefore be discreet. he will refuse your suit for a reason which i will tell you another time. talk as you please. it is the custom to pay the ladies of my people extravagant compliments. but for a time restrain yourself as to action, and pray be prudent in what you say about political affairs. i fear for you! he who is to decide your fate is in doubt as to how far policy will permit him to venture. he would like to execute you as a spy, or at least fling you into his dungeon, but hesitates for fear the outrage might precipitate war with your republic. such was the representation made to him by my uncle and the friends he has interested in your fate. therefore do not infuriate him beyond his self-control. seek out father rocus. he is a true gentleman and my friend. you have made a good impression upon him. he may be able to aid you to cross the gulf and avoid the danger which besets you. then it will be for me to overcome the objections of my uncle. now farewell. god preserve you, dear knight! i press my lips to that name, for you have earned the salute many times over. _au revoir_, my knight!" chapter xxv a victory delighted as i should have been, and was, to receive such a missive from my lady, its effect was to rouse in me all the greater longing to see her and win from her dear lips the admission that she loved me. in this thought i now forgot all else. even the demand of patriotism that i should exert every effort on behalf of my country found me deaf. i stilled my conscience with the argument that if i, the accredited spy, should devote my whole effort to a personal affair, it would tend to divert attention from the splendid work of pike. every day saw important additions to his notes and memoranda, and he had already hit upon the ingenious plan of securing the notes in tight rolls inside waxed wrappings and packing them down into the barrel of one of the muskets of the men, who were quartered in the same building as ourselves. as the gun's muzzle was of course kept plugged with its tampion, there was no danger of discovery, and with five more barrels to fill, we felt that whenever the governor-general chose to release the lieutenant and his men, they would be able to march out of the territories of his most catholic majesty fairly _loaded_ with information against the tyrant. so, casting aside every thought of duty, i allowed my mind to dwell constantly upon my wooing, and, frivolous as it may appear, was more concerned over our visit to the tailor than to the magnificent hospital in the old jesuit edifices on the west side of chihuahua. that institution of healing was finely situated and furnished. but when i ventured to suggest an improvement upon some of the antiquated and barbarous methods of treatment, i met with such a heat of jealous prejudice from the clerical physicians that i was forced to silence. returning to the plaza, we were agreeably surprised to find our little french tailor most modern not only in his knowledge of the modes but also in the quickness of his work. he and his assistants had already completed our suits. as the following day was a sunday, it was particularly gratifying to find ourselves becomingly costumed for genteel society. pike and our host slept late in the morning, but i had given old cæsar orders to rouse me early. donning my new garments, i slipped out and hastened across the plaza toward the parroquia. the bell was already intoning for mass, and i passed numbers of _rebozo_-shrouded women streaming churchward. with my anglo-american eyes and complexion i suppose i presented rather a striking figure among these people, who are so very rarely other than brunette,--though it may be i attracted more attention because of the fact that few other men had sallied out so early to attend mass. whatever the cause, i received enough smiles and alluring glances from pretty señoritas and, i fear, señoras, to have quite turned my head, had i not been far too intent upon the hope of seeing my lady to heed these charming coquettes. what i did heed, however, was the fact that the prettier the girl, the more jealously guarded was she by a keen-eyed duenna. what hope had i of a word apart with alisanda if she came in company with doña marguerite? between the thought of this and the need to scan the scores of approaching ladies, i was not in a favorable frame of mind to appreciate the grandeur and beauty of the _parroquia_. yet so splendid were the two pillared towers, which reared against the sapphire sky a full hundred feet above the front corners of the high edifice, and so ornate was the white stone _façade_ with its carvings and numerous statues of saints, that even my brief and preoccupied glances brought me a strong consciousness of the church's magnificence. i even looked twice at the carvings of the great round-arched entrance, so different in design from the pointed style of our gothic ecclesiastical architecture. that was as far as my observations went at the time, for as i again glanced out, i saw approaching among the throng of moorishly draped figures one so tall and graceful that i knew her on the instant. i sprang from the entrance to meet her, but checked myself at the thought that it would be as well first to see who it was that accompanied her. alisanda wore her black lace mantilla, her companion a _rebozo_ of finest silk, and both walked with heads reverently bowed. yet i needed no second glance to feel assured that the duenna had not so portly a figure as that of señora vallois. if not doña marguerite, who then? i was not long kept waiting for my answer. standing with my stiff hat in hand, i looked eagerly for a sign of recognition from my lady. she did not so much as raise her head. but her companion straightened a little and parted a fold of her _rebozo_ to bestow on me the mischievous flash of a sparkling eye. it was hardly the glance of an instant, yet it left me pleased and wondering why i had not at once recognized that plump, petite figure. the duenna i had so feared was none other than the wife of my friend malgares, doña dolores. what was more, her look gave me the impression that she knew all, and, with the national love of intrigue, if not because of friendship for alisanda, would aid us in our plans. vastly relieved at this discovery, i followed them at a respectful distance into the lofty domed interior of the _parroquia_. as my eyes were fixed upon my lady, that i might not lose her in the throng which moved up the centre of the stone-flagged nave, i gathered at first only the vaguest of impressions with regard to the church's interior. but when she and doña dolores piously knelt upon the hard flagstones, in the midst of the peon women and the filthy beggars, i could not resist the impulse to look up and around. at once, in place of the vague impression of magnificence, there burst upon my vision a glory of ornamentation almost dazzling. in all the republic we have no church or other edifice to approach the _parroquia_ of chihuahua in richness and splendor of ornamentation. the windows were filled with pictures of saints and angels wrought in stained glass, which cast over all a rich coloring well in keeping with the gold-and-silver-bedecked altar, the brass screens and railings, the silver candelabra, and the brightly colored and gilded images and pictures and crucifixes on the walls. add to this splendor of decoration the rich vestments of the officiating priests, the incense and wax tapers, and the solemn service of music and prayer,--and the effect was one to impress the most frivolous of believers in the romish faith. yet as i stood beside one of the carved pillars and watched the devout bendings and prayers of alisanda, i could not but compare her real worship with the formal movements and parrot-like invocations of those about her. her religion was of the heart; theirs mere outward display. so at least i surmised from the manner in which, between times, they whispered and nibbled at _dulces_, and stared about at one another. of course alisanda and her friend were not alone in their real devotion, but i speak of the crowd. i followed the service as closely as the different accenting and pronunciation of the latin by spanish tongues permitted. in justice to alisanda, it was my duty to learn all i could with regard to her religion. i felt an added interest from the fact that the foremost of the priests was none other than father rocus. yet the closing of the ceremonies came as a vast relief to me. when for the last time the congregation crossed themselves and rose to leave, i leaned against my pillar and watched them pass out with as idle and careless a gaze as i could assume. all the time i kept the mantilla upon alisanda's gracefully bowed head within the rim of my circle of vision. but i was certain she never once cast a glance in my direction, nor did doña dolores. untrained as i was in the intricacies of spanish courtship, i might have been discouraged had i not observed that in their advance toward the exit the two were drifting, so to speak, sideways. this brought them angling through the crowd toward my pillar. señora malgares was on the nearer side, and i fancied it was her purpose to speak to me. instead, they both swept by without so much as a glance. only, as she passed, the señora raised an arm beneath her _rebozo_ as though to adjust its folds, and the fringed edge swept over my hat, which i was holding at my hip. a slight tug at its brim induced me to look down, after a moment's prudent wait. within the hat's crown lay a scrap of paper upon which was written, in french, the single word, "follow." my height and dress, and the fact that i was one of the _americanos_ about whom the city was so curious, made me a marked man in the crowd. but if any among the hundreds of interested eyes that followed my movements had for owners some who suspected the purpose of my visit to the church, i flatter myself the sharpest were unable to distinguish which one of the ladies it was i followed into the open. to divert attention i glanced about at the peeping señoritas with feigned interest, until one angel-faced little coquette who could not yet have seen her sixteenth springtime fairly stared me out of countenance. once in the plaza, i had more room to man[oe]uvre, and started off at an angle to the course taken by alisanda and her friend. to my chagrin i was at once surrounded by a tattered crowd of filthy _leprosos_, who exposed their sores and whined dolefully for alms. i flung them the few coppers i chanced to have with me, but that served only to whet the edge of their persistent begging. suddenly i remembered that don pedro had given me the spanish method for relieving oneself from these _caballeros de dios_. "gentlemen," i addressed them in my best spanish, "for god's sake, excuse me this time." even a few drops of spanish blood carries with it appreciation of ceremonious courtesy. my words and the bow with which i accompanied them acted like magic upon the clamoring rabble. all alike bowed in response, with a great flourishing of greasy, tattered sombreros, and all alike stepped politely aside for me to pass. the delay had given alisanda and doña dolores several yards' start of me, but they were now sauntering so slowly that nearly all the members of the congregation who had turned in the same direction had gone by them. i followed several paces behind the last chattering, giggling group. as they passed doña dolores she dropped her rosary. this i judged was intended as a signal for me to join them. i picked up the string of polished beads, and hastened forward beside their owner. "pardon me, madame," i said in french, holding out the rosary, "you dropped your necklace." "_santisima virgen!_" she exclaimed in mock surprise. "they are indeed my beads. _maria purisima!_ it is señor robinson! how fortunate that you should have chanced to find them for me, señor!" i gave no heed to this mischievous raillery, for i was gazing across into the tender eyes of alisanda. i started to go around beside her. "_nada!_" forbade doña dolores. "not so fast, señor. i am the duenna, and i have very sharp eyes. so also have others who are walking in the plaza. you have chanced to find my beads, and are escorting me to the house of señor vallois, where your friend, my husband, is to join me at breakfast. please do not forget that you are escorting me. if you choose to pay compliments to my companion, and i am too deaf to hear anything that is said, who can blame me? besides, you know i do not understand english." "señora, you are an angel!" i exclaimed. "_santa maria!_ but that is the truth," she mocked. "yet do not tell it to me when she is in hearing." "dolores! is this a time for jests?" murmured alisanda. the señora fell to counting her beads, with the most pious of expressions. my lady addressed me in english: "dolores knows all, juan. but it will be easier for you to talk in english, and she will not have to strain her conscience when she next goes to confession. juan, it was rash to force this meeting." "forgive me, dearest one! but i could wait no longer. the interruption of our last meeting--" "_santa virgen!_ that terrible aide! i was stricken dumb with terror when he lunged at you--from the rear! the coward!" "you saw it?" "all! all! juan, dear friend, you must guard yourself--you must be careful! that savage andalusian! i heard all you said--how you spared him, that i might escape the scandal of a duel beneath my window. has he challenged you?" "not yet." "not yet! but he will--he will! do not fight him with swords, juan. you told me once that you were not a swordsman. he is the most expert fencer in all these provinces." "if he is a master, i have a better chance against him as it is than if i were an average swordsman. he will at least not know what i am going to do, as he would know with one who fenced according to rules." "but he will kill you! no, do not fight him with swords, juan. let him challenge you, and be sure you name pistols." "would you have me murder the man?" i protested. "you need not shoot to kill." "that is true. but, dearest, let us speak of more important matters. you have not yet told me--" "i wrote of your danger from his excellency, juan. be prudent. make as few enemies as you can. you have many friends." "walker has intimated that i shall gain more friends if i tame this andalusian bull." "_nada!_ if the swashbuckler challenges, you must fight, juan. i know that. but do not force the matter yourself. he stands high in the favor of his excellency." "alisanda," i replied, "you, like all others here, are far too much in fear of this tyrant governor-general. but rest assured lieutenant pike and i comprehend the man and the situation. should we show the slightest sign of weakness, i at least will at once be flung into prison, if not garrotted. the only course which will avert the blow is for us to show a bold front." "yet a little diplomacy--" "trust lieutenant pike to attend to the diplomacy. in his direct communications with salcedo, he will flourish the steel blade in a velvet sheath. aside from that, we have decided that the bolder our talk and bearing the better." "yet consider his absolute power--i fear for you, juan!" "what odds of the danger, if i have your love--alisanda?" a quick blush leaped into her pale cheeks, and she looked down, in sweet confusion. "no, no, dear friend," she murmured. "do not speak of that now. it would be too cruel, if later--juan, you must see father rocus!" "at once!" i assented. "go, then, now! you will find him at the _parroquia_." "but first, dearest one--" "no, no! go at once. we approach my uncle's house, and it is as well he should not see you." "then, if you bid me go, _au revoir!_" i said, stopping short. she gave me a lingering glance which told all that her lips refused to speak. doña dolores dropped her beads and looked up at me with one of her bright, mischievous glances. "_santa maria!_ but you do not leave us, señor? you have been so entertaining!" "and you, señora,--i could not have asked for a kinder duenna." she muffled a peal of girlish laughter beneath the folds of her _rebozo_, and hurried alisanda away, fearful, i suppose, that we had attracted too much attention. i wheeled in the opposite direction, and returned to the _parroquia_. aside from a few women kneeling here and there before the wall shrines, the great church was now empty. but a young acolyte who came in to arrange the altar very courteously directed me to the parsonage, where, he said, i should find father rocus. when i announced my name at the entrance, the gate porter at once admitted me, and rang a little bell. in a moment who should appear but chita, my lady's spanish maid. she courtesied and motioned me to follow her, without betraying the slightest sign of recognition. but the moment we were out of sight of the porter, she paused to whisper: "_tsst!_ say nothing. they have sent me here that i might not aid her to see you or write to you. they do not know that the padre is a friend. it is as well that he even does not know how greatly i wish to aid you. señor, you are a _caballero_ and a man, and she loves you. it is right that you should have her, though you be twice over a _heretico_. but she will not wed unless the padre gives his blessing. it is true love between you. if you cannot be a christian, make pretence. for her sake, bow to the holy images and cross yourself. deceive the padre--for her sake!" "no, chita," i replied. "a _caballero_ may lie to save a lady's good name, but not to win her." "_peste!_ then you will lose her!" "we shall see. lead me in." she took me into a cosey library, where i found father rocus seated in a huge easy-chair, one foot cushioned upon a stool, a glass and decanter at his elbow, and a book of philosophy in his jewelled, white hand. "_hola_, don juan!" he called at sight of me. "you come in good season. be seated on the saddle-chair it will save your new coat-tails a creasing. i will not rise. a touch of the gout, as you see,--the first in months." "too much port," i suggested, swinging astride the narrow chair of carved mahogany. "better take to sour claret for a while." "_nada!_ not while i can bear the pain. i might pass for an english squire--i cannot forego the port." "i will write you a prescription that will ease the pain. nothing will cure you but abstinence." he drew a wry face between his smiles. "then i fear my case is hopeless. i am far from being a true spaniard.--chita, a glass for señor robinson." the woman fetched and filled a glass while i drew my chair up to the marble-topped table-desk and scribbled a prescription. father rocus signed her to go out, and turned to me, still smiling, but with a sharpened glance. "so you have already followed my advice and come to mass," he said. "your reverence has a keen eye," i replied. "it seemed to me i kept close behind my pillar." "men are not numerous at early mass. brawny, six-foot _caballeros_ in european dress are not seen every week. lastly, this one has blonde hair. a glimpse was enough and to spare. you talked with her?" "she has sent me to you." "hum," he considered. "first of all, this medina affair. let him do the challenging. she says you do not fence. 'twould be butchery for you to meet him with swords." "that is a small matter, padre. what i wish to know--" "is whether you can conscientiously become a christian," he put in. "no, padre. that is not the question. it is of no use for me to hedge. i know i cannot become what you call a christian. my religious principles are too near those of our famous president, thomas jefferson." "jefferson--that atheist!" he exclaimed, frowning. "not so, padre," i insisted with much earnestness. "it is an injustice to term mr. jefferson an atheist." "and you?" he demanded. "your reverence, i differ from most men of the age in this: i am content to leave creeds and ceremonies to the theologians; to walk as upright a life as lies within my power; and to trust in the great author of all to judge my deeds with the clemency of a father for his child." "you do not acknowledge god's vicar?" "i have not the faith which enables me to believe your dogmas. it is no use to argue, padre. i am already sufficiently informed to know that a man of my refractory mentality cannot accept many of the fundamentals of your faith,--and i will not make false pretence by complying with the outward form." instead of flushing with anger, as i had expected, he looked grieved. it was apparent that my position was a bitter disappointment to him. for several minutes he sat gazing at the crucifix on the wall across, in sorrowful meditation, forgetful even of his wine. "padre," i at last said. "i love her with a love that dwells much upon my own happiness, but more upon hers. i now know she loves me. do you not think such love god's will?" he crossed himself. "god give me light! i am not among those who believe that the love of man and woman is of necessity an impure desire. god, not satan, made eve to be a companion unto adam. therefore true love is sacred in the eyes of god, and marriage a sacrament." "in effect, if not in form, your reverence, that is the belief and practice of my people. with us a wife is the dear life companion who shares our triumphs and our defeats, our joys and sorrows, who brightens our pleasures, purifies and ennobles our impulses, and inspires us with the highest aspirations." "such, alas! is not the attitude of my people toward women," he sighed. "yet to give a daughter of the church to a heretic! _santisima virgen!_ it is a knotty problem." "to me, or to such a man as medina," i argued--"which would be the greater sin?" "her uncle is set upon giving her, not to medina, but to one as bad--one as bad!" he repeated. "my son--my son! if you could but become a christian!" "god gave me my reason, padre. if it is wrong to use my reason as i use it, i trust that he will forgive the error." "you are a true, clean man, and you love her as no man in new spain can love her." "i do, padre." "yet it is against the canons of holy church--to give a true believer to an outright heretic!" "she should be free to believe and practise her religion without change," i argued. "true, but the children?" he demanded. "how as to the children?" the wine spilled from my upraised glass, and i bent my head quickly aside to hide the strange emotion which overcame me. children! never had my thoughts dared roam so far into the future. children--my children and hers! from the depths of my heart there gushed up such a flood of tenderness and adoration that i could not speak. despite his gouty toe, he came around before me, and with a finger beneath my chin, raised my head until he could look down into my eyes. whether or not he read my thoughts i do not know. but i do know that he raised his hands above me and gave me his benediction. "padre," i murmured as he drew back a little way, "believe me, if i could do what you wish--" "swear that your children shall be raised in the church," he demanded. "i cannot swear that, padre. it would be against my conscience." "your word is enough." "nor that. but if this will satisfy you, i give you my word that she shall decide upon the rearing of--of our children throughout childhood." "good!" he exclaimed, again all smiles. "you have won me over, my son. let us hope i may aid you to overcome your graver difficulties." "her uncle--don pedro?" i asked. "beyond hope, i fear, juan. yet i will try. for the present we must avoid that problem, and bend every effort to mollify one who sits in a high place." "outface, not mollify," i returned. "lieutenant pike and myself are resolved to show him how fully we rely upon our country to defend, and, if need be, to revenge us. we have already pointed out to those who will bear our words to his excellency the fact that the floridas are within easy striking distance of our turbulent frontiersmen." "_por dios!_ you dared send such a message to salcedo?" "you may call it a message. we spoke in the presence of lieutenant walker. nor is it the only one. since the first, we have been loading him with similar information." "yet salcedo has not incarcerated you? _poder de dios!_ it is a miracle!" "rather, it is merely that we have outfaced him." "god gave you the wisdom to be bold! yet the danger is by no means past. he may free your companions, but detain you for years, as he has detained the men of captain nolan." "i could fancy a harsher fate, padre. to remain a prisoner, yet have alisanda to comfort my captivity--" he raised his hand warningly at the sound of sandalled feet scraping along the brick pavement of the corridor. "let us hope for the best, my son. go now, and god be with you!" i thanked him with a glance, and hastened out past the withered old priest who was shuffling across the threshold. chapter xxvi a defeat that afternoon, immediately after the siesta, pike and i received the first fruits of our course of action with regard to the government. malgares came to us from his excellency, bearing a most urbane and ceremonious message. the governor-general expressed himself as more than pleased to supply us with the official loan for which pike had applied, and offered to render us any and all other service which lay within his power. pike returned mellifluous thanks, while i looked at walker and smiled. in the evening we accompanied malgares to the south border of the town, where we found a delightful promenade beneath the intertwining boughs of a triple row of fine trees. here gathered the society of chihuahua, to loll in the many seats or saunter to and fro, the gentlemen with their _cigarros_, the ladies with their fans, and few of either sex indisposed toward an exchange of ardent glances. all displayed the utmost graciousness toward the _americano_ guests of the government, and, as usual, we found ourselves highly entertained. among the ladies were señora vallois and señora malgares, and i was pleased that pike was introduced to them by their husbands. we met many other ladies, but, with one exception, there was none other than señora vallois whose husband was sufficiently free from the old moorish ideas about women to permit his wife to keep a _salon_. needless to say, this gave me little concern. i was far too disappointed over the absence of alisanda. when don pedro introduced pike, i asked doña marguerite if my friend might not have the pleasure of meeting her niece. she replied, in a most gracious tone, that he should meet her as soon as we called, but that this evening the señorita was indisposed and would not be present. a little later, when the company assembled in the circular seat at the end of the promenade, doña dolores found an opportunity to slip me a note. with the missive in my pocket i could not enjoy the voluptuous love songs which the company sang in solo and chorus. i slipped away, in the midst, while medina was airing his really fine tenor. a torch at the first gateway gave me light to read my lady's note. it was short, but, alas! too much to the point:-- "we were seen in the plaza. they are not angry, but are resolved to keep us apart. to save myself the shame of lock and key, i have promised not to see you for a week. be patient, for i must keep my word, and our friends are not idle." that was all, but it was enough to fill me with bitter disappointment. that she would keep her word with scrupulous honor i had not the slightest doubt. yet how was i to endure a week without so much as a glimpse of her? nevertheless we often suffer burdens which at first seem unbearable, and i was strengthened to play a good part by the knowledge that my words and manner would be reported upon in detail to don pedro and doña marguerite. to mislead them with regard to the depth and resolution of my passion, i managed to go about to our many dinners and calls with a smiling face and merry words. during the week we again dined with salcedo, who this time was hardly less urbane to myself than to the lieutenant. we both, however, received greater enjoyment from our dinner at the house of colonel mayron, the father-in-law of malgares. there was present an officer from the province of texas who was able to give us many correct details as to the fiasco of colonel burr. among other things, we now learned that the colonel had been arrested at bayou pierre in mid january, but had been released because of the failure of the grand jury to bring in a true bill against him. later he had fled through the cherokee nation toward the spanish port of mobile. but it was rumored that had been captured in alabama during february, and was to be taken to richmond, virginia, for trial. this news from home in part consoled me for the fact that doña dolores had no missive for me from alisanda. we returned to walker's quarters, and were still discussing burr, when, soon after the siesta, malgares called by for us in his coach. we drove around past several points of interest which we had not before viewed, and then, without a word of warning from malgares, suddenly cut across the plaza to the mansion of don pedro. when we stopped before the entrance the great gate was flung wide open for malgares to drive into the court. instead he left his spirited bays in the charge of a groom, and led us in afoot. when we came to the court he dropped back beside pike. i followed in the rear, wondering what would be the nature of my reception by don pedro and his señora, and whether i should be permitted to see alisanda in the presence of her relatives. these questions were soon answered. the moment we appeared don pedro hailed us from the head of the stairway and hastened down to welcome us. his manner to me was quite as cordial as it had ever been, and when he led us up into the _sala_, señora vallois was no less pleasant. alisanda was not present. but immediately after our hostess had invited us to be seated, she pulled what i presume must have been a bell-cord. within half a minute chita appeared at one of the inner doorways. doña marguerite signed to her and called quickly: "go, tell your mistress we should be pleased to have her join us. we have guests of her acquaintance and also lieutenant pike, whom i particularly wish to introduce." chita gave me a blank stare, and disappeared. malgares smiled at my heightened color, and pike looked about, with a twinkle in his blue eyes that belied his solemn face. yet i managed to force my gaze away from the inner doorway, and even joined in the conversation with some lightness. in the midst of a sentence, i saw pike's eyes suddenly widen and glow with admiration. by that i knew alisanda had entered the _sala_, and i could not resist the impulse to turn about. it was small wonder my friend stared fascinated and that malgares uttered a quick exclamation of delight. alisanda stood before us in the costume she had worn at the blennerhassets'. her loveliness was overpowering--intoxicating! no grecian goddess could have exceeded her in grace of movement and exquisite modelling of form, while the beauty of her pale, oval face, with its wondrous eyes and luscious lips and crown of sable tresses, was beyond all compare. regardless of spanish etiquette, i hastened to her side. she rewarded me with a glance of adorable tenderness, and took my arm that i might lead her down the long apartment to where the others were grouped. don pedro frowned at my presumption, but the señora could not resist a smile at my ready gallantry as i led up her niece to be presented to pike. their first remarks opened a conversation as lively as it was elevated in tone, and i took a seat to one side, eager for my lady and my friend each to discover the wit and fine sentiments and high breeding of the other. but neither i, nor, i fancy, our host and hostess had bargained on the fervor of the lieutenant's partisanship for me. without ceasing to render the most delicate of compliments to my lady, he adroitly turned the conversation upon myself. such a panegyric as he bestowed upon me i had not thought it possible even for his fond bias to contrive. a man may deserve some praise for his character, since that is acquired, but why give him credit for the qualities of temperament with which he was born? notwithstanding my embarrassment, it was most blissful to watch my dear girl flush and glow, and to see her lovely eyes glisten with love and pride, as pike went on and on, contriving to cast a glamour over the most commonplace of my qualities and deeds. as may be surmised, my feelings were directly opposite to those which racked don pedro and doña marguerite. nothing, i imagine, could have given them greater annoyance than this pouring of the oil of incense upon the flame of my lady's love. yet pike swept gallantly on, innocent of all offence, while our host and hostess turned steadily colder beneath their forced smiles, and i flushed hotter with blissful shame, and malgares lolled back, with a _cigarrito_ between his fingers, his fine face impassive, but his eyes drinking all in with utmost amusement. at last, after one or two vain efforts to divert the conversation, doña marguerite asked malgares if he was not intending to take us around to see our other friends. the hint was unmistakable. as we rose to leave, our hostess deftly interposed the rampart of her plump figure between alisanda and myself. our parting was restricted to a single exchange of glances. that i should leave with this and no more was beyond my endurance. as we bowed to don pedro at the head of the stairway, a sudden resolve came to me. i signed to the others to go on, and addressed our host: "señor, my friends will pardon my desertion of them. i desire the favor of a private talk with you." the frown which had creased his forehead at my first word vanished at the last. he had thought i intended to ask for a private interview with alisanda. "at your service, don juan," he at once responded. i drew aside until he had bowed my friends down the stairway and out of sight. he then turned to me, with a grave smile, and, taking my arm, led me away from the _sala_ to his private cabinet, a small but elegantly furnished room in the far corner of the mansion. but i was not interested in the paintings by titian, velasquez, and murillo which decorated the rough-plastered walls, and to which he called my attention with excusable pride. "señor," i said, "these pictures are beautiful,--they show the skill of master artists. but my whole being thrills with the matchless beauty and grace of a living work of art,--the masterpiece of the master of masters, of god himself!" "juan!" he cried, "forgive me! i know now how you love her. yet it is impossible. if i dared give way to my personal regard for you, you should have her. believe me, i speak only the truth. but my country--for the sake of its freedom, its welfare, i am resolved to give all--even her!" "even her!" i answered. "then give her to me! i will fight for your country,--i will pledge my life in the cause of freedom! what more can you ask? your country shall be my country; your cause my cause!" "no, juan, it cannot be!" he replied, and his sigh proved that his regret was real. "you would add strength to our cause, but not what may be gained elsewhere. there are men in new spain who, if they joined the revolution, could singly bring over whole provinces." "you would give her to another!--as a bribe to win the support of another!--when you know she loves me?" "god bear me witness, it is not for myself but for my country. what a small price to pay--the disappointment of two lovers--in turn for the freedom and happiness of millions!" "it is not your heart you would break," i retorted. "do you then believe i can look upon her grief and yours without sorrow?" "let another pay the price!" "there is none other as precious--none other that can win him over. all turns upon her beauty and charm. he whose aid i am resolved to gain by the bestowal of her hand can be won only by the most lovely woman in new spain. and he is one whose leadership would at once bring us the support of all the land, from across the borders of the viceroyalty to santa fe." i stood dumb, staring at him in deepening despair. "juan, can you not look at the matter through my eyes?" he urged. "the time is ripe. there are rumors that the corsican is preparing to clutch old spain out of the feeble grasp of king ferdinand. it is well known that the revenues from our mines have already for a long time been flowing through the spanish treasury into the coffers of france. our people are fast losing faith in old world rulership. they hate and fear the french." "then let them rebel and win freedom with their blood, as did my people. a people who would buy liberty by the sale of a helpless girl are worthy only of utter slavery." he flushed a dull red beneath his swarthy skin, yet kept his temper well in hand. "you do not understand, juan. listen. it is now only ten years since the people of the viceroyalty rose and proclaimed the viceroy, barnardo count of galvez, king of mexico. in his misguided loyalty, barnardo crushed the insurrection with merciless vigor,--for which he was duly honored and then duly poisoned by his royal master. had he been wise, he would to-day be ruling over a freed country of devoted subjects. but that revolution came to naught; the vast projects of your discredited statesman aaron burr have failed most miserably; and now we lovers of liberty here are left to do the best we can with our unaided strength." "and the purchasing power of divine and innocent beauty!" i cried. "so be it!" he replied, with a hardness of determination which i realized all my anger and despair could not move a hair's-breadth. yet as he went on, his voice quivered with unfeigned commiseration for my suffering. "juan!--juan! if i could sell my soul instead, and thereby save her for you, i would do it. the thought of her anguish rends my very heart cords! yet it cannot be. she alone can win over the second galvez who shall free my country." there was nothing more to be said. death alone can bend the course of a good and strong man turned fanatic. without a word i left the room, half crazed with rage and black despair. he followed, murmuring words of sorrowful regret; but to me his heart-felt condolences seemed only the bitterest of mockeries. as i descended the stairway, i looked back, not to return his grave bows, but in search of my lady. it was in vain. doña marguerite had taken care to spirit her away. heavy-footed, i dragged myself out into the street and away from that hateful gateway. before i could reach the plaza, i heard a sudden rumble of wheels and thud of hoofs, and there swirled into the street a grand coach and six that all but ran me down. i flung myself clear of the trampling hoofs, but the forewheel of the huge gilded carriage grazed my leg as i pressed back against the nearest wall. a few strides of the splendid horses whirled the coach upstreet to the gateway i had just left. there the driver pulled up with a flourish, and the footmen sprang down to stand at the heads of the horses and to open the coach door, from which stepped--medina! it flashed upon me that this was the man to whom my lady was to be bartered. i turned on my heel to rush back and challenge him. but from the manner in which he stood to one side, i perceived he had not come alone. a moment later don pedro appeared in the gateway and stepped to the side of the coach, bowing profoundly. a hand was reached out to him, and from the coach descended, not the young gallant whom i looked to see, but stern-faced, gray-haired nimesio salcedo. greatly puzzled, i turned again and walked slowly to our quarters, striving to discern an opening through the meshes of intrigue in which alisanda and i had become entangled. what could be the meaning of this visit of the governor-general to one who i knew had reason to detest and fear him? and if, as it seemed to me don pedro had intimated, he intended to win over the viceroy iturrigaray by the offer of alisanda's hand, why had he not already taken her to the city of mexico, or stopped there on his way from vera cruz? chapter xxvii heart to heart one result of my pondering of the tangled situation was the resolve to keep from my friend all that concerned myself alone. he had enough and to spare of anxieties and difficulties over the safety of himself and his men, without becoming involved in my private affairs. at the least, his concern for my safety and happiness would have tended to interfere with the observations and notes which we hoped would be of such great value to our country. the following morning being sunday, i went early to the _parroquia_, thinking to visit father rocus, should i fail to meet alisanda again. this last was barely within the bounds of my fondest expectations, and i was accordingly more grieved than surprised when she failed to appear. as i was going out, a few minutes before the close of the service, a rather well-dressed woman in the archway mumbled an appeal for alms. struck by her lack of dirt and tatters, i stopped. she repeated her appeal, this time in a clear tone, though without opening the veiling folds of her _rebozo_. it seemed to me i recognized the voice of chita. at once i held out a coin to her. in reaching for it, she covered my hand with the edge of her _rebozo_, beneath which i felt a note being slipped into my palm. she turned away, with a shrill blessing upon the generous _inglese_, while i dropped my half-closed hand to my side, thrust it into my pocket and left the note, to draw out a copper for the foremost of the wretched _leprosos_ who came flocking about the rich foreigner. this time i was provided with a quantity of the smallest coins of the realm, and scattered two or three handfuls to right and left. while the beggars swarmed after the coppers like a flock of fowls over their grain, i slipped around the nearest corner of the church to read my precious note. it was short but full of promise:-- "do not go to the promenade. feign illness. the _parroquia_ at nine o'clock to-night." the _parroquia_?--at nine in the evening? it was an appointment to meet her! yet how could she escape the watchful eyes of doña marguerite and don pedro, even should they, as was most improbable, take her out to the promenade? however, i concluded that i could safely trust to her wit and courage to bring about the meeting. my problem was how to fill the weary hours and minutes which lay between. i wandered aimlessly about the city, stopping now and then to watch the gambling with dice and cards, which, though prohibited by his excellency, is too deeply seated in the natures of these people to be eradicated. intense as were these games, where men and even women staked their little all with passionate abandon, the excitement was far greater and the betting higher at the numerous cock-fights. i looked on at one,--which was enough and to spare. man has a right to kill for food, but none other than the cruel and brutal enjoys the torment of his fellow creatures. a gay dinner at the house of doña maria cabrera helped to pass over the day until the siesta. but throughout the long hours of the afternoon rest i could only lie and swelter and eat up my heart with longing and anxiety. so heated and restless did i become that when walker waked he inquired whether i had a fever. this gave me my opening, and i stated my condition at some length, in medical language which impressed him much while telling him nothing. even pike was deceived by my statement, but i assured him that i should be quite well by morning if i abstained from the usual round of calls and the evening in the promenade. after condoling with me and explaining my indisposition to the numerous friends who called, they at last heeded my request for quiet, and went off to spread the news of my illness. between then and the twilight, the few who called were permitted to peep in and see me dozing on my mattress, with my head swathed about in wet towels. but after _la oracion_, old cæsar had his orders to stop all on the threshold of the outer room, and explain that i was not to be disturbed. a full hour before the time set, i borrowed one of walker's circular cloaks, and shadowed my face in my wide sombrero. after explaining to cæsar that i needed a breath of fresh air, but that he should say nothing about my absence unless his master or lieutenant pike came in before my return, i slipped out, unseen by any one else. the moon having risen, i had need of care to cross the plaza without attracting attention. fortunately it was too early for an encounter with the soldiers of the night patrols, who would have required me to give my countersign. arriving at the _parroquia_, i stationed myself in the dense shadow around the corner of the farther tower, and waited with such scant patience as i could command. now and then persons passed by in the plaza, singly or in couples or in groups. none caught sight of me, yet i could see them with perfect distinctness, and as i considered this, i was seized with the fear that alisanda would inevitably be detected before she could reach my side. from the first i had kept my gaze fixed in the direction of the vallois mansion, and had watched with eagerness the approach of all the gowned figures that came either alone or in pairs. as the time drew near, i became more restless and could not keep so steady a watch. more than once i had to turn to look about at all quarters of the plaza. it was during one of these chance glances that i was astonished to see my lady approaching the church from the direction of the promenade. she was accompanied by father rocus and chita. when they came opposite me, i ventured a slight cough, but they went by without stopping. it was otherwise with a group of young gallants, who paused to stare at the graceful figure of my lady until she and the padre and chita had disappeared into the yawning entrance of the _parroquia_. the young beaux had at once guessed the identity of the señorita, notwithstanding her veiling mantilla, and they stood within twenty feet of me, discussing her lovely charms as we would name over the fine points of a pedigreed horse. meanwhile i fretted and fumed, in a swelter of impatience. no doubt my lady was waiting for me and wondering at my delay! at last i was on the point of stepping out boldly to follow her, when chita came scuffling out of the church, bent over like an old crone. she passed the young men, muttering and grumbling, and tottered half sideways around into the shadow. i caught her outstretched hand, and she led me quickly back along the flank of the towering edifice. we stopped before the dim outline of a little door. chita tapped upon the panel, and stepped away a few paces, to stand with her back to me. a moment later the door swung open, without a sound, and a dark figure appeared. "alisanda!" i whispered. "juan!" she replied, stepping nearer. ah, the rapture of that moment! hers was no half love, to shrink with false shame. as i clasped her in my arms, her own arms slipped about my neck in tender embrace, and her lips met mine in a kiss of purest passion. our hearts throbbed together in ecstasy. she drew back her head to gaze at me through the shadow. "juan! juan! my knight! oh, the joy of leaning upon your dear breast! i could swoon for joy!" "tell me you love me!" i demanded. "juan! can you doubt it? could you have doubted it from the first--the very first? there in the midst of that miry avenue, when i looked out the coach window into the windows of your soul,--then it was, my knight--" "then?" i questioned, my astonishment as great as my delight--"then, dearest heart? you perceived the love, the adoration which filled my whole being at my first view of your lovely face! you knew i would serve you and love you forever after!" "no, dear. i knew you loved me that moment. but i did not know you. i was very proud--i am still very proud. the blood of kings flows in my veins. i had vowed i should wed none other than one of kingly blood. i shall not break that vow." "yet my arms are about you, alisanda. see, i draw you still closer to my heart; i kiss your adorable lips!" as i eased my embrace a little, she sighed, and her head sank upon my shoulder. "wait, dearest," she murmured. "such ecstasy goes beyond my strength." "alisanda!" i exclaimed, "tell me--you do love me--this is not a dream! i know you are in my arms, yet it is unbelievable--it is not possible that you--!" "juan, my king!" she answered. "that?" "yes, that! i believe in nobility of birth, for in that belief i was born and reared. but you have taught me a new belief; you have opened my eyes to see that there are men who are their own ancestors,--men so true and brave and chivalrous that they are kings among their fellows, whatever their birth." "beloved," i said, "do not mistake. i am as other men. it was only the love you inspired that gave me strength to win you. i am but an average man. yet with your love--with your dear self to glorify life for me, it may be i can rise above the average." "my king," she repeated, woman-like, unmoved by the plain reason of my statement. "we have no kings in the republic," i argued. "but i have a king in my heart! ah, juan, if you but knew the fulness of your conquest! love was in my heart from the first. love can creep through keyholes. but pride barred the way against your entrance. did i not mock you and scorn you and look coldly upon you? yet love forced me to give you the fighting chance, to put you to the test." "that was the mystery--the secret of your eyes!" i exclaimed. "and you had the courage to guess aright, to persevere against all my scorn and hauteur, to cross the barrier of rock and the barrier of pride and birth, into my heart, juan!" "forever in your heart, as you in mine!" "forever!" "when will you wed me, dearest one?" at the words she quivered and sought to draw away, but i held her fast. "no, alisanda! i cannot release you until you have told me. when shall we be married?" "ah, juan!" she sighed. "how can i answer you? i fear that it will be never!" "never!" "my uncle has asked me to sacrifice myself for the sake of the revolution." "by marrying the viceroy?" "no!" "no?--then whom?" "the governor-general." "him--salcedo?--that old tyrant?" "it is my uncle's wish. he says it would free millions of people, my countrymen." "your countrymen? you come from old spain! no! and what if that man should sell himself for your beauty? could such a man be trusted? yet suppose he held true to his pledge to lead the revolution, and suppose the revolution should triumph, would it not be the triumph of salcedo? would this wretched land be less oppressed under salcedo the king than under salcedo the governor-general? answer me, alisanda vallois. you know the man!" "_madre de los dolores!_--and i would have made the sacrifice for that! juan, you have given me an answer to my uncle's plea. he may break my heart, but he shall not force me to marry against my wish. rather than that, i will take the veil." "become a nun?" i protested. "if i may not marry you, juan." "but you will marry me, alisanda--you must!" "how can i, dear? you have yet to cross the gulf." "father rocus--" i began. "he has spoken for you on that, yet admits a doubt. can i wed you while i still think of it as a sin--a marriage against god's will?" a sudden great fear embittered my rapture and dashed me to the earth. "alisanda," i pleaded, "is not our love true love? can such love be wrong in the sight of god?" "i have prayed the virgin for hours without answer to that," she sighed. "and when the holy priest admits a doubt--if i do not come to you with a clear conscience, juan, i shall be unworthy of your love." "leave that to me to judge!" "no. we must wait, my knight. rest assured i will not wed another than yourself. be patient. a few days may see the cutting of the knot. that dangerous man medina has wormed himself into the council of the revolutionists. it would be like him to turn traitor, and demand me as his price for not betraying the plot." "your uncle will give you to him to save his own life!" "you do my uncle an injustice. he would sooner die. no; i was to be given to salcedo for the sake of this oppressed land. my uncle would die rather than force misery upon me for other than the sacred cause of liberty." "i have opened your eyes to the peril of trusting salcedo. now what is to be done?" "should medina threaten, my uncle must flee from new spain." "taking you with him! the world is large, dearest one, but wherever he may take you, i will follow." "if you escape salcedo!" she whispered, and i felt her tremble. before i could answer, the voice of father rocus murmured from the little doorway: "my children, you must part now. i brought you away on the plea of faintness, my daughter. i must take you in for a glass of wine, that my servant may bear witness with a clear conscience, and then we must hasten home with you before the return of your kinsfolk." "but when shall i see her again, padre?" i begged, clinging to my love as she clung to me. "_sabe dios!--quien sabe?_" he returned. "we will each and all do what we can. now we must hasten, for if my share in this be discovered, i shall lose all power to help you." reason compelled me to bend to this argument. i strained alisanda to me, and we exchanged a parting kiss. chita came up beside us, and the moment i released her mistress, hurried her to the envious doorway. chapter xxviii a spanish ball fortunately i did not know that before me lay a full week of useless scheming and vain longing. though we went about visiting and dining as usual, even two evenings at colonel mayron's failed to bring me the slightest relief from my suspense. alisanda was kept in such seclusion that even doña dolores could not reach her. on the other hand, salcedo called twice at the vallois mansion and took with him medina. this caused me the most intense anxiety. i was sure of alisanda's constancy, and yet did not know what pressure their casuistic minds might bring to bear against her will. as to this father rocus might have enlightened me, had i not feared to compromise him by a second visit. it would need only the slightest shadow of a suspicion to put don pedro and his señora on their guard against the padre. also i relied upon his reverence to inform me in some secret manner at the first change in the situation. another sunday roused in me the wild hope of a second meeting with my lady. but though i fairly haunted the _parroquia_ throughout the forenoon, i received no notes and saw nothing of my friends. even father rocus was absent. a casually spoken question at dinner brought me the information that he was suffering a slight attack of gout. pike, ever eager for the display of my small skill as a physician, immediately urged upon me to offer my services to the padre. this was seconded by walker and the half-dozen guests present with us at table, for it appeared that father rocus was a general favorite in chihuahua, from the mighty salcedo down to the lowliest _leproso_. after much insistence on the part of the others, i at last agreed to call upon the padre and prescribe for him. our little dinner, though frugal, was a merry one, for our host and the guests were in high spirits over the prospect of a _baile_, or ball, that evening. though this ball was given at the house of a family we had not previously visited, walker took pike and myself as a matter of course. when we arrived we found most of the _élite_ of the city already assembled in the large ballroom. indeed, the first couple upon whom i set eyes were doña dolores malgares and his excellency, don nimesio salcedo, commandant-general of the internal provinces of the kingdom of new spain, whirling about in a spanish dance that displayed far more liveliness than dignity. we were duly presented to our hostess, and made our compliments; after which pike plunged into the whirl with all the zest of his gallant nature. i drew apart, to overlook the gay scene in search of my lady. not that i had much hope of seeing her, but i had learned that almost anything seemed possible in this land of intrigue. at once i was challenged from all sides by brilliant-eyed señoras and señoritas. but even had i wished to take one as partner, i was unacquainted with the now spirited, now voluptuous measures of this peculiar spanish dance. pike, daring at all times and in all places, was attempting the step with the aid of a plump and kindly señorita. i was more than content to keep back and look on, while my ears drank in the seductive melody of mingled guitar and violin and singing voices which floated down the ballroom from the stand of the musicians. both the oddness and the agreeableness of this music was enhanced when at certain intervals the guests joined in the singing. confusing as was the whirl of the dance, i soon identified all present who were known to me, the first turn of the dancers bringing me a smile from my stately friend malgares and a hostile stare from lieutenant medina. the dread to which the latter had reduced many of his fellow-officers was evident from the manner in which the young subaltern who had pressed up beside me shrank away at the first glance of the aide's baleful little eyes. wondering how soon medina would force a duel upon me, i drifted idly up the room and back toward the entrance. no more guests had arrived since ourselves, and i had given over all hope of seeing alisanda. but as i approached the moorish arch of the ballroom doorway i caught a glimpse of don pedro in the anteroom. it took me only a few moments to gain the doorway. the close group of young officers about don pedro convinced me that my lady was with him. i thrust myself unceremoniously into their midst. doña marguerite sought to interpose, but, with a bow, i slipped around her, and bent to salute the hand which alisanda held out to me. i was relieved to see that, like the rest of the ladies present, she was dressed in the spanish national mode, and also that she seemed in good health and spirits. "god keep you, _amigo_!" she said in a clear voice. "_muchas gracias_, señorita! may i beg the honor of your first dance?" "it is yours, señor," she responded. the other men fell away as she took my arm. don pedro stepped forward as though to interpose, but desisted at a sign from doña marguerite. i entered the ballroom with colors flying and the loveliest girl in all the world upon my arm. for the moment fortune was with me. the spanish dance had reached an end, and the musicians were striking up a waltz. nothing could have suited me better. dancing was one of my few accomplishments, and it was the very poetry of love and life to circle about the long room with my darling in my arms, in rhythm to the pulsing throb of the sweetest and softest of music. it was no more than human that my bliss should key yet higher with a tang of triumph as i glided with my lovely partner under the nose of the scowling salcedo and past the lowering visage of his andalusian aide. it might be that i was to meet my death from one or the other of them, but for the time at least i was the happiest man beneath heaven. i was in paradise. before i was forced to relinquish her to doña marguerite at the stopping of the music, i received my dear girl's pledge to give me all the waltzes of the evening. more she dared not promise for fear of the interference of her aunt. as may be imagined, it was a severe trial to see her led out by another partner, even though she accepted pike instead of medina for the voluptuous _fandango_ and though doña dolores contrived to pilot me into the set in which my lady danced the minuet as partner to his excellency, don nimesio. before the close of the _baile_, medina's persistence and his open warning off of the other officers won him two dances, strive as my lady would to avoid him. but even he lacked the assurance to interfere with salcedo's marked attentions, and, for the rest, pike, malgares, and myself contrived to foil him in every attempt, with the two exceptions mentioned. for myself, i had the divine joy of dancing every waltz with my lady, and it did not lessen my rapture that medina followed us each time with a gaze which would have struck me dead had it possessed the power. such bliss could not last. all too soon the ball began to draw to a close, and when i came to lead out alisanda for the last waltz, doña marguerite interposed with the statement that they were about to leave. making the best of the situation, i claimed and was granted the privilege of escorting my darling to the coach. such complaisance on the part of her duenna astonished me. i could account for it only on the supposition that señora vallois thought to spur on salcedo's ardor and jealousy by the sight of a favored suitor. however that may have been, the last of my successes of the evening still farther infuriated the truculent medina. it is not improbable he would have challenged me that night had not my failure to obtain a word apart with alisanda induced me to follow the vallois coach all the way across the city. watching from the corner of the plaza, i saw the coach roll in between the wide-flung gates of the vallois mansion. i waited perhaps half an hour, then stole silently up the street to my black doorway, across from her balcony, and began to murmur the song which had twice brought me a response from her. almost immediately a light appeared behind the drawn hangings. i started forward eagerly, only to check myself and step back into the denser darkness of my lurking place. a hand had parted the curtains, and between them appeared the frowning face of don pedro. i went home, if not in as black a mood as medina, at least not disposed to kindly thoughts toward my enemies. chapter xxix the insult as chance would have it, medina and i did not again meet for four or five days. in the meantime the lieutenant and i were astonished to receive the report that an american officer had arrived in vera cruz some weeks since, and had been permitted to start for the city of mexico. what could be his mission and why the viceroy should allow him to travel through the midst of his territories was a puzzle we tried in vain to solve. the same day i called upon father rocus, as i had promised, but saw him only for a few minutes and in the presence of two other priests. this, as i took it, was intended on his part as a precaution against suspicion of his friendliness. that he had no news for me was evident from his not passing me a note, though three or four opportunities offered for him to do so without detection. a few days later i had a still greater surprise than the mystery of the envoy to mexico. it came in the form of an invitation for the lieutenant and myself to dine at don pedro's. hope, ever unquenchable in the heart of a lover, told me that the don had repented of his harsh patriotism and was thinking to save his niece from a fate worse than death. never was a lover more bitterly disappointed! don pedro and doña marguerite received us with the most suave and cordial hospitality--but alisanda did not appear. in answer to the lieutenant's inquiries, doña marguerite explained, with affected regret, that señorita alisanda was indisposed, and so could not join us. i needed no more to assure me that the dear girl was under restraint. what i could not understand was why i should have been invited to dine. the nearest i could come to an explanation was a repeated assurance from don pedro that he and his friends were doing their utmost to persuade salcedo that it would be advisable to hurry me out of the country with my fellow members of the expedition. this i took as an intimation that our host still regarded me as a friend, but that the sooner i was sent away from chihuahua the more pleased he would be. when we left, shortly before the beginning of the siesta, i had not been favored with so much as a glimpse of my lady, nor even of chita. that evening we went to bid farewell to colonel mayron, who had been ordered to a command in soñora. doña dolores had no word for me other than her assurance that i might rely upon the constancy of alisanda. of that i was already certain, yet it pleased me to receive the confirmation of the fact from her true friend. on the other hand, i experienced a kind of savage joy when malgares took occasion to draw me aside and warn me that medina was looking for the first opportunity to force a duel. i made no other reply than to request that every effort be made to keep pike in ignorance of my private troubles, and to ask malgares to act as my second. being at such a disadvantage with the government, i thought it as well to refrain from explaining that medina would not need to force me very hard to reach an issue. also i feared that a display of eagerness on my part might cause even so noted a duellist as the aide to hesitate, and i had become desperately desirous to break the blockade of events. medina did not keep me waiting long. the following afternoon he found his opportunity in a message to us from salcedo. as an officer, he was careful to attend first to his official business, which proved to be of a character well suited to his temper. i happened to be in one of the rear rooms when walker ushered him in to where pike was thumbing over his beloved pope's "essay on man." recognizing medina's carefully modulated voice, i lingered to adjust my cravat with an extra touch. when i entered, the lieutenant was in the midst of a reply to some remark by the aide: "--therefore, mr. robinson and i have considered ourselves at liberty to discuss what we pleased, and as we pleased." medina met my half bow with a scowl. "may i inquire the purpose of our distinguished guest's presence with us?" i asked. "he brings word from the governor-general that it is high time we put on muzzles," replied pike, with one of his rare flashes of anger. "_por dios!_" i mocked. "can it be don nimesio salcedo does not admire our teeth?" "were i his excellency," growled medina, "certain teeth would be gnawing crusts in the _calabozo_." "but as it is, lieutenant de gonzales y medina comes as an aide in the service of his excellency," suggested walker. the hint was sufficient to smooth medina's ruffled front. he fixed his gaze upon pike, and addressed him with the most formal politeness: "then you admit, señor, that yourself and señor robinson have persistently and deliberately inculcated and disseminated republican principles throughout the period of your presence in new spain?" "it is true," replied pike. "we came to chihuahua at the insistence of his excellency, yet have been assured that we are not to regard ourselves as prisoners. why, then, should we not discuss topics of world-wide interest with the same freedom we should enjoy in our own country?" "lieutenant pike overlooks the delicacy of his situation." "my compliments to his excellency," retorted pike. "my country is yet young and poor. it may as yet lack strength to resent the outrages of britain and france. but present to his excellency the assurance of my confidence that the republic can exact reprisals for injuries to its citizens and officers inflicted by a secondary power." "_satanas!_" swore the aide. "you dare name the great kingdom of spain as not among the first of the powers?" "the sun of spain is fast setting. your statesmen sneer at the mistakes and seeming weakness of the united states. i predict that unless spain elects for freedom, within a century she will be shorn of the last of her glory, while free america shall grow in might beyond the grandest dreams of her citizens!" "it is with the present we have now to deal, señor," sneered medina. "his excellency sends you fair warning. those who have permitted you to indulge in your jacobinical and atheistic discourse in their company, and in particular those who have themselves indulged in the treasonous discussions, are all noted, and their cases will be attended to in due time." "that, señor, is doubtless one of the prerogatives arrogated to itself by tyranny," said pike. "as for señor robinson and myself, we are citizens of the united states, and not subjects of his most catholic majesty. we propose to continue to express our opinions freely on all subjects." "i shall report your reply to his excellency," said medina, rising. "rest assured your conduct will be represented in no very favorable view to your government." "as an officer of the army of the republic, i am responsible to my government, and to none other," replied pike, now fairly boiling with rage. fearful of his dignity, he gave medina a curt bow, and withdrew to our bedchamber. "_nom de dieu!_" gasped walker, astonished that any one could have so dared the power of the governor-general. medina looked aside at me, and saw me smiling. "señor robinson is pleased to be amused," he said with a feline suavity which told me the time had come. "it is most amusing, señor," i replied. "that any one could be foolish enough to imagine the possibility of intimidating lieutenant zebulon montgomery pike is little short of ridiculous." "_por dios!_ say rather it is an absurdity to expect courteous compliance from the bearer of so barbarous a name." "how of my name?" i asked, with mock concern. "is it also displeasing to you?" he stepped close to me, with a menacing look. "your name, señor spy, is one to be linked in infamy with that of your double-dyed traitor, general wilkinson, who for twenty years and more has been in the regular pay of his most catholic majesty." my palm struck full across his mouth with a force that sent him reeling. for a moment he stood in speechless fury, plucking at his sword-hilt. i grasped the back of the chair in which i had been sitting, for my pistols were in the bedchamber, and i had no mind to be run through. but walker stepped between us, and muttered a hasty word to medina. the latter made a sign for him to follow, and strode out into the court. walker was out and back in two minutes. "_sacre!_" he protested, in great concern. "what am i to do? he insists that i shall serve as his second. yet with you as my guest--" "accept, by all means. it would give me great pleasure. my one desire is to keep this from my friend. the fewer who know of it the better." "but a second for yourself?" he questioned. "_entre nous_, i should far prefer to serve you than your opponent." "my thanks. but doubtless lieutenant don faciendo will second me. i will call upon him at once, and you can follow with such communications as lieutenant medina desires to transmit." "at your bidding, doctor. _nom de dieu!_ what a blow you gave him! and with the open hand! my lips are now sealed--yet it is a fact that you have choice of weapons. you will of course advise with lieutenant malgares." i waved him off, and as he went out again to tell medina he would serve, i hastened in to pike. he was pacing up and down the bedchamber like a caged panther. "has he gone?" he demanded. i nodded. "it's well--it's well! i could not answer for the consequences should i have to face his sneer again before i've had time to cool. by the almighty, had he spoken in his own name and not as a messenger, i'd have challenged him, john!" "doubtless. but this menace by the governor-general?" "it cannot be he will go to extremes." "yet would it not be as well to consult with our friends? they may have knowledge of salcedo's temper." "we can rely upon zuloaga and, i believe, your don pedro." "go to them, then, and i will look for malgares." "very well. i will call upon señor vallois, and will meet you later at zuloaga's, if malgares can come." with this, we threw on hat and coat and started off in the gathering twilight, on diverging paths. a few minutes of sharp walking brought me to the mayron mansion, where i was so fortunate as to find malgares at home and alone. having first told of salcedo's implied threat, i stated my own personal affair briefly, and recalled his promise to act as my second. "_poder de dios!_" he exclaimed. "nothing would give me greater pleasure. you will choose pistols?" "can he shoot?" "not at all." "then let it be swords," i decided. "_santisima virgen!_ you are no swordsman. he will spit you with the first thrust of his rapier." "i said swords, don faciendo. my thought was the straight cutlass of your texas cavalry. i have hefted a sabre, and your cutlasses must swing much the same." "it is true, _amigo_, that the regulation cutlass would put you to a slightly less disadvantage compared to the rapier. there would be more play for your strength. yet medina is an expert--a master swordsman. you would have no chance. he means to kill you." "i have quickness and strength. the odds are not so great as you fear. but with pistols, he would be absolutely at my mercy." "then you insist?" a lackey announced walker. "i insist," i replied, as walker bowed himself in. "what time?" asked malgares. "the sooner the better." at this he excused himself, and conducted walker into another room. i spent the brief interval of waiting admiring a glorious painting by velasquez for which malgares had paid a fabulous sum in gold ingots. my enjoyment was not forced or feigned. with the assurance of action in the immediate future, i really felt lighter and easier in mind than at any time since the ball. malgares returned, with a clouded brow. "he was astonished. i do not wonder. men nowadays are not usually so chivalrous as to give the game into the hands of their opponents." "it is a case of two sets of loaded dice," i replied. "mine are loaded beyond all question of fair play." "and his the same!" "that is to be seen. you accepted the challenge? all is arranged?" malgares nodded, still troubled. "i could do none else. we meet them at sunrise to-morrow, at the east end of the aqueduct. it is possible we may have use for your pistols. have them ready. i shall call for you in good time, with my coach." "you think there may be need of it to bring me home," i rallied him. "god forbid!" he protested, crossing himself. "my only thought was that you might pass unobserved." "true," i replied, and i hastened to explain my reasons for not wishing pike to become involved in the affair. i was barely in time, for i had no more than finished when the lieutenant was announced. not finding don pedro at home, he had called upon two or three other friends, who had expressed great concern for our safety, and advised him to consult with malgares. don faciendo looked grave, but expressed a belief that all would be well if we held on as before with a bold front. this was also the opinion of the friends with whom we spent the evening at señor zuloaga's. chapter xxx the duel upon our return to walker's quarters, the lieutenant, who had been working hard all day, at once retired. i remained up long enough to load my pistols, and write, first, a farewell letter to my lady, and second, a note to my friend explaining that i was to start early on a coach ride with malgares. this i left with old cæsar, whom walker had already instructed to rouse us before dawn. faithful to orders, the old black had us out a good hour before sunrise, and a biscuit and pot of chocolate ready for our refreshment. we dressed and ate and made off, leaving pike still fast asleep. walker fetched his horse from the stables in the rear of the courtyard, and conducted me as far as the street. the expected coach was just wheeling into sight, preceded by a pair of outriders with torches, for the night was as black as egypt. at once walker sprang into the saddle and rode off through the gloom to join his principal, while i ran up to the coach and slipped in beside malgares. with that the gilded carriage swung about and rumbled off along the first street which led northward. having taken possession of my pistols and loading outfit, malgares asked if i had any word to be given to señorita vallois, in the event of any misfortune. i handed him the letter, with the request that it be returned to me if all went well. "for her sake, you must see that it does go well!" he urged. "it is for her i fight. in any event, i must have struck him for what he said. for whether or not it is true general wilkinson is or has been a traitor, in the pay of your government, lieutenant medina intended his remark as a deliberate insult. but we are alike fully aware that it is because of the señorita we now meet." "god grant that for her sake you may win!--you will win, _amigo_!" exclaimed my friend; and with that, to divert my thoughts, he fell to chatting about various light subjects. presently the coach turned eastward, and, after a time, southward. the gray dawn now broke the darkness, and the outriders, at an order from our coach-man, flung down their torches and rode back into the city. the ruddy gleams of the full dawn shot swiftly up the sky. our driver put the lash to his horses, and we spun along through a dense cloud of dust, in a race with the sun. just as the upper rim of the blazing orb of day peered over the low mountains to the eastward, the coach drew up beneath one of the immense arches of the aqueduct. malgares caught up the two cutlasses, which had lain beside him in a wrapping of buckskin, and sprang out to meet walker, who was advancing from around the corner of the massive aqueduct pier. they bowed and exchanged a few words, and malgares, having handed the swords to walker, came back to the coach. "permit me to assist you in removing your hat, cravat, coat, and waistcoat," he said. i stripped to my shirt, delighted to be freed of the encumbering garments. "we meet on the east side of the pier," he explained; and taking my arm, he led me beneath the colossal arch to the corner. a step around brought us face to face with walker and medina. their horses, with the bridle reins thrown over head upon the ground after the custom of the country, stood at a little distance, cropping the dry grass. the ground for several paces alongside and out from the pier was smooth and of a firm, dry, gritty earth. medina, who had stripped in the same fashion as myself, was looking at the cutlasses, which walker was holding up to his view. when we turned the corner, medina immediately stepped back half a dozen paces, with a readiness that showed his experience in the formalities of the _code duello_. malgares left me and stepped forward beside walker. they first measured and examined the cutlasses, then exchanged a few words in a low tone. medina cast an impatient glance at the sun, which was now clearing the horizon. malgares raised his hand, and stated, first to medina, then to me: "the principals will take position, at sword's-length, facing as at present. at the word, 'on guard!' given by lieutenant walker, they will begin action. at the word '_arreste!_' by either second, the principals will instantly cease action. señor, do you comprehend?" "_si_, señor," replied medina. "_si_, señor," i answered, in turn. we were each handed a cutlass, and led up within striking distance. malgares and walker drew back three paces. "on guard!" cried walker, in a thin, high voice. instantly i dropped almost to the ground and made a long-armed sweep at my opponent's knee. he leaped back barely in time to save himself from being hamstrung. "_arreste!_" shrilled walker, springing between us. i rose and stood back, staring from him to malgares. "what now?" i demanded. "that is not fencing," protested walker. "no. it is fighting," i retorted. walker wheeled about and exchanged whispers with his principal. he turned again, to address malgares: "my principal demands that the duel shall be according to the rules of swordsmanship." "enough!" i exclaimed. "if he wishes me to stand erect, i will stand erect. only do not again interrupt." "very well," replied walker, and stepping aside, he for the second time gave the signal: "on guard!" i whirled up my cutlass. medina stabbed at my heart. for all the quickness with which i bent to the right, his point gashed full through my left arm. but already my sword was descending in a sweeping stroke, and the fierce sting of my wound gave all the more force to the blow. medina tore free his blade and whirled it up between my descending cutlass and his head. but for his quickness, i believe i should have split his skull to the chin. given a fraction of a second more time, he, being so skilled a swordsman, might even have glanced my stroke, despite its weight. as it was, the edge of my blade caught the flat of his at a square angle, and drove it down upon his head close above the temple. he fell like a steer beneath the poleaxe, while my sword blade broke clean off, a span beyond the hilt, and whirred down upon the dry soil. [illustration: "he fell like a steer: my swordblade broke clean off, a span beyond the hilt"] "_dios!_" cried malgares. "_arreste!_" shrilled walker, springing to stoop over the fallen man. "_sacre!_ i thought him dead. he is only stunned." in confirmation of this, medina stirred, opened his eyes, and, assisted by walker, staggered to his feet. "señor walker," demanded malgares, "as your principal is the challenger, i now ask if he is satisfied." medina muttered something in the ear of walker, who replied to the inquiry: "señor, we contend that, so far, the honors are even. my principal has been stunned, yours wounded. by the time señor robinson's injury is bound up, lieutenant medina will have recovered a clear head." "the sword of my principal is broken," objected malgares, as he spoke producing the bandage i had provided. no artery having been severed, there was no need of a tourniquet, and he bound up the wound during the discussion. walker consulted medina, and replied: "we hold that each principal was given a sword of equal quality, and that the duel must continue until the matter is settled." "good!" i exclaimed to malgares, before he could remonstrate. "we continue to fight each with his weapon. i shall use my broken blade as a dart and the hilt as a tomahawk. i am far better armed than before." at this medina drew away for a consultation with his second. walker came back alone. "we protest against the use of our opponent's sword as a missile," he stated. "we refuse to consider the protest," rejoined malgares. "we then suggest that the fight be continued with rapiers. my principal has a pair at hand." "the naming of the weapons lies with my principal," replied malgares. "if you insist upon a second choice, we name duelling pistols, with which we have come provided." walker returned to medina, and after a brief consultation, brought us his assent to the use of pistols. malgares immediately conducted me around to the coach. as we turned the corner, we were astonished to see father rocus racing toward us on a large white mule. he waved his hand to us, and urged his mule to yet greater speed as malgares drew out the pistols and turned to go back. "wait!" i said. "the padre wishes to speak to me. insist upon medina firing both pistols as a test. that will give me time. walker knows my manner of loading." malgares nodded and disappeared as father rocus galloped up and drew rein beside the coach, purple-faced and gasping for breath. i gave him my right shoulder, else he would have fallen in his descent. "_virgen!_" he panted. "it is over already! you have killed him!" "no. we have tried swords without success. now it will be the pistols. i will shatter his right shoulder in the joint. he shall boast no more of his swordsmanship." "_nada_, my son! that is not enough. _carrajo_! he must die! listen! this scoundrel has wormed himself into all the secrets of the revolution. he has demanded alisanda as his price--" "my god!" i cried. "but salcedo--?" "if she could put her heart into luring him, salcedo might be won over. but now this scoundrel calls checkmate. he pledges faith to the revolution in return for her hand. _carrajo!_ i now know the utmost of his baseness. he pledges faith, yet, once he has her, thinks to betray all and gain the estate of her uncle as reward for his treachery." "god!" i cried. a shot rang out on the far side of the pier. "what is that?" exclaimed the padre. i explained, and my statement was punctuated with the report of the second pistol. "so--he has tried them," said the padre. "now they will be reloaded. you will kill him, my son! it is god's will!... malgares is not yet of the revolution, but he is a true friend of don pedro. at dawn i went to appeal to him to challenge medina--his wife confessed that he had come here as your second. i have ridden at breakneck speed--god be praised, i am in time! you will kill the traitor!" "you are in time," i said. "i will place my ball so exactly between his eyes that you cannot measure a hair's-breadth farther on the one side than on the other." "god bless you, my son! you will save alisanda and the revolution with the same shot!" "i did not suspect that you were one of the revolutionists," i muttered. "for years,--like padre hidalgo in the south. but come. malgares signs to us." we hastened forward to the corner of the pier, where malgares stood ready to hand me my pistol. medina already was in waiting, ten paces from the spot to which malgares led me. at sight of father rocus, the aide and walker started. but the padre at once reassured them: "it is well, gentlemen. i come only to act as witness." walker bowed. "your reverence is welcome. señor robinson, the terms have been stated to my principal. i now repeat them. you will each stand in the present position, with pistol pointed upward. lieutenant malgares will say, 'one, two, three. fire! one, two, three.' at the word 'fire!' you can aim and fire, during the time of the second count of three. if either fires before the word, or after the count, you know the penalty. gentlemen, are you ready?" medina and i bowed, and walker took his station with father rocus and malgares against the face of the pier, out of the line of fire. "ready!" called malgares. we raised our pistols as directed. "one!" he counted. "two!--" down came medina's pistol! i saw the black dot of the muzzle only to lose it instantly in a puff of smoke. the ball grazed the side of my head. so unexpected and sudden was the dastardly deed, i stood motionless, the report of the pistol ringing in my ears, but listening for malgares to continue the count. instead he uttered a sharp cry and rushed upon medina. before the aide could so much as turn, malgares's toledo lunged through his heart. whipping his sword from the body as it fell prone, malgares faced walker, with his head high and his eyes flashing. "witness!" he demanded. walker bowed. "he fired before the word. you have done right to strike him dead." "you have done right! _satanas_ has claimed his own!" confirmed father rocus. suddenly he thought of me and hastened to my side. "we forget juan! my son, did the ball strike you?" i put up my hand and reached out to him one of my locks, which had been clipped by the ball. "so close as that!" exclaimed walker. "you know the saying, 'a miss is as good as a mile,'" i replied, as malgares took my loaded pistol and carefully lowered the trigger. "the question now is to agree on an account for his excellency that will clear my noble friend and second, and place all the blame upon me, where it belongs." "_nada!_" rejoined malgares. "he shall know the exact truth." "leave the matter to me," said father rocus. "you know my standing with the governor-general. i engage to prevent any unpleasant consequences." "but--the--body?" murmured walker, glancing askance at medina's huddled corpse. "i will take it in my coach," said malgares, without hesitation. "you will ride his horse, and lend your own to señor robinson." we each offered to take his place in the grewsome part he had chosen. but all that he would accept of us was our assistance in stanching the wound and carrying the body to the coach. walker then set off ahead to notify medina's servants, while father rocus and i returned to the city by a roundabout road. the moment we were alone i asked my companion a dozen and one questions about alisanda. he shook his head to them all. "there is nothing to tell, juan, other than she is holding out bravely against their persuasions and commands. the point now is to convince salcedo that the death of medina has rid him of one rival, and that he can free himself of another by sending you away with your indomitable friend." "but if it is to leave her behind--!" i cried. "we shall see about that in due course," he replied. "one thing at a time. rome was not built in a day. now ride on, and leave me, my son. we approach streets where we are both known. _adios!_" there was nothing for me to do but to obey. chapter xxxi my cross upon my return i found the lieutenant so preoccupied over an intended visit to salcedo that one or two vague answers satisfied his curiosity about my early morning excursion. he started out at last, an hour or so before noon, when i contrived with the help of old cæsar to wash my wound and dress it in proper manner. lest the lieutenant or any one else should notice something amiss and make inquiries, i told cæsar he might say i had been bitten by a scorpion, of which, truth to tell, there were enough and to spare in and about chihuahua. the lieutenant returned much sooner than i had expected. he had been informed that his excellency was closeted with father rocus, and could see no callers. this he took as an unfavorable indication of salcedo's temper, until i assured him i had reason to believe that the padre was a friend and had called on the governor-general in our behalf. the confirmation came during the afternoon in the form of a polite message, brought by walker, requesting pike to call at the _palacio_ that evening without ceremony. when he returned, it was with the news that all was settled except as to myself. the papers of the expedition were to be held, but pike and the six men with him were to march for natchitoches in three or four days, to be followed shortly by the detachment under sergeant meek, which all this time had been carefully held back somewhere on the el paso road. the lieutenant was inclined to be anxious over my fate, but i could not but trust to the good offices of father rocus. he met the padre at salcedo's table the following noon, and answered in his usual fearless manner the adroit questions put to him by his reverence. this, i believe, must have proved the last straw to the governor-general, for that evening, while we were visiting malgares, walker brought word that i was free to accompany pike. in his excitement, he spoke of the padre's cleverness in mollifying his excellency over the death of medina, but malgares averted a disclosure of my share in the affair by the laconic statement to pike that he had killed the aide during a duel. such a happy termination of the affair would have given me great satisfaction had i not been distressed over my failure to hear a word either of or from alisanda. even doña dolores was still refused admittance to her. this was on a sunday. monday we spent in our preparations for marching. i had need of all the diversion i could find, to keep down the maddening thought that i should have to go without seeing my lady. in my despair i called upon father rocus, who counselled patience, and promised to do what he could to obtain for me a last meeting. but he warned me that even should he succeed, i could expect to see her only in the presence of the family. i begged him to give me some hope for the future. but he shook his head. "_sabe dios!--quien sabe?_" he said. "all that i can now say is that, if she cannot follow you to your free republic, she will take the veil." "no!" i cried. "i cannot give her up!" "you can if you must, my son. there are few mortals who at some time during their lives do not have to bear a heavy cross. if this one is laid upon your shoulders, you will bear it with manly strength. but there is still a hope for you. i shall advise with her before you pay your farewell call at señor vallois's. if there seems a way of escape, you will receive a message either from her or from myself." i thanked the good padre, and left him, my heart in a tumult between fondest hope and blackest despair. in the morning, which was that of the twenty-eighth of april, the day set for us to march, we visited about the city to say farewell to all our friends. but when we came to don pedro's i informed the lieutenant that i wished him to make only a brief call and then go without me. malgares, who was to march in charge of our escort, and with whom we had called upon the weeping doña dolores, assented to my request no less heartily than did pike. as i had expected, don pedro and doña marguerite received us with the utmost cordiality--but alone. in the midst of our call father rocus entered in a casual manner, but, unlike the vallois, he greeted us with a marked coolness. i was seized with the dreadful suspicion that he had all along been playing double with me. yet there was the memory of that meeting at the _parroquia_ to shame my doubt. before i could calm my thoughts, pike and malgares rose to leave. i followed them slowly to the door, then suddenly turned back and bent upon one knee to take the hand of doña marguerite. "señora," i begged, "for the love of god, give me a last word with her! i am going away all those thousands of miles--i fear i shall never again see her--have pity upon me! one word, señora!" "_ave maria purisima!_" she murmured, bowing her head and sighing. i had touched her heart. another plea might have persuaded her. but don pedro came hastening back, his face as cold and hard as a stone. "your friends will be delayed, señor robinson," he said. "señor," i replied, rising to face him, "at the least have the justice to hear me out. you know that i love your niece with my whole heart and body and soul. you know that she loves me with a love that will last as long as life itself. our love was born the first time we looked into each other's eyes; since then our love has never wavered. it drew me to her over deserts and mountains, through wildernesses before known only to the red savages; it forced me to face singly the soldiers and prisons and garrottes of your tyrannical rulers. i know now that i cannot hope for you to turn from your cruel purpose. yet for the sake of the friendship you once professed to bear me and for the sake of her love, give me at least a moment's farewell--a word of parting!" despite the desperate earnestness of my plea, he stood throughout without a trace of relentment in his cold face. but doña marguerite was a woman, and i had spoken from the depths of my heart. "_santisima virgen!_" she cried. "it is only for a last moment's adieu!--padre! padre, advise us!" my heart gave a leap of wild hope as i saw don pedro look about at the padre with respectful attention. "it is a hard question to decide, my children," deliberated father rocus. "it may well cause her more sorrow than relief. and yet--and yet--" he paused and seemed to sink into prayerful meditation. don pedro and doña marguerite bowed their heads and murmured "_ave!_" i stood waiting, in a tremendous stress of doubt and joy, of hope and despair. at last the padre raised his head, and pronounced his opinion: "as her guardian, don pedro, yours is the decision. yet as her confessor, i advise, for the good of her soul, that you do not deprive her of this last consolation. even the meekest will rebel if pressed too hard, and she has a high spirit." "since you advise it, padre," acquiesced don pedro, though with evident reluctance. "for the good of her soul, they may say adieu. but it must be here, in our presence." doña marguerite hastened to pull the bell-cord. chita appeared. "prepare your mistress to say adieu to señor robinson." chita darted away. we waited, i burning with impatience, the others murmuring prayers. at last my sweet lady appeared in the curtained doorway. though she sought to smile, her face was wan and sad, and her beautiful eyes heavy as if she had wept much and slept little. had not doña marguerite taken the precaution to lay a restraining hand on my wrist, i should have rushed forward and clasped the poor oppressed darling in my arms. we were permitted to approach each other. i bent on one knee and pressed my lips to the little white hand she gave me. the others watched our every movement and listened for every word. yet i could not restrain myself from speaking out the love with which my heart overflowed. "dearest one!" i murmured, "it seems that we must now part--it may be forever! i do not see how i can bear to lose you, my darling. but, as the good padre says, we all have our crosses, and it may be that strength will be given to me to endure. yet most of all my heart aches for your grief, alisanda. god grant you surcease of sorrow!" my voice failed me. i heard doña marguerite sob. but alisanda neither wept nor sobbed. she gazed upward, with a spiritual glow in her dark eyes. "god will do unto us according to his holy will!" she said. "_ave maria de los dolores!_" sobbed doña marguerite. alisanda looked down at me with the gaze which opened to me those fathomless wells of mystery. "juan," she said, "they tell me we can never wed. if such be the will of god, we must submit. but--" she held up the gold crucifix of the rosary which hung about her neck--"by _la vera cruz_ i vow to you, beloved, i will wed none other mortal than yourself. if i may not be your bride, i will become the bride of christ!" "_caramba!_" swore don pedro. "recall that vow! i command you!" "god has heard it!" she answered. "the vow is registered in heaven," confirmed father rocus. "absolve her!" demanded the don, fairly beside himself with chagrin at this sudden turn that threatened to frustrate all his designs. "peace, peace," soothed the padre. "i will consider the matter with prayer and meditation." "_satanas!_" cried don pedro, turning upon me in a rage. "but for you, she would not have vowed! go!--" "_nada!_" i rejoined. "you said i could bid her farewell. i hold you to your word as a gentleman." he turned on his heel, and strode over to stand beside father rocus, doubtless fearful that he could not otherwise restrain himself from attacking me. "be quick!" urged doña marguerite. alisanda took the rosary from about her white throat and held it out to me. her voice kept to the same clear, brave note: "adieu, my juan! we part. you are not a christian, i know, yet as a sign for the guidance of your faith, i give you this golden symbol--_la vera cruz_!" as her dear hand placed the cross in my palm, my love and despair burst all bounds. forgetful of all else, i caught her to me and pressed my lips to hers in passionate grief. but in a moment she was torn from me by don pedro, who carried her off, half fainting, from the room. i would have followed had not doña marguerite and father rocus clung to me on either side and implored me to leave before the return of don pedro. half stupefied with despair, i permitted them to lead me to the stairway, where doña marguerite sobbed out an "_adios!_" and turned back. the padre hurried me down the stairway and out into the street, where, after a hasty benediction, he hastened back to pacify the violence of don pedro. chapter xxxii the message he left me none too soon. i could hear don pedro cursing furiously in the courtyard. fearful that if matters came to blows, i might do an injury to the kinsman of my lady, i dragged myself away, heavy with despair. not until i was half across the plaza did i notice that i still held her rosary in my hand. i stared at the little gold cross with bitter hatred. it seemed so harsh a mockery that she should have given me as parting gift that symbol of the gulf that now yawned between us, wider and deeper than ever. yet the gift was from her, and--i must bear my cross! for a moment i was tempted to put a pistol to my head and end all. but the life within me was sane and strong, and the memory of my lost lady too sweet for me to hurl myself into the unknown. in reflex from that last black thought of self-destruction there came to me even a feeble consciousness of resignation--a feeling that for her sake i must endeavor to live my life in a manner worthy of her memory. and this feeling did not leave me, but increased in strength throughout the weary weeks of our long homeward journey. we started that afternoon, immediately after the siesta, and proceeded in a southerly direction on the road toward durango. but i do not propose to give here the tedious details of our trip. greatly to our disappointment, a few days brought us a parting from our noble friend malgares, who turned over his instructions and despatch-pouch to a captain barelo. the latter took us so far south before rounding the lower end of the terrible bolson de mapimi desert that we at one time thought he had secret orders to march us to the city of mexico. whatever the object of this long detour, it served the purpose of enabling pike and myself to take many more observations of the mines, towns, and other features of the country than if we had followed a shorter route. by the time we had swung around, north by east, up through the province of coahuila, and crossed over the rio del norte, which here is more often called the rio grande, we had all but one of the musket barrels closely packed with notes. from the rio grande we proceeded northeastward, and crossing the border of the province of texas, arrived at san antonio on the seventh of june. here we were received with the utmost hospitality by the gallant and beloved general herrera and by governor cordero, who took us into his own quarters, offered us every favor within his power, and had a house especially prepared for the men. many other prominent persons of the town were no less cordial and hospitable. among them was a captain ugarte, to whom we brought letters of introduction from malgares. his charming wife doña anita was a sister of doña dolores. hardly had we been introduced to her when the kindly señora led me aside and showed me a letter which she had received from señora malgares a week before our arrival. "my sister has roused my deepest interest, señor robinson, by the story of your doleful separation from your dulcinea," she explained. "this letter begs me to do what little i can to console you." "you are most kind, señora," i replied. "but i know of nothing--unless i might ask you to send a message by doña dolores to señorita alisanda." "gladly! have you received no message from her?" i shook my head sadly. she thought a moment, and then pressed me to tell her of my last meeting with alisanda. the moment i mentioned the cross her face brightened. "permit me to see the rosary," she said. i drew the bitter-sweet gift from my bosom and handed it over to her. to my surprise, she began to examine the beads with a minute scrutiny, feeling and shaking each in turn as she passed it along the cord. whatever she had thought to discover, she found nothing. at the last she took up the little crucifix and turned it over in her slender hand. "ah!" she exclaimed, holding it closer to her sparkling eyes. "her name is alisanda vallois." "alisanda vallois," i repeated, wondering at the remark. "a. v.--alisanda vallois. you have planned for a meeting in august?" "no, señora. we did not plan. i have heard of no such plan." "_santa maria!_ men are so stupid!" she rejoined. "look, there is your message: 'a v--aug'! what ever else can that mean than alisanda vallois, in august?" "what?" i cried, half mad with delight. "but where?--what place, señora? tell me where!" she laughed at my blindness. "where, señor? you ask that? what did she call this gift--the exact words?" "_la vera cruz!_" even as the words passed my lips, the truth flashed upon me. i had indeed been stupid--blind!--blind not to have seen those faintly scratched letters on the gold; stupid not to have joined the symbolism of the gift to her words, "_la vera cruz_"! i kissed the señora's hand with a fervor which, i trust, did not disturb the peace of mind of captain ugarte. later she undertook to send to the care of doña dolores a message which, for the sake of precaution, i restricted to the one line:-- "_la vera cruz_ is my guide and comforter." despite so joyful a revelation to glorify our stay at san antonio, i felt no regrets when another week saw us started on to the north and east for nacogdoches, the most eastward of the spanish _presidios_ in texas. the second day beyond that place we crossed the sabine, and were left by our spanish escort, being in the neutral zone. on the afternoon of july the first we at last arrived at natchitoches, only fifteen days short of a full year since we had departed on our long and eventful journey from belle fontaine. such greeting as we received from our officers at the fort may be better imagined than expressed. and not the least of my joys upon this happy occasion was that of hearing my brave and resolute friend hailed by his fellows, not as lieutenant, but as captain! we were alike astonished and gratified to learn that he had been entitled to that advanced rank since the twelfth of the preceding august. what was more, his services had been most handsomely noticed to congress by president jefferson. as the captain had arrived at the journey's end outworn and in miserable health, i restrained myself to remain with him long enough to assist in arranging the great mass of notes which, to the exultant delight of our countrymen, we brought to view by filing off the barrels of the six muskets. there would have been no end to the questions of the officers of the fort had not pike intimated that discretion required silence with regard to all the important details until after he had made his report to general wilkinson and the secretary of war. the doughty general, we were informed, had hurried east to richmond some weeks past, to take part in the trial of colonel burr and harmon blennerhasset for treason. but as to the facts of the great case, i observed that our countrymen were decidedly circumspect in their statements; for it seems that the general himself was accused by his numerous enemies of complicity in the alleged treasonous conspiracy. captain--i write the word with pride--captain pike was highly indignant at this attempt to implicate the friend and patron who had so helped him in his career. but i, remembering what i had learned from burr and from the general himself, and above all considering that hideous charge by the aide medina, had the greatest difficulty in giving the passive assent of silence when my friend said that he would include my respects in his letter to the general. truth to tell, having now the possibility of again meeting and of winning my lady, i was extremely desirous for a commission in the army. it was an ambition which the captain and i had frequently discussed since our departure from chihuahua, and which he told me he intended to call to the attention not only of general wilkinson but of the secretary of war, general dearborn. i need hardly say that we had also discussed, in confidence, my plans for a voyage to vera cruz. but as he knew even less about the sea than myself, he could only commend my intention of applying for assistance to mr. daniel clark, and insist upon my leaving him as soon as his health was a little improved and the notes partly arranged. at last my growing impatience and anxiety forced me to bend to his urging. we parted, with more than brotherly regard and affection, in the fond expectation of rejoining each other within a few months as brothers in arms. his last words were an assurance that he could obtain me a captaincy, and a heart-felt wish that i might succeed in my venture. chapter xxxiii impressed it was a wearisome journey by river and forest and swamp to new orleans in the swelter of the july heat, but i pushed on by horse and boat to the mosquito-and-fever-plagued city of the delta. having long since become hardened to the torments of the southern insect pests and to the dangers of ague, dengue, and yellow jack, i endured the first with resignation and braved the last without a qualm. the sight of the creole city, with our glorious flag afloat above the bold little forts, st. louis and st. charles, filled me with joy and a sense of accomplishment. this marked my point of departure in the crossing of the gulf, which alone, i hoped, now separated me from my lady. though, even with the influx of our native-born americans since the annexation, the city could claim only nine thousand inhabitants, the amount of its trade and shipping was enormous. among the scores and hundreds of sea-going craft which lay moored along the wharfs and the levees or swung at anchor in the stream, i felt certain i should find one to bear me to vera cruz. of all the merchants of the city, i knew that few if any stood so well with the spanish authorities in the new world or carried on so extensive a trade with the spanish colonies as my acquaintance, mr. daniel clark. accordingly i waited upon him the evening of my arrival, and stated my keen desire to obtain passage to vera cruz. he took occasion to congratulate me on my share in the expedition, a general account of which had come to him, i suspect through secret sources of communication with the spaniards. he, however, shook his head over my request for advice and assistance, until, in desperation, i confessed that the object of my intended voyage was to meet the lady to whom i was betrothed. "why did you not tell me that at the first, sir?" he snapped. "i set you down for an agent of that double-dealing scoundrel and traitor james wilkinson." "mr. clark," i replied, "general wilkinson will, i presume, be subjected to the searching cross-examination of the counsel for colonel burr. personally i have little liking for the general, and have so expressed myself in the past. but for the present i think it only just to him, as to colonel burr, to await the publication of the facts of this deplorable scandal and the verdict of the trial." "ay, ay! you can take a dispassionate view, doctor. you have not shared in all the heat and tumult of this last year. very well. be as nonpartisan as you wish, just so you do not join in the hounding of honorable men who chanced to show courtesies to that misguided dreamer, burr." "sir, i have no other thought, no other object in life that i can consider until i have returned this to my lady," i said, showing him the rosary. he turned to his portfolio, and at once wrote a letter in a neat, clerky hand. having folded and addressed it, he handed it to me unsealed. "present that to monsieur lafitte. you will find his sloop, the _siren_, somewhere along the water front. wait. are you in funds?" "enough for the present, sir. but this monsieur lafitte--he sails for vera cruz?" "i have written him that you wish to land in that port. he bears papers from me which will enable you to effect a landing and a stay of a few weeks. should you need funds to carry you through with your venture in that city, this letter will enable you to draw upon captain lafitte for a hundred doubloons." i sought to express my gratitude, but he cut me short, and rang for his mulatto boy to show me out. as it was by now past nine o'clock and a dark, cloudy evening, i returned to my hotel for the night. but sunrise found me down in the midst of the hurly-burly and confusion of the water front. such a scene was never known elsewhere than here in the port of the father of waters. rowdy rivermen from the ohio and mississippi settlements, and no less rowdy seamen from the four quarters of the globe, lewd women and dock workmen, black and white, swarthy creole merchants and weather-beaten ship's officers,--all jostling and hurrying about wharf and levee in the cool of the early morning. upon starting to inquire, i discovered that it was not so simple a matter to find the sloop _siren_ as i had imagined. the slaves and creoles were polite in their replies, the sailors and rivermen gruff, but all alike expressed their inability to enlighten me. at last i accosted at a venture a splendidly built gentleman of about my own age and breadth but a full two inches taller. "monsieur," i said, noting his black hair and french features, "your pardon, but i am in search of the schooner _siren_, captain lafitte." "ah," he replied, eying me with a polite yet penetrating gaze. "may i request you to name your business with captain lafitte?" "sir," i answered, bowing, "my business with monsieur lafitte is private. if you cannot favor me with the location of the _siren_--" "if i cannot favor you with that, i can at least with the location of jean lafitte," he said, bowing in turn. "monsieur, permit me to introduce myself as jean lafitte, at your service." "monsieur, your servant, dr. john h. robinson, with a letter from monsieur daniel clark," i responded. his fine hazel eyes glowed. "a friend of monsieur clark!" i handed him the letter. he bowed with the polished ease of a courtier, and after a polite apology, opened and read the letter. at the end he slipped the letter into his wallet, and smilingly held out to me a shapely, bronzed hand. "monsieur clark has explained your reason for sailing, doctor," he said, with a manner that won him my regard on the spot. "i shall be more than pleased to do all in my power to aid you. we shall first send for your chests." i explained my lack of wardrobe. "_sacre!_" he exclaimed. "but i sail at once. come! i have it. i lost my third mate in a brush with an english privateer last month. he was a cleanly man of much your build. you shall ship in his berth." i pointed to the nearest flatboat. "that is the extent of my seamanship, monsieur captain." he shrugged. "the clothes will fit, if the berth does not. you can save your present costume for your landing." i bowed assent, and we at once swung along side by side to a wharf where his boat was in waiting for him. with a courtesy which i did not then appreciate, though i noted how it impressed the half-dozen swarthy, red-capped oarsmen, he sprang first into the stern-sheets. the moment i stepped in after him, the men pushed off. they rowed with a skill and regularity of stroke that speedily brought us out around the brig which blocked our view, when we approached the most graceful sloop upon which i had ever set eyes. not being a seaman, i can only say that the _siren's_ masts and yards seemed to me to be unusually long, and the former strongly inclined to the stern--raked, i believe is the marine term. her hull, which was painted a dull gray, with a narrow stripe of red, was sharp in the bow, broad and overhanging at the stern, and low-set in the water. when we came aboard, i noticed that the sloop's decks were cleaner and more orderly than those of any other merchant vessel i had seen at close quarters, and that besides a number of carronades, she carried abaft the mainmast a great pivot-gun that could have found few mates afloat elsewhere than aboard a man-of-war. it was a long french twenty-four-pounder, which is really a twenty-six-and-a-half-pounder by english weight. as is well known, many frigates carry no heavier longs than eighteen-pounders. observing my interested glance, captain lafitte said, with a smile: "as you see, doctor, monsieur clark is disinclined to deliver his sloop and cargo to the spanish privateers without a protest." "is the _siren_, then, his vessel?" i asked in surprise. "for this voyage, at least," he answered; and leaving me to guess what this might mean, he turned and called out a series of nautical orders in a voice like a trumpet. instantly such a swarm of sailors poured up from the forecastle and hatchways and rushed here and there about the decks that i wondered they did not run one another down. between times the captain beckoned to a grinning imp of a cabin-boy and told him to show me below. it was three days before i again saw the deck. once the sloop was under way, captain lafitte came down long enough to start me overhauling the chests of the dead third mate. this kept me occupied until the mid-afternoon, aside from the time it took me to eat the savory meal brought to me by the cabin-boy. captain lafitte remained all the time on deck with the pilot who conned us down to the gulf. when at last he did come below, the sloop was pitching in a rough cross-sea and i was most disgracefully nauseated. the gale freshening to a downright storm, we were, as i was afterwards told, compelled to run before it under a storm jib. at the time i knew only that i was too seasick to care whether the ship floated or foundered. but on the fourth day the storm abated to a half gale, and the sloop, being brought about and put under more sail, became so much steadier that i made shift to eat a scant meal and crawl on deck. such of the weary-eyed crew as took heed of me grinned at the pale-faced landsman, but they took on another look when at noon i helped the captain to take his observations and work out the result. i had not spent all those months with pike for nothing. lafitte appeared highly amused at this discomfiture of his tars, and promptly declared in their hearing that i should be rated as third mate. the following day, when i really found my sea-legs, he proposed in all seriousness that i should accept the berth. having candidly declared his bitter hatred of the british, he sought to sting me to a like hatred by relating in full detail the account of the shameful, brutal outrage of the _leopard_ upon the _chesapeake_, off hampton roads, hardly more than a month past. despite my anger and humiliation at this unavenged insult to my flag, i felt no longing for a seafaring life other than such as was necessary to win me my lady. lafitte acknowledged that, in my situation, my decision was probably a wise one. but he went on with the statement that he, for one, would live and die in the contest against tyranny on the high seas, and repeated a terrible vow which he had taken against all britons and spaniards. his hatred of the first i could well understand, since he was a frenchman. but his enmity to the latter, now the allies of his country, i could explain only as the result of private injuries. on this point he was as reserved as he was free in expressing his determination to wreak vengeance upon the ships of both nations. not two days later we were roused at dawn by the muffled cry of "ship, ho!" and slipping up on deck, found the _siren_ within a cable's-length of a british frigate. the surprise was complete, for the british sighted us within a few moments after they were themselves seen. detecting lafitte's attempt to set more sail, they fired a solid shot across our bows. our captain could do no other than obey this grim signal to heave-to, since disobedience would have meant the blowing of the sloop to matchwood by the frigate's broadside of long eighteen-pounders. according to a prearranged plan, the half-dozen british seamen in our crew and a dozen of the more english-appearing americans at once slipped down into the hold, where they were hidden by their shipmates in a stow-hole prepared for the purpose in the midst of the cargo. meantime, cursing beneath his breath, captain lafitte paced his little quarterdeck, if so it may be called, and stared at the frigate's cutter, which came racing toward us over the dancing waves in the refulgent glow of the low, red sunrays. it was a pretty sight, but one which not a man aboard looked upon with other than a sour face. very shortly the cutter came alongside, and we were boarded by a pert young cockerel of a midshipman, with a following of six or eight heavy-jawed british tars. meeting captain lafitte's punctilious bow with a curt nod, the young fellow demanded to see his papers, and added with the lordliness of an admiral: "pipe all hands on deck, and let there be no stowaways, for i warn you i shall exercise the rights of search and impressment." captain lafitte made a formal protest against these so-called rights of search and impressment aboard an american sloop sailing from the neutral port of new orleans to the unblockaded port of vera cruz. without waiting for the insolent reply which this elicited, he sent for the ship's papers and ordered all hands on deck. while the midshipman glanced through the papers and log, all the crew, other than those concealed, assembled in the bows for inspection. unable to find a flaw in the papers, for lafitte and the _siren_ were alike certified to as belonging to the port of new orleans, our unwelcome visitor ordered the crew to file before him. in all the lot there was not one british subject nor one who looked like a briton, yet the young tyrant picked out, without hesitancy, ten of the likeliest looking men, seven of them lean, lantern-jawed yankees and three french creoles. in answer to the protests of the first that they were new englanders, he snapped out the one word "hull"--to the creoles, "guernsey." "good god!" i cried to captain lafitte, who stood by, gnawing his mustache in silent fury. "you know these are native-born citizens of the united states. can you submit to such an outrage?" far better had i held my peace! instantly the middy demanded of the nearest of our men who i was. the fellow, a stupid mulatto, mumbled something about my being the third mate. "so!" snapped the englishman. "third mate? it is well known that all yankee ships are officered by british deserters. i'll take this loud-mouthed sea-lawyer." "not alive!" i rejoined. "i'm a free-born citizen of the republic. i'll not submit, you lying young scoundrel!--captain lafitte!--shipmates! show these bullies we can die like men!" my appeal was in vain. lafitte still stood silent, and the men turned to stare shamefaced at the guns of the frigate. i stepped back to catch up a marlin-spike, but the british crimps were too well trained in their despicable business. they sprang at and about me in a body. i struck out right and left; then a belaying-pin crashed upon my head with stunning force. when i recovered consciousness, i found myself swinging in a sailor's hammock that was suspended from the beams of a low wooden ceiling. i felt strangely weak and faint, but made shift to turn my head enough to see that i was in a long, wide space between decks. the rows of cannon resting each before its open port roused in me a sort of dull, vague wonderment. a puff of salt sea air through the nearest port tempered the suffocating heat of the place and revived me to a clearer self-consciousness, though all my memory seemed, as it were, wrapped in a gray mist. the first clear idea was that there was about my neck something precious which must not be lost. i fumbled about with a feeble hand, and drew out the rosary and cross from the open bosom of my shirt. i was gazing at this, still bewildered, when there came to my side a dried-up, kindly faced, bespectacled little gentleman who, at sight of my open eyes, nodded and chirruped almost gayly: "ahoy, jack! pleased to see your wits out of limbo! you've had a narrow squeak of it, my man." "who are you? where am i?" i murmured. he took a pinch of snuff, sneezed with hearty enjoyment, and then answered me with genial condescension: "in due order, jack, i reply that i am dr. cuthbert, surgeon to his majesty's frigate _belligerent_, of whose crew you are a member." i stared at him, my memory still in that gray mist. seeing my bewilderment, he was thoughtful enough to explain: "you were so foolish as to resist, my man, when midshipman hepburn impressed you. either the blow which stunned you, or the close air of the forecastle, or the seeds of disease in your system, brought on a fever and delirium in which you have lain for the past fortnight." "fortnight!" i gasped. "but--i remember now--i must get to vera cruz--vera cruz! fortnight! what is the date?" "august the ninth." i groaned. "vera cruz?" he cackled. "why should you wish to go to vera cruz?" i put my hand to my head, and tried to think--to penetrate that gray mist. "i cannot remember--i cannot remember--only i know i must go--at once--and it has to do with this cross." "eh! eh!" he cackled. "i thought there was something in that rosary. third mates of merchantmen do not usually go about with romish crucifixes and beads about their necks. your name?" i opened my lips, but not a syllable came from them. i racked my brains, groping in that terrible mist of oblivion. it was in vain. i could not remember my own name! "eh! eh!" he murmured, when i told him the dreadful truth. "you are in a pretty pickle. i have known before of such cases, resulting from a crack on the head. the famous john hunter agrees with jean louis petit that it is due to a bloodclot on the brain, which, in favorable cases, dissolves, and the patient becomes fully restored." i stared, uncomprehending. i had forgotten hunter and petit; i had forgotten all my learning--everything of my past life. i did not even realize that i was a physician. he went on cheerily: "so you have some little hope for a full return of memory, jack. in the meantime you will soon regain strength enough to leave the sick bay. for your own good, let me advise you to obey orders and do your duty, with no further attempts at vain and foolish resistance to your superiors. whether or not you are a british subject,--which personally i strongly doubt,--you are entered in the crew of the 'belligerent,' and the iron rules of the royal navy deal severely with the slightest infractions of discipline." chapter xxxiv shame it was another week before i recovered a fair share of my usual strength, and i believe the kindly little surgeon kept me under his charge two or three days longer than was strictly necessary. meantime the mist still shrouded my memory, and though otherwise my wits were as clear as they had ever been, so far as knowledge of anything other than the commonest matters of daily life was concerned i was in a dense night of ignorance. dr. cuthbert took care to explain this to the officer of the watch in which i was put, and the lieutenant was sufficiently humane to set me at tasks which required no skill of seamanship. as it chanced, i saw nothing of the midshipman who had impressed me. he was, as i afterwards learned, in another watch. the day i was ordered on deck we sighted a palm-fringed coast, which my fellow seamen spoke of as yucatan. the word meant nothing to me, for my memory was still in the mist, and the only name left me out of the past was vera cruz. from yucatan the _belligerent_ cruised off in an easterly direction toward cuba. but the second day we fell in with a west-bound frigate, which signalled the _belligerent_ to patrol the mouths of the mississippi, on the lookout for a noted french privateer sloop _la belle silène_, whose master, jean laffat or lafayette, was rumored to have turned pirate. had i been in full possession of my mental faculties, i must surely have noted the similarity of names. jean lafitte was not so far from jean laffat, and the _siren_ from _la belle silène_. as it was, i doubt whether at this time the shouting of lafitte's name in my ear would have stirred the faintest echo of memory. the following morning, just at the change of the dog watch, the frigate was suddenly roused from its dull, precise routine by the sound of a heavy gun booming down the wind from the westward. instantly the ship was brought about, to tack to windward, and the order was given to clear for action. the call to quarters was sounded, the marines paraded, and the cannon run out ready for firing, all before we sighted the supposed enemy. meantime the boom of the heavy cannon had come rolling down the wind to us at such regular intervals that the men about me swore there could be only one big gun. before many minutes we distinguished the hoarse, barking roar of many carronades. at the same time we sighted the square topsails of a spanish merchantman, and, a little later, the gaff-topsail of a sloop. soon the word was shouted down from our lookout at the masthead that the ship was running from the sloop, which carried the big gun and was evidently having far the better of the engagement. the flag of the ship now confirmed the opinion that she was a spanish merchantman. but the strongest of spyglasses were unable to make clear the small flag of the sloop. it was enough, however, for the british captain, that, upon sighting us, the spaniard flew a signal for help, and veered so as to run down to us. that her crew should thus seek to put their ship in the way of certain capture was considered by the men about me clear proof that the sloop was a pirate. as i had been left to pull and haul on deck, i was able to witness all the fierce contest of the fight, and the race of the frigate to rescue the assailed spaniard. sail after sail was set, and the bellying sheets tautened as flat as the nimble seamen could draw them. but swiftly as we tacked to windward, and swiftly as the spaniard slanted down the wind to obtain shelter of us, the unfortunate vessel was already in terrible distress from the relentless attack of her little enemy. with an audacity which amazed the britons, the sloop stood on, undaunted by our approach, hanging close upon the quarter of her victim. the fire of the ship was already silenced, while from half a cable's-length the carronades of the sloop belched their missiles into the rigging of the spaniard with ever-increasing rapidity, and the great gun on the mid-deck sent shot after shot crashing into the bulging hull at the waterline. suddenly we saw the mizzenmast of the spaniard totter. it fell forward and sideways, dragging after it the splintered mainmast. as the ship broached-to, we could see that she was settling down by the stern. even i, despite the night of ignorance which lay upon me, realized that she was beginning to founder. certain of the fate of her victim, the sloop now sheered off. the _belligerent_ opened fire with the long eighteen-pounder bow-chasers, but the shots fell short of the sloop by fifty yards or more. within half a minute the sloop had the stupendous audacity to fire her great gun at us. by a rare chance, the ponderous ball struck the starboard shrouds, snapping them like packthread, and hurled on aslant the after deck, to chip a splinter from the mizzenmast and smash a great hole through the roof of the cabin. only the quickness with which the frigate was brought up into the wind and the main and mizzen sails blanketed by the foresails saved the main and mizzenmasts from being sprung, if not carried overboard. never, i fancy, did the crew of a man-of-war have to suffer such a maddening checkmate. they dared not even come about to give the saucy sloop a broadside, but could only bark away with the ineffective bow-chasers. the sloop packed on what was a tremendous spread of canvas for so small a craft, and fled away aslant the wind at a speed that the frigate could not have hoped to equal on the same course, even had the rigging been in perfect trim. by the time the british had stoppered the broken shrouds, reeved preventer braces, and strengthened the splintered mizzenmast, the spanish ship had drifted down within hailing distance. she now sat very low astern, and such of her people as had not been slain or helplessly wounded had crowded up into her high-flung bows and were shrieking to us for rescue. there was not one of their boats which had escaped the fierce fire of the sloop's carronades. seeing this, and that pursuit of the sloop was now hopeless, the british captain ordered out all the frigate's boats to take off the imperilled spaniards. this was a simple matter, as there was little sea running and the wind no more than a fair breeze. soon the first boatload of spaniards was brought over from the sinking ship and rowed along our starboard side toward the stern. as the boat passed, i looked down from the lofty deck in the idle curiosity of my empty head. seated in the stern-sheets i saw a portly man in robes, and beside him a slender woman in the white veil of a novice. the woman looked up--it was alisanda! a cry burst from my lips, and i staggered back with a hand to my forehead. in a twinkling everything had come back to me--full consciousness and memory of myself, my life, my love! but in the same instant all memory of my days aboard the _belligerent_ became a blank. i stared about me in amazement. then i remembered that my lady was being rowed alongside this strange ship. i glanced over, and saw that the boat had made fast alongside the ship's quarter,--that preparations were under way to lift alisanda to the deck. heedless of all else in the strange unknown scene about me, i ran aft, half mad with the mystery and joy of such a meeting. but suddenly a marine sprang before me with lowered bayonet. "halt!" he ordered. i stopped short, with the point against my breast. "let me past--let me past!" i panted. "i must go to my lady! i am dr. robinson! i must see her--at once!" "what's this?" demanded an insolent young voice, and the midshipman who had impressed me swung around beside the marine. i recognized him on the instant. "you!" i cried. "the dunce!" he rejoined. "back before the mast, you damned yankee!" "you!" i repeated. "get out of my way. i'm going to my lady!" "your lady!" he sneered, and he added a term which stung me to madness. as he spoke, he struck me a heavy blow with his fist upon my jaw. catching him by the wrist, i jerked him forward and struck him a blow between the eyes that would have felled him had i not held to his wrist. the marine cried out, and sprang around for an opening to lunge at me without striking his officer. i caught the staggering young scoundrel by the shoulders and hurled him against the man. both rolled to the deck. at the same moment some one sprang upon me from behind and bore me down. as i fell, others flung themselves upon my legs. my arms were wrenched around behind my back and lashed together, my ankles bound fast, despite my desperate struggles. then a stern voice gave the order for me to be taken below and placed in irons. i sought to cry out an appeal--to attempt an explanation. but one of the men thrust a balled kerchief into my mouth and tied in the gag with another kerchief which covered my eyes as well. dumb, blind, and bound, i was carried below, still struggling. the moment they had replaced my bonds with handcuffs and bilboes and relieved me of the gag, down in the foul, cell-like prison, i so implored and raved to see the captain that they thought i was beside myself,--as, indeed, it may well be said i was. instead of the captain, they sent for dr. cuthbert, who was a perfect stranger to my restored memory. he listened to my now incoherent statements that i was dr. john robinson and must go to my lady, and sought to soothe me. my constant repetitions convinced him that i was quite out of my head, and to quiet me, he cunningly administered an opiate in wine and water. discipline is swift-handed aboard a man-of-war. before i had fully slept off the effects of the drug, i was roused and taken before the court-martial convened to try me. the judge-advocate was the officer of my watch, though at the time i had no memory of him. for the first time i saw the captain near at hand. he was a granite-faced cornishman, and looked upon me with a cold, blue-gray eye which condemned me before a word had been spoken. my ankles had been freed from the bilboes before i was brought up, but when i was ordered to stand, i could not readily obey because of the continued numbness of my limbs. at this two of my guards jerked me up with brutal roughness, and the charge against me was read. to my amazement and horror, i learned that i was upon trial, under the name jack numskull, for the crime of striking my superior officer, the penalty for which was death. ignorant of the procedure of the court, i sought to protest, but was ordered to keep silent. in quick succession, the witnesses were called and questioned,--first the midshipman i had struck, then the marine, and after that four or five seamen. all testified without contradiction to the damnable fact that i had struck midshipman hepburn. "enough," said captain powers. "has the prisoner anything to say?" the question was repeated to me. i bowed to the court as best i could with my wrists locked together behind my back. "gentlemen," i said, "i wish first to explain--" "speak to the point," commanded the judge-advocate. "the law does not require you to confess. yet if you wish to meet death with a free conscience, the court will receive your statement. do you admit that you struck your superior officer?" "no. i deny it." "you deny it--in the face of this positive testimony?" "i admit that i struck midshipman hepburn,--if that is his name. i deny that i struck my superior officer." "explain!" demanded captain powers, irascibly. "i deny that midshipman hepburn is my superior officer,--that any man on this ship or in the navy of george the third is my superior officer. i deny the jurisdiction of this court. i am a native-born citizen of the united states of america. i was aboard a neutral vessel sailing from one free port to another when this same midshipman hepburn boarded the craft and unlawfully impressed me. in resisting, i was struck senseless. of whatever has happened since i have barely a vague consciousness. only i know that immediately before the affray for which i am now being tried, i saw a lady being brought alongside in a boat, and at once full memory came back to me. i am john h. robinson, a physician of the louisiana territory, born in the state of pennsylvania, reared at cincinnati on the ohio river, and educated at columbia college, in the city of new york." during my recital, all present except the captain regarded me with lively curiosity, mingled with varying degrees of incredulity. powers did not betray the slightest interest or emotion. "we have heard the statement of the prisoner," he said. "whether it is or is not true is irrelevant. the fact remains that the prisoner, while serving as a seaman in the service of his majesty king george, did strike a midshipman in said service, the same being his superior officer." "sir, may i suggest the doubt of the prisoner's sanity, in mitigation of his crime?" interposed the judge-advocate. "remove the prisoner," commanded the captain. i was led out and kept waiting for half an hour, while my life hung in the balance. at last they led me back to receive the decree of the court. by now i was in a half stupor of agonized despair, my thoughts fixed upon alisanda and all i was to lose. the terrible word "death!" roused me to consciousness of my surroundings. the judge-advocate paused, drew a deep breath, and continued the reading of the sentence: "but, it being testified to by surgeon wilbur cuthbert that said prisoner was not at the time of the committance of his crime rational or sane, said sentence of death is hereby commuted to the sentence of one hundred lashes--" "hold! hold!" i cried. "not that! shoot me!--murder me! but spare me that shame!" this time when they dragged me out and down to the foul prison black-hole they had no need of a gag. after that one wild protest, i fell dumb. i had seen two floggings of twenty strokes of the cat since coming aboard. with the words of my sentence the memory had come back to me, and with the memory of those shameful floggings had returned the remembrance of all my life aboard the _belligerent_. when, an hour or so after my sentence, dr. cuthbert came to condole with me, i recognized him and his kindness, but sat in sullen misery when he sought to question me. the trial was over--sentence imposed. why should i accept the sympathy of these brutes? he may have divined my frame of mind, for presently he fell to deploring the rigors of the times, brought about by the boundless ambition of bonaparte. england, he argued, alone interposed by means of her navy a barrier against the world-wide domination of the corsican adventurer. that navy was the hope of the world. yet, thanks to the french privateers and bonaparte's strength upon the continent, britain had lost much of her commerce to the united states, to whose ships the british seamen were constantly deserting to escape the harsh yet necessary discipline of the royal navy. what, then, if occasionally a native american was impressed? the struggle between britain and the corsican was a struggle of life and death. britain must man her ships, or submit to destruction, and with britain crushed, what nation or alliance of nations could hope to withstand the infernal genius of bonaparte? i waited for a pause, and inquired in a casual tone as to the welfare of the spanish lady rescued from the sinking ship. he started up, retreated a pace or two, with his eyes fixed upon me, and then hurried off, tapping his head significantly. i bowed my head with a sigh of relief. the temptation had been taken from me. my weakness should not have another opportunity to betray me. my lady should not know of my shame. chapter xxxv under the lash in the early morning they led me out beside the foremast. there were present the petty officer told off to wield the cat-o'-nine-tails, an officer to tally the strokes, dr. cuthbert, and my guard. this was at the first. before the punishment had begun, half a hundred of the crew had assembled to witness it, drawn i suppose by varying motives of curiosity, pity, or craving for the exhibition of brutality. my guard was about to strip off my shirt, when dr. cuthbert interposed. "one moment." they stepped back, and he addressed me: "dr. robinson, i have never known a man possessed of a finer physique than yours. on the other hand, none can say beforetime what any man can endure unless he has been tested. you may succumb to this punishment." i looked at him a long moment, and for my lady's sake, found power to beg a favor of this most insistently kind enemy. "dr. cuthbert," i replied, "may i ask you to remove the rosary from about my neck?" he did so. "sir, i now request you to guard my treasure. if i survive this shame, restore it to me. if i succumb, i trust you as a gentleman and a brother physician to give the cross into the hands of señorita alisanda vallois, with the simple statement that i died in your care." "señorita vallois?--you know her?" he exclaimed. "yes; but in god's name, doctor, do not tell her of my shame!" "dr. cuthbert!" interposed the officer in charge. the doctor stepped away, and my guard and executioner seized me fast. with the deftness of sailors, they removed my handcuffs, stripped me to the waist, and triced me up by the wrists to the foremast. "ready!" called the officer. "one!" down came the lash upon my bare back. but the sting of its thongs was as nothing to the sting of shame which pierced my heart. death would have been far less bitter than this disgrace! the count went on. stroke after stroke slashed across my back and shoulders as heavily as my imbruted executioner could strike. soon the blood began to ooze, then trickle, then stream down. by the fiftieth stroke i should judge that my back was a mass of raw flesh. yet the count continued, the strokes fell without ceasing, mercilessly. coming as i did from a people bred to endure the utmost torture of the indian savage, i found no difficulty in restraining any outcry under this equally fiendish torture of so-called christians. but as the little surgeon had said, no man can foresee the limits of endurance. at the seventy-third stroke i swooned. they did not cut me down, but let me hang by the wrists, and drenched me with buckets of sea-water, until i revived. i gasped, stiffened, and writhed in the hell of agony which beset me with returning consciousness. "seventy-four!" called the officer. the lash descended, all the more forcefully for the rest enjoyed by the wielder. "seventy-five!--seventy-six!--seventy-seven!" went on the merciless tally. i gritted my teeth, and vowed to endure and live, that i might overturn heaven and earth to accomplish the shame and destruction of britain. my glaring eyes looked out past the mast upon the sailors before me with such murderous rage that one by one they edged back and around beyond reach of my vision. the count had now passed the eighties--it was at ninety. only ten more strokes! but despite my rage, a deathly sickness was fast creeping upon me. i could no longer hold up my head. try as i might, it sank lower and lower, until my chin was upon my quivering breast. "ninety-five!" the words came faint, from an immeasurable distance. i was again about to swoon. suddenly i heard a cry of anguish such as i trust never to hear again. it was the voice of my lady! i looked up. she was darting toward me, her beautiful hair flying wildly in the breeze, the rosary in her outstretched hand. "ninety-six!" again the lash fell. "ninety-seven!" but now she was beside me--she had flung herself between me and the descending lash. i heard the sailors cry out. the executioner whisked his lash aside by so narrow a margin that the tip of one of the thongs left a crimson weal across her white forehead. "god!" cried the officer. there was a moment's breathless pause. then he called harshly, "mademoiselle, stand aside. there are yet three strokes." "strike if you dare!" she cried. "i am here to defend him! strike me!" "mademoiselle, i would not force you away. but if i send for captain powers--" "send!" she cried. "_poder de dios!_ this gentleman is my betrothed husband!" there was a gleam above my head, and the blade of a little dagger slashed through the lashings which bound my wrists to the mast. i attempted to turn, but tottered, and my knees bent and doubled beneath me. i should have fallen headlong had she not eased me to the deck with her arm across my naked, sweaty, blood-streaked breast. she knelt beside me, and drew my head against her knee. then all again became black. chapter xxxvi across the gulf this time, lacking the flood of sea-water, my swoon lasted much longer. i recovered to find myself in the great cabin, lying upon a luxurious berth, close to a stern window. already my back had been covered with a soothing, cooling balm and wrapped about with bandages. i sought to turn upon my side, that i might look around. at once gentle hands lent their aid to my support. "he revives!" exclaimed my lady. "'t was best to dress the wound before applying restoratives," chirruped dr. cuthbert. but now i was fairly on my side, and could see the dear form of my lady. "alisanda!" i murmured. "juan!" she responded, kneeling and pressing her lips to mine regardless of the doctor's presence. "my juan! i am here, my beloved. i am with you!" i caught sight of the weal of the lash across her forehead, and i quivered with fury. "that!" i muttered--"that mark upon your forehead! they struck you?" "no, no!" she soothed. "lie still, beloved. it was only an accident. it does not hurt me--nothing can hurt me, juan, now that we have found each other!" "dearest one!" i whispered. she bent close above me, with her soft round arm about my neck,--and quickly all my pain and rage died away and were forgotten under the glory of the golden love-light in her tender eyes. dr. cuthbert coughed, then took snuff. at that moment we would not have heeded a cannon roaring in our ears. at last, however, father rocus entered, followed closely by captain powers. alisanda quietly rose to face them, but held to my hand as a mother would clasp the hand of the child she sought to defend. the captain stared at her between anger and admiration. "mademoiselle vallois!" he rumbled. "what does all this mean? how dare you interfere with the discipline of my ship?" "how dare you, who call yourself an officer and a christian, torture so hideously this gentleman?" she returned. "gentleman?--torture?" he echoed, taken aback. "the gentleman i am betrothed to marry." "marry!--him?" "_santisima virgen!_ yes!" she cried. "and you!--you have lashed him like a slave!--the truest, most gallant gentleman in christendom!" he muttered something about the mad third mate of a sloop. to this dr. cuthbert made hasty reply: "all a mistake, sir,--a most egregious error. mr. robinson is, i am certain, precisely what he claimed." "nevertheless," broke in the captain, his voice as hard as iron, "the man has been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to one hundred lashes. he has received ninety-seven. there are still three strokes." "i will bear them for him!" said alisanda. "mademoiselle, do not make yourself ridiculous," he reproved. "better that than your cowardly cruelty in seeking to lash to death a citizen of the republic which revolted from your brutal rule!" she thrust back at him. he stood for some moments gazing into her scornful eyes. despite all his harshness and arrogance, i believe he was alike pleased with her spirit and softened by her beauty. "this man is entered in my crew as a subject of his majesty," he at last stated, in a tone which invited argument. "he is not a briton," she replied. "i know he is an american. i met and travelled with him in his own land. i saw, on the bank of the ohio, the tomb of his mother, who was slain by the red savages in the pay of your government. he was a volunteer with an expedition under lieutenant pike of the army of the united states. they crossed the western deserts of louisiana and the lofty sierras of the west, and came far south into new spain." "hold!" exclaimed the captain. "that is incredible." "it is the truth," confirmed father rocus. "you support her statement, sir?" demanded powers. "i am ready to swear to it, on my sacred word," replied the padre. "this gentleman upon the couch is dr. john h. robinson, a physician of the louisiana territory, who was the _compagnon du voyage_ of lieutenant pike in the amazing journey of which señorita vallois has spoken. it is as i told you before we entered." father rocus spoke with no less force than suavity. "it begins to look as though a mistake had been made," admitted the captain with obstinate reluctance. "a mistake, sir, which has come near to costing dr. robinson his life," ventured dr. cuthbert, snuff-box in hand. "a mistake which can never be rectified," added father rocus. the stubborn briton was at last convinced. "i will make such reparation as lies within my power. dr. robinson, i offer you my apology for this unfortunate mistake." i closed my eyes and clung tightly to alisanda's hand, that i might not fling his apology back in his teeth. i heard the murmur of the padre's voice, followed by the tread of feet and the opening and closing of the door. then once more alisanda's arm was about my neck and her fragrant lips were pressed upon my mouth. "dearest," she whispered, "they have gone. i alone am here now, to comfort you." "you are here!" i repeated. "tell me. how did you come? i sailed for vera cruz, but they took me by force from the sloop." i paused, as suddenly my two memories brought together the sloop _siren_ and the sloop which had sunk my lady's ship. "lafitte!" i exclaimed. "lafitte?" she asked, bewildered. "all's well that ends well!" i cried. "after all, he brought us together." "who, juan?" "jean lafitte, the man who was to have landed me in vera cruz." "ah, vera cruz--_santa maria!_ that terrible city! people were dying by scores of the yellow fever. we lingered as long as we dared. but you did not come. the padre said you could not have read my message aright. we at last took ship for western florida. there was none sailing for new orleans." "you were coming to me! but the veil--the nun's veil?" "it is gone--see!" she put her free hand to the silky mass of her dusky hair. "god forgive me, juan! it was for your sake, and with the assent of the padre, that i took the novitiate vows." "for my sake, alisanda?" "that i might come to you, my knight! when you left me, my uncle became all the more insistent that i should marry the governor-general. the padre had already planned for me this way of escape. i took the vows of a novice. after that neither my uncle nor doña marguerite dared oppose the counsel of the padre when he told them i must go to the convent of my order in vera cruz. you see how selfish a love is mine. i could not give you up, juan. i was not a heroine, to give myself for the saving of an oppressed people." "no!" i rejoined. "you could not have helped the people of new spain. they must fight their own battles. no people are worthy of freedom who are not ready to give their lives for the ending of tyranny. had you sacrificed yourself to salcedo, he would either have betrayed the revolution, or he would have made himself a dictator, more tyrannous than before." "you told me that in chihuahua, dear. i repeated your words to the padre, and he confirmed the statement. it was well, for had he shared my uncle's faith in don nimesio, he also might have sought to persuade me to give myself to the cause of liberty." "as it was," i murmured, "you attempted to come to me--alone!" "not alone, juan. there were the padre and my faithful chita." "ah, chita--i did not see her in the boat." my lady began to weep. "poor chita! she was killed by a cannon-ball, when standing beside me, during that fearful destruction of our ship by the pirate sloop." "pirate!" i repeated. "they flew the black flag?" "no; but it was a flag unknown to our captain, and he said they must be pirates. they attacked us without warning and signalled that they would give us no quarter--and they killed my poor chita!" i remembered the dreadful vow of captain lafitte, but forgot it again in my efforts to comfort my darling. i drew her lovely head down upon my shoulder and stroked her silky hair. in the midst father rocus entered and came over to us, rubbing his plump, white hands together with satisfaction. "my dear children," he said, "after all your trials, you have at last won the happiness you deserve. though you, my son, remain a heretic, i believe that such love as yours is sacred in the sight of god. my daughter, come now, that i may prepare you for the sacrament of holy wedlock." "now?--so soon?" she cried, drawing free from me, and standing, scarlet-cheeked, her eyes fixed upon the deck, and her sweet bosom rising and falling tremulously. "he is bruised and torn in spirit and body. you alone can soothe him," said the padre. she cast at me a glance of unutterable tenderness, and withdrew into the adjoining stateroom. father rocus paused for a last word to me: "my son, this moment should be as solemn to you as it is joyful. consider the great goodness of god in giving to you a wife more precious than rubies. in that thought, remember the words of our blessed lord christ, 'forgive your enemies.'" with that he left me, and i lay alone in my burning pain, wondering if it were possible for any man to forgive so bitter a shame and wrong as had been done to me. but quickly a sort of ecstatic awe crept over me as the consciousness of my marvellous--my splendid good fortune took possession of my mind. it seemed unbelievable, and yet he had said it. my dear lady was about to become my bride! she had crossed the gulf to me! in the bliss of that thought, all my pain and anguish of body and mind vanished, and the bitterness of shame, the fury of hate dissolved away. i could not forgive my enemies, but the memory of their deeds was blunted and smoothed over by the magic of love. when at last captain powers came in with a few others to witness the ceremony, i was able to bring myself to the point of accepting the apology he had tendered. this was well, for otherwise it would have been difficult to endure the service which, as captain of the ship, it was necessary for him to render us to assure the legality of our marriage. soon father rocus led in my dear lady. she was no longer blushing, but calm and pale. in the presence of the men who had condemned me to death and to a disgrace worse than death, she raised her head and passed by them with the hauteur of a queen. yet once at my side, she knelt and clasped my hand with a tender devotion that fetched more than one envious sigh from the breasts of the younger officers. never had she seemed more lovely, more adorable, than as she waited beside me, her dark eyes upraised and glowing with solemn ecstasy. the sonorous voice of father rocus rang in my ears like the sweet harmonies of some heavenly choir. i had insisted upon lifting myself upon my elbow, and when the padre handed me the ring, i made shift to slip it upon the finger of my bride. a little more, and the good padre raised his hands above us and blessed us as man and wife. with that the officers came forward and expressed their congratulations, forgetting their british stiffness and reserve in their heartiness. at such a moment i could have thanked satan himself for a word of good-will. yet i was not ill-pleased when, having received my responses, they bowed themselves out. as the last of their number closed the door behind him, father rocus drew from his robe a rounded pouch of worn leather, and held it out to me. "what is this, padre?" i asked, taking the heavy little bag. he nodded gayly to alisanda. "according to the spanish, and, i believe, the american law, you are entitled to the charge of this property. when we left chihuahua, señorita vallois intrusted her jewels to my care. i now deliver them into the hands of her husband." he smiled at my bewildered look, blessed us the second time, and left us alone. "sweetheart," i muttered, "i did not know--" she smiled in tender mischief. "was it not a happy surprise? before my father died, there in the fogs of england, he sold all his spanish estates and bought jewels, that i might keep possession of my property. such being his will, not even his brother, my uncle, would take the jewels from me." "nor will i, alisanda," i said. "you will share them equally with me, dear husband; for we are now one. if it is your desire, we will purchase an estate at new orleans. i dread your cold, wet north." "whatever your heart desires, dearest one, it shall ever be the object of my life to obtain it for you. your wish shall ever be my law, my bride!" "juan, my husband!" she murmured, and our lips met in that first rapturous kiss of man and wife. two days later, having in the meantime stood off toward the spanish port of mobile, the _belligerent_ fell in with a philadelphia brig, bound for new orleans. the master of the quaker vessel readily bargained to take us as passengers, and we were accordingly put aboard the _mary penn_ by captain powers, after we had taken a most affectionate farewell of father rocus. he was going on to mobile to care for the rescued spaniards, of whom, all being persons of no political or military consequence, the british were eager to rid themselves. except between ourselves and the padre, the parting afforded a welcome relief to all. there had not alone been the matter of personal shame. in these years of national humiliation, it would be difficult for any true american to act the part of a gracious guest aboard a british man-of-war. but once aboard the _mary penn_, there was nothing to mar the perfect joy of our love. after a short and smooth voyage, the brig put into one of the many mouths of the mississippi, and, ascending in charge of a pilot, landed us at new orleans, the happiest couple in all the wide world. the end by mr. bennet into the primitive a daring story of shipwreck and "the survival of the fittest." for the white christ a story of the days of charlemagne. digital material generously made available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/continentaldrago stepiala transcriber's note: hyphenation has been made consistent. archaic and variable spellings are preserved. the author's punctuation style is preserved, except quotation marks, which have been standardized. text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=). the continental dragoon. by r. n. stephens. * * * * * works of r. n. stephens. an enemy to the king. the continental dragoon. _in press_: the road to paris. l. c. page and company, publishers, (incorporated) summer st., boston, mass. * * * * * [illustration: "_'take that rebel alive!' ordered colden._" photogravure from original drawing by h. c. edwards.] the continental dragoon a love story of philipse manor-house in by robert neilson stephens author of "an enemy to the king" illustrated by h. c. edwards "love's born of a glance, i say" boston l. c. page and company (incorporated) copyright, by l. c. page and company (incorporated) entered at stationer's hall, london fifth thousand colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, u. s. a. contents. chapter page i. the riders ii. the manor-house iii. the sound of galloping iv. the continental dragoon v. the black horse vi. the one chance vii. the flight of the minutes viii. the secret passage ix. the confession x. the plan of retaliation xi. the conquest xii. the challenge xiii. the unexpected xiv. the broken sword list of illustrations. "'take that rebel alive!' ordered colden." frontispiece "'give it to the colonel.'" "leaned forward on the horse's neck." "'you are too late, jack!'" "'go, i say!'" "'i take my leave of this house!'" chapter i. the riders. "i dare say 'tis a wild, foolish, dangerous thing; but i do it, nevertheless! as for my reasons, they are the strongest. first, i wish to do it. second, you've all opposed my doing it. so there's an end of the matter!" it was, of course, a woman that spoke,--moreover, a young one. and she added: "drat the wind! can't we ride faster? 'twill be dark before we reach the manor-house. get along, cato!" she was one of three on horseback, who went northward on the albany post-road late in the afternoon of a gray, chill, blowy day in november, in the war-scourged year . beside the girl rode a young gentleman, wrapped in a dark cloak. the third horse, which plodded a short distance in the rear, carried a small negro youth and two large portmanteaus. the three riders made a group that was, as far as could be seen from their view-point, alone on the highway. there were reasons why such a group, on that road at that time, was an unusual sight,--reasons familiar to any one who is well informed in the history of the revolution. unfortunately, most good americans are better acquainted with the french revolution than with our own, know more about the state of affairs in rome during the reign of nero than about the condition of things in new york city during the british occupation, and compensate for their knowledge of scotch-english border warfare in remote times by their ignorance of the border warfare that ravaged the vicinity of the island of manhattan, for six years, little more than a century ago. our revolutionary war had reached the respectable age of three and a half years. lexington, bunker hill, brooklyn, harlem heights, white plains, trenton, princeton, the brandywine, german-town, bennington, saratoga, and monmouth--not to mention events in the south and in canada and on the water--had taken their place in history. the army of the king of england had successively occupied boston, new york, and philadelphia; had been driven out of boston by siege, and had left philadelphia to return to the town more pivotal and nearer the sea,--new york. one british commander-in-chief had been recalled by the british ministry to explain why he had not crushed the rebellion, and one british major-general had surrendered an army, and was now back in england defending his course and pleading in parliament the cause of the americans, to whom he was still a prisoner on parole. our continental army--called continental because, like the general congress, it served the whole union of british-settled colonies or states on this continent, and was thus distinguished from the militia, which served in each case its particular colony or state only--had experienced both defeats and victories in encounters with the king's troops and his allies, german, hessian, and american tory. it had endured the winter at valley forge while the british had fed, drunk, gambled, danced, flirted, and wenched in philadelphia. the french alliance had been sanctioned. steuben, lafayette, dekalb, pulaski, kosciusko, armand, and other europeans, had taken service with us. one plot had been made in congress and the army to supplant washington in the chief command, and had failed. the treason of general charles lee had come to naught,--but was to wait for disclosure till many years after every person concerned should be graveyard dust. we had celebrated two anniversaries of the fourth of july. the new free and independent states had organized local governments. the king's appointees still made a pretence of maintaining the royal provincial governments, but mostly abode under the protection of the king's troops in new york. there also many of those americans in the north took refuge who distinctly professed loyalty to the king. new york was thus the chief lodging-place of all that embodied british sovereignty in america. naturally the material tokens of british rule radiated from the town, covering all of the island of manhattan, most of long island, and all of staten island, and retaining a clutch here and there on the mainland of new jersey. it was the present object of washington to keep those visible signs of english authority penned up within this circle around new york. the continental posts, therefore, formed a vast arc, extending from the interior of new jersey through southeastern new york state to long island sound and into connecticut. this had been the situation since midsummer of . it was but a detachment from our main army that had cooperated with the french fleet in the futile attempt to dislodge a british force from newport in august of that year. the british commander-in-chief and most of the superior officers had their quarters in the best residences of new york. that town was packed snugly into the southern angle of the island of manhattan, like a gift in the toe of a christmas stocking. southward, some of its finest houses looked across the battery to the bay. northward the town extended little beyond the common fields, of which the city hall square of is a reduced survival. the island of manhattan--with its hills, woods, swamps, ponds, brooks, roads, farms, sightly estates, gardens, and orchards--was dotted with the cantonments and garrisoned forts of the british. the outposts were, largely, entrusted to bodies of tory allies organized in this country. thus was much of long island guarded by the three loyalist battalions of general oliver de lancey, himself a native of new york. on staten island was quartered general van cortlandt skinner's brigade of new jersey volunteers, a troop which seems to have had such difficulty in finding officers in its own state that it had to go to new york for many of them,--or was it that so many more rich new york loyalists had to be provided with commissions than the new york loyalist brigades required as officers? but the most important british posts were those which guarded the northern entrance to the island of manhattan, where it was separated from the mainland by spuyten duyvel kill, flowing westward into the hudson, and the harlem, flowing southward into the east river. king's bridge and the farmers' bridge, not far apart, joined the island to the main; and just before the revolution a traveller might have made his choice of these two bridges, whether he wished to take the boston road or the road to albany. in the british "barrier" was king's bridge, the northern one of the two, the watch-house being the tavern at the mainland end of the bridge. not only the bridge, but the hudson, the spuyten duyvel, and the harlem, as well, were commanded by british forts on the island of manhattan. yet there were defences still further out. on the mainland was a line of forts extending from the hudson, first eastward, then southward, to the east river. further north, between the albany road and the hudson, was a camp of german and hessian allies, foot and horse. northeast, on valentine's hill, were the seventy-first highlanders. near the mainland bank of the harlem were the quarters of various troops of dragoons, most of them american tory corps with english commanders, but one, at least, native to the soil, not only in rank and file, but in officers also,--and with no less dash and daring than by tarleton, simcoe, and the rest, was king george iii. served by captain james de lancey, of the county of west chester, with his "cowboys," officially known as the west chester light horse. thus the outer northern lines of the british were just above king's bridge. the principal camp of the americans was far to the north. each army was affected by conditions that called for a wide space of territory between the two forces, between the outer rim of the british circle, and the inner face of the american arc. of this space the portion that lay bounded on the west by the hudson, on the southeast by long island sound, and cut in two by the southward-flowing bronx, was the most interesting. it was called the neutral ground, and neutral it was in that it had the protection of neither side, while it was ravaged by both. foraged by the two armies, under the approved rules of war, it underwent further a constant, irregular pillage by gangs of mounted rascals who claimed attachment, some to the british, some to the americans, but were not owned by either. it was, too, overridden by the cavalry of both sides in attempts to surprise outposts, cut off supplies, and otherwise harass and sting. unexpected forays by the rangers and dragoons from king's bridge and the harlem were reciprocated by sudden visitations of american horse and light infantry from the greenburg hills and thereabove. the whig militia of the county also took a hand against british tories and marauders. of the residents, many tories fled to new york, some americans went to the interior of the country, but numbers of each party held their ground, at risk of personal harm as well as of robbery. many of the best houses were, at different times during the war, occupied as quarters by officers of either side. little was raised on the farms save what the farmers could immediately use or easily conceal. the hudson was watched by british war-vessels, while the americans on their side patrolled it with whale-boats, long and canoe-like, swift and elusive. for the drama of partisan warfare, nature had provided, in lower west chester county,--picturesquely hilly, beautifully wooded, pleasantly watered, bounded in part by the matchless hudson and the peerless sound,--a setting unsurpassed. thus was it that miss elizabeth philipse, major john colden, and miss philipse's negro boy, cuff, all riding northward on the albany post-road, a few miles above king's bridge, but still within territory patrolled daily by the king's troops, constituted, on that bleak november evening in , a group unusual to the time and place. 'twas a wettish wind, concerning which miss elizabeth expressed, in the imperative mood, her will that it be dratted,--a feminine wind, truly, as was clear from its unexpected flarings up and sudden calmings down, its illogical whiskings around and eccentric changes of direction. now it swept down the slope from the east, as if it meant to bombard the travellers with all the brown leaves of the hillside. now it assailed them from the north, as if to impede their journey; now rushed on them from the rear as if it had come up from new york to speed them on their way; now attacked them in the left flank, armed with a raw chill from the hudson. it blew miss elizabeth's hair about and additionally reddened her cheeks. it caused the young tory major to frown, for the protection of his eyes, and thus to look more and more unlike the happy man that miss elizabeth's accepted suitor ought to have appeared. "i make no doubt i've brought on me the anger of your whole family by lending myself to this. and yet i am as much against it as they are!" so spake the major, in tones as glum as his looks. "'twas a choice, then, between their anger and mine," said miss elizabeth, serenely. "don't think i wouldn't have come, even if you had refused your escort. i'd have made the trip alone with cuff, that's all." "i shall be blamed, none the less." "why? you couldn't have hindered me. if the excursion is as dangerous as they say it is, your company certainly does not add to my danger. it lessens it. so, as my safety is what they all clamor about, they ought to commend you for escorting me." "if they were like ever to take that view, they would not all have refused you their own company." "they refused because they neither supposed that i would come alone nor that providence would send me an escort in the shape of a surly major on leave of absence from staten island! come, jack, you needn't tremble in dread of their wrath. by this time my amiable papa and my solicitous mamma and my anxious brothers and sisters are in such a state of mind about me that, when you return to-night and report i've been safely consigned to aunt sally's care, they'll fairly worship you as a messenger of good news. so be as cheerful as the wind and the cold will let you. we are almost there. it seems an age since we passed van cortlandt's." major colden merely sighed and looked more dismal, as if knowing the futility of speech. "there's the steeple!" presently cried the girl, looking ahead. "we'll be at the parsonage in ten minutes, and safe in the manor-house in five more. do look relieved, jack! the journey's end is in sight, and we haven't had sight of a soldier this side of king's bridge,--except van wrumb's hessians across tippett's vale, and they are friends. br-r-r-r! i'll have williams make a fire in every room in the manor-house!" now while these three rode in seeming security from the south towards the church, parsonage, country tavern, and great manor-house that constituted the village then called, sometimes lower philipsburgh and sometimes younker's, that same hill-varied, forest-set, stream-divided place was being approached afar from the north by a company of mounted troops riding as if the devil was after them. it was not the devil, but another body of cavalry, riding at equal speed, though at a great distance behind. the three people from new york as yet neither saw nor heard anything of these horsemen dashing down from the north. yet the major's spirits sank lower and lower, as if he had an omen of coming evil. he was a handsome young man, major john colden, being not more than twenty-seven years old, and having the clearly outlined features best suited to that period of smooth-shaven faces. his dark eyes and his pensive expression were none the less effective for the white powder on his cued hair. a slightly petulant, uneasy look rather added to his countenance. he was of medium height and regular figure. he wore a civilian's cloak or outer coat over the uniform of his rank and corps, thus hiding also his sword and pistol. other externals of his attire were riding-boots, gloves, and a three-cornered hat without a military cockade. he was mounted on a sorrel horse a little darker in hue than the animal ridden by miss elizabeth's black boy, cuff, who wore the rich livery of the philipses. the steed of miss elizabeth was a slender black, sensitive and responsive to her slightest command--a fit mount for this, the most imperious, though not the oldest, daughter of colonel frederick philipse, third lord, under the bygone royal régime, of the manor of philipsburgh in the province of new york. they gave classic names to quadrupeds in those days and addison's tragedy was highly respected, so elizabeth's scholarly father had christened this horse cato. howsoever the others who loved her regarded her present jaunt, no opposition was shown by cato. obedient now as ever, the animal bore her zealously forward, be it to danger or to what she would. elizabeth's resolve to revisit the manor hall on the hudson, which had been left closed up in the steward's charge when the family had sought safety in their new york city residence in , had sprung in part from a powerful longing for the country and in part from a dream which had reawakened strongly her love for the old house of her birth and of most of her girlhood. the peril of her resolve only increased her determination to carry it out. her parents, brothers, and sisters stood aghast at the project, and refused in any way to countenance it. but there was no other will in the philipse household able to cope with elizabeth's. she held that the thing was most practicable and simple, inasmuch as the steward, with the aid of two servants, kept the deserted house in a state of habitation, and as her mother's sister, miss sarah williams, was living with the widow babcock in the parsonage of lower philipsburgh and could transfer her abode to the manor-house for the time of elizabeth's stay. major colden, an unloved lover,--for elizabeth, accepting marriage as one of the inevitables, yet declared that she could never love any man, love being admittedly a weakness, and she not a weak person,--was ever watchful for the opportunity of ingratiating himself with the superb girl, and so fearful of displeasing her that he dared not refuse to ride with her. he was less able even than her own family to combat her purpose. one day some one had asked him why, since she called him jack, and he was on the road to thirty years, while she was yet in her teens, he did not call her betty or bess, as all other elizabeths were called in those days. he meditated a moment, then replied, "i never heard any one, even in her own family, call her so. i can't imagine any one ever calling her by any more familiar name than elizabeth." now it was not from her father that this regal young creature could have taken her resoluteness, though she may well have got from him some of the pride that went with it. there certainly must have been more pride than determination in frederick philipse, third lord of the manor, colonel in provincial militia before the revolution, graduate of king's college, churchman, benefactor, gentleman of literary tastes; amiable, courtly, and so fat that he and his handsome wife could not comfortably ride in the same coach at the same time. but there was surely as much determination as pride in this gentleman's great-grandfather, vrederyck flypse, descendant of a line of viscounts and keepers of the deer forests of bohemia, protestant victim of religious persecution in his own land, immigrant to new amsterdam about , and soon afterward the richest merchant in the province, dealer with the indians, ship-owner in the east and west india trade, importer of slaves, leader in provincial politics and government, founder of sleepy hollow church, probably a secret trafficker with captain kidd and other pirates, and owner by purchase of the territory that was erected by royal charter of william and mary into the lordship and manor of philipsburgh. the strength of will probably declined, while the pride throve, in transmission to vrederyck's son, philip, who sowed wild oats, and went to the barbadoes for his health and married the daughter of the english governor of that island. philip's son, frederick, being born in a hot climate, and grandson of an english governor as well as of the great flypse, would naturally have had great quantity of pride, whatever his stock of force, particularly as he became second lord of the manor at the lordly age of four. and he could not easily have acquired humility in later life, as speaker of the provincial assembly, baron of the exchequer, judge of the supreme court, or founder of st. john's church,--towards which graceful edifice was the daughter of his son, the third lord, directing her horse this wintry autumn evening. as for this third lord, he had been removed by the new government to connecticut for favoring the english rule, but, having received permission to go to new york for a short time, had evinced his fondness for the sweet and soft things of life by breaking his parole and staying in the city, under the british protection, thus risking his vast estate and showing himself a gentleman of anything but the courage now displayed by his daughter. elizabeth, therefore, must have derived her spirit, with a good measure of pride and a fair share (or more) of vanity, from her mother, though, thanks to that appreciation of personal comfort which comes with middle age, madam philipse's high-spiritedness would no longer have displayed itself in dangerous excursions, nor was it longer equal to a contest with the fresher energy of elizabeth. she was the daughter of charles williams, once naval officer of the port of new york, and his wife, who had been miss sarah olivier. thus came madam philipse honestly by the description, "imperious woman of fashion," in which local history preserves her memory. she was a widow of twenty-four when colonel philipse married her, she having been bereaved two years before of her first husband, mr. anthony rutgers, the lawyer. she liked display, and her husband indulged her inclination without stint, receiving in repayment a good nursery-full of what used, in the good old days, to be called pledges of affection. being the daughter of a royal office-holding englishman, how could she have helped holding her head mighty high on receiving her elevation to the ladyship of philipsburgh, and who shall blame her daughter and namesake, now within a stone's throw of st. john's parsonage and in full sight of the tree-bowered manorial home of her fathers, for holding hers, which was younger, a trifle higher? not many high-held heads of this or any other day are or were finer than that of elizabeth philipse was in , or are set on more graceful figures. for all her haughtiness, she was not a very large person, nor yet was she a small one. she was neither fragile nor too ample. her carriage made her look taller than she was. she was of the brown-haired, blue-eyed type, but her eyes were not of unusual size or surpassing lucidity, being merely clear, honest, steady eyes, capable rather of fearless or disdainful attention than of swift flashes or coquettish glances. the precision with which her features were outlined did not lessen the interest that her face had from her pride, spirit, independence, and intelligence. she was, moreover, an active, healthy creature, and if she commanded the dratting of the wind, it was not as much because she was chilled by it as because it blew her cloak and impeded her progress. in fine, she was a beauty; else this historian would never have taken the trouble of unearthing from many places and piecing together the details of this fateful incident,--for if any one supposes that the people of this narrative are mere fictions, he or she is radically in error. they lived and achieved, under the names they herein bear; were as actual as the places herein mentioned,--as any of the numerous patriotic americans who daily visit the genealogical shelves of the public libraries can easily learn, if they will spare sufficient time from the laudable task of hunting down their own ancestors. if this story is called a romance, that term is used here only as it is oft applied to actual occurrences of a romantic character. so the elizabeth philipse who, before crossing the neperan to approach the manor-house, stopped in front of the snug parsonage at the roadside and directed cuff to knock at the door, was as real as was then the parsonage itself. presently a face appeared furtively at one of the up-stairs windows. the eyes thereof, having dwelt for an instant on the mounted party shivering in the road, opened wide in amazement, and a minute later, after a sound of key-turning and bolt-drawing, the door opened, and a good-looking lady appeared in the doorway, backed up by a servant and two pretty children who clung, half-curious, half-frightened, to the lady's skirts. "why, miss elizabeth! is it possible--" but elizabeth cut the speech of the astonished lady short. "yes, my dear mrs. babcock,--and i know how dangerous, and all that! and, thank you, i'll not come in. i shall see you during the week. i'm going to the manor-house to stay awhile, and i wish my aunt to stay there with me, if you can spare her." "why, yes,--of course,--but--here comes your aunt." "why, elizabeth, what in the world--" she was a somewhat stately woman at first sight, was elizabeth's mother's sister, miss sarah williams; but on acquaintance soon conciliated and found to be not at all the formidable and haughty person she would have had people believe her; not too far gone in middle age, preserving, despite her spinsterhood, much of her bloom and many of those little roundnesses of contour which adorn but do not encumber. "i haven't time to say what, aunt," broke in elizabeth. "i want to get to the manor-house before it is night. you are to stay with me there a week. so put on a wrap and come over as soon as you can, to be in time for supper. i'll send a boy for you, if you like." "why, no, there's some one here will walk over with me, i dare say. but, la me, elizabeth,--" "then i'll look for you in five minutes. good night, mrs. babcock! i trust your little ones are well." and she rode off, followed by colden and cuff, leaving the two women in the parsonage doorway to exchange what conjectures and what ejaculations of wonderment the circumstances might require. night was falling when the riders crossed the neperan (then commonly known as the saw mill river) by the post-road bridge, and gazed more closely on the stone manor-house. looking westward, from the main road, across the hedge and paling fence, they saw, first the vast lawn with its comely trees, then the long east front of the house, with its two little entrance-porches, the row of windows in each of its two stories, the dormer windows projecting from the sloping roof, the balustraded walk on the roof-top; at both ends the green and brown and yellow hints of what lay north of the house, between it and the forest, and west of the house, between it and the hudson,--the box-hedged gardens, the terraces breaking the slope to the river, the deer paddock enclosed by high pickets, the great orchard. the hudson was nearer to the house then than now, and its lofty further bank, rich with growth of wood and leaf, was the backing for the westward view. to the east, which the riders put behind them in facing the manor-house, were the hills of the interior. "not a sign of light from the house, and the shutters all closed, as if it were a tomb! it looks as cold and empty as one. i'll soon make it warm and live enough inside at least!" said elizabeth, and turned westward from the highway into the short road that ran between the mansion and the north bank of the neperan, by the grist-mill and the gate and the stables, down a picturesque descent to a landing where that stream entered the hudson. she proceeded towards the gate, where, being near the southeast corner of the house, one could see that the south front was to the east front as the base to the upright of a capital l turned backward; that the south front resembled the east in all but in being shorter and having a single porched entrance, which was in its middle. as the party neared the gate, there arose far northward a sound of many horsemen approaching at a fast gallop. elizabeth at once reined in, to listen. major colden and cuff followed her example, both looking at her in apprehension. the galloping was on the albany road, but presently deviated eastwardly, then decreased. "they've turned up the road to mile square, whoever they are," said elizabeth, and led the way on to the gate, which cuff, dismounting, quickly opened, its fastening having been removed and not replaced. "lead your horse to the door, cuff. then take off the portmanteaus and knock, and tie the horses to the post." she rode up to the southern door in the east front, and was there assisted to dismount by the major, while cuff followed in obedience. colden, as the sound of the distant galloping grew fainter and fainter, showed more relief than he might have felt had he known that a second troop was soon to come speeding down in the track of the first. elizabeth, in haste to escape the wind, stepped into the little porch and stood impatiently before the dark, closed door of the house of her fathers. chapter ii. the manor-house. the stone mansion before which the travellers stood, awaiting answer to cuff's loud knock on the heavy mahogany door, had already acquired antiquity and memories. it was then, as to all south of the porch which now sheltered the three visitors, ninety-six years old, and as to the rest of the eastern front thirty-three, so that its newest part was twice the age of elizabeth herself. her grandfather's grandfather, the first lord of the manor, built the southern portion in , a date not far from that of the erection of his upper house, called philipse castle, at what is now tarrytown,--but whether earlier or later, let the local historians dispute. this southern portion comprised the entire south front, its length running east and west, its width going back northward to, but not including, the large east entrance-hall, into which opened the southern door of the east front. the new part, attached to the original house as the upright to the short, broad base of the reversed l, was added by elizabeth's grandfather, the second lord, in . the addition, with the eastern section of the old part, was thereafter the most used portion, and the south front yielded in importance to the new east front. the two porched doors in the latter front matched each other, though the southern one gave entrance to the fine guests in silk and lace, ruffles and furbelows, who came up from new york and the other great mansions of the county to grace the frequent festivities of the philipses; while the northern one led to the spacious kitchen where means were used to make the aforesaid guests feel that they had not arrived in vain. the original house, rectangular as to its main part, had two gables, and, against its rear or northern length, a pent-roofed wing, and probably a veranda, the last covering the space later taken by the east entrance-hall. the main original building, on its first floor, had (and has) a wide entrance-hall in its middle, with one large parlor on each side. the second floor, reached by staircase from the lower hall, duplicated the first, there being a middle hall and two great square chambers. overhead, there was plentiful further room beneath the gable roof. under the western room of the first floor was the earlier kitchen, which, before , served in relation to the guests who entered by the southern door exactly as thereafter the new kitchen served in relation to those entering by the eastern door,--making them glad they had come, by horse or coach, over the long, bad, forest-bordered roads. adjacent to the old kitchen was abundant cellarage for the stowing of many and diverse covetable things of the trading first lord's importation. the neperan joined the hudson in the midst of wilderness, where indians and deer abounded, when vrederyck flypse caused the old part of the stone mansion to grow out of the green hill slope in . he planted a foundation two feet thick and thereupon raised walls whose thickness was twenty inches. he would have a residence wherein he might defy alike the savage elements, men and beasts. for the front end of his entrance-hall he imported a massive mahogany door made in in holland,--a door in two parts, so that the upper half could be opened, while the lower half remained shut. the rear door of that hall was similarly made. ponderous were the hinges and bolts, being ordinary blacksmith work. solid were the panel mouldings. he brought holland brick wherewith to trim the openings of doorways and windows. he laid the floor of his aforesaid kitchen with blue stone. the chimney breasts and hearthstones of his principal rooms were seven feet wide. here, in feudal fashion, with many servants and slaves to do his bidding, and tenants to render him dues, sometimes dwelt vrederyck flypse, with his second wife, catherine van cortlandt, and the children left by his first wife, margaret hardenbrock; but sometimes some of the family lived in new york, and sometimes at the upper stone house, "castle philipse," by the pocantico, near sleepy hollow church, of this flypse's founding. he built mills near both his country-houses, and from the saw-mill near the lower one did the neperan receive the name of saw mill river. he died in , in his seventy-seventh year, and the bones of him lie in sleepy hollow church. but even before the first lord went, did "associations" begin to attach to the old dutch part of the mansion. besides the leading families of the province, the traders,--dutch and english,--and the men with whom he held counsel upon affairs temporal and spiritual, public and private, terrestrial and marine, he had for guests red indians, and, there is every reason to believe, gentlemen who sailed the seas under what particular flag best promoted their immediate purposes, or under none at all. that old story never _would_ down, to the effect that the adventurous kidd levied not on the ships of vrederyck flypse. the little landing-place where neperan joined hudson, at which the flypses stepped ashore when they came up from new york by sloop instead of by horse, was trodden surely by the feet of more than one eminent oceanic exponent of-- "the good old rule, the simple plan, that they should take who have the power and they should keep who can." a great merchant may have more than one way of doing business, and i would not undertake to account for every barrel and box that was unladen at that little landing. nor would i be surprised to encounter sometime, among the ghosts of philipse manor hall, that of the immortal kidd himself, seated at dead of night, across the table from the first lord of the manor, before a blazing log in the seven-foot fireplace, drinking liquor too good for the church-founding lord to have questioned whence it came; and leaving the next day without an introduction to the family. this part of the house, in facing south, had the albany road at its left, the hudson at its right, and at its front the lane that ran by the neperan, from the road to the river. thus was the house for sixty-three years. when the first lord's grandson, elizabeth's grandfather, in made the addition at the north, what was the east gable-end of the old house became part of the east front of the completed mansion. the east rooms of the old house were thus the southeast rooms of the completed mansion, and, being common to both fronts, gained by the change of relation, becoming the principal parlor and the principal chamber. the east parlor, entered on the west from the old hall, was entered on the north from the new hall; and the new hall was almost a duplicate of the old, but its ceiling decorations and the mahogany balustrade of its stairway were the more elaborate. this stairway, like its fellow in the old hall, ascended, with two turns, to a hall in the second story. besides the new halls, the addition included, on the first floor, a large dining-room and the great kitchen; on the second floor, five sleeping-chambers, and, in the space beneath the roof-tree, dormitories for servants and slaves. elizabeth's grandfather gave the house the balustrade that crowns its roof from its northern to its southern, and thence to its western end. he had the interior elaborately finished. the old part and its decorations were dutch, but now things in the province were growing less dutch and more english,--like the philipse name and blood themselves,--and so the new embellishments were english. the second lord imported marble mantels from england, had the walls beautifully wainscoted, adorned the ceilings richly with arabesque work in wood. he laid out, in the best english fashion, a lawn between the eastern front and the albany post-road. he it was who married joanna, daughter of governor anthony brockholst, of a very ancient family of lancashire, england; and who left provision for the founding of st. john's church, across the neperan from the manor-house, and for the endowment of the glebe thereof. and in his long time the manor-house flourished and grew venerable and multiplied its associations. he had five children: frederick (elizabeth's father), philip, susannah, mary (the beauty, wooed of washington in , 'tis said, and later wed by captain roger morris), and margaret; and, at this manor-house alone, white servants thirty, and black servants twenty; and a numerous tenantry, happy because in many cases the yearly rent was but nominal, being three or four pounds or a pair of hens or a day's work,--for the philipses, thanks to trade and to office-holding under the crown, and to the beneficent rule whereby money multiplies itself, did not have to squeeze a living out of the tillers of their land. the lord of the manor held court leet and baron at the house of a tenant, and sometimes even inflicted capital punishment. in , the second lord followed his grandfather to the family vault in sleepy hollow church. with the accession of elizabeth's father, then thirty-one years old, began the splendid period of the mansion; then the panorama of which it was both witness and setting wore its most diverse colors. the old contest between english and french on this continent was approaching its glorious climax. whether they were french emissaries coming down from quebec, by the hudson or by horse, or english and colonial officers going up from new york in command of troops, they must needs stop and pay their respects to the lord of the manor of philipsburgh, and drink his wine, and eat his venison, and flirt with his stunning sisters. soldiers would go from new york by the post-road to philipsburgh, and then embark at the little landing, to proceed up the hudson, on the way to be scalped by the red allies of the french or mowed down by montcalm's gunners before impregnable ticonderoga. many were the comings and goings of the scarlet coat and green. the indian, too, was still sufficiently plentiful to contribute much to the environing picturesqueness. but, most of all, in those days, the mansion got its character from the festivities devised by its own inmates for the entertainment of the four hundred of that time. for elizabeth's mother, of the same given name, was "very fond of display," and in her day the family "lived showily." her husband (who was usually called colonel philipse, from his title in the militia, and rarely if ever called lord) had the house refurnished. it was he who had the princely terraces made on the slope between the mansion and the hudson, and who had new gardens laid out and adorned with tall avenues of box and rarest fruit-trees and shrubs. doubtless his deer, in their picketed enclosure, were a sore temptation to the country marksmen who passed that way. lady, or madam, or mrs. philipse, the colonel's wife, bedazzled the admiring inhabitants of west chester county in many ways, but there is a difference between authorities as to whether it was she that used to drive four superb black horses over the bad roads of the county, or whether it was her mother-in-law, the second lord's wife. certainly it was the latter that was killed by a fall from a carriage, and certainly both had fine horses and magnificent coaches, and drove over bad roads,--for all roads were bad in those days, even in europe, save those the romans left. of all the gay and hospitable occasions that brought, through the mansion's wide doors, courtly gentlemen and high-and-mighty ladies, from their coaches, sleighs, horses, or hudson sloops, perhaps none saw more feasting and richer display of ruffles and brocade than did the wedding of mary philipse and captain morris, seven years after the death of her father, and two after the marriage of her brother. it was on the afternoon of sunday, jan. , . in the famous east parlor, which has had much mention and will have more in course of this narrative, was raised a crimson canopy emblazoned with the philipse crest,--a crowned golden demi-lion rampant, upon a golden coronet. though the weather was not severe, there was snow on the ground, and the guests began to drive up in sleighs, under the white trees, at two o'clock. at three arrived the rev. henry barclay, rector of trinity, new york, and his assistant, mr. auchmuty. at half-past three the beauteous mary (did so proud a heart-breaker blush, i wonder?) and the british captain stood under the crimson canopy and gold, and were united, "in the presence of a brilliant assembly," says the old county historian.[ ] miss barclay, miss van cortlandt, and miss de lancey were the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen were mr. heathcote (of the family of the lords of the manor of scarsdale), captain kennedy (of number one, broadway), and mr. watts. no need to report here who were "among those present." the wedding did not occur yesterday, and the guests will not be offended at the omission of their names; but one of them was acting governor de lancey. colonel philipse--wearing the ancestral gold chain and jewelled badge of the keepers of the deer forests of bohemia--gave the bride away, and with her went a good portion of the earth's surface, and much money, jewelry, and plate. after the wedding came the feast, and the guests--or most of them--stayed so late they were not sorry for the brilliant moonlight of the night that set in upon their feasting. and now the legend! in the midst of the feast, there appeared at the door of the banquet-hall a tall indian, with a scarlet blanket close about him, and in solemn tones quoth he, "your possessions shall pass from you when the eagle shall despoil the lion of his mane." thereupon he disappeared, of course, as suddenly as he had come, and the way in which historians have treated this legend shows how little do historians apply to their work the experiences of their daily lives,--such an experience, for instance, as that of ignoring some begging irishwoman's request for "a few pennies in the lord's name," and thereupon receiving a volley of hair-raising curses and baleful predictions. 'tis easy to believe in the indian and the prophecy of a passing of possessions, even though it was fulfilled; but the time-clause involving the eagle and the lion was doubtless added after the bird had despoiled the beast. it was years and years afterward, and when and because the eagle had decided to attempt the said despoiling, that there was a change of times at philipse manor hall. meanwhile had young frederick, and maria, and elizabeth, and their brothers and sisters arrived on the scene. what could one have expected of the ease-loving, beauty-loving, book-loving, luxury-loving, garden-loving, and wide-girthed lord of the manor--connected by descent, kinship, and marriage with royal office-holding--but toryism? in fact, nobody did expect else of him, for though he tried in to conceal his sympathy with the cause of the king, the powers in revolt inferred it, and took measures to deter him from actively aiding the british forces. his removal to hartford, his return to the manor-house,--where he was for awhile, in the fall of , at the time of the battle of white plains,--his memorable business trip to new york, and his parole-breaking continuance there, heralded the end of the old régime in philipse manor hall. the historians say that at that time of colonel philipse's last stay at the hall, washington quartered there for awhile, and occupied the great southwestern chamber. doubtless washington did occupy that chamber once upon a time, but his itinerary and other circumstances are against its having been immediately before or immediately after the battle of white plains. some of the american officers were there about the time. as for the colonel's family, it did not abandon the house until . with the occasions when, during the first months of revolutionary activity in the county, use was sought of the secret closets and the underground passage thoughtfully provided by the earlier philipses in days of risk from indians, fear of frenchmen, and dealings with pirates, this history has naught to do. in , then, the family took a farewell view of the old house, and somewhat sadly, more resentfully, wended by familiar landmarks to new york,--to await there a joyous day of returning, when the king's regiments should have scattered the rebels and hanged their leaders. john williams, steward of the manor, was left to take care of the house against that day, with one white housemaid, who was of kin to him, and one black slave, a man. the outside shutters of the first story, the inside shutters above, were fastened tight; the bolts of the ponderous mahogany doors were strengthened, the stables and mills and outbuildings emptied and locked. much that was precious in the house went with the family and horses and servants to new york. yet be sure that proper means of subsistence for williams and his two helpers were duly stowed away, for the faithful steward had to himself the discharge of that matter. so wholesale a departure went with much bustle, and it was not till he returned from seeing the numerous party off, and found himself alone with the maid and the slave in the great entrance-hall, which a few minutes before had been noisy with voices, that williams felt to the heart the sudden loneliness of the place. the face of molly, the maid, was white and ready for weeping, and there was a gravity on the chocolate visage of black sam that gave the steward a distinctly tremulous moment. perhaps he recalled the prediction of the indian, and had a flash of second sight, and perceived that the third lord of the manor was to be the last. howbeit, he cleared his throat and set black sam to laying in fire-wood as for a siege, and molly to righting the disorder caused by the exodus; betook himself cellarward, and from a hidden place drew forth a bottle of an old vintage, and comforted his solitude. he was a snug, honest, discreet man of forty, was the steward, slim but powerful, looking his office, besides knowing and fulfilling it. but, as the months passed, he became used to the solitude, and the routine of life in the closed-up, memory-haunted old house took on a certain charm. the living was snug enough in what parts of the mansion the steward and his two servitors put to their own daily use. as for the other parts, the great dark rooms and entrance-halls, we may be sure that when the steward went the rounds, and especially after a visit to the wine-cellar, he found them not so empty, but peopled with the vague and shifting images of the many beings, young and old, who had filled the house with life in brighter days. then, if ever, did noise of creaking stair or sound as of human breath, or, perchance, momentary vision of flitting face against the dark, betray the present ghost of some old-time habitué of the mansion. when the raiding and foraging and marauding began in the county, the manor-house was not molested. the partisan warfare had not yet reached its magnitude. after the battle of white plains in , the british had retained new york city, while the main american army, leaving a small force above, had gone to new jersey. late in , the british main army, leaving new york garrisoned, had departed to contest with the americans for philadelphia. not until july, , after monmouth battle, did the british main army return to new york, and the american forces form the great arc, with their chief camp in upper west chester county. then was great increase of foray and pillage. the manor-house was of course exempt from harm at the hands of king's troops and tory raiders, while it was protected from american regulars by washington's policy against useless destruction, and from the marauding "skinners" by its nearness to the british lines and by the solidity of its walls, doors, and shutters. its gardens suffered, its picket fences and gate fastenings were tampered with, its orchards prematurely plucked. but its trees were spared by the british foragers, and the house itself was no longer in demand as officers' quarters, being too near king's bridge for safe american occupancy, but not sufficiently near for british. hessians and tories, though, patrolled the near-by roads, and sometimes continental troops camped in the neighboring hills. in , the american colonel gist, whose corps was then at the foot of boar hill, north of the manor-house, was paying his court to the handsome widow babcock, in the parsonage, when he was surprised by a force of yagers, rangers, and loyalist light horse, and got away in the nick of time.[ ] the parsonage, unlike the manor-house, was often visited by officers on their way hither and thither, but i will not say it was for this reason that miss sally williams, the sister of colonel philipse's wife, preferred living in the parsonage with the babcocks rather than in the great deserted mansion. on a dark november afternoon, williams had sent black sam to the orchard for some winter apples, and the slave, after the fashion of his race, was taking his time over the errand. the shades of evening gathered while the steward was making his usual rounds within the mansion. molly, whose housewifely instincts ever asserted themselves, had of her own accord made a dusting tour of the rooms and halls. she was on the first landing of the stairway in the east hall, just about to finish her task in the waning light admitted by the window over the landing and by the fanlight over the front door, when, as she applied her cloth to the mahogany balustrade, the door of the east parlor opened, and williams came out of that dark apartment. "lord, molly!" he said, a moment later, having started at suddenly beholding her. "i thought you were a ghost! it's time to get supper, i think, from the look of the day outside. i'll have to make a light." from a closet in the side of the staircase he took a candle, flint, and tinder, talking the while to molly, as she rubbed the balusters. having produced a tiny candle-flame that did not light up half the hall, williams started towards the dining-room, but stopped at a distant sound of galloping horses, which were evidently coming down the albany road. the steward and the maid exchanged conjectures as to whether this meant a british patrol or "rebel" dragoons, "skinners" or hessian yagers, highlanders, or loyalist light horse; and then observed from the sound that the horses had turned aside into the mile square road. but now came a new sound of horses, and though it was of only a few, and those walking, it gave williams quite a start, for the footfalls were manifestly approaching the mansion. they as manifestly stopped before that very hill. and then came a sharp knock on the mahogany door. "see who it is," whispered molly. williams hesitated. the knock was repeated. "who's there?" called out williams. there was an answer, but the words could not be made out. "who?" repeated williams. this time the answer was clear enough. "it's i, williams! don't keep me standing here in the wind all night." "it's miss elizabeth!" cried molly; and williams, in a kind of daze of astonishment, hastily unlocked, unbolted, and threw open the door. chapter iii. the sound of galloping. a rush of wind came in from the outer gloom and almost blew out the candle. williams held up his hand to protect the flame and stepped aside from before the doorway. the wind was promptly followed by elizabeth, who strode in with the air that a king might show on reentering one of his palaces, still holding her whip in her gloved hand. behind her came colden, the picture of moody dejection. when cuff had entered with the portmanteaus, williams, seeing but three horses without, closed the door, locked it, and looked with inquiry and bewilderment at elizabeth. "br-r-r-r!" she ejaculated. "light up my chamber, molly, and have a fire in it; then make some hot tea, and get me something to eat." elizabeth's impetuosity sent the open-mouthed maid flying up-stairs to execute the first part of the order, whereupon the mistress turned to the wondering steward. "i've come to spend a week at the manor-house, williams. cuff, take those to my room." the black boy, with the portmanteaus, followed in the way molly had taken, but with less rapidity. by this time williams had recovered somewhat from his surprise, and regained his voice and something of his stewardly manner. "i scarcely expected any of the family out from new york these times, miss. there----" "i suppose not!" elizabeth broke in. "have some one put away the horses, williams, or they'll be shivering. it's mighty cold for the time of year." "i'll go myself, ma'am. there's only black sam, you know, and he isn't back from the orchard. i sent him to get some apples." and the steward set the candlestick on the newel post of the stairway, and started for the door. "no, let cuff go," said elizabeth, sitting down on a settle that stood with its back to the side of the staircase. "you start a fire in the room next mine, for aunt sally. she'll be over from the parsonage in a few minutes." williams thereupon departed in quest of the stable key, inwardly devoured by a mighty curiosity as to the wherefore of elizabeth's presence here in the company of none but her affianced, and also the wherefore of that gentleman's manifest depression of spirits. his curiosity was not lessened when the major called after him: "tell cuff he may feed my horse, but not take the saddle off. i must ride back to new york as soon as the beast is rested." "why," said elizabeth to colden, "you may stay for a bite of supper." "no, thank you! i am not hungry." "a glass of wine, then," said the girl, quite heedless of his tone; "if there is any left in the house." "no wine, i thank you!" colden stood motionless, too far back in the hall to receive much light from the feeble candle, like a shadowy statue of the sulks. "as you will!" whereupon elizabeth, as if she had satisfied her conscience regarding what was due from her in the name of hospitality, rose, and opened the door to the east parlor. "ugh! how dark and lonely the house is! no wonder aunt sally chose to live at the parsonage." after one look into the dark apartment, she closed the door. "well, i'll warm up the place a bit. sorry you can't stay with us, major." "it is only you who send me away," said colden, dismally and reproachfully. "i could have got longer leave of absence. you let me escort you here, because no gentleman of your family will lend himself to your reckless caprice. and then, having no further present use for me, you send me about my business!" elizabeth, preferring to pace the hall until her chamber should be heated, and her aunt should arrive, was striking her cloak with her riding-whip at each step; not that the cloak needed dusting, but as a method of releasing surplus energy. "but i do have further present use for you," she said. "you are going back to new york to inform my dear timid parents and sisters and brothers that i've arrived here safe. they'll not sleep till you tell them so." "one of your slaves might bear that news as well," quoth the major. "well, are you not forever calling yourself my slave? besides, my devotion to king george won't let me weaken his forces by holding one of his officers from duty longer than need be." but colden was not to be cheered by pleasantry. "what a man you are! so cross at my sending you back that you'll neither eat nor drink before going. pray don't pout, colden. 'tis foolish!" "i dare say! a man in love does many foolish things!" the utterance of this great and universal truth had not time to receive comment from elizabeth before cuff reappeared, with the stable key; and at the same instant, a rather delicate, inoffensive knock was heard on the front door. "that must be aunt sally," said elizabeth. "let her in, cuff. then go and stable the horses. my poor cato will freeze!" it was indeed miss sarah williams, and in a state of breathlessness. she had been running, perhaps to escape the unseemly embraces of the wind, which had taken great liberties with her skirts,--liberties no less shocking because of the darkness of the evening; for though de la rochefoucauld has settled it that man's alleged courage takes a vacation when darkness deprives it of possible witnesses, no one will accuse an elderly maiden's modesty of a like eclipse. "my dear child, what could have induced you----" were her first words to elizabeth; but her attention was at that point distracted by seeing cuff, outside the threshold, about to pull the door shut. "don't close the door yet, boy. some one is coming." cuff thereupon started on his task of stabling the three horses, leaving the door open. the flame of the candle on the newel post was blown this way and that by the in-rushing wind. "it's old mr. valentine," explained miss sally to elizabeth. "he offered to show me over from the parsonage, where he happened to be calling, so i didn't wait for mrs. babcock's boy----" "you found mr. valentine pleasanter company, i suppose, aunty, dear," put in elizabeth, who spared neither age nor dignity. "he's a widower again, isn't he?" miss sally blushed most becomingly. her plump cheeks looked none the worse for this modest suffusion. "fie, child! he's eighty years old. though, to be sure, the attentions of a man of his experience and judgment aren't to be considered lightly." those were the days when well-bred people could--and often did, naturally and without effort--improvise grammatical sentences of more than twelve words, in the course of ordinary, every-day talk. "we started from the parsonage together," went on miss sally, "but i was so impatient i got ahead. he doesn't walk as briskly as he did twenty years ago." yet briskly enough for his years did the octogenarian walk in through the little pillared portico a moment later. such deliberation as his movements had might as well have been the mark of a proper self-esteem as the effect of age. he was a slender but wiry-looking old gentleman, was matthias valentine, of valentine's hill; in appearance a credit to the better class of countrymen of his time. his white hair was tied in a cue, as if he were himself a landowner instead of only a manorial tenant. yet no common tenant was he. his father, a dragoon in the french service, had come down from canada and settled on philipse manor, and matthias had been proprietor of valentine's hill, renting from the philipses in earlier days than any one could remember. his grandsons now occupied the hill, and the old man was in the full enjoyment of the leisure he had won. his rather sharp countenance, lighted by honest gray eyes, was a mixture of good-humor, childlike ingenuousness, and innocent jocosity. the neatness of his hair, his carefully shaven face, and the whole condition of his brown cloth coat and breeches and worsted stockings, denoted a fastidiousness rarely at any time, and particularly in the good (or bad) old days, to be found in common with rustic life and old age. did some of the dandyism of the french dragoon survive in the old philipsburgh farmer? he carried a walking-stick in one hand, a lighted lantern in the other. after bowing to the people in the hall, he set down his lantern, closed the door and bolted it, then took up his lantern, blew out the flame thereof, and set it down again. "whew!" he puffed, after his exertion. "windy night, miss elizabeth! windy night, major colden! winter's going to set in airly this year. there ain't been sich a frosty november since ' , when the river was froze over as fur down as spuyten duyvel." there was in the old man's high-pitched voice a good deal of the squeak, but little of the quaver, of senility. "you'll stay to supper, i hope, mr. valentine." from elizabeth this was a sufficient exhibition of graciousness. she then turned her back on the two men and began to tell her aunt of her arrangements. "thankee, ma'am," said old valentine, whose sight did not immediately acquaint him, in the dim candle-light, with elizabeth's change of front; wherefore he continued, placidly addressing her back: "i wouldn't mind a glass and a pipe with friend williams afore trudging back to the hill." he then walked over to the disconsolate colden, and, with a very gay-doggish expression, remarked in an undertone: "fine pair o' girls yonder, major?" he had known colden from the time of the latter's first boyhood visits to the manor, and could venture a little familiarity. "girls?" blurted the major, startled out of his meditations. the old country beau chuckled. "we all know what's betwixt you and the niece. how about the aunt and me taking a lesson from you two, eh?" even the gloomy officer could not restrain a momentary smile. "what, mr. valentine? do you seriously think of marrying?" "why not? i've been married afore, hain't i? what's to hinder?" "why, there's the matter of age." colden rather enjoyed being inconsiderate of people's feelings. "oh, the lady is not so old," said the octogenarian, placidly, casting a judicial, but approving look at the commanding figure of miss sally. then, as he had been for a considerable time on his legs, having walked over from the hill to the parsonage that afternoon, and as at best his knees bent when he stood, he sat down on the settle by the staircase. miss sally, though she knew it useless to protest further against elizabeth's caprice, nevertheless felt it her duty to do so, especially as major colden would probably carry to the family a report of her attitude towards that caprice. "did you ever hear of such rashness, major? a young girl like elizabeth coming out here in time of war, when this neutral ground between the lines is overridden and foraged to death, and deluged with blood by friend as well as foe? la me! i can't understand her, if she _is_ my sister's child." "why, aunt sally, _you_ stay out here through it all," said elizabeth, not as much to depreciate the dangers as to give her aunt an opportunity of posing as a very courageous person. miss sally promptly accepted the opportunity. "oh," said she, with a mien of heroic self-sacrifice, "i couldn't let poor grace babcock stay at the parsonage with nobody but her children; besides i'm not colonel philipse's daughter, and who cares whether i'm loyal to the king or not? but a girl like you isn't made for the dangers and privations we've had to put up with out here since the king's troops have occupied new york, and washington's rebel army has held the country above. i'm surprised the family let her come, or that you'd countenance it by coming with her, major." "we all opposed it," said colden, with a sigh. "but--you know elizabeth!" "yes," said elizabeth herself with cheerful nonchalance, "elizabeth always has her way. i was hungry for a sight of the place, and the more the old house is in danger, the more i love it. i'm here for a week, and that ends it. the place doesn't seem to have suffered any. they haven't even quartered troops here." "not since the american officers stayed here in the fall o' ' ," put in old mr. valentine, from the settle. "i reckon you'll be safe enough here, miss elizabeth." "of course i shall. why, our troops patrol all this part of the country, lord cathcart told us at king's bridge, and _we_ have naught to fear from them." "no, the british foragers won't dare treat philipse manor-house as they do the homes of some of their loyal friends," said miss sally, who was no less proud of her relationship with the philipses, because it was by marriage and not by blood. "but the horrible "skinners," who don't spare even the farms of their fellow rebels--" "bah!" said elizabeth. "the scum of the earth! williams has weapons here, and with him and the servants i'll defend the place against all the rebel cut-throats in the county." the major thought to make a last desperate attempt to dissuade elizabeth from remaining. "that's all well enough," said he; "but there are the rebel regulars, the dragoons. they'll be raiding down to our very lines, one of these days, if only in retaliation. you know how lord cornwallis's party under general grey, over in jersey, the other night, killed a lot of baylor's cavalry,--mrs. washington's light horse, they called the troop. and the hessians made a great foray on the rebel families this side the river." "ay," chirped old valentine; "but the american colonel butler, and their major lee, of virginia, fell on the hessian yagers 'tween dobbs's ferry and tarrytown, and killed ever so many of 'em,--and i wasn't sorry for that, neither!" "oho!" said colden, "you belong to the opposition." "oh, i'm neither here nor there," replied the old man. "but they say that there major lee, of virginia, is the gallantest soldier in washington's army. he'd lead his men against the powers of satan if washington gave the word. light horse harry, they call him,--and a fine dashing troop o' light horse he commands." "no more dashing, i'll wager, than some of ours," said elizabeth, whose mood for the moment permitted her to talk with reason and moderation; "not even counting the germans. and as for leaders, what do you say to simcoe, of the queen's rangers, or emmerick, or tarleton, or"--turning to colden--"your cousin james de lancey, of this county, major?" the major, notwithstanding his toryism, did not enter with enthusiasm into elizabeth's admiration for these brave young cavalry leaders. staten island and east new jersey had not offered him as great opportunities for distinction as they had had. it was, therefore, miss sally who next spoke. "well, heaven knows there are enough on either side to devastate the land and rob us of comfort and peace. one wakes in the middle of the night, at the clatter of horses riding by like the wind, and wonders whether it's friend or foe, and trembles till they're out of hearing, for fear the door is to be broken in or the house fired. and the sound of shots in the night, and the distant glare of flames when some poor farmer's home is burned over his head!" "ay," added mr. valentine, "and all the cattle and crops go to the foragers, so it's no use raising any more than you can hide away for your own larder." elizabeth was beginning to be bored, and saw nothing to gain from a continuation of these recitals. doubtless, by this time, her room was lighted and warm. so, thoughtless of colden, she mounted the first step of the stairway, and said: "i have no doubt williams has contrived to hide away enough provisions for _our_ use. so _i_ sha'n't suffer from hunger, and as for lee's light horse, i defy them and all other rebels. come, aunt sally!" she had ascended as far as to the fourth step of the stairway, and miss sally was about to follow, when there was heard, above the wind's moaning, another sound of galloping horses. like the previous similar sound, it came from the north. elizabeth stopped and stood on the fourth step. miss sally raised her finger to bid silence. colden's attitude became one of anxious attention, while he dropped his hat on the settle and drew his cloak close about him, so that it concealed his uniform, sword, and pistol. the galloping continued. when time came for it to turn off eastward, as it would do should the riders take the road to mile square, it did not so. instead, as the sound unmistakably indicated, it came on down the post-road. "hessians, perhaps!" miss sally whispered. "or de lancey's cowboys," said valentine, but not in a whisper. elizabeth cast a sharp look at the old man, as if to show disapproval of his use of the whigs' nickname for de lancey's troop. but the octogenarian did not quail. "they're riding towards the manor-house," he added, a moment later. "let us hope they're friends," said colden, in a tone low and slightly unsteady. elizabeth disdained to whisper. "maybe it is lee's light horse," she said, in her usual voice, but ironically, addressing valentine. "in that case we should tremble for our lives, i suppose." "whoever they are, they've stopped before the house!" said miss sally, in quite a tremble. there was a noise of horses pawing and snorting outside, of directions being given rapidly, and of two or three horses leaving the main band for another part of the grounds. then was heard a quick, firm step on the porch floor, and in the same instant a sharp, loud knock on the door. no one in the hall moved; all looked at elizabeth. "a very valiant knock!" said she, with more irony. "it certainly _must_ be lee's light horse. will you please open the door, colden?" "what?" ejaculated colden. "certainly," said elizabeth, turning on the stairway, so as to face the door; "to show we're not afraid." jack colden looked at her a moment demurringly, then went to the door, undid the fastenings, and threw it open, keeping his cloak close about him and immediately stepping back into the shadow. a handsome young officer strode in, as if 'twere a mighty gust of wind that sent him. he wore a uniform of blue with red facings,--a uniform that had seen service,--was booted and spurred, without greatcoat or cloak. a large pistol was in his belt, and his left hand rested on the hilt of a sword. he swept past colden, not seeing him; came to a stop in the centre of the hall, and looked rapidly around from face to face. "your servant, ladies and gentlemen!" he said, with a swift bow and a flourish of his dragoon's hat. his eye rested on elizabeth. "who are you?" she demanded, coldly and imperiously, from the fourth step. "i'm captain peyton, of lee's light horse," said he. chapter iv. the continental dragoon. the peytons of virginia were descended from a younger son of the peytons of pelham, england, of which family was sir edward peyton, of pelham, knight and baronet. sir edward's relative, the first american peyton, settled in westmoreland county. within one generation the family had spread to stafford county, and within another to loudoun county also. thus it befell that there was a mr. craven peyton, of loudoun county, justice of the peace, vestryman, and chief warden of shelburne parish. he was the father of nine sons and two daughters. one of the sons was harry. this harry grew up longing to be a soldier. military glory was his ambition, as it had been washington's; but not as a mere provincial would he be satisfied to excel. he would have a place as a regular officer, in an army of the first importance, on the fields of europe. before the revolution, americans were, like all colonials, very loyal to their english king. therefore would harry peyton be content with naught less than a king's commission in the king's army. his father, glad to be guided in choosing a future for one of so many sons, sent harry to london in , to see something of life, and so managed matters, through his english relations, that the boy was in , at the age of nineteen, the possessor, by purchase, of an ensign's commission. he was soon sent to do garrison duty in ireland, being enrolled with the sixty-third regiment of foot. he had lived gaily enough during his two years in london, occupying lodgings, being patronized by his relations, seeing enough of society, card-tables, drums, routs, plays, prize-fights, and other diversions. he had made visits in the country and showed what he had learned in virginia about cock-fighting, fox-hunting and shooting, and had taken lessons from london fencing-masters. a young gentleman from virginia, if well off and "well connected," could have a fine time in london in those days; and harry peyton had it. but he could never forget that he was a colonial. if he were treated by his english associates as an equal, or even at times with a particular consideration, there was always a kind of implication that he was an exception among colonials. other colonial youths were similarly treated, and some of these were glad to be held as exceptions, and even joined in the derision of the colonials who were not. for these harry peyton had a mighty disgust and detestation. he did not enjoy receiving as harry peyton a tolerance and kindness that would have been denied him as merely an american. and he sometimes could not avoid seeing that, even as harry peyton, he was regarded as compensating, by certain attractive qualities in the nature of amiability and sincerity, for occasional exhibitions of what the english rated as social impropriety and bad taste. often, at the english lofty derision of colonials, at the english air of self-evident superiority, the english pretence of politely concealed shock or pain or offence at some infringement of a purely superficial conduct-code of their own arbitrary fabrication, he ground his teeth in silence; for in one respect, he had as good manners as the english had then, or have now,--when in rome he did not resent or deride what the romans did. he began to think that the lot of a self-respecting american among the english, even if he were himself made an exception of and well dealt with, was not the most enviable one. and, after he joined the army, he thought this more and more every day. but he would show them what a colonial could rise to! yet that would prove nothing for his countrymen, as he would always, on his meritorious side, be deemed an exception. his military ambition, however, predominated, and he had no thought of leaving the king's service. the disagreement between the king and the american colonies grew, from "a cloud no bigger than a man's hand," to something larger. but harry heard little of it, and that entirely from the english point of view. he received but three or four letters a year from his own people, and the time had not come for his own people to write much more than bare facts. they were chary of opinions. harry supposed that the new discontent in the colonies, after the repeal of the stamp act and the withdrawal of the two regiments from boston town to castle william, was but that of the perpetually restless, the habitual fomenters, the notoriety-seeking agitators, the mob, whose circumstances could not be made worse and might be improved by disturbances. now the americans, from being a subject of no interest to english people, a subject discussed only when some rare circumstance brought it up, became more talked of. sometimes, when americans were blamed for opposing taxes to support soldiery used for their own protection, harry said that the americans could protect themselves; that the english, in wresting canada from the french, had sought rather english prestige and dominion than security for the colonials; that the flourishing of the colonies was despite english neglect, not because of english fostering; that if the english had solicitude for america, it was for america as a market for their own trade. thereupon his fellow officers would either laugh him out, as if he were too ignorant to be argued with, or freeze him out, as if he had committed some grave outrage on decorum. and harry would rage inwardly, comparing his own ignorance and indecorousness with the knowledge and courtesy exemplified in the assertion of doctor johnson, when that great but narrow englishman said, in , of americans, "sir, they are a race of convicts, and ought to be thankful for anything we allow them short of hanging." there came to harry, now and then, scraps of vague talk of uneasiness in boston town, whose port the british parliament had closed, to punish the yankees for riotously destroying tea on which there was a tax; of the concentration there of british troops from halifax, quebec, new york, the jerseys, and other north american posts. but there was not, in harry's little world of irish garrison life, the slightest expectation of actual rebellion or even of a momentous local tumult in the american colonies. imagine, therefore, his feelings when, one morning late in march in , he was told that, within a month's time, the sixty-third, and other regiments, would embark at cork for either boston or new york! there could not be a new french or spanish invasion. as for the indians, never again would british regulars be sent against them. was it, then, harry's own countrymen that his regiment was going to fight? his comrades inferred the cause of his long face, and laughed. he would have no more fighting to do in america against the americans than he had to do in ireland against the irish, or than an english officer in an english barrack town had to do against the english. the reinforcements were being sent only to overawe the lawless element. the mere sight of these reinforcements would obviate any occasion for their use. the regiment would merely do garrison duty in america instead of in ireland or elsewhere. he had none to advise or enlighten him. what was there for him to do but sail with his regiment, awaiting disclosures or occurrences to guide? what misgivings he had, he kept to himself, though once on the voyage, as he looked from the rocking transport towards the west, he confided to lieutenant dalrymple his opinion that 'twas damned bad luck sent _his_ regiment to america, of all places. when he landed in boston, june th, he found, as he had expected, that the town was full of soldiers, encamped on the common and quartered elsewhere; but also, as he had not expected, that the troops were virtually confined to the town, which was fortified at the neck; that the last time they had marched into the country, through lexington to concord, they had marched back again at a much faster gait, and left many score dead and wounded on the way; and that a host of new englanders in arms were surrounding boston! the news of april th had not reached europe until after harry had sailed, nor had it met his regiment on the ocean. when he heard it now, he could only become more grave and uneasy. but the british officers were scornful of their clodhopper besiegers. in due time this rabble should be scattered like chaff. but was it a mere rabble? certainly. were not the best people in boston loyal to the king's government? some of them, yes. but, as harry went around with open eyes and ears, eager for information, he found that many of them were with the "rabble." news was easy to be had. the citizens were allowed to pass the barrier on the neck, if they did not carry arms or ammunition, and there was no strict discipline in the camp of new englanders. therefore harry soon learned how doctor warren stood, and the adamses, and mr. john hancock; and that a congress, representing all the colonies, was now sitting at philadelphia, for the second time; and that in the congress his own virginia was served by such gentlemen as mr. richard henry lee, mr. patrick henry, mr. thomas jefferson, and colonel washington. and the virginians had shown as ready and firm a mind for revolt against the king's measures as the new englanders had. here, for once, the sympathies of trading puritan and fox-hunting virginian were one. moreover, a yankee was a fellow american, and, after five years of contact with english self-esteem, harry warmed at the sight of a new englander as he never would have done before he had left virginia. but it did not conduce to peace of mind, in his case, to be convinced that the colonial remonstrance was neither local nor of the rabble. the more general and respectable it was, the more embarrassing was his own situation. would it really come to war? with ill-concealed anxiety, he sought the opinion of this person and that. on the fourth day after his arrival, he went into a tavern in king street with lieutenant massay, of the thirty-fifth, ensign charleton, of the fifth, and another young officer, and, while they were drinking, heard a loyalist tell what one parker, leader of the lexington rebels, said to his men on lexington common, on the morning of april th, when the king's troops came in sight. "'stand your ground,' says he. 'don't fire till you're fired on, but if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!'" "and it began there!" said harry. the english officers stared at him, and laughed. "ay, 'twas the yankee idea of war," said one of them. "run for a stone wall, and, when the enemy's back is turned, blaze away. i'd like to see a million of the clodhoppers compelled to stand up and face a line of grenadiers." "ay, gimme ten companies of grenadiers," cried one, who had doubtless heard of general gage's celebrated boast, "and i'll go from one end of the damned country to the other, and drive 'em to their holes like foxes. only 'tis better sport chasing handsome foxes in england than ill-dressed poltroons in bumpkin-land." "they're not all poltroons," said harry, repressing his feelings the more easily through long practice. "some of them fought in the french war. there's putnam, and pomeroy, and ward. i heard lieutenant-colonel abercrombie, of the twenty-second, say yesterday that putnam--" "cowards every one of 'em," broke in another. "cowards and louts. a lady told me t'other day there ain't in all america a man whose coat sets in close at the back, except he's of the loyal party. cowards and louts!" "look here, damn you!" cried peyton. "i want you to know i'm american born, and my people are american, and i don't know whether they are of the loyal party or not!" "oh, now, that's the worst of you americans,--always will get personal! of course, there are exceptions." "then there are exceptions enough to make a rule themselves," said harry. "i'm tired hearing you call these people cowards before you've had a chance to see what they are. and you needn't wait for that, for i can tell you now they're not!" "well, well, perhaps not,--to you. doubtless they're very dreadful,--to you. you don't seem to relish facing 'em, that's a fact! you'll be resigning your commission one o' these days, i dare say, if it comes to blows with these terrible heroes!" harry saw everybody in the room looking at him with a grin. "by the lord," said he, "maybe i shall!" and stalked hotly out of the place. his wrath increased as he walked. he noticed now, more than before, the confident, arrogant air of the redcoats who promenaded the streets; how they leered at the women, and made the citizens who passed turn out of the way. forthwith, he went to his quarters, and wrote his resignation. when the ink was dry he folded up the document and put it in the pocket of his uniform coat. then that last tavern speech recurred to him. "if i resign now," he thought, "they'll suppose it's because i really am afraid of fighting, not because the rebels are my countrymen." so he lapsed into a state of indecision,--a state resembling apathy, a half-dazed condition, a semi-somnolent waiting for events. but he kept his letter of resignation in his coat. at dawn the next morning, saturday, june th, he was awakened by the booming of guns. he was soon up and out. it was a beautiful day. people were on the eminences and roofs, looking northward, across the mouth of the charles, towards charlestown and the hill beyond. on that hill were seen rough earthworks, six feet high, which had not been there the day before. the booming guns were those of the british man-of-war _lively_, firing from the river at the new earthworks. hence the earthworks were the doing of the rebels, having been raised during the night. presently the _lively_ ceased its fire, but soon there was more booming, this time not only from the men-of-war, but also from the battery on copp's hill in boston. after awhile harry saw, from where he stood with many others on beacon hill, some of the rebels emerge from one part of the earthworks, as if to go away. one of these was knocked over by a cannon-ball. his comrades dragged his body behind the earthen wall. by and by a tall, strong-looking man appeared on top of the parapet, and walked leisurely along, apparently giving directions. harry heard from a citizen, who had a field-glass, the words, "prescott, of pepperell." other men were now visible on the parapet, superintending the workers behind. and now the booming of the guns was answered by disrespectful cheers from those same unseen workers. the morning grew hot. harry heard that general gage had called a council of war at the province house; that generals howe, clinton, burgoyne,[ ]--these three having arrived in boston about three weeks before harry had,--pigott, grant, and the rest were now there in consultation. at length there was the half-expected tumult of drum and bugle; and harry was summoned to obey, with his comrades, the order to parade. there was now much noise of officers galloping about, dragoons riding from their quarters, and rattling of gun-carriages. the booming from the batteries and vessels increased. at half-past eleven harry found himself--for he was scarcely master of his acts that morning, his will having taken refuge in a kind of dormancy--on parade with two companies of his regiment, and he noticed in a dim way that other companies near were from other different regiments, all being supplied with ammunition, blankets, and provisions. when the sun was directly overhead and at its hottest, the order to march was given, and soon he was bearing the colors through the streets of boston. the roar of the cannon now became deafening. harry knew not whether the rebels were returning it from their hill works across the water or not. in time the troops reached the wharf. barges were in waiting, and field-pieces were being moved into some of them. he could see now that all the firing was from the king's vessels and batteries. mechanically he followed lieutenant dalrymple into a barge, which soon filled up with troops. the other barges were speedily brilliant with scarlet coats and glistening bayonets. not far away the river was covered with smoke, through which flashed the fire of the belching artillery. a blue flag was waved from general howe's barge, and the fleet moved across the river towards the hill where the rebels waited silently behind their piles of earth. at one o'clock, harry followed lieutenant dalrymple out of the barge to the northern shore of the river, at a point northeast of charlestown village and east of the yankees' hill. there was no molestation from the rebels. the firing from the vessels and batteries protected the hillside and shore. the troops were promptly formed in three lines. harry's place was in the left of the front line. then there was long waiting. the barges went back to the boston side. was general howe, who had command of the movements, sending for more troops? many of the soldiers ate of their stock of provisions. harry, in a kind of dream, looked westward up the hill towards the silent yankee redoubt. it faced south, west, and east. the line of its eastern side was continued northward by a breastwork, and still beyond this, down the northern hillside to another river, ran a straggling rail fence, which was thatched with fresh-cut hay. what were the men doing behind those defences? what were they saying and thinking? the barges came back across the charles from boston, with more troops, but these were disembarked some distance southwest, nearer charlestown. general howe now made a short speech to the troops first landed. then some flank guards were sent out and some cannon wheeled forward. the companies of the front line, with one of which was harry, were now ordered to form into files and move straight ahead. they were to constitute the right wing of the attacking force, and to be led by general howe himself. the four regiments composing the two rear lines moved forward and leftward, to form, with the troops newly landed, the left wing, which was to be under general pigott. the cannonading from the river and from boston continued. the companies with which was harry advanced slowly, having to pass through high grass, over stone fences, under a roasting sun. these companies were moving towards the hay-thatched rail fence that straggled down the hillside from the breastwork north of the redoubt. harry had a vague sense that the left wing was ascending the southeastern side of the hill, towards the redoubt, at the same time. his eye caught the view at either side. long files of scarlet coats, steel bayonets, grenadiers' tall caps. he looked ahead. the stretch of green, grassy hillside, the hay-covered rail fence looking like a hedge-row, the rude breastwork, the blue sky. suddenly there came from the rail fence the belching of field-pieces. two grenadiers fell at the right of harry. one moaned, the other was silent. harry, shocked into a sense that war was begun between his king and his people, instantly resolved to strike no blow that day against his people. but this was no time for leaving the ranks. mechanically he marched on. heads appeared over the fence-rail, guns were rested on it, and there came from it some irregular flashes of musketry. then harry saw a man moving his head and arms, as if shouting and gesticulating. the musket flashes ceased. harry did not know it then, but the man was putnam, and he was commanding the yankees to reserve their fire. the british files were now ordered to deploy into line, and fire. they did so as they advanced, firing in machine-like unison, as if on parade, but aiming high. nearer and nearer, as harry went forward, rose the fence ahead and the breastwork on the hill towards the left. why did not the yankees fire? were they, indeed, paralyzed with fear at sight of the lines of the king's grenadiers? all at once blazed forth the answer,--such a volley of musketry, at close range, as british grenadiers had not faced before. down went officers and men, in twos and threes and rows. great gaps were cut in the scarlet lines. the broken columns returned the volley, but there came another. harry found himself in the midst of quivering, writhing, yelling death. the british who were left,--startled, amazed,--turned and fled. as mechanically as he had come up, did harry go back in the common movement. general howe showed astonishment. the left wing, too, had been hurled back, down the hill, by death-dealing volleys. the rabble had held their rude works against the king's choice troops. never had as many officers been killed or wounded in a single charge. there had not been such mowing down at fontenoy or montmorenci. these unmilitary yankees actually aimed when they fired, each at some particular mark! harry had heard them cheering, and had thought they were about to pursue the king's troops; they had evidently been ordered back. the troops re-formed by the shore. orders came for another assault. back again went harry with the right wing, bearing the colors as before. he had secretly an exquisite heart-quickening elation at the success of his countrymen. if they should win the day, and hold this hill, and drive the king's troops from boston! he knew, at last, on which side his heart was. there was more play of artillery during this second charge. harry could see, too, that the village of charlestown was on fire, sending flames, sparks, and smoke far towards the sky. it was not as easy to go to the charge this time, there were so many dead bodies in the way. but the soldiers stepped over them, and maintained the straightness of their lines. again it seemed as if the rebels would never fire. again, when the king's troops were but a few rods from them, came that flaming, low-aimed discharge. but the troops marched on, in the face of it, till the very officers who urged them forward fell before it; then they wavered, turned, and ran. harry's joy, as he went with them, increased, and his hopes mounted. the left wing, too, had been thrown back a second time. there was a long wait, and the generals were seen consulting. at last a third charge was ordered. this time the greater part of the right wing was led up the hill against the breastwork. with this part was harry. one more volley from the rebel defences met the king's troops. they wavered slightly, then sprang forward, ready for another. but another came not. the rebels' ammunition was giving out. harry's heart fell. the british forced the breastwork, carrying him along. he found himself at the northern end of the redoubt. some privates lifted him to the parapet; he and a sergeant mounted at the same time, and leaped together into the redoubt. they saw lieutenant richardson, of the royal irish regiment, appear on the southern parapet, give a shout of triumph, and fall dead from a yankee musket-ball. a whole rank that followed him was served likewise, but others surged over the parapet in their places. the rebels were defending mainly the southern parapet. many were retreating by the rear passageway. harry saw that the king's troops had won the redoubt. he took his resolution. he threw the colors to the sergeant, pulled off his coat, handed it to the same sergeant, shouting into the man's ear, "give it to the colonel, with the letter in the pocket;" picked up a dead man's musket, and ran to the aid of a tall, powerful rebel who was parrying with a sword the bayonets of three british privates. the tramp of the retreating rebels, invading british, and hand-to-hand fighters raised a blinding dust. harry and the tall american, gaining a breathing moment, strode together with long steps, guarding their flank and rear, to the passageway and out of it; and then fought their course between two divisions of british, which had turned the outer corners of the redoubt. there was no firing here, so closely mingled were british and rebels, the former too exhausted to use forcibly their bayonets. so harry retreated, beside the tall man, with the rebels. a british cheer behind him told the result of the day; but harry cared little. his mind was at ease; he was on the right side at last. [illustration: "'give it to the colonel.'"] thus did young mr. peyton serve on both sides in the same battle, being with each in the time of its defeat, striking no blow against his country, yet deserting not the king's army till the moment of its victory. his act was indeed desertion, desertion to the enemy, and in time of action; for, though his resignation was written, it was not only unaccepted, but even undelivered. thus did he render himself liable, under the laws of war, to an ignominious death should he ever fall into the hands of the king's troops. during the flight to cambridge, harry was separated from the tall man with whom he had come from the redoubt, but soon saw him again, this time directing the retreat, and learned that he was colonel prescott, of pepperell. some of the rebels discussed harry freely in his own hearing, inferring from his attire that he was of the british, and wondering why he was not a prisoner. harry asked to be taken to the commander, and at cambridge a coatless, bare-headed captain led him to general ward, of the massachusetts force. that veteran militiaman heard his story, gave it credit, and, with no thought that he might be a spy, invited him to remain at the camp as a volunteer. harry obtained a suit of blue clothes, and quartered in one of the harvard college buildings. in a few days news came that the congress at philadelphia had resolved to organize a continental army, of which the new england force at cambridge was to be the present nucleus; that a general-in-chief would soon arrive to take command, and that the general-in-chief appointed was a virginian,--colonel washington. harry was jubilant. early in july the new general arrived, and harry paid his respects to him in the house of the college president. general washington advised the boy to send another letter of resignation, then to go home and join the troops that his own state would soon be raising. on hearing harry's story, washington had given a momentary smile and a look at major-general charles lee, who had but recently published his resignation of his half-pay as a retired british officer, and who did not know yet whether that resignation would be accepted or himself considered a deserter. peyton sent a new letter of resignation to boston, then procured a horse, and started to ride to virginia. six days later he was in new york. in a coffee-house where he was dining, he struck up an acquaintance with three young gentlemen of the city, and told his name and story. one of the three--a dark-eyed man--thereupon changed manner and said he had no time for a rascally turncoat. harry, in hot resentment, replied that he would teach a damned tory some manners. so the four went out of the town to nicholas bayard's woods, where, after a few passes with rapiers, the dark-eyed gentleman was disarmed, and admitted, with no good grace, that harry was the better fencer. harry left new york that afternoon, having learned that his antagonist was mr. john colden, son of the postmaster of new york. his grandfather had been lieutenant-governor. harry had for some time thought he would prefer the cavalry, and he was determined, if possible, to gratify that preference in entering the military service of his own country. on arriving home he found his people strongly sympathizing with the revolt. but it was not until june, , that virginia raised a troop of horse. on the th of that month harry was commissioned a cornet thereof. after some service he found himself, march , , cornet in the first continental dragoons. the next fall, in a skirmish after the battle of brandywine, he was recognized by british officers as the former ensign of the sixty-third. in the following spring, thanks to his activity during the british occupation of philadelphia, he was made captain-lieutenant in harry lee's battalion of light dragoons. after the battle of monmouth he was promoted, july , , to the rank of captain. in the early fall of that year he was busy in partisan warfare between the lines of the two armies. and thus it came that he was pursuing a troop of hessians down the new york and albany post-road on a certain cold november evening. eager on the chase, he was resolved to come up with them if it could be, though he should have to ride within gunshot of king's bridge itself. suddenly his horse gave out. he had the saddle taken from the dead animal and given to one of his men to bear while he himself mounted in front of a sergeant, for he was loath to spare a man. approaching philipse manor-house, the party saw a boy leading horses into a stable. captain peyton ordered some of his men to patrol the road, and with the rest he went on to the manor-house lawn. here he gave further directions, dismounted, knocked at the door, and was admitted to the hall where were miss elizabeth philipse, major colden, miss sally williams, and old matthias valentine; and, on elizabeth's demand, announced his name and rank. chapter v. the black horse. thanks to the dimness, to his uniform, and to his swift entrance, peyton had not been recognized by major colden until he had given his name. that name had on the major the effect of an apparition, and he stepped back into the dark corner of the hall, drawing his cloak yet closer about him. this alarm and movement were not noticed by the others, as peyton was the object of every gaze but his own, which was fixed on elizabeth. "what do you want?" her voice rang out, while she frowned from her place on the staircase, in cold resentment. her aunt, meanwhile, made the newcomer a tremulous curtsey. "i want to see the person in charge of this house, and i want a horse," replied peyton, with more promptitude than gentleness, yet with strict civility. elizabeth's manner would have nettled even a colder man. elizabeth did not keep him waiting for an answer. "i am at present mistress of this house, and i am neither selling horses nor giving them!" peyton stared up at her in wonderment. the candle-flame struggled against the wind, turning this way and that, and made the vague shadows of the people and of the slender balusters dance on floor and wall. from without came the sound of peyton's horses pawing, and of his men speaking to one another in low tones. "your pardon, madam," said peyton, "but a horse i must have. the service i am on permits no delay--" "i doubt not!" broke in elizabeth. "the hessians are probably chasing you." "on the contrary, i am chasing the hessians. at boar hill, yonder, my horse gave out. 'tis important my troops lose no time. passing here, we saw horses being led into your stable. i ordered one of my men to take the best of your beasts, and put my saddle on it,--and he is now doing so." "how dare you, sir!" and elizabeth came quickly to the foot of the stairs, a picture of regal, flaming wrath. "why, madam," said peyton, "'tis for the service of the army. i require the horse, and i have come here to pay for it--" "it is not for sale--" "that makes no difference. you know the custom of war." "the custom of robbery!" cried elizabeth. captain peyton reddened. "robbery is not the custom of harry lee's dragoons, madam," said he, "whatever be the practice of the wretched 'skinners' or of de lancey's tory cowboys. i shall pay you as you choose,--with a receipt to present at the quartermaster's office, or with continental bills." "continental rubbish!" and, indeed, elizabeth was not far from the truth in the appellation so contemptuously hurled. "you prefer that, do you?" said peyton, unruffled; whereupon he took from within his waistcoat a long, thick pocketbook, and from that a number of bills; which must have been for high amounts, for he rapidly counted out only a score or two of them, repocketing the rest, and at that time, thereabouts, "a rat in shape of a horse," as washington himself had complained a month before, was "not to be bought for less than £ ."[ ] peyton handed her the bills he had counted out. "there's a fair price, then," said he; "allowing for depreciation. the current rate is five to one,--i allow six." elizabeth looked disdainfully at the proffered bills, and made no move to take them. "pah!" she cried. "i wouldn't touch your wretched continental trash. i wouldn't let one of my black women put her hair up in it. money, do you call it? i wouldn't give a shilling of the king for a houseful of it." "i beg your pardon," said peyton, cheerfully. "since july in ' there has been no king in america. i leave the bills, madam." he laid them on the newel post, beside the candlestick. "'tis all i can do, and more than many a man would do, seeing that colonel philipse, the owner of this place, is no friend to the american cause, and may fairly be levied on as an enemy--" "colonel philipse is my father!" "then i'm glad i've been punctilious in the matter," said peyton, but without any increase of deference. "egad, i think i've been as scrupulous as the commander-in-chief himself!" "the commander-in-chief!" echoed elizabeth. "sir henry clinton pays in gold." "i meant _our_ commander-in-chief," with a suavity most irritating. "mr. washington!" said elizabeth, scornfully, with a slight emphasis on the "mr." "his excellency, general washington." peyton spoke as one would in gently correcting a child who was impolite. then he added, "i think the horse is now ready; so i bid you good evening!" and he strode towards the door. elizabeth was now fully awake to the certainty that one of the horses would indeed be taken. at peyton's movement she ran to the door, reaching it before he did, and looked out. what she saw, transformed her into a very fury. "oh, this outrage!" she cried, facing about and addressing those in the hall. "it is my cato they are leading out! my cato! under my very eyes! i forbid it! he shall not go! where are cuff and the servants? why don't they prevent? and you, jack?" she turned to colden for the first time since peyton's arrival. "my troop would make short work of any who interfered, madam," said peyton, warningly, still looking at elizabeth only. "oh, that i should have to endure this!" she said. "oh, if i had but a company of soldiers at my back, you dog of a rebel!" and she paced the hall in a great passion. passing the newel post, she noticed the continental bills. she took these up, violently tore them across, and threw the pieces about the hall, as one tosses corn about a chicken-yard. major colden had been having a most uncomfortable five minutes. as a tory officer, he was in close peril of being made prisoner by this continental captain and the latter's troop outside, and this peril was none the less since he had so adversely criticised peyton in the talk which had led to the duel in bayard's woods. he had not put himself on friendly terms with peyton after that affair. there was still no reason for any other feeling towards him, on peyton's part, than resentment. now jack colden had no relish for imprisonment at the hands of the despised rebels. moreover, he had no wish that elizabeth should learn of his former defeat by peyton. he had kept the meeting in bayard's woods a secret, thanks to peyton's having quitted new york immediately after it, and to the relation of dependence in which the two only witnesses stood to him. thus it was that he had remained well out of view during elizabeth's sharp interview with peyton, being unwilling alike to be known as a tory officer, and to be recognized by peyton. his civilian's cloak hid his uniform and weapons; the dimness of the candle-light screened his face. but matters had reached a point where he could not, without appearing a coward, refrain longer from taking a hand. he stepped forward from the dark remoteness. "sir," said he to peyton, politely, "i know the custom of war. but since a horse must be taken, you will find one of mine in the stable. will you not take it instead of this lady's?" peyton had been scrutinizing colden's features. "mr. colden, if i remember," he said, when the major had finished. "you remember right," said colden, with a bow, concealing behind a not too well assumed quietude what inward tremors the situation caused him. "and you are doubtless now an officer in some tory corps?" said peyton, quickly. "no, sir, i am neutral," replied colden, rather huskily, with an instant's glance of warning at elizabeth. "gad!" said peyton, with a smile, still closely surveying the major. "from your sentiments the time i met you in new york in ' , i should have thought you'd take up arms for the king." "that was before the declaration of independence," said colden, in a tone scarcely more than audible. "i have modified my opinions." "they were strong enough then," peyton went on. "you remember how you upheld them with a rapier in bayard's woods?" "i remember," said colden, faintly, first reddening, then taking on a pale and sickly look, as if a prey to hidden chagrin and rage. it seemed as if his tormentor intended to torture him interminably. peyton, who knew that one of his men would come for him as soon as the horse should be saddled and bridled, remained facing the unhappy major, wearing that frank half-smile which, from the triumphant to the crestfallen, seems so insolent and is so maddening. "i've often thought," said peyton, "i deserved small credit for getting the better of you that day. i had taken lessons from london fencing-masters." (consider that the woman whom colden loved was looking on, and that this was all news to her, and imagine how he raged beneath the outer calmness he had, for safety's sake, to wear.) "'twas no hard thing to disarm you, and i'm not sorry you're neutral now. for if you wore british or tory uniform, 'twould be my duty to put you again at disadvantage, by taking you prisoner." the face of one of peyton's men now appeared in the doorway. peyton nodded to him, then continued to address the major. "as for your request, my traps are now on the other horse, and there is not time to change. i must ride at once." he stepped quickly to the door, and on the threshold turned to bow. then cried elizabeth: "may you ride to your destruction, for your impudence, you bandit!" "thank you, madam! i shall ride where i must! farewell! my horse is waiting." and in an instant he was gone, having closed the door after him with a bang. "_his_ horse! the highwayman!" quoth elizabeth. "give the gentleman his due," said miss sally, in a way both mollified and mollifying. "he paid for it with those." she indicated the strewn fragments of the continental bills on the floor. "forward! get up!" it was the voice of captain peyton outside. the horses were heard riding away from the lawn. elizabeth opened the door and looked out. her aunt accompanied her. old valentine gazed with a sagely deploring expression at the torn-up bills on the floor. colden stood where he had been, lest by some chance the enemy might return and discover his relief from straint. "oh," cried elizabeth, at the door, as the light horsemen filed out the gate and up the branch road towards the highway, "to see the miserable rebel mounted on my cato!" "he looks well on him," said her aunt. it was a brief flow of light from the fresh-risen moon, between wind-driven clouds, that enabled miss sally to make this observation. "looks well! the tatterdemalion!" and elizabeth came from the door, as if loathing further sight of him. but miss sally continued to look after the riders, as their dark forms were borne rapidly towards the post-road. "nay, i think he is quite handsome." "pah! you think every man is handsome!" said the niece, curtly. miss sally turned from the door, quite shocked. "why, elizabeth, you know i'm the least susceptible of women!" old mr. valentine nodded sadly, as much as to say, "i know that, all too well!" as the racing clouds now rushed over the moon, and the horsemen's figures, having become more and more blurred, were lost in the blackness, miss sally closed and bolted the door. the horses were faintly heard coming to a halt, at about the junction of the branch road with the highway, then moving on again rapidly, not further towards the south, as might have been expected, but back northward, and finally towards the east. meanwhile elizabeth stood in the hall, her rage none the less that its object was no longer present to have it wreaked on him. such hate, such passionate craving for revenge, had never theretofore been awakened in her. and when she realized the unlikelihood of any opportunity for satisfaction, she was exasperated to the limit of self-control. "if you had only had some troops here!" she said to colden. "i know it! may the rascal perish for finding me at such a disadvantage! 'twas my choice between denying my colors and becoming his prisoner." this brought back to elizabeth's mind the talk between colden and peyton, which her feelings had for the time driven from her thoughts. but now a natural curiosity asserted itself. "so you knew the fellow before?" "i met him in ' ," said colden, blurting awkwardly into the explanation that he knew had to be made, though little was his stomach for it. "he was passing through new york from boston to his home in virginia, after he had deserted from the king's army--" "deserted?" elizabeth opened wide her eyes. colden briefly outlined, as far as was desirable, what he knew of peyton's story. it was miss sally who then said: "and he disarmed you in a duel?" "he had practised under london fencing-masters, as he but now admitted," replied colden, grumpily. "he made no secret of his desertion; and in a coffee-house discussion i said it was a dastardly act. so we--fought. since then i've met officers of the regiment he left. such a thing was never known before,--the desertion of an officer of the sixty-third,--and general grant, its colonel, has the word of sir henry clinton that this fellow shall hang if they ever catch him." "then i hope my horse will carry him into their hands!" said elizabeth, heartily. "my poor cato! i shall never see him again!" "we may get him back some day," said colden, for want of aught better to say. "if you can do that, john colden, and have this rebel hanged who dared treat me so--" elizabeth paused, and her look dwelt on the major's face. "well?" "then i think i shall almost be really in love with you!" but colden sighed. "a rare promise from one's betrothed!" "heavens, jack!" said elizabeth, now diverted from the thought of her horse. "don't i do the best i can to love you? i'm sure i come as near loving you as loving anybody. what more can i do than that, and promising my hand? don't look dismal, major, i pray,--and now make haste back to new york." "how can i go and leave you exposed to the chance of another visit from some troop of rebels?" pleaded colden, in a kind of peevish despair, taking up his hat from the settle. "oh, that fellow showed no disposition to injure _me_!" she answered, reassuringly. "trust me to take care of myself." "but promise that if there's any sign of danger, you will fly to new york." "that will depend on the circumstances. i may be safer in this house than on the road." "then, at least, you will have guns fired, and also send a man to one of our outposts for help?" there was no pretence in the young man's solicitude. such a bride as elizabeth philipse was not to be found every day. the thought of losing her was poignant misery to him. "to which one?" she asked. "the hessian camp by tippett's brook, or the highlanders', at valentine's hill?" "no," said colden, meditating. "those may be withdrawn if the weather is bad. send to the barrier at king's bridge,--but if your man meets one of our patrols or pickets on the way, so much the better. good-by! i shall see your father to-night, and then rejoin my regiment on staten island." he took her hand, bent over it, and kissed it. "be careful you don't fall in with those rebel dragoons," said elizabeth, lightly, as his lips dwelt on her fingers. "no danger of that," put in old valentine, from the settle, for the moment ceasing to chew an imaginary cud. "they took the road to mile square." the octogenarian's hearing was better than his sight. "i shall notify our officers below that this rebel force is out," said colden, "and our dragoons may cut it off somewhere. farewell, then! i shall return for you in a week." "in a week," repeated elizabeth, indifferently. he kissed her hand again, bowed to miss sally, and hastened from the hall, closing the door behind him. once outside, he made his way to the stables, where he knew that cuff, not having returned to elizabeth, must still be. "it's little reward you give that gentleman's devotion, elizabeth," said miss sally, when he had gone. "why, am i not going to give him myself? come, aunty, don't preach on that old topic. my parents wish me to be married to jack colden, and i have consented, being an obedient child,--in some things." "more obedient to your own whims than to anything else," was miss sally's comment. the sound of colden's horse departing brought to the amiable aunt the thought of a previous departure. "that fine young rebel captain!" said she. "if our troops take him they'll hang him! gracious! as if there were so many handsome young men that any could be spared! why can't they hang the old and ugly ones instead?" mr. valentine suspended his chewing long enough to bestow on miss sally a look of vague suspicion. the door, which had not been locked or bolted after colden's going, was suddenly flung open to admit cuff. the negro boy had been thrown by the dragoons' visit into an almost comatose condition of fright, from which the orders of colden had but now sufficiently restored him to enable his venturing out of the stable. he now stood trembling in fear of elizabeth's reproof, stammering out a wild protestation of his inability to save the horse by force, and of his inefficacious attempts to save him by prayer. elizabeth cut him short with the remark, intended rather for her own satisfaction than for aught else, that one thing was to be hoped,--the chance of war might pay back the impertinent rebel who had stolen the horse. she then gave orders that the hall and the east parlor be lighted up. "for the proper reception," she added to her aunt, "of the next handsome rebel captain who may condescend to honor us with a visit. mr. valentine, wait in the parlor till supper is ready. i'll have a fire made there. come, aunt sally, we'll discuss over a cup of tea the charms of your pretty rebel captain and his agreeable way of relieving ladies of their favorite horses. i'll warrant he'll look handsomer than ever, on the gallows, when our soldiers catch him." and she went blithely up the stairs, which at the first landing turned rightward to a second landing, and thence rightward again to the upper hall. the darkness was interrupted by a narrow stream of light from a slightly open doorway in the north side of this upper hall. this was the doorway to her own room, and when she crossed the threshold she saw a bright blaze in the fireplace, lights in a candelabrum, cups and saucers on a table, and molly bringing in a steaming teapot from the next room, which, being northward, was nearer the kitchen stairs. this next room, too, was lighted up. solid wooden shutters, inside the windows of both chambers, kept the light from being seen without, and the wind from being felt within. as elizabeth was looking around her room, smiling affectionately on its many well-remembered and long-neglected objects, there was a sudden distant detonation. molly looked up inquiringly, but elizabeth directed her to place the tea things, find fresh candles, if any were left in the house, and help cuff put them on the chandelier in the lower hall, and then get supper. as molly left the room, miss sally entered it. "elizabeth! oh, child! there's firing beyond locust hill. it's on the mile square road, mr. valentine says,--cavalry pistols and rangers' muskets." "mr. valentine has a fine ear." "he says the rebel light horse must have met the hessians! there 'tis again!" "sit down, aunt, and have a dish of tea. ah-h! this is comfortable! delicious! let them kill one another as they please, beyond locust hill; let the wind race up the hudson and the albany road as it likes,--we're snugly housed!" williams, who had, from the upper hall, safely overheard captain peyton's intrusion, and had not seen occasion for his own interference, now came in from the next room, which he had been making ready for miss sally, and received elizabeth's orders concerning the east parlor. meanwhile, what of harry peyton and his troop? riding up the little tree-lined road towards the highway, they saw dark forms of other riders standing at the point of junction. these were the men whom peyton had directed to patrol the road. they now told him that, by the account of a belated farmer whom they had halted, the hessians had turned from the highway into the mile square road. peyton immediately led his men to that road. thus, as old valentine said, that part of the highway between the manor-house and king's bridge remained clear of these rebel dragoons, and major colden stood in no danger of meeting them on his return to new york. the major, nevertheless, did not spare his horse as he pursued his lonely way through the windy darkness. when he arrived at king's bridge he was glad to give his horse another rest, and to accept an invitation to a bottle and a game in the tavern where the british commanding officer was quartered. the hessians had not gone far on the mile square road, when their leader called a halt and consulted with his subordinate officer. they were now near mile square, where the tory captain, james de lancey, kept a recruiting station all the year round, and valentine's hill, where there was a regiment of highlanders. their own security was thus assured, but they might do more than come off in safety,--they might strike a parting blow at their pursuers. a plan was quickly formed. a messenger was despatched to mile square to request a small reinforcement. the troop then turned back towards the highway, having planned for either one of two possibilities. the first was that the rebel dragoons, not thinking the hessians had turned into the mile square road, would ride on down the highway. in that case, the hessians would follow them, having become in their turn the pursuers, and would fall upon their rear. the noise of firearms would alarm the hessian camp by tippett's brook, below, and the rebels would thus be caught between two forces. the second possibility was that the americans would follow into the mile square road. when the sound of their horses soon told that this was the reality, the hessians promptly prepared to meet it. the force divided into two parts. the foremost blocked the road, near a turning, so as to remain unseen by the approaching rebels until almost the moment of collision. the second force stayed some rods behind the first, forming in two lines, one along each side of the road. as to each force, some were armed with sabres and cavalry pistols, but most, being mounted yagers of van wrumb's battalion, with rifles. as for the little detachment of lee's light horse that was now galloping along the mile square road, under harry peyton's command, the arms were mainly broadswords and pistols, but some of the men had rifles or light muskets. the troop went forward at a gallop against the wind, there being just sufficient light for keen eyes to make out the road ahead. harry peyton was inwardly deploring the loss of time at philipse manor-house, and fearing that the prey would reach its covert, when suddenly the moon appeared in a cloud-rift, the troops passed a turn in the road, and there stood a line of hessians barring the way. ere peyton could give an order, came one loud, flaming, whistling discharge from that living barrier. harry's horse--elizabeth philipse's cato--reared, as did others of his troop. some of the men came to a quick stop, others were borne forward by the impetus of their former speed, but soon reined in for orders. no man fell, though one groaned, and two cursed. harry got his horse under control, drew his broadsword with his right hand, his pistol with his left,--which held also the rein,--and ordered his men to charge, to fire at the moment of contact, then to cut, slash, and club. so the little troop, the well and the wounded alike, dashed forward. but the line of hessians, as soon as they had fired, turned and fled, passing between the two lines of the second force, and stopping at some further distance to reform and reload. the second force, being thus cleared by the first, wheeled quickly into the road, and formed a second barrier against peyton's oncoming troop. peyton's men, intoxicated by the powder-smell that filled their nostrils as they passed through the smoke of the hessians' first volley, bore down on this second barrier with furious force. they were the best riders in the world, and many a one of them held his broadsword aloft in one hand, his pistol raised in the other, the rein loose on his horse's neck; while those with long-barrelled weapons aimed them on the gallop. the hessians and peyton's foremost men fired at the same moment. the hessians had not time to turn and flee, for the americans, unchecked by this second greeting of fire, came on at headlong speed. "at 'em, boys!" yelled peyton, discharging his pistol at a tall yager, who fell sidewise from his horse with a fierce german oath. the light horse men dashed between the hessians' steeds, and there was hewing and hacking. a hessian officer struck with a sabre at peyton's left arm, but only knocked the pistol from his hand. peyton then found himself threatened on the right by a trooper, and slashed at him with broadsword. the blow went home, but the sword's end became entangled somehow with the breast bones of the victim. a yager, thinking to deprive peyton of the sword, brought down a musket-butt heavily on it. but peyton's grip was firm, and the sword snapped in two, the hilt in his hand, the point in its human sheath. at that instant peyton felt a keen smart in his left leg. it came from a second sabre blow aimed by the hessian officer, who might have followed it with a third, but that he was now attacked elsewhere. peyton had no sooner clapped his hand to his wounded leg than he was stunned by a blow from the rifle-butt of the yager who had previously struck the sword. harry fell forward on the horse's neck, which he grasped madly with both arms, still holding the broken sword in his right hand; and lapsed from a full sense of the tumult, the plunging and shrieking horses, the yelling and cursing men, the whirr and clash of swords, and the thuds of rifle-blows, into blind, red, aching, smarting half-consciousness. when he was again aware of things, he was still clasping the horse's neck, and was being borne alone he knew not whither. his head ached, and his left leg was at every movement a seat of the sharpest pain. he was dizzy, faint, bleeding,--and too weak to raise himself from his position. he could not hear any noise of fighting, but that might have been drowned by the singing in his ears. he tried to sit up and look around, but the effort so increased his pain and so drew on his nigh-fled strength, that he fell forward on the horse's neck, exhausted and half-insensible. the horse, which had merely turned and run from the conflict at the moment of peyton's loss of sense, galloped on. clouds had darkened the moon in time to prevent their captain's unintentional defection from being seen by his troops. they had, therefore, fought on against such antagonists as, in the darkness, they could keep located. the moon reappeared, and showed many of the hessians making for the wooded hill near by, and some fleeing to the force that had re-formed further on the road. some of the americans charged this force, which thereupon fired a volley and fled, having the more time therefor inasmuch as the charging dragoons did not this time possess their former speed and impetus. the dragoons, in disorder and without a leader, came to a halt. becoming aware of peyton's absence, they sought in vain the scene of recent conflict. it was soon inferred that he had been wounded, and, therefore of no further use in the combat, had retreated to a safe resting-place. it was decided useless to follow the enemy further towards the near british posts, whence the hessians might be reinforced,--as they would have been, had they held the ground longer. so, having had much the better of the fight, the surviving dragoons galloped back towards the post-road, expecting to come upon their captain, wounded, by the wayside, at any moment. he might, indeed, to make sure of safe refuge, ride as far towards the american lines as the wound he must have received would allow him to do. such were the doings, on the windy night, beyond locust hill, while elizabeth philipse and her aunt sat drinking tea by candle-light before a sputtering wood fire. elizabeth having set the example, the others in the house went about their business, despite the firing so plainly heard. black sam had, after elizabeth's arrival, returned from the orchard, whither he had gone late in the day, lest he might attract the attention of some dodging whale-boat or skulking whig to the few remaining apples. he had been let in at a rear door by williams, who had repressed him during the visit of the american dragoons,--for sam was a sturdy, bold fellow, of different kidney from the dapper, citified cuff. at williams's order he had made a roaring fire in the east parlor, to the great comfort of old mr. valentine, and was now putting the dining-room into a similar state of warmth and light. williams was setting out provisions for molly presently to cook; and the maid herself was, with cuff's assistance, replenishing the hall chandelier with fresh candles. the sound of firing had put elizabeth's black boy into a tremulous and white-eyed state. when molly, who stood on the settle while he handed the candles up to her, assured him that the firing was t'other side of locust hill, that the bullets would not penetrate the mahogany door, and that anyhow only one bullet in a hundred ever hit any one, cuff affrightedly observed 'twas just that one bullet he was afraid of; and when, at the third discharge, molly dropped a candle on his woolly head, he fell prostrate, howling that he was shot. molly convinced him after awhile that he was alive, but he averred he had actually had a glimpse of the harps and the golden streets, though the prospect of soon possessing them had rather appalled him, as indeed it does many good people who are so sure of heaven and so fond of it. he had been reassured but a short time, when he had new cause for terror. again a horse was heard galloping up to the house. it stopped before the door and gave a loud whinny. [illustration: "leaned forward on the horse's neck."] molly exchanged with cuff a look of mingled wonder, delight, and doubt; then ran and opened the front door. "yes!" she cried. "it is! it's miss elizabeth's horse! it's cato!" cuff ran to the threshold in great joy, but suddenly stopped short. "dey's a soldier on hees back," he whispered. so molly had noticed,--but a soldier who made no demonstration, a soldier who leaned forward on the horse's neck and clutched its mane, holding at the same time in one hand a broken sword, and who tried to sit up, but only emitted a groan of pain. "he's wounded, that's it," said molly. "go and help the poor soldier in, cuff. don't you see he's injured? he can't hurt you." molly enforced her commands with such physical persuasions that cuff, ere he well knew what he was about, was helping peyton from the horse. the captain, revived by a supreme effort, leaned on the boy's shoulder and came limping and lurching across the porch into the hall. molly then went to his assistance, and with this additional aid he reached the settle, on which he dropped, weak, pale, and panting. he took a sitting posture, gasped his thanks to molly, and, noticing the blood from his leg wound, called damnation on the hessian officer's sword. presently he asked for a drink of water. at molly's bidding the negro boy hastened for water, and also to inform his mistress of the arrival. elizabeth, hearing the news, rose with an exclamation; but, taking thought, sat down again, and, with a pretence of composure, finished her cup of tea. cuff returned with a glass of water to the hall, where molly was listening to peyton's objurgations on his condition. the captain took the glass eagerly, and was about to drink, when a footstep was heard on the stairs. he turned his head and saw elizabeth. "here's my respects, madam," quoth he, and drank off the water. elizabeth came down-stairs and took a position where she could look peyton well over. he watched her with some wonderment. when she was quite ready she spoke: "so, it is, indeed, the man who stole my horse." "pardon. i think your horse has stolen _me_! it made me an intruder here quite against my will, i assure you." "you will doubtless not honor us by remaining?" there was more seriousness of curiosity in this question than elizabeth betrayed or peyton perceived. "what can i do? i can neither ride nor walk." "but your men will probably come for you?" "i don't think any saw the horse bear me from the fight. the field was in smoke and darkness. my troops must have pursued the enemy. they'll think me killed or made prisoner. if they return this way, however, i can have them stop and take me along." "then you expect that, in repayment of your treatment of me awhile ago--" elizabeth paused. "madam, you should allow for the exigencies of war! yet, if you wish to turn me out--" elizabeth interrupted him: "so it is true that, if you fell into the hands of the british, they would hang you?" "doubtless! but you shouldn't blame _me_ for what _they'd_ do. and how did you know?" "help this gentleman into the east parlor," said elizabeth, abruptly, to cuff. "ah!" cried peyton, his face lighting up with quick gratitude. "madam, you then make me your guest?" he thrust forward his head, forgetful of his condition. "my guest?" rang out elizabeth's voice in answer. "you insolent rebel, i intend to hand you over to the british!" there was a brief silence. each gazed at the other. "you will not--do that?" said peyton, in a voice little above a whisper. "wait and see!" and she stood regarding him with elation. he stared at her in blank consternation. again, the sound of the trample of many horses. "ah!" cried peyton, joyfully. "my men returning!" he rose to go to the door, but his wounded leg gave way, and he staggered to the staircase, and leaned against the balustrade. elizabeth's look of gratification faded. she ran to the door, fastened it with bolt and key, and stood with her back against it. the sound, first distant as if in the mile square road, was now manifestly in the highway. would it come southward, towards the house, or go northward, decreasing? "they are my men!" cried peyton to cuff. "call them! they'll pass without knowing i am here. call them, i say! quick! they'll be out of hearing." "silence!" said elizabeth to cuff, in a low tone, and stood listening. peyton made another attempt to move, but realized his inability. 'twas all he could do to support himself against the balustrade. "my god, they've gone by!" he cried. "they'll return to our lines, leaving me behind." and he shouted, "carrington!" the voice rang for a moment in the remoteness of the hall above. then complete silence within. all in the hall remained motionless, listening. the sound of the horses came fainter and fainter. "carrington! help! i'm in the manor-house,--a prisoner!" a look of despair came over his face. on elizabeth's the suspense gave way to a smile of triumph. the sound of the horses died away. chapter vi. the one chance. peyton staggered back to the settle and sank down on it, exhausted. elizabeth, hearing black sam moving about in the dining-room, which was directly north of the hall, bade molly summon him. when he appeared, she ordered him and cuff to carry the settle, with the wounded man on it, into the east parlor, and to place the man on the sofa there. she then told molly to hasten the supper, and to send williams to her up-stairs, and thereupon rejoined her excited aunt above. when williams attended her, she gave him commands regarding the prisoner. peyton was thus carried through the deep doorway in the south side of the hall into the east parlor, which was now exceedingly habitable with fire roaring and candles lighted. in the east and south sides of this richly ornamented room were deeply embrasured windows, with low seats. in the west side was a mahogany door opening from the old or south hall. in the north side, which was adorned with wooden pillars and other carved woodwork, was the door through which peyton had been carried; west of that, the decorated chimney-breast with its english mantel and fireplace, and further west a pair of doors opening from a closet, whence a winding staircase descended cellarward. the ceiling was rich with fanciful arabesque woodwork. set in the chimney-breast, over the mantel, was an oblong mirror. the wainscoting, pillars, and other woodwork were of a creamy white. but peyton had no eye for details at the moment. he noticed only that his entrance disturbed the slumbers of the old gentleman--matthias valentine--who had been sleeping in a great armchair by the fire, and who now blinked in wonderment. the negroes put down the settle and lifted peyton to a sofa that stood against the western side of the room, between a spinet and the northern wall. at peyton's pantomimic request they then moved the sofa to a place near the fire, and then, taking the settle along, marched out of the room, back to the hall, closing the door as they went. peyton, too pain-racked and exhausted to speak, lay back on the sofa, with closed eyes. old valentine stared at him a few moments; then, curious both as to this unexpected advent and as to the proximity of supper, rose and hobbled from the parlor and across the hall to the dining-room. for some time peyton was left alone. he opened his eyes, studied the flying figures on the ceiling, the portraits on the walls, the carpet,--philipse manor-house, like the best english houses of the time, had carpet on its floors,--the carving of the mantel, the clock and candelabrum thereupon, the crossed rapiers thereabove, the curves of the imported furniture. his twinges and aches were so many and so diverse that he made no attempt to locate them separately. he could feel that the left leg of his breeches was soaked with blood. finally the door opened, and in came williams and cuff, the former with shears and bands of linen, the latter with a basin of water. williams, whom peyton had not before seen, scrutinized him critically, and forthwith proceeded to expose, examine, wash, and bind up the wounded leg, while cuff stood by and played the rôle of surgeon's assistant. peyton speedily perceived on the steward's part a reliable acquaintance with the art of dressing cuts, and therefore submitted without a word to his operations. williams was equally silent, breaking his reticence only now and then to utter some monosyllabic command to cuff. when the wound was dressed, williams put the patient's disturbed attire to rights, and adjusted his hair. peyton, with a feeling of some relief, made to stretch the wounded leg, but a sharp twinge cut the movement short. "you should make a good surgeon," peyton said at last, "you tie so damnably tight a bandage." "i've bound up many a wound, sir," said williams; "and some far worse than yours. 'tis not a dangerous cut, yours, though 'twill be irritating while it lasts. you won't walk for a day or two." "it's remarkable your mistress has so much trouble taken with me, when she intends to deliver me to the british." peyton had inferred the steward's place in the house, from his appearance and manner. "why, sir," said williams, "we couldn't have you bleeding over the floor and furniture. besides, i suppose she wants to hand you over in good condition." "i see! no bedraggled remnant of a man, but a complete, clean, and comfortable candidate for cunningham's gallows!" peyton here forgot his wound and attempted to sit upright, but quickly fell back with a grimace and a groan. "better lie still, sir," counselled williams, sagely. "if you need any one, you are to call cuff. he will be in waiting in that hall, sir." and the steward pointed towards the east hall. "there will be no use trying to get away. i doubt if you could walk half across the room without fainting. and if you could get out of the house, you'd find black sam on guard, with his duck-gun,--and sam doesn't miss once in a hundred times with that duck-gun. bring those things, cuff." williams indicated peyton's hat, remnant of sword, and scabbard, which had been placed on the armchair by the fireside. "leave my sword!" commanded peyton. "can't, sir!" said williams, affably. "miss elizabeth's orders were to take it away." williams thereupon went from the room, crossed the east hall, and entered the dining-room, to report to elizabeth, who now sat at supper with miss sally and mr. valentine. cuff, with basin of water in one hand, took up the hat, sword, and scabbard, with the other. "miss elizabeth!" mused peyton. "queen elizabeth, i should say, in this house. gad, to be a girl's prisoner, tied down to a sofa by so small a cut!" hereupon he addressed cuff, who was about to depart: "where is your mistress?" "in the dining-room, eating supper." "and mr. colden, whom i saw in that hall about an hour ago, when i bought the horse?" "major colden rode back to new york." "_major_ colden! major of what?" "new juzzey vollingteers, sir." "what? then he is in the king's service, after all? and when i was here with my troops he said he was neutral. i'll never take a tory's word again." "am you like to hab de chance, sir?" queried cuff, with a grin. "what! you taunt me with my situation?" and harry's head shot up from the sofa as he made to rise and chastise the boy; but he could not stand on his leg, and so remained sitting, propped on his right arm, panting and glaring at the negro. cuff, whose whiteness of teeth had shown in his moment of mirth, now displayed much whiteness of eye in his alarm at peyton's movement, and glided to the door. as he went out to the hall, he passed molly, who was coming into the parlor with a bowl of broth. "hah!" ejaculated peyton as she came towards him. "they would feed the animal for the slaughter, eh?" molly curtseyed. "please, sir, it wa'n't they sent this. i brought it of my own accord, sir, though with miss elizabeth's permission." "oh! so miss elizabeth _did_ give her permission, then?" "yes, sir. at least, she said it didn't matter, if i wished to." "and you did wish to? well, you're a good girl, and i thank you." whereupon peyton took the bowl and sipped of the broth with relish. "thank you, sir," said molly, who then moved a small light chair from its place by the wall to a spot beside the sofa and within peyton's reach. "you can set the bowl on this," she added. "i must go back to the kitchen." and, after another curtsey, she was gone. the broth revived peyton, and with all his pain and fatigue he had some sense of comfort. the handsome, well warmed, well lighted parlor, so richly furnished, so well protected from the wind and weather by the solid shutters outside its four small-paned windows, was certainly a snug corner of the world. so far seemed all this from stress and war, that peyton lost his strong realization of the fate that elizabeth's threat promised him. appreciation of his surroundings drove away other thoughts and feelings. that he should be taken and hanged was an idea so remote from his present situation, it seemed rather like a dream than an imminent reality. there surely would be a way of his getting hence in safety. and he imbibed mouthful after mouthful of the warm broth. presently old mr. valentine reappeared, from the east hall, looking none the less comfortable for the supper he had eaten. a long pipe was in his hand, and, that he might absorb smoke and liquor at the same time, he had brought with him from the table, where the two ladies remained, a vast mug of hot rum punch of williams's brewing. he now set the mug on the mantel, lighted his pipe with a brand from the fire, repossessed himself of the mug, and sat down in the armchair, with a sigh of huge satisfaction. it mattered not that this was the parlor of philipse manor-house,--for mr. valentine, in his innocent way, indulged himself freely in the privileges and presumptions of old age. peyton, after staring for some time with curiosity at the smoky old gentleman, who rapidly grew smokier, at last raised the bowl of broth for a last gulp, saying, cheerily: "to your very good health, sir!" "thank you, sir!" said the old man, complacently, not making any movement to reciprocate. "what! won't you drink to mine?" "'twould be a waste of words to drink the health of a man that's going to be hanged," replied valentine, who at supper had heard the ladies discuss peyton's intended fate. he thereupon sent a cloud of smoke ceiling-ward for the flying cherubs to rest on. "the devil! you _are_ economical!" "of words, maybe, not of liquor." the octogenarian quaffed deeply from the mug. "they say hanging is an easy death," he went on, being in loquacious mood. "i never saw but one man hanged. he didn't seem to enjoy it." mr. valentine puffed slowly, inwardly dwelling on the recollection. "oh, didn't he?" said peyton. "no, he took it most unpleasant like." "did you come in here to cheer me up in my last hours?" queried harry, putting the empty bowl on the chair by the sofa. "no," replied the other, ingenuously. "i came in for a smoke while the ladies stayed at the table." he then went back to a subject that seemed to have attractions for him. "i don't know how hanging will go with you. cunningham will do the work.[ ] they say he makes it as disagreeable as may be. i'd come and see you hanged, but it won't be possible." "then i suppose i shall have to excuse you," said peyton, with resignation. "yes." the old man had finished his punch and set down his mug, and he now yawned with a completeness that revealed vastly more of red toothless mouth than one might have calculated his face could contain. "some take it easier than others," he went on. "it's harder with young men like you." again he opened his jaws in a gape as whole-souled as that of a house-dog before a kitchen fire. "it must be disagreeable to have a rope tightened around your neck. i don't know." he thrust his pipe-stem absently between his lips, closed his eyes, mumbled absently, "i don't know," and in a few moments was asleep, his pipe hanging from his mouth, his hands folded in his lap. "a cheerful companion for a man in my situation," thought peyton. his mind had been brought back to the future. when would this resolute and vengeful miss elizabeth fulfil her threat? how would she proceed about it? had she already taken measures towards his conveyance to the british lines? should she delay until he should be able to walk, there would be two words about the matter. meanwhile, he must wait for developments. it was useless to rack his brain with conjectures. his sense of present comfort gradually resumed sway, and he placed his head again on the sofa pillow and closed his eyes. he was conscious for a time of nothing but his deadened pain, his inward comfort, the breathing of old mr. valentine, the intermittent raging of the wind without, and the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel,--which delicately framed timepiece had been started within the hour by sam, who knew miss elizabeth's will for having all things in running order. peyton's drowsiness wrapped him closer and closer. presently he was remotely aware of the opening of the door, the tread of light feet on the floor, the swish of skirts. but he had now reached that lethargic point which involves total indifference to outer things, and he did not even open his eyes. "asleep," said elizabeth, for it was she who had entered with her aunt. harry recognized the voice, and knew that he was the subject of her remark; but his feeling towards his contemptuous captor was not such as to make him take the trouble of setting her right. therefore, he kept his eyes closed, having a kind of satisfaction in her being mistaken. "how handsome!" whispered miss sally, who beamed more bigly and benignly after supper than before. "which one, aunty?" said elizabeth, looking from peyton to old valentine. her aunt deigned to this levity only a look of hopeless reproof. elizabeth sat down on the music-seat before the spinet, and became serious,--or, more accurately, businesslike. "on second thought," said she, "it won't do to keep him here waiting for one of our patrols to pass this way. in the meantime some of the rebels might come into the neighborhood and stop here. he must be delivered to the british this very night!" peyton gave no outward sign of the momentary heart stoppage he felt within. "why," said the aunt, speaking low, and in some alarm, "'twould require williams and both the blacks to take him, and we should be left alone in the house." "i sha'n't send him to the troops," said elizabeth, in her usual tone, not caring whether or not the prisoner should be disturbed,--for in his powerlessness he could not oppose her plans if he did know them, and in her disdain she had no consideration for his feelings. "the troops shall come for him. black sam shall go to the watch-house at king's bridge with word that there's an important rebel prisoner held here, to be had for the taking." "will the troops at king's bridge heed the story of a black man?" aunt sally seemed desirous of interposing objections to immediate action. "their officer will heed a written message from me," said the niece. "most of the officers know me, and those at king's bridge are aware i came here to-day." thereupon she called in cuff, and sent him off for williams, with orders that the steward should bring her pen, ink, paper, and wax. "oh, elizabeth!" cried miss sally, looking at the floor. "here's some of the poor fellow's blood on the carpet." "never mind. the blood of an enemy is a sight easily tolerated," said the girl, probably unaware how nearly she had duplicated a famous utterance of a certain king of france, whose remark had borne reference to another sense than that of sight.[ ] williams soon came in with the writing materials, and placed them, at elizabeth's direction, on a table that stood between the two eastern windows, and on which was a lighted candelabrum. elizabeth sat down at the table, her back towards the fireplace and peyton. "i wish you to send black sam to me," said she to the steward, "and to take his place on guard with the gun till he returns from an errand." williams departed, and elizabeth began to make the quill fly over the paper, her aunt looking on from beside the table. peyton opened his eyes and looked at them. "it does seem a pity," said miss sally at last. "such a pretty gentleman,--such a gallant soldier!" "gentleman?" echoed elizabeth, writing on. "the fellow is not a gentleman! nor a gallant soldier!" peyton rose to a sitting posture as if stung by a hornet, but was instantly reminded of his wound. but neither elizabeth nor her aunt saw or heard his movement. the girl, unaware that he was awake, continued: "does a gentleman or a gallant soldier desert the army of his king to join that of his king's enemies?" quick came the answer,--not from aunt sally, but from peyton on the sofa. "a gallant soldier has the right to choose his side, and a gentleman need not fight against his country!" elizabeth did not suffer herself to appear startled at this sudden breaking in. having finished her note, she quietly folded it, and addressed it, while she said: "a gallant soldier, having once chosen his side, will be loyal to it; and a gentleman never bore the odious title of deserter." "a gentleman can afford to wear any title that is redeemed by a glorious cause and an extraordinary danger. when i took service with the king's army in england, i never dreamt that army would be sent against the king's own colonies; and not till i arrived in boston did i know the true character of this revolt. we thought we were coming over merely to quell a lawless boston rabble. i gave in my resignation--" "but did not wait for it to be accepted," interrupted elizabeth, quietly, as she applied to the folded paper the wax softened by the flame of a candle. "i _was_ a little hasty," said harry. "the rebel army was the proper place for such fellows," said elizabeth. "no true british officer would be guilty of such a deed!" "probably not! it required exceptional courage!" peyton knew, as well as any, that the british were brave enough; but he was in mood for sharp retort. "that is not the reason," said elizabeth, coldly, refusing to show wrath. "your enemies hold such acts as yours in detestation." "i am not serving in this war for the approbation of my enemies." at this moment black sam came in. elizabeth handed him the letter, and said: "you are to take my horse cato, and ride with this message to the british barrier at king's bridge. it is for the officer in command there. when the sentries challenge you, show this, and say it is of the greatest consequence and must be delivered at once." "yes, miss elizabeth." "the commander," she went on, "will probably send here a body of troops at once, to convey this prisoner within the lines. you are to return with them. if no time is lost, and they send mounted troops, you should be back in an hour." peyton could hardly repress a start. "an hour at most, miss, if nothing stops," said the negro. "if any officer of my acquaintance is in command," said elizabeth, "there will be no delay. cuff shall let the troops in, through that hall, as soon as they arrive." whereupon the black man, a stalwart and courageous specimen of his race, went rapidly from the room. "one hour!" murmured peyton, looking at the clock. molly, the maid, now reappeared, carrying carefully in one hand a cup, from which a thin steam ascended. "what is't now, molly?" inquired elizabeth, rising from her chair. molly blushed and was much confused. "tea, ma'am, if you please! i thought, maybe, you'd allow the gentleman--" "very well," said elizabeth. "be the good samaritan if you like, child. his tea-drinking days will soon be over. come, aunt sally, we shall be in better company elsewhere." and she returned to the dining-room, not deigning her prisoner another look. miss sally followed, but her feelings required confiding in some one, and before she went she whispered to the embarrassed maid, "oh, molly, to think so sweet a young gentleman should be completely wasted!" molly heaved a sigh, and then approached the young gentleman himself, with whom she was now alone, saving the presence of the slumbering valentine. "so your name is molly? and you've brought me tea this time?" "yes, sir,--if you please, sir." she took up the bowl from the chair and placed the cup in its stead. "i put sugar in this, sir, but if you'd rather--" "i'd rather have it just as you've made it, molly," he said, in a singularly gentle, unsteady tone. he raised the cup, and sipped. "delicious, molly!--hah! your mistress thinks my tea-drinking days will soon be over." "i'm very sorry, sir." "so am i." he held the cup in his left hand, supporting his upright body with his right arm, and looked rather at vacancy than at the maid. "never to drink tea again," he said, "or wine or spirits, for that matter! to close your eyes on this fine world! never again to ride after the hounds, or sing, or laugh, or chuck a pretty girl under the chin!" and here, having set down the cup, he chucked molly herself under the chin, pretending a gaiety he did not feel. "never again," he went on, "to lead a charge against the enemies of our liberty; not to live to see this fight out, the king's regiments driven from the land, the states take their place among the free nations of the world! _by god, molly, i don't want to die yet!_" it was not the fear of death, it was the love of life, and what life might have in reserve, that moved him; and it now asserted itself in him with a force tenfold greater than ever before. death,--or, rather, the ceasing of life,--as he viewed it now, when he was like to meet it without company, with prescribed preliminaries, in an ignominious mode, was a far other thing than as viewed in the exaltation of battle, when a man chances it hot-headed, uplifted, thrilled, in gallant comradeship, to his own fate rendered careless by a sense of his nothingness in comparison with the whole vast drama. moreover, in going blithely to possible death in open fight, one accomplishes something for his cause; not so, going unwillingly to certain death on an enemy's gallows. it was, too, an exasperating thought that he should die to gratify the vengeful whim of an insolent tory girl. "will it really come to that?" asked molly, in a frightened tone. "as surely as i fall into british hands!" peyton remembered the case of general charles lee, whose resignation of half-pay had not been acknowledged; who was, when captured by the british, long in danger of hanging, and who was finally rated as an ordinary war prisoner only for washington's threat to retaliate on five hessian field officers. if a major-general, whose desertion, even if admitted, was from half-pay only, would have been hanged without ceremony but for general howe's fear of a "law scrape," and had been saved from shipment to england for trial, only by the king's fear that washington's retaliation would disaffect the hessian allies, for what could a mere captain look, who had come over from the enemy in action, and whose punishment would entail no official retaliation? "and your mistress expects a troop of british soldiers here in an hour to take me! damn it, if i could only walk!" and he looked rapidly around the room, in a kind of distraction, as if seeking some means of escape. realizing the futility of this, he sighed dismally, and drank the remainder of the tea. "you couldn't get away from the house, sir," said molly. "williams is watching outside." "i'd take a chance if i could only run!" peyton muttered. he had no fear that molly would betray him. "if there were some hiding-place i might crawl to! but the troops would search every cranny about the house." he turned to molly suddenly, seeing, in his desperate state and his lack of time, but one hope. "i wonder, could williams be bribed to spirit me away?" molly's manner underwent a slight chill. "oh, no," said she. "he'd die before he'd disobey miss elizabeth. we all would, sir. i'm very sorry, indeed, sir." whereupon, taking up the empty bowl and teacup, she hastened from the room. peyton sat listening to the clock-ticks. he moved his right leg so that the foot rested on the floor, then tried to move the left one after it, using his hand to guide it. with great pains and greater pain, he finally got the left foot beside the right. he then undertook to stand, but the effort cost him such physical agony as could not be borne for any length of time. he fell back with a groan to the sofa, convinced that the wounded leg was not only, for the time, useless itself, but also an impediment to whatever service the other leg might have rendered alone. but he remained sitting up, his right foot on the floor. suddenly there was a raucous sound from old mr. valentine. he had at last begun to snore. but this infliction brought its own remedy, for when his jaws opened wider his tobacco pipe fell from his mouth and struck his folded hands. he awoke with a start, and blinked wonderingly at peyton, whose face, turned towards the old man, still wore the look of disapproval evoked by the momentary snoring. "still here, eh?" piped mr. valentine. "i dreamt you were being hanged to the fireplace, like a pig to be smoked. i was quite upset over it! such a fine young gentleman, and one of harry lee's officers, too!" and the old man shook his head deploringly. "then why don't you help me out of this?" demanded peyton, whose impulse was for grasping at straws, for he thought of black sam urging cato through the wind towards king's bridge at a gallop. "it ain't possible," said valentine, phlegmatically. "if it were, would you?" asked harry, a spark of hope igniting from the appearance that the old man was, at least, not antagonistic to him. "why, yes," began the octogenarian, placidly. harry's heart bounded. "if," the old man went on, "i could without lending aid to the king's enemies. but you see i couldn't. i won't lend aid to neither side's enemies.[ ] i don't want to die afore my time." and he gazed complacently at the fire. peyton knew the hopeless immovability of selfish old age. "god!" he muttered, in despair. "is there no one i can turn to?" "there's none within hearing would dare go against the orders of miss elizabeth," said mr. valentine. "miss elizabeth evidently rules with a firm hand," said peyton, bitterly. "her word--" he stopped suddenly, as if struck by a new thought. "if i could but move _her_! if i could make her change her mind!" "you couldn't. no one ever could, and as for a rebel soldier--" "she has a heart of iron, that girl!" broke in peyton. "the cruelty of a savage!" mr. valentine took on a sincerely deprecating look. "oh, you mustn't abuse miss elizabeth," said he. "it ain't cruelty, it's only proper pride. and she isn't hard. she has the kindest heart,--to those she's fond of." "to those she's fond of," repeated harry, mechanically. "yes," said the old man; "her people, her horses, her dogs and cats, and even her servants and slaves." "tender creature, who has a heart for a dog and not for a man!" the old man's loyalty to three generations of philipses made him a stubborn defender, and he answered: "she'd have no less a heart for a man if she loved him." "if she loved him!" echoed peyton, and began to think. "ay, and a thousand times more heart, loving him as a woman loves a man." mr. valentine spoke knowingly, as one acquainted by enviable experience with the measure of such love. "as a woman loves a man!" repeated peyton. suddenly he turned to valentine. "tell me, does she love any man so, now?" peyton did not know the relation in which elizabeth and major colden stood to each other. "i can't say she _loves_ one," replied valentine, judicially, "though--" but peyton had heard enough. "by heaven, i'll try it!" he cried. "such miracles have happened! and i have almost an hour!" old valentine blinked at him, with stupid lack of perception. "what is it, sir?" "i shall try it!" was peyton's unenlightening answer. "there's one chance. and you can help me!" "the devil i can!" replied valentine, rising from his chair in some annoyance. "i won't lend aid, i tell you!" "it won't be 'lending aid.' all i beg is that you ask miss elizabeth to see me alone at once,--and that you'll forget all i've said to you. don't stand staring! for christ's sake, go and ask her to come in! don't you know? only an hour,--less than that, now!" "but she mayn't come here for the asking," objected the old man, somewhat dazed by peyton's petulance. "she _must_ come here!" cried harry. "induce her, beg her, entice her! tell her i have a last request to make of my jailer,--no, excite her curiosity; tell her i have a confession to make, a plot to disclose,--anything! in heaven's name, go and send her here!" it was easier to comply with so light a request than to remain recipient of such torrent-like importunity. "i'll try, sir," said the peace-loving old man, "but i have no hope," and he hobbled from the room. he left the door open as he went, and harry, tortured by impatience, heard him shuffling over the hall floor to the dining-room. peyton's mind was in a whirl. he glanced at the clock. these were his thoughts: "fifty minutes! to make a woman love me! a proud woman, vain and wilful, who hates our cause, who detests me! to make her love me! how shall i begin? keep your wits now, harry, my son,--'tis for your life! how to begin? why doesn't she come? damn the clock, how loud it ticks! i feel each tick. no, 'tis my heart i feel. my god, _will_ she not come? and the time is going--" "well, sir, what is it?" he looked from the clock to the doorway, where stood elizabeth. chapter vii. the flight of the minutes. the silence of her entrance was from her having, a few minutes earlier, exchanged her riding-boots for satin slippers. "i--i thank you for coming, madam," said peyton, feeling the necessity of a prompt reply to her imperious look of inquiry, yet without a practicable idea in his head. "i had--that is--a request to make." he was trembling violently, not from fear, but from that kind of agitation which often precedes the undertaking of a critical task, as when a suppliant awaits an important interview, or an actor assumes for the first time a new part. "mr. valentine said a confession," said elizabeth, holding him in a coldly resentful gaze. "why, yes, a confession," said he, hopelessly. "a plot to disclose," she added, with sharp impatience. "what is it?" "you shall hear," he began, in gloomy desperation, without the faintest knowledge of how he should finish. "i--ah--it is this--" his wandering glance fell on the table and the writing materials she had left there. "i wish to write a letter--a last letter--to a friend." the vague general outline of a project arose in his mind. elizabeth was inclined to be as laconic as implacable. "write it," said she. "there are pen and ink." "but i can't write in this position," said peyton, quickly, lest she might leave the room. "i fear i can't even hold a pen. will you not write for me?" "i? secretary to a horse-thieving rebel!" "it is a last request, madam. a last request is sacred,--even an enemy's." "i will send in some one to write for you." and she turned to go. "but this letter will contain secrets." "secrets?" the very word is a charm to a woman. elizabeth's curiosity was touched but slightly, yet sufficiently to stay her steps for the moment. "ay," said peyton, lowering his tone and speaking quickly, "secrets not for every ear. secrets of the heart, madam,--secrets so delicate that, to convey them truly, i need the aid of more than common tact and understanding." he watched her eagerly, and tried to repress the signs of his anxiety. elizabeth considered for a moment, then went to the table and sat down by it. "but," said she, regarding him with angry suspicion, "the confession,--the plot?" "why, madam," said he, his heart hammering forcefully, "do you think i may communicate them to you directly? the letter shall relate them, too, and if the person who holds the pen for me pays heed to the letter's contents, is it my fault?" "i understand," said the woman, entrapped, and she dipped the quill into the ink. "the letter," began peyton, slowly, hesitating for ideas, and glancing at the clock, yet not retaining a sense of where the hands were, "is to mr. bryan fairfax--" "what?" she interrupted. "kinsman to lord fairfax, of virginia?" "there's but one mr. bryan fairfax," said peyton, acquiring confidence from his preliminary expedient to overcome prejudice, "and, though he's on the side of king george in feeling, yet he's my friend,--a circumstance that should convince even you i'm not scum o' the earth, rebel though you call me. he's the friend of washington, too." "poh! who is your washington? my aunt mary rejected him, and married his rival in this very room!" "and a good thing washington didn't marry her!" said peyton, gallantly. "she'd have tried to turn him tory, and the ladies of this family are not to be resisted." "go on with your letter," said elizabeth, chillingly. "'mr. bryan fairfax,'" dictated peyton, steadying his voice with an effort, "'towlston hall, fairfax county, virginia. my dear fairfax: if ever these reach you, 'twill be from out a captivity destined, probably, to end soon in that which all dread, yet to which all must come; a captivity, nevertheless, sweetened by the divinest presence that ever bore the name of woman--'" elizabeth stopped writing, and looked up, with an astonishment so all-possessing that it left no room even for indignation. peyton, his eyes astray in the preoccupation of composition, did not notice her look, but, as if moved by enthusiasm, rose on his right leg and stood, his hands placed on the back of the light chair by the sofa, the chair's front being turned from him. he went on, with an affectation of repressed rapture: "''twere worth even death to be for a short hour the prisoner of so superb--'" "sir, what are you saying?" and elizabeth dropped the pen, and stood up, regarding him with freezing resentment. "my thoughts, madam," said he, humbly, meeting her gaze. "how dare you jest with me?" said she. "jest? does a man jest in the face of his own death?" "'twas a jest to bid me write such lies!" "lies? 'fore gad, the mirror yonder will not call them lies!" he indicated the oblong glass set in above the mantel. "if there is lying, 'tis my eyes that lie! 'tis only what they tell me, that my lips report." keeping his left foot slightly raised from the floor, he pushed the chair a little towards her, and himself followed it, resting his weight partly on its back, while he hopped with his right foot. but elizabeth stayed him with a gesture of much imperiousness. "what has such rubbish to do with your confession and your plot?" she demanded. "can you not see?" and he now let some of his real agitation appear, that it might serve as the lover's perturbation which it would be well to display. "my confession is of the instant yielding of my heart to the charms of a goddess." in those days lovers, real or pretended, still talked of goddesses, flames, darts, and such. "who desired your heart to yield to anything?" was miss elizabeth's sharply spoken reply. "beauty _commanded_ it, madam!" said he, bowing low over his chair-back. "so, then, there was no plot?" her eyes flashed with indignation. "a plot, yes!" he glanced sidewise at the clock, and drew self-reliance from the very situation, which began to intoxicate him. "_my_ plot, to attract you hither, by that message, that i might console myself for my fate by the joy of seeing you!" "the joy of seeing me!" she spoke with incredulity and contempt. a glad boldness had come over peyton. he felt himself masterful, as one feels who is drunk with wine; yet, unlike such a one, he had command of mind and body. "ay, joy," said he, "joy none the less that you are disdainful! pride is the attribute of queens, and tenderness is not the only mood in which a woman may conquer. heaven! you can so discomfit a man with your frowns, _what_ might you do with your smile!" he felt now that he could dissimulate to fool the very devil. but elizabeth, though interested as one may be in an oddity, seemed not otherwise impressed. 'twas something, however, that she remained in the room to answer: "i do not know what i have done with my frown, nor what i might do with my smile, but, whatever it be, _you_ are not like to see!" "that i know," said peyton, and added, at a reckless venture, "and am consoled, when i consider that no other man has seen!" "how do you know that?" "your smile is not for any common man, and i'll wager your heart is as whole as your beauty." she looked at him for a moment of silence, then: "i cannot imagine why you say all this," quoth she, in real puzzlement. "'tis an easing to the tortured heart to reveal itself," he answered, "as one would fain uncover an inner wound, though there be no hope of cure. i can go the calmer to my doom for having at least given outlet in words to the flame kindled in a moment within me. my doom! yes, and none so unwelcome, either, if by it i escape a lifetime of vain longing!" "your talk is incomprehensible, sir. if you are serious, it must be that your head is turned." "my head is turned, doubtless, but by you!" he was now assuming the low, quick, nervous utterance that is often associated with intense repressed feeling; and his words were accompanied by his best possible counterfeit of the burning, piercing, distraught gaze of passion. though he acted a part, it was not with the cold-blooded art of a mimic who simulates by rule; it was with the animation due to imagining himself actually swayed by the feeling he would feign. while he _knew_ his emotion to be fictitious, he _felt_ it as if it were real, and his consequent actions were the same as if real it were. "i'm sure the act was not intentional with me," said elizabeth. "i'd best leave you, lest you grow worse." and she moved towards the door. peyton had rapid work of it, pushing the chair before him and hopping after it, so as to intercept her. in the excitement of the moment, he lost his mastery of himself. "but you must not go! hear me, i beg! good god, only a half hour left!" "a half hour?" repeated elizabeth, inquiringly. "i mean," said peyton, recovering his wits, "a half hour till the troops may be here for me,--only a half hour until i must leave your house forever! do not let me be deprived of the sight of you for those last minutes! tis so short a time, yet 'tis all my life!" "the man is mad, i think!" she spoke as if to herself. "mad!" he echoed. "yes, some do call it a madness--the love that's born of a glance, and lasts till death!" "love!" said she. "'tis impossible you should come to love me, in so short a time." "'tis born of a glance, i tell you!" he cried. "what is it, if not love, that makes me forget my coming death, see only you, hear only you, think of only you? why do i not spend this time, this last hour, in pleading for my life, in begging you to hide me and send the troops away without me when they come? they would take your word, and you are a woman, and women are moved by pleading. why, then, do i not, in the brief time i have left, beg for my life? because my passion blinds me to all else, because i would use every moment in pouring out my heart to you, because my feelings must have outlet in words, because it is more than life or death to me that you should know i love you!--god, how fast that clock goes!" she had stood in wonderment, under the spell of his vehemence. now, as he leaned towards her, over the chair-back, his breath coming rapidly, his eyes luminous, she seemed for a moment abashed, softened, subdued. but she put to flight his momentary hope by starting again for the doorway, with a low-spoken, "i must go!" but he thrust his chair in her way. "nay, don't go!" he said. "you may hear my avowal with propriety. my people are as good as any in virginia." she stood regarding him with a look of scrutiny. "you are a rebel against your king," she said, but not harshly. "is not the king soon to have his revenge? and is that a reason why you should leave me now?" "you deserted your first colors." "'twas in extraordinary circumstances, and in the right cause. and is that a reason why you--" "you took my horse." "but paid you for it, and you have your horse again. abuse me, madam, but do not go from me. call me rebel, deserter, robber, what you will, but remain with me. denunciation from your lips is sweeter than praise from others. chastise me, strike me, trample on me,--i shall worship you none the less!" he inclined his body further forward over the chair-back, and thus was very near her. she put out her hand to repel him. he moved back with humility, but took her hand and kissed it, with an appearance of passion qualified by reverence. "how dare you touch my hand?" and she quickly drew it from him. "a poor wretch who loves, and is soon to die, dares much!" "you seem resigned to dying," she remarked. "have i not said 'tis better than living with a hopeless passion?" "and yet death," she said, "_that_ kind of a death is not pleasant." "i'm not afraid of it," said he, wondering how the minutes were running, yet not daring the loss of time to look. "'tis not in consigning me to the enemy that you have your revenge on me, 'tis in making me vainly love you. i receive the greater hurt from your beauty, not from the british provost-marshal!" "bravado!" said she. "time will show," said he. "if you are so strong a man that you can endure the one hurt so calmly, why are you not a little stronger,--strong enough to ignore this other hurt,--this _love_-wound, as you call it?" she blushed furiously, and much against her will, at the mere word, "love-wound." her mood now seemed to be one of pretended incredulity, and yet of a vague unwillingness that the man should be so weak to her charms. peyton conceived that a change of play might aid his game. "by heaven," he cried, "i will! 'tis a weakness, as you imply! i shall close my heart, vanquish my feelings! no word more of love! i defy your beauty, your proud face, your splendid eyes! i shall die free of your image. go where you will, madam. it sha'n't be a puling lover that the british hang. a snap o' the finger for your all-conquering charms!--why do you not leave me?" "what! do you order me from my own parlor?" hope accelerated peyton's heart at this, but he feigned indifference. "go or stay," he said; "'tis nothing to me!" "you rebel, you speak like that to me!" her speech rang with genuine anger, and of a little hotter quality than he had thought to raise. he was about to answer, when suddenly a sound, far and faint, reached his ear. "isn't that--do you hear--" he said, huskily, and turning cold. "horses?" said elizabeth. "yes,--on the road from king's bridge." she went to one of the eastern windows, opened the sash, unfastened the shutter without, and let in a rush of cold air. then she closed the sash and looked out through the small panes. "is it--" said peyton, quietly, with as much steadiness as he could command, "i wonder--can it be--" "a troop of rangers!" said elizabeth. "and sam is with them!" she closed the shutter, and turned to peyton, her face still glowing with the resentment elicited by the cavalier attitude he had assumed before this alarm. "go or stay, 'tis nothing to you, you said! the last insult, sir rebel captain!" and she made for the door. "you mustn't go! you mustn't go!" was the only speech he could summon. but she was already passing him. he snatched a kerchief from her dress, and dropped it on the floor. she did not observe his act. "pardon me!" he cried. "your kerchief! you've dropped it, don't you see?" she turned and saw it on the floor. peyton quickly stepped from behind his chair, stooped and picked up the kerchief, kissed it, and handed it to her, then staggered to his former support, showing in his face and by a groan the pain caused him by his movement. "your wound!" said elizabeth, standing still. "you shouldn't have stooped!" harry's pain and consequent weakness, added to his consciousness of the rapidly approaching enemy, who had already turned in from the main road, gave him a pallor that would have claimed the attention of a less compassionate woman even than elizabeth. "no matter!" he murmured, feebly. then, as if about to swoon, he threw his head back, lost his hold of the chair-back, and staggered to the spinet. leaning on this, he gasped, "my cravat! i feel as if i were choking!" and made some futile effort with his hand to unfasten the neck-cloth. "would you," he panted, "may i beg--loosen it?" she went to his side, undid the cravat, and otherwise relieved his neck of its confinement. she could not but meet his gaze as she did so. it was a gaze of eager, adoring eyes. he feebly smiled his thanks, and spoke, between short breaths, the words, "the hour--i love you--yes, the troops!" the horses were clattering up towards the house. a voice of command was heard through the window. "halt! guard the windows and the rear, you four!" "colden's voice!" exclaimed peyton. elizabeth was somewhat startled. "he must have been still at king's bridge when sam arrived," said she. "he must be a close friend," said peyton. "he is my affianced husband." peyton staggered, as if shot, around the projection of the spinet, and came to a rest in the small space between that projection and the west wall of the room. "her affianced! then it's all up with me!" the outside door was heard to open. elizabeth turned her back towards the spinet and peyton, and faced the door to the hall. that, too, was flung wide. peyton dropped on his right knee, behind the spinet, leaning forward and stretching his wounded leg out behind him, just as colden rushed in at the head of six of the queen's rangers, who were armed with short muskets. the major stopped short at sight of elizabeth, and the rangers stood behind him, just within the door. peyton was hidden by the spinet. "where is the rebel, elizabeth?" cried colden. she met his gaze straight, and spoke calmly, with a barely perceptible tremor. "you are too late, jack! the prisoner has eluded me. look for him on the road to tarrytown,--and be quick about it, for god's sake!" colden drew back aghast, thrown from the height of triumph to the depth of chagrin. peyton, fearing lest the one joyous bound of his heart might have betrayed him, remained perfectly still, knowing that if any movement should take elizabeth from between the soldiers and the projection of the spinet, or if the soldiers should enter further and chance to look under the spinet, he would be seen. "don't you understand?" said elizabeth, assuming one impatience to conceal another. "there's no time to lose! 'twas the rebel peyton! he's afoot!" "the road to tarrytown, you say?" replied colden, gathering back his faculties. "yes, to tarrytown! why do you wait?" her vehemence of tone sufficed to cover the growing insupportability of her situation. "to the road again, men!" colden ordered. "till we meet, elizabeth!" and he hastened, with the rangers, from the place. [illustration: "'you are too late, jack!'"] peyton and elizabeth remained motionless till the sound of the horses was afar. then elizabeth called williams, who, as she had supposed, had come into the hall with the rangers. he now entered the parlor. elizabeth, whose back was still towards peyton, who had risen and was leaning on the spinet, addressed the steward in a low, embarrassed tone, as if ashamed of the weakness newly come over her. "williams, this gentleman will remain in the house till his wound is healed. his presence is to be a secret in the household. he will occupy the southwestern chamber." she then turned and spoke, in a constrained manner, to peyton, not meeting his look. "it is the room your general washington had when he was my father's guest." with an effort, she raised her eyes to his, but shyly dropped them again. he bowed his thanks gravely, rather shamefaced at the success of his deception. a moment later, elizabeth, with averted glance, walked quickly from the room. chapter viii. the secret passage. the steward immediately set about preparing the designated chamber for occupancy, so that peyton, on being carried up to it a few minutes later, found it warm and lighted. it was a large, square, panelled apartment, in which the fireplace of remained unchanged, a wide, deep, square opening, faced with dutch tile, of which there were countless pieces, each piece having a picture of some scriptural incident. into this fireplace, where a log was burning crisply, peyton gazed languidly as he lay on the bed, his clothes having been removed by black sam, who had been assigned to attend him, and who now lay in the wide hall without. williams had taken another look at the wound, and expressed a favorable opinion of its condition. a lighted candle was placed within peyton's reach, on a table by the bedside. williams had brought him, at elizabeth's orders, part of what remained from the general supper. the captain felt decidedly comfortable. he supposed that colden, after abandoning the false chase, would make another call at the house, but he inferred from elizabeth's previous conduct that she could and would send the tory major and the rangers back to king's bridge without opportunity of discovering her guest. and, indeed, elizabeth had so provided. on returning to the dining-room from her fateful interview with peyton, she had answered the astonished and inquisitive looks of miss sally and mr. valentine, by saying, in an abrupt and reserved manner, "for important reasons i have chosen not to give the prisoner up. he will stay in the house for a time, and nobody is to know he is here. please remember, mr. valentine." the old man tried to recall peyton's words in asking him to send elizabeth to the parlor, and made a mental effort to put this and that together; failing in which, he decided to repeat nothing of peyton's conversation, lest it might in some way appear that he had "lent aid." he now lighted his lantern, and sallied forth on his long walk homeward over the windswept roads. elizabeth, who, much to the dismay of her aunt's curiosity, had not broken silence save to give orders to the servants, now charged williams to stay up till colden should return, and to inform him that all were abed, that there was no news of the escaped prisoner, and that she desired the major to hasten to new york and relieve her family's anxiety. this command the steward executed about midnight, with the result that the major, utterly tired out and sadly disappointed, rode away from the manor-house a third time that night, more disgruntled than on either of the two previous occasions. by this time the house was dark and silent, elizabeth and her aunt having long retired, the latter with a remark concerning the effect of late hours on the complexion, a hope that mr. valentine would not fall into a puddle on the way home, and a curiosity as to how the rebel captain fared. the rebel captain, afar in his spacious chamber, was mentally in a state of felicity. as he ceased to remember the conquered, abashed look elizabeth's face had last worn, he ceased to feel ashamed of having deceived her. her earlier manner recurred to his mind, and he jubilated inwardly over having got the better of this arrogant and vengeful young creature. even had she been otherwise, and had his life depended on tricking her with a pretence of love, he would have valued his life far above her feelings, and would not have hesitated to practise on her a falsehood that many a gentleman has practised on many a maid for no higher purpose than for the sport or for the testing of his powers, and often for no other purpose than the maid's undoing in more than her feelings. how much less, then, need he consider her feelings when he regarded her as an enemy in war, of whom it was his right to take all possible advantage for the saving of his own or any other american soldier's life! these thoughts came only at those moments when it occurred to him that his act might need justification. but if he thought he was entitled to avail himself of these excuses, he deceived himself, for no such considerations had been in his mind before or during his act. he had proceeded on the impulse of self-preservation alone, with no further thought as to the effect on her feelings than the hope that her feelings would be moved in his behalf. he had been totally selfish in the matter, and yet, while it is true he had not stopped to reason whether the act was morally justifiable or not, he had _felt_ that her attitude warranted his deception, or, rather, he had not felt that the deception was a discreditable act, as he might have felt had her attitude been kindlier. even had he possessed any previous scruples about that act, he would have overcome them. as it was, the scruples came only when he thought of that new, chastened, subdued look on her face. only then did he feel that his trick might be debatable, as to whether it became a gentleman. only then did he take the trouble to seek justifiable circumstances. only then did he have a dim sense of what might be the feelings of a girl suddenly stormed into love. he had never been sufficiently in love to know how serious a feeling--serious in its tremendous potency for joy or pain--love is. in virginia, in london, and in ireland, he had indulged himself in such little flirtations, such amours of an hour, as helped make up a young gentleman's amusements. but he had long been, as he was now, heart-free, and, though it occurred to him that, in this girl, so great a change of mien must arise from a pronounced change of heart, he had no thought that her new mood could have deep root or long life. so, less from what thoughts he did have on the subject than from his absence of thought thereon, he lapsed into peace of mind, and went to sleep, rejoicing in his security and trusting it would last. her face did not appear in his dreams. he had not retained a strong or accurate impression of that face. his mind had been too full of other things, even while enacting his impromptu love-scene, to make note of her beauty. he had been sensible, of course, that she was beautiful, but there had not been time or circumstance for flirtation. he had not for an instant viewed her as a possible object of conquest for its own sake. she had been to him only an enemy, in the shape of a beautiful young girl, and of whom it had become necessary to make use. and so his dreams that night were made up of wild cavalry charges, rides through the wind, and painful crushings and tearings of his leg. elizabeth's thoughts were in a whirl, her feelings beyond analysis. she was sensible mainly of a wholly novel and vast pleasure at the adoration so impetuously expressed for her by this audacious stranger, of a pride in his masterful way, of applause for that very manner which she had rebuked as insolence. was this love at last? undoubtedly; for she had read all the romances and plays and poems, and, if this feeling of hers were a thing other than the love they all described, they would have described such a feeling also. because she had never felt its soft touch before, she had thought herself exempt from it. but now that it had found lodgment in her, she knew it at once, from the very fact that in a flash she understood all the romances and plays and poems that had before interested her but as mere tales, whose motives had seemed arbitrary and insufficient. now they all took reality and reason. she knew at last why hero threw herself into the hellespont after leander, why all that commotion was caused by helen of troy, why oriana took such trouble for mirabel, why juliet died on romeo's body, why miss richland paid honeywood's debts. the moon, rushing through a cleft in the clouds (she had opened one of the shutters on putting out the candles), had for her a sudden beauty which accounted for the fine things the poets had said of it and love together. yes, because it opened on her world of romance a magic window, letting in a wondrous light, waking that world to throbbing life, clothing it with indescribable charm, she knew the name of the key that had unlocked her own heart. now she knew them all,--the heroes, the fairy princes, the knights errant; perceived that they were real and live, recognized their traits and manners, their very faces, in that bold, free, strong young rebel; he was orlando, and lovelace, and prince charming, and Ã�neas, and tom jones, and king harry the fifth, and young marlowe, and even captain macheath (she had read forbidden books guilelessly, in course of reading everything at hand), and roderick random, and captain plume, and all the conquering, gallant, fine young fellows, at the absurd weakness of whose sweethearts she had marvelled beyond measure. she understood that weakness now, and knew, too, why those sweethearts had, in the first delicious hours of their weakness, trembled and dropped their eyes before those young gentlemen. for, as she mentally beheld his image, she felt her own cheeks glow, and in imagination was fain to drop her own eyes before his bold, unquailing look. she wondered, with confusion and unseen blushes, how she would face him at their next meeting, and felt that she must not, could not, be the one to cause that meeting. right surely had this fair castle, that had withstood many a long siege, fallen now at a single onslaught, and that but a sham onslaught. the haughty princess in her tower had not longed for the prince, but the prince had arrived, not to her rescue, but to the taming of her. and alas! the prince, whom she fondly thought her lover, was no more lover of her than of the picture of her female ancestor on his bedroom wall! she gave no thought to consequences, and, as for jack colden, she simply, by power of will, kept him out of her mind. it was three days before peyton could walk about his room, and two days more before he felt sufficient confidence in his wounded leg to come down-stairs and take his meals with the household. and even then, refusing a crutch, he used a stick in moving about. during the five days when he kept his room, he was waited on alternately by sam and cuff, who served at his bath and brought his food; and occasionally molly carried to him at dinner some belated delicacy or forgotten dish. williams, too, visited him daily, and expressed a kind of professional satisfaction at the uninterrupted healing of the wound, which the steward treated with the mysterious applications known to home surgery. williams lent his own clean linen to harry, while harry's underwent washing and mending at the hands of the maid. old valentine, who visited the house every day, the weather being cold and sometimes cloudy, but without rain, called at the sick chamber now and then, and filled it with tobacco smoke, homely philosophy, and rustic reminiscence. harry had no other visitors. during these five days he saw not elizabeth or miss sally, save from his window twice or thrice, at which times they were walking on the terrace. in daytime, when no artificial light was in the room to betray to some possible outsider the presence of a guest, he had the shutters opened of one of the two south windows and of one of the two west ones. often he reclined near a window, pleasing his eyes with the view. westward lay the terrace, the wide river, the leafy, cliffs, and fair rolling country beyond. his eye could take in also the deer paddock, which the hand of war had robbed of its inmates, and the great orchard northward overlooking the river. through the south window he could see the little branch road and boat-landing, the old stone mill, the winding neperan and its broad mill-pond, and the sloping, ravine-cut, wooded stretch of country, between the post-road on the left and the deep-set hudson on the right. the spire of st. john's church, among the yew-trees, with the few edifices grouped near it, broke gratefully the deserted aspect of things, at the left. the spacious scene, so richly filled by nature, had in its loneliness and repose a singular sweetness. rarely was any one abroad. only when the hessians or loyalist dragoons patrolled the post-road, or when some british sloop-of-war showed its white sails far down the river, was there sign of human life and conflict. the deserted look of things was in harmony with the spirit of a book with which harry sweetened the long hours of his recovery. it was a book that elizabeth had sent up for his amusement, called "the man of feeling," and there was something in the opening picture of the venerable mansion, with its air of melancholy, its languid stillness, its "single crow, perched on an old tree by the side of the gate," and its young lady passing between the trees with a book in her hand, that harmonized with his own sequestered state. he liked the tale better than the same author's later novel, "the man of the world," which he had read a few years before. every day he inquired about his hostess's health, and sent his compliments and thanks. he was glad she did not visit him in person, for such a visit might involve an allusion to their last previous interview, and he did not know in what manner he should make or treat such allusion. he felt it would be an awkward matter to get out of the situation of pretended adorer, and he was for putting that awkward matter off till the last possible moment. it was necessary for him to think of his return to the army. duty and inclination required he should make that return as soon as could be. his first impulse had been to send word of his whereabouts and condition. but as elizabeth had not offered a messenger, he was loath to ask for one. moreover, the messenger might be intercepted by the enemy's patrols and induced by fear to betray the message. then, too, even if the messenger should reach the american lines uncaught, a consequent attempt to convey a wounded man from the manor hall to the camp might attract the attention of the vigilant patrols, and risk not only harry's own recapture, but also the loss of other men. decidedly, the best course was to await the healing of his wound, and then to make his way alone, under cover of night, to the army. he knew that, whatever might occur, it was now elizabeth's interest to protect him, for should she give him up, the disclosure that she had formerly shielded him would render her liable to suspicion and ridicule. he felt, too, from the manifestations he had seen of her will and of her ingenuity, that she was quite able to protect him. so he rested in security in the quiet old chamber, dreading only the task of taking back his love-making. of that task, the difficulty would depend on elizabeth's own conduct, which he could not foresee, and that in turn on her state of heart, which he did not exactly divine. he knew only that she had, in that critical moment of the troops' arrival, felt for him a tenderness that betokened love. whether that feeling had flourished or declined, he could not, during the five days when they did not meet, be aware. it had not declined. she had gone on idealizing the confident rebel captain all the while. the fact that he was of the enemy added piquancy to the sentiments his image aroused. it lent, too, an additional poetic interest to the idea of their love. was not romeo of the enemies of juliet's house? the fact of her being now his protector, by its oppositeness to the conventional situation, gave to their relation the charm of novelty, and also gratified her natural love of independence and domination. yet that very love, in a woman, may afford its owner keen delight by receiving quick and confident opposition and conquest from a man, and such elizabeth's had received from peyton, both in the matter of the horse and in that of his successful wooing. but the greater her softness for him, the greater was her delicacy regarding him, and the more in conformity with the strictest propriety must be her conduct towards him. her pride demanded this tribute of her love, in compensation for the latter's immense exactions on the former in the sudden yielding to his wooing. moreover, she would not appear in anything short of perfection in his eyes. she would not make her company cheap to him. if she had been a quick conquest, up to the point of her first token of submission, she would be all the slower in the subsequent stages, so that the complete yielding should be no easier than ought to be that of one valued as she would have him value her. all this she felt rather than thought, and she acted on it punctiliously. she did not confide in her aunt, though that lady watched her closely and had her suspicions. yet there was apparent so little warrant for these suspicions, save the protection of the rebel in itself, that miss sally often imagined elizabeth had other reasons, reasons of policy, for the sudden change of intention that had resulted in that protection. elizabeth's conduct was always so mystifying to everybody! and when this thought possessed miss sally, she underwent a pleasing agitation, which she in turn kept secret, and which attended the hope that perhaps the handsome captain might not be averse to her conversation. she had both read and observed that the taste of youth sometimes was for ripeness. she might atone, in a measure, for elizabeth's disdain. she would have liked to visit him daily, with condolence and comfortings, but she could not do so without previous sanction of the mistress of the house, which sanction elizabeth briefly but very peremptorily refused. miss sally thought it a cruelty that the prisoner should be deprived of what consolation her society might afford, and dwelt on this opinion until she became convinced he was actually pining for her presence. this made her poutish and reproachfully silent to elizabeth, and sighful and whimsical to herself. the slightly strained feeling that arose between aunt and niece was quite acceptable to elizabeth, as it gave her freedom for her own dreams, and prohibited any occasion for an expression of feelings or opinions of her own as to the captain. but miss sally's symptoms were observed by old mr. valentine, who, inferring their cause, underwent much unrest on account of them, became snappish and sarcastic towards the lady, watchful both of her and of peyton, and moody towards the others in the house. it was the old man's disquietude regarding the state of miss sally's affections that brought him to the house every day. for one brief while he considered the advisability of transferring his attentions back from miss sally to the widow babcock, who had possessed them first, but, when he tarried in the parsonage, his fears as to what might be going on in the manor-house made his stay in the former intolerable, and led him irresistibly to the latter. meanwhile the wounded guest, so unconscious of the states of mind caused by him in the household, was the evoker of flutters in yet another female breast. the girl, molly, had read toilsomely through "pamela," and saw no reason why an equally attractive housemaid should not aspire to an equally high destiny on this side of the ocean. but, often as she artfully contrived that the black boy should forget some part of the guest's dinner, and timely as she planned her own visits with the missing portion, she found the officer heedless of her smiles, engrossed sometimes in his meal, sometimes in his book, sometimes in both. she conceived a loathing for that book, more than once resisted a temptation to make way with it, and, having one day stolen a look into it, thenceforth abominated the poor young lady of it, with all the undying bitterness of an unpreferred rival. though elizabeth and her aunt found each other reticent, they yet passed their time together, breakfasting early, then visiting the widow babcock or some tenant, dining at noon, spending the early afternoon, the one at her book or embroidery, the other in a siesta before the fireplace, supping early, then preparing for the night by a brisk walk in the garden, or on the terrace, or to the orchard and back. elizabeth had williams provided with instructions as to his conduct in the event of a visit from king's troops, and, to make peyton's security still less uncertain, she confined her walks to the immediate vicinity. the house itself was kept in a pretence of being closed, the shutters of the parlor being skilfully adjusted to admit light, and yet, from the road, appear fast. thus elizabeth, finding enjoyment in the very look and atmosphere of the old house, fulfilled quietly the purpose of her capricious visit, and at the same time cherished a dreamy pleasure such as she had not thought of finding in that visit. on the fifth day after peyton's arrival, williams announced that the captain would venture down-stairs on the morrow. the next morning elizabeth waited in the east parlor to receive him. whatever inward excitement she underwent, she was on the surface serene. she was dressed in her simplest, having purposely avoided any appearance of desiring to appear at her best. her aunt, who stood with her, on the other side of the fireplace, was perceptibly flustered, being got up for the occasion, with ribbons in evidence and smiles ready for production on the instant. when the west door opened, and the awaited hero entered, pale but well groomed, using his cane in such fashion that he could carry himself erectly, elizabeth greeted him with formal courtesy. though her manner had the repose necessary to conceal her sweet agitation, an observant person might have noticed a deference, a kind of meekness, that was new in her demeanor towards men. peyton, whose mien (though not his feeling) was a reflex of her own, was relieved at this appearance of indifference, and hoped it would continue. his mind being on this, the stately curtsey and profuse smirks of miss sally were quite lost on him. the three breakfasted together in the dining-room, a large and cheerful apartment whose front windows, looking on the lawn, were the middle features of the eastern facade of the house. the mass of decorative woodwork, and the fireplace in the north side of the room, added to its impression of comfort as well as to its beauty. conversation at the breakfast was ceremonious and on the most indifferent subjects, despite the attempts of miss sally, who would have monopolized peyton's attention, to inject a little cordial levity. after breakfast elizabeth, to avoid the appearance of distinguishing the day, took her aunt off for the usual walk, which she purposely prolonged to unusual length, much to miss sally's annoyance. peyton passed the morning in reading a new play that had made great talk in london the year before, namely, "the school for scandal." it was one of the new books received by colonel philipse from london, by a recent english vessel,--plays being, in those days, good enough to be much read in book form,--and brought out from town by elizabeth. the dinner was, as to the attitude of the participants towards one another, a repetition of the breakfast. in the afternoon, peyton having expressed an intention of venturing outdoors for a little air, elizabeth assigned sam to attend him, and said that, as he had to traverse the south hall and stairs in going to his room, he might thereafter put to his own service the unused south door in leaving and entering the house. harry strolled for a few minutes on the terrace, but his lameness made walking little pleasure, and he returned to the east parlor, where elizabeth sat reading while her aunt was looking drowsily at the fire. peyton took a chair at the right side of the fireplace, and mentally contrasted his present security with his peril in that place on a former occasion. the trampling of horses at a distance elicited from elizabeth the words, "the hessian patrol, on the albany road, as usual, i suppose." but, the clatter increasing, she arose and looked through the narrow slit whereby light was admitted between the almost closed shutters. after a moment she said, in unconcealed alarm: "oh, heaven! 'tis a party of lord cathcart's officers! they said at king's bridge they'd come one day to pay their respects. how can i keep them out?" peyton arose, but remained by the fireplace, and said, "to keep them out, if they think themselves expected, would excite suspicion. i will go to my room." elizabeth, meanwhile, had opened the window to draw the shutter close; but her trembling movement, assisted by a passing breeze, and by the perversity of inanimate things, caused the shutter to fly wide open. she turned towards peyton, with signs of fright on her face. "back!" she whispered. "they'll see you through the window. into the closet,--the closet!" she motioned imperatively towards the pair of doors immediately beside him, west of the fireplace. hearing the horses' footfalls near at hand, and perceiving, with her, that he would not have time to walk safely across the parlor to the hall, he opened one of the doors indicated by her, and stepped into the closet. in the instant before he closed the door after him, he noticed the stairs descending backward from the right side of the closet. he foresaw that the british officers would come into the parlor. if they should make a long stay, he might have to change his position during their presence. he might thus cause sufficient sound to attract attention. he would be in better case further away. therefore, using his stick and feeling the route with his hand, he made his way down the steps to a landing, turned to the right, descended more steps, and found himself in a dark cellar. he had no sooner reached the last step than a burst of hearty greetings from above informed him the officers were in the parlor. this part of the cellar being damp, he set out in search of a more comfortable spot wherein to bestow himself the necessary while. groping his way, and travelling with great labor, he at last came into a kind of corridor formed between two rolls of piled-up barrels. he proceeded along this passage until it was blocked by a barrel on the ground. on this he sat down, deciding it as good a staying-place as he might find. leaning back, he discovered with his head what seemed to be a thick wooden partition close to the barrel. changing his position, he bumped his head against an iron something that lay horizontally against the partition, and so violent was this collision that the iron something was moved from its place, a fact which he noted on the instant but immediately forgot in the sharpness of his pain. having at last made himself comfortable, he sat waiting in the darkness, thinking to let some time pass before returning to the closet stairway. an hour or more had gone by, when he heard a door open, which he knew must be at the head of some other stairway to the cellar, and a jocund voice cry: "damme, we'll be our own tapsters! give me the candle, mr. williams, and if my nose doesn't pull me to the barrel in one minute, may it never whiff spirits again!" a moment later, quick footfalls sounded on the stairs, then candle-light disturbed the blackness, and williams was heard saying, "this way, gentlemen, if you insist. the barrel is on the ground, straight ahead." whereupon peyton saw two merry young englishmen enter the very passage at whose end he sat, one bearing the candle, both followed by the steward, who carried a spigot and a huge jug. harry instantly divined the cause of this intrusion. the servants were busy preparing refreshments for the officers, and, in a spirit of gaiety, these two had volunteered to help williams fetch the liquor which he, not knowing harry's whereabouts, was about to draw from the barrel on which harry sat. it was not elizabeth who could save him from discovery now. the officers came groping towards him up the narrow passage. before the candle-light reached him, he rose and got behind the barrel, there being barely room for his legs between it and the partition. he had, in dressing for the day, put on his scabbard and his broken sword. he now took his stick in his left hand, and drew his sword with his right. he set his teeth hard together, thought of nothing at all, or rather of everything at once, and waited. "hear the rats," said one of the englishmen. it was peyton's stealthy movement he had heard. "ay, sir, there's often a terrible scampering of 'em," said williams. "maybe i can pink a rat or two," said the officer without the candle, and drew his sword. harry braced himself rapidly against the woodwork at his back. the candle-light touched the barrel. at that instant harry felt the woodwork give way behind him, and fell on his back on the ground. "what's that?" cried the officer with the candle, standing still. "tis the scampering of the rats, of course," said the other. harry had apprehended, by this time, that the supposed wooden partition was in reality a door in the cellar wall. he now pushed it shut with his foot, remaining outside of it, then rose, and, feeling about him, discovered that his present place was in a narrow arched passage that ran, from the door in the cellar wall, he knew not how far. recalling the bumping of his head, he inferred now that the iron something was a bolt, and that his blow had forced it from its too large socket in the stone wall. he proceeded onward in the dark passage for some distance, then stopped to listen. no sound coming from the door he had closed, he decided that the officers were satisfied the noise had been of the rats' making. he sheathed his broken sword, having retained that and his stick in his fall, and went forward, hoping to find a habitable place of waiting. soon the passage widened into a kind of subterranean room, one side of which admitted light. going to this side, harry stopped short at the verge of a well, on whose circumference the subterranean chamber abutted. the light came from the well's top, which was about ten feet above the low roof of the underground room, the passage from the cellar being on a descent. in this artificial cave were wooden chests, casks, and covered earthen vessels, these contents proclaiming the place a secret storage-room designed for use in siege or in military occupation. harry waited here a while that seemed half a day, then returned through the passage to the door, intending to return to the cellar. he listened at the door, found all quiet beyond, and made to push open the door. it would not move. from the feel of the resistance, he perceived that the bolt had been pushed home again--as indeed it had, by the steward, who had noticed it while tapping the barrel, and had imputed its being drawn to some former carelessness of his own. peyton, finding himself thus barred into the subterranean regions, was in a quandary. any alarm he might attempt, by shouting or pounding, might not be heard, or, if heard, might reach some tarrying british. in due time, elizabeth would doubtless have him looked for in the closet and then in the cellar, but, on his not being found there, would suppose he had left the cellar by one of the other stairways. thus he could little hope to be sought for in his prison. williams might at any time have occasion to visit the secret storeroom, but, on the other hand, he might not have such occasion for weeks. harry groped back to the cave, and sought some way of escape by the well, but found none. he then examined the cave more closely, and came finally on another passage than that by which he had entered. he followed this for what seemed an interminable length. at last, it closed up in front of him. he tested the barrier of raw earth with his hands, felt a great round stone projecting therefrom, pushed this stone in vain, then clasped it with both arms and pulled. it gave, and presently fell to the ground at his feet, leaving an aperture two feet across, which let in light. he crawled the short length of this, and breathed the open air in a small thicket on the sloping bank of the hudson.[ ] he crept to the thicket's edge, and saw, in the sunset light, the river before him; on the river, a british war-vessel; on the vessel, some naval officers, one of whom was looking, with languid preoccupation, straight at the thicket from which harry gazed. chapter ix. the confession. "what d'ye spy, tom?" called out another officer on the deck, to the one whose attitude most interested harry. "i thought i made out some kind of craft steering through the bushes yonder," was the answer. "i see nothing." "neither do i, now. 'twasn't human craft, anyhow, so it doesn't signify," and the officers looked elsewhere. harry lay low in the thicket, awaiting the departure of the vessel or the arrival of darkness. on the deck there was no sign of weighing anchor. as night came, the vessel's lights were slung. the sky was partly clear in the west, and stars appeared in that direction, but the east was overcast, so that the rising moon was hid. the atmosphere grew colder. when harry could make out nothing of the vessel on the dark water, save the lights that glowed like low-placed stars, he crawled from the bushes and up the bank to the terrace. he then rose and proceeded, with the aid of his stick, aching from having so long maintained a cramped position, and from the suddenly increased cold. before him, as he continued to ascend, rose the house, darkness outlined against darkness. no sound came from it, no window was lighted. this meant that the british officers had left, for their presence would have been marked by plenitude of light and by noise of merriment. harry stopped on the terrace, and stood in doubt how to proceed. what had been thought of his disappearance? where would he be supposed to have gone? had provision been made for his possible return? perhaps he should find a guiding light in some window on the other side of the house; perhaps a servant remained alert for his knock on the door. his only course was to investigate, unless he would undergo a night of much discomfort. as he was about to approach the house, he was checked by a sight so vaguely outlined that it might be rather of his imagination than of reality, and which added a momentary shiver of a keener sort than he already underwent from the weather. a dark cloaked and hooded figure stood by the balustrade that ran along the roof-top. as peyton looked, his hand involuntarily clasping his sword-hilt, and the stories of the ghosts that haunted this old mansion shot through his mind, the figure seemed to descend through the very roof, as a stage ghost is lowered through a trap. he continued to stare at the spot where it had stood, but nothing reappeared against the backing of black cloud. wondering much, harry presently went on towards the house, turned the southwest corner, and skirted the south front as far as to the little porch in its middle. intending to reconnoitre all sides of the house before he should try one of the doors, he was passing on, after a glance at the south door lost in the blacker shadows of the porch, when suddenly the fan-window over the door seemed to glow dimly with a wavering light. he placed his hand on one of the grecian pillars of the porch, and watched. a moment later the door softly opened. a figure appeared, beyond the threshold, bearing a candle. the figure wore a cloak with a hood, but the hood was down. "all is safe," whispered a low voice. "the officers went hours ago. i knew you must have escaped from the house, and were hiding somewhere. i saw you a minute ago from the roof gallery." peyton having entered, elizabeth swiftly closed and locked the door behind him, handed him the candle with a low "good night," and fled silently, ghostlike, up the stairs, disappearing quickly in the darkness. harry made his way to his own room, as in a kind of dream. she herself had waited and watched for him! this, then, was the effect wrought in the proudest, most disdainful young creature of her sex, by that feeling which he had, by telling and acting a lie, awakened in her. the revelation set him thinking. how long might such a feeling last? what would be its effect on her after his departure? he had read, and heard, and seen, that, when these feelings were left to pine away slowly, the people possessing them pined also. and this was the return he was about to give his most hospitable hostess, the woman who had saved his life! yet what was to be done? his life belonged to his country, his chosen career was war; he could not alter completely his destiny to save a woman some pining. after all, she _would_ get over it; yet it would make of her another woman, embitter her, change entirely the complexion of the world to her, and her own attitude towards it. he tried to comfort himself with the thought of her engagement to colden, of which he had not learned until after the mischief had been done. but he recalled her manner towards colden, and a remark of old mr. valentine's, whence he knew that the engagement was not, on her side, a love one, and was not inviolable. yet it would be a crime to a woman of her pride, of her power of loving, to allow the deceit, his pretence of love, to go as far as marriage. a disclosure would come in time, and would bring her a bitter awakening. the falsehood, natural if not excusable in its circumstances, and broached without thought of ultimate consequence, must be stopped at once. he must leave her presence immediately, but, before going, must declare the truth. she must not be allowed to waste another day of her life on an illusion. aside from the effect on her heart, of the continuance of the delusion, it would doubtless affect her outward circumstances, by leading her to break her engagement with colden. an immediate discovery of the truth, moreover, by creating such a revulsion of feeling as would make her hate him, would leave her heart in a state for speedy healing. this disclosure would be a devilishly unpleasant thing to make, but a soldier and a gentleman must meet unpleasant duties unflinchingly. he lay a long time awake, disturbed by thoughts of the task before him. when he did sleep, it was to dream that the task was in progress, then that it was finished but had to be begun anew, then that countless obstacles arose in succession to hinder him in it. dawn found him little refreshed in mind, but none the worse in body. he found, on arising, that he could walk without aid from the stick, and he required no help in dressing himself. looking towards the river, he saw the british vessel heading for new york. but that sight gave him little comfort, thanks to the ordeal before him, in contemplating which he neglected to put on his sword and scabbard, and so descended to breakfast without them. that meal offered no opportunity for the disclosure, the aunt being present throughout. immediately after breakfast, the two ladies went for their customary walk. while they were breasting the wind, between two rows of box in the garden, miss sally spoke of major colden's intention to return for elizabeth at the end of a week, and said, "'twill be a week this evening since you arrived. is he to come for you to-day or to-morrow?" "i don't know," said elizabeth, shortly. "but, my dear, you haven't prepared--" "i sha'n't go back to-day, that is certain. if colden comes before to-morrow, he can wait for me,--or i may send him back without me, and stay as long as i wish." "but he will meet captain peyton--" "it can be easily arranged to keep him from knowing captain peyton is here. i shall look to that." miss sally sighed at the futility of her inquisitorial fishing. not knowing elizabeth's reason for saving the rebel captain, she had once or twice thought that the girl, in some inscrutable whim, intended to deliver him up, after all. she had tried frequently to fathom her niece's purposes, but had never got any satisfaction. "i suppose," she went on, desperately, "if you go back to town, you will leave the captain in williams's charge." "if i go back before the captain leaves," said elizabeth, thereby dashing her amiable aunt's secretly cherished hope of affording the wounded officer the pleasure of her own unalloyed society. elizabeth really did not know what she would do. her actions, on colden's return, would depend on the prior actions of the captain. no one had spoken to peyton of her intention to leave after a week's stay. she had thought such an announcement to him from her might seem to imply a hint that it was time he should resume his wooing. that he would resume it, in due course, she took for granted. measuring his supposed feelings by her own real ones, she assumed that her loveless betrothal to another would not deter peyton's further courtship. she believed he had divined the nature of that betrothal. nor would he be hindered by the prospect of their being parted some while by the war. engagements were broken, wars did not last forever, those who loved each other found ways to meet. so he would surely speak, before their parting, of what, since it filled her heart, must of course fill his. but she would show no forwardness in the matter. she therefore avoided him till dinner-time. at the table he abruptly announced that, as duty required he should rejoin the army at the first moment possible, and as he now felt capable of making the journey, he would depart that night. miss sally hid her startled emotions behind a glass of madeira, into which she coughed, chokingly. molly, the maid, stopped short in her passage from the kitchen door to the table, and nearly dropped the pudding she was carrying. elizabeth concealed her feelings, and told herself that his declaration must soon be forthcoming. she left it to him to contrive the necessary private interview. after dinner, he sat with the ladies before the fire in the east parlor, awaiting his opportunity with much hidden perturbation. elizabeth feigned to read. at last, habit prevailing, her aunt fell asleep. peyton hummed and hemmed, looked into the fire, made two or three strenuous swallows of nothing, and opened his mouth to speak. at that instant old mr. valentine came in, newly arrived from the hill, and "whew"-ing at the cold. peyton felt like one for whom a brief reprieve had been sent by heaven. all afternoon mr. valentine chattered of weather and news and old times. peyton's feeling of relief was short-lasting; it was supplanted by a mighty regret that he had not been permitted to get the thing over. no second opportunity came of itself, nor could peyton, who found his ingenuity for once quite paralyzed, force one. supper was announced, and was partaken of by harry, in fidgety abstraction; by elizabeth, in expectant but outwardly placid silence; by miss sally, in futile smiling attempts to make something out of her last conversational chances with the handsome officer; and by mr. valentine, in sedulous attention to his appetite, which still had the vigor of youth. almost as soon as the ladies had gone from the dining-room, peyton rose and left the octogenarian in sole possession. in the parlor harry found no one but molly, who was lighting the candles. "what, molly?" said he, feeling more and more nervous, and thinking to retain, by constant use of his voice, a good command of it for the dreaded interview. "the ladies not here? they left mr. valentine and me at the supper-table." "they are walking in the garden, sir. miss elizabeth likes to take the air every evening." "'tis a chill air she takes this evening, i'm thinking," he said, standing before the fire and holding out his hands over the crackling logs. "a chill night for your journey," replied molly. "i should think you'd wait for day, to travel." peyton, unobservant of the wistful sigh by which the maid's speech was accompanied, replied, "nay, for me, 'tis safest travelling at night. i must go through dangerous country to reach our lines." "it mayn't be as cold to-morrow night," persisted molly. "my wound is well enough for me to go now." "'twill be better still to-morrow." but peyton, deep in his own preoccupation, neither deduced aught from the drift of her remarks nor saw the tender glances which attended them. while he was making some insignificant answer, the maid, in moving the candelabrum on the spinet, accidentally brushed therefrom his hat, which had been lying on it. she picked it up, in great confusion, and asked his pardon. "'twas my fault in laying it there," said he, receiving it from her. "i'm careless with my things. i make no doubt, since i've been here, i've more than once given your mistress cause to wish me elsewhere." "la, sir," said molly, "i don't think--_any_ one would wish you elsewhere!" whereupon she left the room, abashed at her own audacity. "the devil!" thought peyton. "i should feel better if some one did wish me elsewhere." as he continued gazing into the fire, and his task loomed more and more disagreeably before him, he suddenly bethought him that elizabeth, in taking her evening walk, showed no disposition for a private meeting. dwelling on that one circumstance, he thought for awhile he might have been wrong in supposing she loved him. but then the previous night's incident recurred to his mind. nothing short of love could have induced such solicitude. but, then, as she sought no last interview, might he not be warranted in going away and leaving the disclosure to come gradually, implied by the absence of further word from him? yet, she might be purposely avoiding the appearance of seeking an interview. the reasons calling for a prompt confession came back to him. while he was wavering between one dictate and another, in came mr. valentine, with a tobacco pipe. like an inspiration, rose the idea of consulting the octogenarian. a man who cannot make up his own mind is justified in seeking counsel. elizabeth could suffer no harm through peyton's confiding in this sage old man, who was devoted to her and to her family. mr. valentine's very words on entering, which alluded to peyton's pleasant visit as elizabeth's guest, gave an opening for the subject concerned. a very few speeches led up to the matter, which harry broached, after announcing that he took the old man for one experienced in matters of the heart, and receiving the admission that the old man _had_ enjoyed a share of the smiles of the sex. but if the captain had thought, in seeking advice, to find reason for avoiding his ugly task, he was disappointed. old valentine, though he had for some days feared a possible state of things between the captain and miss sally, had observed elizabeth, and his vast experience had enabled him to interpret symptoms to which others had been blind. "she has acted towards you," he said to peyton, "as she never acted towards another man. she's shown you a meekness, sir, a kind of timidity." and he agreed that, if peyton should go away without an explanation, it would make her throw aside other expectations, and would, in the end, "cut her to the heart." valentine hinted at regrettable things that had ensued from a jilting of which himself had once been guilty, and urged on peyton an immediate unbosoming, adding, "she'll be so took aback and so full of wrath at you, she won't mind the loss of you. she'll abominate you and get over it at once." the idea came to peyton of making the confession by letter, but this he promptly rejected as a coward's dodge. "it's a damned unpleasant duty, but that's the more reason i should face it myself." at that moment the front door of the east hall was heard to open. "it's miss elizabeth and her aunt," said valentine, listening at the door. "then i'll have the thing over at once, and be gone! mr. valentine, a last kindness,--keep the aunt out of the room." before valentine could answer, the ladies entered, their cheeks reddened by the weather. elizabeth carried a small bunch of belated autumn flowers. "well, i'm glad to come in out of the cold!" burst out miss sally, with a retrospective shudder. "mr. peyton, you've a bitter night for your going." she stood before the fire and smiled sympathetically at the captain. but peyton was heedful of none but elizabeth, who had laid her flowers on the spinet and was taking off her cloak. peyton quickly, with an "allow me, miss philipse," relieved her of the wrap, which in his abstraction he retained over his left arm while he continued to hold his hat in his other hand. after receiving a word of thanks, he added, "you've been gathering flowers," and stood before her in much embarrassment. "the last of the year, i think," said she. "the wind would have torn them off, if aunt sally and i had not." and she took them up from the spinet to breath their odor. meanwhile mr. valentine had been whispering to miss sally at the fireplace. as a result of his communications, whatever they were, the aunt first looked doubtful, then cast a wistful glance at peyton, and then quietly left the room, followed by the old man, who carefully closed the door after him. while elizabeth held the flowers to her nostrils, peyton continued to stand looking at her, during an awkward pause. at length she replaced the nosegay on the spinet, and went to the fireplace, where she gazed at the writhing flames, and waited for him to speak. still laden with the cloak and hat, he desperately began: "miss philipse, i--ahem--before i start on my walk to-night--" "your walk?" she said, in slight surprise. "yes,--back to our lines, above." "but you are not going to _walk_ back," she said, in a low tone. "you are to have the horse, cato." peyton stood startled. in a few moments he gulped down his feelings, and stammered: "oh--indeed--miss philipse--i cannot think of depriving you--especially after the circumstances." she replied, with a gentle smile: "you took the horse when i refused him to you. now will you not have him when i offer him to you? you must, captain! i'll not have so fine a horse go begging for a master. i'll not hear of your walking. on such a night, such a distance, through such a country!" "the devil!" thought harry. "this makes it ten times harder!" elizabeth now turned to face him directly. "does not my cloak incommode you?" she said, amusedly. "you may put it down." "oh, thank you, yes!" he said, feeling very red, and went to lay the cloak on the table, but in his confusion put down his own hat there, and kept the cloak over his arm. he then met her look recklessly, and blurted out: "the truth is, miss philipse, now that i am soon to leave, i have something to--to say to you." his boldness here forsook him, and he paused. "i know it," said elizabeth, serenely, repressing all outward sign of her heart's blissful agitation. "you do?" quoth he, astonished. "certainly," she answered, simply. "how could you leave without saying it?" peyton had a moment's puzzlement. then, "without saying what?" he asked. "what you have to say," she replied, blushing, and lowering her eyes. "but what have i to say?" he persisted. she was silent a moment, then saw that she must help him out. "don't you know? you were not at all tongue-tied when you said it the evening you came here." peyton felt a gulf opening before him. "good heaven," thought he, "she actually believes i am about to propose!" now, or never, was the time for the plunge. he drew a full breath, and braced himself to make it. "but--ah--you see," said he, "the trouble is,--what i said then is not what i have to say now. you must understand, miss philipse, that i am devoted to a soldier's career. all my time, all my heart, my very life, belong to the service. thus i am, in a manner, bound no less on my side, than you--i beg your pardon--" "what do you mean?" she spoke quietly, yet was the picture of open-eyed astonishment. "cannot you see?" he faltered. "you mean"--her tone acquired resentment as her words came--"that i, too, am bound on _my_ side,--to mr. colden?" "i did not say so," he replied, abashed, cursing his heedless tongue. he would not, for much, have reminded her of any duty on her part. she regarded him for a moment in silence, while the clouds of indignation gathered. then the storm broke. "you poltroon, i _do_ see! you wish to take back your declaration, because you are afraid of colden's vengeance!" "afraid? i afraid?" he echoed, mildly, surprised almost out of his voice at this unexpected inference. "yes, you craven!" she cried, and seemed to tower above her common height, as she stood erect, tearless, fiery-eyed, and clarion-voiced. "your cowardice outweighs your love! go from my sight and from my father's house, you cautious lover, with your prudent scruples about the rights of your rival! heavens, that i should have listened to such a coward! go, i say! spend no more time under this roof than you need to get your belongings from your room. don't stop for farewells! nobody wants them! go,--and i'll thank you to leave my cloak behind you!" [illustration: "'go, i say!'"] silenced and confounded by the force of her denunciation, he stupidly dropped the cloak to the floor where he stood, and stumbled from the room, as if swept away by the torrent of her wrath and scorn. chapter x. the plan of retaliation. it was in the south hall that he found himself, having fled through the west door of the parlor, forgetful that his hat still remained on the table. he naturally continued his retreat up the stairs to his chamber. the only belongings that he had to get there were his broken sword, his scabbard, and belt. these he promptly buckled on, resolved to leave the house forthwith. still tingling from the blow of her words, he yet felt a great relief that the task was so soon over, and that her speedy action had spared him the labor of the long explanation he had thought to make. as matters stood, they could not be improved. her love had turned to hate, in the twinkling of an eye. and yet, how preposterously she had accounted for his conduct! dwelling on his hint, though it was checked at its utterance, that she was already bound, she had assumed that he held out her engagement to colden as a barrier to their love. and she believed, or pretended to believe, that his regard for that barrier arose from fear of inviting a rival's vengeance! as if he, who daily risked his life, could fear the vengeance of a man whom he had already once defeated with the sword! it was like a woman to alight first on the most absurd possibility the situation could imply. and if she knew the conjecture was absurd, she was the more guilty of affront in crying it out against him. he, in turn, was now moved to anger. he would not have false motives imputed to him. it would be useless to talk to her while her present mood continued. but he could write, and leave the letter where it would be found. inasmuch as he had faced the worst storm his disclosure could have aroused, there was no cowardice in resorting to a letter with such explanations as could not be brought to her mind in any other form. two days previously, he had requested writing materials in his room, for the sketching of a report of his being wounded, and these were still on a table by the window. he lighted candles, and sat down to write. when he had finished his document, sealed and addressed it, he laid it on the table, where it would attract the eye of a servant, and looked around for his hat. presently he recalled that he had left it in the parlor. he first thought of seeking a servant, and sending for it, lest he might meet elizabeth, should he again enter the parlor. but it would be better to face her, for a moment, than to give an order to a servant of a house whence he had been ordered out. and now, as he intended to go into the parlor, he would preferably leave the letter in that room, where it would perhaps reach her own eyes before any other's could fall on it. he therefore took up the letter, thrust it for the time in his belt, descended quietly to the south hall, cautiously opened the parlor door, peeped through the crack, saw with relief that only miss sally was in the room, threw the door wide, and strode quickly towards the table on which he thought he had left his hat. but, as he approached, he saw that the hat was not there. in the meantime, during the few minutes he had spent in his room, things had been occurring in this parlor. as soon as peyton had left it, or had been carried out of it by the resistless current of elizabeth's invective, the girl had turned her anger on herself, for having weakened to this man, made him her hero, indulged in those dreams! she could scarcely contain herself. having mechanically picked up her cloak, where peyton had let it fall, she evinced a sudden unendurable sense of her humiliation and folly, by hurling the cloak with violence across the room. at that moment old mr. valentine entered, placidly seeking his pipe, which he had left behind him. the octogenarian looked surprisedly at the cloak, then at elizabeth, then mildly asked her if she had seen his pipe. "oh, the cowardly wretch!" was elizabeth's answer, her feelings forcing a release in speech. "what, me?" asked the old man, startled, not yet having thought to connect her words with his last interview with the american officer. he looked at her for a moment, but, receiving no satisfaction, calmly refilled, from a leather pouch, his pipe, which he had found on the mantel. elizabeth's thoughts began to take more distinct shape, and, in order to formulate them the more accurately, she spoke them aloud to the old man, finding it an assistance to have a hearer, though she supposed him unable to understand. "yet he wasn't a coward that evening he rode to attack the hessians,--nor when he was wounded,--nor when he stood here waiting to be taken! he was no coward then, was he, mr. valentine?" getting no answer, and irritated at the old man's owl-like immovability, she repeated, with vehemence, "was he?" mr. valentine had, by this time, begun to put things together in his mind. "no. to be sure," he chirped, and then lighted his pipe with a small fagot from the fireplace, an operation that required a good deal of time. elizabeth now spoke more as if to herself. "perhaps, after all, i may be wrong! yes, what a fool, to forget all the proofs of his courage! what a blind imbecile, to think him afraid! it must be that he acts from a delicate conception of honor. he would not encroach where another had the prior claim. he considers colden in the matter. that's it, don't you think?" "of course," said valentine, blindly, not having paid attention to this last speech, and sitting down in his armchair. "i can understand now," she went on. "he did not know of my engagement that time he made love, when his life was at stake." "then he's told you all about it?" said the old man, beginning to take some interest, now that he had provided for his own comfort. "about what?" asked elizabeth, showing a woman's consistency, in being surprised that he seemed to know what she had been addressing him about. "about pretending he loved you,--to save his life," replied mr. valentine, innocently, considering that her supposed acquaintance with the whole secret made him free to discuss it with her. elizabeth's astonishment, unexpected as it was by him, surprised the old man in turn, and also gave him something of a fright. so the two stared at each other. "pretending he loved me!" she repeated, reflectively. "pretending! to save his life! _now i see!_" the effect of the revelation on her almost made mr. valentine jump out of his chair. "for only _i_ could save him!" she went on. "there was no other way! oh, _how_ i have been fooled! i--tricked by a miserable rebel! made a laughing-stock! oh, to think he did not really love me, and that i--oh, i shall choke! send some one to me,--molly, aunt sally, any one! go! don't sit there gazing at me like an owl! go away and send some one!" mr. valentine, glad of reason for an honorable retreat from this whirlwind that threatened soon to fill the whole room, departed with as much activity as he could command. "oh, what shall i do? what shall i do?" elizabeth asked of the air around her. "i must repay him for his duplicity. i shall never rest a moment till i do! what an easy dupe he must think me! oh-h-h!" she brought her hand violently down on the table but fortunately struck something comparatively soft. in her fury, she clutched this something, raised it from the table, and saw what it was. "_his_ hat!" she cried, and made to throw it into the fire, but, with a woman's aim, sent it flying towards the door, which was at that instant opened by her aunt, who saved herself by dodging most undignifiedly. "what is it, my dear?" asked miss sally, in a voice of mingled wonderment and fear. "i'll pay him back, be sure of that!" replied elizabeth, who was by this time a blazing-eyed, scarlet-faced embodiment of fury, and had thrown off all reserve. "pay whom back?" tremblingly inquired miss sally, with vague apprehensions for the safety of old mr. valentine, who had so recently left her niece. "your charming captain, your gentleman rebel, your gallant soldier, your admirable peyton, hang him!" cried elizabeth. "_my_ peyton? i only wish he was!" sighed the aunt, surprised into the confession by elizabeth's own outspokenness. "you're welcome to him, when i've had my revenge on him! oh, aunt sally, to think of it! he doesn't love me! he only pretended, so that i would save his life! but he shall see! i'll deliver him up to the troops, after all!" "oh, no!" said miss sally, deprecatingly. great as was the news conveyed to her by elizabeth's speech, she comprehended it, and adjusted her mind to it, in an instant, her absence of outward demonstration being due to the very bigness of the revelation, to which any possible outside show of surprise would be inadequate and hence useless. moreover, elizabeth gave no time for manifestations. "no," the girl went on. "you are right. he's able-bodied now, and might be a match for all the servants. besides, 'twould come out why i shielded him, and i should be the laugh o' the town. oh, _how_ shall i pay him? how shall i make him _feel_--ah! i know! i'll give him six for half a dozen! i'll make _him_ love _me_, and then i'll cast him off and laugh at him!" she was suddenly as jubilant at having hit on the project as if she had already accomplished it. "make him love you?" repeated her aunt, dubiously. her aunt had her own reasons for doubting the possibility of such an achievement. "perhaps you think i can't!" cried elizabeth. "wait and see! but, heavens! he's going away,--he won't come back,--perhaps he's gone! no, there's his hat!" she ran and picked it up from the corner of the doorway. "he won't go without his hat. he'll have to come here for it. he went to his room for his sword. he'll be here at any moment." and she paced the floor, holding the hat in one hand, and lapsing to the level of ordinary femininity as far as to adjust her hair with the other. "you'll have to make quick work of it, elizabeth, dear," said the aunt, with gentle irony, "if he's going to-night." "i know, i know,--but i can't do it looking like this." she laid the hat on the table, in order to employ both hands in the arrangement of her hair. "if i only had on my satin gown! by the lord harry, i have a mind--i will! when he comes in here, keep him till i return. keep him as if your life depended on it." she went quickly towards the door of the east hall. "but, elizabeth!" cried miss sally, appalled. "wait! how--" "how?" echoed elizabeth, turning near the door. "by hook or crook! you must think of a way! i have other things on my mind. only keep him till i come back. if you let him go, i'll never speak to you again! and not a word to him of what i've told you! i sha'n't be long." "but what are you going to do?" asked the aunt, despairingly. "going to arm myself for conquest! to put on my war-paint!" and the girl hastened through the doorway, crossed the hall, called molly, and ran up-stairs to her room. miss sally stood in the parlor, a prey to mingled feelings. she did not dare refuse the task thrown on her by her imperative niece. not only her niece's anger would be incurred by the refusal, but also the niece's insinuations that the aunt was not sufficiently clever for the task. however difficult, the thing must be attempted. and, which made matters worse, even if the attempt should succeed, it would be a rewardless one to miss sally. if she might detain the captain for herself, the effort would be worth making. the aunt sighed deeply, shook her head distressfully, and then, reverting to a keen sense of elizabeth's rage and ridicule in the event of failure, looked wildly around for some suggestion of means to hold the officer. her eye alighted on the hat. "he won't go without his hat, a night like this!" she thought. "i'll hide his hat." she forthwith possessed herself of it, and explored the room for a hiding-place. she decided on one of the little narrow closets in either side of the doorway to the east hall, and started towards it, holding the hat at her right side. before she had come within four feet of the chosen place, she heard the door from the south hall being thrown open, and, casting a swift glance over her left shoulder, saw the captain step across the threshold. she choked back her sensations, and gave inward thanks that the hat was hidden from his sight by herself. peyton walked briskly towards the table. suddenly he stopped short, and turned his eyes from the table to miss sally, whose back was towards him. "ah, miss williams," said he, politely but hastily, "i left my hat here somewhere." "indeed?" said miss sally, amazed at her own unconsciousness, while she tried to moderate the beating of her heart. at the same moment, she turned and faced him, bringing the hat around behind her so that it should remain unseen. peyton looked from her to the spinet, thence to the sofa, thence back to the table. "yes, on the table, i thought. perhaps--" he broke off here, and went to look on the mantel. miss sally, who had never thought the captain handsomer, and who smarted under the sense of being deterred, by her niece's purpose, from employing this opportunity to fascinate him on her own account, continued to turn so as to face him in his every change of place. "i don't see it anywhere," she said, with childlike innocence. peyton searched the mantel, then looked at the chairs, and again brought his eyes to bear on miss sally. she blinked once or twice, but did not quail. "'tis strange!" he said. "i'm sure i left it in this room." and he went again over all the ground he had already examined. miss sally utilized the times when his back was turned, in making a search of her own, the object of which was a safe place where she could quickly deposit the hat without attracting his attention. peyton was doubly annoyed at this enforced delay in his departure, since elizabeth might come into the parlor at any time, and the meeting occur which he had, for a moment, hoped to avoid. "would you mind helping me look for it?" said he. "i'm in great haste to be gone. do me the kindness, madam, will you not?" "why, yes, with pleasure," she answered, thinking bitterly how transported she would be, in other circumstances, at such an opportunity of showing her readiness to oblige him. her aid consisted in following him about, looking in each place where he had looked the moment before, and keeping the sought-for object close behind her. suddenly he turned about, with such swiftness that she almost came into collision with him. "it must have fallen to the floor," said he. "why, yes, we never thought of looking there, did we?" and she followed him through another tour of the room, turning her averted head from side to side in pretendedly ranging the floor with her eyes. "i know," he said, with the elation of a new conjecture. "it must be behind something!" miss sally gasped, but in an instant recovered herself sufficiently to say: "of course. it surely _must_ be--behind something." harry went and looked behind the spinet, then examined the small spaces between other objects and the wall. this search was longer than any he had made before, as some of the pieces of furniture had to be moved slightly out of position. miss sally felt her proximity to the object of this search becoming unendurable. she therefore profited by peyton's present occupation to conduct pretended endeavors towards the closet west of the fireplace. she noiselessly opened one of the narrow doors, quickly tossed the hat inside, closed the door, and turned with ineffable relief towards peyton. to her consternation she found him looking at her. "what are you doing there?" he asked. "why,--looking in this closet," she stammered, guiltily. "oh, no, it couldn't be in there," said peyton, lightly. "but, yes. one of the servants might have laid it on the shelf." and he made for the closet. "oh, no!" miss sally stood against the closet doors and held out her hands to ward him off. "no harm to look," said he, passing around her and putting his hand on the door. miss sally felt that, by remaining in the position of a physical obstacle to his opening the closet, she would betray all. acting on the inspiration of the instant, she ran to the centre of the room, and cried: "oh, come away! come here!" and essayed a well-meant, but feeble and abortive, scream. "what's the matter?" asked peyton, astonished. "oh, i'm going to faint!" she said, feigning a sinkiness of the knees and a floppiness of the head. "oh, pray don't faint!" cried peyton, running to support her. "i haven't time. let me call some one. let me help you to the sofa." by this time he held her in his arms, and was thinking her another sort of burden than tom jones found sophia, or clarissa was to roderick random. the lady shrank with becoming and genuine modesty from the contact, gently repelled him with her hands, saying, "no, i'm better now,--but come," and took him by the arm to lead him further from the fatal closet. but peyton immediately released his arm. "ah, thank you for not fainting!" he said, with complete sincerity, and stalked directly back to the closet. before she could think of a new device, he had opened the door, beheld the hat, and seized it in triumph. "by george, i was right! i bid you farewell, miss williams!" he very civilly saluted her with the hat, and turned towards the west door of the parlor. must, then, all her previous ingenuity be wasted? after having so far exerted herself, must she suffer the ignominious consequences of failure? she ran to intercept him. desperation gave her speed, and she reached the west door before he did. she closed it with a bang, and stood with her back against it. "no, no!" she cried. "you mustn't!" "mustn't what?" asked peyton, surprised as much by her distracted eyes, panting nostrils, and heaving bosom, as by her act itself. "mustn't go out this way. mustn't open this door," she answered, wildly. he scrutinized her features, as if to test a sudden suspicion of madness. in a moment he threw off this conjecture as unlikely. "but," said he, putting forth his hand to grasp the knob of the door. "you mustn't, i say!" she cried. "i can't help it! don't blame me for it! don't ask me to explain, but you must not go out this way!" she stood by her task now from a new motive, one that impelled more strongly than her fear of being reproached and derided by elizabeth. her own self-esteem was enlisted, and she was now determined not to incur her own reproach and derision. she perceived, too, with a sentimental woman's sense of the dramatic, that, though denied a drama of her own in which she might figure as heroine, here was, in another's drama, a scene entirely hers, and she was resolved to act it out with honor. circumstances had not favored her with a romance, but here, in another's romance, was a chapter exclusively hers, a chapter, moreover, on whose proper termination the very continuation of the romance depended. so she would hold that door, at any cost. peyton regarded her for another moment of silence. "oh, well," said he, at last, "i can go the other way." and, to her dismay, he strode towards the door of the east hall. she could not possibly outrun him thither. her heart sank. the killing sense of failure benumbed her body. he was already at the door,--was about to open it. at that instant he stepped back into the parlor. in through the doorway, that he was about to traverse, came elizabeth. chapter xi. the conquest. miss sally saw at a glance that her niece was dressed for conquest; then, with immense relief and supreme exultation, but with a feeling of exhaustion, knowing that her work was done, she silently left the room by the door she had guarded, closed it noiselessly behind her, and went up-stairs to restore her worked-out energies. elizabeth wore a blue satin gown, the one evening dress she had, in the possibility of a candle-light visit from the officers at the outpost, brought with her from new york. her bare forearms, and the white surface surrounding the base of her neck, were thus for the first time displayed to peyton's view. a pair of slender gold bracelets on her wrists set off the smoothness of her rounded arms, but she wore no other jewelry. she had not had the time or the facilities to have her hair built high as a grenadier's cap, but she looked none the less commanding. she was, indeed, a radiant creature. peyton, having never before seen her at her present advantage, opened wide his eyes and stared at her with a wonder whose openness was excused only by the suddenness of the dazzling apparition. she cast on him a momentary look of perfect indifference, as she might on any one that stood in her way; then walked lightly to the spinet, giving him a barely noticeable wide berth in passing, as if he were something with which it was probably desirable not to come in contact. her slight deviation from a direct line of progress, though made inoffensively, struck him like a blow, yet did not interrupt, for more than an instant, his admiration. he stood dumbly looking after her, at her smooth and graceful movement, which had no sound but the rustling of skirts, her footfalls being noiseless in the satin slippers she wore. peyton was not now as impatient as he had been to depart. in fact, he lost, in some measure, his sense of being in the act of departure. what he felt was an inclination to look longer on this so unexpected vision. she sat down at the spinet with her back towards him, and somehow conveyed in her attitude that she thought him no longer in the room. he felt a necessity for establishing the fact of his presence. "pardon me for addressing you," he said, with a diffidence new to him, taking up the first pretext that came to mind, "but i fear your aunt requires looking to. she behaves strangely." "oh," said elizabeth, lightly, too wise to give him the importance of pretending not to hear him, "she is subject to queer spells at times. i thought you had gone." she began to play the spinet, very quietly and unobtrusively, with an absence of resentment, and with a seemingly unconscious indifference, that gave him a paralyzing sense of nothingness. unpleasant as this feeling made his position, he felt the situation become one from which it would be extremely awkward to flee. for the first time since certain boyhood fits of bashfulness, he now realized the aptness of that oft-read expression, "rooted to the spot." that he should be thrown into this trance-like embarrassment, this powerlessness of motion, this feeling of a schoolboy first introduced to society, of a player caught by stage fright, was intolerable. when she had touched the keys gently a few times, he shook off something of the spell that bound him, and moved to a spot whence he could get a view of her face in profile. it had not an infinitesimal trace of the storm that had driven him from the room a short time before. it was entirely serene. there was on it no anger, no grief, no reproach of self or of another, no scorn. there was pride, but only the pride it normally wore; reserve, but only the reserve habitual to a high-born girl in the presence of any but her familiars. it was hard to believe her the woman who had been stirred to such tremendous wrath a few minutes ago, by the disclosure that she had been deceived, her love tricked and misplaced. rather, it was hard to believe that the scene of wrath had ever occurred, that this woman had ever been so stirred by such cause, that she had ever loved him, that he had ever dared pretend love to her. the deception and the confession, with all they had elicited from her, seemed parts of a dream, of some fancy he had had, some romance he had read. as for elizabeth, she knew not, thought not, whether, in bearing him hot resentment, she still loved him. she knew only that she craved revenge, and that the first step towards her desired end was to assume that indifference which so puzzled, interested, and confounded him. a weak or a stupid woman would have shown a sense of injury, with flashes of anger. an ordinarily clever woman would have affected disdain, would have sniffed and looked haughty, would have overdone her pretended contempt. it is true, elizabeth had moved slightly out of her way to pass further from him, but she had done this with apparent thoughtlessness, as if the act were dictated by some inner sense of his belonging to an inferior race; not with a visible intention of showing repulsion. it is true she had assumed ignorance of his presence, but she had given him to attribute this to a belief that he had left the room. when his voice declared his whereabouts, she treated him just as she would have treated any other indifferent person who was _not quite_ her equal. peyton felt more and more uncomfortable. would she continue playing the spinet forever, so perfectly at ease, so content not to look at him again, so assuming it for granted that, the operation of leave-taking being considered over between hostess and guest, the guest might properly be gone any moment without further attention on either side? he began to fear that, if he did not soon speak, his voice would be beyond recovery. so, with a desperate resolve to recover his self-possession at a single _coup_, he blurted out, bunglingly: "'tis the first time i have seen you in that gown, madam." elizabeth, not ceasing to let her fingers ramble with soft touch over the keyboard, replied, carelessly: "i have not worn it in some time." having found that he retained the power of speech, he proceeded to utter frankly his latest thought, concealing the slight bitterness of it with a pretence of playful, make-believe reproach: "'tis not flattering to me, that you never wore it while i was your guest, yet put it on the moment you thought i had departed." she answered with good-humored lightness, "why, sir, do you complain of not being flattered? i thought such complaints were made only by women, and only to their own hearts." "if by flattery," said he, "you mean merited compliment, there are women who can never have occasion to complain of not receiving it." "indeed? when was that discovery made?" "a minute ago, madam." "oh!" and she smiled with just such graciousness as a woman might show in accepting a compliment from a comparative stranger. "thank you!" "when i think of it," said he, "it seems strange that you--ah--never took pains to--eh--to appear at your best--nay, i should say, as your real self!--before me." "oh, you allude to my wearing this gown? why, you must pardon my not having received you ceremoniously. _your_ visit began unexpectedly." "then somebody else is about to begin a visit that _is_ expected?" "didn't you know? i thought all the house was aware major colden was to return in a week. he may be here to-night, though perhaps not till to-morrow." "confound that man!" this to himself, and then, to her: "i was of the impression you did not love him." "why, what gave you that impression?" "no matter. it seems i was wrong." "oh, i don't say that,--or that you're right, either." "however," quoth he, with an inward sigh of resignation, "it is for _him_ that you are dressed as you never were for me!" she did not choose to ask what reason had existed for considering him in selecting her attire. it was better not to notice his presumption, and she became more absorbed in her music. peyton strode up and down a few moments, then sat by the table, and rested his cheek on his hand, wearing a somewhat injured look. "major colden, eh?" he mused. "to think i should come upon him again!" he essayed to renew conversation. "i trust, miss philipse, when i am gone--" but elizabeth was now oblivious of surroundings; the notes from the spinet became louder, and she began to hum the air in a low, agreeable voice. peyton looked hopeless. presently he stood up again, watching her. elizabeth brought the piece to a lively finish, rose capriciously, took up the flowers she had laid on the spinet earlier in the evening, put them in her corsage, and made to readjust the bracelet on her right arm. in this attempt, she accidentally dropped the bracelet to the floor. peyton ran to pick it up. but she quickly recovered it before he could reach it, put it on, walked to the table and sat down by it, removed the flowers from her bosom to the table, took up the volume of "the school for scandal," and turned the leaves over as if in quest of a certain page. while she was looking at the book, peyton took up the flowers. elizabeth, as if thinking they were still where she had laid them, put out her hand to repossess them, keeping her eyes the while on the book. for a moment, her hand ranged the table in search, then she abandoned the attempt to regain them. peyton held them out to her. "no, i thank you," she said, laying down the book, and went back to the spinet. "ah, you give them to me!" cried peyton, with sudden pleasure. "not at all! i merely do not wish to have them now." "oh," said he, thinking to make account by finding offence where none was really expressed, "has my touch contaminated them for you?" "how can you talk so absurdly?" and she resumed her seat at the spinet, and her playing. peyton stood holding the flowers, looking at her, and presently heaved a deep sigh. this not moving her, he suddenly had an access of pride, brought himself together, and saying, with quick resolution, "i bid you good-night and good-by, madam," went rapidly towards the door of the east hall. but his resolution weakened when his hand touched the knob, and, to make pretext for further sight of her, he turned and went to go out the other door. elizabeth had had a moment of alarm at his first sign of departure, but had not betrayed the feeling. now when, from her seat at the spinet, she saw him actually crossing the threshold near her, she called out, gently, "a moment, captain." the pleased look on his face, as he turned towards her inquiringly, betrayed his gratification at being called back. "you are taking my flowers away," she said, in explanation. he plainly showed his disappointment. "your pardon. my thoughtlessness. but you said you didn't wish to keep them." he laid them on the spinet. "i do not,--yet a woman must allow very few hands to carry off flowers of her gathering." she rose and took up the flowers and walked towards the fireplace. "then you at least take them back from my hands," said peyton. "why, yes,--for this," and she tossed them into the fire. he looked at them as they withered in the blaze, then said, "have you any objection to my carrying away the ashes, miss philipse?" she answered, considerately, "'twill take you more time than you can lose, to gather them up." "oh, i am in no haste." "oh, then, i ask your pardon. a moment since, you were about to go." "but now i prefer to stay." "indeed? may i ask the reason--but no matter." but he felt that a reason ought to be forthcoming. "why, you know, because--" and here he thought of one. "i wish to stay to meet major colden, of whom you say i am afraid. i shall prove to you at least i am no coward. after what you have said to me this night, i must in honor wait to face him." "but it is late now. i don't think he will come till to-morrow." "then i can wait till to-morrow." "but your duty calls you back to your own camp, now that your wound has healed." "i think my wound has undergone a slight relapse. you shall see, at least, i am not afraid of your champion." "if that is your only reason,--your desire to quarrel with major colden,--i cannot invite you to remain." "well, then, to tell the truth, there _is_ another reason. when i said, a while since, i had never seen you in that gown, i used too many words. i should have said i had never really seen you at all." "where were your eyes?" she asked, absently, seeming to take his words literally and to perceive no compliment. "i was in a kind of waking sleep." "it has been a time and place of hallucinations, i think. i, too, sir, have been, since i came here a week ago, under the strangest spell. a kind of light madness or witchery was over me, and made me act ridiculously, against my very will. a week ago, when you were disabled, i intended to give you up to the british,--as i should do now, if it would not be so troublesome--" "'twould be troublesome to _me_, i assure you," he said, interrupting. "but at the last moment," she went on, "i did precisely the reverse of what i wished. awhile ago, in this room, i seemed to be in the possession of some evil spirit, which made me say preposterous things. i can only remember some wild raving i indulged in, and some undeserved rudeness i displayed towards you. but, will you believe, the instant you left me, i recovered my right mind. i am like one returned from bedlam, cured, and you will pardon any incivility i may have done you in my peculiar state, i'm sure, since you speak of having been curiously afflicted yourself." "then you mean," he faltered, "you did not really love me?" "why, certainly i did not! how could you think i did? something possessed my will. but, thank heaven, i am myself again. why, sir, how could i? you know very little of me, sir, to think--oh!" she covered her face with her hands. "what things must i have said and done, in my clouded state, to make you think that! you,--an enemy, a rebel, a person whose only possible interest to me arises from his enmity!" dazzled as he was by her newly discovered beauty, the imposition on him was complete. he saw this covetable being now indifferent to him, out of his power to possess, likely soon to pass into the possession of another. "pray try to forget awhile that enmity," he supplicated. "i shall try, and then you can have no interest for me at all." "then don't try, i beg. i'd rather have an interest for you as an enemy than not at all." "why, really, sir--" she seemed half puzzled, half amused. "lord," quoth he, "how i have been deluded! i thought my love-making that night, feigned though it was, had wakened a response." "love-making, do you say? will you believe me, sir, i don't remember what passed here that night, save the unaccountable ending,--my making you my guest instead of their prisoner." "i wish you were pretending all this!" "why, if 'twould make you happier that i were, i wish so, too." "how can you speak so lightly of such matters?" "what matters?" "love, of course." "why, do men alone, because they laugh at women for taking love seriously, have the right to take it lightly? and of what love am i speaking lightly,--the love you say you feigned for me, or the love you say you thought you had awakened in me?" "the love i vow i do _not_ feign for you! the love i wish i _could_ awaken in you!" "why, captain, what a change has come over you!" "yes. i have risen from my sleep. if you, in waking from yours, put off love, i, in waking from mine, took on love!" she smiled, as with amusement. "a somewhat speedy taking on, i should say." "love's born of a glance, _i_ say!" "haven't i heard that before?" reflectively. "aye, for i said it here when i did not mean it, and now i say it again when i do!" "and of what particular glance am i to suppose--" "of the first glance i cast on you when you entered this room in that gown. yes, born of a glance--" "born of a gown, in that case, don't you mean?" derisively. "of a gown, or a glance, or a what you wish." "i don't wish it should be born at all." "you don't wish i should love you?" "i don't wish you should love me or shouldn't love me. i don't wish you--anything. why should i wish anything of one who is nothing to me?" "nothing to you! i would you were to me what i am to you!" "what is that, pray?" "an adorer!" "you are a--very amusing gentleman." "you refuse me a glimpse of hope?" "you would like to have it as a trophy, i suppose. you men treasure the memories of your little conquests over foolish women, as an indian treasures the scalps he takes." "lord! which sex, i wonder, has the busier scalping-knife?" "i can't speak for all my sex. some of us seek no scalps--" "you don't have to. i make you a present of mine. i fling it at your feet." "we seek no scalps, i say,--because we don't value them a finger-snap." and she gave a specimen of the kind of finger-snap she did not value them at. "in heaven's name," he said, "say what you do value, that i may strive to become like it! what do you value, i implore you, tell me?" "oh,--my studies, for one thing,--my french and my music,--" "could i but translate myself into french, or set myself to an air!" "nay, i don't care for _comic_ songs!" "i see you like flowers. if i might die, and be buried in your garden, and grow up in the shape of a rose-bush--" "or a cabbage!" "i fear you don't like that flower." "better come up in the form of your own virginia tobacco." "and be smoked by old mr. valentine? no, you don't like tobacco. ah, miss philipse, this levity is far from the mood of my heart!" "why do you indulge in it, then?" "i? is it i who indulge in levity?" "assuredly, _i_ do not!" oh, woman's privilege of saying unabashedly the thing which is not! "no," said he, "for there's no levity in the coldness with which beauty views the wounds it makes." "i'm sure one is not compelled to offer oneself to its wounds." "no,--nor the moth to seek the flame." "la, now you are a moth,--a moment ago, a rose-bush,--" "and you are ten million roses, grown in the garden of heaven, and fashioned into one body there, by some celestial praxiteles!" "dear me, am i all that?" "ay," he said, sadly, "and no more truly conscious of what it means to be all that, than any rose in any garden is conscious of what its beauty means!" "perhaps," she said, softly, feeling for a moment almost tenderness enough to abandon her purpose, "more conscious than you think!" "ah! then you are not like common beauties,--as poor and dull within as they are rich and radiant without? you but pretend insensibility, to hide real feeling." "i did not say so," she answered, lightly, bracing herself again to her resolution. "but it is so, is it not?" he went on. "your heart and mind are as roseate and delicate as your face? you can understand my praises and my feelings? you can value such love as mine aright, and know 'tis worthy some repayment?" but she was not again to be duped by low-spoken, fervid words, or by wistful, glowing eyes. she must be sure of him. "i know,--i recall now," she said, with little apparent interest; "you spoke of love a week ago, with no less eloquence and ardor." "more eloquence and ardor, i dare say, for then i did not feel love. then my tongue was not tied by sense of a passion it could not hope to express one hundredth part of! and, even if my tongue had gift to tell my heart, i should not dare trust myself under the sway of my feelings. but i _do_ love you now,--i do,--i do!" "if now, why not before?" "haven't i said i've been blind to you until to-night? at first i regarded you as only an enemy to be turned to my use in my peril. having been fortunate in that, i gave myself to other thoughts. but, thinking my false love had drawn true love from you, i saw i could not in honor leave you under a false belief. but now the falsehood has become truth. a week ago, i avowed a pretended passion, to gain my life! now, i declare a real one, to gain your love!" "what, you expect to take my love by storm, in reality, as you did, in appearance, a week ago?" she had risen from the music seat, and now stood with her back against the spinet, her hands behind her, her head turned slightly upward, facing him. "i don't expect," said he. "i only hope." "and what gives you reason to hope?" "my own love for you. love elicits love, they say." "they say wrong, then. if that were true, there would be no unrequited lovers." "ay, but such love as mine,--how can it so fill me to overflowing, and not infect you?" "love is not an infectious disease. if it were, i should have no fear,--knowing myself love-proof." "i can't believe that,--for a woman with no spark in herself could not light so fierce a flame in me, by the mere meeting of our eyes." "if it should create in me such a disturbance as you seem to undergo, i shouldn't wish it to increase. but, i assure you, it isn't in me." "pray think it is. only imagine it is there, and soon it will be." she felt that the time was at hand to strike the blow. "if i could be perfectly sure you spoke in earnest," she said, seeming to search his countenance for testimony. "in earnest!" he echoed. "great heavens, what evidence do you want? if there is an aspect of love i do not have, tell me, and i shall put it on." "yes, you are experienced in putting on the _aspects_ of love." "oh, you well know i have no reason now for declaring a love i don't feel. if you could be sure i spoke in earnest, you said,--what then? tell me, and i shall find a way to convince you i _am_ in earnest." "convince me first." "'convince me,' you say. and i say, 'be convinced.' by the lord, never was so great a sceptic! is not your sense of your own charms sufficient to convince you of their effect?" "mere words!" "i'll prove my love by acts, then!" "by what acts?" "by fighting for you or suffering for you, dying for you or living for you, as you may command." "you can prove it thus. say, 'long live the king!'" he gazed at her a moment. "no," he said. "say, 'long live the king!'" she went to the door, and paused on the threshold, looking at him, as if to give him a last opportunity. "long live the king--" he said. she came back from the door. "of france!" he added. "no," she cried, and dictated, "'long live the king of great britain!'" "long live the king of great britain,--but not of america." "no! 'long live george the third, king of great britain and the american colonies!'" "long live george the third, king of great britain and--ireland." "'and of the american colonies.' say it! say it all!" "long live elizabeth philipse, queen of beauty in the united states of america!" he answered. "you don't love me," said she, and set her mind to finding some other means by which he might evince what she knew he would never demonstrate in the way she had demanded. and she resolved his humiliation should be all the greater for the delay. "you don't love me." "i do. i swear, on my knees." "then _get_ on your knees!" "i do!" he dropped on one knee. "both knees!" "both." he suited action to word. "bow lower." "i touch the floor." he did so, with his forehead. "are you convinced?" "yes." and she moved thoughtfully towards the door of the east hall. "ah! convinced that i love you madly?" in obedience to a gesture, he remained on his knees. "perfectly convinced." "then, the reward of which you hinted?" "reward?" "you said, if you could be sure i spoke in earnest. now you admit you are sure. what then?" she let her eyes rest on him a moment, without speaking, as he looked ardently and expectantly up at her from his kneeling attitude, while she took in breath, and then she flung her answer at him. "what then? this! that you are now more contemptible and ridiculous and utterly non-existent, to me, than you have formerly been! that, whatever i may have done which seemed in your behalf, was partly from the strange insanity of which i have spoken, and partly from the most meaningless caprice! that, if you remain here till to-morrow, you may see me in the arms of the man i really love, and that he may not be as careless of the fate of a vagabond rebel as i am. and now, captain crayton, or dayton, or peyton, or whatever you please, of somebody or other's light horse, go or stay, as you choose; you're as welcome as any other casual passer-by, for all the comical figure your impudence has made you cut! learn modesty, sir, and you may fare better in your next love-making, if you do not aim too high! and that piece of advice is the reward i hinted at! good night!" and she whirled from the room, slamming behind her the mahogany door, at which peyton stared for some seconds, in blank amazement, too overwhelmed to speak or move or breathe or think. but gradually he came to life, slowly rose, stood for a moment thoughtful, fashioned his brows into a frown, drew his lips back hard, and muttered through his closed teeth: "i'll stay and fight that man, at least!" and he sat down by the table, to wait. chapter xii. the challenge. a very few moments had elapsed, and peyton still sat by the table, in a dogged study, when the door from the south hall was opened slightly, and if he had looked he might have seen a pair of eyes peeping through the aperture. but he did not look, either then or when, some seconds later, the door opened wide and miss sally bobbed gracefully in. it has been related how, after her brilliant but exhausting conduct of the important scene assigned her, she sought repose in her room. looking out of her window presently, she saw something, of which she thought it advisable to inform elizabeth. therefore she came down-stairs. did she listen at the door to the last part of that notable conversation? ungallant thought, aroint thee! 'tis well known women have little curiosity, and what little they have they would not, being of miss sally's station in life, descend to gratify by eavesdropping. let it be assumed, therefore, that the much vaunted informant, feminine intuition, told miss sally of the end of the interview between her niece and the captain, both as to the time of that end and as to its nature. she entered, tremulous with a vast idea that had blazed suddenly on her mind. now that elizabeth was quite through with peyton, now that peyton must be low in his self-esteem for elizabeth's humiliation of him, and therefore likely to be grateful for consolatory attentions, miss sally might resume her own hopes. but there was no time to be lost. "your pardon, captain," she began, sweetly, with her most flattering smile. "i am looking for miss elizabeth." "she was here awhile ago," replied peyton, glumly, not bringing his eyes within range of the smile. "she went that way. i trust you've recovered from your attack." "my attack?" inquiringly, with surprise. "the queer spell, i think miss philipse called it. she said you were subject to them." "well, how does she dare--" she checked her tongue, lest she might betray the device for his detention. something in his absent, careless way of associating her with a queer spell irritated her a little for the moment, and impelled her to retaliation. "i suppose that was not the only thing she said to you?" she added, ingenuously. "no,--she said other things." he rose and went to the fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and gazed pensively at the red embers. "they don't seem to have left you very cheerful," ventured miss sally. "not so very damned cheerful!--i beg your pardon." miss sally's moment of resentment had passed. now was the time to strike for herself. she thought she had hit on a clever plan of getting around to the matter. "captain," said she, "you're a man of the world. i know it's presumptuous of me to ask it, but--if you would give me a word of advice--" peyton did not take his look from the fire, or his thoughts from their dismal absorption. he answered, half-unconsciously: "oh, certainly! anything at all." "you are aware, of course," she went on, with smirking, rosy confusion, "that mr. valentine is a widower." "indeed? oh, yes, yes, i know." "yes, a widower twice over." "how sad! he must feel twice the usual amount of grief." "why,--i don't know exactly about that." "the poor man has my sympathy. doubtless he is inconsolable." peyton scarce knew what he was saying, or whom it was about. "why, no," said miss sally, averting her eyes, with a smiling shyness, "not altogether inconsolable. that's just it." "oh, is it?" said peyton, obliviously. "you may have noticed that he spends a good deal of time here at present," she went on. "a good deal of time," he repeated. "there's doubtless some strong attraction." "yes. perhaps i oughtn't to say it, but there _is_ a strong attraction. in fact, he has proposed marriage to me, and now, as a man of the world to a woman of little experience, would you advise me to accept him?" and she looked at the disconsolate officer so sweetly, it seemed impossible he should do aught but say it would be throwing herself away to bestow on an old man charms of which younger and warmer eyes were sensible. but he answered only: "certainly! an excellent match!" for a time miss sally was speechless, yet open-mouthed. and then, for the length of one brief but fiery tirade, she showed herself to be her niece's aunt: "sir! the idea! i wouldn't have that old smoke-chimney if he were the last man on earth! i'd have given him his congé long ago, if it hadn't been that he might propose to my friend, the widow babcock! i've only kept him on the string to prevent her getting him. when i want your advice, captain peyton, i'll ask for it! excuse me, i must find elizabeth. i've news for her." "news?" he echoed, stupidly. "yes. from my chamber window awhile ago i saw some one riding this way on the post-road,--major colden!" and she swept out by the same door that had closed, a few minutes before, on elizabeth. "major colden!" peyton's teeth tightened, his eyes shot fire, his hand flew to his sword-hilt, as he spoke the name. he went to the window, the same window at which elizabeth had looked out a week ago, and peered through the panes at the night. "why, the ground is white," he said. "it has begun to snow." but, through the large flakes that fell thick and swiftly among the trees, he did not yet see any humankind approaching. his view of the branch road was, at some places, obstructed by tall shrubbery that rose high above the palings and the hedge. yet through those flakes, assaulted by them in eyes and nostrils, invaded by them in ears and neck, humankind was riding. it was, indeed, colden that miss sally had seen through a fortuitous opening, which gave, between the trees, a view of the most eminent point of the post-road southward. he was to conduct elizabeth home the next day, but had availed himself of his opportunity to ride out to the manor-house that night, so as to have the few more hours in her society. he had this time taken an escort of two privates of his own regiment, but these men were not as well mounted as he, and, in his impatience, having seen the best their horses could do, and having passed king's bridge, he had ridden ahead of them, leaving them to follow to the manor-house in their own speediest time. thus it was that now he bore alone down from the post-road, his horse's feet making on the new-fallen snow no other sound than a soft crunching, scarce louder than its heavy breathing or its mouth-play on the bit, or the creak and clank of saddle, bridle, stirrups, pistols, and scabbard. his eyes dwelt eagerly on the manor-house, where awaited him light and warmth and wine, refuge from the pelting flakes, and, above all else, the joy-giving presence of elizabeth. his breast expanded, he sighed already with relief; he approached the gate as a released soul, with admission ticket duly purchased by a deathbed repentance, might approach the gate of heaven. but peyton, looking out on the white world, saw no one. he did not change his attitude when the door reopened and elizabeth and her aunt came into the parlor, arm in arm. "you're sure 'twas he, aunt sally?" elizabeth had been saying. "positive. he should be here now," miss sally had replied. elizabeth cast a look of secret elation on the unheeding rebel captain, whose forehead was still against the window-pane. she saw a possible means of his still further degradation. suddenly he took a quick step back from the window, impulsively renewed his grasp of his sword-hilt, and showed a face of resolute antagonism. elizabeth knew from this that he had seen colden. she gave a smile of pleasant anticipation. but miss sally had relapsed into her usual timid self. she held tightly to elizabeth's arm. "oh, dear!" she whispered. "won't something happen when those two meet?" "i hope so!" said elizabeth, placidly. "why?" demanded miss sally, beginning to weaken at the knees. "if colden sends him to the ground, in our presence, that will crown the fellow's humiliation." five brisk knocks, in quick succession, were heard from the outside door of the east hall. peyton walked across the parlor, turned, and stood facing the east hall door, the greater part of the room's length being between him and it. his hand remained on his sword. he paid no heed to elizabeth, she paid none to him. "his knock!" she said, and called out through the east hall door: "'tis major colden, sam. show him here at once." she then stepped back from the door, to a place whence she could see both it and peyton. her aunt clung to her arm all the while, and now whispered, "oh, elizabeth, i fear there will be trouble!" "if there is, it won't fall on your silly head," whispered elizabeth, in reply. from the hall came the sound of the drawing of bolts. peyton did not take his eyes from the door. a noise of footfalls, accompanied by clank of spurs and weapons, and in came colden, his hat in his left hand, snow on his hat and shoulders, his cloak open, his sword and pistols visible, his right hand ungloved to clasp elizabeth's. she received him with such a cordial smile as he had never before had from her. "elizabeth!" he cried,--beheld only her, hastened to her, took her proffered hand, bent his head and kissed the fingers, raised his eyes with a grateful, joyous smile,--and saw peyton standing motionless at the other side of the room. the smile vanished; a look of amazement and hatred came. "i wish you a very good evening, _major_ colden!" peyton said this in a voice as hard and ironical as might have come from a brass statue. for the next few seconds the two men stood gazing at each other, the women gazing at the men. at last the tory major found speech: "elizabeth,--what does it mean? why is this man here,--again?" "'tis rather a long story, jack, and you shall hear it all in time," said elizabeth, determined he should never hear the true story. before she could continue, colden suffered a start of alarm to possess him, and asked, quickly: "are any of his troops here?" "no; he is quite alone," she answered. colden at once took on height, arrogance, and formidableness. "then why have not your servants made him a prisoner?" he asked. "why," said she, "you being mentioned to-night, in his presence, he made some kind of boast of not fearing you, and i, divining how soon you would be here, thought fit his freedom with your name should best be paid for at _your_ hands, major." "ay, major," put in peyton, "and i have stayed to receive payment!" colden thought for a short while. then he said, "a moment, elizabeth. your pardon, miss williams," and drew elizabeth aside, and spoke to her in a low tone: "we have only to temporize with him. two of my men have attended me from my quarters. i had a better horse, and rode ahead, in my eagerness to see you. my two fellows will be here soon, and the business will be done." but such doing of the business did not suit elizabeth's purpose. "i wish to humiliate the man," she answered colden, inaudibly to the others; "to take down his upstart pride! 'twould be no shame to him, to be made prisoner by numbers." "what, then?" asked colden, dubiously. "bring down the coxcomb, before us women, in an even match!" to prevent objections, she then abruptly went from colden, and resumed her place at her aunt's side. colden stood frowning, not half pleased at her hint. it occurred to him, as it did not to her, that the mere allegiance and favoring wishes of herself were not sufficient possessions to ensure victory in such a match as she meant. elizabeth, accustomed to success, did not conceive it possible that the chosen agent of her own designs could fail. but the chosen agent had, in this case, wider powers of conception. all this time, captain peyton had stood as motionless as a figure in a painting. he now interrupted colden's meditations with the gentle reminder: "i am waiting for my payment, major colden." colden was not a man of much originality. so, in his instinctive endeavor to gain time, he bungled out the conventional reply, "you wish to seek a quarrel with me, sir?" "seek a quarrel?" retorted peyton. "is not the quarrel here? has not miss philipse spoken of an offence to your name, for which i ought to receive payment from you? gad, she'd not have to speak twice to make _me_ draw!" colden continued to be as conventional as a virtuous hero of a novel. "i do not fight in the presence of ladies, sir," said he. "nor i," said peyton. "choose your own place, in the garden yonder. with snow on the ground, there's light enough." and harry went quickly, almost to the door, near which he stopped to give colden precedence. "nay," put in elizabeth, "we ladies can bear the sight of a sword-cut or two. wait for us," and she would have gone to send for wraps, but that colden raised his hand in token of refusal, saying: "nay, elizabeth. i will not consent." "come, sir," said peyton. "'tis no use to oppose a lady's whim. but if you make haste, we may have it over before they can arrive on the ground." in handling his sword-hilt, peyton had pulled the weapon a few inches out of the scabbard, and now, though he did not intend to draw while in the house, he unconsciously brought out the full length of what remained of the blade. for the time he had forgotten the sword was broken, and now he was reminded of it with some inward irritation. meanwhile colden was answering: "there's no regularity in such a meeting. where are the seconds?" "i'll be your second, major," cried elizabeth. "aunt sally, second captain peyton." "ridiculous!" said the major. "anything to bring you out," said peyton, as desirous of avenging himself on elizabeth, through her affianced, as she was to complete her own revenge through the same instrument. "i'll fight you with half a sword. i'd forgotten 'tis all i've left." "i would not take an advantage," said the new yorker. "then break your own sword, and make us equal," said the virginian. "i value my weapon too much for that." peyton smiled ironically. but he tried again. "then i shall be less scrupulous," said he. "i _will_ take an advantage. the greater honor to you, if you defeat me. you take the broken sword, and lend me yours." he held out his hilt for exchange. colden pretended to laugh, saying: "am i a fool to put it in your power to murder me?" "_i'll_ tell you what, gentlemen," put in elizabeth. "use the swords above the chimney-place, yonder. they are equal." "yes!" cried peyton. but colden said: "i will not so degrade myself as to cross swords, except on the battle-field, with one who is a rebel, a deserter, and no gentleman." peyton turned to elizabeth with a smile. "then you see, madam," said he, "'tis no fault of mine if my affronts go unpunished, since this gentleman must keep his courage for the battle-field! egad," he added, sacrificing truth for the sake of the taunt, "you tories need all the courage there you can save up in a long time! i take my leave of this house!" [illustration: "'i take my leave of this house!'"] he thrust his sword back into the scabbard, bowed rapidly and low, with a flourish of his hat, and went out by the same door elizabeth had used in her own moment of triumph. he unbolted the outside door himself, before black sam could come from the settle to serve him. snowflakes rushed in at the open door. he plunged into them, swinging the door close after him. out through the little portico he went, down the walk outside the very parlor window through which he had looked out awhile ago, but through which he did not now look in as he passed; through the gate, and up the branch road to the highway. he was possessed by a confusion of thoughts and feelings,--temporary and superficial elation at having put elizabeth's preferred lover in so bad a light, wild ideas of some future crossing of her path, swift dreams of a future conquest of her in spite of all, a fierce desire for such action as would lead to that end. he was eager to rejoin the army now, to participate in the fighting that would bring about the humbling of her cause and make it the more in his power to master her. he heeded little the snow that impeded his steps as his boots sank into it, and which, in falling, blinded his eyes, tickled his face, and clung to his hair. the tumult of flakes was akin to that of his feelings, and he was in mood for encountering such opposition as the storm made to his progress. arriving at the post-road, he turned and went northward. at his left lay the great lawn fronting the manor-house, and separated from the road by hedge and palings. he could see, across the snowy expanse, between the dark trunks and whitened branches of the trees, the long front of the manor-house, its roof and its porticoes already covered with snow, the light glowing in the one exposed window of the east parlor. as he quieted down within, he felt pleasantly towards the house, to which his week's half-solitary residence in it, with the comfort he had enjoyed there and the books he had read, had given him an attachment. he cast on it a last affectionate look, then breasted the weather onward, wondering what things the future might have in store for him. he had little fear of not reaching the american lines in safety. it was unlikely that any of the enemy's marauders would be out on such a night, and more unlikely that any regular military movement would be making on the neutral ground. he expected to meet no one on the road, but he would keep a sharp lookout in all directions as he went, and, in case of any human apparition, would take to the fields or the woods. but all the world, thought he, would stay within doors this white night. sliding back a part of every step he took in the snow, he passed the boundary of the philipse lawn, and that of such part of the grounds as included, with other appurtenances, the garden north of the house. he had come, at last, to a place where the fence at his left ended and the forest began. he had, a moment before, cast a long look backward to assure himself the road was empty behind him. he now trudged on, his eyes fixed ahead. from behind a low pine-tree, at the end of the fence, two dark figures glided up to the captain's rear, their steps noiseless in the snow. one of them caught both his forearms at the same instant, and pulled them back together, as with grips of iron. a second pair of hands placed a noose about his wrists, and quickly tightened it. ere he could turn, his first assailant released the bound arms to the second, drew a pistol, and thrust the muzzle close to peyton's cheek, whereupon the second man said: "your pardon, captain. come quietly, or you're a dead man!" chapter xiii. the unexpected. peyton's somewhat elate exit from the parlor was followed by a moment of silence and inertia on the part of the three who remained there. but elizabeth's chagrin was speedily translated into anger against major colden. "why didn't you fight him?" she demanded of that gentleman, who was flinching inwardly, but who maintained a pale and haughty exterior. "what was the use?" he replied. "he's reserved for the gallows. if my two men were here! why not send your servants after him? sam is a powerful fellow, and williams is shrewd and strong." elizabeth ignored colden's reply, and answered her own question, thus: "it was because you remembered the time he disarmed you, three years ago." "you may think so, if you choose," he replied, in the patient manner of one who quietly endures unjust reproaches when self-defence is useless. "you will find refreshments in the dining-room," said elizabeth, coldly. "sam will show you to your room." "i would rather remain with you," he replied. "i would rather be alone with my aunt a while." a deep sigh expressed his dejecting sense of how futile it would be to oppose her. "as you will," he then said, and, bowing gravely, left the parlor. elizabeth's feelings now burst out. "oh," she exclaimed to her aunt, "what a chicken-hearted copy of a man! and he calls himself a soldier! i wonder where he found the spirit to volunteer!" "from you, my dear," replied miss sally. "didn't you urge him to take a commission?" "and that rebel fellow had the best of it all through," elizabeth went on. "i was to see him laid low by his rival, as my crowning revenge! how he swaggered out! with what a look of triumph in his eye! and--aunt sally! he won't come back! i shall never see him again!" "why, child, do you wish to?" "of course not! but i can't have him go away with the laugh on his side! he made me ridiculous after my trying to stab him with my love for the other man. _such_ another man! oh, the rebel must come back!" "but he isn't likely to," said miss sally. "oh, what shall i do?" wailed the niece. "elizabeth, i'll wager you're still in love with him!" "i'm not! i hate him!--well, what if i am? he loved me, i'm sure, the last time he said it. but, good heavens, he's going farther away every instant!" she clasped her hands, and, for once, looked at her aunt for help, like a distressed child on the verge of weeping. "why don't you call him back?" said miss sally. "i? not if i die for want of seeing him!--i know! i _will_ send the servants after him." and she started for the door, but stopped at her aunt's comment: "but that will be as bad as calling him yourself." "not at all, you empty pate!" cried elizabeth, who had become, in a moment, all action. "while he's going around by the road, williams and sam shall cut across the garden, lie in wait, and take him by surprise. he has no weapon but a broken sword, and they can make him prisoner. they shall bring him back here bound, and he'll think he's to be turned over to the british after all!" "but what then?" "why, he shall be left alone here, well guarded, for half an hour, and then i'll happen in, give him an opportunity to make love again, and i can yield gracefully! don't you see?" "then you _do_ love him?" said the aunt. "i don't know. however, i don't love jack colden. not a word to him, of this! i'm going to give orders to the men." as she entered the hall, she met colden, who was coming from the dining-room with mr. valentine. the major had limited his refreshments to two glasses of brandy and water, swallowed in quick succession. mr. valentine, who was smoking his pipe, held colden fraternally by the arm. "what, elizabeth, are you still angry?" said colden, stopping as she passed. "excuse me, i have something to see to," said the girl, coolly, hurrying away from him. he made a slight movement to follow her, but old valentine drew him into the parlor, saying: "come, major, you'll see the lady enough after she's married to you. i was just going to say, the last lot of tobacco i got--" "oh, damn your tobacco!" said the other, jerking his arm from the old man's tremulous grasp. "damn my tobacco?" echoed mr. valentine, quite stupefied. "yes. i've matters more important on my mind just now." "the deuce!" cried the old man. "what could be more important than tobacco?" and he stood looking into the fire, muttering to himself between furious puffs. colden sought comfort of miss sally. "was ever a woman as unreasonable as elizabeth?" he said to her. "she'd have had me lower myself to meet that rebel vagabond as one gentleman meets another." but miss sally was not going to betray her own disappointment by showing a change from her oft-expressed opinion of the rebel captain,--particularly in the presence of mr. valentine. so she answered: "you met him so once, three years ago." "i had a less scrupulous sense of propriety then," replied colden, raging inwardly. "but, as he's a rebel and deserter," pursued miss sally, "was it not your duty as a soldier to take him, just now?" "i'd have done so, had my men been here," growled the major. "elizabeth ought to've had her servants hold him. i had half a mind to order them, in the king's name, but i never can bring myself to oppose her, she's so masterful! by george, though, i'll have him yet! my two fellows will soon come up. they shall give chase. he will leave tracks in the snow." colden went to the window, and peered out as peyton himself had done not long before. the flakes were coming down as thick as ever. "i don't see my rascals yet!" he muttered. "they've stopped at the tavern, i'll warrant." and he continued to gaze eagerly out, impatient that his men should arrive before the new-fallen snow should cover his enemy's tracks. old mr. valentine, having exhausted his present stock of mutterings, now walked over to miss sally, who had sat down near the spinet. "miss williams," said he, "this is the first chance i've had to speak to you alone in a week." "but we're not alone," said miss sally, motioning her head towards colden. "he's nobody," contemptuously replied the octogenarian. "a man that damns tobacco is nobody. so you may go ahead and speak out. what's your answer, ma'am?" "oh, mr. valentine, not now! you must give me time." "that's what you said before," he complained. she had, indeed, said it before, scores of times. "well, give me more time, then," she replied. "how much?" asked the old man, in a matter-of-fact way. "oh, i don't know! long enough for me to make up my mind." thus far, this conversation had followed in the exact lines of many that had preceded it, but now mr. valentine made a departure from the customary form. "i think," said he, "if my other two wives had taken as long as you to make up their minds, i shouldn't have been twice a widower by now." "oh, mr. valentine!" said miss sally, in a sweetly reproachful way. "now you know--" but he cut her speech off short. "very likely," said he. "i don't know. well, take your time. only please remember i haven't so very much time left! better take me while i'm here to be had! good night, ma'am!" and he went to the dining-room to fortify himself for his long homeward walk through the snow. in crossing the hall, he saw cuff on the settle in sam's place. in the dining-room he met molly, who was clearing the table of the supper that colden had disdained. he asked her the whereabouts of williams, and she replied that the steward and sam had gone out on some order of miss elizabeth's. deciding to await williams's return, the old man sat down before the dining-room fire, and was soon peacefully snoring. elizabeth had gone up-stairs to watch from her darkened window the issue of the expedition of williams and sam, who had gone out by the kitchen, equipped respectively with rope and pistol. while they were in the immediate vicinity of the house, she could not see them from her elevation, but presently she beheld them glide swiftly across a white open space in the garden, cross a stile, and disappear among the trees and bushes between the garden and the post-road. turning her eyes to the road itself, that lonely highway now called broadway,[ ] she made out a solitary figure toiling forward through the whirling whiteness,--and she gave a sigh, the deepest and longest with which her frame had ever trembled. meanwhile miss sally remained in the parlor, thinking it best not to go to elizabeth unless sent for; while colden continued to stand at the window, showing his impatience for the arrival of his two soldiers in a tense contracting of the brow, in a restless shifting from foot to foot, and in intermittent stifled curses. as he kept his eyes on the place where the branch road left the highway, he did not see that part of the lawn walk which led from the garden. but suddenly a slight noise drew his look towards the portico before the east hall. "who are these coming?" he cried, startling miss sally out of her musings and her chair. "are they your men?" she asked, hastening to join him at the window. "no, mine are mounted," said he. "why,--these are williams and sam,--and they are bringing,--yes, it is he! they're bringing him back a prisoner! she has done it, after all, without consulting me!" and he strode to the centre of the room, in the utmost elation. miss sally weakened at the imminent prospect of a meeting between the two enemies in the changed circumstances, and felt the need of her niece's support. "i must tell elizabeth they have him," she said, and ran out to the east hall, and thence to the dining-room, just in time to avoid seeing peyton led in through the outer door, which cuff had opened at williams's call. the steward and sam conducted their prisoner immediately into the parlor. there colden stood, with a rancorously jubilant smile, to receive him. peyton's wrists were as williams had tied them. he was without his hat, which had been knocked off in a brief struggle he had essayed against his captors in a moment when sam had lowered the pistol. there was a little fresh snow on his hair, and more on his shoulders. the feet of his boots were cased with it. his left arm was held by williams, who carried the broken sword, having taken it from the scabbard at the first opportunity. peyton's other arm was grasped by the huge, bony left hand of sam, who held the cocked pistol in his right. the two men walked with him to the centre of the parlor, and stopped. "by george," said he, turning his face towards sam, with fire in his eyes, "had the snow not killed the sound of your sneaking footsteps till you'd caught my arms behind, i'd have done for the two of you!" "good, williams!" said colden. "place him on that chair, and leave him here with me. but stay in the hall on guard." "so miss elizabeth ordered us, sir," said williams, dryly, and, with sam, conducted peyton to the chair, on which he sat willingly. "of course she did," replied colden. "was it not at my suggestion?" peyton looked sharply up at the major, who regarded him with the undisguised pleasure of hate about to be satisfied. williams handed the broken sword to colden, saying, "this was the only weapon he had, sir. we grabbed him before he could use it. we ran out behind him from the roadside, and he couldn't hear us for the snow." "ay, or the pair of you couldn't have taken me!" said peyton, with hot scorn and defiant gameness. colden, with the piece of sword, motioned williams to go from the room. "leave the door ajar a little," he added, "so you can hear if i call." peyton uttered a short laugh of derision at this piece of prudence. the steward and sam withdrew to the hall, where sam remained, while williams went in search of elizabeth for further orders. as soon as she had assured herself, by watching and listening, that peyton was safe in the parlor, she had stolen quietly down-stairs to the dining-room, where she had met her aunt, with whom the steward now found her sitting. she told him to get the duck-gun, make sure it was loaded and primed, and to wait with sam on the settle in the hall. she then requested her aunt to remain in the dining-room, silently returned to the hall, and took station by the door leading from the parlor,--the door which williams, at colden's command, had left slightly ajar. her original plan, she felt, might have to be altered by reason of colden's having obtruded his hand into the game, a possibility she had not, in roughly sketching that plan, taken into account. it was in order to have the guidance of circumstance, that she now put herself in the way of hearing, unseen, what might pass between the two men. meanwhile, through the snow-storm, colden's two soldiers, who had indeed tarried at the tavern for the heating up of their interiors, were blasphemously urging their sleepy horses towards the manor-house. in the parlor, the two enemies were facing each other, peyton on his chair, his tied wrists behind him, colden standing at some distance from him, holding the broken sword. as soon as they were alone, peyton uttered another one-syllabled laugh, and said: "the hospitality of this house beats my recollection. one is always coming back to it." "you'll not come back the next time you leave it!" said major colden, his eyes glittering with gratified rancor. "and when shall that time be?" asked peyton, airily. "as soon as two of my men arrive, whom i outrode on my way hither to-night. they attended me out of new york. i shall be generous and give them over to you, to attend you _into_ new york." "thanks for the escort!" "'tis the only kind you rebels ever have, when you enter new york," sneered the major. "we shall enter it with an escort of our own choosing some day! and a sorry day that for you tories and refugees, my dear gentleman!" "but if that day ever comes, _you'll_ have been rotting underground a long time,--and thanks to _me_, don't forget that!" "thanks to _her_, you coward!" cried peyton. "'twas she that sent her servants after me! you didn't dare try taking me, alone!" "bah!" said colden, hotly, "i might have pistolled you here to-night"--and he placed his hand on the fire-arm in his belt--"but for the presence of the ladies!" "was it the ladies' presence," retorted peyton, contemptuously, "or the fact that you're a devilish bad shot?" neither man heard the door moved farther open, or saw elizabeth step through the aperture to the inner side of the threshold, where she stopped and watched. peyton's back was towards her, and colden's rage at the last words was too intense to permit his eyes to rove from its object. "damn you!" cried the major. "i'd show you how bad a shot i am, but that i'd rather wait and see you on the gallows!" "will _she_ come to see me there, i wonder?" said peyton, half thoughtfully. "she ought to, for it's her work sends me there, not yours! 'twill not be _your_ revenge when they string me up, my jolly friend!" taunted beyond all self-control, the tory yelled: "not mine, eh? then i'll have mine now, you dog!" with that, he strode forward and struck harry a fierce blow across the face with the flat side of harry's own broken sword. harry merely blinked his eyes, and did not flinch. he turned pale, then red, and in a moment, first clearing his voice of a slight huskiness, said, quietly: "that blow i charge against you both,--the lady as well as you!" colden had stepped back some distance after delivering the blow. something in harry's answer seemed to infuriate still further the devil awakened in the tory's body, for he cried out: "the lady as well as me,--yes! and this, too!" and he advanced on peyton, to strike a second time. "stop! how dare you?" the cry was elizabeth's. it startled colden so that he loosened his hold of the broken sword before he could deliver the blow. at that instant, she caught his arm in her one hand, the sword-guard in her other. she tore the weapon from his grasp, and faced him with a countenance as furious as his own. "what do you mean?" he cried. for answer she struck him in the face with the flat of the sword, as he had struck peyton. "you sneak!" she said. he recoiled, and stood staring, a ghastly image of bewilderment and consternation. after a moment he turned livid. "ah! i see now!" he gasped. "you love him!" "yes!" came the answer, prompt and decided. he gazed at her with such an expression as a painter of hell might put into the face of a lost soul, and he said, faintly, in a kind of articulate moan: "i might have known!" suddenly there came from the outer night the exclamation, quick and distinct: "whoa!" chapter xiv. the broken sword. the sound wrought a transformation in colden. his face lighted up with malevolent joy. "you love too late!" he cried, to elizabeth. "my men are there! they shall take him to new york a prisoner, at last!" "but not delivered up by me, thank god!" replied elizabeth, while peyton rose quickly from his chair, and colden reeled like a drunken man to the window. she went behind peyton, and, with the edge of the broken sword, hacked rather than cut through one of the outer windings that bound his wrists together, whereupon she speedily uncoiled the rope. "you were my prisoner. i set you free!" she said, dropped the rope to the floor, and handed him the broken sword. he took the weapon in his right hand, and imprisoned elizabeth with his left arm. "i'm more your prisoner now than ever!" he said. "you've cut these bonds. will you put others on me?" "sometime,--if we can save your life!" she answered. both turned their eyes towards colden. the tory officer had drawn his sword, and was motioning, in great excitement, to his soldiers outside. "this way, men!" he shouted. "to the front door! damn the louts! can't they understand?" he beat upon the window with his sword, knocking out panes of glass. "come through that door, i say! quick, curse you, there's a prisoner here, with a price for his taking! ay, that's it! some one in the hall there, open the front door to my men!" the sound now came of knocks bestowed on the outside door, and of sam's heavy tread on the hall floor. "williams! sam!" shouted elizabeth. "don't let them in!" the heavy tread was heard to stop short. the knocking on the outer door was resumed. "let them in, i say," roared colden, too proud to go himself to the door. "i command it, in the name of the king!" "obey your mistress," cried peyton, to those in the hall. "i command it, in the name of congress!" colden was silent for a moment, then suddenly threw open the window and called out, "this way, men! quick!" and he drew pistol, and stood ready with steel and ball to guard the window by which his men were to enter. a new, wild ferocity was on his face, a new, nervous hardness in his body, as if the latent resolution and strength which a prudent man keeps for a great contest, on which his all may depend, were at last aroused. in such a mood, the man who, governed by interest, may have seemed a coward all his life becomes for the once supremely formidable. at last he thinks the stake worth the play, at last the prize is worth the risk, and because it is so he will play and risk to the end, hazarding all, not yielding while he breathes. having opened the theme which alone, of all themes, shall transform his irresolution into action, he will, hamlet like, "fight upon this theme until" his "eyelids will no longer wag." so was colden aroused, transfigured, as he stood doubly armed by the window, waiting for his men to clamber in. "what shall we do, dear?" said elizabeth. "fight!" replied peyton, tightening at the same time his right palm around his broken sword, and his left around the hand she had let him take,--for she had moved from the embrace of his arm. "ay, there are only two of them," she said, as two burly forms appeared in the open window, one behind the other. "there will be three of us, you'll find!" cried colden. "this time i'll take a hand, if need be." "you must not stay here," said peyton to elizabeth, quickly. "things will be flying loose in a moment!" "i won't leave you!" said she. "go! i beg you, go!" he said, releasing her hand, and stepping back. meanwhile, colden's men bounded in through the window. rough, sturdy fellows were they, who landed heavily on the parlor floor, and blinked at the light, drawing the while the breeches of their short muskets from beneath their coats. their hats and shoulders were coated with snow. "take that rebel alive, if you can!" ordered colden. "he's meant to hang! stun him with your musket-butts!" the men quickly reversed their weapons, and strode heavily towards harry. to their surprise, before they could bring down their muskets, which required both hands of each to hold, harry dashed forward between them, thinking to cut down colden with his broken sword, possess himself of the latter's pistol, shoot one of the soldiers, and meet the other on less unequal terms. he saw a possibility of his leaping through the open window and fleeing on one of the soldiers' horses, but the idea was accompanied by the thought that elizabeth might be made to suffer for his escape. her safety now depended on his getting the mastery over his three would-be captors. so, ere the two astonished fellows could turn, harry had leaped within sword's reach of his doubly armed enemy. but colden was now as alert as rigid, and he opposed his officer's sword against peyton's broken cavalry blade, guarding himself with unexpected swiftness, and giving back, for harry's sweeping stroke, a thrust which only the quickest and most dexterous movement turned aside from entering the virginian's lungs. as harry stepped back for an instant out of his adversary's reach, the tory raised his pistol. at the same moment the two soldiers, having turned about, rushed on peyton from behind. he heard them coming, and half turned to face them. their movement had for him one fortunate circumstance. it kept colden from shooting, for his bullet might have struck one of his own men. now elizabeth had not been idle. at the moment when harry had stepped back from her and bade her go, she had run to the door of the east hall, and called williams and sam. while peyton had been engaging colden near the window, the steward and the negro had entered the parlor, and she had excitedly ordered them to peyton's aid. williams still had the duck-gun, sam the pistol. thus it occurred that, as peyton half turned from colden towards the two soldiers, these last-named saw williams and sam rush in between them and their prey. before williams could bring his duck-gun to bear, he was struck down senseless by one of the musket blows first intended for peyton. another blow, and from another musket, had been aimed at sam's woolly head, but the negro had put up his left hand and caught the descending weapon, and at the same time had discharged his pistol at the weapon's holder. but williams, in falling, had knocked against the darky, and so disturbed his aim, and the ball flew wide. the man who had brought down williams now struck sam a terrible blow with the musket-club, on the temple, and the negro dropped like a felled ox. during this brief passage, peyton had returned to close quarters with colden. the latter, who had lowered his pistol when his men had last approached peyton, and who had resumed the contest of swords unequal in size and kind, now raised the pistol a second time. but it was caught by the hands of elizabeth, who had run around to his left, and who now, suddenly endowed with the strength of a tigress, wrenched it from him as she had wrenched the broken sword earlier in the evening. she tried to discharge the pistol at one of the two soldiers, as they, relieved of the brief interposition of williams and sam, were again taking position to bring down their muskets on peyton's head while he continued at sword-work with colden. but the pistol snapped without going off, whereupon elizabeth hurled it in the face of the man at whom she had aimed. the blow disconcerted him so that his musket fell wide of peyton, who at the same instant, having seen from the corner of his eye how he was menaced, leaped backward from under the other descending musket. then, taking advantage of the moment when the muskets were down, he ran to the music seat before the spinet, and mounted upon it, thinking rightly that the infuriated major would follow him, and that he might the better execute a certain manoeuvre from the vantage of height. colden indeed rushed after him, and thrust at him, peyton sweeping the thrusts aside with pendulum-like swings of his own short weapon. his thought was to send the point that menaced him so astray that he might leap forward and cleave his enemy with a downward stroke before the tory could recover his guard. but colden pressed him so speedily that he was at last fain to step up from the music seat to the spinet, landing first on the keyboard, which sent out a frightened discord as he alighted on it. finding the keys an uncertain footing, he took another step, and stood on the body of the instrument, so that colden would be at the disadvantage of thrusting upwards. but colden, seeming to tire a little after a few such thrusts, called to his men: "shoot the dog in the legs!" both men aimed at once. elizabeth screamed. peyton leaped down from his height to the little space behind the spinet projection, where he had hidden a week before. here he found himself well placed, for here he could be approached on one side only,--unless his adversaries should follow his example and come at him from the top of the spinet. colden attacked him with sword, at the open side, and shouted to his men: "one of you get on the spinet. the other crawl under. we have him now." still guarding himself from his enemy's thrusts, peyton heard one of the men leap from the music seat to the spinet, and the other advance creeping, doubtless with gun before him, under the instrument. peyton sank to his knees, placed his shoulder under the back edge of the spinet's projection, and, warding off a downward movement of colden's sword, turned the instrument over on its side, checking the creeping man under it, and throwing the other fellow to the floor some feet away. as the spinet fell, one of its legs, rising swiftly into the air, knocked colden's blade upward, and the tory leaped back lest peyton might avail himself of the opening. but the spinet-leg itself hindered peyton from doing so. colden rushed forward again, thrusting as he did so. peyton leaped aside, made a swift half-turn, and landed a stroke on colden's sword-hand, making the tory cry out and drop the sword. harry put his foot on it and cried: "you're at my mercy! beg quarter!" but the man who had been thrown from the top of the spinet now returned to the attack, coming around that end of the upset instrument which was opposite the end where colden had menaced harry. seeing this new adversary, harry retreated past colden, in order to put himself in position. the soldier hastened after him, with upraised musket. at this moment, peyton saw himself confronted by elizabeth, who pulled open the door of the south hall. he stopped short to avoid running against her. "save yourself!" she cried, and pushed him through the open doorway, flinging the door shut upon him, a movement which the pursuing soldier, stayed for a moment by collision with colden, was not in time to prevent. harry heard the key move in the lock, and knew that elizabeth had turned it, and that he was safe in the south hall, with a minute of vantage which he might employ as he would. elizabeth withdrew the key from the locked door, just as the pursuing soldier arrived at that door. the man, in his excitement, violently tried to open the door. colden, who was wrapping a handkerchief around his wounded hand, shouted to the man: "you fool, she has the key! take it from her!" "you shall kill me first!" she cried, and ran from the man towards the open window, stepping over the prostrate bodies of sam and williams as she went. "after her! she'll throw it into the snow!" cried colden. this much harry heard through the door, and heard also the heavy tread of the soldier's feet in pursuit of the girl. his mind imaged forth a momentary picture of the fellow's rough hands laid on the delicate arms of elizabeth, of her body clasped by the man in a struggle, her white skin reddened by his grasp. the spectacle, imaginary and lasting but an instant, maddened peyton beyond endurance, made him a giant, a hercules. he threw himself against the door repeatedly, plied foot and body in heavy blows. meanwhile elizabeth had reached the window, and thrown the key far out on the snow-heaped lawn. she had no sooner done so than the man laid his clutch on her arm. "fly, peyton, for god's sake! for my sake!" she shouted. "you shall pay for aiding the enemy, if he does!" cried colden. "don't let her escape, thompson!" at that instant the locked door gave way, and in burst harry, having broken, to save elizabeth from a rude contact, the barrier she had closed to save his life. that life, which he had once saved by callously assailing her heart, he now risked, that her body might not suffer the touch of an ungentle hand. so swift and sudden was his entrance, that he had crossed the room, and floored elizabeth's captor, with a deep gash down the side of the head, ere colden made a step towards him. the man who had been under the fallen spinet had now extricated himself, and regained his feet, and he and colden rushed on peyton at once. elated by having so speedily wrought elizabeth's release, and reduced the number of his able adversaries to two, peyton bethought himself of a new plan. he fled through the deep doorway to the east hall, and took position on the staircase. he turned just in time to parry colden's sword, which the major had picked up and made shift to hold in his wrapped-up, wounded hand. harry saw that an opportune stroke might send the sword from his enemy's numb and weakening grasp, and his heart swelled with anticipated triumph, until he heard colden's hoarse cry: "shoot him, james, while i keep him occupied!" this order was now the more practicable from harry's being on the stairs, above colden, a great part of his body exposed to an aim that could not endanger his antagonist. breathing heavily, his eyes afire with hatred, colden repeated his attacks, while harry saw the other's musket raised, the barrel looking him in the eyes. he leaped a step higher, swung his broken sword against the pendent chandelier, knocked the only burning candle from its socket, and threw the hall into darkness. a moment later the gun went off, giving an instant's red flame, a loud crack, and a smell of gunpowder smoke. harry heard a swift singing near his right ear, and knew that he was untouched. lest colden's sword, thrust at random, might find him in the dark, harry instantly bestrode the stair-rail, and dropped, outside the balustrade, to the floor of the hall. he grasped his half-sword in both hands, so as to put his whole weight behind it, and made a lunge in the direction of a muttered curse. the curse gave way to a roar of pain and rage, and colden's second follower dropped, spurting blood in the darkness, his shoulder gashed horribly by the blunt end of peyton's imperfect weapon. harry now ran back to the parlor, to deal with colden in the light, the latter's greater length of weapon giving a greater searching-power in the darkness. in the parlor elizabeth stood waiting in suspense. sam was sitting on the floor and staring stupidly at williams, who was now awake and rubbing his head, and the tory first fallen was still senseless. harry had no sooner taken this scene in at a glance, than colden was upon him. the major's eyes seemed to stand out like blazing carbuncles from the face of some deity of rage. "g--d d----n your soul!" he screamed, and thrust. the point went straight, and elizabeth, seeing it protrude through the back of harry's coat, near the left side of his body, uttered a low cry, and sank half-fainting to her knees. colden shouted with triumphant laughter. "die, you dog! and when you burn in hell, remember i sent you there!" but the evil joy suddenly faded out of colden's face, for harry peyton, smiling, took a forward step, grasped near the hilt the sword that seemed to be sheathed in his own body, forced it from colden's hand, and then drew it slowly from its lodgment. no blood discolored it, and none oozed from harry's body. the virginian's quick movement to escape the thrust had left only a part of his loose-fitting coat exposed, and colden's sword had passed through it, leaving him unhurt. colden's momentary appearance of victory had been the means of actual defeat. the tory major saw his cup of revenge dashed from his lips, saw himself deprived of sword and sweetheart, neither chance left of living nor motive left for life. his rage collapsed; his hate burst like a bubble. "kill me," he said, quietly, to peyton. his look, innocent of any thought to draw compassion, quite disarmed harry, who stood for a moment with moistening eyes and a kind of welling-up at the throat, then said, in a rather unsteady voice: "no, sir! god knows i've taken enough from you," and he looked at elizabeth, who had risen and was standing near him. softened by the triumphant outcome for her love, she, too, was suddenly sensible of the defeated man's unhappiness, and her eyes applauded and thanked harry. "you've taken what i never had," said colden, with a chastened kind of bitterness, "yet without which the life you give me back is worthless." "make it worth something with this," and peyton held colden's sword out to him. "what! you will trust me with it?" said colden, amazed and incredulous, taking the sword, but holding it limply. "certainly, sir!" colden was motionless a moment, then placed his arm high against the doorway, and buried his face against his arm, to hide the outlet of what various emotions were set loose by his enemy's display of pity and trust. harry gently drew elizabeth to him and kissed her. yielding, she placed her arms around his neck, and held him for a moment in an embrace of her own offering. then she withdrew from his clasp, and when colden again faced them she had resumed that invisible veil which no man, not even the beloved, might pass through till she bade him. "you will find me worthy of your trust, sir," said colden, brokenly, yet with a mixture of manly humility and honorable pride.[ ] "i am so sure of that," said harry, "that i confide to your care for a time what is dearest to me in the world. i ask you to accompany miss philipse to her home in new york, when it may suit her convenience, and to see that she suffer nothing for what has occurred here this night." "you are a generous enemy, sir," said colden, his eyes moistening again. "one man in ten thousand would have done me the honor, the kindness, of that request!" "why," said harry, taking his enemy's hand, as if in token of farewell, "whatever be the ways of the knaves, respectable and otherwise, who are so cautious against tricks like their own, thank god it's not so rotten a world that a gentleman may not trust a gentleman, when he is sure he has found one!" turning to elizabeth, he said: "i beg you will leave this house at dawn, if you can. williams and sam, there, will be little the worse for their knocks, and can look after the fellows on the floor." "and you," she replied, "must go at once. you must not further risk your life by a moment's waiting. cuff shall saddle cato for you. i sha'n't rest till i feel that you are far on your way." he approached as if again to kiss her, but she held out her hand to stay him. he took the hand, bent over it, pressed it to his lips. "but,--" he said, in a tone as low as a whisper, "when--" "when the war is over," she answered, softly, "let cato bring you back." notes. note . (page .) "the old county historian." rev. robert bolton, born , died . his "history of the county of westchester," especially the revised edition published in , is a rich mine of "material." among other works that have served the author of this narrative in a study of the period and place are allison's "history of yonkers," cole's "history of yonkers," edsall's "history of kingsbridge," dawson's "westchester county during the revolution," jones's "new york during the revolution," watson's "annals of new york in the olden time," general heath's "memoirs," thatcher's "memoirs," simcoe's "military journal," dunlap's "history of new york," and mrs. ellet's "domestic history of the revolution." for an excellent description of the border warfare on the "neutral ground," the reader should go to irving's delightful "chronicle of wolfert's roost." cooper's novel, "the spy," deals accurately with that subject, which is touched upon also in that good old standby, lossing's "pictorial field-book of the revolution." philipse manor-house has been carefully written of by judge atkins in a yonkers newspaper, and less accurately by mrs. lamb in her "history of new york city," and marian harland in "some colonial homesteads and their stories." of general histories, irving's "life of washington" treats most fully of things around new york during the british occupation, and these things are interestingly dealt with in local histories, such as the "history of queens county," stiles's "history of brooklyn," barber and howe's "new jersey historical collections," etc., as well as in such special works as onderdonk's "revolutionary incidents." note . (page .) of colonel gist's escape, bolton gives the following account: "the house was occupied by the handsome and accomplished widow of the rev. luke babcock, and miss sarah williams, a sister of mrs. frederick philipse. to the former lady colonel gist was devotedly attached; consequently, when an opportunity afforded, he gladly moved his command into that vicinity. on the night preceding the attack, he had stationed his camp at the foot of boar hill, for the better purpose of paying a special visit to this lady. it is said that whilst engaged in urging his suit the enemy were quietly surrounding his quarters; he had barely received his final dismissal from mrs. babcock when he was startled by the firing of musketry.... it appears that all the roads and bridges had been well guarded by the enemy, except the one now called warner's bridge, and that captain john odell upon the first alarm led off his troops through the woods on the west side of the saw mill [river]. here colonel gist joined them. in the meantime mrs. babcock, having stationed herself in one of the dormer windows of the parsonage, aided their escape whenever they appeared, by the waving of a white handkerchief." the british attack was under lieutenant-colonel simcoe, whose journal shows that his force so far outnumbered gist's that the latter's only sensible course was in flight. about the year , trees cut down near the site of gist's camp were found to contain balls buried six inches in the wood. note . (page .) the three generals arrived on the _cerberus_, may th. all the histories say that they arrived "with reinforcements." it is true, troops were constantly arriving at boston about that time, but none came immediately with the three generals. the _connecticut gazette_ (published in new london) printed, early in june, this piece of news, brought by a gentleman who had been in boston, may th: "generals burgoyne, clinton, and howe arrived at boston last friday in a man-of-war. no troops came with them. they brought over horses." it is a wonder that frothingham, in his admirably complete history of the siege of boston, missed even this little circumstance. probably everybody has read the incident thus related by irving: "as the ships entered the harbor and the rebel camp was pointed out, burgoyne could not restrain a burst of surprise and scorn. 'what!' cried he; 'ten thousand peasants keep five thousand king's troops shut up! well, let us get in and we'll soon find elbow room!'" i don't think irving relates anywhere the sequel, which is that when, after his surrender, burgoyne marched with his conquered army into cambridge, an old woman shouted from a window to the crowd of spectators, "give him elbow room!" this story ought to be true, if it is not. note . (page .) it was in a letter under date of october , , that washington wrote: "what officer can bear the weight of prices that every necessary article is now got to? a rat in the shape of a horse is not to be bought for less than £ ; a saddle under thirty or forty." note . (page .) captain cunningham was the british provost marshal, as everybody knows, whose name became a synonym for wanton cruelty in the treatment of war prisoners. he had come to new york before the revolution, and had kept a riding school there. as soon as the war broke out he took the royal side. it was he who had in charge the summary execution of nathan hale. he would often amuse himself by striking his prisoners with his keys and by kicking over the baskets of food or vessels of soup brought for them by charitable women, who, he said, were the worst rebels in new york. he died miserably in england after the war. his career is briefly outlined in sabine's "loyalists." as to the manner in which peyton, if caught, would have died, it must be remembered that in the american revolution the rope served in many a case which, occurring in europe or in one of our later wars, would have been disposed of with the bullet. writing of general charles lee, john fiske says: "there is no doubt that sir william howe looked upon him as a deserter, and was more than half inclined to hang him without ceremony." then, as now, a deserter in time of war was liable to death if caught at any subsequent time, his case being worse than that of a spy, who was liable to death only if caught before getting back to his own lines. there was, by the way, much unceremonious hanging on the "neutral ground." not far from the van cortlandt mansion there still stood, in bolton's time, "a celebrated white oak, in the midst of a pretty glade, called the cowboy oak," from the fact that many of the tory raiders had been suspended from its branches during the war of revolution. note . (page .) i am not sure whether the saying, "the corpse of an enemy smells sweet," attributed to charles ix. of france, in allusion to coligny, is historical or was the invention of a romancer. it occurs in dumas's "la reine margot." note . (page .) mr. valentine's unwillingness to lend aid was doubtless due to the frequency of such incidents as one that had occurred to his neighbor, peter post, in . post's estate occupied the site of the present town of hastings. he gave information to colonel sheldon regarding the movements of some hessians, and afterwards deceived the hessians as to the whereabouts of sheldon's own cavalry. thereby, sheldon's troop was enabled to surprise the hessians, and defeat them in a short and bloody conflict. the hessians' comrades later caught post, stripped him, beat him to insensibility, and left him for dead. he recovered of his injuries. his house, a small stone one, became a tavern after the revolution, and was a celebrated resort of cock-fighters and hard-drinkers. not far north of hastings is dobbs ferry, which was occupied by both armies alternately, during the revolution. further north is sunnyside, irving's house, elaborated from the original wolfert's roost, and beyond that are tarrytown, where andré was stopped and taken in charge, and sleepy hollow. enchanted ground, all this, hallowed by history, legend, and romance. note . (page .) the secret passage or passages of philipse manor-house have not been neglected by writers of fiction, history, and magazine articles. the passage does not now exist, but there are numerous traces of it. the different writers do not agree in locating it. the author of an interesting story for children, "a loyal little maid," has it that the passage was reached through an opening in the panelling of the dining-room, this opening concealed by a tall clock. i think marian harland says that a closet in one of the parlors or chambers connects with the secret passage. both these assumptions are wrong. mr. r. p. getty has pointed out in the northwestern corner of the cellar what seems to have once been the entrance to the passage. one authority quotes a belief "that from the cellar there was a passage to a well now covered by woodworth avenue," and that this was to afford access to what may have been a storage vault. a man who was born in says that, when a boy, he saw, near the house, a dry cistern, from the bottom of which was an arched passage towards the hudson, large enough for a man six feet tall to pass through. judge atkins says that the well was opposite the kitchen door, and had, at its western side, about ten feet deep, a chamber in which butter was kept. one writer locates an ice-house where judge atkins places this well, and says a subterranean arched way led northward as far as the present wells avenue. "the ice-house was formerly, it is said, a powder-magazine." many years ago, the coachman of judge woodworth used to say he had "gone through an underground passage all the way from the manor-house to the hudson river." judge atkins has written interesting legends of the manor-house, involving the secret passage and other features. note . (page .) "that lonely highway now called broadway." a block of houses and another street now lie between that highway and the east front of the manor-house. the building is closely hemmed in by the sordid signs of progress. ugly houses, in crowded blocks, cover all the great surrounding space that once was thick forest, fair orchards, gardens, fields, and pastoral rivulet. the neperan or saw mill river flows, sluggish and scummy, under streets and houses. a visit to the manor-house, now, would spoil rather than improve one's impression of what the place looked like in the old days. yet the house itself remains well preserved, for which all honor to the town of yonkers. there is in our spacious america so much room for the present and the future, that a little ought to be kept for the past. it is well to be reminded, by a landmark here and there, of our brave youth as a people. a posterity, sure to value these landmarks more than this money-grabbing age does, will reproach us with the destruction we have already wrought. worse still than the crime of obliterating all human-made relics of the past, is the vandalism of nature herself where nature is exceptionally beautiful. to rob millions of beauty-lovers, yet to live, of the palisades of the hudson, would bring upon us the amazement and execration of future centuries. this earth is an entailed estate, that each generation is in honor bound to hand down, undefaced, undiminished, to its successor. in order that a close-clutched wallet or two may wax a little fatter, shall we bring upon ourselves a cry of shame that would ring with increasing bitterness through the ages,--shall we invite the execration merited by such greed as could so outrage our fair earth, such stolid apathy as could stand by and see it done? shall an alien or two, as hard of soul as the stone in which he traffics, mar the hudson that washington patrolled, rob countless eyes, yet unopened, of a joy; countless minds, yet to waken, of an inspiration; countless hearts, yet to beat, of a thrill of pride in the soil of their inheriting? shall some future reader wonder why irving, deeming it "an invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of some grand and noble object in nature," should have thanked god he was born on the banks of the hudson? i write this with the sound of the blowing up of indian head still echoing in my ears, and knowing nothing done by government to protect the next fair hudson headland from similar destruction. note . (page .) it is probable that colden served with his brigade when it fought in the south in the last part of the war. he was afterwards lost at sea, leaving no heir. he was of a family prominent in new york affairs, both before the revolution and afterwards, and which was intermarried with other new york families of equal prominence, as may be seen in the "new york genealogical and biographical record," the "new england genealogical and historical register," and similar publications. it is probable that sabine means this colden when he mentions a captain colden, of the first battalion of new jersey volunteers. that he was a major, however, is certain, from the official british army lists published in hugh gaines's "universal register" for the years of the revolution. people curious about harry peyton's military record may consult saffel's "lists of american officers," heitman's "manual," and a large work on "virginia genealogies," by h. e. hayden, published at wilkes-barre. to the reader who demands a happy ending, it need be no shock to learn that peyton, having risen to the rank of major, was killed at charleston, s. c., may , . for a love story, it is a happy ending that occurs at the moment when the conquest and the submission are mutual, complete, and demonstrated. a love to be perfect, to have its sweetness unembittered, ought not to be subjected to the wear and tear of prolonged fellowship. so subjected, it may deepen and gain ultimate strength, but it will lose its intoxicating novelty, and become associated with pain as well as with pleasure. we may be sure that the love of peyton and elizabeth was to harry a sweetener of life on many a night encampment, many a hard ride, in the campaign of , and in the spring of , and exalted him the better to meet his death on that day when charleston fell to the british; and that to elizabeth, while it receded into further memory, it kept its full beauty during the half century she lived faithful to it. her sisters were married into the english nobility, gentry, and military, but elizabeth died in bath, england, in march, , unmarried. colonel philipse had moved with his family to england when the british quitted new york in . many other tories did likewise. some went to england, but more to canada, the greater part of which was then a wilderness. many of the tory officers got commissions in the english army. no tory family did more for the king's cause in america, lost more, or got more in redress, than the de lancey family, which had been foremost in the administration of royal government in the province of new york. it had great holdings of property in new york city, elsewhere on the island of manhattan, and in various parts of westchester county, notably in westchester township, where de lancey's mills and a fine country mansion were a famous landmark "where gentle bronx clear winding flows." the founder of the american family was a french huguenot of noble descent. the family was represented in the british army and navy before the revolution. one member of it, a young officer in the navy, at the breaking out of the war, resigned his commission rather than serve against the colonies, but most of the other de lancey men were differently minded. oliver de lancey, a member of the provincial council, was made a brigadier-general in the royal service, and raised three battalions of loyalists, known as "de lancey's battalions." of these battalions, the tory historian, judge jones, says: "two served in georgia and the carolinas from the time the british army landed in georgia until the final evacuation of charleston." one of these, during this period, was commanded by lieutenant-colonel stephen de lancey, the other by colonel john harris cruger. the third battalion, during the whole war, was employed solely in protecting the wood-cutters upon lloyd's neck, queens county, l. i. this general de lancey's son, oliver de lancey, junior, was educated in europe, took service with the th light dragoons, was a captain when the revolution began, a major in , a lieutenant-colonel in , and, on the death of major andré, adjutant-general of the british army in america. returning to england, he became deputy adjutant-general of england; as a major-general, he was also colonel of the th light dragoons; was subsequently barrack-master general of the british empire, lieutenant-general, and finally general. when he died he was nearly at the head of the english army list. this branch of the family became extinct when sir william heathcoate de lancey, the quartermaster-general of wellington's army, was killed at waterloo. the james de lancey who commanded the westchester light horse was a nephew of the senior general oliver de lancey, and a cousin of the major colden of this narrative. his troop was not "a battalion in the brigade of his uncle," bolton's statement that it was so being incorrect; its operations were limited to westchester county. it raided and fought for the king untiringly, until it was almost entirely killed off, at the end of the war, by the persistent efforts of our troops to extirpate it. the members of this corps were called "cowboys" because, in their duty of procuring supplies for the british army, they made free with the farmers' cattle. like the other conspicuous tories, this james de lancey was attainted by the new state government, and his property was confiscated. local historians draw an effective picture of him departing alone from his estate by the bronx, turning for a last look, from the back of his horse, at the fair mansion and broad lands that were to be his no more, and riding away with a heavy heart. he went, with many shipfuls of tory emigrants, to nova scotia, and became a member of the council of that colony. his uncle went to england and died at his country house, beverly, yorkshire, in . i allude to the case of this family, because it was typical of that of a great many families. the tories of the american revolution constitute a subject that has yet to be made much of. they were the progenitors of english-speaking canada. the act of attainder that deprived the de lanceys of their estates, deprived colonel philipse of his. it was passed by the new york legislature, october , . the persons declared guilty of "adherence to the enemies of the state" were attainted, their estates real and personal confiscated, and themselves proscribed, the second section of the act declaring that "each and every one of them who shall at any time hereafter be found in any part of this state, shall be, and are hereby, adjudged and declared guilty of felony, and shall suffer death as in cases of felony, without benefit of clergy." acts of similar import were passed in other states. under this act, philipse manor-house was forfeited to the state about a year after the time of our narrative. the commissioners whose duty it was to dispose of confiscated property sold the house and mills, in , to cornelius p. lowe. it underwent several transfers, but little change, becoming at length the property of lemuel wells, who held it a long time and, dying in , left it to his nephew. the town of yonkers grew up around it, and on may , , purchased it for municipal use. the fewest possible alterations were made in it. these are mainly in the north wing, the part added by the second lord of the manor in . on the first floor, the partition between dining-room and kitchen was removed, and the whole space made into a court-room. on the second floor, the space formerly divided into five bedrooms was transformed into a council-chamber, the garret floor overhead being removed. the new city hall of yonkers leaves the old manor-house less necessary for public purposes. may the old parlors, where the besilked and bepowdered gentry of the province used to dance the minuet before the change of things, not be given over to baser uses than they have already served. allusion has been made, in different chapters of this narrative, to the hessians who daily patrolled the roads in the vicinity of the manor-house. this duty often fell to pruschank's yagers, the troop to which belonged captain rowe, whose love story is thus told by bolton: "captain rowe appears to have been in the habit of making a daily tour from kingsbridge, round by miles square. he was on his last tour of military duty, having already resigned his commission for the purpose of marrying the accomplished elizabeth fowler, of harlem, when, passing with a company of light dragoons, he was suddenly fired upon by three americans of the water guard of captain pray's company, who had ambuscaded themselves in the cedars. the captain fell from his horse, mortally wounded. the yagers instantly made prisoners of the undisciplined water guards, and a messenger was immediately despatched to mrs. babcock, then living below, in the parsonage, for a vehicle to remove the wounded officer. the use of her gig and horse was soon obtained, and a neighbor, anthony archer, pressed to drive. in this they conveyed the dying man to colonel van cortlandt's. they appear to have taken the route of tippett's valley, as the party stopped at frederick post's to obtain a drink of water. in the meantime an express had been forwarded to miss fowler, his affianced bride, to hasten without delay to the side of her dying lover. on her arrival, accompanied by her mother, the expiring soldier had just strength enough left to articulate a few words, when he sank exhausted with the effort." the room in which he died is in the well-known mansion in van cortlandt park. the incident of the horse, related in an early chapter, has a likeness to an adventure that befell one thomas leggett early in the revolutionary war. he lived with his father on a farm near morrisania, then in westchester county, and was proud in the possession of a fine young mare. a party of british refugees took this animal, with other property. they had gone two miles with it, when, from behind a stone wall which they were passing, two continental soldiers rose and fired at them. the man with the mare was shot dead. the animal immediately turned round and ran home, followed by the owner, who had dogged her captors at a distance in the hope of recovering her. selections from l. c. page and company's list of new fiction. an enemy to the king. from the recently discovered memoirs of the sieur de la tournoire. by robert neilson stephens. illustrated by h. de m. young. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = an historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the adventures of a young french nobleman at the court of henry iv., and on the field with henry of navarre. the continental dragoon. a romance of philipse manor house, in . by robert neilson stephens, author of "an enemy to the king." illustrated by h. c. edwards. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a stirring romance of the revolution, the scene being laid in and around the old philipse manor house, near yonkers, which at the time of the story was the central point of the so-called "neutral territory" between the two armies. muriella; or, le selve. by ouida. illustrated by m. b. prendergast. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = this is the latest work from the pen of the brilliant author of "under two flags," "moths," etc., etc. it is the story of the love and sacrifice of a young peasant girl, told in the absorbing style peculiar to the author. the road to paris. by robert neilson stephens, author of "an enemy to the king," "the continental dragoon," etc. illustrated by h. c. edwards. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = an historical romance, being an account of the life of an american gentleman adventurer of jacobite ancestry, whose family early settled in the colony of pennsylvania. the scene shifts from the unsettled forests of the then west to philadelphia, new york, london, paris, and, in fact, wherever a love of adventure and a roving fancy can lead a soldier of fortune. the story is written in mr. stephens's best style, and is of absorbing interest. rose à charlitte. an acadien romance. by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe," etc. illustrated by h. de m. young. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = in this novel, the scene of which is laid principally in the land of evangeline, marshall saunders has made a departure from the style of her earlier successes. the historical and descriptive setting of the novel is accurate, the plot is well conceived and executed, the characters are drawn with a firm and delightful touch, and the fortunes of the heroine, rose à charlitte, a descendant of an old acadien family, will be followed with eagerness by the author's host of admirers. bobbie mcduff. by clinton ross, author of "the scarlet coat," "zuleika," etc. illustrated by b. west clinedinst. vol., large mo, cloth =$ . = clinton ross is well known as one of the most promising of recent american writers of fiction, and in the description of the adventures of his latest hero, bobbie mcduff, he has repeated his earlier successes. mr. ross has made good use of the wealth of material at his command. new york furnishes him the hero, sunny italy a heroine, grim russia the villain of the story, while the requirements of the exciting plot shift the scene from paris to new york, and back again to a remote, almost feudal villa on the southern coast of italy. in kings' houses. a romance of the reign of queen anne. by julia c. r. dorr, author of "a cathedral pilgrimage," etc. illustrated by frank t. merrill. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = mrs. dorr's poems and travel sketches have earned for her a distinct place in american literature, and her romance, "in kings' houses," is written with all the charm of her earlier works. the story deals with one of the most romantic episodes in english history. queen anne, the last of the reigning stuarts, is described with a strong, yet sympathetic touch, and the young duke of gloster, the "little lady," and the hero of the tale, robin sandys, are delightful characterizations. sons of adversity. a romance of queen elizabeth's time. by l. cope conford, author of "captain jacobus," etc. illustrated by j. w. kennedy. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a tale of adventure on land and sea at the time when protestant england and catholic spain were struggling for naval supremacy. spanish conspiracies against the peace of good queen bess, a vivid description of the raise of the spanish siege of leyden by the combined dutch and english forces, sea fights, the recovery of stolen treasure, are all skilfully woven elements in a plot of unusual strength. the count of nideck. from the french of erckman-chatrian, translated and adapted by ralph browning fiske. illustrated by victor a. searles. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a romance of the black forest, woven around the mysterious legend of the wehr wolf. the plot has to do with the later german feudal times, is brisk in action, and moves spiritedly from start to finish. mr. fiske deserves a great deal of credit for the excellence of his work. no more interesting romance has appeared recently. the making of a saint. by w. somerset maugham. illustrated by gilbert james. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = "the making of a saint" is a romance of mediæval italy, the scene being laid in the th century. it relates the life of a young leader of free companions who, at the close of one of the many petty italian wars, returns to his native city. there he becomes involved in its politics, intrigues, and feuds, and finally joins an uprising of the townspeople against their lord. none can resent the frankness and apparent brutality of the scenes through which the hero and his companions of both sexes are made to pass, and many will yield ungrudging praise to the author's vital handling of the truth. in the characters are mirrored the life of the italy of their day. the book will confirm mr. maugham's reputation as a strong and original writer. omar the tentmaker. a romance of old persia. by nathan haskell dole. illustrated. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = mr. dole's study of persian literature and history admirably equips him to enter into the life and spirit of the time of the romance, and the hosts of admirers of the inimitable quatrains of omar khayyam, made famous by fitzgerald, will be deeply interested in a tale based on authentic facts in the career of the famous persian poet. the three chief characters are omar khayyam, nizam-ul-mulk, the generous and high-minded vizier of the tartar sultan malik shah of mero, and hassan ibu sabbah, the ambitious and revengeful founder of the sect of the assassins. the scene is laid partly at naishapur, in the province of khorasan, which about the period of the first crusade was at its acme of civilization and refinement, and partly in the mountain fortress of alamut, south of the caspian sea, where the ismailians under hassan established themselves towards the close of the th century. human nature is always the same, and the passions of love and ambition, of religion and fanaticism, of friendship and jealousy, are admirably contrasted in the fortunes of these three able and remarkable characters as well as in those of the minor personages of the story. captain fracasse. a new translation from the french of gotier. illustrated by victor a. searles. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = this famous romance has been out of print for some time, and a new translation is sure to appeal to its many admirers, who have never yet had any edition worthy of the story. the rejuvenation of miss semaphore. a farcical novel. by hal godfrey. illustrated by etheldred b. barry. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain age who are induced, by their natural longing for a return to youth and its blessings, to pay a large sum for a mystical water which possesses the value of setting backwards the hands of time. no more delightfully fresh and original book has appeared since "vice versa" charmed an amused world. it is well written, drawn to the life, and full of the most enjoyable humor. midst the wild carpathians. by maurus jokai, author of "black diamonds," "the lion of janina," etc. authorized translation by r. nisbet bain. illustrated. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a thrilling, historical, hungarian novel, in which the extraordinary dramatic and descriptive powers of the great magyar writer have full play. as a picture of feudal life in hungary it has never been surpassed for fidelity and vividness. the translation is exceedingly well done. the golden dog. a romance of quebec. by william kirby. new authorized edition. illustrated by j. w. kennedy. vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of louis xv. and mme. de pompadour, when the french colonies were making their great struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of france. bijli the dancer. by james blythe patton. illustrated by horace van rinth. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a novel of modern india. the fortunes of the heroine, an indian naucht girl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a wealth of poetic sympathy that makes the book admirable from first to last. "to arms!" being some passages from the early life of allan oliphant, chirurgeon, written by himself, and now set forth for the first time. by andrew balfour. illustrated. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a romance dealing with an interesting phase of scottish and english history, the jacobite insurrection of , which will appeal strongly to the great number of admirers of historical fiction. the story is splendidly told, the magic circle which the author draws about the reader compelling a complete forgetfulness of prosaic nineteenth century life. mere folly. a novel. by maria louise poole, author of "in a dike shanty," etc. illustrated. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = an extremely well-written story of modern life. the interest centres in the development of the character of the heroine, a new england girl, whose high-strung temperament is in constant revolt against the confining limitations of nineteenth century surroundings. the reader's interest is held to the end, and the book will take high rank among american psychological novels. a hypocritical romance and other stories. by caroline ticknor. illustrated by j. w. kennedy. vol., large mo, cloth =$ . = miss ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the younger school of american writers, has never done better work than in the majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful comedy vein. cross trails. by victor waite. illustrated. (in press.) vol., library mo, cloth =$ . = a spanish-american novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, dashing, and stirring story, teeming with humanity and life. mr. waite is to be congratulated upon the strength with which he has drawn his characters. a mad madonna and other stories. by l. clarkson whitelock, with eight half-tone illustrations. vol., large mo, cloth =$ . = a half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in color and conception. each of the six has a touch of the supernatural, a quick suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy realism that is matchless in its forceful execution. on the point. a summer idyl. by nathan haskell dole, author of "not angels quite," with dainty half-tone illustrations as chapter headings. vol., large mo, cloth =$ . = a bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of maine, fresh, breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. the narrative describes the summer outing of a mr. merrithew and his family. the characters are all honest, pleasant people, whom we are glad to know. we part from them with the same regret with which we leave a congenial party of friends. cavalleria rusticana; or, under the shadow of etna. translated from the italian of giovanni verga, by nathan haskell dole. illustrated by etheldred b. barry. vol., mo, cloth =$ . = giovanni verga stands at present as unquestionably the most prominent of the italian novelists. his supremacy in the domain of the short story and in the wider range of the romance is recognized both at home and abroad. the present volume contains a selection from the most dramatic and characteristic of his sicilian tales. verga is himself a native of sicily, and his knowledge of that wonderful country, with its poetic and yet superstitious peasantry, is absolute. such pathos, humor, variety, and dramatic quality are rarely met in a single volume. proofreaders the son of clemenceau a novel of modern love and life a sequel to _the clemenceau case_ by alexander dumas (fils) chapter i. student and soldier. the sunset-gun had been fired from the ramparts of the fortifications of munich and the shadows were thickly descending on the famous old city of southern germany. the evening breeze in this truly march weather came chill over the plain of stones where isar flowed darkly, and at the first puff of it, forcing him to wind his cloak round him, a lonely wanderer in the low quarter recognized why "the city of monks" was also called "the realm of rheumatism." the new town, which he had not yet seen, might justify yet another of its nicknames, "the german athens," but here were, in this southern and unfashionable suburb, only a few modern structures, and most of the quaint and rather picturesque dwellings, overhanging the stores, dated anterior to the filling up of the town moat in . the stranger was clearly fond of antiquarian spectacles, for his eye, though too youthful to belong to a dryasdust professor, and unshaded by the almost universal colored spectacles of the learned classes, gloated on the mansions, once inhabited by the wealthy burghers. they were irregular in plan and period of erection; the windows had ornamental frames of great depth, but some were blocked up, which gave the facades a sinister aspect; the walls had not only ornamental tablets in stucco, but, in a better light, would have shown rude fresco paintings not unworthy mediæval italian dwellings. many of the fronts resembled the high poops of the castellated ships of three hundred years ago, and they cast a shadow on the muddy pavement. as they resembled ships, the slimy footway seemed the strand where they had been beached by the running out of the tide. as the darkness increased, the amateur of architecture became more solitary in the streets where the peasants in long black coats, their holiday wear, were hurrying to leave by the gates, and the storekeepers had renounced any hope of taking more money, in this ward, gloomy, neglected and remote from the mode, no display of goods was made after dark. but the man, finding novel effects in the obscurity, continued to gaze on the rickety houses and bestowed only a transient portion of his curiosity on the few wayfarers who stolidly trudged past him to cross a bridge of no importance a little beyond his post. one or two of the passengers, rather those of the gentler sex than the rude one, had, however, given attention to the figure which the flowing cloak did not wholly muffle. with his dark complexion and slender form, not much in keeping with the thickset and heavy-footed natives, and his glistening black eyes, he made the corner where he ensconced himself appear the nook where an italian or spanish gallant was waylaying a rival in love. presently there was a change in the lighting of the scene, the gloom had become trying to his sight. not only were two lamps lit on the small bridge, one at each end in the ornate iron scroll work, which quintin matsys would not have disavowed, but, overhead, the sky was reddened by the reflection of the thousands of gas jets in the north and west; the gay and spendthrift city was awakening to life and mirth while the working town was going to bed. this glimmer gave a fresh attraction to the architectural features, and still longer detained the spectator. "superb!" he muttered, in excellent german, without local peculiarity, as if he had learned it from professors, but there was a slight trace of an accent not native. "it has even now the effect which gustavus adolphus termed: 'a gilded saddle on a lean jade!'" then, shivering again, he added, struck as well by the now completely deserted state of the ways as by the cold wind: "how bleak and desolate! one could implore these carved wooden statues to come down and people the odd, interesting streets!" he was about to leave the spot, when, as though his wish was gratified, a strange sound was audible in the narrow and devious passages, between tottering houses, and those even more squalid in the rear, a commingling of shuffling and stamping feet, the smiting of heavy sticks on uneven stones and the dragging of wet rags. struck with surprise, if not with apprehension, he shrank back into the over-jutting porch of an old residence, with sculptured armorial bearings of some family long ago abased in its pride. here he peered, not without anxiety. by the exact programme carried out in cities by the divisions of its population, a new contingent were coming from their resting-places to substitute themselves for the honest toilers on the thoroughfares; each cellar and attic in the rookeries were exuding the horrible vermin which shun the wholesome light of day. the spruce trees, stuck in tubs of sand at a beer-house beyond the bridge, shuddered as though in disgust at this horde of hans hastening to invade the district of hotels, supper-houses and gaming clubs, to beg or steal the means to survive yet another day. for ten or fifteen minutes the stranger watched the beggars stream individually out of the mazes and, to his horror, form like soldiers for a review, along the street before him, up to the end of the bridge at one extremity and far along at the other end of the line. some certainly spied him, for these wretches could see as lucidly as the felines in the night--their day from society having reversed their conditions. but, though these whispered the warning to one another, and he was the object of scrutiny, no one left his place, and soon as their backs were turned to him, he had no immediate uneasiness as regarded an attack, or even a challenge upon his business there. probably the good citizens were not ignorant that this meeting of the vagrants took place each evening, for not only were all store-doors closed hermetically, but the upper windows no longer emitted a scintillation of lamplight. the spy by accident concluded that he would raise his voice for help all in vain as far as the tradesmen were concerned. but he was brave, and he let increasing curiosity enchain him continuously. from time out of mind the sage in velvet has serenely contemplated diogenes in his tub; not that our philosopher seemed the treasurer of an alexander! ranged at length in a long row, cripples, the blind, the young, the aged, it was a company of mendicants which eccentric painters would have given five years of life to have seen. except for consumptive coughs, the misstep of a wooden leg of which the clumsy ferule slipped on a cobblestone, and the querulous whimper of a child, half-starved and imperfectly swaddled in a tattered shawl, on a flaccid bosom, the mob were silent in an expectation as intense as the lookers-on. the wind brought the whistle of the railway locomotives and the clanking of a steam-dredger in the river, like a giant toiling in massive chains. for this platoon of vice and misery, crime and disorder, laziness and rapine, the stranger confidently expected to see a commander appear whose flashing, fearless eye, and upright, powerful frame, would account for the awe in which all were held. what was his amazement, therefore, to perceive--while a tremor of emotion thrilled the line and announced the commander whom all awaited--a bent-up, scarcely human-shaped form, hardly to be acknowledged a woman's. it was enveloped in a heavily furred pelisse fitted for a man. this singular object appeared up the trap of a cellarway, much like the opening of a sewer, on the opposite side of the street. she proceeded to review the vagabonds and put questions and issue orders to each, which were received like mandates from cæsar by his legions. the voice was fine and shrill, the movements betokened vigor, but the whole impression was that the female captain-general of the beggars of munich was far from young. in the obscurity, and keeping in the background as he did, it was not possible for the stranger to scan her features; besides, they were veiled by the long hair of a polish hunter's cap, with earflaps and a drooping foxtail, worn as the pompon but half-loosened in time. the eyes that inspected the file of vagrants, shone with undiminished force, and when they fell on the burliest and most impudent, these became quiet and submissive. in a word, the cohort of beggary yielded utter subserviency to this remarkable leader. questions and answers were uttered in a thieve's jargon which were sealed letters to the eavesdropper, but it seemed to him that they all addressed her as _baboushka_! this struck him as more odd from its being a slavonic title, meaning "grandmother." was it possible that he had before him one of those prolific centenarians, truly a mother of the tribe, a gypsy queen to whom allegiance went undisputed and who rules the subterranean strata of society with fewer revolts against them than their sister rulers know, who sit on thrones in the fierce white light? in any case, he was given no leisure for deciding the question, for an active urchin had whispered a word of caution which led the feminine general to direct a piercing glance toward him, and hasten to conclude her arrangements. the line broke up into little groups, though most of the men went singly, and all tramped over the little foot-bridge, which swung under the unusual mass. left alone, the vagrants' queen, placing her yellow and skinny hand on a weapon, perhaps, among her rags, resolutely moved toward the spy. he expected to be interrogated, for an attack was unlikely from a lone old woman; but he grasped his cane firmly. luckily, a noise of steps at the other end of the street checked the hag; she thrust back out of sight what had momentarily gleamed like the steel of a knife or brass of a pistol-barrel; listened again and stared; then, muttering what was probably no prayer for the stranger's welfare, she crossed the street with amazing rapidity. the student, hearing a heavy military tread at the mouth of the street, expected to see her vanish down her burrow, but, to his astonishment, she proceeded toward the new-comer. "the schutzmaun," muttered he, as there loomed into sight a decidedly soldier-like man in a long cloak, thrown back to show the scarlet lining, and dragging a clanking sabre. relying on her good angel, apparently, the witch boldly passed him, and it seemed to the watcher that a sign of understanding was rapidly exchanged between them. baboushka seemed to enjoin caution for the stranger hooked up his trailing sabre, wrapped his cloak around him and came on less noisily. certainly the old hag did not beg of him, but hastened to leave the street. if the new-comer had been the night guardian coming on duty, the student might have lost any misgiving about the vagrants or their ruler; but he was not sure that in him was a friend. this was an officer, not a gendarme or military policeman. cloak and uniform were dark blue and fine. he bore himself with the swagger of a personage of no inconsiderable rank, and also of some degree in the nobility. tall, burly, overbearing, the stranger took a dislike to him from this one glance, and would have hesitated to appeal to him for assistance had he felt in danger. but the beggars had flocked into the rich quarter, and their chieftainess vanished. he allowed the military gentleman to pass, and was not sorry to see him cross the bridge with a steady, haughty step, which made his heel ring on each plank. but, on reaching the farther end, to the surprise of the watcher, his carriage immediately altered; his step became cautious and, like the other whom he had not noticed, he skulked in a doorway. he might have been thought a visitor there, but, at the next moment, his red whiskers reappeared between the turned-up collar of his mantle as he showed his head under the cornice of oak. for what motive had the officer and nobleman stooped to skulking and prying. one alone would amply exonerate the son of mars--devotion to venus. and the architectural student, not fearing to pass the soldier in his excusable ambush for a sweetheart, since his route over the bridge into the new city, and not wishful to spoil the lover's sport, since he was of the age to sympathize, prepared to leave his nook. but it was fated that continual impediments were to be thrown in his path on this eventful night. he had hardly taken two steps out of his covert, which kept him hidden from the officer but revealed him to any one approaching in the street, before a third individual of singular mien caught his view and transfixed him with a thrill so sharp, poignant and profound that a stroke of lightning would not have more dreadfully affected him. and yet, it was a woman--young by her step, light and quick as the antelope's, graceful by her movements, charming by her outlines which a poor, thin woolen wrapper imperfectly shrouded. she enchanted by the mere contour; it was her weird burden which appalled the watcher. in one hand, suspended horizontally, lengthwise parallel to her course, she held what seemed by shape and somber hue to be an infant's coffin. her dark and brilliant eyes had descried him from the distance, but, in an instant recognizing that he was neither one of the usual nocturnal denizens nor another sort of whom she need entertain dread, she came on apace. indeed, he was far from resembling the vagrants. he was clad without any attention to the toilette, after the manner of the german student, who likes to affront the pharisee but without overmuch eccentricity. under the voluminous cloak, warranted by the chilly wind, a tight-fitting tunic of dark green cloth, caught in by a broad buff leather belt with the clasp of a university, admirably defined the shapeliness of a slight but manly form. his hair, black as the raven's wing, was worn long and came curling down on his shoulders; his complexion was dark but clear. but the whole appearance was of a marvel in physical excellencies; a physiologist would have pointed to him as a model and result of the combination of all desirable traits in both his progenitors. his attitude, checked in the advance, denoted this perfection. the young woman, set at ease by her glances and that peace which true symmetry inspires, continued her way, averting her head with calculation, but he felt sure that she was not offended. he could laugh at the mistake he had made for, at this close encounter, he perceived that what in the tragic mood originated by the review of beggars in the shades of night, he had taken to be a child's casket, was a violin-case. the girl--she was perhaps but sixteen--had the artist's eye, black, fiery, deep and winning, while haughty for the vulgar worshiper; her hair was treated in a fantastic fashion as unlike that of the staid german maiden as its hue of black was the opposite of the traditional flaxen. even in the feeble street-lamplight, she appeared, with her finely chiseled features of an oriental type, handsome enough to melt an anchorite, and in the beholder a flood of passion gushed up and expanded his heart--devoid of such a mastering emotion before. he believed this was love! perhaps it was love--real, true, indubitable love--but there is a mock-love with so much to advance in its favor that it has won many a battle where the genuine feeling has fought long in vain. sharing some shock not unlike his own in extent and sharpness, the girl with the violin-case had paused just perceptibly in an unconscious attitude which kept in the lamplight her bust, tightly encased in a faded but elegant genoa brocade jacket, with copper lace ornamentation, coming down upon a promising curve, clothed in a similarly theatrical skirt of flowered satin and china silk braid. on her wrists were bracelets and on her ungloved hands many rings, with stones rather too large to be taken for genuine on a woman promenading alone at such an hour. conjoined with the musical instrument, the attire confirmed the student in his first impression after the tragic one, that this was a performer in one of the numerous dance-houses of the popular region, bordering the fashionable one. he almost regretted this conclusion, for the girl's forehead was so high, her eyes so lofty and her delicate mouth so impressed with a proud and energetical curl that no ambition would seem beyond the flight of one thus beautiful and high-spirited. whatever the revolution she had exercised over him, he dared not avow it, such respect did she inspire, and on her recovering from her fleeting emotion, he let her resume her way without a word to detain her. she had not reached the first plank of the bridge before he suddenly remembered the officer, like himself, in ambush; and in the same manner as love--if that were love--had clutched his heart with the swiftness of an eagle seizing its quarry, another sentiment, as fierce and overpowering, jealousy, stung him to the quick. as he glanced--but he had not taken his eyes off her, not even to look if the military officer were still at his post--she had swept her worsted wrapper round to set her foot on the first board of the bridge; and he caught a glimpse, delightful and bewildering, of a foot, long but slim and delicately modeled, and of a faultless ankle, in a vermilion silk stocking and low-cut cordovan leather slipper--as theatrical as the rest of her attire. something innately aesthetical in the student, which made him adore the exquisitely wrought, impelled him now to be the slave--the devotee--the worshiper of this masterpiece of nature. perhaps she stood in need of a defender? chapter ii. soldier's sword and wander-staff. the place was historically favored for adventures. in , the riot of knights and knaves had begun here. on the bridge which preceded this structure, a band of young noblemen had taken possession of the passage more important then, as this now foul and noisome channel, into which the effluvia of the breweries and tanneries was discharged, was a strong and pellucid tributary of the isar. they levied tribute on the burghers, kissing the comely women and not scrupling to cut the purses of the master-tradesmen; in this, imitating the mode of operation of their country cousins, the robber barons in the mountains to the south, or over the river in the opposite direction. but, as for the third or fourth time, the student was on the verge of quitting his haven, another interrupter arose. pausing at the head of the bridge, prompted by natural caution or instinct, for the officer remained prudently invisible to her, the girl, with the violin-case, looked over her shoulder and beckoned to some one on the further side of the astonished student. the desert was becoming animated, indeed, as he had wished, for, in the hazy opening, a man appeared, carrying under one arm what seemed a musket or blunderbuss, while leaning the other hand on a staff which might be the one to rest the firearm on. he had a flat felt hat on, with wide shaggy margins, ornamented with a yellow cord in contrast with its inky dye, and a dingy, often mended old cavalry-soldier's russet cloak, covering him from a long, full grey beard to the feet, encased in patched shoes. the aspect of a jew peddler in the pictures of the dutch school, who had armed himself to defend his pack of thread and needles on the highway. but, as before, nearness dispelled the romantic conceit: the supposed gun resolved itself into a turko-phone, or oriental flute, while, on the other hand, the bright eye and well-shaped features, with the venerable impression suggested by the beard, lifted the wearer into a high place for reverence. just as the girl was unrivaled for beauty, this man, a near relative, perhaps her father, would have few equals in the councils of his tribe. while not old, spite of the grey in his beard, illness had enfeebled him, for he needed the walking-staff. the brisk pace of his daughter had left him far behind and it cost him an effort to make up for the delay. but in parental love he found the force, and quite nimbly he passed the student without observing him in his haste to join his daughter. at the sight of him coming, she had not waited for his arm, but retaken her course. she was half way over the bridge when he began to ascend the gentle slope, and when he was arduously following with the summit well before him, the officer emerged abruptly from his covert. he must have been calculating on this moment and this separation to which baboushka had no doubt contributed. she now loomed into view. repulsed by the jew in his detestation of beggars--for while the christian accepts poverty as a misfortune to which resignation is one remedy, he regards it as an affliction to be violently removed--she hesitated to continue her annoyance. the bridge was so narrow that he had no difficulty, thanks to the length of his arms, in placing a hand on each rail, so that, as he bent his broad, smiling face forward between them, he effectively barred the way. with a tone which he intended to be winning and tender, but which nature had not allowed him to modulate very sweetly, he said: "divine songstress of freyer brothers' brewery harmonista cellars!" she stopped quickly and faced half round, so as to be in a better position for retreat if he made an advance toward her. "in the hall on thursday--when you made the circuit with the cup for the collection after your delightful ballad--you refused me even a reply to my request for an interview. that was for the favor of a salute from those somewhat thin but honeyed lips! now, there is nobody by and i mean to be rewarded for the bouquets i have nightly sent you!" "father!" cried the jewess, too frightened by the position of her assailant to flee. "your father? bah!" with a contemptuous glance at the old man approaching only too slowly. "i repeat, there is no one by! _that_ i arranged for." the speaker had red curly hair like his whiskers; his brow was not narrow but his eyebrows overhung; his face was flushed with animation and carnal desire--perhaps by potations, though his large lower jaw denoted ample animal courage. he was powerful enough in the long arms and strong hands to have mastered the girl and her father, but it was not the dread of his prowess physically which awed the daughter of the race still proscribed in this part of germany. frederick von sendlingen, baron of ancient creation, enjoyed a wide fame among the knot of noble carousers who strove to make one corner of munich a pale reflection of the "fast" end of paris and vienna. a major in a crack heavy cavalry regiment, allowed for family reasons to remain in the garrison after it had been removed elsewhere, he enjoyed enviable esteem from his superiors and the hatred and dislike of all others. though inclined to court after the manner of the pillager who has captured a city, his boisterous addresses pleased the wanton matrons and, more naturally, the facile cythereans of the music halls and dance-houses. at an early hour, he had cast his handkerchief, like an irresistible sultan, at the chief attraction of the beer cellar, which he named--the so-called "la belle stamboulane," and baffled in all his less brutal modes of attack, he had recourse to one which better suited his custom. it looked as though he had lost time in not putting it into operation before, since the girl, around whom, taking one stride, he threw his arms, could not, by her feeble resistance, prevent him snatching a kiss. as for her father, casting down his turkophone, and raising his staff in both hands, his valorous approach went for little, as his blow would have been as likely to fall upon his daughter as the ruffian. while he was bewildered and his stick was raised in air, the latter, perceiving his danger, did not scruple to show his contempt for one of the despised race whom he likewise scorned for his weakness, by dealing him a kick in the leg with his heavy boot which, fairly delivered, would have broken an oaken post. though avoiding its full force, the unhappy father was so painfully struck that he staggered back to the opposite rail of the bridge and, clapping both hands to the bruise on the shin, groaned while he strove in vain to overcome the paralyzing agony. from that moment he was compelled to remain as a stranger in action to the outrage. still struggling, though with little hope, the girl saw the defeat of her natural champion with sympathetic anguish. though he had not spied the student, she had regarded him with no faint opinion of his manliness for--repelling the kind of proud self-reliance of her race to have no recourse to strangers during persecution--she lifted her voice with a confidence which startled her rude adorer. "help! help from this ruffian-gentleman!" "silence, you fool," rejoined sendlingen. "i tell you, the coast is clear--for i have arranged all that. it is simple strategy to secure one's flanks--" "help!" repeated the songstress, redoubling her efforts--not to escape, which was out of the question, but to shield her mouth from contact with the red moustaches, hovering over it like the wings of a bloodstained bird of rapine. as this repetition of the appeal, steps clattered on the bridge, and the officer lifted his head. he may have expected baboushka or one of her fraternity, and the tall, slender student, who had flung off his cloak to run more swiftly, gave him a surprise. the agile and intelligent girl took the opportunity with commendable speed, and glided out of the major's relaxing grasp like a wasp from under the spider's claws. she retreated as far as where her father tried to stand erect, and helping him up, led him prudently down the bridge slope so that they might continue their flight. it would have been the basest ingratitude to depart without seeing the result of the interference, and the two lingered, though it would have been wiser to let the two christians bite and tear each other without witnesses of another creed, and with the witness of none. it was a free spectacle, but, if it had cost their week's salary at the casino, it would have been worth the money. as the major had empty hands after the loss of his prize, the student had the quixotic delicacy to make the offer in dumbshow to lay aside his cane and undertake to chastise the insulter of womanhood with the naked fist. but this is a weapon almost unknown in the sword-bearing class which von sendlingen adorned, and, infuriated by the civilian intervening at the culmination of his daring plan, to say nothing of the annoying thought that his failure would be no secret from the old hag, his accomplice, looking on at the extremity of the bridge, he yielded to the worst devil in his heart. he inclined to the most high-handed and hectoring measure. whipping out his sabre with a rapid gesture, and merely muttering a discourteous and grudging: "be on your guard!" he dealt a cut at the student which threatened to cleave him in two. the other was on the alert; he had suspected one capable of such an outrage, likewise capable of worse, and he parried the coward's blow so dexterously with his cane that it was the soldier who was thrown off his balance. a second blow, with the tremendous sweep of the stick held at arm's length, tested the metal of the blade to its utmost, and, as the wielder's hand was thoroughly palsied, drove it out of the opening fingers, and all heard it splash in the black and pestiferous waters under the bridge. von sendlingen would almost have preferred the blow falling on his head. an officer, whose reputation in fencing was no mean one, to be disarmed by a student who swung but his road-cane! this was not all: he had lost his sabre, and, noble though he was, he had to pass the vigorous inspection of his weapons like the humblest private soldier! the absence of the regimental sword might cause degradation, ruin militarily and socially! and all for a "music-hall squaller"--and a jewess at that! he ground his teeth, and his eyes were filled with angry fire. his face bore a greater resemblance to a tiger's than a man's, and had not the victor in this first bout possessed a stout heart, he might have regretted that he had commenced so well, so terrible would be the retaliation. all the animal in the man being roused, he longed to throw himself on his antagonist to grasp his throat, but the successful use of the cudgel against the sword indicated that this was an adept at quarter-staff and a man with naked hands would have easily been beaten if pitted with him. sendlingen, warily and rapidly surveying the limited field of combat, caught sight of the jew's walking-staff and sprang for it with an outcry of savage glee and hope. on perceiving this move, in spite of the pain still crippling him, the old man started to retrace his steps to regain possession of his weapon, but he was soon distanced by the younger one. armed with this staff, the officer, remembering his student days, when he, too, was an expert swinger of the cane, a bavarian mountaineer's weapon with which duels to the death are not unseldom fought, he stood before the student. "had you been a gentleman," began the major, with a sullen courtesy, extorted from him by the gallantry of his antagonist. "a stick to a dog!" retorted the latter, falling into the position of guard with an ease and accuracy which caused the other to begin his work by feints and attacks not followed up too rashly, in order to test him. this time, it was the stouter and more brutal man who played cautiously and the younger and more refined who was spurred into recklessness by the contiguity of the fair helen--or, rather, esther--who had caused the fray. the girl stood at the end of the bridge, opposite to baboushka at hers, there making them simple lookers-on. the old jew seemed eager to join in the struggle, but the staves were in continual swing, and he could not draw near without the risk of having a shoulder dislocated, or, at least, his knuckles severely rapped. in the gloom, his hovering about the involved pair would have led an opera-goer to have seen in him the demon who thus actively presides at the fatal duel of faust and valentine. but the conflict, whatever the major's wariness, could not be long protracted, for canes of this sort are tiring to the arm, unlike smallswords; he was still on the defensive when the student assailed him with a shower of blows which taxed all his skill and nerve, and the strength of the staff which he had borrowed from his foe. well may one suspect "the gifts of an enemy!" as the student might have cited: "_timeo danaos_," etc. at the very moment when the officer's head was most in peril, while he guarded it with the staff held horizontally in both hands separated widely for the critical juncture, it ominously cracked at the reception of a vigorous blow--it parted as though a steel blade had severed it, and the unresisted cane came down on his skull with crushing force. out of the two cavities which the broken staff now presented, rattled several gold coins. at the sight, the old hag scrambled toward where the major had fallen senseless. the jew, after picking up the broken pieces of wood, would have lingered to recover those of the precious metal though at cost of a scuffle with baboushka. but his daughter rebuked him in their language with an indignant tone, which brought him to his senses in an instant. she seized him by the arm, and hurried him away at last. after a brief survey of the defeated man, wavering between the fear that he had killed him and the prompting to see to his hurts, if the case were not fatal, the student took to flight in the direction the beautiful girl had chosen. he well knew that this was a grave matter, and that he trod on burning ground. at twenty paces farther, he remembered his cloak, but on the bridge were now clustered several shadows vying with baboushka in picking up the coin before raising the unfortunate von sendlingen. not a light had appeared at the windows of the houses, not a window had opened for a night-capped head to be thurst forth, not a voice had echoed the jewess's call for the watch. it was not to be doubted that footbridge street had allowed more murderous outrages to occur without anyone running the risk of catching a cold or a slash of a sabre. "a cut-throat quarter, that is it," remarked the student, still too excited to feel the cold and want of his outer garment. "after all, one cannot travel from berlin to paris without getting some soot on the cheek and a cinder or two in the eye. in the same way it is not possible to see life and go through this world without being smeared with a little blood or smut." while talking to himself, he smoothed his dress and curled his dark and fine moustache, projecting horizontally and not drooping. he had walked so fast that he had overtaken the jews, delayed as the girl was by her father's lameness, and having to carry the violin in its case which she had recovered and preciously guarded. "what an audacious bully that was," the student continued; "but even a good cat loses a mouse now and then." the pair seemed to expect him to join them, but as he was about to do so, at the mouth of a narrow and unlighted alley, he heard the measured tramp of feet indicating the patrol. already the character of the streets and houses changed: there were vistas of those large buildings which give one the impression that munich is planned on too generous a scale for its population. only here and there was a roof or front suggestive of the middle ages, and they may have been in imitation; the others were stately and were classical, and the avenues became spacious. all at once, while the student was watching the semi-military constables approach, he heard an uproar toward the bridge. the major had been discovered by quite another sort of folk than the allies of baboushka, and the alarm was given. to advance was to invite an arrest which would result in no pleasant investigation. he had tarried too long as it was. the watchman's horn--tute-horn--sounded at the bridge and the squad responded through their commander; whistles also shrilled, being police signals. the student was perceived. it was a critical moment. the next moment he would be challenged, and at the next, have a carbine or sabre levelled at his breast. he retired up the alley, precipitately, wondering where the persons whom he befriended had disappeared so quickly. a very faint light gleamed from deeply within, at the end of a crooked passage through a lantern-like projection at a corner. a number of iron hooks bristled over his head as if for carcasses at a butchers, although their innocent use was to hang beds on them to air. on a tarnished plate he deciphered "artistes' entrance," and while perplexed, even as the gendarmes appeared at the mouth of this blind-alley, a long and taper hand was laid on his arm and a voice, very, very sweet, though in a mere murmur, said irresistibly: "come! come in, or you will be lost!" he yielded, and was drawn into a corridor under the oriel window, where the air was pungent with the reek of beer, tobacco-smoke, orange-peel, cheese and caraway seeds. chapter iii. "the jingle-jangle." the person to whom the shapely hand and musical voice belonged, conducted the student along the narrow passage to a turning where she halted, under a lamp with a reflector which threw them in that position into the shade. the passage was divided by the first lobby, and on the lamp was painted, back to back: "men," "ladies;" besides, a babble of feminine voices on the latter side betrayed, as the intruder suspected from the previous placard, that he had entered a place of entertainment by the stage-door, a tingel-tangel, or jingle-jangle, as we should say. it was the jewess who was the ariadne to this maze. seen in the light, at close range, with the enchanting smile which a woman always finds for the man who has won her gratitude by supplementing her deficiency in strength and courage with his own, she was worthier love than ever. at this view, too, he was sure that, unlike too many of the _divas_ of these _spielungs_, or dens, she was not one of the stray creatures who sell pleasure to some and give it to others, and for themselves keep only shame--fatal ignominy, wealth at best very unsubstantial, and if, at last, winners, they laugh--one would rather see them weeping. "what's your name?" she inquired, quickly. "i am rebecca daniels, whom they call on the bills 'la belle stamboulane'--though i have never been farther east than prague," she added with a contemptuous smile. "that was my father, whose maltreatment you so promptly but i fear so severely chastised. but your name?" impatiently. "i am a student of wilna university, traveling according to custom of the college, through germany and to make the italian art tour. i am claudius ruprecht." "not noble?" she inquired, sadly, on hearing two christian names and none of family, for her people treasure the pride of ancestry. "i am an orphan. i never knew my family. perhaps, as i am of age, i shall soon be informed. but--" "enough! time is getting on, and we cannot long stay in privacy here--the passage-way for the performers. this is freyers' hall, where i sing--where i was a player. but my father can speak to you in the public room and see to your safety--for i fear this night's affair will end ill. but do not you fear! neither my father nor i have the powerlessness which that noble ruffian seemed to think is ours. you, at least, shall be saved--even though you killed that brute." "i do not think that, unless his head is not so hard as his heart." she opened a narrow door in the dirty wall. it was brighter in the capacious place thus shown. "go in and sit down anywhere. my father will be with you in a few minutes. we were so delayed that they feared we would not arrive for 'our turn.' they were glad of the excuse--i fancy they were told it might occur--and they are trying to break our agreement. but never mind! that is but a bread-and-butter business for us. for you, it will be life and death, if that officer be slain." claudius, the student, mechanically obeyed the gentle impulsion her hand imparted to him on the shoulder, and walked through the side-door. a number of benches were before him with corresponding narrow tables, and he sat down at one, and looked round. he found himself in a very long, rectangular hall, low in the ceiling in proportion to the length, once brightly decorated, but faded, smoked and tarnished. on the walls, in panels, between tinted pilasters of a pseudo-grecian design, were views of the principal towns of germany and austria, the details obliterated in the upper part by smoke and in the lower by greasy heads and hands. around the sides, a dais held benches and tables similar to those on the floor. at the far end was a bar for beer and other liquors less popular, and an entrance from a main street, screened and indirect, down steps at another level than the rear or stage door. where claudius sat was a small stage with footlights and curtain complete, and an orchestra for a miniature piano such as are used in yachts, and six musicians; the performers sat to face the audience respectfully in the good old german style. the lighting was by means of clusters of gas-jets at intervals in the long ceiling and along the walls. the announcement of the items of attraction appearing on the stage was made by changeable sliding cards in framework at the sides of the stage; to the left the name of the _scena_ was exhibited, that of the artist on the other. when claudius took his seat, the other places were almost all empty; but they soon began to fill up. the majority of the spectators seemed to be of the tradesman and workman class, with their wives and daughters, but the stranger, who had been so surreptitiously "passed in," was not blind to the presence of a more offensive element. there were faces as villainous as any under the immediate command of grandmother "baboushka;" and their dress was not much better. more than one dandy of the gutter nursed the head of a club called significantly the "lawbreaker's canes of crime," with a distant air of the fop sucking his clouded amber knob or silver shepherd's-crook. in more than one group were horse-copers, and their kin the market-gardeners' thieves and country wagoners' pests, who not only lighten the loads on the way to the city market on the road, but plunder the drivers after they receive their salesmoney by cheating at cards. the student, crowded in by this mixed throng, began to doubt the providential quality of the intervention saving him from an explanation to the police; it was very like leaping from the proverbial frying-pan into the fire. at this stage in his reflections, he felt that a person in the next seat had risen and he soon perceived that he had politely, or from a stronger reason, given up his place to another. this was the old jew, but he would not have known him by his dress, it was so changed for the better; the fine profile, the venerable beard which an arab sheikh would have reverenced, and the sharp, intelligent eyes were unaltered. "do you speak latin?" inquired daniels in that tongue. but claudius, though reading the dead tongue fluently, pronounced it after the university manner, and felt that he could not sustain a dialogue with one who followed the italian usage. he could speak italian, however, for he had long studied it to be at home in the world of art. "the officer was not killed," remarked the jew, and before his new acquaintance could express his relief, he added gravely, "but he has been spirited away." "then it's those vagabonds--" "of whom that old _tausend-kunstlerin_ (witch of a thousand tricks) is in the position of parent? i guess as much. he said he had connived with her, one who is the actual though occult ruler of the filthy region. we have had to pay her blackmail regularly, like the other artists, for we are obliged to go home after midnight. well, if he is in their hands, it is among congenial spirits. tell me your name and as much of your affairs as you please to enlighten me with. i am bound to assist you as far as possible--though my debt to you will ever remain uncanceled. i am daniel daniels, of odessa, marseilles, and elsewhere, and an introduction to my correspondent nearest where you sojourn is not to be despised." impressed with his tone, the young man related his life-story succinctly. he had a dreamy remembrance of a long journey, lastly in a sledge, buried in fur robes, his clearer later memories were of a happy home in poland, in the country, where, though strangers, all were kind to the lonely orphan. there was a mystery about his parentage; his mother was probably a native as he acquired the language as easily as the art of eating, the peasants said. his father had been killed, he thought, on one of those riots which, in a small way, repeat the olden revolutions of poland against the triumvirate of oppression, austria, prussia and russia. but he had heard a tutor say, when he was not supposed in hearing, that he had perished by the executioner's steel. "a death honorable as under the bullets," said claudius, but half doubtingly. as became a man who abhorred homicide in any shape, daniels made no reply. "at the age of eighteen, while at the university, i was given a private tutor in art and architecture, to which i had a bent. he was a frenchman and i acquired his elegant tongue with that well-known facility of us poles in attaining proficiency in the western ones. armed with that and italian--" "which you speak with finish," interrupted the jew. "i expect my italian and french tour to be delightful. but i am not over the frontier yet, and hardly will be soon if my passport is commented upon by an authority cognizant of this night's adventure." "i regret to find that it was deliberately planned," resumed daniels. "my daughter's virtue has raised more hostility under this roof than even her talent. the proprietor is a notorious rascal, but he is too useful to the profligate among the town officials to be reprimanded. the police, too, wink at his personal misdoings, because he is always their friend to deliver the criminals who make this haunt their rendezvous. all those painted women, as well as the waiter-girls, are spies and dalilahs who betray the samsons of crime to the police at any given moment. that would be neither here nor there, however, if my daughter and i were allowed to conclude our engagement--which, believe me, would never have been signed if we had guessed the character of the resort. not only would they lodge me in prison for a pretended attempt to elude my contract, but they seek to throw my poor rebecca into the arms of such reprobates as this major the baron. the hag whom you noticed is not unconcerned in the plot. it is a protégé of hers--a lovely young girl, guileless in appearance as a cherub, whom they would substitute for my girl, if she had been detained to-night. in fact--" he paused. the orchestra had played and two or three vocalists had appeared and sang, without claudius, absorbed in this conversation, noticing that the entertainment had commenced. a little fat man in a ruffled and embroidered shirt, buff waistcoat with crystal buttons, knee breeches and silk stockings of reproachless black, and steel buckled shoes, had come before the curtain, sticking one thumb in his waistband and the other in his vest armhole, to display a huge seal ring and a mammoth diamond hoop, respectively, as well as his idea of ease in company. he announced in a high flute-like voice that in consequence of indisposition, which a sworn medical affirmation confirmed--here he raised a laugh by sticking his tongue in his cheek--"la belle stamboulane" would not appear--might have to depart for constantinople for convalescence, but that the bewitching fraulein von vieradlers--one of the few authentic _noble_ vocalists on the variety stage--following in the footsteps of certain princesses--would oblige, for the first time on any stage, with selections from her repertoire, etc. this was concerted, for the outburst of applause, started by the most sinister of aspect among the auditors, was vehement and so contagious that the _hussah_ was unanimous as the stage-manager retired. la belle stamboulane was already eclipsed! so evanescent is theatrical fame. of all the audience, only one felt indignant, and that was the student claudius, who had not heard her sing or wear stage costumes! "all is over," observed daniels placidly. "i cannot cope with these rogues. i must go and join my daughter and get our dresses to our lodgings; thankful if we succeed so far. in about an hour, will you not call, when we will resume our conversation which i wish to have, and with practical gain to you. this is the card of our hotel. it is not aristocratic, but once there, you will be safe." he spoke with such tranquil assurance that claudius had not a doubt. he took the card, read the address: "hotel persepolitan," so that if he lost the card, it might be in his mind, and nodded with a kind of gratefulness. the father of a beautiful woman is not like any other man in the world to a young man, who is not indifferent to her. following the old jew with his gaze to the narrow side-door leading to behind-the-scenes, claudius thought that, in the brief period of its opening and closing, he spied the bright black orbs of the jewess striving to catch a glimpse even so transient of him. it did not need this encouragement to make him resolve to respond to the invitation. an hour would soon pass, even in this tedious recreation. he felt also some resentment and curiosity to see the person whom the director of these munich circeans considered in adequate succession to the peerless stamboulane. the announcement had at least kindled the public: being plebeian, the promised aristocrat was already discussed. the family was existent, whether this variety vocalist was legitimately a daughter being another question. vieradlers was a barony that had a right to fly its four eagles--as the name signifies--in the face of the double-headed king of the tribe. the baron was the latest of an old bavarian line, famous in story. one of his ancestors was eagle-bearer to cæsar after the defeat of hermann. the continuators had always been near the emperors. there might be a drop of imperial blood in the child who had so strangely degenerated as to prefer royalty on the stage to that of the court and country-house. "she may be good-looking," thought claudius, "for i have noticed that where the men are uncomely the women are often the reverse. a berlin professor has boldly likened the male bavarian to the gorilla and the caricaturists have taken his cue. they are of the beer-barrel shape, coarse, rough, quarrelsome and quick to enter into a fight. it is the national dish of roast goose--a pugnacious bird--and bread of oatmeal that does it. they may well have one beauty of the sex among them. and the carnation on the cheeks of these waitresses is so remarkable that they find rouge superfluous. they are dull, and yet the twinkle in their eyes indicates cunning." before him, the next seat was occupied by two gentlemen. they spoke in french, thinking no one would comprehend their conversation. they were discussing the ascending star, about which one had a deeper knowledge than the subjects of baboushka. "she is the cause of the disgrace of the grand-chamberlain of a northern kingdom," said this well-informed man. "he has been obliged to send in his grand cross of the royal order and his rank in the holy empire, after what was almost a revolution in the palace. he is a man over sixty, who was in russia on an important mission, when he met by chance this young girl, whose mother was married to a noble, although the elder sister of one of those beauties notorious for their depravity in paris. perhaps, though, she secured her husband before her sister won this dubious celebrity. at all events, she lived blamelessly, but _bad_ blood does not lie! this girl seems to aim at the reputation of her aunt, the celebrated iza, whose portrait was painted, her figure copied in immortal marble, and her charms sung by french bards. at all events, she bewitched the old count von raackensee, who took her on a tour through our country and austria. it was at vienna that he, an old statesman and courtier, committed the folly of presenting her as his daughter! the truth came out--austria and prussia made remonstrances, and he was compelled to resign his office or this witch. he would not give her up and so he was punished." "punished?" "yes; he went on to live at nice, where he had bought a villa in foresight for some such day of disgrace. the circe was to follow him, but, instead of that, she has shaken off the golden links and condescends to stay a week in munich to amuse us coarse swiggers of beer." chapter iv. the star is dead long live the star! by listening to others and observing them, man obtains the material for self-preservation. evidently this star of the minor stage was a woman to be avoided; a rising light which might scar the sight and burn the fingers of too venturesome an admirer. claudius had a premonition that he ought to go out and kill the few minutes in strolling the streets, before keeping the appointment, even at the risk of being questioned by the police. but he overcame the impulsion, and waited to face what might be a danger the more. all the hall, by instinct and from the stories circulating--perhaps circulated by the agents of the management--divined that no common attraction was to be presented. besides, to displace la belle stamboulane worthily on the stage, that chosen arena where the female gladiator carries the day, a miracle of beauty, wit and skill was requisite. elsewhere, ability, practice, art, artifice, many gifts and accomplishments may triumph, but the fifth element as indispensable as the others, air, water, fire and earth--it is _love_, which legitimately monopolizes the theatre for its exhibition and glorification. men and women come to such places of amusement to hear love songs, see love scenes, and share in the fictitious joys and sorrows of love, which they long to enact in reality. nothing is above love; nothing equals it. he reigns as a master in a temple, with woman as the high-priestess, and man the victim or the chosen reward. preceding the novelty, a bass-singer roared a drinking-song, in which he likened human life to a brewer's house, in which some quenched their thirst quickly and departed; others stayed to quaff, jest, tell stories to cronies, before staggering out "full;" the oldest went to sleep there. though rich-voiced and liked, this time he retired in silence, for the audience was tormented with impatience. the orchestra struck up a fashionable waltz, and, as the door, at the back of a drawing-room scene, was opened in both flaps by the liveried servants, a young lady entered, so fresh, delightful and easy that for a moment it seemed as if it were a member of the "highest life" who had blundered off the street into this strange world. from her glistening hair of gold to the tip of her white satin slippers, with preposterously high heels, this was the new incarnation of the woman who ends the nineteenth century. she was indisputably beautiful, and claudius, who had thought that the jewess was incomparable, feared that the apple would have to be halved, since neither could have borne it entire away. but the jewess's loveliness exalted the beholder; this one's was of the strange, irritating sort, resisted with difficulty and alluring a man into those byways which end in the gaming hell, the saturnalian halls, and the suicide's grave. love had never chosen a more appetizing form to be the pivot on which human folly--perhaps human genius--was to spin idly and uselessly, like a beetle on a pin in a naturalist's cabinet. kaiserina von vieradlers was the modern venus, a creation of the modiste rather than of the sculptor; though hips and bosom were developed extravagantly, the long waist was absurdly small; but no token of ill health from the tight lacing appeared in the irreproachable shape, the well-turned arms and the countenance which was unmarred in a single lineament; the movements were not strictly ladylike, they were too unfettered in spite of the smooth gloves and the stylish unwrinkled ball dress, rather short in front to parade the slippers mentioned and silk stockings so nicely moulded to the trim ankle as to show the dimple. she was more fair in her eighteenth year--if she were so old--than a danish baby in the cradle. the yellow hair had a clear golden tint not tawny, and the fineness was remarkable of the stray threads that serpentined out of the artistic braid and drooping ringlets. the blue eyes had a multitude of expressions and gleams; now hard as the blue diamond's ray, now soft as the lapis lazuli's glow of azure; the expression was at present one of longing, tender, cajoling and coaxing--like a gentle child's, never refused a thing for which it silently pleaded. the costume was a trifle exaggerated, as is allowable on the minor stage, but what was that in our topsy-turvy age, when the disreputable woman in a mixed ball is conspicuous among her spotless sisters by the quiet correctness of her toilet? kaiserina came down to the flaring footlights, after a little trepidation, which the inexorable demon of stage-fright exacted from her, with the swing and confident step of one sure that--while man may be unjust, cruel and oppressive to her sex off the stage--here she would reign and finally triumph. she bowed her head, but it was to acknowledge her gracious acceptance of the tribute of applause; she moistened her fiery-coal lips with a serpent's active tongue; she surveyed her dominion with eyes that assumed a passing emerald tint. there was a depth to those apparently superficial glances. it seemed to claudius that one had singled him out, and he fancied, as his eyes became fastened on this vision of concentrated worldly bliss, that it was for him that she stretched her plump neck, waved her arms in long gloves, undulated her waist and murmured--though to others she was but repeating her song during the orchestral prelude: "you talk of plunging into the strife; you are ready to endure privations, you would study and toil till you vanquish. nonsense; you had far better repose, recruit after the humdrum, exhaustive life of college; enjoy life a little. hear a love-song, not a professor's lecture--see a dance of the ballet, not the procession of the deans and proctors; come to me for i am immediate sensation--the pleasure for all times--eternal intoxication--certain oblivion--the ideal bliss of the hindoo! i am the grandest proof of life--i am love embodied!" what did she sing to the strains of the voluptuous-waltz made vocal? the words mattered not; in esquimaux they would have been as intelligible from the intonation with which she imbued every note, and the restricted but perfectly comprehensible gestures with which she emphasized the phrases of double meaning--one for the literary censors who had "passed" this corruption, the other for even the more obtuse of the common herd. the rival whom, without having seen her, she had dethroned, was obliterated. it was not a transfer of allegiance--it was semiramis; trampling an overthrown empress among the charred ruins of her palace, acclaimed without one dissentient shout, in her stead, and as the initial of a new line of sovereigns. she enchanted, interested and amused, while rebecca had awed, ravished and strove apparently in vain to lift to a level where the élite alone soar without dread of a fall. a witty cardinal has said that if a fly were seen in the drinking-cup by an italian, a frenchman and a german, respectively, the first would send it away, the second fish out the insect before he drank, while the german would gulp liquor and fly, without demur. the good audience of freyers' harmonista swallowed the so-called fraulein von vieradlers, flies and all! claudius saw no more clearly than they; not only was the girl an unsurpassable idol, but to its very feet it was pure gold and immaculate ivory. an insane idea seized him not only to win her--a hundred around him shared that desire--but to keep her spotless, as he thought her, whatever the gossips had said. after all, slander had no opening to attack one whose youth was manifest; who owed no complexion to the wax-mask, the bismuth powder, and the carmine; whose hair was real and fine and of a shade which no dye could imitate; and whose movements, though in a society dance far removed from the wild whirl of the monads seen on this same stage, had the freedom of the bacchantes. after all, the unworthiness of the object no more changes the quality of love than that of the glass alters the banquet of wine. oh, to withdraw her from this turbulent career, for which surely she was not inextricably destined, and let her be the bright but flawless ornament of a happy home and a choice circle--if not the lady of fashion, in case the student realized one of his fantastic dreams of aimless ambition. the quiet learner felt an immense flame usurp the place of his blood; he seemed gifted with the powers of the athletic duke of munich, christopher the leaper, whose statue adorned the proscenium, and like him, clearing the orchestra with a bound of twelve feet, he would have grasped the girl wasting her graces of voice and person on these boors, and carried her off to a more congenial sphere. obliged to repeat her song and the dance which filled the gap between two verses, the charmer held the spectators in a spell even more firm than that she had first imposed. no one was conscious at the first that down the central aisle had come a little party odd enough in its components and awe-inspiring in what might be called its rear-guard to break even enchantment more potent. an old woman, wearing over sordid garments an old furred polish pelisse, was the guide--the herald, so to say, to a gentleman in gold spectacles and a black suit and silk hat, an inspector of police, a sergeant of the watch, while behind this formidable official nucleus marched a serried body of civil and of military police. after them all, wringing his fat hands, trotted the proprietor, with a terrified expression too great not to be assumed. waiters completed the retinue, wearing faces much whiter than the napkins slung on their arms. as the orchestra faced the audience, they perceived this inroad before the latter and, as by a signal, ceased playing. the startled dancer, for all her aristocratic self-command, stopped immediately for explanation, and, riveting her glances on the female head of the intruders, whom she recognized--that was clear--stood stupor-stricken. claudius, following her hint, turned to the center and had no difficulty in recognizing in the woman arrayed in the polish pelisse, the chief of the beggars, baboushka. he recalled the remark of the jew, that she befriended this debutante, and he was averse to believing it. that delicious creature and this hideous one in ties of communion! ridiculous, monstrous! spite of his concern for himself, claudius noticed that twenty or thirty of the spectators, apparently perplexed at the rare conjunction of their leader and the authorities in friendly communication, would not wait for the elucidation but began to make a rush for the outlets. the voice of the town inspector, rotund and sonorous, froze them with terror, although not personal. "gentlemen--(the ladies were apparently here only on sufferance, and the stage-performer was of no consideration in the authorities' eyes)--gentlemen, a murder has been committed and we seek the culprit here in your midst!" "murder!" and the audience rose to their feet like one man. "stand up here," said the functionary, pointing to a place on a bench which a timid spectator had vacated, and pushing baboushka roughly, "and point out the man who has made away with the honorable major von sendlingen." "major von sendlingen!" repeated the audience, shocked, as the officer had been seen but the night previously among them in lusty life, and death is a spectre most terrible in a saloon of mirth and carousal. after that general exclamation, a silence ensued; one that meant acquiescence in the proceedings of the police. "i must have killed him," thought the student. "this is a black prospect! i had better have quitted the hall and profited by the invitation of refuge which herr daniels offered me." for the moment, he could take no part, though he could not doubt that baboushka would denounce him--a stranger, and the principal in the duel with canes. his cloak would help toward the identification and unless the hag's crew had abstracted it, it would be forthcoming, he doubted not. indeed, elevated on her perch, able to see the faces of all around her, the hag's aged but brilliant eyes rapidly scanned those nearest her in wider and wider circles. all at once they became fixed upon claudius, and by instinct, the neighbors fell away from him so that he was isolated. she extended her arm with an unnatural vigor, and in a voice also unexpectedly strong with malice, cried: "that is he! there you have the slayer of poor major von sendlingen!" at that very moment, a shrill, ear-splitting whistle sounded; and the gas-jets all over the hall went out too simultaneously for the act not to be that of a hand at the inlet from the street-main. claudius heard the soldiers and policemen buffeting the people to scramble over the benches toward him. he had but a single road to a possible escape: by the little door in the wall through which rebecca daniels had ushered him into the auditorium. he stooped as he turned, to elude any outstretched hands, drove himself like a wedge through the compacted mass of frightened spectators and, spite of the gloom, the deeper because of the glare preceding it, he reached the egress. the uninitiated would never have suspected its existence, for the actors and staff of the establishment alone had the right and knowledge to use it. "lights, lights!" the functionaries were shouting. by the time matches were struck and lanterns brought into the scene of confusion, claudius had opened the panel, leaped through and closed it. he did not dally in the passage, but hastened to follow the walled-in road as well as he might by which he had penetrated the theatrical region. at the dividing-line, where the path parted to the men's and to the ladies' dressing-rooms, he perceived a ghostly figure in the obscurity which also prevailed here from the general extinction of the illuminant. he was about shrinking back and fleeing in another direction when eyes blazed in the dark like a cat's, and the sweet, unmistakable voice of the singer, who had enthralled him, ejaculated: "as god lives, it is you!" "suppose it is i!" he returned, impatiently. "stand aside, or--" "you must not pass here!" she returned, laying her hands on his lifted arm. "must not? we shall see about that!" and he repulsed her violently. "no, no; you are too hasty! i mean that would be a fatal course. here, here!" seizing him again and dragging him with her. "you were right to kill that ruffian! to cane him to death--like the russian grand-dukes, he was not born to die by the sword. to abduct one woman while paying court to another, the traitor! but, never heed that! he is punished, and you must be saved. here is an outlet: pursue the passage to the end and leave the town!" "but i--" "how can you repay me? bah! repay me in the other world--below, with a drop of cold water when i parch!" and with a dulcet yet demoniacal laugh, the singular creature pushed him into a lightless lobby, slammed a door and seemed to run away, singing the refrain of the waltz which was to haunt him forever-more. chapter v. under munich. after an instant's reflection in the impenetrable shades, claudius concluded to follow the advice of the variety theatre's prima donna. while a stranger to the city of breweries, he knew that its predestination toward thirst was due to its being the site of an ancient rock-salt mine. in other cities, subterraneans were melodramatic; here, a labyrinth under the surface and at the level of the dancing and drinking cellars was so natural that a child of munich, dropped into a well, would have no misgivings as to his worming his way up into the outer air. at the worst, when pressed by hunger, he could no doubt make an appeal to the mounted patrol by night or the foot-passengers by day, whom he would hear overhead, and be released from this living burial at the cost of the imprisonment and trial which he had temporarily evaded. remembering that he had a box of cigar-lights, and regretting again the want of the cloak so useful in these damp passages, he lighted a match and began his flight by the sole opening that he spied. an odor of sausages, cheese and coarse tobacco was here and there strong, and he correctly divined that at these points, fugitives, probably from the same enemy as he fled, had recently made halts. once assured that he was in a kind of thoroughfare, though one for the nefarious, he felt bolder and more hopeful about reaching a desirable goal. he did not pause to think, as he continued, choosing, where there was a bifurcation, the most trampled corridor, hewn originally by the miners' pick. but he had much on his mind for future elaboration. heretofore no man could have lived a less eventful life, passed among books, globes, drawing tools and lecture notes. in a few hours the change was great. the quiet student, with no aspirations but the completion of his wandering-year in italian picture-galleries, had become a fugitive from justice, and on the hands, groping in a lugubrious earthen alley, were the stains of a fellow-creature's blood. then, too, the singular friendships he had formed, the old jew and his daughter, who were awaiting him--and this still more remarkable creature who had glanced across his path, like the divinities from above in antique poems, to point out the safe retreat. but too long a time elapsed without his finding such an evidence of his security as he had too confidently expected. he might have mistaken the true line, for while at any point of divergence there were marks in the earth, where traces of saline flows still glistened, and even stones and bits of stick placed in cavities in the manner of the gypsy clues familiar to social outcasts, he could not interpret them; for once, his university education proved faulty. a new alarm arose from the presence of swarms of rats; larger and more hideous than their fellows of which one catches a fleeting view in houses and in the streets, they seemed to be less afraid of the lord of creation than fables teach. they scuttled off in front of him, it is true, but he began to think that they followed him when he went by. one ray of comfort came in the two beliefs that his flashing matches frightened them, and that, for certain portions of the way, well-regulated droves of the vermin had districts assigned them; those that ventured in chase of him too far were beaten back by those on whose grounds they rashly trespassed. this latter consolation was lost almost at the same time as the other: his stock of fuses ran out, while with the last flash he feared that he saw a larger mass than ever before in his track. the rats had united to overwhelm him. seized with panic, spite of his philosophy, dropping the all but empty wax-light case in his haste, he dashed madly forward, groping to save his head and shoulders from contact with the capacious gallery sides, but unable to take a step with any certainty how it would end. fortunately, he had strayed back into an often-traveled path, and while the scamper of the rats died away at the close of his frantic race, he heard a sound but little above his level revealing the presence of man. it was not a cheerful sound; being the tolling of a bell such as is swung when a dead body is entering a cemetery, is carried to the chapel before interment. nevertheless, fellow beings would be near and he had only to find the opening by which this burial-ground could be reached. he remembered that the old cemetery had been immensely extended, if the guide-books were to be credited, and, while he had no clear idea of the direction he had rambled, he might have reached the town of twenty thousand dead. the idea was gruesome of having to call for the aid of a grave-digger, but he felt that he could not much longer support this journey in the underworld without the bodily support of food or the mental one of human fellowship. silence most oppressive had followed the patter of the myriad of rats' feet, and it checked his efforts. they were brought to a termination just when he looked forward with joy to a grey light dimly indicating some aperture on the other side of which shone the day. the ground seemed to give way under him, and he was hurled senseless into the pit which he had not suspected. when he returned to consciousness, the bell had ceased to toll; the silence was once more heavy. but the pangs of hunger--remorseless master over the young--spurred him into rising. he was thankful that he had not been attacked in his helplessness by the vermin, and he muttered a prayer in his first stride toward where he recalled the feeble light. the rats' compact column had figured in his dreams, and while they were led by the fair waltz-singer and dancer in order to devour him, unable to resist, the benignant fairy, for once dark--contrary to all precedent--wore the appearance of rebecca. he could not see the light; but a current of warm air stealing steadily into the underground indicated the orifice. it was a welcome draft, for it differed in many features from the noisome, dank and earthy exhalations to which he had luckily become accustomed in his indefinite sojourn. his surmise was correct. through a grating of iron bars, straight at the side and semi-circular at the top, set in massive masonry of some building, in the foundation of which he crouched, he saw, in the vagueness of clouded starlight, the domain of the dead. on being assured of this, the panic, mastering him before, resumed its sway; it gave him a giant's strength to escape the fancied, grisly pursuers, and he moved the whole series of bars far enough away to enable him to crawl through the gap. he stood, exhausted, panting, glad of the relief from the waking nightmare which the darkness encouraged. his weakness could be accounted for, as his wandering had lasted long; the syncope could not be brief since nearly thirty hours must have transpired from his rush out of the variety music-hall. before him, for at his back stood the chapel for services, stretched out the vast cemetery. some of the cracked, dilapidated tombs dated back to ; others marked the addition in to the original god's-acre. all was hushed; it was difficult to imagine a phantom where neglect seemed to rule. it was not in this olden part that descendants of the departed flocked on all saints' day to decorate the mausoleums with evergreens, plaster images and artificial immortelle garlands. except for a screeching-sparrow, which his first steps dislodged, not a sign of life appeared in this town around which the living city slept as quietly. his eyes clearing, he believed he descried the gateway and, sure that so large a _campo santo_ would have a warder in hourly attendance, he made his way, deviating as the tombs compelled, toward the entrance. to his surprise, all was still there, and though a lamp burned in the little stone lodge, it was certainly untenanted. the gate was ajar; there was no fear of the tenants flitting out bodily for a night's excursion. claudius was dying for refreshment and he was not fastidious about intruding. a man who has traversed the underlying catacombs need not be delicate about taking a nip of spirits or a hunch of bread. both were in a cupboard in the little domicile, supplied with a porter's chair so ample as to be the watcher's bed, and a stove where a fire merrily burned, crackling with billets of pine wood. the disappearance was the more strange, as on a framed placard, at the base of which was a row of brazen knobs, there was a formal injunction for the gatewarder never to go away without his place being taken by another "from sunset to sunrise and an hour after!" claudius knew what those knobs and the instructions portended in this adjunct to the charnel house. the public mortuary was at the other end of the wires from those bells; the custom was to attach them to the dead so that, if their slumbers were not that knowing no waking and they stirred even so little as a finger, the electric transmitter which they agitated would sound the appeal. and now the watcher, on whom perhaps depended the duration of a worthier life than his, had paltered with his trust, while drinking at the beer-house or chattering with a sweetheart, the bell might ring unheeded, and the unhappy creature, falling with the last tremor of vitality, to obtain a desperate succor, would become indeed the corpse like which he had been laid out in the morgue. claudius smiled grimly and sadly. on what flimsy bases the best plant of wise men too often rest! the latest power of nature had been harnessed to do man service in his utmost extremity; science had perfected its instruments, but one link in the chain was fallible man. the bell would tinkle--the watcher would be laughing out of earshot--and the life would sink back into lethe after swimming to the shore! the student sighed as he ate the piece of bread broken off a small loaf and drank from the bottle out of which the faithless turnkey hobnobbed with the sexton, the undertaker's men and the hearse-coachman. if the bell should ring, with him alone to hear, ought he hasten out by the gate providentially open, and leave for the care of heaven alone the unknown wretch who would have summoned his brother-christians most uselessly? the resuscitated man would not be "of his parish," since he was a wanderer from afar. let the natives bury their own dead! at this instant, when philosophy pointed out to the student the unbarred portals, the bell in the midst of the row rang clearly if not very loudly. it sounded in his ear like the last trump. could he doubt that this appeal was to him exclusively? the removal of the custodian, his own miraculous escape--all pointed to this conclusion. but might he not run out and, if he saw the traitorous warder on his road, repeat to him the alarm? not much time would be lost, for the gong still vibrated, and his personal safety ranked above his neighbor's in such a crisis. but claudius' hesitation had been that of physical weakness; confronted in this way with the problem of fraternity, he did not waver any longer. on the threshold of safety, he turned straight back into the jaws of destruction. he had not emerged from that darkness and depth of earth, to descend into a lower profundity and a denser darkness of the soul. he glanced at the brazen monitor: its surface still shivered, though his senses were not fine enough to hear the faint sound. but there was no delusion; the dead in the morgue had signaled to the world on whose verge it was balanced. it cost the student no pang now to retrace the steps he had painfully counted, to reach the building, out of the cellars of which he had so gladly climbed. on thus facing it, he knew by a window being lighted that his goal was there. he had found fresh energy in his mission, rather than the scanty refreshment, and in three minutes was at the door. heavy with iron banding the oak, it was not made for the hand of the dying to move it, but claudius dragged it open with violence. he sprang inside with the vivacity of a bridegroom invading the nuptial chamber, although here was no agreeable sight. a long plain hall, of grey stone, the seams defined with black cement; all the windows high up, small and grated; only the one door, never locked. two rows of slate beds, three of which only were occupied; two men and a boy, nude save a waistcloth; over their heads--sluggishly swayed by the air the new-comer had carelessly admitted--their clothes were hung like shapeless shadows. they had been dredged up in the isar's mud, found at a corner, dragged from under a cartwheel. no one identifying them, they were deposited here; their fate? dissection for the benefit of science, and interment of the detached portions in the pauper's hell. which had rung the bell? claudius investigated the three: the boy had been crushed by the sludge-basket of the steam-dredge; not a spark of life was left there, his companion was green and horrible; he, too, had passed the bourne. but on the other row, alone, a robust man with disfigured face, and red whiskers, looked like a fresh cut alabaster statue. cold had blanched him; but a faint steam arose from his armpits, in the sepulchral light of a green-shaded gas-jet. there heat remained to prove that the great furnace in the frame had not ceased to be fed. the student bent over him to feel the heart, when, as promptly, he sprang back. spite of the maltreated face, he recognized his combatant in the duel with canes; it was major von sendlingen, who had been flung on the slab in the public dead-house. had baboushka commanded his death to prevent her complicity in the assault on daniels and his daughter being published, and had she suggested the stripping which caused the police to confound the noble officer with the victim of the "pickers-up" of drunkards? but the major shivered in the blast from the door left open, and a brief flush ran over the icy skin. if his enemy did not extend relief to him immediately, he would never recover strength to ring the death-bell to which ran the wires appended to his fingers and toes. with three or four rapid strokes and twistings, claudius broke them. he looked round; this waif of the gutter had no clothes, but a torn and shapeless garment dangled over his head; it was the old cloak of the student. the pockets had been torn bodily away to save time; it was the mere integument of the garment. but it sufficed to retain the scanty heat lingering in the unfortunate man, when wrapped about him. with a surprising spell of strength, claudius lifted him upon his breast when so enveloped, and crossed the grounds for the third time. the warder had returned but he had left the gate open to close its sliding grate by mechanism worked within his little house. to his amazed eyes, claudius presented himself with the burden. "help him! revive him! he is living!" he said. "i will go fetch the police surgeon! it is my officer--major von sendlingen!" after the announcement of the rank, claudius knew that the officer would want for nothing. he let the body fall into the large armchair and, taking advantage of the warder's consternation at seeing the dead-like body sitting between him and the only exit, glided through the narrow space between the sliding rails and disappeared. the boom of an alarm bell, set swinging over the gateway by the warder, added wings to his feet, for he feared that police and patrol would hurry to the cemetery from all quarters, and he wanted, above all, to reach the jew's hotel before morning. chapter vi. two augurs. fortunately for the student, the night birds whom he met and to whom in asking information to arrive at the persepolitan hotel, he gave preference over the policemen, felt a fellow feeling for a man pallid, tottering, and in clothes which had suffered during his scramble through the exhausted mines underlaying munich. he reached the hotel before dawn and was not sorry to find it one of those old-fashioned hostelries continuing traditions of the posting-houses, where he might not expect to be challenged because of his appearance. in the stable yard, between a half-awakened horse and a sleepy watchdog, who received the new guest with a blinking eye and affectionate tongue, an ostler was washing down a ramshackle chaise. claudius guessed that it was prepared for his flight and his heart warmed at this proof of the jew having counted on his coming, though belated. the shock-headed man, clattering over the rounded stones in wooden shoes, made to fit by the insertion of straw around his naked feet, no sooner heard him name herr daniels as the one expecting him, than he bade him welcome in a cordial tone which his surly face had not presaged. "i suppose he is asleep," he said, "but he left word that he was to be aroused at any hour on your coming. i am not allowed within doors in my stable dress," he added, "but you will have no trouble in finding the rooms. it is that one where the candle burns, one floor above, numbers , and --the number is unlucky for a christian, but that does not matter for the likes of them!--and a lamp burns at the turn of the stairs. the back door is on the latch." claudius, with the satisfaction of having anchored in the harbor, crossed the yard and entered the house. he was closing the door behind him when he heard a heavy tread at the street gate where he had come in. and the dog began to growl. the ostler caught it by the collar as it made a bound, and cried out: "who is there?" the schutzman, who had dismounted, prudently held the door close, with one hand, to prevent the dog gliding through, while he showed his sword drawn in the other, and answered with affected joviality: "what, karlchen, am i not known by you better than by your pagan of a hound? but catch me putting silly questions to my boon-companion, my oldest friend! it is not in here that i saw a suspicious shadow creep, eh?" "by my faith!" replied the groom, laughing heartily, "it may have been a shadow--but flesh-and-blood is what my true ogre is waiting for! we are up betimes, worthy hornitz, and we have neither had our breakfast. what has put you on the alert?" "a general order! there was a riot at the great music hall of the freyers brothers--plague on it! what art they have in brewing beer that leaves a pleasant memory! and we have orders to overhaul every suspicious character in the streets, while none can get out of the town. it appears that some monstrous criminal is at large! oh, for the reward, that would buy me a little cottage on the friedplatz road with beer unstinted!" "pooh! as usual, you gentlemen of the nightwatch are badly informed," grumbled the ostler, pushing the dog into a corner. "i know what it was, for one of the theatrical players is a lady lodger of ours. she was unfairly supplanted by some insignificant young upstart and, of course, the public, always knowing true talent from shallow pretension, broke up the seats and pelted the manager with it along with his imposter!" "well, good-morning, karlchen," said the gendarme, taking the correction in good part, and withdrawing his booted leg from the door. "i may see you when i am off duty and we will make sure that freyers have better taste in brewing beer than in choosing actresses." having heard enough to convince him that daniels was in a house guarded by the faithful, claudius proceeded up the stairs dimly visible before him at the end of a clean, bricked passage. his progress was more easy when he reached the landing, as the lamp mentioned, in a recess and projecting its rays in two directions, shone on the door of the suite of three rooms where the jew and his daughter were lodged. pausing before he knocked, claudius heard the soft step of slippered feet. on tapping discreetly, a reserved voice ordered him to come in. it was daniels who spoke; he was in a dressing-gown, with bare head, and, having cleared the chairs back to enable him to make the circuit of the table in the center of the spacious room, had apparently been walking round it like a caged lion. on the table were various articles heaped up without order and an open trunk, partly packed. he looked up in emotion while claudius paused on the sill, more affected than he understood the reason for. "ah, heaven be praised! it is you," said the old man with grave joy, and holding out his hands, paternally. "i feared for the worst--that you would never come. it is so serious a matter: a nobleman and an officer who belongs to the secret intelligence department--his death is not to go unpunished." "at least, he is not dead," said the student; and he hastened to tell his story. "speak at any tone you please," interrupted daniels, at the stage of his having escaped from the music-hall by the artistes' door and of the help of the woman whom he did not profess to distinguish. "my daughter is sleeping, and a sitting-room is here between her apartment and this one." but, though without any fear that the noble girl would stoop to listen, the student related the rest with a cautious voice. others might not be so delicate. "you have a great heart," said daniels, when he heard of the rescue of the major from the frigid slab of the morgue. "to do this for an enemy is lofty conduct. god grant that you have not met one of those monsters of ingratitude whom a kind act embitters. but it would hardly appear that he could survive the beating by baboushka's gang, the ill usage from the street sweepers and that of the ghouls of the dead-house. all this makes me tremble for the plan i formed to have you conveyed hence in a chaise. i have the papers to cover your departure as a clerk whom a business firm of good standing are sending out to buenos ayres. once at hamburg, you may turn your face in any direction you desire. but the slayer of major von sendlingen would not be able to cross the french or italian frontier." "for a man intending to see italy, that would be taking me greatly out of the road," muttered claudius, sinking into a chair. "then go as far as ulm only, where you will let the train proceed without you. send for a doctor whose address i will give you and i answer for his helping you to get into switzerland. after all, that will be better. but i see that you are weak with your exertions and want of proper nourishment." "it is rest i most need." "then stretch yourself on this sofa, and let me cover you with a traveling-rug. when you awake, refreshments will be at hand." "but you, whom i deprive of rest?" "it is true that anxiety about you, my young friend, has prevented me lying down, but i am not desirous of sleep now. do as i tell you. i will countermand the chaise, and return with the food. this house is not a famous inn, but my coreligionists, who are traveling merchants, frequent it, and the edibles are good. as for the honesty of the servants and of the host, i guarantee it. unless you have been dogged to the door, i believe you are safe." claudius said that he seemed not to have been followed. at the house, a patrolman had caught a glimpse of him but the ostler had jestingly turned him off and quieted his suspicions. before his host had reached the door, where he paused to look back, the young man was nodding with eyes closing in spite of his will, and he was soon steeped in slumber. "the sleep on the night before execution," muttered the jew. "this is a sad matter! that baboushka is a witch of malevolence, or i am woefully misinformed, and the major an awkward antagonist. i would a thousand miles separated my daughter, and this young man, from both of them." in the lobby he saw a young girl, with her hair in curl-papers and a candle in her hand, descending the stairs from above. "ah, hedwig," he said gently, "i am not sorry you have risen so early." the girl blushed. "you are as rosy as a carnation. will you please bring me up some coffee and light food as soon as you get the hot water? my daughter and i will probably start before your regular breakfast-hour." the girl seemed vexed by this news, for she bit her lip, but forcing a smile, she continued her journey to the kitchen. no one else seemed afoot in the large and rambling house, through which the jew sent searching looks as he took the turn to the yard. the ostler received him with a grin, and the dog with friendly wags of the stub tail. "we shall not use the chaise as we purposed, karl," said the jew. "at your breakfast-time, my daughter will go out alone for an airing, with you or your fellow to drive. the young gentleman whom you welcomed is quite unfit for a journey before at least three days are over. meanwhile, not an incautious word that will betray where he took shelter. in these three days," he added to himself, "we shall know how the major fares. unfortunately, his race have iron constitutions." this was said with a sorrow rare in one of a people who seldom deplore the survival of a brother man. daniels was right in his fear: the student needed repose, and only the most vigorous counter measures drove off an attack of fever. rebecca was his nurse in the same devoted and intelligent manner as her father was his physician, but as he was on the margin of delirium half the time, he saw her like one in a vision. his antagonist, von sendlingen, was not so blessed. after a cursory treatment in the cemetery gate-keeper's lodge, he was removed, wrapped in blankets, to his quarters in the great barracks; the iron constitution, of which daniels spoke, bore him up, and before claudius was on foot again, the officer was outdoors--a little pale, but seemingly none the worse for his horrible adventure. he took up his own case. fraulein von vieradlers had already tired of her assay in elevating the stage in a social point of view. she had excited the adoration of the eccentric marchioness de latour-lagneau, a very old lady of fortune, who had the habit of conceiving singular fancies. this lady engaged the cantatrice as a "noble companion," and she hurried off with her into italy. so the story ran, and added that her manager found that the vieradlers promptly repudiated any kinship with her when he talked of their paying the forfeit money. he had thereupon endeavored to win back la belle stamboulane to his deserted stage, but she was obdurate, and the beer flowed flat in the double absence of stars inimitable. the major, whose body, reeking with arnica and iodine, reminded him at every step of the drubbing he owed to the civilian, concentrated his searches therefore to discover him. he was sure that he had not left the town by the ordinary channels, but, as time passed, and the week ended fruitlessly, he was inclined to believe that the fiend which befriended baboushka had also shielded claudius with his wing. he did not doubt that the old hag, believing he was lifeless, had hounded on her followers to steal his uniform and hurl him into the kennel for the most hideous of fates, which even the homeless and hopeless dread. but for the enemy whom he hated, he might now be a boxful of dissected bones in the poor man's lot instead of still enjoying the prospect, dear to the scion of an ancient race, of occupying his shelf in the family vault. although a soldier, he had such intimate relations with the civil powers, that the police aided him in searches which he took care astutely to represent as quite non-personal. they led him to the street of the persepolitan hotel, where, before he entered, he was scrutinizing the vicinity when he spied the well-known form of the old beggar-chief. their surprise was alike. "traitress!" he said, with a red spot blazing on his pale cheeks, as he played with the swordknot on his new sword as if he wanted to loose it and flog her. "after receiving my gold, to bring me to death's door! what have you to say to stay me from handing you to the town's officers to be whipped out of it at the cart's-tail?" to his surprise again, she met his glance firmly, and her eyes seemed as irate as his own. "you are mistaken," she replied, carelessly, as if the matter were of no consequence. "how can you expect those stalwart bullies to obey an old woman like me? they would have beaten me to a jelly if i had tried to shield you. besides, my officer, i thought you had not a spark of life left in you after that beating." "he shall pay for it--with the sword if worthy--with the stick if a plebeian." "you need not believe he will ever meet you with the sword," said the hag, glad to have the dialogue turn on another head than her own in spite of her unconcern. "i am going to tell you all about one whom i hated by instinct and whom i find to be a hereditary enemy." "what do you mean? he is but a boy and cannot have wronged you or yours." "his father, major, murdered my loveliest daughter and interrupted her career of splendor! alas! one that had a palace where kings were received and to whom princes often sued in vain!" "halloa! you, to have a daughter of that calibre!" and he laughed coarsely. "you, who know everything, my officer, must at least have heard of the peerless iza, the original of the most beautiful statue which--reproduced in the precious and the mean metals, in clay, in parian, in plaster--made the round of the civilized world? 'the bather!' that was my daughter! she had her faults--even the truly lovely have mental flaws, though bodily they are perfect--but whilst she lived, her poor old mother dressed in silks and velvets--not in rags; she ate and drank delicately, not sour crusts and sourer wine; she slept on down and not in a cellar!" von sendlingen shook his head; he was of the new generation and he preserved but a dim remembrance of the noted beauties--the stars of the living galaxy decorating the first cycle of the bonapartist restoration. "i foresaw it all and i warned her; but she was so perverse! it is my duty to avenge her, and to see that the same blunder is not made by--no matter! enough that my science--at which you smile, i see--points out to me that your greatest enemies and mine are in that house." she gestured toward the hotel, which the major had been studying. "do you say enemies in the plural?" he said, ceasing to curl his lip in mocking of the witch. "in that house are the jewish couple, father and daughter, who played at the harmonista, la belle stamboulane and the turkophonist daniel, and the young man who belabored your excellency so that he almost died of the drubbing." "hang you for being so profuse in your explanations! how do you know all this?" "the servant-maid is a customer of mine. i tell her fortune and she tells me all that goes on in her master's house. the young man has been cared for there these five or six days, and they only await the chance to smuggle him out of the city. have him seized and secure him in prison, where he shall rot--for i declare to you, as surely as there are stars above, these letters of the divine volume in which soothsayers read, he will be your death in the end unless you are his." "i would not be contented with that. i want to return him blow for blow--and yet you say i cannot fight him in duello." "listen, my officer. he has been brought up in ignorance of his name and origin, in my country poland. he is french by birth, and his name is felix clemenceau. it was his father, a celebrated sculptor, who married my daughter iza, after decoying her to paris from her mother's side, and he murdered her on some frivolous pretext when they were living separated and he, heaven knows, had no farther claim upon her--his existence was pure indifference to her. i answer for it! they tried his father for the atrocity. even a french jury could not find extenuating circumstances for that kind of cold-blooded assassin who slays in the small hours the wife of his bosom--after having cast her off and driven her to evil ways, poor, spotless angel! they brought him in guilty of a foul murder and he was guillotined--gentleman and artist of merit though he was. they were kind to his young son; his friends made up a purse and sent him afar to be educated and reared in ignorance. but the shadow of the guillotine is projected afar, and i saw its red finger point to the assassin's offspring. i have found him. if my hand is not too feeble to strike, it may anticipate yours." "i cannot measure swords with a felon's son!" muttered von sendlingen. "but i shall not cease aching in the heart until he is in the shameful grave he imprudently snatched me from." "you are a man after my own liking," said the hag, chuckling. "i can foresee that you will go far and perish in a blaze of glory! listen! there are troublous times when an unscrupulous and ambitious soldier may make his mark and carve a good slice out of the great, rich cake called europe. aid me, and i will aid you. yes, herr major, it is one potentate speaking with another," the singular woman went on with sinister pride, and trying to draw her shrunken form into straightness; "i rule an army of my own, camped by cohorts in the capitals of europe--dating farther back than your own, and, perhaps, as formidable. it is we who spy out the weak spots in great cities. the next time, we shall swarm into the doomed city in a mass and we shall devour its wealth and luxuries until we are gorged. but for the day, it will be glut enough for me to have the life's blood of this man. you cannot honor him with single combat, it appears. then, let me propose another mode to finish him." the major was silent. standing high in the ranks of the police, he was not sure how closely he might ally himself with this avowed leader of the evil-doers, who announced the pillage of a metropolis. she took his silence for consent or approval, for she jauntily continued: "the house-maid has told me all they are hatching. they have a chaise always ready and passports to mask the departure of the young man as a clerk going abroad. but for precaution, they will not have him go to the train at the depot; he might be questioned and the discrepancies in the passport be perceived. the chaise is to convey him down the line, and he will get on the cars at a rural depot where the gendarme and ticket-seller will be dull and easily hoodwinked." "very neat," said von sendlingen, appreciating the plan at its due value. "i always said old daniels was no fool." "what more easy than to post a couple of the horse patrol on the road--young, hot-headed fellows with restless fingers on the triggers? the youth will certainly refuse to surrender, whereupon, bang, bang! he falls into the ditch with a brace of bullets in his body. you and i will have an enemy the less. this is not the way i planned it in my dreams, but we must take our revenge with the sauce fate serves it up to us 'on the table of fact.'" "the scheme is plausible." "feasible! especially will it work like well-oiled machinery if you play your part of lure creditably." "my part?" questioned the major. "yes, yours. with a sorrowful eye and a smooth face, i confess i could not confront the man i hate as strongly as his father. you are different--you are an arch-villain--a born diplomatist who wears the very mask for this task and has no face, no compunction, no pity of his own. go into that house, ask for herr daniels--that is the jew player's non-professional name--and see him and his daughter, perhaps, the young student, too. boldly proclaim your position as the secret intelligence agent, by which you learned their whereabouts, and that they harbor the charitable young man who saved your life. touch lightly on his thumping you within an inch of it, and enlarge on your undying gratitude. apologize to the young lady--lay all blame on her irresistible charms and abuse a little the fair and fickle fraulein von vieradlers who has eloped without so much as an adieu to you! depend upon it, jews though they are, they will applaud your christian forgiveness, and, i do not doubt, frenchman though he is, young clemenceau will give you his hand. dilate not at all, but urge him to leave the town without delay. from the maid i will get to know the hour of the chaise's starting and the route so that you can plant your men. i grant that this has the air of a highwayman's attack, but, after all, the uniform covers a host of civil sins, and, really, i do not see a better way to have done with the youth. it will never do to have him strut about paris boasting that he snatched the sword away from an officer and drubbed him with a cane into the bargain." sullen fire burned in the hearer's eyes. he stamped his foot, suppressed an oath, and when he looked up, had a serene countenance. "you have said enough. a willing steed does not need the spur. i will lay the train and prepare the match. let each look to himself lest he suffer by the explosion." successful though the old woman had been in her arrangement to convert an offended employer into a vigorous ally, she shuddered as if he were, in these ominous words, as good a soothsayer as he pretended to be. chapter vii. one good turn deserves--a bad one. probably no more terrifying a figure could have presented itself at the persepolitan hotel than the major of cavalry, and he looked the type of his class, insolent with aristocratic hauteur, martial to the point of arrogance, and domineering and as blustering toward inferiors as he would have been bland and meek to his superiors. the landlord, one of the hybrid levantines in whose blood that of a dozen races flowed, was as alarmed as the maid, whom he sent up the stairs to announce the visitor to herr daniels. strange to say, the officer, who had taken a seat in the sitting-room, unasked, with his heavy sabre held upright between his knees, bore the somewhat lengthy delay with patience. the girl returned to say that herr daniels would be honored with the visit, although, he had said, he had not a pleasant remembrance of the gentleman. in fact, before his assault in the street upon la belle stamboulane, the major had persecuted her and deserved the reproof from her father which it was too dangerous, as munich society was ruled, for him to utter. but, contrary to all precedent, the military lovelace quietly walked into the room where claudius was restored to health and whence he had been removed to the inmost chamber vacated by the young singer. the major's accident might account for his meekness, but his manners and voice accorded with his speech so that one attributed the change to an altogether different cause than a purely physical one. he approached the jew with open countenance, wearing a chastened and subdued expression, and extended his hand as to a brother officer. daniels accepted it, struck by the unexpected mien, although he could not, in his astonishment and inveterate prudence, return the pressure. the major spoke an apology for his outrageous conduct, in a faltering voice and with moist eyes, spacing the apparently unstudied phrases with a cough as if to master tearfulness unbecoming even an invalid soldier. he laid the blame on the surpassing charms of the songstress who had enflamed him beyond his self-control and, partly, on the infernal french wine in which he had imprudently over-indulged at the evening's garrison officer's dinner. had he but patriotically stuck to the beer! but that was not worth lamenting now. he tendered his regrets to the father of the young lady and promised to use his poor influence--here he smiled at the disparagement as if he knew his power and that his hearer was sure of it--for her professional advancement as long as she rejoiced munich with her beauty and accomplishments. the night in the dead-house, on the very brink of the deathpit, had transformed him, he freely acknowledged. he hardly recognized his own voice in communicating the sentiments that carried him into new directions, so strange was it all, but he was eager to show by deeds that his conversion was great and sincere. he had engaged his protection for the distinguished turkophone-player and his unparalleled daughter, but he felt that was enough. "ample," said daniels, at last able to speak a word on the torrent of glib language momentarily pausing; "but we are going away to fulfill an engagement in paris." "one moment," said the major, politely lifting his hand from which he kept the buckskin gauntlet as if he meant again to shake hands with the ishmael at their farewell. "perhaps i cannot, then, be of service to you, but there is another to whom my assistance is of other value--nay, of the highest consequence. i am not referring to the young lady--whom munich will be so sorry to part with and whom i do not expect to see again even to accept my excuses--but the student from the polish university who deservedly corrected me and brought me to my sober senses--although, perhaps, he had a heavy hand." he spoke with an assumption of manly regret, which enchanted the hearer and completed his revocation of the bad opinion of the rough suitor of his daughter. still the jew had not laid aside all his habitual caution and he did not by word or movement betray that he had an acquaintance with his champion. "i see that i must drop all flourishes and speak unfettered," went on the major, bluntly. "in two words, our brawl has got to the ears of the provost-marshal as well as those of the town guardians, and the search is going to be thorough for that young gentleman. i know it is absurd, and i protested against it, but the idea has penetrated their wooden heads that he is one of those tramp-students who are permeating the masses--worse, the dangerous classes--with seditious ideas, and they think he and baboushka's gang too long lording it in the poor quarter, are hand and glove. in fact, in a day or two--perhaps now--the forces will be a-foot in uniform and in disguise to make a keen and searching inspection of the dwellings suspected of harboring the liberal-minded; and god knows that you have, herr daniels, chosen a veritable hot-bed! two months ago, we arrested a nihilist with a portmanteau full of glass bombs, luckily uncharged, in the attic upstairs; not three weeks since, two hungarian malcontents were stopped at the door--but why enter into these details, fitter for the police than a soldier to relate? you, of course, were not told of these blots on this hotel's fame or you would have selected it as the last roof to shelter your talented daughter. it is one thing to cross swords--i mean staves--with a man, and another to guide the watchmen to clap their coarse paws on his shoulder. i have made honorable amends, i hope, to the lady and yourself, for my rudeness; as for the gallant fellow, i bear him no ill will--on the contrary! since i could wish to meet with him again, and tell him that the great prison of munich is not badly constructed and promises little chance of an escape. i beg you to convey the warning to him that he must lose not one instant if he can escape beyond the walls." still daniels believed it prudent, if not polite, to make no compromising admission. but the speaker was not offended. he smiled wisely, not without good humor, and offered his hand so frankly that the jew again took it and this time slightly returned the generous pressure. but on the way to the door, he was stopped by the entrance of rebecca. although she was clad in the plain garments affected by the jewess in ordinary days, and they were in the most striking contrast with the stage flippery in which the officer had previously seen her, her loveliness was as manifest as the stars when even a fleecy cloud veils them on an autumnal eve. in her anxiety as regarded her father--or, perhaps, the student, who can tell?--she must have stooped to listening to some portion of the singular and one-sided dialogue. for she said, without any prelude: "herr officer, you have acted a noble part and it would be a grief if i had not taken the occasion to accept your apology and thank you for the warning which may save the life of one who--believe me--is no longer your foe, if he had been one. i am not able to judge the greatness and loftiness of your act from your people's point of view, but i shall no longer have a mean opinion of the creed which can perform such a conversion as yours--that is, making you a true gentleman instead of leading one to believe you a heartless libertine." she held out her hand and he took it so reverently, without haste and with tenderness, and kissed it so respectfully that her last doubt vanished--although she scarcely had the ghost of one. he had triumphed completely, and he retired with an airy step and a heart replete with gratification. "if he is dragged into the prison and locked up to rot in the dungeon, they will blame me the last of all," he muttered. "heavens, how supernally beautiful she is! there are times when i think that if she and her rival occupied the scales of the balance, a butterfly's wing would turn them. my heart would be divided in their mutual favor." with the same aerial step, he passed two or three men in threadbare suits and shabby hats, who were hovering about the persepolitan, and who carefully exchanged glances of understanding with him. he went straight to the superintendent-inspector of police, and sat down in his cabinet to concert with him on the best way to suppress, without scandal, the dangerous emissary from ever-restless poland, lodged in consultation with the jew, the bugbear of the monarchies of europe. "tut, tut! tell not the official that daniels and his daughter, for the paltry lucre of the drink-halls or for artistic satisfaction, made the tour of the capitals!" in the meantime, the "suspects," not themselves suspicious, commenced, with rebecca a listener, upon the move counseled by the chivalrous major. it was one they had almost settled upon and they determined to put it all the sooner into execution. the post chaise was kept in a state of readiness, alike with the horse that drew it on these important occasions, a surefooted nag whose pace was better than her appearance. claudius, to be sure, rested under the disadvantage of being a stranger to the roads, as he had traveled only upon one to enter this city--commonly accounted dull, but so far crammed with serious adventures. this blank in his topographical lore was easily filled: the bright-eyed hedwig was to meet him at the first corner, mount into the vehicle of which the capacious hood of enameled cloth would hide her, and there pilot him in steering to the sendling _thur_ or gate. once in the open country, the road was plainer--in fact, he could be guided by the locomotive's smoke and whistle till he reached the little station. even twenty miles out, the persepolitan's landlord had acquaintances--perhaps they were brothers in some occult league--and the vehicle could be left without misgivings at any of the inns which he named. there was nothing in this plan, so simple as to promise success, to trouble the brain, but, all the same, claudius had a sleepless night, though he retired early to be prepared for the probably eventful morrow. he wished to think only of rebecca, who had added sound hints to her father's and the host's experienced advice; but, do what he could, it was another's image that haunted him. it was the winning one of the aristocratic singer. again he beheld her matchless shape, her caressing and enthralling eyes, her supple undulations in the waltz and her shimmering golden curls. and whatever the sounds in the street, where there seemed more footfalls than before that evening, all though actual, were overpowered and formed the burden to the ghostly but delightful strains from that silvery voice. he was not only at the age to be impressionable, but he had not known one of those college amorettes which may be as innocent as a page of a scientific text-book. no woman even in the poetry had caused him to vibrate in the untouched heart-chords like this unexpected star in the firmament of beer fumes and tobacco smoke! but it was not joyous to muse upon this vision for he had no doubt that she marked a new starting-point in his life. did he love her, or rebecca? they had appeared to him so closely together that he was confused. he viewed them as a double-star, without yet having the coolness to separate them. he was a man to love once only, and there is but one love. there are different phases of it as there are different lodgers in the same house; they do not know each other, but they come in and go forth by the same staircase-way. of this he was instinctively certain that if he loved kaiserina, she would guide him in altogether another direction than he had looked and whither his proud and admiring professors had pointed. enormous wealth in our days is to the monopolist, immense fame to the specialist. to rise above contestants, one must be patient, resigned, long toiling and abhorrent of the social ties which fetter one when most of the time is demanded to solve a problem, and pester one to recite the two or three letters he has learnt when he ought to study till he masters the entire alphabet. a man must immolate himself. oh, he had been so happy at whiles with the thought, accounted providential, that he stood alone, with no one to distract him, to impose burdens on him and to claim a right to make inroads on his precious hours. he loved the loneliness in which he sank when he stepped out of the lecture-room and the amphitheatre. he had not felt the need, which others confessed, of some one with whom to share griefs, debate enigmas and communicate projects. since he saw rebecca, he had, indeed, had an almost momentary glimpse of a home where a dashing woman, moving silently and airily, guarded his meditations from the external plagues. such a woman was created to comfort, cheer and encourage if he flagged. but the love she inspired was ideal, perceived hazily during the hours when he was out of health, and divined rather than watched her tender ministrations. the courtships are long when love is based on respect. she gave repose to the soul, not excitement to the spirit. he saw that she admired him for his courage in daring so much--more than he had fully realized--for the despised and trampled-upon, and she pitied one before whom yawned the dreadful prison which rarely lets out the political prisoner with enough life in his wrecked frame to be worth living out. but he did not see that she was truth and that he should follow her. as the sailors drive the ship toward the false beacon, near them and garish and flaring, so he thought the erratic orb brighter than the serene fixed star. he felt ungrateful. this sneaking out of the town was ridiculous after the heroic introduction to la belle stamboulane. he examined a pair of pistols which the host had generously presented him with, when, after the restless night, he rose with the dawn, and he determined to use them if assailed. it is the inoffensive, quiet man who works most mischief when roused--nothing so terrible even to the wolves as the sheep gone mad. the student, having dipped his hand in blood, was now eager to be attacked on the highway by a company of unrepentant von sendlingens. this was no mood, however, in which to start on a journey of possible peril. rebecca did not appear at the breakfast table. she, too, had passed a wakeful night, but it was in prayer for the safety of the first real friend she had so far met among the gentiles. the host looked in at the conclusion of the meal. nothing could wear a fairer aspect. even the hovering figures which he, for good reason, set down as spies, had become tired of their useless quest, and disappeared with the fog that floated amid the smoke of the numerous brewery chimneys. chapter viii. a second defeat. the sun was well up, showing a jolly red face, which indicated that he had been passing the night in the tropics, when claudius, having said his farewell within the hospitable house where his bill had been obstinately withheld from him, took the reins in the chaise. the grinning ostler held the unbarred door of the yard ready to open it quickly and slam it behind him. at least, he had not the host's delicacy and he had accepted his gratuity. "good speed, master!" he had hastily cried out as the equipage rolled out into the street. it was deserted. the horse and vehicle aroused no curiosity where odder animals and more curiously antiquated rattletraps were also out. he traversed the town as unimpeded as a czar environed by secret guards. the officer at the gate, yawning behind the passport which he did not trouble to read, wished him a good dinner at the rural friend's, where it was hinted he would put up, and returned into the guardroom to resume telling a dream which he wished interpreted. since joseph, these functionaries at the gate and in prison seem to be tormented with puzzling visions. all had gone well but for one serious omission: hedwig had not appeared to be taken up; yet he had not mistaken the streets laid down in the itinerary. but once outside the walls, he was forced to go slowly and foresaw the moment when he must stop. it was hazardous to inquire, for, while he was dressed, by the hotel-keeper's provision, like a citizen of munich, he had not the speech of the residents. in his quandary he was greatly relieved when the horse pricked up his ears and gave a whinny in a kind of recognition. claudius glanced to the roadside gladly and hopefully, as a young, feminine figure stepped out from the cover of a post painted in stripes to indicate parish, township and other boundary marks. but although the short frock, coarse woolen stockings, cap and velvet bodice were hedwig's sunday clothes, sure enough, in which the student had once seen the pretty maid, this girl was no rustic slightly polished by the hotel experience. he felt his heart melt like wax in a cast when the bronze rushes within the clay--it was kaiserina von vieradlers! a strange feeling nearly mastered him! instinct bade him run and, whipping the horse, flee at the top of speed anywhere beyond the charm of this unexpected apparition. and yet she came forward so brightly, and so frankly, and her first words were so reassuring that he was ashamed of the impulse which--he was yet to know--had all the worth of heavenly inspired suggestions. "herr student!" she said sweetly, "it is fated that i shall be of service to you. do not go farther in this course. they lie in wait for you. luckily, i know of a cross-country lane--if you will only let me accompany you to set you right, and help me to roll some stones and logs from the mouth. it saves time, and you will baffle your foes. oh, i know all. the faithful hedwig, whose clothes i have borrowed, is a daughter of a tenant on my father's estate. she means well, but she has no brains for these steps out of her even tenor, and she was glad to have me replace her in her mission. help me up!" there was no denying her anything. the horse had appeared to greet her with pleasure, though it was probably the clothes of hedwig that he recognized with the whinny after a sonorous sniff. as she held out her hand, he offered his and, like a fawn clearing a hedge, she bounded up, just touched with a winged foot the iron step, and cleared the seat with a second leap. crouching down within the hood, she began merrily but spoke with gravity before she had finished: "drive on after turning." he turned the horse and vehicle. at the same moment a shrill whistle sounded in the opposite direction. "that's the gendarmes," she said. "the watchman's horn in the old town; the military whistle without. they are keeping good guard for you--but we shall cheat them, i tell you again!" she laughed that purely feminine laugh at the prospect of somebody being deceived. "take the northern fork, although you would seem to be going very different to your aim. at the lane i spoke of, stop--but i shall be at your elbow to prompt you." the drive was resumed in this singular way; there was something piquant in not seeing his companion, her presence manifested only by her sweet breath, the slight rustling of the glazed cloth which afforded her such scanty room, and the prattle which flowed from her lips. she was happy to serve him again; she had liked him from the first sight in the hall; they did not seem to be strangers; he was like she knew not whom, but she could swear the resemblance was perfect! she had been read such a lecture by her manager and the police sub-chief, but, pooh! what were such men but the knob on a post--the post remained and the knob was unscrewed for another to be put on every now and then. they had threatened but she was not a strolling player who feared the lock-up and the house of correction. they would think twice before they sent a child of the vieradlers into the home of the unrepentant magdalens! and all this intermixed with snatches of song and flashes of original wit at the expense of the police and soldiers and the citizens. and the flight into italy with the marchioness famous for protégés as other old ladies for keeping cats or parrots? it was true she had made her an offer and she had connived at the police being made to think she had accompanied the eccentric dame. but she had remained in munich to help the man who was endeared to her. not a word about baboushka and a fear to break the spell kept claudius quiet on that point. eight minutes passed like one, when--"stop!" she exclaimed, and was out beside him without a helping hand and upon the dusty road. the walls had a gap here, roughly choked up by a higgledy-piggledy heap of rubbish. fraulein von vieradlers had attacked it before her astonished companion, also alighting, came to her aid. there was witchery in the creature, for her delicate, ungloved hands, covered with rings, tugged at the roughly hewn tree-trunks and misshapen blocks of stone without a scratch and, as her frame offered no suggestion of strength, the swiftness with which they were moved, confirmed the idea of the supernatural. as soon as he recovered from his amazement, he aided her energetically, and in an incredibly short space the two cleared a passage for the horse to scramble over and the wheels to be lifted clean across. without pausing, they replaced the beams and boulders, and made good the breach. "excellent!" ejaculated the vocalist, contemplating the work. "but i am wrong to delay. we are not out of the vale of tribulation. help me in and tan the horse's hide well! we must, without farther delay, reach the farmhouse whose red-tiled roof gleams under the lindens. help me in, and lay on the whip!" this drive, at redoubled speed, despite its being in broad daylight, had to the student the fascination of the gallop of the returned dead lover and lenore in the ballad. though never cruel before, he now spared the horse not a stroke or impatient shout, however imprudent the latter was. on the rutty, ill-kept lane the wheels bounded unevenly and the driver had hard work to keep his seat; but the girl, by a miracle of balancing, held her half-crouching, half-standing position in the _calash_, and only now and then, flung forward by a jolt, rested her hands on claudius' shoulders. at this contact--at the sight of those roseate, dimpled hands--he was electrified and in the headlong rush he pictured himself as phaeton, careering behind the glancing tails of the steeds of the solar chariot. such a pace overtasked the poor mare. at any moment now her sudden collapse after a stumble might be expected. on the other hand, the farm-house, winning-post of the race, loomed up clearly, and, luckily, the road improved a little by becoming harder and descending gradually. on one side rose a willow coppice, in the trailing branches of which a musically rippling brook was running; on the other, the ruins of a barn, which a flood had demolished. on the knoll beyond, the haven stood, and kaiserina smiled as she leaned her head forward so that her cheek was next his. again she had saved him! no; not yet! from both sides of the road at the hollow, three horsemen came solemnly forth, two from the right, one from the ruins. the girl turned pale and shrank back. claudius flung down the broken whip, and, taking the reins in his teeth, held a pistol in each hand. he had recognized in the most prominent rider major von sendlingen, and in an instant he comprehended that this was a trap and that his chivalric, christian conduct was the most base of impudent tricks. was kaiserina also a betrayer? he did not believe that. each horseman had a pistol as well as a sword drawn, and, besides, the two inferiors were armed with carbines. this had the air of an assassination, and, infuriated by the treachery, claudius resolved to begin the attack. it mattered little whether fraulein von vieradlers was in the conspiracy or not. once she had saved his life, and he was bound not to molest her now, so long as she remained neutral. she had cowered down, from fear or because her guilt oppressed her. perhaps his contempt would punish her sufficiently. the old mare bore the unusual exertion bravely and charged down the incline against the odds like a war-stallion. "take him alive!" shouted the major, beating down the pistols with his sword flat, as a second thought changed his first intention. he had spied the young singer in the shadow of the hood, and he had no wish to injure her. "that's not as you decide!" retorted claudius, and he fired both shots at the same time. but he had not allowed for the steep descent. one bullet stung the major in the thigh, the other so cruelly lacerated the horse of the gendarme on his right that it screamed, reared and fell sidewise with a crash into the brook. the man, although encumbered by his heavy boots, contrived to disengage himself and stood up, furious at being unhorsed. at the same moment, out of the reeds, much as though the disappeared horse had suffered a transformation, an old woman leaped up into the lane. her grey hair was disheveled and her pelisse was shredded by the brambles. she ran to place herself before the horse in the chaise and the gendarmes, and screamed, with her eyes fastened on the girl in the vehicle: "hold! do not shoot! god is not willing!" but the major alone obeyed the injunction; the others, in the saddle and dismounted, were wild with rage and pain. their two firearms rang out as one, and the old woman had only time to cover the mark by drawing herself to her full height, with an effort unknown for thirty years. both bullets entered her chest, for she fell under the horse's feet, as it stumbled and went down beside her. as the vehicle abruptly came to a stop, quivering in every portion, claudius clung to the frame of the hood to save himself from being cast out. the girl was hurled against him, but she did not think of herself. she thrust into his hand a revolver and whispered rapidly: "quick! they are going to fire again!" it was true; excepting, this time, the gendarmes had recourse to their carbines, the dismounted one having picked his up from the briars, and found the cap secure. at that short range, the student would be a dead man if he awaited the double discharge. heated with the action, inhaling the acrid smell of gunpowder, the demon possessed him which at such moments hisses: "kill, kill, kill!" into a man's ear. the angelic demon there had supplied him with the weapon, and he fired three shots as rapidly as the mechanism would work. the dismounted gendarme had come out on an unlucky day; a bullet in his neck laid him lifeless in the rushes beside the strangled horse; his comrade, pierced so that he bled internally, drew off to the roadside mechanically--the image of despair; nothing more heartrending than the anguish on his convulsed visage and the increasingly hopeless expression. here was a double tragedy, but it was the major who, under the eyes of fraulein von vieradlers, was to furnish the comedy of the incident. his horse took the bit in its teeth and ran away with him along the bank of the brook, threatening at any moment to lose footing and roll the two in the water. "victory!" said the girl, with a joy-flushed cheek, alighting and displaying no more compassion for the soldiers slain in doing their duty than for the chaise horse--or the old woman beside its heaving carcass. "she is dead," remarked claudius. "but what did she say? she spoke in polish--i understand it--i caught the words, but they were not intelligible." "were they not?" continued the girl, not displeased. "she said, 'my child!'" "very well! i am her grandchild. that was not all, though--she affectionately recommended you to me, as my cousin." "cousin? your cousin?" repeated claudius, without contradicting the speaker on his impression that baboushka's face had not worn a soft expression, in his eyes. "it would appear that you do not know yourself as felix clemenceau?" "clemenceau?" echoed the student, remembering what he had heard in the music-hall. "yes; your father was the famous sculptor." was his predilection for art a hereditary trait? the son of a celebrity? then his essays in design were unworthy of his name. abashed, inclined to despair, having a glimpse of a tumultuous rabble shouting: "at last he is here!" before the ruddy guillotine on a raw morning, a pale, prim man between the executioner's aids, the young clemenceau listened to the girl, who probably resembled the lovely iza, but looked at the dead woman at their feet. "yes, we are cousins! that is why i took a fancy to you at the sight. i knew this time i loved for a good reason. the band of nature--the bond of blood--connected us! but this is not the place or time to pluck leaves, and compare them, from our genealogical tree. the major has succeeded in reining in his horse, but, who cares? the old farmhouse stood a siege in the great napoleon's time and could mock at him now. leave all--all these cooling pieces of carrion, and my dear grandma!" she sneered, "and let us hasten to the house where i have friends." like a man in a dream, claudius, or, better, felix clemenceau, since this was his true title, holding the half-emptied revolver by his side, automatically allowed the strange creature to lead him from the battlefield. he was oppressed by the magnitude of the ruin he left behind: the peaceful student to whom the pencil and the eraser were alone familiar had handled firearms like "the professor" in a shooting gallery. and then the assertion--or revelation--that he was of kin not only to the old witch, who had perished in shielding him unintentionally in saving her grandchild, but to the latter. fair as a sylph but icy-hearted as a woman of five social seasons! but the son of the guillotined wife-murderer should not be fastidious about those relatives who deigned to recognize him. the farmhouse was a large stone and brick structure, moss-grown but firm as a castle; at its porch, three men had tranquilly awaited the result of the conflict; most of the episodes had been observed by them. two were comfortably clothed like farmer and overseer, and showed a respectful bearing to the third. this was a man of about thirty years, but looking younger, tall, slender, elegant and proud. not yet calm, clemenceau vaguely recalled the refined, winning, though dissipated visage; this was the gentleman in the harmonista who had enlightened him unawares on the antecedents of fraulein von vieradlers. he did not notice her companion but his stiffness disappeared as he bowed to her. without asking for any explanation on the affray, he said to her: "can he--your companion--ride? the horses are under saddle. if not--" clemenceau replied in the affirmative to fraulein von vieradlers, instead of to the gentleman. he conceived an aversion to him on the spot, although his intention to include him in the pre-arranged flight was manifest. but he was the victim of circumstances and for the present he had to yield. besides, the prospect held out was for him to continue beside the dazzling beauty, whose influence seemed more wide than her deceased ancestress. like many bookworms, he had entertained a humiliating opinion of the sex that makes the world move round; he was beginning to doubt, and he would retract it before long. kaiserina related the events briefly, while one of the farmers brought two magnificent saddle-horses round to the long, high side of the house, facing the northwest. clemenceau mechanically mounted the bay, and the gentleman assisted the lady upon the black. both animals were impatient to be gone, and when given the head, started off madly. this exciting pace roused the student from his lethargy, and when the steeds had settled down to a less frenzied gait, he asked what was his guide's intention. "it is plain. you must be put across the border into france." "france!" it seemed to him, since the revelation of his birth in that country, that the name had a charm unknown heretofore. yes, he ought to make a pilgrimage into that sunny land where his father had been a gem in its artistic crown. "it is your native country and you will be safer there than in italy or austria. our next stage will be the little railway station to which you may see that long double silver serpent, the metal tracks, stretching across the plain." chapter ix. reparation. fortunately for the fugitives, the poorly paid railway officials in these parts are the obsequious servants of those who liberally bribe. the station-master, though a very grand personage, indeed, in his uniform and metal-bound cap, became pliant as an east indian waiter and accepted without question the explanation of the lady. it was she who was spokesman throughout. she said that she and her companion were play-actors and that their baggage was detained by a cruel manager of a munich musical beer-hall; this was a wise admission as the man might have seen her at the harmonista, or, at least, her photograph in the doorway. but they were compelled to reach lucerne without delay or lose a profitable engagement, by the proceeds of which they could redeem their paraphernalia. while listening, the man dealt out the tickets, pocketed the gratuity which was handsomely added to a previous donation, and, without any surprise, agreed to let any one calling take away the horses; they certainly were above the means of strolling singers who had to flee from a town. farther discussion, if he had sought it, was curtailed by the electric signal heralding the coming of a train. in eight minutes, the two were ensconced in a first-class compartment and hurried along toward the land of lakes. in the sumptuous coach, the girl unburdened herself, but, with rare art or imperfect knowledge of her origin, she was more explicit on the family of her cousin than on her own. however, it was his that had made a niche in art and scandalous story. as for kaiserina, her mother was the eldest daughter of a count dobronowska, of a polish branch of the vieradlers, who had settled in fuiland. the count had meddled with politics and the czar had promptly confiscated his landed property. the loss and fear of siberia had broken his heart. after his death, the widow passed the intervals of her grief in besieging persons of influence to obtain a restitution of the estate. unfortunately, she had no son to fight the battle with the czar, but two daughters were growing up with such a superabundance of charm that they promised to be no mean allies in the enterprise. but fortune did not altogether favor the widow; it is true that she interested a russian of great wealth and political sway, but when the time came for his co-operation to be active, he played her a wicked trick. he attracted her elder daughter to him and married her. not liking to have a mother-in-law in his mansion, he pensioned her off, with the proviso that her presence should never clash immediately with his own in any country. it is regrettable to add that wanda, madame godaloff, agreed to this arrangement, and, indeed, having attained woman's goal, troubled herself not once about her parent who had schemed and plotted tirelessly for this end. the countess had brought her deer to a pretty market; but, unhappily, she gained little by the bargain compared with what she had dreamed. she had a brother-in-law who had acted very differently from her husband. instead of playing the patriot--and the fool--he had submitted to the tyrant and won a lucrative post at st. petersburg. he was afraid to injure himself by giving countenance to his brother's relict, who was always seeking an audience of the emperor. it was strongly suspected that she intended, since wanda was out of the lists, to throw the next daughter, iza, at the head of a grand-duke with whom the two girls had played when all three were children at warsaw. the countess seemed to have educated the girl, as soon as her elder was out of the way, for a royal match. like most poles, iza spoke several languages fluently, sang and played the harp and piano. she was growing lovelier than her sister because she was a purer blonde, and yet wanda had been accounted a miracle. remembering that, at a later period, a foreign adventuress almost inextricably ensnared one of the imperial family, the countess dobronowska's matrimonial project was not so insane. some other pretender to the grand-ducal left or right hand thought it feasible, for everybody said that it was feminine jealousy that led to the countess and her "little beauty" being ordered out of the white czar's realm. the pair, spurred on by the police of every capital, and all are in communication with st. petersburg, at last rested in paris. it was a favorable moment; the french government had offended the older powers by its presumption in chastising venerable austria almost as severely as the great napoleon had done. the dobronowskas were let alone in the imperial city on the seine; but, unfortunately, the important state functionaries soon became as tired of the countess's plaints as their brothers on the neva. reduced to the shifts of the penniless aristocrats, the two lived like the shabby genteel. they made a desperate attempt to entrap their grand-duke again. but the victim had warning and the pair were stopped at warsaw. here a beam of the sun, long withheld, glanced through the clouds and transiently warmed "the marrying mamma." a distant relative of hers, one lergins, was an attaché of the embassy and he fell in love with his "cousin" iza, as the mother allowed the youth to call her. as he had splendid prospects and seemed to be quite another man as regarded maternal control of wanda's husband, mamma dismissed her brilliant _ignis fatuus_ and tried to have a clandestine marriage come off. but the young secretary of embassy was not of age and again she was forced to depart for paris--that sink-hole for refugees of all sorts. his family put pressure on the officiale who in turn applied it to the luckless _intriguante_. farewell, the future in which a semi-imperial coronet hand gleamed! even that where a cascade of gold coin inundated the new danae. wearied of this constant grasping at the unattainable iza, who had something of a heart, chose for herself, much as her elder had done, with happiness at home as the object; one fine morning, married m. pierre clemenceau, a young but rising sculptor. he had on the previous visit of theirs to paris, materially befriended them. it was only gratitude after all, although he, enamored like an artist of this unrivaled beauty, would have sacrificed fortune to possess her. indeed, he sacrificed all--even his honor, for he suffered himself to be gulled by her wiles as profoundly as he was infatuated by her charms. at this point, as became a young woman telling of a relative's iniquity, kaiserina glazed the facts and gave a perversion. it was later, therefore, that felix clemenceau learned in detail the whole mournful tale of a beautiful wanton's ingrained perfidy and a loving husband's blind confidence. the end was inevitably tragical. lergins was decoyed by the countess to paris, where she languished like a shark out of water. the sculptor's income did not come up to her dreams of luxury, any more than those she inspired in her daughter. she brought about a separation of the wedded pair and rejoiced when a fresh scandal necessitated a duel between the young russian and the frenchman. unhappily for her revengeful ideas, it passed over harmlessly enough. iza remained the talk and admiration of the gay capital, although women of superior physical attractions rendezvous there. nothing blemished her appearance; no excesses, no indulgements, not even bearing a son had a blighting effect. unfortunately for the dissevered artist, she had been his model for the most renowned of his works and her name was inseparably intertwined with his own. although "crowned" as the favorite of a king who came in transparent incognito to paris to visit her, though occupying princely quarters, outshining the fading la mesard and the rising julia barucci in diamonds, iza was still known as "the clemenceau statue." her mother, as lost to shame, was the mistress of the wardrobe in this palace; she was spiteful as a witch, and began to resemble one in her prime, bloated, red with importance and self-indulgence, before the wrinkles came many and fast. one day, annoyed at the persistency with which a friend of clemenceau's watched the queen of the disreputable in hopes to make her flagrancy a cause for legal annulment of the marriage, she denounced him as a traitor in an anonymous letter to the fretting husband, then in rome. her daughter agreed to make good the assertion that the friend had failed monstrously in his trust. like othello, clemenceau swore that this demon of lasciviousness should betray no more men. the force of depravity should no farther flow to corrupt the finest and best. he entered the boudoir of the royal favorite and stabbed her to the heart. in the morning, he gave himself up to the police. the victim was so notorious that the clemenceau trial was a nine days' wonder. his advocate was eloquent to a fault, but that inexplicable thing, the jury, found no extenuating circumstances in the act and brought in the verdict of murder. the good men were incapable of appreciating the right he claimed to stop the blighting career of messalina--to divorce with steel where the state of the law, then meekly following the ecclesiastical ruling, forbade any sundering of the connubial tie except by death. he met his doom calmly and laid his head beneath the axe with a martyr's brow. kaiserina acknowledged this. felix clemenceau understood everything now. the trustees to whom he owed his subsistence-money, m. rollinet the imperial counsel, and m. constantin ritz, a famous sculptor's son, and the life-companion of clemenceau, were characters in the momentous drama which kaiserina recited, whom he knew by correspondence. the finger of fate, which had urged the artist to commit a homicide for morality's sake, had pointed out to his son the way which had to be followed over corpses of the young student's slaying. brooding over the alteration in his future, he exchanged hardly a word with his cousin, during the prolonged journey, which they continued together, as though mutual reluctance to part bound them indissolubly. logic said there should be a powerful repugnance between those whom the shadow of the guillotine's red arm clouded. but, spite of all, felix felt that kaiserina was, like himself, well within the circle of infamy. her mother was the sister of the shameful iza, and her husband's careful guard of her proved that he doubted her walking virtuously if her unscrupulous mother stood by her side. this old megara--who sold her offspring to worse than death--was living--seemed eternal as evil itself. it were a pious act to save kaiserina from her as his father had tried to do with iza. he was pleased that she seemed inclined to cling to him as though wearied of the erratic life she seemed to have led after a flight from her mother's, and which she did not describe minutely. he was also grateful that, in her allusions to his father, she did not speak with the bitterness of a blood-avenger. they made the journey to paris without any stoppage. he had to visit m. ritz, for m. rollinet was no longer there, having accepted a judgeship in algeria. in the vehicle, carrying to a hotel where he purposed leaving her, felix said, feelingly: "i think i see why we were brought together. i am not to lead the life of an artist, lounging in galleries, sketching ruins and pretty girls, but one of expiation for my poor father's crime." "perhaps. more surely," she replied with a smile which, on her peerless lips, seemed divine, "_i_ should make the faults of the dobronowskas be forgotten." they had arrived at the same conclusion as the journey ended, but the means had not occurred yet to either. "here we are," he exclaimed, as the carriage horse came to a stop. he alighted, entered the hotel and settled for the young lady's stay. returning, he came to help her out. "my door will never be closed to you," she said, remembering how, in her story, her notorious ancestors had playfully suggested in a letter announcing her renunciation of her scheming mother's toils and her return to marry clemenceau, that he might leave his door on the jar for her at all instants. "and yet, what will be the gain in our meeting again?" "everything for our souls, and materially! here in france, where la belle iza and the executed clemenceau point a moral, neither of us can find a mate in marriage easily. if blood stains me, shame is reflected on you. let us efface both blood and shame by an united effort! let our life in common force the world to look no farther than ourselves and see nothing of the disgrace beyond." "i do not care a fig for what people think or say," said the one-night _diva_, with a curl of the lip. "and i do not understand you fully." "wait till i see you again, when all shall be made clear. meanwhile, cousin--since without you i should have lost my life, or, certainly my liberty--i am eternally bound to you. it is left to you to have the bonds solemnized in the church, here, in france--my country!" chapter x. the fox in the fold. among the secluded villas that dot with pretty colors the suburb of montmorency, there is none more agreeable than the villa reine-claude, which was in the hands of the notary who had managed the transmission of the maintenance money to young clemenceau. at the hint from m. ritz, who had a debt of honor to pay the son of his dead friend, the house was rented at a nominal sum. here felix, as he boldly described himself by right, though the name had a tinge of mockery, installed himself with his bride. he had a portfolio of architectural sketches soon completed and, thanks to the fellowship to which his name might exercise a spell, all the old artists who had known his father, helped him manfully. luckily, there was something markedly novel in his work. his odd training helped him. he came from the polish university into an unromantic society which, after its stirring up by the great revolution, was so levelled and amalgamated that everybody resembled his neighbor as well in manners and speech as in attire. strong characters, heated passions, black vices, deep prejudices, grievous misfortunes, and even utterly ridiculous persons had disappeared. the country he had been reared in still thrilled with patriotism and meant something when it muttered threats to kill its tyrant--meant so much that the czar did not pass through a polish town until the police and military had "ensured an enthusiastic reception." but in france, tyrants and love of country were mere words to draw applause from the country cousins in a popular theatre. felix, though a youth, stood a head and shoulders above the level of the weaklings excluded as "finished" from these commonplace educational institutions--schools called colleges and colleges called universities, resulting necessarily from the proclamation of man's equality. he sickened at seeing the neutral-tinted lake of society, with "shallow-swells," more painful to the right-minded than an ocean in a tempest. he soon became like the french, but not so his wife. she suffered the change of her unpronounceable name, being euphonized as "césarine," smilingly, but life at home in a demure and tranquil suburb little suited the young meteor who had flashed across germany. felix saw with dismay that domestic bliss was not that which she enjoyed. for a while he hoped that she would content herself as his helpmate and the genius of the hearth when a mother. but maternity had nothing but thorns for her. she chafed under the burden and her joy was indecent when the little boy died. until then he had believed that the path of duty was wide enough and lined sufficiently with flowers to gratify or at least pacify her. but césarine was, like her aunt, a born dissolvent of society's vital elements. ruled by a strong hand, and removed from the pernicious influence of the vicious countess, her mother had never inculcated evil to her child; on the contrary, impressed by the lesson of iza's career, she had perhaps been too puritanic with césarine, whose flight from home at an early age, was like the spring of a deer through a gap in a fence. césarine, wherever placed, sapped morality, faith, labor and the family ties. in the new country she feared at first that she had but exchanged parental despotism for marital tyranny. but soon she perceived that nothing was changed that would affect her. on the contrary, france, in the last decade of the empire, was more corrupt than russia's chief towns and the dissoluteness, though not as coarse as at munich, was more diffused. here she was assured that she could gratify her insatiable appetite at any moment. she saw that the manners excused her; the laws guaranteed the unfaithful wife, and religion screened her; that the social atmosphere, despite slander and gossip, enveloped and preserved her; in short, it was clear that to a creature in whom wickedness developed like a plant in a hot-house, the freedom society accorded her was as delicious as that given by her husband in his trust and his devotion to art. it seemed to her that, after the death of their first-born, his silence signified some contempt for her; in fact, she had, stupidly frank for once, expressed relief at this escape from the cares of maternity. did he suspect that she had, not with any repugnance, precipitated its death? she feared this passionate man who, by strength of will, made himself calm, alarmed her more than an angry one would have done. moved by instinct, for she really felt that his sacrifice to her in marrying had condoned for his father's blow at her ancestress, she tried to return him harm for good. but it is not easy for a serpent to sting a rock. recovered from the slight eclipse of beauty during her experience as a mother, she endeavored to make him once again her worshiper. but her tricks, her tears and her caresses seemed not to count as before when they fled from von sendlingen's vengeance. he remained so strictly the husband that she could perceive scarcely an atom of the lover. then she vowed to torture him: he should no longer find a wife in her--not even a woman, still less a lovely companion; she would implant in him intolerable longing and guard that he might not gratify it--not even lull it on any side, while she would become a statue of marble to his most maddening advance. he should have no more leisure for study, but be thrilled with the incessant and implacable sensation which relaxes the muscles, pales the blood, poisons the marrow, obscures reason, weakens the will and eats away the soul. unfortunately for her hideous project, it was in vain that she painted the lily of her cheeks and the carmine of her lips, studied useless arts of the toilet harder than a sage muses over nature's secrets to benefit mankind, and was the peerless darling of three years ago. he resisted her till she grew mad. the progression of vice is such that while she believed she was simply at the degree of passion, she contemplated another crime. she ruled the little household, for she had brought from germany the girl hedwig, who had been the tool of her grandmother; this silly and superstitious girl had gone once to the witch to have her fortune told and had never shaken off the bonds; these césarine took up and drove her by them. she had led to the entrance of the girl under her roof ingeniously; felix was cajoled into believing that she came rather on the hint of fraulein daniels, the rebecca, of whom he often had agreeable and soothing memories in his distress. ah, she would not have interrupted his studies; she would have encouraged them; she would never have urged him to accumulate wealth to expend it in social diversions; while césarine fretted at her splendid voice going to waste in this solitude--the house in the suburbs where no company comes. she dreamed of holding a liberty hall, where her fancies might have unlicensed play and her freaks have free course. while gliding about the quiet house in a neat dress, she imagined herself in robes almost regal, with golden ornaments, diamonds and the pearls and turquoises which suited her fairness. what if the gems were set in impurities? alas! perfect as a husband, denying her nothing which his limited means allowed, felix had not once an inclination to tread beside her the ballroom floor, the reception hall marbles, and the flower-strewn path at the aristocratic charity bazaar. yet he felt firmly assured that he was destined to a great fortune. he saw the gleam of it although he could not trace the beam to its source, too dazzling. but she had no faith in him, she did not understand his value, and from the time of his certainty that they were not the unit of two hearts to which happiness accrues and where it abides, he merely resigned himself to the irremediable grief. having vainly tried to make of her a worthy wife, and seeing that motherhood had not saved her--earthly redemption though it is of her sex--he could only watch her and prevent her resuming that orbit which would no doubt end badly, as her race offered too many examples. on one occasion, fatigued with watching that she did not take a faulty step, he had written to russia to see if she would find a harbor there, but the answer came from her father and sealed up that outlet. her elopement had caused her mother fatal sorrow, and her father said plainly that he regarded her as dead. though she came to his gates, begging her bread, he would bid his janitor drive her away. her mother had been a good wife, but her grandmother had extorted a mint of money and, after all, nearly ruined him in the good graces of his emperor out of spite, from her blackmail failing at last to remunerate her. since in césarine, felix found no intelligent and sympathetic companion, he took into intimacy a kind of apprentice whom he had literally picked up on the road. a slender lad of southern origin, whom a band of vagrants, making for the sea to embark to south america, had cast off to die in the ditch. clemenceau gave him shelter, nursed him--for his wife would have nothing to do with a beggar--and to cover the hospitality and soothe the italian's pride, paid him liberally to be his model. he was named antonino and might have been a descendant of the emperor from his lofty features, burning eye and fine sentiments. healed, able to resume his journey and offered a loan to make it smooth, he effusively uttered a declaration of gratitude and devotion, and vowed to remain the slave of the man who had saved him from a miserable death. a good work rarely goes unrewarded. antonino, who had never touched a piece of colored chalk to a black stone, soon revealed strong gift as a draftsman and served his new master with brightness and taste. left lonely by his wife, each day more and more estranged, felix loved to labor with the youth in the tasks to both congenial. that césarine should grow jealous would be natural, but it was pique that she felt toward felix. in antonino, she saw the possible instrument of her vengeance. his good looks, fervid temperament, youthful impressionability, all conspired in her favor as well as the innate artistic craving which had at the first sight lifted her on a pedestal as his ideal of the woman to be idolized. nevertheless, the vagabond had a stronger spirit than she anticipated, and the emotion which she set down as timidity, and which protected him from the baseness of deceiving his benefactor, was due to honor. she flattered herself that she could pluck the fruit at any time, and, since this moneyless youth could not in the least appease her yearning for inordinate luxury, she cast about for another conquest. clemenceau would not hear of his home being turned into the pandemonium of a country-house receiving all "the society that amuses," and rigidly restricted his wife from visiting where she would meet the odd medley in the suburbs of paris. retired opera-singers, bohemians who have made a fortune by chance, superseded politicians, officials who have perfected libeling into an art, and reformed female celebrities of the dancing-gardens and burlesque theatres. but, as society is constituted, it would have earned him the reputation of a tyrant if he had refused her receiving and returning the visits of the venerable marchioness de latour-lagneau, to whom the bishop always accorded an hour during his pastoral calls. this was a neighbor. in her old louis xiv. mansion, conspicuous among the new structures, the old dame, in silvered hair which needed no powder, welcomed the "best people" in the neighborhood and a surprising number of visitors who "ran down" from the city. considering her age, her activity in playing the hostess was remarkable. on the other hand, the "at homes" were most respectable, and the music remained "classical;" not an echo of offenbach or strauss; the conversation was restrained and decorous and the scandal delicately dressed to offend no ear. not all were old who came to the château, and the foreigners were numerous to give variety to the gatherings; but the white neck-cloth and black coat suppressed gaiety in even the rising youth, who were destined for places under government or on boards of finance and commerce. it may be judged that an afternoon spent in such company was little change to madame clemenceau, and that the five o'clock tea, initiated from the english, was a kind of penitential drink. but she became a habitué, and took a very natural liking to hear again the anecdotes indicating how matters moved in germany and russia, where her childhood and early girlhood had passed. one evening, she arrived late. she was exasperated: antonino had imbibed his master's imperturbability and seemed to meet her advances with rebuking chilliness. a marked gravity governed them both of late; they shut themselves up for hours in their study, but instead of the silence becoming artists, noises of hammering and filing metal sounded, and the chimney belched black smoke of which the neighbors would have had reason to complain. "a fresh craze!" thought césarine, dismissing curiosity from her mind. dull and decorous though the marchioness' salon was, it might be an ante-chamber to a more brilliant resort beyond, while the laboratory of science leads to no place where a pretty woman cares to be. the marchioness had remembered her meeting with césarine at munich and was polite enough to express her regret that her offer of a companionship had not been accepted. "all her pets had married well," she observed, as much as to say that she would have found no difficulty in paving the lovely one with a superior to clemenceau. soon madame clemenceau had become the favorite at the château; and, tardy as she was, the servant hastened to usher her in to her reserved chair. it was placed in the row of honor in the large, lofty drawing-room, hung with tapestry and damask curtains, and filled with funereally garbed men and powdered old dowagers. the late comer was struck by their eyes being directed with unusual interest upon a vocalist. he stood before the kind of throne on which the marchioness conceitedly installed herself. he was singing in german, and he accompanied himself on a zither. he had an excellent baritone voice, and the ballad, simple and unfinished, became a tragic _scena_ from his skill in repeating some exceptionally talented teacher's instructions. to césarine, the strains awakened dormant meditations; aspirations frozen in her placid home, began to melt; a curtain was gradually drawn aside to reveal a world where woman reigned over all. what she had heard from her grandmother of the magic splendor which wanda had missed and iza enjoyed, flashed up before her, and her heart warmed delightedly in the voluptuous intoxication of unspeakable bliss. on the wings of this melody, which, in truth, merely sought to picture the celestial dwelling of the elect, she was carried into one of those bijou palaces of the best part of the queen city of the universe, where the bedizened imperia at the plate-glass window reviews an army of faultlessly-clad gentlemen filing before her, and sweetly calls out: "this, gentlemen, is the spot where you can be amused!" yes, césarine was intended to entertain men! she longed to be the central figure in the scene, however brief, of that apotheosis where cupid is proclaimed superior to all the high interests of human conscience; this glittering stage sufficed for her, although it would have limited felix's ideal of man's function. in a struggle between duty and passion, she expected passion to overcome, and she concurred beforehand with this troubadour who protested that the gentler sex really held the under one in its dependence. radiant with pleasure and farther delighted to recognize a well-known face on the minstrel's shoulders, she hastened at the conclusion to give him her compliments. it was the young nobleman who had aided her flight with clemenceau at munich, and of whom she had not cherished a second thought! better than all, while titled a baron in germany, he held a viscount's rank in france, and his aunt, the marchioness, presented him as the last of the terremondes. she had not expected to meet in this coterie a gentleman who patronized the singers of a beer-hall, but the frock does not make the monk, and baron gratian von linden-hohen-linden, viscount de terremonde in france, was of another species than the frequenters of latour château. from his income in both countries, he had the means to maintain what would have been ruinous establishments; he had the racing stud which no english peer would be ashamed of, a gallery of masterpieces acquired from living painters, an unrivaled hot-house of orchids, wolf-hounds and fox-hounds and other dogs, and the rumor went that the famous caroline birchoffstein, in consideration of his being a fellow-countryman, was more often seen in his box at the grand opera house than in her own. the imperial court, also, not averse to being on good terms with south germany, since prussia was supposed to be france's greatest opponent in case luxembourg were clutched, petted the franco-teuton, and regretted that he was so pleasure-loving. to continue her thraldom over him, césarine left not a word unsaid or a glance undelivered. in this attack, she was met halfway, for, had she been less eager, she must have seen that the viscount-baron's joy at seeing her again was sincere. "you hesitate to ask what happened after your fortunate escape with that young student," he said, when they were allowed a few minutes together by the artful management of the hostess. "i can tell you that i had to pass through a fiery ordeal and i hope you preserved a kindly memory of one who suffered tremendously for you. major von sendlingen was not an undetached person whose quarrel could be kept among private ones. on the contrary, he moved the authorities like a chess-player does the pieces, and he moved them against me. at the first, they talked of nothing less than trying me for treason, since the projected arrest of the polish conspirator and yourself--kinswoman of the dobronowska inscribed in the black book of the russian and polish police--was foiled on my territory. the major affirmed that he had seen me not only looking on at the defeat of his posse, but holding my farmers in check not to hasten to their assistance. he alleged that i had lent racehorses to you and your accomplice, for your continued flight. this polander--" "you can say frenchman, now," returned madame clemenceau; "he is one, and my cousin. the story is long and involved and will keep to another day. it is he i married." "your husband!" he exclaimed, and she nodded apologetically. "then," sighed he, "my dream ends here--on that day when we last met." "a learned man has said, in a lecture here, that dreams can be repeated and continued, by an effort of the will. my advice to you is to try it." "do not jest with me! you can see--you can be sure if you will but question--that i narrowly escaped the state's prison for helping you. spite of all, i can love no other woman but you--" she held up her closed fan and touched his lips with the feathery edging. "you must not talk so--at least--here," she said, with her glance in contradiction to her words. "i am happy, or contented, strictly speaking, in my home, and as soon as my husband realizes one or two of the ideas over which he is musing, happiness must be mine. a success in art will drag him forth; he must go to paris to be feasted in the salons and lionized in the conversaziones." and her eyes blazed as she figured herself presiding at an assemblage of artists and patrons. "pardon me," said the viscount-baron. "i am afraid i add to your worry. i see that you are pining for the sphere to which your grace and charms entice you. i will do anything you order; but yet, since i, too, am an exile, and for your sake, pray do not ask me not to see you and speak of love." "it must be thus," she replied, with half-closed eyes, turning away abruptly, as if she feared her virtuous resolution were failing. "let our parting be forever!" "forever!" he repeated, following her into the window alcove, although thirty pairs of eyes regarded them. "you cannot mean that. at least, i deserve--have earned--your friendship by what i have undergone for you. let me have a word of hope! though divorce is not allowed in this country, death befalls any man, for while your statisticians figure out that the married live longest, they do not assert that they are immortal. clemenceau dead, his widow may remarry. you say he is an enthusiast--one of those college-growths which run to seed without any fruit. i thought the contrary from the way he rode my horse and handled the pistols. but, being an enthusiast, how can you expect to do anything but vegetate? you will always be poor, for, if the man's ideas bore fruit, he would only sink the gains in fresh enterprises. these artists are always unthrifty, and they should wed their laundresses or their cooks. but i--though they have tied up my german revenue, and i have been practically banished--enjoy a tolerable return from my property in this empire. i have been offered a very handsome present if i wholly transfer allegiance to the napoleons. would you not like to have the _entré_ to the empress's coterie and shine among the acknowledged beauties? i give you my word that your peer is not among them, and the leader would be enchanted with you. come, suppose a little fatal accident to monsieur--may he not suck poison off his paint brush or cut an artery with his sculptor's chisel? and, after a sojourn at bravitz, you might return to paris a viscountess--a countess, perhaps, and rule in a pretty court of your own!" for a woman who had said adieu! she had lingered still listening much too long. they continued the conversation, turned into this ominous channel, in the same low key. césarine returned home with the sentiment of loneliness which had oppressed her almost utterly removed. she did not love gratian, but one need not be a prisoner to understand how admirable the jailer with the outer door-key may appear. she saw in him a precious friend and ally--a worshiper who would obey a hint like a fanatic. cautiously, at the marchioness's, and more deeply than at munich, she made inquiries upon his pecuniary standing and was rejoiced to learn that he had not deceived her in that respect. it was left to him to be a favorite in the court, which, not succeeding in weaning away the scions of the legitimist nobility, greeted the foreign nobles cordially and sought to attach them to its standard in foresight of a european war. one thing was certain: gratian had illimitable resources, and the sharp-witted, who had sharp tongues, did not hesitate to aver that he was one of those spoilt children of politics who are fed from state treasuries--not such a shallow-brain as he pretended. the new type of diplomatist was like him, the morny's, not the effete metternich's, gentlemen who settled affairs of the state in the boudoir not in the cabinet. brave, gallant, dashing, craftier than his manner indicated, he was destined to play no inconsiderable part in the conflict impending; such an one might emerge from the smoke a lieutenant of an emperor and holding a large slice of territory which neither of the two contestants cared yet to rule. compared with a sculptor who had produced nothing--an architect whose buildings had appeared only on paper--this young noble was to be run away with, if not to be run after. the marchioness favored their future and less public meetings, and her gardens were their scene. but while the relations of the treacherous wife with her cavalier became closer, a singular change took place in him. instead of growing bolder, he seemed to hold aloof, and he fixed each new appointment at a longer interval. he was gloomy and absent, and she began to feel that her charm was weakening. she reproached him, and tried to find excuses for him. everybody knew what he had lost at the races or over the baccarat-board; and she knew, according to a rhymed saying, that "lucky at love is unlucky at gambling." "it is not that," he answered slowly, with an anxious glance around in the green avenues of trimmed trees. "i do not know why i should speak of politics to a woman; but you and i are as one: you should know the worst. i am not my own master, and they who rule me presume to dictate my course as regards my heart. brain and sword are theirs, but i shall feel too ignoble a slave if i sacrifice my love for you to _la haute politique_." "sacrifice your love! that would be odious--that must not be! do you mean that they want you to marry? how cruel!" he did not smile at the absurdity of her protest, it was so sincere. "well, césarine, they are blind here, and deaf to the signs along their own frontier. the french rely on a russian alliance, when already herr von bismarck, the prussian ambassador at st. petersburg, long ago secured its suspension. besides, the crimean war will always be remembered against napoleon--it is so easy not to ally oneself with england, and, considering her proverbial ingratitude, so rarely profitable. i spoke of bismarck! this man of a million, with deep, dark eyes, fixed and unreadable, with a cold, mocking mouth, iron will and mighty brain, is soon to be pitted against napoleon, the shadow whom you have seen. i am no soothsayer, but i can tell which must go down in the charge, and never to hold up his head again. i am one of the flies on the common wheel who will be carried into the action and smashed, whoever is the victor. i am unwilling to perish thus, when i can find in love of you a paradise on earth wherever you consent to dwell with me. listen: i am entrusted with a prodigious sum in cash by a political organization, the headquarters of which in france are here, at the old marchioness's--a veteran puller of the wires that move the european puppets. they have practically seized my german bands, and unless i retake them at the head of a column of victorious french, i may as well say good-bye to them. as for terremonde, the revenue is falling every quarter. if it were not for this secret service, i should be bankrupt, for the tuileries, perhaps, suspecting my good faith, pay me only in pretty words--_a la française_. this bank which i hold tempts me sorely, césarine, but only if you will dip into it with me. only once in a life does a man have his great opportunity. mine is the present. a fortune--a beauty! never will i have such an opportunity again to found a principality in florida or the south seas or south america--wherever we choose to come to a rest. speak, césarine, are you with me? after a while, when the modern attila has swept over france, perhaps we will like to come and view the ruins and fill our gallery with the art-treasures which the impoverished defeated ones will gladly sell." "a large sum!" repeated the woman, frowning as her thoughts concentrated. "enormous! i have been changing it into sight-drafts, and we can put on our wings at a moment's notice." "it belongs to a political organization, you say?" "have no qualms--it is a few drops out of a reptilian fund! no one can claim what was handed over to me without witnesses, and no receipt demanded. i make no secret: i am offering for your love the price of my honor. only let us flee to a distance for a while. the money could not be claimed of me in a public court, but they might punish me with an assassin's bullet." "and for me, for my happiness, you would do this? i cannot doubt you any longer, if ever i did. enough, gratian, i will go to the world's end with you!" chapter xi. a sprat and the whale. a few moments were enough for the two to enter the château again, where their absence had begun to arouse curiosity, though the guests were too well bred to make general remarks. with the cue that these "slow," tame gatherings were but the cloak to more important conclaves, césarine studied them as never before. it was clear. here and there were groups which did not waste a word on the accent of mademoiselle delaporte, the early history of aimée derclée, or the latest episode in the stage and boudoir history of "the beauty who is also the stupid beast." for a certainty, conspiracy went on here at the gates of the capital; perhaps from the pretty belvedere, where the large telescope was mounted for lovers to see venus, the sons of mars ascertained where the batteries of siege guns should be planted to shell parisian palaces and forts. two of a trade never agree, says the wisdom of our ancestors, and from that time césarine detested gratian. if he so easily betrayed his friends, countrymen and employers for her, what might he not do as regards her when she was older and her bloom vanished? better not place herself under his thumb and be cast off, in some remote, barbarous region, when the caprice had worn out. but the money! what was this political league and its aims to her? for her limited education, that of a refined and expensive toy, she was ignorant of the laws and regulations governing even herself, and these laws were too subtly interwoven and inexorable for man alone to have formed them. she did not suspect the great reasons of the state in setting them in motion to accomplish collective ends and destinies, whether they wrought good or evil to individuals. enough that they were necessary for a dynasty or a class; but in all cases, the rulers knew why they were made. little by little, but without loss of time, her perspicacity penetrated the disguises, although not to the motives that impelled the plotters. she centered her thoughts on the old, white-locked pianist, who silently listened to all the parties and was tolerated even when the piano was closed; he was taciturn, always blandly smiling and bent in a servile bow. nevertheless, this was the principal of the conspirators and even the viscount-baron treated him with some deference as representing a formidable power. one morning, césarine came over to the marchioness's and took advantage of the drawing-room being open to be aired, to open the piano and practice an aria which she had promised at the next soirée. there was nothing but praise for her singing, and old, retired tenors and obese soprani had assured her that she had but to have one hearing in the opera to be placed among the stars. the aged pianist had often listened to her vocalism with enraptured gaze, and she believed he, too, was her slave. he had now glided into the room and upon the piano stool, and, as if by magic divining her wish, silently opened the piece of music for which she had been hunting. for the first time their eyes met without any medium, for he had discarded the tinted spectacles he usually wore. these were not the worn orbs of a man who had pored over crabbed partitions for sixty years. they were eyes familiar to her. "major von sendlingen!" she exclaimed, in a kind of terror; for women, being judges of duplicity, are alarmed by any one successful in disguises. "precisely, but do not be alarmed. you struck me in warfare, and i forgive your share in that paltry incident. i am your friend, now. by the way, as a proof of that assertion, let me tell you that the viscount is no more worthy of you than that ever-dreaming student. you think he adores you? _pfui_! only so far as you will aid the realization of his ambition. besides, he is only an officer in our ranks; he is not unbridled, and at any moment he may be ordered away. renounce this kind of love, my child, not durable and unendurable!" was this the major preaching? he who had held with the hare and run with the hounds, that is, tried to win the ascending and the declining star! "tell me," he continued, seriously, "tell me when you can control your heart, and it is i who will set you on that stage where you should have figured long since." she had turned pale and she bit her lip. her dullness in not suspecting the identity of this spy, her lover, pained her acutely. she had thought to read the sphynx, and it had its paw upon her. her exasperation was so keen that she determined to be revenged on both the speaker and gratian, whose inferiority to the major was manifest. "they shall see how _i_ can plot," she thought, "and best of all, how i carry off the prize which i need to obtain a station of my own selection in society." one thing she saw clearly, that von sendlingen was out of her clutches. he still acknowledged her attractions, but he was obedient to a master more paramount. if only he had been capable of jealousy! but, no, he had alluded to the viscount de terremonde's flame with perfect indifference. like clemenceau, he would not have fought a duel for her choice. nevertheless, her husband might have another burst of the homicidal instinct which his father showed in paris, and he in germany. while refusing a duel as illogical, he might fell gratian after the model he had displayed for major von sendlingen's profit in munich. perhaps, though, clemenceau was no longer jealous. hedwig had told her of letters addressed to daniels which she had to mail, if clemenceau was in correspondence with the old jew, he would not have forgotten his daughter, the only woman of whom césarine harbored jealousy. but she could attain her end, profound, treacherous and bloody, like the dream of a frivolous woman going to extremes. the revelation of von sendlingen's presence enlightened her and filled the gap in her plan. meanwhile, she redoubled her efforts to entrance gratian, and the day of their flight had but to be fixed. on hearing from madame clemenceau that von sendlingen was the chief of surveillance at the coterie, the dread that he was his rival in the contest for césarine, filled his cup to overflowing with disgust. he had believed himself chief of the fraternity in france, and behold! another was set over him and probably reported that he neglected the business to pay court to a married woman. he felt that he was lost and that his only chance to secure the beloved one was to step outside the circle which he knew would be the vortex of a whirlpool once war was proclaimed. "you speak most timely," he answered gravely, when she said that she was ready; "i have been notified to transfer the funds to another, in such terms as would better suit a clerk than a gentleman--a noble intelligence officer. that cursed major who learned the piano to be a means of torture to his fellow man! he has done it. he loves you no longer, and he is my enemy since i looked at him being run away with, like a raw recruit, on his first troop-horse. he will, believe me, be our destroyer unless we levant." nothing was easier. since four days, clemenceau had been invisible, even at meals. closeted with his disciple antonino, they worked out some more than ever preposterous conceptions into substance, in the studio where the uncompleted artistic models had been neglected. hedwig was the false wife's bondwoman and would actively help in the removal of her trunks. the viscount had but to send a trusty man with a vehicle, and the lady could meet him at a station of the outer circle railway and thence proceed to a main station for havre or marseilles, as they selected. the famous sight-drafts were safe on gratian's person. with the simplicity of a child, césarine wished again and again to gloat over them; never could she be convinced that those flimsy pieces of paper stood for large sums of ready money and that bankers would pay simply on their presentation. it was reluctantly that she restored the wallet to his inner pocket, of which she buttoned the flap, bidding him be so very, very careful of what would be their subsistence in the mango groves. "oh, how i love you," he said, bewildered and enthralled; "i love you because you retain, after the finished graces of woman have come, the naive traits of the guileless girl. what a joy that i divined your excellences when you were so young and that i was favored by your regard, and now am gladdened by your trustful smiles." "i trust you so much that i could wish this money did not weigh on your bosom. i love you without it, and i shall love you as long as you live." seeming to be as exalted as he, she grasped both his hands and drew his face nearer and nearer hers to look him in the eyes. "i do not ask anything of you but to be good to me. do not reproach me for leaving my lawful lord for you! if there is a fault in quitting him who neglects me, never cast it upon me. let us go! anywhere, if but you are ever beside me, to protect, to support and cherish!" her moist eyes were as eloquent as her lips, and to have doubted her, he must have doubted all evidence of his senses. and yet it was that same hand on which he had impressed a score of burning kisses that wrote these lines: "the faithless one will take the train at montmorency station this night at nine." and she deposited it, as had been agreed between her and major von sendlingen in a vase on the drawing-room mantel-shelf at the marchioness's, where the viscount conducted her before their last parting. it was one of those notes which burn in the hand, and so thought the major, for he took measures, by a communication which he had established, to send it to m. clemenceau. except on holidays and sundays, when the parisians muster in great force to promenade the still picturesque suburbs, the country roads are desolate after the return home of the clerks who have slaved at the desk in the city. one might believe oneself a hundred miles from a center of civilization. to the station, a little above the highway level, three paths lead. on the road itself the village cart which had taken madame clemenceau's baggage, leisurely jogged. the lady herself, instructed by her confederate hedwig that there was no alarm to be apprehended from the studio, strolled along a more circuitous but pleasanter way. her husband and his pupil were, as usual, shut up in "the workshop." the studio had been changed for some new fancy of the crack-brained pair; they had packed aside the plans and models and had set up a lathe, a forge and a miniature foundry. to the clang of hammer and the squeak of file was added the detonation now and then of some explosive which did not emit the sharp sound or pungent smoke of gunpowder or the more modern substitutes' characteristic fumes. at each shock, césarine had trembled like the guilty. they had told her that she was born in st. petersburg when her mother was startled by the blowing up of the street in front of their house by an infernal machine intended to obliterate the czar; in the sledge in which he was supposed to be riding, a colonel of the _chevalier-gardes_, who resembled him, had been injured, but the incident was kept hushed up. one of the old servants whose age entitled his maunderings to respect among his superstitious fellows had, thereupon, prophesied that the new-born babe would end its life by violence. "it is time i should quit the house," she muttered, drawing her veil over her eyes, of which the lids nervously trembled. "i cannot hear those pop-guns without consternation." she hurried forth without a regret, and passed, as a hundred times before, the family vault in the cemetery, where her murdered infant reposed, without a farewell glance, although she might never see the place again. on coming within sight of the station, she perceived a solitary figure, that of a man, in a fashionable caped cloak, crossing the fields in the same direction as hers. it was probably the viscount going to it separately in order not to compromise her and give a clue to the true cause of her flight. sometimes the unexpected comes to the help of the wicked. incredible as it appeared, she received, on the eve of her departure, a telegram from paris. at first she thought it a device of viscount gratian's to cover her elopement, but it was not possible for him to have imagined the appeal. it was from her uncle, who, traveling in france, and intending to pay her a visit since she was married honorably, was stricken with a malady. he awaited her at a hotel. even von sendlingen could not have drawn up this message too simple not to be genuine and too precise in the genealogical allusions not to be a russian's and a dobronowska's. she regarded this cloak as the act of her "fate"--the evil person's providence. she handed the paper to hedwig to be given to her husband as an explanation at a later hour. césarine was still watching him when she saw him disappear suddenly. it was in crossing an unnailed plank thrown across a drain-cutting. this must have turned or broken under his feet unexpectedly, for his fall was complete. in the ditch which received him, darkness ruled but it seemed to césarine that more shadows than one were engaged in deadly strife, standing deep in the mire. they wore the aspect of the demons dragging down a soul in an infernal bog. what increased the horror was the silence in which the tragedy was enacted; probably the unfortunate gratian had been seized by the throat as soon as he dropped confused into the assassin's clutches. halfway between this scene and the dismayed looker on, another shadow rose and appeared to take the direction to accost her instead of hurrying to the victim's succor. this made him resemble an accomplice, and, breaking the spell, césarine hurried on without the power to force a scream for help from her choking throat. at that moment, while a strong fascination kept her head turned toward the field, a long beam from the locomotive's head-light shot across it. it fell for an instant on the solitary form and though its arm made an upward movement to obscure its face, she believed that she recognized her husband. clemenceau on her track! clemenceau, in concord with the bravest who had smothered her gallant in the mud! she had scorned him too much! he was capable even of cowardly acts, of being revenged for this renewed disgrace upon his ill-fated house! this time her feet were unchained and she flew up the hill. she thought of nothing but to escape the double revenge of the husband she wronged, and von sendlingen whom she had cheated. she took her ticket mechanically and entered a coach marked for "ladies only." they whisked toward paris swiftly, before any sinister face looked in at the window, or she had time to reflect. in her pocket was the real case of the sight-drafts for which she had palmed a duplicate filled with cut paper, upon the unlucky viscount. she was rich enough to make a home wherever money reigns--a broad enough domain. the arrival of her relative and the summons to his sick-bed made her pause in her movements suddenly altered by the death of the viscount. she was almost happy in her foresight by which she had defrauded him and his associates. now, the loss of him stood by itself; she was free to use the money as she pleased. she feared von sendlingen but little, since she would have a good start of him if he pursued. should she keep on or see her uncle? pity for him, a stranger, perhaps dying in a hotel, most inhospitable shelter to an invalid, did not enter her heart. she had seen her lover murdered without a spark of communication, and was now glad that he could never call her to account for the theft. but a vague expectation of benefiting by the pretense of affection--the desire to have some support in case of von sendlingen attacking--the excuse and cover her ministration at the sick-bed would afford, all these reasons united to guide her to the hotel de l'aigle aux deux becs, in the rue caumartin. her uncle was no longer there. his stroke of paralysis had frightened the proprietor who suggested his removal to a private hospital, but m. dobronowska had preferred to be attended to in the house, a little out of st. denis, of an acquaintance. it was mr. lesperon's, the abode of a once noted poetess, whose husband had enjoyed dobronowska's hospitality in finland and who had tried to repay the obligation. césarine recalled the name; this lady had been a friend of her aunt's and she felt she would not be intruding. after playing the nurse, by which means she could ascertain whether she would be remembered generously in the patient's will, she could continue her flight or retrace her steps. under cover of hedwig, she could learn, secretly if she preferred it, all that occurred at montmorency. she found her grand-uncle broken with age and serious attack; he was delighted by her beauty and to hear that she was so happy in her married life! evidently he was rich, and she had not acted foolishly in going to see him. madame lesperon and her husband recalled her grandmother--whose death she did not describe--and her aunt, over whose fate they politely blurred the rather lurid tints. madame lesperon, as became a poetess, saw the loveliness of clemenceau's idea of separation in marrying his cousin and expressed a wish to compliment him face-to-face. césarine was not so sure that he would come to town to escort her home, he was so engrossed in an important project. she let three days pass without writing a line, alleging that she had not the heart while her dear uncle was in danger and that her husband knew, of course, where she was piously engaged. the next morning, madame lesperon, a regular reader of the newspapers in expectation of the announcement of her poems having at last been commended by the académie, came up to the sick-room with the _debats_. "ah, sly puss," said she, with a smile, "let me congratulate you. one can know now why you were so close about your husband's mysterious project. rejoice, dear, for all france rejoices with you." césarine stared all her wonder. the newspapers trumpeting her husband's name and not in the satirical tone in which the people hail a disaster to a george dandin. "the privately appointed committee which has been for some weeks thoroughly investigating the marvelous invention--a revolution in truth--in gunnery, at the villa reine-claude, montmorency, have deposited a preliminary report at the ministry of war. we are not at liberty to state more than the prodigious result. on a miniature scale, but which could be enlarged from millimètres to miles without, we are assured, affecting the demonstration, it has been proved that the new gun will throw solid shot twelve miles and its special shell nearly fifteen. the model target was a row of pegs representing piles strongly driven into clay, a little apart, with the interstices filled with racks of stones. two of the new-shaped projectiles dropped on this mark, left not enough wood to make a match and enough stone to strike a light upon it, while not a splinter of the missile could be found. judge what would happen if they had fallen on a regiment or into a city. thanks to the unremitting devotion of this son of france, his country can regard with complacency the monstrous preparations for unprovoked war which a rival realm is ostentatiously making." the other journals repeated the paragraph in much the same language. the evening edition added that the happy inventor would not have to wait long for his reward. the emperor, always a connoisseur in artillery, had sent him ten thousand francs from his private purse simply as a faint token of appreciation. "those familiar with what, in these rapid times, is the ancient history of paris, may remember that a stain was attached to the name of clemenceau. in his son, it will shine untarnished, and go down to posterity glorious with lustre." "what a fool i have been," thought césarine. "i fled with a silly fellow who had no more sense than to fall into a trap, for a paltry handful of drafts that may not be paid on presentation, and desert a husband who will be one of the millionaire-inventors of his country!" reflecting in the night, she radically reversed her programme. her uncle had recovered from the stroke but the physician warned him that the next would kill him. he was happy in the cares of the lesperons and his grandniece, none of whom would be forgotten when the hour struck for him to leave his worldly goods. césarine could quit him in confidence of a handsome inheritance at not a distant day. her flight and absence were commendable in the world's most censorious eyes. only one thought perplexed her: was it her husband who had officiated at the execution of her gallant? if so, her lie would not hold. but in doubt a shameless sinner chooses to brazen it out. "i should be a confirmed imbecile to let this chance go and not resume my authorized position. ah, his time, without infamy, i can preside at the board where the high officials will gladly sit--i shall have generals at my feet, perhaps a marshal! yes, i will go home and brazen it out!" chapter xii. when the cat's away. ten days after the sudden departure of madame clemenceau from her residence, a little before daybreak, hedwig came down through the house to draw up the blinds and open the windows. she carried a small night-lamp and was not more than half awake. it was the noise of the great invention which had turned the tranquil group of villas and cherry orchards into a rendezvous for the singular admixture of artilleries and scientific luminaries. the peaceful villa entertained a selection of them nightly and it is astonishing how heartily the military men ate and the professors drank, for the enthusiasm had turned all heads. hedwig entered the fine old drawing-room where the symposium had been held. it was a capacious room, not unlike an english baronial hall, the doorways and windows were furnished with old gobelin tapestry and the heavy furniture was of mahogany, imported when france drew generously on her colonies. the long table had been roughly cleared after supper by the summary process of bundling all the plates up in the cloth. on it had been replaced, for the final debate, drawings and models of the guns considered absolute after the novel clemenceau cannon. on a pedestal-pillar stood a large clock, representing, with figures at the base, the forge of vulcan; his cyclops had hammered off six strokes a little preceding the servant's entrance. "a quarter past six," she said, yawning. "it will soon be light." she drew the curtains and pulled the cord which caused the shade to roll itself up in each of the three tall windows, before returning to the table where she had left her now useless lamp. with a half-terrified look, she began to arrange the pretty little cannon, exquisitely modeled in nickel and bronze, and miniature shot, shell, chain-shot, etc., which she handled with a curiosity rather instinctive than studied. in the midst of her mechanically executed work, she was startled by a gentle rapping on the plate-glass of a window. the sight of a face in the grey morning glimmer startled her still more, but, luckily, she recognized it. after hesitation, she crossed the room in surprise and unbolted the two sashes, which opened like double doors. "hedwig!" said a woman's voice warily speaking, "open to me!" the girl held the sashes widely apart, muttering: "the mistress! why the mischief has she come back when we were getting on so nicely." but, letting the new-comer pass her, she tried to smoothe her face, and don the smile as stereotyped in servants as in ballet-dancers, while she continued the letting in of the daylight to gain time to recover her countenance. césarine threw off a cloak, trimmed with fur, and more suitable for a colder season, but it was a sable with a sprinkling of isolated white hairs most peculiar and a present from her granduncle. she tottered and seemed weak, for she had concluded that an affection of illness would aid her re-entrance. as hedwig extinguished the lamp, she sank into an arm-chair. she curiously glanced around and inhaled with a questioning flutter of the nostrils the lasting odor of cigars and burgundy, which the air retained. in this gloomy apartment where she had often sat alone, sure not to be disturbed, the suggestion of uproarious jollity hurt her dignity. a singular way to express sorrow and shame at the loss of a wife by calling in boon companions! this did not seem like felix clemenceau, sober and austere, thus to drown care in champagne. "are you alone, girl?" she inquired, looking round with a powerful impression that the house had unexpected inmates. "yes. no one is up yet in the house," responded hedwig, sharing her mistress' uneasiness, though from a less indefinite reason; "at all events, nobody has come down yet. but how did you see that it was i who came in here before the shades were drawn up?" "well, i had made a little peep-hole to see what my husband and his fellow conspirator were about, in the time before they shut themselves up in their studio. but, if it is my turn to put questions," she went on with some offended dignity, "how is it that the back door is bolted as well as barred and that i have had to sneak in like a malefactor?" "if you please, madame, it is the rule to be very careful about fastening up, since you went away." "oh, on the principle of locking the stable-door when the steed--" "oh! they fear the loss of something which, without offense, i may say, they esteem more highly than you." hedwig answered without even a little impertinence and the other did not resent what sounded discourteous. "then they do not lock up to keep me out?" she questioned. "it might be a little bit that way, too." "it is a new habit. did the master suggest it?" "not the master altogether, madame, but his partner." "eh! do you mean antonino? monsieur had already lifted him up to be his associate, his confidant, his friend, to the exclusion of his lawful friend and confidant, his wife--and now, does he make him his partner?" "no, madame; though he has a good fat share in the enterprise. it is m. daniels who found the funds for the new company in which the master is engaged, and he manages the house to leave the master all his time to go on inventing and entertaining the grand folks we have to dinner." "mr. daniels! not the old jew who played that queer straight trumpet at munich--" "yes, the turkophone! ah, he has no need to go about the music halls now--he is, if not rich, the man who leads rich men by the nose, to come and deposit their superfluous cash in our strong-box." and she pointed fondly to a large iron-clamped coffin which occupied the space between two of the windows. it was a novelty, for césarine did not recollect seeing it before. continuing her survey, it seemed to her that she noticed a different arrangement of the ornaments than when she was queen here, and that the fresh flowers in the vases and two palmettoes in urns were placed with a taste the german maid had never shown. "let me see! this jewish orpheus had a daughter--" "exactly; she never leaves him. she has rooms within his just the same as at our house in munich. it appears that jew parents trust their pretty daughters no farther than they can see them. but i do not blame m. daniels," went on hedwig, enthusiastically, "she is so lovely!" césarine rose partly, supporting herself with her hands on the arms of the chair. her eyes flashed like blue steel and her whole frame vibrated with kindled rage. "do you mean to tell me, girl, that mademoiselle rebecca--as her name went, i think--is now the mistress of my house?" "in your absence," returned hedwig, drawlingly, "somebody had to preside, for neither the master, the old gentleman nor m. antonino take the head of the dinner-table with the best grace. it is true that our guests are not very particular if the wine flows freely. i do not think the young lady likes the position, for i know the old, be-spectacled professors are as pestering with their attentions as the insolent officers. she would have been so delighted at the relief promised by your return that she would run to meet you and you would not have been repulsed at the door." "i daresay," replied madame clemenceau, frowning, and tapping the waxed wood floor impatiently with her foot. "i did not care to announce my return home with a flourish of trumpets. i was not averse to taking the house by surprise, and seeing what a transformation has gone on since i went away. besides, it is desirable, not to say necessary, that i should speak with you before seeing the others." hedwig pouted a little. "you ought to have written to me, madame, as we were agreed, i thought; i have been on tenderhooks because of your silence. i did not even guess where you were." "i did not wish it known for a while, and even then, it appears, i spoke too soon," said césarine gloomily. "you did not want me to know, madame?" questioned the servant in surprise and with a trace of suspicion. "not even you," and hanging her head, she sank into meditation, not pleasant, to judge by her hopeless expression. the servant, who had the phlegmatic brain of her people, was stupefied for a little time, then, recovering some vivacity, she inquired hesitatingly as though she was never at her ease with the subtle woman. "is madame going away without more than a glance around?" "why do you talk such nonsense?" queried her mistress, looking up abruptly. the girl intimated that the mysterious entrance portended secrecy to be preserved. and, again, the lady had come without baggage, even so much as in eloping from home. but madame clemenceau explained, with the most natural air in the world, that she had walked over from the railway station, where her impedimenta remained. "walked half a mile?" ejaculated hedwig, who knew that the speaker had been vigorous enough at munich, but, since her marriage, and living at montmorency, she had assumed the popular air of a semi-invalid, "so you are strong in health again?" "yes; but i have been very unwell," replied the lady, sinking back in the chair as she remembered the course she had intended to adopt. "i was very nearly at death's door," she sighed. "i really believed that i should nevermore see any of you, my poor husband and you others. do you think that anything hut a severe ailment could excuse me for my strange silence--my apparently wicked absence?" hedwig went on going through the form of dusting the huge metal-bound chest, which had attracted the mistress' eyes as a new article of furniture. had her husband turned miser since fortune had whirled on her wheel at his door as soon as she quitted it? it was not hedwig's place, and it was not in her power to solve enigmas, so she answered nothing. "my uncle was terribly afflicted," said the lady. "your uncle?" hedwig's incredulous tone implied that she had not believed in the authenticity of the telegram. "yes; my granduncle. he was within an ace of dying, and the shock made me so bad, after nursing him toward recovery, it was i who stood in peril of death. my friends sent for a priest and i confessed." the girl opened her eyes in wonder and a kind of derision, for she did not belong to the aristocratic creed. "confessed?" reiterated she; "ah, yes; people confess when they are very bad. was it a complete confession, madame?" she saucily inquired. "complete as all believers should make when on the brink of the grave," replied madame clemenceau, in her gravest tone to repress the tendency to frivolity, for she had not resented the incredulity as regarded herself. "i dare say," said hedwig, who certainly had one of her lucid intervals, "it is as when a body is traveling, one is in such a hurry that something is forgotten. you went away so sharply that you forgot to say good-bye to the master! if you spoke at all! whatever did the father-confessor say?" "he gave me very good advice." "which you are following, madame?" "when one not only has seen death smite another beside one but flit close by oneself, i assure you, girl, it forces one to reflect. oh, how dreadful the nights are in the sick chamber, with a night-light dimly burning and the sufferer moaning and tossing! then my turn came to occupy the patient's position, and it was frightful. can you not see i am much altered--horrid, in fact?" hedwig shook her head; without flattery, well as her mistress assumed the air of languor, her figure had not been affected by any event since the slaying of the viscount gratian, and her countenance was unmarred by any change except a trifling pallor. "yes; after my uncle grew better, i was indisposed and should have died but for the cares of an old friend, madame lesperon the female bard. but you would not know this favorite of the muses. you are not poetically inclined, hedwig!" she added, laughingly. rising with animation, "but that makes no matter! i am glad to see you home again. i thought of you, hedwig, and i have bought you something pretty to wear on your days out--bought it in paris, too." "is that so?" exclaimed the girl, much less absent and saucy in the curl of her lip; "you are always kind." "yes; they are in my new trunk, for which you had better send the gardener at once. he is not forgotten either. there is a set of jewelry, too, in the old teutonic style. they say now in paris that any idea of war between france and prussia is absurd, and there is a revulsion in feeling--the vogue is all for german things. i am not sorry that i know how to dress in their style, and i have some genuine rhenish jewelry, which become me very well." "i see that madame has indeed not altered," remarked hedwig, plentifully adorned with smiles, as the sunshine streamed into the grave apartment. "you have fresh projects of captivating the men!" césarine smiled also, and nodded several times. "here?" cried the girl, in surprise. "certainly here, since i understand you are receiving company in shoals." "that is all over now, madame, and i am sorry, for the callers were very generous to me. it appears that the war ministry do not approve of strangers running about montmorency and into the abode of the great inventor of ordinances--" "ordnance, child," corrected madame clemenceau. "and the house is sealed up, as you found it, against all comers. we have nobody here for you to try graces upon except mademoiselle rebecca's papa--and he being a jew, you must not go near him, fresh from the confessional." madame clemenceau seemed to be musing. "i forgot--there's young m. antonino," continued the servant. césarine made a contemptuous gesture, expressive of the conquest being too easy. "such sallow youth are best left to platonic love, it's more proper, and to them, quite as entertaining." "well, madame," said hedwig, like a cheap jack, holding up the last of his stock, "they are the only men i can offer you; for, since we have been firing off guns and cannon, our neighbors have moved away right and left--we are so lonely. no servant would stay a week!" "those the only men?" said the returned fugitive; "hedwig, this is not polite for your master." "oh, madame, a husband never counts." "you are very much mistaken. he does _count_--his money, i suppose, if that is his cash-box." and, yielding to her girlish curiosity, she went over to the steel-plated chest and avariciously contemplated it, "not at all, madame. that is where they lock up the writings and drawings about the new gun!" "oh, what do they say?" "nothing a christian can make head or tail of," returned the servant reservedly. "they write now in a hand no honest folk ever used. an old man who ought to have known better--the jew--he taught the master, and they call it siphon--" "cipher, i suppose? it appears the newspapers are right!" resumed the lady. "he is a great man!" and she clapped her hands. hedwig regarded her puzzled, till her brow unwrinkling at last, she exclaimed: "upon my word, i believe you have fallen in love with master." "you might have said: i am still in love. that is why i return to his side." "if you tell him that is the reason," said this speaker, who used much teutonic frankness to her superiors, "you will astonish him more than you did me by popping in this morning. he will not believe you." madame clemenceau smiled as those women do who can warp men round to their way of thinking. "but he will! besides, if it is a difficult task, so much the better--when a deed is impossible, it tempts one." "well, as far as i can see, madame, that is an odd idea for you to have had when far away from master." "pish! did you never hear the saying that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder?' oh, girl, i had so much deep meditation as i stared at the dim night-light," and she shuddered and looked a little pale. "well, madame, i should have rolled over and shut my eyes," said the matter-of-fact maid. there was more truth in the lady's speech than her hearer gave her credit for. she was no exception to the rule that the wives of great inventors almost never properly appreciate them. by the light of his success, breaking forth like the sun, she feared that the greatest error of her life had been made when she miscomprehended him. in her dreams as well as her insomnia, it was clemenceau that she beheld, and not the gallants who had flashed across her uneven path, not even the viscount, whose spoil was her nest-egg. alas! it was a mere atom to the solid ingot which her misunderstood husband's genius had ensured. she had perhaps lost the substance in snapping at the shadow. "any way, i love my husband," she proceeded, moaning aloud, and resting her chin in the hollow of her hand--the elbow on the table, to which she had returned and where she was seated. "i am sure now." "no doubt," said the servant, unconsciously holding the feather duster as a soldier holds his rifle; "madame has heard about our great discoveries in artillery? they are revo--revolutionizing--oof! what a mouthful--the military world!" "yes; i read the newspaper accounts during my convalescence," replied madame clemenceau. "then you fell in love with your husband because of his cannon," said hedwig, laughing. "i do not see what connection there is between them, and, in fact," reflecting a little and suddenly laughing more loudly, "i hear that cannons produce breaches rather than re-union. well, after all, if cannons do not further love, its a friend to glory and riches! the emperor, some of our visitors said, is very fond of artillery, and he will give master immense contracts from the report of the examining committee being so favorable." "really, hedwig, you are becoming quite learned from the association with scientists. what long words you use! "that's nothing," said the servant, complacently. "there is no word difficult in french to a german. but i can tell you that, as we cannot live on air, and these promises do not bear present fruit, master has been forced to sell this house." "eh! why is that? i like the place well enough." "you were not here to be consulted, madame, and, we wanted the money. master does not wish to be obliged to m. daniels and, besides, he, too, does not get in the cash for his company any too rapidly. master ran into debt while making his guns and cannon, and we have been pinched for ready money." "i am glad to hear it!" ejaculated césarine, without spitefulness, and with more sincerity than she had spoken previously. the girl stared without understanding. "i have money--cash--to help him, and it will be far more proper for him to be obliged to his wife than to strangers. besides, i should not tax him with usurious interest," she said maliciously. "money, madame," said the servant with her widely opened eyes still more distending. "i have two hundred thousand francs, that is, nearly as many marks, coming from my good uncle who is a little late in doing me a kindness--but my attention touched him. but do i not hear steps--somebody at last moving in the house?" "very likely," replied the servant tranquilly, "but nobody will come in here, before master has breakfast. since he stores his secrets in that chest, and no company drops in, this is a hermitage. mademoiselle rebecca is not one of the prying sort." madame clemenceau, who had risen with more nervous anxiety than she cared to display to the servants, stood by her chair, looking toward the door. "has he talked about me, sometimes?" "master? never--not before me, anyway, madame." "yet you gave him the telegram that explained all?" "yes, madame; but not until some time after your departure and when master had returned from a promenade alone. i know he was alone, because m. antonino was racing about to show him some of his wonderful experiments." beyond a doubt, it was clemenceau who had stood witness to the tragedy in the meadow. hence his inattention to the russian's despatch, which he naturally would disbelieve, and probably to her prolonged absence. it was humiliating that he had not searched for her. "what! no allusion to my stay--no hint of my possible return?" "his silence has been perfect as the grave. next morning after you left and did not return, master looked at the cover which i had from habit placed for you, and remarked: 'oh, by the way, you will have another to lay to-morrow, as we shall have two guests for, i hope, a long time.' he meant the danielses, madame. their coming made it a little livelier for him and m. antonino." "it looks like a plot," murmured césarine, indignantly, as she pictured the happy reunions out of which she had been displaced in memory--not even her untouched plate left as memento! her chair taken by rebecca daniels! "mr. daniels is like m. antonino, too!" continued hedwig. "not only is he getting up the company for the master's inventions, but for the young gentleman's--he has made such a marvel of a rifle--they put a tin box into it, and lo! you can fire three hundred shots as quick as a wink! i walk in terror since i heard of it! and i touch things as if they would go off and make mince-meat of me in the desert to it." "never mind that!" cried madame clemenceau, testily. "although the connection between piping at music halls and enchanting the bulls and bears of the bourse is not clear to me, i can understand how m. daniels, as a financial agent, should be lodging under our roof, but his daughter--" "she is our housekeeper, and, to tell the plain truth, madame, we have lived nicely, although money was scarce, since she ruled the roost. ah, these jews are clever managers!" césarine did not like the earnest tone of praise and hastened to say bluntly: "i suppose, then, she threw the spell over him again which once before, at munich, caused him, a tame bookworm, to fight for her like a king-maker?" "mademoiselle rebecca! she act the fascinatress!" exclaimed hedwig, with a burst of indignation. "what is there extraordinary, pray, in a husband, apparently deserted by his wife, paying attention to another handsome young woman?" "why, madame, you must forget that master is the most honorable gentleman as ever was, and that mademoiselle rebecca is a perfect lady!" then, perceiving that her enthusiasm on the latter head was not welcome to the hearer, hedwig, added: "but it does not matter. we are receiving no more company, lest the great secret leak out, and so we don't need a lady at the table. she is going away with her father, who is to open the rifle company's offices in paris, and that's all!" "it is quite enough!" remarked the other, frowning. "what is the last word about him?" inquired the servant, "the viscount-baron, i mean." "m. de terremonde?" "yes; you haven't said a word about him." "do you not know?" began césarine, shuddering as the scene in the twilight arose before her on the background of the sombre side of the room. "he was not likely to return hereabouts. master might have tried the new rifle upon him," with a suppressed laugh. "well, if you do not know, i need only say that i am perfectly ignorant of his whereabouts. i went to town without his escort, and i suppose--if he has disappeared," she concluded with emphasis, "that he has gone on a journey of pleasure, or is dead." "dead," uttered hedwig, shuddering in her turn, "in what a singular tone you say that word." "what concern is it of mine?" questioned madame clemenceau, pursing up her lips to conceal a little fluttering from the dread she felt at the effectual way in which her lover had been removed from mortal knowledge. "i do not mind declaring that, if i am given any choice in the matter, i should prefer his taking the latter course." hedwig's teeth chattered so that the other looked hard at her till she faltered the explanation: "your way of saying things, madame, gives me cold shivers up and down the back--ugh! why, that gentleman was over head and ears in love with you!" "that is why he probably went under so quickly, and could not keep his head above water!" "i thought you liked him a goodish bit--" "i--oh!" an explosion, very sharp and peculiarly splitting the air, resounded under the windows and caused césarine to clap her hands to her ears in terror. chapter xiii. the revolution in artillery. "oh, what is that?" muttered césarine, with white lips. hedwig laughed, but going to the window, calmly replied: "it is only the master--no, it is m. antonino, who is trying the rifle they invented. isn't it funny, though--it does not use powder or anything of that sort--it does not shoot out fire, but only the bullet, and there's no smoke! i never heard of such a thing, and i call it magic!" "a gun without powder, and no fire or smoke," repeated madame clemenceau. "it is, indeed, a marvel!" and she approached the window in uncontrollable curiosity. "is he going to shoot again?" "well, he gets an appetite by popping at the sparrows before breakfast. he is not much of a marksman like master, who is dead on the center, every military officer says--but, in the morning, the birds' wings are heavy with dew, and he makes a very pretty bag now and then. what must the sparrows think to be killed and not smell any powder!" "i wish you would tell him to go farther, or leave off!" said césarine, looking out at the young man with the light rifle, fascinated but fearing. "the obedience will be more prompt if you would tell him, madame," returned the maid, "for m. antonino would do anything for you. to think that there should really be something that frightens you!" "after my illness, i am afraid of everything." "very well, i will stop him." opening the window, hedwig called to the italian by name, and said, on receiving his answer: "please not to shoot any more!" "why not?" came the reply in the mellow voice of the italian. "come in and you'll learn." but she shut the window to intimate that he was to enter the house by the door as he had issued, and hastily returned to her mistress. the latter had tottered to the side-board, and seized a decanter, but, in the act of pouring out a glass of water, she paused suspiciously. "is this good to drink?" she warily inquired. "of course, though you are quite right--they do juggle with a lot of queer acids and the like dangerous stuff here! they give me the warning sometimes after their _swim-posiums_, as they call the sociables, not to touch anything till they come down, for poisons are about. ugh! but do not drink so much cold water so early in the morning--it is unhealthy. if it were only good beer, now, it would not matter! _ach_, müchen!" and hedwig vulgarly smacked her lips. "after my illness i have been always thirsty, and, sometimes, i seem to have infernal fires in my bosom!" sighed madame clemenceau, putting down the glass with a hand so hot that the crystal was clouded with steam. her teeth chattered, as a sudden chill followed the flush, and hedwig shrank back in alarm--the beautiful face became transformed into such a close likeness to a wolf's. "you need not be scared any more, for he has come into the house. here he is, too!" and she sprang to the door, as well to open it to m. antonino, as to screen her mistress until she cared to reveal her presence. perhaps it was application to the work and not pining over the absence of césarine, but the italian showed evidence of sleeplessness and his pallor had the unpleasant cast of the southerners when out of spirits. his eyes were enfevered and his lips dry and cracked. he carried a handsome fowling-piece, which presented, at first glance, no feature of dissimilarity to the usual pattern except that trigger and hammer were absent, and the rim of the barrel was not blackened from the recent discharge. "what did you stop me for when i had hardly more than begun my sport and practice?" he inquired. "put down that devil's own gun, sir monsieur," said hedwig, "if you please." "why, what's the matter?" said he, while obeying by standing the rifle in a corner. "i thought you germans were all daughters or sweethearts of soldiers." "ay, and most of us women would make as good soldiers as they have here; but i was speaking because you gave a shock to madame." stepping aside, antonino discovered madame clemenceau, who smiled softly. "oh, madame!" ejaculated antonino, at the height of astonishment, not unmixed with gladness. "i beg your pardon; i am very sorry--i mean glad--that is, i was not aware--if i had had any idea you were home--" "you could not have known," she answered in a gentle voice. "i was too eager to get back, to delay to send a line. as for the noise, another time it might not matter, but i came here by an early morning train and i had no rest before i started. i am very fatigued and nervous, and the shot so sudden, surprised me. for a little while to come, i should like you to repeat your experiments with firearms at a distance from the house. is--is that the new kind of rifle?" she inquired, with the timidity of a child introduced to the new watchdog. "yes, madame!" and his eyes blazing with pride, he proceeded, as he crossed the room and returned with the firearm, "it is altogether a new invention. master is an innovator, indeed!" "do you object to showing it to me?" continued césarine, pleased that the enthusiasm gave an excuse for her not entering into an explanation of her absence which, even if more plausible than that hedwig had doubtingly received, would require all of antonino's affectionate faith in her to win credence. "i do not object. even those experienced in the old weapons can inspect it and not learn much," he went on, with the same pride; "but i thought it frightened you!" "it did--it does, but i ought to overcome such a ridiculous feeling! i, above all women, being a gun-inventor's wife! is it loaded?" she asked, while hesitatingly holding out her hand to take it. hedwig had prudently backed over to the window which she held a little open to make a leap out for escape in case of accident. her mistress took the rifle and turned it over and over; certainly, it resembled no gun she had ever handled before. its simplicity daunted her and irritated her. "it seems to have two barrels," she remarked, "although one is closed as if not to be used. is it double-barrelled?" "there are two barrels, or, more accurately speaking, a barrel for discharge of the projectile and a chamber for the explosive substance, which is the secret." "then you load by the muzzle, like the old-fashioned guns?" "oh, no; there is no load, no cartridge, as you understand it; only the missiles, and they are inserted by the quantity in the breach." "and there is no trigger or hammer!" exclaimed césarine, not yet at the end of her wonder. "obsolete contrivances, always catching in the clothes or in the brambles, and causing the death or maiming of many an excellent man. we have changed all that by doing away with appendages altogether. this disc, when pressed, allows so much of the explosive matter to enter the barrel and it expels the missile by repeated expansions." "how very, very curious!" exclaimed madame clemenceau, returning the piece to antonino with the vexed air of one reluctantly giving up a puzzle to the solution of which a prize was attached. "i should like you to make it clear to me--" "the government forbids!" said the italian, smiling, and assuming a look of preternatural solemnity to make the lady smile and hedwig laugh respectfully. "and, then, the company we are getting up, lays a farther prohibition on us. however, you are in the arcana--you are one of the privileged, i suppose, and if m. clemenceau does not expressly bar my lessons, you shall learn how to knock over sparrows for your cat." "you will instruct me?" "most gladly!" "that is nice of you, and i am so sorry at having interrupted your experiments." "thanks; but we have long since gone beyond the experimental stage. i was only trying a new bullet that i fancy the shape of. i ask your pardon for having given you a fright." he took her hand and kissed it. she beckoned to hedwig as soon as it was released, and smiled kindly on him as she left the room with her servant to dress befittingly to show herself to mademoiselle rebecca. had it been only her husband to face, she might have been content to look dusty with travel as she had to antonino. "how you delight that poor gentleman," observed hedwig, between pity and admiration. "you would witch an angel." "i am only practicing to enchant my husband, you dull creature!" said césarine merrily. "he is a great man, and i have been proud of him from the first." chapter xiv. truly a man. long after madame clemenceau had left the room, the italian stood in the same position as he had taken after kissing her hand. the mild voice from the pallid but little changed beauty thrilled him as formerly, and went far towards making him as mad as he had been ten days before when she had dropped, like an extinguished star, out of that small system. in her absence, he had regained quiet and some coolness, and believed he had conquered the treasonable passion which threatened his benefactor with disgrace. had she not disgraced him as it was; had she not run away with another lover? clemenceau had not said one word to his associate about the telegram from paris, which he seemed not to believe, or of the note beginning: "the faithless one," by which von sendlingen had been warned of gratian's absconding and which he instructed hedwig to place where her master must see it. hence, the view by clemenceau of the stamping out of the viscount-baron, for his accomplices had not let the chance pass when he stumbled into their ambush, in order to see if the frenchman in jealous spite would assail him. clemenceau had recognized his wife and he divined that the lonely man making for the same point was the villain, without understanding into what deathpit he had fallen. at the juncture of his being about hurrying after his wife, he heard the half-strangled wretch's outcry and the low appeal of humanity overpowering the hoarse summons of revenge in his bosom. but when he arrived at the broken footway bridge, all was over. a little farther, he fancied he saw a shadow in an osier bed, but when he waded to it, all was hushed. he called, but no sound responded. all seemed a vision--victim and assassins. and his wife was flying, by the train which had merely stopped to take her up. as every resident is known at these suburban stations, he refrained from an inquiry which would have made him a laughing-stock. since césarine had returned, the conflict of duty and passion would be resumed and he felt sure that he had been defeated before. reflecting profoundly, he could come to no other conclusion than that he ought to shun the dangerous traitress. as he lifted his head, less troubled after arriving at this resolution, he was not sorry to see that clemenceau had silently entered the room. "oh, is it you, my dear master?" he exclaimed. it was not easy on that placid brow to read whether he knew of césarine's return or not. "well, are you satisfied with your test this morning?" inquired he. "have you succeeded with the bullets of the new shape?" "i believe so," answered antonino, "for the modifications which you suggested, improved it in every point they dealt with. they go forth clean and the windage is much reduced." "is the range improved?" "at fourteen hundred metres i put two elongated balls into an oak so deeply that i could not dig them out with my knife. they struck very closely to one another. it is a hundred metres greater distance. inserting the bullets by the mass of twenty-five and firing the two took four seconds. i was less careful about marking where the others struck, and one that i discharged on my return near the house broke and went badly askew. with bullets made by regular moulders, such an accident should not happen." "have you any left? let me see." antonino took two bullets from his waistcoat pocket; they were unlike the ordinary globules, and resembled the long, pointed cylinders of modern guns. with a pair of pocket plyers, he broke one to exhibit the interior to clemenceau; it was composed of two metals in curiously shaped segments and a chamber in one end contained a loose ball of another and heavier metal, on the principle of the quick-silver enhancing the force of the blow of the "loaded" executioner's sword. all had a novel aspect, but the chief inventor was familiar with the arrangement. "by the cavity in it i have reduced the weight of three to two," went on antonino. "i am in hopes to put in fifty or sixty bullets at a time without making the arm too heavy, and that would suffice, considering that the replacement of the mass of projectiles requires no appreciable time, while the supply of explosive, liquefied air suffices for three hundred discharges. the repetition of the emissive force does not jar the gun, and the metal of our alloy does not show a strain although the gauge induces a pressure of fifty thousand pounds per square inch if it were accumulated." "and the injection valve?" "it works as easily by pressure on the disc, which replaces the trigger, perfectly." "that was your idea." "after you put me on the track," returned the italian, gratefully. "oh, i am still very ignorant in these matters." "not more than i, a few months ago. i had not handled a firearm until--" he checked himself and frowned; then, tranquilly resuming, he said: "labor, and you will reach the goal!" antonino looked on silently as his instructor took the gun and inserted the bullet, but when he was going over to the open window, with the evident intention to fire off into the garden, he followed and laid his hand on his arm, saying animatedly: "do not fire!" "why not?" returned clemenceau, but without astonishment. "we live in a desert since we have frightened our neighbors away. for two leagues around, nobody is about at this hour and everybody within our walls is accustomed to the noise of the gas exploding." "not everybody," remonstrated antonino. "madame clemenceau has returned home and the sound frightens her because so strange." "it is so. that's another matter," replied the inventor, putting the rifle down in the corner without haste. "did you know it? have you seen her?" cried antonino, struck by the remarkable unconcern of his master. "i knew of it by seeing her, yes, as i was coming down stairs a while since--she was going to her rooms from this one, with her maid." "it's a lucky thing that mademoiselle daniels refused to occupy them!" exclaimed antonino. "why did you not speak to your wife?" "because i can have nothing to say to her and she would speak to me nothing but lies," said clemenceau in so severe and convinced a tone that the young man remained silent, hurt at the judgment pronounced upon his idol by its own high-priest. "what are you brooding over?" he inquired, after an embarrassing pause. "my dear master, i think that i ought to ask leave of absence since i have finished the work of designing the bullet most fit for the gas-rifle." "do you ask leave of me, at your age, as of a schoolmaster?" the relations between the adopted son and the architect, who had mistaken his bent and become an innovator in artillery, had been affectionate, and on the younger man's side respectful. he had never taken any serious steps without asking his consent. "well, where did you think of going?" asked clemenceau. "to paris." "to show the rifle and projectile complete? no, we can test the latter at the new series of firing experiments before the ordnance committee. the minister of war and the emperor will not thank you for disturbing them for so little. it was the great gun they wanted. they are wedded to the chassepot for the soldier's gun and, besides, the government musket factories are opposed to so great a novelty." "i need exercise--action--the open air," persisted the italian. clemenceau shook his head. only the day before, the young man had called himself the happiest soul in the world and did not wish to quit tranquil montmorency. "well, after you have had your fling, would you hasten back?" "i--i fear not, master," said he. "i daresay if you and m. daniels should approve, i might have a situation to travel for the clemenceau rifle company, for some months, in england or america--and explain the value of your invention." "you wish to be my trumpeter, eh?" said the frenchman, sadly smiling. "but what is to become of me during your absence and of m. daniels? remember that i have nobody to understand me, sympathize with me, become endeared to me, and aid me!" "i, alone?" repeated the italian, affected by the melancholy tone common to the man of one idea who must, to concentrate his thoughts, set aside other ties of union with his race. "do you doubt it?" antonino felt no doubt. he would be the most to be deplored among men if he were not fond of clemenceau after all that he had done for him. he was an orphan vagrant, next to a beggar, when he had been housed by him, kept, and highly educated. then, too, with a frankness not common among born brothers, the frenchman had associated him in all his labors for the revolution in the science of artillery--the greatest since bacon discovered gunpowder. all that he was, he owed to the man before him. "believe me, father," he said, earnestly, "i esteem and venerate you!" "and yet you keep secrets from me!" reproached clemenceau. "i--i have no secrets." "i see you are too serious." "i am only sorrowful--sorrowful at quitting you." "why should you do it, i repeat?" "i am never merry--happiness is not my portion," faltered antonino, not knowing what answer to make. "that's nothing. better now than later! at your age, unhappiness is easily borne--it is only what the sporting gentlemen call a preliminary canter. wait till you come to the actual race!" "i am not fit to dwell with others--with grave, earnest men; i am too nervous and impressionable." "because you come of an excitable race, and your childhood was passed in too deep poverty. you will grow out of all that, gradually. stay here; oh, keep with me, for i have need of you and you require a companion-soul, soothing like mine. the kind of disappointment you experience is not to be cured by change of place. you carry it with you, and distance increases and strengthens it, and whenever you meet the object again to whom was due the vexation you will perceive that you went on the journey for no good." antonino looked at the speaker as one regards the mind-reader who has answered to the point. clemenceau fixed him with his serene, unvarying eyes, and continued, in an emotionless voice, like a statue, speaking: "you are in love--and you love my wife." antonino started away and involuntarily lifted his hands in a position of defense. averting his eyes and unclenching his fists, he muttered sullenly: "what makes you suppose that?" "i saw it was so." at the end of a silence more burdensome than any before the younger man found his voice and, as though tears interfered with his utterance, said pathetically, and indistinctly: "do you not acknowledge, master, now, that i must go; for when i am far away, perhaps you will forgive the ingrate!" looking at the young man of two-and-twenty, clemenceau knew by his own infatuation at the same tender age with the same woman, that he had nothing to forgive him for--little to reproach him. it was youth that was to blame, and it had loved. no matter who that cytherean priestess was, he must have adored her whether sister, wife or daughter of dearest friend, teacher and paternal patron. but it was clear from the grief that had made the youth a melancholy man that he was honorable. grief is never, when the outcome of remorse, a useless or evil feeling. it is a fair-fighting adversary which has only to be overcome to be a sure ally, always ready to defend and protect its victor. in his own terse language, that of a mathematician and mechanician who knew no words of double meaning. clemenceau told the italian this. "with your youth and your grief, such a spirit as yours and such a friend as you have in me, anto," he said, "you possess the weapons of achilles." antonino thought he was mocking at him and frowned. "you think i am sneering? or merely laughing at you? alas, it is a long while since i indulged in laughter. it was this woman, with whom you have fallen in love, who froze the laugh forever on my lips! she would have been the death of me if i had not overruled her and exterminated her within my breast. how i loved her! how i have suffered through her--enough to be our united portions of future pain--suffer you no more, therefore. you are too young, tender and credulous to try a fall with that creature. she must have divined long ago that you were enamored of her. she is not too clear-sighted in all things, but she sees such effects by intuition. it is very probable that she has returned to this house on your account, so suddenly. i could guess that she was on the eve of flight, but not that she would return. she always needs fresh sensations to make herself believe that she is alive, for she is more lifeless than those whom she robbed of life." antonino did not understand the allusion, for he had never felt less like dying than since césarine had been seen again. "i mean that she sends the chill of death into the soul, heart and brain of man, and it congeals the marrow in his bones!" said clemenceau, energetically. "you may say that if she is a wicked woman and if, whatever her defense, her absence covers some evil step, i ought to separate from her. it is all the present state of the law allows. but while her absence would have prevented you, or another friend, from meeting her, still she would have borne my name. that name i am doubly bound to make honorable, for it was stained with blood--that of one of her ever-accursed race. my father won an illustrious name and, her ancestress, whom he married, was dragging it publically in the mud amid all the scandals of society, when he slew her on her couch of gilded infamy. ashamed of this name--not because he was indicated under it, but because she had so vilified it--his greatest desire to the friends who visited him in the condemned cell, was to have me, his son, change it. they had me brought up at a distance under the name of claudius ruprecht. it might even have happened that another country than that of my birth would receive the glory which a heaven-sent idea is to bestow upon france. now, i am more than ever determined that her venom shall not sully me. she may cause a little ridicule to arise, but that i can scorn. the laugh at montmorency will not reach paris, far less echo around the globe! for a long time i hoped to enlighten her and redeem her, but i have failed. but i am bound to enlighten you and save you, am i not? from the feeling you harbor can spring only an additional shame for césarine, and certain, perhaps irreparable woe for you. stop, turn about and look the other way. a man of twenty, who may naturally live another three-score years and work during two of them, who would talk to you of that nonsense, love's sorrow? that was all very well once, when the world revolved slowly and there was little to be done by the people who blocked nobody's way. but these are busy times and things to be done cannot wait till you finish loving and wailing, or till you die of a broken heart without having done anything for your fellow men." "bravo!" exclaimed the sympathetical and easily aroused italian, grasping the speaker by the hand and pressing it with revived energy. "my excellent leader, you are right!" "and by and by," said the other, with an effort, as though he had to master inward commotion, "when you win a prize from your own country and you look for household joys more agreeably to reward you, you may find one not far from here at this moment to be your wife. for, generally, the bane is near the antidote--the serpent is crushed under the heel next the beneficent plant which heals the bite." "rebecca?" questioned the young man in amazement. "but if i can read her heart as you do mine, master, rebecca daniels loves you." "she admires me and pities me, antonino," replied clemenceau, hastily, as if wishful to elude the question. "she does not love me. besides, that is of no consequence. i have no room for love again--always provided that i have once loved. passion often has the honor of being confounded with the purer feeling, especially in the young. did i love that monster--for she is a monster, antonino--i might forgive, for love excuses everything--that is true love, but it is rare as virtue--common sense and all that is truth. to the altar of love, many are called, but few elected, and all are not fit. "i see you are not convinced, because the dog that bit me is so shapely, and graceful and wears so silky a coat! such dogs are mad and their bite in the heart is fatal and agonizing unless one at once applies the white hot cautery. the seam remains--from time to time it aches--but the victim's life is saved that he may save, serve, gladden his fellow men. would you rather i should weep, or force a smile, and appear happy for a period? in any case, since i have cured the injury and she is in my house again, i shall not retaliate on her. but if she threatens to become a public danger--if she bares her poisonous fangs to harm my friend--my son--another--let her beware!" "master," stammered antonino, beginning to see the temptress in the new light, as felix had often shown him other objects to which he had been blind, "you may or may not judge her too harshly, but you certainly judge me too leniently. better to let me go away, and far, or at least, since you began the revelation, make the evidence complete of your trust and esteem." clemenceau saw that the young man still believed in césarine, but he did not care to tell him all he knew of her. had he been told that she had encouraged gratian to flee with her and had abandoned him at the first danger, without lifting a finger to save him, or her voice to procure him succor, he might loathe and hate her; but clemenceau meant to say nothing. such revelations, and denunciations are permissible alone to wrath, revenge, or despair, in the man whose heart is still bleeding from the wound made in it so that his outburst is sealed by his blood. "no, antonino, by my mouth no one shall ever know all that woman has done--or what victories i have won over myself--in severe wrestlings." "i see you have forgiven her," said the italian, advancing the virtue in which he was deficient. "i have expunged her from my heart," answered clemenceau firmly. "she is a picture on only one page of my life-book, and i do not open it there. knowing my secret, you are the last person to whom i shall speak of césarine's misdeeds. i wish your deliverance, like mine, to be owed to your will, but you are free and have been forewarned, so that you will have less effort to make than i. let the scarlet woman go by and do not step across her path. between two smiles, she will dishonor you or deal death to you! she slays like a dart of satan. that is all you need know. but, as, indeed, you deserve a token of esteem and confidence from your frankness, affection and labors, i will give you one." having seated himself, he drew from an inner pocket a paper written in odd characters. "the time of my giving you the proof of trust should make it more sacred and precious still. i have found the solution of the last problem over which we pored. you know that while we discovered the means of imprisoning the gas in a concentrated form of scarcely appreciable bulk, it was not always our obedient slave, we had the fear that sometimes it would not submit to being liberated by piecemeal but would now and then disrupt its containing chamber in impatience, and then the holder would certainly die, choked if the fragments of the gun had not fatally lacerated him. after many days and nights, i have found the simple means to render the gas innocuous except in the direction to which we direct its flow. i have written out the formula, in the minutest particulars and in the cipher which you and i alone understand. in the same way we two share the secret of this safe." he handed antonino a peculiar key and he went to unlock the coffer which had aroused madame clemenceau's curiosity. "lock it up with the other papers," concluded the inventor. "i appoint you its keeper while i live--my heir and the carrier out of the work after my decease, should i die before having proved what i consign there. what matters it now if my material form disappears when my spirit lives on in thee! well," he said, as antonino returned, after closing and fastening the chest, "do you need any farther proof of the confidence i have in you?" antonino grasped his hand and wrung it fondly when both had recovered calmness, they went on speaking of their work, which might be considered past the stage when the projector is racked by misgivings. they went into the breakfast-room together, prepared to bear the singular meeting with the errant wife whose return was so unexpected. but she preferred not to take the step so soon, and, as rebecca also kept away, warned by hedwig, who might appear at the board, the three men took their meal together. chapter xv. the man of many masks. from dawn a stranger had been wandering about montmorency. armed with a large sun-umbrella and a guid-joanne, his copiously oiled black side-whiskers glistening in the sun, showing large teeth in a friendly grin to wayfarers of all degrees, one did not need to hear his strong accent of the people of marseilles to know that he was a son of the south. probably having made a fortune in shipping, in oils or wines, he was utilizing his holiday by touring in the north of his country, forced to admire, but still pugnaciously asseverating that no garden equalled his city park and no main street his cannebiere. he seemed to have no destination in particular; he stopped here and there at random, and used a large and powerful field-glass, slung by a patent leather strap over his brawny shoulders, to study the points in the wide landscape. now and then he made notes in his guide-book, but with a good-humored listlessness which would have disarmed the most suspicious of military detectives. on descending the hillside, he did not scruple to stop to chat with a nurse maid or two out with the children, and to open his hand as freely to give the latter some silver as he had opened his heart to the girl--all with an easy, hearty laugh, and the oily accent of his fellow-countrymen. he exchanged the time of day with the clerks hurrying to the railroad station; he did not disdain to ask the roadmender, seated on a pile of stones, how his labor was getting on, and where he would work next week; he leaned on the gate to listen as if enrapt to the groom and gardener of a neighbor of clemenceau's, regretting that the hubbub of cracking guns and other ominous explosions was driving their master from home. then, rattling his loose silver, and whistling a fisher's song, which he must have picked up off the hyéres, he paused before the gateway of the house which had become the ogre's cave of montmorency, and read half aloud the placard nailed on a board to a tree and announcing that the property was in the open market. "the reine-claude villa, eh!" muttered he to himself. "the name pleases me! i must go in and see if it is worth the money. to say nothing," he added still more secretly, "of the mistress having returned this morning. i wonder how she had the courage to walk along the road in the dawn, when she might have met the ghost of our poor gratian von linden-hohen-linden!" this acquaintance with the unpublished story of madame clemenceau rather contradicted the aspect and accent of a marseillais, and, although the black whiskers did not remind one of von sendlingen when we saw him at munich, than of his clear shaven, wrinkled face as the marchioness de letourlagneau pianist, it was not so with the burly figure, more robust than corpulent. he opened the gate without ringing and stepped inside on the gravel path winding up to the pretty but not lively house. "attention," he muttered suddenly, in a military tone. "here is our own little spy in the camp--hedwig. it will be as well she does not recognize me without my cue." running his large red hand over his whiskers, he jovially accosted the girl, after adjusting his formidable accoutrement field-glass, guide-book, case and heavy watch chain, adorned with a compass and a pedometer. she stood on the porch before the windows of the room into which her mistress had entered so early in the morning. "what do you seek, monsieur?" she challenged, after an unfavorable glance upon the stranger who had greatly offended her idea of dignity by not ringing and waiting at the portals to be officially admitted. "pardon me, young lady," the man said, with the southern accent so strong that a flavor of garlic at once pervaded the air, "but i did not think that your papa and mamma and the family were in the house, seeing that it is for sale." "young lady? my papa? let me tell you that i am the housemaid here and if you have intended to jest--" "jest! purchasing a house, and rather large gardens, is no jest, not in the environs of paris!" returned the visitor. "is it you who are to show the property?" "no. if you will wait, i will tell master," said hedwig, not at all flattered by being pretendedly taken for "the daughter of the house." she turned round, made the half-circuit of the house, and entered the breakfast-room where the three gentlemen were still in debate. "a gentleman, to see the house, with a view to purchase, eh?" said clemenceau. "very well, i will go into the drawing-room and speak with him. is your mistress having a nap?" "no, monsieur." "then, be so good as to tell her that somebody has come about the house, and as such inquirers are sure to be supplied by their wives with formidable lists of questions about domestic details, i should be obliged by her coming down to send the person away satisfied." he followed hedwig on the way up through the house as far as the drawing-room door, where his path branched off. entering, he threw open the double window-sashes and politely asked the gentleman to make use of this direct road, with an apology for suggesting it. but he had seen at a glance that this kind of happy-go-lucky tourist was not of the ceremonious strain. "it is you, monsieur," began the latter, taking the seat pointed out to him and immediately swinging one leg, mounted on the other knee, with the utmost nonchalance, "it is you who are the proprietor of this pretty place?" "yes; my name is clemenceau, at your service." "then, monsieur, i am--where the plague have i put my card-case--i am guillaume cantagnac, lately in business as a notary, but for the present, at the head of an enterprise for the purchase of landed estates, and their development by high culture for the ground and superior structures instead of their antiquated houses. i read in the _moniteur des ventes_, and on the placard at your gates, that you are willing to dispose of this residence and the land appertaining thereunto. i am not on business this morning, but taking a little pleasure-trip--no, not pleasure-trip--god forbid i should find any pleasure now! i mean a little tour for distraction after a great sorrow that has befallen me." the stout man, though he could have felled a bull with a blow of his leg-of-mutton fist, seemed about to break down in tears. but, burying his empurpled nose in a large red handkerchief, he passed off his emotion in a potent blast which made the ornaments on the mantel-shelf quake, and resumed in an unsteady voice: "i would have made a note and deferred to another day seeing the property you offer and learning its area, value, situation, advantages and defects--for there is always some flaw in a terrestrial paradise, ha, ha! but your hospitable gate was on the latch--such an inviting expression was on the face of a rather pretty servant girl on your porch--faith! i could not resist the temptation to make the acquaintance of the happy owner of this eden! and lo! i am rewarded by the power to go home to marseilles and tell my companion domino-players in the café dame de la garde that i saw the renowned constructor of the new cannon--m. felix clemenceau, with whom the emperor has spoken about the defense of our beloved country!" clemenceau could only bow under this deluge of words. "m. clemenceau, will you honor me with the clasp of the hand?" the host allowed his hand to disappear from view in the enormous one presented, timidly. "ah! in case of the universal european war, they are talking about, france will have need of such men as you!" the embarrassing situation for the modest inventor was altered for the better by the entrance of antonino, who darted a keen glance upon the genial stranger. "how do you do?" cried the latter, nodding kindly. "your son, i suppose, m. clemenceau?" "by adoption. i am hardly of the age to have a son as old as that!" "i beg your pardon! i see now, that it is brain-work that has worn you out a little. but, bless you, that will all get smoothed out when you begin to enjoy the windfall of fortune! i dare say now you are selling out because the emperor offers you a piece of one of his parks, wanting you to live near him. and i presume this bright young gentleman is of the same profession? has he, too, invented a great gun?" "he is the author of several not inconsiderable inventions," replied clemenceau for antonino, who was not delighted with the stranger's ways, had gone to look out of the nearest window, although it necessitated his rudely turning his back on him. "any cannon among them?" "no, m. cant--cant--" "cantagnac--" "cantagnac; only a very notable bullet of novel shape." "a bullet, dear me! a bullet! a novel bullet! what an age we are living in, to be sure! i applaud you, young man, and you must allow me to say to my companions in the café de la garde at marseilles, that i shook the hand of the inventor of the new bullet!" but as antonino did not make a responsive movement, he had to add, unabashed: "before i go, i mean! but allow me to say, gentlemen, that though i am only a commonplace notary, and a retired one, at that, ha, ha! a buyer of houses to modernize, and land to improve in cultivation; though lowly, and very ill-informed on the great questions which occupy you, yet i venture to assert that i take the greatest interest in your labors. i would give half--aye, three-quarters of my possessions toward your success. my life should be yours if it were useful in any way, although that would be a small gift, as it has no value in my own eyes. i had a son, m. clemenceau--an only son, tall, dark, handsome and, though he took after me, bright--like this young gentleman of talent here!" he flourished the voluminous red handkerchief again. "in an evil hour, i let him go on a holiday excursion and he chose the rhine. his boyish gallantry caused him to champion a waitress on a steamboat, whom a bullying german officer of the landsturm had chucked under the chin. high words were exchanged--my boy challenged the giant, who did not understand our way among gentlemen of settling such matters--he knocked my hopeful one overboard--no, gentlemen, he was not drowned, but he never recovered from the mortification of being laughed at. he came home but to die--in the following year, poor, sensitive soul! his mother never held her head up again, and i--" he blew his nose with a tremendous peal, "i--i beg your pardon for forgetting my business, again." "not at all!" exclaimed clemenceau, while antonino, angry at having misjudged the bereaved parent, offered him the hand he had previously refused. "i thank you both," said m. cantagnac, hastening to dry his tears which might have seemed of the crocodile sort when they had time to remember he had been a notary. "this is not my usual bearing! three years ago i was called the merry one, for i was always laughing, but now"--he gave a great gulp at a sob like a rosy-gilled salmon taking in a fly and abruptly said: "so you want to sell your house, with all belongings? which are--" "about twelve acres, mostly young wood, but some rocky ground ornamental enough, which will never be productive. do you mind getting the plan, antonino? it is hanging up in my study." antonino went out, not sorry to be beyond earshot of the boisterous negotiator. "young wood, eh?" repeated the latter, "humph! lots of stony ground! ahem! yet it is pretty and so near town. i wonder you sell it." "i want ready money," returned clemenceau, bluntly. "so we all do, ha, ha! but you surely could raise on it by mortgage." "i have tried that." "the deuce you have! that's strange, when the emperor said your discovery--" "it is a gold mine, but like gold mines, it has plunged the discoverer into debt." "i dare say it would! and i suppose it is not so certain-sure as the newspapers assert--" "i beg your pardon, it is beyond all doubt," replied clemenceau, sharply. chapter xvi. strike not woman, even with roses. "stop a bit," said m. cantagnac, pulling a newspaper out of his pocket. "this is a journal i picked up in the cars. i always do that. there is sure to be some passenger to throw them down and so i never buy any myself when i am traveling, ha, ha! well, in this very sheet, there is a long article about you. it is called 'the ideal cannon' and the writer declares that the experiment was a great hit, ha, ha! and he undertakes to explain the new system." clemenceau smiled contemptuously. he was not one of those to make a secret public property on which a nation's salvation might depend. in such momentous matters, he would have had arsenals, armories, navy yards and military museums labeled over the door: "speech is silver, silence is of gold; death unto him who dares the tale unfold!" "ah, he wouldn't know everything, of course. however, he makes out that you obtain the wonderful result by fixing essential oils in a special magazine and that you managed to project a solid shot to the prodigious distance of--of--" he referred to the newspaper--"fifteen miles by means of--of--i do not understand these jaw-breaking scientific terms. is it not nitroglycerine?" "i do not use them myself," remarked clemenceau, dryly. "but he adds--look here!" continued the worthy man from marseilles, regretfully, "that what you managed to perform with your model and material, specially prepared by yourself, could not be attained on the proper scale in a war campaign. he goes on to say that the scientific world await the explanation of the means to obtain such power as, heretofore, the pressure of liquefied gases has been but some five hundred pounds to the square inch, about a tenth of that of explosives now used. it is admitted, however, that there may be something in your increase of effectiveness by reiterated emissions--" he began to stammer, as if he were speaking too glibly, but his auditor took no alarm. "he continues that, up to this day, gases have failed as propelling powers from their instantaneous explosions." "the writer is correct," said clemenceau, a little warmed, "or, rather, he had foundation for his criticism when he wrote. the powerful agent was not perfectly controllable at the period of my last official experiments, but that is not the case at present. this enormous, almost incalculable power is so perfectly under my thumb, monsieur, that not only is it manageable in the largest cannon, but it is suitable for a parlor pistol, which a child might play with." "wonderful!" ejaculated cantagnac, with undoubted sincerity, for his eyes gleamed. "in solving that last enigma, i found the power became more strong when curbed. consequently, the gun that would before have carried fifteen miles, may send twenty, and the ball, if not explosible, might ricochet three." "wonderful!" cried the marseillais again, who displayed very deep interest in the abstruse subject for a retired notary. "the bullet, or shell, or ball--all the projectiles are perfected now!" went on clemenceau, triumphantly, "and were i surrounded by a million of men, or had i an impregnable fortress before me, a battery of my cannon would finish the struggle in not more than four hours." "why, this is a force of nature, not man's work," said cantagnac, through his grating teeth, as though the admiration were extracted from him. "i do not see how any army or any fort could resist such instruments." "no, monsieur, not one." "would not all the other nations unite against your country?" "what would that matter, when, i repeat, the number of adversaries would not affect the question?" "what a dreadful thing! i beg your pardon, but i go to church and i have had 'love one another!' dinned into my ears. what is to become of that precept, eh?" "it is what i should diffuse by my cannon," returned clemenceau. "by scattering the limbs of thousands of men, ha, ha!" but his laugh sounded very hollow, indeed. "not so; by destroying warfare," was the inventor's reply. "war is impious, immoral and monstrous, and not the means employed in it. the more terrible they are, the sooner will come the millennium. on the day when men find that no human protection, no rank, no wealth, no influential connections, nothing can shield them from destruction by hundreds of thousands, not only on the battlefield, but in their houses, within the highest fortified ramparts, they will no longer risk their country, homes, families and bodies, for causes often insignificant or dishonest. at present, all reflecting men who believe that the divine law ought to rule the earth, should have but one thought and a single aim: to learn the truth, speak it and impress it by all possible means wherever it is not recognized. i am a man who has frittered away too much of his time on personal tastes and emotions, and i vow that i shall never let a day pass without meditating upon the destination whither all the world should move, and i mean to trample over any obstacle that rises before me. the time is one when men could carouse, amuse themselves, doze and trifle--or keep in a petty clique. the real society will be formed of those who toil and watch, believe and govern." "i see, monsieur, that you cherish a hearty hatred for the enemies of the student and the worker," said the ex-notary, not without an inexplicable bitterness, "and that you seek the suppression of the swordsman." "you mistake--i hate nobody," loftily answered clemenceau. "if i thought that my country would use my discovery to wage an unjust war, i declare that i should annihilate the invention. but whatever rulers may intend, my country will never long carry on an unfair war and it is only to make right prevail that france should be furnished with irresistible power." while listening, cantagnac had probably considered that raillery was not proper to treat such exaltation, for he changed his tone and noisily applauded the sentiments. "capital, capital! that's what i call sensible talk! and do you believe that i would leave a man, a patriot, in temporary embarrassment when he has discovered the salvation of our country? why, this house will become a sight for the world and his wife to flock unto! i am proud that i have stood within the walls and i shall tell the domino-players of the café--but never mind that now! to business! between ourselves, are you particularly fond of this house?" "it is my only french home, where i brought my bride, where my child was born--where the great child of my brain came forth--" "enough! we can arrange this neatly. it is my element to smooth matters over. something is in the air about a company to 'work' your minor inventions in firearms, eh? good! i engage, from my financial connections, to find you all funds required; i shall charge twenty-five per cent. on the profits, and never interfere with your scientific department, which i do not understand, anyway. there is no necessity of our seeing one another in the business, but i do want to put my shoulder to the wheel--_wheel_ of fortune, eh? ha, ha!" and he rubbed his large hands gleefully till they fairly glowed. there was no resisting openness like this, and clemenceau heartily thanked the volunteer "backer," as is said in monetary circles. "that's very kind; but the proposal has previously been made to me by an old friend, an israelite who also has connections with the principal bankers. but these transactions take time, on a large scale and to embrace the world. meanwhile, although he would readily and easily find me temporary accommodation, the pressure on me is not acute enough for me to accept a helping hand." "i understand: you would not be in difficulties if you were another kind of man. let us say no more about it. as the company will be a public one, i suppose, i can take shares. about this mortgage over our heads, is some bank holding it?" "well, no; my wife has it, as part of the marriage portion, or rather my gift. i have sent for her to step down to discuss the matter with you." "happy to see the lady," said cantagnac, pulling out his whiskers and adjusting the points of his collar. "we will discuss it, with an eye to your interests, monsieur." it was clear that m. cantagnac had not enchanted antonino, for he had taken care not to bring the plan of the house; it was brought, but by another hand. on seeing the lady, the marseillais bowed with exaggerated politeness of the old school and stammered his compliments. "no, no;" clemenceau hastened to say, "this is not the lady of the house, but a guest who, however, will show you the place." it was rebecca daniels. as always happens with the jews, whose long, oval faces are not improved by mental trouble, she looked less captivating than when she had shone as the star of the harmonista music-hall; but, nevertheless, she was, for the refined eye, very alluring. she accepted the task imposed on her with a gentle smile, although it was evident that in her quick glance she had summed up the visitor's qualities without much favor for him. while cantagnac was bowing again and fumbling confusedly with his hat, rebecca laid the plan on the table and whispered to clemenceau: "do you know that she is here again?" he nodded, whereupon her features, which had been animated, fell back into habitual calm. "she sends word by hedwig, whom i intercepted, that she wants to see you before seeing this purchaser of the house. i need not urge you to keep calm?" "no!" "come this way, please, monsieur," said rebecca, lightly, as if fully at ease, and she led cantagnac out of the room. left to himself, with the notification of the important interview overhanging him, the host pondered. he had at the first loved rebecca, and it was strange to him now that he had let césarine outshine her. he had acted like an observer, who takes a comet for a planet shaken out of its course. since he loved the jewess with a holier flame than ever the russian kindled, he perceived which was the true love. this is not an earthly fire, but a divine spirit; not a chance shock, but the union of two souls in unbroken harmony. it is possible that von sendlingen in transmitting to clemenceau the notice by the butler's wife, that the viscount gratian was to aid her in flight, but which as plainly revealed the wife's flight, had expected the angered husband to execute justice on the betrayer. human laws could have absolved him if he had slain the couple at sight, but clemenceau, after the example of his father, had resolved not to transgress the divine mandate again, even in this cause. he would have separated the congenial spirits of cunning and deceit, but not by striking a blow, and the rebuke to césarine would have been so scathing she would never have had the impudence to see him again. not by murder did he mean to liberate himself. on seeing that heaven had taken the parting of the gallant and the wanton into its hand, he had simply forbore to intervene. on the one hand, he let gratian's mysterious and stealthy assassins stifle him and the other, césarine, run to the railroad station unhailed. the one deserved death as the other deserved oblivion. this woman was of the world and would be a clod when no longer living--her essence would remain to inspirit some other evil woman--the same malignity in a beautiful shape which appeared in lais, messalina, lucrezia borgia, the medici, ninon, lecouvreur, iza, not links of a chain, but the same gem, a little differently set. but rebecca's was an ethereal spirit eternal. thinking of her he could believe himself young and comely again and loving forever in another sphere. this was the being whom he would eternally adore, whether he or she were the first to quit the earth. here lay the consolation. césarine, like all evil, was transient; rebecca, like all good, everlasting. "let her come," said he at last, lifting his head slowly and no longer troubled. "she need not fear. i shall bear in mind the oriental proverb daniels quoted: 'do not beat a woman, even with roses!'" hardly were the words formed in his mind than his wife appeared as though by that mind reading, frequent in married couples--she had waited for this assurance of her personal safety to be mentally formed. in the short time given her toilet, she had performed wonders. perhaps, with a surprising effort of her will, she had snatched some rest, for her eyes wore the fresh, pellucid gleam after prolonged slumber. her cheeks were smooth and by artifice, seemed to wear the virginal down. easy and graceful as ever, she affected a slight constraint, which agreed with a pretence of avoiding his glances. "you must be astonished to see me!" she exclaimed, for he did not say a word of greeting. no man could have looked less astonished, and, with the greatest evenness of tone, he answered: "you ought to know that nothing you do astonishes me." "but i remember--i wrote you a long letter explaining my absence and the necessity of my sudden departure--the despatch from my poor uncle's secretary--i ordered it to be given you--it explained my sudden departure--" "hedwig gave me the paper," he said shortly. "but my letter, saying i had nursed him to convalescence and had fallen ill myself? you had time to reply but you did not do so." "i received no letter," he said, like a speaking machine. "dear, dear, how could that be!" she muttered, tapping her foot on the head of the tiger-skin rug. "perhaps it arises from your never writing me any," he said, but without bitterness. "oh, i could swear--" "it is of no consequence either way." "since you did not reply, i came to you although it was at a great risk. i would not tell you that i was leaving a sickroom for fear it would fill you with too great pain or too great hope." "how witty you are!" "would you not be happy if i died?" "if you were in a dying state, somebody might have written for you--madame lesperon or your uncle," speaking as if the persons were fabulous creatures. "oh, my granduncle is well known at the russian embassy, and madame and m. lesperon remember your lamented father distinctly." he bit his lip as if he detested hearing his father spoken of by her. "madame wanted to write to you--she expected you to come for me, like any other husband, but i knew you were not like other husbands, and would not come." she was sincere; women always speak out when boldness is an excuse. "you mistake," he interrupted, "i would have come, under the belief that on your death bed, you would have confession to make or desires to express which a husband alone should hear." "what do you suppose?" cried césarine, trying to forget that the speaker must have seen the death of her lover--whether he connived at it or not--and her flight, whether he facilitated it or not. "i do not suppose anything, but i remember and i forsee." "do you mean to say that you do not feel ill-will because i have come back?" "madame clemenceau, this house is ours--as much yours as mine. that is why i asked you to come down here, for it is necessary to sell it." "why am i charged with the business?" "because you have an interest in it. half of all i own is yours." "but you long ago repaid my share, and generously!" "not in the eyes of the law, and it pleases me that you should do this." "but i do not need anything. my uncle was pleased at my nursing him back to health; his children have been unkind to him, and he has transferred to me some property in france, a handsome income! grant to me a great pleasure--of which i am not worthy," she went on tearfully, "but you will have the more merit, then! let me lend you any sum of which you have need." "i thank you, but i have already refused a thousand times the amount from an unsullied hand!" returned clemenceau, emphatically. "that jewess'!" she exclaimed, with a great change in her bearing. "hush! strangers present!" and in uttering this talismanic cue between married people, he pointed to the shadow on the curtains. rebecca had concluded her pilotage of m. cantagnac and it was he whom clemenceau soon after presented to his wife. "let me add, m. cantagnac, that you must be my guest as long as you stay at montmorency, for the hotels are conducted solely for the excursionists who come out of paris and their accommodations would not please you. you are expected to sit down to dinner with us at one o'clock, country fashion and i will order a bedroom ready also." "gracious heavens! you are really too good!" exclaimed cantagnac, lifting his hands almost devoutly. chapter xvii. demon and arch-demon. after one sharp slighting look at the visitor, madame clemenceau had withdrawn her senses within herself, so to say, to come to a conclusion on the singular conduct of her husband. his cold scorn daunted her, and filled her with dread. had not the jewess been on the spot, whom she believed to be a rival once more, however high was her character and hedwig's eulogy, she would have prudently fled again without fighting. she had the less reason to stay, as the house was to be sold, in a manner of speaking, from under her feet. yet the marseillais was worth more than a passing glance. when alone with the lady, whom he regarded steadfastly, a radical change took place in his carriage, and he who had been so easy and oily became stiff, stern and rigid. it was the attitude no longer of a secret agent, wearing the mien and mask of his profession, but of a military spy, who stands before a subordinate when disguise is superfluous. "truly, she is more bewitching than when i first knew her," he muttered between his close teeth, as if he admired with awe and suppressed breath. "what a pretty monster she is!" feeling that his view was weighing upon her, madame clemenceau suddenly looked up. it seemed to her that something in the altered and insolent bearing was not unknown to her but the recollection was hazy, and the black whiskers perplexed. "did you speak, monsieur?" she said, to give herself countenance. "i spoke nothing," he replied still in the smooth accent which was not familiar to her. "a man of business like myself, feels bound, if he has any natural turning that way, to become a physiognomist and thought-reader in order not to pay too dearly for bargains; i am happy to say that i rarely blunder." "then you can read my disposition?" exclaimed césarine mockingly. "i knew it before." "indeed! then you would do me a great service, monsieur, if you would tell me how it strikes you, as an average man. for i assure you," she went on, taking a seat without pointing out one to him, "that some days i do not understand myself, a most humiliating thing, though ancient wisdom acknowledged that the hardest thing is self-knowledge." "if you authorize me to be outspoken, madame, i will enlighten you," returned cantagnac. "do not let me be in your way!" impertinently. "it is the most simple thing, for your entire character is described in these four words: venal, ferocious, frivolous and insubmissive!" she sprang to her feet with quivering lips and flashing eyes, while he, like a statue, lowered upon its pedestal, calmly sank upon an arm-chair. then, looking round and listening to make certain that they had no observers, he leaned both elbows on the table and fixed his sea-blue eyes on the startled lady. "kaiserina!" he said in a commanding voice, without the least softening with that southern suavity, "for how much do you want to sell me secretly, your husband's invention?" the altered voice appeared not at all strange, but the words were so unexpected that she merely stared in bewilderment while he had even more deliberately to repeat them. deeply frightened by this mystery which in vain she tried to solve, she forced a laugh. "oh, it is no jest--i am one of the most serious of men," proceeded cantagnac, "as becomes one of the busiest." she looked at him like a fawn, which, having never seen a human being, is suddenly peered upon in the lair by the hunter. "you want to know who i am, speaking to you in this style? see my card on the table there--it says i am cantagnac, the agent, modest but passing for rather subtle, of a private and limited company recently established with a cash capital fully paid up of several millions of _fredericks_--for, to tell the plain facts to you--the obtaining for its profit the ideas, inventions and discoveries of others. in short, we, who used to despise mental fruits, see that it is the most profitable of trades to work genius. as soon as we see, learn, or even scent that an important thing is being produced anywhere in the world, we hurry to the spot and by one means or another--money, cunning, persuasion, main force, if needs must, we make ourselves master of what we must have if we mean to be the world's rulers. with a european war impending, even a lady will see at once of what value an invention is, like m. clemenceau's." "in plain language, you are proposing to me an infamous deed!" she exclaimed with scathing irony which failed to scare the other. "i am proposing a matter of business. where are you going?" "straight to my husband--whose confidence you have imposed on by some deception" "dear madame, do not do what you would eternally deplore," said cantagnac quietly, and motioning with his broad hand for her to be seated again. "i deceived your husband with a bit of character acting which you would, i think, have applauded, as you were once on the stage--the music hall stage, at least." she sat down, as if this allusion had stunned her. "his secret is indispensable to my company and i was given instructions to try to obtain it, by surprise and for nothing, if possible. without it, many another purchase of ours made at great expense, would become utterly useless. from an incomplete acquaintance with your husband, i feared i could do nothing with him; from a study of him here, at a later period, i doubted still more; and, having spoken with him, i am sure." a previous acquaintance with clemenceau? it was a ray of light, but still césarine, who did not cease to stare at him, failed to identify him with a figure in her past. was this only a new phase of a proteus? "clemenceau is no longer the frank and enthusiastic student but a man of talent and feeling who has found his true course. in what concerns the revelation he has had from science, he is reserved and circumspect. happily, man that is borne of woman, however great, if a simpleton and an idealist, almost always is the prey of the sex in one form or another. when they escape feminine influence, they are impregnable, and strong measures must be employed." "strong measures," repeated césarine, shuddering at the icy, passionless tone like a lecturer's. "they must be blotted off the book of life--and it is always painful to have to proceed to such extremities. it is frequent, very--and ninety-nine times in the hundred, we run up against the woman for whom a great magistrate advised the search whenever a crime is perpetrated." "it would appear that you expect to induce me to commit that crime!" sneered the woman, pale but rebellious. "we have no need to induce you, dear madame, for we can constrain you." "constrain me!" repeated the woman savagely and tossing her head with pride. "if you really knew my nature, you would not say that. you might tell me how?" "really know you? you shall judge for yourself. in your marriage certificate, you are described as of the vieradlers, but your eagle is not the german one--it is the polish. the women of your race are distinguished for beauty, when young, and freedom in love at all times. your grandma has a volumnious chronicle of scandal all to herself, but her glory is thrown into the shade by the peculiar celebrity enjoyed rather briefly by her favorite daughter, la belle iza, that one of the sirens of paris who has, under the present empire, lured the most men to wreck. this was your aunt. her sister, your mother, quite as beautiful, was rescued at an early hour from her mother's manoevres to 'place' her, as she called it, and for this loss, the indignant old lady vowed a kind of unnatural vengeance, to be visited on the child of her who had offended her by remaining in the path of virtue. this child is the woman before me. oh, it is useless to look at me like that!" he grimly said, with the perplexed air of a man with no ear for music who listens to a music-box delighting others. "pure wasted labor! the old lady, who had fallen from her high estate where iza had lifted her, and was ordered out of the capital for extorting hush-money upon her daughter's stock of love-letters, the old lady became a queen--a queen of the disreputable classes. in munich, sleepy old town where superstitions linger and the women are as besotted with ignorance as the men with beer, she ruled the beggars and vagabonds. it was there that fate led you and you fell under her hand. she pretended to befriend you, for even so young, you promised to have power by your charms, renewing those she had never forgotten in her lost iza. no one consulted the almanack de gotha when you were launched on an admiring society as one of the vieradlers. you soon won a great reputation for freshness of wit and coquetry in all south germany. in plain words, you could not see a man come into the drawing-room without wishing to make him fall in love with you. we want to monopolize genius--you to monopolize the love of man. you have the mania of loving, more common than it is suspected, especially by those who would have us believe that good society is a fold where snowy lambs are led about from the cradle to the butcher's shambles, by pastors carrying crooks decked with sky blue ribbons. the feeling is a craving in you--an involuntary and invincible instinct which was to have its inevitable end. you turned from a man who sincerely loved you to make a conquest of another whose heart was engaged." "stop!" interrupted césarine, triumphantly for she had detected genuine feeling the last tone used by the living enigma. "i know you now! you are the man whom you say really loved me. down with the masks! you are--" "not so loud!" "you are major von sendlingen!" "say 'colonel' and you will be exact. yes; i am the lover whom you cast off in favor of the student ruprecht, as this clemenceau was called when he pottered about europe, sketching ruined doorways and broken windows and dreamed of architectural structures. a man whom destiny had chosen to be the greatest demolisher of the age! what sarcasm!" "well, you should be the last to complain! was it like devotion to me that you should try to abduct la belle stamboulane in the public street? "to remove her from your path! she was your rival in the music hall! love her, love a jewess? you do not understand men--you fancy they are put here for your pleasure, safeguard and redemption. an error! we are neither your joy or your punishment. let that pass. you married the student ruprecht who turned out to be your cousin felix clemenceau. for a time you played the part of the idolizing young wife admirably. you never reproached his father's head for the murder of your aunt and he said never a word about the old beggar-sovereign baboushka. in your gladness at having stolen the man away from fraulein daniels, i believe you imagined that it was love you felt. not a bit of it! love is the sun of the soul--all light, heat, motion and creativeness! there are no more two loves than two suns. there may be two or many passions, but not two loves. if a man loved twice, it would not be love!" the hard man spoke so tenderly that his hearer dared not scoff. "he ran through your witchery after a while, but he built his hopes upon maternity. you had a child but you connived at its death, if you did not deal the stroke." how accurately sendlingen had measured this woman! another would have cried out against him at this accusation--or burst into tears and so disarmed a less adamantine man. she did not blanch; she did not lift her hand to cover her unaltered features, but listened as idly as she would to the last plaint of the fool who might blown out his brains at her feet. the false cantagnac pursued in his natural voice, rancid and imperious, rolling out the gutturals like a heavy wagon thundering over an old road. "it follows, madame, that if you run to your husband at a faster gait than you took to run away with the baron of linden, to inform him of my proposition, i will tell him what you hear--i will accuse you of infanticide, of unfaithfulness--" "he knows that!" ejaculated the woman with irony and in defiance. "ask him, if you do not believe." "impossible." "he would not say a word to anybody, and i would not have confessed only i was driven to it." "and he forgave you?" "all!" "he is very grand; and few men of my acquaintance would not at least have caned you smartly. however, it was not long after the 'removal' of your child, to put it mildly, that you threw yourself into the swim of distractions, such as were to be had hereabouts. the old marchioness' circle soon surrounded you; she was one of my company's instruments, and from that time we counted on you as a coadjutrix some day." "on me!" "precisely! to whom should we look for aid and complicity in our concealed and wary work but to the embodiment of permanent and domestic corruption? you are merely an impulse--we are a policy, and you will be our bondwoman. ah, we are merely men--not fools, scoundrels or gods like your husband, for only such would tolerate depravity like yours." "he is like a god," said césarine, trembling, in a low, hushed voice. "when he speaks, it seems to me that it is what people call conscience." "how long is it since you acknowledged this superiority?" sneered the sham marseillais. "too short a while, alas! some few minutes," sighed she. "well, granting he is at least a demi-god, he is a power which we have an interest in destroying. hercules became a nuisance to neglectful stable-keepers, and like conservative institutions. let us have done with him. but, first, the final training of yourself. i repeat that the marchioness' house was the rendezvous at the gates of paris, where we assembled our bearers of intelligence. under cover of chit-chat and vocal-waltzes, we heard reports and issued orders. it was necessary to link you to us and we employed our foremost captivator, the dandy of two countries, the international lothario, the viscount-baron gratian von linden-hohen-linden-_cum_ de terremonde. luckily, too, he had been at the same period as myself, smitten with your vernal charms, and he entered upon his amorous mission with gusto. you believed him very wealthy, but let me tell you that the cash he really had under hand was our petty expense fund. judge by that what a capital we control!" exclaimed von sendlingen proudly. "our poor gratian the double dealer, seemed not to be loved by the gods any more truly than by his goddess here present, for she let him, unassisted, be thrust down, on falling through a broken bridge, into the mire of a rivulet visible from your window. there he breathed his last. fit death for a traitor! for our corporation, the untimely, unmanageable passion of this athletic fop might have had grave consequences, and for you. we did not find the money on his person only a pocketbook stuffed with rubbish, as if he were the victim of some gross deception. but, have no fear, madame, we are not going to claim the sum from you, we prefer to let you regard it as a payment on account. we intend you no mischief, and we intended you none, then; we might have stopped your flight--that is, i might have done so, but i only threw myself across your path after you ran on, to stay your husband from pursuing you." "you were there?" she stammered, more and more frightened at the vastness of the serpent which involved her with its coils, and which was so careless about the loss of its golden scales. "enough! all is well that ends well! you will serve us?" "but i have repented!" "nonsense! you returned home because your husband was suddenly enriched above your dreams. your repentance was simply a prompting of moral hygiene for you to take rest before a new and less unlucky flight. you had the instinctive warning that to the greatly successful inventor, the modern king or knowing man--for civilization has come round the circle to the point where savagery commenced and the wise man rules--to the wizard, power, riches, beauty, all gravitate. your husband would be courted; duchesses would sue him to place their husbands or gallants on the board of his company--the dark-eyed charmer whom you ousted in the munich music hall and whom you foresaw to be your eternal rival, might meet him again. with you beside him, she might be repulsed--with you distant, he would surrender at discretion. what a triumph for your self-conceit and banquet for your senses to make your husband love you even more than when he was the suitor! look out! in battling with your husband you say you fight conscience; with mademoiselle daniels, with whom i have had twenty minutes' pleasant conversation, enlightening him, you would conflict with virtue. tell your husband that the money you offered to help him, came out of our bank, and he will not forgive you or tolerate you this time. no, for his silence would no longer be loftiness of soul, but complicity of which i do not think him capable," he grudgingly said. "he would hand you over to the police, and believe me, the emperor napoleon, having a mania on the subject of artillery, would personally instruct his _procureur_ to draw up an indictment against you which would not miss fire. and were you to escape in france, we should have that abstracted money's worth from you elsewhere. now, dear lady, for how much will you sell us the secret of m. clemenceau?" the woman bowed her head, like one imprisoned in a sand drift, not to be crossed in any direction, but closing in and weighing down. she was in a pitfall, overpowered like gratian had been, subjugated, soon to be put to the yoke and compelled to draw steadily the harrow of transcendental politics. her caprices, faults, fancies, duplicities, wiles, caresses, impudence, conquests and delights were but straws out of which some great diplomatist would draw supplies for his cattle. it was humiliating to the superb creature, but logical. she gnashed her teeth, but she was sure that her cajolery--even her tears would be thrown away on this soldier-spy whom once she had jilted, and who at present surfeited himself with her defeat. "it is a crime," she moaned, "a dastardly crime that you require me to do." "not your first! you robbed us for your own private ends--we want you to rob another for ours! you must not always be selfish." 'but i had really repented--" "pooh! you may repent of this fresh misdeed while you are about penance. i have no objections to you becoming a good wife! it will be a novel sensation, and of nothing are you more fond! suppose you convince your husband that it is wicked to kill his fellow-men by the myriad--that love of woman is better than glory--decide him to go into a cottage by the mediterranean with you, and--sell us the invention. we could put it to a righteous end; clear africa of cannibals, that the merchants' stores, and farms to raise produce to fill them, should replace cane-huts. but i doubt you will succeed!" "never!" she exclaimed, afraid that her hopelessness would injure her, for she would be the creditor of this remorseless combination without any prospect of repaying them. but all resistance was useless, she was convinced; she had to submit or she would be expunged from life. she who had fancied herself so powerful was but the lowly, abject subaltern at the beck of a preponderating power of which she understood no more the details than the aim and principle. "there is always a second course," observed von sendlingen slowly. "that weak, inexperienced, young italian, who loves you passionately." "antonino?" "antonino, yes; he carries the key to that coffer, and the key, too, of the private cipher in which the inventor records his discoveries." shrinking away aghast, her blanched countenance expressed her wonder at this preternatural knowledge. these master-spies knew everything, even under this roof, better than the wife! this grim giant carried on an abominable craft with thorough insight. that she could never emulate, for completeness was not her forte. oh, had she but been a virtuous woman--an honorable wife, he had not dared assume to govern her! but when of a girl's age, she had acted like a woman; when a wife she had acted like the dissolute and unwived; when a mother, she had disembarrassed herself of the token of her glory of maternity. she was not fit to be anything but the instrument of such universal conspirators. she whom the viscount had playfully called "donna juana!" had met the statue of the commander at last, and once grasped, she would no more be free. "i shall report to our committee that we have made our agreement," he said calmly and then, as he proceeded toward the door with the jolly swagger of the marseillais transforming his stalwart and rigid frame, he added in the southern bland tone, "delighted to see you again, dear madame clemenceau!" she did not hear him, for she had sunk too deeply within the abyss. she regretted she had come back. it is true that the company which he represented so terrifyingly, might have pursued her and pestered her for their money, but she had the gifts that would arouse defenders for her in any quarter of the globe. had she not one ally? certainly no friend! and yet, if clemenceau would only help her a little, she might cope with the arch-intriguer. if, indeed, felix did not save her, she would be lost. it was a dreadful game, but glorious to win it, and she would be another and worthy woman if she came out unwounded. in her distress, she would have had recourse to the jew and have utilized rebecca though her rival, too! besides, there was antonino, so passionate as to rush blindly, dagger in hand, on even a von sendlingen. "come, come, cheer up," she said to herself, "there is a chance or two yet. if only i could get over this crisis, i will reform and sincerely resolve not to do a single act for which to reproach myself!" chapter xviii. a bitter parting. with a somewhat less burdened mind, césarine was still pondering when she saw antonino, who had opened the door but perceived her, about to withdraw without notifying her of his presence. it was the act of a devotee who feared to pray in the chapel, when the priestess stood by the saint's image. "do not go," she exclaimed with vehemence. "come here after closing the door tightly, for i want you to enter into a little plot with me." she had regained her smiling visage and her sweet voice. "would you do it?" "it depends upon who the object is," he said tremulously. "it is against my husband," she replied with her smile more bright and her tone more merry. "i forewarn you, madame, that i should turn informer," he answered in the same light key, but forced. "that would be very bad for him for i am conspiring for his benefit." "in that case, madame, i am entirely your man." "are you able to keep a secret?" she asked with gravity. "i think so." they had withdrawn into the window recess, and could see the gardens, as they conversed. the light fell on her through the valenciennes curtain and at her back was a sombre tapestry. her late trial gave her an exhausted air which seemed the additional gloss with which melancholy makes a woman more fascinating in the sentimental eyes of youth. "i dare say you can keep your own," she pointedly said. "not so well, i fear, as another's." "you must give me your word of honor that if my plot does not please you, nobody shall be told?" "i give you my promise," he said freely, just as he would have given her anything she asked for. he had debated with his passion, uttered every reason of others and all he could devise, overwhelmed himself with good advice and created a chinese wall of obstacles, but he heard himself murmuring: "i love her!" the only way, he feared, to put an end to his wicked craze was to put an end to his life--an irreputable argument, but to be used moderately. she allowed him to quiver under her lingering gaze, and finally said: "the fact is, i do not like the idea of m. clemenceau selling this house. it would be a greater grief than he believes now. he has his dearest memories springing here. besides, he could not work in peace in town. fortunately, my uncle has provided me with the means to help him. i want to lend him the sum required, but i fear that he would accept nothing from me." "he is a very proud man," observed the italian, courteously, for, while he worshiped the speaker, he knew that she was not morally without blemishes. not because her affection for him was a proof of that delinquency, for love overlooked that and gave it another name, but because he believed clemenceau, and the woman, while no less alluring, was terrifying as well. "it is an excess of very cruel justice!" said she with a strange warmth. "the greatest punishment on a wrongdoer is to refuse her, when repentant, the joy of doing a kindness. you need not pretend surprise, for i have done harm. i did not forsee what would be thought of my hasty conduct, and even if i were wicked; can you expect a woman to have the loftiness of genius like him, and the force for resisting temptation like you?" "like me!" ejaculated antonino, starting. "yes; can you deny that you have had to wrestle and are wrestling now with yourself most strenuously?" he averted his eyes and made no reply. "child that you are," she resumed. "you were right when you just now said that you could keep the secret of others better than your own. can the eyes of an honest youth like you deceive those of a wayward woman like me? i thank you for the effort you have made--and the silence your lips have preserved. it matters not. i am glad that after doing the act of reparation proposed, i shall have the means to go away, literally, for good this time. it is time i went." he lifted his hand as if to detain her, but let it fall quickly. after all, if she departed forever without speaking out the secret of those two hearts, what harm would be done. who had the right to prevent the susceptible italian feeling the first impressions of the gentler sex and owing them to césarine? he could but be thankful that he saw only the prologue to "the great dreadful tragedy of woman." he might blame himself for cherishing the memory of the false wife, but he could not annul that early sensation. was it her fault, brought to france at the sequel of a romantic adventure, if she met him, a castaway, and disturbed his youth and innocence? there had not seemed any evil intention in speech or behavior toward him, and he himself might be as proud as she was of the pure and respectful sentiment which should have contributed toward her amelioration. in this case, he--ignorant of the counter-attraction of the viscount de terremonde--imagined that she had struggled also against the pressure of nature and the sin was no more when she triumphed. "well, listen to the secret which we can discuss," said she. "i wish to be associated with you in a good action, which, i hope, will lead to many another, if it is the first. one of these days, when you learn the story of my life, you will see there was a little good in it to shine on the dark background. are you not willing to help me increase it? in this case, that good and honorable man will profit." antonino listened spellbound, he could have been ordered up to their own terrible cannon's mouth by that resistless voice. "let me live one day in your youth, illusions and unstained conscience," she implored. "well, here in this little pocketbook are letters of credit for two hundred thousand francs. it is all i have--take it." "what am i to do with it?" said antonino. "put it away somewhere out of my reach to retake it. i know myself and that, if i have a good thought one day, i might entertain the reverse on the next. if i broke into the money, i could not replace the sum extracted, and, another thing, i cannot make the use of it i intended. leave me to win from my husband the acceptance of the help i wish to give him. it may take long, but until then, pray keep the money; that will not entangle you in any degree." what a strange woman! he thought. she does evil with the easy, graceful air of an almsgiver distributing charity, and she does good with the stealth of a criminal! "i am a fair example of my sex," said she, divining what was in his mind, "weak, ignorant, unfortunate: and stupid--and the proof is any harm i have done to others is nothing to that i have wrought to myself." antonino, taking the pocketbook--a dainty article in russian leather--went to the oaken chest which he opened after what seemed some cabalistic manipulation, and the muttering of what seemed an "open sesame!" "have you no safe yet, is that box strong and secure?" she inquired in a tone of well assumed anxiety, as she hurriedly took three or four steps to bring her again beside him. "you need not be alarmed. that is a box of which we made the peculiar fastenings. it is too heavy to be carried off, and burglars will not tamper with it in impunity," said the italian, smiling maliciously, as he put his hand on the lid to raise it. "i understand; it opens with a secret lock?" "yes; one i cannot tell you about." "i have no use for it," she said hastily, "on the contrary, i wish the money to be where i cannot touch it." "nobody will touch it there," returned the young man gravely. "stop! how will you get it if anything happens to me--if i should die?" "a young man like you die in a couple of days!" laughed césarine. "it may occur," he replied gloomily. "death has hovered over this house at any moment of some of our experiments with the most powerful essences of nature. and only this morning, when i was out to the post-office, they were talking of a hideous discovery--a young man's remains, found in a ditch in the five hectare field." "a--a young man?" "a foreigner, some said; but his clothes were in tatters, and the water-rats had disfigured him." "poor fellow!" said she, and quickly she added as if eager to change the subject: "my name is on the letters of credit. in case of any mishap, i will plainly say so to my husband and he will return me my own property." that was sensible. he had no farther remonstrances to offer, and taking advantage of her glancing out into the garden, he closed the lid and fastened it so that she could not see how the trick was done. she was not vexed, for she saw that man is always weak and on the point of losing his paradise. antonino would betray as the price of love. she allowed him to go in to luncheon alone, wishing to inspect the mysterious casket; but, unluckily, she was interrupted by hedwig, who rather officiously wanted to dust the room. not for the first time, césarine, remembering the wide occult sway claimed by colonel von sendlingen, suspected that the girl was not so much her ally as she wished. she had begun to watch her under the impression that she was in confederacy with mademoiselle daniels. she had perceived no signs of that, but she believed she intercepted an exchange of glances with the false marseillais. they were of the same nationality and this fact caused césarine to be on her guard. unless hedwig repeated what had happened between clemenceau and antonino, how could the colonel know of their conversation? hesitating to question her directly, disliking her from that moment, and feeling her heart shrink at her loneliness when such crushing odds were threatening her, she donned her "company smile" and went to the sitting-room bravely. chapter xix. the compact. luncheon was served and m. cantagnac, seated comfortably, was trying the delicacies with rare conscientiousness about any escaping his harpoon-like fork. césarine did not give him a second look and neither he nor clemenceau, with whom he was chatting on politics, more than glanced up at her. m. daniels was more polite, for he warmly accepted a second cup of coffee as soon as she, without any attempt to displace mademoiselle daniels at the urn, took her place beside her. "pray go on and attend to the liquors," she said kindly. "i am so nervous that i am afraid i shall break something." she took a seat which placed her on the left of the old jew. a little familiarity was only in keeping when two theatrical artists met. "what is the matter with your daughter? she seems sad," she remarked with apparent interest. "that is natural enough when we are going away from france, it may be forever." "going away from here?" inquired madame clemenceau. "yes; this evening, but we did not like to go without bidding you good-bye. now that we have seen you in good health, and thanked you for your hospitality, we can proceed on our mission without compunction." "a mission--where?" "i have succeeded in interesting capitalists in your husband's inventions. that is settled; and i have taken up again a holy undertaking which should hardly have been laid aside for a mere money matter. but there is nothing more sacred, after all, than friendship, i owe to your husband more than i have thus far repaid," and he bent a tender regard on his daughter, with its overflow upon clemenceau one of gratitude. "are you going far?" asked césarine, keeping her eyes in play but little rewarded by her scrutiny of the sham marseillais who devoured, like an old campaigner, never sure of the next meal, or of rebecca who superintended the table in her stead with a serious unconcern. "around the world," replied daniels simply, "straight on to the east." "goodness! it is folly to take a young lady with you. is it a scientific errand? no, you said holy. religious?" "scientific of an exalted type." "is science somewhat entertaining for young ladies?" "some think it so." "she might not. leave her with me. we are comrades of art, you know," smiling up cordially at rebecca, as if they had been friends of childhood and had never parted any more than venus' coupled loves. "where?" "in our house," césarine replied, as though she were fully assured that the smiling man on the opposite side of the board would not obtain the property. "i do not think we shall quit it." "if she likes," answered daniels, easily. "rebecca!" he gently called, "madame invites you to stay with her during my journey. m. clemenceau is my dearest friend, and from the time of his wife consenting, do not constrain yourself into going if you would rather remain." "i thank you, madame," replied the jewess, "but i am going with my father, because we have never quitted one another, and i do not wish to leave him alone." "dear child!" exclaimed daniels embracing her before he let her return to the head of the table. "she will not listen to any suggestion of marriage. i know of a bright young gentleman who adores her--an israelite like us, in a promising position. he will one day be a professor at the natural history museum. but she would not hear of him." "it is not very amusing to live among birds, beasts and reptiles," said césarine. "ha, ha! but then those are stuffed," exclaimed her opposite neighbor, showing that he was listening. "very likely, she cherishes some little fancy in her heart," said madame clemenceau, thinking of both her husband and antonino. "possibly," said the jew, complacently, for he knew that his daughter was very fair. "i believe i know the object," continued madame clemenceau. "i am rather astonished that she should have told you, and not me." "oh, she has not told me anything, i guessed." daniels seemed relieved. "and if you should like to hear the name," she began rapidly, but he stopped her with a dignified smile. "what, you do not want to know what i have found before you, and so much concerns you!" "if she has not told me, it is because she does not want me to know," he observed placidly. "but what if she tells him!" persisted césarine. "she would not let her lover know the state of her heart without informing her father; she would commence with me." the wife smiled cynically at such unlimited trust and felt her hatred of rebecca augment. "there are not many fathers like you!" "nor many daughters like her," he retorted proudly. "i am of the opinion that there is a mistake in the french mode of educating girls. the truth about everything should be told them, as is done to their brothers. the ignorance in which they are left often arises from their parents themselves not knowing the causes and end of things, or have no time, or have lost the right to speak of everything to their children from their own errors or passions. my wife was the best of women and i believe rebecca takes after her. when she was of the age of comprehension, i began to explain the world to her simply and clearly. all of heaven's work is noble; no human soul--even a virgin's--has the right to be shocked by any feature of it. rebecca aided me when i sought to make a livelihood by the profession of music, to which she had strong proclivities." clemenceau was listening in courtesy to this argument, and the false marseillais did not lose a word--or a sip of his kirschwasser. "afterward, when my ideas changed, and i could make my way to fortune by a thoroughfare, less under the public eye, i associated her in my studies. she knows," proceeded daniels, who had shaken off a spell of taciturnity which the stranger and madame clemenceau had inspired, and seemed unable to pause, "she knows that nothing can be destroyed, and that all undergoes transformation, and cannot cease to exists with the exception of evil which diminishes as it goes on its way." cantagnac slowly absorbed another glass of the cherry cordial, which he had to pour out himself as rebecca had retired to a corner where the host turned over the leaves of photographic album as a cover to their dialogue. "if my daughter loves," continued daniels, seeing at last that his theme was too abstruse for his single auditor, "as you conjectured, dear madame, it is surely some honorable person worthy of that love; if she has not informed me it is because there is some obstacle, such as the man's not loving her or being bound to another woman. in any case, the obstacle must be insurmountable, or she would not go away with me into strange countries through great fatigue on a chimerical search." cantagnac had risen and, very courteously for his assumed character, had come round the table without going near his host and the jewess, and entered into the other dialogue. "did you say you were going far, monsieur?" he inquired. daniels nodded and opened his arms significantly to their utmost extent. "leaving europe with a scientific design? ah! may one hear?" "perhaps it would not much interest you?" returned the old man, who seemed to feel a revival of a prejudice against the visitor upon his coming nearer. "the atmosphere of this house is so learned," replied, the smiling man unabashed by the sudden coolness, "and, besides, more things interest me than people believe, eh, madame?" directly appealing to the hostess, who had to nod. "you see i have a great deal of spare time since i retired from business and i am eager to increase my store, ha, ha!" "well, the idea which has tormented more than one of my race, has seized me," returned m. daniels, "i wish to fill up gaps in our traditional story and link our present and our future with our past. the question is of the lost tribes of israel. i believe after some research, that i know the truth on the subject, and, more that i may be chosen to reconquer our country. the ideal one is not sufficient for us, and i am going to locate the real one and register the act of claiming it. every man has his craze or his ideal, and mine may lead me from china to great salt lake, or to the sahara." "what a pity," interjected cantagnac merrily, "that the wandering jew did not have your idea. it would have helped him work out his sentence to walk around the globe!" "he had no money to lend to monarchs sure to vanquish or to peoples astounded by having been overcome. but his five pence have fructified by dint of much patience, privation and economy. the wandering jew has realized the legend and ceases to tramp. he has reached the goal. what do you think about my pleasure tour?" he suddenly inquired of clemenceau, whose eye he caught. "child of europe, happy son of japhet. i am going to see old shem and ham. have you a keepsake to send them or a promise to make?" "tell them," said the host, coming over to join the group, while rebecca, during the continued resignation of madame clemenceau, superintended the servant's removal of the luncheon service, "tell them that we are all hard at work here and that more than ever there's a chance of our becoming one family." on seeing clemenceau approach his wife, the pretended marseillais delicately withdrew to the corner of the sideboard where the cigar-stand tempted him. but he kept his eyes secretly on the two men who gave him more concern than the two women. he reflected that fate had managed things wisely for his plans, for if clemenceau had married the incorruptible jewess, he might have been more surely foiled. as for daniels, the amateur apostle who hinted at a union of his people, he might be dangerous or useful. he determined to put a spy on his track, who might smear his face with ochre and stick an eagle's feather in his cap so that, if seen to shoot him in a new mexican canon, that supposed lost tribe of israel which include the apaches would gain the credit of the murder. while reflecting, his quick ear heard a light loot draw near; he did not look round, sure that it was his new recruit who crept up to him. it was, indeed, madame clemenceau, who put his half-emptied liquor glass upon the sideboard by him. "no heeltapi in our house, monsieur!" she exclaimed. cantagnac tossed off the concentrated cordial with contempt; his head was not one to be affected by such potations. "thank you! have you already opened the trenches?" he asked in an undertone. "by means of the italian, yes. i have entered the stronghold." "but he closed the door in your face!" "no, no; i can open it at any time." "excellent kisschwasser, this of yours, madame!" exclaimed von sendlingen, in his satisfaction speaking the word with a little too accurate a pronunciation to suit a native of the south of france. "mark that man!" whispered rebecca to clemenceau, whom she had rejoined as he stood by her father. "distrust him! his laugh is forced and false! i am sure that he wishes you evil!" "then stay here and shield the house!" "no; i must go this evening. ah, you men of brains laugh at us women for entertaining presentiments. but we do have them and we must utter them. be on your guard!" "and must you go?" went on clemenceau to daniels, as if he expected to find him less resolute than his daughter. "more than ever!" but, seeing how he had saddened him, he took his hand with much emotion and added: "rebecca will explain. i go away happy to think that the honest men outnumber the other sort and that when we all take hold of hands, we shall see that the scoundrels excluded from our ring will be scarcely worth disabling from farther injury." césarine, perceiving that her confederate was edging gradually toward the rifle which antonino had been shooting with and which had been removed from the drawing-room, where the guest for a day had too many opportunities to be alone with it. to cover his inspection, she suggested that rebecca should afford the company a final pleasure, a kind of swan's song, and went and opened the cottage-piano for her. the jewess did not refuse the invitation and began gounod's "medje" in a voice which von sendlingen had room to admit had improved in tone and volumn, and would make her as worthy of the grand opera house as it had, five years before, of the harmonista and its class. daniels quietly left the room, loth to disturb clemenceau, whom that voice enthralled and who became more and more deeply submerged in the thoughts it engendered. he suffered pain from the need to liberate his sorrows, confide his spirit and communicate his dreams. and was not this singer the very one created to comfort him and lull him to rest? must he remain heroic and ridiculous in the indissoluble bond, and endure silently. on antonino he rested his mind and on rebecca, the daughter of the eternally persecuted, he longed to rest his soul. the greatness of this man and the purity of this gifted creature were so clearly made for one another that everybody divined and understood the unspoken, immaterial love. what an oversight to have let césarine abduct him when it was rebecca to whom chance had shown that he ought to belong! if he had remained free till this second meeting, she would have been his wife, his companion his seventh day repose, and the mother of his earthly offspring instead of the immortal twins, genius and glory, which poorly consoled the childless husband! as it was, the powers constituted would not allow them to dwell near each other. she could only be the bride in the second life--for eternity. she loved him as few women had ever loved, because he was good, great and just--and because he was unhappy. no man existed in her eyes superior to him. nothing but death would set him free from the woman who had not appreciated him properly. she had let pass the greatest bliss a woman can know on earth--the love of a true heart and the protection of a great intellect. if death struck them before the wife, felix would behold rebecca on the threshold of the unknown land where they would be united tor infinity. her creed did not warrant such a hope--his said that in heaven there were no marriages, but her heart did not heed such sayings, and her feelings told her that thus things would come to pass. she had concluded the piece of music. she rose and, for the first time, gave césarine her hand. "farewell!" she said. "why say it now?" answered madame clemenceau, surprised. "you are not going till to-morrow morning." "to-night! i may not see you again, we have so many preparations to make." "well, as you did not come here to see me, it is of no consequence. farewell!" "i am your servant, madame," said the jewess, bowing. "ah, hagar!" hissed she, "unmasked." "farewell, sarah!" retorted rebecca, stung out of her equanimity by this sudden dart of the viper, but césarine said no more, and she proceeded steadily toward the door. clemenceau had preceded her thither. "what did she say?" he inquired. "nothing worth repeating. beware of her as well as of that man!" but she saw that he would not follow her glance and draw a serious inference from the way in which the wife and the unwelcome guest had drawn closely together. "fulfil your destiny," she continued solemnly. "work! remain firm, pure and great! be useful to mankind. above transient things, in the unalterable, i will await you. do not keep me lonely too long," was wrung from her in a doleful sob. he could not speak, it was useless, for she knew already everything that he night say. "at last!" ejaculated von sendlingen in relief, when all had gone out, as he sprang on the rifle and feverishly fingered it. "this is the rifle of their latest finish. what an odd arrangement! where the deuce is the hammer--the trigger--and all that goes toward making up the good old rifle of our fathers? oh, science, science! what liberties are taken in your name!" he cried in drollery too bitter not to be intended to cover his vexation. "mind, this rifle is included in our contract?" "everything," she answered in a fever, looking toward the doorway, where her husband had disappeared with the jewess. "be easy! the rifle, the cannon, the happiness, the honor and the lives of all here--myself as well! if there is anything more you long for, say so!" "talk sensibly!" said he severely and gripping her wrist. restored by the pressure, she drew a long breath and said in a low voice: "one way or another, things will come to a head to-night. this jewish intriguante and the old fox her father are going away by the railway at nine o'clock, and felix will escort them. antonino will be alone here, and i mean to make him my assistant as he has been my husband's." "better trust nobody! it is risky, and, besides, with an accomplice, the reward becomes less by his share." "how much is all? will you pay five million marks?" "that's too much. put it two millions--half when you hand over the cipher, half when we hold the working drawings and antonino's ammunition." "be it so," she answered after a brief pause, during which both listened. "if antonino will help me, so much the better for him. it would be delightful to see italy with a native! now go away. we must not be seen conversing together." "if the young man turns restive?" suggested the prudent spy. "impossible! he is charmed. however, remember this: return to-night after the party has gone to the station, secrete yourself in the grounds where you can watch the drawing-room windows. if one opens and i call, run up to aid me. if none open to you, hasten away. the danger with which i contend will be one which you could not overcome!" chapter xx. on the eve. the evening was calm and clear over montmorency, where there was even grandeur in the stillness. nature--the discreet confident and inexhaustible counsellor, always ready to intermediate between god and man--nature was appeasing passion and misery in all bosoms but felix clemenceau's, as he strolled in the garden which he did not expect long to possess. rebecca was going away and césarine had come, two sufficient reasons for him to detest the place. he had called upon the scene to give him advice on his course, and he hoped to understand clearly what it had commanded to him in the hour of grief tempered with faith. he had not the resources of others; he could not consult the shades of his parents; his mother's tomb was not one to be pointed out with pride, any more than his father's. it seemed to him that he was ordered to continue struggling till he vanquished; this he had always tried. work and seek out! and yet his mind wavered and his resolve was unsettled. it was the ever dulcet voice of that circe which sufficed to agitate and obscure his soul in spite of his having believed it was forever detached from her. but these umbrageous and odoriferous hills, knew how deeply he loved her, for he had spoken of his thraldom to them when he might not speak to her under pain of shame and debasement. had he not undergone enough and pardoned as far as could be expected? but she had disdained condonation, mocked at it and trampled it under foot. again she came to entangle him in her love. no; her wiles and witchery, for she was not a woman to love anyone or anything. unable to love her own flesh and blood, she was an alien to humanity, as well as to love. to such a mother, he owed solely indifference. such a woman was only a human form, less to him than the least of the patient, laborious animals useful to man. as the stars grew darkened by clouds above the impassible horizon, his reflections turned more gloomy and deadly. was it impious for him to arrogate the right to substitute his justice for that supreme, and wield its dreadful sword? but he shrank from acting as his father had done, and mainly because he saw that, if ever the world knew that he loved rebecca, it would say that he had slain his wife to clear the path to the altar for his second marriage. césarine had hinted of repentance, her return portended the same. the world would side with her. yes; he would give her another chance. after the guests departed, he would let antonino also go, he would resign himself to being coupled again with this chain-companion in the galleys of life! "if it is true," he concluded, "i will endeavor to lead her to the light and truth, although her soul is full of shadows and the divine spark is clogged with ashes. oh, heaven, may she be filled with the temptation to do good and mayest thou receive her in thy endless mercifulness!" the squeaking of the gravel under a regular and heavy step induced him to look round, and a burly shape loomed up in the darkness between the plane trees. it was the so-called cantagnac, who bowed, with his hat off. "i have been hunting for you everywhere," he said jovially. "i want to say good-bye without company by, for it makes me timid, ha, ha! though you would not think it. nice wholesome air, here! cool, decidedly cool, but wholesome. doing a solitary smoke over a new invention?" "no, monsieur, i was conversing." "eh! but i do not see anybody!" "i was conversing with nature." "oh, what the poet-fellows call musing, eh?" "a kind of prayer." "i see! well, his church is always open and you can go to service anytime, and day or night! and no collection-plate, ha, ha!" "i make it a practice every day, if only briefly." "quite right! quite! i am inclined that way myself, since i lost my wife and our boy. he said something about hoping to meet me one day up there!" and he flourished his handkerchief about his eyes and toward the clouds. "blessed relief to pray and do you really get an answer now and then? in time, no doubt, for it's a great way off!" "do you not believe in heaven, m. cantagnac?" demanded clemenceau, bluntly. in the twilight and loneliness, the question struck home, and the spy felt compelled to make some answer. "my dear m. clemenceau," he faltered, "i never meddle with matters which do not teach me anything. one word has existed thousands of years, and yet full explanations on the highest secrets have been wholly refused, so that the finest intellects give up seeking them unless they want to go mad. so i think it my duty to abstain and not lose my time in studies useless and dangerous. it is not merely a matter of reasoning, but of prudence. of course, every man is his own master. i grant that we certainly are subjected to a power above our wit and will. we are born without knowing how, and die without knowing why. between birth and death, swarm struggles, passions, sorrows, maladies, miseries of all kinds; an unfair, uneven sharing of worldly goods, and scoundrels often happy and triumphant and honest people most often unhappy and erroneously judged. we are told that we should adore and praise this state of things; but i only hold such events as certainties that i can see and turn to my profitable use. now you, m. clemenceau, are a honorable man--a great man since you can carry on a conversation with nature! why not ask her a favor on account of your belief and your work? so that you will not have to doubt her some day more than i do. but let us talk of more substantial things. i have inspected the plan of the property and walked over the grounds. i have your agent's address, and in a week, i will write to him and make my offer. i dare say we shall come to an agreement. let me thank you for your very kind welcome--i shall be off in ten minutes." absorbed in meditation, clemenceau did not hold out his hand, and, with the idea upon him of the engagement with madame clemenceau, the spy did not remind him of the omission. "you need not walk over to the station, for m. daniels and his daughter are going in my carriage. i will find you a place." this arrangement might have necessitated the false marseillais going into the cars and getting out at the next station; so he excused himself on the plea that the walk would please him better. "to tell you the truth, i am bound to take exercise or die of apoplexy--so my family doctor tells me. by the way, i have taken leave already of madame clemenceau. a russian, you tell me? i never should have imagined it! ah, one can see that you have converted her into a true french lady--lucky man! i can understand that you believe in lofty ideas beside a beautiful and talented woman like her! lucky, lucky man!" and he turned aside, calling out as he departed: "i know my way! give my respects to your friends who are hunting for the lost tribes! ha, ha!" this laugh, loud but not jolly as it was intended to appear, routed clemenceau's solemn thoughts. it seemed, like pan's, from a statue, which gleamed in a vista, still to reverberate when the inventor went back to the house. at the upper windows gleamed lights which moved to and fro, and shadows flitted across the openings; it was the usual bustle when guests are packing up, and the idea of the too quiet and lonely house, of the morrow saddens the observer. a woman's form darted across the lawn and made the master start. it came along easily, and he saw that it was one familiar with the grounds. "hedwig!" it was the servant who had run out to the stables to see that the horses were put to the carriage. "stop a minute! we are in privacy here, and i want to have a word with you." the girl paused, intimidated and almost frightened; she lost color as she stood, agitatedly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and averting her eyes from the speaker. a thief caught in a felonious act would not have presented a more damning spectacle. "not only are we breaking up the household, hedwig, but the house is going to other hands. the mistress and i will live in a hotel at paris for some time, on account of my changed business relations. consequently, we must dispense with your services. madame will, on grand occasions, have a professional hair dresser in, and so--in a word, i must ask you to please yourself about returning to your own country, or seeking another situation in this one. you can refer to madame for a character; for, i believe, you have always served her faithfully. but you need not look to her for a present, too. here is a couple of hundred franc notes by way of notice. i wish you well wherever you go." to the amazement of the speaker, instead of accepting the token of kindness, hedwig suddenly put both hands behind her back, and stood confounded. tears silently flowed down her cheeks; then, falling on her knees, she sobbed: "oh, master, i do not deserve this! oh, master please forgive me! i am a very wicked girl!" "what are you about?" he exclaimed, fearing that the unexpected boon had crazed her. "do get up!" "no, no; not before master forgives me!" moaned she. "oh, yes, yes--anything!" aiding her to rise. but she continued weeping, and with the fluency in the illiterate when they have long brooded over a speech to relieve their mind, she said: "you don't know what goes on, master! but i am forced to tell you now, since you are so good. i have always been in madame's service since we came out of germany. i was devoted to her, and i knew her when i was at the persepolitan hotel, but devotion when women are concerned, becomes complicity. "madame never has cared for you, monsieur, for you and yours. she did not marry you for any liking, but because of spite. not spite from your father having punished one of her precious family--they are all a bad lot--a witch's brood! faugh! but to mademoiselle daniels whom she feared would secure the prize. madame carried on dreadful! when she went away last time, it is true she had a telegram from her uncle--but that was a happy accident. she was going to bolt anyway, and that came in so nicely! she was planning to elope with one of her conquests--the viscount--" "i know!" "you know? well, you don't know that the dead man found in the ditch was the viscount--" "i saw him killed!" in the same measured tone. "oh!" she paused, but recovering, she continued, in a lower voice and looking furtively around: "you cannot know that she came back with no good end. i believe it was to meet the gentleman who came in at the same time, a-pretending to buy the house--" "m. cantagnac!" muttered the inventor, a tolerable flock of suspicions which that ingenious individual had unintentionally excited, rushing upon his brain. "he's no marseillais--he's a german, and he is a secret agent. he is--he is--well, i may make a clean breast of it--he is one you ought to have remembered, the major whom you cudgelled in munich--" "von sendlingen!" "yes, and a colonel--i do not know but he is a general now; he has the manner and means of one!" said hedwig, shuddering. "he knows all of madame's peccadilloes--ay, all her crimes--" "crimes! be careful, girl!" "yes, crime, for she killed her little boy! thank heaven, i had no hand in that--she would not trust me there, and that shows i am not so very bad a woman, don't it? she poisoned the little innocent as surely as we stand here under the eye of god!" "go on; go on," said clemenceau, hoarsely. "the colonel threatened to tell you these and other things unless she consented to sell him all your business secrets--and give him the model gun that goes off without any powder and caps." "ah! she consented?" growled the inventor, grinding his teeth and his eyes kindling. "nobody can hold out against the colonel. he soon made me play the spy on everybody for his benefit. but this is not all!" "not all! what a sink of iniquity! would she poison mademoiselle rebecca, too?" "i do not doubt it! the old witch her grandmother must have taught her all the tricks of her trade. but i meant to say that she is setting her cap at poor, dear, young m. antonino--" "i know that. take your money! and live honestly." "no, monsieur," she replied with some dignity. "and here is money that the colonel gave me. it burns me! i beg you to give it toward some good work, which you understand better than me. will you not--and forgive me?" "have you anything more to say?" "i have been peeping and listening, but they are all very cunning. i only gleaned that the colonel who has just gone out as if to the station, should return later and hang around to have the rifle and some papers delivered to him." "by antonino?" "if your wife can make him a cat's-paw; if not, she is capable of doing all herself--though, anyway, she is driven to it. but, monsieur, it burdened me and if you had not called me, i was coming to tell you of their schemes. i do not like your idea of killing people by hundreds, but it may be good to honest folks, beset by savages and such like, and it is not right of a servant to let a master be robbed by more than bandits and brigands." "i am grateful to you, girl." she seized his hand and covered it with grateful kisses. "keep your money and this i give you. do good with your own hand, then it will bless both giver and receiver, as is written." "monsieur, you are too good. could i ask a favor--a proof that you do not think me altogether bad? will you recommend me to mademoiselle daniels. the jews do not object to christian servants, and, besides," she said with simplicity, "i am so poor a christian." "you shall enter her service. you will continue, reformed under her charge. go and pack up and hasten from this house--accursed as an eyrie of vultures!" "i am glad you have the warning. excuse me, but if you were to do like the colonel only pretend to go away and come back here to use your ears and eyes, you would see what happens." by the look that passed over her master's face, the girl, though no wise woman, perceived that she had mistaken. he was not the sort to act like a von sendlingen and hide himself to peep and listen. he would be no better than herself if he acted thus. "i have advised you to go away with the daniels. i shall drive the party over in the carriage to the station and return as though i knew of nothing. there are times for men to act; times for god to have a clear field. persevere in the right path, girl, and say no more to anybody not even mademoiselle daniels." "but you will be seeing madame first?" inquired the girl, fearing the collision to which she had contributed, but lighter of soul since she had flashed the danger-signal. "m. antonino first, and then your mistress," replied he in a stern tone which put an end to the dialogue. chapter xxi. the last appeal. in the large room where césarine was to achieve her crowning act of treachery, she and her husband were closeted. on the latter's unruffled brow not even her feline gaze could read what a perfect acquaintance he possessed with all her past and her purposed moves. "your maid tells me that you wished to speak to me," he said. "it is necessary, on the eve of a change in our mode of life, so extreme as a home broken up in favor of a stay at a hotel." "i am listening to you," he said curtly. "if i were to say to you that i love you, what would be your answer?" she said, changing the subject and her tone entirely. "nothing! i might wonder what new evil you intended to commit to my prejudice. pure curiosity for you can do nothing more with me." she was convinced of that, and she thrilled with all the irritation of a woman who has lost her power of fascination over even one man. "admitting that i cannot do you any harm," she said, "others may and, perhaps a great deal. would you believe that i love you at least if my pledge of love consisted in my aiding you to repel the harm and to triumph over your enemies at the risk of the greatest danger to myself?" he shook his head resolutely. "what other proof do you want?" he intimated that he could do without any aid from her. "i am sincere, i swear it!" she exclaimed. "on what can you swear?" "it would appear that you, whom people rate as a saint, and so just, do not believe in repentance?" "i do!" "then, i repent," said she, rolling her eyes like magdalen in a guido picture. "no; those repenting do not say so before they prove it--they give the evidence and do not boast." "but what if i have no time to wait?" she said piteously. "what if it is necessary for my soul's sake and perhaps for yours, that i should tell you at once what i intended to exhibit gradually when i arrived? make the effort to believe me without delay, for one single minute may redeem my blackened life and save all to come. is it so hard for you to listen to me, and to believe me?" she wailed. "it would only be renewing an old habit of yours, for you used to love me, and ardently, too! the first kiss you ever gave to a woman, and the only ones you ever received from a woman, are mine! you see i do not doubt you, though appearances were against you when i returned to this house. all your chastity--enthusiasm--energy, love and faith--all were poured into this bosom. can these things be forgotten? no, no, never! i am sure that when a man like you loves a woman like me, her memory never leaves him." "you mistake!" he said dryly. "and you, if you think that those fops at the marchioness' were not tricked and fooled by me! even the cheat who induced me to leave my home--you see, i am frank--he was my dupe, and i saw all the time his inferiority to the husband whom i quitted. in that case, it was a fortune that tempted me, for you know how pressed we were! but when alone, sobered--horrified by the warning conveyed in the sudden death of that man, i valued you correctly, and saw that i loved you above all men. i was subjected to the power of goodness and loving which is enthroned in you. all of a sudden, as you fell in love, i adored you, and if only you could have been kept in ignorance of what i did, there would have been no wife more faithful, devoted, submissive and loving than your own césarine." "did i not forgive you when i learned of your faults?" he reproached her. "true, you pardoned me," she answered, "but loftily, as one at a distance, shaking me off and regaining possession of yourself. in short, ceasing to be a man. you led me to see that you would no longer believe me, because i had once told a lie. your behavior was grand, noble and lofty, for any other man would have whipped me out of his house like a cur; and yet i ought not to have been treated so." "how? like a daughter of the vieradlers--though you are probably not one?" "you should have abused me, trampled me under foot, even--but then forgiven me like an erring man. i am earthly--worldly--and i do not understand grand sentiments and half-forgiveness." there was some sense in her argument, but arguments would not have any effect on a character like his, which losing esteem once, was not to be deceived again. he had not required hedwig's revelation about the web of treachery spun around him to be invulnerable to the pleading one. her murder of her infant had ruined her irredeemably. over it he had shed tears, though it was more in her image than his and, she had offered no one! "are we women more angelic than you men," she exclaimed the more feverishly, as she felt she was not gaining ground and that over the crumbling edge of which she vaguely hoped to climb, he would not stretch a hand in help. "are faults, errors and failures your privilege, as force is? did i really care for any of those men? do i even recall one of them? it was only in rage and spite against your coldness that i went over to the marchioness. i ran to these flirtations to forget, as i would have taken morphine to sleep. but i have not forgotten you, and i have not slept off my love for you, and this is the truth!" he made an impatient gesture. "in short, nobody could wile away my heart. all those men together would not equal such a one as you, whom i loved and longed for. i do not wish to live--i was really ill in paris, though you will not believe a word of it, and will not trouble to learn that i speak the truth--so ill that i sat at death's door and the peeping in terrified me. in that black cavern there was no love-light, and i crave for love! then i discovered that i could not live without you, and that i was right to forgive you so much, though you will not forgive me heartily a little. see how abject i am! you are the master, but do not abuse your power. if i have no soul--inspire me with one--animate the statue of white clay--or share with me your own. we are bound to each other by sacred ties, and the marriage law must have been made by those who forsaw that the noblest and most generous of men might be wedded to the most guilty of women, but that he would save her. rescue me!" she cried, sinking upon her knees. "i am ready; what do you want?" he said in moved voice so that at last she began to hope. "forget my faults and the wrong they have caused you. i want you to forgive me everything up to the present minute--proudly hurl the past into dead eternity and make all that ought not to have been like what never was. lastly, i crave for our departure for a change of sun and air and sky, so that the woman i mean to become henceforward should never be reminded for a single instant of the wretch that i was. oh, let us live no more but for each other--you entirely mine as i entirely your own!" almost carried away by the eloquent outburst, clemenceau had but one thought to cling to and hold him in the flood. his work of patriotism! "your work? well, there should be no work where love presides! after all," she continued, rising and venturing to slide her arms upon his shoulders, "you only toiled because you believed i did not love you. you tried to become celebrated only because you were not happy. you were a student when i opened the book of love to you and the little i showed you to read gave you the yearning for more. labor came after love. when i caused you pain, you looked for consolation and you owe your genius to me. genius understands or divines everything, and knows what human weakness is. ah, if you had been weak and i mighty, how gladly i would have pardoned you! had you done any wrong--if you were wrung by remorse like most of us--what joy to make you forget it. but no, you are honor itself, and i lose all hope?" "poor creature!" sighed he, but still like marble though her arms enfolded him and palpitate warm unlike serpents whose coils their curves resembled. "you pity me?" she murmured coaxingly, although he did not thaw under her tightening clasp; "then, you agree?" he shook his head. as usual, when perversity defends, the pleading reached the judge too late. her pressure became irksome, he thought of the devilfish tightening its rings till fatal, and, by an effort, irresistible while gentle, he disengaged himself from her arms. they dropped inert by her panting sides as if broken. but only for an instant her defeat overpowered her. "i see," she exclaimed, with a great change in her tone, "there is no more room in the heart which i deserted! you have replaced me with that rebecca!" "it is true i love her," her rejoined, "but not as you suppose. do not try to understand how, for you cannot understand. heaven knows that i would have wished to associate you with me in the same love and the same glory, but it is impossible. once we were ships in company, sailing side by side--i thought with the same sailing orders--but you stole away in the night and i have had to direct my course alone toward a sea eternally forbidden to you. oh, if you only knew how far i am already from you! the being who speaks to me by your lips is not known to me--i see her not! i do not know who you are. the only bond between us is the chain the law imposes--let us carry it between us but each with the share apart." "what is to become of me?" cried césarine, forced to try her last weapon. "you picked up a starving boy on the road and was kind to him. i am an outcast at your feet, hungry for love--succor me, no less kindly! i am a living creature, and i may be taught many things. utilize me by your intelligence. can i not be your pupil, your helper, your assistant? do for me what daniels has done for his daughter--initiate me into science, explain your labels to me and, associate me in your work." "teach you what you would sell!" he burst forth at the end of his endurance. "can you believe that?" she faltered, receding a step, turning white and trembling in the fear that he knew all. "believe? i am certain that you are lying now as always!" he thundered. "it is impossible that your remorse should be sincere; it must mask some infamy. you have perpetrated faults which are unattended by remorse. enough! if i am wrong, and you really do repent, it will not take a minute, but years for you to be believed, and it does not concern me. apply to the church, which alone can redeem and absolve such culprits as you." convinced that she had lost the battle and forgetting her cunning, madame clemenceau threw off the veil and showed herself the direct offspring of the infernal regions. her voice sounded like the hiss of fiery serpents, and her frame quivered as if she stood in a current of consuming vapor. her eyes, too, wore that painful expression of depth of agony as though her disappointment were excruciating. with his pardon, love, protection and fortune, she might have defied von sendlingen and his league, but, alone, she was a stormy petrel flapping its insignificant pinions in the face of the god of storms. felix refused to be cheated by her and she was lost. but the criminal hates to stand alone in the dock; she wished to be terribly avenged because he was so great and so implacable. she would show that she could be extreme, too; if she were not encouraged to love, she would hate. "oh, you pitiless one, because you have right on your side and your conscience," she screamed; "i will drag you down with me into curses and blasphemies, and others as well! whoever you hold dear shall perish with us!" "my father was threatened in the same way," retorted clemenceau. "he had not the patience i enjoy. had he but waited a little, the viper would have died in her own venomous slime!" "then you will not kill me as your murderer did my aunt?" "no! you have wrecked my happiness, my home, my private life, but i forgive you, and that is your punishment. you have cast your wicked, unholy lures about my adopted son, antonino, but i overlook this because he will repulse you and, that will be an augmentation of your punishment. you threaten rebecca daniels, but such are protected by the great giver of good and, that is again an augmentation of your punishment. no, i will not hurt you--i would not kill one to whom long life--as it was to your witch grandmother, embitters every fraction of time. live! and, remember, if you are here when i return, that our paths diverge forever here and beyond the earth!" she had sunk in a heap on the tiger-skin rug and her hair, loosened by accident or perhaps by design, streamed in a sheet of graven gold over her faultless shoulders. through this shimmering net, her tears flowed, detached like strung diamonds scattered from the thread. but her weeping and her attitude were thrown away, for she heard his step as regular as a soldier's, leaving the room, crossing the vestibule and taking him out to where the carriage wheels ground the gravel. von sendlingen had gone; the daniels were descending the stairs; even the servants gave no sign of life. already the doomed house began to sound with those dull echoes when spectres promenade where human tenants have dwelt. under ordinary conditions, her place was to speed the parting guests, but her farewell to rebecca had expressed her sentiments, and she dared not risk another contest of wits with the hebrew. she heard the horse's hoofs and the wheels beat the sand, and the click of the gate closing after the vehicle. the silence of death fell on the deserted house. "i am alone," she said, sitting up but not rising. "now it will be everyone for himself and myself upon the side of evil, where they forced me to rank." hardly had she risen to her feet, very tremulous, and prepared to go to the mirror over the sideboard to re-arrange her hair, than she heard footsteps in the hall. "hedwig!" but listening more coolly, "no, a man!" she added, "has von sendlingen the audacity to enter?" a man opened the door, but stood petrified on the threshold. chapter xxii felix it was antonino. "is this the keeper?" thought césarine, laughing scornfully within herself. "a pretty boy for the austere clemenceau to trust! do not excuse yourself," she called out. "close the door--it causes a draft! so, you told my husband that you loved me?" far from expecting this address, the italian let several seconds pass before he faltered: "who told you so?" "he did! he never lacks frankness, i will say that for him. well, you have destroyed my chances of securing a peaceful life. and yet i never did you any harm, did i?" "i destroy you?" repeated he, as she began to weep after a vain attempt to hide her eyes in her tresses. "how is that?" "because i lost control of myself under his anger and his threats, and i confessed to him also that i was fond of you. we have a fellow feeling and selected the same confidant!" "you love me?" "for what else did i come back to this gloomy house? what else would have induced me to stay? he drove me away before, and i never suspected that it was to clear the scene for rebecca, fool--child that i was! and now he picked the quarrel with me about you in order to go off with the heathen! you men are so monopolizing! he wants to be let love the inky-eyed jewess, but i must not say a kind word to you! oh, what am i to do now?" and in pretending to repair the disarray of her hair, down came a luxuriant tress. "what does it matter which way i turn? all roads lead to the river or the railroad--a step into the cold water or repose on the track of the iron horse, and no one will then torment poor césarine!" "you have some sinister plan," said antonino, frightened by her manner. "i will not let you go away alone." "is it thus you guard your master's house?" "then wait till he returns and decide upon something." "he will decide on separating us, that is sure. do you think if he takes me, that you could go with us?" "no! but if you meant to kill yourself, i should die after you." "why not die together?" "i do not care." "then you love me thoroughly?" she exclaimed in delight. "death would be repose, and this struggle is driving me frantic," said he, in a deep voice. "well, we will die some day," she said with pretended fervor, "but we are young and have time before us. lovers do not willingly die! if you love me as i love you, you would, like me, find life all of a sudden wondrously bright! what a blessing that i have money for our enjoyment!" clapping her hands like a child. "in your fair italy, we--" "money," repeated he, raised by her magic into a region above such sordid ideas and falling quickly. "of course! my bank orders! stay, they are in your box. let us hasten away before he returns. quick, take!" "no;" said antonino. "when he left the house in my charge he bade me touch nothing, and let nothing be touched until his return." "he forsaw!" muttered the faithless wife, gnawing one of the tresses furiously as she studied the italian's emotion. "get me my money!" "wait until--" "and with it those papers that describe your discoveries." "what do you mean?" he cried, coming to a halt, half-way toward the chest while she was undoing one of the windows of which she had drawn back the curtains. "the papers--they are not mine, or yours." "they will make the man i love rich and famous!" she replied, with eyes that seemed to light up the room far more than the starlight entering. "you know all about the work. with those plans in the language you also read, you can rise higher than he! he restricts his genius to his country--you--we will sell to the highest bidder!" "mercenary fiend! i comprehend all now!" said the italian. "so much the better!" she replied, coolly, having opened the window and descried a shadow standing guard in a narrow alley. "we shall lose no time in explaining." "you mean to betray your country?" "neither mine nor yours! our country is wherever love and gold are rulers." "wretch!" cried he, taking a step toward her so threateningly that she retreated from the window to which his back was turned as he continued to face her. "which is the meaner?" she responded. "i deceive a man who loaths me, scorns me and threatens me with the love of another! you deceive the man who shelters you and to whom you owe everything. i betray him who does me harm--you, him who did you good. we are on a level, unless you have surpassed me. this is love! did you imagine that you can withdraw the foot that takes one step in this path? an error, for one must tread it to the end. the steps are passion, the fault, the vice and the crime. but i have need of you to save me. i am yours and your soul is mine! take the spoil and follow me!" in his surprise, antonino did not remark a footstep, sounding harsh with gravel grinding the wood of the verandah, or a grim face at the open window. "you are right," he said. "i am a scoundrel, but i am not going to be a villain. it is i who should commit suicide. farewell! my death be on your head!" "you have spoken your doom!" said she quickly, as she made a sign to von sendlingen in whose hand she saw naked steel abruptly gleam. "who's there?" began the italian, but, before he could turn, the long stiletto, drawn out of a sword-cane, was passed through his slender body. he fell without a groan and his staring eyes, sublimely unconscious of his assassin and of the instigator of the crime, were riveted, on the ceiling. "confound it!" said the colonel, "this is not your husband!" "no, another conscientious fool!" she said brutally. "waste no time on that boy. before the man returns, let us seize our prise. keep your hands off. this is no common chest. it opens with a combination lock and the word is 'r-e-b-e-c-c-a!'" she quickly fingered the studs which opened the lock when properly played upon, and to the joy of colonel von sendlingen, she could lift up the loosened lid. but for a temporary vexation, they saw in the dim light that a kind of steel grating still closed the discovered space. "that will not detain me long," said the colonel, contemptuously, and relying upon his great strength as he forced his fingers between these bars, he secured a firm hold and began to draw the frame up toward him. "you have done your part, madame, well, and i--" at the same instant, the chest became a mass of the whitest flame which expanded monstrously and the whole house shook in a dreadful explosion. it was supernaturally that clemenceau had been warned to stand aside and let the justice of heaven deal its stroke. no longer fear that césarine will work evil alone or directed by von sendlingen. at the last moment, all was put in order again by the execution by the soulless mechanism of the burglar defying-safe. the law of heaven shone forth in triumph and what was repentant in the errant soul was recalled to where goodness is omnipotent. the flame leaped over the three dead bodies and seized upon the furniture, spreading in all sides. the timbers of the villa were old and kiln-dried. the proprietor, returning from the station, had a dreadful beacon to guide him. all montmorency turned out of doors to assist in extinguishing the conflagration. not often does the quiet suburb treat itself to such spectacles, and when, to that sensation, was added that of three dead bodies dragged from the shattered drawing-room where every thing else was consumed, it may be believed that the night was memorable. the daniels were telegraphed to at paris, and they returned before midnight. they alone knew that the grief of clemenceau was given to antonino and not to his wife, but the lookers-on were deceived, and many a man, returning to his slippers and the evening journal, scolded his wife for having repeated baseless scandals about the proprietor of the reine-claude villa living on cool terms with his unfortunate wife. the coroner of montmorency did not display any broad perception of the tragedy, although the superfluity of eight inches of sendlingen's steel in the side of a young man pronounced dead by asphyxia would have struck one of the laity. but the reporters of the paris press were more perspicacious. they related that an envoy of a foreign union of unscrupulous capitalists had attempted to rob m. clemenceau's residence of his inventions and france of a glory, but had been met by his dauntless wife and an assistant who had punished the brigand, although losing their own lives in defence of the patriotic trust. it was formed convenient to suppress all mention of the fact of the lady being russian and the man italian. but in his death, von sendlingen gained some revenge. the loss of antonino the detailed plans delayed clemenceau in his project. the war farther threw them back and it was only recently that his perfected cannon was formally accepted. in all his tribulations and disappointments, daniels supported him, for he, too, was an idealist, and so truly his friend as to defer his own scheme until he should be at ease. after the fortuitous meeting of those men had come irresistible attraction and communion, moral, intellectual and scientific--friendship to the full meaning of the word. poetic justice, as we call the fate least like what man deals out, decreed that the château of the marchioness de latour-lagneau should be dilapidated during the prussian occupation of montmorency. on its ruins rises the manufactury of he new rifle. on the side of the heart, too, the same justice rewarded clemenceau, for he married rebecca, and they were happy in having sons to bear his name worthily. césarine was forgotten, since, however great a conflagration may be--however far the flare may be cast on the sky--whatever the extent of damage--it must die out in time. such is passion, and the brighter its blaze the blacker the ruins it leaves after it--the deeper the misery--the wider the loneliness. it devours itself, with no revival like the phoenix; but love occupies the whole of life, however extended, and still has the strength and volumn to transport its worshipers to the realm of the happy. a description of millenium hall and the country adjacent together with the characters of the inhabitants and such historical anecdotes and reflections as may excite in the reader proper sentiments of humanity, and lead the mind to the love of virtue by 'a gentleman on his travels' sarah scott based on a reprint of the edition published in great britain by j. newbury, a description of millenium hall dear sir, though, when i left london, i promised to write to you as soon as i had reached my northern retreat, yet, i believe, you little expected instead of a letter to receive a volume; but i should not stand excused to myself, were i to fail communicating to you the pleasure i received in my road hither, from the sight of a society whose acquaintance i owe to one of those fortunate, though in appearance trifling, accidents, from which sometimes arise the most pleasing circumstances of our lives; for as such i must ever esteem the acquaintance of that amiable family, who have fixed their abode at a place which i shall nominate millenium hall, as the best adapted to the lives of the inhabitants, and to avoid giving the real name, fearing to offend that modesty which has induced them to conceal their virtues in retirement. in giving you a very circumstantial account of this society, i confess i have a view beyond the pleasure which a mind like yours must receive from the contemplation of so much virtue. your constant endeavours have been to inculcate the best principles into youthful minds, the only probable means of mending mankind; for the foundation of most of our virtues, or our vices, are laid in that season of life when we are most susceptible of impression, and when on our minds, as on a sheet of white paper, any characters may be engraven; these laudable endeavours, by which we may reasonably expect the rising generation will be greatly improved, render particularly due to you, any examples which may teach those virtues that are not easily learnt by precept and shew the facility of what, in mere speculation, might appear surrounded with a discouraging impracticability: you are the best judge, whether, by being made public, they may be conducive to your great end of benefiting the world. i therefore submit the future fate of the following sheets entirely to you, and shall not think any prefatory apology for the publication at all requisite; for though a man who supposes his own life and actions deserve universal notice, or can be of general use, may be liable to the imputation of vanity, yet, as i have no other share than that of a spectator, and auditor, in what i purpose to relate, i presume no apology can be required; for my vanity must rather be mortified than flattered in the description of such virtues as will continually accuse me of my own deficiencies, and lead me to make a humiliating comparison between these excellent ladies and myself. you may remember, sir, that when i took leave of you with a design of retiring to my native county, there to enjoy the plenty and leisure for which a few years labour had furnished me with the necessary requisites, i was advised by an eminent physician to make a very extensive tour through the western part of this kingdom, in order, by frequent change of air, and continued exercise, to cure the ill effects of my long abode in the hot and unwholesome climate of jamaica, where, while i increased my fortune, i gradually impaired my constitution; and though one who, like me, has dedicated all his application to mercantile gain, will not allow that he has given up the substance for the shadow, yet perhaps it would be difficult to deny that i thus sacrificed the greater good in pursuit of the less. the eagerness with which i longed to fix in my wished-for retirement, made me imagine that when i had once reached it, even the pursuit of health would be an insufficient inducement to determine me to leave my retreat. i therefore chose to make the advised tour before i went into the north. as the pleasure arising from a variety of beautiful objects is but half enjoyed when we have no one to share it with us, i accepted the offer mr lamont (the son of my old friend) made of accompanying me in my journey. as this young gentleman has not the good fortune to be known to you, it may not be amiss, as will appear in the sequel, to let you into his character. mr lamont is a young man of about twenty-five years of age, of an agreeable person, and lively understanding; both perhaps have concurred to render him a coxcomb. the vivacity of his parts soon gained him such a degree of encouragement as excited his vanity, and raised in him a high opinion of himself. a very generous father enabled him to partake of every fashionable amusement, and the natural bent of his mind soon led him into all the dissipation which the gay world affords. useful and improving studies were laid aside for such desultory reading as he found most proper to furnish him with topics for conversation in the idle societies he frequented. thus that vivacity, which, properly qualified, might have become true wit, degenerated into pertness and impertinence. a consciousness of an understanding, which he never exerted, rendered him conceited; those talents which nature kindly bestowed upon him, by being perverted, gave rise to his greatest faults. his reasoning faculty, by a partial and superficial use, led him to infidelity, and the desire of being thought superiorly distinguishing established him an infidel. fashion, not reason, has been the guide of all his thoughts and actions. but with these faults he is good-natured, and not unentertaining, especially in a tête-à-tête, where he does not desire to shine, and therefore his vanity lies dormant and suffers the best qualifications of his mind to break forth. this induced me to accept him as a fellow traveller. we proceeded on our journey as far as cornwall, without meeting with any other than the usual incidents of the road, till one afternoon, when our chaise broke down. the worst circumstance attending this accident was our being several miles from a town, and so ignorant of the country, that we knew not whether there was any village within a moderate distance. we sent the postilion on my man's horse to the next town to fetch a smith, and leaving my servant to guard the chaise, mr lamont and i walked towards an avenue of oaks, which we observed at a small distance. the thick shade they afforded us, the fragrance wafted from the woodbines with which they were encircled, was so delightful, and the beauty of the grounds so very attracting, that we strolled on, desirous of approaching the house to which this avenue led. it is a mile and a half in length, but the eye is so charmed with the remarkable verdure and neatness of the fields, with the beauty of the flowers which are planted all around them and seem to mix with the quickset hedges, that time steals away insensibly. when we had walked about half a mile in a scene truly pastoral, we began to think ourselves in the days of theocritus, so sweetly did the sound of a flute come wafted through the air. never did pastoral swain make sweeter melody on his oaten reed. our ears now afforded us fresh attraction, and with quicker steps we proceeded, till we came within sight of the musician that had charmed us. our pleasure was not a little heightened, to see, as the scene promised, in reality a shepherd, watching a large flock of sheep. we continued motionless, listening to his music, till a lamb straying from its fold demanded his care, and he laid aside his instrument, to guide home the little wanderer. curiosity now prompted us to walk on; the nearer we came to the house, the greater we found the profusion of flowers which ornamented every field. some had no other defence than hedges of rose trees and sweetbriars, so artfully planted, that they made a very thick hedge, while at the lower part, pinks, jonquils, hyacinths, and various other flowers, seemed to grow under their protection. primroses, violets, lilies of the valley, and polyanthuses enriched such shady spots, as, for want of sun, were not well calculated for the production of other flowers. the mixture of perfumes which exhaled from this profusion composed the highest fragrance, and sometimes the different scents regaled the senses alternately, and filled us with reflections on the infinite variety of nature. when we were within about a quarter of a mile of the house, the scene became still more animated. on one side was the greatest variety of cattle, the most beautiful of their kinds, grazing in fields whose verdure equalled that of the finest turf, nor were they destitute of their ornaments, only the woodbines and jessamine, and such flowers as might have tempted the inhabitants of these pastures to crop them, were defended with roses and sweetbriars, whose thorns preserved them from all attacks. though lamont had hitherto been little accustomed to admire nature, yet was he much captivated with this scene, and with his usual levity cried out, 'if nebuchadnezzar had such pastures as these to range in, his seven years expulsion from human society might not be the least agreeable part of his life.' my attention was too much engaged to criticize the light turn of lamont's mind, nor did his thoughts continue long on the same subject, for our observation was soon called off by a company of hay-makers in the fields on the other side of the avenue. the cleanliness and neatness of the young women thus employed, rendered them a more pleasing subject for lamont's contemplation than any thing we had yet seen; in them we beheld rural simplicity, without any of those marks of poverty and boorish rusticity, which would have spoilt the pastoral air of the scene around us; but not even the happy amiable innocence, which their figures and countenances expressed, gave me so much satisfaction as the sight of the number of children, who were all exerting the utmost of their strength, with an air of delighted emulation between themselves, to contribute their share to the general undertaking. their eyes sparkled with that spirit which health and activity can only give, and their rosy cheeks shewed the benefits of youthful labour. curiosity is one of those insatiable passions that grow by gratification; it still prompted us to proceed, not unsatisfied with what we had seen, but desirous to see still more of this earthly paradise. we approached the house, wherein, as it was the only human habitation in view, we imagined must reside the primum mobile of all we had yet beheld. we were admiring the magnificence of the ancient structure, and inclined to believe it the abode of the genius which presided over this fairy land, when we were surprised by a storm, which had been some time gathering over our heads, though our thoughts had been too agreeably engaged to pay much attention to it. we took shelter under the thick shade of a large oak, but the violence of the thunder and lightning made our situation rather uncomfortable. all those whom we had a little before seen so busy left their work on hearing the first clap of thunder and ran with the utmost speed to millenium hall, so i shall call the noble mansion of which i am speaking, as to an assured asylum against every evil. some of these persons, i imagine, perceived us; for immediately after they entered, came out a woman who, by her air and manner of address, we guessed to be the housekeeper, and desired us to walk into the house till the storm was over. we made some difficulties about taking that liberty, but she still persisting in her invitation, had my curiosity to see the inhabitants of this hospitable mansion been less, i could not have refused to comply, as by prolonging these ceremonious altercations i was detaining her in the storm; we therefore agreed to follow her. if we had been inclined before to fancy ourselves on enchanted ground, when after being led through a large hall, we were introduced to the ladies, who knew nothing of what had passed, i could scarcely forbear believing myself in the attic school. the room where they sat was about forty-five feet long, of a proportionable breadth, with three windows on one side, which looked into a garden, and a large bow at the upper end. over against the windows were three large bookcases, upon the top of the middle one stood an orrery, and a globe on each of the others. in the bow sat two ladies reading, with pen, ink and paper on a table before them at which was a young girl translating out of french. at the lower end of the room was a lady painting, with exquisite art indeed, a beautiful madonna; near her another, drawing a landscape out of her own imagination; a third, carving a picture-frame in wood, in the finest manner, a fourth, engraving; and a young girl reading aloud to them; the distance from the ladies in the bow window being such, that they could receive no disturbance from her. at the next window were placed a group of girls, from the age of ten years old to fourteen. of these, one was drawing figures, another a landscape, a third a perspective view, a fourth engraving, a fifth carving, a sixth turning in wood, a seventh writing, an eighth cutting out linen, another making a gown, and by them an empty chair and a tent, with embroidery, finely fancied, before it, which we afterwards found had been left by a young girl who was gone to practise on the harpsichord. as soon as we entered they all rose up, and the housekeeper introduced us by saying she saw us standing under a tree to avoid the storm and so had desired us to walk in. the ladies received us with the greatest politeness, and expressed concern that when their house was so near, we should have recourse to so insufficient a shelter. our surprise at the sight of so uncommon a society occasioned our making but an awkward return to their obliging reception; nor when we observed how many arts we had interrupted, could we avoid being ashamed that we had then intruded upon them. but before i proceed farther, i shall endeavour to give you some idea of the persons of the ladies, whose minds i shall afterwards best describe by their actions. the two who sat in the bow window were called mrs maynard and miss selvyn. mrs maynard is between forty and fifty years of age, a little woman, well made, with a lively and genteel air, her hair black, and her eyes of the same colour, bright and piercing, her features good, and complexion agreeable, though brown. her countenance expresses all the vivacity of youth, tempered with a serenity which becomes her age. miss selvyn can scarcely be called tall, though she approaches that standard. her features are too irregular to be handsome, but there is a sensibility and delicacy in her countenance which render her extremely engaging; and her person is elegant. miss mancel, whom we had disturbed from her painting, is tall and finely formed, has great elegance of figure, and is graceful in every motion. her hair is of a fine brown, her eyes blue, with all that sensible sweetness which is peculiar to that colour. in short, she excels in every beauty but the bloom, which is so soon faded, and so impossible to be imitated by the utmost efforts of art, nor has she suffered any farther by years than the loss of that radiance which renders beauty rather more resplendent than more pleasing. miss trentham, who was carving by her, was the tallest of the company, and in dignity of air particularly excels, but her features and complexion have been so injured by the smallpox, that one can but just guess they were once uncommonly fine; a sweetness of countenance, and a very sensible look, indeed, still remain, and have baffled all the most cruel ravages of that distemper. lady mary jones, whom we found engraving, seems to have been rather pleasing than beautiful. she is thin and pale, but a pair of the finest black eyes i ever saw, animate, to a great degree, a countenance which sickness has done its utmost to render languid, but has, perhaps, only made more delicate and amiable. her person is exquisitely genteel, and her voice, in common speech, enchantingly melodious. mrs morgan, the lady who was drawing, appears to be upwards of fifty, tall, rather plump, and extremely majestic, an air of dignity distinguishes her person, and every virtue is engraven in indelible characters on her countenance. there is a benignity in every look, which renders the decline of life, if possible, more amiable than the bloom of youth. one would almost think nature had formed her for a common parent, such universal and tender benevolence beams from every glance she casts around her. the dress of the ladies was thus far uniform, the same neatness, the same simplicity and cleanliness appeared in each, and they were all in lutestring night-gowns, though of different colours, nor was there any thing unfashionable in their appearance, except that they were free from any trumpery ornaments. the girls were all clothed in camblet coats, but not uniform in colour, their linen extremely white and clean though coarse. some of them were pretty, and none had any defect in person, to take off from that general pleasingness which attends youth and innocence. they had been taught such a habit of attention that they seemed not at all disturbed by our conversation, which was of that general kind, as might naturally be expected on such an occasion, though supported by the ladies with more sensible vivacity and politeness than is usual where part of the company are such total strangers to the rest; till by chance one of the ladies called mrs maynard by her name. from the moment i saw her, i thought her face not unknown to me, but could not recollect where or when i had been acquainted with her, but her name brought to my recollection, that she was not only an old acquaintance, but a near relation. i observed that she had looked on me with particular attention, and i begged her to give me leave to ask her of what family of maynards she was. her answer confirmed my supposition, and as she told me that she believed she had some remembrance of my face, i soon made her recollect our affinity and former intimacy, though my twenty years abode in jamaica, the alteration the climate had wrought in me, and time had made in us both, had almost effaced us from each other's memory. there is great pleasure in renewing the acquaintance of our youth; a thousand pleasing ideas accompany it; many mirthful scenes and juvenile amusements return to the remembrance, and make us, as it were, live over again what is generally the most pleasing part of life. mrs maynard seemed no less sensible of the satisfaction arising from this train of thoughts than myself, and the rest of the company were so indulgently good-natured, as in appearance, to share them with us. the tea table by no means interrupted our conversation, and i believe i should have forgot that our journey was not at an end, if a servant had not brought in word, that my man, who had observed our motions, was come to inform us that our chaise could not be repaired that night. the ladies immediately declared that though their equipage was in order, they would not suffer it to put an end to a pleasure they owed to the accident which had happened to ours, and insisted we should give them our company till the smith had made all necessary reparations, adding, that i could not be obstinately bent on depriving mrs maynard so soon of the satisfaction she received from having recovered so long lost a relation. i was little inclined to reject this invitation: pleasure was the chief design of my journey, and i saw not how i could receive more than by remaining in a family so extraordinary, and so perfectly agreeable. when both parties are well agreed, the necessary ceremonies previous to a compliance are soon over, and it was settled that we should not think of departing before the next day at soonest. the continuance of the rain rendered it impossible to stir out of the house; my cousin, who seemed to think variety necessary to amuse, asked if we loved music, which being answered in the affirmative, she begged the other ladies to entertain us with one of their family concerts, and we joining in the petition, proper orders were given, and we adjourned into another room, which was well furnished with musical instruments. over the door was a beautiful saint cecilia, painted in crayons by miss mancel, and a fine piece of carved work over the chimney, done by miss trentham, which was a very artificial representation of every sort of musical instrument. while we were admiring these performances, the company took their respective places. miss mancel seated herself at the harpsichord, lady mary jones played on the arch lute, mrs morgan on the organ, miss selvyn and miss trentham each on the six-stringed bass; the shepherd who had charmed us in the field was there with his german flute, a venerable looking man, who is their steward, played on the violincello, a lame youth on the french horn, another, who seemed very near blind, on the bassoon, and two on the fiddle. my cousin had no share in the performance except singing agreeably, wherein she was joined by some of the ladies, and where the music could bear it, by ten of the young girls, with two or three others whom we had not seen, and whose voices and manner were equally pleasing. they performed several of the finest pieces of the messiah and judas maccabeus, with exquisite taste, and the most exact time. there was a sufficient number of performers to give the choruses all their pomp and fullness, and the songs were sung in a manner so touching and pathetic, as could be equalled by none whose hearts were not as much affected by the words as their senses were by the music. the sight of so many little innocents joining in the most sublime harmony made me almost think myself already amongst the heavenly choir, and it was a great mortification to me to be brought back to this sensual world by so gross an attraction as a call to supper, which put an end to our concert, and carried us to another room, where we found a repast more elegant than expensive. the evening certainly is the most social part of the day, without any of those excesses which so often turn it into senseless revelry. the conversation after supper was particularly animated, and left us still more charmed with the society into which chance had introduced us; the sprightliness of their wit, the justness of their reflections, the dignity which accompanied their vivacity, plainly evinced with how much greater strength the mind can exert itself in a regular and rational way of life, than in a course of dissipation. at this house every change came too soon, time seemed to wear a double portion of wings, eleven o'clock struck, and the ladies ordered a servant to shew us our rooms, themselves retiring to theirs. it was impossible for lamont and i to part till we had spent an hour in talking over this amiable family, with whom he could not help being much delighted, though he observed they were very deficient in the bon ton, there was too much solidity in all they said, they would trifle with trifles indeed, but had not the art of treating more weighty subjects with the same lightness, which gave them an air of rusticity; and he did not doubt, but on a more intimate acquaintance we should find their manners much rusticated, and their heads filled with antiquated notions, by having lived so long out of the great world. i rose the next morning very early, desirous to make the day, which i purposed for the last of my abode in this mansion, as long as i could. i went directly into the garden, which, by what i saw from the house, was extremely pretty. as i passed by the windows of the saloon, i perceived the ladies and their little pupils were earlier risers than myself, for they were all at their various employments. i first went into the gayest flower garden i ever beheld. the rainbow exhibits not half the variety of tints, and they are so artfully mingled, and ranged to make such a harmony of colours, as taught me how much the most beautiful objects may be improved by a judicious disposition of them. beyond these beds of flowers rises a shrubbery, where every thing sweet and pleasing is collected. as these ladies have no taste but what is directed by good sense, nothing found a place here from being only uncommon, for they think few things are very rare but because they are little desirable; and indeed it is plain they are free from that littleness of mind, which makes people value a thing the more for its being possessed by no one but themselves. behind the shrubbery is a little wood, which affords a gloom, rendered more agreeable by its contrast with the dazzling beauty of that part of the garden that leads to it. in the high pale which encloses this wood i observed a little door, curiosity induced me to pass through it; i found it opened on a row of the neatest cottages i ever saw, which the wood had concealed from my view. they were new and uniform, and therefore i imagined all dedicated to the same purpose. seeing a very old woman spinning at one of the doors, i accosted her, by admiring the neatness of her habitation. 'ay, indeed,' said she, 'it is a most comfortable place, god bless the good ladies! i and my neighbours are as happy as princesses, we have every thing we want and wish, and who can say more?' 'very few so much,' answered i, 'but pray what share have the ladies in procuring the happiness you seem so sensible of?' 'why sir,' continued the old woman, 'it is all owing to them. i was almost starved when they put me into this house, and no shame of mine, for so were my neighbours too; perhaps we were not so painstaking as we might have been; but that was not our fault, you know, as we had not things to work with, nor any body to set us to work, poor folks cannot know every thing as these good ladies do; we were half dead for want of victuals, and then people have not courage to set about any thing. nay, all the parish were so when they came into it, young and old, there was not much to choose, few of us had rags to cover us, or a morsel of bread to eat except the two squires; they indeed grew rich, because they had our work, and paid us not enough to keep life and soul together, they live about a mile off, so perhaps they did not know how poor we were, i must say that for them; the ladies tell me i ought not to speak against them, for every one has faults, only we see other people's, and are blind to our own; and certainly it is true enough, for they are very wise ladies as well as good, and must know such things.' as my new acquaintance seemed as loquacious as her age promised, i hoped for full satisfaction, and asked her how she and her neighbours employed themselves. 'not all alike,' replied the good woman, 'i will tell you all about it there are twelve of us that live here. we have every one a house of two rooms, as you may see, beside other conveniences, and each a little garden, but though we are separate, we agree as well, perhaps better, than if we lived together, and all help one another. now, there is neighbour susan, and neighbour rachel; susan is lame, so she spins clothes for rachel; and rachel cleans susan's house, and does such things for her as she cannot do for herself. the ladies settled all these matters at first, and told us, that as they, to please god, assisted us, we must in order to please him serve others; and that to make us happy they would put us in a way, poor as we are, to do good to many. thus neighbour jane who, poor woman, is almost stone deaf, they thought would have a melancholy life if she was to be always spinning and knitting, seeing other people around her talking, and not be able to hear a word they said, so the ladies busy her in making broths and caudles and such things, for all the sick poor in this and the next parish, and two of us are fixed upon to carry what, they have made to those that want them; to visit them often, and spend more or less time with them every day according as they have, or have not relations to take care of them; for though the ladies always hire nurses for those who are very ill, yet they will not trust quite to them, but make us overlook them, so that in a sickly time we shall be all day going from one to another.' 'but,' said i, 'there are i perceive many children amongst you, how happens that? your ages shew they are not your own.' 'oh! as for that,' replied my intelligencer, 'i will tell you how that is. you must know these good ladies, heaven preserve them! take every child after the fifth of every poor person, as soon as it can walk, till when they pay the mother for nursing it; these children they send to us to keep out of harm, and as soon as they can hold a knitting-needle to teach them to knit, and to spin, as much as they can be taught before they are four or five years old, when they are removed into one of the schools. they are pretty company for us, and make us mothers again, as it were, in our old age; then the children's relations are all so fond of us for our care of them, that it makes us a power of friends, which you know is very pleasant, though we want nothing from them but their good wills.' here i interrupted her by observing, that it must take up a great deal of time, and stop their work, consequently lessen their profits. 'there is nothing in that,' continued the good woman, 'the ladies' steward sends us in all we want in the way of meat, drink and firing; and our spinning we carry to the ladies; they employ a poor old weaver, who before they came broke for want of work, to weave it for us, and when there is not enough they put more to it, so we are sure to have our clothing; if we are not idle that is all they desire, except that we should be cleanly too. there never passes a day that one or other of the ladies does not come and look all over our houses, which they tell us, and certainly with truth, for it is a great deal of trouble to them, is all for our good, for that we cannot be healthy if we are not clean and neat. then every saint's day, and every sunday after church, we all go down to the hall, and the ladies read prayers, and a sermon to us, and their own family; nor do they ever come here without giving us some good advice. we used to quarrel, to be sure, sometimes when we first came to these houses, but the ladies condescended to make it up amongst us, and shewed us so kindly how much it was our duty to agree together, and to forgive everybody their faults, or else we could not hope to be forgiven by god, against whom we so often sinned, that now we love one another like sisters, or indeed better, for i often see such quarrel. beside, they have taught us that we are generally in fault ourselves; and we find now that we take care not to be perverse, our neighbours are seldom in the wrong, and when they are, we bear with it in hopes they will bear with us when we are as much to blame, which we may be sure enough will happen, let us try ever so much to the contrary. then the ladies seem so pleased when we do any kindness to one another, as to be sure is a great encouragement; and if any of us are sick they are so careful and so good, that it would be a shame if we did not do all we can for one another, who have been always neighbours and acquaintance, when such great ladies, who never knew us, as i may say, but to make us happy, and have no reason to take care of us but that we are poor, are so kind and condescending to us.' i was so pleased with the good effect which the charity of her benefactors had on the mind, as well as the situation, of this old woman, whose neighbours by her own account were equally benefited by the blessings they received, that i should have stayed longer with her, if a bell had not rung at millenium hall, which she informed me was a summons to breakfast. i obeyed its call, and after thanking her for her conversation, returned with a heart warmed and enlarged, to the amiable society. my mind was so filled with exalted reflections on their virtues that i was less attentive to the charms of inanimate nature than when i first passed through the gardens. after breakfast the ladies proposed a walk, and as they had seen the course i took when i first went out, they led us a contrary way, lest, they said, i should be tired with the repetition of the same scene. i told them with, great truth, that what i had beheld could never weary, for virtue is a subject we must ever contemplate with fresh delight, and as such examples could not fail of improving every witness of them, the pleasure of reflection would increase, as one daily grew more capable of enjoying it, by cultivating kindred sensations. by some more explicit hints they found out to what i alluded, and thereby knew where i had been, but turning the conversation to present objects, they conducted us to a very fine wood which is laid out with so much taste that lamont observed the artist's hand was never more distinguishable, and perceived in various spots the direction of the person at present most famous for that sort of improvement. the ladies smiled, and one of them answered that he did their wood great honour, in thinking art had lent her assistance to nature, but that there was little in that place for which they were not solely obliged to the latter. miss trentham interrupted her who was speaking and told us that as she had no share in the improvements which had been made, she might with the better grace assure mr lamont that lady mary jones, miss mancel, and mrs morgan were the only persons who had laid out that wood, and the commonest labourers in the country had executed their orders. lamont was much surprised at this piece of information, and though he would have thought it still more exquisitely beautiful had it been the design of the person he imagined, yet truth is so powerful, that he could not suppress his admiration and surprise. every cut in it is terminated by some noble object. in several places are seats formed with such rustic simplicity, as have more real grandeur in them, than can be found in the most expensive buildings. on an eminence, 'bosomed high in tufted trees', is a temple dedicated to solitude. the structure is an exquisite piece of architecture, the prospect from it noble and extensive, and the windows so placed, that one sees no house but at so considerable a distance, as not to take off from the solitary air, which is perfectly agreeable to a temple declaredly dedicated to solitude. the most beautiful object in the view is a very large river, in reality an arm of the sea, little more than a quarter of a mile distant from the building; about three miles beyond it lies the sea, on which the sun then shone, and made it dazzlingly bright. in the temple is a picture of contemplation, another of silence, two of various birds and animals, and a couple of moonlight pieces, the workmanship of the ladies. close by the temple runs a gentle murmuring rivulet, which flows in meanders through the rest of the wood, sometimes concealed from view, and then appearing at the next turning of the walk. the wood is well peopled with pheasants, wild turkeys, squirrels and hares, who live so unmolested, that they seem to have forgot all fear, and rather to welcome than flee from those who come amongst them. man never appears there as a merciless destroyer, but the preserver, instead of the tyrant, of the inferior part of the creation. while they continue in that wood, none but natural evil can approach them, and from that they are defended as much as possible. we there 'walked joint tenant of the shade' with the animal race; and a perfect equality in nature's bounty seems enjoyed by the whole creation. one could scarcely forbear thinking those happy times were come, when 'the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf, and the young lion, and the fatling together, and a young child shall lead them. the wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them, and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.' at the verge of this wood, which extends to the river i have mentioned, without perceiving we were entering a building, so well is the outside of it concealed by trees, we found ourselves in a most beautiful grotto, made of fossils, spars, coral, and such shells as are at once both fine and rustic; all of the glaring, tawdry kind are excluded, and by the gloom and simplicity preserved, one would imagine it the habitation of some devout anchoret. ivy and moss in some places cover, while they seem to unite, the several materials of the variegated walls. the rivulet which runs through the wood falls down one side of the grotto with great rapidity, broken into various streams by the spar and coral, and passing through, forms a fine cascade just at the foot of the grotto, whence it flows into the river. great care is taken to prevent the place from growing damp, so that we sat some time in it with safety, admiring the smooth surface of the river, to which it lies very open. as the ladies had some daily business on their hands which they never neglect, we were obliged to leave this lovely scene, where i think i could have passed my life with pleasure, and to return towards the house, though by a different way from that we came, traversing the other side of the wood. in one spot where we went near the verge, i observed a pale, which, upon examination, i found was continued for some acres, though it was remarkable only in one place. it is painted green, and on the inside a hedge of yews, laurel, and other thick evergreens rises to about seven or eight feet high. i could not forbear asking what was thus so carefully enclosed. the ladies smiled on each other, but evaded answering my question, which only increased my curiosity. lamont, not less curious, and more importunate, observed that the inclosure bore some resemblance to one of lord lamore's, where he kept lions, tigers, leopards, and such foreign animals, and he would be hanged, if the ladies had not made some such collection, intreating that he might be admitted to see them; for nothing gave him greater entertainment than to behold those beautiful wild beasts, brought out of their native woods, where they had reigned as kings, and here tamed and subjected by the superior art of man. it was a triumph of human reason, which could not fail to afford great pleasure. 'not to us, i assure you, sir,' replied miss mancel, 'when reason appears only in the exertion of cruelty and tyrannical oppression, it is surely not a gift to be boasted of. when a man forces the furious steed to endure the bit, or breaks oxen to the yoke, the great benefits he receive from, and communicates to the animals, excuse the forcible methods by which it is accomplished. but to see a man, from a vain desire to have in his possession the native of another climate and another country, reduce a fine and noble creature to misery, and confine him within narrow inclosures whose happiness consisted in unbounded liberty, shocks my nature. there is i confess something so amiable in gentleness, that i could be pleased with seeing a tiger caress its keeper, if the cruel means by which the fiercest of beasts is taught all the servility of a fawning spaniel, did not recur every instant to my mind; and it is not much less abhorrent to my nature, to see a venerable lion jumping over a stick, than it would be to behold a hoary philosopher forced by some cruel tyrant to spend his days in whipping a top, or playing with a rattle. every thing to me loses its charm when it is put out of the station wherein nature, or to speak more properly, the all-wise creator has placed it. i imagine man has a right to use the animal race for his own preservation, perhaps for his convenience, but certainly not to treat them with wanton cruelty, and as it is not in his power to give them any thing so valuable as their liberty, it is, in my opinion, criminal to enslave them in order to procure ourselves a vain amusement, if we have so little feeling as to find any while others suffer.' 'i believe madam,' replied lamont, 'it is most advisable for me not to attempt to defend what i have said; should i have reason on my side, while you have humanity on yours, i should make but a bad figure in the argument. what advantage could i expect from applying to the understanding, while your amiable disposition would captivate even reason itself? but still i am puzzled; what we behold is certainly an inclosure, how can that be without a confinement to those that are within it?' 'after having spoken so much against tyranny,' said miss mancel, smiling, 'i do not know whether i should be excusable if i left you to be tyrannized by curiosity, which i believe can inflict very severe pains, at least, if i may be allowed to judge by the means people often take to satisfy it. i will therefore gratify you with the knowledge of what is within this inclosure, which makes so extraordinary an impression upon you. it is, then, an asylum for those poor creatures who are rendered miserable from some natural deficiency or redundancy. here they find refuge from the tyranny of those wretches, who seem to think that being two or three feet taller gives them a right to make them a property, and expose their unhappy forms to the contemptuous curiosity of the unthinking multitude. procrustes has been branded through all ages with the name of tyrant; and principally, as it appears, from fitting the body of every stranger to a bed which he kept as the necessary standard, cutting off the legs of those whose height exceeded the length of it and stretching on the rack such as fell short of that measure, till they attained the requisite proportion. but is not almost every man a procrustes? we have not the power of shewing our cruelty exactly in the same method, but actuated by the like spirit, we abridge of their liberty, and torment by scorn, all who either fall short, or exceed the usual standard, if they happen to have the additional misfortune of poverty. perhaps we are in no part more susceptible than in our vanity, how much then must those poor wretches suffer, whose deformity would lead them to wish to be secluded from human view, in being exposed to the public, whose observations are no better than expressions of scorn, and who are surprised to find that any thing less than themselves can speak, or appear like intelligent beings. but this is only part of what they have to endure. as if their deficiency in height deprived them of the natural right to air and sunshine, they are kept confined in small rooms, and because they fill less space than common, are stuffed into chairs so little, that they are squeezed as close as a pair of gloves in a walnut-shell. 'this miserable treatment of persons, to whom compassion should secure more than common indulgence, determined us to purchase these worst sort of slaves, and in this place we have five who owed their wretchedness to being only three foot high, one grey-headed toothless old man of sixteen years of age, a woman of about seven foot in height, and a man who would be still taller, if the extreme weakness of his body, and the wretched life he for some time led, in the hands of one of these monster-mongers, did not make him bend almost double, and oblige him to walk on crutches; with which infirmities he is well pleased, as they reduce him nearer the common standard.' we were very desirous of seeing this enfranchised company; but mrs. morgan told us it was what they seldom granted, for fear of inflicting some of the pains from which they had endeavoured to rescue those poor creatures, but she would step in, and ask if they had no objection to our admission, and if that appeared really the case she would gratify us. this tenderness to persons who were under such high obligations, charmed me. she soon returned with the permission we wished, but intreated us to pay all our attention to the house and garden, and to take no more than a civil notice of its inhabitants. we promised obedience, and followed her. her advice was almost unnecessary, for the place could not have failed of attracting our particular observation. it was a quadrangle of about six acres, and the inward part was divided by nets into eight parts, four of which alternatively were filled with poultry of all sorts, which were fed here for the use of the hall, and kept with the most exact cleanliness. the other four parts were filled with shrubs and flowers, which were cultivated with great delight by these once unfortunate, but now happy beings. a little stream ran across the quadrangle, which served for drink to the poultry, and facilitated the watering of the flowers. i have already said, that at the inward edge of the pale was a row of evergreens; at their feet were beds of flowers, and a little gravel walk went round the whole. at each corner was an arbour made with woodbines and jessamine, in one or two of which there was always an agreeable shade. at one side of the quadrangle was a very neat habitation, into which a dwarf invited us to enter, to rest ourselves after our walk; they were all passing backwards and forwards, and thus gave us a full view of them, which would have been a shocking sight, but for the reflections we could not avoid making on their happy condition, and the very extraordinary humanity of the ladies to whom they owed it; so that instead of feeling the pain one might naturally receive from seeing the human form so disgraced, we were filled with admiration of the human mind, when so nobly exalted by virtue, as it is in the patronesses of these poor creatures, who wore an air of cheerfulness, which shewed they thought the churlishness wherewith they had been treated by nature sufficiently compensated. the tender inquiries the ladies made after their healths, and the kind notice they took of each of them, could not be exceeded by any thing but the affection, i might almost say adoration, with which these people beheld their benefactresses. this scene had made too deep an impression on our minds not to be the subject of our discourse all the way home, and in the course of conversation, i learnt that when these people were first rescued out of their misery, their healths were much impaired, and their tempers more so; to restore the first, all medicinal care was taken, and air and exercise assisted greatly in their recovery; but to cure the malady of the mind, and conquer that internal source of unhappiness, was a work of longer time. even these poor wretches had their vanity, and would contend for superior merit, of which the argument was the money their keepers had gained in exhibiting them. to put an end to this contention, the ladies made them understand that what they thought a subject for boasting, was only a proof of their being so much farther from the usual standard of the human form, and therefore a more extraordinary spectacle. but it was long before one of them could be persuaded to lay aside her pretensions to superiority, which she claimed on account of an extraordinary honour she had received from a great princess, who had made her a present of a sedan chair. at length, however, much reasoning and persuasion, a conviction of principles, of which they had before no knowledge, the happiness of their situation, and the improvement of their healths, concurred to sweeten their tempers and they now live in great harmony. they are entirely mistresses of their house, have two maids to wait on them, over whom they have sole command, and a person to do such little things in their garden as they cannot themselves perform; but the cultivation of it is one of their great pleasures; and by their extraordinary care, they have the satisfaction of presenting the finest flowers of the spring to their benefactresses, before they are blown in any other place. when they first came, the ladies told us that the horror they had conceived of being exhibited as public spectacles had fixed in them such a fear of being seen by any stranger, that the sound of a voice with which they were not acquainted at the outside of the paling, or the trampling of feet, would set them all a running behind the bushes to hide themselves, like so many timorous partridges in a mew, hurrying behind sheaves of corn for shelter; they even found a convenience in their size, which, though it rendered them unwilling to be seen, enabled them so easily to find places for concealment. by degrees the ladies brought them to consent to see their head servants, and some of the best people in the parish; desiring that to render it more agreeable to their visitors, they would entertain them with fruit and wine; advising them to assist their neighbours in plain work; thus to endear themselves to them, and procure more frequent visits, which as they chose to confine themselves within so narrow a compass, and enjoyed but precarious health, their benefactresses thought a necessary amusement. these recommendations, and the incidents wherewith their former lives had furnished them to amuse their company, and which they now could relate with pleasure, from the happy sense that all mortifications were past, rendered their conversation much courted among that rank of people. it occurred to me that their dislike to being seen by numbers must prevent their attendance on public worship, but my cousin informed me that was thus avoided. there was in the church an old gallery, which from disuse was grown out of repair; this the ladies caused to be mended, and the front of it so heightened, that these little folks when in it could not be seen; the tall ones contrived by stooping when they were there not to appear of any extraordinary height. to this they were conveyed in the ladies' coach and set down close to covered stairs, which led up to the gallery. this subject employed our conversation till we approached the hall; the ladies then, after insisting that we should not think of going from thence that day, all left us expect mrs maynard. it may seem strange that i was not sorry for their departure; but, in truth, i was so filled with astonishment at characters so new, and so curious to know by what steps women thus qualified both by nature and fortune to have the world almost at command, were brought thus to seclude themselves from it, and make as it were a new one for themselves constituted on such very different principles from that i had hitherto lived in, that i longed to be alone with my cousin, in hopes i might from her receive some account of this wonder. i soon made my curiosity known, and beseeched her to gratify it. 'i see no good reason,' said she, 'why i should not comply with your request, as my friends are above wishing to conceal any part of their lives, though themselves are never the subject of their own conversation. if they have had any follies they do not desire to hide them; they have not pride enough to be hurt with candid criticisms, and have too much innocence to fear any very severe censure. but as we did not all reach this paradise at the same time, i shall begin with the first inhabitants of, and indeed the founders of this society, miss mancel and mrs morgan, who from their childhood have been so connected that i could not, if i would, disunite them in my relation; and it would be almost a sin to endeavour to separate them even in idea.' we sat down in an arbour, whose shade invited us to seek there a defence against the sun, which was then in its meridian, and shone with uncommon heat. the woodbines, the roses, the jessamines, the pinks and above all, the minionette with which it was surrounded, made the air one general perfume; every breeze came loaded with fragrance, stealing and giving odour. a rivulet ran bubbling by the side of the arbour, whose gentle murmurs soothed the mind into composure, and seemed to hush us to attention, when mrs maynard thus began to shew her readiness to comply with my request. the history of miss mancel and mrs morgan you may perhaps think i am presuming on your patience when i lead you into a nursery, or a boarding school; but the life of louisa mancel was so early chequered with that various fate which gives this world the motley appearance of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, that it is not in my power to pass over the events of her infancy. i shall, however, spare you all that is possible, and recommend her to your notice only when she attracted the observation of mr hintman. this gentleman hearing that a person who rented some land of him was come to london, and lodged at one of those public houses which by the landlord is called an inn, at the outskirts of london, on the surrey side; and having some occasion to speak to him, he went thither. the people of the house called the man mr hintman enquired for, who immediately came downstairs, wiping tears from his eyes; the continuance of which he could hardly restrain. mr hintman asking the reason of those appearances of sorrow, the good-natured old man told him, his visit had called him from a scene which had shocked him excessively. 'the first day i came here' said he, 'i was induced by the frequent groans which issued from the next chamber, to enquire who lodged there; i learnt, it was a gentlewoman, who arrived the day before, and was immediately taken so ill that they apprehended her life in danger; and, about two hours ago, the maid of the house ran into my room, begging me to come to her assistance, for the gentlewoman was in such strong fits, she was not able to hold her. i obeyed the summons, and found the poor woman in fits indeed; but what appeared to me the last agonies of a life which, near exhausted, lavishes away its small remains in strong convulsions. 'by her bedside stood the most beautiful child i ever beheld, in appearance about ten years of age, crying as if its little heart would break; not with the rage of an infant, but with the settled grief of a person mature both in years and affliction. i asked her if the poor dying woman was her mother; she told me, no--she was only her aunt; but to her the same as a mother; and she did not know any one else that would take care of her. 'after a time the poor woman's convulsions left her; she just recovered sense enough to embrace the lovely girl, and cried out, oh! my dear child, what will become of you! a friendless, helpless infant; and seeing me at her bedside, she lifted up her hands in a suppliant posture; and with eyes that petitioned in stronger terms than words could express, oh! sir, said she, though you are a stranger to me, yet i see you are not so to humanity; take pity on this forlorn child; her amiable disposition will repay you in this world, and the great father of us all will reward you in the next, for your compassion on a wretched friendless girl! but why do i call her friendless? her innocence has the best of friends in heaven; the almighty is a parent she is not left to seek for; he is never absent;--oh! blessed lord! cried she, with a degree of ecstasy and confidence which most sensibly affected us all, to thy care i resign her; thy tender mercies are over all thy works, and thou, who carest for the smallest part of thy creation, will not deny her thy protection. oh! lord defend her innocence! let her obtain a place in thy kingdom after death; and for all the rest i submit to thy providence; nor presumptuously pretend to dictate to supreme wisdom. thou art a gracious father and the afflictions thou sendest are.... here her voice failed her; but by her gestures we could perceive the continued praying, and, having before taken the child in her arms the little angel continued there for fear of disturbing her. by looks sometimes turned towards the poor infant, and sometimes with her hand on her own heart, and then her eyes lifted up as it were to heaven, we saw she mixed prayers for the little mourner, with intercessions for herself, till sense and motion seemed to fail her; she then fell into a convulsion, and expired. 'the little girl perceived she was dead; and became almost as senseless as the lump of clay which had so lately been her only friend. we had but just taken her from the body, sir, when you came; and this was the occasion of the emotions you observed in me.' 'the cause was indeed sufficient,' replied mr hintman, 'but i am glad your sorrow proceeded from nothing more immediately concerning yourself. misery will strike its arrows into a humane heart; but the wounds it makes are not so lasting, as those which are impressed by passions that are more relative to ourselves.' 'oh! sir,' said the old man, 'you cannot form an adequate idea of the effect this scene must have on every spectator, except you had seen the child! surely nature never formed so lovely a little creature!' he continued his praises of louisa, till at length he excited mr hintman's curiosity; who expressing a desire of seeing this miracle, he was carried up into the good man's room, to which they had removed her. she, who had cried most bitterly before the fatal stroke arrived, was now so oppressed, as not to be able to shed a tear. they had put her on the bed, where she lay sighing with a heart ready to break; her eyes fixed on one point, she neither saw nor heard. though her countenance expressed unutterable woe, yet she looked so extremely beautiful, that mr hintman, highly as his expectation had been raised, was struck with surprise. he allowed he never saw any thing so lovely; and the charms of which her melancholy might deprive her, were more than compensated in his imagination by so strong a proof of extreme sensibility, at an age when few children perceive half the dreadful consequences of such a misfortune. he advised that she should be blooded, to prevent any ill effects from so severe a shock; for as she felt it as strongly as one of a more mature age, the same precautions should be used. in this he was obeyed; and it gave her such relief that she burst into a flood of tears; a change which appeared so salutary, that mr hintman would not immediately interrupt her. but his curiosity did not suffer him long to forbear asking her name, and many other particulars; several of which she could not answer; all the account she was able to give of herself was, that her name was mancel, that the person for whom she grieved was her aunt; but had had the sole care of her from her earliest remembrance. this aunt, she said, had often told her she had a father and mother living; but when she enquired why she never saw or heard from them she could get no satisfactory answer, but was put off with being told they were not in england; and that she should know when she grew older. this person had bred her up with the utmost tenderness, and employed the most assiduous care in her education; which was the principal object of her attention. they had lived in a neat cottage in the most retired part of surrey from miss mancel's earliest remembrance, till her aunt, after having been some time in a bad state of health, fell into a galloping consumption. as soon as she apprehended the danger with which her life was threatened, she prepared every thing for her removal to london; but as she did not expect ever to return, this took more time than the quickness of her decay could well allow. the hasty approach of her dissolution affected her extremely on the account of her little niece, and she often expressed her concern in terms intelligible to her who was the occasion of it, who gathered from the expressions which fell from her aunt, that the motive for the journey was to find out some of miss mancel's relations, to whom she might deliver her before death had put a period to her own life; and where she might safely remain till the return of her parents into england. in this resolution she discharged the only servant she kept, delivered up her house to her landlord, and after having settled all her pecuniary affairs, she set out on her journey with her little charge; but grew so ill on the road that she desired to be set down at the first inn; and her illness increased so fast she had no thought of removing; nor was she able to make any very exact enquiries after the persons of whom she came in search. this account was interrupted with many tears, which served to render it more affecting, and mr hintman, as much touched as the good old man who was the occasion of his having heard it, agreed with him that it would be proper to examine into the effects of which the deceased was then possessed; and to see if they could find any paper which would in a degree clear up the mysterious part of this affair. this was accordingly performed; but as to the latter intention without any success; for after all the examination they could make, they remained as much in the dark as ever. they found in her trunk rather more money than was requisite to bury her in a manner becoming her rank; to defray the expenses of her sickness; and to reward those that had attended her. the old man expressed a willingness to take the child. he said it was a legacy left him by one who had conceived some confidence in his humanity, and he could not in conscience disappoint an opinion which did him honour; though, having children of his own, he did not pretend to breed her up in the genteel manner to which she seemed by birth entitled. mr hintman replied, that he should have great reason to reproach himself if with the ample fortune he enjoyed, and having no children or family to partake of it, he should suffer another to take that charge, to whom it could not be so convenient; he therefore would immediately receive her as his child; and see her educated in all accomplishments proper for a young person of fashion and fortune; as he should be able to supply all deficiency, if necessary, in the latter particular. the old man was very glad to have the child better established than with him; though he had for some hours looked with so much pleasure on her as his adopted daughter, that no consideration, but the prospect of her greater advantage, could have reconciled him to parting with her. in pursuance of the resolution mr hintman had taken, he carried miss mancel to a french boarding school which he had heard commended; very prudently judging that his house was not a proper place for education, having there no one fit to take care of a young person. louisa was so oppressed by the forlornness of her situation that she felt none of that reluctance to going amongst strangers, so usual with children of her age. all the world was equally unknown to her, therefore she was indifferent where she was carried, only she rather wished not to have been taken from the good old man whose venerable aspect, and compassionate behaviour, had in some degree attached her to him; but she felt the generosity of mr hintman's declared intentions; and, young as she was, had too much delicacy to appear ungrateful by shewing an unwillingness to accompany him. mademoiselle d'avaux, the mistress of the school, was pleased with the appearance of her young scholar, whose tears had ceased for some time; and her face bore no disfiguring signs of sorrow; the dejection which overspread it giving charms equal to those of which it robbed it. mr hintman desired mademoiselle d'avaux to take the trouble of providing miss mancel with all things requisite, and to put her in proper mourning; those minute feminine details being things of which he was too ignorant to acquit himself well; and gave strict charge that her mind should be cultivated with the greatest care, and no accomplishment omitted which she was capable of acquiring. what contributed much towards gratifying this wish of mr hintman's was mademoiselle d'avaux's house being so full, that there was no room for louisa, but a share of the apartment which miss melvyn had hitherto enjoyed alone, and of which she could not willingly have admitted any one to partake but the lovely child who was presented to her for this purpose. her beautiful form prejudiced everyone in her favour; but the distress and sorrow which were impressed on her countenance, at an age generally too volatile and thoughtless to be deeply affected, could not fail of exciting a tender sensibility in the heart of a person of miss melvyn's disposition. this young lady was of a very peculiar turn of mind. she had been the darling daughter of sir charles and lady melvyn, whose attachment to her had appeared equal; but, in the former, it was rather the result of habit and compliance with lady melvyn's behaviour than a deep-rooted affection, of which his heart was not very susceptible; while lady melvyn's arose from that entire fondness which maternal love and the most distinguishing reason could excite in the warmest and tenderest of hearts. sir charles was an easy-tempered, weak man who gave no proof of good sense but the secret deference he had to his wife's judgement, whose very superior understanding was on nothing so assiduously employed as in giving consequence to the man with whom she was united, by the desire of her parents, contrary to her inclination. their authority had been necessary to reduce her to compliance, not from any particular dislike to sir charles, who had deservedly the reputation of sobriety and great good nature and whose person was remarkably fine; but lady melvyn perceived the weakness of his understanding and, ignorant of the strength of her own, was unwilling to enter into life without a guide whose judgement was equal to the desire he might naturally be supposed to have to direct her right, through all the various paths in which she might be obliged to walk; an assistance she had always expected from a husband; and thought even a necessary part of that character. she was besides sensible of the difficulty of performing a promise so solemnly made, as that of honour and obedience to one who, though she knew not half her own excellence, she must be sensible was her inferior. these reasons had deterred lady melvyn from marrying sir charles, but when she could no longer avoid it without violating her duty to her parents, she resolved to supply the apparent deficiencies in her husband's understanding by a most respectful deference to his opinions, thus conferring distinction on him whom she wished everyone to esteem and honour; for as there was no affectation in this part of her conduct, any more than in the rest of her behaviour, all were convinced that the man who was respected by a woman of an understanding so superior to most of her own sex, and the greatest part of the other, must have great merit, though they could not perceive wherein it consisted. in company lady melvyn always endeavoured to turn the conversation on such subjects as she know were best suited to sir charles's capacity, more desirous that he should appear to advantage than to display her own talents. she contrived to make all her actions appear the result of his choice, and whatever he did by her instigation seemed even to himself to have been his own thought. as their way of life was in every circumstance consonant to reason, religion, and every virtue which could render them useful and respectable to others, sir charles acquired a character in the neighbourhood which lady melvyn thought a sufficient reward for the endeavours she used to secure it to him; and, for that purpose, fixed her abode entirely in the country, where his conduct might give him the respect which would not be so easily obtained in a gayer scene, where talents are in higher estimation than virtue. sir charles and lady melvyn had no other child than the daughter i have mentioned, whose education was her mother's great care; and she had the pleasure of seeing in her an uncommon capacity, with every virtue the fondest parent could wish; and which indeed she had by inheritance; but her mother's humility made them appear to her as a peculiar gift of providence to her daughter. lady melvyn soon began to instil all the principles of true religion into her daughter's infant mind; and, by her judicious instructions, gave her knowledge far superior to her years; which was indeed the most delightful task of this fond parent; for her daughter's uncommon docility and quick parts, continually stimulated by her tenderness for the best of mothers, made her improve even beyond lady melvyn's expectation. in this happy situation miss melvyn continued till near the end of her fourteenth year, when she had the misfortune to lose this excellent parent, nor was she the only sufferer by lady melvyn's death; every poor person within her knowledge lost a benefactress; all who knew her, an excellent example; and, some, the best of friends; but her extraordinary merit was but imperfectly known till after her decease; for she had made sir charles appear so much the principal person, and director of all their affairs; that till the change in his conduct proved how great her influence had been, she had only shared the approbation, which, afterwards, became all her own. human nature cannot feel a deeper affliction than now overwhelmed miss melvyn; wherein sir charles bore as great a share, as the easiness of his nature was capable of; but his heart was not susceptible, either of strong or lasting impressions. he walked in the path lady melvyn had traced out for him; and suffered his daughter to imitate her mother in benevolent duties; and she had profited too much by the excellent pattern, whereby she had endeavoured to regulate her actions, not to acquit herself far beyond what could have been expected at her years. miss melvyn was not long indulged in the only consolation her grief could receive--that of being permitted to aim at an imitation of her mother--for sir charles had not been a widower quite a year when he married a young lady in the neighbourhood who had designed him this honour from the hour of lady melvyn's death; and to procure better opportunity for affecting her purpose had pretended a most affectionate compassion for miss melvyn's deep affliction; she visited her continually; and appeared so tenderly attached to her that miss melvyn, who had neither experience nor any guile in her own heart to inspire her with suspicions of an attempt to deceive her, made that return of affection which she thought gratitude required; nor was she at all disturbed when she found she was soon to look on this lady in another light than that in which she had hitherto seen her; it was easy for her to respect one whom she before loved; and she had been taught so true a veneration for her father, that she felt no averseness to obey whomsoever he thought proper to give a title to her duty. miss melvyn had but very little time to congratulate herself on having acquired for a mother a friend in whose conversation she hoped to enjoy great satisfaction and to feel the tenderness of an intimate changed into the fondness of a parent. she behaved to her with the same perfect respect, and all the humility of obedience, as if nature had placed her in that parental relation; fearing, if she gave way to the familiarity which had subsisted between them when they were on an equality, it might appear like a failure in the reverence due to her new situation. but this behaviour, amiable as it was, could not make the new lady melvyn change the plan she had formed for her future conduct. she had not been married above a month before she began to intimate to sir charles that miss melvyn's education had been very imperfect; that a young lady of her rank ought to be highly accomplished; but that after she had been so long indulged by her parents, if a step-mother were to pretend to direct her it might not only exasperate miss melvyn but prejudice the world against herself; as people are too apt to determine against persons in that relation, without examining the merits of the cause; and though, she said, she was little concerned about the opinion of the world in comparison with her tender regard for any one that belonged to him; yet she was much influenced by the other reasons she had alleged for not appearing to dictate to miss melvyn, being very desirous of keeping on affectionate terms with her; and she was already much mortified at perceiving that young lady had imbibed too many of the vulgar prejudices against a step-mother; though, for her part, she had endeavoured to behave with submission to her daughter, instead of pretending to assume any authority. the consequence and conclusion of all these insinuations was, that 'it would be advisable to send miss melvyn to a boarding school.' sir charles was soon prevailed with to comply with his lady's request; and his daughter was acquainted with the determination which lady melvyn assured her, 'was very contrary to her inclination, who should find a great loss of so agreeable a friend, but that sir charles had declared his intention in so peremptory a manner that she dared not contend.' miss melvyn had before observed that marriage had made a great alteration in lady melvyn's behaviour; but this was a stroke she did not expect and a very mortifying one to her who had long laid aside all childish amusements; had been taught to employ herself as rationally as if she had arrived at a maturer age, and been indulged in the exercise of a most benevolent disposition, having given such good proofs of the propriety with which she employed both her time and money, that she had been dispensed from all restraints; and now to commence a new infancy, and be confined to the society of children, was a very afflicting change; but it came from a hand she too much respected to make any resistance, though she easily perceived that it was entirely at her mother's instigation; and knew her father too well to believe he could be peremptory on any occasion. a very short time intervened between the declaration and execution of this design, and miss melvyn was introduced to mademoiselle d'avaux by her kind step-mother, who with some tears and many assurances of regret left her there. miss melvyn had been at this school three months when louisa mancel was brought thither, and though a separation from a father she sincerely loved, and the fear of the arts lady melvyn might use to alienate his affections from her, after having thus removed her from his presence, greatly affected her spirits and she found no companions fit to amuse her rational mind, yet she endeavoured to support her mortifications with all the cheerfulness she could assume; and received some satisfaction from the conversation of mademoiselle d'avaux, a woman of tolerable understanding, and who was much pleased with miss melvyn's behaviour. miss mancel's dejected air prejudiced miss melvyn much in her favour, the usual consequence of a similitude of mind or manners; and when by a further knowledge of her, she perceived her uncommon share of understanding; her desire to learn; the strength of her application; the quickness of her apprehension; and her great sweetness of temper, she grew extremely fond of her; and as miss mancel's melancholy rendered her little inclined to play with those of her own age, she was almost always with miss melvyn, who found great pleasure in endeavouring to instruct her; and grew to feel for her the tenderness of a mother, while miss mancel began to receive consolation from experiencing an affection quite maternal. at the beginning of the winter, lady melvyn, who had less ambition to imitate the real merit of her predecessor than to exhibit her own imaginary perfections, brought sir charles to london, there to fix their residence for the ensuing half year. this made little alteration in miss melvyn's way of life. sir charles and his lady would sometimes call upon her, the latter not choosing to trust sir charles alone with his daughter, lest she should represent to him how unworthily she was treated; but as he was not devoid of affection for her, he would sometimes visit her privately, concealing it from his lady, who endeavoured to prevent this, by telling him, that schoolmistresses were apt to take amiss a parent's visiting his children too often, construing it as a distrust of their care; and therefore if he offended in that way, mademoiselle d'avaux's disgust might affect her behaviour to miss melvyn, and render her residence there very disagreeable, which lady melvyn's great tenderness made her ardently wish to avoid, as she was desirous every thing should be agreeable to her dear daughter. sir charles could not be entirely restrained by these kind admonitions from indulging himself with the sight of miss melvyn. his lady had little reason to be afraid of these interviews, for her step-daughter had too strong a sense of filial obedience, and too delicate a regard for her father's happiness, to suffer the least intimation of a fault in his wife to escape her lips, as a good opinion of her was so necessary to his ease; but as she soon found out these visits were made by stealth, they gave her great pleasure as a plain proof of his affection. lady melvyn thought her daughter's coming abroad would be as hurtful as her being visited at home, and therefore very seldom sent for her to her house; and when she did, took care to have her carried home before the hour that she expected company, on pretence of preserving the regularity of hours, which she knew would be agreeable to mademoiselle d'avaux. the true reason of this great caution was an unwillingness to be seen with one whose person all her vanity could not prevent her from being sensible was more attractive than her own. miss melvyn was very pretty, had an engaging sweetness in her countenance, and all the bloom which belongs to youth, though it does not always accompany it. her person was elegant, and perfectly genteel. lady melvyn was void of delicacy; she had a regular set of features but they wanted to be softened into effeminacy before they could have any just pretence to beauty. her eyes were black and not void of vivacity, but they neither expressed penetration nor gentleness. her person was well proportioned, but she was formed on too large a scale, and destitute of grace. she was not ill bred, but had none of that softness of manners which gives rise to all the sweet civilities of life. in short, lady melvyn was one who by herself and many others would be esteemed a fine woman, and by many more ranked only under the denomination of a shewey woman; like mr bayes's hero, she was unamiable, but she was great; she excited the admiration of some, but pleased none. as soon as she appeared in the world as lady melvyn, she began to exercise what she thought only lively coquetry; but her entire want of grace and delicacy often made that appear like boldness, which she designed for vivacity. as her ambition to charm was as great as if she had been better qualified for success, it is not strange that she did not choose to give opportunities of comparison between herself and a daughter who, though not so striking at first sight, was filled with attractions. the contempt which her ladyship thought she must in justice to her own understanding shew for her husband's, and the supercilious coldness with which she treated miss melvyn, made that young lady very glad that she was so seldom sent for to her father's house. but she wished to learn such accomplishments as whilst she lived in the country were out of her power, and therefore intimated to lady melvyn her desire of being taught music and drawing, with the better hope of success, as the necessity of completing her education had been made the excuse for sending her to a boarding school; but this request was denied her on frivolous pretences, the real cause, when she perceived the very extravagant turn of her step-mother, she soon understood was to avoid expense. she had flattered herself she might obtain permission to have her books sent to her; but upon enquiry found that lady melvyn had removed them to her dressing room, and intermixed them with china, in so ornamental a manner, so truly expressive of the turn of her mind, where a pretended love of reading was blended with a real fondness for trifles, that she had no chance for this indulgence. while miss melvyn was suffering all these mortifications from a parent, miss mancel was receiving every proof of the most tender affection from one bound to her by no paternal ties. mr hintman, as soon as the season of the year brought him to town, visited his little charge, and was charmed with the vivacity which was now restored to her. he called upon her frequently, and seldom without some present, or a proposal of some pleasure. he would continually entreat her to make him some request, that he might have the pleasure of gratifying her. he frequently gave mademoiselle d'avaux tickets for the play and the opera, that the young louisa might have somebody to accompany her; but as miss melvyn did not think it proper at her age to go often with only her schoolmistress, or, according to the language of schools, her governess, miss mancel frequently declined being of the party, rather than leave her amiable friend and instructor. there was no one who shewed any particular civility to miss mancel, but received some return from mr hintman. miss melvyn was very deservedly the chief object of his gratitude; but as she declined accepting the presents he offered her, he chose a way more agreeable to himself, as it would make his little louisa the rewarder of the favours she received. he therefore was lavish of his money to her, and intreated her to lay it out in such manner as would be most agreeable to herself and miss melvyn; at the same time asking her by what means she could most gratify that young lady. miss mancel said she knew nothing that would be so acceptable to miss melvyn as books. to this mr hintman replied that since that was the case, he could very easily accommodate them, for he had by him a very pretty library left him by his sister about a year before, which he had never unpacked, having most of the same books in his own study. this accordingly he sent to miss mancel, with proper bookcases to contain them, which they immediately put up in their apartments. this was the most agreeable acquisition imaginable; for miss hintman having been a very sensible young lady, the collection was extremely valuable. mr hintman's great indulgence could not fail of receiving from miss mancel the wished-for return of affection and gratitude; whenever he came she flew to him with delight, caressed him with all the fondness so enchanting at that age, and parted from him with the extremest reluctance. her great obligations to him were the frequent subjects of her discourse with miss melvyn, who had the highest admiration of his generosity. his allowance to miss mancel was sufficient to have defrayed all her expenses, but those were to be the care of mademoiselle d'avaux, for the money he gave louisa was for no other purpose than her gratifications; necessity, or even usefulness, was out of the question; every thing of that kind being provided for her. nor was he more sparing in what concerned her education, she learnt dancing, music, and drawing; besides other things generally taught at schools; but her greatest improvement was from reading with miss melvyn, who instructed her in geography, and in such parts of philosophy of which her age was capable: but above all, she was most attentive to inculcate into her mind the principles of true religion. thus her understanding opened in a surprising degree, and while the beauty and graces of her person, and her great progress in genteel accomplishments, charmed every eye, the nice discernment, and uncommon strength of reason which appeared in her conversation, astonished every judicious observer; but her most admirable qualities were her humility and modesty; which, notwithstanding her great internal and external excellencies, rendered her diffident, mild, bashful, and tractable; her heart seemed as free from defects as her understanding was from the follies which in a degree are incident to almost every other person. miss melvyn and her little companion received a considerable increase of happiness from the present of books mr hintman had made them; the latter had no wish but that miss melvyn might receive equal indulgence from parents that she enjoyed from one who bore no relation to her. the first desire that occurred to her on mr hintman's profuse presents of money was to treat her friend with masters for music and drawing, and such other things as she knew she had an inclination to learn; but as she was not unacquainted with her delicacy on that subject, as soon as mr hintman left her, she ran to miss melvyn with some of the impatience in her countenance, though she endeavoured to conceal it, with which her heart was filled, and tried every tender caress, every fond and humble petition, to obtain a promise from that young lady, that she would grant her a request she had to make. she hung round her neck, and endeavoured to prevail by a thousand engaging infantine arts; and when she found they would not succeed, she knelt down before her, and with all the grace and importunity of the most amiable suppliant, tried to win her to compliance. nothing would avail, for miss melvyn was convinced by her earnestness that her design was to confer some favour; she knew the generosity of her youthful mind too well to believe she so ardently aimed at any thing that was for her own private gratification. thus louisa found herself reduced to explain the use she intended to have made of the promise she wanted to obtain; and having acquainted miss melvyn with mr hintman's generous allowance, and of the payment she had received of the first quarter, she in explicit terms told her, 'mr hintman has indeed given me money, but it depends on you to make that money yield me pleasure, by suffering me to apply it to such uses as will procure me the inexpressible joy of contributing in some degree to the pleasure of one who renders my life so very happy.' miss melvyn was so pleased with the generosity of her little pupil that she gave her as many caresses as the other had lavished on her in order to obtain the promise she so much wished for; but she could not be induced to grant her request. miss melvyn was void of that pride which often conceals itself under the name of spirit and greatness of soul; and makes people averse to receiving an obligation because they feel themselves too proud to be grateful, and think that to be obliged implies an inferiority which their pride cannot support. had louisa been of the same age with herself, she would have felt a kind of property in all she possessed; friendship, the tenure by which she held it; for where hearts are strictly united, she had no notion of any distinction in things of less importance, the adventitious goods of fortune. the boundaries and barriers raised by those two watchful and suspicious enemies, meum and tuum, were in her opinion broke down by true friendship; and all property laid in one undistinguished common; but to accept miss mancel's money, especially in so great a proportion, appeared to her like taking advantage of her youth; and as she did not think her old enough to be a sufficient judge of the value of it, she did not look upon her as capable of being a party in so perfect a friendship, as was requisite to constitute that unity of property. poor louisa by this disappointment of the first wish of her heart found what older people often experience, that her riches instead of pleasure procured her only mortification. she could scarcely refrain from tears at a refusal which she thought must arise from want of affection, and told miss melvyn she saw that she loved her but imperfectly; for, added she, 'could we change places, with how much pleasure should i have accepted it from you! and the satisfaction that learning these things now gives me would be turned into delight by reflecting on the gratification you would receive in having been the means of procuring them for me. i should not envy you the joy of giving, because i as receiver should not have the less share of that satisfaction, since by reflecting on yours i must partake of it, and so increase my own.' miss melvyn could not forbear blushing at finding a superior degree of delicacy, and a generosity much more exalted, in one so young, than she had felt in herself. she plainly saw that the greatest proof of a noble mind is to feel a joy in gratitude; for those who know all the pleasures of conferring an obligation will be sensible that by accepting it they give the highest delight the human mind can feel, when employed on human objects; and therefore while they receive a benefit, they will taste not only the comforts arising from it to themselves, but share the gratification of a benefactor, from reflecting on the joy they give to those who have conferred it: thus the receiver of a favour from a truly generous person, 'by owing owes not, and is at once indebted and discharged.' as miss melvyn felt her little friend's reproach, and saw that she had done her injustice in thinking her youth rendered her incapable of that perfection of friendship, which might justify the accepting of her offer; she acknowledged her error, and assured her she would comply if she had no other means of obtaining the instruction she proposed to purchase for her; but that was not the case, for she found she could very well learn from seeing the masters teach her, and practising in their absence. mr hintman expressed a desire that miss mancel should learn italian, if she had no objection to it; for he never dictated to her, but offered any advice he had to give, or any inclination which he chose to intimate, with the humility of a dependant, rather than the authority of a benefactor; and indeed it was sufficient; for the slightest hint that any thing would be agreeable to him, met with the most impatient desire in miss mancel to perform it: actuated by sincere affection, and the strongest gratitude, nothing made her so happy as an opportunity to shew him the readiness of her obedience. but as they were at a loss for a master to teach her that language, miss melvyn told them she knew an italian gentleman, who had been at sir charles's house near two months before she had the misfortune of losing the best of mothers. lady melvyn had begun to teach her daughter italian, but desirous that she should speak it with great propriety, she invited this gentleman to her house who was reduced to great distress of circumstances, and whose person, as well as his many virtues, she had known from her childhood. he had been a friend of her father's and she was glad of this excuse for making him a handsome present, which otherwise it was not easy to induce him to accept. mr hintman was not long before he procured this italian master for miss mancel; nor did she delay making use of his instructions; but i shall not describe her progress in the acquisition of this, any more than her other accomplishments, in all of which she excelled to a surprising degree; nor did miss melvyn fall very short of her, though she was at such disadvantage in her method of learning many of them, not having the assistance of a master. their time was so entirely engrossed by these employments, that they had little leisure, and still less desire, to keep company with the rest of the school; but they saved themselves from the dislike which might naturally have arisen in the minds of the other scholars, from being thus neglected, by little presents which miss mancel frequently made them. these two young ladies were very early risers, and the time which was not taken up by miss mancel's masters, and that wherein it was requisite to practise what they taught her, they employed in reading, wherein mr d'avora, their italian master, often accompanied them. mr d'avora was a man of excellent understanding, and had an incomparable heart. misfortunes had softened common humanity into a most tender disposition; and had given him a thorough knowledge of mankind without lessening his benevolence for individuals; though such as learn it by adversity, the surest school for that science, seldom see them in an amiable light. mr d'avora was not less acquainted with particular nations than with mankind in general; he had travelled through all the countries in europe, some parts of asia and africa, and having traversed them with discernment and the curiosity of wisdom, not of impertinence, he received such improvement of understanding, as few travellers can boast. he had an affection for miss melvyn, both for her own merits and the obligations he had to her family, and a very short acquaintance with miss mancel made him extremely fond of her. he took great pleasure in assisting them in the improvement they so industriously laboured for, and as he was a man of universal knowledge, he was capable of being very useful to them in that respect. for this purpose he often read with them, and by explaining many books on abstruse subjects, rendered several authors intelligible to them, who, without his assistance, would have been too obscure for persons of their age. he had very few scholars, therefore had much leisure, and with great satisfaction dedicated part of it to our young ladies, as he saw he thereby gave them a very sincere pleasure; and he was much gratified with thinking that by his care and instruction of miss melvyn, he made some return for the friendship he had received from her family; and that could her mother be sensible of his attendance on her much-loved and now neglected daughter, it would be highly agreeable to her. in the manner i have mentioned, these two young ladies passed their time, till miss mancel reached her fifteenth year, with little alteration, except the increase of her charms, and her great improvement in every accomplishment. her appearance began to grow womanly, she was indeed 'in the bloom of beauty's pride'. dazzlingly handsome at first view; but such numerous and various charms appeared on a more intimate acquaintance that people forgot how much they had been struck by the first sight of her, lost in wonder at her increasing attractions, to the force of which she was the only person that was insensible. humble piety rendered her indifferent to circumstances which she looked upon rather as snares than blessings, and like a person on the brink of a precipice could not enjoy the beauty of the prospect, overawed by the dangers of her situation. she had indeed too much of human nature in her not to feel sometimes a little flush of vanity on seeing herself admired; but she immediately corrected the foible, by reflecting that whatever advantages of mind or form had fallen to her share, they were given her by one who expected she should not suffer her thoughts or attention to be withdrawn thereby from him, who was the perfection of all excellence, while she at best could but flatter herself with being less imperfect than many of her fellow creatures. she considered flattery and admiration as the rocks on which young people, who are at all superior to the multitude, are apt to be wrecked; deprived of quiet happiness in this world, and exalted felicity in the next; and as she was really convinced that she had only a few obvious external advantages over others, she opposed to the praises lavished on her reflections of her imperfections, which, though not apparent to any one but herself, she verily believed were uncommonly great, as she beheld them with very scrutinizing and rigid eyes, while she looked on those of others with the greatest lenity. but of all the means she used to preserve her humility, she was the most assiduous in praying to him who made her heart, to preserve it humble. though the degree of piety i mention may sound in the ears of many too grave for so young a person, yet it by no means rendered her so; she had great vivacity; a lively imagination; an uncommon share of wit; and a very happy manner of expressing herself. she had all the amiable gaiety of youth, without the least tendency to imprudence; and when she talked most, and, in appearance, let fancy assume the reins, said nothing to repent of. her heart was all purity, universal benevolence and good-nature; and as out of its abundance her mouth spake, she was in little danger of offending with her tongue. it is not strange that mr hintman's fondness should increase with miss mancel's excellencies, but the caresses which suited her earlier years were now become improper, and mr hintman, by appearing insensible of the necessary change of behaviour, reduced her to great difficulties; she could not reconcile herself to receiving them; and yet to inform him of the impropriety implied a forward consciousness which she was not able to assume. she communicated the vexation of her mind to miss melvyn, who was still more alarmed as her superior age and experience rendered her more apprehensive; but she knew not what to advise. in this dilemma miss melvyn had recourse to their good friend, whose knowledge of mankind, his integrity and prudence, rendered him the safest guide. accordingly one day when louisa was called from them to mr hintman, who came to make her a visit, miss melvyn informed mr d'avora of the reason why her friend obeyed the summons with less joy than he had observed in her on the like occasion the year before. mr d'avora was much disturbed at this information; but not choosing to increase the uneasiness the young ladies seemed to be under till he had more certain foundation for his opinion, he only intimated, that customs were hard to break, but he should hope, that when mr hintman reflected on the impropriety of behaving to a young woman as if she was still a child, he would alter it, and if he was not immediately sensible of the difference a small addition of age makes, yet her behaviour would lead him to recollect it. although mr d'avora seemed to pay little regard to what miss melvyn said, yet it made great impression on him, and as soon as he left her, he took all proper measures to enquire into the character, and usual conduct of mr hintman. this scrutiny did not turn out at all to his satisfaction, every account he received was the same; he had not the pleasure of finding what is usually asserted, that 'all men have two characters'; for mr hintman had but one, and that the most alarming that could be for miss mancel. every person told him that mr hintman had a very great fortune, which he spent entirely in the gratification of his favourite vice, the love of women; on whom his profuseness was boundless. that as he was easily captivated, so he was soon tired; and seldom kept a woman long after he had obtained the free possession of her; but generally was more bountiful than is customary with men of his debauched principles at parting with them. this, mr d'avora was assured, was mr hintman's only vice; that he was good-natured, and generous on all occasions. from this account he saw too great reason to fear, that all the care which had been taken to improve miss mancel arose only from a sort of epicurism in his predominant vice, but yet this was too doubtful a circumstance to be the ground-work of any plan of action. a man of acknowledged generosity and good-nature, however vicious, might do a noble action without having any criminal design. in this uncertainty of mind he knew not what to advise her, and was unwilling to excite such fears in the breasts of these two young friends, as might be groundless; but yet would entirely destroy their peace, therefore, he only told miss melvyn in general terms, that mr hintman's character was such, as rendered it very necessary that louisa should be much on her guard; but that whether more than prudent caution, and decent reserve were requisite, her own observation must discover, for no one else could determine that point, since he had the reputation of being generous as well as debauched; therefore his actions towards her might be, and he hoped were, the result of his greatest virtue, rather than of his predominant vice. miss melvyn made a faithful report of what mr d'avora had said to her, which filled both herself and her friend with inexpressible uneasiness. louisa was in great difficulty how to act, between gratitude and affection on the one side, and necessary caution and reserve on the other. she was almost as much afraid of appearing ungrateful, as of being imprudent. she found little assistance from the advice of her friends, who declared them selves incapable of directing her, therefore she was obliged to lay aside all dependence on her own care, and to trust in that of heaven, convinced that her innocence would be guarded by that power who knew the integrity and purity of her heart; and that while she preserved it unblemished, even in thought and inclination, her prayers for his protection would not be unavailing. the remainder of the winter passed like the former part, only that the increase of her apprehensions so far lessened her easy vivacity, that mr hintman observed the alteration, and complained of the constraint and awe which damped her conversation. as the school broke up at easter, he intreated her to accompany him that short time into the country, from which she would gladly have excused herself, both on account of her fears, and of her unwillingness to leave miss melvyn, of whose conversation she was now more particularly tenacious, as lady melvyn had determined to suffer her to return home in a short time, not knowing how to excuse her remaining longer at school, as she was entered into her one and twentieth year. miss melvyn would have been glad that her ladyship had not shewn this token of regard to popular opinion; for since she had enjoyed miss mancel's company, and been in possession of so good a collection of books, she was grown perfectly contented with her situation. louisa, to make mr hintman desist from the request he urged with so much importunity, tried every means that did not appear like a total disinclination to accompany him, for any thing that bore the air of ingratitude could not be supported by her, whose heart was so void of it, and who thought she could never feel enough for her benefactor, if his designs were not so criminal as she feared, but scarcely could suffer herself to suspect. mr hintman was too ardent in his purposes to give up his favourite scheme, and louisa beheld with inexpressible concern the day approach, when she must either accompany him into the country, or disoblige him for ever, and make herself appear extremely ungrateful in the eyes of a man whom she loved and honoured like a father. her addresses to heaven for protection now became more vehement and continual, and the greatest part of her time was spent on her knees in praying to that power in whom she trusted. miss melvyn and mr d'avora were scarcely less anxious, or under fewer apprehensions than herself, but could see no resource except in the protection of the almighty, to whom we seldom apply with entire faith and resignation while we have any hopes in human assistance. two days before that fixed on for the purposed journey, when louisa's anxiety was risen to the utmost height, the schoolmistress entered the room, with a countenance so melancholy, as was more suitable to the situation of mind in which the two young friends were then in, than to any reason they apprehended she could have for an air of so much sorrow. she soon began a discourse, which they immediately apprehended was preparatory to the opening of some fatal event, and which, as is usual in such cases, was, if possible, more alarming than any misfortune it could precede. the ladies expressed their fears, and begged to be acquainted with what had befallen them. after considerable efforts to deliver her of the secret with which she was pregnant, they learnt that a gentleman was in the parlour, who came to inform miss mancel that mr hintman died the day before in a fit of an apoplexy. all louisa's fears and suspicions vanished at once, and grief alone took possession of her heart. the shock so entirely overcame her, that she was not able to see the fatal messenger of such melancholy tidings as the death of her benefactor, and second father. miss melvyn was obliged to undertake this office, and learnt from the gentleman that mr hintman died without a will, and therefore left the poor louisa as destitute, except being enriched by various accomplishments, as he found her, and at a much more dangerous time, when her beauty would scarcely suffer compassion to arise unaccompanied with softer sentiments. this gentleman proceeded to inform miss melvyn, that his father and another person of equal relation to mr hintman were heirs at law. he expressed great concern for miss mancel, and wished he had his father's power of repairing mr hintman's neglect, but that his influence extended no farther than to obtain a commission to pay the expenses of another year at that school, that the young lady might have time to recollect herself after so fatal a change, and determine at leisure on her future course of life. miss melvyn was so sensibly touched at the prospect of the approaching distress with which her friend was threatened, that she burst into tears and uttered some exclamations concerning 'the inconsistency of that affection, which could suffer a man to rest a moment without securing a provision in case of death, to a young woman he seemed to love with the greatest excess of tenderness'. 'believe me, madam,' said the young gentleman, 'mr hintman was capable of no love that was not entirely sensual, and consequently selfish; all who knew him lamented the fate of a young woman, who by every account is so superiorly lovely. among his friends he made no secret of his designs in all he had done for her, and boasted frequently of the extraordinary charms which were ripening for his possession. it was but two days ago, that he was exulting in the presence of some of them, that the time was now approaching, when he should be rewarded for long expectation, and boundless expense; for he should then, he said, be sure of her person, and had long secured her heart. he knew he had strong prejudices and strange scruples to combat; but was prepared, and should not find them difficult to conquer; at worst, his steward in a parson's habit would lull them all to sleep.' 'good heaven!' cried miss melvyn, 'could there be such a wretch, and were there men who would keep company with him, who would bear the disgrace of being called his friends?' 'your notions, madam,' replied the gentleman, 'are too refined for persons who live in the world: should a man insist on strict morals in all his acquaintance, he might enjoy a solitude in the most populous city; though, i confess, nothing but ties of kindred could have made me intimate with one of mr hintman's character, which i should not thus have exposed to you, but as i imagined a better knowledge of the man might alleviate the affliction you seemed to feel for miss mancel's having lost one whom you esteemed so sincere a friend. i should have been glad,' continued he, 'could i have seen the young lady, of whom mr hintman told such wonders; but i will not presume to press it, time may offer me some opportunity for satisfying my curiosity without paining her, i therefore take my leave, with only requesting your permission to remit the money of which i was made the bearer.' miss melvyn was so much affected with her friend's situation, that she took the paper the gentleman offered her, without having power to reflect whether she ought to accept it, or being able to make him any acknowledgement; and he retired directly. she was obliged to stay some time to compose her spirits before she went to her friend, that she might be the better able to comfort her. on examining the paper, she found it a bank-note of an hundred pounds, which was now become all miss mancel's fortune. lamont could not forbear interrupting mrs maynard in this place, by some very severe reflections on mr hintman's having neglected to make a provision for miss mancel in case of his death, which i believe was the part of his conduct that to lamont appeared most inexcusable; for though he is too fashionable to think intriguing very criminal, yet he is naturally generous, as far as money is concerned. 'i cannot think,' replied my cousin, 'that mr hintman's behaviour in that particular can be much wondered at. death to such a man must be so dreadful an event, that he will naturally endeavour to banish it from his mind, whenever it attempts to intrude, and when a person takes so little care to make provision for his own happiness after death, is it strange he should be unmindful of what shall befall another after that fatal period? when a man neglects his own soul, and deprives himself of all hope of everlasting felicity, can we expect he should take any trouble to provide for the temporal convenience of another person? 'besides, could he, who aimed at reducing an innocent and amiable young woman to guilt and infamy in this world, and eternal perdition in the next, be under any concern lest she should fall into the lesser miseries of poverty? it would have been an inconsistency in such a character.' 'you see gallantry in a very serious light, madam,' said lamont. 'i do indeed, sir,' answered mrs maynard, 'i look on it as the most dangerous of vices, it destroys truth, honour, humanity, it is directly contrary to the laws of god, is the destruction of society, and almost as inconsistent with morality as with religion.' 'i beg pardon, madam,' interrupted lamont (who felt himself a little touched with what she said), 'for breaking into your narrative, and must beg you will continue it.' miss melvyn, resumed mrs maynard, was too well acquainted with the strength of louisa's mind to think it necessary to conceal from her any part of what had passed between herself and mr hintman's relation. louisa, much affected by mr hintman's dying, with a heart so unfit to appear at the tribunal before which he was so suddenly summoned, thought not immediately of herself; but when she reflected on the dangers she had escaped, she blessed her poverty, since it was the consequence of an event which delivered her from so much greater evils, and sent up many sincere and ardent thanksgivings to heaven, for so signal a preservation. these thoughts possessed our young friends for the first three or four days after mr hintman's death; but then they began to think it requisite to consult with mr d'avora, on what course of life it was most advisable for miss mancel to enter. this was a difficult point to determine; though her understanding and attainments were far superior to her years, yet they were sensible her youth would be a great impediment to her in any undertaking. mr d'avora therefore advised that she should continue a little longer at the school, and then fix in the most private manner imaginable for three or four years, by which time he hoped to be able to establish her in some widow's family, as governess to her children; for he told her she must not expect, while her person continued such as it then was, that a married woman would receive her in any capacity that fixed her in the same house with her husband. as miss mancel had many jewels and trinkets of value, she had no doubt but that with economy she might support herself for the term mr d'avora mentioned, and even longer if requisite, as she could add to her little fund by the produce of her industry. as miss melvyn's return home drew near, it was agreed that she should seek out some place in sir charles's neighbourhood where louisa might lodge cheaply and reputably; and in the mean time mr d'avora should dispose of whatever she had of value, except her books and her harpsichord; these she resolved not to part with till the produce of her other things, and the money she had by her, was spent, as they would not only amuse her in the country, but afford her the power of improving herself in those accomplishments which were to be her future provision. this plan softened the pangs of separation when the time of miss melvyn's departure arrived. it was not long before she found out an apartment at a reputable farmer's, where miss mancel might lodge conveniently. had it been a less tolerable place, its vicinity to sir charles's house, from which it was but a quarter of a mile distant, would have made it a very delightful abode to her, and she soon repaired thither. great was the joy of the two friends at meeting. miss melvyn's situation at home was rendered as irksome as possible by lady melvyn's behaviour both to her and sir charles who, notwithstanding her ill treatment, was extremely fond of, and totally guided by her. his mind was so entirely enslaved that he beheld nothing but in the light wherein she pleased to represent it, and was so easy a dupe, that she could scarcely feel the joys of self triumph in her superior art, which was on no subject so constantly exerted, as in keeping up a coldness in sir charles towards his daughter; this she had with tolerable facility effected in her absence, and was assiduously careful to preserve now she was present. to those who know not the power an artful woman can obtain over a weak man, it would appear incredible that any father could be prejudiced against a daughter whose whole attention was to please him. she had so perfect a command over her temper that she never appeared to take offence at any thing lady melvyn said or did, though that lady endeavoured by every provocation to throw her off her guard. this behaviour only increased her hatred, which was not in the least abated by miss melvyn's taking every opportunity of being serviceable to her half-brothers and sisters. lady melvyn persuaded sir charles that his daughter's calmness was only assumed in his presence, and continually complained of her insolence when he was not by. if he ever appeared to doubt the truth of her report, she would burst into tears, complain of his want of love and little confidence in her, and sometimes thought proper to shew her grief at such treatment by a pretended hysteric fit, always ready at call to come to her assistance, though really so unnecessarily lavished on one easily duped without those laborious means, that it appeared a wantonness of cunning, which was thus exerted only for its own indulgence. she soon perceived that miss melvyn rather chose to submit to any aspersions, than to render her father unhappy by undeceiving him; and taking advantage of this generosity, would sometimes, to establish his opinion of her veracity, accuse miss melvyn to her face of offences which she had never committed, and things she had never said. in such a situation the arrival of a friend, into whose sympathetic bosom she could pour all her griefs, and in whose delightful society she could forget them, was the highest blessing. but lady melvyn contrived to make her feel mortifications even in this tenderest particular, for though she was in her heart glad to have her out of the house, that she might not be witness of much improper behaviour, yet she would sometimes mortify herself in order to tease miss melvyn, by preventing her from going to her beloved friend; and continually alleged her spending so much time with louisa as a proof of the aversion she had made sir charles believe miss melvyn had to her. louisa felt deeply her friend's uneasiness, but when they were together they could not be unhappy. they seldom passed a day without seeing each other, but as lady melvyn had taken no notice of louisa, she could not go to her house, therefore their meetings were at her lodgings, where they often read together, and at other times would apply to music to drive away melancholy reflections. as louisa wished to remain near her friend as long as possible, she endeavoured, by taking in plain-work, to provide for some part of her current expenses, the less to diminish the little fund she had by her. she likewise employed part of her time in painting, having reason to hope that if she could find a means of offering her pictures to sale, she might from them raise a very convenient sum. while she was thus contriving to enable herself to enjoy for many years the conversation of her friend, lady melvyn was as industriously laying schemes that, if successful, must disappoint all the young ladies' hopes. towards the end of the autumn, mr morgan, a man of fortune who had spent above half a year in a fruitless pursuit after health, made a visit to a gentleman in the neighbourhood. unfortunately miss melvyn's charms made a conquest of this gentleman, in whom age had not gained a victory over passion. miss melvyn's humility occasioned her being the last person who perceived the impression she had made on his heart, and his age would scarcely suffer her to believe her senses when the symptoms became most apparent. a girl may find some amusement in a young lover, though she feels no disposition in herself to return his passion, her vanity is flattered by his addresses, and a woman must be very little disposed to be pleased, who receives no pleasure from one who is continually endeavouring to oblige and amuse her; but the most whimsical of the poets never fancied a grey-bearded cupid, or represented hymen with a torch in one hand, and a crutch in the other. i allow that 'oft the matrimonial cupid, lash'd on by time grows tir'd and stupid,' and does not always wear that blooming joyous countenance, which the painters give him; but should any capricious artist take the sickle out of the hand of old time, and in its place put hymen's torch, the picture might be thought very unnatural, yet would represent a proper hymeneal cupid to attend mr morgan to the altar. such a lover could excite no emotion in his mistress's heart but disgust. miss melvyn's principles were too delicate to suffer her to think she had any title to ridicule a man for his partiality to her, however ill-suited to himself; but no consideration could prevent his addresses from being extremely disagreeable: however, she could without any great difficulty have so far commanded herself, as to have treated him with complaisance, till he gave her an opportunity of rejecting his courtship, had she not been apprehensive that this affair would give lady melvyn a new subject for persecution. she was pretty certain that lady would be glad to settle her in another county; and that her averseness to so ill-suited a marriage would only serve as an additional recommendation to her mother. she was indeed determined in justice to mr morgan and compassion to herself, not to be induced by any solicitations to marry a man whom she could not hope that even the strongest attachment to duty could render so well as indifferent to her, but she dreaded the means that might be taken to oblige her to accept mr morgan's proposal. little did she guess what those means would be. she expected to be attacked alternately with all the violence of passion, the affected softness of dissimulation, and every art that cunning could devise, to force sir charles to concur in her persecution. these indeed were employed as soon as mr morgan made his proposals; but her ladyship had too many resources in her fertile brain to persevere long in a course she found unavailing. the farmer where miss mancel lodged had a son, who was in treaty with lady melvyn for a farm, which at the end of the year would become vacant. this person she thought fit for her purpose, as miss melvyn's going so frequently to miss mancel might give some colour to her invention. she therefore took care to be found by sir charles drowned in tears; he pressed to know the occasion of her grief, but she resisted his importunity in such a manner as could not fail to increase it, still she declared, that she loved him to that excess she could not communicate a secret which she knew must afflict him, even though the suppression and inward preyings of her sorrow should prove fatal to her life. sir charles now on his knees intreated her to acquaint him with the misfortune she endeavoured to conceal, assuring her, that nothing could give him so much concern as seeing her in that condition. she told him she was sensible, that as his wife it was her duty to obey him (a duty newly discovered, or at least newly performed by her ladyship); but she feared she had not strength left to give it utterance. the endeavour threw her into a hysteric fit, which was succeeded by so many others that sir charles was almost frantic with his fears for so tender a wife, who was thus reduced to the last agonies by her affectionate apprehensions of giving him pain. after rubbing her hands and feet till they were sore, suffocating her with burnt feathers, and half poisoning her with medicines, sir charles and her servants so far brought her to life that after sending her attendants out of the room, she had just power to tell him she had discovered an intrigue between his daughter and simon the young farmer, and then immediately sunk into another fit, which however did not last so long; for as she had removed the heavy burden off her mind, she soon began to recover. sir charles was very much shocked at what lady melvyn told him, but could not doubt the reality of the fact when he had seen the very violent effect it had had on his tender wife. he asked her advice how to proceed; and it was soon determined that it was necessary, either to oblige miss melvyn to marry mr morgan directly, or to disclaim her for ever, and remove the disgrace of so infamous a conduct as far from themselves as possible. with this resolution she was to be immediately acquainted. miss melvyn was accordingly called in, and bitterly reproached by sir charles; to which my lady added frequent lamentations that she should so far forget herself, and disgrace so worthy a family, interspersing with them many expressions of the undeserved tenderness she had always had for her, and her great confidence in miss melvyn's prudence and virtue, shedding tears for her having so unhappily swerved from them. as all this passed for some time in general terms, miss melvyn was in doubt whether she or her parents had lost their senses; convinced there must be distraction on one side or the other. as soon as she could recover her surprise, she begged to know what crime she had committed. her astonishment was still increased by the answer she received, which was an accusation of this strange intrigue; and her frequent visits to miss mancel were brought as proofs of it. the submissive and mild temper which had hitherto most strongly characterized her, vanished at so injurious a charge and she denied the fact with that true spirit which innocence inspires. she told lady melvyn, that though she had hitherto silently submitted to all her ill usage, yet it was her duty to repel an injury like this, and when her reputation was so cruelly aspersed, it would be criminal to suffer the vile inventors to pass unexposed. she insisted on being confronted with her accusers, a privilege allowed to the greatest criminals, and by the severest judges, therefore surely could not be refused by a father to a daughter, on a charge so highly improbable, and for which no lightness in her conduct ever gave the least ground. as mrs maynard was in this part of her narrative a bell rang, which informed us that dinner was ready, and we were unwillingly obliged to postpone the continuation of the history of the two young friends, till a more convenient opportunity. * * * * * in the afternoon before we rose from table, four ladies came to drink tea with this admirable society. no addition was necessary to render the conversation amusing; but the strangers seemed to look on the ladies of the house with such gratitude and veneration, and were treated by them with so much friendly politeness, as gave me pleasure. i found by the various enquiries after different persons that these visitors likewise lived in a large society. when they rose up to take leave miss trentham proposed to walk part of the way home with them. no one objected to it, for the evening was inviting, and they had designed to spend it in the park, through which these ladies were to pass; for lady mary observed, that after having shewn us the beauties of the place, they ought to exhibit the riches of it. the park is close to one side of the house; it is not quite three miles round; the inequality of the ground much increases its beauty, and the timber is remarkably fine. we could plainly perceive it had been many years in the possession of good economists, who unprompted by necessity, did not think the profit that might arise from the sale a sufficient inducement to deprive it of some fine trees, which are now decaying, but so happily placed, that they are made more venerable and not less beautiful by their declining age. this park is much ornamented by two or three fine pieces of water; one of them is a very noble canal, so artfully terminated by an elegant bridge, beyond which is a wood, that it there appears like a fine river vanishing from the eye. mrs morgan stopped us in one spot, saying, from hence, as lady mary observed, you may behold our riches, that building (pointing to what we thought a pretty temple) which perhaps you imagine designed only for ornament or pleasure, is a very large pidgeon house, that affords a sufficient supply to our family, and many of our neighbours. that hill on your right-hand is a warren, prodigiously stocked with rabbits; this canal, and these other pieces of water, as well as the river you saw this morning, furnish our table with a great profusion of fish. you will easily believe from the great number of deer you see around us, that we have as much venison as we can use, either in presents to our friends, or our own family. hares and all sorts of game likewise abound here; so that with the help of a good dairy, perhaps no situation ever more amply afforded all the necessaries of life. these are indeed our riches; here we have almost every thing we can want, for a very small proportion of that expense which others are at to procure them. 'such a situation,' said i, 'would be dangerous to many people, for if, as some have supposed, and, in regard to a great part of the world, i fear with truth, mutual wants are the great bands of society, a person thus placed, would be in danger of feeling himself so independent a being as might tempt him to disclaim all commerce with mankind, since he could not be benefited by them. he would look on himself in the light of a rich man gaming with sharpers, with a great probability of losing, and a certainty of never being a gainer.' 'i do not think the danger,' replied lady mary, 'so great as you imagine, even though we allow that society arises from the motive you mention. however fortune may have set us above any bodily wants, the mind will still have many which would drive us into society. reason wishes for communication and improvement; benevolence longs for objects on which to exert itself; the social comforts of friendship are so necessary to our happiness that it would be impossible not to endeavour to enjoy them. in sickness the langour of our minds makes us wish for the amusements of conversation; in health the vivacity of our spirits leads us to desire it. to avoid pain we seek after corporeal conveniencies, to procure pleasure we aim at mental enjoyments; and i believe, if we observe the general course of men's actions, we shall see them at least as strongly actuated by the desire of pleasure, as by the fear of pain; though philosophers, who have formed their judgements more on reason than the knowledge of mankind, may have thought otherwise.' 'i think,' said mrs morgan, 'somebody has asserted that he who could live without society must be more than a god, or less than a man; the latter part of this assertion would have held good had he carried it farther, and said lower than a brute, for there is no creature in the universe that is not linked into some society, except we allow the existence of that exploded and unsociable bird the phoenix.' 'i am surprised,' interrupted lamont, 'to hear ladies, who seclude themselves from the world in this solitary though beautiful place, so strongly plead for society.' 'do you then,' replied miss mancel, 'mistake a crowd for society? i know not two things more opposite. how little society is there to be found in what you call the world? it might more properly be compared to that state of war, which hobbes supposes the first condition of mankind. the same vanities, the same passions, the same ambition, reign in almost every breast; a constant desire to supplant, and a continual fear of being supplanted, keep the minds of those who have any views at all in a state of unremitted tumult and envy; and those who have no aim in their actions are too irrational to have a notion of social comforts. the love, as well as the pleasures, of society, is founded in reason, and cannot exist in those minds which are filled with irrational pursuits. such indeed might claim a place in the society of birds and beasts, though few would deserve to be admitted amongst them, but that of reasonable beings must be founded in reason. what i understand by society is a state of mutual confidence, reciprocal services, and correspondent affections; where numbers are thus united, there will be a free communication of sentiments, and we shall then find speech, that peculiar blessing given to man, a valuable gift indeed; but when we see it restrained by suspicion, or contaminated by detraction, we rather wonder that so dangerous a power was trusted with a race of beings who seldom make a proper use of it. 'you will pity us perhaps because we have no cards, no assemblies, no plays, no masquerades, in this solitary place. the first we might have if we chose it, nor are they totally disclaimed by us; but while we can with safety speak our own thoughts, and with pleasure read those of wiser persons, we are not likely to be often reduced to them. we wish not for large assemblies, because we do not desire to drown conversation in noise; the amusing fictions of dramatic writers are not necessary where nature affords us so many real delights; and as we are not afraid of shewing our hearts, we have no occasion to conceal our persons, in order to obtain either liberty of speech or action.' 'what a serious world should we have, madam,' replied lamont, 'if you were to regulate our conduct!' 'by no means, sir,' answered miss mancel, 'i wish to make only these alterations, to change noise for real mirth, flutter for settled cheerfulness, affected wit for rational conversation; and would but have that degree of dissipation banished which deprives people of time for reflection on the motives for, and consequences of, their actions, that their pleasures may be real and permanent, and followed neither by repentance nor punishment. i would wish them to have leisure to consider by whom they were sent into the world, and for what purpose, and to learn that their happiness consists in fulfilling the design of their maker, in providing for their own greatest felicity, and contributing all that is in their power to the convenience of others.' 'you seem, madam,' answered lamont, 'to choose to make us all slaves to each other.' 'no, sir,' replied miss mancel, 'i would only make you friends. those who are really such are continually endeavouring to serve and oblige each other; this reciprocal communication of benefits should be universal, and then we might with reason be fond of this world.' 'but,' said lamont, 'this reciprocal communication is impossible; what service can a poor man do me? i may relieve him, but how can he return the obligation?' 'it is he,' answered miss mancel, 'who first conferred it, in giving you an opportunity of relieving him. the pleasure he has afforded you, is as far superior to the gratification you have procured him, as it is more blessed to give than to receive. you will perhaps say of him, as the apothecary in _romeo and juliet_ does of himself and tell me that, "his poverty and not his will consents." 'so let it be, and do you "pay his poverty and not his will." 'but certainly the highest satisfaction is on your side, and much obliged you are to that poverty, which enables you to obtain so great a gratification. but do not think the poor can make no adequate return. the greatest pleasure this world can give us is that of being beloved, but how should we expect to obtain love without deserving it? did you ever see any one that was not fond of a dog that fondled him? is it then possible to be insensible to the affection of a rational being?' 'if mr lamont,' said one of the visitors, 'has not so high a sense of the pleasure of being gratefully loved and esteemed, we ought not to blame him; he, perhaps, like the greatest part of the world, has not sufficiently tried it, to be a proper judge; miss mancel is certainly very deep in this knowledge, and her opinion may be received as almost an infallible decision, since it is founded on long experience; and how nobly does she calm the eager wishes of impotent gratitude, in declaring herself to be the most benefited when she confers obligations.' this was uttered with so much warmth, and accompanied by looks so expressive of affection and grateful sensibility, that i plainly saw it proceeded from something more than mere speculative approbation. lamont declared, that he was well convinced of the justness of what miss mancel had said; at first it appeared rather a sentiment uttered in sport than an opinion which could be proved by argument; but that a little reflection on one's own sensations would afford sufficient conviction of the truth of her assertion, and that the general errors in the conduct of mankind plainly evinced they were of the same opinion, though they often mistook the means; for what, continued he, do people ruin themselves by pomp and splendour, hazard their lives in the pursuits of ambition, and, as shakespeare says, 'seek the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth.' but to gain popular applause and esteem? for what do others throw away their time in useless civilities, and politely flatter all they meet, but in hopes of pleasing? even those who make it their business to slander merit, and exaggerate the faults of others, do it from a desire of raising themselves in the opinion of mankind, by lowering those who may be brought into comparison with them. during this conversation we had advanced within a field of the house, and the ladies stopped to take their leave, saying, as the evening was too far advanced to suffer them to make any stay with their good friends, they would not disturb them by just entering their doors. but as some parley ensued, several ladies who had seen us from the windows ran out, just to pay their compliments to the worthy inhabitants of millenium hall. the pleasure of this short meeting seemed reciprocal, and both sides appeared unwilling to part, but the setting sun admonished us to return. the house to which we had so nearly approached was a very large old mansion, and its inhabitants so numerous, that i was curious to know how so many became assembled together. mrs maynard said that if she did not satisfy my inquiries, i was in great danger of remaining ignorant of the nature of that society, as her friends would not be easily prevailed with to break silence on that subject. 'these ladies,' said she, 'long beheld with compassion the wretched fate of those women, who from scantiness of fortune, and pride of family, are reduced to become dependent, and to bear all the insolence of wealth from such as will receive them into their families; these, though in some measure voluntary slaves, yet suffer all the evils of the severest servitude, and are, i believe, the most unhappy part of the creation. sometimes they are unqualified to gain a maintenance, educated as is called, genteelly, or in other words idly, they are ignorant of every thing that might give them superior abilities to the lower rank of people, and their birth renders them less acceptable servants to many, who have not generosity enough to treat them as they ought, and yet do not choose while they are acting the mistress, perhaps too haughtily, to feel the secret reproaches of their own hearts. possibly pride may still oftener reduce these indigent gentlewomen into this wretched state of dependence, and therefore the world is less inclined to pity them; but my friends see human weakness in another light. 'they imagine themselves too far from perfection to have any title to expect it in others, and think that there are none in whom pride is so excusable as in the poor, for if there is the smallest spark of it in their compositions, and who is entirely free from it, the frequent neglects and indignities they meet with must keep it continually alive. if we are despised for casual deficiencies, we naturally seek in ourselves for some merit, to restore us to that dignity in our own eyes which those humiliating mortifications would otherwise debase. thus we learn to set too great a value on what we still possess, whether advantages of birth, education, or natural talents; any thing will serve for a resource to mortified pride; and as every thing grows by opposition and persecution, we cannot wonder if the opinion of ourselves increases by the same means. 'to persons in this way of thinking, the pride which reduces many to be, what is called with too little humanity, toad-eaters, does not render them unworthy of compassion. therefore for the relief of this race they bought that large mansion. 'they drew up several regulations, to secure the peace and good order of the society they designed to form, and sending a copy of it to all their acquaintance, told them that any gentleman's daughter, whose character was unblemished, might, if she desired it, on those terms be received into that society.' i begged, if it was not too much trouble, to know what the regulations were. 'the first rule,' continued mrs maynard, 'was that whoever chose to take the benefit of this asylum, for such i may justly call it, should deposit in the hands of a person appointed for that purpose, whatever fortune she was mistress of, the security being approved by her and her friends, and remaining in her possession. whenever she leaves the society, her fortune should be repaid her, the interest in the mean time being appropriated to the use of the community. the great design of this was to preserve an exact equality between them; for it was not expected that the interest of any of their fortunes should pay the allowance they were to have for their clothes. if any appeared to have secreted part of her fortune she should be expelled from the society. 'secondly, each person to have a bed-chamber to herself, but the eating-parlour and drawing-room in common. 'thirdly, all things for rational amusement shall be provided for the society; musical instruments, of whatever sort they shall choose, books, tents for work, and in short conveniences for every kind of employment. 'fourthly, they must conform to very regular hours. 'fifthly, a housekeeper will be appointed to manage the household affairs, and a sufficient number of servants provided. 'sixthly, each person shall alternately, a week at a time, preside at the table, and give what family orders may be requisite. 'seventhly, twenty-five pounds a year shall be allowed to each person for her clothes and pocket expenses. 'eighthly, their dress shall be quite plain and neat, but not particular nor uniform. 'ninthly, the expenses of sickness shall be discharged by the patronesses of this society. 'tenthly, if any one of the ladies behaves with imprudence she shall be dismissed, and her fortune returned; likewise if any should by turbulence or pettishness of temper disturb the society, it shall be in the power of the rest of them to expel her; a majority of three parts of the community being for the expulsion, and this to be performed by ballotting. 'eleventhly, a good table and every thing suitable to the convenience of a gentlewoman, shall be provided. 'these were the principal articles; and in less than two months a dozen persons of different ages were established in the house, who seemed thoroughly delighted with their situation. at the request of one of them, who had a friend that wished to be admitted, an order was soon added, by the consent of all, that gave leave for any person who would conform exactly to the rules of the house, to board there for such length of time as should be agreeable to herself and the society, for the price of a hundred pounds a year, fifty for any child she might have, twenty for a maidservant, and thirty for a man. 'the number of this society is now increased to thirty, four ladies board there, one of whom has two children, and there are five young ladies, the eldest not above twelve years old, whose mothers being dead, and their families related to some of the society, their kinswomen have undertaken their education; these likewise pay a hundred pounds a year each. it has frequently happened, that widow ladies have come into this society, till their year of deep mourning was expired. 'with these assistances the society now subsists with the utmost plenty and convenience, without any additional expense to my good friends, except a communication of what this park affords; as our steward provides them with every thing, and has the entire direction of the household affairs, which he executes with the most sensible economy.' i should imagine, said i, it were very difficult to preserve a comfortable harmony among so many persons, and consequently such variety of tempers? 'certainly,' answered mrs maynard, 'it is not without its difficulties. for the first year of this establishment my friends dedicated most of their time and attention to this new community, who were every day either at the hall, or these ladies with them, endeavouring to cultivate in this sisterhood that sort of disposition which is most productive of peace. by their example and suggestions (for it is difficult to give unreserved advice where you may be suspected of a design to dictate), by their examples and suggestions therefore, they led them to industry, and shewed it to be necessary to all stations, as the basis of almost every virtue. an idle mind, like fallow ground, is the soil for every weed to grow in; in it vice strengthens, the seed of every vanity flourishes unmolested and luxuriant; discontent, malignity, ill humour, spread far and wide, and the mind becomes a chaos which it is beyond human power to call into order and beauty. this therefore my good friends laboured to expel from their infant establishment. they taught them that it was the duty of every person to be of service to others. that those whose hands and minds were by the favours of fortune exempt from the necessary of labouring for their own support, ought to be employed for such as are destitute of these advantages. they got this sisterhood to join with them in working for the poor people, in visiting, in admonishing, in teaching them wherever their situations required these services. where they found that any of these ladies had a taste for gardening, drawing, music, reading, or any manual or mental art, they cultivated it, assisted them in the pleasantest means, and by various little schemes have kept up these inclinations with all the spirit of pursuit which is requisite to preserve most minds from that state of languidness and inactivity whereby life is rendered wearisome to those who have never found it unfortunate. 'by some regulations made as occasions occurred, all burdensome forms are expelled. the whole society indeed must assemble at morning and evening prayers, and at meals, if sickness does not prevent, but every other ceremonious dependence is banished; they form into different parties of amusement as best suit their inclinations, and sometimes when we go to spend the afternoon there, we shall find a party at cards in one room, in another some at work, while one is reading aloud, and in a separate chamber a set joining in a little concert, though none of them are great proficients in music; while two or three shall be retired into their own rooms, some go out to take the air, for it has seldom happened to them to have less than two boarders at a time who each keep an equipage; while others shall be amusing themselves in the garden, or walking in the very pleasant meadows which surround their house. 'as no one is obliged to stay a minute longer in company than she chooses, she naturally retires as soon as it grows displeasing to her, and does not return till she is prompted by inclination, and consequently well disposed to amuse and be amused. they live in the very strict practice of all religious duties; and it is not to be imagined how much good they have done in the neighbourhood; how much by their care the manners of the poorer people are reformed, and their necessities relieved, though without the distribution of much money; i say much, because, small as their incomes are, there are many who impart out of that little to those who have much less. 'their visits to us are frequent, and we are on such a footing that they never impede any of our employments. my friends always insisted when they waited on the community, that not one of the sisterhood should discontinue whatever they found her engaged in; this gave them the hint to do the same by us, and it is a rule that no book is thrown aside, no pen laid down at their entrance. there are always some of us manually employed, who are at leisure to converse, and if the visit is not very short, part of it is generally spent in hearing one of the girls read aloud, who take it by turns through a great part of the day; the only difference made for this addition to the company is a change of books, that they may not hear only part of a subject, and begin by a broken thread. thus they give no interruption, and therefore neither trouble us, nor are themselves scrupulous about coming, so that few days pass without our seeing some of them, though frequently only time enough to accompany us in our walks, or partake of our music.' 'have you not,' said lamont, 'been obliged to expel many from the community? since you do not allow petulancy of temper, nor any lightness of conduct, i should expect a continual revolution.' 'by no means,' answered mrs maynard, 'since the establishment of the community there has been but one expelled; and one finding she was in danger of incurring the same sentence, and i believe inwardly disgusted with a country life, retired of her own free choice. some more have rendered themselves so disagreeable, that the question has been put to the ballot; but the fear of being dismissed made them so diligent to get the majority on their side, before the hour appointed for decision arrived, that it has been determined in their favour, and the earnest desire not to be brought into the same hazard again has induced them to mend their tempers, and some of these are now the most amiable people in the whole community. 'as for levity of conduct they are pretty well secured from it, by being exposed to few temptations in this retired place. 'some, as in the course of nature must happen, have died, and most of them bequeathed what little they had towards constituting a fund for the continuation of the community. more of them have married; some to persons who knew them before, others to gentlemen in the neighbourhood, or such as happened to come into it; to whom their admirable conduct recommended them.' i could not help exclaiming, 'in what a heaven do you live, thus surrounded by people who owe all their happiness to your goodness! this is, indeed, imitating your creator, and in such proportion as your faculties will admit, partaking of his felicity, since you can no where cast your eyes without beholding numbers who derive every earthly good from your bounty and are indebted to your care and example for a reasonable hope of eternal happiness.' 'i will not,' said mrs maynard, 'give up my share of the felicity you so justly imagine these ladies must enjoy, though i have no part in what occasions it. when i reflect on all the blessings they impart, and see how happiness flows, as it were, in an uninterrupted current from their hands and lips, i am overwhelmed with gratitude to the almighty disposer of my fate, for having so mercifully thrown me into such a scene of felicity, where every hour yields true heart-felt joy, and fills me with thanksgiving to him who enables them thus to dispense innumerable blessings, and so greatly rewards them already by the joyful consciousness of having obeyed him.' the ladies at this time were at too great a distance to hear our conversation, for not choosing to be present while their actions were the subjects of discourse, they had gradually strayed from us. upon enquiring of my cousin whether the persons in the large community we had been talking of brought any fortunes with them, she told me that most of them had a trifle, some not more than a hundred pounds. that in general the ladies chose to admit those who had least, as their necessities were greatest, except where some particular circumstances rendered protection more requisite to others. that the house not being large enough to contain more than were already established in it, they have been obliged to refuse admission to many, and especially some young women of near two thousand pounds fortune, the expensive turn of the world now being such that no gentlewoman can live genteelly on the interest of that sum, and they prefer this society to a retirement in a country town. some who wished to board, have likewise been refused. as the expenses of the first community fall so far short of their expectation, and the sums appropriated for that purpose, they determined to hazard another of the same kind, and have just concluded a treaty for a still larger mansion, at about three miles distance, and by the persons now waiting for it, they have reason to believe it will not be less successful than the other, nor more expensive, but should they be mistaken in that particular, they have laid aside a fund sufficient to discharge it. their scheme i find is to have some of the ladies down to millenium hall as soon as they have made the purchase, and there they are to remain, while the necessary repairs and additions are making to the house designed for their habitation, which they imagine will not be completed in less than half a year. they hope, by having the first admitted part of the community thus in the house with them for so long a time, to compensate, in a good degree, for the disadvantages of being settled so much farther from them. the sisterhood of the other society, likewise, in pity to those who are exposed to the same sufferings from which they have been delivered, have offered to crowd themselves for a few months, to leave vacant rooms for some who are destined to the other house, till they can be there accommodated. these also will be fitted for their new way of life, and taught to aim at the happiness enjoyed in this community, by the same means that they have attained to it. our subject ended with our walk. supper was served as soon as we entered the house, and general conversation concluded the evening. had i not been led by several facts to repeat already so many conversations, i should be induced not to bury all that passed at this time in silence; but though i have taken the liberty, when the relation of facts naturally led to it, to communicate such discourses as were pertinent to the subject, it would be presuming too far on your time to repeat conversations which did not serve to illustrate any particular actions, however worthy they maybe of recollection. i shall therefore only say that it was not with less reluctance i retired to my chamber, at the hour of bed-time, than the night before. the next morning proved rainy, which prevented me from making any early excursion. but as it cleared up about eleven o'clock, lamont and i went into the garden, to enjoy the fragrance which every herb and flower exhales at this time of the year, after the desirable refreshment of gentle showers. i conducted him to the flower garden, which had so much delighted me the morning before; and we had not paid due admiration to all the vegetable beauties there exhibited to our view when mrs maynard joined us. i told her it was but a poor compliment to her conversation to say i longed for her company, since now my curiosity might occasion that impatience, which i should nevertheless have felt, had i not been left in painful suspense by the interruption we had received the day before, in the midst of her narrative. 'it would be unnatural,' said she, 'for a woman to quarrel with curiosity; so far from complaining of yours, i am come merely with a design to gratify it, and only expect you will judge of my desire to oblige you by my readiness in obeying your commands; were i myself the subject, the motive for my obedience might be equivocal.' the history of miss mancel and mrs morgan continued i think, continued mrs maynard, we left miss melvyn requiring to be confronted by her accuser, a request which her step-mother was not inclined to grant; for though in her dealings with young simon she had perceived such a degree of solicitude for his own interest, and such flagrant proofs of want of integrity, that she did not doubt but that by promising him the farm on rather better terms than she had yet consented to he might be prevailed with to join so far in her scheme as to assert any thing to sir charles, yet she dared not venture to produce him face to face to miss melvyn, fearing lest his assurance should fail him on so severe a trial. she replied, therefore, that the proofs were too strong to admit of doubt, but she could not think of exposing miss melvyn to the mortification of hearing her depravity witnessed by, perhaps, the last person whom she expected should acknowledge it. besides, that by such an eclat the disgrace must infallibly become public, and she be deprived of the only means left her of rescuing her reputation from that infamy, to which, in a very short time, it must have been irrecoverably condemned; for it could not be supposed that mr morgan would accept as his wife a woman with a sullied character. miss melvyn was almost distracted, at being both so injuriously accused and denied the liberty of defending herself; she begged, she intreated, on her knees, that sir charles would not suffer her to fall a prey to such undeserved malice. she asserted her innocence in the strongest and most persuasive terms, and insisted so warmly on her demand of being confronted with her accusers, that her father grew inclined to grant her just request. lady melvyn, perceiving he began to comply, repeated her refusal in the most peremptory manner, and declaring to miss melvyn that she had no other choice left her but either to resolve to marry mr morgan or to be exposed to shame in being publicly disclaimed by her parents, who would no longer suffer her to remain in their house, led sir charles out of the room; and he, though reluctant, dared not refuse to accompany her. miss melvyn was now left to reflect on this dreadful alternative. filled with horror at the shocking conduct of her step-mother, terrified with her threats, and sensible there was no villainy she was not capable of perpetrating rather than give up a point she was thus determined to carry, she was incapable of forming any resolution. she ran to her friend, to seek from her that advice and consolation which her own distracted thoughts could not afford her. miss mancel was so struck with the terror and amazement which was still impressed on miss melvyn's countenance, that she had not for some time courage to ask the cause. trembling with fears of she knew not what, she embraced her distressed friend with an air of such tender, though silent sympathy, as softened the horror of miss melvyn's mind, and brought a shower of tears to her relief, which at length enabled her to relate all that had passed between her and her parents. louisa found it much easier to join in her friend's grief than to administer consolation. she knew not what to advise; two artless, virtuous young women were ill qualified to contend with lady melvyn, especially in an affair which could not be rendered public without hazarding miss melvyn's character; for reputation is so delicate a thing that the least surmise casts a blemish on it; the woman who is suspected is disgraced; and though lady melvyn did not stand high in the public opinion, yet it was scarcely possible for any one to believe she could be guilty of such flagrant wickedness. miss melvyn had a very strong dislike to mr morgan, whose disposition appeared as ill suited to hers as his age; to enter into wedlock without any prospect of social happiness seemed to her one of the greatest misfortunes in life; but what was still of more weight in her estimation, she thought it the highest injustice to marry a man whom she could not love, as well as a very criminal mockery of the most solemn vows. on the other side she considered that to preserve her reputation was not only necessary to her own happiness, but a duty to society. 'it is true,' said she, 'i am not placed in a very conspicuous sphere of life, but i am far from being of a rank so obscure that my actions will affect no one but myself; nor indeed do i know any so low, but they have their equals who may copy after them, if they have no inferiors. the care of our virtue we owe to ourselves, the preservation of our characters is due to the world, and both are required by him who commands us to preserve ourself pure and unpolluted, and to contribute as far as we are able to the well-being of all his creatures. example is the means given universally to all whereby to benefit society. i therefore look on it as one of our principal duties to avoid every imputation of evil; for vice appears more or less hateful as it becomes more or less familiar. every vicious person abates the horror which it should naturally excite in a virtuous mind. there is nothing so odious to which custom will not in some degree reconcile us; can we expect then, that vice, which is not without its allurements, should alone retain all its deformity, when we are familiarized to its appearance. i should never therefore esteem myself innocent, however pure my actions, if i incurred the reputation of being otherwise, when it was in my power to avoid it. with this way of thinking, my louisa, you may imagine that i might be brought to believe it my duty to sacrifice my ease of mind, to the preservation of my character, but in my case, there is no choice; i must either add to the contamination of a very profligate world, or, in the face of heaven, enter into the most solemn vows to love a man, whom the most i can do is not to hate. this is wilful perjury. in such an alternative duty cannot direct me, and misery must follow my decision, let me determine as i will.' in this irresolution, miss melvyn left her friend, but the vent she had given to her grief had greatly calmed her spirits and restored her to the power of reflection. at her entrance into the house, she met lady melvyn, who with a very stern countenance ordered her to go and entertain mr morgan, who waited for her in the parlour. she found him alone, and as he began to renew his addresses, which a repulse from her had not discouraged, since he hoped to succeed by the influence her parents had over her, she immediately formed the resolution of endeavouring to make him relinquish his pretensions, in hopes that if the refusal came from him, he might become the object of her mother's indignation, and her persecution might drop, at least for a time. she therefore frankly told him, that tho' her affections were entirely disengaged, yet he was so very repugnant to them that it was impossible she should ever feel that regard for him which he had a right to expect from his wife; and therefore intreated him, in consideration of his own happiness, if hers were indifferent to him, not to persist in a pursuit which, if successful, could not answer his hopes, nor reduce her to render herself wretched by becoming his wife, or to exasperate her parents by refusing him. she then added all her heart could suggest to flatter him into compliance with this request. mr morgan's foible was not an excess of delicacy; he told her plainly, he admired her eloquence prodigiously, but that there was more rhetoric in her beauty than any composition of words could contain; which pleading in direct contradiction to all she had said, she must excuse him, if he was influenced by the more powerful oratory of her charms; and her good sense and unexceptionable conduct convinced him, that when it became her duty to love him, she would no longer remain indifferent. all miss melvyn could urge to shew him this was but a very poor dependence, had no sort of weight, and he parted from her only more determined to hasten the conclusion of their marriage. lady melvyn had not been idle all this time; she had prevailed on young simon to acquiesce in the questions she put to him before sir charles, either by giving short answers, or by down cast eyes, which signified assent. with this sir charles acquainted miss melvyn, and insisted on her not thinking of exposing herself to the indignity of having the whole affair discussed in her presence. all the indignation that undeserved calumny can excite in an innocent mind could not have enabled miss melvyn to bear being charged before so low a creature, with a passion for him, and still less to have heard the suborned wretch pretend to confess it. she therefore found no difficulty in obeying her father in that particular, and rather chose to submit to the imputation than to undergo the shame which she must have suffered in endeavouring to confute it. she attempted to persuade sir charles to permit her to stay in the house under what restrictions he and his lady should think proper, till her conduct should sufficiently convince him of her innocence, and not to force her into a hated marriage, or unjustly expose her to disgrace and infamy. her tears and intreaties would soon have softened his heart; and as far as he dared he shewed an inclination to comply with so reasonable a proposal; but his lady easily obliged him to retract and to deprive miss melvyn of all hopes of any mitigation of the sentence already pronounced against her. could she without the loss of reputation have fled to a remote part of the kingdom, and have hid herself in some obscure cottage, though reduced to labour for a subsistence, she would have thought it a state far more eligible than becoming mr morgan's wife; but if she thus turned fugitive and wanderer, in what light could she expect to be seen by the world; especially as lady melvyn would infallibly, to remove any blame from herself, be liberal in her aspersions? where she should be unknown, whatever disgrace might be affixed to her name, she herself might escape censure; but yet she would not be less guilty of a violation of her duty to society, since she must appear very culpable to those who knew her, and contribute to the depravity of others, as far as was in her power, by an example which, her motives being unknown, would appear a very bad one. this consideration determined her to sacrifice her peace to her character; for by having told mr morgan the true state of her heart, she had acquitted herself from any charge of attempting, by the gift of her hand, to deceive him into a belief that he was the object of her affections. she still had scruples about entering into the matrimonial state, on motives so different from those which ought to influence every one in a union of that kind: these were not to be removed, but she imagined this might in some measure be excused as the least culpable part she could act; and since man was herein neither her judge nor accuser, she hoped the integrity of her mind would be received as some alleviation of a fault she was thus forced to commit, since she was determined in the strictest manner to adhere to every duty of her station. having formed this resolution, she went to consult her friend upon it, who as a person less perplexed, though scarcely less concerned, as their affections were so strongly united, that one could not suffer without the other's feeling equal pain, might possibly be a calmer judge in so delicate a point. louisa subscribed to her friend's sentiments on the occasion, only desired her to consider well, whether she should be able to bear all the trials she might meet with in the married state when she was entirely indifferent to her husband. 'my prospect,' said miss melvyn, 'i am sensible is extremely melancholy. all inclination must now be laid aside, and duty must become my sole guide and director. happiness is beyond my view; i cannot even hope for ease, since i must keep a constant restraint on my very thoughts. indifference will become criminal; and if i cannot conquer it, to conceal it at least will be a duty. i have learnt to suffer, but was never yet taught disguise and hypocrisy; herein will consist my greatest difficulty; i abhor deceit, and yet must not shew the real sentiments of my heart. linked in society with a man i cannot love, the world can afford me no pleasure, indeed no comfort, for i am insensible to all joy but what arises from the social affections. the grave, i confess, appears to me far more eligible than this marriage, for i might there hope to be at peace. mr morgan's fortune is large, but his mind is narrow and ungenerous, and his temper plainly not good. if he really loved me, he could not suffer me to be forced into a marriage which he well knows i detest: a knowledge which will not mend my fate, most certainly. 'could i enjoy the pleasures of self-approbation, it would be impossible to be very wretched, but the most exact performance of my duty will not yield me that gratification, since i cannot be perfectly satisfied that i do right in marrying a man so very disagreeable to me. i fear the pride of reputation influences me more than i imagine, and though it is as justifiable as any pride, yet still it is certainly no virtue.' 'when i reflect,' said she afterwards, 'on the step i am going to take, my terrors are inexpressible; how dreadful is it at my age, when nature seems to promise me so many years of life, to doom myself to a state of wretchedness which death alone can terminate, and wherein i must bury all my sorrows in silence, without even the melancholy relief of pouring them forth in the bosom of my friend, and seeking, from her tender participation, the only consolation i could receive! for after this dreaded union is completed, duty will forbid me to make my distresses known, even to my louisa; i must not then expose the faults of him whose slightest failings i ought to conceal. one only hope remains, that you, my first and dearest friend, will not abandon me; that whatever cloud of melancholy may hang over my mind, yet you will still bear with me, and remove your abode to a place where i may have the consolation of your company. if it be in my power to make my house a comfortable habitation to my louisa, i cannot be entirely wretched.' miss mancel gave her the tenderest assurances of fixing at least in her neighbourhood, since a second paradise could not recompense her for the loss of her society; and that on no terms could she prevail on herself to continue in a house where she must see that wretched simon, who had been a vile instrument in reducing her friend to that distressful situation. this gleam of comfort was a very seasonable relief to miss melvyn's dejected spirits, and gave some respite to her tears. as soon as she returned home, she acquainted sir charles and lady melvyn with her resolution, who soon communicated it to mr morgan; and nothing was now thought of but hastening the wedding as much as possible. 'i wonder,' interrupted lamont, 'how miss melvyn could bring herself to let her step-mother have such an opportunity of exulting in the success of her detestable arts.' 'that,' replied mrs maynard, 'was a consideration which had no weight with her, nor should it indeed be any mortification to our pride that deceit and cunning have triumphed over us. wickedness serves itself by weapons which we would not use, and if we are wounded with them, we have no more reason to be mortified than a man would have to think his courage disgraced because when he lay sleeping in his bed he was taken prisoner by a body of armed men. to be circumvented by cunning must ever be the fate, but never the disgrace, of the artless.' as miss melvyn's compliance procured her a greater degree of favour at home than she had ever before enjoyed, miss mancel was suffered to come to the house, and met with an obliging reception from the whole family. her continual presence there was a great support to her friend in her very disagreeable situation, and after indulging her sorrow in their private conversation, and mingling their sympathetic tears, she was the better able to endure the restraint which she was obliged to undergo when any other person was present. the dreaded day fixed on for this unhappy union soon came, and miss melvyn received mr morgan's hand and name with all the fortitude she could assume; but her distress was visible to all, even to mr morgan, who was so little touched with it that it proved no abatement to his joy; a symptom of such indelicacy of mind as increased his bride's grief and apprehensions. the day after their marriage, mrs morgan asked his permission to invite miss mancel to his house, to which he answered, 'madam, my wife must have no other companion or friend but her husband; i shall never be averse to your seeing company, but intimates i forbid; i shall not choose to have my faults discussed between you and your friend.' mrs morgan was not much less stunned by this reply than if she had been struck with lightning. practised as she had long been in commanding her passions and inclinations, a torrent of tears forced their way. 'i did not want this proof,' resumed mr morgan, 'that i have but a small share of your affections; and were i inclined to grant your request, you could not have found a better means of preventing it; for i will have no person in my house more beloved than myself. when you have no other friend,' added he with a malicious smile, 'i may hope for the honour of that title.' mrs morgan was so well convinced before of the littleness of his mind that she was more afflicted than surprised at this instance of it, and wished he would not have rendered it more difficult to esteem him by so openly professing his ungenerous temper. however she silently acquiesced; but that her friend might not feel the pain of believing herself neglected, she was obliged to tell her what had passed. the new married couple stayed but two days longer at sir charles's. fortunately mr morgan spent the last day abroad in paying visits in the neighbourhood, which gave the two unhappy friends leisure to lament their ill fortune in this cruel separation, without giving the cause of it any new offence. they took a melancholy leave that night, fearing that even a correspondence between them might be considerably restrained by this arbitrary husband who seemed to think his wife's affections were to be won by force, not by gentleness and generous confidence. this was the severest affliction they had ever yet experienced, or indeed were capable of feeling. united from their childhood, the connection of soul and body did not seem more indissoluble, nor were ever divided with greater pain. they foresaw no end to this cruel separation; for they could not expect that a husband's complaisance to his wife should increase after he ceased to be a bridegroom. louisa indeed, who wished if possible to reconcile her friend to her fate, pretended to hope that her good conduct might in time enlarge his mind and cure him of that mean suspicious temper which then made him fear to have his faults exposed by a wife whose chief endeavour would be to conceal them. but such distant views afforded no consolation to mrs morgan's affectionate heart; the present pain engaged her thoughts too much to suffer her to look so far off for comfort. she had flattered herself not only with the hopes of enjoying miss mancel's company, but of delivering her from all the difficulties of her situation, in offering her a protection from insult or poverty. to be disappointed of so delightful a prospect was her greatest affliction, and sat much heavier on her mind than the loss of her beloved society. the evening was far spent when lady melvyn found them drowned in tears, anticipating the pangs of parting, the employment of that whole day; and as her ladyship's hatred for her step-daughter was much subsided, since she no longer feared the observation of her too-virtuous eye, her natural disposition inclined her to prevent the wife's discovering her real sentiments to her husband; she therefore reminded them that mr morgan must then be on his way home, and advised that by all means they should part before his return, lest he should be witness of a sorrow which he would take amiss. they were sensible that in this her ladyship judged well, and louisa's fear of occasioning any additional uneasiness to her friend gave her resolution and strength to take a last farewell. mrs morgan's maid attended her home, as she was too much affected to be able to perform that little walk without some support. mrs morgan's condition was still more deplorable; more dead than alive, she followed louisa's steps with eager eyes, till a turning in the road robbed her of the sight of her friend; and then, as if her eyes had no other employment worthy of them left, they were again overwhelmed in tears. lady melvyn found her incapable of consolation; but more successfully endeavoured to make her suppress the indulgence of her grief by alarming her fears with the approach of mr morgan. as soon as she was a little composed, she led her into the garden for air. the night was fine, and the moon shone very resplendent, the beauty of the scene and the freshness of the air a little revived her; and as mr morgan stayed out later than they expected she had time to acquire a sufficient command over herself to receive him with an air of tolerable cheerfulness. the new married pair set out early the next morning, and arrived at mr morgan's seat the following day. the house was large and old, the furniture not much less ancient, the situation dreary, the roads everywhere bad, the soil a stiff clay, wet and dirty, except in the midst of summer, the country round it disagreeable, and in short, destitute of every thing that could afford any satisfaction to mrs morgan. nature nowhere appears graced with fewer charms. mrs morgan however had vexations so superior that she paid little regard to external circumstances, and was so fully determined to acquit herself properly in her new sphere that she appeared pleased with every thing around her. hypocrisy, as she observed, was now become a virtue, and the only one which she found it difficult to practise. they were received on their arrival by a maiden sister of mr morgan's, who till then had kept his house and he intended should still remain in it; for as through the partiality of an aunt who had bred her up she was possessed of a large fortune, her brother, in whom avarice was the ruling passion, was very desirous of keeping in her favour. miss susanna morgan had lived immaculate to the age of fifty-five. the state of virginity could not be laid to her charge as an offence against society, for it had not been voluntary. in her youth she was rather distinguished for sensibility. her aunt's known riches gave the niece the reputation of a great fortune, an attraction to which she was indebted for many lovers, who constantly took their leave on finding the old lady would not advance any part of the money which she designed to bequeath her niece. miss susanna, extremely susceptible by nature, was favourably disposed to all her admirers, and imagining herself successively in love with each, lived in a course of disappointments. in reality, the impression was made only on her vanity, and her heart continued unengaged; but she felt such a train of mortifications very severely, and perhaps suffered more upon the whole than if she had been strongly impressed with one passion. in time the parsimony of her old aunt became generally known, and the young lady then was left free from the tender importunity of lovers, of which nothing else could probably have deprived her; for as she never had any natural attractions, she was not subject to a decay of charms; at near fifty-five her aunt departed this life, and left her in possession of twenty thousand pounds, a fortune which served to swell her pride, without increasing her happiness. nature had not originally bestowed upon her much sweetness of temper, and her frequent disappointments, each of which she termed being crossed in love, had completely soured it. every pretty woman was the object of her envy, i might almost say every married woman. she despised all that were not as rich as herself, and hated every one who was superior or equal to her in fortune. tormented inwardly with her own ill-nature, she was incapable of any satisfaction but what arose from teasing others; nothing could dispel the frown on her brow, except the satisfaction she felt when she had the good fortune to give pain to any of her dependants; a horrid grin then distorted her features, and her before lifeless eyes glistened with malice and rancorous joy. she had read just enough to make her pedantic, and too little to give her any improving knowledge. her understanding was naturally small, and her self-conceit great. in her person she was tall and meagre, her hair black, and her complexion of the darkest brown, with an additional sallowness at her temples and round her eyes, which were dark, very large and prominent, and entirely without lustre; they had but one look, which was that of gloomy stupid ill-nature, except, as i have already said, when they were enlivened by the supreme satisfaction of having made somebody uneasy, then what before was but disagreeable became horrible. to complete the description of her face, she had a broad flat nose, a wide mouth, furnished with the worst set of teeth i ever saw, and her chin was long and pointed. she had heard primness so often mentioned as the characteristic of an old maid, that to avoid wearing that appearance she was slatternly and dirty to an excess; besides she had great addition of filthiness, from a load of spanish snuff with which her whole dress was covered, as if, by her profusion in that particular, she thought to compensate for her general parsimony. this lady mrs morgan found in possession of her house, and was received by her with that air of superiority to which miss susanna thought herself entitled by her age and fortune. mrs morgan's charms, though drooping like a blighted flower, excited much envy in susanna's breast, and she soon congratulated her on her extraordinary happiness in having captivated a gentleman of so large a fortune when her own was at present so very small. at first she commended her for not being elated with so great an acquisition, but in a little time taxed her with ungrateful insensibility to so prodigious a blessing. she continually criticized her economy, accusing her of indolence; representing, how she used every morning to rouse the servants from their idleness, by giving each such a scold, as quickened their diligence for the whole day; nor could a family be well managed by any one who omitted this necessary duty. mrs morgan's desire that her servants should enjoy the comforts of plenty, and when sick, receive the indulgence which that condition requires, brought her continual admonitions against extravagance, wherein mr morgan readily joined; for his avarice was so great that he repined at the most necessary expenses. his temper was a mixture of passion and peevishness, two things that seldom go together; but he would fret himself into a passion, and then through weariness of spirits cool into fretfulness, till he was sufficiently recovered to rise again into rage. this was the common course of his temper, which afforded variety, but no relief. sensible that his wife married him without affection, he seemed to think it impossible ever to gain her love, and therefore spared himself all fruitless endeavours. he was indeed fond of her person; he admired her beauty, but despised her understanding, which in truth was unavoidable; for his ideas and conversation were so low and sordid that he was not qualified to distinguish the charms of her elegant mind. those who know mrs morgan best are convinced that she suffered less uneasiness from his ill-humour, brutal as it was, than from his nauseous fondness. but the account i give of him, i have received from others; mrs morgan never mentions his name, if it can possibly be avoided; and when she does, it is always with respect. in this situation, a victim to the ill-humour both of her husband and his sister, we will leave mrs morgan, and return to that friend whose letters were her only consolation. miss mancel's person was so uncommonly fine, that she could not be long settled in the country without attracting general notice. though the lower rank of people may be less refined in their ideas, yet her beauty was so very striking, that it did not escape their admiration, and the handsome lady, as they called her, became the general subject of discourse. as church was the only place where she exposed to public view, she had from the first endeavoured to elude observation, by mingling in the crowd, and sitting in the most obscure seat; but when fame had awakened the curiosity of those of higher rank, she was easily distinguished, and in a short time many inhabitants of the neighbouring parishes came to that church to see her. she more than answered every expectation; for such perfection of beauty scarcely ever came out of the hands of nature. many ladies in the neighbourhood introduced themselves to her, and found her behaviour as enchanting as her person. she could not be insensible of the approbation which every eye significantly expressed; but she was abashed and in some degree more mortified than delighted by it. she well remembered what mr d'avora had said to her on that subject and saw that in her situation beauty was a disadvantage. he often repeated the same thing to her in letters (for she and miss melvyn keeping up a constant correspondence with him, the latter had acquainted him with the general admiration paid to louisa) and told her that he feared the plan they had formed for her future way of life was at a still greater distance than they had hoped, since her beauty was the great obstacle to its being put in execution. the ladies of the best fashion in the neighbourhood begged leave to visit her; and though she more than ever wished to have her time uninterrupted, since as she had no prospect of any other means of support, it was necessary, by such little additions as she could make to her small fund, to prevent its quick diminution, yet she could not decline the civilities so obligingly offered her, but avoided all intimacy with any of them as foreign to her plan, and hurtful to her interest. thus was she circumstanced in respect to the neighbourhood when miss melvyn married. as after this event louisa was determined to change her habitation, she began to enquire for some family where she might be accommodated in the same manner as in that where she was then fixed. among the persons who had taken most notice of her was lady lambton, a person of admirable understanding, polite, generous and good-natured; who had no fault but a considerable share of pride. she piqued herself upon the opulence of her family and a distinguished birth, but her good sense, and many virtues, so qualified this one blemish, that it did not prevent her being a very amiable woman. when she found miss mancel designed to change her abode, she told her that at an honest farmer's near her house she might be accommodated, but that as some little alterations would be requisite to make the place fit for her, she, in the most obliging manner, desired her company till the apartment was ready; which would give her opportunity to see such things were done to it as would be most convenient and agreeable. lady lambton insisted so strongly on miss mancel's accepting this invitation that she could not without incivility refuse it; and as, after the loss of her friend, all places were alike to her, she had no reason to decline so obliging an offer. no great preparations were required for this removal of abode. lady lambton came herself to fetch miss mancel home. the old lady was charmed with her new guest, many of whose accomplishments were unknown to her till she came under the same roof, and would not suffer any preparations to be made for another lodging, but insisted on her continuing much longer with her. lady lambton behaved in so very obliging a manner, and louisa found so much pleasure and improvement in the conversation of a woman whose admirable understanding and thorough knowledge of the world are seldom to be paralleled, that she could not be more agreeably placed; as she dared not go even into mrs morgan's neighbourhood, for fear of giving additional uneasiness to one whose situation she plainly perceived was by no means happy; for though mrs morgan suppressed all complaints, never hinted at the treatment she received, and endeavoured to represent her way of life in the best colours, to save her friend the sympathetic pangs of heart which she knew she would feel for her sufferings; yet the alteration in her style, the melancholy turn of mind which in spite of all her care was visible in her letters, could not escape the observation of one whose natural discernment was quickened by affection. the full persuasion of mrs morgan's unhappiness, and that anxious solicitude which arose from her ignorance as to the degree of her wretchedness, was a source of continual grief to her mind, which lady lambton's sincere friendship could scarcely alleviate. but she knew too well how few people can bear the unhappy to suffer her uneasiness to appear. she stifled therefore every expression of that kind; for if lady lambton had generously sympathized in her affliction, it would have given her pain to know she had occasioned that lady's feeling any; and if she had been insensible to it, complaints would not fail to disgust her. lady lambton was fond of music, and not void of taste for painting; miss mancel's excellence in these arts therefore afforded her the highest entertainment. her ladyship was likewise a mistress of languages, and was pleased to find louisa equally acquainted with them. in this house miss mancel had passed above a twelve month, when sir edward lambton returned from his travels, in which he had spent four years. as soon as he arrived in the kingdom he came to wait on lady lambton, his grandmother, who was likewise his guardian, his father and mother being both dead. she had longed with impatience for his return, but thought herself well repaid for his absence by the great improvement which was very visible both in his manner and person. sir edward was extremely handsome, his person fine and graceful, his conversation lively and entertaining, politeness adding charms to an excellent understanding. his behaviour, i have been told, was particularly engaging, his temper amiable, though somewhat too warm, and he had all his grandmother's generosity, without any of her pride. it would have been strange if a man of three and twenty years old (for that was sir edward's age) had not been much charmed with so lovely a woman as miss mancel. that he was so, soon became visible, but she, as well as his grandmother, for some time imagined the attentions he paid her were only the natural result of the gallantry usual at his age, and improved into a softer address, by a manner acquired in travelling through countries where gallantry is publicly professed lady lambton, however, knowing her own discernment, expressed some fears to louisa, lest her grandson should become seriously in love with her, in order to discover by her countenance whether there was really any ground for her apprehensions, which she founded on the impossibility of his marrying a woman of small fortune, without reducing himself to the greatest inconvenience, as his estate was extremely incumbered, and he was by an intail deprived of the liberty of selling any part of it to discharge the debt. she was too polite to mention her chief objection to miss mancel, which was in reality the obscurity of her birth. louisa, who sincerely believed sir edward had no real passion for her, answered with a frankness which entirely convinced lady lambton that she had received no serious address from him; but louisa, who saw herself now in the situation which mr d'avora had warned her against, begged permission to leave lady lambton's, to prevent her ladyship's being under any uneasiness, and to avoid all danger of sir edward's receiving any strong impression in her favour. lady lambton was unwilling to part with her amiable companion; and besides, thought if her grandson was really enamoured, she should increase the danger rather than lessen it by not keeping louisa under her eye; she therefore told her she could not consent to lose her company, and was certain she might depend on her honour. louisa thanked her for her good opinion, and assured her she would never do any thing to forfeit it. sir edward was more captivated than either of the ladies imagined, and every day increased his passion. louisa's beauty, her conversation and accomplishments were irresistible; but as he knew the great occasion he had to marry a woman of fortune, he long endeavoured to combat his inclinations. he might have conceived hopes of obtaining any other woman in her circumstances on easier terms; but there was such dignity and virtue shone forth in her, and he was so truly in love, that such a thought never entered his imagination. he reverenced and respected her like a divinity, but hoped that prudence might enable him to conquer his passion, at the same time that it had not force enough to determine him to fly her presence, the only possible means of lessening the impression which every hour engraved more deeply on his heart by bringing some new attractions to his view. he little considered that the man who has not power to fly from temptation will never be able to resist it by standing his ground. louisa was not long before she grew sensible that what she had offered to lady lambton for the ease of her ladyship's mind, was advisable to secure the peace of her own. sir edward's merit, his sincere respect for her, which certainly is the most powerful charm to a woman of delicacy, could scarcely fail to make an impression on a heart so tender, so generous as hers. she kept so strict a watch over herself that she soon perceived her sensibility, and endeavoured to prevail on lady lambton to part with her; but the old lady, imagining it was only in order to quiet her apprehensions, would not consent; and the difficulty in finding a place where she could be properly received, strongly discouraged her from insisting on it. if she continued in the neighbourhood, her purpose would not be answered; for she could not avoid sir edward's visits; her only friend was denied the liberty of protecting her, and to go into a place where she was unknown would subject a young woman of her age and beauty to a thousand dangers. these difficulties detained her, though unwillingly, at lady lambton's for above half a year after sir edward's return; who, at length, unable to confine in silence a passion which had long been obvious to every observer, took an opportunity, when alone with louisa, to declare his attachment in the most affecting manner. she received it not with surprise, but with real sorrow. she had no tincture of coquetry in her composition; but if she had been capable of it, her affections were too deeply engaged to have suffered her to retain it. her sensibility was never so strongly awakened; all her endeavours to restrain it were no longer of force, her heart returned his passion, and would have conquered every thing but her justice and her honour; these were deeply engaged to lady lambton; and she would have detested herself if she could have entertained a thought of making that lady's goodness to her the occasion of the greatest vexation she could receive. she therefore never hesitated on the part she should act on this trying occasion; but the victories which honour gains over the tender affections are not to be obtained without the severest pangs. thus tormented by the struggles between duty and affection, she was not immediately capable of giving him an answer, but finding that her difficulties were increasing by his repeated professions, and animated by the necessity of silencing a love which too successfully solicited a return of affection, she assumed a sufficient command over herself to conceal her sentiments, and with averted eyes, lest her heart should through them contradict her words, she told him, he distressed her to the greatest degree; that the respect she had for him on account of his own merit, and not less for the relation he bore to lady lambton, made her extremely concerned that he should have conceived a passion for her, which it was not in her power to return; nor could she listen to it in justice to lady lambton, to whom she was bound in all the ties of gratitude; neither should anything ever prevail with her to do any thing prejudicial to the interests of a family into which she had been so kindly received. sir edward was too much in love to acquiesce in so nice a point of honour; but louisa would not wait to hear arguments which it was so painful to her to refute, and retired into her own chamber, to lament in secret her unhappy fate in being obliged to reject the addresses of a man whose affections, were she at liberty, she would think no sacrifice too great to obtain. miss mancel endeavoured as much as possible to avoid giving sir edward any opportunity of renewing his addresses; but his vigilance found the means of seeing her alone more than once, when he warmly urged the partiality of her behaviour, representing how much more his happiness was concerned in the success of a passion which possessed his whole soul, than his grandmother's could be in disappointing it. she, he observed, was actuated only by pride, he by the sincerest love that ever took place in a human heart. in accepting his addresses louisa could only mortify lady lambton; in rejecting them, she must render him miserable. which, he asked, had the best title to her regard, the woman who could ungenerously and injudiciously set a higher value on riches and birth than on her very superior excellencies, or the man who would gladly sacrifice fortune and every other enjoyment the world could afford, to the possession of her; of her who alone could render life desirable to him? by these, and many other arguments, and what was more prevalent than all the arguments that could be deduced from reason, by the tenderest intreaties that the most ardent passion could dictate, sir edward endeavoured to persuade louisa to consent to marry him, but all proved unavailing. she sometimes thought what he said was just, but aware of her partiality, she could not believe herself an unprejudiced judge, and feared that she might mistake the sophistry of love for the voice of reason. she was sure while honour, truth and gratitude pleaded against inclination they must be in the right, though their remonstrances were hushed into a whisper by the louder solicitations of passion. convinced that she could not be to blame while she acted in contradiction to her secret choice, since the sincerity of her intentions were thereby plainly, though painfully evinced, she persisted in refusing to become sir edward's wife, and told him, that if he did not discontinue his addresses, he would force her to leave the house, and retire to any place that would afford her a quiet refuge from his importunity. a hint of this sort was sufficient to drive sir edward almost to distraction, and louisa dared not pursue the subject. when he found she could not be induced to consent to an immediate marriage, he endeavoured to obtain a promise of her hand after lady lambton's decease, though to a man of his impatient and strong passions such a delay was worse than death; but miss mancel told him, by such an engagement she should be guilty of a mean evasion, and that she should think it as great a breach of honour as marrying him directly. the despair to which louisa's conduct reduced sir edward, whose love seemed to increase with the abatement of his hopes, was very visible to his grandmother, but her pride was invincible; neither her affection for him, nor her great esteem for miss mancel's merit, could conquer her aversion to their union. she saw them both unhappy, but was convinced the pangs they felt would not be of very long continuance, trusting to the usual inconstancy of young persons, while the inconveniencies attending an incumbered fortune, and the disgrace which she imagined must be the consequence of sir edward's marrying a woman of obscure birth, would be permanent and influence the whole course of his life. louisa, unable to support so hard a conflict, continually resisting both her lover and her love, was determined to seek some relief from absence. she wrote mr d'avora a faithful account of all the difficulties of her situation, and intreated him to receive her into his house, till he could find some proper place wherein to fix her abode. this worthy friend approved her conduct, while he grieved for her distress; his honest heart felt a secret indignation against lady lambton who could, by false pride, be blinded to the honour which he thought such a woman as miss mancel must reflect on any family into which she entered. he wrote that young lady word, that she might be assured of the best reception his house could afford, and every service that it was in his power to render her; desiring that she would let him know when she proposed setting out, that he might meet her on the road, not thinking it proper she should travel alone. this letter gave miss mancel much satisfaction; she was now secure of an asylum; but the great difficulty still remained, she knew not how to get away from lady lambton's in a proper manner; for to go clandestinely was not suitable to her character, and might bring it into suspicion. in this dilemma she thought it best to apply to that lady, and with her usual frankness told her (what had not escaped her discernment) the affection sir edward had conceived for her, and the return her own heart made to it; only suppressing his solicitations, as her ladyship might be offended with his proceeding so far without her consent. she represented the imprudence of her continuing in the house with sir edward, whereby both his passion and her own must be increased; and yet she was at a loss how to depart privately, but was convinced it could not be affected with his knowledge, without such an eclat as must be very disagreeable to them all; nor could she answer for her own resolution when put to so severe a trial; as she should have more than her full measure of affliction in going from thence, without being witness to its effect on him. one should have imagined that the generosity of miss mancel's conduct might have influenced lady lambton in her favour; but though it increased her esteem, it did not alter her resolution. with inexcusable insensibility she concerted measures with her, and engaged to procure sir edward's absence for a short time. some very necessary business indeed demanded his presence in a neighbouring county where the greatest part of his estate lay, but he had not been able to prevail on himself to leave louisa; too much enamoured to think any pecuniary advantage could compensate for the loss of her company. but as it was natural that an old grandmother should see the matter in another light; her pressing him to go and settle his affairs gave him no cause to suspect any latent meaning, and was too reasonable to be any longer opposed. though sir edward was resolved on so quick a dispatch of business as promised him a speedy return, yet any separation from miss mancel, however short, appeared a severe misfortune. the evening before the day of his departure, he contrived to see her alone and renewed his importunities with redoubled ardour, but with no better success than before. he lamented the necessity he was under of leaving her, though but for a little time, with an agony of mind better suited to an eternal separation. she, who saw it in that light, was overcome with the tender distress which a person must feel at taking a final leave of one who is extremely dear to her. her own grief was more than she could have concealed; but when she anticipated in her thoughts what he would suffer when he knew he had lost her for ever, and judged from the pain he felt on the approach of what he thought so short an absence, how very great his distress would be, she was unable to support the scene with her usual steadiness. tears insensibly stole down her face and bestowed on it still greater charms than it had ever yet worn, by giving her an air of tenderness, which led him to hope that she did not behold his passion with indifference. this thought afforded him a consolation which he had never before received; and though it increased his love, yet it abated his distress, and rendered him more able to leave her, since he flattered himself she would with pleasure see him return, which he was now more than ever resolved to do as speedily as possible. the day of his departure she spent chiefly in her own room, to conceal, as far as she was able, a weakness she was ashamed of but could not conquer. she had written the day before to inform mr d'avora that she should set out for london four days after her letter. accordingly at the time appointed, after having agreed with lady lambton that sir edward must be kept ignorant of the place to which she was gone, she set out with that lady, who carried her in her coach twelve miles of the way and then delivered her to mr d'avora, who was come thither to receive her. lady lambton could not part with her amiable companion without regret, and expressed her true sense of her merit in such strong terms to mr d'avora, who could not forgive that pride which had occasioned so much pain both to louisa and sir edward, that he told her in plain terms how very happy and how much honoured any man must be who had her for his wife. perhaps lady lambton would have subscribed to his opinion, had any one but her grandson been concerned; but the point was too tender, and it was no small command over herself that prevented her giving the good old man a hint that she thought him impertinent. our travellers arrived in town the next day, after a melancholy journey, for even the company of a friend she so much loved and esteemed could not restore miss mancel's natural vivacity, though in compassion to the good old man who sympathized tenderly in her distress she endeavoured to the utmost of her power to conceal how very deeply she was afflicted. it was some little time before her spirits were sufficiently composed to form any scheme for her future life, nor were they benefited by a letter from lady lambton which acquainted her that sir edward, at his return, finding she had left the place, that his grandmother had consented to her departure and refused to tell him where she was gone, was for some days frantic with rage and grief, and had just then left lady lambton with a determination to serve as volunteer in the army in germany, in hopes, he said, to find there a release from his afflictions, which nothing but the hand of death could bestow. the old lady was much shocked at this event, but hoped a little time would restore his reason and enable him to bear his disappointment with patience. there was room to believe, she said, that the rest of the campaign would pass over without a battle, and if so the change of scene might abate his passion. louisa's heart was too tenderly engaged to reason so philosophically, she was almost distracted with her fears, and was often inclined to blame her own scruples that had driven so worthy a man to such extremities. all mr d'avora could urge to reconcile her to herself and to calm her apprehensions for sir edward were scarcely sufficient to restore her to any ease of mind; but at length he brought her to submit patiently to her fate and to support her present trial with constancy. they were still undetermined as to her future establishment when mr d'avora one day met an old acquaintance and countryman in the street. as this person had many years before returned to his native country, mr d'avora inquired what had again brought him into england? his friend replied that he was come in quality of factotum to a widow lady of fortune. in the course of their conversation he asked mr d'avora if he could recommend a waiting woman to his lady, hers having died on the road. the character this man gave of his mistress inclined mr d'avora to mention the place to miss mancel, who readily agreed that he should endeavour to obtain it for her. mr d'avora had engaged the man to call on him the next day by telling him he believed he might be able to recommend a most valuable young person to his lady. he was punctual to his appointment and conducted mr d'avora and louisa to mrs thornby's, that was the name of the lady in question. miss mancel was dressed with care, but of a very different sort from what is usually aimed at; all her endeavours had been to conceal her youth and beauty as much as possible under great gravity of dress, and to give her all the disadvantages consistent with neatness and cleanliness. but such art was too thin a veil to hide her charms. mrs thornby was immediately struck with her beauty, and made some scruple of taking a young person into her service whom she should look upon as a great charge, and she feared her maid might require more attention from her than she should think necessary for any servant to pay to herself. mr d'avora represented to her how cruel it was that beauty, which was looked upon as one of the most precious gifts of nature, should disqualify a young woman for obtaining a necessary provision. that this young person's prudence was so irreproachable as sufficiently secured her from any disadvantages which might naturally be feared from it. but still he allowed her person would justly deter a married woman from receiving her, and might make a cautious mother avoid it, since her good conduct would rather add to than diminish her attractions, therefore it was only with a single lady she could hope to be placed; and he was well convinced that such a one would have reason to think herself happy in so accomplished a servant; since her mind was still more amiable than her person. mrs thornby allowed what he said to be reasonable and was so charmed with louisa's appearance that she assured him she would receive her with pleasure. she was in haste for a servant, and miss mancel had no reason to delay her attendance, therefore it was agreed she should enter into her place the next day. when lady lambton took leave of louisa she would have forced her to receive a very handsome present; louisa had accepted many while she lived with her ladyship, but at this time she said it would look like receiving a compensation for the loss of sir edward; and as she chose to sacrifice both her inclinations and happiness to her regard for lady lambton, she could not be induced to accept any thing that looked like a reward for an action which if she had not thought it her duty, nothing would have prevailed with her to perform. the tenderest affections of her heart were too much concerned in what she had done to leave her the power of feeling any apprehensions of poverty; all the evils that attend it then appeared to her so entirely external that she beheld them with the calm philosophy of a stoic and not from a very contrary motive; the insensibility of each arose from a ruling passion; the stoic's from pride, hers from love. but though she feared not poverty, she saw it was advisable to fix upon some establishment as soon as it could be obtained; and therefore received great satisfaction from being assured of mrs thornby's acceptance of her services. mr d'avora was not without hopes, that if sir edward continued constant till lady lambton's death, louisa might then, without any breach of honour or gratitude, marry him; though to have engaged herself to do so, would, as she observed, have been scarcely less inexcusable than an immediate consent; therefore he advised her to assume another name, as sir edward might not choose, after she was his wife, to have it known that she had been reduced to servitude. louisa was accordingly received at mrs thornby's by the name of menil. her good sense and assiduity enabled her to acquit herself so well in her new place as greatly delighted her mistress; and though she concealed the greatest part of her accomplishments, sensible they could be of no assistance, and might on the contrary raise a prejudice against her; yet her behaviour and conversation so plainly indicated a superior education that before she had been there a week mrs thornby told her she was certain she had not been born for the station she was then in, and begged a particular account of her whole life. louisa, fearing that a compliance would render her less agreeable to her mistress, who already treated her with respect which seemed more than was due to her situation, and often appeared uneasy at seeing her perform the necessary duties of her place, intreated to be spared a task which, she said, was attended with some circumstances so melancholy as greatly affected her spirits on a particular recollection. mrs thornby's curiosity was not abated by this insinuation, and she repeated her request in a manner so importunate, and at the same time so kind, that louisa could no longer, without manifest disrespect, decline it. she began then by acquainting her that she went by a borrowed name; but had proceeded no farther in her narration than to tell her that her real name was mancel and that she had been left to the care of an aunt in her earliest infancy by parents who were obliged, for reasons she could never learn, to leave their country, when mrs thornby exclaimed, my child! my child! and sinking on her knees, with eyes and hands lifted up towards heaven, poured forth a most ardent thanksgiving, with an ecstasy of mind not to be described. her first sensation was that of gratitude to the almighty power, who had reserved so great a blessing for her; maternal tenderness alone gave rise to the succeeding emotions of her heart; she threw her arms round louisa, who on seeing her fall on her knees, and not comprehending the meaning of her action, ran to her; but struck with astonishment and reverence at the awful piety in her countenance and address, bent silent and motionless over her. mrs thornby, leaning her head on louisa's bosom, burst into such a flood of tears, and was so oppressed with joy, that the power of speech totally failed her. louisa raised her from the ground, crying, 'dear madam, what can all this mean? what does this extreme agitation of your mind give me room to hope?' 'every thing, my child! my angel! that a fond parent can bestow,' replied mrs thornby. 'i am that mother that was obliged to leave thee to another's care; and has heaven preserved my daughter, and restored her to me so lovely, so amiable! gracious providence! merciful beyond hope! teach me to thank thee as i ought for this last instance of thy goodness!' and then her whole soul seemed again poured forth in grateful adoration. louisa could scarcely believe this event was real; thus unexpectedly to meet with a parent whom she supposed lost to her for ever almost stunned her; her thoughts were so engrossed by the raptures of her joyful mother that she did not feel half her good fortune; and the delight she received in seeing her mother's happiness robbed her of every other sensation. it was some hours before mrs thornby's mind was sufficiently composed to enter into any connected conversation. from broken sentences miss mancel learnt that her father and mother, by the complicated distress of ruined fortune and the too fatal success of a duel in which mr mancel was unwillingly engaged, had been obliged to absent themselves from england. they went to one of the american colonies, in hopes of finding means to improve their circumstances, leaving the young louisa, then in her cradle, with a sister of mr mancel's, who readily undertook the care of her. they were scarcely arrived in america when mr mancel was seized with a fever, of which he soon died, and with him all their hopes. mrs mancel was left entirely destitute, at a loss how to hazard the tedious passage home, without the protection of a husband and with hardly a sufficient sum remaining to discharge the expenses of it. her melancholy situation engaged some of the inhabitants of the place to offer her all necessary accommodations, till she could find a proper opportunity of returning to england. during this time, mr thornby, a gentleman who had acquired a fortune there, saw her, and was so well pleased with her person and conduct that he very warmly solicited her to marry him. every person spoke in his favour, and urged her to consent; her poverty was no faint adviser, and with general approbation at the conclusion of the first year of her widowhood she became his wife. his affairs soon called him into a more inland part of the country, to which she attributed her never having heard from her sister, to whom she wrote an account of her husband's death; but by what miss mancel told her she imagined her letter had not been received. mr and mrs thornby continued in the same place, till about two years before her arrival in england; but his health growing extremely bad, he was advised by his physicians to return to europe. he wished to re-visit his native country but was persuaded, for the re-establishment of his constitution, to spend some time in italy. the climate at first seemed to relieve him, but his complaints returning with greater violence, he died in the latter part of the second year of his abode there. his estate in the indies he bequeathed to a nephew who lived upon the spot; but the money he had sent before him into england, which amounted to forty thousand pounds, he left to his widow. he had desired to be interred at florence, where he died. as soon as the funeral was over, and some other necessary affairs settled, mrs thornby set out for england, where she no sooner arrived than she employed intelligent persons to find out her sister-in-law and daughter, but had not received any account from them, when her daughter was restored to her as the free gift of providence. mrs thornby was now more desirous than ever to hear each minute particular that had befallen her louisa; but louisa begged that before she obeyed her orders she might have permission to communicate the happy event to mr d'avora, whose joy she knew would be nearly equal to her own. a messenger was dispatched for this purpose, and then she related circumstantially all the incidents in her short life, except her partial regard to sir edward lambton, which filial awe induced her to suppress. mrs thornby grew every day more delighted with her daughter, as her acquired accomplishments and natural excellencies became more conspicuous on longer acquaintance. her maternal love seemed to glow with greater warmth for having been so long stifled, and louisa found such delight in the tender affection of a mother that she was scarcely sensible of the agreeable change in her situation, which was now in every circumstance the most desirable. all that fortune could give she had it in her power to enjoy, and that esteem which money cannot purchase her own merit secured her, besides all the gratification a young woman can receive from general admiration. but still louisa was not happy, her fears for sir edward's life, while in so dangerous a situation, would not suffer her mind to be at peace. she might hope every thing from her mother's indulgence, but had not courage to confess her weakness, nor to intimate a wish, which might occasion her separation from a parent whose joy in their reunion still rose to rapture. chance, that deity which though blind is often a powerful friend, did what she could not prevail on herself to do. one morning the news paper of the day being brought in, mrs thornby taking it up, read to her daughter a paragraph which contained an account of a battle in germany wherein many of the english were said to be slain, but few of their names specified. louisa immediately turned pale, her work dropped out of her hand and a universal trembling seized her. mrs thornby was too attentive not to observe her daughter's distress, and so kindly inquired the reason that louisa ventured to tell her for whom she was so much interested; and gave an exact account of sir edward's address to her, her behaviour upon it, and the great regard she had for him. mrs thornby affectionately chid her for having till then concealed a circumstance whereon so much of her happiness depended, and offered to write to lady lambton immediately, and acquaint her that if want of fortune was her only objection to miss mancel, it no longer subsisted, for that she was ready to answer any demands of that sort which her ladyship should choose to make, as she thought she should no way so well secure her daughter's happiness as by uniting her with a gentleman of sir edward's amiable character, and whose affection for her had so evidently appeared. louisa could not reject an offer which might rescue sir edward from the dangers that threatened him, and with pleasure thought of rewarding so generous and so sincere a passion. perhaps she found some gratification in shewing that gratitude alone dictated her refusal. the letter was immediately dispatched, and received with great pleasure by lady lambton, whose esteem for miss mancel would have conquered any thing but her pride. she accepted the proposal in the politest manner, and that sir edward might be acquainted with his happiness as soon as possible, dispatched her steward into germany, ordering him to travel with the utmost expedition, and gave him mrs thornby's letter, with one from herself, containing an account of the great change in louisa's fortune. the servant obeyed the directions given him and performed the journey in as short a time as possible; but as he entered the camp, he met sir edward indeed, but not as a future bridegroom. he was borne on men's shoulders, pale and almost breathless, just returned from an attack, where by his too great rashness he had received a mortal wound. he followed him with an aching heart to his tent, where sir edward recovering his senses, knew him, and asked what brought him there so opportunely, 'to close his eyes, and pay the last duties, to one of whose infancy he had been so careful?' for this servant lived in the family when sir edward was born, and loved him almost with paternal fondness, which occasioned his desire of being himself the messenger of such joyful news. the poor man was scarcely able to answer a question expressed in such melancholy terms, and was doubtful whether he ought to acquaint him with a circumstance which might only increase his regret at losing a life which would have been blessed to his utmost wish, but incapable in that state of mind of inventing any plausible reason, he told him the truth, and gave him the two letters. the pleasure sir edward received at the account of louisa's good fortune, and the still greater joy he felt at so evident a proof of her regard for him, made him for a time forget his pains, and flattered the good old steward with hopes that his case was not so desperate as the surgeons represented it; but sir edward told him he knew all hope was vain. 'i must accuse myself,' said he, 'of losing that lovely generous woman what a treasure would have gladdened my future days had i not rashly, i fear criminally, shortened them, not by my own hand indeed, but how little different! mad with despair, i have sought all means of obtaining what i imagined the only cure for my distempered mind. weary of life, since i could not possess her in whom all my joys, all the wishes of my soul were centred, i seized every occasion of exposing myself to the enemy's sword. contrary to my hopes, i escaped many times, when death seemed unavoidable, but grown more desperate by disappointment, i this morning went on an attack where instead of attempting to conquer, all my endeavour was to be killed, and at last i succeeded, how fatally! oh! my louisa,' continued he, 'and do i then lose thee by my own impatience! had i, like thee, submitted to the disposition of providence, had i waited, from its mighty power, that relief which it alone can give, i might now be expecting with rapture the hour that should have united us for ever, instead of preparing for that which shall summon me to the grave, where even thou shalt be forgotten, and the last traces of thy lovely image effaced from my too faithful remembrance. how just are the decrees of the almighty! thy patience, thy resignation and uncommon virtues are rewarded as they ought; my petulance, my impatience, which, as it were, flew in the face of my maker, and fought to lose a life which he had entrusted to my keeping, and required me to preserve, is deservedly punished. i am deprived of that existence which i would now endure whole ages of pain to recall, were it to be done, but it is past and i submit to thy justice, thou all wise disposer of my fate.' the agitation of sir edward's mind had given him a flow of false spirits, but at length they failed, leaving him only the more exhausted. he kept mrs thornby's letter on his pillow, and read it many times. frequent were his expressions of regret for his own rashness, and he felt much concern from the fear that louisa would be shocked with his death. her mother's proceedings convinced him she was not void of regard for him; he now saw that he had not vainly flattered himself when he imagined, from many little circumstances, that her heart spoke in his favour; and the force she must have put on her affections raised his opinion of her almost to adoration. he often told his faithful attendant that in those moments he felt a joy beyond what he had ever yet experienced, in believing louisa loved him; but these emotions were soon checked by reflecting, that if she did so, she could not hear of his death without suffering many heart-felt pangs. he lingered for three days, without the least encouragement to hope for life, and on the last died with great resignation, receiving his death as a punishment justly due to his want of submission in the divine will, and that forward petulance which drove him to desperation in not succeeding to his wishes just at the time that to his impetuous passions, and short-sighted reason, appeared most desirable. the afflicted steward wrote an account, of this melancholy event to lady lambton, and stayed to attend sir edward's body home, that his last remains might be deposited in the family vault. lady lambton received these mournful tidings with excessive grief, and communicated them to mrs thornby. louisa, from the time of the messenger's setting out for germany, had been pleasing herself with reflecting on the joyful reception he would meet with from sir edward, and had frequently anticipated, in imagination, the pleasures she and sir edward would receive at seeing each other after so melancholy a separation. she now every hour expected him, and when mrs thornby began to prepare her against surprise, she imagined he was arrived and that her kind mother was endeavouring to guard her against too sudden joy. she attempted to break through the delay which must arise from all this caution by begging to know if he was in the house, desiring her not to fear any ill effects from his sudden appearance, and rose from her seat, in order to attend her mother to sir edward. mrs thornby made her sit down again, and with a countenance which spoke very different things from what she expected, acquainted her with the fatal end of all her hopes. louisa was shocked in proportion to the degree to which she was before elated. she sunk lifeless in the arms of her mother, who had clasped her to her breast, and it was a considerable time before their cruel endeavours to bring her to her senses succeeded. her first sensation was an agony of grief; she accused herself of being the occasion of sir edward's death, and from the unfortunate consequences of her actions, arraigned her motives for them. mrs thornby and mr d'avora, whom she had sent for on this occasion, endeavoured to convince her she was no way to blame, that what she had done was laudable, and she ought not to judge of an action by its consequences, which must always remain in the hands of the almighty, to whom we are accountable for our motives, but who best knows when they ought to be crowned with success. when they had prevailed with her to exculpate herself, her piety and patience made it the more easy to persuade her calmly to submit to the decrees of providence. she soon saw that to suffer was her duty, and though she might grieve, she must not repine. the good advice of her two friends was some support to her mind, but her chief strength arose from her frequent petitions to him who tried her in sufferings to grant her patience to bear them with due resignation. such addresses, fervently and sincerely made, can never be unavailing, and she found the consolation she asked for. her affliction was deep, but silent and submissive, and in no part of her life did she ever appear more amiable than on this trying occasion when her extreme sensibility could never extort one word or thought which was not dictated by humble piety, and the most exemplary resignation. that sir edward had had so just a sense of his own error, and so properly repented his impatience was a great consolation, and she hoped to meet him whom she had so soon lost, in a state of happiness where they should never more be parted. mrs morgan had borne a tender share in all louisa's joys and sorrows; for in the frequency of her correspondence every circumstance that attended the latter was faithfully imparted, though the communication was less free on mrs morgan's side, who, contrary to her natural temper, acted with reserve on this particular; induced by a double motive, a belief that it was her duty to conceal her husband's faults, and a desire to spare her friend the pain of suffering participation in her vexations. she longed to attend miss mancel in her affliction, but dared not urge a request with which she knew mr morgan would not comply. he lived entirely in the country and seemed to be totally insensible to the pleasure of contributing to the happiness of others. all his tenderness was confined within the narrow circle of himself. mrs morgan daily beheld distress and poverty without the power of relieving it, for his parsimony would not let him trust her with the disposal of what money was necessary for her own expenses, his sister always brought what they in their wisdoms judged requisite, and mrs morgan was treated in those affairs like a little child. in matters too trifling to come within mr morgan's notice, miss susanna, fearing her sister should enjoy a moment's ease, took care to perform her part in teasing, as if their joint business was only to keep that poor woman in a constant state of suffering. to complete her vexation, mr morgan, who had always drank hard, increased so much in that vice that few days passed wherein he was not totally intoxicated. mrs morgan saw no means of redress, and therefore thought it best to suffer without complaint; she considered that, by contention, she could not prevail over their ill temper, but must infallibly sour her own, and destroy that composure of mind necessary to enable every one to acquit herself well in all christian duties. by this patient acquiescence her virtues were refined, though her health suffered, and she found some satisfaction in reflecting that him whom she most wished to please would graciously accept her endeavours, however unavailing they might be towards obtaining the favour of those on whom her earthly peace depended. at this part of mrs maynard's narration we were again interrupted by dinner, but the arrival of some visitors in the afternoon afforded lamont and myself an opportunity of begging her to give us the sequel, and for that purpose we chose a retired seat in the garden, when she thus proceeded. the next six years of miss mancel's life passed in a perfect calm; this may appear too cold an expression, since her situation was such as would by most people have been thought consummate happiness. mrs thornby's ample fortune enabled them to live in great figure, and miss mancel's beauty and understanding rendered her the object of general admiration. had her conduct been less admirable, she could not but have acquired many lovers; it is not strange then, such as she was, that she should be addressed by many men of distinguished rank and fortune. wherever she appeared, she attracted all eyes and engrossed the whole attention. mrs thornby, more delighted with the admiration paid her daughter than she herself, carried her frequently into public and kept a great deal of company. louisa could not be insensible to general approbation, but was hurt with the serious attachment of those who more particularly addressed her. as she was determined never to marry, thinking it a sort of infidelity to a man whose death was owing to his affection for her, she always took the first opportunity of discouraging every pursuit of that kind; and restrained the natural vivacity of her temper lest it should give rise to any hopes which could end only in disappointment. she endeavoured to make publicly known her fixed determination never to marry; but as those resolutions are seldom thought unalterable, many men flattered themselves that their rank and fortunes, with their personal merits, might conquer so strange an intention, and therefore would not desist without an express refusal. in the seventh year after mrs thornby's return into england, she was taken off by a fever, and left miss mancel, at twenty-four years of age, in possession of forty thousand pounds, a fortune which could not afford her consolation for the loss of so tender a parent. having nothing to attach her to any particular part of the kingdom, she more than ever longed to settle in mrs morgan's neighbourhood, but feared to occasion some new uneasiness to her friend, and was sensible that if, when vicinity favoured them, they should be denied the pleasure of each other's company, or very much restrained in it, the mortification would be still greater than when distance would not permit them to meet. she had the satisfaction of hearing from her friend that mr morgan seemed to esteem her more than for some years after their marriage, and often gave her reason to think he did not despise her understanding and was well pleased with her conduct. the truth was, this gentleman's eyes were at last opened to the merits of his wife's behaviour, the long trial he had made of her obedience, which was implicit and performed with apparent cheerfulness; if compared with his sister's conduct, could not fail of appearing in an amiable light, when he was no longer beset with the malicious insinuations of susanna, who had bestowed herself on a young ensign whose small hopes of preferment in the army reduced him to accept that lady and her fortune as a melancholy resource, but his only certain provision. this alteration in mr morgan's temper gave mrs morgan and louisa room to hope that he might not always continue averse to their becoming neighbours. while they were flattering themselves with this agreeable prospect, mr morgan was seized with a paralytic disorder which at first attacked his limbs, but in a very short time affected his head so much as almost to deprive him of his senses. he was totally confined to his bed, and seemed not to know any one but his wife. he would take neither medicine nor nourishment except from her hands; as he was entirely lame, she was obliged to feed him, and he was not easy if she was out of the room. even in the night he would frequently call to her; if she appeared at his bedside, he was then contented, being sure she was in the chamber, but would fall into violent passions which he had not words to express (for he was almost deprived of his speech) if she did not instantly appear. when miss mancel heard of his deplorable situation, she was under the greatest apprehensions for her friend's health, from so close and so fatiguing an attendance, and begged she might come to her, as he was then incapable of taking umbrage at it. the offer was too agreeable to be rejected, and these ladies met after so long an enforced separation with a joy not to be imagined by any heart less susceptible than theirs of the tender and delicate sensations of friendship. louisa was almost as constantly in mr morgan's room in the day time as his wife, though she kept out of his sight, and thus they had full opportunity of conversing together; for though the sick man often called mrs morgan, yet as soon as he saw she was in the chamber he sunk again into that state of stupefaction from which he never recovered. mrs morgan put a bed up in his room, and lay there constantly, but as he was as solicitous to know she was present in the night, as in the day, she could never quite undress herself the whole time of his sickness. in this condition mr morgan lay for three months, when death released him from this world; and brought a seasonable relief to mrs morgan, whose health was so impaired by long confinement and want of quiet rest that she could not much longer have supported it; and vexation had before so far impaired her constitution that nothing could have enabled her to undergo so long a fatigue, but the infinite joy she received from miss mancel's company. when mr morgan's will was opened, it appeared that he had left his wife an estate which fell to him about a month before the commencement of his illness, where we now live. the income of it is a thousand pounds a year, the land was thoroughly stocked and the house in good repair. mr morgan had at his marriage settled a jointure on his wife of four hundred pounds a year rent charge, and in a codicil made just after his sister's wedding, he bequeathed her two thousand pounds in ready money. after mrs morgan had settled all her affairs, it was judged necessary that, for the recovery of her health, she should go to tunbridge, to which place miss mancel accompanied her. as mrs morgan's dress confined her entirely at home, they were not in the way of making many acquaintances; but lady mary jones being in the house, and having long been known to miss mancel, though no intimacy had subsisted between them, they now became much connected. the two friends had agreed to retire into the country, and though both of an age and fortune to enjoy all the pleasures which most people so eagerly pursue, they were desirous of fixing in a way of life where all their satisfactions might be rational and as conducive to eternal as to temporal happiness. they had laid the plan of many things, which they have since put into execution, and engaged mr d'avora to live with them, both as a valuable friend and a useful assistant in the management of their affairs. lady mary was at that time so much in the same disposition, and so charmed with such part of their scheme as they communicated to her, that she begged to live with them for half a year, by which time they would be able to see whether they chose her continuance there, and she should have experienced how far their way of life was agreeable to her. lady mary's merit was too apparent not to obtain their ready consent to her proposal, and when they had the satisfaction of seeing mrs morgan much recovered by the waters, and no farther benefit was expected, they came to this house. they found it sufficiently furnished, and in such good order, that they settled in it without trouble. the condition of the poor soon drew their attention, and they instituted schools for the young and almshouses for the old. as they ordered everything in their own family with great economy, and thought themselves entitled only to a part of their fortunes, their large incomes allowed them full power to assist many whose situations differed very essentially from theirs. the next expense they undertook, after this establishment of schools and almshouses, was that of furnishing a house for every young couple that married in their neighbourhood, and providing them with some sort of stock, which by industry would prove very conducive towards their living in a comfortable degree of plenty. they have always paid nurses for the sick, sent them every proper refreshment, and allow the same sum weekly which the sick person could have gained, that the rest of the family may not lose any part of their support by the incapacity of one. when they found their fortunes would still afford a larger communication, they began to receive the daughters of persons in office, or other life-incomes, who, by their parents' deaths, were left destitute of provision; and when, among the lower sort, they meet with an uncommon genius, they will admit her among the number. the girls you see sit in the room with us are all they have at present in that way; they are educated in such a manner as will render them acceptable where accomplished women of a humble rank and behaviour are wanted, either for the care of a house or children. these girls are never out of the room with us, except at breakfast and dinner, and after eight o'clock in the evening, at which times they are under the immediate care of the housekeeper, with whom they are allowed to walk out for an hour or two every fine day, lest their being always in our company should make them think their situation above a menial state; they attend us while we are dressing, and we endeavour that the time they are thus employed shall not pass without improvement. they are clad coarse and plain for the same reason, as nothing has a stronger influence on vanity than dress. each of us takes our week alternately of more particular inspection over the performances of these girls, and they all read by turns aloud to such of us as are employed about any thing that renders it not inconvenient to listen to them. by this sort of education my friends hope to do extensive good, for they will not only serve these poor orphans, but confer a great benefit on all who shall be committed to their care or have occasion for their service; and one can set no bounds to the advantages that may arise from persons of excellent principles, and enlarged understandings, in the situations wherein they are to be placed. in every thing their view is to be as beneficial to society as possible, and they are such economists even in their charities as to order them in a manner that as large a part of mankind as possible should feel the happy influence of their bounty. in this place, and in this way of life, the three ladies already mentioned have lived upwards of twenty years; for lady mary jones joined her fortune to those of the two friends, never choosing to quit them, and is too agreeable not to be very desirable in the society. miss mancel has often declared that she plainly sees the merciful hand of providence bringing good out of evil, in an event which she, at the time it happened, thought her greatest misfortune; for had she married sir edward lambton, her sincere affection for him would have led her to conform implicitly to all his inclinations, her views would have been confined to this earth, and too strongly attached to human objects to have properly obeyed the giver of the blessings she so much valued, who is generally less thought of in proportion as he is more particularly bountiful. her age, her fortune and compliant temper might have seduced her into dissipation and have made her lose all the heart-felt joys she now daily experiences, both when she reflects on the past, contemplates the present, or anticipates the future. i think i ought to mention mrs morgan's behaviour to her half-sisters. sir charles died about five years ago, and through his wife's extravagance left his estate over-charged with debts and two daughters and a son unprovided for. lady melvyn's jointure was not great; sir george, her eldest son, received but just sufficient out of his estate to maintain himself genteelly. by the first lady melvyn's marriage settlements, six thousand pounds were settled on her children, which, as mrs morgan was her only child, became her property; this she divided between her stepmother's three younger children, and has besides conferred several favours on that family and frequently makes them valuable presents. the young gentlemen and ladies often pass some time here; lady melvyn made us a visit in the first year of her widowhood, but our way of life is so ill suited to her taste that, except during that dull period of confinement, she has never favoured us with her company. my cousin, i believe, was going to mention some other of the actions of these ladies, which seemed a favourite topic with her, when the rest of the company came into the garden, and we thought ourselves obliged to join them. the afternoons, in this family, generally concluded with one of their delightful concerts; but as soon as the visitors were departed, the ladies said, they would amuse us that evening with an entertainment which might possibly be more new to us, a rustic ball. the occasion of it was the marriage of a young woman who had been brought up by them and had for three years been in service, but having for that whole time been courted by a young farmer of good character, she had been married in the morning, and that evening was dedicated to the celebration of their wedding. we removed into the servants' hall, a neat room, and well lighted, where we found a very numerous assembly; sixteen couples were preparing to dance; the rest were only spectators. the bride was a pretty, genteel girl, dressed in a white calico gown, white ribbons, and in every particular neat to an excess. the bridegroom was a well looking young man, as clean and sprucely dressed as his bride, though not with such emblematic purity. this couple, contrary to the custom of finer people on such occasions, were to begin the ball together; but lamont asked leave to be the bride's partner for two or three dances, a compliment not disagreeable to the ladies, and highly pleasing to the rest of the company, except the bride, whose vanity one might plainly see did not find gratification enough in having so genteel a partner to recompense her for the loss of her colin; he, however, seemed well satisfied with the honour conferred on his wife. that the bridegroom might not be without his share of civility, the ladies gave him leave to dance with the eldest of the young girls more particularly under their care, till his wife was restored to him. we sat above an hour with this joyous company, whose mirth seemed as pure as it was sincere, and i never saw a ball managed with greater decorum. there is a coquetry and gallantry appropriated to all conditions, and to see the different manner in which it was expressed in this little set, from what one is accustomed to behold in higher life, afforded me great amusement; and the little arts used among these young people to captivate each other were accompanied with so much innocence as made it excessively pleasing. we stayed about an hour and half in this company, and then went to supper. my cousin told me that miss mancel gave the young bride a fortune, and that she might have her share of employment and contribute to the provision for her family had stocked her dairy and furnished her with poultry. this, mrs maynard added, was what they did for all the young women they brought up, if they proved deserving; shewing, likewise, the same favour to any other girls in the parish who, during their single state, behaved with remarkable industry and sobriety. by this mark of distinction they were incited to a proper behaviour, and appeared more anxious for this benevolence on account of the honour that arose from it than for the pecuniary advantage. as the ladies' conduct in this particular was uncommon, i could not forbear telling them, that i was surprised to find so great encouragement given to matrimony by persons whose choice shewed them little inclined in its favour. 'does it surprise you,' answered mrs morgan smiling, 'to see people promote that in others which they themselves do not choose to practise? we consider matrimony as absolutely necessary to the good of society; it is a general duty; but as, according to all ancient tenures, those obliged to perform knight's service, might, if they chose to enjoy their own firesides, be excused by sending deputies to supply their places; so we, using the same privilege substitute many others, and certainly much more promote wedlock than we could do by entering into it ourselves. this may wear the appearance of some devout persons of a certain religion who, equally indolent and timorous, when they do not choose to say so many prayers as they think their duty, pay others for supplying their deficiencies.' 'in this case,' said i, 'your example is somewhat contradictory, and should it be entirely followed, it would confine matrimony to the lower rank of people, among whom it seems going out of fashion, as well as with their superiors; nor indeed can we wonder at it, for dissipation and extravagance are now become such universal vices that it requires great courage in any to enter into an indissoluble society. instead of being surprised at the common disinclination to marriage, i am rather disposed to wonder when i see a man venture to render himself liable to the expenses of a woman who lavishes both her time and money on every fashionable folly, and still more, when one of your sex subjects herself to be reduced to poverty by a husband's love for gaming, and to neglect by his inconstancy.' 'i am of your opinion,' said miss trentham, 'to face the enemy's cannon appears to me a less effort of courage than to put our happiness into the hands of a person who perhaps will not once reflect on the importance of the trust committed to his or her care. for the case is pretty equal as to both sexes, each can destroy the other's peace. ours seems to have found out the means of being on an equality with yours. few fortunes are sufficient to stand a double expense. the husband must attend the gaming-table and horse-races; the wife must have a profusion of ornaments for her person, and cards for her entertainment. the care of the estate and family are left in the hands of servants who, in imitation of their masters and mistresses, will have their pleasures, and these must be supplied out of the fortunes of those they serve. man and wife are often nothing better than assistants in each other's ruin; domestic virtues are exploded, and social happiness despised as dull and insipid. 'the example of the great infects the whole community. the honest tradesman who wishes for a wife to assist him in his business, and to take care of his family, dare not marry when every woman of his own rank, emulating her superiors, runs into such fashions of dress as require great part of his gains to supply, and the income which would have been thought sufficient some years ago for the wife of a gentleman of large estate will now scarcely serve to enable a tradesman's wife to appear like her neighbours. they too must have their evening parties, they must attend the places of public diversion, and must be allowed perpetual dissipation without control. the poor man sighs after the days when his father married; then cleanliness was a woman's chief personal ornament, half the quantity of silk sufficed for her clothes, variety of trumpery ornaments were not thought of, her husband's business employed her attention, and her children were the objects of her care. when he came home, wearied with the employment of the day, he found her ready to receive him, and was not afraid of being told she was gone to the play or opera, or of finding her engaged in a party at cards, while he was reduced to spend his evening alone. but in a world so changed, a man dare not venture on marriage which promises him no comfort, and may occasion his ruin, nor wishes for children whose mother's neglect may expose them to destruction. 'it is common to blame the lower sort of people for imitating their superiors; but it is equally the fault of every station, and therefore those of higher rank should consider it is their duty to set no examples that may hurt others. a degree of subordination is always acquiesced in, but while the nobleman lives like a prince, the gentleman will rise to the proper expenses of a nobleman, and the tradesman take that vacant rank which the gentleman has quitted; nor will he be ashamed of becoming a bankrupt when he sees the fortunes of his superiors mouldering away and knows them to be oppressed with debts. whatever right people may have to make free with their own happiness, a beneficial example is a duty which they indispensably owe to society, and the profuse have the extravagance of their inferiors to answer for. the same may be said for those who contribute to the dissipation of others, by being dissipated themselves.' 'but, madam,' interrupted lamont, 'do you think it incumbent on people of fashion to relinquish their pleasures, lest their example should lead others to neglect their business?' 'i should certainly,' replied miss trentham, 'answer you in the affirmative were the case as you put it, but much more so in the light i see it. every station has its duties, those of the great are more various than those of their inferiors. they are not so confined to economical attentions, nor ought they to be totally without them; but their more extensive influence, their greater leisure to serve their creator with all the powers of their minds, constitute many duties on their part to which dissipation is as great an enemy as it can be to those more entirely domestic; therefore on each side there is an equal neglect; and why should we expect that such as we imagine have fewer advantages of education should be more capable of resisting temptations and dedicating themselves solely to the performance of their duties, than persons whose minds are more improved?' 'i cannot deny,' answered lamont, 'but what you say is just, yet i fear you have uttered truths that must continue entirely speculative; though if any people have a right to turn reformers, you ladies are best qualified, since you begin by reforming yourselves; you practise more than you preach, and therefore must always be listened to with attention.' 'we do not set up for reformers,' said miss mancel, 'we wish to regulate ourselves by the laws laid down to us, and as far as our influence can extend, endeavour to enforce them; beyond that small circle all is foreign to us; we have sufficient employment in improving ourselves; to mend the world requires much abler hands.' 'when you talk of laws, madam, by which you would regulate your actions,' said lamont, 'you raise a just alarm; as for matter of opinion, every one may demand an equal power, but laws seem to require obedience; pray, from whence do you take those which you wish to make your rule of life?' 'from whence,' answered miss mancel, 'should a christian take them, from the alcoran, think you, or from the wiser confucius, or would you seek in coke on littleton that you may escape the iron hand of the legislative power? no, surely, the christian's law is written in the bible, there, independent of the political regulations of particular communities, is to be found the law of the supreme legislator. there, indeed, is contained the true and invariable law of nations; and according to our performance of it, we shall be tried by a judge whose wisdom and impartiality secure him from error, and whose power is able to execute his own decrees. this is the law i meant, and whoever obeys it can never offend essentially against the private ordinances of any community. this all to whom it has been declared are bound to obey, my consent to receive it for the rule of my actions is not material; for as whoever lives in england must submit to the laws of the country, though he may be ignorant of many of the particulars of them, so whoever lives in a christian land is obliged to obey the laws of the gospel, or to suffer for infringing them; in both cases, therefore, it is prudent for every man to acquaint himself thoroughly with these ordinances, which he cannot break with impunity.' 'if such obedience be necessary,' said lamont, 'what do you imagine will be the fate of most of the inhabitants of christendom; for you will allow that they do not regulate their conduct by such severe commands?' 'what will be their fate,' replied miss mancel, 'i do not pretend even to suppose, my business is to take care of my own. the laws against robbery are not rendered either less just or less binding by the numbers that daily steal or who demand your purse on the highway. laws are not abrogated by being infringed, nor does the disobedience of others make the observance of them less my duty. i am required to answer only for myself, and it is not man whom i am ordered to imitate. his failings will not excuse mine. humility forbids me to censure others, and prudence obliges me to avoid copying them.' lamont thought miss mancel too severe in her doctrine; but there was something so respectable in her severity, that he forbore to contest it, and owned to me afterwards that, while she spoke and he contemplated that amiable society, his heart silently acquiesced in the justness of her sentiments. we parted at our usual hour; and at the same time the company in the lower part of the house broke up, eleven o'clock being the stated hour for them on those occasions to return to their respective homes. the next morning, as i went downstairs, i met the housekeeper and entered into conversation with her, for which the preceding night's festivity furnished me with topics. from her i learnt that since the ladies had been established in that house they had given fortunes from twenty to a hundred pounds, as merit and occasion directed, to above thirty young women, and that they had seldom celebrated fewer than two marriages in a year, sometimes more. nor does their bounty cease on the wedding-day, for they are always ready to assist them on any emergency; and watch with so careful an eye over the conduct of these young people as proves of much greater service to them than the money they bestow. they kindly, but strongly, reprehend the first error, and guard them by the most prudent admonitions against a repetition of their fault. by little presents they shew their approbation of those who behave well, always proportioning their gifts to the merits of the person; which are therefore looked upon as the most honourable testimony of their conduct, and are treasured up as valuable marks of distinction. this encouragement has great influence, and makes them vie with each other in endeavours to excel in sobriety, cleanliness, meekness and industry. she told me also that the young women bred up at the schools these ladies support are so much esteemed for many miles round that it is not uncommon for young farmers, who want sober, good wives, to obtain them from thence, and prefer them to girls of much better fortunes, educated in a different manner, as there have been various instances wherein their industry and quickness of understanding, which in a great measure arises from the manner of their education, has proved more profitable to their husbands than a more ample dower. she added that she keeps a register of all the boys and girls, which, by her good ladies' means, have been established in the world; whereby it appears that thirty have been apprenticed out to good trades, three score fixed in excellent places, and thirty married. and it seldom happens that any one takes an apprentice or servant till they have first sent to her ladies to know if they have any to recommend. i expressed a desire to see the schools, which she obligingly offered to shew me, but feared we could not then have time to go thither, as breakfast was just ready. while i was talking with her, i observed that the fingers of one of her hands were contracted quite close to the palm. i took notice of it to her. 'oh! sir,' said she, 'it was the luckiest accident that could possibly be; as i was obliged to work for my support, i was very much shocked at my recovery from a fever to find myself deprived of the use of a hand, but still tried if i could get myself received into service; as i was sensible i could, notwithstanding my infirmity, perform the business of a housekeeper; but no one would take me in this maimed condition. at last i was advised to apply to these ladies and found what had hitherto been an impediment was a stronger recommendation than the good character i had from my last place; and i am sure i have reason to value these distorted fingers, more than ever any one did the handsomest hands that ever nature made. but,' added she, smiling, 'few of my fellow-servants are better qualified; the cook cannot walk without crutches, the kitchen maid has but one eye, the dairy maid is almost stone deaf, and the housemaid has but one hand; and yet, perhaps, there is no family where the business is better done; for gratitude, and a conviction that this is the only house into which we can be received, makes us exert ourselves to the utmost; and most people fail not from a deficiency of power, but of inclination. even their musicians, if you observed it, sir, are much in the same condition. the steward, indeed, must be excepted; he is one whom the good mr d'avora chose for the sake of his integrity some years before he died, as his successor in the care of the ladies' affairs, and employed him for some time under his own inspection, that he might be sure he was fit for the purpose, though he persuaded the ladies to receive their own rents and direct all the chief concerns of their estates, which they have done ever since, so that theirs is rather a household than a land steward. but, except this gentleman and the shepherd, there is not one of their musicians that is not under some natural disadvantage; the defects of two of them are so visible i need not point them out, but of the other two, one is subject to violent fits of the stone, and the other to the asthma. thus disabled from hard labour, though they find some employment in the manufacture, yet the additional profit which accrues from their playing here adds much to their comfort, as their infirmities render greater expenses necessary to them than to others in their station.' there was something so whimsically good in the conduct of the ladies in these particulars, as at first made me smile; but when i considered it more thoroughly, i perceived herein a refinement of charity which, though extremely uncommon, was entirely rational. i found that not contented with merely bestowing on the indigent as large a part of their fortunes as they can possibly spare, they carry the notion of their duty to the poor so far as to give continual attention to it, and endeavour so to apply all they spend as to make almost every shilling contribute towards the support of some person in real necessity; by this means every expense bears the merit of a donation in the sight of him who knows their motives; and their constant application is directed towards the relief of others, while to superficial observers they seem only providing for their own convenience. the fashionable tradesman is sure not to have them in the list of his customers; but should he, through the caprice of the multitude, be left without business, and see his elated hopes blasted, in all probability he will find these ladies his friends. those whose youth renders them disregarded, or whose old age breeds neglect, will here meet with deserved encouragement. this sort of economy pleases me much, it is of the highest kind, since it regards those riches which neither moth nor rust can corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal; and is within the reach of every person's imitation, for the poorest may thus turn their necessary expenses into virtuous actions. in this they excel others, as much as the bee does the common butterfly; they both feed on the same flowers, but while the butterfly only gains a transient subsistence and flies and flutters in all its gaudy pride, the bee lays up a precious store for its future well-being, and may brave all the rigours of winter. man, indeed, often encroaches on the labours of the bee and disappoints it of its reasonable hope; but no one without our own concurrence can despoil us of the treasures laid up in heaven. as the good housekeeper foretold, the bell soon summoned me to breakfast; which, like every other hour spent in that society, was rendered delightful by their rational cheerfulness and polite freedom. we offered to take our leave, but should have been disappointed had we not been asked to prolong our visit; nor were we so insincere as to make much resistance to this agreeable invitation; we expressed some fears of interrupting their better employments; to which mrs morgan replied by assuring us that we did not do so in the least; but added, 'i will tell you plainly, gentlemen, the only alteration we shall wish to make, if you will favour us with your company a few days longer. our family devotions are regular, as you were strangers we have not summoned you to them, but for the rest of your visit we must beg leave to alter that method; for we do not think it a proper example to our servants to suffer any one in this house to be excluded from them; though as your coming was sudden, and has been prolonged only, as it were, from hour to hour, we at first did not think it necessary to require your presence.' you may imagine we expressed ourselves obliged by this frankness; and, for my own part, i was glad of what appeared to me like being received into a community of saints; but was forced to wait for it till night, the devotion of the morning having been paid before breakfast, as was usual in that family. mrs maynard accompanied us that morning into the park, and having placed ourselves on a green bank under an elm, by the side of the canal, i called on her to perform her promise, and increase my acquaintance with the rest of the ladies, by giving some account of them. 'i shall not the less readily comply,' she answered, 'for being able to bring what i have to say of them into less compass, than i did my history of mrs morgan and miss mancel, of whom, when i begin to speak, i always find it difficult to leave off, and am led by my fondness for the subject into a detail, perhaps too circumstantial. lady mary jones, by what i have already said, you may have perceived must come next in order.' the history of lady mary jones lady mary was daughter to the earl of brumpton by his second wife, who survived the birth of her child but a few hours. the earl died when his daughter was about ten years old, and having before his second marriage mortgaged to its full value all of his estate which was not settled on a son born of his first lady, his daughter was left entirely destitute of provision but as she was too young to be much affected with this circumstance, so she had little reason to regret it, when an increase of years might have awakened a sensibility to that particular. immediately on her father's death she was taken by her aunt, lady sheerness, who declared she should look upon her as her own child, and indeed her indulgence verified the truth of her declaration. lady sheerness was a widow; her jointure considerable; and her lord at his decease left her some thousand pounds in ready money. when he died she was about twenty-five years old, with a good person and infinite vivacity. an unbridled imagination, ungovernable spirits, with a lively arch countenance and a certain quaintness of expression gained her the reputation of being possessed of a great deal of wit. her lord, in the decline of life, had been captivated by her youthful charms, when she was but sixteen years old. his extreme fondness for her led him to indulge her vivacity in all its follies; and frequently while he was laid up at home in the gout her ladyship was the finest and gayest woman at every place of public resort. often, when the acuteness of his pains obliged him to seek relief from the soporific influence of opium, she collected half the town, and though his rest was disturbed every moment by a succession of impetuous raps at the door, he was never offended; on the contrary, he thought himself obliged to her for staying at home, which she had assured him was because she could not bear to go abroad when he was so ill. this, as the greatest mark of her tenderness he ever received, he failed not to acknowledge with gratitude. she scarcely took more pleasure in having a train of admirers than his lordship felt from it; his vanity was flattered in seeing his wife the object of admiration and he fancied himself much envied for so valuable a possession. her coquetry charmed him, as the follies of that vivacity of which he was so fond. he had no tincture of jealousy in his whole composition; and acknowledged as favours conferred on himself the attentions paid to his wife. though lord sheerness's conduct may appear rather uncommon, yet it seemed the result of some discernment, or at least his lady's disposition was such as justifies this opinion; she had received a genteel education; no external accomplishments had been neglected; but her understanding and principles were left to the imperfection of nature corrupted by custom. religion was thought too serious a thing for so young a person. the opinion of the world was always represented to her as the true criterion by which to judge of everything, and fashion supplied the place of every more material consideration. with a mind thus formed, she entered the world at sixteen, surrounded with pomp and splendour, with every gratification at her command that an affluent fortune and an indulgent husband could bestow: by nature inclined to no vice, free from all dangerous passions, the charm of innocence accompanied her vivacity; undesigning and artless, her follies were originally the consequences of her situation, not constitutional, though habit engrafted them so strongly that at length they appeared natural to her. surrounded with every snare that can entrap a youthful mind, she became a victim to dissipation and the love of fashionable pleasures; destitute of any stable principles, she was carried full sail down the stream of folly. in the love of coquetry and gaming few equalled her; no one could exceed her in the pursuit of every trifling amusement; she had neither leisure nor inclination to think, her life passed in an uninterrupted succession of engagements, without reflection on the past or consideration on the future consequences. the lightness of her conduct exposed her to the addresses of many gay men during the life of her lord; but an attachment was too serious a thing for her; and while her giddiness and perpetual dissipation exposed her to suspicion, they preserved her from the vice of which she was suspected: she daily passed through the ordeal trial; every step she took was dangerous, but she came off unhurt. her reputation was indeed doubtful, but her rank and fortune, and the continual amusements which her house yielded to her acquaintance, rendered her generally caressed. her lord's death made no alteration in her way of life; and as her mind was never fixed an hour on any subject, she thought not long enough of marriage to prepare for that state and therefore continued a widow. she was upwards of forty years old, unchanged in anything but her person, when she took lady mary jones, i will not say into her care, for that word never entered into her vocabulary, but into her house. lady mary had naturally a very good understanding, and much vivacity; the latter met with everything that could assist in its increase in the company of lady sheerness, the other was never thought of: she was initiated into every diversion at an age when other girls are confined to their nursery. her aunt was fond of her and therefore inclined to indulgence, besides she thought the knowledge of the world, which in her opinion was the most essential qualification for a woman of fashion, was no way to be learnt but by an early acquaintance with it. lady mary's age and vivacity rendered this doctrine extremely agreeable, she was pretty and very lively and entertaining in her conversation, therefore at fifteen years of age she became the most caressed person in every company. she entered into all the fashionable tastes, was coquettish and extravagant; for lady sheerness very liberally furnished her with money and felt a sort of pride in having a niece distinguished by the fineness of her dress and her profusion in every expense, as it was well known to have no other source but in her ladyship's generosity. though lady mary received much adulation, and was the object of general courtship, yet she had no serious love made to her till she was between sixteen and seventeen, when she accompanied her aunt to scarborough: she was there very assiduously followed by a gentleman reputed of a large fortune in wales. he was gay and well-bred, his person moderately agreeable, his understanding specious and his manner insinuating. there was nothing very engaging in the man, except the appearance of a very tender attachment. she had before found great pleasure in being admired; but her vanity was still more flattered in being loved: she knew herself capable of amusing; but till now had never been able to give either pleasure or pain, according to her sovereign decree. she grew partial to mr lenman (that was the name of her lover) because he raised her consequence in her own eyes: she played off a thousand airs of coquetry which she had never yet had an opportunity to exercise for want of a real lover. sometimes she would elate him by encouragement; at others, freeze him into despair by her affected coldness: she was never two hours the same, because she delighted in seeing the variety of passions she could excite. mr lenman was certainly sufficiently tormented; but so great a proficiency in coquetry at so early an age was no discouragement to his hopes. there are no people so often the dupe of their own arts as coquettes; especially when they become so very early in life; therefore, instead of being damped in his pursuit, he adapted his behaviour to her foible, vanity, and by assuming an air of indifference, could, when he pleased, put an end to her affected reserve; though he was not so impolite a lover as quite to deny her the gratification she expected from her little arts. he found means, however, to command her attention by the very serious proposal of matrimony. she had no great inclination for the state, but the novelty pleased her. the pleasure she received from his addresses she mistook for love, and imagined herself deeply enamoured, when she was in reality only extremely flattered; the common error of her age. in the company she had kept matrimony appeared in no very formidable light; she did not see that it abridged a woman of any of the liberties she already enjoyed; it only afforded her an opportunity of choosing her own diversions; whereas her taste in those points sometimes differed from her aunt's, to whom, however, she was obliged to submit. thus prepossessed, both in favour of her lover and his proposal, she listened to him with more attention than she chose he should perceive; but he was too well acquainted with the pretty arts of coquetry not to see through them. he therefore took courage to insinuate his desire of a private marriage, and ventured to persuade her to take a trip with him to the northern side of berwick upon tweed. lady mary could not see, as mr lenman's fortune was considerable and hers entirely precarious, why he was so apprehensive of not being accepted by her aunt, but there was something spirited in those northern journeys that had always been the objects of her envy. an adventure was the supreme pleasure of life and these pretty flights gave marriage all the charms of romance. to be forced to fly into another kingdom to be married gave her an air of consequence; vulgar people might tie the knot at every parish church, but people of distinction should do everything with an eclat. she imagined it very probable that her aunt would consent to her union with mr lenman; for though he was not equal to her in birth, yet he was her superior in fortune; but yet she looked upon his fears of a refusal as meritorious, since he assured her they arose from his extreme affection, which filled him with terrors on the least prospect of losing her. should lady sheerness, he urged, reject his proposal, she might then be extremely offended with their marrying, after they knew her disapprobation; but if they did it without her knowledge, she would not have room to complain of downright disobedience, and if it was displeasing to her, yet being done, and past remedy, she would be inclined to make the best of what was unavoidable, and forgive what she could not prevent. these arguments were sufficiently solid for a girl of sixteen who never thought before and could scarcely be said to do so then. lady mary complied with his plan, and the day was fixed when they were to take this lively step; their several stages settled, and many more arts and contrivances to avoid discovery concerted, than they were likely to have any occasion for; but in that variety of little schemes and romantic expedients her chief pleasure in this intended marriage consisted. the day before that on which lady mary and her lover were to set out for scotland, she was airing with lady sheerness when one of the horses taking fright, they were overturned down a very steep declivity. lady sheerness was but very little hurt, but lady mary was extremely bruised; one side of her face received a blow which swelled it so violently that her eye was quite closed, and her body was all over contusions. she was taken up senseless, entirely stunned by the shock. as soon as she was carried home, she was put to bed; a fever ensued, and she lay a fortnight in a deplorable condition, though her life was not thought to be in danger. her pain, for the greatest part of that time, was too acute to suffer her to reflect much on the different manner in which she had intended to employ that period; and when her mind became more at liberty, her disappointment did not sit too heavy on her spirits; for as her heart was not really touched, she considered the delay which this ill-timed accident had occasioned without any great concern, and rather pleased herself with thinking that she should give an uncommon proof of spirit, in undertaking a long journey, so soon after she was recovered from a very evident proof that travelling is not free from danger. as she had during this confinement more time to think than all her life had yet afforded her, a doubt would sometimes occur, whether she did right in entering into such an engagement without the consent of her aunt, to whom she was much obliged. but these scruples soon vanished, and she wondered how such odd notions came into her head, never having heard the word duty used, but to ridicule somebody who made it the rule of their conduct. by all she had been able to observe, pleasure was the only aim of persons of genius, whose thoughts never wandered but from one amusement to another, and, 'why should not she be guided by inclination as well as other people?' that one question decided the point, and all doubts were banished. before the blackness which succeeded the swelling was worn off her face, and consequently before she could appear abroad, a young lady of her acquaintance, who, out of charity, relinquished the diversions of the place to sit an afternoon with lady mary, told her as a whimsical piece of news she had just heard (and to tell which was the real motive for her kind visit, having long felt a secret envy of lady mary) that, her lover, mr lenman, had been married some years, to a young lady of small fortune, whom he treated on that account with so little ceremony that for a considerable time he did not own his marriage, and since he acknowledged it had kept her constantly at his house in wales. this was indeed news of consequence to lady mary, but she was little inclined to believe it and enquired what proof there was of this fact. the young lady replied that she had it from a relation of hers lately arrived at scarborough who having been often in mr lenman's neighbourhood, was well acquainted both with him and his wife, and had in a pretty large company where she was present asked him after mrs lenman's health, to which he made as short an answer as he could, but such as shewed there was such a person, and his confusion on this question made her relation enquire what could be the meaning of it, which all the company could easily explain. lady mary was prodigiously disconcerted with this intelligence; her informer imagined the visible agitation of her spirits proceeded from her attachment to mr lenman, but in reality it was the effect of terror. she was frighted to think how near she was becoming the object of general ridicule and disgrace, wedded to a married man and duped by his cunning; for she immediately perceived why her aunt was not to be let into the secret. how contemptible a figure must she afterwards have made in the world! there was something in this action of mr lenman's very uncommon, fashionable vices and follies had in her opinion received a sanction from custom, but this was of a different and a deeper dye; and little as she had been used to reflect on good and evil in any other light than as pleasant and unpleasant, she conceived a horror at this action. after her visitor departed, she began to reflect on the luckiness of the overturn which had obstructed her rash design, and admiring her good fortune, would certainly have offered rich sacrifices on the shrine of chance had there been a temple there erected to that deity. while her mind was filled with these impressions, the nurse, who had attended her in her sickness, and was not yet dismissed, entered the room crying with joy and told her, that she had just received the news of the ship's being lost wherein her son was to have embarked, had he not been seized with a fit of sickness two days before it set sail, which made it impossible for him to go on board. the poor woman was profuse in her acknowledgements for god's great mercy, who had by this means prevented the destruction of her dear child. 'to be sure,' added she, 'i shall never again repine at any thing that happens to me. how vexed i was at this disappointment, and thought myself the most unfortunate creature in the world because my son missed of such a good post as he was to have had in this ship; i was continually fretting about it and fancied that so bad a setting out was a sign the poor boy would be unlucky all his life. how different things turn out from what we expect! had not this misfortune, as i thought it, happened, he would now have been at the bottom of the sea, and my poor heart would have been broken. well, to be sure god is very kind! i hope my boy will always be thankful for this providence and love the lord who has thus preserved him.' this poor woman spoke a new language to lady mary. she knew, indeed, that god had made the world, and had sent her into it, but she had never thought of his taking any further care about her. she had heard that he had forbidden murder and stealing and adultery and that, after death, he would judge people for those crimes, and this she supposed was the utmost extent of his attention. but the joy she felt for her own deliverance from a misfortune into which she was so near involving herself, and the resemblance there was in the means of her preservation to that for which her nurse was so thankful, communicated to her some of the same sensations, and she felt a gratitude to him who, she imagined, might possibly be more careful over his creatures than she had ever yet supposed. these impressions, though pretty strong at the time, wore off after she got abroad. a renewal of the same dissipation scattered them with every other serious thought; and she again entered into the hurry of every trifling amusement. mr lenman, as soon as he found that his marriage was become public, despairing of the success of his scheme, left the place before lady mary was out of her confinement, afraid of meeting the reproachful glances of a woman whom he designed to injure; and whose innocence, notwithstanding her levity, gave her dignity in the eyes of a man who had really conceived an ardent passion for her. lady sheerness and her niece stayed but a short time at scarborough after the latter was perfectly recovered, the season being over. they returned to london and all the gaiety it affords; and though the town was at that time not full, yet they had so general an acquaintance, and lady sheerness rendered her house so agreeable, that she never wanted company. every season has its different amusements, and these ladies had an equal taste for everything that bore the name of diversion. it is true, they were not always entertained; but they always expected to be so, and promised themselves amends the following day for the disappointment of the present. if they failed of pleasure, they had dissipation, and were in too continual a hurry to have time to ask themselves whether they were amused; if they saw others were so, they imagined themselves must be equally entertained; or if the dullness of the place was too great to be overlooked, they charged it on their own want of spirits, and complained of a languor which rendered them incapable of receiving pleasure. lady mary fortunately had had no confidante in her design of running away with mr lenman, and the part he had acted was so dishonourable he could not wish to publish it; her imprudence was therefore known only to herself; and the fear of disobliging her aunt by letting her intended disobedience reach her ears induced her to conceal it; otherwise, most probably, in some unguarded hour, she would have amused her acquaintance with the relation, embellished with whatever circumstances would have rendered it amusing; for the love of being entertaining, and the vanity of being listened to with eagerness, will lead people of ungoverned vivacity to expose their greatest failings. lady mary's levity encouraged her admirers to conceive hopes which her real innocence should have repressed. among this number was lord robert st george. he was both in person and manner extremely pleasing; but what was a stronger charm to a young woman of lady mary's turn of mind, he was a very fashionable man, much caressed by the ladies, and supposed to have been successful in his addresses to many. this is always a great recommendation to the gay and giddy; and a circumstance which should make a man shunned by every woman of virtue, secures him a favourable reception from the most fashionable part of our sex. lady mary would have accused herself of want of taste had she not liked a man whom so many others had loved. she saw his attachment to her in the light of a triumph over several of her acquaintance; and when a man raises a woman in her own esteem, it is seldom long before he gains a considerable share of it for himself. vanity represented lord robert as a conquest of importance, and his qualifications rendered him a very pleasing dangler. lady mary liked him as well as her little leisure to attend to one person would permit. she felt that pleasure on his approach, that pain at his departure, that solicitude for his presence, and that jealousy at the civilities he paid any other woman, which girls look upon as the symptoms of a violent passion, whereas if they were to examine their hearts very nicely they would find that only a small part of it proceeded from love. lord robert was too well skilled in these matters to remain ignorant of the impression he had made; and if he had been less quick-sighted, the frequent intelligence he received of it would not have suffered him long to remain in ignorance. lady mary, vain of her conquest and proud of being in love, as is usual at her age, let every intimate into her confidence, and by mutual communication they talked a moderate liking into a passion. each of these young ladies were as ready to tell their friend's secrets as their own, till the circle of that confidence included all their acquaintance. from many of these lord robert heard of lady mary's great attachment to him, which served not a little to flatter his hopes. he imagined he should meet with an easy conquest of a giddy, thoughtless girl, entirely void of all fixed principles and violently in love with him; for his vanity exaggerated her passion. in this persuasion he supposed nothing was wanting to his success but opportunity, for which he took care not to wait long. he was intimately acquainted with an old lady, whom he often met at lady sheerness's, whose disposition he knew well suited to his purpose, she had before proved convenient to him and others; not indeed by unrewarded assistance, for as her fortune was too small to supply the expenses of the genteel way of life she aimed at, she was glad to have that deficiency made up by presents which she was therefore very assiduous to deserve. this lady, as she was a woman of fashion and lived in figure, was politely received in all gay companies who were not disposed to take the trouble of examining scrupulously into her character. she had one material recommendation; she played high at cards, and omitted nothing to make her house agreeable; and few were more crowded. this lady had often been visited by lady sheerness and her niece, though generally at the same time with the multitude; but one day, when she knew the former was confined at home by indisposition, she invited lady mary, whose aunt's complaisance would not suffer her to refuse the invitation on her account. lord robert was there, and as it was only a private party, there were no card-tables but in the outward room. the mistress of the house drew lady mary into the inner, on pretence of having something particular to say to her, lord robert soon followed. the conversation grew lively between him and lady mary; and when the convenient gentlewoman saw them thoroughly engaged and animated in discourse, she quietly withdrew, returning to the company, whose attention was too much fixed on the cards to perceive that any one was missing; and to keep their thoughts more entirely engrossed, she betted with great spirit at every table. lady mary did not perceive she was left alone with lord robert, till the growing freedom of his address made her observe it; but as prudence was not one of her virtues, she was not at all disconcerted with this tête-à-tête; nor did it lessen her vivacity. lord robert, encouraged by her easiness on the occasion, declared himself so plainly that she was no longer able to blind herself to his views and with surprise found seduction was his aim, if that word maybe used for a man's designs against the honour of a woman who seems so careless of it. her heart was entirely innocent of vice, and she could not imagine how his lordship could conceive it possible to succeed with her in intentions of that sort. she had always thought such imprudence in a woman a very great folly, for in a graver light she had never beheld it, and shewed herself offended at his supposing her capable of such a weakness; but without that honest indignation which a woman would have felt who had acted on better principles. lord robert was not much discouraged; a woman is under great disadvantage when her lover knows himself to be so much beloved that she dare not let her anger continue long, for fear of losing him for ever. he was well convinced that mere worldly prudence could not make a lasting resistance against a strong passion, and such he flattered himself hers was. he therefore ventured to resume the subject; but his perseverance increased lady mary's surprise and she began to think herself affronted. her partiality pleaded in his favour some time; but at length she thought it necessary to retire, notwithstanding his utmost endeavours to detain her. as she left him, she desired him to learn to believe better of her understanding: she perceived it no otherwise an insult; her education had deprived her of that delicacy which should have made her feel a severe mortification at the little share she had of the good opinion of a man she loved; on the contrary, she esteemed the affront she had received a proof of his affection. she had often indeed heard the name of virtue, but by the use she had known made of the word, it appeared to her to have no other signification than prudence. she was not at all shocked with lord robert's conduct; but resolved not to concur in his views, because she had no inclination to do so, that overbalanced her very moderate degree of prudence. on this account she determined to avoid being again alone with him. lady mary's natural sense gave rise to some doubts, whether the very open professions of gallantry which lord robert had made to her were common; she had been frequently addressed with freedom, but his behaviour seemed more than commonly presuming. in order to find what others would think of it, she often turned the conversation to those sort of subjects, and was a good deal startled one day by a lively, but amiable and modest young lady who said she believed no man that was not an absolute fool, or at the time intoxicated, ever insulted a woman with improper behaviour or discourse, if he had not from some impropriety in her conduct seen reason to imagine it would not be ill received; and i am sure, added she, 'if such a thing was ever to befall me, it would convert me into a starched prude, for fear that hereafter innocent vivacity might be mistaken for vicious levity: i should take myself very severely to task, convinced the offence was grounded on my conduct; for i am well persuaded there is something so respectable in virtue that no man will dare to insult it, except when a great disparity in circumstances encourages an abandoned wretch to take advantage of the necessity of the indigent.' lady mary was greatly affected by this sentiment she began to reflect on her own behaviour, and could not but see that lord robert might, without any great danger of offending, hazard the behaviour he had been guilty of; since in effect she had not conceived much anger against him, and though she had hitherto avoided being again alone with him, yet she had not shewn any very great marks of displeasure. she now watched with attention the conduct of other young ladies; many of them seemed to act on the same principles as herself; but she observed that she who had by her declaration first raised in her suspicions about her own behaviour, had a very different manner from hers. she was indeed gay and lively; but her vivacity seemed under the direction of modesty. in her greatest flow of spirits, she hazarded no improper expression, nor suffered others to do so without a manifest disgust she saw that the gentlemen who conversed with her preserved an air of respect and deference, which they laid aside when they addressed women whose vivacity degenerated into levity. she now began to perceive some impropriety in her own behaviour, and endeavoured to correct it; but nothing is more difficult than to recover a dignity once lost. when she attempted to restrain her gaiety within proper bounds, she was laughed at for her affectation: if, when the conversation was improper, she assumed an air of gravity, she was accused of the vapours or received hints that she was out of humour. these were great discouragements in her endeavours to correct the errors of her conduct, but gave her less pain than the difficulties she was under about lord robert st george. he still continued to address her with a freedom of manners which she now perceived was insulting; she wanted to discourage his insolence but feared giving a total offence to a man who had too great a share of her affections; she was apprehensive that if she quite deprived him of his hopes, she should entirely lose him and he would attach himself to some other woman. this situation was dangerous and lord robert knew the power he had over her. the dilemma she was in really abated the vivacity she wished to restrain, but it was immediately attributed to the anxiety of a love-sick mind, and she was exposed to continual raillery on that subject. her lover secretly triumphed, flattering himself that her passion was now combating on his side. in this situation she was unable to determine what part to act, and all her intimates were too much like herself to be capable of advising her. thus distressed, she resolved to cultivate the acquaintance of the young lady who had opened her eyes to her own conduct, and try what relief she could obtain from her advice. this was easily effected; lady mary was too amiable not to have any advances she made answered with pleasure. an intimacy soon ensued. lady mary communicated to her new friend all the difficulties of her situation and confessed to her the true state of her heart. that young lady was not void of compassion for her uneasiness; but told her that while she was encouraging lord robert's passion, she was losing his esteem, which alone was worth preserving. 'i allow,' said she, 'that by depriving him of his hopes, you may put an end to his addresses; but consider, my dear lady mary, what satisfaction they can afford you if they are only the result of a fondness for your person which would lose all its charms for him as soon as it became familiarized by possession. you would then at once find yourself both neglected and despised by the man for whose sake you had rendered yourself truly despicable. i know you are incapable of an action that would at the same time rid you of his esteem and of the more valuable consciousness of knowing yourself to be truly estimable. i am not of the opinion of those who think chastity the only virtue of consequence to our sex; but it is certainly so very essential to us that she who violates it seldom preserves any other. and how should she? for if there are others as great, greater there cannot be, there is none so necessary. but herein i know you are of my opinion; i only therefore intreat you to shew lord robert that you are so; do not let him mistake your real sentiments; nor in order to preserve his love, if custom will oblige me to call his passion by that name, leave him reason to flatter himself that you will fall a victim to his arts and your own weakness. 'consider with yourself,' continued she, 'which is most desirable, his esteem or his courtship? if you really love him, you can make no comparison between them, for surely there cannot be a greater suffering than to stand low in the opinion of any person who has a great share of our affections. if he neglects you on finding that his criminal designs cannot succeed, he certainly does not deserve your love, and the consciousness of having raised yourself in his opinion and forced him to esteem you, together with the pleasure of reflecting that you have acted as you ought, will afford you consolation.' these arguments had due weight with lady mary, she determined to follow her friend's advice and submit to the consequences. lady sheerness had company that evening and among the rest lord robert. he was, as usual, assiduous in his addresses to lady mary who, withdrawing to a little distance from the company, told him, that she had too long suffered his lordship to continue a courtship, which he had plainly acknowledged was made with such views as gave her great reason to blame herself for ever having listened to it. she acknowledged that the levity of her conduct had been such as lessened her right to reproach him. encouraged by her errors, and presuming perhaps on a supposition that he was not unpleasing to her, he had ventured to insult her in a flagrant manner, but without complaining of what was past, she thought herself obliged to tell him his pursuit was in vain; that the errors in her conduct were the fault of education; nor might she so soon have been convinced of them if his behaviour had not awakened her to a sense of some impropriety in her own conduct, which, conscious of the innocence of her intentions, she had never suspected: she then told him that if he did not entirely desist from all addresses to her she should be obliged to acquaint her aunt with his behaviour, who could not suffer such an insult on her niece to pass unresented. as soon as she had thus explained herself to lord robert, she mingled with the crowd, though with a mind little inclined to join in their conversation; but her young friend was there and endeavoured to support her spirits, which were overcome by the effort she had made. this young lady soon after went into the country and returned no more to london. lord robert was so disconcerted that he left the room as soon as lady mary had thus given him his dismissal. as their acquaintance lay much in the same set, they frequently saw each other. lord robert endeavoured to conquer lady mary's resolution by sometimes exciting her jealousy and at others making her the object of his addresses; but she continued steady in her conduct, though with many secret pangs. he began at last to converse with her with greater ease to himself as his passion abated when no longer nourished by hope; and notwithstanding a remainder of pique, he could not forbear treating her with a respect which her conduct deserved; for he plainly saw she had acted in contradiction to her own heart. this alteration in his behaviour afforded her great satisfaction; and though her love was not extinguished, it ceased to be very painful when she was persuaded she had obtained some share of his esteem. when lady mary was in her twentieth year, lady sheerness was seized with a lingering, but incurable disorder. it made little alteration in her mind. in this melancholy situation she applied to cards and company to keep up her spirits as assiduously as she had done during her better health. she was incapable indeed of going so much abroad, but her acquaintance, who still found her house agreeable, applauded their charity in attending her at home. cards even employed the morning, for fear any intermission of visitors should leave her a moment's time for reflection. in this manner she passed the short remainder of her life, without one thought of that which was to come. her acquaintance, for i cannot call them as they did themselves, friends, were particularly careful to avoid every subject that might remind her of death. at night she procured sleep by laudanum; and from the time she rose, she took care not to have leisure to think; even at meals she constantly engaged company, lest her niece's conversation should not prove sufficient to dissipate her thoughts. every quack who proposed curing what was incurable was applied to, and she was buoyed up with successive hopes of approaching relief. she grew at last so weak that, unable even to perform her part at the card-table, lady mary was obliged to deal, hold her cards and sort them for her, while she could just take them out one by one and drop them on the table. whist and quadrille became too laborious to her weakened intellects, but loo supplied their places and continued her amusement to the last, as reason or memory were not necessary qualifications to play at it. her acquaintances she found at length began to absent themselves, but she re-animated their charity by making frequent entertainments for them, and was reduced to order genteel suppers to enliven the evening, when she herself was obliged to retire to her bed. though it was for a considerable time doubtful whether she should live till morning, it was no damp to the spirits of any of the company from which she had withdrawn, except to lady mary, who, with an aching heart, was obliged to preside every evening at the table, and to share their unfeeling mirth, till two or three o'clock in the morning. she was greatly afflicted with the thought of her aunt's approaching death, whose indulgence to her, however blameable, had made a deep impression on her heart; as this gave a more serious turn to her mind, she could not see lady sheerness's great insensibility to what must happen after death without much concern. the great care that was taken to rob her of leisure to reflect on matters of such high importance shocked her extremely; and she was disgusted with the behaviour of those she called her friends, who she plainly perceived would have fallen into total neglect of her had she not found means to render her house more amusing to them than any into which they could enter. she now saw that friendship existed not without esteem; and that pleasurable connections would break at the time they were most wanted. this course of life continued, till one evening lady sheerness was seized with a fainting fit at the card-table, and being carried to her bed, in half an hour departed to a world of which she had never thought and for which she was totally unprepared. as lady mary was not able to return to the company, they in decency, not in affliction, retired. having long expected this event, her grief was greater than her surprise. she sent for the gentleman who she knew was her aunt's executor, that her will might be opened and necessary directions given for the funeral. lady mary had no doubt of succeeding to an easy fortune, and when the will was read it confirmed her in that supposition by appointing her sole heiress. but the executor told her he feared she would find no inheritance. the will was made on her first coming to lady sheerness, when there was some remains of the money her lord had left her, but he was well convinced it had since been not only entirety expended, but considerable debts incurred. this account was soon proved true by the demands of numerous creditors. lady mary gave up all her aunt's effects, which fell short of the debts, and remained herself in the same destitute condition from which lady sheerness had rescued her. this was a very severe shock; she had seen sufficient proof of the little real friendship to be found in such fashionable connections as she had been engaged in, to know that she had nothing to hope from any of her acquaintance. her father had been at variance with most of his relations, and lady sheerness had kept up the quarrel. she had therefore little expectation of assistance from them in the only wish she could form, which was to obtain a pension from the government, whereto her rank seemed to entitle her. she saw no resource but in the pride of some insolent woman who would like to have a person of her quality dependent on her; a prospect far worse than death. or possibly, good-nature might procure her a reception among some of her acquaintance; but as she had nothing even to answer her personal expenses, how soon would they grow weary of so chargeable a visitor? while she was oppressed with these reflections, and had nothing before her eyes but the gloomy prospect of extreme distress, she received a message from lady brumpton, who waited in her equipage at the door, desiring to be admitted to see her, for lady mary had given a general order to be denied, being unfit to see company, and unwilling to be exposed to the insulting condolence of many whose envy at the splendour in which she had lived and the more than common regard that had usually been shewn her, would have come merely to enjoy the triumph they felt on her present humiliation. lady brumpton was widow to lady mary's half-brother. she had been a private gentlewoman of good family but small fortune, by marrying whom her lord had given such offence to his father that he would never after admit him to his presence. lady sheerness had shewn the same resentment and there no longer subsisted any communication between the families. lord brumpton had been dead about three years and left no children. his widow was still a fine woman. she was by nature generous and humane, her temper perfectly good, her understanding admirable. she had been educated with great care, was very accomplished, had read a great deal and with excellent taste; she had great quickness of parts and a very uncommon share of wit. her beauty first gained her much admiration; but when she was better known, the charms of her understanding seemed to eclipse those of her person. her conversation was generally courted, her wit and learning were the perpetual subjects of panegyric in verse and prose, which unhappily served to increase her only failing, vanity. she sought to be admired for various merits. to recommend her person she studied dress and went to considerable expense in ornaments. to shew her taste, she distinguished herself by the elegance of her house, furniture and equipage. to prove her fondness for literature, she collected a considerable library; and to shew that all her esteem was not engrossed by the learned dead, she caressed all living geniuses; all were welcome to her house, from the ragged philosopher to the rhyming peer; but while she only exchanged adulation with the latter, she generously relieved the necessities of the former. she aimed at making her house a little academy; all the arts and sciences were there discussed, and none dared to enter who did not think themselves qualified to shine and partake of the lustre which was diffused round this assembly. though encircled by science and flattery, lady mary's distress reached lady brumpton's ears and brought her to that young lady's door, who was surprised at the unexpected visit, but could not refuse her admittance. lady brumpton began by apologizing for her intrusion but excused herself on the great desire she had of being acquainted with so near a relation of her lord's, who, as she was too young to have any share in the unhappy divisions in the family, she was persuaded was free from those ill-grounded resentments which the malice and impertinence of tale-bearers are always watchful to improve; and when she considered herself as the first occasion of the quarrel, she thought it her duty, in regard to her deceased lord's memory, to offer that protection his sister might justly demand from her, and which her youth rendered necessary. lady mary was charmed with the politeness of lady brumpton's address, but still more with the generosity of her behaviour in seeking her out, at a time when so many were diligent to avoid her. the acknowledgements she made for the favour done her spoke as much in her recommendation as her person. lady brumpton after some conversation told her she had a request to make to which she could not well suffer a denial; this was no other than that she would leave that melancholy house and make hers the place of her fixed abode; for as, by lord brumpton's will, he had bequeathed her his whole fortune, she should not enjoy it with peace of mind if his sister did not share in the possession. this very agreeable invitation filled lady mary with joy and surprise. she made a proper return to lady brumpton for her generosity and they agreed that lady mary should remove to her house the next day. when lady mary was left alone to reflect on this unexpected piece of good fortune, and considered the distress she had been in but two hours before, and from which she was now so happily delivered; when she reflected on the many calamities wherewith from her childhood she had been threatened and by what various means she had been saved so often from ruin, she could not forbear thinking that she was indeed the care of that being who had hitherto employed so little of her thoughts. such frequent mercies as she had received, sometimes in being preserved from the fatal consequences of her own follies, at others from the unavoidable distresses to which she had been exposed, awakened in her mind a lively gratitude to the supreme disposer of all human events. the poor consolations to which her aunt had been reduced in the melancholy conclusion of her life shewed her that happiness did not consist in dissipation, nor in tumultuous pleasures, and could alone be found in something which every age and every condition might enjoy. reason seemed this source of perpetual content and she fancied that alone would afford a satisfaction suitable to every state of mind and body. some degree of religion she imagined necessary, and that to perform the duties it required was requisite to our peace. but the extent of true religion she had never considered, though her great good fortune told her that she ought to be thankful for the blessings conferred and not distrust the care of providence, of which she had received such signal proofs. she had often heard lady brumpton ridiculed under the appellation of a genius and a learned lady; but when she recollected who those persons were, no other than the open professors of folly, it did not prejudice that lady in her opinion, but rather raised her expectation of being introduced into a superior race of beings for whose conversation she knew herself unqualified, but from whom she hoped for some improvement to her understanding, too long neglected. in this disposition of mind lady brumpton found her at the hour that she had appointed to fetch her. they went directly into lady brumpton's dressing room, who presented lady mary with a settlement she had prepared of a hundred pounds a year which she begged her to accept for her clothes and desired that whenever she found it insufficient she would draw on her for more: she at the same time made her the first payment. lady mary, now entered into a new set of company, frequently found herself entirely at a loss; for she was so totally unacquainted with the subjects of their discourse that she understood them almost as little as if they had talked another language; she told lady brumpton how much she was concerned at her own ignorance and begged she would give her some directions what she should read. that lady, whose chief aim was to shine, recommended to her the things most likely to fall into conversation, that she might be qualified to bear her part in it. lady mary took her advice and read some moral essays, just published; then a new play; after that the history of one short period; and ended with a volume of sermons then much in fashion. when she began to examine what she had acquired by her studies, she found such a confusion in her memory, where a historical anecdote was crowded by a moral sentiment and a scrap of a play interwoven into a sermon, that she determined to discontinue that miscellaneous reading and begin a regular and improving course, leaving to others the privilege of sitting in judgement on every new production. in this situation lady mary continued some years, without any mortification, except what she felt from seeing the consequences of lady brumpton's too great vanity. it led her into expenses, which though they did not considerably impair her fortune, yet so far straitened it that she frequently had not power to indulge the generosity of her mind where it would have done her honour and have yielded her solid satisfaction. the adulation which she received with too much visible complacency inspired her with such an opinion of herself as led her to despise those of less shining qualities, and not to treat any with proper civility whom she had not some particular desire to please, which often gave severe pangs to bashful merit, and called her real superiority in question; for those who observed so great a weakness were tempted to believe her understanding rather glittering than solid. the desire of attracting to her house every person who had gained a reputation for genius occasioned many to be admitted whose acquaintance were a disgrace to her, and who artfully taking advantage of her weakness by excess of flattery found means of imposing on her to any degree they pleased. the turn of conversation at her house was ridiculed in every other company by people who appeared most desirous of being in her parties. and indeed it was capable of being so; the extreme endeavour to shine took off from that ease in conversation which is its greatest charm. every person was like a bent bow, ready to shoot forth an arrow which had no sooner darted to the other side of the room, than it fell to the ground and the next person picked it up and made a new shot with it. like the brisk lightning in the rehearsal, they gave flash for flash; and they were continually striving whose wit should go off with the greatest report. lady mary, who had naturally a great deal of vivacity and a sufficient share of wit, made no bad figure in the brilliant assembly; for though she perceived an absurdity in these mock skirmishes of genius, yet she thought proper to conform to her company; but saw plainly that a sprightly look and lively elocution made the chief merit of the best _bons mots_ that were uttered among them. after she had spent about five years with lady brumpton, this lady was seized with a nervous fever which all the art of her physicians could not entirely conquer. her spirits were extremely affected and her friends decreased in their attentions as her vivacity decayed. she had indeed always been superior to her company in every requisite to please and entertain, therefore when she could not bear her part the conversations flagged; they dwindled from something like wit into oddity and then sunk into dullness. she was no longer equally qualified to please or to be pleased; her mind was not at unison with shallow jesters and therefore they could make no harmony. her disorder wore her extremely and turned to an atrophy. in that gradual decay she often told lady mary she was awakened from a dream of vanity; she saw how much a desire to gain the applause of a few people had made her forget the more necessary aim of obtaining the approbation of her creator. she had indeed no criminal actions to lay to her charge; but how should she? vanity preserved her from doing anything which she imagined would expose her to censure. she had done some things commendable, but she feared the desire of being commended was part of her motive. the humility and calmness of a true christian disposition had appeared to her meanness of spirit or affectation, and a religious life as the extremest dullness; but now too late she saw her error, and was sensible she had never been in the path of happiness. she had not erred from want of knowledge, but from the strong impulse of vanity which led her to neglect it; but sickness, by lowering her spirits, had taken away the false glare which dazzled her eyes, and restored her to her sight. lady brumpton was sensible of her approaching death some weeks before she expired, and was perfectly resigned. lady mary had a second time the melancholy office of closing the eyes of a benefactress and relation whom she sincerely loved. lady brumpton, to remove from her any anxiety on her own account, acquainted her, as soon as her disease became desperate, that she had bequeathed her ten thousand pounds, and all her plate and jewels. lady mary found this information true, and received the sum. she was tenderly concerned for the loss of so good a friend; and by the various circumstances of her life and the many blessings bestowed on her, had a heart so touched with the greatness of divine mercy that her mind took a more serious turn than common; and tired of the multitude in which she had so long lived, she was seeking for a retirement when she met mrs morgan and miss mancel at tunbridge; and as i have already told you, came hither with them. mrs maynard was not a little wearied with so long a narrative, and therefore did not continue much longer with us; but lamont and i remained in the park till dinner. in the afternoon the ladies proposed we should go upon the water, a scheme very agreeable to us all; some of the inhabitants of the other community were of the party. we got into a very neat boat, of a size sufficient to contain a large company, and which was rowed by the servants of the family. we went about three miles up the river, with great pleasure, and landed just by a neat house where we understood we were to drink tea. the mistress of it received us with great joy and told the ladies she had longed to see them, their young folks having quite finished her house, which she begged leave to shew us. its extreme neatness rendered it an object worthy of observation; and i was particularly attentive as, its size suiting my plan of life, i determined to copy it. the rooms were neither large nor numerous, but most of them hung with paper and prettily adorned. there were several very good drawings framed with shells, elegantly put together; and a couple of cabinets designed for use, but they became ornamental by being painted and seaweeds stuck thereon, which by their variety and the happy disposition of them rendered the doors and each of the drawers a distinct landscape. many other little pieces of furniture were by the same art made very pretty and curious. i learnt in a whisper from mrs maynard that this gentlewoman was widow to the late minister of the parish and was left at his death with five small children in very bad circumstances. the ladies of millenium hall immediately raised her drooping spirits, settled an income upon her, took this house, furnished it and lent her some of their girls to assist in making up the furniture, and decorating it, according to the good woman's taste. she carried us into her little garden that was neat to an excess and filled with flowers, which we found some of her children tying up and putting in order while the younger were playing about, all dressed with the same exact neatness as herself. when we had performed this little progress we found tea ready, and spent the afternoon with greater pleasure, for observing the high gratification which this visit seemed to afford the mistress of the house. in the room where we sat was a bookcase well stocked; my curiosity was great to see what it contained, and one of the ladies to whom i mentioned it indulged me by opening it herself and looking at some of the books. i found they consisted of some excellent treatises of divinity, several little things published for the use of children and calculated to instil piety and knowledge into their infant minds, with a collection of our best periodical papers for the amusement of lighter hours. most of these books, i found, were miss mancel's presents. the fineness of the evening made our return very delightful, and we had time for a little concert before supper. the next morning i called up lamont very early and reminded the housekeeper of her promise of shewing us the schools; which she readily performing, conducted us first to a very large cottage or rather five or six cottages laid together. here we found about fifty girls, clad in a very neat uniform and perfectly clean, already seated at their respective businesses. some writing, others casting accounts, some learning lessons by heart, several employed in various sorts of needlework, a few spinning and others knitting, with two schoolmistresses to inspect them. the schoolroom was very large and perfectly clean, the forms and chairs they sat on were of wood as white as possible; on shelves were wooden bowls and trenchers equally white, and shining pewter and brass seemed the ornaments of one side of the room; while pieces of the children's work of various kinds decorated the other; little samples of their performances being thus exhibited as encouragement to their ingenuity. i asked many questions as to their education and learnt that they are bred up in the strictest piety; the ladies by various schemes and many little compositions of their own endeavour to inculcate the purest principles in their tender minds. they all by turns exercise themselves in the several employments which we saw going forward, that they may have various means of gaining their subsistence in case any accident should deprive them of the power of pursuing any particular part of their business. the ladies watch their geniuses with great care; and breed them up to those things which seem most suitable to the turn of their minds. when any are designed for service, they are taught the business of the place they are best fitted for by coming down to the hall and performing the necessary offices under the direction of the excellent servants there. a very large kitchen garden belongs to the house, which is divided into as many parts as there are scholars; to weed and keep this in order is made their principal recreation; and by the notice taken of it they are taught to vie with each other which shall best acquit themselves, so that perhaps never was a garden so neat. they likewise have no small share in keeping those at the hall in order; and the grotto and seats are chiefly their workmanship. i gave them due praise upon their performances at the clergyman's widow's, and delighted two of them very much by my admiration of a little arbour which they had there planted with woodbines and other sweet shrubs. in their own garden they are allowed the indulgence of any little whim which takes not up too much room; and it is pretty to see their little seats, their arbours and beds of flowers, according to their several tastes. as soon as school breaks up, they run with as much eagerness and joy to their garden, as other children do to their childish sports; and their highest pleasure is the approbation their patronesses give their performances. they likewise take it by turns to do the business of the house and emulation excites them to a cleanliness which could not by any other means be preserved. from this school we went to one instituted for boys, which consisted of about half the number, and most of them small, as they are dismissed to labour as soon as they are able to perform any work, except incapacitated by ill health. this is instituted on much the same principles as the other, and every boy of five years old has his little spade and rake which he is taught to exercise. we returned from our little tour in time enough for prayers, with minds well prepared for them, by the view of such noble fruits of real piety. indeed the steward who reads them does it with such extreme propriety and such humble and sincere devotion as is alone sufficient to fix the attention and warm the hearts of his hearers. after breakfast was over, we got mrs maynard to accompany us into the garden, she in complaisance to us abstaining while we were at the hall from her share in the daily visits the ladies pay to their several institutions, and to the poor and sick in their village. their employments are great, but their days are proportionable; for they are always up by five o'clock, and by their example the people in the village rise equally early; at that hour one sees them all engaged in their several businesses with an assiduity which in other places is not awakened till much later. i called on mrs maynard to continue her task, which without any previous ceremony she did as follows. the history of miss selvyn mr selvyn, the younger brother of an ancient family, whose fortune was inferior to the rank it held in the country where it had long been fixed, was placed in trade in london; but his success not answering his hopes, he gave it up before it was too late to secure himself a small subsistence and retired into the country when miss selvyn was about five years old. his wife had been dead two years; thus his little girl's education devolved entirely on himself. he bred her up genteelly, though his fortune was small, and as he was well qualified for the part became himself her tutor and executed that office so well that at twelve years old she excelled all the young ladies in the neighbourhood of her own age in french and writing, either for hand or style; and in the great propriety and grace with which she read english. she had no small knowledge of accounts and had made some progress in the study of history. her person was elegant and pleasing and her temper and manner perfectly engaging; but yet these charms could not induce the neighbouring families to forgive her for excelling other girls in her accomplishments. they censured mr selvyn for giving his daughter an education to which her fortune was so little suited, and thought he would have done better to have bred her up to housewifery and qualified her for the wife of an honest tradesman; for part of what he had was known to be a life income; a small sinecure having been procured him by his friends in town before he retired into the country. the censures of those who love to shew their own wisdom by blaming others had little effect on mr selvyn; he continued his diligence in cultivating his little girl's mind; and even taught himself many things that he might be able to instruct her. if he did not breed her up in a manner to gain a subsistence by the most usual means, he however qualified her to subsist on little; he taught her true frugality without narrowness of mind, and made her see how few of all the expenses the world ran into were necessary to happiness. he deprived her of all temptation to purchase pleasures, by instructing her to seek only in herself for them; and by the various accomplishments he had given her, prevented that vanity of mind which leads people to seek external amusements. the day was not sufficient for her employments, therefore she could not be reduced to trifle away any part of it for fear of its lying heavy on her hands. thus miss selvyn was bred a philosopher from her cradle, but was better instructed in the doctrine of the ancient moralists than in the principles of christianity. mr selvyn was not absolutely a free-thinker, he had no vices that made him an enemy to christianity, nor that pride which tempts people to contradict a religion generally received; he did not apprehend that disbelief was a proof of wisdom, nor wished to lessen the faith of others, but was in himself sceptical; he doubted of what he could not entirely comprehend and seemed to think those things at least improbable which were not level to his understanding. he avoided the subject with miss selvyn; he could not teach her what he did not believe, but chose to leave her free to form that judgement which should in time seem most rational to her. i could not forbear interrupting mrs maynard to signify my approbation of mr selvyn's conduct in this particular as the only instance i had ever met with of a candid mind in one who had a tendency towards infidelity; for 'i never knew any who were not angry with those that believed more than themselves, and who were not more eager to bring others over to their opinions than most foreign missionaries; yet surely nothing can be more absurd, for these men will not dare to say that the virtues which christianity requires are not indispensable duties; on the contrary, they would have us imagine they are most sincerely attached to them; what advantage then can accrue to any one, from being deprived of the certainty of a reward for his obedience? if we deny revelation, we must acknowledge this point to be very uncertain; it was the subject of dispute and doubt among all the philosophers of antiquity; and we have but a poor dependence for so great a blessing if we rest our expectation where they did theirs. can a man therefore be rendered happier by being deprived of this certainty? or can we suppose he will be more virtuous, because we have removed all the motives that arise from hope and fear? and yet, what else can excuse an infidel's desire to make converts? nothing. nor can any thing occasion it but a secret consciousness that he is in the wrong, which tempts him to wish for the countenance of more associates in his error; this likewise can alone give rise to his rancour against those who believe more than himself; he feels them a tacit reproach to him, which to his pride is insupportable.' 'but,' said lamont, 'do you imagine that a free-thinker may not be certain of a future state?' 'not positively,' answered mrs maynard. 'if he is certain of that point, he is a believer without owning it; he must have had his certainty from scripture; all the reason he boasts can only shew it probable, and that probability is loaded with so many difficulties as will much weaken hope. where can reason say immortality shall stop? we must allow that omnipotence may bestow it on such ranks of being as he pleases. but how can reason tell us to whom he has given it? whether to all creation, or no part of it? pride indeed makes man claim it for himself, but deny it to others; and yet the superior intelligence perceivable in some brutes, to what appears in some of his own species, should raise doubts in him who has nothing but the reasonings of his own weak brain to go upon. but to proceed with my subject.' the minister of the parish wherein mr selvyn dwelt was a gentleman of great learning and strict probity. he had every virtue in the most amiable degree, and a gentleness and humility of mind which is the most agreeable characteristic of his profession. he had a strong sense of the duties of his function and dedicated his whole time to the performance of them. he did not think his instructions should be confined to the pulpit; but sensible that the ignorant were much more effectually taught in familiar conversation than by preaching, he visited frequently the very poorest of his parishioners; and by the humility of his behaviour as much as by his bounty (for he distributed a great part of his income among the necessitous) he gained the affections of the people so entirely that his advice was all-powerful with them. this gentleman's great recreation was visiting mr selvyn, whose sense and knowledge rendered his conversation extremely entertaining, and miss selvyn's company was a great addition to the good minister's pleasure, he took delight in seeing her, as hamlet says, 'bear her faculties so meekly'. she was entirely void of conceit and vanity, and did not seem to have found out that her knowledge exceeded that of most persons of her age, at least she looked upon it as a casual advantage which reflected no honour to herself but was entirely owing to mr selvyn. her youthful cheerfulness enlivened the party without rendering the conversation less solid; and her amiable disposition made the good minister particularly anxious for her welfare. he soon found out mr selvyn's scepticism and endeavoured to remove it. he represented to him that his not being able to understand the most mysterious parts of christianity was no argument against the truth of them. that there were many things in nature whose certainty he by no means doubted, and yet was totally ignorant of the methods whereby many of them operated, and even of the use of some of them. could he say what purpose the fiery comet answers? how is its motion produced, so regular in its period, so unequal in its motion, and so eccentric in its course? of many other things man is in reality as ignorant, only being able to form a system which seems to suit in some particulars, he imagines he has discovered the whole, and will think so till some new system takes place, and the old one is exploded. he asked mr selvyn if they descended to the meanest objects in what manner could they account for the polypus's property of supplying that part of its body which shall be cut away? that insect alone, of all the creation, does not continue maimed by amputation, but multiplies by it. 'to what can we attribute this difference in an insect, which in all particulars beside, resembles so many others? yet who doubts of the reality of these things? if we cannot comprehend the smallest works of almighty wisdom, can we expect to fathom that wisdom itself? and say that such things he cannot do, or cannot choose because the same effects could be produced by other means? man no doubt might exert the same functions under another form, why then has he this he now wears? who will not reply, because his maker chose it, and chose it as seeing it best. is not this the proper answer on all occasions, when the decrees of the almighty are discussed? facts only are obvious to our reason; we must judge of them by the evidence of their reality if that is sufficient to establish the facts; why, or how they were produced, is beyond our comprehension. let us learn that finite minds cannot judge of infinite wisdom, and confine our reason within its proper sphere.' by these, and many other arguments, mr selvyn was brought to believe the possibility of what he did not comprehend; and by this worthy clergyman's care miss selvyn was early taught the truths of christianity, which though the most necessary of all things, was at first the only one neglected. in this retired situation they continued till miss selvyn was near seventeen years old; mr selvyn then determined to remove to london; and taking a small house in park street, fixed his abode there. lady emilia reynolds lived next door and soon after their arrival made them a visit, a compliment she said, she looked upon as due to so near a neighbour. some other ladies in the same street followed her example, and in a very short time miss selvyn was introduced into as large an acquaintance as was agreeable to her, for she was naturally averse to much dissipation. lady emilia reynolds was a single lady of very large fortune, her age upwards of thirty, her person fine, her manner gentle and pleasing, and an air of dejection did not render her countenance the less engaging. she was grave and sensible, and kept a great deal of good company, without entering into a gay way of life. miss selvyn's modesty and good sense seemed to have great charms for her; she cultivated a friendship with her, notwithstanding some disparity in their ages; and neither of them appeared so nappy as when they were together. mr selvyn could not be displeased at an intimacy so desirable, nor could miss selvyn be more properly introduced into the world than by a person of lady emilia's respectable character. at her house miss selvyn saw a great deal of good company, and was so generally liked that many intreated lady emilia to bring her to them whenever her ladyship favoured them with a visit. these invitations were generally complied with, as under such a protectress miss selvyn might properly venture to any place. lady sheerness was one of this number, whose rank, and some degree of relationship, brought acquainted with lady emilia, though the different turn of their minds and their very opposite taste of life prevented any intimacy between them. lady emilia was not blind to lady sheerness's follies, but she esteemed them objects of her compassion, not of her censure, nicely circumspect in her own conduct, she judged with the extremest lenity of the behaviour of others, ready to attempt excusing them to the world, and not even suffering herself to blame what she could not approve; she sincerely pitied lady mary jones, who seemed by fortune sacrificed to folly; and she was in continual fear lest she should fall a victim to that imprudence which in her case was almost unavoidable. by this means miss selvyn became acquainted with lady mary and was the young woman i before mentioned as lady mary's adviser and conductor, in putting an end to lord robert st george's courtship. not long after she had the satisfaction of thus assisting a young lady whose failings gave her almost as many charms as they robbed her of, she had the misfortune to lose mr selvyn. all that a child could feel for the loss of a tender parent miss selvyn suffered. his death was not so sudden, but that it afforded him time to settle his affairs, and to give every direction to miss selvyn which he thought might save her from all embarrassment on the approaching event. he recommended to her, as her fortune would be but small, to attach herself as much as possible to lady emilia, since she now became still more necessary as a protectress, than she had before been desirable as a friend, and that interest as much as gratitude required her cultivating the affection that lady had already shewn her. the latter motive was sufficient to influence miss selvyn, whose heart sincerely returned the regard lady emilia had for her; but at that time she was too much affected with mr selvyn's approaching dissolution to think of anything else. his care for her in his last moments still more endeared him who through life had made her happiness his principal study. her affliction was extreme, nor could lady emilia by the tenderest care for some time afford her any consolation. miss selvyn found herself heiress to three thousand pounds, a fortune which exceeded her expectation, though it was not sufficient to suffer her to live in london with convenience. lady emilia invited her to her house; and as the spring advanced, her ladyship inclining to pass the fine season in the country, hired a house about a hundred miles from london which she had formerly been fond of and was but just become empty. she had been but little out of town for some years and went to her new habitation with pleasure. miss selvyn bid adieu without regret to every thing but lady mary jones, for whom she had conceived a real affection, which first took its rise from compassion and was strengthened by the great docility with which she followed her advice about lord robert, and the resolution with which she conquered her inclination. lady mary grieved to lose one whom she esteemed so prudent and faithful a friend, and considered her departure as a real misfortune; but they agreed to keep up a regular correspondence as the best substitute to conversation. the country was perfectly agreeable to lady emilia and her young friend. the life they led was most suitable to their inclinations, and winter brought with it no desires to return to london; whereupon lady emilia disposed of her house there and settled quite in the country. they were both extremely fond of reading, and in this they spent most of their time. their regular way of life, and the benefits of air and exercise, seemed to abate the dejection before so visible in lady emilia; and she never appeared to want any other conversation than that of miss selvyn, whom she loved with a tenderness so justly due to her merit. after they had been settled about two years in the country, lord robert st george, who was colonel of a regiment quartered in a town not far from them, came to examine into the state of his regiment; and having at that time no other engagement, and the lodgings he had taken just out of the town being finely situated, he determined to make some stay there. here he renewed his slight acquaintance with lady emilia and miss selvyn; and by favour of his vicinity saw them often. lord robert's heart was too susceptible of soft impressions not to feel the influence of miss selvyn's charms. he was strongly captivated by her excellent understanding and engaging manner, as for her person, he had known many more beautiful, though none more pleasing; but the uncommon turn of her mind, her gentleness and sensible modesty, had attractions that were irresistible. lord robert's attachment soon became visible; but miss selvyn knew him too well to think his addresses very flattering, and by his behaviour to lady mary jones feared some insulting declaration; but from these apprehensions he soon delivered her. real affection conquering that assurance which nature had first given and success increased, he had not courage to declare his passion to her, but applied to lady emilia to acquaint her friend with his love, and begged her interest in his behalf, fearing that without it miss selvyn's reserve would not suffer her to listen to his addresses. lady emilia promised to report all he had said, and accordingly gave miss selvyn a circumstantial account of the whole conversation, wherein lord robert had laid before her the state of his fortune, which was sufficient for a woman of her prudence; and she added that she did not see how miss selvyn could expect to be addressed by a man more eligible, whether she considered his birth, his fortune, or his person and accomplishments. miss selvyn was a little surprised that so gay a man should take so serious a resolution. she allowed the justness of what lady emilia said in his favour and confessed that it was impossible lord robert could fail of pleasing; but added that it could not be advisable for her to marry: for enjoying perfect content, she had no benefit to expect from change; and happiness was so scarce a commodity in this life that whoever let it once slip, had little reason to expect to catch it again. for what reason then should she alter her state? the same disposition which would render lord robert's fortune sufficient made hers answer all her wishes, since if she had not the joy of living with her ladyship, it would still afford her every thing she desired. lady emilia said some things in recommendation of marriage; and seemed to think it improbable miss selvyn should not be a little prejudiced in favour of so amiable a lover as lord robert, which tempted that young lady to tell her that though she allowed him excessively pleasing, yet by some particulars, which formerly came to her knowledge, she was convinced his principles were such as would not make her happy in a husband. lady emilia allowed the force of such an objection, and did not press a marriage, for which she had pleaded only out of an apprehension lest miss selvyn's reserve might lead her to act contrary to her inclinations; and therefore she had endeavoured to facilitate her declaration in favour of lord robert, if she was in reality inclined to accept his proposals. she acquiesced then readily in her friend's determination; only desired she would herself acquaint lord robert with it, as he would not easily be silenced by a refusal which did not proceed from her own lips. his lordship came in the evening to learn his fate, and lady emilia having contrived to be absent, he found miss selvyn alone. though this was what he had wished, yet he was so disconcerted that miss selvyn was reduced to begin the subject herself, and to tell him that lady emilia had acquainted her with the honour he had done her, that she was much obliged to him for his good opinion and hoped he would be happy with some woman much more deserving than herself; but she could by no means accept the favour he intended her, being so entirely happy in her present situation that nothing in the world should induce her to change it. this declaration gave rise to a very warm contest, lord robert soliciting her to accept his love with all the tenderness of the strongest passion, and she with equal perseverance persisting in her refusal. he could not be persuaded that her motive for doing so was really what she alleged but as she continued to affirm it, he begged however to know if she had not made so strange a resolution in favour of a single life, whether she should have had any particular objection to him? miss selvyn shewed the uselessness of this question, since the reason of her refusing the honour he intended her would have made her reject the addresses of every other man in the world. lord robert could not believe this possible and therefore desisted not from urging a question so disagreeable to answer. when miss selvyn found it impossible to avoid satisfying him in this particular, she told him that if he were entirely unexceptionable, she should be fixed in the same determination; but since he insisted on knowing if she had any objection to him, she was obliged to confess that had she been better inclined to enter into the matrimonial state, his lordship was not the man she should have chosen, not from any dislike to his person or understanding, but from disapprobation of his principles; that, in regard to her sex he had a lightness in his way of thinking and had been so criminal in his conduct that of all men she knew, she thought him most improper for a husband. lord robert was surprised at so new an objection, and told her, that he did not apprehend himself more blamable in those respects than most young men. gallantry was suitable to his age, and he never imagined that any woman would have reproached him with his regard for her sex, when he gave so strong a proof of an inclination to leave them all for her. 'i am sorry,' replied miss selvyn, 'that your lordship thinks me mean enough to take pleasure in such a triumph, or so vain as to imagine i can reform a man of dissolute manners, the last thing i should hope or endeavour to succeed in. such a tincture of corruption will always remain the mind of what you are pleased to term a gallant man, to whom i should give the less polite appellation of vicious, that i could not be happy in his society. a reformed rake may be sober, but is never virtuous.' lord robert growing very urgent to know what she had particularly to lay to his charge, she told him frankly, that his treatment of lady mary jones had disgusted her, as she, and perhaps she only, had been acquainted with the whole. lord robert endeavoured to excuse himself on the encouragement lady mary's levity had given to his hopes; observing that when a woman's behaviour was very light, his sex were not apt to imagine there was any great fund of virtue; nor could it be expected that any one else should guard that honour of which she herself was careless. 'i am sure,' replied miss selvyn, 'your lordship's hopes must have been founded on lady mary's folly, not her real want of innocence; a folly which arose from the giddiness of youth and the hurry of dissipation; for by nature lady mary's understanding is uncommonly good. by what you say, you imagined her honour was lawful prize, because she appeared careless of it; would this way of arguing be allowed in any other case? if you observed a man who neglected to lock up his money, and seemed totally indifferent what became of it, should you think yourself thereby justified in robbing him? but how much more criminal would you be, were you to deprive him of his wealth because he was either so thoughtless or so weak as not to know its value? and yet surely the injury in this case would be much less than what you think so justifiable. if the world has but the least sense of real honour, in this light they must see it; and to that tribunal i imagine you only think yourself answerable; for did you reflect but one moment on another bar before which you will be summoned, you would see there can be no excuse for violating the laws by which you are there to be tried. if you could justify yourself to the world, or to the women of whose folly you take advantage, by the fallacious arguments which you have so ready for that purpose, such cobweb sophistry cannot weaken the force of an express command.' 'i will not pretend,' answered lord robert, 'to deny the truth of what you say, but must beg you will consider it more easy for you to urge these truths, than for those to obey them who are exposed to and susceptible of temptations. when a woman has no title to our respect, how difficult is it to consider her in the light you require! levity of conduct we are apt to look upon as an invitation, which a man scarcely thinks it consistent with his politeness to neglect.' 'i wish,' replied miss selvyn, 'that women were better acquainted with the ways of thinking so common with your sex; for while they are ignorant of them, they act to a great disadvantage. they obtain by that levity which deprives them of your esteem, a degree of notice and pretended liking which they mistake for approbation; did they but know that you in your hearts despise those most to whom you are most assiduously and openly attached, it would occasion a great change in their behaviour; nor would they suffer an address to which they cannot listen without incurring your contempt. how criminally deceitful is this behaviour! and what real virtue can a man truly boast, who acts in this manner? what woman in her senses can enter into a union for life with such a man?' 'why not, madam?' said lord robert. 'my behaviour to you shews that we yield to merit the homage it deserves; you would lose all your triumph were we to put you and the lighter part of your sex on an equality in our opinions. we are always ready to esteem a woman who will give us leave to do so; and can you require us to respect those who are not in the least respectable?' 'no,' answered miss selvyn, 'i only wish you would cease your endeavours to render those women objects of contempt, who deserve only to be neglected, and particularly not to deprive them of the very small portion of regard they are entitled to, by the fallacious appearance of an attachment of the tenderest kind; which in reality arises from contempt, not love. but,' added she, 'i have said more than i designed on the subject; i only meant to answer the question you put to me with so much importunity; and must now confirm what i have already declared, by telling you that were i inclined to marry, i would not on any account take a husband of your lordship's principles; but were you endowed with all the virtues that ever man possessed, i would not change my present happy situation for the uncertainties of wedlock.' when lord robert found all his solicitations unavailing, he left the country and returned to london, where he hoped, by a series of diversions, to efface from his heart the real passion he had conceived for miss selvyn. she forbore informing lady mary jones, though their correspondence was frequent, of lord robert's courtship; she did not doubt but her ladyship was sincere when she assured her she now beheld him with the indifference he deserved, but thought that to tell her she had received so very different an address from him would bear too much the air of a triumph, a meanness which her heart abhorred. lady emilia and miss selvyn had lived several years in the country with great rational enjoyment, when the former was seized with a fever. all the skill of her physicians proved ineffectual, and her distemper increased daily. she was sensible of the danger which threatened her life, but insisted on their telling her, if they had any great hopes of her recovery, assuring them that it was of importance to her to know their opinions with the utmost frankness. thus urged, they confessed they had but little hopes. she then returned them thanks for their care, but still more for their sincerity: and with the greatest composure took leave of them, desiring to be left alone with miss selvyn, who was in tears at her bedside. every one else withdrew, when taking miss selvyn in her arms, and shedding a few silent tears, she afterwards thus addressed her. 'at the moment that i must bid you a long farewell, you will know that you have a mother in her whom you before thought only your friend. yes, my dearest harriot, i am your mother, ashamed of my weakness and shocked at my guilt, while your gentle but virtuous eyes could reproach your unhappy parent, i could not prevail on myself to discover this secret to you, but i cannot carry to my grave the knowledge of a circumstance which concerns you. yes, you are my daughter, my child, ever most dear to me, though the evidence and continual remembrancer of my crime.' miss selvyn imagined the distemper had now seized lady emilia's brain, which it had hitherto spared; and intreated her to compose herself, assuring her that what so much agitated her decaying frame was only the phantom of an overheated imagination; for her parents were well known, neither was there any mystery in her birth. 'oh!' interrupted lady emilia, 'do not suspect me of delirium; it has pleased the almighty to spare my senses throughout this severe disorder, with a gracious design of allowing me even the last moments of my life to complete my repentance. what i tell you is but true, mr selvyn knew it all and like a man of honour saved me from shame by concealing the fatal secret; and acted the part of a father to my harriot, without having any share in my guilt. but i see you do not yet believe me, take this,' pulling a paper from under her pillow, 'herein you will find an account of the whole unfortunate affair, written a year ago; lest at the time of my death i should not be able to relate it; this will prove, by the nice connection of every circumstance, that the words therein contained are not the suggestions of madness.' miss selvyn accordingly read as follows: 'when i was seventeen years old, lord peyton asked me of my father, but not till after he had secured my tenderest affections. his estate was sufficient to content a parent who was not regardless of fortune and splendour; and his proposals were accepted. but while the tediousness of the lawyers made us wait for the finishing of settlements, lord peyton, who was in the army, was commanded to repair immediately to his regiment, then stationed in ireland. he endeavoured to prevail with my father to hasten our marriage, offering every kind of security he could desire, instead of the settlements so long delayed; my wishes concurred with his, rather than suffer him to go without me into a kingdom which i imagined would not prove very amusing to him. but my father, who was a very exact observer of forms, would not consent to any expedient. no security appeared to him equivalent to settlements; and many trifling circumstances requisite to the splendour of our first appearance were not ready; which to him seemed almost as important as the execution of the marriage writings. 'when lord peyton found my father inexorable, he attempted to persuade me to agree to a private marriage, only desiring, he said, to secure me entirely his before he left the kingdom; and proposed, that after his return, we should be publicly married, to prevent my father's suspecting that we had anticipated his consent. but this i rejected; disobedience to a parent, and other objections, were sufficient to make me refuse it; and we saw ourselves reduced to separate when we were so near being united. as lord peyton was an accepted lover, and our intended marriage was publicly known, and generally approved, he passed great part of his time with me. my father was obliged to go out of town on particular business, the day before that appointed for lord peyton's departure. it is natural to suppose we passed it entirely together. the concern we were both under made us wish to avoid being seen by others, and therefore i was denied to all visitors. lord peyton dined and supped with me; and by thus appropriating the day to the ceremony of taking leave, we rendered the approaching separation more afflicting than in reason it ought to have been, and indeed made it a lasting affliction; a grief never to be washed away. 'lord peyton left london at the appointed hour, but the next days, and almost every succeeding post, brought me the tenderest expressions of regret for this enforced absence, and the strongest assurances of the constancy of his affection. mine could not with truth be written in a more indifferent strain, my love was the same, but my purpose was much altered; as soon as i had calmness of mind enough to reflect on what had passed, i resolved never to be lord peyton's wife. i saw my own misconduct in all its true colours. i despised myself, and could not hope for more partial treatment from my husband. a lover might in the height of his passion excuse my frailty, but when matrimony, and continued possession had restored him to his reason, i was sensible he must think of me as i was conscious i deserved. what confidence, what esteem could i hope from a husband who so well knew my weakness; or how could i support being hourly exposed to the sight of a man whose eyes would always seem to reproach me! i could scarcely bear to see myself; and i was determined not to depend on any one who was equally conscious of my guilt. 'i soon acquainted lord peyton with this resolution, which he combated with every argument love could dictate. he assured me in the most solemn manner of his entire esteem, insisted that he only was to blame, and that he should never forgive himself for the uneasiness he had already occasioned me; but intreated me not to punish him so severely as ever again to give the least intimation of a design not to confirm our marriage. as i resisted my own passion, it may be supposed that, although too late, i was able to resist his. i saw that a generous man must act as he did, but no generosity could restore me to the same place in his esteem i before possessed. his behaviour on this occasion fixed my good opinion of him, but could not restore my opinion of myself. all he could urge therefore was unavailing; the stronger my affection, the more determined i was in my purpose; since the more i valued his esteem, the greater would my suffering be at knowing that i had forfeited it. i acquainted my father with my resolution, alleging the best excuses i could make. he was at first angry with my inconstancy, charged me with capriciousness and want of honour; but at last was pacified by my assuring him i would never marry any man. as he had been sorry to part with me, the thought of my continuing with him as long as he lived, made my peace. 'lord peyton's impatience at being detained in ireland increased with his desire of persuading me to relinquish a design so very grievous to my own heart, as well as to his; but he could not obtain leave to return into england before i found, to my inexpressible terror, that the misfortune i so sincerely lamented would have consequences that i little expected. in the agony of my mind i communicated my distress to lord peyton, the only person whom i dared trust with so important a secret. 'instead of condoling with me on the subject of my affliction, he expressed no small joy in a circumstance which he said must reduce me to accept the only means of preserving my reputation; and added, that as every delay was now of so much importance, if the next packet did not bring him leave of absence, he should set out without it; and rather run the hazard of being called to account for disobedience, than of exposing me to one painful blush. 'i confess his delicacy charmed me; every letter i received increased my esteem and affection for him, but nothing could alter my purpose. i looked upon the execution of it as the only means of reinstating myself in his good opinion, or my own, in comparison of which even reputation seemed to lose its value. but severe was the trial i had to undergo upon his return into england, which was in a few days after his assurance of coming at any hazard. he used every means that the tenderest affection and the nicest honour could suggest to persuade me to marry him; and the conflict in my own heart very near reduced me to my grave; till at length pitying the condition into which i was reduced, without the least approach to a change of purpose, he promised to spare me any further solicitation and to bury his affliction in silence; after obtaining a promise from me that i would suffer him to contrive the means for concealing an event which must soon happen; as my unintriguing spirit made me very incapable of managing it with tolerable art and secrecy. 'lord peyton had maintained his former friendship with my father, who thought himself obliged to him for not resenting my behaviour in the manner he imagined it deserved. when the melancholy and much dreaded time approached, lord peyton gave me secret information that he would invite my father into the country, on pretence of assisting him by his advice in some alterations he was going to make there; and assured me of careful attendance, and the most secret reception, from a very worthy couple to whose house he gave me a direction if i could contrive, under colour of some intended visit, to leave my own. 'all was executed as he had planned it; and when my servants thought i was gone to visit a relation some miles distant from london, i went as directed, and was received with the greatest humanity imaginable by mr and mrs selvyn; not at their own house, but at one taken for that purpose, where the affair might be more secretly managed. lord peyton had concealed my name even from them; and secured their care of me under a borrowed appellation. 'the day after i got to them i was delivered of you, my dearest child, whom i beheld with sorrow as well as affliction; considering you as the melancholy memorial and partner in my shame. 'mr and mrs selvyn attended me with the greatest care, and were never both absent at a time; they acquainted lord peyton with the state of my health by every post; and i was enabled, by the necessity of the case, to write to my father as frequently as i usually did when absent from him. within the fortnight from the time of my departure from my own house i returned to it again, after delivering my dear harriot into the care of these good people, who promised to treat her as their own child. under pretence of a cold i confined myself till i was perfectly recovered. 'lord peyton detained my father till he heard i was entirely well; and then went with impatience to see his little daughter, over whom he shed many tears, as mr selvyn afterwards informed me; telling it that it was a constant memorial of the greatest misfortune of his life, and could never afford him a pleasure that was not mingled with the deepest affliction. 'mrs selvyn had lain in about six weeks before i went to her, the child she brought into the world lived but a few months; upon its death, at lord peyton's desire, they took you from nurse, and pretending you their own, privately buried their child, who was likewise nursed abroad. mr selvyn was a merchant, but had never been successful, his wife died when you were about three years old. having no children to provide for, and not being fond of trade, he was desirous of retiring into the country. lord peyton to facilitate the gratification of his wish, procured him a small sinecure; gave into his possession three thousand pounds, which he secured to you; and allowed him a hundred a year for the trouble of your education; with an unlimited commission to call on him for any sums he should want. 'the constant sense of my guilt, the continual regret at having by my own ill conduct forfeited the happiness which every action of lord peyton's proved that his wife might reasonably expect, fixed a degree of melancholy on my mind, which no time has been able to conquer. i lived with my father till his death, which happened not many years ago; at his decease, i found myself mistress of a large fortune, which enabled me to support the rank i had always enjoyed. though lord peyton had provided sufficiently for mr selvyn's and your convenience, yet i constantly sent him a yearly present; till no longer able to deny myself the pleasure of seeing my dear child, i prevailed on him to remove to london and to fix in the same street with me, taking care to supply all that was requisite to enable him to appear there genteelly. you know with what appearance of accident i first cultivated a friendship with you, but you cannot imagine with how much difficulty i concealed the tenderness of a mother under the ceremonies of an acquaintance. 'of late i have enjoyed a more easy state of mind: i have sometimes been inclined to flatter myself that your uncommon merit, and the great comfort i have received in your society, are signs that heaven has forgiven my offence and accepted my penitence, which has been sincere and long, as an atonement for my crime; in which blessed hope i shall, i trust, meet death without terror, and submit, my dear daughter, whenever i am called hence, in full confidence to that power whose mercy is over all his works. i ought to add a few words about your dear father, who seemed to think my extreme regular conduct and the punishment i had inflicted on myself, such an extenuation of my weakness that he ever behaved to me with the tenderest respect, i might almost say reverence, and till his death gave me every proof of the purest and the strongest friendship. by consent we avoided each other's presence for three years, by which time we hoped the violence of our mutual passion would be abated. he spent the greatest part of it abroad; and at the end of that period we met with the sincerer joy, from finding we were not deceived in our hopes. our attachment was settled into the tenderest friendship; we forbore even the mention of your name, as it must have reminded us of our crime; and if lord peyton wanted to communicate any thing concerning you, he did it by letter; avoiding with the extremest delicacy ever to take notice that any such letters had passed between us; and even in them he consulted about his child, in the style of a man who was writing to a person that had no other connection with it than what her friendship for him must naturally occasion, in a point where he was interested by the tenderest ties of the most extreme paternal love. 'i have often with pleasure heard you mention his great fondness for you in your childhood, when he visited at your father's; your growing years increased it, though it obliged him to suppress the appearance of an affection which you would have thought improper. i need not tell you that i had the misfortune to lose this worthiest of friends, about half a year before you came to london, which determined me to send for you, that i might receive all the consolation the world could give me, and see the inheritor of her dear father's virtues. while he lived i dared not have taken the same step; your presence would have been too painful a testimony against me, and continually reminded my lord of a weakness which i hope time had almost effaced from his remembrance.' miss selvyn was extremely affected with the perusal of this paper; she was frequently interrupted by her tears; grieved to the heart to think of how much uneasiness she had been the cause. as soon as she had concluded it, she threw herself on her knees at lady emilia's bedside, and taking one of her hands, which she bathed with her tears, 'is it possible then,' said she, 'that i have thus long been ignorant of the best of parents? and must i lose you when so lately found? oh! my dear mother, how much pleasure have i lost by not knowing that i might call you by that endearing name! what an example of virtue have you set me! how noble your resolution! how uniform and constant your penitence! blest you must be supremely by him who loveth the contrite heart; and you and my father i doubt not will enjoy eternal felicity together, united never more to part. oh! may your afflicted daughter be received into the same place, and partake of your happiness; may she behold your piety rewarded, and admire in you the blessed fruits of timely repentance; a repentance so immediately succeeding the offence, that your soul could not have received the black impression!' 'can you, who have never erred,' said lady emilia, 'see my offence in so fair a light? what may i not then hope from infinite mercy? i do hope; it would be criminal to doubt, when such consolatory promises appear in almost every page of holy writ. with pleasure i go where i am called, for i leave my child safe in the divine protection, and her own virtue; i leave her, i hope, to a happy life, and a far more happy death; when joys immortal will bless her through all eternity. i have now, my love, discharged the burden from my mind; not many hours of life remain, let me not pass them in caressing my dear daughter, which, though most pleasing to my fond heart, can end only in making me regret the loss of a world which will soon pass from my sight. let me spend this hour, as i hope to do those that will succeed it through all eternity. join with me in prayers to, and praises of, him in whom consists all our lasting happiness.' miss selvyn sent for the minister of the parish at lady emilia's desire, and the remainder of her life passed in religious exercises. she expired without a groan, in the midst of a fervent prayer, as if her soul was impatient to take its flight into the presence of him whom she was addressing with so much ardour. miss selvyn's affliction was at first extreme, but when she reflected on her mother's well-spent life, and most happy death, it much abated the excess of her grief. by that lady's will, she found herself heir to twelve thousand pounds, and all her personal estate. she had been charmed with the account lady mary jones had sent her of this society, and wished to increase her acquaintance with that lady, and therefore offered, if proper, to make her a short visit, as soon as her necessary affairs were settled. this met with the most welcome reception, and she came hither as a visitor. her stay was gradually prolonged for near two months; when having reason, from the great regard shewn her, to think she should be no disagreeable addition, she asked leave to join her fortune to the common stock, and to fix entirely with them. nothing could be more agreeable to the other three ladies than this offer, and with extreme satisfaction she settled here. upon this increase of income it was that my friends established the community of indigent gentlewomen, which gave you so much pleasure. lamont was much struck with the conduct of lady emilia; she had shewn, he said, a degree of delicacy and prudence which exceeded what he had a notion of; he never met with a woman who foresaw the little chance she had for happiness in marrying a man who could have no inducement to make her his wife but a nice, often a too nice, sense of honour; and who certainly could have no great opinion of her virtue. the folly of both men and women in these late unions was the subject of our conversation till we separated. in the afternoon the ladies asked us to accompany them to the house they had just taken for the new community, to which they were obliged to go that day, as they had set several persons to work there. they keep a post-coach and post-chaise, which with the help of ours, were sufficient to accommodate us all. a short time brought us to the house, a very old and formerly a very fine mansion, but now much fallen to decay. the outside is greatly out of repair, but the building seems strong. the inside is in a manner totally unfurnished; for though it is not empty, yet the rats and mice have made such considerable depredations on what time had before reduced to a very tattered condition that the melancholy remains can be reckoned little better than lumber. the last inhabitant of this house we were informed was an old miser whose passion for accumulating wealth reduced him into almost as unfortunate a state as midas, who, according to the fable, having obtained the long-desired power of turning every thing he touched to gold, was starved by the immediate transmutation of all food into that metal the instant it touched his lips. the late possessor of the house i am speaking of, when he was about fifty years old, turned away every servant but an old woman, who if she was not honest, was at least too weak to be able to put any dishonesty in practice. when he was about threescore, she died, and he never could venture to let any one supply her place. he fortified every door and window with such bars of iron that his house might have resisted the forcible attack of a whole army. night and day growled before his inhospitable door a furious dutch mastiff, whose natural ferocity was so increased by continual hunger, for his master fed him most sparingly, that no stranger could have entered the yard with impunity. every time this churlish beast barked, the old gentleman, with terror and dismay in his countenance, and quaking limbs, ran to the only window he ever ventured to unbar, to see what danger threatened him; nor could the sight of a barefoot child, or a decrepit old woman, immediately dispel his fears. as timorous as falstaff, his imagination first multiplied and then clothed them in buckram; and his panic ceased not till they were out of view. this wretched man upon the death of his only servant, agreed with an old woman to buy food for him, and bring it to the well defended door of his yard; where informing him of her arrival by a signal agreed upon between them, he ventured out of his house to receive it from her; and dressed it himself; till worn out by anxiety of mind he grew too weak to perform that office and ordered the woman to bring it ready prepared; this continued for a little time, till at last he appeared no more at his gate. after the old woman had knocked three days in vain, the neighbourhood began to think it necessary to take some measures thereupon; but not choosing to run the hazard of breaking open the house, they sent to the old gentleman's nephew, whose father had been suffered to languish in extreme poverty many years before his death; nor was the son in much better condition; but he had acquainted some of the neighbours with the place of his abode in hopes of the event which now induced them to send for him. as soon as he arrived, he prepared to force his way into the house, but it was found so impracticable that at length they were obliged to untile part of the roof, from whence a person descended, and opened the door to those who did not choose so dangerous an entrance as that through which he had passed. they found the old man dead on a great chest which contained his money, as if he had been desirous to take possession even in death. his nephew was just of age, and having till then been exposed to all the evils of poverty, was almost distracted with joy at the sudden acquisition of a large fortune. he scarcely could be prevailed with to stay long enough in this house to pay the last duties to an uncle who had no right to anything more from him than just the decent ceremonies; and without giving himself time to look over his estate, hastened to london. he hired a magnificent house in grosvenor square; bespoke the most elegant equipages; bought the finest set of horses he could hear of at double their real value; and launched into every expense the town afforded him. he soon became one of the most constant frequenters of whites; kept several running horses; distinguished himself at newmarket, and had the honour of playing deeper, and betting with more spirit, than any other young man of his age. there was not an occurrence in his life about which he had not some wager depending. the wind could not change or a shower fall without his either losing or gaining by it. he had not a dog or cat in his house on whose life he had not bought or sold an annuity. by these ingenious methods in one year was circulated through the kingdom the ready money which his uncle had been half his life starving himself and family to accumulate. the second year obliged him to mortgage great part of his land, and the third saw him reduced to sell a considerable portion of his estate, of which this house and the land belonging to it made a part. i could not help observing the various fate of this mansion, originally the seat of ancient hospitality; then falling into the hands of a miser who had not spirit to enjoy it, nor sense enough to see that he was impairing so valuable a part of his possessions by grudging the necessary expenses of repairs; from him devolving to a young coxcomb who by neglect let it sink into ruin and was spending in extravagance what he inherited from avarice; as if one vice was to pay the debt to society which the other had incurred; and now it was purchased to be the seat of charity and benevolence. how directly were we led to admire the superior sense, as well as transcendent virtue of these ladies, when we compared the use they made of money with that to which the two late possessors had appropriated it! while we were in doubt which most to blame, he who had heaped it up without comfort, in sordid inhumanity, or he who squandered it in the gratification of gayer vices. equally strangers to beneficence, self-indulgence was their sole view; alike criminal, though not equally unfashionable, one endeavoured to starve, the other to corrupt mankind; while the new owners of this house had no other view than to convenience and to reform all who came within their influence, themselves enjoying in a supreme degree the happiness they dispersed around them. it was pleasing to see numbers at work to repair the building and cultivate the garden and to observe that at length from this inhospitable mansion, 'health to himself, and to his children bread, the labourer bears.' within it were all the biggest schoolgirls, with one of their mistresses to direct them in mending such furniture as was not quite destroyed; and i was pleased to see with how much art they repaired the decays of time, in things which well deserved better care, having once been the richest part of the furniture belonging to the opulent possessors. on our way home we called at a clergyman's house, which was placed in the finest situation imaginable and where we beheld that profusion of comforts which sense and economy will enable the possessors of narrow fortunes to enjoy. this gentleman and his wife have but a small living and still less paternal estate, but the neatness, prettiness and convenience of their habitation were enough to put one out of humour with riches, and i should certainly have breathed forth agar's prayer with great ardour if i had not been stopped in the beginning by considering how great a blessing wealth may be when properly employed, of which i had then such hourly proof. at our return to millenium hall we found some of the neighbouring society who were come to share the evening's concert and sup with us. but at ten o'clock they departed, which i understood was somewhat later than usual, but they conformed to the alteration of hours our arrival had occasioned. the next day being very hot, we were asked to breakfast in a delightful arbour in the flower garden. the morning dew, which still refreshed the flowers, increased their fragrance to as great an excess of sweetness as the senses could support. till i went to this house, i knew not half the charms of the country. few people have the art of making the most of nature's bounty; these ladies are epicures in rural pleasures and enjoy them in the utmost excess to which they can be carried. all that romance ever represented in the plains of arcadia are much inferior to the charms of millenium hall, except the want of shepherds be judged a deficiency that nothing else can compensate; there indeed they fall short of what romantic writers represent, and have formed a female arcadia. after breakfast all the ladies left us except mrs maynard. we were so charmed with the spot we were in that we agreed to remain there and i called on my cousin to continue the task she had undertaken, which she did in the following manner. the history of miss trentham miss trentham never knew the blessing of a mother's care, hers died the same month which gave her daughter birth; and mr trentham survived his wife but eight years. he left his little girl eleven thousand pounds, recommending both her person and fortune to his mother, mrs alworth. mrs alworth was an old lady of good sense and merit. she had felt the most melancholy, but not unusual effect of long life, having outlived all her children. this misfortune she alleviated in the best manner she was able, by receiving her grandchildren into her family. her son by her second husband left behind him a boy and girl, the former at the time i speak of about eleven years old, the latter ten. her daughter had married mr denham and at her death left two girls. mr denham entering into wedlock a second time, very willingly complied with mrs alworth's desire of having his two daughters. the eldest of these was twelve years old, the youngest eleven. these children had lived with the old lady some years, when she took home harriot trentham. as their grandmother was rich, there had been a strong contention among them for her favour, and they could not without great disgust see another rival brought to the house. harriot was extremely handsome and engaging. the natural sweetness of her temper rendered her complying and observant; but having been bred under the care of a sensible and indulgent father, she had never been taught the little arts of behaviour which mothers too commonly inculcate with so much care that children are as void of simplicity at eight as at eight and twenty years old. the first thing a girl is taught is to hide her sentiments, to contradict the thoughts of her heart, and tell all the civil lies which custom has sanctified, with as much affectation and conceit as her mother; and when she has acquired all the folly and impertinence of a riper age, and apes the woman more ungracefully than a monkey does a fine gentleman, the parents congratulate themselves with the extremest complacency on the charming education they have given their daughter. harriot had been taught no such lessons. her father had a strong dislike to prematurity, and feared that communication with the world would too soon teach her art and disguise, the last things he would have chosen to anticipate. by teaching her humanity, he initiated her into civility of manners. she had learnt that to give pain was immoral; and could no more have borne to have shocked any person's mind than to have racked his body. any thought therefore that could hurt she suppressed as an indispensable duty, and to please by her actions and not offend by her words was an essential part of the religion in which she was educated: but in every thing whereby no one could suffer she was innocence and simplicity itself; and in her nature shone pure and uncorrupted either by natural or acquired vices. mrs alworth, though fond of all her grandchildren, could not conquer a degree of partiality for harriot, whose attractions, both personal and mental, were very superior to those of her cousins. her beauty secured her the particular attention of all strangers, she gained their favour at first sight, and secured it by her amiable disposition when they became more acquainted with her. envy is one of the first passions that appears in the human mind. had miss alworth and the miss denhams been much younger, harriot would not have passed unenvied. every day increased their dislike to her as she grew daily more beloved by others, and they let no opportunity escape of making her feel the effects of their little malice. their hatred to her produced a union among themselves; for the first time they found something in which they all agreed. they were continually laying little plots to lessen her in their grandmother's opinion; frequent were the accusations against her, but her innocence always triumphed though it never discouraged them from repeating the same unsuccessful attempts. mrs alworth was extremely fond of them all, but yet she saw through their malice and their behaviour only served to endear harriot the more, who defended herself without anger and retained no rancour in her mind. free from resentment or suspicion she was ever open to their arts, and experience did not teach her to be on her guard against them, which often occasioned their having appearances on their side, and might have raised prejudices against her in mrs alworth's mind had she not found a defender in master alworth, who alone of all her cousins was free from envy. he was naturally of an honest and sweet disposition, and being fond of harriot, for beauty has charms for all ages, felt great indignation at the treatment she received and would often express a resentment from which she was wholly free. mrs alworth's great fondness for her grandson and strong prejudices against schools, from a belief that boys acquire there more vice than learning, had determined on a private education. she therefore provided a tutor for him before he was seven years old; a man of learning and sense, with a great deal of religion and good humour and who was very attentive to the employment for which he had been chosen. master alworth, by being thus kept at home, had frequent opportunities of observing the malice of his sister and miss denham against harriot and never failed exposing their practices to his grandmother; who from thence learnt to suspect their reports about things which passed in his absence and consequently could not be cleared up by him. his fondness for harriot soon made him beloved by her, and as she found little pleasure in the society of her other cousins, she sought his company, but as he was much engaged by his studies she seldom found him at leisure to play. the tutor, greatly delighted with her, tried to awaken in her mind a desire of improvement and found it an easy task; she was inclined to learn and capable of doing it with great quickness. mrs alworth readily entered into the good man's views, and was pleased with the eagerness of harriot's application. master alworth was far enough advanced in learning to assist his favourite, and from him she received instruction with double pleasure and more easily comprehended his explanations than those of their tutor, who found it difficult to divest himself sufficiently of scientific terms, which greatly retard the increase of knowledge in a youthful mind. thus beloved by her grandmother and mr alworth, and hated and traduced by her female cousins, harriot lived till she was sixteen. years had still improved her person and she had made considerable progress in learning, when mrs alworth judged it proper that her grandson should go abroad to complete an education which she flattered herself was hitherto faultless. he had no objection to the scheme but what arose from his unwillingness to leave harriot, who saw his departure approach with great concern. she loved and respected her grandmother, but mr alworth was the only person whom she could look upon in the tender and equal light of a friend. to be deprived of his society was losing the chief pleasure of her life and her best guardian against her enemies. mrs alworth was pleased with the affection which so evidently appeared between these two young people, she hoped to see a happy union arise from it. their fortunes and ages were properly suited, and a love which had taken root in childhood and grown with their increasing years seemed to promise a lasting harmony, of which the sweetness of their dispositions would be no bad security. these pleasing ideas amused this worthy woman, but the two friends themselves had not extended their views so far. bred up like brother and sister, a tenderer degree of relation had not entered their thoughts, nor did any thing more appear necessary to their happiness than a constant enjoyment of each other's friendship. in this disposition they parted when mr alworth went abroad. his tutor thinking himself not properly qualified to conduct him in his travels, recommended another gentleman, and mr alworth, at harriot's request, prevailed with their grandmother to detain his old tutor till harriot's education was completed. mr alworth continued abroad two years, during which time harriot had applied with such unwearied diligence that she was perfect mistress of the living languages and no less acquainted with greek and latin. she was well instructed in the ancient and modern philosophy, and in almost every branch of learning. mr alworth found his cousin not alone improved in understanding, her beauty was just then in its perfection and it was scarcely possible to conceive any thing handsomer. she had great elegance of manner, a point wherein her grandmother excelled, and was as far removed from conceit as from ignorance. her situation was much mended by the marriage of the eldest miss denham; and miss alworth waited only for her brother's arrival and approbation to enter into the same state. the gentleman to whom she was going to be married had first made his address to harriot but, as well as several others, was refused by her. she was not inclined to change her situation, or this gentleman's fortune, person and character were unexceptionable; however, one circumstance without any other objection would have been sufficient to have rendered his suit unsuccessful; she perceived that miss alworth was in love with him, and though she had little reason to have much regard for her, yet good nature made her anxious for the success of a passion which she saw was deeply rooted. she therefore, while she discouraged his addresses, took every means of recommending miss alworth, whose treatment of her she believed rather proceeded from compliance with miss denham's than from ill temper. this gave her hopes that she might make a good wife to mr parnel, the object of her affections. he soon perceived that miss alworth did not behold him with indifference, but as he was much captivated by harriot's charms, it at first had no other effect than leading him to indulge in complaints of her cruelty to miss alworth, who listened with compassion. harriot often represented to him how little he ought to wish for her consent to marry him, which he so strongly solicited; for should she grant it, he would be miserable with a wife who did not love him. she told him that were he indifferent, her being so might do very well, and they live on together in that eternal ennui which must ever subsist between a married couple who have no affection for each other, and while natural good temper and prudence enabled them to dream away a dull life in peace and dead insensibility, the world might call them happy; but that if he really loved her, her indifference would render him more wretched than the most blamable conduct. she would then represent the advantages of marrying a woman whose sole affections he possessed, though at first he felt for her only esteem and gratitude; and advised him by all means to seek for one whose heart was in that situation, which he was well qualified to find. though harriot forbore to mention miss alworth's name, mr parnel well understood to whom she alluded, but found it difficult to take her advice. at length, however, deprived of all hope of obtaining the woman he loved, and moved to compassion by the visible unhappiness of one who loved him, he began to listen to it and frankly told harriot that he understood the aim of what she had said. she was not sorry to throw off all restraint as it gave her the power of speaking more to the purpose and at length brought him to say that he should not be unwilling to marry her. harriot feared lest the belief of mr parnel's still retaining an affection for her might render miss alworth uneasy, and therefore advised him gradually to slacken his addresses to her and at the same time to increase in proportion his attentions for miss alworth, that he might appear to prefer her, since a symptom of inconstancy she knew would not so much affect her as any sign of indifference, and harriot's generosity so far exceeded her vanity that she very sincerely desired to be thought neglected rather than give any alloy to the happiness of her cousin. there was the more colour for this supposition as mr parnel had never been publicly discarded by her, since for the completion of her views she had found it necessary to preserve his acquaintance. miss alworth was happy beyond expression when she found herself the object of mr parnel's addresses. her wishes so far blinded her that she really believed harriot was neglected for her; but yet knew she had long been endeavouring to serve her and was obliged to her for some instructions how to behave so to mr parnel as to secure his esteem and confidence, the best foundation for love. as her brother was then soon expected over, mrs alworth thought that to wait for his approbation was a proper compliment. mr alworth was not at all inclined to object to so good a match, especially as it was much desired by his sister, and the marriage was celebrated soon after his return. this ceremony did not so engage his attention as to render him less sensible of the pleasure of renewing his friendship with harriot, who received him with the sincerest joy. he found her greatly improved and every hour passed agreeably that was spent in her company. they were continually together and never happy but when they were so. every one talked of their mutual passion; and they were so often told of it that they began to fancy it was true, but surprised to find that name should be given to an affection calm and rational as theirs, totally free from that turbulency and wildness which had always appeared to them the true characteristics of love. they were sensible, however, that nothing was so dear to them as each other, they were always sorry to part, uneasy asunder, and rejoiced to meet; a walk was doubly pleasing when they both shared it; a book became more entertaining if they read together, everything was insipid that they did not mutually enjoy. when they considered these symptoms, they were inclined to think the general opinion was just and that their affection, being free from passion, proceeded from some peculiarity of temper. mrs alworth thought she should give them great satisfaction in proposing a speedy marriage; and rejoiced to see the first wish of her heart, which had been for their union, so nearly completed. the old lady's proposal made them a little thoughtful; they saw no very good reason for their marrying; they enjoyed each other's society already and did not wish for any more intimate tie. but neither knew how to refuse, since the other might take it for an affront, and they would not for the world have had the sincerity and tenderness of their affection brought into doubt. besides they began to think that as their love was so generally looked upon as certain, it might become difficult to continue the same degree of intimacy without exposing themselves to censure. this thought was sufficient to determine them to marry; and their entire affection for and confidence in each other convinced them they ran no hazard in this step; and that they could not fail of being happy as man and wife who had so long enjoyed great felicity in the most intimate friendship. in consequence of this resolution, lawyers were employed to draw up settlements and every thing requisite for a proper appearance on their marriage was ordered; but they were so very patient on the subject that the preparations went on slowly. some who hoped to have their diligence quickened in a manner usual on such occasions, affected delays, but were surprised to find that no complaint ensued. they grew still more dilatory, but the only consequence that arose from it was a decent solicitation to dispatch, without any of those more effectual means being used, which impatient love or greedy avarice suggest. these young people were perfectly happy and contented and therefore waited with composure for the conclusion of preparations, which however slowly did however proceed. the old lady indeed was less patient, but a grandmother's solicitations have no very powerful effect on lawyers; therefore hers availed little. during these delays mrs tonston, formerly the eldest miss denham, having been extremely ill, was sent to buxton for the recovery of her health. as this place was but a day's journey from mrs alworth's house, she expressed a desire to see her grand-daughter, and mr alworth and harriot, as well as miss denham, very readily accompanied her thither. the accommodations at buxton allow very little seclusion; and as mrs tonston was sufficiently recovered to conform to the customs of the place, they joined in the general society. the first day at dinner mr alworth's attention was much engrossed by miss melman, a very pretty woman. she was far from a perfect beauty, but her countenance expressed an engaging vivacity, and great good humour, though a wandering unfixed look indicated a light and unsteady mind. her person was little but elegant; there was a sprightliness in her whole figure which was very attractive: her conversation was suitable to it, she had great life and spirit, all the common routine of discourse and a fashionable readiness to skim lightly over all subjects. her understanding was sufficiently circumscribed, but what she wanted in real sense she made up in vivacity, no unsuccessful substitute in general estimation. this young lady was almost a new character to mr alworth. he had lived constantly at his grandmother's till he went abroad, and as soon as he returned into the kingdom he went thither; from which, as it was the middle of summer and consequently london had no temptations, he had never stirred. he therefore had been little used to any woman but his sober and sensible grandmother, two cousins who were pretty enough, but had no great charms of understanding; a sister rather silly; and the incomparable harriot, whose wit was as sound as her judgement solid and sterling, free from affectation and all little effeminate arts and airs. reason governed her thoughts and actions, nor could the greatest flow of spirits make her for a moment forget propriety. every thing in her was natural grace, she was always consistent and uniform, and a stranger to caprice. miss melman was a complete coquette, capricious and fantastical. as mr alworth was the prettiest man at the place and known to have a good fortune, she soon singled him out as a conquest worthy of her and successfully played off all her arts. by appearing to like him, she enticed him to address her; and by a well managed capriciousness of behaviour kept up the spirit of a pursuit. she frequently gave him reason to believe her favourably disposed towards him, and as often, by obliging him to doubt of it, increased his desire to be certain it was true. she kept him in a state of constant anxiety, and made him know her consequence by the continual transition from pleasure to pain in which he lived. he had not been much more than a fortnight at buxton when his attachment to miss melman became apparent. harriot saw an assiduity in his behaviour very different from what he had ever shewn to her. he felt that in the circumstances wherein he and harriot then were, his conduct must appear injurious, and shame and the secret reproaches of his conscience made him take all possible opportunities of avoiding her presence: if he was obliged to converse with her, it was with an air so restrained and inattentive as made her fear his regard for her was entirely vanished. the sincere affection she had for him rendered this apprehension extremely painful. she would have been contented to have seen another woman his wife, but could not bear the thought of losing his friendship. at first she passed over this change in silence and appeared even not to observe it; but when they received an account that the marriage writings were finished, she thought an affected blindness highly unseasonable and told him, in the most friendly and generous manner, that nothing remained to be done but to cancel them, that she plainly perceived another had obtained the heart she never possessed; that the measures taken for their marriage were of no sort of consequence, and she flattered herself she might retain his friendship though he gave his hand to another. mr alworth at first appeared confounded, but recovering himself, confessed to her frankly he never knew the weakness and folly of the human heart till his own convinced him of it; that he had always felt for her the most perfect esteem, joined with the tenderest affection, but his passions had had no share in his attachment. on the contrary, he found them strongly engaged on the side of miss melman, and felt an ardour for her which he had never before experienced. that he could not think of being her husband without rapture, though he saw plainly she was inferior to his harriot both in beauty and understanding; and as for her principles, he was totally ignorant of them. he now, he said, perceived the difference between friendship and love, and was convinced that esteem and passion were totally independent, since she entirely possessed the one, while miss melman totally engrossed the other. harriot was pleased with the frankness of mr alworth's confession and wished only to be secure of his esteem, but she saw him so wholly taken up with miss melman that she was convinced passion had greater power over his sex than esteem, and that while his mind was under the tumultuous influence of love, she must expect very little satisfaction from his friendship. she took upon herself the task of breaking off their treaty of marriage and acquainted her grandmother with her resolution, who saw too plainly the reason for her doing so to blame her conduct, though she grieved at the necessity for it and could not sincerely forgive her grandson's levity and want of judgement in preferring a wild fantastic girl to the extreme beauty and solid well-known merit of harriot, an error for which she prophetically saw he would in time be severely punished. harriot, from the intended bride, now became the confidante of mr alworth, though with an aching heart; for she feared that after experiencing the more active sensations of a strong passion, friendship would appear too insipid to have any charms for him. she accompanied mrs alworth home before the lovers chose to leave buxton, but not till she had prevailed with her grandmother to consent that the marriage between miss melman and mr alworth should be celebrated at her house. when everything requisite for the ceremony was ready, they came to mrs alworth's, where the indissoluble knot was tied and in the bridegroom's opinion the most perfect happiness secured to his future years. they stayed but a few days after the marriage and then went to her father's house, till the approaching winter called them to london. harriot found a great loss of a friend she so sincerely loved, but she hoped he would be as happy as he expected and had the satisfaction of believing he retained a tender regard for her. they corresponded frequently and his letters assured her of his felicity. after he had been some time fixed in london, he grew indeed less eloquent on the subject, which did not surprise her as the variety of his engagements shortened his letters and denied him leisure to expatiate on the most pleasing topics. miss denham had accompanied her sister home, and in the winter mrs alworth was informed by mrs tonston that miss denham had received a proposal from a gentleman of a good estate, but he insisted on a fortune of nine thousand pounds, which was two more than she was possessed of; and as they wished the old lady to make that addition, mrs tonston as an inducement added that the gentleman was extremely agreeable to her sister. mrs alworth was not inclined to comply with their views, and made no other answer to all harriot urged to prevail with her to give the requisite sum than that it was more than perhaps would at her death fall to miss denham's share and she saw no temptation to purchase so mercenary a man. when harriot found that all she could say was unavailing, she told mrs alworth that if she would give her leave, she was determined to make the required addition out of her fortune; for she could not bear her cousin should be disappointed in a particular she thought essential to her happiness by the want of a sum of money which she could very well spare; adding that the treatment she had received from her cousins she attributed to childishness and folly and should be far worse than they were if she could remember it with resentment. mrs alworth was greatly touched with this instance of harriot's generosity, and finding that nothing but the exertion of her authority, which her grand-daughter acknowledged absolute and always obeyed implicitly, could prevent her from performing her purpose, she determined to take the most effectual means of hindering it by advancing the money herself, and invited miss denham and her lover to her house; where the marriage was performed, and they departed. mrs alworth began to feel the infirmities of age, and now that she and harriot were left to continual tête-à-tête, absolute quiet might have degenerated into something like dullness; but the disturbance they found not at home reached them from abroad. mr parnel was wearied with his wife's fondness, who not considering that he had married her more out of gratitude than affection, had disgusted him with the continual professions of a love to which his heart would not make an equal return. this fondness teased a temper naturally good into peevishness and was near converting indifference into dislike. mrs parnel, distressed beyond measure at an effect so contrary to what she intended, reproached him with ingratitude and tormented him with tears and complaints. harriot, who considered this match as in a great measure her own work, was particularly desirous of redressing these grievances and took great pains to persuade mrs parnel to restrain her fondness, and suppress her complaints, while she endeavoured to make her husband sensible that he ought, in consideration for the cause, to pardon the troublesome effects and not to suffer himself to be disgusted by that affection in his wife which to most husbands would appear a merit. mrs alworth joined to harriot's persuasion the influence her age and respectable character gave her, and though not without great difficulty, they at last saw mr and mrs parnel live in peace and amity, without any of the pleasures arising from strong and delicate affections or the sufferings occasioned by ill humour and hatred; and whatever void they might find in their hearts, they were so happy as to have well filled by two very fine children which mrs parnel brought her husband, who always treated her with great indulgence in hopes of fixing harriot's good opinion; for though despair had damped his passion, yet he still loved her with the tenderest respect and reverence. towards the latter end of the second year of mr alworth's marriage, his grandmother died, much regretted by harriot, whom she left mistress of her own fortune with the addition of four thousand pounds, part of it the accumulated interest of her paternal inheritance, the rest mrs alworth's legacy. her grandson succeeded to her house and intreated harriot that he might find her there when he came to take possession. their correspondence had been regular but they had never met since his marriage. mrs alworth was not fond of the conversation of an old lady; and from seeing herself not very agreeable to her grandmother, felt an uncommon awe in her presence. harriot had received repeated invitations from them, but could not be prevailed with to leave old mrs alworth, who had no other companion. the only relief she found in her affliction for the loss of so worthy a parent was putting the house, and all belonging to it, in order for the reception of her first friend, in whose society she expected to renew the happiness she had so long enjoyed from it. nor was she disappointed in her hopes of finding him still her friend; they met with mutual joy, and mrs alworth seemed at first as much pleased with her new possession as they were with each other. but harriot soon found her happiness considerably damped. mr alworth, unwilling to let his grandmother know the ill success of a union which he was sensible she disapproved, had been silent on that subject in his letters, but he was too well acquainted with the generosity of harriot's temper to fear she would triumph at the natural consequence of his ill-grounded passion, and therefore concealed not from her any part of the uneasiness which his wife's disposition gave him. he too late saw the difference between sensible vivacity and animal spirits and found mrs alworth a giddy coquette, too volatile to think, too vain to love; pleased with admiration, insensible to affection, fond of flattery but indifferent to true praise; imprudently vivacious in mixed companies, lifeless when alone with him; and desirous of charming all mankind except her husband, who of his whole sex seemed the only person of no consequence to her. as her view was to captivate in public, she covered a very pretty complexion with pearl-powder and rouge because they made her more resplendent by candle-light and in public places. mr alworth had in strong terms expressed his abhorence of that practice, but she was surprised he should intermeddle in an affair that was no business of his, surely she might wear what complexion she pleased. the natural turn of his temper inclined him to rational society, but in that his wife could bear no part. the little time she was at home was employed in dressing and a multitude of coxcombs attended her toilet. mr alworth's extreme fondness for her made him at first very wretched; he soon found himself the most disregarded of all mankind and every man appeared his rival; but on nearer observation he perceived his jealousy was groundless and that she was too giddy to love any thing. this made his pride easy, but his tenderness still had much to endure, till at length contempt produced some degree of indifference and his sufferings became less acute, though he lived in continual grief at finding himself disappointed of all his airy hopes of happiness. harriot was scarcely less afflicted than himself, she endeavoured to render him more contented with his situation, and attempted to teach mrs alworth to think, but in both was equally unsuccessful. however, this was not all she had to endure. when mr alworth began with unprejudiced eyes to compare her he had lost with the woman for whom he relinquished her; when he saw how greatly harriot's natural beauty eclipsed mrs alworth's notwithstanding the addition of all her borrowed charms, he wondered what magic had blinded him to her superiority. but when he drew a comparison between the admirable understanding of the one, her great fund of knowledge, the inexhaustible variety in her conversation, with the insipid dullness or unmeaning vivacity of the other, he was still more astonished and could not forgive his strange infatuation. this train of thought perhaps had no small share in giving rise to a passion for harriot which he had never felt, while it might have been the source of much happiness to them both. in short, he became violently in love with her and fell a prey to the most cruel regret and despair, sensible that all he suffered was the consequence of his own folly. respect for harriot made mr alworth endeavour to conceal his passion, but could not prevent its daily increase. at this time i became acquainted with her, during a visit i made in the neighbourhood; and as the natural openness both of her disposition and mine inclined us to converse with much freedom, i one day took the liberty to tell her how much mr alworth was in love with her. she had not the least suspicion of it, the entire affection which had always subsisted between them she imagined sufficient to lead me into that error but told me the thing was impossible; and to prove it, related all the circumstances of their intended union. appearances were too strong to suffer me to be persuaded that i was mistaken; i acknowledged that what she urged seemed to contradict my opinion, but that it was no proof; for the perverseness of human nature was such that it did not appear to me at all improbable that the easiness of obtaining her, when they had both been, as it were, bred up with that view, might be the sole occasion of his indifference; and the impossibility of ever possessing her now would only serve to inflame his passion. harriot accused me of representing human nature more perverse and absurd than it really was, and continued firm in the persuasion of my being mistaken. whatever glaring signs of mr alworth's love appeared, she set them all down to the account of friendship; till at length his mind was so torn with grief and despair that no longer able to conceal the cause of his greatest sufferings he begged her to teach him how to conquer a passion which, while it existed, must make him wretched; and with the greatest confusion told her how unaccountably unfortunate he was, both in not loving, and in loving, each equally out of season. almost distracted with the distressful state of his mind, he was in the utmost horror lest this declaration should offend her; and throwing himself at her feet with a countenance and manner which shewed him almost frantic with despair, terrified her so much that she did not feel half the shock this declaration would have given her had it been made with more calmness. she strove to silence him; she endeavoured to raise him from her feet, but to no purpose; she could not abate the agonies of his mind, without assuring him she forgave him. her spirits were in extreme agitation till she saw him a little composed, for she feared his senses were affected; but when her alarm began to abate, the effect of her terrors and her grief appeared in a flood of tears; mr alworth found them infectious, and she was obliged to dry them up in order to comfort him. when he grew more composed, harriot ventured, after expressing her concern for his having conceived so unfortunate a passion, to intimate that absence was the best remedy and that there was nothing to be done but for her to leave the house. mr alworth was not able to support the mention of her going away and intreated her at least to give him time to arm himself against the greatest misfortune that could befall him, the loss of her society. she dared not control him in any thing material while his mind continued in that desperate situation and therefore consented to stay some time longer. she found it very difficult to make him think that there ever was a proper time for her to depart, though passion was much less tormenting since he had ventured to declare it; and what before arose nearly to distraction, sunk now into a soft melancholy. mrs alworth paid so little attention to her husband that she had not perceived the conflict in his mind. she was wearied with the country to the greatest degree, and made the tiresome days as short as she could by not rising till noon; from that time till dinner her toilet found her sufficient employment. as the neighbourhood was large, she very frequently contrived to make a party at cards; but as her company was not used to play high, this afforded her little relief except she could find somebody to bet with her, which was not very difficult as she was contented to do it to a disadvantage. in this way she contrived, just, as she called it, to drag on life; and wondered how so fine a woman as harriot could have so long buried herself in that place, scarcely more lively than the family vault. when harriot thought she had sufficiently convinced mr alworth of the necessity of her absence, she took her leave with much greater concern than she would suffer to appear, though she did not affect indifference; but the truth was, mr alworth's passionate tenderness for her had made an impression on her heart which without it all his merit could not effect. the melancholy languor which overspread his countenance gave it charms she had never before discovered in it; the soft accents in which he breathed the most delicate love penetrated to her very soul, and she no longer found that indifference which had been so remarkable a part of her character. but she carefully concealed these new sensations in hopes that he would more easily conquer his passion for not thinking it returned. though the winter was scarcely begun, yet having no inducement to go to any other place, she went to london; and as i had prolonged my stay in the country only to gratify my inclination for her company, i went with her to town. mrs alworth did not continue there a month after us; but her husband, whose health was by no means in a good state, went to bath; and that he might not be quite destitute of pleasure, he carried his little boy with him, though but a year and a quarter old. his wife did not contend with him for this privilege, she would have seen little more of the babe had it been in london. harriot trentham was at her first arrival in very low spirits, and every letter she received from mr alworth increased her dejection, as it painted his in very strong colours. as the town filled she began to try if dissipation could dispel her melancholy. her beauty, the fineness of her person, and her being known to have a large fortune, which fame even exaggerated, procured her many lovers and she became the most admired woman in town. this was a new source of pleasure to her. she had lived where she saw not many single men, and though few of these who dared to flatter themselves with hopes, had failed paying their addresses to her, yet these successive courtships were very dull when compared with all the flutter of general admiration. her books were now neglected, and to avoid thinking on a subject which constantly afflicted her, she forced herself into public and was glad to find that the idleness of the men and her own vanity could afford her entertainment. she was not however so totally engrossed by this pleasing dissipation as to neglect any means of serving the distressed. mrs tonston, exerting the genius she had so early shewn for traducing others, set her husband and his family at variance, till at length the falsehoods by which she had effected it came to be discovered. her husband and she had never lived well together, and this proof of her bad heart disgusted him so entirely that he turned her out of his house, allowing her a mere trifle for her support. in this distress she applied to harriot, who she knew was ever ready to serve even those who had most injured her. her application was not unsuccessful. harriot sent her a considerable present for her immediate convenience and then went into the country to mr tonston, to whom she represented so effectually his ungenerous treatment, since the fortune his wife brought him gave her a right to a decent maintenance, that he made a proper settlement upon her and gave the writings into harriot's hands, who not only saw the money paid regularly, but took so much pains to convince mrs tonston of the malignity of her disposition that she brought her to a due sense of it, and by applying for his assistance to mend her heart, who best knew its defects, she became so altered in temper that five years after her separation from her husband harriot effected a reconciliation, and they now live in great amity together, gratefully acknowledging their obligations to her. i have anticipated this fact in order to render my narrative less tedious, or i should have stopped at harriot's procuring a settlement for mrs tonston, and have told you that by lying in her return at an inn where the smallpox then was she caught that distemper, and soon after she arrived in london it appeared. i need not say that she had it to a very violent degree. being then in town i had the good fortune to nurse her and flatter myself that my care was not useless; for in cases so dangerous, no one who does not feel all the tender solicitude of a friend can be a proper nurse. mrs alworth wrote her husband word of harriot's illness, who came post to london, filled with the extremest anxiety, and shared the fatigue of nursing with me; she was all the time delirious. when she came to her senses, she at first seemed mortified to think mr alworth had seen her in that disfigured condition; but on reflection told me she rejoiced in it, as she thought it must totally extinguish his passion; and her greatest solicitude was for his happiness. but she afterwards found her expectation was ill grounded. when she recovered, she perceived that the smallpox had entirely destroyed her beauty. she acknowledged she was not insensible to this mortification; and to avoid the observation of the envious or even of the idly curious she retired, as soon as she was able to travel, to a country house which i hired for her. in a very short time she became perfectly contented with the alteration this cruel distemper had made in her. her love for reading returned, and she regained the quiet happiness of which flutter and dissipation had deprived her without substituting any thing so valuable in its place. she has often said she looks on this accident as a reward for the good she had done mrs tonston, and that few benevolent actions receive so immediate a recompense, or we should be less remiss in our duties though not more meritorious in performing them. she found retirement better calculated for overcoming a hopeless passion than noise and flutter. she had indeed by dissipation often chased mr alworth from her thoughts, but at the first moment of leisure his idea returned in as lively colours as if it had always kept possession of her mind. in the country she had time to reflect on the necessity of conquering this inclination if she wished to enjoy any tolerable happiness; and therefore took proper measures to combat it. reason and piety, when united, are extremely prevalent, and with their assistance she restrained her affection once more within its ancient bounds of friendship. her letters to mr alworth were filled with remonstrances against the indulgence of his love, and the same means she had found effectual she recommended to him and with satisfaction learnt that though they had not entirely succeeded, yet he had acquired such a command over his heart that he was as little wretched as a man can be who is a living monument of the too common folly of being captivated by a sudden glare of person and parts; and of the fatal error of those men who seek in marriage for an amusing trifler rather than a rational and amiable companion, and too late find that the vivacity which pleases in the mistress is often a fatal vice in a wife. he lives chiefly in the country, has generally a few friends in the house with him, and takes a great deal of pains in the education of his two sons; while their mother spends almost the whole year in town, immersed in folly and dissipation. about fourteen years ago harriot, who i ought to begin to call miss trentham, came to see a lady in this neighbourhood and thus was first known to the inhabitants of this mansion. they were much pleased with her acquaintance and when she had performed her visit, invited her to pass a little time with them. she required no solicitation, for it was the very thing she wished, and here she has remained ever since. when mr maynard died, leaving me but a small jointure, miss trentham was indulged in her inclination of asking me to spend the first part of my widowhood with her and her friends; and i have been fortunate enough to recommend myself so effectually that they have left me no room to doubt they choose i should continue with them, and indeed i think i could scarcely support life were i banished from this heavenly society. miss trentham and mr alworth keep up a constant correspondence by letters, but avoid meeting. his wife has brought him one daughter, and miss trentham's happiness has been rendered complete by obtaining from her permission to educate this child; a favour which contrary to what is usual is esteemed very small by her who granted and very great by the person that received it. this girl is now ten years old, and the most accomplished of her age of any one, perhaps, in the kingdom. her person is fine, and her temper extremely engaging. she went about a week ago to her father, whom she visits for about three weeks twice in a year, and never returns unimproved. as miss trentham's fortune made a good addition to the income of the society, they on this occasion established in the parish a manufacture of carpets and rugs which has succeeded so well as to enrich all the country round about. as the morning was not very far advanced, i asked mrs maynard to conduct us to this manufacture, as in my opinion there is no sight so delightful as extensive industry. she readily complied, and led us to a sort of street, the most inhabited part of the village, above half a mile from millenium hall. here we found several hundreds of people of all ages, from six years old to four score, employed in the various parts of the manufacture, some spinning, some weaving, others dying the worsted, and in short all busy, singing and whistling, with the appearance of general cheerfulness, and their neat dress shewed them in a condition of proper plenty. the ladies, it seems, at first hired persons to instruct the neighbourhood, which was then burdened with poor and so over stocked with hands that only a small part of them could find work. but as they feared an enterprising undertaker might ruin their plan, they themselves undertook to be stewards; they stood the first expense, allowed a considerable profit to the directors, but kept the distribution of the money entirely in their own hands: thus they prevent the poor from being oppressed by their superiors, for they allow them great wages and by their very diligent inspection hinder any frauds. i never was more charmed than to see a manufacture so well ordered that scarcely any one is too young or too old to partake of its emoluments. as the ladies have the direction of the whole, they give more to the children and the aged, in proportion to the work they do, than to those who are more capable, as a proper encouragement and reward for industry in those seasons of life in which it is so uncommon. we were so taken up with observing these people, that we got home but just as dinner was carrying in. in the afternoon we informed the ladies how we had spent the latter part of the morning, and in the course of conversation lamont told them that they were the first people he ever knew who lived entirely for others, without any regard to their own pleasure; and that were he a roman catholic, he should beg of them to confer on him the merit of some of their works of supererogation. 'i do not know where you could find them,' replied miss mancel, 'i believe we have not been able to discover any such; on the contrary, we are sensible of great deficiencies in the performance of our duty.' 'can you imagine, madam,' interrupted lamont, 'that all you do here is a duty?' 'indispensably so,' answered miss mancel, 'we are told by him who cannot err that our time, our money and our understandings are entrusted with us as so many talents for the use of which we must give a strict account. how we ought to use them he has likewise told us; as to our fortunes in the most express terms, when he commands us to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to relieve the prisoner, and to take care of the sick. those who have not an inheritance that enables them to do this are commanded to labour in order to obtain means to relieve those who are incapable of gaining the necessaries of life. can we then imagine that every one is not required to assist others to the utmost of his power, since we are commanded even to work for the means of doing so? god's mercy and bounty is universal, it flows unasked and unmerited; we are bid to endeavour to imitate him as far as our nature will enable us to do it. what bounds then ought we to set to our good offices, but the want of power to extend them further? our faculties and our time should be employed in directing our donations in a manner the most conducive to the benefit of mankind, the most for the encouragement of virtue and the suppression of vice; to assist in this work is the business of speech, of reason and of time. these ought to be employed in seeking out opportunities of doing good and in contriving means for regulating it to the best purpose. shall i allow much careful thought towards settling the affairs of my household with economy, and be careless how i distribute my benefactions to the poor, to whom i am only a steward, and of whose interests i ought to be as careful as of my own? by giving them my money i may sacrifice my covetousness, but by doing it negligently i indulge my indolence, which i ought to endeavour to conquer as much as every other vice. each state has its trials; the poverty of the lower rank of people exercises their industry and patience; the riches of the great are trials of their temperance, humility and humanity. theirs is perhaps the more difficult part, but their present reward is also greater if they acquit themselves well; as for the future, there may probably be no inequality.' 'you observed, sir,' said miss trentham 'that we live for others, without any regard to our own pleasure, therefore i imagine you think our way of life inconsistent with it; but give me leave to say you are mistaken. what is there worth enjoying in this world that we do not possess? we have all the conveniences of life, nay, all the luxuries that can be included among them. we might indeed keep a large retinue; but do you think the sight of a number of useless attendants could afford us half the real satisfaction that we feel from seeing the money which must be lavished on them expended in supporting the old and decrepit, or nourishing the helpless infant? we might dress with so much expense that we could scarcely move under the burden of our apparel; but is that more eligible than to see the shivering wretch clad in warm and comfortable attire? can the greatest luxury of the table afford so true a pleasure as the reflection that instead of its being over-charged with superfluities, the homely board of the cottager is blessed with plenty? we might spend our time in going from place to place, where none wish to see us except they find a deficiency at the card-table, perpetually living among those whose vacant minds are ever seeking after pleasures foreign to their own tastes and pursue joys which vanish as soon as possessed; for these would you have us leave the infinite satisfaction of being beheld with gratitude and love, and the successive enjoyments of rational delights, which here fill up every hour? should we do wisely in quitting a scene where every object exalts our mind to the great creator, to mix among all the folly of depraved nature? 'if we take it in a more serious light still, we shall perceive a great difference in the comforts arising from the reflections on a life spent in an endeavour to obey our maker and to correct our own defects in a constant sense of our offences, and an earnest desire to avoid the commission of them for the future, from a course of hurry and dissipation which will not afford us leisure to recollect our errors, nor attention to attempt amending them.' 'the difference is indeed striking,' said lamont, 'and there can be no doubt which is most eligible; but are you not too rigid in your censures of dissipation? you seem to be inclined to forbid all innocent pleasures.' 'by no means,' replied miss trentham, 'but things are not always innocent because they are trifling. can any thing be more innocent than picking of straws, or playing at push-pin; but if a man employs himself so continually in either that he neglects to serve a friend or to inspect his affairs, does it not cease to be innocent? should a schoolboy be found whipping a top during school hours, would his master forbear correction because it is an innocent amusement? and yet thus we plead for things as trifling, tho' they obstruct the exercise of the greatest duties in life. whatever renders us forgetful of our creator, and of the purposes for which he called us into being, or leads us to be inattentive to his commands, or neglectful in the performance of them, becomes criminal, however innocent in its own nature. while we pursue these things with a moderation which prevents such effects they are always innocent and often desirable, the excess only is to be avoided.' 'i have nothing left me to say,' answered lamont, 'than that your doctrine must be true and your lives are happy; but may i without impertinence observe that i should imagine your extensive charities require an immense fortune.' 'not so much, perhaps,' said mrs morgan, 'as you suppose. we keep a very regular account, and at an average, for every year will not be exactly the same, the total stands thus. the girls' school four hundred pounds a year, the boys' a hundred and fifty, apprenticing some and equipping others for service one hundred. the clothing of the girls in the house forty. the almshouses two hundred. the maintenance of the monsters a hundred and twenty. fortunes and furniture for such young persons as marry in this and the adjoining parishes, two hundred. all this together amounts only to twelve hundred and ten pounds a year, and yet affords all reasonable comforts. the expenses of ourselves and household, in our advantageous situation, come within eight hundred a year. finding so great a balance in our favour, we agreed to appropriate a thousand a year for the society of gentlewomen with small or no fortunes; but it has turned out in such a manner that they cost us a trifle. we then dedicated that sum to the establishment of a manufacture, but since the fourth year it has much more than paid its expenses, though in many respects we do not act with the economy usual in such cases, but give very high wages, for our design being to serve a multitude of poor destitute of work, we have no nice regard to profit. as we did not mean to drive a trade, we have been at a loss what to do with the profits. we have out of it made a fund for the sick and disabled from which they may receive a comfortable support, and intend to secure it to them to perpetuity in the best manner we can.' 'how few people of fortune are there,' said lamont, 'who could not afford £ a year, with only retrenching superfluous and burdensome expenses? but if they would only imitate you in any one branch, how much greater pleasure would they then receive from their fortunes than they now enjoy?' while he was engaged in discourse with the ladies, i observed to mrs maynard that by the account she had given me of their income, their expenses fell far short of it. she whispered me that their accidental charities were innumerable, all the rest being employed in that way. their acquaintance know they cannot so much oblige as by giving them an opportunity of relieving distress. they receive continual applications and though they give to none indiscriminately, yet they never refuse any who really want. their donations sometimes are in great sums, where the case requires such extraordinary assistance. if they hear of any gentleman's family oppressed by too many children, or impoverished by sickness, they contrive to convey an adequate present privately, or will sometimes ask permission to put some of their children into business, or buy them places or commissions. we acquainted the ladies that we should trouble them no longer than that night, and with regret saw it so soon ended. the next morning, upon going into lamont's room, i found him reading the new testament; i could not forbear expressing some pleasure and surprise at seeing him thus uncommonly employed. he told me he was convinced by the conduct of the ladies of this house that their religion must be the true one. when he had before considered the lives of christians, their doctrine seemed to have so little influence on their actions that he imagined there was no sufficient effect produced by christianity to warrant a belief, that it was established by a means so very extraordinary; but he now saw what that religion in reality was, and by the purity of its precepts was convinced its original must be divine. it now appeared evidently to be worthy of its miraculous institution. he was resolved to examine whether the moral evidences concurred with that divine stamp which was so strongly impressed upon it and he had risen at day break to get a bible out of the parlour that he might study precepts which could thus exalt human nature almost to divine. it was with great joy i found him so seriously affected; and when we went to breakfast could not forbear communicating my satisfaction to my cousin, who sincerely shared in it. as soon as breakfast was over we took leave of the ladies, though not till they had made us promise a second visit, to which we very gladly agreed, for could we with decency have prolonged this, i know not when we should have departed. you, perhaps, wish we had done it sooner and may think i have been too prolix in my account of this society; but the pleasure i find in recollection is such that i could not restrain my pen within moderate bounds. if what i have described may tempt any one to go and do likewise, i shall think myself fortunate in communicating it. for my part, my thoughts are all engaged in a scheme to imitate them on a smaller scale. i am, sir. for love of country _a story of land and sea in the days of the revolution_ by cyrus townsend brady author of "the grip of honor," "for the freedom of the sea," etc. new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons _all rights reserved._ to the society of the sons of the revolution, _and those kindred organizations whose chief function is to cultivate a spirit of patriotism and love of country in the present by recalling the struggles and sacrifices of the past._ preface since the action of this story falls during the periods, and the book deals with personages and incidents, which are usually treated of in the more serious pages of history, it is proper that some brief word of explanation should be written by which i might confirm some of the romantic happenings hereafter related, which to the casual reader may appear to draw too heavily upon his credulity for acceptance. the action between the randolph and the yarmouth really happened, the smaller ship did engage the greater for the indicated purpose, much as i have told it; and if i have ventured to substitute another name for that of the gallant sailor and daring hero, captain nicholas biddle, who commanded the little randolph, and lost his life, on that occasion, i trust this paragraph may be considered as making ample amends. the remarkable fight between those two ships is worthy of more extended notice than has hitherto been given it, in any but the larger tones (and not even in some of those) of the time. as far as my information permits me to say, there never was a more heroic battle on the seas. again, it is evident to students of history that the character of washington has not been properly understood hitherto, by the very people who revere his name, though the excellent books of messrs. ford, wilson, lodge, fiske, and others are doing much to destroy the popular canonization which made of the man a saint; in defence of my characterization of him i am able to say that the incidents and anecdotes and most of the conversations in which he appears are absolutely historical. if i have dwelt too long and too circumstantially upon the trenton and princeton campaigns for a book so light in character as is this one, it may be set down to an ardent admiration for washington as man and soldier, and a design again to exhibit him as he was at one of the most critical and brilliant points of his career. furthermore, i find that the school and other histories commonly accessible to ordinary people are not sufficiently awake to the importance and brilliancy of the campaign, and i cherish the hope that this book may serve, in some measure, to establish its value. i have freely used all the histories and narratives to which i had access, without hesitation; and if i have anticipated a distinguished arrival, or hastened the departure of a ship, or altered the date of a naval battle, or changed its scene, i plead the example of the distinguished masters of fiction, to warrant me. in closing i cannot refrain from thanking those who have so kindly assisted me with advice and correction during the writing of this story and the reading of the proof, especially the rev. a. j. p. mcclure. c. t. b. philadelphia, penna., _november_, . contents book i the events of a night chapter i katharine yields her independence ii the country first of all iii colonel wilton iv lord dunmore's men pay an evening call v a timely interference vi a faithful subject of his majesty vii the loyal talbots viii an untold story ix bentley's prayer x a soldier's epitaph book ii knights errant of the sea xi captain john paul jones xii an important commission xiii a clever stratagem xiv a surprise for the juno xv chased by a frigate xvi 'twixt love and duty xvii an incidental passage at arms xviii duty wins the game book iii the lion at bay xix the port of philadelphia xx a winter camp xxi the boatswain tells the story xxii washington--a man with human passions xxiii lieutenant martin's lesson xxiv crossing the delaware xxv trenton--the lion strikes xxvi my lord cornwallis xxvii the lion turns fox xxviii the british play "taps" xxix the last of the talbots book iv a death grapple on the deep xxx a sailor's opinion of the land xxxi seymour's desperate resolution xxxii the prisoners on the yarmouth xxxiii two proposals xxxiv captain vincent mystified xxxv bentley says good-by xxxvi the last of the randolph xxxvii for love of country xxxviii philip disobeys orders xxxix three pictures of the sea. book v the dead alive again xl a final appeal xli into the haven at last book i the events of a night for love of country chapter i _katharine yields her independence_ if seymour could have voiced his thought, he would have said that the earth itself did not afford a fairer picture than that which lay within the level radius of his vision, and which had imprinted itself so powerfully upon his impressionable and youthful heart. it was not the scenery of virginia either, the landscape on the potomac, of which he would have spoken so enthusiastically, though even that were a thing not to be disdained by such a lover of the beautiful as seymour had shown himself to be,--the dry brown hills rising in swelling slopes from the edge of the wide quiet river; the bare and leafless trees upon their crests, now scarce veiling the comfortable old white house, which in the summer they quite concealed beneath their masses of foliage; and all the world lying dreamy and calm and still, in the motionless haze of one of those rare seasons in november which so suggests departed days that men name it summer again. for all that he then saw in nature was but a setting for a woman; even the sun itself, low in the west, robbed of its glory, and faded into a dull red ball seeking to hide its head, but served to throw into high relief the noble and beautiful face of the girl upon whom he gazed,--the girl who was sun and life and light and world for him. the most confirmed misogynist would have found it difficult to challenge her claim to beauty; and yet it would require a more severe critic or a sterner analyst than a lover would be likely to prove, to say in just what point could be found that which would justify the claim. was it in the mass of light wavy brown hair, springing from a low point on her forehead and gently rippling back, which she wore plaited and tied with a ribbon and destitute of powder? how sweetly simple it looked to him after the bepowdered and betowered misses of the town with whom he was most acquainted! was it in the broad low brow, or the brown, almost black eyes which laughed beneath it; or the very fair complexion, which seemed to him a strangely delightful and unusual combination? or was it in the perfection of a faultless, if somewhat slender and still undeveloped figure, half concealed by the vivid "cardinal" cloak she wore, which one little hand held loosely together about her, while the other dabbled in the water by her side? be this as it may, the whole impression she produced was one which charmed and fascinated to the last degree, and mistress katharine wilton's sway among the young men of the colony was-well-nigh undisputed. a toast and a belle in half virginia, seymour was not the first, nor was he destined to be the last, of her adorers. the strong, steady, practised stroke, denoting the accomplished oarsman, with which he had urged the little boat through the water, had given way to an idle and purposeless drift. he longed to cast himself down before the little feet, in their smart high-heeled buckled shoes and clocked stockings, which peeped out at him from under her embroidered camlet petticoat in such a maliciously coquettish manner; he longed to kneel down there in the skiff, at the imminent risk of spoiling his own gay attire, and declare the passion which consumed him; but something--he did not know what it was, and she did not tell him--constrained him, and he sat still, and felt himself as far away as if she had been in the stars. in his way he was quite as good to look at as the young maiden; tall, blond, stalwart, blue-eyed, pleasant-featured, with the frank engaging air which seems to belong to those who go down to the sea in ships, lieutenant john seymour seymour was an excellent specimen of that hardy, daring, gallant class of men who in this war and in the next were to shed such imperishable lustre upon american arms by their exploits in the naval service. born of an old and distinguished philadelphia family, so proud of its name that in his instance they had doubled it, the usual bluntness and roughness of the sea were tempered by this gentle birth and breeding, and by frequent attrition with men and women of the politest society of the largest and most important city of the colonies. offering his services as soon as the news of lexington precipitated the conflict with the mother country, he had already made his name known among that gallant band of seamen among whom jones, biddle, dale, and conyngham were pre-eminent. the delicious silence which he had been unwilling to break, since it permitted him to gaze undisturbed upon his fair shipmate, was terminated at last by that lady herself. she looked up from the water with which she had been playing, and then appearing to notice for the first time his steady ardent gaze, she laughed lightly and said,-- "well, sir, it grows late. when you have finished contemplating the scenery, perhaps you will turn the boat, and take me home; then you can feast your eyes upon something more attractive." "and what is that, pray?" he asked. "your supper, sir. you must be very anxious for it by this time, and really you know you look quite hungry. we have been out so long; but i will have pity on you, and detain you no longer here. turn the boat around, lieutenant seymour, and put me on shore at once. i will stand between no man and his dinner." "hungry? yes, i am, but not for dinner,--for you, mistress katharine," he replied. "oh, what a horrid appetite! i don't feel safe in the boat with you. are you very hungry?" "really, miss wilton, i am not jesting at all," he said with immense dignity. "oh! oh! he is in earnest. shall i scream? no use; we are a mile from the house, at least." "oh, miss wilton--katharine," he replied desperately, "i am devoured by my--" "lieutenant seymour!" she drew herself up with great hauteur, letting the cloak drop about her waist. "madam!" "only my friends call me katharine." "and am i not, may i not be, one of your friends?" "well, yes--i suppose so; but you are so young." "i am just twenty-seven, madam, and you, i suppose, are--" "never be ungallant enough to suppose a young lady's age. you may do those things in philadelphia, if you like, but 't is not the custom here. besides, i mean too young a friend; you have not known me long enough, that is." "long enough! i have known you ever since tuesday of last week." "and this is friday,--just ten days, ten long days!" she replied triumphantly. "long days!" he cried. "very short ones, for me." "long or short, sir, do you think you can know me in that period? is it possible i am so easily fathomed?" she went on, smiling. now it is ill making love in a rowboat at best, and when one is in earnest and the other jests it is well-nigh impossible; so to these remarks lieutenant seymour made no further answer, save viciously to ply the oars and drive the boat rapidly toward the landing. miss katharine gazed vacantly about the familiar river upon whose banks she had been born and bred, and, finally noticing the sun had gone down, closing the short day, she once more drew her cloak closely about her and resumed the neglected conversation. "won't you please stop looking at me in that manner, and won't you please row harder, or is your strength all centred in your gaze?" "i am rowing as fast as i can, miss wilton, especially with this--" "oh, i forgot your wounded shoulder! does it hurt? does it pain you? i am so sorry. let me row." "thank you, no. i think i can manage it myself. the only pain i have is when you are unkind to me." at that moment, to his great annoyance, his oar stuck fast in the oar-lock, and he straightway did that very unsailorly thing known as catching a crab. katharine wilton laughed. there was music in her voice, but this time it did not awaken a responsive chord in the young man. extricating his oar violently, he silently resumed his work. "do you like crabs, mr. seymour?" she said with apparent irrelevance. "i don't like catching them, miss wilton," he admitted ruefully. "oh, i mean eating them! we were talking about your appetite, were we not? well, dinah devils them deliciously. i 'll have some done for you," she continued with suspicious innocence. seymour groaned in spirit at her perversity, and for the first time in his life felt an intense sympathy with devilled crabs; but he continued his labor in silence and with great dignity. "what am i to infer from your silence on this important subject, sir? the subject of edibles, which everybody says is of the first importance--to men--does not appear to interest you at all!" he made no further reply. the young girl gazed at his pale face at first in much amusement; but the laughter gradually died away, and finally her glance fell to the water by her side. a few strong strokes, strong enough, in spite of a wounded shoulder, to indicate wrathful purpose and sudden determination to the astute maiden, and the little boat swung in beside the wharf. throwing the oars inboard with easy skill, seymour sat motionless while the boat glided swiftly down toward the landing-steps, and the silence was broken only by the soft, delicious lip, lip, lip of the water, which seemed to cling to and caress the bow of the skiff until it finally came to rest. the man waited until the girl looked up at him. she saw in his resolute mien the outward and visible sign of his inward determination, and she realized that the game so bravely and piquantly played since she met him was lost. they had nearly arrived at the foregone conclusion. "well, mr. seymour," she said finally, "we are here at last; for what are you waiting?" "waiting for you." "for me?" "ay, only for you." "i--i--do not understand you." "you understand nothing apparently, but i will explain." he stepped out on the landing-stage, and after taking a turn or two with the painter to secure the boat, he turned toward his captive with a ceremonious bow. "permit me to help you ashore." "oh, thank you, lieutenant seymour; if i only could, in this little boat, i would courtesy in return for that effort," she answered with tremulous and transparent bravery. but when the little palm met his own brown one, it seemed to steal away some of the bitterness of the moment. after he had assisted her upon the shore and up the steps into the boathouse, he held her hand tight within his own, and with that promptitude which characterized him he made the plunge. "oh, miss wilton--katharine--it is true i have known you only a little while, but all that time--ever since i saw you, in fact, and even before, when your father showed me your picture--i have loved you. nay, hear me out." there was an unusual sternness in his voice. my lord appeared to be in the imperative mood,--something to which she had not been accustomed. he meant to be heard, and with beating heart perforce she listened. "quiet that spirit of mockery but a moment, and attend my words, i pray you. no, i will not release you until i have spoken. these are troublous times. i may leave at any moment--must leave when my orders come, and i expect them every day, and before i go i must tell you this." her downcast eyes could still see him blush and then pale a little under the sunburn and windburn of his face, as he went on speaking. "i have no one; never had i a sister, i can remember no mother; believe me, i entreat you, when i tell you that to no woman have i ever said what i have just said to you. we sailors think and speak and act quickly, it is a part of our profession; but if i should wait for years i should think no differently and act in no other way. i love you! oh, katharine, i love you as my soul." there was a note of passion in his voice which thrilled her heart with ecstasy; the others had not made love this way. "you seem to me like that star i have often watched in the long hours of the night, which has shown me the way on many a trackless sea. i know i am as far beneath you as i am beneath that star. but though the distance is great, my love can bridge it, if you will let me try. katharine--won't you answer me, katharine? is there nothing you can say to me? 'dost thou love me, kate?'" he quoted softly, taking her other hand. how very fair, but how very far away she looked! the color came and went in her cheek. he could see her breast rise and fall under the mad beating of a heart which had escaped her control, though hitherto she had found no difficulty in keeping it well in hand. there was a novelty, a difference, in the situation this time, a new and unexpected element in the event. she hesitated. why was it no merry quip came to the lips usually so ready with repartee? alas, she must answer. "i--i--oh, mr. seymour," she said softly and slowly, with a downcast face she fain would hide, he fain would see. "i--yes," she murmured with great reluctance; "that is--i think so. you see, when you defended father, in the fight with the brig, you know, and got that bullet in your shoulder you earned a title to my gratitude, my--" "i don't want a title to your gratitude," he interrupted. "i want your love, i want you to love me for myself alone." "and do you think you are worthy that i should?" she replied with a shadow of her former archness. he gravely bent his head and kissed her hand. "no, katharine, i do not. i can lay no claim to your hand, if it is to be a reward of merit, but i love you so--that is the substance of my hope." "oh, mr. seymour, mr. seymour, you overvalue me. if you do that with all your possessions, you will be-- oh, what have i said?" she cried in sudden alarm, as he took her in his arms. "my possessions! katharine, may i then count you so? oh, kate, my lovely kate--" it was over, and over as she would have it; why struggle any longer? the landing was a lonely little spot under the summer-house, at the end of the wharf; no one could see what happened. this time it was not her hand he kissed. the day died away in twilight, but for those two a new day began. the army might starve and die, battles be lost or won, dynasties rise and fall, kingdoms wax and wane, causes tremble in the balances,--what of that? they looked at each other and forgot the world. chapter ii _the country first of all_ "oh, what is the hour, mr.--john? shall i call you seymour? that is your second name, is it not? but what would people say? i-- no, no, not again; we really must go in. see! i am not dressed for the evening yet. supper will be ready. now, lieutenant seymour, you must let me go. what will my father think of us? come, then. your hand, sir." the hill from the boat-landing was steep, but mistress kate had often run like a young deer to the top of it without appreciating its difficulties as she did that evening. on every stepping-stone, each steep ascent, she lingered, in spite of her expressed desire for haste, and each time his strong and steady arm was at her service. she tasted to the full and for the first time the sweets of loving dependence. as for him, an admiral of the fleet after a victory could not have been prouder and happier. as any other man would have done, he embraced or improved the opportunity afforded him by their journey up the hill, to urge the old commonplace that he would so assist her up the hill of life! and so on. the iterations of love never grow stale to a lover, and the saying was not so trite to her that it failed to give her the little thrill of loving joy which seemed, for the moment at least, to tame her restless spirit, that spirit of subtle yet merry mockery which charmed yet drove him mad. she was so unwontedly quiet and subdued that he stopped at the brow of the hill, and said, half in alarm, "katharine, why so silent?" she looked at him gravely; a new light, not of laughter, in her brown eyes, saying in answer to his unspoken thought: "i was thinking of what you said about your orders. oh, if they should come to-day, and you should go away on your ship and be shot at again and perhaps wounded, what should i do?" "nonsense, katharine dear, i am not going to be wounded any more. i 've something to live for now, you see," he replied, smiling, taking both of her hands in his own. "you always had something to live for, even before--you had me." "and what was that, pray?" "your country." "yes," he replied proudly, taking off his laced hat, "and liberty; but you go together in my heart now, kate,--you and country." "don't say that, john--well, seymour, then--say 'country and you.' i would give you up for that, but only for that." "you would do well, katharine; our country first. since we have engaged in this war, we must succeed. i fancy that more depends, and i only agree with your father there, upon the issue of this war than men dream of, and that the battle of liberty for the future man is being fought right here and now. unless our people are willing to sacrifice everything, we cannot maintain that glorious independence which has been so brilliantly declared." he said this with all the boldness of the declaration itself; but she, being yet a woman, asked him wistfully,-- "would you give me up, sacrifice me for country, then?" "not for the whole wide--" she laid a finger upon his lips. "hush, hush! do not even speak treason to the creed. i am a daughter of virginia. my father, my brother, my friends, my people, and, yes, i will say it, my lover are perilling their lives and have engaged their honor in this contest for the independence of these colonies, for the cause of this people, and the safeguarding of their liberties; and if i stood in the pathway of liberty for a single instant, i should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation." she spoke with a pride and spirit which equalled his own, her head high in the air, and her eyes flashing. she had released her hands and had suited the gesture to the word, throwing out her hand and arm with a movement of splendid freedom and defiance. she was a woman of many moods and "infinite variety." each moment showed him something new to love. he caught the outstretched hand,--the loose sleeve had fallen back from the wrist,--he pressed his lips to the white arm, and said with all his soul in his voice,-- "may god prevent me from ever facing the necessity of a choice like that, katharine! but indeed it is spirit like yours which makes men believe the cause is not wholly desperate. when our women can so speak and feel, we may confidently expect the blessing of god upon our efforts." "father says that it is because general washington knows the spirit of the people, because he feels that even the youths and maidens, the little children, cherish this feeling, he takes heart, and is confident of ultimate success. i heard him say that no king could stand against a united people." "would that you could have been in paris with your father when he pleaded with king louis and his ministers for aid and recognition! we might have returned with a better answer than paltry money and a few thousand stand of arms, which are only promised, after all." "would that i were a man instead of being a weak, feeble woman!" she exclaimed vehemently. "ah, but i very much prefer you as you are, katharine, and 't is not little that you can do. you can inspire men with your own patriotism, if you will. there, for instance, is your friend talbot. if you could persuade him, with his wealth and position and influence in this country, to join the army in new jersey--" as she shook her head, he continued: "i am sure if he thought as i do of you, you could persuade him to anything but treachery or dishonor." his calm smile of superiority vanished in an expression of dismay at her reply,-- "talbot! hilary talbot! why, john, do you know that he is--well, they say that he is in love with me. everybody expects that we shall marry some day. do you see? these old estates join, and--" "kate, it is n't true, is it? you don't care for him, do you?" he interrupted in sudden alarm. "care for him? why, of course i care for him. i have known him ever since i was a child; but i don't love him. besides, he stays at home while others are in the field. silly boy, would i have let you kiss me in the summer-house if it were so? no, sir! we are not such fine ladies as your friends in the city of philadelphia, perhaps, we virginia country girls upon whom your misses look with scorn, but no man kisses us, and no man kisses me, upon the lips except the one i--that i must--let me see--is the word 'obey'? shall you make me obey you all the time, john?" "pshaw, katharine, you never obey anybody,--so your father says, at least,--and if you will only love me, that will be sufficient." "love you!"--the night had fallen and no one was near--"love you, john!" she kissed him bravely upon the lips. "once, that's for me, my own; twice, that's for my country; there is all my heart. come, sir, we must go in. there are lights in the house." "ah, katharine, and there is light in my heart too." as they came up the steps of the high pillared porch which completely covered the face of the building, they were met, at the great door which gave entrance to the spacious hallway extending through the house, by a stately and gracious, if somewhat elderly gentleman. there was a striking similarity, if not in facial appearance, at least in the erect carriage and free air, between him and the young girl who, disregarding his outstretched hand and totally disorganizing his ceremonious bow, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him with unwonted warmth, much to his dismay and yet not altogether to his displeasure. perhaps he suspected something from the bright and happy faces of the two young people; but if so, he made no comment, merely telling them that supper had been waiting this long time, and bidding them hasten their preparation for the meal. katharine, followed by chloe, her black maid, who had been waiting for her, hastily ran up the stairs to her own apartments, upon this signal, but turned upon the topmost stair and waved a kiss to the two gentlemen who were watching her,--one with the dim eyes of an old father, the other with the bright eyes of a young lover. "colonel wilton," exclaimed seymour, impulsively, "i have something to say to you,--something i must say." "not now, my young friend," replied the colonel, genially. "supper will be served, nay, is served already, and only awaits you and katharine; afterward we shall have the whole evening, and you may say what you will." "oh, but, colonel--" "nay, sir, do not lay upon me the unpleasant duty of commanding a guest, when it is my privilege as host to entreat. go, mr. seymour, and make you ready. katharine will return in a moment, and it does not beseem gentlemen, much less officers, to keep a lady waiting, you know. philip and bentley have gone fishing, and i am informed they will not return until late. we will not wait for them." "as you wish, sir, but i must have some private conversation with you as soon as possible." "after supper, my boy, after supper." chapter iii _colonel wilton._ left to himself for a moment, the colonel heaved a deep sigh; he had a premonition of what was coming, and then paced slowly up and down the long hall. he was attired, with all the splendor of an age in which the subject of dress engrossed the attention of the wisest and best, in the height of the prevailing mode, which his recent arrival from paris, then as now the mould of fashion, permitted him to determine. the soft light from the wax candles in their sconces in the hall fell upon his thickly powdered wig, ran in little ripples up and down the length of his polished dress-sword, and sparkled in the brilliants in the buckles of his shoes. his face was the grave face of a man accustomed from of old not only to command, but to assume the responsibility of his orders; when they were carried out, his manner was a happy mixture of the haughty sternness of a soldier and the complacent suavity of the courtier, tempered both by the spirit of frankness and geniality born of the free life of a virginia planter in colonial times. in his early youth he had been a soldier under admiral vernon, with his old and long-deceased friend lawrence washington at cartagena; later on, he had served under wolfe at quebec. a visitor, and a welcome one too, at half the courts of europe, he looked the man of affairs he was; in spite of his advanced age, he held himself as erect, and carried himself as proudly as he had done on the heights of abraham or in the court of st. germain. too old to incur the hardships of the field, colonel wilton had yet offered his services, with the ardor of the youngest patriot, to his country, and pledged his fortune, by no means inconsiderable, in its support. the congress, glad to avail themselves of the services of so distinguished a man, had sent him, in company with silas deane and benjamin franklin, as an embassy to the court of king louis, bearing proposals for an alliance and with a request for assistance during the deadly struggle of the colonies with the hereditary foe of france. they had been reasonably successful in a portion of their attempt, at least; as the french government had agreed, though secretly, to furnish arms and other munitions of war through a pseudo-mercantile firm which was represented by m. de beaumarchais, the gifted author of the comedy "le mariage de figaro." the french had also agreed to furnish a limited amount of money; but, more important than all these, there were hints and indications that if the american army could win any decisive battle or maintain the unequal conflict for any length of time, an open and closer alliance would be made. the envoys had despatched colonel wilton, from their number, back to america to make a report of the progress of their negotiations to congress. this had been done, and general washington had been informed of the situation. the little ship, one of the gallant vessels of the nascent american navy, in which colonel wilton had returned from france, had attacked and captured a british brig of war during the return passage, and young seymour, who was the first lieutenant of the ship, was severely wounded. the wound had been received through his efforts to protect colonel wilton, who had incautiously joined the boarding-party which had captured the brig. after the interview with congress, colonel wilton was requested to await further instructions before returning to france, and, pending the result of the deliberations of congress, after a brief visit to the headquarters of his old friend and neighbor general washington, he had retired to his estate. as a special favor, he was permitted to bring with him the wounded lieutenant, in order that he might recuperate and recover from his wound in the pleasant valleys of virginia. that seymour was willing to leave his own friends in philadelphia, with all their care and attention, was due entirely to his desire to meet miss katharine wilton, of whose beauty he had heard, and whose portrait indeed, in her father's possession, which he had seen before on the voyage, had borne out her reputation. seymour had been informed since his stay at the wiltons' that he had been detached from the brig argus, and notified that he was to receive orders shortly to report to the ship ranger, commanded by a certain captain john paul jones; and he knew that he might expect his sailing orders at any moment. he had improved, as has been seen, the days of his brief stay to recover from one wound and receive another, and, as might have been expected, he had fallen violently in love with katharine wilton. there were also staying at the house, besides the servants and slaves, young philip wilton, katharine's brother, a lad of sixteen, who had just received a midshipman's warrant, and was to accompany seymour when he joined the ranger, then outfitting at philadelphia; and bentley, an old and veteran sailor, a boatswain's mate, who had accompanied seymour from ship to ship ever since the lieutenant was a midshipman,--a man who had but one home, the sea; one hate, the english; one love, his country; and one attachment, seymour. colonel wilton was a widower. as katharine came down the stairway, clad in all the finery her father had brought back for her from paris, her hair rolled high and powdered, the old family diamonds with their quaint setting of silver sparkling upon her snowy neck, her fan languidly waving in her hand, she looked strikingly like a pictured woman smiling down at them from over the mantel; but to the sweetness and archness of her mother's laughing face were added some of the colonel's pride, determination, and courage. he stepped to meet her, and then bent and kissed the hand she extended toward him, with all the grace of the old régime; and seymour coming upon them was entranced with the picture. he too had changed his attire, and now was clad in the becoming dress of a naval lieutenant of the period. he wore a sword, of course, and a dark blue uniform coat relieved with red facings, with a single epaulet on his shoulder which denoted his official rank; his blond hair was lightly touched with powder, and tied, after the fashion of active service, in a queue with a black ribbon. "now, seymour, since you two truants have come at last, will you do me the honor to hand miss wilton to the dining-room?" remarked the colonel, straightening up. with a low bow, seymour approached the object of his adoration, who, after a sweeping courtesy, gave him her hand. with much state and ceremony, preceded by one of the servants, who had been waiting in attention in the hall, and followed by the colonel, and lastly by the colonel's man, a stiff old campaigner who had been with him many years, they entered the dining-room, which opened from the rear of the hall. the table was a mass of splendid plate, which sparkled under the soft light of the wax candles in candelabra about the room or on the table, and the simple meal was served with all the elegance and precision which were habitual with the gentleman of as fine a school as colonel wilton. at the table, instead of the light and airy talk which might have been expected in the situation, the conversation assumed that grave and serious tone which denoted the imminence of the emergency. the american troops had been severely defeated at long island in the summer, and since that time had suffered a series of reverses, being forced steadily back out of new york, after losing fort washington, and down through the jerseys, relentlessly pursued by howe and cornwallis. washington was now making his way slowly to the west bank of the delaware. he was losing men at every step, some by desertion, more by the expiration of the terms of their enlistment. the news which colonel wilton had brought threw a frail hope over the situation, but ruin stared them in the face, and unless something decisive was soon accomplished, the game would be lost. "did you have a pleasant ride up the river, katharine?" asked her father. "very, sir," she answered, blushing violently and looking involuntarily at seymour, who matched her blush with his own. there was a painful pause, which seymour broke, coming to the rescue with a counter question. "did you notice that small sloop creeping up under the west bank of the river, colonel, this evening? i should think she must be opposite the house now, if the wind has held." "why, when did you see her, mr. seymour? i thought you were looking at--at--" she broke off in confusion, under her father's searching gaze. he smiled, and said,-- "ah, katharine, trained eyes see all things unusual about them, although they are apparently bent persistently upon one spot. yes, seymour, i did notice it; if we were farther down the river, we might suspect it of being an enemy, but up here i fancy even dunmore's malevolence would scarcely dare to follow." katharine looked up in alarm. "oh, father, do you think it is quite safe? chloe told me that phoebus told her that the raiders had visited major lithcomb's plantation, and you know that is not more than fifty miles down the river from us. would it not be well to take some precaution?" "tut, tut, child! gossip of the negro servants!" the colonel waved it aside carelessly. "i hardly think we have anything to fear at present; though what his lordship may do in the end, unless he is checked, i hardly like to imagine." "but, father," persisted katharine, "they said that johnson was in command of the party, and you know he hates you. you remember he said he would get even with you if it cost him his life, when you had him turned out of the club at williamsburg." "pshaw, katharine, the wretch would not dare. it is a cowardly blackguard, seymour, whom i saw cheating at cards at the assembly club at the capital. i had him expelled from the society of gentlemen, where, indeed, he had no right of admittance, and i scarcely know how he got there originally. he made some threats against me, to which i naturally paid no attention. but what did you think of the vessel?" "i confess i saw nothing suspicious about her, sir," replied seymour. "she seemed very much like the packets which ply on the river; i only spoke idly of the subject." "but, father, the packet went up last week, the day before you came back, and is due coming down the river now, while this boat is coming up," said katharine. "oh, well, i think we are safe enough now; but, to relieve your unusual anxiety, i will send blodgett down to the wharf to examine and report.--blodgett, do you go down to the boat-landing and keep watch for an hour or two. take your musket, man; there is no knowing what you might need it for." the old soldier, who had stationed himself behind the colonel's chair, saluted with military precision, and left the room, saying, "very good, sir; i shall let nothing escape my notice, sir." "now, katharine, i hope you are satisfied." "yes, father; but if it is the raiders, blodgett won't be able to stop them." "the raiders," laughed the colonel; and pinching his daughter's ear, he said, "i suspect the only raiders we shall see here will be those who have designs upon your heart, my bonny kate,--eh, seymour?" "they would never dare to wear a british uniform in that case, father," she retorted proudly. "well, seymour, i hear, through an express from congress to-day, that captain jones has been ordered to command the ranger, and that the new flag--we will drink to it, if you please; yes, you too, katharine; god bless every star and stripe in it--will soon be seen on the ocean." "it will be a rare sight there, sir," said seymour; "but it will not be long before the exploits of the ranger will make it known on the high seas, if rumor does not belie her captain." "i trust so; but do you know this captain jones?" "not at all, sir, save by reputation; but i am told he has one requisite for a successful officer." "and what is that?" "he will fight anything, at any time, or at any place, no matter what the odds." colonel wilton smiled. "ah, well, if it were not for men of that kind, our little navy would never have a chance." "no, father, nor the army, either; if we waited for equality before fighting, i am afraid we should wait forever." "true, katharine. by the way, have you seen talbot to-day?" "no, father." "i wish that we might enlist his services in the cause. i don't think there is much doubt about talbot himself, is there?" "no. it is his mother, you know; she is a loyalist to the core. as were her ancestors, so is she." the colonel nodded gently; he had a soft spot in his heart for the subject of their discussion. "with her teaching and training, i can well understand it, katharine. proud, of high birth, descended from the 'loyal talbots,' and the widow of one of them, she cannot bear the thought of rebellion against the king. i don't think she cares much for the people, or their liberties either." "yes, father; with her the creed is, the king can do no wrong." "ah, well," said the colonel, reflectively, "i thought so too once, and many is the blow i have struck for this same king. but liberty is above royalty, independence not a dweller in the court; so, in my old age, i find myself on a different side." he sipped his wine thoughtfully a moment, and continued,-- "madam talbot has certainly striven to restrain the boy, and successfully so far. he is a splendid fellow; i wish we had him. he would be of great service to the cause, with his name and influence, and the money he would bring; and then the quality of the young man himself would be of value to us. you have met him, seymour, i believe?" "yes, sir, several times; and i agree with you entirely. it is his mother who keeps him back. i have had one or two conversations with her. she is a tory through and through." "not a doubt of it, not a doubt of it," said the colonel. "katharine, can't you do something with him?" "oh, father, you know that i have talked with him, pleaded with him, and begged him to follow his inclination; but he remains by his mother." "nonsense, katharine! don't speak of him in that way; give him time. it is a hard thing: he is her only son; she is a widow. let us hope that something will induce him to come over to us." he said this in gentle reproof of his spirited daughter; and then,-- "permit me to offer you a glass of wine, seymour,--you are not drinking anything; and to whom shall we drink?" seymour, who had been quaffing deep draughts of katharine's beauty, replied promptly,-- "if i might suggest, sir, i should say mistress wilton." "no, no," said katharine. "drink, first of all, to the success of our cause. i will give you a toast, gentlemen: before our sweethearts, our sisters, our wives, our mothers, let us place--our country," she exclaimed, lifting her own glass. the colonel laughed as he drank his toast, saying, "nothing comes before country with katharine." and seymour, while he appreciated the spirit of the maiden, felt a little pang of grief that even to a country he should be second,--an astonishing change from that spirit of humility which a moment since contented itself with metaphorically kissing the ground she walked upon. "by the way, father, where is philip?" asked katharine. "he went up the branch fishing, with bentley, i believe." "but is n't it time they returned? do you know, i feel nervous about them; suppose those raiders--" "pshaw, child! still harping on the raiders? and nervous too! what ails you, daughter? i thought you never were nervous. we wiltons are not accustomed to nervousness, you know, and what must our guest think?" "nothing but what is altogether agreeable," replied seymour, a little too promptly; and then, to cover his confusion, he continued: "but i think miss wilton need feel under no apprehension. master philip is with bentley, and i would trust the prudence and courage and skill of that man in any situation. you know my father, who was a shipmaster, when he died aboard his ship in the china seas, gave me, a little boy taking a cruise with him, into bentley's charge, and told him to make a sailor and a man of me, and from that day he has never left me. at my house, in philadelphia, he is a privileged character. there never was a truer, better, braver man; and as for patriotism, love of country is a passion with him, colonel. he might set an example to many in higher station in that particular." "yes, i have noticed that peculiarity about the man. i think philip is safe enough with him, katharine, even if those-- ha! what is that?" the colonel sprang to his feet, as the sound of a musket-shot rang out in the night air, followed by one or two pistol-shots and then a muffled cry. chapter iv _lord dunmore's men pay an evening call_ "oh, father, it must be the raiders! that was blodgett's voice," cried katharine, looking very pale and clasping her hands. "let me go and investigate, colonel," said seymour, leaping to his feet and seizing his sword. "do so, seymour," cried the colonel, as the sailor hastily left the room. "phoebus," to the butler, "go tell caesar to call the slaves to the house. you, scipio," to one of the footmen, "go open the arm-chest. katharine, reach me my sword. see that the doors are closed, billy," said the colonel to the other servant, rapidly and with perfect coolness. "i think, katharine, that perhaps you would better retire to your room;" but even as he spoke the sound of hurried footsteps and excited voices outside was heard. after a few moments one of the field-hands, followed by seymour, burst panting into the room, his mouth working with excitement and his eyes almost starting from his head. "well, sir, what is it?" said the colonel. "foh de lawd's sake, suh, dey'se a-comin', suh, dey'se a-comin'. dey'se right behin' me; dey'll be heah in a minute, suh." "who is coming, you idiot!" exclaimed the colonel. "de redcoats, de british sojuhs, suh; dey 'se fohty boat-loads ob 'em; dey'se come off fum de lil' sloop out in de ribah, and dey 'se gwine kill we all, and bu'n de house down. dey done shot mars' blodgett, and dey'se coming heah special to get you, suh, mars' kunnel, kase i heahd dem say, when i was lyin' down on de wha'f, dat de man dey wanted was dat kunnel wilton." "it is quite true, sir; they seem to be a party of raiders of some sort," said seymour, coolly. "i fear that blodgett has been killed, as i heard nothing of him. i saw them from the brow of the hill. perhaps you may escape by the back way, though there is little time for that. do you take miss wilton and try it, sir; leave me to hold these men in play." "yes, yes, father," urged katharine; "i know it must be lord dunmore's men and johnson. they know that you have come back from france, and now the man wants to take you prisoner. you remember what the governor told you at williamsburg, that he would make you rue the day you cast your lot in with the colonists and refused to assist him in the prosecution of his measures. and you know we have been warned at least a dozen times about it. oh, what shall we do? do fly, and let me stay here and receive these men." "what! my daughter, do you think a wilton has ever left his house to be defended by his guest and by a woman! seymour, i believe, however, as an officer in the service of our country, your best course is to leave while there is yet time." "i will never leave you, sir; i will stay here with you and mistress katharine, and share whatever fate may have in store for you." but even as he spoke, the crowding footsteps of many men were heard at both entrances to the wide hall-way which ran through the house. at the same moment the door was violently thrown open, and the dining-room was filled with an irregular mass of motley, ragged, red-coated men, whose reckless demeanor and hardened faces indicated that they had been recruited from the lowest and most depraved classes of the inhabitants of the colony. they were led by a middle-aged man of dissipated appearance, whose rough and brutal aspect was not concealed by the captain's uniform he wore, nor was the malicious triumph in his bearing and in his voice veiled by the mock courtesy with which he advanced, pistol in hand. "what means this intrusion, sir?" shouted colonel wilton, in a voice of thunder. "this is colonel wilton, i believe, is it not?" said the leader of the band, taking off his hat. "yes, sir, it is; you, mr. johnson, should be the last to forget it, and i desire to know at once the meaning of this outrageous descent upon a peaceful dwelling." the man bowed low with mock courtesy. "i shall have to ask your pardon, my dear sir, for appearing before the great colonel wilton so unceremoniously. but my orders, i regret to say, allow me no discretion whatever; they are imperative. you are my prisoner. i have been sent here by my lord dunmore, the governor of this colony of virginia, to secure the persons of some of the principal rebellious subjects of his majesty king george, and your name, unfortunately, is the first and chiefest on the list. i shall have to request you to accompany me at once." the master of the situation smiled mockingly, and the colonel, white with anger, looked about the room. resistance was perfectly hopeless; all the windows even were now blocked up by the irregular soldiery. "he has chosen a fit man to do his work," said the colonel, in haughty scorn; "failing gentlemen, he must needs take blackguards and bullies into his service as housebreakers and raiders." johnson flushed visibly, as he said with another bow, "colonel wilton would better remember that i am master now." "sir, i am not likely to forget it. there is the family plate. i presume, from what i know of your habits, that will not be overlooked by you." "quite so," he returned; "it will doubtless be a welcome contribution to the treasury of his majesty's colony. mistress wilton's diamonds also," he said meaningly; and then, turning to two of his men, "williams, you and jones bundle up the plate in the tablecloth, get what's on the sideboard too;" and laying his pistols down upon the table, he continued: "but before colonel wilton insults me again, it might be well for him to remember that i am master not only of his person, but of the persons of all others who are in this room." the colonel started, and johnson laughed, looking with insolence from katharine to her father. "what, sir! i reach through your insolent pride now, do i? curse you!" with sudden heat, throwing off even the mask of politeness he had hardly worn. "i swore i would have revenge for that insult at williamsburg, and now it's my hour. you are to go with me, and go peaceably and quietly, or, by god, i 'll have you kicked and dragged out of the building, or killed like that old fool who tried to stop us coming up on the landing." "what! blodgett, my old friend blodgett! you villain, you haven't dared to kill him, have you? oh, my faithful--" "silence, sir! we dare anything. what consideration has a rebel a right to expect at the hands of his majesty's faithful rangers? you, bruce and denton, seize the old man. if he makes any trouble, knock him down, or kill him, for aught i care. one of you, take the girl there. as for you, sir," to seymour, who had been quietly watching the scene, "i don't know who you are, but you are in bad company, and you will have to consider yourself a prisoner; i trust you have sense enough to come without force being used. and so," clapping his hat on his head defiantly, "god save the king!" two of the soldiers seized the colonel in spite of the vigorous resistance he made; another approached katharine, who had stood with clasped hands during the whole of the colloquy between johnson and her father. the soldier rudely chucked her under the chin, saying, "come on, my pretty one! you 'll give us a kiss, won't you, before we start?" as she drew back, paling at the insult, seymour, who had seen and heard it all, quick as a flash drew his sword, and threw himself upon the soldier; one rapid thrust at the surprised man he made, with all the force and skill begotten of long practice and a strong arm, and the hilt of his blade crushed against the man's throat, and he fell dead upon the floor. at the same instant one of the other soldiers, who had observed the action, struck seymour over the head with his clubbed musket, and he also fell heavily to the floor, and lay there senseless and still, blood running from a fearful-looking wound in his forehead. the room was filled with tumult in an instant, and with shouts of "kill him!" "shove your bayonet through the damn rebel hound!" "shoot him!" "kill him!" the men moved towards seymour. johnson looked on unconcernedly. "good god!" shrieked the colonel, writhing in the grasp of the men who held him, "are you going to allow a senseless, wounded man to be murdered before your eyes? oh, how could anybody ever mistake you for a gentleman for an instant?" he added, with withering contempt; and then turning his head toward the fierce soldiery, "stop, stop, you bloody assassins!" he cried. "silence, sir! he might as well die this way as on the gallows. besides, he struck the first blow, and he has killed one of his majesty's loyal soldiers. the soldier only wanted to kiss the girl anyway, and she will find, before she gets to camp, that kisses are cheap." "oh, my god," groaned the father, "and they call this war!" at this moment one of the soldiers lifted his bayonet to plunge it into the prostrate form of the unconscious sailor. there was a blinding flash of light in the room, and a quick, sharp report. the man's arm dropped to his side, and he shrieked and groaned with pain. katharine, unnoticed in the confusion, had slipped to the side of the table, and had quickly picked up one of the pistols which johnson had laid upon it after the silver had been taken away. her ready decision and unerring aim had saved her lover's life. she threw the smoking pistol she had used with such effect down at her feet, and, seizing the other, she stepped over to the side of her unconscious lover. "i swear," she said, in a shrill, high-pitched voice which just escaped a scream, and which trembled with the agitation of the moment, "by my hope of heaven, if a single man of you lay hands on him, he shall have this bullet also, you cowards!" after a moment's hesitation, amid shouts of "kill the girl!" the men surged toward her. chloe, her black maid, flung herself upon her mistress' breast. "oh, honey, i let dem kill me fust." "well done, kate! it's the true wilton blood. oh, if i had a free arm, you villains!" cried the still struggling colonel. "seize the girl," johnson commanded promptly, "and let us get out of this." the men made a rush toward the table where katharine stood undaunted, her face flushed with excitement, her mouth tense with resolution. she cried,-- "have a care, men! have a care!" one life she could still command with her loaded pistol. her hands did not tremble. she waited to strike once more for love and country, but it would be all over in a moment. the colonel groaned in agony, "kate, kate!" but they were almost upon her, when a new voice rose above the uproar,-- "hold! are you men? do you war with old men and women? back with you! get back, you dogs! back, i say!" chapter v _a timely interference_ a young man in the uniform of a british naval lieutenant leaped in front of the girl with drawn sword, with which he laid about him lustily, striking some of the men with the flat of it, threatening others with the point; and backing his actions by the prompt commands of one not accustomed to be gainsaid, he soon cleared the space in front of her. "how dare you interfere in this matter, my lord?" shouted johnson, passionately. "i command this party, and i intend--" "i know you do," replied the officer, "and that i am only a volunteer who has chosen to accompany you, worse luck! but i am a gentleman and a lieutenant in his britannic majesty's navy, and by heaven! when i see old men mishandled, and wounded helpless men about to be assassinated, and young women insulted, i don't care who commands the party, i interfere. and i don't propose to bandy words with any runagate american partisan who uses his commission to further private vengeance. and i swear to you, on my honor, if you do not instantly modify your treatment of this gentleman, and call off this ragamuffin crew, you shall be court-martialled, if i have any influence with dunmore or parker or lord howe, or whoever is in authority, and i will have the rest of you hung as high as haman. this is outrage and robbery and murder; it is not fighting or making prisoners," continued the young officer. "you are not fit to be an officer; and you, you curs, you disgrace the uniform you wear." johnson glanced at his men, who stood irresolute before him fiercely muttering. a rascally mob of the lowest class of people in the colony, to whom war simply meant opportunity for plunder and rapine, they would undoubtedly back up their leader, in their present mood, in any attempt at resistance he might make the young officer. but he hesitated a moment. desborough was a lord, high in the confidence of governor dunmore, and a man of great influence; his own position was too precarious, the game was not worth the candle, and the risk of opposition was too great. "well," he said in sulky acquiescence, "the men meant no special harm, but have it your own way. fall back, men! as to what you say to me personally, you shall answer to me for that at a more fitting time," he continued doggedly. "when and where you please," answered desborough, hotly, "though i 'd soil a sword by passing it through you. what was dunmore thinking of when he put you in charge of this party and sent you to do this work, i wonder? give your orders to your men to unhand this gentleman instantly. you will give your parole, sir? i regret that we are compelled to secure your person, but those were the orders; and you, madam," turning to katharine, "i believe no order requires you to be taken prisoner, and therefore you shall go free." but katharine had knelt down by her prostrate lover as soon as the space in front of her had been cleared, and was entirely oblivious to all that was taking place about her. "allow me to introduce myself, colonel," he resumed. "i am lord desborough. i have often heard my father, the earl of desmond, in ireland, speak of you. i regret that we meet under such unpleasant circumstances, but the governor's orders must be carried out, though i wish he had sent a more worthy representative to do so. i will see, however, that everything is done for your comfort in the future." "sir," said the colonel, bowing, "you have rendered me a service i can never repay. i know your father well. he is one of the finest gentlemen of his time, and his son has this day shown that he is worthy of the honored name he bears. i will go with you cheerfully, and you have my parole of honor. katharine, you are free; you will be safe in the house, i think, until i can arrange for your departure." she looked up from the floor, and then rose. "oh, father, he is dead, he is dead," she moaned. "yes, i will go with you; take me away." "nay, my child, i cannot." "enough of this!" broke in the sneering voice of johnson. "she has been taken in open resistance to the king's forces, and, warrant or no warrant, orders or no orders, or court-martial either," this with a malevolent glance at desborough, "she goes with us as a prisoner." "i will pledge my word, colonel wilton, that no violence is offered her," exclaimed desborough, promptly, and then, turning to katharine,-- "trust me, madam." "i do, sir," she said faintly, giving him her hand. "you are very kind." "it is nothing, mistress," he replied, bowing low over it, as he raised it respectfully to his lips. "i will hold you safe with my life." "very pretty," sneered johnson; "but are you coming?" "what shall we do with these two, captain?" asked the sergeant, kicking the prostrate form of seymour, and pointing to the body of the man who had been slain. "oh, let them lie there! we can't be bothered with dead and dying men. one of them is gone; the other soon will be. the slaves will bury them, and those other three at the foot of the hill--d' ye hear, ye black niggers? there 's hardly room enough on the sloop for the living," he continued with cynical indifference. "all right, captain! as you say, poor joe's no good now; and as for the other, that crack of welsh's was a rare good one; he will probably die before morning anyhow," replied the sergeant, there being little love lost among the members of this philosophic crew; besides, the more dead, the more plunder for the living. and many of the band were even now following the example of their leader, and roaming over the house, securing at will whatever excited their fancy, the wine-cellar especially not being forgotten. "oh, my god! john," whispered katharine, falling on her knees again by his side, "must i leave you now, oh, my love!" she moaned, taking his head in her arms, and with her handkerchief wiping the blood from off his forehead, "and you have died for me--for me." the colonel saw the action, and knew now what was the subject of the interview after supper which seymour had so much desired. he knelt down beside his daughter, a great pity for her in his soul, and laid his hand on the prostrate man's heart. "he is not dead, katharine," he whispered. "i do not even think he will die; he will be all right in an hour. if we don't go soon, katharine, philip and bentley will return and be taken also," he continued rapidly. "come, katharine," he said more loudly, rising. "dearest child, we must go,--you must bear this, my daughter; it is for our country we suffer." but the talismanic word apparently had lost its charm for her. "what's all this?" said johnson, roughly; "she must go." she only moaned and pressed her lover's hands against her heart. "and go now! do you hear? come, mistress," laying his hand roughly upon her shoulder. "have a care, sir," said desborough, warningly. "keep to yourself, my dear sir; no harm is done. but we must go; and if she won't go willingly, she will have to be carried, that's all. do you hear me? come on!" "come, katharine," said the colonel, entreatingly. "oh, father, father, i cannot leave him! i love him!" "i know you do, dear; and worthy he is of your love too. please god you shall see him once again! but now we must go. will you not come with me?" "i cannot, i cannot!" she repeated. "but you must, kate," said the colonel, lifting her up, in deadly anxiety to get away before his son returned. "you are a prisoner." "i can't, father; indeed i can't!" she cried again. she struggled a moment, then half fainted in his arms. "who else is here?" said johnson. "only the slaves," replied the colonel. "well, we don't want them. move on, then! your daughter can take her maid with her if she wishes," he said with surly courtesy. "is this the wench? well, get your mistress a cloak, and be quick about it!" assisted by chloe, the maid, and lord desborough, the colonel half carried, half led, his daughter out of the room. "seymour, seymour!" she cried despairingly at the door; but he lay still where he had fallen, seeing and hearing nothing. chapter vi _faithful subject of his majesty_ a few miles up the river from colonel wilton's plantation, upon a high bluff, from which, as at that point the river made a wide bend, one could see up and down for a long distance in either direction, was the beautiful home of the talbots, known as fairview hall. on the evening of the raid at the wilton place, madam talbot and her son were having a very important conversation. madam talbot was a widow who had remained unwedded again from choice. rumor had it that many gentlemen cavaliers of the neighborhood had been anxious to take to their own hearthstones the person of the fair young widow, so early bereft, and incidentally were willing to assume the responsibility of the management of the magnificent estate which had been left to her by her most considerate husband. among the many suitors gossip held that colonel wilton was the chief, and it was thought at one time that his chances of success were of the best; but so far, at least, nothing had come of all the agitation, and madam talbot lived her life alone, managing her plantation, the object of the friendly admiration of all the old bachelors and widowers of the neighborhood. she had devoted herself to the successful development of her property with all the energy and capacity of a nature eminently calculated for success, and was now one of the richest women in the colony. one son only had blessed her union with henry talbot, and hilary talbot was a young man just turned twenty-five years of age, and the idol of her soul. too self-contained and too proud to display the depth of her feelings, except in rare instances, and too sensible to allow them to interfere in the training of the child, she had spared neither her heart nor her purse in his education, with such happy results that he was regarded by all who knew him as one of the finest specimens of young virginia that it were possible to meet. of medium height, active, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired, fiery and impetuous in temperament, generous and frank in disposition, he was a model among men; trained from his boyhood in every manly sport and art, and educated in the best institutions of learning in the colonies, his natural grace perfected by a tour of two years in england and abroad, from which he had only a year or so since returned, he perfectly represented all that was best in the young manhood of virginia. for many years there had been hopes in the minds of colonel wilton and madam talbot, that the affection between the two young people, who had played together from childhood with all the frankness and simplicity permitted by country life, would develop into something nearer and dearer, and that by their marriage at the proper time the two great estates might be united. the two children, early informed of this desire, had grown up under the influence of the idea; as they reached years of discretion, they had taken it for granted, considering the arrangement as a fact accomplished by tacit understanding and habit rather than by formal promise. personally attached to each other, nay, even fondly affectionate, the indefinite tie seemed sufficiently substantial to bring about the desired result. katharine had, especially during talbot's absence in europe, resisted all the importunities and rejected all the proposals made to her, and on his account refused all the hearts laid at her feet. since talbot's return, however, and especially since he refused, or hesitated rather, to cast his lot in with her own people, his neighbors and friends, in the revolution, the affair had, on her part at least, assumed a new phase. still, there had been nothing said or done to prevent this consummation so devoutly to be wished until the advent of seymour. then, too, talbot, calm and confident in the situation, had not noticed seymour's infatuation, and was entirely ignorant that the coveted prize had slipped from his grasp. the insight of the confident lover was not so keen as that of the watchful father. it was believed by the principal men of virginia that talbot's sympathies were with the revolted colonies; but the influence of his mother, to whom he had been accustomed to defer, had hitherto proved sufficient to prevent him from openly declaring himself. his visit to england, and the delightful reception he had met with there, had weakened somewhat the ties which bound him to his native country, and he found himself in a state of indecision as humiliating as it was painful. lord dunmore and colonel wilton had each made great efforts to enlist his support, on account of his wealth and position and high personal qualities. it was hinted by one that the ancient barony of the talbots would be revived by the king; and the gratitude of a free and grateful country, with the consciousness of having materially aided in acquiring that independence which should be the birthright of every englishman, was eloquently portrayed by the other. when to the last plea was added the personal preference of katharine wilton, the balance was overcome, and the hopes of the mother were doomed to disappointment. for his own hopes, however, the decision had come too late, and it may be safely presumed that his hesitation was one of the main causes through which the woman he loved escaped him; for katharine's heart was given to young seymour, after a ten days' courtship, almost before his eyes. in any event, a wiser man would have seen in seymour a possible, nay, a certain rival by no means to be disregarded. an officer who had devoted himself to the cause of his country in response to the first demand of the congress, who had been conspicuously mentioned for gallantry in general orders and reports, who had been severely wounded while protecting katharine's father at the risk of his life; as well bred and as well born as talbot, of ample fortune, and with a wide knowledge of men and things acquired in his merchant voyagings as captain of one of his own ships in many seas,--seymour's single-hearted devotion eminently fitted him to woo and win miss katharine wilton, as he had done. nevertheless, a friendship had sprung up between seymour and the unsuspecting talbot which bade fair to ripen into intimacy; and it may be supposed that the stories of battles in which the older man had participated, his attractive personality, the consideration in which the young sailor was held by men of weight and position in the colonies, as a man from whom much was to be expected, had large influence in determining talbot in the course he proposed taking, and which he had not yet communicated to his mother. the evening repast had just been finished, and the mother and son were walking slowly up and down the long porch overlooking the river in front of the house. there was a curious and interesting likeness between the two,--a facial resemblance only, for madam talbot was a slender, rather frail little woman, and looked smaller by contrast as she walked by the side of her son, who had his arm affectionately thrown over her shoulder. she was as straight, however, as he was himself, in spite of her years and cares, and bore herself as proudly erect as in the days of her youth. her black eyes looked out with undiminished lustre from beneath her snowy-white hair, which needed no powder and was covered by the mob cap she wore. she looked every inch the lady of the manor, nor did her actions and words belie her appearance. the subject of the conversation was evidently a serious one. there was a troubled expression upon her face, in spite of her self-control, which was in marked contrast to the hesitating and somewhat irresolute look upon the handsome countenance of her son. "my son, my son," she said at last, "why will you persist in approaching me upon this subject? you know my opinions. i have not hesitated to speak frankly, and it is not my habit to change them; in this instance they are as fixed and as immutable as the polar star. the traditions and customs of four hundred years are behind me. our family--you know your father and i were cousins, and are descended from the same stock--have been called the 'loyal talbots.' i cannot contemplate with equanimity the possibility even of one of us in rebellion against the king." "mother--i am sorry--grieved--but i must tell you that that is a possibility i fear you must learn to face. i have--" "oh, hilary, do not tell me you have finally decided to join this unrighteous rebellion. pause before you answer, my boy--i entreat you, and it is not my habit to entreat, as you very well know. see, you have been the joy of my heart all my life, the idol of my soul,--i will confess it now,--and for you and your future i have lived and toiled and served and loved. i have dreamed you great, high in rank and place, serving your king, winning back the ancient position of our family. i have shrunk from no sacrifice, nor would i shrink from any. 'tis not that i do not wish you to risk your life in war,--i am a daughter of my race, and for centuries they have been soldiers, and what god sends soldiers upon the field, that i can abide,--but that you should go now, with all your prospects, your ability, the opportunity presented you, and engage yourself in this fatal cause, in this unholy attack upon the king's majesty, connect yourself with this beggarly rabble who have been whipped and beaten every time they have come in contact with the royal troops,--i cannot bear it. you are a man now. you have grown away from your mother, hilary, and i can no longer command, i must entreat." but she spoke very proudly, for, as she said, entreaty was not so usual to her as command. "oh, mother, mother, you make it very hard for me. you know the colonists have been badly treated, and hardly used by king and parliament. our liberties have been threatened, nay, have been abrogated, our privileges destroyed, none of our rights respected, and unless we are to sink to the level of mere slaves and dependants upon the mother country, we have no other course but an appeal to arms." "i know, i know all that," she interrupted impatiently, with a wave of her hand. "i have heard it all a thousand times from ill-balanced agitators and popular orators. there may be some truth in it, of course, i grant you; but in my creed nothing, hilary, nothing, will justify a subject in turning against his king. the king can do no wrong. all that we have is his; let him take what he will, so he leaves us our honor, and that, indeed, no one can take from us. it is the principle that our ancestors have attested on a hundred fields and in every other way, and will you now be false to it, my boy?" "i must be true to myself, mother, first of all, in spite of all the kings of earth; and i feel that duty and honor call me to the side of my friends and the people of this commonwealth. i have hesitated long, mother, in deference to you, but now i have decided." "and you turn against two mothers, hilary, when you take this course,--old england, the mother country, and this one, this old mother, who stands before you, who has given you her heart, who has lived for you, who lives in you now, whose devotion to you has never faltered; she now humbly asks with outstretched arms, the arms that carried you when you were a baby boy, that you remain true to your king." "nay, but, mamma," he said, calling her by the sweet name of his boyhood, taking her hand and looking down at her tenderly with tear-dimmed eyes full of affection, "one must be true to his idea of right and duty first of all, even at the price of his allegiance to a king; and, after all, what is any king beside you in my heart? but i feel in honor bound to go with my people." the irresolution was gone from his expression now, and the two determined faces--one full of pity, the other of apprehension--confronted each other. chapter vii _the loyal talbots_ "your people, son?" she said after a long pause. "come with me a moment." she drew him into the brilliantly lighted hall. as they entered, he said to the servant in waiting,-- "see that my bay horse is saddled and brought around at once, and do you tell dick to get another horse ready and accompany me; he would better take the black pony." "are you going out, hilary?" "yes, mother, when our conversation is over, if there is time. i thought to ride over to colonel wilton's. the night is pleasant, and the moon will rise shortly. what were you about to say to me?" she led him up to the great open fireplace, on the andirons of which a huge log was blazing and crackling cheerfully. over the mantel was the picture of a handsome man in the uniform of a soldier of some twenty years back. "whose face is pictured there, hilary?" "my honored father," he answered reverently, but in some surprise. "and how died he?" "on the plains of abraham, mother, as you well know." "fighting for his king?" "yes, mother." "and who is this one?" she said, passing to another picture. "sir james talbot; he struck for his king at worcester," he volunteered. "yes, hilary; and here is his wife, lady caroline talbot, my grandmother. she kept the door against the roundheads while the prince escaped from her castle, to which he had fled after the battle. and over there is lord cecil talbot, her father; he fell at naseby. there in that corner is another james, his brother, one of prince rupert's men, wounded at marston moor. here is sir hilary, slain at the boyne; and this old man is lord philip, your great-uncle. he was out in the ' , and was beheaded. these are your people, hilary," she said, standing very straight, her head thrown back, her eyes aflame with pride and determination, "and these struck, fought, lived, and died for their king. i could bear to see you dead," she laid her hand upon her heart in sudden fear at the idea, in spite of her brave words, "but i could not bear to see you a rebel. think again. you will not so decide?" she said it bravely; it was her final appeal, and as she made it she knew that it was useless. the sceptre had departed out of her hand. he smiled sadly at her, but shook his head ominously. "mother, do you know these last fought for stuart pretenders against the house of hanover? george iii., in your creed, has no right to the place he holds. do i not then follow my ancestors in taking the field against him?" "ah, my child, 't is an unworthy subterfuge. they did fight for the house of stuart, god bless it! it was king against king then, and at least they fought for royalty, for a king; but now the house of stuart is gone; the new king occupies the throne undisputed, and our allegiance is due to him. these unfortunate people who are fighting here strive to create a republic where all men shall be equal! said the sainted martyr charles on the scaffold, ''t is no concern of the common people's how they are governed.' a common man equal to a talbot! fight, my son, if you must; but oh, fight for the king, even an usurper, before a republic, a mob in which so-called equality stands in very unstable equilibrium,--fight for the rightful ruler of the land, not against him." "mother, if i am to believe the opinions of those whom i have been taught to respect, the rightful rulers of this colony, of our country, of any country, are the people who inhabit it." "and who says that, pray, my boy?" "mr. henry." "and do you mean to tell me, a talbot, that you have been taught to look up to men of the social stamp of patrick henry, or to respect their opinions?" she said with ineffable disdain. "mother, the logic of events has forced all men to do so. had you heard his speeches before the burgesses at williamsburg, you would have thought that he was second to no man in the colony, or in the world beside; but if he be not satisfactory, there is his excellency general washington." "mr. washington," she replied with an emphasis on the "mr." "now there, i grant you, is a man," she said reluctantly. "i cannot understand the perversion of his destiny or the folly of his course." "and, mother, you know his family was as loyal as our own. one of his forefathers held worcester for king charles with the utmost gallantry and resolution. and he had as a companion in arms in that brave attempt sir george talbot, one of our ancestors. there is an example for you. i have often heard you speak with the greatest respect of george washington." "it is true, my son," she replied honestly, "but i am at a loss to fathom his motive. what can it be?" "mother, i am persuaded of the purity of his motives; his actions spring from the very highest sense of his personal obligation to the cause of liberty." "'liberty, liberty,' 't is a weak word when matched with loyalty. but be this as it may, my son, it is beside the question. our family, these men and women who look down upon us, all fought for principles of royalty. it makes no difference whether or no they fought for or against one or another king, so long as it was a king they fought for. such a thing as a democracy never entered their heads. and if you take this course, you will be false to every tradition of our past. in my opinion, the people are not fit to govern, and you will find it so. in the impious attempt that is being made to reverse what i conceive to be the divinely appointed polity and law of god, disaster must be the only end." "mother, i must follow my convictions in the present rather than any examples in the past. but this is a painful discussion. should we not best end it? i honor your opinions, i love you, but i must go." there was a long silence. she broke it. "well, my child," she said in despair, "you have reached man's estate, and the men of the talbot race have ever been accustomed to do as their judgment dictates. if you have decided to join washington's rabble and take part among the rebels in this fratricidal contest, i shall say no more. i cannot further oppose you. i cannot give you my blessing--as i might in happier circumstances--nor can i wish success to your cause. i too am a talbot, and have my principles, which i must also maintain; but at least i can gird your sword about you, and express the hope and make the prayer, as i do, that you may wear and use it honorably; and that hope, if you are true to the traditions of our house, will never be broken,--i feel sure of that, at least." the young man bent and kissed his mother, a new light shining in his eyes. "mother, i thank you. at least, as far as i am concerned, i will endeavor to do my duty honorably in every field. and now i think, with your permission, i will go over and tell katharine that i have at last made up my mind and cast my lot in with her--i mean with our country," he said, blushing, but with the thoughtless disregard of youth as to the meaning and effect of his words. "go, my son, and god be with you!" she said solemnly. he stepped quickly out on the porch, and, swinging into the saddle of the horse which awaited him, with the ease and grace of an accomplished horseman, galloped off in the moonlight night followed by the groom. the little old woman stood rigidly in the doorway a moment, looking after her departed son, and then she walked quickly down to a rustic seat on the brow of the hill and sat down heavily, following with straining eyes and yearning heart his rapidly disappearing figure. the same pang that every mother must feel, those who have a son at least, once in her life if no more, came to her heart; all her prayers had been unavailing, her requests unheeded, her pleas and wishes disregarded. she had an idea, not altogether warranted perhaps, but still she had it, that the influence was not so much the example of general washington, nor the eloquence of patrick henry, nor the force of neighborly example, nor rigid principle, but the influence of a sunny head, and a pair of youthful eyes, and a merry laugh, and a young heart, and a pleading voice. these have always stood in the light of a mother since the world began, and these have taken her son from her side. all her hopes gone, her dreams shattered, her sacrifice vain, her love wasted, she bowed her white head upon her thin hands, and wept quietly in the silent night. the deep waters had gone over her soul, and the rare tears of the old woman bespoke a breaking heart. chapter viii _an untold story_ there were two roads which led from fairview hall to the home of the wiltons,--one by the river, and the other over the hills farther inland. talbot had chosen the river-road, and was riding along with a light heart, forgetful of his mother and those tears which indeed she would not have shown him, and full of pleasant anticipations as to the effect of his decision upon katharine. as he rode along in the moonlight, his mind, full of that calm repose which comes to men when they have finally arrived at a decision upon some point which has troubled them, felt free to range where it would, and naturally his thoughts turned toward the girl he loved. he was getting along in life, twenty-four his last birthday, while katharine was several years his junior. it was time to settle himself; and if he must ride away to the wars, it were well, pleasant at least, to think that he was leaving at home a wife over whom he had thrown the protecting aegis of his name. katharine would be much happier,--his thoughts dwelt tenderly upon her,--and the definite arrangement would be better than this tacit understanding, which of course was sufficiently binding; though, now he thought of it, katharine had seemed a little difficult of late, probably because of the indefinite character of the tie. he laughed boyishly in pleasure at his own thought. it was another proof that she loved him, that she resented any assumption on his part based on hopes indulged in and plans formed by her father and his mother. he must declare himself at once. poor mother! it was hard for her; but she would soon get over all that, and when he came back distinguished and honored by the people, she would feel very differently. as for the capricious katharine, he would speak out that very night, never doubting the issue, and get it done with. of course, that was all that was necessary. when she knew that he was engaged heart and soul in the cause of the revolution, she would be ready to yield him anything. not that he had any doubt of the result of his proposal in any case; as soon doubt that the nature and orderly sequence of events should be suddenly and violently interrupted, as imagine that these cherished plans, in which they had both acquiesced so long ago, should fall through. and so my lord was prepared to drop the handkerchief at the feet of my lady for her to pick up! it was a time, however, he might have remembered, in which the old established order of events in other fields, which men had long since conceived of as fixed as natural laws, was being rudely broken and destroyed. many things which had heretofore been habitually taken for granted, now were required to be proved, and talbot was destined to meet the fate of every over-confident lover. devotion, self-abnegation, persistency,--these during ten days had held the field; and the result of the campaign had been that inevitable one which may always be looked for when the opposing forces, even after years of possession, muster under the banner of habit, assurance, confidence, and neglect. so musing, the light-hearted gentleman galloped along. the intervening distance was soon passed over, and talbot found himself entering the familiar stretch of woodland which marked the beginning of the colonel's estate. under the trees and beneath the high bank of the river the shadows deepened; scarcely any light from the moon fell on the road. it was well, therefore, that our cavalier drew rein, and somewhat checked the pace of his horse, advancing with some caution over the familiar yet unseen road; for just as he came opposite the land end of the pier which led out to the boat-house, the animal stopped with such suddenness that a less practised rider would have suffered a severe fall. the horse snorted and trembled in terror, and began rearing and backing away from the spot. looking down in the darkness, talbot could barely discern a dark, bulky object lying in the road. "here, dick!" he called to the groom, who had stopped and reined in his own horse, apparently as terrified as the other, a few paces back of his master; and tossing his bridle rein toward him, "take my horse, while i see what stopped him." lightly leaping to the ground, and stepping up to the object before him, he bent down and laid his hand upon it, and then started back in surprise and horror. "it's a man," he exclaimed; "dead, yet warm still. who can it be?" the moonlight fell upon the pebbly beach of the river a little farther out; overcoming his reluctance, he half lifted, half carried the body out where the light would fall upon its face. this face, which was unknown to him, was that of a desperate-looking ruffian, who was dressed in a soiled and tattered uniform, the coat of which was red; the man's hand tightly clasped a discharged pistol; he had been shot in the breast, for where his coat had fallen open might be seen a dark red stain about a ragged hole in his soiled gray shirt; the bullet had been fired at short range, too, for there were powder marks all about his breast. talbot noticed these things rapidly, his mind working quickly. "oh, mars' hil'ry--wha-wha's de mattah? i kyarnt hol' dese hosses; dey'se sumfin wrong, sho'ly," broke in the groom, his teeth chattering with terror. "quiet, man! don't make so much noise. this is the dead body of a man, a soldier; he has been shot too. take the horses back beyond the old tree on the little bend there; tie them securely, and come back here quickly. make no noise. bring the pistols from your holsters." as the man turned to obey him, talbot glanced about in perplexity, and his eyes fell upon a small sloop rapidly disappearing down the river, under full sail in the fresh breeze which had sprung up. she was too far away now to make out any details in the moonlight, but the sight was somewhat unusual and alarming, he scarcely knew why. "i got dem tied safe, mars' hil'ry," called out the voice of the boy from the road. "all right, dick! we will leave this one here, and try to find out what's wrong; you follow me, and keep the pistols ready." "yes, mars', i got dem." the man was brave enough in the presence of open danger; it was only the spiritual he feared. they had scarcely gone ten paces farther toward the path, when, at the foot of it, they stumbled over another body. "here is another one. what does it mean? see who it is, dick." the groom, mastering his instinctive aversion, bent down obediently, and lifting the face peered into it. it was lighter here, and he recognized it at once. "hit's mars' blodgett, de kunnel's old sojuh man. him got a bullet-hole in de fohaid, suh; him a dead man sholy, an' heah is his gun by his han'," he said in an awestruck whisper. "blodgett! good god, it can't be." "yes, suh, it's him, and dere's anoder one ober dah. see, suh!" he laid his hand upon another body, in the same uniform as the first one. this man groaned slightly. "dis one's not daid yit," said dick, excitedly; "he been hit ober de haid, his face all bloody. oh, mars' hil'ry, dem raidahs you done tell me 'bout been heah. mars' blodgett done shot dat one by de riber on de waf, an' den hit dis one wid his musket, an' den dey done shoot mars' blodgett. oh, mars' hil'ry, le' 's get out ob heah." talbot saw it all now,--the slow and stealthy approach of the boat from the little sloop out in the river (it had disappeared round the bend, he noticed), blodgett's quiet watch at the foot of the path, the approach of the men, blodgett's challenge, the first one shot dead as he came up, the pistol-shot which missed him, the rush of the men at the indomitable old soldier, the nearest one struck down from the blow of the clubbed musket of the sturdy old man, the second pistol-shot, which hit him in the forehead, his fall across the path. faithful unto death at the post of duty. the little drama was perfectly plain to him. but who were these raiders? who could they be? and katharine? "oh, my god," he exclaimed, stung into quick action at the thought of a possible peril to his love. "come, dick, to the house; she may be in danger." "but dis libe one, mars' hil'ry?" "quick, quick! leave him; we will see about him later." with no further attempt at caution, they sprang recklessly up the steep path, and, gaining the brow of the hill, ran at full speed toward the house. he noticed that there were no lights in the negro quarters, no sounds of the merry-making usually going on there in the early evening. through the open windows on the side of the house, he had a hasty glimpse of the disordered dining-room. the great doors of the hall were open. they were on the porch now,--now at the door of the hall. it was empty. he paused a second. "katharine, katharine!" he called aloud, a note of fear in his voice, "where are you? colonel wilton!" in the silence which his voice had broken he heard a weak and feeble moan, which struck terror into his heart. he ran hastily down the hall, and stopped at the dining-room door aghast. the smoking candles in the sconces were throwing a somewhat uncertain light over a scene of devastation and ruin; the furniture of the table and the accessories of the meal lay in a broken heap at the foot of it, the chairs were overturned, the curtains torn, the great sideboard had been swept bare of its usual load of glittering silver. at his feet lay the body of a man, in the now familiar red uniform, blood from a ghastly sword-thrust clotted about his throat, the floor about his head being covered with ominous stains. a little farther away on the floor, near the table, there was the body of another man, in another uniform, a naked sword lying by his side; he had a frightful-looking wound on his forehead, and the blood was slowly oozing out of his coat-sleeve, staining the lace at his left wrist. even as he looked, the man turned a little on the floor, and the same low moan broke from his lips. talbot stepped over the first body to the side of the other. "my god, it's seymour," he said. he knelt beside him, as katharine had done. "seymour," he called, "seymour!" the man opened his eyes slowly, and looked vacantly at him. "katharine," he murmured. "what of her? is she safe?" asked talbot, in an agony of fear. "raiders--prisoner," continued seymour, brokenly, in a whisper, and then feebly murmured, "water, water!" "here, dick, get some water quickly! first hand me that decanter of wine," pointing to one which had fortunately escaped the eyes of the marauders. he lifted seymour's head gently, and with a napkin which he had picked up from the floor, wiped the bloody face, washing it with the water the groom quickly brought from the well outside. then he poured a little of the wine down the wounded man's throat, next slit the sleeve of his coat, and saw that the scarcely healed wound in the arm had broken out again. he bandaged it up with no small skill with some of the other neglected table linen, and the effect upon seymour of the stimulant and of these ministrations was at once apparent. with a stronger voice he said slowly,-- "dunmore's men--captain johnson--colonel a prisoner--katharine also--god grant--no harm intended." "hush, hush! i understand. but where are the slaves?" "terrified, i suppose--in hiding." "dick, see if you can find any of them. hurry up! we must take mr. seymour back to fairview tonight, and report this outrage to the military commander at alexandria. oh that i had a boat and a few men!" he murmured. katharine was gone. he would not tell his story to-night; she was in the hands of a gang of ruffians. he knew the reputation of johnson, and the motives which might actuate him. there had been a struggle, it was evident; perhaps she had been wounded, killed. agony! he knew now how he loved her, and it was too late. presently the groom returned, followed by a mob of frightened, terror-stricken negroes who had fled at the first advent of the party. talbot issued his orders rapidly. "some of you get the carriage ready; we must take lieutenant seymour to fairview hall. some of you go down to the landing and bring up the bodies of the three men there. you go with that party, dick. phoebus, you get this room cleared up. hurry, stir yourselves! you are all right now; the raiders have gone and are not likely to return." "why, where is master philip, i wonder? was he also taken?" he said suddenly. "have any of you seen him?" he asked of the servants. "he done gone away fishin' wid mars' bentley," replied the old butler, pausing; "and dey ain't got back yit, tank de lawd; but i spec 'em ev'y minute, suh." chapter ix _bentley's prayer_ as he spoke, a fresh youthful voice was heard in the hall. "father, kate, where are you? come see our string of-- why, what's all this?" said a young man, standing astonished in the door of the room. it was philip wilton, holding a long string of fish, the result of their day's sport; behind him stood the tall stalwart figure of the old sailor. "talbot--you? where are father and kate? what are these men doing in the dining-room? oh, what is that?" he said, shrinking back in horror from the corpse of the soldier. "dunmore's raiders have been here." "and katharine?" "a prisoner, with your father, philip, but i trust both are uninjured." "mr. seymour, sir, where is he?" said the deep voice of the boatswain, as he advanced farther into the room. the light fell full upon him. he was a splendid specimen of athletic manhood; tall, powerful, long-armed, slightly bent in the shoulders; decision and courage were seen in his bearing, and were written on his face, burned a dull mahogany color by years of exposure to the weather. he was clothed in the open shirt and loose trousers of a seafaring man, and he stood with his feet slightly apart, as if balancing himself to the uneasy roll of a ship. honesty and fidelity and intelligence spoke out from his eyes, and affection and anxiety were heard in his voice. "lieutenant seymour," he repeated, "where is he, sir?" "there," said talbot, stepping aside and pointing to the floor. "not dead, sir, is he?" "not yet, bentley," seymour, with regaining strength, replied; "i am not done for this time." "oh, mr. john, mr. john," said the old man, tenderly, bending over him, "i thank god to see you alive again. but, as i live, they shall pay dear for this--whoever has done it,--the bloody, marauding, ruffians!" "yes, bentley, i join you in that vow," said talbot. "and i too," added philip, bravely. "and i," whispered the wounded man. "it's one more score that has got to be paid off by king george's men, one more outrage on this country, one more debt we owe the english," bentley continued fiercely. "no; these were americans, virginians,--more's the shame,--led by that blackguard johnson. he has long hated the colonel," replied talbot. "curses on the renegades!" said the old man. "who is it that loves freedom and sees not that the blow must be struck to-day? how can any man born in this land hesitate to--" he stopped suddenly, as his eyes fell upon talbot, whose previous irresolution and refusal had been no secret to him. "don't stop for me, bentley," said that young man, gently; "i am with you now. i came over this evening to tell our friends here that i start north tomorrow as a volunteer to offer my services to general washington." "oh, hilary," exclaimed philip, joyfully, "i am so glad. would that katharine and father could hear you now!" seymour lifted his unwounded arm, and beckoned to talbot. "god bless you, talbot," he said; "to hear you say that is worth a dozen cracks like this, and i feel stronger every minute. if it were not for the old wound, i would n't mind this thing a bit. but there is something you must do. there is an armed cutter stationed up the river at alexandria; send some one to notify the commander of the virginia naval militia there. they will pursue and perhaps recapture the party. but the word must be carried quickly; i fear it will be too late as it is." "i will go, hilary, if you think best." "very well, philip; take your best horse and do not delay a moment. katharine's liberty, your father's life perhaps, depend upon your promptness. better see mr. west as you go through the town,--your father's agent, you know,--and ask him to call upon me to-morrow. stop at the hall as you come back." "all right, hilary, i will be in alexandria in four hours," said philip, running out. "bentley, i am going to take lieutenant seymour over to my plantation. will you stay here and look after the house until i can notify colonel wilton's agent at alexandria to come and take charge, or until we hear from the colonel what is to be done? you can come over in the morning, you know, and hear about our protégé. i am afraid the slaves would never stay here alone; they are so disorganized and terrorized now over these unfortunate occurrences as to be almost useless." "ay, ay, sir; if lieutenant seymour can spare me, i will stay." "yes, bentley, do; i shall be in good hands at fairview hall." "this is arranged, then," said talbot. "it is nine o'clock. i think we would better start at once. i will go out and see that the arrangements about the carriage are made properly, myself," he said, stepping through the door. seymour's hand had closed tightly over something which had happened to fall near where it lay. "bentley," he called, "what is this in my hand?" "it is a handkerchief, mr. john,--a woman's handkerchief too, sir, and covered with blood." "has it any marks on it?" said seymour, eagerly. "yes, sir; here are the letters k. w. embroidered in this corner." "i thought so," he smiled triumphantly. "will you put it inside my waistcoat, there, over my heart? yes," he added, as if in answer to the old man's anxious look, "it is true; i love her, and she has confessed that she loves me. oh, who will protect her now?" "god, sir," said bentley, solemnly, but with a strange pang of almost womanly jealousy in his faithful old heart. "ay, old friend, he will watch over her. he knows best. now help me up." "no, sir. beg pardon for disobeying orders, but you are to lie still. we will carry you to the carriage. nay, sir, you must. you are too weak from loss of blood with two wounds on you to stand it. a few days will bring you about all right, though, i hope, sir." "all ready, bentley?" said talbot, coming into the room. "the negro boys have rigged up a stretcher out of a shutter, and with a mattress and blankets in the carriage, i think we can manage, driving carefully, to take him over without any great discomfort. i have sent dick on ahead to ride over to dr. craik's and bid him come to the hall at once; so mr. seymour will be well looked after. by the way, blodgett is dead. i had almost forgotten him. he evidently met and fought those fellows at the landing. we found him at the foot of the steps by the boat-landing with two bodies. that reminds me, one of them was alive when we came by. i told the men to bring all three of the bodies up. here they are now. are any of them alive yet, caesar?" "no, suh, dey 'se all ob 'em daid." "take the two redcoats into the dining-room with the other one. lay blodgett here in the hall. he must have been killed instantly. well; good-by, i shall be over in the morning," he exclaimed, extending his hand. "good-by, sir," said the seaman, taking it in his own huge palm. "take care of lieutenant seymour." "oh, never fear; we will." "and may god give the men who did this into our hands!" added bentley, raising his arms solemnly. "amen," said talbot, with equal gravity. seymour was tenderly lifted into the carriage, and attended by talbot, who sat by his side. followed by two servants who had orders to get the horses, which they found tied where they had been left, the carriage drove off to the hall. with what different thoughts was the mind of the young man busy! scarcely an hour had elapsed since he galloped over the road, a light-hearted boy, flushed with hope, filled with confidence, delighted in his decision, anticipating a reception, meditating words of love. in that one hour the boy had changed from youth to man. the love which he had hardly dreamed was in his heart had risen like a wave and overwhelmed him; the capture and abduction of his sweetheart, the whole brutal and outrageous proceeding, had filled him with burning wrath. he could not wait to strike a blow for liberty against such tyranny now, and his soul was full of resentment to the mother he had loved and honored, because she had held him back; all of the devoted past was forgotten in one impetuous desire of the present. to-morrow should see him on the way to the army, he swore. he wrung his hands in impotent passion. "katharine, katharine, where are you?" he murmured. seymour stirred. "are you in pain, my friend?" "no," said the sailor quietly, his heart beating against the blood-stained handkerchief, as he echoed in his soul the words he had heard: "katharine, katharine, where are you? where are you?" chapter x _a soldier's epitaph_ left to himself in the deserted hall, the old sailor walked over to the body of the old soldier. many a quaint dispute these two old men had held in their brief acquaintance, and upon no one thing had they been able to agree, except in hatred of the english and love of their common country. still their disputes had been friendly, and, if they had not loved, they had at least respected each other. "i wish i had not been so hard on the man. i really liked him," soliloquized the sailor. "poor blodgett, almost forgotten, as mr. talbot says. he died the right way, though, doing his duty, fighting for his country and for those he loved. well, he was a brave man--for a soldier," he murmured thoughtfully. out on the river the little sloop was speeding rapidly along. ride as thou wilt, philip, she cannot be overtaken. most of the exhausted men lay about the decks in drunken slumber. johnson stood moodily by the man at the helm; his triumph had been tempered by desborough's interference. two or three of the more decent of his followers were discussing the events of the night. "poor joe!" said one. "yes, and evans and whitely too," was the reply. "ay, three dead, and nobody hurt for it," answered the other. "you forget the old fellow at the landing, though." "yes, he fought like the devil, and came near balking the whole game. that was a lucky shot you got in, davis, after evans missed and was hit. that fellow was a brave man--for a rebel," said the raider. in the cabin of the sloop colonel wilton was sitting on one of the lockers, his arm around katharine, who was leaning against him, weeping, her hands before her face. desborough was standing respectfully in front of them. "and you say he made a good fight?" asked the colonel, sadly. "splendid, sir. we stole up to the boat-house with muffled oars, wishing to give no warning, and before he knew it half of us were on the wharf. he challenged, we made a rush; he shot the first man in the breast and brained the next with his clubbed musket, shouting words of warning the while. the men fell back and handled their pistols. i heard two or three shots, and then he fell, never making another sound. but for johnson's forethought in sending a second boat load to the upper landing to get to the back of the house, you might have escaped with the warning and the delay he caused. he was a brave man, and died like a soldier," continued the young man, softly. "he saved my life at cartagena, and when i caught the fever there, he nursed me at the risk of his own. he was faithfulness itself. he died as he would have liked to die, with his face to the enemy. i loved him in a way you can hardly understand. yes, he was a brave man,--my poor old friend." on the rustic bench beside the driveway overlooking the river sat a little woman, older by ten years in the two hours which had elapsed since she looked after the disappearing figure of her son. she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel road, and recognized colonel wilton's carriage and horses coming up the hill; there were her own two horses following after, but neither of the riders was her son. what could have happened? she rose in alarm. the carriage stopped near her. "what, mother, are you still here?" said hilary, opening the door and stepping out, his voice cold and stern. "yes, my son; what has happened?" "dunmore's men have raided the wilton place. katharine and her father have been carried away by that brute johnson, who commanded the party. seymour has been wounded in defending katharine. i have brought him here. this is the way," he went on fiercely, "his majesty the king wages war on his beloved subjects of virginia." "'they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword,'" she quoted with equal resolution. "and blodgett is killed too," he added. "what else have those who rebel against their rightful monarch a right to expect?" she replied. "is mr. seymour seriously wounded?" "no, madam," answered that young man, from the carriage; "but i fear me my cause makes me an unwelcome visitor." "nay, not so, sir. no wounded helpless man craving assistance can ever be unwelcome at my--at the home of the talbots, whatever his creed. how died blodgett, did you say, hilary?" "fighting for his master, at the foot of the path, shot by those ruffians." "so may it be to all enemies of the king," she replied; "but after all he was a brave man. 't is a pity he fell in so poor a cause." and that was thy epitaph, old soldier; that thy requiem, honest blodgett,--from friend and foe alike,--"he was a brave man." book ii knights errant of the sea chapter xi _captain john paul jones_ "you would better spread a little more canvas, mr. seymour. i think we shall do better under the topgallantsails. we have no time to lose." "ay, ay, sir," replied the young executive officer; and then lifting the trumpet to his lips, he called out with a powerful voice, "lay aloft and loose the topgallantsails! man the topgallant sheets and halliards!" the crew, both watches being on deck, were busy with the various duties rendered necessary by the departure of a ship upon a long cruise, and were occupied here and there with the different details of work to be done when a ship gets under way. some of them, their tasks accomplished for the moment, were standing on the forecastle, or peering through the gun ports, gazing at the city, with the tall spire of christ church and the more substantial elevation of the building even then beginning to be known as independence hall, rising in the background beyond the shipping and over the other buildings which they were so rapidly leaving. in an instant the quiet deck became a scene of quick activity, as the men left their tasks and sprang to their appointed stations. the long coils of rope were thrown upon the deck and seized by the groups of seamen detailed for the purpose; while the rigging shook under the quick steps of the alert topmen springing up the ratlines, swarming over the tops, and laying out on the yards, without a thought of the giddy elevation, in their intense rivalry each to be first. "the main royal also, mr. seymour," continued the captain. "i think she will bear it; 'tis a new and good stick." "ay, ay, sir. main topgallant yard there." "sir?" "aloft, one of you, and loose the royal as well." "ay, ay, sir." after a few moments of quick work, the officers of the various masts indicated their readiness for the next order by saying, in rapid succession,-- "all ready the fore, sir." "all ready the main, sir." "all ready the mizzen, sir." "handsomely now, and all together. i want those frenchmen there to see how smartly we can do this," said the captain, in reply, addressing seymour in a tone perfectly audible over the ship. "let fall! lay in! sheet home! hoist away! tend the braces there!" shouted the first lieutenant. amid the creaking of blocks, the straining of cordage, and the lusty heaving of the men, with the shrill pipes of the boatswain and his mates for an accompaniment, the sheets were hauled home on the yards, the yards rose on their respective masts, and the light sails, the braces being hauled taut, bellied out in the strong breeze, adding materially to the speed of the ship. "lay down from aloft," cried the lieutenant, when all was over. "ay, that will do," remarked the captain. "we go better already. i am most anxious to get clear of the capes before nightfall. call the men aft, and request the officers to come up on the quarterdeck. i wish to speak to them." "ay, ay, sir.--mr. wilton," said the young officer, turning to a young midshipman, standing on the lee-side of the deck, "step below and ask the officers there, and those forward, to come on deck. bentley," he called to the boatswain, "call all hands aft." "ay, ay, sir." again the shrill whistling of the pipes was heard, followed by the deep tones of bentley, which rolled and tumbled along the decks of the ship in the usual long-drawn monotonous cry, which could be heard, above the roar of the wind or the rush of the water or the straining of the timbers, from the truck to the keelson: "all hands lay aft, to the quarter-deck." the captain, standing upon the poop-deck, was not, at first glance, a particularly imposing figure. he was small in stature, scarcely five and a half feet high at best, with his natural height diminished, as is often the case with sailors, by a slight bending of the back and stooping of the shoulders; yet he possessed a well-knit, vigorous, and not ungraceful figure, whose careless poise, and the ease with which he maintained his position, with his hands clasped behind his back, in spite of the rather heavy roll and pitch of the ship, in the very strong breeze, indicated long familiarity with the sea. his naturally dark complexion was rendered extremely swarthy by the long exposure to weather, and tropic weather at that, which he had undergone. the expression of his face was of that abstract and thoughtful, nay, even melancholy, cast which we commonly associate with the student rather than the man of affairs. he was dressed in the prescribed uniform of a captain of the american navy, in the revolutionary period: a dark blue cloth coat with red lapels, slashed cuffs, and stand-up collar, flat gold buttons (this last a piece of unusual extravagance); blue breeches, and a red waistcoat heavily laced; silk stockings and buckled shoes, with a curved cross-hilted sword and cocked hat, completed his attire. as the men came crowding aft to the main mast, the idlers tumbling up through the hatches in response to the command, his indifferent look gave way to one of quick attention, and each individual seaman seemed to be especially embraced in the severe scrutiny with which he regarded the mass. in truth, they were a crew of which any officer might well be proud; somewhat motley and nondescript as to uniform and appearance, perhaps, and unused to the strict discipline of men-of-war, but hardy, bold, resolute seamen, with whom, properly led, all things were possible,--men who would hesitate at nothing in the way of attack, and who were permeated with such an intensity of hate for england and for british men-of-war as made them the most dangerous foes that country ever encountered on the seas. several of them, bentley among the number, had been pressed, at one time or another, on english war vessels; and one or two had even felt the lash upon their backs, and bore shocking testimony, in deep-scarred wounds, to the barbaric method of punishment in vogue for the maintenance of discipline in the british navy, and, indeed, in all the great navies of the world,--a practice, however, but little resorted to by the american navy. the officers, gathered in a little knot on the lee side of the quarter-deck, several midshipmen among them, were worthy of the crew and the commander. "men," said the captain, in a clear, firm voice, removing his cocked hat from his thick black hair, tied in a queue and entirely devoid of powder, as he looked down at them from the break of the poop with his piercing black eyes, "we are bound for english waters--" "hurrah, hurrah!" cried many voices from the crew, impetuously. "we will show the new flag for the first time on the high seas," he continued, visibly pleased, and pointing proudly to the stars and stripes, which his own hand had first hoisted, fluttering gayly out at the peak; "and i trust we may strike a blow or two which will cause it, and us, to be long remembered. while you are under my orders i shall expect from you prompt, unquestioned compliance with my commands, or those of my officers, and a ready submission to the hard discipline of a ship-of-war, to which most of you, i suspect, are unfamiliar, unless you have learned it in that bitter school, a british ship. you will learn, however, while principles of equality are very well in civil life, they have no place in the naval service. subordination is the word here; this is not a trading-vessel, but a ship-of-war, and i intend to be implicitly obeyed," he continued sternly, looking even more fiercely at them. "nevertheless," he added, somewhat relaxing his set features, "although we be not a peaceful merchantman, yet i expect and intend to do a little trading with the ships of the enemy, and in any prizes which we may capture, you know you will all have a just, nay, a liberal, share. it must not be lost sight of, however, that the first business of this ship, as of every other ship-of-war of our country, is to fight the ships of the enemy of equal, or of not too great, force. should we find such a one, as is most likely, in the english channel, we must remember that the honor and glory of our flag are above prize money." "three cheers for captain john paul jones!" cried one of the seamen, leaping on a gun and waving his hat; they were given with a mighty rush from nearly two hundred lusty throats, the ship being heavily overmanned for future emergencies. "that will do, men," said the captain, smiling darkly. "remember that a willing crew makes a happy cruise--and don't wake the sleeping cat![ ] mr. seymour, have the boatswain pipe all hands to grog, then set the watches. mr. talbot," he added, turning to the young officer in the familiar buff and blue of the continental army, who stood by his side, an interested and attentive spectator to all that had occurred, "will you do me the honor of taking a glass of wine with me in the cabin?--i should be glad if you would join us also, mr. seymour, after the watch has been called, and you can leave the deck. let mr. wallingford have the watch; he is familiar with the bay. tell him to take in the royal and the fore and mizzen topgallantsails if it blows heavily," he continued, after a pause, and then, bowing, he left the deck. [ ] the cat-o'-nine-tails, used for punishment by flogging. chapter xii _an important commission_ meanwhile, interesting conversations were going on forward, of which this is a sample. "i 'm blest if i like this orderin' business," said one grizzled seaman; "they said he was h--l on orders, but what i shipped for was prize money and a chance to get a lick at them bloody britishers; not for to clean brass work, an' scrape spars, an' flemish down, an' holy-stone decks, which he won't let us spit terbacker on. i don't call this no fighting fur liberty, not by a durn sight." "shut up, bill," replied another; "you've got to obey orders. this yere ain't no old tea wagon, no fishing-boat, you old scowbanker, it's a wessel-o'-war; and may i never see nantucket again if the old man," using a merchantman's expression, "ain't goin' to be captain of the old hooker while he's in it. and if you call this hard work and growl at this kind o' dissyplin'--well, all i got ter say, you'd oughter been on the old radnor. curse the british devils!" he cried, grinding his heel in the deck. "i 'd give twenty years of my life to be alongside her in a ship half her size; yes, even in this one, and i tell ye yon 's the man to put her there, if he gets a chance. ain't that so, mates?" "ay, ay, jack, 'tis true," came a deep-toned chorus of approval. "besides," went on the forecastle orator, "we all know'd wot kind of a officer he is. fightin' and prize money is wot we all want; and here 's where we 'll git it, you 'll see, eh, mates?" "ay, ay; jack's right, bill." "then blow the dissyplin', say i; i'll take orders from a man wot ain't afraid o' nothin', wot hates the red rag we knows of, wot won't send me where he won't go himself. fightin' and prize money, he 's our man. besides, wot's the use o' kickin', we got to do it; we're bound by them articles of war we signed," continued this deep-sea philosopher. "now, pass me my can o' grog, tom, i 'm dry as a cod. here 's to america, and damn the british, too," continued this sea lawyer, drinking his toast amid shouts of approval from the men. left to himself, seymour, after the men had received their grog, and other necessary duties had been attended to, turned the deck over to lieutenant wallingford, whose watch it was with philip wilton, and, descending the poop-deck ladder, disappeared through the same door which had received the two officers into the cabin. three weeks had elapsed since the raid upon the wilton place, and the scene had shifted from virginia to the sea, or rather to the great bay which gives entrance to it, from the delaware river. it was a clear cold day in the early part of december, and the american continental ship ranger had just left her moorings off philadelphia, with orders to proceed to english waters; stopping at brest to receive the orders of the commissioners in paris, and then, in case no better ship could be found, to ravage the english channel and coast, as a warning that like processes, on the part of england on our own shores, should not go unpunished. john paul jones, who had already given evidence, not only of that desperate courage and unyielding tenacity which had marked him as among the most notable of sea officers the world has seen,--lacking nothing but opportunity to have equalled, if not surpassed a nelson--but of consummate seamanship and great executive ability as well, had been appointed to command the ship. before proceeding on the mission, however, an important undertaking had been allotted to him. the commissioners had sent word from france, by a fast-sailing armed packet, of the near departure of a transport from england, called the mellish, laden with two thousand muskets, twenty field-pieces, powder, and other munitions of war, and ten thousand suits of winter clothes, destined for the army that was assembling at halifax and quebec for the invasion of the colonies, by way of the st. lawrence river and lake champlain. congress had transmitted the letter from france to captain jones, with directions that he endeavor to intercept and capture this transport. the destitution of the american army at this period of the war was frightful: devoid of clothes, arms, provisions, powder,--everything, in fact, which is apparently vital to the existence of an army; continually beaten, menaced by a confident, well-equipped, and disciplined enemy in overwhelming force, and before whom they had been habitually retreating, they were only held together by the indomitable will and heroic resolution of one man, george washington. the fortunes of the colonies were never at a lower ebb than at that moment, and there was apparently nothing further to look forward to but a continuation of the disintegration until the end came. the meagre resources of the lax confederacy were already strained to the utmost, and the capture of a ship laden as this one was reported to be, would be of incalculable service. clothes and shoes to cover the nakedness of the soldiery and protect them from the inclemency of the winter, now fast approaching, and arms to put in their hands, by means of which they could assume the offensive and attack the enemy, or at least defend themselves--what more could they desire! the desperate nature of the situation, the dire need of just such additions to the equipment of the army, had been plainly communicated to captain jones, and he was resolved to effect the capture if it were humanly possible. the matter had also been reported to general washington; and such was his opinion of the necessity of a prompt distribution and a speedy forwarding of the supplies, if they could be secured, by the blessing of providence, and so little was his faith in the inefficient commissariat, which, moreover, had to endeavor to keep the balance between different colonies and different bodies of troops, more or less loosely coherent, that he had detailed one of his own staff officers to accompany the ship, with explicit instructions as to the exact distribution and the prompt forwarding which the needs of the troops rendered necessary, when the captured ship should reach port, which would probably be boston, though circumstances might render it advisable to take the longer journey to philadelphia. the officer to whom this duty had been allotted was talbot, of whose capacity and energy general washington already thought highly; the three weeks of their military association only confirming his previous opinion. it was understood that seymour, who was jones' first lieutenant, and would shortly be promoted to a captaincy, would bring back the transport if they were lucky enough to capture it. in case they were unsuccessful, talbot was to report himself to the commissioners at paris as military secretary, until further orders; and seymour was to command the ranger, when jones should get a better ship in france. the ranger was a small sloop of war, a corvette of perhaps five hundred tons, with a raised poop and a topgallant forecastle, built at portsmouth, new hampshire; a new ship, and one of the first of those built especially for naval purposes. she was originally intended for twenty-six guns, but the number, through the wisdom of her captain, who had fathomed the qualifications of the ship, had been reduced to eighteen, four long twelves, and the rest six pounders, and smaller, with one long eighteen forward. she had been some days in commission, and the effect of jones' iron discipline was already apparent in the absence of confusion and in the cleanness and order of the ship. the vessel had been very popular with the good people of philadelphia, her commander and officers likewise, many of the latter, like seymour, being natives of the town; and a constant stream of visitors had inspected her, at all permitted hours. the presence of these visitors, of course including many ladies, coupled with an inherent vanity and love of finery and neatness on the part of the captain,--and, to do him justice, his appreciation of the necessity for order and neatness,--had caused him to maintain his ship in the handsomest possible trim, and he had not scrupled to employ his private fortune to beautify the vessel in many small ways, the details of which would have escaped any eye but that of a seaman, though the general results were apparent. that general appearance which should always distinguish a trim and well-ordered vessel of war from the clumsy and disorderly trader, was due entirely to his efforts. the crew, as we have seen, had chafed under the unusual restraints of this stern discipline; but they were unable, as, indeed, in the last resort they would have been unwilling, to oppose it. some of the older men, too, and some of those who had sailed with jones in his already famous cruises, held out the hope of large prize money, and, what was better with many of them, the chance of a blow at the enemy, if any of her cruisers of anything like equal force appeared,--a chance sure to come about in the frequented waters of the english channel. the crew of an american man-of-war at that period, at least the native portion of it, always in overwhelming majority, was of much higher class than the general run of seafaring men. among those in the ranger were several who had been mates of merchantmen,--bentley again among the number,--men of some education, and able to serve their country as officers with credit, had the navy been increased as it should have been, and whose subordinate positions only indicated their intense patriotism. the low and degraded element which sometimes is such a source of mischief and disaster in ships' crews, was conspicuous by its absence. the reputation of captain jones as a disciplinarian was very well known among sailors generally, and only his reputation as a fighter and a successful prize-taker would have enabled him to assemble the remarkable crew to which he had spoken, and which was to back him up so gallantly in many desperate undertakings and wonderful sea fights, of this and his succeeding phenomenal cruise. seymour had rapidly recovered from his wounds under madam talbot's careful nursing and ministrations, and when his orders reached him he had been ready, accompanied by philip wilton and bentley, to join his ship at once. he still carried the blood-stained handkerchief, and many and many a time had laid it, with its initials, "k. w.," embroidered by her own hand, upon his lips. this was not his only treasure, however. in a wallet in the breast pocket of his coat he carried and treasured a letter, only the veriest scrap of paper, with these few lines hastily written upon it. _these by a friendly hand. we are to accompany lord dunmore to england next week as prisoners in the ship radnor. both well, but very unhappy. i love you.----katharine._ this note had been brought to him, the day before his departure from fairview hall, by one of the slaves from the wilton place, who had in turn received it from a stranger who had handed it to him with the orders that it be given to lieutenant seymour if he were within the neighborhood; if not, it was to be destroyed. there was no address on the outside of the letter, which, indeed, was only a soiled and torn bit of paper, and unsealed. seymour had hitherto communicated this news to no one, and was hesitating whether or no to tell talbot, who had that day joined the ship. seymour found talbot and the captain together, when, after giving his name to the negro boy, joe, who waited in attendance, for captain jones was one of the most punctilious of men, he was ushered into the captain's cabin. "come in, seymour," said the captain, genially, laying aside the formal address of the quarter-deck. "joe, a glass of wine for mr. seymour. has the watch been set?" "yes, sir, and lieutenant wallingford has the deck." "ah, that's well; he knows the channel like a pilot. sit down, man." "thank you, captain. how do you like your first experience on a ship-of-war, talbot?" "very much, indeed," answered the young officer; "and if we shall only succeed in capturing the transport i shall like it much better." "well, gentlemen," said captain jones, "i will give you a toast. here 's to a successful cruise, many prizes, good chances at the enemy, and, of course, first of all, the capture of the transport, though that will deprive me of the pleasure of your society. i intend to bear away to the northeast immediately we pass the capes, and i count upon striking the transport somewhere off halifax. if we should succeed in capturing her, i am of the opinion, if her cargo proves as valuable as reported, that my best course would be to convoy her to one of our ports, or at least so far upon her way as to insure her safe arrival. the cargo would be too important to be lost or recaptured under any circumstances," he continued meditatively. "well, i think i would better go on deck for the present. you will excuse me, mr. talbot, i am sure. you will both dine with me to-night. seymour, a word with you," he continued, opening the door and going out, followed by his executive officer. chapter xiii _a clever stratagem_ six days out from the capes of delaware bay, and the ranger was cruising between halifax and boston, about one hundred leagues east of cape sable. if there be truth in the maxim that a ship is never fit for action until she has been a week at sea, the ranger might be considered as ready for any emergency now. the crew had thoroughly learned their stations; they and the officers had become acquainted with each other; the possibilities of the ship in different weather, and on various points of sailing, had been ascertained. the drill at quarters twice daily, and the regular target practice with great guns, and the exercises with small arms, had materially developed the offensive and defensive possibilities of the ship. the already warm friendship between seymour and talbot, now thrown into close association by the necessary confinement of a small ship, had grown into an intimacy, and they held many discussions concerning their absent friends in the long hours of the night watches. talbot had learned through common rumor before they sailed, that colonel wilton would probably be sent to england with lord dunmore, whose retirement, under the vigorous policy pursued by the virginians under the leadership of patrick henry, who had been elected governor, was inevitable; and he did not doubt but that katharine would accompany her father. he had never told seymour of the plans which had involved the destinies of katharine and himself, and something had restrained him from mentioning either his hopes or his affection for her, though time and absence had but intensified his passion, until it was the consuming idea of his soul. this reserve was matched by a similar reticence on the part of seymour, who had said nothing of the note he had received, and had not communicated the news of his own successful suit to his unsuspecting rival. seymour had a much clearer apprehension of the situation than talbot, and, intrenched in katharine's confession, could endure it without disquiet, magnanimously saying nothing which could disturb his less favored rival. the situation, however, was clearly an impossible one, and that there would be a sudden break in the friendship, when talbot found out the true state of affairs, he did not doubt. this was a grief to him, for he really liked the young man, and would gladly have spared his friend any pain, if it were possible; however, since there was only one kate in the world, and she was his, he saw no way out of the difficulty, and could only allow talbot to drift along blindly in his fool's paradise, until his eyes were opened. both the young men were favorites with captain jones, and he treated them in a very different manner from that he usually assumed to his subordinates, for jones was a man to be respected and feared rather than loved. late in the afternoon, the ship being under all plain sail, on the port tack, heading due west, the voice of the lookout on the mainroyal-yard floated down to the deck in that hail which is always thrilling at sea, and was doubly so in this instance,-- "sail ho!" motioning to the officer of the deck, jones himself replied in his powerful voice,-- "where away?" "broad off the lee-beam, sir." "can you make her out?" "no, sir, not yet." "well, keep your eye lifting, my man, and sing out when you do. mr. simpson," he said, turning to the officer of the deck, "let her go off a couple of points." "ay, ay, sir. up with the helm, quartermaster, round in the weather-braces, rise tacks and sheets." the speed of the ship going free was materially increased at once, and in a few moments the lookout once more hailed the deck,-- "i can make her out now, sir." "what is it?" "a ship, sir, ay, and there is another one with her, and a third. i can't tell what she is, sir. the first one looks like a large ship." "mr. wallingford, take the glass and go up the crosstrees and see what you make of them, sir," said the captain. "very good, sir," replied the lieutenant, springing into the main rigging and rapidly ascending to the crosstrees, glass in hand. "gentlemen, we will have a nearer look at these gentry," continued the captain, glancing back at the officers, who had all come up from below, while the men, equally interested, were crowding on the forecastle, and gazing eagerly in the direction of the reported sails, which were not yet visible from the deck. "on deck, there." "ay, ay, what is it?" "i can make out five ships, and two brigs, and a schooner, and some other sails just rising, all close hauled on the port tack. i think there are more of them, sir, but i can't say yet. we are rapidly drawing down on them, and shall be able to make them out in a minute. i think it is a convoy or a fleet." "that will do, mr. wallingford; lay down on deck, sir; give the glass to the man on the royal-yard, though, before you come. who is he?" "it is me, sir, jack thompson." "keep a bright lookout then, thompson, and if yon 's an enemy's fleet or convoy, it means a glass of grog and a guinea for you when your watch is over." "thankee, sir," cried the delighted seaman. "mr. wallingford, could you make anything out of the size of the ships?" "one of them i should say was a large ship, a frigate or ship of the line possibly, the others were too far off." "it can't be a fleet," replied captain jones; "there are not so many of the enemy's ships together in these waters, if we are correctly informed. i suspect it must be a lot of merchantmen and transports, convoyed by two or three men of war. now is our opportunity, gentlemen," he continued, his eyes sparkling with delight. "they are apparently beating in for halifax, and probably the mellish, our transport, will be among them. we will pay them a visit to-night in any event. i would n't let them pass by without a bow or two, if they were a fleet of two deckers!" apparently this reckless bravado entirely suited the ship's company, for one of the men who had heard the doughty captain's speech called for three cheers, which were given with a will. "ay, that's a fine hearty crew, and full of fight. call on all hands, mr. simpson." this was more or less a perfunctory order, since every man from the jack-of-the-dust to the captain was already on deck. "mr. seymour," said jones to the first lieutenant, who had taken the trumpet at the call of all hands, "we must dress for the ball, and our best disguise for the present will be that of a merchantman. i don't suppose that the english imagine that we have a ship afloat in these waters, and possibly they can't see us, against this cloud bank in this twilight, as we can see them against the setting sun; but we will be on the safe side for the few moments of daylight left us. they may be looking at us over there, so we will hoist the english flag at once; and as we are nearing them a little too rapidly, better brail up the fore and main sails, and take in the royals and the fore and mizzen topgallantsails for the present, and slack off the running gear. then beat to quarters, and have the guns run in and double shotted, close the ports, and have the arms distributed; clear the forecastle too, except of two or three men, and bid everybody observe the strictest quiet, especially when we get in among the convoy," he continued rapidly. "you can see them now from the deck, sir," said lieutenant simpson, handing the glass to the captain. "ay, so you can, but not well. mainroyal there! can you make them out any better?" "yes, sir. there's eighteen sail of them; one is a frigate and one looks like a sloop of war, sir; the rest is merchantmen, some of 'em armed." "very good. have they seen us yet?" "don't appear to take no notice on us so far, sir." "come down from aloft then, and get your grog and guinea, jack; we won't need you up there any more; it is getting too dark to see anything there, anyway. beat to quarters, mr. seymour. ah, there go the lights in the convoy." for the next few moments the decks presented a scene of wild confusion, which gradually settled down into an orderly quiet, the various directions of the captain were promptly carried out, and the ship was speedily prepared for the conflict, though outwardly she had lost her warlike appearance, and now resembled a peaceful trader. while the ranger had been slowly drawing nearer to the sluggish fleet of merchantmen and their convoy, the early twilight of the late season faded away and soon gave place to darkness; the night was cloudy, the sky being much overcast, and there was no moon, all of which was well for their present purpose. the men thoroughly appreciated the hazardous nature of this advance upon the unsuspecting fleet, protected by two heavy vessels of war, either of which was probably much stronger than their own ship; but the very audacity and boldness with which the affair was being carried out thoroughly suited the daring crew. most of them had stripped to the waist in anticipation of the coming conflict, for they felt confident that the fleet would not escape without a battle; and during the next hour they clustered about the guns, quietly whispering among themselves, and eagerly waiting the events of the night. the nervous strain appeared to affect everybody except the imperturbable captain, but the deep silence was unbroken save by low-voiced commands from the first lieutenant. all sail had been made as soon as it had become thoroughly dark, the yards properly braced, and the guns run out again. chapter xiv _a surprise for the juno_ the ranger, a new and swift-sailing ship, and going free also, rapidly edged down upon the slow moving convoy on the wind. the frigate, it was noticed, was several miles ahead in the van; the other ships were carelessly strung out in a long line, probably not suspecting the existence of any possible enemy in those waters. the sloop of war appeared to be among the rear ships, while the nearest vessel to the ranger was a large schooner, whose superior sailing qualities had permitted her to reach several miles to windward of the square-rigged ships; she appeared to be light in ballast also. all of the convoy showed lights. the ranger, on the contrary, was as dark as the night, not even the battle lanterns being lighted. she rapidly overhauled the schooner, and almost before her careless people were aware of it, she was alongside. "schooner ahoy!" called out the captain of the ship, standing on the rail, trumpet in hand. "ahoy, there!" came back from the schooner; "what ship is that?" "his britannic majesty's sloop of war southampton, captain sir james yeo. i have a message from the admiral for this convoy, which we have been expecting. send a boat aboard." "ay, ay, sir. will you heave to for us?" "yes, swing the main-yard there, mr. seymour, and heave to." in a few moments the splash of oars was heard, and a small boat drew out of the darkness to the starboard gangway of the ranger. a man stood up in the stern sheets, and seizing the man ropes thrown to him climbed up on the deck. "ah, sir james," he commenced, taking off his hat, "how do you do? how dark you are! why, what's all this?" he exclaimed in surprise and terror, as he made out the strange uniforms in the dim light. he hesitated a moment, and then stepped back hastily to the gangway, lifting his hand. "seize him," cried a stern voice, "shoot him if he makes a sound." the captain of the unlucky schooner was soon dragged, struggling and astonished, to the break of the poop. "oh, sir james, what is the meaning of this outrage, sir, on a british ship-master? i shall report--" "silence, sir, this is the american continental ship ranger, and you are a prisoner," replied the same voice. "answer my questions now at once; your life depends on it. what are these ships to leeward?" "sixteen merchantmen from london, to halifax, under convoy of two men-of-war, sir." "and what are they?" "the acasta, thirty-six, and the juno, twenty-two, sir." "very good; is the transport mellish among them?" the man made no reply. "answer me." "ye--yes, sir." "which is she?" "oh, sir, i can't tell you that, sir; she is the most valuable ship of them all," he said incautiously. "you have got to tell me, my man, if you ever want to see daylight again; which is she?" "no, sir, i can't tell you," he replied obstinately. "put the muzzle of your pistol to his forehead, williams, and if he does not answer by the time i count ten, pull the trigger. one, two, three, four--" "mercy, mercy," cried the frightened skipper, as he felt the cold barrel of the pistol pressed against his temple. "eight, nine--" went on the voice in the darkness, imperturbably. "i'll tell, i'll tell." "ah, i thought so; which one is she?" "the last one, sir." "and the juno?" "the fourth from the rear; the frigate 's the first one, sir," he volunteered. "oh, don't kill me, gentlemen." "have you told me the truth, sirrah? williams, keep your pistol there." "oh, sir, yes, so help me; oh, gentlemen, for god's sake don't murder me. i've a wife and--" "peace, you fool! we won't hurt you if you 've told the truth; you shall even be released presently and have your schooner again--we don't want her; but if you have lied to me, you shall hang from that yard-arm in the morning, as sure as my name is john paul jones." "o lord!" said the now thoroughly frightened man, looking up and meeting the gaze of two eyes which gleamed in the dim light from the deck above him, "i 've told you the truth, sir." "very well. go call your boat's crew on deck. stand by to capture them as soon as they reach the gangway, some of you, then stow them all below; let their boat tow astern. and when that's done, you, sir, hail your schooner and tell her to heave to until your return. say just what i tell you to and nothing more--the pistol at your head is loaded still. watch him carefully, men, and then send him below with the rest. fill away again, mr. seymour." the ponderous yards were swung, and the ranger soon gathered way again and rapidly overhauled the last of the fleet. the first trick had worked so well that it was worth trying again. as soon as she drew near the doomed ship, she showed lights like those of the frigate and sloop of war. ranging alongside the weather quarter of the transport, the captain again hailed,-- "ship ahoy!" "ahoy, what ship is that?" again the same deluding reply,-- "his britannic majesty's sloop of war southampton, captain sir james yeo. what ship is that?" "the transport mellish." "very well, you are the one we want. i have a message for you. the yankees are about, and the admiral has sent us to look up the convoy. where is the acasta?" "in the van, sir james, about two leagues ahead; the corvette is about a mile forward there, sir." "very good. heave to and send a boat aboard and get your orders. look sharp now, i must speak the corvette and the frigate as well." "ay, ay, sir," replied the englishman, as his mainyard was promptly swung. immediately the ranger was hove to as well, and on her weather side, which was that away from the transport, two well-manned boats, their crews heavily armed, one commanded by seymour, who had talbot with him, and the other by philip wilton, accompanied by bentley, had been silently lowered into the water, and were pulling around the ranger with muffled oars; making a large detour not only to avoid the boat of the captain of the mellish, but also to enable one of them to approach the unsuspecting ship on the lee side. the night was pitch dark, and the plan was carried out exactly as anticipated. the utterly unsuspecting captain of the mellish was seized as he came on deck and nearly choked to death before he could make an outcry, then sent below with the rest; his boat's crew were tempted on deck also by an invitation to partake of unlimited grog, and treated in the same way, and the two boats of the ranger reached the mellish undiscovered. the watch on the deck of the transport, diminished by the absence of the boat's crew, were overwhelmed by the rush of armed men, from both sides of the ship, and after a few shots from two or three men on the quarter-deck, some yelling and screaming, and a brief scuffle, in which one man of the mellish was killed, the ship was mastered. the hatches were at once secured, before the watch below scarcely knew of the occurrence. a company of soldiers, about seventy-five in number, of the seaforth highlanders, found themselves prisoners ere they awakened, the only resistance having come from the mate and two or three of their officers, who had not yet turned in. "have you got her, mr. seymour?" hailed the ranger. "yes, sir." "what is she?" "she 's the mellish right enough, sir." "good. anybody hurt?" "one of the enemy killed, sir; all of ours are all right." "what's her crew?" "fifteen men, they say, and seventy-five soldiers. we have the hatches battened down, and i think with the men we have, we can manage her all right." "very well, sir. i congratulate you. i am sending the second cutter off to you with the men's dunnage and your boxes. you have your orders. present my compliments to general washington, with that ship as a christmas present, if you bring her in. god grant you get in safely. good-by. better put out that light; we will take your place in the fleet, and see what happens." "good-by, sir," cried the young lieutenant; "a prosperous cruise to you." in a moment the boat from the ranger was alongside, the bags and boxes were speedily shifted, and the cutter, with the other two boats in tow, dropped back to the ranger, which by a shift of the helm had drawn much nearer. then the mellish filled away, and presently wearing round on her heel went off before the wind, and, all her lights having been extinguished, faded speedily away in the darkness. the boats were hoisted on the ranger, she braced up on the port tack, and took the place vacated by the mellish. but these things had not happened without attracting some attention. the captain of the vessel next ahead of the mellish had heard the pistol shots and shouting. luffing up into the wind to check his own headway, he made out a second ship in the darkness alongside his next astern. in doubt as to what was happening, but certain that something was wrong, he acted promptly, and caused a blue light to be burned on his forecastle; this was the agreed signal of danger, and it immediately awakened the unsuspecting fleet into action. several of the ships at different intervals in the long line repeated the signal, which was finally answered by the frigate, hull down ahead. the corvette, a half mile away perhaps, responded immediately, and wearing short round came to on the other tack, and headed for the last of the line, beating to quarters the while. a less audacious man might have thought that he had done enough in cutting out with so little loss so valuable a transport from under the guns of two ships of war, either of greater force than his own, and therefore would have taken advantage of the night to effect his own escape. but this would not have suited the daring nature of captain jones, and he resolved to await the advent of the sloop of war, trusting that the advantage of a surprise might compensate for the great difference in the batteries of the two ships. besides the natural desire to fight the enemy, there was a method in the apparent madness. if he could successfully disable the sloop before the arrival of the frigate, he would ensure the escape of the captured mellish, for the sloop would be in no condition to pursue, and the frigate could not safely leave her convoy. so with rather a mixture of ideas, he trusted to the god of battles and the justice of his cause, and also to the darkness and his own mother-wit and great skill in seamanship, to make his own escape after the battle, resolutely putting out of his head the fact that the loss of a spar or two would in all probability result in the capture of his own ship. to sum it all up, jones was not a man to decline battle when there was the slightest prospect of success, and the very audacity of the present situation enchanted him. all the lanterns of the ranger were again extinguished, therefore, and the men sent quietly to their quarters, with the strictest injunctions not to make a sound or fire a gun until ordered, under pain of death. every other preparation had long since been made for action, so the officers slipped on their boarding caps, loosened their swords in their sheaths, and looked to the priming of their pistols; then receiving their final commands, departed quietly to their several stations,--simpson, now occupying the position of first lieutenant, vacated by seymour, having charge of the batteries, and wallingford, on deck with the captain, in command of the sail trimmers, who were clustered about the masts, the sloop being still heavily manned. "man the starboard battery," said the captain, in a low but distinct voice; "men, we 've got our work cut out for us to-night. no cheering until the first shot is fired, and no firing till i give the order, and then, all together, give it to them. do you understand?" a chorus of subdued "ay, ays" indicated that the orders were heard. "mr. wallingford, do you stand ready to back the maintopsail when she is alongside, though if she attempts to pass in front of us we 'll up helm and take her on the port side. two of you after-guards go below and bring up the captain of the mellish. lively, we shall soon have the sloop down on us." in a few moments the unfortunate british skipper was standing on the poop-deck beside captain jones. "now, my man, you are the master of the mellish, are you not?" "i was a few moments ago," replied the man, sullenly. "well, you are to stand right here, and answer hails just as i tell you; do you understand?" "yes." "williams, you and another hold him, and if he hesitates to answer, or answers other than i tell him, blow his brains out. now we have nothing to do but wait. keep her a good full at the helm there." "ay, ay, sir," replied the veteran quartermaster, stationed at the con. meanwhile the juno had come abeam of the vessel next ahead of the ranger, and the conversation which followed was as plainly audible in the latter ship as had been the beating to quarters just after she wore. "providence ahoy there!" came from the juno. "what is the matter? what are you burning blue lights for?" "nothing is the matter with us, sir, but we heard pistol shots and cries on the mellish astern, and thought we saw two ships instead of one. it's so beastly black to-night we could n't make out anything very well." "all right; better keep off a little, out of the way. i will run down and see what's wrong." the present course of the juno would have brought her across the bows of the ranger, but the ships were nearing so rapidly that a collision would have resulted, so the juno was kept away a little, and soon ran down on the lee bow of the ranger. the two ships were thus placed side by side, the ranger on the port tack having the advantage of the weather gauge of the juno, which had the wind free,--an advantage the captain of the english ship would never have yielded without an effort, had he imagined the character of the ship opposite him. the battle lanterns of the juno were lighted, the ports triced up, and she presented a brilliant picture of a gallant ship ready for action. the ranger, black as the night and silent as death, could barely be discerned in dim outline from the juno. "mellish ahoy." "ahoy, the juno." "what's wrong on board of you?" "nothing, sir." "pistol shots and screams were heard by the ship ahead; but who hails--where is captain brent?" "answer him," hissed jones, in the ear of the british captain; "tell him there were some drunken soldiers of the highlanders in a row. speak out, man," he continued threateningly. "why don't you answer?" came from the juno. "i shall send a boat aboard. call away the first cutter," the voice continued. but the british seaman on the ranger's deck was made of sterner stuff than the other. by a violent and unexpected movement he wrenched his arm free from the grasp of one of the men, struck the other heavily in the chest, and before any one could seize him he leaped upon the rail, shouting loudly, "treachery! you are betrayed. this is a yankee pirate." then he sprang into the water between the two ships. williams raised his pistol. "let him go," cried jones, "he is a brave fellow;" then lifting his powerful voice he shouted, "this is the american continental ship ranger. stand by!"--the port shutters dropped or were pulled up with a crash, a moment's hasty aim was taken at the brilliantly lighted ship full abeam.--"fire! let them have it, men," he cried in a voice of thunder. instantly the black side of the ranger gave forth a sheet of flame, and the startling roar of the full broadside in the quiet night was followed by shrieks and cries and the crashing of woodwork, which told that the shots had taken effect. three hearty british cheers rang out, however, in reply, and the broadside was promptly returned, but with nothing like the effect of that from the ranger, for the first blow counts for as much at sea as in any other contest. the next moment the maintopsail of the juno was gallantly laid to the mast, that of the ranger following suit, and the two ships, side by side, at half pistol-shot distance, continued the dreadful combat, both crews being encouraged and stimulated by their captains and other officers. a battle lantern or two, which had been hastily lighted here and there, shed a dim uncertain light over the decks of the ranger. the men, half naked, covered with sweat and dust and powder stains, or splashed with blood from some more unfortunate comrade, some with heads tied up, fighting though wounded, served the guns. several brave fellows were arranged on the weather side of the deck, dead, their battles ended; one or two seriously wounded men were lying groaning by the hatchway, waiting their turn to be carried below to the cockpit to be committed to the rough surgery of the period, while the fleet-footed powder boys were running to and fro from the different guns with their charges, leaping over the wounded and dying with indifference. the continuous roar of the artillery, for the guns were served with that steady, rapid precision for which the american seamen soon became famous, the crackling of musketry, from the men in the tops, with the yells and cheers and curses and groans of the maddened men, completed a scene which suggested a bit of hell. "this is warm work, wallingford," said the captain, coolly, though his eyes were sparkling with excitement. "do we gain any advantage?" "i think so; their fire does not seem to be so heavy. does it not slacken a little, sir?" "ay, i think so too. i trust our sticks hold." "i have not had any serious damage reported so far, sir." "well, we must end it soon, or that frigate will be down on us; in half an hour at most, i should say. ha! what was that?" he said, as a loud crash from the juno interrupted him. "their maintopmast 's gone by the board, hurrah!" shouted wallingford, looking toward the ship, after springing on the rail, from whence a moment later he fell back dead, with a bullet in his breast. "poor fellow!" murmured jones, and then called out, "give it to them, lads, they have lost their maintopmast." a cheer was the answer. but the matter must be ended at once. "johnson," said jones, to the young midshipman by his side, "run forward and have the main-yard hauled; give her a good full, quartermaster," he said to the veteran seaman at the helm, and then watched the water over the side to see when she gathered headway through it. "now! hard up with the helm! flatten in the head sheets! round in the weather braces! cease firing, and load all!" the ship gathered way, forged ahead slowly, fell off when the helm was put up, and in a trice was standing across the stern of the juno, which endeavored to meet the manoeuvre as soon as it was seen; but, owing to the loss of the jib and maintopsail and the fouling of the gear, she did not answer the helm rapidly enough to escape the threatening danger. "stand by to rake her! ready! fire! stand by to board!" the effect of this raking broadside delivered at short range was awful; the whole stern of the juno was beaten in, and the deadly projectiles had free range the full length of the devoted ship, which reeled and trembled under the terrible shock. a moment of silence followed, broken by shrieks and groans and a few feeble cheers from some undaunted spirits. then the ranger, still falling off, a rank sheer of the helm brought her beam against the stern of the juno, when eager hands hove the grapnels which bound the two ships together. "away, boarders!" certain of the men left their quarters at the guns, and cutlass and pistol in hand, led by jones himself, swarmed over the rail and on the poop of the juno. two or three men were standing there among the dead and wounded men, half dazed by the sudden catastrophe, but they bravely sprang forward. "do you surrender?" cried jones. "no, you damned rebel!" answered the foremost, in the uniform of an officer, crossing swords with him gallantly; but in a moment the sword of the impetuous american beat down his guard and was buried in his breast. with a hollow groan, he fell dying on the deck of the ship he had so gallantly defended, while his men, borne back by the determined rush of the rangers, after a feeble resistance, threw down their arms, crying, "quarter, quarter!" all this time the guns of that ship had been firing, one or two of them depressed by simpson's orders so as to pierce the hull below the water-line, the rest sending their heavy shot ripping and tearing through the length of the juno, which was unable to bring a single gun to bear in reply. "do you strike?" called jones, from the break of the poop, his men massed behind him for a rush through the gangways, to one or two of the officers who were stationed there. "yes, yes, god help us," cried a wounded officer; "what else can we do?" "where's your captain?" "dead, sir," answered one of the seamen who had been seized by the boarders. "him you killed when you boarded." "poor fellow, he was a brave man, and fought his ship well." "captain, the frigate is bearing down upon us!" cried one of the ranger's men. "ay, ay. well, gentlemen, we cannot take possession, so we will have to leave you to your consort," he said to the british officers. "give the captain of the acasta the compliments of captain john paul jones, of the american continental ship ranger, and say that he will find me in the british channel. thank him for our entertainment to-night," he said, bowing courteously, and then--"back to the ship, all you rangers.--let that man's sword alone, sirrah! he used it well, let it remain with him on his own ship; but first haul down and bring the juno's flag with us." the men hastily scrambled over the rails to their own ship, the grapnels were cut loose, and none too soon the ship slowly gathered way and slipped by the stern of the juno, whose mizzenmast fell a moment after, and she lay rolling, a ghastly shattered hulk on the waters, fire breaking out forward. the frigate, coming down rapidly on the starboard tack, luffed up into the wind, and fired a broadside at the rapidly disappearing ranger, which, however, did no harm, and was only answered by a musket-shot in contempt, and then she ranged down beside her battered and shattered consort. as soon as she reached the side of the juno she was hove to, and a boat was sent off at once. an officer stepped on board. he was horrified at the scene of carnage which presented itself. the ship aloft was a wreck, the decks were a perfect shambles, wounded and dying men lay around in every position. the masts were gone, the ship was full of shot-holes, the water was rushing and gurgling in through the shot-holes below the waterline, flames were breaking out forward. "where is captain burden?" cried the officer. "dead," replied the wounded first lieutenant, in a hollow voice. "did you strike?" "yes." "what was the ship with which you fought?" "the american ship ranger, captain john paul jones. he says he will see you in the english channel. oh, god, lawless, isn't this awful? three-fourths of ours are dead or wounded! the cursed rebel captured the mellish, we ranged alongside at quarters; they got in the first broadside; the maintopmast went, then the jib; they fell off, raked us through the stern, boarded; jones cut down burden with his sword; we could not get a gun to bear, they were pounding through us. we could not keep the men at quarters, we struck; they took our flag too; then you came down, and he sheered off; then the mizzenmast went. i expect the fore will go next." "what's his force? was it a frigate?" "i can answer that," said the brave master of the mellish, who had gained the juno and fought well in the fight; "she's a sloop of eighteen guns." "less than ours! we have twenty-two. oh, lawless, what a disgrace! i can't understand it. our men did well. and she goes free, and look at us!" "ship is making water fast; we can't get at the fire forward either, sir," reported one of the juno's officers. "good god, can't we save the ship?" queried lieutenant lawless, of the acasta. "no, it will be as much as we can do to get off the wounded, i fear." "back," cried lawless, turning to the cutter in which they had come, "to the acasta, and tell her to send all her boats alongside; this ship is a perfect wreck. she must sink in a few minutes. we have hardly time to get the wounded off. lively, bear a hand for your lives, men." however, in spite of all that could be done by willing and able hands, some of the helpless men were still on board when the juno pitched forward suddenly and then sank bow foremost into the dark waters, carrying many of her gallant defenders into the deep with her. among them on the quarter-deck lay the body of the dead captain, the sword which the magnanimity of his conqueror had left to him lying by his side. and this is war upon the sea! chapter xv _chased by a frigate_ three days after the sinking of the juno, the mellish, which had escaped in the dark without pursuit from the fleet, after witnessing the successful termination of the action between the two sloops of war, was heading about northwest-by-west for massachusetts bay and boston, with single reefs in her topsails and close hauled on the starboard tack. seymour's orders had left him sufficient discretion as to his destination, but boston being the nearest harbor held by the americans, he had deemed it best to try to make that port rather than incur further risk of recapture by making the longer voyage to philadelphia. the weather had turned cloudy and cold; there was a decided touch of winter in the air. the men were muffled up in their pea-jackets, and the little squad of prisoners, tramping up and down, taking exercise and air under a strong guard, looked decidedly uncomfortable, not to say disgusted, with the situation. it had been a matter of some difficulty to disarm the prisoners, especially the soldiers, and to feed and properly exercise them; but the end had been successfully arrived at through the prudence and ability of seymour, who was well aided by talbot and wilton, and who profited much by many valuable suggestions born of the long experience of the old boatswain. on this particular afternoon, about ten days before christmas, the young captain, now confident of carrying his prize into the harbor, felt very much relieved and elated by his apparent command of the situation. he knew what a godsend the ship's cargo, which he and talbot had ascertained to be even more valuable than had been represented, would be to the american army. it might be said without exaggeration, that the success of the great cause depended upon the fortune of that one little ship under his command. talbot had properly classified and inventoried the cargo according to orders, and was prepared to make immediate distribution of it upon their arrival in port. both of the young men were as happy as larks, and even the thought of their captured friends did not disquiet them as it might under less fortunate circumstances, for among the captives on the mellish was a colonel seaton of the highlanders, whom they trusted to be able to exchange for colonel wilton, and they did not doubt in that case that katharine would return with her father. while indulging themselves in these rosy dreams, natural to young men in the elation of spirit consequent upon the events of their short and exciting cruise,--the capture and successful escape of the transport, the apparent assurance of bringing her in, and the daring and brilliant night-action which they had witnessed,--they had neither of them ventured to touch upon the subject uppermost in each heart,--the love each bore for katharine,--and the subject still remained a sealed book between them. the cruise was not yet over, however, and fate had in store for them several more exciting occurrences to be faced. seymour, often accompanied by talbot, and wilton, always accompanied by bentley, kept watch and watch on the brief cruise of the transport. on the afternoon of the third day, about three bells in the afternoon watch, or half after one o'clock, seymour, whose watch below it was, was called from the cabin by old bentley, who informed him that a suspicious sail had been seen hull down to the northeast, and wilton had desired that his commanding officer be informed of it. seizing a glass and springing to his feet, he hastened on deck. "well, mr. wilton," he said to that young officer, proud of his responsibilities, "you keep a good lookout. where away is the sail reported?" "broad off the weather bow, sir, due north of us. you can't see her from the deck yet," replied wilton, flushing with pride at the compliment. seymour sprang into the main rigging, and rapidly ascended to the crosstrees, glass in hand. there he speedily made out the topgallantsails of a large ship, having the wind on the quarter apparently, and slowly coming into view. he subjected her to a long and careful scrutiny, during which the heads of her topsails rose, confirming his first idea that she was a ship-of-war, and if so, without doubt, one of the enemy. she was coming down steadily; and if the two vessels continued on their present courses they would pass each other within gun-shot distance in a few hours, a thing not to be permitted under any circumstances, if it could be avoided. he continued his inspection a moment longer, and then closing the glass, descended to the deck with all speed by sliding down the back-stay. "forward, there!" he shouted. "call the other watch, and be quick about it! philip, step below and ask mr. talbot to come on deck at once. bentley, that seems to be a frigate or a heavy sloop going free; she will be down on us in a few hours if we don't change our course. take a look at her, man," he said, handing him the glass, "and let me know what you think of her." while the men were coming on deck, bentley leaped into the mizzen rigging and ran up the shrouds with an agility surprising in one of his gigantic figure and advanced age. after a rapid survey he came down swiftly. "it's an english frigate, and not a doubt of it, sir, and rising very fast." "i thought so. man the weather braces! up with the helm! bear a hand now, my hearties! now, then, all together! brace in!" he himself set a good example to the short crew, who hastened to obey his rapid commands, by assisting the two seamen stationed aft to brail in the spanker, in which labor he was speedily joined by talbot, who had come on deck. young wilton and bentley lent the same assistance forward, and in an astonishingly brief time, considering her small crew, the mellish, like the stranger, was going free with the wind on her quarter, her best point of sailing, her course now making a wide obtuse angle with that of the approaching ship. "now, then, men, lay aloft, and shake the reefs out of the topsails. stand by to loose the fore and main topgallantsails as well." "why, what's wrong, seymour?" said talbot, in surprise. "i rather expected we should be in massachusetts bay this evening, and here we are, heading south again. isn't that cape cod,--that blue haze yonder? why are we leaving it? what's the matter?" "take the glass, man; there, aft on the starboard quarter, a sail! you should be able to see her from the deck now. can you make her out?" "yes, by heaven, it's a ship, and a large ship too! what is it, think you, seymour?" "an english ship, of course, a frigate; we have no ships like that in these waters, or in our navy, either--more's the pity." "whew! this looks bad for us." "well, we 're not caught yet by a long sight, talbot. a good many leagues will have to be sailed before we are overhauled, and there 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, you know; that old stale maxim is truer on the sea than any place else, and truer in a chase, too; a thousand things may help us or hinder her. see, we are going better now that the reefs are out and the topgallantsails set. but it's a fearful strain on our spars. they look new--pray god they be good ones," he continued, gazing over the side at the masses of green water tossed aside from the bows and sweeping aft under the counter in great swirls. the spars and rigging of the mellish were indeed fearfully tested, the masts buckling and bending like a strained bow. the wind was freshening every moment, and there was the promise of a gale in the lowering sky of the gray afternoon. the ship felt the increased pressure from the additional sail which had been made, and her speed had materially increased, though she rolled and pitched frightfully, wallowing through the water and smashing into the waves with her broad, fat bows, and making rather heavy weather of it. in spite of all this, however, the chase gained slowly upon them, until she was now visible to the naked eye from the decks of the mellish. seymour, full of anxiety, tried every expedient that his thorough seamanship and long experience could dictate to accelerate the speed of his ship,--rather a sluggish vessel at best, and now, heavily laden, slower than ever. the stream anchors were cut away, and then one of the bowers also; all the boats, save one, the smallest, were scuttled and cast adrift; purchases were got on all the sheets and halliards, and the sails hauled flat as boards, and kept well wetted down; some of the water tanks were pumped out, to alter the trim and lighten her; the bulwarks and rails partly cut away, and, as a final resort, the maintopmast studdingsail was set, but the boom broke at the iron and the whole thing went adrift in a few moments. talbot, anxious to do something, suggested the novel expedient of breaking out a field-piece from the fore hold and mounting it on the quarter-deck to use as a stern-chaser. this had been done, but the frigate was yet too far away for it to be of any service. in spite of all these efforts, they were being overhauled slowly, but seymour still held on and did not despair. there was one chance of escape. right before them, not a half league away, lay a long shoal known as george's shoal, extending several leagues across the path of the two ships; through the middle of this dangerous shoal there existed a channel, narrow and tortuous, but still practicable for ships of a certain size. he was familiar with its windings, as was bentley, as they both had examined it carefully in the previous summer with a view to just such a contingency as now occurred. the mellish was a large and clumsy ship, heavily laden, and drawing much water, but he felt confident that he could take her through the pass. at any rate the attempt was worth making, and if he did fail, it would be better to wreck her, he thought, than allow her to be recaptured. the english captain either knew or did not know of the shoal and the channel. if he knew it, he would have to make a long detour, for in no case would the depth of water in the pass permit a heavy ship as was the pursuing vessel to follow them; and, aided by the darkness rapidly closing down, the mellish would be enabled to escape. if the english captain were a new man on the station, and unacquainted with the existence of the shoal, as was most likely--well, then he was apt to lose his ship and all on board of her, if he chased too far and too hard. the problem resolved itself into this: if the mellish could maintain her distance from the pursuer until it was necessary to come by the wind for a short tack, and still have sufficient space and time left to enable her to run up to the mouth of the channel without being sunk, or forced to strike by the batteries of the frigate, they might escape; if not--god help them all! thought seymour, desperately, for in that event he resolved to run the vessel on the rocky edge of the shoal at the pass mouth and sink her. they were rapidly drawing down upon the shoal at the point from which they must come by the wind, on the starboard tack. some far-away lights on cape cod had just been lighted, which enabled seymour to get his bearing exactly. he had talked the situation over quietly with bentley, and they had not yet lost hope of escaping. the men had worked hard and faithfully, carrying out the various orders and lightening ship, and now, having done all, some few were lying about the deck resting, while the remainder hung over the rails gazing at their pursuer. one of the men, the sea philosopher thompson, of the ranger's crew, finally went aft to the quarter-deck to old bentley, who was privileged to stand there under the circumstances, and asked if he might have a look through the glass for a moment at the frigate. chapter xvi _'twixt love and duty_ "ay, it's as i thought," he remarked, returning the glass after a long gaze; "that's the radnor, curse her!" "the radnor, mate? are you quite sure?" "bosun, does a man live in a hell like that for a year and a half, and forget how it looks? i 'd know her among a thousand ships!" "what's that you say, my man?" eagerly asked seymour, stopping suddenly, having caught some part of the conversation as he was passing by. "why, that that 'ere ship is the radnor, sir." talbot and his men were busy with the gun aft; no one heard but seymour and bentley. "the radnor! how do you know it, man?" "i served aboard her for eighteen months, sir. i knows every line of her,--that there spliced fore shroud, the patch in the mainsail,--i put it on myself,--besides, i know her; i don't know how, but know her i do, every stick in her. curse her--saving your honor's presence--i 'm not likely to forget her. i was whipped at the grating till i was nearly dead, just for standing up for this country, on board of her, and me a freeborn american too! i 've got her sign manual on my back, and her picture here, and i 'd give all the rest of my life to see her smashed and sunk, and feel that i 'd had some hand in the doing of it. ay, i know her. could a man ever forget her!" continued the seaman, turning away white with passion, and shaking his fist in convulsive rage at the frigate, which made a handsome picture in spite of all. seymour's face was as white as thompson's was. "the radnor! the radnor! why, that's the ship miss wilton is on. oh, bentley, what can be done now?" he said, the whole situation rising before him. "if we lead that ship through the pass it means wreck for her. dacres, who commands the radnor, is a new man on this station. and if we don't try the pass, this ship is captured. and our country, our cause, receives a fatal blow! was ever a man in such a situation before?" bentley looked at him with eyes full of pity. "we are approaching the shoal now, sir, and unless we would be on it, we will have to bring the ship by the wind at once." this, at least, was a respite. seymour glanced ahead, and at once gave the necessary orders. when the course was altered it became necessary to take in the fore and main topgallantsails, on account of the wind, now blowing a half gale and steadily rising. the speed of the ship, therefore, was unfortunately sensibly diminished, and she was soon pitching and heaving on the starboard tack, much to the astonishment of talbot and the crew, who were ignorant of the existence of the shoal, and the latter of whom could see no necessity for the dangerous alteration in the course; they, however, of course said nothing, and talbot, whose ignorance of seamanship did not qualify him to decide difficult questions, after a glance at seymour's stern, pale face, decided to ask nothing about it. this present course being at right angles to that of their pursuer, whom neither seymour nor bentley doubted to be the radnor, would speedily bring the two ships together. they had gained a small but precious advantage, however, as the frigate, apparently as much surprised by the unexpected manoeuvre as their own men, had allowed some moments to elapse before her helm was shifted and the wind brought on the other quarter; the courses of the two ships now intersected at an angle of perhaps seventy degrees, which would bring them together in a short time. the people on the mellish could plainly hear the drums of the frigate, now almost in range, beating to quarters. they were near enough to count the gunports; it was indeed a heavy frigate,--a thirty-six, just the rating of the radnor. talbot had made ready his field-piece, and in a moment the heavy boom of the gun echoed over the waters. the shot fell a little short, but was in good line. much encouraged, the men hastened to load the piece again, while the mellish crept along, all too slowly for the eager anxiety of her crew, toward the mouth of the channel, of which most of them, however, knew nothing. the frigate, partly because in order to bring a gun to bear on the chase it would have to luff up into the wind and thus lose valuable distance, and also because the rapidity with which the mellish was being overhauled rendered it unnecessary, had hitherto refrained from using its batteries. the chances of escape under the present conditions were about even, had it not been for the complication introduced by the presence of katharine and her father upon the frigate. seymour was in a painful and frightful state of indecision. what should he do? the dilemma forced upon him was one of those which katharine had foreseen, and of which they had talked together. he, apparently, must decide between his love and his country. if he held on when he reached the mouth of the channel and passed it by, the capture of the ship was absolutely inevitable. if he went through the channel and enticed the english ship after him, the death of his sweetheart was likewise apparently inevitable. chasing with the determination shown by the english captain, who had his topgallantsails still set, and with the little warning he would have of the existence of the shoal, owing to the rapid closing of the day, the frigate would have to attempt the channel, and in that way for that ship lay destruction. save katharine-- lose the ship. save the ship-- lose katharine. love or duty--which should it be? the man was attacked in the two most powerful sources of human action. he saw on one side katharine tossed about by the merciless waves, white-faced with terror, and stretching out her hands to him in piteous appeal from that angry sea in the horror of darkness and death. and every voice which spoke to the human heart was eloquent of her. and then on the other side there stood those grim and frozen ranks, those gaunt, hungry, naked men. they too stretched out hands to him. "give us arms, give us raiment," they seemed to say. "you had the opportunity and you threw it away for love. what's love--to liberty?" and every incentive which awakens the soul of honor in men appealed to him then. behind him stood the destinies of a great people, the fate of a great cause; on him they trusted, upon his honor they had depended, and before him stood one woman. he saw her again as he had seen her before on the top of the hill on that memorable night in virginia. what had she said?-- "_if i stood in the pathway of liberty for one single instant, i should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation._" oh, katharine, katharine, he groaned in spirit, pressing his hands upon his face in agony, while every breaking wave flung the words, "duty and honor," into his face, and every throb of his beating heart whispered "love--love." chapter xvii _an incidental passage at arms_ there were two entrances to the channel, lying perhaps a half mile apart, the first the better and more practicable, and certainly, with the frigate rapidly drawing near, the safer. they were almost abreast of the first one now. bentley, who had been observing him keenly, came up to him. "we are almost abreast the first pass, mr. seymour," he said respectfully. seymour turned as if he had been struck. was the decision already upon him? he could not make it. "we--we will try the second, bentley." "sir," said the old man, hesitating, and yet persisting, "the frigate is coming down fast; we may not be able to make the second pass." "we will try the second, nevertheless," said the young man, imperatively. "but, mr. john--" "silence, sir! when have you bandied words with me before?" shouted seymour, in a passion of temper. "go forward where you belong." the old man looked at him steadily: "when, sir? why, ever since i took you from your dead father's arms near a score of years ago. oh, sir, i know what you feel, but you know what you must do. it's not for me to tell you your duty," said the old man, laying heavy emphasis upon that talismanic word "duty," which seems to appeal more powerfully to seamen than to any other class of men. "love is a mighty thing, sir. i know it, yes, even i," he went on with rude eloquence, "ever since i took you when you were a little lad, and swore to watch over you, and care for you, and make a man of you--ay, and i 've done it too--and the love of woman, they say, is stronger than the love of man, though of that i know nothing, but honor and duty are above love, sir; and upon your honor, and your doing your duty, our country depends. yes, love of woman, mr. seymour, but before that love of country; and now," said the old man, mournfully, "after twenty years of--of friendship, if i may say it, you order me forward like a dog. but that's neither here nor there, if you only save the ship. oh, mr. john, in five minutes more you must decide. see," pointing to the frigate, "how she rises! think of it. think of it once more before you jeopard the safety of this ship for any woman. honor, sir, and duty--it's laid upon you, you must do it--they come before everything." seymour looked at the old man tenderly, and then grasped him by the hand. "you are right, old friend. forgive my rough words. i will do it. it kills me, but i will do it--the country first of all. o god, pity me and help me!" he cried. "amen," said bentley, his face working with grief, yet iron in its determination and resolution. seymour turned on his heel and sprang aft, bringing his hand the while up to his heart. as he did so, his fingers instinctively went to the pocket of his waistcoat and sought the letter he carried there. he took it out half mechanically and glanced at the familiar writing once more, when a sudden gust of wind snatched it out of his hand and blew it to the feet of talbot. "my letter!" cried seymour, impulsively. the soldier courteously stooped and picked it up and glanced down at the open scrap mechanically, as he extended his hand toward seymour; then the next moment he cried,-- "why, it's from katharine!" one unconscious inspection sufficed to put him in possession of the contents. "where did you get this note, sir?" he exclaimed, his face flushing with jealousy and sudden suspicion; "it is mine, i am the one she loves. how came it in your possession?" he continued, in rising heat. seymour, already unstrung by the fearful strain he had gone through and the frightful decision he would have to make later on, nay, had made after bentley's words, was in no mood to be catechized. "i am not in the habit of answering such personal questions, sir. and i recognize no right in you to so question me." "right, sir! i find a letter in your possession with words of love in it, from my betrothed, a note plainly meant for me, and which has been withheld. how comes it so?" "and i repeat, sir, i have nothing to say except to demand the return of my letter instantly; it is mine, and i will have it." "do you not know, mr. seymour, that we have been pledged to each other since childhood, that we have been lovers, she is to be my wife? i love her and she loves me; explain this letter then." "it is false, mr. talbot; she has pledged herself to me,--yes, sir, to me. i care nothing for your childish love-affairs. she is mine, if i may believe her words, as is the letter which you have basely read. you will return it to me at once, or i shall have it taken from you by force." "i give you the lie, sir, here and now," shrieked talbot, laying his hand upon his sword. "it is not true, she is mine; as for the note--i keep it!" seymour controlled himself by a violent effort, and looked around for some of his men. wilton and bentley had come aft in great anxiety, and the whole crew were looking eagerly at them, attracted by the aroused voices and the passionate attitude of the two men. for a moment the chase was forgotten. "oh, hilary," said philip, addressing his friend. "hush, philip, this man insults your sister. i am defending her honor." the lad hesitated a moment; discipline was strong in his young soul. "that is my duty--mr. seymour," he said. seymour turned swiftly upon him. "what are you doing here, mr. wilton? all hands are called, are they not? your station is on the forecastle, then, i believe," he said with deadly calm. "oblige me by going forward at once, sir." "go, philip," cried talbot; "i can take care of this man." "aft here, two or three of you," continued seymour, his usually even voice trembling a little. "seize lieutenant talbot. arrest him. take his sword from him, and hand me the letter he has in his hand, and then confine him in his cabin." two or three of the seamen came running aft. talbot whipped out his sword. "the first man that touches me shall have this through his heart," he said fiercely. but the seamen would have made short work of him, if it had not been for the restraining hand of bentley. "gentlemen, gentlemen!" he said. "out of the way, bentley. you have changed my plans once. i will not be balked again. i am the captain of this ship, and i intend to be obeyed." "'t is well that mr. seymour is on his ship and surrounded by his bullies. he dare not meet me man to man, sword to sword. would we were on shore! you coward!" screamed talbot, advancing toward him, "shall i strike you?" "you will have it then, sir," said seymour, at last giving way. "no man so speaks to me and lives. back, men!" and white with passion and rage he drew his own sword and sprang forward. no less resolutely did talbot meet him. their blades crossed and rang against each other. bentley wrung his hands in dreadful indecision, not knowing what to do; he dared not lay hands upon his superior officer, yet this combat must cease. but the fierce sword-play, both men being masters of the weapon, as was the habit of gentlemen of that day, was suddenly interrupted. chapter xviii _duty wins the game_ a booming roar came down upon them from the frigate, which had fired a broadside, which was followed presently by the whistling of shot over their heads. great rents were seen in the canvas, pieces of running gear fell to the deck, there was a crashing, rending sound, and a part of the rail, left standing abaft the mizzen shrouds, smashed into splinters and drove inboard under the impact of a heavy shot. one splinter struck the man at the helm in the side; he fell with a shriek, and lay white and still by the side of the wheel, which, no longer restrained by his hand, spun round madly. another splinter hit the sword of talbot, breaking the blade and sweeping it from his hands, and the unlucky scrap of paper was blown into the sea. the spanker sheet was cut in two, and the boom swept out to windward, knocking one of the men overboard. there was neither time nor opportunity to pick him up, and he went to his death unheeded. seymour dropped his sword, every instinct of a sailor aroused, and sprang to the horse-block. the ship, left to itself, fell off rapidly before the wind. bentley jumped to seize the helm. "flow the head sheets there!" cried the lieutenant; "lively! aft here and haul in the spanker! brail up the foresail! down, hard down with the helm!" there was another broadside from the heavy guns of the frigate. talbot replied with his stern-chaser, and a cloud of splinters showed that the shot took effect, whereat the men at the gun cheered and loaded, and then crash went the mizzen topgallant mast above their heads! "lively, men!" shouted seymour, "we must get on the wind again or we are lost." "breakers on the starboard bow!" shrieked the lookout on the forecastle suddenly. "breakers on the port bow!" his voice ran aft in a shrill scream, fraught with terror, "breakers ahead!" "down, hard down with the helm, bentley," said seymour, himself springing over to assist the old man at the wheel. but bentley raised his hand and kept the wheel steady. "too late, sir, for that," he cried, "we are in the pass. god help us now, sir. mr. seymour, look to the ship, sir, look to the ship!" the young officer sprang back on the horse-block, his soul filled with horror. so fate had decided for him at last, and duty, not love, had won the mighty game. a third broadside passed harmlessly over the ship, doing little damage, the rough weather making aiming uncertain. again the field-piece replied. seymour never turned his head in the direction of the frigate. he could not look upon the catastrophe; besides, the exigency of the situation demanded that he give his whole mind to conning the ship through the narrow pass. bentley himself, assisted by a young sailor, kept the helm; the oldest seamen had charge of the braces. the wreck of the mizzen topgallant mast was allowed to hang for the present. the white water dashed about the ship in sheets of foam; they were well in the breakers now, and the most ignorant eye could see the danger. one false movement meant disaster for the ship for whose safety seymour had sacrificed so much. he did not make it. to his disordered fancy katharine's white face looked up at him from every breaking wave. he steeled his heart and gave his orders with as much ease and precision as if it had been a practice cruise. to the day of his death he could not account for his ability to do so. he made a splendid figure, standing on the horse-block, his hair flowing out in the wind, his face deadly pale; calm, cool, steady; his voice clear and even, but heard in every part of the ship. the heart of the old sailor at the helm yearned toward him, and the seamen looked at him as if he had been a demigod. he never once looked back, but from the cries of the men he could follow every motion of the frigate behind him. the frigate, the unsuspicious frigate, had followed the course of the transport exactly, and was coming down to the deadly rocks like a hurricane. talbot, his quarrel forgotten for the moment, ceased firing, and stood, with all of the men who could be spared from their stations, looking aft at the tremendous drama being played. "the frigate! look at the frigate! she 's going to strike, sir!" cried one of the seamen, excitedly,--old thompson, who had sailed upon her. "see, they see the breakers. now there go the head yards. it won't do. it's too late. my god, she strikes, she strikes! i 'll have one more shot at her before she goes," he shrieked, taking hasty aim over the loaded field-piece and touching the priming. "ay, and a hit too. hurrah! hurrah! to h--l with ye, where you belong, ye--" "silence aft!" shouted seymour, in a voice of thunder. "keep fast that gun; and another cheer like that, and i put you in irons, thompson." the water in the front of the mellish suddenly became darker, the breakers disappeared, the ship was in deep water again; she had the open sea before her, and was through the channel. "we are through the pass, sir," said bentley. "i know it," answered seymour, at last. "i suppose there is no use beating back around the shoal, bentley?" he said tentatively. "no, sir, no use; and besides in this wind we could not do it; and, sir, you know nothing will live in such a sea. look at the englishman now, sir." the captain turned at last. the frigate was a hopeless wreck. all three of her masts had gone by the board; she had run full on the rocky ledge of the shoal at the mouth of the channel. the wind had risen until it blew a heavy gale; no boat, no human being, could live in such a sea. the waters rushed over her at every sweep, and she was fast breaking up before them. night had fallen, and darkness at last enshrouded her as she faded out of view. a drop of snow fell lightly upon the cold cheek of the young sailor, and the men gazed into the night in silence, appalled by the awful catastrophe. bentley, understanding it all, laid his hand lightly on seymour's arm, saying softly,-- "better clear the wreck and get the mizzen topsail and the fore and main sail in, sir, and reef the fore and main topsails; the spars are buckling fearfully. she can't stand much more." "oh, bentley," he said with a sob, and then, mastering himself, he gave the necessary orders to clear away the wreck and take in the other sails, and close reef the topsails, in order to put the ship in proper trim for the rising storm; after which, the wind now permitting, the ship was headed for philadelphia. as seymour turned to go below, he came face to face with talbot. the two men stood gazing at each other in silence. "we still have an account to settle, mr. talbot," he said sternly. "my god," said talbot, hesitatingly, "was n't it awful? how small, seymour, are our quarrels in the face of that!" pointing out into the darkness,--"such a tremendous catastrophe as that is." seymour looked at him curiously; the man had not yet fathomed the depth of the catastrophe to him, evidently. "as for our quarrel," he continued in a manly, generous way, "i--perhaps i was wrong, mr. seymour. i know i was, but i have loved her all my life. i am sorry i spoke so, and i beg your pardon; but--won't you tell me about the note now?" a great pity for the young man filled seymour's heart in spite of his own sorrow. "i loved her too," he said quietly. "the note was sent to me from gwynn's island, where they were confined. i had offered myself to her the night of the raid,--just before it, in fact,--and she accepted me. the note was mine. where is it?" "oh!" said talbot, softly, lifting his hand to his throat, "and i loved her too, and she is yours. forgive me, seymour, you won her honorably. i was too confident,--a fool. the note is gone into the sea. we cannot quarrel about it now." "there can be no quarrel between us now, talbot. she is mine no more than she is yours. she--she--" he paused, choking. "she--" "oh, what is it? speak, man," cried talbot, in sudden fear which he could not explain. philip wilton had drawn near and was listening eagerly. "that ship there--the radnor, you know--is lost, and all on board of her must have perished long since." "yes, yes, it's awful; but what of that? what of katharine?" "don't you remember the note? colonel wilton and she were on the radnor." the strain of the last hour had undermined the nervous strength of the young soldier. he looked at seymour, half dazed. "it can't be," he murmured. "why did you do it? how could you?" the world turned black before him. he reeled as if from a blow, and would have fallen if seymour had not caught him. philip strained his gaze out over the dark water. "oh, my father, my father!" he cried. "mr. seymour, is there no hope, no chance?" "none whatever, my boy; they are gone." "oh, katharine, katharine! why did you do it, seymour?" said talbot, again. seymour turned away in silence. he could not reply; now that it was done, he had no reason. the dim light from the binnacle lantern fell on the face of bentley; tears were standing in the old man's eyes as he looked at them, and he said slowly, as if in response to talbot's question,-- "for love of country, gentlemen." and this, again, is war upon the sea! book iii the lion at bay chapter xix _the port of philadelphia_ the day before christmas, the warden of the port of philadelphia, standing glass in hand on one of the wharves, noticed a strange vessel slowly coming up the bay. this in itself was not an unusual sight. many vessels during the course of a year arrived at, or departed from, the chief city of the american continent. not so many small traders or coasting-vessels or ponderous east indiamen, perhaps, as in the busy times of peace before the war began; but their place was taken by privateers and their prizes, or a ship from france, bringing large consignments of war material from the famous house of rodrigo hortalez & co., of which the versatile and ingenuous [transcriber's note: ingenious?] m. de beaumarchais was the _deus ex machina_; and once in a while one of the few ships of war of the continental navy, or some of the galleys or gunboats of commodore hazelwood's pennsylvania state defence fleet. but the approaching ship was evidently neither a privateer nor a vessel of war, neither did she present the appearance of a peaceful merchantman. there was something curious and noteworthy in her aspect which excited the attention of the port warden, and then of the loungers along front street and the wharves, and speedily communicated itself to the citizens of the town, so that they began to hasten down to the river, in the cold of the late afternoon. finally, no less a person than the military commander of the city himself appeared, followed by one or two aids, and attended by various bewigged and beruffled gentlemen of condition and substance; among whose finery the black coat of a clergyman and the sober attire of many of the thrifty quakers were conspicuous. here and there the crowd was lightened by the uniform of a militiaman or home guard, or the faded buff and blue of some invalid or wounded continental. in the doorways of some of the spacious residences facing the river, many of the fair dames for which philadelphia was justly famous noted eagerly the approaching ship. as she came slowly up against the ebb tide, it was seen that her bulwarks had been cut away, all her boats but one appeared to be lost, her mizzen topgallant mast was gone, several great patches in her sails also attracted attention; there too was a field-piece mounted and lashed on the quarter-deck as a stern-chaser. the fore royal was furled, and two flags were hanging limply from the masthead; the light breeze from time to time fluttering them a little, but not sufficiently to disclose what they were, until just opposite high street, where she dropped her only remaining anchor, when a sudden gust of wind lifted the two flags before the anxious spectators, who saw that one was a british and the other their own ensign. as soon as the eager watchers grasped the fact that the red cross of st. george was beneath the stars and stripes, they broke into spontaneous cheers of rejoicing. immediately after, the field-gun on the quarterdeck was fired, and the report reverberated over the water and across the island on the one side, and through the streets of the town on the other, with sufficient volume to call every belated and idle citizen to the river-front at once. immediately after, a small boat was dropped into the water and manned by four stout seamen, into which two officers rapidly descended,--one in the uniform of a soldier, and the other in naval attire. when they reached the wharf at the foot of high street, they found themselves confronted by an excited, shouting mass of anxious men, eager to hear the news they were without doubt bringing. "it's lieutenant seymour!" cried one. "yes, he went off in the ranger about two weeks ago," answered another. "so he did. i wonder where the ranger is now?" "who is the one next to him?" said a third. "that's the young continental from general washington's staff, who went with them," answered a fourth voice. "back, gentlemen, back!" "way for the general commanding the town!" "here, men, don't crowd this way on the honorable committee of congress!" cried one and another, as a stout, burly, red-faced, honest, genial-looking man, whose uniform of a general officer could not disguise his plain farmer-like appearance, attended by two or three staff-officers and followed by several white-wigged gentlemen of great dignity, the rich attire and the evident respect in which they were held proclaiming them the committee of congress, slowly forced their way through the crowd. "now, sir," cried the general officer to the two men who had stepped out on the wharf, "what ship is that? we are prepared for good news, seeing those two flags, and the lord knows we need it." "that is the transport mellish, sir; a prize of the american continental ship ranger, captain john paul jones." "hurrah! hurrah!" cried the crowd, which had eagerly pressed near to hear the news. "good, good!" replied the general. "i congratulate you. how is the ranger?" "we left her about one hundred leagues off cape sable about a week ago; she had just sunk the british sloop of war juno, twenty-two guns, after a night action of about forty minutes. we left the ranger bound for france, and apparently not much injured." "what! what! god bless me, young men, you don't mean it! sunk her, did you say, and in forty minutes! gentlemen, gentlemen, do you hear that? three cheers for captain john paul jones!" just then one of the committee of congress, and evidently its chairman,--a man whose probity and honor shone out from his open pleasant face,--interrupted,-- "but tell me, young sir,--lieutenant seymour of the navy, is it not? ah, i thought so. what is her lading? is it the transport we have hoped for?" "yes, sir. lieutenant talbot here has her bills of lading and her manifest also." "where is it, mr. talbot?" interrupted the officer; "let me see it, sir. i am general putnam, in command of the city." the general took the paper in his eagerness, but as he had neglected to bring his glasses with him, he was unable to read it. "here, here," he cried impatiently, handing it back, "read it yourself, or, better, tell us quickly what it is." "two thousand stand of arms, twenty field-pieces, powder, shot, and other munitions of war, ten thousand suits of winter clothes, blankets, shoes, colonel seaton and three officers and fifty men of the seaforth highlanders and their baggage, all _en route_ for quebec," said talbot, promptly. the crowd was one seething mass of excitement. robert morris turned about, and lifting his hat from his head waved it high in the air amid frantic cheers. putnam and his officers and the other gentlemen of the committee of congress seized the hands of the two young officers in hearty congratulation. "but there is something still more to tell," cried mr. morris; "your ship, her battered and dismantled condition, the rents in the sails--you were chased?" "yes, sir," replied seymour, "and nearly recaptured. we escaped, however, through a narrow channel extending across george's shoal off cape cod, with which i was familiar; and the english ship, pursuing recklessly, ran upon the shoal in a gale of wind and was wrecked, lost with all on board." "is it possible, sir, is it possible? did you find out the name of the ship?" "yes, sir; one of our seamen who had served aboard her recognized her. she was the radnor, thirty-six guns." "that's the ship that lord dunmore is reported to have returned to europe in," said mr. clymer, another member of the committee. a shudder passed over the two young men at this confirmation of their misfortunes. seymour continued with great gravity,-- "we have reason to believe that some one else in whom you have deeper interest than in lord dunmore was on board of her,--colonel wilton, one of our commissioners to france, and his daughter also. they must have perished with the rest." there was a moment of silence, as the full extent of this calamity was made known to the multitude, and then a clergyman was seen pushing his way nearer to them. "what! mr. seymour! how do you do, sir? did i understand you to say that all the company of that english ship perished?" "yes, dr. white." "and colonel wilton and his daughter also?" "alas, yes, sir." "i fear that it is as our young friend says," added robert morris, gloomily. "i remember they were to go with dunmore." "oh, mr. morris, our poor friends! shocking, shocking, dreadful!" ejaculated the saintly-looking man; "these are the horrors of war;" and then turning to the multitude, he said: "gentlemen, people, and friends, it is christmas eve. we have our usual services at christ church in a short time. shall we not then return thanks to the giver of all victory for this signal manifestation of his providence at this dark hour, and at the same time pray for our bereaved friends, and also for the widows and orphans of those of our enemies who have been so suddenly brought before their maker? i do earnestly invite you all to god's house in his name." the chime of old christ church ringing from the steeple near by seemed to second, in musical tones, the good man's invitation, as he turned and walked away, followed by a number of the citizens of the town. general putnam, however, engaged talbot in conversation about the disposition of the stores, while robert morris continued his inquiries as to the details of the cruise with seymour. the perilous situation of the shattered american army was outlined to both of them, and talbot received orders, or permission rather, to report the capture of the transport to general washington the next day. seymour asked permission to accompany him, which was readily granted. "if you do not get a captain's commission for this, mr. talbot," continued putnam, as they bade him good-night, "i shall be much disappointed." "and if you do not find a captain's commission also waiting for you on your return here, lieutenant seymour, i shall also be much surprised," added robert morris. "give my regards to his excellency, and wish him a merry christmas from me, and tell him that he has our best hopes for success in his new enterprise. i will detach six hundred men from philadelphia, to-morrow, to make a diversion in his behalf," said the general. "yes," continued robert morris, "and i shall be obliged, lieutenant seymour, if you will call at my house before you start, and get a small bag of money which i shall give you to hand to general washington, with my compliments. tell him it is all i can raise at present, and that i am ashamed to send him so pitiable a sum; but if he will call upon me again, i shall, i trust, do better next time." bidding each other adieu, the four gentlemen separated, general putnam to arrange for the distribution and forwarding of the supplies to the troops at once; robert morris to send a report to the congress, which had retreated to baltimore upon the approach of howe and cornwallis through the jerseys; and seymour and talbot back to the ship to make necessary arrangements for their departure. seymour shortly afterward turned the command of the mellish over to the officer mr. morris designated as his successor; and talbot delivered his schedule to the officer appointed by general putnam to receive it. refusing the many pressing invitations to stay and dine, or partake of the other bounteous hospitality of the townspeople, the young men passed the night quietly with seymour's aunt, his only relative, and at four o'clock on christmas morning, accompanied by bentley and talbot, they set forth upon their long cold ride to washington's camp,--a ride which was to extend very much farther, however, and be fraught with greater consequences than any of them dreamed of, as they set forth with sad hearts upon their journey. chapter xx _a winter camp_ about half after one o'clock in the afternoon of wednesday, december th, being christmas day, and very cold, four tired horsemen, on jaded steeds, rode up to a plain stone farmhouse standing at the junction of two common country roads, both of which led to the delaware river, a mile or so away. in the clearing back of the house a few wretched tents indicated a bivouac. some shivering horses were picketed under a rude shelter, formed by interlacing branches between the trunks of a little grove of thickly growing trees which had been left standing as a wind-break. bright fires blazed in front of the tents, and the men who occupied them were enjoying an unusually hearty meal. the faded uniforms of the men were tattered and torn; some of the soldiers were almost barefoot, wearing wretched apologies for shoes, which had been supplemented when practicable by bits of cloth tied about the soles of the feet. the men themselves were gaunt and haggard. privation, exposure, and hard fighting had left a bitter mark upon them. hunger and cold and wounds had wrestled with them, and they bore the indelible imprint of the awful conflict upon their faces. it was greatly to their credit that, like their leader, they had not yet despaired. a movement of some sort was evidently in preparation; arms were being looked to carefully, haversacks and pockets were being filled with the rude fare of which they had been thankful to partake as a christmas dinner; ammunition was being prepared for transportation; those who had them were wrapping the remains of tattered blankets about them, under the straps of their guns or other equipments; and the fortunate possessors of the ragged adjuncts to shoes were putting final touches to them, with a futile hope that they would last beyond the first mile or two of the march; others were saddling and rubbing down the horses. a welcome contribution had been made to their fare in a huge steaming bowl of hot punch, which had been sent from the farmhouse, and of which they had eagerly partaken. "what's up now, i wonder?" said one ragged veteran to another. "don't know--don't care--couldn't anything be worse than this," was the reply. "we 've marched and fought and got beaten, and marched and fought and got beaten again, and retreated and retreated until there is nothing left of us. look at us," he continued, "half naked, half starved, and we 're the best of the lot, the select force, the picked men, the head-quarters guard!" he went on in bitter sarcasm. "yes, that 's so," replied the other, laughing; then, sadly, "those poor fellows by the river are worse off than we are, though. what would n't they give for some of that punch? my soul, wasn't it good!" he continued, smacking his lips in recollection. "where are we going, sergeant?" asked another. "don't know; the command is, 'three days' rations and light marching order.'" "well, we're all of the last, anyway. look at me! no stockings, leggings torn, no shirt; and you'd scarcely call this thing on my back a coat, would you? what could be lighter? so comfortable, too, in this pleasant summer weather!" "oh, shut up, old man; you 're better off than i am, anyway; you've got rags to help your shoes out, and just look at mine," said another, sticking out a gaunt leg with a tattered shoe on the foot, every toe of which was plainly visible through the torn and worn openings. "and just look at this," he went on, bringing his foot down hard on the snow-covered, frost-bound soil, making an imprint which was edged with blood from his wounded, bruised, unprotected feet. "that's my sign-manual; and it 's not hard to duplicate in the army yonder, either." "that's true; and to think that the cause of liberty's got down so low that we are its only dependence. and they call us the grand army!" "well, as you say," went on another, recklessly, "we can't get into anything worse, so hurrah for the next move, say i." "three days' rations and light marching order, meaning, i suppose, that we are to leave our heavy overcoats and blankets and foot stoves and such other luxuries behind; that rather indicates that we are going to do something besides retreat; and i should like to get a whack at those mercenary dutchmen before i freeze or starve," was the reply. "bully for you!" "i'm with you, old man." "i, too." "and i," came from the group of undaunted men surrounding the speaker. "and to think," said another, "of its being christmas day, and all those little children at home--oh, well," turning away and wiping his eyes, "marching and fighting may make us forget, boys. i wouldn't mind suffering for liberty, if we could only do something, have something to show for it but a bloody trail and a story of defeat. i 'm tired of it," he continued desperately. "i 'd fight the whole british army if they would only let me get a chance at them." "we're all with you there, man, and i guess this time we get a chance," replied one of the speakers, amid a chorus of approval which showed the spirit of the men. while the men were talking among themselves thus, the four riders on the tired horses had ridden up to the farmhouse. a soldier dressed no better than the rest stood before the door. "halt! who are you?" he cried, presenting his musket. "friends. officers from philadelphia, with messages for his excellency," replied the foremost. "don't you recognize me, my man?" "why, it's lieutenant talbot! pass in, sir, and these other gentlemen with you," answered the soldier, saluting. "it's glad the general will be to see you." without further preliminaries the young man opened the door and entered, followed by his three companions. a cheerful fire of logs was blazing and crackling in the wide fireplace in the long low room. on the table before it stood a great bowl of steaming punch, and several officers were sitting or standing about the room in various positions. the uniforms of all save that of one of them were scarcely less worn and faded, if not quite so tattered, than were those of the escort; the same grim enemies had left the same grim marks upon them as upon the soldiers. the only well-dressed person in the room was a bright-eyed young man, a mere boy, just nineteen, wearing the brilliant uniform of an officer of the french army. he was tall and thin, red-haired, with a long nose and retreating forehead; his bright eyes and animated manner expressed the interest he felt in a conversation carried on in the french language with his nearest neighbor, another young man scarcely a year his senior. the contrast between the new and gay french uniform of the one and the faded continental dress of the other was not less startling than that suggested by the difference in their size. the american officer was a small, a very small man; but, in spite of his insignificant stature, the whole impression of the man was striking, and even imposing. in contrast to the other, his face was very handsome, the head finely shaped, the features clear-cut and regular; he had a decisive mouth, bespeaking resolution and firmness, and two piercing eyes out of which looked a will as hard and imperious as ever dwelt in mortal man. in front of the fire were two older men, each in the uniform of a general officer, one of thirty-five or six years of age, the other perhaps ten years older. the younger of the two, a full-faced, intelligent, active, commanding sort of man, whose appearance indicated confidence in himself, and the light of whose alert blue eyes told of dashing brilliancy in action and prompt decision in perilous moments, which made him one of those who succeed, would have been more noticed had not his personality been so overshadowed by that of the officer who was speaking to him. the latter was possessed of a figure so tall that it dwarfed every other in the room: he was massively moulded, but well proportioned, with enormous hands and feet, and long, powerful limbs, which indicated great physical force, and having withal an erect and noble carriage, easy and graceful in appearance, which would have immediately attracted attention anywhere, even if his face had not been more striking than his figure. he had a most noble head, well proportioned, and set upon a beautiful neck, with the brow broad and high, the nose large and strong and slightly aquiline; his large mouth, even in repose, was set in a firm, tense, straight line, with the lips so tightly closed from the pressure of the massive jaws as to present an appearance almost painful, the expression of it bespeaking indomitable resolution and unbending determination; his eyes were a grayish blue, steel-colored in fact, set wide apart, and deep in their sockets under heavy eyebrows. he wore his plentiful chestnut hair brushed back from his forehead, and tied with a black ribbon in a queue without powder, as was the custom in the army at this juncture,--a fashion of necessity, by the way; and his ruddy face was burned by sun and wind and exposure, and slightly, though not unpleasantly, marked with the smallpox. there was in his whole aspect evidence of such strength and force and power, such human passion kept in control by relentless will, such attributes of command, that none looked upon him without awe; and the idlest jester, the lowest and most insubordinate soldier, subsided into silence before that noble personality, realizing the ineffable dignity of the man. the grandeur of that cause which perhaps even he scarcely realized while he sustained it, looked out from his solemn eyes and was seen in the gravity of his bearing. his was the battle of the people of the future, and god had marked him deeply for his own. and yet it was a human man, too, and none of the immortal gods standing there. on occasion his laugh rang as loudly, or his heart beat as quickly as that of the most careless boy among his soldiers. he was fond of the good things of life too,--loving good wine, fair women, a well-told story, a good jest, pleasant society, and delighting in struggle and contest as well. he preserved habitually the just balance of his strong nature by the exercise of an unusual self-control, and he rarely allowed himself to step beyond that mean of true propriety, so well called the happy, except at long intervals through a violent outbreak of his passionate temper, rendered more terrible and blasting from its very infrequency. and this was the man upon whom was laid the burden of the war of the revolution, and to whom, under god, were due the mighty results of that epoch-making contest. seldom, if ever, do we see men of such rare qualities that when they leave their appointed places no other can be found to fill them; but if such a one ever did live, this was he. chapter xxi _the boatswain tells the story_ one or two other men were writing at a table, and another stalwart officer of rank was sitting by the fire reading. none of the four men coming into the room had seen the general before, except talbot. as the door opened, his excellency glanced up inquiringly, and, recognizing the first figure, stepped forward quickly, extending his hand, all the other officers rising and drawing near at the same time. "what, talbot! i trust you bring good news, sir?" "i do, sir," said the young officer, saluting. "the transport?" said the general, in great anxiety. "captured, sir." "her lading?" "two thousand muskets, twenty field-pieces, powder, shot, intrenching tools, other munitions of war; ten thousand suits of winter clothes, blankets, and shoes; and four officers and fifty soldiers; all bound for quebec, where the british army is assembling." "now almighty god be praised!" exclaimed the general, with deep feeling. "from whence do you come now?" "from philadelphia, sir." "ah! you thought best to take your prize there instead of boston. it was a risk, was it not? but now that you are there, it is better for us here. who are your companions, sir? pray present them to me." "lieutenant seymour, sir, of the navy, who brought in the prize." "sir, i congratulate you. i am glad to see you." "and this is philip wilton, a midshipman. i think you know him, general." "certainly i do; the son of my old friend the commissioner, colonel wilton of virginia, now unhappily a prisoner. you are very welcome, my boy. and who is this other man, talbot?" "william bentley, sir, bosun of the ranger, at your honor's service," answered the seaman himself. "well, my man," said the general, smiling, "if the ranger has many like you in her crew, she must show a formidable lot of men. i am glad to see you all. these are my staff, gentlemen, the members of my family, to whom i present you. general greene, general knox; and these two boys here are captain alexander hamilton and the marquis de la fayette, a volunteer from france, who comes to serve our country without money or without price, for love of liberty. this is major harrison, this captain laurens, this captain morris of the philadelphia troop, our only cavalry; they serve like the marquis, for love of liberty. i know not how i could dispense with them." the gentlemen mentioned bowed ceremoniously, and some of them shook hands with the new-comers. "billy," continued washington, turning to his black servant, "i wish you to get something to eat for these gentlemen. it's only bread and meat that we can offer you, i am sorry to say; we are not living in a very luxurious style at present,--on rather short rations, on the contrary. but meanwhile you will take a glass of this excellent punch with us, and we will drink to a merry christmas. fill your glasses, gentlemen all. your news is the first good news we have had for so long that we have almost forgot what good news is. it is certainly very pleasant for us, eh, gentlemen? now give us some of the details of the capture of the transport. how was it? you, mr. seymour, are the sailor of the party; do you tell us about it." then, in that rude farmhouse among the hills on that bitter winter day, seymour told the story of the sighting of the convoy, and the ruse by which the capture of the two ships had been effected, at which general washington laughed heartily. then he described in a graphic seamanlike way the wonderful night action; the capture of the juno by the heroic captain of the ranger, the successful escape of that ship from the frigate, and the sinking of the juno. he was interrupted from time to time by exclamations and deep gasps of excitement from the officers crowding about him; even billy bringing the dinner put it down unheeded, and listened with his eyes glistening. and then seymour delivered jones's message to general washington. "wonderful man! wonderful man!" he said. "we shall hear of him, i think, in the english channel; and the english also, which is more to the point. but your own ship--had you an eventless passage, mr. seymour? and, gentlemen, you look as solemn as if you were the bearers of bad news instead of good tidings, or had been retreating with us for the past six months. thank goodness, that's about over tonight. fill your glasses, gentlemen. 't is christmas day. now for your own story. did you meet an enemy's ship?" "we did, sir.--talbot, you tell the story." "no, no, i cannot; 't is your part, seymour." here, in the presence of friends, and friends who knew and loved colonel wilton and his daughter, neither of the young men felt equal to the tale. each day brought home to them their bitter sorrow more powerfully than before, and each hour but deepened the anguish in their hearts. "why, what is this? what has happened? the transport is safe, you said," continued the general, in some anxiety. "what is it?" "i can tell, if your honor pleases, sir," said the deep voice of bentley. "speak, man, speak." "it happened this way, sir: we were off cape cod, heading northwest by west for boston, about a week ago, close hauled on the starboard tack in a half gale of wind. your honor knows what the starboard tack is?" "yes, yes, certainly; go on." "when about three bells in the afternoon watch,--your honor knows what three bells--ay, ay, sir," continued the seaman, noting the general's impatient nod. "well, sir, we spied a large sail coming down on us fast; we ran off free, she following. pretty soon we made her out a frigate, a heavy frigate of thirty-six guns, and a fast one too, for she rapidly overhauled us. we cracked on sail, even setting the topmast stunsail, till it blew away. then we cut away bulwarks and rails, flattened the sails by jiggers on the sheets and halliards until they set like boards, pumped her out, cast adrift the boats, cut away anchors, but it was n't any use; she kept a-gaining on us. by and by we came to george's shoal extending about three leagues across our course to the southeast of cape cod. there is a pass through the shoal; lieutenant seymour knows it, we surveyed it this last summer. we brought the ship to on the wind on the same tack again, near the shoal, and ran for the mouth of the pass. the frigate edged off to run us down. lieutenant talbot broke out a field-piece from the hold and mounted it as a stern-chaser, and used it too--" "good! well done!" said the general, nodding approvingly. "go on." "we came to the mouth of the pass. the frigate fired a broadside. one shot carried away the mizzen topgallant mast; another sent a shower of splinters inboard, killing the man at the wheel. the ship falls off and enters the pass. i seize the helm. mr. seymour conned us through. the frigate chased madly after us. she sees the breakers; she can't follow us, draws too much water; she makes an effort to back off. it is too late; she strikes. the wind rises to a heavy gale. we see her go to pieces, and never a soul left to tell the story, never a plank of her that hangs together. she's gone, and we go free. that's all, your honor, and may god have mercy on their souls, say i," added the solemn voice of the boatswain in the silence. "a frightful catastrophe, indeed, and a terrible one! i do not wonder at your sadness. but, young gentlemen, do not take it so to heart. it is the fate of war, and war is always frightful." "did you find out the name of the ship, boatswain?" asked general greene. "yes, your honor; the radnor, thirty-six." "could no one have been saved?" queried general knox. "no one, sir. no boat could have lived in that sea a moment. we could n't put back, could do no good if we had, and so we came on to philadelphia, and that's all." "no, general," cried seymour; "it's not all. we will tell the general the whole story, talbot. you remember, sir, the raid on the wilton place and the capture of the colonel and his daughter?" the general nodded. "well, sir, before the ranger sailed, i received a note from miss wilton saying they were to be sent to england in the radnor." "you received the note? i thought she was mr. talbot's betrothed, mr. seymour!" "i thought so too, general; but it seems that we are both wrong. lieutenant seymour captured her during his visit there with colonel wilton," said talbot, with a faint smile. "i am very sorry for you, talbot, and you are a fortunate man, mr. seymour. but go on; we are all friends here. did you say they were to go on the radnor?" "yes, sir. the pursuing frigate was recognized by one of my men who had been pressed and flogged while on her, as the radnor, the ship on which they were. i heard the man say so just as we neared the reef. to go through the pass was to lead the english ship to destruction and cause the death of those we--of the colonel, sir," continued seymour, in some confusion. "to refrain from attempting the pass was to lose the ship and all it meant for our cause. i could not decide. i say frankly i could not condemn those i--our friends to death, and i could not lose the ship either. this old man knew it all. he has known me from a child. he spoke out boldly, and laid my duty before me, and pleaded with me--" "he did not need it, your honor. no, sir; he would have done it anyway," interrupted bentley. the general took the hand of the embarrassed old boatswain and shook it warmly; then, fixing his glowing eyes upon the two young men, said,-- "continue, mr. seymour." "i know not what i might have done, but the old seaman's appeal to my honor decided me. i went aft with horror in my heart, but resolved to do my duty. on my way there i took out of my pocket the little note received from miss wilton; a gust of wind blew it to the hand of mr. talbot. it was only a line. as he picked it up, he read it involuntarily. we had some words. i drew on him, sir. it was my fault." "no, no, general, the fault was mine!" interrupted talbot. "i said it was my letter, refused to give it up, insulted him. he would have arrested me. bentley and philip interfered. i taunted him, advanced to strike him. he had to draw or be dishonored." "nay, general, but the fault was mine. i was the captain of the ship; the safety of the ship depended on me." "go on, go on, mr. seymour," said the general; "this dispute does honor to you both." "the rest happened as has been told you. one of the splinters struck mr. talbot's sword and swept it into the sea; the note went with it, and then the frigate was wrecked, and colonel wilton and his daughter, with all the rest, lost." it was very still in the room. "my poor friend, my poor friend," murmured the general, "and that charming girl. without a moment's warning! young gentlemen," taking each of the young men by the hand, "i honor you. you have deserved well of our country,--for the frankness with which one of you admits his fault, for it was a fault, and takes the blame upon himself, and for the heroic resolution by which the other sacrifices his love for his duty. laurens, make out a captain's commission for mr. talbot. hamilton, i wish you would write out a general order declaring the capture of the transport and her lading, and the sinking of the juno and the wreck of the english frigate; it will hearten the men for our enterprise to-night. as for you, mr. seymour, i shall use what little influence i may be able to exert to get you a ship at once; meantime, as we contemplate attacking the enemy at last, i shall be glad to offer you a position as volunteer on my staff for a few days, if your duties will permit. and to you, philip, let me be a father indeed--my poor boy! as for you, boatswain, what can i do for you?" "nothing, your honor, nothing, sir. you have shaken me by the hand, and that's enough." the old man hesitated, and then, seeing only kindness in the general's face, for the old sailor attracted and pleased him, he went on softly: "ay, love's a mighty thing, your honor; we knows it, we old men. and love of woman's strong, they say, but these boys have shown us that something else is stronger." "and what is that, pray, my friend?" "love of country, sir," said bentley, in the silence. chapter xxii _washington--a man with human passions_ half an hour later, after the four travellers had taken some refreshment, hasty steps were heard outside the door, followed by the sentry's hail. "ah!" said the general, looking up eagerly from the book he had been reading, "perhaps that is mr. martin with news from the enemy." then laying aside his book, he rose to his feet to meet the new-comer, who proved to be the man he had expected. the young man stood at attention and saluted, while the general addressed him sharply,-- "well, sir, what have you learned?" the young officer appeared extremely embarrassed. "i--well, the fact is, sir, nothing at all," he stammered. "nothing!" said the general, loudly, with rising heat, "nothing, sir! did you not cross the river as i directed you?" "no, sir. that is, i tried to, but there was so much floating ice, and it was so difficult to manage a boat that i thought it would be hardly worth while to attempt it, sir. in fact, the crossing is impracticable for troops," he went on more confidently; but his face changed as he looked up at his infuriated superior. the general was a picture of wrath; the lines in his forehead standing out plainly, his mouth shut more tightly and grimly than ever. it was evident that he was furiously angry, and his face had in it something terrible from his rage. the young officer stood before him now, white and frightened to death. "i saw him this way at kip's landing," whispered hamilton to seymour. "look! he has lost control of himself completely, there will be an explosion sure." the general struggled for a moment, and then broke away. "impracticable, sir! impracticable!" he roared out in a voice of thunder. "how dare you say what this army can or can not do! and what do you mean by not crossing the river and ascertaining the facts i desire to know!" the next moment he stepped forward and, seizing a heavy leaden inkstand from the table near him, threw it with all his force full at the man, crying fiercely,-- "damnation, sir! be off and send me a _man_." the officer dodged the missile, which struck the wall with a crash, saluted, and ran out of the door as if his life depended on it; feeling in his heart that he would face any danger rather than brave another storm of wrath like that he had just sustained. the general continued to pace up and down the room restlessly for a few moments, until he recovered his composure. "i depended upon that information, and i must have it," he soliloquized. "if that man does not bring it back to us before we cross the river, i 'll have him cashiered. shall i send another man? no, i 'll give him another chance." seymour picked up the book the general had been reading. it was the bible, and open at the twenty-second chapter of the book of joshua. his eye fell full upon the twenty-second verse, which was marked. "the lord god of gods, the lord god of gods, he knoweth, and israel he shall know; if; _it be_ in rebellion, or if in transgression against the lord, (save us not this day.)" just then the little daughter of keith, the owner of the farmhouse at which they were staying, entered the room. as the little miss came up fearlessly to the general, he stopped and smiled down at her. "father and mother wish to know if you will want supper to-night, sir?" "no, my little maid," he replied; "not here, at any rate. and which do you like the better now, the redcoats or the continentals?" "the redcoats, sir, they have such pretty clothes," said the nascent woman. "ah, my dear," he replied blithely, catching her up in his arms and kissing her the while, "they look better, but they don't fight. the ragged fellows are the boys for fighting." "singular man!" mused seymour, contrasting the outbreak of wrath at the recalcitrant officer, the open bible he had been reading, and the last merry, tender greeting to the child. but his musings were interrupted by the general himself, speaking. "general greene, you would better ride over to the landing and place the different brigades; take hamilton with you, and perhaps general knox will go also to look out for the artillery. the brigades were to start at three o'clock for mcconkey's ford, and the nearest of them should be there now. we shall move in two divisions after we leave birmingham on the other side. i wish you to command the first one, which will comprise the brigades of sterling, mercer, and de fermoy, with hand's riflemen and hausegger's germans and forest's battery. i shall accompany your column. general sullivan will take the second division, with sargeant's and st. clair's brigades, and glover's marblehead men, and stark's new hampshire riflemen. the two columns will divide at birmingham. you will take the east, or inland road, and sullivan that by the river. have you that order i spoke of for the troops, mr. hamilton? if so, you will give a copy of it to general greene, who will publish it to the troops as soon as they arrive. captain morris, i think you would better go also. you will muster your troop; the men will have returned from carrying my orders to the different brigades, and can be assembled once more. i desire you to attend my person to-night as our only cavalry. talbot, you would better go with general greene; you also, marquis, so that you can be with your friend captain hamilton. the rest of us will follow you shortly." the officers designated bowed, and in a few moments were on the road. the officers left at the headquarters were speedily busy with their necessary duties, and seymour and his two companions, one of whom, the boatswain, was most unfamiliar with and uncomfortable upon a horse, were able to get a couple of hours of needed rest before starting out upon what they felt would be an arduous journey. about half after six o'clock the signal to mount was given, and the whole party, led by the general himself, and followed by the ragged guard, was soon upon the road. it was intensely cold, and the night bade fair to be the severest of the winter. the sky was cloudless, however, and there was a bright moon. chapter xxiii _lieutenant martin's lesson_ as they rode along slowly, the general explained his plans. general howe had pursued him relentlessly through the jerseys, until he had crossed into pennsylvania, only escaping further pursuit and certain defeat because he had had the forethought to seize every boat upon the delaware and its tributaries for miles in every direction, and bring them with his army to the west bank of the river, so that howe was unable to cross. the english general had threatened, however, to wait until the river was frozen and then cross on the ice, and after brushing aside the miserable remains of washington's army, march on to philadelphia and establish himself in the rebel capital. making that most serious of mistakes for a military man of despising his opponents, howe had scattered his army, for convenience in quartering, in various small detachments along the river. the small american army, supplemented by the pennsylvania militia, had been placed opposite the different fords from yardley to new hope, to hold the enemy in check in case an attempt should be made to force a crossing. the fortunes of the country were at the lowest ebb. but there was to be a speedy reversal of conditions, and the world was to learn how dangerous a man was leading the continental troops. washington, to whom a retreat was as hateful as it had been necessary, had long meditated an attack whenever any chance whatever of success might present itself. the necessity for a change was apparent, not merely for the material result which would flow from a victory, but for the moral effect as well. the fancied security of the enemy, their exposed positions, disconnected from each other, and the contempt they felt for his own troops, were large factors in determining him to strike then; but another factor had still more weight, and that was the fact that the time of the enlistment of nearly the whole of his own army expired with the end of the year, and whatever was to be done must be done quickly. he therefore conceived the daring and brilliant design of suddenly collecting his scattered forces, crossing the river, and falling upon his unsuspecting enemy at trenton, where a small brigade of hessians, under colonel rahl, was stationed. it would be a piece of unparalleled audacity. to turn, as it were, just before the dissolution of his army, and cross a wide and deep river full of ice, in the dead of winter, and strike, like the hammer of thor, upon his unwary foe, rudely disturbing his complacent dreams, was a conception of exceeding brilliancy, and it at once stamped washington as a military genius of the first order. and with such an army to make such an attempt! said one of the officers of the period in his memoirs: "an army without cavalry, partially provided with artillery, deficient in transportation for the little they had to carry; without tents, tools, or camp equipage,--without magazines of any kind; half clothed, badly armed, debilitated by disease, disheartened by misfortune." but their leader was a lion, and the lion was at last at bay! there was another factor which contributed greatly to the efficiency of the army, and that was the high quality and overwhelming number of the american officers. orders had been given to the brigades and troops mentioned to concentrate at mcconkey's ferry, about nine miles above trenton. another division under ewing was to cross a mile below trenton and seize the bridge and fords across the assunpink, to check the retreat of the enemy and co-operate with the main attack. cadwalader's pennsylvania militia under gates were to cross at bristol or below burlington, and attack von donop at that point, while putnam, in conjunction with him, was to make a diversion from philadelphia. the movements were to be simultaneous, and the result it was hoped would accord with the effort. the main column, and the one upon which the most dependence was to be placed, was that which washington himself was to accompany, which was composed of veteran continentals, to the number of twenty-four hundred, with eighteen pieces of artillery. all this was briefly explained by the general to seymour and the staff, while they rode slowly along the frozen road. about eight o'clock they arrived at the ford, near which the troops who had arrived before them now stood shivering on the high ground by the river. a few fires were burning in the ravines back of the banks, around which the men took turns in warming themselves, as they munched their frugal fare from the haversacks. a large number of boats had been collected for their transportation, but the river itself was in a most unpromising condition, full of great cakes of ice which the swift current kept churning and grinding against each other. the general surveyed the scene in silence, as his staff and the general officers gathered about him. "there is something moving in the river, general," suddenly said seymour, pointing, his practised eye detecting a dark object among the cakes of ice. "it is a boat, sir!" "ah," replied the general, "you have sharp eyes. where is it?" "there, sir, coming nearer every minute; there is a man in it." "i see now. so there is. who can it be?" "probably it is lieutenant martin," remarked general greene, quietly. "you know you sent him back." "oh, so i did," replied the general, nodding sternly at the recollection. meanwhile the man in the boat was skilfully making his way between the great cakes of ice, which threatened every moment to crush his frail skiff. he rapidly drew near until he finally jumped ashore, and, having tied his boat, hastened up to where the general sat on his horse. he stopped. "i have been across, general," he said, saluting. "so i perceive, sir. how did you get across?" "when i left you, sir, this afternoon," went on the young man, gravely, "i was in such a hurry that i did not wait for anything. i swam it, sir, with my horse." "swam it!" "yes, sir." "very well done, indeed! was it cold?" "not very, sir. at least i was too excited to feel it, and a good hard gallop on the other side soon warmed me up." "where did your ride take you?" "almost to trenton, sir." "and what is the situation there?" "very confident, the guard very negligent, the men carousing in the houses. i examined both roads, and neither of them is well picketed. i should think a surprise would not be very difficult, sir." "humph! where's your horse?" "he fell dead on the other side just as i got back. i found that leaky skiff, and came over to report, sir." "you have done well, mr. martin, very well indeed! i think you must have found that man i sent you for!" continued the general, smiling grimly, while the young soldier blushed with pleasure. "meanwhile we must get you another horse. who has a spare one?" "may it please your honor," spoke out bentley, who had attached himself to seymour, "he can have mine. i am as much at sea on him as you would be on the royal yard, begging your honor's pardon, and i 'll feel better carrying a gun or pulling an oar with the men there than here." the general laughed. "there 's your horse, mr. martin. where do you belong, sir?" "to colonel stark's regiment, sir." "good! keep at it as you have begun and you will meet with a better reception when you call upon me again. now god grant that fortune may favor us. gentlemen, if the brigades are all up, we will undertake the crossing. it looks dangerous, but it can be done--it must be done. who will lead us?" "i will, sir, with your permission, with my marblehead fishermen," said colonel glover, stepping out. "ah, gentlemen, this is our marine regiment. go on, sir! you shall have the right of way across the river. i think none will dispute it with you. mr. seymour, as a seaman, perhaps you can render efficient service, and your boatswain will find here more opportunities for his peculiar talents than in carrying a musket. general greene, will you and your staff go over with the first boat to make proper disposition of the brigades as they arrive? i shall come over after the first division has passed. then general sullivan, and lastly our friend general knox with his artillery. i expect we shall have to wait for him. well, we cannot dispense with either him or the guns." "you won't have to wait any longer than is absolutely necessary to get the guns and horses over, general." "i know that, knox, i know that. now, gentlemen, forward! and may god bless you!" in a few moments the terrible passage began. chapter xxiv _crossing the delaware_ the men, divided into small squads, marched down to the boats,--large unwieldy scows, which had been hauled up against the shore,--and each boat was speedily filled to its utmost capacity. the most experienced seized the oars; three or four marblehead fishermen armed with long poles took their stations forward and aft along the upper side of the boat, with one to steer and one to command; and then, seizing a favorable opportunity, the boat was pushed off from the shore, and threading its way in and out between the enormous ice-cakes grinding down upon her, the difficult and dangerous passage began. should the heavily laden boat be overturned, very few of its occupants would be able to reach the shore. once on the other side, the fishermen took the boat back, and the weary process was gone over again. fortunately it was yet bright moonlight, though ominous clouds were banking up in the northeast, and everything could be clearly seen; each boat was perfectly visible all the way across to the eager watchers on the shore, and a sigh of relief went up after each fortunate passage. in this labor seymour and bentley, and in a less degree philip wilton, aided colonel glover's men; seymour having the helm of one boat continuously, bentley that of another. about half-past nine it was reported to general washington that all of the first division had crossed, and the boat was now ready for him according to his orders. the largest and best boat had been selected for the commander-in-chief, one sufficiently capacious to receive his horses and those of his staff who accompanied him. seymour was to steer the boat; bentley stood in the bow; colonel glover stationed himself amidships, with three or four of his trustiest men, to superintend the crossing, and all the oars were manned by the hardy fishermen instead of the soldiers. the general dismounted and walked toward the boat, leading his horse. just as he was about to enter, an officer on a panting steed rode up rapidly, and saluted. "general washington?" "yes, sir." "a letter, sir!" "what a time is this to hand me letters!" "your excellency, i have been charged to do so by general gates." "by general gates! where is he?" "i left him this morning in philadelphia, sir." "what was he doing there?" "i understood him that he was on his way to congress." "on his way to congress!" said the general earnestly, with much surprise and disgust in his tone. and then, after a pause, he broke the seal and read the letter, frowning; after which he crumpled the paper up in his hand, and then turned again to the officer. "how did you find us, sir?" "i followed the bloody footprints of the men on the snow, sir." "poor fellows! did you learn anything of general ewing or general cadwalader?" "no, sir." "and general putnam?" "he bade me say that there were symptoms of an insurrection in the city, and he felt obliged to stay there. he has detached six hundred of the pennsylvania militia, however, under colonel griffin, to advance toward bordentown." "'t is well, sir. do you remain to participate in our attack?" "yes, sir, i belong to general st. clair's brigade." "you will find it over there; it has not yet crossed. now, gentlemen, let us get aboard." the general stepped forward in the boat, where bentley, an enormous pole in his hands, was stationed, and the remainder of the party soon embarked. the order was given to shove off. the usual difficulties and the usual fortune attended the passage of the boat with its precious freight, until it neared the east bank, when one of the largest cakes that had passed swiftly floated down upon it. "pull, men, pull hard!" cried colonel glover, as he saw its huge bulk alongside. "head the boat up the stream, mr. seymour. forward, there--be ready to push off with your poles." as the result of these prompt manoeuvres, the oncoming mass of ice, which was too large to be avoided, instead of crashing into them amidships and sinking the boat, struck them a quartering blow on the bow, and commenced to grind along the sides of the boat, which heeled so far over that the water began to trickle in through the oar-locks on the other side. "steady, men," said glover, calmly. "sit still, for your lives." bentley had thrown his pole over on the ice-cake promptly, and was now bearing down upon it with all the strength of his powerful arms. but the task was beyond him; the ice and the boat clung together, and the ice was reinforced by several other cakes which its checked motion permitted to close with it. the vast mass crashed against the side of the boat; the oar of the first rower was broken short off at the oar-lock; if the others went the situation of the helpless boat would be, indeed, hopeless. the general himself came to the rescue. promptly divining the situation, he stepped forward to bentley's side, and threw his own immense strength upon the pole. great beads of sweat stood out on bentley's bronzed forehead as he renewed his efforts; the stout hickory sapling bent and crackled beneath the pressure of the two men, but held on, and the boat slowly but steadily began to swing clear of the ice. these two homeric men held it off by sheer strength, until the boat was in freewater, and the men, who had sat like statues in their places, could once more use their oars. the general stepped back into his place, cool and calm as usual, and entirely unruffled by his great exertions. bentley wiped the sweat from his face, and turned and looked back at him in admiration. "friend bentley," he said quietly, "you are a man of mighty thews and sinews. had it not been for your powerful arms, i fear we would have had a ducking--or worse." "lord love you, your honor," said the astonished tailor, "i 've met my match! it was your arm that saved us. i was almost done for. i never saw such strength as that, though when i was younger i would have done better. what a man you would be for reefing topsails in a gale o' wind, your honor, sir!" he continued, thrusting his pole vigorously into a small and impertinent cake of ice in the way. the general was proud of his great strength, and not ill pleased at the genuine and hearty admiration of this genuine and hearty man. a few moments later they stepped ashore, and a mighty cheer went up from the men who had crowded upon the banks, at the safety of their beloved general. greene met him at the landing, and the two men clasped hands. the general immediately mounted his powerful white horse, and stationed himself on a little hillock to watch the landing of the rest of the men, engaging general greene in a low conversation the while. "do you know, greene, that gates has refused my entreaty to stop one day at bristol, and take command of reed's and cadwalader's troops and help us in the attack! i did not positively order him to do so; only requested him to delay his journey by a day or two. i can't understand his action. a letter was handed me just before we crossed by wilkinson, telling me that he had gone on to congress." "to congress! what wants he there? oh, general, it seems as if you had to fight two campaigns,--one against the enemy, and the other against secret, nay open, attempts to minimize your authority and check your plans." "it seems so, greene; but with a just cause to sustain, and the blessing of god to help our efforts, we cannot ultimately fail, though, indeed, it may be better that i give place to another man, more able to save the country," went on the general, solemnly. "forbid it, heaven!" cried greene, passionately. "we, at least, in the army, know to whom has been committed this work; ay, and who has done it, and will do it, too! we will stand by you to the last. could you not feel in the cheers of those frozen men, when you landed, the love they bear you?" "yes, i know that you are with me, and they too. 't is that alone that gives me heart. did you publish the orders about the capture of the transport?" "yes, sir, and it put new heart in the men, i could see. i wish we had the supplies, the clothing especially, now. it grows colder every moment." "ay, and darker, too; i think we shall have snow again before we get through with the night. i wonder how the others down the river have got along. but who comes here?" continued the general, as two men walked hastily up to him and saluted. "well, sir?" he said to the first. "message from general ewing, sir." "did he get across?" "no, sir, the ice was so heavy he bade me say he deemed it useless to try it." "one piece removed from the game, general greene," said washington, smiling bitterly. "now your news, sir?" to the other. "general cadwalader got a part of his men across, but the ice banks so against the east side that not a single horse or piece of artillery could be landed, so he bade me say he has recrossed with his men, sir." "and there's the other piece gone, too! now, what is to be done?" general sullivan, having crossed with the last of his division, at this moment rode up. "the troops are all across, general," he said. "well done! what time is it, some one?" "half after eleven, sir," answered a voice. "very well, indeed! we have now only to wait for the guns. but, gentlemen, i have just heard that ewing made no attempt to cross, and that cadwalader, having tried it, failed. he could get his men over, but no horses and guns, on account of the ice on the bank, and therefore he returned, and we are here alone. what, think you, is to be done now?" there was a moment's silence. "perhaps we would better recross and try it again on a more favorable night," finally said de fermoy, in his broken accents. "yes, yes, that might be well," said one or two others, simultaneously. the most of them, however, said nothing. the general waited a moment, looking about him. "gentlemen, it is too late to retreat. i promised myself i would not return without a fight, and i intend to keep that promise. we will carry out the plan ourselves, as much of it at least as we can. i trust putnam got griffin off, and that his skirmishers may draw out von donop. but be that as it may, we will have a dash at trenton, and try to bag the game, and get away before the enemy can fall upon us in force. general greene, you, of course have sent out pickets?" "yes, sir, the first men who crossed over, a mile up the road, on the hill yonder." "good! ha, what was that? snow, as i live, and the moon 's gone, too! how dark it has grown! i think you might allow the men to light fires in those hollows, and let them move about a little; they will freeze to death standing still--i wonder they don't, anyway. how unfortunate is this snow!" "beg pardon, your excellency?" said the first of the two messengers. "what is it, man? speak out!" "can we stay here and take part in your attack, sir?" "certainly you may. fall in with the men there. where are your horses?" "we left them on the other side, sir." "well, they will have to stay there for this time, and you 'll have to go on foot with the rest." "thank you, sir," said the men, eagerly, darting off in the darkness. "that's a proper spirit, isn't it? well, to your stations, gentlemen! we have nothing to do now but wait. don't allow the men to lie down or to sleep, on any account." and wait they did, for four long hours, the general sitting motionless and silent on his horse, wrapped in his heavy cloak, unheeding, alike, the whirling snow or the cutting sleet of the storm, which grew fiercer every moment. he strained his eyes out into the blackness of the river from time to time, or looked anxiously at the troops, clustered about the fires, or tramping restlessly up and down in their places to ward off the deadly attack of the awful winter night, while some of them sought shelter, behind trees and hillocks, from the fury of the storm. filled with his own pregnant thoughts, and speaking to no one, he waited, and no man ventured to break his silence. at half after three general knox, whose resolute will and iron strength had been exerted to the full, and whose mighty voice had been heard from time to time above the shriek of the fierce wind, was able to report that he had got all the artillery over without the loss of a man, a horse, or a gun, and was ready to proceed. the men were hastily assembled, and, leaving a strong detail to guard the boats, at four o'clock in the morning the long and awful march to trenton was begun, the general and his staff, escorted by the philadelphia city troop, in the lead. the storm was at its height. all hopes of a night attack and surprise had necessarily to be abandoned. still the general pressed on, determined to abide the issue, and make the attack as soon as he reached the enemy. it was the last effort of liberty, conceived in desperation and born in the throes of hunger and cold! what would the bringing forth be? chapter xxv _trenton--the lion strikes_ the route, for the first mile and a half, lay up a steep hill, where the men were much exposed and suffered terribly; after that, for three miles or so, it wound in and out between the hills, and through forests of ash and black oak, which afforded some little shelter. the storm raged with unabated fury, and the progress of the little army was very slow. the men were in good spirits, however, and they cheerfully toiled on over the roads covered with deep drifts, bearing as best they might the driving tempest. it was six in the morning when they reached the little village of birmingham, where the two columns divided: general greene's column, accompanied by washington, taking the longer or inland road, called the pennington road, which entered the town from the northeast; while sullivan's column followed the lower road, which entered the town from the west, by way of a bridge over the assunpink creek. as greene had a long detour to make, sullivan had orders to wait where the cross-road from rowland's ferry intersected his line of march, until the first column had time to effect the longer circuit, so that the two attacks might be delivered together. general washington himself rode in front of the first column. it was still frightfully cold. about daybreak the general spied an officer on horseback toiling through the snowdrifts toward him. as the horseman drew nearer, he recognized young martin. "what is it now, sir?" "general sullivan says that the storm has rendered many of his muskets useless, by wetting the priming and powder. he wishes to know what is to be done, sir?" "return instantly, and tell him he must use the bayonet! when he hears the firing, he is to advance and charge immediately. the town must be taken, and i intend to take it." "very good, sir," said the young man, saluting. "can you get through the snow in time?" "yes, sir," he replied promptly. "i can get through anything, if your excellency will give the order." the general smiled approvingly. it was evident that young man's first lesson had been a good one; his emphasis, he was glad to see, had not been misapplied. when martin rejoined sullivan's column, which had been halted at the cross-roads, the men who had witnessed his departure were eagerly waiting his return. as he repeated the general's reply, they began slipping the bayonets over the muzzles of their guns without orders. so eager were they to advance, that sullivan had difficulty in restraining them until the signal was given. such was their temper and spirit that, in the excitement of the moment, they recked little of the freezing cold and the hardships of their terrible march. the retreating army was at last on the offensive, they were about to attack now, and no attack is so dangerous as that delivered by men from whom the compelling necessity of retreat has been suddenly removed. it was about eight o'clock in the morning when they came in sight of the town. the village of trenton then contained about one hundred houses, mostly frame, scattered along both sides of two long streets, and chiefly located on the west bank of the assunpink, which here bent sharply to the north before it flowed into the delaware. the assunpink was fordable in places at low water, but it was spanned by a substantial stone bridge, which gave on the road followed by sullivan, at the west end of the village. washington came down from the north, and entered the village from the other side. about half a mile from the edge of the town, the column led by him came abreast of an old man, chopping wood in a farm-yard by the roadside. "which is the way to the hessian picket?" said the general. "i don't know," replied the man, sullenly. "you may tell," said captain forest, riding near the general, at the head of his battery, "for this is general washington." the man's expression altered at once. "god bless and prosper you!" he cried eagerly, raising his hands to heaven. "there! the picket is in that house yonder, and the sentry stands near that tree." the intense cold and heavy snow had driven the twenty-five men, who composed the advance picket, to shelter, and they were huddled together in one of the rude huts which served as a guard-house. the snow deadened the sound of the american advance, and the careless sentry did not perceive them. no warning was given until the lieutenant in command of the guard stepped out of the house by chance, and gave the alarm in great surprise. the picket rushed out, and the men lined up in the road in front of the column, the thick snow preventing them from forming a correct idea of the approaching force. the advance guard of the continentals, led by captain william a. washington and lieutenant james monroe, instantly swept down upon them. after a scattered volley which hurt no one, they fled precipitately back toward the village, giving the alarm and rallying on the main guard, posted nearer the centre of the town, which had been speedily drawn up, to the number of seventy-five men. meanwhile sullivan's men, with stark at the head, had routed the pickets on the other road in the same gallant style. this picket was composed of about fifty hessian chasseurs, and twenty english light dragoons, under command of lieutenant grothausen of the chasseurs. they all fled so precipitately that they did not stop to alarm the brigade which they had been stationed to protect, but rapidly galloped down the road, and, crossing the bridge over the assunpink, made good their escape toward bordentown. grave suspicions of cowardice attached thereafter to their commanding officer. had ewing performed his part in the plan, the bridge would have been held, and they would have been captured with the rest. stark's men, followed by the rest of sullivan's division, were now pushed on rapidly for the town, and the cheers of the new england men were distinctly heard by washington and his men on the main road. the main guard on the upper road, almost as completely surprised as the other by the dashing onslaught of the americans, made another futile attempt at resistance to greene's column, but they soon fell back in great disorder upon the main body. it was broad daylight now, and the violence of the storm had somewhat abated. in the town, where the firing had been heard, the drums of the three regiments were rapidly beating the assembly. colonel rahl was in bed, sleeping off the effects of his previous night's indulgences, when he heard the commotion. jumping from the bed and running rapidly to the window, still undressed, he thrust out his head and asked the acting brigade adjutant, biel,--who was hurriedly galloping past,--what it was all about. there was a total misapprehension on all sides, even at this hour, as to the serious nature of the attack; so the confused colonel, satisfied with biel's surmise that it was a raid, ordered him to take a company and go to the assistance of the main guard, in the supposition that it was only a skirmishing party, and never dreaming of a general attack. nevertheless he then dressed rapidly, and, running down to the street, mounted his horse, which had been brought around. the three regiments which comprised his brigade and command were already forming; they were the regiment rahl, the regiment von lossburg, and the regiment von knyphausen. at this moment the advance party and the main guard came running through the streets in great confusion, crying that the whole rebel army was down upon them. the regiment rahl and the regiment von lossburg at once began retreating to an apple orchard back of the town; firing ineffectively in their excitement, as they ran, from behind the houses, at the head of the column, which had now appeared in the street; while the regiment von knyphausen, under the command of major von dechow, the second in command of the brigade, separated from the two others and made for the bridge over the assunpink. king and queen streets run together at the east end of the town. there washington stationed himself, on the left of forest's battery, which was immediately unlimbered and opened up a hot fire. the general's position was much exposed, and after his horse had been wounded, his officers repeatedly requested him to fall back to a safer point, which he peremptorily refused to do. the joy of battle sparkled in his eyes; he had instinctively chosen that position on the field from whence he could best see and direct the conflict, and nothing but a successful charge of the enemy upon them could have moved him to retire. a few of the cooler-headed men among the hessians had rallied some of the lossburg regiment, and two guns had been run out into the street and pointed up toward the place where washington stood, to form a battery, which might, could it have been served, have held the american army in check until such time as the startled germans could recover their wits and make a stand. general washington pointed them out to the officer of the advance guard, which had already done such good service, with a wave of his sword. the little handful of men, led by captain washington and lieutenant monroe, charged down upon the guns, which the party had not had time to load. a scattering volley received them. captain washington and monroe and one of the men were wounded, another fell dead; the men hesitated. talbot sprang to the head of the column, in obedience to the general's nod, and they rallied, advanced on the run, and the guns were immediately captured. meanwhile the fire of stark's riflemen could be heard at the other end of the town. st. clair's brigade held the bridge; the regiment von knyphausen lost a few precious moments endeavoring to extricate its guns, which had become mired in the morass near the bridge, and then charged upon st. clair. but it was too late; von dechow was seriously wounded, and when the regiment saw itself taken in the flank by sargeant's brigade, it retired in disorder, though some few men escaped by the fords. at this juncture rahl re-formed his scattered troops in the apple orchard. he seems to have had an idea of retreating toward princeton at first, with the two regiments still under his command; at any rate, he also lost precious moments by hesitation. it was even then too late to effect a successful retreat, for washington, foreseeing the possibility, had promptly sent hand's pennsylvania riflemen along the pennington road back of the town to check any move in that direction. as fast as the other brigades of greene's column came up, they were sent down through the streets of the town, until stirling, in the lead, joined sullivan's men. rahl's brigade was practically surrounded, though he did not know it. the commander completely lost his head, though he was a courageous man, brave to rashness, and a veteran soldier who had hitherto distinguished himself in this and many other wars. the town was full of plunder gathered by the troops, the hessians having been looting the country for weeks; and he could not abandon it without a struggle. the idea of flying from a band of ragged rebels whom he had scouted, was intolerable. he had been, he now felt, more than culpable in neglecting many warnings of attack, and had lamentably failed in his duty as a soldier, in refraining from taking the commonest precautions against surprise. he had refused to heed the urgent representations of von dechow, and other of his high officers. now his honor was at stake; so he rashly made up his mind to charge. "we will retake the town. all who are my grenadiers--forward!" he cried intrepidly. the men, with fixed bayonets, advanced bravely, and he led them gallantly forward, sword in hand. the americans fired a volley; forest's battery, which enfiladed them, poured in a deadly fire. rahl in the advance, upon his horse, received a fatal wound and fell to the ground. the continentals, cheering madly, charged forward with fixed bayonets. the hessians stopped--hesitated--wavered--their chief was gone--the battle was lost--they broke and fled! disregarding the commands and appeals of their officers, they turned quickly to the right, and ran off into the face of hand's riflemen, who received them with another volley. many of them fell. a body of virginia troops led by talbot now gained their left flank, the philadelphia city troop encircled their rear. the helpless men stopped, completely bewildered, huddled together in a confused mass. washington, seeing imperfectly, and thinking they were forming again, ordered the guns from forest's battery, which had been loaded with canister, to be discharged upon them at once. "sir, they have struck!" cried seymour the keen-eyed, preventing the men from firing. "struck!" cried the general, in surprise. "yes, sir; their colors are down." "so they are," said washington, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to heaven; then, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped over toward the men. the firing had ceased in every direction, and the day was his own; the three regiments were surrendering at discretion, two to him and the other to lord stirling. as major wilkinson galloped up from the lower division for instructions, colonel rahl, pale and bleeding, and supported by two sergeants, presented his sword, which washington courteously declined to receive. the general then gave orders that every care and assistance should be afforded the unfortunate soldier, who died the next day in a room in potts' tavern. "this is indeed a glorious day for our country," said the general to seymour. it was in fact the turning-point in the history of the nation. the captives numbered nearly one thousand men, with twelve hundred stand of arms, six field-pieces, twelve drums, and four colors, including the gorgeous banner of the anspachers, the von lossburg regiment. of the continentals, only two were killed and four wounded, while upward of one hundred of the hessians were killed and wounded, among the killed being rahl and von dechow, the first and second in command. the whole of this brilliant affair scarcely occupied an hour. as none of the other divisions had got across, it was scarcely safe for washington to remain on the east side of the river in the presence of the vastly superior forces of the enemy, which would be concentrated upon him without delay. so that, after giving the men a much needed rest, securing their booty, and burying the dead, the evening found the little army, with its prisoners, retracing its steps toward the ford and its former camping-ground. but with what different feelings the hungry, worn-out, tattered mass of men marched along in the bitter night! the contrast between the well-clothed and well-fed hessians and their captors was surprising, but not less striking than that between their going out and coming in. little recked the frozen men of the hardships of the way. they had shown the world that they possessed other capabilities than facility in retreating, and no american army, however small or feeble, would ever again be despised by any foe. the return passage was made without incident, save that just on the crest of the hills leading down to the ford, the general, who was in advance again, noticed a suspicious-looking, snow-covered mound by the roadside. riding up to it, one of his aids dismounted and uncovered the body of a man, a continental soldier, frozen to death. the cold weapon was grasped tightly in the colder hand. a little farther on there was another body asleep in the snow,--another soldier! the last was that man of the headquarters guard who had spoken of his little children at home on christmas day. they would wait a long time before they saw him again. he had been willing to fight the whole english army! ah, well, a sterner foe than any who marched beneath the red flag of great britain had grappled with him, and he had been defeated,--but he had won his freedom! for forty hours now that little band of men had marched and fought, and when it reached its camp at midnight the whole army was exhausted. the only man among them all who preserved his even calmness, and was apparently unaffected by the hardships of the day, was the commander himself,--the iron man. late into the night he dictated and wrote letters and orders, to be despatched in every direction in the morning. the successful issue of his daring adventure entailed yet further responsibilities, and the campaign was only just begun. as for himself, the world now knew him for a soldier. and a withered old man in the palace of the sans souci in berlin, who had himself known victories and defeats, who had himself stood at bay, facing a world in arms so successfully that men called him "the great," called this and the subsequent campaign the finest military exploit of the age! chapter xxvi _my lord cornwallis_ and so the departure of my lord cornwallis was necessarily deferred. the packet upon which he had engaged passage, and which had actually received his baggage, sailed without him. it would be some days before he would grace the court of st. james with his handsome person, and a long time would elapse before he would once more rejoice in the sight of his beloved hills; when he next returned it would not be with the laurels of a conqueror either! he was to try conclusions once and again with the gentleman he had so assiduously pursued through the jerseys; and this time, ay, and in the end too, the honors were to be with his antagonist. the star and order of the bath, which his gracious and generous britannic majesty had sent over to the new caesar, general howe, with so much laudation and so many words of congratulation, was to have a little of its lustre diminished, and was destined to appear not quite so glorious as it had after long island; in fact, it was soon to be seen that it was only a pyrotechnic star after all, and not in the order of heaven! both of these gentlemen were to learn that an army--almost any kind of an army--is always dangerous until it is wiped out; and it is not to be considered as wiped out as long as it has any coherent existence at all, even if the coherent existence only depends upon the iron will of one man,--which is another way of saying the game is never won until it is ended. there was mounting in hot haste in new york, and couriers and orders streamed over the frozen roads, and lord cornwallis himself galloped at full speed for princeton. the calculations of a certain number of his majesty's faithful troops were to be rudely disturbed, and the comfortable quarters in which they had ensconced themselves were to be vacated forthwith. concentration, aggregation, synthesis, were the words; and this time the reassembled army was not to disintegrate into winter quarters until this pestilent mr. washington was attended to, and attended to so effectually that they could enjoy the enforced hospitality of the surly but substantial jerseymen through the long winter nights undisturbed. for his part, mr. washington, having tasted success, the first real brilliant offensive success of the campaign, was quite willing to be attended to. in fact, in a manner which in another sex might be called coquettish, he seemed to court attention. having successfully attacked with his frost-bitten ragged regiments a detachment, he was now to demonstrate to the world that not even the presence of an army could stop him. things were not quiet on the pennsylvania side of the river either; there were such comings and goings in newtown as that staid and conservative village had never before seen. our two friends, the sad-hearted, were both busily employed. talbot had galloped over the familiar road, and had electrified the good people of philadelphia with his news, and then had hastened on to baltimore to reassure the spirits of the frightened congress. honest robert morris was trotting around from door to door upon new year's morning, hat in hand, begging for dollars to assist his friend george washington, and the cause of liberty, and the suffering army; and seymour, become as it were a soldier, and with philip for esquire, was waiting to take what he could get, be the amount ever so little, back to general washington. the sailor had been granted a further leave of absence by the naval committee, at the general's urgent request, and was glad to learn that he should soon have command of the promised ship of war, which was even then making ready in the delaware. honest bentley--beloved of the soldiery in spite of his genuinely expressed contempt for land warriors--was lending what aid he could in keeping up the spirits of the men, and in other material ways in the camp. some of the clothing, some of the guns from the mellish, some of the material captured from the hessians had gone into the hands and over the backs and upon the feet of the men. but the clothed and the naked were equally happy, for had they not done something at last? ay! they had given assurance that they were men to be reckoned with. fired by the example set them by the continentals, the pennsylvania militia, under cadwalader and ewing and mifflin, had at last crossed the delaware and joined griffin's men. washington had followed them, and the twenty-ninth of december found him established in new headquarters at trenton. a number of mounds in the fields, covered with snow, some bitter recollections and sad stories of plunder, robbery, rapine, and worse, told with gnashing teeth or breaking heart by the firesides, were all that remained of their strange antagonists in the town. but the little town and the little valley were to be once more the scene of war. the great game was to be played again, and the little creek of the assunpink was to run red under its ice and between its banks. on the twenty-ninth, washington's troops began to cross the river again. two parties of light dragoons were sent on in advance under colonel reed, assisted by parties of pennsylvania riflemen despatched by cadwalader. they clung tenaciously to the flanks of von donop. that unfortunate commander had been led away from his camp at burlington in pursuit of griffin's gallant six hundred. when he returned, unsuccessful, the news from trenton had so alarmed him that he fled precipitately, abandoning his heavy baggage and some of his artillery. it was a work of joy for the pursued to pursue, a reversal of conditions which put the heavy german veterans at a strange disadvantage compared with their alert and active pursuers. they had marched through that country with a high hand, plundering and abusing its inhabitants in a frightful way, and they were now being made to experience the hatred they themselves had enkindled. the country people rose against them, and cut them off without mercy. it took two days to get the troops across, on account of the ice in the river. and now came another difficulty. the time of the major part of the americans had expired on the last day of the year, but washington had them paraded and had ridden up and addressed them in a brilliant, soldier-like fashion, and they had to a man volunteered to remain with him for six weeks longer, or as much more time as was necessary to enable him to complete his campaign before he went into winter quarters. he was at last able to pay them their long deferred salary out of the fifty thousand dollars sent him by robert morris, which seymour and talbot that day had brought him; and for their future reward he cheerfully pledged his own vast estate, an example of self-sacrifice which greene, stark, talbot, seymour, and others of the officers who possessed property, at once emulated. the men were put in good spirits by a promise of ten dollars' bounty also, and they were ready and eager for a fight. reed, attended by six young gentlemen of the philadelphia troop, had been sent out to reconnoitre. up toward princeton they had surprised a british outpost composed of a sergeant and twelve dragoons; the sergeant escaped, but the twelve dragoons, panic-stricken, were captured after a short resistance; and reed and his gallant young cavaliers returned in triumph to headquarters. valuable information was gained from this party. cornwallis had joined grant at princeton, and with seven or eight thousand men was assembling wagons and transportation, preparing for a dash on trenton. confirmation of this not unexpected news came by a student from the college, who had escaped to cadwalader and been sent up to general washington. the situation of washington was now critical, but he took prompt measures to relieve it. cadwalader from the crosswicks, and mifflin from bordentown, with thirty-six hundred men, were ordered forward at once. they promptly obeyed orders, and by another desperate night march reached trenton on the morning of the first day of the year. there was heavy skirmishing all day on the second. cornwallis, advancing in hot haste from princeton with eight thousand men, was checked, and lost precious time, by a hot rifle fire from the wood on the banks of the shabbakong creek, near the road he followed in his advance. the skirmishers under greene, seconded by hand, after doing gallant service and covering themselves with glory by delaying the advance for several hours, giving washington ample time to withdraw his army across the assunpink and post it in a strong defensive position, had retired in good order beyond the american line. in the skirmish lieutenant von grothausen, he who had galloped away with the dragoons at trenton and had been under suspicion of cowardice ever since, had somewhat redeemed his reputation in that he had boldly ridden down upon the riflemen, and had been killed. it was late in the evening when the advance parties crossed the bridge over the creek and sought safety behind the lines. indefatigable general knox had concentrated thirty pieces of cannon at the bridge--"a very pretty battery," he called it. it was dusk when the eager americans saw the head of the british army coming through the streets. they remained silent while the enemy formed, and advanced to attack the bridge and the fords in heavy columns at the same time. the men came on in a solid mass for the bridge head, cheering gallantly. they were met by knox's artillery and a steady fire from the riflemen. three times they crashed on that bridge like a mighty wave, and three times like a wave broken they fell back before an awful storm of fire. general washington himself, sitting on his white horse, gave the orders at the bridge, and the brave enemy were repulsed. the position was too strong to be taken by direct assault without great loss; besides, it was not vital after all--so reasoned cornwallis. the british soldiery were weary, they had marched all day at a hot pace and were exhausted. they had not lived in a chronic state of exhaustion for so long that they never gave it a thought; they were not used to it, as were the continentals, and when the british were tired they had to rest. they would be in better spirit on the morrow. the creek was fordable in a dozen places, but cornwallis resisted the importunities of some of his officers, who wished to ford it and attack at once; he sent urgent messengers off to princeton to bring up the two thousand men left there with von donop, and to hurry up leslie with the rear guard, six miles away; when they arrived they could turn the right flank of the americans, and it would be all up with them then. he thought he had washington at such a disadvantage that he could not escape, though the small advantage of position might enable him to make a desperate resistance, even with his inferior forces. "we will wait," he said to erskine, "until von donop comes up, and leslie, and then we 'll bag the 'old fox' in the morning!" so, after brisk firing on both sides until night closed down, the camp-fires were lighted on both sides of the creek; and the british officer went to sleep, calmly confident that he had held the winning cards, and all that was necessary was that the hand should be played out in the morning, to enable him to take the game again. he did indeed hold the higher cards, but the "old fox" showed himself the better player. on the other side of the creek, in the house of good mistress dagworthy, anxious hearts were debating. general washington had summoned a council of war, which expressed the usual diversity of opinion on all subjects, except an unwillingness to fight, upon which, like every other council of war, it was agreed. indeed the odds were fearful! ten thousand seasoned, well-equipped, well-trained, veteran troops, ably led, and smarting with the late defeat and the check of the day against five thousand or six thousand wretchedly provided soldiers, three-fifths of whom were raw militiamen, who had never heard a shot fired in anger! not even a leader like washington, and officers to second him like greene, sullivan, knox, st. clair, stephen, stirling, cadwalader, sargeant, mercer, mifflin, reed, stark, hand, glover, and the others, could overcome such a disparity and inequality. cornwallis had only to outflank them, crumple them up, roll them back on the impassable delaware, and then--god help them all! there was no disguising the critical nature of their situation, and the army had never before been in so desperate a position. it needed no great skill to see the danger now to be faced, but the mistake of cornwallis gave them a brief respite, of which they promptly availed themselves. washington was not a man before whom it was ever safe to indulge in mistakes, and the more difficult his position, the more dangerous he became. trial, danger, hazard, seemed to bring out all of the most remarkable qualities of the man in the highest degree. nothing alarmed him, nothing dismayed him, nothing daunted him; the hotter the conflict, the more pressing the danger, the cooler he became. no man on earth was ever more ready and quick to avail himself of time and opportunity, once he had determined upon a course of action. this campaign was the most signal illustration, among many others, which his wonderful career affords. action, prompt, bold, decisive, was as the breath of life to him; but before coming to a decision, contrary to the custom of great commanders generally, he usually called a council of war, which, on account of his excessive modesty, he sometimes allowed to overrule his own better judgment, to the great detriment of the cause. alone he was superb! given equal resources, the world has not seen a general with whom he could not successfully be matched. in this particular juncture, fortunately for the country, he insisted upon having his own way. there were apparently but three alternatives before the council. the first was a retreat with all speed down the river, leaving the heavy baggage and artillery, and then crossing at philadelphia if they could get there in time. but this would be to abandon the whole colony of new jersey, to lose the results of the whole campaign, and leave the enemy in fine position to begin again in the spring; and if this were the end, they might better have stayed on the west side of the river. besides, successes were vital and must be had. another retreat meant disintegration and ruin, in spite of the lucky stroke at trenton. the second alternative was a battle where they stood, and that meant total defeat,--a thing not to be considered a moment. the army must win or die; and as dying could do no good, it had to win. a brilliant idea, however, had occurred to the commander-in-chief, the man of brilliant ideas. he communicated it to the council, where it instantly found adherents, and objectors, too. it was the third alternative. a circuitous road called the quaker road, recently surveyed and just made, led in a roundabout way from the rear of the camp toward the princeton road, which it entered two miles from that town. washington's plan was to steal silently away in the night by this road, leaving bright fires burning to deceive the confident enemy, and press with all speed toward princeton, strike cornwallis' rear-guard there at daybreak with overwhelming force, crush it before that general could retrace his steps, and then make a dash for the british supplies at new brunswick. if it were not practicable to reach that point, washington could take a position on the hills above morristown, on the flank of the british, and, by threatening their communications, force the superior army to retreat and abandon the field, or else attack the americans in their intrenchments in the hills, with a probable result even more disastrous to the attacking party than at bunker hill. it was a conception as simple and beautiful as it was bold, brilliant, and practicable. but now the objectors began; it had been snowing, sleeting, and raining for several days; the roads were impassable, they had no bottom. objections were made on all sides: the artillery could not possibly be moved, no horses could pull the wagons through the mud, the troops could not march in it. but washington, with true instincts, held to his carefully devised plan with an unusual resolution. arguing, explaining, suggesting, convincing, persuading, the hours slipped away, until at ten o'clock at night there came a sudden change in the weather, perceptible even to those in the house. washington ran eagerly to the door and opened it. followed by the general officers, he stepped out into the night. it was dark and cloudy, no moon or stars even, and growing colder every moment under the rising northeast wind. "gentlemen," he cried gayly, "providence has decided for us. the wind has shifted. the army will move in two hours." at the time specified by the commander, the muddy roads were frozen hard. the heavy baggage was sent down to burlington, and a strong party of active men was left to keep bright fires burning, and charged to show themselves as much as possible and make a great commotion by throwing up fortifications and loud talking, with instructions to slip away and join the main body early next day as best they could. at one o'clock in the morning the astonished army started out upon their adventurous journey,--another long cold night march. the untravelled roads were as smooth and hard as iron. with muffled wheels they succeeded in stealing away undetected. chapter xxvii _the lion turns fox_ the quaker road led southeast from trenton until it reached the village of sandtown, where it turned to the northwest again, and it was not until that point was reached that the surprised soldiers realized the daring nature of the manoeuvre, and the character of that night march, which they had at first considered another hopeless retreat. it was astonishing, then, with what spirit and zeal the soldiers tramped silently over the frozen roads; the raw, green militia vied with the veterans, in the fortitude with which they sustained the dreadful fatigue of the severe march. the long distance to be traversed, on account of the detour to be made, rendered it necessary that the men be moved at the highest possible speed. the road itself being a new one, lately cleared, the stumps and roots of trees not yet grubbed up, made it difficult to transport the artillery and the wagons: but the tired men cheerfully assisted the tired horses, and the little army made great progress. the morning of friday, january the th, dawned clear and cold, with the ground covered with hoar frost. about sunrise the army, with washington again in the lead, reached the bridge over stony brook about three miles from the village of princeton. leading the main body across the bridge, they struck off from the main highway through a by-road which was concealed by a grove of trees in the lower ground, and afforded a short cut to the town. general mercer was an old friend and comrade of the commander-in-chief; he had been a companion of prince charles edward in his romantic invasion of england in ' , a member of braddock's unfortunate expedition, and wounded when that general's army was annihilated; and sometime commander of fort du quesne, after its capture by general forbes. he was detailed, with a small advance party comprising the remnants of smallwood's marylanders, haslet's delawareans, and fleming's virginians, and a small body of young men from the first families of philadelphia, to the total number of three hundred, to continue up the road along the brook until he reached the main road, where he was to try and hold the bridge in order to intercept fugitives from princeton, or check any retrograde movement of the troops which might have advanced toward trenton. the little band had proceeded but a short distance on their way, when they unexpectedly came in sight of a column of the enemy. it was the advance of the british, a part of von donop's leading brigade, _en route_ for trenton to assist cornwallis in bagging the "old fox" according to orders,--the seventeenth regiment, under colonel mawhood. mercer's troops being screened by the wood, their character was not visible to mawhood, who conjectured that they must be a body of fugitives from the front. under this impression, and never dreaming of the true situation, mawhood promptly deployed his regiment and moved off to the left to intercept mercer, at the same time despatching messengers to bring up the other two regiments, the fortieth and fifty-fifth, which had not yet left princeton. both parties rushed for a little rising ground on the edge of a cleared field, near the house of a peaceful quaker named clark. the americans were nearer the goal than their opponents, and reached it first. hastily deploying his column, mercer sought shelter behind a hedge fence which crowned the eminence, and immediately opened up a destructive fire from his riflemen, which temporarily checked the advancing enemy. the british, excellently led, returned the fire with great spirit, and with such good effect that, after a few volleys, mercer's horse was wounded in the leg and his rider thrown violently to the ground, talbot's was killed under him, and several of the officers and men fell,--among them the brave colonel haslet, who was mortally wounded. in the confusion thus unfortunately caused, the americans could hear sharp commands of the english officers, then the rattling of steel on the gun-barrels, and the next moment the red-coated men broke out of the smoke and, unchecked by a scattering fire from the americans, gallantly rushed up at them with fixed bayonets. there were unfortunately no bayonets in this small brigade of the continental army. a few of the men clubbed their muskets resolutely as the two lines met, and made a stout resistance; but the on-coming british would not be denied, and, as the charge was pressed home, the americans wavered, broke, and fell back in some disorder before the vigorous onslaught of the veteran troops. mercer, filled with shame, strove in vain to rally his men. disdaining himself to retreat, and gallantly calling upon them to advance, he threw himself upon the advancing british line, sword in hand, followed by his officers, and for a brief space there was an exciting mêlée on the hill. a blow from the butt end of a musket felled the general to the ground. talbot sprang to his side, and swept the bayonet away from his heart by a blow of his sword delivered with a quick movement of his powerful arm. mercer profited by the moment's respite to leap to his feet. "thank you, my lad," he said. "do you get to the rear and rally the men, general," cried talbot, firing a pistol at short range into the midst of the crowding enemy. "i 'll hold these men in play." but the fighting blood of the old scotchman was up, and for answer he struck boldly at the man opposite him. "surrender, you damned rebels!" cried an officer near them. "never!" replied mercer, cutting down the man with whom he was engaged, while talbot did the like to the one next him. with a roar of rage the british sprang on the two men. in a trice one of the bayonets got past mercer's guard and grazed his arm, another buried itself in his bosom, a third struck him in the breast. the old man struck out weakly, dropped his sword and fell, pierced by a dozen wounds, but still breathing. talbot, who was as yet unharmed, though covered with blood and dust, his hat gone, stepped across his body. he might have retreated, being young and active; but that was not the custom of his family, neither would he abandon the body of his brave commander; besides, every moment of delay was precious. surely they would be reinforced and rallied; he knew the promptness of washington too well to doubt it for a moment; and, last of all, what was life without kate? one glance he cast to the bright sky, flushed with the first rays of the rising sun, and then he stood on guard. the young man's eyes were burning with the intoxication of the fight, and his soul filled with great resolve; but his sword-play was as cool and as rapid as it had been in the salle des armes at paris, where few could be found to master him. the little group of british paused a moment in admiration of his courage. "one at a time, gentlemen," he cried, smiling, and warding off a vicious bayonet thrust. "are there none here who will cross swords with me, for the honor of their flag?" the young lieutenant in command of that part of the line promptly sprang forward and engaged; the two blades rang fiercely together, and grated along each other a moment later. the men stepped back. but the brave lieutenant had met his match, and, with set lips and iron arm, talbot drove home his blade in the other's heart. ere he could recover himself or withdraw his sword, he was beaten to his knees by a blow from a gun-barrel; the blood ran down over his face. "surrender! surrender!" they cried to him, "and we will spare your life." for answer his hand sought his remaining pistol. the first one of his opponents fell dead with a bullet through his heart, and the next moment the deadly steel of a bayonet was buried in talbot's throat. "kate--kate!" he cried in agony, the blood bubbling from his lips, and then another bayonet found his gallant heart; and he sank down on his face, at the foot of the dying officer, his lips kissing the soil of that country in defence of whose liberties he had fallen. as was customary with his family, he had died on the field, grimly facing fearful odds to the last. the last of his line, he had made a good ending, not unworthy his distinguished ancestry; for none of the proud and gallant race had ever died in the service of a better cause, be it that of king or parliament, than this young soldier who had just laid down his life for love of his country! the slight check afforded by the interposition of the americans was over. the british were sweeping everything before them, when colonel mawhood, the cool-headed officer, who had been sitting on a little brown pony, with a small switch in his hand, directing the combat, became aware of a large body of men coming up on his right flank through the wood. with the readiness of a practised soldier, he instantly stopped the advance of his men, wheeled them about, brought up his guns, and prepared to open fire. the american officers had time to mark with admiration the skill with which the manoeuvre was effected, and the beautiful precision with which the men carried out their orders. then the force, a large body of pennsylvania militia which washington had despatched at the first sound of firing in the direction of mercer, broke out of the wood, and advanced rapidly. the muskets of the redcoats were quickly brought to the shoulder, and at the word of command the british line was suddenly tipped with fire and then covered with smoke. many of the militia fell at this volley delivered at close range; some of the fallen lay still and motionless, while others groaned with pain; the raw troops fired hastily into the smoke, then hesitated and stopped uncertainly as the volley was repeated. it was another critical moment, and the hour brought the man. washington himself had most opportunely arrived on the field in advance of the troops, attended by seymour. one glance showed him mercer's broken retreating column and the hesitating pennsylvania militia! everything was at stake. it was not a time for strategic manoeuvres now, but for men--nay, there were men there as good as ever fought--but for a man then. providentially one was at hand. putting spurs to his gallant white horse, he rode down the line in front of the pennsylvania militia, waving his hat and cheering them on. "an old-fashioned virginia fox-hunt, gentlemen!" he cried gayly, giving the view halloo! galloping forward under the fire of the british battery, he called to mercer's shattered men. they halted and faced about; the seventh virginia broke through the wood on the flank of the british; hitchcock's new englanders came up on the run with fixed bayonets; moulder's philadelphia battery opened fire from the hill on the opposing guns. the fire of a warrior had now supplanted the coolness of a general. dashing boldly forward, reckless of the storm of bullets, to within thirty yards of the british line, and smiling with stern pleasure in the crisis which seemed to develop and bring out every fibre of his deep nature, he called upon his men to come on. recovering themselves, they responded with the utmost gallantry. mawhood was surrounded and outnumbered, his victory suddenly changed to defeat; but, excellent soldier that he was, he fought on with desperate resolution, and the conflict was exceedingly hot. washington was in the thick of it. seymour, who had followed him closely until the general broke away in the smoke to lead the charge, lost sight of him for a moment, enveloped as he was in the dust and smoke of the battle. when he saw him emerge from the cloud, waving his sword, and beheld the enemy giving way on every side, he spurred up to him. "thank god!" he said; "your excellency is safe." "away! away! my dear seymour," he cried, "and bring up the troops. the day is our own!" to the day of his death seymour never lost the splendid impression of that heroic figure, the ruddy face streaked with smoke and dust, the eyes blazing with the joy of battle, the excitement of the charge, the mighty sweep of the mighty arm! mawhood's men were, indeed, routed in every direction; most of them laid down their arms. a small party only, under that intrepid leader, succeeded in forcing its way through the american ranks with the bayonet, and ran at full speed toward trenton under the stimulus of a hot pursuit. meanwhile the fifty-fifth regiment had been vigorously attacked by st. clair's brigade, and, after a short action, those who could get away were in full retreat towards new brunswick. the last regiment, the fortieth, had not been able to get into action at all; a part of it fled in a panic, with the remains of the fifty-fifth, towards new brunswick, hotly pursued by washington with the philadelphia city troop and what cavalry he could muster, and the rest took refuge in the college building in princeton, from which they were dislodged by artillery and compelled to surrender. the british loss was about five hundred in killed and wounded and prisoners, the american less than one hundred; but among the latter were many valuable officers,--colonels haslet and potter, major morris, captains shippen, fleming, talbot, neal, and general mercer. after following the retiring and demoralized british for a few miles, washington determined to abandon the pursuit. the men were exhausted by their long and fatiguing marches, and were in no condition to make the long march to new brunswick; most of them were still ill equipped and entirely unfitted for the fatigue and exposure of a further winter campaign,--even those iron men must have rest at last. the flying british must have informed leslie's troops, six miles away, of the situation; they would soon be upon them, and they might expect cornwallis with his whole force at any time. he drew off his troops, therefore, and, leaving a strong party to break down the bridge over stony brook and impede the advance of the english as much as possible, he pushed on towards pluckamin and morristown, officers and men thoroughly satisfied with their brilliant achievements. early in the morning the pickets of cornwallis' army discovered that something was wrong in the american camp; the guard had been withdrawn, the fires had been allowed to die away, and the place was as still as death. a few adventurous spirits, cautiously crossing the bridge, found that the guns mounted in front of it were only "quakers," and that the whole camp was empty,--the army had decamped silently, and stolen away before their eyes! my lord cornwallis, rudely disturbed from those rosy dreams of conquest with which a mocking spirit had beguiled his slumber, would not credit the first report of his astonished officers; but investigation showed him that the "old fox" was gone, and he would not be bagged that morning--nor on any other morning, either! but where had he gone? for a time the perplexed and chagrined commander could not ascertain. the americans had vanished--disappeared--leaving absolutely no trace behind them, and it was not until he heard the heavy booming of cannon from the northeast, borne upon the frosty air of the cold morning about sunrise, that he divined the brilliant plan of his wily antagonist and discovered his whereabouts. he had been outfought, outmanoeuvred, outflanked, and outgeneralled! the disgusted british were sent back over the familiar road to princeton, now in hotter haste than before. his rear-guard menaced, perhaps overwhelmed, his stores and supplies in danger, cornwallis pushed on for life this time. the english officer conceived a healthy respect for washington at this juncture which did not leave him thereafter. the short distance between trenton and princeton on the direct road was passed in a remarkably short time by the now thoroughly aroused and anxious british. a little party under command of seymour and kelly, which had been assiduously engaged in breaking down the bridge over stony brook, was observed and driven away by two field-pieces, which had been halted and unlimbered on a commanding hill, and which opened fire while the troops advanced on a run; but the damage had been done, and the bridge was already impassable. after a futile attempt to repair it, in which much time was lost, the indefatigable earl sent his troops through the icy water of the turbulent stream, which rose breast-high upon the eager men, and the hasty pursuit was once more resumed. a mile or so beyond the bridge the whole army was brought to a stand by a sudden discharge from a heavy gun, which did some execution; it was mounted in a breastwork some distance ahead. the army was halted, men were sent ahead to reconnoitre, and a strong column deployed to storm what was supposed to be a heavy battery. when the storming party reached the works, there was no one there! a lone thirty-two-pounder, too unwieldy to accompany the rapid march of the americans, had been left behind, and philip wilton had volunteered to remain, after seymour's party had passed, and further delay the british by firing it at their army as soon as they came in range. these delays had given washington so much of a start that cornwallis, despairing of ever overtaking him, finally gave up the pursuit, and pushed on in great anxiety to new brunswick, to save, if possible, his magazines, which he had the satisfaction in the end of finding intact. to complete this brief _résumé_ of one of the remarkable campaigns of history, washington strongly fortified himself on cornwallis' flank at morristown, menacing each of the three depots held by the british outside new york; putnam advanced from philadelphia to trenton, with the militia; and heath moved down to the highlands of the hudson. the country people of new jersey rose and cut off scattered detachments of the british in every direction, until the whole of the field was eventually abandoned by them, except amboy, newark, and new brunswick. the world witnessed the singular spectacle of a large, well-appointed army of veteran soldiery, under able leaders, shut up in practically one spot, new york and a few near-by villages, and held there inexorably by a phantom army which never was more than half the size of that it held in check! the results of the six months' campaign were to be seen in the possession of the city of new york by the british army. that army, which had won, practically, all the battles in which it had engaged, which had followed the americans through six months of disastrous defeat and retreat, and had overrun two colonies, now had nothing to show for all its efforts but the ground upon which it stood! and this was the result of the genius, the courage, the audacity of one man,--george washington! the world was astounded, and he took an assured place thenceforward among the first soldiers of that or any age. even the english themselves could not withhold their admiration. the gallant and brave cornwallis, a soldier of no mean ability himself, and well able to estimate what could be done with a small and feeble force, never forgot his surprise at the assunpink; and when he congratulated washington, at the surrender of yorktown years after, upon the brilliant combination which had resulted in the capture of the army, he added these words: "but, after all, your excellency's achievements in the jerseys were such that nothing could surpass them!" and the witty and wise old cynic, mr. horace walpole, with his usual discrimination, wrote to a friend, sir horace mann, when he heard of the affair at trenton, the night march to princeton, and the successful attack there: "washington, the dictator, has shown himself both a fabius and a camillus. his march through our lines is allowed to have been a prodigy of generalship!" chapter xxviii _the british play "taps"_ the day after the battle washington sent his nephew, major lewis, under protection of a flag of truce, to attend upon the wounded general mercer; the exigency of his pursuit of the flying british and their subsequent pursuit of him having precluded him from giving to his old friend that personal attention which would have so accorded with his kindly heart and the long affection in which he had held the old scotchman. seymour received permission to accompany lewis, in order to ascertain if possible what had become of talbot. the men of mercer's command reported that they had seen the two officers dismounted and fighting bravely, after having refused to retreat. the two young officers were very melancholy as they rode along the familiar road. lewis belonged to a virginia regiment, and had known both mercer and talbot well, and in fact all the officers who had been killed. the officers of that little army were like a band of brothers, and after every battle there was a general mourning for the loss of many friends. the casualties among the officers in the sharp engagement had been unusually severe, and entirely disproportioned to the total loss; the bulk of the loss had fallen upon mercer's brigade. they found the general in clark's farmhouse, near the field of battle, lingering in great pain, and slowly dying from a number of ferocious bayonet wounds. he was attended by his aid, major armstrong, and the celebrated dr. benjamin rush came especially from philadelphia to give the dying hero the benefit of his skill and services. he had been treated with the greatest respect by the enemy, for cornwallis was always quick to recognize and respect a gallant soldier. the kindly quakers had spared neither time nor trouble to lighten his dying hours, and the women of the household nursed him with gentle and assiduous care. he passed away ten days after the battle, leaving to his descendants the untarnished name of a gallant soldier and gentleman, who never faltered in the pursuit of his high ideals of duty. brief as had been his career as a general in the revolution, his memory is still cherished by a grateful posterity, as one of the first heroes of that mighty struggle for liberty. details of the british were already marching toward the field of action to engage in the melancholy work of burying the dead, when seymour, under major armstrong's guidance, went over the ground in a search for talbot. he had no difficulty in finding the place where his friend had fallen. the field had not been disturbed by any one. a bloody frozen mass of ice and snow had shown where mercer had fallen, and across the place where his feet had been lay the body of talbot. in front of him lay the lieutenant with whom he had fought, the sword still buried in his breast; farther away were the two men that the general and he had cut down in the first onslaught, and at his feet was the corpse of the man he had last shot, his stiffened hands still tightly clasping his gun. around on the field were the bodies of many others who had fallen. some of the americans had been literally pinned to the earth by the fierce bayonet thrusts they had received in the charge; some of the british had been frightfully mangled and mashed by blows from the clubbed rifles of the americans before they had retreated. off to the right a long line of motionless bodies marked where the pennsylvania militia had advanced and halted; there in the centre, lying in heaps, were the reminders of the fiercest spot of the little conflict, where moulder's battery had been served with such good effect; here was the place where washington had led the charge. in one brief quarter of an hour nearly three hundred men had given up their lives, on this little farm, and there they lay attesting in mute silence their fidelity to their principles, warm red coat and tattered blue coat side by side, peace between them at last; indifferent each to the severities of nature or the passions of men; unheeding alike the ambitions of kings, the obstinacy of parliaments, or the desire of liberty on the part of peoples. some were lying calmly, as if their last moments had been as peaceful as when little children they laid themselves down to sleep; others twisted and contorted with looks of horror and anguish fixed upon their mournful faces, which bespoke agonies attending the departure of life like to the travail pains with which it had been ushered into existence. seymour with a sad heart stooped and turned over the body of his friend, lifting his face once more to that heaven he had gazed upon so bravely a few hours since--for it was morning again, but oh, how different! the face was covered with blood from the wound in the forehead, by which he had been beaten down. sadly, tenderly, gratefully, remembering an hour when talbot had knelt by his side and performed a similar service, he endeavored to wipe the lurid stains from off his marble brow. then a thought came to him. taking from his breast katharine's handkerchief, which had never left him, he moistened it in the snow, and finding an unstained place where her dainty hand had embroidered her initials "k. w.," he carefully wiped clean the white face of his dead friend. there was a little smile upon talbot's lips, and a look of peace and calm upon his face, which seymour had not seen him wear since the sinking of the frigate. his right hand, whiter than the lace which drooped over it, was pressed against his heart, evidently as the result of his last conscious movement. seymour bent down and lifted it up gently; there was something beneath it inside his waistcoat. the young sailor reverently inserted his hand and drew it forth. it was a plain gold locket. touching the spring, it opened, and there were pictured the faces of the two women talbot had loved,--on the one side the mother, stately, proud, handsome, resolute, the image of the man himself; on the other, the brown eyes and the fair hair and the red lips of beautiful katharine wilton. there was a letter too in the pocket. the bayonet thrust which had reached his heart had gone through it, and it, and the locket also, was stained with blood. the letter was addressed to seymour; wondering, he broke the seal and read it. it was a brief note, written in camp the night of the march. it would seem that talbot had a presentiment that he might die in the coming conflict; indeed the letter plainly showed that he meant to seek death, to court it in the field. his mother was to be told that he had done his duty, and had not failed in sustaining the traditions of his honorable house; and the honest soldierly little note ended with these words,-- _as for you, my dear seymour, would that fate had been kinder to you! were katharine alive, i would crave your permission to say these words to her: 'i love you, kate,--i've always loved you--but the better man has won you.' my best love to the old mother. won't you take it to her? and good-by, and god bless you!----hilary talbot._ the brilliance went out of the sunshine, the brightness faded out of the morning, and seymour stood there with the tears running down his cheeks,--not ashamed to weep for his friend. and yet the man was with kate, he thought, and happy,--he could almost envy him his quiet sleep. the course of his thoughts was rudely broken by the approach of a party of horsemen, who rode up to where he stood. their leader, a bold handsome young man, of distinguished appearance, in the brilliant dress of a british general officer, reined in his steed close by him, and addressed him. "how now, sir! weeping? tears do not become a soldier!" "ah, sir," said seymour, saluting, and pointing down to talbot's body at the same time, "not even when one mourns the death of a friend?" "your friend, sir?" replied the general officer, courteously, uncovering and looking down at the bodies with interest; his practised eye immediately taking in the details of the little conflict. "he did not go to his death alone," he said meaningly. "'fore gad, sir, here has been a pretty fight! your name and rank, sir?" "lieutenant john seymour, of the american continental navy, volunteer aid on his excellency general washington's staff." "and what do you here? are you a prisoner?" "no, sir, i came with major lewis to visit general mercer, and to look for my friend, under cover of a flag of truce." "ha! how is general mercer?" "frightfully wounded; he cannot live very long now." "he was a gallant fellow, so i am told, sir, and fought the father of his majesty in the ' ." "yes," said seymour, simply; "this is where he fell." the general looked curiously about him. "and who was your dead friend?" he continued. "captain hilary talbot, of virginia, of general washington's staff." "what! not talbot of fairview hall on the potomac?" said one of the officers. "the same, sir." "gad, my lord, madam talbot's a red-hot tory! she swears by the king. i 've been entertained at the house,--not when the young man was there, but while he was away,--and a fine place it is. well, here 's a house divided truly!" "is it indeed so, mr. seymour?" the young man nodded affirmatively. "what were you proposing to do with the body?" "bury it near here, sir, in the cemetery on the hill by the college. we have no means of transporting it hence." "well, you shall do so, and we will bury him like a soldier. i remember the family now, in england, very well. don't they call them the loyal talbots? yes, i thought so. he was a rebel, and so far false to his creed, but a gentleman nevertheless, and a brave one too. look at the fight he made here, gentlemen! damme, he shall have an escort of the king's own troops, and lord cornwallis himself and his staff for his chief mourners! eh, erskine?" said the gallant earl, turning to the officer who rode near him. "how will that suit you, mr. seymour? you can tell that to his poor old mother too, when you see her once again. some of you bring up a company of troops and get a gun carriage,--there's an abandoned one of mawhood's over there,--and we 'll take him up properly. have you a horse, sir? ah, that's well, and bring a prayer book if you can find one,--i doubt if there be any in my staff. i presume the man was a churchman, and he shall have prayers too. we have no coffin for him, either; but stay--here 's my own cloak, a proper shroud for a soldier, surely that will do nicely; and now let us go on, gentlemen." in a short time the martial cortége reached the little presbyterian cemetery. the young man wrapped in the general's cloak was soon laid away in the shallow grave, which had hastily been made ready for him. seymour, attended by the two other american officers, armstrong and lewis, after cutting off a lock of talbot's dark hair for his mother, read the burial service out of the young soldier's own little prayer book, which he had found in the pocket of his coat; as the earth was put upon him, cornwallis and his officers stood about reverently uncovered, while the sailor read with faltering lips the old familiar words, which for twenty centuries have whispered of comfort to the heart-broken children of men, and illumined the dark future by an eternal hope--nay, rather, fixed assurance--of life everlasting. there was one tender-hearted woman there too, one of the sweet-faced daughters of the kindly quaker, miss clark. she had taken time to twine a hasty wreath from the fragrant ever-verdant pine; when the little mound of earth was finished, softly she laid it down, breathing a prayer for the mother in far-off virginia as she did so. then they all drew back while the well-trained soldiers fired the last three volleys, and the drummers beat the last call. 't was the same simple ending which closes the career of all soldiers, of whatever degree, when they come to occupy those narrow quarters, where earthly considerations of rank and station are forgot. "sir, i beg to thank you for this distinguished courtesy," said seymour, with deep feeling, extending his hand to the knightly briton. "do not mention it, sir, i beg of you," replied cornwallis, shaking his hand warmly. "you will do the same for one of us, i am sure, should occasion ever demand a like service at your hands. i will see that your other men and officers are properly buried. do you return now?" "immediately, my lord." "pray present my compliments to mr.--nay, general--washington," said the generous commander, "and congratulate him upon his brilliant campaign. ay, and tell him we look forward eagerly to trying conclusions with him again. good-by, sir. come, gentlemen," he cried, raising his hat gracefully as he mounted his horse and rode away, followed by his staff. chapter xxix _the last of the talbots_ it was with a sinking heart that seymour rode up the hill toward fairview hall a few days later. there had been a light fall of snow during the preceding night, and the brilliant sun of the early morning had not yet gained sufficient strength to melt it away. there was a softening touch therefore about the familiar scene, and seymour, who had never viewed it in the glory of its summer, thought he had never known it to look so beautiful. heartily greeted as he passed on by the various servants of the family, with whom he was a great favorite, he finally drew rein and dismounted before the great flight of steps which led up to the terrace upon which the house stood. his arrival had not been unnoticed, and madam talbot was standing in the doorway to greet him. he noticed that she looked paler and thinner and older, but she held herself as erect and carried herself as proudly as she had always done. grief and disappointment and broken hope might change and destroy the natural tissues and fibres of her being, but they could not alter her iron will. tossing the bridle to one of the attendant servants, seymour, hat in hand, walked slowly up the steps and across the grass plat, and stepped upon the porch. she watched him in silence, with a frightful sinking of the heart; the gravity of his demeanor and the pallor of his face, in which she seemed to detect a shade of pity which her pride resented, apprised her that whatever news he had brought would be ill for her to hear, but her rigid face and composed manner gave no indication of the deadly conflict within. seymour bowed low to her, and she returned his salute with a sweeping courtesy, old-fashioned and graceful. "lieutenant seymour is very welcome to fairview hall, though i trust it be not the compelling necessity of a wound which makes him seek our hospitality again," she said, faintly smiling. "oh, madam," said seymour, softly, yet in utter desperation as to how to begin, "unfortunately it is not to be cured of wounds, but to inflict them that this time i am come. i--i am sorry--that i have to tell you that--i--" he continued with great hesitation. "you are a bearer of ill tidings, i perceive," she continued gravely. "speak your message, sir. whatever it may be, i trust the god i serve to give me strength to bear it. is it--is it--hilary?" she went on, with just a suggestion of a break in her even, carefully modulated tones. "yes, dear madam. he--he--" "stop! i had almost forgotten my duty. tell me first of the armies of my king. the king first of all with our house, you know." poor seymour! he must overwhelm her with bad news in every field of her affection. for a moment he almost wished the results had been the other way. the perspiration stood out upon his forehead in spite of the coldness, and he felt he would rather charge a battery than face this terrible old woman who put the armies of a king--and such a king too--before the fate of her only son! and yet he knew that what he had to tell her would break down even her iron will, and reaching the mother's heart beating warm within her in spite of her assumed coldness and self-repression, would probably give her a death-blow. he felt literally like a murderer before her, but he had to answer. talbot's own letter, general washington's command, and the promptings of his own affection had made him an actor in this pathetic drama. he had no choice but to proceed. the truth must be told. nerving himself to the inevitable, he replied to her question,-- "the armies of the king have been defeated and forced to retire. general washington has outmanoeuvred and outfought them; they are now shut up in new york again. the jerseys are free, and we have taken upward of two thousand prisoners, and many are killed and wounded among them,--on both sides, in truth," he added. "the worst news first," she replied. "one knows not why these things are so. it seems the god of justice slumbers when subjects rebel against their rightful kings! but i have faith, sir. the right will win in the end--must win." "so be it," he said, accepting the implied challenge, but adding nothing further. he would wait to be questioned now, and this strange woman should have the story in the way that pleased her best. as for her she could not trust herself to speak. never before had her trembling body, her beating heart escaped from the domination of her resolute will. never before had her mobile lips refused to formulate the commands of her active brain. she fought her battle out in silence, and finally turned toward him once more. "there was something else you said, i think. my--my son?" her voice sank to a whisper; in spite of herself one hand went to her heart. ah, mother, mother, this was indeed thy king! "is--is he wounded?--my god, sir! not dead?" his open hand which he had extended to her held two little objects. what were they? the bright sunlight was reflected from one of them, the locket she had given him. there was a dark discoloration on one side of it which she had never seen before. the other was his prayer book. o god--prayer! was there then a god, that such things could happen? where was he that day? she had given that book to him when he was yet a child. "dead,"--she whispered,--"dead," shrinking back and staring at him. "would god i had died in his place, dear madam!" he said with infinite pity. "how--how was it?" she went on, dry-eyed, in agony, moistening her cracking lips. "fighting like a hero over the body of general mercer at princeton. his men retreated and left them--" "the rebel cowards," she interrupted. "nay, not cowards, but perhaps less brave than he. the british charged with their bayonets; our men had not that weapon, they fell back." "were you there, sir?" "surely not! should i be here now if i had been there then, madam?" he replied proudly. "true, true! you at least are a gentleman. forgive the question." "general mercer and some of his officers sprang at the line. i had it from his own lips. some one cut the general down; hilary interposed, and enabled him to rise to his feet; they were attacked, fought bravely until--until--they died." stricken to the death at least, but determined to die as the rest had died, fighting, she drew herself up resolutely, and lifted her hand to that pitiless heaven above her. "so--be--it--unto--all--the--enemies--" when had he heard her say that before, he wondered in horror. she stopped, her face went whiter before him, the light went out of it. "oh, my son, my son--o god, my son, my son--oh, give him back, my son--my son!" she reeled and fell against him, moaning and beating the air with her little feeble hands. the break had come at last; she was no longer a talbot, but a woman. with infinite pity and infinite care he half led, half carried her into the house, and then, after being bidden not to summon assistance, he sank down on his knees by her side, where she lay on the sofa in the parlor, crushed, broken, feeble, helpless, old. with many interruptions he told her the sad story. he laid the long dark lock of hair he had cut from her son's head in her hand. there was a letter from george washington which he read to her, in which, after many tender words of consolation, he spoke of talbot as "one who would have done honor to any country." he told her of that military funeral, the kind words of cornwallis, the guard of honor, the soldiers of the king, and then he put talbot's own letter to him before her, and she must be told of the loss of the frigate. kate dead too, and colonel wilton. alas, poor friends! but all her plans and hopes were gone; what mattered it--what mattered anything now! "oh, what a load must those unrighteous men bear before god who have inaugurated this wicked war!" she cried; but no echo of her reproach was heard in the houses of parliament in london, or whispered in the antechamber of the king, to whom, assuredly, they belonged. and by and by he left her. it wrung his heart so to do, but the call of duty was stronger than her need. his ship was ready, or would be in a short time, and he had snatched a few days from his pressing work to fulfil this task. his presence was absolutely necessary on the vessel, and he must go. saying nay to her piteous plea that he should stay, and most reluctantly refusing her proffers of hospitality, after leaving with her the letters and the pictures, he left the room. but in the doorway he looked back at her. the tears had come at last. moved by a sudden impulse, he ran back and knelt down by her, and took her old face between his hands and kissed her. "good-by, dear madam," he whispered; "would it had been i!" she laid her thin hands upon his head. "good-by," she whispered; "god bless you. oh, my boy--my boy!" she turned her face to the wall in bitterness, and so he fled. on the brow of the hill one could see, if he were keen-eyed, the wilton place. there was the boat-house. there she had said she loved him. he struck spurs to his horse and galloped madly away. was there nothing but grief and sorrow, then, under the sun? the lawyer and the doctor and the minister were with madam talbot all that day, but it was little they could do. she added a codicil to her will with the lawyer, submissively took the medicine the doctor left her, and listened quietly to the prayers of the priest. in the morning they found her whiter, stiller, calmer than ever. she had gone to meet her son in that new country where none rebel against the king! book iv a death grapple on the deep chapter xxx _a sailor's opinion of the land_ it was a delightful morning in february. the continental ship randolph, a tight little thirty-two-gun frigate, the first to get to sea of those ordered by congress in , was just leaving the beautiful harbor of charleston, south carolina, by way of the main ship channel, on her maiden cruise, under the command of captain john seymour seymour, late first lieutenant of the ranger. this was the second departure she had taken from that port. forced by severe damages, incurred in an encounter with a heavy gale shortly after leaving philadelphia, to put into that harbor for needed repairs to the new and unsettled vessel, she had put to sea again after a short interval, and in one week had taken six valuable prizes, one of them, an armed vessel of twenty guns, after a short action. after this brief and brilliant excursion she had put back to charleston to dispose of her prizes, re-collect her prize crews, and land her prisoners. there was another motive, however, for the sudden return. from one of the prizes it had been learned that the english thirty-two-gun frigate carrysford, the twenty-gun sloop perseus, the sixteen-gun sloop hinchinbrook, with several privateers, had been cruising off the coast together, and the commander of the randolph was most anxious to get the help of some of the south carolina state cruisers to go in search of the british ships. the indefatigable governor rutledge, when the news had been communicated to him, had worked assiduously to provide the state ships, and the young captain of the randolph speedily found himself at the head of a little fleet of war vessels outward bound. the departure of the squadron, the randolph in the lead, the rest following, and all under full sail, made a pretty picture to the enthusiastic carolinians, who watched them from the islands and fortifications in the harbor, and from a number of small boats which accompanied the war ships a short distance on their voyage. besides seymour's own vessel, there were the eighteen-gun ship general moultrie, the two sixteen-gun ships notre dame and polly, and the fourteen-gun brig fair american; the last commanded by a certain master, philip wilton. they made officers of very young men in those days, and mere boys often occupied positions of trust and responsibility apparently far beyond their years,--even seymour himself, though now a commodore or flag officer by courtesy, was very young for the position; and governor rutledge, moved by a warm friendship of long standing for old colonel wilton, and upon seymour's own urgent recommendation, had intrusted the smallest vessel to young captain philip. we shall see how he showed himself worthy of the trust reposed in him in spite of his tender years. all of these ships were converted merchantmen, hastily fitted out, poorly adapted for any warlike purpose, and, with the exception of the fair american, exceedingly slow and unwieldy; but the heart of the young commander filled with pride as he surveyed the little squadron, which followed in his wake, looking handsome enough under full sail. it was a great trust and responsibility reposed in his skill and experience; doubtless it was the only fleet the country had assembled, or could assemble, at that time; the ships were certainly not as he would have desired them, but they were the best that could be got together; and manned and officered by devoted men, they could at least fight ships of their own size when the time came, and he trusted to be able to give a good account of the enemy, should they be so fortunate as to fall in with them. as for his own vessel, as his practised and critical eye surveyed the graceful proportions of the new and well-appointed ship, seymour felt entirely satisfied with her. he regarded with pleasant appreciation the decks white as constant holy-stoning could make them, the long rows of grim black guns thrusting out their formidable muzzles on either side, and the lofty spars covered with clouds of new and snowy canvas. everything was as neat and trim, and as ready, as ardor, experience, and ability, coupled with a generous expenditure from his own purse, could make them. he was satisfied with his officers and crew too. seymour's reputation, his recent association with paul jones, the romantic story of his last successful cruise, the esteem in which he was held by washington, and his own charming personality had conspired to render him a great favorite, and he had had the pick of philadelphia's hardy seamen and gallant officers ere he sailed away. the three hundred and odd seamen and marines who comprised the crew were as fit and capable a body of men as ever trod the deck of a ship. constant exercise and careful instruction, and drill and target practice, had made them exceedingly able in all the necessary manoeuvres, and in the handling of the guns. forward on the forecastle old bentley was planted, surrounded by such of the older and more experienced petty officers and men as he permitted to associate with him on terms of more or less familiarity. not only the position he occupied, that of boatswain of the frigate, gave him a vast importance with the men, but his age and experience, his long association with the captain, as well as some almost incredible tales of his familiar companionship with certain men of awe-inspiring name and great renown, with various mighty feats of arms in recent campaigns, vaguely current, conduced to make him the monarch of the forecastle, and the arbiter of the various discussions and arguments among the men, who rarely ventured to dispute the dictum of their oracle. "well, here we are pointing out again, thank the lord!" he said to his particular friend and crony among the crew, the carpenter, richard spicer, a battered old shell-back, like himself. "there is only one place from which i like to see the land, richard!" "and where is that, bosun?" "over the stern, as now, mate, when we 're going free with a fair wind, and leaving it fast behind. i feel safer then. a time since and i felt as if i never wanted to see it again from any place. to think of me, a decent god-fearing, seafaring man, at my time of life, turning soldier!" it is not in the power of written language to express the peculiar intonation of contempt which the old man laid upon that inoffensive word, "soldier." no one venturing to interrupt him, after staring at his particular aversion for a few moments, he went on more mildly, and in a reflective tone,-- "not but what i have seen some decent soldiers--a few. there was old blodgett, and young mr. talbot, ay, and general washington too! now there 's a man for you, ship-mates. lord, what a sailorman he would have made! they tell me he had a midshipman's warrant offered him when he was a lad once, and actually refused it--refused it! preferred to be a soldier, and what a chance he lost! might have been an admiral by now!" "i 've heard tell as how 't was his mother that prevented him from goin' to sea--when he was ready an' willin' an' waitin' to get aboard," returned one of the men. "may be, may be. the result's the same. you never can tell what women, and 'specially mothers, will do. they 're necessary, of course, leastways it's generally believed we all had 'em, though i remember none myself, nor captain seymour neither, and he 's a pretty good sort of a man--let alone me--but they've no place aboard ship. now look what this one did,--spoiled a man that had the makin's of a first-class sailor in him, and turned him into a soldier!" "but where would we be in this country of ours now, bosun, if it were not for the soldiers? no, no, don't be too hard on this man, captain washington; he 's done his duty, and is doing it very well, too, so i 'm told, accordin' to your own account, matey," replied the old carpenter; "and soldiers is good too--in their places, that is, of course," he went on deprecatingly. "there are two kinds of men, as i take it, william, to do the fightin' in this world, sailormen and soldiermen; each has a place, a station to fill, and something to do, and one can't do t' other's work. look at that there blasted marine, aft there in the gangway, for instance; he's a good man, i make no manner o' doubt, and he has got his place on this barkey, even if he is only a kind of a soldier and no sailorman at all." "now i asks you, chips, what particular good are soldiers, anyway, leaving marines out of the question, for they do live on ships," said the old sailorman. "what can they do that we can't? they can fight, and fight hard--i 've seen 'em, but so can we," he continued, extending his brawny arm; "and they can march, too,--i've seen their bloody footmarks in the snow; but there were sailormen there that kept right alongside of 'em and did all that they could do. oh, i forgot one thing--they can ride horses, that's one thing i could never learn at all! you 'd ought to seen me on one of the land-lubberly brutes. a horse has no place on shipboard, no more than a woman, and i 've no use for either of 'em. but if this country would spend all its money buying ships, and man 'em with real first-class sailormen, why, d'ye see, king george's men could never land on our shores at all. we 'd keep 'em off, and then there'd be no use for the soldiers; they could all go a-farming. no, give me ships every time, they always win. i know what i am talking about; i have been on the shore for a month at a time until i thought i would turn into mud itself. no, 't is not even a fit place to be buried in; 'earth to earth' won't do for me when i die; i just want to be dropped overboard--there." "there is one time ships didn't win," said the carpenter, persisting in the argument, and pointing aft to the low mounds of sand backed by the rudely interlaced palmetto logs, behind which the gallant moultrie had fought barker's fleet six months before, until the ships had been driven off in defeat. "those were british ships, man," said the old sailor, with contempt. "i meant americans, of course; it makes all the difference in the world. but as for land--i hate it. it's only good to grow vegetables, and soft tack, and fresh water, and tar, and timber, and breed children to make sailormen out of--why, it's a sort of a cook's galley, a kitchen they call it there, for the sea at best! give me the sight of blue water, and let me have the solid feel of the deck beneath my feet; no unsteady earth for me!" "well, that's my own opinion, too, bo. but, after all, that's all that ships is good for, anyway; just to sail from land to land and take people and things from place to place. the sea's between like." "you look at it the wrong way, mate. certain of us men have sense enough to live on the sea, and keep away from land, except for water and provision. we go from sea to sea, and land 's between." "and what would you do for a country if we had no land? you 're always talking about lovin' your country, bosun." "ay, that i do," said the old man. "i look upon a country, that is a land country, as a kind of necessary evil. my country 's this ship, and yon flag, what it means and stands for. it means liberty, free waters, no interference with peaceful traders on the high seas, following their rightful pursuits, by british ships-of-war. every man that has ever been aboard of one of those floating hells knows what liberty is not, well enough. no taxing of us by a parliament on t' other side of the world, neither. no king but the captain. freedom! so free that the lubberliest landsman on shore has a right to govern himself--if he can--subject to discipline and the commands of his superior officer, of course; and, besides, it's like a man's wife; if he's got to have one, he may beat her and abuse her, perhaps, but nobody else shall. no! land's a pretty poor sort of a thing in general, but that aft there is the best there is going, and it 's our own. we 'll die for it, yes, for love of it, if it comes to that, even if we do hate it, on general principles mind, you understand." there was evidently a trace of irish blood in the old sailor, it would seem, and so saying, with a wave of his hand, which brushed aside further argument, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked aft. in spite of all his words, which only reflected the usual opinion of sailors, in those days at least, he yielded to no man in patriotism and devotion to the cause of liberty and the land that gave him birth. and no man in all washington's army had done better service, marched more cheerfully, or fought harder than this veteran seaman. the men on the forecastle generally agreed with him in his propositions, but the obstinate old carpenter, with the characteristic tenacity of the ancient tar, maintained the discussion forward, until the sharp voice of the officer of the deck sent all hands to the braces. the ship was brought to the wind on the starboard tack, a manoeuvre which was followed in succession by the other vessels of the squadron, which had been previously directed to keep, though still within signal, at long distances from each other during the day, closing up at night, in order to spread a broad clew and give greater chance of meeting the enemy. the young captain paced the quarter-deck alone--no man is ever so much alone among his fellows as the commander of a ship--a prey to his own sad thoughts. those who had known him the gayest of gay young sailors in philadelphia were at a loss to account for the change which had come over him. he had become the gravest of the grave, his cheery laugh was heard no more, and the baffled young belles of charleston had voted him a confirmed woman-hater; though his melancholy, handsome face, graceful person, distinguished bearing, and high station might have enabled him to pick and choose where he would. but there was room in his heart for no more passions. even his love of country and liberty had degenerated into a slow, cold hate for the british, and a desperate resolve to do his duty, and make his animosity tell when he struck. a dangerous man under whom to sail, gentleman of the randolph, and a dangerous man to meet, as well. he could not forget kate, and, except in the distraction of a combat, life was a mere mechanical routine for him. but because he had been well trained he went through it well--biding his time. chapter xxxi _seymour's desperate resolution_ six rather uneventful days passed by, during which prizes to the number of five fell to the lot of the squadron, one loaded with military stores, and another with provisions of great value. the lively little fair american, being far to windward of the fleet, had also a smart action with a heavily armed british privateer, which struck her flag before the others could get within range, and was found to be loaded with valuable portable goods, the siftings of a long and successful cruise. young wilton had manoeuvred and fought his ship well, and had been publicly complimented in general orders by seymour for skill and gallantry. the fleet had been exercised in signals and in various simple evolutions, the weather was most pleasant, the men in excellent spirits, and all that was necessary to complete their happiness was the appearance of the looked-for squadron of the enemy. the eager lookouts swept the seas unweariedly, but in vain, until early in the afternoon of the sixth day, the fleet being in longitude degrees minutes west, latitude degrees minutes north, about forty leagues east of martinique, heading due west on the starboard tack, it was reported to seymour, who was reading in the cabin, that the fair american, again far in the lead and somewhat to windward, had signalled a large sail ahead. a short time should make her visible, if the vessels continued on the present course, and, after having called his fleet about him by signal, seymour stood on for a nearer look at the stranger. an hour later she was visible from the deck of the randolph, a very large ship, evidently a man-of-war under easy sail. the careful watchers could count three tiers of guns through the glass, which proclaimed her a ship of the line. from her motions, and the way she rose before them, she was evidently a very speedy ship, capable of outsailing every vessel of seymour's little fleet without difficulty, except possibly the brig fair american. it would be madness for the squadron of converted and lightly armed merchantmen to attack a heavy ship of that class,--all who got near enough to do so would probably be sunk or captured; yet the approaching vessel must be delayed or checked, or the result would be equally serious to the fleet. seymour at once formed a desperate resolution. signalling to the four state cruisers and the six prizes to tack to the northeast, escape if possible, and afterward make the best of their way back to charleston, he himself stood on with the little randolph to engage the mighty stranger. at first the older seamen could scarce believe their eyes. was it possible that captain seymour, in a small thirty-two-gun frigate, was about to engage deliberately and wilfully in a combat with a ship of the line, a seventy-four!--the difference in the number of guns giving no indication of the difference in the offensive qualities of the two ships, which might better be shown by a ratio of four or five to one in favor of the ship of the line. it was like matching a bull terrier against a mastiff. the men half suspected some wily manoeuvre which they could not divine; but as the moments fled away and they saw the rest of the fleet and the prizes slipping rapidly away to the northeast, the fair american lagging unaccountably behind the rest of the fleet, while they still held their even course, they began to comprehend that they were to fight to save the fleet, and seymour meant to sacrifice them deliberately, if necessary, in the hope of so crippling the enemy that his other little cruisers, and the prizes, might escape. they were not daunted, however--your true jack is a reckless fellow--by the daring and desperate nature of the plan; quite the contrary! in a few moments the familiar tones of bentley's powerful voice, seconded by the cheery calls of his mates, rang through the frigate,-- "all hands clear ship for action--ahoy!" the piercing whistling of the pipes which followed was soon drowned by the steady and stirring roll of the drums, accompanied by the shrill notes of the fifes, beating to quarters. the old call, which has been the prelude to every action on the sea, ushering in with the same dreadful note of preparation every naval conflict for twice two hundred years, went rolling along the decks. at the first tap of the drum the men sprang, with the eagerness of unleashed hounds before the quarry, to their several stations. in an instant the orderly ship was a babel of apparently hopeless confusion; the men running hastily to and fro about their various duties, the sharp commands of the officers, the shrill piping of the whistles, and the deep voices of the gun captains and the boatswain's mates, made the usually quiet deck a pandemonium. some of the seamen stowed the hammocks on the rail to serve as a guard against shot and splinters, others triced up stout netting fore and aft, as a protection against boarders. the light and agile sail-trimmers rove extra slings on the yards, and put stoppers on the more important rigging, and tightened and strengthened the boats' gripes. the cabin bulkheads were unceremoniously knocked down and stowed away, giving a clean sweep fore and aft the decks. the pumps were rigged and tried, and hose led along the deck. arm chests were broken out and opened, and cutlasses and pistols distributed, and the racks filled with boarding-pikes. division tubs filled with water were placed beside the guns, and the decks sanded lest they should grow slippery with blood. the magazine, surrounded by a wetted woollen screen to prevent fire, was opened, and grape and solid shot broken out and piled in the racks about the hatchways near the guns, the heavy sea lashings of which were cast loose by the different crews, after which they were loaded and run out and temporarily secured, the slow matches having been carefully examined and lighted. the oldest quartermasters took their places near the helm, and others, assisted by a small body of men, manned the relieving tackles below, to be used in case, as frequently happened, the wheel should be shot away. the officers, many of whom put on boarding caps of light steel with dropped cheek pieces, and covered with fur, fastened on their arms, looked to the priming of their pistols, and then hastened to their various stations. most of the watch officers, under the direction of the first lieutenant or executive officer, were to take charge of the different gun divisions in the batteries; though one of them remained aft near the captain, to look after the spars and rigging, command the sail-trimmers, and see that any order of the captain touching the moving of the ship was promptly carried out. the surgeon and his mates went below into the gloomy cockpit, spreading out the foreboding array of ghastly instruments and appliances, ready for the many demands certain to be made upon them. some of the ubiquitous midshipmen commanded little groups of expert riflemen in the tops, which were well provided with hand grenades; others assisted the division lieutenants; and several were detailed as aids to the commanding officer. the little company of marines, under its own officers, was drawn up on the quarter-deck to keep down the fire of the enemy's small-arm men, and be ready to repel boarders, or head an attack, if the ships should come in contact. in that case grapnels, strong iron hooks securely fastened to the ends of stout ropes or slender iron chains, were provided at convenient intervals along the bulwarks, ready for catching and lashing the two ships together. the men, their other duties performed, gradually settled down at the guns, or about the masts, or in the tops, in their several stations, many of them naked to the waist, and their deep voices could be heard answering to their names as they were mustered by the officers. in an incredibly short time the whole was done, and the impressive quiet was broken only by the excited voice of the first lieutenant, nason--a young officer, and this his first serious battle--reporting to the gloomy captain that the ship was clear and ready for action. seymour had of course taken personal charge of the deck himself. oh, he thought, after scanning closely the approaching ship with great care, if he had only a ship of the line under his command, instead of this little frigate, how gladly would he have entered the coming conflict! or if his own small vessel had been, instead, one of those heavy frigates which afterward did so much to uphold the glory of american arms, and exhibit the skill and audacity of american seamen, in their subsequent conflict with great britain, he might have had a better chance; but none realized more entirely than he did himself the utter hopelessness of the undertaking which was before him. at the same time he was determined to carry it through, seeing, as few others could, the absolute necessity for the sacrifice, if he were to effect the escape of his fleet. calling the men aft, he spoke briefly to them, pointing out the necessity for the conflict, and the nobility of this sacrifice. he entreated them, in a few brave, manly, thrilling words, to stand by him to the last, for the love of their country and the honor of their flag. as for him, he declared it to be his fixed purpose never to give up the ship, but to sink alongside rather, trusting before that happened, however, so to damage his mighty antagonist as to compel her to relinquish the pursuit. the men, filled with the desire for battle, and inspired by his heroic words, were nerved up to the point where they would cheerfully have attacked not one line-of-battle ship but a whole fleet! they answered him with frantic cheers, swearing and vowing that they would stand by him to the bitter end; and then, everything having been done that could be done, in perfect silence the taut frigate boldly approached her massive enemy. chapter xxxii _the prisoners on the yarmouth_ it is usually not difficult for an individual to define the conditions of happiness. if i only had so and so, or if i only were so and so, and the thing is done. each successive state, however, suggests one more happy, and each gratified wish leads to another desire more imperative. miss katharine wilton, however, did not confine her conditions to units. there were in her case three requisites for happiness,--perfect happiness,--and could they have been satisfied, in all probability she would have come as near to the wished-for state as poor humanity on this earth ever does come to that beatific condition. she certainly thought so, and with characteristic boldness had not refrained from communicating her thoughts to her father. the astonishing feature of the situation was that he was inclined to agree with her. there was nothing astonishing in itself in his agreement with her, for he usually did agree with her, but in that her conditions were really his own. for it is rare, blessedly so, that two people feel that they require the same thing to complete the joy of life, and when they parallel on three points 't is most remarkable. even two lovers require each other--very different things, i am sure. stop! i am not so sure about the third proviso with the colonel. i say the third, because miss wilton put it number three, though perhaps it was like a woman's postscript, which somehow suggests the paraphrase of a familiar bit of scripture,--the last, not will be, but should be, first! here are the requisites. one: the flag floating gracefully from the peak of the spanker gaff above them, in the light air of the sunny afternoon, should be the stars and stripes, instead of the red cross of st. george! two: the prow of the ship should be turned to the wooded shores of virginia, and the old dominion should be her destination instead of the chalk cliffs of england! three: that a certain handsome, fair, blue-eyed, gallant sailor, who answered to the name of john seymour, should be by her side instead of another, even though that other were one who had once saved her life, and to whose care and kindness and forethought she was much indebted. her present attendant was certainly a gentleman; and to an unprejudiced eye--which hers certainly was not--quite as handsome and distinguished and gallant as was his favored rival, and boasting one advantage over the other in that he bore a titled name--not such a desideratum among american girls at that time, however, as it was afterwards destined to become; and in a girl of the stamp of miss katharine wilton, possibly no advantage at all. but, could the heart of that fair damsel be known, all talk of advantage or disadvantage, or this or that compensating factor, was absolutely idle! she was not a girl who did things by halves; and the feeling which had prompted her to give herself to the young sailor, though of sudden origin, had grown and grown during the days of absence and confinement, till, in depth and intensity, it matched his own. she was not now so sure that, among the other objects of her adoration, he would have to take the second place; that, in case of division, her heart would lead her to think first of her country. insensibly had his image supplanted every other, and with all the passionate devotion of her generous southern nature she loved him. lord desborough had ample opportunity for ascertaining this fact. he had seen her risk her life for seymour's own. he could never forget the glorious picture she made standing across the prostrate form of that young man, pistol in hand, keeping the mob at bay, never wavering, never faltering, clear-eyed, supreme. he would be almost willing to die to have her do the like for him. he could still hear the echo of that bitter cry,--"seymour! seymour!"--which rang through the house when they had dragged her away. these things were not pleasant reminiscences, but, like most other unpleasant memories, they would not down. in spite of all this, however, he had allowed himself--nay, his permission he vowed had not been asked--to fall violently in love with this little colonial maiden, and a country maiden at that! not being psychologically inclined, he had never attempted to analyze her charm or to explain his sensations. realizing the fact, and being young and therefore hopeful, he had not allowed himself to despair. really, he had some claims upon her. had he not interfered, she would have been murdered that night in the dining-room. he had earned the gratitude then and there of her father, and of herself as well; and he had earned more of it too when he had shot dead a certain brutal marauding blackguard by the name of johnson, at the first convenient opportunity, having received incidentally, in return for his message of death, a bullet in his own breast to remind him that there are always two persons and two chances in a duel. a part of the debt of the wiltons had been paid by the assiduous and solicitous care with which they--katharine chiefly, of course--had nursed him through the long and dangerous illness consequent upon his wound. it was his interest which had prevented further ill treatment of them by the brutal and tyrannous dunmore, and, had katharine so elected, would have secured her freedom. she had, however, to desborough's great delight, chosen to accompany her father to england, where he was to be sent as a prisoner of high political consequence. after waiting many weary days at the camp of the fugitive and deposed governor at gwynn's island, they had been separated from desborough, and unceremoniously hustled on board the frigate radnor, which was under orders for england. they had stopped long enough at norfolk to witness dunmore's savage and vindictive action in bombarding and burning that helpless town; and from that point katharine had been enabled to send her letter to seymour, through a friendly american spy, just before taking departure for their long voyage across the seas. the orders of the radnor had been changed at the last moment, however, and she had been directed to go in pursuit of jones and the ranger, which it was currently reported had got to sea from the delaware bay, bound for canada and the newfoundland coast. no vessel being ready for england at that time, the two prisoners had been transferred, fortunately for them, to a small ship bound to the naval station at barbadoes; and thence, after another weary dreary wait, had been sent on board his britannic majesty's ship yarmouth, captain john vincent, bound home for england. the first lieutenant of this ship happened to be a certain patrick michael philip o'neal drummond, lord desborough, son and heir to the earl of desmond! he congratulated himself most heartily upon his good fortune. providence had, then, thrown a lover again at katharine's feet. not that there was anything unusual in that. she might not regard it in a providential light, however; but he, at least did so, and he had intended to improve the shining hours of what would be a long cruise, in the close association permitted by the confined limits of the ship, to make a final desperate effort to win the heart which had hitherto so entirely eluded him that he could not flatter himself that he had made the least impression upon it. his success during the first three or four days of the cruise had not been brilliant. she had been unaffectedly glad to see him apparently, and gentle and kind in her reception,--too kind, he thought, with the circumspection of a lover,--but that was all. to add to his trials, he soon found himself not without rivals nearer at home than seymour. judging by present results, washington, if he had a few regiments of katharines, could carry consternation to the whole british army! for the captors had, apparently, taken the oath of allegiance to the captured, and the whole ship's company, from that gruff old sailor captain vincent down through all the other officers to the impudent and important little midshipman, were her devoted slaves. even jack forward, usually entirely unresponsive to the doings aft on the quarterdeck, put on an extra flourish or so, and damning his eyes, after the manner of the unsophisticated sailorman, gazed appreciatively upon her beauty, envying those fortunate mortals privileged to radiate about her person. vincent might be the captain, but katharine was certainly the queen of the ship. colonel wilton, too, shone, not altogether by reflected lustre either; and the considerate officers had done everything possible to make him forget that he was a prisoner. early one afternoon in the beginning of february, the yarmouth, being under all plain sail with the wind two or three points abaft the beam, was bowling along under a fresh breeze about a day's sail east of martinique. the weather was perfect, and because of the low latitude, in spite of the winter season, there was no touch of sharpness in the air, which was warm and delightful. all the necessary drills and exercises having been concluded earlier in the day, the whole ship's company was enjoying a period of unusual relaxation and idleness. the men at the wheel, the lookouts kept constantly at the mastheads, the marines doing sentry duty, with the midshipmen of the watch and the officer of the deck busily pacing to and fro, were the only people, out of the six hundred and odd men who made up the ship's complement, who presented any appearance of activity whatever. the men of the watch on and the watch off, dinner being over, were sitting or lounging about in all sorts of easy attitudes,--some of them busy with their needles; others overhauling their clothes-bags, to which they had been given access that afternoon; others grouped about some more brilliant story-teller than the rest, eagerly drinking in the multifarious details of some exciting personal experience, or romantic adventure, or never-ending story of shipwreck or battle, or mystery--technically, yarns! colonel wilton was standing aft with captain vincent in the shadow of the spanker. miss wilton, with chloe, her black maid, behind her chair, was sitting near the break of the poop-deck, looking forward, surrounded by several lieutenants; desborough being at her right hand, of course, feeling and looking unusually gloomy and morose. one or two of the oldest and boldest midshipmen were also lingering on the outskirts of the group, as near to their divinity as they dared come in the presence of their superior officers. the conversation happening to turn, as it frequently did, upon the subject of the present war between england and the colonies engaged in rebellion against the paternal power, was unusually animated. chapter xxxiii _two proposals_ "oh, you know, miss wilton, if the colonies--" began one of the officers, vehemently. "pardon me, mr. hollins, that is hardly the correct term. the _late_ colonies would be better," interrupted katharine, with much spirit. "oh, well, you know, i am merely anticipating, of course; we 'll have them back fast enough, after while. now, if they--" "pardon me again, sir, but that is another contention i can hardly admit. you 'll never have them back,--never, never!" "oh, come, miss wilton," said another, "you surely do not think the colonies--oh, well, the late colonies, if you will insist upon it--can maintain a fight with the power of great britain, for any length of time! why, madam, the english spirit--" "well, sir, what else have we but the english spirit? what other blood runs in our veins, pray? just as you love and prize your liberty, so too do we, and we will not be dominated and ruled over, even by our brothers. no, no, mr. beauchamp, or you, either, mr. hollins; it is no use. we are just as determined as you are; and there is but one way to win back the colonies, as you call them, to their allegiance." "and how is that, pray?" "why, by depopulating them, overwhelming them, killing the people, and wasting the land. only a war of extermination will serve your purpose." "well," said hollins, doggedly, "if they must have it, they must--let it be extermination! the authority of the king and the power of parliament must be upheld at all hazards." "ah, that is easy enough to say," replied katharine, "but three millions of english-speaking liberty-loving people are not to be blotted out by a wave of the hand; they are not so easily exterminated, as you will find. besides, it is easy to speak in general terms; but thousands and thousands are young and helpless, or old and feeble,--grandsires or women or children,--how about them? as long as there is a woman left or a child, your task is yet unfulfilled. make a personal application of it; i am one of them. do you wish to exterminate me, sir?" she said, looking up at him brilliantly, with her glorious brown eyes. "oh, you--you are different, of course," said the lieutenant, hesitatingly, not liking to face this intensely personal application of his intemperate remark. "not i! i am just like the rest--" "treason! i won't hear it," said desborough, softly. "there are no others like you on earth." "just like the rest," she continued emphatically, unheeding the interruption, which the others had hardly caught, "and i will tell you that never again will that flag at the gaff there be the flag of america. you have lost us for good." "oh, don't say that. make a personal exception of yourself at least, miss wilton, and give us room to hope a little." "no, no," she laughed. "you have lost us all--me included." there was a chorus of expostulation and argument immediately, but miss wilton was not to be overborne. "father!" she called quickly to the colonel, who, followed by the captain, at once joined the little group of officers. "these gentlemen seem to doubt me when i say their sometime colonies are gone for good. won't you help me to state the point so they will understand it?" "gentlemen," said the old colonel, slowly and impressively, "the colonies were the most loyal and devoted portion of the king's dominion at one time. i have been up and down the length and breadth of them, i know the feeling. i was for years a soldier of the king myself,--with your fathers, young sirs,--and i can bear witness that no part of the kingdom responded with such alacrity to every legitimate demand upon it by the home government. never did men so readily and willingly offer themselves and their goods for the service of the king. but it is all changed now. the change came slowly, but it came inevitably and surely, and you could no more change the present conditions than you could turn back the sun in its course. england has lost her colonies--" "her late colonies," corrected katharine, softly. "yes, yes, of course, her late colonies, that is, beyond possibility of recovery. we will not be taxed without representation." "but suppose that we gave you the representation for which you asked, colonel. how then? would not there be a general return to allegiance in that event?" queried the captain. "sir," replied the colonel, proudly, "the child who has once learned to walk alone does not afterward go back to creeping and crawling, or stumbling along by the aid of his mother's hand. we have tasted our independence, enjoyed it, and now we mean to keep it." "splendid, sir! splendid, father!" cried the delighted katharine. "there speaks the spirit of runnymede, and naseby, too, gentlemen!" "hush, hush, my child!" chided the colonel, half amusedly; "it is only the spirit of a plain man who has learned to love liberty by studying the history of his ancestry and his people." "ah, but, colonel, how are you going to get that liberty without fighting for it?" asked beauchamp, with rash temerity. "howe and cornwallis, for instance, have been pursuing washington for six months, and could never get near enough to fire a shot at him, so they say." "fight, sir, fight!" exclaimed the colonel, in astonished wrath; "why, god bless me, sir, i am willing to stand out now and show you how they can fight!" but miss katharine sprang to her feet: "and bunker hill, mr. beauchamp, and long island!" she cried impetuously. beauchamp backed away precipitately from before her in great confusion, which invoked much mocking comment from the laughing officers round about him. "here is one time the english forces are routed by a rebel!" said hollins. "yes," added desborough, "but then beauchamp is no worse off than the rest of us would be, if miss wilton were opposed to us." "well," continued another, coming to the rescue, "we won both of those engagements, you know, miss wilton, after all." "won! who said anything about winning, sir? anybody can win, if they have men enough or strength enough and money enough--we were talking about fighting, sir." "but really, you know," went on beauchamp, recovering, and returning to the charge, "washington's army haven't fought since those days you speak of, and they must be wiped out of existence by now, i should suppose." "not if george washington is still alive," interrupted the colonel, his anger at the inconsiderate officer having somewhat abated. "i know him well. i have known him from a boy,--met him first when i used to go shooting with lord fairfax out at greenway court. i knew his family; his brother lawrence too, i was with him at cartagena,--where i met your father, lord desborough, by the way,--and the world does not yet know the quality of that man. if he retreats, it is because he absolutely has to; and you will see, he will turn and strike howe and cornwallis some day such a blow as will make them reel. i should not wonder if he had done so already. 't is six long weeks since we have heard any news from home. trust me, gentlemen, the americans will fight; and if there is a god of justice, they will win too." "i would fight myself, had i but the opportunity," said katharine, resolutely. "and there are hundreds of other women with the same feeling." "oh, miss wilton, you would find no enemies here to fight. we are all captives of your bow and spear now, and crave your mercy," said desborough, meaningly. "true, mistress katharine. i hardly know now who commands this ship, you or i!" said the captain, smiling at her. "alas, you do, captain vincent; were i the commander, we would be going that way," she replied, pointing off over the quarter, and gazing wistfully over the cool, sparkling water, the white-capped waves breaking beautifully away in every direction. "oh, my poor, poor country, when shall i see you again?" she murmured; "when--" "sail ho!" floated down from the foremast head at this moment, and the idle ship awoke again. "where away?" "right ahead, sir." holmes and beauchamp walked forward to get a look at the stranger, and the captain and the colonel stepped across to the weather side of the deck. chloe was sent below to procure a wrap for her mistress, and katharine was left alone for a few moments with desborough. it was his first opportunity. "have you no curiosity as to the sail reported, lieutenant desborough?" "no, mistress katharine, none whatever. i take no interest in anything but you. no, please don't go now," he went on in humble entreaty. "i wish to speak to you a moment. when you came aboard i hoped to see you often, to be with you alone--to win you--" his voice sank to a passionate whisper. "my lord, my lord! it were best to go no further," she interrupted gravely. "'t is no use; you remember." "yes, yes, i remember everything,--everything about you, that is. i shut my eyes and feel the soft touch of your cool hand on my fevered head again, as when i had that bullet in my breast. oh, it thrills me, maddens me! i 'd be wounded so again, could i but feel those hands once more-- listen to me, you must listen! it cannot hurt you to hear me, and i am sure one of the others will be back in a moment; you are never alone," he said, detaining her almost forcibly. "i love you; you must know that i do. what is that land, or any land, beside my love? you are my country! i can give you lands, title, rank, luxury-- be pitiful to me, mistress katharine. what can i do or say or promise? you shall grace the court of the king, and be at the same time queen of my heart," he went on impetuously, his soul in his eager whisper. she turned and walked over to the lee rail, whither he followed her. "i 'd rather be in that land off yonder than be the king himself. i hate the king, and i could not love the enemy of my country! no, no," she replied, "it cannot be--it can never be!" "pshaw! your country,--that's not the reason; you love him still," he went on jealously, "that sailor." "yes, 't is true; i love a sailor--you are not he." "but he is dead! you left him lying there on the floor in the hall, you remember, and since then have heard nothing. he is surely dead." "it is cruel of you to say it," she went on relentlessly, "but i shall love his memory then. no, 't is useless--i respect you, admire you, am grateful to you, but my heart is there!" and she pointed away again. "won't you let me try to win you?" he persisted. "don't say me nay altogether, give me some hope. if he be dead, let me have a chance. oh, katharine wilton, i would give up anything for--" a midshipman touched him on the arm. "captain wants to see first lieutenant, sir!" he said with a wooden, impassive face, saluting the while. with a smothered expression of rage, desborough sprang across the deck,--for such a summons is not to be disregarded for an instant; even love gives way to the captain, on shipboard at least. the little midshipman was a great favorite with katharine, and, grateful for the interruption, she accordingly laid her hand lightly and affectionately on the shoulder of the honorable giles montagu, aged thirteen, one of the youngest and smallest middies in the ship; but he stood very straight and rigid, the personification of dignity, and endeavored to look very manly indeed. "thank you, mr. montagu," she said, somewhat to his surprise. "don't mention it, nothing at all, madam--orders! got to obey orders, you know." katharine laughed. "you dear sweet child!" she said, and suddenly stooped and kissed him. the honorable giles turned pale, then flushed violently and burst into unmanly tears. "why, what is it? don't you like to have me kiss you?" she said, amazed. "it is n't that, miss wilton. i 'd rather kiss you than--than anything; but you call me a boy, and treat me like a child, and--and i can't stand it. i--i 've challenged all the men in the steerage about you already," alluding to the other little fellows of like rank; "they call me a baby there, too, because i 'm so little and so young. but i 'll grow. and--i love you," he went on abruptly and determinedly, choking down his sobs and swallowing his tears, while fingering the handle of his dirk, and furtively rubbing his eyes with his other hand. "oh, madam, if you would only wait until i got a frigate! won't you? but no! you don't treat me like a man," he exclaimed bitterly, stamping his foot and turning away. "well, i never!" cried the astonished and abashed katharine, completely overawed for the moment by this novel declaration. "what next?" truly, they made men out of boys early in those days. the next moment the hoarse cries of the boatswain and his mates, and the beating drums, called all hands to clear the ship for action and startled everybody into activity at once. the honorable giles, the manly if lachrymose midshipman, sprang forward to his station as rapidly as his small but sturdy legs could carry him. chapter xxxiv _captain vincent mystified_ while the big ship was rapidly and methodically being stripped for the possible emergency, the captain was engaged in busy conversation with the colonel. they had steadily drawn near the reported sail until the lookouts could plainly make out a small fleet of small ships. never dreaming that they could be american ships, captain vincent had his ship prepared for action, more through the habitual wariness of an experienced sailor than from any premonition of an impending battle. but as the two forces drew near, the actions of the opposing fleet became suddenly suspicious; all but one of them tacked ship, and stood off to the northeast, in a compact group in close order, under all possible sail, though one, the smallest and a brig, it was noticed, lagged behind the rest of the group in a way which bespoke either very slow sailing qualities or deliberate purpose of delay. the remaining ship, the largest of them all, stood boldly on its original course. this latter, it was plain to see, was a small frigate, possibly a twenty-eight or a thirty-two. taking into account the respective rates of speed, the frigate, whose course made a slight angle with that of the ship of the line, would probably cross the bows of the latter within range of her battery. none of the opposing vessels showed any flags as yet, and their movements completely mystified captain vincent. "certainly a most extraordinary performance going on there!" he said, after a long look through his glass, which he then handed to the colonel. "they show no flags, but i cannot conceive of their being anything but a squadron or a convoy of ours. what do you make them out, colonel wilton?" now, the colonel was morally certain that they were americans, or, at least, that the first and nearest one was an american ship. he had been one of the naval committee which had taken charge of the building of the men-of-war ordered by congress in ' ; he had seen the randolph frequently on the ways and after she was launched, and was entirely familiar with her lines. perhaps the wish also was father to the thought, for the old soldier was not sufficiently versed in nautical affairs to detect at that distance the great disparity in force between the two ships, to which for the moment he gave no thought, or he would not have entertained hopes for a release from confinement by recapture,--a patent impossibility to a seaman. so he answered the captain evasively, returning the glass and pleading his ignorance of nautical matters to excuse his indefinite opinion. "it must be the carrysford, with hythe's squadron; she is a thirty-two. but why they should act this way, i cannot see. he must know what we are now, as there are no ships of our size in these waters, except our own, and why should he send the rest of them off there? they are leaving us pretty fast, except that brig. now, if it were a colonial convoy, i should say that this frigate was going to engage us in the hope of so crippling us as to effect the escape of the rest; but i hardly think that your men are up to that yet." "think not?" said the colonel indifferently, violently repressing an inclination to strike him. "it may be as you say, captain vincent; still, i think we are up to almost anything that you are." "oh, colonel," laughed the captain, good-naturedly, "you are not going to compare the little colonial forces with his majesty's navy, are you! now, i am morally certain that is a king's ship. see the beautiful set of her sails, the enormous spread of the yards; notice how trim and taut her rigging and running gear stand out, and then, too, see how smartly she is handled. only english ships are thus. hythe is a sailor, every inch of him," he went on in genuine admiration for the approaching vessel. "see! he has the weather gauge of us now, or will have. not that it matters anything. we could afford to let him have it even if he were an enemy; but what he means by this sort of performance, i don't understand. however, we shall know in half an hour at least." "well, sir?" he said, turning toward lieutenant desborough, who at that moment stepped on the poop in fighting uniform, sword in hand. "ship's ready for action, sir!" "very good. keep the people at their quarters, and stand on as we are. ah, mr. montagu, will you step below and fetch me my sword out of my cabin. what do you think of her, desborough?" "we think she is an american, sir," said desborough. "oh, you do, do you? well, i think she is one of ours. no american would dare to lead down on us in that way! we can blow him out of the water with a broadside or two, you know, but we 'll give him a hint all the same. fire a gun there, to leeward, and hoist our colors." as the smoke rolled away along the water, the stops were broken, and there flew out from each masthead the splendid english flag. it was answered soon afterward by a small english flag at the gaff of the approaching ship, which apparently mystified the captain more than ever, though it confirmed him in his previous opinion. "oh, father," whispered katharine, clinging to the colonel, "what do you think it is? see that english flag!" "kate, i 'm morally sure that it is an american ship; it is just the plan and size of those ordered by congress in ' . one of those ships should be in commission by now. if i am right, this should be the randolph. i saw her a dozen times in philadelphia; and if that's not she, i shall never pretend to know a ship again." "but did you hear what captain vincent said?" continued katharine; "how many guns would the randolph carry?" "about forty, and most of them small ones at best," answered the colonel, with a sigh. the two ships were much nearer now, and their disparity in force was apparent even to the most unskilful eye. "the little ship can't fight this great one, father, can it?" "no, my dear; that is, not with any chance of success. but i fear--or hope, rather--that they mean to engage us, and sacrifice themselves in order not to allow us to capture the little fleet, probably prizes, off yonder. the man who commands her is a hero, certainly." "just what mr. seymour would do. oh, if it were he!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, her eyes filling with tears at the possibility. "well, it may be, of course. he was certain to be posted captain soon, and 'tis like him truly. but, kate, the ships are drawing nearer every moment. you must go below in case of action, my dear." "yes, miss wilton," said desborough, who had at that moment approached them, looking very handsome, having heard the last words of the colonel; "we have arranged a safe place for you and your maid, in the cable tiers, way below the water-line, and out of the way of shot, though i hardly expect much of it from that fellow. will you allow me to conduct you there? perhaps you too, colonel, would be safer if you would--" "pardon me, sir, unless force is used, i shall remain on deck. the idea of me, sir--skulking in the hold during an action! why, sir,--" "and the idea of me, either, doing the same thing!" said katharine defiantly, in a ringing voice in which there was a clear echo of her father's determination. both men looked at her smiling. "oh, you are different, miss wilton," said desborough. "no use, katharine: you must go," added her father. "oh, please!" "my daughter--" "oh, father, let me stay just a little longer--there is no danger yet. take chloe down, if you will, mr. desborough, and have a place ready for me. i 'll go down when the battle begins--indeed i will, father!" she continued entreatingly. "well," said the colonel, uncertainly, "let her stay a little longer, my lord." "very well, sir," replied desborough, bowing and turning forward. "here, you jack, take this girl below and stow her away in the cable tiers by the main hatch," he said, pointing to chloe, who was led unresistingly away, her teeth chattering with undefined but none the less overwhelming terror. the colonel stepped forward beside captain vincent, and desborough descended to the main-deck to superintend the fighting of the batteries, while katharine, grateful for the respite, and determined not to go below at all, stepped aft in the shelter of the rail, her heart already beating madly, as the two ships approached each other in silence. chapter xxxv _bentley says good-by_ the men on the randolph were in excellent spirits, and as they drew nearer and nearer became more and more anxious for the fray. "she's a big one, ain't she?" said one young seaman, glancing over a gun through a port-hole forward; "but we ain't afraid of her, mates. we 'll just dance up and slap her in the face with this, and then turn around and slap her with t' other side," laying his hand at the time on one of the long eighteens which constituted the main battery of the frigate. "yes, and then what will she do to us? blow us into splinters with a broadside, youngster! not as i particularly care, so we have a chance to get a few good licks at her with these old barkers," said an older man, pointing, like the first, to a gun. "that's the talk, men," said seymour, who was making a tour of inspection through the ship in person, and who had stopped before the gun and heard the conversation. "before she sinks us we will give it to her hard. i can depend upon you, i know." "yes, yes, your honor." "ay, ay, sir--" "we 's all right, sir--" "we 's with you, your honor--" came in a quick, strong chorus from the rough-and-ready men, and then some one called for three cheers for captain seymour, and they were given with such a will that the oak decks echoed and re-echoed again and again. "pass the word to serve out a tot of grog to each man; let them splice the main-brace once more before they die," said seymour, grimly, amid a chorus of approving murmurs from the sailors, as he walked slowly along the lines, greeting men here and there with plain, bluff words of cheer, which brought smiles of pleasure to their stern, weather-beaten faces. "now, ain't he a beauty?" whispered the captain of number two gun to his second. "blow me if 't ain't a pleasure to serve under sich a officer, and to die for him, too! here is to a speedy fight and lots of damage to the britisher," he cried loudly, lifting his pannikin of rum and water to his lips, amid a further chorus of approval. old bentley was standing on the forecastle forward, looking earnestly at the approaching ship, when seymour came up to him. the rest of the men, mindful of the peculiar relationship between the two, instinctively drew back a little, leaving them alone. "well, bentley, our work is cut out for us there." "ay, captain seymour. i 'm thinking that this cruise will end right here for this ship--unless you strike, sir." "strike! do you advise me to do so, then?" "god forbid! except it be with shot and these," said the old man, lifting an enormous cutlass, ground to a razor edge, which he had specially made for his own personal use in battle. "no, no; we 've got to fight him till he 's so damaged that he can't get at the rest. do you see, sir, how the brig lags behind them?" he went on, pointing out toward the slowly escaping squadron. "the boy's got her luffed up so she makes no headway at all!" "i know it. i have signalled to him twice to close with the rest--he can sail two feet to their one; but it is no use,--he pays no attention. he should n't have been given so responsible a command until he learned to obey orders," said seymour, frowning. "let the boy alone, master john; he 'll do all right," said bentley; "he's the makings of a good sailorman and a fine officer in him. i 've watched him." "ha! there goes a shot from the liner," cried seymour, as a puff of smoke broke out from the lee side followed by the dull boom of a cannon over the water, and then the flags rippled bravely out from the mastheads. "well, we did not need that sort of an introduction. aft there!" cried the captain, with his powerful voice. "sir." "show a british flag at the gaff. that will puzzle him for a while longer. well, old friend, i must go aft. it's likely we won't both of us come out of this little affair alive, so good-by, and god bless you. you 've been a good friend to me, bentley, ever since i was a child, and i doubt i 've requited you ill enough," he said, reaching forth his hand. the old sailor shifted his cutlass into his left hand, took off his hat, and grasped seymour's hand with his own mighty palm. "ay, ever since you were a boy; and a properer sailor and a better officer don't walk the deck, if i do say it myself, as i 've had a hand in the making of you. but what you say is true, sir: we 'll probably most all of us go to davy jones' locker this trip; but we could n't go in a better way, and we won't go alone. god almighty bless you, sir! i--" said the old seaman, breaking off suddenly and looking wistfully at the young man he loved, who, understanding it all, returned his gaze, wrung his hand, and then turned and sprang aft without another word. the ships were rapidly closing, when seymour's keen eye detected a dash of color and a bit of fluttering drapery on the poop of the line-of-battle ship. wondering, he examined it through his glass. "why! 't is a woman," he exclaimed. something familiar in the appearance made his heart give a sudden throb, but he put away the idea which came to him as preposterous; and then stepping forward to the break of the poop, he called out,-- "my lads, there is a woman on yon ship, on the poop, way aft. we don't fight with women; have a care, therefore, that none of you take deliberate aim at her, and spare that part of the deck where she stands in the fight, if you can. pass the word along." "well, i 'm blessed," said one old gun captain, _sotto voce_, "be they come out against us with wimmen!" the randolph had the weather-gage of the yarmouth by this time; and seymour shifted his helm slightly, rounded in his braces a little, and ran down with the wind a little free and on a line parallel to the course of his enemy, but going in a different direction. he lifted the glass again to his eye, and looked long and earnestly at the woman's figure half hidden by the rail on the ship. was it--could it be--indeed she? was fate bringing them into opposition again? it was not possible. trembling violently, he lifted the glass for a further investigation, when an officer, trumpet in hand, sprang upon the rail of the yarmouth forward and hailed. chapter xxxvi _the last of the randolph_ "pass the word quietly," said seymour, rapidly, to one of his young aids, "that when i say, 'stand by to back the maintopsail,' the guns are to be fired. bid the gun captains to train on the port-holes of the second tier of guns. mind, no order to fire will be given except the words, 'stand by to back the maintopsail.' the men are to fire at the word 'topsail.' do you understand? tell the division officers to hold up their hands, as a sign that they understand, as you pass along, so that i can see them. lively now! quartermaster, standby to haul down that flag and show our colors at the first shot." the frigate was now rapidly drawing near the ship of the line, until, at the moment the officer hailed, the two ships were nearly alongside of each other. the awful disparity between their sizes was now painfully apparent. "ship ahoy! ahoy the frigate!" came down a second time in long hollow tones through the trumpet from the officer balancing himself on the yarmouth's rail by holding on to a back-stay. "why don't you answer?" "ahoy the ship!" replied seymour at last through his own trumpet. "what ship is that?" "his britannic majesty's ship of the line, yarmouth, captain vincent. who are you? answer, or i will fire!" the flying boom of the randolph was just pointing past the yarmouth's quarter, and the two ships were abreast each other; now, if ever, was the time for action. "this is the american continental ship, randolph, captain seymour," cried the latter, through the trumpet, in a voice heard in every part of the ship of the line. at least two hearts in the yarmouth were powerfully affected by that announcement. katharine's leaped within her bosom at the sound of her lover's voice, and beat madly while she revelled in thought in his proximity; and then as she noticed again the fearful odds with which he was apparently about to contend, her heart sank into the depths once more. in one second she thrilled with pride, quivered with love, trembled with despair. he was there--he was hers--he would be killed! she gripped the rail hard and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming aloud his name, while her gaze strained out upon his handsome figure. pride, love, death,--an epitome of human life in that fleeting moment,--all were hers! on the main-deck of the frigate the name carried consternation to lieutenant lord desborough. so seymour was alive again! was that the end of my lord's chance? no. joy! the rebel was under the guns of the battle-ship! never, vowed the lieutenant, should guns be better served than those under his command. unless the man surrendered, he was doomed. so, he spoke eagerly to his men, bidding them take good aim and waste no shot, never doubting the inevitable issue. these thoughts took but a moment, however. beauchamp, who had done the talking, now stepped aft to captain vincent's side, and replied to seymour's hail by calling out,-- "do you strike, sir?" "yes, yes, of course; that's what we came down here for. we'll strike fast enough," was the answer. a broad smile lighted up captain vincent's face; he turned to the colonel, laughing, and said with a scarcely veiled sneer,-- "i told you they were not up to it. the cad! he might have fired one shot at least for the honor of his flag, don't you see?" the colonel with a sinking heart could not see at all. cowardice in seymour, in any officer, was a thing he could not understand. the world turned black before katharine. what! strike without a blow! was this her hero? rather death than a coward! in spite of her faith in her lover, as she heard what appeared to be a pusillanimous offer of surrender, desborough's chances took a sudden bound upward, while that gentleman cursed the cowardice of his enemy and rival, which would deprive him of a pleasing opportunity of blowing him out of the water. most of the men at the different guns relaxed their eager watchfulness, while sneers and jeers at the "yankee" went up on all sides. "heave to, then," continued beauchamp, peremptorily and with much disgust, "and send a boat aboard!" "ay, ay, sir!" oh, it was true, then; he was going to surrender tamely without-- "stand by!" there was a note of preparation in the words in spite of seymour's effort to give them the ordinary intonation of a commonplace order,--a note which had so much meaning to katharine's sensitive ear that her heart stopped its beating for a moment as she waited for the next word. it came with a roar of defiance. "back the maintopsail!" but the braces were kept fast and the unexpected happened. in an instant sheets of flame shot out from the muzzles of the black guns of the randolph, which were immediately wreathed and shrouded in clouds of smoke. at the moment of command seymour had quickly ordered the helm shifted suddenly, and the randolph had swung round so that she lay at a broad angle off the quarter of the yarmouth. the thunderous roar of the heavy guns at short range was immediately followed by the crashing of timber, as the heavy shot took deadly effect, amid the cheers and yells and curses and groans and shrieks of the wounded and startled men on the liner, while three hearty cheers rang out from the randolph. the advantage of the first blow in the grim game, the unequal combat, was with the little one. "how now, captain!" shouted the colonel, in high exultation. "won't fight, eh! what do you call this?" "fire! fire! let him have it, men, and be damned to you! the man 's a hero; 't was cleverly done," roared the captain, excitedly. "i retract. give it to him, boys! give it to the impudent rebel!" he roared. katharine, forgot by every one in the breathless excitement of the past few moments, bowed her head on her hands on the rail, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness, oblivious of everything but that her lover had proved himself worthy the devotion her heart so ungrudgingly extended him. there was great confusion on board the yarmouth from this sudden and unexpected discharge, which, delivered at short range, had done no little execution on the crowded ship; but the officers rallied their men speedily with cool words of encouragement. "steady, men, steady." "give it back to them." "look sharp now." "aim! fire!" and the forty-odd heavy guns roared out in answer to the determined attack. the effect of such a broadside at close range would have been frightful, had not the randolph drawn so far ahead, and her course been so changed, that a large part of it passed harmlessly astern of her. one gun, however, found its target, and that was one aimed and fired by the hand of lord desborough himself: a heavy shot, a thirty-two, from one of the massive lower-deck guns of the yarmouth, which the pleasant weather permitted them to use effectively, came through one of the after gun-ports of the randolph, and swept away the line of men on the port side of the gun. some of the other shot did slight damage also among the spars and gear, and several of the crew were killed or wounded in different parts of the ship; but the randolph was practically unharmed, and standing boldly down to cross the stern of the yarmouth to rake her. but the english captain was a seaman, every inch of him, and his ship could not have been better handled; divining his bold little antagonist's purpose, the yarmouth's helm was put up at once, and in the smoke she fell off and came before the wind almost as rapidly as did the randolph, her promptness frustrating the endeavor, as seymour was only able to make an ineffectual effort to rake her, as she flew round on her heels. the starboard battery of the yarmouth had been manned as she fell off, and the port battery of the randolph was rapidly reloaded again. the manoeuvre had given the englishmen the weather-gage once more, the two ships now having the wind on the port quarter. the two batteries were discharged simultaneously, and now began a running fight of near an hour's duration. seymour was everywhere. up and down the deck he walked, helping and sustaining his men, building up new gun's crews out of the shattered remains of decimated groups of men, lending a hand himself on a tackle on occasion; cool, calm, unwearied, unremitting, determined, he desperately fought his ship as few vessels were ever fought before or since, imbuing, by his presence and example and word, his men with his own unquailing spirit, until they died as uncomplainingly and as nobly as did those prototypes of heroes,--another three hundred in the pass at thermopylae! the guns were served on the randolph with the desperate rapidity of men who, awfully pressed for time, had abandoned hope and only fought to cripple and delay before they were silenced; those on the yarmouth, on the contrary, were fired with much more deliberation, and did dreadful execution. the different guns were disabled on the randolph by heavy shot; adjacent ports were knocked into one, the sides shattered, boats smashed, rails knocked to pieces, all of the weather-shrouds cut, the mizzenmast carried away under the top, and the wreck fell into the sea,--fortunately, on the lee side, the little body of men in the top going to a sudden death with the rest. the decks were slippery with blood and ploughed with plunging shot, which the superior height of the yarmouth permitted to be fired with depressed guns from an elevation. solid shot from the heavy main-deck batteries swept through and through the devoted frigate; half the randolph's guns were useless because of the lack of men to serve them; the cockpit overflowed with the wounded; the surgeon and his mates, covered with blood, worked like butchers, in the steerage and finally in the ward room; dead and dying men lay where they fell; there were no hands to spare to take them below, no place in which they could lie with safety, no immunity from the searching hail which drove through every part of the doomed ship. still the men, cheered and encouraged by their officers, stood to their guns and fought on. presently the foretopmast went by the board also, as the long moments dragged along, seymour was now lying on the quarter-deck, a bullet having broken his leg, another having made a flesh-wound in his arm; he had refused to go below to have his wounds dressed, and one of the midshipmen was kneeling by his side, applying such unskilful bandages as he might to the two bleeding wounds. nason had been sent for, and was in charge, under seymour's direction. that young man, all his nervousness gone, was most ably seconding his dauntless captain. the two ships were covered with smoke. it was impossible to tell on one what was happening on the other; but the steady persistence with which the randolph clung to her big enemy had its effect on the yarmouth also, and the well-delivered fire did not allow that vessel any immunity. in fact, while nothing like that on the frigate, the damage was so great, and so many men had fallen, that captain vincent determined to end the conflict at once by boarding the frigate. the necessary orders were given, and a strong party of boarders was called away and mustered on the forecastle, headed by beauchamp and hollins; among the number were little montagu, with other midshipmen. taking advantage of the smoke and of the weather-gage, the yarmouth was suddenly headed for the randolph. as the enormous bows of the line-of-battle ship came slowly shoving out of the smoke, towering above them, covered with men, cutlass or boarding pike in hand, seymour discerned at once the purpose of the manoeuvre. raising himself upon his elbow to better direct the movement,-- "all hands repel boarders!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the ship as powerfully as ever. this was an unusual command, as it completely deprived the guns of their crews; but he rightly judged that it would take all the men they could muster to repel the coming attack, and none but the main-deck guns of the yarmouth would or could be fired, for fear of hitting their own men in the mêlée on the deck. the randolph was a wreck below, at best; but while anything held together above her plank shears, she would be fought. the men had reached that desperate condition when they ceased to think of odds, and like maddened beasts fought and raved and swore in the frenzy of the combat. the thrice-decimated crew sprang aft, rallying in the gangway to meet the shock, nason at their head, followed close by old bentley, still unwounded. as the bow of the yarmouth struck the randolph with a crash, one or two wounded men, unable to take part in repelling the boarders but still able to move, who had remained beside the guns, exerted the remaining strength they possessed to discharge such of the pieces as bore, in long raking shots, through the bow of the liner; it was the last sound from their hot muzzles. the yarmouth struck the randolph just forward of the mainmast; the men, swarming in dense masses on the rail and hanging over the bowsprit ready to leap, dropped on her deck at once with loud cheers. a sharp volley from the few marines left on the frigate checked them for a moment,--nobody noticing at the time that the honorable giles had fallen in a limp heap back from the rail upon his own deck, the blood staining his curly head; but they gathered themselves together at once, and, gallantly led, sprang aft, handling their pistols and pikes and waving their cutlasses. nason was shot in a moment by hollins' pistol, beauchamp was cut in two by a tremendous sweep of the arm of the mighty bentley, and the combat became at once general. slowly but surely the americans were pressed back; the gangways were cleared; the quarter-deck was gained; one by one the brave defenders had fallen. the battle was about over when seymour noticed a man running out in the foreyard of the yarmouth with a hand-grenade. he raised his pistol and fired; the man fell; but another resolutely started to follow him. bentley and a few other men, and one or two officers and a midshipman, were all who were able to bear arms now. "good-by, mr. seymour," cried bentley, waving his hand and setting his back against the rail nearest to the yarmouth, which had slowly swung parallel to the randolph and had been lashed there. the old man was covered with blood from two or three wounds, but still undaunted. two or three men made a rush at him; but he held them at bay, no man caring to come within sweep of that mighty arm which had already done so much, when a bullet from above struck him, and he fell over backward on the rail mortally wounded. seymour raised his remaining pistol and fired it at the second man, who had nearly reached the foreyard arm; less successful this time, he missed the man, who threw his grenade down the hatchway. seymour fainted from loss of blood. "back, men! back to the ship, all you yarmouths!" cried captain vincent, as he saw the lighted grenade, which exploded and ignited a little heap of cartridges left by a dead powder-boy before the magazine. alas! there was no one there to check or stop the flames. the english sailors sprang back and up the sides and through the ports of their ship with frantic haste; the lashings were being rapidly cut by them, and the braces handled. "come aboard, men, while you can," cried captain vincent to the americans. "your ship 's afire; you can do no more; you 'll blow up in a moment!" the little handful of americans were left alone on their ship. the only officer still standing lifted his sword and shook it impotently at the yarmouth in reply; the rest did not stir. the smoke of battle had now settled away, and the whole ghastly scene was revealed. a woman's cry rang out fraught with agony,--"seymour, seymour!" and again was her cry unheeded; her lover could not hear. she cried again; and then, with a frightful roar and crash, the randolph blew up. chapter xxxvii for love of country the force of the explosion occurring so near to the line-of-battle ship drove her over with irresistible power upon her beam-ends until she buried her port main-deck guns under water; her time was not yet come, however, for, after a trembling movement of sickening uncertainty, she righted herself, slowly at first, but finally with a mighty roll and rush as if on a tidal wave. for a few seconds the air was filled with pieces of wreck, arms, spars, bodies, many of which fell on the yarmouth. the horrified spectators saw the two broken halves of the ill-fated frigate gradually disappearing beneath the heaving sea, sucking down in their inexorable vortex most of the bodies of those, alive or dead, who floated near. the fire had come in broad sheets through the portholes of the main-deck guns of the ship from the explosion, driving the men from their stations, and, by heating the iron masses or igniting the priming, caused sudden and wild discharges to add their quota of confusion to the awful scene. pieces of burning wreck had also fallen in the tops, or upon the sails, or lodged in the standing rigging, full of tar as usual, and dry and inflammable to the last degree. the yarmouth, therefore, was in serious danger,--more so than in any other period of the action,--her little antagonist having inflicted the most damaging blow with the last gasp, as it were; for little columns of flame and smoke began to rise ominously in a dozen places. then was manifested the splendid discipline for which british ships were famous the world over. rapidly and with unerring skill and coolness the proper orders were given, and the tired men were set to work desperately fighting once more to check and put out the fire. long and hard was the struggle, the issue much in doubt; but in the end the efforts of her crew were crowned with merited success, and their ship was eventually saved from the dangerous conflagration which had menaced her with ruin, not less complete and disastrous than had befallen the frigate. while all this was being done, a little scene took place upon the quarter-deck which was worthy of notice. something heavy and solid, thrown upward by the tremendous force of the discharge, struck the rail with a mighty crash at the moment of the explosion, just at the point where katharine, wide-eyed, petrified with horror, after that one vivid glance in which she apparently saw her lover dead on his own quarter-deck beneath her, stood clinging rigidly to the bulwarks as if paralyzed. it was the body of a man; instinctively she threw out her strong young arm and saved it from falling again into the sea on the return roll of the ship. one or two of the seamen standing by came to her assistance, and the body was dragged on board and laid on the deck at her feet. something familiar in the figure moved katharine to a further examination. she knelt down and wiped the blood and smoke and dust from the face of the prostrate man, and recognized him at once. it was old bentley, desperately wounded, his clothes soaked with blood from several severe wounds, and apparently dying fast, but still breathing. a small tightly rolled up ball of bunting was lying near her on the deck; it was a flag from the randolph, which had been blown there by the force of the explosion. she quickly picked it up and pillowed the head of the unconscious man upon it. then she ran below to her cabin, coming back in a moment with water and a cordial, with which she bathed the head and wiped the lips of the dying man. the fires were all forward, and, the wind being aft, the danger was in the fore part of the ship; no one therefore paid the least attention to her. there was, in fact, save the captain and one or two midshipmen, no one else on the poop-deck except her father, who like herself had been overwhelmed by the sudden and awful ending of the battle. being without anything to do, the colonel, who had been watching the men fight with the fire, happened to look aft for a moment and saw his daughter by the side of the prostrate man. he stepped over to her at once. "katharine, katharine," he said to her in a tone of stern reproof and surprise, not as he usually spoke to her, "you here! 't is no place for women. when did you come from below?" "i've not been below at all, father," she replied, looking up at him with a white, stricken face which troubled his loving heart. "do you mean to tell me that you have been on deck during the action?" "yes, father, right here. do you not understand that it was mr. seymour's ship--i could not go away!" "by heavens! think of it! and i forgot you completely-- the fault was mine, how could i have allowed it?" he continued in great agitation. "never mind, father; i could not have gone below in any case. do you think he--mr. seymour--can be yet alive?" she asked, still cherishing a faint hope. the colonel shook his head gloomily, and then stooping down and looking at the prostrate form of the man on the deck, he asked,-- "but who is this you have here?" the man opened his eyes at this moment and looked up vacantly. "william bentley, sir," he said in a hoarse whisper, as if in answer to the question; and then making a vain effort to raise his hand to his head, he went on half-mechanically, "bosun of the randolph, sir. come aboard!" "merciful powers, it is old bentley!" cried the colonel. "can anything be done for you, my man? how is it with you?" katharine poured a little more of the cordial down his throat, which gave him a fictitious strength for a moment, and he answered in a little stronger voice, with a glance of recognition and wonder,-- "the colonel and the young miss! we thought you dead in the wreck of the radnor. he will be glad;" and then after a pause recollection came to him. "oh, god!" he murmured, "mr. seymour!" "what of him? speak!" cried katharine, in agony. "gone with the rest," he replied with an effort "'t was a good fight, though. the other ships,--where are they?" "escaped," answered the colonel; "we are too much cut up to pursue." "why did you do it?" moaned katharine, thinking of seymour's attack on the ship of the line. the old man did not heed the question; his eyes closed. he was still a moment, and then he opened his eyes again slowly. straight above him waved the standard of his enemy. "i never thought--to die--under the english flag," he said slowly and with great effort. supplying its place with her own young soft arm, katharine drew forth the little american ensign which had served him for a pillow--stained with his own blood--and held it up before him. a light came into his dying eyes,--a light of heaven, perhaps, no pain in his heart now. one trembling hand would still do his bidding; by a superhuman effort of his resolute will he caught the bit of bunting and carried it to his lips in a long kiss of farewell. his lips moved. he was saying something. katharine bent to listen. what was it? ah! she heard; they were the words he said on the deck of the transport when they saw the ship wrecked in the pass in the beating seas,--the words he had repeated in the old farmhouse on that winter night to the great general, when he told the story of that cruise; the words he had made to stand for the great idea of his own life; the words with which he had cheered and soothed and sustained and encouraged many weaker men who had looked to his iron soul for help and guidance. they were the words to which many a patriot like him, now lying mute and cold upon the hills about boston, under the trees at long island, by the flowing waters and frowning cliffs of the hudson, on the verdant glacis at quebec, 'neath the smooth surface of lake champlain, in the dim northern woods, on the historic field of princeton, or within the still depths of this mighty sea now tossing them upon its bosom, had given most eloquent expression and final attestation. what were they? "for--for--love--of--country." the once mighty voice died away in a feeble whisper; a child might still the faintly beating heart. the mighty chest--rose--fell; the old man lay still. love of country,--that was his passion, you understand. love of country! that was the great refrain. the wind roared the song through the pines, on the snow-clad mountains in the far north, sobbed it softly through the rustling palmetto branches in the south-land, or breathed it in whispers over the leaves of the oak and elm and laurel, between. the waves crashed it in tremendous chorus on rock-bound shores, or rolled it with tender caress over shining sands. under its inspiration, mighty men left all and marched forth to battle; wooed by its subtle music, hero women bore the long hours of absence and suspense; and in its tender harmonies the little children were rocked to sleep. ay, love of country! all the voices of man and nature in a continent caught it up and breathed it forth, hurled it in mighty diapason far up into god's heaven. love of country! it was indeed a mighty truth. they preached it, loved it, lived for it, died for it, till at last it made them free! chapter xxxviii _philip disobeys orders_ "who is this, pray?" said captain vincent, at this moment stepping back to the silent little group. "the boatswain of the randolph," replied the colonel. "he has just died." "poor fellow! but there are many other brave men gone this day. what think you was the complement of the frigate, colonel?" "over three hundred men certainly," replied the colonel (the actual number was three hundred and fifteen). "most of them not already done for were lost in the explosion, i presume?" "yes, assuredly; and now i owe you an apology, my dear sir. i never saw a more gallant action in my life. the man 's gone, of course, but he shall have full credit for it in my report; 'twas bravely done, and successfully, too. we are frightfully cut up, and in no condition to pursue. in fact, i will not conceal from you that some of our spars are so severely wounded, and the starboard rigging so damaged and scorched and cut up, that i know not how we could stand a heavy blow. twenty-five are killed, and upward of sixty wounded too, and about thirty missing, killed, or wounded men of the boarding party, who were undoubtedly blown up with the frigate. beauchamp is gone; and that little fellow there," pointing to a couple of seamen bringing a small limp body aft, "is montagu. poor little youngster!" "this has indeed been a frightful action, captain," replied the colonel. "i knew young seymour well. he was a man of the most consummate gallantry. this sacrifice is like him," he continued softly, looking at katharine and then turning away. perhaps the captain understood. at any rate he stepped to her side and said gently,-- "mistress katharine, this is no place for you; you must go below. indeed, i must insist. i shall have to order you. come--" and then laying his hand on her arm, he started back in surprise. "why, you are wounded!" "'tis nothing, sir," said katharine, faintly. "i welcome it; 'twas an american bullet. would it had found my heart!" "only a flesh-wound, colonel; no cause for alarm," said the captain, looking at it with the eye of experience. "it will be all right in a day or two. but now she must go below. i can't understand how you were allowed to stay here, or be here. what were they thinking of? but you saw one of the hottest and most desperate battles ever fought between two ships since you were here. they can fight; you were right, colonel," he went on in ungrudging admiration. "here, desborough," he added, addressing the lieutenant, who just then put his foot on the deck, "take miss wilton below, and ask the surgeon to attend her at his convenience; she 's gone and got herself wounded by her friends." lieutenant desborough, black and grimy, streaked with smoke and powder, turned pale at the captain's words, and sprang forward anxiously and led the object of his love down the steps to her cabin. "wounded!" he murmured. "oh, my love, why did no one take you to a place of safety?" "'t is nothing," she replied, going on as if in a dream. desborough had his wish: his rival was gone; he had the field to himself; but he was too manly to feel any exultation now that it was over, and too sorry for the vacant despair he saw on her face. he tenderly whispered to her as he led her on,-- "believe me, dear katharine, it is not thus i would have triumphed over mr. seymour. he was in truth a knightly gentleman." overwhelming pity for her filled his heart, and he went on magnanimously,-- "i am sorry--" she made no answer; she did not hear. in the cabin the body of little montagu was lying on a table. he would never get his frigate now. how small and frail and boyish looked the honorable giles to-day! why did they send children like that to war? had he no mother?--poor lad! moved by a sudden impulse, she stooped and kissed him, as she had done an hour before. no throb of the proud little heart answered responsive to her caress now. alas! she might kiss him when and as she pleased; he would not feel it, and he would not heed. entering her own berth at last, she closed the door and sank down upon her knees,--alone with god! "a sail coming down fast,--the little brig, sir," reported the officer of the deck to captain vincent. "shall we come about and give him a broadside?" "no, no; we dare not handle the braces yet,--not until the gear and spars have been well overhauled." "shall we use the stern-chaser then, sir?" the yarmouth had left the scene of the explosion some distance away by this time, but she was still within easy gun-shot. captain vincent earnestly examined the brig; as he looked, she came up to the wind, hove to, and dropped a boat in the water. there was a bit of spar still floating there. the captain saw that three or four men were clinging to it. "no; she's on an errand of mercy. there are men in the water on that topmast there. let her go free," he said generously. "we 've done enough to-day to satisfy any reasonable man." the colonel grasped his hand warmly and thanked him. the little brig picked up her boat, swung her mainyard, and filled away again on the port tack, in the wake of the rest of the little squadron now far ahead; then, understanding the forbearance of the big ship, she fired a gun to leeward and dipped her ensign in salute. the force of the explosion had thrown seymour, from his advantageous position aft, far out into the water and away from the sinking ship. the contact with cold water recalled him to his senses at once; and with the natural instinct of man for life, he struck out as well as he might, considering his broken leg and wounded arm and weakened state. there was a piece of a mast with the top still on it floating near by. he struggled gallantly to make it,--'twas no use, he could do no more; closing his eyes, he sank down in the dark water. but help was near: a hand grasped him by his long hair and drew him up; one of his men, unwounded fortunately, had saved him. the two men presently reached the bit of wreck; the sailor scrambled up on it, and by a great effort drew his captain by his side; two more men swam over desperately, and finally joined the little group. they clung there helpless, hopeless, despairing, fascinated, watching the remains of the randolph disappear, marking a few feeble swimmers here and there struggling, till all was still. then they turned their eyes upon their late antagonist, running away before the wind in flames; they saw her fight them down successfully; appalled, none spoke. presently one of the seamen glanced the other way, and saw the little brig swiftly bearing down upon them. "god be praised! here's the brig, the fair american," he cried. "we shall be saved--saved!" the brig was handled smartly; she came to the wind, backed the maintopsail, and lay gently tossing to and fro on the long swells. the young captain stood on the rail, clinging to the back-stays, anxiously watching. the boat was dropped into the water, and with long strokes shot over to them. the men sprang aboard; rude hands gently and tenderly lifted the wounded captain in. they pulled rapidly back to the brig; the falls were manned, and the boat was run up, the yard swung, and she filled away. seymour was lifted down; philip received him in his arms. "i ought to arrest you for disobedience of orders," said the captain, sternly. "why did you pay no attention to my signals? you have jeoparded the brig. yon ship can blow you out of the water; you are quite within range." but they soon saw that no motion was made by the ship; and in accordance with seymour's orders the gun was fired and the colors dipped,--a salute which the ship promptly returned. "i ought to put you under arrest, philip," again said seymour, faintly, while he was lying in the tiny cabin, having his wounds dressed; "but i will not. 't was gallantly done; but obey orders first hereafter,--'t is the first principle of action on the sea." that was rather cool comfort for the young officer, considering that his somewhat reckless action had just saved seymour's life. he made brief reply, however, and then resumed his station on the deck of his little vessel, which was rapidly overhauling the rest of the fleet. as soon as the night fell, the wind permitting, they were by seymour's direction headed for the harbor of charleston once more. now that his mind was free again, seymour's thoughts turned to that woman's form of which he had one brief glimpse ere the line-of-battle ship disappeared in the smoke. could it indeed have been katharine wilton? could fate play him such a trick as to awaken once more his sleeping hope? through the long night he tossed in fevered unrest in his narrow berth. again he went over the awful scenes of that one hour of horror. the roar of the guns, the crash of splintered timbers, the groans of the wounded men, rang in his fretted ear. they seemed to rise before him, those gallant officers and men, the hardy, bold sailors, veterans of the sea, audacious youngsters with life long before them, bentley, his old, his faithful friend,--lost--all lost. was there reproach in their gaze? was it worth while, after all? ay, but duty; he had always done his duty--duty always--duty-- ah, they faded away, and katharine looked down upon--it was she--love--duty--love--duty! was that the roar of battle again, or only his beating heart? they found him in the morning, delirious, shouting orders, murmuring words of love, calling kate,--babbling like a child. chapter xxxix _three pictures of the sea_ a short time before sunset that same evening the yarmouth was hove to, and the hoarse cry of the boatswain and his mates was once more heard through the ship, calling,-- "all hands! bury the dead." skilled hands had been working earnestly all the afternoon to repair the damage to the vessel; much had been accomplished, but much more still remained to be done. however, night was drawing on, and it was advisable to dispose of the dead bodies of those who had been killed in the action, or who had died since of their wounds, without further delay. some of the sailmaker's mates had been busy during the afternoon, sewing up the dead in new, clean hammocks, and weighting each one with heavy shot at the feet to draw it down. the bodies were laid in orderly rows amidships, forward of the mainmast, and all was ready when the word was passed. the crew assembled in the gangways facing aft, the boatswain, gunner, carpenter, sailmaker, and other warrant officers at their head. the captain, attended by colonel wilton and the first lieutenant in full uniform, and surrounded by the officers down to the smallest midshipman, stood facing the crew on the quarter-deck; back of the officers, on the opposite side of the deck, the marine guard was drawn up. at the break of the poop stood the slender, graceful figure of a woman, alone, clearly outlined against the low light of the setting sun, looking mournfully down upon the picture, her heart, though filled with sadness and sorrow particularly her own, still great enough to feel sympathy for others. the chaplain, clothed in the white vestments of his sacred office, presently came from out the cabin beneath the poop-deck, and stopped opposite the gangway between the line of men and officers. two of the boatswain's mates, at a signal from the first lieutenant, stepped to the row of bodies and carefully lifted up the first one and laid it on a grating, covering it at the same time with a flag. they next lifted the grating and placed one end of it on the rail overlooking the sea, and held the other in their hands and waited. the captain uncovered, all the other officers and the men following his example. the chaplain began to read from the book in his hand. the first body on the grating was a very small one,--only a boy, looking smaller in contrast to those of the men by which it had lain. the little figure of the honorable giles looked pathetic indeed. some of the little fellow's messmates had hard work to stifle their tears; here and there in the ranks of the silent men the back of a hand would go furtively up to a wet eye, as the minister read on and on. how run the words? "forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty god, in his wise providence, to take out of this world the soul of our deceased brother--" was it indeed thy pleasure, o god, that this little "brother" should die? was thy providence summed up in this little silent figure? alas, who can answer? and then as the even voice of the priest went on with the solemn and beautiful words which never grow familiar,--"we therefore commit his body to the deep,"--the first lieutenant nodded to the watching sailors. they lifted the inboard end of the grating high in the air; a fellow midshipman standing by pulled aside the covering flag; the little body started, moved slowly,--more rapidly; there was a flash of light in the air, a splash in the water alongside. the chaplain motioned for another; it was a man this time,--all the rest were men; four of the seamen lifted him up. again the few short sentences, and the sailor was launched upon another voyage of life. tears were streaming from eyes unused to weeping, tracing unwonted courses down the strangely weather-beaten, wrinkled cheeks; men mourning the loss of shipmate and messmate, friend and fellow. the last one in the row was a gigantic man; over his bosom was laid a little blood-stained flag of different blazoning: there was the blue field as in the heavens, white stars, and red and white stripes that enfolded him like a caress. the sailors lifted him up and waited a moment, until the tall, stately, distinguished figure of the colonel, in his plain civilian dress, stepped out from the group of officers and stood beside the grating; he put his hand upon the flag of his country, glad to do this service for a faithful if humble friend. it was soon over; with a little heavier splash old bentley fell into the sea he had so loved, joining that innumerable multitude of those who, having done their duty, wait for that long-deferred day when the sea shall give up her dead! the woman hid her face within her hands, the great bell of the ship tolled solemnly forward, the sun had set, the men were dismissed, the watch called, and the night fell softly, while the ship glided on in the darkness. another week had elapsed. the yarmouth had been driven steadily northward, and by contrary winds prevented from making her course. she was in a precarious condition too; a further examination had disclosed that some of her spars, especially the mainmast, had been so severely and seriously wounded, even more so than at first reported, as scarcely to permit any sail at all to be set on them, and not fit in anyway to endure stress of weather. the damages had been made good, however, as far as possible, the rigging knotted and spliced, the spars fished and strengthened as well. the ship had been leaking slightly all the time, from injuries received in the fight, in all probability; but a few hours at the pumps daily had hitherto kept her free, and though the carpenter had been most assiduous in a search for the leaks, and had stopped as many as he had been able to come at, some of them could not be found. the weather had steadily changed for the worse as they had reached higher latitudes, and it was now cold, rainy, and very threatening. the captain and his officers were filled with anxiety and foreboding. katharine kept sedulously in her cabin, devoured by grief and despair; and the once cheery colonel, full of deep sympathy for his unfortunate daughter, went about softly and sadly during the long days. the day broke gloomily on one certain unfortunate morning; they had not seen the sun for five days, nor did they see it then. no gladsome light flooded the heavens and awoke the sea; the sky was deeply overcast with cold, dull, leaden clouds that hung low and heavy over the mighty ship; a horror of darkness enshrouded the ocean. away off on the horizon to the northeast the sky was black with great masses of frightful-looking clouds; through the glass the watchful officers saw that rain was falling in torrents from them, while the vivid lightning played incessantly through them. where the ship was, it had fallen suddenly calm, and she lay gently rolling and rocking in the moderate swell; but they could see the hurricane driving down upon them, coming at lightning speed, standing like a solid wall, and flattening the waves by sheer weight. all hands had been called on deck at once, at the first glimpse of the coming hurricane. desborough had the trumpet; the alert and eager topmen were sent aloft to strip the ship of the little canvas which the heavy weather and weakened spars had permitted them to show. it was a race between them and the coming storm. the men worked desperately, madly; some of them had not yet reached the deck when the rain and the wind were upon them. by the captain's direction, the colonel had brought katharine from below, and she was standing on the quarter-deck sheltered by the overhang of the poop above, listlessly watching. desborough had made no progress in his love-affairs; he had too much tact and delicacy to press his suit under the present untoward circumstances, and indeed had been too incessantly occupied with the pressing exigencies of the shattered ship, and the duties of his responsible position thereon, to have any time to spare for more than the common courtesies. the awful storm was at last upon them: a sudden change in its direction caused the first fierce blow to fall fairly upon the starboard side of the ship; it pressed her down on her beam-ends; over and over she went, down, down. would she ever right again? ah, the spliced shrouds and stays on the weather-side, which had been that attacked by the randolph, finally gave way, the mainmast went by the board about halfway below the top, the foremast at the cap, and the mizzentopmast, too; relieved of this enormous mass of heavy top hamper, the ship slowly righted herself. the immense mass of wreckage beat and thundered against the port side; it was a fearful situation, but all was not yet lost. gallantly led by desborough himself, who saw in one sweeping glance that katharine was still safe, the men, with axes and knives, hacked through the rigging which held the wreck of the giant spars to the ship, and after a few moments of sickening suspense she drifted clear; a bit of storm canvas was spread forward on the wreck of the foremast, and the ship got before the wind and drove on, laboring and pitching in the heavy sea. the decks were cleared; and indeed there was little left to clear, the waves having broken over her several times when she lay in the trough of the sea, sweeping everything out with them, and the vessel was a total wreck,--the spars gone, rails and bulwarks battered in and smashed, boats lost, the battle having destroyed these on the starboard side, and the wreck and the sea the others. stop! there was one boat left amidships, a launch capable of holding about forty persons in a pinch, and still seaworthy; it was, by the captain's order, promptly made as serviceable as possible in view of the probable emergency. about four o'clock in the afternoon the carpenter came aft with the sounding-rod of the well in his hand. the strain had been too much for her; some of the weakened timbers had given way, or some of the seams had opened, or perhaps a butt had started, for the ship was leaking badly. still those dauntless men did not despair. the crew were told off in gangs to work, and all night the clank, clank, of the pumps was heard. katharine dutifully laid down as she was bidden; but there was no sleep for her nor any one else on the ship that long night. the day broke again finally, but brought them no cheer: their labor had been unavailing; the leak had gained on them so rapidly that the ship lay low in the water, listless and inert, rolling in a sick, sluggish, helpless way in the trough of the sea. the wind had abated somewhat, and a boat well handled might live in the water now. by captain vincent's direction the men were sent to their stations on the spar, or upper deck. the boat's crew was chosen by selecting every fifteenth man in the long lines, the division officers doing the counting. the boat was launched without tackles, by main strength, sliding on rollers over the side through the broken bulwarks. katharine, listless and indifferent, still attended by chloe, was put aboard. captain vincent looked about among his officers; whom should he put in charge? they all looked deprecatingly and entreatingly at him. none desired to go; no one wished to be singled out to abandon the ship and his brother officers. his glance fell on desborough. "the duty is yours; you are the first officer of the ship." "oh, captain vincent, do not send me, i beg you. my place surely is on the ship with you. cannot some one else--" "no, you must go. my last command to you, my lord," he said, smiling faintly and extending his hand. desborough, seeing the futility of further appeal, grasped it warmly in both his own, bowed to the other officers, and with a wave of his hand stepped on the rail and sprang into the tossing boat alongside. "are there any others to go?" he said. the captain's eye fell upon the figure of the colonel standing among the officers. "you are to go, sir. nay, i will hear of no objections. you are my prisoner, and i am bound to see you delivered safely. go, colonel. i mean it; i will have you put aboard by a file of marines if you do not go at once." katharine awoke from her apathy and stretched out her hands with a piteous cry,-- "father, father, oh, i cannot lose you too." "prisoner or no prisoner, sir," said the colonel, "let me say that i am proud of my connection with you and your officers and your men. if i live to reach the shore, the world shall hear of this noble ending. good-by, captain; good-by, gentlemen. i would fain stay with you." "no, no!" was the cry from this band of heroes; and then hollins sprang forward and shouted,-- "lads! three cheers for the colonel and for our shipmates in the launch! let them tell at home that we were glad to stay by the old ship." the hearty cheers came with a roar from five hundred throats. "good-by, good-by; god bless you!" cried the colonel, choking and utterly overcome, as he got into the boat, and sank down in the stern sheets beside his daughter. "colonel, we have n't a moment of time," whispered desborough, who saw that the ship was sinking. "shove off, men; pull hard!" a few moments of hard rowing in the heavy sea put them some little distance away, and the boat waited under just enough way to give them command of her. the men of the ship kept their stations; calm and peaceful, they also waited. the ship settled lower and lower; a man stepped hurriedly aft; and a moment later the bold and brilliant ensign of old england, which never waved over braver men, fluttered out in the heavy breeze from the wrecked mast-head, the vivid red of the proud flag making a lurid dash of color against the gray sky-line. the ship was lower now. now she plunged forward; the water rose; the captain raised his hand; three hearty cheers rang out; the drums beat; the marines presented arms. she was gone! the flag streamed out bravely on the surface of the water, and then it was drawn down; a confused mass of heads and waving arms was seen in the water, and they too in a moment were slowly drawn down into the vortex caused by the sinking ship. the woman again hid her face in her hands; the colonel laid his arm across the shoulder of his daughter; desborough and the men in the boat stared horribly at the spot left vacant; a deep groan broke from them; they rose on the crest of a wave, sank down again, rose once more and looked again,--the little boat was alone on that mighty sea! oh, the agony of those long and frightful days in that little boat! never a sail did they sight, as day after day they rowed or sailed to the westward, eagerly scanning the horizon for a landfall. the waves washed over them, saturating their clothing; the chill winds of winter froze them. first their provisions gave out, though served with the most rigid economy by desborough himself; then the water, husbanded as no precious jewel was ever hoarded, was exhausted to the last drop, and that drop, by common consent, desborough forced between katharine's reluctant lips, though she would fain have refused it, claiming no indulgence beyond the others. the rare qualities of that young officer showed themselves brilliantly in this frightful peril. it was due to his skill and careful management that they were not swamped a dozen times; tireless, unselfish, cheerful, unsparing of himself, without him they would have died. the men bore their sufferings, when all food and water failed them, with the sturdy resolution of british sailors; desborough his, with the courage of the hero that he was, his fiercest pang being for the white-faced girl who suffered in uncomplaining silence. the colonel exhibited the stoical indifference of a seasoned old soldier, as to his own personal condition, all his thoughts being centred upon his daughter, who passed through the dreadful experience with the calm resignation of a woman who had nothing left to live for, and, strange to say, seemed to feel it less acutely than the rest; even black chloe, who had impartially shared with her mistress in all the favors accorded to her, being in a state of utter exhaustion, amounting to collapse. when the pangs of hunger and thirst got hold of them, they refused--and were indeed entirely unable--to work longer with the oars, so that, unless the wind was fair and the sail was set, they simply drifted on. one by one the sailors died. waking from a troubled sleep of short duration, katharine one day found chloe's dead hand around her feet, her cold lips pressed upon them. some of the men grew mad before they died, and raved and babbled of green fields and running brooks until the end came, and still the little boat drifted on. few and short were the prayers the living said as, day by day they cast the dead into the sea. desborough, the resolute, with undying strength kept steadily at the helm. once only did he speak to katharine in words of love. as their situation grew more and more hopeless, and even his resolute optimism began to fail him, he bent down and whispered in her ear,-- "i would not trouble you now, katharine, but before we die i must tell you once again that i love you. will you believe it?" "i will believe it," she answered dully, giving him her hand. oh, he thought in agony, as he bent over it and kissed it, how thin and white and feeble it was i one morning, after hope was dead, he was listlessly scanning the line of the horizon as the rising sun threw it into relief, more from habit than expectancy, when his heart almost stopped its feeble beating, for land was there before him if his strained eyes did not deceive him. doubting the evidence of his weakened senses, and fearing the delusions of a disordered imagination, he refrained from communicating his impressions to any of the others until the light of day determined the accuracy of his vision. then he whispered the news to katharine, the apathetic woman told it to the sinking colonel, and then desborough cried it to his dying crew. the wind sprang up at the moment too, and in a few hours they beached the boat upon a low sandy shore, with the waves breaking gently over it in long easy rollers. it was a desolate coast, sparsely wooded with small trees, and having little evidence of human habitation about it; but no glimpse of heaven could have more rejoiced a dying soul than this bleak haven to which they had been brought. they staggered, half fell, out of the boat, and lay exhausted, with ghastly haggard faces, on the shining sands, giving thanks to god for his mercy. desborough, as the strongest of the party, started inland, finding by and by a little stream of fresh water, and farther on, on higher ground, seeing a house, the smoke curling from its chimneys showing that it was inhabited. to the bubbling spring he half led, half dragged his shipwrecked party. they drank sparingly by his direction, and were refreshed, for with the cool water life and hope came back to them once more. then he left them again and went on to the house. they had landed on the shore of virginia, and the people of the house welcomed and cared for the poor castaways, sharing with them their humble store with the kindly hospitality for which the land was famous. their long voyage was at an end, their troubles were over. the colonel and katharine would be free again; they might go home once more, and desborough would be a prisoner. book v the dead alive again chapter xl _a final appeal_ it was springtime again in virginia. the sky, its blue depths accentuated by the shifting clouds, was never more clear, wherever it appeared in the intervals of sunshine, nor the air more fresh and pure, even in that land famed for its bright skies and its mild climate, than it was this april day; which, with its sunshine and showers in unregulated alternation, seemed symbolical of life,--that life of which every tender blade of grass, every venturesome flower thrusting its head above the sod, seemed to speak. there was health and strength in the gentle breeze which wantonly played with the budding leaves of the great trees, already putting forth little evangels of that splendid foliage with which they decked themselves in the full glory of summer. that merry wind which swept through the open boat-house at the end of the wharf laid a bold hand upon the curls which fell about the neck of the young girl sitting there by the door near the water on one of the benches, gazing out over the broad reaches of the quiet, ever beautiful potomac, rippled gently by the wind under the late afternoon sun. the gallant little breeze, fragrant with balm and perfume of the trees and flowers, kissed a faint color into her pale cheek, and seemed to whisper to her despondent heart in murmuring sounds that framed themselves into the immortal words "hope, hope." the young girl had but yesterday entered upon her twentieth spring. four months ago there had not been a merrier, lighter-hearted, gayer, more coquettish young maiden in tidewater virginia; and to-day, she thought, as she looked down at her thin hand outlined so clearly upon the vivid cardinal cloak she wore, which had dropped unheeded on the seat by her side, to-day she was like that man in the play of whom her father read,--a grave man. no, not a man at all. once, in her enthusiasm, she had fondly imagined that she had possessed all those daring qualities of energy and action, those manly virtues, which might have been hers by inheritance could the accident of sex have been reversed. but now she knew she was but a woman, after all,--so weak, so feeble, so listless. what had she left to live for? once it was her father, then it was her country, then it was her lover; now? nothing! her father at the request of congress would soon resume his interrupted duties in france, now become more important than ever. he was a man of the world and a soldier, a diplomat. the hard experiences of the past few months were for him episodes, exciting truly, but only part of a lifetime spent in large adventure, soon forgotten in some other strenuous part demanded by some other strenuous exigency. but she,--no, she was not a man at all, but a woman,--unused to such scenes and happenings as fate had lately made her a participant in. her father might have his country,--he had not lost his love, his heart was not buried out in the depths of the cruel sea. what had become of that roman patriotism upon which she prided herself in times past? her country! what had changed her so? there were many answers. there was blodgett's grave at the foot of the hill. she had played in childhood with that faithful old soldier. many a tale had he told her of her gallant father when, as a young man, he gayly rode away to the wars, leaving her lady mother in tears behind. she could sympathize with waiting women now, and understand. those were such deeds of daring that the rude recital of the old man once stirred her very heart with joy and terror; now she was sick at the thought of them. and blodgett was gone; he had died defending them, where he had been stationed. that was an answer. there, too, far away in another state, lay the lover of her girlhood's happy day,--the bright-eyed, eager, gallant, joyous lad. what good comrades they had been! how they had laughed, and played, and ridden, and rowed, and hunted, and danced, and flirted, through the morning of life,--how pleasant had been that life indeed! he was quiet now; she could no longer join in his ringing laugh, the sound of his voice was stilled, they might never play together again,--was there any play at all in life? that was another answer. there was the white-haired mother, the stately little royalist, madam talbot, who slept in peace on the hill at fairview hall, her ambitions, her hopes, and her loyalty buried with her, leaving the place untenanted save by wistful memories; she too had gone. answers?--they crowded thick upon her! there were the officers of the yarmouth, captain vincent, beauchamp, hollins, and the little boy, the honorable giles, and all the other officers and men with whom she had come in contact on that frightful cruise. there were the heroic men who had stayed by their ship, who had seen the favored few go away in the only boat that was left seaworthy, without a murmur at being left behind, who had faced death unheeding, unrepining, sinking down in the dark water with a cheer upon their lips. there was the old sailor, too, with his unquenchable patriotism, her friend because the friend of her lover; and philip, her brother; and there was seymour himself. ah, what were all the rest to him! gone, and how she loved him! she leaned her head upon her hand and thought of him. here in this boat-house he had first spoken to her of his love. here she had first felt his lips touch her cheek. there, rocked gently by the light breeze, upon the water at her feet was the familiar little pleasure-boat; she had not allowed any one to row her about in it since her return, in spite of much entreaty. it was this very cloak she wore that day, nearly the very hour. the place was redolent with sweet memories of happy days, though to think on them now broke her heart. it all came back to her as it had come again and again. she briefly reviewed that acquaintance, short though it was, which had changed the whole course of her life. she saw him again, as he struck prompt to defend her honor in the hall, resenting a ruffian's soiling hand stretched out to her; she saw him lying wounded and senseless there at her feet. she saw him stretched prone on that shattered deck, on that ruined ship, pale, blood-stained, senseless again, again unheeding her bitter cry. she would have called once more upon him, save that she knew humanity has no voice which reaches out into the darkness by which it may call back those who are once gone to live beyond. she did not weep,--that were a small thing, a trifle; she sat and brooded. what had she lost in the service of her country? what sacrifices had been exacted from her by that insatiable country! alas, alas, she thought, men may have a country, a woman has only a heart. four short months had changed it all. how young she had been! would she ever be young again? how full of the joy of life! its currents swept by her unheeded now. why had not god been merciful to her, that she could have died there upon the sea, she thought. ah, poor humanity never learns his mercy; perhaps it is because we have no measure by which to fathom its mighty depths. she saw herself old and lonely, forgotten but not forgetting. but even then lacked she not opportunity; woman-like, in spite of her constancy, she took a melancholy pleasure in the thought that there was one still who hungered for the shattered remnants of her broken heart, who lived for the sound of her voice and the glance other eyes and the light of her face. one there was, handsome, brave, distinguished, gentle, of ancient name, assured station, ample fortune, who longed to lay all he was or had at her feet. but what were these things? nothing to her, nothing. there was but one, as she had said on the ship to desborough: "i love a sailor; you are not he." and yet her soul was filled with pity for the gallant gentleman, and she thought of him tenderly with deep affection. presently she heard quick footsteps on the floor of the boat-house, and turning her head she saw him. he held a letter, an official packet, with the seal broken, open in his hand. "oh, miss wilton, you here?" he said. "i have looked everywhere for you. do you not think the evening air grows chill? is it not too cold for you out here in the boat-house? allow me;" and then, with that gentle solicitude which women prize, he lifted the neglected cloak and tenderly wrapped it about her shoulders. "thank you," she said gratefully, faintly smiling up at him, "but i hardly need it. i do not feel at all cold. the air is so pleasant and the sun is not yet set, you see. did you wish to see me about anything special, lord desborough?" "no--yes--that is-- oh, mistress katharine, the one special want of my life is to see you always and everywhere. you know that,--nay, never lift your hand,--i remember. i will try not to trespass upon your orders again. i came to tell you that--i am going away." "going away," she repeated sadly. "has your exchange been made?" "yes; a courier came to the hall a short time since, and here it is. my orders, you see; i must leave at once." "i am sorry, indeed sorry that you must go." he started suddenly as if to speak, a little flash of hope flickering in his despondent face; but she continued quickly,-- "it has been very pleasant for us to have you here, except that you have been a prisoner; but now you will be free, and for that, of course, i rejoice. but i have so few friends left," she went on mournfully, "i am loath to see one depart, even though he be an enemy." "oh, do not call me an enemy, i entreat you, katharine. oh, let me speak just once again," he interrupted with his usual impetuosity; "and talk not to me of freedom! while the earth holds you i am not free: ay, even should heaven claim you, i still am bound. all the days of my captivity here i have been a most willing and happy prisoner,--your prisoner. i have looked forward with dread and anguish to the day when i might be exchanged and have to go away. here would i have been content to pass my life, by your side. oh, once again let me plead! my duty, my honor, call me now to the service of my king. i no longer have excuse for delay, but you have almost made me forget there was a king. now that i must go, why should i go alone?" he went on eagerly. "i know, i know you love the--the other,--but he is gone. you do not hate me, you even like me; you regret my going; perhaps as days go by, you will regret it more. we are at least friends; let me take care of you in future. oh, it kills me to see you so white, and indifferent to life and all that it has or should have for you. you are only a girl yet,--i cannot bear to see all the color gone out of your sweet face, the light out of your eyes; the sight of that thin hand breaks my heart. won't you live for me to love,--live, and let me love you? your father goes to-morrow, so he says, and you will be left alone here; why should it be? go with me. give me a right to do what my heart aches to do for you,--to coax the roses back into your cheek, to woo the laugh to your lips, to win happiness back to your heart; to devote my life to you, darling. have pity on me, have pity on my love,--have pity!" his voice dropped into a passionate whisper; as he pleaded with her, he sank down upon one knee by her side, beseeching by word and gesture and look that she should show him that pity he could see in her eyes, that he knew was in her heart, and to which he made his last appeal; and then, lifting the hem of her dress to his lips with an unconscious movement of passionate reverence, he waited. she looked at him in silence a moment. so young, so handsome, so appealing, her heart filled with sorrow and sympathy for him. there was hope in his eyes which she had not seen for many days; how could she drive it away and crush his heart! it might be cruel, but she had no answer, no other answer, no new word, to tell him. her eyes filled with tears; she could not trust herself to speak, she only shook her head. "ah," he said, rising to his feet and throwing up his hands with a gesture of despair, "i knew it. well, the dream is over at last. this is the end. i sought life, and found death; that, at least, if it shall come i shall welcome. would god i had gone down with the ship! you have no pity; you let a dead image--an idea--stand between you and a living love. will you never forget?" "never," she said softly. "love knows no death. he is alive--here. but do not grieve so for me; i am not worth it. you will go away and forget, and--" "no; you have said it, 'love knows no death.' i, too, cannot forget. as long as i live i shall love--and remember. how if i waited and waited? katharine, i would wait forever for you," he said, suddenly catching at the trifle. "no, it would be no use. my friend, we both must suffer; it cannot be otherwise. i esteem you, respect you, admire you. you have protected me, honored me; my gratitude--" she went on brokenly, "you might ask anything of me but my heart, and that is given away." "let me take you without it, then. i want but you." "no, lord desborough, it cannot be. do not ask me again. no, i cannot say i wish it otherwise." his flickering hope died away in silence. "katharine, will you promise me, if there ever comes a time--" "i promise," she said; "but the time will never come." he looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a long silence, and then he said,-- "i must go now, katharine. i suppose i must bid you good-by now?" "yes, i think it would be best." "i shall pass this way again on my journey to alexandria in half an hour; may i not speak once more to you then?" "no," she said finally, after a long pause. "i think it best that we should end it now. it can do no good at all. good-by, and may god bless you." he bent and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked at her, saying never a word. "good-by, again," she said. on the instant he turned and left her. chapter xli _into the haven, at last_ two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river road just where it entered the wilton plantation. one was young, a mere boy in years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibility accompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his age warranted. the other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than his companion, though closer inspection would show that he was still a young man, and that those marks upon his face which the careless passer-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by the fingers of grief and trouble. the bronzed and weather-beaten faces of both riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go down upon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by the faded, worn naval uniforms they wore. in spite of the joy of springtime which was all about them, both were silent and both were sad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, less intense, than that of the man. he was too young to realize the greatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father and sister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by the presence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the careless elasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his own sorrow. the man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearer still. he looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of his countenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness were plainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thick neatly tied locks, too, that had no rightful place there in one of his age. the younger and stronger assisted and watched over his older companion with the tenderest care and attention. they rode slowly up the pleasant road under the great trees, from time to time engaging in a desultory conversation. philip endeavored to cheer his companion by talking lightly of boyhood days, as each turn of the road brought familiar places in the old estate in view. here he and katharine and hilary had been wont to play; there was a favorite spot, a pleasant haunt here, this had been the scene of some amusing adventure. these well-meant reminiscences nearly drove seymour mad, but he would not stop them. finally, they came to the place where the road divided, one branch pursuing its course along the river-bank past the boat-house toward the talbot place, the other turning inland from the river and winding about till it surmounted the high bluff and reached the door of the hall. there philip drew rein. "this is the way to the hall, you know, captain seymour," he said, pointing to the right. seymour hesitated a moment, and said finally,-- "yes, i know; the boat-house lies over there, does it not, beyond the turn? i think i will let you go up to the house alone, philip, and i will go down to the boat-house myself. i will ride back presently." "well, then, i will go with you," said philip. "i really think you are too weak, you know, especially after our long ride to-day, to go alone." "no, philip," said seymour, gently, "i wish to be alone for a few moments." the boy hesitated. "oh, very well," he said, beginning to understand, "i will sit down here on this tree by the road and wait for you. i 'll tie my horse, and you can leave yours here also, if you wish. there is nothing at the hall, god knows, to make me hurry up there now, since father and katharine are gone," he continued with a sigh. "go on, sir, i'll wait. you won't mind my waiting?" "no, certainly not, if you wish it i shall be back in a few minutes anyway. i just want to see the--the--ah--boathouse, you know." "yes, certainly, i understand, of course," replied philip, bluntly, but carefully looking away, and then dismounting from his tired horse and assisting seymour to do the same from his. "poor old fellow!" he murmured, as he saw the man walk haltingly and painfully up the road and disappear around the little bend. left to himself seymour stumbled alone along the familiar road over which a few short months before he had often travelled light-heartedly by the side of katharine. as he pressed on, he noticed a man leave the boat-house and climb slowly up the hill. desirous of escaping the notice of the stranger, who, he supposed, might be the factor or agent of the plantation, he waited in the shadow of the trees until the man disappeared over the brow of the hill, and then he staggered on. a short time after, he stood on the landward end of the little pier, and then his heart stood still for a second, and then leaped madly in his breast, as he seemed to hear a subtle voice, like an echo of the past, which whispered his name, "seymour! seymour!" stepping toward the middle of the pier so that he could see the interior of the boat-house through the inner door, his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman standing in the other doorway looking out over the water, stretching out her hands. the sun had set by this time, and the gray dusk of the evening was stealing over the river. he could not see distinctly, but there was light enough to show him a familiar scarlet cloak at her feet, and although her back was turned to him, he recognized the graceful outlines of her slender figure. it was katharine, or a dream! but could the dead return again? had the sea given up her dead indeed? he could not believe the evidence of his bewildered senses. it might be an hallucination, the baseless fabric of a vision, some image conjured from the deep recesses of his loving heart by his enfeebled disordered imagination, and yet he surely had heard a living voice, "seymour--john--oh, my love!" stifling the beating of his heart, holding his breath even, stepping softly, lest he should affright the airy vision, he staggered to the door and stood gazing; then he whispered one word,-- "katharine!" it was only a whisper she heard, but it reached the very centre of her being. "katharine," he said softly again, with so much passionate entreaty in his wistful voice, that under its compelling influence she slowly turned and looked toward the other door from whence the sound had come. then as she saw him, lifting one hand to her head while the other unconsciously sought her heart, she shrank back against the wall, and stared at him in voiceless terror. he dropped unsteadily to his knee, as if to worship at a shrine. "oh, do not go away," he whispered. "i know it is only a dream of mine--so many times have i seen you, ever since the night the frigate struck and i sent you to your death on that rocky pass, in that beating sea. ay, in the long hours of the fever--but you did not shrink away from me then, you listened to me say i love you, and you answered." he stretched out his hand toward her in tender appeal. she bent forward toward him. he rose to his feet, half in terror. "kate," he said uncertainly, "is it indeed you? are you alive again?" she was nearer now. one glad cry broke from her lips; he was in her arms again, and she was clasped to his heart!--a real woman and no dream, no vision. what the wind could only faintly shadow forth upon her cheek, sprang into life under the touch of his fevered lips, and color flooded them like a wave. laughing, crying, sobbing, she clung to him, kissed him with little incoherent murmurs, gazed at him, wept over him, kissed him again. all the troubles of the intervening days of sadness and privation faded away from her like a disused chrysalis, and she sparkled with life and love like a butterfly new born. he that was dead was alive again, he had come back, and he was here! as for him, in fearful surprise, he held her to his breast once more, still unbelieving. she noticed then an empty sleeve, and raised it tenderly to her lips. "i lost it after an action with the british ship yarmouth,--it was only a flesh wound at first,--we were long in reaching charleston; the arm had to be amputated. it was a fearful action." "i know it," she interrupted; "i was there." "you, katharine! ah, that woman on the ship! i was not deceived then, and yet i could not believe it." "yes, 'twas i. i gloried in your bravery, until i saw you lying, as i thought, dead on the deck. oh, john, the horror of that moment! then i called you, and you did not answer. then i wanted to die, too, but now i am alive again, and so happy--but for this;" she lifted the empty sleeve to her lips. "how you must have suffered, my poor darling," she went on, her eyes filling with tears, her heart yearning over him. "and how ill you look, and i keep you standing here,--how thoughtless! come to the bench here and sit down. lean on me." "nay, but, kate, you too have suffered. see!" he lifted her arm, the loose sleeve fell back. "oh, how thin it is, and how smooth and round and plump it was when i kissed it last," he said, as he raised it tenderly again to his lips. "it is nothing, john. i shall be all right now that you are here. you poor shattered lover, how you must have suffered!" she went on, with a sob in her voice. "oh, katharine, this," looking down at his empty sleeve, "was nothing to what i suffered before, when i thought i had killed you!" "when you thought you had killed me!" she said in surprise. they were sitting close together now, and she had his hand in both her own. "how--when, was that?" and then he told her rapidly about the loss of the radnor, and the idea which her note had given that she was on board of it. "and you led that ship down to destruction, believing i was on her! how could you do it, john?" she said reproachfully. "it was my duty, darling kate," he said desperately. "and did you love your duty more than me?" "love it? i hated it! but i had to do it, dearest," he went on pleadingly. "honor--you told me so yourself, here, in this very spot; i remember your words; do you not recall them?--'if i stood in the pathway of liberty for a single instant i should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation.' don't you know you said that, katharine?" "did i say it? ah, but that was before i loved you so, and you swept me aside,--well, i love you still, and, john, i honor you for it too; but i could not do it. you see, i am only a woman." "kate, don't say 'only a woman' that way; what else would i have you, pray? but tell me of yourself." briefly she recited the events that had occurred to her, dwelling much upon desborough's courage and devotion to her in the first days of her captivity, the death of johnson, the burning of norfolk, the death of bentley. he interrupted her there, and would fain hear every detail of the sad scene over again, thanking her and blessing her for what she had done. "it was nothing," she said simply; "i loved to do it; he was your friend. it seemed to bring me closer to you." then she told him of the foundering of the ship, of the frightful voyage in the boat, and rang the changes upon desborough's name, his cheerfulness, his unfailing zeal and energy, until seymour's heart filled with jealous pain. "kate," he said at last, "as i came up the road i saw a man leave the boat-house and climb the hill; who was it?" "it was lord desborough, john." seymour was human, and filled with human feeling. he drew away from her. "what was he doing here?" he said coldly. she smiled at him merrily. "bidding me good-by. he was made prisoner, of course, by the first soldier we came across after we landed, and has been spending the days of his captivity with us. he was exchanged to-day, and leaves to-night." "katharine, he was in love with you!" he said, with what seemed to him marvellous perspicacity. "yes, john," she answered, still smiling. "was he making love to you here?" "yes." "and you? you praise this man, you like him, you--" "i think him the bravest man, the truest gentleman in the world--except this one," she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder and her head upon his breast. "no, no; he pleaded in vain. i only pitied him; i loved you. do not be jealous, foolish boy. no one should have me. i am yours alone." "but if i had not come back, kate,--how then?" "it would have made no difference. i told him so." neither of them in their mutual absorption had noticed that a horse had stopped in the road opposite the boat-house, and a horseman had walked to the door and had halted at the sight which met his eyes. desborough recognized seymour at once, and he had unwittingly heard the end of the conversation. he was the second. the man was back again. it was true. the gallant gentleman stood still a moment, making no sound, then turned back and mounted his horse, and rode madly away with despair in his heart. "oh, katharine," seymour said at last, "do you know that i am a poor man now? lame! see, i can no longer walk straight." he stood up. "poor surgery after the battle did that." "the more reason that in the future you should not go alone," she said softly, standing by his side. "and with but one arm," he continued. "no, three," she said again, "for here are two." "besides, my trading ships have been captured by the enemy, my private fortune has been spent for the cause. i am a poor man in every sense." "nay, john, you are a rich man," she said gayly. "oh, yes, rich in your love, katharine." "yes, that of course, if that be riches, and richer in honor too; but that's not all." "what else pray, dearest?" "did you know that madam talbot had died?" she answered, with apparent irrelevance. "no, but i am not surprised at it. after her son's death i expected it, poor lady. he loved you too, kate. we fought about you once," he said; and then he told her briefly of talbot's end, his burial, the interview he had with talbot's mother, and the letter. "i have seen that letter since i returned," she said. "it is at fairview hall now awaiting you, awaiting its master like the other things there,--and here. shall we live there, think you, john?" "awaiting me! its master! live there! what mean you, kate?" he cried in surprise. "yes, yes, it is all yours," she replied, laughing at his astonishment. "a codicil to her will, written and signed the day before she died, the day after you saw her, left it all to you. it was to have been her son's and then mine; and when she believed us dead, as she had no relatives in this land she left it to you, 'as,' i quote her own words, 'a true and noble gentleman who honors any cause, however mistaken, to which he may give his allegiance.' i quote them, but they are my own words as well. you are a rich man, john, and the two estates will come together as father and madam talbot had hoped, after all." "i am glad, kate, for your sake." "it is nothing. i should have taken you, if you had nothing at all." a young man ran down the little pier and into the house at this moment. "kate," he cried, "where are you? it is so dark here i can hardly see-- ah, there you are!" he ran forward and kissed her boisterously. "you 'll have to forgive me, i could not wait any longer, captain seymour. father rode down the hill after lord desborough galloped by me, and met me there, waiting. oh, i was so glad to know you were alive again! we felt like a pair of murderers, did n't we, captain seymour? father told me you were here, kate, and then we waited until now, to give you a little time, and then i could n't stand it any longer, i had to see you. father's coming too, but i ran ahead." "why, philip," cried kate, as soon as he gave her an opportunity, kissing him again and laughing light-heartedly as she has not done for days, "how you have grown! you are quite a man now." "it is entirely due to philip, katharine, that i am here," said seymour. "he commanded the little brig which ran down to the yarmouth at the risk of destruction, and picked me up. disobeyed orders too, the young rogue. he brought me into charleston, nursed me like a woman, and then brought me here. i should have died without him." "oh, philip," said the delighted girl, kissing the proud and happy youngster with more warmth than he had ever known before, "promise me always to disobey your orders. how can i thank you!" "very bad advice that. promise nothing of the kind, philip; but what are you thanking him for, kate?" said the cheery voice of the colonel as he came in the door. "thanking him for seymour, father." "ah, my boy," said the colonel, grasping his hand, "you don't know how glad i am to see you. it is like one returning from the dead. but it is late and cold and quite dark. supper is ready, let us go up to the hall. i shall see the naval commissioners in a few days, seymour, and get you another and a better ship. the country is full of your action; they 've struck a medal for you and voted you prize money and thanks, and all that. i make no doubt i can get you the best ship there is on the ways, or planned. 't was a most heroic action--" "not now, father," said katharine, jealously, throwing her arm about her lover. "he shall not, cannot, go now; he must have rest for a long time, and he must have me! we are to be married as soon as he is well, and the country must wait. is it not so, john?" "what's that?" said the colonel, pretending great surprise. "sir," answered seymour, nervously, "i have something to say to you,--something i must say. will you give me the privilege of a few moments' conversation with you?" "seymour," said the colonel, smiling, "you asked me that once before, did you not?" "yes, sir, i believe so." "and i answered you--how?" "why, you said, if my memory serves me, that you--" "exactly, that i would see you after supper, and so i will. come, children, let us go in; this time i warrant you there will be no interruptions." the father and son turned considerately and walked away, leaving the two lovers to follow. "you won't leave me, john, will you, now that you have just come back?" "no, kate, not now; i am good for nothing until i get strong." "good for me, though; but when you do get strong?" "then, if my country needs me, dearest, i shall have to go. but i fear there will be no more ships of ours to get to sea, the blockade is getting more strict every day. i can be a soldier, though. no, kate, do not beg me. my duty to my country constrains me." "don't talk about it now, then, john. at least i shall have you for a long time; it will be long before you are well again." "yes, i fear so," he said with a sigh. "why do you sigh, dearest?" "because i want to stay with you, and i ought to welcome any opportunity to enter active service. think what old bentley would say." "old bentley did not love you," she replied quickly, with a jealous pang. "ah, did he not!" said seymour, softly. there was a long pause. "well," said katharine at last, "i suppose nothing will move you if your duty calls you, but i warn you if you get killed again, i shall die. i could not stand it another time," she cried piteously. "well, dearest, i shall try to live for you. now we must go to the hall." but, to anticipate, fate would be kinder toward katharine in the future than she had been in the past and it was many a day before her lover, her husband rather, was able to get to sea; and, as if they had suffered enough, he went through the rest of the war on land and sea scatheless, and was one of those who stood beside the great commander before the trenches of yorktown, when the british soldiers laid down their arms. but this was all of the future, and now they turned quietly and somewhat sadly to follow the others. this time it was katharine who helped seymour up the hill. slowly, hand in hand, they walked across the lawn, up the steps of the porch, and toward the door of the hall. the night had fallen, and the house was filled with a soft light from the wax candles. they paused a moment on the threshhold; katharine resolutely mastered her fears and resolved to be happy in the present, then, heedless of all who might see, she kissed him. "home at last, john," she said, beaming upon him. and there, with the dark behind, and the light before, we may say good-by to them. file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) the house of the misty star [illustration: she quickly walked across the burning coal] the house of the misty star a romance of youth and hope and love in old japan by frances little (fannie caldwell macaulay) author of "the lady of the decoration," etc. [illustration] new york the century co. copyright, , by the century co. copyright, , , by the curtis publishing company _published, april, _ to a faithful friend nui shiome of tokio. contents chapter page i enter jane gray ii kishimoto san calls iii zura iv jane gray brings home a man v a call and an invitation vi zura wingate's visit vii an interrupted dinner viii mr. chalmers sees the garden and hears the truth ix jane hopes; kishimoto despairs x zura goes to the festival xi a broken shrine xii a dream comes true xiii a thanksgiving dinner xiv what the setting sun revealed xv pinkey chalmers calls again xvi enter kobu, the detective xvii a visit to the kencho xviii a visitor from america xix "the end of the perfect day" list of illustrations she quickly walked across the burning coal _frontispiece_ page through the sinister shadows of flying sparrow street zura wingate advanced to my lowly seat on the floor, and listlessly put out one hand to greet me the bowing, bending, and indrawing of breath page started forward. a sound stopped him "god in heaven. how can i tell her!" "oh, god! a thief! it's over!" oh! boy, boy, i thought i'd lost you the house of the misty star [illustration] the house of the misty star i enter jane gray it must have been the name that made me take that little house on the hilltop. it was mostly view, but the title--supplemented by the very low rent--suggested the first line of a beautiful poem. nobody knows who began the custom or when, but for unknown years a night-light had been kept burning in a battered old bronze lantern swung just over my front door. through the early morning mists the low white building itself seemed made of dreams; but the tiny flame, slipping beyond the low curving eaves, shone far at sea and by its light the japanese sailors, coming around the rocky tongue of dragons point in their old junks, steered for home and rest. to them it was a welcome beacon. they called the place "the house of the misty star." in it for thirty years i have toiled and taught and dreamed. from it i have watched the ships of mighty nations pass--some on errands of peace; some to change the map of the world. through its casements i have seen god's glory in the sunsets and the tenderness of his love in the dawns. the pink hills of the spring and the crimson of the autumn have come and gone, and through the carved portals that mark the entrance to my home have drifted the flotsam and jetsam of the world. they have come for shelter, for food, for curiosity and sometimes because they must, till i have earned my title clear as step-mother-in-law to half the waifs and strays of the orient. once it was a chinese general, seeking safety from a mob. then it was a fierce-looking russian suspected as a spy and, when searched, found to be a frightened girl, seeking her sweetheart among the prisoners of war. the high, the low, the meek, and the impertinent, lost babies, begging pilgrims and tailless cats--all sooner or later have found their way through my gates and out again, barely touching the outer edges of my home life. but things never really began to happen to me, i mean things that actually counted, until jane gray came. after that it looked as if they were never going to stop. you see i'd lived about fifty-eight years of solid monotony, broken only by the novelty of coming to japan as a school teacher thirty years before and, although my soul yearned for the chance to indulge in the frills of romance, opportunity to do so was about the only thing that failed to knock at my door. from the time i heard the name of ursula priscilla jenkins and knew it belonged to me, i can recall but one beautiful memory of my childhood. it is the face of my mother in its frame of poke bonnet and pink roses, as she leaned over to kiss me good-by. i never saw her again, nor my father. yellow fever laid heavy tribute upon our southern united states. i was the only one left in the big house on the plantation, and my old black nurse was the sole survivor in the servants' quarters. she took me to an orphan asylum in a straggly little southern town where everything from river banks to complexions was mud color. bareness and spareness were the rule, and when the tall, bony, woman manager stood near the yellow-brown partition, it took keen eyes to tell just where her face left off and the plaster began. she did not believe in education. but i was born with ideas of my own and a goodly share of ambition. i learned to read by secretly borrowing from the wharf master a newspaper or an occasional magazine which sometimes strayed off a river packet. then i paid for a four years' course at a neighboring semi-college by working and by serving the other students. i did everything--from polishing their shoes to studying their lessons for them; it earned me many a penny and a varied knowledge of human nature. but nothing ever happened to me as it did to the other girls. i never had a holiday; i was never sick; i never went to a circus; and i never even had a proposal. one night i went to church and heard a missionary from japan speak. my goodness! how that man could say words! his appeal for workers to go to the flowery kingdom was as convincing as the hump on his nose, as irresistible as the fire in his eyes. the combination ended in my coming as a teacher to the eager nipponese, who were all athirst for english. japan i knew was a country all by itself, and not a slice off of china; that it raised rice, kimonos and heathen. otherwise it was only a place on the map. whatever the new country might hold, at least, i thought, it would open a door that would lead me far away from the drab world in which i lived. my appointment led me to the little city of hijiyama, overlooking the magical inland sea. it is swung in the cleft of a mountain like a clustered jewel tucked in the folds of a giant velvet robe. it is a place of crumbling castles and lotus-filled moats. here progress hesitated before the defiant breath of the ancient gods. for centuries a city of content, whispers of greater things finally reached the listening ears of eager youth, fired ambition, demanded things foreign, especially the english language, and i came in on this great wave. i found near contentment and sober joy in my work and my beautiful old garden. but deep down in my heart i was waiting, ever waiting, for something to happen--something big, stirring, and tremendous, something romantic and poetical; but it never did. year after year i wore the groove of my life deeper, but never slipped out of it, and one day was so like another it was hard to believe that even a night separated them. then without the slightest warning the change came. one day in my mail i found a letter from a student which read as follows: o! most respected teacher. how it was our great pleasure to write your noble personage. when i triumphed to my native home after speaking last lesson before your honorable face, my knowledge was informed by rumors of gossip that in most hateful place in city of hijiyama was american lady. she wear name of miss jaygray. who have affliction of kind heart and very bad health. also she have white hair and no medicine. street she live in have also japanese gentlemans what kill and steal and even lie. very bad for lady who have nice thought for gentlemans, and speak many words about christians god. now not one word can she speak. her sicker too great. your great country say "unions is strong and we stand together till divided by falling out." please union with lady countryman and also divide. she very tired. i think little hungry too. yours verily takata. (some little more.) go down house of flying-sparrow street and discover tube-rose lane. there maybe you see policeman. he whistle his two partner. hand in hand they show you bad gentlemens street where lives sick ladys mansion. i hastened at once to the succor of my sick countrywoman. the way led through streets obscure and ill-kept, the inhabitants covertly seeking shelter as the policemen and i approached. it was a section i knew to be the rendezvous of outcasts of this and neighboring cities. it was a place where the bravest officer never went alone. for making a last stand for the right to their pitiful sordid lives, the criminals herded together in one desperate band when danger threatened any of the brotherhood. the very stillness of the streets bespoke hidden iniquity. every house presented a closed front. surely, i thought, ignorance of conditions could be the only excuse for any woman of any creed choosing to live in such surroundings as these. in the cleanest of the hovels i found miss gray, her middle-aged figure shrunken to the proportions of a child. there was no difficulty in finding the cause of her illness. she was half-starved. her reason for being in that section was as senseless as it was mistaken, except to one whose heart had been fired by a passion for saving souls. after being revived by a stimulant from my emergency kit, she told me her name, which i already knew, that she was an american and her calling that of a missionary. i thought i knew every type of the profession and i was proud to call many of them my friends, but miss gray was an original model, peculiar in quality and indefinite in pattern. "does your mission board give you permission to live in a place or fashion like this?" i asked sternly. "haven't any board," she answered weakly. "i'm an independent." "independent what?" i demanded. "independent daughter of hope." her appearance was a libel on any variety of independence and a joke on hope, but i waited for the rest of the story. she said that the order to which she belonged was not large. she was one of a small band of women bound by a solemn oath to go where they could and seek to help and uplift fallen humanity by living the life of the native poor. she had chosen japan because it was "so pretty and poetical." she had worked her way across the pacific as stewardess on a large steamer, and had landed in hijiyama a few months before with enough cash to keep a canary bird in delicate health for a month. her enthusiasm was high, her zeal blazed. if only her faith were strong enough to stand the test, her need for food and clothing would be supplied from somewhere. "now," she moaned, "something has happened. maybe my want of absolute trust brought me to it. i'm sick and hungry and i've failed. oh! i wanted to help these sweet people; i wanted to save their dear souls." i was skeptical as to this special brand of philanthropy, but i was touched by the grief of her disappointed hopes. i knew the particular sting. at the same time my hand twitched to shake her for going into this thing in so impractical a way. teaching and preaching in a foreign land may include romance, but i've yet to hear where the most enthusiastic or fanatical found nourishment or inspiration on a diet of visions pure and simple. while there must be something worth while in a woman who could starve for her belief, yet in the eyes of the one before me was the look of a trusting child who would never know the practical side of life any more than she would believe in its ugliness. it was not faith she needed. it was a guardian. "maybe i had better die," she wailed. "dead missionaries are far too few to prove the glory of the cause." i suggested that live ones could glorify far more than dead ones, and told her that i was going to take her home with me and put strength into her body and a little judgment into her head, if i could. she broke out again. "oh, i cannot go! i must stay here! if work is denied me, maybe it is my part to starve and prove my faith by selling my soul for the highest price." although i was to learn that this was a favorite expression of miss gray's, the meaning of which she never made quite clear to me, that day it sounded like the melancholy mutterings of hunger. for scattering vapors of pessimism, and stirring up symptoms of hope, i'd pin my faith to a bowl of thick hot soup before i would a book full of sermons. without further argument i called to some coolies to come with a "kago," a kind of lie-down-sit-up basket swung from a pole, and in it we laid the weak, protesting woman. the men lifted it to their shoulders and the little procession, guarded fore and aft by a policeman, moved through the sinister shadows of flying sparrow street to the clearer heights of "the house of the misty star." long training had strengthened, and association had verified my unshakable belief that the most essential quality of the very high calling of a missionary, is an unlimited supply of consecrated commonsense. so far, not a vestige of it had i discovered in the devotee i was taking to my home, but jane gray was as full of surprises as she was of sentiment. [illustration: through the sinister shadows of flying sparrow street] she not only stayed in my house, but with her coming the spell of changeless days was broken. it was as if her thin hand held the charm by which my door of opportunity was flung wide, and through it i saw my garden of dreams bursting into flower. ii kishimoto san calls i had always been dead set against taking a companion permanently into my home. for one reason i heeded the warning of the man who made the japanese language. to denote "peace" he drew a picture of a roof with a woman under it. evidently being a gentleman of experience, he expressed the word "trouble" by adding another person of the same sex to the picture without changing the size of the roof. then, too, there was my cash account to settle with. ever since i'd been drawing a salary from the national education board of missions, i felt like apologizing to the few feeble figures that stared accusingly at me from my small ledger, for the demands i made upon them for charity, for sickness, and for entertainment of all who knocked at my door. my classes were always crowded, but there were times when the purses of my students were more lean than their bodies. frequently such an one looked at me and said, "moneys have all flewed away from my pockets. only have vast consuming fire for learning." it being against my principle to see anybody consumed while i had a rin, there was nothing to do but make up to the board what i had failed to collect. these circumstances caused me to hesitate risking the peace of my household, or putting one more responsibility on my purse. then sweet potatoes decided me. it was a matter of history that famine, neither wide-spread nor local, ever gained a foothold where "satsuma emo" flourished. this year they were fatter and cheaper than ever before. i knew dozens of ways to fix them, natural and disguised; so i bought an extra supply and made up my mind to keep jane gray. the little missionary thrived in her new environment as would a drooping plant freshly potted. as she grew stronger, she hinted at trying once again to live in her old quarters, that she might fast and work and pray for her sinners. i promptly suppressed any plans in that direction. after all, i had been a lonelier woman than i realized, and jane was like a kitten with a bell around its neck--one grows used to its playing about the house and misses it when gone. she also resembled a fixed star in her belief that she had been divinely appointed to carry a message of hope to the vilest of earth, and i felt that the same power had charged me with the responsibility of impressing her with a measure of commonsense. so we compromised for a while at least. she would stay with me, and i would not interfere with her work in the crime section, nor give way to remarks on the subject. i was sure the conditions in the quarter would prove impossible, but as some people cannot be convinced unless permitted to draw their own diagram of failure, it was best for her to try when she was able to make the effort. the making of an extra room in a japanese house is only a matter of shifting a paper screen or so into a ready-made groove. it took me some time to decide whether i should screen off jane in the corner that commanded a full view of the wonderful sea, or at the end where by sliding open the paper doors she could step at once into the fairy land of my garden. jane decided it herself. i discovered her stretched in an old wheel-chair before the open doors, looking into the sun-flooded greenery of the garden, and heard her softly repeating, "fair as plumes of dreams in a land where only dreams come true, and flutes of memory waken longings forgotten." any one who felt that way about my garden had a right to live close to it. in half an hour jane was established. my enthusiasm waned a bit the next day when i found all the pigeons in the neighborhood fluttering about the open door, fearlessly perching on the invalid's lap and shoulders while she fed them high-priced rice and dainty bits of dearly-bought chicken. i dispersed the pigeons with a flap of my apron and with forced mildness protested. "i'm obliged to ask you to be less generous. the price of rice is higher than those pigeons can fly and, as for chicken, it's about ten sen a feather. there's abundant food for you; but we cannot afford to feed all the fowls of the air." "oh! dear miss jenkins, i couldn't drive them away. the cunning things! every coo they uttered sounded like a love word." i hoped it was the patient's physical weakness, and not a part of her nature. i could not possibly survive a steady diet of emotion so tender that it bubbled over at the flutter of a pigeon's wing. i'd brought it on myself, however, and i was determined to share my home and my life with jane gray. sentimental and visionary as she was, with the funny little twist in her tongue, the poor excuse of a body seemed the last place power of any kind would choose for a habitation. i was not disposed to attribute the supernatural to my companion, but from the day of her arrival unusual events popped up to speak for themselves. a nearby volcano, asleep for half a century, blew off its cap, covering land and sea with ashes and fiery lava. all my pink roses bloomed weeks earlier than they had any business to, and for the first time in years my old gardener got drunk. between dashes of cold water on his head he tearfully wailed my unexpressed sentiments, in part: "too many damfooly things happen all same time. evil spirit get loose. sake help me fight. me nice boy. me ve'y good boy but i no like foreign devil what is." then one day, about a month after my family had been enlarged, i had just wheeled my newly acquired responsibility out in the garden to sun when kishimoto san called. he often came for consultation. while his chief interest in life was to keep hijiyama strictly japanese and rigidly buddhist, he was also superintendent of schools for his district and educational matters gave us a common interest. however, the late afternoon was an unusual hour for him to appear and one glance at his face showed trouble of a personal nature had drawn heavy lines in his mask of calmness. i had known kishimoto san for twenty years. part of him i could read like a primer; the other part was a sealed volume to which i doubt if even buddha had the key. sometimes when he was calling i wished gabriel would appear in my doorway and announce the end of the world to see, if without omitting a syllable, kishimoto would keep on to the end of the last phrase in the greeting prescribed for the occasion. the ceremony off his mind, he sat silent, unresponsive to the openings i tried to make for a beginning. not till i had exhausted small talk of current events and asked after his family in particular instead of his ancestors in general, did his tongue loosen. then the floodgates of his pent-up emotion opened and forth poured a torrent of anger, disappointment, and outraged pride. i had never before seen a man so shaken, but then i hadn't seen many, much less one with the red blood of daimyos in his veins. he was a man whose soul dwelt in the innermost place of a citadel built of ancient beliefs and traditions. out of the unchecked flood of denunciation, i learned that he held christianity responsible for his woes. i, as a believer and an american, must hear what he thought; as his friend i must advise him if i could. in the twenty years that i had known the school superintendent, he had always been reserved regarding his personal and family life. to me his home was a vague, blurred background in which possible members of his family moved. he surprised me this day by referring in detail to the bitter grief which had come to him in years gone by through his only child. i had heard the story outside, but not even remotely had kishimoto san ever before hinted that he possessed a child. i knew his need for help must be imperative, that the wound was torn afresh, else he was too good a buddhist to make "heavy the ears of a friend" with a recital of his own sorrows. he said he had been most ambitious for his daughter. years ago he had sent her to yokohama to study english and music. while there the girl lived with his sister who had absorbed many new ideas regarding liberty for women. once he was absent from japan and without his knowledge the girl married an american artist, harold wingate by name, and went with him to his country to live. kishimoto san had not seen her since her marriage until lately. he had honorably prayed that he never would. some weeks before she had returned to hijiyama practically penniless, which was bad, and a widow, which made it very difficult to marry her off again; but worse still was the half-breed child she had brought with her, a daughter of about seventeen. this girl, whose name was zura, i soon found was the sore spot in kishimoto san's grievance, the center around which his storm of trouble brewed. it was like pouring oil on flames when i asked particularly about the girl. though he could speak english that was quite understandable, he broke loose in japanese hardly translatable. "she is a wild, untamed barbarian. she has neither manners nor modesty, and not only dares openly to scorn the customs of my country and religion, but defies my commands, my authority." knowing him as i did, i thought it must indeed be a free, wild spirit to meet the blow of kishimoto san's will and not be crushed by the impact. my interest in the girl increased in proportion to his vehemence. i ventured to ask for details. they came in a torrent. "it is not our custom for young girls to go on the street unattended. i forbade her going. deaf to my orders, she strays about the streets alone and dares to sail her own sampan. she handles it as deftly as a common fisherman. she goes to out-of-the-way places and there remains till it suits her impudence to return to my house. in the hours of the night she disturbs my meditations by sobbing for her home and her father. she romps on the highways with street children, who follow her as they would a performing monkey." "but surely," i mildly interposed, "it is no great breach of custom to play with children. your granddaughter is doubtless lonely and it may give her pleasure." the face of my visitor stiffened. "pleasure!" he repeated. "does she not know that a woman's only pleasure is obedience? is there not enough of my blood in her to make her bow to the law? twice she has told me to attend to my own affairs! told me! her ancestor! her master!" this last word he always pronounced with a capital m. kishimoto san was not cruel. unlike many of his countrymen, who are educated by modern methods as regarding laws governing women, he was still an old-time oriental in the raw. it was at this uncomfortable moment that the little maid brought in tea. i instructed her to serve it on the balcony which overlooked sea and mountain. the appealing beauty of the scene always soothed me as a lullaby would a restless child. i hoped as much for my disturbed visitor. i gave him his second cup of tea, and asked him whether the mother could not control her daughter. it set him going. "her mother!" he scoffed. "madam, if her mother had been blest with the backbone of a jellyfish she would never have married a man whose people were not her people, whose customs are as far removed from hers as the east is from the west. my daughter was young. had she married one of her own country, all would have been well. her will would have been directed by her mother-in-law. she was trained to obedience. see what the teachings of your country do to our women! in a letter she wrote telling me she had gone, she thanked me for teaching her the laws of submission. it helped her to bow to the commands of this man when he bade her marry him, and she loved him! love! as if that had anything to do with marriage. now comes the result of this accursed union--a troublesome girl who is neither one thing nor the other, who laughs at the customs of my country and upsets the peace of my house, who boldly declares she is an american. she need not herald it. in dress and manners she wears the marks of her training." i offered no comment, but every moment served to deepen my interest in this girl who could defy a will which had ruled a whole island for half a century. my silence seemed to irritate him. he turned fiercely upon me. "tell me, what kind of girls does america produce? what is your boasted freedom for women but license? is their place never taught them? have they no understanding of the one great law for women?" i had been absent from my country many long years, and while neither the best nor the worst had come my way, america was my country, her people my people, and they stood to me for all that was great and honorable and righteous. the implication of kishimoto's question annoyed me all the more, because i knew him to be a keen observer and not hasty in his conclusions. "softly, kishimoto san. you answered your own question a few moments ago. the customs of the two countries are as wide apart as the east is from the west. tastes differ in manners as well as religion. if there are things in america that do not please you, so there are many laws in japan that are repugnant to americans. you are unjust to hold my country responsible for your woes." "but i do hold it responsible. my granddaughter comes of its teaching. i meditate what kind of religion it is that permits a girl to question her elder's authority and to defy the greatest of laws, filial piety. what manner of a country is it where custom grants liberty to a girl that she may roam the streets and sit in a public garden alone with a man!" this last was indeed serious. in my day and in my town it could be done if the girl were so fortunate as to have something that stood for a male cousin. but neither then nor now was it permissible in a land of man-made laws for men. unless it was between husband and wife, private conversation, or a promenade just for two branded the participants as bold, possibly evil. i asked for further details. kishimoto san said the young man was a minor officer on the steamer by which his granddaughter and her mother had crossed the pacific. he thought he was an american. whenever the ship coaled in a nearby port, the young chap communicated with the girl and together they walked and talked. the plain facts after all sounded harmless and innocent. what more natural than for a lonely girl to seek for pastime the company of a youth of her own kind? but it could not be--not in japan; though as innocent as two baby kittens playing on the green, it would bring shame upon the girl and the family, which no deed of heroism would ever erase from local history. something must be done; i asked kishimoto san how i could be of assistance. "i have been consulting with myself," he replied in english. "would you grant me permission to send her to you daily as a student? besides her strange ways, she talks in strange english. i cannot find the same in any conversation book. her whole being has need of reconstruction." i was not in the reconstructing business, but a young girl in the house meant youth and diversion and a private pupil meant extra pay. what a little extra money wouldn't do in my house wasn't worth adding up. in thought i repaired the roof and bought new legs for the kitchen stove. my visitor, mistaking my silence for hesitation, suggested, "first come and see her. analyze her conduct and grant me decision whether she is a natural, free-born american citizen, as she boasts, or if the gods have cursed her with a bold spirit. she is of your country, your religion, if any, and perhaps you can understand her. i fail to comprehend." he folded his arms for emphasis. the gleam of the western sun caught the sheen of his silk kimono and covered him with a glow. from under bent brows he gazed at the scene before him. earth and sky and sea breathed beauty. the evening song of the birds was of love. the spirit of the fading day whispered peace, but unheeding he sat in troubled silence. then from the street far below came the shout of a boy at play. it was a voice full of the gladness of youth. in it was a challenge of daring and courage. loudly he called to his troop of play soldiers to charge splendidly, to fight with the glorious _yamato damashi_ (spirit of japan). kishimoto san heard and with a quick movement raised his head as though he had felt a blow. "ah," he murmured to himself, "if it had only been a boy!" there was the secret wound that was ever sore and bleeding. there was no son to perpetuate the name. his most vital hope was dead, his greatest desire crushed, and by a creature out of the west, who not only stole his daughter but fathered this girl whom no true japanese would want as a wife. to a man of kishimoto san's traditions the hurt was deep and cruel. i well understood his sorrow and disappointment. pity put all my annoyance to flight. i promised to go to his house and see if i could help in any way. i did not tell him that i was about as familiar with young girls from my home land as i was with young eagles, for the undaunted spirit of that child had aroused all my love of adventure; and i wanted to see her. then, too, i was haunted by the picture of a lonely girl in a strange land, crying out in the night for her dead father. i was trembling with new emotion that evening when i brought my invalid in from the garden, and tucked her into bed. kishimoto san had not only offered me a tremendous experience, but all unwittingly he made it easily possible for me to defy the tradition of his picture language, and risk jane gray as a permanent fireside companion. iii zura just below "the house of the misty star," in an old temple, a priest played a merry tattoo on a mighty gong early every morning. first one stroke and a pause, then two strokes and a pause, followed by so many strokes without pause that the sounds merged into one deep mellow tone reaching from temple to distant hills. it was, so to speak, the rising bell for the deities in that district and announced to them the beginning of their day of business. in years gone by the echo of the music had stirred me only to a drowsy thankfulness that i was no goddess, happy as i turned for a longer sleep. the morning after kishimoto san's visit, long before any sound disturbed the sleeping gods, from my window i watched the great dipper drop behind the crookedest old pine in the garden and heard the story of the night-wind as it whispered its secret to the leaves. usually my patience was short with people who went mooning around the house at all hours of the night when they should have been sleeping. somehow though, things seemed changed and changing. coming events were not casting shadows before them in my home, but thrills. formerly i had not even a passing acquaintance with thrills. now, half a century behind-time, they were beginning to burst in upon me all at once, as would a troop of merry friends bent on giving me a surprise party, and the things they seemed to promise kept me awake half the night. my restlessness must have penetrated the thin partition of my japanese house, for when i went out to breakfast there sat jane gray, very small and pale, but as bright-eyed and perky as a sparrow. it was her first appearance at the morning meal. before i could ask why she had not rested as usual, she put a question to me. "well, what is it?" "what's what?" i returned. "why," she exclaimed, "you have been up most of the night. i wanted to ask if you were ill, but i was counting sheep jumping over the fence, and it made me so sleepy i mixed you up with them. i hope it isn't the precious cod-liver babies that are keeping you awake." it was at jane's suggestion that we had eliminated meat from our menu and established a kind of liquid food station for the ill-nourished offspring of the quarry women near us. i assured miss gray that babies had been far from my thoughts. then i told her of my interview with kishimoto san; of how zura wingate had come to her grandfather's house; of her rebellion against things that were; and that she was to come to me for private study. had i not been so excited over the elements of romance in my story, i would have omitted telling jane of the incident of the girl and the youth in the park, for it had a wonderful effect on her. jane's sentiment was like a full molasses pitcher that continues to drip in spite of all the lickings you give it. at once i saw i was in for an overflow. it was the only part of the story she took in, and as she listened, passed into some kind of a spell. she cuddled down into her chair and shut her eyes like a child in the ecstasies of a fairy story. she barely breathed enough to say, "the darlings! and in that lovely old park! i hope it was moonlight. do you suppose they sat under the wistaria?" not for a copper mine would i have hinted that through the night there had come before my mind a picture very like that. such a picture in the orient could only be labeled tragedy; the more quickly it was blotted out from mind and reality the better for all concerned. i spoke positively to my companion. "look here, jane gray, if it wasn't for breaking a commandment i would call you foolish with one syllable. don't you know that in this country a young man and woman walking and talking together cannot be permitted? neither love nor romance is free or permissible, but they are governed by laws which, if transgressed, will break heart and spirit." "so i have heard," cooed miss gray, unimpressed by my statements. "wouldn't it be sweet, though, for you and me to go about teaching these dear japanese people that young love will have its freedom and make a custom of its own?" "yes, indeed! wouldn't it be a sweet spectacle to see two middle-aged women, one fat and one lean, stumping the country on a campaign for young love--subjects in which we are versed only by hearsay and a stray novel or so!" i said all this and a little more. jane went on unheeding, "that's it. we must preach love and live it till we have made convicts of every inhabitant." of course she meant "converts," but the kinks in miss gray's tongue were as startling as the peculiar twists in her religion. upon her asking for more particulars i repeated what kishimoto san had told me. the girl's father was an artist by profession and, as nearly as i could judge, a rover by habit. of late the family had lived in a western city. i was not familiar with the name kishimoto san gave; he called it "shaal." "oh," cried my companion, "i know. i lived there once. it's seattle." occasionally there shot through jane's mind a real thought, as luminous as a shaft of light through a jar of honey. i would have never guessed the name of that city. "then what else happened?" she continued, as eagerly as a young girl hearing a love story. i told her it had not happened yet, and before it did i was going to call at the house and see the girl as i had promised and settle upon the hour she was to come for daily lessons. meantime jane was to take her nap, her milk, and her tonic without my standing over her. in her devotion to her profession she was apt to forget the small details of eating and resting. my craving for things to happen was being fed as fast as a rapid-firing gun in full action. i found waiting very irksome but there was a cooking class, a mother's meeting, two sets of composition papers to be corrected and various household duties that stubbornly refused to adjust themselves to my limited time. at last, however, i was free to go and delayed not a minute in starting on my visit. * * * * * kishimoto's home was lower down in the city than mine and very near the sea. the house was ancient and honorable. its air of antiquity was undisturbed by the great changes which had swept the land in the ages it had stood. the masters had changed from father to son, but the house was as it had been in the beginning, and with it lived unbroken and unshifting, the traditions and beliefs of its founders. it was only a matter of a few minutes after passing the lodge gates until i was ushered into the general living-room and the center of the family life. the master being absent, the ceremony of welcoming to his house a strange guest was performed by his wife. one could see at a glance that she belonged to the old order of things when the seed of a woman's soul seldom had a chance to sprout. she performed her duties with the precision of a clock, with the soft alarm wound to strike at a certain hour, then to be set aside to tick unobtrusively on till needed again. the seat of honor in a japanese home is a small alcove designated as "the tokonoma." in this ancient house simple decorations of a priceless scroll and a flowering plum graced the recess. before it on a cushion of rich brocade i was asked to be seated. etiquette demanded that i hesitate and apologize for my unworthiness as i bowed low and long. custom insisted that my hostess urge my acceptance as she abased herself by touching her forehead to her hands folded upon the floor. of course it ended by my occupying the cushion, and i was glad for the interruption of tea and cake. [illustration: zura wingate advanced to my lowly seat on the floor, and listlessly put out one hand to greet me] then equal in length and formality followed the ceremony of being introduced to kishimoto san's mother and widowed daughter, mrs. wingate. the mother, old and withered, was made strong by her power as mother-in-law and her faith in her country and her gods. the daughter was weak and negative by reason of no particular faith and no definite gods. the system by which she had been trained did not include self-reliance nor foster individuality. under it many of the country's daughters grow to beautiful womanhood because of their gift of living their own inner lives entirely apart, while submitting to the external one imposed by custom. by the same system other women are made the playthings of circumstance and the soul is ever like a frosted flower bud. years ago a man, attracted by the soft girlishness and touched by the adoring deference to his sex, bade this girl marry him without the authority of her father. nothing had been developed in her to resist outside conditions. it was an unanswered query, whether it was because of ignorance or courage, she braved displeasure, and followed the strange man to a strange country. sometimes the weakness of japanese women is their greatest strength. this woman knew how to obey. in her way she had learned to love, but her limited capacity for affection was consumed by wifehood. having married and borne a child to the man who required nothing of her, duty in life so far as she saw it was canceled. further effort on her part was unnecessary until the time for her to assert her power as mother-in-law. even the contemplation of that happy state failed to enthuse. languid and a bit sad, her hold on life was gone. the blight had come. on her frail beauty was stamped the sign of the white plague. she greeted me in very broken english, then left the chief duty of entertaining to the mother. the stilted conversation was after the prescribed form and my eagerness to see zura, whom custom forbade my asking for, was, i dare say, ill concealed. when i first entered, the farther parts of the large room were veiled in the shadow of the late afternoon. but when mrs. kishimoto called, "zura, come!" a stream of sunlight, as though waiting for the proper time, danced into one corner and rested on the figure of a young girl, sitting awkwardly on her feet, reading. her response to her grandmother's command was none too eager; but as she came forward the brilliant light revealed in coloring of hair and dress as many shades of brown as could be found in a pile of autumn leaves. in the round eyes, deep set in a face sprinkled with freckles, in the impertinent tilt of the nose, there was no trace of the orient; but the high arch of the dark brows betrayed her japanese origin. the girl's costume was more remarkable than the girl herself; it was like a velvet pillow slip with neither beginning nor end. it was low in the neck and had no sleeves worth mentioning. how she got into it or out of it was a problem that distracted me half the night, when i was trying to plan for her soul's salvation. i could not hide my amazement at her appearance. she as closely resembled my idea of an american girl as a cartoon does a miniature; but i had seen so very few girls of my country since my coming to japan. i remembered hearing jane say that the styles now change there every two or three years. my new skirt, i've had only five years, has seven pleats and as many more gores. zura wingate advanced to my lowly seat on the floor and listlessly put out one hand to greet me. the other she held behind her. it had been years since i had shaken hands with any one. i was ill at ease, and made more so by realizing that i did not know what to say to this self-contained child of my own beloved land. i made a brilliant start, however. "howdy. do you like japan?" the answer came with the sudden energy of a popgun: "no." then she sat down close to a hibachi, her back against the wall. i went on, determined to be friendly. "i am sure you will find much of interest here. all the beauties of japan are not on the surface. the loveliness of the scenery and the picturesqueness of the people will appeal to you." the phrase was about as new as "mary had a little lamb," but it was all i could think to say. my conversational powers seemed off duty. the girl scented my confusion and a half-smile crept around her lips. "country's all right," she answered. "but the natives are like punk imitations of a vaudeville poster; they're the extension of the limit." her words, although english, were as incomprehensible to me as if i had never heard the language, but her scorn was unmistakable. as if to emphasize it, the hand she had persistently held behind her was thrust forward toward the burning coals in the hibachi. her fingers held a half burnt cigarette. this she lighted, and without embarrassment or enjoyment began to smoke. an american girl smoking! i was shocked, but i held tight. "do you smoke much?" i asked, for the want of something better to say. "never smoked before. but my august, heaven-born grandfather, who to my mind is descended direct from the devil, wishes me to adopt the customs of his country. thought i'd start with this." "but," i reminded her, "it is not the custom in this country for young girls to smoke." "oh, isn't it?"--indifferently--"it doesn't matter. had to begin on something or--die." the spasm of pain which swept the girl's face stirred within me a memory long forgotten. once, when my own starved youth had wearied and clamored anew for an outlet, i had determined on a reckless adventure. from corn-shucks and dried grass i made a cigar which i tried to smoke. it gave me the most miserable penitent hour i have ever known. the picture of the child of long ago hiding in the corn crib until recovery was possible caused me now to shake with laughter. the fire in zura's eyes began to burn. "think it's funny? i don't. have one." she flung a package of cigarettes in my lap. ignoring the impertinence of her speech and act i hastened to explain the cause of my amusement. i told her of my desolate childhood, of the quiet village in which my uneventful girlhood was passed, where the most exciting thing that ever happened was a funeral about once in four years. when i finished she showed the first signs of friendliness as she exclaimed, "heavens! didn't you have any 'movies,' any chums, any boys to treat you now and then to a sundae?" kishimoto san certainly stated a fact. her english was strange. i was sure the words were not in my dictionary. but i would not appear stupid before this child who had no business to know more than i did. so i looked a little stern and said that my sundays never seemed a treat; they were no different from week-days. if the other things she talked about were in a circus, i had never been to one to hear them. at this such a peal of laughter went up from the girl as i dare say at no time had ever played about the ancient beams. the maid, just entering with hot tea, stood as if stunned. the old grandmother sat like a statue of age with hand uplifted, protesting against any expression of youth and its joys. mrs. wingate pushed aside the paper doors, gently chiding, "zura, yo' naughty ve'y bad." but the reproof was as meaningless as the babbling of a baby. neither disapproval nor black looks availed; unchecked the merriment went on until exhausted by its own violence. i knew she was laughing at me, but what mattered? to her i was a comical old figure in a strange museum. to me she stood for all i had lost of girlhood rights and i wanted her for my friend. her laughter went through me like a draft of wine. the echo swept a long silent chord, and the tune it played was the jig-time of youth. when zura caught her breath and explained the meaning of her words, it disclosed to me a phase of life of which i had never dreamed. pictures that moved and talked while you looked, public halls for dancing, and boys meeting young girls alone after dark to "treat" them! the child spoke of it all easily and as a matter of course. i knew more than i wanted of the dark side of oriental life, but i had been so long accustomed to idealizing my own country and all its ways that her talk was to me like an unkind story about a dear friend. but happy to find a listener who was interested in things familiar to her--zura chattered away, of her friends and her pleasures, and though many of her words were in an unknown tongue, the picture she unconsciously drew of herself was as clear as transparency. it was an unguided, undisciplined life, big with possibilities for love or hate that even now was wavering in the balance for good or bad. once again the afternoon sun fell upon the girl. it touched her face, tender of contour and coloring. it found her hair and made of it a crown of bronze and gold. for a moment it lingered, then climbing, lighted up a yellow parchment hanging on the wall just above. through its aged dim characters i read an edict issued in the days of long ago, banishing from the land of fair nippon all christians and christianity. it threatened with relentless torture any attempt to promulgate the faith, and contained an order for all citizens to appear in the public place on a certain day for adherents of the new religion to recant, by stamping on the cross. as the girl talked on, she revealed a life strangely inconsistent in a land which to me stood for all that was highest and most beautiful. a curious thought came to me. i wondered if the man who framed that edict had a vision of what foreign teachings might bring in its trail? possibly some presentiment haunted him of the great danger that would come to his people through contact with a country leagues removed in customs and beliefs. neither crucifixion nor torture had availed to keep out the new religion. with it came wisdom and great reforms. misinterpretation too, had followed. old laws were shattered, and this girl, zura wingate was a product of a new order of things, the result of broken traditions, a daughter of two countries, a representative of neither. zura's conversation was mainly of her amusements and diversions. "but how did you manage so many pleasures while you were attending school?" i inquired. "school?" she echoed. "oh! that never bothered me. i had a system at school; it worked fine. the days i felt like going, i crammed hard and broke the average record. i also accumulated a beautiful headache. this earned me a holiday and an excursion for my health." it was hard for me to understand a girl who deliberately planned to miss school, but i was taking a whole course in one afternoon. carefully i approached the object of my visit. "well, of course you desire to further pursue your studies in english, even though your home is to be in japan. i came this afternoon to ask--do you not think it would be pleasant if you came to my house every day for a little study--just to keep in practice?" the girl's lips framed a red circle as she drew out a long "oh-h-h! i see! the mighty honorable boss has been laying plans, has he? well, i think it would be perfectly grand--n-i-t--which in plain american spells 'i will not do it.'" imagine a young girl telling one of her elders right to her face, she would not do it. i never heard of such a thing. for a moment i was torn between a desire to administer a stern reproof and leave her, and a great yearning to stand by and with love and sympathy to try to soften the only fate which could be in store for such as she. we took each other's measure and she, pretty and saucy as a gay young robin, went on fearlessly: "i'm an american to the backbone; i'm not going to be japanese, or any kin to them. as long as i have to stay i'm going to pursue the heavenly scenery around here and put it on paper. between pictures i'm going to have a good time--all i want to. thank you for your invitation, but i have other engagements." a wilful girl in a japanese home! my disapproval fled. soon enough life would administer reproof and stretch out a rough hand to stay her eagerness. i need add nothing. a little depressed at losing her as a pupil and knowing that her defiance could only bring sorrow, i asked her gently, "do you love good times?" "do i? well, just wait till i get started. see if the slant eyes of the inhabitants will not have another angle before i get through. they need a few lessons on the rights of girls." neither zura's home nor her parents seemed to have any part in her life. she told of a prank played at midnight one hallowe'en. "but," i asked, "did your mother permit you to be out at such an hour?" "my mother!" she repeated with a light laugh. "my mother is nothing but a baby. she neither cared nor knew where i was or what i did." "what about your father?" i ventured. "i understand you and he were great friends." if i had struck the girl, the effect could not have been more certain. she arose quickly, her face aquiver with pain; she threw her hands forward as if in appeal to some unseen figure; then she moaned, "oh! daddy!" and she was gone. like the stupid old meddler i was, i tore the wound afresh. i exposed the bruised place in the girl's life, but my blunder brought to light unsuspected depths. it was all so sudden that i was speechless and stared blankly at the mother, who looked helpless and bewildered. the two grandmothers had taken no part nor interest in the scene. their faces expressed nothing. to them the girl was as incomprehensible as any jungle savage. to me she was like some wild, free bird, caught in a net, old, but very strong, for its meshes were made from a relentless law. i made my adieu with what grace i could and left. * * * * * on my way home i met kishimoto san. omitting details, i told him zura declined to come to my house for lessons. "so! my granddaughter announced she will not? i shall give her a command to obey." i suggested that the girl needed time for adjustment and that he needed much patience. "patience! with a girl?" he replied. "ah. madam, you utter great demands of my dignity! it is like requesting me to smile sweetly when grasping the fruit of a chestnut tree which wears a prickly overcoat. but i thank your great kindness for honoring my house and my family. _sayonara_." deep thought held me fast as i passed through the cheerful, busy streets and up the long flight of steps that led from the highway to my home. i was too occupied mentally to pay much attention to jane's unnumbered questions regarding my visit. anyhow, my association with jane had led me to discover she could talk for a very long while, and never get anywhere, not even to an end. that night she talked herself to sleep about girls and poetry and beaux, which as far as i could see had nothing to do with the matter. had jane been a mind reader, long ere the night had gone, she could have found strange things in my brain. hours afterwards i sat on my balcony that overhung the soft lapping waters below, still deeply thinking. often at the end of the day's toil i sought this retreat and refreshed my soul in the incomparable beauty of the view. in that hour the tender spirit of night folded me about. out of the mystery of the vast blue i heard faintly a new message, potent with promise, charged with possibilities. the earth was wrapped in a robe of gray, made of mist and illusion, and its every sound was hushed by the lullaby of the night-wind. dim, silent mountains clustered about the silver waters, as great watchmen guarding a precious jewel. toward me across the moon-misted sea came a procession of ghostly sails. every ship seemed to bear troops of white-robed maidens and, as they floated past, they gaily waved their hands to me, calling for comradeship and understanding, a wide-open heart, freedom to love. iv jane gray brings home a man during the weeks following my visit i had good reason to believe that kishimoto san's power to command was not in working order. zura failed to put in an appearance for her lessons, nor did any message come from the ancient house by the sea to explain the delay. i could only guess how things stood between the grandfather and the alien child. every minute of my day was filled with classes, demands and sick babies, but between duties and when jane was elsewhere i snatched time to inspect eagerly every visitor who clicked a sandal or shoe-heel on the rough stones of my crooked front path. i kept up the vigil for my desired pupil until i heard one of my adoring housemaids confide to the other that she had "the great grief to relate jenkins sensie was getting little illness in her head. she condescended to respond to the honorable knock at her door--and she a great teacher lady!" after this i transferred my observations to the crescent-shaped window at one end of my study. this ornamental opening in the wall commanded a full view of the main highway of hijiyama. through it i could look down far below upon the street life which was a panorama quietly intense, but gay and hopeful. the moving throng resembled a great bouquet swayed by a friendly breeze, so bright in coloring with the flower-sellers, white-garbed jinricksha men, vegetable vendors, and troops of butterfly children that any tone of softer hue attracted immediate attention. this led me to a discovery one day when i caught sight of a dark-brown velvet dress, and i knew that my promised pupil was inside it. her shining hair made me sure, and i guessed that the young man with whom she walked was the ship's officer. the sight troubled me; but interference except by invitation was not my part. i could do nothing but wait. however, so unusual a creature as zura wingate could neither escape notice nor outspoken comment in a conservative, etiquette-bound old town like hijiyama. through my pupils, most of them boys and eager to practise their english, i heard of many startling things she did. they talked of her fearlessness; with what skill she could trim a sail; how she had raced with the crack oarsman of the naval college; and how the aforesaid cadet was now in disgrace because he had condescended to compete with a girl. much of the talk was of the girl's wonderful talent in putting on paper japanese women and babies in a way so true that chinda, a withered old man in whom the love of art was the only sign of life, said, "except for her foreign blood the child would be a gift of the gods." i had dwelt too long in the orient, though, to hear with much peace of mind the girl's name so freely used and i discouraged the talk. even if i had thought it best to do so, there was no chance for a repetition of my visit to kishimoto san's house. the demands upon my time and my resources were heavier than ever before. the winter had been bitterly cold. as the thermometer went down and somebody cornered the supply of sweet potatoes, the price of rice soared till there seemed nothing left to sustain the working people except the scent of the early plum flowers that flourished in the poorer districts. sheltered by a great mountain from the keen winds, they thrust their pink blossoms through the covering of snow and cheered the beauty-loving people to much silent endurance. the plum tree was almost an object of worship in this part of the empire. it stood for bravery and loyalty in the face of disaster, but as one tottering old woman put it, as she went down on her knees begging food for her grandbabies, "the ume ke makes me suffer great shame for my weakness. it gives joy to weary eyes, courage to fainting heart, but no food for babies." in the outlying districts many children on their way to school fainted for want of food; hospitals were full of the half-starved; police stations were crowded with the desperate; and temples were packed with petitioners beseeching the gods. it was near the holidays. my pupil teachers and helpers worked extra hours and pinched from their scant savings that those they could reach might not have a hungry christmas. they put together the price of their gifts to each other and bought rice. in gay little groups they went from door to door and gathered up twenty feeble old women, brought them to my house and feasted them to the utmost. hardly a day passed without some new and unusual demand, until learning to stand up and sit down at the same time was almost a necessity. had my own life lacked absorbing interest, jane gray's activities would have furnished an inexhaustible supply. as she grew stronger and could come and go at her pleasure, her unexpectedness upset my systematic household to the point of confusion. she supplied untold excitement to pine tree and maple leaf, the two serving maids earning an education by service, and drove old ishi the gardener to tearful protest. "miss jaygray dangerful girl. she boldly confisteal a dimension of flower house and request strange demons to roost on premises." this all came about because my fireside companion was a born collector. not of any reasonable thing like stamps or butterflies, but of stray animals and wandering humans. her affections embraced every created thing that came out of the ark, including all the descendants of mr. and mrs. noah. a choice spot in my beloved garden, which was also ishi's heaven, housed a family of weather-beaten world-weary cats, three chattering monkeys, that made love to jane and hideous faces at everybody else, a parrakeet and a blind pup. if the collection fell short in quality, it abounded in variety. on one occasion she brought home two ragged and hungry american sailors, and it required military tactics to piece out the "left-over" lunch for them. another time she shared her room with a poor creature who had been a pretty woman, now seeking shelter till her transportation could be secured. late one snowy night jane came stumbling in weighted with an extra bundle. tenderly unwrapping the covering she disclosed a half-starved baby. that day she had gone to a distant part of the city to assist in organizing a soup kitchen, and a bible class. on her way home she heard a feeble cry coming from a ditch. she located a bundle of rags, and found a bit of discarded humanity. "isn't it sweet?" murmured the little missionary as she laid the weakling before the fire and fed it barley water with an ink dropper. "i'm going to keep it for my very own. i've always wanted one," she announced joyfully. "well, you just won't do anything of the kind," was my firm conclusion. i had no wish to be unkind, but repression was the only course left. i loved children, as i loved flowers, but it was impossible to inflate another figure for expense. "it's all we can do to support that menagerie in the garden without starting an orphan asylum. babies, as well as cats and dogs, cost money." "yes, yes, i know, miss jenkins," replied my companion eagerly, her face bright with some inner sunbeam of hope, "but wait till i tell you of a darling plan. the other day i saw the nicest sign over a door. it said 'moderated and modified milk for babies and small animals.' it's tin, the milk i mean, and that is what i am going to feed them on. it's so filling." "beautifully simple, and tin milk must be so nourishing, is it not?" i snapped, ruffled by miss gray's never-defeated hopefulness. "of course the kind gentleman who keeps this magic food, stands at the door and hands it out by the bucketful." that was before i learned that sarcasm could no more pierce jane's optimism, than a hair would cut a diamond. "no," she answered sweetly, "he sits on the floor, and takes cans from a box. he gets money for it, but i am going to make a grand bargain with him. i am going to trade him a package of tracts and that cunning parrakeet for milk." "how do you know he wants parrots or tracts?" i said. "oh, yes, he does. i talked to him. he showed me a faded old tract he had been reading every day for twenty years. now his eyes are failing. he can get his customers to read a new one to him. he wants the bird for a spot of color as it grows darker. please, dear miss jenkins, let me keep the baby!" of course i was weak enough to give in. jane made her bargain and for a month the little stray stayed with us. then one glorious dawn the tiny creature smiled as only a baby can, and gave up the struggle. in a corner of the garden, where the pigeons are ever cooing, we made a small mound. to this good day ishi declares the children's god jizo comes every night to take the child away, but cannot because it lies in a christian grave, and that is why he keeps the spot smothered in flowers. not in the least discouraged by death or desertion of her protégés, jane gray continued to bring things home, and one day she burst into the room calling, "oh, jenkins san! come quick! see what i have found." her find proved to be a youthful american about twenty-four, whom she introduced as page hanaford. from the moment the tall young man stood before me, hat in hand, a wistful something in his gray eyes, i had to crush a sudden desire to lay my hand on his shoulder and call him son. it would have been against my principles to be so outspokenly sentimental, but his light hair waved back from a boyish face pallid with illness and the playful curve of his mouth touched me. if i had been jane gray i should have cried over him. from the forced smile to the button hanging loose on his vest there was a silent appeal. all the mother in me was aroused and mentally i had to give myself a good slap to meet the situation with dignity. i asked the young man to come into the sitting-room and we soon heard the story he had to tell. he said his home had been in texas. his father, an oil operator and supposed to be very rich, died a bankrupt. he was the only member of the family left, and he had recently started to the far east to begin making his fortune. by chance he had drifted into hijiyama. he understood there was a demand for teachers here. he was quite sure he could teach; but he would have to go slow at first, for he was just recovering from a slight illness. "have you been ill a long time?" i asked, striving to keep my fast rising sympathy in hand. "y-es; no," was the uncertain reply. "you see, i don't quite remember. time seems to have run away from me." "were you ill before you left america, or after you sailed?" i inquired with increasing interest. the boy paled, flushed, then stammered out his answer. "i--i--i'm sorry, but really i can't tell you. the beastly thing seems to have left me a bit hazy." a bit hazy indeed! it was as plain as the marks of his severe illness that he was evading my question. his hands trembled so he could hardly hold the cup of tea i gave him, so i pursued my inquiries no further. as i was hostess to my guests, whoever they might be, i asked neither for credentials nor the right to judge them, for their temptations had not been mine. after a long pause he slowly tried again to tell his story. "i was seeking employment when miss gray found me. my! but i was glad to see some one who seemed like home. the way she walked right up to me and said, 'why, howdy do. i'm glad to see you. now come right up to the "misty star" with me,' i tell you it made my heart thump. didn't know whether the misty star was a balloon or a planet; didn't care much. miss gray was so kind and i was tired. hunting a job in an unknown language is rather discouraging." "discouraged!" laughed jane, poking up the fire and arranging a big chair in which she put mr. hanaford, at the same time stuffing a pillow behind his back. "the idea of being discouraged when the world is full of poetry and love staring you right in the face! besides, there is always hope blooming everywhere like a dield full of faisies." our visitor's face crinkled with suppressed amusement at the little lady's funny mixture of words and he asked, "are you never discouraged?" "goodness me, no! not now. every time i see a blue thought sticking its head around the corner, i begin to sing the long meter doxology. my music sends it flying. i can't afford to be discouraged. you see, i'm pledged to help a lot of unfortunate friends. i haven't a cent of money and every time i let the teeniest little discouragement show its face, it would surely knock a plank out of the hospital i'm going to build for them." "build a hospital without money?" said he. "if you are that kind of a magician, perhaps you can tell me where i can find so many students that riches will pour in upon me?" "yes, indeed, i can," assented miss gray generously. "the pupils are sure, if the pay isn't. miss jenkins can find you a barrelful." the young man turned to me. "a baker's dozen would do to start with. would you be so kind? i need them very much. i must have work." his manner was so earnest and appealing, his need so evident that i was ready to turn over to him every student on my list, if that were the thing necessary to enable him to earn a living and get a new grip on life. there were more than enough pupils to go around, and i was glad to put away my work and give the afternoon to planning for a place in which to house mr. hanaford and his going-to-be-pupils. our guest entered into all our suggestions eagerly. the environment of our simple home, the ministrations of motherly hands touched hidden chords. he did not hide his enjoyment, but talked well and entertainingly of everything--except himself. at times he was boyishly gay; then, seemingly without cause, the expectant look of his eyes would fade into one of bewildered confusion and he would sit in silence. i hoped it was the effect of his illness. jane was happier over this last addition to her collection than any previous specimen. when at last he rose reluctantly and said he must be going, she anxiously inquired if he would be sure to come back to-morrow and the day after. "why, dear lady, you are very kind! sure there will be no risk of wearing out a welcome? and i have no letter of introduction." "you can't even dent the welcome at miss jenkins's house. it has been forged with kindness and polished with love, and we wouldn't have time to read a letter of introduction if you had one. please come right away." our visitor stood voicing his thanks and bidding us adieu when the tuneful gong at the front door was struck by no uncertain hand. the setting sun wrapped "the house of the misty star" in a veil of purple, shot with pink. the subdued radiance crept into the room and covered its shabbiness with a soft glory, the paper door slid open and, framed in the tender twilight, stood zura wingate. "i've come--" she began, then stopped. the unfinished speech still parting her lips, with hair wind-blown and face aglow, she gazed in surprise at page hanaford, and he, bending slightly forward, gazed back at the girl, who radiated youth and all its glorious freedom in every movement. the silence was brief, but intense. then jane gray gave vent to a long ecstatic "oh-h-h-h!" i made haste to welcome and introduce zura. "i can't stop," she said when i offered her a chair and refreshment; and she added rather breathlessly: "i started for this house at noon; side-tracked and went sailing. just come to say thank you very much, but i don't care for any lessons in english or manners, and i won't have any kind old grandpa interfering with my affairs. now i must hustle. if i don't, there'll be an uprising of my ancestors. good-by." she went as suddenly as she had come. it was as though a wild sea-bird had swept through the room, leaving us startled, but refreshed. from the shadows near the door came page hanaford's half-humorous query, "do these visions have a habit of appearing in your doorway, miss jenkins, or how much of what i saw was real?" "zura wingate is the realest girl i know, mr. hanaford." he listened intently to the short history of the girl i gave him, made no comment, asked no questions, but said good-night very gently and went out into the dusk. jane stood looking into the fire. tightly clasping her hands across her thin chest and closing her eyes, she murmured delightedly, "oh, the sweet darlings!" i did not ask whether she referred to our late visitors or something in her menagerie. i was in a whirl of thought myself. i had lost a pupil; my purse was leaner than ever, my responsibilities heavier; yet intangible joys were storming my old heart, and it was athrill with visions of youth and hope and love, although i saw them through windows doubly barred and locked. v a call and an invitation the weeks that followed were happy ones in "the house of the misty star." page hanaford dropped in frequently after supper, and my liking for the boy grew stronger with each visit. his good breeding and gentle rearing were as innate as the brightness of his eyes; and no less evident was his sore need of companionship, though when he talked it was on diversified subjects, never personal ones. if the time between visits were longer than i thought it should be, i invented excuses and sent for him. i asked little favors of him which necessitated his coming to my house; then i asked more, which kept him. thus it was that many delightful hours were spent in the cozy, cheerful living-room of the little house perched high upon the hill. in one shadowy corner jane gray usually sat, busy with her endless knitting of bibs for babies. close beside her the maids, pine tree and maple leaf, looked up from their seats upon the floor, intent on every movement of her flying fingers that they too might quickly learn and help to "bib" the small citizens of their country. from my place on one side of the reading lamp i could look, unobserved, at page hanaford on the other side, as he sat in the deep chair and stretched his long limbs toward the glowing grate stove, while he read to us tales of travel and fiction. jane said they were as delightful as his voice. i was often too busy studying the boy to give much heed to his reading, but when he spoke it was a different matter. his familiarity with the remote places of the world, centers of commerce, and the names of men high in affairs, made me wonder and wonder again what had led him to choose for advance in fortune this buddhist stronghold of moats and medieval castles, so limited in possibilities, so far from contact with foreign things. the teaching of english, as i had good reason to know, yielded many a hearty laugh, but a scant living. there was no other opening here for europeans. every time i saw page, the more certain i was, not only of his ability, but of his past experience in bigger things. the inconsistencies of his story began to irritate me like the pricking of a pin which the presence of company forbade my removing. however, i did not question him openly; i tried not to do so in my heart. i found for him more students as well as excuses to mend his clothes and have him with us. i scolded him for taking cold, filled him up with stews, brews, and tonics, and with jane as chief enthusiast--she had fallen an easy victim--we managed to make something of a home life for him. the boy could not hide his pleasure in our little parties; but it was with protest that he accepted so much waiting on and coddling. he was always deferential, but delighted in gently laughing at jane and telling me stories that could not happen out of a book. sometimes his spirits ran high and found expression in song or a whistled tune. when there was a sudden knock or when he was definitely questioned, there was something in his attitude which i would have named fear, had not every line in his lean, muscular body contradicted the suggestion. it had not happened very often, but when it did, a nameless something seemed to cover us, and in passing, left a shadow which turned our happy evenings cold and bleak. it was the custom for every member of my household to assemble in the living-room after supper for evening prayer. jane and i, the cook, and the two little maids were there because we found comfort and joy. old ishi, the gardener, attended because he hoped to discover the witch that made the music inside the baby organ. at the same time he propitiated the foreigner's god, though he kept on the good side of his own deities by going immediately afterwards to offer apology and incense at the temple. often page hanaford came in at this hour and quietly joined us. it was an incongruous group, but touching with one accord the border of holier things, banished differences of creed and race and cemented a bond of friendship. one evening after the service jane--taking the maids and a heaped-up basket--went to answer a prayer for daily bread she had overheard coming from a hut that day. page and i settled down for a long, pleasant evening, he with his pipe and book, i with a pile of english compositions to be corrected. "change" was the subject of the first one i picked up, and i read the opening paragraph aloud: "the seasons change from one to the other without fuss or feather and obey the laws of nature. all mens change from one thing to other by spontaneous combustion and obey the universal laws of god." my companion was still laughing at this remarkable statement and i puzzling over its meaning when kishimoto san was announced. i found a possible translation of the sentence in his appearance. "spontaneous combustion" nearly fitted the state of mind he disclosed to me. the change in him was startling. i had only seen the school superintendent outside his home. in times of difficulty when his will could not prevail, which was seldom, he dismissed the matter at once, and found refuge in that fatalistic word "shikataganai" (it can't be helped). but now his fort of stoicism was being besieged, and the walls breached by a girl-child in his home, who was proving a redoubtable foe to his will and his calm, for of course the trouble was zura. i learned this after he had finished acknowledging his introduction to page. the bowing, bending, and indrawing of breath, demanded by this ceremony, took time. but it had to be. then i asked after the general prosperity of his ancestors, the health of his relatives, finally working my way down to zura. [illustration: the bowing, bending, and indrawing of breath] ordinarily kishimoto san would have scorned to mention his affairs before a stranger, but his world of tradition was upside down. in his haste to right it he broke other laws of convention. page had withdrawn into the shadow of the window seat after the introduction, but listened intently to the conversation and soon caught the drift of it. from accounts the situation between kishimoto san and his granddaughter was not a happy one. the passing weeks had not brought reconciliation to them nor to the conditions. it had come almost to open warfare. "and," declared the troubled man, "if she does not render obedience i will reduce her to bread and water, and subject her to a lonely place, till she comprehends who is the master and acknowledges filial piety." i protested that such a measure would only urge to desperation a girl of zura's temperament and that, to my mind, people could not be made good by law, but by love. the master of many women looked at me pityingly. "madam, would you condescend to inform my ignorance how love is joined to obedience? speaks the one great book of this land written for the guidance of women, 'the lifelong duty of women is obedience. seeing that it is a girl's destiny on reaching womanhood to go to a new home and live in submission to her mother-in-law, it is incumbent upon her to reverence her parents' and elders' instruction at the peril of her life.'" "but," i remarked, "there is something like two centuries between your granddaughter and this unreasonable book. its antiquated laws are as withered as the dead needles of a pine tree. any one reading it would know that when old man kaibara wrote it he was not feeling well or had quarreled with his cook." in most things kishimoto san was just; in many things he was kind. but he was as utterly devoid of humor as a pumpkin is of champagne. without a flicker he went on. "dead these sacred laws may be in practice, but the great spirit of them must live, else man in this land will cease to be master in his own house; the peace of our homes will pass. also, does not your own holy book write plainly on this subject of obedience of women and children?" kishimoto san was a good fighter for what he believed was right, and as a warrior for his cause he had armed himself in every possible way. he had a passable knowledge of english and an amazing familiarity with the scriptures. he also possessed a knack of interpreting any phase of it to strengthen the argument from his standpoint. but i, too, could fight for ideals; love of freedom and the divine right of the individual were themes as dear to me as they were hateful to kishimoto san. it had occurred many times before, and we always argued in a circular process. neither of us had ever given in. but this night kishimoto san gave me as a last shot: "the confusion of your religion is, it boasts only one god and numberless creeds. each creed claims superiority. this brings inharmony and causes christians to snap at each other like a pack of wolves. we have many gods and only one creed. we have knowledge and enlightenment which finally lead to nirvana." i could always let my friend have the last word but one. i now asked him if he could deny the enlightenment of which he boasted led as often to despair as it did to nirvana. if his knowledge were so all-inclusive, why had it failed to suggest some path up or down which he could peacefully lead zura wingate? before he could answer i offered him a cup of tea, hoping it would cool him off, and asked him to tell me his special grievance. he said it was the custom in his house for each member of the family to go before the house-shrine and, kneeling, bow the head to the floor three times. zura had refused to approach the spot and, when he insisted, instead of bowing she had looked straight at the god and contorted her face till it looked like an oni (a demon). it was most dangerous. the gods would surely avenge such disrespect. it seemed incredible that keen intelligence and silly superstition could be such close neighbors in the same brain, for i knew kishimoto san to be an honest man. he not only lived what he believed, he insisted on others believing all that he lived. he continued his story--the girl not only refused to come to me for english lessons, but declined to go for her lessons in japanese etiquette, necessary to fit her for her destiny as a wife. she absented herself from the house a whole day at a time. when she returned she said, without the slightest shame, that she had been racing with the naval cadets, or else had been for a picnic with the young officer from the ship. like a chattering monkey she would relate what had been done or said. at least, thought i, the girl makes no secret of her reckless doings. she is open and honest about it. i said as much to my visitor. he was quietly savage. "honest! open you name it! there is but one definition for it. immodesty! in a young girl that is deadlier than impiety. it is the wild blood of her father," he ended sadly. i could have added, "dashed with a full measure of grandpa's stubbornness." but i was truly sorry for kishimoto san. his trouble was genuine. it was no small thing to be compelled to shoulder a problem begun in a foreign land, complicated by influences far removed from his understanding, then thrust upon him for solution. he was a faithful adherent of the old system where individuality counted for nothing and a woman for less. to his idea the salvation of a girl depended on her submission to the rules laid down by his ancestors for the women of his house. he was an ardent buddhist and under old conditions its teachings had answered to his every need. but both law and religion failed him when it came to dealing with this child who had come to him from a free land across the sea and whose will had the same adamant quality as his own. while i was turning over in my mind how i should help either the girl or the man, i ventured to change the subject by consulting kishimoto san upon important school matters. the effort was useless. his mind stuck as fast to his worries as a wooden shoe in spring mud. not least among his vexations was the difficulty he would have in marrying zura off. if she failed in filial piety and obedience to him, how could she ever learn that most needful lesson of abandoning herself to the direction of her mother-in-law? the picture of zura wingate, whose early training had been free and unrestrained, being brought to order by a japanese mother-in-law was almost too much for my gravity. it would be like a big black beetle ordering the life of a butterfly. not without a struggle the conservative grandfather acknowledged that his system had failed. for the first time since i had known him kishimoto san, with genuine humility, appealed for help. "madam, my granddaughter is like new machineries. the complexities of her conduct causes my mind to suffer confusion of many strange thought. condescend to extend to me the help of your great knowledge relating to girls reared with your flag of freedom." i had always thought my ignorance on the subject as deep as a cave. i would begin at once to excavate my soul in search of that "great knowledge." i proceeded a little loftily: "oh, kishimoto san, i am sure there is a way to right things. the fault lies in the fact that zura and you do not understand each other. suppose you permit her to come to me for a little visit without study. it would give us great pleasure and i could learn to know her better." pushing aside all hesitation and the apologies that etiquette required on such occasions, greatly relieved, he quickly accepted my invitation. "you do my house great honor to assume the mystery of zura's conduct. i give you most honorable thanks." when he said good-night the look on his face suggested that a smile might penetrate the gloom, if he lived long enough. * * * * * "by jove! is that what the women of this country have to go up against?" page asked when the door had closed behind kishimoto san. "a very small part of them must do so, mr. hanaford. it is not so hard for the women born to it, as they know their fate and can accept it from babyhood. the suffering falls upon the alien, who runs afoul of their customs, especially one who has known the delight of liberty." "liberty!" repeated page, gazing out of the window on the thousands of lights below, which were fluttering in the velvety darkness like a vast army of fireflies. "without it, what is life to the smallest--moth!" vi zura wingate's visit these were the days i kept an eagle eye on jane gray. she grew steadily stronger and her activities resembled a hive of bees. unless she was carefully observed and brought to order, her allowance of milk and part of her food went to some child or stray beggar, waiting outside the lodge gates. she talked incessantly and confidently of the hospital she intended to build in the quarters. she had not a sen and i had less. with the grocery bill unpaid, her cheerful assurance sometimes provoked me. "goodness, jane, you haven't enough to buy even one shingle for a hospital! to hear you talk one would think the national bank was at your command." "but, miss jenkins," she said, smiling, "we are not going to use shingles for the roof, but straw; and i have something stronger than a national bank. you see, i was just born hoping. i know some of the sweetest people at home. i've written nearly one thousand letters, telling them all about my dear friends in the quarters." so that's where all the stamps went that she bought with the money i gave her for winter clothes! i was taking jane to task for this when a note arrived from zura. i had been almost sure that my invitation would meet the same fate as the english lessons. my fears disappeared when i opened the missive. it read as follows: dear miss jenkins: thank you. never did like to study in vacation, but if it is plain visiting i'll be delighted, for i'm starving. have lived so long on rice and raw fish i feel like an irish stew. you'll surely be shocked at what i can do to ham and eggs and hot biscuit! i'll float in about thursday. hungrily yours, zura wingate. when i told my companion that zura was coming to make us a little visit, she was preparing to start for her work. she had just tied a bright green veil over her hat. failing in its mission as trimming, the chiffon dropped forward in reckless folds almost covering her face; it gave her a dissipated look as she hurried about, gathering up her things, eager to be gone. but i was seeking information and detained her. "jane," i asked, "what do young girls in our country like best?" "boys and tolu," was the astonishing reply. the twinkle in her one visible eye increased to enough for two when i said with quite a good deal of dignity that, while i had some idea what boys were, i knew nothing of the other article she mentioned. "oh, don't you really know what tolu is? it's a kind of rubber and girls like to chew it." "american girls chew! why, the thing is impossible," i cried, pained to have an ideal shattered. "keep calm, miss jenkins, this is a different kind of chew from the one you are thinking about. it isn't pretty, but it won't hurt them, any more than a peck of chocolates and, tolu or no tolu, in all the world there isn't anything dearer than young american girls. they are so fluffy and bossy and sweet, and they do make the darlingest mamas." jane waited for some comment from me. seeing i had none to make, she said, "well, there aren't any boys for zura to play with, and no tolu this side of san francisco." then, brightening with sudden inspiration, she exclaimed, "but i tell you what: wait till i take this basket down to omoto's home and i'll run right back and make some bear and tiger cookies and gingerbread johnnies. children adore them." "what is the matter now down at omoto's house?" "oh, nothing much. he's in jail and his wife simply cannot work out in the field to-day. she has a brand-new pair of the sweetest twins, and a headache besides." even after jane departed i did some hard thinking how i was to entertain so youthful a visitor as zura. inside our simple home there was nothing especially beautiful, and my companion had never mentioned that she ever found me amusing. outside fore and aft there was a view which brought rapture to all beholders and peace to many troubled souls. i was not sure how a wild young maid would thrive on views. from the moment zura entered the house and i caught sight of her face as she looked at my garden through the glassed-in end of the sitting-room, my fears disappeared like mist before a breeze. a bit of her soul was in her eyes and, when she asked for a nearer view, i put down my work and led her through the carved gates into the ancient glory which was not only the garden of my house, but the garden of my soul. we passed a moss-grown shrine where a quaint old image looked out across the lake rimmed with flaming azaleas, and on its waters a family of long-legged cranes consulted with each other. our way led over a bridge with a humped-up back and along a little path for one, then across a bank of ferns and into the tangle of bamboo all silvery with the sunshine. at the beginning of our walk my guest's conversation was of the many happy nothings i suppose most girls indulge in, but as we went farther she had less to say. her eyes grew wider and darker as the beauty of the place pressed in upon her. we found a seat arched over with a blossoming vine and sat down for rest. zura was quiet and, finding she avoided every allusion to home, i drifted into telling her a bit of the garden's history--its unknown age, the real princes and princesses who in the long ago had trodden its crooked paths. legend said that so great was their love for it their spirits refused to abide in nirvana and came to dwell in the depths of the dim old garden. i told her the spot had been my play place, my haven of rest for thirty years, and how for want of company i had peopled it with lords and ladies of my fancy. armored knights and dark-haired dames of my imagination had lived and laughed and loved in the shadows of its soft beauty. anxious to entertain and pleased to have an audience, i opened wider the doors to my sentimental self than i really intended. i went from story to story till the air was filled with the sweetness of romance and poetry. in the midst of a wondrous love legend a noise, sudden but suppressed, stopped me short. i looked at the girl. she was shaking with laughter. when i asked why, she managed to gasp, "oh, but you're an old softy!" it was disrespectful, but it was also true and, though i felt as if a hot wind had been blowing on my face, there was such a note of comradeship in her voice that it cheered me to the point of joining in her merriment. our laugh seemed to sweep away many of the years that stood between us and the old thrill of anticipation passed through me. we found many other things to talk about, for i searched every crook and cranny of my old brain for bits of any sort with which to interest her. the last turn in the path leading back to the house found us friendly and with a taste or two in common. once, seeing something near by she wanted to sketch, she whispered to me as familiarly as if i were the same age, "for the love of mike! hold my hat while i put that on paper." i had no acquaintance with "mike" and she was bareheaded, but so infectious was her eagerness that i felt about twenty. what she wanted to sketch was only a small girl in a gay kimono and a big red umbrella, but the tiny mite made a vivid spot of color as she stood motionless to watch a great brown moth hovering over a bed of iris. before i could explain that the child was a waif temporarily housed with me, shy and easily frightened, zura whipped from somewhere out of the mysteries of a tight dress a pad and pencil and, with something like magic, the lines of the little maid's figure and face were transferred to the white sheet. "how daddy would have loved her," said zura, softly, as she covered her work. i was silent. later my guest and i went into the house and i showed her my treasures. they were few, but precious in their way: some rare old prints, a piece of ivory, and an old jewelry box of gold lacquer, all from grateful pupils. zura's appreciation of the artistic side of her mother's country was keen. in connection with it she spoke of her father's great gift and how he had begun teaching her to paint when he had to tie her to a chair to steady her and almost before her hand was big enough to hold a brush. she referred to their close companionship. mother wanted to rest very often and seldom joined them. father and daughter would prepare their own lunch and go for a long day's tramping and sketching. once they were gone for a week and slept out under the trees. daddy was the jolliest chum and always let her do as she pleased. he trusted her and never had corrected her. her voice was low and sweet as she dwelt upon the memories of her father, and when i saw her round white throat contract with the effort for control, i found something else to talk about. altogether it was a smooth day and to me a very happy one. jane had been absent since noon. her occupations were unquestioned, but when she joined us at the evening dinner it was good to see how her tired face brightened at zura's girlish way of telling things. our guest thanked jane for the cakes. said she simply adored bear and tiger cookies, and as for gingerbread johnnies she couldn't live without them. "it was so good of you to think of me," she told jane. "not at all," replied miss gray. "i was as glad to make them as i am to have you with us. two lone women in one house are bound to get stale. we need young sweet things about to keep us enthusiastic and poetical." at this zura's eyes sparkled, but the sincerity of jane's welcome appealed to her better part and she suppressed a laugh. * * * * * my house possesses one small guest-room. without mentioning it, i disposed of a few curios and with the proceeds i ransacked the shops for things suitable for girls. my morning had been spent in arranging my purchases. it was a very sweet moment to me when, after i had ushered in my guest, she stood for a second taking it all in; then putting out her hand she said, "it's like a picture and you are very kind." afterwards jane gray, looking like a trousered ghost in her outdoor sleeping garments, crept into my study and interrupted the work i was trying to make up. "oh, miss jenkins," she whispered mysteriously, "i've just thought it all out--a way to make everybody happy, i mean. wouldn't it be truly splendid if dear page hanaford and zura were to fall in love? it's a grand idea. she has the mares and anners of a duchess and so has he." excitement invariably twisted jane's tongue. "for heaven's sake, jane, do you mean airs and manners?" "yes, that's what i said," went on jane undisturbed. "and oh! can you think of anything more sweetly romantic?" i laid down my pen and asked miss gray to look me straight in the eyes. then i put the question to her: "will you tell me what on earth romance, sweet or otherwise, has to do with a young fellow struggling not only with poverty, but with something that looks like mystery, and a wild, untamed, wilful girl?" to which my companion replied: "but just think what love would do to them both!" i guess the difference in jane's sentiment and mine is the same as between a soft-shell crab and a hard-shell one. vii an interrupted dinner the next two days passed happily, if a little giddily, and jane and i commanded every resource to entertain our guest. zura saw and responded like a watch-spring suddenly released. she found in two simple old women perfect subjects on which to vent her long-suppressed spirits. she entered into the activities of the household with such amazing zest, it seemed as if we were playing kitchen furniture. while it surprised me how one young girl could so disturb regular working hours and get things generally a-flutter, i could easily see that all she needed was a chance to be herself. that was the point that kishimoto had to understand and would not. "please let me be santa claus this time, and give out the cod liver oil and the milk and the bibs to the babies," zura begged one day when these articles were to be distributed; "and mayn't i keep the kiddies for just a little while to play with?" an hour later, attracted by much noise, i walked out into the garden and saw zura with a clean, but much-patched baby on her back, one in each arm, and a half-dozen trailing behind. the game was "here we go 'round the mulberry bush," sung in english and played in japanese. "oh, miss jenkins," cried the merry leader, "come quick. we need a bush and you will make such a nice fat one." before i knew what was happening i was drawn into the mad frolic, reckless of all the work piled up on my desk in the study. i thought maybe i was growing feeble-minded, but the way to it was delightful, if foolish. * * * * * strangely enough, during this time page hanaford did not appear. we explained to zura that he was present the day she made her brief call. "oh! do you mean the day i flew into the 'misty star' and right out again? yes, i remember his outlines. where did you find him? looked more like a sure-enough man than anything i've seen in japan." jane monopolized the talk at breakfast that morning, describing to zura the good looks of page hanaford and the charm of his romantic story. zura seemed more amused by jane's manner and the funny twist in her tongue than impressed by her description. miss gray finally turned to me and urged once again, "do let's have him to-night. i'll get the dinner." zura clapped her hands and said eagerly, "oh, let's do! i haven't been to a party in a century. if miss gray will be the 'chefess,' i'll be assistant potato peeler. i can make the best salad. it's called 'salade de la marquise de chateaubriand'; but it won't hurt you. it is only peanuts and cabbage. daddy and i used to feast on it once a week." there was no resisting her enthusiasm, and i sent a note to page hanaford asking him to come that evening for dinner. after all there was nothing i could label a reason why he and zura should not meet. domesticity was the last thing anybody would suspect a characteristic of either jane or zura. not knowing what the result would be, i gave the cook a holiday and turned the incongruous pair loose to do as they pleased in kitchen and dining-room. all the afternoon i was busy with my writing, but from time to time there penetrated through the closed doors of my study sounds of swift-moving feet and gay laughter. the old house seemed infected with youth. contact with it was sweet. some of my dreams were coming true. i found myself repeating a long-forgotten poem as i took up another stupid report. i even hummed a tune, something i had not done in twenty years. just before the dinner hour jane and zura came into the living-room. evidently their work in a common cause put them on the friendliest terms. they were arm in arm, and i knew by the set of jane's collar and the rose in her hair that young and skilful hands had been at work. zura's white dress was dainty enough, but it seemed to melt into nothing about the neck and sleeves. it must have been brought from america, as i had seen none like it. nobody could deny, however, that with her face, all aglow beneath her lustrous hair, she was a goodly sight for young and old. "isn't she the very sweetest thing?" asked jane as they approached, adding wistfully, "but i truly wish her dear nose didn't tilt up!" zura with stern, forbidding brows, but laughing eyes, rebuked the wisher. "see here, miss jinny gray, that is the only nose i have, if it is sudden. i've worked hard to coax it in the straight and narrow path. i've even slept on my face for a week at a time." then with swift, dramatic gestures as the gong sounded at the entrance-door, she whispered, "hush! the man of mystery doth appear!" page hanaford came in. all our tempting tonics and special dishes had failed to curve the angles in the boy's face and body. he still looked ill. the brooding sadness that frequently overshadowed his lighter moods troubled me. when he caught sight of zura, his alertness of manner was pleasing and the kind of joy-look in his eyes did me good. i guessed he was downright glad to see something youthful hovering around the "misty star." i was glad too, but the situation did not seem to call for hurrahs and fireworks. two young american people meeting, shaking hands, and courteously greeting each other was an unusual sight to me, but after all a natural one. page said he had been obliged to forego the pleasure of seeing us, as he had been very busy organizing his new classes. he was glad to come again. we went at once to dinner. i wondered from where the new "chefess" and her assistant "potato peeler" had procured the materials necessary to so pretentious a meal. though surprised, i soon learned that jane gray was mistress of the art of making something beautiful out of nothing. we sat down to the softly-lighted table. the china was old and somewhat chipped, but on its white background a design in tender blue just matched the fresh larkspur used for table decorations. with the bringing in of each dish prepared by the new cooks the little party grew gayer and friendlier. the quaint old dining-room had never witnessed festivities like these. in the long ago it served as the audience chamber of a daimyo's 'besso' or play place. it was here that the feudal lord had held council of war and state. the walls had never before echoed the laughter of joyous youth. now even the grotesque figures on the carved beams seemed to awaken from a long sleep and give back smile for smile. pine tree and maple leaf, gay in holiday dress, usually so precise and formal, fluttered about like distracted butterflies as they served the dinner, often stopping to hide their faces in the long sleeves when zura honored them with side remarks for, of course, she was the source of all the merriment, the life of the party. she also reduced jane to a state of helpless laughter. i felt the years dropping away from me, and the face of the boy whom i had learned to love was less strained and brighter than i had ever seen it. he said little at first, but his eyes smiled, and he listened eagerly to all zura's chatter and seemed to be hearing once again of joys dreamed of and a world lost to him. i knew myself growing happier every minute. the after-dinner coffee was not necessary to make, somewhere near my heart, little thrills jump up and down, like corn in a hot popper. i was getting what my soul craved--companionship, contact with life, and a glimpse into the doings of youth's magic years. we soon returned to the living-room. page prepared to smoke, and we settled down to a friendly, intimate time. the talk turned to school. jane had been telling of a japanese woman, who, handicapped by the loss of an arm, and no longer being useful in field work, trudged every morning eight miles to school where she could learn sewing so as to help husband and babies. "well!" remarked zura doubtingly. "i can't sew with two hands, and my tongue thrown in. i do not see how she manipulates anything so contrary as a needle, single-fisted." "oh! my dear," said jane, "you can believe with one hand just as hard as you can with two. it's hoping with all your might, while one is doing, that makes our dreams come true. i'm afraid you never really loved school." "oh, yes, i did in spots," she said. "especially if there were a fight on--i mean--a contest. i could bear with cheerful resignation all the v.p's., the b.b's., and chilly zeros they tagged on to my deportment, but i would have worked myself into a family skeleton, before i would permit another girl to outclass me in a test exam! i could forgive the intellectual her sunset hair, but her grecian nose--never!" the methods employed by the two contestants as related by zura had called forth my unqualified sympathy for the teacher when once again the gong on my front-door rang out and a voice was heard asking for miss wingate. zura jumped up from her seat and greeted the visitor with frank delight. "oh!" she said, "it's pinkey chalmers! who'd believe it! hello, pinkey! my! but it is good to see somebody from home." there was ushered into the room a well nourished looking chap, who greeted zura by her first name familiarly. i did not need to be told that he was the young man with whom she had been seen on the highway. he was introduced to me as mr. tom chalmers; i was told he had earned his nickname, "pinkey," by contracting the pink-shirt habit. the youth was carelessly courteous and very sure of himself. my impression was that he had seen too much of the world and not enough of his mother. he declined my invitation to dine, saying he had had late tea before he left the ship which was coaling in a nearby port. "i started early," he went on, "but maybe you think i didn't have a great old time finding this place. you said in your note, zura, it was the 'misty star' at the top of the hill. before i reached here i thought it must be the last stopping-place in the milky way. climbing up those steps was something awful." mr. chalmers mopped his rosy brow, but later conversation proved his sensitiveness to feminine beauty quite overbalanced his physical exhaustion, as on the way many pretty girls peeped out from behind paper doors. page kept in the background, plainly arranging a mode of escape. he soon excused himself on the plea of work, saying as he left, "i'll drop in some time to-morrow for the book. you'll find it by then." with the look of a disappointed child on her face, jane called to her little attendants, went to her room and resumed her knitting. the unbidden guest was gaiety itself, and there was no denying the genuine pleasure of the girl. as the night was warm and glorious, i suggested that zura and her guest sit on the balcony. i picked up a book and sat by my reading lamp, but my eyes saw no printed words. my mind was busy with other thoughts. i was a woman without experience and had never lived in the world of these two. but intuition is stronger than custom and longer than fashion. the standards i held for the boys and girls of my country were high and noble. frankly i did not like the man's attention to zura, the intimate companionship suggested by his actions, nor his unreserved manner. the girl had told us of their chance meeting on the steamer coming from seattle. any mention of his name on her part was so open, she spoke of him as just a good playfellow to help her to pass away the time, i could not believe her feelings involved. but, fearful tragedies can be fostered by loneliness and in mr. chalmers's easy familiarity with the lonely girl, there was something wanting; i could only name it chivalry. yet, as their voices came to me, glad, happy, vibrant with the joys of youth and its interests, i thought perhaps i did not understand the ways of the young and their customs, because i had never known their delights. on and on the boy and girl talked, unheeding my presence and the fact that i could hear. from out the open window i caught a glimpse of the radiant blue between the distant hills and the light of the great evening star as it flashed its eternal message to the sparkling waters below. zura saw it and called softly to her companion, "hush, pinkey! look! isn't that a bit of heaven?" and he of the earth replied, "i am looking at you. that is all the heaven i want just now." "you silly!" was the unvexed reproof. after a pause they began to talk of queer and, to me, far-off things--something about the "average" of "giants" and "cubs," of "quarter-backs," "full-backs" and a kind of "great rush," though what it was after i never knew. i supposed he was telling her of some wild tribe festival when he spoke of dances bearing the names of animals and fowls. it was all as incomprehensible to me as hindustanee. at last he said to her, "well, girlie, i'm about due to leave now. i am sorry, but i must be moving." then more softly, "remember to-morrow night. you take a wrap and i'll see to the lunch. boat will be ready at eight. by jove! with a night like this what a lark it will be!" the meaning of this was as clear as my crystal paper weight, and between the door where mr. chalmers bade zura good-night and the lodge where i aroused the sleeping ishi to his duty of custodian my thoughts went around like a fly-wheel on full duty. the reflected flame of the old bronze lantern, swayed by the night-wind, fell on the great gate and transformed the carved dragons and attendant demons into living, moving things. the departing guest saw it and remarked with a mock fear, "that dragonette seems alive; hope he and his angels will not follow me. some carving that!" "are you interested in curious things, mr. chalmers?" "i should say. everything from jiujitsu to eels and chopsticks catches me." "have you ever seen a garden in this country which boasts some three or four centuries of birthdays?" "no; but i should like to gaze on the spectacle." here was my opportunity to get in serious conference with the young man, and as it seemed one of the few sights mr. chalmers had missed, i was charmed to make my offer. "my garden is very famous," i said, "and just now it is in its full beauty. i wonder if you would come to-morrow morning and permit me to show it to you?" "sure. thanks," was the answer as he swung down the street and into the sleeping town below. viii mr. chalmers sees the garden and hears the truth early next day i cornered jane privately and told her of the conversation i had overheard the night before and the visitor i was expecting, adding, "this is orphan asylum day. i can't go, but take zura with you. i don't want her to see that chalmers boy again. he's too friendly, too highly colored to suit my ideas." if my tones were sharper than the occasion demanded, it was because of the combination of a shriveled cash account, and an undesirable male around. the general disturbance of mind made me say, not quite honestly: "he may be all right, but so far i can see not one good quality in mr. chalmers's make-up." "oh! yes, there is, miss jenkins," said jane, quick to defend. "he can whistle beautifully. last night as he went down the street you should have heard, 'oh! promise me!' it was so pretty i almost cried." "spare your tears, jane; the prettiest whistle that ever grew never made a real man. mr. chalmers will have to shine in another direction before i am convinced. now get zura and clear out, and don't you dare to take more than one basket of gingerbread johnnies to the orphans." * * * * * when mr. tom chalmers walked in at ten o'clock he barely concealed his regret at there being only an elderly hostess to receive him. the garden where i conducted my visitor, might have added joy to its symbol of peace on this perfect day of early spring. in each flower, in every leaf a glad spirit seemed to dwell. the feathered tribe that made its home among the branches madly rejoiced in a melody of song and twitterings. a white mother pigeon sheltered her young in a gnarled old plum tree, full-blossomed and crimson, while in a lofty pine old man crow scolded all birdkind as he swayed on the topmost branch, a bit of ebony against the matchless sky of blue. there is only one effectual way of dealing with things one does not want to do--make past history of them as fast as possible. very soon after entering the garden i asked mr. chalmers, who was mildly interested in the beauties before him, to sit down with me. without further dallying, i went straight to the point of the interview. i told him i had heard him make the appointment with zura the night before and he seemed to have forgotten to mention the matter to me, though i was close by. for a time at least i was responsible for zura, and i thought it best to call his attention to a few facts which could not be overlooked. "i wonder, mr. chalmers, if you realize that in this country it is impossible for a boy and a girl to associate together alone. it is barely permissible for you to see her in the company of others. already your attentions have caused zura to be talked about and there is very serious trouble with her grandfather. further than that, the excursion you are planning for to-night is not only improper in any country, but it means actual disgrace here." "it does? well, i'll be hanged! can't take a girl out and give her a good time! i knew these japs were fools, but their laws are plain rot." "possibly, from your standpoint, mr. chalmers; but you see these laws and customs were in good working order in japan long before columbus had a grandfather. they can't be changed on the spur of the moment." "that's all right," he responded hotly. "what you can't change you can sometimes break; i'm good at that kind of game." something in the boy's resentful face said that i was an impudent old meddler, an officious interloper. it made my voice as sharp as pins. "very well, young man," i said, "there will be just one time in your life's history when you have encountered both an old law and an old woman that you will neither break nor change. your attentions to zura wingate have got to be stopped and at once." "stopped!" he retorted. "who's going to make me? i come from a free country where every fellow is his own boss. i'll do as i please. what do i care about the laws of these little brown monkeys! where would they be anyhow if it wasn't for america? didn't we yank 'em out of their hermits' nest and make them play the game whether they wanted to or not? they had better lay low! don't they know there are ninety millions of us? why, with one hand tied behind we could lick the rising sun clean off their little old flag!" if it ever happened, i wondered about what point in the battle i could locate mr. pinkey chalmers. the more he talked, the less i was sure of my pet belief in the divine right of the individual. then my heart jumped; i saw page hanaford coming. "the maid was unable to find the book i came for. she directed me here. do i interrupt?" he asked on reaching us, bowing slightly and looking inquiringly from my frowning face to pinkey chalmers's wrathful one. "interrupt? no," said that youth. "welcome to our prayer-meeting! i've planned a picnic and a sail for zura and me to-night. this lady says it shall not be and i'm speculating who's going to stop it." page stepped quietly up to the defiant pinkey. "i will, mr. chalmers, if necessary. i know nothing of your plans, but in this place miss jenkins's word is law. you and i are here to obey it as gentlemen." tommy blazed. "gentlemen! who are you, i'd like to know, pushing in and meddling with my affairs," he said. at the challenge the old look of confusion momentarily clouded page's eyes. then with an effort he found himself. "my ancestry would not appeal to you, sir. but"--half good-humoredly--"the punch of my fist might." [illustration: page started forward. a sound stopped him] "oh h--h--ho!" stuttered pinkey, angry and game. "you want to fight, do you! light in! i'm ready." page started forward. a sound stopped him. it was voices singing an age-old nursery tune: "skip to my loobyloo, skip to my loobyloo, skip to my loobyloo all of a saturday morning." it was a strange and curious sight in that wonderful old garden. down the sandy path under the overhanging blossoms came jane and zura, skipping and bowing in time to the game's demands. the last line brought them to us. hand in hand they stopped, zura dishevelled, jane's hat looking as if it grew out of her ear, but old maid and young were laughing and happy as children. "we were practising games for the 'sylumites,'" explained zura. "i'm premier danseuse to the nipponese kiddies and lady jenny is my understudy. what's the argument?" she asked, observing first one face, then the other, keenly alive to some inharmony. mr. chalmers started to speak. i cut him short. "zura, take mr. hanaford with you and give him the book he wants. you'll find it on my desk. you go too, jane, and help; mr. hanaford is in a hurry. i'll bring mr. chalmers later." "lovely!" exclaimed jane; "and everybody will stay to lunch. come on, let's have a feast." a feast! jane knew well enough it was bean soup and salad day, and not even a sweet potato in the pantry. miss gray and zura started house-ward, slowly followed by page. he had looked very straight at mr. chalmers, who returned the gaze, adding compound interest, and a contemptuous shrug. they were barely out of hearing when he began, "brave soldier of fortune, that! where did he come from?" without waiting for me to answer he went on: "i didn't know you were a missionary, else you couldn't have tied me with a rope and made me listen to a sermon and a peck of golden texts 'à la japanese.'" "unfortunately, mr. chalmers, i'm not a missionary. if i were, i would leave off teaching the so-called heathen at once and be head chaplain to some of the ninety millions you were talking about. speaking of golden texts, i know my bible too well to cast pearls. now, young man, once for all let me say, this thing simply cannot be. zura is a lonely girl in a strange land. she must live under her grandfather's roof. your slightest attention will make mountains of difficulty for her, and she is not going with you to-night even if you mean to marry her to-morrow." pinkey turned nearly white. "marry her!" he exclaimed, "why, i'm engaged to a girl back home." "why, i never intended to marry her," he went on, more concerned than at any time before. "i was just having a little flirtation." a little flirtation! by the powers that be! my country had progressed if it had come to the place where a man could swear allegiance to one woman, then blithely sail the seas to find heaven in another woman's eyes! my few days' experience with a girl had set me more problems than i ever found in arithmetic. this boy was a whole algebra, and they both belonged to my country where i thought rearing children was like growing flowers. not only were things happening, i was learning new lessons faster than i really cared for. i asked him if zura knew of his engagement. "no," he replied as he walked restlessly about, "i just met her coming over. she isn't in love with me and i don't trouble others with my private affairs." "really! i am afraid your manly self-control will cause zura many a heart ache. i know of nothing more contemptible than being engaged to one girl and flirting with another." "most men do it," he answered sullenly. "i don't believe you, boy, and it will take more proof than you can furnish to convince me that the men of my country have so low a standard of honor." i put a heavy accent on "men." my guest flushed. "well, i like that! what do you call me?" "a thoughtless boy," i said. "but if you want to be a man, here's your chance. you go right back to your ship; write to zura; tell her of your engagement and why you cannot see her any more; then stay away." i knew as little about men as i did about fashion, but i plunged on. "what do you think the girl back home would think? suppose somebody treated her as you have treated zura? shame on you, boy! be a man and help an old woman as well as a young one." the desire to have his own way died hard, but something conquered. "i'll do it! just watch me," he said at last, a certain bravado accompanying his words. i could see that he was much disturbed by our interview. he rose and moved towards the gate. his effort to live up to his newly-awakened manhood was boyish, but sincere. he whirled about suddenly and said, "miss jenkins, i apologize to you and zura. i--i'm awfully sorry. zura is such a jolly chum, and she was very lonely; i wasn't any too gay myself at leaving home. but, honestly, i didn't mean to make it hard for her. i--i didn't think. please tell her." impulsively he took my hand and lightly kissed it. but for his earnestness i would have thought it impudent. he was soon gone. * * * * * "where's pink tommy?" cried zura, as i entered the living-room. "where's mr. hanaford?" i questioned back. "why, he took his book and left. didn't you say he was in a hurry?" "yes, i did; so was mr. chalmers. he left good-by!" "good-by?" in zura's question there was much annoyance and some anger. jane chimed in. "both the boys gone? what a pity! i've just made a relly joll." whether intentional or not, jane's twisted words sent a little breeze of laughter before the coming storm. for the rest of the afternoon zura had little to say. book in hand she sat in the windowseat overlooking the water, watching the snow-white sails skim the opal sea. i made no further explanation of mr. chalmers or his call, thinking it best to await the arrival of his note. it came just before night. the reading of it left zura white. she looked at me stonily, "i suppose," she began, stiff with anger, "that you did this." "i did," i answered, looking into her blazing eyes. "and i suppose too," she continued with withering scorn, "that was why the gay cavalier kissed your hand. i saw him through the window. so touching! that's what you were plotting when i found you in the garden. page hanaford was in it too; i saw it in his face. i hate him! i hate everything! oh!" she cried, with a sudden outburst of passion, "the lot of you are a pack of withered mummies. not one of you know what it means to be homesick; how i'm aching for a good time! yes, i was going with pinkey to have a picnic on the island. yes, i was going to slip off without telling you. how could you understand? what was the harm in my having a little pleasure? do you think i intend to bend to the rules of this law-cursed country? no, i will not! i'll go where i please. i'll have my own friends!" as gently as i could i forced her to go to her room and listen to what i had to say. i related what had passed between mr. chalmers and me, of the fatal thing she was contemplating and how her grandfather had appealed to me for help. never had i dreamed of such passion, such grief in a young girl. she was like some wild thing, trying to beat its way to freedom through prison bars. no word of mine, however tender, seemed to touch her. i began to feel useless, miserable, and a joy killer in general. i almost wished for the dull days of old; at least i knew how to deal with them. i could give points to the minister of education, talk volubly at mothers' meetings and translate confucius from the original, but i was helpless before this girl in her conflict with conditions to which she could never yield and which she fought with all the fierceness of undisciplined strength. i could think of no word to comfort her. i sought to divert her. "zura, listen! do you remember the hat i wore the first day i came to see you? you do remember, for i saw you smiling at it. well, i've worn it for eight years. don't cry, dearie; please don't; and i'll let you send to yokohama and select me another one." sending to yokohama for anything had always been an event to me. it was the only excitement i could think of. but zura flung herself around at me. "hang your old hat! what is a hat to a man, and he the only friend i have out here. i don't care if there was another girl! she can have him. he was somebody to play with. it was something to do, a touch of home. oh! it's cruel! cruel!" though another ideal was gone to smash, i was almost ready to cry myself with relief that it was only a playmate zura wanted in pinkey and not a sweetheart. even at that i was at my wit's ends again to know what to say next when the door opened. jane had heard the commotion, and there she stood in her sleeping garments and cap, a kimono floating behind her. in one hand was her candle, in the other the only ornament she possessed--a stuffed parrot! she came in and, as if talking to soothe a three-year-old child, she coaxed, "zury, zury, don't cry! look what jane has to show you. this is willie. for a long time he was my only friend; then he died. i missed him terribly at first; but don't you cry about mr. pinkey. there are plenty more men in this world, just as there are plenty more parrots and as easy to get." "oh, i wish everybody had died!" the girl sobbed on, heedless of jane's attempt at comfort. suddenly, turning away from us, she stretched her arms to the starlit space beyond the windows and cried, "i want my home! i want my friends! i want life!" * * * * * hours later the great golden moon rose from out the velvety shadows of the mountains. it looked in the window, found a sleeping girl, and kissed the heavy lashes still wet with passionate tears. veering still farther around to the balcony, it rested on two silent old women. from the city there floated up to us the tinkling of the samisens in the tea-houses; the high, sweet voice of a dancing girl as she sang the story of an old, old love; the sad notes of the blind masseur as he sought for trade by the pathos of his bamboo flute; the night-taps from the far-away barracks. off to the west we could see the fast-disappearing lights of a pacific steamer. neither sounds nor sights seemed to touch miss gray nor ruffle her serenity. for a long time she had been looking steadily into space, as if held by a mental vision of some spiritual glory. "jane," i asked at last, "what shall we do?" maybe it was the moon, but something had smoothed out every wrinkle in her face. she looked young and wise, as she leaned over and put her hand on mine. here was a jane i had never known before. in a voice low and sweet, she repeated the ancient hymn: "god holds the key of all unknown and i am glad. if other hands should hold the key, or if he trusted it to me, i might be sad." from that night my feeling of superiority to jane diminished. some of her strong sweetness, penetrating what seemed the crusty exterior of my heart, entered in to abide with me always. ix jane hopes; kishimoto despairs when zura appeared the following morning no reference was made to the events of the night before. she was pale and coldly courteous. in her sharp brightness there was no hint of an olive branch being hid about her to be offered to me or presented to her grandfather when she returned to his house that day, as previously arranged. once only did the girl's manner soften, and then neither to jane nor to me. outside, from every glint of the sun on the new green of the pines to the joyous call of the white sea birds, was the glad message of spring, and spring in this lovely island is no mere promise of things to come, but an everlasting fulfilment of the glorious promises made in the hour the great artist dreamed it. zura looked through the window at the sea, gaily breaking its silvered crests against the gray old rocks and, just above, the great patches of rose-pink cherries streaking the blue haze of the mountains. as the girl took in the tender beauty of the scene some memory seemed to touch her. her eyes filled, her lips trembled; but she quickly recovered herself and soon after made her adieus. i walked with her to the gate and watched her go down the long flight of steps. everything about her, from the poise of her head to the swing of her body, courted conflict and prophesied disaster. i felt as if i had snatched a bag of candy from a hungry child. a week later kishimoto san came to make the call customary on occasions when any kindness had been done to him or his family. his gratitude for my efforts to make some headway with zura was very sincere. he supplemented his thanks by a large box of cake. the gift was decorated with a red string and a good-luck emblem and wrapped in a bright yellow cloth. from the atmosphere, all concerned needed not only good luck, but something the color of sunshine; one look into kishimoto san's face assured me it was neither springtime nor rosetime in the path he was treading. my visitor was a busy man of many affairs, and i a woman much occupied; but custom said that a ceremonial visit must be just so long, and kishimoto would rather break his neck once a week than a rule of etiquette once a life-time. so we fell to talking of a recent trip he had made to yokohama. he said a great foreign fleet was visiting the port. the festivities and the gaieties were unending. he had been only a looker-on, but a deeply-interested observer. he spoke of how his country had strained its every resource to give welcome to this fleet, making a neighborly call, though armed to the ship's last rail. he continued: "the whole scene give me reminder of one very small boy who had grand record of good fight, also he has the great exhaustion of strength from last battle with tall giant. small boy has poverty too, but he draw forth his many ancient toy for guest to play. makes big debt of money to give him feast. he very much desire to keep face of big boy all covered with smiles." then from the way my visitor half shut his eyes and looked at me, i knew something more was coming. "americans are a great people, but disagree with their wonderfulness." "you mean they are inconsistent?" i suggested. kishimoto san, being too much in earnest to search for the proper english, dropped into japanese-- "yes, the old proverb fits them, 'a physician breaking the rules of health.'" "why do you say that of my people?" i asked in a moment on the defensive. "because you literally strain your bodies to hold very high a moral standard for other nations, that you, yourselves fail to follow." "what do you mean?" he went on slowly: "i was wondering if it is the custom in your country for ladies to smoke and drink liquor in public places?" "ladies!" i repeated amazed. "american women smoke and drink in public or other places! certainly not," i declared emphatically. "why do you hint at such a thing?" thirty years' absence from my country had glorified my ideal of its womanhood. "only this," said kishimoto san, "several times while in yokohama i had occasion to visit the ocean hotel. on the broad veranda facing the sea were seated numbers of great men and ladies together, many of them were smoking and i could not count the number of cocktails they consumed." "they were not american women," was my vigorous protest. "yes, madam, they were. first they were beautiful and sparkle with eyes and tongue. all men bow down to them same as we bow to our empress. then afterwards i examine register and clerk of hotel confirm my thought." "possibly what you say is true, kishimoto san, but hasn't it a flavor of littleness to label as a national habit the acts of a few exhilarated travelers? what have you to say of the vast army of american women who could not be forced into doing the things you mention?" "nothing. except i was just wondering how america could spare so many missionaries. you know we do not beg for their company." "it is not well for you to forget what your country of all others owes to the missionaries," i reminded him. "though your beliefs are as far apart as the poles, your sense of justice can but acknowledge that the unselfish service of the missionaries has led your people to heights they never could have reached without them." "true," he responded, "it was not of their work in this country i was speaking, but the need of more work in their own. you have very good story in your big book about the 'beam and mote.' do not the morals of your own country need uplifting before you insist on sending emissaries to turn my people from the teachings of many centuries? has your religion and system of education proved so infallible for yourselves that you must force it upon others? ah, madam, america has led us far and high, but the west is for the west and the east is for the east. so far, on the road to progress they can march side by side. further than that, the paths divide and are separated by insurmountable differences, because your country is ruled by the teachings of freedom which you cannot practise. we are governed by the will of our divine emperor, and the spirit of our ancestors. and i pray the great amida before my country is stripped of her love and reverence for these, my poor spirit will be annihilated. for if they are taken away, what can we put in their places save the liberty of the occident, which means license in the orient." i heard him in silence, for while there was much truth in what he said, many times we had argued ourselves into a fever over these questions and never got anywhere. we could no more agree than we could worship the same god. for my part, whatever might be the erratic actions of a few of its freakish individuals, my faith in my country and its people is my faith in my god. i was old fashioned enough to believe every man his brother's keeper. there was nothing more for me to say. for him, intense loyal patriot that he was, his devotion to crumbling old standards was making his fight against the new a bitter and hopeless struggle. but i had never seen the man so stirred as he was this day. he went on: "what of the teachings for your young? they may do for your country, but not for mine! so far as i can see, your boys and girls are left to grow as weeds. they are as free as the foxes and learn their cunning without their wisdom. they are without filial piety. they reverence neither ancestors, the law, nor the great gods. neither do they fear their own devil, nor the evil spirits." "how do you know this?" i inquired. "i know because i have seen their comings and goings. i have heard their free speech before the face of their parents and mothers-in-law. and i have seen them as visitors in the temples. because"--the man's voice shook with feeling--"i have in my house a girl with the blood of the east in her veins and the influence of the west in her life. she is rebellious, rude and irreverent. only this morning, when i gave warning what vengeance the great buddha would send upon her for impiety, did she not toss her red head and laughingly scoff in my face." at this point i arose and rang for tea and my visitor continued: "ah, i tremble at her daring. it is her foreign blood, her training. it will curse us yet." i cheerfully assured him that i thought it would unless he could bring himself to see that the girl was entitled to a few rights as well as himself. i inquired how things had gone since zura's visit to me. he said she had not often referred to her visit; when she did it was in pleasant terms. but her attitude to him and his household was as disrespectful as ever and, he thought, more defiant. he then spoke of a great buddhist festival that had begun that week and was to continue for several days. it was very important that each member of his family should attend and take part in every service. so far zura had refused to go. with sketch-book in hand she disappeared from the house every morning. while he had not seen or heard of her being with the young officer man, he had no doubt she spent her time in his company. in as few words as possible i told kishimoto of my interview with mr. chalmers, and his promise not to come again nor to further complicate matters. my listener was more than pleased. "i thank you," he said impressively. "you are a strong-minded woman." when i remarked that japan was no place for a weak-minded one he seemed to think again about smiling, but changed his mind and asked me solemnly if i would not honor him by coming to his house the following evening and, with his family, attending the great festival on the last night. i accepted the invitation and he left. * * * * * in the evening page hanaford came to dinner. when i told him zura had returned to her home, the smile on his face faded. it spread to his lips and eyes as i rehearsed the close of my interview with mr. chalmers. "i sincerely hope that danger is passed," i said earnestly. "i would not consider mr. chalmers dangerous by nature, only by thoughtlessness," remarked page; "his bravado needs seasoning like his youth. will you not let me help you, miss gray?" he exclaimed as that lady came in almost smothered in the packages her frail arms held. "oh! it's just grand--how many nice people there are in the world," the little missionary said enthusiastically, when relieved of her burdens and seated. "that druggist gentleman was lovely. i bought a jar of vaseline, and he found out i could talk english. then i found out he was trying to talk it; i told him about my hospital, and he gave me all these splendid medicines i brought in. there's court-plaster and corn-salve and quinine and tooth-powder and a dozen milk bottles for the babies, and plenty of cans to put things in. that's a good start for my drug store." "the drug store and the patients, but the building!" i exclaimed. "only a dream! i don't want to be a cold-water dasher but, jane gray, where will your visions lead you?" "to heaven, miss jenkins; that's where they were meant to lead. my hospital is a dream now because it is not built. but it's going to be soon; i know it. didn't that splendid japanese man clothe and educate hundreds of orphans for years on faith, pure and simple? of course my little hospital is on the way! what better proof does anybody want than the story of mr. hoda's orphan asylum?" "give us the story," urged page, sinking into a big chair, after he had made jane comfortable. "indeed i will. i love to tell it for mr. hoda certainly sold his soul for the highest price." "when he was a very young and ambitious man, doing without food to get his medical education, three homeless babies fell into his hands. he and his mother lived on a little less and made room for the children. soon more waifs drifted in. mr. hoda couldn't turn them away, but he wondered where he was to get the food for them. then he had a vision and a dream. in it a great famine was sweeping the land. he saw a man beautiful, but sorrowful, toiling up a steep mountain, with his arms full of helpless children and more clinging to his white garments. this wonderful being turned and saw the great pity in mr. hoda's eyes, then called back, 'help me care for the many that are left. i will never forsake you nor them.' after that, mr. hoda knew what his work was. he fought so hard to follow his vision he burned all his doctor's books for fear he might be tempted. he had gone hungry to buy those books. a long time after, mr. hoda didn't care about them, for his vision brought him the beautifulest faith. he knew food and clothing for the children would come, and often there hasn't been a bite nor a penny in the house and almost time for the dinner bell to ring, when from somewhere food or the way to buy it, would come pouring in as though that orphan asylum was built in a land filled with manna and flowing with honey. mr. hoda and his flock of orphans have waited but never wanted. i'm waiting; but i am just as sure of my dream as i am of my friends." "of course you are," encouraged page. "talk of removing mountains! why, a faith like that would set a whole himalayan range to dancing. you are a great little missionary, miss gray." "thank you, mr. page; missionaries are not great. we can't help living what we believe. wouldn't you be very happy if you were as certain and sure of all your dreams as we are?" "happy!" cried the boy, getting up and walking about. "i'd give a life-time to know--never mind. your hospital will come true. when it does we will ask the city to decorate as it is doing to-day for some big festival. my! the streets look like bargain day in christmas trees," he ended, recovering some of his light spirits. "that's so. there is a festival. what is it, miss jenkins?" i explained the meaning of the festival, which was more strictly observant of ritual and old customs than any other of the year, and i told of kishimoto san's invitation to me. miss gray exclaimed anxiously, "but you are not going?" jane was slow in shaking off the limitations of the doctrine that branded all religions in a foreign country as idolatrous and contaminating. i said i intended going. "oh, miss jenkins," jane cried, "do be careful! they might ask you to bow down before one of those heathen idols, and maybe they might make you offer at its feet a stick of something smelly in one of those insect burners." for the first time since i had known page hanaford, he shouted with laughter. "sweet aroma of incense, that's a blow for you!" he said. "come to think of it, i believe i'll happen along and see how it's done." x zura goes to the festival on my way to join the festival party at the appointed time i passed through the streets of the city, brilliant with decorations of flags and lanterns. gay crowds sauntered beneath graceful arches of pine and lacey bamboo. for the time worry and work were laid aside with every-day dress, and like smiling, happy children on a picnic, the vast throngs moved toward the temple where the great "matsuri" was in progress. a man deaf and blind would have known it was a holiday by the feel in the air. he would also have felt as i did the change in the atmosphere as he neared kishimoto's house. the maid, who answered my summons, said the family would soon be ready to start; the hairdresser had finished; the ceremonial obis were being tied for the madams; the dana san had about completed his devotions before the household shrine. would i bring my most august body into the living-room and hang my honorable self upon the floor? i complied with the request and found zura alone. considering the strained relations at our last parting and the solemnity of the present occasion, she greeted me with a flippancy that was laughable. "oh, here's miss jenkins! welcome to our happy home, and i certainly wish you joy on this jaunt." "are you not going with us?" i asked, observing that she carried in her hand a paint-box as well as her hat. "not i," she laughed. "i'd picnic with mrs. satan and her family first. but do come in. the ogre awaits you. one of the two witches has just had a spell." "which one?" i inquired, putting into my question every inviting tone at my command. i was determined to get on terms of friendliness with this girl. had not i in the long ago longed for liberty and for life as i had never craved orthodox salvation? not even to myself had i acknowledged how strong an appeal to my love of fair play, was zura's frank rebellion against being reduced to an emotionless creature guaranteed to move at the command of her masters. all her warfare had been in the open. at no time in her visit to me, did she mention the unhappy conditions at her home nor voice complaints of its inmates. undisciplined, untrained as she was, there was in her nature a certain reserve which compelled admiration. when not on the defensive for what she considered her rights, she had a decided sweetness that drew me irresistibly. i did not approve of her methods, but my sympathy was deep for this child of freedom forced to live in the painful restrictions of a conservative japanese family. i was beginning to see that zura would break long before she would bend. to break at all meant disaster. to break alone meant ruin. she was of my country, my people. without further ado i arrayed myself on the side of the one who had four against her. before she answered my question, she looked at me as a chained creature might eye a strange hand to see if it were outstretched for a caress or a blow. having decided, she went on, "the ancientest one. some red lilies i carried brought on the fit. an hour ago i gathered a few from the rice fields and took them to my room. when the old dame saw their crimson petals she began to foam at the mouth and splutter a lot of nonsense about the flowers being tongues of flame; she said they would set the house on fire and burn us all to a cinder. if i thought that i'd bring a cartload, and then run. she took them away and threw them in the hot bath. the lovely things shriveled like scalded baby hands. about then, my august grandfather arrived on the scene. he ordered me to put on japanese dress and come to their old festival. i've planned otherwise, and i won't do it." she put on her hat and stabbed it with a long pin. "look here, zura," i ventured, "you'll miss a joyfully good time if you don't go. the country people swarm to these festivals, and babies are as thick as ants. you'll see more pictures than you can paint in a life-time. there are queer things to buy and funny things to eat. the fire-walking ceremony is wonderful." this caught her attention. "what do they do at this ceremony?" "it has been a long time since i saw it, but i remember it was thrilling to watch the worshipers walk barefoot over the hot coals. come along with me, zura. come on," i urged, seeking in my mind for a more persuasive word and finding a memory of mr. pinkey chalmers to help me out, "and we'll make a night of it." i saw nothing humorous in what i had said, but it had a curious effect on zura. she changed her mind so swiftly, her manner grew so gleeful, i thought maybe i had made a promise i could not keep. "all right, old sport," she laughed with reckless gaiety, "i'll go; you stick to me and i'll give you the time of your young life. but make it clear to the devotees in this house that i won't tie myself up in a kimono; neither will i bend an inch before any of those dropsical-looking images." soon we heard the rustle of the master's silken garments. he entered, closely followed by his mother, wife and daughter, their kimonos and obis in colors soft and mellow as befitted older women, and each covered with an overcoat thin of texture and rich in quality. this outer garment was the insignia not only of rank, but of the grave importance of the occasion. their greetings to me were soon over, and zura announced that she was going with us. without a glimmer of pleasure in her seeming willingness to obey, her grandfather said, "it is well." had he glanced at the girl when he voiced it, he would have chosen other words. in her very bright eyes there was a look which boded no spirit of good will. kishimoto san, with his mother, led the way on our pilgrimage. we followed behind; and bringing up the rear was an army of servants loaded with blankets, cushions and hampers of food. it was to be a long session of worship and festivities, and the family would need all the comforts of home before their return. the festival was called "tanjo shaka" (buddha's birthday), and as our little party passed through the great gates the crowds of holiday-makers, which thronged the enclosure, testified to the popularity of the day. the broad avenue leading to the steps of the old temple was lined on each side by temporary booths, from which one could purchase anything from a hot sweet potato to a much-decorated prayer, from false teeth to a charm to ward off the chicken-pox. there was a man who made a dainty fan while you waited; the cook who made a cake while you prayed; the handkerchief man and the sock man; and ah me! the funny old codger, bald of head and shriveled of body, but with a bit of heaven in his weary old eyes. it was the reflection of the baby faces about him. his was the privilege of fashioning from sticky, sweet dough wonderful flowers of brilliant hue and the children flocked about him like birds of paradise to a field of grain. on every side were set up images of the infant buddha. around these, worshipers crowded that they might purchase some portion of the licorice tea poured over the image and supposed to guard against many evils. groups of white-garbed pilgrims from distant cities passed on to worship, their tinkling bells keeping time to the soft pad of their sandaled feet. under the overhanging boughs of the ancient trees were placed low platforms spread with bright red blankets, and thereon sat the family groups. in these throngs very few were well off in worldly possessions. for the masses this day meant curtailment of necessities for many other days. it was a willing sacrifice, for, having done duty at the temple and cheerfully contributed their hard-earned "rin," they yielded themselves up to the enjoyment of being set free, in a space where neither worry nor want were permitted to enter, where their poor lives touched something higher or less sordid than themselves. the day was a gift of the gods and they would be merry, for to-morrow was toil and poverty. it was neither satisfying nor permanent but all so simple and happy. only a heartless stickler for creed and dogma would have labeled it idolatry or banished from the garden of the temple the participants who were childlike in their enjoyment. it took us some time to make our way to the building where kishimoto guided us that he with his family might first offer their devotions. once there, the ceremony began. i was not expected to participate and stood aside. it was not without anxiety that i heard the grandfather give a stern command to zura to approach and kneel with him before the great bronze image, and her equally rigid refusal to do so. with difficulty the proud old buddhist refrained from creating a scene before the other worshipers, but it was plain that he was stung to the quick for the honor of his religion. from the look in his face he only bided his time. the girl moved nearer to me and none too quietly mocked priest and worshiper gaily. both maid and man seemed determined once for all to settle the supremacy of will. they were like two warriors measuring their strength before the final contest. the slip of a dark-eyed girl seemed an adversary easily disposed of. though justly angered, her opponent had learned that if from him she had inherited tenacity of will, the legacy from her father had been an invincible belief in her individual right and courage to assert it. after this clash we walked about till it was time for the evening meal. it was served in an open tea-house. hospitable and kind to the last degree, both host and hostesses pressed upon me every dainty eatable, and tried by all they knew to dispel the gathering clouds. i was touched by their efforts and did my best to smooth the way to peace, but my endeavors were vain. it was a conflict of conditions in which were both wrong and right, but which not to the end of time would ever be reconciled. at last the family sat apart and talked in low tones. zura moved closer to me and, though white-lipped and restless after the many encounters with her grandfather, her spirit was undaunted. xi a broken shrine the feast over, we moved on. the servants were left to pack up, and instructed to join the family at a certain shrine some distance away; devotions at that place would end the festival. the closing down of night was like the working of some magic. from every point of temple, shrine, and tree sprang a light. fireworks shaped like huge peonies, lilies, and lesser flowers spluttered in the air. myriad lights turned the garden into a place of enchantment. in the hand of every feaster swung a paper lantern, gay in color, daring in design, its soft glow reflected on the happy face above. the whole enclosure seemed to be a bit of fairy land, where workaday people were transformed into beings made only for the pleasures of life. i kept close to zura regardless of where she led, for all she saw seemed not only to increase her interest, but to intensify her reckless mood. on our way we paused at a pagoda. a group of priests were marching around it chanting some ritual. they were very solemn and their voices most weird. "what are they doing with their throats, miss jenkins?" asked zura. "singing." "singing! well, they know as much about singing as tit-willows do about grand opera. but the colors of those gorgeous robes are fascinating. aren't the curves of that roof lovely? see how the corners turn up. exactly like the mustache of the little band master at home. oh, look at those darling kiddies!" she suddenly exclaimed, going swiftly to the nearby stand of a cake man. a dozen children or so, wistful-eyed and a bit sad, stood around. these were the city rats and street waifs, who only came from their holes after dark. too poor to buy, they could only gaze and wish. the old man, for the sake of the hungry birdlings at home, could give no further of his store. zura stopped before the little heaps of sweet dough. the children closed about her. none were afraid, and all instinctively felt her friendship. her bargain was quickly made. soon each child had a large share not only of cake, but also of tiny flags and paper cherry blossoms which had adorned the owner's booth. zura emptied a small knitted purse of "rins" and "sens." she had told me earlier that she had sold a picture to a postcard man. the cake dealer got it all. we left the children open-mouthed, gazing at the "ojosan" (honorable elder sister) who had proved nothing less than a goddess; but the girl heeded neither their looks nor their thanks, for we had come upon the ancient rite of firewalking, once a holy ceremony for the driving out of demons, now used for the purpose of proving the protection of the gods for the devout. on a mat of straw, overspread by a thick layer of sand, was a bed of charcoal kept glowing by attendants armed with fans attached to long poles. priests were intoning a prayer to the god of water, who lived in the moon, to descend with vengeance upon the god of fire. with much twisting of fingers and cabalistic waving of hands, a worshiper would draw something from a bag purchased from the priest. this he told the onlookers was spirit powder. sprinkling a part of it on the fire and rubbing his feet with what was left he would cross the live coals, arriving at the other end unharmed. his swaggering air, indicating "i am divinely protected," deeply impressed the wondering crowd. absorbed in watching the fantastic scene, i failed for some time to notice zura's absence from my side. neither was she with her family, who were near by. anxiously turning to search for her, i saw her opposite in a cleared space and, through the background of an eager, curious crowd, page hanaford hurriedly pushing his way to the front. at the edge of the fire stood zura without shoes or stockings. page saw. his voice rang out, "miss wingate! i beg of you!" for a moment she poised as light as a bird; then, lifting her dress, she quickly walked across the burning coals. the sparks flew upward, lighting the bronze and gold in her hair, showing too her face, a study in scornful daring. the lookers-on cheered, some crying, "skilful, skilful!" and others, "brave as an empress!" "she is protected by her foreign god." heedless of the crowds, as if they were not, zura took her hat, shoes, and stockings from the adoring small boy who held them and rejoined me. i glanced around at the family. the women's faces said nothing. to at least two of them, zura was a strange being not of their kind and with whom they had nothing to do. but the look in kishimoto san's eyes made me shrink for the fate of the girl. laying my hand upon her arm i asked, "oh, zura, why did you do it? aren't your feet burned?" "burned! nonsense! they are not even overheated. i used some of their spirit powder, which is plain salt. i did it to prove to myself that all they teach and do is fakery." page joined us, inquiring anxiously, "you are not hurt? i call it plucky, but very foolish. didn't you hear me call to you?" zura, looking up from fastening her shoe, replied stiffly, "mr. hanaford, once is quite enough for you to interfere with my affairs." the boy flushed, then smiled, and dropped to the rear. as she spoke i could but notice her voice was a little less joyous. it sounded a note of weariness as if her high spirit, though unconquered, was a bit tired of the game. in depressed silence our party mingled with the throng on its way to the shrine where the last tribute was to be paid. the place of devotion was in a dense grove, isolated and weird. a single upright post held a frail, box-like contrivance. the inner recess of this was supposed to hold a relic of buddha--some whispered a finger, some a piece of the great teacher's robe; but whatever the holy emblem, both place and shrine were surrounded with a veil of superstitious mystery and held in awe. a lonely taper burned before the shrine, dimly lighting a small opening covered with ground glass and disclosed above a written warning to all passers-by to stop and offer prayer or else be cursed. the crowd of worshipers paid tribute, but rather than pass on, lingered in the shadow, their curious eyes fixed upon the half-foreign girl. it was splendid for her to brave the fire-god, but no living soul dared face the holy shrine with the scorn zura's face and manner so plainly showed. admiration melted into distrust. they would wait and see the end. one by one my host, his mother, wife and daughter passed before the relic and reverently bowed. then they stood aside in a silent group, slightly apart from page and me. it was zura's turn. in the face of kishimoto san, as he looked at his granddaughter, was concentrated the power of his will and all the intolerant passion of his religion. he looked and he waited--in vain. the girl did not move. when he finally spoke, his voice was low, but his words fairly stabbed the air. "obey me! approach and bow!" zura seemed to be turned to stone. but her words were as clear and as measured as his own. "i will not! now or ever!" past all endurance of the girl's disrespect, the man made one step forward, grasped zura by the shoulders, and pushed her towards the shrine. the force sent her forward. as she stumbled she seized a bamboo pole. with it she gave one swift blow. at our feet the little shrine lay shattered, and out of its secret recess rolled a pasteboard box, mildewed and empty. then, like the hissing wind, rose the quick anger of the people. at the same instant page and the crowd rushed toward zura, who, with bamboo stick in her raised hand, stood white and defiant. a coolie made a lunge at her. with closed fist page hanaford struck him full in the face; the other arm shielded zura. another man spat at her, and met the fate of his brother from page's well-directed blow. there is nothing so savage as a japanese mob when roused to anger. knowing them to be cruel and revengeful, my heart stood still as i watched the throng close about page and zura. i knew the boy single-handed could not hold out long before the outraged worshipers. then above the noise and curses and threats kishimoto san's voice rang out. "stop! you crawling vipers of the swamp! how dare you brawl before this sacred place? how dare you touch one of my blood! my granddaughter accounts to me, not to the spawn of the earth--such as you! disperse your dishonorable bodies to your dishonored homes! go!" blind to reason, they cowered before a masterful mind. they knew the unbending quality of kishimoto's will, his power to command, to punish. the number grew steadily less, leaving page and zura and her grandfather alone. kishimoto san turned to the girl and with words cold as icicles, cutting as a whiplash, dismissed the child of his only daughter from his house and home. he cared neither where she went, nor what she did. she no longer belonged to him or his kind. he disowned her. her foreign blood would be curse enough. bidding his family follow, he turned and left. as mrs. wingate passed her disgraced offspring, with troubled voice and bewildered looks she repeated once more her set formula of reproof, "oh, zura! i no understand yo' naughty; i no like yo' bad." the homeless girl, page, and i were left in the darkness. "come with me, zura," i said, not knowing what else to do; and the three of us made our way toward the high twinkling light that marked the house of the misty star. as the boy walked beside her, hatless, tie and collar disarranged, i could but see what his defense of zura had cost him in physical strength. his face twitched with the effort to control his shaking limbs; that strange illness had robbed him of so much. "please, mr. hanaford, do not trouble to climb the steps with us," i urged. "there is no danger. by now the crowd is doubtless laughing over the whole thing." "no, miss jenkins," he said, "i cannot leave you till you are safely shut in the house. rather interesting, wasn't it?" "interesting! well, i guess i know now what making a night of it means." it was my one attempt to lighten conversation. we went on in silence. wordless my other companion walked beside me. she gave no sign. only once, when i stumbled, the hand she outstretched in quick support was shaking and cold. on reaching the house page declined to come in; but, seeing the knuckles of his right hand torn and bleeding, i would take no refusal. "boy, your hand is bleeding. come right in and let me dress it," said i. "don't trouble. it's nothing; only a bit of knocked-up skin. that coolie must have sharpened his teeth for the occasion." zura spoke for the first time as i made the room light. "oh! i didn't know you were hurt, mr. hanaford. i am sorry. let me see." she took his hand in both of hers and held it closer under the lamp. still holding it, she lifted her eyes with sympathy to his. "i'm not worth it," she said softly. i did not hear page's answer; but i thought he was almost gruff when he quickly drew away and walked to the window. he had nothing to say when i bandaged his hand, and he soon left. it was only a matter of a few minutes to light the lamp and arrange the bed in the guest-room i had taken such pleasure in preparing before for zura's visit. i went through these small duties without speaking. i bore no ill will to the girl who had been thrust upon me. my thoughts were too deep for anger against the wayward child whose start in life had been neither fair nor just. but in separating herself from her family she had done the most serious thing a girl can do in whose veins runs the blood of a japanese. everything ready, i said good-night as kindly as circumstances would permit. zura put out her hand and thanked me. a smile twitched her lips as she said, "never mind, miss jenkins. don't be troubled. no use fighting against fate and freckles." the tears in her voice belied her frivolous words. anxious for what might happen, i sat for the rest of the night in the room adjoining the one occupied by my unexpected guest. twice before the coming of the dawn there reached me from the farther chamber sounds of a soul in conflict--the first battle of a young girl in a strange land, facing the future penniless and heavily handicapped. it was a lonely vigil and a weary one. xii a dream comes true if becoming a member of my household was a turning-point in zura's life, in mine it was nothing less than a small-sized revolution, moving with the speed of a typhoon. the days piled into weeks; the weeks plunged head-foremost into eternity, and before we could say "how d'y' do" to lovely summer, autumn had put on her splendid robes of red and yellow and soft, dull brown. if once i yearned for things to happen, i now sometimes pined for a chance, as one of my students put it, "to shut the door of think and rest my tired by suspended animation." for i had as much idea about rearing girls as i had on the subject of training young kangaroos. but it grew plainer to me every day my nearly ossified habits would have to disintegrate. also i must learn to manipulate the rôle of mother without being one. soon after the girl's break with her family the ineffective child-woman who had given zura life passed quietly into the great silence before the daughter could be summoned. though zura was included among the mourners at the stately funeral, she had no communication with her grandfather. afterwards the separation was final. once only i visited kishimoto san's house and had an interview with him. he was courteous, and his formality more sad than cold. he would never again take zura into his house; neither would he interfere with her. her name had been stricken from his family register. as long as i was kind enough to give her shelter, he would provide for her. further than that he would not go, "for his memory had long ears and he could never forget." it was a painful hour which i did not care to repeat. * * * * * i acquainted zura with her grandfather's decision. her only comment was, "his memory has long ears, has it? so has mine, and they'll grow longer, for i have longer to live." in the first intimate talk i had with my protégée, her one idea was to earn the money to return to america, where there was "more chance to make a living." so far as she knew her father was without relatives. there was no one to look to for help. but she could work; she knew many girls who worked; and there was always "something to do" in seattle. "how good it will be to get back to it. wish i could get a whiff of the air right now. yes, indeed! i am american to the ends of my fingers, and hallelujah to the day when i sail back." i entered into her plans with enthusiasm, reserving my determination never to lose sight of her till she was in safer hands than mine. she was very eager to begin earning money for her passage home, offering to teach, to scrub, and even to learn to cook, if we'd learn to eat it. i pointed out that, with her ability to sketch and her natural fascination for young girls, the forming of classes would be a simple matter. she was only to teach them drawing at first. to this she demurred; the pay was so poor that she pleaded to be allowed to have one little class in english. i was dubious; but, as it was only a beginner's class, i consented--upon her solemn promise to "cut out all ragtime classics and teach plain cats and dogs, rats and mice." the process of readjustment in life is sometimes as painful as skin grafting. the passing of each day under the new conditions which zura's coming had brought about marked for both of us either a decided growth or a complete backset. with earnestness i endeavored to make my old eyes see the world and all its allurements from the windows of zura's uncontrolled youth. earnestly i then appealed to her to try to understand that life was a school and not a playground and to look without prejudice at the reasonableness of conventions which life in any country demanded, if happiness was to come. for the first time since i had known her the girl seemed fully to realize that regulated law was a force, and no bogey man which crabbed old grandfathers dangled before pleasure-loving girls, and for her running loose in the green pasture of life was at an end. the bit she must learn to wear would teach her to be bridle wise. however stupid, the process was an unavoidable necessity. zura was really serious when we finished our long conference. she leaned over and put her hand on mine. "nobody but father was ever so kind to me. i'll truly do my best." as if afraid of growing too serious she added: "but, miss jenkins,"--her voice was low and her eyes sparkled, proving how hard the old zura was dying--"i just bet i kick over the traces some time. i feel it in my system." "you what?" i reminded. "madam, i have a premonition that this process of eliminating the gay and the festive will be something of a herculean task. in other words, keeping in the middle of the road is a dull, tough job." "oh, zura!" i cried despairingly. "yes'm. but from this minute i am starting down the track on the race for reformation. give me time. even a colt can't get a new character and a sweet disposition in a week." * * * * * as the days passed it proved not a race, but a hard, up-hill battle, where in gaining one fight she sometimes lost two, and while still aching with the last defeat had to begin all over again. the vision, though, of the home-going to america lured and beckoned her to the utmost effort to conquer not only circumstances, but herself. jane and i helped whenever we could, but there were places so dark through which the girl must pass alone, that not even our fast increasing love could light the shadows of the struggles. i realized that a young girl should have young company of her own kind; but there was none for her. in hijiyama, and especially in our neighborhood, were many high-class families. even members of the royal line claimed it as residence. with these the taint of foreign blood in any japanese marked that person impossible. i dreaded to tell zura this. she saved me the trouble by finding it out for herself. ever afterward, when by chance she encountered the elect, her attitude caused me no end of delight and amusement. in courteous snubbing she outclassed the highest and most conservative to them. in absenting herself from their presence zura's queenly dignity would have been matchless, had she been a little taller. as much as possible, i made of myself a companion for her and the most of our days were spent together. it was a curious pact between young and old. one learning to keep the law, the other to break it, for in my efforts to be a gay comrade as well as a wise mother i came as near to breaking my neck as my well-seasoned habits. zura had a passion for out-of-door sketching, as violent as the whooping cough and lasting longer and the particular view she craved proved always most difficult of access, it severely tested my durability and mettle. i wondered if zura had this in mind, but i stuck grimly to my task and though often with aching muscles and panting lungs, scrambled by dangerous paths to the edge of some precipice where i dared neither to stand up nor to sit down, but i had longed for excitement and happenings and dared not complain when my wish was fulfilled. i could always count upon it that, whatever place zura chose, from there one could obtain the most splendid view of vast stretches of sea, the curve of a temple roof, a crooked pine, or a mass of blossom. she was as irresistibly drawn to the beautiful as love is to youth. her passion for the lovely scenery of japan amounted almost to worship. i had never been a model for anything. now i was used as such by my companion indiscriminately, in the background, in the foreground and once as a grayhaired witch. i was commanded to sit still, to not wink an eyelash, though the mosquitoes feasted and the hornets buzzed. fortunately the summer holiday gave me some leisure. i absorbed every moment seeking comprehension of youthful ways of looking at things, and in zura's effort to reduce her wild gallop to a sober pace, the way was as rough for the girl, as the climb up the mountain side was for me. often she stumbled and was bruised in the fall. brushing aside the tears of discouragement she pluckily faced about and tried again. there were many battles of tongue and spirit but when the smoke had been swept away, the vision was clearer, the purpose firmer. that monotony might not work disaster or routine grow irksome our workdays were interspersed with picnics, journeys to famous spots and, for the nights, moonlight sails on the inland sea. page hanaford was our frequent guest. to jane and me his attitude was one of kindly deference and attention. towards zura it was the mighty call of youth to youth. she answered with ready friendship. it was easy to see that the boy was buoyant by nature, but the moods that sometimes overtook him were strange. often at a moment when the merriment was at its height, the hand of some invisible enemy seemed to reach out and clutch him in a dumb horror, confused the frankness of his eyes, left him with bloodless lips. from light-hearted happiness he plunged to silent gloom. twice it had occurred when the day was heavy with moisture, thick and superheated by the summer's sun. the last time it happened, to the heat was added the excitement of a police launch stopping our little pleasure craft and demanding our names and business. when it left page grew silent and, until we landed, lay in the prow his face hidden by his hat. mental or physical i could not say. i wished i knew for it subtracted the joy from the day as surely as dampness takes the kink out of unnatural curls. when i mentioned the incident to jane, she only looked wise and smiled. i could almost believe she was glad, for it gave her unlimited opportunity for coddling. zura made no comment. so great was the rebound partial freedom induced, her spirits refused to descend from the exhilarating heights of "having a good time and doing things." she blandly ignored any suggestion of hidden trouble, or the possibility of it daring to come in the future. untiring in her preparations for our festivities, the hour of their happening found her so gracious a hostess, naturally she was the pivot around which the other three of us swung. i wondered if, in our many festivities we were not forming habits of useless dissipation. jane said our parties were much livelier than church socials at home. our experienced leader assured me, however, these picnics were as slow as a gathering of turtles in a coral cave, but they continued, ceasing only when the nights grew too chill for comfort. our pleasures were then transferred to the homeyness of the little living-room in "the house of the misty star." * * * * * in my adoption of zura the humor was incidental; in zura's adoption of jane it was uppermost. from the first the girl assumed proprietorship and authority that kept the little gray missionary see-sawing between pleasure and trouble. by zura's merry teasing jane's naturally stammering tongue was fatally twisted. she joked till tears were near; then with swift compunction jane was caught in arms tender and strong and loved back to happiness. like a mother guarding a busy careless child, zura watched miss gray's comings and goings. overshoes and wraps became a special subject of argument. there was no denying that in the arrangement of jane's clothes there was a startling transformation. my attention was called to this one morning when i heard a merry, audacious voice cry out, "see here, lady jinny, do you think it a hallmark of piety to have that hefty safety-pin showing in your waistband? walk right back and get your belt." "oh, zury," pleaded the harassed woman, "what's the use of putting it on? i'll just have to take it off to-night and, my dear, people are waiting for me." "let 'em whistle, sweetheart," was the unmoved response. "even though the heathen roar, i cannot turn aside from my purpose of making you a parisian fashion-plate." "yes, child! it is good of you to want to dress me up. but," with a half-laugh, "don't try to make me resemble one of those foreign fashion ladies. i saw one picture in a style paper that looked almost immoral. the placket of the dress was at the foot and showed two inches of the ankle." "trust your mother, innocent child," zura advised, "those picture ladies don't wear dresses, just symptoms and i'd slap anybody that would ask you to wear a symptom. now, tell me where to search for your belt." jane, ever weak in certain resistances, yielded and adored the more while submitting. under zura's care jane's person grew neater and trimmer. in her face, now filled out with proper food and rest, there was a look of happiness as if some great hope foreshadowed fulfilment. the self-appointed missionary in her talks with me seldom referred to her work in detail. i respected her reserve and asked no questions, for i gravely doubted any good results from her labor. but to zura she confided her plans and her dreams, and zura having many dreams of her own, listened and sympathized. in all the empire there was no collection of humanity that could surpass in degradation and sordid evil the inhabitants of the quarter that jane gray had chosen to uplift. time and again the best-trained workers had experimented in this place. men and women with splendid theories, and the courage to try them had given it up as hopeless, for fear of their lives. once only i remonstrated with miss gray and that when there had been in that section an unprovoked murder of particular horror. the answer of the frail woman was: "i don't want to make you anxious, miss jenkins, but i must go back. the people are my friends. i've been charged with a message for them and i must deliver it. my poor life would be small forfeit, could i but make them fully understand." i said no more for i thought if jane was set on dying that way she'd just as well get all the pleasure out of it possible. to my surprise, unmolested and unafraid, she made her way through streets where no one officer went alone. haunts of criminals and gamblers, murderers in hiding followed by their unspeakable womenkind. this dream of miss gray's scorned to limit itself to a hospital for diseased bodies of the wretched inhabitants, but included a chapel for sick souls. these days it was difficult enough to get money for real things, the unreal stood no chance. without resources of her own, backed by no organization, it seemed to me, like a child planning a palace. to the little missionary the dawn of each glorious day brought new enthusiasm, fresh confidence and the vision was an ever beckoning fire, which might consume her body if it would accomplish her desire. at present she rented a tiny house in the quarters and called it her preaching place. i was told that to it flocked the outcasts of life who listened in silent curiosity to the strange foreign woman delivering a message from a stranger foreign god. as the days went by the members of my household were deeply absorbed in dreams of a hospital, pursuit of passage money to america, and wisdom in guiding girls. in all the years in my adopted country i'd never seen so lovely an autumn. colors were brighter, the haze bluer, and far more tender the smile of the heavens on the face of the waters. the song of the north wind through the top of the ancient pines was no melancholy dirge of the dying summer, but a hymn of peace and restful joy to the coming winter. one lovely day melted into another. the year was sinking softly to its close when one evening found zura, jane and me quietly at work in the living-room of the house of the misty star. jane was knitting on the eternal bibs, zura adding figures in a little book. our quiet was broken by a knock at the door. maple leaf appeared bearing on a tray a pink folded paper. "it's a cable; i know its color," exclaimed zura, "and it's for miss jane gray." with shaking fingers jane tore open the message. she read, then dropped her face in her hands. "what is it?" i asked anxiously. "it's the hospital." "in a cable?" cried zura. "think of that and break into tears." "no, the money for it." "money! where did you get it?" i demanded, thinking that jane had suddenly gone crazy. "i prayed and wrote letters," she answered. "read." still doubting i took the paper and read aloud: build hospital. draft for four thousand dollars on way. friends of the cause. for minutes the ticking of the clock sounded like the dropping of pebbles in a still pool. i could not speak, for the wonder of a miracle was upon me. by faith the impossible had come to pass. finally jane looked up and asked wistfully, "oh! zury, aren't you glad for me?" "glad!" echoed the girl, leaning over and caressing the faded cheek. "i'm as happy as if i were pinning on my own orange blossoms this minute. dear, dear little jinny with her beautiful dream coming true!" i had never thought zura beautiful. now, as she bent over jane, flushed with excitement, her eyes deep glowing, her shining hair flashing back the red of the firelight, she was as brilliant as a golden pheasant hovering above a little gray sparrow. with some sudden memory the girl stood erect and reached for a calendar. "hurrah!" she cried, "it's true! to-morrow is thanksgiving at home. we are going to celebrate too, if i have to sell my shoes." seeing jane still shaken with emotion and the glad tears so close to hand, zura jumped up on a chair and began to read from the calendar as if it were a proclamation: "know all ye! wherever you be up above or down below, far or near on the to-morrow, by my command, every citizen of these united states is to assemble all by himself, or with his best girl and give thanks. thanks for living and for giving. thanks for hospitals and people to build them. sermons to preach and sinners to hear. then give thanks and still more thanks, that to you and to me, the beautifulest land the good god ever made spells home, and friends, and america! amen." xiii a thanksgiving dinner more and more zura had assumed the duties of our housekeeping. the generous sum kishimoto san promptly forwarded each month for her maintenance so relieved the financial pressure that i was able to relax somewhat my vigilance over the treasury. so i stepped aside that her ambition and energy might have full expression. i knew that absorbing work erases restlessness in mind and heart as effectively as a hot iron smooths out a rough-dried cloth. i urged her to further experiments and made a joke of her many mistakes, ofttimes when it was sheer waste of material. but what mattered that? better to die softheaded, than hardhearted. i wanted the girl to be happy. rather than be separated, i would let her make a bonfire of every bean, potato and barrel of flour in the house. as even the sun has specks on it, i saw no reason to be too critical of my understudy, whose shortcomings grew less as she grew prettier. with all the cocksureness of youth, zura seized the domestic steering gear. sometimes the weather was very fair and we sailed along. often it was squally, but the crew was merry, and i was happy. i had something of my very own to love. to pine tree and maple leaf and the ancient cook the young housekeeper was a gifted being from a wonderful country where every woman was a princess. unquestioningly they obeyed and adored her, but ishi to whom no woman was a princess and all of them nuisances--stood proof against zura's every smile and coaxing word. love of flowers amounted to a passion with the old gardener. to him they were living, breathing beings to be adored and jealously protected. his forefathers had ever been keepers of this place. he inherited all their garden skill and his equal could not be found in the empire. for that reason, i forgave his backsliding seventy times one hundred and seventy, and kept him. often zura took the children she used as models for her pictures into the garden and loaded them with flowers. on the mossy banks they romped and indulged in feasts of tea and crackers. ishi would stand near and invoke the vengeance of eighty thousand deities to descend and annihilate this forward girl from a land of barbarians. finding his deities failed to respond, he threatened to cast his unworthy body upon the point of a sword, if zura cut another bud. but i knew, if ishi's love of flowers failed to prevent so tragic an end, his love of sake would do so. for years the garden had been his undisturbed kingdom, and now that it should be invaded and the flowers cut without his permission and frequently without his knowledge enraged him to the bursting point. his habits were as set as the wart on his nose and he proposed to change neither one nor the other. "most very bad," he wailed to me. "all blossoms soul have got. bad girl cut off head of same; peaceful makes absence from their hearts. their weep strikes my ear." so on the day we were to celebrate thanksgiving and jane's happiness, and zura had declared her intention of decorating every spot in the house, i was not surprised to hear coming from the garden sounds of an overheated argument. "ishi, if it weren't for hurting the feelings of the august pig i would say you were it. stand aside and let me cut those roses. there's a thousand of them, if there's one." the protest came high and shrill. "decapitate heads! you sha'n't not! all of ones convey soul of great ancestors." "do they?"--in high glee--"all right, i'll make the souls of your blessed ancestors serve as a decoration for america's glorious festival day." the outraged ishi fairly shrieked. "ishi's ancestors! america! you have blasphemeness. i perish to recover!" hostilities were suspended for a minute. then zura's fresh young voice called out from below my window: "ursula, please instruct this bow-legged image of an honorable monkey to let me cut the roses. hurry, else my hand may get loose and 'swat' him." what the child meant by "swat" i had no idea; neither did i care. she had called me "ursula!" since childhood i had not heard the name. coming from her lips it went through me like a sharp, sweet pain. had she beheaded every rose and old ishi in the bargain i would have smiled, for something in me was being satisfied. i gave orders to ishi, to which zura added, "you are to take your dishonorable old body to the furthermost shrine, and repent of your rudeness to your young mistress." as he turned his angry back upon her, she inquired in honeyed tones, "mercy, ishi! how did you ever teach your face to look that way? take it to a circus! it will make a fortune!" very soon after she came into the room so laden with roses that i could just see her face. "aren't they darlings?" she exclaimed. "poor old ishi, i can't blame him much!" then to me, "say, beautifulest, tell you what: i'll arrange these flowers and i promise, if i find a sign of an ancestor, i'll go at once and apologize to his mighty madness--if you will write a note to mr. hanaford and bid him to the thanksgiving feast." i agreed, and she went her busy way. in addressing the note to page, i was reminded that a few days before his servant had called for a package of his master's clothing which jane and i kept in repair. to my surprise the servant said that hanaford san had gone away on business. possibly my look of astonishment at the news invited confidence. after glancing around to make sure we were alone, he approached and in mixed japanese and broken english told me how his heart was weighed "with anxious" for his employer. he said his master was very kind. therefore, master's trouble was his. sometimes the young man was happy and sang tunes through whistle of lips; but one day he walked the floor all night. lately he sat by the windows long hours and look fast into picture scenery. he feared illness for master. often he forget to sing, whistle, and eat foods; just sit with hand on head. "one time i say 'master, have got painful in brain spot? or have fox spirit got brain?' he give big laugh; then myself makes many fools to see happy stay with master." he wished hanaford san had some people, but in his room was not one picture of ancestor. he never had a happy time with many guests, and samisens and feast drinks, like other young american dana sans in yokohama. when not teaching he sat alone with only his pipe and heart for company, sometimes a book. it was not polite for him to speak of master's affairs but he hoped the foreign sensies could advise him how to make hanaford san have more happy thoughts all of time. i told the boy that mr. hanaford had lost his money and all his people, and probably it was thoughts of these losses that caused his sad hours; he would be all right in time. "time," murmured the unsatisfied man, "time very long for troubled heart of young." then, as if trying to forget that he was powerless to help, he began to recite the events of a recent visit to the city of a group of tokio's famous detectives. they were searching for special fugitives and making the rounds of all suspicious quarters. it was most exciting and because of master's absence he had been able to see much. though he wished page had been at home. it might have entertained him. with many thanks for my "listening ear" the servant left. everywhere i looked i seemed to see this question written: was page hanaford's absence at the time of the detectives' visit accidental or planned? try as i would to put the hateful thought away from me, it came back again and again. the boy's slow return to health had troubled me more than i could well say. it was so unnatural. jane and i did everything that sincere affection could suggest to ward off the hours of strange dejection, and he never failed in appreciation; yet we made no headway to a permanent sunny spot in his life, where he could be always happy and healthy, as was the right of youth. i gave him every opportunity to tell me what caused his moods. i showed him by my interest and sympathy that i wanted to believe in him and would stand by him at any cost. there were times when he seemed on the verge of making a confidant of me, but his lips refused to utter the words. usually he responded eagerly to zura's gay coaxings to friendship and gladly shared her blithesome fun; but sometimes there was a look in his eyes such as a youthful prisoner might have when he knew that for life he is barred from blue skies. as time went on less often appeared the playful curve of his lips, the crinkly smile in the corners of his eyes. once in the moonlight i saw him stretch out his hand as if to touch zura's glistening hair. some memory smote him. he drew back sharply. at times i was sure that he was purposely avoiding her. yet the thought seemed foolish. if ever there was a goodly sight for eyes glad or sad it was the incarnation of joyous girlhood whose name was zura wingate. unable to solve the puzzle, i could only give my unstinted attention to the boy and girl. if only our armor of love could shield the beloved! i sent the invitation for the thanksgiving celebration, and was much relieved by the answer that mr. hanaford would join us that evening. the dinner was a great success. for all of us it was full of good cheer. jane in her happiness looked years younger. she was in high glee. "do you know, my friends in the quarters are so happy over the hospital," she exclaimed. "i was obliged to ask the sake ya to sell only one little bottle of wine to each man. he promised and said he would dilute it at that. wasn't it good of him to do it? oh! it's beautiful how big difficulties are melting away--just like fax in the wire!" she joined in the laugh at her expense. zura urged, "lady jinny, please get you a pair of crutches for that limp in your tongue." "better than that, child. first operation in the hospital will be to take the kinks out of my foolish, twisted words." afterwards in the sitting-room zura went through her pretty little ceremony of making after-dinner coffee and serving it in some rare old kutani cups. the wonderful decoration of the frail china led her to talk of the many phases of japan and its life that appealed to the artist. of the lights and shadows on land and sea the effects of the mists and the combination of color that defied mere paint. i'd never heard zura talk so well nor so enthusiastically on a sensible subject. for a moment i had a hope that her love for the beauty of the country would overcome her antagonism to her mother's people. i was quickly undeceived. then, as if fearful that praise for the glories of old nippon might make her seem forgetful of the festal day of her own land, she flashed out, "but please don't anybody forget that i am an american to the marrow-bone." she turned to page. "did you come direct from america to japan?" the usual miserable flush of confusion covered the boy's face. "well--you see, i never keep track of dates; guess i'm too--maybe i've traveled a bit too much to count days--" either ignoring page's evasion or not seeing it, zura continued, "but you love the blessed old country, don't you?" "with all my heart," he answered fervently. "then why do you stay out here? a man can go where he pleases." "i have my work on hand and riches in mind. you know the old saw about a rolling stone?" "indeed i do. it gathers no moss. neither does it collect burrs in gray whiskers and hayseed in long hair. i tell you," she half-whispered, leaning towards him confidentially, "let's you and i kidnap jane and ursula and emigrate to 'dixie land, the land of cotton, where fun and life are easily gotten.' are you with me?" she audaciously challenged. page's face matched the white flowers near him. with a lightness, all assumed, he answered, "all right; but wait till i make a fortune--teaching." he arose, saying he would go out on the balcony for a smoke. soon after that jane left, saying she must write many letters of thanks. i was alone with zura. the night being mild for the time of year, she proposed that we stroll in the garden. to her this lovely spot was something new and beautiful. to me it was something old and tender, but the charm, the spell it wove around us both was the same. it lay in perfect peace, kissed to silence and tender mystery by the splendor of the great, red, autumn moon. more beautiful now, the legend said, because the gods gathered all the brilliant coloring from the dying foliage and gave it to the pale moon lady for safe keeping. "and look," exclaimed zura, as we walked beside the waters which gave back the unclouded glory, "if the shining dame isn't using our lake for a looking-glass. you know, ursula, this is the only night in the year the moon wears a hat. it's made from the scent of the flowers. doesn't that halo around her look like a chapeau?" we strolled along, and to zura's pleadings i answered with ghost legends and myths from a full store gathered through long, lonely years. charmed by the magic of the night and the wonder of the garden, we lingered long. we paused in the ghostly half-light of the tall bamboo where the moonlight trickled through, to listen to the song of the mysterious bird of the spirit land. the bird is seldom seen alive, but if separated from its mate, at once it begins the search by a soft appealing call. if absence is prolonged the call increases to heart-breaking moaning, till from exhaustion the bird droops head downward and dies from grief. that night the mate was surely lost. the lonely feathered thing made us shiver with the weirdness of its sad notes. suddenly we remembered the lateness of the hour and our guest. we took a short cut across the soft grass toward the house. we turned sharply around a clump of bamboo and halted. a few steps before us was page hanaford. seated on the edge of an old stone lantern, head in hands, out of the bitterness of some agony we heard him cry, "god in heaven! _how_ can i tell her!" zura and i clutched hands and crept away to the house. even then we did not dare to look each other in the face. soon after page came in. he gave no sign of his recent storm, but said good-night to me and, looking down at zura, he held out his hand without speaking. now that i could see the girl's face i could hardly believe she was the same being. with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes she stood in wondering silence, as if in stumbling upon a secret place in a man's soul, she had fallen upon undiscovered regions in her own. when i returned from locking the door after page, zura had gone to her room. in the night i remembered that not once had page referred to his absence from the city. zura, jane and i had not often discussed young hanaford. when we did, it was how we could give him pleasure rather than the probable cause of his spells of dejection. but when i found jane alone the next day and told her what we had seen in the gardens, omitting what we'd heard, she had an explanation for the whole affair. [illustration: "god in heaven. how can i tell her!"] "it is perfectly plain, miss jenkins. page has been disappointed in love. i know the signs," jane said with a little sigh, brightening as she went on, "but that doesn't kill, just hurts, and makes people moody. i am going to tell page i know his secret. i know, too, a recipe that will soon heal wounds like his. we have it right here in the house." "oh! jane gray," i said, exasperated, "do cultivate a little common sense. now you run along and make us some beaten biscuit for supper by that recipe that you know is infallible, and do not add to page's burden whatever it is, by trying your sentimental remedies on him." xiv what the setting sun revealed i heard zura softly singing as she went about her work. she sang more and talked less in the two weeks that followed our thanksgiving celebration than ever before since i had known her. in that time we had not seen page. in our one talk of what we had seen in the garden zura simply remarked that she supposed what we heard page say meant he dreaded to tell somebody of the loss of his fortune and family. she lightly scoffed at my suggestion of anything more serious. i prayed that might be true, but why his confusion and evasion? thoughts of the boy and his secret would have weighed heavily upon me had it not been for my joy in seeing day by day the increasing sweetness and graciousness of my adopted child. her gentleness of manner and speech often caused me to wonder if she could be the same untamed hoyden of some months ago. every day i prided myself on my quick understanding of girls, also of the way to rear them. it made me more than happy to see what i was accomplishing with jane's help. while it was no royal road to peace and happiness which we traveled, for zura's impatience with the orient and its ways, her rebellion against the stigma laid upon eurasians, brought the shadows upon many a day's sunshine, yet, as the time slipped by, there seemed to be a growing contentment. there were fewer references made to a definite return to america. in the prospect of her permanent stay with me, i found great joy. her high spirits found expression in her work. her love of excitement fed on encounters with ishi and in teasing jane. one afternoon she locked the old gardener up in a tea-house till he apologized for some disrespect. she detained him till intense fear of the coming darkness induced him to submit. one night jane brought home a long bundle. "a new dress, saint jinny?" asked zura. "no, honey, i haven't had a store dress in ten years. one somebody is through with becomes me quite well. these are the models for my hospital." "you mean plans, don't you? you wouldn't be caught bringing home a model. models are ladies who would be overcome by the superfluous drapery of a dress. my daddy used them for pictures in his studio. sit right down here by the fire, miss jaygray, and while you dissipate in hot beef tea, i'll give you a lesson on models." zura painted so graphically a word picture of her father's studio it made me laugh, for i knew well enough that such clotheless creatures would not be permitted outside the cannibal islands. the sheriff would take them up. as zura continued her wild exaggerations a look of horror covered miss gray's face. "oh! zury!" she cried. "surely those ladies had on part of a dress." "no! angel child, not even a symptom. daddy didn't want to paint their clothes. he wanted to copy the curves that grew on the people." jane covered her eyes and spoke in a voice filled with trouble. "dearie! i've lived in america a long time but i didn't know there were people like that! i'm really afraid they aren't selling their souls for the highest price." "daddy wasn't dealing in souls, but he did pay a pretty high price for lines." jane, unsatisfied, asked why her father couldn't use statues for his model and zura seeing how troubled her friend was for the souls of the undressed, asked with eager sympathy to be allowed to see the plans for the soon-to-be built hospital. the ground for the building had been purchased and work was well on the way. shortly the roof-raising ceremony would take place. in this part of the country it is the most important event in building. jane said that we were all expected to attend these exercises, even if we were so afraid of the criminal quarters that we had to take our hearts in our hands to enter. brown head and gray were bent together over blueprints and long columns of figures. both maid and woman were frail and delicate tools to be used in the up-building of wrecked lives. yet by the skill of the master mechanic these instruments were not only working wonders in other lives, but also something very beautiful in their own. zura took untiring interest in all jane's plans for the after-festivities of the occasion. most of their evenings were spent in arranging programs. i took no part. my hands were full of my own work and, while they talked, i paused to listen and was delighted not only in the transformation of zura, but also in my own enlarged understanding of her. i loved all young things, and youth itself, but i had never been near them before. with tender interest i watched every mood of zura's, passing from an untamed child to a lovely girl. sometimes her bounding spirits seemed overlaid by a soft enchantment. she would sit chin in palm, dark, luminous eyes gazing out into space as if she saw some wonderful picture. i suppose most girls do this. i never had time, but i made it possible for zura to have her dreams. she should have all that i had missed, if i could give it to her--even a lover in years to come. i did not share these thoughts with jane, for it is plain human to be irritated when we see our weaknesses reflected in another, and encouragement was the last thing jane's sentimental soul needed. i failed to make out what had come over my companion these days; she would fasten her eyes on zura and smile knowingly, as if telling herself a happy secret, sighing softly the while. and poetry! we ate, lived and slept to the swing of some love ditty. once i found zura in a mood of gentle brooding. i suggested to her that, as the year was drawing to a close, it would be wise to start the new one with a clean bill of conscience. did she not think it would be well for her to write to her grandfather and tell him she could see now that she had made it most difficult for him? that while she didn't want to be taken back she would like to be friends with him? at once she was alert, but not aggressively so as in the past. "ursula, i'll do it if you insist; but it wouldn't be honest and i couldn't be polite. i do not want to be friends with that old man who labels everybody evil that doesn't think as he does. we'd never think alike in a thousand years. what's the use of poking up a tiger when he's quiet?" i persuaded. she evaded by saying at last: "well, some time--maybe. i have too much on my mind now." "what, zura?" "oh, my future--and a few other things." * * * * * kishimoto san had never honored me with a visit since his granddaughter had been an inmate of my house. whenever a business conference was necessary, i was requested, by mail, to "assemble" in the audience chamber of the normal school. the man was beginning to look old and broken but he still faithfully carried out his many duties of office and religion. he never retreated one inch in his fight against all innovations that would make the country the less japanese or his faith less buddhistic. more often than not he stood alone and faced the bitter opposition of the progressives. in no one thing did he so prove his unconquerable spirit and his great ideals for his country as the patience with which he endured the ridicule of his opponents. for to a man of the proud and sensitive east, shot and shell are far easier to face than ridicule. on a certain afternoon i had gone to meet with a committee to discuss a question pertaining to a school regulation, by which the girl students of the city schools would be granted liberty in dress and conduct more equal with the boys. of course kishimoto san stood firm against so radical a measure. another member of the committee asked him if he did not believe in progress. the unbending old man answered sternly: "progress--yes. but a progress based on the traditions of our august ancestors, not a progress founded on western principle, which, if adopted by us unmodified, means that we, with our legions of years behind us, our forefathers descended from the gods, as they were, will be neither wholly east nor west but a something as distorted as a dragon's body with the heads and wings of an eagle. progress! have not our misconceptions of progress cost us countless lives and sickening humiliations? has not the breaking of traditions threatened the very foundations of our homes? small wonder the foreign nations offer careless insult when we stoop to make monkeys of ourselves and adopt customs and assume a civilization that can no more be grafted on to our nation than cabbage can be grown on plum trees. take what is needful to strengthen and uplift. make the highest and best of any land your own standard and live thereby. but remember, in long years ago the divine gods created you japanese, and to the end of eternity, struggle as you may, as such you cannot escape your destiny!" as he finished his impassioned speech, a ray of sun fell upon his face, lifted in stern warning to his opponents. he was like a figure of the past demanding reverence and a hearing from the present. for the time he won his point and i was glad, for it was kishimoto san's last public speech. soon after he was stricken with a lingering illness. in previous talks he had neither asked after his granddaughter nor referred to her. but this afternoon, taking advantage of his look of half-pleasure caused by the victory he had won single handed, i took occasion, when offering congratulations, to give him every opportunity to inquire as to zura and her progress. i was very proud of what i had done with the girl, of the change her affection for jane and me had accomplished. naturally i was anxious to exhibit my handiwork. as well tempt a mountain lion to inspect a piece of beautiful tapestry in the process of weaving. however tactfully i led up to the subject he walked around it without touching it. to him she was not. reconciliation was afar off. i said good-by and left. it was this and the speech i had heard in the afternoon that occupied my mind as i wended my way home. of course the country must go forward; but it was a pity that, even if progress were not compatible with tradition, it could not be tempered with beauty. why must the youth of the land adopt those hideous imitations of foreign clothes? the flower-like children wear on their heads the grotesque combinations of muslin and chicken feathers they called hats? there are miles of ancient moats around the city, filled with lotus, the great pink-and-white blossoms giving joy to the eye as its roots gave food for the body. slowly these stretches of loveliness were being turned into dreary levels of sand for the roadbed of a trolley. even now the quiet of the city was broken by the clang of the street-car gong. i was taking my first ride that day. with kishimoto san's plea for progress of the right kind still ringing in my ears, my eyes fell upon some of the rules for the conduct of the passengers, printed in large type, and hung upon the front door of the car: "please do not stick your knees or your elbows out of the windows." "fat people must ride on the platform." "soiled coolies must take a bath before entering." an advertisement in english emphasized the talk of the afternoon: "invaluable most fragrant and nice pills, especially for sudden illness. for refreshing drooping minds and regulating disordered spirits, whooping cough and helping reconvalescents to progress." the force of kishimoto's appeal was strong upon me. i alighted at my street and began the climb that led to my house. halfway up a picture-book tea-house offered hospitality; in its miniature garden i paused to rest and faced the sea in all its evening beauty. happily the glory of the skies and the tender loveliness of the hills still belonged to their maker, untouched by commercialism. the golden track of the setting sun streamed across the mountain tops and turned to fiery red a feathery shock of distant clouds. high and clear came the note of a wild goose as he called to his mate on their homeward flight. in the city below a thousand lights danced and beckoned through the soft velvet shadows of coming night. there fluttered up to me many sounds--a temple bell, the happy call of children at play, cheerful echoes of home-like content, the gentle gaiety of simple life. it was for these, the foundations of the empire, that kishimoto san feared ruin, with the coming of too sudden a transition. but i forgot the man and his woes. the spell of heavenly peace that spread upon land and sea fell like a benediction. it crept into my heart and filled me with thankfulness that i had known this land and its people and for all the blessings that had fallen to me in the coming of zura wingate. gratitude for my full understanding of her was deep. if only the shadows could be cleared away from the boy i loved, life would be complete. exalted by the beauty of the evening, and by my spiritual communings, i entered my house and faced the door of the study. it was ajar. silhouetted against the golden light, which had so filled me with joy and peace, stood two figures. and the man held the hands of the girl against his breast, and looked down into her glad eyes as a soul in the balance must look into paradise. it was page hanaford and zura wingate! as quietly as possible i went around another way and dropped into the first handy chair. the truth was as bare as a model. the force of it came to me like a blow between the eyes. long ago, because of chilblains, i had adopted felt shoes. in that second of time i stood at the door the noiseless footgear cured me of all the egotism i ever possessed. now i knew by what magic the transformation had been wrought in zura. and the castle of dreams, built on my supposed understanding of youth and the way it grew, was swept away by a single breath from the young god of love. what a silly old jay bird i had been! was that what jane gray had been smiling to herself about? i felt like shaking her for seeing it before i did. * * * * * at dinner jane was the only one of the three of us without an impediment in her silence. i was glad when the meal was over and we went to the study. zura buried herself in a deep windowseat, to watch the lights on the water, she said. when there was not another glimmer to be seen, from the shadows came a voice with a soft little tremble in it, or possibly i had grown suddenly sensitive to trembles: "ursula, mr. hanaford was here this afternoon." now, thought i, it's coming. steadying myself i asked: "was he? what did he have to say?" "oh-h!"--indifferently--"nothing much. he brought back an armful of books." an armful of books--aye, and his heart full of love! how dared he speak of it with his life wrapped in the dark shadows of some secret? talk to me of progress! that day i could have raced neck-and-neck with a shooting star! xv pinkey chalmers calls again never having been within hailing distance before of the processes of love and proceedings of courtship there were no signposts in my experience to guide me as to what should be my next step, if it were mine to take. i had been too busy a woman to indulge in many novels, but in the few i had read the hero lost no time in saying, "will you?" and at once somebody began to practise the wedding march. i suppose the fashion in lovemaking changes as much as the styles; nothing i ever thought or dreamed on the subject seemed to fit the case in hand. i waited for zura to tell me, but she didn't. she only sang the more as she went about her work, doubling her efforts in making sweet the home and herself. she seemed to find fresh joy in every hour. any thoughts i'd cherished that young hanaford would come at once, clear up all the confusion about himself, frankly declare his love for zura and be happy forever afterward died from lack of nourishment. only my deep affection for the boy restrained my anger at his silence. the love and sympathy which bolstered up my faith in him were reinforced by his gentle breeding and high mental quality; but circumstances forced me reluctantly to admit that the story he told when he first came was not true. page hanaford was not only under a shadow, but also was undoubtedly seeking to conceal his whereabouts. and why? the question sat on the foot of my bed at night and made faces at me, scrawled itself all over my work and met me around every corner. it was next to impossible to connect him with dishonesty or baseness when looking into his face, or hearing him talk. but why didn't he speak out, and why hide his talents in this obscure place? he was gifted. his classes had increased to large numbers, and so excellent were his methods his fame had gone abroad. the department of education had offered him a lucrative position as teacher in the higher normal college in a neighboring city. but, instead of snatching at this good fortune, he asked for time to consider. he came frequently to talk it over with me; at least that's what he said he came for. the law required the applicant for such a position to answer questions concerning himself and all his ancestors. in my talks with page about this law i emphasized every detail of the intimate questions that would be put to him. i tried to impress upon him the necessity of having either a clean record, or a very clever tongue when he went before the judgment seat of the japanese authorities. i hoped my seriousness would bring about a speedy explanation, denial, declaration--anything, so it came quickly. the truth is i don't believe he ever heard a word of what i said on the subject. if zura was out of the room, his eyes were glued to the door watching for it to open. if she were present, his eyes would be fixed on her face. if i made an excuse to leave the room, page made another to keep me, as if he feared the thing he most desired. what did it all mean? if page hanaford could not explain himself honorably, what right had he to look at the girl with his heart in his eyes? if no explanation could be given, what right had zura wingate to grow prettier and happier every day? i had always believed that love was as simple and straightforward as finding the end of a blind alley. there was good reason for me to change my belief as the days passed and nothing was said on the subject. of course, i could have hauled the two up before me, like children, and told them what i had seen and was still seeing; but i dreaded to force the man's secret and i had to acknowledge that, for the time, i was no more equal to guiding this thing called "love" than i was to instructing birds to build a nest. jane was not a bit of help to me. refusing to discuss anything except the sentimental side of the affair, she repeated verse till i was almost persuaded this poetical streak was a disease rather than a habit. between stanzas she proffered food and drink to page, in quantities sufficient to end quickly both man and mystery, had he accepted. her attitude to zura was one of perfect understanding and entire sympathy. every time she looked at the girl, she sighed and went off into more poetry. troubled thoughts stormed my brain as hailstones pelt a tin roof. i prayed for wisdom as i had never prayed for happiness. the announcement one day that mr. tom chalmers had called caused no sudden rise in my spirits, but a second card, bearing the name of mrs. tom, somewhat relieved my mind. their coming offered a diversion and proved pinkey of a forgiving spirit. they were on their wedding journey, he told us after i had summoned zura. greetings and congratulations were soon over. while the steamer was coaling in a near-by port he thought he would just run over in jinrikishas to say "hello!" and show mrs. chalmers to us. yankee doodle with a hat full of feathers could not have been more proud. what there was of mrs. pinkey to exhibit was indeed a show. her youthful prettiness belonged more to the schoolroom period than wifehood; and heaven forbid that the clothes she wore should be typical of my country; there was not enough material in her skirt to make me a comfortable pair of sleeves! i marveled how, in so limited a space, she advanced one limb before the other. later zura explained the process to me: "it's a matter of politeness, ursula. one knee says to the other, 'you let me pass this time, and i'll step aside when your turn comes.'" even this courtesy had failed to prevent a catastrophe; one seam of her dress was ripped for a foot above the ankle. the coat of this remarkable costume was all back and no front, and from the rear edge of her hat floated a wonderful feather like a flag from the stern of a gunboat. i could see by her face how funny she thought my clothes. i hoped she did not realize how near to scandalous her outfit seemed to me. usually the point of view depends on which side of the ocean one is when delivering judgment. pinkey was as eloquent on the subject of his wedding as if he had been the only adam who ever marched down a church aisle. he was most joyful at the prospect of showing to his bride all the curiosities and shortcomings of the east. he felt he had encompassed wide and intimate knowledge of it in his two or three trips. i asked mrs. chalmers how she liked japan. she took her adoring eyes off her newly-acquired husband long enough to answer: "it is lovely. wonderful little people--so progressive and clean. it's too bad they are so dishonest; of course you must have lost a lot of money." "no, i can't say that i have. i've been in the country thirty years and never lost a 'rin' except when my pocket was torn. come to think of it, if histories, travelers and police records state facts, dishonesty is not peculiar to the orient." the little bride answered: "i don't know about that; but the japanese must be awfully tricky, for pinkey says so and the captain of the ship, who hates every inhabitant of the empire, said the banks had to employ chinese clerks." why waste words? what were real facts, or the experience of a lifetime against such unimpeachable authority as mr. pinkey chalmers and the captain of a pacific steamer! why condemn the little bride, for after all she was human. nationally and individually, the tighter we hug our own sins and hide their faces, the more clearly we can see the distorted features of our neighbor's weakness. there was more of pity than anger due a person who, ignoring all the beauty in the treasure house before her, chose as a souvenir a warped and very ancient skeleton of a truth and found the same pleasure in dangling it, that a child would in exhibiting a newly-extracted tooth. mr. chalmers had been talking to zura, but when he caught the word "bank" he included the entire company in his conversation. "talking banks, are you? well that is a pretty sore subject with me. just lost my whole fortune in a bank. had it happened before the wedding i'd have been obliged to put the soft pedals on the merry marriage bells. guess you heard about the million-dollar robbery of the chicago bank; biggest pile any one fellow ever got away with. and that's the wonder: he got clean away, simply faded into nothing. it happened months ago and not a trace of him since. detectives everywhere are on the keen jump; big reward hung up. he's being gay somewhere with seventy-five dollars of my good money." tea was served and we indulged in much small talk, but i was not sorry when pinkey said he "must be moving along" to the steamer. he charged us to wireless him, if we saw a strange man standing around with a bushel of gold concealed about his person. it was sure to be the missing cashier. "by-the-way," he asked, pausing at the door, "where is that chap i met when i was here before, who took such an interest in my business? maybe he is among those absent wanted ones. what was he doing here anyhow?" zura answered with what i thought unnecessary color that mr. hanaford was in the city, and was soon to be promoted to a very high position in the educational world. pinkey looked into her face and, turning, gave me a violent wink. "oho! now i'm getting wise." at the same time humming a strain supposed to be from a wedding march. oh, but i wished i could slap him! think of his seeing in a wink what i hadn't seen in months! my visitors said good-by and went their happy way, but in the story of the missing cashier mr. chalmers left behind a suggestion that was as hateful as it was painful and haunting. * * * * * page spent that evening with us. he was lighter of heart than i had ever seen him, more at ease and entertaining, and as far removed from crime as courage is from cowardice. my heart ached as i looked at him, for i longed for his happiness as i yearned to know he was clean of soul. if some cruel mistake had darkened his life, why did he not say so and let us, his friends, help him forget? why not start anew with love as a guide? it was another page we were seeing that night. was it the magic of love that made him hopeful, almost gay? or was it for the moment he was permitted one more joyous flight in the blue skies of freedom before he was finally caught in the snare of the shadow? for the time he sunned his soul in the garden of friendship and love and gave us, not only glimpses of other worlds, but disclosed another side of himself. if the new man i was seeing in page hanaford captivated me the revelation of the undiscovered woman in zura mystified and amazed me. till now her every characteristic was so distinctly of her father's race, everything about her so essentially western, that i was beginning to think she had tricked a favorite law of nature and defied maternal influence. as much as she loved pretty clothes, and regardless of the pressure brought to bear by her grandfather, she had refused to wear the native garb, preferring the shabby garments she brought with her from america. i had never thought of her being japanese; but that evening, when page was announced and zura walked into the room clothed in kimono and obi, my eyes were astonished with as fair a daughter of old nippon as ever pompadoured her hair or wore sandals on her feet. she was like a new creature to me. her daring and sparkling vivacity were tempered by a tranquil charm, as if a slumbering something, wholly of the east had suddenly awakened and claimed her. with eyes half lowered she responded with easy familiarity to page's talk of other lands. she said her father had traveled far and had spent many of their long winter evenings in spinning yarns of foreign countries for her enjoyment. she'd been brought up more regularly on pictures than she had food. once they had copies of all the great paintings. mother sold the last one to get money to pay the passage to come to japan. and so they talked. jane, snug in her chair, was content to listen, and i, who had been blind, was now dumb with the startling surprises that the game of life being played before me revealed. the girl glowed as softly bright as a firefly and the light lured the man to happy forgetfulness. for once he let love have full sway. he neither sought to conceal what he felt, nor to stem the tide which was fast sweeping him--he knew not nor cared not whither so long as his eyes might rest upon the dearness of zura's face, as with folded feet and hands she sat on a low cushion, the dull red fire reflecting its glory in the gold embroidery of her gown. there had been a long silence. then zura recalled the event of the day: "oh, mr. hanaford, by the way. you remember pinkey chalmers, don't you--the nice boy you and ursula entertained so beautifully in the garden when he called the last time? he was here again to-day; had his bride with him. ursula will tell you what she looked like. i do wish you had been here. mr. chalmers told us the most exciting news about a chicago cashier who skipped away with a million dollars and hid both himself and the money--nobody knows where. they think he is out this way and i think i am going to find him." in the passing of one second the happiness in page hanaford's face withered. like a mask fear covered it. he thrust his strained body forward and with shaking hand grasped the shoulder of the girl. "hid it! tell me, in heaven's name, tell me where could a man hide a million dollars?" his voice was tense to the breaking point. he searched the girl's face as if all eternity depended upon her reply. before she could make it he sank back in his chair, pitifully white and limp. he begged for air. we opened the window. zura ran for water. while i bathed his face he said, looking at zura: "i beg your pardon. i'm not at all well, but i didn't mean to startle you." "i'm not startled," she answered, and lightly added: "but i was just wondering why anybody would care so much where a million old dollars were hid. i know a hundred things i'd rather find." the man laid his hand on that of the girl as it rested on the arm of the chair. "name one, zura." "love." and on her face the high lights were softened to compassion and tenderness. page took his hand from hers and covered his eyes. * * * * * there i stood waiting to put another cold cloth on the boy's head. neither one of them knew i was on earth. i hardly knew it myself. for the first time in my life i was seeing the real thing and the wonder of it almost petrified me. what else might have happened is an untold tale. jane saved the situation. i had not noticed her absence. she now entered, carrying a tray well filled with crackers and a beverage which she placed before page. "honey, i don't believe in any of those spirit-rising liquors even when you faint, but i made this jape gruice right off our own vine and fig tree and i know it's pure and innocent. yes, zura, grape juice is what i said. page can drink every gallon i have if he wants it, and i'll toast cheese and crackers for him all night." the twist in jane gray's tongue might lead to laughter, but her heart never missed the road to thoughtful kindness. very soon page said he felt much better and would get home and to bed. when he took his coat and hat from the hall he looked so weak, so near to illness, i begged him to stay and let us care for him. he gently refused, saying he would be all right in the morning. i followed him to the gate. he turned to say good-night. i put my hands on his shoulders and with all the affection at my command i invited his confidence. "what is it, son? i'm an old woman, but maybe i can help you. let me try." he lifted his hands to mine and his grasp was painful. the dim light from the old bronze lantern reflected the tears in his eyes as he answered: "help me? you have in a thousand ways. i'll soon be all right. i'm just a little over-worked. haven't slept much lately. need rest." then leaning near with sudden tenderness: "heaven bless you, dear woman. you have been as good to me as my own mother. some day--perhaps. good-night. don't worry, miss jenkins." why didn't he throw me over into a bramble patch and tell me not to get scratched? i just leaned my old head up against the gate and cried. i returned to the house by a rear door, for jane was in the living-room. xvi enter kobu, the detective the compensation of the morning's belated brightness came in the golden glory with which it flooded the world, so warm it melted the hoar frost jewels on tree and shrub, so tender the drooping roses lifted their pink heads and blushed anew. it was the kind of a morning one knew that something was waiting just ahead. it required no feat of intellect for me to know that a great many somethings awaited my little household. whenever i arose in the morning feeling sentimental, something was sure to happen. the afternoon of this day was the appointed time for the "roof-raising festival" of jane's hospital. three o'clock was the hour set to begin the ceremonies, but early morning found jane and zura as busy collecting books, bundles and a folding baby-organ, as if moving day had fallen upon the household. neither one of my companions seemed depressed by the happenings of the night before, or else they were determined that every other thought should be put aside till the roof was safely over the dream of jane's life. jinrickishas piled high with baskets of refreshments and decorations moved gaily down the street. jane and zura, laughing like two schoolgirls and as irrepressible, headed the little procession. i waved them good luck and went back to my work and my thoughts. i was interrupted by a note that came from page in answer to one of mine, saying a slight fever would prevent his accepting the invitation to go with me to the exercises in the afternoon, but he hoped to see us at the house later in the evening. of course he meant us in general, zura particularly, and it might be fever or it might be other things that kept him away from jane's tea party. i was going to know in either case as soon as i could get page hanaford by himself. right or wrong i would help him all i could, but know i must and would. i simply could not live through another day of anxiety. if page told me his trouble, there was no reason why it would fade away, and my anxiety cease to be, but having made up my mind to act definitely, my spirits rose like a clay pigeon released by a spring. that afternoon, at the time appointed for the ceremony, when i turned from flying sparrow street into tube rose lane a strange sight met my eyes. it was clean. for once in the history of the quarter poverty and crime had taken a bath and were indulging in an open holiday. it had gone still farther. from the lowliest hut of straw and plaster to the little better house of the chief criminal, cheap, but very gay decorations fluttered in honor of the coming hospital. the people stood about in small groups. the many kimonos, well patched in varied colors, lent a touch of brilliancy to the sordid alleyway, haunted with ghosts of men and women, dead to all things spiritual. here and there policemen strolled, always in pairs. whenever they drew near, and until they were past, the talking groups fell silent, and before an open door, or window a blank white screen was softly shifted. this coming from cover by the inhabitants and premeditatedly giving a visible sign of their existence was a supreme tribute to the woman who had lived among them successfully, because hers was the courage of the sanctified, her bravery that of love. the day sparkled with winter's bright beauty. the sun had wooed an ancient plum tree into blossoming long before its time. it spread its dainty flowers on the soft straw bed of an old gray roof. a playful wind caught up the petals, sending the white blossoms flying across the heads of the unjust into the unclean ditches where they covered stagnation with a frail loveliness. for the time at least degradation hid its face. though poverty and sin were abroad, peace and good will might have been their next-door neighbors had it not been for a certain quality in the atmosphere, invisible but powerful, which caused a feeling that behind it all, there was an evil something that sneered alike at life and beauty; that had for its motto lust and greed, and mercilessly demanded as tribute the soul of every inhabitant. collected crime at bay was an unyielding force not easily reckoned with. the fact that one small woman, with only faith to back her, was battling against it single-handed, sent jane gray so high up in my estimation that i could barely see her as she floated in the clouds. i saw my companion in an entirely new light as i joined the throngs gathered about the space where the raising of the roof was taking place. the ceremony here was brief. with countless ropes tied to the joined roof as it lay on the ground, the eager coolies stood ready for the signal to pull aloft the structure and guide it to the posts placed ready to receive it. jane walked to the cleared center and stood waiting to speak. there was instant silence when the crowd saw her. with simple words she thanked the workmen for their interest and the many half-days' labor they had contributed, then she raised her hand, and with great shouting and cheering the roof of jane's long-dreamed-of refuge for sinners, sick and hopeless, was safely hoisted to its place. after this everybody was entitled to a holiday and went quickly to the tea and cake which zura and her helpers had prepared and served from small booths. the rest of the exercises were to take place in the near-by house that miss gray had been using temporarily. by removing all the paper partitions the lower part of the house had been thrown into one large room. circling the crowd of waiting people seated on the floor a row of cots held the sick and afflicted, worsted by sin and disease. before them stood jane, who, in the custom of the country, bade them welcome. a small sea of faces was lifted to her. such faces!--none beautiful; all stamped with crime; some scarcely human, only physical apparitions of debased nature. with shifting glances they listened to an official who made jane an offer from the city to contribute to the support of the hospital, the pledge of two doctors to give their services so many hours a week, a contribution of milk from a rich merchant, and an offer from a friendly barber to give so many free shaves. their eyes widened with wonder and suspicion. what could people mean by giving things and taking away the excitement of stealing them? but when the man spoke of how the officials had watched jane and her work, at first with skeptical unbelief because they thought she would not endure a month, now with warmest sympathy because she had succeeded in keeping the quarters freer of crime and disease than ever before, they forgot their fear and voiced their approval in much hand-clapping, and wise shaking of heads. they called for miss gray. jane arose and very shyly thanked the city's representative. then as gently and as simply as if talking to wayward children, she spoke to the men and women before her, who bent forward with respectful attention while the sick ones fastened their weary eyes upon her. "my people, the building of this little hospital means not only the healing of your bodies, but also the way to cleansing your souls. dear friends, let me say in this world there is nothing worth while but your souls. make them clean and white. sell them for the highest price. what do i mean by that? i mean that if it is for the sake of your souls, it is nothing to go hungry, cold and in rags. what matters the outside so long as you make your hearts sweet and shiny and true? all of you before me have gone astray. so many of you have wandered like lost children from the homeward path, and darkness came and you could not find the way back. each of you was once a happy little child, with some place to call home and some one there to care when you were lost. i do not know why the darkness overtook you, but i know it did, and to-day, as before, i am a messenger to show you the way back. i have come to tell you that there is still somebody who cares whether you are lost or not. there is still some one who waits to guide you home. he asks you as a little child to take hold of his hand and he will lead you out of the fearful darkness. i do not ask what nameless deeds have made you fear the light of day and the eyes of men. i only know you are my friends, to whom i so gladly bring this message, and to whom i so willingly give my strength and my life to help you find the way back to the greatest friend, who, understanding all, forgives." a look resembling a shadow of hope came into their faces as she finished, and when, at a sign, zura haltingly played, "i need thee every hour," and the people stumbled along with the music in an attempt to sing, the burden of the sound as well as the song was a cry for help. the song finished, one part of the crowd seemed to fade away, the others stayed and gathered about jane as if only to touch her meant something better than their own sin-stained lives. she moved among them speaking gently to this one, earnestly to that one. tenderly she smoothed the covers over the sick bodies, leaving a smile and word of cheer wherever she stopped. sentimentalism dropped from her like a garment worn for play. it was the spiritual woman only i was seeing, one who faced these real and awful facts of life with the calm, blissful assurance of knowing the truth, of giving her life for humanity because of love. jane gray was indeed a "daughter of hope." * * * * * a little later, zura--here, there, everywhere, like a bright autumn leaf dancing among dead twigs--found me conversing with a man who all the afternoon had kept very near to me and evidenced every desire to be friendly. "belovedest," exclaimed the girl gaily, her face glowing as she approached, "come with me quick or you will miss the sight of your young life. you may come, too, sir, if you wish," addressing my persistent companion, who apparently had decided to spend the rest of his natural life in my presence. zura led us toward the rear of the house. as we approached a closed room there came to us sounds of splashing water and happy squeals. she slid open the paper doors. before us were two big tubs full of small children. the baths were wide enough for six and so deep only the cropped heads showed above the rims as they stood neck high. the lower ranks of young japan were engaged in a fierce water battle of ducking and splashing and a trial of endurance, as to who could stay under longest. their thin yellow bodies gleamed in the sun of the late afternoon as they romped and shouted. the fun growing so boisterous, and a miniature war threatening, the one attendant, a very old woman, was outclassed. without invitation zura rolled up her sleeves and took part in the fray. instantly there was quiet. a bath was strange enough to those waifs, but to be touched by a foreigner who looked like a princess made them half fear while they wondered. they soon found she knew their games as well as their talk; then everybody claimed attention at once. she scrubbed them one by one playfully but firmly. she stood them in a row and put them through a funny little drill, commanding them to salute, and when they finished they were clothed ready to march out to the street in perfect order. while this was going on the man who had attached himself to me stood close by, seemingly much interested. in a detached sort of way he began talking in broken english. "miss jaygray most wonderful of persons," he observed. "she come to this place of hell and make clean spot. she like gray owl too. she have see of all bad things. but learning of such stop right in her eye; it never get to her memory place. all time she talk 'bout one, two very little good thing what are in this street. low womans in here give much works also rin and sen for to buy water tubs for babies. bad mens give work of hands, for miss jaygray. she most wonderful of females. maybe because she 'merican. hijiyama much honored by skilful 'mericans: jenkins san, wingate san, hanaford san too. he most skilful of all. you know hanaford san?" something in his voice made me look in the man's face. it was as expressive as biscuit dough. i acknowledged my acquaintance with page. the man resumed: "hanaford san nice gentleman. i give wonder why he stay this far-away place. i hear some time he have much sadful. too bad. maybe he have the yearn for his country. if this be truthful why he not give quick return to 'merica?" i answered that mr. hanaford had lost all his money and his father and had come to japan to begin anew. his success in teaching was reason enough for his remaining. apparently indifferent my questioner mused as if to himself: "him papa have gone dead. badful news. and moneys have got lost. most big troublesome for young man." i did not think it strange this queer person knew page. the boy had all kinds and conditions in his classes, as jane had in her quarters. neither was it unusual for a stranger to follow me around. when i went to a new part of the city, i was accustomed to being followed as if i were a part of a circus. but my self-attached friend's interest in page's history caused me to observe him more closely. except that his patched clothes were cleaner and he spoke english i could discover little difference between him and jane's other guests. criminal or not his carelessly put but persistent questions regarding page, his habits, how long i had known him, how often he came to my house and many other things, so annoyed me that i arose to find jane and suggest going home. failing in my quest i returned to find my inquisitor gone and zura putting on her coat and hat. "zura," i said, "who was that man who stuck to me all afternoon like furniture varnish? he made me talk whether i wanted to or not. such questions as he asked!" "do you mean that clean, raggy little man who looked through you, but not at you?" she questioned. "star of my sapphire, you have made a hit. that was kobu, the keenest detective the flag of the rising sun ever waved over. i thought you knew. he has been here a week trying to pry information out of lady jinny. you should hear their interviews. he asks the subtlest questions, and jane gray doesn't do a thing but let her tongue get locomotor ataxia, and kobu can make nothing of her answers. it's as good as vaudeville to hear them. he'd just as well leave her alone. torture wouldn't make her tell what she knows, and she doesn't have to either! did he ask you about page? he did me too. what does it matter? i told him all i knew. that is most all. why shouldn't i? there's nothing wrong about page. he just can't get over the loss of his father, and there is something about old money that worries him." she threw her arms around my waist. "what a happy day! isn't jane the realest saint you ever knew? you're a saint, too, ursula, the nice sinnery kind that i love to play with. i am tired and hungry. come on, let's find lady jinny and go home. isn't the blessedest thing in the world to have one to go to? i dare you to race me to the corner." i was far from feeling playful, so declined. more than ever i felt the necessity of an interview with page. i must know the truth. he must know the happenings of the afternoon. * * * * * that evening, after dinner, while sitting with zura in the living-room, i eagerly listened for page's step in the hall. soon it came, and as we arose to greet him i was made more anxious by his fever-bright eyes. i was reassured, however, when he replied to my inquiries by saying: "quite all right, thank you. head gets a bit rocky at times, but that does not matter. awfully sorry i was unable to be among those present at miss jane's tea party. tell me all about it--the guests and the costumes." though he walked about the room, picking up books and small objects only to lay them quickly down, he gave the closest attention to zura as she eagerly gave her account of the afternoon. i was about to interrupt with a request to page to come with me for a private conference in the dining-room, when a summons came for me to go at once to the house in the garden where ishi lived. the messenger thought ishi was very ill, or gone crazy. i found him very drunk. standing in the middle of the room, with rows of rare orchids ranged around the walls, he was waving a sharp-bladed weapon while executing a sword dance. in between steps he made speeches to the plants, telling them how their blessed brothers and sisters had had their heads cut off by a silly girl on whom he would have vengeance. he had sworn by his blood at the temple. it required me a good hour to reduce him to submission and to sleep. when i returned to the house page hanaford was gone. i was disappointed enough to cry. zura said that the next morning was the time for him to go to the government office to fill out the papers required for his position at the normal college, and that he must make his last preparation for this. he asked her to say to me that he would accept the offer i had made to go with him as interpreter and would call for me on his way down. "but," i asked almost peevishly, "what made him go so soon?" "i am not sure. maybe he wanted to study. or, it may be, i made his head ache. i did talk a lot. i told him everything--about the babies in the bath and jane's sermon and your detective." "oh, zura!" i said helplessly. "yes, i did. why not?" she leaned 'way over and looked at me steadily. then with something of her old passion she cried: "listen to me, ursula! don't you dare think page hanaford guilty of crime! there isn't anything wrong with him. i know it. i know it." "how do you know it, my child? has he told you the real reason for his being in japan? has he told you why fear suddenly overtakes and confuses him? or has he only dared to tell you other things?" a joyous little sob caught in her throat. "his lips have told me nothing, ursula. his eyes and my heart have told me all." "and without knowing these things you love him, zura?" "love him," she echoed softly. "right or wrong, i love him absolutely!" i looked at the girl in amazed wonder. there seemed to be an inner radiance as if her soul had been steeped in some luminous medium. she came nearer, her young face held close to mine. "oh, i am so happy, so blissfully happy! for good or not, it's love for eternity. dear, kind old friend!"--inclosing my face with her hands, she kissed me on the lips. in that faraway time of my babyhood my mother's good-by kiss was the last i had known. the rapture of the girl's caress repaid long, empty years. for a moment i was as happy as she. then i remembered. all day i had seen love perform miracles, and, like some invisible power, regulate the workings of life as some deft hand might guide a piece of delicate machinery; but that anybody could be happy, radiantly happy, with shadows and detectives closing around the main cause of happiness was farther than i could stretch my belief in the transforming power of joy. surely this thing called "love" was either farseeing wisdom or shortsighted foolishness. xvii a visit to the kencho the north wind began a wild song through the trees in the night. it tore at the mountains with the fury of an attacking army. it lashed the waters of the sea into a frenzy. with the dawn came the snow. softly and tenderly it wrapped the earth in a great white coverlet, hushing the troubled notes of the savage storm music into plaintive echoes of a lullaby. as it grew light a world of magic beauty greeted my eyes. winter was king, but withal a tender monarch wooing as his handmaidens the beauties of early spring. the great camellia trees gave lavishly of their waxen flowers, brocading the snow in crimson. young bamboo swinging low under the burden, edged its covering of white down with a lacy fringe of delicate green. the scene should have called forth a hymn of praise; but the feelings which gripped me more nearly matched the clouds rolled in heavy gray masses over land and sea. page was to call for me at ten. long before that time i was sitting on the edge of the chair, ready and waiting, trying to coax into my over-soul an ounce or so of poise, a measure of serenity. it needed no fortune teller to forecast that this visit to the kencho would be productive of results, whether good or bad the coming hours alone could tell. knowing the searching questions that would be put to page hanaford, i was beginning to wonder if the offer of this position was not part of the game kobu was playing. i had never seen japan's famous manhunter till the day before, but by reputation i knew him to be relentless in pursuit of victims to be offered as tribute to his genius. thoughts of page hanaford in prison garb behind barred doors made me shiver. i was depressed in spirits and was trying to plan what i could possibly do, when the sound of zura's voice came to me as she moved about in the upper story attending to her household duties. it was a foolish old negro melody she sang, and one of its verses ran: ole cap'n noah a-feelin' mighty blue, kep' a sayin' to hisself, "oh, what shall i do?" 'long come a sparrow bird, spic 'n spin, 'n _he_ say, "brer noah, do de bes' you kin. yo' joy 'n yo' trouble is sho' gwine to bide 'n las' jes' as long as yo' own tough hide. so say, cap'n noah, better laugh 'n grin; perk up yo' speerits 'n do de bes' yo kin. the insistent note of happiness in the girl's voice and the humble philosophy of the song so cheered me that, when my escort appeared on the stroke of ten, hope came riding down on the streaks of sunshine that were battling through the clouds. while my companion had about him every mark of nervous restlessness that so often precedes a crisis or an illness he also had the air of a man at last determined to turn and face a pursuing enemy and stand, or fall by the clash. fear was absent from face and manner. he even lightly jested as jane, while greeting him, slipped into his pocket a tempting-looking package. "page, dear," she twittered, "it is only cookies and sandwiches and pickles and cake. but talking always makes people hungry. those nice gentlemen down at the kencho are never in a hurry. they may keep you till after lunchtime. you and miss jenkins can have a tea party." page laid a kindly hand on jane's shoulder. "you dear little saint of a woman! how good all of you are to me, and how i thank you. well good-by. when you see me again i'll be--" with hand outstretched to open the door for me to pass, he paused. once again the sound of a song reached us: "before i slept, i thought of thee; then fell asleep and sought for thee and found thee. had i but known 'twas only seeming, i had not waked, but lay forever dreaming." there was enough sweetness in zura's voice to woo a man to heaven or lure him to the other place. page listened till the last note, then softly closed the door and walked beside me. the look on his face held me speechless. it was a glorious something he had gained, yet never to be his; a glimpse into paradise, then the falling of the shadows between; but the vision was his reward. usually it takes endless time in japan to unwind the huge ball of red tape that is wrapped about the smallest official act. that morning, when page and i presented ourselves at the government office, the end of the tape seemed to have a pin stuck in it, so easily and swiftly was it found. promptly announced, we were ushered without delay into a small inner office. the walls of this room were lined with numberless shelves filled with files and papers. any remaining space was covered by pictures of famous persons, people wanted or wanting, and a geisha girl or two. i noticed two other things in the room. adorning the center of the table, before which we were seated, was a large cuspidor. the fresh flowers inside matched the painted ones outside. to japanese eyes the only possible use for such an ornament was to hold blossoms. it was neither beautiful nor artistic, but being foreign was the very thing with which to welcome american guests. anxious as i was i felt myself smiling, if rather palely, at the many ways in which kishimoto's prophecy was being fulfilled. the other thing was not amusing, only significant. page sat opposite me and i faced a heavily curtained recess, and some one was behind the drapery. i had seen the folds move. i had no way of warning the boy. had we been alone, i doubt if i would have made the effort. concealment for page, unendurable suspense for those who loved him, must end. i spoke only when necessary to interpret an unusual word. a small official with a big manner began by eulogizing mr. hanaford's skill in teaching and his success in imparting english. he felt it a great rudeness of manner to the honorable teacher gentleman, but the law compelled applicant for the position of professor of english in the normal college to answer many personal questions. for a moment he dallied with a few preliminary statements; then, throwing aside all reserve, the man began his probe as a skilled surgeon might search a victim's body for hidden bullets. page, outwardly calm, answered steadily at first, but his knotted fingers and swelling veins showed the strain. once his lips trembled. i had never seen a man's lips tremble before. it's no wonder mothers can die for sons. inquiries as to quantity and quality of ancestors, place of birth, age, calling now and formerly came with the precision of a marksman hunting the center of the target. "how long have you been in this country?" "about a year." "from where did you come to japan?" page hesitated, then stammered: "don't remember." the high-lifted brows of the official were eloquent, his voice increasingly sarcastic: "so! your memory makes absence. repeat your name once again." "page hanaford." "hanaford? so! now your other name?" "i have no other name." "your other name!" was the sharp demand. "my name is page hanaford, i tell you." he spoke with quick anger as he arose from the chair. "your other name!" sternly reiterated his inquisitor. a wave of confusion seemed to cover the boy. desperate and at bay, he rather feebly steadied himself for a last defense. "what do you mean? can't you hear me? i tell you for the last time my name is--" "ford page hamilton," supplied the voice of kobu, cool, suave and sure as he came from behind the curtain. "i arrest you as fugitive. see what paper says? you take moneys from bank." he exposed a circular printed in large type. it read: "$ , reward for information of one ford page hamilton, dead or alive. last seen in singapore, summer of ," followed by a detailed description and signed by a chicago banking firm. "it's a lie!" shouted page as he read. "no lie. see? page hanaford san, ford hamilton san all same." kobu held close to the pitiful white face a photograph which undoubtedly could have been page hanaford in happier days. the boy looked, then laid his shaking arm across his eyes. with a moan as if his soul had yielded to despair he hoarsely whispered: "oh, god! a thief! it's over!" he sank to the floor. xviii a visitor from america in old nippon the flower of kindness reaches full perfection when friend or foe suffers defeat. page hanaford might be a long-hunted prize in the police world, but to the group around him as he lay on the floor, his head upon my lap, he was a stranger far from home and very ill. justice could wait while mercy served. pity urged willing messengers to bring restoratives, to summon doctors who pronounced the sick man in the clutches of fever. hospitals in hijiyama are built for the emergencies of war, and solicitude for page's comfort was uppermost when, after a short consultation among the officials, permission was granted to remove him to my house with an officer in charge. a policeman headed the little procession that moved slowly up the steps to the house of the misty star, and one followed to keep at a distance the sympathetic, but curious crowd. four men carried a stretcher beside which i walked holding the limp hand of page, who was still claimed by a merciful unconsciousness. the news spread rapidly. as we reached the upper road i saw zura at the entrance, waiting our coming, so rigid she seemed a part of the carving on the old lodge gates. her face matched the snow beneath her feet. "is he dead?" she demanded, as we came closer. "no. but he's desperately ill--and under arrest," i hurriedly added. "oh, but he's alive; nothing else matters. come on; my room is ready." before i could protest, she had given orders to the men, and zura's bedroom was soon converted from a girlish habitation into a dwelling place where life and death waged contest. later the two physicians asked for an audience with me and delivered their opinion: "hanaford san's illness is the result of a severe mental shock, received before recovery from previous illness; cause unknown; outcome doubtful." from the sick-room orders had been issued for absolute quiet. every member of the house crept about, keenly aware of the grim foe that lurked in every corner. when night came down the darkness seemed to enter the house and wrap itself about us as well. [illustration: "oh, god! a thief! it's over!"] as red cross nurse on battlefields in the aftermath, i had helped put together the remnants of splendid men and promising youth; in sorrowing homes i had seen hope die with the going-out of such as these. but for me, no past moment of life held gloom so impenetrable as that first night when page hanaford lay in my house, helpless. the dreaded thing had come. the boy who had walked into our hearts to stay was a fugitive with only a small chance to live that he might prove he was not a criminal. the evening household dinner remained untouched. the servants hung about the doors, eager to be of service, refusing to believe the sick man was anything but a prince of whom the gods were jealous. only old ishi was happy. in festal robes he was stationed at the lodge gates with a small table before him ready to do the honors of the house in the ancient custom of receiving cards. up the steps came a long procession of students, officials and civilians, my friends and page's, every caller in best kimono. from one hand dangled a lighted lantern with the caller's name and calling shining boldly out through the thin paper, in the other he held a calling-card which was laid upon the table in passing. the long line testified to their liking and sympathy for the sick man. to each caller ishi had a wonderful tale to tell. the marvel of it grew as his cups of saké increased. at a late hour i found him entertaining a crowd with the story of how the silly foreign girl had cut off the heads of his ancestors which were in the flowers. now the gods were taking their vengeance upon the one she loved best. of course only an american girl would be so brazen as to show her liking for any special man. i took him by the shoulder. "ishi, you are drunk. and at such a time." "no, jenkins san, i triumph for hanaford san. he die to escape zura san. 't is special 'casion. all japanese gentlemens drink special 'casions. i assist honorable gods celebrate downfall of 'merca and women." having locked up the gates and ishi, i went back to the living-room, where i found jane and zura. it was my first opportunity to tell them in detail what had happened at the kencho--of kobu's charge, the arrest and page's collapse. zura was called from the room by some household duty. jane and i were left alone. though my companion looked tired and a little anxious, she seemed buoyed up by some mental vision to which she hopefully clung. "miss jenkins, please tell me just what the poster said," asked jane. the printed words i had read that morning seemed burned into my brain. i repeated them exactly. "well, it didn't even give a hint that page was that nice cashier gentleman from chicago, did it?" she inquired. "no, jane, it didn't; only it was signed by the chicago bank. but kobu told me he was sure page was the man. he has cabled the authorities to come." "he has cabled, has he? he knows, does he? kobu has himself going to another thought. isn't that what zura says? page hanaford is no more the man wanted for borrowing that bank's money than i am a fashion plate wanted in paris." her words were light, but very sure. her apparent levity irritated me. "how do you know? what are you saying, jane?" i asked sharply. "oh, i just have a feeling that way. page is too good-looking," answered my companion. "for the love of heaven, jane gray, that's no reason. good looks don't keep a man from sin." "maybe not, but they help; and page loves poetry too," she ended with quiet stubbornness. then after a pause: "that program did not say what particular thing our boy was wanted for, did it?" neither in joy nor sorrow did jane's talent desert her for misusing words. "no, the circular did not state the details. but if you think there is any mistake about the whole thing go to the room and look at that policeman pacing up and down before the door. and if you think the boy's not desperately ill, look inside and see those two doctors and that speck of a trained nurse watching his every breath. you can read the paper yourself, if you don't believe me." "miss jenkins, don't pin your faith to a program; they tell awful fibs. once i wrote one myself for a meeting and i said, 'the audience will remain standing while collection is taken,' and it made me say: 'the remains of the audience will be collected while standing.'" "how can you?" i asked. hot tears stung my eyes. instantly jane was by my side. "how can i? because it's best never to believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. i know the dear boy is ill. but he's not guilty. the idea of that sweet boy, with such a nice mouth and teeth, doing anything dishonorable! it's all a mistake. i know guilt when i see it, and page hasn't a feature of it." jane gray exasperated me to the verge of hysteria, but her sure, simple faith had built a hospital and changed the criminal record of a city. the thought that she might be right, in spite of the circular and kobu, gave me so much comfort that the tears flowed unchecked. my companion looked at me critically for a moment, then left the room. she returned shortly bearing a heaped-up tray, which she arranged before me. "honey, you can't be hopeful when you are hungry. you told me so yourself. i don't believe you've eaten since morning. here's just a little bite of turkey and mince pie and chicken salad. eat it. there's plenty more, for nobody's touched that big dinner we were going to celebrate page's new position with. now turn around to the lamp so you can see. what a funny fat shadow you make! but how sweet it is to know if we keep our faces to the light the shadows are always behind us! now i must run and get a little sleep. zura says i am to go on watch at three." i thought her gone, when the door opened again and i could see only her gray head and bright, though tired face. "miss jenkins, please don't let that layer cake fool you. it is not tough. i just forgot to take the brown papers from the bottom of the layers when i iced them. do as i tell you, eat and sleep." "what if to-morrow's care were here without its rest? i'd rather he'd unlock the day and, as the hours swing open, say, 'thy will be best.'" "good-night, dear friend." then she was gone. the tables were turned in more ways than one. jane was counselor and i the counseled, she the comforter and i to be comforted. * * * * * in the daughters of japan lies a hidden quality ever dormant unless aroused by a rough shake from the hand of necessity; it is the power to respond calmly and skilfully to emergencies. in this, as never before, zura wingate declared her oriental heritage. on the tragic morning when i had gone with page to the kencho i had left her a singing, joyous girl, her feet touching the borderland of earth's paradise. i returned and found her a woman, white lipped and tense, but full of quiet command. the path to love's domain had been blocked by a sorrow which threatened desolation to happiness and life. not with tears and vain rebellion did she protest against fate or circumstances, nor waste a grain of energy in useless re-pinings. with the lofty bearing her lordly forefathers wore when going forth to defeat or victory this girl stood ready, and served so efficiently that both nurse and doctors bestowed their highest praise when they told her she was truly a japanese woman. so frequent were the demands from household and sick-room that i feared for her strength. i knew she suffered. rigid face muscles and dark-rimmed eyes so testified; but aside from these some tireless spirit held her far above weariness. alert to see and quick to perform, under her hand, after a few days, the house settled down into a routine where each member had a special duty. in turn we watched or waited while the heavy, anxious days dragged themselves along until they numbered ten. in the last half of each night zura and i watched by page and wrestled with the cruel thing that held him captive. they were painful, but revealing hours. i was very close to the great secrets of life, and the eternal miracle of coming dawn was only matched in tender beauty by the wonder of a woman's love. it was zura's cool, soft hand that held the burning lids and shut out the hideous specters page's fevered eyes saw closing down upon him. it was her voice that soothed him into slumber after the frenzy of delirium. "ah," he'd pant, weary of the struggle with a fancied foe, "you've come, my lovely princess. no! you're my goddess!" then with tones piteous and beseeching he would begin anew the prayer ever present on his lips since his illness. "beloved goddess, tell me--what did i do with them? you are divine; you know. help me to find them quick. quick; they are shutting the door; it has bars. i cannot see your face." "i am here, page," zura would answer. "if the door shuts, i'll be right by your side." in love for the boy each member of the house was ready day or night for instant service, but vain were our combined efforts to help the fevered brain to lay hold of definite thought long enough for him to name the thing that was breaking his heart. from pleading for time to search for something, he would wander into scenes of his boyhood. once he appealed to me as his mother and asked me to sing him to sleep. before i could steady my lips he had drifted into talk of the sea and tried to sing a sailor's song. often he fancied himself on a pirate ship and begged not to be put off on some lonely island. he fiercely resisted. but his feebleness was no match for zura's young strength, and as she held him she would begin to sing: "before i slept i thought of thee; then fell asleep and sought for thee and found thee: had i but known 'twas only seeming, i had not waked, but lay forever dreaming." "dreaming, dreaming," the boy would repeat. "sweetheart, you are my dearest dream." inch by inch we fought and held at bay the enemy. we lost all contact with the outside. to us the center of the world was the pink-and-white room, and on the stricken boy that lay on the bed was staked all our hope. the long delayed crisis flashed upon us early one morning when the doctors found in what we had feared was the end only a healing sleep from which page awakened and called zura by name. even then it was a toss-up whether he could win out against despair. uppermost in his mind was ever the torturing thought of the thing that had made him a fugitive. an icy hand was laid upon our joy at the signs of returning health when we remembered a certain ship that was right then cutting the blue waters of the pacific nearing the shores of japan, bearing authority to make a prisoner of page if he lived. they were not happy days, and it was with undefined emotions that i saw life and strength come slowly to the sick man. by daily visits kobu kept himself advised of the patient's condition, and kept us informed of the swift approach of the vancouver steamer and its dreaded passenger. one day, when page was sleeping and our anxiety as to what was coming had reached the breaking point, the detective came. he announced that he had received information that the steamer had docked at yokohama that morning. in the afternoon the chicago bank representative would arrive at otsu, our nearest railroad station. kobu said he would bring the guest to our house at once and his kind wish that page san's "sicker would soon be healthy" did not wholly hide the triumph of his professional pride. he went his way to the station, leaving behind him thoughts sadder than death can bring. when i told jane what we were to expect her pale eyes were almost drowned. she looked frail and tired, but from somewhere a smile made rainbows of her tears. "don't give up, miss jenkins. no use crying over cherry blossoms before they wither. kobu's human enough to be mistaken. detectives aren't so smart. sometimes they tree a chipmunk and think it's a bear." it was the nearest i'd ever heard jane come to a criticism, and i knew she felt deeply to go this far. zura listened quietly to what i had to tell. but her eyes darkened and widened. "you mean they are coming to take page away?" "yes; as soon as he is strong enough." "then i am going with him." "go with him? you, a young girl, go with a man who is in charge of an officer? it's impossible. i pray god it's not true, but if the law can prove that page has sinned, he will have to pay the penalty in prison. you can't go there." "no, but i can wait outside, and be ready to stand by him when he is released. no matter how guilty the law declares him, he is still the same page to me. he's mine. i belong to him. did not my own mother think home and country well lost for love? she knew her fate and smiled while she blindly followed. i know mine, and there is no other path for me but by the side of page. whatever comes i've known his love." it was not the raving of a hysterical girl; it was the calm utterance of a woman--one of the east, who in recognizing the call of her destiny unshrinkingly accepts its decrees of sorrow as well as of joy. by training, environment and inclination zura wingate might be of the west; but her occidental blood was diluted with that of the east, and wherever is found even one small drop, though it sleep long, in the end it arises and claims its own as surely as death claims life. it was only a little while since kobu had left us to go to the station to bring the unwelcome visitor from america. the hills had scarcely ceased the echo of the shrieking engine, it seemed to me, when i heard the tap of the gong at the entrance. i started at once for page's room where zura and jane were on watch. kobu and his companion were ahead of me. the brilliant light of a sunny afternoon softened as it sifted through the paper shoji, suffusing room and occupants in a tender glow. through it, as i reached the door, i saw zura half bending over the bed, shielding the face of the sick boy, jane at the foot with lifted, detaining hand, kobu's face as he pointed to the bed, saying, "there, sir, is the thief--i mean prisoner," and his startled look as the tall, gray-headed stranger went swiftly to the bed and gathered page into his outstretched arms. "a thief!" he cried. "somebody's going to get hurt in a minute. he's my son. oh! boy, boy, i thought i'd lost you!" xix "the end of the perfect day" jane was the first in that astonished group to recover, and her voice was as sweet and clear as a trumpet-call of victory, singing her gladness and trust: "i knew it! i knew it! but who are you, sir? page said his father was dead." "i? my name is ford page hamilton, and this is my boy. i've been looking for him for months." page's eyes intently searched his father's face, as alternate fear and joy possessed him. the moment was tense; we waited breathlessly; at last page asked: "but, father, what did i do with them?" "with what, son?" "the bags of money--the collection i was to turn over to the firm." "you delivered them sealed and labeled, then you disappeared off the map, just as if you had melted." the word "melted" seemed to open in the brain of the invalid a door long closed. a sleeping memory stirred. "wait! it is all coming back! give me time!" he pleaded. it was no place for a crowd. i took zura by the hand, pulled jane's sleeve, motioned kobu toward the door, and together we went softly away. * * * * * an hour later, when mr. hamilton came in, the happiest spot in all the flowery kingdom was the little living-room of "the house of the misty star." page was asleep through sheer exhaustion, and the father, with lowered voice and dimmed eyes, told the story. the explanation was all so simple i felt as if i should be sentenced for not thinking of it before. for had i not seen what tricks the heat of the orient could play with the brain cells of a white man? had i not seen men and women go down to despair under some fixed hallucination, conjured from the combination of overwork and a steamed atmosphere--transforming happy, normal humans into fear-haunted creatures, ever pursued by an unseen foe? in such a fever-racked mind lay all page's troubles. for the last four years he had held a place of heavy responsibility with a large oil concern in singapore. his duties led him into isolated districts. danger was ever present, but a malay robber was no more treacherous an enemy than the heat, and far less subtle. one day, after some unusually hard work, page turned in his money and reports, and went his way under the blistering sun. it was then that the fever played its favorite game by confusing his brain and tangling his thoughts. he wandered down to the docks and aboard a tramp steamer about to lift anchor. when the vessel was far away the fateful disease released its grip on his body. but in the many months of cruising among unnamed islands in southern seas, it cruelly mocked him with a belief he had purloined the money and taunted him with forgetfulness as to the hiding place. when page left the ship at a japanese port memory cleared enough to give him back a part of his name, but tricked him into hiding from a crime he had not committed. my remorse was unmeasurable as i realized the whole truth, but my heart out-caroled any lark that ever grew a feather. the boy's soul was as clean as our love for him was deep. [illustration: "oh! boy, boy, i thought i'd lost you"] "you see," continued mr. hamilton, "page's mother died when he was only a lad, and my responsibility was doubled. when his regular letters ceased i cabled his firm for information. they were unable to find any trace of him. he had always been such a strong, sturdy youth i could not connect him with illness. fearing he had been waylaid or was held for ransom i offered the reward through my chicago bankers. the months at sea of course blocked us. the suspense was growing intolerable when the information came from mr. kobu; that brought me here." all this time the detective had been silent. but no word or look of the others escaped him. at last the thing was forced upon him. he had missed the much-wanted cashier whose capture meant a triumph over the whole detective world. and he had been so very sure page was the man! descriptions and measurements were so alike. both from the same city, one with the name of hamilton, the other with that of hammerton. as page's father remarked when he heard the story: "mr. kobu, those names are enough alike to be brothers, though i'm glad they are not." but kobu was not to be coaxed into any excuse for himself. any one who knew him could but know the humiliation he would suffer at mistaking the prize. even a big reward was slight balm to the blow at his pride. intently he watched and listened until the details were clear to him. he could not understand all this emotion and indulgence in tears which were good only to wash the dust from eyes. but kobu was truly japanese in his comprehension of a father's love. he masked his chagrin with a smile and paid unstinted praise to the man who had tirelessly searched for his only son. with many bows and indrawings of breath the detective made a profound adieu to each of us and took his leave. as the sound of the closing lodge gates reached us something in jane's attitude caught my attention. in her eye was the look of a mischievous child who had foiled its playmate. "jane, what is the matter with you?" i asked. "i was just feeling so sorry for mr. kobu. he is awfully nice, but i could not tell him. i knew!" "what?" i demanded. "oh, i knew dear page was not the gentleman who borrowed the bank's money." "knew it! how did you know?" "because a little while ago that nice cashier gentleman from chicago sought shelter in the quarters. i heard his story. he was the hungriest man for home cooking i ever saw. i gave him plenty of it, too, and a little testament besides, before he left." "why, jane gray! you knew this and did not tell?" "yes, miss jenkins; that is what i did. you see i am a sort of father confessor. i simply cannot furnish information about the dear people who confide in me. i would have saved page, but when i came home and found him ill something told me to give both men a chance. i knew page was not guilty. the same thing that made me sure of my hospital made me certain he would get well. the other man--well, you know, i am only a messenger of hope. i wanted to give him time to read that little book!" i was dumb with astonishment. "upon my word," remarked mr. hamilton after an eloquent pause, "as a soul diplomat you give me a new light on missionaries! everything is all right now. i have found my son, and, if i know the signs, a daughter as well. she is a picture in her nurse's dress. tell me about her." i turned to look for zura, but she was no longer in the room. leaving the delighted jane in a full swing of talk about zura, i withdrew and crossed the passageway. the paper doors of the sick chamber were wide apart, and once again i saw outlined against the glow of the evening sky two figures. the girl held the hands of the man against her heart, and through the soft shadows came low, happy voices: "ah, zura, 'i sought for thee and found thee!'" "belovedest," joyously whispered the girl, bending low. darkness, tender as love itself, folded about them, and i went my peaceful way. * * * * * two long-to-be-remembered months passed swiftly. on the wings of each succeeding hour was borne to page the joy of returning health, to the other members of my household the gladness of life we had never before known. mr. hamilton remained, waiting to take back with him, as one, page and zura. in the fullness of her joy zura was quite ready to forgive and be forgiven, and said so very sincerely to her grandfather. kishimoto san replied in a way characteristic. he said the whole tragedy was the inevitable result of broken traditions and the mixing of two races which to the end of eternity would never assimilate. he had washed his heart clean of all anger against her, but his days were nearing a close. he had lost the fight and for him life was done. oblivion would be welcome, for after all "what of our life! 't is imaged by a boat: the wide dawn sees it on the sea afloat; swiftly it rows away, and on the dancing waves no trace is seen that it has ever been!" jane's hospital was soon completed, and i could no longer resist the sincere pleadings for her to be allowed to live in the quarters once again. "my people are calling, and, though i am a frail and feeble leader, i must give all my time to them and help them to find the way back home and sell their souls for the highest price." without protest i let her go. i had no word of criticism for jane. every soul is born for a purpose--some to teach, others to preach, and all to serve. miss "jaygray" more than justified her calling and her kind. her simple faith had made many whole. * * * * * once again the spirit of spring held the old garden in a radiance of color. once again the bird from the spirit land called to its mate and heard the soft thrill of the answer. the singing breeze swayed the cloud of cherry bloom, sending showers of petals to earth, covering the grim old stone image, making giant pink mushrooms of the low lanterns. how lonely a thing would have been the spirit of spring had it not walked hand in hand with the spirit of love! in the white moonlight sifting through the pines i saw page and zura in my garden on their last night in old japan--destinies, begun afar, fulfilled beneath the shadows of the smiling gods. "but think what love will do to them both," had once said the foolishly wise little missionary. and now it has all come to pass. once again i am alone, yet never lonely, for my blessings are unmeasured. i have my work. i have love, and the house of the misty star holds the precious jewel of memory. the end transcriber's notes: quotation marks normalised. http://www.archive.org/details/captainbrandofce wiseuoft transcriber's note: a table of contents and list of illustrations have been added. text in italics is enclosed by _underscores_. text in bold face is enclosed by =equal signs=. specific changes to the text are listed at the end of the book. captain brand, of the "centipede." a pirate of eminence in the west indies: his loves and exploits, together with some account of the singular manner by which he departed this life. by harry gringo, (h. a. wise, u.s.n.), author of "los gringos," "tales for the marines," and "scampavias." "our god and sailors we alike adore, in time of danger--not before; the danger passed, both are alike requited: god is forgotten, and the sailor slighted." with illustrations. [illustration: captain brand.] new york: harper & brothers, publishers, franklin square. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the district court of the southern district of new york. contents chapter page part i i. spreading the strands ii. calm iii. high noon iv. sunset v. darkness vi. danger vii. the meeting and mourning viii. captain brand at home ix. captain and mate x. an old spaniard with one eye xi. conversation in pockets and sleeves xii. doctor and priest xiii. a manly fandango xiv. a pirates' dinner xv. drowning a mother to murder a daughter xvi. nuptials of the girl with dark eyes xvii. doom of doña lucia xviii. end of the banquet xix. fandango on one leg xx. business xxi. treasure xxii. pleasure xxiii. work xxiv. caught in a net xxv. the mouse that gnawed the net xxvi. the hurricane xxvii. the virgin mary xxviii. the ark that jack built part ii xxix. laying up the strands xxx. old friends xxxi. the commander of the "rosalie" xxxii. a splice parted xxxiii. the blue pennant in the cabin xxxiv. the devil to pay xxxv. and the pitch hot xxxvi. the chase xxxvii. the wreck of the "centipede" xxxviii. vultures and sharks xxxix. escondido xl. paul darcantel xli. instinct and wonder xlii. truth and terror xliii. peace and love xliv. snuff out of a diamond box xlv. lilies and sea-weed xlvi. parting xlvii. devotion xlviii. all alive again xlix. the rope laid up l. on a bed of thorns illustrations page captain brand frontispiece "when the wind comes from good san antonio" the pirates boarding the brig the night chase the pirate den the "panchita" "he touched the bell overhead as he spoke" a pirates' dinner the pirate's prey "a supernatural warning!" shriving a sinner "he crept forward on hands and knees" "a dull, heavy, booming roar" "see if you can not slip that pretty silk rope over my head" building the boat the united states frigate "monongahela" "queer old stick, that!" said the commodore and the pitch hot the stern chase "his right arm poised with clenched hand aloft," etc. the old water-logged launch "now captain brand knew what was coming" part i. chapter i. spreading the strands. "shout three times three, like ocean's surges, join, brothers, join, the toast with me; here's to the wind of life, which urges the ship with swelling waves o'er sea!" "masters, i can not spin a yarn twice laid with words of silken stuff. a fact's a fact; and ye may larn the rights o' this, though wild and rough my words may loom. 'tis your consarn, not mine, to understand. enough--" it was in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and five, and in the river garonne, where a large, wholesome merchant brig lay placidly on the broad and shining water. the fair city of bordeaux, with its great mass of yellow-tinted buildings, towers, and churches, rose from the river's banks, and the din and bustle of the great mart came faintly to the ear. the sails of the brig were loosed, the crew were hauling home the sheets and hoisting the top-sails with the clear, hearty songs of english sailors, while the anchor was under foot and the cable rubbing with a taut strain against the vessel's bluff bows. at the gangway stood a large, handsome seaman, bronzed by the sun and winds of about half a century, dressed in a square-cut blue jacket and loose trowsers, talking to the pilot--a brown little frenchman, in coarse serge raiment and large, clumsy sabots. the conversation between them was carried on partly by signs, for, in answer to the pilot, the other threw his stalwart arm aloft toward the folds of the spreading canvas, and nodded his head. "_fort bien! vite donc! mon capitaine_," said the pilot; "the tide is on the ebb; let us go. up anchor!" "ay, pilot!" replied the captain, pulling out his watch; "in ten minutes. the ladies, you know, must have time to say 'good-by.' isn't it so, my pilot?" the gallant little frenchman smiled in acquiescence, and, taking off his glazed hat with the air of a courtier, said, "_pardieu!_ certainly; why not? jean marie would lose his pilotage rather than hurry a lady." going aft to the raised cabin on the quarter-deck, the captain softly opened the starboard door, and looking in, said, in a kindly tone, "it is time to part, my friends; the pilot says we are losing the strength of the tide, so we must kiss and be off." two lovely women were sitting, hand clasped in hand, on the sofa of the transom. you saw they were sisters of nearly the same age, and a little boy and girl tumbling about their knees showed they were mothers--young mothers too, for the soft, full, rounded forms of womanhood, with the flush of health and matronly pride tinged their cheeks, while masses of dark hair banded over their smooth brows and tearful eyes told the story at a glance. they rose together as the captain spoke. "_adieu, chère rosalie!_ we shall soon meet again, let us hope, never more to part." "adieu, nathalie! adieu, dearest sister! adieu! adieu!" the loving arms were twined around each other in the last embrace; the tears fell like gentle rain, but with smiles of hope and trustfulness they parted. "ay," said the sturdy skipper, as he stood with eyes brimful of moisture regarding the sisters, "ay, trust me for bringing you together again. well do i remember when you were little wee things, when i brought you to france after the earthquake in jamaica; just like these little rogues here"--and he laid his brawny hands on the heads of the children, who clung to each other within the folds of their mothers' dresses; "but never fear, my darlings," he went on, "you will meet happily again. ay, that you shall, if old jacob blunt be above land or water." a boat which was lying alongside the brig shoved off; the little boy, who had been left on board, was held high above the rail in the arms of a sturdy negro, while the mother stood beside him, waving her handkerchief to the boat as it pulled rapidly away toward the shore. "man the windlass, lads!" cried the captain. "mister binks, brace round the head-yards, and up with the jib as soon as the anchor's a-weigh." the windlass clinked as the iron palls caught the strain of the cable, the anchor was wrenched from its oozy bed, the vessel's head fell off, and, gathering way, she moved quietly down the river garonne. chapter ii. calm. "it ceased: yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon-- a noise like that of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june. till noon we quietly sailed on, yet never a breeze did breathe; slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath." the great lumbering brig, with yards square, main-sail hauled up, and the jib and trysail in the brails, lay listlessly rolling on the easy swell of the water, giving a gentle send forward every minute or so, when the sluggish sails would come with a thundering slap against the masts, and the loose cordage would rattle like a drum-major's ratan on a spree. the sea was one glassy mirror of undulations, shimmering out into full blaze as the rising sun just threw its rays along the crest of the ocean swell; and then, dipping down into the rolling mass, the hue would change to a dark green, and, coming up again under the brig's black counter, would swish out into a little shower of bubbles, and sparkle again joyously. away off in the distance lay the island of jamaica--the early haze about the mountain tops rising like a white lace veil from the deep valleys below, with here and there a white dot of a cluster of buildings gleaming out from the sombre land like the flicker of a heliotrope, and at intervals the base of the coast bursting forth in a long, heavy fringe of foam, as the lazy breakers chafed idly about the rocks of some projecting headland. nearer, too, were the dark succession of waving blue lines in parallel bars and patches of the young land wind, tipping the backs of the rollers in a fluttering ripple of cats'-paws, and then wandering sportively away out to sea. on board the brig, forward, were three or four barefooted sailors, in loose frocks and trowsers, moving lazily about the decks, drawing buckets of water over the side and dashing it against the bulwarks, while others were scrubbing and clearing up the vessel for the day. the caboose, too, began to show signs of life, and a thin column of smoke rose gracefully up in the calm morning air until it came within the eddying influence of the sails and top-hamper, when a bit of roll would puff it away in blue curls beyond. abaft stood a low, squat-built sailor at the wheel, his striped guernsey cap hanging on one of the spokes, and his body leaning, half asleep, over the barrel, which gave him a sharp twitch every now and then when the sea caught the rudder on the wrong side. near at hand, with an arm around an after top-mast backstay, and head resting over the rail, was the mate, mr. binks, with a spy-glass to his eye, through which he was peering at the distant hills of jamaica. presently, as he was about to withdraw the brass tube, and as the old brig yawed with her head inshore, something appeared to arrest his attention; for, changing his position, and climbing up to the break of the deck cabin, he steadied himself by the shrouds, and rubbing his eye with the sleeve of his shirt, he gave a long look through the glass, muttering to himself the while. at last, having apparently made up his mind, he sang out to the man at the wheel in this strain: "ben, my lad, look alive; catch a turn with them halliards over the lee wheel; and just take this 'ere glass and trip up to the fore-yard, and see what ye make of that fellow, here away under the eastermost headland." ben, without more ado, secured the spokes of the wheel, clapped his cap on his head, hitched up his trowsers, and, taking the glass from the mate, rolled away up the fore-rigging. meanwhile mr. binks walked forward, stopping a moment at the caboose to take a tin pot of coffee from the cook, and then, going on to the topsail-sheet bitts, he carefully seated himself, and leisurely began to stir up the sugar in his beverage with an iron spoon, making a little cymbal music with it on the outside while he gulped it down. he had not been many minutes occupied in this way when ben hailed the deck from the fore-yard. "on deck there!" "hallo!" ejaculated mr. binks. "i see that craft," cried ben; "she's a fore and after, sails down, and sweeping along the land. she hasn't got a breath of wind, sir." "very well," said mr. binks, speaking into the tin pot with a sound like a sheet-iron organ; "come down." as ben wriggled himself off the fore-yard and caught hold of the futtock shrouds to swing into the standing rigging, he suddenly paused, and putting the glass again to his eye, he sang out: "i say, sir! here is a big chap away off on the other quarter, under top-sails. there! perhaps ye can see him from the deck, about a handspike clear of the sun"--pointing with the spy-glass as he spoke in the proper direction. "all right!" said the mate, as he began again the cymbal pot and spoon music; "becalmed, ain't he?" "yes, sir; not enough air to raise a hair on my old grandmother's wig!" muttered ben, as he slowly trotted down the rigging. the sun came up glowing like a ball of fire. the land wind died away long before it fluttered far off from the island, and, saving the uneasy clatter at times of the loose sails and running gear, all remained as before. it was getting on toward eight o'clock, and while the cook was dishing the breakfast mess for the crew beneath an awning forward of the quarter-deck, the captain came up from his cabin below. the stalwart old seaman stepped to the bulwarks, and, shading his eyes with his hand from the glare, he took a broad glance over the water to seaward, nodded to the mate, and said, in a cheerful voice, "dull times, matey! no signs of a breeze yet, eh?" "no, captain," said mr. binks; "dead as ditch water; not been enough air to lift a feather since you went below at four o'clock. but we have sagged inshore by the current a few leagues during the night, and here's old jamaica plain in sight broad off the bow." "well, it's not so bad after all, a forty-four days' passage--so i'll tell my lady bird passenger." going to the latticed door of the deck cabin, the jolly skipper threw it wide open, clapped his hands together thrice, and then, placing them to his mouth like a speaking-trumpet, he bellowed out, in a deep, low roar, "heave out there, all hands! heave out, lady bird and baby! land ho!" there came a joyous note from a soft womanly voice within a screen drawn across the after cabin, mingled with a little cooing grunt from a child, and presently an inner door swung back, and the sweetest little tot of a boy came tumbling out into the open space, and sprang at once into the captain's arms. the little fellow buried his brown curly head into the old skipper's whiskers, and then, kicking up his fat naked legs, he laughed and chattered like a magpie. "aha! you young scamp, this small nose smells the oranges and cinnamon, eh? and dear lazy mamma shuts her pretty eyes, and won't look for papa, and so near home, too!" here madame rosalie's low sweet voice trilled out merrily in a slightly foreign accent, while the contralto tones vibrated on the ear like the note of a harp. "ah! _bon capitaine_, how could you deceive me? still, i forgive you for telling me last night that we were so far from kingston. when you know, too," she went on in her creole accent, "how i love and want to see my dear husband these last four years, since you carried him away in your good big ship. but never mind, my good friend, i shall pay you off one of these days; and now send, please, for banou to dress his little boy." scarcely had the worthy skipper reached a bell-rope near at hand, and given it one jerk, than the cabin door opened, and in stepped a brawny black, whose bare woolly head and white teeth and eyes glittered with delight. there was that about his face which indicated intelligence, courage, devotion, and humanity--those indescribable marks of expression which nature sometimes stamps in unmistakable lines on the skin, whether it be white or black. he was below the middle height, but the large head was set with a great swelling throat on the shoulders of a titan. his loose white and red striped shirt was thrown well back over his black and broad chest; and putting out a pair of muscular arms that seemed as massive and heavy as lignum vitæ, the boy jumped from the captain to meet them; and then sticking his little soft legs down the slack of banou's shirt, he ran his rosy fingers in his wool, and shouted with glee. "oho!" said the black, as he passed his huge arms around the little fellow, and smoothed down his scanty night-dress as if it were the plumage of a bird, "oho! little master henri loves his banou, eh? good, he take bath." bearing his charge out upon the quarter-deck beneath the awning, he pulled a large tub from under a boat turned upside down over the deck cabin; and then, while the young monkey had scrambled round to his back, and was beating a tattoo with his tiny fists on his shoulders, banou caught up a bucket and proceeded to draw water from over the side, which he dashed into the tub. when he had nearly filled the tub he felt around with his black paws as delicately as if he was about to seize a musquito, and, clutching the kicking legs with one hand, he spun the little fellow a somersault over his head, and skinning off at the same time his diminutive frock, plunged him into the sparkling brine, singing the while in a laughing chant: "dis is the way strong banou catch him, first he strip and den he 'plash him; henri he jump and 'cream for his moder, but banou lub him more dan his broder!" here the brawny nurse would souse him head over heels in the sparkling water, lift him up at every dip, rub his black nose all over him, making mock bites at the little legs and stomach; and, finally, holding him aloft, dripping, laughing, and struggling, go on with his refrain: "what will papa say when he sees him, picaninny boy dat is sure to please him? big banou he rub and dress him, but little henri he kick and pinch him!" all this time the men seated forward on the deck, pegging away deep into their mess-kids, would pause occasionally, shake their great tarry fingers at the imp, and chuckle pleasantly with their mouths full of lobscouse, as if the urchin belonged to them as individual property. "what a tidy little chap he'll make some of these days," said ben, "a-furlin' the light sails in a squall! my eye! wouldn't i like to live and see him!" "no, no, messmates," replied that worthy, as he crunched a biscuit and took a sip of coffee out of the pot, "that 'ere child will, some of these times, when he's growed a bit, be a-wearing gold swabs on his shoulders, and a-givin' his orders like a hadmiral of a fleet!" "quite right, my hearty! it'll never do for sich a knowin' little chub to spend his days along shore a-bilin' sugar-cane on a plantation, and a-footin' up accounts; for, ye mind, he was like the chip as was "'born at sea, and his cradle a frigate, the boatswain he nursed him true blue; he'll soon learn to fight, drink, and jig it, and quiz every soul of the crew!'" while these old salts were thus carving out a destiny for the youngster, the black gave him a final souse in the tub, and then holding him up to drain, as it were, for the last time, exclaimed, while his face lighted up with pleasure, "oho, my little massa! what will papa say to-morrow when he sees his brave henri?" "ah! how happy he will be, banou!" said the lovely mother, who had just come on deck, as she kissed the mouth of the young scamp, while the black wrapped and dried his little naked body in a large towel. "ah! yes, my mistress, we all will be happy once more to get home to master on the plantation." "tell me! tell me, good _capitaine_," said she, turning in a pretty coquettish way to the skipper, "when shall we get in port?" it was a sight to see her, in the loose white morning-gown folded in plaits about the swelling bosom, her slender waist clasped by a flowing blue sash, the dark brown satin bands of her hair confined by a large gold filigree pin, and half concealed by a jaunty little french cap, with the ribbons floating about her pear-shaped ears; and while her soft, dark hazel eyes were bent eagerly toward the solid old skipper, her round, rosy, dimpled fingers clasped a miniature locket fastened by a massive linked gold chain around her neck. ah! she was a sight to see and love! "tell me, _mon cher capitaine_ blunt, how many hours or minutes will it be before i shall behold my husband?" the good-natured skipper laughed pleasantly at the eagerness of his beautiful passenger, and opening his hands wide, he gave vent to a long, low whistle, and replied, "when the wind comes from good san antonio, my lady bird--when the sea-breeze makes--then the old brig will reel off the knots! but see! just now not a breath to keep a tropic bird's wings out. there, look at that fellow!" high up in the heavens, two or three men-of-war birds, with wide-spread pointed wings, and their swallow tails cut as sharp as knife-blades, were heading seaward, and every little while falling in a rapid sidelong plunge, as if in a vacuum, and then again giving an almost imperceptible dash with their pinions as they recovered the lost space and continued on in their silent flight. "that's a sure sign, madame rosalie," continued the skipper, "that the trade wind has blown itself out, and the chances are that this hot sun will drink up the flying clouds, and leave us in a dead calm till the moon quarters to-night. what say you, mr. binks? am i right?" "never know'd you to be wrong, sir," said the mate, with an honest intonation of voice, as he tried to stare the sun out of countenance in following the captain's glance. "_hélas!_" said the young mother, with a little sigh of sadness, as she stood peering over the lee rail to the green hills and slopes of the island, standing boldly out now with the lofty blue mountains cutting the sky ten thousand feet in mid-heaven; "so near, too; and he is thinking and waiting for us!" "come," exclaimed the skipper, heartily, "the youngster wants his breakfast!" [illustration: "when the wind comes from good san antonio, my lady bird--"] chapter iii. high noon. "no life is in the air, but in the waters are creatures huge, and terrible, and strong; the swordfish and the shark pursue their slaughters; war universal reigns these depths along. the lovely purple of the noon's bestowing has vanished from the waters, where it flung a royal color, such as gems are throwing tyrian or regal garniture among." high noon! still the stanch old brig bowed and dipped her bluff bows into the long, easy swell of the tropics; the round, flat counter sent the briny bubbles sparkling away in the glare of the noontide sun; the sails flapped and chafed against the spars and rigging, while the crew sheltered themselves beneath the awnings, and dozed on peacefully. off to seaward a few dead trade-clouds showed their white bulging cheeks along the horizon, and occasionally a fluttering blue patch of a breeze would skim furtively over the backs of the rollers; but long before they reached the brig they had expended their force, and expired in the boundless calm. not so, however, with the large sail that had been seen from the brig in the early morning. for, with a lofty spread of kites and a studding-sail or two, she at times caught a flirting puff of air, and when the sun had passed the zenith she had approached within half a mile or less of the brig. there was no mistaking the stranger's character. her taunt, trim masts, square yards, and clear, delicate black tracery of rigging, shadowed by a wide spread of snow-white canvas over the low, dark hull--which at every roll in the gentle undulations exposed a row of ports with a glance of white inner bulwarks--while the brass stars of her battery reflected sparks of fire from the blazing rays of the sun, showed she was a man-of-war. "she's one of our cruisers, i think, sir," said the mate, as he handed the spy-glass to the captain; "but ben here believes contrariwise, and says she is a french corvette." "have to try again, mr. binks; for, to my mind, she's an out-and-out yankee sloop-of-war. ay! there goes his colors up to the gaff! so up with our ensign, or else he'll be burning some powder for us." even while they were speaking a flag went rapidly up in a roll to the corvette's peak, when, shaking itself clear, it lay white and red, with a galaxy of white stars in a blue union, on the lee side of the spanker; while at the same instant a long, thin, coach-whip of a pennant unspun itself from the main truck, and hung motionless in the calm down the mast. her decks were full of men, standing in groups under the shade of the sails to leeward; and on the poop were three or four officers in uniform and straw hats. one of these last stood for some time gazing at the brig--one hand resting on the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds, and the other slowly swinging a trumpet backward and forward. presently an officer with a pair of gleaming epaulets on his shoulders mounted the poop ladder, touched his hat, and waved his hand toward the brig. a moment after-- "brig ahoy!" came in a sharp, clear, manly tone through the trumpet. "sir?" "what brig is that?" "the 'martha blunt!' named after my dear old wife, god bless her! and myself, jacob blunt, god bless me!" added the jolly skipper, in a sotto voce chuckle to the fair passenger who stood beside him. "where are you from, and where bound?" came again through the trumpet. "bordeaux, and bound to kingston. we have a free passport from sir robert calder and admiral villeneuve." there was a wave of the trumpet as the speaker finished hailing, and then touching his hat to the officer with the gold swabs, and pausing only a moment, he moved to the other side of the corvette's poop. "it would be no more nor polite in him to tell us what his name is, arter all the questions he's axed." "don't ye know, mr. binks," broke in the captain, "that the dignity of a man-of-war is sich that it wouldn't be discreet to tell no more than that she has a cargo of cannon balls, and going on a cruise any wheres? which ye may believe is as much valuable information as we might get out of our own calabashes without asking a question." "you are allers right, captain blunt, but i did not tax my mind to think when i spoke them remarks," said binks, deferentially. the cruiser, however, seemed more communicative than the mate gave her credit for, and a moment after the officer with the trumpet sang out, "this is the united states ship 'scourge,' from port royal, bound on a cruise! please report us." and again, after a few words apparently with the officer with the epaulets, the trumpet was raised to his lips, and he asked, "have you seen any vessels lately?" the skipper was on the point of answering the hail, when his mate said, "beg pardon, captain blunt, but ben and me made out a fore-and-aft schooner airly this morning, with sweeps out, pulling in under the outermost headland there," pointing with his horny finger as he spoke. "nothing, sir, but a small schooner at daylight sweeping to windward." "what?" came back in a clear, quick note from the corvette. "small fore-and-after, sir, with sails down and sweeps out, close under the land." in a moment two or three officers on the cruiser's deck put their heads together, several glasses were directed toward the now dim mirage-like shadow of the island, and the next instant the sharp ring of a boatswain's whistle was heard, followed by a gruff call of, "away there! ariels, away!" immediately a cluster of sailors, in white frocks and trowsers and straw hats, sprang over the ship's quarter to the davits; and then with a chirruping, surging pipe, a boat fell rapidly to the water. the falls were cast off, the cutter hauled up to the gangway, and soon an officer stepped over the side and tripped down to the boat. the white blades of the oars stood up on end in a double line, the boat pushed off, the oars fell with a single splash, and she steered for the brig. descending down into the gentle valley of the long swell, she would disappear for an instant, till nothing but the white hats and feather blades of the oars were visible; and again rising on the crest, the water flashed off in foam from her bows as she came dancing on. in a few minutes the coxswain cried, "way enough," and throwing up his hand with the word "toss," the cutter shot swiftly alongside; the boat-hooks of the bowmen brought her up with a sudden jar, and the next moment an officer with an epaulet on his right shoulder and a sword by his side stepped over the gangway. the skipper was there to receive him, to whom he touched his cap with his fore finger; but as his eye glanced aft he saw a lady, and he gracefully removed his cap and bowed like a gentleman to her. he was a man of about eight-and-twenty, with a fine, manly, sailor-like figure and air, and with a pair of bright, determined gray eyes in his head that a rascal would not care to look into twice. "i am the first lieutenant of the 'scourge,' sir," he said, turning to the skipper, "and if you will step this way, i'll have a few words with you." this was said in a careless tone of command, but withal with frankness and civility. the captain led him aft toward the taffrail, but in crossing the deck the little tot of a boy followed closely in his wake, and getting hold of the officer's sword, which trailed along by its belt-straps on the deck, he got astride of it, and seized on to the coat-skirts of the wearer. the little tug he gave caused the officer to turn round, and with a cheerful smile and manner he snatched the urchin up in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks, and as he put him down again and detached his sword for him to play with, he exclaimed, "what a glorious little reefer you'll make one of these days! won't you?" "_oui! oui! mon papa!_" said the little scamp, as he looked knowingly up in the officer's face. "excuse my little boy, sir," said his mother, who was in chase of him; and then turning to the child with a blush spreading over her lovely face, "it is not your papa, henri! papa is in kingston." "ah! madame, i love children. i had once a dear little fellow like this, but both he and his sweet mother are in heaven now. god bless them!" a flush of sadness tinged his cheeks, and he passed his hand rapidly across his eyes, as if the dream was too sad to dwell upon; but changing his tone, and while with one hand he patted the little fellow's head, he went on: "madame lives in jamaica?" "oh yes; i was born there, but my parents were destroyed by an earthquake when i was quite a little child, and this good captain here carried my sister and myself to france soon after, where monsieur--" here she hesitated and blushed with pleasure--"where i married my husband, who is a planter on the island. perhaps you may know monsieur jules piron?" "piron!" said the navy man, with warmth. "ay, madame, for as fine a fellow as ever planted sugar! know him? why, madame, it is only a week ago that a lot of us dined with him at his estate of escondido; you know it, madame? in the grand piazza which looks down the gorge. but he behaved very shabbily," said the officer, as his face lighted up gayly, "for he kept a spy-glass to his eye oftener than the wine-glass to his lips, in looking out seaward, and in talking of his wife and the little boy he had never seen." "oh, monsieur! you make me so happy," said the lovely woman, as with sparkling eyes and heaving bosom she cried, "banou! banou! this gentleman has just seen your good master." the black, who had been standing near and guarding every movement of his little charge, who was trailing the sword about the deck, immediately approached the officer, and, falling on his knees, seized his hand and drew it toward his face. "ah! madame, i see that kindness meets with a return as well from a dark as a fair skin," said the officer, in a low tone, as he gently withdrew his hand from banou's grasp. "but," he continued, turning toward the skipper, as the clear sound of the cruiser's bell struck his ear, "i must not forget what i came for." "you say, captain, that you saw a schooner at daylight, eh? this way, if you please"--as he raised his cap to madame piron and walked over to the other side of the deck. "what was she like?" "she was reported to me by the mate," replied jacob blunt. "please send for him." "oh! mr.--a'--" "binks, sir," said that individual, touching his hat and making an awkward scrape at a bow. "well, mr. binks, did you clearly make out the vessel you saw this morning under the land?" "can't say exactly, sir, as i did; but ben brown there was on the fore-yard, and he got a good squint at her." "ah! can i see the man?" the mate straightway went forward, and, after a few pokes about the lee waist, ben was roused out from under the jolly-boat and came rolling aft. "_you_ saw the schooner, eh?" said the lieutenant, as if he was in the habit of asking sharp questions and getting quick answers. "yes, sir," said the squat seaman, as he hitched up his knife-belt, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took off his cap. "where?" "here away, sir," with a wave of his paw, "just clear of that bluff foreland where the gap opens with the blue mountain." "how was she rigged?" "bare sticks, sir, not much of a bowsprit, and no sail spread. i see her first by the flash of her sweeps in the rising sun, as she was heading about sou'-sou'-east into the land." "two masts, you say?" "ay, sir; but i thought as 'ow there was a jigger-like yard a-sticking out over her starn, though i wasn't sartin." "so!" said the lieutenant, in a musing tone, and with rather a grave face and compressed lip; "that will do; thank you, my man." then placing his hand on the skipper's shoulder, he drew him to one side, out of ear-shot, and said, "captain blunt, are you much acquainted in these latitudes?" "oh yes, sir, me and my old brig are regular traders here, from bordeaux to jamaica, and so home to england." "no treasure, i presume?" went on the officer, with a smile. "why, lieutenant, none to speak of, p'raps; just a handful of dollars and a guinea or two in the bag for a few sacks of sugar or coffee, or a pipe of rum, or sich like, on my own account." "well, my friend, there is probably nothing to fear, but if the breeze springs up, keep as close to the corvette as you can, and i shall ask the captain to keep a look-out for you during the night." "by the way"--the officer continued in a low tone as he moved toward the gangway--"in case any thing should happen, you had better hoist a lantern at your peak or in the main-rigging--we have sharp eyes for ugly customers, and one or two of them have been particularly troublesome of late hereabouts." turning for a moment to bid adieu to the fair lady passenger on the quarter-deck, and recovering his sword after a playful struggle with the youngster, he buckled it around his waist, and, stepping lightly over the side and into the boat, the oars fell with a single splash, and the cutter shot rapidly away toward the corvette. chapter iv. sunset. "light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading, the moon is whitening the dusky sails, from the thick bank of clouds she masters, shedding the softest influence that o'er night prevails. pale is she, like a young queen pale with splendor, haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep; the very glory that she wears is tender, the very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep." not a breath from the lungs of Æolus. the sun went down like a globe of fire; but just as it touched the horizon it flattened out into an oval disk, and, sinking behind a dead, slate-colored cloud, shot up half a dozen broad rose and purple bands, expanding as they mounted heavenward, and then fading away in pearly-tinted hues in the softening twilight until it mingled in the light of the half moon nearly at the zenith. there lay the island, too, now all clear again, with the blue tops of the mountains marked in pure distinct outline, and falling away from peak to peak on either hand, till the sea flashed up in sluggish creamy foam at the base. the man-of-war birds came floating in from seaward, high up, like black musquitoes, with their pointed wings wide spread and heading toward the land, but now with never a quiver to their silent pinions. a school of porpoises, too, broke water from the opposite direction, and, crossing and recrossing each other's track, came leaping and puffing over the gentle swells until they struck the brig's wake, when they wheeled around her bows, dashed off on a swift visit to the corvette, and then, closing up in watery phalanx, went gamboling, leaping, and breaking water again to windward. presently, along the eastern horizon, the banks of clouds, which had been lying dead and motionless all the sultry day, seemed to be imbued with life, and, separating in their fleecy masses, mounted up above the sea, and soon spread out, like a lady's fan, in all directions. "ho! ho!" shouted captain blunt, clapping his hands, "what said i, madame rosalie, when we saw the sun setting up his lee backstays a while ago? a breeze, eh? come, mr. binks, be wide awake! we shall be bowling off the knots before the watch is out." the mate caught the enthusiasm of the skipper, and, jumping up on the break of the deck cabin, he sang out, "d'ye hear there, lads? give us a good pull of the top-sail halliards, and round in them starboard braces a bit! that's your sort! well, the head-yards! that'll do with the main! up with the flying jib, and trim aft them starboard jib and staysail sheets! there! belay all." meanwhile the corvette, with her lofty dimity kissing the sky, caught the first light airs before the slightest ripple darkened the surface of the water; and with her helm a-starboard, and her after-yards braced sharp up, she silently swung round on her heel, while the spanker came flat aft, like a sheet of white paper, and with the head-sails trimmed, she slowly moved athwart the stern of the brig. the sharp whistles of the boatswain and his mates, piping like goldfinches, were the only sounds that were heard; and as the cruiser moved on in her course, the declining moon cast a mellow light over the folds of her canvas, and, like a girl in bridal attire, she threw a graceful shadow over the smooth and swelling waters away off to windward. the sails of the brig, which had begun to swell out in easy drooping lines, fell back again flat to the masts as the ship crossed her wake. but as the corvette passed, the officer of the watch on the poop raised his cap to the lovely woman who was standing out in graceful relief on the upper cabin deck, with her little boy held up beside her in the sturdy arms of the black, and placing the trumpet to his lips, said, in a distinct voice, as if addressing the skipper, "we shall go about at midnight. remember the directions i gave you this morning. _bon voyage, madame!_" he shook his trumpet playfully at the boy, who put out his chubby arms with delight to the speaker, and then hammered away with great glee on the crown of his bearer's head. "thank you, sir," said captain blunt, who was leaning over the rail; and then turning to his mate, he added, "them yankees, mr. binks, always treats a merchantman like gentlemen on the high seas, and i never knew one on 'em to turn their backs on friends or foes. what a pity they ever cut adrift from the old country! howsoever, matey, it can't be helped, and you had better up with the port studding-sails, hang out all the rags, and make the old drogher walk." now came the rippling breeze all at once over the sea, fluttering furtively for a minute or two, so as to make the top-sails of the brig swell out and then fall back in a tremulous shiver; but again bulging forward in a full-breasted curve, the vessel felt the tug, and began to dash the spray from her bluff bows till it fell away beyond the lee cathead in flying masses of foam. the studding-sail booms rolled out, the sailors busied themselves aloft in making the additional sail, and by-and-by the old brig floundered along, the bubbles gurgling out ahead in the ruffled water, tipping over astern as the crests broke on her quarter; at times plunging her bows into the rolling swell, but coming up sturdily again, and so on as before. meanwhile the corvette had edged away in a parallel course with the brig, running past her at first as if she were at anchor, when she let her topgallant-sails slide down to the caps, and, with the weather clew of her main-sail triced up, she held way with the brig a mile or more to windward. the moon was sinking well down in the west, and the clear, well-defined crescent was occasionally obscured by the light fleecy clouds moving under the influence of the trade wind, when, toward eight bells, the moon gave one pure white glimmer, threw a rippling flood of light over the waves, and sunk below the horizon. still the stars twinkled and the planets flamed out like young moons--masked at intervals by the darkening clouds as they swept overhead in heavy masses--and tinging the sea with shade, which would again break out in phosphorescent flashes as the waves caught the reflection. "now, madame rosalie," said the kind old skipper, "it is nearly midnight; take your last snooze in the old barky, and wake up bright and happy for port royal and--you know who, in the morning." the charming woman had been watching, with soul-rapt gaze, the lofty hills of jamaica from the last blaze of the setting sun, and until the moon too had vanished and left only a dim blue haze over the island. she started as the captain spoke, gave a deep sigh, kissed her hand to the good old skipper, said "_bon soir, mon ami_," and with a smile she entered her cabin. the black was seated within the partition of the apartment, near a small swinging cot, urging it gently to and fro, and watching over his little charge. "good-night, banou," she said, in patois french; "you may go to bed, and i will take care of my little boy." the black grinned so as to show his double range of white teeth beneath the rays of the cabin lamp, and without a word he moved silently away. the lady stood for a few moments gazing lovingly at the sleeping child, and then drawing the miniature from her bosom, she detached it with the chain from her neck, and after pressing it to her lips, she leaned softly over the cot and fastened it around the little sleeper. as light and zephyr-like as was the effort, it caused the little fellow to stir, and reaching out his tiny arms, while a baby smile played around the dimples of his cheeks, he clasped his mother's neck. ah! fond and devoted mother! that was the last sweet infantile caress your child was ever destined to give you! treasure it up in joy and sorrow, in sunshine and gloom, for long, long years will pass before you press him to your heart again! chapter v. darkness. "the busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking but the watch pacing silently and slow; the waves against the sides incessant breaking, and rope and canvas swaying to and fro. the topmost sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle cresting a shadowy tower amid the air; while red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle, the only light on board to guide us--where?" on went the "martha blunt" with no fears of danger near. the bell struck eight, the watch had been called, and the captain, taking a satisfactory look all around the horizon, glanced at the compass, and, with a slight yawn, said, "well, mr. binks, i believe i'll turn in for a few hours; keep the brig on her course, and at daylight call me. it will be time enough then to bend the cables, for i don't think we shall want the anchors much afore noon to-morrow. where's the corvette?" "there she is, sir, away off on the port beam. she made more sail a few minutes ago, and now she appears to be edging off the wind, and steering across our forefoot. i s'pose she's enjoying of herself, sir, and exercisin' the crowds of chaps they has on board them craft." "well, good-night, matey"--pausing a moment, however, as the honest old skipper stepped down the companion-way, and half communing with himself, and then, with his head just above the slide, he added, "i say, mr. binks, there's no need, p'r'aps, but you may as well have a lantern alight and bent on to the ensign halliards there under the taffrail, in case you want to signalize the corvette. ah, banou! that you, old nigger? good-night!" so captain blunt went slowly down below, and at the same time the black went aft, coiled himself down on the deck, and made a pillow of the brig's ensign. mr. binks wriggled himself upon the weather rail, where, with a short pipe in his mouth, he kicked his heels against the bulwarks, and while the old brig plunged doggedly on, he indulged himself with a song, the air, however, being more like the growl of a bull-dog than a specimen of music: "if lubberly landsmen, to gratitude strangers, still curse their unfortunate stars; why, what would they say did they try but the dangers encounter'd by true-hearted tars? if life's vessel they put 'fore the wind, or they tack her, or whether bound here or there, give 'em sea-room, good-fellowship, grog, and tobaker, well, then, damme if jack cares where!" "what d'ye think of that, ben?" said mr. binks, as he finished his ditty, and sucked away on his pipe. "why, mr. mate," replied ben, as he gave the wheel a spoke or two to windward and glanced at the binnacle, "the words is first-rate, but it seems to me your singing gear is a bit out o' condition, and i thought you wos a prayin'; but the fact is," concluded ben, apologetically, "that whenever i hears grog and tobaker jined together, i likes to see them in my fist." "oh! you would, eh? well, shipmate, turn and turn about is fair play; so here, just take a pull at the pipe, and i'll step to the cuddy for the bottle, and we'll have a little sniffler all around!" saying this, mr. binks swung off the rail, handed ben the pipe, and after an absence of a few moments, he returned with a square case-bottle and a pewter mug. "now, ben," said he, "this 'ere is not a practice, as you know, i often is guilty of; but you bein' a keerful hand and a stiddy helmsman, and port here close aboard, i've no objections to take a toss with ye." then pouring out a moderate quantity of the fluid, the mate handed it to ben, who, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and with one hand on the king-spoke of the wheel and one eye at the compass-card, threw his head back and pitched the dram down his throat. "my sarvice to ye, sir!" said ben, as he smacked his lips and then shut them tight together, fearful lest a breath of the precious liquid might escape; "a little of that stuff goes a great ways." mr. binks hereupon measured himself off an allowance, and touching ben on the shoulder, raised the pewter to his lips. before, however, draining the cup, he tuned his pipes once more, and croaked forth in this strain: "while up the shrouds the sailor goes, or ventures on the yard, the landsman, who no better knows, believes his lot is hard. but jack with smiles each danger meets; casts anchor, heaves the log, trims all the sails, belays the sheets, and drink his can of grog!" "here comes the corvette, sir!" broke in ben, as he stood on tiptoe, holding on to the spokes of the wheel, and taking his eyes off the binnacle a moment to get a clear view over the rail. "here she comes, with her starboard tacks aboard, athwart our bow, and moving like an albatross!" the man-of-war had for an hour or more crept well to windward, and then, wearing round, she came down close upon the wind under royals, and her three jibs and spanker as flat as boards. as she whirled on across the brig's bow, a few cables' length ahead, the sharp ring of the whistles was again heard, and the moment after the head-sails fluttered and shook in the wind, the sheets and blocks rattled, and with a clear order of "main-sail haul!" the after-yards swung round like magic, the sails filled, and without losing headway the head-yards were swung, and she gathered way on the other tack. on she came, with the spray flying up into the weather leech of her fore-sail, the dark mazes of her rigging marked out in clear lines against her white canvas, and the watch noiselessly coiling up the ropes on her decks. as she pushed her sharp snout through the water, and grazed along the brig's lee quarter, an officer on the poop gave a rapid and searching glance around, peered sharply along the brig's deck, waved his trumpet to the mate, and resumed his rapid tramp to windward. in ten minutes after she had passed the brig's wake nothing was seen of her save a dark, dim outline; a light halo reflected on the water from her white streak, and an occasional luminous flash of foam as it bounded away from her lean bows. half an hour went by. the mate was sitting on the weather rail droning out an old sea-song to himself, and the four or five men of the watch were dozing away along the bulwarks. presently, however, ben, the helmsman, happened to let his eyes wander away from the compass-card for a moment, as he steadied the wheel by his legs and bit a quid from his plug of niggerhead to last him to suck for the remainder of the watch, when, glancing beneath the bulging folds of the lee clew of the main-sail, he clapped both hands again on the steering spokes, and shouted, "mr. mate, here's a sail close under our lee beam!" "where?" said binks. but, before he had fairly time to run over to the other side of the vessel and take a look for himself, a quick rattle of oars was heard as a boat grated against the brig's side, and, before you could think, a swarm of fellows started up like so many shadows above the rail. in five seconds they had jumped on the deck, ben fell like a bullock from a blow from the butt-end of a pistol, the helm was jammed hard down, the lee braces let fly, and, as the old brig gave a lurching yaw in bringing her nose to windward, the weather leeches shivered violently in the wind, and, taking flat aback, the studding-sail booms snapped short off at the irons, and, with the sails, fell slamming and thumping below. [illustration: the pirates boarding the brig.] meanwhile the mate had barely time to spring to the companion-way and sing out, "we're boarded by pirates, captain blunt!" when he, too, received an ugly overhand lick from a cutlass on his skull, and went senseless and bleeding down the hatchway like a scuttle of coals. at the first noise, however, the black banou sprang to his feet, and, as he caught a glimpse of the fellows swarming over the side, he snatched hold of the ensign halliards where the signal lantern had been bent on, and in an instant it was dancing away up to the gaff, shrouded from view to leeward of the vessel by the spread of the spanker. in another moment the black leaped to the deck cabin and darted through the door. but in less time than it has taken to tell it, the "martha blunt" had changed hands. there, on the quarter-deck, stood in groups some sixteen barefooted villains, in coarse striped gingham shirts, loose trowsers, and skull-caps, and all with glittering, naked knives or cutlasses, and pistols in their belts and hands. in the midst of this cluster of swarthy wretches, near the companion-way, stood a burly, square-built ruffian, with a pistol in his right hand, and his dexter paw pushing up a brown straw hat as he ran his fingers across his dripping forehead and a tangled mass of carroty, unshorn locks. there was a wisp of a red silk kerchief tied in a single knot around his bare bull neck; the shirt was thrown back, and exposed a tawny, hairy chest, as a ray of light flashed up from the binnacle. he looked--as indeed he was--the lowest type of a sailor scoundrel. his companions were of lighter build, and their dress, complexion, and manner--to say nothing of their black hair and rings in their ears--indicated a birth and breeding in other and hotter climes. "well, my lads," said the big fellow, who seemed to be in command, "the barkey is ours, and we've cheated that infarnal cruiser handsomely. go forward, pedro, and gag them lubbers, and then tell the boys to trim aft them jib sheets; and round in them after-braces, some of you, so we can keep way with the schooner and take things easy." here he laughed in a husky, spirituous, low chuckle, and then went on: "this will make up for lost time, _amigos_! _christo!_ there may be some ounces on board. but who's left in the boat, gomez?" this was addressed to a bow-legged, beetle-browed individual, with a hare-lip, which kept his face in a perpetual and skeleton-like grin, who hissed out from between his decayed front tusks, "_el doctor señor, con tres de nosotros._" "_bueno!_ all right; three of the chaps will do to look out for her; but tell the doctor to drop the boat astern, and veer him a rope from the gangway. there! that's well with the braces! keep her off a point; so--that'll do." as the orders were promptly obeyed, and the crew of the brig gagged, and the vessel surged slowly on her course, the same speaker turned to his men and said, "now, my hearties! let's have an overhaul of the skipper. hand him up here, will ye? or, never mind," he added, "i'll just step down and have a growl with him myself." as the mate pitched head foremost down the companion ladder, two of the pirates jumped after him, and, dealing him another cruel stab with a knife deep into the back, they passed on into the lower cabin. there was a brief struggle, the sound of voices mingled with curses and threats, and then all quiet again. in pursuance of his expressed purpose, the stout ruffian slewed himself round, took a sweep about the horizon, then sticking his pistol in its belt, he slowly descended the ladder, gave the wounded and dying mate a kick, and with a hoarse laugh entered the cabin. there, on a small sofa abaft, between the two stern air-ports, sat captain blunt. blood was trickling down in heavy drops from a lacerated bruise on his forehead; but, notwithstanding the swelling and pain of the wound, his features were calm, stern, and honest. on either side of him sat as villainous a brace of mongrel portuguese or spaniards as ever infested the high seas; and his arms were pinioned by a stout cord to the bolt above the transom. "my sarvice to you, sir!" said the leader of the gang, with a devilish smile of derision, as he stuck his arms akimbo and squirted some tobacco-juice from his filthy mouth across the cabin table at the pinioned prisoner. "i s'pose you know by this time that you're a lawful prise, captured by an hindependent constable of the west indies, notwithstandin' ye had sich safe escort and convoy all the arternoon?" here he chuckled, squirted more juice over the table, then dropped down on a sea-chest cleated to the deck, took off his hat, and scratched his yellowish red hair. the poor captain said not a word, but shook a great clot of blood from his brow. "well, now, my old hearty, the first thing for you to do is to poke out your manifest, and any other little matters of vallew ye may have stowed away; and be quick, mind ye, for you haven't much time to sail in this 'ere craft. howsoever, i s'pose ye can swim?" "you'll find the manifest and the ship's papers there, inside that instrument-box; and all the money in the vessel is in that locker; and i trust in heaven it may burn your hands to cinders, you devils!" "ho! smash my brains! keep a stopper on your jaw, or i'll squeeze your dead carcass through that 'ere starn port." the fellow rose as he spoke, and, stepping up to the narrow state-cabin near by, he jerked open the upper drawer of a small bureau affair, and pulling out a canvas bag, sealed at the mouth, tossed it on to the cabin table. the coin fell with the heavy dead sound peculiar to gold, and the ruffian, after taking it up again and weighing it tenderly, growled out, "this chink will do for a yapper, at any rate! so now let's have a peep at what the cargo consists on." then stepping a second time to the berth, he gave a kick to the instrument-box, the lid flew off, and diving in his fist he drew out a bundle of papers. once more seating himself at the table beneath the swinging lamp, he clumsily undid the papers and spread them before him. "what a blessed thing is edication," muttered he to himself, "and what a power o' knowledge reading 'riting does for a man!" putting his fat stumpy finger on each line of the manuscript as he slowly began to spell out the contents, he began, "man-i-fest of brig 'martha blunt'--ja-cob blunt, master:" here he paused, and, squirting more tobacco-juice over at the skipper, as if to attract his attention, he suddenly ejaculated, "hark ye! master blunt, what was the name of that man-o'-war vessel as was lyin' by you this morning?" "the 'scourge,'" replied the skipper, faintly, as he shook another great drop of blood from his brow. "the what? the 'scourge!' that yankee snake! smash my brains! d'ye know that that ship has been a hangin' about the north side of cuba for ever so long, interruptin' our trade? and you an englishman, to go and ax him to purtect ye! take that!" here he snatched a pistol from his sash, and, taking aim full at the skipper's breast, he pulled the trigger. fortunately, the weapon snapped and did not explode. the ruffian held it a moment in his hand, and then letting it rest upon the table, he said, with a horrible imprecation, "ye see you wos not born to be shot; but we'll try what salt water will do for ye by-and-by." taking out his knife at the conclusion of this speech, he picked the flint of his pistol, opened the pan, shook the priming, and then shoved the weapon back in his belt. the mention of the "scourge," however, had evidently caused him some trepidation, for when he resumed the perusal of the manifest it was in a hurried, agitated sort of way, and not at all at his ease. smoothing the papers again before him, he went on, making running commentaries as he read: "eighty-six cases of silks--light, and easily stowed away; twenty-nine tons bar iron; sixty-four sugar-kettles! it will help to sink the brig; forty pipes of bordeaux; two hundred baskets champagne; three hundred and fifty boxes of claret--sour stuff, i warrant you; two casks cognac brandy--but i say, you blunt," said the fellow, looking up, "where's your own private bottle? it's thirsty work spellin' out all this 'ritin', and my mouth's as dry as a land-crab's claws. howsoever," he continued, as he caught the glance of satisfaction which came over the swarthy faces of his companions beside the captain, "wait a bit, and we'll punch a hole in a fresh barrel presently." having run through the manifest, he opened another paper and exclaimed, "hallo! what have we here? list of passengers--madame rosalie piron and--ho! that's a french piece, i knows by the name. where is she? hasn't died on the v'yage, has she? d'ye hear there, ye infarnal blunt?" the captain's face was troubled, and his head dropped down on his breast without replying; but one of the scoundrels at his side struck him a brutal blow with the back of his knife-hilt on the mouth, and jerking up, he said, with an effort, "yes, we have a female passenger on board, with a helpless child; but i pray you, in god's name, to leave the innocent woman in peace. you've robbed and ruined me and my poor old wife--turn me adrift if you like, drown or hang me, but don't harm the poor lady." the tears blinded him as he spoke, and mingled with the bloody stream which trickled down his cheeks. the ruffian's ugly face and bloodshot eyes lighted up with a devilish and sinister satisfaction as the skipper began his appeal, but before he had well finished speaking he broke in, "avast your jaw! will ye? you'll have enough to look out for your own gullet, my lad, without mindin' any body else's; so turn to and say your prayers afore eight bells is struck, because there's sharks off jamaiky." then addressing his own scoundrelly myrmidons, he exclaimed, "look out sharp for that old chap, my lads, while i goes to sarch for the woman passenger!" as he turned, however, to leave the cabin, one of his subordinates began to rummage about in a locker, when the burly brute said, "tonio, don't get to drinkin' too airly, boy, for ye know it's agin the law till the prize is snug in harbor, or sunk, as the case may be." "_si, señor_," replied the man, with a nod and a grin, and he resumed his seat again; but no sooner had their leader left the cabin than a bottle and glasses were placed upon the table, and they fell to with a will, complimenting the bound and wounded prisoner by pitching the last drops from their tumblers into his face. chapter vi. danger. "what tale do the roaring ocean and the night wind, bleak and wild, as they beat at the crazy casement, tell to that little child? and why do the roaring ocean and the night wind, wild and bleak, as they beat at the heart of the mother, drive the color from her cheek?" in all this time so little noise had been made that even the watch below, in the brig's forecastle, were snoozing away without a dream of danger; though, had one of them shown his nose above the fore-peak, he would have either been knocked down and murdered like the mate, or, with a gag in his jaws, been hurled overboard. when the leader of the pirates stepped again on deck, he said to his companions, who were still clustered around the companion-way, "well, my boys, we have 'arned a good prize--a fine cargo of the real stuff--silks, wines, and what not, besides a few of the shiners!" here he jingled the bag of gold and dollars in his paws, and then threw it, with an easy, indifferent toss, on to the slide of the companion-way. "but what think ye, lads?" he continued, in a hoarse whisper, "there's a petticoat aboard! and, as sure as my name's bill gibbs, here goes for a look; for there's nothing like lamplight for the lovely creeturs!" as he slewed round on his bare feet to approach the entrance to the deck cabin, a move was made in the same direction by two or three of the wretches of his band; but, shoving them roughly back with his heavy fist, and clapping a hand to his belt, he said, in a threatening tone, "none o' that, my souls! i takes the first look myself; and if i think her beauty'll suit the chief, why--i shall be able to judge, ye know, whether she'll go furder on the cruise or swim ashore with the rest of the lubbers at daylight to jamaiky. keep your eye on the schooner, pedro, and don't make no more sail! d'ye hear?" "ay, ay, _si señor_!" quoth that worthy, as he and his followers fell sulkily back. it took but three strides for mr. bill gibbs to reach the cabin door, when, finding it hard to open, after several trials at the knob, he placed his burly shoulder against the edge of the panelwork, and, throwing his powerful weight upon it, the door yielded with a snap of the lock, and he pitched forward full length upon the cabin floor. the noise startled the lady within, and speaking as if half asleep, she called, "banou! banou! what is the matter?" "_mon dieu, madame!_ we are prisoners in the hands of pirates!" before more words were uttered, mr. bill gibbs, who by this time had regained his feet while giving vent to a volley of blasphemous curses, roared out as he beheld the black, "ho! nigger passengers, hay? a mounseer of color, as i'm a christian! i say, cucumber shins, is that 'ere woman as is talkin' as black as you be?" he was not left long in doubt concerning the color of the person he alluded to, for at the instant the stateroom door flew open, and the lovely woman, in her loose night-dress and hair streaming in brown, heavy silken tresses over her fair neck and shoulders, with a pale and terror-stricken face, stood before him. speechless with agony, she gazed at the coarse ruffian, who had, at the moment, reached the swinging cot which held the little boy, and while he was in the act of looking at the sleeping child, the mother uttered a fearful cry and the boy awoke. "sarvice, madam! don't be scared! come and take the little chap! i ain't goin' to hurt him--that is, if it be a him." the frightened mother, spell-bound at first, needed no second bidding, and, forgetful of her disheveled dress, sprang forward, and with outstretched arms, bare to the shoulder, was about to snatch her child. the pirate, however, with his red eyes gleaming with unholy fire, threw his great arm around the lovely woman's waist, and with a hoarse, fiendish chuckle of triumph, attempted to draw her toward him. but, quick as lightning, two black, sinewy paws clutched him with such a steel-like grip about the throat that his sacrilegious arm dropped by his side, and he was hurled violently back against the cabin bulkhead. then standing before him, the negro glared like an angry lion roused from his lair as he looked round inquiringly at his mistress. "ho!" sputtered the ruffian, as he pulled a pistol from his belt, "ho! you mean fight, do ye?" "_banou! mon pauvre banou!_" screamed the terrified woman. "yield! oh, sir, spare him! don't harm us, and we will give you all we possess!" the burly scoundrel hesitated a moment, and balanced the cocked pistol in his hand, as if undecided whether to blow the black's brains out on the spot where he stood; and then shoving the weapon back in his sash, and keeping a wary eye on his assailant, he exclaimed in an angry tone, "well, come here, then, my deary, and give us a kiss for this nigger's bad manners." moving forward as he spoke, he caught up the little boy from the cot, tore the gold chain and locket from his neck, which he thrust into his pocket, and shook him roughly at arm's length, in hopes, perhaps, of enticing the tender mother within his merciless grasp. but again the black interposed his heavy frame before his mistress. "what! at it again, are ye? well, then"--fumbling with his left hand for his pistol--"say your prayers, ye imp of darkness." the black seemed, however, in no mood for praying; and putting forth his slabs of arms like the paws of an alligator, he tried to grapple his foe by the throat. the cries of the mother now mingled with those of the child as he put out his little arms to shield his black protector. the ruffian, foiled in his purpose, with baffled rage evaded the negro by stepping to one side; and as he did so, he hurled the helpless child with great force from him. the large cabin windows at the stern were open to let in the breeze; and as the brig sank slowly down with her counter to the following waves, and gurgled up as the sea eddied and surged around the rudder, the faint, plaintive cry of the little boy arose above the seething waters--a light splash followed--and the mother had lost her child! "oh, monster!" cried the heart-broken woman. "oh, my boy! my boy! may heaven curse you forever!" as she sank down senseless on the deck. the awful howl of vengeance which burst from the deep lungs of banou came simultaneously with the report of the pirate's pistol, the bullet from which struck the black hard in the left shoulder; but putting out for the third time his sinewy arms, and this time with an iron grip that only left the ruffian time to yell with a stifled curse for help, he was hurled headlong, smashing through the latticed cabin door, and fell stunned upon the outer deck. in an instant half a dozen pistol balls whistled around the negro's head, and the knives of the pirates flashed from their sashes as they rushed forward to bury the blades in his body; but leaping to one side, and while two more bullets were driven into him, he seized an iron-shod pump brake from the bulwarks, and, with a mighty bound, whirled it once with the rapidity of thought high above his head, and brought it down on the leg of his prostrate foe. such was the force of the blow that it smashed both bones, and drove the white splinters through the brute's trowsers, where they gleamed out red and bloody by the light of the binnacle lamp. even then, wounded, and the blood flowing from several places, and though almost encircled in the grasp of the scoundrels, banou made good his retreat to the cabin, and planted his powerful body firmly against the door. with a volley of polyglot curses and yells in all languages, two or three of the pirates stopped to raise their fallen leader, while the others, leaving the wheel and vessel to herself, rushed in pursuit of the black. scarcely, however, had they made a step, when their ears were saluted by a stunning crash from a heavy cannon, and the peculiar humming sound of a round shot as it flew just above their heads between the brig's masts. there, within half a cable's length to windward, loomed up the dark hull of a large ship. the crew were evidently at quarters, with the battle lanterns lit and gleaming in the ports, while the rays shot up the black rigging and top-hamper, and spread out over the sails in fitful flashes as she slowly forged abreast the brig, with her main top-sail to the mast. for a minute not a sound was heard, though the decks were full of men, some with their heads poked out of the open ports beside the guns, or swarming along over the lee hammock-nettings and about the quarter boats; but the next instant there came in a voice of thunder through the trumpet, "what's the matter on board that brig?" there was no answer for a few seconds, until a choking voice, as if with a pump-bolt athwart the speaker's mouth, mumbled out, "we're captured by pi--" a dull, heavy blow cut short these words; and though the reply to the hail could hardly have been heard on board the ship, yet, as if divining the true state of the case, loud, clear orders were given-- "away, there, third and fourth cutters! away! spring, men!" then came the surging noise of the whistles as the falls dropped the boats from the davits; then the men, leaping down into cutters--silently and quick--no sound save the clash of a cutlass or the rattle of an oar-blade as they took their places and shoved off. again an order through the trumpet-- "clear away the starboard battery! load with grape! sail trimmers! stations for wearing ship! hard up the helm! fill away the main-yard!" the "scourge" had by this time forged ahead of the brig, her sails aback or shivering, as she came up and fell off from the wind, and the boats dancing with full crews toward her. no sooner, however, had the presence of the unwelcome stranger been made known on board the brig than the pirates seemed seized with a panic, and, without a second thought, they scudded to leeward, where their boat had been hauled alongside, and forgetful or indifferent for the fate of their companions below, though dragging the while their maimed comrade to the rail, they lowered him into the boat, jumped in themselves, and pulled away with all their strength toward the schooner near. they were not, however, a moment too soon; for as the last of the band disappeared, their places were supplied by a crowd of nimble sailors to windward, headed by an officer with his sword between his teeth as he swung over the bulwarks. the first sound which greeted the new-comers was from below, and from the throat of the honest skipper. down the open companion-way leaped the officer, with half a dozen stout, eager sailors at his heels, and dashed right into the lower cabin. there was the brave old skipper, with but one arm free, shielding himself and struggling--faint and well-nigh exhausted--from the knives of the drunken brace of rascals who had been left to guard him. a pistol in the hands of one of this pair was pointed with an unsteady aim at the officer as he entered, but the ball struck the empty rum-bottle on the table and flew wide of its mark; and before the smoke of the powder had cleared away, a sword and cutlass had passed through and through both their bodies, and they fell dead upon the cabin floor. while captain blunt found breath to give a rapid explanation of the trouble, and while the brig was once more got under control and the wounded cared for, we will take a look at the man-of-war and the part she bore in the business. at the first sound of the warning gun from the cruiser the schooner began to show life; and drawing her head sheets, she wore short round on her heel, with every thing ready to run up her fore and aft sails, and a stay-tackle likewise rove and hanging over the low gunwale to hook on to the boat and hoist it in the moment it came alongside. meanwhile the "scourge" had shot ahead of the brig, and wearing round her forefoot, with her starboard tacks on board, she emerged out beyond, like a hound just slipped from the leash. as she cleared the brig, the schooner lay with bare masts about three cables' length to windward, and the rattle of oars told that her boat had just scraped alongside. at that moment a clear, determined voice shouted through the trumpet, "level your guns! take good aim! fire!" a brilliant series of sheets of flame burst forth from the corvette's battery, lighting up the water and jet black wales, and away aloft to the great towering maze of rigging and sails to the trucks, with the topmen clustering to windward, and their very eyes and teeth lit up in the glare; then, too, the crews of the guns, in their trim frocks and trowsers; the marines on the top-gallant forecastle, with their firelocks and white cross-belts; and abaft a knot of officers on the poop, with night-glasses to their eyes, all standing out as clear as day in the sudden flashes from the cannon. then followed the concussive roar, and the next instant you could hear the hurtling rush of the iron hail as it flew singly or in bunches through the air, or skipped in its deadly flight from wave to wave, until it went crashing into the pirate's boat, slapping with heavy thumps against the schooner's side, or furrowing along her decks; while a shower of white splinters flew high over her low rail, and told how well the iron had done its bidding. then, with many a groan and imprecation, the shattered and sinking boat was cut adrift, and, a moment after, the sails of the vessel were spread, the sheets hauled flat aft, and, taking the breeze, she heeled over till her lee rail was all awash, and away she walked, right up to windward. but again came the clear, commanding tones on board the cruiser, mingled with the jumping of the crew and ramming home the charges in the guns: "load! round shot! run out! one point abaft the beam! fire as you bring the schooner to bear!" out belched the red flames; the heavy globes of iron, like so many black peas in daylight, sung their deadly note as they darted on their way, and the corvette gave a little heel to leeward as the shock of the explosion was felt. one shot dropped within fifty yards of the low hull of the schooner, bounded just clear of her after-deck, knocked off the head and shoulder of a man at the tiller, and then went skipping away over the water like a black foot-ball. another messenger cut off the schooner's delicate fore-top-mast as clean as a bit of glass, bringing down the gaff-top-sail, and, what was equally pleasant, the fellow who was setting it--pitching him over and over like a wheel, until he fell, a bruised and lifeless lump of jelly, on the oak bitts at the fore-mast. before, however, they were treated to another of these metallic doses, the pirates had got their craft in splendid trim; and with every stitch of her canvas spread, and tugging and straining, she rushed on with the heels of a race-horse, within three points of the wind. the "scourge," too, was now close hauled, her yards braced as fine as needles, and crowded with every inch of sail that would draw; while every ten minutes or so she would let slip two or more guns from a division at the chase. but the uncertain gloom of starlight, and the darkening effect of the passing trade-clouds, made the little vessel a very difficult object to see; and though one of the last balls struck her on the narrow deck, passed through that and the waterways, and out to windward, spoiling two of her timbers, and no end of planking, yet this was the last damage she received. her crew, also, had got as well as could be out of harm's way--both the sound and wounded--and were lying quietly as possible deep down in the vessel's run. when daylight broke the breeze began to slacken, but she was by this time hull down from the corvette, a long way beyond the reach of her long eighteens in the bow ports, and eating her way to windward, with no chance of being taken. [illustration: the night chase.] "it's no use," said the captain of the corvette to his first lieutenant, as they stood watching the receding chase. "we may as well give it up; she has the heels of us in this light wind, and will soon be out of sight. i think, however," continued the captain, with a smile, "that he'll remember the 'scourge' when he meets her again. this is the second time we have chased that fellow; and this heat, by the way the splinters flew, we must have peppered the skin off his back." shutting up the joints of the spy-glass which he held in his hand, he took hold of the man-ropes of the poop ladder, and as he put his feet on the steps, he said, "you can go about, mr. cleveland, and run down to the brig." chapter vii. the meeting and mourning. "moan! moan, ye dying gales! the saddest of your tales is not so sad as life! nor have you e'er began a theme so wild as man, or with such sorrow rife. "then, when the gale is sighing, and when the leaves are dying, and when the song is o'er, oh! let us think of those whose lives are lost in woes-- whose cup of grief runs o'er!" the afternoon following the night when the foregoing events transpired, the "martha blunt" sailed slowly along the sandy tongue of land which separates port royal from kingston, and dropped anchor in the harbor. as the cable rumbled out with a grating sound through the hawse-hole, and the crew aloft were furling the sails, a large, gayly-painted barge, pulled by a dozen blacks shaded by a striped awning, shot swiftly alongside. jabbering were those darkies, and clapping their hands, and shouting joyously. a rope was immediately thrown from the gangway of the brig, and a tall, handsome man, with a broad panama hat, loose white jacket and trowsers, sprang with a bound up the side, and leaped on deck. captain blunt stood there to receive him. a broad white bandage was passed around his head, and the tears trickled slowly down his bronzed and honest cheeks. just beyond him, under the shade of the awning, lay banou, stretched out at full length on a mattress; while ben, the helmsman, was kneeling beside him, fanning his hot and fevered face with his tarpaulin. a yard or two beyond, on a broad plank resting on trestles, lay the mate, mr. binks, cold and rigid in the grasp of death, with the union jack folded modestly over his corpse. the black breathed heavily and in pain; but when he caught sight of the gentleman as he stepped on deck, a deathly blue pallor came over his countenance, and, closing his eyes, the hot salt tears started in great drops from the lids. "my god! captain," said the gentleman, with a bewildering stare, "what's all this? what has happened?" the old skipper merely made a motion with his hand toward the cabin, and, leaning painfully against the rail, wept like a child. the gentleman's blood forsook his cheeks, and, with his knees knocking together, he staggered like a drunken man toward the cabin door. a few minutes later he emerged, bearing in his arms the sobbing, drooping form of his wife. starting from his close embrace for a moment as he bore her to the gangway, she gave one shuddering, terrified, searching gaze over the blue water to seaward, and then, with a wailing cry of agony, that would have shaken the hardest heart, she fell sobbing again into her husband's arms. the voices and joyous shrieks of the negroes in the barge alongside subsided into low moaning groans; four or five came up, and carefully lowered banou down; then all got into the boat, and she moved mournfully away toward the shore. chapter viii. captain brand at home. "from his brimstone bed at break of day, a-walking the devil is gone, to visit his snug little farm the earth, and see how his stock goes on." upon a broad, flat, rocky ledge, near a small, landlocked narrow inlet of one of the clustering twelve league keys on the south side of cuba, stood a red-tiled stone building, with a spacious veranda in front, covered by plaited matting and canvas curtains triced up all around. the back and one side of the building rested against a craggy eminence which overlooked the sea on both sides of the island, and commanded a wide sweep of reef and blue water beyond. a few clumps of cocoa-nut-trees and dwarf palms, with bare gaunt stems and tufted tops, stood out here and there along the rocky slopes, while lesser vegetation of cactus and mangrove bushes were scattered thickly over the island, cropping out with jagged edges of rock down to the sandy beaches of the sea-shore. a deep narrow inlet of blue water lay pure and still near the base of the rocky height, where, too, was a shelving curve of white sand, sprinkled about by a few mat sheds, while on the other side the rocks arose to an elevation of a hundred and fifty feet, forming a precipitous wall to the water. the inlet here took a sharp turn, scooped out in a secluded basin, and then narrowing to less than forty yards in width, it wound and twisted for a good mile in a thin blue channel to the open sea. half that distance farther out was a roaring ledge of white breakers, where the long swell came hammering on it, bursting up in the air in brightish green masses, and then tumbling over the reef and bubbling smoothly on toward the shore. on a level with the water no channel could be discerned through the ledge; but, looking down from the heights around the inlet, a narrow blue gateway was marked out, skirted on the surface by frothy crests of dead foam, and near where flocks of cormorants and gulls were riding placidly on the inner side of the ledge. the island itself was about two miles broad and seven long; and about midway of its width the inlet formed a forked strait, one branch finding its way to the north, between a low succession of sandy hummocks, where the water was too shallow to float a duck, and the other finding an outlet, scarcely a biscuit-toss wide, between two bluff rocks. with the trade wind this passage was safe and accessible; but on the change of the moon, with a breeze and swell from the south, the sea came bowling in, in boiling eddies and whirlpools, and it required a nerve of iron to attempt an entrance. just within this narrow mouth, on a flat beveled ledge of rock but a few feet above the water, was a small battery of two long eighteen-pounders, and two twenty-four pounder carronades mounted on slides and trucks, with platforms laid on a bed of sand. near by, beneath a low shed of tiles and loose stones, were a pile of round shot, nicely blacked, and some stands of grape and canister in canvas bags and cases, together with a large copper magazine of cartridges. seated a little way off on a low stool was a dingy spaniard with a telescope laid across his knees, which every little while he would raise to his eye and take a steady glance around the horizon to seaward. at other times he would roll and light a paper cigar, murmuring some low ditty to himself as he sent the smoke in volumes through his nose. a small brass bell hung beside the shed near the battery, together with a telegraphic card, which was connected by a wire strung on low posts, or hooked from rock to rock to the stone building away up at the basin. to return, however, to the building: the veranda rested on square rough masonry full twenty feet from the ground, which was loopholed for musketry, and with but one narrow slip of a doorway that fell like a portcullis, banded and strapped with bars and studs of wrought iron. within this stone inclosure was a large and roomy vault, half filled with cases, barrels, and packages, and at the upper angle was a narrow subterranean vaulted passage, barred also by an iron-bound door, which led to a succession of whitewashed chambers--dark, damp, and gloomy--and then on, in a fissure-like pathway, to another equally strongly secured outlet on the other side of the crag. leading to the veranda was a tautly-stretched rope ladder lashed to eye-bolts let into the natural rock below, and hooked on to the edge of the floor above. this was the only approach to the main floor of the building from the outside, though within were heavy trap-doors like the hatches of a ship, which communicated to the chambers beneath. the whole structure was of stone and tiles, roughly built, but yet strong and durable, and capable of resisting any assault, unaided by cannon, that could be brought against it. the floor was divided into four rooms, the smallest used for a kitchen, the next for a magazine of small arms, and the third a spacious bedchamber, which opened into a large square apartment facing the veranda, and which deserves more notice. [illustration: the pirate den.] the lofty ceiling came down with the slant, showing the bare red tiles and heavy square beams which supported the roof. in one of the stoutest of these beams was an eye-bolt and copper-strapped block, through which was rove a long green silk rope, with one end secured by a cleat on the wall, and the other dangling loose, and squirming, whenever a current of air struck it, like a long, slim snake. around the sides of the room, which were paneled with cedar, stood four or five quaint ebony armoires, and as many cabinets, clocks, and bookcases, with here and there a woman's work-stand, some of them curiously inlaid with pearl and silver. the walls were hung with a great number of pictures of all kinds of vessels--generally, however, of the merchant description--under full sail, with vivid light-houses in the distance, and combing breakers under the lee; and all portraying gallant crews and buoyant freights, which probably had never reached their destinations. among this gallery of marine display was a broad framing of the "flags of all nations;" and codes of signals, too, in bright colors, hung beside them. farther on, in a pretty panel by itself, surrounded by an edging of mother-o'-pearl, was a triple row of female miniatures, a number of them of great beauty, and many executed in excellent taste and art. in one corner was a large chart-stand, covered with rolls of maps and nautical instruments, while above were suspended, by white rope grummets, a pyramidal line of spy-glasses and telescopes of all sizes and make. near the centre of the apartment stood a large round dining-table, on which was laid things for a breakfast, a box of cigars, and a small silver pan of live coals. there were but two windows to this room, both hung with striped muslin curtains, the casements going to the floor, and looking out upon the veranda; and but two doors, one leading to the kitchen, and the other to the sleeping-chamber on the opposite side. presently this last door opened, and, pushing aside a blue gauze curtain which hung before it, an individual of about eight-and-twenty years of age stepped languidly into the room. he was a tallish man, over six feet in stature, rather spare in build, but with great breadth of shoulders, and though pale, apparently from long illness, yet he was evidently very active and muscular when his nerves were called into action. had it not been for a downward choleric curve to his large nose, and a little parting at the corners of his wide mouth and compressed lips, the face might have been thought handsome. the eyes were light blue, set close together, but hard and stony, with no ray of mercy or humanity in them. he wore no beard, and his light brown hair was thin and dry, and carefully parted at the side. he was dressed in a snow-white pair of loose drilling trowsers, cut sailor fashion, straw slippers, and silk stockings; and above he wore a brown linen jacket with large pearl buttons, and pockets. as he entered the room he held a delicate cambric handkerchief, with a fine lace border, in his hands, which he seemed to regard with curious interest as he lounged toward the windows of the veranda. "i wish i could remember," he muttered musingly to himself, "which of those sisters this bit of cambric belonged to, marked with an e.--ellen or eliza--hum! they _would_ die--silly things!--tried to stab me! ho! what fun! never left me even a miniature, either, for my collection. '_bueno!_' there's more fish in the sea--and under it too!" he concluded, with an unpleasant elevation of his eyebrows. by this time he had approached the open window, and, shoving the delicate fabric daintily in his pocket, he gave a slight yawn and looked out. before him lay the deep blue basin of the inlet, with a couple of boats hauled up on the shore; a few idle sailors moving about, or squatted beneath the sheds playing cards or sewing. without letting his eye rest more than a moment on this scene, he turned and gave a long, earnest gaze between an opening of the rocks to seaward. then, with an angry frown, he approached the table, poured out a cup of black coffee, threw rather than dropped in a lump of sugar, and sat himself down for his morning's meal. he had scarcely, however, gulped down his cup of coffee and choked after it a slice of toast, than he pushed away the breakfast things, snapped his teeth together like a steel clasp, biting a tooth-pick in twain by the effort; and then, tossing the pieces away, he dashed his hand into the cigar-box, extracted one, touched it to the pan of coals, and began to smoke savagely. at first the grateful smoke appeared to soothe his chafed spirit, for he threw himself lazily into a large cane-bottomed settee, and, stretching out his legs, seemed to enjoy the tranquil scene around him with uninterrupted pleasure. but soon a scowl darkened his face; he dropped his cigar on the floor, and springing to his feet as if touched by a galvanic battery, he snatched down a telescope from the wall, steadied it at the window-sash, and peered again long and anxiously to windward. he saw nothing, however, save the long, glassy, unbroken undulations of a calm tropical sea, rolling away off beyond the ledge under a burning sun; no sign of a breeze--not even a cat's-paw; and only now and then the leap of a deep-sea fish sparkling for a moment in the air, and some sluggish gulls and pelicans sailing and diving about the reef for their prey. shutting up the glass with a crash that made the joints ring, he strode to the settee, where hung several knotted bell-ropes, and, seizing one, gave it a sharp jerk. then putting his ear to an aperture in the wall, where was a hollow cane tube like the mouth of a speaking-trumpet, he listened attentively till a hoarse whisper uttered the word, "_señor._" putting his mouth to the tube, he said, "can you make out the 'centipede' from the crag station?" "not sure, sir, this morning; but last evening, at sunset, i saw a sail which i took to be her. the sea-breeze is just beginning to make, and if she's to windward of punta arenas she'll soon heave in sight." this colloquy was held in spanish; and when the signal-man had ceased speaking, the interlocutor lit another cigar mechanically, kicked a foot-stool out of his way like a foot-ball, and thus communed with himself as he rapidly paced between the table and the veranda: "fourteen weeks ago yesterday since the schooner was off matanzas; not a word of news to cheer me through all that cursed fever; the spring trade done, and the track deserted by this time!" then pausing in his walk, he stopped at the chart-stand, and unrolling a map, he went on: "where, in the devil's name, could she possibly have gone to? she might have been to cape horn and back before this. miserable fool that i was to trust the craft with that thirsty, thick-headed gibbs! _diavolo!_ he may have been captured, and if he has, i hope his neck has been stretched like a shred of jerked beef." even while he was talking a bell struck near the settee, and, putting his ear again to the tube, the hoarse voice said, "i can make her out now, _señor_. she's just caught the strong young breeze, and is, hull up, coming along with the bonnet off her fore-sail and a reef in her main-sail! there's a felucca to windward of her, which i take to be the 'panchita!'" "ah ha!" laughed the individual in the room. "the 'centipede' is safe, then; and i am to have the pleasure, too, of a visit from the tuerto, the mercenary old owl, with his account of sales and his greed. but let me once catch him foul, and, my one-eyed friend, i'll treat you to such a dance that you won't need shoes!" here he glanced with a meaning look at the silk rope swaying from the beam above his head, and the laugh of satisfaction which followed was not one a timid man would care to hear in a dark night; nor did it come from his heart, as any one might have discovered from the ferocious gleam of inward passion which shot out in the cold sparkle of his eyes and flitted away over his grating teeth. controlling his feelings, however, and stepping out on the veranda, he drew aside the curtains and sung out to the men in the huts, "one of you fellows, tell the boatswain i want him." the men started up, and a moment after a man in a blue jacket stood out from one of the sheds and threw up his hand to his straw hat. [illustration: the "panchita"] "get together the people! let run the cable at the alligator's mouth, and have three or four warps ready for the schooner when she passes the point! the 'panchita' is coming too, so look out, and have enough lines to tow both vessels in case the breeze fails. tell mr. gibbs to moor close under the other shore in the old berth, and to come to me when he's anchored! d'ye hear?" all this was said in a sharp tone of command, and by the alacrity with which the orders were executed the men seemed to be accustomed to a master who knew how to rule them. chapter ix. captain and mate. "so i hauled him off to the gallows' foot, and blinded him in his bags; 'twas a weary job to heave him up, for a doomed man always lags; but by ten of the clock he was off his legs in the wind, and airing his rags!" a couple of hours had passed since the occupant of the stone building had last spoken to his subordinates down at the inlet, but the interval he devoted to a minute inspection of weapons in the armory adjoining his bedroom. they were all in excellent order, of the best make, and very neatly arranged in stands and cases around the room. when he emerged again, after locking the door, he held an exquisite pair of small pistols inlaid with gold in his hand, which he gently polished with his cambric handkerchief, and then slipped them into his trowsers pockets. then he held short dialogues with the voice at the signal-station, and, without looking out of the window, he informed himself of what was doing outside, and what progress the vessels made toward their haven. when, however, the schooner poked her slim, low black bows, with her sails down, around the point, he gave one stealthy peep, or glare rather, at her. he took all in at that glance, from the patches of sheet-lead nailed over the shot-holes in her side, to the sawed-off stump of the fore-top-mast; and then he remarked the absence of the boat which was carried amidships, and the few men moving about her deck. ay! he took it all in with that one comprehensive glance, and when he had done, he raised his fore finger quivering with anger, and slowly and unconsciously passed it with an ominous gesture across his throat. soon was heard a sullen plunge as an anchor was let go, and the splashing of the warps upon the water as the stern of the "centipede" was being moored to the rocks, to make room for her companion the felucca, now shortly expected. "mr. gibbs is coming on shore, _señor_, and he seems to have a wooden leg," came through the tube. "the doctor is coming with him, and there is a little boy in the boat." "ho!" muttered the man in the saloon, "where was that brat picked up?" nothing more was said. the tall man lit a cigar, threw himself into an easy attitude on the settee, opened a richly-bound volume, and waited. ten minutes may have gone by when the trampling of feet was heard on the smooth rocks outside the building, and the voice of mr. gibbs exclaimed, "easy, will ye? doctor! don't ye see it tears the narves out of me to hobble with this broomstick-handle of a leg! there! stop a bit! how in thunder am i to climb this ladder? oh!" here a low howl of pain. "another shove. easy, old sawbones! so--give us another push, will ye? all right! there, that'll do." the next minute mr. bill gibbs stood on the broad piazza, and, with the assistance of a crutch, he hobbled to the entrance of the apartment, and only pausing to recover his wind and compose his features, he pulled off his straw hat and entered. "so ho! mr. gibbs," said the man on the settee, as the burly, lame ruffian darkened the entrance, laying the book down as he spoke, and waving his delicate handkerchief before him. "so ho! mr. gibbs, you've come back at last! delighted to see you. i am, 'pon my soul. ah! one of those stout pins gone? why, how's this? some little accident? santa cruz rum and a tumble down the hatchway, perhaps, eh? d'ye smoke? take a cheroot. put that bag on the table." all this was said in a gay, gibing tone, with an indifference and _sang froid_ that a tight-rope dancer might have been proud of; and as he ended, he threw a handful of cigars across the table, and pushed the pan of coals toward his visitor. before, however, gibbs had time to utter a word in reply, his companion, while lolling over the settee, caught up an opera-glass from the table, and, placing it to his eyes, went on: "ha! ho! the fore-top-mast of my pretty long-legged schooner is gone. pretty stick it was! i suppose, master gibbs, that _you_"--he nodded fiercely without removing the glass--"cut it up for that lovely new leg you've mounted. ay, my beauty!" again apostrophizing the vessel, which lay like a wounded bird in the calm inlet before him; "but where's my handsome barge, that used to cover the long gun? ho! stormy weather you've seen of late." during all this one-sided conversation gibbs had managed to wriggle his mutilated body on to a wicker chair, where he steadied himself with his crutch, evincing manifest signs of choler the while by running his fat fingers through the reddish door-mat of hair, hitching up his trowsers, and rapping nervously his timber stump of a leg on the floor, until at last, unable, apparently, longer to control himself, he burst out, with his bad face suffused with passion, "i say, captain brand, it's time to end them 'ere gibes. what's took place is unfortinate; but, howsoever, i has a bag of shiners and a wooden leg to show for it, and d----n the odds." "stop, stop, my bull-dog! don't be profane in my presence, if you please. we are both christians, you know, and friends too, i hope." this was said in a very precise, emphatic, and clear enunciation, and without apparent heat; and captain brand smiled too--but such a smile, as his wide mouth came down with a twitch at the corners, and left a sort of hole, where the cigar was habitually stuck, to see his teeth through. "and now, my friend, suppose you give me some little account of your cruise, and fill up, if you can, any chinks that i haven't seen through already," he concluded, throwing his legs again over the back of the settee, and elevating his eyebrows as the cigar smoke curled in spiral wreaths around his face. mr. gibbs hereupon settled himself more at ease in his chair, laid his crutch across his knees, and began: "i s'pose, sir, you got the news i sent in a letter from matanzas, after we'd been chased out of the nicholas channel by that yankee corvette?" captain brand nodded at the eye-bolt which held the green silk rope from the ceiling, as if calculating mentally the strain it would bear, merely as a matter of philosophical speculation, perhaps. "well, arter that--and a very tight race it was--we ran down to the behamey banks. there we picked up a yankee schooner loaded with shingles and lumber; and as the skipper was sarsy, i just made him and his crew walk one of his own planks, and then bored a couple of holes through his vessel, arter taking out some water which we stood in need of. you hasn't a drop of summut to drink, has you, captain brand? becase it makes my jaw-tackle dry to talk much." the captain merely motioned with a wave of his cambric handkerchief to an open liquor-case which stood on a cabinet near, and to which mr. gibbs hobbled; when, seizing a square flask of crystal incased in a network of frosted silver, he returned with it to the table. had mr. gibbs chosen he might have brought with the flask a small, thimble-shaped liqueur glass; but he did not, and contented himself with a china coffee-cup which stood on the tray before him. he seemed a little near-sighted too; and as he inverted the flask, gave no heed to the quantity of fluid he poured into the cup. but he took care, however, that it did not run over; and then, raising it with a trembling hand to his lips, he said, "my sarvice to you, captain brand," and tossed it down his capacious throat. the captain gave no response to this compliment, but as mr. gibbs put down the coffee-cup he said blandly, "thank you; but suppose you put that flask back in the case. i am rather choice with that brandy; it was a--given to me by a--person who was a--unfortunately hanged, and a--i rarely offer it a--the second time." puffing his cigar as he spoke in an easy manner, he then turned round to listen to mr. gibbs's narrative. becoming more genial as the brandy loosened his tongue, mr. gibbs continued: "well, sir, from the behameys we ran to leeward, nearly to the spanish main, in hopes, perhaps, of finding some stray fellow as was bound to europe; but we see nothing for days and days, and weeks and weeks, till finally the water fell short again, and we beats up and runs into santa cruz. there, as luck would have it, eboe pete and french tom got into a bit of a scrimmage up on a gentleman's plantation arter sunset, and was werry roughly handled by a patrol of sogers as happened to be near. i believe as how eboe pete died that night; and i heerd, too, that french tom had his skull cracked; and what does he go for to do but make a confession to the authorities that the 'centipede' was a pirate! "well, captain, the moment that information reached me, and seein' a sogers' boat gettin' ready, and the sogers running about the water-battery of the fort, than i just slips the cable, and runs out to sea like a bird; and, lord love ye, sir! the way they pitched round shot arter us was--was--" here master gibbs paused for a simile, and the captain observed with a hacking, cough-like laugh, "you saved the water-casks, though?" "why no, sir; and we was forced to go upon a 'lowance of a pint a water a man!" "ho!" rejoined the listener. "capital! didn't suffer, i hope? go on." "howsomever, i says to myself, the captain wants a good valy'ble cargo, and so we beats up again and stretches away back along the coast of jamaiky, on the look-out for any think that might be comin' that 'ere way. well, sir, d'ye see, airly one morning, as we was a lying as close as wax under the land, we spies a big brig becalmed off to seaward; but we diskivered at the same time that same yankee cruiser as was in chase of us off matanzas. i know'd as how you would be displeased at any risks being run, so we keeps clean and snug inshore, under a pint o' land, till set of sun, and until arter the moon went down. then the breeze sprung up fresh from the old trade quarter, and says i, now we'll make a dash at that 'ere drogher, and squeeze him as dry as bone-dust; more pertikerly, ye see, captain, since the corvette, arter dodgin' about him all day, had yawed off, and, with his port-tacks aboard, was beatin' to wind'ard." here mr. gibbs's auditor took the cigar from his mouth and rolled his light blue eyes at him, puffed a thick volume of smoke through the corner of his mouth, but said never a syllable. the narrator gave a wistful look at the brandy-flask, drained the last few drops from the coffee-cup, pushed out his timber leg, and resumed: "so you see, sir, as i was a sayin', i says to myself, i'll get the boat in the water with the lads, and, to make sure of all being conducted shipshape, i'll go myself." "oh!" said the captain, as his eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth came down, with the faintest breath of a sardonic smile, while he lit a fresh cigar, "oh! you did!" "ay, sir! so we let the old drogher go bouncing on past us, at about the rate of five mile in four hours, when we crossed his wake under the jib, and then we ups with the fore and main-sail, got a pull of the sheets, and--" captain brand shook the point of his curved nose at the speaker, who checked himself, and, giving an emphatic rap with his crutch on the floor, went on with-- "beg parding, sir; but, lord love ye! we just walked up under his lee, and afore he know'd where he wos, we boarded him, knocked over two or three chaps, and had the skipper lashed down in his cabin as quick as winkin' and as quiet as could be. ay, sir, we had it all our own way; but during the scrimmage wot should i see (here he inclined his head out like a loggerhead turtle) but the lovelyest young 'oman as ever i clapped eyes on!" here his timber stump grated nervously on the floor. "says i, that's just the craft, with such a clean run and full bows, as would please captain brand"--at which that individual rolled round on his elbow and brought his eye to the opera-glass in the direction of the schooner. "she isn't there, captain!" parenthesized the narrator, following the motion with his head. "so i just fisted hold of her to hand her tenderly into the boat, with a bag of shiners as wos found on board, when, so help me---- --beg parding, sir--if a dwarfed giant of a nigger didn't take an overhand lick at me with an iron pump-break, and nearly cut this 'ere larboard pin in two pieces; and, smash my brains!" he continued, shaking his broad paw aloft with rage, "but what does i do, with all the pain from the clip that da--(beg parding, sir) give me, i slams away with a pistol bullet through the nigger's head--" "didn't i see a little boy on board the 'centipede?' perhaps i was mistaken, the sun blazes so fiercely, eh?" broke in captain brand, though the sun didn't blaze with a fiercer light than shot out of his deadly cold blue eyes. "ho, ay, sir! that young imp was a bitin' at my t'other leg like a bull terrier pup, while the nigger was attackin' me, and then he goes and crawls out of the cabin winders, and was fished out of the water by the chaps as wos towin' astarn in the boat." "oh, really! how very fortunate!" muttered the captain; "go on; don't stop, i pray you, master gibbs." "well, sir, i knows very little what happened arter this, for the young 'oman was a screamin' and our chaps a cursin' about the decks, when all of a sudden i fell off into a faint like, and the same time a heavy gun came slamming into our very ears; and there was that infarnal corvette agen bowlin' down within five cables' length of the brig, her battery all alight and the whistles a callin' away the boats, in as violent a haste as any think i can remember," said gibbs, as he paused to catch his breath. "you must have kept a sharp look-out, though?" but, without heeding this remark, the burly scoundrel went on-- "well, captain brand, the boys tumbled me over the side--" "not forgetting the little bag of shiners!" sneered his auditor. "tumbled me into the boat, sir, and then pulled like mad for the schooner. i know'd, d'ye mind, captain, or leastways i felt sartain we could show any think afloat our heels, and so away we scrambles aboard, and off we splits. but ye must see by this time, sir, the corvette had come down and rounded to on the weather beam of the drogher, acting like a screen for the schooner close under his lee. it wos only a minnit, though, while he was holding some jaw with those lubbers aboard the brig, before he filled away again, and wearing sharp round her bows, he diskivered us sartain. i don't think, as matters stood by this time, that our boat was a boat-hook's length from the schooner when i jist see a burst of red flashes from the man-o'-war's starboard ports, and heerd an officer roar out, 'give him the whole three divisions of grape!' when i'm da--your parding agin, sir; i'm blest if ever i heerd sich a rain of cold iron in all my sea-goin' experience. ay, sir, by g--gracious, sir, if about two bushels of them grape didn't riddle the barge like the nozzle to a watering-pot, and same time tore seven of our noble fellows all to rags--" "you saved the boat, of course?" suggested his companion, in a kind voice, but with a frightful sneer. "why, captain, we unfortinately lost her; for ye see, arter tumbling me aboard the schooner, and arter bailing nigh as much blood as water--" "capital! excellent! best joke i ever heard," broke in captain brand, with a hollow laugh of much enjoyment. "arter bailin' as much blood as water, and finding the man-o'-war was heaving in stays to slam another broadside into us, we cut the boat adrift, and then got the sheets flat aft, the gaff-top-sails up, and away we drove with a crackin' breeze right up to wind'ard, like a swordfish. lord love ye, sir! we walked away from the cruiser, a eatin' the wind out of him like a knife, and notwithstandin' he hove more nor forty round shot at us, he only knocked away the fore-top-mast and some other triflin' little damage about the hull, and"--he hesitated--"lascar joe's head." "that counts off about half your crew, eh?" said captain brand, smiling in his peculiar manner. "well, what next?" "why, sir, the next mornin' belize paul--as is part doctor, you know--said as how my leg was to come off below the knee, and arter givin' me a sip or two o' rum--" "bottle," interjected the captain, twisting the beak of his nose in a puff of smoke. "--rum, why, smash my brains, sir, if he didn't hack it off with a wood-saw!" "well, what next?" "then, sir, ye see, we run the schooner down cape cruz, where we kept werry snug and quiet till sich times as the old one-eyed diego judged the coast clear to return to head-quarters." "well, what then?" "that's all, captain brand!" concluded the narrator his garbled yarn, as he again had recourse to scratching the door-mat on his head, and cast a thirsty look at the brandy-flask. "that's all, is it?" hissed the man with the iron jaws, in a tone of concentrated passion, as he sprang with a single bound from the settee, and clutched master gibbs with both hands around his hairy throat until his face turned livid purple and his eyes started from the sockets. "that's all, is it, you drunken beast? that's all you have to tell after idling away the summer, losing anchors and boats, and more than half my crew, and bringing a hornet's nest down about our ears! that's all, is it? and what would you say, now, if i should order the doctor to cut off your other leg close behind your ears, you beast?" in the last stages of suffocation, the man was hurled on his back to the floor, and there lay, bleeding a torrent from his mouth and nose. his superior stood over him for a moment and put his hand in his trowsers pocket for a pistol, and then he glanced rapidly at the green rope squirming from the beams above; but, changing his purpose apparently, he strode back to the settee and shouted "babette!" presently the door opened from the passage leading to the kitchen, and there appeared a large, powerfully-made negro-woman, with her arms akimbo, and a pair of bloodshot eyes gleaming from beneath a striped madras turban wound round her head. "babette!" repeated the captain, resuming his seat and his habitual polite air and voice, "serve out a barrel of bordeaux and a beaker of old antigua rum to the 'centipede's' crew to drink my health; and i say, my beauty! have a pig or two killed; tell the boatswain to haul the seine, and have a good supper for all hands to-night. and, baba"--he went on as if he had just thought of something--"there's my friend gibbs lying there--i believe he has fallen down in a fit--be very careful of him--a bed in the vault--a little biscuit and water--he may be feverish when he wakes up, you know. and, babette, old girl, if you are in want of kindling wood, you may as well use that timber leg of our friend gibbs! i don't think he'll want it again. there! _doucement_, baba!" the negress gave a deep grunt of assent, and, seizing the senseless body lying on the floor, she dragged it out of the room. returning a few moments after, she wiped up the blood with a cloth dipped in hot water, and finally disappeared. chapter x. an old spaniard with one eye. "i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! for thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand." "the 'panchita' has passed mangrove point," came in the hoarse whisper from the signal-man. "you can see her now from below, sir." captain brand put on a fine panama hat, and stepped out on the veranda, where, with a cigar in his mouth, he leaned over the balustrade, and kept sharp watch on every thing that was going on below him. in a few minutes a long pointed brown bowsprit protruded itself beyond the wall of rocks, followed by a great triangular lateen sail, bent to a yard a mile long, and tapering away like a fly-fishing-rod, where, at the end, was a short bit of yellow and red pennant. as her bows came into view they showed above a curved prow falling inboard, with a huge bunch of sheepskin for a chafing-mat on the knob, and a thin red streak along the wales, on a lead-colored ground, above her bottom, which was painted green. as more of her proportions came into the picture, you saw a stout stump of a mast, raking forward, with short black ropes of purchases for hoisting the single yard, and heavy square blocks close down to the foot of the mast. when this great sail had come out from the screen of rocks, another light stick of a mast stood up over the taffrail, with another lateen sail and whip-stalk of a yard, to which was bent the spanish colonial guarda costa flag. in fact, she was a spanish felucca all over, from stem to stern, and truck to water-line. a few dingy hammocks were stowed about halfway along her rail, and there were a good many men moving about her decks in getting the cable clear, and a lot more clinging like so many lizards along the bending yard, and all in some attempt at uniform dress, in readiness to roll up the sail when the anchor was down. there was a long brass gun, too, burnished like gold, on a pivot slide, with all its equipment, trained muzzle forward in front of the main-mast. no sooner had she sagged into the open basin, with her immense sail hanging flat and heavy in the light air, than a boat from the schooner boarded her, and presently she let go an anchor. there were a few coarse compliments and greetings exchanged between the crews of the two vessels, and some rough jokes made, as the last comer veered out the cable, rolled up his sails, and set taut his running gear in quite a tidy and man-of-war style. "go on board the felucca, josé, and give my compliments to don ignaçio, and say i shall be happy to see him," cried captain brand from the piazza to a man at the cove; "and tell him," continued he, "that i should have called in person, but i can't bear the hot sun since i caught the fever. take my gig." this was said in spanish, and when he had finished speaking he shaded his face behind the curtain and scowled. "you're a bird of ill omen, my one-eyed friend; but one of these days i'll wipe out old scores, and new ones too, perhaps," captain brand muttered to himself; and, from his murderous expression of face, he seemed just the man to carry out his threat. meanwhile, a light whale-boat of a gig, manned by four men and a coxswain, pushed off from the shore, and in three strokes of the oars she was alongside the felucca. the coxswain stepped over the low rail, and, walking aft, turned down a cuddy of a cabin, took off his hat, and delivered his message. a minute later he again got into the boat, and pulled to the cove, where he said to the captain, "don ignaçio says he'll come in his own boat when he's ready." "_bueno!_" was responded aloud; and then to himself: "don't ask or receive favors, eh? what an old file the brute is!" he said no more, but watched. presently a small man came up out of the cabin of the "panchita," but so very slow, and with such a quiet motion did he emerge, that one might suppose it was a wary animal rather than a human being. he was scrupulously neat in attire--a brown pair of linen trowsers, a marseilles vest with silver filigree buttons, an embroidered shirt-bosom with gold studs, and a dark navy-blue broadcloth coat, with standing collar and anchor gilt buttons. his head-gear was simply a white chip hat, with a very narrow brim and a fluttering red ribbon; but beneath it his coal-black hair behind was chopped as close as could be, leaving a single long and well-oiled ringlet on each side, which curled like snakes around a pair of large gold rings pendent from his ears. his complexion was dark, bilious, and swarthy, with a thin, sharp nose, and a million of minute wrinkles, all meeting above, at the corners, and under a small line of a mouth; quite like rays, in fact, and only relaxed when the lips parted to show a few ragged, rotten pegs of sharp teeth. but perhaps the most noticeable feature in his face was his eye--for he had but one--and the spot where the other is seen in the species was merely a red, closed patch of tightly-drawn skin, with a few hairs sticking out like iron tacks. his single eye, however, was a jet black, round, piercing organ, which seemed to do duty for half a dozen ordinary glims, and danced with a sharp, malevolent scrutiny, as if the owner was always in search of something and never found it, and every body and every thing appeared to slink out of its light wherever it glanced around. his age might have been any where from forty to sixty. as he stepped on deck, clear of the cuddy cabin hatch, his sinister optic played about in its socket--now scanning the long brass gun, the half-furled sails, the crew, the ropes, or taking a steady, unwinking glance at the midday sun, and then shining off to the shore, and sweeping in the "centipede," the little pool of blue water, and the mouth of the inlet. feeling apparently satisfied with the present aspect of affairs, he slowly pulled out a machero from his waistcoat pocket, plucked a cigarette from the case, and then proceeded deliberately to strike a light. even while performing this simple operation, his uneasy orb, like unto a black bull's-eye, traversed about in its habitual way; and when he raised the spark of fire with his brown, thin hand, and the claws of fingers loaded with rings, he seemed to be looking into his own mouth. nodding to a fellow who stood near, with a crimson sash around his waist, he inclined his eye toward the shore, blew out a thin wreath of smoke from his lungs--all the while his vigilant organ shining like a burning spark of lambent jet through the smoke--and merely said, "the boat!" in a moment a small cockle-shell of a punt was lowered from the stern of the felucca, when, stepping carefully in, he seized a scull, and with a few vigorous twists pushed her to the landing at the cove. during all these movements of the commander of the felucca captain brand was by no means an inattentive observer; and, indeed, he was so extremely critical that he stuck the tube of a powerful telescope through an aperture of the curtains around him, and not only looked at his cautious visitor, but he actually watched the expression of his uneasy eye, and almost counted every wrinkle--finely engraved as they were--on his swarthy visage; but, if captain brand's own visage reflected an index of his mind, he did not seem over and above pleased with what he saw. "has a bundle of papers under his arm! i can see the hilt of that delicate blade, too, sticking out from his wristband. ah! i've seen him throw that short blade from his coat-sleeve and strike a dollar at twenty yards! wonderful skill with knives you have, don ignaçio; but you never yet tried your knack with _me_! oh no, my tuerto--bird of ill omen that you are! we can't do without one another just yet, so let us wait and see what's in the wind!" soliloquizing these remarks, captain brand withdrew his telescope as the commander of the felucca approached, and, with a cheerful smile, waited to receive him. a few moments later the one-eyed individual mounted the rope-ladder stairway, carefully feeling the strands, however, and looking suspiciously around him as he stepped lightly on the piazza. "_ah! compadre mio!_" exclaimed captain brand, in spanish, as he seized his visitor by the flipper, and squeezed his fingers till the pressure on his valuable rings made him wince, as he was led into the large and spacious saloon, while at the same time the captain gave him a hearty slap between his narrow shoulders. "_ah! compadre!_ how goes the friend of my soul?" the small man gave no symptoms of joy at this warm greeting; but, screwing his wiry frame out of the captain's caresses, his eye flashed like a spark of fire quickly up and down and all around the apartment, as if making a mental inventory of the furniture, and not omitting his tall companion, from the crown of his head to the toes of his straw slippers, when he quietly remarked through his closed teeth, "_como estamos?_"--"how are we?" "ah, don ignaçio, _poco bueno, poco malo_! half and half. just getting well over that maldito attack of yellow jack." "hum! more bad than good. no? i've brought you some letters from the agent at havana." "thanks--thanks, my friend. ho! babette! babette! some anisette for don ignaçio. _presto!_ my good baba. there--that will do!" he said, merrily, as the liqueur and glasses were placed on the table. "and don't omit the turtle-soup for dinner, and tell lascar joe to make it. ah! i forget--the best cook i had--the devil's making soup of him now. however, do the best you can, my baba, and let us have dinner about sunset." then turning to his visitor, with a graceful bow and a laugh, he added, "and we'll have the doctor to join us, and tell how he cut off our poor friend gibbs's leg with a hand-saw. _dios! amigo!_ capital joke, 'pon my honor!" captain brand's honor! lord have mercy upon us! and he had very few jokes, and never told one himself. "hum!" replied the tuerto, in the pause of the conversation. "there's better jokes than that to hear. _mira!_ look!" with this brief rejoinder he threw a bundle of newspapers on the table, and, pulling out a packet of letters from a breast pocket, pitched it toward his host. then helping himself to a thimbleful of anisette, he took off his narrow-brimmed chip hat for the first time, polished up his eye a bit with the knuckle of his fore finger, and looked at his companion fixedly. "letters, i see, from our old friend moreno, at havana," said captain brand, as he sat down on the settee, and with a pretty tortoise-shell knife cut round the seals. "ah! what says he? 'happy to inform you,' is he? 'packages of french silks seized by custom-house on account of informal invoice and clearance.' why didn't the fool forge others, then? well, what next? 'schooner "reel," from barbadoes, with cargo of rum and jerked beef, wrecked going into principe, and crew thrown into prison on suspicion of being engaged in--' oh! ah! served them right, when i ordered them to st. jago--delighted they must be! 'bills for advances and stores now due, please remit, per hands of don ignaçio sanchez--'" here captain brand caught a ray from the one eye of his companion, which he returned with interest; and then laying the letters down on the table with the softest motion in life, he exclaimed, with a sigh, "not the best news in the world, as you say, _compadre_; all those rich goods, and those bags of coffee, and pipes of rum gone to the devil. but these are little accidents in our profession." "_como?_" said señor ignaçio, "_our_ profession?" shaking his fore finger before his paper cigar in a deprecating manner. "speak for yourself, _amigo_." "ah! true," the other went on--"my profession. the freedom of the seas, the toll of the tropics, the right of search, and all that sort of buccaneering pastime, is liable, you know, to the usual risks." here he inclined his head to one side and gave a slight clack to his lips, as if to illustrate in a humorous way a man choking to death with a knotted rope under his ear. "however, we must be more cautious in future and retrieve the past disasters, for there are still on the sea as good barks as ever floated." captain brand said this as if he were a merchant of large means and strict integrity, and was about to enter into some shrewd commercial speculation. "hum!" murmured señor ignaçio, while pouring out another little glass of anisette. "_amigo mio!_ you had better read the papers from havana before you talk of another cruise." "oh! delighted to read the news--quite refreshing to get a peep at the world after being cooped up here for months! another french revolution! bonaparte alive yet! a patriot war! nelson and villeneuve! all interesting." thus glancing rapidly over the prints, pausing at times at a paragraph that arrested his attention, then tossing a paper away and taking up another, till suddenly captain brand's hand shook with passion as he read aloud, [illustration: "he touched the bell overhead as he spoke, and, putting his mouth to the tube, asked, 'any thing in sight?'"] "his britannic majesty's squadron has been augmented on the west india station. the brig 'firefly,' corvettes 'croaker' and 'joker,' touched at nassau, new providence, on the d instant, bound to leeward. we also learn that the united states have fitted out a squadron of small vessels, called the musquito fleet, to search for the noted pirate brand, who has so long committed atrocities among the islands. he was last chased by the american corvette 'scourge,' off morant bay, on the east coast of jamaica, but escaped during the night. the following day a shattered boat was picked up, which had been cut adrift from the piratical schooner, containing several dead and dying bodies of the pirates. one of the latter gave such information to the captain of the 'scourge' as leads to the hope that brand's retreat may soon be discovered and his nest of pirates be destroyed. recent advices from principe state that a vessel loaded with valuable merchandise struck on the cavallo reef and went down. the crew, however, five in number, were rescued, but on landing were identified by the mate of the english bark 'trident' as a portion of the men who robbed that vessel and murdered the master and several of the passengers. our readers may remember that among the latter were two sisters, who leaped overboard and were drowned, to save themselves the horror of a more cruel fate. the men alluded to, who were wrecked in the brig off principe, were sent in chains to havana, and were yesterday publicly garroted in the plaza of moro castle." chapter xi. conversation in pockets and sleeves. "he holds him with his skinny hand: 'there was a ship,' quoth he. 'hold off! unhand me, graybeard loon!' eftsoons his hand dropp'd he." captain brand laid down the paper without a sign of outward emotion, and nodded his head several times at the one-eyed man facing him. he then extracted his perfumed handkerchief, examined the cipher in the corner, and waved it before his face. don ignaçio pulled out a red silk bandana, and polished his eye as if it were the lens of a spy-glass. at length the former spoke: "_amigo mio!_ the nets are spreading, but the fish are not in them yet!" "no, _amigo_!" "ah! _compadre, viento y ventura poca dura!_ the fair breezes have chopped round in our teeth. success, my friend, creates jealousy, envy, hatred, and malice. now here were we swimming along as quietly as sharks under water, only coming up for a bite occasionally, when on come those villainous swordfishes, and wish to drive us away." captain brand gave expression to this pious homily in a tone of virtuous reproach against the world at large, and as if he were a very much maligned and ill-used gentleman. he touched the bell overhead as he spoke, and, putting his mouth to the tube, asked, "any thing in sight?" "nothing, _señor_." "telegraph the man at the tiger-trap station to keep a bright look-out, and direct the gunner to keep the battery manned day and night! tell the boatswain to set taut the chain on the other side at the alligator's mouth!" don ignaçio gave a rather suspicious glimmer at his vessel as this last order was given, and smiled; that is, if a one-sided twitch to the wrinkles about the line of his mouth could be tortured into a smile. his companion seemed to divine what was passing in the don's mind, for he added politely, "the cable won't interfere with the 'panchita!'" "no, _amigo_; the felucca is anchored just _out_side of it." the tuerto was not a man to leave any thing to chance, and he had taken the precaution to be on the safe side of the pirates, either as friends or enemies. he had indeed been as near an approach to a pirate himself as could be, and had only abandoned the business for a profession quite as bad, where there was less risk and more profit. in other words, he was now a colonial officer in command of a guarda costa, winking--but without shutting his eye--at piracy whenever he was well paid for it; and he invariably was well paid for it, or else he made mischief. withal, he was as crafty and determined an old villain as ever sailed the west indies. he had amassed a large fortune, and owned several tobacco estates--pretty much all his wealth acquired by the easy trouble of holding his tongue. yet his greed was insatiable, and he probably would have sold the fingers from his hands, and his legs and arms with them--all, save his single black ball of an optic, which was invaluable to him--for doubloons. in fact, this feverish thirst after gold which always raged in his hot veins had induced him to pay captain brand a visit, and we shall see with what result. the truth is, however, that captain brand was the only man of his numerous villainous acquaintance afloat for whom he felt the least dread. he knew him to be bold, skillful, and wary, and so the don had a tolerably positive conviction that, should he play him false, his own neck might get a wrench in the garrote while he was throwing the noose for his coadjutor. to return, however, to the pair of worthies sitting in conclave in the pirate's saloon: the captain, resuming the conversation, observed in a careless tone, quite as if the subject under discussion was a mere ordinary matter, "when will this swarm of hornets be down upon us?" the spaniard blew a thick puff of smoke from his cigarette, and still holding it between his teeth, while his eye glittered through the murky cloud, he replied, "perhaps a fortnight, a little more or less. i left st. jago five days ago, with orders from the administrador to run down this side of the island, and procure information for the english consul." "any cruisers down that way?" "ay! the corvette 'scourge,' and the 'snapper' schooner; they arrived the night before i sailed." "did you happen to see their officers, _amigo_?" "_oh si!_ i had a long talk with the captain of the corvette at the custom-house." "holloa! and you told him--" "yes; i showed him a chart of the isle of pines, and pointed out how to get into the old hole." here the pair laughed short laughs, when brand continued his questions with, "and how did he take the bait?" "hooked him; for i heard him order his first lieutenant to be ready for weighing at daylight, and say that my description tallied with that of the dying man they picked up in the 'centipede's' boat," replied the tuerto, with a chuckle. "_bueno!_" exclaimed the pirate, as his face assumed an unwonted sternness, while he rested his cheek on his left hand with the elbow on the table, and slipped his right into the pocket of his trowsers. "_bueno! amigo mio!_ but how do i know but you may have made a little mistake, and described another haunt besides the island of pines, off in this direction?" there was the faintest click of a noise in the captain's pocket as he spoke, but not so faint but that it vibrated on the ear of the spaniard, and, pushing back his chair a foot or two from the table, he raised his right hand, the fore fingers and thumb slightly bent inward, but grasping a jewel-hilted knife, whose dim blue blade glimmered up the loose sleeve. there was nothing threatening apparently in the movement, though the two villains looked at each other with a cold, murderous, unflinching glare. the don was the first to break the silence; and he said, in a low, hissing tone, "_maldito!_ because i had a little account of plata to settle with you before the men-o'-war should roast you out. but beware, _capitano mio_! i left a little paper at st. jago with directions where to find me in case i did not return in a certain time." "ho, _compadre_, how very cautious with your friends! why, what has put such thoughts into your head? _diavolo!_ we have stood by one another too long to separate now. there, my hand upon it." saying this, captain brand's whole manner changed, and, drawing his hand from his pocket, he reached over toward his companion. the don, however, watched him narrowly, and his eye shot out a wary sparkle as he withdrew his hand, when, cautiously putting forth his own left, he touched his cold, thin brown fingers to those of the man before him. this operation ended, he quietly sipped a few drops of anisette, and rolled and lighted another paper cigar. "well, _amigo_, let us now proceed to business," said brand, gayly, "for dinner will soon be ready, and we have no time to lose. how stands the account?" "the papers are on board the felucca, and it will be more convenient, when the settlement is made, to come on board with the money. how would to-morrow morning do? there's no hurry." "just as you choose, friend of my soul! the doubloons, or the silk, or broadcloth are ready for you at any moment. pay you in any thing except the delicious wines of france. _bueno!_" he added, pulling out a splendid gold repeater, with a marquis's coronet on the chased back. "and now, _amigo_, accept this little token into the bargain." don ignaçio's fiery eye twinkled with greed, but it was only for a moment, when, giving a quick glance at the coronet and coat of arms, he waved his fore finger gently to and fro, and shook his head. "what! no? why, you know it once belonged to the captain general of cuba, old tol de rol de riddle rol--what was his name? he gave it me, you know, together with some other trinkets, for saving his life--a--you remember? very generous old gentleman--nobleman indeed--he was. may he live a thousand years, or more, if he can!" ay, don ignaçio did remember the circumstance attending that generous transaction, and he remembered to have heard, also, that the captain general made a present of all his money and jewels with the point of a broad blade quivering at his throat. he said nothing, however, in allusion to this interesting episode, but he smiled meaningly, and went on with his cigar. "not take it, eh? well, _amigo_, i must look you up something else; but now for dinner. babette, clear away for dinner. here are the keys of the wine-cellar. the best, my beauty, and plenty of it." then turning to his companion: "suppose we take a stroll to the tiger's trap; the sun is sinking, and a walk will give us an appetite for the turtle-soup--_vamanos!_" chapter xii. doctor and priest. "but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilots' cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear. "the pilot and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast; dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast." while captain brand and don ignaçio sanchez walked pleasantly along the pebbly shore of the clear blue inlet to the tiger's trap, let us, too, saunter amid the habitations which sheltered the pirate's haunt. apart from the mat sheds of the shelly cove of the basin, where the "centipede" and "panchita" were anchored, there was a nest of red-tiled buildings which served the crew of the former vessel for a dwelling when in port. it was pleasantly situated on a little sandy plateau, within a stone's-throw of the water, and shaded by a cluster of palm-trees; while in the rear was a dense jungle of canes and bushes, through which led numerous paths to a small lagoon beyond. the buildings were of one story, constructed of loose stones, the holes plastered with yellow clay, with broad, projecting eaves extending over roughly-built piazzas. they stood in a double row, leaving a stone pavement yard between, where one or two cocoa-nut-trees lifted their slim trunks like sentinels on guard. two of the largest of these huts were mere shells inside, and used for mess-rooms, exposing the unhewn girders and roof above, but all whitewashed and tolerably clean. the floors were of rough mahogany boards, or heavy dark planks, and no doubt part of the cargo of some honduras trader who had fallen into the pirates' hands. around the sides of these mess-rooms were arranged small tables and canvas camp-stools, with eating utensils of every variety of pattern and value, from stray sets of french porcelain to common delf crockery. a large open chimney stood a little way off, where was a kitchen, in which the cookery was carried on, under the superintendence of a couple of old negroes. beyond the mess-rooms were the sheds used for sleeping apartments, with lots of hammocks of canvas and straw braid hanging by their clews from the beams, quite like the berth-deck of a ship of war. bags and sea-chests stood out from the walls, with bits of mirrors here and there, some with the glasses cracked, and others in square or round gilt frames. all, however, was arranged with a certain degree of order, and the floor was clean and well scrubbed. another detached building, much smaller than the rest, was divided by a board partition into two rooms. the first was used for a storeroom, and was filled with bread in barrels, bags of coffee and sugar, hams, dried fruits, beans, salt meats, and what not, but every thing in abundance, and apparently the very best the market of the high seas could produce. a strong door protected this repository, with a wrought iron bar and padlock. the other portion of the building was more habitable. there were chairs and tables; a couple of upright bookcases with glass doors, one filled with books, odd numbers of magazines, and old newspapers, and the other containing a multitude of vials, pots, and bottles of medicine--a small apothecary's shop, in fact, together with two or three cases of surgical instruments. two elegant bureaus, with rosewood doors and mouldings, like those furnished passenger ships to the east indies, stood against the wall at either side; and near to each, in opposite corners, were low iron bedsteads, without mattresses or bedding, and merely stretched with dressed and embossed leather. for pillows were chinese heel stools, and as for covering, the climate dispensed with it altogether. hanging against the wall were a couple of brace of pistols and two or three muskets, and on the table stood a square case-bottle of gin, some glasses, and a richly-bound breviary clasped with a heavy gold strap; but in no other part of these huts were fire-arms ever allowed, and very rarely was liquor served out in more than the usual daily half-gill allowance. seated at the table in the last room we have described were two men. one, the shorter of the two, was dressed in a long, loose bombazine cassock, girded about his waist by a white rope, which fell in knotted ends over his knees. around his open neck was hung a string of black ebony beads, hooked on to a heavy gold cross, which rested on his capacious breast, and which the wearer was continually feeling, and occasionally pressing to his lips. his face was dark and sensual--thick, unctuous lips, a flat nose, and large black eyes--while a glossy fringe of raven hair went like a thick curtain all around his head, only leaving a bluish-white round patch on the shaved crown. this individual was the padre ricardo, who, for some good reasons best known to himself, had left his clerical duties in his native city of vera cruz and taken service with captain brand. one of the reasons for leaving--and rather abruptly, too--was for thrusting a cuchillo into the heart of his own father, who had reported him to his superior for his monstrous licentiousness. the padre, however, always declared that he was actuated entirely by filial duty in killing his old parent, to save him the pain and disgrace which would have followed the exposure of his son! he still clung, though excommunicated, to the priestly calling, and prided himself upon his fasts and vigils, never omitting the smallest forms or penances, and saying mass from ave maria in the early morning to angelus at vesper time in the evening. for captain brand he was ready to shrive a dying pirate--and pretty busy he was, too, at times--or hear the confession of one with a troubled conscience in sound health; which, if important to the safety or well-being of the fraternity, he took a quiet opportunity of imparting to his superior in command. in these pursuits he not only made himself useful to captain brand, but he became more or less his confidant and adviser, and seemed to maintain his influence by ghostly advice over the superstitious feelings of the men. the padre, however, utterly detested the sea, and never touched his soft feet in the water if he could by any possibility avoid it; but since he had plenty to eat and drink on the island, and no end of prayers for his amusement when in charge of the haunt--as he was--to look out for the people who were left when the "centipede" sailed on a cruise, he thus passed the time in a delightfully agreeable manner. the companion who sat opposite to the padre was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous person, evidently of french extraction, with something kind and humane about his face, but yet the physiognomy expressed the utmost determination of character--such a heart and eye as could perform a delicate surgical operation without a flutter of nerve or eyelid, and who would stand before a leveled pistol looking calmly down the barrel as the hammer fell. his face was intellectual, and he never smiled. his whole appearance portrayed a thorough seaman. where he came from no one knew; nor did he ever open his lips, even to the captain, with a reason for taking service among his band. all known about him was that he landed from a slaver at st. jago, and was engaged by don ignaçio to serve professionally with brand in assisting the patriots on the spanish main. when, however, he reached the rendezvous of the pirates, and discovered that they were altogether a different sort of patriots than he had bargained for, he nevertheless made no objections to remain, and took the oath of allegiance, only stipulating that he should not be called upon to take an active part in their proceedings. here, then, he remained for nearly three years, attending to the sick or wounded, taking no interest in the accounts of the exploits of the freebooters around him--rarely, indeed, holding speech with any one save his room-mate, the padre, or occasionally a dinner or a walk with captain brand. on the last expedition, however, of the "centipede," he had been induced to go on board, so that he might become a check and guard over the brutal ruffian who had been placed temporarily in command; but, as we have already seen, his influence had been of little avail. there was yet another occupant of the room inhabited by the doctor and padre ricardo; and a low moaning cry caused the former to rise quietly from his chair and approach the low iron bedstead on his side of the lodging. there, beneath a light gauze musquito net, lay our poor little henri--his once round, rosy, innocent face now pale and thin, with a red spot on each cheek, and a dark, soft line beneath the closed eyes. uneasily he moved in his fitful slumber; and putting his little hands together as if in prayer, he murmured, "oh mamma, mamma!" beside the bed stood an unglazed jar of lemonade, together with a vial and a spoon. the doctor drew nigh, and, gently pushing aside the curtain, stood looking at the child for some minutes. presently the little sick boy feebly stretched out his delicate, thin limbs, and unclosed his eyes. oh! how dim, and sad, and touching was that look, as he gave a timid, half-wild stare, and then, closing the lids tight together, the hot drops bubbled out and coursed slowly down his tender cheeks. the doctor, with the gentleness of a woman, bent over him, and taking up his poor, limp little hand, he remained feeling the fluttering pulse and catching the hot breath on his dark cheeks. as if communing with himself, while a glow of compassion lighted up his careworn visage, he muttered, "by the great and good god, who hears me, if i save this child i will restore him to his heart-broken mother!" he sank down on his knees by the bedside as he made his vow, and letting the little hand rest on the bed, he buried his face in his large bony hands. what thoughts passed through that man's mind none but the almighty knows; but when he arose his stern features had resumed their wonted expression, and, pouring a little lemonade in a glass, he held it to the sleeper's lips. then moving noiselessly back to the table, he said, in a low tone, "padre, the boy will live. his fever is leaving him, and he will get well." "_ave maria! santissima!_" ejaculated the padre, crossing himself and kissing his cross; "i pray for him. you must give him to me, doctor. i will make him a little priest, and he shall swing the censer and chant the misericordia when i get the new chapel built." "time enough to think of that, _mi padre_, when he gets strong again. but just now all the prayers _you_ can say for him will do him no good, and so i hope you won't put yourself to the trouble." "_cierto, amigo_, doctor; but don't sneer at the prayers of the church. they do good; they ease the soul and soothe the pangs of purgatory." "ah! and how long do you expect to stop in purgatory?" "_ave purissima!_ what a question to ask your pious and devout padre ricardo!" "question the devil when you want fire," retorted the doctor, as he opened a book lying on the table before him, and put an end to the dialogue. his companion quietly helped himself to a measure of pure gin, and unclasped the covers of his richly-bound missal. scarcely, however, had their conversation ceased, when a hoarse hum of many voices was heard in the direction of the sheds without, mingled with shouts in all tongues and uproarious laughter. "_peste!_" said the doctor, looking out of an open window; "the people have knocked off work and are coming home to their supper. they seem to have brought some of the crew of the felucca with them too. we shall have a loud night of it, for the captain has sent them a pipe of wine and a barrel of rum to carouse with." "_pobre çitos!_ they have had a hard time of it during the summer--short of rum, and water too, i hear, and they need refreshment and repose. so many of my poor flock killed, too, by that savage american corvette, and i not near to administer the last consolations and holy rite!" sighed the padre, as he kissed the crucifix and bowed his head. "there is lascar joe, too, among the missing! he refused the sacrament, infidel as he was, the day before he sailed; but what turtle-soup he made!" the padre hereupon sighed deeply again, but whether for the loss of the lascar or the soup, no one knows. the noise without increased--the rattle of crockery, the clinking of glasses, the moving of feet, and all the sounds of hungry, boisterous sailors at table. soon, too, a shout or cheer would be heard, then a verse of a song, roars of laughter, and now and then the tinkle of a guitar struck by vigorous fingers in waltz or fandango. "_merçi!_" muttered the doctor, as he looked compassionately at the sick child on the bed; "those noisy wretches will, i fear, disturb the little boy, and it's as hot here too, padre, as the place we all are going to." "it _is_ warm, my son!" he replied, as his thick unctuous lips parted with a smile at his companion's allusion to another and a hotter place; "but i think our good _capitano_ would have a cot slung for my little priest in the saloon of the big building there. it is always cool on the crag, you know." "ah! perhaps he will," said the doctor, reflectively; "i'll see about it." stepping again to the bedside of the little sufferer, he laid a hand gently on his forehead, where the soft curls lay in confusion about his temples, and then quickly touching his pulse, he regarded him attentively for a few moments, while at the same time a light glow of perspiration came faintly over the innocent face and spread itself down the neck. "his fever is breaking! _grace à dieu!_" whispered the doctor to the padre; "his breath is regular and cool, and he is sleeping sweetly. now, if you like, we will go to see the captain, and, if he consents, i will carry the child when he wakes to the dwelling." the doctor carefully closed the door of the room as he and his companion stepped out into the open court-yard, and moved toward the spacious sheds beyond. chapter xiii. a manly fandango. "while feet and tongues like lightning go with--what cheer, luke? and how do, joe? dick laniard chooses meg so spruce, and buxom nell takes kit caboose." "now around they go, and around and around, with hop, skip, and jump, and frolicsome bound, such sailing and gliding, such sinking and sliding, such lofty curvetting and grand pirouetting, mix'd with the tones of a dying man's groans, mix'd with the rattling of dead men's bones." twilight had taken the place of the red sun, the stars came timidly out one by one, and then in sparkling clusters the brilliant constellations illumined the blue heavens as the rosy twilight faded again away. then the ripple of the inlet came with a tranquil musical sound upon the white pebbly beach, the lizards in the holes and crevices of the rocks began their plaintive wheetlings, the frogs and alligators joined in the chorus from the low lagoon in the distance, and the early night of the tropic had begun. but louder far than the hum of the insects and reptiles, and brighter than the lamps of heaven, arose the wild shouts and songs of the pirates carousing, where the torches and wax-lights lit up the scene of their orgies with the glare of day. the great mess-room was a blaze of light from candles and lamps, stuck in brackets or gilt sconces about the walls, or hanging awry in broken chandeliers from the lofty beams. the remains of their feast had been cleared away, and the tables were covered with bottles, cups, and glasses, with boxes of cigars and pans of lighted coals. at one end of the room was a large table, on which was laid a black cloth with a broad silver border--sometimes used by the padre on great occasions--and covered with cards and piles of mexican or spanish dollars. at the other end was a raised platform, where four or five swarthy fellows with guitars in their hands were strumming away in the clear rattling harmony of spanish boleros and dances, shrieking out at intervals snatches of songs in time to the music, or twirling the instruments around their heads in a frenzy of excitement. at the tables, too, were more of the excited band, vociferating with almost superhuman fluency in various languages their exploits, pausing occasionally amid the hubbub to clink their glasses together, and then chattering and yelling on as before. in the centre of the apartment were some half dozen of the same sort, either spinning around the floor in the waltz, or moving with a certain air of careless, manly grace one toward another in the gavotte or bolero. there were at the least some sixty or seventy of these fellows in the room together, most of them above the middle height, with finely-developed muscles, broad shoulders, bushy whiskers, and flowing hair. they came apparently from all climes, from africa to the mexican gulf, and their features and complexions partook of every imaginable type, from the light skin and florid complexion of the swede, to the low brow, oval olive cheek of the mediterranean, and the coal-black hue and flat nose of the bight of benin. their dress was uniform--frock collars cut square and thrown well back over their ample chests; their nether limbs incased in clean duck or brown linen trowsers, with silk sashes around their waists, and large gold rings in their ears. mingled here and there in the moving throng, or leaning over the large table with the black cloth cover, were a few fellows in the uniform rig of the guarda costa, in navy jackets and black silk belchers around their throats; but all were without weapons of any description, and were enjoying themselves each after his fancy. sentinels stood at the doors of the mess-room with drawn cutlasses over their shoulders, so that in case of a violent quarrel or row, in dance, drinking, or gaming, the culprits might be cared for. while the uproar was at its height, and the lofty tiled roof was ringing with the gay and ribald songs and shouts of the excited crowds, two persons appeared in the doorway at the middle of the room, and entered. in a moment, as the busy revelers beheld them, the dance ceased, the music of the guitars died away in a tinkling cadença, the glasses stopped clinking, the dollars no longer chinked, and the songs and shouts were hushed. you might have heard a _real_ drop for a minute, until one of the individuals who had entered slowly walked forward a few paces and threw his right hand aloft in salutation. then burst forth a hoarse, simultaneous shout of "_viva nuestro amigo! viva el capitano!_" captain brand did not pause until he had reached the centre of the great hall, where he stood calmly looking around upon the swarthy groups, who crowded about in circles at a respectful distance from him; and then amid the silence he spoke up, in a frank, off-hand manner, "well, my men, i am glad to see you all once more around me. you have not been so successful as i hoped, but we must take the good and ill luck as it comes, and i have no fault to find with you. the times, however, are bad enough; for i have certain news that our retreat here, where we have so long been hid, may be discovered"--the villains around held their breath and let their cigars lie dead in their mouths--"but," went on their commander, "i shall do all that is prudent in the circumstances for the benefit of all of us; and when we leave here you will still have me for your leader, with my head, heart, and blade ever ready to advise or protect you." as he stopped speaking another cheer arose: "_viva, nuestro amigo! viva! viva! el 'centipede' y el capitano! hasta muerto!_ long live the captain! we stand by you until death!" "thank you, my friends; i have but one more word to say. the men who have the relief at the signal-stations and the water-battery must keep sober. now go on again with the music." the captain, however, did not immediately quit the hall, but, while the revel began once more with all its enthusiasm, he moved amid the crowd of its adherents and said a cheerful word to many. "ah! pepe, your arm in a sling, eh! a graze of a grape-shot, eh? why, hans, you here! nothing can hurt _you_! well, monsieur antoine, how well thou art looking; and that pretty sweetheart of thine at st. lucie! bah! never look sad, man; thou shalt see her again. what, my jolly jack tar! an ugly scratch, that, across your jaw--a splinter, eh? never mind; a little plaster and half allowance of grog will put you all right again. so good-night, my friends. _adios!_" saying these words, all addressed to the individuals in their different languages, he gave a graceful wave of his hand and passed out of the building. as he rejoined his friend, the commander of the "panchita," who had waited at the threshold, while his wary glim of an eye searched the faces and read the thoughts of all the villains who clustered about the room--they both stepped out into the court-yard and sauntered pleasantly on toward the crag. they had not, however, proceeded many paces before they encountered the padre and the doctor. "ah!" exclaimed the captain, who was in advance, "how goes it with my doctor?" shaking his hand as he spoke. "oh, _mi padre_, how art thou?" turning to ricardo. "_salve!_ my son; not been so well this morning, with the old rheumatism in my head." "drunk!" said sententiously the doctor. then again with a gay laugh to the other, "well, my doctor, your first cruise has not been so pleasant in the 'centipede' as i hoped it might be, but the next may be more agreeable." "perhaps so, captain brand; but i shall have a word or two with you on that subject to-morrow; and, in the mean while, _señor_, i brought a little boy back with me who is ill from fever, and my quarters are so stifling hot, and the air from the lagoon is so bad, that i would like to stow him for a day or so, with your permission, in your quarters, where it is cooler." "certainly, doctor; why not? my house and all in it are at your service. by the way, i was about to ask you and the padre to dine with me and don ignaçio there. will you join us? yes? then let us move on, for dinner must be ready by this time, and it would be a sin to keep babette waiting." excusing himself for a few minutes, the doctor went for his sick charge, and returned with him in his arms to the pirate's dwelling. chapter xiv. a pirates' dinner. "but the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke those words which the party seemed almost to choke, as by mentioning noah some spell had been broke, and, hearing the din from barrel and bin, drew at once the conclusion that thieves had got in." when the guests had assembled in the pirate's saloon it was some minutes before their host appeared. when, however, he did step into the room from his private apartment adjoining, he was altogether a different man in outward appearance than in the early morning. in place of the loose sailor summer rig which he then wore, he was now attired as a gentleman of elegant fashion of the time in which we write. his lower limbs were clothed with flesh-colored silk stockings, and fitted into a pair of pointed toed pumps with buckles of brilliants that a duchess might have envied. a pair of white cassimere breeches, which set off to advantage his well-shaped leg, were tied in a dainty bow of rose-colored satin ribbon below the knee, and fitted him like a second skin. his waistcoat was of rose-colored watered silk, embroidered with silver, and which, with its flaps and ample proportions, was halfway hidden by a dress coat of green velvet. this last garment had a sort of navy cut, with standing collar richly laced with silver, gold buttons in a double row of the size of doubloons, with loose sleeves and cuffs heavily laced with silver also. his linen was of the most gossamer fineness, the collar thrown slightly back and confined by a single clasp of rubies the size of beans, while below was a frill of cambric ruffles sparkling with opal studs framed in diamonds. the ruffles, too, at his wrist were of the most beautiful point lace, secured by royal brilliants, and he was altogether a dandy of such princely magnificence that the courtiers of the days of the old french monarchy might have taken him for a study. his manner, likewise, was every way in keeping with his splendid attire; and the ease and grace with which he excused himself to his guests for keeping them waiting certainly denoted a knowledge of a higher order of breeding and society than that in which his lot had been cast. [illustration] from the very moment of his entrance, however, don ignaçio had measured him at a glance. his single glittering eye of jet had taken him in from the laced collar of his coat to the buckles of his shoes. not a jewel in his dress, from the flaming opals in his bosom to the brilliant stones at his wrists, and down to the sparkling clusters at his feet, did not his one uneasy optic drink in the flash and estimate the value. nay, he calculated by instinct the weight of the gold buttons on his coat and the price of the exquisite lace which fell in snowy folds about his hands. oh, a rare mathematician was don ignaçio! what greedy thoughts, too, passed through that little spaniard's brain! "ah!" thought he, "shall i take my debt in those priceless gems, each one the ransom of a princess, which the old captain general may one of these days reclaim? hola! no! or shall i receive more negotiable commodities in gold, cochineal, or silks? well! _veremos!_ we shall see!" the effect produced upon the good padre ricardo was altogether different. as the captain entered with all his glorious raiment upon him, he started back, and, bowing before him as if he were saint paul himself, he seized his superior's white hand, and kissed it with fervent devotion. not satisfied with this mark of respect, he raised his dingy paws, holding his crucifix before him, and murmured, in a sort of ecstasy, "_mi hico! mi capitano! que brillante!_"--"my son! my captain! what a brilliant being you are!" singularly in contrast, however, was the effect produced upon the doctor, who merely raised his dark eyes in an abstracted gaze, gave a careless and rather contemptuous nod of recognition, and then turned to examine one of the richly-inlaid cabinets which adorned the saloon. all these various phases of sympathy, attraction, or contempt flickered like a sunbeam into captain brand's reflecting brain, as, with a delicately-perfumed handkerchief in one hand, and a gold-enameled and diamond-incrusted snuff-box in the other, he bowed gracefully to his visitors, and seated himself at table. the table was now rolled out into the centre of the saloon, laid with a snowy-white damask cloth, and covered with the equipage for a banquet. at either corner were noble branches of solid silver candelabra, which would have graced an altar, as perhaps they had, and holding clusters of wax-lights, which shed their rays over the display below. in the centre arose a huge épergne of silver, fashioned into the shape of a drooping palm-tree, whose leaves were of frosted silver, and about the trunk played a wilderness of monkeys. beneath, around the board, were cut-glass decanters, flat bulbous flasks of colored bohemian glass, crystal goblets, delicate and almost shadowy wine-cups from venice, silver wine-coolers, all mingled in with a heterogeneous collection of rare china and silver dishes. such wines, too, as filled those vessels! not a prince or magnate in all the lands where the vine is planted could boast of so rare and exquisite a collection. pure, thin, rain-water madeira, full threescore years in bottle! pale, limpid port, whose color had long since gone with age, and left only the musk-like odor; flasks of johannisberg of pearly light; bottles of tokay for lips of cardinals; tall, slim stems of the taper flasks of the rhine; while the ruby hues of wine from the rhone stood clustering about amid pyramids of pine-apples, oranges, and bananas, and all loading the air of the saloon with their delicious fragrance. when the party had become fairly seated around the board, and while the host was bailing out the soup from an enormous silver tureen with a tea-cup--for it did not appear that he had ever been presented in the usual way with a ladle--fishing out the floating morsels of rich callipee, with the delicate frills of his sleeves turned back, he began the conversation in the castilian language: "well, _amigos_, we are taking our last feast together, i fear, on this little cluster of rocks, for a long time to come." "how!" exclaimed the padre, as he stuffed a wedge of turtle fat in his oily mouth, and opened his round black eyes to their fullest extent in manifest surprise. "_como, mi hico!_" he repeated, as he passed a dirty paw over his smooth chin, and looked inquiringly. "yes, holy father, our good friend don ignaçio here has brought us somewhat startling intelligence. capital soup, this. i shall give babette a dollar. yes, the eagles and vultures are after us; all the west india fleet; the lord only knows how many ships, and brigs, and gun-boats. glass of madeira with you, doctor?" wiping his thin lips with a corner of the damask table-cloth as he spoke; "and they have tampered, too, with my old friends the custom-house people. take away the tureen, babette--and, in point of fact, i shouldn't be the least surprised to see a swarm of those navy gentlemen off the reef here at any moment. a sharp knife, babette, for these teal--a duck should be cut, not torn. try that moselle, don ignaçio; i know your fancy for light wines. this was given me by a captain--'pon my soul, i forget his name; he had such a pretty wife, madame matilde," glancing at the frame of miniatures on the wall; "sweet creature she was; took quite a fancy for me, i believe, and might have been sitting here at this moment, but a--really i forget her other name. however, it makes no difference: the wine is called moselle." now be it here observed that don ignaçio drank very little wine or stimulants of any sort, and never by any chance a drop from any vessel which, with his single bright eye, he did not see his host first indulge in. this self-imposed sacrifice may have been owing to his diffidence, or modesty, or deference to captain brand, or, perhaps, other and private reasons of his own; but yet he never broke through that rule of politeness and abstemiousness. sometimes, indeed, he carried his principles so far as to refuse a meat or the fruits which his host had not partaken of, and always with a slow shake of his brown fore finger, as if he did not like even to smell the dish presented to him. "what! not even a sip of that nectar, _compadre mio_?" the compadre shook his digit, and observed that drinking nectar sometimes made people sick. the captain laughed gayly, and said, "bah! learning to drink does the harm, and not the art, when properly acquired." during all the foregoing interlude the doctor remained in his grave, calm humor, and only when the captain alluded to the lady whose husband's name escaped him did he show signs of interest. then his eye followed the look toward the miniature, and his jaws came together with a slight grating spasm. padre ricardo, however, was in excellent sympathetic spirits, eating and drinking like a glutton of all within his reach, and turning his full eyes at times, as if to a deity, upon his friend the captain. once he spoke-- "but, my son, you were talking of leaving this quiet retreat, where we have passed so many happy hours." "yes, friend of my soul! those fellows with commissions, and pennants at their mast-heads, and guns, and what not, seem determined to do us a mischief." the devout padre crossed himself, and pressed the crucifix to his greasy lips. "ay! they would no doubt arraign us before some one of their legal tribunals. put us in prison, perhaps; or maybe give us a slight squeeze in a rope or iron collar!" the padre groaned audibly, and dropped the wing of a teal he was gnawing, forgetting, strange as it may seem, to cross himself. "_hola, mi padre!_ cheer up! we are worth a million of dead men yet. the world is wide, the sea open, and with a stout plank under our feet and one of these fellows"--here he balanced a long carving-knife, dripping with blood-red gravy, in his hand--"in our belts, who can stop us?" there was the cold, ferocious-eyed gleam of a dying shark in the speaker's eyes as he went on with his carving; but the priest gave a jerk of trepidation with his chin, and appeared anxious to hear more. "don ignaçio, try a bit of this roast _guana_; it's quite white and tender. no? babette, give me some of that rabbit stew!" the one-eyed individual was likewise helped to some of that savory ragoût, and proceeded to pick the bones with much care and deliberation. "still _triste_, my _padre_! come, come, this will never do. join me in a bumper of this generous old port. _bueno!_ may we attain the same age! by the way, where did this rich stuff come from?" holding up the decanter between the light and his face as he spoke. don ignaçio's glittering optic pierced clear through the light ruby medium of the wine, cut-glass decanter and all, as he furtively watched his host, and was prepared to dodge in case the heavy vessel should slip out of the captain's hand. such things had happened, and might again; besides, a hard flint substance with a multitude of sharp projections, two or three inches thick and five or six pounds in weight, falling from a height on a man's head, might kill him. the don thought of all this, and twitched something up his sleeve with his hand under the table. but captain brand, it seemed, had no intention of smashing his elegant dinner set of glass, and putting down the decanter and raising a finger to his forehead, he said, "how did that wine come into my possession?" "somebody gave it to you, perhaps. _quien sabe?_ (who knows?)" suggested don ignaçio. without heeding the interruption, the captain's eye rested on the brilliant snuff-box on the table beside him, where the letter l was set in diamonds and blue enamel on the back, and catching it with a rap, his face lighted up, and as he took a pinch and passed the box to the padre, he exclaimed, "ah! now i remember, my old friend--the portuguese countess from oporto. _dios! de mi alma!_ (god of my soul!) what a stately beauty was her daughter!" here captain brand sneezed, and, drawing a delicately-perfumed lace handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, blew his nose. meanwhile the box went round the table; padre ricardo took a huge pinch with his dirty fingers, and feasted his eyes upon the precious lid. the doctor scarcely gave the elegant bawble a glance as he helped himself. the don, however, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur, and not only that, but he threw a spark at the captain's flashy waistcoat, and thought he detected some other article in the capacious pockets vice the handkerchief. perhaps he may have been mistaken and perhaps not, though he was so very suspicious an old villain that he sometimes did his friends injustice. nor did he put his thin brown fingers, with the few grains of snuff he had dipped from the box, to his sheepskin nostrils till he had watched the effect it had produced on those around him. "ah! my friends, i remember distinctly now all about it," continued the captain, as he returned the kerchief and shook a few specks of the titillating dust from his point-lace sleeve; "it is about three years ago, just before you came to live with me, padre, that we fell in with a large ship bound to porto rico. she had been disabled in an awful hurricane, which had taken two of her masts clean off at the decks, and was leaking badly. we, too, had been a little hurt in the same gale, and having made a pretty good season, i was anxious to get back here and give the crews a rest. well, we made out the ship about an hour before sunset, and it was quite dark before we came up with her. there she lay, rolling like a log, though there was not much sea on, and we could hear her chain-pumps clanking, and saw the water spouting out from her scuppers as pure almost as it went into her hold. as we came up alongside they hailed me for assistance, and said the ship was sinking, and could not live till morning. "of course i could give them no actual assistance, situated as i was"--here the narrator smiled as he glanced round upon his guests--"it would have been simply absurd, you know, the idea of my putting men on board to keep her afloat for the nearest gibbet. bah! i did not dream of such ridiculous nonsense. however, i determined to make her a visit, and, if there should be any thing to save from the wreck in an undamaged condition, why, i should look around. "not too much of that port, _mi padre_; think of your rheumatism in the morning! doctor, you don't drink! "well, going on board, i found two lady passengers--the wife and daughter of an old judge of the island of porto rico, with half a dozen servants, who were all screaming, and praying, and beseeching me to save them--all but one, a tall, graceful girl, with a large india shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her white arms glancing through the folds, and a pair of dark, liquid, almond-shaped eyes, such as i had never before seen. the fact is, my friends, i had always before fancied blue. but there stood this girl, with eyes like a wounded stag, leaning up against the weather bulwarks near the open cabin door. "babette, take away all but the wine and fruit, and bring fire. pass that box this way, if you please, _compadre_! thank you." don ignaçio seemed to have an affection for the trifle, and had counted the brilliants over and over again, and made a mental calculation of their weight and value; and when he did move it as he was desired, his greedy eye followed it with fascination. "yes, it's very pretty, and i set a great store by it," parenthesized the host, as he resumed his tale: "the girl never screamed or even spoke, and, amid all the hubbub of a drunken skipper and a disorderly crew, she remained quiet and unmoved. to assure the people, i told them that i would stay by the ship and do what i could for them. at this the old lady clasped me around the neck, and kissed me, and blubbered over me more than ever she did, i imagined, to the old spanish judge, her husband--imploring me too, by all the saints she could think of, to take herself and daughter out of the sinking vessel at once. you may believe that i would much rather have been treated in that way by the lovely girl with the wonderful eyes instead of the fat, rancid old woman beside her; but there was no help for it just then, and so i consented, with all the professions of sympathy i could make, to do as she desired." here the captain lit a pure havana, and, after a few puffs and a sip of port, continued: chapter xv. drowning a mother to murder a daughter. "at last she startled up, and gazed on the vacant air with a look of awe, as if she saw some dreadful phantom there." "no sooner had i assured the old lady that i would transfer them to my vessel than her daughter made a step forward, and, letting her shawl fall upon the deck, she seized my hand with both of hers, and said, in a low contralto voice, "'heaven bless you, _señor_!' "by the cestus of venus, _caballeros_, the pressure of that girl's hand, and the deep, speaking look of gratitude she gave me out of her liquid eyes, quite did my business!" "and the señorita's too, i think," chimed in the one-eyed commander, as he wagged his uneasy head at the narrator. "_quien sabe?_" (who knows?) went on captain brand: "at all events, i raised her soft patrician hand to my lips and kissed it respectfully. ha! i noticed, too, as i released her round, slender fingers, that she wore a sapphire of great brilliancy--ay, here it is now. i keep it in remembrance of the girl." saying this, the host shook back the lace ruffles of his sleeve, and, crooking his little finger, exhibited the jewel to his guests. "go on, my son," said the padre, as his sensual face expressed his satisfaction at the recital--"_vamonos!_" "my holy father," responded the narrator, "beware of that wine-flask! you have grand mass to-morrow! it is the feast of our patron saint, you know." "_si! si! hijo mio!_ your padre is always ready," crossing himself in a half tipsy way as he spoke--"_vamonos!_" the doctor looked as cold as marble, and said not a word. "well, gentlemen," went on captain brand, "i soon got that ship in a tolerably wholesome state of command. i made my trusty old boatswain, pedillo, lock the fuddled skipper up sound and tight in his own stateroom, and the rest of my men took a few ropes' ends, and belted the lubbers of a crew until they went to work at the pumps with renewed vigor. i also insisted upon the scared male servants of the passengers lending a hand at that innocent recreation, for you see i had no intention of letting the ship go down--" "with the capitano brand in her," interrupted señor sanchez. "no, by no manner of means; for the ship, i felt, was settling fast, and i could hear the loose cargo, which had broken adrift below in the main hold, playing the devil's own game; smashing and crushing from side to side as the vessel rolled, and coming in contact with the stanchions and beams, with a surging swash of water, too, which told the tale without the trouble of breaking open the hatches. i took, however, the precaution to run my eye over the manifest to see if, perchance, there was any treasure in the after run or any where else, as, in case there had been, i should have made some little effort to get at it. however, there was nothing on board but wine, dried fruits, and heavy bale goods, not worth the time or trouble, in the aspect of affairs at that time, to save as much as a single cask or a drum of prunes. i glanced, too, at the clearance list, and saw that the names of the passengers were la señora luisa lavarona, and the señorita lucia, lady and daughter, with half a dozen orders and titles, of the judge in _puerto rico_. _bueno!_ roll me an orange, if you please, doctor! ah! _gracias_, thanks." the doctor rolled the orange, and, had it been a grape-shot or any other iron missile, its aim would have gone straight through the captain's body, just above his left waistcoat pocket. "in the mean while the old lady rushed around in a tremendous hurry, in and out of the cabin, losing her balance occasionally in the lurches, ordering her maids to pull out trunks and boxes on to the deck; then giving me a hug to relieve her feelings, and praying and crying between whiles in the most whimsical manner. not contented either with getting out a pile of luggage and chests that would have swamped a jolly-boat, she insisted upon waiting until a locker was broken open in the cabin pantry for the purpose of rescuing six cases of old port wine, which had been, she told me, sent as a present from the archbishop of lisbon to his friend the judge. at this juncture i persuaded her to send her daughter and a few light articles first on board my vessel, when the boat would then return for herself and the remainder of their property. accordingly, i carefully wrapped the lovely girl in shawls and cloaks, and got her over the side and down into my boat, pitched a few light caskets and cases in after the young beauty, and then, with a quiet word or two into pedillo's sharp ear, the boat shoved off. i suppose it may have been half an hour before my boat returned, and then i learned from the coxswain that he had shown his charge down into my private cabin, and she appeared as comfortable and resigned as possible. well, we made quick work of it now, tumbled a good many things into the boat, when i myself got in to receive the old lady and her retinue. by the way, among the articles were the boxes of wine--this is some of it"--tapping the decanter, now nearly empty from the attacks of the priest--"and in my opinion it does great credit to the taste and judgment of that venerable archbishop." "_ave, purissima!_" said the padre, with a hiccough; "i shall be a bishop myself one of these days. _ora pro nobis!_" "you'll be a cardinal," gibed in the doctor, "if swilling wine will do it." captain brand went on with his narrative: "where was i? oh! ah! we were waiting alongside the ship, with her lower chain-plates not a foot above water, for the donna to be hoisted over the rail, since she would not permit any of her attendants to precede her--though heaven knows they were anxious enough to do so. by this time, too, after my men had left the deck of the ship, the crew had somehow got hold of a barrel of wine, and, letting the pumps work themselves, were guzzling away in grand style. i began to lose patience at last, and shouted to the old lady to come at once, or i should be compelled to leave her. she merely leaned over the rail, however, and chattered forth that all she had in the world was at my service--of course, figuratively she meant--but she must stay another minute to find a jar of preserved ginger, which was her only cure for the cholic." "you didn't take the offer of the old lady as a figure of speech, i presume?" asked the doctor. "no!" muttered the one-eyed old wretch, with a sneer. "and that jar of ginger spared her any more attacks of cholic!" "_caballeros_, you are both right. i did accept the gift of her worldly goods in the frank spirit in which it was offered, without any reservation; and, to my almost certain knowledge, the señora lavarona was never more troubled with illness of any kind. "the fact was, that, finding the ship fast sinking, and her crew becoming boisterous and rebellious as the imminent danger burst upon them, they proposed, since their own boats were stove, to take possession of mine! that _was_ a joke, to be sure! a dozen drunken swabs, with naked hands, to capture ten of the old 'centipede's' picked men, with a pistol and knife each under their shirts; and"--here the speaker laughed heartily--"and captain brand beside them! _diavolo!_ what silly people there are in this world!" the good padre joined his superior in this ebullition of feeling, and seemed to enjoy the joke immensely, rolling his goggle eyes and head from side to side, kissing his crucifix, and exclaiming, with devotion, "_que hombre es eso!_"--"what a man he is!" [illustration: the pirate's prey.] "well, _señores_, the next minute we let go the painter and floated astern past the ship's counter, and a few strokes of the oar-blades sent us dancing away to leeward, where the schooner was lying with her main-sail up, and the jib-sheet hauled well to windward. we made no unnecessary noise in getting alongside, and it took no great time to get the boat clear, a tackle hooked on, and to swing her on board over the long gun. then we drew aft the sheets, set the fore-sail, and the 'centipede' was once more reeling off the knots on her course." "but the ship, my son?" "why, my padre, i was so busy attending to the schooner, and afterward going below to break the sad news to my lovely dark-eyed passenger of the loss of her mother, that i had no time to devote to the ship. pedillo, however, told me that he heard a good deal of frantic shrieking, and prayers, and cursing, with, for a little while, the renewed clank of the chain-pumps, but after that we had got too far to windward to hear more. about midnight, though, pedillo and some of the watch thought they saw a white shower of foam like a breaking wave, and a great commotion in the water, but that was all. so, you see, what really became of that old craft we do not positively know; though for a long time afterward i read the marine lists very attentively, yet i never saw any accounts of her arrival at her destination. "perhaps," added captain brand, with a peculiar smile, as he lit a fresh cigar, "her arrival may have escaped my notice, as i hope it may, though i think not." don ignaçio intimated, by waving his fore finger to and fro, that such a hope had no possible foundation in fact; and he stated, too, that he knew the underwriters had paid the full insurance on the missing ship. "ah! well, that seems to settle the matter, truly," murmured the captain, as if he had long entertained painful doubts on the subject, and now his mind was finally relieved. "but, _hico mio_! son of mine! _la señorita_--hiccough--with the almond-shaped eyes--_santissima!_--hic--how did she bear the--death of her--hic--mother?" "_por dios, padre!_ there was a scene which would have drawn tears from a--" "pirate," suggested the doctor. the padre blubbered outright, and his round, tipsy eyes nearly popped out of his head. "ay, _monsieur_, even from mine! but to go back a little. when i had got all snug on board the schooner, i went below, and moved softly on tiptoe along the passage to the door of my beautiful cabin. "you remember, _amigo_," said the narrator, turning toward don ignaçio, "how that cabin was fitted, and how much it cost to do it. i think you paid the bill for me? no?" oh yes, captain brand was quite right. don ignaçio remembered it well, and the bill was a thousand gold ounces, sixteen thousand hard silver dollars; and by no means dear at that, for the don never allowed any body to cheat _him_. "cheats himself, though, sometimes. don't charge more than the usual commission." the one-eyed usurer looked wicked at this remark, but he said nothing, being occupied at the moment rolling up a paper cigar with one hand, and wetting the brown fore finger of the other. "well, _caballeros_, i peeped through the lattice-work of the cabin door, and there reclined my pretty prize--i recall her as if it were yesterday--on one of the large blue satin damask lounges of the after transoms. her head rested on one of her round ivory arms, half hidden in the luxurious pillows; her shawl, too, was thrown back; and with a somewhat disordered dress, and a mass of glossy hair clustering in ringlets about her neck and white shoulders, i thought then, as i do now, that she was a paragon of loveliness. i saw her, as she thus reclined, by the light of a large shaded crystal lamp, which hung by silver chains from the cabin beams, and shed a rose-tinted effulgence over the whole apartment. when i first approached the door the girl was looking out of her own large liquid lamps, so superbly framed in a heavy fringe of dark lashes, in evident curiosity around the elegant cabin. her looks wandered from the turkey carpet on the floor to the beautiful silk hangings, that exquisite set of inlaid pearl ebony furniture, the display of knickknacks, and dresden porcelain panels of the sides, and, in fact, nothing seemed to escape her; and the good taste of the fittings evidently met her approbation. at times, too, she would turn her gaze out of the narrow little window of the stern, and peer anxiously over the vessel's wake, which by this time was skimming along like a wild duck, and leaving countless bubbles behind her. at the first sound i made, however, in opening the door, she started up and stepped forward to meet me. "'oh, _señor capitano_, _mi madre_! (my mother!) what detains her? we seem to be going very fast through the water!' "i gently took the girl's outstretched hands and led her back to the cushioned transom. then i told her, as kindly as i could, that i did all in my power to save her good mother, but that the crew had mutinied--they had taken possession of the unfortunate ship--great confusion existed--and as i feared, you know, that my own boat would be swamped by remaining longer alongside, i was compelled to leave her to her fate. "'but my mother, _señor_!' exclaimed the girl, with anguish; 'she was saved?' "'no, _señorita_,' i said, 'she went down with the ship; but the last words she uttered--that is to me--were to invoke a blessing on my head, and to consign all she possessed to my care.' the poor thing swooned away as i uttered these words, and it was a long time before she came to again. when she did, however, regain consciousness, tears came to her relief, and i did all i could to soothe her distress by telling her that, if the wind came fair, she would in the course of a few days be restored to her father." "but the wind didn't come fair, eh?" broke in don ignaçio, "and she didn't see--" "no, _amigo_, the wind held steady from the opposite quarter, and i thought it better not to beat up with a fished fore-mast, and all that--and a--she did _not_ see her father." captain brand here wet his thin lips with a few sips of wine, said, "babette, bring coffee!" and resumed his story. "when the girl became a little more calm i induced her to retire to my stateroom, where i left her to sob herself to sleep. don't spill that coffee, babette, and put the liqueurs on the table. there, that will do, old lady. "well, _señores_, the next morning my pretty prize was too ill to leave her room; but, as i handed her a cup of chocolate through the door curtains, she thanked me with much gratitude for what i had done, and knew that her dear father, the judge, would bless me." "so he will," snarled the one-eyed old rascal, "if he ever catches you, when he draws the black cap over your head." "possibly he may, though perhaps it will be some considerable time before he has that pleasure." "ah! _cuidado hico mio!_ take care of yourself, my son," hiccoughed the priest as he crossed himself. the captain gave a light laugh, sipped his coffee, and went on as if a dungeon, scaffold, and noose were the last things he ever thought of. "i amused myself during the day in looking over the trunks, caskets, and what not we had saved from the sinking trader--presented to me, as you know, by the old lady who was on board. there were, of course, a great quantity of ladies' dresses, and a good many jewels and trinkets; among the latter this fine snuff-box here, which our friend don ignaçio so much admires, and which i set aside as an especial testimonial of the old lady's regard. try another pinch, _amigo_? no? _bueno!_ i caused what i believed to be the daughter's elegant raiment to be placed in the after cabin. for three days i never even saw my pretty passenger, though i heard her low, sweet voice occasionally when i laid out something for her to eat in the adjoining cabin. she sang, too, some little sad songs with a voice which vibrated upon my ear like the notes of an Æolian harp sighing in the night wind. _dios!_ how i regretted then and afterward that i did not have a cabinet piano!" "presented to you," suggested the doctor. "yes, presented to me, so that she might have touched the keys with those ivory and rose-tipped fingers. "so the time passed, the schooner flying on under whole sails, the wind about two points free, and the weather as fine as silk. it was the fourth evening, i think, after parting with the oporto trader that i induced my fair passenger to come on deck and take a little breath of sea-air. you will observe, _caballeros_, that i did not make this suggestion in the daytime, because the 'centipede's' crew, you know, were rather numerous, and some of them not so handsome in point of personal looks as ladies at all times care to behold. besides, there were certain things about the decks--racks of cutlasses, lockers of musketry along the rail, and a long brass twelve-pounder, which is not altogether hidden by the boat, you know, and might have given rise to a little curiosity, or maybe suspicion, even in the mind of a girl, as to our character, pursuits, and so forth, which i should have been puzzled to answer. therefore i chose a clear starlight night to pay my homage, and accordingly i went below about four bells of the first watch to escort the little lady to the deck. she was dressed, and waiting for me in the cabin; and if i was so struck with her beauty when i first saw her, my heart thumped now against my ribs like a volley of musket-balls against an oak plank. she wore a black silk robe, such as spanish women wear at early mass, and around the back part of her head--where the hair was gathered in a glossy knot, and secured by a gold bodkin--fell the heavy folds of a black lace mantilla, the lower end fastened sash fashion around her lithe waist. she stepped, too, like a queen on a pair of slim, long, delicate feet, with arched ball and instep, as if she were in command of the schooner. "by my right arm!" exclaimed captain brand, shaking that member aloft in a glorious fit of enthusiasm, "i am quite sure she had conquered me, and that was more than half the battle! "well, i led her to the quarter-deck, where some cushions and flags had been placed for her near the weather taffrail, and where she sat down. the schooner was at the time under the two gaff-top-sails, the main boom and sheets eased off a little, those long masts, with the sticks above them running clear away up the sky, almost out of sight, bending like whalebone, and reeling over the long swell when the breeze freshened; and not a sound to be heard save now and then a light creak from the main boom as the broad white sail strained flat and taut over to leeward, or the rush of the water as it came hissing along from her sharp, clean bows, with a noise like a breeze through the leaves of a forest, away off over the counter into luminous sparkles as it swished out into our wake. the 'centipede' was indeed doing her best, and you all know what that is, when we have been chased many and many a time by some of the fastest cruisers going. "you remember, don ignaçio, how the 'juno' frigate nearly ran us under, and yet never gained a fathom on us in nine hours?" "ay, _amigo_; but, had she not carried away her fore-top-mast, in another hour there would have been nothing left of you afloat but a--hencoop perhaps." "_quien sabe, compadre?_ if hads had been shads you would have had fish for your breakfast," rejoined the narrator; and then throwing back the lappels of his green velvet coat with an air of gentlemanly satisfaction, he hooked his thumbs in the arm-holes of his fine waistcoat, and went on. "well, _señores_, the graceful girl beside me never spoke scarcely for half an hour. i divined, however, what her thoughts might have been in dwelling on the painful scenes she had recently witnessed, and i held my peace also; for, you see, i have had considerable experience with women, and i have ever found that a man loses more by talking than by remaining watchful and attentive." captain brand looked, as he gave utterance to this philosophical sentiment, as if he were a thirsty, cold-eyed tiger, lying in wait to spring upon an unwary passer-by. "yes, i waited, until at last she spoke. "'_capitano_,' she said, 'what a beautiful vessel you command, and how fast she sails!' "what i replied, my friends, is neither here nor there; but i sank down on the cushions beside the lovely girl, and poured out a torrent of passionate words--which i really felt, too, at the time--as i don't think i ever uttered before or since. she was a little startled and nervous at first, but after a while i saw her stately head droop to one side till it rested on my shoulder; i stole my arm around her yielding waist and clasped her to my breast." here captain brand looked as if the tiger had already sprung upon the passer-by, and was sucking the blood, with his claws buried deep into the carcass. "'_señor_,' she murmured, in the low, sweet, plaintive note of a nightingale, 'i am a young and inexperienced girl, of an old and noble family; you have saved my life; my mother is gone, and i have no one to advise with, and, if my dear father smiles upon my choice, i will marry you; but do not, i implore you, deceive me!'" "and you did not deceive her, i hope?" broke in the doctor, with a shiver of light from his determined eyes that was almost painful to see, so earnest and terrible it was, as he leaned forward with both of his clenched hands quivering nervously on the table. captain brand looked at the doctor with rather a suspicious stare, and letting his thumbs drop from his armpits till they rested on the flaps of his waistcoat pockets, he replied, in a careless tone, "oh no, _monsieur_, i never deceived--a--that is to say, intentionally deceived a woman in all my life!" "let us hear more, my son," said the priest, thickly, who had now woke up from a short nap. "_bueno, caballeros!_" continued the narrator, as he tossed off a thimbleful of maraschino from a wicker-bound square bottle after his coffee. "well, gentlemen, the young portuguese damsel, señorita lucia, and i sat there under the weather rail till the first faint streaks of early dawn in the tropics began to announce the coming of the gray morning. then she arose, and, leaning with a soft pressure on my arm, i took her to her cabin, kissed her sweet hands, and bade her good-night." at this stage of the narrative captain brand threw himself triumphantly back in his large manilla chair, and ran his white muscular hands through his dry light hair. ay! the tiger had clutched his prey. an unprotected, young, and lovely girl had been won and lost, and her palpitating heart was soon to be torn from her tender body. chapter xvi. nuptials of the girl with dark eyes. "with a pint and a quarter of holy water he made the sacred sign, and he dashed the whole on the only daughter of old plantagenet's line!" "but the count he felt the nervous work no more than any polygamous turk, or bold piratical skipper, who, during his buccaneering search, would as soon engage a 'hand' at church as a hand on board his clipper." the captain got up from his chair, stepped to the settee, and, pulling the signal-cord on the wall, held a short dialogue with the man at the station; then, saying in a low, sharp whisper through the tube, "a bright look-out, pedro!" he resumed his place at the table. the doctor had, in the mean while, got up and gone to the veranda, where, swinging in a yucatan grass hammock, shielded from the night wind, lay his little patient sleeping soundly. carefully closing the curtains again around him, he returned to his place. the padre was now all awake again, with his thick lips open, waiting for the captain to go on with his story. as for don ignaçio, he never stirred body or limb, but his eye traveled about perpetually, and he observed the movements of his companions all at the same time. still the hoarse roar of the pirates in their carouse arose from the covered sheds in the calm night, and the two solitary lights from each mast-head of the felucca and schooner twinkled above the basin of the inlet. "and now, _amigos_," began again captain brand, after he had assured himself that all was going on as he could wish without, "i shall inform you of the sequel of my adventure with the señorita lucia. the evening after the night on which i had declared my passion, we were seated at dinner in the after cabin. such a choice little dinner, too, as only our late friend, lascar joe, could prepare! poor fellow, he'll never make another of those famous curries, though, no doubt, he'll find fire and pepper enough where he is, if the devil chooses to employ him. what a neat hand he was, too, with that spiral-bladed malay creese of his! ah! well--we were sitting over the dessert, and i was relating to my pretty passenger some account of my early days, and of my lady mother and my old squire of a father, omitting, perhaps, some few uninteresting details--" here the old commander of the felucca cackled, and his black, beady eye glittered as the thought flashed through his head as to what details his villainous compeer had omitted. how he forged his old father's name, which brought down his gray hairs in sorrow and disgrace to the grave; and how his poor mother, too, died of grief, together with other bitter memories, all of which captain brand, the pirate, omitted to mention. "yes, i related likewise some of my early privateering adventures, when all the broad atlantic was alive with the fleets of france, england, and spain; how i was captured by a spanish brigantine"--omitting again to state that he got up a mutiny with the crew of that brigantine, poniarded the captain and mate in their sleep, and, assuming command of the vessel, changed her colors for a black flag, and began his career as a pirate in the caribbean sea--"and how i escaped. to all this she listened with great interest, her large eyes dilating, and her bosom swelling with sympathy as i proceeded, when suddenly the cabin door opened, and my ugly friend pedillo put his head in, and gave me a warning nod. "'what is it?' i said, rather sharply, to pedillo; 'and how dare you intrude inside my cabin?' i fear, too, that i came very near doing a mischief to my boatswain; for i am rather impulsive at times, and by the merest accident i happened to have a small pistol in my pocket." don ignaçio twitched his sleeve, and looked as if he believed such accidents as pistols being found in the narrator's pockets happened quite often. "'_señor_,' said pedillo, 'there are two sail standing out from the lee of culebra island, and one of them appears to be a large--' "i stopped any farther particulars from the lips of my subordinate by a motion of my finger, and then, kissing the hands of the girl, who was somewhat surprised at what had transpired, i left the cabin and jumped on deck. "the schooner was now running down through the virgin's passage between st. thomas and porto rico, with a fine breeze on the quarter, and the sun was just sinking behind the last-named island. i snatched a spy-glass from the rail, and looked ahead. there, sure enough, was a sixteen-gun brig on the starboard tack heading across our track, and a large frigate under single-reefed top-sails stretching away over to the opposite shores of culebra, while they were telegraphing bunting one with another as fast as the bright-colored flags could talk. and, as luck would have it, as i swept the glass round, what should i see but a long rakish corvette in company with a huge whale of a line-of-battle ship, with her double tier of ports glimmering away in the slanting rays of the sun, both on the wind, and coming out from under the lee of culebra point, just a mile or two astern of us. by the blood of barabbas, _caballeros_, we were in a trap for wolves, and the hounds were in full cry! i immediately, however, luffed the schooner up, and steered boldly for the frigate; and, as a puff of smoke spouted out from the lee bow of the admiral to windward, and before the boom of the gun's report reached us, i hoisted american colors. seeing this, the brig hove in stays, and, perhaps being ordered to board me, came staggering along on the other tack across our forefoot, while the frigate went round too, and held her wind toward her consorts to windward. now this was just the disposition which i wanted of the vessels, and it could not have been done better for my plans had i been the admiral of the squadron. in less than a quarter of an hour, the brig--and no great things she was, with a contemptible battery, as i could see, of short carronades--hove aback a little on the bow of the schooner, and gave us a warning of a twenty-four pound shot across our forefoot, to heave to also, at the same time hoisting the english ensign. "so ho!" ejaculated captain brand, as he twisted the point of his nose, accompanied by a malevolent scowl, "_señores_, i at once hauled flat aft the fore-sail, dropped the main peak, and put the helm up, as if to round to under the brig's stern; whereupon my man-of-war friend dropped a cutter into the water, and she had just shoved off in readiness to board me, when, before you could light a paper cigar, i ran up the main peak, got a pull of the sheets, and the 'centipede' was off again like a shark with his fin above water, heading for the narrow passage between culebra and crab islands. it was at least five minutes before that stupid brig could believe his eyes, and ten more before he got hold of the boat again, when she filled away and began to pop gun after gun at me as fast as he could bring his battery to bear! there was only one shot that skipped on board us, and that only smashed both legs of a negro, and then hopped off through the fore-sail to windward. "had i not had a good dinner that day and pleasant society on board"--how peculiarly the speaker smiled--"i should perhaps have taught that brig such a lesson that he would not have cared to report it to his admiral. but as i knew i had the heels of him, and as the rest of the squadron were now crowding all sail and keeping off in chase of me, i ordered pedillo, just by way of touching my hat and saying '_adios_,' to clear away the long gun and return the brig's salute. the shot struck him just forward the night-heads by the bowsprit, and by the way the splinters flew and his jib and head-sails came down, i knew i had crippled him for an hour at least. at the same time, to prevent any mistakes as to our quality, and to satisfy the admiral's curiosity, we hauled down the yankee colors and set our swallow-tailed flag!" "rather dark bunting! no?" edged in don ignaçio. "ay, _amigo_! as black as that eye of thine, though not half so murderous," retorted the pirate as he continued his narrative. "_bueno_, there came the whole of the squadron down after us, spitting out from their bridle ports mouthfuls of cold iron, which all went to the bottom of the virgin's passage, for not one came within a mile of the schooner; and then i led them such a dance through that intricate cluster of reefs and islets, that soon after dark they gave up the game, and i said '_buenos noches_' to them all!" here captain brand paused, made a careful selection of a beautifully turned trabuco cigar from the box, shouted to babette to produce some old santa cruz rum, sugar, lemons, and hot water--screeching hot, he said--at which the padre crossed himself; and then throwing his fine legs, incased in the lustrous silk stockings, on a chair beside him, and while his eyes gazed fondly on the brilliants sparkling in the buckles of his shoes, he resumed his tale. "when i went below again, after every thing had become quiet on deck, i found my stag-eyed sweetheart waiting to receive me! how superbly she looked as she made a movement from the cushions where she had been reclining, and exclaimed, "'oh, _señor_, what has happened, and what was the cause of all that noise of guns, and those cries of agony i heard above?' "'_querida lucia_, dearest,' i replied, 'we have been where there are--a--pirates, but fortunately have escaped, and the cries you heard were from one of my poor crew who got slightly wounded by a shot!' "'ah, _malditos piratos_! cursed pirates!' exclaimed the charming beauty, as she put both her hands in mine, 'and how thankful am i that you are not hurt! but, _querido mio_! dear one!' she went on, 'when shall we get to porto rico and _our_ dear father? we must be near, for i heard one of your sailors shout to you the name of the island!' "in reply, i told her that we had been near porto rico, but that--a--circumstances were such, on account of the dangerous pirates who infested those seas, that i felt obliged, for her safety--you understand--to run along by way of hispaniola--she not having a very clear idea of the position and geography of those parts--and that our cruise might probably be prolonged for a few days more." "and into h----, perhaps," said the doctor, with a hollow voice and a calm cold eye. "oh no, my friends, certainly nothing so bad as that. possibly to heaven! but, _quien sabe_? no one can tell! "however," pursued the captain, "i soon succeeded in allaying her apprehensions, and then i threw myself at her feet, and implored her to risk her father's displeasure and to marry me at once; that she knew her father was cold, stern, and obdurate, and should he frown upon my suit i should die of despair!" "_cierto!_" murmured ignaçio, with the grin of a skeleton. "i used these passionate appeals and many more, until at last the fond girl yielded her consent to my entreaties. "'but the priest, _querido mio_!' she exclaimed, as she rose and disengaged herself from my arms. i told her that i chanced to have one on board as a passenger, who would perform the ceremony. "and so i had," added captain brand, "or at least a very near approach to one, for my ugly boatswain, pedillo, had been bred up--as an acolyte--you comprehend--in the house of a rich old prelate of san paulo cathedral in trinidad, to whom pedillo, one fine morning, gave about eight inches of his cuchillo!" "_jesus maria!_" exclaimed padre ricardo, starting back with horror, and telling his beads. "ay, _mi padre_! pedillo assassinated the holy father, and plundered his cash-box besides; and so you see pedillo was just the man i wanted." don ignaçio nodded his wicked old head through a cloud of cigar smoke as a sign of approval. "accordingly, _señores_, the next day i made the trusty pedillo cut off all the bushy beard about his ugly face, and had the crown of his head shaved besides--quite like that round, oily spot there on the top of good ricardo's poll--and then he rigged himself out in a clerical gown, to which the trunks of my bride's old mother contributed, and, take my word for it, he was as proper and rascally a looking priest as could be found on the island of cuba. he performed the ceremony, too, by way of practice, on lascar joe and the second cook beforehand, with as much decorum and solemnity, and gave as pious a benediction, as his old trinidad uncle, the prelate, ever did. well, that evening we were married." "how many times has the _capitano_ been married?" grunted out don ignaçio. "why, let me reflect," as he threw his cold, icy look at the frame of miniatures on the opposite wall. "you mean, _compadre_, how often the ceremony has been performed. ah! i think on eleven occasions. no, it was only ten. madame mathilde had two husbands living when i made love to her, and declined to take a third. but then, you know, i have an affectionate disposition, and i can not set my heart against the fascinations of the sex." he gave vent to these moral sentiments as if he really meant them to be believed and generally adopted by his audience. "well, that same evening i was married to the beautiful señorita lucia lavarona, though i am sorry to say that pedillo did not perform his part of the business as well as i had expected of him, from his practice in the morning. he stammered a good deal, and when he raised the crucifix to the lips of the young girl, her innocent looks and maidenly majesty of deportment so struck my coadjutor with confusion that he let the crucifix fall to the deck at her dainty feet. this little incident caused me some displeasure; but, reflecting that the poet tells us 'a tiger, 'tis said, will turn and flee from a maid in the pride of her purity,' i said nothing to the abashed pedillo as i gave him back the emblem; but i favored him with a look, with my right hand in my pocket--this fashion." here the cold-blooded scoundrel dipped his thumb and fore finger into the flap of his waistcoat, while the commander of the "guarda costa" waved his brown digit before him, as if he knew what was there all the time. "ah! that restored my new-made priest to his senses, and he then got through the ceremony entirely to my satisfaction. "however," said captain brand, turning with lazy indifference toward padre ricardo, "ever after this i resolved not to take the risk of such another chance of failure, and this is the reason why i first sought your services." "_gracias à dios!_ thanks be to heaven, my son, that you found me!" said the sacrilegious wretch, as he bowed to his superior and sipped a glass of rum punch. "_vamonos!_ let us hear more." "at the conclusion of our nuptials, while i held my sweet lucia to my heart, and kissed her pale brow, and while tears of crystal drops, half in rapture and half in sorrow, dimmed her large, sparkling black eyes, she withdrew this royal sapphire from her slender finger, and gently placing the gem on mine--where you see it, _amigos_--she said, "'my dear and only love, this is the talisman of my race. it has been for ages in my family, and it has been the guardian of our hope and honor. receive it, friend of my heart, and be the protector of the young girl who yielded up to you her very soul!'" the doctor started as if he had been stung by a scorpion; but captain brand, heedless or inattentive to the movement, went on: "yes, _caballeros_, those were her very words; murmured, too, in her low contralto tones with a pure, lisping castilian accent, as she laid her stately head on my shoulder. "ay, those were rapturous moments; and it was in some degree--yes, i may say in truth--entirely her own fault that they did not last. "well, for some days--eight or ten, perhaps--with light baffling winds, we crept stealthily along the south side of st. domingo; but the weather was delightful, and the time passed on the wings of a zephyr. in the warm, soft evenings, with the moon or stars shedding their pearly gleams over the sea, she sat beside me on the deck of the schooner, watching with girlish interest the white sails above her head, or singing to me the sweet little sequidillas of her native land. and again, starting up from my arms, she would peep over the counter, trace the foam as it flashed and bubbled in our wake, or point to the track of a dolphin as he leaped above the luminous waves and went like a bullet to windward. "i flatter myself, _caballeros_, that there have been periods in my career on the high seas, or on land, and may be again, for aught i know," continued the elegant pirate, as he crossed his legs and threw back the lappels of his velvet coat, so as to expose the magnificence of his waistcoat, and the frills on his broad, muscular chest, "when men of high birth and breeding, and lovely women too of noble lineage, have not thought it beneath them to dine with or to receive the homage of--a--captain brand. "and, _por dios_!"--the narrator did not consider it unbecoming his cloth and profession to swear in a foreign language--"_por dios!_ _señores_, i have known the time, too, when i have played whist with a french prince of the blood and two knights of the golden fleece." "and you fleeced them? no?" muttered don ignaçio, with an envious glimmer from his greedy eye, as if no one had a right to rob the community but himself. "and not only that," continued the captain, rapidly, "but the daughter of an english peer of the realm once proposed to run away with me. ho! ho! yes, she actually proposed to elope with me; but as she was verging on fifty years, and only weighed fifty pounds, with never a pound in her pocket, i sighed my regrets. ay, great compliment it was, but i declined the honor. you yourself, _compadre_, must remember how i was received by the people on the buena vista villa at principe; how the obispo blessed me, the old general embraced me, and the beautiful marquesa, with the hour-glass waist, smiled on me." "_cierto!_" that astute old spaniard never forgot any thing, particularly a debt due to him; and he remembered, moreover, to have heard that when the noble _mi lord inglez_ left the villa one dark night, a good deal of plate, jewels, doubloons, and other valuable property disappeared with him. ay, the sly old fellow had a faint recollection as well of seeing a heavily-armed schooner running the gauntlet through the forts before daylight, and that she left a certain bag of gold ounces for him--don ignaçio sanchez--somewhere in a secret hole beneath a well-known rock inside the harbor. oh, a wonderful memory for matters of this nature had our rapacious one-eyed acquaintance! "yes," went on his partner in many a scene of pillage and crime, "i have every reason to know that i won the hearts, and purses too, sometimes, of some of the fine people i met in refined society. but yet there have been occasions when the game has gone against me--" don ignaçio's tenacious memory came again into play, and he looked back to the time when he himself had cleaned his profuse friend out of all his gains at the card-table, even to the buttons off his coat; but he gave no sign of remembrance of those days, and only blew a dense cloud of smoke from his thin yellow nostrils as the captain spoke. "--though those occasions have not been of frequent recurrence." the good padre ricardo at this juncture hoped that, by saint barnabas, luck might, in all time to come, befriend his son and patron; croaking, too, with a goblet of punch to his unctuous lips, "_vamonos!_ tell us more of the adorable doña lucia!" captain brand rapped his snuff-box, opened the diamond-crusted lid, took a dainty pinch, laid his cambric handkerchief over his kerseymere breeches, and resumed his narrative. "so passed the days, _caballeros_; and when, one morning, the high mountains back of port guantamano were reported to me, i felt a presentiment that my dream of bliss was drawing to a close. indeed, i might probably have remained at sea a week or two longer, but the men were getting a little impatient, and i thought it better to sacrifice my own pleasure to theirs. that day we caught a cracking breeze out of the windward passage, and toward midnight we came up with this little sandy island here. "the preparations for going into port excited the curiosity of my bride; for, poor thing! she believed we were bound into porto rico, and i had some trouble in inducing her to go below before we crossed the reef. _bueno!_ the coast was clear, the signals were all right, and an hour later the schooner had her anchor down and sails furled pretty much in the spot where she now lies moored. "while, however, we were sweeping up the inlet, i sent a boat ahead, with directions for my tidy old housekeeper, babette, to have every thing prepared to receive her new mistress. just then one of those terrible thunder-storms came up; heavy masses of clouds obscured the sky, followed by such double-barrel shocks and intensely vivid lightning as is only beheld in the tropics preceding the equinox. the rain, too, came along in horizontal sheets, driven by a squall which burst in fury over the island, and it seemed to me that all the devils from hell were howling and shrieking in the air. "shielded from the storm by a large boat-cloak, i carried my beautiful bride, with her face nestling on my breast, to the cove, and then i bore her into this fine saloon. "i shall never forget the sweet words she whispered, and the loving caresses she gave me on that little journey, even while the tempest almost dashed me to the ground, and the sharp flashes of lightning nearly blinded me. they were the last she ever lavished upon me." no sigh escaped the lips of this cold-blooded monster as he uttered these words; no sign of feeling for the ruin of a gentle girl whom he had betrayed to his piratical den of infamy and crime--whose dream of life was destroyed like a crushed rose-leaf, and all her hope gone from that moment. chapter xvii. doom of doÑa lucia. "i went into the storm, and mocked the billows of the tossing sea; i said to fate, what wilt thou do to me? i have not harmed a worm! "thy dim eyes tell a tale-- a piteous tale of vigils; and the trace of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face; beauteous, and yet so pale!" "thus it ever is, _caballeros_, and ever will be," went on captain brand, in rather a reflecting strain. "there is a point to begin and stop, and an end to joy as well as grief. we should, however, take the world as it comes and as it goes. i do, and so do you, _compadre_!"--pitching a cigar spear fashion at don ignaçio to attract his attention--"and, therefore, we should never look too far ahead, and live only for the present. "indulging then in this train of thought, as i set down my lovely burden here, and the cloak fell from her shoulders, i was prepared for any thing which might happen. i wore a slightly different costume at the time than that she had been accustomed to see me in, as i always do when i think there might be a chance of a surprise or trap laid for us in entering the inlet. so, instead of fine linen and velvet, i had on a red flannel shirt, canvas trowsers, with a cutlass slung to my side, and a pair of pistols in my belt. i don't think i appear handsome in that rig, but the fellows at my back somehow think it is becoming to me, especially when we are engaged in a hand-to-hand fight! what say you, _compadre_?" the don said nothing, and merely waved his fore finger, as if dress was not a matter to which he devoted much attention. he thought, however, that sleeves should be cut loose for knives when the pockets were not too small for pistols; but he uttered no word. "_bueno!_ there i stood"--pointing to the corner of the room as he spoke--"drenched with rain, and there stood my tall and lovely wife! "the saloon was brilliantly lighted; a profusion of plants and flowers were clustered here, there, and every where, on cabinets and tables, in striking contrast to the display exhibited yonder in that armory, where pikes, muskets, and knives were gleaming through the open door. "quick as the lightning which was piercing deep into the inmost crevices of the rocks and lighting up the crag without, lucia's dark eyes flashed around the apartment from floor to ceiling, from flower to blade, resting an instant on the frame of miniatures there--hers was not among the collection _then_; it is the one in the middle, doctor--" there were no knives on the table, or else, from the deadly look the doctor gave, he might have perhaps sprinkled the narrator's heart's blood on the floor. "--until at last her gaze of terror rested on _me_! no one, i fancy, can tell the power of spanish girls, who has never seen them when the whole passion of their souls, either in love or hate, comes pouring in a black blaze of jet from their gleaming eyes. "advancing a step toward me, with her white hands clasped together, she said, in a hurried, beseeching voice--and low as was the sound, i heard it distinctly during the crashing thunder which shook the rocks of the crag to their foundations-- "'_señor!_ where am i? my father! who--who--in the name of the blessed virgin, art _thou_?' "again giving a look of the utmost horror around the room, she pressed her hands to her eyes, and said, in the same low, distinct tone, "'speak, _señor_! for the love of our holy savior, speak!' "i felt that the girl had saved me, by her own instinctive perception, a world of painful explanations, and i replied, "'lucia! i divine that all farther concealments are useless; you are in the haunt of the most noted pirate of these seas, and that man stands before you.' "_caballeros!_" continued captain brand, "had my pretty prize swooned away, or fallen down in a fit, or gone into hysterics and torn her hair out by the roots, i should not have been greatly surprised; but she did none of those things. on the contrary, she became as calm as marble--frightfully so, in fact--and pushing back the bands of her magnificent tresses from her pale forehead, she raised her round white arm aloft, with her slender fore finger quivering like the tongue of a viper in mid air, and then poured forth such a torrent of awfully impressive words that i quailed before her. "yes, _señores_, i am no coward, take me when you will; but on this occasion i must honestly admit that i stood powerless before the gaze and gesture of that slight, delicately-formed woman. "'pirate--wretch--monster! may the curses of hell be heaped upon thee! murderer--betrayer! may thy heart be burned, and thy soul blasted forever!' "i need not pain you, _señores_, by reciting the cruel words that came hissing through her closed teeth, nor yet farther describe the terrible concentrated gaze of hate and fury which streamed from those gleaming eyes. suffice it to say, that though often afterward i was treated in the same manner, yet, on the occasion alluded to, i cut short the interview by summoning babette to see her mistress to her chamber, and then, glad to escape, i went out of the house and attended to the duties which required my presence." the padre, with his flat lips half open, eagerly drinking in--with his santa cruz punch--the words of his patron; the doctor, calm, unmoved now, and thoughtful; the one-eyed old rascal, still puffing his cigarettes and allowing no rest to his uneasy, suspicious optic, all sat listening, with each an interest peculiarly his own, to the fate of doña lucia. the narrator leisurely arose and held his hourly confab with the man at the signal-station, and then returning to his place, proceeded with his discourse: "i shall pass rapidly over, my friends, many little incidents of a rather unpleasant nature which occurred here, in this my rocky retreat, for some months after the interview which i have described. i tried every argument and persuasion i was master of to bring my proud bride to reason, but to all my entreaties she turned a cold and chilling stare of obdurate hate. day by day the intensity of her detestation grew stronger and stronger, and seemed to have become a part of her nature. yes; the gentle, yielding girl i had won on board the 'centipede' had now become as stern and unbending as a rock, and my controlling power over her mind and love was gone. i left her entirely to herself for some weeks, until one day i thought her passion might have subsided, and once more, attired in a rich and splendid suit, i came in here, as she sat like a marble statue at table. she never looked up at my entrance, but her eyes shone like stars as she mechanically went through the forms of the dinner laid before her. "'lucia!' i said, gayly. no answer by word or look. 'lucia! _querida mia!_' i repeated, and, sinking on one knee beside her, attempted to take her hand. "by all the saints, _señores_, that came near--very near--being the last time that i ever should kneel to a woman; for with a movement so sudden that i had barely time to leap aside, she snatched a long pointed carving-knife from the table and lunged full at my throat! the blade just grazed my jugular artery, inflicting a slight wound. but she never turned round to see the extent of her effort, and again sat calm and rigid at the table. "this was my last visit save one. i had long before abandoned these comfortable quarters entirely, and occupied the rooms you do, _mi padre_, out there among the men. in fact, my stern young bride was in entire command of the island; and even my good babette here stood in such awe of her that she always crossed herself when called to approach her mistress. "month by month matters went on in this way, until the rainy season had gone, and i was preparing for another cruise in the schooner; but hour by hour the consuming passion which flamed in the veins of lucia was doing its work. i sometimes beheld her standing out on the veranda, tall and stately as ever; and when the moon was at the full, it threw its light upon her wan and sunken cheeks, and thin, wasted frame. ay, there she stood, like an almost transparent statue of alabaster, with her dark eyes shining with an unearthly light, turned in one long tearless gaze upon the ledge and combing breakers to seaward. it was singular, too, the effect she produced even upon the horde of these brave fellows of mine, for no persuasion could induce a man of them to come within pistol-shot of that part of the house while she was thus keeping her nightly vigils. and as for pedillo, he acquired such a superstitious dread of the girl he had married, and lived in such a state of abject terror, that i had serious thoughts of shooting him through the head to avoid the contaminating influence he exercised over his comrades. "well, _caballeros_, late one saturday night, while the men were carousing and drinking success to the coming cruise--we were to sail on the following monday--and while i was returning from my usual stroll to the tiger's trap to see the battery in order and the look-outs wide awake, i met babette toddling along, nearly out of breath. "'what is it, old lady?' you know, _amigos_, that babette never spoke a word in her life, but she made signs to let me know that i was wanted at the crag, and that there was no time to be lost. i quickened my pace, and, preceded by babette, i once more darkened my own threshold. the curtains and hangings were all closely drawn in the saloon here, and it was dark as a tomb; but there was a light burning yonder in the passage leading to the chamber, and i made my way to the door. "i shall never forget what i saw, though i should like to, as it comes to me sometimes in the night, or when i am left much alone by myself." the pirate passed his hands over his eyes as if he saw something while he spoke, and then, letting his voice drop to an almost sepulchral pitch, he went on hurriedly: "i stood at the door, _caballeros_, and looked in. on the bed, which was drawn to the middle of the chamber to get the air through the narrow loopholed windows, with the gauze curtains falling square on all sides, lay lucia. her attenuated frame scarcely presented an uneven surface beneath the snowy sheet which covered it. her superb hair was spread in great black masses on the pillow, and her pale marble face reposed there like an ivory picture in an ebony setting. her eyes were wide open, large and luminous, and her thin delicate hands were clasped around a silver and pearl crucifix, which rested on her hollow breast. a single taper in a silver lamp threw a lurid, flickering ray about the room, and beside it was babette on her knees quivering with terror, while from one of the loopholed windows a broad white band of moonlight streamed directly across the pillow and face of the dying girl." captain brand's face assumed a deathly pallor, and, with his icy blue eyes fixed on vacancy, and his voice sunk to a hoarse whisper, he went on: "as i appeared in the portals of the door, lucia slowly raised her fore finger, and beckoned me to approach. i could no more have resisted the summons than if a chain cable to a frigate's anchor had caught me in its iron coils, and was dragging me to the bottom of the sea. i moved to the foot of the bed. "'_pirato!_' came from her slightly-parted lips, in her old low and distinct tones. '_pirato_, behold your cruel work! destroyer of mother and child--of soul and body--may the curses of a dying woman and her unborn child haunt you by day and by night!' i was dumb, and my pulse stopped beating. "'_ave maria purissima!_' were the last words that came in a sweet, pure whisper from her parted lips; she clasped the crucifix tighter, and the spirit departed. i tore aside the gauze net to lay my hand on her heart, when, on my soul! her right hand slowly relaxed its death-grasp on the crucifix, and, rising to a vertical line, with the fore finger pointing upward, quivered in the light of the waning moon, like, as it was, a supernatural warning! yes, that finger--" [illustration: "a supernatural warning! yes, that finger--"] "mamma! mamma!" came in a weak, plaintive voice from the piazza, while the villain, with his hands before him as if to shut out a frightful vision, and eyeballs starting from their sockets, was hoarsely whispering to his horror-stricken audience the last warning of the dead lucia. as the low moaning cry in the stillness which reigned around the saloon struck his ear, he sprang with a bound to his feet, and, quick as thought, with a pistol in each hand, he shouted, "who's there?" "it is the little sick boy, _señor_. do him no harm at your peril!" and the doctor stood towering before the pirate's leveled weapons. "_maldito_ on the brat! pshaw!" said captain brand, quieting down, and returning the pistols to his pockets. "how nervous i am! excuse me, _caballeros_. i was thinking of something else." chapter xviii. end of the banquet. "there was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, as he stalked away with his iron box. oh, ho! oh, ho! the cock doth crow, it is time for the fisher to rise and go. fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine! he hath gnawed in twain my choicest line; let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, the _pirate_ will carry my hook in his mouth." in the pause which followed the dreadful episode just recounted by captain brand, the padre was occupied in pattering a prayer, counting his beads, and elevating his crucifix as if he was mumbling high mass at the altar. don ignaçio slowly waved his brown fore finger, and his single spark of glowing eye glared fiercely and fixedly at his host. a clammy sweat burst out on the pallid brow of the doctor, and his hands were clutched before him on the table like the jaws of a steel vice. and still the drunken shrieks and cheers of the piratical crew at the sheds arose wild and shrill in the calm night, making a gloomy echo for the banquet. the doctor was the first to break the awkward silence which pervaded the saloon. "_capitano!_" said he, in his habitual calm, deep voice, "with respect to what you said in the early part of the evening, of breaking up this establishment, what, may i ask, are your plans for the future?" "_gracias!_ _amigo_ doctor! thank you, my friend, for changing the conversation. my plans! eh! ah! well, they are these--" here captain brand's face assumed its usual expression; and entirely himself again, he went on to state, in a precise, business-like way, the views he had resolved upon for future action. "--to-morrow, gentlemen, is sunday. those boisterous fellows out there, after mass, will need rest all the day. on monday, however, i shall begin to change the rig of the schooner, fill up with provisions for a long cruise, take on board all the loose odds and ends we have stowed here, of course," he added, as he remarked an inquiring and a rather alarmed mercenary look from the tuerto's glim--"of course, after having squared up all claims of our _compadre_ there!" "hum!" croaked that sharp rascal, with a nod of satisfaction quite like an old raven. "then, _señores_, i shall burn or destroy the old sheds, and bury the cannon and heavy articles we can not find room for in the 'centipede;' when, if nothing happens, we shall trip anchor and spread our sails for sea! "babette! babette! really i believe that dear old negress has fallen asleep. babette! ah! there you are, my beauty! see if you can't give us a bowl of okra gumbo before we break up here!" babette had not been asleep. oh no! she had her ear to the door of the saloon, and was listening to the sad history of doña lucia, and when her master came to the final scene the old woman fell on her knees and shivered all over, where she remained until the sound of the captain's voice again called her to her duties. "and when we have left these quiet waters, my son!" broke in the padre, "what then?" the fact was, that the carnivorous and vinous father ricardo knew that his stomach was not suited for high winds and rough oceans, and was hoping that some scheme might be devised to allow him to remain tranquilly on the island. "why, holy padre, i propose to steer clear of the west indies by some unfrequented track, and, striking the broad atlantic, stretch down the coast of brazil. perhaps we may double cape horn, and see what those miserable patriots are fighting for in chili and peru; then maybe across the pacific, to the lovely islands and maidens of polynesia; so on to the china seas, where we may fall in with an outward-bound canton trader, or a galleon with a ton or two of silver on board--who knows?--there is plenty of blue water and fine ships every where; so we must be content." padre ricardo made the sign of the cross, kissed his thumb and fore finger, and, reaching his dirty paw over to the captain, shook hands with him. "ay, _amigos_!" continued the leader, without minding the friendly interruption; "yes, my friends, we shall, i trust, give the hounds in search of us the slip; and even should they scent out this retired little spot, they will have their trouble for their chase, and find nothing but a few stones and heaps of rubbish above ground." "they may find some little matters below, though," chimed in the commander of the felucca. "if they do," retorted the pirate, with a meaning scowl, "i'll put the spy who betrays it to such a torture as that he'll wish himself below ground when i come back here." "_cierto, amigo!_ no fear of that!" muttered the tuerto, with some little trepidation of manner. "_my_ papers are white." "captain brand," said the doctor, "my contract with you is nearly up, and since i only agreed--as you know--to enlist my professional services here on shore, i presume you will have no objections to permit me to depart with don ignaçio in the felucca." it would be difficult to say what caused the flush of passion which overspread the leader's face as he listened to this simple request, but it was full a minute before he replied, and then, having weighed the matter carefully in his mind, he said, in a precise and determined tone, in french, "_monsieur le docteur!_ the compacts that i have made with all those that have taken service with me have never been broken except by death. i can not, therefore, consider your request, and i shall expect you to sail with me in the schooner." then he added, quickly, as he noticed a certain haughty expression in his subordinate's face, "pardon me, _monsieur_; we had better not discuss this question now. suppose you see me on the morrow." "willingly, _señor_, and you will find my resolution unchangeable." rising as he spoke, he bowed to his companions at table, and saying "_buenas noches!_ (good-night!)" he passed from the saloon to the piazza. there he paused a moment, as if communing with himself, and then approaching the grass hammock where the sick boy was sleeping, he gently took the little fellow up in his arms. the child murmured "mamma, mamma!" and was borne away. captain brand followed the doctor with his searching, sharklike eyes until he had left the apartment, and there was something that denoted danger in the look; but he uttered no sound, and, placing a finger on his lip, he nodded meaningly to the padre. a moment after babette brought in the steaming gumbo soup, and the pirate's feast was nearly ended. don ignaçio waited until his companions had swallowed a goodly portion of the grateful mess, when he too refreshed himself. then making his salutations in his usual observant manner, he departed. he declined, however, the offer of his host's society to his boat, saying he had, he knew, half a dozen of the felucca's crew outside the building to guard his footsteps, and he would not put the _capitano_ to the trouble. when the padre rose to give his benediction to his patron, the captain took him impressively by the rope which girded his cassock about the loins, and giving it a sharp jerk or two, he said, "my holy father, i think we shall have a sad duty to perform to-morrow. our old friend gibbs has behaved badly, and i shall punish him. he is now in the capella dungeon. after early mass go and console him." the padre returned a meaning smile, crossed himself, and slowly left the pirate alone in his saloon. chapter xix. fandango on one leg. "god! 'tis a fearsome thing to see that pale wan man's mute agony-- those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er shall be lifted again--not even in prayer! that heaving chest! enough; 'tis done! the bolt has fallen! the spirit is gone." day dawned in the east. the early spikes of morning shot up in rosy bands from behind the lofty hills of cuba and announced the coming of the sun. the inlet and basin, framed in by their rocky walls, were still clothed in the gloom of night, and dimly reflecting the fading stars on the calm unruffled surface where the schooner and felucca were moored. away off in the distance a dense white misty vapor hung flat and low over the lagoon and thickets of mangroves, with not a breath of air to disturb the noxious fog or quiver a leaf in the silent groves. the revels, too, of the drunken sailors had long since ceased; the sentinels, with their cutlasses in the sheaths, paced slowly to and fro before the doors of the sheds, and the look-outs at the signal-stations and battery peered through the early dawn to seaward; else not a sound or moving thing, save a teal or two fluttering with a sharp cry up and down the lagoon; the music of the tiny ripples lapping on the shelly beach; and the low roar, in a deep bass, breaking and moaning over the ledge beyond the island. such was the appearance of things where our scene is laid in the twelve league group of keys, on a sunday morning, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and five. half a mile, perhaps, inland from the sheds where the sailors lived, and beneath the steep face of the ridge-like crag which split the island in two parts, stood a low chapel, built of loose stones nicely fitted together and roofed with tiles. a rough iron cross was fastened over the doorless entrance, and at the other end was a stone balustrade, with a rude painting of the virgin over the altar, on which stood four or five tall brass candlesticks and a lighted taper. outside the building was a narrow and secluded inclosure, surrounded by a low wall of coral rocks, with a few head-stones marked with black crosses--the graves of the pirates whose bones reposed beneath. at one end of this burial-place was still another subdivision, where stood ten upright flat white stones, on whose faces were rudely carved initial letters, with the years in which the eternal sleepers had been laid beneath the sand. far and near sprang up close and almost impenetrable thickets of cactus, whose sharp and pointed needle-shoots defied the passage of any thing more bulky than land-crabs and lizards. one or two narrow pathways had been cut out here and there, but they were overgrown again by the stubborn, hardy vegetation; and only with the risk of losing one's trowsers, and having one's legs cut in gashes, could a human being struggle through it. within the chapel kneeled a dozen or more of the "centipede's" crew, the coarse and sodden faces and uncombed locks, from their night's debauch, in striking contrast to the place and the apparent devoutness of manner in which they crossed themselves while the rites of the church were going on. before the altar stood padre ricardo, with his breviary on the chancel beneath the taper, and chanting forth from his deep lungs the services of the mass. in a few minutes the unholy hands and lips which performed the solemn ceremony ceased word and gesture, and with a sonorous benediction at the elevation of the host, and a tinkle of a bell, the sailors arose from their knees and again staggered back to the sheds, to slumber through the day. when all had gone, the padre clasped his missal, tucked it into his bosom, and making the sign of the cross with a genuflexion before the virgin, the sacrilegious wretch turned and left the chapel. pursuing the winding path which led to his own habitation for a certain distance, he then turned to the left, and carefully picking his way through the sharp cactus and spanish bayonets along the face of the crag, he stopped at a yawning fissure which gaped open in the rock. here, too, the same wiry vegetation had crept, and it was with great difficulty, and many an "_ave!_" and "_santa maria!_" that the padre succeeded in passing into the dark, rugged mouth of the cavern. "by the ashes of san lorenzo!" he muttered, "there are serpents and venomous insects in this pit of purgatory. oh, _misericordia_! what has pierced my leg? why should my son drag me through this hole? ah! blessed saint barnabas! a slimy reptile has crossed my instep!" feeling with his outspread hands in his fright, as he gradually made his way into the dripping cavern, getting narrower and lower as he proceeded, he at last, after stumbling prayerfully along for about a hundred and fifty yards, came to a loose pile of stones. here opened another low narrow fissure on the left, and, in some doubt, he was about to enter; but the noise he made by stepping on a stone was answered by the hissing warning of a serpent, and the scared padre fell back at his full length in a pool of stagnant slimy water. "_o madre di dios!_ i am stung by a cobra! holy virgin! my new cassock ruined too! _ave maria!_ light me out of this abode of the devil!" slowly recovering, however, from his fright, he once more regained his feet, and, after a few steps, which he was obliged to accomplish by scraping his crown against the jagged rocks above, his outstretched hands touched an iron-bound door. "_gracias à dios!_ thanks be to all the saints, i am here at last; but, alas! curses on me, i shall be obliged to return by the same path unless my son allows me to escape by the casa." cautiously searching with his fingers as he muttered these words, he touched a bolt, and, grasping it with both hands, drew it partly out like the knob of a bell. then, placing his ear to the door, he presently heard a rattling, creaking noise, as if a beam of timber, with pulley and chain, was being raised from behind the entrance. when the sound ceased the door yielded to the padre's sturdy shoulder, and there was just room to admit his portly body. here the passage was wider, the rock evidently chiseled away by the hands of man, and on one side was an artificial chamber, blasted out of the solid rock, with a narrow door with heavy iron bolts on the outside. at this opening the padre paused and listened. no sound caught his ear at first, but as he clutched the bolt and it grated back in its bands, he was saluted by such a volley of frightful curses as to make him start back and cross his ample breast. it was the voice of master gibbs, lying there on a low iron settle in the noisome dungeon, with not a ray of light to cheer him, and only a jug of water and some weevily biscuit to save him from starvation. all through the day and during the long, long hours of the awful night, in pain and suffering from his lopped-off limb and bruises, had he lain on his hard bed with clenched hands, blaspheming and impotently raging in his agony and despair. no prayer, however, dawned in his ruthless heart, or was breathed from his brutal lips; but curses upon curses came thick and fast, till his tongue refused to give them utterance, and he fell back in utter exhaustion. as the noise, however, of the bolt struck his ear, he clutched the stone water-jug from the floor, and hurled it, with a yell of execrations, toward the door, where the fragments fell with a clattering crash on the stone pavement. grinding his teeth in his frightful passion, he howled, "let me but once put these hands on your bloodstained carcass, and if the mother that bore ye will know her spawn again, my name's not bill gibbs! ha! you miserable swab, with your soft words and white hands! when i get out of this hole i'll blow you and your infarnal hounds to ----! give me fair play, and, even on one of my legs, i'll cut the cowardly heart out of you, captain brand! come in, will ye? ye son of the devil, and i'll bite the tongue out of your mouth by the roots!" [illustration: shriving a sinner.] here the hoarse and panting wretch again ceased his roarings, and the padre timidly opened the door. "ha! who's that? babette?" "no, my son, it is your good padre ricardo, come to console you." what the maimed villain replied to the priest, and what means the holy father took to allay the passion and assuage the sorrows of the man lying helpless in the dungeon, or whether successful in his mission, is not important to state in detail. an hour later, however, the priest seemed relieved in body and spirit as he retired from the loathsome hole, and shooting the bolt as he closed the door, cautiously felt his way along the dark and narrow passage. presently, as he turned an angle, a ray of light from the loopholes of the great stone vault beneath the pirate's dwelling lighted his pathway; and a moment after, with a hearty sigh of satisfaction, he seized a cord above his head and gave it a jerk. a bell sounded above, and then a large, square-hinged trap-hatch fell down, swinging gently to and fro from the beams above. at the same time the padre put his arms about a square wooden stanchion which supported the floor of the saloon, and then painfully sticking his toes in some deep-cut notches at the sides, he slowly began to mount upward. when, however, his oily shaved crown appeared nearly at the level of the floor, a vigorous grasp was laid on his shoulders, and he was pulled up like a flapping lobster and rolled into the apartment. it was captain brand who kindly assisted the holy father, and it was the captain's hollow laugh which saluted him in his torn and soiled raiment, as, with difficulty, he regained his perpendicular. "laugh not, _hijo mio_, at my sorrowful plight," said the bruised ricardo, with some asperity; "i have met with dangers of venomous serpents, and been stabbed cruelly by those villainous cactus." "but i raised the beam, my padre, the moment you made the signal." "you did, my son; but what i suffered in the cavern was as nothing to what i endured when i entered the dungeon of the english gibbs. _jesus maria_, what an infidel he is!" "you did not find his spirit subdued, then, by bread and water?" "far from it, my friend. he rages like a wild beast. he consigns your body and soul to everlasting torments! but, what is more impious still," went on the padre, as he crossed himself, "he damned your holy father, and hoped i would roast in hell!" "but he confessed, ricardo, and you gave him absolution?" "if calling me thief and assassin, and hurling his stone water-jug at my head, be confession and forgiveness of sins, the ceremony has been performed. ah! my son, he needs no more mercy in this world!" "of course not, my padre; and we will give him a short shrift and a long rope." "babette!" continued captain brand. "ah! my baba, you have not forgotten to feed our jolly gibbs there below? no? i thought not. well, then, it is sunday, you know; give him a pint of pure rum for his morning's draught. and, baba, my beauty, slip a pair of iron ruffles over his wrists, and then pass a cloth over those bloodshot eyes of his, and lug him here beneath this hatch. go down by your own ladder, and be quick, my baba, as i wish my breakfast presently!" all this was said in a cool and rather an affectionate tone, as captain brand sipped a spoonful or two of chocolate from a cup of dresden china. then turning to the padre, he said, "you would perhaps like a cordial, my father, to take the chill off your stomach? yes. you will find some capital curaçoa in that stand of bottles there." the padre, forgetful of the dignity of his calling, shuffled with indecent haste to the spot indicated, and, without going through the form of filling one of the diminutive thimble-shaped glasses in the stand, he boldly raised the silver-netted flask to his lips, and sucked away until it was nearly empty. then seating himself on the settee, he lugged out his illuminated missal and pored over its contents. captain brand occupied himself with opening the loop of the silk rope which fell from the ceiling, and securing the end firmly on the stout cleat at the wall. so passed the time until a noise beneath the room of a voice in anger, and a body bumped and dragged along, once more attracted the attention of those in the saloon. "oh ho! is that you, master gibbs?" exclaimed captain brand, in a cheerful voice. "you have risen early; but stop that profane language, my friend, or you will never see daylight again!" the maimed ruffian only muttered, "your friend, eh? blindfolded and manacled!" and then, apparently abashed by the cool, commanding tone of his superior, he held his peace. "well, you are quiet, my lad. now we'll see if we can't hoist you up here in the saloon." "thank ye, sir!" said gibbs, aloud; and then he muttered to himself, "let me jest get one grip of ye, and i'll show ye how quiet i'll be." "do you think we shall need assistance, my son?" whispered the padre into the ear of his patron. "_diavolo!_ no. i never wanted help in these little affairs, except in the case of that violent yankee whaler, who gave us much trouble, you know, and we were obliged to call pedillo," replied the captain, in the same low tone. then, raising his voice, he said, "hark ye, master gibbs! babette will lift you off the stones, and the padre and i will raise you up to the room here. you don't weigh so much as you did before you had your leg hacked off with a hand-saw--ho! and i dare say you are as light now as a dried stockfish! up with him, baba! there--steady! all right--here you are!" saying this, captain brand, with the assistance of the stout negress and the padre, raised the once burly ruffian, with a vigorous hoist that made him groan, to the floor of the saloon, where they laid him out at full length on his back. "wait a moment, my hearty, till the hatch is raised, and then we will raise you. unpleasant position, no doubt," continued captain brand, as the trap came up and was secured by a spring; "but then, you know, you _would_ have that pin of yours cut off, and somehow you have been so careless as to dispose of the nice leg you had the other day, made out of the spruce fore-top-mast of the 'centipede'--a very tough bit of a spar it was." here master gibbs grated his teeth and grinned hideously. the captain smiled like a demon, and, approaching the prostrate cripple, said cheerfully--ay, in a frank and hearty tone-- "now, my padre, place a comfortable chair for master gibbs, and we will help him to a seat." the considerate ricardo placed a large, roomy manilla chair on the fatal trap, and then aided his chief in lifting their victim to the position assigned him. as they performed this operation, the captain, with the gentleness of a tiger before he strikes his prey, and with a wink to the padre, lightly passed the noose of the silk rope over the ruffian's hairy throat, where it lay like a snake with its slack coil squirming at the back of the chair. "now, master gibbs, i am about to remove this bandage from your beautiful red eyes," said captain brand, in his cold, chilling, deliberate manner, "and if you so much as move when daylight shines before you, i'll blow your brains out." here the pirate leisurely cocked a pistol close to his subordinate's ear, removed the bandage, and laid the weapon on the table within reach. "no noise either, master gibbs!" continued captain brand, as he stirred up the remains of his chocolate and gulped it down; "for it is sunday morning, and we must respect the feelings of our padre. you were unkind to him, he tells me, just now, and even said some disrespectful things of me. what have _i_ done to vex you?" the manacled wretch tried to raise his horny hands to his face when the cloth was removed from his eyes, and rub those organs, while he glared suspiciously around; but the captain pointed with his white finger in a threatening way to the cocked pistol, and master gibbs let his hands fall again. "well, captain brand, i s'pose now you're going to treat me as a faithful man who has sarved under you ought to be treated; and i'm willin' to forgive what has passed." there was no look of forgiveness, however, in those brutal bloodshot eyes, nor much signs of repentance in those grinding teeth and compressed lips. "why, no, my gibbs, _i_ am _not_ going to treat you as a faithful man, but i tell you what i will do"--here the captain moved his chair nearer till his straw slipper touched the spring of the trap--"i will drink a glass of grog with you in forgetfulness of the past and forgiveness for the future." "thank ye, captain brand; i do feel dry. that stuff babette gave me a while ago didn't touch the right spot, and i'll be glad to jine you." "ah! _bueno_, my old friend; you _shall_ drink something that _will_ touch the right spot! what shall it be? you have only to name it." "i'll take a toss of that old brandy you gave me the other day, if it's the same to you, sir." "oh, master gibbs, it's all the same to me. delighted i am to oblige you! _padre mio!_ a glass of old cognac for our friend--a tumblerful; a wine-glass will do for me." the padre poured out the brandy as he was desired, handed the lesser glass to the captain, and the tumbler he placed in the locked hands of the victim. slowly and painfully the subdued ruffian raised the glass to his mouth, careful not to spill a drop; then, before draining it, he cleared his throat, while at the same time the captain rose to his feet, his right foot resting a little on the heel, and held the wine-glass before him. "now, then, master gibbs, for a toss that will touch the right spot." "ay, ay, captain!" said gibbs; "and here's forgiveness for the future." scarcely had the words been uttered, and the liquor began to gurgle down the hairy throat of the manacled wretch, than the pirate before him pressed his foot with a quick, nervous action on the spring. like a flash the trap fell, carrying chair and man with it. the hinges of the hatch creaked, the wicker-work chair fell with a bound on the stone floor below, the heavy beam overhead gave a jarring quiver as the strong silk rope brought up with a shuddering surge on the cleat where it was belayed at the wall, and with a gasping, choking cry of pain mingled with the ring of the shattered tumbler on the pavement, the ruffian of a hundred crimes fell full three feet, and hung struggling in the death agony. with almost superhuman force he raised his clenched hands and struck his forehead till the manacles were twisted like wire by the effort, spinning around too by the lopsided weight of his body, while the beam above yielded slightly to the strain, and the deadly cord, no longer squirming, but taut as a bar of iron, held the wretch in its knotted embrace, clasped tight around the throat. in a minute or two the hands ceased beating the inflamed face and head, and fell with a clank before the body; the legs gave a few convulsive twitches, a last and violent spasm shook the frame, and there master gibbs hung, a warm dead lump of clay. while this murderous business was going on, and the poor crippled wretch was struggling in the jaws of death, the padre was chanting with his profane tongue from his open breviary the _salve domine_, and his patron coolly took down a telescope and swept it over the blue water to seaward. when, however, after a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and the body of their victim gave no more signs of life, the captain laid down the telescope as the padre closed his missal, and remarked quietly, while glancing critically down at the suspended body, "he did not go off so easy as i had anticipated; his bull-neck is not broken, though the knot was perfectly well placed. however, he is stone dead, and we will lower him down. you, my padre, will bury him!" "_hijo mio!_ son of mine! spare me that troublesome duty. would you have me drag such a carcass through the cavern and consign him to consecrated earth, when he refused the last holy offers of salvation?" "_bueno_, my padre, i respect your feelings! you need not put him under the sand; take him merely to his late dungeon, and lay him decently on his bed." "thank you, my son; your orders shall be obeyed!" glad, apparently, to be relieved from farther exertion, though with manifest symptoms of disgust, the priest, more infamous even than the scoundrel he had assisted in hanging, clumsily descended the hatchway by the way he came up, and awaited the movements of his chief. the captain stepped to the wall, and, casting off the turns from the cleat, he slowly lowered the body down till it rested on the pavement. "unbend the rope from his neck, my padre, and hitch it on to that manilla chair. there--all right! you may return this way and breakfast with me." saying this, captain brand rounded up the chair, detached the silk rope, hung the loop in its accustomed place, and then waited the reappearance of his confederate. not many minutes elapsed before the padre, having performed the last rites, again ascended the stanchion, and was assisted above the floor by his chief. then both together got hold of a ring-bolt in the trap, drew it up and secured the spring, placing square bits of mahogany over the countersunk apertures, so as to prevent accidental falls or hangings of themselves. even while performing these mechanical operations, the priest puffed out an account of his proceedings below: how he had dragged the body to the dungeon; how, when there, he had inadvertently stumbled and fallen on the top of it; and that his lips--_maldito!_--came in contact with the open mouth of the late master gibbs; but when he had recovered from the horror of this frightful caress, he had said a short prayer and bolted the door. "you have done well, my padre; and now let us break our fast. babette, a couple of broiled snappers and a cold duck! be lively, old lady, for i have business to attend to after breakfast. _hola, mi padre_, will you wash your hands in water before sitting down? no! _bueno!_ i will myself take a dip all over." no, the oily ricardo never washed his hands, save wetting the tips of his fingers in holy water in the chapel; and, indeed, he rarely touched water in any quantity either outside or in; and it was with a look of surprise, not unmingled with contempt, that he beheld his patron retire for a bath. chapter xx. business. "he had rolled in money like pigs in mud, till it seemed to have entered into his blood by some occult projection; and his cheeks, instead of a healthy hue, as yellow as any guinea grew, making the common phrase seem true about a rich complexion." the business which captain brand alluded to when he was about to partake of breakfast with his friend the padre was, in the first instance, to arrange some matters in the way of payment of debts to his compadre, don ignaçio sanchez, commander of the colonial guarda costa felucca "panchita." accordingly, when he rose from table, and after a whispered dialogue and reports as to the state of affairs in and around the den and island from the men at the signal-stations, he summoned pedillo. when that worthy appeared below the veranda--for be it remembered that captain brand never permitted the inferior officials of his band to pollute his apartments, unless, perhaps, as in the case of his deceased subordinate, master gibbs, it was on urgent business--captain brand ordered his gig manned. pedillo threw up his hand in token of assent, and walked down to the brink of the basin to execute the command. then, after a few minutes, captain brand lit a cigar, dismissed the padre, put on his fine white panama straw hat, unlocked a strong cabinet with a secret drawer, glanced over a paper before him, and, making a rapid calculation, he caught up a heavy bag of doubloons, and left the house in charge of babette. the captain always told his guests that his fellows had such love and respect for him that he rarely locked up his property, and never placed a guard at his door. the truth was, that his fellows--scoundrels, miscreants, and villains as they were--stood in such fear and dread of their leader, that they were glad to keep out of his way. moreover, he never boasted or made any display before them, living on shipboard, as on shore, by himself, but always ready and terrible when the moment came for action; treating his crew, too, with the most rigid impartiality, adhering strictly to his promises and compacts with them, and never overlooking an offense. so captain brand left his dwelling in charge of his dumb housekeeper babette, and tripping down the rope ladder from the piazza in a clean suit of brown linen and straw slippers, his beardless face shaded by his broad-brimmed hat from the sun, and the bag of gold on his arm, he jauntily walked toward the cove. "ah! good morning, my doctor! glad to meet you! how are the sick? doing well, i hope!" "quite well, sir; but i was about to call upon you in relation to the conversation we had last evening, and--" "pardon me, _monsieur le docteur_, but i have been very busy this morning, and am now going to see don ignaçio on matters of importance"--here the elegant pirate took the cigar from his thin lips and held it daintily between his thumb and fore finger in the air--"and really, monsieur, i am very sorry to miss your visit. but," he added, with one of his usual smiles, "i shall be at leisure this afternoon, and in the cool of the evening we can take a stroll. what say you?" the doctor nodded. "apropos, _docteur_, suppose we have a little game of _monté_ afterward at your quarters. i never permit gaming in mine, you know. the padre will not object; and i am confident our _compadre_, the tuerto, will be delighted." "as you please, captain," replied the medico, with a cold, indifferent air and averted face. "i will join you in the promenade, and i shall be ready to receive you in the evening." "_hasta huego, amigo!_" said captain brand, as he again stuck his cigar between his teeth, waved his hand in adieu, and walked to his boat. "you don't love me, doctor," thought the pirate. "i don't fear you, captain," thought the doctor. it was a touch of high art the way this notorious pirate pitched the bag of gold toward his coxswain, crying, "catch that, pedillo!" and then the almost girlish manner in which he pattered about the beach and held up his trowsers, so that he might not even get his slippers damp. had that salt water been red blood, he would not have cared if his feet had been soaked in it. and then, too, the little exclamation of joy when he finally stepped into the stern-sheets, and sat down beneath the awning, while he stretched his smooth brown linen legs out on the cushions. oh, it was certainly a touch of high piratical art! "the old 'centipede' is looking a little rusty after her late cruise, pedillo!" throwing his head back to evade a curl of smoke, and casting his cold eyes like a rattle of icy hail at the coxswain. "but i am glad pedro took your place"--puff, puff--"that knife-stab prevented you, of course"--puff--"and we shall have her all tight and trig again in a day or two." "_si, señor!_" said pedillo, respectfully; "and how goes señor gibbs, _capitano_?" the _capitano_ rolled his icy eyes again at the coxswain, and replied, carelessly, "why, pedillo, our friend gibbs came to see me when the 'centipede' anchored, but almost before"--puff--"he had given me an account of his unfortunate cruise he fell down in a fit. the fact is, however"--puff, puff--"that, what with hard drinking and inflammation which set in on the stump of his lost leg, he has been in a very bad way"--puff--"quite in a dangerous condition indeed, requiring all my old babette's care and attention"--puff--"but this morning the good padre went to see him, and he told me a while ago that he left him without fever, and altogether tranquil." pedillo's wiry mustaches twirled of themselves. meanwhile the boat skimmed lightly over the basin, and as the captain ceased speaking she ran alongside of the felucca. don ignaçio, with his bright single eye in full burning power, and a cigarette between his wrinkled lips, was on the deck of the vessel to receive his visitor; and as he saw the coxswain follow his superior with a weighty bag under his arm, his glimmering orb became brighter, if possible--as if it was piercing through the thick canvas of the bag, and counting, ounce by ounce, the contents--and putting out his fore finger, it was grasped cordially by the white hand of captain brand. "_como se va?_ how goes it with my _compadre_? stomach and head all clear after our long dinner of yesterday?" the _compadre_ said that his head was particularly clear that morning, and as for his stomach he had not yet inquired; but if the _capitano_ had any doubts as to the former proposition, he had better step below and decide for himself. in accordance with this ambiguous invitation, the visitor and commander disappeared down the small cuddy in the afterpart of the felucca, where was a low, stifling hole of a cabin, dank with stale tobacco-smoke, and smelling awfully of rats and roaches. there was a little round table in the middle, and on one side was a single berth, with some dirty bedding, which had not been cleaned, apparently, since the vessel was built. light was shed from a skylight above. captain brand gave a sniff of disgust as he entered this floating sanctum of don ignaçio, but, without remark, seated himself on a canvas stool, and waved a perfumed cambric kerchief before his nose. commander sanchez, catching the inspiration, merely observed that it was a little close certainly, and not so spacious as the superb cabin of the schooner, and that sometimes, when lying in a calm off the lee side of cuba, it was hot enough to melt the tail off a brass monkey; but yet it was his duty, and he did not particularly mind it. hereupon captain brand requested don ignaçio to produce his papers, and they were presently laid upon the table. for a few minutes the pirate was absorbed in running his cold eyes over the accounts--making pencil-notes on the margins, and comparing them with a memorandum he took from his pocket; but at last he threw himself back and exclaimed, "_compadre_, the account of old moreno, at the havana, is correct to a real--three hundred and twelve doubloons and eight hard dollars. yours, however, has some few inaccuracies--double commissions charged here and there; all losses and sales charged to me, and all profits credited to you." don ignaçio spread out the palms of both his hands toward his companion, as if to exorcise such unjust charges from the brain of his confederate. "_o si, si, compadre!_ it is as i state, and you know it is true; but, nevertheless, a few dozens of ounces more or less makes no difference; and, to make short work, i am ready to pay. but," said captain brand, laying a hand on the heavy bag of money beside him, "though i am quite ready to cancel my debts in hard cash here on the spot, yet, as i am bound on a long cruise--heaven only knows where--i would prefer to keep the gold and pay you in something else." don ignaçio threw his head back and fixed his eye like a parrot on the captain, waiting to hear farther. "what have i on hand besides gold? well, there are a few bales of mexican cochineal, and english broadcloths, and some cases of french silks, which you can have at a fair market value; then there is all that collection of silver table-service, which you can take by weight; and, besides, lots of rare furniture, which you may set your own price upon--altogether much more than enough to pay moreno and you both. what say you, _compadre_? is it a bargain? or shall i carry the stuff with me, and run the chance of disposing of it on the spanish main?" it was a long time before the crafty old spaniard could make up his mind whether to receive his pay in a simple portable currency, or take more bulky matter, with the hope of making double the money by the operation. finally, however, his greed overcame his prudence, and he accepted the last proposition, with the understanding that the articles should be transferred to the felucca the next night. "ah!" said captain brand, with another sniff of disgust, as he spat on the dirty floor of the cabin, "i am glad the affair is settled, for i wouldn't remain another hour in this filthy hole for all the money you have cheated me out of, you old rascal." he said the last portion of this sentence to himself as he emerged from the cuddy. "but listen, _amigo_!" he continued, as they both reached the deck. "you will give me duplicate receipts on the part of señor moreno, so that i can forward one to him from the next port i visit. and, by the way, suppose you come on shore this afternoon for a stroll, and in the evening we will have a little game of _monté_--eh?" "_cierto!_ (certainly!)" returned the commander of the felucca; when captain brand, with his bag of gold intact under his arm, got into his boat and was pulled to the shore. chapter xxi. treasure. "gold! gold! gold! gold! bright and yellow, hard and cold, molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; heavy to get, and light to hold; hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold; stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; price of many a crime untold-- gold! gold! gold! gold!" it was long past noon when the pirate returned to his island home, and the day was hot, for the sea-breeze had not made, and the tropical sun was pouring down its burning rays until the sand was roasting as in a furnace; the very rocks throwing off a trembling mirage of heated air, and the lagoon almost boiling under the fiery influence. the sailors, with aching heads and parched mouths, were swinging in their grass hammocks beneath the sheds; and, save the watchful vigilance of the men at the look-outs and battery, the little island was wrapped in repose. captain brand, however, was as cool as a cucumber; and regardless of the heat, and indifferent about _siesta_, he drew the curtains of the saloon, and took some active exercise. first, however, he desired his faithful babette to get out some camphor trunks and pack the contents of his splendid wardrobe. this operation was performed under the critical eye of captain brand himself, to which he personally lent his aid by stowing away, here and there, his caskets, trinkets, and treasures--those which had been presented to him by the unfortunate people who had the ill luck to make his acquaintance on the high seas, or in midnight forays on shore. then the captain opened and rummaged cabinets, bureaus, and bookcases, making liberal presents to his trusty housekeeper; and, turning from that occupation, he had all his table furniture spread before him, when he made careful estimates of the value of the silver, china, and glass. this concluded, captain brand ordered babette to furnish him a slight repast; and while it was preparing--the captain taking the precaution to bolt his handmaiden in her kitchen--he went quietly into his bedroom, and when he came out he bore heavy burdens in his muscular arms, all of which he laid conveniently near the trap in the floor. then letting the hatch swing softly down, he lowered the heavy articles by the silk rope, as he had master gibbs, though not so suddenly, going down himself as nimbly as a rat after them. in the vault beneath, captain brand struck a light and set fire to a torch, which blazed out luridly, and illumined the dark excavation and passages like day. going slowly on, with his burden in his arms, by the path by which we traced the padre, he came to the outer door, which opened into the fissure in the crag; and, after a vigorous effort, the beam was raised, and he passed out. once outside, he felt his way cautiously, stepping clear of the stagnant pools beneath, and guarding his head from the jagged rocks above; and then, lighting his way over the stones which had upset the equilibrium of don ricardo, he crept slowly into an aperture on the right. [illustration: "he crept forward on hands and knees, the blazing torch lighting up the damp and dripping rocks."] no serpents or venomous reptiles disturbed the pirate's progress; for, though there were plenty of them coiled or crawling near, yet their instinct probably taught them that he was a monster with a more deadly poison than themselves, and whose fangs were sharper, though his tongue did not hiss a note of warning. captain brand put down his burden and crept forward on hands and knees, the blazing torch lighting up the damp and dripping rocks, all green and slimy from the tracks of the snake and lizard. where the narrow fissure seemed to end by a wall of natural rock, the pirate rolled aside a large stone at the base, and scratching away the sand, a large copper lock was displayed, in which, after pushing aside the hasp, captain brand touched a spring, and it opened. then, exerting all the force of his powerful frame, a rough slab of unhewn rock yielded to the effort, and rose like a vertical door slung by a massive hinge at the top. placing the large stone at the opening, so as to prevent the slab falling to its place, the captain stood the torch within the opening, and went back for his burden; then he returned, and squeezed himself with it into a small excavated, uneven chamber, where he sat down. "nasty work," communed the pirate with himself, "but a safe place to lay up a penny for a rainy day! let me see. these two bags of doubloons, and the small one my gibbs brought me, with those three, there, of guineas, and those sacks of dollars, will make about ten thousand pounds. that will make me a nest-egg when i retire from the profession and return to scotland. they will have forgotten all my boyish follies by that time." captain brand alluded to forging his father's name, and other little peccadilloes of a similar nature. "and i may be elected to parliament--who knows? it is something of a risk, perhaps, to leave all this pretty coin here, but then it's a greater risk to carry it in the schooner"--he argued both ways--"and then, again, damp does not decay pure metal. but," thought captain brand, "suppose somebody should discover this little casket in the rock. ah! that's not probable, for no soul besides myself knows of it, and even the very man who made the door did not know for what it was intended; besides, he died long ago." captain brand had forgotten, in this connection, that the man who cut out the stone chamber and door, and fashioned the hinge and lock, took too much sugar in his coffee the morning the job was finished, and died in horrible convulsions before night. oh yes, that incident had entirely escaped his memory! captain brand, having now thoroughly reasoned the matter out, gave each of the bags lying on the sand a gentle kick to get a responsive echo from the coin; and then creeping out of the treasure-chamber, he withdrew the torch, removed the stone, and the heavy slab fell again into its place. then clasping the lock, covering it over with sand, and rolling back the stone, he seized the torch and quickly returned to the vault beneath his saloon. there, putting out the torch by rubbing it against the stone pavement until not a spark was left, by the sunlight, streaming through the loopholes around, he passed to one side and began removing the cases of cochineal, silks, and what not, near to the strongly-barred portcullis door, which opened toward the basin fronting his dwelling. it was hard work, but captain brand seemed to enjoy it; and even after he had arranged the packages intended for shipment in his _compadre's_ felucca, he began again. going to the farther corner of the vault, he stopped before a strong mahogany door, and taking a key from his pocket, unlocked and threw it wide open. it was as black as night inside, floored and lined with wood, and emitting a choking atmosphere of charcoal and sulphur. piled around the walls were some fifty or a hundred small barrels with copper hoops, and branded on the heads with the word "powder." unmindful of the odor and the rather combustible material around him, captain brand again resumed his work, and rolled a large number of the little barrels toward the doorway, near the merchandise already there, saying to himself the while, "i think that will about fill the 'centipede's' magazine, and we must make a proper disposition of the remainder." hereupon captain brand, actively bent upon the work of disposing of his treasures, rolled out a dozen or two more of the little barrels. strange to say, among the very few articles that were never presented to him, but actually bought of señor moreno, was this highly useful and indispensable material of powder, and he therefore set much store by it. and it was with a sigh of regret that the pirate stood the little barrels on their ends in a line across the great vault of the building, beneath kitchen, bedrooms, and saloon, and especially beside the square upright stanchions on which the interior of the building rested. not content with this, he took a copper hammer and knocked in all the heads of the little barrels, and then, with a scoop of the same metal, he dipped out large quantities of the black material, and poured thick trains of it from barrel to barrel, sometimes capsizing one, but always particularly cautious not to rasp a grain of it beneath his grass slippers and the pavement. then he took a piece of match-rope, and sticking one end deep into a barrel, he just poked the other end out of a loophole, to be in readiness whenever captain brand should deem proper to touch his lighted cigar to it. "there," said captain brand, "that piece of tow will burn about thirty or forty minutes, and then--stand from under!" ascending the hatchway again with the agility of a cat, he drew up and secured the trap, and in ten minutes afterward he was freshly attired in a nice pair of india panjammers, a grass cloth jacket and vest--with, of course, the usual knickknacks in his pockets--and seated at table, where his busy housekeeper had placed a broiled chicken and a bottle of old bordeaux before him. chapter xxii. pleasure. "but ever, from that hour, 'tis said, he stammered and he stuttered, as if an axe went through his head with every word he uttered. he stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, he stuttered, drunk or dry; and none but he and the fisherman could tell the reason why." "babette," said captain brand, as he tapped a spoon against his coffee-cup and puffed his cigar, while the stout dumb negress was removing the remains of the light dinner, "babette, old girl, you know that we are going to leave here in a few days, and i should like to know whether you care to go with us or remain here on the island." the negress made a guttural grunt of assent, and nodded her head till the ends of her madras turban fluttered. "ho! you do, eh? well, my baba, i shall be sorry to leave you, for you will be very lonely here, and it may be a long, very long time before i come back." babette jerked her chin up this time, and did not grunt. "it's all the same, eh? old lady! well, i shall leave enough to eat to last you a lifetime; but you will have to change your quarters, my baba, and live in the padre's shed, for i--a--don't think this house will be inhabitable long after i am gone." the negress gave another grunt and nod of assent. "yes. well, old lady, the matter is decided, then; but, in case you should have any visitors here after we have gone, you won't take any trouble to describe what you have seen here? no! that shake of your head convinces me--not if they roast you alive?" the hideous sign of understanding that the woman expressed in her dumb way would have convinced any body without the trouble of uttering a word. "_bueno!_" said captain brand; "that will do for to-day." rising as he spoke, he stepped to a cabinet, slipped a large handful of doubloons in his trowsers pocket, put on his hat, and walked out. the sea-breeze swept over the island with its full strength, making the lofty cocoa-nuts bow their tufted tops, the palm-trees rustle their broad flat leaves and clash the stems together. the mangroves bent, too, before the wind, and the sand eddied up in tiny whirls amid the great expanse of cactus, while the vessels swung with taut cables to their anchors. even captain brand's hat nearly was blown off his dry light hair as he joined his _compadre_, don ignaçio, at the landing; and the sandy dust blinded--though only for a moment--that one-eyed individual's optic, and put out his cigarette as they struggled against the influence of the breeze. but yet they walked on in the direction of the sheds, and as they passed through the court-yard, where the men were lounging about in yawning groups or sitting under the piazza, playing cards--getting up and touching their hats as their chief passed--señor pedillo accosted him thus: "_capitano_, the people are thirsty, and desire a barrel of wine." "not a drop, señor pedillo--not so much as would wet the bill of a musquito! to-morrow at daylight let all hands be called, for we have work to do, and we must be quick to do it." pedillo slunk away, abashed by the positive tone of his commander; and captain brand, with his companion, passed on to the domicile of the padre and doctor. pausing at the open door of the shed, they looked in. the padre was lying flat on his back on his narrow bed, with his mouth wide open, and snoring like a key-bugle with leaky stops; while his beads and crucifix--misplaced emblems in contact with drunkenness and debauchery--were reposing on his ample chest. the doctor was sitting beside his own couch, whispering words of childish comfort to the little boy, whose pale cheeks and brown curls reposed on the pillow of the bed. the poor child's thin, limp fingers rested like the petals of a drooping lily in the dark, bony hand of his friend, and his dim hazel eyes were turned sadly toward him. "holloa, _amigos_!" shouted captain brand, in a hearty voice. "we are losing the glorious sea-breeze. _vamanos!_ let us take a stroll to the tiger's trap." hereupon captain brand entered the room, and gave the padre a violent tweak of the nose, at the same time puffing a volume of cigar-smoke into his beastly mouth, which combined effort brought the holy father to life in a trice, choking and sputtering, as he arose, a jargon of paternosters, which an indifferent hearer might have mistaken for a volley of execrations, so savagely were they uttered. "take a sip of geneva, my padre. there it is on the table. ah! do you call half a bottle a sip? well! come, doctor, let us be moving." down by the narrow gorge of the inlet, and over the smooth rocks and shelly shore, the party took their way, don ignaçio leading with the amiable priest, on whom he glared with his malevolent eye as if--he not being a person from whom money or its equivalent could be squeezed--the greedy old spaniard would like to transfix him with a glance. in the rear came captain brand and the doctor, the former as gay as a bird--of the vulture species--and his companion grave, severe, and preoccupied. stopping as they reached the tiger trap battery, where, after captain brand had made a close inspection of the guns, and held sharp confabs with the men who rose to receive him, he moved away a few steps, and, resting his body against the lee side of a projecting rock, removed the cigar from his frozen lips, and said, "the arguments you have urged, monsieur, and the views you entertain, have a certain amount of reason in them. it is true you were deceived in coming here, but yet you swore to remain and not betray us when you did come. well--ah! don't interrupt me; i divine what you are going to say--you did not know what our real character was. perhaps not. nevertheless, i can not consent to your going away with that old rascal, don ignaçio, there--that is, if he would take you, which i think he would not, as your presence on board might compromise him with the cuban authorities; and," went on captain brand, as he crossed his legs, and held his fine panama hat on his head as a ruffle of the sea-breeze shot around the rock, "with respect to your remaining here on the island, you will only have that dumb old beast of a babette for company; and it is highly probable that the english or american cruisers will be down upon you before a change of the moon, and they might--a--hang you, perhaps, for a pirate. ho! ho!" "if don ignaçio declines to take me, captain brand, of course i can not go in the felucca; but, let come what will, i am resolved not to sail in the 'centipede.'" the pirate regarded the doctor for a moment with a cold, freezing look, not wanting, however, in a partial glimmer of respect and admiration, as he thus resolutely stated his determination; and then, putting his finger lightly on the doctor's arm, as he saw don ignaçio and the padre draw near, he said impressively, in a low tone, "_monsieur le docteur_, do not make hasty resolutions. _i_ command here, and my will is law. i will turn the matter over, however, in my mind, and give you a final decision before we part to-night. now let us return. the sun is down, and the rocks are slippery." "well, _caballeros_, let us have a little social amusement," said captain brand, as he sat down at the table in the padre's and doctor's quarters, and wound up his splendid watch, the present from the captain general of cuba. "but bear in mind that we must break up at midnight, for our _compadre_ here has a multitude of articles to get on board his felucca to-night, and i must be astir at daylight." did captain brand think, while he turned the key of that gold repeater, of the bloodstained wretch he had put to death in the morning, who was lying stark and still in his narrow, damp resting-place, or of the poor little sufferer who had been torn from his heart-broken mother sleeping near him? oh no, certainly not. captain brand was thinking of a little game of monté. the padre lugged out a small store of dollars, and a gold ounce or two, and other stray bits of gold, down to quartitos or eighths of doubloons--all of it donations made him for remission of sins and absolutions, presented at one time and another from the pirates of his flock, such donations falling in pretty rapidly after a successful cruise, but dwindling away to most contemptible gifts long before his flock took to sea again. captain brand was very liberal to his crew, dividing a great deal of money with them, but, since he rarely visited any foreign ports, they had little chance of squandering it; and in the end it served merely as a gaming currency to play with, and eventually coming back to him as contributions for stores, ammunition, rigging, and so forth. the captain, therefore, was a large gainer by the operation, as most of the articles in eating and drinking, and the vessel's outfit, were--as we know--generally presented to him, so that he was enabled to stow away the cash for future gratification. don ignaçio sanchez was likewise a moneyed man, and came provided with a long pouch of solid gold, which he made into little piles before him of the exact size of those of the captain. the doctor, however, declined to play, and sat an indifferent spectator of the game. "let us begin, _señores_!" exclaimed the don, as he rapidly shuffled the cards, and his keen, black spark of fire lit up with animation at the rich prospect before him. "we are losing precious time. i'll be _banquero_! _vamanos!_" so they began. the cards were dealt, and the betting went on. the padre forgot breviary and beads in his excitement, and as his little pointings were swept away, he forgot, too, the sacred ejaculations he was wont to lard his discourse with, and he became positively profane. the captain won largely in the beginning, and jeered his _compadre_ with great zest and enjoyment; but that one-eyed, rapacious old spanish rascal was not in the least disturbed, and bided his time. at first the conversation was light and jovial, captain brand insisting upon the doctor describing minutely how he had hacked his friend gibbs's leg off with a hand-saw, laughing hugely thereat, and wiping the icy tears from his cold blue eyes with his delicate cambric handkerchief. then the fascinating game began to fluctuate, and the luck set back with a steady run into the piles of the banker. captain brand liked as little to lose his money as any other gambler in cards, stocks, or dice, and he was somewhat chafed in spirit; but what especially irritated him was losing it to that wrinkle-faced, one-eyed, greedy old scoundrel, with no possible hope of ever seeing a dollar of it again. as for the padre, he was dead broke; and since his friends would not lend him a real, and the banker did not play upon credit, he sat moodily by, and gloated over the winnings of the tuerto, cursing his own luck and that of his companions likewise. "ho!" growled captain brand, "_maldito a la sota!_ i have lost my last stake!" even while he spoke the poor little boy murmured in a sobbing voice, "mamma, _chère_ mamma!" and turned uneasily in his little nest from his fitful slumber. "that crying imp again!" said the now angry pirate, as he hurled the padre's half empty gin jug in the direction of the couch, which crashed against the wall, and fell in a shower of glass splinters over the little sleeper. the child gave one terrified shriek, and, starting from the bed in his little night-dress, now soiled and torn, he ran and threw himself on his knees before the doctor. another bottle was raised aloft by the long muscular arm of the pirate; but, before you could wink, that arm was arrested, and the missile twisted from his grasp. "for shame, you coward! don't harm the boy. he will die soon enough in this awful den without having his brains dashed out." "ho, _monsieur le docteur_!" muttered the villain, looking as if he would like to taste the heart's-blood of the resolute man who stood before him, as he pushed a hand into his waistcoat pocket, "do you presume to call names and oppose _my_ will?" but, controlling his passion with a violent contortion of face that would have made one's blood run cold to see it, he changed his tone and said, "nonsense, doctor; you seem to take rather a strong interest in the brat--possibly an injudicious one; but, since he is my prize, you know, by law, come--what will you give for him? ah! happy thought, we will play for him! there, deal away, _compadre_. _sota_ and _cavallo_! i take the knave again, and you ten doubloons against the boy on the horse." the doctor said not a word, but nodded assent, and seemed absorbed in the game. "_presto!_ turn the cards, you old sinner! quick! _por dios!_ horse has kicked me, and the knave loses! _monsieur_, the brat is yours!" then starting up, captain brand hastily pulled out his watch, and said, "_hola, caballeros_, the time is up! i must say good-night." don ignaçio's brown thin fingers, like a dentist's steel nippers, laid down the cards, and carefully picked up his winnings, even to the smallest bit of the precious metal, and dropped it piece by piece into his long pouch, following them each with his glittering eye, like a magpie peering into a narrow-necked bottle, and smiling with his wrinkled old lips as the dull chink of the coin fell upon his ear. when he had performed this operation, he tied up the mouth of the bag as if he was choking somebody to death; and then, twitching something which was partly hidden in his sleeve, he arose in readiness to go out. as, however, captain brand turned to follow his _compadre_, he looked carelessly toward the doctor, and said, "by the way, monsieur, i have made up my mind with respect to our conversation to-day, and you _shall_ remain on the island. no thanks. adieu. now, don ignaçio, if your men and boats are at the cove, we will make sharp work with your business. _vamanos!_" chapter xxiii. work. "skeleton hounds that will never be fatter, all the domestic tribes of hell, shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter, bones to shatter, and limbs to scatter, and who it is that must furnish the latter, those blue-looking men know well!" when the pirate stood in his saloon on the morning subsequent to the pleasurable events of the sunday previous, he, as well as his saloon, presented altogether a different aspect. the apartment had been stripped of all its rare and costly furniture, cabinets, candelabra, plate, china, and glass, and nothing of value was left save the camphor trunks on the floor, the cane-bottomed settee, a few chairs, and a table. all the beautiful things, ornamental as well as useful, had disappeared, even to the rich packages of merchandise in the great vault beneath. the late possessor, however, of all that worldly wealth did not appear to be at all discomposed, or to cherish the faintest pang of regret at his loss. in truth, he seemed to be relieved from an uncomfortable load of responsibility; and feeling assured, perhaps, that in roaming about the world he could collect a still more valuable collection--only give him time--and he would exercise his critical taste with every pleasing variety. it was thus he consoled himself as he stood there in his now denuded room, attired in a pair of coarse canvas trowsers, a red flannel shirt, with a short sharp hanger on his hip, and a double-barreled pistol in his belt--quite the costume in which he so singularly shocked doña lucia, whose lovely miniature once hung there on the wall in company with the other miserable victims of his lust. captain brand had just entered his dwelling, having been up and actively occupied ever since we last parted with him. now he had come for a cup of tea and dry toast; and, while babette was bringing that simple breakfast, the pirate stood, tall, erect, and powerful, with one muscular arm resting high above his head on the side of the doorway, and the other lying lightly on the shark's-skin hilt of his cutlass, looking out to seaward--a very model, as he was, of a cool, prudent, desperate villain. "ah! there you go, you crafty old miser, in your guarda costa! take care, my compadre, of that reef. if that felucca's keel touches one of those coral ledges there won't be a tooth-pick left of her in ten minutes. san antonio! but that was a close shave! how the sharks would rasp your bones, for there's no flesh on them! grazed clear, eh? _bueno!_ now you're in blue water, you rapacious scoundrelly old wretch, and make the most of it." captain brand waved his hand in adieu to the felucca, which, with the wind off shore, had crept through the coral gateway, and, with her great lateen sail and green glancing bottom, was rising and falling on the long swell as she slipped away to the eastward. he then gulped down his tea, made one or two savage bites at his toast, and again walked out to the veranda, descended the ladder, and took his course toward the basin. there, too, the scene had changed; and instead of the tranquil, shelly shore, only agitated by the musical rippling from the pure little inlet, the faint cry of a sea-gull, or the chirps of the lizards in the crevices of the rocks across the basin, those sounds had given place to the nimble feet and voices of busy sailors. the "centipede," also, had been towed from her moorings to a jetty which projected into the water from the shore, and there she lay, careened down, her keel half out of the water, with a dozen of her crew scrubbing her lean sides till the green-coated copper came flashing out in the sunlight like burnished gold. with her slanting masts lashed to the jetty, carpenters were engaged reducing the length of the fore-mast, and trimming out a spar for a new bowsprit. the long gun, with its carriage, lay near, and artisans were at work at a temporary forge, hammering out bolts and straps to replace those which were weakened by long service. on the shore, too, were a score or more of the piratical gang--spaniards, negroes, indians, italians, and who not--ferocious-looking scoundrels, busy as bees, splicing and knotting ropes, stretching new rigging, cutting running gear from the coils of hemp or manilla-grass rope, or making spun-yarn and chafing-mats; while beneath the low mat sheds hard by, sail-makers were stitching away with their shining needles, making a set of square sails for the changed rig of the "centipede," or repairing old sails. but this was not all; for in a shed beyond was the armorer, with a few hands, grinding pikes and cutlasses, and cleaning small arms; while farther still was the gunner and his mate, filling powder-cases for the long gun and swivels, and making up musket and pistol ball-cartridges. in the midst of all these busy throngs moved captain brand, hither and thither, from vessel to forge, from sails to rigging, giving clear, sharp directions in various languages--commendation here, reproof there--inspecting with his own cold eyes every thing; judging of all; quick, active, ready; never at a loss for an expedient, and urging on the work like a thorough-bred seaman as he was, who knew his own duty and how to make others do theirs. so went on the refitting of the "centipede," all through the burning hot tropical day; and while the half-exhausted crew took a respite in the scorching noon for dinner, still their leader toiled on. or, if he took a rest, it was in closely scrutinizing the progress made by his men, in puffing a cigar like to a small high-pressure engine, or in clambering up the steep face of the crag to the signal-station, where he would peer away in all directions around the island--never missing the glance of a pelican's pinion or the leap of a fish out of water. then he would return to the cove and begin anew the work. it was no longer the elegant captain brand, in knee-breeches, point-lace sleeves, and velvet doublet, seated at his luxurious table, groaning under splendid plate, fine wines, and brilliant wax-lights, and dispensing a profuse hospitality, but captain brand the pirate, in tarry rig, amid sailors, sails, and cordage, munching a bit of hard biscuit at times, or a cube of salt-junk out of a mess kid, but ever ready, never weary, and always up to the professional mark. at the first gray blush of dawn on the following day captain brand was astir again, and before the sun went down behind the waves the schooner "centipede" had been transformed into a brigantine, her fore-mast reduced, new standing rigging fitted for it, with a new bowsprit and head-booms, her rail raised four or five feet by shifting bulwarks, and a temporary house built on deck over the long gun. she was also painted afresh, with a white streak; and, with false head-boards on her bows to hide her snakelike snout of a cutwater, no one, unless in the secret, could have known that the clumsy box of a merchantman lying there was once the low, swift, piratical schooner which had made so notorious a name in the west indies. still the work was driven on with scarcely any intermission--a few hours' repose for the crew at night, and an hour for dinner in the day; but as for captain brand, he never slept at all--a doze for an hour or two, perhaps, on his settee in the saloon, and a cup of tea in the morning, with cigar-smoke, satisfied his frugal requirements. the next day, by noon, the water and stores were got on board the brigantine, her magazine stowed, the dunnage of the crew transferred from the sheds, the captain's camphor trunks on board and cabin in order, the sails bent, anchors on the bows, and, swinging to a hawser made fast to the rocks, the vessel was ready to put to sea at any moment. "pedillo," said captain brand, as his vigilant gaze took in all around him and then rested on the "centipede"--"pedillo, you may warp the vessel down to the mouth of the tiger's trap so soon as you've strewed some fagots ready for lighting in the sheds. when you get to the trap, tell the gunner to take a gang of hands and give that battery a good coat of coal tar, plug the vents of the guns, and bury carriages and all in the sand beside the magazine. tell him to destroy the powder, and pitch overboard all he can't conceal; and let him bear a hand about it, for we shall sail with the last of the sea-breeze toward sunset. "and, pedillo"--here the pirate's voice dropped to a whisper--"come back after the vessel is secured, and bring that maltese fellow without a nose with you. it will be as well, perhaps, for you to provide yourself with a few fathoms of raw-hide strips, as we may have occasion to use it. _quien sabe?_" señor pedillo's black wiry beard fairly bristled as he grinned understandingly at his superior; and, getting into a bit of a canoe at the jetty, he paddled off to the brigantine to execute his orders. meanwhile captain brand slowly bent his steps toward the house under the crag, and entered his spacious saloon for the last time. on the bare table, too, was his last dinner, served on a few odd dishes and cracked plates. "babette, old girl!" said he, as he sat down to this repast, "you have a bottle of good madeira, and a flask of hock left? no?" the negress shook her head violently, made the sign of the cross, and by other telegraphic motions gave her master to understand that padre ricardo had dropped in, drained both bottles, and then had reeled off on board the brigantine. "the drunken selfish beast!" muttered captain brand; "it will be the last taste of wine he will swallow for a long time." the pirate was quite correct in his schemes for the padre's reform, for the next copious draught the holy father imbibed was the briny salt water from the caribbean sea. "well, my baba, a drop of water, then! thank you, old lady. here's to your health while i am gone. there--you need not blubber so over my hand--good-by!" and so passed away from captain brand's sight the only creature in the wide world who loved him. chapter xxiv. caught in a net. "i closed my lids and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet." captain brand did not linger long over his frugal dinner, and when he had finished, as if he had not had enough exercise for the last three days, he began to walk with long nervous strides across the saloon. "he called me coward, did he? and dared to lay his hands on me! by my right arm, my creole doctor, i'll teach you not to call hard names again, and i'll paralyze your hands for all time to come." the pirate's jaws grated like a rusty bolt as he hissed out these murderous threats; but as his eye caught the squirming green silk rope as he swung round on his heel in his walk, he paused and muttered, "that bit of stuff may be of use. i'll take it by way of precaution." hereupon he rapidly unrove the cord and coiled it away in the bosom of his shirt. then looking at his watch, he said, "ho! the time approaches, and here comes pedillo." lighting a cigar, he left his dwelling for the last time; and, after pausing to hear a report from pedillo that his orders had been executed and the vessel all ready for sea, and whispering a few precise directions in return, captain brand mounted up the steep face of the crag again, and accosted the signal-man at the station. "any thing in sight?" "nothing to the eastward, _capitano_; but it has been a little hazy here away to the southward since meridian, and i can hardly see through it." "_bueno_, my man! give me the glass. you can go on board the brigantine. i'll take a last look myself." while the signal-man scrambled down the crag, captain brand rested the spy-glass on the trunk of the single cocoa-nut-tree, whose skeleton-like fingers of leaves rattled above his head like a gibbeted pirate in chains, and then he searched steadily along the hazy horizon. as he was about, however, to withdraw his eye from the tube, something--a mere dim speck--arrested his attention. quickly dropping the glass, and as rapidly rubbing the large lens and carefully adjusting the joints, he raised it again, as a backwoodsman does his rifle with an indian for a mark. for full five minutes the pirate stood as motionless as the crag beneath him, intently glaring through the tube at the speck in the distance. at last he let the glass fall at his side, and pulling out his watch with a jerk, he muttered to himself, "it is a large and lofty ship; but, should she be a cruiser after me, she will find the bird flown and the nest empty. ho, now for action!" springing down the precipitous declivity as he spoke, he paused a moment at a loophole of the vault beneath his dwelling, and puffing his cigar into a bright coal, he carefully twitched the match-rope which led to the train, opened the loose strands, and placed the fire to it. waiting an instant till he saw the nitre sparkle as it ignited, he moved away with long, swinging strides toward the sheds. there, glancing through the now deserted halls the crew had occupied, where quantities of fagots, and kindling-wood, and barrels of pitch were standing, he continued on till he came to the quarters of the doctor. the doctor was standing at the open door on the thatched piazza, looking quietly at the brigantine, whose sails were loosed, and the vessel hanging by a sternfast, with her head just abreast the tiger's trap. "ah! _monsieur le docteur_, i have merely called to bid you a final adieu before i go on board; and as i have a few moments left, and a few words to say, suppose you walk with me toward the chapel. _allons!_ there is a suspicious sail off there," waving his glass in the direction, "and i wish to take a good look at her." "doctor," continued captain brand, as they reached the little esplanade facing the graves and church, "you will have no one left here on our island save our dumb babette, and the chances are rather remote for your getting away, without, perhaps, some of the west india fleet should happen to drop in here, which i do not think probable. i rely, however, upon your keeping your oath, even if they do come, and not betraying the secrets you are acquainted with." the pirate said this in an off-hand, friendly way, as he had his glass leveled toward the sail he saw in the offing. "captain brand," replied the doctor, "i was deceived in coming here, as you well know; but i shall religiously keep my oath for the twenty years, as i swore to do. after that, if we both live so long, my tongue and arm shall speak and strike." the pirate stepped back a little as he shut up the joints of the spy-glass with a crash, and, with a scowl of hate and vengeance combined, he said, in a loud voice, while his cold eyes gleamed like a ray of sunlight on an iceberg, "and i, too, keep my oaths; and, without waiting twenty years, i strike now!" even while the treacherous villain spoke, two swarthy, sinewy scoundrels crept stealthily from within the chapel, and, with the soft, slimy movements of serpents, as their leader uttered the last word, they sprang at the back of the doctor, and wound their coils around him, twining strong strands of raw-hide rope about his arms, legs, and body. bound as in a frame of elastic steel, their victim was thrown, face downward, upon the sand. "be quick, pedillo! the time is flying! gomez, bring the corpse trestle from the chapel." in a moment a wooden frame with legs, and stretched across with a bed of light wire, which had been used to carry the mortal remains of the pirates--and the poor women, too, beside them--to their last resting-places, was brought out from the little church. then the bound victim was laid on it, face upward; again the hide thongs were passed in numerous plaits until the body was lashed firmly to the trestle. "place it on the edge of that rock there, with his head toward the cocoa-nut-tree. take this silk rope, gomez, and clove-hitch it well up the trunk. there, that will do. i myself will perform the last act of politeness." saying this, the pirate widened the noose of the cord, and, slipping it over the doctor's head, he placed the knot carefully under his left ear. the victim gave no groan or sigh, and his dark, luminous eyes were fixed on the blue sky above him in heaven. "_monsieur le docteur_," said captain brand, as he hurriedly looked at his watch and raised his hat, "i have but one word of caution to give you: if you struggle you will have your neck broken before you are stung to death! talk as much as you like; but, as babette is a long way off, and hard of hearing, i doubt if she comes to your assistance! adieu!" [illustration: "a dull, heavy, booming roar, that shook the crag to its base, announced the ruin of the pirates' den."] the retreating figures went leaping toward the inlet, and, as they rushed through the sheds, applied a torch to the combustible material deposited there, and then sprang on toward the tiger's trap. a few minutes afterward the doctor turned his eyes in that direction, and saw the sails of the brigantine sheeted home and run up like magic; and, taking the last breath of the sea-breeze on her quarter, the sternfast was cast off, and she slipped easily out of the gorge-like channel. still, as those dark stern eyes watched the receding hull of the "centipede," a sudden jar shook the island, a heavy column of white smoke rose from below the crag like a water-spout, and, spreading out like a palm-tree, came down in a deluge of timber, stones, and dust, while sheets of vivid flame leaped out from the gloom, and an awful peal, followed by a heavy, booming roar, that shook the crag to its base, announced the ruin of the pirate's den. at the same time the red fires gleamed in fitful flashes from the sheds, and, rapidly making headway, all at once burst forth in wild conflagration, till the whole nest was wrapped in flames. the shock of the explosion and the fires killed the wind, and a lurid pall of smoke and cinders hung like a gloomy canopy over the island. chapter xxv. the mouse that gnawed the net. "there passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when, looking westward, i beheld a something in the sky." as the powder vomited forth its dreadful thunder, and as the stones and timbers from the blasted den were hurled high in air, and scattered by the explosive whirlwind far and near, some of the splinters and fragments came down in dropping hail upon the red-tiled sheds and the doctor's dwelling. at the first shock the lonely child started up in his little bed, and while the earth rocked and the stones came pelting and crashing on the roof, he screamed, "mamma! mamma!" no loving echo came back to those innocent lips, and naught was heard save the crackling of the flame beyond, licking its tongue along the dry timber and roaring joyously as it was fed. "mamma! _chère_ mamma!" yet no answer, and still the savage flames came careering wildly on till the very stones of the court-yard cracked like slates, while the burning flakes and cinders loaded the air, and the eddying volumes of smoke reeled in dense clouds, and poured their suffocating breath into the room where the forsaken child was crying. one more panting, helpless cry, and the little fellow instinctively flew through the open doorway, where, blinded and choking with the devastating element around him, he staggered feebly beyond its influence. yet again a flurry of thick smoke lighted up the forked and vivid flames, and chased the child before it. oh, fond mother! in your poignant grief for the loss of your poor drowned boy, you were spared the agony of seeing him, even in imagination, struggling faintly before that tempest of fire and smoke, calling plaintively for her on whose tender bosom his head had rested, while his naked feet were cut and bruised by the sharp coral shingle beneath them. but onward and onward the boy wandered, and fortunately his footsteps took the path into a purer atmosphere which led toward the chapel. here he looked timidly around at the lurid glare behind him, and then entered the church and sank down exhausted, his feverish, smarting eyes closing in slumber on the hard pavement beneath the image of the virgin mary. then came the close and sultry night--no murmur of a land-wind to drive the smoky canopy away--the black cinders falling in burning rain on basin, thicket, and lagoon, till even the very lizards and scorpions hid themselves deep within the holes and crevices of the rocks. midnight came. the dim and silent stars were obscured by a veil of heavy clouds, and with a low, muttering sound of thunder, the vapory masses unclosed their portals, and the rain fell in torrents. the flames, now nearly satisfied with their work, leaped out occasionally from the fallen ruins, but were quenched by the tropical deluge, and smouldered away amid the charred and saturated timbers. then the thunder ceased, the lizards and scorpions came from their retreats, the teal fluttered over the lagoon, and the noise of the waves bursting over the reef came again to the ear. still there was no breath of air; the atmosphere was thick and damp; and out from the mangrove thickets and wide expanse of cactus, swarms of insects, musquitoes, and sand-flies in myriads went buzzing and singing in the sultry, murky night. so dragged on the weary hours until day broke again, and the sea-birds floated off seaward for their morning's meal, and the flying-fish skipped with their silvery wings from wave to wave, as the dolphins glittered in gold and purple after them below the blue water. no bright and blazing sun came over the hills of cuba to light up this picture, but all was blight and gloom, with murky masses of dead, still clouds hanging low down over the island. the little suffering boy, lying there on the coral pavement, with his head resting on the thin, delicate arm, with pale, sweet face turned half upward toward the virgin, gave a feeble cry and opened his eyes. he rose to a sitting posture, with his little hands resting on his lap and little ragged shirt. then, with his dim hazel eyes fixed upon the painting, while the tears coursed slowly down his pallid cheeks, he put forth his hands in a childish movement of supplication, and murmured again his tearful prayer, "mamma! mamma!" presently rising, he turned his feeble footsteps toward the doorway, and as his eye caught the stone bowl of holy water standing on its coral pedestal near the portal, he bent down his feverish head and slaked his parched lips. revived by this, he timidly looked out from the chapel, and shuddering as he beheld the gloomy wilderness around, he once more screamed in a thin piercing cry, "mamma! oh, _ma chère_ mamma!" that was the last sad wail for help for many and many a long year that those infant lips were destined to utter; and when he again called upon that dear name, his manly arms would clasp a joyful mother to his swelling heart. "henri!" came back like an echo in a clear shout to the shriek of the boy. "henri! henri!" was reiterated again and again, each time in a voice that seemed to split asunder the canopy of clouds above. the boy started and listened. "henri! henri! this way to your good friend the doctor! quick, my little boy!" now with the step of a fawn the child ran out upon the sharp sandy esplanade, and following the voice as he tripped lightly through the narrow pathway between the needle-pointed cactus, in a moment he stopped, with a look of horror, beside the trestle on which the bound and nearly naked man was stretched. ay, it was a sight to make a strong and stalwart man turn pale with sickness and horror, much less a baby-boy of three or four years old. there lay the man, all through the dreadful night, with swarms on swarms and myriads upon myriads of stinging insects, biting and sipping, and sucking his life-blood with distracting agony away. ah! think of the hellish torture often practiced by those bloody pirates upon their victims in the west indies! the bound man's eyes were closed, the lips and cheeks puffed and swollen out of all human proportions, and the inflamed body was one glowing red and angry surface. no needle could have been stuck where the venomous stings of a thousand sand-flies or musquitoes had not already sucked blood. ay, well might the child start back with horror! "it is your friend the doctor, henri," he said in french, still in a strong but kindly voice. "i can not see you, but get me a knife. no, my child, never mind--you can not find one; don't leave me." here the child timidly put his little hands out and brushed away the poisonous insects, and then touched the doctor's face. "ah! henri, see if you can not slip that pretty silk rope over my head; yes, that is the way--_doucement_--easily, my child! well, now, my henri, you are weak and sick, my poor little boy; but listen to me--yes, i feel your little hands on my eyes. well, bite upon that cord that goes across my throat. bite till it snaps asunder! i am nearly choking, little one; but don't cry." true, the strips of raw-hide, which had partially slackened in the rain that had washed the body of the victim, now began to tauten again in the sultry heat of the morning, and lay half hidden in the swollen throat, stomach, and limbs of the tortured sufferer. henri's sharp little teeth fastened upon the strand, biting and gnawing, until finally it was severed, and the doctor gave a great sigh of relief. [illustration: "ah! henri, see if you can not slip that pretty silk rope over my head."] "blessings on you, my poor boy!" he murmured, painfully. "now bite away on the strands which bind the arm. there! don't! don't hurry! rest a little, my child! ah! it is well!" again those sharp little teeth of a mouse had gnawed through the net which bound the lion-hearted man; the ends of the raw-hide drew back and twisted into spiral curls, and the right arm, though numbed and four times its original size, was free. "thanks be to god for all his mercies!" exclaimed the doctor, as with difficulty he raised his released arm to his face and pushed back the swollen lids from his closed eyes--"and to you, my little friend, for saving this wretched life!" waiting a few moments to recover his strength, the doctor made a mighty effort, and some of the coils whose strands had been cut by those little teeth yielded and gradually unrove, so as to leave the upper part of his body free. then, while the child was once more cutting the lashings of his feet, he himself unfastened the knots of his left arm, and by a vigorous effort he tore the net from off him and sat upright. clasping his numbed and swollen hands together, he turned his face and almost sightless eyes to heaven. "may this awful trial serve as a partial forgiveness of my sins, and make me a better man!" he paused, and laid his heavy arms around the child, while warm and grateful tears trickled down his cheeks. slowly, and like a drunken man, his feet sought the sand, and then, weak, trembling, and faint, he staggered along the path, the boy tripping lightly before him, till he fell exhausted on the floor of the chapel. "water, my henri! water!" the child scooped it out from the stone bowl with his tiny hands and sprinkled it on his friend's face. "there, that will suffice, my brave boy! lay your cheek to mine!" what a sight it was--that dark, swollen, yet powerful frame lying on the coral pavement, and the innocent child, like a dewdrop on the leaf of a red tropical flower, nestling close beside it! chapter xxvi. the hurricane. "'twas off the wash--the sun went down--the sea looked black and grim, for stormy clouds with murky fleece were mustering at the brim; titanic shades! enormous gloom! as if the solid night of erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light! it was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye, with such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!" past a september noon. the great canopy of dark, murky clouds fell lower and lower, until they nearly touched the earth, wrapping as in a blanket the single cocoa-nut-tree on the crag, and shutting out the light and air of heaven as they settled over the noxious lagoon, the mangrove thickets, and pure inlet. the sea-birds came screaming in from seaward, fluttering their wide-spread wings in the sultry atmosphere, and alighting on the smooth rocks, where they furled their pinions and put their heads together. the flying-fish no longer skimmed over the waves, and the dolphin and shark sank deep down in the blue water, or lay still and quiet beside the coral groves. the rolling, swelling ocean of the tropic, with its glassy, greasy surface unruffled by the faintest air, rolled heavily on until it struck the coral ledge, when, with a dull, heavy roar, it broke over in creamy foam, and came sluggishly in to the sandy beach. there the tiny waves lashed the shelly strand, and all was still again. no sun; no breeze; and even the birds, and serpents, and insects gasped for breath. the fish below the sea, the animated nature above, and the very leaves and vines of the forests and thickets knew what was brewing in the great vacuum around. slowly and painfully the man in the chapel regained his feet, and with the child by the hand, moved on to the farthest corner by the rude altar, where he sank down again, and, clasping the boy to his heart, waited in breathless awe. as if the powder and flames had not done their destructive work, the wrath of heaven was to be poured out over the devoted den of the pirates. then came a bellowing roar as a current of wind swept over the sea, cutting a pathway in the blue water, and scooping it up in an impalpable mist, hurrying on to the low beach of the island, and tearing the sand and shells up in heaps--and then a lull. now, as if all the demons of winds had let loose their cavernous lungs from the four quarters of the earth, and like the shocks of artillery, volley upon volley, came the hurricane. the sea became one boiling, seething, hissing surface of foam, pressed and flattened by the weight of the tempest, which laid the black rocks bare on the ledge, and drove the water into both mouths of the inlet, until, with a crashing shock, it met in the basin, and broke over and over the cove, and high up the wall of rocks on the other side. two or three streams of whirlwind meeting, too, over the island, drove the lagoon hither and thither, catching up the white pond-lilies by their long stems, twisting off the dense thickets of mangroves by the roots, burrowing holes in the sandy beds of the cactus, and shearing off their flat, thorny leaves and needle points by the acre together; then a rushing whirl around the cocoa-nuts, bowing their tufted tops at first till they nearly touched the earth, when, the stout trunks snapping like glass, they would go pitching and tossing from base to crown, careering and dancing aloft, borne away with sand and mangrove, cactus, flowers, and sticks, into the flying clouds before the hurricane. then another lull; and from the opposite direction again thundered the terrible breath of the demons, sweeping thousands of sea-birds, with broken pinions, screaming amid the gale, hurling them against the crag, stripping the feathers from their crushed carcasses, and in a moment burying them a foot deep in clouds of sand. no more pauses or lulls now in the hurtling tempest; but with a steady, tremendous roar, which made the earth tremble, the rocks quake, and laid every vestige of vegetation flat to the ground, it came on mightier and mightier, and fiercer and fiercer, with black masses of never-ending clouds sweeping close down like dark midnight, as if heaven and earth had come together. all through the gloomy day and through the night this elemental war, with its legions of careering demons, continued to lash the sea and smite the land; until, as if satiated with vengeance, the clouds belched forth in red lightning, vomiting out peal upon peal of awful thunder as a parting salute, and then, moderating down to a hard gale from another quarter, broke away. the blue sky appeared, and the glorious sun once more came up in his majesty over the distant hills of cuba. chapter xxvii. the virgin mary. "a weary weed, tossed to and fro, drearily drenched in the ocean brine, soaring high and sinking low, lashed along without will of mine; sport of the spoom of the surging sea; flung on the foam, afar and near, mark my manifold mystery-- growth and grace in their place appear." with the boy clasped to his heart, the doctor sat beside the altar of the chapel during all the direful strife without, shielding his little charge from the clouds of fine sand and rubbish that every few minutes came swirling within the temple, dashing the padre's candlesticks into battered lumps of brass on the pavement, and tearing to atoms the votive offerings hung around the walls by the pirates. but, as if in mercy to the trustful souls lying there, the virgin mary still looked down in sweet pity upon them, and the little chapel stood unharmed. when at last, however, the hurricane's back was broken, and Æolus had reined up his maddened chargers and curbed their flying wings, and when all the demons of the wind had gone moaningly back to their caverns in the clouds, the doctor arose, and with the boy beside him, knelt devoutly before the altar while he uttered a fervent prayer of thanksgiving. "come, my henri, now we may go out and see if we can find something to eat and drink. you are weak and hungry, my poor little boy; but you shall not suffer much longer." that strong man, with the heart of a gentle woman, had no thought of how ill, and famished, and thirsty he himself was from the terrible torture he had endured. no, he only thought of the child who had saved him. in front of the chapel the sand and bushes were piled up in ridgy heaps, the coral wall around the cemetery had been thrown down, while the flat head-stones over the pirates' graves had disappeared entirely. not so, however, with the white slabs near by where those poor doomed women were lying; for the hurricane had spared their tombs, and a pall of pure white sand was sprinkled evenly over their remains. bending over them was the trunk of the cocoa-nut, with its top stripped and its leafless branches quivering in the wind; while from below them streamed out the long, thin green silk rope which had so often served captain brand, the pirate, for his private executions. near at hand lay the trestle on which the doctor had been stretched--caught by the base of the cocoa-nut column, and half buried in sand--while the cruel strips of raw-hide which had lashed the victim down were tied and twisted into a maze of complicated knots by the nimble fingers of the winds. the doctor started, and his half-closed eyes shot out gleams of anger as he beheld the unconscious implements designed for his torturing murder; and leaving the child at the doorway to the chapel, he sallied out, detached the rope, loosened the trestle from its sandy bed, and placed them in a corner of the chapel. then carefully picking his way, with the boy in his great arms, over the trees and débris which obstructed the pathway, he speedily reached the site on which had stood the sheds of the "centipede's" crew. fire, water, and wind had done their work effectually, though the fire had partially spared the detached storehouse and shed which he had shared with the infamous padre. all else was a ruin of loose blocks of stone, broken tiles, nearly buried in banks of sand. from a well in the once busy court-yard, and which had also escaped the devouring elements, the doctor drew a bucket or two of water, in which he slaked the boy's thirst and then his own, and afterward poured water over their bodies. then, from a still smouldering beam which puffed out at intervals a thin curl of smoke from beneath one of the sheds, he lit a fire in the court-yard, while from the wreck of the storeroom he succeeded in rescuing some hard biscuit and a ham. this last he tore in shreds, and placing them on sticks before the fire, they were thus enabled to make a hearty meal, first providing for the wants of the child, however--soaking the biscuit for him, as if it were his first duty on earth. again raising the boy in his arms, he passed from the ruined sheds and bent his steps toward captain brand's former dwelling. the road was heaped with shells and sand, strewed with shoals of dead fish and wounded or dying birds, while the wreck of a boat, mingled with the timbers and planks of the jetty to the basin, were lying pell-mell on the beach of the little cove. casting his eyes around in search of the once spacious dwelling, with its vaults, veranda, and saloon, he could hardly at first trace a vestige of the structure. the powder, more destructive even than the hurricane, had tossed walls and building into a confused heap of rubbish; then came the wind and sand on top of the rocks which had tumbled down by the concussion of the first explosion, and then the water, packing all together as if no habitation had ever existed there. the doctor walked slowly around until he came to the angle where the kitchen once was, and there, three fourths hidden beneath a mass of blackened stones and charred timber, peered forth the white skeleton of a human being. the flesh had been seared and burned from the face and skull by the instantaneous flash of the powder, and there lay the remains of babette, whitely bleached, as if she had been thrown a lifeless corpse on the sea-beach. a few yards below this frightful spectacle lay a number of shattered boxes and trunks, then a confused bundle of clothes, and a sandy saturated collection of kitchen utensils and crockery. yes, the poor dumb woman, the creature and witness of many a cruel scene, ignorant or uncertain of the warning given her by the master she loved, had fallen another tribute to his long list of victims. the doctor only waited long enough to select a few necessary articles from the heterogeneous heap before him, and then, with the child still clinging contentedly to his shoulder, he returned to the chapel. chapter xxviii. the ark that jack built. "good heaven, befriend that little boat, and guide her on her way! a boat, they say, has canvas wings, but can not fly away; though, like a merry singing-bird, she sits upon the spray." the land wind sighed and murmured; the sea-breeze wafted its rustling influence over the waves; the long swells broke over the ledge; the inlet flowed pure and limpid; and the gulls and sea-mews floated gracefully over the reef, as if a hurricane had never poured its baneful wrath upon it or the lonely island. day by day and week by week, the man and boy, getting each hour stronger and better, worked and worked. he with his great arms hewing and sawing, and the child attending upon him like a shadow. by great toil and exertion the doctor had succeeded in placing some of the timbers of the jetty together as launching-ways, and on the cradle he had laid the wreck of the old boat. then, with an old saw and some tools he found near the site of the mat sheds by the cove, he began to build the frail ark which was to carry him and the child from the hated island. from the storehouse, too, he obtained plenty of provisions to supply their wants, and old sails and rope he found in abundance. babette's collection of worldly wealth provided them with linen and clothing, together with utensils for eating and drinking; and he had made their dwelling in the little chapel clean and habitable. here they slept by night on an old sail, and soundly too, the sleep of repentance and innocence. with the early morning the man and the boy arose, and took their way to the cove. the little fellow was clean and tidy now, dressed in a little loose calico frock, and a queer contrivance of an old bonnet fashioned out of babette's gear, and on his feet were a pair of little canvas slippers, stitched for him by his protector. after a bath in the basin of the inlet the fire was kindled, and the simple breakfast prepared. then, while the strong man hewed, and sawed, and hammered beneath a temporary awning which covered the open workshop, the boy would pick up shells along the cove, or with a little rod and line, seated on a flat rock near by, jerk out fish from the basin to serve for dinner. sometimes he would wander about in search of nails and spikes for the boat, or gather sticks for the fire, but never out of hail, and never beyond the watchful eyes of his friend. yes, those watchful, kind eyes followed his slightest movements; and while the hammer was going in vigorous blows on the planks, or the axe chipping away a timber, his pleasant voice sang creole songs to the child, or encouraged his innocent prattle. a loaded musket, which, with some ammunition, he had dug out from the wreck of his old quarters, stood leaning against an upright post under the shade, and woe to the man or beast that might have dared to approach the boy! in the burning heat of the tropical day the labor ceased, and the child either lay on his back on the soft sand beneath the awning, kicking up his little legs, watching the small gulls as they skimmed across the basin, or, with his brown curly head resting on the doctor's knees, slept sweetly. happy and contented he was, too, with the return of health and strength; and if his budding memory looked back to her he had lost, and the recollection of his faithful banou, it was only for a moment, and, like a childish dream, it passed away. [illustration: building the boat.] every evening at sunset, when the work was done for the day, the doctor, with henri in his arms and the musket on his shoulder, would climb the crag, and peer all around the island; but never a sail did he see from the hour the "centipede" spread her canvas, while he lay helplessly bound on the trestle with the green noose around his neck. as the twilight faded, the sole human occupants of the island returned to the chapel, and when they had said a simple prayer, kneeling before the virgin, they laid themselves down on their canvas bed to rest till the dawn. many a silent hour in the watches of the tedious night did the doctor lie awake, while the cool sweet breath of the child fanned his cheek as he lay nestling beside him, pondering and wondering on the fate of his charge. he knew absolutely nothing about his history save that he had been pitched overboard from the brig the pirates were robbing; but what was the name or nation of the vessel, where from, or whither bound, he was in utter ignorance. he had questioned the leader gibbs on that occasion after the chase by the corvette, when he had lopped off the brute's leg; but, what with suffering and drink, the ruffian had either forgotten the brig's name, or feigned to, and all he could impart was the belief that she was an english trader. even from the boy, too, the doctor could elicit nothing of importance, though day by day he tried every means of leading the child's mind back to the past, but always with the same result. "_oui, ma chère mama! bon banou!_" and "_ma petite cousine, rosalie!_" these were the only words the little fellow had to link his fate with the future, and even they became fainter and fainter on his mind and tongue as the time passed on. with this delicate web around the destiny of the child, and that he spoke french, and had evidently been tenderly nurtured, the doctor was forced to be content. well, so the days and nights went by, and so the work went on, and the little ark began to assume a wholesome look, and to be capable of plowing the distant main. then, when she was planked up, with a gunwale on, and half-decked over forward, she was calked, and the seams payed with pitch. when all ready for launching, early one morning the doctor and the boy went gayly down to the cove. there, as the first golden rays of the rising sun shot athwart the inlet, henri stood up in the bows, and with a large pearl-shell of pure spring water, he waved his tattered bonnet round his curly locks, and with childish delight, as the vessel began to move, he emptied the shell of its sparkling treasure, shouting, as she slid off the ways into the basin, "_ma petite cousine rosalie!_" the builder, too, took off his hat and shouted, in his deep bass, till the rocks gave back the echo of "_rosalie! rosalie!_" thus was the ark launched and christened by her captain and crew, and there she rode on the basin, a little pinnace of about ten tons, which had been once used to carry anchors, chains, and stores about the harbor. a week or two more, and she was fitted with a single mast, stepped well in the bows, for a jib and one square lug-sail. then ballast in bags of sand was laid along her keelson, and a couple of breakers of fresh water got on board, together with a quantity of cooked salt meat and hard biscuit stowed away under the half-deck forward--where, too, was a cozy little nest of spare canvas, with an oakum pillow, for the boy! yes, there lay the good ship "rosalie," outward bound, with sails bent and gear rove, cargo on board, and waiting for a wind. meanwhile the doctor had tried her under sail, and satisfied himself that every thing worked well, and that she was in proper trim. then he moored her within a fathom from the shore, and waited for a moon to light him on his voyage. whither? carefully, too--like one who had passed a lifetime on the ocean, from the china seas to the broad atlantic, under the suns of the tropics as well as in the dim gloom of high latitudes--the doctor studied the clouds and watched their course, noting the flight of the birds in the air and the track of fish in the sea. at last the trade breezes began to blow regularly and steadily; the land winds, too, in the gray of the morning, fluttered timidly away out to sea, and the round pearly moon shone bright and mellow over rock and water. "to-morrow, my brave boy, we shall sail away from the island. ah! you clap your hands, eh? yes, we shall go to find mamma!" this was said as man and child stood for the last time on the lofty crag, while the former ranged his dark eyes scrutinizingly around the horizon. nothing in sight! once more to their chapel of refuge, where, for the first time in all their association, putting the child to sleep by himself, the doctor sat down on the trestle by the entrance, and, lighted by the brilliant moon, he caught up the tangled mazes of the hide net which had bound him, and sedulously applied himself to a task before him. any one who has seen the effect produced by a violent gale upon the tattered shreds of a shivered main-top-sail, bound up into the most tortuous knots that it is possible to conceive of, and so hard and solid that you might saw the canvas balls in slices like boards, may form some idea of the task the doctor had imposed upon himself to loosen the hide strands tied together by the furious fingers of the hurricane. patiently and quietly, with no sign of temper, he applied himself to the work, and with nothing but a sharp-pointed spike to aid his hands, he began to unravel, bit by bit, the laced knots and bunches of raw-hide, without ever cutting a strand, until, as the moon sank glimmering down, the tangled mass lay in clear coils beside him--though in several pieces, where it had been severed by the teeth of that little mouse purring behind the altar--and the task was done. then raising the trestle, he bore it within the altar, and with the now unraveled coil of hide, and the softer silk rope for a pillow, he again stretched himself upon what once had been his bed of torture. for what possible object all this labor had been undertaken, or for what future purpose--vague they must have been--no one but the persevering man who did it can tell; and there he lay, no sound coming from his compressed lips till the day dawned. then he arose, and, kneeling over the sleeping child, he again solemnly repeated the oath he had before taken in his hut-- "sleeping or waking, on land or sea, i devote the remainder of my wretched life to returning this lost child to his mother. so help me god!" the little boy stirred, as if the angels and the sweet virgin were whispering their protecting power over him, and, with a smile dawning upon his rosy, dimpled cheeks, he raised the lids from his bright hazel eyes, and put his fat round arms around the doctor's neck. if two great drops fell upon that upturned innocent little face from the dark full eyes bending over him, they were not tears of sorrow! oh, no! it was the dew of hope and trustfulness falling from the soul of a repentant sinner relying upon an all-wise providence. "come, my henri, say your little prayer of the morning, and we will go." the man had taught the child that little prayer which he himself had learned at his mother's knee. up again to the crag, and down to the shelly margin of the shore; and a long look the man gave at the ruin of shed and den, as he gently placed the child on a sand-bag in the stern-sheets of the ark. then he cast off the rope which held the vessel to the hated strand, hoisted the sail, and, as she bubbled along the inlet with the first sigh of the land wind, he stood at the helm with his bare head lighted up by the beams of the rising sun, and his lips moved in prayer. on, noiselessly through the tiger's trap sailed the little pinnace till she bowed her rugged cutwater in the yielding waves, and with her square lug-sail swelling gently to the freshening breeze, she held her course to sea. i question much if the stanch brigantine, named the "centipede," which had preceded her through this tiger's gorge, with all the ruffianly crew that manned her, and their villainous captain on her quarter-deck, stood half the chance of a prosperous voyage as the tiny ark, called the "rosalie," which followed, with her noble, brave commander, and his weak and boyish mate. who can tell? end of part i. part ii. chapter xxix. laying up the strands. "ever drifting, drifting, drifting on the shifting currents of the restless main, till in sheltered coves and reaches of sandy beaches, all have found repose again." it was in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and twenty-two, and in the broad and commodious harbor of kingston, a great mercantile haven, crowded with shipping from all parts of the commercial globe; landlocked by reef and ridge, with the rocks and heights crowned by frowning batteries of heavy cannon; while beyond were spread the lower and upper town, in masses of low two-story buildings, with piazzas, bright green jalousies, stately palm, tamarind, and cocoa-nut-trees waving above them. at the mouth of the harbor strait, where stands fort augusta, lay a magnificent double-banked american frigate, with a broad blue swallow-tailed pennant at her main, standing out stiff, like a dog-vane, from the lofty mast, as the ship rode to the strong sea-breeze. the stays and rigging came down from trucks, cross-trees, and tops in straight black lines, from the great length of lower masts and enormously square yards fore and aft; and from side to side, till they met the long majestic hull and taper head-booms; while below were two rows of ports, with the guns run out and the brass tompions gleaming in their muzzles. the awnings were spread in one flat extended sheet of white cotton canvas from bowsprit to taffrail, and from the wide-spread lower booms at the fore-chains boats were riding by their painters. within a cable's length of the frigate's black quarter lay a low rakish schooner, like a minnow alongside a whale, with a thin little coach-whip streaming from her main-mast head, a long brass gun amidships, and looking as trig and tidy as a french maid beside her portly mistress. the bell struck in twin notes _eight_ on board the frigate, echoed back from the pigmy schooner in a faint, double succession of tinkles; the whistles resounded from deck to deck in ear-splitting notes, surging and chirruping all together, and then suddenly ceasing with a rattling beat of a drum and a short bellow of "grog, ho!" between the guns of the main deck, and about the spar-deck battery forward of the main-mast, sat five hundred lusty sailors on the white decks around their mess-cloths, bolting hot pea soup after their grog, and chatting and laughing in a devil-may-care sort of a strain, as if the grub was good and the timbers sound, as they were, of the stanch frigate beneath them. no noise, no confusion, but just as polite and courteous, in their honest, seamanlike way, as half a legion of french dancing-masters, they whacked off the salt pork before them with their sheath-knives, munching the flinty biscuit, and all as happy and careless of the past and future as clams at high water. ay, there they clustered, those five hundred sailors, in their snowy duck trowsers and white, coarse linen frocks, with the blue collars laid square back over their broad shoulders, exposing their bronzed and hairy throats, wagging their jaws, and ready at any moment, at the tap of the drum, day or night, to spring to the guns, and make the battery dance a jig as the solid iron food went amid sheets of flame toward a foe. yes, and ready, too, in the gentle breeze or the howling tempest, to leap at the shrill pipe of the whistle from the busy deck or their snug hammocks, and, like so many monkeys, jump up the shrouds, lie out on the enormous yards while the frigate was plunging bows under in the tumultuous seas, grasp the writhing canvas in their sinewy paws, and wrap it up close and tight in the hempen gaskets. man-of-war sailors, for battle, or gale, or spree, every one of them. on board that little consort near were about forty more of the same sort, only older, more bronzed, and more deliberate and methodical in manner, sipping their pea pottage after blowing away the steam, cutting their pork after much reflection, and cracking their biscuit tranquilly. their conversation, too, was slow and dignified, each word well considered before it came out, and never interrupting one another in a yarn, as did the younger harum-scarum chaps in the big ship near. but yet those weather-beaten old sons of neptune, who had each one of them seen sights that would make your hair stand on end to think of, could handle that schooner when her low deck was buried waist-deep to the combings of the main hatch in angry water, and make that long tom amidships there spin round on its pivot, and never threw away idly one of its solid globular messengers. ay, trust them for that. then honor to them all, those gallant tars who have fought the battles of our country by sea and lake, and upheld those stars and stripes until they are respected to the uttermost ends of the earth! glory to them, ye wise legislators, who sit in council upon the nation's wealth and grandeur! think of the fearless arms that have shielded your otherwise unprotected shores when circled in a ring of dreadful fire from the guns of a haughty foe. [illustration: the united states frigate "monongahela."] and you, too, ye rich traders! whose valuable cargoes roll hither and thither over the trackless deep, cared for by those toiling tars who fight and bleed for the flag that waves o'er your treasure--in stinging gale, with frozen fingers, or under burning suns, with panting breasts--think of them when your noble ships come gallantly into your superb ports, and unlade their floating mines of wealth into your spacious warehouses, while you in your lordly mansions sip your wine! think of those arms grasping the shivering sail in the mighty tempest, in the black night, and the coarse fare they eat, the sometimes putrid water they drink, and the hard beds they lie upon, while you are reposing on downy pillows with your wives and little ones beside you! ah! take pity on the sailor, and scatter your shining gold over him in his distress. when the time comes, as come it may, when the cannon of a hostile fleet are thundering at your ports; when your lumbering craft are flying before the rapacious grasp of quick-heeled cruisers, and fiery bombs are hissing through the pure air, bursting in your marble palaces and blasting your stores of wealth to dust, _then_ you will turn with blanched faces to the sea, and wonder why you have so long forgotten the noble hearts and stalwart arms that once were thrown around you. but not before. on the flush quarter-deck of the frigate, by the raised signal lockers abaft, stood a bronzed old quarter-master, a spy-glass resting on his arm, through which every minute he peered around the harbor, giving an eye, too, occasionally to the half-hour glass, whose sands dribbled steadily into the lower bulb on the locker beside him. what cared he--no wife or child to cheer him! no cares save but to see that the ensign did not roll foul of the halyards, that the broad pennant blew out straight, that the half-hour glass did not need turning, and that no boat approached the frigate without his reporting it to the officer of the watch. naught else save, perhaps, whether the other old quarter-master, charley holmes, down below there on the gun-deck, had wiped from his lips the moisture of the midday grog, and would be up in time to take the relief while the pea soup was warm. nothing else. the lieutenant of the watch briskly paced the solid deck, scrubbed white as milk with lime-juice and molasses, the even seams between the planks glistening like the strands of a girl's raven tresses as his profane and rapid feet pressed upon them. what thought he in his careless walk, with the gleaming bunch of bullion on his right shoulder, sword by his side, white trowsers, and gilt eagle buttons on his navy-blue coat? he was thinking how his pittance of pay would support, in a scrimpy way, his poor mother and sister, who looked unto him as their only hope and refuge. and he thought, too, as he tramped that noble deck, made glorious by many a battle and victory in which he had borne a humble part, that his rich and powerful country would eventually reward him with increased pay and promotion. were the single dollar which lay alone in his trowsers pocket, and the light mist which arose off there beyond the apostles' battery, opposite port royal harbor, an evidence of one or a sign of the last aspiration? we hope not; but we shall see.[*] three or four midshipmen, too, pranced over that frigate's white quarter-deck, on the port side, in their blue jackets and duck trowsers. little gay madcaps they were, scarcely well into their teens, with little glittering toasting-forks of dirks dangling at their sides, and ready for any lark or mischief. and what thought those boyish imps of reefers? did they trace the flight of that tropic man-of-war bird, sailing high up in the heavens, heading seaward, away into the distant future, through clouds and sunshine, rain and storm? and did they think, as they fluttered along the deck, that their own career might lead them in that direction, toward the star of promotion which shone so brightly near at hand, and was never reached; or else, by a chance shot, to come tumbling down with a crippled pinion, and hobble out their lives on shore? no. those gay young blades, whose mothers were dreaming and sighing for them, had no reflections of that kind. they were chattering about the little frolic they had on their last liberty day, when the captain ordered them off to the frigate at sunset, and planning another for the week to come. happy little scamps, let them dance their careless thoughts away! "two bells, sir," said the quarter-master to the officer of the watch. "very good! young gentlemen, tell the boatswain to turn the hands to, and have the barge manned. let the first lieutenant and the marine officer know that the commodore is going to leave the ship. there, no larking on the quarter-deck, mr. mouse!" this last command was addressed to a tiny youngster who was hardly big enough to go without pantalettes, much less to wear a jacket and order half a hundred huge sailors about, any one of whom was old enough to be his great-grandfather. but yet that small lad did it, and could steer a boat, too, or fly about like a ribbon in a high wind up there in the mizzen-top, while the men on the yard were taking the last reef in the top-sail. "go down to the cabin, sir, and let the commodore and his friend know the boat is ready." down the ladder skipped mr. mouse, and while he was gone, the guard, in their white summer uniform and cross-belts, stood at ease, resting on their muskets on the quarter-deck, eight side-boys and the boatswain at the starboard gangway, with the first lieutenant and the officer of the watch standing near. presently there came up from the after cabin hatchway a fine, handsome man, in the very prime of life, in cocked hat, full-dress coat, a pair of gleaming epaulets, sword by his hip, and his nether limbs cased in white knee-breeches, silk stockings, and pumps. the one who followed him was apparently a much older man, with grizzled locks, a dark, stern face, and without epaulets. the first raised his hat as he stepped on the quarter-deck--not a thread of silver was seen in his dark hair--and then both bowed to the officers, who saluted them as they moved toward the gangway. the boatswain piped, the marines presented arms, the drum gave three quick rolls, and the commodore went over the gangway, preceded by his companion. ----- [*] this was written before the "pay bill" was passed. chapter xxx. old friends. "what though when storms our bark assail, the needle trembling veers, when night adds horror to the gale, and not a star appears? true to the pole as i to thee, it faithful still will prove-- an emblem dear of constancy, and of a sailor's love." the barge left the side of the frigate, a broad blue pennant with white stars on a staff at her bow, with fourteen handsome sailors to man her, all in clean white frocks and trowsers, with straw hats and flowing black ribbons around them, on which was stamped in gold letters, "monongahela." the double bank of white ash oars flashed in the rippling waves of the harbor as the barge was urged over the water, the current seething and buzzing under her bows, and bubbling into her wake as she flew on toward the town. in a mahogany box at the stern sat a bushy-whiskered coxswain, whose body swayed to the stroke of the oars, while his hand grasped the brass tiller as he steered amid the shipping. the commodore had settled himself down under the boat's awning on the snow-white covered cushions in the stern-sheets, and, with one foot resting on the elegant ash grating beneath, he began to talk to the grave gentleman who sat opposite to him. "it is many a long year since i last visited this superb harbor, but i remember it as if it were yesterday. you never were here before, i think? no? well, if any of the old set i once knew, when i was first lieutenant of the old 'scourge,' are yet alive, we shall have a pleasant time!" "one fine fellow," went on the commodore, "i know is. his name is piron. i had a note from him as soon as the frigate anchored yesterday, and i shall ask him to dine sociably with me on board this evening. i hope you will join us." the grave gentleman said that he had business which would detain him on shore all night. the barge swept up to the mole, the oars were thrown up at a wave of the coxswain's hand, and came into the boat on either side like shutting up a pair of fans, while the boat-hooks checked her way, and she remained stationary at the steps of the landing. the awning was canted, the commodore and his friend got out and mounted the stairway, while the boat's crew stood up with their hats off. on the mole were four or five people in light west india rig of brown and white, and broad guayaquil sombreros. "cleveland!" exclaimed a tall, handsome man, as he seized the commodore by both hands, "how glad we are to see you! here is tom stewart, and paddy burns, and little don stingo, attorneys, factors, and sugar-boilers, all of us delighted to welcome you back once more to jamaica!" crowding about the commodore, shaking hands and slapping one another on the back, standing off a step or two to see the effect of time on each other's appearance, laughing heartily with many a happy allusion to days gone by, those old friends and former companions, unmindful of the hot sun, stood there with their faces lighted up and talking all together. "and you are a commodore, eh! cleveland, with a broad pennant and a squadron? ah! we have kept the run of you, though. read all about that action you were in with the 'president,' and that bloody battle in the 'essex' and 'phebe' at valparaiso, with porter. and here you are again, safe and sound, and hearty!" "and you too, piron! the same as ever! not tired of cane-planting yet? but how is madame?" "lovely a girl as ever, cleveland, but never entirely got over that sad loss of the little boy, you know. however, she will be overjoyed to see you. she's been talking of you ever since we saw your appointment to the station fifteen months ago. apropos, we have her widowed sister with us, whose husband was killed at waterloo, and our little niece who came from france--all out there at the old place of escondido, where you must come and pass a week with us. nay, man, no excuse! the thing is arranged, and it would be the death of stingo, tom stewart, and paddy burns if you disappoint us." "well, piron, i am your man, but not for a day or two, until i have made some official calls here on the authorities. meanwhile, gentlemen, you all dine with me this evening on board the frigate, every mother's soul of you! coxswain, go on board and tell my steward to have dinner for six. stop at the schooner as you go off, and say to mr. darcantel that i shall expect him to join us. now, my friends, that matter is arranged, and we will all go off in the barge at sunset." "dry talking, isn't it, stingo?" said piron; "so, commodore, come, and we'll have a sip of sangaree and a deviled biscuit to keep our mouths in order. but, halloo! where is your friend, cleveland? that tall man in black? parson or chaplain, eh?" "no," replied the officer; "an old friend of mine, my brother-in-law, who takes a cruise with me occasionally; but he never goes in society, and has taken himself off, as he always does when we get in port. he is a glorious fellow, though, and i hope to present him to you yet. never mind him now." arm in arm went the blue coat and bullion, locked in white grass sleeves, along the busy quays, crowded with mule-carts and drays for stores or shipping. spanish dons, dapper frenchmen, burly john bulls, standing at warehouse and posadas, all with cigars in their teeth, which they puffed so lazily that the smoke scarcely found its way beyond the brims of their wide sombreros. negroes, too, with scanty leg gear, and still scantier gingham shirts, having bales, or boxes, or baskets of fruit on their heads, never any thing in their hands, chattering and laughing one with another as they danced and jostled along the busy mart; then through the hot, sandy ruts of streets, pausing now and then to shake hands with some old acquaintance beneath the overhanging piazzas; sedan-chairs moving about, with a negro in a glazed hat and red cockade at either end of the poles, in a long easy trot, as they bore their burdens of spanish matron, or english damsel, or maybe a portly old judge, or gouty admiral, on a shopping or business excursion to the port; so on to the upper town, where the dwellings stand in detachments by themselves--single or in pairs--with spacious balconies and bright green venetian blinds, all surrounded by gardens and vines; with noble tamarind-trees, and cocoa-nuts swaying their lofty trunks, and rattling their branches and leaves over the negro huts and offices below. here the party stopped, and, entering a house, were ushered into a cool, lofty room, where there were a lot of mahogany desks, and a single old clerk, who resembled a last year's dried lemon, with some few drops of acid juice for blood, perched up on a hard stem of a high stool, with four or five quill pens, like so many thorns, sticking out above his yellow leafy ears. "all by myself here, cleveland, as i told you. all my people are living out there at escondido. very little business doing just now, and paddy burns and tom stewart haven't had a suit or a fight for the last six months. inkstands dry, and my old clerk, clinker, there, has forgotten how to write english. "however," went on piron, as the party threw themselves back on the wicker arm-chairs, and enjoyed the breeze which fluttered merrily through the blinds, "the cellar isn't quite dry yet; and i say, clinker, suppose you tell nimble jack, or ring finger bill, to spread a little luncheon here, with a bottle or two of bordeaux, or something of that sort!" the dried, fruity old gentleman dropped off his branch at the desk like a withered nut, and then, with a husky kind of shuffle, betook himself off. [illustration: "queer old stick, that!" said the commodore.] "queer old stick, that!" said the commodore, as he unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table. "ah! he grew here, and will blow away one of these days. my father used to tell me that he looked just the same when he first sprouted as he does now. but he is a dear faithful old stump; and you must remember hearing, cleveland, of that frightful earthquake here in seventeen hundred and eighty-three, which killed so many people? yes? well, it was old clinker who saved my sweet wife that is now--and her sister; though he was nearly squeezed--drier, if any thing, than he is now--in doing it. he lay, you know, stingo, supporting the whole second story of the house for seven hours, pressed as flat as a tamarind-leaf, while they were getting those twin babies out of their cradle. yes, god bless him!" starting up, while a flush of feeling darkened his face--"but, what is more, he threw himself precisely where he did, as he saw the walls giving way, so that not a hair of those children should be injured when the beams came down. my father has told me since, that when they got a lever under the timber and wedged old clinker out, he gave a kind of cackle; but, in my opinion, he has not drawn a breath from that day to this. and, generally, he is a very taciturn old root, and rarely opens his rind; but latterly he talks a good deal about the earthquake; says he's sure there'll be another awful one before an interval of forty years has passed, and wants us to go away. no objection, however, to coming back when the thing is over, and then waiting forty years for another. don't laugh, you paddy burns, for if ever the '_tremblor_' gives you one little shake, you'll jump higher than you did when that ugly frenchman ran you through your waistcoat pocket, and you thought it was your midriff. now, tom stewart and don stingo, what are you grinning about? your teeth will chatter so fast at the next quake that you won't, either of you, be able to deliver a charge to the jury over a false invoice, or suck another drop of old antigua rum." "but really, piron," broke in the commodore upon this voluble harangue, "do you give heed to these barkings of that old clerk?" "why, yes, cleveland," replied piron, with rather a grave manner, "i do; and, moreover, my sweet wife rosalie out yonder, who has never got over her grief for the loss of our boy, regards every word old clinker says as so much prophecy; and the upshot of the business is, i have made up my mind to leave the island." "for where, my friend--back to france?" "no. since the war and the peace, with bonaparte at st. helena, france is no place for an englishman, even with a french father, and i am going to try america." "truly, piron, i am charmed to hear it. but what part of america?" "why, i've bought a fine sugar estate at a bargain in louisiana, and there we shall pass the remainder of our days." "he! he!" sniggled tom stewart, while don stingo and paddy burns cackled incredulously; but, at the same moment, ring finger bill and nimble jack, two jet-black persons, in loose striped gingham shirts and bare feet, with an attempt at a grave expression of thick-lipped coffee-coolers, the whites of their eyes turned up with becoming decorum, and preceded by the old twig of a clerk, who seemed to crackle in the sea-breeze as he again hung himself, stern on, to his stool of a trunk, entered the cool counting-house, bearing trays, fruits, and bottles, which they methodically arranged on the large table. "massa! him want small, red, plump snapper, make mizzible brile?" said nimble jack. "s'pose massa ossifa him pick shell of land-crab, wid crisp pepper for salad?" "no, no! put those cool water-monkeys on the table and be gone! come, clinker, take a bite with us!" leaving this pleasant party to sip their claret and water, and nibble their midday food, while they rambled back to the past or schemed into the future, we will return to the frigate. chapter xxxi. the commander of the "rosalie." "the handsomest fellow, heaven bless him! setting the girls all wild to possess him, with his dark mustache and his hazel eyes, and cigars in those pretty lips--" "that girl who fain would choose a mate, should ne'er in fondness fail her, may thank her lucky stars if fate should splice her to a sailor." "the 'rosalie's' gig coming alongside, sir," reported the quarter-master to the officer of the watch. "very well. a boatswain's mate and two side-boys. mr. rat, have the barge manned, and send her on shore for the commodore. mr. martin, tell the boatswain to call all hands to furl awnings." while these orders were being executed, the whistles ringing through the ship, the sailors lining the white hammocks, stowed in a double line, fore and aft, around the nettings of the frigate, in readiness to cast off the stops and lacings and let fall the awnings, the officer on deck stood near the gangway. at the same time there tripped up the accommodation-ladder, lightly touching the snowy man-ropes, a young fellow of about one-and-twenty, dressed in undress frock-coat, one epaulet, smooth white trowsers, and shoes. catching up his sword in his left hand as he reached the upper grating of the ladder, he took off his blue, gold-banded cap, and half bounded, with a springy step, on to the frigate's deck. observe him well, young ladies, as he stands there; for of all the scarlet or blue jackets on whose arm you have leaned and looked up at with your soft violet, blue, or dark eyes, you never saw a young fellow that you would sooner give those eyes, or those warm hearts too, throbbing under your bodices, or who would drive you wilder to possess him, than that gallant young sailor standing on the "monongahela's" deck. ay, observe him well, that tall, graceful youth, with a waist you might span with one of your short plump arms; those slim patrician feet, that might wear your own little satin slippers; then that swelling chest and those elegantly turned shoulders, which will take both of your arms, one of these days, to entwine and clasp around them! ah! but the round throat and chin, the smiling mouth, half hiding a double row of even teeth, with the merest moonshine of a mustache darkening the short upper lip, and then those large, fearless hazel eyes, sparkling with health and fun, shaded by a mass of chestnut curls, which cluster about his clear open forehead! ay, there he stands, "a king and a kingdom" for the girl who wins him! "well, harry, give us your fist, my boy! how do you get on aboard your prize? not so roomy as the old frigate, eh? and a little more work than when you were playing flag-lieutenant, eh? well, glad to see you, but can't stop to talk. so jump down below there in the wardroom; the mess are just through dinner, and yours won't be ready for an hour yet. come, bear a hand, or i'll let these awnings fall on your new gold epaulet." the new-comer tripped as lightly down the ladder to the gun-deck as mr. mouse, and making another dive down to the berth-deck, exchanging a rapid volley of pleasantry with the midshipmen in the steerage, he opened the wardroom door and entered. there, in a large open space, transversely dividing the stern of the ship, with rows of latticed-doored staterooms on either side, lighted by open skylights from above, with a barrel of a wind-sail coming down between the sashes, and every thing, from beams to bulkheads, painted a glistening white, and the deck so clean that you might have rubbed your handkerchief on it without leaving a stain on the cambric, around a large extension mahogany table stretching from side to side, the cloth removed, decanters and wine-glasses here and there, and water-monkeys in flannel jackets hanging like criminals from a gallows from the beams above, sat the wardroom mess of the frigate. "by all that's handsome, here's darcantel! why, harry, we are delighted to see you!" exclaimed half a dozen voices; "come, sit down here and take a glass of wine with us!" as the handsome young fellow entered the wardroom, all faces lighted up as they saw him. the old sailing-master, who seldom indulged in more than a scowl since he lost his right ear by the stroke of a cutlass in capturing the tender to the "plantagenet" seventy-four off the hills of navesink; the rigid old major of marines, who pipe-clayed his very knuckles, and wore a stiff sheet-iron padding to his stock to encourage discipline in the guard; the dear, kind old surgeon, who swallowed calomel pills by the pint, out of pure principle, and who lopped off limbs and felt yellow fever pulses all through the still watches of the hot nights with never a sign or look of encouragement; and the staid old chaplain, who had often assisted the surgeon and helped to fill cartridges, contributing his own cotton hose for the purpose when those government stores gave out in battle, and who never smiled, even when committing a marine to the briny deep; the purser, too, prim and business-like, looking as if he were a complicated key with an iron lock of his own strong chest, calculating perpetually the amount of dollars deposited in his charge, the total of pay to be deducted therefrom, and never making a mistake save when he overcharged the dead men for chewing tobacco; and the gay, young, roistering lieutenants, who never did any thing else but laugh, unmindful of navigation, pipe-clay, pills, parsons, or pursers, though standing somewhat in awe of the sharpish, exacting executive officer at the head of the table--all welcomed, each in his peculiar way, the bright, graceful young blade who dawned upon them. and not only the mess were cheered by his presence, but also a troop of clean-dressed sable attendants, whose wide jaws stretched wider, while the whites of their eyes seemed painfully like splashes of whitewash on the outside of the galley coppers, as they nudged one another and yaw-yaw'd quietly away aft there in the region of the pantry. "here, my salt-water pet, come and sit down by me, where all those old fellows can see you! steward, a wine-glass for mr. darcantel! what? you won't take a sip of tinta, and you can only stop a minute because you are to dine with your uncle the commodore, eh? well, i'll drink your uncle's health even if you don't!" said the first lieutenant, as he familiarly laid his hand on the young fellow's shoulder and drained his glass. "why, harry, what the deuce did you come down here for?" squeaked out the purser, as he unscrewed his lips into a pleasant smile. "you've put an end to that interesting account the master was giving us of how he lay inside sandy hook for six months with a glass to his--" "mouth," broke in the surgeon. "it was sam jones the fisherman, who was bound to sandy hook; but first upon the almanac a solemn oath he took-- that he would catch a load of clams!" "silence there, you roarer!" said the surgeon, as he popped a filbert into the wide mouth of the rollicking fourth lieutenant, which cut his song short off. "yes, harry, that's what you have done in coming here for a minute. but stay a week with us, and the master will tell it you again. we've heard it once or twice before." the old grizzled sea veteran scratched the remains of his ear, and growled jocosely while nodding to young darcantel. "ah! my dear boy, and i'll tell you how the surgeon and nipcheese there were entertained by a one-eyed old spaniard at st. jago." "let's hear it!" roared every body except the medico and purser. "out with it, master!" "well, messmates, when we were in the old 'scourge,' a long time ago, one day we anchored in st. jago de cuba." here the surgeon and purser smiled horribly, and implored the grizzled old navigator not to go on; every body had heard that old story; he might fall ill with the _vomito pietro_, and would require pills; or else there might be found a mistake in his pay account, and he would like, perhaps, to draw for the imaginary balance not due to him, and to drink his grog and scratch the remains of his old ear, or turn his attention to the load of clams waiting for him at sandy hook! but, for mercy's sake, don't repeat that silly, long-forgotten yarn! "well, messmates, in less than an hour after we had anchored in st. jago they went on shore, and made the acquaintance of a little thin, sharp old villain, with one eye, who invited them to make him a visit, and pass the evening on a fine estate he owned near the base of the copper hills, some distance--about four leagues, i believe--from the town. he was a most respectable person, very rich, and commanded a cuban guarda costa to boot. the _capitano_, don ignaçio sanchez--wasn't that his name, doctor? oh! you forget--all right! off they started with a guide, on hired mules; but when they pulled up at their destination they found the don wasn't there, though they were handsomely entertained by the señora--a comely, fat, and waspish body, with very few clothes on--who cursed her don for sending people to see her, and the visitors too for coming. however, as her guests had not dined, she fed them bountifully on a supper of the nastiest jerked beef and garlic they had ever smelled. you told me so, purser." both pills and purser had forgotten all about it, and thought it would be better to talk of something else; that there was plenty of good wine to drink in place of drying his lips on such dusty old rubbish. "well, messmates, after the supper the old lady demanded a little game of monté, and she insisted, too, on making herself banker, though she had no money on the table to pay with in case she lost--which she had no intention of doing. so she won every ounce, dollar, real, and centavo they had in their pockets! the doctor and purser told me they saw her cheat boldly; but yet she not only bagged all the money, but she won their mules into the bargain!" here those individuals confessed roundly--standing on the defensive--that the fat old señora had a false pack of cards always ready in her ample bosom, and had cheated them in the barest manner conceivable; but yet they had no appeal, and were inclined, out of gallantry for the sex, to behave like gentlemen, though she did drink aguardiente. "well, messmates, toward midnight that hospitable wife of the don began to abuse our friends for not bringing more cash with them when they visited ladies, and then fairly kicked them out of the house! yes, you both told me so when i lent you the money to pay the boatmen, after being obliged to tramp all the way back to the port on foot, nearly missing their billets in the old 'scourge.'" "go on, master! tell us all about it; don't stop!" "well, messmates, i was on deck while beating out of the channel, and just abreast the star castle i saw a boat with two gentlemen in the stern, stripped to a girt-line, and howling at rather than hailing the ship. bear in mind, doctor, the men refused to take either of you unless you gave them your coats and trowsers before shoving off. and don't you remember, hardy, how they yelled at us, and we thought they were deserters from that english gun-boat in st. jago? and how the captain arrested the pair of them when they got on board for going out of signal distance? this is the first time _i_ ever told this yarn," concluded the old navigator, tugging away at the lobe of his lost ear. the young lieutenants shouted, and the old major of marines, forgetful of his iron-stuffed stock, laughed till he nearly sawed his chin off, rubbing his chalky knuckles into his eyes the while. "but first upon the almanac a solemn oath he took-- that he would catch a load of clams--" "the barge is coming off, mr. hardy, with the pennant flying, sir!" reported a reefer, in the midst of the conversation, to the first lieutenant, as he shoved his bright face through the wardroom door. "very good, mr. beaver; but hark ye, sir! the next time you go ashore in the market-boat, look sharp that the men don't suck the monkey. three of them came off drunk this morning. and inform mr. rat and mr. mouse that if i see their heels on the cutter's cushions again, i'll take a better look at them from the main-top-mast cross-trees. you understand, sir? steward, a glass of wine for mr. beaver!" saying this, the executive officer, with harry darcantel, arose and went on deck to receive the commodore. chapter xxxii. a splice parted. "oh! for thy voice, that happy voice, to breathe its loving welcome now! fame, wealth, and all that bids rejoice, to me are vain! for where art thou?" "what is glory--what is fame? that a shadow--this a name, restless mortal to deceive. are they renown'd--can they be great, who hurl their fellow-creature's fate, that mothers, children, wives may grieve?" the drum rolled, the marines presented arms, the boatswain piped, the side-boys and officers took off their caps; and as the colors dropped with the last ray of sunset from the peak, and the broad blue day-pennant came fluttering down from the lofty main truck, commodore cleveland and his friends stood on the splendid deck of the flag-ship "monongahela." it must have been with conscious pride that the brave and loyal commander gazed around him on the noble frigate and her gallant crew. the white decks, the tiers of cannon polished like varnished leather, with the breechings and tackles laid fair and even over and around them; the bright belaying-pins, holding their never-ending coils of running gear--the burnished brass capstan--the great boom--board to the boats amidships with a gleaming star of cutlasses, reflecting a glitter on the ring of long pikes stuck around the main-mast near, all inclosed by the high and solid bulwarks; while towering above, like mighty leafless columns of forest pines, stood the lofty masts, running up almost out of sight to the trucks in the fading light, supported by stays and shrouds, singly and in pairs, and braided mazes--black, and straight, and taut--never a thread loose on rigging or ratlin--and spreading out as they came down in a heavy hempen net, till they disappeared over the rail, and were clenched and spliced, or seized and clamped to the bolts and dead-eyes of the chain-plates outside. holding up too, in mid-heaven, on those giant trunks--like a child its toys--the great square yards of timber branches, laying without a quiver, in their black lifts and trusses, with their white leaves of sails crumpled and packed in smooth bunts in the middle, and running away to nothing on either hand at the tapering yard-arms. grand and imposing is the sight. and well may you wonder, ye land lubbers, why all that mass of timber, sails, and cordage, with its enormous weight, does not crush with the giant heels of the masts through the bottom of the ship like unto an egg-shell, and tear the stanch live-oak frame to splinters! the commander of the frigate saw all this, and he beheld at the same time the clusters of happy sailors, sauntering with light step and pleasant faces up and down the waist and gangways; and he heard, too, the scraping of a fiddle on the forecastle, the shuffling, dancing feet, and the least notion of a jovial sea-song coming up from the gun-deck. yes, it must have been a glorious pride with which that gallant officer gazed around him from the quarter-deck of the magnificent frigate. did he say to himself, "i am monarch of this floating kingdom; my will is law; i say but the word, and those sails are spread and the ship moves to wherever i command. my subjects, too, who watch my slightest look and whisper, with that flag above, will pour broadside upon broadside--ay, they have!--from those terrible guns upon whoever dares to cross my track. yes. they will fight for me so long as there is a plank left in this huge ship to stand upon, and while there is a rope-yarn left to hold the ensign--ay! even until my pennant, nailed to the truck, sinks beneath the bloodstained waves?" did the commander think of all this? perhaps he did. and yet, in all the pride of rank and power, bravely won and maintained in many a scene of strife and deadly conflict, with visions of honest patriotism and ambition for the future, did his thoughts go back long years ago into the shadowy past, and was his spirit in the silent church-yard, where the magnolia was drooping over a grass-green grave? the sweet mother and her baby boy--the girl who had so fondly loved him, and the child who played about his knees--oh that they could have lived to share the wreaths of victory which were hung around his brow; that they could have lived to see the sword his country gave him, to twine but for one little moment their loving arms around his neck! no, the magnolia waves its white flowers over mother and boy, and they sleep on in their heavenly and eternal rest. did commodore cleveland, as a saddened flash of thought swept over his handsome face, while he stood on his quarter-deck, dwell on those scenes? yes, we know he did. by day and night, in war and peace, in gale or calm, on deck or at banquet, in dream and action, the girl and mother he so dearly loved was close clasped to his heart, and the child still playing at his knee. "gentlemen, let me make you acquainted with the first lieutenant, mr. hardy; and permit me also to present my nephew, mr. darcantel, captain, if you please, my friends, of the one-gun schooner 'rosalie,' formerly the slaver 'perdita,' cut out of a river on the gold coast by the young gentleman who stands before you." "rosalie! why that's the name of my niece," exclaimed piron; "and she is prettier and whiter than your trim little craft, sir. but you must come with the commodore to escondido, and judge for yourself. but, bless my soul! _you_ resemble our rosalie, even if your schooner don't. why, look at him, paddy burns!" don stingo, and tom stewart, and the paddy did look at him, and all shook hands with him, laughing the while at piron, and asking when old clinker looked for another earthquake. "come, piron, come, gentlemen, don't let us keep the soup waiting! by the way, mr. hardy, will you do me the favor to take a glass of wine with us after gun-fire?" "thank you." "suppose you bring little mouse with you; i like children; and perhaps you will excuse the younker from keeping his watch to-night? a little extra sleep in hammock won't hurt him, you know." and so commodore cleveland raised his hat, followed by the eyes of respect and devotion from officer and sailor, as he passed down the ladder and entered his spacious cabin. chapter xxxiii. the blue pennant in the cabin. "to bachelors' hall we good fellows invite to partake of the chase that makes up our delight." "ask smiling honor to proclaim what is glory, what is fame? hark! the glad mandate strikes the list'ning ear! 'the truest glory to the bosom dear, is when the soul starts soft compassion's tear.'" "now, gentlemen, let me get off this heavy coat and epaulets. there! all right, domino! put the sword in its case, and give me a white jacket. choose your own places, my friends. piron, sit here on my right; henri, take the foot of the table." these last words were said in french; whereupon piron started and whispered to the commodore, "by george, cleveland, is that youth's name henry, and does he speak french?" "hush, piron, he may hear you. his mother was french, and he speaks the language like a native. she died when he was a baby, and he doesn't like to allude to it. come, steward, we are all ready. serve the gumbo!" the cabin of the frigate was divided by a light lattice-work bulkhead in two parts, running from quarter to quarter of the vessel. the after part had a large sleeping stateroom on either side, resting on the quarter galleries, and opening on to another gallery which hung over the stern of the frigate. inside, in the open space, was a round table, cushioned lounges, a few chairs, with a bronze lamp pendent from a beam above, while taking the curve of the stern over the after windows was a range of bookcases, half hidden by the gilt cornice and curtains of the windows. the entire fittings and furniture of cabin and staterooms, including the neat brussels carpet on the deck, were elegant and useful, though by no means luxurious. the forward cabin, where no carpet graced the floor, was much more spacious. it took in the two after ports of the gun-deck; and the carriages and cannon within the sills of the ports were painted a marble white, as were the ropes, in covered canvas, that held them. in a recess forward was a large mahogany sideboard, or buffet, the top fitted with a framework for glasses and decanters, which were reflected from a large mirror let into the bulkhead. in the middle of this space was the dining-table, lighted by a pair of globe lamps hanging from above, while neat racks for bottles and water-jugs, moving on sliding brass rods, were also suspended from the paneled beams and carlines of the upper deck ceiling. on the right--the starboard side--was a door leading into a roomy pantry, where the steward and domino, and the servants of the commodore, bestirred themselves at dinner-time. "so, my friends," exclaimed the commodore, "you wish to hear what became of me after i last parted with you?" "by all means, cleveland! we are all dying to hear, and--" here piron's appeal was interrupted by the heavy report of a bow gun, which gave a slight, though almost imperceptible jar to the frigate. "smithereens! stingo! what noise is that?" exclaimed burns. "only the nine o'clock gun, sir," replied darcantel. "hech, mon!" said stewart, "ye needna upset ma glass of auld madeira in yer mickle fright, for i've seen the time when ye ha' laughed at the music in the report of a peestol and the ping of a bullet! but your nervous seestem seems to be unstrung ever since the sma' french dancing count untied the string o' your waistcoat with his rapeer." "you don't think, paddy, the commodore here is going to bang a forty-two pound shot into our stomachs after all the good prog he's filled them with?" added stingo, _sotto voce_, while the rotund milesian threw his head back and twinkled careless defiance at them all. just then the orderly swung the port-cabin door open, and standing up as rigid as a pump-bolt, with a finger to the visor of his stovepipe hat, in cross-belts and bayonet, he announced "lieutenant hardy and midshipman mouse!" "ah! hardy, glad to see you!" rising as he spoke; "squeeze in there between stewart and burns, or darcantel! here, gentlemen, let me exhibit to you mr. tiny mouse! don't move, piron; i'll make a place for him near me." saying this, the commodore took the lad affectionately by the hand, and as he sat him down on a chair at his elbow, and while the conversation went on with his guests, he said, in a kindly tone, "tiny, my dear, the first lieutenant tells me you are a good boy and attend to your duty. i hope you pay attention to your studies also, and write often to your dear mother. ah! you do? that is right; for you know you are her only hope since your brave father was killed. there, sir, you may swig a little claret, but don't touch those cigars." "come, cleveland! cleveland! you are forgetting your adventures, my boy!" "well, my friends, you shall hear them." chapter xxxiv. the devil to pay. "and how then was the devil dressed? oh! he was dressed in his sunday's best; his jacket was red and his breeches were blue, and there was a hole where the tail came through." "hairy-faced dick understands his trade, he stands by the breech of a short carronade, the linstock glows in his bony hand, waiting that grim old skipper's command!" "the last dinner i had in jamaica, and a very jolly one it was, as you all know, was out at escondido, where we kept it up so late that i only got on board the 'scourge' at daylight, in time to get her under way with the land wind. well, we were bound to windward, and for a week afterward we rolled about in a calm off morant bay, maybe twenty leagues off the island, and one morning we discovered a sail. she was a large merchant brig, heading any way, and bobbing about, as we were, in the calm. toward noon, however, a light air sprang up, and we got within hail, and i went on board to say a word or two to the skipper, for we had news before leaving kingston that that infamous pirate brand, in his long-legged schooner 'centipede,' had been seen off guadaloupe; and, in fact, we had actually chased him off matanzas three months before; so i was ordered to give the brig a warning, particularly as she had reported a suspicious craft in sight that same morning at sunrise. when i got on board of her i saw--" here piron placed both hands to his face as he leaned his elbows on the table, and the commodore, checking himself, hurried on: "ah! well, we kept the brig in sight all day, and ran round her once or twice in the evening, but toward midnight the trade wind freshened, and, as the coast seemed clear, and we were anxious to make up for lost time in the calm, we gradually came up to our course, and went bowling away to windward. "i remember going below at the time, and just as i was about to turn in, i heard a quarter-master sing out to hardy there, who was junior lieutenant of the ship, and who had the middle watch, that he saw a light going up to the brig's gaff. in five seconds i was on the poop, where i met the captain. "this is his only son, gentlemen, and a braver or more skillful seaman never trod a ship's deck," said the commodore, as he passed his hand affectionately over the boy's head, who was sitting beside him. but he forgot, perhaps, to say that he, cleveland, had stood by the father when he was struck dead by a cannon-shot, and that afterward he had the boy appointed a reefer, and, out of his own means, helped the widow to eke out her pittance of a pension. yes, cleveland forgot all that as he smoothed the youngster's soft hair, while, with the men around him, he drained his glass in silence to the memory of his departed friend and chief. then resuming, he went on: "in less than no time after the light was seen--for you must know, gentlemen, that it was an understood signal between us--the 'scourge' was flying off with a stiff breeze abaft the beam, the crew at quarters, and the boats ready to be lowered from the davits. when we ranged up alongside the brig, and even before, we felt certain that our misgivings would prove true, and so they did; and merely slamming a shot over her, and dropping a couple of armed boats into the water, we luffed round her bows, and there we saw that cursed schooner--venomous snake as she was--just hoisting her sails, and creeping away to windward. "we let her have two or three divisions of grape, and followed the dose up with round shot. i am sure we hit her, and that pretty hard, for we knocked away her fore-top-mast, and we saw the splinters fly in showers from her hull. however, she was well handled, and lying nearer the wind than the 'scourge,' when day dawned she was clear out of range, and leaving us every minute. so we up helm and ran down again to the brig, to see what mischief had been done and to pick up our boats. "ah! yes, you all know what had taken place, so i won't go over the details; but the same afternoon, after seeing the brig pointed straight for port royal, and while we were once more on our course, we fell in with a water-logged boat, in which were half a dozen dead and dying men. one, a mongrel indian from yucatan, who was frightfully torn by two or three grape-shot, before he died on board--as did all the others--gave us, in his confused dialect, some account of the pirate he had served under, and the haunt he frequented. as near as we could learn, the haunt was situated somewhere on the south side of cuba, on a rocky island having a safe and secure inlet; but as he did not know the latitude or longitude, we were left somewhat in the dark. the last words, however, the mangled wretch uttered, as the gasping breath was leaving his body, were, that the spot could be distinguished by a tall cocoa-nut-tree which grew from a craggy eminence in the middle of the island. we buried them all, pirates as they were, decently, and then we clapped on all sail on our course. "steward, another bottle of the old southside that mr. march sent me from madeira! here, domino, take mr. mouse up gently, and lay him down on my cot in the after cabin. dear little fellow, he is sound asleep; and mind you draw the curtains around him, lest he take cold from the draught of the stern windows!" rather a striking contrast this to the way captain brand, the pirate, treated the little henri in the den there in the doçe léguas. "well, gentlemen, for some weeks after these occurrences we sailed about the islands, touching here and there, until at last we arrived at the havana, took in stores and water, and then continued the cruise. the orders were to beat up the south side of cuba, where we expected to fall in with the musquito fleet and some english vessels, especially detailed to destroy two or three nests of pirates who had for some years swarmed in those seas and infested that coast. in the course of time we beat all around the south side of cuba, and at last dropped anchor in st. jago, where we learned from the english consular agent that five or six fellows, who had been wrecked on the carvalo reef, were identified as having been part of a piratical crew who had plundered an english vessel with a free passport bound to havana, and had been sent there in irons for trial. "the truth was, that the spanish colonial authorities had so long connived, winked at, or been indifferent to what was going on during the wars of the continent, that they allowed these piratical hordes to exist and thrive at their very doors. the matter had already been brought to the notice of the administrador of the port, and all other ports as far along the coast as cienfuegos, and in such a threatening manner, too, that the governor at st. jago, fearful of having his town blown down, exerted himself in the arrest of the rascals i have alluded to, and likewise in procuring information by dispatching guarda costas along the south side of the island. "accordingly, the very morning we anchored i went ashore with the captain of the custom-house, where we met the deputy administrador and a little withered, one-eyed old rascal, who was in the colonial service, and who professed to know the haunt, or at least he said he thought he did, of that notorious villain brand. "i remember distinctly spreading a chart before him, and while he traced with the end of his cigarette a course for the captain to steer by, i stood near, watching him narrowly. but the fact was, that he had the very sharpest spark of an eye set, or rather standing out, beside his nose that any body ever saw in a human being's head; and instead of me watching him, he seemed to be looking straight through me, and divining my thoughts and suspicions. however, the spot he pointed out, and the way he described it, with a cocoa-nut-tree on top of a rock, and the passage through the reef, so nearly corresponded with the confused account the yucatanese gave us before he died, that the captain was entirely convinced we were on the scent, though i myself was not more than half satisfied. the place indicated was near the isle of pines, three hundred miles off; but, to make the thing more plausible, that one-eyed old scoundrel was detailed to run along the doçe léguas cays, see what information he could pick up there, and then follow down after us. "that night, or early the next morning, we were off again, and ran down the coast, with a good offing to keep the wind, until we got to the ground, and passed in by cape st. francis, and doubled round into the bight of pines. there we fell in with a whole fleet of english and american cruisers and schooner craft, who informed us that they had searched every accessible spot where a man could walk dry-shod upon, from guayabos to the isle of mangles; that they had destroyed several old and deserted piratical nests, and hung two or three ostensible fishermen by way of wholesome warning to their allies the pirates; but that was all; and from what they had learned, there did not seem to have been an established retreat in that maze of cays and reefs for four or five years. "so you see we had our cruise for nothing, and then the captain agreed with me that we had both been most egregiously deceived by the spanish commander of the guarda costa. well, we hauled our wind once more, standing well out to sea, and after a tedious beat of some days we again edged in toward the coast, somewhere near the boca grande of the twelve league cays on the westernmost side. it was in the morning when we made the land, and, steering close in, we got a good slant off the shore, and kept the glasses going from the topmost cross-trees down all through the day. for my part, as hardy may perhaps remember, i scarcely took the glass from my eye for eight hours, and from the mizzen-top i feel quite sure that there were not many objects, from the size of a blade of grass to a mangrove bush, that i did not examine, from the coral reefs up to the rocky heights, let alone the cocoa-nut-tree that we were in search of. "toward afternoon, however, the weather came up hazy, the wind began to fall off, and the barometer began to exhibit very queer spasms indeed, rising with a sort of jerk at first, and then dropping down the tenth of an inch at a clip, with the atmosphere becoming close and sultry, and the men gasping about the decks as if we were about to choke at the next breath. it was during the hurricane months, and the indications certainly should have led us as far as our legs could carry us to open water, instead of being caught embayed perhaps with half a thousand reefs around us on what might prove a lee-shore; but, nevertheless, the captain decided to hold on till sunset, and then make an offing. the breeze still held in the upper sails, and so we slipped on in smooth water till about five o'clock, when i heard a fellow sing out from the main royal yard, "'on deck there! i can see a tall cocoa-nut-tree on an island here on the port bow!' "before the words were well out of his mouth i too caught the object, and i knew at the first glance that it was the spot we were looking for. at the same time the haze lighted up a bit, and we saw the ridge of rocks and every thing as the haunt of that pirate brand had been described to us. so, my friends, we were all alive once more on board the 'scourge,' and the captain resolved to dash in upon the scoundrel's nest before he could have time to leave it. "the engine was rigged and water spirted over the sails from the trucks down, to make the canvas hold the wind, and in an hour after we were within two leagues of the island, and just as the sun fell below the horizon we caught sight of the mast-heads of a large vessel sticking up over some bluff rocks near the bold shore. not five minutes later the hull of the craft came slowly out from the gap, under all sail, and we discovered her to be a long and rather lumbering-looking brigantine, painted lead-color, and bearing no resemblance to the schooner we had twice chased before. simultaneously, however, with her coming out into full view, as she rounded in her head-yards and got a pull of the main-sheet, with the breeze abeam and heading to the eastward, we beheld a great volume of white smoke spout up over the rock near the cocoa-nut-tree, with a vivid sheet of flame at the base, and before the vast column turned, like the crown of a palm-tree, in its descent, we were greeted by a dull, heavy roar, the concussion of which fairly made the 'scourge' tremble. then, as the white smoke partially broke away, an avalanche of rocks and timbers was scattered far and near, and nothing visible but a veil of dust and masses of heavy smoke. nearly at the same moment of this explosion wreaths of heavy black smoke arose from another spot nearer to the gap, lit up in the fading, hazy twilight with forked red fires, and soon after a great conflagration burst forth, swirling flakes of burning cinders all over the island, and casting a lurid glare upon the water around us." chapter xxxv. and the pitch hot. "he is born for all weathers; let the winds blow high or blow low, his duty keeps him to his tethers, and where the gale drives he must go. "the wind blew hard, the sea ran high, the dingy scud drove 'cross the sky, all was safe lashed, the bowl was slung, when careless thus ned halyard sung." said the commodore, with a knowing shake of his head, "ah! gentlemen, if the fellow, whoever he was, who was creeping away so nimbly in that lazy-looking brigantine, with english colors at the peak, had written down in detail what he had been doing on that secluded nook of an island, and sent the information off to us in a letter, we could have read it without breaking the seal. we could have told him that that little scoundrel with one eye had purposely misled us, and had given him warning to quit his strong-hold; and that he had hastily got his plunder and people on board his vessel, blown up and set fire to his nest, and that the brigantine he was now on board of was once upon a time the notorious schooner 'centipede!' yes, we knew all that by instinct." piron sat with his eyes fixed upon the speaker, taking in every word as it fell from his lips, the teeth set close together and the hand clenched which supported his head on the table. paddy burns and tom stewart, too, looked eagerly that way, as did harry darcantel, while hardy sipped his wine and puffed his cigar leisurely, as if he knew the tale by heart. "it had fallen nearly calm. a light air perhaps in the royals, though nothing down below. but as we hauled down our colors at sunset, which had been hoisted to let the fellow know who we were, down came his also. then there we both lay looking at each other. he knew by instinctive experience that we were the american corvette 'scourge,' mounting eighteen twenty-four-pounder carronades and two long eighteens in the bow ports; for the brigantine had once or twice determined their exact calibres, and that we were the fastest cruiser, with the wind a point or two free, that had been seen in the west indies for twenty years. [illustration] "yes, he knew all about us, but he was still a little in doubt whether we knew all about _him_. he lay--unfortunately, perhaps, for him--a little beyond the range of our long guns, or else he might have been spared a good deal of time and uneasiness, and we a long chase and considerable risk. ah! as the night came, the very fires he had kindled in his den on shore prevented his escape; for while the calm lasted the bright flames shone upon him with the glare of hell! there we lay all that night without moving a muscle or a mile until day dawned--and such a day as did dawn! "meanwhile the barometer had fallen an inch and a half, until the master began to believe the bulb leaked, and the mercury was dropping into the case. then, through the murky gloom of daylight, with the sea one flat greasy surface, with never the splash of a fish to disturb it, while the lowest whisper of the topmen aloft could be distinctly heard on deck, as if we were hung in the vacuum of an exhausted receiver where a feather would drop like a bullet, suddenly there came a sound from the direction of the cays. suppose, burns, you saw a forty-two pound shot coming toward you, and without you dodged quick, your head would be flying off with it in the same direction?" "whist, mon!" said stewart, with a groan, "dinna be calling up sic peectures of the brain, cleveland. paddy, there, ne'er thinks of ony meesals bigger than a peestol bullet." "well, my friends, we ran precisely a similar risk, though the cloudy embrasures over the island had not quite enough thunder to reach us. however, the brigantine knew what would follow as well as we did--better, perhaps--and before you could swallow that glass of wine she was stripped as bare as a bone, and down came her yards too, but keeping the sticks up, and spreading a patch of a storm staysail forward that you might apparently have put in your pocket. her decks and rigging were crowded with men while she was doing all this, but the moment it was done, and well done too, they ran into their holes below like so many rats, and we could only see a man or two left on deck near the helm. "all hands had been called on board the 'scourge' at four o'clock, and, with the exception of securing the battery, every thing was ready to make a skeleton of the ship the moment we saw the brigantine begin; for she was a wary fish, and we had no idea of letting her give us the slip the third time. i had the trumpet, however, and with the captain at my elbow, the instant he saw that the brigantine was once more rigged nearly in her old way, he gave me the word, 'now, cleveland, work sharp!' "with a hundred and twenty men aloft, jumping about like cats, the light sails, studding-sail booms, royal and top-gallant yards came down, the top-gallant masts after them, and the flying jib-boom rigged in. then the top-sails close reefed and furled with extra gaskets, and so with the courses; preventer braces clapped on, rolling tackles hooked, and the spare purchases set up by the lower pennants. meanwhile the divisions on deck had got hawsers over the launch amidships, the chains unbent, the anchors lashed down on the forecastle, and the quarter boats triced well inboard and secured with the davits. at the same time the light stuff from aloft was got below, the hammocks piped down, and the carpenters slapped the gratings on the hatches, and stood ready with the tarpaulins to batten them down. i never beheld a smarter piece of work done afloat--not even, hardy, in the 'monongahela.' "as i turned round an instant a hoarse, howling bellow struck my ear from the island, and i just caught a glimpse of the tall cocoa-nut-tree flying round and round in the air like an inverted umbrella with a broken stick; while at the same time the men from aloft had reached the deck, and, jumping to the battery, the guns were run in and housed, spare breechings and extra lashings passed, and life-lines rove fore and aft. after that, gentlemen, there was no farther need of a trumpet. "you all know pretty well what sort of a thing a hurricane is, and the one i speak of must, i think, have given you a touch of its quality here in jamaica." "ay, by the holy moses! we remember it well, bad luck to it; and so does tom stewart and piron there, for it didn't lave a stick of sugar-cane standing from montego bay to cape antonio." "yes," said stewart; "and to show ye what a piff of wind can do, the whirl of it caught up an eighteen-foot honduras plank, and laid it crosswise, like an axe, full seven inches into an old tamarind trunk standing in my garden, and then twisted off the ends like a heather broom! hech, mon, ye may see it there now any day!" piron was thinking of the barks that were driving before that hurricane, with no thought of the damage done to his own plantations. "well, then, i shall spare you all prolix description of it; and you need only fancy a ship blown every where and every how except out of water--now with the lower yard-arms cutting deep into the sea like rakes, the lee hammock-nettings under water, the stern boat torn away into splinters, the main-top-sail picked, bolt by bolt, from the yard until there was not a thread left, and the lee anchor twisted bodily out of its lashings and swept overboard! "then a lull, while the sea got up and the ship dashed down on the other side on her bow; then staggering back and making a stern-board till the water was plunged up in a deluge over the poop. recovering herself again, and almost quivering on her beam-ends, the guns groaning and creaking as the terrible strain came upon the breechings, with the shot from the racks bounding about the decks, dinting holes in the solid oak waterways big enough to wash your face in, and then hopping out of the smashed half-ports to leeward. the spar-deck up to your armpits in water, and every man of us holding on to the life-lines or standing rigging like grim death, while all the time the roaring, thundering yell of the hurricane taught us how powerless we were, by hand or voice, to cope with the winds when they were let loose in all their might and fury! "nor need i relate to you the scene presented below--mess-chests, bags, tables, crockery, flying from deck and beam to stanchion, smashing about in the most dangerous way, pell-mell, while the worst of the tempest lasted. but, gentlemen, the 'scourge' had a frame of live-oak, to say nothing of two or three acres of tough yellow-pine timber in her, a good deal of fibrous hemp to hold the masts up; and, moreover, she was well manned, and, though i say it myself, she had a skillful captain and thorough-bred officers, in whose sagacity the crew could rely, to manage that old 'scourge.'" "that she had," exclaimed hardy; "and the most skillful and the coolest of them all was the first lieutenant!" the "monongahela's" executive officer here bounced off his chair as if he was prepared to fight any man breathing who did not subscribe to that opinion. "well, my friends, that awful hurricane continued for about twenty hours, from late one morning till the beginning of the next. as for day, there was none; for the sea and black clouds made one long night of it. fortunately, too, we had been driven off shore, and when the murky gloom broke away, and we were able to look around, our first anxiety was to see what had become of the brigantine. "yes, and i truly believe, in all that turmoil of the elements, while we were on the brink of foundering and going down to old davy's locker, that there was not an officer or man, from the captain to the cook, who was not thinking of that pirate, and hoping that he might go down first. i myself, however, felt a sort of confidence, as i was held lashed on the poop to the mizzen rigging, that the brigantine might be caught and whirled about--so long as she was above water--by the same blows of the hurricane that beat upon the 'scourge;' and when the tornado broke, and some one sang out 'sail ho!' i knew by instinct it must be the 'centipede.'" chapter xxxvi. the chase. "with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe, and forward bends his head, the ship drove past, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled." "clap on more sail, pursue, give fire-- she is my prize, or ocean whelms them all." "so many slain--so many drowned! i like not of that fight to tell. come, let the cheerful grog go round! messmates, i've done. a spell, ho, spell!" "it was all hands again, gentlemen. the hurricane had settled down into a moderate gale from northeast, though it was some time before the awfully confused sea got to roll regularly. then we judged ourselves--for reckoning and observation had been out of the question--to be a long way south of jamaica, and even to the southward of the great pedro bank. we did not wait this time for the pirate to lead us in getting ready for a race, but we got up a bran-new suit of top-sails and courses out of the sail-room, and, so soon as the men could go aloft with safety, they were ordered not to unbend the few tattered rags still clinging to the yards, but to cut away at once. up went the top-sails and courses, and they were soon brought to the yards and set close-reefed, with a storm-jib to steady the ship forward. presently we gave her the whole fore-sail and main-sail, and i think that even then, for some hours, but one half the corvette's upper works could have been visible as she plunged through the angry heaving seas. "it left us dry enough, however, to pay some heed to the brigantine ahead of us. she was about four miles off, a little on our weather bow, and as she rode up--splendid sea-boat that she was--like a gull on the back of a mighty roller, we could see that her bulwarks--mere boards and canvas, probably--had been washed away, the house between her masts gone too, and, no doubt, her long gun, or whatever else had been lying hid under it. and now she was once more the schooner 'centipede,' long and sharp, and without any rail to speak of, so that we could see her deck from the stem to her taffrail at every lurch she made. the only difference in her appearance was a short fore-mast with cross-trees, and a top-mast for square sails. almost as soon as our top-sail sheets were hauled home, her own yards went up and the sail was spread, while with the bonnet off her fore-sail, the whole jib and a close-reefed main-sail, she went flying to the southward with the gale a point abaft the beam. [illustration: the stern chase.] "thus we went on, the sea getting more regular every hour, so that we could send up the top-gallant masts, get the yards across, shake a reef or two out, and put the 'scourge' in order. the schooner needed no encouragement from us, but cracked on more sail until her long main-mast reeled and bent over, as she came up on the breaking ridge of a wave, like a whip-stalk. by noon the clouds had gone, and left us a clear sky, with the gale going down into a full top-gallant breeze, sending the corvette along good eleven knots. we got an observation for latitude, and five hours later we determined the longitude and our position to be a few leagues to leeward of the sarrana keys, with that bird of a schooner before us heading for the musquito coast. "if _we_ had caught a cataract of water as it rolled over our bows in the morning, the schooner was taking _her_ bath in the afternoon, for occasionally, for five minutes at a time, there was nothing seen of her deck, and only the masts and broad white canvas above, like jury-sticks out of a raft. but when she did slide up with her low, long hull shooting clean out of water, till nearly half her keel, with the copper sheathing flashing in the sun, was visible, she looked like a dolphin making a spring after a shoal of flying-fish. and then on her narrow deck we could see a few fellows lashed about the fore-mast, and a couple more abaft steering her like a thread through a needle. "we began to gain upon her now, and whenever she kept a little away before the wind the gap between us closed more rapidly; for the ship could evidently outcarry the schooner, and, had the breeze freshened and the sea kept up, we could have run her under if her masts didn't go out of her, as we hoped and expected every minute they would. gradually, however, she watched her chance and hauled up till she brought the wind barely abeam, and steered true for the musketeers--a bad cluster of low keys nearly surrounded by as terrible ledges and reefs as any to be found in the caribbean sea. "her captain was evidently bent upon playing a desperate game, but, if he thought he would not find another ready to lay down the same stake, he was greatly mistaken! it was about sunset when we made the keys, and there we went--the schooner leading us about a mile--at a rate which would have made both vessels leap clear over the first ledge they struck, and perhaps have thrown summersaults of us into the bargain. i asked the captain, who had never left my side on the poop, if we should keep on. "'yes, sir,' he replied, 'so long as we have a gun and a plank to float it!' "and, by saint paul! we kept on. and there was not a soul on board the 'scourge,' from the drummer-boy up, who did not agree with the captain. how those villains on board the pirate relished this decision we could only surmise; but, at all risks, he held his course with a nerve that might have made the devil himself shudder. "by this time the sun was well down, and a brilliant moon was riding high in the heavens; but, as bright as it was, the fellow who commanded that schooner required an eye as keen as an albatross and a hand as steady as an iron bar to guide his craft in the direction he was going--too late for either of us to think of hauling off. "he must, too, have had a thorough knowledge of the reefs and keys, and trusted, perhaps, if he got clear himself, that the corvette, drawing eighteen feet water and ignorant of the channel, might touch something which would throw the game in his hands. our men had the ropes stretched along the decks and the battery clear on both sides, so as to be ready to wear, or tack, or fire, as our pilot ahead might require. "the reefs were to leeward of the string of low keys, which made the water comparatively smooth, though the wind still swept strongly over us and sang through the rigging; and it was here the 'centipede' entered, going like wild pigeons the pair of us. the outer reef had a fair, deep passage, and so had the next; but the inner one presented but one narrow gateway, scarcely wide enough for a ship to scrape through, with the whole reef one uninterrupted fringe of black pointed rocks and roaring white breakers, which toppled over, and boiled and eddied like a thousand whirlpools into the smoother water inshore. "as the 'centipede's' stern gave a sharp pitching jerk when she entered this boiling gorge, we saw, in the moonlight, her head-yards laid square, the fore and aft sails flowing in the sheets as she fell off with wide wings and the wind on her quarter, and flew down inside the reef. "five minutes after we too entered this maelstrom chasm, and, though the helm was hove hard up, and the after-sails shivered, yet, before the 'scourge's' bows, going at the rate she was, could turn the sharp angle of that water-gate, her port bilge grated against a coral ledge, and grooved and broomed the planks and copper away like so much sea-weed! but yet that slight graze never stopped us a hair's weight, and, with additional sail, we rushed after our pilot, mile after mile, through reef, ledge, breakers, inlets, and keys, now braced sharp up, and again going free, until at last the fellow, having run us a dance of full ten miles, once more emerged into the open water, close jammed on the wind, steering nearly due east. "there, hardy!" exclaimed the commodore, "i am tired of talking; suppose you take up the thread of the yarn. domino, another bottle of tinta!" chapter xxxvii. the wreck of the "centipede." "gun bellows forth to gun, and pain rings out her wild, delirious scream; redoubling thunders shake the main, loud crashing falls the shot-rent beam. the timbers with the broadsides strain; the slippery decks send up a steam from hot and living blood; and high and shrill is heard the death-pang cry!" "she struck where the white and fleecy waves looked soft as carded wool; but the cruel rocks they gored her side like the horns of an angry bull." piron turned his gaze toward the first lieutenant, moved away the full glasses of wine, which he had never raised to his lips since the commodore began, and, resting his bloodless cheek on his other hand, listened. "it's vera interesting indeed." "tear an' ages, boy! fire away!" quoth the scotchman and his milesian crony in a breath. hardy threw his arm over the shoulder of harry darcantel as if it was a pleasant corinthian column to lean upon, and breaking off the ashes of his cigar on the rim of a wine-glass which he had specially devoted to that purpose, he forthwith began: "i am quite confident, gentlemen, that i can not describe what afterward took place so well as commodore cleveland, but, at all events, i'll do my best. nor do i remember very distinctly the events of the night after we got out of the musketeers keys; for i was pretty well fagged out myself, and all of us who had the watch below turned in to take the first wink of sleep we could catch for forty hours. "the next morning, however, when i took the deck, i found the corvette under royals and flying-jib, with a fresh trade wind blowing from about east-northeast, and a smooth sea; though close hauled as we were, and going ten knots, the spray was flying well up the weather leech of the fore-sail. the 'centipede' was about a mile and a half ahead, jammed on the wind, and trying all she could to eat the wind out of us; but, as the commodore there said at the time, he had thrown that trick away when he cut off eight or ten feet of his fore-mast, and made a brigantine of the craft, so that he could not brace his head-yards sharper, or lie nearer the wind than we did. "i remember, also, that two or three of the officers and half a hundred of the sailors were very anxious to pitch shot at the chase from the long eighteen in the weather bridle port; but the captain refused, and said we might lose a cable's length or two in yawing off to fire, and it would be better to save the powder until we could slam a broadside into him. but all the while that 'centipede' was handled and steered in such a thorough seamanlike manner, and proved herself such a beautiful sea-boat, that i doubt if there was a man on board the 'scourge' who would not have given a year's pay to have taken her whole, and only expended a spare top-mast studding-sail halliards for the necks of her crew. "from the top-gallant forecastle we could see every thing that took place on the schooner's deck: sometimes a lot of fellows forward reeving some fresh gear, peering about the low bowsprit, or putting on a seizing to a traveler on the jib-stay; with a chap or two aloft stitching a chafing-mat on the lee backstays; and then aft a man shinning up the main shrouds with a tin pot hung around his neck, greasing the jaws of the main gaff, and twitching a wrinkle out of the gaff-top-sail, so that it would lie as flat as this dining-room table set on end. "but always, from the very first moment we descried her--before the hurricane and afterward--there were two fellows abaft by the taffrail. one a large fat man, in a long dark dress, who appeared at times to be leaning over the rail as if he were sea-sick; and the other a spare, tall-built fellow, who sat there with a quadrant in his hands and smoking cigars, measuring the distance between the two vessels as if he were a government surveyor, and especially appointed to make a hydrographical chart of the caribbean sea. occasionally, too, we could see him approach the binnacle, spread a chart on the deck at his feet, examine it closely with a pair of dividers in his hands, and then he would return to his seat on the taffrail, cigar in his mouth and quadrant to his eye as before. "nor were we idle on board the 'scourge;' for when the breeze lulled we slacked up the lower rigging and stays, got down all extra weight and hamper from the tops, sent the watch below to the berth-deck with a round shot apiece in their hammocks, moved a couple of carronades about the spar-deck till we got the ship in the best sailing trim, and then we went skipping and springing through the water with the elasticity of an india-rubber ball. "at noon the sailing-master reported the position of the ship to be two hundred and eighty miles from the nearest land, which was the darien coast. so all that day and all that night, with a moon to make a lover weep to see, we went bowling after our waspish consort in hopes before long of taking the sting out of her. no kite ever pursued its quarry with a keener eye than we did. no hound ever leaped after a wolf with the froth streaming from his jaws and blood-red thirsty eyes, than did the 'scourge' chase that infamous pirate. the delay only made our eyes sparkle and our teeth sharper in expectation; for we knew we would have our prey sooner or later, and it was only a bite and a pleasure deferred. "the next morning and all the day there was no change to speak of in our respective positions. the 'centipede' went skimming on over the water with every thread of canvas she could spread, reeling over on her side at times when the breeze freshened, while the spray flashed up joyously and sparkled in the sun, leaving a bubbling current of foam in her wake, which, before it had been entirely lost in the regular waves of the sea, the corvette's sharp bows would plunge into, and again make it flash high up to her fore-yard, and then go seething, and hissing, and kissing her black sides until it rippled around her rudder and was lost again in the wake astern. "and all the time that man sat with a cigar in his mouth on the pirate's taffrail, while commodore cleveland there stood with a spy-glass to his eye on the poop of the 'scourge.' "you may imagine, gentlemen," continued hardy, as he again knocked the ashes off his cigar, "that going to sea is attended with some few discomforts, such as battening down the hatches in a sirocco in the mediterranean off tripoli; a simoom in the china seas; a bitter northwest gale off barnegat, with the rigging and sails frozen as hard as an iceberg; but if a man can catch forty winks of sleep once in a while, whether in a hammock, or on an oak carronade slide with the breech of a gun for a pillow, he may manage to weather through it. but from the moment we first saw that pirate till we saw the last of him, neither the first lieutenant of the 'scourge' nor the commander of the 'centipede' once closed their eyes, unless--well, i won't anticipate." piron reached over his hand and shook that of his friend cleveland convulsively. "vera weel, mon! vera weel!" "he's the very man to do it!" said stewart and burns to stingo, nodding backward at the commodore. another striking contrast to the hand-shaking, virtuous compact between captain brand and his friend, the pious padre ricardo! i wonder if they are shaking hands now! probably not. "gentlemen," resumed hardy, as he shook the ashes level in his wine-glass, as if he wished to preserve them to clean his teeth with after smoking, "i will not detain you much longer. both vessels were making great speed, and long before sunset we had been keeping a bright look-out for the land. at last it was reported, trending all around both bows, low and with a trembling mirage of pines and mangroves looming up, and a multitude of rocky keys dead ahead. we were steering directly for las mulatas islands, a cluster then little known to any navigators save, perhaps, the buccaneers of the gulf of columbus, and perhaps, too, with the intention of running us just such another dance as our pilot had a night or two before. however, we were again all prepared to explore the unknown reefs; and, moreover, we got the starboard anchor off the bow, and bent the cables to that and the spare anchors amidships, so as to be all ready to moor ship in case our pilot required us to do so. and likewise the cutters were hanging clear from the davits--the same boats which had once before paid a complimentary visit to some of his friends--supposing he would like to entertain us in person. "the sun went down again in a fiery blaze, and with its last ray there slowly rose to the main truck of the pirate a swallow-tailed black flag, with a white skull and cross-bones in the dark field. it fluttered for a moment out straight and clear, and then twisted itself around the thin mast, never more to be released by hands or halliards! that was the last glimpse those pirates ever caught of the murderous symbol they had so often fought and sailed under; and it was the last sun that a good many aching eyes ever looked upon who were sailing there in that half league of blue water. the moon, however, was riding bright and beaming, as clear as a bell, overhead, and that was all the light we cared for. the 'centipede,' no doubt, would have preferred no moon at all, with a cloudy sky and a bit of a rain squall, to pursue the intricate navigation before her; but heaven arranged the atmospheric scenery otherwise. "'by the deep eight!' sang out the leadsman in the port chains. 'the mark five!' came from the opposite side. 'another cast, lads--quick!' 'and a half four!' 'six fathoms, sir!' "'we must have stirred up the sand, cleveland,' said the captain; but even as he spoke the man in the starboard chains cried, 'three fathoms, sir!' and while each instant we expected the ship to bring up all standing, and the masts to go by the board, the other leadsman sung out, joyfully, 'no bottom with the line, sir!' "well, we were safely through that bed of coral, doing, no doubt, some trifling damage to the tender shoots and branches, as we flew through a narrow channel, with the waves breaking and moaning on the sandy shores over the keys, out into deep water again. "four or five miles beyond stood out a bluff rock, looking in the moonlight like a dozing lion with his paws crossed before him, ready to bound upon any who should approach his lair in the dense jungle of pines and tangled thickets which stood up like a bristling mane on the ridge behind. "the 'centipede' was now but a short half-mile ahead of us, her deck alive with men, and manifestly ready for some desperate devilment. on her after rail, too, stood that man, tall and erect, his feet steadied by the cavil of the main boom, a spy-glass to his eye, and looking at the rocky lion now close aboard him, still with a cigar in his mouth; and we thought we could even see the thin puffs of smoke curling around his face. suddenly, too, we saw the spy-glass whirled around his head, and at the instant the vessel fell dead off before the wind, the great main-sail flew over with a stunning crash and clatter of blocks and sheets as the wind caught it on the other quarter, making the long switch of a mast to spring like a bow, while the weather-shrouds slacked up for a moment in bights, and then came back taut with a twang you might have heard a mile! we could now see, as the space opened behind the rock, another frightful jagged ledge, on which the rollers were heaving in liquid masses high up a precipitous rock, and where the channel was not a cable's length wide, leading into a foaming gloomy inlet, where not even the beams of the moon could penetrate! i heard the captain say, in his old decided way, "'now for it, cleveland! you take the battery, and i'll look out for the ship!' "then, gentlemen," said hardy, with unusual animation, as he waved his right arm aloft with an imaginary cutlass swinging over his head, "came the word 'fire!' "yes, the entire starboard broadside, round shot, grape, and canister, all pointed toward a centre, were delivered with one simultaneous shock--the hurricane a mere cat's-paw in comparison--which shook the corvette as if she had struck a rock, while the smoke and sheets of flame spouted out from the cannon, half hiding the black torrent which gushed forth from so many hoarse throats; and as the roar of the concussion was taken up in terrible echoes from the lion on the rock, a peppering volley of musket-balls from the marines on the poop and forecastle made a barking tenor to the music. "meanwhile the helm of the 'scourge' was hove hard down, and as she just swirled, by a miracle, clear of the ledge under our lee, and came up to the wind with the sails slamming and banging hard enough to send the canvas out of the bolt-ropes, the courses were clewed up, every thing aloft came down by the run; anchor after anchor went plunging to the bottom, and before the cables had fairly begun to fly out of the hawse-holes with their infernal jar and rattle, high above the sounds of flapping sails, snapping blocks, running chains, and what not, came another clear order, 'fire!' "then pealed out the port broadside at a helpless, dismasted hulk within two hundred yards of our beam, rolling like a worm-eaten log on the top of a ruffled broad roller, going to break, in ten seconds, on the ledge, whose pointed rocks stood up like black toothed fangs to grind its prey to atoms! but before the fangs closed upon it our own teeth gave it a shake; and as the breath of our bull-dogs was swept aft by the fresh breeze, we could see the sluggish mass almost rise bodily out of water as it was torn and split by the round iron wedges, the fragments flying up in dark, ragged strips and splinters with squirming ropes around them, looking, in the moonlight, like skeletons of gibbeted pirates tossed, gallows and chains, into the air, and then coming down in dips and splashes into the unforgiving water. "a minute later, all that was left of the shattered hull fell broadside into the open fangs of the ledge, which ground it with its merciless jaws into toothpicks. but in all the lively music and destruction going on around us--which takes longer to tell than to act--we heard no human voice save one, and that came in a loud, terrified yell amid the crunching roar of the ledge, "'_o madre! madre dolorosa!_' "this, gentlemen, was the last sound that came from the piratical schooner 'centipede.'" chapter xxxviii. vultures and sharks. "oh ho! oh ho! above! below! lightly and brightly they glide and go; the hungry and keen on the top are leaping, the lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping!" "ah! well-a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young; instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung." when hardy had concluded his part of the tale, he stuck the stump of his cigar into the wine-glass of ashes, as if he had no farther use for either, moistened his throat with a bumper of tinta, and almost unconsciously passed his left arm around harry darcantel's neck. stingo drank two bumpers, as if he had a particularly parched throat; but paddy burns and tom stewart, strange to relate, never wet their lips, and passed their hands in a careless way across their eyes, as if there were moisture enough there--as, indeed, there was; feeling, as they did, in the founts of their own generous natures, for their dear friend who sat opposite. piron's head rested, face downward, on his outspread hands, and a few drops trickled through his close-pressed fingers, but they were not wine. and as he raised his head and looked around the board, where glowing, sympathizing eyes met his, he said, in a low, subdued voice, "i trust i may thank heaven for avenging the murder of our child!" even as he uttered these words, his gaze rested on the face of darcantel; and striking the table with a blow that made the glasses jingle, he started back, as he had done on the frigate's quarter-deck, and exclaimed, "great god! can it be possible that that boy was saved from the clutches of the drowned pirate!" not so fast, good monsieur piron--not so fast. your boy was saved, and captain brand was not drowned. so keep quiet for a time, and you shall not only see that bloody pirate, but hear how he departed this life; only keep quiet! paddy burns said, with a violent attempt at indignation, "wirra, ye spalpeen! is it thinking of old clinker and his 'arthquake ye are?" while tom stewart ejaculated, "heeh, mon! are you for breaking the commodoor's decanters and wine-glasses, in the belief that ye are the eerthquak yersel?" stingo, who was more calm, and a less excitable creole, merely murmured, "commodore, we want to hear more of what took place, and then what became of you for the past sixteen or seventeen years." "you shall hear more if you are not tired, gentlemen, though i have very little to add to what hardy has already related of the 'centipede.' steward, let the servants turn in; and brew us, yourself, a light jorum of antigua punch! now, then," said commodore cleveland, "i'm your man! "after we had scaled the guns on both sides of the 'scourge,' as hardy has told you, the captain thought it an unnecessary trouble to lower the boats to pick up the chips floating about the mouth of the channel; and, besides, it would have been a bit dangerous, since the sea was coming in savagely, boiling about the ship, with a very uncertain depth of water around and under us; and, moreover, we had our hands full the best part of the night in reeving new running-gear, bending a new sail or two that had flapped to pieces when every thing was let go by the run in coming to anchor. however, before morning, we were in cruising trim once more, and ready to cut and run in case it was expedient to lose our ground-tackle, and get out of what we afterward learned was the garotte gorge. but by sunrise the wind fell away into a flat calm, and with the exception of the long, triple row of rollers heaving in occasionally from seaward, we lay as snug and quiet as could be. "after breakfast the quarter boats were lowered, and hardy took one, and i got in the other, and we pulled in toward the jaws of the channel, between the lion rock and the ledge on the opposite side. "there were still a good many fragments of the wreck, which had escaped the reacting current out to sea, floating about on the water; some of the timbers, too, of the hull were jammed in the black gums of the ledge, shrouded in sea-weed and kelp, as if all had grown there together. farther on was part of the fore-mast and top-mast, swimming nearly in mid-channel, anchored as it were by one of the shrouds--twisted, perhaps, around a sharp rock below. the top-sail was still fast to the yards, hoisted and sheeted home, and laid in the water transversely to the masts, just as it fell under the raking fire of our first broadside, jerking over the main-top-mast with it. "a myriad of sea-birds, from mother carey's chickens to gulls and cormorants, and even vultures and eagles from the shore, were clustered on the wreck as thick as bees--screaming, croaking, and snapping at each other with their hard beaks and bills, while thousands more were hurrying in from seaward, and either swooped down over the ledge, or tried to find a place on the floating spars. "the gorge, too, was alive with barracoutas and sharks, leaping out of water, or with their stiff triangular fins cutting just above the surface, and sometimes even grazing the blades of the cutter's oars. i pulled slowly toward the wreck of the fore-mast, and hooked on to the reef-cringle of the fore-top-sail. the birds did not move at our approach, and one old red-eyed vulture snapped on the polished bill of the boat-hook, leaving the marks of his beak in the smooth iron. down in the clear green depths, too, the water was alive with ravenous fish, and we could see at times hundreds of them with their heads fastened on to some dark object, rolling it, and biting it, and pulling every way, with now and then the glance of a clean-picked bone shining white in the limpid water as the mass was jerked out of our sight. "the bowmen, however, attracted my attention, and one of them sang out, as he pointed with his finger, 'i say, mr. cleveland, here's the captain and his priest lying in the belly of the top-sail!' "i walked forward, while the men fired a few pistols to scare away the birds, and looked in. there, about a foot below the water, lay one drowned man and half the body of another, who had evidently been cut in twain by a twenty-four pound shot at the stomach, leaving only a few revolting shreds of entrails dangling beneath the carcass. the other corpse was a large, burly, fat man, wrapped in a black cassock, with a knotted rope to confine it at the midriff, and around his thick bare neck was a string of black beads, holding a gold and ebony crucifix, pendent in the water. the eyes of the one with half a body had been picked out by the gulls, but he still possessed a fang-like tusk, sticking through a hare-lip under a fringe of wiry mustache, which gave me a tolerable correct idea of his temper even without seeing his eyes. the truck and shivered stump of the main-top-mast, too, with the piratical flag still twisted around it, lay across his chest; but, as we approached, an eagle seized it in his beak, and, tearing it in tattered shreds, flew aloft, with the remains of the parted halliards streaming below his talons. "the large lump rolling slowly over beside him had the crown of the head shaved, and the mouth and eyes were wide staring open, as if it was chanting forth a misericordia for his own soul. as i stood gazing at these revolting objects, and while the men were firing pistols and slashing the oars and boat-hooks around to drive away the greedy birds, a huge pelican, unmindful of powder or ash, made one dashing swoop into the sail, and as he came up and spread his broad pinions--nearly as broad as the sail itself--he held in his pouch the crucifix from the padre's neck, and as he slowly flapped his great wings and sailed away, with the beads dropping pit-a-pat-pat on the glassy surface of the water, a cloud of cormorants, gulls, and vultures took after him to steal his plunder. "at the same time the sharks--many of them resting their cold, sharp noses on the very leech of the top-sail--waiting like hungry dogs for a bone, with a thousand more diving and cutting in the water beneath, at last cut through the canvas belly of the sail, and, before you could think, the floating corpses were within their serrated jaws. in another moment the bodies rose again to the surface outside the sail and wreck; then another dash from the monsters, and a greedy dive and peck from the birds; a few bubbles and shreds of black threads, and that was the last of those wretches until the sea shall give up its dead. "as for hardy, he pulled higher up the gorge, and examined the rocks and pools on both sides, but saw nothing living or dead, and we both returned to the ship." had dick hardy landed at the flat rock where the eddy swept in under the lion's paws, he might have seen the footprint of a man, with a straw slipper in it; and following the track a few yards farther, he would have passed his sword through a villain lying bleeding in a mangrove thicket; and found, too, in his belt, snugly stowed away, a lot of gleaming jewels, with a sapphire gem of priceless value on the finger of his bloody hand. but never mind, hardy! you will hear more of that man one of these days, and you will have no cause for regrets--though he will, perhaps; and, meanwhile, let him wander in quest of fresh villainies over spanish south america. "well, gentlemen," resumed commodore cleveland, "although i have doubts whether the mangled carcass we saw in the sail was the captain of that notorious 'centipede,' yet i felt confident at the time, and do now, that it was scarcely possible for him or a man of his crew to have escaped our fire and the water and rocks combined. so that evening, when the land-wind made, we tripped anchor and sailed away from the coast of darien." "come, my friends," said piron, in a low, tremulous voice, rising as he spoke, "we must not push cleveland too far to-night, for it is getting late, you know, and they keep early hours on board men-of-war." "no hurry, piron! i'll talk to you all night, if you have the patience to listen to me. no? then i'll have the boat manned." he touched a bell-rope which hung over his head, and the cabin door opened. "orderly, my compliments to the officer of the watch, and desire him to call away the barge." while some of the gentlemen in the forward cabin left the table, and stood about in groups chatting till the boat was reported, piron put his arm around the commodore's belt, and they moved aft into the starboard stateroom. little mouse was lying sound asleep on the elegant cot, with all his clothes on, but with a smile on his lips, and dreaming, maybe, of the dear widowed mother he would one of those days make proud of him. "cleveland, my old friend, tell me more of that young darcantel!" "hist! piron, don't wake little tiny! there's nothing to tell more than he is my adopted nephew, and the son of the gentleman who occupies that stateroom opposite. but when we go out to escondido i'll tell you about his father, who has led a very adventurous life." "well, good-night! you will bring young darcantel with you, and this little rogue, too, here in the cot. my wife and her sister will be delighted to see you all. good-night!" as the "monongahela's" bell struck eight for midnight, the commodore's guests got in the barge and pulled toward the shore. at the same time, a light gig, with handsome harry darcantel, went alongside the "rosalie," and commodore cleveland turned into his friend's cot opposite, leaving small mr. mouse to sleep his dream out till morning; while, as the barge ran up to the landing at kingston harbor, and a gold ounce was slipped into the old coxswain's honest paw, what did they all think about? good-night! chapter xxxix. escondido. "they bore her far to a mountain green, to see what mortal never had seen; and they seated her high on a purple sward, and bade her heed what she saw and heard; and note the changes the spirits wrought, for now she lived in the land of thought." "'twixt africa and ind, i'll find him out, and force him to restore his purchase back, or drag by the curls to a foul death, cursed as his life." hidden in a cleft of the hills of jamaica, fifteen hundred feet above that blue tropical sea below, on the brow of a cool valley, where that bounding stream of white water rushes from the tall peak in the sky in tiny cataracts, till it forms a pool there, held in by the smooth rim of rocks, where the cane-mill is lazily turning its overshot wheel, with the spray flying off in streaming mist, and the happy blacks stacking the sugar-cane in even fagots as they unlade the huge carts with solid wheels cut out of a single drum of a cotton-tree; the six or eight yoke of oxen ahead ruminating under the shade of the tropical foliage, with never a switch to their tails; while the lively young sea-breeze comes flurrying up the valley, whistling among the coffee bushes below, bending the standing cane on the slopes, rattling the tamarinds, cocoa-nuts, and plantains, and then climbing with noisy wings up the mountain, is lost with a whirl in the heavy cloud which obscures the lofty peak. below the mill, where the mule-path crosses the foaming torrent by the shaky bridge, which stands on cocoa-nut stilts, and never yet has been thrown down by an earthquake, nestling under a precipitous crag, stood the mountain seat of escondido. vines and parasitical plants, mingled with scarlet creeping geraniums, made a living wall of dewy green and red on the face of the hoary rock, falling over here and there at some projecting acclivity in leafy torrents, and then forming a glowing green cornice along the topmost edges of the height. the buildings stood on a flat esplanade below, looking down the gorge as from the apex of a triangle, and taking in the overseer's houses on the plantations, with their cone-shaped roofs, the fields of cane and coffee groves, the cataract between, down to the white snowy beach at the sea-shore, and the blue water crested by waves as far as the sight could reach. the main house was square--standing on stilts, too, like the shaky bridge--the lower part fenced in by straight bamboos, of one story, with a broad roomy veranda going all round, where half a dozen grass hammocks were slung between the windows which opened into the dwelling. a great airy saloon and dining-room faced the valley, while six or eight cool bedchambers looked out from the rear up at the green wall of the precipice, and down on the sparkling stream of the mill. but there were no loopholes for musketry, nor vaults and dungeons. the sun had long passed the tall peaks of the blue mountains above, and the shadows had fallen down the valley until even the patch of white pebbly cove at the shore had become dim; and no sounds were heard save the rustling of the sea-breeze, the splash of the torrent as it fell off from the rickety old wheel of the cane-mill, mingled with the shrill cries and songs of the negroes as they unloaded the carts. yes; but there _were_ other sounds--the low, sweet tones of women's voices--inside the villa of escondido. two lovely matrons were sitting within that lofty saloon, hand clasped in hand, and gazing with glowing pride upon a lovely girl, who waved lithe as a lily on its stem before them. it is about seventeen years since we last saw this charming trio. and now look at them, old bachelors, and tell me if, while old time has been scraping the hair off your own selfish heads, and pinching the noses, too, of the ancient maids beside you, has not the scything old wretch spared these lovely matrons? look at their rounded forms, those soft dimpled cheeks, and those bands of brown tresses, kissing the pear-shaped ears before they are looped up in one magnificent knot of satin at the back of the head. look at them, you miserable old procrastinators, and then kneel down before the ancient damsels you have sneered at, even if they have the pelican gout and a crow's-foot at the corners of their eyes! they are better than you are, any day; so bear a hand, send for the parson--and now stand back. but come here, my young gallants, and take a peep at that bordelaise demoiselle standing before those fair matrons. strange to say, she is nearly a blonde, with large blue eyes, so very blue that--fringed with lashes that cast a shade over the cheek--they seem almost black. then, too, that low, pure forehead, with great plaits of hair going round and round her elegant head like a golden turban, and thin hoops of rings quivering in the pearl-tipped ears. tall and waving in figure, as maidens are; with slim, arched feet, dimpled at the ankle; and round, tapering fingers too, with a wrist so plump and soft that no manacles of bracelets could press it without slipping off the ivory hand. dressed she was in a light mousseline, coyly cowering in loose folds around her budding bosom to the slender waist, where, clasped by a simple buckle of mother-o'-pearl, it fell flowing in gauzy, floating waves to her feet. look at her, my gallants, for she is rosalie! "they are coming to-day, my aunt; and uncle jules says that our dear old captain blunt has just arrived at kingston, and is coming with them." "what else, my daughter?" the girl held a letter before her face, maybe to hide a little blush which suffused her cheeks. "why, mamma, he writes that the spring-cart, with banou, was to start overnight with the 'traps'--that means trunks, i suppose--and that--" "what, rosalie?" "that there is a handsome young officer, the nephew of commodore cleveland--_merci_, mamma! some of uncle jules's nonsense!" no such great nonsense, after all, mademoiselle, when your uncle piron tells you to keep that fluttering little heart safe within your bodice, for there are thieves in blue jackets in the island of jamaica. strange, too, as she spoke--with her animated face, large blue eyes, and graceful, wavy figure--how much she resembled both those lovely women, with their darker coloring, who sat smiling sweetly upon her. "oh! here comes uncle banou. well, my good banou, what news of your master?" said madame piron, as she put out her hand to the black, who raised it respectfully to his lips. "he will be here with his friends at sunset, eh! and mademoiselle rosalie must place the gentlemen's things in their rooms, and see that the billiard-house has some cots made ready in it." "nothing more?" "no, madame." "_allons!_ rosalie, we have no time to lose." winding through the mazes of the tropical forest, over the broken stony road, leading through a brilliant labyrinth of wild fig and acacia, plume-like palms, white shafts of silk and cotton, and lance-wood, mahogany, and ebony, parasitical plants in green and red, with endless varieties of gay flowers strung and laced in superb festoons on trunk and branch; singing birds and paroquets making the forest alive; while, mingled with the delicious fragrance of orange-blossoms, cinnamon, and pimento, the fresh breeze wheeled through clump and leaf, changing the hues of plant and flower from white to crimson, green, purple, and gold, as nature painted them in gorgeous dyes. through this brilliant vegetation, along the uneven road, came the sound of horses' feet, with hearty shouts and laughter; and presently appeared a cavalcade, mounted on mules and horses, all making the forest ring with merriment. ahead came tom stewart, on a small, sure-footed pony; and beside him mr. tiny mouse, reefer, on a high mule, with a scrubbing-brush mane, looking like a fly pennant at the mast-head of the frigate, kicking his little heels into the old mule, as if that mule minded it even so much as to shake his long ears! then straggling in the centre were darcantel, stingo, and paddy burns; and behind them came a tall, muscular man, on a mettled barb, which he controlled by a touch of his little finger. and at his side, on the most diminutive of the donkey breed, with feet touching the ground, clung stout jacob blunt, the sailor, in a more dreadful trepidation than he had ever known on board his old teak-built brig, lying there in the roads of kingston; while the rear was brought up by piron and commodore cleveland. "now, you little madcap, look sharp when we turn the curve of the mountain, and you'll catch a peep at escondido; and don't you pinch that old mule again on her back, or she'll pitch you up into that silk cotton-tree." "if it pleases providence to restore me safely to my dear old 'martha blunt,' i'll take my davy never to sit astride of any d---- brute on four legs again!" this mild vow came from the lips of jacob blunt, and he honestly meant every word he said. "give us another jolly song, stingo; it will keep your throat clear for the claret." "for the sake of my old timbers, sir, and as you vally my wife's blessing, don't sing! there, you infarnal beast, you've yawed sharp up into this ere bush, and put my starboard glim out forever! i say, don spanisher, don't sing--_i'm_ going fast enough!" shouted the poor skipper, as he passed his paws around the little brute's neck, with his hat over his eyes. "colonel," said burns, as he reined up, and gave the perverse little donkey a cut with his whip, which elicited another hoarse roar from the old sailor as the animal half doubled himself up, and then ambled away like a yawl in a short sea, until he came up to the people ahead, when he stood stock-still and brayed maliciously, "have you another cigar, colonel? thankee! fine scenery this about here--never visited jamaica before? ye have been off the island, eh? it's a nate little spot piron has there, that it is; and the whole of us will be mighty sorry to lose him. is he going to lave? yes, he is; and, what is worse, he is going to take his swate wife and her sister. is the sister handsome? begorra! handsome? why, man, she's a beauty! and didn't i crack the elbow-joint of that ugly, abusive divil, peter growler, for saying he had seen a gray hair in her head, when i knew it was only a loose thread from her lace cap--and me in love with her all the time. bad luck to him! he's never fired a pistol since." here paddy burns's small eyes twinkled as he slowly raised the stock of his riding-whip at a slender lance-wood-tree about twelve yards off, and gave the lash a sharp crack. the person on the spirited barb almost unconsciously put his right hand in his pocket. take care, paddy burns; the colonel has a cool hand and a colder eye, and has made a study of pistols--cannon and swivels too, perhaps. knows the cutlass exercise as well, and has had considerable experience in bullets, knives, and ropes. has murdered women--lots of them. wouldn't stick at killing a child with a junk bottle. and as for men--pshaw! keep a bright look-out, paddy. why, he'd drown your mother if you had a sister to love. for didn't he drag his own old father and mother down to a dishonored grave? and do you think, you brave, honest little irishman, that he would sleep a wink the less sound for putting you to death? bah! man. shoot all the game you spring, but don't waste powder on a tiger or a shark. you would like to take a mutual shot with him, though? of course you would--who doubts it? but then, gentlemen fight gentlemen; and this colonel at your elbow is a scoundrel, miscreant, villain, assassin, and--pirate! so you can't take a crack at him, paddy burns. chapter xl. paul darcantel. "from the strong will, and the endeavor, that forever wrestles with the tide of fate; from the wrecks of hope far scattered, tempest shattered, floating waste and desolate." "well, piron, as i have told you, after the peace was made in , i had command of a brig, and took a cruise on the coast of brazil. after that i was appointed to a thirty-six gun frigate--the old 'blazer'--and went, for three years, to the east indies, and round home by the pacific. when we were paid off i made a tour in europe with that boy's father, dr. darcantel, and--" "but you promised to tell me, cleveland, something about him." "nothing easier; and, if we have half an hour before we get to escondido, i will give you all i know, in a general way, of his history. yes? well, then, darcantel is descended from one of the oldest and best creole families in our state of louisiana, and the plantations of my family and his father were contiguous to each other on the mississippi, some leagues up the coast above new orleans. we had the same tutor when we were children, and we grew up from infancy to boyhood together. he was passionate and ungovernable even as a child; but as he was the heir to a large estate, and his father dead, his weak mother humored and allowed no one to curb him. i myself, one of a numerous family, was put in the navy, and i went away on cruise after cruise, and did not get home again to the old plantation for full seven years. i was a man then, had seen some active service, and i held a commission as a lieutenant in the navy. "in the mean while, paul darcantel, who had taken, at the time i left, a strong fancy for medicine and surgery, had been sent to france to begin his studies. how he applied himself we do not know; but with a large letter of credit he spent a great deal of money; and we heard that, with great talents and wonderful skill in his profession, he was yet unfitted for close application, and plunged madly into the vortex of dissipation around him. i heard, too--or at least my brothers told me--that his extravagances had seriously impaired his fortune, and that his duels had been so numerous and desperate as to make his name dreaded even in paris. on one occasion, at a café, he had cut a bullying hussar's head clean off with his own sabre for knocking a woman down; and in another duel, where he had detected a french count cheating him at cards, he shot his nose off for a bet. with this unenviable reputation, and at the urgent solicitations of his agent, after years of absence he returned to his ancestral home. we met as of old--it was paul and henry--and though still the same restive, hot-headed spirit as he had ever been, he yet always listened patiently to what i said, and i could, in a manner, control him. he paid very little attention to his property, however, and when he did go to the city to consult with his factor or trustee, he got into some wild frolic, duel, and scrape, and came back worn out with fatigue and dissipation. he was a fine, stern-looking youth in those days, with great muscular power, which, even with the endurance put upon it by gaming and drinking, seemed not to be lessened. "after one of these visits to new orleans, where his long-forbearing agents had at last awakened him to a bitter sense of his delinquencies, and when mortgage upon mortgage were laid with all their shocking truth before him, he returned and came to me. with all his vices and faults, he was truthful and generous. he told me all, and how he would try to do better, and soothe the declining years of his too indulgent mother. "i always had great faith in the companion almost of my cradle, and i loved him, i think, better than my own brothers. well, he spread all his affairs before me, and in my little den of an outhouse on the plantation we both went systematically over the papers. we were two days and nights at the business; and when, at last, i showed him that he would still, with a little prudent economy, have a fair income, and eventually, perhaps, redeem his hereditary property, he burst out in a wild yell of delight, and hugged me in his arms. when he had put away the papers, i said, "'paul, you know i am engaged to be married, and i have not seen my sweetheart for two whole days; she has a sister, too, prettier than my fifine, whom you have never seen since we were boys together. come, will you go with me? we can pull ourselves across the river.' "he hesitated; and it would have been, perhaps, better had he refused to accompany me, for dreadful misery came of it." the commodore gave a deep sigh, and touched his horse with the spur. "i don't know, though, piron; there is a fate marked out for us all, and we should not exclaim against the decrees of providence. paul went with me across the river. there, on the bank, was a little bower of an old french-built stone house, where dwelt the last of a line of french nobility who dated back to the days of charlemagne. it was an impoverished family, consisting of a reckless brother and two sisters, who, with a few acres of sugar-cane and some old faithful servants, managed to make both ends meet, and to support the establishment in a certain air of elegance and comfort to which they had been accustomed. they were of a proud and haughty race--the brother a disdainful and imperious gentleman, smarting and brooding over the reverses of his family, and rarely visiting his neighbors. his sisters--and they were twins--were trustful, happy girls, and josephine had been my childish love." here cleveland bent over his saddle-bow, and if the quiet old horse he bestrode believed the large drops which fell upon his sleek neck came from the clouds, or the drooping foliage of the forest, that animal was never more deceived in his quadruped life. we know that fact, for it stands upon the angelic record. "well, my dear piron, as we entered the little saloon where fifine was seated at the piano, playing the sweet airs she had sung to me when a little bit of a girl, and her beautiful sister bending over a table near, absorbed in a book, while the candles under the glass shades lighted up her dark passionate eyes and brunette complexion, paul approached her. it was not love at first sight, because they had played together when children; but it was such a love as only begins and dies with man or woman. the brother came in soon afterward, but there was no love exchanged between him and paul, and they met in a manner which seemed to revive the early dislike they had entertained one toward the other in boyhood. "so the time passed, and in the course of a few months josephine and i were married, and our home was made on my own old place. still, night by night, in storm, calm, or freshet, paul pulled himself in a skiff across that mighty river, and we could see the lights shining to a late hour in the little bower. he had changed a great deal, for he loved with the whole force of his fiery and impetuous nature. pauline loved too, though still she feared him. the brother, however, bitterly opposed their union, and stormy scenes arose. josephine and i did all we could to put matters on a happy footing, but jacques, the brother, grew more determined as his sister refused to cast off her lover, till at last his feeling against him broke out into open scornful insult; and though paul still persisted in seeing pauline, yet we feared that the impetuous spirits of the two men would, at any moment, burst out into open violence. "darcantel, however, controlled himself, avoided as much as possible any altercations with jacques, applied himself to the duties of his plantation, and always promised me that he would wait and see if time would not induce the brother to give his consent to the marriage. meanwhile paul's mother died. a year passed. fifine gave me a little boy, who was called after me, and then i went again to sea. nearly three years later i returned, and the very night before i reached the plantation a dreadful tragedy had occurred. i might, perhaps, have prevented it had i been there, but it was ordered otherwise. "it seems that two days previously jacques wrote to paul--i saw the letter--and it was something painful to read; for he not only recapitulated his vices and follies, but he taxed him with being a ruined gambler, who had brought his mother in sorrow to the grave, and ended by swearing, in the most solemn manner, that if he dared again to speak to his sister or darken their doors, he would shoot him like a dog! "that evening, as usual, the skiff pursued its way across the river, and late at night when it returned there was a fluttering white dress in the stern. scarcely, however, had the skiff left the bank than a boat shoved out from the other side manned by four negroes, and came swiftly over in pursuit. what afterward transpired i heard from an old married couple of servants who had passed their lives with the family. it appears that paul, with pauline in his arms, had barely reached the hall of the great house, and was giving orders to close the doors, when jacques rushed in with a naked rapier in one hand and a pistol in the other. paul adjured him, by all he held sacred, not to attack him, as his blood was up, and, unarmed as he was, he would do him a mischief. pauline, too, implored him by a sister's love to desist; but seeing him still advance, as she partially shielded paul, she told him that the man she loved was her husband. "blinded with haughty rage, this last admission rendered him ungovernable, and he lunged with all his force at darcantel. paul parried his rapid passes, though receiving some sharp thrusts in his arm and shoulder, and still supporting his drooping, terrified wife on his left arm till, by a quick spring, he got within jacques's guard, and, seizing him by the wrist, wrenched the weapon from his grasp. this was enough to make the brother totally insane by passion from baffled revenge, when he leveled his pistol and fired. there was a faint cry with the report, and a groan from jacques as the sword went through his body and heart, till the hilt struck hard against his ribs as he fell, a dead man, on the marble pavement. but the bullet from his pistol had pierced the fair forehead of his sister, and she lay a bridal corpse in her husband's arms. it was horrible. "i spare you all the afflicting details, piron, and will only add that paul left the plantation that night, and when i got home i found an envelope post-marked 'new orleans,' inclosing a paper, which constituted me his sole executor, and leaving our little boy his heir. i had but a short leave of a month, and duty called me again away. it was on the anniversary of the day the tragedy occurred, after another long interval of four years in the 'scourge,' that i again returned, and then there was wailing and moaning in my own dwelling. my poor josephine had never recovered from the shock; she drooped away like a lily, her little boy by her side, and both died during my absence." what makes the strong man's eyelids quiver and voice tremble--those eyes that have looked calmly on death and carnage in every shape, with his deep, calm voice cheering on the men to battle at his side? ah! "it was midnight, and i walked out to the little grave-yard where my fathers had been buried, and bending my steps to a cluster of magnolias on a little mound by itself, i--i--a--kneeled down beside the sod where reposed all i had loved on earth! i do not know how long i remained there, but presently i heard a groan near by, and a tall man rose up from where he had been stretched, face downward, on the ground, and i beheld paul darcantel! i could hardly recognize him at first, for he seemed fifty years older than when we had last parted. "'cleveland,' he said, in a hollow, choking voice, 'forgive me! i am a changed, and, i trust, a better man. i have been drawn to this holy spot by the same errand which brought you hither, and though i did not expect to meet you, yet i am glad of it now. speak, and say you forgive me, and you will shed a ray of hope and salvation into the heart of one who will suffer unto the end! speak!' "old memories crowded around me, and i saw before me the child in the cradle, and with our arms round each other's necks as we played together. i forgot, for the moment, the sisters lying there--bride, mother, and baby-boy. the magnolias bowed their white flowers in the light of the waning moon, and we fell again into each other's arms. "after a time he said, 'my only friend, i have brought home with me a little helpless boy; he is named henry, after you, and will take the place of the lost little one lying here. whoever of us survives shall inherit that estate. come with me and look at him!' "he led me to the other mound, and there, beside the tree, a beautiful child lay calmly sleeping, wrapped in a sailor's jacket, with his curls escaping from a straw hat, and the head resting on one arm on the grave beneath him. "'be good to him,' paul went on, 'for the sake of those we have lost ourselves! his mother's name was rosalie.' "he stooped down as he said this, and, raising the boy in his arms, he kissed him passionately, and then put him gently in mine. 'let him kneel sometimes at this grave, my friend, and pray for me.' "in another moment paul darcantel had gone. the little fellow partly woke, and put his arms affectionately around my neck, and whispered 'mamma! mamma!' that dashing, brave young fellow ahead there was once that boy. "well, i took the child to the house, where my good mother and sisters went wild over him, and there he passed a happy boyhood. years went by, and he grew apace, the pride and delight of us all; and as he evinced the greatest fondness for me and the accounts i gave him of my life at sea, i had him appointed a reefer in the navy. since that he has seen a great deal of service; been distinguished in action; and, on shipboard as well as on shore, liked and respected by all who know him. "in the mean while his father went away, nobody knew whither, for years and years. he wrote to me, however, and to his son, from all parts of the world; and when i made the tour in europe i spoke about, darcantel was my companion. but while there he passed a retired life, never went into society, but visited every hospital in every sea-port from the mediterranean to aberdeen in scotland; for he is not only a surgeon, as i have reason to know, of wonderful skill, but a thorough-bred seaman too; and when he has been with me on board ship there is no one whose opinion of the weather, or other nautical matters, do i place greater reliance on. i could tell you of half a dozen times when his advice to me has saved serious damage. and during all these years darcantel's estates, under the careful supervision of my eldest brother, have been redeemed from their load of debt, and now he enjoys a noble income--or, rather, he spends nothing on himself, but devotes it to widows and orphans, and sick or worn-out sailors. "in the seventeen years which have gone by since he brought his child to me he has made several visits of a month or two's duration to the plantations, but only when henry was on leave from duty. then it was a pleasant sight to see them both together, and the touching air of affection which bound the youth to his father. henry, from a child, often went and prayed beside the grave under the magnolias, and to this day he believes that his own mother lies buried there. perhaps it is as well that he should cherish this early belief; for i may tell you in confidence, piron, that we believe there at home that he is the illegitimate offspring of some erring passion of darcantel, though none of us have ever learned it positively from his father's lips. he is not a person to be questioned by any one, not even by me; and as he seems anxious to throw a thick veil over the past, we never venture to draw it aside. "when, however, i was appointed to my present command, darcantel desired to sail with me, and see the west india islands, which he had not visited for an age. i was only too happy to have him, especially as harry there--whom i love like a father--was named to the little schooner he had cut out in africa on his last cruise, and ordered to join my squadron. but whenever we get into port his father goes quietly on shore; passes his time, i think, among the sailors of the foreign shipping, spending money freely among the deserving, and again coming back in his calm, stern way. he told me, however, piron, yesterday, that perhaps he might accept your kind invitation to come up here, though not for some days. by george!" said the commodore, "that must be escondido!" piron sighed as if a pleasant dream had vanished. chapter xli. instinct and wonder. "'ho! sailor of the sea! how's my boy--my boy?' 'what's your boy's name, good wife, and in what good ship sailed he?'" "through the night, through the night, in the saddest unrest, wrapped in white, all in white, with her babe on her breast, walks the mother so pale, staring out on the gale, through the night!" as the cavalcade trotted round the curve of the peak, and then walked the cattle down the steep zigzag road of the beautiful valley, the commodore said, "but, piron, tell me who that large man is with the black hair and blue eyes." "why, cleveland, all i know of him is that he landed at kingston in a vessel from the isthmus of panama, and is going to cuba on his way to england. he came to me, hearing that i was the consignee of old blunt's older brig, bound to new orleans, and so home, to know if he could be dropped at st. jago, where he has some property or debts to collect; and since the old skipper has no objection, he has taken passage in the brig when she goes with me and my family. i have since met him--he calls himself colonel lawton--at dinners of our set, and he seems to be an englishman or scotchman. tom stewart thinks the latter from his accent, and for his liking for snuff; but paddy burns differs, and believes he don't like snuff, but only takes it to show his splendid box. any way, he speaks all languages, spanish, french, italian, and english, and can talk slang in them all like a native. he has served, too, from his own account, with bolivar there on the spanish main; and he was with cochrane in that desperate affair of cutting out the 'esmeralda' in callao bay. a very amusing, entertaining vagabond he is, and i asked him to join us to make the acquaintance of my people on our last frolic to the valley; but, somehow, i am rather sorry that i gave him a passage with us in the brig, for i don't altogether like his looks." "neither do i, piron; his hair is too black for his light blue eyes. however, we must make the most of him." over the shaky bridge of the torrent, where jacob blunt prayed earnestly for martha blunt, and d----d his donkey as if he had never rocked on water before; mr. mouse, with a last tiny kick on the saddle-flaps of his lofty mule, tumbled off; colonel lawton swinging himself from the saddle of his barb as if he had been part of him; tom stewart, paddy burns, and don stingo sliding off any way; harry darcantel trying to descend in fine style, and failing miserably; piron and the commodore doing the thing leisurely; jacob blunt pulled off bodily; while the laughing blacks took the beasts and led them away. there were three pair of eyes that watched all this grace and clumsiness from the windows of the saloon. two pair of dark ones smiled, and the pair of blue opened until they seemed like azure globes, and then they closed until the fringe of chestnut lashes nearly hid them from sight. "colonel lawton, do me the favor to follow my old friend banou--you too, captain jacob, and lieutenant darcantel and mr. mouse; paddy burns and stingo, here, will show you your quarters in the old billiard-room. come, commodore, the rest of us will find quarters in the casa." an hour later the saloon and sala were all alight, and the sashes of the jalousies closed, for it was cool at times up there at escondido. there, too, stood the party of gentlemen, mr. mouse being a prominent figure in the background. then came a rustling of robes, and as the great folding doors swung open, the three ladies lit up the saloon in a halo of loveliness with brighter rays than were shed from the wax-lights in the chandelier. two fair hands were placed in those of cleveland, and the look which accompanied went back to the happy morning on the old brig's deck, away off there to sea. "oh, monsieur, i can not say how glad i am to see you once more! let me present you to my sister, madame nathalie delonde, and _our_ daughter. ah! my dear captain blunt, both your children before you again, and you have come to take us away." "colonel lawton, _ma chère_," said piron. "and, mesdames," said the commodore, "let me also present my nephew, lieutenant darcantel, and mr. mouse." what caused that woman to start as the girl took the tiny reefer by the hand, and impulsively clasped those white hands together, while her heart beat in yearning throbs, and her bosom rose and fell like billows by the shore? why did she then raise one hand to her fair neck, and, as if in a dream, feel for the golden links of the chain, with the other hand pressed to her panting heart for the locket which once reposed there? how was it that, bewildered by a mother's instinct, she gazed at the youth before her, and then turned her eyes hopelessly around in search of her husband in the crowd? "yes, madame. this is my nephew, henry darcantel." "ah! henri! excuse me, _monsieur_. i am charmed to see you!" why, now, did the touch of his hand make her heart beat faster, and send a thrill of joy through her frame? only be a little calm, madame, for a while longer, and don't be sad and ponder all night, like your good jules piron does habitually. wait; jules will tell you all _he_ knows when you are alone to-night. the doors of the sala were thrown open. the broad pennant leading with madame rosalie; the military chieftain marching beside madame nathalie, much to the animosity of paddy burns. then mr. mouse convoying mademoiselle, to the infinite disgust of the commander of the "rosalie," one-gun schooner, formerly the "perdita." but what made that old negro in spotless white, standing at the door, jerk his head back and open his great eyes till there was no black left in them? and why did he blunder about the table afterward, and pour wine over the colonel's richly-laced coat, while staring like an ogre at the young blue-jacket opposite? that old banou, perhaps, did not like to see his young mistress too much attended to by every gay scamp who came near her. oh no; of course not. but then, if that brawny negro in white had only known over whose arm and mutilated hand he was pouring light wine in his abstraction, he would have crammed that heavy cut decanter in powdered glass splinters down the chieftain's throat. there would have been claret of a different color spilled then--quantities of it. you needn't feel in your pockets, colonel, or look round the sala to see if perchance there is a green silk rope squirming from the ceiling. we don't keep any of those pretty things out at escondido. so go on with your dinner, you cold-eyed scoundrel, and tell all the lies you can to that lovely woman at your elbow; how you wanted to save bolivar's life, and it was saved without you. don't forget, either, to tell her how that patriot had you drummed out of his army, suspecting you of having assassinated the officer near you in the confusion of battle, and robbing him of his watch to replace the one presented to you by the captain general. paddy burns is watching you, colonel lawton, and that whole-souled little irishman is not the man to be trifled with. now remove the covers. but take care, banou--you nearly twitched off the military gentleman's hair. tom stewart saw it, and he noticed, too, a broad red seam, like the track of a musket bullet--honorable wound, no doubt--under your black glossy wig. mr. mouse had fallen desperately in love with the perfumed damsel beside him, and he knew she was up to her rose-tipped ears in love with him, oh! fifty fathoms deep; but his mother liked girls, and he would leave her half-pay! still he didn't forget his adoration for the roast duck; and he slyly swigged some madeira too, with a wary eye on the broad pennant through the flowers of the épergne. talked, too, did that reefer--ay, chattered--and said that the quiet young officer on her left was very well liked in the steerage, and commanded a pretty little craft named the "rosalie." she knew that before, did she? well, his father was a cold, stern man, but he was kind and generous, and had been very good to his poor mother, god bless him! commodore cleveland talked in a low tone, all through the dinner, to the lady who did not eat at the head of the table, but who occasionally rested her white hand, with a trustful reliance, on the great tanned-leather paw of jacob blunt, that honest mariner not wishing to talk to any body, man or woman. that ancient mariner was mentally cursing donkeys; speculating how he should get back to the "martha blunt" brig, in kingston harbor; and praying for martha blunt, wife, riding at single anchor near plymouth beach. piron took wine with every body, said a word or two all around the table, and talked to tom stewart about certain business matters connected with the plantation when he had gone. then came the last course, and the dessert of delicious fruits, which quite stopped mr. mouse's mouth, and even his palpitating heart ceased beating; while mademoiselle rosalie nibbled some lady-finger biscuit, and bent her graceful head to listen to the music of the earnest lips beside her. we told you, miss, how it would be; and, in spite of the warning, there you are--the color coming and going over your girlish cheeks, and never saying a word! "what a couple that would make!" thought madame nathalie. and what a resemblance in expression there is between them--he with his dark hair and eyes, and she fair and blue. be careful, my sweet rosalie! and so thought her sister and her sister's husband; stingo, too, old banou, and every one save tiny mouse, who had no rivals but rat, beaver, and martin, and he could take the wind out of their sails any day. the party of ladies rose from the table, and leaving the men--all except the captain of the "rosalie" and mr. mouse, who would have remained had he not seen a shake of the broad pennant's finger--went into the saloon. then there was a brilliant prelude on the piano, a touch of a guitar by stronger fingers, an air from an opera, a song or two, much conversation--while reefer mouse slept on the sofa--and coffee. then it was late; every one was fatigued, _bon soirs_ were said, and the party--coffee and all--separated. chapter xlii. truth and terror. "in slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, his hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; but watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, and visions of happiness danced o'er his mind." "and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod; ay! how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god!" in a great square room, standing, as usual, on cocoa-nut stilts, which had once been used for a billiard-room, were half a dozen iron-framed cots, ranged along the walls, in which some of the escondido's guests were to bivouac. every thing, however, was tidy and comfortable; snow-white bedclothes and gauze musquito nets, lots of napkins and ewers, and things for bathing behind a screen of dimity curtains; and not forgetting a large table--vice the billiard-table--in the centre, on which stood plenty of sugar and limes, cinnamon and nutmeg, bottles and flasks, red and white, and--very little water, in jugs. the occupants of this bivouac had turned in, and the lights had been doused. conversation, however, was kept up, especially by the thin little voice of mr. mouse, who, having enjoyed a nap in the early evening, and having been danced and tumbled about on the trip to the lodge by harry darcantel, who was in tiptop condition, the reefer was as wide awake as a blackfish. don stingo chanted a few convivial airs and snored; so did jacob blunt, with a spluttering groan intermixed; and paddy burns fell off into a doze, saying blasphemous words addressed to the world at large, with a mutter against the military, hoping he might look at a bolivian patriot edgewise with a friend and companion of his, mr. joe manton, at his side; he would put an end to any more lies about charges of cavalry, and cutting out frigates in callao bay. that paddy burns would, though he didn't wear a wig and a large sapphire on the only finger he had left on his left hand, and with a diamond snuff-box, too! presented to you by a connection of your family, was it? take a pinch out of it? d---- him, no! begorra, the snuff is not lundy foot's, and the box is brass, sir, brass! "i say, mouse, keep quiet, will you, and let me go to sleep!" harry darcantel did not think of going to sleep; that was a fib he told the reefer; he wanted merely to shut his eyes and dream of--you know who--a tall, graceful girl with blue eyes and light hair, who looked at him once or twice such looks that there was no sleep for him for ever so long. what did she say? why, she never opened her pouting lips to show those even pearly teeth. she only looked out of those soft blue eyes. that was all! "mr. darcantel, i think of getting married." "the d---- you do! and who to, pray?" "why," said mr. mouse, as he rolled over and kicked the sheet off his slate-pencil built legs, "i haven't made up my mind; but do you know that that pretty girl up there at the big house has taken quite a fancy to me, and when you were presented to her mother she gave me _such_ a squeeze of the hand! oh my!" here mr. mouse's narrative was cut short by a pillow hitting him plump on the mouth, clean through his musquito net. "very charming young lady, mr. mouse," said a quiet voice, in a cool tone, on the other side of him; "she did seem to take a violent fancy to you." mr. mouse rolled over, and then, sitting up in his cot, replied, "yes, sir! and that was her mother sitting by you when the big nigger in white capsized the wine over your sleeve, and nearly pulled your a--hair off." look out, mr. mouse! if that man there beside you once gives a twitch at your curls, he'll pull something more than hair--perhaps a little scalp with it! "oh!" was the sound that came back. "yes, sir; and the other beautiful lady next the commodore is her sister. she had a son just mademoiselle's age, who was murdered by pirates off jamaica ever so many years ago, and commodore cleveland chased them in a ship he was first lieutenant of--my father commanded the ship--she was the old 'scourge.'" "hold your tongue!" came from the cot where the spare pillow was thrown from. "ho!" said the military chieftain; but if the room had not been so dark, the way his eyes opened and emitted an icy glare of surprise would have made tiny mouse shiver with cold. "oh dear, yes, colonel, i heard the commodore tell all about it the other night on board the frigate. he thought i was asleep, but i kept awake through the best part of it." "the best part of it?" "why, sir, how an old one-eyed spaniard deceived my father, and sent him on a fool's errand from st. jago down to the isle of pines, and afterward how the 'scourge' chased the piratical schooner in a hurricane for ever so long, clear away to the coast of darien, where they blew her out of water, and killed every scoundrel on board!" not every one, mr. mouse. there is the very greatest of those scoundrels grinding his teeth and glaring your way at your elbow. "what was the name of that cape, darcantel, where the schooner was destroyed? no, i won't be quiet; the colonel wants to hear all about it. there's a good fellow, tell me!" "garotte cape." the listener slowly raised the mutilated hand, and put the finger with the sapphire ring to his throat, evidently not liking the name of that cape, for it caused a choking sensation to utter it--"ho! cape garotte!" "yes, sir; and darcantel's father here once chartered a vessel, and went all the way down there to explore the place, and was gone fifteen months! wasn't he, darky?" said the boy, familiarly. "mouse, i tell you what it is, if you don't shut up that little flytrap of yours, i'll make rat lick you when you go on board!" "rat lick me?" said tiny, as he jumped straight up in the cot; "i gave him and martin a black eye apiece only on our last boat-duty day for saying your father, the doctor, had killed his brother-in-law in a duel!" "hush, my dear little fellow! you did a very foolish thing. there, say no more on that subject; it gives me pain, my tiny. so talk on as much as you like." "my dear friend," exclaimed the lad, in a broken voice; as he plunged through his net and put his arms around darcantel, "i wouldn't grieve you for the world; but do you suppose, little as i am, that i wouldn't fight for the doctor, who is so kind to me, and has done so much for my poor dear sweet mother?" here there was a sob as he wound his arms closer round his friend's neck, and cried like a child, as he was. "well, never mind, tiny; go to sleep, now! i am not angry. there, turn in!" "i won't speak another word to-night, harry, for any soul breathing--little fool that i am!" "i beg your pardon, monsieur," said the colonel, in french, with a slight quiver on his tongue, "but did your father really go all the way down to darien out of mere curiosity?" "yes, sir, he did go there to see if by any chance one of the pirates had escaped; and he traveled, too, a good deal about among the indians, making inquiries." "ho! and did he pick up any information there?" "why, sir, i am not positive, but i believe that he got a hint that a european had wandered over that country who had been wounded in the head and hand, and was almost naked; but the natives could give him but very meagre accounts. he continued on, however, down the isthmus, on the pacific side, by sea, as far as chili, when he went into the interior to peru, crossed the andes, and followed down the orinoco to para, when he sailed again for england." "oh! no other motive than curiosity?" "perhaps he had; for he once told me he had some old scores to settle with the man who commanded the pirate, and if he was alive he felt quite sure he would, one of those days, put him to death. my father, sir, is a very determined person, and never forgets an oath." "truly, monsieur, you interest me. but what sort of a man in appearance is your father--a doctor, i think you said?" "he is a tall gentleman of about fifty, sir, though he looks much older; for he has suffered deeply in early life, when my mother--a--died; but i shall have the pleasure of introducing him to you, colonel. he is now on board our frigate at kingston, and told me he would be up here to-morrow or the next day." "ah! thank you extremely, monsieur darcantel. i shall have--a--much curiosity to see him." no more words that night; but much thinking and moving of thin lips, and eyes staring in the dark, wide open. there was low grating of teeth, too! and a man lay in that large room on a narrow cot, surrounded by a gauze net; and, so far as mental torture went, it was not unlike a trestle net we once saw without gauze, where a gaunt frame was stretched, with myriads of sand-flies, musquitoes, and stinging insects sucking his heart's blood. sometimes the eyelids closed, as if they were a film of ice forming over the blue cold orbs within; and again the fabric cracked, and they were wide open once more. they could read, too, those frozen orbs; and like heavy flakes of snow falling on bloodstained decks, till it covered with a weight of lead the stark, stiff corpse beneath, they yet tried to pierce into the dark region beyond. and the heart beat with a slow and measured tramp, like a moose crunching through the sharp, treacherous crust of snow, and then stood stock-still! had a letter, traced with the fingers of an icicle, been congealed a hundred feet deep in the heart of a toppling iceberg on the coast of labrador, those eyes could have read it as clear as day! "you infamous pirate, captain brand!" it began--"the son of the man who destroyed the 'centipede' and her crew, and the boy whom your brutal mate tore from the mother you saw at dinner to-day, are near you! that calm, stern, determined doctor, too, whom you laced down on the trestle for poisonous insects to kill, has been on your track for the past seventeen years, and will soon hold you in his iron gripe! there will be no mercy then!" the eyes closed, the heart stopped beating, and the thin lips and tongue, as dry as cartridge-paper, now took up the strain, while the mutilated hand clutched convulsively, as if there were fifty fingers fingering knives and pistols. "shall i assassinate my old doctor, and run the risk of being arrested and hung? no! he thinks me dead, and i will go back to the island, redeem my treasure, and pass the remainder of my life tranquilly in the highlands of scotland!" don't be too sanguine, colonel lawton; for, though your ten thousand pounds in gold is still in the vault, yet there is don ignaçio sanchez, whose estates have been confiscated, and who has just got out of ten years' imprisonment in the moro of havana, glad to save his neck from the iron collar, and, without the little jewel-hilted blade up his sleeve, is now turning about to see how he may redeem his lost fortunes. don't be an hour too late, i pray you, captain brand, for that sharp eye of don ignaçio has already, perhaps, looked at the shiny cleft in the crag, and thinks he knows what lies hidden there! oh, _si_! nothing but mouldy beans and paper cigars to live upon for ten years, and fond of more substantial food, even though it were yellow greenish gold, mildewed by damp, but yet solid and refreshing. _cierto_--certainly! _quien sabe_--who knows? but be careful, don ignaçio! don't take your old wife with you on that projected expedition, for you have treated that old woman--who resembles a rotten banana--badly! you have won back in monté all she ever won by cheating, besides the half ounces you used to give her for the church--cheated her by drawing two cards at a time when you saw the numerals with that spark of an eye, and when you knew that she would win if you drew fairly! yes, you have, you old sinner, for more than two score of years! and she hates you now--though you don't think it--worse than you did captain brand! have an eye to that old banana! so passed that short night--long enough, however, for somebody--and before the fresh land-wind had woke up to creep down the valley, there was a mettled barb, with open nostrils, galloping up the broken road as if he had the devil on his back--as perhaps he had, or colonel lawton, or captain brand, possibly all three, but it makes very little odds to us. chapter xliii. peace and love. "and many a dim o'erarching grove, and many a flat and sunny cove; and terraced lawns, whose bright cascades the honeysuckle sweetly shades; and rocks whose very crags seem bowers, so gay they are with grass and flowers." it was a delightful breakfast with the merry party at escondido as they sat under the wide, cool piazza in the shade, with the sun throwing his slanting rays through the vines and clusters of purple grapes, and through the orange-trees, where the yellow fruit was fast losing its fragrant dew--all the men once more in summer rig, and the ladies in flowing muslin and tidy caps. "my dear," said piron to his wife, "we have lost one of our guests, colonel lawton; he went away at daylight this morning, and left a message to me, and compliments to you all, that business of importance, which he had forgotten, demanded his immediate return to kingston." there was no sorrow expressed by the lady or her fair sister, and even the men treated it with indifference, except mr. burns, who remarked, as he snapped a tooth-pick in twain, that, for his part, he was glad the fellow had gone; he didn't like his looks at all, though he did make himself so fascinating to the beautiful widow who sat next him. "ah! monsieur burns, think you i would prefer a scarlet coat when--" "you might get a blue!" broke in paddy, with a comical twinkle of his eye, as he winked in the direction of commodore cleveland, who sat opposite. "no, no," exclaimed the pretty widow, hastily, as she shook her finger at her despairing admirer, "that is not what i was going to say--when those red coats there from england killed my poor husband at quatre bras." "ah! yes, my dear--bad luck to them! but an irishman would never have been so cruel, you know, though, 'pon me sowl," went on paddy, as he stuck a fork in an orange and began to divest it of its peel, west india fashion, to present it to the matron beside him, "i fear i should like to kill any man who loved ye, madame nathalie, myself." "what a droll man you are, monsieur burns," replied the widow, laughing outright, "when you know you would prefer a jug of antigua punch, any day, to me. stop, now! didn't you say, at your grand dinner in kingston, that you would never allow a woman to darken your doors?" "i--a meant--a black woman, my dear; as true as me name's paddy burns, i did!" "what are you two laughing at, my sister?" "why, here is mr. burns making love to me at breakfast, and before night he will be abusing me for not pouring enough rum in his punch!" "that's his caractur, madame nathalie; for i, tom stewart, am the only person he ever loved, and he sometimes offers to shoot me for giving him unco' good advice." "howld yer tongue, ye divil ye! and you too, stingo, or the pair of ye shall niver taste another sip of the old claret. ye've ruined me cause entirely! but i'll lave ye me property, madame, when i'm gone." "he's been talking of going, nathalie," said piron, "for the last twenty years, and has left his estate to at least thirty women, to my certain knowledge; but he hasn't got off yet, and--" "tom stewart, ye miserable limb of the law! make out me will this very night." jacob blunt unclosed his salt-junk mouth, and roared out in a peal of laughter that would have shivered his old brig's spanker, and caused, perhaps, martha blunt, sposa, to have spanked him, jacob, had she heard and seen that mariner wagging his old bronzed face at the lovely woman facing him. mr. tiny mouse, who could not touch bottom on his high chair, with his little heels dangling about, forgetful of discipline, fairly kicked the broad pennant on the shins of his white ducks, screaming joyously; the three women made the piazza vibrate with their musical trills; stingo and stewart choked; cleveland and darcantel were amused; and old black banou looked at his master, and grinned till his double range of teeth seemed like a white wave breaking at the cove. and then paddy burns took up the chorus, and after one or two galway yells his friends took him up, thumped him smartly on the back, and stood him up against one of the posts of the piazza to have his laugh out. when he did, however, recover the power of speech, he wiped his eyes and looked around till they rested on madame nathalie, when, with his white napkin held up like a shield beside his rubicund visage, he spluttered, "by me sowl, tom stewart, i mane what i say; and paddy burns's word is his bond!" ay, and so it was, you generous, whole-souled milesian! and you did this time make a will. tom stewart and stingo witnessed it, with handsome legacies therein set forth; and when one night you tumbled down--well, we won't mention the particulars; but paddy kept his word. as the party rose from the breakfast table to get ready for a stroll down to the mill and around the plantation, one fair woman's hand was placed with a confiding, friendly clasp in that of monsieur burns; and then, as a graceful girl reached up to pull down her great flat straw hat from the post, paddy burns kissed her on the forehead, and she returned it too, as if she knew how to perform that ceremony even before people. mr. reefer mouse had some thoughts of getting jealous, and calling mr. burns out, at ten paces, ships' pistols, and all that sort of thing; but the round, red-faced gentleman kissed him too, declaring the while, as he held him aloft, that he was first-rate kissing--that he was; nearly as good as mademoiselle, which quite disarmed tiny's wrath, and then he hooked on to the damsel's delicate flipper, and tripped away with her down the valley. harry darcantel exchanged a nod--not of defiance--with paddy burns, as much as to hint that those were not dangerous kisses--oh, not at all; and passing his hand over his brown mustache, he followed after the couple before him. yes, harry, tiny's legs will get tired soon, and he will be hungry, and come back to old banou for luncheon, while you will be putting aside the coffee bushes, and imploring mademoiselle to keep her straw hat about her lovely face, and not to get tanned by the sun. and when she turns her humid eyes toward you, you begin to believe the sky is never so blue as those eyes! tom stewart, stingo, and burns never walked; they preferred lounging about the veranda, smoking cigars, and talking over the price of sugar and coffee, together with minor matters connected with factors' profits and suits at law. jacob blunt leaned over the bridge, thinking of the "martha blunts," brig and wife--not unfrequently confounding the two together--thinking this was to be his last voyage by land or sea, and that young binks, his mate, should take command, and steer that old teak-built vessel carefully--oh, ever so keerful--or else the old hulk might come to grief. piron and his wife going mournfully down the valley--she with her mother's eyes gazing far out to sea, and he with his strong arm around her, whispering words of consolation; both looking, night and morning, out over the blue water, from chamber and piazza, and seeing nothing but a breaking wave and a baby-boy drowning beneath it--nothing more! madame nathalie and cleveland went on gallantly ahead--he with his blue pennant flying, and she with a black silk widow's ribbon around the frill of her cap, and a broader band about that muslin waist--talking of those they had both lost years ago, and trusting they were in heaven, as they believed they were; hope to meet again themselves in louisiana, and see a great deal of one another in time to come--not a doubt of it! yes, the cruise was more than half over, and he was quite tired of the sea. she, however, thought the sea beautiful, and never tired of looking at it. true, not rolling on top of it all the time--liked to sleep without rocking. when the sea-breeze came fluttering up the gorge again, through the canes and the coffee-trees, and shaking up the superb foliage of the tropical forest, with the brilliant feathered tribes nestling close together on the lofty branches, and before the first salt breath had been exhaled in the clouds about the topmost peaks of the blue mountains, thousands of feet in the air, the party at escondido had again returned to the broad piazzas, where, with blinds open, and swinging in cool grass hammocks, the men took siesta, while the ladies sought the pretty bowers within. so passed one happy day, like the one gone before; and before the close of the week dr. darcantel joined the party, to take the place of colonel lawton; and a few days after old clinker crackled up, very dry and thorny, with parchment in his pockets to take inventories, and do musty business generally. then the fair women, escorted by the navy men, and the droger and stingo, took their departure for the town house and ships in kingston, leaving paddy burns, and tom stewart, and clinker with piron to close up matters, prior to his leaving the island. paul darcantel said he would remain with them likewise, since he had got through his business in spanish town and port royal, and wanted quiet. madame rosalie was the last to leave; and before her husband lifted her into the saddle, they stood together on the piazza, she looking with that still yearning gaze over the sea, and seeing nothing but breaking waves. that was the last look from escondido! chapter xliv. snuff out of a diamond box. "hark! a sound, far and slight, breathes around on the night; high and higher, nigh and nigher, like a fire roaring bright." "not a word to each other; we kept the great pace-- neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right; rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily, roland, a whit." another week rolled on. old clinker had pounded the parchment down as flat as last year's palm-leaves, rustling himself like the leaves of an old book, and began to squeeze out a few dry remarks about earthquakes. he at last got paddy burns, who was a round, fat man, with much blood in him, in such a state of excitement, by talking about cracks, and yawning chasms, and splits in the earth, clouds of dust, sulphureous smells, and beams falling down and pressing people to powder over their wine, that paddy declared he thought he was swallowing sawdust and eating dried codfish at every sip of antigua punch and suck of orange he took. tom stewart, likewise, said he couldn't sleep a wink for quaking, and had cut a slice clean out of his chin while shaving, because his glass shook by a slamming door, and he thought his time had come. darcantel said nothing, but he took a quiet fancy to old clinker, and talked for hours with him of the effect earthquakes had upon ships, and especially of general matters connected with the shipping interest, being withal very particular with regard to the appearance of the crews. piron looked grave, and heard the old clerk out, as if dried fruit were better than fresh, and limes sweeter than oranges. well, they were all sitting over their dessert at their last dinner at escondido, for they were all going to leave old clinker in the morning. [illustration: "his right arm poised with clenched hand aloft," etc.] "well, clinker," said piron, kindly, "don't let us talk any more about the earthquake. you told me yesterday that you had a note from colonel lawton, saying he would not take passage in the brig with us to new orleans, as his business obliged him to leave before we could sail?" clinker choked out something like "yes," as if it were the last sound a body could sigh with three or four hundred tons on his back. "i'm dooced glad to hear it, piron; for your military friend didn't enlist my fancy at all, and i don't believe any more of his patriot sarvice than i do in clinker's earthquake. that colonel is a baste; and if my words prove true, i'll lave a thousand pounds to old clinker there." paddy burns's words did prove true; and old clinker was with him when he gave a quake the earth had nothing to do with, it being entirely of an apoplectic nature; but he got the thousand pounds nevertheless. "for once in your life, burns, i agree with ye; and if that military mon went to shoot grouse with me in the hielands, i'd tramp behind him, and keep both barrels of me gun cocked. the devil take his black wig and his green eyes! and he passing himsel' aff for a scot, too! tut, mon!" "by the way, clinker," said piron, during a pause in the conversation, "if the colonel is not going with us, i must take him back his magnificent snuff-box he forgot when he left us so suddenly the other morning. here it is, with the letters of his name on it in brilliants. i thought it too valuable to send by one of the blacks, and i kept it to carry myself." how singular it was that the colonel should have forgotten his royal treasure! keep your wits about you, captain brand, or one of these days you'll be forgetting your pistols. "given to him by a connection of his family, was it, paddy? weel, mon, let's take a peench for the honor of sackveel street, and then push it along to meester darcantel." the doctor was sitting in his calm, grave way, listening to the disjointed words--like dry nuts dropping on the ground--from the shriveled lips of clinker; but as he abstractedly put his fingers in the box, and turned his eyes languidly as he pushed down the lid, he gave a bound from his chair--with the box clutched in his left hand--giving a jar to the room and table that even made clinker believe the forty-year earthquake had come before its time. standing there, with his tall, majestic figure, like a statue of bronze, his right arm poised with clenched hand aloft in a threatening attitude, his dark, grizzled locks bristling above his head, the black eyes flaming with an inhuman light, as if prepared to crush, with the power of a god, the pigmies around him, he said, in a deep low voice, which made the glasses ring and shudder, "who owns this bawble?" "it belongs to a colonel lawton who has been staying here!" exclaimed piron, quickly and hurriedly. "what sort of man?" came again from those terrible lungs, without relaxing a muscle of his frame. "a square-built, tallish fellow, of about feefty, with greenish-blue eyes, a black wig, and a glorious sapphire ring on the only finger of his left hand!" roared burns and stewart together. again came the jar of the earthquake to make the building, table, glasses, and all shake, as paul darcantel strode with his heels of adamant out of the sala and to the veranda; then a bound, which was heard in the room; and after five minutes' stupid silence banou appeared. the buckra gentleman had torn rather than led his master's barb from the stable, and scarcely waiting for a saddle, had thrown himself like an indian across his back. there! his master might hear the clattering of the hoofs up the steep. "the mon's daft--clean daft, mon!" "be me sowl, it's the only pair of eyes i iver wouldn't like to look at over me saw-handled friend, joe manton!" "he's taken the box with him," crackled clinker. but that was the last that paddy burns, or stewart, or clinker ever saw of man or box. piron rose and listened to the sound of the receding hoofs from the veranda; and when he resumed his place his lips were sealed for the night. _he_ saw, however, and the rest of them heard a good deal about the man and the box in time to come. did that blooded horse, as he dashed round the curve of the peak, with his thin nostrils blazing red in the dark night, know who his rider was, and on what errand he was bound? it was not snuff that distended those wide nostrils as he plunged down the broken road, through the close, deep forest, over rocks and water-courses, without missing a step with his sure, ringing hoofs; and mounting the sharp gorge beyond with the leap of a stag, his mane and tail streaming in the calm, thick night; the eyes lanterns of pursuing light, flashing out before his precipitous tread in jets of fire, as his feet struck the flinty stones, with a regular, enduring throb from his heaving chest, as an encouraging hand patted his shoulder and urged him onward. down the mountain again, with never a shy or a snort--the horse knowing the rider, and the man the noble beast; the lizards wheetling merrily, and the paroquets on the tree-tops waking up to chatter with satisfaction. then into the beaten track along by the sea-shore, the horse increasing his stride at every minute, the spume flying in flakes from his flaming nostrils, and the man bending to his hot neck, smoothing away the white foam, until, with a panting stagger, horse and rider stood still in the town of kingston. "here, my boys, rub this your master's horse down well, and walk him about the court-yard for an hour. there! take this between you!" one last pat of the steed's arched neck, a grateful neigh as the dark face pressed against his broad head, and paul darcantel strode away in the gray light of the morning. "gorra mighty! nimble jack, look at dis! bress my modder in hebben, it am one gold ounce apiece, sure as dis gemman's name ring finger bill! de lord be good to dat tall massa! him must hab plenty ob shiner to hove him away on poor niggers!" even while the tall man strode on toward the port, and as the happy blacks were chattering over their yapper, and walking the gallant steed up and down the paved court-yard, a dull, heavy-sailing spanish brigantine was slowly sagging past gallows point and the apostles' battery, when, creeping on by the frowning forts of port royal, she held her course to sea. very different sort of craft from the counterfeit brigantine, with clean, lean bows, slipping out from the tiger's trap one sultry evening before a hurricane, which went careering, with a sea-hound after her, down to the garotte gorge. different kind of a crew too; and captain brand must have remarked the contrast, with his keen, critical, nautical eye--that is, if he chanced to sail in both brigantines, as there is much reason for believing he did--with great disgust, on board the dirty, dumpy old ballahoo now just clear of drunkenman's cay, and heading alongshore for helshire point, bound for st. jago de cuba. chapter xlv. lilies and sea-weed. "oh leave the lily on its stem! oh leave the rose upon the spray! oh leave the elder bloom, fair maids, and listen to my lay!" "when descends on the atlantic the gigantic storm-wind of the equinox, landward in his wrath he scourges the toiling surges, laden with sea-weed from the rocks." by day and night, under sun or moon, and in breeze or calm--by the resounding shore--on the rippling water--in saloon and grove, picnicking and boating--under vine or awning--all around in the whirling waltz, the measured contra-danza--amid the tinkle of guitar or trill of piano, the rattle and crash of the full band on board the frigate--gently rocking on the narrow deck of the "rosalie," or down in the brig of teak, there was ever a white arm linked in the arm of blue--now timidly, then with a confiding pressure--now a furtive look of blue eyes into dark, then a fixed, steady gaze from the brown to the light--here a palpitating pause, and then the blue arms wound around the waving stem--two white arms clasping, with a passionate caress, the neck of the weed--and, yes! the lily floating on the white cheek of the pond had been caught by the strong weed, and with the reacting tide was going out to sea! ay! the sailor had won the maiden! but while the lily rocked hither and thither on the pond, with its blond leaves and petals of blue, and its pliant stem in danger at every tide, did the fond mothers watch it from the bank? that they did, thinking of the time when they were lilies of the pond themselves, with no fears of danger near. but at last it came, and, like blooming flowers, they swung to and fro in the rain, dropping a tear or two from their own rosy leaves--more in dewy sorrow than in fear--and waiting for sunshine; bending their beautiful heads of roses the while one toward another, peeping out with their dark violet eyes, and listening, as the wind shook them, with a tremble of apprehension, and clinging hopefully to the straight support on which they reclined. by day and night, in burning sun with not a drop to drink, and in the sultry night with no morsel of food to eat--through the searing sand in the streets and lanes, down by the quays--to every vessel in the crowded harbor--in every hotel and lodging-house in kingston--up and down spanish town--away off to port royal--occasionally going on board the frigate for gold, then on shore again--in ribald wassail and drunken dance, gaming hells especially, and low crimping houses, maroon and negro huts, and wretched haunts of vice--scattering gold like cards, dice, rum, and water--no end to it--in large yellow drops too--and still striding on, questioning, gleaming with those revengeful eyes--never resting brain or body, without drink or meat--went paul darcantel. oh, paul, that cowardly villain saw you from the very moment you took that pinch of snuff out of his blue enameled box--ay, even before, when you walked your mule slowly up the broken road, while a goaded barb was curbed back in the gloomy forest till you had passed, with his rider's finger in his waistcoat pocket. and in all your ceaseless wanderings, by day and night, that now timid, terror-stricken villain has been following you; dodging behind corners--under the well-worn cloths of monté banks--in the back rooms of pulperias--hiding in nests of infamy--every where and in all places steering clear of you. oh, paul! what a deceived man you are! and while you are doing all this, just turn your eyes out to the calm spot off montego bay, where that leaky old brigantine is bobbing about. the dirty, surly _capitano_ kicking and beating the hands from taffrail to bowsprit, particularly one great tall fellow, without a hat, and but a few dry thin hairs to shield his skull from the scorching sun; cursing him, as he puffs a cigarette, for being the most idle scoundrel of a skulk on board! but he--the scoundrel!--laughing with a hollow laugh up the sleeve of his filthy shirt, with never a dollar in his belt or an extra pair of trowsers in the forecastle, with bare feet, and still, cold eyes, now turned to green--eating nasty jerked beef and drinking putrid water--never sleeping for vermin--kicked and cuffed about the decks. but yet he smiled with a devilish satisfaction, paul, for he has escaped _you_, and was bound to st. jago de cuba! from there he would charter--steal, perhaps--a small boat, and run over to the doçe léguas cays, where there were ten thousand pounds in mildewed gold!--if nobody had discovered it, which was not probable--and he--the scoundrel!--would gather it up in bags, and slink away to some other part of the world. you must be very quick, captain brand, for the leaky brigantine does not sail so fast as the "centipede," and your ancient compadre, don ignaçio, is just out of prison. his old, fat, banana wife is very sorry for it, but that's none of your business. and you, doctor paul! don't you pity that flying, dirty wretch, with his mutilated hand, and soul-beseeching gaze out of those greenish frozen eyes, where a ray of mercy never entered, but whose icy lids fairly crack as your shadow stamps across them? no, not a ray of pity or mercy for the infamous villain; not even a twitch of the little finger of his bloody, mutilated white hand! no, not the faintest hope of pity! he shall die in such torments as even a pirate never devoted a victim. but you are worn out, darcantel; your prey has escaped you. the people think you mad, as you are, for revenge; and though your stride is the same, and your frame still as nervous as a galvanized corpse, yet flesh and blood can not stand it. go on board the "monongahela," and talk to that true friend whose counsels you have ever listened to since you were rocking in your cradle; or take that noble, gallant youth in your arms and console him--for he needs consolation--and think of the mouse who gnawed the net years and years ago. well, you will, paul darcantel; but before you do, you will step into that jeweler's shop and buy a trifle for old clinker there, out at escondido. you want a ring, the finest gem that can be found on the island of jamaica. there it is--its equal not to be bought in the whole west india islands, or the east indies either. "i gave a military man an ounce for the setting alone, but the sapphire-looking stone may be glass. he was going to sail the next morning in a spanish brigantine for st. jago de cuba, and wanted the money to pay his bill at the lodging-house adjoining. the señor might take it for any price he chose to put upon it." what made that old dealer in precious stones and trinkets turn paler than his old topaz face as he yelled frantically for his older creole wife? the señor had seized the ring as he broke his elbows through the glass cases which contained the time-honored jewelry, and dashed a yellow shower of heavy gold ounces over the floor of the little shop, smashing the glass door of that too in his exit! and when the little toddling fat woman appeared in the most indecent dress possible to conceive of, with scarcely time to light her paper cigar, she exclaimed, "_es lunatico, hombre! ay, demonio con oro!_ a crazy man--a demon with gold!" and forthwith she picked up the pieces and looked at them critically to be sure of their value. "_son buenos, campeche!_ all right, old deary; we'll have such a podrida to-day! baked duck, with garlic too! so shut the door. there's the ounce you gave the officer man for the ring, and i'll guard the rest." that old woman did, too; and that very night she won--in the most skillful way--from her shaky old topaz, in his tin spectacle setting, his last ounce, and locked all up in her own little brass-nailed trunk for a rainy season for them both, together with their daughter's pickaninnies. paul darcantel whirled and spun round the corners and along the sandy streets till he reached the landing, moving like a water-spout, and clearing every thing from his track. there he sprang into the first boat he saw, seized the sculls, despite the shrieks and gesticulations of the old nigger whose property it was, and who jumped overboard with a howl as if a lobster had caught him by the toe, and paddled into a neighboring boat, where, with the assistance of another ancient crony, they both let off volley upon volley of shrieks, which alarmed the harbor, while the boat went shooting like a javelin toward the men-of-war. however, those old stump-tailed african baboons found a gold ounce in their boat after it had been set adrift from the american frigate. what a jolly snapping of teeth over a tough old goose stuffed with onions that night, with two respectable colored ladies and a case-bottle of rum beside them! you can almost sniff the fragrant odor as it arises, even at this distance. i do, and shall, mayhap, many a time again, in lands where stuffed goose and comely colored ladies abound. chapter xlvi. parting. "the very stars are strangers, as i catch them athwart the shadowy sails that swell above; i can not hope that other eyes will watch them at the same moment with a mutual love. they shine not there as here they now are shining; the very hours are changed. ah! do ye sleep? o'er each home pillow midnight is declining-- may one kind dream at least my image keep!" there had been a small party on board the "monongahela" the night before to bid the commodore good-by--all old friends of both parties--the pirons, burns, stewart, stingo, and jacob blunt. clinker was not there, for he never went where it was damp, and if he got musty it must be from mildew on shore. the "martha blunt," under the careful management of young binks, the mate, with banou and all the baggage on board, was being towed by two of the frigate's boats down the harbor, with her yards mast-headed, all ready to sheet home the sails when the black pilot should say the land-wind would make and the passengers to come on board. the lights were twinkling from lattice and veranda in the upper and lower town, the lanterns of the french and english admirals were shining from the tops of their flag-ships, and the revolving gleams from the beacon on the pallissadoes point flickered and dazzled over the gemmed starlit surface of the water. the awning was still spread on the after-deck of the "monongahela;" and there, while the officer of the watch paced the forward part of the deck with the midshipmen to leeward, the sentries on the high platform outside and on the forecastle, the party of ladies and gentlemen stood silently watching and thinking. there is no need explaining their looks or their thoughts; we know all about them. how paddy burns and tom stewart, with little stingo, were going over the time, thirty years or more back, when with piron there, boys together, they all swam on the beach of that fine harbor. the old school-house, too, with the tipsy old master, who whacked them soundly, drunk or sober; their frolics at the fandangoes in spanish town; their transient separations in after life on visits to france or the old country; the hearty joy to meet again and drink jamaica forever. and now their companion in tropical heat and mountain shade was going to part with them, and sail away over that restless ocean, never, perhaps, to meet again! even old clinker, as he sat on his stem by the old worm-eaten desk, with his dried old lemon of a face lying in his leaves of hands--with no light in the dark, deserted old counting-house--looked out between his fibres of fingers and saw the cradle, with the sleeping twins within it, while the rafters pressed him as flat as the old portfolio before him. and now, as a drop or two of bitter juice exuded from his shriveled rind, he saw those lovely twins floating away, never more to be saved from an earthquake by old clinker. mr. mouse, likewise, was wide awake, and hopping about with a kangaroo step, a little in doubt why miss rosalie was so pale, why those blue eyes were so dim, and why she said to him "go away, little one," with a quivering, tremulous voice and hand. mouse told rat, and rat told martin and beaver, that the poor girl was in love with him, tiny, and that he would make it all right one of these days, when he got an epaulet on his little shoulder. softly, like the cool breath of a slumbering child, came a faint air from the land. the bell of the frigate, clanging in its brassy throat, struck for midnight. the sentinels on their posts cried "all's well!" the old brig was letting fall her top-sails, and the sound of the oars in the cutter's row-locks ceased. "cleveland," said piron, quietly, "while the ladies and our friends are getting into the barge, come down with me in your cabin. i wish to have a parting word with you." so they go down. "now, my dear friend, you have seen as well as i how wildly those young people are in love with each other; so has my wife and her sister; and, indeed, _my_ sweet rosalie seems more in love with him than our niece. i have not had the heart to put a thorn in the path of their happiness, and god grant it may all come right. but, cleveland, you know that we come from an old and noble stock, where the bar sinister has never crossed our escutcheon, and i can not yet make up my mind to an immediate engagement. this our niece has consented to--stop, cleveland, hear me out. i do not, however, carry my prejudices to any absurd extent, nor have i spoken on this subject to the girl, and only to her mother and my wife; but i wish you to explain the way we feel, in your own kind manner, to your friend's son. say to him what a trial it has been to us--how we all love him"--he pressed his handkerchief to his eyes--"and after he has learned all, if he still persists in urging his suit when the cruise is over, he shall have our consent and blessing. time may work changes in them both; and meanwhile i shall not mention the matter to our little rosalie, as we fear for the consequences." "spoken like a true father and a noble gentleman, my dear piron! i have thought as you and your excellent wife do on this matter; but, like you, i have not had the courage to give even a hint of warning to henry. i shall, however, break the matter gently to him, and send my coxswain for his father also, whom i have not seen for a week, and who, they tell me, has been raging about kingston ever since he ran away from you at escondido. his son loves him devotedly, and a word from him will do more than i could say in a lifetime." "the ladies are in the barge, commodore," squeaked midshipman mouse, as he popped his tiny head into the cabin. "very well, sir. and tell lieutenant darcantel that i wish to see him to-morrow morning, before church service. come, piron!" on the lower grating of the accommodation-ladder stood the commodore, with his first lieutenant, as the barge shoved off. "i am heartily obliged to you, commodore cleveland," said jacob blunt, "for your kindness to me; and if mr. hardy will permit, i'll give the boats' crews a glass of grog for their trouble in towing the old brig." certainly! jacob knew what was proper under the circumstances, and liked a moderate toss himself after a hard night's work as well as the lusty sailors in the boats, and the youngsters, rat and martin, who steered them. so the barge shoved off, with no other words spoken, though there were white handkerchiefs wet with women's tears, and red bandanas, too, somewhat moist; while following in the barge's wake went a light whale-boat gig, pulled by four old tars, who could make her leap, when they had a mind, half out of water, for it was in those brawny old arms to do it. but now they merely dipped the long oar-blades in the water, and could not keep up with the barge. they knew--those corrugated old salts--that their gallant, considerate young captain there in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in his hands, who steered so wildly about the harbor, had something more yielding than white-laced rope in his flippers; and that the sweet little craft under white dimity, with her head throwing off the sparkling spray as she lay under his bows, was in no hurry to go to sea--not caring much, either, to what port she was bound, so long as she found good holding-ground when she got in harbor with both bowers down, and cargo ready for another voyage--not she! finally, old jacob blunt, master, again in full command of brig "martha," with mr. binnacle binks catting the anchor forward, all sail made, sheets home, and every thing shipshape, with a fresh, steady land-wind, and a light gig towing astern, went steering out to sea, bound to new orleans by way of the windward passage. at the first ray of sunrise the gig's line was cast off; and with the waves breaking over her, those four old sons of daddy neptune bared their tattooed arms--illustrative of ships, anchors, and maidens--and bent their bodies with a will toward the harbor. "take keer, sir, if it's the same to you, or we'll be on that ledge off the ''postles' battery.' it looks jist like that 'ere reef in the vargin's passage as i was wunce nearly 'racked on, in the 'smasher,' sixteen-gun brig." "no fear, harry greenfield." "beg your parding, mr. darcantel, but that 'ere wessel you is heading for is that old clump of a spanish gun-boat; our craft is off here, under the quarter of the 'monongaheelee.'" "oh yes, charley; i see the 'rosalie.'" what made these old salts slew gravely round one to the other, as their sixteen-feet oars rattled with a regular jar in the brass row-locks, and shut one eye tight, as if they enjoyed something themselves? probably they were thinking of a strapping lass, in blue ribbons, who lived somewhere in a sea-port town long years ago. but yet they loved that young slip of sea-weed, whose head was bent down to the buttons of his blue jacket, his epaulet lopsided on his shoulder, his sword hilt downward, and his brown eyes tracing the lines of the ash grating where pretty feet had once rested, while he jerked the tiller-ropes from side to side, and his gig went wild by reef and point toward the "rosalie." when the gig's oars at last, in spite of her meandering navigation by her abstracted helmsman, trailed alongside the schooner, and while her crew were cracking a few biscuits and jokes on deck, with the sun high up the little craft's masts, her captain hurried down to his small cabin, and changed his rig for service on board the frigate. chapter xlvii. devotion. "to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends-- old men and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay!" "farewell! farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest, he prayeth well who loveth well both man, and bird, and beast!" sunday morning in kingston harbor. the deep-toned bells from cathedral and church were wafted off from the town; the troops at park camp marching with easy tread to their chapel; matrons and maidens, with bare heads, fans, and mantillas, going along demurely; portly judges, factors, and planters trudging beside palanquins of their saxon spouses; negroes in white; creoles in brown, cigarettes put out for a time; while swinging censers and rolling sound of organs and chants, or prayers and sermons from kirk and pulpits, told how the people were worshiping god according to their several beliefs. on the calm harbor, too, and in port royal, lay the men-of-war, the church pennants taking the place of the ensigns at the peaks, the bells tolling, and the sailors--quiet, clean, and orderly--were attending divine service. on board the "monongahela" the great spar-deck was comparatively deserted--all save that officer with his spy-glassing old quarter-master, and the sentries on gangway and forecastle. the ropes, however, were flemished down in concentric coils, the guns without a speck of dust on their shining coats, the capstan polished like an old brass candlestick, and every thing below and aloft in a faultless condition. as harry darcantel came rather languidly over the gangway, and went down to the main deck, where the five hundred sailors in snowy-white mustering clothes were assembled, commodore cleveland beckoned to him with his finger as he stood talking at the cabin door to his first lieutenant. "hardy, i do not feel well this morning; make my excuses to the chaplain, and go on with the service. come in, harry. orderly, allow no one, not even the servants, to enter the cabin--except dr. darcantel, in case he should come on board." the stiff soldier laid his white-gloved finger on the visor of his hat. then the chaplain, standing on his flag-draped pulpit at the main-mast, with those five hundred quiet, attentive sailors seated on capstan-bars and match-tubs between the silent cannon, and no sound save his mild, persuasive voice, as he read the sublime service from the good lessons before him. then, after a short but impressive sermon, adapted to the comprehension of the honest tars around him, with a kindly word, too, for the sagacious officers who commanded them, he closed the holy book and delivered the parting benediction. as he began, a shore boat, in spite of the warning of the sentry at the gangway, came bows on to the frigate's solid side, and as she went dancing and bobbing back from the recoil of the concussion, a tall, powerful man leaped out of her, and, by a mighty spring, caught the man-ropes of the port gangway, and swung himself through the open port of the gun-deck. bowing his lofty head with reverential awe as the last solemn words of the benediction were uttered by the chaplain, he joined, in a deep, guttural voice, the word "amen," and strode on and entered the cabin. the curtains were closely drawn of the after cabin, even to shut out the first whisper of the young sea-breeze which was fluttering in from port royal; and there stood that noble officer, with his strong arm thrown around the gallant youth--the picture of abject woe--talking in his kind, feeling accents, trying to console him, painting the sky bright in the distance, and begging him, by all the love and affection he bore him through so many years, to be a man, and trust to his good conscience and his right arm to cleave his way through the clouds and gloom which surrounded him. "there, henry, you are calmer now. sit down here in my stateroom, and while you think of that fond girl, give a thought to that poor bereaved mother, madame rosalie, who loves you for the resemblance she thinks you bear to her little boy, who was murdered by pirates just seventeen years ago off this very island." "what do you say, cleveland?" said a voice behind him, with such deep, concentrated energy that the commodore fairly started. "what did you say about a lost child and a madame rosalie?" paul darcantel stood there in the softened crimson light, with his sinewy, bony hands upraised, his gaunt breast heaving, with unshorn beard and tangled, grizzly locks, the iron jaw half open, and his dark, terrible eyes gleaming with unearthly fire. "speak, harry cleveland! for the wife you have lost, speak!" "my dear, dearest friend, do be calm! why have you been so long away from me? i wanted you here, but you did not come. our poor boy has had _his_ first lesson in this world's grief, and i have felt obliged to tell him all--yes, every thing! that the grave he has so often wept over, under the magnolia, does not contain his mother; and that--" "merciful god!" said paul darcantel, sinking down on his knees, with his hands clasped together, while the first tears for more than twenty years streamed from his agonized eyes. "there is a providence in it all! that boy is not my son! i saved him from the pirate's grasp, and that woman must be his mother!" lower and lower the lofty head bent till it touched the deck, the bony hands clasped tight together, and those eyes--ah! those parched eyes--no longer dry! "paul, paul, what is this i hear? for the love of heaven and those angels who are waiting for us, speak again!" "my father--my more than father, i am not illegitimate, then! no such shame may cause your boy to blush for his mother?" while strong and loving arms raised the exhausted man from the deck, and while he becomes once more the same determined paul darcantel, and with hand grasped in hand is rapidly recounting unknown years of his existence, let us leave the cabin. chapter xlviii. all alive again. "among ourselves, in peace, 'tis true, we quarrel, make a rout; and having nothing else to do, we fairly scold it out; but once the enemy in view, shake hands, we soon are friends; on the deck, till a wreck, each common cause defends." down in the steerage, where a bare cherry table stood, and upright lockers ranged around, with a lot of half-starved reefers devouring their dinner--not near so good or well served as the sailors' around their mess-cloths on the upper decks--with a few urchins utterly regardless of steerage grub, and a dollar or two in their little fists, all nicely dressed in blue jackets and white trowsers, waiting for the hands to be turned to and the boats manned, to go on shore for a lark. abaft in the wardroom, two or three of the swabs, the surgeon's mates, and the jaunty young marine lieutenant were getting into their bullion coats and fine toggery, and buckling on their armor to do sad havoc among the planters' families in the evening, away there in upper kingston. as for the first lieutenant, the purser, the fleet surgeon, the sailing-master, and the old major of marines, they had been ashore before, and didn't care to go again; growling jocosely among themselves on board the frigate, and glad to get rid of the juvenile gabble. presently, and before the hands were turned to from dinner, the cabin bell rang so violently that the orderly's brass scale-plate fixtures on his leather hat fairly rang too as he opened the sacred door. "tell the first lieutenant i want him." the dismayed soldier forgot to lay his white worsted finger on his visor as he slammed to the door and marched out on the gun-deck. "mr. hardy, unmoor ship! hoist a jack at the fore and fire a gun for a pilot! get the frigate under weigh, sir, and be quick about it!" "ay, ay, sir!" as hardy rapidly passed his old cronies, who were tramping along the deck as he mounted the after-ladder, he said, with a nod, "by the lord! i haven't seen the commodore in such a breeze since he blew that pirate out of water at darien." in a minute the "monongahela's" bell struck two, and the boatswain and his mates, piping as if their hairy throats would split, roared out, "all hands!" and a moment later, "all hands unmoor ship!" "what does that mean?" said a cook of a mess to jim dreen, the old quarter-master, who had just come down from his watch. "mean? why, you lazy, blind duff b'iler, it means that i've lost my blessed dinner." "hallo!" says rat to beaver, "what's that? unmoor ship on my liberty day! i swear i'll resign!" no you won't, reefers, but you'll trip aloft as fast as your little legs will carry you--mouse in company--up to the fore, main, and mizzen tops, and squeak there as much as you like; but jump about and look sharp that nothing goes wrong, or mr. hardy will be down upon you like a main tack. bang from the bow port and the union jack at the fore! "god bless my soul, fellows, this is the most infernal tyranny i ever heard of!" came from the wardroom; "all of us engaged to dine and dance in kingston this evening, and--" "it's 'all hands up anchor, gentlemen!'" and away they all went. down went the mess-kids, and down came the awnings, and up came the boats to their davits; in went the bars to both capstans, the nippers clapped on, and the muddy cables coming in to the tunes of fifes; while above the running gear was rove, the sunday bunts to the sails cast off, and the five hundred sailors dancing about on the decks, spars, and rigging of that american double-banked frigate, as if they could always work her sails and battery to the admiration of their good commodore there, who was looking at them from the quarter-deck. "massa captan," said the shining ebony pilot, in his snowy suit, as he took off his fine white panama hat, "dis is de ole pilot, sa, peter crabreef--name after dat black rock way dere outside. suppose you tink ob beating dis big frigate troo de channel? unpossible, wid dis breeze!" "peter crabreef," said the old sailing-master, to whom these observations were addressed, "you had better not give such a hint to that gentleman there in the epaulets; for if you do, you'll never see mrs. crabreef again! you had better keep your wits about you, too, and plenty of water under the keel, for the commodore is fond of water!" "sartainly, massa ossifa! i is old peter, and never yet touch a nail of man-of-war copper battam on de reefs!" on board the pigmy black schooner near, half a dozen old salt veterans were squinting at the flag-ship and holding much deliberate speculation as to what all the row meant. old harry greenfield, however, with ben brown, who were the gunner and boatswain of the little vessel, observed that, "in the ewent of our bein' wanted, ye see, harry, it will be as well to have the deck tackle stretched along for heavin' in, and get the prop from under the main boom." even as they spoke, a few bits of square bunting went up in balls to the mizzen of the frigate, and, blowing out clear, said, as plain as flags could speak, "prepare to weigh anchor!" at the same moment the "rosalie's" gig came bounding like a bubble over the water with the tall gentleman beside the young commander in the stern-sheets. there was a great, nervous, bony hand now holding his, but with as an affectionate pressure as the soft dimpled fingers he himself had held the night before. gig not steered at all wild now, but going as straight as a bullet to the schooner. the stirring sounds of the fifes as the sailors danced round with the bars in the capstans, with a beating step to keep time to the lively music, were still heard on board the frigate, and then came from the forecastle, "the anchor's under foot, sir!" "pawl the capstan! aloft, sail-loosers! trice up! lay out! loose away!" almost at the instant came down the squeaks from aloft of, "all ready with the fore! the main! the mizzen!" "let fall--sheet home! hoist away the top-sails!" again were heard the quick notes of the fifes on both decks, and in less than five minutes more the anchors were catted, and the "monongahela," under a cloud of canvas, began to move. but where was the "rosalie," late "perdita," all this time? why, there she goes, with never a tack, through the narrow strait, lying over under the press of her white dimity like a witch on a black broomstick, as she shoots out to sea. and who is that tall man, on that narrow deck, clapping on to sheet and tackle, though there was no need of assistance, or skill, or seamanship to be displayed on board that craft, except by way of love of the thing? and why does he, during a pause when there was nothing more that could possibly be done, stand by the weather rail, shaking a great huge old seaman by both hands till he almost jarred the schooner to her keel?--ben brown, the helmsman, whom you have heard of on board the "martha blunt," who, by some accidental word he dropped near to the tall gentleman, caused that hand-grasping collision. it was not another five minutes before the other thirty-nine old sea-dogs knew all about every body, and where they were bound, and so on. they did not care a brass button for the thousand silver dollars they were to have from the tall gentleman--not they! they wanted merely to lay their eyes along that long tom amidships, and to have a cutlass flashing over their shoulders--so fashion! pistols and pikes! fudge! but where was the "martha blunt?" oh, that old teak brig was bouncing along past morant point, with a good slant from the southward, pretty much where she was some seventeen years before, with a few more passengers in her deck cabin, reading their bibles, and praying for those who go down to the sea in ships on that sabbath day--one looking with her sad eyes out of the stern windows, and another doing the same, and both thinking of the same boy who had been dashed out of one of those windows; and though both of them knew the other's thoughts, yet they did not dream they were thinking of the same person at the time. and where was the spanish brigantine, with the exacting _capitano_--who was a slaver in dull times--and his pleasant mate, who would think no more of sticking a knife into you than he did of kicking that skulking, icy-eyed sailor on board--detesting as he did the entire saxon race ever since cadiz was bombarded--and feeding him on rotten jerked beef? there were no prayers, only curses, on board that brigantine as she dropped anchor in st. jago that fine sunday morning. and where was our ancient one-eyed mariner, formerly in command of the colonial guarda costa felucca, the "panchita," named after his fat banana of a sposa? oh, the don--simply ignaçio now--had had a quiet confab with the deputy administrador all about some treasure which he knew was concealed, and where--for he had seen with his bright eye the light of a torch in a cleft of a crag--and he would go shares with that official if he would give him a little assistance. "_oh, cierto!_" why not? and there was an old launch, with a torn lateen sail, which columbus might have been proud to command; and, in this fine weather, he might sail back to port palos in her. oh yes! but, to keep all secret, he would merely take old pancha, his wife, for crew. and so, with a few bundles of paper cigars, and some dried fish and water--the only property they possessed, save his eye and a pack of cards, and those valuables rescued with difficulty--they sailed the night before the blessed sunday. _he_ never came back, though. no blame attributable to the eye--that was as bright and wary an old burning spark of suspicious fire as ever; but then old pancha held the cards, and this time she won. very singular it was, _cierto_. if ignaçio had not gone back again for another bag which was not there, why, the _sota_ of a knave being the next card--ah! we won't anticipate. but we are all alive yet, except those murdered women, whose white coral head-stones still stand up there in the cactus, and poor binks, and those slashing blades of the poisonous, many-legged "centipede," who were eaten by the sharks--all alive the rest of us, and wide awake! chapter xlix. the rope laid up. "the captain is walking his quarter-deck with a troubled brow and a bended neck; one eye is down the hatchway cast, the other turns up to the truck on the mast." "the breeze is blowing--huzza, huzza! the breeze is blowing--away, away! the breeze is blowing--a race, a race! the breeze is blowing--we near the chase." well, the positions of all hands were simply these. the icy-eyed man, without snuff-box, or ring on that mutilated flipper, with two under pockets in his shirt, and something in them, a pair of filthy old canvas trowsers, and no hanger by his side, where there had been so much hanging in the good old times, slipped overboard like a conger eel, and swam on shore at st. jago de cuba. without a _real_ of wages--for he was to work his passage--and because he didn't feel inclined to work, the _capitano_ in command assisted his agile subordinate to kick him all the voyage. had, however, the mate presented that cold eel his knife for a moment before he jumped overboard and squirmed to the shore, that cuchillo would have found a redder sheath than the crimson sash which usually held it. fortunately perhaps for the mate, he was not of a generous disposition, save with kicks and ropes'-ends, or else he might have regretted his philanthropy. so soon as the icy-blue man had congealed, as it were, in the sun until he was quite dry and frozen again, he slunk away to the ditch of the old fort, where he thawed till nightfall, and then entered the town; hanging round the pulperias, smacking and cracking his parched lips for a measure of aguardiente, only two centavos a cup, and not caring for that fine, generous, pale, amber-colored old port sent to him by the good archbishop of oporto! but, not having the copper centavos--though his own coppers stood so much in need of moisture--he continued to skulk on. presently, coming to the wide streets and to the outskirts of the town, he spied a large mule, ready caparisoned for the road, hitched to the door of a house, waiting for his owner to mount him. the icy green-eyed individual, disgusted for the time with blue salt water, and being, as we know, a capital cavalry-man--in dashing charges among the patriots, and caprioling also up the blue mountains to escondido--thought he would take another gallop on the dry ground, just to keep his hand and little finger in; so he quietly cast off the mule's painter, and flung his canvas legs over the beast as if he belonged to him. and so he did; for he told the man at whose place he passed an hour or two that night, and who thought he knew the master to whom the mule had once belonged, that it had been presented to him by an old friend, whose name--as had the mule's--escaped him. all this time the one-eyed man, with his banana woman, pancha, were creeping along the water part of the land--with the peak of tarquina in sight--toward cape cruz, bound round that peninsula, and so on to the doçe léguas cays; while the man on the mule navigated by the sierras del cobre of st. jago, steering by bridle for manzanillo, and then to take water again for the same secret destination. the cargo that both expected to take in there was about ten thousand pounds sterling in mildewed coin of various realms and denominations; but it was there, and would pass current any where. so they sailed and navigated. it was tedious work, though; and it took a week for the old launch with the torn sail to get into the tiger's trap--fine weather, and no sea--and there make fast to the rocks. at the same evening hour the mule with his passenger planted his fore feet, like a pair of kedges over his bows, in the fishing village near manzanillo, and foundered bodily, going down with his freight slap-dash in the mud. the passenger, however, escaped, and skulled along by the shore, where he fell in with a poor fisherman who was about to shove off in his trim, wholesome bark for professional recreation on the esperanza bank. glad was old miguel tortuga to have a strong man to assist him for the privilege of joining in a sip of aguardiente and catching a red snapper or two; so they jumped on board and spread the sail. had old miguel, however, seen the sharklike eyes of his assistant in the sunlight, or dreamed what a snapper was about to catch _him_, he would not have gone fishing that night, and it would have saved him much tribulation at daylight the next morning, when he was picked off a small rock by a fisher acquaintance of his from manzanillo. but we have nothing to do with old miguel; and need only say, to console him, that his stanch boat went safely through the blue gateway of the roaring ledge of white breakers, and late sunday night lay calmly in the inlet abreast captain brand's former dwelling. to go back again for a week, the "monongahela"--double-banked leviathan as she was--came plunging out to sea from kingston, every man and boy, from jack smith on her forecastle to bill pump in the spirit-room, and from richard hardy to tiny mouse, knowing from the first plunge the frigate made what they all sailed for. with her proud head toward the east, she went dashing on past the white horse rocks, and woe to the small angry waves which did not get out of her way, for she smashed them contemptuously in foaming masses from her majestic bows, sending them back in sparkling spray and bubbles to hiss their angry way to leeward in her wake. on she went, far off to sea, where the trade wind was strongest, disdaining gentle zephyrs near the land, with her great square yards swinging round at every watch while beating to windward--the tacks close down, yards as fine as they would lay, and the heavy sheets flat aft. every evening the surgeon, the purser, the chaplain, the major, and the old sailing-master were in the cabin, going over the chase of a certain pirate in a schooner "centipede" away down on the darien coast, with cape garotte there under their lee, and the vultures and the sharks grinding the bones and tearing the flesh of the half of a man with the tusk gleaming out of his wiry mustache; and the padre, with his eyes staring wide open, and the crucifix, borne away by the carnivorous birds of prey. all of those dreadful particulars, together with matters that had gone before--of a lost boy, a heart-broken mother, and a murdered mate, mr. binks, on board the brig "martha blunt"--the party at escondido, the snuff-box, and paul darcantel--all about him, too, from the tragedy on the plantation, his despair, and reckless life afterward, when he served in slavers, where he did something to allay the sufferings of the poor wretches; and afterward how he was trepanned to the "doçe léguas," went a cruise with mr. bill gibbs, whose leg he hacked off with a hand-saw, not knowing at the time about the locket; the little child he had saved; how that child had saved him from his torture on the trestle with his mouselike teeth; how he had wandered the wide world over searching and searching for the mother of that boy! and there the boy was--the manly, brave young fellow now--whom officers and sailors had always loved, flying away with the dark doctor--no longer darcantel, but harry piron--with his fond father and mother in the distance, and the sweet girl he adored with her blonde head resting in her mother's lap. [illustration: the old water-logged launch.] ay, every soul in the ship knew all about it, and talked of it, and drank to the happiness of the young couple--all save dick hardy, who moved energetically about the frigate's decks, with his eyes every where, below and aloft, prompt, sharp, and quick, quite like cleveland, there, beside him, when they were together in the old "scourge" during the hurricane, and chased, to her destruction, the "centipede." "sail ho!" sang out the man on the fore-top-sail yard. "where away?" "right ahead, sir. a brig on the starboard tack!" ay, the old "martha blunt" bouncing along under all sail, squaring off at the short-armed seas, and striking them doggedly, as she beat up for the windward passage between hayti and cuba. but there was an old sea-bruiser of a different build, who wore the belt in the west indies, and was after that sturdy old brig with teak ribs for a hearty set-to; and when she came up alongside, in the friendly sparring-match which ensued while both squared their main yards, and lay for an hour side by side, there was considerable conversation; so much talk, in fact--boats going to and fro, mingled with roars and shrieks, and clasping of hands on board the brig--never a sound on board the ship--that the blue pennant fluttered in such a way it was hard to tell whether it was jacob, or piron, or the sweet wife, or mademoiselle, or her lovely mother, who threw their arms around that pennant's truck. then yard-arm and yard-arm, the frigate with her canvas canopy of upper sails furled, and the brig in her best bib and tucker, they both filled away and moved side by side. for a day or two they went on, talking and laughing to one another in these friendly shakes of the hand over blue water, until one day, the brig being to windward, she came upon an old water-logged launch, with a broken mast and a torn sail hanging over her side. it fell calm, and jacob blunt ordered young binks to get into the yawl and tow the boat alongside, and to be smart about it; for the breeze might make so soon as the fog rose, and the commodore was not the man to be kept waiting in a big frigate. mr. binks was smart about it, and presently he returned--though there was no hurry, for the calm lasted a long time--with his water-logged prize. there was no human being in this prize; but when she came alongside, and a yard tackle was hooked on to let the water drain out of her, jacob blunt and the people on board gave a pleasant yell of astonishment. it was not the soiled pack of spanish cards, or the few bundles of saturated paper cigars floating about, which caused this excitement. no, it was several canvas bags lying there in the stern-sheets, strapped with strands of a woman's red petticoat to the empty water-cask beneath the thwarts; and not one of those canvas bags, or what was in them, injured in the least by salt water. very carefully were those bags--and they were weighty--lifted on board the brig, over the rail where the pirates swarmed some long years ago, on to the quarter-deck; and then there was another joyous shout from jacob blunt, as when he had hailed the trade wind in that long past time. "by all that's wonderful, here is my old bag of guineas, and some few spanish milled dollars! look at the mark, my darlings!" another weighty bag was set aside for mrs. timothy binks, and the rest were devoted, with some large doubloon reservations for crew, to martha blunt and jacob blunt in their declining years. then, the weather being still calm and foggy, jacob and his passengers went on board the double-banked frigate for church service, where they all prayed with much hope and thanksgiving for what had passed and what was to come; and then they went into the commodore's cabin, where they remained ever so long a time. let us go back this same week again--a very long seven days it has been for every body, particularly so for the icy-eyed man, who was extremely anxious, as he kicked and lashed his mule, and kept looking round the south side of jamaica, from portland point to pedro bluff and san negril, throwing a ray of cold frost there day and night, expecting that tall doctor to come striding along in that deep water, heading due north. and at last the dark figure hove in sight, in the schooner "rosalie"--the sweet little craft skimming exultingly over the seas, kissing them occasionally with both her dainty, glistening cheeks, reeling joyously over on her side, with her tidy dimity laced and spread in one flat sheet of white, while the slender arms bent like whalebone to the freshening breeze, and she left the dancing bubbles sparkling and flashing lovingly in her wake. two hundred miles to go, and the breeze fell from fresh to light, until at last, shrouded in a thick fog, one sunday morning, when there was no air at all, only a flat calm, the sea as smooth as a glass mirror with the quicksilver clouded. then out sweeps, my lads! ten of a side, and two of those bronzed old lads at each sweep! all except the two after ones, where ben brown and the tall doctor handled one apiece. thus, with sails down and bare arms, the light little "rosalie" continued gliding rapidly over the mirrored surface--a little ashamed of herself, perhaps, at being seen in such a scanty rig--while her commander guided her graceful course, and harry greenfield peered about forward to see that no harm should arrest her dainty footsteps. presently was heard the toll of a bell. the sweeps paused, the hide gromets resting on the thole-pins, and the water raining from their broad blades. "that must be a man-of-war off here on the quarter," exclaimed the young officer at the tiller, "ringing for church." the old seamen at the sweeps unconsciously took off their hats, wiped the sweat from their brows, and listened. "it can hardly be the 'monongahela,'" said ben, "though p'raps she took more of a breeze to wind'ard, off the island." still the schooner glided on noiselessly over the sea, until, a minute later, harry greenfield sang out, "port, sir! or we'll be plump into a vessel here ahead." the helm was put down, and the "rosalie" sheered off to starboard within a biscuit-toss of a large brig. "by my grandmother's wig!" said ben, "that's the old 'martha blunt!'" "henri," said paul darcantel, in french, in his deep voice, "the last request i shall ever make is to keep on. there is not a moment to lose!" "give way, men!" shouted the officer, in a decided tone, as the words came with a stifled gasp from his heaving breast, while the sigh that followed was drowned in the splash of the sweeps in the water as they again chafed in their gromets, and the foam flashed away from the blades astern. but there was another splash. a white object sprang with a bound over the brig's quarter, dipping below the surface of the calm sea, and when it came up, two great flippers, with a large black head between them, struck out like the paws of an alligator, breasting the water with a speed that soon brought him within a few fathoms of the schooner's low counter. then, seizing hold of the slack of the main sheet, which was thrown to him, he came up, hand over hand, as if he could tear the stern frame out of the schooner. a vigorous grasp caught him by one paw, and, with the other laid on the taffrail, he leaped on deck as if his feet had pressed a springboard instead of the yielding water. again, as in the olden time, he held his little henri aloft in his giant arms; but this time it was banou who was dripping from a souse, and not his little master. "give way, my souls! another thousand dollars if we get up to the key before dark!" said the deep, low tones of the tall doctor. "good lord!" roared a voice from on board the brig, now shut up again all alone in the fog--"if that old nigger has not gone and jumped overboard, my name's not binks!" "all right, mr. binks; banou is safe! send a boat on board the 'monongahela,' and report that the schooner 'rosalie' has passed ahead," went back in a clear note. it was some considerable time before binks could believe that he had not been hailed by david jones himself, for he had seen nothing, being at the time in the lower cabin reading his bible, and writing his name, "binnacle binks, master of brig 'martha blunt,'" on the fly-leaf; and he was only disturbed in this praiseworthy occupation by a heavy body plunging overboard, and by one of the drowsy crew, who had, with his comrades, been sleeping near, reporting that circumstance with his eyes half shut. then young binks took considerable more time to get a boat lowered, and send her, with the cabin-boy, to the large frigate close on his beam, whose bell had just struck seven. the boat, too, with four sleepy hands to pull her, took considerable time to find the ship, and then the whistles were piping to dinner, and all the good people from the brig, with the flag-officers, had retired to the commodore's cabin for luncheon. when jacob blunt heard the news, regardless of sherry and cold tongue, he himself got in his boat, leaving his passengers in an excited frame of mind, but rather comfortable on the whole, and returned to the teak bosom of his "martha." there he took young binks firmly by the shoulder, and walked him aft to the rail where his father--long since dead and murdered--had been used to sit and sing sailor ditties. then he impressively told him that "this 'ere sort of thing wouldn't do! even if he was a readin' the bible, which was all very good on occasion, sich as clear weather out on the broad atlantic; but in fog times, when schooners was creepin' about in among the antilles, and partick'larly off jamaiky or the south side of cuby, mates and men should be wide awake and lookin' every wheres. and harkee, binnacle! when you commands this 'ere old brig, or maybe a bran-new 'martha blunt,' and me and my old woman lying below together in narrow cabins, you must bear in mind these my words! well, my boy, don't rub that 'ere sleeve over your eyes no more, and it will be all right." young binks promised "that from that 'ere minnit he would never sit on no rails, or sip no grog, or even read his old mother's bible when he wos on watch, but always be as keerful as if there wos no lady passengers or children on board, or bags of shiners in the lower cabin stateroom--that he would! and his blessed old second father might take his davy he, young binks, would never be caught foul again." meanwhile the girlish schooner tripped away far out of sight, and when the fog lifted and the breeze came to blow it to leeward she was once more tidily dressed in snowy white, and splashing the water from her black eyes, as the last rays of the setting sun showed her the tiger's trap in the distance. "henri, my boy, put your arms around me again as you did when i lay in torture on the trestle on that island. have no fears for me; we shall meet again. there! now listen to me. here is a packet which i wish you to carry to porto rico with this letter. the old judge is alive, i think, to whom this letter is addressed, and it may perhaps soothe his declining years. i wish to take your little gig, with banou and ben brown--no more force--and if, as i believe, that villain has returned to his former haunt, i will fulfill my oath to its very letter. meanwhile, so soon as we have shoved off, while the breeze still holds, run down to the frigate--she is not three leagues off--and you will be in your yearning parent's arms, and those of the girl you love, before they sleep. there! i know you will think of me. farewell!" chapter l. on a bed of thorns. "an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye!" "o heaven! to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim!" "ho, ho!" said captain brand, as he stretched out his straight legs in their canvas casings on the sand of the little cove, "safe and sound, and not a soul to share this nice supper of that good old man miguel! "ho, ho!" continued he; "here at last! no babette to cook for me--no 'centipede'--nothing but that stanch little boat presented me by that generous fisherman, who, i fear, is drowned by this time. well, let us enjoy ourselves! excellent real snapper this! sausage rather too much garlic perhaps; but the brown bread and the aguardiente unexceptionable. blaze away, my little fire; your sticks cost me much labor to dig out of my once comfortable house, but you are better than gunpowder any day. "just to think of the years that have passed! that great bank of sand there over the sheds, nearly as high as the crag, where my brave fellows once caroused; the young cocoa-nut springing up on the crag itself--not a vestige of my old habitation left, or the bright blades or pleasant guests to dine with me!" here there was something of the old cold murderous scowl on the captain's face as he twisted the point of his nose. "ah! yes, there may be my wary-eyed sanchez left, though the last i heard of him he was in the capilla dungeon of the moro. and that"--grating his teeth, and glaring with his icy eyes at the fire, as if those two blocks of ice would put it out--"cursed doctor who pursues me! "well, well, neither of those old friends are here yet, and before another sun sets i shall bequeath the old den to them both! ho, ho! with those solid bags of clinking metal, i shall leave them as much sand and rocks as they choose to walk over. what a sly devil i was to stow that treasure away for a rainy day! never told a living being! poisoned the fellow, too, who made the lock! capital joke, 'pon my soul!" this was the very last of the very few jokes that captain brand ever enjoyed. "and, now i think of it, i wonder if my thirsty old mate's bones are yet lying there in the vault. what _was_ his name? such a bad memory i have! oh! gibbs--bill gibbs--with one leg! ho, ho!" here captain brand drained some more aguardiente out of a cracked earthen pot, and slapped his fine legs with rapture. "and those dear girls who married me! lucia, too!" the dirty wretch started as the wing of a sea-bird swooped down over the pure inlet; and he thought he saw a white fore finger beckoning him on to his doom. "pshaw!" said he, smoothing down his filthy tattered shirt with the finger of his mutilated left hand, "how nervous i am! but what a bungle pedillo made of that marriage! and my good ricardo, too! what a feast the sharks must have had on his oily, well-fed carcass! misericordia! ho, ho! i believe i'll bid my friends good-night." captain brand stretched himself out at full length on the shelly strand, his boat secured by a clove-hitch round his right leg, which rode calmly in the little inlet; his bald head, with the few dry gray hairs on his temples, resting on miguel's sennit hat, and the thin scum of frosty eyelids drawn over his frozen eyes--cracking their covering at times--until at last the pirate, aided by fiery aguardiente, slept. a few late cormorants and sea-birds sailed over him in his fitful slumber, and uttered a cold cry, as if their pecking-time had not come yet, but would shortly, as they sought their silent retreats on the wall of rocks opposite. and captain brand dreamed, too--of the old laird, his father, in prison; his mother weeping over forged notes; the sleeping, unsuspecting people he had treacherously murdered; the pillages he had committed; the men he had slain in open conflict; those he had executed with his own private cord; the poor woman who had died in worse torments, when, indeed, even knife or pistol, rope or poison, would have been a mercy; the agony and sufferings of those who survived them; with all the concomitant horrors which make the blood run cold to think of, and which made the pirate's almost freeze in his veins--living years in minutes--did captain brand, as he lay there on the chill sand in his troubled nightmare of a sleep. "ah! _dios! dios!_" chattered the señora banana pancha, at the other outlet to the inlet, rolling over on the ledge of the rocks at the tiger's trap. "what has become of my ig--ig--naçio--the one-eyed old villain who has persecuted me for forty years? why did i cut the old launch adrift before i got in myself? and here i am alone and desolate on this cursed island, and my ig--ig--naçio--bless his spark of an eye--not come back to me! ah! _dios! dios!_ what has become of the little man? he will kill me, _cierto_, when he comes back and finds the boat gone with all the money, which nearly broke his thin back to bring here; but, _dios! dios!_ i am dying of thirst, and not a shred of dried fish or jerked beef has gone into my old mouth--" yes there has, doña pancha, for just then a piece of hawser-laid rope--rather dry, perhaps, for mastication--was placed across your crying mouth that you might bite upon, if you would only stop your old tongue. for while you were screaming on the rocks, and yelling for your ig--ig--naçio, who went back for the last bag of gold that wasn't there, a light gig glided in like a blackfish, and a bigger blackfish jumped up and stopped your old mouth, pancha, with that bit of hide rope. but if you will keep quiet, pancha, and not exorcise banou for the evil one, that old nigger will give you a cup of liquid not known in the devil's dominions, and treat you also to some white biscuit to nibble upon. ah! you will, eh? and tell all about that thin curl of smoke, which you believe to have been made by that coal-eyed ig--ig--naçio, away up there by the inlet? now keep quiet again, old lady banana; and while your screaming mouth is gagged, don't cut this small gig away, or else she may navigate herself out to sea, as did your ig's launch, and you be left desolate again. the tropical night was still; the lizards wheetled, the breakers roared on the outer ledge, the ripples washed musically on the shelly shores, the alligators flapped about on the surface of the lagoon, the insects buzzed around the mangrove thickets; and as the gray dawn of morning appeared, and the rain began to fall, a steaming hot mist arose, through which the sea-birds flapped their wings and sailed away in search of their morning's meal. the sharks and the deep-sea fish, however, lay still and motionless low down by the base of the reefs, and watched with their cold, round eyes. captain brand, too, arose, and, opening _his_ green-bluish eyes, smoothing his moulting feathers, and splashing his fins in the wet sand, took an observation. this was the rainy day for which captain brand had laid by all that money to spend it in! it was a monday morning--black monday for captain brand--when, after divesting his leg of the clove-hitch, he secured old miguel's boat to a large stone, and then, according to his own ancient practice, he clambered with difficulty up to the venerable crag. captain brand had no spy-glass, and there was a good deal of rain falling, but yet he thought he saw a large ship, a brig, and a small schooner in the offing. so captain brand scrambled down again, a good deal disconcerted, knowing it would be hours and hours before those vessels got up to the island, even were they so inclined; but, nevertheless, he bestirred himself. fortifying his inner man with the last half pint of aguardiente for breakfast, which quite refreshed him, he went to work. first, he took miguel's copper coffee-pot, into which he emptied that disciple of the net's shark-oil jug, which miguel himself used for a torch to attract the fish. then, with a strip of old canvas--part of one leg to captain brand's trowsers; to such straits was he reduced--seized like a ball on the end of a stick, and a match-box, he was all ready for black monday's work. captain brand, however, made one serious omission; he snugly stowed away his beautiful pistols in a locker of the boat to keep them dry, never having been wet but twice before in all his marine excursions--the first time at cape garotte, and the next when he jumped overboard from the brigantine at st. jago. he set great store by these valuable implements, for they had done him good service in time of need. miguel came into possession of them afterward, and sold them almost for their weight in gold. but, for the first time, captain brand forgot his personal friends and bosom companions. it was a great oversight; and he was extremely sorry when it was too late to go back for them. however, with the copper oil-pot dangling from his little finger, where the sapphire once shone, and the torch-stick in the other hand, he marched boldly over the sandy ridges toward the crag. but, captain brand, there had been three pairs of open eyes watching you through every mouthful of snapper you snapped, and every drop of fiery white rum you swallowed. ay! and while you tossed about on the shelly beach, with the red glow of the embers of the fire lighting up your cold-blooded, wrinkled face--while, twisting your nose, you muttered ho! ho's! of murderous satisfaction--there was not a bird that swooped over you, or a lizard on the rocks with jet beads of eyes, that watched you so sharply as did those attentive beholders from the crag. and when you made your observations from the young cocoa-nut clump, those watchers retired down the opposite side, and two of them clambered through a hole in the roof of the decaying little chapel, while the other moved to the little cemetery of coral gravestones, and there scooped a place in the sand and cactus behind the one cut with the letter l. captain brand meanwhile came on, picking his way through the dense cactus, which lacerated his legs, and sadly tore the remains of his loose canvas. the rain came down in torrents, the thunder growled and crashed as the tropical storm burst over the island; and just as a vivid sheet of forked lightning seemed to stride the crag, and the awful peal that followed shook it to its base, captain brand crept for shelter within the cleft of the rock, and sat down to prepare for a more extended research. he may have been gone twenty minutes; but when he again emerged the rain had ceased, the clouds were breaking away, and the gentle sea-breeze blowing, while captain brand looked a thousand years older. he seemed to have borrowed all the million of wrinkles from his compadre, in addition to those he already possessed. the thin lids of his frozen green--now quite solid--eyes had apparently exhaled by intense cold, and left nothing but a stony look of horror. what caused our brave captain to reel and stagger as he plunged with a bound out into the matted cactus, without his tattered hat, like a wolf flying from the hounds? had he trodden on a snake, or seen his compadre, or had that white finger waved him away? yes, all three. but the interview with his one-eyed compadre had shocked him most. on he came, driving the hot, wet sand before him, toward the padre ricardo's chapel. there he paused for breath, though it was only by a spasmodic effort that he could unclose his sheet-white lips, where his sharp teeth had met upon them, and held his mouth together as if he had the lockjaw, while he snorted through his nostrils. "ho!" he gasped, "the spying old traitor has sacked the cavern, and the gold must have gone in that launch i saw the night i came over the reef. ho! the traitor has found the torture i promised him; but i would like to have killed him a little slower." here captain brand, having regained some few faculties and energy, moved on beyond the church, till he came to the white coral headstone, where he stood still. it was his last walk on deck or sand! shading his still horror-stricken eyes by both hands, he glared to seaward. "ho, ho! there you are, my yankee commodore, with that old brig under convoy, and that pretty schooner! reminds me of my old 'centipede.' _bueno!_ there are other 'centipedes,' and i must begin the world anew. i am not old; here is my strong right arm yet; and who can stop me?" captain brand made these remarks in a loud tone, as if he wanted the whole world to hear him; and as if he had failed in early life, and come to a strong resolution to retrieve his past errors. as he waved his strong right arm aloft, while, in imagination, blood rained from the blade of his cutlass after cleaving the skull by a blow dealt behind the back of an unsuspecting skipper or mate, suddenly he paused, and the arm fell powerless at his side, where it hung dangling loose like a pirate from a gibbet on a windy night. he caught sight of the old broken cocoa-nut trunk to which he had hitched the green silk rope, with its noose around his victim's neck, and he endeavored to prevent himself falling to the sand. "ho!" he choked out, his jaws rattling like dry bones, "i see it all now. the column was snapped just where the rope was hitched, and the trestle must have been torn to pieces by the hurricane. ho, ho! that's the way my man escaped, to dog me all over the world. ho! i have no time to lose; he may be here at any moment." this was the last connected speech that captain brand ever made in this world, or in the world to come, perhaps, for at the last word paul darcantel rose in all his revengeful majesty before him. with folded arms he bent his dark, stern eyes upon the pirate, wherein the revenge of twenty years was gleaming with a concentrated power. "you palsied villain! the oath i took to you, and for which i have been accursed, expired yesterday! i took another myself, when we stood here last together, and i am come to fulfill that oath, and--strike!" his terrible voice and words came back in an echo from the crag, and they seemed with their intense energy to pierce and shrivel the man before him into sleet. and the pirate would have fallen had not two huge, black, lignum-vitæ paws grappled him about the body, pinioning his arms to his sides as if they had been bolted through and through, while at the same moment another pair of tough, sea-weed flippers wound a lashing round his straight legs, and they laid him gently down on the sandy esplanade. "the trestle, banou. and you, ben, bring the hide strands, the faded old cord, and that black altar-cloth!" the pirate lay on his back, his eyes wide open--for he could not shut them, since the lids had gone in frost--but the solid balls, light green now in the light, rolled from side to side. he recognized the old apparatus too, though it was in different hands than those of pedillo and his confederate; and he saw, also, that, though the pale green rope was rotten, yet his knowledge of nautical matters taught him that it yet might bear a taut strain, and that those coils of hide thongs never gave way by any amount of tugging, and he saw as well that they had been recently dipped in grease. but what was to be done with that rotten, moth-eaten old cloth, which the men used to play monté on on saturday nights in the sheds, and on which the good padre played _his_ cards likewise in the chapel? it was not to keep the cold air away from him, or shield his half-naked body from the poisonous insects. then what could it be for? "lift him up, men, and when you lash him down, leave only that little finger free!" ben brown squatted himself on a stone beside the bier, and with his cutlass unbuckled and laid on the sand, and sleeves rolled up, began his work as if he had a chafing-mat to make for the dead-eyes of the frigate's lower shrouds, and, though in a hurry, still intended to make a neat job of it. he had a small and rather sharp-pointed marline-spike, too, which he wore habitually, like a talisman, round his neck, and which stood him in hand in the intricate parts of his task. taking in at a glance the exact amount of hide stuff he required, he middled the coils, and passing each strand fair and square, his old bronzed arms went backward and forward, under and over--sometimes pricking a little hole by accident in the pirate's own thin hide as he passed the strips by the aid of his marline-spike, but always apologizing in his bluff, rough way, though without squirting tobacco-juice into his victim's face, as did mr. gibbs to jacob blunt. "beg pardon, ye infarnal pirate! but that stick will do ye no harm. it'll heal much sooner than the iron spike one of yer crew drove through both cheeks of my watch-mate when you gagged him on board the brig. "i say, old nigger, hand us a little more of that slush, will ye? this 'ere strand won't lie flat. thankee, old darkey! kitch hold on that lower end, will ye? and draw it square up between his pins, and straighten out that 'ere knee-joint a bit--so fashion. "i wouldn't hurt ye, you ugly villain, for a chaw of tobaccy. "warm work, shipmate! suppose you just toddle down to the boat for that 'ere grafted bottle lyin' in the starn sheets, and bring a tin pot of fresh water with you; the gentleman might be thirsty, you know. _i am_--benjamin brown, of sandy pint, seaman." so benjamin plaited captain brand, late of the "centipede," down on his bier; not a thong too little, or one in the wrong place. a strand between each of his toes, and the big ones turned up in quite an ornamental way, and worked around with a turk's-head knot. "breathin' works all reg'lar, too, no bit of hide bearin' an onequal strain over his bread-basket. throat and jaw-tackle in fair talkin' order, little finger free; and there, capting brand, jist let old ben reward ye, good for evil, ye child-murdering scoundrel, for the lick your mate gave him with the pistol on the head, by placing this soft pillow of green silk rope under your bare skull. there! a little this side, so as ye can look at your finger, while i pass this broad piece of stuff over your ear. don't ye look at me, ye infarnal scoundrel, or i'll let this 'ere copper spike slip into one of yer junk-bottle glims! "now," continued ben, "i'll take a spell till the doctor and the old nigger come back." ay, the job was done, and the mat over the dead-eyes of the shrouds! [illustration: "now captain brand knew what was coming."] during this neat and seamanlike operation paul darcantel wandered away on the tracks of the flying wolf till he came to the cleft in the rock. there he picked up and lighted the torch and stalked on. presently he came to the stones before the low cavern, and pushed his way in with the blazing torch before him. had paul darcantel had nerves, they would have shaken at what he saw; but having none to shake, he calmly fixed his eyes upon the sight. there lay the head of the ancient ignaçio, caught, as he tried to creep out of the treasure-chamber, by the falling of the stone slab. it must have been sudden, for the stump of a paper cigar was still seized in his wrinkled lips, while the snakelike curls twined about his ears, and his wary eye looked out with its usual suspicious intensity, and seemed to throw out a spark of fire in the reflection of the torch. rising from a coil in a slimy bed of sand before the head was a venomous serpent, with his graceful neck curved into the broad flat head, all like an ebony cane, straight, motionless, and elegant to the curved top--fascinated by that single living orb of the dead man. the human intruder left this well-matched pair to their own venomous devices, and winding his way on, he soon came to the open door to the vaults. a powerful kick smashed in the door of the dungeon, and while the rusty bolts were still ringing on the stone pavement, paul darcantel entered the loathsome chamber. he saw nothing at first save a few fragments of broken crockery and a rusty metal pot--not even a rat. but flaring the torch down upon the mouldy floor something sparkled in the light. this he snatched, and it was the long-lost locket and chain which had last rested around the baby-boy's neck. when the doctor strode back to the esplanade of the chapel he found benjamin brown and banou taking a friendly sip out of the tin pot. "well, sir," said ben, as he got on his pins and strapped on his cutlass, "there he is, sir! and as neat a piece of cross-lashing as ever i did. he looks as if he growed there, jist like a hawk-bill turtle a-bilin' in the ship's coppers, only he can't paddle about. "i did it marciful, too, sir, and tried to convarse with him, in case he had any presents to make to his friends. "why, sir, and would you believe it? i offered to pour a drop of grog--mixed or raw--down his tight mouth, but he never had the perliteness to thank me or ax me a question, but only looked wicked at me. consarn him! if he had only winked, i wouldn't mind it!" said ben, with much indignation; "but, howsever, i don't b'lieve he's any think to leave or any friends left!" but captain brand, though speechless without being tongue-tied, and unable to wink, still thought. and what did the doctor propose to do with him in case he was not to be stung to death by insects, sand-flies, musquitoes, and what not? "lift the trestle for the last time, men, and stand it here over this thick bed of cactus, so as the little finger may touch the letter on this white tomb-stone." now captain brand's doubts were relieved, and he knew what was coming. oh ho! ho! "there! that is right! now collect stones and rocks, and wall this trestle up solid to the edge of the frame, so that a hurricane can't loosen it." big banou went to work now, and presently his job was done--coral rocks, and loose head-stones of pirates, well packed down with sand, made the sides of the living tomb. then the black pall was drawn over the body, and they left the pirate to his inevitable doom. soon the three executioners reached the tiger's trap. "banou, take this locket and chain--ah! you know it well--to your young master. brown, the two thousand dollars will be placed in your and greenfield's hands for distribution among the schooner's crew; make a good use of it! tell the commodore that i shall take an old woman we have found here away with me in a stolen fisherman's boat to manzanillo, and within the year i shall be at home! there! shove off, my lads!" as the gig skimmed through the tiger's trap, paul darcantel, with the widow of ignaçio, sailed out by the alligator's mouth, and as they crossed that roaring ledge, the sun sank in its unclouded glory in the west, and the young moon, with its thin pearly crescent, looked timidly down upon the island. and the night passed, and the next and the next, with scorching days and blazing suns between them; while the mangrove, the palm, the cocoa-nut, and the cactus--ah! that luxuriant plant throve apace--shooting up its steel-pointed bayonets two inches of a night in thorny needles as thick as pins in a paper, growing clean through the hide of ox or man like blood, till their hard-edged leaves met resistance, when, turning flat side up, they put forth a score for one of the needle bayonets! no escape from them. from shoulder to heel one long, hopeless agony. the fierce sun flaming down, absorbed by the black pall of death! the moon glimmering in pale white rays of splendor through the moth-eaten holes upon the finger and the white tomb-stone! all the day and all the night! was it a dream, captain brand? no, a frightful reality! don't you feel a fresh thorn at every slow pulse of the heart they are aiming at? and don't you hear those dread croakings of gulls and cormorants flapping in the air, who have left their prey on the reef to join the vultures in their feast on the shore? you may almost catch the grating sounds of the rasping jaws of the sharks as they crowd into the inlet, and rest their cold noses on the shelly cove where you slept! flesh and blood, and pinions and beaks can endure it no longer. a cloud of carnivorous birds swoop down at last, snap the black pall in their talons and bills, and fly fighting and screaming away with it. another cloud, darker than the rest, light upon the body, and while the needle-points pierce the palpitating heart, and the breath flutters on the still clenched lips and nostrils, the eyes are picked out, and the flesh is torn piecemeal, hide strands and all, till nothing is left but a hideous white skeleton, with the long bony finger pointing to the letter l. the lizards wheetled on the rocks, the alligators lashed the lagoon amid the steaming mist of the mangrove roots; the sharks and birds returned to the reefs, the cocoa-nuts waved their tufted tops, the palms crackled in the shower and gale, and the pure inlet murmured musically on the shelly shore for years and years over and around the deserted key, until the whitened bones crumbled into dust, and were borne away by the four winds of heaven. * * * * * the hemp has been tarred and spread, the strands twisted, and the rope laid up. the knots have been turned in between good sailors and bad--between pirates and men-of-war's-men--and here harry gringo hauls down his pennant until his reading crew care again to take a cruise with him in blue water. the end. * * * * * standard works of =discovery and adventure in africa=. published by harper & brothers, franklin square, n. y. _sent by mail, postage pre-paid, on receipt of price._ _the amount of travel literature which harper & brothers have published relating to africa makes a curious list, and illustrates the bent of geographical and political examination for some time past. the octavos of burton, barth, livingstone, du chaillu, davis, and a number of other celebrated travellers, form a small library, all the result of the last few years' devotion to african exploration_--n. y. journal of commerce. =speke's africa.= journal of the discovery of the sources of the nile. by john hanning speke, captain h.m. indian army, fellow and gold medalist of the royal geographical society, hon. corr. member and gold medalist of the french geographical society, &c. with map and portraits, and numerous illustrations, chiefly from drawings by captain grant. vo, cloth, $ . =reade's savage africa.= western africa: being the narrative of a tour of equatorial, southwestern, and northwestern africa; with notes on the habits of the gorilla; on the existence of unicorns and tailed men; on the slave trade; on the origin, character, and capabilities of the negro, and of the future civilization of western africa. by w. winwood reade, fellow of the geog. and anthropological soc. of lond., and corr. member of the geog. soc. of paris. with illustrations and a map. vo, cloth, $ . =du chaillu's equatorial africa.= explorations and adventures in equatorial africa; with accounts of the manners and customs of the people, and of the chase of the gorilla, the crocodile, leopard, elephant, hippopotamus, and other animals. by paul b. du chaillu, corr. member of the amer. ethnological soc.; of the geog. and statistical soc. of new york, and of the bost. soc. of nat. hist. maps and numerous illustrations. vo, cloth, $ . =baldwin's african hunting.= african hunting from natal to the zambesi, including lake ngami, the kalahari desert, &c., from to . by william charles baldwin, f.r.g.s. with map, fifty illustrations by wolf and zwecker, and a portrait of the great sportsman. mo, cloth, $ . =andersson's okavango river.= the okavango river: a narrative of travel, exploration, and adventure. by charles john andersson, author of "lake ngami." with steel portrait of the author, numerous wood-cuts, and a map showing the regions explored by andersson, cumming, livingstone, burton, and du chaillu. vo, cloth, $ . =andersson's lake ngami.= lake ngami; or, explorations and discoveries during four years' wanderings in the wilds of southwestern africa. by charles john andersson. with numerous illustrations, representing sporting adventures, subjects for natural history, devices for destroying wild animals, &c. new edition. mo, cloth, $ . =livingstone's south africa.= missionary travels and researches in south africa; including a sketch of a sixteen years' residence in the interior of africa, and a journey from the cape of good hope to loando on the west coast; thence across the continent, down the river zambesi, to the eastern ocean. by david livingstone, ll.d., d.c.l. with portrait, maps, and numerous illustrations. vo, cloth, $ . =davis's carthage.= carthage and her remains: being an account of the excavations and researches on the site of the phoenician metropolis in africa and other adjacent places, under the auspices of her majesty's government. by dr. n. davis, f.r.g.s. profusely illustrated with maps, wood-cuts, chromo-lithographs, &c., &c. vo, cloth, $ . =burton's central africa.= the lake regions of central africa. a picture of exploration. by richard f. burton, capt. h.m.i. army; fellow and gold medalist of the royal geographical society. with maps and engravings on wood. vo, cloth, $ . =barth's north and central africa.= travels and discoveries in north and central africa. being a journal of an expedition undertaken under the auspices of h.b.m.'s government in the years - . by henry barth, ph.d., d.c.l. profusely and elegantly illustrated. complete in vols. vo, cloth, $ . =cumming's south africa.= five years of a hunter's life in the interior of south africa. with notices of the native tribes, and anecdotes of the chase of the lion, elephant, hippopotamus, giraffe, rhinoceros, &c. by gordon cumming. with illustrations. vols. mo, cloth, $ . =wilson's western africa.= western africa: its history, condition, and prospects. by rev. j. leighton wilson, eighteen years a missionary in africa. with numerous engravings. mo, cloth, $ . mr. wilson, an american missionary, has written the best book i have seen on the west coast.--dr. livingstone, _rivershire, w. africa_, feb. , . =discovery and adventures in africa.= condensed abstracts of the narratives of african travellers. by professor jameson, james wilson, and hugh murray. mo, cloth, cents. =the life and adventures of bruce, the african traveller.= by major sir francis b. head. mo, cloth, cents. =lander's niger expedition.= journal of an expedition to explore the course and termination of the niger. with a narrative of a voyage down that river to its termination. by r. and j. lander. engravings. vols. mo, cloth, $ . =urquhart's pillars of hercules.= the pillars of hercules; or, a narrative of travels in spain and morocco in . by david urquhart, m.p. vols. mo, cloth, $ . =owen's voyages.= voyages to explore the shores of africa, arabia, and madagascar: performed under the direction of captain w. f. w. owen, r.n. vols. mo, cloth, $ . =mungo park's central africa.= travels of mungo park, with the account of his death, from the journal of isaaco, and later discoveries relative to his lamented fate, and the termination of the niger. mo, cloth, cents. =madagascar.= =the last travels of ida pfeiffer=: inclusive of a visit to madagascar. with an autobiographical memoir of the author. translated by h. w. dulcken. steel portrait. mo, cloth, $ . (uniform with ida pfeiffer's "second journey round the world"). =three visits to madagascar=, during the years - - . including a journey to the capital, with notices of the natural history of the country and of the present civilization of the people. by the rev. william ellis, f.h.s. with a map and wood-cuts from photographs, &c. vo, cloth, $ . * * * * * =harper's weekly for .= harper's weekly is devoted to art, literature, general information, and politics. it will contain a carefully condensed and impartial record of the events of the day, pictorially illustrated wherever the pencil of the artist can aid the pen of the writer. in politics it will advocate the national cause, wholly irrespective of mere party grounds. its essays, poems, and tales will be furnished by the ablest writers of both continents. a new novel, by mr. george augustus sala, entitled "quite alone," will, by special arrangement with the author, appear in the weekly simultaneously with its publication in mr. dickens's "_all the year round_." the publishers will see to it that the current volume shall justify the favorable opinions expressed by the loyal press upon the volume which has just closed. =extracts from notices by the press.= "harper's weekly is the best publication of its class in america, and so far ahead of all other weekly journals as not to permit of any comparison between it and any of their number. its columns contain the finest collections of reading matter that are printed. thus, if you look into the volume for , you will find that its stories, and miscellaneous articles, and poetry are from the minds of some of the leading writers of the time. its matter is of a very various character from elaborate tales and well-considered editorial articles to the airiest and briefest jests, good-humored hits at the expense of human follies, which proceed from the liveliest of minds. it is a vigorous supporter of the war--discussing all questions that concern the contest in which we are engaged with an amplitude of perception and a breadth of patriotism that place it very high indeed on the roll of loyal and liberal publications. its illustrations are numerous and beautiful, being furnished by the chief artists of the country. most of the illustrations are devoted to the war, including battle-pieces, scenes made renowned by great events there occurring, and portraits of eminent military and civil leaders. even a person who could not read a line of its letter-press could intelligently follow the history of the war through by going over the pictured pages of this volume,"--_evening traveller_ (boston.) "harper's weekly, besides being a literary paper of the first class--the only one among american or european pictorials with a definite purpose consistently and constantly carried out--is at once a leading political and historical annalist of the nation."--_the press_ (philadelphia). "harper's weekly.--in turning over its pages, we were struck anew with the fidelity with which it delineates passing events: a true picture of the times. the scenes of the war, portrayed by the graphic pencils of artists on the battle-field and in the camp, are re-produced in excellent wood-cuts with marvelous promptness and accuracy. the letter-press furnishes an appropriate accompaniment to the illustrations; presenting a pleasing variety, sprightly and entertaining. we can not wonder at the popularity of the _weekly_ when we observe the spirit and enterprise with which it is conducted."--_journal_ (boston). "harper's weekly for .--from a careful examination of this work, as it came out in it weekly form, we can honestly advise our readers to purchase the stately and pictured volume. we dare not say how many duodecimo volumes of matter, and of good and interesting matter, it contains. as a record of the events and opinions of the past year, and as literally a picture of the time, it has a permanent value, while its wealth of excellent stories and essays makes it an endless source of entertainment. the original editorial articles are of a very high order of merit, and relate to subjects which attract the attention of all intelligent and patriotic minds. soundness of thought, liberality of sentiment, and thorough-going loyalty find expression in the most exquisite english. altogether, we should say that _harper's weekly_ is a necessity in every household."--_the transcript_ (boston). "harper's weekly and magazine, with their immense circulation, are grandly loyal and influential. the _weekly_ especially has been true to the cause; and while it gives in admirable correspondence and accurate pictures a complete illustrated history of the war, with all its battles, incidents, and portraits of generals, it has splendidly enforced by argument and example its principles. closer reasoning is not to be found than that to which its editors might fairly challenge answer."--_city item_ (philadelphia). _notices of harper's weekly._ "harper's weekly, of which the seventh volume is now issued in neat, substantial binding, shows the industry and zeal with which the cause of the union has been maintained in its columns during the year . it has continued to increase the fervor of patriotic sentiment as well by its appropriate pictorial illustrations as by its able editorial leaders commenting on the events of the day. in its present shape, the journal furnishes copious materials for the history of the war, and can not fail to find a place in public and private libraries as an important volume for permanent reference."--_tribune_ (new york). "harper's weekly _for_ --a journal of the year, kept in the most interesting way; and as we turn over the pages we revive many now almost forgotten sensations, and see, bit by bit, how history has grown. the volume closed and bound up becomes history; but it would not be just to this publication to omit a remark on the influence which it has exerted during the year, and which it continues to exert. an illustrated journal like _harper's weekly_, which circulates, as we have heard, over one hundred and twenty thousand copies per week, chiefly among families, and which has probably a million of readers, has necessarily a great influence in the country. the _weekly_ has consistently and very ably supported the union, the government, and the great principles to develop which the union was founded. unlike most illustrated journals, _harper's weekly_ has displayed political and literary ability of a high order as well as artistic merit. its political discussions are sound, clear, and convincing, and have done their share to educate the american people to a right understanding of their dangers and duties. in its speciality--illustrations of passing events--it is unsurpassed; and many of the pictures of the year do honor to the genius of the artists and engravers of this country. thus complete in all the departments of an american family journal, _harper's weekly_ has earned for itself a right to the title which it assumed seven years ago, 'a journal of civilization.'"--_evening post_ (new york). harper's weekly.--this periodical merits special notice at the present time. there is probably no weekly publication of the country that equals its influence. more than one hundred thousand copies fly over the land weekly: they are read in our cars, steamboats, and families. our youth especially read them; and as _the_ family newspaper of the nation, its power over the forming opinions of the next generation of the american people is an important item. it is abundant, if not superabundant, in pictorial illustrations--a means of strong impression, especially on the minds of the young. both by its illustrations and its incessant discussion of the occurrences and questions of the war it is a "current history" and "running commentary" on the great event, and there is probably no literary agency of the day more effective in its influence respecting the war in the families of the common people. most happy are we then to be able to say that this responsible power is exerted altogether on the side of loyalty. no paper in the land is more outspoken, more uncompromising for the union, for the war, for even the policy of the president's "great proclamation." when the rebellion broke out we did the publishers the injustice of some anxious fears about their probable course on the subject. steadily have they kept up with the providential development of its events and questions; not only abreast of them, but, in important respects, ahead of them. no periodical press in the nation deserves better of the country for its faithfulness and "pluck" in all matters relating to the great struggle. and we should do it injustice were we not to add that, with its outright loyalty and bravery, it combines commanding ability. the editorial leaders which it continuously flings out against all political traitors and flunkies strike directly at their mark. they are evidently from pens both strong and polished. on even the astuter subjects of policy, finance, &c., it is eminently able. and it makes no mistake in supposing its readers capable of an interest and of intelligence in these respects. american families look keenly into such questions, and with such a really educational force as this paper wields, it is especially right and commendable that it seeks to elevate the common mind to the higher questions of the times. the american people will not fail to notice and to remember the courageous and patriotic course of _harper's weekly_ in these dark times of hideous treason, and of more hideous, because more contemptible, semi-treason.--_the methodist, n. y._ terms. one copy for four months $ one copy for one year two copies for one year "harper's weekly" and "harper's magazine" one year _an extra copy of either the weekly or magazine will be supplied gratis for every club of ten subscribers, at $ each; or, eleven copies for $ ._ * * * * * transcriber's note: the author's archaic spelling is preserved, including creative spanish spelling such as "guantamano" and "hasta huego". the author's punctuation style is preserved. hyphenation has been made consistent. in addition to making hyphenation consistent, the following changes were made to the original text: page : =escondide= standardized to =escondido= (why, madame, it is only a week ago that a lot of us dined with him at his estate of =escondido=) page : added quote (he continued, turning toward the skipper, as the clear sound of the cruiser's bell struck his ear, ="i must= not forget what i came for.") page : added tilde ("_el doctor =señor=, con tres de nosotros._") page : removed extra end quote from "ho!" (sputtered the ruffian, as he pulled a pistol from his belt, ="ho!= you mean fight, do ye?") page : removed accent from "e" ('_=bueno=!_' there's more fish in the sea--and under it too!) page : changed from single quote (="but= the best of the joke was, the moment he spoke) page : added accent (in the centre arose a huge =épergne= of silver, fashioned into the shape of a drooping palm-tree) page : added tilde ("and the =señorita's= too, i think,") page : removed dash from =money--you= (i wouldn't remain another hour in this filthy hole for all the =money you= have cheated me out of, you old rascal.) page : =hirtling= changed to =hurtling= (no more pauses or lulls now in the =hurtling= tempest) page : =epaulettes= standardized to =epaulets= (in cocked hat, full-dress coat, a pair of gleaming =epaulets=, sword by his hip, and his nether limbs cased in white knee-breeches) page : added quote (="well=, gentlemen, for some weeks after these occurrences we sailed about the islands) page : =mosquito= standardized to =musquito= (the orders were to beat up the south side of cuba, where we expected to fall in with the =musquito= fleet and some english vessels) page : =is= changed to =its= (a minute later, all that was left of the shattered hull fell broadside into the open fangs of the ledge, which ground it with =its= merciless jaws into toothpicks.) page : removed repeated "at all" (he didn't like his looks =at all=, though he did make himself so fascinating to the beautiful widow who sat next him) page : =believeing= changed to =believing= (as there is much reason for =believing= he did--with great disgust, on board the dirty, dumpy old ballahoo) page : =tholl-pins= changed to =thole-pins= (the sweeps paused, the hide gromets resting on the =thole-pins=, and the water raining from their broad blades.) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | a number of obvious typographical errors have been corrected | | in this text. for a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ when knighthood was in flower or, the love story of charles brandon and mary tudor the king's sister, and happening in the reign of his august majesty king henry the eighth rewritten and rendered into modern english from sir edwin caskoden's memoir by edwin caskoden [charles major] julia marlowe edition with scenes from the play [illustration] indianapolis, u.s.a. the bowen-merrill company publishers copyright, eighteen hundred ninety eight, and nineteen hundred one by the bowen-merrill company press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n.y. _"there lived a knight, when knighthood was in flow'r, who charmed alike the tilt-yard and the bow'r_." to my wife contents the caskodens i the duel ii how brandon came to court iii the princess mary iv a lesson in dancing v an honor and an enemy vi a rare ride to windsor vii love's fierce sweetness viii the trouble in billingsgate ward ix put not your trust in princesses x justice, o king! xi louis xii a suitor xii atonement xiii a girl's consent xiv in the siren country xv to make a man of her xvi a hawking party xvii the elopement xviii to the tower xix proserpina xx down into france xxi letters from a queen _"cloth of gold do not despise, though thou be match'd with cloth of frize; cloth of frize, be not too bold, though thou be match'd with cloth of gold_." inscription on a label affixed to brandon's lance under a picture of mary tudor and charles brandon, at strawberry hill. the play the initial performance of the play was given in st. louis on the evening of november , , and the first new york production was on the fourteenth of the following january. its instant and continued success is well known. a prominent dramatic critic of the press has said: "julia marlowe fully realized the popular idea of the mary described by the novelist. she seemed to revel in the role. with its instantaneous changes from gay daring to anger and fear, from coyness to the dignity that hedges a princess, from resentment to ardent love, the part of mary tudor gives julia marlowe full scope for the display of her talent. she has never appeared to better or as good advantage as in this play for the reason that it gives opportunity for broader and more effective lights and shades than anything she has hitherto given us." when knighthood was in flower when knighthood was in flower.... _the caskodens_ we caskodens take great pride in our ancestry. some persons, i know, hold all that to be totally un-solomonlike and the height of vanity, but they, usually, have no ancestors of whom to be proud. the man who does not know who his great-grandfather was, naturally enough would not care what he was. the caskodens have pride of ancestry because they know both who and what. even admitting that it is vanity at all, it is an impersonal sort of failing, which, like the excessive love of country, leans virtueward; for the man who fears to disgrace his ancestors is certainly less likely to disgrace himself. of course there are a great many excellent persons who can go no farther back than father and mother, who, doubtless, eat and drink and sleep as well, and love as happily, as if they could trace an unbroken lineage clear back to adam or noah, or somebody of that sort. nevertheless, we caskodens are proud of our ancestry, and expect to remain so to the end of the chapter, regardless of whom it pleases or displeases. we have a right to be proud, for there is an unbroken male line from william the conqueror down to the present time. in this lineal list are fourteen barons--the title lapsed when charles i fell--twelve knights of the garter and forty-seven knights of the bath and other orders. a caskoden distinguished himself by gallant service under the great norman and was given rich english lands and a fair saxon bride, albeit an unwilling one, as his reward. with this fair, unwilling saxon bride and her long plait of yellow hair goes a very pretty, pathetic story, which i may tell you at some future time if you take kindly to this. a caskoden was seneschal to william rufus, and sat at the rich, half barbaric banquets in the first great hall. still another was one of the doughty barons who wrested from john the great charter, england's declaration of independence; another was high in the councils of henry v. i have omitted one whom i should not fail to mention: adjodika caskoden, who was a member of the dunce parliament of henry iv, so called because there were no lawyers in it. it is true that in the time of edward iv a caskoden did stoop to trade, but it was trade of the most dignified, honorable sort; he was a goldsmith, and his guild, as you know, were the bankers and international clearance house for people, king and nobles. besides, it is stated on good authority that there was a great scandal wherein the goldsmith's wife was mixed up in an intrigue with the noble king edward; so we learn that even in trade the caskodens were of honorable position and basked in the smile of their prince. as for myself, i am not one of those who object so much to trade; and i think it contemptible in a man to screw his nose all out of place sneering at it, while enjoying every luxury of life from its profits. this goldsmith was shrewd enough to turn what some persons might call his ill fortune, in one way, into gain in another. he was one of those happily constituted, thrifty philosophers who hold that even misfortune should not be wasted, and that no evil is so great but the alchemy of common sense can transmute some part of it into good. so he coined the smiles which the king shed upon his wife--he being powerless to prevent, for edward smiled where he listed, and listed nearly everywhere--into nobles, crowns and pounds sterling, and left a glorious fortune to his son and to his son's son, unto about the fourth generation, which was a ripe old age for a fortune, i think. how few of them live beyond the second, and fewer still beyond the third! it was during the third generation of this fortune that the events of the following history occurred. now, it has been the custom of the caskodens for centuries to keep a record of events, as they have happened, both private and public. some are in the form of diaries and journals like those of pepys and evelyn; others in letters like the pastons'; others again in verse and song like chaucer's and the water poet's; and still others in the more pretentious form of memoir and chronicle. these records we always have kept jealously within our family, thinking it vulgar, like the pastons, to submit our private affairs to public gaze. there can, however, be no reason why those parts treating solely of outside matters should be so carefully guarded, and i have determined to choose for publication such portions as do not divulge family secrets nor skeletons, and which really redound to family honor. for this occasion i have selected from the memoir of my worthy ancestor and namesake, sir edwin caskoden--grandson of the goldsmith, and master of the dance to henry viii--the story of charles brandon and mary tudor, sister to the king. this story is so well known to the student of english history that i fear its repetition will lack that zest which attends the development of an unforeseen denouement. but it is of so great interest, and is so full, in its sweet, fierce manifestation, of the one thing insoluble by time, love, that i will nevertheless rewrite it from old sir edwin's memoir. not so much as an historical narrative, although i fear a little history will creep in, despite me, but simply as a picture of that olden long ago, which, try as we will to put aside the hazy, many-folded curtain of time, still retains its shadowy lack of sharp detail, toning down and mellowing the hard aspect of real life--harder and more unromantic even than our own--into the blending softness of an exquisite mirage. i might give you the exact words in which sir edwin wrote, and shall now and then quote from contemporaneous chronicles in the language of his time, but should i so write at all, i fear the pleasure of perusal would but poorly pay for the trouble, as the english of the bluff king is almost a foreign tongue to us. i shall, therefore, with a few exceptions, give sir edwin's memoir in words, spelling and idiom which his rollicking little old shade will probably repudiate as none of his whatsoever. so, if you happen to find sixteenth century thought hob-nobbing in the same sentence with nineteenth century english, be not disturbed; i did it. if the little old fellow grows grandiloquent or garrulous at times--_he_ did that. if you find him growing super-sentimental, remember that sentimentalism was the life-breath of chivalry, just then approaching its absurdest climax in the bombastic conscientiousness of bayard and the whole mental atmosphere laden with its pompous nonsense. _chapter i_ _the duel_ it sometimes happens, sir edwin says, that when a woman will she won't, and when she won't she will; but usually in the end the adage holds good. that sentence may not be luminous with meaning, but i will give you an illustration. i think it was in the spring of , at any rate soon after the death of the "modern solomon," as queen catherine called her old father-in-law, the late king henry vii, that his august majesty henry viii, "the vndubitate flower and very heire of both the sayd linages," came to the throne of england, and tendered me the honorable position of master of the dance at his sumptuous court. as to "worldly goods," as some of the new religionists call wealth, i was very comfortably off; having inherited from my father, one of the counselors of henry vii, a very competent fortune indeed. how my worthy father contrived to save from the greedy hand of that rich old miser so great a fortune, i am sure i can not tell. he was the only man of my knowledge who did it; for the old king had a reach as long as the kingdom, and, upon one pretext or another, appropriated to himself everything on which he could lay his hands. my father, however, was himself pretty shrewd in money matters, having inherited along with his fortune a rare knack at keeping it. his father was a goldsmith in the time of king edward, and enjoyed the marked favor of that puissant prince. being thus in a position of affluence, i cared nothing for the fact that little or no emolument went with the office; it was the honor which delighted me. besides, i was thereby an inmate of the king's palace, and brought into intimate relations with the court, and above all, with the finest ladies of the land--the best company a man can keep, since it ennobles his mind with better thoughts, purifies his heart with cleaner motives, and makes him gentle without detracting from his strength. it was an office any lord of the kingdom might have been proud to hold. now, some four or five years after my induction into this honorable office, there came to court news of a terrible duel fought down in suffolk, out of which only one of the four combatants had come alive--two, rather, but one of them in a condition worse than death. the first survivor was a son of sir william brandon, and the second was a man called sir adam judson. the story went that young brandon and his elder brother, both just home from the continental wars, had met judson at an ipswich inn, where there had been considerable gambling among them. judson had won from the brothers a large sum of money which they had brought home; for, notwithstanding their youth, the elder being but twenty-six and the younger about twenty-four years of age, they had gained great honor and considerable profit in wars, especially the younger, whose name was charles. it is a little hard to fight for money and then to lose it by a single spot upon the die, but such is the fate of him who plays, and a philosopher will swallow his ill luck and take to fighting for more. the brandons could have done this easily enough, especially charles, who was an offhand philosopher, rather fond of a good-humored fight, had it not been that in the course of play one evening the secret of judson's winning had been disclosed by a discovery that he cheated. the brandons waited until they were sure, and then trouble began, which resulted in a duel on the second morning following. this judson was a scotch gentleman of whom very little was known, except that he was counted the most deadly and most cruel duelist of the time. he was called the "walking death," and it is said took pride in the appellation. he boasted that he had fought eighty-seven duels, in which he had killed seventy-five men, and it was considered certain death to meet him. i got the story of the duel afterwards from brandon as i give it here. john was the elder brother, and when the challenge came was entitled to fight first,--a birthright out of which charles tried in vain to talk him. the brothers told their father, sir william brandon, and at the appointed time father and sons repaired to the place of meeting, where they found judson and his two seconds ready for the fight. sir william was still a vigorous man, with few equals in sword play, and the sons, especially the younger, were better men and more skilful than their father had ever been, yet they felt that this duel meant certain death, so great was judson's fame for skill and cruelty. notwithstanding they were so handicapped with this feeling of impending evil, they met their duty without a tremor; for the motto of their house was, "_malo mori quam fedrai_." it was a misty morning in march. brandon has told me since, that when his elder brother took his stand, it was at once manifest that he was judson's superior, both in strength and skill, but after a few strokes the brother's blade bent double and broke off short at the hilt when it should have gone home. thereupon, judson, with a malignant smile of triumph, deliberately selected his opponent's heart and pierced it with his sword, giving the blade a twist as he drew it out in order to cut and mutilate the more. in an instant sir william's doublet was off, and he was in his dead son's tracks, ready to avenge him or to die. again the thrust which should have killed broke the sword, and the father died as the son had died. after this, came young charles, expecting, but, so great was his strong heart, not one whit fearing, to lie beside his dead father and brother. he knew he was the superior of both in strength and skill, and his knowledge of men and the noble art told him they had each been the superior of judson; but the fellow's hand seemed to be the hand of death. an opening came through judson's unskilful play, which gave young brandon an opportunity for a thrust to kill, but his blade, like his father's and brother's, bent double without penetrating. unlike the others, however, it did not break, and the thrust revealed the fact that judson's skill as a duelist lay in a shirt of mail which it was useless to try to pierce. aware of this, brandon knew that victory was his, and that soon he would have avenged the murders that had gone before. he saw that his adversary was strong neither in wind nor arm, and had not the skill to penetrate his guard in a week's trying, so he determined to fight on the defensive until judson's strength should wane, and then kill him when and how he chose. after a time judson began to breathe hard and his thrusts to lack force. "boy, i would spare you," he said; "i have killed enough of your tribe; put up your sword and call it quits." young brandon replied: "stand your ground, you coward; you will be a dead man as soon as you grow a little weaker; if you try to run i will thrust you through the neck as i would a cur. listen how you snort. i shall soon have you; you are almost gone. you would spare me, would you? i could preach a sermon or dance a hornpipe while i am killing you. i will not break my sword against your coat of mail, but will wait until you fall from weakness and then.... fight, you bloodhound!" judson was pale from exhaustion, and his breath was coming in gasps as he tried to keep the merciless sword from his throat. at last, by a dexterous twist of his blade, brandon sent judson's sword flying thirty feet away. the fellow started to run, but turned and fell upon his knees to beg for life. brandon's reply was a flashing circle of steel, and his sword point cut lengthwise through judson's eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving him sightless and hideous for life. a revenge compared to which death would have been merciful. the duel created a sensation throughout the kingdom, for although little was known as to who judson was, his fame as a duelist was as broad as the land. he had been at court upon several occasions, and, at one time, upon the king's birthday, had fought in the royal lists. so the matter came in for its share of consideration by king and courtiers, and young brandon became a person of interest. he became still more so when some gentlemen who had served with him in the continental wars told the court of his daring and bravery, and related stories of deeds at arms worthy of the best knight in christendom. he had an uncle at the court, sir thomas brandon, the king's master of horse, who thought it a good opportunity to put his nephew forward and let him take his chance at winning royal favor. the uncle broached the subject to the king, with favorable issue, and charles brandon, led by the hand of fate, came to london court, where that same fate had in keeping for him events such as seldom fall to the lot of man. _chapter ii_ _how brandon came to court_ when we learned that brandon was coming to court, every one believed he would soon gain the king's favor. how much that would amount to none could tell, as the king's favorites were of many sorts and taken from all conditions of men. there was master wolsey, a butcher's son, whom he had first made almoner, then chief counselor and bishop of lincoln, soon to be bishop of york, and cardinal of the holy roman church. from the other extreme of life came young thomas, lord howard, heir to the earl of surrey, and my lord of buckingham, premier peer of the realm. then sometimes would the king take a yeoman of the guard and make him his companion in jousts and tournaments, solely because of his brawn and bone. there were others whom he kept close by him in the palace because of their wit and the entertainment they furnished; of which class was i, and, i flatter myself, no mean member. to begin with, being in no way dependent on the king for money, i never drew a farthing from the royal treasury. this, you may be sure, did me no harm, for although the king _sometimes_ delighted to give, he always hated to pay. there were other good reasons, too, why i should be a favorite with the king. without meaning to be vain, i think i may presume to say, with perfect truth, that my conversation and manners were far more pleasing and polished than were usual at that day in england, for i made it a point to spend several weeks each year in the noble french capital, the home and center of good-breeding and politeness. my appointment as master of the dance, i am sure, was owing entirely to my manner. my brother, the baron, who stood high with the king, was not friendly toward me because my father had seen fit to bequeath me so good a competency in place of giving it all to the first-born and leaving me dependent upon the tender mercies of an elder brother. so i had no help from him nor from any one else. i was quite small of stature and, therefore, unable to compete, with lance and mace, with bulkier men; but i would bet with any man, of any size, on any game, at any place and time, in any amount; and, if i do say it, who perhaps should not, i basked in the light of many a fair smile which larger men had sighed for in vain. i did not know when brandon first came to london. we had all remained at greenwich while the king went up to westminster to waste his time with matters of state and quarrel with the parliament, then sitting, over the amount of certain subsidies. mary, the king's sister, then some eighteen or nineteen years of age, a perfect bud, just blossoming into a perfect flower, had gone over to windsor on a visit to her elder sister, margaret of scotland, and the palace was dull enough. brandon, it seems, had been presented to henry during this time, at westminster, and had, to some extent at least, become a favorite before i met him. the first time i saw him was at a joust given by the king at westminster, in celebration of the fact that he had coaxed a good round subsidy out of parliament. the queen and her ladies had been invited over, and it was known that mary would be down from windsor and come home with the king and the court to greenwich when we should return. so we all went over to westminster the night before the jousts, and were up bright and early next morning to see all that was to be seen. * * * * * [here the editor sees fit to substitute a description of this tournament taken from the quaint old chronicler, hall.] the morow beyng after dynner, at tyme conuenenient, the quene with her ladyes repaired to see the iustes, the trompettes blewe vp, and in came many a noble man and gentleman, rychely appeareiled, takynge vp thir horses, after whome folowed certayne lordes appareiled, they and thir horses, in cloth of golde and russet and tynsell; knyghtes in cloth of golde, and russet veluet. and a greate nomber of gentlemen on fote, in russet satyn and yealow, and yomen in russet damaske and yealow, all the nether parte of euery mans hosen skarlet, and yealow cappes. then came the kynge vnder a pauilion of golde, and purpul veluet embroudered, the compass of the pauilion about, and valenced with a flat, gold beaten in wyre, with an imperiall croune in the top, of fyne golde, his bases and trapper of cloth of golde, fretted with damask golde, the trapper pedant to the tail. a crane and chafron of stele, in the front of the chafro was a goodly plume set full of musers or trimbling spangles of golde. after folowed his three aydes, euery of them vnder a pauilion of crymosyn damaske & purple. the nomber of gentlemen and yomen a fote, appareiled in russet and yealow was clxviii. then next these pauilions came xii chyldren of honor, sitting euery one of them on a greate courser, rychely trapped, and embroudered in seuerall deuises and facions, where lacked neither brouderie nor goldsmythes work, so that euery chyld and horse in deuice and fascion was contrary to the other, which was goodly to beholde. then on the counter parte, entered a straunger, fyrst on horsebacke in a long robe of russet satyne, like a recluse or a religious, and his horse trapped in the same sewte, without dromme or noyse of mynstrelsye, puttinge a byll of peticion to the quene, the effect whereof was, that if it would please her to license hym to runne in her presence, he would do it gladly, and if not, then he would departe as he came. after his request was graunted, then he put off hys sayd habyte and was armed at all peces with ryche bases & horse, also rychely trapped, and so did runne his horse to the tylte end, where dieurs men on fote appareiled in russet satyn awaited on him. thereupon the heraulds cryed an oyez! and the grownd shoke with the trompe of rushynge stedes. wonder it were to write of the dedes of armes which that day toke place, where a man might haue seen many a horse raysed on highe with galop, turne and stoppe, maruaylous to behold. c.xiv staves were broke and the kynge being lusty, he and the straunger toke the prices. when the queen had given the stranger permission to run, and as he moved away, there was a great clapping of hands and waving of trophies among the ladies, for he was of such noble mien and comely face as to attract the gaze of every one away from even the glittering person of his majesty the king. his hair, worn in its natural length, fell in brown curls back from his forehead almost to the shoulder, a style just then new, even in france. his eyes were a deep blue, and his complexion, though browned by exposure, held a tinge of beauty which the sun could not mar and a girl might envy. he wore neither mustachio nor beard, as men now disfigure their faces--since francis i took a scar on his chin--and his clear cut profile, dilating nostrils and mobile, though firm-set mouth, gave pleasing assurance of tenderness, gentleness, daring and strength. i was standing near the queen, who called to me: "who is the handsome stranger that so gracefully asked our license to run?" "i can not inform your majesty. i never saw him until now. he is the goodliest knight i have ever beheld." "that he is," replied the queen; "and we should like very much to know him. should we not, ladies?" there was a chorus of assent from a dozen voices, and i promised, after the running, to learn all about him and report. it was at this point the heralds cried their "oyes," and our conversation was at an end for the time. as to height, the stranger was full six feet, with ample evidence of muscle, though no great bulk. he was grace itself, and the king afterwards said he had never seen such strength of arm and skill in the use of the lance--a sure harbinger of favor, if not of fortune, for the possessor. after the jousting the princess mary asked me if i could yet give her an account of the stranger; and as i could not, she went to the king. i heard her inquire: "who was your companion, brother?" "that is a secret, sister. you will find out soon enough, and will be falling in love with him, no doubt. i have always looked upon you as full of trouble for me in that respect; you will not so much as glance at anyone i choose for you, but i suppose would be ready enough with your smiles for some one i should not want." "is the stranger one whom you would not want?" asked mary, with a dimpling smile and a flash of her brown eyes. "he most certainly is," returned the king. "then i will fall in love with him at once. in fact, i don't know but i have already." "oh, i have no doubt of that; if i wanted him, he might be apollo himself and you would have none of him." king henry had been compelled to refuse several very advantageous alliances because this fair, coaxing, self-willed sister would not consent to be a part of the moving consideration. "but can you not tell me who he is, and what his degree?" went on mary in a bantering tone. "he has no degree; he is a plain, untitled soldier, not even a knight; that is, not an english knight. i think he has a german or spanish order of some sort." "not a duke; not an earl; not even a baron or knight? now he has become interesting." "yes, i suppose so; but don't bother me." "will he be at the dance and banquet to-night?" "no! no! now i must go; don't bother me, i say." and the king moved away. that night we had a grand banquet and dance at westminster, and the next day we all, excepting lady mary, went back to greenwich by boat, paying a farthing a head for our fare. this was just after the law fixing the boat fare, and the watermen were a quarreling lot, you may be sure. one farthing from westminster to greenwich! eight miles. no wonder they were angry. the next day i went back to london on an errand, and over to wolsey's house to borrow a book. while there master cavendish, wolsey's secretary, presented me to the handsome stranger, and he proved to be no other than charles brandon, who had fought the terrible duel down in suffolk. i could hardly believe that so mild-mannered and boyish a person could have taken the leading part in such a tragedy. but with all his gentleness there was an underlying dash of cool daring which intimated plainly enough that he was not all mildness. we became friends at once, drawn together by that subtle human quality which makes one nature fit into another, resulting in friendship between men, and love between men and women. we soon found that we had many tastes in common, chief among which was the strongest of all congenial bonds, the love of books. in fact we had come to know each other through our common love of reading, for he also had gone to master cavendish, who had a fine library, to borrow some volumes to take with him down to greenwich. brandon informed me he was to go to greenwich that day, so we determined to see a little of london, which was new to him, and then take boat in time to be at the palace before dark. that evening, upon arriving at greenwich, we hunted up brandon's uncle, the master of horse, who invited his nephew to stay with him for the night. he refused, however, and accepted an invitation to take a bed in my room. the next day brandon was installed as one of the captains of the king's guard, under his uncle, but with no particular duties, except such as should be assigned him from time to time. he was offered a good room on one of the lower floors, but asked, instead, to be lodged in the attic next to me. so we arranged that each had a room opening into a third that served us alike for drawing-room and armory. here we sat and talked, and now and then one would read aloud some favorite passage, while the other kept his own place with finger between the leaves. here we discussed everything from court scandal to religion, and settled to our own satisfaction, at least, many a great problem with which the foolish world is still wrestling. we told each other all our secrets, too, for all the world like a pair of girls. although brandon had seen so much of life, having fought on the continent ever since he was a boy, and for all he was so much a man of the world, yet had he as fresh and boyish a heart as if he had just come from the clover fields and daisies. he seemed almost diffident, but i soon learned that his manner was but the cool gentleness of strength. of what use, let me ask, is a friend unless you can unload your heart upon him? it matters not whether the load be joy or sorrow; if the former, the need is all the greater, for joy has an expansive power, as some persons say steam has, and must escape from the heart upon some one else. so brandon told me of his hopes and aspirations, chief among which was his desire to earn, and save, enough money to pay the debt against his father's estate, which he had turned over to his younger brother and sisters. he, as the eldest, could have taken it all, for his father had died without a will, but he said there was not enough to divide, so he had given it to them and hoped to leave it clear of debt; then for new spain, glory and fortune, conquest and yellow gold. he had read of the voyages of the great columbus, the cabots, and a host of others, and the future was as rosy as a cornish girl's cheek. fortune held up her lips to him, but--there's often a sting in a kiss. _chapter iii_ _the princess mary_ now, at that time, mary, the king's sister, was just ripening into her greatest womanly perfection. her skin was like velvet; a rich, clear, rosy snow, with the hot young blood glowing through it like the faint red tinge we sometimes see on the inner side of a white rose leaf. her hair was a very light brown, almost golden, and fluffy, soft, and fine as a skein of arras silk. she was of medium height, with a figure that venus might have envied. her feet and hands were small, and apparently made for the sole purpose of driving mankind distracted. in fact, that seemed to be the paramount object in her creation, for she had the world of men at her feet. her greatest beauty was her glowing dark brown eyes, which shone with an ever-changing luster from beneath the shade of the longest, blackest upcurving lashes ever seen. her voice was soft and full, and, except when angry, which, alas, was not infrequent, had a low and coaxing little note that made it irresistible; she was a most adroit coaxer, and knew her power full well, although she did not always plead, having the tudor temper and preferring to command--when she could. as before hinted, she had coaxed her royal brother out of several proposed marriages for her, which would have been greatly to his advantage; and if you had only known henry tudor, with his vain, boisterous, stubborn violence, you could form some idea of mary's powers by that achievement alone. will sommers, the fool, one day spread through court an announcement that there would be a public exhibition in the main hall of the palace that evening, when the princess mary would perform the somewhat alarming, but, in fact, harmless, operation of wheedling the king out of his ears. this was just after she had coaxed him to annul a marriage contract which her father had made for her with charles of germany, then heir to the greatest inheritance that ever fell to the lot of one man--spain, the netherlands, austria, and heaven only knows what else. she had been made love to by so many men, who had lost their senses in the dazzling rays of her thousand perfections--of whom, i am ashamed to say, that i, for a time, had been insane enough to be one--that love had grown to be a sort of joke with her, and man, a poor, contemptible creature, made to grovel at her feet. not that she liked or encouraged it; for, never having been moved herself, she held love and its sufferings in utter scorn. man's love was so cheap and plentiful that it had no value in her eyes, and it looked as if she would lose the best thing in life by having too much of it. such was the royal maid to whose tender mercies, i now tell you frankly, my friend brandon was soon to be turned over. he, however, was a blade of very different temper from any she had known; and when i first saw signs of a growing intimacy between them i felt, from what little i had seen of brandon, that the tables were very likely to be turned upon her ladyship. then thought i, "god help her," for in a nature like hers, charged with latent force, strong and hot and fiery as the sun's stored rays, it needed but a flash to make it patent, when damage was sure to follow for somebody--probably brandon. mary did not come home with us from westminster the morning after the joustings, as we had expected, but followed some four or five days later, and brandon had fairly settled himself at court before her arrival. as neither his duties nor mine were onerous, we had a great deal of time on our hands, which we employed walking and riding, or sitting in our common room reading and talking. of course, as with most young men, that very attractive branch of natural history, woman, was a favorite topic, and we accordingly discussed it a great deal; that is, to tell the exact truth, _i_ did. although brandon had seen many an adventure during his life on the continent, which would not do to write down here, he was as little of a boaster as any man i ever met, and, while i am in the truth-telling business, i was as great a braggart of my inches as ever drew the long-bow--in that line, i mean. gods! i flush up hot, even now, when i think of it. so i talked a great deal and found myself infinitely pleased with brandon's conversational powers, which were rare; being no less than the capacity for saying nothing, and listening politely to an infinite deal of the same thing, in another form, from me. i remember that i told him i had known the princess mary from a time when she was twelve years old, and how i had made a fool of myself about her. i fear i tried to convey the impression that it was her exalted rank only which made her look unfavorably upon my passion, and suppressed the fact that she had laughed at me good humoredly, and put me off as she would have thrust a poodle from her lap. the truth is, she had always been kind and courteous to me, and had admitted me to a degree of intimacy much greater than i deserved. this, partly at least, grew out of the fact that i helped her along the thorny path to knowledge; a road she traveled at an eager gallop, for she dearly loved to learn--from curiosity perhaps. i am sure she held me in her light, gentle heart as a dear friend, but while her heart was filled with this mild warmth for me, mine began to burn with the flame that discolors everything, and i saw her friendliness in a very distorting light. she was much kinder to me than to most men, but i did not see that it was by reason of my absolute harmlessness; and, i suppose, because i was a vain fool, i gradually began to gather hope--which goes with every vain man's love--and what is more, actually climbed to the very apex of idiocy and declared myself. i well knew the infinite distance between us; but like every other man who came within the circle of this charming lodestone i lost my head, and, in short, made a greater fool of myself than i naturally was--which is saying a good deal for that time in my life, god knows! i knew vaguely but did not fairly realize how utterly beyond my reach in every way she was until i opened the flood-gates of my passion--as i thought it--and saw her smile, and try to check the coming laugh. then came a look of offended dignity, followed by a quick softening glance. "leave me one friend, i pray you, edwin. i value you too highly to lose, and esteem you too much to torment. do not make of yourself one of those fools who feel, or pretend to feel, i care not which, such preference for me. you cannot know in what contempt a woman holds a man who follows her though she despises him. no man can beg a woman's love; he must command it; do not join their ranks, but let us be good friends. i will tell you the plain truth; it would be no different were we both of the same degree; even then i could not feel toward you as you think you wish, but i can be your friend, and will promise to be that always, if you will promise never again to speak of this to me." i promised solemnly and have always kept my word, as this true, gracious woman, so full of faults and beauties, virtues and failings, has, ever since that day and moment, kept hers. it seemed that my love, or what i supposed was love, left my heart at once, frozen in the cold glint of her eyes as she smiled upon my first avowal; somewhat as disease may leave the sickened body upon a great shock. and in its place came the restful flame of a friend's love, which so softly warms without burning. but the burning! there is nothing in life worth having compared with it for all its pains and agonies. is there? "now if you must love somebody," continued the princess, "there is lady jane bolingbroke, who is beautiful and good, and admires you, and, i think, could learn to----" but here the lady in question ran out from behind the draperies, where, i believe, she had been listening to it all, and put her hand over her mistress' mouth to silence her. "don't believe one word she says, sir edwin," cried lady jane; "if you do i never _will_ like you." the emphasis on the "will" held out such involuntary promise in case i did not believe the princess, that i at once protested total want of faith in a single syllable she had said about her, and vowed that i knew it could not be true; that i dared not hope for such happiness. you see, i had begun to make love to jane almost before i was off my knees to mary, and, therefore, i had not been much hurt in mary's case. i had suffered merely a touch of the general epidemic, not the lingering, chronic disease that kills. then i knew that the best cure for the sting which lies in a luckless love is to love elsewhere, and jane, as she stood there, so _petite_, so blushing and so fair, struck me as quite the most pleasing antidote i could possibly find, so i began at once to administer to myself the delightful counter-irritant. it was a happy thought for me; one of those which come to a man now and then, and for which he thanks his wits in every hour of his after life. but the winning of jane was not so easy a matter as my vanity had prompted me to think. i started with a handicap, since jane had heard my declaration to mary, and i had to undo all that before i could do anything else. try the same thing yourself with a spirited girl, naturally laughter-loving and coy, if you think it a simple, easy undertaking. i began to fear i should need another antidote long before i heard her sweet soul-satisfying "yes." i do not believe, however, i could have found in the whole world an antidote to my love for jane. you see i tell you frankly that i won her, and conceal nothing, so far as jane and i are concerned, for the purpose of holding you in suspense. i have started out to tell you the history of two other persons--if i can ever come to it--but find a continual tendency on the part of my own story to intrude, for every man is a very important personage to himself. i shall, however, try to keep it out. in the course of my talk with brandon i had, as i have said, told him the story of mary, with some slight variations and coloring, or rather discoloring, to make it appear a little less to my discredit than the barefaced truth would have been. i told him also about jane; and, i grieve and blush to say, expressed a confidence in that direction i little felt. it had been perhaps a year since my adventure with mary, and i had taken all that time trying to convince jane that i did not mean a word i had said to her mistress, and that i was very earnest in everything i said to her. but jane's ears would have heard just as much had they been the pair of beautiful little shells they so much resembled. this troubled me a great deal, and the best i could hope was that she held me on probation. on the evening of the day mary came home to greenwich, brandon asked: "who and what on earth is this wonderful mary i hear so much about? they say she is coming home to-day, and the court seems to have gone mad about it; i hear nothing but 'mary is coming! mary is coming! mary! mary!' from morning until night. they say buckingham is beside himself for love of her. he has a wife at home, if i am right, and is old enough to be her father. is he not?" i assented; and brandon continued: "a man who will make such a fool of himself about a woman is woefully weak. the men of the court must be poor creatures." he had much to learn about the power of womanhood. there is nothing on earth--but you know as much about it as i do. "wait until you see her," i answered, "and you will be one of them, also. i flatter you by giving you one hour with her to be heels over head in love. with an ordinary man it takes one-sixtieth of that time; so you see i pay a compliment to your strength of mind." "nonsense!" broke in brandon. "do you think i left all my wits down in suffolk? why, man, she is the sister of the king, and is sought by kings and emperors. i might as well fall in love with a twinkling star. then, besides, my heart is not on my sleeve. you must think me a fool; a poor, enervated, simpering fool like--like--well, like one of those nobles of england. don't put me down with them, caskoden, if you would remain my friend." we both laughed at this sort of talk, which was a little in advance of the time, for a noble, though an idiot, to the most of england was a noble still, god-created and to be adored. another great bond of sympathy between brandon and myself was a community of opinion concerning certain theories as to the equality of men and tolerance of religious thought. we believed that these things would yet come, in spite of kingcraft and priestcraft, but wisely kept our pet theories to ourselves: that is, between ourselves. of what use is it to argue the equality of human kind to a man who honestly thinks he is better than any one else, or to one who really believes that some one else is better than he; and why dispute about the various ways of saving one's soul, when you are not even sure you have a soul to save? when i open my mouth for public utterance, the king is the best man in christendom, and his premier peer of the realm the next best. when the king is a catholic i go to mass; since, praised be the lord, i have brains enough not to let my head interfere with the set ways of a stone wall. now, when mary returned the whole court rejoiced, and i was anxious for brandon to meet her and that they should become friends. there would be no trouble in bringing this meeting about, since, as you know, i was upon terms of intimate friendship with mary, and was the avowed, and, as i thought, at least hoped, all but accepted lover of her first lady in waiting and dearest friend, lady jane bolingbroke. brandon, it is true, was not noble; not even an english knight, while i was both knighted and noble; but he was of as old a family as england boasted, and near of kin to some of the best blood of the land. the meeting came about sooner than i expected, and was very near a failure. it was on the second morning after mary's arrival at greenwich. brandon and i were walking in the palace park when we met jane, and i took the opportunity to make these, my two best-loved friends, acquainted. "how do you do, master brandon?" said lady jane, holding out her plump little hand, so white and soft, and dear to me. "i have heard something of you the last day or so from sir edwin, but had begun to fear he was not going to give me the pleasure of knowing you. i hope i may see you often now, and that i may present you to my mistress." with this, her eyes, bright as overgrown dew-drops, twinkled with a mischievous little smile, as if to say: "ah, another large handsome fellow to make a fool of himself." brandon acquiesced in the wish she had made, and, after the interchange of a few words, jane said her mistress was waiting at the other side of the grounds, and that she must go. she then ran off with a laugh and a courtesy, and was soon lost to sight behind the shrubbery at the turning of the walk. in a short time we came to a summer house near the marble boat-landing, where we found the queen and some of her ladies awaiting the rest of their party for a trip down the river, which had been planned the day before. brandon was known to the queen and several of the ladies, although he had not been formally presented at an audience. many of the king's friends enjoyed a considerable intimacy with the whole court without ever receiving the public stamp of recognition, socially, which goes with a formal presentation. the queen, seeing us, sent me off to bring the king. after i had gone, she asked if any one had seen the princess mary, and brandon told her lady jane had said she was at the other side of the grounds. thereupon her majesty asked brandon to find the princess and to say that she was wanted. brandon started off and soon found a bevy of girls sitting on some benches under a spreading oak, weaving spring flowers. he had never seen the princess, so could not positively know her. as a matter of fact, he did know her, as soon as his eyes rested on her, for she could not be mistaken among a thousand--there was no one like her or anything near it. some stubborn spirit of opposition, however, prompted him to pretend ignorance. all that he had heard of her wonderful power over men, and the servile manner in which they fell before her, had aroused in him a spirit of antagonism, and had begotten a kind of distaste beforehand. he was wrong in this, because mary was not a coquette in any sense of the word, and did absolutely nothing to attract men, except to be so beautiful, sweet and winning that they could not let her alone; for all of which surely the prince of fault-finders himself could in no way blame her. she could not help that god had seen fit to make her the fairest being on earth, and the responsibility would have to lie where it belonged--with god; mary would have none of it. her attractiveness was not a matter of volition or intention on her part. she was too young for deliberate snare-setting--though it often begins very early in life--and made no effort to attract men. man's love was too cheap a thing for her to strive for, and i am sure, in her heart, she would infinitely have preferred to live without it--that is, until the right one should come. the right one is always on his way, and, first or last, is sure to come to every woman--sometimes, alas! too late--and when he comes, be it late or early, she crowns him, even though he be a long-eared ass. blessed crown! and thrice-blessed blindness--else there were fewer coronations. so brandon stirred this antagonism and determined not to see her manifold perfections, which he felt sure were exaggerated; but to treat her as he would the queen--who was black and leathery enough to frighten a satyr--with all respect due to her rank, but with his own opinion of her nevertheless, safely stored away in the back of his head. coming up to the group, brandon took off his hat, and, with a graceful little bow that let the curls fall around his face, asked: "have i the honor to find the princess mary among these ladies?" mary, who i know you will at once say was thoroughly spoiled, without turning her face toward him, replied: "is the princess mary a person of so little consequence about the court that she is not known to a mighty captain of the guard?" he wore his guardsman's doublet, and she knew his rank by his uniform. she had not noticed his face. quick as a flash came the answer: "i can not say of what consequence the princess mary is about the court; it is not my place to determine such matters. i am sure, however, she is not here, for i doubt not she would have given a gentle answer to a message from the queen. i shall continue my search." with this, he turned to leave, and the ladies, including jane, who was there and saw it all and told me of it, awaited the bolt they knew would come, for they saw the lightning gathering in mary's eyes. mary sprang to her feet with an angry flush in her face, exclaiming: "insolent fellow, i am the princess mary; if you have a message, deliver it and be gone." you may be sure this sort of treatment was such as the cool-headed, daring brandon would repay with usury; so, turning upon his heel and almost presenting his back to mary, he spoke to lady jane: "will your ladyship say to her highness that her majesty, the queen, awaits her coming at the marble landing?" "no need to repeat the message, jane," cried mary. "i have ears and can hear for myself." then turning to brandon: "if your insolence will permit you to receive a message from so insignificant a person as the king's sister, i beg you to say to the queen that i shall be with her presently." he did not turn his face toward mary, but bowed again to jane. "may i ask your ladyship further to say for me that if i have been guilty of any discourtesy i greatly regret it. my failure to recognize the princess mary grew out of my misfortune in never having been allowed to bask in the light of her countenance. i cannot believe the fault lies at my door, and i hope for her own sake that her highness, on second thought, will realize how ungentle and unkind some one else has been." and with a sweeping courtesy he walked quickly down the path. "the insolent wretch!" cried one. "he ought to hold papers on the pillory," said another. "nothing of the sort," broke in sensible, fearless little jane; "i think the lady mary was wrong. he could not have known her by inspiration." "jane is right," exclaimed mary, whose temper, if short, was also short-lived, and whose kindly heart always set her right if she but gave it a little time. her faults were rather those of education than of nature. "jane is right; it was what i deserved. i did not think when i spoke, and did not really mean it as it sounded. he acted like a man, and looked like one, too, when he defended himself. i warrant the pope at rome could not run over him with impunity. for once i have found a real live man, full of manliness. i saw him in the lists at windsor a week ago, but the king said his name was a secret, and i could not learn it. he seemed to know you, jane. who is he? now tell us all you know. the queen can wait." and her majesty waited on a girl's curiosity. i had told jane all i knew about brandon, so she was prepared with full information, and gave it. she told the princess who he was; of his terrible duel with judson; his bravery and adventures in the wars; his generous gift to his brother and sisters, and lastly, "sir edwin says he is the best-read man in the court, and the bravest, truest heart in christendom." after jane's account of brandon, they all started by a roundabout way for the marble landing. in a few moments whom did they see, coming toward them down the path, but brandon, who had delivered his message and continued his walk. when he saw whom he was about to meet, he quickly turned in another direction. the lady mary had seen him, however, and told jane to run forward and bring him to her. she soon overtook him and said: "master brandon, the princess wishes to see you." then, maliciously: "you will suffer this time. i assure you she is not used to such treatment. it was glorious, though, to see you resent such an affront. men usually smirk and smile foolishly and thank her when she smites them." brandon was disinclined to return. "i am not in her highness's command," he answered, "and do not care to go back for a reprimand when i am in no way to blame." "oh, but you must come; perhaps she will not scold this time," and she put her hand upon his arm, and laughingly drew him along. brandon, of course, had to submit when led by so sweet a captor--anybody would. so fresh, and fair, and lovable was jane, that i am sure anything masculine _must_ have given way. coming up to the princess and her ladies, who were waiting, jane said: "lady mary, let me present master brandon, who, if he has offended in any way, humbly sues for pardon." that was the one thing brandon had no notion on earth of doing, but he let it go as jane had put it, and this was his reward: "it is not master brandon who should sue for pardon," responded the princess, "it is i who was wrong. i blush for what i did and said. forgive me, sir, and let us start anew." at this she stepped up to brandon and offered him her hand, which he, dropping to his knee, kissed most gallantly. "your highness, you can well afford to offend when you have so sweet and gracious a talent for making amends. 'a wrong acknowledged,' as some one has said, 'becomes an obligation.'" he looked straight into the girl's eyes as he said this, and his gaze was altogether too strong for her, so the lashes fell. she flushed and said with a smile that brought the dimples: "i thank you; that is a real compliment." then laughingly: "much better than extravagant comments on one's skin, and eyes, and hair. we are going to the queen at the marble landing. will you walk with us, sir?" and they strolled away together, while the other girls followed in a whispering, laughing group. was there ever so glorious a calm after such a storm? "then those mythological compliments," continued mary, "don't you dislike them?" "i can't say that i have ever received many--none that i recall," replied brandon, with a perfectly straight face, but with a smile trying its best to break out. "oh! you have not? well! how would you like to have somebody always telling you that apollo was humpbacked and misshapen compared with you; that endymion would have covered his face had he but seen yours, and so on?" "i don't know, but i think i should like it--from some persons," he replied, looking ever so innocent. this savored of familiarity after so brief an acquaintance, and caused the princess to glance up in slight surprise; but only for the instant, for his innocent look disarmed her. "i have a mind to see," she returned, laughing and throwing her head back, as she looked up at him out of the corner of her lustrous eyes. "but i will pay you a better compliment. i positively thank you for the rebuke. i do many things like that, for which i am always sorry. oh! you don't know how difficult it is to be a good princess." and she shook her head, with a gathering of little trouble-wrinkles in her forehead, as much as to say, "there is no getting away from it, though." then she breathed a soft little sigh of tribulation as they walked on. "i know it must be a task to be good when everybody flatters even one's shortcomings," said brandon, and then continued in a way that, i am free to confess, was something priggish: "it is almost impossible for us to see our own faults, even when others are kind enough to point them out, for they are right ugly things and unpleasant to look upon. but lacking those outside monitors, one must all the more cultivate the habit of constant inlooking and self-examination. if we are only brave enough to confront our faults and look them in the face, ugly as they are, we shall be sure to overcome the worst of them. a striving toward good will achieve at least a part of it." "oh!" returned the princess, "but what _is_ good and what _is_ wrong? so often we can not tell them apart until we look back at what we have done, and then it is all too late. i truly wish to be good more than i desire anything else in the world. i am so ignorant and helpless, and have such strong inclinations to do wrong that sometimes i seem to be almost all wrong. the priests say so much, but tell us so little. they talk about st. peter and st. paul, and a host of other saints and holy fathers and what-nots, but fail to tell us what we need every moment of our lives; that is, how to know the right when we see it, and how to do it; and how to know the wrong and how to avoid it. they ask us to believe so much, and insist that faith is the sum of virtue, and the lack of it the sum of sin; that to faith all things are added; but we might believe every syllable of their whole disturbing creed, and then spoil it all through blind ignorance of what is right and what is wrong." "as to knowing right and wrong," replied brandon, "i think i can give you a rule which, although it may not cover the whole ground, is excellent for every-day use. it is this: whatever makes others unhappy is wrong; whatever makes the world happier is good. as to how we are always to do this, i can not tell you. one has to learn that by trying. we can but try, and if we fail altogether, there is still virtue in every futile effort toward the right." mary bent her head as she walked along in thought. "what you have said is the only approach to a rule for knowing and doing the right i have ever heard. now what do you think of me as a flatterer? but it will do no good; the bad is in me too strong; it always does itself before i can apply any rule, or even realize what is coming." and again she shook her head with a bewitching little look of trouble. "pardon me, your highness; but there is no bad _in_ you. it has been put _on_ you by others, and is all on the outside; there is none of it in your heart at all. that evil which you think comes out of you, simply falls from you; your heart is all right, or i have greatly misjudged you." he was treating her almost as if she were a child. "i fear, master brandon, you are the most adroit flatterer of all," said mary, shaking her head and looking up at him with a side glance, "people have deluged me with all kinds of flattery--i have the different sorts listed and labeled--but no one has ever gone to the extravagant length of calling me good. perhaps they think i do not care for that; but i like it best. i don't like the others at all. if i am beautiful or not, it is as god made me, and i have nothing to do with it, and desire no credit, but if i could only be good it might be my own doing, perhaps, and i ought to have praise. i wonder if there is really and truly any good in me, and if you have read me aright." then looking up at him with a touch of consternation: "or are you laughing at me?" brandon wisely let the last suggestion pass unnoticed. "i am sure that i am right; you have glorious capacities for good, but alas! corresponding possibilities for evil. it will eventually all depend upon the man you marry. he can make out of you a perfect woman, or the reverse." again there was the surprised expression in mary's face, but brandon's serious look disarmed her. "i fear you are right, as to the reverse, at any rate; and the worst of it is, i shall never be able to choose a man to help me, but shall sooner or later be compelled to marry the creature who will pay the greatest price." "god forbid!" said brandon reverently. they were growing rather serious, so mary turned the conversation again into the laughing mood, and said, with a half sigh: "oh! i hope you are right about the possibilities for good, but you do not know. wait until you have seen more of me." "i certainly hope i shall not have long to wait." the surprised eyes again glanced quickly up to the serious face, but the answer came: "that you shall not:--but here is the queen, and i suppose we must have the benediction." brandon understood her hint--that the preaching was over,--and taking it for his dismissal, playfully lifted his hands in imitation of the old bishop of canterbury, and murmured the first line of the latin benediction. then they both laughed and courtesied, and brandon walked away. _chapter iv_ _a lesson in dancing_ i laughed heartily when jane told me of the tilt between brandon and princess mary, the latter of whom was in the habit of saying unkind things and being thanked for them. brandon was the wrong man to say them to, as mary learned. he was not hot-tempered; in fact, just the reverse, but he was the last man to brook an affront, and the quickest to resent, in a cool-headed, dangerous way, an intentional offense. he respected himself and made others do the same, or seem to do so, at least. he had no vanity--which is but an inordinate desire for those qualities that bring self-respect, and often the result of conscious demerit--but he knew himself, and knew that he was entitled to his own good opinion. he was every inch a man, strong, intelligent and brave to temerity, with a reckless disregard of consequences, which might have been dangerous had it not been tempered by a dash of prudence and caution that gave him ballast. i was not surprised when i heard of the encounter; for i knew enough of him to be sure that mary's high-handedness would meet its counterpart in my cool friend brandon. it was, however, an unfortunate victory, and what all mary's beauty and brightness would have failed to do, her honest, open acknowledgment of wrong, following so quickly upon the heels of her fault, accomplished easily. it drew him within the circle of her fatal attractions, and when jane told me of it, i knew his fate was sealed, and that, sooner or later, his untouched heart and cool head would fall victim to the shafts that so surely winged all others. it might, and probably would, be "later," since, as brandon had said, he was not one of those who wear the heart upon the sleeve. then he had that strong vein of prudence and caution, which, in view of mary's unattainableness, would probably come to his help. but never was man's heart strong enough to resist mary tudor's smile for long. there was this difference between brandon and most others--he would be slow to love, but when love should once fairly take root in his intense nature, he would not do to trifle with. the night after the meeting, mary cuddled up to jane, who slept with her, and whispered, half bashfully: "tell me all about brandon; i am interested in him. i believe if i knew more persons like him i should be a better girl, notwithstanding he is one of the boldest men i ever knew. he says anything he wishes, and, with all his modest manner, is as cool with me as if i were a burgher's daughter. his modesty is all on the outside, but it is pretty, and pretty things must be on the outside to be useful. i wonder if judson thought him modest?" jane talked of brandon to mary, who was in an excellent humor, until the girls fell asleep. when jane told me of this i became frightened; for the surest way to any woman's heart is to convince her that you make her better, and arouse in her breast purer impulses and higher aspirations. it would be bad enough should brandon fall in love with the princess, which was almost sure to happen, but for them to fall in love with each other meant brandon's head upon the block, and mary's heart bruised, broken and empty for life. her strong nature, filled to the brim with latent passion, was the stuff of which love makes a conflagration that burns to destruction; and should she learn to love brandon, she would move heaven and earth to possess him. she whose every desire from childhood up had been gratified, whose every whim seemed to her a paramount necessity, would stop at nothing when the dearest wish a woman's heart can coin was to be gained or lost. brandon's element of prudence might help him, and might forestall any effort on his part to win her, but mary had never heard of prudence, and man's caution avails but little when set against woman's daring. in case they both should love, they were sure to try for each other, and in trying were equally sure to find ruin and desolation. a few evenings after this i met the princess in the queen's drawing-room. she beckoned me to her, and, resting her elbows on the top of a cabinet, her chin in her hands, said: "i met your friend, captain brandon, a day or two ago. did he tell you?" "no," i answered; "jane told me, but he has not mentioned it." it was true brandon had not said a word of the matter, and i had not spoken of it, either. i wanted to see how long he would remain silent concerning an adventure that would have set most men of the court boasting at a great rate. to have a tilt with the ever-victorious mary, and to come off victor, was enough, i think, to loosen any tongue less given to bragging than brandon's. "so," continued mary, evidently somewhat piqued, "he did not think his presentation to me a thing worth mentioning? we had a little passage-at-arms, and, to tell you the truth, i came off second best, and had to acknowledge it, too. now, what do you think of this new friend of yours? and he did not boast about having the better of me? after all, there is more virtue in his silence than i at first thought." and she threw back her head, and clapped her hands and laughed with the most contagious little ripple you ever heard. she seemed not to grieve over her defeat, but dimpled as though it were a huge joke, the thought of which rather pleased her than otherwise. victory had grown stale for her, although so young. "what do i think of my new friend?" i repeated after her; and that gave me a theme upon which i could enlarge eloquently. i told her of his learning, notwithstanding the fact that he had been in the continental wars ever since he was a boy. i repeated to her stories of his daring and bravery, that had been told to me by his uncle, the master of the horse, and others, and then i added what i knew lady jane had already said. i had expected to be brief, but to my surprise found a close and interested listener, even to the twice-told parts, and drew my story out a little, to the liking of us both. "your friend has an earnest advocate in you, sir edwin," said the princess. "that he has," i replied. "there is nothing too good to say of him." i knew that mary, with her better, clearer brain, held the king almost in the palm of her hand, so i thought to advance brandon's fortune by a timely word. "i trust the king will see fit to favor him, and i hope that you will speak a word in his behalf, should the opportunity occur." "what in the name of heaven have we to give him?" cried mary impatiently, for she kept an eye on things political, even if she were only a girl--"the king has given away everything that can be given, already, and now that the war is over, and men are coming home, there are hundreds waiting for more. my father's great treasure is squandered, to say nothing of the money collected from empson, dudley, and the other commissioners. there is nothing to give unless it be the titles and estate of the late duke of suffolk. perhaps the king will give these to your paragon, if you will paint him in as fair a light as you have drawn him for me." then throwing back her head with a laugh, "ask him." "it would be none too much for his deserts," i replied, falling in with her humor. "we will so arrange it then," went on mary, banteringly; "captain brandon no longer, but charles brandon, duke of suffolk. how sounds it, master caskoden?" "sweet in my ears," i replied. "i really believe you would have the king's crown for him, you absurd man, if you could get it. we must have so interesting a person at court; i shall at least see that he is presented to the queen at once. i wonder if he dances; i suppose not. he has probably been too busy cutting and thrusting." and she laughed again at her own pleasantry. when the mirth began to gather in her face and the dimples came responsive to her smiles; when she threw back her perfectly poised head, stretching her soft, white throat, so full and round and beautiful, half closing her big brown eyes till they shone again from beneath the shade of those long, black sweeping lashes; when her red lips parted, showing her teeth of pearl, and she gave the little clap of her hands--a sort of climax to the soft, low, rippling laugh--she made a picture of such exquisite loveliness that it is no wonder men were fools about her, and caught love as one catches a contagion. i had it once, as you already know, and had recovered. all that prevented a daily relapse was my fair, sweet antidote, jane, whose image rested in my heart, a lasting safeguard. "i wonder if your prodigy plays cards; that is, such as we ladies play?" asked mary. "you say he has lived much in france, where the game was invented, but i have no doubt he would scorn to waste his time at so frivolous a pursuit, when he might be slaughtering armies single-handed and alone." "i do not know as to his dancing and card-playing, but i dare venture a wager he does both," i replied, not liking her tone of sarcasm. she had yet to learn who brandon was. "i will hazard ten crowns," said mary quickly, for she loved a wager and was a born gambler. "taken," said i. "we will try him on both to-morrow night in my drawing-room," she continued. "you bring him up, but tell no one. i will have jane there with her lute, which will not frighten you away, i know, and we will try his step. i will have cards, too, and we shall see what he can do at triumph. just we four--no one else at all. you and jane, the new duke of suffolk and i. oh! i can hardly wait," and she fairly danced with joyous anticipation. the thing had enough irregularity to give it zest, for while mary often had a few young people in her drawing-room, the companies were never so small as two couples only, and the king and queen, to make up for greater faults, were wonderful sticklers in the matter of little proprieties. the ten-crown wager, too, gave spice to it, but to do her justice she cared very little for that. the princess loved gambling purely for gambling's sake, and with her, the next best thing to winning was losing. when i went to my room that night, i awakened brandon and told him of the distinguished honor that awaited him. "well! i'll be"--but he did not say what he would "be." he always halted before an oath, unless angry, which was seldom, but then beware!--he had learned to swear in flanders. "how she did fly at me the other morning. i never was more surprised in all my life. for once i was almost caught with my guard down, and did not know how to parry the thrust. i mumbled over some sort of a lame retaliation and beat a retreat. it was so unjust and uncalled-for that it made me angry; but she was so gracious in her amends that i was almost glad it happened. i like a woman who can be as savage as the very devil when it pleases her; she usually has in store an assortment of possibilities for the other extreme." "she told me of your encounter," i returned, "but said she had come off second best, and seemed to think her overthrow a huge joke." "the man who learns to know what a woman thinks and feels will have a great deal of valuable information," he replied; and then turned over for sleep, greatly pleased that one woman thought as she did. i was not sure he would be so highly flattered if he knew that he had been invited to settle a wager, and to help mary to a little sport. as to the former, i had an interest there myself, although i dared not settle the question by asking brandon if he played cards and danced; and, as to the matter of mary's sport, i felt there was but little, if any, danger of her having too much of it at his expense, brandon being well able to care for himself in that respect. the next evening, at the appointed time, we wended our way, by an unfrequented route, and presented ourselves, as secretly as possible, at the drawing-room of the princess. the door was opened by lady jane, and we met the two girls almost at the threshold. i had told brandon of the bantering conversation about the title and estates of the late duke of suffolk, and he had laughed over it in the best of humor. if quick to retaliate for an intentional offense, he was not thin-skinned at a piece of pleasantry, and had none of that stiff, sensitive dignity, so troublesome to one's self and friends. now, jane and mary were always bantering me because i was short, and inclined to be--in fact--round, but i did not care. it made them laugh, and their laughing was so contagious it made me laugh, too, and we all enjoyed it. i would give a pound sterling any time for a good laugh; and that, i think, is why i have always been--round. so, upon entering, i said: "his grace, the duke of suffolk, ladies." they each made a sweeping courtesy, with hand on breast, and gravely saluted him: "your grace! good even'." brandon's bow was as deep and graceful, if that were possible, as theirs, and when he moved on into the room it was with a little halt in his step, and a big blowing out of the cheeks, in ludicrous imitation of his late lamented predecessor, that sent the girls into peals of soft laughter and put us all at our ease immediately. ah! what a thing it is to look back upon; that time of life when one finds his heaven in a ready laugh! "be seated all," said the princess. "this is to be without ceremony, and only we four. no one knows a word of it. did you tell any one, sir edwin?" "perish the thought," i exclaimed. she turned her face toward brandon, "--but i know you did not. i've heard how discreet you were about another matter. well, no one knows it then, and we can have a famous evening. you did not expect this, master brandon, after my reception of you the other morning? were you not surprised when sir edwin told you?" "i think i can safely say that i was prepared not to be surprised at anything your highness might graciously conclude to do--after my first experience," he answered, smiling. "indeed?" returned mary with elevated eyebrows, and a rising inflection on the last syllable of the word. it was now her turn for a little surprise. "well, we'll try to find some way to surprise you one of these days;" and the time came when she was full of surprises for him. mary continued: "but let us not talk about the other day. of what use are 'other days,' anyway? before the evening is over, master brandon, we want you to give us another sermon," and she laughed, setting off three other laughs as hearty and sincere as if she had uttered the rarest witticism on earth. the princess had told jane and jane had told me of the "sermon in the park," as mary called it. "jane needs it as much as i," said the princess. "i can't believe that," responded brandon, looking at jane with a softening glance quite too admiring and commendatory to suit me; for i was a jealous little devil. the eyebrows went up again. "oh! you think she doesn't? well, in truth, master brandon, there is one failing that can not be laid at your door; you are no flatterer." for answer brandon laughed, and that gave us the cue, and away we went in a rippling chorus, all about nothing. some persons may call our laughter foolish, but there are others who consider it the height of all wisdom. st. george! i'd give my garter for just one other laugh like that; for just one other hour of youth's dancing blood and glowing soul-warmth; of sweet, unconscious, happy heart-beat and paradise-creating joy in everything. after a few minutes of gay conversation, in which we all joined, mary asked: "what shall we do? will one of you suggest something?" jane sat there looking so demure you would have thought mischief could not live within a league of her, but those very demure girls are nearly always dangerous. she said, oh! so innocently: "would you like to dance? if so, i will play." and she reached for her lute, which was by her side. "yes, that will be delightful. master brandon, will you dance with me?" asked the princess, with a saucy little laugh, her invitation meaning so much more to three of us than to brandon. jane and i joined in the laugh, and when mary clapped her hands that set brandon off, too, for he thought it the quaintest, prettiest little gesture in the world, and was all unconscious that our laugh was at his expense. brandon did not answer mary's invitation--the fit of laughter had probably put it out of his mind--so she, evidently anxious to win or lose her wager at once, again asked him if he danced. "oh, pardon me. of course. thank you." and he was on his feet beside her chair in an instant ready for the dance. this time the girl's laugh, though equally merry, had another tone, for she knew she had lost. out they stepped upon the polished floor, he holding her hand in his, awaiting the pause in the music to take the step. i shall never forget the sight of those two standing there together--mary, dark-eyed and glowing; brandon, almost rosy, with eyes that held the color of a deep spring sky, and a wealth of flowing curls crowning his six feet of perfect manhood, strong and vigorous as a young lion. mary, full of beauty-curves and graces, a veritable venus in her teens, and brandon, an apollo, with a touch of hercules, were a complement each to the other that would surely make a perfect one. when the music started, off they went, heel and toe, bow and courtesy, a step forward and a step back, in perfect time and rhythm--a poem of human motion. could brandon dance? the princess had her answer in the first ten steps. nothing could be more graceful than brandon's dancing, unless it were mary's. her slightest movement was grace itself. when she would throw herself backward in thrusting out her toe, and then swing forward with her head a little to one side, her uplifted arm undulating like the white neck of a swan,--for her sleeve, which was slit to the shoulder, fell back and left it bare,--she was a sight worth a long journey to see. and when she looked up to brandon with a laugh in her brown eyes, and a curving smile just parting her full, red lips, that a man would give his very luck to--but i had better stop. "was there ever a goodlier couple?" i asked jane, by whose side i sat. "never," she responded as she played, and, strange to say, i was jealous because she agreed with me. i was jealous because i feared it was brandon's beauty to which she referred. that i thought would naturally appeal to her. had he been less handsome, i should perhaps have thought nothing of it, but i knew what my feelings were toward mary, and i judged, or rather misjudged, jane by myself. i supposed she would think of brandon as i could not help thinking of mary. was anything in heaven or earth ever so beautiful as that royal creature, dancing there, daintily holding up her skirts with thumb and first finger, just far enough to show a distracting little foot and ankle, and make one wish he had been born a sheep rather than a sentient man who had to live without mary tudor? yet, strange as it may seem, i was really and wholly in love with jane; in fact, i loved no one but jane, and my feeling of intense admiration for mary was but a part of man's composite inconstancy. a woman--god bless her--if she really loves a man, has no thought of any other; one at a time is all-sufficient; but a man may love one woman with the warmth of a simoon, and at the same time feel like a good healthy south wind toward a dozen others. that is the difference between a man and a woman--the difference between the good and the bad. one average woman has enough goodness in her to supply an army of men. mary and brandon went on dancing long after jane was tired of playing. it was plain to see that the girl was thoroughly enjoying it. they kept up a running fire of small talk, and laughed, and smiled, and bowed, and courtesied, all in perfect time and grace. it is more difficult than you may think, if you have never tried, to keep up a conversation and dance la galliard, at the same time--one is apt to balk the other--but brandon's dancing was as easy to him as walking, and, although so small a matter, i could see it raised him vastly in the estimation of both girls. "do you play triumph?" i heard mary ask in the midst of the dancing. "oh! yes," replied brandon, much to my delight, as the princess threw a mischievous, knowing glance over her shoulder to see if i had heard. she at once saw i had, and this, of course, settled the wager. "and," continued brandon, "i also play the new game, 'honor and ruff,' which is more interesting than triumph." "oh! do you?" cried mary. "that will more than compensate for the loss of my ten crowns. let us sit down at once; i have been wishing to learn, but no one here seems to know it. in france, they say, it is the only game. i suppose there is where you learned it? perhaps you know their new dances too! i have heard they are delightful!" "yes, i know them," replied brandon. "why, you are a perfect treasure; teach me at once. how now, master of the dance? here is your friend outdoing you in your own line." "i am glad to hear it," i returned. "if lady jane will kindly play some lively air, written in the time of 'the sailor lass,' i will teach the lady mary the new dance," said brandon. jane threw one plump little knee over the other and struck up "the sailor lass." after she had adjusted the playing to brandon's suggestion, he stepped deliberately in front of mary, and, taking her right hand in his left, encircled her waist with his right arm. the girl was startled at first and drew away. this nettled brandon a little, and he showed it plainly. "i thought you wished me to teach you the new dance?" he said. "i do, but--but i did not know it was danced that way," she replied with a fluttering little laugh, looking up into his face with a half shy, half apologetic manner, and then dropping her lashes before his gaze. [illustration] "oh, well!" said brandon, with a frenchman's shrug of the shoulders, and then moved off as if about to leave the floor. "but is that really the way you--they dance it? with your--their arm around my--a lady's waist?" "i should not have dared venture upon such a familiarity otherwise," answered brandon, with a glimmer of a smile playing around his lips and hiding in his eyes. mary saw this shadowy smile, and said: "oh! i fear your modesty will cause you hurt; i am beginning to believe you would dare do anything you wish. i more than half suspect you are a very bold man, notwithstanding your smooth, modest manner." "you do me foul wrong, i assure you. i am the soul of modesty, and grieve that you should think me bold," said brandon, with a broadening smile. mary interrupted him. "now, i do believe you are laughing at me--at my prudery, i suppose you think it." mary would rather have been called a fool than a prude, and i think she was right. prudery is no more a sign of virtue than a wig is of hair. it is usually put on to hide a bald place. the princess stood irresolute for a moment, in evident hesitation and annoyance. "you are grieving because i think you bold! and yet you stand there laughing at me to my face. i think so more than ever now. i know it. oh, you make me angry! don't! i do not like persons who anger me and then laugh at me." this turned brandon's smile into a laugh which he could not hold back. mary's eyes shot fire, and she stamped her foot, exclaiming: "sir, this goes beyond all bounds; i will not tolerate your boldness another moment." i thought she was going to dismiss him, but she did not. the time had come when he or she must be the master. it was a battle royal between the forces on the floor, and i enjoyed it and felt that brandon would come out all right. he said good-humoredly: "what, shall you have all the laugh in your sleeve at my expense? do you expect to bring me here to win a wager for you, made on the assumption of my stupidity and lack of social accomplishments, and then complain when it comes my turn to laugh? i think i am the one who should be offended, but you see i am not." "caskoden, did you tell him?" demanded mary, evidently referring to the wager. "he said not a word of it," broke in brandon, answering for me; "i should have been a dullard, indeed, not to have seen it myself after what you said about the loss of your ten crowns; so let us cry quits and begin again." mary reluctantly struck her flag. "very well, i am willing," she said laughingly; "but as to your boldness, i still insist upon that; i forgive you, however, this time." then, half apologetically, "after all, it is not such a grievous charge to make. i believe it never yet injured any man with women; they rather like it, i am afraid, however angry it makes them. don't they, jane?" jane, of course, "did not know," so we all laughed, as usual, upon the slightest pretext, and mary, that fair bundle of contradictions and quick transitions, stepped boldly up to brandon, with her colors flying in her cheeks, ready for the first lesson in the new dance. she was a little frightened at his arm around her waist, for the embrace was new to her--the first touch of man--and was shy and coy, though willing, being determined to learn the dance. she was an apt pupil and soon glided softly and gracefully around the room with unfeigned delight; yielding to the new situation more easily as she became accustomed to it. this dance was livelier exercise than la galliard, and mary could not talk much for lack of breath. brandon kept the conversation going, though, and she answered with glances, smiles, nods and monosyllables--a very good vocabulary in its way, and a very good way, too, for that matter. once he said something to her, in a low voice, which brought a flush to her cheeks, and caused her to glance quickly up into his face. by the time her answer came they were nearer us, and i heard her say: "i am afraid i shall have to forgive you again if you are not careful. let me see an exhibition of that modesty you so much boast," but a smile and a flash of the eyes went with the words, and took all the sting out of them. after a time the dancers stopped, and mary, with flushed face and sparkling eyes, sank into a chair, exclaiming: "the new dance is delightful, jane. it is like flying; your partner helps you so. but what would the king say? and the queen? she would simply swoon with horror. it is delightful, though." then, with more confusion in her manner than i had ever before seen: "that is, it is delightful if one chooses her partner." this only made matters worse, and gave brandon an opportunity. "dare i hope?" he asked, with a deferential bow. "oh, yes; you may hope. i tell you frankly it was delightful with you. now, are you satisfied, my modest one? jane, i see we have a forward body here; no telling what he will be at next," said mary, with evident impatience, rapidly swaying her fan. she spoke almost sharply, for brandon's attitude was more that of an equal than she was accustomed to, and her royal dignity, which was the artificial part of her, rebelled against it now and then in spite of her real inclinations. the habit of receiving only adulation, and living on a pinnacle above everybody else, was so strong from continued practice, that it appealed to her as a duty to maintain that elevation. she had never before been called upon to exert herself in that direction, and the situation was new. the servile ones with whom she usually associated maintained it for her; so she now felt, whenever she thought of it, that she was in duty bound to clamber back, at least part of the way, to her dignity, however pleasant it was, personally, down below in the denser atmosphere of informality. in her heart the princess preferred, upon proper occasions, such as this, to abate her dignity, and often requested others to dispense with ceremony, as, in fact, she had done with us earlier in the evening. but brandon's easy manner, although perfectly respectful and elegantly polite, was very different from anything she had ever known. she enjoyed it, but every now and then the sense of her importance and dignity--for you must remember she was the first princess of the blood royal--would supersede even her love of enjoyment, and the girl went down and the princess came up. besides, she half feared that brandon was amusing himself at her expense, and that, in fact, this was a new sort of masculine worm. really, she sometimes doubted if it were a worm at all, and did not know what to expect, nor what she ought to do. she was far more girl than princess, and would have preferred to remain merely girl and let events take the course they were going, for she liked it. but there was the other part of her which was princess, and which kept saying: "remember who you are," so she was plainly at a loss between natural and artificial inclinations contending unconsciously within her. replying to mary's remark over jane's shoulder, brandon said: "your highness asked us to lay aside ceremony for the evening, and if i have offended i can but make for my excuse my desire to please you. be sure i shall offend no more." this was said so seriously that his meaning could not be misunderstood. he did not care whether he pleased so capricious a person or not. mary made no reply, and it looked as if brandon had the worst of it. we sat a few minutes talking, mary wearing an air of dignity. cards were proposed, and as the game progressed she gradually unbent again and became as affable and familiar as earlier in the evening. brandon, however, was frozen. he was polite, dignified and deferential to the ladies, but the spirit of the evening was gone, since he had furnished it all with his free, off-hand manner, full of life and brightness. after a short time, mary's warming mood failing to thaw our frozen fun-maker, and in her heart infinitely preferring pleasure to dignity, she said: "oh, this is wearisome. your game is far less entertaining than your new dance. do something to make me laugh, master brandon." "i fear you must call in will sommers," he replied, "if you wish to laugh. i can not please you in both ways, so will hold to the one which seems to suit the princess." mary's eyes flashed and she said ironically: "that sounds very much as though you cared to please me in any way." her lips parted and she evidently had something unkind ready to say; but she held the breath she had taken to speak it with, and, after one or two false starts in as many different lines, continued: "but perhaps i deserve it, i ask you to forgive me, and hereafter desire you three, upon all proper occasions, when we are by ourselves, to treat me as one of you--as a woman--a girl, i mean. where is the virtue of royalty if it only means being put upon a pinnacle above all the real pleasures of life, like foolish old stylites on his column? the queen is always preaching to me about the strict maintenance of my 'dignity royal,' as she calls it, and perhaps she is right; but out upon 'dignity royal' say i; it is a terrible nuisance. oh, you don't know how difficult it is to be a princess and not a fool. there!" and she sighed in apparent relief. then turning to brandon: "you have taught me another good lesson, sir, and from this hour you are my friend, if you will be, so long as you are worthy--no, i do not mean that; i know you will always be worthy--but forever. now we are at rights again. let us try to remain so--that is, i will," and she laughingly gave him her hand, which he, rising to his feet, bowed low over and kissed, rather fervently and lingeringly, i thought. hand-kissing was new to us in england, excepting in case of the king and queen at public homage. it was a little startling to mary, though she permitted him to hold her hand much longer than there was any sort of need--a fact she recognized, as i could easily see from her tell-tale cheeks, which were rosy with the thought of it. so it is when a woman goes on the defensive prematurely and without cause; it makes it harder to apply the check when the real need comes. after a little card-playing, i expressed regret to jane that i could not have a dance with her for lack of music. "i will play, if the ladies permit," said brandon; and he took lady jane's lute and played and sang some very pretty little love songs and some comic ones, too, in a style not often heard in england, so far away from the home of the troubadour and lute. he was full of surprises, this splendid fellow, with his accomplishments and graces. when we had danced as long as we wished--that is, as jane wished--as for myself, i would have been dancing yet--mary again asked us to be seated. jane having rested, brandon offered to teach her the new dance, saying he could whistle an air well enough to give her the step. i at once grew uneasy with jealous suspense, for i did _not_ wish brandon to dance in that fashion with jane, but to my great relief she replied: "no; thank you; not to-night." then shyly glancing toward me: "perhaps sir edwin will teach me when he learns. it is his business, you know." would i? if a month, night and day, would conquer it, the new dance was as good as done for already. that was the first real mark of favor i ever had from jane. we now had some songs from mary and jane; then i gave one, and brandon sang again at mary's request. we had duets and quartets and solos, and the songs were all sweet, for they came from the heart of youth, and went to the soul of youth, rich in its god-given fresh delight in everything. then we talked, and mary, and jane, too, with a sly, shy, soft little word now and then, drew brandon out to tell of his travels and adventures. he was a pleasing talker, and had a smooth, easy flow of words, speaking always in a low, clear voice, and with perfect composure. he had a way of looking first one auditor and then another straight in the eyes with a magnetic effect that gave to everything he said an added interest. although at that time less than twenty-five years old, he was really a learned man, having studied at barcelona, salamanca and paris. while there had been no system in his education, his mind was a sort of knowledge junk-shop, wherein he could find almost anything he wanted. he spoke german, french and spanish, and seemed to know the literature of all these languages. he told us he had left home at the early age of sixteen as his uncle's esquire, and had fought in france, then down in holland with the dutch; had been captured by the spanish and had joined the spanish army, as it mattered not where he fought, so that there was a chance for honorable achievement and a fair ransom now and then. he told us how he had gone to barcelona and salamanca, where he had studied, and thence to granada, among the moors; of his fighting against the pirates of barbary, his capture by them, his slavery and adventurous escape; and his regret that now drowsy peace kept him mewed up in a palace. "it is true," he said, "there is a prospect of trouble with scotland, but i would rather fight a pack of howling, starving wolves than the scotch; they fight like very devils, which, of course, is well; but you have nothing after you have beaten them, not even a good whole wolf skin." in an unfortunate moment mary said: "oh, master brandon, tell us of your duel with judson." thoughtful, considerate jane frowned at the princess in surprise, and put her finger on her lips. "your ladyship, i fear i can not," he answered, and left his seat, going over to the window, where he stood, with his back toward us, looking out into the darkness. mary saw what she had done, and her eyes grew moist, for, with all her faults, she had a warm, tender heart and a quick, responsive sympathy. after a few seconds of painful silence, she went softly over to the window where brandon stood. "sir, forgive me," she said, putting her hand prettily upon his arm. "i should have known. believe me, i would not have hurt you intentionally." "ah! my lady, the word was thoughtlessly spoken, and needs no forgiveness; but your heart shows itself in the asking, and i thank you: i wanted but a moment to throw off the thought of that terrible day." then they came back together, and the princess, who had tact enough when she cared to use it, soon put matters right again. i started to tell one of my best stories in order to cheer brandon, but in the midst of it, mary, who, i had noticed, was restless and uneasy, full of blushes and hesitancy, and with a manner as new to her as the dawn of the first day was to the awakening world, abruptly asked brandon to dance with her again. she had risen and was standing by her chair, ready to be led out. "gladly," answered brandon, as he sprang to her side and took her hand. "which shall it be, la galliard or the new dance?" and mary standing there, the picture of waiting, willing modesty, lifted her free hand to his shoulder, tried to raise her eyes to his, but failed, and softly said: "the new dance." this time the dancing was more soberly done, and when mary stopped it was with serious, thoughtful eyes, for she had felt the tingling of a new strange force in brandon's touch. a man, not a worm, but a real man, with all the irresistible infinite attractions that a man may have for a woman--the subtle drawing of the lodestone for the passive iron--had come into her life. doubly sweet it was to her intense, young virgin soul, in that it first revealed the dawning of that two-edged bliss which makes a heaven or a hell of earth--of earth, which owes its very existence to love. i do not mean that mary was in love, but that she had met, and for the first time felt the touch, yes even the subtle, unconscious, dominating force so sweet to woman, of the man she could love, and had known the rarest throb that pulses in that choicest of all god's perfect handiwork--a woman's heart--the throb that goes before--the john, the baptist, as it were, of coming love. it being after midnight, mary filled two cups of wine, from each of which she took a sip, and handed them to brandon and me. she then paid me the ten crowns, very soberly thanked us and said we were at liberty to go. the only words brandon ever spoke concerning that evening were just as we retired: "jesu! she is perfect. but you were wrong, caskoden. i can still thank god i am not in love with her. i would fall upon my sword if i were." i was upon the point of telling him she had never treated any other man as she had treated him, but i thought best to leave it unsaid. trouble was apt to come of its own accord soon enough. in truth, i may as well tell you, that when the princess asked me to bring brandon to her that she might have a little sport at his expense, she looked for a laugh, but found a sigh. _chapter v_ _an honor and an enemy_ a day or two after this, brandon was commanded to an audience, and presented to the king and queen. he was now eligible to all palace entertainments, and would probably have many invitations, being a favorite with both their majesties. as to his standing with mary, who was really the most important figure, socially, about the court, i could not exactly say. she was such a mixture of contradictory impulses and rapid transitions, and was so full of whims and caprice, the inevitable outgrowth of her blood, her rank and the adulation amid which she had always lived, that i could not predict for a day ahead her attitude toward any one. she had never shown so great favor to any man as to brandon, but just how much of her condescension was a mere whim, growing out of the impulse of the moment, and subject to reaction, i could not tell. i believed, however, that brandon stood upon a firmer foundation with this changing, shifting, quicksand of a girl than with either of their majesties. in fact, i thought he rested upon her heart itself. but to guess correctly what a girl of that sort will do, or think, or feel would require inspiration. of course most of the entertainments given by the king and queen included as guests nearly all the court, but mary often had little fêtes and dancing parties which were smaller, more select and informal. these parties were really with the consent and encouragement of the king, to avoid the responsibility of not inviting everybody. the larger affairs were very dull and smaller ones might give offense to those who were left out. the latter, therefore, were turned over to mary, who cared very little who was offended or who was not, and invitations to them were highly valued. one afternoon, a day or two after brandon's presentation, a message arrived from mary, notifying me that she would have a little fête that evening in one of the smaller halls and directing me to be there as master of the dance. accompanying the message was a note from no less a person than the princess herself, inviting brandon. this was an honor indeed--an autograph invitation from the hand of mary! but the masterful rascal did not seem to consider it anything unusual, and when i handed him the note upon his return from the hunt, he simply read it carelessly over once, tore it in pieces and tossed it away. i believe the duke of buckingham would have given ten thousand crowns to receive such a note, and would doubtless have shown it to half the court in triumphant confidence before the middle of the night. to this great captain of the guard it was but a scrap of paper. he was glad to have it nevertheless, and, with all his self-restraint and stoicism, could not conceal his pleasure. brandon at once accepted the invitation in a personal note to the princess. the boldness of this actually took my breath, and it seems at first to have startled mary a little, also. as you must know by this time, her "dignity royal" was subject to alarms, and quite her most troublesome attribute--very apt to receive damage in her relations with brandon. mary did not destroy brandon's note, despite the fact that her sense of dignity had been disturbed by it, but after she had read it slipped off into her private room, read it again and put it on her escritoire. soon she picked it up, reread it, and, after a little hesitation, put it in her pocket. it remained in the pocket for a moment or two, when out it came for another perusal, and then she unfastened her bodice and put it in her bosom. mary had been so intent upon what she was doing that she had not seen jane, who was sitting quietly in the window, and, when she turned and saw her, she was so angry she snatched the note from her bosom and threw it upon the floor, stamping her foot in embarrassment and rage. "how dare you watch me, hussy?" she cried. "you lurk around as still as the grave, and i have to look into every nook and corner, wherever i go, or have you spying on me." "i did not spy upon you, lady mary," said jane quietly. [illustration] "don't answer me; i know you did. i want you to be less silent after this. do you hear? cough, or sing, or stumble; do something, anything, that i may hear you." jane rose, picked up the note and offered it to her mistress, who snatched it with one hand, while she gave her a sharp slap with the other. jane ran out, and mary, full of anger and shame, slammed the door and locked it. the note, being the cause of all the trouble, she impatiently threw to the floor again, and went over to the window bench, where she threw herself down to pout. in the course of five minutes she turned her head for one fleeting instant and looked at the note, and then, after a little hesitation, stole over to where she had thrown it and picked it up. going back to the light at the window, she held it in her hand a moment and then read it once, twice, thrice. the third time brought the smile, and the note nestled in the bosom again. jane did not come off so well, for her mistress did not speak to her until she called her in that evening to make her toilet. by that time mary had forgotten about the note in her bosom; so when jane began to array her for the dance, it fell to the floor, whereupon both girls broke into a laugh, and jane kissed mary's bare shoulder, and mary kissed the top of jane's head, and they were friends again. so brandon accepted mary's invitation and went to mary's dance, but his going made for him an enemy of the most powerful nobleman in the realm, and this was the way of it. these parties of mary's had been going on once or twice a week during the entire winter and spring, and usually included the same persons. it was a sort of coterie, whose members were more or less congenial, and most of them very jealous of interlopers. strange as it may seem, uninvited persons often attempted to force themselves in, and all sorts of schemes and maneuvers were adopted to gain admission. to prevent this, two guardsmen with halberds were stationed at the door. modesty, i might say, neither thrives nor is useful at court. when brandon presented himself at the door his entrance was barred, but he quickly pushed aside the halberds and entered. the duke of buckingham, a proud, self-important individual, was standing near the door and saw it all. now buckingham was one of those unfortunate persons who never lose an opportunity to make a mistake, and being anxious to display his zeal on behalf of the princess stepped up to prevent brandon's entrance. "sir, you will have to move out of this," he said pompously. "you are not at a jousting bout. you have made a mistake and have come to the wrong place." "my lord of buckingham is pleased to make rather more of an ass of himself than usual this evening," replied brandon with a smile, as he started across the room to mary, whose eye he had caught. she had seen and heard it all, but instead of coming to his relief stood there laughing to herself. at this buckingham grew furious and ran around ahead of brandon, valiantly drawing his sword. "now, by heaven! fellow, make but another step and i will run you through," he said. i saw it all, but could hardly realize what was going on, it came so quickly and was over so soon. like a flash brandon's sword was out of its sheath, and buckingham's blade was flying toward the ceiling. brandon's sword was sheathed again so quickly that one could hardly believe it had been out at all, and, picking up buckingham's, he said with a half-smothered laugh: "my lord has dropped his sword." he then broke its point with his heel against the hard floor, saying: "i will dull the point, lest my lord, being unaccustomed to its use, wound himself." this brought peals of laughter from everybody, including the king. mary laughed also, but, as brandon was handing buckingham his blade, came up and demanded: "my lord, is this the way you take it upon yourself to receive my guests? who appointed you, let me ask, to guard my door? we shall have to omit your name from our next list, unless you take a few lessons in good manners." this was striking him hard, and the quality of the man will at once appear plain to you when i say that he had often received worse treatment, but clung to the girl's skirts all the more tenaciously. turning to brandon the princess said: "master brandon, i am glad to see you, and regret exceedingly that our friend of buckingham should so thirst for your blood." she then led him to the king and queen, to whom he made his bow, and the pair continued their walk about the room. mary again alluded to the skirmish at the door, and said laughingly: "i would have come to your help, but i knew you were amply able to take care of yourself. i was sure you would worst the duke in some way. it was better than a mummery, and i was glad to see it. i do not like him." the king did not open these private balls, as he was supposed, at least, not to be their patron, and the queen, who was considerably older than henry, was averse to such things. so the princess opened her own balls, dancing for a few minutes with the floor entirely to herself and partner. it was the honor of the evening to open the ball with her, and quite curious to see how men put themselves in her way and stood so as to be easily observed and perchance chosen. brandon, after leaving mary, had drifted into a corner of the room back of a group of people, and was talking to wolsey--who was always very friendly to him--and to master cavendish, a quaint, quiet, easy little man, full of learning and kindness, and a warm friend to the princess mary. it was time to open the ball, and, from my place in the musicians' gallery, i could see mary moving about among the guests, evidently looking for a partner, while the men resorted to some very transparent and amusing expedients to attract her attention. the princess, however, took none of the bidders, and soon, i noticed, she espied brandon standing in the corner with his back toward her. something told me she was going to ask him to open the dance, and i regretted it, because i knew it would set every nobleman in the house against him, they being very jealous of the "low-born favorites," as they called the untitled friends of royalty. sure enough, i was right. mary at once began to make her way over to the corner, and i heard her say: "master brandon, will you dance with me?" it was done prettily. the whole girl changed as soon as she found herself in front of him. in place of the old-time confidence, strongly tinged with arrogance, she was almost shy, and blushed and stammered with quick coming breath, like a burgher maid before her new-found gallant. at once the courtiers made way for her, and out she walked, leading brandon by the hand. upon her lips and in her eyes was a rare triumphant smile, as if to say: "look at this handsome new trophy of my bow and spear." i was surprised and alarmed when mary chose brandon, but when i turned to the musicians to direct their play, imagine, if you can, my surprise when the leader said: "master, we have our orders for the first dance from the princess." imagine, also, if you can, my double surprise and alarm, nay, almost my terror, when the band struck up jane's "sailor lass." i saw the look of surprise and inquiry which brandon gave mary, standing there demurely by his side, when he first heard the music, and i heard her nervous little laugh as, she nodded her head, "yes," and stepped closer to him to take position for the dance. the next moment she was in brandon's arms, flying like a sylph about the room. a buzz of astonishment and delight greeted them before they were half way around, and then a great clapping of hands, in which the king himself joined. it was a lovely sight, although, i think, a graceful woman is more beautiful in la galliard than any other dance, or, in fact, any other situation in which she can place herself. after a little time the dowager duchess of kent, first lady in waiting to the queen, presented herself at the musicians' gallery and said that her majesty had ordered the music stopped, and the musicians, of course, ceased playing at once. mary thereupon turned quickly to me: "master, are our musicians weary that they stop before we are through?" the queen answered for me in a high-voiced spanish accent: "i ordered the music stopped; i will not permit such an indecent exhibition to go on longer." fire sprang to mary's eyes and she exclaimed: "if your majesty does not like the way we do and dance at my balls you can retire as soon as you see fit. your face is a kill-mirth anyway." it never took long to rouse her ladyship. the queen turned to henry, who was laughing, and angrily demanded: "will your majesty permit me to be thus insulted in your very presence?" "you got yourself into it; get out of it as best you can. i have often told you to let her alone; she has sharp claws." the king was really tired of catherine's sour frown before he married her. it was her dower of spanish gold that brought her a second tudor husband. "shall i not have what music and dances i want at my own balls?" asked the princess. "that you shall, sister mine; that you shall," answered the king. "go on master, and if the girl likes to dance that way, in god's name let her have her wish. it will never hurt her; we will learn it ourself, and will wear the ladies out a-dancing." after mary had finished the opening dance there was a great demand for instruction. the king asked brandon to teach him the steps, which he soon learned to perform with a grace perhaps equaled by no living creature other than a fat brown bear. the ladies were at first a little shy and inclined to stand at arm's length, but mary had set the fashion and the others soon followed. i had taken a fiddler to my room and had learned the dance from brandon; and was able to teach it also, though i lacked practice to make my step perfect. the princess had needed no practice, but had danced beautifully from the first, her strong young limbs and supple body taking as naturally to anything requiring grace of movement as a cygnet to water. this, thought i, is my opportunity to teach jane the new dance. i wanted to go to her first, but was afraid, or for some reason did not, and took several other ladies as they came. after i had shown the step to them i sought out my sweetheart. jane was not a prude, but i honestly believe she was the most provoking girl that ever lived. i never had succeeded in holding her hand even the smallest part of an instant, and yet i was sure she liked me very much; almost sure she loved me. she feared i might unhinge it and carry it away, or something of that sort, i suppose. when i went up and asked her to let me teach her the new dance, she said: "i thank you, edwin; but there are others who are more anxious to learn than i, and you had better teach them first." "but i want to teach you. when i wish to teach them i will go to them." "you did go to several others before you thought of coming to me," answered jane, pretending to be piqued. now that was the unkindest thing i ever knew a girl to do--refuse me what she knew i so wanted, and then put the refusal on the pretended ground that i did not care much about it. i so told her, and she saw she had carried things too far, and that i was growing angry in earnest. she then made another false, though somewhat flattering, excuse: "i could not bear to go through that dance before so large a company. i should not object so much if no one else could see--that is, with you--edwin." "edwin!" oh! so soft and sweet! the little jade! to think that she could hoodwink me so easily, and talk me into a good humor with her soft, purring "edwin." i saw through it all quickly enough, and left her without another word. in a few minutes she went into an adjoining room where i knew she was alone. the door was open and the music could be heard there, so i followed. "my lady, there is no one to see us here; i can teach you now, if you wish," said i. she saw she was cornered, and replied, with a toss of her saucy little head: "but what if i do not wish?" now this was more than i could endure with patience, so i answered: "my young lady, you shall ask me before i teach you." "there are others who can dance it much better than you," she returned, without looking at me. "if you allow another to teach you that dance," i responded, "you will have seen the last of me." she had made me angry, and i did not speak to her for more than a week. when i did--but i will tell you of that later on. there was one thing about jane and the new step: so long as she did not know it, she would not dance it with any other man, and foolish as my feeling may have been, i could not bear the thought of her doing it. i resolved that if she permitted another man to teach her that dance it should be all over between us. it was a terrible thought to me, that of losing jane, and it came like a very stroke upon my heart. i would think of her sweet little form, so compact and graceful; of her gray, calm eyes, so full of purity and mischief; of her fair oval face, almost pale, and wonder if i could live without the hope of her. i determined, however, that if she learned the new dance with any other man i would throw that hope to the winds, whether i lived or died. st. george! i believe i should have died. the evening was devoted to learning the new dance, and i saw mary busily engaged imparting information among the ladies. as we were about to disperse i heard her say to brandon: "you have greatly pleased the king by bringing him a new amusement. he asked me where i learned it, and i told him you had taught it to caskoden, and that i had it from him. i told caskoden so that he can tell the same story." "oh! but that is not true. don't you think you should have told him the truth, or have evaded it in some way?" asked brandon, who was really a great lover of the truth, "when possible," but who, i fear on this occasion, wished to appear more truthful than he really was. if a man is to a woman's taste, and she is inclined to him, he lays up great stores in her heart by making her think him good; and shameful impositions are often practiced to this end. mary flushed a little and answered, "i can't help it. you do not know. had i told henry that we four had enjoyed such a famous time in my rooms he would have been very angry, and--and--you might have been the sufferer." "but might you not have compromised matters by going around the truth some way, and leaving the impression that others were of the party that evening?" that was a mistake, for it gave mary an opportunity to retaliate: "the best way to go around the truth, as you call it, is by a direct lie. my lie was no worse than yours. but i did not stop to argue about such matters. there is something else i wished to say. i want to tell you that you have greatly pleased the king with the new dance. now teach him 'honor and ruff' and your fortune is made. he has had some jews and lombards in of late to teach him new games at cards, but yours is worth all of them." then, somewhat hastily and irrelevantly, "i did not dance the new dance with any other gentleman--but i suppose you did not notice it," and she was gone before he could thank her. _chapter vi_ _a rare ride to windsor_ the princess knew her royal brother. a man would receive quicker reward for inventing an amusement or a gaudy costume for the king than by winning him a battle. later in life the high road to his favor was in ridding him of his wife and helping him to a new one--a dangerous way though, as wolsey found to his sorrow when he sank his glory in poor anne boleyn. brandon took the hint and managed to let it be known to his play-loving king that he knew the latest french games. the french duc de longueville had for some time been an honored prisoner at the english court, held as a hostage from louis xii, but de longueville was a blockhead, who could not keep his little black eyes off our fair ladies, who hated him, long enough to tell the deuce of spades from the ace of hearts. so brandon was taken from his duties, such as they were, and placed at the card table. this was fortunate at first; for being the best player the king always chose him as his partner, and, as in every other game, the king always won. if he lost there would soon be no game, and the man who won from him too frequently was in danger at any moment of being rated guilty of the very highest sort of treason. i think many a man's fall, under henry viii, was owing to the fact that he did not always allow the king to win in some trivial matter of game or joust. under these conditions everybody was anxious to be the king's partner. it is true he frequently forgot to divide his winnings, but his partner had this advantage, at least: there was no danger of losing. that being the case, brandon's seat opposite the king was very likely to excite envy, and the time soon came, henry having learned the play, when brandon had to face someone else, and the seat was too costly for a man without a treasury. it took but a few days to put brandon _hors de combat_, financially, and he would have been in a bad plight had not wolsey come to his relief. after that, he played and paid the king in his own coin. this great game of "honor and ruff" occupied henry's mind day and night during a fortnight. he feasted upon it to satiety as he did with everything else; never having learned not to cloy his appetite by over-feeding. so we saw little of brandon while the king's fever lasted, and mary said she wished she had remained silent about the cards. you see, she could enjoy this new plaything as well as her brother; but the king, of course, must be satisfied first. they both had enough eventually; henry in one way, mary in another. one day the fancy struck the king that he would rebuild a certain chapel at windsor; so he took a number of the court, including mary, jane, brandon and myself, and went with us up to london, where we lodged over night at bridewell house. the next morning--as bright and beautiful a june day as ever gladdened the heart of a rose--we took horse for windsor; a delightful seven-league ride over a fair road. mary and jane traveled side by side, with an occasional companion or two, as the road permitted. i was angry with jane, as you know, so did not go near the girls; and brandon, without any apparent intention one way or the other, allowed events to adjust themselves, and rode with cavendish and me. we were perhaps forty yards behind the girls, and i noticed after a time that the lady mary kept looking backward in our direction, as if fearing rain from the east. i was in hopes that jane, too, would fear the rain, but you would have sworn her neck was stiff, so straight ahead did she keep her face. we had ridden perhaps three leagues, when the princess stopped her horse and turned in her saddle. i heard her voice, but did not understand what she said. in a moment some one called out: "master brandon is wanted." so that gentleman rode forward, and i followed him. when we came up with the girls, mary said: "i fear my girth is loose." brandon at once dismounted to tighten it, and the others of our immediate party began to cluster around. brandon tried the girth. "my lady, it is as tight as the horse can well bear," he said. "it is loose, i say," insisted the princess, with a little irritation; "the saddle feels like it. try the other." then turning impatiently to the persons gathered around: "does it require all of you, standing there like gaping bumpkins, to tighten my girth? ride on; we can manage this without so much help." upon this broad hint everybody rode ahead while i held the horse for brandon, who went on with his search for the loose girth. while he was looking for it mary leaned over her horse's neck and asked: "were you and cavendish settling all the philosophical points now in dispute, that you found him so interesting?" "not all," answered brandon, smiling. "you were so absorbed, i supposed it could be nothing short of that." "no," replied brandon again. "but the girth is not loose." "perhaps i only imagined it," returned mary carelessly, having lost interest in the girth. i looked toward jane, whose eyes were bright with a smile, and turned brandon's horse over to him. jane's smile gradually broadened into a laugh, and she said: "edwin, i fear my girth is loose also." "as the lady mary's was?" asked i, unable to keep a straight face any longer. "yes," answered jane, with a vigorous little nod of her head, and a peal of laughter. "then drop back with me," i responded. the princess looked at us with a half smile, half frown, and remarked: "now you doubtless consider yourselves very brilliant and witty." "yes," returned jane maliciously, nodding her head in emphatic assent, as the princess and brandon rode on before us. "i hope she is satisfied now," said jane _sotto voce_ to me. "so you want me to ride with you?" i replied. "yes," nodded jane. "why?" i asked. "because i want you to," was the enlightening response. "then why did you not dance with me the other evening?" "because i did _not_ want to." "short but comprehensive," thought i, "but a sufficient reason for a maiden." i said nothing, however, and after a time jane spoke: "the dance was one thing and riding with you is another. i did not wish to dance with you, but i do wish to ride with you. you are the only gentleman to whom i would have said what i did about my girth being loose. as to the new dance, i do not care to learn it because i would not dance it with any man but you, and not even with you--yet." this made me glad, and coming from coy, modest jane meant a great deal. it meant that she cared for me, and would, some day, be mine; but it also meant that she would take her own time and her own sweet way in being won. this was comforting, if not satisfying, and loosened my tongue: "jane, you know my heart is full of love for you--" "will the universe crumble?" she cried with the most provoking little laugh. now that sentence was my rock ahead, whenever i tried to give jane some idea of the state of my affections. it was a part of the speech which i had prepared and delivered to mary in jane's hearing, as you already know. i had said to the princess: "the universe will crumble and the heavens roll up as a scroll ere my love shall alter or pale." it was a high-sounding sentence, but it was not true, as i was forced to admit, almost with the same breath that spoke it. jane had heard it, and had stored it away in that memory of hers, so tenacious in holding to everything it should forget. it is wonderful what a fund of useless information some persons accumulate and cling to with a persistent determination worthy of a better cause. i thought jane never would forget that unfortunate, abominable sentence spoken so grandiloquently to mary. i wonder what she would have thought had she known that i had said substantially the same thing to a dozen others. i never should have won her in that case. she does not know it yet, and never shall if i can prevent. although dear jane is old now, and the roses on her cheeks have long since paled, her gray eyes are still there, with their mischievous little twinkle upon occasion, and--in fact, jane can be as provoking as ever when she takes the fancy, for she is as sure of my affection now as upon the morning of that rare ride to windsor. aye, surer, since she knows that in all these years it has changed only to grow greater and stronger and truer in the fructifying light of her sweet face, and the nurturing warmth of her pure soul. what a blessed thing it is for a man to love his wife and be satisfied with her, and to think her the fairest being in all the world; and how thrice happy is he who can stretch out the sweetest season of his existence, the days of triumphant courtship, through the flying years of all his life, and then lie down to die in the quieted ecstasy of a first love. so jane halted my effort to pour out my heart, as she always did. "there is something that greatly troubles me," she said. "what is it?" i asked in some concern. "my mistress," she answered, nodding in the direction of the two riding ahead of us. "i never saw her so much interested in any one as she is in your friend, master brandon. not that she is really in love with him as yet perhaps, but i fear it is coming and i dread to see it. she has never been compelled to forego anything she wanted, and her desires are absolutely imperative. they drive her, and she is helpless against them. she would not and could not make the smallest effort to overcome them. i think it never occurred to her that such a thing could be necessary; everything she wants she naturally thinks is hers by divine right. there has been no great need of such an effort until now, but your friend brandon presents it. i wish he were at the other side of the world. i think she feels that she ought to keep away from him before it is too late, both for his sake and her own, but she is powerless to deny herself the pleasure of being with him, and i do not know what is to come of it all. that incident of the loose girth is an illustration. did you ever know anything so bold and transparent? any one could see through it, and the worst of all is she seems not to care if every one does see. now look at them ahead of us! no girl is so happy riding beside a man unless she is interested in him. she was dull enough until he joined her. he seemed in no hurry to come, so she resorted to the flimsy excuse of the loose girth to bring him. i am surprised that she even sought the shadow of an excuse, but did not order him forward without any pretense of one. oh! i don't know what to do. it troubles me greatly. do you know the state of his feelings?" "no," i answered, "but i think he is heart-whole, or nearly so. he told me he was not fool enough to fall in love with the king's sister, and i really believe he will keep his heart and head, even at that dizzy height. he is a cool fellow, if there ever was one." "he certainly is different from other men," returned jane. "i think he has never spoken a word of love to her. he has said some pretty things, which she has repeated to me; has moralized to some extent, and has actually told her of some of her faults. i should like to see anyone else take that liberty. she seems to like it from him, and says he inspires her with higher, better motives and a yearning to be good; but i am sure he has made no love to her." "perhaps it would be better if he did. it might cure her," i replied. "oh! no! no! not now; at first, perhaps, but not now. what i fear is that if he remains silent much longer she will take matters in hand and speak herself. i don't like to say that--it doesn't sound well--but she is a princess, and it would be different with her from what it would be with an ordinary girl; she might have to speak first, or there might be no speaking from one who thought his position too far beneath hers. she whose smallest desires drive her so, will never forego so great a thing as the man she loves only for the want of a word or two." then it was that jane told me of the scene with the note, of the little whispered confidence upon their pillows, and a hundred other straws that showed only too plainly which way this worst of ill winds was blowing--with no good in it for any one. now who could have foretold this? it was easy enough to prophesy that brandon would learn to love mary, excite a passing interest, and come off crestfallen, as all other men had done. but that mary should love brandon, and he remain heart-whole, was an unlooked-for event--one that would hardly have been predicted by the shrewdest prophet. what lady jane said troubled me greatly, as it was but the confirmation of my own fears. her opportunity to know was far better than mine, but i had seen enough to set me thinking. brandon, i believe, saw nothing of mary's growing partiality at all. he could not help but find her wonderfully attractive and interesting, and perhaps it needed only the thought that she might love him, to kindle a flame in his own breast. but at the time of our ride to windsor, charles brandon was not in love with mary tudor, however near it he may unconsciously have been. he would whistle and sing, and was as light-hearted as a lark--i mean when away from the princess as well as with her--a mood that does not go with a heart full of heavy love, of impossible, fatal love, such as his would have been for the first princess of the first blood royal of the world. but another's trouble could not dim the sunlight in my own heart, and that ride to windsor was the happiest day of my life up to that time. even jane threw off the little cloud our forebodings had gathered, and chatted and laughed like the creature of joy and gladness she was. now and then her heart would well up so full of the sunlight and the flowers, and the birds in the hedge, aye, and of the contagious love in my heart, too, that it poured itself forth in a spontaneous little song which thrills me even now. ahead of us were the princess and brandon. every now and then her voice came back to us in a stave of a song, and her laughter, rich and low, wafted on the wings of the soft south wind, made the glad birds hush to catch its silvery note. it seemed that the wild flowers had taken on their brightest hue, the trees their richest sabbath-day green, and the sun his softest radiance, only to gladden the heart of mary that they might hear her laugh. the laugh would have come quite as joyously had the flowers been dead and the sun black, for flowers and sunlight, south wind, green pastures and verdant hills, all were riding by her side. poor mary! her days of laughter were numbered. we all rode merrily on to windsor, and when we arrived it was curious to see the great nobles, buckingham, both the howards, seymour and a dozen others stand back for plain charles brandon to dismount the fairest maiden and the most renowned princess in christendom. it was done most gracefully. she was but a trifle to his strong arms, and he lifted her to the sod as gently as if she were a child. the nobles envied brandon his evident favor with this unattainable mary and hated him accordingly, but they kept their thoughts to themselves for two reasons: first, they knew not to what degree the king's favor, already marked, with the help of the princess might carry him; and second, they did not care to have a misunderstanding with the man who had cut out adam judson's eyes. we remained at windsor four or five days, during which time the king made several knights. brandon would probably have been one of them, as everybody expected, had not buckingham related to henry the episode of the loose girth, and adroitly poisoned his mind as to mary's partiality. at this the king began to cast a jealous eye on brandon. his sister was his chief diplomatic resource, and when she loved or married, it should be for henry's benefit, regardless of all else. brandon and the lady mary saw a great deal of each other during this little stay at windsor, as she always had some plan to bring about a meeting, and although very delightful to him, it cost him much in royal favor. he could not trace this effect to its proper cause and it troubled him. i could have told him the reason in two words, but i feared to put into his mind the thought that the princess might learn to love him. as to the king, he would not have cared if brandon or every other man, for that matter, should go stark mad for love of his sister, but when she began to show a preference he grew interested, and it was apt sooner or later to go hard with the fortunate one. when we went back to greenwich brandon was sent on a day ahead. _chapter vii_ _love's fierce sweetness_ after we had all returned to greenwich the princess and brandon were together frequently. upon several occasions he was invited, with others, to her parlor for card playing. but we spent two evenings, with only four of us present, prior to the disastrous events which changed everything, and of which i am soon to tell you. during these two evenings the "sailor lass" was in constant demand. this pair, who should have remained apart, met constantly in and about the palace, and every glance added fuel to the flame. part of the time it was the princess with her troublesome dignity, and part of the time it was mary--simply girl. notwithstanding these haughty moods, anyone with half an eye could see that the princess was gradually succumbing to the budding woman; that brandon's stronger nature had dominated her with that half fear which every woman feels who loves a strong man--stronger than herself. one day the rumor spread through the court that the old french king, louis xii, whose wife, anne of brittany, had just died, had asked mary's hand in marriage. it was this, probably, which opened brandon's eyes to the fact that he had been playing with the very worst sort of fire; and first made him see that in spite of himself, and almost without his knowledge, the girl had grown wonderfully sweet and dear to him. he now saw his danger, and struggled to keep himself beyond the spell of her perilous glances and siren song. this modern ulysses made a masterful effort, but alas! had no ships to carry him away, and no wax with which to fill his ears. wax is a good thing, and no one should enter the siren country without it. ships, too, are good, with masts to tie one's self to, and sails and rudder, and a gust of wind to waft one quickly past the island. in fact, one cannot take too many precautions when in those enchanted waters. matters began to look dark to me. love had dawned in mary's breast, that was sure, and for the first time, with all its fierce sweetness. not that it had reached its noon, or anything like it. in truth, it might, i hoped, die in the dawning, for my lady was as capricious as a may day; but it was love--love as plain as the sun at rising. she sought brandon upon all occasions, and made opportunities to meet him; not openly--at any rate, not with brandon's knowledge, nor with any connivance on his part, but apparently caring little what he or any one else might see. love lying in her heart had made her a little more shy than formerly in seeking him, but her straightforward way of taking whatever she wanted made her transparent little attempts at concealment very pathetic. as for brandon, the shaft had entered his heart, too, poor fellow, as surely as love had dawned in mary's, but there was this difference: with our princess--at least i so thought at the time--the sun of love might dawn and lift itself to mid-heaven and glow with the fervent ardor of high noon--for her blood was warm with the spark of her grandfather's fire--and then sink into the west and make room for another sun to-morrow. but with brandon's stronger nature the sun would go till noon and there would burn for life. the sun, however, had not reached its noon with brandon, either; since he had set his brain against his heart, and had done what he could to stay the all-consuming orb at its dawning. he knew the hopeless misery such a passion would bring him, and helped the good lord, in so far as he could, to answer his prayer, and lead him not into temptation. as soon as he saw the truth, he avoided mary as much as possible. as i said, we had spent several evenings with mary after we came home from windsor, at all of which her preference was shown in every movement. some women are so expressive under strong emotion that every gesture, a turn of the head, a glance of the eyes, the lifting of a hand or the poise of the body, speaks with a tongue of eloquence, and such was mary. her eyes would glow with a soft fire when they rested upon him, and her whole person told all too plainly what, in truth, it seemed she did not care to hide. when others were present she would restrain herself somewhat, but with only jane and myself, she could hardly maintain a seemly reserve. during all this time brandon remained cool and really seemed unconscious of his wonderful attraction for her. it is hard to understand why he did not see it, but i really believe he did not. although he was quite at ease in her presence, too much so, mary sometimes thought, and strangely enough sometimes told him in a fit of short-lived, quickly repented anger that always set him laughing, yet there was never a word or gesture that could hint of undue familiarity. it would probably have met a rebuff from the princess part of her; for what a perversity, both royal and feminine, she wanted all the freedom for herself. in short, like any other woman, she would rather love than be loved, that is, until surrender day should come; then of course.... after these last two meetings, although the invitations came frequently, none was accepted. brandon had contrived to have his duties, ostensibly at least, occupy his evenings, and did honestly what his judgment told him was the one thing to do; that is, remain away from a fire that could give no genial warmth, but was sure to burn him to the quick. i saw this only too plainly, but never a word of it was spoken between us. the more i saw of this man, the more i respected him, and this curbing of his affections added to my already high esteem. the effort was doubly wise in brandon's case. should love with his intense nature reach its height, his recklessness would in turn assert itself, and these two would inevitably try to span the impassable gulf between them, when brandon, at least, would go down in the attempt. his trouble, however, did not make a mope of him, and he retained a great deal of his brightness and sparkle undimmed by what must have been an ache in his heart. though he tried, without making it too marked, to see as little of mary as possible, their meeting once in a while could not be avoided, especially when one of them was always seeking to bring it about. after a time, mary began to suspect his attempts to avoid her, and she grew cold and distant through pique. her manner, however, had no effect upon brandon, who did not, or at least appeared not to notice it. this the girl could not endure, and lacking strength to resist her heart, soon returned to the attack. mary had not seen brandon for nearly two weeks, and was growing anxious, when one day she and jane met him in a forest walk near the river. brandon was sauntering along reading when they overtook him. jane told me afterwards that mary's conduct upon coming up to him was pretty and curious beyond the naming. at first she was inclined to be distant, and say cutting things, but when brandon began to grow restive under them and showed signs of turning back, she changed front in the twinkling of an eye and was all sweetness. she laughed and smiled and dimpled, as only she could, and was full of bright glances and gracious words. she tried a hundred little schemes to get him to herself for a moment--the hunting of a wild flower or a four-leaved clover, or the exploration of some little nook in the forest toward which she would lead him--but jane did not at first take the hint and kept close at her heels. mary's impulsive nature was not much given to hinting--she usually nodded and most emphatically at that--so after a few failures to rid herself of her waiting lady she said impatiently: "jane, in the name of heaven don't keep so close to us. you won't move out of reach of my hand, and you know how often it inclines to box your ears." jane did know, i am sorry for mary's sake to say, how often the fair hand was given to such spasms; so with this emphasized hint she walked on ahead, half sulky at the indignity put upon her, and half amused at her whimsical mistress. mary lost no time, but began the attack at once. "now, sir, i want you to tell me the truth; why do you refuse my invitations and so persistently keep away from me? i thought at first i would simply let you go your way, and then i thought i--would not. don't deny it. i know you won't. with all your faults, you don't tell even little lies; not even to a woman--i believe. now there is a fine compliment--is it not?--when i intended to scold you!" she gave a fluttering little laugh, and, with hanging head, continued: "tell me, is not the king's sister of quality sufficient to suit you? perhaps you must have the queen or the blessed virgin? tell me now?" and she looked up at him, half in banter, half in doubt. "my duties--," began brandon. "oh! bother your duties. tell me the truth." "i will, if you let me," returned brandon, who had no intention whatever of doing anything of the sort. "my duties now occupy my time in the evening----" "that will not do," interrupted mary, who knew enough of a guardsman's duty to be sure it was not onerous. "you might as well come to it and tell the truth; that you do not like our society." and she gave him a vicious little glance without a shadow of a smile. "in god's name, lady mary, that is not it," answered brandon, who was on the rack. "please do not think it. i cannot bear to have you say such a thing when it is so far from the real truth." "then tell me the real truth." "i cannot; i cannot. i beg of you not to ask. leave me! or let me leave you. i refuse to answer further." the latter half of this sentence was uttered doggedly and sounded sullen and ill-humored, although, of course, it was not so intended. he had been so perilously near speaking words which would probably have lighted, to their destruction--to his, certainly--the smoldering flames within their breast that it frightened him, and the manner in which he spoke was but a tone giving utterance to the pain in his heart. mary took it as it sounded, and, in unfeigned surprise, exclaimed angrily: "leave you? do i hear aright? i never thought that i, the daughter and sister of a king, would live to be dismissed by a--by a--any one." "your highness--" began brandon; but she was gone before he could speak. he did not follow her to explain, knowing how dangerous such an explanation would be, but felt that it was best for them both that she should remain offended, painful as the thought was to him. of course, mary's womanly self-esteem, to say nothing of her royal pride, was wounded to the quick, and no wonder. poor brandon sat down upon a stone, and, as he longingly watched her retiring form, wished in his heart he were dead. this was the first time he really knew how much he loved the girl, and he saw that, with him at least, it was a matter of bad to worse; and at that rate would soon be--worst. now that he had unintentionally offended her, and had permitted her to go without an explanation, she was dearer to him than ever, and, as he sat there with his face in his hands, he knew that if matters went on as they were going, the time would soon come when he would throw caution to the dogs and would try the impossible--to win her for his own. caution and judgment still sat enthroned, and they told him now what he knew full well they would not tell him after a short time--that failure was certain to follow the attempt, and disaster sure to follow failure. first, the king would, in all probability, cut off his head upon an intimation of mary's possible fondness for him; and, second, if he should be so fortunate as to keep his head, mary could not, and certainly would not, marry him, even if she loved him with all her heart. the distance between them was too great, and she knew too well what she owed to her position. there was but one thing left--new spain; and he determined while sitting there to sail with the next ship. the real cause of brandon's manner had never occurred to mary. although she knew her beauty and power, as she could not help but know it--not as a matter of vanity, but as a matter of fact--yet love had blinded her where brandon was concerned, and that knowledge failed to give her light as to his motives, however brightly it might illumine the conduct of other men toward whom she was indifferent. so mary was angry this time; angry in earnest, and jane felt the irritable palm more than once. i, too, came in for my share of her ill temper, as most certainly would brandon, had he allowed himself to come within reach of her tongue, which he was careful not to do. an angry porcupine would have been pleasant company compared with mary during this time. there was no living with her in peace. even the king fought shy of her, and the queen was almost afraid to speak. probably so much general disturbance was never before or since collected within one small body as in that young tartar-venus, mary. she did not tell jane the cause of her vexation, but only said she "verily hated brandon," and that, of course, was the key to the whole situation. after a fortnight, this ill-humor began to soften in the glowing warmth of her heart, which was striving to reassert itself, and the desire to see brandon began to get the better of her sense of injury. brandon, tired of this everlasting watchfulness to keep himself out of temptation, and, dreading at any moment that lapse from strength which is apt to come to the strongest of us, had resolved to quit his place at court and go to new spain at once. he had learned, upon inquiry, that a ship would sail from bristol in about twenty days, and another six weeks later. so he chose the former and was making his arrangements to leave as soon as possible. he told me of his plans and spoke of his situation: "you know the reason for my going," he said, "even if i have never spoken of it. i am not much of a joseph, and am very little given to running away from a beautiful woman, but in this case i am fleeing from death itself. and to think what a heaven it would be. you are right, caskoden; no man can withstand the light of that girl's smile. i am unable to tell how i feel toward her. it sometimes seems that i can not live another hour without seeing her; yet, thank god, i have reason enough left to know that every sight of her only adds to an already incurable malady. what will it be when she is the wife of the king of france? does it not look as if wild life in new spain is my only chance?" i assented as we joined hands, and our eyes were moist as i told him how i should miss him more than anyone else in all the earth--excepting jane, in mental reservation. i told jane what brandon was about to do, knowing full well she would tell mary; which she did at once. poor mary! the sighs began to come now, and such small vestiges of her ill-humor toward brandon as still remained were frightened off in a hurry by the fear that she had seen the last of him. she had not before fully known that she loved him. she knew he was the most delightful companion she had ever met, and that there was an exhilaration about his presence which almost intoxicated her and made life an ecstasy, yet she did not know it was love. it needed but the thought that she was about to lose him to make her know her malady, and meet it face to face. upon the evening when mary learned all this, she went into her chamber very early and closed the door. no one interrupted her until jane went in to robe her for the night, and to retire. she then found that mary had robed herself and was lying in bed with her head covered, apparently asleep. jane quietly prepared to retire, and lay down in her own bed. the girls usually shared one couch, but during mary's ill-temper she had forced jane to sleep alone. after a short silence jane heard a sob from the other bed, then another, and another. "mary, are you weeping?" she asked. "yes." "what is the matter, dear?" "nothing," with a sigh. "do you wish me to come to your bed?" "yes, i do." so jane went over and lay beside mary, who gently put her arms about her neck. "when will he leave?" whispered mary, shyly confessing all by her question. "i do not know," responded jane, "but he will see you before he goes." "do you believe he will?" "i know it;" and with this consolation mary softly wept herself to sleep. after this, for a few days, mary was quiet enough. her irritable mood had vanished, but jane could see that she was on the lookout for some one all the time, although she made the most pathetic little efforts to conceal her watchfulness. at last a meeting came about in this way: next to the king's bed-chamber was a luxuriously furnished little apartment with a well-selected library. here brandon and i often went, afternoons, to read, as we were sure to be undisturbed. late one day brandon had gone over to this quiet retreat, and having selected a volume, took his place in a secluded little alcove half hidden in arras draperies. there was a cushioned seat along the wall and a small diamond-shaped window to furnish light. he had not been there long when in came mary. i can not say whether she knew brandon was there or not, but she was there and he was there, which is the only thing to the point, and finding him, she stepped into the alcove before he was aware of her presence. brandon was on his feet in an instant, and with a low bow was backing himself out most deferentially, to leave her in sole possession if she wished to rest. "master brandon, you need not go. i will not hurt you. besides, if this place is not large enough for us both, i will go. i would not disturb you." she spoke with a tremulous voice and a quick, uneasy glance, and started to move backward out of the alcove. "lady mary, how can you speak so? you know--you must know--oh! i beg you--" but she interrupted him by taking his arm and drawing him to a seat beside her on the cushion. she could have drawn down the colossus of rhodes with the look she gave brandon, so full was it of command, entreaty and promise. "that's it; i don't know, but i want to know; and i want you to sit here beside me and tell me. i am going to be reconciled with you, despite the way you treated me when last we met. i am going to be friends with you whether you will or not. now what do you say to that, sir?" she spoke with a fluttering little laugh of uneasy non-assurance, which showed that her heart was not nearly so confident nor so bold as her words would make believe. poor brandon, usually so ready, had nothing "to say to that," but sat in helpless silence. was this the sum total of all his wise determinations made at the cost of so much pain and effort? was this the answer to all his prayers, "lead me not into temptation"? he had done his part, for he had done all he could. heaven had not helped him, since here was temptation thrust upon him when least expected, and when the way was so narrow he could not escape, but must meet it face to face. mary soon recovered her self-possession--women are better skilled in this art than men--and continued: "i am not intending to say one word about your treatment of me that day over in the forest, although it was very bad, and you have acted abominably ever since. now is not that kind in me?" and she softly laughed as she peeped up at the poor fellow from beneath those sweeping lashes, with the premeditated purpose of tantalizing him, i suppose. she was beginning to know her power over him, and it was never greater than at this moment. her beauty had its sweetest quality, for the princess was sunk and the woman was dominant, with flushed face and flashing eyes that caught a double luster from the glowing love that made her heart beat so fast. her gown, too, was the best she could have worn to show her charms. she must have known brandon was there, and must have dressed especially to go to him. she wore her favorite long flowing outer sleeve, without the close fitting inner one. it was slit to the shoulder, and gave entrancing glimpses of her arms with every movement, leaving them almost bare when she lifted her hands, which was often, for she was as full of gestures as a frenchwoman. her bodice was cut low, both back and front, showing her large perfectly molded throat and neck, like an alabaster pillar of beauty and strength, and disclosing her bosom just to its shadowy incurving, white and billowy as drifted snow. her hair was thrown back in an attempt at a coil, though, like her own rebellious nature, it could not brook restraint, and persistently escaped in a hundred little curls that fringed her face and lay upon the soft white nape of her neck like fluffy shreds of sun-lit floss on new cut ivory. with the mood that was upon her, i wonder brandon maintained his self-restraint even for a moment. he felt that his only hope lay in silence, so he sat beside her and said nothing. he told me long afterwards that while sitting there in the intervals between her speech, the oddest, wildest thoughts ran through his brain. he wondered how he could escape. he thought of the window, and that possibly he might break away through it, and then he thought of feigning illness, and a hundred other absurd schemes, but they all came to nothing, and he sat there to let events take their own course as they seemed determined to do in spite of him. after a short silence, mary continued, half banteringly: "answer me, sir! i will have no more of this. you shall treat me at least with the courtesy you would show a bourgeoise girl." "oh, that you were only a burgher's daughter." "yes, i know all that; but i am not. it can't be helped, and you shall answer me." "there is no answer, dear lady--i beg you--oh, do you not see--" "yes, yes; but answer my question; am i not kind--more than you deserve?" "indeed, yes; a thousand times. you have always been so kind, so gracious and so condescending to me that i can only thank you, thank you, thank you," answered brandon, almost shyly; not daring to lift his eyes to hers. mary saw the manner quickly enough--what woman ever missed it, much less so keen-eyed a girl as she--and it gave her confidence, and brought back the easy banter of her old time manner. "how modest we have become! where is the boldness of which we used to have so much? kind? have i always been so? how about the first time i met you? was i kind then? and as to condescension, don't--don't use that word between us." "no," returned brandon, who, in his turn, was recovering himself, "no, i can't say that you were very kind at first. how you did fly out at me and surprise me. it was so unexpected it almost took me off my feet," and they both laughed in remembering the scene of their first meeting. "no, i can't say your kindness showed itself very strongly in that first interview, but it was there nevertheless, and when lady jane led me back, your real nature asserted itself, as it always does, and you were kind to me; kind as only you can be." that was getting very near to the sentimental; dangerously near, he thought; and he said to himself: "if this does not end quickly i shall have to escape." "you are easily satisfied if you call that good," laughingly returned mary. "i can be ever so much better than that if i try." "let me see you try," said brandon. "why, i'm trying now," answered mary with a distracting little pout. "don't you know genuine out-and-out goodness when you see it? i'm doing my very best now. can't you tell?" "yes, i think i recognize it; but--but--be bad again." "no, i won't! i will not be bad even to please you; i have determined not to be bad and i will not--not even to be good. this," placing her hand over her heart, "is just full of 'good' to-day," and her lips parted as she laughed at her own pleasantry. "i am afraid you had better be bad--i give you fair warning," said brandon huskily. he felt her eyes upon him all the time, and his strength and good resolves were oozing out like wine from an ill-coppered cask. after a short silence mary continued, regardless of the warning: "but the position is reversed with us; at first i was unkind to you, and you were kind to me, but now i am kind to you and you are unkind to me." "i can come back at you with your own words," responded brandon. "you don't know when i am kind to you. i should be kinder to myself, at least, were i to leave you and take myself to the other side of the world." "oh! that is one thing i wanted to ask you about. jane tells me you are going to new spain?" she was anxious to know, but asked the question partly to turn the conversation which was fast becoming perilous. as a girl, she loved brandon, and knew it only too well, but she knew also that she was a princess, standing next to the throne of the greatest kingdom on earth; in fact, at that time, the heir apparent--henry having no children--for the people would not have the scotch king's imp--and the possibility of such a thing as a union with brandon had never entered her head, however passionate her feelings toward him. she also knew that speaking a thought vitalizes it and gives it force; so, although she could not deny herself the pleasure of being near him, of seeing him, and hearing the tones of his voice, and now and then feeling the thrill of an accidental touch, she had enough good sense to know that a mutual confession, that is, taking it for granted brandon loved her, as she felt almost sure he did, must be avoided at all hazards. it was not to be thought of between people so far apart as they. the brink was a delightful place, full of all the sweet ecstasies and thrilling joys of a seventh heaven, but over the brink--well! there should be no "over," for who was she? and who was he? those two dreadfully stubborn facts could not be forgotten, and the gulf between them could not be spanned; she knew that only too well. no one better. brandon answered her question: "i do not know about going; i think i shall. i have volunteered with a ship that sails in two or three weeks from bristol, and i suppose i shall go." "oh, no! do you really mean it?" it gave her a pang to hear that he was actually going, and her love pulsed higher; but she also felt a sense of relief, somewhat as a conscientious house-breaker might feel upon finding the door securely locked against him. it would take away a temptation which she could not resist, and yet dared not yield to much longer. "i think there is no doubt that i mean it," replied brandon. "i should like to remain in england until i can save enough money out of the king's allowance to pay the debt against my father's estate, so that i may be able to go away and feel that my brother and sisters are secure in their home--my brother is not strong--but i know it is better for me to go now, and i hope to find the money out there. i could have paid it with what i lost to judson before i discovered him cheating." this was the first time he had ever alluded to the duel, and the thought of it, in mary's mind, added a faint touch of fear to her feeling toward him. she looked up with a light in her eyes and asked: "what is the debt? how much? let me give you the money. i have so much more than i need. let me pay it. please tell me how much it is and i will hand it to you. you can come to my rooms and get it or i will send it to you. now tell me that i may. quickly." and she was alive with enthusiastic interest. "there now! you are kind again; as kind as even you can be. be sure, i thank you, though i say it only once," and he looked into her eyes with a gaze she could not stand even for an instant. this was growing dangerous again, so, catching himself, he turned the conversation back into the bantering vein. "ah! you want to pay the debt that i may have no excuse to remain? is that it? perhaps you are not so kind after all." "no! no! you know better. but let me pay the debt. how much is it and to whom is it owing? tell me at once, i command you." "no! no! lady mary, i cannot." "please do. i beg--if i cannot command. now i know you will; you would not make me _beg_ twice for anything?" she drew closer to him as she spoke and put her hand coaxingly upon his arm. with an irresistible impulse he took the hand in his and lifted it to his lips in a lingering caress that could not be mistaken. it was all so quick and so full of fire and meaning that mary took fright, and the princess, for the moment, came uppermost. "master brandon!" she exclaimed sharply, and drew away her hand. brandon dropped the hand and moved over on the seat. he did not speak, but turned his face from her and looked out of the window toward the river. thus they sat in silence, brandon's hand resting listlessly upon the cushion between them. mary saw the eloquent movement away from her and his speaking attitude, with averted face; then the princess went into eclipse, and the imperial woman was ascendant once more. she looked at him for a brief space with softening eyes, and, lifting her hand, put it back in his, saying: "there it is again--if you want it." want it? ah! this was too much! the hand would not satisfy now; it must be all, all! and he caught her to his arms with a violence that frightened her. "please don't, please! not this time. ah! have mercy, charl--well! there!... there!... mary mother, forgive me." then her woman spirit fell before the whirlwind of his passion, and she was on his breast with her white arms around his neck, paying the same tribute to the little blind god that he would have exacted from the lowliest maiden of the land. just as though it were not the blood of fifty kings and queens that made so red and sweet, aye, sweet as nectar thrice distilled, those lips which now so freely paid their dues in coined bliss. brandon held the girl for a moment or two, then fell upon his knees and buried his face in her lap. "heaven help me!" he cried. she pushed the hair back from his forehead with her hand and as she fondled the curls, leaned over him and softly whispered: "heaven help us both; for i love you!" he sprang to his feet. "don't! don't! i pray you," he said wildly, and almost ran from her. mary followed him nearly to the door of the room, but when he turned he saw that she had stopped, and was standing with her hands over her face, as if in tears. he went back to her and said: "i tried to avoid this, and if you had helped me, it would never--" but he remembered how he had always despised adam for throwing the blame upon eve, no matter how much she may have deserved it, and continued: "no; i do not mean that. it is all my fault. i should have gone away long ago. i could not help it; i tried. oh! i tried." mary's eyes were bent upon the floor, and tears were falling over her flushed cheeks, unheeded and unchecked. "there is no fault in any one; neither could i help it," she murmured. "no, no; it is not that there is any fault in the ordinary sense; it is like suicide or any other great, self-inflicted injury with me. i am different from other men. i shall never recover." "i know only too well that you are different from other men, and--and i, too, am different from other women--am i not?" "ah, different! there is no other woman in all this wide, long world," and they were in each other's arms again. she turned her shoulder to him and rested with the support of his arms about her. her eyes were cast down in silence, and she was evidently thinking as she toyed with the lace of his doublet. brandon knew her varying expressions so well that he saw there was something wanting, so he asked: "is there something you wish to say?" "not i," she responded with emphasis on the pronoun. "then is it something you wish me to say?" she nodded her head slowly: "yes." "what is it? tell me and i will say it." she shook her head slowly: "no." "what is it? i cannot guess." "did you not like to hear me say that--that i--loved you?" "ah, yes; you know it. but--oh!--do you wish to hear me say it?" the head nodded rapidly two or three times: "yes." and the black curving lashes were lifted for a fleeting, luminous instant. "it is surely not necessary; you have known it so long already, but i am only too glad to say it. i love you." she nestled closer to him and hid her face on his breast. "now that i have said it, what is my reward?" he asked--and the fair face came up, red and rosy, with "rewards," any one of which was worth a king's ransom. "but this is worse than insanity," cried brandon, as he almost pushed her from him. "we can never belong to each other; never." "no," said mary, with a despairing shake of the head, as the tears began to flow again; "no! never." and falling upon his knees, he caught both her hands in his, sprang to his feet and ran from the room. her words showed him the chasm anew. she saw the distance between them even better than he. evidently it seemed farther looking down than looking up. there was nothing left now but flight. he sought refuge in his own apartments and wildly walked the floor, exclaiming, "fool! fool that i am to lay up this store of agony to last me all my days. why did i ever come to this court? god pity me--pity me!" and he fell upon his knees at the bed, burying his face in his arms, his mighty man's frame shaking as with a palsy. that same night brandon told me how he had committed suicide, as he put it, and of his intention to go to bristol and there await the sailing of the ship, and perhaps find a partial resurrection in new spain. unfortunately, he could not start for bristol at once, as he had given some challenges for a tournament at richmond, and could furnish no good excuse to withdraw them; but he would not leave his room, nor again see "that girl who was driving him mad." it was better, he thought, and wisely too, that there be no leave-taking, but that he should go without meeting her. "if i see her again," he said, "i shall have to kill some one, even if it is only myself." i heard him tossing in his bed all night, and when morning came he arose looking haggard enough, but with his determination to run away and see mary no more, stronger than ever upon him. but providence, or fate, or some one, ordered it differently, and there was plenty of trouble ahead. _chapter viii_ _the trouble in billingsgate ward_ about a week after brandon's memorable interview with mary an incident occurred which changed everything and came very near terminating his career in the flower of youth. it also brought about a situation of affairs that showed the difference in the quality of these two persons thrown so marvelously together from their far distant stations at each end of the ladder of fortune, in a way that reflected very little credit upon the one from the upper end. but before i tell you of that i will relate briefly one or two other matters that had a bearing upon what was done, and the motives prompting it. to begin with, brandon had kept himself entirely away from the princess ever since the afternoon at the king's ante-chamber. the first day or so she sighed, but thought little of his absence; then she wept, and as usual began to grow piqued and irritable. what was left of her judgment told her it was better for them to remain apart, but her longing to see brandon grew stronger as the prospect of it grew less, and she became angry that it could not be gratified. jane was right; an unsatisfied desire with mary was torture. even her sense of the great distance between them had begun to fade, and when she so wished for him and he did not come, their positions seemed to be reversed. at the end of the third day she sent for him to come to her rooms, but he, by a mighty effort, sent back a brief note saying that he could not and ought not to go. this, of course, threw mary into a great passion, for she judged him by herself--a very common but dangerous method of judgment--and thought that if he felt at all as she did, he would throw prudence to the winds and come to her, as she knew she would go to him if she could. it did not occur to her that brandon knew himself well enough to be sure he would never go to new spain if he allowed another grain of temptation to fall into the balance against him, but would remain in london to love hopelessly, to try to win a hopeless cause, and end it all by placing his head upon the block. it required all his strength, even now, to hold fast his determination to go to new spain. he had reached his limit. he had a fund of that most useful of all wisdom, knowledge of self, and knew his limitations; a little matter concerning which nine men out of ten go all their lives in blissless ignorance. mary, who was no more given to self-analysis than her pet linnet, did not appreciate brandon's potent reasons, and was in a flaming passion when she received his answer. rage and humiliation completely smothered, for the time, her affection, and she said to herself, over and over again: "i hate the low-born wretch. oh! to think what i have permitted!" and tears of shame and repentance came in a flood, as they have come from yielding woman's eyes since the world was born. then she began to doubt his motives. as long as she thought she had given her gift to one who offered a responsive passion, she was glad and proud of what she had done, but she had heard of man's pretense in order to cozen woman out of her favors, and she began to think she had been deceived. to her the logic seemed irresistible; that if the same motive lived in his heart, and prompted him, that burned in her breast, and induced her, who was virgin to her very heart-core, and whose hand had hardly before been touched by the hand of man, to give so much, no power of prudence could keep him away from her. so she concluded she had given her gold for his dross. this conclusion was more easily arrived at owing to the fact that she had never been entirely sure of the state of his heart. there had always been a love-exciting grain of doubt; and when the thought came to her that she had been obliged to ask him to tell her of his affection, and that the advances had really all been made by her, that confirmed her suspicions. it seemed only too clear that she had been too quick to give--no very comforting thought to a proud girl, even though a mistaken one. [illustration] as the days went by and brandon did not come, her anger cooled, as usual, and again her heart began to ache; but her sense of injury grew stronger day by day, and she thought she was, beyond a doubt, the most ill-used of women. the other matter i wish to tell you is, that the negotiations for mary's marriage with old louis xii of france were beginning to be an open secret about the court. the duc de longueville, who had been held by henry for some time as a sort of hostage from the french king, had opened negotiations by inflaming the flickering passions of old louis with descriptions of mary's beauty. as there was a prospect of a new emperor soon, and as the imperial bee had of late been making a most vehement buzzing in henry's bonnet, he encouraged de longueville, and thought it would be a good time to purchase the help of france at the cost of his beautiful sister and a handsome dower. mary, of course, had not been consulted, and although she had coaxed her brother out of other marriage projects, henry had gone about this as if he were in earnest, and it was thought throughout the court that mary's coaxings would be all in vain--a fear which she herself had begun to share, notwithstanding her usual self-confidence. she hated the thought of the marriage, and dreaded it as she would death itself, though she said nothing to any one but jane, and was holding her forces in reserve for the grand attack. she was preparing the way by being very sweet and kind to henry. now, all of this, coming upon the heels of her trouble with brandon, made her most wretched indeed. for the first time in her life she began to feel suffering; that great broadener, in fact, maker, of human character. above all, there was an alarming sense of uncertainty in everything. she could hardly bring herself to believe that brandon would really go to new spain, and that she would actually lose him, although she did not want him, as yet; that is, as a prospective husband. flashes of all sorts of wild schemes had begun to shoot through her anger and grief when she stared in the face the prospect of her double separation from him--her marriage to another, and the countless miles of fathomless sea that would be between them. she could endure anything better than uncertainty. a menacing future is the keenest of all tortures for any of us to bear, but especially for a girl like mary. death itself is not so terrible as the fear of it. now about this time there lived over in billingsgate ward--the worst part of london--a jewish soothsayer named grouche. he was also an astrologer, and had of late grown into great fame as prophet of the future--a fortune-teller. his fame rested on several remarkable predictions which had been fulfilled to the letter, and i really think the man had some wonderful powers. they said he was half jew, half gypsy, and, if there is alchemy in the mixing of blood, that combination should surely produce something peculiar. the city folk were said to have visited him in great numbers, and, notwithstanding the priests and bishops all condemned him as an imp of satan and a follower of witchcraft, many fine people, including some court ladies, continued to go there by stealth in order to take a dangerous, inquisitive peep into the future. i say by stealth; because his ostensible occupation of soothsaying and fortune-telling was not his only business. his house was really a place of illicit meeting, and the soothsaying was often but an excuse for going there. lacking this ostensible occupation, he would not have been allowed to keep his house within the wall, but would have been relegated to his proper place--bridge ward without. mary had long wanted to see this grouche, at first out of mere curiosity; but henry, who was very moral--with other people's consciences--would not think of permitting it. two ladies, lady chesterfield and lady ormond, both good and virtuous women, had been detected in such a visit, and had been disgraced and expelled from court in the most cruel manner by order of the king himself. now, added to mary's old-time desire to see grouche, came a longing to know the outcome of the present momentous complication of affairs that touched her so closely. she could not wait for time to unfold himself, and drop his budget of events as he traveled, but she must plunge ahead of him, and know, beforehand, the stores of the fates--an intrusion they usually resent. i need not tell you that was mary's only object in going, nor that her heart was as pure as a babe's--quite as chaste and almost as innocent. it is equally true that the large proportion of persons who visited grouche made his soothsaying an excuse. the thought of how wretched life would be with louis had put into mary's mind the thought of how sweet it would be with brandon. then came the wish that brandon had been a prince, or even a great english nobleman; and then leaped up, all rainbow-hued, the hope that he might yet, by reason of his own great virtues, rise to all of these, and she become his wife. but at the threshold of this fair castle came knocking the thought that perhaps he did not care for her, and had deceived her to gain her favors. then she flushed with anger and swore to herself she hated him, and hoped never to see his face again. and the castle faded and was wafted away to the realms of airy nothingness. ah! how people will sometimes lie to themselves; and sensible people at that. so mary wanted to see grouche; first, through curiosity, in itself a stronger motive than we give it credit for; second, to learn if she would be able to dissuade henry from the french marriage and perhaps catch a hint how to do it; and last, but by no means least, to discover the state of brandon's heart toward her. by this time the last-named motive was strong enough to draw her any whither, although she would not acknowledge it, even to herself, and in truth hardly knew it; so full are we of things we know not of. so she determined to go to see grouche secretly, and was confident she could arrange the visit in such a way that it would never be discovered. one morning i met jane, who told me, with troubled face, that she and mary were going to london to make some purchases, would lodge at bridewell house, and go over to billingsgate that evening to consult grouche. mary had taken the whim into her wilful head, and jane could not dissuade her. the court was all at greenwich, and nobody at bridewell, so mary thought they could disguise themselves as orange girls and easily make the trip without any one being the wiser. it was then, as now, no safe matter for even a man to go unattended through the best parts of london after dark, to say nothing of billingsgate, that nest of water-rats and cut-throats. but mary did not realize the full danger of the trip, and would, as usual, allow nobody to tell her. she had threatened jane with all sorts of vengeance if she divulged her secret, and jane was miserable enough between her fears on either hand; for mary, though the younger, held her in complete subjection. despite her fear of mary, jane asked me to go to london and follow them at a distance, unknown to the princess. i was to be on duty that night at a dance given in honor of the french envoys who had just arrived, bringing with them commission of special ambassador to de longueville to negotiate the treaty of marriage, and it was impossible for me to go. mary was going partly to avoid this ball, and her wilful persistency made henry very angry. i regretted that i could not go, but i promised jane i would send brandon in my place, and he would answer the purpose of protection far better than i. i suggested that brandon take with him a man, but jane, who was in mortal fear of mary, would not listen to it. so it was agreed that brandon should meet jane at a given place and learn the particulars, and this plan was carried out. brandon went up to london and saw jane, and before the appointed time hid himself behind a hedge near the private gate through which the girls intended to take their departure from bridewell. they would leave about dusk and return, so mary said, before it grew dark. the citizens of london at that time paid very little attention to the law requiring them to hang out their lights, and when it was dark it _was_ dark. scarcely was brandon safely ensconced behind a clump of arbor vitæ when whom should he see coming down the path toward the gate but his grace, the duke of buckingham. he was met by one of the bridewell servants who was in attendance upon the princess. "yes, your grace, this is the gate," said the girl. "you can hide yourself and watch them as they go. they will pass out on this path. as i said, i do not know where they are going; i only overheard them say they would go out at this gate just before dark. i am sure they go on some errand of gallantry, which your grace will soon learn, i make no doubt." he replied that he "would take care of that." brandon did not see where buckingham hid himself, but soon the two innocent adventurers came down the path, attired in the short skirts and bonnets of orange girls, and let themselves out at the gate. buckingham followed them and brandon quickly followed him. the girls passed through a little postern in the wall opposite bridewell house, and walked rapidly up fleet ditch; climbed ludgate hill; passed paul's church; turned toward the river down bennett hill; to the left on thames street; then on past the bridge, following lower thames street to the neighborhood of fish-street hill, where they took an alley leading up toward east cheap to grouche's house. it was a brave thing for the girl to do, and showed the determined spirit that dwelt in her soft white breast. aside from the real dangers, there was enough to deter any woman, i should think. jane wept all the way over, but mary never flinched. there were great mud-holes where one sank ankle-deep, for no one paved the street at that time, strangely enough preferring to pay the sixpence fine per square yard for leaving it undone. at one place, brandon told me, a load of hay blocked the streets, compelling them to squeeze between the houses and the hay. he could hardly believe the girls had passed that way, as he had not always been able to keep them in view, but had sometimes to follow them by watching buckingham. he, however, kept as close as possible, and presently saw them turn down grouche's alley and enter his house. upon learning where they had stopped, buckingham hurriedly took himself off, and brandon waited for the girls to come out. it seemed a very long time that they were in the wretched place, and darkness had well descended upon london when they emerged. mary soon noticed that a man was following them, and as she did not know who he was, became greatly alarmed. the object of her journey had been accomplished now, so the spur of a strong motive to keep her courage up was lacking. "jane, some one is following us," she whispered. "yes," answered jane, with an unconcern that surprised mary, for she knew jane was a coward from the top of her brown head to the tip of her little pink heels. "oh, if i had only taken your advice, jane, and had never come to this wretched place; and to think, too, that i came here only to learn the worst. shall we ever get home alive, do you think?" they hurried on, the man behind them taking less care to remain unseen than he did when coming. mary's fears grew upon her as she heard his step and saw his form persistently following them, and she clutched jane by the arm. "it is all over with us, i know. i would give everything i have or ever expect to have on earth for--for master brandon at this moment." she thought of him as the one person best able to defend her. this was only too welcome an opportunity, and jane said: "that is master brandon following us. if we wait a few seconds he will be here," and she called to him before mary could interpose. now this disclosure operated in two ways. brandon's presence was, it is true, just what mary had so ardently wished, but the danger, and, therefore, the need, was gone when she found that the man who was following them had no evil intent. two thoughts quickly flashed through the girl's mind. she was angry with brandon for having cheated her out of so many favors and for having slighted her love, as she had succeeded in convincing herself was the case, all of which grouche had confirmed by telling her he was false. then she had been discovered in doing what she knew she should have left undone, and what she was anxious to conceal from every one; and, worst of all, had been discovered by the very person from whom she was most anxious to hide it. so she turned upon jane angrily: "jane bolingbroke, you shall leave me as soon as we get back to greenwich for this betrayal of my confidence." she was not afraid now that the danger was over, and feared no new danger with brandon at hand to protect her, for in her heart she felt that to overcome a few fiery dragons and a company or so of giants would be a mere pastime to him; yet see how she treated him. the girls had stopped when jane called brandon, and he was at once by their side with uncovered head, hoping for, and, of course, expecting, a warm welcome. but even brandon, with his fund of worldly philosophy, had not learned not to put his trust in princesses, and his surprise was benumbing when mary turned angrily upon him. "master brandon, your impudence in following us shall cost you dearly. we do not desire your company, and will thank you to leave us to our own affairs, as we wish you to attend exclusively to yours." this from the girl who had given him so much within less than a week! poor brandon! jane, who had called him up, and was the cause of his following them, began to weep. "sir," said she, "forgive me; it was not my fault; she had just said--" slap! came mary's hand on jane's mouth; and jane was marched off, weeping bitterly. the girls had started up toward east cheap when they left grouche's, intending to go home by an upper route, and now they walked rapidly in that direction. brandon continued to follow them, notwithstanding what mary had said, and she thanked him and her god ever after that he did. they had been walking not more than five minutes, when, just as the girls turned a corner into a secluded little street, winding its way among the fish warehouses, four horsemen passed brandon in evident pursuit of them. brandon hurried forward, but before he reached the corner heard screams of fright, and as he turned into the street distinctly saw that two of the men had dismounted and were trying to overtake the fleeing girls. fright lent wings to their feet, and their short skirts affording freedom to their limbs, they were giving the pursuers a warm little race, screaming at every step to the full limit of their voices. how they did run and scream! it was but a moment till brandon came up with the pursuers, who, all unconscious that they in turn were pursued, did not expect an attack from the rear. the men remaining on horseback shouted an alarm to their comrades, but so intent were the latter in their pursuit that they did not hear. one of the men on foot fell dead, pierced through the back of the neck by brandon's sword, before either was aware of his presence. the other turned, but was a corpse before he could cry out. the girls had stopped a short distance ahead, exhausted by their flight. mary had stumbled and fallen, but had risen again, and both were now leaning against a wall, clinging to each other, a picture of abject terror. brandon ran to the girls, but by the time he reached them the two men on horseback were there also, hacking away at him from their saddles. brandon did his best to save himself from being cut to pieces and the girls from being trampled under foot by the prancing horses. a narrow jutting of the wall, a foot or two in width, a sort of flying buttress, gave him a little advantage, and up into the slight shelter of the corner thus formed he thrust the girls, and with his back to them, faced his unequal foe with drawn sword. fortunately the position allowed only one horse to attack them. two men on foot would have been less in each other's way and much more effective. the men, however, stuck to their horses, and one of them pressed the attack, striking at brandon most viciously. it being dark, and the distance deceptive, the horseman's sword at last struck the wall, a flash of sparks flying in its trail, and lucky it was, or this story would have ended here. thereupon brandon thrust his sword into the horse's throat, causing it to rear backward, plunging and lunging into the street, where it fell, holding its rider by the leg against the cobble-stones of a little gutter. a cry from the fallen horseman brought his companion to his side, and gave brandon an opportunity to escape with the girls. of this he took advantage, you may be sure, for one of his mottoes was, that the greatest fool in the world is he who does not early in life learn how and when to run. in the light of the sparks from the sword-stroke upon the wall, brief as it was, brandon recognized the face of buckingham, from which the mask had fallen. of this he did not speak to any one till long afterward, and his silence was almost his undoing. how often a word spoken or unspoken may have the very deuce in it either way! the girls were nearly dead from fright, and in order to make any sort of progress brandon had to carry the princess and help jane until he thought they were out of danger. jane soon recovered, but mary did not seem anxious to walk, and lay with her head upon brandon's shoulder, apparently contented enough. in a few minutes jane said, "if you can walk now, my lady, i think you had better. we shall soon be near fishmonger's hall, where some one is sure to be standing at this hour." mary said nothing in reply to jane, but, as brandon fell a step or two behind at a narrow crossing, whispered: "forgive me, forgive me; i will do any penance you ask; i am unworthy to speak your name. i owe you my life and more--and more a thousand times." at this she lifted her arm and placed her hand upon his cheek and neck. she then learned for the first time that he was wounded, and the tears came softly as she slipped from his arms to the ground. she walked beside him quietly for a little time, then, taking his hand in both of hers, gently lifted it to her lips and laid it upon her breast. half an hour afterward brandon left the girls at bridewell house, went over to the bridge where he had left his horse at a hostelry, and rode down to greenwich. so mary had made her trip to grouche's, but it was labor worse than lost. grouche had told her nothing she wanted to know, though much that he supposed she would like to learn. he had told her she had many lovers, a fact which her face and form would make easy enough to discover. he informed her also that she had a low-born lover, and in order to put a little evil in with the good fortune, and give what he said an air of truth, he added to mary's state of unrest more than he thought by telling her that her low-born lover was false. he thought to flatter her by predicting that she would soon marry a very great prince or nobleman, the indications being in favor of the former, and, in place of this making her happy, she wished the wretched soothsayer in the bottomless pit--he and all his prophecies; herself, too, for going to him. his guesses were pretty shrewd; that is, admitting he did not know who mary was, which she at least supposed was the case. so mary wept that night and moaned and moaned because she had gone to grouche's. it had added infinitely to the pain of which her heart was already too full, and made her thoroughly wretched and unhappy. as usual though, with the blunders of stubborn, self-willed people, some one else had to pay the cost of her folly. brandon was paymaster in this case, and when you see how dearly he paid, and how poorly she requited the debt, i fear you will despise her. wait, though! be not hasty. the right of judgment belongs to--you know whom. no man knows another man's heart, much less a woman's, so how can he judge? we shall all have more than enough of judging by and by. so let us put off for as many to-morrows as possible the thing that should be left undone to-day. _chapter ix_ _put not your trust in princesses_ i thought the king's dance that night would never end, so fond were the frenchmen of our fair ladies, and i was more than anxious to see brandon and learn the issue of the girls' escapade, as i well knew the danger attending it. all things, however, must end, so early in the morning i hastened to our rooms, where i found brandon lying in his clothes, everything saturated with blood from a dozen sword cuts. he was very weak, and i at once had in a barber, who took off his shirt of mail and dressed his wounds. he then dropped into a deep sleep, while i watched the night out. upon awakening brandon told me all that had happened, but asked me to say nothing of his illness, as he wished to keep the fact of his wounds secret in order that he might better conceal the cause of them. but, as i told you, he did not speak of buckingham's part in the affray. i saw the princess that afternoon, and expected, of course, she would inquire for her defender. one who had given such timely help and who was suffering so much on her account was surely worth a little solicitude; but not a word did she ask. she did not come near me, but made a point of avoidance, as i could plainly see. the next morning she, with jane, went over to scotland palace without so much as a breath of inquiry from either of them. this heartless conduct enraged me; but i was glad to learn afterward that jane's silence was at mary's command--that bundle of selfishness fearing that any solicitude, however carefully shown upon her part, might reveal her secret. it seems that mary had recent intelligence of the forward state of affairs in the marriage negotiations, and felt that a discovery by her brother of what she had done, especially in view of the disastrous results, would send her to france despite all the coaxing she could do from then till doomsday. it was a terrible fate hanging over her, doubly so in view of the fact that she loved another man; and looking back at it all from the vantage point of time, i cannot wonder that it drove other things out of her head and made her seem selfish in her frightened desire to save herself. about twelve o'clock of the following night i was awakened by a knock at my door, and, upon opening, in walked a sergeant of the sheriff of london, with four yeomen at his heels. the sergeant asked if one charles brandon was present, and upon my affirmative answer demanded that he be forthcoming. i told the sergeant that brandon was confined to his bed with illness, whereupon he asked to be shown to his room. it was useless to resist or to evade, so i awakened brandon and took the sergeant in. here he read his warrant to arrest charles brandon, esquire, for the murder of two citizens of london, perpetrated, done and committed upon the night of such and such a day, of this year of our lord, . brandon's hat had been found by the side of the dead men, and the authorities had received information from a high source that brandon was the guilty person. that high source was evidently buckingham. when the sergeant found brandon covered with wounds there was no longer any doubt, and although hardly able to lift his hand he was forced to dress and go with them. a horse litter was procured and we all started to london. while brandon was dressing, i said i would at once go and awaken the king, who i knew would pardon the offense when he heard my story, but brandon asked the sergeant to leave us to ourselves for a short time, and closed the door. "please do nothing of the sort, caskoden," said he; "if you tell the king i will declare there is not one word of truth in your story. there is only one person in the world who may tell of that night's happenings, and if she does not they shall remain untold. she will make it all right at once, i know. i would not do her the foul wrong to think for one instant that she will fail. you do not know her; she sometimes seems selfish, but it is thoughtlessness fostered by flattery, and her heart is right. i would trust her with my life. if you breathe a word of what i have told you, you may do more harm than you can ever remedy, and i ask you to say nothing to any one. if the princess would not liberate me ... but that is not to be thought of. never doubt that she can and will do it better than you think. she is all gold." this, of course, silenced me, as i did not know what new danger i might create, nor how i might mar the matter i so much wished to mend. i did not tell brandon that the girls had left greenwich, nor of my undefined, and, perhaps, unfounded fear that mary might not act as he thought she would in a great emergency, but silently helped him to dress and went to london along with him and the sheriff's sergeant. brandon was taken to newgate, the most loathsome prison in london at that time, it being used for felons, while ludgate was for debtors. here he was thrown into an underground dungeon foul with water that seeped through the old masonry from the moat, and alive with every noisome thing that creeps. there was no bed, no stool, no floor, not even a wisp of a straw; simply the reeking stone walls, covered with fungus, and the windowless arch overhead. one could hardly conceive a more horrible place in which to spend even a moment. i had a glimpse of it by the light of the keeper's lantern as they put him in, and it seemed to me a single night in that awful place would have killed me or driven me mad. i protested and begged and tried to bribe, but it was all of no avail; the keeper had been bribed before i arrived. although it could do no possible good, i was glad to stand outside the prison walls in the drenching rain, all the rest of that wretched night, that i might be as near as possible to my friend and suffer a little with him. was not i, too, greatly indebted to him? had he not imperiled his life and given his blood to save the honor of jane as well as of mary--jane, dearer to me a thousand-fold than the breath of my nostrils? and was he not suffering at that moment because of this great service, performed at my request and in my place? if my whole soul had not gone out to him i should have been the most ungrateful wretch on earth; worse even than a pair of selfish, careless girls. but it did go out to him, and i believe i would have bartered my life to have freed him from another hour in that dungeon. as soon as the prison gates were opened next morning, i again importuned the keeper to give brandon a more comfortable cell, but his reply was that such crimes had of late become so frequent in london that no favor could be shown those who committed them, and that men like brandon, who ought to know and act better, deserved the maximum punishment. i told him he was wrong in this case; that i knew the facts, and everything would be clearly explained that very day and brandon released. "that's all very well," responded the stubborn creature; "nobody is guilty who comes here; they can every one prove innocence clearly and at once. notwithstanding, they nearly all hang, and frequently, for variety's sake, are drawn and quartered." i waited about newgate until nine o'clock, and as i passed out met buckingham and his man johnson, a sort of lawyer-knight, going in. i went down to the palace at greenwich, and finding that the girls were still at scotland palace, rode over at once to see them. upon getting mary and jane to myself, i told them of brandon's arrest on the charge of murder, and of his condition, lying half dead from wounds and loss of blood, in that frightful dungeon. the tale moved them greatly, and they both gave way to tears. i think mary had heard of the arrest before, as she did not seem surprised. "do you think he will tell the cause of the killing?" she asked. "i know he will not," i answered; "but i also know that he knows you will," and i looked straight into her face. "certainly we will," said jane; "we will go to the king at once," and she was on the _qui vive_ to start immediately. mary did not at once consent to jane's proposition, but sat in a reverie, looking with tearful eyes into vacancy, apparently absorbed in thought. after a little pressing from us she said: "i suppose it will have to be done; i can see no other way; but blessed mother mary!... help me!" the girls made hasty preparations, and we all started back to greenwich that mary might tell the king. on the road over, i stopped at newgate to tell brandon that the princess would soon have him out, knowing how welcome liberty would be at her hands; but i was not permitted to see him. i swallowed my disappointment, and thought it would be only a matter of a few hours' delay--the time spent in riding down to greenwich and sending back a messenger. so, light-hearted enough at the prospect, i soon joined the girls, and we cantered briskly home. after waiting a reasonable time for mary to see the king, i sought her again to learn where and from whom i should receive the order for brandon's release, and when i should go to london to bring him. what was my surprise and disgust when mary told me she had not yet seen the king--that she had waited to "eat, and bathe, and dress," and that "a few moments more or less could make no difference." "my god! your highness, did i not tell you that the man who saved your life and honor--who is covered with wounds received in your defense, and almost dead from loss of blood, spilled that you might be saved from worse than death--is now lying in a rayless dungeon, a place of frightful filth, such as you would not walk across for all the wealth of london bridge; is surrounded by loathsome, creeping things that would sicken you but to think of; is resting under a charge whose penalty is that he be hanged, drawn and quartered? and yet you stop to eat and bathe and dress. in god's name, mary tudor, of what stuff are you made? if he had waited but one little minute; had stopped for the drawing of a breath; had held back for but one faltering thought from the terrible odds of four swords to one, what would you now be? think, princess, think!" i was a little frightened at the length to which my feeling had driven me, but mary took it all very well, and said slowly and absent-mindedly: "you are right; i will go at once; i despise my selfish neglect. there is no other way; i have racked my brain--there _is_ no other way. it must be done, and i will go at once and do it." "and i will go with you," said i. "i do not blame you," she said, "for doubting me, since i have failed once; but you need not doubt me now. it shall be done, and without delay, regardless of the cost to me. i have thought and thought to find some other way to liberate him, but there is none; i will go this instant." "and i will go with you, lady mary," said i, doggedly. she smiled at my persistency, and took me by the hand, saying, "come!" we at once went off to find the king, but the smile had faded from mary's face, and she looked as if she were going to execution. every shade of color had fled, and her lips were the hue of ashes. we found the king in the midst of his council, with the french ambassadors, discussing the all-absorbing topic of the marriage treaty; and henry, fearing an outbreak, refused to see the princess. as usual, opposition but spurred her determination, so she sat down in the ante-room and said she would not stir until she had seen the king. after we had waited a few minutes, one of the king's pages came up and said he had been looking all over the palace for me, and that the king desired my presence immediately. i went in with the page to the king, leaving mary alone and very melancholy in the ante-chamber. upon entering the king's presence he asked, "where have you been, sir edwin? i have almost killed a good half-dozen pages hunting you. i want you to prepare immediately to go to paris with an embassy to his majesty, king louis. you will be the interpreter. the ambassador you need not know. make ready at once. the embassy will leave london from the tabard inn one hour hence." could a command to duty have come at a more inopportune time? i was distracted; and upon leaving the king went at once to seek the lady mary where i had left her in the ante-room. she had gone, so i went to her apartments, but could not find her. i went to the queen's salon, but she was not there, and i traversed that old rambling palace from one end to the other without finding her or lady jane. the king had told me the embassy would be a secret one, and that i was to speak of it to nobody, least of all to the lady mary. no one was to know that i was leaving england, and i was to communicate with no one at home while in france. the king's command was not to be disobeyed; to do so would be as much as my life was worth, but besides that, the command of the king i served was my highest duty, and no caskoden ever failed in that. i may not be as tall as some men, but my fidelity and honor--but you will say i boast. i was to make ready my bundle and ride six miles to london in one hour; and almost half that time was spent already. i was sure to be late, so i could not waste another minute. i went to my room and got together a few things necessary for my journey, but did not take much in the way of clothing, preferring to buy that new in paris, where i could find the latest styles in pattern and fabric. i tried to assure myself that mary would see the king at once and tell him all, and not allow my dear friend brandon to lie in that terrible place another night; yet a persistent fear gnawed at my heart, and a sort of intuition, that seemed to have the very breath of certainty in its foreboding, made me doubt her. as i could find neither mary nor jane, i did the next best thing: i wrote a letter to each of them, urging immediate action, and left them to be delivered by my man thomas, who was one of those trusty souls that never fail. i did not tell the girls i was about to start for france, but intimated that i was compelled to leave london for a time, and said: "i leave the fate of this man, to whom we all owe so much, in your hands, knowing full well how tender you will be of him." i was away from home nearly a month, and as i dared not write, and even jane did not know where i was, i did not receive, nor expect, any letters. the king had ordered secrecy, and if i have mingled with all my faults a single virtue it is that of faithfulness to my trust. so i had no news from england and sent none home. during all that time the same old fear lived in my heart that mary might fail to liberate brandon. she knew of the negotiations concerning the french marriage, as we all did, although only by an indefinite sort of hearsay, and i was sure the half-founded rumors that had reached her ears had long since become certainties, and that her heart was full of trouble and fear of her violent brother. she would certainly be at her coaxing and wheedling again and on her best behavior, and i feared she might refrain from telling henry of her trip to grouche's, knowing how severe he was in such matters and how furious he was sure to become at the discovery. i was certain it was this fear which had prevented mary from going directly to the king on our return to greenwich from scotland palace, and i knew that her eating, bathing and dressing were but an excuse for a breathing spell before the dreaded interview. this fear remained with me all the time i was away, but when i reasoned with myself i would smother it as well as i could with argumentative attempts at self-assurance. i would say over and over to myself that mary could not fail, and that even if she did, there was jane, dear, sweet, thoughtful, unselfish jane, who would not allow her to do so. but as far as they go, our intuitions--our "feelings," as we call them--are worth all the logic in the world, and you may say what you will, but my presentiments--i speak for no one else--are well to be minded. there is another sense hidden about us that will develop as the race grows older. i speak to posterity. in proof of this statement, i now tell you that when i returned to london i found brandon still in the terrible dungeon; and, worse still, he had been tried for murder, and had been condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered on the second friday following. hanged! drawn! quartered! it is time we were doing away with such barbarity. we will now go back a month for the purpose of looking up the doings of a friend of ours, his grace, the duke of buckingham. on the morning after the fatal battle of billingsgate, the barber who had treated brandon's wounds had been called to london to dress a bruised knee for his grace, the duke. in the course of the operation, an immense deal of information oozed out of the barber, one item of which was that he had the night before dressed nine wounds, great and small, for master brandon, the king's friend. this established the identity of the man who had rescued the girls, a fact of which buckingham had had his suspicions all along. so brandon's arrest followed, as i have already related to you. i afterward learned from various sources how this nobleman began to avenge his mishap with brandon at mary's ball when the latter broke his sword point. first, he went to newgate and gave orders to the keeper, who was his tool, to allow no communication with the prisoner, and it was by his instructions that brandon had been confined in the worst dungeon in london. then he went down to greenwich to take care of matters there, knowing that the king would learn of brandon's arrest and probably take steps for his liberation at once. the king had just heard of the arrest when buckingham arrived, and the latter found he was right in his surmise that his majesty would at once demand brandon's release. when the duke entered the king's room henry called to him: "my lord, you are opportunely arrived. so good a friend of the people of london can help us greatly this morning. our friend brandon has been arrested for the killing of two men night before last in billingsgate ward. i am sure there is some mistake, and that the good sheriff has the wrong man; but right or wrong, we want him out, and ask your good offices." "i shall be most happy to serve your majesty, and will go to london at once to see the lord mayor." in the afternoon the duke returned and had a private audience with the king. "i did as your majesty requested in regard to brandon's release," he said, "but on investigation, i thought it best to consult you again before proceeding further. i fear there is no doubt that brandon is the right man. it seems he was out with a couple of wenches concerning whom he got into trouble and stabbed two men in the back. it is a very aggravated case and the citizens are much incensed about it, owing partly to the fact that such occurrences have been so frequent of late. i thought, under the circumstances, and in view of the fact that your majesty will soon call upon the city for a loan to make up the lady mary's dower, it would be wise not to antagonize them in this matter, but to allow master brandon to remain quietly in confinement until the loan is completed and then we can snap our fingers at them." "we will snap our fingers at the scurvy burghers now and have the loan, too," returned henry, angrily. "i want brandon liberated at once, and i shall expect another report from you immediately, my lord." buckingham felt that his revenge had slipped through his fingers this time, but he was patient where evil was to be accomplished, and could wait. then it was that the council was called during the progress of which mary and i had tried to obtain an audience of the king. buckingham had gone to pay his respects to the queen, and on his way back espied mary waiting for the king in the ante-room, and went to her. at first she was irritated at the sight of this man, whom she so despised, but a thought came to her that she might make use of him. she knew his power with the citizens and city authorities of london, and also knew, or thought she knew, that a smile from her could accomplish everything with him. she had ample evidence of his infatuation, and she hoped that she could procure brandon's liberty through buckingham without revealing her dangerous secret. much to the duke's surprise, she smiled upon him and gave a cordial welcome, saying: "my lord, you have been unkind to us of late and have not shown us the light of your countenance. i am glad to see you once more; tell me the news." "i cannot say there is much of interest. i have learned the new dance from caskoden, if that is news, and hope for a favor at our next ball from the fairest lady in the world." "and quite welcome," returned mary, complacently appropriating the title, "and welcome to more than one, i hope, my lord." this graciousness would have looked suspicious to one with less vanity than buckingham, but he saw no craft in it. he did see, however, that mary did not know who had attacked her in billingsgate, and he felt greatly relieved. the duke smiled and smirked, and was enchanted at her kindness. they walked down the corridor, talking and laughing, mary awaiting an opportunity to put the important question without exciting suspicion. at last it came, when buckingham, half inquiringly, expressed his surprise that mary should be found sitting at the king's door. "i am waiting to see the king," said she. "little caskoden's friend, brandon, has been arrested for a brawl of some sort over in london, and sir edwin and lady jane have importuned me to obtain his release, which i have promised to do. perhaps your grace will allow me to petition you in place of carrying my request to the king. you are quite as powerful as his majesty in london, and i should like to ask you to obtain for master brandon his liberty at once. i shall hold myself infinitely obliged, if your lordship will do this for me." she smiled upon him her sweetest smile, and assumed an indifference that would have deceived any one but buckingham. upon him, under the circumstances, it was worse than wasted. buckingham at once consented, and said, that notwithstanding the fact that he did not like brandon, to oblige her highness, he would undertake to befriend a much more disagreeable person. "i fear," he said, "it will have to be done secretly--by conniving at his escape rather than by an order for his release. the citizens are greatly aroused over the alarming frequency of such occurrences, and as many of the offenders have lately escaped punishment by reason of court interference, i fear this man brandon will have to bear the brunt, in the london mind, of all these unpunished crimes. it will be next to impossible to liberate him, except by arranging privately with the keeper for his escape. he could go down into the country and wait in seclusion until it is all blown over, or until london has a new victim, and then an order can be made pardoning him, and he can return." "pardoning him! what are you talking of, my lord? he has done nothing to be pardoned for. he should be, and shall be, rewarded." mary spoke impetuously, but caught herself and tried to remedy her blunder. "that is, if i have heard the straight of it. i have been told that the killing was done in the defense of two--women." think of this poor unconscious girl, so full of grief and trouble, talking thus to buckingham, who knew so much more about the affair than even she, who had taken so active a part in it. "who told you of it?" asked the duke. mary saw she had made a mistake, and, after hesitating for a moment, answered: "sir edwin caskoden. he had it from master brandon, i suppose." rather adroit this was, but equidistant from both truth and effectiveness. "i will go at once to london and arrange for brandon's escape," said buckingham, preparing to leave. "but you must not divulge the fact that i do it. it would cost me all the favor i enjoy with the people of london, though i would willingly lose that favor, a thousand times over, for a smile from you." she gave the smile, and as he left, followed his retiring figure with her eyes, and thought: "after all, he has a kind heart." she breathed a sigh of relief, too, for she felt she had accomplished brandon's release, and still retained her dangerous secret, the divulging of which, she feared, would harden henry's heart against her blandishments and strand her upon the throne of france. but she was not entirely satisfied with the arrangement. she knew that her obligation to brandon was such as to demand of her that she should not leave the matter of his release to any other person, much less to an enemy such as buckingham. yet the cost of his freedom by a direct act of her own would be so great that she was tempted to take whatever risk there might be in the way that had opened itself to her. not that she would not have made the sacrifice willingly, or would not have told henry all if that were the only chance to save brandon's life, but the other way, the one she had taken by buckingham's help, seemed safe, and, though not entirely satisfying, she could not see how it could miscarry. buckingham was notably jealous of his knightly word, and she had unbounded faith in her influence over him. in short, like many another person, she was as wrong as possible just at the time when she thought she was entirely right, and when the cost of a mistake was at its maximum. she recoiled also from the thought of brandon's "escape," and it hurt her that he should be a fugitive from the justice that should reward him, yet she quieted these disturbing suggestions with the thought that it would be only for a short time, and brandon, she knew, would be only too glad to make the sacrifice if it purchased for her freedom from the worse than damnation that lurked in the french marriage. [illustration] all this ran quickly through mary's mind, and brought relief; but it did not cure the uneasy sense, weighing like lead upon her heart, that she should take up chance with this man's life, and should put no further weight of sacrifice upon him, but should go to the king and tell him a straightforward story, let it hurt where it would. with a little meditation, however, came a thought which decided the question and absolutely made everything bright again for her, so great was her capability for distilling light. she would go at once to windsor with jane, and would dispatch a note to brandon, at newgate, telling him upon his escape to come to her. he might remain in hiding in the neighborhood of windsor, and she could see him every day. the time had come to mary when to "see him every day" would turn plutonian shades into noonday brightness and weave sunbeams out of utter darkness. with mary, to resolve was to act; so the note was soon dispatched by a page, and one hour later the girls were on their road to windsor. buckingham went to newgate, expecting to make a virtue, with mary, out of the necessity imposed by the king's command, in freeing brandon. he had hoped to induce brandon to leave london stealthily and immediately, by representing to him the evil consequences of a break between the citizens and the king, liable to grow out of his release, and relied on brandon's generosity to help him out; but when he found the note which mary's page had delivered to the keeper of newgate, he read it and all his plans were changed. he caused the keeper to send the note to the king, suppressing the fact that he, buckingham, had any knowledge of it. the duke then at once started to greenwich, where he arrived and sought the king a few minutes before the time he knew the messenger with mary's note would come. the king was soon found, and buckingham, in apparent anger, told him that the city authorities refused to deliver brandon except upon an order under the king's seal. henry and buckingham were intensely indignant at the conduct of the scurvy burghers, and an immense amount of self-importance was displayed and shamefully wasted. this manifestation was at its highest when the messenger from newgate arrived with mary's poor little note as intended by the duke. the note was handed to henry, who read aloud as follows: "_to master charles brandon_": "greeting--soon you will be at liberty; perhaps ere this is to your hand. surely would i not leave you long in prison. i go to windsor at once, there to live in the hope that i may see you speedily. "mary." "what is this?" cried henry. "my sister writing to brandon? god's death! my lord of buckingham, the suspicions you whispered in my ear may have some truth. we will let this fellow remain in newgate, and allow our good people of london to take their own course with him." buckingham went to windsor next day and told mary that arrangements had been made the night before for brandon's escape, and that he had heard that brandon had left for new spain. mary thanked the duke, but had no smiles for any one. her supply was exhausted. she remained at windsor nursing her love for the sake of the very pain it brought her, and dreading the battle for more than life itself which she knew she should soon be called upon to fight. at times she would fall into one of her old fits of anger because brandon had not come to see her before he left, but soon the anger melted into tears, and the tears brought a sort of joy when she thought that he had run away from her because he loved her. after brandon's defense of her in billingsgate, mary had begun to see the whole situation differently, and everything was changed. she still saw the same great distance between them as before, but with this difference, she was looking up now. before that event he had been plain charles brandon, and she the princess mary. she was the princess still, but he was a demi-god. no mere mortal, thought she, could be so brave and strong and generous and wise; and above all, no mere mortal could vanquish odds of four to one. in the night she would lie on jane's arm, and amid smothered sobs, would softly talk of her lover, and praise his beauty and perfections, and pour her pathetic little tale over and over again into jane's receptive ear and warm responsive heart; and jane answered with soft little kisses that would have consoled niobe herself. then mary would tell how the doors of her life, at the ripe age of eighteen, were closed forever and forever, and that her few remaining years would be but years of waiting for the end. at other times she would brighten, and repeat what brandon had told her about new spain; how fortune's door was open there to those who chose to come, and how he, the best and bravest of them all, would surely win glory and fortune, and then return to buy her from her brother henry with millions of pounds of yellow gold. ah, she would wait! she would wait! like bayard she placed her ransom at a high figure, and honestly thought herself worth it. and so she was--to brandon, or rather had been. but at this particular time the market was down, as you will shortly hear. so mary remained at windsor and grieved and wept and dreamed, and longed that she might see across the miles of billowy ocean to her love! her love! her love! meanwhile brandon had his trial in secret down in london, and had been condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered for having saved to her more than life itself. put not your trust in princesses! _chapter x_ _justice, o king!_ such was the state of affairs when i returned from france. how i hated myself because i had not faced the king's displeasure and had not refused to go until brandon was safely out of his trouble. it was hard for me to believe that i had left such a matter to two foolish girls, one of them as changeable as the wind, and the other completely under her control. i could but think of the difference between myself and brandon, and well knew, had i been in his place, he would have liberated me or stormed the very walls of london single-handed and alone. when i learned that brandon had been in that dungeon all that long month, i felt that it would surely kill him, and my self-accusation was so strong and bitter, and my mental pain so great, that i resolved if my friend died, either by disease contracted in the dungeon or by execution of his sentence, that i would kill myself. but that is a matter much easier sincerely to resolve upon than to execute when the time comes. next to myself, i condemned those wretched girls for leaving brandon to perish--brandon, to whom they both owed so much. their selfishness turned me against all womankind. i did not dally this time. i trusted to no lady jane nor lady mary. i determined to go to the king at once and tell him all. i did not care if the wretched mary and jane both had to marry the french king, or the devil himself. i did not care if they and all the host of their perfidious sisterhood went to the nether side of the universe, there to remain forever. i would retrieve my fault, in so far as it was retrievable, and save brandon, who was worth them all put together. i would tell mary and jane what i thought of them, and that should end matters between us. i felt as i did toward them not only because of their treatment of brandon, but because they had made me guilty of a grievous fault, for which i should never, so long as i lived, forgive myself. i determined to go to the king, and go i did within five minutes of the time i heard that brandon was yet in prison. i found the king sitting alone at public dinner, and, of course, was denied speech with him. i was in no humor to be balked, so i thrust aside the guards, and, much to everybody's fright, for i was wild with grief, rage and despair, and showed it in every feature, rushed to the king and fell upon my knees at his feet. "justice, o king!" i cried, and all the courtiers heard. "justice, o king! for the worst used man and the bravest, truest soul that ever lived and suffered." here the tears began to stream down my face and my voice choked in my throat. "charles brandon, your majesty's one-time friend, lies in a loathsome, rayless dungeon, condemned to death, as your majesty may know, for the killing of two men in billingsgate ward. i will tell you all: i should be thrust out from the society of decent men for not having told you before i left for france, but i trusted it to another who has proved false. i will tell you all. your sister, the lady mary, and lady jane bolingbroke were returning alone, after dark, from a visit to the soothsayer grouche, of whom your majesty has heard. i had been notified of the lady mary's intended visit to him, although she had enjoined absolute secrecy upon my informant. i could not go, being detained upon your majesty's service--it was the night of the ball to the ambassadors--and i asked brandon to follow them, which he did, without the knowledge of the princess. upon returning, the ladies were attacked by four ruffians, and would have met with worse than death had not the bravest heart and the best sword in england defended them victoriously against such fearful odds. he left them at bridewell without hurt or injury, though covered with wounds himself. this man is condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, but i know not your majesty's heart if he be not at once reprieved and richly rewarded. think, my king! he saved the royal honor of your sister, who is so dear to you, and has suffered so terribly for his loyalty and bravery. the day i left so hurriedly for france the lady mary promised she would tell you all and liberate this man who had so nobly served her; but she is a woman, and was born to betray." the king laughed a little at my vehemence. "what is this you are telling me, sir edwin? i know of brandon's death sentence, but much as i regret it, i cannot interfere with the justice of our good people of london for the murder of two knights in their streets. if brandon committed such a crime, and, i understand he does not deny it, i cannot help him, however much i should like to do so. but this nonsense about my sister! it cannot be true. it must be trumped up out of your love in order to save your friend. have a care, good master, how you say such a thing. if it were true, would not brandon have told it at his trial?" "it is as true as that god lives, my king! if the lady mary and lady jane do not bear me out in every word i have said, let my life pay the forfeit. he would not tell of the great reason for killing the men, fearing to compromise the honor of those whom he had saved, for, as your majesty is aware, persons sometimes go to grouche's for purposes other than to listen to his soothsaying. not in this case, god knows, but there are slanderous tongues, and brandon was willing to die with closed lips, rather than set them wagging against one so dear to you. it seems that these ladies, who owe so much to him, are also willing that he should die rather than themselves bear the consequences of their own folly. do not delay, i beseech your majesty. eat not another morsel, i pray you, until this brave man, who has so truly served you, be taken from his prison and freed from his sentence of death. come, come, my king! this moment, and all that i have, my wealth, my life, my honor, are yours for all time." the king remained a moment in thought with knife in hand. "caskoden, i have never detected you in a lie in all the years i have known you; you are not very large in body, but your honor is great enough to stock a goliath. i believe you are telling the truth. i will go at once to liberate brandon; and that little hussy, my sister, shall go to france and enjoy life as best she can with her old beauty, king louis. i know of no greater punishment to inflict upon her. this determines me; she shall coax me out of it no longer. sir thomas brandon, have my horses ready, and i will go to the lord mayor, then to my lord bishop of lincoln and arrange to close this french treaty at once. let everybody know that the princess mary will, within the month, be queen of france." this was said to the courtiers, and was all over london before night. i followed closely in the wake of the king, though uninvited, for i had determined to trust to no one, not even his majesty, until brandon should be free. henry had said he would go first to the lord mayor and then to wolsey, but after we crossed the bridge he passed down lower thames street and turned up fish-street hill into grace church street on toward bishopsgate. he said he would stop at mistress cornwallis's and have a pudding; and then on to wolsey, who at that time lodged in a house near the wall beyond bishopsgate. i well knew if the king once reached wolsey's, it would be wine and quoits and other games, interspersed now and then with a little blustering talk on statecraft, for the rest of the day. then the good bishop would have in a few pretty london women and a dance would follow with wine and cards and dice, and henry would spend the night at wolsey's, and brandon lie another night in the mire of his newgate dungeon. i resolved to raise heaven and earth, and the other place, too, if necessary, before this should happen. so i rode boldly up to the king, and with uncovered head addressed him: "your majesty gave me your royal word that you would go to the lord mayor first, and this is the road to my lord bishop of lincoln. in all the years i have known your majesty, both as gallant prince and puissant king, this is the first request i ever proffered, and now i only ask of you to save your own noble honor, and do your duty as man and king." these were bold words, but i did not care one little farthing whether they pleased him or not. the king stared at me and said: "caskoden, you are a perfect hound at my heels. but you are right; i had forgotten my errand. you disturbed my dinner, and my stomach called loudly for one of mistress cornwallis's puddings; but you are right to stick to me. what a friend you are in case of need. would i had one like you." "your majesty has two of whom i know; one riding humbly by your royal side, and the other lying in the worst dungeon in christendom." with this the king wheeled about and started west toward guildhall. oh, how i hated henry for that cold-blooded, selfish forgetfulness worse than crime; and how i hoped the blessed virgin would forget him in time to come, and leave his soul an extra thousand years in purging flames, just to show him how it goes to be forgotten--in hell. to the lord mayor we accordingly went without further delay. he was only too glad to liberate brandon when he heard my story, which the king had ordered me to repeat. the only hesitancy was from a doubt of its truth. the lord mayor was kind enough to say that he felt little doubt of my word, but that friendship would often drive a man to any extremity, even falsehood, to save a friend. then i offered to go into custody myself and pay the penalty, death, for helping a convicted felon to escape, if i told not the truth, to be confirmed or denied by the princess and her first lady in waiting. i knew jane and was willing to risk her truthfulness without a doubt--it was so pronounced as to be troublesome at times--and as to mary--well, i had no doubt of her, either. if she would but stop to think out the right she was sure to do it. i have often wondered how much of the general fund of evil in this world comes from thoughtlessness. cultivate thought and you make virtue--i believe. but this is no time to philosophize. my offer was satisfactory, for what more can a man do than pledge his life for his friend? we have scripture for that, or something like it. the lord mayor did not require my proffered pledge, but readily consented that the king should write an order for brandon's pardon and release. this was done at once, and we, that is, i, together with a sheriff's sergeant and his four yeomen, hastened to newgate, while henry went over to wolsey's to settle mary's fate. brandon was brought up with chains and manacles at his ankles and wrists. when he entered the room and saw me, he exclaimed: "ah! caskoden, is that you? i thought they had brought me up to hang me, and was glad for the change; but i suppose you would not come to help at that, even if you have left me here to rot; god only knows how long; i have forgotten." i could not restrain the tears at sight of him. "your words are more than just," i said; and, being anxious that he should know at once that my fault had not been so great as it looked, continued hurriedly: "the king sent me to france upon an hour's notice, the day after your arrest. i know only too well i should not have gone without seeing you out of this, but you had enjoined silence upon me, and--and i trusted to the promises of another." "i thought as much. you are in no way to blame, my friend; all i ask is that you never mention the subject again." "my friend!" ah! the words were dear to me as words of love from a sweetheart's lips. i hardly recognized him, he was so frightfully covered with filth and dirt and creeping things. his hair and beard were unkempt and matted, and his eyes and cheeks were lusterless and sunken; but i will describe him no further. suffering had well-nigh done its work, and nothing but the hardihood gathered in his years of camp life and war could have saved him from death. i bathed and reclothed him as well as i could at newgate, and then took him home to greenwich in a horse litter, where my man and i thoroughly washed, dressed and sheared the poor fellow and put him to bed. "ah! this bed is a foretaste of paradise," he said, as he lay upon the mattress. it was a pitiful sight, and i could hardly refrain from tears. i sent my man to fetch a certain moor, a learned scholar, though a hated foreigner, who lived just off cheap and sold small arms, and very soon he was with us. brandon and i both knew him well, and admired his learning and gentleness, and loved him for his sweet philosophy of life, the leaven of which was charity--a modest little plant too often overshadowed by the rank growth of pompous dogmatism. the moor was learned in the healing potions of the east, and insisted, privately, of course, that all the shrines and relics in christendom put together could not cure an ache in a baby's little finger. this, perhaps, was going too far, for there are some relics that have undoubted potency, but in cases where human agency can cure, the people of the east are unquestionably far in advance of us in knowledge of remedies. the moor at once gave brandon a soothing drink, which soon put him into a sweet sleep. he then bathed him as he slept, with some strengthening lotion, made certain learned signs, and spoke a few cabalistic words, and, sure enough, so strong were the healing remedies and incantations that the next morning brandon was another man, though very far from well and strong. the moor recommended nutritious food, such as roast beef and generous wine, and, although this advice was contrary to the general belief, which is, with apparent reason, that the evil spirit of disease should be starved and driven out, yet so great was our faith in him that we followed his directions, and in a few days brandon had almost regained his old-time strength. i will ask you to go back with me for a moment. during the week, between brandon's interview with mary in the ante-room of the king's bed-chamber and the tragedy at billingsgate, he and i had many conversations about the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. at one time, i remember, he said: "i was safe enough before that afternoon. i believe i could have gone away and forgotten her eventually, but our mutual avowal seems to have dazed me and paralyzed every power for effort. i sometimes feel helpless, and, although i have succeeded in keeping away from her since then, i often find myself wavering in my determination to leave england. that was what i feared if i allowed the matter to go to the point of being sure of her love. i only wanted it before, and very easily made myself believe it was impossible, and not for me. but now that i know she loves me it is like holding my breath to live without her. i feel every instant that i can hold it no longer. i know only too well that if i but see her face once more i shall breathe. she is the very breath of life for me. she is mine by the gift of god. curses upon those who keep us apart." then musingly and half interrogatively: "she certainly does love me. she could not have treated me as she did unless her love was so strong that she could not resist it." "let no doubt of that trouble you," i answered. "a woman like mary cannot treat two men as she treated you. many a woman may love, or think she loves many times, but there is only one man who receives the full measure of her best. other women, again, have nothing to give but their best, and when they have once given that, they have given all. unless i have known her in vain, mary, with all her faults, is such a woman. again i say, let no doubt of that trouble you." brandon answered with a sad little smile from the midst of his reverie. "it is really not so much the doubt as the certainty of it that troubles me." then, starting to his feet: "if i thought she had lied to me; if i thought she could wantonly lead me on to suffer so for her, i would kill her, so help me god." "do not think that. whatever her faults, and she has enough, there is no man on earth for her but you. her love has come to her through a struggle against it because it was her master. that is the strongest and best, in fact the only, love; worth all the self-made passions in the world." "yes, i believe it. i know she has faults; even my partiality cannot blind me to them, but she is as pure and chaste as a child, and as gentle, strong and true as--as--a woman. i can put it no stronger. she has these, her redeeming virtues, along with her beauty, from her plebeian grandmother, elizabeth woodville, who, with them, won a royal husband and elevated herself to the throne beside the chivalrous edward. this sweet plebeian heritage bubbles up in the heart of mary, and will not down, but neutralizes the royal poison in her veins and makes a goddess of her." then with a sigh: "but if her faults were a thousand times as many, and if each fault were a thousand times as great, her beauty would atone for all. such beauty as hers can afford to have faults. look at helen and cleopatra, and agnes sorel. did their faults make them less attractive? beauty covereth more sins than charity--and maketh more grief than pestilence." the last clause was evidently an afterthought. after his month in newgate with the hangman's noose about his neck all because of mary's cruel neglect, i wondered if her beauty would so easily atone for her faults. i may as well tell you that he changed his mind concerning this particular doctrine of atonement. _chapter xi_ _louis xii a suitor_ as soon as i could leave brandon, i had intended to go down to windsor and give vent to my indignation toward the girls, but the more i thought about it, the surer i felt there had, somehow, been a mistake. i could not bring myself to believe that mary had deliberately permitted matters to go to such an extreme when it was in her power to prevent it. she might have neglected her duty for a day or two, but, sooner or later, her good impulses always came to her rescue, and, with jane by her side to urge her on, i was almost sure she would have liberated brandon long ago--barring a blunder of some sort. so i did not go to windsor until a week after brandon's release, when the king asked me to go down with him, wolsey and de longueville, the french ambassador-special, for the purpose of officially offering to mary the hand of louis xii, and the honor of becoming queen of france. the princess had known of the projected arrangement for many weeks, but had no thought of the present forward condition of affairs, or she would have brought her energies to bear upon henry long before. she could not bring herself to believe that her brother would really force her into such wretchedness, and possibly he would never have done so, much as he desired it from the standpoint of personal ambition, had it not been for the petty excuse of that fatal trip to grouche's. all the circumstances of the case were such as to make mary's marriage a veritable virgin sacrifice. louis was an old man, and an old frenchman at that; full of french notions of morality and immorality; and besides, there were objections that cannot be written, but of which henry and mary had been fully informed. she might as well marry a leper. do you wonder she was full of dread and fear, and resisted with the desperation of death? so mary, the person most interested, was about the last to learn that the treaty had been signed. windsor was nearly eight leagues from london, and at that time was occupied only by the girls and a few old ladies and servants, so that news did not travel fast in that direction from the city. it is also probable that, even if the report of the treaty and brandon's release had reached windsor, the persons hearing it would have hesitated to repeat it to mary. however that may be, she had no knowledge of either until she was informed of the fact that the king and the french ambassador would be at windsor on a certain day to make the formal request for her hand and to offer the gifts of king louis. i had no doubt mary was in trouble, and felt sure she had been making affairs lively about her. i knew her suffering was keen, but was glad of it in view of her treatment of brandon. a day or two after brandon's liberation i had begun to speak to him of the girls, but he interrupted me with a frightful oath: "caskoden, you are my friend, but if you ever mention their names again in my hearing you are my friend no longer. i will curse you." i was frightened, so much stronger did his nature show than mine, and i took good care to remain silent on that subject until--but i am going too fast again; i will tell you of that hereafter. upon the morning appointed, the king, wolsey, de longueville and myself, with a small retinue, rode over to windsor, where we found that mary, anticipating us, had barricaded herself in her bedroom and refused to receive the announcement. the king went up stairs to coax the fair young besieged through two inches of oak door, and to induce her, if possible, to come down. we below could plainly hear the king pleading in the voice of a bashan bull, and it afforded us some amusement behind our hands. then his majesty grew angry and threatened to break down the door, but the fair besieged maintained a most persistent and provoking silence throughout it all, and allowed him to carry out his threat without so much as a whimper. he was thoroughly angry, and called to us to come up to see him "compel obedience from the self-willed hussy,"--a task the magnitude of which he underrated. the door was soon broken down, and the king walked in first, with de longueville and wolsey next, and the rest of us following in close procession. but we marched over broken walls to the most laughable defeat ever suffered by besieging army. our foe, though small, was altogether too fertile in expedients for us. there seemed no way to conquer this girl; her resources were so inexhaustible that in the moment of your expected victory success was turned into defeat; nay, more, ridiculous disaster. we found jane crouching on the floor in a corner half dead with fright from the noise and tumult--and where do you think we found her mistress? frightened? not at all; she was lying in bed with her face to the wall as cool as a january morning; her clothing in a little heap in the middle of the room. without turning her head, she exclaimed: "come in, brother; you are quite welcome. bring in your friends; i am ready to receive them, though not in court attire, as you see." and she thrust her bare arm straight up from the bed to prove her words. you should have seen the frenchman's little black eyes gloat on its beauty. mary went on, still looking toward the wall: "i will arise and receive you all informally, if you will but wait." this disconcerted the imperturbable henry, who was about at his wit's end. "cover that arm, you hussy," he cried in a flaming rage. "be not impatient, brother mine! i will jump out in just a moment." a little scream from jane startled everybody, and she quickly ran up to the king, saying: "i beg your majesty to go. she will do as she says so sure as you remain; you don't know her; she is very angry. please go; i will bring her down stairs somehow." "ah, indeed! jane bolingbroke," came from the bed. "i will receive my guests myself when they are kind enough to come to my room." the cover-lid began to move, and, whether or not she was really going to carry out her threat, i cannot say, but henry, knowing her too well to risk it, hurried us all out of the room and marched down stairs at the head of his defeated cohorts. he was swearing in a way to make a priest's flesh creep, and protesting by everything holy that mary should be the wife of louis or die. he went back to mary's room at intervals, but there was enough persistence in that one girl to stop the wheels of time, if she but set herself to do it, and the king came away from each visit the victim of another rout. finally his anger cooled and he became amused. from the last visit he came down laughing: [illustration] "i shall have to give up the fight or else put my armor on with visor down," said he; "it is not safe to go near her without it; she is a very vixen, and but now tried to scratch my eyes out." wolsey, who had a wonderful knack for finding the easiest means to a difficult end, took henry off to a window where they held a whispered conversation. it was pathetic to see a mighty king and his great minister of state consulting and planning against one poor girl; and, as angry as i felt toward mary, i could not help pitying her, and admired, beyond the power of pen to write, the valiant and so far impregnable defense she had put up against an array of strength that would have made a king tremble on his throne. presently henry gave one of his loud laughs, and slapped his thigh as if highly satisfied with some proposition of wolsey's. "make ready at once," he said. "we will go back to london." in a short time we were all at the main stairway ready to mount for the return trip. the lady mary's window was just above, and i saw jane watching us as we rode away. after we were well out of mary's sight the king called me to him, and he, together with de longueville, wolsey and myself, turned our horses' heads, rode rapidly by a circuitous path back to another door of the castle and re-entered without the knowledge of any of the inmates. we four remained in silence, enjoined by the king, and in the course of an hour, the princess, supposing every one had gone, came down stairs and walked into the room where we were waiting. it was a scurvy trick, and i felt a contempt for the men who had planned it. i could see that mary's first impulse was to beat a hasty retreat back into her citadel, the bed, but in truth she had in her make-up very little disposition to retreat. she was clear grit. what a man she would have made! but what a crime it would have been in nature to have spoiled so perfect a woman. how beautiful she was! she threw one quick, surprised glance at her brother and his companions, and lifting up her exquisite head carelessly hummed a little tune under her breath as she marched to the other end of the room with a gait that juno herself could not have improved upon. i saw the king smile, half in pride of her, and half in amusement, and the frenchman's little eyes feasted upon her beauty with a relish that could not be mistaken. henry and the ambassador spoke a word in whispers, when the latter took a box from a huge side pocket and started across the room toward mary with the king at his heels. her side was toward them when they came up, but she kept her attitude as if she had been of bronze. she had taken up a book that was lying on the table and was examining it as they approached. de longueville held the box in his hand, and bowing and scraping said in broken english: "permit to me, most gracious princess, that i may have the honor to offer on behalf of my august master, this little testament of his high admiration and love." with this he bowed again, smiled like a crack in a piece of old parchment, and held his box toward mary. it was open, probably in the hope of enticing her with a sight of its contents--a beautiful diamond necklace. she turned her face ever so little and took it all in with one contemptuous, sneering glance out of the corners of her eyes. then quietly reaching out her hand she grasped the necklace and deliberately dashed it in poor old de longueville's face. "there is my answer, sir! go home and tell your imbecile old master i scorn his suit and hate him--hate him--hate him!" then with the tears falling unheeded down her cheeks, "master wolsey, you butcher's cur! this trick was of your conception; the others had not brains enough to think of it. are you not proud to have outwitted one poor heart-broken girl? but beware, sir; i tell you now i will be quits with you yet, or my name is not mary." there is a limit to the best of feminine nerve, and at that limit should always be found a flood of healthful tears. mary had reached it when she threw the necklace and shot her bolt at wolsey, so she broke down and hastily left the room. the king, of course, was beside himself with rage. "by god's soul," he swore, "she shall marry louis of france, or i will have her whipped to death on the smithfield pillory." and in his wicked heart--so impervious to a single lasting good impulse--he really meant it. immediately after this, the king, de longueville and wolsey set out for london. i remained behind hoping to see the girls, and after a short time a page plucked me by the sleeve, saying the princess wished to see me. the page conducted me to the same room in which had been fought the battle with mary in bed. the door had been placed on its hinges again, but the bed was tumbled as mary had left it, and the room was in great disorder. "oh, sir edwin," began mary, who was weeping, "was ever woman in such frightful trouble? my brother is killing me. can he not see that i could not live through a week of this marriage? and i have been deserted by all my friends, too, excepting jane. she, poor thing, cannot leave." "you know i would not go," said jane, parenthetically. mary continued: "you, too, have been home an entire week and have not been near me." i began to soften at the sight of her grief, and concluded, with brandon, that, after all, her beauty could well cover a multitude of sins; perhaps even this, her great transgression against him. the princess was trying to check her weeping, and in a moment took up the thread of her unfinished sentence: "and master brandon, too, left without so much as sending me one little word--not a line nor a syllable. he did not come near me, but went off as if i did not care--or he did not. of course _he_ did not care, or he would not have behaved so, knowing i was in so much trouble. i did not see him at all after--one afternoon in the king's--about a week before that awful night in london, except that night, when i was so frightened i could not speak one word of all the things i wished to say." this sounded strange enough, and i began more than ever to suspect something wrong. i, however, kept as firm a grasp as possible upon the stock of indignation i had brought with me. "how did you expect to see or hear from him," asked i, "when he was lying in a loathsome dungeon without one ray of light, condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, because of your selfish neglect to save him who, at the cost of half his blood, and almost his life, had saved so much for you?" her eyes grew big, and the tears were checked by genuine surprise. i continued: "lady mary, no one could have made me believe that you would stand back and let the man, to whom you owed so great a debt, lie so long in such misery, and be condemned to such a death for the act that saved you. i could never have believed it!" "imp of hell!" screamed mary; "what tale is this you bring to torture me? have i not enough already? tell me it is a lie, or i will have your miserable little tongue torn out by the root." "it is no lie, princess, but an awful truth, and a frightful shame to you." i was determined to tell her all and let her see herself as she was. she gave a hysterical laugh, and throwing up her hands, with her accustomed little gesture, fell upon the bed in utter abandonment, shaking as with a spasm. she did not weep; she could not; she was past that now. jane went over to the bed and tried to soothe her. in a moment mary sprang to her feet, exclaiming: "master brandon condemned to death and you and i here talking and moaning and weeping? come, come, we will go to the king at once. we will start to walk, edwin--i must be doing something--and jane can follow with the horses and overtake us. no; i will not dress; just as i am; this will do. bring me a hat, jane; any one, any one." while putting on hat and gloves she continued: "i will see the king at once and tell him all! all! i will do anything; i will marry that old king of france, or forty kings, or forty devils; it's all one to me; anything! anything! to save him. oh! to think that he has been in that dungeon all this time." and the tears came unheeded in a deluge. she was under such headway, and spoke and moved so rapidly, that i could not stop her until she was nearly ready to go. then i held her by the arm while i said: "it is not necessary now; you are too late." a look of horror came into her face, and i continued slowly: "i procured brandon's release nearly a week ago; i did what you should have done, and he is now at our rooms in greenwich." mary looked at me a moment, and, turning pale, pressed her hands to her heart and leaned against the door frame. after a short silence she said: "edwin caskoden--fool! why could you not have told me that at first? i thought my brain would burn and my heart burst." "i should have told you had you given me time. as to the pain it gave you"--this was the last charge of my large magazine of indignation--"i care very little about that. you deserve it. i do not know what explanation you have to offer, but nothing can excuse you. an explanation, however good, would have been little comfort to you had brandon failed you in billingsgate that night." she had fallen into a chair by this time and sat in reverie, staring at nothing. then the tears came again, but more softly. "you are right; nothing can excuse me. i am the most selfish, ungrateful, guilty creature ever born. a whole month in that dungeon!" and she covered her drooping face with her hands. "go away for awhile, edwin, and then return; we shall want to see you again," said jane. upon my return mary was more composed. jane had dressed her hair, and she was sitting on the bed in her riding habit, hat in hand. her fingers were nervously toying at the ribbons and her eyes cast down. "you are surely right, sir edwin. i have no excuse. i can have none; but i will tell you how it was. you remember the day you left me in the waiting-room of the king's council?--when they were discussing my marriage without one thought of me, as if i were but a slave or a dumb brute that could not feel." she began to weep a little, but soon recovered herself. "while waiting for you to return, the duke of buckingham came in. i knew henry was trying to sell me to the french king, and my heart was full of trouble--from more causes than you can know. all the council, especially that butcher's son, were urging him on, and henry himself was anxious that the marriage should be brought about. he thought it would strengthen him for the imperial crown. he wants everything, and is ambitious to be emperor. emperor! he would cut a pretty figure! i hoped, though, i should be able to induce him not to sacrifice me to his selfish interests, as i have done before, but i knew only too well it would tax my powers to the utmost this time. i knew that if i did anything to anger or to antagonize him, it would be all at an end with me. you know he is so exacting with other people's conduct, for one who is so careless of his own--so virtuous by proxy. you remember how cruelly he disgraced and crushed poor lady chesterfield, who was in such trouble about her husband, and who went to grouche's only to learn if he were true to her. henry seems to be particularly sensitive in that direction. one would think it was in the commandments: 'thou shalt not go to grouche's.' it may be that some have gone there for other purposes than to have their fortunes told--to meet, to--but i need not say that i--" and she stopped short, blushing to her hair. "well, i knew i could do nothing with henry if he once learned of that visit, especially as it resulted so fatally. oh! why did i go? why _did_ i go? that was why i hesitated to tell henry at once. i was hoping some other way would open whereby i might save charles--master brandon. while i was waiting, along came the duke of buckingham, and as i knew he was popular in london, and had almost as much influence there as the king, a thought came to me that he might help us. "i knew that he and master brandon had passed a few angry words at one time in my ball-room--you remember--but i also knew that the duke was in--in love with me, you know, or pretended to be--he always said he was--and i felt sure i could, by a little flattery, induce him to do anything. he was always protesting that he would give half his blood to serve me. as if anybody wanted a drop of his wretched blood. poor master brandon! his blood ..." and the tears came, choking her words for the moment. "so i told the duke i had promised you and jane to procure master brandon's liberty, and asked him to do it for me. he gladly consented, and gave me his knightly word that it should be attended to without an hour's delay. he said it might have to be done secretly in the way of an escape--not officially--as the londoners were very jealous of their rights and much aroused on account of the killing. especially, he said that at that time great caution must be used, as the king was anxious to conciliate the city in order to procure a loan for some purpose--my dower, i suppose. "the duke said it should be as i wished; that master brandon should escape, and remain away from london for a few weeks until the king procured his loan, and then be freed by royal proclamation. "i saw buckingham the next day, for i was very anxious, you may be sure, and he said the keeper of newgate had told him it had been arranged the night before as desired. i had come to windsor because it was more quiet, and my heart was full. it is quite a distance from london, and i thought it might afford a better opportunity to--to see--i thought, perhaps master brandon might come--might want to--to--see jane and me; in fact i wrote him before i left greenwich that i should be here. then i heard he had gone to new spain. now you see how all my troubles have come upon me at once; and this the greatest of them, because it is my fault. i can ask no forgiveness from any one, for i cannot forgive myself." she then inquired about brandon's health and spirits, and i left out no distressing detail you may be sure. during my recital she sat with downcast eyes and tear-stained face, playing with the ribbons of her hat. when i was ready to go she said: "please say to master brandon i should like--to--see--him, if he cares to come, if only that i may tell him how it happened." "i greatly fear, in fact, i know he will not come," said i. "the cruelest blow of all, worse even than the dungeon, or the sentence of death, was your failure to save him. he trusted you so implicitly. at the time of his arrest he refused to allow me to tell the king, saying he knew you would see to it--that you were pure gold." "ah, did he say that?" she asked, as a sad little smile lighted her face. "his faith was so entirely without doubt, that his recoil from you is correspondingly great. he goes to new spain as soon as his health is recovered sufficiently for him to travel." this sent the last fleck of color from her face, and with the words almost choking her throat: "then tell him what i have said to you and perhaps he will not feel so--" "i cannot do that either, lady mary. when i mentioned your name the other day he said he would curse me if i ever spoke it again in his hearing." "is it so bad as that?" then, meditatively: "and at his trial he did not tell the reason for the killing? would not compromise me, who had served him so ill, even to save his own life? noble, noble!" and her lips went together as she rose to her feet. no tears now; nothing but glowing, determined womanhood. "then i will go to him wherever he may be. he shall forgive me, no matter what my fault." soon after this we were on our way to london at a brisk gallop. we were all very silent, but at one time mary spoke up from the midst of a reverie: "during the moment when i thought master brandon had been executed--when you said it was too late--it seemed that i was born again and all made over; that i was changed in the very texture of my nature by the shock, as they say the grain of the iron cannon is sometimes changed by too violent an explosion." and this proved to be true in some respects. we rode on rapidly and did not stop in london except to give the horses drink. after crossing the bridge, mary said, half to jane and half to herself: "i will never marry the french king--never." mary was but a girl pitted against a body of brutal men, two of them rulers of the two greatest nations on earth--rather heavy odds, for one woman. we rode down to greenwich and entered the palace without exciting comment, as the princess was in the habit of coming and going at will. the king and queen and most of the courtiers were in london--at bridewell house and baynard's castle--where henry was vigorously pushing the loan of five hundred thousand crowns for mary's dower, the only business of state in which, at that time, he took any active interest. subsequently, as you know, he became interested in the divorce laws, and the various methods whereby a man, especially a king, might rid himself of a distasteful wife; and after he saw the truth in anne boleyn's eyes, he adopted a combined policy of church and state craft that has brought us a deal of senseless trouble ever since--and is like to keep it up. as to mary's dower, henry was to pay louis only four hundred thousand crowns, but he made the marriage an excuse for an extra hundred thousand, to be devoted to his own private use. when we arrived at the palace, the girls went to their apartments and i to mine, where i found brandon reading. there was only one window to our common room--a dormer-window, set into the roof, and reached by a little passage as broad as the window itself, and perhaps a yard and a half long. in the alcove thus formed was a bench along the wall, cushioned by brandon's great campaign cloak. in this window we often sat and read, and here was brandon with his book. i had intended to tell him the girls were coming, for when mary asked me if i thought he would come to her at the palace, and when i had again said no, she reiterated her intention of going to him at once; but my courage failed me and i did not speak of it. i knew that mary ought not to come to our room, and that if news of it should reach the king's ears there would be more and worse trouble than ever, and, as usual, brandon would pay the penalty for all. then again, if it were discovered it might seriously compromise both mary and jane, as the world is full of people who would rather say and believe an evil thing of another than to say their prayers or to believe the holy creed. i had said as much to the lady mary when she expressed her determination to go to brandon. she had been in the wrong so much of late that she was humbled; and i was brave enough to say whatever i felt; but she said she had thought it all over, and as every one was away from greenwich it would not be found out if done secretly. she told jane she need not go; that she, mary, did not want to take any risk of compromising her. you see, trouble was doing a good work in the princess, and had made it possible for a generous thought for another to find spontaneous lodgment in her heart. what a great thing it is, this human suffering, which so sensitizes our sympathy, and makes us tender to another's pain. nothing else so fits us for earth or prepares us for heaven. jane would have gone, though, had she known that all her fair name would go with her. she was right, you see, when she told me, while riding over to windsor, that should mary's love blossom into a full-blown passion she would wreck everything and everybody, including herself perhaps, to attain the object of so great a desire. it looked now as if she were on the high road to that end. nothing short of chains and fetters could have kept her from going to brandon that evening. there was an inherent force about her that was irresistible and swept everything before it. in our garret she was to meet another will, stronger and infinitely better controlled than her own, and i did not know how it would all turn out. _chapter xii_ _atonement_ i had not been long in the room when a knock at the door announced the girls. i admitted them, and mary walked to the middle of the floor. it was just growing dark and the room was quite dim, save at the window where brandon sat reading. gods! those were exciting moments; my heart beat like a woman's. brandon saw the girls when they entered, but never so much as looked up from his book. you must remember he had a great grievance. even looking at it from mary's side of the case, certainly its best point of view, he had been terribly misused, and it was all the worse that the misuse had come from one who, from his standpoint, had _pretended_ to love him, and had wantonly led him on, as he had the best of right to think, to love her, and to suffer the keenest pangs a heart can know. then you must remember he did not know even the best side of the matter, bad as it was, but saw only the naked fact, that in recompense for his great help in time of need, mary had deliberately allowed him to lie in that dungeon a long, miserable month, and would have suffered him to die. so it was no wonder his heart was filled with bitterness toward her. jane and i had remained near the door, and poor mary was a pitiable princess, standing there so full of doubt in the middle of the room. after a moment she stepped toward the window, and, with quick-coming breath, stopped at the threshold of the little passage. "master brandon, i have come, not to make excuses, for nothing can excuse me, but to tell you how it all happened--by trusting to another." brandon arose, and marking the place in his book with his finger, followed mary, who had stepped backward into the room. "your highness is very gracious and kind thus to honor me, but as our ways will hereafter lie as far apart as the world is broad, i think it would have been far better had you refrained from so imprudent a visit; especially as anything one so exalted as yourself may have to say can be no affair of such as i--one just free of the hangman's noose." "oh! don't! i pray you. let me tell you, and it may make a difference. it must pain you, i know, to think of me as you do, after--after--you know; after what has passed between us." "yes, that only makes it all the harder. if you could give your kisses"--and she blushed red as blood--"to one for whom you care so little that you could leave him to die like a dog, when a word from you would have saved him, what reason have i to suppose they are not for every man?" this gave mary an opening of which she was quick enough to take advantage, for brandon was in the wrong. "you know that is not true. you are not honest with me nor with yourself, and that is not like you. you know that no other man ever had, or could have, any favor from me, even the slightest. wantonness is not among my thousand faults. it is not that which angers you. you are sure enough of me in that respect. in truth, i had almost come to believe you were too sure, that i had grown cheap in your eyes, and you did not care so much as i thought and hoped for what i had to give, for after that day you came not near me at all. i know it was the part of wisdom and prudence that you should remain away; but had you cared as much as i, your prudence would not have held you." she hung her head a moment in silence; then, looking at him, almost ready for tears, continued: "a man has no right to speak in that way of a woman whose little favors he has taken, and make her regret that she has given a gift only that it may recoil upon her. 'little,' did i say? sir, do you know what that--first--kiss was to me? had i possessed all the crowns of all the earth i would have given them to you as willingly. now you know the value i placed on it, however worthless it was to you. yet i was a cheerful giver of that great gift, was i not? and can you find it in your heart to make of it a shame to me--that of which i was so proud?" she stood there with head inclined a little to one side, looking at him inquiringly as if awaiting an answer. he did not speak, but looked steadily at his book. i felt, however, that he was changing, and i was sure her beauty, never more exquisite than in its present humility, would yet atone for even so great a fault as hers. err, look beautiful, and receive remission! such a woman as mary carries her indulgence in her face. i now began to realize for the first time the wondrous power of this girl, and ceased to marvel that she had always been able to turn even the king, the most violent, stubborn man on earth, to her own wishes. her manner made her words eloquent, and already, with true feminine tactics, she had put brandon in the wrong in everything because he was wrong in part. then she quickly went over what she had said to me. she told of her great dread lest the king should learn of the visit to grouche's and its fatal consequences, knowing full well it would render henry impervious to her influence and precipitate the french marriage. she told him of how she was going to the king the day after the arrest to ask his release, and of the meeting with buckingham, and his promise. still brandon said nothing, and stood as if politely waiting for her to withdraw. she remained silent a little time, waiting for him to speak, when tears, partly of vexation, i think, moistened her eyes. "tell me at least," she said, "that you know i speak the truth. i have always believed in you, and now i ask for your faith. i would not lie to you in the faintest shading of a thought--not for heaven itself--not even for your love and forgiveness, much as they are to me, and i want to know that you are sure of my truthfulness, if you doubt all else. you see i speak plainly of what your love is to me, for although, by remaining away, you made me fear i had been too lavish with my favors--that is every woman's fear--i knew in my heart you loved me; that you could not have done and said what you did otherwise. now you see what faith i have in you, and you a man, whom a woman's instinct prompts to doubt. how does it compare with your faith in me, a woman, whom all the instincts of a manly nature should dispose to trust? it seems to be an unwritten law that a man may lie to a woman concerning the most important thing in life to her, and be proud of it, but you see even now i have all faith in your love for me, else i surely should not be here. you see i trust even your unspoken word, when it might, without much blame to you, be a spoken lie; yet you do not trust me, who have no world-given right to speak falsely about such things, and when that which i now do is full of shame for me, and what i have done full of guilt, if inspired by aught but the purest truth from my heart of hearts. your words mean so much--so much more, i think, than you realize--and are so cruel in turning to evil the highest, purest impulse a woman can feel--the glowing pride in self-surrender, and the sweet, delightful privilege of giving where she loves. how can you? how can you?" how eloquent she was! it seemed to me this would have melted the frozen sea, but i think brandon felt that now his only hope lay in the safeguard of his constantly upheld indignation. when he spoke he ignored all she had said. "you did well to employ my lord of buckingham. it will make matters more interesting when i tell you it was he who attacked you and was caught by the leg under his wounded horse; he was lame, i am told, for some time afterward. i had watched him following you from the gate at bridewell, and at once recognized him when his mask fell off during the fight by the wall. you have done well at every step, i see." "oh, god; to think of it! had i but known! buckingham shall pay for this with his head; but how could i know? i was but a poor, distracted girl, sure to make some fatal error. i was in such agony--your wounds--believe me, i suffered more from them than you could. every pain you felt was a pang for me--and then that awful marriage! i was being sold like a wretched slave to that old satyr, to be gloated over and feasted upon. no man can know the horror of that thought to a woman--to any woman, good or bad. to have one's beauty turn to curse her and make her desirable only--only as well-fed cattle are prized. no matter how great the manifestation of such so-called love, it all the more repels a woman and adds to her loathing day by day. then there was something worse than all,"--she was almost weeping now--"i might have been able to bear the thought even of that hideous marriage--others have lived through the like--but--but after--that--that day--when you--it seemed that your touch was a spark dropped into a heart full of tinder, which had been lying there awaiting it all these years. in that one moment the flame grew so intense i could not withstand it. my throat ached; i could scarcely breathe, and it seemed that my heart would burst." here the tears gushed forth as she took a step toward him with outstretched arms, and said between her sobs: "i wanted you, you! for my husband--for my husband, and i could not bear the torturing thought of losing you or enduring any other man. i could not give you up after that--it was all too late, too late; it had gone too far. i was lost! lost!" he sprang to where she stood leaning toward him, and caught her to his breast. she held him from her while she said: "now you know--now you know that i would not have left you in that terrible place, had i known it. no, not if it had taken my life to buy your freedom." "i do know; i do know. be sure of that; i know it and shall know it always, whatever happens; nothing can change me. i will never doubt you again. it is my turn to ask forgiveness now." "no, no; just forgive me; that is all i ask," and her head was on his breast. "let us step out into the passage-way, edwin," said jane, and we did. there were times when jane seemed to be inspired. when we went back into the room mary and brandon were sitting in the window-way on his great cloak. they rose and came to us, holding each other's hands, and mary asked, looking up to him: "shall we tell them?" "as you like, my lady." mary was willing, and looked for brandon to speak, so he said: "this lady whom i hold by the hand and myself have promised each other before the good god to be husband and wife, if fortune ever so favor us that it be possible." "no, that is not it," interrupted mary. "there is no 'if' in it; it shall be, whether it is possible or not. nothing shall prevent." at this she kissed jane and told her how she loved her, and gave me her hand, for her love was so great within her that it overflowed upon every one. she, however, always had a plenitude of love for jane, and though she might scold her and apparently misuse her, jane was as dear as a sister, and was always sure of her steadfast, tried and lasting affection. after mary had said there should be no "if," brandon replied: "very well, madame destiny." then turning to us: "what ought i to do for one who is willing to stoop from so high an estate to honor me and be my wife?" "love her, and her alone, with your whole heart, as long as you live. that is all she wants, i am sure," volunteered jane, sentimentally. "jane, you are a madam solomon," said mary, with a tone of her old-time laugh. "is the course you advise as you would wish to be done by?" and she glanced mischievously from jane to me, as the laugh bubbled up from her heart, merry and soft as if it had not come from what was but now the home of grief and pain. "i know nothing about how i should like to be done by," said jane, with a pout, "but if you have such respect for my wisdom i will offer a little more; i think it is time we should be going." "now, jane, you are growing foolish again; i will not go yet," and mary made manifest her intention by sitting down. she could not bring herself to forego the pleasure of staying, dangerous as she knew it to be, and could not bear the pain of parting, even for a short time, now that she had brandon once more. the time was soon coming--but i am too fast again. after a time brandon said: "i think jane's wisdom remains with her, mary. it is better that you do not stay, much as i wish to have you." she was ready to obey him at once. when she arose to go she took both his hands in hers and whispered: "'mary.' i like the name on your lips," and then glancing hurriedly over her shoulder to see if jane and i were looking, lifted her face to him and ran after us. we were a little in advance of the princess, and, as we walked along, jane said under her breath: "now look out for trouble; it will come quickly, and i fear for master brandon more than any one. he has made a noble fight against her and against himself, and it is no wonder she loves him." this made me feel a little jealous. "jane, you could not love him, could you?" i asked. "no matter what i could do, edwin; i do not, and that should satisfy you." her voice and manner said more than her words. the hall was almost dark, and--i have always considered that occasion one of my lost opportunities; but they are not many. the next evening brandon and i, upon lady mary's invitation, went up to her apartments, but did not stay long, fearing some one might find us there and cause trouble. we would not have gone at all had not the whole court been absent in london, for discovery would have been a serious matter to one of us at least. as i told you once before, henry did not care how much brandon might love his sister, but buckingham had whispered suspicions of the state of mary's heart, and his own observations, together with the intercepted note, had given these suspicions a stronger coloring, so that a very small matter might turn them into certainties. the king had pardoned brandon for the killing of the two men in billingsgate, as he was forced to do under the circumstances, but there his kindness stopped. after a short time he deprived him of his place at court, and all that was left for him of royal favor was permission to remain with me and live at the palace until such time as he should sail for new spain. _chapter xiii_ _a girl's consent_ the treaty had been agreed upon, and as to the international arrangement, at least, the marriage of louis de valois and mary tudor was a settled fact. all it needed was the consent of an eighteen-year-old girl--a small matter, of course, as marriageable women are but commodities in statecraft, and theoretically, at least, acquiesce in everything their liege lords ordain. lady mary's consent had been but theoretical, but it was looked upon by every one as amounting to an actual, vociferated, sonorous "yes;" that is to say, by every one but the princess, who had no more notion of saying "yes" than she had of reciting the sanscrit vocabulary from the pillory of smithfield. wolsey, whose manner was smooth as an otter's coat, had been sent to fetch the needed "yes"; but he failed. jane told me about it. wolsey had gone privately to see the princess, and had thrown out a sort of skirmish line by flattering her beauty, but had found her not in the best humor. "yes, yes, my lord of lincoln, i know how beautiful i am; no one knows better; i know all about my hair, eyes, teeth, eyebrows and skin. i tell you i am sick of them. don't talk to me about them; it won't help you to get my consent to marry that vile old creature. that is what you have come for, of course. i have been expecting you; why did not my brother come?" "i think he was afraid; and, to tell you the truth, i was afraid myself," answered wolsey, with a smile. this made mary smile, too, in spite of herself, and went a long way toward putting her in a good humor. wolsey continued: "his majesty could not have given me a more disagreeable task. you doubtless think i am in favor of this marriage, but i am not." this was as great a lie as ever fell whole out of a bishop's mouth. "i have been obliged to fall in with the king's views on the matter, for he has had his mind set on it from the first mention by de longueville." "was it that bead-eyed little mummy who suggested it?" "yes, and if you marry the king of france you can repay him with usury." "'tis an inducement, by my troth." "i do not mind saying to you in confidence that i think it an outrage to force a girl like you to marry a man like louis of france, but how are we to avoid it?" by the "we" wolsey put himself in alliance with mary, and the move was certainly adroit. "how are we to avoid it? have no fear of that, my lord; i will show you." "oh! but my dear princess; permit me; you do not seem to know your brother; you cannot in any way avoid this marriage. i believe he will imprison you and put you on bread and water to force your consent. i am sure you had better do willingly that which you will eventually be compelled to do anyway; and besides, there is another thought that has come to me; shall i speak plainly before lady jane bolingbroke?" "i have no secrets from her." "very well; it is this: louis is old and very feeble; he cannot live long, and it may be that you can, by a ready consent now, exact a promise from your brother to allow you your own choice in the event of a second marriage. you might in that way purchase what you could not bring about in any other way." "how do you know that i want to purchase aught in any way, master wolsey? i most certainly do not intend to do so by marrying france." "i do not know that you wish to purchase anything, but a woman's heart is not always under her full control, and it sometimes goes out to one very far beneath her in station, but the equal of any man on earth in grandeur of soul and nobleness of nature. it might be that there is such a man whom any woman would be amply justified in purchasing at any sacrifice--doubly so if it were buying happiness for two." his meaning was too plain even to pretend to misunderstand, and mary's eyes flashed at him, as her face broke into a dimpling smile in spite of her. wolsey thought he had won, and to clinch the victory said, in his forceful manner: "louis xii will not live a year; let me carry to the king your consent, and i guarantee you his promise as to a second marriage." in an instant mary's eyes shot fire, and her face was like the blackest storm cloud. "carry this to the king: that i will see him and the whole kingdom sunk in hell before i will marry louis of france. that is my answer once and for all. good even', master wolsey." and she swept out of the room with head up and dilating nostrils, the very picture of defiance. st. george! she must have looked superb. she was one of the few persons whom anger and disdain and the other passions which we call ungentle seemed to illumine--they were so strong in her, and yet not violent. it seemed that every deep emotion but added to her beauty and brought it out, as the light within a church brings out the exquisite figuring on the windows. [illustration] after wolsey had gone, jane said to mary: "don't you think it would have been better had you sent a softer answer to your brother? i believe you could reach his heart even now if you were to make the effort. you have not tried in this matter as you did in the others." "perhaps you are right, jane. i will go to henry." mary waited until she knew the king was alone, and then went to him. on entering the room, she said: "brother, i sent a hasty message to you by the bishop of lincoln this morning, and have come to ask your forgiveness." "ah! little sister; i thought you would change your mind. now you are a good girl." "oh! do not misunderstand me; i asked your forgiveness for the message; as to the marriage, i came to tell you that it would kill me and that i could not bear it. oh! brother, you are not a woman--you cannot know." henry flew into a passion, and with oaths and curses ordered her to leave him unless she was ready to give her consent. she had but two courses to take, so she left with her heart full of hatred for the most brutal wretch who ever sat upon a throne--and that is making an extreme case. as she was going, she turned upon him like a fury, and exclaimed: "never, never! do you hear? never!" preparations went on for the marriage just as if mary had given her solemn consent. the important work of providing the trousseau began at once, and the more important matter of securing the loan from the london merchants was pushed along rapidly. the good citizens might cling affectionately to their angels, double angels, crowns and pounds sterling, but the fear in which they held the king, and a little patting of the royal hand upon the plebeian head, worked the charm, and out came the yellow gold, never to be seen again, god wot. under the stimulus of the royal smile they were ready to shout themselves hoarse, and to eat and drink themselves red in the face in celebration of the wedding day. in short, they were ready to be tickled nearly to death for the honor of paying to a wretched old lecher a wagon-load of gold to accept, as a gracious gift, the most beautiful heart-broken girl in the world. that is, she would have been heart-broken had she not been inspired with courage. as it was, she wasted none of her energy in lamentations, but saved it all to fight with. heavens! how she did fight! if a valiant defense ever deserved victory, it was in her case. when the queen went to her with silks and taffetas and fine cloths, to consult about the trousseau, although the theme was one which would interest almost any woman, she would have none of it, and when catherine insisted upon her trying on a certain gown, she called her a blackamoor, tore the garment to pieces, and ordered her to leave the room. henry sent wolsey to tell her that the th day of august had been fixed upon as the day of the marriage, de longueville to act as the french king's proxy, and wolsey was glad to come off with his life. matters were getting into a pretty tangle at the palace. mary would not speak to the king, and poor catherine was afraid to come within arm's length of her; wolsey was glad to keep out of her way, and she flew at buckingham with talons and beak upon first sight. as to the battle with buckingham, it was short but decisive, and this was the way it came about: there had been a passage between the duke and brandon, in which the latter had tried to coax the former into a duel, the only way, of course, to settle the weighty matters between them. buckingham, however, had had a taste of brandon's nimble sword play, and, bearing in mind judson's fate, did not care for any more. they had met by accident, and brandon, full of smiles and as polite as a frenchman, greeted him. "doubtless my lord, having crossed swords twice with me, will do me the great honor to grant that privilege the third time, and will kindly tell me where my friend can wait upon a friend of his grace." "there is no need for us to meet over that little affair. you had the best of it, and if i am satisfied you should be. i was really in the wrong, but i did not know the princess had invited you to her ball." "your lordship is pleased to evade," returned brandon. "it is not the ball-room matter that i have to complain of; as you have rightly said, if you are satisfied, i certainly should be; but it is that your lordship, in the name of the king, instructed the keeper of newgate prison to confine me in an underground cell, and prohibited communication with any of my friends. you so arranged it that my trial should be secret, both as to the day thereof and the event, in order that it should not be known to those who might be interested in my release. you promised the lady mary that you would procure my liberty, and thereby prevented her going to the king for that purpose, and afterwards told her that it had all been done, as promised, and that i had escaped to new spain. it is because of this, my lord buckingham, that i now denounce you as a liar, a coward and a perjured knight, and demand of you such satisfaction as one man can give to another for mortal injury. if you refuse, i will kill you as i would a cut-throat the next time i meet you." "i care nothing for your rant, fellow, but out of consideration for the feelings which your fancied injuries have put into your heart, i tell you that i did what i could to liberate you, and received from the keeper a promise that you should be allowed to escape. after that a certain letter addressed to you was discovered and fell into the hands of the king--a matter in which i had no part. as to your confinement and non-communication with your friends, that was at his majesty's command after he had seen the letter, as he will most certainly confirm to you. i say this for my own sake, not that i care what you may say or think." this offer of confirmation by the king made it all sound like the truth, so much will even a little truth leaven a great lie; and part of brandon's sails came down against the mast. the whole statement surprised him, and, most of all, the intercepted letter. what letter could it have been? it was puzzling, and yet he dared not ask. as the duke was about to walk away, brandon stopped him: "one moment, your grace; i am willing to admit what you have said, for i am not now prepared to contradict it; but there is yet another matter we have to settle. you attacked me on horseback, and tried to murder me in order to abduct two ladies that night over in billingsgate. that you cannot deny. i watched you follow the ladies from bridewell to grouche's, and saw your face when your mask fell off during the mêleé as plainly as i see it now. if other proof is wanting, there is that sprained knee upon which your horse fell, causing you to limp even yet. i am sure now that my lord will meet me like a man; or would he prefer that i should go to the king and tell him and the world the whole shameful story? i have concealed it heretofore, thinking it my personal right and privilege to settle with you." buckingham turned a shade paler as he replied: "i do not meet such as you on the field of honor, and have no fear of your slander injuring me." he felt secure in the thought that the girls did not know who had attacked them, and could not corroborate brandon in his accusation, or mary, surely, never would have appealed to him for help. i was with brandon--at a little distance, that is--when this occurred, and after buckingham had left, we went to find the girls in the forest. we knew they would be looking for us, although they would pretend surprise when they saw us. we soon met them, and the very leaves of the trees gave a soft, contented rustle in response to mary's low, mellow laugh of joy. after perhaps half an hour, we encountered buckingham with his lawyer-knight, johnson. they had evidently walked out to this quiet path to consult about the situation. as they approached, mary spoke to the duke with a vicious sparkle in her eyes. "my lord buckingham, this shall cost you your head; remember my words when you are on the scaffold, just when your neck fits into the hollow of the block." he stopped, with an evident desire to explain, but mary pointed down the path and said: "go, or i will have master brandon spit you on his sword. two to one would be easy odds compared with the four to one you put against him in billingsgate. go!" and the battle was over, the foe never having struck a blow. it hurt me that mary should speak of the odds being two to one against brandon when i was at hand. it is true i was not very large, but i could have taken care of a lawyer. now it was that the lawyer-knight earned his bread by his wits, for it was he, i know, who instigated the next move--a master stroke in its way, and one which proved a checkmate to us. it was this: the duke went at once to the king, and, in a tone of injured innocence, told him of the charge made by brandon with mary's evident approval, and demanded redress for the slander. thus it seemed that the strength of our position was about to be turned against us. brandon was at once summoned and promptly appeared before the king, only too anxious to confront the duke. as to the confinement of brandon and his secret trial, the king did not care to hear; that was a matter of no consequence to him; the important question was, did buckingham attack the princess? brandon told the whole straight story, exactly as it was, which buckingham as promptly denied, and offered to prove by his almoner that he was at his devotions on the night and at the hour of the attack. so here was a conflict of evidence which called for new witnesses, and henry asked brandon if the girls had seen and recognized the duke. to this question, of course, he was compelled to answer no, and the whole accusation, after all, rested upon brandon's word, against which, on the other hand, was the evidence of the duke of buckingham and his convenient almoner. all this disclosed to the full poor mary's anxiety to help brandon, and the duke having adroitly let out the fact that he had just met the princess with brandon at a certain secluded spot in the forest, henry's suspicion of her partiality received new force, and he began to look upon the unfortunate brandon as a partial cause, at least, of mary's aversion to the french marriage. henry grew angry and ordered brandon to leave the court, with the sullen remark that it was only his services to the princess mary that saved him from a day with papers on the pillory. this was not by any means what brandon had expected. there seemed to be a fatality for him about everything connected with that unfortunate trip to grouche's. he had done his duty, and this was his recompense. virtue is sometimes a pitiful reward for itself, notwithstanding much wisdom to the contrary. henry was by no means sure that his suspicions concerning mary's heart were correct, and in all he had heard he had not one substantial fact upon which to base conviction. he had not seen her with brandon since their avowal, or he would have had a fact in every look, the truth in every motion, a demonstration in every glance. she seemed powerless even to attempt concealment. in brandon's handsome manliness and evident superiority, the king thought he saw a very clear possibility for mary to love, and where there is such a possibility for a girl, she usually fails to fulfill expectations. i suppose there are more wrong guesses as to the sort of man a given woman will fall in love with than on any other subject of equal importance in the whole range of human surmising. it did not, however, strike the king that way, and he, in common with most other sons of adam, supposing that he knew all about it, marked brandon as a very possible and troublesome personage. for once in the history of the world a man had hit upon the truth in this obscure matter, although he had no idea how correct he was. now, all this brought brandon into the deep shadow of the royal frown, and, like many another man, he sank his fortune in the fathomless depths of a woman's heart, and thought himself rich in doing it. _chapter xiv_ _in the siren country_ with the king, admiration stood for affection, a mistake frequently made by people not given to self-analysis, and in a day or two a reaction set in toward brandon which inspired a desire to make some amends for his harsh treatment. this he could not do to any great extent, on buckingham's account; at least, not until the london loan was in his coffers, but the fact that brandon was going to new spain so soon and would be out of the way, both of mary's eyes and mary's marriage, stimulated that rare flower in henry's heart, a good resolve, and brandon was offered his old quarters with me until such time as he should sail for new spain. he had never abandoned this plan, and now that matters had taken this turn with mary and the king, his resolution was stronger than ever, in that the scheme held two recommendations and a possibility. the recommendations were, first, it would take him away from mary, with whom--when out of the inspiring influence of her buoyant hopefulness--he knew marriage to be utterly impossible; and second, admitting and facing that impossibility, he might find at least partial relief from his heartache in the stirring events and adventures of that faraway land of monsters, dragons, savages and gold. the possibility lay in the gold, and a very faintly burning flame of hope held out the still more faintly glimmering chance that fortune, finding him there almost alone, might, for lack of another lover, smile upon him by way of squaring accounts. she might lead him to a cavern of gold, and gold would do anything; even, perhaps, purchase so priceless a treasure as a certain princess of the blood royal. he did not, however, dwell much on this possibility, but kept the delightful hope well neutralized with a constantly present sense of its improbability, in order to save the pain of a long fall when disappointment should come. brandon at once accepted the king's offer of lodging in the palace, for now that he felt sure of himself in the matter of new spain, and his separation from mary, he longed to see as much as possible of her before the light went out forever, even though it were playing with death itself to do so. poor fellow, his suffering was so acute during this period that it affected me like a contagion. it did not make a mope of him, but came in spasms that almost drove him wild. he would at times pace the room and cry out: "jesu! caskoden, what shall i do? she will be the wife of the french king, and i shall sit in the wilderness and try every moment to imagine what she is doing and thinking. i shall find the bearing of paris, and look in her direction until my brain melts in my effort to see her, and then i shall wander in the woods, a suffering imbecile, feeding on roots and nuts. would to god one of us might die. if it were not selfish, i should wish i might be the one." i said nothing in answer to these outbursts, as i had no consolation to offer. we had two or three of our little meetings of four, dangerous as they were, at which mary, feeling that each time she saw brandon might be the last, would sit and look at him with glowing eyes that in turn softened and burned as he spoke. she did not talk much, but devoted all her time and energies to looking with her whole soul. never before or since was there a girl so much in love. a young girl thoroughly in love is the most beautiful object on earth--beautiful even in ugliness. imagine, then, what it made of mary! growing partly, perhaps, out of his unattainability--for he was as far out of her reach as she out of his--she had long since begun to worship him. she had learned to know him so well, and his valiant defense of her in billingsgate, together with his noble self-sacrifice in refusing to compromise her in order to save himself, had presented him to her in so noble a light that she had come to look up to him as her superior. her surrender had been complete, and she found in it a joy far exceeding that of any victory or triumph she could imagine. i could not for the life of me tell what would be the outcome of it all. mary was one woman in ten thousand, so full was she of feminine force and will--a force which we men pretend to despise, but to which in the end we always succumb. like most women, the princess was not much given to analysis; and, i think, secretly felt that this matter of so great moment to her would, as everything else always had, eventually turn itself to her desire. she could not see the way, but, to her mind, there could be no doubt about it; fate was her friend; always had been, and surely always would be. with brandon it was different; experience as to how the ardently hoped for usually turns out to be the sadly regretted, together with a thorough face-to-face analysis of the situation, showed him the truth, all too clearly, and he longed for the day when he should go, as a sufferer longs for the surgeon's knife that is to relieve him of an aching limb. the hopelessness of the outlook had for the time destroyed nearly all of his combativeness, and had softened his nature almost to apathetic weakness. it would do no good to struggle in a boundless, fathomless sea; so he was ready to sink and was going to new spain to hope no more. mary did not see what was to prevent the separation, but this did not trouble her as much as one would suppose, and she was content to let events take their own way, hoping and believing that in the end it would be hers. events, however, continued in this wrong course so long and persistently that at last the truth dawned upon her and she began to doubt; and as time flew on and matters evinced a disposition to grow worse instead of better, she gradually, like the sundial in the moonlight, awakened to the fact that there was something wrong; a cog loose somewhere in the complicated machinery of fate--the fate which had always been her tried, trusted and obedient servant. the trouble began in earnest with the discovery of our meetings in lady mary's parlor. there was nothing at all unusual in the fact that small companies of young folk frequently spent their evenings with her, but we knew well enough that the unusual element in our parties was their exceeding smallness. a company of eight or ten young persons was well enough, although it, of course, created jealousy on the part of those who were left out; but four--two of each sex--made a difference in kind, however much we might insist it was only in degree; and this we soon learned was the king's opinion. you may be sure there was many a jealous person about the court ready to carry tales, and that it was impossible long to keep our meetings secret among such a host as then lived in greenwich palace. one day the queen summoned jane and put her to the question. now, jane thought the truth was made only to be told, a fallacy into which many good people have fallen, to their utter destruction; since the truth, like every other good thing, may be abused. well! jane told it all in a moment, and catherine was so horrified that she was like to faint. she went with her hair-lifting horror to the king, and poured into his ears a tale of imprudence and debauchery well calculated to start his righteous, virtue-prompted indignation into a threatening flame. mary, jane, brandon and myself were at once summoned to the presence of both their majesties and soundly reprimanded. three of us were ordered to leave the court before we could speak a word in self-defense, and jane had enough of her favorite truth for once. mary, however, came to our rescue with her coaxing eloquence and potent, feminine logic, and soon convinced henry that the queen, who really counted for little with him, had made a mountain out of a very small mole-hill. thus the royal wrath was appeased to such an extent that the order for expulsion was modified to a command that there be no more quartette gatherings in princess mary's parlor. this leniency was more easy for the princess to bring about, by reason of the fact that she had not spoken to her brother since the day she went to see him after wolsey's visit, and had been so roughly driven off. at first, upon her refusal to speak to him--after the wolsey visit--henry was angry on account of what he called her insolence; but as she did not seem to care for that, and as his anger did nothing toward unsealing her lips, he pretended indifference. still the same stubborn silence was maintained. this soon began to amuse the king, and of late he had been trying to be on friendly terms again with his sister through a series of elephantine antics and bear-like pleasantries, which were the most dismal failures--that is, in the way of bringing about a reconciliation. they were more successful from a comical point of view. so henry was really glad for something that would loosen the tongue usually so lively, and for an opportunity to gratify his sister from whom he was demanding such a sacrifice, and for whom he expected to receive no less a price than the help of louis of france, the most powerful king of europe, to the imperial crown. thus our meetings were broken up, and brandon knew his dream was over, and that any effort to see the princess would probably result in disaster for them both; for him certainly. the king upon that same day told mary of the intercepted letter sent by her to brandon at newgate, and accused her of what he was pleased to term an improper feeling for a low-born fellow. mary at once sent a full account of the communication in a letter to brandon, who read it with no small degree of ill comfort as the harbinger of trouble. "i had better leave here soon, or i may go without my head," he remarked. "when that thought gets to working in the king's brain, he will strike, and i--shall fall." letters began to come to our rooms from mary, at first begging brandon to come to her, and then upbraiding him because of his coldness and cowardice, and telling him that if he cared for her as she did for him, he would see her, though he had to wade through fire and blood. that was exactly where the trouble lay; it was not fire and blood through which he would have to pass; they were small matters, mere nothings that would really have added zest and interest to the achievement. but the frowning laugh of the tyrant, who could bind him hand and foot, and a vivid remembrance of the newgate dungeon, with a dangling noose or a hollowed-out block in the near background, were matters that would have taken the adventurous tendency out of even the cracked brain of chivalry itself. brandon cared only to fight where there was a possible victory or ransom, or a prospect of some sort, at least, of achieving success. bayard preferred a stone wall, and thought to show his brains by beating them out against it, and in a sense he could do it. * * * what a pity this senseless, stiff-kneed, light-headed chivalry did not beat its brains out several centuries before bayard put such an absurd price upon himself. so every phase of the question which his good sense presented told brandon, whose passion was as ardent though not so impatient as mary's, that it would be worse than foolhardy to try to see her. he, however, had determined to see her once more before he left, but as it could, in all probability, be only once, he was reserving the meeting until the last, and had written mary that it was their best and only chance. this brought to mary a stinging realization of the fact that brandon was about to leave her and that she would lose him if something were not done quickly. now for mary, after a life of gratified whims, to lose the very thing she wanted most of all--that for which she would willingly have given up every other desire her heart had ever coined--was a thought hardly to be endured. she felt that the world would surely collapse. it could not, would not, should not be. her vigorous young nerves were too strong to be benumbed by an overwhelming agony, as is sometimes the case with those who are fortunate enough to be weaker, so she had to suffer and endure. life itself, yes, life a thousand times, was slipping away from her. she must be doing something or she would perish. poor mary! how a grand soul like hers, full of faults and weakness, can suffer! what an infinite disproportion between her susceptibility to pain and her power to combat it! she had the maximum capacity for one and the minimum strength for the other. no wonder it drove her almost mad--that excruciating pang of love. she could not endure inaction, so she did the worst thing possible. she went alone, one afternoon, just before dusk, to see brandon at our rooms. i was not there when she first went in, but, having seen her on the way, suspected something and followed, arriving two or three minutes after her. i knew it was best that i should be present, and was sure brandon would wish it. when i entered they were holding each other's hands, in silence. they had not yet found their tongues, so full and crowded were their hearts. it was pathetic to see them, especially the girl, who had not brandon's hopelessness to deaden the pain by partial resignation. upon my entrance, she dropped his hands and turned quickly toward me with a frightened look, but was reassured upon seeing who it was. brandon mechanically walked away from her and seated himself on a stool. mary, as mechanically, moved to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder. turning her face toward me, she said: "sir edwin, i know you will forgive me when i tell you that we have a great deal to say and wish to be alone." i was about to go when brandon stopped me. "no, no; caskoden, please stay; it would not do. it would be bad enough, god knows, if the princess should be found here with both of us; but, with me alone, i should be dead before morning. there is danger enough as it is, for they will watch us." mary knew he was right, but she could not resist a vicious little glance toward me, who was in no way to blame. presently we all moved into the window-way, where brandon and mary sat upon the great cloak and i on a camp-stool in front of them, completely filling up the little passage. "i can bear this no longer," exclaimed mary. "i will go to my brother to-night and tell him all; i will tell him how i suffer, and that i shall die if you are allowed to go away and leave me forever. he loves me, and i can do anything with him when i try. i know i can obtain his consent to our--our--marriage. he cannot know how i suffer, else he would not treat me so. i will let him see--i will convince him. i have in my mind everything i want to say and do. i will sit on his knee and stroke his hair and kiss him." and she laughed softly as her spirit revived in the breath of a growing hope. "then i will tell him how handsome he is, and how i hear the ladies sighing for him, and he will come around all right by the third visit. oh, i know how to do it; i have done it so often. never fear! i wish i had gone at it long ago." her enthusiastic fever of hope was really contagious, but brandon, whose life was at stake, had his wits quickened by the danger. "mary, would you like to see me a corpse before to-morrow noon?" he asked. "why! of course not; why do you ask such a dreadful question?" "because, if you wish to make sure of it, do what you have just said--go to the king and tell him all. i doubt if he could wait till morning. i believe he would awaken me at midnight to put me to sleep forever--at the end of a rope or on a block pillow." "oh! no! you are all wrong; i know what i can do with henry." "if that is the case, i say good-bye now, for i shall be out of england, if possible, by midnight. you must promise me that you will not only not go to the king at all about this matter, but that you will guard your tongue, jealous of its slightest word, and remember with every breath that on your prudence hangs my life, which, i know, is dear to you. do you promise? if you do not, i must fly; so you will lose me one way or the other, if you tell the king; either by my flight or by my death." "i promise," said mary, with drooping head; the embodiment of despair; all life and hope having left her again. after a few minutes her face brightened, and she asked brandon what ship he would sail in for new spain, and whence. "we sail in the royal hind, from bristol," he replied. "how many go out in her; and are there any women?" "no! no!" he returned; "no woman could make the trip, and, besides, on ships of that sort, half pirate, half merchant, they do not take women. the sailors are superstitious about it and will not sail with them. they say they bring bad luck--adverse winds, calms, storms, blackness, monsters from the deep and victorious foes." "the ignorant creatures!" cried mary. brandon continued: "there will be a hundred men, if the captain can induce so many to enlist." "how does one procure passage?" inquired mary. "by enlisting with the captain, a man named bradhurst, at bristol, where the ship is now lying. there is where i enlisted by letter. but why do you ask?" "oh! i only wanted to know." we talked awhile on various topics, but mary always brought the conversation back to the same subject, the royal hind and new spain. after asking many questions, she sat in silence for a time, and then abruptly broke into one of my sentences--she was always interrupting me as if i were a parrot. "i have been thinking and have made up my mind what i will do, and you shall not dissuade me. i will go to new spain with you. that will be glorious--far better than the humdrum life of sitting at home--and will solve the whole question." "but that would be impossible, mary," said brandon, into whose face this new evidence of her regard had brought a brightening look; "utterly impossible. to begin with, no woman could stand the voyage; not even you, strong and vigorous as you are." "oh, yes i can, and i will not allow you to stop me for that reason. i could bear any hardship better than the torture of the last few weeks. in truth, i cannot bear this at all; it is killing me, so what would it be when you are gone and i am the wife of louis? think of that, charles brandon; think of that, when i am the wife of louis. even if the voyage kills me, i might as well die one way as another; and then i should be with you, where it were sweet to die." and i had to sit there and listen to all this foolish talk! brandon insisted: "but no women are going; as i told you, they would not take one; besides, how could you escape? i will answer the first question you ever asked me. you are of 'sufficient consideration about the court' for all your movements to attract notice. it is impossible; we must not think of it; it cannot be done. why build up hopes only to be cast down?" "oh! but it can be done; never doubt it. i will go, not as a woman, but as a man. i have planned all the details while sitting here. to-morrow i will send to bristol a sum of money asking a separate room in the ship for a young nobleman who wishes to go to new spain _incognito_, and will go aboard just before they sail. i will buy a man's complete outfit, and will practice being a man before you and sir edwin." here she blushed so that i could see the scarlet even in the gathering gloom. she continued: "as to my escape, i can go to windsor, and then perhaps on to berkeley castle, over by reading, where there will be no one to watch me. you can leave at once, and there will be no cause for them to spy upon me when you are gone, so it can be done easily enough. that is it; i will go to my sister, who is now at berkeley castle, the other side of reading, you know, and that will make a shorter ride to bristol when we start." the thought, of course, could not but please brandon, to whom, in the warmth of mary's ardor, it had almost begun to offer hope; and he said musingly: "i wonder if it could be done? if it could--if we could reach new spain, we might build ourselves a home in the beautiful green mountains and hide ourselves safely away from all the world, in the lap of some cosy valley, rich with nature's bounteous gift of fruit and flowers, shaded from the hot sun and sheltered from the blasts, and live in a little paradise all our own. what a glorious dream! but it is only a dream, and we had better awake from it." brandon must have been insane! "no! no! it is not a dream," interrupted downright, determined mary; "it is not a dream; it shall be a reality. how glorious it will be! i can see our little house now nestling among the hills, shaded by great spreading trees with flowers and vines and golden fruit all about it, rich plumaged birds and gorgeous butterflies. oh! i can hardly wait. who would live in a musty palace when one has within reach such a home, and that, too, with you?" here it was again. i thought that interview would be the death of me. brandon held his face in his hands, and then looking up said: "it is only a question of your happiness, and hard as the voyage and your life over there would be, yet i believe it would be better than life with louis of france; nothing could be so terrible as that to both of us. if you wish to go, i will try to take you, though i die in the attempt. there will be ample time to reconsider, so that you can turn back if you wish." her reply was inarticulate, though satisfactory; and she took his hand in hers as the tears ran gently down her cheeks; this time tears of joy--the first she had shed for many a day. in the siren country again without wax! overboard and lost! yes, brandon's resolution not to see mary was well taken, if it could only have been as well kept. observe, as we progress, into what the breaking of it led him. he had known that if he should but see her once more, his already toppling will would lose its equipoise, and he would be led to attempt the impossible and invite destruction. at first this scheme appeared to me in its true light, but mary's subtle feminine logic made it seem such plain and easy sailing that i soon began to draw enthusiasm from her exhaustless store, and our combined attack upon brandon eventually routed every vestige of caution and common sense that even he had left. siren logic has always been irresistible and will continue so, no doubt, despite experience. i cannot define what it was about mary that made her little speeches, half argumentative, all-pleading, so wonderfully persuasive. her facts were mere fancies, and her logic was not even good sophistry. as to real argument and reasoning, there was nothing of either in them. it must have been her native strength of character and intensely vigorous personality; some unknown force of nature, operating through her occultly, that turned the channels of other persons' thoughts and filled them with her own will. there was magic in her power, i am certain, but unconscious magic to mary, i am equally sure. she never would have used it knowingly. there was still another obstacle to which mary administered her favorite remedy, the gordian knot treatment. brandon said: "it cannot be; you are not my wife, and we dare not trust a priest here to unite us." "no," replied mary, with hanging head, "but we can--can find one over there." "i do not know how that will be; we shall probably not find one; at least, i fear; i do not know." after a little hesitation she answered: "i will go with you anyway--and--and risk it. i hope we may find a priest," and she flushed scarlet from her throat to her hair. brandon kissed her and said: "you shall go, my brave girl. you make me blush for my faint-heartedness and prudence. i will make you my wife in some way as sure as there is a god." soon after this brandon forced himself to insist on her departure, and i went with her, full of hope and completely blinded to the dangers of our cherished scheme. i think brandon never really lost sight of the danger, and almost infinite proportion of chance against this wild, reckless venture, but was daring enough to attempt it even in the face of such clearly seen and deadly consequences. what seems to be bravery, as in mary's case, for example, is often but a lack of perception of the real danger. true bravery is that which dares a danger fully seeing it. a coward may face an unseen danger, and his act may shine with the luster of genuine heroism. mary was brave, but it was the feminine bravery that did not see. show her a danger and she was womanly enough--that is, if you could make her see it. her wilfulness sometimes extended to her mental vision and she would not see. in common with many others, she needed mental spectacles at times. _chapter xv_ _to make a man of her_ so it was all arranged, and i converted part of mary's jewels into money. she said she was sorry now she had not taken de longueville's diamonds, as they would have added to her treasure; i, however, procured quite a large sum, to which i secretly added a goodly portion out of my own store. at mary's request i sent part to bradhurst at bristol, and retained the rest for brandon to take with him. a favorable answer soon came from bristol, giving the young nobleman a separate room in consideration of the large purse he had sent. the next step was to procure the gentleman's wardrobe for mary. this was a little troublesome at first, for, of course, she could not be measured in the regular way. we managed to overcome this difficulty by having jane take the measurements under instructions received from the tailor, which measurements, together with the cloth, i took to the fractional little man who did my work. he looked at the measurements with twinkling eyes, and remarked: "sir edwin, that be the curiousest shaped man ever i see the measures of. sure it would make a mighty handsome woman, or i know nothing of human dimensions." "never you mind about dimensions; make the garments as they are ordered and keep your mouth shut, if you know what is to your interest. do you hear?" he delivered himself of a labored wink. "i do hear and understand, too, and my tongue is like the tongue of an obelisk." in due time i brought the suits to mary, and they were soon adjusted to her liking. the days passed rapidly, till it was a matter of less than a fortnight until the royal hind would sail, and it really looked as if the adventure might turn out to our desire. jane was in tribulation, and thought she ought to be taken along. this, you may be sure, was touching me very closely, and i began to wish the whole infernal mess at the bottom of the sea. if jane went, his august majesty, king henry viii, would be without a master of the dance, just as sure as the stars twinkled in the firmament. it was, however, soon decided that brandon would have his hands more than full to get off with one woman, and that two would surely spoil the plan. so jane was to be left behind, full of tribulation and indignation, firmly convinced that she was being treated very badly. although at first jane was violently opposed to the scheme, she soon caught the contagious ardor of mary's enthusiasm, and knowing that her dear lady's every chance of happiness was staked upon the throw, grew more reconciled. to a person of jane's age, this venture for love offers itself as the last and only cast--the cast for all--and in this particular case there was enough of romance to catch the fancy of any girl. nothing was lacking to make it truly romantic. the exalted station of at least one of the lovers; the rough road of their true love; the elopement, and, above all, the elopement to a new world, with a cosy hut nestling in fragrant shades and glad with the notes of love from the throats of countless song-birds--what more could a romantic girl desire? so, to my surprise, jane became more than reconciled, and her fever of anticipation and excitement grew apace with mary's as the time drew on. mary's vanity was delighted with her elopement _trousseau_, for of course it was of the finest. not that the quality was better than her usual wear, but doublet and hose were so different on her. she paraded for an hour or so before jane, and as she became accustomed to the new garb, and as the steel reflected a most beautiful image, she determined to show herself to brandon and me. she said she wanted to become accustomed to being seen in her doublet and hose, and would begin with us. she thought if she could not bear our gaze she would surely make a dismal failure on shipboard among so many strange men. there was some good reasoning in this, and it, together with her vanity, overruled her modesty, and prompted her to come to see us in her character of young nobleman. jane made one of her mighty protests, so infinitely disproportionate in size to her little ladyship, but the self-willed princess would not listen to her, and was for coming alone if jane would not come with her. once having determined, as usual with her, she wasted no time about it, but throwing a long cloak over her shoulders, started for our rooms, with angry, weeping, protesting jane at her heels. when i heard the knock i was sure it was the girls, for though mary had promised brandon she would not, under any circumstances, attempt another visit, i knew so well her utter inability to combat her desire, and her reckless disregard of danger where there was a motive sufficient to furnish the nerve tension, that i was sure she would come, or try to come, again. i have spoken before about the quality of bravery. what is it, after all, and how can we analyze it? women, we say, are cowardly, but i have seen a woman take a risk that the bravest man's nerve would turn on edge against. how is it? can it be possible that they are braver than we? that our bravery is of the vaunting kind that telleth of itself? my answer, made up from a long life of observation, is: "yes! given the motive, and women are the bravest creatures on earth." yet how foolishly timid they are at times! i admitted the girls, and when the door was shut mary unclasped the brooch at her throat and the great cloak fell to her heels. out she stepped, with a little laugh of delight, clothed in doublet, hose and confusion, the prettiest picture mortal eyes ever rested on. her hat, something on the broad, flat style with a single white plume encircling the crown, was of purple velvet trimmed in gold braid and touched here and there with precious stones. her doublet was of the same purple velvet as her hat, trimmed in lace and gold braid. her short trunks were of heavy black silk slashed by yellow satin, with hose of lavender silk; and her little shoes were of russet french leather. quite a rainbow, you will say--but such a rainbow! brandon and i were struck dumb with admiration and could not keep from showing it. this disconcerted the girl, and increased her embarrassment until we could not tell which was the prettiest--the garments, the girl or the confusion; but this i know, the whole picture was as sweet and beautiful as the eyes of man could behold. fine feathers will not make fine birds, and mary's masculine attire could no more make her look like a man than harness can disguise the graces of a gazelle. nothing could conceal her intense, exquisite womanhood. with our looks of astonishment and admiration mary's blushes deepened. "what is the matter? is anything wrong?" she asked. [illustration] "nothing is wrong," answered brandon, smiling in spite of himself; "nothing on earth is wrong with you, you may be sure. you are perfect--that is, for a woman; and one who thinks there is anything wrong about a perfect woman is hard to please. but if you flatter yourself that you, in any way, resemble a man, or that your dress in the faintest degree conceals your sex, you are mistaken. it makes it only more apparent." "how can that be?" asked mary, in comical tribulation; "is not this a man's doublet and hose, and this hat--is it not a man's hat? they are all for a man; then why do i not look like one, i ask? tell me what is wrong. oh! i thought i looked just like a man; i thought the disguise was perfect." "well," returned brandon, "if you will permit me to say so, you are entirely too symmetrical and shapely ever to pass for a man." the flaming color was in her cheeks, as brandon went on: "your feet are too small, even for a boy's feet. i don't think you could be made to look like a man if you worked from now till doomsday." brandon spoke in a troubled tone, for he was beginning to see in mary's perfect and irrepressible womanhood an insurmountable difficulty right across his path. "as to your feet, you might find larger shoes, or, better still, jack-boots; and, as to your hose, you might wear longer trunks, but what to do about the doublet i am sure i do not know." mary looked up helpless and forlorn, and the hot face went into her bended elbow as a realization of the situation seemed to dawn upon her. "oh! i wish i had not come. but i wanted to grow accustomed so that i could wear them before others. i believe i could bear it more easily with any one else. i did not think of it in that way," and she snatched her cloak from where it had fallen on the floor and threw it around her. "what way, mary?" asked brandon gently, and receiving no answer. "but you will have to bear my looking at you all the time if you go with me." "i don't believe i can do it." "no, no," answered he, bravely attempting cheerfulness; "we may as well give it up. i have had no hope from the first. i knew it could not be done, and it should not. i was both insane and criminal to think of permitting you to try it." brandon's forced cheerfulness died out with his words, and he sank into a chair with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. mary ran to him at once. there had been a little moment of faltering, but there was no real surrender in her. dropping on her knee beside him, she said coaxingly: "don't give up; you are a man; you must not surrender, and let me, a girl, prove the stronger. shame upon you when i look up to you so much and expect you to help me be brave. i will go. i will arrange myself in some way. oh! why am i not different; i wish i were as straight as the queen," and for that first time in her life she bewailed her beauty, because it stood between her and brandon. she soon coaxed him out of his despondency, and we began again to plan the matter in detail. the girls sat on brandon's cloak and he and i on the camp-stool and a box. mary's time was well occupied in vain attempts to keep herself covered with the cloak, which seemed to have a right good will toward brandon and me, but she kept track of our plans, which, in brief, were as follows: as to her costume, we would substitute long trunks and jack-boots for shoes and hose, and as to doublet, mary laughed and blushingly said she had a plan which she would secretly impart to jane, but would not tell us. she whispered it to jane, who, as serious as the lord chancellor, gave judgment, and "thought it would do." we hoped so, but were full of doubts. this is all tame enough to write and read about, but i can tell you it was sufficiently exciting at the time. three of us at least were playing with that comical old fellow, death, and he gave the game interest and point to our hearts' content. through the thick time-layers of all these years, i can still see the group as we sat there, haloed by a hazy cloud of tear-mist. the figures rise before my eyes, so young and fair and rich in life and yet so pathetic in their troubled earnestness that a great flood of pity wells up in my heart for the poor young souls, so danger-bound and suffering, and withal so daring and so recklessly confident in the might and right of love, and the omnipotence of youth. ah! if god had seen fit in his infinite wisdom to save just one treasure from the wreck of eden, what a race of thankful hearts this earth would bear, had he saved us youth alone therewith to compensate us for every other ill. as to the elopement, it was determined that brandon should leave london the following day for bristol, and make all arrangements along the line. he would carry with him two bundles, his own and mary's clothing, and leave them to be taken up when they should go a-shipboard. eight horses would be procured; four to be left as a relay at an inn between berkeley castle and bristol, and four to be kept at the rendezvous some two leagues the other side of berkeley for the use of brandon, mary and the two men from bristol who were to act as an escort on the eventful night. there was one disagreeable little feature that we could not provide against nor entirely eliminate. it was the fact that jane and i should be suspected as accomplices before the fact of mary's elopement; and, as you know, to assist in the abduction of a princess is treason--for which there is but one remedy. i thought i had a plan to keep ourselves safe if i could only stifle for the once jane's troublesome and vigorous tendency to preach the truth to all people, upon all subjects and at all times and places. she promised to tell the story i would drill into her, but i knew the truth would seep out in a thousand ways. she could no more hold it than a sieve can hold water. we were playing for great stakes, which, if i do say it, none but the bravest hearts, bold and daring as the truest knights of chivalry, would think of trying for. nothing less than the running away with the first princess of the first blood royal of the world. think of it! it appalls me even now. discovery meant death to one of us surely--brandon; possibly to two others--jane and me; certainly, if jane's truthfulness should become unmanageable, as it was so apt to do. after we had settled everything we could think of, the girls took their leave; mary slyly kissing brandon at the door. i tried to induce jane to follow her lady's example, but she was as cool and distant as the new moon. i saw jane again that night and told her in plain terms what i thought of her treatment of me. i told her it was selfish and unkind to take advantage of my love for her and treat me so cruelly. i told her that if she had one drop of generous blood she would tell me of her love, if she had any, or let me know it in some way; and if she cared nothing for me she was equally bound to be honest and tell me plainly, so that i should not waste my time and energy in a hopeless cause. i thought it rather clever in me to force her into a position where her refusal to tell me that she did not care for me would drive her to a half avowal. of course, i had little fear of the former, or perhaps i should not have been so anxious to precipitate the issue. she did not answer me directly, but said: "from the way you looked at mary to-day, i was led to think you cared little for any other girl's opinion." "ah! mistress jane!" cried i joyfully; "i have you at last; you are jealous." "i give you to understand, sir, that your vanity has led you into a great mistake." "as to your caring for me, or your jealousy? which?" i asked seriously. adroit, wasn't that? "as to the jealousy, edwin. there, now; i think that is saying a good deal. too much," she said pleadingly; but i got something more before she left, even if it was against her will; something that made it almost impossible for me to hold my feet to the ground. jane pouted, gave me a sharp little slap and then ran away, but at the door she turned and threw back a rare smile that was priceless to me; for it told me she was not angry; and furthermore shed an illuminating ray upon a fact which i was blind not to have seen long before; that is, that jane was one of those girls who must be captured _vi et armis_. some women cannot be captured at all; they must give themselves; of this class pre-eminently was mary. others again will meet you half way and kindly lend a helping hand; while some, like jane, are always on the run, and are captured only by pursuit. they are usually well worth the trouble though, and make docile captives. after that smile from the door i felt that jane was mine; all i had to do was to keep off outside enemies, charge upon her defenses when the times were ripe and accept nothing short of her own sweet self as ransom. the next day brandon paid his respects to the king and queen, made his adieus to his friends and rode off alone to bristol. you may be sure the king showed no signs of undue grief at his departure. _chapter xvi_ _a hawking party_ a few days after brandon's departure, mary, with the king's consent, organized a small party to go over to windsor for a few weeks during the warm weather. there were ten or twelve of us, including two chaperons, the old earl of hertford and the dowager duchess of kent. henry might as well have sent along a pair of spaniels to act as chaperons--it would have taken an army to guard mary alone--and to tell you the truth our old chaperons needed watching more than any of us. it was scandalous. each of them had a touch of gout, and when they made wry faces it was a standing inquiry among us whether they were leering at each other or felt a twinge--whether it was their feet or their hearts, that troubled them. mary led them a pretty life at all times, even at home in the palace, and i know they would rather have gone off with a pack of imps than with us. the inducement was that it gave them better opportunities to be together--an arrangement connived at by the queen, i think--and they were satisfied. the earl had a wife, but he fancied the old dowager and she fancied him, and probably the wife fancied somebody else, so they were all happy. it greatly amused the young people, you may be sure, and mary said, probably without telling the exact truth, that every night she prayed god to pity and forgive their ugliness. one day the princess said she was becoming alarmed; their ugliness was so intense she feared it might be contagious and spread. then, with a most comical seriousness, she added: "mon dieu! sir edwin, what if i should catch it? master charles would not take me." "no danger of that, my lady; he is too devoted to see anything but beauty in you, no matter how much you might change." "do you really think so? he says so little about it that sometimes i almost doubt." therein she spoke the secret of brandon's success with her, at least in the beginning; for there is wonderful potency in the stimulus of a healthy little doubt. we had a delightful canter over to windsor, i riding with mary most of the way. i was not averse to this arrangement, as i not only relished mary's mirth and joyousness, which was at its height, but hoped i might give my little lady jane a twinge or two of jealousy perchance to fertilize her sentiments toward me. mary talked, and laughed, and sang, for her soul was a fountain of gladness that bubbled up the instant pressure was removed. she spoke of little but our last trip over this same road, and, as we passed objects on the way, told me of what brandon had said at this place and that. she laughed and dimpled exquisitely in relating how she had deliberately made opportunities for him to flatter her, until, at last, he smiled in her face and told her she was the most beautiful creature living, but that "after all, 'beauty was as beauty did!'" "that made me angry," said she. "i pouted for a while, and, two or three times, was on the point of dismissing him, but thought better of it and asked him plainly wherein i did so much amiss. then what do you think the impudent fellow said?" "i cannot guess." "he said: 'oh, there is so much it would take a lifetime to tell it.' "this made me furious, but i could not answer, and a moment later he said: 'nevertheless i should be only too glad to undertake the task.' "the thought never occurred to either of us then that he would be taken at his word. bold? i should think he was; i never saw anything like it! i have not told you a tenth part of what he said to me that day; he said anything he wished, and it seemed that i could neither stop him nor retaliate. half the time i was angry and half the time amused, but by the time we reached windsor there never was a girl more hopelessly and desperately in love than mary tudor." and she laughed as if it were a huge joke on mary. she continued: "that day settled matters with me for all time. i don't know how he did it. yes i do...." and she launched forth into an account of brandon's perfections, which i found somewhat dull, and so would you. we remained a day or two at windsor, and then, over the objections of our chaperons, moved on to berkeley castle, where margaret of scotland was spending the summer. we had another beautiful ride up the dear old thames to berkeley, but mary had grown serious and saw none of it. on the afternoon of the appointed day, the princess suggested a hawking party, and we set out in the direction of the rendezvous. our party consisted of myself, three other gentlemen and three ladies besides mary. jane did not go; i was afraid to trust her. she wept, and, with difficulty, forced herself to say something about a headache, but the rest of the inmates of the castle of course had no thought that possibly they were taking their last look upon mary tudor. think who this girl was we were running away with! what reckless fools we were not to have seen the utter hopelessness, certain failure, and deadly peril of our act; treason black as plutonian midnight. but providence seems to have an especial care for fools, while wise men are left to care for themselves, and it does look as if safety lies in folly. we rode on and on, and although i took two occasions, in the presence of others, to urge mary to return, owing to the approach of night and threatened rain, she took her own head, as everybody knew she always would, and continued the hunt. just before dark, as we neared the rendezvous, mary and i managed to ride ahead of the party quite a distance. at last we saw a heron rise, and the princess uncapped her hawk. "this is my chance," she said; "i will run away from you now and lose myself; keep them off my track for five minutes and i shall be safe. good-bye, edwin; you and jane are the only persons i regret to leave. i love you as my brother and sister. when we are settled in new spain we will have you both come to us. now, edwin, i shall tell you something: don't let jane put you off any longer. she loves you; she told me so. there! good-bye, my friend; kiss her a thousand times for me." and she flew her bird and galloped after it at headlong speed. as i saw the beautiful young form receding from me, perhaps forever, the tears stood in my eyes, while i thought of the strong heart that so unfalteringly braved such dangers and was so loyal to itself and daring for its love. she had shown a little feverish excitement for a day or two, but it was the fever of anticipation, not of fear or hesitancy. soon the princess was out of sight, and i waited for the others to overtake me. when they came up i was greeted in chorus: "where is the princess?" i said she had gone off with her hawk, and had left me to bring them after her. i held them talking while i could, and when we started to follow took up the wrong scent. a short ride made this apparent, when i came in for my full share of abuse and ridicule, for i had led them against their judgment. i was credited with being a blockhead, when in fact they were the dupes. we rode hurriedly back to the point of mary's departure and wound our horns lustily, but my object had been accomplished, and i knew that within twenty minutes from the time i last saw her, she would be with brandon, on the road to bristol, gaining on any pursuit we could make at the rate of three miles for two. we scoured the forest far and near, but of course found no trace. after a time rain set in and one of the gentlemen escorted the ladies home, while three of us remained to prowl about the woods and roads all night in a soaking drizzle. the task was tiresome enough for me, as it lacked motive; and when we rode into berkeley castle next day, a sorrier set of bedraggled, rain-stained, mud-covered knights you never saw. you may know the castle was wild with excitement. there were all sorts of conjectures, but soon we unanimously concluded it had been the work of highwaymen, of whom the country was full, and by whom the princess had certainly been abducted. the chaperons forgot their gout and each other, and jane, who was the most affected of all, had a genuine excuse for giving vent to her grief and went to bed--by far the safest place for her. what was to be done? first we sent a message to the king, who would probably have us all flayed alive--a fear which the chaperons shared to the fullest extent. next, an armed party rode back to look again for mary, and, if possible, rescue her. the fact that i had been out the entire night before, together with the small repute in which i was held for deeds of arms, excused me from taking part in this bootless errand, so again i profited by the small esteem in which i was held. i say i profited, for i stayed at the castle with jane, hoping to find my opportunity in the absence of everybody else. all the ladies but jane had ridden out, and the knights who had been with me scouring the forest were sleeping, since they had not my incentive to remain awake. they had no message to deliver; no duty to perform for an absent friend. a thousand! only think of it! i wished it had been a million, and so faithful was i to my trust that i swore in my soul i would deliver them, every one. and jane loved me! no more walking on the hard, prosaic earth now; from this time forth i would fly; that was the only sensible method of locomotion. mary had said: "she told me so." could it really be true? you will at once see what an advantage this bit of information was to me. i hoped that jane would wish to see me to talk over mary's escape--so i sent word to her that i was waiting, and she quickly enough recovered her health and came down. i suggested that we walk out to a secluded little summer-house by the river, and jane was willing. ah! my opportunity was here at last. she found her bonnet, and out we went. what an enchanting walk was that, and how rich is a man who has laid up such treasures of memory to grow the sweeter as he feeds upon them. a rich memory is better than hope, for it lasts after fruition, and serves us at a time when hope has failed and fruition is but--a memory. ah! how we cherish it in our hearts, and how it comes at our beck and call to thrill us through and through and make us thank god that we have lived, and wonder in our hearts why he has given poor undeserving us so much. after we arrived at the summer-house, jane listened, half the time in tears, while i told her all about mary's flight. shall i ever forget that summer day? a sweet briar entwined our enchanted bower, and, when i catch its scent even now, time-vaulting memory carries me back, making years seem as days, and i see it all as i saw the light of noon that moment--and all was jane. the softly lapping river, as it gently sought the sea, sang in soothing cadence of naught but jane; the south wind from his flowery home breathed zephyr-voiced her name again, and, as it stirred the rustling leaves on bush and tree, they whispered back the same sweet strain; and every fairy voice found its echo in my soul; for there it was as 'twas with me, "jane! jane! jane!" i have heard men say they would not live their lives over and take its meager grains of happiness, in such infinite disproportion to its grief and pain, but, as for me, thanks to one woman, i almost have the minutes numbered all along the way, and know them one from the other; and when i sit alone to dream, and live again some portion of the happy past, i hardly know what time to choose or incident to dwell upon, my life is so much crowded with them all. would i live again my life? aye, every moment except perhaps when jane was ill--and therein even was happiness, for what a joy there was at her recovery. i do not even regret that it is closing; it would be ungrateful; i have had so much more than my share that i simply fall upon my knees and thank god for what he has given. jane's whole attitude toward me was changed, and she seemed to cling to me in a shy, unconscious manner, that was sweet beyond the naming, as the one solace for all her grief. after i had answered all her questions, and had told her over and over again every detail of mary's flight, and had assured her that the princess was, at that hour, breasting the waves with brandon, on their high road to paradise, i thought it time to start myself in the same direction and to say a word in my own behalf. so i spoke very freely and told jane what i felt and what i wanted. "oh! sir edwin," she responded, "let us not think of anything but my mistress. think of the trouble she is in." "no! no! jane; lady mary is out of her trouble by now, and is as happy as a lark, you may be sure. has she not won everything her heart longed for? then let us make our own paradise, since we have helped them make theirs. you have it, jane, just within your lips; speak the word and it will change everything--if you love me, and i know you do." jane's head was bowed and she remained silent. then i told her of lady mary's message, and begged, if she would not speak in words what i so longed to hear, she would at least tell it by allowing me to deliver only one little thousandth part of the message mary had sent; but she drew away and said she would return to the castle if i continued to behave in that manner. i begged hard, and tried to argue the point, but logic seems to lose its force in such a situation, and all i said availed nothing. jane was obdurate, and was for going back at once. her persistence was beginning to look like obstinacy, and i soon grew so angry that i asked no permission, but delivered mary's message, or a good part of it, at least, whether she would or no, and then sat back and asked her what she was going to do about it. poor little jane thought she was undone for life. she sat there half pouting, half weeping, and said she could do nothing about it; that she was alone now, and if i, her only friend, would treat her that way, she did not know where to look. "where to look?" i demanded. "look _here_, jane, here; you might as well understand, first as last, that i will not be trifled with longer, and that i intend to continue treating you that way as long as we both live. i have determined not to permit you to behave as you have for so long; for i know you love me. you have half told me so a dozen times, and even your half words are whole truths; there is not a fraction of a lie in you. besides, mary told me that you told her so." "she did not tell you that?" "yes; upon my knightly honor." of course there was but one answer to this--tears. i then brought the battle to close quarters at once, and, with my arm uninterrupted at my lady's waist, asked: "did you not tell her so? i know you will speak nothing but the truth. did you not tell her? answer me, jane." the fair head nodded as she whispered between the hands that covered her face: "yes; i--i--d-did;" and i--well, i delivered the rest of mary's message, and that, too, without a protest from jane. truthfulness is a pretty good thing after all. so jane was conquered at last, and i heaved a sigh as the battle ended, for it had been a long, hard struggle. i asked jane when we should be married, but she said she could not think of that now--not until she knew that mary was safe; but she would promise to be my wife sometime. i told her that her word was as good as gold to me; and so it was and always has been; as good as fine gold thrice refined. i then told her i would bother her no more about it, now that i was sure of her, but when she was ready she should tell me of her own accord and make my happiness complete. she said she would, and i told her i believed her and was satisfied. i did, however, suggest that the intervening time would be worse than wasted--happiness thrown right in the face of providence, as it were--and begged her not to waste any more than necessary; to which she seriously and honestly answered that she would not. we went back to the castle, and as we parted jane said timidly: "i am glad i told you, edwin; glad it is over." she had evidently dreaded it; but--i was glad, too; very glad. then i went to bed. _chapter xvii_ _the elopement_ whatever the king might think, i knew lord wolsey would quickly enough guess the truth when he heard that the princess was missing, and would have a party in pursuit. the runaways, however, would have at least twenty-four hours the start, and a ship leaves no tracks. when mary left me she was perhaps two-thirds of a league from the rendezvous, and night was rapidly falling. as her road lay through a dense forest all the way, she would have a dark, lonely ride of a few minutes, and i was somewhat uneasy for that part of the journey. it had been agreed that if everything was all right at the rendezvous, mary should turn loose her horse, which had always been stabled at berkeley castle and would quickly trot home. to further emphasize her safety a thread would be tied in his forelock. the horse took his time in returning, and did not arrive until the second morning after the flight, but when he came i found the thread, and, unobserved, removed it. i quickly took it to jane, who has it yet, and cherishes it for the mute message of comfort it brought her. in case the horse should not return, i was to find a token in a hollow tree near the place of meeting; but the thread in the forelock told us our friends had found each other. when we left the castle, mary wore under her riding habit a suit of man's attire, and, as we rode along, she would shrug her shoulders and laugh as if it were a huge joke; and by the most comical little pantomime, call my attention to her unusual bulk. so when she found brandon, the only change necessary to make a man of her was to throw off the riding habit and pull on the jack-boots and slouch hat, both of which brandon had with him. they wasted no time you may be sure, and were soon under way. in a few minutes they picked up the two bristol men who were to accompany them, and, when night had fairly fallen, left the by-paths and took to the main road leading from london to bath and bristol. the road was a fair one; that is, it was well defined and there was no danger of losing it; in fact, there was more danger of losing one's self in its fathomless mud-holes and quagmires. brandon had recently passed over it twice, and had made mental note of the worst places, so he hoped to avoid them. soon the rain began to fall in a soaking drizzle; then the lamps of twilight went out, and even the shadows of the night were lost among themselves in blinding darkness. it was one of those black nights fit for witch traveling; and, no doubt, every witch in england was out brewing mischief. the horses' hoofs sucked and splashed in the mud with a sound that mary thought might be heard at land's end; and the hoot of an owl, now and then disturbed by a witch, would strike upon her ear with a volume of sound infinitely disproportionate to the size of any owl she had ever seen or dreamed of before. brandon wore our cushion, the great cloak, and had provided a like one of suitable proportions for the princess. this came in good play, as her fine gentleman's attire would be but poor stuff to turn the water. the wind, which had arisen with just enough force to set up a dismal wail, gave the rain a horizontal slant and drove it in at every opening. the flaps of the comfortable great cloak blew back from mary's knees, and she felt many a chilling drop through her fine new silk trunks that made her wish for buckram in their place. soon the water began to trickle down her legs and find lodgment in the jack-boots, and as the rain and wind came in tremulous little whirs, she felt wretched enough--she who had always been so well sheltered from every blast. now and then mud and water would fly up into her face--striking usually in the eyes or mouth--and then again her horse would stumble and almost throw her over his head, as he sank, knee deep, into some unexpected hole. all of this, with the thousand and one noises that broke the still worse silence of the inky night soon began to work upon her nerves and make her fearful. the road was full of dangers aside from stumbling horses and broken necks, for many were the stories of murder and robbery committed along the route they were traveling. it is true they had two stout men, and all were armed, yet they might easily come upon a party too strong for them; and no one could tell what might happen, thought the princess. there was that pitchy darkness through which she could hardly see her horse's head--a thing of itself that seemed to have infinite powers for mischief, and which no amount of argument ever induced any normally constituted woman to believe was the mere negative absence of light, and not a terrible entity potent for all sorts of mischief. then that wailing howl that rose and fell betimes; no wind ever made such a noise she felt sure. there were those shining white gleams which came from the little pools of water on the road, looking like dead men's faces upturned and pale; perhaps they were water and perhaps they were not. mary had all confidence in brandon, but that very fact operated against her. having that confidence and trust in him, she felt no need to waste her own energy in being brave; so she relaxed completely, and had the feminine satisfaction of allowing herself to be thoroughly frightened. is it any wonder mary's gallant but womanly spirit sank low in the face of all those terrors? she held out bravely, however, and an occasional clasp from brandon's hand under cover of the darkness comforted her. when all those terrors would not suggest even a thought of turning back, you may judge of the character of this girl and her motive. they traveled on, galloping when they could, trotting when they could not gallop, and walking when they must. at one time they thought they heard the sound of following horses, and hastened on as fast as they dared go, until, stopping to listen and hearing nothing, they concluded they were wrong. about eleven o'clock, however, right out of the black bank of night in front of them they heard, in earnest, the sucking splash of horses' hoofs. in an instant the sound ceased and the silence was worse than the noise. the cry "hollo!" brought them all to a stand, and mary thought her time had come. both sides shouted, "who comes there?" to which there was a simultaneous and eager answer, "a friend," and each party passed its own way, only too glad to be rid of the other. mary's sigh of relief could be heard above even the wind and the owls, and her heart beat as if it had a task to finish within a certain time. after this they rode on as rapidly as they dared, and about midnight arrived at the inn where the relay of horses was awaiting them. [illustration] the inn was a rambling old thatched-roofed structure, half mud, half wood, and all filth. there are many inns in england that are tidy enough, but this one was a little off the main road--selected for that reason--and the uncleanness was not the least of mary's trials that hard night. she had not tasted food since noon, and felt the keen hunger natural to youth and health such as hers, after twelve hours of fasting and eight hours of riding. her appetite soon overcame her repugnance, and she ate, with a zest that was new to her, the humblest fare that had ever passed her lips. one often misses the zest of life's joys by having too much of them. one must want a thing before it can be appreciated. a hard ride of five hours brought our travelers to bath, which place they rode around just as the sun began to gild the tile roofs and steeples, and another hour brought them to bristol. the ship was to sail at sunrise, but as the wind had died out with the night, there was no danger of its sailing without them. soon the gates opened, and the party rode to the bow and string, where brandon had left their chests. the men were then paid off; quick sale was made of the horses; breakfast was served, and they started for the wharf, with their chests following in the hands of four porters. a boat soon took them aboard the royal hind, and now it looked as if their daring scheme, so full of improbability as to seem impossible, had really come to a successful issue. from the beginning, i think, it had never occurred to mary to doubt the result. there had never been with her even a suggestion of possible failure, unless it was that evening in our room, when, prompted by her startled modesty, she had said she could not bear for us to see her in the trunk hose. now that fruition seemed about to crown her hopes she was happy to her heart's core; and when once to herself wept for sheer joy. it is little wonder she was happy. she was leaving behind no one whom she loved excepting jane, and perhaps, me. no father nor mother; only a sister whom she barely knew, and a brother whose treatment of her had turned her heart against him. she was also fleeing with the one man in all the world for her, and from a marriage that was literally worse than death. brandon, on the other hand, had always had more desire than hope. the many chances against success had forced upon him a haunting sense of certain failure, which, one would think, should have left him now. it did not, however, and even when on shipboard, with a score of men at the windlass ready to heave anchor at the first breath of wind, it was as strong as when mary first proposed their flight, sitting in the window on his great cloak. such were their opposite positions. both were without doubt, but with this difference; mary had never doubted success; brandon never doubted failure. he had a keen analytical faculty that gave him truthfully the chances for and against, and, in this case, they were overwhelmingly unfavorable. such hope as he had been able to distil out of his desire was sadly dampened by an ever-present premonition of failure, which he could not entirely throw off. too keen an insight for the truth often stands in a man's way, and too clear a view of an overwhelming obstacle is apt to paralyze effort. hope must always be behind a hearty endeavor. our travelers were, of course, greatly in need of rest; so mary went to her room, and brandon took a berth in the cabin set apart for the gentlemen. they had both paid for their passage, although they had enlisted and were part of the ship's company. they were not expected to do sailor's work, but would be called upon in case of fighting to do their part at that. mary was probably as good a fighter, in her own way, as one could find in a long journey, but how she was to do her part with sword and buckler brandon did not know. that, however, was a bridge to be crossed when they should come to it. they had gone aboard about seven o'clock, and brandon hoped the ship would be well down bristol channel before he should leave his berth. but the wind that had filled mary's jack-boots with rain and had howled so dismally all night long would not stir, now that it was wanted. noon came, yet no wind, and the sun shone as placidly as if captain charles brandon were not fuming with impatience on the poop of the royal hind. three o'clock and no wind. the captain said it would come with night, but sundown was almost at hand and no wind yet. brandon knew this meant failure if it held a little longer, for he was certain the king, with wolsey's help, would long since have guessed the truth. brandon had not seen the princess since morning, and the delicacy he felt about going to her cabin made the situation somewhat difficult. after putting it off from hour to hour in hope that she would appear of her own accord, he at last knocked at her door, and, of course, found the lady in trouble. the thought of the princess going on deck caused a sinking at his heart every time it came, as he felt that it was almost impossible to conceal her identity. he had not seen her in her new male attire, for when she threw off her riding habit on meeting him the night before, he had intentionally busied himself about the horses, and saw her only after the great cloak covered her as a gown. he felt that however well her garments might conceal her form, no man on earth ever had such beauty in his face as her transcendent eyes, rose-tinted cheeks, and coral lips, with their cluster of dimples; and his heart sank at the prospect. she might hold out for a while with a straight face, but when the smiles should come--it were just as well to hang a placard about her neck: "this is a woman." the tell-tale dimples would be worse than jane for outspoken, untimely truthfulness and trouble-provoking candor. upon entering, brandon found mary wrestling with the problem of her complicated male attire; the most beautiful picture of puzzled distress imaginable. the port was open and showed her rosy as the morn when she looked up at him. the jack-boots were in a corner, and her little feet seemed to put up a protest all their own, against going into them, that ought to have softened every peg. she looked up at brandon with a half-hearted smile, and then threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like the child that she was. "do you regret coming, lady mary?" asked brandon, who, now that she was alone with him, felt that he must take no advantage of the fact to be familiar. "no! no! not for one moment; i am glad--only too glad. but why do you call me 'lady'? you used to call me 'mary.'" "i don't know; perhaps because you are alone." "ah! that is good of you; but you need not be quite so respectful." the matter was settled by mute but satisfactory arbitration, and brandon continued: "you must make yourself ready to go on deck. it will be hard, but it must be done." he helped her with the heavy jack-boots and handed her the rain-stained slouch hat which she put on, and stood a complete man ready for the deck--that is, as complete as could be evolved from her utter femininity. when brandon looked her over, all hope went out of him. it seemed that every change of dress only added to her bewitching beauty by showing it in a new phase. "it will never do; there is no disguising you. what is it that despite everything shows so unmistakably feminine? what shall we do? i have it; you shall remain here under the pretense of illness until we are well at sea, and then i will tell the captain all. it is too bad; and yet i would not have you one whit less a woman for all the world. a man loves a woman who is so thoroughly womanly that nothing can hide it." mary was pleased at his flattery, but disappointed at the failure in herself. she had thought that surely these garments would make a man of her in which the keenest eye could not detect a flaw. they were discussing the matter when a knock came at the door with the cry, "all hands on deck for inspection." inspection! jesu! mary would not safely endure it a minute. brandon left her at once and went to the captain. "my lord is ill, and begs to be excused from deck inspection," he said. bradhurst, a surly old half pirate of the saltiest pattern, answered: "ill? then he had better go ashore as soon as possible. i will refund his money. we cannot make a hospital out of the ship. if his lordship is too ill to stand inspection, see that he goes ashore at once." this last was addressed to one of the ship's officers, who answered with the usual "aye, aye, sir," and started for mary's cabin. that was worse than ever; and brandon quickly said he would have his lordship up at once. he then returned to mary, and after buckling on her sword and belt they went on deck and climbed up the poop ladder to take their places with those entitled to stand aft. brandon has often told me since that it was as much as he could do to keep back the tears when he saw mary's wonderful effort to appear manly. it was both comical and pathetic. she was a princess to whom all the world bowed down, yet that did not help her here. after all she was only a girl, timid and fearful, following at brandon's heels; frightened lest she should get out of arm's reach of him among those rough men, and longing with all her heart to take his hand for moral as well as physical support. it must have been both laughable and pathetic in the extreme. that miserable sword persisted in tripping her, and the jack-boots, so much too large, evinced an alarming tendency to slip off with every step. how insane we all were not to have foreseen this from the very beginning. it must have been a unique figure she presented climbing up the steps at brandon's heels, jack-boots and all. so unique was it that the sailors working in the ship's waist stopped their tasks to stare in wonderment, and the gentlemen on the poop made no effort to hide their amusement. old bradhurst stepped up to her. "i hope your lordship is feeling better;" and then, surveying her from head to foot, with a broad grin on his features, "i declare, you look the picture of health, if i ever saw it. how old are you?" mary quickly responded, "fourteen years." "fourteen," returned bradhurst: "well, i don't think you will shed much blood. you look more like a deuced handsome girl than any man i ever saw." at this the men all laughed, and were very impertinent in the free and easy manner of such gentry, most of whom were professional adventurers, with every finer sense dulled and debased by years of vice. these fellows, half of them tipsy, now gathered about mary to inspect her personally, each on his own account. their looks and conduct were very disconcerting, but they did nothing insulting until one fellow gave her a slap on the back, accompanying it by an indecent remark. brandon tried to pay no attention to them, but this was too much, so he lifted his arm and knocked the fellow off the poop into the waist. the man was back in a moment, and swords were soon drawn and clicking away at a great rate. the contest was brief, however, as the fellow was no sort of match for brandon, who, with his old trick, quickly twisted his adversary's sword out of his grasp, and with a flash of his own blade flung it into the sea. the other men were now talking together at a little distance in whispers, and in a moment one drunken brute shouted: "it is no man; it is a woman; let us see more of her." [illustration] before brandon could interfere, the fellow had unbuckled mary's doublet at the throat, and with a jerk, had torn it half off, carrying away the sleeve and exposing mary's shoulder, almost throwing her to the deck. he waved his trophy on high, but his triumph was short-lived, for almost instantly it fell to the deck, and with it the offending hand severed at the wrist by brandon's sword. three or four friends of the wounded man rushed upon brandon; whereupon mary screamed and began to weep, which of course told the whole story. a great laugh went up, and instantly a general fight began. several of the gentlemen, seeing brandon attacked by such odds, took up his defense, and within twenty seconds all were on one side or the other, every mother's son of them fighting away like mad. you see how quickly and completely one woman without the slightest act on her part, except a modest effort to be let alone, had set the whole company by the ears, cutting and slashing away at each other like very devils. the sex must generate mischief in some unknown manner, and throw it off, as the sun throws off its heat. however, jane is an exception to that rule--if it is a rule. the officers soon put a stop to this lively little fight, and took brandon and mary, who was weeping as any right-minded woman would, down into the cabin for consultation. with a great oath bradhurst exclaimed: "it is plain enough that you have brought a girl on board under false colors, and you may as well make ready to put her ashore. you see what she has already done--a hand lost to one man and wounds for twenty others--and she was on deck less than five minutes. heart of god! at that rate she would have the ship at the bottom of davy jones's locker before we could sail half down the channel." "it was not my fault," sobbed mary, her eyes flashing fire; "i did nothing; all i wanted was to be left alone; but those brutes of men--you shall pay for this; remember what i say. did you expect captain brandon to stand back and not defend me, when that wretch was tearing my garments off?" "captain brandon, did you say?" asked bradhurst, with his hat off instantly. "yes," answered that individual. "i shipped under an assumed name, for various reasons, and desire not to be known. you will do well to keep my secret." "do i understand that you are master charles brandon, the king's friend?" asked bradhurst. "i am," was the answer. "then, sir, i must ask your pardon for the way you have been treated. we, of course, could not know it, but a man must expect trouble when he attaches himself to a woman." it is a wonder the flashes from mary's eyes did not strike the old sea-dog dead. he, however, did not see them, and went on: "we are more than anxious that so valiant a knight as sir charles brandon should go with us, and hope your reception will not drive you back, but as to the lady--you see already the result of her presence, and much as we want you, we cannot take her. aside from the general trouble which a woman takes with her everywhere"--mary would not even look at the creature--"on shipboard there is another and greater objection. it is said, you know, among sailors, that a woman on board draws bad luck to certain sorts of ships, and every sailor would desert, before we could weigh anchor, if it were known this lady was to go with us. should they find it out in mid-ocean, a mutiny would be sure to follow, and god only knows what would happen. for her sake, if for no other reason, take her ashore at once." brandon saw only too plainly the truth that he had really seen all the time, but to which he had shut his eyes, and throwing mary's cloak over her shoulders, prepared to go ashore. as they went over the side and pulled off, a great shout went up from the ship far more derisive than cheering, and the men at the oars looked at each other askance and smiled. what a predicament for a princess! brandon cursed himself for having been such a knave and fool as to allow this to happen. he had known the danger all the time, and his act could not be chargeable to ignorance or a failure to see the probable consequences. temptation, and selfish desire, had given him temerity in place of judgment. he had attempted what none but an insane man would have tried, without even the pitiable excuse of insanity. he had seen it all only too clearly from the very beginning, and he had deliberately and with open eyes brought disgrace, ruin, and death--unless he could escape--upon himself, and utter humiliation to her whom his love should have prompted him to save at all cost. if mary could only have disguised herself to look like a man they might have succeeded, but that little "if" was larger than paul's church, and blocked the road as completely as if it had been a word of twenty syllables. when the princess stepped ashore it seemed to her as if the heart in her breast was a different and separate organ from the one she had carried aboard. as the boat put off again for the ship, its crew gave a cheer coupled with some vile advice, for which brandon would gladly have run them through, each and every one. he had to swallow his chagrin and anger, and really blamed no one but himself, though it was torture to him that this girl should be subjected to such insults, and he powerless to avenge them. the news had spread from the wharf like wildfire, and on their way back to the bow and string, there came from small boys and hidden voices such exclamations as: "look at the woman in man's clothing;" "isn't he a beautiful man?" "look at him blush;" and others too coarse to be repeated. imagine the humiliating situation, from which there was no escape. at last they reached the inn, whither their chests soon followed them, sent by bradhurst, together with their passage money, which he very honestly refunded. mary soon donned her woman's attire, of which she had a supply in her chest, and at least felt more comfortable without the jack-boots. she had made her toilet alone for the first time in her life, having no maid to help her, and wept as she dressed, for this disappointment was like plucking the very heart out of her. her hope had been so high that the fall was all the harder. nay, even more; hope had become fruition to her when they were once a-shipboard, and failure right at the door of success made it doubly hard to bear. it crushed her, and, where before had been hope and confidence, was nothing now but despair. like all people with a great capacity for elation, when she sank she touched the bottom. alas! mary, the unconquerable, was down at last. this failure meant so much to her; it meant that she would never be brandon's wife, but would go to france to endure the dreaded old frenchman. at that thought a recoil came. her spirit asserted itself, and she stamped her foot and swore upon her soul it should never be; never! never! so long as she had strength to fight or voice to cry, "no." the thought of this marriage and of the loss of brandon was painful enough, but there came another, entirely new to her and infinitely worse. hastily arranging her dress, she went in search of brandon, whom she quickly found and took to her room. after closing the door she said: "i thought i had reached the pinnacle of disappointment and pain when compelled to leave the ship, for it meant that i should lose you and have to marry louis of france. but i have found that there is still a possible pain more poignant than either, and i cannot bear it; so i come to you--you who are the great cure for all my troubles. oh! that i could lay them here all my life long," and she put her head upon his breast, forgetting what she had intended to say. "what is the trouble, mary?" "oh! yes! i thought of that marriage and of losing you, and then, oh! mary mother! i thought of some other woman having you to herself. i could see her with you, and i was jealous--i think they call it. i have heard of the pangs of jealousy, and if the fear of a rival is so great what would the reality be? it would kill me; i could not endure it. i cannot endure even this, and i want you to swear that----" brandon took her in his arms as she began to weep. "i will gladly swear by everything i hold sacred that no other woman than you shall ever be my wife. if i cannot have you, be sure you have spoiled every other woman for me. there is but one in all the world--but one. i can at least save you that pain." she then stood on tip-toes to lift her lips to him, and said: "i give you the same promise. how you must have suffered when you thought i was to wed another." after a pause she went on: "but it might have been worse--that is, it would be worse if you should marry some other woman; but that is all settled now and i feel easier. then i might have married the old french king, but that, too, is settled; and we can endure the lesser pain. it always helps us when we are able to think it might have been worse." her unquestioning faith in brandon was beautiful, and she never doubted that he spoke the unalterable truth when he said he would never marry any other woman. she had faith in herself, too, and was confident that her promise to marry no man but brandon ended that important matter likewise, and put the french marriage totally out of the question for all time to come. as for brandon, he was safe enough in his part of the contract. he knew only too well that no woman could approach mary in her inimitable perfections, and he had tested his love closely enough, in his struggle against it, to feel that it had taken up its abode in his heart to stay, whether he wanted it or not. he knew that he was safe in making her a promise which he was powerless to break. all this he fully explained to mary, as they sat looking out of the window at the dreary rain which had come on again with the gathering gloom of night. brandon did not tell her that his faith in her ultimate ability to keep her promise was as small as it was great in his own. neither did he dampen her spirits by telling her that there was a reason, outside of himself, which in all probability would help him in keeping his word, and save her from the pangs of that jealousy she so much feared; namely, that he would most certainly wed the block and ax should the king get possession of him. he might have escaped from england in the royal hind, for the wind had come up shortly after they left the ship, and they could see the sails indistinctly through the gloom as she got under way. but he could not leave mary alone, and had made up his mind to take her back to london and march straight into the jaws of death with her, if the king's men did not soon come. he knew that a debt to folly bears no grace, and was ready with his principal and usance. _chapter xviii_ _to the tower_ whether or not brandon would have found some way to deliver the princess safely home, and still make his escape, i cannot say, as he soon had no choice in the matter. at midnight a body of yeomen from the tower took possession of the bow and string, and carried brandon off to london without communication with mary. she did, not know of his arrest until next morning, when she was informed that she was to follow immediately, and her heart was nearly broken. here again was trouble for mary. she felt, however, that the two great questions, the marriage of herself to louis, and brandon to any other person, were, as she called it, "settled"; and was almost content to endure this as a mere putting off of her desires--a meddlesome and impertinent interference of the fates, who would soon learn with whom they were dealing, and amend their conduct. she did not understand the consequences for brandon, nor that the fates would have to change their purpose very quickly or something would happen worse, even, than his marriage to another woman. on the second morning after leaving bristol, brandon reached london, and, as he expected, was sent to the tower. the next evening lady mary arrived and was taken down to greenwich. the girl's fair name was, of course, lost--but, fortunately, that goes for little with a princess--since no one would believe that brandon had protected her against himself as valiantly and honorably as he would against another. the princess being much more unsophisticated than the courtiers were ready to believe, never thought of saying anything to establish her innocence or virtue, and her silence was put down to shame and taken as evidence against her. jane met mary at windsor, and, of course, there was a great flood of tears. upon arriving at the palace, the girls were left to themselves, upon mary's promise not to leave her room; but, by the next afternoon, she, having been unable to learn anything concerning brandon, broke her parole and went out to see the king. it never occurred to mary that brandon might suffer death for attempting to run away with her. she knew only too well that she alone was to blame, not only for that, but for all that had taken place between them, and never for one moment thought that he might be punished for her fault, even admitting there was fault in any one, which she was by no means ready to do. the trouble in her mind, growing out of a lack of news from brandon, was of a general nature, and the possibility of his death had no place in her thoughts. nevertheless, for the second time, brandon had been condemned to die for her sake. the king's seal had stamped the warrant for the execution, and the headsman had sharpened his ax and could almost count the golden fee for his butchery. mary found the king playing cards with de longueville. there was a roomful of courtiers, and as she entered she was the target for every eye; but she was on familiar ground now, and did not care for the glances nor the observers, most of whom she despised. she was the princess again and full of self-confidence; so she went straight to the object of her visit, the king. she had not made up her mind just what to say first, there was so much; but henry saved her the trouble. he, of course, was in a great rage, and denounced mary's conduct as unnatural and treasonable; the latter, in henry's mind, being a crime many times greater than the breaking of all the commandments put together, in one fell, composite act. all this the king had communicated to mary by the lips of wolsey the evening before, and mary had received it with a silent scorn that would have withered any one but the worthy bishop of york. as i said, when mary approached her brother, he saved her the trouble of deciding where to begin by speaking first himself, and his words were of a part with his nature--violent, cruel and vulgar. he abused her and called her all the vile names in his ample vocabulary of billingsgate. the queen was present and aided and abetted with a word now and then, until henry, with her help, at last succeeded in working himself into a towering passion, and wound up by calling mary a vile wanton in plainer terms than i like to write. this aroused all the antagonism in the girl, and there was plenty of it. she feared henry no more than she feared me. her eyes flashed a fire that made even the king draw back as she exclaimed: "you give me that name and expect me to remember you are my brother? there are words that make a mother hate her first-born, and that is one. tell me what i have done to deserve it? i expected to hear of ingratitude and disobedience and all that, but supposed you had at least some traces of brotherly feeling--for ties of blood are hard to break--even if you have of late lost all semblance to man or king." this was hitting henry hard, for it was beginning to be the talk in every mouth that he was leaving all the affairs of state to wolsey and spending his time in puerile amusement. "the toward hope which at all poyntes appeared in the younge kynge" was beginning to look, after all, like nothing more than the old-time royal cold fire, made to consume but not to warm the nation. henry looked at mary with the stare of a baited bull. "if running off in male attire, and stopping at inns and boarding ships with a common captain of the guard doesn't justify my accusation and stamp you what you are, i do not know what would." [illustration] even henry saw her innocence in her genuine surprise. she was silent for a little time, and i, standing close to her, could plainly see that this phase of the question had never before presented itself. she hung her head for a moment and then spoke: "it may be true, as you say, that what i have done will lose me my fair name--i had never thought of it in that light--but it is also true that i am innocent and have done no wrong. you may not believe me, but you can ask master brandon"--here the king gave a great laugh, and of course the courtiers joined in. "it is all very well for you to laugh, but master brandon would not tell you a lie for your crown--" gods! i could have fallen on my knees to a faith like that--"what i tell you is true. i trusted him so completely that the fear of dishonor at his hands never suggested itself to me. i knew he would care for and respect me. i trusted him, and my trust was not misplaced. of how many of these creatures who laugh when the king laughs could i say as much?" and henry knew she spoke the truth, both concerning herself and the courtiers. with downcast eyes she continued: "i suppose, after all, you are partly right in regard to me; for it was his honor that saved me, not my own; and if i am not what you called me i have master brandon to thank--not myself." "we will thank him publicly on tower hill, day after to-morrow, at noon," said the king, with his accustomed delicacy, breaking the news of brandon's sentence as abruptly as possible. with a look of terror in her eyes, mary screamed: "what! charles brandon.... tower hill?... you are going to kill him?" "i think we will," responded henry; "it usually has that effect, to separate the head from the body and quarter the remains to decorate the four gates. we will take you up to london in a day or two and let you see his beautiful head on the bridge." "behead--quarter--bridge! lord jesu!" she could not grasp the thought; she tried to speak, but the words would not come. in a moment she became more coherent, and the words rolled from her lips as a mighty flood tide pours back through the arches of london bridge. "you shall not kill him; he is blameless; you do not know. drive these gawking fools out of the room, and i will tell you all." the king ordered the room cleared of everybody but wolsey, jane and myself, who remained at mary's request. when all were gone, the princess continued: "brother, this man is in no way to blame; it is all my fault--my fault that he loves me; my fault that he tried to run away to new spain with me. it may be that i have done wrong and that my conduct has been unmaidenly, but i could not help it. from the first time i ever saw him in the lists with you at windsor there was a gnawing hunger in my heart beyond my control. i supposed, of course, that day he would contrive some way to be presented to me...." "you did?" "yes, but he made no effort at all, and when we met he treated me as if i were an ordinary girl." "he did?" "yes." "horrible." mary was too intent on her story to heed the sarcasm, and continued: "that made me all the more interested in him since it showed that he was different from the wretches who beset you and me with their flattery, and i soon began to seek him on every occasion. this is an unmaidenly history i am giving, i know, but it is the truth, and must be told. i was satisfied at first if i could only be in the same room with him, and see his face, and hear his voice. the very air he breathed was like an elixir for me. i made every excuse to have him near me; i asked him to my parlor--you know about that--and--and did all i could to be with him. at first he was gentle and kind, but soon, i think, he saw the dawning danger in both our hearts, as i too saw it, and he avoided me in every way he could, knowing the trouble it held for us both. oh! he was the wiser--and to think to what i have brought him. brother, let me die for him--i who alone am to blame; take my life and spare him--spare him! he was the wiser, but i doubt if all the wisdom in the world could have saved us. he almost insulted me once in the park--told me to leave him--when it hurt him more than me, i am now sure; but he did it to keep matters from growing worse between us. i tried to remember the affront, but could not, and had he struck me i believe i should have gone back to him sooner or later. oh! it was all my fault; i would not let him save himself. so strong was my feeling that i could bear his silence no longer, and one day i went to him in your bed-chamber ante-room and fairly thrust myself and my love upon him. then, after he was liberated from newgate, i could not induce him to come to me, so i went to him and begged for his love. then i coaxed him into taking me to new spain, and would listen to no excuse and hear no reason. now lives there another man who would have taken so much coaxing?" "no! by heaven! your majesty," said wolsey, who really had a kindly feeling for brandon and would gladly save his life, if, by so doing, he would not interfere with any of his own plans and interests. wolsey's heart was naturally kind when it cost him nothing, and much has been related of him, which, to say the least, tells a great deal more than the truth. ingratitude always recoils upon the ingrate, and henry's loss was greater than wolsey's when wolsey fell. henry really liked, or, rather, admired, brandon, as had often been shown, but his nature was incapable of real affection. the highest point he ever reached was admiration, often quite extravagant for a time, but usually short-lived, as naked admiration is apt to be. if he had affection for any one it was for mary. he could not but see the justice of his sister's position, but he had no intention of allowing justice, in the sense of right, to interfere with justice in the sense of the king's will. "you have been playing the devil at a great rate," he said, "you have disobeyed your brother and your king; have disgraced yourself; have probably made trouble between us and france, for if louis refuses to take you now i will cram you down his throat; and by your own story have led a good man to the block. quite a budget of evils for one woman to open. but i have noticed that the trouble a woman can make is in proportion to her beauty, and no wonder my little sister has made so much disturbance. it is strange, though, that he should so affect you. master wolsey, surely there has been witchery here. he must have used it abundantly to cast such a spell over my sister." then turning to the princess: "was it at any time possible for him to have given you a love powder; or did he ever make any signs or passes over you?" "oh, no! nothing of that sort. i never ate or drank anything which he could possibly have touched. and as to signs and passes, i know he never made any. sir edwin, you were always present when i was with him until after we left for bristol; did you ever see anything of the sort?" i answered "no," and she went on. "besides, i do not believe much in signs and passes. no one can affect others unless he can induce them to eat or drink something in which he has placed a love powder or potion. then again, master brandon did not want me to love him, and surely would not have used such a method to gain what he could have had freely without it." i noticed that henry's mind had wandered from what mary was saying, and that his eyes were fixed upon me with a thoughtful, half vicious, inquiring stare that i did not like. i wondered what was coming next, but my curiosity was more than satisfied when the king asked: "so caskoden was present at all your interviews?" ah! holy mother! i knew what was coming now, and actually began to shrivel with fright. the king continued: "i suppose he helped you to escape?" i thought my day had come, but mary's wit was equal to the occasion. with an expression on her face of the most dove-like innocence, she quickly said: "oh! no! neither he nor jane knew anything of it. we were afraid they might divulge it." shade of sapphira! a lie is a pretty good thing, too, now and then, and the man who says that word of mary's was not a blessed lie, must fight me with lance, battle-ax, sword and dagger till one or the other of us bites the dust in death, be he great or small. "i am glad to learn that you knew nothing of it," said henry, addressing me; and i was glad, too, for him to learn it, you may be sure. then spoke wolsey: "if your majesty will permit, i would say that i quite agree with you; there has been witchery here--witchery of the most potent kind; the witchery of lustrous eyes, of fair skin and rosy lips; the witchery of all that is sweet and intoxicating in womanhood, but master brandon has been the victim of this potent spell, not the user of it. one look upon your sister standing there, and i know your majesty will agree that brandon had no choice against her." "perhaps you are right," returned henry. then spoke mary, all unconscious of her girlish egotism: "of course he had not. master brandon could not help it." which was true beyond all doubt. henry laughed at her naïveté, and wolsey's lips wore a smile, as he plucked the king by the sleeve and took him over to the window, out of our hearing. mary began to weep and show signs of increasing agitation. after a short whispered conversation, the king and wolsey came back and the former said: "sister, if i promise to give brandon his life, will you consent decently and like a good girl to marry louis of france?" mary almost screamed, "yes, yes; gladly; i will do anything you ask," and fell at his feet hysterically embracing his knees. as the king stooped and lifted her to her feet, he kissed her, saying: "his life shall be spared, my sweet sister." after this, henry felt that he had done a wonderfully gracious act and was the kindest-hearted prince in all christendom. poor mary! two mighty kings and their great ministers of state had at last conquered you, but they had to strike you through your love--the vulnerable spot in every woman. jane and i led mary away through a side door and the king called for de longueville to finish the interrupted game of cards. before the play was resumed wolsey stepped softly around to the king and asked: "shall i affix your majesty's seal to brandon's pardon?" "yes, but keep him in the tower until mary is off for france." wolsey had certainly been a friend to brandon in time of need, but, as usual, he had value received for his friendliness. he was an ardent advocate of the french marriage, notwithstanding the fact he had told mary he was not; having no doubt been bribed thereto by the french king. the good bishop had, with the help of de longueville, secretly sent mary's miniature to the french court in order that it might, as if by accident, fall into the hands of louis, and that worthy's little, old, shriveled heart began to flutter, just as if there could be kindled in it a genuine flame. louis had sent to de longueville, who was then in england, for confirmation of mary's beauty, and de longueville grew so eloquent on the theme that his french majesty at once authorized negotiations. as reports came in louis grew more and more impatient. this did not, however, stand in the way of his driving a hard bargain in the matter of dower, for "the father of the people" had the characteristics of his race, and was intensely practical as well as inflammable. they never lose sight of the _dot_--but i do not find fault. louis little knew what thorns this lovely rose had underneath her velvet leaves, and what a veritable tartar she would be, linked to the man she did not love; or he would have given henry four hundred thousand crowns to keep her at home. _chapter xix_ _proserpina_ so the value received for wolsey's friendship to brandon was mary's promise to marry louis. mary wanted to send a message at once to brandon, telling him his life would be spared, and that she had made no delay this time--a fact of which she was very proud--but the tower gates would not open until morning, so she had to wait. she compensated herself as well as she could by writing a letter, which i should like to give you here, but it is too long. she told him of his pardon, but not one word upon the theme he so wished yet feared to hear of--her promise never to wed any other man. mary had not told him of her final surrender in the matter of the french marriage, for the reason that she dreaded to pain him, and feared he might refuse the sacrifice. "it will almost kill him, i know," she said to jane that night, "and i fear it is a false kindness i do him. he would, probably, rather die than that i should marry another; i know that i should rather die, or have anything else terrible to happen, than for another woman to possess him. he promised me he never would; but suppose he should fail in his word, as i have to-day failed in mine? the thought of it absolutely burns me." and she threw herself into jane's arms, and that little comforter tried to soothe her by making light of her fears. "oh! but suppose he should?" "well! there is no need to borrow trouble. you said he promised you, and you know he is one who keeps his word." "but i promised, too, and think of what i am about to do. mary in heaven, help me! but he is made of different stuff from me. i can and do trust his word, and when i think of all my troubles, and when it seems that i cannot bear them, the one comforting thought comes that no other woman will ever possess him; no other woman; no other woman. i am glad that my only comfort comes from him." "i hoped that i might have been some comfort to you; i have tried hard enough," said jane, who was jealous. "oh! yes! my sweet jane; you do comfort me; you are like a soothing balm to an aching pain," and she kissed the hands that held hers. this was all that modest little jane required. she was content to be an humble balm and did not aspire to the dignity of an elixir. the girls then said their prayers in concert and mary gently wept herself to sleep. she lay dreaming and tossing nervously until sunrise, when she got up and added more pages to her letter, until i called to take it. i was on hand soon after the tower gates had opened and was permitted to see brandon at once. he read mary's letter and acted like every other lover, since love-letters first began. he was quick to note the absence of the longed for, but not expected assurance, and when he did not see it went straight to the point. "she has promised to marry the french king to purchase my life. is that not true?" "i hope not," i answered, evasively; "i have seen very little of her, and she has said nothing about it." "you are evading my question, i see. do you know nothing of it?" "nothing," i replied, telling an unnecessary lie. "caskoden, you are either a liar or a blockhead." "make it a liar, brandon," said i, laughingly, for i was sure of my place in his heart and knew that he meant no offense. i never doubt a friend; one would better be trustful of ninety-nine friends who are false than doubtful of one who is true. suspicion and super-sensitiveness are at once the badge and the bane of a little soul. i did not leave the tower until noon, and brandon's pardon had been delivered to him before i left. he was glad that the first news of it had come from mary. he naturally expected his liberty at once, and when told that he was to be honorably detained for a short time, turned to me and said: "i suppose they are afraid to let me out until she is off for france. king henry flatters me." i looked out of the window up tower street and said nothing. when i left i took a letter to mary, which plainly told her he had divined it all, and she wrote a tear-stained answer, begging him to forgive her for having saved his life at a cost greater than her own. for several days i was kept busy carrying letters from greenwich to the tower and back again, but soon letters ceased to satisfy mary, and she made up her mind that she must see him. nothing else would do. she must not, could not, and, in short, would not go another day without seeing him; no, not another hour. jane and i opposed her all we could, but the best we could accomplish was to induce her for brandon's sake--for she was beginning to see that he was the one who had to suffer for her indiscretions--to ask henry's permission, and if he refused, then try some other way. to determine was to act with mary, so off she went without delay to hunt the king, taking jane and me along as escort. how full we were of important business, as we scurried along the corridors, one on each side of mary, all talking excitedly at once. when anything was to be done, it always required three of us to do it. we found the king, and without any prelude, mary proffered her request. of course it was refused. mary pouted, and was getting ready for an outburst, when wolsey spoke up: "with your majesty's gracious permission, i would subscribe to the petition of the princess. she has been good enough to give her promise in the matter of so much importance to us, and in so small a thing as this i hope you may see your way clear toward favoring her. the interview will be the last and may help to make her duty easier." mary gave the cardinal a fleeting glance from her lustrous eyes full of surprise and gratitude, and as speaking as a book. henry looked from one to the other of us for a moment, and broke into a boisterous laugh. "oh, i don't care, so that you keep it a secret. the old king will never know. we can hurry up the marriage. he is getting too much already; four hundred thousand crowns and a girl like you; he cannot complain if he have an heir. it would be a good joke on the miserly old dotard, but better on '_ce gros garçon_.'" mary sprang from her chair with a cry of rage. "you brute! do you think i am as vile as you because i have the misfortune to be your sister, or that charles brandon is like you simply because he is a man?" henry laughed, his health at that time being too good for him to be ill-natured. he had all he wanted out of his sister, so her outbursts amused him. mary hurriedly left the king and walked back to her room, filled with shame and rage; feelings actively stimulated by jane, who was equally indignant. henry had noticed jane's frown, but had laughed at her, and had tried to catch and kiss her as she left; but she struggled away from him and fled with a speed worthy of the cause. this insulting suggestion put a stop to mary's visit to the tower more effectually than any refusal could have done, and she sat down to pour forth her soul's indignation in a letter. she remained at home then, but saw brandon later, and to good purpose, as i believe, although i am not sure about it, even to this day. i took this letter to brandon, along with mary's miniature--the one that had been painted for charles of germany, but had never been given--and a curl of her hair, and it looked as if this was all he would ever possess of her. de longueville heard of henry's brutal consent that mary might see brandon, and, with a frenchman's belief in woman's depravity, was exceedingly anxious to keep them apart. to this end he requested that a member of his own retinue be placed near brandon. to this henry readily consented, and there was an end to even the letter-writing. opportunities increase in value doubly fast as they drift behind us, and now that the princess could not see brandon, or even write to him, she regretted with her whole soul that she had not gone to the tower when she had permission, regardless of what any one would say or think. mary was imperious and impatient, by nature, but upon rare and urgent occasions could employ the very smoothest sort of finesse. her promise to marry louis of france had been given under the stress of a frantic fear for brandon, and without the slightest mental reservation, for it was given to save his life, as she would have given her hands or her eyes, her life or her very soul itself; but now that the imminent danger was passed she began to revolve schemes to evade her promise and save brandon notwithstanding. she knew that under the present arrangement his life depended upon her marriage, but she had never lost faith in her ability to handle the king if she had but a little time in which to operate, and had secretly regretted that she had not, in place of flight, opened up her campaign along the line of feminine diplomacy at the very beginning. henry was a dullard mentally, while mary's mind was keen and alert--two facts of which the girl was perfectly aware--so it was no wonder she had such confidence in herself. when she first heard of brandon's sentence her fear for him was so great, and the need for action so urgent, that she could not resort to her usual methods for turning matters her way, but eagerly applied the first and quickest remedy offered. now, however, that she had a breathing spell, and time in which to operate her more slowly moving, but, as she thought, equally sure forces of cajolery and persuasion, she determined to marshal the legions of her wit and carry war into the enemy's country at once. henry's brutal selfishness in forcing upon her the french marriage, together with his cruel condemnation of brandon, and his vile insinuations against herself, had driven nearly every spark of affection for her brother from her heart. but she felt that she might feign an affection she did not feel, and that what she so wanted would be cheap at the price. cheap? it would be cheap at the cost of her immortal soul. cheap? what she wanted was life's condensed sweets--the man she loved; and what she wanted to escape was life's distilled bitterness--marriage with a man she loathed. none but a pure woman can know the torture of that. i saw this whole disastrous campaign from start to finish. mary began with a wide flank movement conducted under masked batteries and skilfully executed. she sighed over her troubles and cried a great deal, but told the king he had been such a dear, kind brother to her that she would gladly do anything to please him and advance his interests. she said it would be torture to live with that old creature, king louis, but she would do it willingly to help her handsome brother, no matter how much she might suffer. the king laughed and said: "poor old louis! what about him? what about his suffering? he thinks he is making such a fine bargain, but the lord pity him, when he has my little sister in his side for a thorn. he had better employ some energetic soul to prick him with needles and bodkins, for i think there is more power for disturbance in this little body than in any other equal amount of space in all the universe. you will furnish him all the trouble he wants, won't you, sister?" "i shall try," said the princess demurely, perfectly willing to obey in everything. "devil a doubt of that, and you will succeed, too, or my crown's a stew-pan," and he laughed at the huge joke he was about to perpetrate on his poor, old royal brother. it would seem that the tremendous dose of flattery administered by mary would have been so plainly self-interested as to alarm the dullest perception, but henry's vanity was so dense, and his appetite for flattery so great, that he accepted it all without suspicion, and it made him quite affable and gracious. mary kept up her show of affection and docile obedience for a week or two until she thought henry's suspicions were allayed; and then, after having done enough petting and fondling, as she thought, to start the earth itself a-moving--as some men are foolish enough to say it really does--she began the attack direct by putting her arms about the king's neck, and piteously begging him not to sacrifice her whole life by sending her to france. her pathetic, soul-charged appeal might have softened the heart of caligula himself; but henry was not even cruel. he was simply an animal so absorbed in himself that he could not feel for others. "oh! it is out at last," he said, with a laugh. "i thought all this sweetness must have been for something. so the lady wants her brandon, and doesn't want her louis, yet is willing to obey her dear, kind brother? well, we'll take her at her word and let her obey. you may as well understand, once and for all, that you are to go to france. you promised to go decently if i would not cut off that fellow's head, and now i tell you that if i hear another whimper from you off it comes, and you will go to france, too." this brought mary to terms quickly enough. it touched her one vulnerable spot--her love. "i will go; i promise it again. you shall never hear another word of complaint from me if you give me your royal word that no harm shall come to him--to him," and she put her hands over her face to conceal her tears as she softly wept. "the day you sail for france, brandon shall go free and shall again have his old post at court. i like the fellow as a good companion, and really believe you are more to blame than he." "i am all to blame, and am ready this day to pay the penalty. i am at your disposal to go when and where you choose," answered mary, most pathetically. poor, fair proserpina, with no kind mother demeter to help her. the ground will soon open, and pluto will have his bride. that evening cavendish took me aside and said his master, wolsey, wished to speak to me privately at a convenient opportunity. so, when the bishop left his card-table, an hour later, i threw myself in his way. he spoke gayly to me, and we walked down the corridor arm in arm. i could not imagine what was wanted, but presently it came out: "my dear caskoden"--had i been one for whom he could have had any use, i should have grown suspicious--"my dear caskoden, i know i can trust you; especially when that which i have to say is for the happiness of your friends. i am sure you will never name me in connection with the suggestion i am about to make, and will use the thought only as your own." i did not know what was coming, but gave him the strongest assurance of my trustworthiness. "it is this: louis of france is little better than a dead man. king henry, perhaps, is not fully aware of this, and, if he is, he has never considered the probability of his speedy death. the thought occurred to me that although the princess cannot dissuade her brother from this marriage, she may be able, in view of her ready and cheerful compliance, to extract some virtue out of her sore necessity and induce him to promise that, in case of the death of louis, she herself shall choose her second husband." "my lord," i replied, quickly grasping the point, "it is small wonder you rule this land. you have both brain and heart." "i thank you, sir edwin, and hope that both may always be at the service of you and your friends." i gave the suggestion to mary as my own, recommending that she proffer her request to the king in the presence of wolsey, and, although she had little faith or hope, she determined to try. within a day or two an opportunity offered, and she said to henry: "i am ready to go to france any time you wish, and shall do it decently and willingly; but if i do so much for you, brother, you might at least promise me that when king louis is dead i may marry whomsoever i wish. he will probably live forever, but let me have at least that hope to give me what cheer it may while i suffer." the ever-present wolsey, who was standing near and heard mary's petition, interposed: "let me add my prayer to that of her highness. we must give her her own way in something." mary was such a complete picture of wretchedness that i thought at the time she had really found a tender spot in henry's heart, for he gave the promise. since then i have learned, as you will shortly, that it was given simply to pacify the girl, and without any intention whatever of its being kept; but that, in case of the death of king louis, henry intended again to use his sister to his own advantage. to be a beautiful princess is not to enjoy the bliss some people imagine. the earth is apt to open at any time, and pluto to snatch her away to--the lord knows where. mary again poured out her soul on paper--a libation intended for brandon. i made a dozen attempts, in as many different ways, to deliver her letters, but every effort was a failure, and this missive met the fate of the others. de longueville kept close watch on his master's rival, and complained to henry about these attempts at communication. henry laughed and said he would see that they were stopped, but paid no more attention to the matter. if mary, before her interview with henry, had been averse to the french marriage, she was now equally anxious to hurry it on, and longed to go upon the rack in order that brandon might be free. he, of course, objected as strenuously as possible to the purchase of his life by her marriage to louis, but his better judgment told him--in fact, had told him from the first--that she would be compelled eventually to marry the french king, and common sense told him if it must be, she might as well save his life at the same time. furthermore, he felt a certain sense of delight in owing his life to her, and knew that the fact that she had saved him--that her sacrifice had not all been in vain--would make it easier for her to bear. the most beautiful feature of the relations between these two lovers was their entire faith in each other. the way of their true love was at least not roughened by cobble-stones of doubt, however impassable it was from mountains of opposition. my inability to deliver mary's letters did not deter her from writing them; and as she was to be married in a few days--de longueville to act as proxy--she devoted her entire time to her letters, and wrote pages upon pages, which she left with me to be delivered "after death," as she called her marriage. at this time i was called away from court for a day or two, and when i returned and called upon brandon at the tower, i found him whistling and singing, apparently as happy as a lark. "you heartless dog," thought i, at first; but i soon found that he felt more than happiness--exaltation. "have you seen her?" i asked. "who?" as if there were more than one woman in all the world for him. "the princess." "not since i left her at bristol." i believed then, and believe now, that this was a point blank falsehood--a very unusual thing for brandon--but for some reason probably necessary in this case. there was an expression in his face which i could not interpret, but he wrote, as if carelessly scribbling on a scrap of paper that lay upon the table, the words, "be careful," and i took the hint--we were watched. there is an unpleasant sensation when one feels that he is watched by unseen eyes, and after talking for awhile on common topics i left and took a boat for greenwich. when i arrived at the palace and saw mary, what was my surprise to find her as bright and jubilant as i had left brandon. she, too, laughed and sang, and was so happy that she lighted the whole room. what did it all mean? there was but one explanation; they had met, and there was some new plan on foot--with a fatal ending. the next failure would mean death to brandon, as certainly as the sun rises in the east. what the plan was i could not guess. with brandon in the tower under guard both day and night, and mary as closely guarded in the palace, i could not see any way of escape for either of them, nor how they could possibly have come together. brandon had not told me, i supposed, for fear of being overheard, and mary, although she had the opportunity, was equally non-communicative, so i had recourse to jane upon the first occasion. she, by the way, was as blue and sad-faced as mary was joyous. i asked her if the princess and brandon had met, and she sadly said: "i do not know. we went down to london yesterday, and as we returned stopped at bridewell house, where we found the king and wolsey. the princess left the room, saying she would return in a few minutes, and then wolsey went out, leaving me alone with the king. mary did not return for half an hour, and she may have seen master brandon during that time. i do not understand how the meeting could have occurred, but that is the only time she has been away from me." here jane deliberately put her head on my shoulder and began to weep piteously. "what is the trouble?" i asked. she shook her head: "i cannot, dare not tell you." "oh! but you must, you must," and i insisted so emphatically that she at length said: "the king!" "the king! god in heaven, jane, tell me quickly." i had noticed henry of late casting glances at my beautiful little jane, and had seen him try to kiss her a few days before, as i have told you. this annoyed me very much, but i thought little of it, as it was his habit to ogle every pretty face. when urged, jane said between her sobs: "he tried to kiss me and to--mistreat me when wolsey left the room at bridewell house. i may have been used to detain him, while mary met master brandon, but if so, i am sure she knew nothing of it." "and what did you do?" "i struggled away from him and snatched this dagger from my breast, telling him that if he took but one step toward me i would plunge it in my heart; and he said i was a fool." "god keep you always a fool," said i, prayerfully. "how long has this been going on?" "a month or two; but i have always been able to run away from him. he has been growing more importunate of late, so i bought a dagger that very day, and had it not one hour too soon." with this she drew out a gleaming little weapon that flashed in the rays of the candle. this was trouble in earnest for me, and i showed it very plainly. then jane timidly put her hand in mine, for the first time in her life, and murmured: "we will be married, edwin, if you wish, before we return from france." she was glad to fly to me to save herself from henry, and i was glad even to be the lesser of two evils. as to whether my two friends met or not that day at bridewell i cannot say; but i think they did. they had in some way come to an understanding that lightened both their hearts before mary left for france, and this had been their only possible opportunity. jane and i were always taken into their confidence on other occasions, but as to this meeting, if any there was, we have never been told a word. my belief is that the meeting was contrived by wolsey upon a solemn promise from brandon and mary never to reveal it, and if so, they have sacredly kept their word. on the th of august, , mary tudor, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders, was married at greenwich to louis de valois; de longueville acting as his french majesty's proxy. poor, fair proserpina!... note.--maidens only were married with their hair down. it was "the sacred token of maidenhood."--editor. _chapter xx_ _down into france_ so it came to pass that mary was married unto louis and went down into france. [again the editor takes the liberty of substituting hall's quaint account of mary's journey to france.] then when all things were redy for the conueyaunce of this noble ladye, the kyng her brother in the moneth of auguste, and the xv daye, with the quene his wife and his sayde sister and al the court came to douer and there taryed, for the wynde was troblous and the wether fowle, in so muche that shippe of the kynges called the libeck of ixc. tonne was dryuen a shore before sangate and there brase & of vi c. men scantely escaped iiic and yet the most part of them were hurt with the wrecke. when the wether was fayre, then al her wardrobe, stable, and riches was shipped, and such as were appoyncted to geue their attendaunce on her as the duke of norfolke, the marques of dorset, the bysshop of durham, the earle of surrey, the lorde delawar, sir thomas bulleyn and many other knights, squyers, getlemen & ladies, al these went to shippe and the sayde ladye toke her leaue of the quene in the castell of douer, and the king brought her to the sea syde, and kissed her, and betoke her to god and the fortune of the see and to the gouernaunce of the french king her husband. thus at the hower of foure of the clock in the morenynge thys fayre ladye toke her shippe with al her noble compaignie: and when they had sayled a quarter of the see, the wynde rose and seuered some of the shippes to cayles, and some in flaunders and her shippe with greate difficultie to bulleyn, and with greate ieopardy at the entrying of the hauen, for the master ran the shippe hard on shore, but the botes were redy and receyued this noble ladye, and at the landyng sir christopher garnysha stode in the water and toke her in his armes, and so caryed her to land, where the duke of vandosme and a cardynall with many estates receyued her, and her ladies, and welcommed all the noble men into the countrey, and so the quene and all her trayne came to bulleyn and ther rested, and from thence she remoued by dyuerse lodgynges tyll she came all most within iii miles of abuylé besyde the forrest of arders, and ther kynge loyes vppon a greate courser met her, (which he so longe desired) but she toke her way righte on, not stopping to conurse. then he returned to abuyle by a secret waye, & she was with greate triumphe, procession & pagiantes receyued into the toune of abuyle the viii day of october by the dolphin, which receyued her with greate honor. she was appeareilled in cloth of siluer, her horse was trapped in goldsmythes work very rychly. after her followed xxxvi ladies al ther palfreys trapped with crymsyn veluet, embraudered: after the folowed one charyott of cloth of tyssue, the seconde clothe of golde and the third crymsyn veluet embraudered with the kynges armes & hers, full of roses. after them folowed a greate nomber of archers and then wagons laden with their stuf. greate was the riches in plate, iuels, money, and hangynges that this ladye brought into france. the moday beyng the daye of sayncte denyce, the same kynge leyes maried the lady mary in the greate church of abuyle, bothe appareled in goldesmythes woorke. after the masse was done ther was a greate banket and fest and the ladyes of england highly entreteyned. the tewesdaye beyng the x daye of october all the englishmen except a fewe that wer officers with the sayde quene were discharged whiche was a greate sorowe for theim, for some had serued her longe in the hope of preferment and some that had honest romes left them to serue her and now they wer out of seruice, which caused the to take thought in so much, some dyed by way returning, and some fell mad, but ther was no remedy. after the english lordes had done ther commission the french kynge wylled the to take no lenger payne & so gaue to theim good rewardes and they toke ther leaue of the quene and returned. then the dolphyn of fraunce called frauncys duke of valoys, or fraunceys d'angouleme, caused a solempne iustes to be proclaymed, which shoulde be kept in parys in the moneth of noueber next ensuyng, and while al these thinges were prepearyng, the ladye mary, the v. daye of noueber, then beying sondaye was with greate solempnitee crowned queen of fraunce in the monasterye of saynct denyce, and the lorde dolphyn, who was young, but very toward, al the season held the crowune ouer her hed, because it was of greate waight, to her greuaunce. madame mary took her time, since a more deliberate journey bride never made to waiting bride-groom. she was a study during this whole period--weeping and angry by turns. she, who had never known a moment's illness in all her days, took to her bed upon two occasions from sheer antipathetic nervousness, and would rest her head upon jane's breast and cry out little, half-articulate prayers to god that she might not kill the man who was her husband, when they should meet. when we met the king about a league this side of abbeville, and when mary beheld him with the shadow of death upon his brow, she took hope, for she knew he would be but putty in her hands, so manifestly weak was he, mentally and physically. as he came up she whipped her horse and rode by him at a gallop, sending me back with word that he must not be so ardent; that he frightened her, poor, timid little thing, so afraid of--nothing in the world. this shocked the french courtiers, and one would think would have offended louis, but he simply grinned from ear to ear, showing his yellow fangs, and said whimperingly: "oh, the game is worth the trouble. tell her majesty i wait at abbeville." the old king had ridden a horse to meet his bride in order that he might appear more gallant before her, but a litter was waiting to take him back to abbeville by a shorter route, and they were married again in person. [again a quotation from hall is substituted]: mondaye the .vi daye of noueber, ther the sayde quene was receyued into the cytee of parys after the order thar foloweth. first the garde of the cytee met her with oute sayncte denyce al in coates of goldsmythes woorke with shippes gylt, and after them mett her al the prestes and religious whiche were estemed to be. iiim. the quene was in a chyre coured about (but not her ouer person) in white clothe of golde, the horses that drewe it couered in clothe of golde, on her bed a coronall, al of greate perles, her necke and brest full of iuels, before her wente a garde of almaynes after ther fascion, and after them al noblemen, as the dolphyn, the duke of burbon, cardynalles, and a greate nomber of estates. aboute her person rode the kynge's garde the whiche wer scottes. on the morowe bega the iustes, and the quene stode so that al men might see her, and wonder at her beautie, and the kynge was feble and lay on a couche for weakenes. so mary was twice married to louis, and, although she was his queen fast and sure enough, she was not his wife. you may say what you will, but i like a fighting woman; one with a touch of the savage in her when the occasion arises; one who can fight for what she loves as well as against what she hates. she usually loves as she fights--with all her heart. so mary was crowned, and was now a queen, hedged about by the tinseled divinity that hedgeth royalty. it seemed that she was climbing higher and higher all the time from brandon, but in her heart every day she was brought nearer to him. there was one thing that troubled her greatly, and all the time. henry had given his word that brandon should be liberated as soon as mary had left the shores of england, but we had heard nothing of this matter, although we had received several letters from home. a doubt of her brother, in whom she had little faith at best, made an ache at her heart, which seemed at times likely to break it--so she said. one night she dreamed that she had witnessed brandon's execution, her brother standing by in excellent humor at the prank he was playing her, and it so worked upon her waking hours that by evening she was ill. at last i received a letter from brandon--which had been delayed along the road--containing one for mary. it told of his full pardon and restoration to favor, greater even than before; and her joy was so sweet and quiet, and yet so softly delirious, that i tell you plainly it brought tears to my eyes and i could not hold them back. the marriage, when once determined upon, had not cast her down nearly so deep as i had expected, and soon she grew to be quite cheerful and happy. this filled me with regret, for i thought of how brandon must suffer, and felt that her heart was a poor, flimsy thing to take this trouble so lightly. i spoke to jane about it, but she only laughed. "mary is all right," said she; "do not fear. matters will turn out better than you think, perhaps. you know she generally manages to have her own way in the end." "if you have any comfort to give, please give it, jane. i feel most keenly for brandon, heart-tied to such a wilful, changeable creature as mary." "sir edwin caskoden, you need not take the trouble to speak to me at all unless you can use language more respectful concerning my mistress. the queen knows what she is about, but it appears that you cannot see it. i see it plainly enough, although no word has ever been spoken to me on the subject. as to brandon being tied to her, it seems to me she is tied to him, and that he holds the reins. he could drive her into the mouth of purgatory." "do you think so?" "i know it." i remained in thought a moment or two, and concluded that she was right. in truth, the time had come to me when i believed that jane, with her good sense and acute discernment, could not be wrong in anything, and i think so yet. so i took comfort on faith from her, and asked: "do you remember what you said should happen before we return to england?" jane hung her head. "i remember." "well?" she then put her hand in mine and murmured, "i am ready any time you wish." great heaven! i thought i should go out of my senses. she should have told me gradually. i had to do something to express my exultation, so i walked over to a bronze statue of bacchus, about my size--that is, height--put my hat--which i had been carrying under my arm--on his head, cut a few capers in an entirely new and equally antic step, and then drew back and knocked that bacchus down. jane thought i had gone stark mad, and her eyes grew big with wonder, but i walked proudly back to her after my victory over bacchus, and reassured her--with a few of mary's messages that i had still left over, if the truth must be told. then we made arrangements that resulted in our marriage next morning. accordingly, queen mary and one or two others went with us down to a little church, where, as fortune would have it, there was a little priest ready to join together in the holy bonds of wedlock little jane and little me. everything so appropriate, you see; i suppose in the whole world we couldn't have found another set of conditions so harmonious. mary laughed and cried, and laughed again, and clapped her hands over and over, and said it was "like a play wedding"; and, as she kissed jane, quietly slipped over her head a beautiful diamond necklace that was worth full ten thousand pounds--aside, that is, from the millions of actual value, because it came from mary. "a play wedding" it was; and a play life it has been ever since. we were barely settled at court in paris when mary began to put her plans in motion and unsettle things generally. i could not but recall henry's sympathy toward louis, for the young queen soon took it upon herself to make life a burden to the father of his people; and, in that particular line, i suppose she had no equal in all the length and breadth of christendom. i heartily detested king louis, largely, i think, because of prejudice absorbed from mary, but he was, in fact, a fairly good old man, and at times i could but pity him. he was always soft in heart and softer in head, especially where women were concerned. take his crazy attempt to seize the countess of croy while he was yet duke of orleans; and his infatuation for the italian woman, for whom he built the elaborate burial vault--much it must have comforted her. then his marriage to dictatorial little anne of brittany, for whom he had induced pope alexander to divorce him from the poor little crippled owlet, joan. in consideration of this divorce he had put cæsar borgia, pope alexander's son, on his feet, financially and politically. i think he must have wanted the owlet back again before he was done with anne, because anne was a termagant--and ruled him with the heaviest rod of iron she could lift. but this last passion--the flickering, sputtering flame of his dotage--was the worst of all, both subjectively and objectively; both as to his senile fondness for the english princess and her impish tormenting of him. from the first he evinced the most violent delight in mary, who repaid it by holding him off and evading him in a manner so cool, audacious and adroit that it stamped her queen of all the arts feminine and demoniac. pardon me, ladies, if i couple these two arts, but you must admit they are at times somewhat akin. soon she eluded him so completely that for days he would not have a glimpse of her, while she was perhaps riding, walking or coquetting with some of the court gallants, who aided and abetted her in every way they could. he became almost frantic in pursuit of his elusive bride, and would expostulate with her, when he could catch her, and smile uneasily, like a man who is the victim of a practical joke of which he does not see, or enjoy, the point. on such occasions she would laugh in his face, then grow angry--which was so easy for her to do--and, i grieve to say, would sometimes almost swear at him in a manner to make the pious, though ofttimes lax-virtued, court ladies shudder with horror. she would at other times make sport of his youthful ardor, and tell him in all seriousness that it was indecorous for him to behave so and frighten her, a poor, timid little child, with his impetuosities. then she would manage to give him the slip; and he would go off and play a game of cards with himself, firmly convinced in his own feeble way that woman's nature had a tincture of the devil in it. he was the soul of conciliatory kindness to the young vixen, but at times she would break violently into tears, accuse him of cruelly mistreating her, a helpless woman and a stranger in his court, and threaten to go home to dear old england and tell her brother, king henry, all about it, and have him put things to right and redress her wrongs generally. in fact, she acted the part of injured innocence so perfectly that the poor old man would apologize for the wrongs she invented, and try to coax her into a good humor. thereupon she would weep more bitterly than ever, grow hysterical, and require to be carried off by her women, when recovery and composure were usually instantaneous. of course the court gossips soon carried stories of the quick recoveries to the king, and, when he spoke to mary of them, she put on her injured air again and turned the tables by upbraiding him for believing such calumnies about her, who was so good to him and loved him so dearly. i tell you it is a waste of time to fight against that assumption of injured innocence--that impregnable feminine redoubt--and when the enemy once gets fairly behind it one might as well raise the siege. i think it the most amusing, exasperating and successful defense and counter attack in the whole science of war, and every woman has it at her finger-tips, ready for immediate use upon occasion. mary would often pout for days together and pretend illness. upon one occasion she kept the king waiting at her door all the morning, while she, having slipped through the window, was riding with some of the young people in the forest. when she returned--through the window--she went to the door and scolded the poor old king for keeping her waiting penned up in her room all the morning. and he apologized. she changed the dinner hour to noon in accordance with the english custom, and had a heavy supper at night, when she would make the king gorge himself with unhealthful food and coax him "to drink as much as brother henry," which invariably resulted in louis de valois finding lodgment under the table. this amused the whole court, except a few old cronies and physicians, who, of course, were scandalized beyond measure. she took the king on long rides with her on cold days, and would jolt him almost to death, and freeze him until the cold tears streamed down his poor pinched nose, making him feel like a half animated icicle, and wish that he were one in fact. at night she would have her balls, and keep him up till morning drinking and dancing, or trying to dance, with her, until his poor old heels, and his head, too, for that matter, were like to fall off; then she would slip away from him and lock herself in her room. december, say i, let may alone; she certainly will kill you. despite which sound advice, i doubt not december will go on coveting may up to the end of the chapter; each old fellow--being such a fine man for his age, you understand--fondly believing himself an exception. age in a fool is damnable. mary was killing louis as certainly and deliberately as if she were feeding him slow poison. he was very weak and decrepit at best, being compelled frequently, upon public occasions, such, for example, as the coronation tournament of which i have spoken, to lie upon a couch. mary's conduct was really cruel! but then, remember her provocation and that she was acting in self-defense. all this was easier for her than you might suppose, for the king's grasp of power, never very strong, was beginning to relax even what little grip it had. all faces were turned toward the rising sun, young francis, duke of angouleme, the king's distant cousin, who would soon be king in louis's place. as this young rising sun, himself vastly smitten with mary, openly encouraged her in what she did, the courtiers of course followed suit, and the old king found himself surrounded by a court only too ready to be amused by his lively young queen at his expense. this condition of affairs mary welcomed with her whole soul, and to accent it and nail assurance, i fear, played ever so lightly and coyly upon the heart-strings of the young duke, which responded all too loudly to her velvet touch, and almost frightened her to death with their volume of sound later on. this francis d'angouleme, the dauphin, had fallen desperately in love with mary at first sight, something against which the fact that he was married to claude, daughter of louis, in no way militated. he was a very distant relative of louis, going away back to st. louis for his heirship to the french crown. the king had daughters in plenty, but as you know, the gallant frenchmen say, according to their law salic: "the realm of france is so great and glorious a heritage that it may not be taken by a woman." too great and glorious to be taken by woman, forsooth! france would have been vastly better off had she been governed by a woman now and then, for a country always prospers under a queen. francis had for many years lived at court as the recognized heir, and as the custom was, called his distant cousin louis, "uncle." "uncle" louis in turn called francis "_ce gros garçon_," and queen mary called him "_monsieur, mon beau fils_," in a mock-motherly manner that was very laughable. a mother of eighteen to a "good boy" of twenty-two! dangerous relationship! and dangerous, indeed, it would have been for mary, had she not been as pure and true as she was wilful and impetuous. "mon beau fils" allowed neither his wife nor the respect he owed the king to stand in the way of his very marked attention to the queen. his position as heir, and his long residence at court, almost as son to louis, gave him ample opportunities for pressing his unseemly suit. he was the first to see mary at the meeting place this side of abbeville, and was the king's representative on all occasions. "beau fils" was rather a handsome fellow, but thought himself vastly handsomer than he was; and had some talents, which he was likewise careful to estimate at their full value, to say the least. he was very well liked by women, and in turn considered himself irresistible. he was very impressionable to feminine charms, was at heart a libertine, and, as he grew older, became a debauchee whose memory will taint france for centuries to come. mary saw his weakness more clearly than his wickedness, being blinded to the latter by the veil of her own innocence. she laughed at, and with him, and permitted herself a great deal of his company; so much, in fact, that i grew a little jealous for brandon's sake, and, if the truth must be told, for the first time began to have doubts of her. i seriously feared that when louis should die, brandon might find a much more dangerous rival in the new king, who, although married, would probably try to keep mary at his court, even should he be driven to the extreme of divorcing claude, as claude's father had divorced joan. i believed, in case mary should voluntarily prove false and remain in france, either as the wife or the mistress of francis, that brandon would quietly but surely contrive some means to take her life, and i hoped he would. i spoke to my wife, jane, about the queen's conduct, and she finally admitted that she did not like it; so i, unable to remain silent any longer, determined to put mary on her guard, and for that purpose spoke very freely to her on the subject. "oh! you goose!" she said, laughingly. "he is almost as great a fool as henry." then the tears came to her eyes, and half angrily, half hysterically, shaking me by the arm, she continued: "do you not know? can you not see that i would give this hand, or my eyes, almost my life, just to fall upon my face in front of charles brandon at this moment? do you not know that a woman with a love in her heart such as i have for him is safe from every one and everything? that it is her sheet anchor, sure and fast? have you not wit enough to know that?" "yes, i have," i responded, for the time completely silenced. with her favorite tactics, she had, as usual, put me in the wrong, though i soon came again to the attack. "but he is so base that i grieve to see you with him." "i suppose he is not very good," she responded, "but it seems to be the way of these people among whom i have fallen, and he cannot harm me." "oh! but he can. one does not go near smallpox, and there is a moral contagion quite as dangerous, if not so perceptible, and equally to be avoided. it must be a wonderfully healthy moral nature, pure and chaste to the core, that will be entirely contagion-proof and safe from it." she hung her head in thought, and then lifted her eyes appealingly to me. "am i not that, edwin? tell me! tell me frankly; am i not? it is the one thing of good i have always striven for. i am so full of other faults that if i have not that there is no good in me." her eyes and voice were full of tears, and i knew in my heart that i stood before as pure a soul as ever came from the hand of god. "you are, your majesty; never doubt," i answered. "it is pre-eminently the one thing in womanhood to which all mankind kneels." and i fell upon my knee and kissed her hand with a sense of reverence, faith and trust that has never left me from that day to this. as to my estimate of how francis would act when louis should die, you will see that i was right. not long after this lady caskoden and i were given permission to return to england, and immediately prepared for our homeward journey. ah! it was pretty to see jane bustling about, making ready for our departure--superintending the packing of our boxes and also superintending me. that was her great task. i never was so thankful for riches as when they enabled me to allow jane full sway among the paris shops. but at last, all the fine things being packed, and mary having kissed us both--mind you, both--we got our little retinue together and out we went, through st. denis, then ho! for dear old england. as we left, mary placed in my hands a letter for brandon, whose bulk was so reassuring that i knew he had never been out of her thoughts. i looked at the letter a moment and said, in all seriousness: "your majesty, had i not better provide an extra box for it?" she gave a nervous little laugh, and the tears filled her eyes, as she whispered huskily: "i fancy there is one who will not think it too large. good-bye! good-bye!" so we left mary, fair, sweet girl-queen, all alone among those terrible strangers; alone with one little english maiden, seven years of age--anne boleyn. _chapter xxi_ _letters from a queen_ upon our return to england i left jane down in suffolk with her uncle, lord bolingbroke, having determined never to permit her to come within sight of king henry again, if i could prevent it. i then went up to london with the twofold purpose of seeing brandon and resigning my place as master of the dance. when i presented myself to the king and told him of my marriage, he flew into a great passion because we had not asked his consent. one of his whims was that everyone must ask his permission to do anything; to eat, or sleep, or say one's prayers; especially to marry, if the lady was of a degree entitled to be a king's ward. jane, fortunately, had no estate, the king's father having stolen it from her when she was an infant; so all the king could do about our marriage was to grumble, which i let him do to his heart's content. "i wish also to thank your majesty for the thousand kindnesses you have shown me," i said, "and, although it grieves me to the heart to separate from you, circumstances compel me to tender my resignation as your master of dance." upon this he was kind enough to express regret, and ask me to reconsider; but i stood my ground firmly, and then and there ended my official relations with henry tudor forever. upon taking my leave of the king i sought brandon, whom i found comfortably ensconced in our old quarters, he preferring them to much more pretentious apartments offered him in another part of the palace. the king had given him some new furnishings for them, and as i was to remain a few days to attend to some matters of business, he invited me to share his comfort with him, and i gladly did so. those few days with brandon were my farewell to individuality. thereafter i was to be so mysteriously intermingled with jane that i was only a part--and a small part at that i fear--of two. i did not, of course, regret the change, since it was the one thing in life i most longed for, yet the period was tinged with a faint sentiment of pathos at parting from the old life that had been so kind to me, and which i was leaving forever. i say i did not regret it, and though i was leaving my old haunts and companions and friends so dear to me, i was finding them all again in jane, who was friend as well as wife. mary's letter was in one of my boxes which had been delayed, and jane was to forward it to me when it should come. when i told brandon of it, i dwelt with emphasis upon its bulk, and he, of course, was delighted, and impatient to have it. i had put the letter in the box, but there was something else which mary had sent to him that i had carried with me. it was a sum of money sufficient to pay the debt against his father's estate, and in addition, to buy some large tracts of land adjoining. brandon did not hesitate to accept the money, and seemed glad that it had come from mary, she, doubtless, being the only person from whom he would have taken it. one of brandon's sisters had married a rich merchant at ipswich, and another was soon to marry a scotch gentleman. the brother would probably never marry, so brandon would eventually have to take charge of the estates. in fact, he afterwards lived there many years, and as jane and i had purchased a little estate near by, which had been generously added to by jane's uncle, we saw a great deal of him. but i am getting ahead of my story again. the d'angouleme complication troubled me greatly, notwithstanding my faith in mary, and although i had resolved to say nothing to brandon about it, i soon told him plainly what i thought and feared. he replied with a low, contented little laugh. "do not fear for mary, i do not. that young fellow is of different stuff, i know, from the old king, but i have all faith in her purity and ability to take care of herself. before she left she promised to be true to me, whatever befell, and i trust her entirely. i am not so unhappy by any means as one would expect. am i?" and i was compelled to admit that he certainly was not. so it seems they had met, as jane and i suspected, but how mary managed it i am sure i cannot tell; she beat the very deuce for having her own way, by hook or by crook. then came the bulky letter, which brandon pounced upon and eagerly devoured. i leave out most of the sentimental passages, which, like effervescent wine, lose flavor quickly. she said--in part: "_to master brandon:_ "sir and dear friend, greeting--after leaving thee, long time had i that mighty grief and dole within my heart that it was like to break; for my separation from thee was so much harder to bear even than i had taken thought of, and i also doubted me that i could live in paris, as i did wish. sleep rested not upon my weary eyes, and of a very deed could i neither eat nor drink, since food distasted me like a nausea, and wine did strangle in my throat. this lasted through my journey hither, which i did prolong upon many pretexts, nearly two months, but when i did at last rest mine eyes for the first time upon this king louis's face, i well knew that i could rule him, and when i did arrive, and had adjusted myself in this paris, i found it so easy that my heart leaped for very joy. beauty goeth so far with this inflammable people that easily do i rule them all, and truly doth a servile subject make a sharp, capricious tyrant. thereby the misfortune which hath come upon us is of so much less evil, and is so like to be of such short duration, that i am almost happy--but for lack of thee--and sometimes think that after all it may verily be a blessing unseen. "this new, unexpected face upon our trouble hath so driven the old gnawing ache out of my heart that i love to be alone, and dream, open-eyed, of the time, of a surety not far off, when i shall be with thee.... it is ofttimes sore hard for me, who have never waited, to have to wait, like a patient griselda, which of a truth i am not, for this which i do so want; but i try to make myself content with the thought that full sure it will not be for long, and that when this tedious time hath spent itself, we shall look back upon it as a very soul-school, and shall rather joy that we did not purchase our heaven too cheaply. "i said i find it easy to live here as i wish, and did begin to tell thee how it was, when i ran off into telling of how i long for thee; so i will try again. this louis, to begin with, is but the veriest shadow of a man, of whom thou needst have not one jealous thought. he is on a bed of sickness most of the time, of his own accord, and if, perchance, he be but fairly well a day or so, i do straightway make him ill again in one way or another, and, please god, hope to wear him out entirely ere long time. of a deed, brother henry was right; better had it been for louis to have married a human devil than me, for it maketh a very one out of me if mine eyes but rest upon him, and thou knowest full well what kind of a devil i make--brother henry knoweth, at any rate. for all this do i grieve, but have no remedy, nor want one. i sometimes do almost compassionate the old king, but i cannot forbear, for he turneth my very blood to biting gall, and must e'en take the consequences of his own folly. truly is he wild for love of me, this poor old man, and the more i hold him at a distance the more he fondly dotes. i do verily believe he would try to stand upon his foolish old head, did i but insist. i sometimes have a thought to make him try it. he doeth enough that is senseless and absurd, in all conscience, as it is. at all of this do the courtiers smile, and laugh, and put me forward to other pranks; that is, all but a few of the elders, who shake their heads, but dare do nothing else for fear of the dauphin, who will soon be king, and who stands first in urging and abetting me. so it is easy for me to do what i wish, and above all to leave undone that which i wish not, for i do easily rule them all, as good sir edwin and dear jane will testify. i have a ball every night, wherein i do make a deal of amusement for every one by dancing la volta with his majesty until his heels, and his poor old head, too, are like to fall off. others importune me for those dances, especially the dauphin, but i laugh and shake my head and say that i will dance with no one but the king, because he dances so well. this pleases his majesty mightily, and maketh an opening for me to avoid the touch of other men, for i am jealous of myself for thy sake, and save and garner every little touch for thee.... sir edwin will tell you i dance with no one else and surely never will. you remember well, i doubt not, when thou first didst teach me this new dance. ah! how delightful it was! and yet how at first it did frighten and anger me. thou canst not know how my heart beat during all the time of that first dance. i thought, of a surety, it would burst; and then the wild thrill of frightened ecstasy that made my blood run like fire! i knew it must be wrong, for it was, in truth, too sweet a thing to be right. and then i grew angry at thee as the cause of my wrong-doing and scolded thee, and repented it, as usual. truly didst thou conquer, not win me. then afterwards, withal it so frightened me, how i longed to dance again, and could in no way stay myself from asking. at times could i hardly wait till evening fell, and when upon occasion thou didst not come, i was so angry i said i hated thee. what must thou have thought of me, so forward and bold! and that afternoon! ah! i think of it every hour, and see and hear it all, and live it o'er and o'er, as it sweeter grows with memory's ripening touch. some moments there are, that send their glad ripple down through life's stream to the verge of the grave, and truly blest is one who can smile upon and kiss these memory waves, and draw from thence a bliss that never fails. but thou knowest full well my heart, and i need not tease thee with its outpourings. "there is yet another matter of which i wish to write in very earnestness. sir edwin spoke to me thereof, and what he said hath given me serious thought. i thank him for his words, of which he will tell thee in full if thou but importune him thereto. it is this: the dauphin, francis d'angouleme, hath fallen desperately fond of me, and is quite as importunate, and almost as foolish as the elder lover. this people, in this strange land of france, have, in sooth, some curious notions. for an example thereto: no one thinks to find anything unseeming in the dauphin's conduct, by reason of his having already a wife, and more, that wife the princess claude, daughter to the king. i laugh at him and let him say what he will, for in truth i am powerless to prevent it. words cannot scar even a rose leaf, and will not harm me. then, by his help and example i am justified in the eyes of the court in that i so treat the king, which otherwise it were impossible for me to do and live here. so, however much i may loathe them, yet i am driven to tolerate his words, which i turn off with a laugh, making sure, thou mayest know, that it come to nothing more than words. and thus it is, however much i wish it not, that i do use him to help me treat the king as i like, and do then use the poor old king as my buckler against this duke's too great familiarity. but my friend, when the king comes to die then shall i have my fears of this young francis d'angouleme. he is desperate for me, and i know not to what length he might go. the king cannot live long, as the thread of his life is like rotten flax, and when he dies thou must come without delay, since i shall be in deadly peril. i have a messenger waiting at all hours ready to send to thee upon a moment's notice, and when he comes waste not a precious instant; it may mean all to thee and me. i could write on and on forever, but it would be only to tell thee o'er and o'er that my heart is full of thee to overflowing. i thank thee that thou hast never doubted me, and will see that thou hast hereafter only good cause for better faith. "mary, regina." "regina!" that was all. only a queen! surely no one could charge brandon with possessing too modest tastes. it was, i think, during the second week in december that i gave this letter to brandon, and about a fortnight later there came to him a messenger from paris, bringing another from mary, as follows: "_master charles brandon_: "sir and dear friend, greeting--i have but time to write that the king is so ill he cannot but die ere morning. thou knowest that which i last wrote to thee, and in addition thereto i would say that although i have, as thou likewise knowest, my brother's permission to marry whom i wish, yet as i have his one consent it is safer that we act upon that rather than be so scrupulous as to ask for another. so it were better that thou take me to wife upon the old one, rather than risk the necessity of having to do it without any. i say no more, but come with all the speed thou knowest. "mary." it is needless to say that brandon started in haste for paris. he left court for the ostensible purpose of paying me a visit and came to ipswich, whence we sailed. the french king was dead before mary's message reached london, and when we arrived at paris, francis i reigned on the throne of his father-in-law. i had guessed only too accurately. as soon as the restraint of the old king's presence, light as it had been, was removed, the young king opened his attack upon mary in dreadful earnest. he begged and pleaded and swore his love, which was surely manifest enough, and within three days after the old king's death offered to divorce claude and make mary his queen. when she refused this flattering offer his surprise was genuine. "do you know what you refuse?" he asked in a temper. "i offer to make you my wife--queen of fifteen millions of the greatest subjects on earth--and are you such a fool as to refuse a gift like that, and a man like me for a husband?" "that i am, your majesty, and with a good grace. i am queen of france without your help, and care not so much as one penny for the honor. it is greater to be a princess of england. as for this love you avow, i would make so bold as to suggest that you have a good, true wife to whom you would do well to give it all. to me it is nothing, even were you a thousand times the king you are. my heart is another's, and i have my brother's permission to marry him." "another's? god's soul! tell me who this fellow is that i may spit him on my sword." "no! no! you would not; even were you as valiant and grand as you think yourself, you would be but a child in his hands." francis was furious, and had mary's apartments guarded to prevent her escape, swearing he would have his way. as soon as brandon and i arrived in paris we took private lodgings, and well it was that we did. i at once went out to reconnoiter, and found the widowed queen a prisoner in the old palace des tournelles. with the help of queen claude i secretly obtained an interview, and learned the true state of affairs. had brandon been recognized and his mission known in paris, he would certainly have been assassinated by order of francis. when i saw the whole situation, with mary nothing less than a prisoner in the palace, i was ready to give up without a struggle, but not so mary. her brain was worth having, so fertile was it in expedients, and while i was ready to despair, she was only getting herself in good fighting order. after mary's refusal of francis, and after he had learned that the sacrifice of claude would not help him, he grew desperate, and determined to keep the english girl in his court at any price and by any means. so he hit upon the scheme of marrying her to his weak-minded cousin, the count of savoy. to that end he sent a hurried embassy to henry viii, offering, in case of the savoy marriage, to pay back mary's dower of four hundred thousand crowns. he offered to help henry in the matter of the imperial crown in case of maximilian's death--a help much greater than any king louis could have given. he also offered to confirm henry in all his french possessions, and to relinquish all claims of his own thereto--all as the price of one eighteen-year-old girl. do you wonder she had an exalted estimate of her own value? [illustration] as to henry, it, of course, need not be said, that half the price offered would have bought him to break an oath made upon the true cross itself. the promise he had made to mary, broken in intent before it was given, stood not for an instant in the way of the french king's wishes; and henry, with a promptitude begotten of greed, was as hasty in sending an embassy to accept the offer as francis had been to make it. it mattered not to him what new torture he put upon his sister; the price, i believe, was sufficient to have induced him to cut off her head with his own hands. if francis and henry were quick in their movements, mary was quicker. her plan was made in the twinkling of an eye. immediately upon seeing me at the palace she sent for queen claude, with whom she had become fast friends, and told her all she knew. she did not know of the scheme for the savoy marriage, though queen claude did, and fully explained it to mary. naturally enough, claude would be glad to get mary as far away from france and her husband as possible, and was only too willing to lend a helping hand to our purpose, or mary's, rather, for she was the leader. we quickly agreed among ourselves that mary and queen claude should within an hour go out in claude's new coach for the ostensible purpose of hearing mass. brandon and i were to go to the same little chapel in which jane and i had been married, where mary said the little priest could administer the sacrament of marriage and perform the ceremony as well as if he were thrice as large. i hurriedly found brandon and repaired to the little chapel, where we waited for a very long time, we thought. at last the two queens entered as if to make their devotions. as soon as brandon and mary caught sight of each other, queen claude and i began to examine the shrines and decipher the latin inscriptions. if these two had not married soon they would have been the death of me. i was compelled at length to remind them that time was very precious just at that juncture, whereupon mary, who was half laughing, half crying, lifted her hands to her hair and let it fall in all its lustrous wealth down over her shoulders. when brandon saw this, he fell upon his knee and kissed the hem of her gown, and she, stooping over him, raised him to his feet and placed her hand in his. thus mary was married to the man to save whose life she had four months before married the french king. she and queen claude had forgotten nothing, and all arrangements were completed for the flight. a messenger had been dispatched two hours before with an order from queen claude that a ship should be waiting at dieppe, ready to sail immediately upon our arrival. after the ceremony claude quickly bound up mary's hair, and the queens departed from the chapel in their coach. we soon followed, meeting them again at st. denis gate, where we found the best of horses and four sturdy men awaiting us. the messenger to dieppe who had preceded us would arrange for relays, and as mary, according to her wont when she had another to rely upon, had taken the opportunity to become thoroughly frightened, no time was lost. we made these forty leagues in less than twenty-four hours from the time of starting; having paused only for a short rest at a little town near rouen, which city we carefully passed around. we had little fear of being overtaken at the rate we were riding, but mary said she supposed the wind would die down for a month immediately upon our arrival at dieppe. fortunately no one pursued us, thanks to queen claude, who had spread the report that mary was ill, and fortunately, also, much to mary's surprise and delight, when we arrived at dieppe, as fair a wind as a sailor's heart could wish was blowing right up the channel. it was a part of the system of relays--horses, ship, and wind. "when the very wind blows for our special use, we may surely dismiss fear," said mary, laughing and clapping her hands, but nearly ready for tears, notwithstanding. the ship was a fine new one, well fitted to breast any sea, and learning this, we at once agreed that upon landing in england, mary and i should go to london and win over the king if possible. we felt some confidence in being able to do this, as we counted upon wolsey's help, but in case of failure we still had our plans. brandon was to take the ship to a certain island off the suffolk coast and there await us the period of a year if need be, as mary might, in case of henry's obstinacy, be detained; then re-victual and re-man the ship and out through the north sea for their former haven, new spain. in case of henry's consent, how they were to live in a style fit for a princess, brandon did not know, unless henry should open his heart and provide for them--a doubtful contingency upon which they did not base much hope. at a pinch, they might go down into suffolk and live next to jane and me on brandon's estates. to this mary readily agreed, and said it was what she wanted above all else. there was one thing now in favor of the king's acquiescence: during the last three months brandon had become very necessary to his amusement, and amusement was his greatest need and aim in life. mary and i went to london to see the king, having landed at southampton for the purpose of throwing off the scent any one who might seek the ship. the king was delighted to see his sister, and kissed her over and over again. mary had as hard a game to play as ever fell to the lot of woman, but she was equal to the emergency if any woman ever was. she did not give henry the slightest hint that she knew anything of the count of savoy episode, but calmly assumed that of course her brother had meant literally what he said when he made the promise as to the second marriage. the king soon asked: "but what are you doing here? they have hardly buried louis as yet, have they?" "i am sure i do not know," answered mary, "and i certainly care less. i married him only during his life, and not for one moment afterwards, so i came away and left them to bury him or keep him, as they choose; i care not which." "but--" began henry, when mary interrupted him, saying: "i will tell you--" i had taken good care that wolsey should be present at this interview; so we four, the king, wolsey, mary and myself, quietly stepped into a little alcove away from the others, and prepared to listen to mary's tale, which was told with all her dramatic eloquence and feminine persuasiveness. she told of the ignoble insults of francis, of his vile proposals--insisted upon, almost to the point of force--carefully concealing, however, the offer to divorce claude and make her queen, which proposition might have had its attractions for henry. she told of her imprisonment in the palace des tournelles, and of her deadly peril and many indignities, and the tale lost nothing in the telling. then she finished by throwing her arms around henry's neck in a passionate flood of tears and begging him to protect her--to save her! save her! save her! his little sister. it was all such perfect acting that for the time i forgot it was acting, and a great lump swelled up in my throat. it was, however, only for the instant, and when mary, whose face was hidden from all the others, on henry's breast, smiled slyly at me from the midst of her tears and sobs, i burst into a laugh that was like to have spoiled everything. henry turned quickly upon me, and i tried to cover it by pretending that i was sobbing. wolsey helped me out by putting a corner of his gown to his eyes, when henry, seeing us all so affected, began to catch the fever and swell with indignation. he put mary away from him, and striding up and down the room exclaimed, in a voice that all could hear, "the dog! the dog! to treat my sister so. my sister! my father's daughter! my sister! the first princess of england and queen of france for his mistress! by every god that ever breathed, i'll chastise this scurvy cur until he howls again. i swear it by my crown, if it cost me my kingdom," and so on until words failed him. but see how he kept his oath, and see how he and francis hobnobbed not long afterward at the field of the cloth of gold. henry came back to mary and began to question her, when she repeated the story for him. then it was she told of my timely arrival, and how, in order to escape and protect herself from francis, she had been compelled to marry brandon and flee with us. she said: "i so wanted to come home to england and be married where my dear brother could give me away, but i was in such mortal dread of francis, and there was no other means of escape, so--" "god's death! if i had but one other sister like you, i swear before heaven i'd have myself hanged. married to brandon? fool! idiot! what do you mean? married to brandon! jesu! you'll drive me mad! just one other like you in england, and the whole damned kingdom might sink; i'd have none of it. married to brandon without my consent!" "no! no! brother," answered mary softly, leaning affectionately against his bulky form; "do you suppose i would do that? now don't be unkind to me when i have been away from you so long! you gave your consent four months ago. do you not remember? you know i would never have done it otherwise." "yes, i know! you would not do anything--you did not want; and it seems equally certain that in the end you always manage to do everything you do want. hell and furies!" "why! brother, i will leave it to my lord bishop of york if you did not promise me that day, in this very room, and almost on this very spot, that if i would marry louis of france i might marry whomsoever i wished when he should die. of course you knew, after what i had said, whom i should choose, so i went to a little church in company with queen claude, and took my hair down and married him, and i am his wife, and no power on earth can make it otherwise," and she looked up into his face with a defiant little pout, as much as to say, "now, what are you going to do about it?" henry looked at her in surprise and then burst out laughing. "married to brandon with your hair down?" and he roared again, holding his sides. "well, you do beat the devil; there's no denying that. poor old louis! that was a good joke on him. i'll stake my crown he was glad to die! you kept it warm enough for him, i make no doubt." "well," said mary, with a little shrug of her shoulders, "he would marry me." "yes, and now poor brandon doesn't know the trouble ahead of him, either. he has my pity, by jove!" "oh, that is different," returned mary, and her eyes burned softly, and her whole person fairly radiated, so expressive was she of the fact that "it was different." different? yes, as light from darkness; as love from loathing; as heaven from the other place; as brandon from louis; and that tells it all. henry turned to wolsey: "have you ever heard anything equal to it, my lord bishop?" my lord bishop, of course, never had; nothing that even approached it. "what are we to do about it?" continued henry, still addressing wolsey. [illustration] the bishop assumed a thoughtful expression, as if to appear deliberate in so great a matter, and said: "i see but one thing that can be done," and then he threw in a few soft, oily words upon the troubled waters that made mary wish she had never called him "thou butcher's cur," and henry, after a pause, asked: "where is brandon? he is a good fellow, after all, and what we can't help we must endure. he'll find punishment enough in you. tell him to come home--i suppose you have him hid around some place--and we'll try to do something for him." "what will you do for him, brother?" said mary, not wanting to give the king's friendly impulse time to weaken. "oh! don't bother about that now," but she held him fast by the hand and would not let go. "well, what do you want? out with it. i suppose i might as well give it up easily, you will have it sooner or later. out with it and be done." "could you make him duke of suffolk?" "eh? i suppose so. what say you, my lord of york?" york was willing--thought it would be just the thing. "so be it then," said henry. "now i am going out to hunt and will not listen to another word. you will coax me out of my kingdom for that fellow yet." he was about to leave the room when he turned to mary, saying: "by the way, sister, can you have brandon here by sunday next? i am to have a joust." mary thought she could, ... and the great event was accomplished. one false word, one false syllable, one false tone would have spoiled it all, had not mary--but i fear you are weary with hearing so much of mary. so after all, mary, though a queen, came portionless to brandon. he got the title, but never received the estates of suffolk; all he received with her was the money i carried to him from france. nevertheless, brandon thought himself the richest man in all the earth, and surely he was one of the happiest. such a woman as mary is dangerous, except in a state of complete subjection--but she was bound hand and foot in the silken meshes of her own weaving, and her power for bliss-making was almost infinite. and now it was, as all who read may know, that this fair, sweet, wilful mary dropped out of history; a sure token that her heart was her husband's throne; her soul his empire; her every wish his subject, and her will, so masterful with others, the meek and lowly servant of her strong but gentle lord and master, charles brandon, duke of suffolk. _note by the editor_ sir edwin caskoden's history differs in some minor details from other authorities of the time. hall's chronicle says sir william brandon, father of charles, had the honor of being killed by the hand of richard iii himself, at bosworth field, and the points wherein his account of charles brandon's life differs from that of sir edwin may be gathered from the index to the edition of that work, which is as follows: charles brandon, esquire, is made knight, created viscount lysle, made duke of suffolke, goeth to paris to the iustes, doeth valiantly there, returneth into england, he is sent into fraunce to fetch home the french quene into england, he maryeth her, and so on until "he dyeth and is buryed at wyndesore." no mention is made in any of the chronicles of the office of master of dance. in all other essential respects sir edwin is corroborated by his contemporaries. * * * * * _the author and the book_ by maurice thompson when a man does something by which the world is attracted, we immediately feel a curiosity to know all about him personally. mr. charles major, of shelbyville, indiana, wrote the wonderfully popular historical romance, when knighthood was in flower, which has already sold over a quarter million copies. it is not mere luck that makes a piece of fiction acceptable to the public. the old saying, "where there is so much smoke there must be fire," holds good in the case of smoke about a novel. when a book moves many people of varying temperaments and in all circles of intelligence there is power in it. behind such a book we have the right to imagine an author endowed with admirable gifts of imagination. the ancient saying, "the cup is glad of the wine it holds," was but another way of expressing the rule which judges a tree by its fruit and a man by his works; for out of character comes style, and out of a man's nature is his taste distilled. every soul, like the cup, is glad of what it holds. mr. major himself has said, in his straightforward way, "it is what a man does that counts." by this rule of measurement mr. major has a liberal girth. the writing of when knighthood was in flower was a deed of no ordinary dimensions, especially when we take into account the fact that the writer had not been trained to authorship or to the literary artist's craft; but was a country lawyer, with an office to sweep every morning, and a few clients with whom to worry over dilatory cases and doubtful fees. the law, as a profession, is said to be a jealous mistress, ever ready and maliciously anxious to drop a good-sized stumbling block in the path of her devotee whenever he appears to be straying in the direction of another love. indeed, many are the young men who, on turning from blackstone and kent in a comfortable law office to scott and byron, have lost a lawyer's living, only to grasp the empty air of failure in the fascinating garret of the scribbler. but "nothing succeeds like success," and genius has a way of changing rules and forcing the gates of fortune. and when we see the proof that a fresh genius has once more wrought the miracle of reversing all the fine logic of facts, so as to bring success and fame out of the very circumstances and conditions which are said to render the feat impossible, we all wish to know how he did it. balzac, when he felt the inspiration of a new novel in his brain, retired to an obscure room, and there, with a pot of villainous black coffee at his elbow, wrote night and day, almost without food and sleep, until the book was finished. general lew wallace put ben hur on paper in the open air of a beech grove, with a bit of yellowish canvas stretched above him to soften the light. some authors use only the morning hours for their literary work; others prefer the silence of night. a few cannot write save when surrounded by books, pictures and luxurious furniture, while some must have a bare room with nothing in it to distract attention. mr. charles major wrote when knighthood was in flower on sunday afternoons, the only time he had free from the exactions of the law. he was full of his subject, however, and doubtless his clients paid the charges in the way of losses through demurrers neglected and motions and exceptions not properly presented! one thing about mr. major's work deserves special mention; its shows conscientious mastery of details, a sure evidence of patient study. what it may lack as literature is compensated for in lawful coin of human interest and in general truthfulness to the facts and the atmosphere of the life he depicts. when asked how he arrived at his accurate knowledge of old london--london in the time of henry viii--he fetched an old book--stow's survey of london--from his library and said: "you remember in my novel that mary goes one night from bridewell castle to billingsgate ward through strange streets and alleys. well, that journey i made with mary, aided by stow's survey, with his map of old london before me." it is no contradiction of terms to speak of fiction as authentic. mere vraisemblance is all very well in works of pure imagination; but a historical romance does not satisfy the reader's sense of justice unless its setting and background and atmosphere are true to time, place and historical facts. mr. major felt the demand of his undertaking and respected it. he collected old books treating of english life and manners in the reign of henry viii, preferring to saturate his mind with what writers nearest the time had to say, rather than depend upon recent historians. in this he chose well, for the romancer's art, different from the historian's, needs the literary shades and colors of the period it would portray. another clever choice on the part of our author was to put the telling of the story in the mouth of his heroine's contemporary. this, of course, had often been done by romancers before mr. major, but he chose well, nevertheless. fine literary finish was not to be expected of a master of the dance early in the sixteenth century; so that sir edwin caskoden, and not mr. major, is accepted by the reader as responsible for the book's narrative, descriptive and dramatic style. this ruse, so to call it, serves a double purpose; it hangs the glamour of distance over the pages, and it puts the reader in direct communication, as it were, with the characters in the book. the narrator is garrulous, and often far from artistic with his scenes and incidents; but it is caskoden doing all this, not mr. charles major, and we never think of bringing him to task! undoubtedly it is good art to do just what mr. major has done--that is, it is good art to present a picture of life in the terms of the period in which it flourished. it might have been better art to clothe the story in the highest terms of literature; but that would have required a shakespeare. the greatest beauty of mr. major's story as a piece of craftsmanship is its frank show of self-knowledge on the author's part. he knew his equipment, and he did not attempt to go beyond what it enabled him to do and do well. his romance will not go down the ages as a companion of scott's, thackeray's, hugo's and dumas'; but read at any time by any fresh-minded person, it will afford that shock of pleasure which always comes of a good story enthusiastically told, and of a pretty love-drama frankly and joyously presented. mr. major has the true dramatic vision and notable cleverness in the art of making effective conversation. the little indiana town in which mr. major lives and practices the law is about twenty miles from indianapolis, and hitherto has been best known as the former residence of thomas a. hendricks, late vice-president of the united states. already the tide of kodak artists and autograph hunters has found our popular author out, and his clients are being pushed aside by vigorous interviewers and reporters in search of something about the next book. but the author of when knighthood was in flower is an extremely difficult person to handle. it is told of him that he offers a very emphatic objection to having his home life and private affairs flaunted before the public under liberal headlines and with "copious illustrations." mr. major is forty-three and happily married; well-built and dark; looking younger than his years, genial, quiet and domestic to a degree; he lives what would seem to be an ideal life in a charming home, across the threshold of which the curiosity of the public need not try to pass. as might be taken for granted, mr. major has been all his life a loving student of history. perhaps to the fact that he has never studied romance as it is in art is largely due his singular power over the materials and atmosphere of history. at all events, there is something remarkable in his vivid pictures not in the least traceable to literary form nor dependent upon a brilliant command of diction. the characters in his book are warm, passionate human beings, and the air they breathe is real air. the critic may wince and make faces over lapses from taste, and protest against a literary style which cannot be defended from any point of view; yet there is mary in flesh and blood, and there is caskoden, a veritable prig of a good fellow--there, indeed, are all the _dramatis personae_, not merely true to life, but living beings. and speaking of _dramatis personae_, mr. major tells how, soon after his book was published, his morning mail brought him an interesting letter from a prominent new york manager, pointing out the dramatic possibilities of when knighthood was in flower and asking for the right to produce it. while this letter was still under consideration, a telegram was received at the shelbyville office which read: "i want the dramatic rights to when knighthood was in flower." it was signed "julia marlowe." mr. major felt that this was enough for one morning, so he escaped to indianapolis, and after a talk with his publishers, left for st. louis and answered miss marlowe's telegram in person. at the first interview she was enthusiastic and he was confident. she gave him a box for the next night's performance, which miss marlowe arranged should be "as you like it." after the play the author was enthusiastic and the actress confident. at cincinnati, the following week, the contract was signed and the search for the dramatist was begun. that the story would lend itself happily to stage production must have occurred even to the thoughtless reader. but it is one thing to see the scenes of a play fairly sticking out, as the saying is, from the pages of a book, and quite another to gather together and make of them a dramatic entity. miss marlowe was determined that the book should be given to a playwright whose dramatic experience and artistic sense could be relied on to lead him out of the rough places, up to the high plane of convincing and finished workmanship. mr. paul kester, after some persuasion, undertook the work. the result is wholly satisfactory to author, actress and manager--a remarkable achievement indeed! mr. major's biography shows a fine, strong american life. he was born in indianapolis, july , . thirteen years later he went with his father's family to shelbyville, where he was graduated from the public school in , and in he concluded his course in the university of michigan. later he read law with his father, and in was admitted to the bar. eight years later he stood for the legislature and was elected on the democratic ticket. he served with credit one term, and has since declined all political honors. the title, when knighthood was in flower, was not chosen by mr. major, whose historical taste was satisfied with charles brandon, duke of suffolk. and who knows but that the author's title would have proved just the weight to sink a fine book into obscurity? mr. john j. curtis, of the bowen-merrill company, suggested when knighthood was in flower, a phrase taken from leigh hunt's poem, the gentle armour: "there lived a knight, when knighthood was in flower, who charmed alike the tilt-yard and the bower." * * * * * transcriber's note--typographical errors corrected in text: page : gentlema replaced with gentleman page : way replaced with was page : extra 'the' removed page : garcon replaced with garçon silver and gold * * * * * by the same author the fighting fool: a tale of the western frontier cloth, mo. with a wrapper drawn by edward borein $ . net e. p. dutton & company new york * * * * * silver and gold a story of luck and love in a western mining camp by dane coolidge author of "the fighting fool" etc. [illustration] "gold is where you find it, and silver in high places." --_miners' saying_. new york e. p. dutton & company fifth avenue copyright, by e. p. dutton & company all rights reserved printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i. the ground-hog ii. big boy iii. hobo stuff iv. cash v. mother trigedgo vi. the oraculum vii. the eminent buttinsky viii. the silver treasure ix. bible-back murray x. signs and omens xi. the lady of the sycamores xii. steel on steel xiii. swede luck xiv. the strike xv. a night for love xvi. a friend xvii. broke xviii. the hand of fate xix. the man-killer xx. jumpers--and tenors xxi. broke again xxii. the rock-drilling contest xxiii. the heart of his beloved xxiv. colonel dodge xxv. the answer xxvi. the course of the law xxvii. like a hog on ice xxviii. parole xxix. the interpretation thereof silver and gold _the prophecy_ "you will make a long journey to the west and there, within the shadow of a place of death, you will find two treasures, one of silver and the other of gold. choose well between them and both shall be yours, but if you choose unwisely you will lose them both and suffer a great disgrace. you will fall in love with a beautiful woman who is an artist, but beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another. courage and constancy will attend you through life but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend." silver and gold chapter i the ground-hog the day had dawned on the summit of apache leap and a golden eagle, wheeling high above the crags, flashed back the fire of the sun from his wings; but in the valley below where old pinal lay sleeping the heat had not begun. a cool wind drew down from the black mouth of queen creek canyon, stirring the listless leaves of the willows, and the shadow of the great cliff fell like a soothing hand on the deserted town at its base. in the brief freshness of the morning there was a smell of flaunting green from the sycamores along the creek, and the tang of greasewood from the ridges; and then, from the chimney of a massive stone house, there came the odor of smoke. a coffee mill began to purr from the kitchen behind and a voice shouted a summons to breakfast, but the hobo miner who lay sprawling in his blankets did not answer the peremptory call. he raised his great head, turned his pig eyes toward the house, then covered his face from the flies. there was a clatter of dishes, a long interval of silence, and then the sun like a flaming disc topped the mountain wall to the east. the square adobe houses cast long black shadows across the whitened dust of the street and as the man burrowed deeper to keep out the light the door of the stone house slammed. the day seldom passed when bunker hill's wife did not cook for three or four hoboes but when old bunk called a man in to breakfast he expected him to come. he stood for a minute, tall and rangy and grizzled, a desert squint in one eye; and then with a muttered oath he strode across the street. "hey!" he called prodding the blankets with his boot and the hobo came alive with a jump. "you look out!" he snarled, bounding violently to his feet and dropping back to a crouch; but when he met bunker hill's steely eyes he mumbled something and lowered his hands. "all right, pardner," observed hill, "i'll do all of that; but if you figure on getting any breakfast you'd better come in and eat it." "huh!" responded the hobo scowling and blinking at the sun and then without a word he started for the house. he was a big, hulking man, with arms like a bear and bulging, bench-like legs; but the expression on his face above his enormous black mustache was that of a disgruntled ground-hog. his nose was tipped up, his eyes were small and stubborn and as he ate a hurried breakfast he glanced about uneasily as if fearful of some trap; yet if bunker hill had any reservations about his guest he did not abate his hospitality. the coffee was still hot, there was plenty of everything and when the miner rose to go old bunk accompanied him to the door. "going to be hot," he observed as the heat struck through their clothes; but the hobo omitted even a nod of assent in his haste to be off down the trail. "well, the dadblasted bum!" exclaimed bunker in a rage as the miner passed over the first hill and, stumping across the street, he rolled up the tumbled blankets. "the dirty dog!" he grumbled vindictively, hoisting the bed upon his shoulders; but as he started back to the house he heard something drop from the roll. he paused and looked back and there on the ground lay a wallet, stuffed with bills. it was the miner's purse, which he had put under his pillow and forgotten in his sudden departure. "o-ho!" observed bunker as he picked it up. "o-ho, i thought you was broke!" he opened the purse with great deliberation, laying bare a great sheaf of bills, and as his wife and daughter came hurrying down the steps he counted the hobo's hoard. "over eight hundred dollars," he announced with ominous calm. "some roll, when a man is bumming his meals and can't even stop to say thanks----" "he's coming back for it," broke in his wife anxiously. "and now, andrew, please don't----" "never mind," returned her husband, slipping the wallet into his pocket, and she sighed and folded her hands. the hobo was walking fast, coming back down the hill, and when he saw hill by the blankets he broke into a ponderous trot. "say," he called, "you didn't see a purse, did ye? i left one under my blankets." "a purse!" exclaimed bunker with exaggerated surprise. "why i thought you was broke--what business have _you_ got with a purse?" "well, i had a few keep-sakes and----" "you're a liar!" rapped out bunker and his sharp lower jaw suddenly jutted out like a crag. "you're a liar," he repeated, as the hobo let it pass, "you had eight hundred and twenty-five dollars." "well, what's that to you?" retorted the miner defiantly. "it's mine, so gimme it back!" "oh, i don't know," drawled bunker hauling the purse from his pocket and looking over the bills, "i don't know whether i will or not. you came in here last night and told me you were broke, but right here is where i collect. it'll cost you five dollars for your supper and breakfast and five dollars more for your bed--that's my regular price to transients." "no, you don't!" exclaimed the hobo, but as bunker looked up he drew back a step and waited. "that's ten dollars in all," continued hill, extracting two bills from the purse, "and next time you bum your breakfast i'd advise you to thank the cook." "hey, you give me that money!" burst out the miner hoarsely, holding out a threatening hand, and bunker hill rose to his full height. he was six feet two when he stooped. "w'y, sure," he said handing over the wallet; but as the miner turned to go hill jabbed him in the ribs with a pistol. "just a moment, my friend," he went on quietly, "i just want to tell you a few things. i've been feeding men like you for fifteen years, right here in this old town, and i've never turned one away yet; but you can tell any bo that you meet on the trail that the road-sign for this burg is changed. i used to be easy, but so help me gawd, i'll never feed a hobo again. here my wife has been slaving over a red-hot stove cooking grub for you hoboes for years and the first bum that forgets and leaves his purse has eight hundred dollars--cash! now you git, dad-burn ye, before i do the world a favor and fill you full of lead!" he motioned him away with the muzzle of his pistol while his wife laid a hand on his arm, and after one look the hobo turned and loped over the top of the hill. "now andrew, please," expostulated mrs. hill, and, still breathing hard, old bunk put up his gun and reached for a chew of tobacco. "well, all right," he growled, "but you heard what i said--that's the last doggoned hobo we feed." "well--perhaps," she conceded, but bunker hill was roused by the memory of years of ingratitude. "no 'perhaps' about it," he asserted firmly, "i'll run every last one of them away. do you think i'm going to work my head off for my family, only to be et out of house and home? do you think i'm going to have you cooking meals for these miners when they're earning their five dollars a day? let 'em buy a lunch at the store!" "no, but andrew," protested mrs. hill, who was a large, motherly soul and not to be bowed down by work, "i'm sure that some of them are worthy." "yes, i know you are," he answered, smiling grimly, "that's what you always say. but you hear me, now; i'm through. don't you feed another man." he turned to his daughter for support, but his bad luck had just begun. drusilla was shading her eyes from the sun and staring up the trail. "oh, here comes another one," she cried in a hushed voice and pointed up the creek. he stood at the mouth of the black-shadowed canyon where the trail comes in from globe--a young man with wind-blown hair, looking doubtfully down at the town; but when he saw them he stepped boldly forth and came plodding down the trail. "oh, not this one!" pleaded mrs. hill when she saw his boyish face; but bunker hill thrust out his jaw. "every one of 'em," he muttered, "the whole works--all of 'em! you women folks go into the house." chapter ii big boy he was a big, fair-haired boy, blue-eyed and clean limbed, and as he came down the trail there was a spring to his step that not even a limp could obliterate; and at every stride the great muscles in his chest played and rippled beneath his shirt. he was a fine figure of a man, tall and straight as an apollo, and yet he was a hobo. never before had bunker hill seen a better built man or one more open-faced and frank, but he came down the trail with the familiar hobo-limp and bunker set his jaws and waited. it was such men as this, young and strong and full of blood, who had kept him poor for years. hobo miners, the most expert of their craft, and begging their grub on the trail! "good morning," nodded hill and squinted down his eyes as the young man boggled at his words. "good morning," replied the hobo and then, after a pause, he straightened up and came to the point. "what's the chance to get a little something to eat?" he inquired with a twisted smile and bunker hill sprang his bomb. "danged poor," he returned, and as the hobo blinked he spoke his piece with a rush. "i've got a store over there where you can buy what you want; but i've quit, absolutely, feeding every hobo that comes by and batters my door for grub. i'm an old man myself and you're young and strong--why the hell don't you get out and work?" "never you mind," answered the hobo, his eyes glowing angrily; and as old bunk went on with his tirade the miner's lip curled with scorn. "that's all right, old-timer," he broke in with cold politeness--"no offense--don't let me deprive you. i don't make a practice of battering on back doors. but, say, i'm looking for a fellow with a big, black mustache--did you see him come by this way?" "did i _see_ him?" yelled hill flying into a fury, "well you're danged whistling i did! he came in last night and bummed his supper--my wife had to cook it special--and i gave him his bed and breakfast; and this morning when he left he didn't even say: 'thanks!' that's how grateful these hoboes are! and when i went out to pick up his blankets a thumping big purse dropped out!" "holy joe!" exclaimed the hobo looking up with sudden interest, "say, how long ago did he leave?" "not half an hour! no, not ten minutes ago--and if my wife hadn't been there to hold me down i'd have run him till he dropped. and when i opened that purse it was full of money--there was eight hundred and twenty-five dollars--and him trying to tell me he was broke!" "that's him, all right," declared the hobo. "well, so long; i'll be on my way." he started off down the trail at a long, swinging stride, then turned abruptly back. "i'll get a drink," he suggested, "if there's no objection. don't charge for your water, i reckon." it was all said politely and yet there was an edge to it which cut old bunk to the quick. he, bunker hill, who had fed hoboes for years and had never taken a cent, to be insulted like this by the first sturdy beggar that he declined to serve with a meal! he reached for his gun, but just at that moment his wife laid a hand on his arm. she had not been far away, just up on the porch where she could watch what was going on, and she turned to the hobo with a smile. "mr. hill is just angry," she explained good-naturedly, "on account of that other man; but if you'll wait a few minutes i'll cook you some breakfast and----" "thank you, ma'am," returned the miner, taking off his hat civilly, "i'll just take a drink and go." he hurried back to the well and, picking up the bucket, drank long and deep of the water; then he threw away the rest and with practiced hands drew up a fresh bucket from the depths. "you'd better fill a bottle," called bunker hill, whose anger was beginning to evaporate, "it's sixteen miles to the next water." the hobo said nothing, nor did he fill a bottle, and as he came back past them there was a set to his jaw that was eloquent of rage and disdain. it was the custom of the country--of that great, desert country where houses are days' journeys apart--to invite every stranger in; and as bunker hill gazed after him he saw his good name held up to execration and scorn. this boy was a westerner, he could tell by his looks and the way he saved on his words, perhaps he even lived in those parts; and in a sudden vision hill beheld him spreading the news as he followed the long trail to the railroad. he would come dragging in to whitlow's wells, the next station down the road, so weak he could hardly walk and when they enquired into his famished condition he would unfold some terrible tale. and the worst of it was that the boys would believe it and repeat it to all who passed. men would hear in distant cow camps, far back in the superstitions, that old bunk had driven a starving man from his door and he had nearly perished on the desert. "hey!" called bunker hill taking a step or two after him, "wait a minute--i'll give you a lunch." "you can keep your lunch," said the man over his shoulder and strode doggedly on up the hill. "gimme something to take to him," rapped out hill to his wife, but the hobo's sharp ears had caught the words and he wheeled abruptly in his tracks. "i wouldn't take your danged lunch if it was the last grub on earth," he shouted in a towering rage; and while they stood gazing he turned his back and passed on over the hill. "let 'im go!" grumbled bunker pacing up and down and avoiding his helpmeet's eye, but at last he ripped out a smothered oath and racked off down the street to his stable. this was an al fresco affair, consisting of a big stone corral within the walls of what had once been the dancehall, and as he saddled up his horse and rode out the narrow gate he found his wife waiting with a lunch. "don't crush the doughnuts," she murmured anxiously and patted his hand approvingly. "all right," he said and, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped off over the hill. the old town of pinal lay on a bench above the creek bed, with high cliffs to the east and north; but south and west the country fell off rapidly in a series of rolling ridges. over these the road to the railroad climbed and dipped with wearisome regularity until at last it dropped down into the creek-bed again and followed its dry, sandy course. not half an hour had passed from the time the second hobo left till old bunk had started after him, yet so fast had he traveled that he was almost to the creek bed before bunker hill caught sight of him. "ay, chihuahua!" he ejaculated in shrill surprise and reined in his horse to gaze. the young hobo was running and, not far ahead, the ground hog was fleeing before him. they ran through bushy gulches and over cactus-crowned ridges where the sahuaros rose up like giant sentinels; until at last, as he came to the sandy creek-bed, the black hobo stood at bay. "they're fighting!" exclaimed bunker with a joyous chuckle and rode down the trail like the wind. after twenty wild years in old mexico, there were times when bunker hill found arizona a trifle tame; but here at last there was staged a combat that promised to take a place in local history. when he rode up on the fight the young miner and the ground hog were standing belt to belt, exchanging blows with all their strength, and as the young man reeled back from a right to the jaw the ground hog leapt in to finish him. "here! none of that!" spoke up bunker hill menacing the black hobo with his quirt; but the battered young apollo waved him angrily aside and flew at his opponent again. "i'll show you, you danged dog!" he cursed exultantly as the ground hog went down before him, "i'll show you how to run out on me! come on, you big stiff, and if i don't make you holler quit you can have every dollar you stole!" "hey, what's the matter, big boy? what's going on here?" demanded bunker of the blond young giant. "i thought you fellers were pardners." "pardners, hell!" spat big boy, whose mouth was beginning to bleed. "he robbed me of all my money. we won eight hundred dollars in the drilling contest at globe and he collected the stakes and beat it!" "you're a liar!" retorted the ground hog standing sullenly on his guard, and once more big boy went after him. they roughed it back and forth, neither seeking to avoid the blows but swinging with all their might; until at last the ground hog landed a mighty smash that knocked his opponent to the ground. "now lay there," he jeered, and, stepping over to one side, he picked up a purse from the ground. it was the same bulging purse that he had forgotten that morning in his hurry to get over the hill, and as bunker hill gazed at it two things which had misled him became suddenly very plain. the day before had been the fourth of july, when the miners had their contests in globe, and these two powerful men were a team of double-jackers who had won the first prize between them. then the ground hog had stolen the total proceeds, which accounted for his show of great wealth; and big boy, on the other hand, being left without a cent, had been compelled to beg for his breakfast. a wave of righteous anger rose up in old bunk's breast at the monstrous injustice of it all and, whipping out his pistol, he threw down on the ground hog and ordered him to put up his hands. "and now lay down that purse," he continued briefly, "before i shoot the flat out of your eye." the hobo complied, but before he could retreat the young miner raised himself up. "say, you butt out of this!" he said to bunker hill, waggling his head to shake off the blood. "i'll 'tend to this yap myself." he turned his gory front to the ground hog, who came eagerly back to the fray; and once more like snarling animals they heaved and slugged and grunted, until once more poor big boy went down. "i can whip him!" he panted rising up and clearing his eyes. "i could clean him in a minute--only i'm starved." he staggered and the heart of bunker hill smote him when he remembered how he had denied the man food. yet he bored in resolutely, though his blows were weak, and the ground hog's pig eyes gleamed. he abated his own blows, standing with arms relaxed and waiting; and when he saw the opening he struck. it was aimed at the jaw, a last, smashing hay-maker, such a blow as would stagger an ox; but as it came past his guard the young apollo ducked, and then suddenly he struck from the hip. his whole body was behind it, a sharp uppercut that caught the hurtling ground hog on the chin; and as his head went back his body lurched and followed and he landed in a heap in the dirt. "he's out!" shouted bunker and big boy nodded grimly; but the ground hog was pawing at the ground. he rose up, and fell, then rose up again; and as they watched him half-pityingly he scrambled across the sand and made a grab at the purse. "you stand back!" he blustered clutching the purse to his breast and snapping open the blade of a huge jack-knife; but before old bunk could intervene big boy had caught up a rock. "you drop that knife," he shouted fiercely, "or i'll bash out your brains with this stone!" and as the ground hog gazed into his battle-mad eyes he weakened and dropped the knife. "now gimme that purse!" ordered the masterful big boy and, cringing before the rock, the beaten ground hog slammed it down on the ground with a curse. "i'll git you yet!" he burst out hoarsely as he shambled off down the trail, "i'll learn you to git gay with me!" "you'll learn me nothing," returned the young miner contemptuously and gathered up the spoils of battle. chapter iii hobo stuff "young man," began bunker hill after a long and painful silence in which big boy completely ignored him, "i want to ask your pardon. and anything i can do----" "i'm all right," cut in the hobo wiping the blood out of one eye and feeling tenderly of a tooth, "and i don't want nothing to do with you." "can't blame ye, can't blame ye," answered old bunk judicially. "i certainly got you wrong. but as i was about to say, mrs. hill sent this lunch and she said she hoped you'd accept it." he untied a sack from the back of his saddle, and as he caught the fragrance of new-made doughnuts big boy's resolution failed. "all right," he said, making a grab for the lunch. "much obliged!" and he chucked him a bill. "hey, what's this for?" exclaimed bunker hill grievously. "didn't i ask your pardon already." "well, maybe you did," returned the hobo, "but after that call down you gave me this morning i'm going to pay my way. it's too danged bad," he murmured sarcastically as he opened up the lunch. "sure hard luck to see a good woman like that married to a pennypinching old walloper like you." "oh, i don't know," observed old bunk, gazing doubtfully at the bill, but at last he put it in his pocket. "yes, that's right," he agreed with an indulgent smile, "she's an awful good cook--and an awful good woman, too. i'll just give her this money to buy some little present--she told me i was wrong, all the time. but i want to tell you, pardner--you can believe it or not--i never turned a man down before." the hobo grunted and bit into a doughnut and bunker hill settled down beside him. "say," he began in an easy, conversational tone, "did you ever hear about the hobo that was walking the streets in globe? well, he was broke and up against it--hadn't et for two days and the rustling was awful poor--but as he was walking along the street in front of that big restaurant he saw a new meal ticket on the sidewalk. his luck had been so bad he wouldn't even look at it but at last when he went by he took another slant and see that it was good--there wasn't but one meal punched out." "aw, rats," scoffed big boy, "are you still telling that one? there was a miner came by just as he reached down to grab it and punched out every meal with his hob-nails." "that's the story," admitted bunker, "but say, here's another one--did you ever hear of the hobo mark twain? well, he was a well-known character in the old days around globe--kinder drifted around from one camp to the other and worked all his friends for a dollar. that was his regular graft, he never asked for more and he never asked the same man twice, but once every year he'd make the rounds and the old-timers kind of put up with him. great story-teller and all that and one day i was sitting talking with him when a mining man came into the saloon. he owned a mine, over around mammoth somewhere, and he wanted a man to herd it. it was seventy-five a month, with all expenses paid and all you had to do was to stick around and keep some outsider from jumping in. well, when he asked for a man i saw right away it was just the place for old mark and i began to kind of poke him in the ribs, but when he didn't answer i hollered to the mining man that i had just the feller he wanted. well, the mining man came over and put it up to mark, and everybody present began to boost. he was such an old bum that we wanted to get rid of him and there wasn't a thing he could kick on. there was plenty of grub, a nice house to live in and he didn't have to work a tap; but in spite of all that, after he'd asked all kinds of questions, old mark said he'd have to think it over. so he went over to the bar and began to figger on some paper and at last he came back and said he was sorry but he couldn't afford to take it. "'well, why not?' we asks, because we knowed he was a bum, but he says: 'well gentlemen, i'll tell ye, it's this way. i've got twelve hundred friends in arizona that's worth a dollar apiece a year; but this danged job only pays seventy-five a month--i'd be losing three hundred a year." "huh, huh," grunted big boy, picking up some folded tarts, "your mind seems to be took up with hoboes." "them's my wife's pay-streak biscuits," grinned bunker hill, "or at least, that's what i call 'em. the bottom crust is the foot-wall, the top is the hanging-wall, and the jelly in the middle is the pay streak." "danged good!" pronounced the hobo licking the tips of his fingers and old bunk tapped him on the knee. "say," he said, "seeing the way you whipped that jasper puts me in mind of a feller back in texas. he was a big, two-fisted hombre, one of these texas bad-men that was always getting drunk and starting in to clean up the town; and he had all the natives bluffed. well, he was in the saloon one day, telling how many men he'd killed, when a little guy dropped in that had just come to town, and he seemed to take a great interest. he kept edging up closer, sharpening the blade of his jack-knife on one of these here little pocket whetstones, until finally he reached over and cut a notch in the bad man's ear. "there," he says, "you're so doggoned bad--next time i see you i'll know you!" "yeh, some guy," observed big boy, "and i see you're some story-teller, but what's all this got to do with me?" "oh, nothing, nothing," answered old bunk hastily, "only i thought while you were eating----" "yes, you told me two stories about a couple of hoboes and then another one about taming down a bad man; but i want to tell you right now, before you go any further, that i'm no hobo nor bad man neither. i'm a danged good miner--one of the best in globe----" "aw, no no!" burst out bunker holding up both hands in protest, "you've got me wrong entirely." "well, your stories may be all right," responded big boy shortly, "but they don't make a hit with me. and i've took about enough, for one day." he started back up the trail and bunker hill rode along behind him going over the events of the day. some distinctly evil genius seemed to have taken possession of him from the moment he got out of bed and, try as he would, it seemed absolutely impossible for him to square himself with this big boy. "hey, git on and ride," he shouted encouragingly, but big boy shook his head. "don't want to," he answered and once more bunker hill was left to ponder his mistakes. the first, of course, was in taking too much for granted when big boy had walked into town; and the second was in ever refusing a hobo when he asked for something to eat. true it amounted in the aggregate to a heart-breaking amount--almost enough to support his family--but a man lost his luck when he turned a hobo down and old bunk decided against it. never again, he resolved, would he restrain his good wife from following the dictates of her heart, and that meant that every hobo that walked into town would get a square meal in his kitchen. where the cash was coming from to buy this expensive food and pay for the freighting across the desert was a matter for the future to decide, but as he dwelt on his problem a sudden ray of hope roused bunker hill from his reverie. speaking of money, the ex-hobo, walking along in front of him, had over eight hundred dollars in his hip pocket--and he claimed to be a miner! "say!" began bunker as they came in sight of town, "d'ye see those old workings over there? that's the site of the celebrated lost burro mine--turned out over four millions in silver!" "yeah, so i've heard," answered big boy wearily, "been closed down though, for twenty years." "i'm the owner of that property," went on bunker pompously. "andrew hill is my name and i'd be glad to show you round." "nope," said the future prospect, "i'm too danged tired. i'm going down to the crick and rest." "come up to the house," proposed bunker hill cordially, "and meet my wife and family. i'm sure mrs. hill will be glad to see you back--she was afraid that something might happen to you." the hobo glanced up with a swift, cynical smile and turned off down the trail to the creek. "i see you've got your eye on my roll," he observed and bunker hill shrugged regretfully. chapter iv cash it was evident to bunker hill that no common measures would serve to interest this young capitalist in his district; and yet there he was, a big husky young miner, with eight hundred dollars in his pocket. that eight hundred dollars, if wisely expended, might open up a bonanza in pinal; and in any case, if it was spent with him, it would help to pay the freight. old bunk chopped open a bale of hay with an ax and gave his horse a feed; and, after he had given his prospect time to rest, he drifted off down towards the creek. the creek at pinal was one of those vagrant western streams that appear and disappear at will. where its course was sandy it sank from sight, creeping along on the bed-rock below; but where as at pinal the bed-rock came to the surface, then the creek, perforce, rushed and gurgled. from the dark and windy depths of queen creek canyon it came rioting down over the rocks and where the trail crossed there was a mighty sycamore that almost dammed its course. with its gnarled and swollen roots half dug from their crevices by the tumultuous violence of cloudbursts, it clung like an octopus to a shattered reef of rocks and sucked up its nourishment from the water. in the pool formed by its roots the minnows leapt and darted, solemn bull-frogs stared forth from dark holes, and in a natural seat against the huge tree trunk big boy sat cooling his feet. he looked younger now, with the blood washed off his face and the hard lines of hunger ironed out, and as bunker hill made some friendly crack he showed his white teeth in a smile. "pretty nice down here," he said and bunker nodded gravely. "yes," he said, "nice place for frogs. say, did you ever hear the story about spud murphy's frog farm? well spud was an old-timer, awful gallant to the ladies, especially when he'd had a few drinks, and every time he'd get loaded about so far he'd get out an old flute and play it. but it sounded so sad and mournful that everybody kicked, and one time over at a dance when spud was about to play some ladies began to jolly him about it. "'well, i'll tell you,' says spud, 'there's a story connected with that flute. the only time i ever stood to make a fortune i spoiled it by playing that sad music.' "'oh, tell us about it,' they all says at once; so spud began on his tale. "it seems he was over around clifton when some french miners came in and, knowing their weakness, spud dammed up the creek and got ready to have a frog farm. he sent back to arkansaw and got three carloads of bull-frogs--thoroughbreds old spud said they was--and turned them loose in the creek; and every evening, to keep them from getting lonely, he'd play 'em a few tunes on his flute. well, they were doing fine, getting used to the dry country and beginning to get over being homesick, when one night murph went up there and played them the arkansaw traveler. "well, of course that was the come-on--old spud stopped his story--and finally one lady bit. "'yes, but how did you lose your fortune?' she asks and spud he shakes his head. "'by playing that tune,' he says. 'them frogs got so homesick they started right out for arkansaw--and every one perished on the desert.'" "huh!" grunted big boy, who had been listening intolerantly. "say, is that all you do--sit around and tell stories for a living? why the hell don't you git out and work?" "well, you got me again, kid," admitted old bunk mournfully, "i'm sure sorry i made you that talk. but i was so doggoned sore at that pardner of yours that i kinder went out of my head." "well, all right," conceded big boy, "if that's the way you feel about it there's no use rubbing it in, but you certainly lost out with me. my hands may be big, but i never broadened my knuckles by battering on other people's back doors. at the same time if i have to ask a man for a meal i expect to be treated civil. when i'm working around town and a miner strikes me for a stake i give him a dollar to eat on, and if i happen to be broke when i land in a new camp i work my face the same way. that's the custom of the country, and when a man asks me why i don't work----" "aw, forget it!" pleaded bunker, "didn't i ask your pardon? didn't my wife tell you why i said it? but i'll bet you, all the same, if you'd fed as many as i have you'd throw a fit once in a while, yourself. here's the whole camp shut down, only one outfit working and they're just running a diamond drill--and at the same time i have to feed every hobo that comes through, whether he's got any money or not. how'd you like to buy your grub at these war-time prices and run a hotel for nothing, and at the same time keep up the assessment work on fifteen or twenty claims? maybe you'd get kind of peevish when a big bum laid in his blankets and wouldn't even get up for breakfast!" "ah, that man meacham!" burst out big boy scornfully. "say do you know what that yap did to me? we were drilling pardners in the double-jack contest--it was just yesterday, over in globe--and in the last few minutes he began to throw off on me, so i had to win the money myself. practically did all the work, and while they were giving me a rub-down afterwards he collected the money and beat it. i'd put up every dollar i had in side bets, and the first prize was seven hundred dollars; but he collected it all and then, when i began looking for him, he took out over this trail. well, i was so doggoned mad when i found out what he'd done that i didn't even stop to eat, and i followed him on the run until dark. when i ran out of matches to look for his tracks i laid down and slept in the trail and this morning when i got up i was so stiff and weak that i couldn't hardly crawl. but i caught the big jasper and believe me, old-timer, he'll think twice before he robs me again!" "he will that," nodded bunker, "but say, tell me this--ain't half of that money his?" "not a bean!" declared big boy. "we fought for the purse, the winner to take it all. he saw i was weak or he'd never have stood up to me--that's why he was so sore when he lost." "i'd never've let him hurt you!" protested old bunk vehemently, "i had my gun on him, all the time. and if i'd had my way you'd never have fought him--i'd have taken the purse away from him." "yes, that's it, you see--that's what he was fishing for--he wanted you to make it a draw! but i knew all the time i could lick him with one hand--and i did, too, and got the money!" "you did danged well!" praised bunker roundly, "i never see a gamier fight; but i thought at the end he sure had you beat--you could hardly hold up your hands." "all a stall!" exclaimed big boy proudly. "i began fighting his way at first, but i saw i was too weak to slug; so, just for a come-on, i pulled my blows and when he made a swing i downed him." "well, well!" beamed old bunk, "you certainly are a wise one--you know how to use your head. i wouldn't have believed it, but if you're as smart as all that you've got no business working as a miner. you've got a little stake--why don't you buy a claim and make a play for big money? look at the rich men in the west--take clark and douglas and wingfield--how did they all get their money? every one of them made it out of mining. some started in as bankers, or store-keepers or saloon-keepers; but they got their big money, just the same as you or i will, out of a four-by-six hole in the ground. that's the way i dope it out and i've spent fifteen years of my life just playing that system to win. me and old bible-back murray, the store-keeper down in moroni, have been working in this district for years; and, sooner or later, one or the other of us will strike it and we'll pile up our everlasting fortunes. i hate the mormon-faced old dastard, he's such a sanctified old hypocrite, but i always treat him white and if his diamond drill hits copper he'll make the two of us rich. anyhow, that's what i'm waiting for." big boy looked up at the striated hills which lay like a section of layer cake between the base of the mountains and the creek and then he shook his head. "nope," he said, "it don't look good to me. the formation runs too regular. what you need for a big mineral deposit is some fissure veins, where the country has been busted up more." "oh, it don't look like a mineral country at all, eh?" enquired bunker hill sarcastically. "well, how do you figure it out then that they took out four million dollars' worth of silver from that little hill right up the creek?" "don't know," answered big boy, "but you couldn't work it now, with silver down to fifty-two cents. it's copper that's the high card now." "yes, and look what happened to copper when the war broke out?" cried bunker hill derisively, "it went down to eleven cents. but is it down to eleven now? well, not so you'd notice it--thirty-one would be more like it--and all on account of the metal trust. they smashed copper down, then bought it all up, and now they're boosting the price. well, they'll do the same with silver." "aw, you're crazy," came back big boy, "they need copper to make munitions to sell to those nations over in europe; but what can you make out of silver?" "oh, nothing," jeered bunker, "but i'll tell you what you _can_ do--you can use it to pay for your copper! you hadn't figured that out, now had you? well, here now, let me tell _you_ a few things. these people that are running the metal-buying trust are smart, see--they look way ahead. they know that after we've grabbed all the gold away from europe those nations will have to have some other metal to stand behind their money--and that metal is going to be silver. the big operators up in tonopah ain't selling their silver now, they're storing it away in vaults, because they know in a little while all the nations in the world are going to be bidding for silver. and say, do you see that line of hills? there's silver enough buried underneath them to pay the national debt of the world." he paused and nodded his head impressively and big boy broke into a grin. "say," he said, "you must have some claim for sale, like an old feller i met over in new mex. "'w'y, young man,' he says when i wouldn't bite, 'you're passing up the united states mint. if you had niagara falls to furnish the power, and all hell to run the blast furnace, and the whole state of texas for a dump, you couldn't extract the copper from that property inside of a million years. it's big, i'm telling you, it's big!' and all he wanted for his claim was a thousand dollars, down." "aw, you make me tired," confessed bunker hill frankly, now that he saw his sale gone glimmering, "i see you're never going to get very far. you'll tramp back to globe and blow in your money and go back to polishing a drill. w'y, a young man like you, if he had any ambition, could buy one of these claims for little or nothing and maybe make a fortune. i'll tell you what i'll do--you stay around here a while and look at some of my claims; and if you see something you like----" "nope," said big boy, "you can't work me now--you lost your horse-shoe this morning. i was a hobo then and you told me to go to hell, but now when you see i've got eight hundred dollars you're trying to bunco me out of it. i know who you are, i've heard the boys tell about you--you're one of these blue-bellied yankees that try to make a living swapping jack-knives. you got your name from that bunker hill monument and they shortened it down to bunk. well, you lose--that's all i'll say; i wouldn't buy your claims if they showed twenty dollar gold pieces, with everything on 'em but the eagle-tail. and the formation is no good here, anyhow." "oh, it ain't, hey?" came back bunk thrusting out his jaw belligerently, "well take a look up at that cliff. that apache leap is solid porphyry----" "apache leap!" broke in big boy suddenly sitting erect and looking all around, "by grab, is this the place?" "this is the place," replied old bunk wagging his head and smiling wisely, "and that cap is solid porphyry." "gee, boys!" exclaimed big boy getting up on his feet, "say, is that where they killed all those indians?" "the very place," returned bunker hill proudly, "you can find their skeletons there to this day." "well, for cripe's sake," murmured big boy at last and looked up at the cliff again. "some jump-off," observed bunker, but big boy did not hear him--he was looking up at the sun. "say," he said, "when the sun rises in the morning how far out does that shadow come?" "what shadow?" demanded bunker hill. "oh, of apache leap? it goes way out west of town." "and does it throw its shadow on these hills where your claims are? well, old-timer, i'll just take a look at them." he climbed out purposefully and began to put on his shoes and old bunk squinted at him curiously. there was something going on that he did not know about--some connection between the leap and his mines; he waited, and the secret popped out. "say," said big boy after a long minute of silence, "do you believe in fortune-tellers?" "sure thing!" spoke up bunker, suddenly taking a deep breath and swallowing his adam's apple solemnly, "i believe in them phenomena implicitly. and, as i was about to say, you can have any claim i've got for eight hundred dollars--cash." chapter v mother trigedgo "well, i'll tell you," confided big boy, moving closer to old bunk and lowering his voice mysteriously, "i know you'll think i'm crazy, but there's something to that stuff. maybe we don't understand it, and of course there's a lot of fakes, but i got this from mother trigedgo. she's that cornish seeress, that predicted the big cave in the stope of the last chance mine, and now i _know_ she's good. she tells fortunes by cards and by pouring water in your hand and going into a trance. then she looks into the water and sees a kind of vision of all that is going to happen. well, here's what she said for me--and she wrote it down on a paper. "'you will soon make a journey to the west and there, in the shadow of a place of death, you will find two treasures, one of silver and the other of gold. choose well between the two and----" "by grab, that's right, boy!" exclaimed old bunk enthusiastically, "she described this place down to a hickey. you came west from globe and when you went by here the shadow was still on those hills; and as for a place of death, apache leap got its name from the indians that jumped over that cliff. say, you could hunt all over arizona and not find another place that came within a mile of it!" "that's right," mused big boy, "but i was thinking all the time that that place of death would be a graveyard." "sure, but how could a graveyard cast a shadow--they're always on level ground. no, i'm telling you, boy, that there cliff is the place--lemme tell you how it got its name. a long time ago when the indians were bad they had a soldiers' post right here where this town stands, and they kept a lookout up on the picket post butte, where they could heliograph clear down to tucson. well, every time a bunch of indians would go down out of the hills to raid some wagon-train on the trail this lookout would see them and signal tucson and the soldiers would do the rest. it got so bymeby the indians couldn't do anything and at last old cochise got together about eight hundred apaches and came over to wipe out the post. it looked easy at the time, because there was less than two hundred men, but the major in command was a fighting fool and didn't know when he was whipped. the apaches all gathered up on the top of those high cliffs--it's flat on the upper side--and one night when their signal fires had burned down the soldiers sneaked around behind them. and then, just at dawn, they fired a volley and made a rush for the camp; and before they knowed it about two hundred indians had jumped clean over the cliff. they killed the rest of them--all but two or three bucks that fought their way through the line--and now, by grab, you couldn't get an indian up there if you'd offer him a quart of whiskey. it's sure bad medicine for apaches." "isn't it wonderful!" exclaimed big boy, "there's no use talking--this sure is the place of death. and say, next time you go over to globe you go and see mother trigedgo--i just want to tell you what she did!" "all right," sighed old bunk, who preferred to talk business, and he settled down to listen. "this mother trigedgo," began big boy, "isn't an ordinary, cheap fortune-teller. those people are all fakes because they're just out for the dollar and tell you what they think you want to know. but mother trigedgo keeps a cousin-jack boarding house and only prophesies when she feels the power. sometimes she'll go along for a week or more and never tell a fortune; and then, when she happens to be feeling right, she'll tell some feller what's coming to him. those cousin jacks are crazy about what she can do, but i never went to a seeress in my life until after we had that big cave. i'm a timber man, you see, and sometimes i take contracts to catch up dangerous ground; and the best men in the world when it comes to that work are these old-country cousin jacks. they're nervy and yet they're careful and so i always hire 'em; but when we were doing this work down in the stope of the last chance, they began talking about mother trigedgo. it seems she'd told the fortune of a boy or two--they were all of them boarding at her house--and she was so worried she could hardly cook on account of them working in this mine. it was swelling ground and there were a lot of old workings where the timbering had given way; and to tell you the truth i didn't like it myself, although i wouldn't admit it." "well, it was the twenty-second of april, and all that morning we could hear the ground working over head and when it came noon we went up above, as we says, for a breath of fresh air. but while we were eating, there was a cousin jack named chambers fetched up this old talk about mother trigedgo, and how she'd predicted he'd be killed in a cave if he didn't quit working in the stope; and when our half-hour's nooning was up he says: 'i'll not go down that shaft!' "we were all badly scared, because that ground was always moving, and finally we agreed that we'd take a full hour off and work till five o'clock. well, we waited till after one before we went to the collar and just as i was stepping into the cage the whole danged stope caved in!" "well, sir, i went back to my room and got every dollar i had and gave mother trigedgo the roll. i could easy earn more but if i'd been caught in that cave they'd never even tried to dig me out. that was the least i could do, considering what she'd done for me; but mother trigedgo took on so much about it that i told her it was to have my fortune told. well, she tried the cards and dice and consulted the signs of the zodiac; and then one day when she felt the power strong she poured a little water in my hand. that made a kind of pool, like these crystal-gazers use, and when she looked into it she began to talk and she told me all about my life. or that is, she told me what she thought i ought to know, and gave me a copy of the book of fate that napoleon always consulted. and here it ain't three months till i make this journey west and find the place she prophesied." "yes, and silver, too!" added old bunk portentously, "she hit it, down to a hickey. and now, if you'd like to inspect those claims----" "no, hold on," protested big boy still pondering on his fate, "i've got to find these treasures myself. and one of them was of gold. what's the chances around here for that?" "danged poor," grumbled bunker as he saw his hopes gone glimmering, "don't remember to have seen a color. but say, old bible back is drilling for copper and that's a good deal like gold. same color, practically, and you know all these prophecies have a kind of symbolical meaning. a golden treasure don't necessarily mean gold, and i've got a claim----" "say, who's that up there?" broke in big boy uneasily and old bunk looked around with a jerk. an old, white-haired man, wearing a battered cork helmet, was peering over the bank and when he perceived that his presence was discovered he came shuffling down the trail. he was a short, fat man, in faded shirt and overalls; and on his feet he wore a pair of gunboat brogans, thickly studded on the bottom with hob-nails. a space of six inches between the tops of his shoes and the worn-off edge of his trousers exposed his shrunken shanks, and he carried a stick which might serve for cane or club as circumstances demanded. he came down briskly with his broad toes turned out in grotesque resemblance to a duck and when bunker hill saw him he snorted resentfully and rose up from his seat. "have you seen my burros?" demanded the old man, half defiantly, "i can't find dose rascals nowhere. ah, so; here's a stranger come to camp! good morning, i'm glad to know you." "good morning," returned big boy glancing doubtfully at bunker hill, "my name is denver russell." "oh, excuse _me_!" spoke up bunker with a sarcastic drawl, "mr. russell, this is professor diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist." "ah--so!" beamed the professor overlooking the fling in the excitement of the meeting, "i take it you're a mining man? vell, if it's golt you're looking for i haf a claim up on dat hill dat is rich in auriferous deposits." "yes," broke in bunker giving big boy a sly wink, "you ought to inspect that tunnel--it's unique in the annals of mining. you see the professor here is an educated man--he's learned all the big words in the dictionary, and he's learned mining from reading government reports. we're quite proud of his achievements as a mining engineer, but you ought to see that tunnel. it starts into the hill, takes a couple of corkscrew twists and busts right out into the sunshine." "oh, never mind _him_!" protested the professor as bunker burst into a roar, "he will haf his choke, of course. but dis claim i speak of----" "and that ain't all his accomplishments," broke in bunker hill relentlessly, "mr. diffenderfer is a count--a german count--sometimes known as count no-count. but as i was about to say, his greatest accomplishments have been along tonsorial lines." a line of pain appeared between the professor's eyes--but he stood his ground defiantly. "yes," went on bunker thrusting out his jaw in a baleful leer at his rival, "for many years he has had the proud distinction of being the champion rough-riding barber of arizona." "vell, i've got to go," murmured the professor hastily, "i've got to find dem burros." he started off but at the plank across the creek he stopped and cleared his throat. "und any time," he began, "dat you'd like to inspect dem claims----" "the champeen--rough-riding--barber!" repeated old bunk with gusto, "he won his title on the race-track at tucson, before safety razors was invented." "shut up!" snapped the professor and, crossing the plank with waspish quickness, he went squattering off down the creek. yet one ear was turned back and as bunker began to speak he stopped in the trail to listen. "he took a drunken cowboy up in the saddle before him," went on bunker with painful distinctness, "and gave him a close shave while the horse was bucking, only cutting his throat three times." "you're a liar!" yelled the professor and, stamping his foot, he hustled vengefully off down the trail. "say, who is that old boy?" enquired big boy curiously, "he might know where i'd find that gold." "who--him?" jeered bunker, "why, that old stiff wouldn't know a chunk of gold if he saw it. all he does is to snoop around and watch what _i'm_ doing, and if he ever thinks that i've picked up a live one he butts in and tries to underbid me. now i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll get you a horse and show you all over the district, and any claim i've got that you want to go to work on, you can have for five hundred dollars. now, that's reasonable, ain't it? and yet, the way things are going, i'm glad to let you in on it. if you strike something big, here i've got my store and mine, and plenty of other claims, to boot; and if there's a rush i stand to make a clean-up on some of my other properties. so come up to the house and meet my wife and daughter, and we'll try to make you comfortable. but that old feller----" "nope," said big boy, "i think i'd rather camp--who lives in those cave-houses up there?" he jerked his head at some walled-up caves in the bluff not far across the creek and old bunk scowled reproachfully. "oh, nobody," he said, "except the rattle-snakes and pack-rats. why don't you come up to the house?" "i don't need to go to your house," returned big boy defiantly. "i've got money to buy what i need." "yes, but come up anyway and meet my wife and daughter. drusilla is a musician--she's studied in boston at the celebrated conservatory of music----" "i've got me a phonograph," answered big boy shortly, "if i can ever get it over here from globe." "well, go ahead and get it, then," said bunker hill tartly, "they's nobody keeping you, i'm sure." "no, and you bet your life there won't be," came back big boy, starting off, "i'm playing a lone hand to win." chapter vi the oraculum the palpitating heat lay like a shimmering fleece over the deserted camp of pinal and denver russell, returning from globe, beheld it as one in a dream. somewhere within the shadow of apache leap were two treasures that he was destined to find, one of gold and one of silver; and if he chose wisely between them they were both to be his. and if he chose unwisely, or tried to hold them both, then both would be lost and he would suffer humiliation and shame. yet he came back boldly, fresh from a visit with mother trigedgo who had blessed him and called him her son. she had wept when they parted, for her burdens had been heavy and his gift had lightened her lot; but though she wished him well she could not control his fate, for that lay with the powers above. nor could she conceal from him the portion of evil which was balanced against the good. "courage and constancy will attend you through life'" she had written in her old-country scrawl; "but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend." that was the doom that hung over him like a hair-suspended sword--to be killed by his dearest friend--and as he paused at the mouth of queen creek canyon he wished that his fortune had not been told. of what good to him would be the two hidden treasures--or even the beautiful young artist with whom he was destined to fall in love--if his life might be cut off at any moment by some man that he counted his friend? _when_ his death should befall, mother trigedgo had not told, for the signs had been obscure; but when it did come it would be by the hand of the man that he called his best friend. a swift surge of resistance came over him again as he gazed at the promised land and he shut his teeth down fiercely. he would have no friends, no best of friends, but all men that he met he would treat the same and so evade the harsh hand of fate. forewarned was forearmed, he would have no more pardners such as men pick up in rambling around; but in this as in all else he would play a lone hand and so postpone the evil day. he strode on down the trail into the silent town where the houses stood roofless and bare, and as he glanced at the ancient gallows-frame above the abandoned mine fresh courage came into his heart. this city of the dead should come back to life if what the stars said was true; and the long rows of adobes now stripped of windows and doors, would awaken to the tramp of miners' boots. he would find two treasures and, if he chose well between them, both the silver and the gold would be his. but neither wily bunker hill nor the palavering professor should pull him this way or that; for mother trigedgo had given him a book, to consult on all important occasions. it was napoleon's oraculum, or book of fate; and as denver had glanced at the key--with its thirty-two questions covering every important event in human life--a thrill of security had passed over him. with this mysterious oraculum, the man of destiny had solved the many problems of his life; and in question thirteen, that sinister number, was a test that would serve denver well: "will the friend i most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?" how many times must that great, aloof man have put some friend's loyalty to the test; and if the answer was in the negative how often had he avoided death by foreknowledge of impending treachery! yet such friends as he had retained had all proved loyal, his generals had been devoted to his cause; and with the aid of his oraculum he had conquered all his enemies--until at last the book of fate had been lost. at the battle of leipsic, in the confusion of the retreat, his precious dream book had been left behind. kings and emperors had used it since, and seeresses as well; and now, after the lapse of a hundred years, it was published in quaint cover and lettering, for the guidance of all and sundry. and old mother trigedgo, coming all the way from cornwall, had placed the book of fate in his hands! there was destiny in everything, and this woman who had saved his life could save it again with her oraculum. denver turned to the mexican who, with two heavily-packed mules, stood patiently awaiting his pleasure; and with a brief nod of the head he strode down the trail while the mules minced along behind him. past the old, worked-out mine, past the melted-down walls of abandoned adobe ruins, he led on to the store and the cool, darkened house which sheltered the family of andrew hill; but even here he did not stop, though old bunk beckoned him in. his life, which had once been as other people's lives, had been touched by the hand of fate; and gayeties and good cheer, along with friendship and love, had been banished to the limbo of lost dreams. so he turned across the creek and led the way to the cave that was destined to be his home. it was an ancient cavern beneath the rim of a low cliff which overlooked the town and as denver was helping to unlash the packs bunker hill came toiling up the trail. "got back, hey?" he greeted stepping into the smoke-blackened cave and gazing dubiously about, "well, it'll be cool inside here, anyway." "yes, that's what i figured on," responded denver briefly, and as he cleaned out the rats' nests and began to make camp old bunk sat down in the doorway and began a new cycle of stories. "this here cave," he observed, "used to be occupied by the cliff-dwellers--them's their hand-marks, up on the wall; and then i reckon the apaches moved in, and after them the soldiers; but when the lost burro began turning out the ore, i'll bet it was crowded like a bar-room. them was the days, i'm telling you--you couldn't walk the street for miners out spending their money--and a cliff-house like this with a good, tight roof, would bring in a hundred dollars a night, any time that it happened to rain. all them melted-down adobes was plumb full of people, the saloons were running full blast, and the miner that couldn't steal ten dollars a day had no business working underground. they took out chunks of native silver as big as your head, and it all ran a thousand ounces to the ton, but even at that them worthless mule-skinners was throwing pure silver at their teams. they had mounted guards to ride along with the wagons and keep them from stealing the ore, but you can pick up chunks yet where them teamsters threw them off and never went back to find 'em. "did you ever hear how the lost burro was found? well, the name, of course, tells the story. if one of these prospectors goes out to find his burros he runs across a mine; and if he goes out the next day to look for another mine he runs across his burros. the most of them are like the old professor down here, they wouldn't know mineral if they saw it; but of course when they grab up a chunk of pure silver and start to throw it at a jackass they can't help taking notice. well, that's the way this mine was found. a prospector that was camping here went up on that little hill to rock his old burro back to camp and right on top he found a piece of silver that was so pure you could cut it with your knife. that guy was honest, he gave the credit to his burro, and, if the truth was known, half the mines in the west would be named after some knot-headed jackass. that's how much intellect it takes to be a prospector." "no, i'll tell you what's the matter with these prospectors," returned denver with a miner's scorn, "they do everything in the world but dig. they'll hike, and hunt burros and go out across the desert; but anything that calls for a few taps of work they'll pass it right up, every time. and i'll tell you, old-timer, all the mines on top of ground have been located long ago. that's why you hear so much about 'swede luck' these days--the swede ain't too lazy to sink. "that's my motto--sink! get down to bed-rock and see what there is on the bottom; but these danged prospectors just hang around the water-holes and play pedro until they eat up their grub-stakes." "heh, heh; that's right," responded bunker reminiscently, "say, did you ever hear of old abe berg? he used to keep a store down below in moroni; and there was one of these old prospectors that made a living that way, used to touch him up regular for a grub-stake. old abe was about as easy as bible-back murray when you showed him a rich piece of ore and after this prospector had et up all his grub he'd drift back to town for more. but on the way in, like all of them fellers, he'd stop at some real good mine; and after he'd stole a few chunks of high-grade ore he'd take it along to show to abe. but after a while old abe got suspicious--he didn't fall for them big stories any more--and at last he began to enquire just where this bonanza was, that the prospector was reporting on so favorable. well, the feller told him and abe he scratched his head and enquired the name of the mine. "'why, i call it the juniper,' says the old prospector kind of innocent; and abe he jumped right up in the air. "'vell, dat's all right,' he yells, tapping himself on the chest, 'but here's one jew, i betcher, dat you von't nip again!' get the point--he thought the old prospector was making a joke of it and calling his mine the jew-nipper!" "yeah, i'm hep," replied russell, "say who is this feller that you call bible-back murray--has he got any claims around here?" "claims!" repeated bunker, "well, i guess he has. he's got a hundred if i've got one--this whole upper district is located." "what--this whole country?" exclaimed denver in sudden dismay, "the whole range of hills--all that lays in the shadow of the leap?" "jest about," admitted bunker, "but as i told you before, you can have any of mine for five hundred." "oh hell," burst out denver and then he roused up and a challenge crept into his voice. "do you mean to tell me," he said, "that he's kept up his assessment work? has he done a hundred dollars worth of work on every claim? no, you know danged well he hasn't--you've just been doing lead-pencil work." "that's all right," returned bunker, "we've got a gentlemen's agreement to respect each others monuments; and you'll find our sworn statements that the work has been done on file with the county recorder." "yes, and now i know," grumbled russell rebelliously, "why the whole danged district is dead. you and murray and this old dutchman have located all the ground and you're none of you doing any work. but when a miner like me blows into the camp and wants to prospect around he's stuck for five hundred dollars. how'm i going to buy my powder and a little grub and steel if i give up my roll at the start? no, i'll look this country over and if i find what i want----" "you'll pay for it, young man," put in bunker hill pointedly, "that is, if it belongs to me." "well, i will if it's worth it," answered russell grudgingly, "but you've got to show me your title." "sure i will," agreed bunker, "the best title a man can have--continuous and undisputed possession. i've been here fifteen years and i've never had a claim jumped yet." "who's this bible-back murray?" demanded denver, "has he got a clean title to his ground?" "you bet he has," replied bunker hill, "and he's got my name as a witness that his yearly assessment work's been done." "and you, i suppose," suggested denver sarcastically, "have got _his_ name, as an affidavit man, to prove that _your_ work has been done. and when i look around i'll bet there ain't a hole anywhere that's been sunk in the last two years." "yes there is!" contradicted bunker, "you go right up that wash that comes down from them north hills and you'll find one that's down twelve hundred feet. and there's a diamond drill outfit sinking twenty feet a day, and has been for the last six months. at five dollars a foot--that's the contract price--old bible-back is paying a hundred dollars a day. now--how many days will that drill have to run to do the annual work? no, you're all right, young man, and i like your nerve, but you don't want to take too much for granted." "judas priest!" exclaimed russell, "twelve hundred feet deep? what does the old boy think he's got?" "he's drilling for copper," nodded bunker significantly, "and for all you and i know, he's got it. he's got an armed guard in charge of that drill, and no outsider has been allowed anywhere near it for going on to six months. the cores are all stored away in boxes where nobodv can get their hands on them and the way old bible-back is sweating blood i reckon they're close to the ore. but a hundred dollars a day--say, the way things are now that'll make or break old murray. he's been blowing in money for ten or twelve years trying to develop his silver properties; but now he's crazy as a bed-bug over copper--can't talk about anything else." "is that so?" murmured denver and as he went about his work his brain began to seethe and whirl. here was something he had not known of, an element of chance which might ruin all his plans; for if the diamond drill broke into rich copper ore his chance at the two treasures would be lost. there would be a big rush and the price of claims would soar to thousands of dollars. the country looked well for copper, with its heavy cap of dacite and the manganese filling in the veins; and it was only a day's journey in each direction from the big copper camps of ray and globe. he turned impulsively and reached for his purse, but as he was about to plank down his five hundred dollars in advance he remembered mother trigedgo's words. "choose well between the two and both shall be yours. but if you choose unwisely, then both will be lost and you will suffer humiliation and shame." "say," blurted out denver, "your claims are all silver--haven't you got a gold prospect anywhere?" "no, i haven't," answered old bunk, his eye on the bank-roll, "but i'll accept a deposit on that offer. any claim i've got--except the lost burro itself--for five hundred dollars, cash." "how long is that good for?" enquired russell cautiously and bunker slapped his leg for action. "it's good for right now," he said, "and not a minute after!" "but i've got to look around," pleaded denver desperately, "i've got to find both these treasures--one of silver and one of gold--and make my choice between them." "well, that's your business," said bunker rising up abruptly. "will you take that offer or not?" "no," replied denver, putting up his purse and old bunk glanced at him shrewdly. "well, i'll give you a week on it," he said, smiling grimly, and stood up to look down the trail. denver looked out after him and there, puffing up the slope, came professor diffenderfer, the eminent buttinsky and geologist. chapter vii the eminent buttinsky that there was no love lost between bunker hill and professor diffenderfer was evident by their curt greetings, but as they began to bandy words denver became suddenly aware that he was the cause of their feud. he and his eight hundred dollars, a sum so small that a shoestring promoter would hardly notice it; and yet these two men with their superfluity of claims were fighting for his favor like pawn-brokers. bunker hill had seen him first and claimed him as his right; but professor diffenderfer, ignoring the ethics of the game, was out to make a sale anyway. he carried in one hand a large sack of specimens, and under his arm were some weighty tomes which turned out to be government reports. he came up slowly, panting and sweating in the heat, and when he stepped in bunk was waiting for him. "o-ho," he said, "here comes the professor. the only german count that ever gave up his title to become an american barber. well, professor, you're just the man i'm looking for--i want to ask your professional opinion. if two white-bellied mice ran down the same hole would the one with the shortest tail get down first?" the professor staggered in and sat down heavily while he wiped the sweat from his eyes. "mr. russell," he began, ignoring the grinning bunker, "i vant to expound to you the cheology of dis country--i haf made it a lifelong study." "yes, you want to get this," put in bunker _sotto voce_, "he knows every big word in them books." "i claim," went on the professor, slapping the books together vehemently, "i claim dat in dis district we haf every indication of a gigantic deposit of copper. the morphological conditions, such as we see about us everywhere, are distinctly favorable to metalliferous deposition; and the genetic influences which haf taken place later----" "well, he's off," sighed bunker rising wearily up and ambling over towards the door, "so long, big boy, i'll see you to-morrow. never could understand broken english." "dat's all righd!" spat back the professor with spiteful emphasis, "i'm addressing my remarks to dis _chentleman_!" "ah--so!" mimicked bunker. "vell, shoodt id indo him! and say, tell him about that tunnel! tell him how you went in until the air got bad and came out up the hill like a gopher. took a double circumbendibus and, after describing a parabola----" "dat's all righd!" repeated the professor, "now--you think you're so smart--i'm going to prove _you_ a liar! i heard you the other day tell dis young man here dat dere vas no golt in dis district. vell! all righd! we vill see now--joost look! vat you call _dat_ now, my goot young friend?" he dumped out the contents of his canvas ore-sack and nodded to denver triumphantly. "i suppose dat aindt golt, eh! maybe i try to take advantage of you and show you what dey call fools gold--what mineralogists call pyrites of iron? no? it aindt dat? vell, let me ask you vun question den--am i righd or am i wrong?" "you're right, old man," returned denver eagerly as he held a specimen to the light; and when he looked up bunker hill was gone. "you see?" leered the professor jerking his thumb towards the door, "dot man vas trying to _do_ you. he don't like to haf me show you dis golt. he vants you to believe dat here is only silver; but i am a cheologist--i know!" "yes, this is gold," admitted denver, wetting the thin strip of quartz, "but it don't look like much of a vein. whereabouts did you get these specimens?" "from a claim dat i haf, not a mile south of here," burst out the professor in great excitement; and while denver listened in stunned amazement he went into an involved and sadly garbled exposition of the geological history of the district. "yes, sure," broke in denver when he came to a pause, "i'll take your word for all that. what i want to know is where this claim is located. if its inside the shadow of apache leap, i'll go down and take a look at it; but----" "but vat has the shadow of the mountain to do with it?" inquired the professor with ponderous dignity. "the formation, as i vas telling you, is highly favorable to an extensive auriferous deposit----" "aw, can the big words," broke in denver impatiently, "i don't give a dang for geology. what i'm looking for is a mine, in the shadow of that big cliff, and----" "ah, ah! yes, i see!" exclaimed the professor delightedly, "it must conform to the vords of the prophecy! yes, my mine is in the shadow of apache leap, where the indians yumped over and were killed." "well, i'll look at it," responded denver coldly, "but who told you about that prophecy? it kinder looks to me as if----" "oh, vell," apologized the professor, "i vas joost going by and i couldn't help but listen. because dis bunker hill, he is alvays spreading talk dat i am not a cheologist. but him, now; _him_! do you know who he is? he is nothing but an ignorant cowman. ven dis mine vas closed down i vas for some years the care-taker, vat you call the custodian of the plant; and dis bunker hill, ven i happened to go avay, he come and take the job. i am a consulting cheologist and my services are very valuable, but he took the job for fifty dollars a month and came here to run his cattle. for eight or ten years he lived right in dat house and took all dat money for nothing; and den, when the company can't pay him no more, he takes over the property on a lien. dat fine, valuable mine, one of the richest in the vorld, and vot you think he done with it? he and mike mcgraw, dat hauls up his freight, dey tore it all down for junk! all dat fine machinery, all dem copper plates, all the vater-pipe, the vindows and doors--they tore down everything and hauled it down to moroni, vere they sold it for nothing to murray! "do you know vot i would do if i owned dat mine?" demanded the professor with rising wrath. "i vould organize a company and pump oudt the vater and make myself a millionaire. but dis bunker hill, he's a big bag of vind--all he does is to sit around and talk! a t'ousand times i haf told him repeatedly dat dere are millions of dollars in dat mine, and a t'ousand times he tells me i am crazy. for fifteen years i haf begged him for the privilege to go into pardners on dat mine. i haf written reports, describing the cheology of dis district, for the highest mining journals in the country; i haf tried to interest outside capital; and den, for my pay, when some chentleman comes to camp, he tells him dat i am a barber!" the professor paused and swallowed fiercely, and as denver broke into a grin the old man choked with fury. "do you know what dat man has been?" he demanded, shaking a trembling finger towards bunker's house, "he has been everything but an honest man--a faro-dealer, a crook, a gambler! he vas nothing--a bum--when his vife heard about him and come here from boston to marry him! dey vas boy-und-girl sveetheart, you know. and righdt avay he took her money and put it into cows, and the drought come along and killed them; and now he has nothing, not so much as i haf, and an expensive daughter besides!" he paused and wagged his head and indulged in a senile grin. "und pretty, too--vat? the boys are all crazy, but she von't have a thing to do with them. she von't come outdoors when the cowboys ride by and stop to buy grub at the store. no, she's too good to talk to old mens like me, and with cowboys what get forty a month; but she spends all her time playing tunes on the piano and singing scales avay up in g. you vait, pretty soon you hear her begin--dat scale-singing drives me madt!" "oh, sings scales, eh?" said denver suddenly beginning to take an interest, "must be studying to become a singer." "dat's it," nodded the old man shaking his finger solemnly, "her mother vas a singer before her. but after they have spent all their money to educate her the teacher says she lacks the temperament. she can never sing, he says, because she is too _dumf_; too--what you call it--un-feeling. she lacks the fire of the vonderful gadski--she has not the g-great heart of schumann-heink. she is an american, you see, and dat is the end of it, so all their money is spent." "oh, i don't know," defended denver warmly, "what's the matter with nordica, and mary garden and farrar? they're americans, all right, and i've got some of their records that simply can't be beat! you wait till i get out my instrument." he broke open a box in which was packed with many wrappings a polished and expensive phonograph, but as he was clearing a space on a rickety old table the professor broke into a cackle. "dere! dere!" he cried, "don't you hear her now? 'ah, ah, ah, oo, oo, oo, oo!' vell, dat's what we get from morning till night--by golly, it makes me sick!" "aw, that's all right," said denver after listening critically, "she's just getting ready to sing." "getting ready!" sneered the professor, "don't you fool yourself dere--she'll keep dat going for hours. and in the morning she puts on just one thin white dress and dances barefoot in the garden. i come by dere one time and looked over the vall--and, psst, listen, she don't vare no corsets! she ought to be ashamed." "well, what about you, you danged old stiff?" inquired denver with ill-concealed scorn. "if old bunk had seen you he'd have killed you." "ah--him?" scoffed the professor, "no, he von't hurt nobody. lemme tell you something--now dis is a fact. when he married his vife--and she's an awful fine lady--all she asked vas dat he'd stop his tammed fighting. you see? i know everyt'ing--every little t'ing--i been around dis place too long. she came right out here from the east and offered to marry him, but he had to give up his fighting. he was a bad man--you see? he was quick with a gun, and she was afraid he'd go out and get killed. so i laugh at him now and he goes avay and leaves me--but he von't let me talk with his vife. she's an awful nice woman but----" "danged right she is!" put in denver with sudden warmth and after a rapid questioning glance the professor closed his mouth. "vell, i guess i'll be going," he said at last and denver did not urge him to stay. chapter viii the silver treasure as evening came on and the red eye of the sun winked and closed behind a purple range of mountains denver russell came out of his cliff-dwelling cave and looked at the old town below. mysterious shadows were gathering among the ruins, the white walls stood out ghostly and still, and as a breeze stirred the clacking leaves of the sycamores a voice mounted up like a bird's. it rose slowly and descended, it ran rippling arpeggios and lingered in flute-like trills; but it was colorless, impersonal, void of feeling. it was more like a flute than like the voice of a bird that pours out its soul for joy; it was perfect, but it was not moving. only as the spirit of the desolate town--as of some lost soul, pure and passionless--did it find its note of appeal and denver sighed and sat silent in the darkness. his thoughts strayed far away, to his boyhood in the mountains, to his wanderings from camp to camp; they leapt ahead to the problem that lay before him, the choice between the silver and gold treasures; and then, drowsy and oblivious, he left the voice still singing and groped to his bed in the cave. all night the prying pack-rats, dispossessed of their dwelling, raced and gnawed and despoiled his provisions; but when the day dawned denver left them to do their worst, for his mind was on greater things. at another time, when he was not so busy, he would swing some rude cupboards on wires and store his food out of reach; but now he only stopped to make a hasty breakfast and started off up the trail. when the sun rose, over behind apache leap, and cast its black shadow among the hills, denver was up on the rim-rock, looking out on the promised land that should yield him two precious treasures. the rim where he stood was uptilted and broken, a huge stratified wall like the edge of a layer cake or the leaves of some mighty book. they lay one upon the other, these ledges of lime and sandstone, some red, some yellow, some white; and, heaped upon the top like a rich coating of chocolate, was the brownish-black cap of the lava. in ages long past each layer had been a mud bank at the bottom of a tropic sea, until the weight of waters had pressed them down and time had changed them to stone. then mother earth had breathed and in a slow, century-long heave, they had emerged from the bottom of the sea, there to be broken and shattered by the pent-up forces of the fire which was raging in her breast. great rents had been formed, igneous rocks had boiled up through them; and then in a grand, titanic effort the fire had forced its way up. for centuries this extinct volcano had belched forth its lava, building up the frowning heights of apache leap; and then once more the earth had subsided and the waters of the ocean had rushed in. the edge of the rim-rock had been sheered by torrential floods, erosion had fashioned the far heights; until once more, with infinite groanings, the earth had risen from the depths. there it stayed, cracking and trembling, as the inner fires cooled down and the fury of the conflict died away; and boiling waters bearing ores in solution burst like geysers from every crack. and there atom by atom, combined with quartz and acids, the metals of the earth were brought to the surface and deposited on the sides of the cracks. copper and gold and silver and lead, and many a rarer metal, all spewed up from the molten heart of the world to be sought out and used by man. all this denver sensed as he gazed at the high cliff where the volcano had overflowed the earth, and at the layers and layers of sedimentary rock that protruded from beneath its base; but his eyes, though they sensed it, cared nothing for the great cause--what they looked for was the fruit of all that labor. where along this shattered rim-rock, twisted and hacked and uptilted, were the hidden cracks, the precious fissure veins, that had brought up the ore from the depths? there at his feet lay one, the gash through the rim where queen creek took its course; and further to the north, where the rim-rock was wrenched to the west, was another likely place. to the south there was another, a deep, sharp canyon that broke through the formation to the heights; and over them all, like a sheltering hand, lay the dark, moving shadow of apache leap. he traced out its line as it crept back towards the town and then, big eyed and silent, he started down the trail, still looking for some sign that might guide him. but other eyes than his had been sweeping the rim and as he came up the trail bunker hill appeared and walked along beside him. "i'll just show you those claims," he said smiling genially, "it'll save you a little time, and maybe a pair of shoes. and just to prove that i'm on the square i'll take you to the best one first." he led on up the street and as they passed a stone cabin the door was yanked violently open and then as suddenly slammed shut. "that's the dutchman," grinned bunker, "he wakes up grouchy every morning. what did you think of that rock he showed you?" "good enough," replied denver, "it was rotten with gold. but from the looks of the pieces it's only a stringer--i doubt if it shows any walls." "no, nor anything else much," answered bunker slightingly, "you can't even call it a stringer. it's a kind of broken seam, going flat into the hill--the mexicans have been after it for years. every time there's a rain the professor will go up there and wash out a little gold in the gulch; but a chinaman couldn't work it, and make it show a profit, if he had to dig out his ore. of course it's all right, if you think gold is the ticket, but you wait till i show you this claim of mine--next to the famous lost burro mine. "you know the lost burro--there she lays, right there--and they took out four million dollars in silver before the bonanza pinched out. at first they hauled their ore to the gulf of california and shipped it to swansea, wales, and afterwards they built a kind of furnace and roasted their ore right here. it was refractory ore, mixed up with zinc and antimony; but with everything against them, and all kinds of bum management, she paid from the very first day. all full of water now, or i'd show you around; but some mine in its time, believe me. i wouldn't sell it for a million dollars." "five hundred is my limit," observed denver with a grin and bunker slapped his leg. "say," he said, "did i tell you that story about the deacon that got stung in a horse-trade? well, this was back east, where i used to live, before i emigrated for the good of the country, and there was an old methodist deacon that was as smart as they make 'em when it came to driving a bargain. he and the livery-stable keeper had made a few swaps and one was about as sharp as the other; until finally it got to be a matter of pride between 'em to cut each other's throats in some horse-trade they would talk and haggle, and drive away and come back, and jockey each other for months; but they always paid cash and if one of 'em got stuck he'd trade the horse off to some woman. well, one day the livery-stable man drove past the deacon's house with a fine, free, high-stepping bay; and every afternoon for about a week he'd go by at a pretty good clip. the deacon he'd rush out and try to flag him, but the livery-stable keeper wouldn't stop; until finally the deacon's curiosity got the best of his judgment and he went out and laid in wait for him. "'how much do you want for that hoss?' he says when the livery-stable man came to a stop. "'two hundred dollars,' says the livery-stable keeper. "'i'll give you fifty!' barks the deacon coming out to look him over and the livery-stable man tossed him the reins. "'the hoss is yours,' he says, and the deacon knowed he was stung. "quick work," said denver, "but i'm not like the deacon. i'm going to look around." "oh, sure, sure!" protested bunker, "take all the time you want, but this offer is only good for one week. i've got a special reason for wanting to make a sale or i'd never let you look at this claim. why, the professor himself has told me a thousand times that it's a better proposition than the burro, so you can see that i am making it attractive. and i ain't pretending that i'm making you the offer for any bull-con reason. i might say that i wanted you to do some work, or to open up the district; but the fact of the matter is i need the five hundred dollars. i've seen times before this war when a hundred thousand cash wouldn't pry me loose from that claim, but now it's yours for five hundred dollars if you honestly think it's worth it. and if you don't, that's all right, there's no hard feeling between us and you can go and buy from the professor. you wasn't born yesterday and you're a good, hard-rock miner; so enough said, there's the claim, right there." he waved his hand at the steep shoulder of the hill, where the canyon had cut through the rim-rock; and as denver looked at the formation of the ground a gleam came into his eyes. the claim took in the silted edge of the rim, where the strata had been laid bare, and along through the middle of the varicolored layers there ran a broad streak of iron-red. into this a streak of copper-stained green had been pinched by the lateral fault of the canyon and where the two joined--just across the creek--was the discovery hole of the claim. "let's go over and look at it," he said and, crossing the creek on the stones, he clambered up to the hole. it was an open cut with a short tunnel at the end and, piled up about the location monument, were some samples of the rock. denver picked one up and at sight of the ore he glanced suspiciously at bunker. "where did this come from?" he asked holding up a chunk that was heavy with silver and lead, "is this some high-grade from the famous lost burro?" "nope," returned bunker, "'bout the same kind of rock, though. that comes from the tunnel in there." "like hell!" scoffed denver with a swift look at the specimen, "and for sale for five hundred dollars? well, there's something funny here, somewhere." he stepped into the tunnel and there, across the face, was a four inch vein of the ore. it lay between two walls, as a fissure vein should; but the dip was almost horizontal, following the level of the uptilted strata. except for that it was as ideal a prospect as a man could ask to see--and for sale for five hundred dollars! a single ton of the ore, if it was as rich as it looked, ought easily to net five hundred dollars. denver knocked off some samples with his prospector's pick and carried them out into the sun. "why don't you work this?" he asked as he caught the gleam of native silver in the duller gray of the lead and old bunk hunched his shoulders. "little out of my line," he suggested mildly, "i leave all that to the swedes. say, did you ever hear that one about the swede and the irishman--you don't happen to be irish, do you?" "no," answered denver and as he waited for the story he remembered what the professor had told him. this long, gangly yankee, with his drooping red mustache and his stories for every occasion, was nothing but a store-keeper and a cowman. he knew nothing about mining or the value of mines but like many another old-timer simply held down his claims and waited--and to cover up his ignorance of mining he told stories about irishmen and swedes. "no," said denver, "and you're no swede, or you'd drift in there and see what you've got." "a mule can work," observed bunker oracularly, "but here's one i heard sprung on an irishman. he was making a big talk about swedes and swede luck, and after he'd got through a feller made the statement that the swedes were the greatest people in the world. "'in the wur-rold!' yells the irishman, like he was out of his head, 'well, how do you figure thot out?' "'well, i'll tell you,' says the feller, 'the swedes invented the wheel-barrow--and then they learned you irish to stand on your hind legs and run it!' har, har, har; he had him going that time--the mick couldn't think what else to do so he went to heaving bricks." "yes--sure," nodded denver, "that was one on the irish. but say, have you got a clean title to this claim? because if you have----" "you bet i have!" spoke up bunker, now suddenly strictly business; but as he waited expectantly there was a shout from the trail and professor diffenderfer came rushing up. "oh, i heard you!" he cried shaking a trembling fist at bunker. "i heard vot you said about my claim! und now, mister bunk, i'll have my say--no sir, you haf no goot title. you haf not done your yearly assessment vork on dis or any oder claims!" "say, who called you in on this?" inquired bunker hill coldly. "you danged, bat-headed dutchman, you keep butting in on my deals and i'll forget and bust you on the jaw!" his long, sharp chin was suddenly thrust out, one eye had a dangerous droop; but the professor returned his gaze with an insolent stare and a triumphant toss of the head. "dat's all right!" he said, "you say my golt mine is a stringer--i say your silver mine is nuttings. you haf no title, according to law, but only by the custom of the country." "well, you poor, ignorant baboon," burst out bunker in a fury, "what better title do you want? the claim is mine, everybody knows it and acknowledges it; and i've got your signature, sworn before a notary public, that the annual work was done!" "just a form, just a form," returned the professor with a shrug, "i do like everyone else. but dis claim dat i haf--and my tunnel on the hill--on dem the vork is done. and now, mr. russell, if you haf finished looking here, i will take you to see my mine." "well, i don't know," began denver still gazing at the silver ore, "this looks pretty good, right here." "but the prophecy!" exclaimed the professor with a knowing smirk, "don't it tell you to choose between the two? and how can you tell if you don't even look--whether the golt or the silver is better?" "aw, go down and look at it!" broke in bunker hill angrily as denver scratched his head, "go and see what he calls a mine--and if you don't come running back and put your money in my hand you ain't the miner i think you are. but by the holy, jumping judas, i'm going to forget myself some day and knock the soo-preme pip out of this dutchman!" he turned abruptly away and went striding back towards the town and the professor leered at denver. "vot i told you?" he boasted, "i ain't scared of dat mens--he promised his vife he von't fight!" "good enough," said denver, "but don't work it too hard. now come on and let's look at your mine." chapter ix bible-back murray as a matter of form denver went with the professor and inspected his boasted mine but all the time his mind was far away and his heart was beating fast. the vein of silver that bunker hill had shown him was worth a thousand dollars anywhere; but, situated as it was on the next claim to the lost burro, it was worth incalculably more. it was too good a claim to let get away and as he listened perfunctorily to the professor's patter he planned how he would open it up. first he would shoot off the face, to be sure there was no salting, and send off some samples to the assayer; and then he would drive straight in on the vein as long as his money lasted. and if it widened out, if it dipped and went down, he would know for a certainty that it was the silver treasure that good old mother trigedgo had prophesied. but to carry out the prophecy, to choose well between the two, he gazed gravely at the professor's strip of gold-ore. it was a knife-blade stringer, a mere seam of rotten quartz running along the side of a canyon; and yet not without its elements of promise, for it was located near another big fault. in geological days the rim-rock had been rent here as it had at queen creek canyon and this stringer of quartz might lead to a golden treasure that would far surpass bunker's silver. but the signs were all against it and as denver turned back the professor read the answer in his eyes. "vell, vat you t'ink?" he demanded insistently, "vas i right or vas i wrong? ain't i showed you the golt--and i'll tell you anodder t'ing, dis mine vill pay from the start. you can pick out dat rich quartz and pack it down to the crick and vash out the pure quill golt; but dat ore of old bunk's is all mixed oop with lead and zinc, and with antimonia too. you vil haf to buy the sacks, and pay the freight, and the smelter charges, too; and dese custom smelters they penalize you for everyt'ing, and cheat you out of what's left. dey're nutting but a bunch of t'ieves and robbers----" "aw, that's all right," broke in denver impatiently, "for cripe's sake, give me a chance. i haven't bought your mine nor bunk's mine either, and it don't do any good to talk. i'm going to rake this country with a fine-tooth comb for claims that show silver and gold, and when i've seen 'em all i'll buy or i won't, so you might as well let me alone." "very vell, sir," began the professor bristling with offended dignity and, seeing him prepared with a long-winded explanation, denver turned up the hill and quit him. he clambered up to the rim, dripping with sweat at every step, and all that day, while the heat waves blazed and shimmered, he prospected the face of the rim-rock. the hot stones burned his hands, he fought his way through thorns and catclaws and climbed around yuccas and spiny cactus; but at the end of the long day, when he dragged back to camp, he had found nothing but barren holes. the country was pitted with open cuts and shallow prospect-holes, mostly dug to hold down worthless claims; and the second day and the third only served to raise his opinion of the claim that bunker had showed him. on the fourth day he went back to it and prospected it thoroughly and then he kept on around the shoulder of the hill and entered the country to the north. here the sedimentary rim-rock lay open as a book and as he followed along its face he found hole after hole pecked into one copper-stained stratum. it was the same broad stratum of quartzite which, on coming to the creek, had dipped down into bunker's claim; and now denver knew that others beside himself thought well of that mineral-bearing vein. for the country was staked out regularly and in each location monument there was the name barney b. murray. the steady panting of a gas-engine from somewhere in the distance drew denver on from point to point and at last, in the bottom of a deep-cleft canyon, he discovered the source of the sound. huge dumps of white waste were spewed out along the hillside, there were houses, a big tent and criss-crossed trails; but the only sign of life was that _chuh_, _chuh_, of the engine and the explosive _blap_, _blaps_ of an air compressor. it was murray's camp, and the engine and the compressor were driving his diamond drill. denver looked about carefully for some sign of the armed guard and then, not too noisily, he went down the trail and followed along up the gulch. the drill, which was concealed beneath the big, conical tent, was set up in the very notch of the canyon, where it cut through the formation of the rim-rock; and denver was more than pleased to see that it was fairly on top of the green quartzite. he kept on steadily, still looking for the guard, his prospector's pick well in front; and, just down the trail from the tented drill, he stopped and cracked a rock. "hey! get off this ground!" shouted a voice from the tent and as denver looked up a man stepped out with a rifle in his hand. "what are you doing around here?" he demanded angrily and, as denver made no answer, another man stepped out from behind. then with a word to the guard he came down the trail and denver knew it was murray himself. he was a tall, bony man with a flowing black beard and, hunched up above his shoulders, was the rounded hump which had given him the name of "bible-back." to counterbalance this curvature his head was craned back, giving him a bristling, aggressive air, and as he strode down towards denver his long, gorilla arms, extended almost down to his knees. "what are you doing here, young man?" he challenged harshly, "don't you know that this ground is closed?" "why, no," bluffed denver, "you haven't got any signs out. what's all the excitement about?" bible-back murray paused and looked him over, and his prospector's pick and ore-sack, and a glint came into one eye. the other eye remained fixed in a cold, rheumy stare, and denver sensed that it was made of glass. "who are you working for?" rasped murray and as he raised his voice the guard started down the dump. "i'm not working for anybody," answered denver boldly, "i'm out prospecting along the edge of the rim." "oh--prospecting," said murray suddenly moderating his voice; and then, as the guard stood watching them narrowly, he gave way to a fatherly smile. "well, well," he exclaimed, "it's pretty hot for prospecting--you can't see very well in this glare. whereabouts have you made your camp?" "over on the crick," answered denver. "what have you got here, anyway? is this that diamond drill?" "never mind, now!" put in the guard who, anticipating a call-down for his negligence, was in a distinctly hostile mood, "you know danged well it is!" "oh, i do, do i?" retorted denver, "well, all right pardner, if you say so; but you don't need to call me a liar!" he returned the guard's glare with an insulting sneer and murray made haste to intercede. "now, now," he said, "let's not have any trouble. but of course you've no business on this ground." "that's all right," defended denver, "that don't give him a license to pull any ranicky stuff. i'm as peaceable as anybody, but you can tell your hired man he don't look bad to me." "that will do, dave," nodded murray and after another look at denver, the guard turned back towards the tent. "judas priest," observed denver thrusting out his lip at the guard, "he's a regular gun-fighting boy. you must have something pretty good hid away here somewhere, to call for a guard like that." "he's a dangerous man," replied murray briefly, "i'd advise you not to rouse him. but what do you think of our district, mister--er----" "russell," said denver promptly, "my name is denver russell. i just came over from globe." "glad to meet you," answered murray extending a hairy hand, "my name is b. b. murray. i'm the owner of all this ground." "'s that so?" murmured denver, "well don't let me keep you." and he started off down the trail. "hey, wait a minute!" protested murray, "you don't need to go off mad. sit down here in the shade--i want to have a talk with you." he stepped over to the shade of an abandoned cabin and denver followed reluctantly. from the few leading questions which mr. murray had propounded he judged he was a hard man to evade; and, until he had got title to the claim on queen creek, it was advisable not to talk too much. "so you're just over from globe, eh?" began murray affably, "well, how are things over in that camp? yes, i hear they are booming--were you working in the mines? what do you think of this country for copper?" "it sure looks _good_!" pronounced denver unctuously, "i never saw a place that looked better. all this gossan and porphyry, and that copper stain up there--and just look at that dacite cap!" he waved his hand at the high cliff behind and murray's eye became beady and bright. "yes," he said rubbing his horny hands together and gazing at denver benevolently, "we think the indications are good--were you thinking of locating in these parts?" "no, just going through," answered denver slowly. "i was camping by the crick and saw that copper-stain, so i thought i'd follow it up. how far are you down with your drill?" "quite a ways, quite a ways," responded murray evasively. "you don't look like an ordinary prospector--who'd you say it was you were working for?" denver turned and looked at him, and grunted contemptuously. "j. p. morgan," he said and after a silence murray answered with a thin-lipped smile. "that's all right, that's all right," he said with a cackle. "no hard feeling--i just wanted to know. you're an honest young man, but there are others who are not, and we naturally like to inquire. are you staying with mr. hill?" "well, not so you'd notice it," replied denver brusquely. "i'm camped in that cave across the crick." "oh, is that so?" purred murray driving relentlessly on in his quest for information, "did he show you any of his claims?" "he showed me one," answered denver and, try as he would, he could not keep his voice from changing. "oh, i see," said murray suddenly smiling triumphantly, "he showed you that claim by the creek." "that's the one," admitted denver, "and it sure looked good. have you got any interests over there?" "not at present," returned murray with a touch of asperity, "but let me tell you a little about that claim. you're a stranger in these parts and it's only fair to warn you that the assessment work has never been done. he has no title, according to law; so you can govern your actions accordingly." "you mean," suggested denver, "that all i have to do is to go in and jump the claim?" "hell--no!" exclaimed bible-back startled out of his piosity. "i mean that you had better not buy it." "well, thanks," drawled denver, "this is danged considerate of you. shall i tell him you'll take it yourself?" "certainly not!" snapped back murray, "i've enough claims, already. i'm just warning you for your own good." "danged considerate," repeated denver with a sarcastic smile, "and now let me ask _you_ something. who told you i wanted to buy?" "never mind!" returned murray, "i've warned you, and that is enough." "well, all right," agreed denver, "but if you don't want it yourself----" "young man!" exclaimed murray suddenly rising to his feet and crooking his neck like a crane, "i guess you know who i am. i can make or break any man in this country, and i'm telling you now--don't you buy!" "i get you," answered denver, and without arguing the point he rose up and went down the trail. chapter x signs and omens when a man like bible-back murray, the biggest man in the country--a sheep-owner, a store-keeper, a political power--goes out of his way to break up a trade there is something significant behind it. denver had come to pinal in response to a prophecy, in search of two hidden treasures between which he must make his choice; and now, added to that, was the further question of whether he should venture to oppose murray. if he did, he could proceed in the spirit of the prophecy and choose between the silver and gold treasures; but if he did not there would be no real choice at all, but simply an elimination. he must turn away from the silver treasure, that precious vein of metal which led so temptingly into the hill, and take the little stringer of quartz which the professor had offered as a gold mine. denver thought it all over out in front of his cave that night and at last he came back to the prophecy. "courage and constancy," it said, "will attend you through life, but in the end will prove your undoing, for you will meet your death at the hands of your dearest friend." denver's heart fell again at the thought of that hard fate but it did not divert him from his purpose. mother trigedgo had said that he should be brave, nevertheless--very well then, he would dare oppose murray. but now to choose between the two, between the professor's stringer of gold and bunker's vein of silver--with the ill will of murray attached. denver pondered them well and at last he lit a candle and referred it to napoleon's oraculum. in the front of the book of fate were thirty-two questions the answers to which, on the succeeding pages, would give counsel on every problem of life. the questions, at first sight, seemed more adapted to love-sick swains than to the practical problem before denver, but he came back to number nine. "shall i be successful in my present undertaking?" all he had to do was to decide to buy the silver claim and then put the matter to the test. he spread a sheet of fair paper on the clear corner of his table and made five rows of short lines across it, each containing more than the requisite twelve marks. then he counted each row and, opposite every one that came even, he placed two dots; opposite every line that came odd, one dot. this made a series of five dots, one above the other, of which the first two were double and the last three single, and he turned to the fateful key. it was spread across two pages, a solid mass of signs and letters, arranged in a curious order; and along the side were the numbers of the questions, across the top the different combinations of dots. against the thirty-two questions there were thirty-two combinations in which the odd and even dots could be arranged, and denver's series was the seventh in order. the number of his question was nine. where the seventh line from the side met the ninth from the top there occurred the letter o. denver turned to the oraculum and on the page marked o he found thirty-two answers, each starred with a different combination of dots. the seventh answer from the top was the one he sought--it said: "fear not, if thou are prudent." "good enough!" exclaimed denver, shutting the book with a slap; but as he went out into the night a sudden doubt assailed him--what did it mean by: "if thou art prudent?" "fear not!" he understood, it was the first and only motto in the bright, brief lexicon of his life; but what was the meaning of "prudent?" did it mean he was to refrain from opposing old bible-back, or merely that he should oppose him within reason? that was the trouble with all these prophecies--you never could tell what they meant. take the silver and golden treasures--how would he know them when he saw them? and he had to choose wisely between the two. and now, when he referred the whole business to the oraculum it said: "fear not, if thou art prudent." he paced up and down on the smooth ledge of rock that made up the entrance to his home and as he sunk his head in thought a voice came up to him out of the blackness of the town below. it was the girl again, singing, high and clear as a flute, as pure and ethereal as an angel, and now she was singing a song. denver roused up and listened, then lowered his head and tramped back and forth on the ledge. the voice came again in a song that he knew--it was one that he had on a record--and he paused in his impatient striding. she could sing, this girl of bunk's, she knew something besides scales and running up and down. it was a song that he knew well, only he never remembered the names on the records. they were in german and french and strange, foreign languages, while all that he cared for was the music. he listened again, for her singing was different; and then, as she began another operatic selection he started off down the trail. it was a rough one at best and he felt his way carefully, avoiding the cactus and thorns; but as he crossed the creek he suddenly took shame and stopped in the shadow of the sycamore. what if the professor, that old prowler, should come along and find him, peeping in through bunker's open door? what if the ray of light which struck out through the door-frame should reveal him to the singer within? and yet he was curious to see her. since his first brusque refusal to go in and meet her, bunker had not mentioned his daughter again--perhaps he remembered what was said. for denver had stated that he had plenty of music himself, if he could ever get his phonograph from globe. yet he had had the instrument for nearly a week and never unpacked the records. they were all good records, no cheap stuff or rag-time; but somehow, with her singing, it didn't seem right to start up a machine against her. and especially when he had refused to come down and meet her--a fine lady, practicing for grand opera. he sat down in the black shadow of the mighty sycamore and strained his ears to hear; but a chorus of tree-frogs, silenced for the moment by his coming, drowned the music with their eerie refrain. he hurled a rock into the depths of the pool and the frog chorus ceased abruptly, but the music from the house had been clearer from his cave-mouth than it was from the bed of the creek. for half an hour he sat, gazing out into the ghostly moonlight for some sign of the snooping diffenderfer; and then by degrees he edged up the trail until he stood in the shadow of the store. the music was impressive--it was marguerite's part, in "faust," sung consecutively, aria by aria--and as denver lay listening it suddenly came over him that life was tragic and inexorable. he felt a great longing, a great unrest, a sense of disaster and despair; and then abruptly the singing ceased, and with it passed the mood. there was a murmur of voices, a strumming on the piano, a passing of shadows to and fro; and then from the doorway there came gay and spritely music--and at last a song that he knew. denver listened intently, trying to remember the record which had contained this lilting air. he had it--the "barcarolle," the boat-song from the "tales of hoffmann!" and she was singing the words in english. he left the shadow and stepped out into the open, forgetful of everything but the singer, and the words came out to him clearly. "night divine, o night of love, o smile on our enchantment; moon and stars keep watch above this radiant night of love!" she came to the end, riding up and down in an ecstatic series of "ahs!" and as the song floated away into piano and pianissimo denver braved the light to see her. she was standing by the piano, swaying like a flower to the music; and a lamp behind made her face like a cameo, her hair like a mass of gold. that was all he saw in the swift, stolen moment before he retreated in a panic to his cave. it was she, the beautiful woman that the seeress had predicted, the one he should fall in love with! she had won his heart before he even saw her, but how could he hope to win her? she was a singer, an artist as mother trigedgo had said, and he was a hobo miner. he stood by his cavern looking down on the town and up at the moon and stars and the words of her song came back to his ears in a continual, haunting refrain. "ah! smile on our enchantment, night of love, o night of love! ah, ah! ah, ah! ah, ah! ah, ah!" it floated away in a lilting diminuendo, a joyous, mocking refrain; and long after the night was quiet again the music still ran through his head. it possessed him, it broke his sleep, it followed him in dreams; and with it all went the vision of the singer, surrounded like st. cecilia with a golden halo of light. he woke up at dawn with a fire in his brain, a tumult of unrest in his breast; and like a buck when he feels the first sting of a wound he turned his face towards the heights. the valley seemed to oppress him, to cabin him in; but up on the cliffs where the eagles soared there was space and the breath of free winds. he toiled up tirelessly, a fierce energy in his limbs, a mill-race of thoughts in his mind, and at last on the summit he turned and looked down on the house that sheltered his beloved. she was the woman, he knew it, for his heart had told him long before he had thought of the prophecy; and now the choice between the gold and silver treasures seemed as nothing compared to winning her. of all the admonitions which had been laid upon him by the words of the cornish seeress, none seemed more onerous than this about the woman that he would love. "you will fall in love with a beautiful woman who is an artist," mother trigedgo had written, "but beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another." on another! this woman, whom he had worshipped from the moment he had seen her, would flaunt him if he revealed his love! that was the thought which had tortured him and driven him to the heights, where he could wrestle with his problem alone. how could he meet her without her reading in his eyes the secret he must not reveal? and yet he was possessed with a mad desire to see her--to see her and hear her sing. all her scales and roulades, her runs and trills, had passed by him like so much smoke; but when the mood had come and she had sung her song-of-songs he had lost his heart to her instantly. but if, in her presence, he revealed this new love she would confer her hand upon another! he stood on the edge of apache leap and gazed down at the valley below, then he looked far away where peak piled on peak and the desert sloped away to the horizon. it was hot, barren land, every ridge spiked with giant cactus, every gulch a bruising tangle of brush and rocks; but pinal lay sleeping in the cool shadow of the leap, and drusilla slept there too. but who would think to look for her in a place like that, or for the treasures of silver and gold? the finger of destiny had pointed him plain, for he stood on the place of death. it was lifeless yet, save for the uneasy eagles who watched him from a splintered crag; and the clean, black shadow that lapped out over the plain held the woman and the treasures in its compass. a sense of awe, of religious exaltation, came over denver as he considered the prophecy, and from somewhere within him there came a new strength which stilled the fierce tumult in his breast. since the stars had willed it that he should have this woman if he veiled his love from her eyes he would be brave then, and constant, and steel his boy's heart to resist her matchless charms. he would watch over her from afar, feeding his love in secret, and when the time came he would reap his reward and the prophecy would be fulfilled. and while he stood aloof, stealing a glimpse of her at night or listening to the magic of her songs; he must win the two treasures, both the silver and the gold, to lay as an offering at her feet. the shadow of the leap drew back from the town, leaving the houses sun-struck and bare, and as his mind went back to the choice between the treasures he watched the moving objects below. he saw a steer wandering down the empty street, and old bunk going across to the store; and then in the walled garden that lay behind the house he beheld a woman's form. it was draped in white and it moved about rhythmically, bending slowly from side to side; and then with the graceful ethereal lightness it leapt and whirled in a dance. in the profundity of the distance all was lost but the grace of it, the fairy-like flitting to and fro; and, as denver watched, the tears leapt to his eyes at the thought of her perfect beauty. she was a woman from another world, which a horny-handed miner could hardly hope to enter; yet if he won the two treasures, which would make them both rich, the doors would swing open before him. all it needed was a wise choice between the silver and the gold, and destiny would attend to the rest. well--if he chose the gold he would offend her own father, who was urgently in need of funds; and if he chose the silver he would offend bible-back murray, and diffenderfer as well. he considered the two claims from every standpoint, looking hopefully about for some sign; and as he stepped to the edge and looked down into the depths, the male eagle left his crag. riding high on the wind which, striking against the face of the cliff, floated him up into the spaces above; he wheeled in a smooth circle, turning his head from side to side as he watched the invader of his eyrie. and at each turn of his head denver caught the flash of gold, though he was loath to accept it as a sign. he waited, fighting against it, marshaling reasons to sustain him; and then, folding his wings, the eagle descended like a plummet, shooting past him with a shrill, defiant scream. denver flinched and stepped back, then he leaned forward eagerly to watch where the bird's flight would take him. no roman legionary, going into unequal battle with his war eagle wheeling above its standard, ever watched its swift course with higher hopes or believed more fully in the omen. the eagle spread his wings and glided off to the west, flying low as he approached the plain; and as he passed over pinal and the claim by queen creek, denver laughed and slapped his leg. "it's a go!" he exulted, "the silver wins!" and he bounded off down the trail. chapter xi the lady of the sycamores a weight like that of pelion and ossa seemed lifted from denver's shoulders as he hurried down from apache leap and, with his wallet in his hip pocket, he strode straight to bunker's house. the eagle had chosen for him, and chosen right, and the last of his troubles was over. there was nothing to do now but buy the claim and make it into a mine--and that was the easiest thing he did. pulling ground was his specialty--with a good man to help he could break his six feet a day--and now that the choice had been made between the treasures he was tingling to get to work. "here's your money," he said as soon as bunker appeared, "and i'd like to order some powder and steel. just write me out a quit-claim for that ground." "well, well," beamed bunker pushing up his reading glasses and counting over the roll of bills, "this will make quite a stake for drusilla. come in, mr. russell, come in!" he held the door open and denver entered, blinking his eyes as he came in from the glare. the room was a large one, with a grand piano at one end and music and books strewn about; and as bunker hill shouted for his wife and daughter denver stared about in astonishment. from the outside the house was like any other, except that it was covered with vines; but here within it was startling in its elegance, fitted up with every luxury. there was a fireplace with bronze andirons, massive furniture, expensive rugs; and the walls were lined with stands and book-shelves that overflowed with treasures. "oh drusilla!" thundered bunker and at last she came running, bounding in through the garden door. she was attired in a filmy robe, caught up for dancing, and her feet were in grecian sandals; and at sight of denver she drew back a step, then stood firm and glanced at her father. "here's that five hundred dollars," said bunker briefly and put the roll in her hand. "oh--did you sell it?" she demanded in dismay "did you sell that number one claim?" "you bet i did," answered her father grimly, "so take your money and beat it." "but i told you not to!" she went on reproachfully, ignoring denver entirely. "i told you not to sell it!" "that's all right," grumbled bunker, "you're going to get your chance, if it takes the last cow in the barn. i know you've got it in you to be a great singer--and this'll take you back to new york." "well, all right," she responded tremulously, "i did want just one more chance. but if i don't succeed i'm going to teach school and pay every dollar of this back." she turned and disappeared out the garden door and bunker hill reached for his hat. "come on over to the store," he said and denver followed in a daze. she was not like any woman he had ever dreamed of, nor was she the woman he had thought. in the night, when she was singing, she had seemed slender and ethereal with her swan's neck and piled up hair; but now she was different, a glorious human animal, strong and supple yet with the lines of a girl. and her eyes were still the eyes of a child, big and round and innocently blue. "here comes the professor," muttered bunker gloomily, as he unlocked the heavy door, "he's hep, i reckon, the way he walks." the professor was waddling with his queer, duck-like steps down the middle of the deserted street and every movement of his gunboat feet was eloquent of offended dignity. "vell," he began as he burst into the store and stopped in front of denver, "i vant an answer, right avay, on dat property i showed you the udder day. i joost got a letter from a chentleman in moroni inquiring about an option on dat claim and----" "you can give it to him," cut in denver, "i've just closed with mr. hill for that number one claim up the crick." "so!" exploded the professor, "vell, i vish you vell of it!" and he flung violently out the door. "takes it hard," observed bunker, "never was a good loser. you want to watch out for him, now--he's going over to report to murray." "so that's the combination," nodded denver. "i was over there yesterday and murray knew all about me--gave me a tip not to buy this property." "danged right he's working for him," returned old bunk grimly. "he runs to him with everything he hears. it's a wonder i haven't killed that little tub of wienies--he crabs every trade i start to make. what's the matter with old bible-back now?" "oh, nothing," answered denver, "but if it's all the same to you i'd like to just locate that ground. then i'll do my discovery work and if there ever comes up a question i'll have your quit-claim to boot." "suit yourself," growled bunker, "but i want to tell you right now i've got a perfect title to that property. i've held it continuously for fifteen years and----" "give me a quit-claim then; because murray questions your title and i don't want to take any chances. he says you haven't kept up your work." "he does, hey!" challenged bunker thrusting out his jaw belligerently, "well, i'd like to see somebody jump me. i'm living on my property, and possessory title is the very best title there is. by grab, if i thought that mormon-faced old devil was thinking of jumping my ground----" he went off into uneasy mutterings and wrote out the quit-claim absently; then they went up together and, after going over the lines, denver relocated the mine and named it the silver treasure. "think you guessed right, do you?" inquired bunker with a grin. "well, i hope you make a million. and if you do you'll never hear no kick from me--you've bought it and paid my price." "fair enough!" exclaimed denver and shook hands on the trade, after which he bought some second-hand tools and went to work on a trail. not a hundred feet down-stream from where the vein cropped out, the main trail crossed to the east side of the creek, leaving the mine on the side of a steep hill. a few days' work, while he was waiting for his powder, would clear out the worst of the cactus and catclaws and give him free access to his hole. then he could clean out the open cut, set up a little forge and prepare for the driving of his tunnel. the sun was blazing hot, not a breath of wind was stirring and the sweat splashed the rocks as he toiled; but there was a song in denver's heart that made his labors light and he hummed the "barcarolle" as he worked. she was scornful of him now and thought only of her music; but the time would come when she would know him as her equal, for a miner can be an artist, too. and at swinging a double-jack or driving uppers denver russell was as good as any man. he worked for the joy of it and took pride in his craft--and that marks the true artist everywhere. yet now that his sale had been consummated and he had the money he needed, bunker hill suddenly lost all interest in denver and retired into his shell. he had invited denver once to come down to his house and share the hospitality of his home; but, after denver's brusque, almost brutal refusal, old bunk had never been the same. he had shown denver his claim and stated the price and told a few stories on the side, but he had shown in many ways that his pride had been hurt and that he did not fully approve. this was made the more evident by the careful way in which he avoided introducing his wife; and it became apparent beyond a doubt in that tense ecstatic minute when drusilla had come in from the garden. then, if ever, was the moment when denver should have been introduced; but bunker had pointedly neglected the opportunity and left him still a stranger. and all as a reward for his foolish words and his refusal of well-meaning hospitality. denver realized it now, but his pride was touched and he refrained from all further advances. if he was not good enough to know old bunker's family he was not good enough to associate with him; and so for three days he lived without society, for the professor, too, was estranged. he passed denver now with eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing even to recognize his presence; and, cut off for the time from all human intercourse, denver turned at last to his phonograph. the stars had come out in the velvety black sky, the hot stillness of evening had come, and from the valley below no sound came up but the eerie, _eh_, _eh_, _eh_, of tree toads. they were sitting by the stream and in cracks among the rocks, puffing out their pouched throats like toy balloons and raising, a shrill, haunting chorus. their thin voices intermingled in an insistent, unearthly refrain as if the spirits of the dead had come again to gibber by the pool. even the scales and trills of drusilla had ceased, so hot and close was the night. denver set up his phonograph with its scrollwork front and patent filing cases and looked over the records which he had bought at great expense while the other boys were buying jazz. he was proud of them all but the one he valued most he reserved for another time. it was the "barcarolle" from "les contes d' hoffmann," sung by farrar and scotti, and he put on instead a tenor solo that had cost him three dollars in globe. then a violin solo, "tambourin chinois," by some man with a foreign name; and at last the record that he liked the best, the "cradle song," by schumann-heink. and as he played it again he saw drusilla come out and stand in the doorway, listening. it was a beautiful song, very sweet, very tender, and sung with the feeling of an artist; yet something about it seemed to displease drusilla, for she turned and went into the house. perhaps, hearing the song, she was reminded of the singers, stepping forward in a blare of trumpets to meet the applause of vast audiences; or perhaps again she felt the difference between her efforts and theirs; but all the next day, when she should have been practicing, drusilla was strangely silent. denver paused in his work from time to time as he listened for the familiar roulades, then he swung his heavy sledge as if it were a feather-weight and beat out the measured song of steel on steel. he picked and shoveled, tearing down from above and building up the trail below; and as he worked he whistled the "cradle song," which was running through his brain. but as he swung the sledge again he was conscious of a presence, of someone watching from the sycamores; and, glancing down quickly he surprised drusilla, looking up from among the trees. she met his eyes frankly but he turned away, for he remembered what the seeress had told him. so he went about his work and when he looked again his lady of the sycamores had fled. chapter xii steel on steel the stifling summer heat fetched up wind from the south and thundercaps crowned the high peaks; then the rain came slashing and struck up the dust before it lifted and went scurrying away. the lizards gasped for breath, drusilla ceased to sing, all pinal seemed to palpitate with heat; but through heat and rain one song kept on--denver's song of steel on steel. in the cool of his tunnel he drove up-holes and down, slugging manfully away until his round of holes was done and then shooting away the face. as the sun sank low he sat on the dump, sorting and sacking the best of his ore; and one evening as he worked drusilla came by, walking slowly as if in deep thought. he was down on his knees, a single-jack in his right hand a pile of quartzite at his left, and as she came to the forks he went on cracking rocks without so much as a stare. she glanced at him furtively, looked back towards the town, then turned off and came up his trail. "good evening," she began and as he nodded silently she seemed at a loss for words. "--i just wanted to ask you," she burst out hurriedly, "if you'd be willing to sell back the mine? i brought up the money with me." she drew out the sweaty roll of bills which he had paid to her father and as denver looked up she held it out to him, then clutched it convulsively back. "i don't mean," she explained, "that you have to take it. but i thought perhaps--oh, is it very rich? i'm sorry i let him sell it." "why, no," answered denver with his slow, honest smile, while his heart beat like a trip-hammer in his breast, "it isn't so awful rich. but i bought it, you know--well, i was sent here!" "what, by murray?" she cried aghast, "did he send you in to buy it?" "don't you think it!" returned denver. "i'm working for myself and--well, i don't want to sell." "no, but listen," she pleaded, her eyes beginning to fill, "i--i made a great mistake. this was father's best claim, he shouldn't have sold it; and so--won't you sell it back?" she smiled, and denver reached out blindly to accept the money, but at a thought he drew back his hand. "no!" he said, "i was sent, you know--a fortune-teller told me to dig here." "oh, did he?" she exclaimed in great disappointment. "won't some other claim do just as well? no, i don't mean that; but--tell me how it all came about." "well," began denver, avoiding her eyes; and then he rose up abruptly and brushed off the top of a powder-box. "sit down," he said, "i'd sure like to accommodate you, but here's how i come to buy it. there's a woman over in globe--mother trigedgo is her name--and she saved the lives of a lot of us boys by predicting a cave in a mine. well, she told my fortune and here's what she said: "you will soon make a journey to the west and there, within the shadow of a place of death, you will find two treasures, one of silver and the other of gold. choose well between them and both shall be yours, but--well, i don't need to tell you the rest. but this is my choice, see? and so, of course----" "oh, do you believe in those people?" she inquired incredulously, "i thought----" "but not this one!" spoke up denver stoutly, "i know that the most of them are fakes. but this mother trigedgo, she's a regular seeress--and it's all come true, every word! apache leap up there is the place of death. i came west after that fellow that robbed me; and this mine here and that gold prospect of the professor's are both in the shadow of the peaks!" "but maybe you guessed wrong," she cried, snatching at a straw. "maybe this isn't the one, after all. and if it isn't, oh, won't you let me buy it back for father? because i'm not going to new york, after all." "well, what good would it do _him_?" burst out denver vehemently. "he's had it for fifteen years! if he thought so much of it why didn't he work it a little and ship out a few sacks of ore?" "he's not a miner," protested drusilla weakly and denver grunted contemptuously. "no," he said, "you told the truth that time--and that's what the matter with the whole district. the ground is all held by lead-pencil work and nobody's doing any digging. and now, when i come in and begin to find some ore, your old man wants his mining claim back." "he does not!" retorted drusilla, "he doesn't know i'm up here. but he hasn't been the same since he sold his claim, and i want to buy it back. he sold it to get the money to send me to new york, and it was all an awful mistake. i can never become a great singer." "no?" inquired denver, glad to change the subject, "i thought you were doing fine. that evening when you----" "well, so did i!" she broke in, "until you played all those records; and then it came over me i couldn't sing like that if i tried a thousand years. i just haven't got the temperament. those continental people have something that we lack--they're so frenchy, so emotional, so full of fire! i've tried and i've tried and i just can't do it--i just can't interpret those parts!" she stamped her foot and winked very fast and denver forgot he was a stranger. he had heard her sing so often that he seemed to know her well, to have known her for years and years, and he ventured a comforting word. "oh well, you're young yet," he suggested shame-facedly, "perhaps it will come to you later." "no, it won't!" she flared back, "i've got to give it up and go to teaching school!" she stomped her foot more impatiently than ever and denver went to cracking rocks. "what do you think of that?" he inquired casually, handing over a chunk of ore; but she gazed at it uncomprehendingly. "isn't there anything i can do?" she began at last, "that will make you change your mind? i might give you this much money now and then pay you more later, when i go to teaching school." "well, what do you want it back for?" he demanded irritably, "it's been lying here idle for years. i'd think you'd be glad to have somebody get hold of it that would do a little work." "i just want to give it back--and have it over with!" she exclaimed with an embittered smile. "i've practiced and i've practiced but it doesn't do any good, and now i'm going to quit." "oh, if that's all," jeered denver, "i'll locate another claim, and let you give that back. what good would it do him if you did give it back--he'd just sit in the shade and tell stories." "don't you talk that way about my father!" she exclaimed, "he's the nicest, kindest man that ever lived! he's not strong enough to work in this awful hot weather but he intended to open this up in the fall." "well, it's opened up already," announced denver grimly. "you just show him that piece of rock." "oh, have you found something?" she cried snatching up the chunk of ore. "why, this doesn't look like silver!" "no, it isn't," he said, and at the look in his eyes she leapt up and ran down the trail. she came back immediately with her father and mother and, after a moment of pop-eyed staring, the professor came waddling along behind. "where'd you get this?" called bunker as he strode up the trail and denver jerked his thumb towards the tunnel. "at the breast," he said. "looks pretty good, don't it? i _thought_ it would run into copper!" "vot's dat? vot's dat?" clamored the professor from the fork of the trail and bunker gave denver the wink. "aw, that ain't copper," he declared, "it's just this green hornblende. we have it around here everywhere." "all right", answered denver, "you can have it your own way--but i call it copper, myself." "vot--_copper_?" demanded the professor making a clutch at the specimen and examining it with his myopic eyes, and then he broke into a roar. "vot--dat copper?" he cried, "you think dat is copper? oh, ho, ho! oh, vell! dis is pretty rich. it is nutting but manganese!" "that's all right," returned denver, "you can think whatever you please; but i've worked underground in too many copper mines----" "where'd you get this?" broke in bunker, giving denver a dig, and as they went into the tunnel he whispered in his ear: "keep it dark, or he'll blab to murray!" "well, let him blab," answered denver, "it's nothing to me. but all the same, pardner," he added _sotto voce_, "if i was in your place i wouldn't bank too much on holding them claims with a lead-pencil." "i'm holding 'em with a six-shooter," corrected bunker, "and murray or nobody else don't dare to jump a claim. i'm known around these parts." "suit yourself," shrugged denver as they came to the face, "i guess this ore won't start no stampede. that seam in the hanging wall is where it comes in--i'm looking for the veins to come together." "judas priest!" exclaimed bunker jabbing his candlestick into the copper streak, "say, this is showing up good. and your silver vein is widening out, too. nothing to it, boy; you've got a mine!" "not yet," said denver, "but wait till she dips. this is nothing but a blanket vein, so far; but if she dips and goes down then look out, old-timer, she's liable to turn out a bonanza." "well, who'd a thought it," murmured old bunk turning somberly away, "and i've been holding her for fifteen years!" he led the way out, stooping down to avoid the roof; and outside the stoop still remained. "where's the professor?" he asked, suddenly looking about, "has he gone to tell murray, already? well, by grab then, he knew it was." "oh, _was_ it copper?" quavered drusilla catching hold of his hand and looking up into his tired eyes, "and you sold it for five hundred dollars! but that's all right," she smiled, drawing his head down for a kiss. "i'll just have to succeed now--and i'm going to!" chapter xiii swede luck as the sun set that evening in a trailing blaze of glory denver russell came out and sat with bared arms, looking lazily down at the town. the news of his strike had roused them at last, these easy-going, do-nothing old-timers; and now, from an outcast, a crack-brained hobo miner, he was suddenly accepted as an equal. they spoke to him, they recognized him, they rushed up to his mine and stared at the ore he had dug; and even the professor had purloined a specimen to take over and show to murray. and all because, while the rest of them loafed, he had drifted in on his vein until he cut the stringer of copper. it was swede luck again--the luck of that great people who invented the wheel-barrow, and taught the irish to stand erect and run it. denver could smile a little, grimly, as he recalled old bunker's stories and his fleering statement that a mule could work; but, now that he had struck copper at the breast of his tunnel, the mule was suddenly a gentleman. he was good enough to speak to, and for bunker's daughter to speak to, and for his wife to invite to supper; and all on account of a vein of copper that was scarcely two inches thick. it was rich and it widened out, instead of pinching off as a typical gash-vein would; and while it would take a fortune to develop it, it was copper, and copper was king. silver and gold mines were nothing now, for silver was down and gold was losing its purchasing power; but the mining journals were full of articles about copper, and it had risen to thirty cents a pound. thirty cents, when a few years ago it had dropped as low as eleven! and it was still going up, for the munition factories were clamoring for it and the speculators were bidding up futures. even bible-back murray, who had a reputation as a pincher, had suddenly become prodigal with his money and was working day and night, trying to tap a hidden copper deposit. he had caught the contagion, the lure of tremendous profits, and he was risking his all on the venture. what would he have to say now if his diamond drill tapped nothing and a hobo struck it rich over at queen creek? well, he could say what he pleased, for denver was determined not to sell for a million dollars. he had come there with a purpose, in answer to a prophecy, and there yet remained to win the golden treasure and the beautiful woman who was an artist. every little thing was coming as the seeress had predicted--good old mother trigedgo with her cards and astrology--and all that was necessary was to follow her advice and the beautiful drusilla would be his. he must treat her at first like any young country girl, as if she had no beauty or charm; and then in some way, unrevealed as yet, he would win her love in return. he had schooled himself rigidly to resist her fascination, but when she had looked up at him with her beseeching blue eyes and asked him to sell back the mine, only a miracle of intercession had saved him from yielding and accepting back the five hundred dollars. he was like clay in her hands--her voice thrilled him, her eyes dazzled him, her smile made him forget everything else--yet just at the moment when he had reached out for the money the memory of the prophecy had come back to him. and so he had refused, turning a deaf ear to her entreaties, and scoffing at her easy-going father; and she had gone off down the trail without once looking back, promising bunker she would become a great singer. denver smiled again dreamily as he dwelt upon her beauty, her hair like fine-spun gold, her eyes that mirrored every thought; and with it all, a something he could not name that made his heart leap and choke him. he could not speak when she first addressed him, his brain had gone into a whirl; and so he had sat there, like a great oaf of a miner, and refused to give her anything. it was rough, yet the cornish seeress had required it; and doubtless, being a woman herself, she understood the feminine heart. at the end of his long reverie denver sighed again, for the ways of astrologers were beyond him. in the morning he rose early, to muck out the rock and clear the tunnel for a new round of holes; and each time as he came out with a wheel-barrow full of waste he cocked his eye to the west. bible-back murray would be coming over soon, if he was still at his camp around the hill. yet the second day passed before he arrived, thundering in from the valley in his big, yellow car; and even then he made some purchases at the store before he came up to the mine. "good morning!" he hailed cheerily, "they tell me you've struck ore. well, well; how does the vein show up?" "'bout the same," mumbled denver and glanced at him curiously. he had expected a little fireworks. "about the same, eh?" repeated murray, flicking his rebellious glass eye, which had a tendency to stare off to one side, "is this a sample of your ore? well, i will say, it looks promising--would you mind if i go into the tunnel?" "nope," returned denver; and then, after a moment's pause: "how's that gun-man of yours getting along?" "oh, dave? he's all right. i'll ask you over sometime and let you get better acquainted." "never mind," answered denver, "i know him all i want to. and if i catch him on my ground i'll sure make him jump--i don't like the way he talked to me." "well, he's rough, but he's good hearted," observed murray pacifically. "i'm sorry he spoke to you that way--shall we go in now and look at the vein?" denver grunted non-committally and led murray into the tunnel, which had turned now to follow the ore. whatever his game was it was too deep for denver, so he looked on in watchful silence. murray seemed well acquainted with mining--he looked at the foot-wall and hanging-wall and traced out the course of both veins; and then, without offering to take any samples, he turned and went out to the dump. "yes, very good," he said, but without any enthusiasm, "it certainly looks very promising. well, good day, mr. russell; much obliged." he started down the trail, leaving denver staring, and then he turned hurriedly back. "oh, by the way," he said, "i buy and sell ore. when you get enough sacked you might send it down by mcgraw and i'll give you a credit at the store." "yes, all right," assented denver and stood looking after him till he cranked up and went roaring away. not a word about the title, nothing said about his warning; and no mention made of his well-known ability to break any man in the county. the facts, apparently, were all that interested him then--but he might make an offer later. when the vein was opened up and he had made his first shipment, when it began to look like a mine! denver went back to work and as he drove in day by day he was careful to save all the ore. he hadn't had it assayed, because assaying is expensive and his supplies had cost more than he expected, but from the size of the button when he made his rough fire-tests, he knew that it ran high in silver. probably eight hundred ounces, besides the lead; and he had sorted out nearly a ton. about the time he was down to his bottom dollar he would ship and get another grub-stake. then, when that was gone, if his vein opened up, he would ship to the smelter direct; but the first small shipment could be easier handled by a man who made it a business. of course murray would gouge him, and overcharge him on everything, but the main idea was to get denver to start an account and take that much trade away from hill. denver figured it all out and then let it pass, for there were other things on his mind. on the evening of his strike the house below had been silent; but early the next morning she had begun again, only this time she was not singing scales. it was grand opera now, in french and italian; with brilliant runs and trills and high, sustained crescendos that seemed almost to demand applause; and high-pitched, agitato recitatives. she was running through the scores of the standard operas--"la traviata," "il trovatore," "martha"--but as the week wore along she stopped singing again and denver saw her down among the sycamores. she paid no attention to him, wandering up and down the creek bed or sitting in gloomy silence by the pools; but at last as he stood at the mouth of his tunnel breaking ore with the great hammer he loved, she came out on the trail and gazed across at him wistfully, though he feigned not to notice her presence. he was young and vigorous, and the sledge hammer was his toy; and as drusilla, when she was practicing, gloried in the range of her voice and her effortless bravuras and trills, so denver, swinging his sledge, felt like thor of old when he broke the rocks with his blows. drusilla gazed at him and sighed and walked pensively past him, then returned and came back up his trail. "good evening," she said and denver greeted her with a smile for he saw that her mood was friendly. she had resented, at first, his brusque refusal and his rough, straight-out way of speaking; but she was lonely now, and he knew in his heart that all was not well with her singing. "you like to work, don't you?" she went on at last as he stood sweating and dumb in her presence, "don't you ever get tired, or anything?" "not doing this," he said, "i'm a driller, you know, and i like to keep my hand in. i compete in these rock-drilling contests." "oh, yes, father was telling me," she answered quickly. "that's where you won all that money--the money to buy the mine." "yes, and i've won other money before," he boasted. "i won first place last year in the single-handed contest--but that's too hard on your arm. you change about, you know, in the double-handed work--one strikes while the other turns--but in single jacking it's just hammer, hammer, hammer, until your arm gets dead to the shoulder." "it must be nice," she suggested with a half-concealed sigh, "to be able to make money so easily. have you always been a miner?" "no, i was raised on a ranch, up in colorado--but there's lots more money in mining. i don't work by the day, i take contracts by the foot where there's difficult or dangerous work. sometimes i make forty dollars a day. there's a knack about mining, like everything else--you've got to know just how to drive your holes in order to break the most ground--but give me a jack-hammer and enough men to muck out after me and i can sink from sixteen to twenty feet a day, depending on the rock. but here, of course, i'm working lone-handed and only make about three feet a day." "oh," she murmured with a mild show of interest and denver picked up his hammer. mother trigedgo had warned him not to be too friendly, and now he was learning why. he set out a huge fragment that had been blasted from the face and swung his hammer again. "did you ever hear the 'anvil chorus'?" she asked watching him curiously. "it's in the second act of 'il trovatore.'" "sure!" exclaimed denver, "i heard sousa's band play it! i've got it on a record somewhere." "no, but in a real opera--you'd be fine for that part. they have a row of anvils around the back of the stage and as the chorus sing the gypsy blacksmiths beat out the time by striking with their hammers. back in new york last year there was a perfectly huge man and he had a hammer as big as yours that he swung with both hands while he sang. you reminded me of him when i saw you working--don't you get kind of lonely, sometimes?" "too busy," replied denver turning to pick up another rock, "don't have time for anything like that." "well, i wish i was that way," she sighed after a silence and denver smote ponderously at the rock. "why don't you work?" he asked at last and drusilla's eyes flashed fire. "i do!" she cried, "i work all the time! but that doesn't do me any good. it's all right, perhaps, if you're just breaking rocks, or digging dirt in some mine; but i'm trying to become a singer and you can't succeed that way--work will get you only so far!" "'s that so!" murmured denver, and at the unspoken challenge the brooding resentment of drusilla burst forth. "yes, it is!" she exclaimed, "and, just because you've struck ore, that doesn't prove that you're right in everything. i've worked and i've worked, and that's all the good it's done me--i'm a failure, in spite of everything." "oh, i don't know," responded denver with a superior smile, "you've still got your five hundred dollars. a man is never whipped till he thinks he's whipped--why don't you go back and take a run at it?" "oh, what's the use of talking?" she cried jumping up, "when you don't know a thing about it? i've tried and i've tried and the best i could ever do was to get a place in the chorus. and there you simply ruin your voice without even getting a chance of recognition. oh, i get so exasperated to see those europeans who are nothing but big, spoiled children go right into a try-out and take a part away from me that i know i can render perfectly. but that's it, you see, they're perfectly undisciplined, but they can throw themselves into the part; and the director just takes my name and address and says he'll call me up if he needs me." denver grunted and said nothing and as he swung his hammer again the leash to her passions gave way. "yes, and i hate you!" she burst out, "you're so big and self-satisfied. but i guess if you were trying to break into grand opera you wouldn't be quite so intolerant!" "no?" commented denver stopping to shift his grip and she stamped her foot in fury. "no, you wouldn't!" she cried half weeping with rage as she contemplated the wreck of her hopes, "don't you know that mary garden and schumann-heink and geraldine farrar and all of them, that are now our greatest stars, had to starve and skimp and wait on the impresarios before they could get their chance? there's a difference between digging a hole in the ground and moving a great audience to tears; so just because you happen to be succeeding right now, don't think that you know it all!" "all right," agreed denver, "i'll try to remember that. and of course i'm nothing but a miner. but there's one thing, and i know it, about all those great stars--they didn't any of them quit. they might have been hungry and out of a job but they never _quit_, or they wouldn't be where they are." "oh, they didn't, eh?" she mocked looking him over with slow scorn. "and i suppose that _you_ never quit, either?" "no, i never did," answered denver truthfully. "i've never laid down yet." "well, you're young yet," she said mimicking his patronizing tones, "perhaps that will come to you later." she smiled with her teeth and stalked off down the trail, leaving denver with something to think about. chapter xiv the strike denver russell _was_ young, in more ways than one, but that did not prove he was wrong. perhaps he was presumptuous in trying to tell an artist how to gain a foothold on the stage, but he was still convinced that, in grand opera as in mining, there was no big demand for a quitter. as for that swift, back stab, that veiled intimation that he might live to be a quitter himself, denver resolved then and there not to quit working his mine until his last dollar was gone. and, while he was doing that, he wondered if drusilla could boast as much of her music. would she weaken again, as she had twice already, and declare that she was a miserable failure; or would she toil on, as he did, day by day, refusing to acknowledge she was whipped? denver returned to his cave in a defiant mood and put on a record by schumann-heink. there was one woman that he knew had fought her way through everything until she had obtained a great success. he had read in a magazine how she had been turned away by a director who had told her her voice was hopeless; and how later, after years of privation and suffering, she had come back to that same director and he had been forced to acknowledge her genius. and it was all there, in her voice, the sure strength that comes from striving, the sweetness that comes from suffering; and as denver listened to her "cradle song" he remembered what he had read about her children. every night, in those dark times when, deserted and alone, she sang in the chorus for her bread, she had been compelled for lack of a nursemaid to lock her children in her room; and evening after evening her mother's heart was tormented by fears for their safety. what if the house should burn down and destroy them all? all the fear and love, all the anguished tenderness which had torn her heart through those years was written on the stippled disc, so deeply had it touched her life. denver put them all on, the best records he had by singers of world renown, and then at the end he put on the "barcarolle," the duet from the "love tales of hoffmann." for him, that was drusilla's song, the expression of her gayest, happiest self. its lilt and flow recalled her to his thoughts like the embroidered motifs that wagner used to anticipate the coming of his characters. it was a light song, in a way, not the greatest of music; but while she was singing it he had seen her for the first time and it had become the motif of her coming. when he heard it he saw a vision of a beautiful young girl, singing and swaying like a slender flower; and all about her was a golden radiance like the halo of st. cecelia. and to him it was a prophecy of her ultimate success, for when she sung it she had won his heart. so he played it over and over, but when he had finished there was silence from the old town below. yet if drusilla was silent it was not from despair for in the morning as denver was mucking out his tunnel he heard her clear voice mount up like the light of some bird. "ah, _ah-h-h-h_, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah." it was the old familiar exercise, rising an octave at the first bound and then fluttering down like some gorgeous butterfly of sound till it rested on the octave below. and at each renewed flight it began a note higher until it climbed at last to high c. then it ran up in roulades and galloping bravuras, it trilled and sought out new flights; yet always with the pellucid tones of the flute, the sweet, virginal purity of a child. she was right--there was something missing, a something which she groped for and could not find, a something which the other singers had. denver sensed the lack dimly but he could not define it, all he knew was that she left out herself. in the brief glimpse he had of her she had seemed torn by dark passions, which caused her at times to brood among the sycamores and again to seek a quarrel with him; yet all this youthful turbulence was left out of her singing--she had not learned to express her emotions. denver listened every morning as he came out of his dark hole, pushing the wheel-barrows of ore and waste before him, and then he bade farewell to sun, air and music and went into the close, dark tunnel. by the light of a single candle, thrust into its dagger-like miner's candlestick and stabbed into some seam in the wall, he smashed and clacked away at his drill until the whole face was honeycombed with holes. at the top they slanted up, at the bottom down, to keep the bore broken clean; but along the sides and in the middle they followed no system, more than to adapt themselves to the formation. when his round of holes was drilled he cut his fuse and loaded each hole with its charge; after which with firm hands he ignited each split end and hurried out of the tunnel. there he sat down on a rock and listened to the shots; first the short holes in the center, to blow out the crown; then the side holes, breaking into the opening; and the top-holes, shooting the rock down from above; and then, last and most powerful, the deep bottom holes that threw the dirt back down the tunnel and left the face clear for more work. as the poisonous smoke was drifting slowly out of the tunnel mouth denver fired up his forge and re-sharpened his drills; and then, along towards evening, when the fumes had become diffused, he went in to see what he had uncovered. sometimes the vein widened or developed rich lenses, and sometimes it pinched down until the walls enclosed nothing but a narrow streak of talc; but always it dipped down, and that was a good sign, a prophecy of the true fissure vein to come. the ore that he mined now was a mere excrescence of the great ore-body he hoped to find, but each day the blanket-vein turned and dipped on itself until at last it folded over and led down. in a huge mass of rocks, stuck together by crystals of silica and stained by the action of acids, the silver and copper came together and intermingled at the fissure vent which had produced them both. denver stared at it through the powder smoke, then he grabbed up some samples and went to see bunker hill. not since that great day when denver had struck the copper had bunker shown any interest in the mine. he sat around the house listening to drusilla while she practiced and opening the store for chance customers; but towards denver he still maintained a grim-mouthed reserve, as if discouraging him from asking any favors. perhaps the fact that denver's money was all gone had a more or less direct bearing on the case; but though he was living on the last of his provisions denver had refrained from asking for credit. his last shipment of powder and blacksmith's coal had cost twenty per cent more than he had figured and he had sent for a few more records; and after paying the two bills there was only some small change left in the wallet which had once bulged with greenbacks. but his pride was involved, for he had read drusilla a lecture on the evils of being faint-hearted, so he had simply stopped buying at the little store and lived on what he had left. but now--well, with that fissure vein opened up and a solid body of ore in sight, he might reasonably demand the customary accommodations which all merchants accord to good customers. "well, i've struck it," he said when he had bunker in the store, "just take a look at _that_!" he handed over a specimen that was heavy with copper and bunker squinted down his eyes. "yes, looks good," he observed and handed it somberly back. "i've got four feet of it," announced denver gloating over the specimens, "and the vein has turned and gone down. what's the chances for some grub now, on account? i'm going to ship that sacked ore." "danged poor--with me," answered bunker with decision. "you'd better try your luck with murray." "oh, boosting for murray, eh?" remarked denver sarcastically. "well, i may take you up on that, but it's too far to walk now and i've been living on beans for a week. i guess i'm good for a few dollars' worth." "sure you're good for it," agreed bunker, "but that ain't the point. the question is--when will i get my money?" "you'll get it, by grab, as soon as i do," returned denver with considerable heat. "what's the matter? ain't that ore shipment good enough security?" "well, maybe it is," conceded bunker, "but you'll have a long wait for your money. and to tell you the truth, the way i'm fixed now, i can't sell except for cash." "oh! cash, eh?" sneered denver suddenly bristling with resentment. "it seems like i've heard that before. in fact, every time that i ask you for a favor you turn me down like a bum. i came through here, one time, so danged weak i could hardly crawl and you refused to even give me a meal; and now, when i've got a mine that's worth millions, you've still got your hand out for the money." "well, now don't get excited," spoke up bunker pacifically, "you can have what grub you want. but i'm telling you the truth--those people down below won't give me another dollar's worth on tick. these are hard times, boy, the hardest i've ever seen, and if you'd offer me that mine back for five hundred cents i couldn't raise the money. that shows how broke i am, and i've got a family to support." "well, that's different," said denver. "if you're broke, that settles it. but i'll tell you one thing, old-timer, you won't be broke long. i'm going to open up a mine here that will beat the lost burro. i've got copper, and that beats 'em all." "sure does," agreed bunker, "but it's no good for shipping ore. it takes millions to open up a copper property." "yes, and it brings back millions!" boasted denver with a swagger. "i'm made, if i can only hold onto it. but i'll tell you right now, if you want to hold your claims you'd better do a little assessment work. there's going to be a rush, when this strike of mine gets out, that'll make your ground worth millions." old bunk smiled indulgently and took a chew of tobacco and denver came back to earth. "i'll tell you what i'll do," proposed denver after a silence, "i'll take a contract to do your assessment work for ten dollars a claim, in trade. i'll make an open cut that's four by six by ten, and that's held to be legal work anywhere. come on now, i'm tired of beans." "well, come down to supper," replied bunker at last, "and we'll talk it over there." "no, i don't want any supper," returned denver resentfully, "you've got enough hoboes to feed. you can give me an answer, right now." "all right--i won't do it," replied bunker promptly and turned to go out the door; but it had opened behind them and drusilla stood there smiling, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "what are you two men quarreling about?" she demanded reprovingly, "we could hear you clear over to the house." "well, i asked him over to supper," began bunker in a rage, "and----" "that's got nothing to do with it," broke in denver hotly, "i'm making him a business proposition. but he's so danged bull-headed he'd rather kill some jumper than comply with the law as it stands. he's been holding down these claims with a lead-pencil and a six-shooter just about as long as he can and----" "oh, have you made another strike?" asked drusilla eagerly and when she heard the news she turned to her father with a sudden note of gladness in her voice. "then you'll have to do the work," she said, "because i'll never be happy till you do. ever since you sold your claim i've been sorry for my selfishness but now i'm going to pay you back. i'm going to take my five hundred dollars and hire this assessment work done and then----" "it won't cost any five hundred," put in denver hastily. "i'm kinder short, right now, and i offered to do it for ten dollars a claim, in trade." "ten dollars? why, how can you do it for that? i thought the law required a ten foot hole, or the same amount of work in a tunnel." "or an open cut," hinted denver. "leave it to me--i can do it and make money, to boot." "well, you're hired, then!" cried drusilla with a rush of enthusiasm, "but you have to go to work to-morrow." "well--ll," qualified denver, "i wanted to look over my strike and finish sacking that ore. wouldn't the next day do just as well?" "no, it wouldn't," she replied. "you can give me an answer, right now." "well, i'll go you!" said denver and old bunker grunted and regarded them with a wry, knowing smile. chapter xv a night for love there was music that evening in the bunker hill mansion but denver russell sat sulking in his cave with no company but an inquisitive pack-rat. he regretted now his curt refusal to join the hills at supper, for drusilla was singing gloriously; but a man without pride is a despicable creature and old bunk had tried to insult him. so he went to bed and early in the morning, while the shadow of apache leap still lay like a blanket across the plain, he set out to fulfill his contract. across one shoulder he hung a huge canteen of water, on the other a sack of powder and fuse; and, to top off his burden, he carried a long steel churn-drill and a spoon for scooping out the muck. the discovery hole of bunker's number two claim was just up the creek from his own and, after looking it over, denver climbed up the bank and measured off six feet from the edge. then, raising the steel bar, he struck it into the ground, churning it rhythmically up and down; and as the hole rapidly deepened he spooned it out and poured in a little more water. it was the same uninteresting work that he had seen men do when they were digging a railroad cut; and the object was the same, to shoot down the dirt with the minimum of labor and powder. but with denver it became a work of art, a test of his muscle and skill, and at each downward thrust he bent from the hips and struck with a deep-chested "huh!" an hour passed by, and half the length of the drill was buried at the end of the stroke; and then, as he paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes, denver saw that his activities were being noted. drusilla was looking on from the trail below, and apparently with the greatest interest. she was dressed in a corduroy suit, with a broad sombrero against the sun; and as she came up the slope she leapt from rock to rock in a heavy pair of boys' high boots. there was nothing of the singer about her now, nor of the filmy-clad barefooted dancer; the jagged edge of old pinal would permit of nothing so effeminate. yet, over the rocks as on the smooth trails, she had a grace that was all her own, for those hillsides had been her home. "well, how's the millionaire?" she inquired with a smile that made his fond heart miss a beat. "is _this_ the way you do it? are you just going to drill one hole?" "that's the dope," replied denver, "sink it down ten feet and blow the whole bank off with one shot. it's as easy as shooting fish." "why, you're down half-way, already!" she cried in amazement. "how long before you'll be done?" "oh, half an hour or so," said denver. "want to wait and see the blast? i learned this system on the railroad." "you'll be through, then, before noon!" she exclaimed. "you're actually making money." "well, a little," admitted denver, "but, of course, if you're not satisfied----" "oh, i'm satisfied," she protested, "i was only thinking--but then, it's always that way. there are some people, of course, who can make money anywhere. how does it feel to be a millionaire?" "fine!" grinned denver, chugging away with his drill, "this is the way they all got their start. the armstrong method--and that's where i shine; i can break more ground than any two men." "well, i believe you can," she responded frankly, "and i hope you have a great success. i didn't like it very well when you called me a quitter, but i can see now what you meant. did you ever study music at all?" denver stopped his steady churning to glance at her quickly and then he nodded his head. "i played the violin, before i went to mining. had to quit then--it stiffens up your fingers." "what a pity!" she cried. "but that explains about your records--i knew you'd heard good music somewhere." "yes, and i'm going to hear more," he answered impressively, "i'm not going to blow my money. i'm going back to new york, where all those singers live. the other boys can have the booze." "don't you drink at all?" she questioned eagerly. "don't you even smoke? well, i'm going right back and tell father. he told me that all miners spent their money in drinking--why wouldn't you come over to supper?" she shot the question at him in the quick way she had, but denver did not answer it directly. "never mind," he said, "but i will tell you one thing--i'm not a hobo miner." "no, i knew you weren't," she responded quickly. "won't you come over to supper to-night? i might sing for you," she suggested demurely; but denver shook his head. "nope," he said, "your old man took me for a hobo and he can't get the idea out of his head. what did he say when you gave me this job?" "well, he didn't object; but i guess, if you don't mind, we'll only do three or four claims. he says i'll need the money back east." "yes, you will," agreed denver. "five hundred isn't much. if i was flush i'd do this for nothing." "oh, no," she protested, "i couldn't allow that. but if there _should_ be a rush, and father's claims should be jumped----" "you'd have the best of them, anyway. i wouldn't tempt old murray too far." "no," she said, "and that reminds me--i hear that he's made a strike. but say, here's a good joke on the professor. you know he thinks he's a mining expert, and he's been crazy to look at the diamond drill cores; and the other day the boss driller was over and he told me how he got rid of him. you know, in drilling down they run into cavities where the lime has been leached away, and in order to keep the bore intact they pour them full of cement. well, when the professor insisted upon seeing the core and wouldn't take no for an answer, mr. menzger just gave him a section of concrete, where they'd bored through a filled-up hole. and mr. diffenderfer just looked so wise and examined it through his microscope, and then he said it was very good rock and an excellent indication of copper. isn't that just too rich for anything?" "yeh," returned denver with a thin-lipped smile. and then, before he thought how it sounded: "say, who is this mr. menzger, anyway?" "oh, he's a friend of ours," she answered drooping her eyelashes coquettishly. "he gets lonely sometimes and comes down to hear me sing--he's been in new york and everywhere." "yes, he must be a funny guy," observed denver mirthlessly. "any relation to that feller they call dave?" "oh, mr. chatwourth? no, he's from kentucky--they say he's the last of his family. all the others were killed in one of those mountain feuds--mr. menzger says he's absolutely fearless." "well, what did he leave home for, then?" inquired denver arrogantly. "he don't look very bad to me, i guess if he was fearless he'd be back in kentucky, shooting it out with the rest of the bunch." "no, it seems that his father on his dying bed commanded him to leave the country, because there were too many of the others against him. but mr. menzger tells me he's a professional killer, and that's why old murray hired him. do you think they would jump our claims?" "they would if they struck copper," replied denver bluntly. "and old murray warned me not to buy from your father--that shows he's got his eye on your property. it's a good thing we're doing this work." "weren't you afraid, then?" she asked, putting the wonder-note into her voice and laying aside her frank manner, "weren't you afraid to buy our claim? or did you feel that you were guided to it, and all would be for the best?" "that's it!" exclaimed denver suddenly putting down his drill to gaze into her innocent young eyes. "i was guided, and so i bought it anyhow." "oh, i think it's so romantic!" she murmured with a sigh, "won't you tell me how it happened?" and then denver russell, forgetting the seeress' warning at the very moment he was discussing her, sat down on a rock and gave drusilla the whole story of his search for the gold and silver treasures. but at the end--when she questioned him about the rest of the prophecy--he suddenly recalled mother trigedgo's admonition: "beware how you reveal your affection or she will confer her hand upon another." a shadow came into his blue eyes and his boyish enthusiasm was stilled; and drusilla, who had been practicing her stage-learned wiles, suddenly found her technique at fault. she chattered on, trying subtly to ensnare him, but denver's heart was now of adamant and he failed to respond to her approaches. it was not too late yet to heed the words of the prophecy, and he drilled on in thoughtful silence. "don't you get lonely?" she burst out at last, "living all by yourself in that cave? why, even these old prospectors have to have some pardner--don't you ever feel the need of a friend?" there it was--he felt it coming--the appeal to be just friends. but another girl had tried it already, and he had learned about women from her. "no," he said shortly, "i don't need no friends. say, i'm going to load this hole now." "well, go on!" she challenged, "i'm not afraid. i'll stay here as long as you do." "all right," he said lowering his powder down the hole and tamping it gently with a stick, "i see i can't scare _you_." "oh, you thought you could scare me!" she burst out mockingly, "i suppose you're a great success with the girls." "well," he mocked back, "a good-looking fellow like me----" and then he paused and grinned slyly. "oh, what's the use!" she exclaimed, rising up in disgust, "i might as well quit, right now." "no, don't go off mad!" he remonstrated gallantly. "stay and see the big explosion." "i don't care _that_ for your explosion!" she answered pettishly and snapped her fingers in the air. it was the particular gesture with which the coquettish carmen was wont to dismiss her lovers; but as she strode down the hill drusilla herself was heart-broken, for her coquetry had come to naught. this big western boy, this unsophisticated miner, had sensed her wiles and turned them upon her--how then could she hope to succeed? if her eyes had no allure for a man like him, how could she hope to fascinate an audience? and carmen and half the heroines of modern light opera were all of them incorrigible flirts. they flirted with servants, with barbers, with strolling actors, with their own and other women's husbands; until the whole atmosphere fairly reeked of intrigue, of amours and coquettish escapades. to the dark-eyed europeans these wiles were instinctive but with her they were an art, to be acquired laboriously as she had learned to dance and sing. but flirt she could not, for denver russell had flouted her, and now she had lost his respect. a tear came to her eye, for she was beginning to like him, and he would think that she flirted with everyone; yet how was she to learn to succeed in her art if she had no experience with men? it was that, in fact, which her teacher had hinted at when he had told her to go out and live; but her heart was not in it, she took no pleasure in deceit--and yet she longed for success. she could sing the parts, she had learned her french and italian and taken instruction in acting; but she lacked the verve, the passionate abandon, without which she could never succeed. yet succeed she must, or break her father's heart and make his great sacrifice a mockery. she turned and looked back at denver russell, and that night she sang--for him. he was up there in his cave looking down indifferently, thinking himself immune to her charms; yet her pride demanded that she conquer him completely and bring him to her feet, a slave! she sang, attired in filmy garments, by the light of the big, glowing lamp; and as her voice took on a passionate tenderness, her mother looked up from her work. then bunker awoke from his gloomy thoughts and glanced across at his wife; and they sat there in silence while she sang on and on, the gayest, sweetest songs that she knew. but drusilla's eyes were fixed on the open doorway, on the darkness which lay beyond; and at last she saw him, a dim figure in the distance, a presence that moved and was gone. she paused and glided off into her song of songs, the "barcarolle" from "love tales of hoffman," and as her voice floated out to him denver rose up from his hiding and stepped boldly into the moonlight. he stood there like a hero in some wagnerian opera, where men take the part of gods, and as she gazed the mockery went out of her song and she sang of love alone. such a love as women know who love one man forever and hold all his love in return, yet the words were the same as those of false giuletta when she fled with the perfidious dapertutto. "night divine, o night of love, o smile on our enchantment moon and stars keep watch above this radiant night of love!" she floated away in the haunting chorus, overcome by the madness of its spell; and when she awoke the song was ended and love had claimed her too. chapter xvi a friend a new spirit, a strange gladness, had come over drusilla and parts which had been difficult became suddenly easy when she took up her work the next day; but when she walked out in the cool of the evening the sombrero and boy's boots were gone. she wore a trailing robe, such as great ladies wear when they go to keep a tryst with knightly lovers, and she went up the trail to where denver was working on the last of her father's claims. he was up on the high cliff, busily tamping the powder that was to blast out the side of the hill, and she waited patiently until he had fired it and come down the slope with his tools. "that makes four," he said, "and i'm all out of powder." but she only answered with a smile. "i'll have to wait, now," he went on bluffly, "until mcgraw comes up again, before i can do any more work." "yes," she answered and smiled again; a slow, expectant smile. "what's the matter?" he demanded and then his face changed and he fumbled with the strap of his canteen. and when he looked up his eyes met hers and there was no longer any secret between them. "you can rest a few days, then," she suggested softly, "i'd like to hear some of your records." "yes--sure, sure," he burst out hastily and they walked down the trail together. she went on ahead with the quick step of a dancer and denver looked up at an eagle in the sky, as if in some way it could understand. but the eagle soared on, without effort and without ceasing, and denver could only be glad. in some way, far beyond him, she had divined his love; but it was not to be spoken of--now. that would spoil it all, the days of sweet communion, the pretence that nothing had changed; yet they knew it had changed and in the sharing of that great secret lay the tie that should bind them together. denver looked from the eagle to the glorious woman and remembered the prophecy again. even yet he must beware, he must veil every glance, treat her still like a simple country child; for the seeress had warned him that his fate hung in the balance and she might still confer her hand upon another. in the happy days that followed he did no more work, further than to sack his ore and ship it; but all his thoughts were centered upon drusilla who was friendly and elusive by turns. on that first precious evening she came up with her father and inspected his smoke-blackened cave, and over his new records there sprang up a conversation that held him entranced for hours. she had been to the metropolitan and the boston opera houses and heard the great singers at their best; she understood their language, whether it was french or italian or the now proscribed german of wagner, and she listened to the records again and again, trying to steal the secret of their success. but through it all she was gentle and friendly, and all her old quarrelsomeness was gone. a week passed like a day, full of dreams and half-uttered confidences and long, contented silences; and then, as they sat in the shade of the giant sycamore denver let his eyes that had been fixed upon drusilla, stray and sweep the lower road. "what are you looking for now?" she demanded impatiently and he turned back with a guilty grin. "mcgraw," he said and she frowned to herself for at last the world had come between them. for a week he had been idle, a heaven-sent companion in the barren loneliness of life; but now, when his powder and mining supplies arrived, he would become the old hard-working miner. he would go into his dark tunnel before the sun was up and not come out till it was low in the west, and instead of being clean and handsome as a young god he would come forth like a groveling gnome. his face would be grimy, his hands gnarled with striking, his digging-clothes covered with candle-grease: and his body would reek with salty sweat and the rank, muggy odor of powder fumes. and he would crawl back to his cave like an outworn beast of burden, to sleep while she sang to him from below. "will you go back to work?" she asked at last and he nodded and stretched his great arms. "back to work!" he repeated, "and i guess it's about time. i wonder how much credit murray gave me?" drusilla said nothing. she was looking far away and wondering at the thing we call life. "why do you work so hard?" she inquired, half complainingly. "is that all there is in the world?" "no, lots of other things," he answered carelessly, "but work is the only way to get them. i'm on my way, see? i've just begun. you wait till i open up that mine!" "then what will you do?" she murmured pensively, "go ahead and open up another mine?" "well, i might," he admitted. "don't you remember that other treasure? there's a gold-mine around here, somewhere." "oh, is that all you think about?" she protested with a smile. "there are lots of other treasures, you know." "yes, but this one was prophesied," returned denver doggedly. "i'm bound to find it, now." "but denver," she insisted, "don't you see what i mean? these fortune-tellers never tell you, straight out. yours said, 'a golden treasure,' but that doesn't mean a gold mine. there are other treasures, besides." "for instance?" he suggested and she looked far away as if thinking of some she might name. "well," she said at length, "there are opals, for one. they are beautiful, and look like golden fire. or it might be a rare old violin that would bring back your music again. i saw one once that was golden yellow--wouldn't you like to play while i sing? but if you spend all your life trying to grub out more riches you will lose your appreciation of art." "yes, but wait," persisted denver, "i'm just getting started. i haven't got a dollar to my name. if murray don't send me the supplies that i ordered i'll have to go to work for my grub. the jewels can wait, and the yellow violins, but i know that she meant a mine. it would have to be a mine or i couldn't choose between them--and when i make my stake i'm going to buy out the professor and see what he's got underground. of course, it's only a stringer now but----" "oh dear," sighed drusilla and then she rose up, but she did not go away. "aren't you glad," she asked, "that we've had this week together? i suppose i'm going to miss you, now. that's the trouble with being a woman--we get to be so dependent. can i play over your records, sometimes?" "sure," said denver, "say, i'm going up there now to see if mcgraw isn't in sight. would you like to come along too? we can sit outside in the shade and watch for his dust, down the road." "well, i ought to be studying," she assented reluctantly, "but i guess i can go up--for a while." they clambered up together over the ancient, cliff-dwellers' trail, where each foothold was worn deep in the rock; but as they sat within the shadow of the beetling cliff drusilla sighed again. "do you think?" she asked, "that there will be a great rush when they hear about your strike down in moroni? because then i'll have to go--i can't practice the way i have been with the whole town filled up with miners. and everything will be changed--i'd almost rather it wouldn't happen, and have things the way they are now. of course i'll be glad for father's sake, because he's awfully worried about money; but sometimes i think we're happier the way we are than we will be when we're all of us rich. what will be the first thing you'll do?" "well," began denver, his eyes still on the road, "the first thing is to open her up. there's no use trying to interest outside capital until you've got some ore in sight. then i'll go over to globe to a man that i know and come back with a hundred thousand dollars. that's right--i know him well, and he knows me--and he's told me repeatedly if i find anything big enough he's willing to put that much into it. he came up from nothing, just an ordinary miner, but now he's got money in ten different banks, and a hundred thousand dollars is nothing to him. but his time is valuable, can't stop to look at prospects; so the first thing i do is to open up that mine until i can show a big deposit of copper. the silver and lead will pay all the expenses--and you wait, when that ore gets down to the smelter i'll bet there'll be somebody coming up here. it runs a thousand ounces to the ton or i'm a liar, the way i've sorted it out; but of course old murray and the rest of 'em will rob me. i don't expect more than three hundred dollars." "isn't it wonderful," murmured drusilla, "and to think it all happened just from having your fortune told! i'm going over to globe before i start back east and get her to tell my fortune, too; but of course it can't be as wonderful as yours--you must have been just born lucky." "well, maybe i was," said denver with a shrug, "but it isn't all over yet--i still stand a chance to lose. and she told me some other things that are not so pleasant--sometimes i wish i'd never gone near her." "oh, what are they?" she asked in a hushed eager voice; but denver ignored the question. never, not even to his dearest friend, would he tell the forecasting of his death; and as for dearest friends, if he ever had another pardner he could never trust him a minute. the chance slipping of a pick, a missed stroke with a hammer, any one of a thousand trivial accidents, and the words of the prophecy would come to pass--he would be killed before his time. but if he favored one man no more than another, if he avoided his former pardners and friends, then he might live to be one of the biggest mining men in the country and to win drusilla for his wife. "i'll tell you," he said meditatively, "you'd better keep away from her. a man does better without it. suppose she'd tell you, for instance, that you'd get killed in a cave like she did jack chambers over in globe; you'd be scared then, all the time you were under ground--it ruins a man for a miner. no, it's better not to know it at all. just go ahead, the best you know how, and play your cards to win, and i'll bet it won't be but a year or two until you're a regular operatic star. they'll be selling your records for three dollars apiece, and all those managers will be bidding for you; but if mother trigedgo should tell you some bad news it might hurt you--it might spoil your nerve." "oh, did she tell you something?" cried drusilla apprehensively. "do tell me what it was! i won't breathe it to a soul; and if you could share it with some friend, don't you think it would ease your mind?" denver looked at her slowly, then he turned away and shook his head in refusal. "oh, denver!" she exclaimed as she sensed the significance of it, and before he knew it she was patting his work-hardened hand. "i'm sorry," she said, "but if ever i can help you i want you to let me know. would it help to have me for a friend?" "a friend!" he repeated, and then he drew back and the horror came into his eyes. she was his friend already, the dearest friend he had--was she destined then to kill him? "no!" he said, "i don't want any friends. come on, i believe that's mcgraw." he rose up hastily and held out his hand to help her but she refused to accept his aid. her lips were trembling, there were tears in her eyes and her breast was beginning to heave; but there was no explanation he could give. he wanted her, yes, but not as a friend--as his beloved, his betrothed, his wife! by any name, but not by the name of friend. he drew away slowly as her head bowed to her knees; and at last he left her, weeping. it was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? and he could see mcgraw's dust down the road. "i'm going to meet mcgraw!" he called back from the steps and went bounding off down the trail. chapter xvii broke mcgraw, the freighter, was a huge, silent man from whom long years on the desert had almost taken the desire for speech. he came jangling up the road, his wagons grinding and banging, his horses straining wearily in their collars; and as denver ran to meet him he threw on the brakes and sat blinking solemnly at his inquisitor. "where's my powder?" demanded denver looking over the load, "and say, didn't you bring that coal? i don't see that steel i ordered, either!" "no," said mcgraw and then, after a silence: "murray wouldn't receive your ore." "wouldn't receive it!" yelled denver, "why, what was the matter with it--did the sacks get broke going down?" "no," answered mcgraw, "the sacks were all right. he said the ore was no good." "like hell!" scoffed denver, "that ore that i sent him? it would run a thousand ounces to the ton!" mcgraw wrinkled his brows and looked up at the sun. "well," he said, "i guess i'll be going." "but--hey, wait!" commanded denver, scarcely believing his ears, "didn't he send me any grub, or anything?" "nope," answered mcgraw, "he wouldn't give me nawthin'. he said the ore was no good. come, boys!" and he threw off the brakes with a bang. the chains tightened with a jerk, the wheelers set their feet; then the lead wagon heaved forward, the trail-wagon followed and denver was alone on the road. his brain was in a whirl, he had lost all volition, even the will to control his wild thoughts; until suddenly he burst out in a fit of cursing--of murray, of mcgraw, of everything. mcgraw had been a fool, he should have demanded the supplies anyway; and murray was just trying to job him. he knew he was broke and had not had the ore assayed, and he was taking advantage of the fact. he had refused the ore in order to leave him flat and compel him to abandon his mine; and then he, murray, would slip over with his gun-man and take possession himself. denver struck his leg and looked up and down the road, and then he started off for moroni. it was sixty miles, across a scorching desert with only two wells on the road; but denver arrived at whitlow's an hour after sunset, and he was at desert wells before dawn. a great fire seemed to consume him, to drive him on, to fill his body with inexhaustible strength; and, against the advice of the station man, he started on in the heat for moroni. all he wanted was a show-down with bible-back murray, to meet him face to face; and no matter if he had the whole county in his pocket he would tell him what he thought of him. and he would make him take that ore, according to his agreement, or answer to him personally; and then he would return to pinal, where he had left drusilla crying. but he could not face her now, after all his boasting and his tales of fabulous wealth. he could never face her again. the sun rose up higher, the heat waves began to shimmer and the landscape to blur before his eyes; and then an automobile came thundering up behind him and halted on the flat. "get in!" called the driver throwing the door open hospitably; and in an hour's time denver was set down in moroni, but with the fever still hot in his brain. his first frenzy had left him, and the heat madness of the desert with its insidious promptings to violence; but the sense of injustice still rankled deep and he headed for murray's store. it was a huge, brick building crowded from basement to roof with groceries and general merchandise. busy clerks hustled about, waiting on mexicans and indians and slow-moving, valley ranchers; and as denver walked in there was a man there to meet him and direct him to any department. it showed that bible-back was efficient, at least. "i'd like to see mr. murray," announced denver shortly and the floor-walker glanced at him again before he answered that mr. murray was out. it was the same at the bank, and out at his house; and at last in disgust denver went down to the station, where he had been told his ore was lying. the stifling heat of the valley oppressed him like a blanket, the sweat poured down his face in tiny streams; and at each evasion his anger mounted higher until now he was talking to himself. it was evident that murray was trying to avoid him--he might even have started back to the mine--but his ore was there, on a heavily timbered platform, where it could be transferred from wagon to car without lifting it up and down. there was other ore there too, each consignment by itself, taken in by the store-keeper in exchange for supplies and held to make up a carload. the same perfect system, efficiency in all things--efficiency and a hundred per cent profit. denver leapt up on the platform and cut open a sack, but as he was pouring a generous sample of the ore into his handkerchief a man stepped out of the next warehouse. "hey!" he called, "what are you doing, over there? you get down and leave that ore alone!" "go to hell!" returned denver, tying a knot in his handkerchief, and the man came over on the run. "say!" he threatened, "you put that ore back or you'll find yourself in serious trouble." "oh, i will, hey?" replied denver with his most tantalizing smile. "whose ore do you think this is, anyway?" "it belongs to mr. murray, and you'd better put it back or i'll report the matter at once." "well, report it," answered denver. "my name is denver russell and i'm taking this up to the assayer." "there's mr. murray, now," exclaimed the man and as denver looked up he saw a yellow automobile churning rapidly along through the dust. murray himself was at the wheel and, sitting beside him, was another man equally familiar--it was dave, his hired gun-man. "what are you doing here, mr. russell?" demanded murray with asperity and denver became suddenly calm. old murray had been hiding from him, but they had summoned him by telephone, and he had brought along dave for protection. but that should not keep him from having his way and forcing murray to a show-down. "i just came down for a sample of that ore i sent you," answered denver with a sarcastic grin. "mcgraw said you claimed it was no good, so i thought i'd have it assayed." "oh," observed murray and for a minute he sat silent while dave and denver exchanged glances. the gun-man was slight and insignificant looking, with small features and high, boney cheeks; but there was a smouldering hate in his deep-set eyes which argued him in no mood for a jest, so denver looked him over and said nothing. "very well," said murray at last, "the ore is yours. go ahead and have it assayed. but with the price of silver down to forty-five cents i doubt if that stuff will pay smelter charges. i'll ship it, if you say so, along with this other, if only to make up a carload; but it will be at your own risk and if the returns show a deficit, your mine will be liable for the balance." "oh, that's the racket, eh?" suggested denver. "you've got your good eye on my mine. well, i'd just like to tell you----" "no, i haven't," snapped back murray, his voice harsh and strident, "i wouldn't accept your mine as a gift. your silver is practically worthless and there's no copper in the district; as i know all too well, to my sorrow. i've lost twenty thousand dollars on better ground than yours and ordered the whole camp closed down--that shows how much i want _your_ mine." he started his engine and glided on to the warehouse and denver stood staring down the road. then he raised his sample, tied up in his handkerchief, and slammed it into the dirt. his mine was valueless unless he had money, and murray had abandoned the district. more than ever denver realized how much it had meant to him, merely to have that diamond drilling running and a big man like murray behind it. it was indicative of big values and great expectations; but now, with murray out of the running, the district was absolutely dead. there was no longer the chance of a big copper strike, such as had been rumored repeatedly for weeks, to bring on a stampede and make every claim in the district worth thousands of dollars as a gamble. no, pinal was dead; the silver treasure was worthless; and he, denver russell, was broke. he had barely the price of a square meal. he started up-town, and turned back towards the warehouse where murray was wrangling with his hireling; then, cursing with helpless rage, he swung off down the railroad track and left his broken dreams behind him. chapter xviii the hand of fate the swift hand of fate, which had hurled denver from the heights into the depths of dark despair, suddenly snatched him up out of the abyss again and whisked him back to globe. when he walked out of moroni his mind was a blank, so overcome was his body with heat and toil and the astounding turns of his fortune; but at the next station below, as he was trying to steal a ride, a man had dropped off the train and dragged him, willy nilly, into his pullman. it was a mining superintendent who had seen him in action when he was timbering the last chance stope, and in spite of his protests he paid his fare to globe and put him to work down a shaft. at the bottom of this shaft was millions of dollars worth of copper and level after level of expensive workings; and some great stirring of the earth was cutting it off, crushing the bottle off at the neck. every night, every shift, the swelling ground moved in, breaking stulls and square-sets like tooth-picks; and now with solid steel and quick-setting concrete they were fighting for the life of the mine. it was a dangerous job, such as few men cared to tackle; but to denver it was a relief, a return to his old life after the delirium of an ugly dream. even yet he could not trace the flaw in his reasoning which had brought him to earth with such a thump; but he knew, in general, that his error was the common one of trying to run a mine on a shoestring. he had set up in business as a mining magnate on eight hundred dollars and his nerve, and bible-back murray had busted him. upon that point, at least, denver suffered no delusion; he knew that his downfall had been planned from the first and that he had bit like a sucker at the bait. murray had dropped a few words and spit on the hook and denver had shipped him his ore. the rest, of course, was like shooting fish in the pan-handle--he had refused to buy the ore, leaving denver belly-up, to float away with other human débris. but there was one thing yet that he could not understand--why had murray closed down his own mine? that was pulling it pretty strong, just to freeze out a little prospector and rob him of a ton or two of ore; and yet denver had proof that it was true. he had staked a hobo who had come over the trail and the hobo had told him what he knew. the diamond drill camp was closed down and all the men had left, but the guard was still herding the property. and the hobo had seen a girl at pinal. she was easy to look at but hard to talk to, so he had passed and hit the trail for globe. denver worked like a demon with a gang of cousin jacks, opposing the swelling ground with lengths of railroad steel and pouring in the concrete behind them; but all the time, by fits and snatches, the old memories would press in upon him. he would think of mother trigedgo and her glowing prophecies, which had turned out so wonderfully up to a certain point and then had as suddenly gone wrong; and then he would think of the beautiful artist with whom he was fated to fall in love, and how, even there, his destiny had worked against him and led him to sacrifice her love. for how could one hope to win the love of a woman if he denied her his friendship first? and yet, if he accepted her as his dearest friend, he would simply be inviting disaster. it was all wrong, all foolish--he dismissed it from his mind as unworthy of a thinking man--yet the words of the prophecy popped up in his head like the memories of some evil dream. his hopes of sudden riches were blasted forever, he had given up the thought of drusilla; but the one sinister line recurred to him constantly--"at the hands of your dearest friend." never before in his life had he been without a pardner, to share his ramblings and adventures, but now in that black hole with the steel rails coming down and death on every hand, superstition overmastered him and he rebuffed the hardy cornishmen, refusing to take any man for his friend. nor would he return to mother trigedgo's boarding house, for her prophecies had ruined his life. he worked on for a week, trying to set his mind at rest, and then a prompting came over him suddenly to go back and see drusilla. if death must come, if some friend must kill him, in whose hands would he rather entrust his life than in those of the woman he loved? perhaps it was all false, like the rest of the prophecy, the gold and silver treasures and the rest; and if he was brave he might win her at last and have her for more than a friend. but how could he face her, after all he had said, after boasting as he had of his fortune? and he had refused her friendship, when she had endeavored to comfort him and to exorcise this fear-devil that pursued him. he went back to work, determined to forget it all, but that evening he drew his time. it came to ninety dollars, for seven shifts and over-time, and they offered him double to stay; but the desire to see drusilla had taken possession of him and he turned his face towards pinal. it was early in the morning when he rode out of globe and took the trail over the divide; and as he spurred up a hill he overtook another horseman who looked back and grinned at him wisely. "going to the strike?" he asked and denver's heart leapt, though he kept his quirt and spurs working. "what strike?" he said and the man burst into a laugh as if sensing a hidden jest. "that's all right," he answered, "i guess you're hep--they say it runs forty per cent copper." "how'd _you_ hear about it?" inquired denver, fishing cautiously for information. "where you going--over to pinal?" "you're whistling," returned the man, quite off his guard. "say, stake me a claim when you get there, if old bible-back hasn't jumped them all." "say, what are you talking about?" demanded denver, suddenly reining in his horse. "is murray jumping claims?" "never mind!" replied the man, shutting up like a clam, and denver spurred on and left him. there was a strike then in pinal, old murray had tapped the vein and it ran up to forty per cent copper! that would make the claim that denver had abandoned the week before worth thousands and thousands of dollars. it would make him rich and bunker hill rich and--yes, it would prove the prophecy! he had chosen the silver treasure and the gold treasure had been added to it--for the copper ore which had come in later was almost the color of gold. as old bunk had said, all these prophecies were symbolical, and he had done mother trigedgo an injustice. and there was one claim that he knew of--yes, and four others, too--that murray would never jump. that was his own silver treasure and the four claims of bunker's that he had done the annual work on himself. denver's heart leapt again as he raced his horse across the flats and led him scrambling with haste up the steep hills, and before the sun was three hours high he had plunged into the box canyon of queen creek. here the trail wound in and out, crossing and recrossing the shrunken stream and mounting with painful zigzags over the points; but he rioted through it all, splashing the water out of the crossings as he hurried to claim his own. the box canyon grew deeper, the walls more precipitous, the creek bottom more dark and cavernous; until at last it opened out into broad flats and boulder patches, thickly covered with alders and ash trees. and then as he swung around the final, rocky point he saw his own claim in the distance. it was nothing but a hole in the side of the rocky hillside, a slide of gray waste down the slope; but to him it was a beacon to light his home-coming, a proof that some dreams do come true. he galloped down the trail where drusilla and he had loitered and let out an exultant whoop. but as denver came opposite his mine a sinister thing happened--a head rose up against the black darkness of the tunnel and a man looked stealthily out. then he drew back his head like some snake in a hole and denver stopped and stared. a low wall of rocks had been built across the cut and the man was crouching behind it--denver jogged down and turned up the trail. a glimpse at pinal showed the streets full of automobiles and a huddle of men by the store door, and as he rode up towards his mine bunker hill came running out and beckoned him frantically back. "come back here!" he hollered and denver turned and looked at him but kept on up the narrow trail. the mine was his, without a doubt, both by purchase and by assessment work done; and he had no fear of dispossession by a jumper who was so obviously in the wrong. "hello, there!" he hailed, reining in before the tunnel; and after a minute the man rose up with his pistol poised over his shoulder. it was dave, murray's gun-man, and at sight of his enemy denver was swept with a gust of passion. from the moment he had first met him, this narrow-eyed, sneering bad-man had roused all the hate that was in him; but now it had gone beyond instinct. he found him in adverse possession of his property and with a gun raised ready to shoot. "what are _you_ doing here?" demanded denver insolently but chatwourth did not move. he stood like a statue, his gun balanced in the air, a thin, evil smile on his lips, and denver gave way to his fury. "you get out of there!" he ordered. "get off my property! get off or i'll put you off!" chatwourth twirled his gun in a contemptuous gesture; and then, like a flash, he was shooting. he threw his shots low, between the legs of the horse, which reared and whirled in a panic; and with the bang of the heavy gun in his ears, denver found himself headed down the trail. a high derisive yell, a whoop of hectoring laughter, followed after him as he galloped into the open; and he was fighting his horse in a cloud of dust when bunker hill and the crowd came up. chapter xix the man-killer "did he hit ye?" yelled bunker when denver had conquered his pitching horse and set him back on his haunches. "hell's bells, boy, i told you to stay out of there!" "well, you lend me a gun!" shouted denver in a fury, "and i'll go back and shoot it out with that dastard! it's him or me--that's all!" "here's a gun, pardner," volunteered a long-bearded prospector handing up a six-shooter with tremulous eagerness; but bunker hill struck the long pistol away and took denver's horse by the bit. "not by a jugful, old-timer," he said to the prospector. "do you want to get the kid killed? come on back to the meeting and we'll frame up something on these jumpers that'll make 'em hunt their holes. but this boy here is my friend, understand?" he held the prancing horse, which had been spattered with glancing lead, until denver swung down out of the saddle; and then, while the crowd followed along at their heels, he led the way back to the store. "what's going on here?" demanded denver, looking about at the automobile and the men who had popped up like magic, "has murray made a strike?" "danged right," answered bunker, "he made a strike last month--and now he has jumped all our claims. or at least, it's his men, because dave there's the leader; but murray claims they're working for themselves. he's over at his camp with a big gang of miners, driving a tunnel in to tap the deposit--it run forty per cent pure copper." "well, we're made then," exulted denver, "if we can get back our claims. come on, let's run these jumpers off!" "yes, that's what _i_ said, a few hours ago," grumbled bunker biting savagely at his mustache, "and i never was so hacked in my life. we went up to this dave and all pulled our guns and ordered him out of the district, and i'm a dadburned mexican if he didn't pull _his_ gun and run the whole bunch of us away. he's nervy, there's no use talking; and i promised mrs. hill that i'd keep out of these shooting affrays. by grab, it was downright disgraceful!" "that's all right," returned denver, "he don't look bad to me. you just lend me a gun and----" "he'll kill ye!" warned bunker, "i know by his eye. he's a killer if ever there was one. so don't go up against him unless you mean business, because you can't run no blazer on _him_!" "well--oh hell, then," burst out denver, "what's the use of getting killed! isn't there anything else we can do? i don't need to eject him because he's got no title, anyway. how about these lead-pencil fellows that haven't done their work for years?" "that's it," explained bunker, "we were having a meeting when we seen you horn in on dave. these gentlemen are all men that have held their ground for years and it don't seem right they should lose it. at the same time it'll take something more than a slap on the wrist to make these blasted jumpers let go. they've staked all the good claims and are up doing the work on them and the question is--what can we do?" "i'll tell you what i'll do," spoke up the old prospector vindictively as the crowd surged into the store, "i'll get up on the leap and shoot down on them jumpers until i chase the last one of 'em off. they can't run no rannikaboo on me!" he wagged his long beard and spat impressively but nobody paid any attention to him. they realized at last that they were up against gun-fighters--men picked for quick shooting and iron nerves and working under the orders of one man. that man was dave chatwourth, nominally dismissed by murray but undoubtedly still in his pay, and until they could devise some plan to eliminate him it was useless to talk of violence. so they resumed their meeting and, as denver owned a claim, he found himself included in the membership. it was a belated revival of the old-time miners' meeting, at one time the supreme law in western mining camps; and bunker hill, as recorder of the district, presided from his perch on the counter. from his seat in the corner denver listened apathetically as the miners argued and wrangled, and the longer they talked the more it became apparent that nothing was going to be done. the encounter with dave had cooled their courage, and more and more the sentiment began to lean towards an appeal to the power of the law. but then it came out that the law was an instrument which might operate as a two-edged sword; for possession, and diligence in working the claim, are the two big points in mining law and just at that moment a legal decision would be all in favor of the jumpers. and if murray was behind them, as all the circumstances seemed to indicate, he would hire the most expensive lawyers in the country and fight the case to a finish. no, if anything was to be done they must find out some other way, or they would be playing right into his hands. "i'll tell you," proposed bunker as the talk swung back to action, "let's go back unarmed and talk to dave again and find out what he thinks he's doing. he can't hold denver's claim, and those claims of mine, because the work has just been done; and then, if we can talk him into vacating our ground, maybe these other jaspers will quit." "i'll go you!" said denver rising up impatiently, "and if he won't vacate my claim i'll try some other means and see if we can't persuade him." "that's the talk!" quavered the old prospector, slapping him heartily on the back. "lord love you, boy, if i was your age i'd be right up in front there, shooting. why, up in the bradshaws in seventy-three----" "never mind what you'd do if you had the nerve," broke in bunker hill sarcastically. "just because you've got a claim that you'd like to get back is no reason for stirring up trouble. no, i'm willing to go ahead and do all the talking; but i want you to understand--this is _peaceable_." "well, all right," agreed the miners and, laying aside their pistols, they started up the street for denver's mine; but as bunker led off a voice called from the porch and his wife came hurrying after him. behind her followed drusilla, reluctantly at first; but as her father kept on, despite the entreaties of her mother, she ran up and caught him by the sleeve. "no, don't go, father!" she cried appealingly and as bunker replied with an evasive laugh she turned her anger upon denver. "why don't you get back your own mine?" she demanded, "instead of dragging my father into it?" "never mind, now," protested bunker, "we ain't going to have no trouble--we just want to have a friendly talk. this has nothing to do with denver or his mine--all we want is a few words with dave." "he'll shoot you!" she insisted. "oh, i just know something will happen. well, all right, then; i'm going along too!" "why, sure," smiled bunker, "always glad to have company--but you'd better stay back with your mother." "no, i'm going to stay right here," she answered stubbornly, giving denver a hateful glance, "because i don't believe a word you say." "ve-ry well, my dear," responded bunker indulgently and took her under his arm. "i'm going ahead!" she burst out quickly as they came to the turn in the trail; and before he could stop her she slipped out of his embrace and went running to the entrance of the cut. but there she halted suddenly and when they came up they found her pale and trembling. "oh, go back!" she gasped. "he's in there--he'll shoot you. i know something awful will happen!" "you'd better go back, now," suggested her father quietly, and then he turned to the barrier. "don't start anything, dave--we've come peaceable, this time; so come out and let's have a talk." there was a long, tense silence and then the muzzle of a gun stirred uneasily and revealed the hiding place of dave. he was crouched behind the rocks which he had piled up across the cut where it entered the slope of the hill, and his long barrelled six-shooter was thrust out through a crack just wide enough to serve for a loop-hole. "don't want to talk," he answered at last. "so go on, now; get off of my property." "well, now listen," began bunker shaking off drusilla's grasp, "we acknowledge we made a slight mistake. we tried to run a whizzer and you called us good and plenty--all right then, now let's have a talk. if you can show title to this ground you're holding, we'll leave you in peaceful possession; and if you can't, you're just wasting your time and talents, because there's plenty more claims that ain't took. it's a cinch you can't hide in that hole forever, so you might as well have it out now." "well what d'ye want?" snarled chatwourth irritably. "by cripes, i'll kill the first man that comes a step nearer. i won't stand no monkey-business from nobody." "oh, sure, sure," soothed bunker, "we know you're the goods--nerviest gun-man, i believe, i ever saw. but here's the proposition, you ain't here for your health, you must figure on making a winning somehow. well, if your title's good you've got a good mine, but if it ain't you're out of luck. now i sold this claim for five hundred dollars to mr. russell, that you met a while ago; and we think it belongs to him yet. i gave him a clear title and he's done his work, so----" "your title was no good!" contradicted chatwourth from his rock pile, "you hadn't done your work for years. i've located this claim and the man don't live----" "that's all right!" spoke up denver, "but i located it before you did. i didn't _buy_ this claim. i paid for a quit-claim and then relocated it myself--and my papers are on record in moroni." "who called you in on this?" burst out chatwourth abusively, rising up with his gun poised to shoot. "now you git, dam' your heart, and if you say another word----" "you don't dare to shoot me!" answered denver in a passion, standing firm as the crowd surged back. "i'm unarmed, and you don't dare to shoot me!" "here, here!" exclaimed bunker grabbing hastily at denver's arm but denver struck him roughly aside. "never mind, now," he said, "just get those folks away--i don't want any of my friends to get hurt. but i'll tell you right now, either i throw that man out or he'll have to shoot me down in cold blood." he backed away panting and the miners ran for cover, but bunker hill held his ground. "no, now listen, denver," he admonished gently, "you don't know what you're doing. this man will kill you, as sure as hell." "he will not!" cried denver grabbing up a heavy stone and advancing on the barricade, "i'm destined to be killed by my dearest friend--that's what old mother trigedgo told me! but this bastard ain't my friend and never was----" he paused, for chatwourth's gun came down and pointed straight at his heart. "stand back!" he shrilled and denver leapt forward, hurling the rock with all his strength. then he plunged through the smoke, swinging his arms out to clutch, and as he crashed through the barrier he stumbled over something that he turned back and pounced on like a cat. it was chatwourth, but his body was limp and senseless--the stone had struck him in the head. chapter xx jumpers and tenors they led denver away as if he were a child, for the revulsion from his anger had left him weak; but chatwourth, the killer, was carried back to town with his head lolling forward like a dead man's. the smash of the stone had caught him full on the forehead, which sloped back like the skull of a panther; and the blood, oozing down from his lacerated scalp, made him look more murderous than ever. but his hard, fighting jaw was hanging slack now and his dangerous eyes were closed; and the miners, while they carried him with a proper show of solicitude, chuckled and muttered among themselves. in a way which was nothing short of miraculous denver russell had walked in on murray's boss jumper and knocked him on the head with a rock--and the shot which chatwourth had fired in return had never so much as touched him. they put chatwourth in an automobile and sent him over to murray's camp; and then with broad smiles they gathered about denver and took turns in slapping him on the back. he was a wonder, a terror, a proper fighting fool, the kind that would charge into hell itself with nothing but a bucket of water; and would he mind, when he felt a little stronger, just walking with them to their claims? just a little, friendly jaunt, as one friend with another; but if murray's hired junipers saw him coming up the trail that was all that would be required. they would go, and be quick about it, for they had been watching from afar and had seen what happened to dave--but denver brushed them aside and went up to his cave where he could be by himself and think. if he had ever doubted the virtue of mother trigedgo's prophecy he put the unworthy thought behind him. he knew it now, knew it absolutely--every word of the prophecy was true. he had staked his life to prove the blackest line of it, and chatwourth's bullet had been turned aside. no, the silver treasure was his, and the golden treasure also, and no man but his best friend could kill him; but the beautiful artist with whom he had fallen in love--would she now confer her hand upon another? he had come back to pinal to set the prophecy at defiance and ask her to be his dearest friend; but now, well, perhaps it would be just as well to stick to the letter of his horoscope. "beware how you reveal your affections," it said--and he had been rushing back to tell her! and besides, she had met his advances despitefully, and practically called him a coward. denver brushed off the dust from his shiny phonograph and put on the "anvil chorus." the next morning, early, he was up at his mine, with chatwourth's gun slung low on his leg; and while he remained there, to defend it against all comers, he held an impromptu reception. there was a rush of miners, to look at the mine and inspect the specimens of copper; and then shoestring promoters began to arrive, with proposals to stock the property. the professor came up, his eyes staring and resentful; and old bunker, overflowing with good humor; and at last, when nobody else was there, drusilla walked by on the trail. she glanced up at him hopefully; then, finding no response, she heaved a great sigh and turned up his path to have it over and done with. "well," she said, "i suppose you despise me, but i'm sorry--that's all i can say. and now that i know all about your horoscope i don't blame you for treating me so rudely. that is, i don't blame you so much. but don't you think, denver, when you went away and left me, you might have written back? we'd always been such friends." she checked herself at the word, then smiled a sad smile and waited to hear what he would say. and denver, in turn, checked what was on his lips and responded with a solemn nod. it had come to him suddenly to rise up and clasp her hands and whisper that he'd take a chance on it, yet--that is, if they could still be friends--but the significance of the prophecy had been proved only yesterday, and miracles can happen both ways. the same fate, the same destiny, which had fended off the bullet when chatwourth had aimed at his heart, might turn the merest accident to the opposite purpose and make drusilla his unwilling slayer. "yes," he said, apropos of nothing, "you see now how i'm fixed. don't dare to have any friends." "no, but denver," she pouted, "you might say you were sorry--that's different from being friends. but after we'd been so--oh, do you believe all that? do you believe you'll be killed by your dearest friend, and that nobody else can harm you? because that, you know, is just superstition; it's just like the ancient greeks when they consulted the oracle, and the indians, and italians and such people. but educated people----" "what's the matter with the greeks?" spoke up denver contentiously. "do you mean to say they were ignorant? well, i talked with an old-timer--he was a professor in some university--and he said it would take us a thousand years before we even caught up with them. do you think that i'm superstitious? well, listen to this, now; here's one that he told me, and it comes from a famous greek play. there was a woman back in greece that was like mother trigedgo, and she prophesied, before a man was born, that he'd kill his own father and marry his own mother. what do you think of that, now? his father was a king and didn't want to kill him, so when he was born he pierced his feet and put him out on a cliff to die. but a shepherd came along and found this baby and named him edipus, which means swelled feet; and when the kid grew up he was walking along a narrow pass when he met his father in disguise. they got into a quarrel over who should turn out and epidus killed his father. then he went on to the city where his mother was queen and there was a big bird, the sphinx, that used to come there regular and ask those folks a riddle: what is it that is four-footed, three-footed and two-footed? and every time when they failed to give the answer the sphinx would take one of them to eat. well, the queen had said that whoever guessed that riddle could be king and have her for his wife, and epidus guessed the answer. it's a _man_, you see, that crawls when he is a baby, stands on two legs when he's grown and walks with a cane when he is old. epidus married the queen, but when he found out what he'd done he went mad and put his own eyes out. but don't you see he couldn't escape it." "no, but listen," she smiled, "that was just a legend, and the greeks made it into a play. it was just like the german stories of thor and the norse gods that wagner used in his operas. they're wonderful, and all that, but folks don't take them seriously. they're just--why, they're fairy tales." "well, all right," grumbled denver, "i expect you think i am crazy, but what about mother trigedgo? didn't she send me over here to find this mine? and wasn't it right where she told me? doesn't it lie within the shadow of a place of death, and wasn't the gold added to it?" "why, no!" exclaimed drusilla, "did you find the gold, too? i thought----" "that referred to the copper," answered denver soberly. "it was your father that gave me the tip. when i first came over here i was inquiring for gold, because i knew i had to make a choice; but he pointed out to me that these horoscopes are symbolical and that the golden treasure might be copper. it looks a whole lot like gold, you know; and now just look what happened! i chose the silver, see--i chose the right treasure--and when i drifted in, this vein of chalcopyrites appeared and was added to the silver. it followed along in the hanging wall until the whole formation dipped and then----" "oh, i don't care about that!" burst out drusilla fretfully, "it's easy to explain anything, afterwards! but of course if you think more of gold and silver than you do of having me for a friend----" "but i don't," interposed denver, gently taking her hand. "sit down here and let's talk this over." "well," sighed drusilla and then, winking back the tears, she sank down in the shade beside him. "i don't want you to think," went on denver tenderly, without weighing very carefully what he said, "i don't want you to think i don't like you, because--say, if you'll kiss me, i'll take a chance." "oh--would you?" she beamed her eyes big with wonder, "would you take a chance on my killing you?" "if it struck me dead!" declared denver gallantly, but she did not yield the kiss. "no," she said, "i don't believe in kisses--have you kissed other girls before? and besides, i just wanted to be friends again, the way we were before." "well, i guess you don't want to be friends very bad," observed denver with a disgruntled smile. "when do you expect to start for the east?" "pretty soon," she answered. "will you be sorry?" denver shrugged his shoulders and began snapping pebbles at an ant. "sure," he said and she drew away from him. "you won't!" she burst out resentfully. "yes, i'll be sorry," he repeated, "but it won't make much difference--i don't expect to last very long. i've always had a pardner, some feller to ramble around with and borrow all my money when he was broke, and i'm getting awful lonesome without one. sooner or later, i reckon, i'll pick up another one and the crazy danged fool will kill me. drop a timber hook on my head or some stunt like that--i wish i'd never seen old mother trigedgo! what you don't know never hurt anyone; but now, by grab, i'm afraid of every man i throw in with. for the time being, at least, he's the best friend i've got; and--oh, what's the use, anyway, it'll get you, sooner or later--i might as well go out like a sport." "you were awful brave," she murmured admiringly, "when you fought with mr. chatwourth yesterday. weren't you honestly afraid he would kill you?" "no, i wasn't!" declared denver. "he didn't look bad to me--don't now and never did--and as long as the cards are coming my way i don't let no alleged bad-man run it over me. here's the gun that i took away from him." "yes, i noticed it," she said. "but when he comes back for it are you going to give it up?" "sure," answered denver, "just show me a rock-pile and i'll run him out of town like a rabbit." "and you fought him with _rocks_!" she said half to herself, "i wish i were as brave as that." "well, it's all in your mind," expounded denver. "some people are afraid to crack an egg but i'm game to try anything once." "so am i!" she defended looking him boldly in the eye but he shook his head and smiled. "nope," he said, "you don't believe in kisses. but i was willing to take a chance on getting killed." "no," she said, "a kiss means more than that. it means--well, it means that you love someone." "it means what you want it to mean," he corrected. "don't you have to kiss the tenor in these operas?" "well that's different," she responded blushing. "that's why i'm afraid i'll never succeed! of course we're taught to do stage kisses, but somehow i can't bring myself to it. but oh, i do so love to sing! i like it all, except just that part of it--and the singers are not all nice men. some of them just make a business of flattering pretty girls and offering to get them a hearing. that's why some girls succeed and get such big parts--they have an understanding with someone that can use his influence with the directors. they don't take the best singers and actors at all, it's all done by intrigue and money. oh, i wish some real _nice_ man would start a new company and invite me to take a part. i've heard one was being organized--a traveling company that will sing in all the big cities--and i've written to my music teacher about it. but if i don't get some position my money will all be gone in no time and then--well, what will i do?" she looked at him bravely and he saw in her eyes the calmness that goes with desperation. "you write to me," he said, "and i'll send you the last dollar i've got." "no, i didn't mean that," she replied, "i can earn my living at something. but father and mother have spent all their money in training me to be a great singer and i just can't bear to disappoint them. it's cost ten thousand dollars to bring me where i am, and this five hundred dollars is nothing. why the great vocal teachers, who can use their influence to get their pupils a hearing, charge ten dollars for a half-hour lesson; and if i don't go to them then every door is closed--unless i'm willing to pay the price." "well, i take it all back then," spoke up denver at last, "there are different kinds of bravery. but you go on back there and do your best and maybe we can make a raise. i'll just take my gun and go up to your father's claims and jump out that bunch of bad-men----" "no! no, denver!" she broke in very earnestly, "i don't want you to do that again. i heard last night that dave said he would get you--and if he did, why then i'd be to blame. you'd be doing it for me, and if one of those men killed you--well, it would be just the same as me." "nope!" denied denver, "there was no figure of speech about that. it said: 'at the _hands_ of your dearest friend.' these jumpers ain't my friends and never was--come on, let's take a chance. i'll run 'em off the claims if your father will give you half of 'em, and then you can turn around and sell out for cash and go back to new york like a queen. you stand off the tenors and i'll stand off the jumpers; and then, perhaps--but we won't talk about that now. come on, will you shake hands on the deal?" she looked at him questioningly, his powerful hand reached out to help her, the old, boyish laughter in his eyes, and then she smiled back as bravely. "all right," she said, "but you'll have to be careful--because now i'm your dearest friend." "i'm game," he cried, "and you don't have to kiss me either. but if some dago tenor----" "no," she promised looking up at him wistfully. "i'll--i'll save the kiss for you." chapter xxi broke again the industry of four jumpers, digging in like gophers on the best of bunker hill's claims, was brought to an abrupt termination by the appearance of one man with a gun. he came on unconcernedly, dave's six-shooter at his hip and the strength of a lion in his stride; and the first of the gun-men, after looking him over, jumped out of his hole and made off. denver tore down his notice and posted the old one, with a copy of his original affidavit that the annual work had been done; and when he toiled up to the remaining three claims the jumpers had fled before him. they knew him all too well, and the gun at his hip; and they counted it no disgrace to give way before the man who had conquered dave chatwourth with rocks. so denver changed the notices and came back laughing and bunker hill made over the claims. "denver," he said clasping him warmly by the hand, "i swow, you're the best danged friend i've got. for the last time, now, will you come to dinner?" "sure," grinned denver, "but cut out that 'friend' talk. it makes me kind of nervous." "i'll do it!" promised bunker, "i'll do anything you ask me. you saved my bacon on them claims. that snooping dutch professor tipped them jumpers off that i'd promised my wife not to shoot, but i guess when they see you come rambling up the gulch they begin to feel like davey crockett's coon. "'don't shoot, davey,' he says, 'i know you'll get me.' and he came right down off the limb." old bunker laughed uproariously and slapped denver on the back, after which he took him over to the house and announced a guest for dinner. "sit down, boy, sit down," he insisted hospitably as denver spoke of going home to dress, "you're company just the way you are. as lord chesterfield says: 'a clean shirt is half of full dress.' and a pair of overalls, i reckon, is the rest of it. say, did you hear what murray said when we took dave over there, looking like something that the cat had brought in? "'my gawd,' he says, 'what has happened to the _mine_?' "that was something like a deacon that i worked for one time when he was fixing to paint his barn. he slung a ladder on an old, rotten rope and sent me up on it to work and about half an hour afterwards the rope gave way and dropped me, ladder and all, to the ground. the deacon was at the house when he heard the crash and he came running with his coat-tails straight out. "'goodness gracious!' he hollered, 'did you spill the paint?' "'no,' i says, 'but i will!' and i kicked all his paint-cans over. "well, old murray is like that deacon; you touch his pocket and you touch his heart--he's always thinking about money. he'd been planning for months to slip in and jump these claims and here you come along and do the assessment work and knock him out of five of 'em. the boys say he's sure got blood in his eye and is cussing you out a blue streak. that's a nice gun you got off of dave--how many notches has it got on the butt? only three, eh? well, say, if he ever sends over to ask for it i've got another one that i'll loan you. you want to go heeled, understand? murray's busy right now bossing those three shifts of miners that are driving that adit tunnel, but when he gets the time he'll leave his glass eye on a fence post and come over to see what we're doing. didn't you ever hear about murray's glass eye? "well, they say he lost his good one looking for a dollar that he dropped; but here's the big joke about the fence-post. he got his start down in the valley, raising alfalfa and feeding stock, and he always hired indians whenever he could because they spent all their time-checks at the store. a mexican or a white man might hold out a few dollars, or spend the whole wad for booze; but indians are barred from getting drunk and they've only got one use for money. yes, they believe it was made to spend, not to bury alongside of some fence-post. and speaking of fence-posts brings me back to the point--old murray had a bunch of big, lazy apaches working by the day cleaning out a ditch. he was down there at daylight and watched 'em like a hawk, but every time he'd go into town the whole bunch would sit down for a talk. well, he _had_ to go to town so one day he called 'em up and made 'em a little talk. "'boys,' he says, 'i've got to go to town but i'm going to watch you, all the same. sure thing, now,' he says, 'you can laugh all you want to, but i'll see everything that you do.' then he took out his glass eye and set it on a fence-post where it looked right down the ditch, and started off for town. you know these apaches--superstitious as hell--they got in and worked like niggers. kinder scared 'em, you see, ain't used to glass eyes; but there was one old boy that was foxy. he dropped down in the ditch where the eye wouldn't see him and crept up behind that fence-post like a snake, and then he picked up an empty tin can and slapped it down over the eye. there was a boy over at the ranch that saw the whole business and he says them indians never did a lick of work till they saw bible-back's dust down the road. pretty slick, eh, for an indian? and some people will try to tell you that the untutored savage can't think. "well, that's the kind of an hombre that we're up against--he'd skin a flea for his hide and taller. as old spud murphy used to say, he'd rob a poor tumble-bug of his ball of manure and put him on the wrong road home. he's mean, and it sure hurt his feelings to have you hop in and win back your mine. and knocking dave on the head took the pip out of these other jumpers--i'm looking for the whole bunch to fade." "well, they might as well," said denver, "because their claims are not worth fighting for and there's a miners' committee going to call on 'em. i'm going along myself in an advisory capacity, and my advice will be to beat it. and if you'll take a tip from me you'll hire a couple of miners and put them to work on your claims." "i'll do it to-morrow," agreed bunker enthusiastically. "i've got a couple of nibbles from some real mining men--not some of these little, one-candle power promoters but the kind that pay with certified checks--and if i can open up those claims and just get a color of copper i'm fixed, boy, that's all there is to it. come on now, let's go in to dinner." the memory of that dinner, and of the music that followed it, remained long in denver's mind; and later in the evening, when the lights were low and her parents had gone to their rest, drusilla sang the "barcarolle" from hoffmann. she sang it very softly, so as not to disturb them, but the look in her eyes recalled something to denver and as he was leaving he asked her a question. it was not if she loved him, for that would be unfair and might spoil an otherwise perfect evening; but he had been wondering as he listened whether she had not seen him that first time--when he had slipped down and listened from the shadows. and when he asked her she smiled up at him tremulously and nodded her head very slowly; and then she whispered that she had always loved him for it, just for listening and going away. she had been downcast that night but his presence had been a comfort--it had persuaded her at last that she could sing. she had sung the "barcarolle" again, on that other night, when he had stepped out so boldly from the shadows; but it was the first time that she loved him for it, when he was still a total stranger and had come just to hear her sing. there was more that she said to him and when he had to go she smiled again and gave him her hand, but he did not suggest a kiss. she was keeping that for him, until she had been to new york and run the gauntlet of the tenors. this was the high spot in denver's life, when he had stood upon parnassus and beheld everything that was good and beautiful; but in the morning he put on his old digging clothes again and went to work in the mine. he had seen her and it was enough; now to break out the ore and win her for his own. for he was poor, and she was poor, and how could she succeed without money? but if he could open up his mine and block out a great ore body then her claims and bunker's, that touched it on both sides, would take on a speculative value. they could be sold for cash and she could go east in style, to take lessons from the ten-dollar teacher who had influence with directors and impresarios. denver put in a round of holes and blasted his way into the mountain; but as he came out in the evening, dirty and grimed and pale from powder sickness, drusilla paled too and almost shrank away. she had strolled up before, only to hear the clank of his steel and the muffled thud of his blows; and now as she stood waiting, attired as daintily as a bride, the dream-hero of her memories was banished. he was a miner again, a sweaty, toiling animal, dead to all the finer things of life; but if denver read her thoughts he did not notice, for he remembered what mother trigedgo had told him. two weeks passed by and labor day came near, when all the hardy miners foregathered in globe and miami and engaged in the sports of their kind. a circular came to denver, announcing the drilling contests and giving his name as one of the contestants; then a personal letter from the committee on arrangements, requesting him to send in his entry; and at last there came a messenger, a good hard-rock man named owen, to suggest that they go in together. but denver was driving himself to the limit, blasting out ore that grew richer each day; and at thought of bible-back murray, waiting to pounce upon his mine, he sent back a reluctant refusal. yet they published his name, with the partner's place left vacant, and advertised that he would participate; for on the fourth of july, with slogger meacham for a partner, he had won the title of champion. the decision to go was forced upon him suddenly on the day before the event, though he had almost lost track of time. every morning at day-break he had been up and cooking, after breakfast he had gone to the mine; and, between mucking out the tunnel and putting in new shots, the weeks had passed like days. but when he went to bunker on the eighth of september and asked for a little more powder bunker took him to the powder-house and showed him a space where the boxes of dynamite had been. then he took him behind the counter and showed him the money-till and denver awoke from his dream. in spite of the stampede and the activity all about them the whole pinal district was not producing a cent, and would not for months to come. every dollar that was spent there had to come in from the outside, and the men who held the claims were all poor. even after driving off the jumpers and regaining their lost claims the majority had gone home after merely scratching up their old dumps in a vain pretense at doing the assessment work. the promoters were not buying, they were simply taking options and waiting on murray's tunnel; and until he drove in and actually tapped the copper ore there would be no steady boom. he had organized a company and was selling a world of stock, even using it to pay off his men: and it was whispered about that his strike was a fake, for he still refused to exhibit the drill cores. but whether his strike was a bona fide discovery or merely a ruse to sell stock, the fact could not be blinked that denver and bunker hill had reached the end of their rope. they were broke again and denver set out for globe, leaving bunker to hold down his claim. chapter xxii the rock-drilling contest the main street of globe was swarming with men, from the court-house square down past the viaduct to where the bohunks dwelt. and the men were all miners, deep-chested and square-shouldered, but white from working underground. they were gathered in knots before the soft-drink emporiums that before had all been saloons and as denver rode in they shouted a hoarse welcome and followed on to miners' hall. there the committee of arrangements was sitting in state but when denver strode in a huge form bulked up before him and slogger meacham grinned at him evilly. two months before, on the fourth of july, they had been partners in the winning team; but now meacham had taken on with a cornishman from miami and they counted the money as good as won. "what are you doing here?" demanded the slogger insolently, "do you think you're going to compete?" "danged right i am, if the judges will let me," answered denver shoving resolutely past; and at sight of their lost champion the committee brightened up, though they glanced at each other anxiously. but what they wanted was a contest, something that would bring out the crowd and make the great day a success, and they waited upon denver expectantly. "well, here's where you get left then," spoke up meacham with a sneer, "the entries were closed at noon." "oh, hell!" cursed denver and was turning to go when the chairman called him back. "just a minute," he said, "didn't you send in your entry? i believe we've got it here, somewhere." he began to fumble industriously through a pile of papers and denver caught his breath. for a moment he had seen his dreams brought to nothing, his last chance at the prize-money gone; but at this tentative suggestion on the part of the chairman he suddenly took heart of grace. they wanted him to compete, it had been advertised in all the papers, and they were willing to meet him half-way. but denver was no liar, he shook his head and sighed, then turned back at a sudden thought. "maybe tom owen made the entry?" he burst out eagerly, "he was over to see me, you know." "that was it!" exclaimed the chairman as if clutching at a straw, "say, where is that blank of theirs, joe?" "search me," answered joe, "it's around here, somewhere. oh, i know!" and he went out into the back room. "ain't this it?" he inquired returning with a paper and the chairman snatched it away from him. "yes," he said, "how'd it get out there? well, no matter--that's all right, mr. russell!" "no it ain't!" blurted out meacham making a grab for the paper; but the chairman struck away his hand. "you keep out of this!" he said. "what d'ye think you're trying to do? you keep out or i'll put you out!" "it's a flim-flam!" raged meacham, "you're trying to job me. he never made no entry." "i never claimed to," retorted denver boldly and meacham turned on him, his pig eyes blazing with fury. "i'll fix you, for this!" he burst out hoarsely, "i'll get you if i have to kill you. you robbed me once, but you won't do it again; so i give you fair warning--pull out!" "you robbed _me_!" came back denver, "and these boys all know it. but i fought you fair for the whole danged roll----" "you did naht!" howled meacham, "you had a feller with ye----" "well, i'll fight you right now, then," volunteered denver accommodatingly but the slogger did not put up his hands. "that's all right," he said backing sullenly away, "but remember what i told you--i'll git ye!" "you'll git nothing!" returned denver and laughed him out the door, though there were others who muttered warnings in his ears. slogger meacham was a fighter as well as a driller and his flight with the prize-money was not the first time that he had lapsed from the ways of strict rectitude. he had killed a man during the riots at goldfield and had been involved in several ugly brawls; but his record as a bad man did not deter denver from opposing him and he went out to hunt up owen. tom owen was a good man, and he was also a good driller, but there was one thing that denver held against him--he had been a drinking man when arizona was wet. and a man who has drunk, no matter when, is never quite the same in a contest. he has lost that narrow margin of vital force, those last few ounces of strength and stamina which win or lose at the finish. yet even at that he was a better man than meacham, who had laid down like a yellow dog. denver remembered that too and when he found his man he told him they were due to win. then he borrowed some drills and a pair of eight-pound hammers and they went through a try-out together. owen was quick and strong, he made the changes like lightning and struck a heavy blow; but when it was over and he was rolling a cigarette denver noticed that his hand was trembling. the strain of smashing blows had over-taxed his nerves, though they had worked but three or four minutes. "well, do the best you can," said denver at last, "and for cripes sake, keep away from this boot-leg." there was plenty of it in town on this festive occasion, a nerve-shattering mixture that came in from new mexico and had a kick like a mule. it was circulating about in hip pockets and suit-cases and in automobiles with false-bottomed seats, and denver knew too well from past experience what the temptation was likely to be; yet for all his admonitions when he met owen in the morning he caught the bouquet of whisky. it was disguised with sen-sen and he pretended not to notice it but his hopes of first money began to wane. they went out again to the backyard of an old saloon where a great block of granite was embedded and while their admirers looked on they practiced their turn, for they had never worked together. a cornish miner, a champion in his day, volunteered to be their coach and at each call of: "change!" they shifted from drill to hammer without breaking the rhythm of their stroke. "you'll win, lads," said the cornishman, patting them affectionately on the back and denver led them off for their rub-down. the band began to play in the street below and the miners' union marched past, after which they banked in about a huge block of granite and the drilling contests began. the drilling rock was placed on a platform of heavy timbers at the lower side of the court-house square, and the slope above it and the windows of all the buildings were crowded with shouting miners. first the men who were to compete in the single-jack contests mounted the platform one by one; and the sharp, _peck_, _peck_, of their hammers made music that the miners knew well. then, as their holes were cleaned out and the depth of each measured, the first team of double-jackers climbed up to the platform amid the frantic plaudits of the crowd. the announcer introduced them, they laid out their drills and the hammer-man poised his double-jack; then at the word from the umpire they leapt into action, striking and turning like men gone mad. there were five teams entered, of which denver's was the last, but when meacham and his partner were announced as the next contestants his impatience would not brook further delay. with his own precious drills tied securely in a bundle and owen and the coach behind him he fought his way to the base of the platform and sat down where he could watch every blow. they came on together, a team hard to match; meacham stripped to the waist, his ponderous head thrust forward, the muscles swelling to great knots in his arms. his partner wore the heavy, yellow undershirt of a miner, his trousers draped low on his hips; and to hold them up he had a strand of black fuse twisted loosely in place of a belt. he was a hard, hairy man, with grim, deep-set eyes and a jaw that jutted out like a crag and as he raised his hammer to strike denver saw that he was out to win. "go!" called the umpire and the hammer smote the drill-head till it made the blue granite smoke; and then for thirty seconds he flailed away while slogger meacham turned the short starter-drill. "change!" called their coach and with a single swoop meacham flung his drill back into the crowd and caught up his hammer to strike. his partner dropped his hammer and chucked in a fresh drill--_smash_, the hammer struck it into the rock--and so they turned and struck while the ramping miners below them looked on in envious amazement. as each drill was thrown out it was brought back from where it fell and examined by the quick-eyed coach, and as he called off the half minutes he announced their probable depth as indicated by the mud marks on the drills. across the block from the two drillers knelt a man with a rubber tube who poured water into the churning hole; and at each blow of the hammer the gray mud leapt up, splashing turner and hammer-man alike. at the end of five minutes they were down fifteen inches, at ten they still held their pace; but as denver glanced doubtfully at his coach and owen the sound of the drilling changed. there was a grating noise, a curse from the turner, and as he flung out the drill and thrust in another a murmur went up from the crowd. they had broken the bit from the brittle edge of their drill and the new drill was grinding away on the fragment, which dulled the keen edge of the steel. the quick ears of the miners could sense the different sound as the drill champed the fragment to pieces, and when the next change was made the mud-marks on the drill showed that over an inch had been lost. a team working at top speed averaged three inches to the minute, driving down through hard gunnison granite; but meacham and his partner had lost their fast start and they had yet four minutes to go. the tall cornishman's eyes gleamed--he struck harder than ever--but meacham had begun to lose heart. the accident upset him, and the grate of the broken steel as the drill bit down on chance fragments; and as his coach urged him on he glanced up from his turning with a look that denver knew well. it was the old pig-eyed glare, the look of unreasoning resentment, that he had seen on the fourth of july. "he's quitting," chuckled owen when meacham rose to strike; but when the hole was measured it came to forty-three and fifteen-sixteenths of an inch. the big cornishman had done it in spite of his partner, he had refused to accept defeat; and now, with only two more teams to compete, they led by nearly an inch. "you can beat it!" cried denver's coach, "i've done better than that myself! forty-four! you can make forty-six!" "i'm game," answered denver, "but it takes two to win. do you think you can stick it out, tom?" "i'll be up there, trying," returned owen grimly and denver nodded to the coach. the next team did no better, for it is a heart-breaking test and the sun was getting hot, and when denver and owen mounted up on the platform a hush fell upon the crowd. denver russell they knew, but owen was a new man; and a drilling contest is won on pure nerve. would he crack, like meacham, as the end approached, or would he stand up to the punishment? they looked on in silence as denver spread out his drills--a full twenty, oil-tempered, of the best norway steel, each narrower by a hair than its predecessor. the starter was short and heavy, with an inch-and-a-quarter bit; and the last long drill had a seven-eighths bit, which would just cut a one-inch hole. they were the best that money could buy and a famous tool-sharpener in miami had tempered their edges to perfection. denver picked up his starter, all the officials left the platform, and owen raised his hammer. "are the drillers ready?" challenged the umpire. "then _go_!" he shouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. for thirty seconds while the drill leapt and bounded, denver held it firmly in its place, and at the call of "change!" he chucked it over his shoulder and swung his own hammer in the air. owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struck it squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. denver was working hard, striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was a smashing enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts of the miners. he was what they had been before drink and bad air had sapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes had broken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up--he was a miner, young and hardy, putting his body behind each blow yet striking like a tireless automaton. "change!" cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as the drill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better than three inches for the minute. at five minutes it was sixteen, at ten, thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve they had lost an inch. tom owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, in spite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows had lost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. at every stroke, as denver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in the hole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to the weight of the blows. the mud and muck from the hole splashed up into his face and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they had lost their lead and tom owen was striking wild. then he missed the steel and a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter. "ho! ho!" it roared, and denver knew it well--it was slogger meacham, exulting. "here--you turn!" he said flinging out his drill, and as owen sank down on his knees by the hole denver caught up his double-jack and struck. for a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while owen, his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped to win back his strength. "thirteen and a half!" announced the coach at last and then he shouted: "change!" "no--_turn_!" panted denver, never missing a stroke; and owen sank back to his place by the hole while the battery of blows kept on. "fourteen!" proclaimed the coach, "you're about an inch behind. how about it--do you want to change?" "no--turn!" choked denver. "i'll finish it--_turn_!" and as owen straightened his back denver struck like a mad-man while the sweat poured down in a shower. the official umpire leapt up on the platform to toll off the last sixty seconds, but the rise and fall of denver's body was faster by far than his count. a frenzy seemed to seize him as the half minute was called and owen slipped in their last drill; and with hoarse, coughing grunts he smashed it deeper and deeper while the miners surged forward with a cheer. "fifty-eight--fifty-nine--_sixty_!" cried the umpire, slapping him sharply on the back to stop, and denver fell like dead across the stone. his great strength had left him, completely, on the instant; and when he raised his head there was a grinning crowd around him as his coach was measuring the last drill. "the poor, dom fool!" he exclaimed commiseratingly, "and to think of him wurruking like thot. he's ahead by two inches and more." chapter xxiii the heart of his beloved there was a celebration that day which warmed denver's heart and sent slogger meacham cursing out of the camp, but as soon as it was over and he had his prize money in his hand denver remembered his unguarded claim. bunker hill was there, of course, but the spiteful professor had heralded his pledge afar; and a man who has promised his wife not to fight is ill-fitted to herd a mine. no, the silver treasure lay open for dave or murray to jump, if they felt like contesting his claim; and, weak as he was, denver took no rest until he was back where he could fight for his own. he rode in late and slept like the dead, but in the morning he was up and down at the store as soon as old bunk came out. "i win!" he announced holding up the roll of bills, "first money--can you get me some powder?" "w'y, you lucky fool!" exclaimed bunker admiringly, "seems like _nothing_ can keep you down. sure i'll get your powder, and just to show you what _i_ can do--how's that for a healthy little roll?" he drew out a roll of bills twice the size of denver's and fingered them over lovingly. "a thousand dollars," he murmured, "for an option on half the lost burro. a party came up yesterday and took one look at it and grabbed it right off the bat, and as soon as old murray gets in to his ore they're going to capitalize the burro for a million. fine name that, for stock-selling--known all over the world, in england, paris and everywhere--but i made 'em come through with a thousand dollars cash, so drusilla could have a good stake. she's thinking of going east, soon." "'s that so?" said denver, trying to take it all in, "are these parties going to do any work?" "well, that's an unfair question, as pecos edwards used to say when they asked him if all texans was cow-thieves; but you know how these promoters work. there'll be lots of work done; but mostly by lawyers, and publicity men and such. there's a whole lot of water in the workings of the lost burro that'll have to be pumped out first, and then there's a little job of timbering that'll cost a world of money. no, i sold them that mine on the ore in your tunnel--i will say, it shows up splendid. if you'd've been here yesterday you might have made a deal that would----" "not on your life!" broke in denver, "i don't sell to anybody. but say, but what did they think of my mine?" "think!" exclaimed bunker, "they stopped thinking right here, when i showed 'em that big vein of copper! they went crazy, just like lunatics; because it ain't often, i'm telling you, that you find sixty-per-cent copper on the surface." "not in a fissure vein--no," agreed denver emphatically, "i wouldn't sell out for a million. did those promoters take away any samples?" "well, yes; a few," responded bunker apologetically, "i didn't think you'd object." "why, of course not," answered denver, "it'll advertise the district and bring in some outside people. and now that i've got another stake i'm going to sack my ore and make a trial shipment to the smelter. but you bet your boots, after what murray put over on me, i'm going to have some assaying done first." "yes, and keep some samples," advised bunker wisely. "keep a sample out of every bag." "i'll just mix that ore up," said denver cautiously, "and cut it down, the way they do at the mill. throw out every tenth shovel and mix 'em up again and then cut the pile down smaller until you've got a control, like the ore brokers take at the smelter. and then i'll send a sample to the assayer--say, there's drusilla over there, trying to call you." "she's trying to call you," answered bunker hill shortly and went on into the store. "well, be sure and order that powder," shouted denver after him. "and say, i'll want the rest of those ore-sacks." "all right," replied bunker and denver turned to the house where drusilla was waiting on the porch. "did you hear the news?" she asked dancing ecstatically to and fro; as if she were a delilah, leading the philistine maidens in the "spring song," and he were another samson. "i'm expecting to go east now, soon." "good!" exclaimed denver. "well, i won't see you much then--i'm going to work in the mine." "yes, isn't it grand?" she cried. "everything is coming out fine--but you must come down to dinner to-night. i'm going to sing, just for you." "i'll be there," smiled denver, and then he stopped. "but let's not make it to-night," he said, "i'm dead on my feet for sleep." "well, sleep then," she laughed, "and get rested from your contest--i'm awfully glad you won. and then----" "nope, can't come to-night," he answered soberly, "i want to get that ore sacked to-day. and i'm stiff as a strip of burnt raw-hide." "well, to-morrow night," she said, "unless you don't want to come. but you'll have to come soon or----" "oh, i want to come, all right," interposed denver hastily, "you know that, without telling. but my partner played out on me before the end of the contest and i had to finish the striking myself. and then i rode hard to get back here, before dave or some gun-man jumped my claim." "then to-morrow night," she smiled, "but don't you forget, because if you do i'll never forgive you." she danced away into the house and denver turned in his tracks and went to look over his ore-sacks. they were old and torn, what was left of a big lot that bunker had got in a trade; but denver picked out the best and wheeled them up to his dump, where his picked ore lay waiting for shipment. he had a big lot, much larger than he had thought, and it was just as it had been shot down from the breast. some was silver-lead; and there was copper to boot, though that would hardly do to ship. yet at thirty cents a pound copper was almost a precious metal, and a report from the smelter would be a check. he would know from that how the ore really ran and how much he would be penalized for the zinc. so he picked out the best of it and broke it up fine, for the rough chunks would not do to sack; and before he had more than got started with his sampling the sun had gone down behind the ridge. and he was tired--too tired to eat. there was music that night at the big house below but denver could not hold up his head. nature had drugged him with sleep, like a romping child that takes no thought of its strength, and in the morning he woke up in a sort of stupor that could not be worked off. yet he worked, worked hard, for mcgraw had arrived and the ore must be loaded that day; so they threw in together, denver sacking the heavy ore and mcgraw wheeling it out to the wagon. they toiled on till dark, for mcgraw started early and the work could not be put off till to-morrow; and when it was over denver staggered up to his cave like an old and outworn man. he was reeking with sweat, his hands were like talons, the ore-dust had left his face gray; and all he thought of was sleep. for a moment he roused up, as if he remembered some new duty--something pleasant, yet involving further effort--and then his candle went out. he fell asleep in his chair and when he awoke it was only to stumble to his bed. the sun was over the leap when he opened his heavy eyes and gazed at the rude squalor of his cave. the dishes were unwashed, the floor was dirty, a long-tailed rat hung balanced on the table-edge--and he was tired, tired, tired. he heaved himself up and reached for the water-bucket but he had forgotten to fill it at the creek. now he grabbed it up impatiently and started down the trail, every joint of his body protesting, and when he had climbed back he was weak from the effort--his bank account with mother nature was overdrawn. he was worn out, at last; and his poor, tired brain took no thought how to make up the deficit. all he wanted was rest, something to eat, a drink of water. a drink of water anyway, and sleep. he drank deep and bathed his face, then sank back on the bed and let the world whirl on. it was late in the day when he awoke again and hunger was gnawing his vitals; but the slow stupor was gone, he was himself again and the cramps had gone out of his limbs. he rose up luxuriously and cut a can of tomatoes, drinking the juice and eating the fruit, and then he lit a fire and boiled some strong coffee and cooked up a great mess of food. there was two cans of corn and a can of corned beef, heated together in a swimming sea of bacon grease and eaten direct from the frying-pan. it went to the spot and his drooping shoulders straightened, the spring came back into his step; yet as he cleaned up the dishes and changed to decent clothes the weight of some duty seemed to haunt him. was it mcgraw? no, he had loaded the last sack and sent him on his way. it was drusilla--she had been going to sing for him. denver stepped to the door and looked down at the house and his heart sank low at the thought. they had invited him to dinner and he had forgotten to come, he had gone home and fallen asleep. and no one had come to call him--or to inquire what had kept him away. a heavy guilt came over him as he gazed down at the house with its broad porch and trailing virginia creepers, the hills would take it very ill to have their invitation ignored. old bunk had told him the time before, when he had invited him in to dinner: "now, for the last time, denver----" and it would take more than mere words to ever mend that breach. denver paced back and forth, undecided what to do, and at last he decided to do nothing. as the sun went down he ate another supper and drugged his sorrows with sleep. the next morning he rose early and shaved and bathed and put on his last clean shirt, and then he walked down to the town; but the store was locked, there was no voices from the house, only a smoke from the kitchen stove. he went on to his mine and looked it over, and as he passed the professor leered out at him; there was something that he knew, some bad news or spiteful gossip, for he found pleasure only in evil. denver came back down the street, that was now as deserted as it had been before the stampede, and once more the professor looked out. "vell," he said, "so you haf lost your sveetheart!" and he chuckled and shut the door softly. denver stopped and stood staring, hardly crediting the news, yet conscious of the sinister exulting. the professor was glad, therefore the news was bad; but what did he mean by those words? had drusilla gone away or had she thrown him over for neglecting to keep his engagement? she had probably spoken her mind as she watched for him at the doorway and the professor had been out there, eavesdropping. "what are you talking about?" he demanded at last but the professor only tittered. then he dropped the heavy bar across his door and denver took the hint to move on. he went down past the house and looked it over hopefully, but as no one came out he pocketed his pride and knocked, like a hobo battering the door for a meal, mrs. hill came out slowly as if preoccupied with other things, but when he saw her eyes he knew she had been crying and that drusilla had really gone. "i'm sorry," he began and then he stopped; there was nothing that he could say. "has drusilla gone?" he asked at length and mrs. hill answered him, almost kindly. "yes," she said, "she was summoned by a telegram. her father took her down this morning." he stood thinking a minute, then he shook his head regretfully and started off down the steps. "she was sorry not to have seen you," she added gently but denver made no reply. he was weak again now and inadequate to life; he could only crawl back like some dumb, wounded animal, to the sheltering gloom of his cave. but as he sat there stolidly, now trying to make some plan, now endeavoring to become reconciled to his fate, a rage swept over him like a storm-wind that shakes a tree and he burst into gusty oaths. the fates had turned against him, his horoscope had come to nothing; he had followed the admonitions of mother trigedgo and this was the result of her advice. she had told him to beware how he revealed his affection, but nothing about what to do when he had fallen asleep while his beloved sang only for him. he drew out the oraculum, by which the man of destiny had ordered the least affairs of his life, and read down through the thirty-two questions. only once on each day could he consult the mystic oracle, and once only in each month on the same subject, lest the fates be outworn by his insistence. at first it was number thirteen that appealed to his fancy: "will the friend i most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?" but he knew without asking that, whatever her failings, drusilla would never prove treacherous. no, since he had taken her for his friend he would never question her faithfulness; number twenty-six was more to his liking: "does the person whom i love, love and regard me?" he spread out a sheet of paper on his littered table and dashed off the five series of lines, and then he counted each carefully and made the dots at the end--two dots for the two lines that came even and one for those that came odd. the first two came odd, the next two even, the last one odd again; and under that symbol the oraculum key referred him to section b for his answer. he turned to the double pages with its answers, good and bad, and his brain whirled while he read these words: "thy heart of thy beloved yearneth toward thee." he closed the book religiously and put it away, and his heart for the moment was comforted. chapter xxiv colonel dodge denver doubted it, himself, for human nature is much the same in man and woman and drusilla had been sorely slighted; but the oraculum had said that her heart was yearning towards him and the book of fate had always spoken true. perhaps women _were_ different, but if it had been done to him, he would have called down black curses instead. yet women were different, one could never guess their moods, and perhaps drusilla would forgive him. not right away, of course, but after her blood had cooled and he had written a proper letter. he would let it go awhile, until he had framed up some excuse or decided to tell her the truth, and in the meantime there was plenty of work to do that would help him forget his sorrow. there was his mine, and mcgraw had brought up some powder. there was something in the air which seemed to whisper to denver of portentous happenings to come, and as he was sharpening up his steel for a fresh assault upon the ore-body a big automobile came into town. it stopped and a big man wearing a california sombrero and a pair of six-buckle boots leapt out and led the way to the lost burro. behind him followed three men attired as gentlemen miners and as denver listened he could hear the big man as he recited the history of the mine. undoubtedly it was the buyer of the lost burro mine, with a party of "experts" and potential backers who had come up to look over the ground; yet something told denver that there was more behind it all. he felt their eyes upon him. they spent a few minutes looking over the old workings, and then they came stringing up his trail. "good afternoon, sir," hailed the promoter, "are you the owner of this property? well, i'd like with your permission to show my friends some of your ore--why, what's this, have you hauled it away?" "yes, i shipped it out yesterday," answered denver briefly and the big man glanced swiftly at his friends. "well, i'm colonel dodge--h. parkinson dodge--you may have heard the name. i'm your neighbor here on the south--we've taken over the lost burro property. yes, glad to know you, mr. russell." he shook hands and introduced his friends all around, after which he came to the point. "we've been looking at the lost burro and one of the gentlemen suggested that it might be well to enlarge our property. that would make it more attractive to worth-while buyers and at the same time prevent any future litigation in case our ore-bodies should join. you understand what i mean--there's such a thing as apex decision and of course you hold the higher ground. well, before we do any work or tie up our money we would like to know just exactly where we stand in relation to surrounding properties. what price do you put on your claim?" "no price," answered denver. "i don't want to sell. are you thinking of opening up the lost burro?" "that will all depend," hinted the colonel darkly, "upon the attitude of the people in the district. if we meet with encouragement we intend to form a company and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if not, why we will charge up our option money to profit and loss and seek out a less backward community. what is your lowest price on your claim?" "a million dollars--cash," responded denver cheerfully. "now you come through and make me an offer." "well," began the colonel, and then he stopped and glanced suggestively at the tunnel. "we'd like to look it over first." "fair enough," replied denver and, giving each a candle, he led them into the tunnel. they looked the ore over, making indifferent comments and asking permission to take samples, and then colonel dodge took one of his experts aside and they conferred in muffled tones. "er--we'd rather not make an offer just now," said the colonel at last; and in a silent procession they returned to the daylight, leaving denver to follow behind. the atmosphere of the group was now reeking with gloom but after a long conference the colonel came back, summoning up the ghost of a smile. "well, i'll tell you, mr. russell," he began apologetically, "we saw some of your ore before we came up and we were all of us most enthusiastic. the copper in particular was very promising but the gentleman i was talking with is our consulting engineer and he advises me not to buy the property." "all right," answered denver, "you don't have to buy it. i never saw one of these six-buckle men yet that wouldn't knock a good claim." he turned back angrily to his job of tool-sharpening and the colonel followed after him solicitously. "don't misunderstand me," he said, "there's nothing i'd like better than to buy in this neighboring property--if i could get it at a reasonable figure; but mr. shadd advises me that your ore lies in a gash-vein, which will undoubtedly pinch out at depth." "a gash-vein!" echoed denver, "why the poor, ignorant fool--can't you see that the vein is getting bigger? well, how can it be a gash-vein when it's between two good walls and increasing in width all the time? your friend must think i'm a prospector." "oh, no," protested the colonel smiling feebly at the joke, "but--well, he advises me not to buy. the fact that the ore is so rich on the surface is against its continuance at depth. all gash-veins, as you know, are very rich at the surface; so in this case the fact is against you. but i tell you what i will do--just to protect my other property and avoid any future complications--i'll give you a thousand dollars for your claim." "whooo!" jeered denver, "i'll get more than that for the ore i just sent to the smelter. no, i'm no thousand-dollar man, mr. dodge. i've got a fissure vein and it's increasing at depth, so i guess i'll just hold on a while. you wait till old murray begins to ship!" "ah--er--well, i'll give you fifteen hundred," conceded the colonel drawing out his check-book and pen. "that's the best i can possibly do." "well save your check then, because i'm a long ways from broke. what d'ye think of that for a roll?" denver drew out his roll of prize money, with a hundred dollar bill on top, and flickered the edges of the twenties. "i guess i can wait a while," he grinned. "come around again, when i'm broke." "i'll give you a thousand dollars down and nine thousand in six months," burst out the colonel with sudden vehemence. "now it's that or absolutely nothing. if you try to hold me up i'll abandon my option and withdraw entirely from the district." "sorry to lose you, old-timer," returned denver genially, "but i guess we can't do business. come around in about a month." a sudden flash came into the colonel's bold eyes and he opened his mouth to speak--then he paused and shut his mouth tight. "not on your life, mr. russell," he said with finality, "if i go i will not come back. now give me your lowest cash price for the property. will you accept ten thousand dollars?" "no, i won't," answered denver, "nor a hundred thousand, either. i'm a miner--i know what i've got." "very well, mr. russell," replied colonel dodge crisply and, bowing haughtily, he withdrew. denver looked after him laughing, but something about his stride suddenly wiped away the grin from denver's face--the colonel was going somewhere. he was going with a purpose, and he walked like a man who was perfectly sure of his next move--like a man who has seen a snake in the road and turns back to cut a club. it was distinctly threatening and a light dawned on denver when the automobile turned off towards murray's camp. that was it, he was an agent of murray. denver sharpened up his steel and put in a round of holes but all that day and the next his uneasiness grew until he jumped at every sound. he felt the hostility of colonel dodge's silence more than any that words could express; and when, on the second day, he saw professor diffenderfer approaching he stopped his work to watch him. "vell, how are you?" began the professor, trying to warm up their ancient friendship; and then, seeing that denver merely bristled the more, he cast off his cloak of well-wishing. "i vas yoost over to murray's camp," he burst out vindictively, "and dave said he vanted his gun." "tell 'im to come over and get it," suggested denver and then he unbuckled his belt. "all right," he said handing over the gun and cartridges, "here it is; i don't need it, anyhow." the professor blinked and looked again, then reached out and took the belt doubtfully. "vot you mean?" he asked at last as his curiosity got the better of him, "have you got anudder gun somevhere? dot dave, he svears he vill kill you." "that's all right," replied denver, "just give him his gun--i'll take him on any day, with rocks." "how you mean 'take him on?'" inquired the professor all excitement but denver waved him away. "go on now," he said, "and give him his gun. i guess he'll know what i mean." but if chatwourth understood the hidden taunt he did not respond to the challenge and denver's mind reverted to h. parkinson dodge and his flattering offers for the mine. ten thousand dollars cash, from a mining promoter, was indeed a princely sum; better by far than the offer of half a million shares that went with bunker's option. for stock is the sop that is thrown to poor miners in lieu of the good hard cash, but ten thousand dollars was a lot of money for a promoter to pay for a claim. it showed that there were others beside himself who believed in the value of his property, yet who this colonel dodge was or who were his backers was a question that only bunker could answer. denver waited in a sweat, now wondering if bunker would speak to him, nor exulting in the offer for his mine; and when at last he saw bunker hill drive in he threw down his tools and hurried towards him. but bunker hill was surly, he barely glanced at denver and went on caring for his horses; and denver did not crowd him. he waited, and at last old bunk looked up with jaw thrust grimly out. "well?" he said, and denver forgot everything but the question that was on his tongue. "say," he burst out, "who is this colonel dodge that came up and bought your mine? is he working for murray, or what?" "search me," grumbled bunker, "i got his thousand dollars, and that's about all i know." "he was up here to see me the same day you left, with a whole load of six-buckle experts; and say, he offered me a check for ten thousand dollars if i'd sell him the silver treasure claim. and when i refused it he got into his machine and went right over to murray's. i'll bet you you're sold out to bible-back." "well, he's stuck then," said bunker. "i guess you haven't heard the news--murray's closed down his camp for good." "he has!" exclaimed denver, and then he laughed heartily. "he's a foxy old dastard, isn't he?" "you said it," returned bunker. "never did have any ore. just pretended he had in order to sell stock and recoup what he'd lost on the drilling. they're offering the stock for nothing." "who's offering it?" demanded denver suddenly taking the matter seriously. "i'll bet you it's nothing but a fake!" "all right," shrugged bunker, "but i met a bunch of miners and they were swapping stock for matches. old tom buchanan down at desert wells won't accept it at any price--that shows how much it's a fake." "aw, he pulled that once before," answered denver contemptuously, "but he don't fool me again. like as not he's made a strike and is just shutting down so he can buy back the stock he sold." bunker looked up and grunted, then gathered together his purchases and ambled off towards the house. "that's all you think about, ain't it?" he said at parting. "i'll mention it when i write to drusilla." "oh--oh, yes," stammered denver suddenly reminded of his dereliction, "say, how did she happen to go? and i want to get her address so i can explain how it happened--i wouldn't have missed seeing her for anything!" "no, of course not," growled bunker, "not for anything but your own interests. you can go to hell for your address." "why, what do you mean?" demanded denver; but as bunker did not answer he fell back and let him go on. chapter xxv the answer there are some kinds of questions which require no answers and others which answer themselves. denver had asked bunker what he meant when he refused drusilla's address and intimated that he was unworthy of her friendship, but after a gloomy hour in the deepening twilight the question answered itself. bunker had taken his daughter across the desert, on her way to the train and new york, and his curt remarks were but the reflex of her's as she discussed denver's many transgressions. he thought more of mines and of his own selfish interests than he did of her and her art, and so she desired to hear no more of him or his protestations of innocence. that was what the words meant and as denver thought them over he wondered if it was not true. drusilla had greeted him cordially when he had returned from globe and had invited him to dinner that same night, but he had refused because he needed the sleep and begrudged the daylight to take it. and the next day he had worked even harder than before and had forgotten her invitation entirely. she was to sing just for him and, after the singing, she would have told him all her plans; and then perhaps they might have spoken of other things and parted as lovers should. but no, he had spoiled it by his senseless hurry in getting his ore off with mcgraw; and now, with all the time in the world on his hands, the valley below was silent. not a scale, not a trill, not a run or roulade; only silence and the frogs with their devilish insistence, their ceaseless _eh_, _eh_, _eh_. he rose up and heaved a stone into the creek-bed below, then went in and turned on his phonograph. they were real people to him now, these great artists of the discs; drusilla had described them as she listened to the records and even the places where they sang. she had pictured the mighty sweep of the metropolitan with its horse-shoe of glittering boxes; the balconies above and the standing-room below where the poor art-students gathered to applaud; and he had said that when he was rich he would subscribe for a box and come there just to hear her sing. and now he was broke, and drusilla was going east to run the perilous gauntlet of the tenors. he jerked up the stylus in the middle of a record and cursed his besotted industry. if he had let his ore go, and gone to see her like a gentleman, drusilla might even now be his. she might have relented and given him a kiss--he cursed and stumbled blindly to bed. in the morning he went to work in the close air of the tunnel, which sadly needed a fan, and then he hurled his hammer to the ground and felt his way out to daylight. what was the use of it all; where did it get him to, anyway; this ceaseless, grinding toil? murray's camp had shut down, the promoters had vanished, pinal was deader than ever; he gathered up his tools and stored them in his cave, then sat down to write her a letter. nothing less than the truth would win her back now and he confessed his shortcomings humbly; after which he told her that the town was too lonely and he was leaving, too. he sealed it in an envelope and addressed it with her name and when he was sure that old bunk was not looking he slipped in and gave it to her mother. "i'm going away," he said, "and i may not be back. will you send that on to drusilla?" "yes," she smiled and hid it in her dress; but as he started for the door she stopped him. "you might like to know," she said, "that drusilla has received an engagement. she is substitute soprano in a new opera company that is being organized to tour the big cities. i'm sorry you didn't see her." "yes," answered denver, "i'm sorry myself--but that never bought a man anything. just send her the letter and--well, goodby." he blundered out the door and down the steps, and there stretched the road before him. in the evening he was as far as whitlow's well and a great weight seemed lifted from his breast. he was free again, free to wander where he pleased, free to make friends with any that he met--for if the prophecy was not true in regard to his mine it was not true regarding his friends. and how could any woman, by cutting a pack of cards and consulting the signs of the zodiac, predict how a man would die? denver made himself at home with a party of hobo miners who had come in from the railroad below, and that night they sat up late, cracking jokes and telling stories of every big camp in the west. it was the old life again, the life that he knew and loved, drifting on from camp to camp with every man his friend. yet as he stretched out that night by the flickering fire he almost regretted the change. he was free from the great fear, free to make friends with whom he would; but, to win back the love of the beautiful young artist, he would have given up his freedom without a sigh. his sleep that night was broken by strange dreams and by an automobile that went thundering by, and in the morning as they cooked a mulligan together he saw two great motor trucks go past. they were loaded with men and headed up the canyon and denver began to look wild. a third machine appeared and he went out to flag it but the driver went by without stopping; and so did another, and another. he rushed after the next one and caught it on the hill but the men pushed him roughly from the running board. they were armed and he knew by their hard-bitten faces that it was another party of jumpers. "where are you going?" he yelled but they left him by the road without even a curse for an answer. well, he knew then; they were going to final, and murray had fooled him again. denver had suspected from the first that murray's shutdown was a ruse, to shake down the public for their stock; and now he knew it, and that if his mine was jumped again it would be held against all comers. another automobile whirled by; and then came men that he knew, the miners who owned claims in the district. "what's the matter?" he called but they would not stop to talk, simply shouted and beckoned him on. denver started, right then, without stopping for breakfast or to pick up his hobo's pack; and soon he caught a ride with a party of prospectors whose claims he had once freed from jumpers. "it's a big strike!" they clamored, hauling him in and rushing on. "old murray struck copper in his tunnel! _rich?_ hell, yes!" and they gave him all the details as the machine lurched along up the road. murray had struck another ore-body, entirely different from the first one--the copper had come out the drill-holes like pure metal--and then he had shut down and rushed the machine-men away before they could tell of the strike. but they had got loose down in moroni and showed the drill-dust and every man that saw it had piled into his machine and joined the rush for murray's. "jumped again!" muttered denver and when he arrived in pinal he found his mine swarming with men. they had built a barricade and run a pipe line down the hill to pump up water from the creek, and when he appeared they ordered him off without showing so much as a head. and he went, for the swiftness of the change had confused him; he was whipped before he began. there was no use to fight or to put up a bluff, the men behind the wall were determined; and while, according to law, they held no title the law was far away. it was a weapon for rich men who could afford to pay the price; but how could he, a poor man, hope to win back his claim when it was held by bible-back murray? he went down to the store, where the miners' meeting was assembled, and beckoned bunker aside. "mr. hill," he said, "you promised me one time to give me the loan of a gun. well, now is the time i need it." "nope," warned bunker, "you ain't got a chance. them fellers are just up here to get you." "well, for self-defense!" protested denver, "dave sent word he'd kill me." "keep away, then," advised bunker, "don't give him no chance. but if them fellers should jump on you, just run to my house and i'll slip you the old injun-tamer." denver went out on the street, now swarming with traffic, and looked up toward his mine; and as he gazed he walked up closer until he stopped at the fork of the trails. the men behind the wall were watching him grimly, without letting their faces be seen; but as he stood there looking they began to bandy jests and presently to taunt him openly. but denver did not answer, for he divined their evil purpose, and at last he turned quietly away. "hey! come back here!" roared a voice and denver whirled in his tracks for he knew it was slogger meacham's. he was standing there now, looking across the barricade, and as denver met his gaze he laughed. "ho! ho!" he rumbled folding his arms across his breast and thrusting out his huge black mustache. "well, how do you feel about it now?" "never mind," returned denver and, leaving him gloating, he hurried away down the trail. old bunk was right, they had come there to get him, and there was no use playing into their hands; yet at thought of slogger meacham his hair began to bristle and he muttered half-formed threats. the slogger had come to get him--and dave chatwourth was behind there, too--the whole district was dominated by their gang; but the times would change and with inrush of other men the jumpers would soon be out-numbered. it was better then to wait, to let the excitement die down and law and order return; and then, with a deputy sheriff at his back, he could eject them by due process of law. the claim was his, his papers were recorded and no lawyer could question their validity--no, the best thing was to let the jumpers rage, to say nothing and keep out of sight. that was all that he had to do. but to avoid them was not so easy, for as the day wore on and no attempt was made to oust them, the jumpers walked boldly into town. at first it was chatwourth, to buy some tobacco and break in on the miners' meeting; and then slogger meacham, a huge mountain of a man, came ambling down the street. he slouched down on the store platform and leered about him evilly, but denver had retreated to his cave under the cliff and the slogger returned to the mine. then they came down in a body, chatwourth and meacham and all the jumpers; but though his mine was left open denver refrained from going near it, for their purpose was becoming very plain. they were trying to inveigle him into openly opposing them, after which they would have a pretext for resorting to actual violence. but their plans went no further for he remained in retirement and the miners' meeting adjourned. soon the street was deserted, except for their own numbers, and they returned to the mine with shrill whoops. from his lookout above denver watched them with a smile, for his nerve had come back to him now. now that murray had made his strike, and increased the value of the silver treasure by a thousand per cent over night, denver's mind had swung back like a needle to the pole to his former belief in the prophecy. he had doubted it twice and renounced it twice, but each time as if by an act of providence he was rebuked for his lack of faith. now he _knew_ it was so--that the mine would be restored and that only his dearest friend could kill him. so he smiled almost pityingly at the loud-mouthed jumpers and went boldly down the trail. the hush of evening was in the air when he knocked at bunker hill's door and after a look about old bunk went back into the house and brought out a heavy pistol. it was an old-fashioned six-shooter of the indian-tamer type--a single action, wooden-handled forty-five--and bunker fingered it lovingly as he handed it over to denver. "for self-defense, understand," he said beneath his breath, "and look out, that bunch is sure ranicky." "much obliged," responded denver and tested the action before he slipped the gun in its belt. he was starting for his cave, when from his cabin up the street the professor came out and beckoned him. "what do you want?" called denver; then, receiving no answer, he strode impatiently up the street. "come in," urged the professor touching his nose for secrecy, "come in, i vant to show you some-t'ing." "well, show it to me here," answered denver but the professor drew him inside the house. "you look oudt vat you do," he warned mysteriously, "dem joompers are liable to see you." "i should worry," said denver and, whipping out the gun, he made the motions of fanning the hammer. "now, now," reproved diffenderfer drawing back in a panic; and then he laughed, but nervously. "well, what do you want to show me?" demanded denver bluntly. "hurry up now--i hear somebody coming." "oh, nutting--come again!" exclaimed the professor apprehensively. "come to-morrow--i show you everyt'ing!" "you'll show me now," returned denver imperturbably, "i'm not afraid of the whole danged bunch. come on, what have you got--a bottle?" "yoost a piece of copper from murray's tunnel--mein gott, i hear dem boys coming!" he sprang to the door and dropped the heavy bar but denver struck it up and stepped out. "what the hell are you trying to do?" he demanded suspiciously and the door slammed to behind him. "run! run!" implored the professor staring out through his peep-hole but denver lolled negligently against the house. a crowd of men, headed by slogger meacham, were coming down the street; but it was not for him to fly. he had a gun now, as well as they, and his back was against the wall. they could pass by or stop, according to their liking; but the show-down had come, there and now. they came on in a bunch down the middle of the street, ignoring his watchful glances; but as the rest trampled past slogger meacham turned his head and came to a bristling halt. "well," he said, "out for a little airing?" and the jumpers swung in behind him. "yes," answered denver regarding him incuriously and the slogger moved a step or two closer. "you start anything around here," he went on significantly, "and you'll be airing the smoke out of your clothes. we got your number, see, and we're here to put your light out if you start to make a peep." "is that so?" observed denver still standing at a crouch and one or two of the men walked off. "come on, boys," they said but meacham stood glowering and chatwourth stepped out in front of him. "i hear," he said to denver, "that you've been making your brag that you kin whip me with a handful of stones." "never mind, now," replied denver, "i'm not looking for trouble. you go on and leave me alone." "i'll go when i damned please!" cried chatwourth in a passion and as he advanced on denver the crowd behind him suddenly gave a concerted shove. denver saw the surge coming and stepped aside to avoid it, undetermined whether to strike out or shoot; but as he was slipping away slogger meacham made a rush and struck him a quick blow in the neck. he whirled and struck back at him, the air was full of fists and guns, swung like clubs to rap him on the head; and then he went down with meacham on top of him and a crashing blow ringing in his ears. when he came to his senses he was stripped and mauled and battered, and a stranger stood over him with a gun. "you're my prisoner," he said and denver sat up startled. "why--what's the matter?" he asked looking about at the crowd that had gathered on the scene of the fight, "what's the matter with that jasper over there?" "he's dead--that's all," answered the officer laughing shortly, "you hit him over the head with this gun." "i did not!" burst out denver, "i never even drew it. say, who is that fellow, anyway?" "name was meacham," returned the officer, "come on." chapter xxvi the course of the law as he lay in his cell in the county jail at moroni it was borne in upon denver that he was caught in some great machine that ground out men as a mill grinds grain. it had laid a cold hand on him in the person of an officer of the law, it had inched him on further when a magistrate had examined him and chatwourth and his jumpers had testified; and now, as he awaited his day in court, he wondered whither it was taking him. the magistrate had held him, the grand jury had indicted him--would the judge and jury find him guilty? and if so, would they send him to the pen? his heart sank at that, for the name of "ex-convict" is something that cannot be laid. no matter what the crime or the circumstances of the trial, once a man is convicted and sent to prison that name can always be hurled at him--and denver knew that he was not guilty. he had no recollection of even drawing his gun, to say nothing of striking at meacham; and yet chatwourth and his gang would swear him into prison if something was not done to stop them. they had come before the magistrate all agreeing to the same story--that denver had picked a fight with his old enemy, meacham, and struck him over the head with his six-shooter. and then they showed denver's pistol; the one he had borrowed from bunker, all gory with hair and blood. it was a frame-up and he knew it, for they had all been striking at him and one of them had probably hit meacham; but how was he to prove to the satisfaction of the court that murray's hired gun-men were trying to hang him? his only possible witness was professor diffenderfer, and he would not testify to anything. in his examination before the magistrate denver had called upon the professor to explain the cause of his being there; but diffenderfer had protested that he had been hiding in his cabin and knew nothing whatever about the fight. yet if the facts could be proved, denver had not gone up the street to shoot it out with the jumpers; he had gone at the invitation of this same professor diffenderfer who now so carefully avoided his eye. he had been called to the professor's cabin to look at a specimen of the copper from murray's tunnel; but as denver thought it over a shrewd suspicion came over him that he had been lured into a well-planned trap. they had never been over-friendly so why should this dutchman, after opposing him at every turn, suddenly beckon him up the street and into his cabin just as chatwourth and his gang came down? and why, if he was innocent of any share in the plot, did diffenderfer refuse to testify to the facts? denver ground his teeth at the thought of his own impotence, shut up there like a dog in the pound. he was helpless, and his lawyer would do nothing. the first thing he had done when he was brought to moroni was to hire a second-rate lawyer but, after getting his money, the gentleman had spent his time in preparing some windy brief. what denver needed was some witnesses, to swear to his good character, and diffenderfer to swear to the facts; and no points of law were going to make a difference as long as the truth was suppressed. old bunk alone stood by him, though he could do little besides testifying to his previous good character. day after day denver lay in jail and sweated, trying to find some possible way out; but not until the morning before his trial did he sense the real meaning of it all. then a visitor was announced and when he came to the bars he found bible-back murray awaiting him. "good morning, young man," began murray smiling grimly, "i was just passing by and i thought i'd drop in and talk over your case for a moment." "yes?" said denver looking out at him dubiously, and the great man smiled again. he _was_ a great man, as denver had discovered to his sorrow, for no one in the country dared oppose him. "i regret very much," went on murray pompously, "to find you in this position, and if there's anything i can do that is just and right i shall be glad to use my influence. we have, as you know, here in the state of arizona one of the most enlightened governments in the country; and a word from me, if spoken in time, might possibly save you from conviction. or, in case of conviction, our prison law is such that you might immediately be released under parole. but before i take any action----" he lowered his voice--"you might give me a quit-claim for that mine." "oh" said denver, and then it was that the great ray of light came over him. he could see it all now, from murray's first warning to this last bold demand for his mine; but two months in jail had broken his spirit and he hesitated to defy the county boss. his might be the hand that held diffenderfer back, and it certainly was the one that paid chatwourth; he controlled the county and, if what he said was true, had no small influence in the affairs of the state. and now he gave him the choice between going to prison or giving up the silver treasure. "what is this?" inquired denver, "a hold-up or a frame-up?" "i don't know what you're talking about," answered murray curtly, "but if you're still in a mood for levity----" he turned away but as denver did not stop him he returned of his own will to the bars. "now see here," he said, "this has gone far enough, if you expect to keep out of prison. i came down here to befriend you and all i ask in return is a clear title to what is already mine. perhaps you don't realize the seriousness of your position, but i tell you right now that no power on earth can save you from certain conviction. the district attorney has informed me that he has an airtight case against you but, rather than see your whole life ruined, i am giving you this one, last chance. you are young and headstrong, and hardly realized what you were doing; and so i say, why not acknowledge your mistake and begin life over again? i have nothing but the kindest feelings towards you, but i can't allow my interests to be jeopardized. think it over--can't you see it's for the best?" "no, i can't," answered denver, "because i never killed meacham and i don t believe any jury will convict me. if they do, i'll know who was behind it all and govern myself accordingly." "just a slight correction," put in murray sarcastically, "you will not govern yourself at all. you will become a ward of the state of arizona for the rest of your natural life." "well, that's all right then," burst out denver, wrathfully, "but i can tell you one thing--you won't get no quit-claim for your mine. i'll lay in jail and rot before i'll come through with it, so you can go as far as you like. but if i ever get out----" "that will do, young man," said murray stepping back, "i see you're becoming abusive. very well, let the law take its course." he straightened up his wry neck, put his glass eye into place and stalked angrily out of the jail; and in the hard week that followed denver learned what he meant, for the wheels of the law began to grind. first the district attorney, in making his charge, denounced him like a mad-man; then he brought on his witnesses, a solid phalanx, and put them through their parts; and every point of law that denver's attorney brought up he tore it to pieces in an instant. he knew more law in a minute than the lawyer would learn in a life-time, he could think circles around him and not try; and when denver's witnesses were placed on the stand he cross-examined them until he nullified their testimony. even grim-eyed bunker hill, after testifying to denver's character, was compelled to admit that the first time he saw him he was engaged in a fight with meacham. and so it went on until the jury filed back with a verdict of "guilty of manslaughter." thus the law took its course over the body and soul of what had once been a man; and when it was over denver russell was a number with eighteen years before him. eighteen years more or less, according to his conduct, for the laws of the state of arizona imposed an indeterminate sentence which might be varied to fit any case. as murray had intimated, under the new prison law a man could be paroled the day after he was sentenced, though he were in for ninety-nine years. that was the law, and it was just, for no court is infallible and injustice must be rectified somewhere. after the poor man and his poor lawyer had matched their puny wits against those of a fighting district attorney then mercy must intervene in the name of society and equalize the sentence. for the district attorney is hired by the county to send every man to prison, but no one is hired to defend the innocent or to balance the scales of justice. denver went to prison like any other prisoner, a rebel against society; but after a lonely day in his cell he rose up and looked about him. here were men like himself--nay, old, hardened criminals--walking about in civilian clothes, and the gates opened up before them. they passed out of the walled yard and into the prison fields where there were cattle and growing crops; and they came back fresh and earthy, after hours of honest toil with no one to watch or guard them. it was the honor system which he had read about for years, but now he saw it working; and after a week he sent word to the warden that he would give his word not to escape. that was all they asked of him, his word as a man; and a great hope came over him and soothed the deep wound that the merciless law had torn. he raised his head, that had been bowed on his breast, and the strength came back into his limbs; and when the warden saw him with a sledge-hammer in his hands he smiled and sent him up to the road-camp. chapter xxvii like a hog on ice a month had wrought great changes in the life of denver russell, raising him up from a prisoner, locked up like a mad dog, to the boss of a gang of road-makers. he was free again, as far as bolts and bars were concerned; all that kept him to his place was the word he had given and his pride as an honest man. and now he was out, doing an honest man's work and building a highway for the state; and by the irony of fate the road he was improving was the one that led to pinal. for time had wrought other changes while he lay in prison and the rough road up the canyon was swarming with traffic going and coming from murray's camp. it was called "murray" now, and a narrow-gauge railroad was being rushed to haul out the ore. teams and motor trucks swung by, hauling in timbers and machinery, auto stages came and went like the wind; and old mike mcgraw, who had hauled all the freight for years, looked on in wonder and awe. yes, murray was a live camp, a copper camp with millions of dollars behind it; and bible-back himself was a king indeed, for he had tapped the rich body of ore. it was his courage and aggressiveness that had made the camp, and the papers all sounded his praise; but still he was not satisfied and as he passed by denver russell he glanced at him almost appealingly. here was a man he had broken in order to get his way, and his efforts had come to nothing; for the silver treasure lay idle, waiting the clearing of its title before the work could go on. and denver russell, swinging his double-jack on a drill, never once returned the glance. he was stiff-necked and stubborn, though murray had sent intermediaries and practically promised to get him a parole. a legal point had come up, after denver had been imprisoned, which murray had failed to foresee; the fact that a convict is legally dead until he has served his term. he cannot transfer property or enter into a contract or transact any business whatever--nor, on the other hand, can his mining claims be jumped. as a ward of the state his property is held in trust until his term has expired. then he gains back his identity, if not his citizenship; and with the passing of his number and the resumption of his name he can enter into contracts once more. murray's lawyer had known all this, but murray had not; and when he suggested a suit to quiet title to the silver treasure old bible-back received a great blow. after all his efforts he found himself balked--his work must even be undone. denver russell must be pardoned, or at least paroled, and as the price of his freedom he must give his word not to contest the title to his mine. no papers would be necessary, in fact they would not be legal; but if his word would prevent him from escaping from the road-camp it would keep him from claiming his mine. murray attended to the matter himself, for he was in a fever to begin work; and then denver russell struck back--he refused to apply for parole. though he was pleasant and amenable, never breaking the prison rules and holding his gang to their duty, when the kindly parole clerk offered to present his case to the board he had flatly and unconditionally refused. the smouldering fire of his resentment had blazed up and overmastered him as he sensed the hidden hand of his enemy, and he had cursed the black name of murray. that was the beginning, and now when murray passed, his glance was almost beseeching. the price of silver was going up, there were consolidation plans in sight, and denver's claim apexed all the rest--murray pocketed his pride and, after a word with the guard, drew denver out of hearing of the gang. "mr. russell," he said trying to appear magnanimous, "that offer of mine holds good. i'll get you a parole to-morrow if you'll give me a quit-claim to your claim." "how can i give you a quit-claim?" inquired denver defiantly, "a convict can't give title to anything!" "just give me your word then," suggested murray suavely and denver laughed in his face. "you glass-eyed old dastard," he burst out contemptuously, "i know what you're up to, too well. you're trying to get me paroled so you can take my mine away from me and i won't dare to raise a hand. but i'll fool you, old-timer; i'll just serve my term out and then--well, i'll get back my mine." "is that a threat?" demanded murray but denver only smiled and toyed with his heavy hammer. "because if it is," went on murray, "just for self-protection, i'll see that you don't get out." "no, it isn't a threat," answered denver quietly. "if i wanted to kill you i'd swing this sledge and knock you on the head, right now. no, i don't intend to kill you; but a man would be a sucker to play right into your hands." "what do you mean?" asked murray trying to argue the matter, but denver refused to indulge him. "never mind," he said, "you railroaded me to the pen', but by grab you can't get me out. i'll just show you i'm as independent as a hog on ice--if i can't stand up i'll lay down." "then you intend, just to spite me, to remain on in prison when you might be a free man to-morrow? i can't believe that--it doesn't seem reasonable." "well, i can't stand here talking," answered denver impatiently and went off and left him staring. it certainly was unbelievable that any reasoning creature should prefer confinement and disgrace to freedom, but the iron had burned deep into denver's soul and his one desire now was revenge. he had been deprived of his property and branded a convict by this man who boasted of his powers; but, like a thrown mule, if he could not have his way he could at least refuse to get up. he was down and out; but by a miracle of providence, a hitch in the wording of the law, the slave-driver murray could not proceed with his chariot until this balky mule got up. denver knew his rights as a prisoner of the state and his status before the law; and bowed his head and took the beating stubbornly, punishing himself a hundred times over to thwart his enemy's plans. as he worked on the road old friends came by and tried to argue him out of his mood, even bunker hill suggested a compromise; but he only listened sulkily, a slow smile on his lips, a gleam of smouldering hatred in his eyes. so the winter passed by and as spring came on the road-gang drew near to murray. from the hills above their camp denver could see the dumps and hoists, and the mill that was going up below, and as the ore-trains glided by on the newly finished narrow-gauge he picked up samples of the copper. it was the same as his vein, a brassy yellow chalcopyrites with chunks of red native copper, and he forgot the daily heart-ache and the ignominy of his task as he contemplated the wealth that awaited him. yes, the mine was still his, though he was herded with common felons and compelled to build a road for murray; it was his and the law would protect him, the same law that had sent him to prison. and he was a prisoner by choice now for both the warden and the parole clerk had recommended him heartily for parole. they treated him like a friend, like a big, wrong-headed boy who was still sound and good at heart; and he knew that when he went to them and applied for a parole they would recommend it at once to the board. but he was playing a deep game, one that had come to him suddenly when murray had suggested a parole, for by refusing to accept his freedom he made the state his guardian and the receiver of his coveted property. it was safe, and he could wait; and when the time was ripe he could apply to the governor for a pardon. a pardon would remove the taint of dishonor and restore him to honest citizenship; but a paroled man was known for an ex-con everywhere--he might as well be back in the road-gang. yet it was hard on his pride when the automobiles rushed past and the passengers looked back and stared, it was hard to have the guard always watching the gang for fear that some crook might decamp; and only the thought that he was working out his destiny gave him courage to play out his hand. but how wonderfully had the prophecy of mother trigedgo been justified by the course of events! not a year before he had come over the globe trail in pursuit of slogger meacham, and had discovered the place of death. it rose before him now, a solid black wall, and within its shadow lay the mine of the prophecy, the precious silver treasure. he had chosen the silver treasure, and the yellow chalcopyrites had added its wealth of copper. and now he but awaited the end of his long ordeal and the reward of his courage and constancy. both the silver and gold treasures were destined to be his; and drusilla--but there he paused. old bunk had avoided him, drusilla had not written; yet he had been careful not to reveal his affection. not once had he asked for her, only once had he written; yet perhaps that one letter had defeated him. he had acknowledged his love, humbly admitted his faults, and begged her to try to forgive him. even that might have cost him her love. the spring came on warmer, all the palo verde trees burst out in masses of brilliant yellow, the mezquites hung out tassels of golden fuzz and the giant cactus donned its crown of orange blossoms. even the iron-woods flaunted bloom and the barren, sandy washes turned green with six-weeks grass. it was a time when rabbits gamboled, when mockingbirds sang by moonlight and all the world turned young. denver chafed at his confinement, one of his mexicans broke his parole, the hobo miners went swinging past; and just as the last of his courage was waning bunker hill came riding down the road. he was on his big bay, yet not out after cattle--he was coming straight towards him. denver caught his breath, and waited. chapter xxviii parole "mornin', denver," said bunker hill, "here's a letter that come for you--i forgot to send it down." he fumbled in his pocket and denver's heart stood still, but it was only his check from the smelter. he slipped it into his shirt without even glancing at the big total and looked up at bunker expectantly. "well?" he prompted and old bunk twisted in the saddle before he began to talk. "how much did you get for your shipment?" he inquired but denver shrugged impatiently. "what do i give a damn?" he demanded. "what's up? what you got on your mind?" "big stuff," replied bunker, "but i want you to listen to me--they's no use running off at the head." "who's running off at the head? go on and shoot your wad. is it something about my mine?" "yes--and mine," answered bunker. "i don't know whether you know it, but your property apexes the lost burro. and another thing, silver has gone up. but pinal is just as dead as it was a year ago. the whole camp is waiting on you." "well, what do you want me to do? get a parole and give murray my mine?" "no, just get a parole--and then we'll get you a pardon. i'll tell you, denver, the dutchman has begun to talk and it seems he saw your fight. he's told several people that you never pulled your gun, just struck out at the crowd with your fists. and if hints and winks count for anything with him he knows who it was that killed meacham. he says he was hit from behind. i've tried everything, denver, to make that dutchman talk or put something down on paper; but he's scared so bad of murray, and mebbe of his gun-men, that he won't say a word, unless he's drunk. now here's the proposition--old murray has had you railroaded, and he's sure going to squeeze you until you let go of that claim. why not sell out for a good price, if he'll make the professor talk and help get you a pardon from the governor? you know the governor, he'll pardon most anybody, but you've got to give him some excuse. well, the professor has got the evidence to get you out to-morrow--if murray will just tell him to talk." "what d'ye call a good price?" inquired denver suspiciously. "did murray put you up to this?" "no!" snapped bunker, "but he named ten thousand dollars as the most he could possibly give. he owns the colonel dodge's interest in the lost burro mining company now." "your pardner, eh?" sneered denver. "well, where would i get off if i took this friendly tip? i'd lose my mine, that's worth a million, at least; and get ten thousand dollars and a parole. a paroled man can't locate a claim--nor an ex-convict, neither. the silver treasure is the last claim that i'll ever get; and i'm going to hold onto it, by grab!" "you're crazy," declared bunker, "didn't i say we'd get you a pardon? well, a pardon restores you to citizenship--you can locate all the claims you want." "yes, sure; _if_ i'm pardoned! but i know that danged dutchman--he wouldn't turn a hand to get me out of the pen' if you'd give him a hundred thousand dollars. he's got it in for me, for not buying his claim when i took the silver treasure from you; and more'n that, he's afraid of me, because if i ever get out----" "oh, don't be a dammed fool all the rest of your life," burst out bunker hill impatiently. "if you'd quiet down a little and quit fighting your head, maybe your friends would be able to help you. i might as well tell you that i've been to the governor and told him the facts of the case; and he's practically promised, if the professor will come through, to give you a full pardon with citizenship. now be reasonable, denver, and quit trying to whip the world, and we'll get you out of this jack-pot. give old murray your mine--you can never law it away from him--and take your ten thousand dollars; then move to another camp and make a fresh start where there's nobody working against you. of course i'm murray's pardner--he put one over on me--but at the same time i reckon i'm your friend. now there's the proposition and you can take it or leave it--i ain't going to bother you again." "nope, it don't look good to me," answered denver promptly, "there's too many ifs and ands. and i'll stay here till i rot before bible-back murray will ever get that mine from _me_. he hired that bunch of gun-men to jump my claim twice when he had no title to the mine, and then he hired chatwourth and slogger meacham to get me in the door and kill me. they made a slight mistake and got the wrong man, then sent me to the pen' for murder. that's the kind of a dastard you've got for a pardner but you can tell him i'll never give up. i'll fight till i die, and if i ever get out----" "yes, there you go again," burst out bunker hill bitterly, "you ain't got the brain of a mule. if i wasn't to blame for loaning you that gun and leaving you out of my sight, i'd pass up your case for good. but i didn't have no better sense than to slip you my old six-shooter, and now mrs. hill can't hardly git over it so i'll give you another try. my daughter, drusilla, is coming home next week and she hasn't even heard about this trouble. now--are you going to stay here and meet her as a convict, or will you come and meet her like a gentleman. this ain't my doin's--i'd see you in hell, first--but mrs. hill says when you get out on parole we'll be glad to receive you as our guest." denver stopped and considered, smiling and frowning by turns, but at last he shook his head mournfully. "no," he muttered, "what will she care for a poor ex-con? no, i'm down and out," he went on to bunker, "and she'll hear about it, anyhow. it's too late now to pretend i'm a gentleman--my number has burned in like a brand. all these other prisoners know me and they'll turn me up anywhere; if i go to the china coast one of 'em would show up, sooner or later, and bawl me out for a convict. no, i'm ruined as a gentleman, and old murray did it; but by god, if i live, i'll teach him to regret it--and he won't make a dollar out of me. that claim is tied up till john d. rockefeller himself couldn't get it away from me now; and it'll lay right there until i serve out my sentence or get a free pardon from the governor. i won't agree to anything and----" he stopped abruptly and looked away, after which he reached out his hand. "well, much obliged, bunk," he said, trying to smile, "i'm sorry i can't accommodate you. just thank mrs. hill for what she has done and--and tell her i'll never forget it." he went back to his work and old bunk watched him wonderingly, after which he rode solemnly away. then the road-making dragged on--clearing away brush, blasting out rock, filling in, grading up, making the crown--but now the road-boss was absent minded and oblivious and his pride in the job was gone. he let the men lag and leave rough ends, and every few moments his eyes would stray away and look down the canyon for the stage. and as the automobiles came up he scanned the passengers hungrily--until at last he saw drusilla. there was the fluttering of a veil, the flash of startled eyes, a quick belated wave, and she was gone. denver stood in the road, staring after her blankly, and then he threw down his pick. "send me back to the pen'" he said to the guard, "i'm going to apply for parole." chapter xxix the interpretation thereof after all his suffering, his oaths, his refusals, his rejection of each friendly offer, denver had changed his mind in the fraction of a second when he saw drusilla whirl past. he forgot his mine, the fierce battles, the prophecy--all he wanted was to see her again. placed on his honor for the trip he started down the road, walking fast when he failed to catch a ride, and early the next morning he reported at the prison to apply for an immediate parole. but luck was against him and his heart died in his breast, for the board of prison directors had met the week before and would not meet again for three weeks. three weeks of idle waiting, of pacing up and down and cursing the slow passage of time; and then, perhaps, delays and disappointments and obstructions from bible-back murray. he sat with bowed head, then rose up suddenly and wrote a brief letter to murray. "get me a pardon," he scrawled, "and i'll give you a quit-claim. this goes, if you do it quick." he put it in the mail, with a special delivery stamp, and watched the endless hours creep by. she was there in pinal, running her scales, practicing her exercises, singing arias from the operas at night; and he was shut in by the gray concrete walls where the guards looked down from the towers. he could not trust himself now outside of the yard, his nerve was gone and he would head for pinal like a homing bird to its mate. and then it came, quicker than he had ever thought or hoped for, though he had offered the silver treasure in return for it--a full pardon from the governor, with his citizenship restored and a letter expressing confidence in his innocence. denver clutched it to his breast and started out across the desert with his eyes on distant pinal. it lay in the shadow of apache leap, that blue wall that loomed to the east, and he hardly stopped to shake hands with the warden in his haste to get out on the road. there he stopped the first automobile that was going up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest was his manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine. but at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to murray, denver thanked him and got off to walk. the sun was low but he did not hurry--he had begun to doubt his welcome. a hot shame swept over him at his convict's shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wondered suddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mine away. she was an opera singer now, returning from a season which must have given her a taste of success--what use would she have for him? up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp had sprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down on pinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. the street was broad and empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across the creek; and from the chimney of bunker's house a column of smoke mounted up to show that supper was being cooked. yes, it was the same old town that he had entered the year before when old bunk had taken him for a hobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon had restored him to citizenship. his broad shoulders drooped, he turned back and crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave. the door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out of sight. bunker hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things, and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept and the dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. it was mrs. hill's, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to their home. denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the canned goods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town. the sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in the west, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the air palpitate with their chorus. old bunk came out and went over to the store; someone struck a chord in the house, and as denver listened hungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed. it was her's, it was drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made a change. there was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness, of yearning, of sadness, of love. yes, he recognized it now, it had the quality of the cradle song that she had listened to so enviously on his phonograph. she had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something which gives schumann-heink her power; and which comes only from love--and suffering. denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it before, but drusilla must have suffered, too. not as tragically as he but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. he went in hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed him and he bowed his head on the table. he dared not face her--now. the singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his convict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell on his shoulders and he looked up to see drusilla. she was more beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears and she drew her hand away. "what is it?" she asked. "can't you ever care for me? must i make every single advance? oh, denver, after i'd come clear home to see you--why wouldn't you come down to the house?" he roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of emotions. "i was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down on the bench beside him. "not want you?" she repeated. "why, haven't i done everything to get you out of prison? didn't i go to the professor and beg and plead with him and sing all my german songs; didn't i go to the governor and take him with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?" "pardoned!" burst out denver and then he stopped and shook his head regretfully. "no," he said, "i wish you had, though. i traded my mine for it--to murray!" "why, denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. i got you that pardon myself! and then, after all that--and after i'd played, and sung, and waited for you--you wouldn't even come down to see me!" "why, sure i would!" he protested brokenly, "i'd do anything for you, drusilla! but i was afraid you wouldn't want me. i've been in prison, you know, and it makes a difference. they call me an ex-con now." "no, but denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think--why, we _asked_ you to come and stay with us." "yes, i know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could not forget so soon. "i know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right--i guess we've made a mistake. i wanted to see you, drusilla; i gave everything i had, just to get here before you went----" "did you really?" she asked taking him gently by the hand and looking deep into his eyes, "did you give up your mine--for me?" "just to see you," answered denver, "but after i got here----" "oh, i'm so glad!" she sighed, "and you haven't lost your mine. i got to the governor first." "you did?" he cried and then he sat up and the old fire came back into his eyes. "that's right," he laughed, "you must have beat him to it--i thought that pardon came quick! this'll cost old murray a million." "no, you haven't lost your mine," she went on, smiling curiously. "you think a lot of it, don't you?" "well, i don't know," grumbled denver, "whether i do or not now. i believe that mine was a jonah. i believe i made a mistake and chose the wrong treasure--i should have taken the gold." "oh, denver!" she beamed, "do you really think so? i've always just hated that mine. i've always had the feeling that you thought more of it than you did of me--or anybody." "well, i did," confessed denver, "it seemed to kind of draw me--to make me forget everything else. and drusilla, i'm sorry i didn't come down--that night when you went away." "it was the mine," she frowned, "i believe it was accursed. it always came between us. but you must sell it now, and not work for a while--i want you to entertain me." "i'll do it!" exclaimed denver, "i'll sell out for what i can get and then we can be together. how did you get along on your trip?" "oh, fine!" she burst out radiantly, "oh, i had such _luck_. i was only the understudy, and doing minor parts, when the soprano was taken ill in the second act and i went in and scored a triumph. it was 'love tales of hoffmann' and when i sang the 'barcarolle' they recalled me seven times! that is they recalled us both--it's sung as a duet, you know." "um," nodded denver and listened in glum silence as she related the details of her premier. "and how about those tenors?" he asked at last, "did any of 'em steal my kiss?" "no--or that is--well, we won't talk about that now. but of course i have to act my parts." "oh, sure, sure!" he answered rebelliously and a triumphant twinkle came into her eyes. "do you still believe in the prophecy?" she asked, "and in all that mother trigedgo told you? because if you do, i've got some news--you won't die until you're past eighty." "i won't?" challenged denver and then he stopped and waited as she smiled back at him mischievously. "she's a nice old woman," went on drusilla demurely, "but i wouldn't take her too seriously. she told me, for instance, that i'd give up a great career in order to marry for love. yes, i went over to see her, myself." "but what about me?" demanded denver eagerly, "did she say i'd live till i was eighty?" "yes, she did; and she told me some other things, including the color of your eyes. but don't you see, denver, that you made a mistake when you took what she said so seriously? why, you wouldn't even speak to me or let us be friends for fear that i'd rise up and kill you; and now it appears that it was all a mistake and you're going to live till you're eighty." "well, all the same," responded denver sighing and stretching his great arms, "i'm awful glad she said it. and a man could live to be eighty and still be killed by his friend. no, i believe that prophecy was true!" "very well," she assented, "but you don't need to worry about our friendship, and that's the principal thing. i just did it to set your mind at rest." "yes, it _was_ true," he went on rousing up from a reverie, "but i was wrong--i should have taken the gold." "is that all you think of?" she asked impatiently, "is there nothing but silver and gold?" "yes, there is," he acknowledged, "but--say, drusilla i'm going to buy out the dutchman. i believe that stringer of his is rich." "what stringer?" she demanded looking up from her own musings and then she nodded and sighed. "yes, i know," she said, "you're back at your mining--but you promised you'd think only of me. i may not be here long and you want to be nice to me; because i almost hated you, once. now listen, denver, and let _me_ interpret--don't you know you've got everything wrong?" "no!" declared denver, "it has all come out perfectly. i've lived clear through it, already. only i chose the wrong treasure and so i lost them both and suffered a great disgrace. i should have taken the gold." "no; listen denver," she went on patiently, "and don't always be thinking of _things_. a golden treasure isn't necessarily of gold, it might be even--me." "you?" echoed denver and then he clutched his hands and stared about him wildly. "why, yes," she answered evenly, "haven't you noticed my hair? other men are not so blind--and one of them said it reminded him of fine-spun gold. yes, i was the golden treasure in the shadow of apache leap, but all you could think of was mines. the mine was your silver treasure, and you had to choose between us--and you always chose the mine. no matter how i sang, or did up my hair or came around where you were at work; you always went into that black, hateful hole, and i used to go home and cry. but--no, listen, denver--when you saw me come back, and you wanted to see me, and there was no other way to do it; then you threw away your mine and told murray to take it--and i knew that you really loved me. you loved me even more than your mine, and so you won us both. do you like your golden treasure?" "i was a fool!" moaned denver but she stroked his rumpled hair and raised his face from his hands. "we've both of us been foolish," she whispered, "i nearly hated you once, and nearly gave your kiss to a tenor. but--oh denver, i'll never sing with those men again! i know you wouldn't like it." "no, i wouldn't," he admitted, "and if you'll only----" "there it is," she interrupted, giving him the long-treasured kiss. "i saved it just for you." law of the north _originally published under the title of_ empery _a story of love and battle in rupert's land_ by samuel alexander white author of the wildcatters, the stampeders, etc. frontispiece in colors by thornton d. skidmore new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by outing publishing company all rights reserved [illustration: the priest noted the weapon's muzzle thrusting deeper into the powder] contents chapter page i. the breed of the north ii. the lodge in the wilderness iii. an ultimatum iv. omens of the law v. desirÉe vi. in the blood vii. lieges of the wild viii. the nor'wester's flesh ix. who rules himself x. the cause invincible xi. tidings of war xii. "you may come in a blizzard!" xiii. a vow that held xiv. the iron trail xv. maskwa's find xvi. the first blow xvii. the heart of the savage xviii. a double surprise xix. not in the bonds of god xx. the long leaguer xxi. black ferguson's wile xxii. fawn and panther xxiii. conquest law of the north chapter i the breed of the north before basil dreaulond, the hudson's bay company's courier, had won half the mile-long nisgowan portage, the familiar noise of men toiling in pack-harness reached his ears. he stopped automatically and trained his hearing in mechanical analysis of the sound. this power had grown within him with every successive year of his wilderness life, and at once he was aware that a party of considerable size was packing across the boulder-strewn strip of woodland separating kinistina creek from lac du longe. the knowledge gave a wonderful quickness to the courier's rigid, listening figure. swinging the canoe from his bulky shoulders, he hid it swiftly in the tamarack thicket which skirted the blazed passage. the tump-line was as suddenly slipped from his sweating forehead, and the pack-sack vanished likewise. then dreaulond himself disappeared with a spring into the green growth like a grouse seeking tangled cover. from the place of concealment sounded a metallic clink as he made ready his weapons against the chance of discovery. the voyageur was doubtful whether the advancing men were from any of the hudson's bay forts. they might well belong to some of the northwest fur company's posts. if this were the case, basil knew it would not be conducive to his own safety or, what was more important, to the welfare of the dispatches he carried to encounter single-handed a body of nor'westers. he made for his convenience a peep-hole among the pungent boughs and scrutinized the axe-hewn path where one had to stagger knee-deep among flinty rock fragments, spear-like stumps, and a chaotic jumble of logs. stooping to their burdens of canoes, dunnage, and arms, they came, thick-set giants with the knotted muscle, the clear vision, and the healthy skin that the strenuous northland life bestows. while they approached slowly, footing arduously, almost painfully, every step of the trying way and guarding against slips which meant fractures or six-month bruises, dreaulond caught mingling gleams of color about their attire. as these bright glints took on definition and were resolved into sashes and leggings of red and blue, the hiding courier made out the dress of his own company's men. the cover, now no longer necessary, was brushed aside for a better view. in the lead he recognized the square shoulders and mighty breadth of bruce dunvegan from oxford house, a man of superior education and chief trader to malcolm macleod, the factor. when dunvegan with his hardy brigade of voyageurs came abreast the courier's shelter, dreaulond was seized with a sudden spirit of humor, and launched a long-drawn, far-carrying cry. "_vive le nor'westaire!_" he bellowed. as automatons, actuated by a single controlling spring, the men dropped whatever they bore and leaped to shelter behind perpendicular rocks, huge logs, or bullet-proof stumps, only the ends of their rifles showing grim and suggestive in silent menace. the discipline of defense which fell upon them naturally without preconcerted thought, without volition, was pleasing to a man who loved his company's interests as did dreaulond. his eyes sparkled with satisfaction, although he was minded to keep up the artifice a little longer. "la roche! _pour_ la roche!" he shouted, using the watchword of the nor'westers, the customary warning of dire and imminent trouble for hudson's bay followers. while basil raised the enemy's alarm, he rolled quickly behind a jutting boulder, thereby protecting himself from any serious consequences that might follow his daring joke. dunvegan's acute ear distinguished the rustling movement. a vivid tongue of flame leaped out of the shade from his rifle's muzzle, and the missile, twanging sharply through the branches, smote dreaulond's shielding granite with a wicked thud. following their leader's cue, the men let loose a volley which filled the forest with uproar. twigs whitened instantly to the bullet-scars. chipped rocks split with a pop and scuffled through the underbrush. dreaulond chuckled dryly. "hol' on dere, m'sieu's," he advised. "kip dat good powdaire." "who speaks?" shouted dunvegan, the chief trader. "basil dreaulond," came the laughing answer. "he wan fren', _aussi_." dunvegan knew the voyageur's voice, and he and his band quitted their cover. "come out, basil," he ordered. "what trick are you playing now?" the courier's face, a clean-cut mask of brown cunning, grinned at them from the fringing tamarack. "you be waste dose balls," he laughed. "who you t'ink eet was? black ferguson, of de nor'westaires, mebbe?" "you rascal," reproved dunvegan, "your jokes will some day get you a roasting over the wrong fire." "_non!_ i tak' de good care of maself. black ferguson an' hees men dey don' catch me wit' ma eyes shut." he stepped forth from his hiding place, a swart, sinewy son of the north, spawn of the wilderness, fit to face hazard and court risk in a land where danger rode round with the sun. a single glance of the courier's shrewd eyes took in every member of the group before him. one face was strange. between tall maskwa, the ojibway fort runner and the most trusted indian in the service, and wahbiscaw, the cree bowsman, stood the alien. just the fraction of a minute basil puzzled over him, then flashed his friendly grin at all his old friends. "_bo' jou', bo' jou'_," he greeted, in the northland fashion. "_bo jou'_, dreaulond," they returned. "good journey?" "_oui_," responded the courier. "i have no troubl' wit' de nor'westaires. dey too mooch busy get ready for de wintaire trade, mebbe." "you've come over from nelson house, have you?" questioned bruce dunvegan. "_vraiment_," basil answered, tapping the dispatch packet at his belt. "w'at you doin'?" "three things," the chief trader enumerated; "drafting a clerk from norway house, selecting a site for a new post to hold fort la roche in check, and spying upon it and the other northwesters' forts in hopes of locating macleod's daughter. we haven't succeeded in placing her yet." at which information dreaulond's twinkling eyes assumed an expression of deepest gravity. "ba gosh, dat's fonny t'ing," he commented. "you hunt an' not find. i find wit'out huntin'. i see dat girl in de cree camp on de katchawan." "what?" dunvegan cried in great surprise. "she is in running wolf's camp? what foolery is that? is black ferguson with her there?" "_non_, she be alone," the courier declared. "w'at she doin' i don' know. w'en i try learn dat, she lak wan speetfire, yes! she have de mission education an' talk lak _diable_. she goin' have de crees t'row me out de camp. i kip quiet den! you goin' see her?" "at once!" exclaimed the chief trader, who, seemingly impelled by a sudden feverish unrest, gave swift, tart orders to his men to take up their burdens. "why didn't you tell me this before?" "dat for tell de factor," basil chided. "i no spik de idl' word lak wan old _femme_. how i know you be huntin' de girl?" "that's true," admitted dunvegan. "you couldn't know our errand. i am somewhat over-anxious, basil, being in a hurry to finish this hunt and return to oxford house." "i believe dat," confided dreaulond, with meaning in his smile. "_mais_, who dis new clerk?" the chief trader turned to his voyageurs, now shouldering their loads and passing off in single file. "glyndon," he called, "come over. this is basil dreaulond, the company's finest courier. you may have heard of him at norway." "indeed, yes," glyndon confirmed, losing his slight, well-formed hand in basil's huge paw. "i heard him named with honor and with admiration." "ha! dat easy t'ing to say!" exclaimed dreaulond. "you be engleesh? you not for ver' long out?" "i arrived from england on the last ship," glyndon responded. "they told me there wouldn't be another for a year." he laughed ingenuously, as if at something strangely outside his own experience. "the vessel comes but once in twelve months," explained dunvegan, "to bring supplies and carry back the furs to market. we get our yearly mail with the supplies." "it seems very odd," the clerk ventured. "this is a tremendous country, and i have everything to learn about it. perhaps dreaulond will teach me the elementals!" "at oxford house he may," remarked the restive chief trader. "you can renew the acquaintance there. just now we have something more important to do." "at oxford house, then," glyndon concluded as he followed the rest of the brigade. dreaulond brought forth his canoe and pack-sack from the thicket. before loading up he gazed shrewdly after the slender figure of the english clerk. he had not missed the lines of the aristocratic face; the large, hazel, womanish eyes; the cheek-marks of dissipation that even a lately-acquired tan failed to conceal. "dey send heem out?" basil asked, pointing his arm in a direction designed to extend across the atlantic. "yes," answered dunvegan, "his folks sent him here. he drank at home, and they want the company to make a man of him. new environment! the primeval law of adaptation!" dreaulond adjusted the tump-line and placed the canoe upon his shoulders. "_au revoir!_" he called. "_au revoir_," echoed the chief trader. basil bobbed on over the rough portage, pondering on glyndon as he went. "hees eyes too soft," was his conclusion. "mooch too soft for dis beeg _nord_!" chapter ii the lodge in the wilderness dunvegan lifted the flap of the cree wigwam and knew that the third of his missions was ended. within the primitive tepee on a pile of rabbit-skin blankets sat flora macleod, the factor's fugitive daughter. her personal appearance bordered on the squalid, for toilette necessaries were lacking in the tent. her eyes shone defiantly into the chief trader's, glinting dark like her coal-black hair. altogether, bruce thought her somber eyes and swarthy skin held but little difference from those of the indians who ruled these lodges on the katchawan. to her breast she hugged a bundled infant whose blue eyes and fair skin bespoke its white fathering. "what brought you here?" she demanded, with an almost ferocious abruptness. "you," answered dunvegan. "you and the boy. your father will have you wife to no nor'wester. nor will he have his daughter's son bear a nor'wester's name. he intends giving the babe his own----" "he does?" flora interrupted, the glow in her eyes flaming till they blazed with anger. "yes. as for you--i cannot say. we all know the factor is a stern, hard man." "i will never go back to his punishment." dunvegan's face hardened. "you must! i am under orders to take you at any cost; and there are the means!" his brown, muscled hand indicated the canoe brigade nosing the serrated river bank and filled with his sinewed northmen whose combined might seemed quite sufficient to carry away bodily the pole and skin structures which made up the cree camp. "you coward!" exclaimed the girl malignantly, releasing her neck from its attitude of craned inspection and hushing the child's sudden whimper. "you are both cowards, you and the one who sent you. you slip in here with a score of voyageurs while the men are away after caribou. i say you are nothing but a coward, bruce dunvegan!" the chief trader's handsome face flushed to a deeper tint under its bronze, but he kept his patience. "hardly that," he objected. "we happened to meet dreaulond, the company's courier, on the nisgowan portage, and he told me of your whereabouts. i was glad of the meeting, since this brigade has been searching for a long while, and in these bitter times the posts have need of all their men. however, there was no secret about our coming; in fact, we shall not dip a paddle till running wolf returns. the company cannot afford to lose the trade of his tribe through any real or fancied offense in taking you away." "dreaulond told you," flora macleod repeated spitefully. "he has an old woman's tongue. basil dreaulond is a gossip!" "no," declared the chief trader, "he talks wisely when he talks at all, and many an act of justice follows his words on the trail. he wondered, though, at seeing you in the lodge of running wolf. what has black ferguson, a nor'wester, to do with our indians?" "nothing," snapped the girl. "he deserted me here." "ah!" dunvegan exclaimed. "i thought as much. but you were legally married?" "father merceraux, the nor'west priest, married us." bruce's face brightened. "that's good. i know merceraux. so there could have been no trickery. you have a copy of his register?" "yes," answered flora. "i treasure that--and the child." "so will the factor," bruce observed. the daughter frowned at the repeated mention of the grim one who would pronounce judgment on her for disobeying his orders. "i hate him," she declared; "i hate----" "stop!" interrupted dunvegan harshly. "i don't want your confidences. and take a little advice from me. don't set your spirit up against his. i know him--perhaps better than you. i myself rather fear to tell him of your desertion." "fear!" exclaimed flora, her glance running over dunvegan's massive, six-foot frame. "you never felt it. but let malcolm macleod take care. i have power here. running wolf wishes me to stay. the tribe i can twist like a river weed. and the nor'west company is very active in gaining ground. so let the lord of oxford house consider. i can stir up trouble for him." gazing at the defiant daughter, bruce did not doubt her ability for provoking mischief. flora macleod had not that perfection of womanly beauty which makes abject slaves of men, but she possessed what is perhaps a greater gift. she had inherently a natural authority, a mastery, a fire of conquest which enabled her to subordinate many minds to a single dominance. this was her most apparent talent, not wasting in concealment but growing to supremacy through the frequency of its use. and here, dunvegan knew, she would not scruple in the using if the dour factor forced her to extremities. "why does running wolf wish you to stay?" he asked. "superstition," flora replied, and she laughed contemptuously. "they have had hard hunting and game has been scarce. they think i'll change their luck. and, more than that, running wolf hopes i may some time marry him----" "marry him!" echoed the chief trader. "are you crazy? or is he?" "he is," macleod's daughter responded with harsh merriment. "he wants to get the factor's permission." her voice was bitterly contemptuous. dunvegan frowned blackly. "if he mentions that to macleod he will raise a storm with speech for thunder and blows for lightning. you are black ferguson's wife. that fact cannot be got over." "he got over it," snapped flora. "and why?" demanded the chief trader. "there must have been a reason. surely his wooing and marrying was more than a simple whim to thwart macleod. surely there was a reason, and a good one, for this swift divorce!" "there was," admitted flora grimly, her eyes burned up into dunvegan's with fierce irony. "a good reason. he set eyes on your own ideal." "my own ideal!" exclaimed dunvegan, making a poor pretence of ignorance. "i hardly catch your meaning." "no?" flora sneered. "paddling down lake lemeau, as we hunted, who did we encounter but desirée lazard, with her uncle pierre and his men. desirée lazard, you understand! the ripest beauty of oxford house, the breaker of hudson's bay hearts, and the very idol of one dunvegan." flora's harsh, grating chuckle, seeming to come more from the dark, unfathomable eyes than from the thin-lipped mouth, held the essence of taunt. at the pointedness of her speech bruce dunvegan's tanned skin took on a deeper flame of red even than that caused by her charge of cowardice. he could not well retort, but as his fingers involuntarily clenched he wished a man had done the baiting. "desirée's beauty struck him suddenly and blindingly, like the morning sun over the blood flats," the girl went on, more impersonally. "i give desirée her due! no northman has ever looked upon her unmoved, and ferguson is the most beastially susceptible of them all. she was like red wine in his eyes. i think if he had had a few more paddlers he would have attacked pierre lazard's men with the idea of carrying her away by force." "didn't lazard attack him?" cried the chief trader. "he reported sighting and chasing the nor'wester; and pierre does not lie." "nor i," returned flora macleod--"when there is no need! pierre feared our small party was but in advance of a nor'west force and hung off on guard and ready for a skirmish. when he found that nothing was following our three canoes he did give chase, but we were lightly loaded, and left them easily. however, the mischief was done. ferguson desired lazard's niece as he had desired no other thing in all his life. my release came that night in camp. black ferguson and his paddlers were gone before i awoke in the morning. so i came here for shelter." "damnation to his black heart!" exclaimed dunvegan. "is there nothing of the man about this nor'wester? had he no thought of your rights and the rights of the child?" the factor's daughter flung a gesture of the arms riverward, a motion vindictive in the extreme. "i," she averred, "was a cast-off rag. the boy was nothing more. you know ferguson has no heart--only impulse. he appears to have gone mad over desirée lazard." "much good it will do him if we have our hands on him!" "but what if you haven't?" "we can trust desirée at the fort." "perhaps. but, remember, one person at oxford house made trysts and kept them in spite of guards and gates." bruce smiled grimly. "and her reward?" he asked, and cursed himself instantly because of the pain that momentarily changed the girl's expression. he had, as it were, a glimpse of her soul in that moment and knew that for all her waywardness she was inwardly true. blessed with a more merciful environment, she would doubtless have been a transformed woman. "watch desirée well," she warned. "black ferguson is hard on her trail, and she is too fine to be lorded by such a beast." dunvegan paced some awkward steps before the cree tents, his glance wandering uncertainly to the waiting brigade by the katchawan's bank. "i haven't the right," he complained. "win it," she flashed. "you are the pick of the company's men. if you weren't you would not be malcolm macleod's chief trader." "she is a nor'wester at heart. her father died in their service, and his spirit is in her. she cherishes his pride of allegiance. desirée vows she will never wed a man of the h. b. c. her vow stands!" "tut!" mocked flora. "a woman's whim easily changed! she stays under the company's roof with her uncle, a servant of the same organization. does that fit in with her vow? a fig for such vows!" "she has no other relative and no place else to live," asserted the chief trader. "as for her resolve, it is proof against changing, for i--have tested it." "then," observed macleod's daughter, "the nor'wester has a good chance of marrying her. here are the cree men coming back!" over the ridge which rimmed the camp with a rampart of spruce the indians dropped, one by one, bounding lightly from rock to rock in noiseless buckskins. they threaded the birch belt and crossed the cedar "slash," swung around the long beaver meadow below, and emerged upon the flat river point supporting their camp. the chief trader saw they were carrying nothing except weapons. "they have left the carrying of the game for the squaws," he observed. "no," cried flora, "i can tell by their faces that the hunt has failed. they have found no caribou and are in a bad mood. you had better leave me here." "not if we have to fight the whole tribe," declared dunvegan. but his eyes, only, saw the crees coming up to the sun-scalded camp. his mental vision focused on the image of desirée lazard. he had told basil dreaulond that he was anxious to complete his mission and return to oxford house. and basil had smiled, knowing well why! now was he doubly anxious. flora's news had a perturbing effect. he hungered for a sight of desirée singing gayly within the stockades. he yearned for the chance of conflict to sweep the nor'wester's shadow from her path. chapter iii an ultimatum the cree bucks came slowly up the point, forming a sort of respectful retinue to running wolf, his son, three feathers, and others of the head men whose dignity of tribal status allowed them to stalk in front. slovenly squaws and dirty, round-eyed children now appeared from the dark interiors of wigwams which before had shown no sign of life. these began to cluck their derision and to indulge in shrieking laughs of ridicule to the visible discomfiture of the hunters. half-tamed curs as fierce looking as their wolf ancestors grew bold enough with the advent of the masters to issue from various hiding-places and organize a snapping charge upon dunvegan. they rushed in a body, howling wickedly and baring vicious, chisel-like fangs, but the chief trader plucked a stick from a tepee fire and belabored their hard heads till they retreated faster than they had charged. wild uproar spread through the camp. the dogs' battle snarls were changed to lugubrious wailings of defeat. old women rated the mongrels, ordering them back to their places. the braves shouted injunctions of silence upon the squaws, while the children added to the climax by scuttling and shrieking out of sheer contagion. running wolf obtained quiet at last by a violence of gesture that threatened to tear his arms from their sockets. with the quiet came his reprimand to his people, delivered in deep-throated cree, and their instant assumption of meekness vouched for the acid quality of his phrases. then he approached dunvegan, with three feathers at his heels. "_bo' jou'_, running wolf; _bo' jou'_, three feathers," greeted the chief trader. "_bo' jou'_, strong father," returned the cree chieftain with grave politeness. three feathers did not speak, but contented himself with nodding sullenly. he was not a favorite with dunvegan. several times the two had clashed in the process of trade, for running wolf's son was a spoiled child of the wilderness grown up to ignorant and stubborn maturity. he represented the ambitious type of indian, the dissentient, the inciter, the yeast of superstitious unrest fated to be the curse of his race. "your hunting has been unrewarded," sympathized the chief trader, speaking to running wolf. he used the cree dialect which he had acquired in his years of dealing with the natives. "_ae_," replied running wolf. "we did not find the caribou. nor did we see the trail of any other game." "how was that?" asked dunvegan. "your braves are wise in the ways of the caribou, the moose, and all of the wild creatures. how is it their cunning brought them nothing?" "i do not know," the chief responded simply, "but the spirits were not kind to us. perhaps the north wind told the caribou of our coming." "it was not so," spoke three feathers maliciously. "it was instead the bad magic of the white traders. the spirits also were kind, for they gave us no game and turned us from our hunting that our squaws might not be stolen." he talked brazenly, having shrewdly guessed in his feverish brain that dunvegan's errand concerned the woman his father wished to take as a squaw. "who steals our women?" cried running wolf, turning on his son with an expression of vague alarm. "ask the strong father there," three feathers directed, forcing the issue upon dunvegan. "yes, ask the strong father," interposed flora macleod, speaking also in cree. "inquire whence he has journeyed. question him as to why he has come." she was quick to seize any advantage which might arise for her from the injuring of running wolf's pride. the chief looked searchingly at the trader and at the trader's brigade, as if to read their intent. "strong father," he declared, "the lodges of my people are open to you. my heart is right toward you in spite of the high words of my son and the white squaw. they would have me think you walk against my wigwams to do me harm. tell them whence you have voyaged. perhaps even now you are come from the stern father by the holy lake!" "that is so," admitted dunvegan. "i come from oxford house and from the factor, him you call the stern father. he has sent me here to do his bidding." "_ae_," snarled three feathers, interrupting impetuously. "he comes to take back the white squaw. i see it in his eyes. he is a traitor and a foe!" dunvegan seized the brave's arm with a vicious pinch. "you young hothead," he cried angrily, "you go too far. keep behind with the women till you get some wisdom!" his back-twist of the arm sent three feathers hurtling in among a group of squaws about a tepee door, where he sprawled ingloriously with his heels in the air. the downfall of the haughty son set the indian women roaring afresh with laughter, but the braves muttered ominously. among them three feathers was a power growing nearer the usurping point which would shatter the father's sane control of the tribe. running wolf himself gazed upon the incident quite unaffected. he watched his son rise from his ludicrous position, the hawk-like face marred by hideous wrath and the beady eyes glittering with revengeful lights. he observed three feathers slink out of sight in the crowd of young bucks. and he nodded sagely. "so," he commented, "they learn wisdom and come to be head men. but why have you come, strong father, with so many canoes? do you build a new post? or do you fight the french hearts?" the french hearts was his name for the nor'westers. "neither," answered dunvegan. "the factor sent me many moons ago to find his daughter and to bring her back to the fort." "ah-hah!" exclaimed running wolf. "then it is even as three feathers, the hasty one, said! his guesses are greater than my wisdom." "listen," urged the chief trader, putting a hand on the cree's arm. "the factor did not know where the girl was. all he knew was that she harkened to the wooing of black ferguson, our enemy. she made trysts with him in spite of our vigilance, and finally escaped to his forts and married him. married him and bore a son to him in the face of macleod's black wrath! you know the stern father, running wolf. you know how such a thing would gripe. how he would writhe under the scorn of his foe and under the northland's mocking laughter! you know?" "_ae_," answered running wolf. "i know." "then you understand. 'go out,' he said to me. 'i will not brook it. go out. i have never been bent by man or devil. go out! raze forts! burn! kill! but bring back her and her boy.' and that i will do, running wolf. i obey his orders. the white squaw, as you call her, returns with me." a shade of anger crossed the cree's copper-colored face. he drew back a step, his shoulders raised in haughty pride. "thus at a late day, strong father," he said, "you have turned enemy to me and to my people!" "not so," dunvegan contradicted. "i am still your friend, as you have had cause to know. but i have my orders. i must do the stern father's bidding. running wolf, you say to your young men: 'go forth and do such a thing.' it is done as you command. you have power and wisdom to rule, and the braves, recognizing your authority and holding the tribe's interests at heart, will do your mission if they die in the doing. is it not so with your people, my friend?" "_ae_," replied the chief with warmth. "it is so, for i have many trusted ones." "then"--dunvegan was quick to follow up his advantage--"it is even so with me. i do my duty to my company and to my factor, whom you rightly call the stern father. do you understand, running wolf?" "i understand," responded the cree. "i see that you come in no bitterness, and the white squaw shall go as you say." flora macleod was quick to voice her disapproval of his words. "have you no spirit?" she cried wrathfully. "do you give in when there is a tribe at your back? running wolf, you haven't the courage of a rabbit. your son were fitter to rule these wigwams than such an old fool of a father! a pretty mind to guide a people!" "i give in to save my children trouble and strife," returned running wolf gravely. "i know strong father well. he would fight for as little as a blanket stolen from his company, although his heart is friendly. you shall go, white squaw, but i go also. i go to take counsel with the stern father, to ask that you abide in my lodge." the tone of his last statement told dunvegan that on this point he was adamant. flora macleod flounced back to her child, the wrath of her soul choking at her lips. "make ready," urged the chief trader. "we start at once." he waited by the chief's tepee while the two set about what slight preparations were needed for departure and watched the clean-limbed bucks idling down to the katchewan's bank. three feathers, brooding in his spiteful anger, loitered with them, on edge to create a disturbance. dunvegan saw that the indians were massing at the landing-point, and he shouted a command to his men to keep them away. pete connear, an american and an ex-sailor who had drifted north by the red river route and entered the company's service, did as directed, but the braves gave ground sullenly. three feathers himself became vociferous. "dogs and sons of dogs," he anathematized them, "you have hearts of water to steal about, capturing women." "shut up," advised connear dryly. "salt rat," three feathers sent back, stamping in impotent rage, "there is no place for you here in the forest. get away to your big waters." he emphasized his language with a swift-thrown palmful of slimy sand, which struck the ex-sailor squarely in the eyes. connear roared like a bull and leaped ashore from his birch-bark craft. "you bloomin' copper-hide," he bellowed in blind wrath, "i'll man-handle you for that." three feathers was swift, but in anger pete connear was swifter. almost before the young chief realized it the sailor was upon him. the cree's wrists were pinned behind his back in the grip of pete's left hand; he was whirled over the sailor's knee and given as sound a spanking as ever a recalcitrant child received. connear's palm was hard with years of searing brine; and three feathers was blessed with no stoicism. he howled pitifully, while the hudson's bay men shouted in uproarious mirth. but the young bucks of the crowd failed to see the humor of the situation. they gathered together with much muttering and gesturing. dunvegan, shaking with laughter at the plight of three feathers, caught the signs of impending trouble and came running forward as connear completed his enemy's chastisement. "there!" exclaimed the bespattered pete. "i've slippered your hide, and now i'll roll you in the scuppers just for sailor's luck!" he shot three feathers from his knee and sent him rolling down the bank into the river, from which the young man pulled himself out as bedraggled as a fur-soaked beaver. the cree bucks charged on the instant at the lone sailorman, but dunvegan's arm waved as he ran, and like magic his men were out of their canoes and lined up on the river margin with guns at full cock. connear danced a sailor's hornpipe in the center and hooted in delightful anticipation of a fight. the crisis seemed inevitable. a trade-gun barked in the rear. the braves, with murder in their untamed hearts, shook out their weapons ready to throw their weight against dunvegan's line, but a deep-throated cree voice held them on the verge of their madness. "stop!" called the vibrant voice of running wolf, "or i blast you with the evil spirit." as one man the crowd turned and looked at the speaker. the old chief stood behind them with flora and her child. he was arrayed in the robes of a medicine-maker, for running wolf was a man of magic as well as a leader among his people. he carried the full equipment of a head medicine-man of his tribe. the effect of his appearance on the malcontents was instantaneous. arms which had raised weapons dropped to the owner's sides. a great awe grew in the eyes of the braves. running wolf raised his medicine-wand, sweeping it in a half circle. "go back to your lodges!" he ordered. the crees obeyed. there arose no murmur, no protest. dunvegan knew running wolf could not have done this thing by his powers of chieftainship. he marveled how in their wild bosoms the fear of the unknown overshadowed their defiance of the power of personality. assuredly it was strong medicine. chapter iv omens of the law the chief took the indicated place in dunvegan's canoe with flora and her boy. these sat amidships. wahbiscaw was in his place as bowsman. bruce himself occupied the stern. at a sign from him the whole brigade floated off, the prows pointing up the swift-flowing katchawan. thus for an hour the paddles dipped in rhythm. they threaded the river's island channels and won through its rushing chutes. where the rapids proved too swift for paddles they poled the craft up with long spruce poles. few words were spoken. it was the custom to travel in silence. one reason for this was that nor'west traders might be lurking anywhere. another was that game might be encountered around any of the many river bends. but the brigade left the katchawan without a sight of game and entered the mouth of lake lemeau. maskwa, the ojibway fort runner, stood erect, sentinel-like, in the canoe behind dunvegan, his keen eyes searching the lake waters for sign of friend or foe. quite suddenly he sat down. "canoe, strong father," he grunted gutturally. "where?" the chief trader asked. "below bear island." quietly dunvegan shifted his bow till the canoe bore a course which would bring them directly in the path of the strange craft. he had no idea whose it might be. it might belong to some trapper or to some indian of their own company. it might belong to the nor'westers. it might carry free traders. whatever it was, it was his duty to find out. warm yellow the bark shone as the distance lessened. sapphire glints flashed out as the paddles flickered after each plunge. soon the men of the brigade could see that the craft contained four figures, but it was maskwa's long-range vision which discerned their nationalities. "ojibways, two; white men, two," he announced. "good paddlers." and so it proved when they drew near. dunvegan saw, seated behind the native bowsman, a keen-visaged, lean, athletic man of forty. he had a smooth face, sandy hair, eyes of a cold, hard blue, a beak nose, and great, sinewed arms. about him was the stamp of the frontier. instinctively at first glimpse the chief trader catalogued him as one who had seen much frontier fighting, who had handled guns and bad men running amuck with guns. fit mate for him looked the one sitting toward the stern. he was abnormally broad of shoulder, stocky, powerful, black-bearded, black-eyed. the sun had smoked him till he was as swarthy as the ojibway steersman. of the two white men he looked the more dangerous, for there was no humor in his steady eyes. his companion's gaze, cold and hard as it was, held something of a quizzical gleam. perhaps it was the hollows under those eyes that gave him that appearance. as dunvegan's craft met the other almost bow to bow and slipped ahead, the gunwales grated gently. bruce closed a hand on the gunwales of the other and the two canoes drifted as one. the sandy-haired man's semi-humorous eyes flashed a quick look aboard, and then he smiled. "you sure couldn't do that, stranger, if my pardner and me hadn't decided to speak to you," he observed. "couldn't i?" challenged dunvegan. he scrutinized men and outfit. "free traders, i suppose?" "guess again." "nor'westers, eh?" "you got another guess coming yet." "oh, quit it, granger," the black-bearded man broke in, stirring impatiently among the dunnage bags. "you're wasting time. show him the star." the sandy-haired one twisted his suspender band. dunvegan saw the badge of a united states marshal. "it's genuine, stranger. and we're sure not here for our health. are we, garfield?" "no," growled the black-bearded marshal. "a show-down's the thing that we're after." "you fooled me," laughed dunvegan. "but you had better exhibit your papers. my factor is death on free traders; and i have to report to him, you know." "who's your factor?" the smooth-faced marshal asked as he dived into the pocket of his buckskin coat that was stuffed under the forward thwart. "macleod, of oxford house." "macleod, eh? macleod!" rumbled granger while he searched. "don't know him. but we sure will when we get to his post. we've been up around the bay forts. when we've done norway house and the posts out that way we'll be across to oxford. see you again, then. hello, here's the papers!" he handed dunvegan two frayed documents. as he scanned them the chief trader saw they were genuine enough. the first was an order of the chief district factor of the hudson's bay company declaring all forts open to the bearers. the second was a similar mandate of the northwest fur company for use in their posts and issued from the headquarters in montreal. "these are through passes," smiled dunvegan, handing them back. "i know the chief district factor's signature. and it seems you are equipped for a hunt in nor'west country as well. is there anything i can do for you?" "you've done all you can do--let us see you and your men," grinned granger. "that's all we wanted. eh, garfield?" "that's all," garfield agreed, condescending to laugh so that his gleaming white teeth split his black beard. "hit her up there, you bucks," he commanded the ojibways. the indians seized their paddles. dunvegan let go the gunwales. "good luck," he nodded. "hold on," yelled granger suddenly. "maybe i ought to say more. a hint from you would sure save us some miles. here, look at this!" he dived again into the buckskin coat and handed a photograph across the water gap. "do you know him?" he demanded, keenly reading the chief trader's face. "mind, i don't say he's what we're after. i don't say he's done anything. do you know him? he's in the service of one of these fur companies." the picture dunvegan looked at was that of a bare-faced man in robust health, a strong man who was in the super-strength of his prime. the eyes were vivid, clear as crystal, sharp as steel. the chief trader felt that the glance of the living original would cut like a knife. these eyes puzzled him with a sense of vague familiarity, but the face he scanned was the face of no one in his memory-gallery. he shook his head, and oddly enough he felt a reluctance, a disappointment in denial. "i don't know him," he decided, and handed the photograph back. like a hawk granger had watched his face. he read truth in it. "oh, well!" he exclaimed whimsically. "the way of the transgressor and the marshal is sure hard." once more his quizzical expression flashed forth as he twirled his paddle aloft in good-by. "shake, stranger," he threw back in final farewell, while the long craft leaped under the ojibways' strokes. "shake! till i see you at oxford house!" flora macleod watched the solitary canoe drop away out of sight. then, when it was gone, she leaned forward to the chief trader's shoulder. "was that last answer of yours lie or loyalty?" she asked with strange timidity. dunvegan turned a surprised face. "it was ignorance," he amended. he saw flora's cheeks pale, her eyes full of a haunting fear. "what's wrong?" he demanded in astonishment. "that picture--i--i saw it, too." "well?" "it was my father's!" dawn set a wall of flame on oxford lake. out of this solar furnace drifted a fleet of canoes black as charred logs against the cardinal blaze. clement nemaire, sentinel at the stockade gates of oxford house, caught sight of the craft in the immense distance advancing with a motion which, though scarcely discernible, nevertheless brought them gradually into large perspective. his black eyes, keen as lenses, steadily watched the approaching flotilla while it breasted caribou point and crossed the outer rim of the bay. when the fleet drew opposite mooswa hill, the mighty rampart upon whose crest a brushwood beacon stood always piled ready for firing by the hudson's bay fort runners as a warning message of impending nor'west attacks, clement made out the sharp, black line of a flagstaff in the bow of the foremost canoe. from the staff's tip a long standard bellied like a sail in the cross wind, its vivid hue blending with the fiery background, and nemaire knew the familiar blood-red banner of his company. "de brigade!" he shouted for all the post to hear. "_holá!_ de beeg brigade!" every soul of oxford house sprang forth at his cry. in a heterogeneous crowd the people spread to the landing at the lake-shore. white traders, fair-skinned women, full-blooded indians, halfbreeds, squaws, papooses, huskies,[ ] all mingled in polyglot confusion. curs barked; children squealed; native tongues chattered in many languages. eager expectancy, intense interest, was the sensation of each human being or animal that waited on the beach. their wild hearts, keyed to a love of the vast places, to a worship of all the attributes of wilderness life, could never welcome a brigade unmoved. that distinct institution of the hudson's bay company was a thing which they idolized and revered. the crowd in a fever of joyous excitement pressed to the very water's edge and shifted the length of the landing. each minute of waiting they filled with clamor and gesticulation, the hum of voices growing to a roar as dunvegan's brigade approached within hailing distance. [footnote : eskimo sledge dogs.] but behind them a heavy step sounded on the veranda of the factor's house, and looking, they saw the square-set bulk of malcolm macleod. a hush blanketed the confusion. not a foot or tongue stirred by the lake-edge. so deep was the stillness that the slight wash of the plunging canoes could be heard distinctly. the factor did not speak, but his bushy eyebrows lowered and the piercing gaze of his steely, black eyes was concentrated on the scene. his iron hands, symbols of the man, gripped the railing tightly. like the crowd, he waited; but while their impelling motive was curiosity, macleod's was judgment. the fleet of canoes lined for the landing, the figures of the occupants growing clear. the throng could now see that the chief trader and wahbiscaw, his bowsman, had two passengers in the foremost craft. when they became recognizable as flora macleod and running wolf, whispers of wonder and speculation began to circulate. discussion ran like the murmur of low waters from father brochet, the black-cassocked, unobtrusive priest on the outer rim of the gathering, to rude gaspard follet, the owl-faced, dwarf-shaped, half-witted fool who sat on the end of the landing with bare feet in the water, that he might be closest to the incomers. conversing in a little group beside father brochet stood desirée lazard, the fairest of oxford house; pierre, her uncle, and basil dreaulond. as the brigade touched the bank, the rushing people blotted it out. the paddlers leaped ashore, stretched cramped limbs, and were swallowed up in the throng. presently the mighty figure of bruce dunvegan emerged, leading running wolf and flora macleod from the landing toward the factor's house. contrary to his usual custom, malcolm macleod did not turn into his council room to receive the report and do his questioning. the fact that the runaway daughter appeared before him accounted for his coming down a few steps to await the trio. "you've succeeded," he growled unceremoniously, bending his angry glance, not upon the chief trader, but upon flora, who returned a stare of equal intensity. "not altogether," complained dunvegan. "things are not as clear as i could wish. i found the girl in running wolf's lodge. i understand black ferguson deserted her near the cree camp." macleod's habitually active brain seemed slow in comprehending the statement. the tight lines of his mouth relaxed, and his jaws jarred apart in an attitude of sheer amazement. "stern father," running wolf hastened to add, "it is my wish and the white squaw's wish that she remain in my lodge. as for the sun and the stars and the south wind is my worship for her. i have come for your consent." he bowed in his brief oratorical delivery and smoothed his medicine-maker's dress. "consent!--squaw!" boomed macleod, blank astonishment giving way under the swift rush of his tremendous rage. "you d--d cree demigod--that's my consent!" and his strong hands hurled running wolf headlong from the veranda steps almost to the rim of the gaping crowd. the old warrior picked himself up in a frenzy of spirit and, forgetting all traditions and restraints, rushed insanely at the factor. but dunvegan blocked his path and grasped the uplifted hand. "don't do that, running wolf," he warned. "you can only work your own ruin. a blow would mean your death!" chest heaving, eyes blazing, the cree chieftain strained a moment after his insulter. dunvegan's strength forced him back and instilled some substance of sanity. when he found his voice, his speech trembled with hate. "you are stern father now," he hissed in cree, "but i can change it to soft father----" macleod took a step forward as if on sudden impulse to crush once for all a defiance flung in his teeth, but he caught the look of entreaty for lenience in the chief trader's eyes. he halted. yet running wolf was not to be appeased. he glared vindictively into the very face of the lord of oxford house. "soft father you shall be," he declared. "i go to the french hearts. we will meet again before many moons. then my hands shall hurl. my words shall curse. you shall be as the broken pot of clay, as the water of melting ice, as the pool of blood where the big moose falls." the chief's momentarily-lost stoicism was regained. his dignity, which the red man seldom loses, had returned. dunvegan, his hands still upon the cree's arms, felt the change in him, felt him straighten with pride. he released his grip. running wolf stepped quietly back. "i go," he announced without emotion. "i go, but when the french hearts are climbing stockades and burning posts about your ears, i will be with them. then when i have rolled you stiff in your blanket will i take the white squaw to my wigwam!" he whirled at the last word and stalked to the beach. flora macleod looked upon him with eyes that lightened. "you old fire-eater," she laughed hysterically, "i almost love you for those words." her glance shifted to dunvegan who had grasped her arm that she might not follow the cree chieftain if she were so inclined. "don't you?" she asked. "he is to be admired," the chief trader admitted. but malcolm macleod swore a fearful oath in which there was no semblance of admiration as they watched running wolf glide out upon oxford lake in a canoe borrowed from some crees formerly of his tribe on the katchawan. "let the cursed traitor go over to the side of the nor'westers!" he cried. "let him help black ferguson and his sneaking dogs! i have no fear of them. i'm not afraid of man or devil. and why should i trouble myself about a picket of ragged frenchmen! bah! i can handle them as i handled the cree. i'm lord of this country. every man knows it. every man _must_ know it!" as everyone at this and all the other northern posts understood, malcolm macleod was ruled by twin passions: pride and hate. he paid homage to no other emotion, idol, or deity. fear could not touch his heart. love was long ago crushed out. the tentacles of greed never held him. he had no dread of the evil machinations of hell. neither did he recognize such a thing as divine providence. his bible that in his half-forgotten past had been fingered nightly lay upon an unused upper shelf in his council room, sepulchred in twenty years of dust. fallen into silent brooding, the factor stared at the disappearing speck upon the vast water, the speck which was running wolf and his craft. dunvegan had to arouse him. "the woman and the child," he prompted. "what is to be done with them?" macleod wheeled. "see that she gets no canoe to leave the post," was his curt order. "she goes out with abbé ducerne to the nunnery at montreal before the frost closes in." as some fierce interpreter of high-latitude laws he pronounced the judgment, and flora macleod's spirit crumpled under its weight. it came suddenly--this most appalling thing that could happen to a lover of liberty. for once in her life she had no defiant retort for the man she accepted as her father. at the vision of veil, cowl, and white walls, things some people loved, her eyes dilated in horror. the woman's heart throbbed sickeningly. her tongue refused its mission of protest. her knees gave way, letting her slip to the ground. there she lay, sobbing, the boy clasped close in her arms. "don't lie there," the factor commanded roughly. "get that child ready for the morning mass. i'll see that it is christened and given my own name. there'll be no fergusons among my kin." full of sympathy, dunvegan raised flora macleod to her feet and urged her to go inside, but she stubbornly refused to enter the house. "let her stay out then," cried her father, with a fresh burst of anger. "or let her find a better house." "there is basil's," ventured the chief trader. "aye, there is basil's, if it suits her." macleod shrugged his mighty shoulders in bitter unconcern. so bruce told her to go to dreaulond's cabin, where he knew she would be well cared for by the courier's gentle wife. then he turned again to the moody factor. "i am afraid we have lost running wolf's trade," he observed. "he will come back. he fears me, as they all do. and if he goes to the nor'westers, remember, we shall soon crush them. when they are swept out of the country, where else can the old fool trade?" "but he may fight with them," bruce persisted. "perhaps. however, they will need more than running wolf's aid to rout the ancient and honorable, the hudson's bay company." chapter v desirÉe the mass bell's solemn chime pealed forth from the squat tower of the mission house, echoed against a thousand different rock peaks of the shoreline and rolled resonantly over oxford's bosom till distance killed the sound and the tone was lost in the splash of whitecaps jumping like silvery salmon beyond the bay. since carman, the church of england missionary, had perished in the winter's last blizzard on lone wolf lake and the company had failed as yet to get a minister in his place, the spiritual welfare of oxford house was entirely in the hands of father brochet. protestant and catholic, disciple and pagan, zealot and scorner alike attended the kindly priest's services and sought his generous aid in many private matters. with the bell's summons they came singly, in twos or threes, and in groups of varying size to take part in, or view the morning mass as well as to see the christening of flora macleod's child. bruce dunvegan left his business in the trading room of the hudson's bay store and stepped out into the dewy sunshine. the auroral flame which had licked the waters of oxford lake was gone. he saw the horizon as a sheet of molten gold floating the coppery disc of the sun. from wet rocks the writhing mists twisted and uncoiled, while the breeze which crooned over the outer reach of the lake and raised the crested swells beat in with little darts and lanceolate charges, puffing the fog-smoke like the muzzle-jets of rifles. as the chief trader contemplated the magnificent splendor of the watery vista before him, he thrilled with the indefinable magic of the outland. he inhaled a huge breath and threw his arms wide, the action nearly upsetting the balance of edwin glyndon, the new clerk, who had emerged at his side. "ha! your pardon!" exclaimed dunvegan, laughing. "these northern sunrises get into my blood like wine. you'll feel it before you are very long here. going over to the mission?" "i wouldn't mind," returned glyndon. "it's all so new to me, and i wasn't at norway long enough to see much. do you attend?" "we all drop in," the chief trader informed him. "brochet's faith has many adherents, but of course you don't have to take part unless your inclinations run that way. you are a church of england man, i suppose!" "oh, yes--quite an orthodox one," laughed glyndon bitterly. "didn't you know i drank myself and parents into disgrace at home? that's why they sent me out here--away from the evil ruts, you understand! and i fancy it might not be so hard to be a good churchman in this wilderness. at any rate the chances are increased." "this is the best opportunity that you will ever find," dunvegan declared. "if you want to go straight and live clean, the way is easy. it seems to me these lake breezes, these pine woods, these outdoor days are a long way removed from temptation." he swung his hands illustratively from the sheen of oxford's surface to the dark green of the black forest, which loomed in somber mystery on caribou point, and looked into the clerk's soft eyes. but edwin glyndon was staring over the chief trader's shoulder at someone coming up the path to the store. "good lord!" was his amazed exclamation. "who in all the angels' category is that?" dunvegan turned to see lazard's niece hurrying toward the building. "that? oh, desirée lazard!" he answered, striving ineffectually to keep his stirring blood from crimsoning his tan. "she's a ward of old pierre since her father died. pierre is her uncle." "my word!" glyndon gasped, and could say no more; although his chin went nervously up and down while desirée lazard approached. she walked without perceptible effort in that easy rhythm of movement peculiar to wilderness-born women. her hair, dun-gold as the morning sky behind, was pinned in a loose knot and parted in the center, letting the shimmer and wave of the tresses play upon either side like shallow-water ripples over sun-browned gravel. forehead, cheeks, nose and mouth held serene beauty in their perfect chiselling, while her eyes shone like twin lakes of the north, sapphire-blue beneath the morning sun. so sincere were the men in the unconscious homage they paid to her fairness that they did not move aside to let her enter the door. she stopped and gazed inquiringly at the stranger. and the pair gazed at her. they marvelled at the luxurious development of throat, bosom, and arms, clearly revealed by a tight-fitting chamois waist with open neck and rolled-up sleeves, and at the trim, full contour of her healthy body from the tops of her shoulders to the hem of her doeskin skirt and on down the well-filled leggins to moccasined feet which would hardly have covered a man's palm. "good morning, bruce," she said demurely. "good morning, monsieur----" "glyndon--edwin glyndon," supplemented the clerk, eagerly. he was delighted to find that ceremony was an unknown thing in the posts and that each greeted a neighbor whether formally acquainted or not. "i have told glyndon you are pierre's niece," dunvegan interposed. "he has been drafted from norway house as our clerk and will henceforth be one of us." "ah! monsieur will find the society of oxford house limited after living in london," laughed desirée. "more limited, but assuredly not less desirable," glyndon returned gallantly; and the dwelling of his soft eyes on the girl brought the rose to her cheeks. "come," she cried peremptorily to hide her confusion, "let me go in and get my things or i shall be late for mass." dunvegan thought to wait upon her, but the english clerk sprang in first. "it is for me to serve," he declared. "i must learn my business." and the chief trader experienced a pang of intense jealousy as he watched the laughter and badinage of the two across the counter while desirée made her purchases. he glowered in dark envy and strode out on to the steps. when the girl danced gaily over the threshold, he did not speak. glyndon rejoined him, his eyes devouring the lithe, swinging form of desirée lazard as she rushed home humming a little french song under her breath. "jove!" he exclaimed. "did you ever see such a figure? look at the inswell of the torso to the waist and the outswell over the hips----" but dunvegan's hand falling like a great weight on his shoulder cut short the speech. glyndon felt that grip clear through his body; felt his collar bone bend beneath the chief trader's thumb, and he winced. "glyndon, never admire a woman in that way," bruce warned. "never, i say! do you understand me?" the english clerk slunk back under the powerful menace in dunvegan's glance. "oh!" he ejaculated with swift intuition. "i didn't know that you----" "that'll do," the chief trader cut in. "you don't know anything yet. try not to bother your head! go on over to the mission house!" he started edwin glyndon down the path. malcolm macleod for the first time in twenty years had entered the chapel, not for the service but for the christening. dunvegan left the store in charge of his _mètis_ clerk and followed. was he going for the service? perhaps, for he was a good man, and his religious creed was not a narrow one. was he going for the christening also? undoubtedly, for he was to stand sponsor for the child. but in the depths of his being something cried a third reason. across the flat ground which served as the trading house yard lay the chapel. roughly built after the fashion of northern missions, its very ruggedness suggested the strength of the faith for which it stood as symbol. as dunvegan approached the steps, people were already filing rapidly through the narrow doorway. a medley of types was there. acorn-headed squaws pattered in. morose indians filed after. women, children, and settlers drifted through the doorway. the hudson's bay men slouched over. trappers and halfbreeds filled the single aisle. at the end of a rough bench in one front corner of the building sat the factor, dour and unyielding. his head was bowed. not a muscle of his body moved. perched on the opposite end of that seat was gaspard follet, the fool who had drifted in from nowhere to the post about a year before. it was the fool's delight to go about hearing everything through dog-like ears, seeing everything through owlish eyes. none could find out who or what he was, or whence he had come. yet many at oxford house contended that he was not so simple as he appeared. they declared that he was as wise as themselves and only kept up the sham to get an easy living. in proof of their contention these suspicious ones set forth his glibness of tongue when he pleased, for on occasion he could talk as well as brochet. as dunvegan seated himself not far from pierre lazard and his niece, the mass began in solemn intonation. "_in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti_," began father brochet, the mass book supported where the black cassock bulged over his portly waist. the clear voice of the clerk answered with sonorous "amens", and the responses rose in chorus. dunvegan looked at the factor. the latter seemed unconscious that an earnest service was progressing. sunk in stony oblivion, he appeared absolutely motionless, his chest neither rising nor falling as he breathed. the long, familiar service was finally concluded, and those who had taken no part other than as mere listeners sat up with an expectant shuffle. flora macleod moved to the front with her child and stood before the altar. father brochet looked down upon her. there was no reproach in his mièn. experience had taught him that in such a case as this, women followed their own hearts even to fleeing from their parents. a hush brooded over the chapel's interior, a sort of awkward silence, a dread of things running awry! the child's whimper broke it, and flora swayed the boy in her arms to quiet him. brochet spoke when she finished, his clear voice carrying to the door and even outside where some latecomers unable to find seats were grouped on the slab of rough stone which served for a step. "who is the male parent, the father of the child?" he asked in the natural course of the ceremony. deep silence reigned. flora macleod's lips closed tightly, indicating that out of stubbornness she would not speak the name. people looked at the factor, and he turned from his immobility with the attitude of a sleeping bear suddenly prodded into angry activity. "black ferguson," he snarled, sidling over a foot or so upon the bench. "the name this child is to bear with honor through life?" father brochet continued. "honor?" grunted macleod. "i don't know about that. no doubt he will inherit the spirit of disobedience from his mother. call him charles ian macleod! there will be no ferguson in it." a murmur stirred the assemblage at the factor's rude remark, but they dared not add protest to their surprises. dunvegan of course, had expected it from the first. "who stands as sponsor for this infant?" asked the priest. macleod swung himself half round and nodded to dunvegan. bruce rose to his feet, seeing with surprise that gaspard, the fool, had also raised himself up by jumping upon the seat. "who stands sponsor?" "i," squealed the idiot. "also, he can have my name, for if the truth came out, it is as good as anyone's and----" he got no farther for old pierre lazard pulled the foolish dwarf off his perch before the angry factor could strike him and pushed him unceremoniously to the door amid the suppressed chuckles of the assembly. "again, who stands sponsor?" inquired the unruffled father brochet. "i do," spoke dunvegan. "do you, charles ian macleod, renounce the devil, his angels and all their evil works?" "i do," dunvegan, as sponsor, replied. "do you believe in god the father, god the son, and god the holy ghost?" "i believe!" "it is well," observed brochet. "we may now proceed with the service of baptism. behold in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost i baptize you charles ian macleod. and may the good lord's mercy lead your feet in honorable paths." "amen! amen! amen!" rang the responses in many tongues throughout the chapel. with the chanting of a hymn the people poured forth. flora disappeared instantly with her child, waiting for no birth offering. the factor was equally swift in effacing himself from the unfamiliar mission house. one of his desires had been fulfilled. there remained the other, and the consummation of that one promised to be a harder matter. chapter vi in the blood dunvegan hastened after desirée lazard and overtook her near her uncle's cabin. pierre himself had gone in ahead. "wait a moment, desirée," he begged. "i want you to promise me something. i'll have no peace till you do. macleod has ordered me to build at once the new post on the site i selected----" "kamattawa?" she queried. "yes. it is to hold the nor'westers in check." desirée smiled. "the company of my father!" she reproved gently. "would that there were no need to fight them!" dunvegan breathed. "would that i might stay here! but i cannot. and it is torture for me to go with fear and doubt in my mind. i want your solemn promise that this man ferguson shall have no speech with you." "why?" she was looking at him with her head turned sidewise like a saucy bird. "why?" bruce echoed. "surely you don't mean that. you know what he is. you saw to-day what he has done. they say he is hard set after you. and your heart should recoil from the very idea. why? you don't mean it, desirée. you are not that shallow!" her eyes suddenly softened. "forgive me, bruce. i was only tormenting you. i promise. i freely promise." she thrust both hands in his. dunvegan's blood leaped at the contact, but he controlled himself. "that's well, desirée," he murmured. "that's so much gained. and what i gain i never lose. perhaps when i come back i may gain still more!" his gaze had a hunger in it. the whole strong manliness of his honest nature was pleading for what she had hitherto denied him. desirée felt the strength of his passion and lowered her glance. there were people passing, but foot by foot in her maddening elusiveness desirée had drawn from the trail till she was hidden behind the outer cabin door which swung half open. dunvegan, his shoulders wedged in the opening, tried to read her face. "in a few days i'll be gone to build kamattawa," he went on. "give me some hope before i go. don't send me away without a shred of encouragement, desirée." wide-eyed she gazed at him. she was flushed, her manner all uncertain. her breath came quickly. abruptly she flung out her arms in a swift gesture of pity. "bruce," she cried, "it might be some time--if--if things were different." "how?" "if you didn't hold so strongly to the hudson's bay company." dunvegan stepped back, his lips closed grimly. "would you--ever break your allegiance?" desirée faltered. "never while my blood runs!" "oh, your proud spirit!" she lamented. "and mine as proud! it's no use, bruce. it's no use." she sprang up on the steps, but dunvegan caught her by the arms. "don't," she protested. "there are people passing." "they can't see," he replied feverishly. "you musn't go like this without telling me more. why will you keep this barrier between us?" "i have vowed i will never wed a man except he be of my own company." "but why? what is the loyalty of old service to a woman?" "as much as to a man. remember every man of the companies was bred of woman. it is a matter of blood. and loyalty to the northwest company is in my blood." because the feminine soul of her was beyond his understanding, the chief trader was smitten with bitterness and anger. "and you will forever swear by these nor'westers?" he demanded. "you will swear by a lot of frontier ruffians herded under the leadership of such a scoundrel as black ferguson? tell me that!" "i must," desirée answered. dunvegan turned on his heel without another word. but desirée was flying after him as he reached the trail. her hand was on his shoulder. "bruce," she panted. he stopped. his face was cold, impassive. "well?" "i must because--my--my father died with them. his spirit is in me." both her hands were on his shoulders now. she was very much in earnest, and it hurt her that he should in any way misconstrue her motives. "there are times," she continued, "when i feel i hate the hudson's bay company and all its servants. but at those times i always have to amend my hatred. not _all_ its servants! don't you understand?" she let him fathom her eyes, and he understood. there he caught a gleam of something he had never surprised before. the joy of the discovery ran through him like exultant fire. he prisoned both the wrists at his shoulders. "desirée, you care! you care a little!" "yes," she breathed, and still unwillingly, "i care--a little!" with the partial confession she wrenched free and rushed blindly indoors. chapter vii lieges of the wild lieges of the most gigantic trust the world would ever see, the hudson's bay men filled dunvegan's trading room when the long northern twilight fell upon the post. from above the chief trader's desk the company's coat-of-arms, roughly carved on an oaken shield, looked down upon its hardy followers. the bold insignia seemed symbolic of the supremacy, the power, the privilege invested in that mighty institution. well might the company pride itself on the sovereignty of a vast domain. well might the factors call themselves true lords of the north! the rights king charles the second had granted them extended over a territory of two and one-quarter million square miles, an empire one-third the size of europe. all other subjects of the crown were expressly forbidden to visit or trade in this immense tract. violation of the edict meant that trespassers ran the risk of sudden decease under the judgment of the company's servants. for these were entrusted not only with the absolute proprietorship, supreme monarchy, and exclusive traffic of that undefined country known as rupert's land, which comprised all the regions discovered or to be discovered within the gates of hudson's strait, but also with the power of life and death over every aborigine or christian who adventured there. the only exemption along this line had been made a century after the erection of the corporation in , consisting primarily of gallant prince rupert and his dare-devil associates, when provision of letters patent was made for those of the kingdom of new france, who had pushed northward to the shores of hudson's bay, whereby any actual possessions of any christian prince or state were protected and withheld from the company's operation. these claims were confirmed in by the treaty of ryswick, only to be abandoned by the treaty of utrecht in . but still voyageurs of the adventurous heart wet their paddle blades in the saskatchewan's sinuous waters, winding on the far quest of peltries toward the barrier of the rockies. conquest and cession interrupted such overland enterprises, but shrewd english business heads began later systematically to direct these undertakings till the pursuit finally led to the formation in of the northwest fur company of montreal. secure in its possession, strong in its kingship until now, the hudson's bay institution suddenly saw a dangerous rival invade its hitherto unmolested precincts, and the whole energy of the vast corporation was drawn upon to combat the ever encroaching nor'westers. it was not to be supposed that the first lords of the north who had thrown their posts far across the basin of the coppermine would give ground before the younger organization. nor was it credible that the adventurers, who had ascended the mackenzie to the grim arctic ocean and pushed down to the pacific by scaling the rocky mountains would stand aloof from a literally open country which would glut them with gain. one company's desires were as compelling as the other's. in temerity and endurance they were equally matched. the only issue could be a violent and bloody competition till one giant broke the hold of the adversary. in the very heart of the contention, in one of the richest trading districts, malcolm macleod found himself locking arms with the redoubtable enemy of his corporation. these were the days of sudden surprises and stern reprisals; of secret plottings and bloody skirmishes. a hudson's bay fort was beleaguered; a nor'west fur train sacked. or, again, it was a stroke in the dark when a picket was wiped out, or an entire brigade destroyed. ably seconded by bruce dunvegan, the factor upheld the interests of oxford house and the hudson's bay company with an iron hand. the problem of the nor'west advance faced him. black ferguson, one of the rival organization's leaders, had established a footing in the katchawan valley and built a fortified post, fort la roche, which was now the stronghold of the nor'westers in that country. from there by secret trysts in which only a wayward girl would have indulged, black ferguson had enticed macleod's daughter from under his very nose--enticed and deserted! alone in his council room malcolm macleod's black wrath boiled under the powerful insult. he had never seen black ferguson, but he promised himself that he should soon feast his eyes upon the nor'wester trussed up in thongs with the fear of swift death confronting him. macleod was only biding his time till dunvegan should rear up fort kamattawa, the new post with which he intended to shut out nor'westers from the katchawan valley. with kamattawa as a base he would wipe fort la roche off the district. the same possibility was being discussed by bruce dunvegan and his men as they smoked their evening pipes in the hazy light of the trading room. "give me the least opportunity to strike the nor'westers in the valley, and i'll strike hard enough to crush black ferguson's fort," the chief trader declared. "when kamattawa is finished, the factor expects to capture la roche, but if we ever get a chance in the meantime, we'll take it, and take it quick. eh, men?" they nodded grimly. they loved deeds more than words, and bruce knew they were as eager as himself. sandy stewart, the lowland scot of the canny head, at length broke silence, quitting his pipe long enough to utter a brief sentence: "we'll no be shuttin' oor eyes as we build." his own gray eyes twinkled craftily through the steel haze of the company's tobacco. pete connear was sprawling in sailor's attitude, his back on a bench, his knees drawn up to his chin. he shifted his legs to speak. "why not send a spy among them?" he suggested. "there are lots of strange men in our service who could play the part." "too dangerous," commented the chief trader seriously. "any man who enters an enemy's fort these days is putting his neck in a noose. moreover it's impossible on both sides. the nor'westers trust no stranger. neither do we." "we trusted yon gossoon follet," put in terence burke, who had a brogue which was hard to smother. "bah! he's a fool." "he talks loike a lawyer whin he plases. i think he's a deep wan." "it's his idiocy. gaspard is harmless. you see they could no more put a spy into oxford house than we could employ a traitor to mingle in their ranks at la roche. we must watch for our opening, daylight or dark, and catch black ferguson dozing. i'd give a thousand castors to lay hands on him right now!" basil dreaulond emitted a low chuckle and beat his moccasin with the bowl of his pipe. "nobody don' nevaire catch dat man," he observed. "ferguson mooch too smart; he got de heart lak wan black fox. de fellow w'at goin' git de bes' of heem mus' spik wit' _le diable_, yes!" "faith," burke laughed, "he'd be spakin' wid his-self 'cause it's the divil in per-rson is me frind black ferguson. oi clapped eyes on him wanst at montreal." "what did he look like, terence?" asked pete connear. even as the factor, none of the other men had seen the troublesome nor'wester at close range. the nearest vision they had had of him was in the gun-smoke of a skirmish or in the semi-darkness of a midnight raid. "fair as a dane wid the same blue eyes," the irishman answered. "listen till that, would ye!" cried stewart. "an' why maun they gae callin' him 'black' ferguson?" "hees soul," explained dreaulond tersely. "everyt'ing dis man do be black as _diable_. tak' more dan wan t'ousand pries' confess heem out of hell!" "kind of brother to captain kidd, or a cousin of old morgan's, eh!" remarked pete connear. "pretty figure to have leading the other side. i'd think the nor'west company would put a decent man in charge." "he's just the sort they want," dunvegan declared. "they know they're beyond their rights and trespassing on ours. they want a man who will stop at nothing. in black ferguson they have him!" even as dunvegan finished speaking a scuffle arose at the door. "what's that?" the chief trader demanded. "sounds like a husky," observed pete connear. they could hear snarling and groaning with now and then a whimper of fear as from a frightened animal. "no, it's a human voice," declared dunvegan. he strode across the room and kicked up the latch. the door swung back swiftly and in bounded the weird shape of gaspard follet, the little idiot. he dashed forward as if propelled from a catapult, but the chief trader's peremptory voice halted him. "stop," dunvegan commanded. "what in rupert's name is the matter with you?" gaspard stood speechless. his owlish eyes glared in a perfect frenzy of real or simulated terror, and he hopped from one foot to the other in the center of the floor, hunching his dwarfed shoulders with a horrid, convulsive movement. for the most part amazed silence struck the men, but maskwa, the ojibway fort runner, regarded follet with the superstition of his race and jabbered in guttural accents. "the little fool has seen a god," he asserted in ojibway. "he has spoken with nenaubosho!" "_non_," was basil dreaulond's more commonplace explanation. "de mad _giddés_ bite heem. dis gaspard goin' crazy lak' dose yelpin' beas'." but the chief trader bade them speculate in silence. "speak, follet," he urged. "take a long breath and you'll get it out. something's tried your nerves!" "ah!" gasped the fool between his chattering teeth. "i have been frightened. i have been frightened." he crossed himself a score of times and shut out an imaginary vision by holding claw-like fingers before his great, staring eyes. "speak out," ordered dunvegan sternly. "where have you been all day? i haven't seen you since pierre lazard put you out of the mission house this morning." "in the black forest," answered the dwarf. "i went in a canoe to be alone, for they put me out of the chapel. who was it? oh, yes, old pierre. i will remember that. i went in a canoe and i saw a devil." "what was it?" asked bruce, smiling. "i--i forget." gaspard beat his forehead in a vain attempt at recollection. the chief trader was well acquainted with the fool's frequent pilgrimages here and there, his harmless adventures, his constant lapses of memory. where others sometimes doubted, he believed follet's imbecility was genuine. else why was it kept up? "you had better do your wandering within the stockades," he advised. "the woods aren't altogether safe for pleasure jaunts." "who would harm a silly head?" mumbled gaspard. "that's no protection. your head might be taken off first and its sanity inquired into afterwards. that's a peculiar habit these roaming nor'westers have." "the nor'westers!" echoed gaspard follet, in a strident scream, his whole face lighting with the gleam of certain knowledge born of suggestion. "one of them was the devil i saw in the black forest in the winter cabin. name of the virgin, how he frightened me! now i remember well. it was the worst of them all. any of you would have run as i did. don't tell me you wouldn't! ferguson sits in yon cabin!" the floor shook with the spring of the men to their feet. dunvegan had instantly leaped the length of the room and lifted the dwarf in his hands, shaking him to search out the truth of the statement. "do you lie?" he cried tensely. "speak! is this an idiot's fancy?" gaspard wriggled. his face no longer bore vacancy of expression. the flush of real intelligence mantled it. "no, by the cross," he vowed. "i speak truth. i know what i saw. if you think i lie, take me there. should the black nor'wester not sit in the cabin as i say, you may kill me." because gaspard follet was above all things a coward, this offer forced immediate conviction upon the group. as the chief trader set the fool upon his feet, he turned and saw malcolm macleod's form bulking broad in the doorway. "you have heard?" "i have heard." the factor's tone boomed out, savage, exultant. the order that followed was given with a swiftness as sinister as it was explicit. "take a dozen men," he directed briefly. "bring me the nor'wester, living or dead. you understand?" again he spaced the words for them: "living--or--dead!" clement nemaire swung wide the stockade gates. bearing a forty-foot fur canoe, dunvegan and his men filed out on their mission. the entrance closed behind the mysterious going. "_bon fortune_," whispered nemaire. chapter viii the nor'wester's flesh a deeper blot within the shadow which the headland cast upon the water, dunvegan's craft silently rounded caribou point, beached softly upon the sand in the granite-walled cove, and spilled its crew into the aisles of the black forest. beyond rose the craggy ridge called mooswa hill, a landmark to the hudson's bay men in times of quiet, a pillar of fire when the nor'westers struck. the winter cabin gaspard follet had mentioned stood on a rock shoulder above the cove. pine and spruce crowded it. in springtime the shore ice jammed to its threshold. the ooze and drip of the years were insidiously working its ruin. but still the halfbreed and the voyageurs sometimes used it for a night's shelter on their journeys. once it had saved the life of basil dreaulond in a great blizzard. exhausted, he had reached it when he could never have made his remaining three miles to oxford house. a neck of the black forest hugged the incline where the hut stood. marshy beaver meadows, fringing the bay, hedged the timber line, spreading across to mooswa ridge and giving no solid footing except what was afforded by a dam traversing the black water. this ridge fell away gradually to where oxford house was reared, but reaching the hudson's bay post by land from caribou point was precarious business in the dark for no bridge, other than that which the beavers had built, spanned the morass. hence the chief trader with his band had elected to come by water. very warily they emerged from the shelter of the tree boles into the clearing where the cabin rested. "lie down," commanded dunvegan, in a whisper. "and go slow! the fellow may have friends with him." they disappeared at once among the rock ferns, worming noiselessly upon their faces toward the rough log shelter. the chinks of the logs streamed candlelight, but no sound came from within. the night seemed holding its breath. the intense stillness was broken only by the leap of maska-longe on the distant bars and the rubbing of elbows in the ferny brake. at the cabin's corner the chief trader touched three of his followers upon the shoulder. immediately they obeyed his unspoken command, slipping cat-footed round the hut one to the back one to either side. possessed of sudden, sardonic humor, dunvegan stooped and whispered in the ear of the dwarf whom they had taken at his word and brought along. "will you go in first?" he questioned, playing upon gaspard's cowardly spirit. the fool shuddered and shied. stifling a laugh, the chief trader thrust him to the rear of his line. his heavy kick flung the door back, and he leaped swiftly inside. the hut had an occupant! he rose from a block seat at the sudden intrusion, striding uncertainly to the center of the floor. neither man spoke. dunvegan's followers trooped in. the chief trader's glance searched out the stranger's armament, the rifle in the corner, the belt of pistols on the rude table. the pistols dunvegan threw down at the butt of the leaning rifle. then he whirled the table itself across that corner of the room, cutting off access to the weapons, and sat upon it. the tall, sturdily-built fellow watched him, unmoved. his crafty, blue eyes never wavered. he seemed conscious of no immediate danger. "_bon soir_," he spoke finally, giving them the greeting of the north with a southern accent. "it's not good," returned dunvegan, curtly. "this is the worst night you ever struck in all your bad nights, mr. ferguson." "ferguson!" echoed the other in feigned surprise. then he laughed cheerfully. "that isn't my name, and i'm not a nor'wester. i'm a free trader from the south. a yank, if you must know--from vermont! i'll get out now that the company has spotted me. i have some regard for my pelt. come, act square with me. the h. b. c. always gives a man a chance. it's the first offense, you know. i'll turn my canoe south on the minute." "hardly," replied the chief trader, coldly. "there's some one waiting for you at oxford house. you will not go far--if i am any judge of the factor's designs." he folded his arms and swung his legs comfortably under the table. to the fool, he added: "gaspard, is this the same person you saw?" "by the virgin, yes," quavered follet, and hid himself behind connear's bowed legs between which there was vision enough for his immediate needs. "'tis that devil of a black ferguson," the idiot piped from his vantage ground. "he frightened me; he frightened me." breaking into a foolish habit of improvising rhymes, he shrieked: "the devil's kin; the devil's son; and all the devils rolled in one!" dunvegan silenced him with a word and addressed the irishman. "burke," he asked, "can you corroborate this poor fool's statement? we want the right man. the factor won't forgive any blundering." "fair as a dane wid the same blue eyes! it's him. it's black ferguson." "do i look black?" demanded the baited man angrily. "_saprie!_ we no be see you on de inside," was basil dreaulond's swift answer. "i'm from the south," persisted the object of their quest, turning to bruce. "a free trader, i tell you." his gestures were of irritation. dunvegan smiled a cold, triumphant smile. he delighted in the loss of his enemy's cool demeanor, in the failure of his self-possession. "ferguson," he began, "you're a weak liar. your accent betrays you. we have you identified to our satisfaction, and your next interview will be with macleod. i warn you that this first meeting with the factor may be your last and only one, so carry yourself accordingly!" dunvegan broke off, waving an arm to his band. "bind him!" he added. the hudson's bay men closed in, but black ferguson fell back, a defiant sneer on his handsome face directed at the chief trader. "one minute!" he parleyed insolently. "what's your name?" "bruce dunvegan." "i've heard of you," ferguson sneered. "perhaps," chuckled the chief trader. "most nor'westers have. but i wouldn't advise you to resist my men unless you want to get roughly handled." "i've heard of you," the other repeated tauntingly; "heard of you as one of the company's bravest. is this how you show your courage? you have one, two, three--nine, without counting the dwarf. and you spring upon a solitary man. dunvegan, you're a cursed coward!" before dunvegan had felt the depressing gloom of the nor'wester's shadow. now he felt the flaming insult of the nor'wester's flesh. under that insult his blood stung as under the stroke of a dog-whip. the scintillating fire grew in his darkened eyes. his teeth gleamed white between his drawn lips. "back, men," was his snarling command. "i never ask you to do what i'm afraid to do myself." he leaped from the table and strode across to his enemy. black ferguson stood perfectly still till dunvegan was almost upon him. then he plunged low with a wolf-like spring. what grip the nor'wester took the other men never knew, but they saw the chief trader's big form whirled in the air under the tremendous leverage of some arm-and-leg hold. when he came down, dunvegan was flat on his face upon the floor. black ferguson sat astride his back, pinning the chief trader's arms to the planks. "you're quite helpless," ferguson cried, laughing at his adversary and sneering at the circle of amazed men. "that's a wrestler's trick. i learned it in--in vermont. what'll you do about that binding? i fancy----" a grip of iron on his throat killed the words. ferguson gurgled and twisted his head, casting his eyes down to see whose hands held him. but there were no hands. dunvegan had swept his muscular legs up over his back and crossed them in an unbreakable hold about the nor'wester's neck. like lightning he swung them down with all the power of his sinewy body. torn from his momentary position as the upper dog, black ferguson crashed to the floor. his head seemed nearly wrenched off. his breath was hammered out. dunvegan crouched on his chest, choking him into submission, but even in this strait he had voice enough to spring his big surprise. "la roche! la roche!" he roared in a gasping shriek which sounded more like the desperate death rattle in some wild throat than a human call. "to me, comrades! to me!" something dashed out the candlelight. a gun roared in the doorway. the cabin rocked under a powerful assault. it all came in a whirl that dazed dunvegan's brain. he heard the chug of bullets through the rotten logs, the oaths of his men, the battle cry of the rushing nor'westers who had been craftily lying in wait. "damn you!" he cried to his prostrate antagonist, "this is your devilish trap!" in a flash he understood that ferguson had got wind of their coming and laid a trap for them. dunvegan's force in his power, and oxford house would be an easier prey! and desirée lazard an easier prey still! a madness seized dunvegan. he vowed that black ferguson should pay the penalty! his fingers closed on the man's wind-pipe, but a falling beam hit him on the shoulder, hurling him away from his enemy and half-way through the door amid the rush of feet. there was little return shooting till dunvegan squirmed into the open. then he began it with his pistols, leading a dash for the canoe and shouting the hudson's bay cry. their guns belching fire across the dark, the hardy band zigzagged among the trees, covering their retreat to the cove with a rattling fusillade that kept the pursuing nor'westers at a distance. connear and burke ran knee deep into the water with the big craft. gaspard follet was the first to leap in, but he sank clean through the bottom with a howl of dismay. like a dripping rag they pulled him out, and connear completely exhausted his store of sailor's expletives. "silence," ordered dunvegan sharply. "what's wrong with you there?" the nor'westers were shooting from the incline above the cove and their bullets spat in the water. "hole in her as big as a whaleboat," connear growled. "we're caught in a trap, and those blasted nor'west lubbers know it." it seemed that the enemy had worsted them at every turn. the lake offered no means of escape, neither did the morass, and the nor'westers held the slope. dunvegan wondered why they had so easily fought their way to the canoe. now he knew the reason. the nor'west leader thought that he had them hemmed in, that their extermination was already a decided fact. then would come his surprise of oxford house! the scoundrel was brainy, without a doubt. his ruse had been clever. but he had forgotten one thing--the topography of the country! there was a way out other than that up the incline and over the muzzles of the nor'west rifles. the path lay across the black morass which ringed the bay, and dunvegan knew that path. "are we all here?" he asked suddenly of his men. "all but michael barreau and gray eagle," connear answered. "someone caved in michael's head with a gun stock; gray eagle was shot--i saw him fall! and old running wolf fired the shot!" "the cree joined them, eh? i expected that. where's maskwa?" "here, strong father," called the ojibway fort runner. "what is your will?" "you know the beaver dam, the wall across the meadows?" dunvegan inquired. "you remember it, the new dam we found some moons ago?" "i remember well," maskwa answered solemnly. "did not strong father carry me over that----" "never mind," the chief trader interrupted hastily. "if you remember the place, lead these men to it. when you get across, hurry up mooswa hill and light the beacon. i'll come last! now then, altogether with the guns! give them a good volley to make them think we are preparing to storm. then slip away." the fusillade boomed and roared. return volleys belched out. oxford lake rumbled and quaked with a million echoes. like heavy artillery the black powder thundered. then dead silence fell. expecting instant attack, the nor'westers lay close, but the inaction continuing, their scout worked down close to the beach and found it deserted. at that moment dunvegan's file was crossing the long beaver dam. the hudson's bay men had their guns slung to their backs. all except maskwa and the chief trader carried long poles in their hands, with which they saved themselves when they missed their footing and sank to the armpits in the rubbish of the structure. maskwa was leading the line. pete connear walked next. when they had reached the solid ridge and were waiting for the others, connear poked the ojibway's muscled back. "what's that yarn you started to tell back there about bein' carried over this rickety dam?" he asked. "the day of the great wind, three moons ago," began maskwa unemotionally, "strong father upset with me in my canoe out in the big waters beyond caribou point. i took the bad medicine, the cramp, and the lake spirits nearly had me. but strong father swam out with me, pumped my breath back, and carried me over the dam of the little wise ones to the company's post, for our canoe was in pieces on the rocks. strong father will not talk about it." "by--the sailors'--god!" exclaimed pete connear slowly. then he whistled siren fashion in failure of further speech, while the tall ojibway bounded like a spikehorn up the mooswa hill. when the last of dunvegan's men had crossed the bridge built by nature's children, swift maskwa had accomplished his mission. as they ran down the ridge toward the post, the beacon flamed, a pillar of fire, against the dark sky. on through the stockade gates under nemaire's challenge they sped. and the hudson's bay stronghold shook itself into ready defense at dunvegan's news. but although they lay upon their arms, no attack came. ferguson's intent had miscarried. yet the surprises of the night were not done. when macleod made search for his daughter to see if she could throw any light on recent nor'west movements he found her gone and his own canoe missing from the landing. chapter ix who rules himself "you won your battle the other evening," remarked father brochet to dunvegan a few days after. "take care you do not lose this one." brochet's finger was levelled on the trail below the hudson's bay company's store. the chief trader stared and frowned. the two figures strolling over the path, edwin glyndon to his morning's business as clerk and desirée lazard for small purchases which were now growing very frequent, had been too much together of late to suit the chief trader's taste. "brochet," he spoke darkly, "i'm jealous of that fellow. i hate his cursed good looks, his woman's eyes, his easy manners! and mark this, father, i could have him drafted in a minute to our farthest post. often i'm tempted to do it!" the kindly priest laid a hand on dunvegan's arm, feeling the chief trader's muscles tighten under his inward emotions. "son," brochet observed, "these are strenuous hours with the agents of two great companies striving for the overlordship. but in the midst of all the conflicts, the defeats, the triumphs, who is the real victor?" "the hudson's bay company," declared dunvegan loyally. the priest laughed. "not the material conqueror," he explained. "i mean what sort of spirit holds the real supremacy?" "the man with the heaviest hand," was the chief trader's practical answer. "no," brochet contradicted, "the man who rules himself! if you sent away this handsome edwin glyndon out of envy, you would be only indulging your own petty hate. conquer your passions, my son. that is the true kingship! if you cannot win a woman's will on your merits, don't win it at all. no benefit ever came of such a victory gained by nothing but strength or craft." dunvegan paced uneasily in front of his trading room, his eyes glancing furtively toward the blank doorway of the store through which glyndon and desirée had disappeared. "yet i go this afternoon with my men to build kamattawa, leaving a free field to him," he brooded. "is that not giving glyndon an advantage which you advise me not to take myself. the rule works both ways it seems to me." "that," brochet declared judicially, "is the natural course of things. the other is quite different. have you any objection to his work as a clerk?" "none! he handles the books and the pen better than any we ever had." "then it would be an injustice," the priest concluded. "glyndon deserves his chance. how about his vice?" "there is no opportunity to pamper his appetite here," laughed dunvegan. "if he were alongside the nor'wester's free rum barrel, i would not answer for him. but i trust your judgment, brochet. things stay as they are. now i must finish my trading with the indians or i shall not get away on schedule." "i intend paddling with you a little way to bid you farewell," the priest announced as he started over the trail. "it may be i shall have someone with me in my canoe." his brown eyes twinkled. the suspicion of a smile curved his lips. dunvegan, looking sharply at him, flushed, and a hopeful gleam lighted his countenance. "father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. that would please me very much." he watched the portly form pass on and wondered at the big heart that beat under the black cassock. "dunvegan!" called the deep voice of malcolm macleod. the chief trader turned about to see the factor standing on the veranda of his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "how many indians have yet to get their debt?" he asked. "twenty," bruce replied. "eight ojibways and a dozen wood crees." "are they all in?" "all but running wolf's tribe! the other indian camps are ready to strike their tepees. the twenty men are waiting outside the yard." "run them off as fast as possible," the factor ordered. "i'll attend to the preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may be lacking. noon should see you started." dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh. "oh, yes!" shouted macleod, halting him. "what about beaver tail the iroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in the spring?" "i cut him off the company's book as you ordered." "give him his full debt," the factor said. "the poor devil has been sickly, i understand, and not up to his usual prowess as a hunter. we'll let him have another chance!" it was an unexpected freak of generosity in macleod's adamant nature. the chief trader raised his eyebrows, expressing involuntary surprise, but he made no comment. from his trading room door he beckoned to the assembled group of indian trappers beyond the tall palings enclosing the yard. a pair of ojibways stalked forward, big otter, the great old hunter who had been on the company's list for thirty years, and running fire, on the trail a scant three winters and just beginning to acquire fame as a trapper. in friendly fashion dunvegan looked into their spare, smoky faces and hawk-like eyes which seemed to hold only surface lights. "running fire, my brother," he commenced, "your debt on the company's books is three hundred beaver. here i give you three hundred castors to trade in what you will. take them, my brother, and because you are so faithful on the hunt i add ten castors more. does it satisfy you, running fire?" "surely," spoke the ojibway. "strong father has the kind heart. behold when the snows melt will i bring him a pack mightier than ever." he took the string of wooden castors dunvegan offered and, nodding his satisfaction, strode off to the store where he would barter the counters which represented half-dollars in money value for the supplies he would require during his winter's hunt. there he would buy powder and ball, clothing, blankets. he would stock up with sugar, tea, and flour. a wonderful knife or axe might take his fancy. and what remained of his purse would be squandered on fascinating, but useless, finery. big otter traded next. the way he leaned over dunvegan's counter showed that they were old friends. "now comes my weak brother, he of the old limbs, the aged bones, the waning strength," bantered the chief trader. "for him there is a debt of one hundred castors recorded." but big otter smiled at dunvegan's joke, knowing that his limbs were sound as any young buck's, remembering that his catch ran well over three hundred. "strong father's tongue makes merry," he returned. "where is the youthful brave who can follow my tracks?" "i don't know him," admitted the chief trader, laughing, "but running fire is making a mighty name. some fine day he may follow you." big otter sniffed in contradiction. "let us wait and see," he suggested. dunvegan passed over a string of castors longer than the previous one. "three hundred and fifty castors is your debt, great one," he smiled, "and to them i add twenty. thus you stand high with us. but in return for the present you must tell me how you manage to keep your peace of mind, your strength of body." the unweakened ojibway chuckled quietly. "i love not," he answered. "i hate not. i dream not." abruptly he strode out. and dunvegan, pondering, wondered if ever was born the white man who could thus get his debt in life. all the long forenoon the indian trappers came to get their credit. the six remaining ojibways filed up. appeared the twelve wood crees. the emaciated iroquois beaver tail came humbly and in gratitude. but running wolf's band from the katchawan failed to arrive. not a hunter of his tribe showed face in the palisaded yard. no canoe from his camps touched prow on oxford shore. although malcolm macleod had before boasted his unconcern at such an issue, the confronting of the stern truth weighed upon his taciturn spirits. the cree chief had fallen in with black ferguson's party and joined it, because he had been seen fighting in their ranks but a few nights earlier. the fact that none of his kind had reported showed that running wolf had reached them by messenger. doubtless by now the fiery three feathers and his brethren had swelled the nor'west forces. this knowledge plunged macleod in a black mood. he rushed the preparations for the departure of the brigade. he commanded. he rebuked. he disciplined. he rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurs sweated under the yoke. but when the noon hour was come, he had them marshalled on the beach all ready for their journey. loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the big fleet of canoes pointed over oxford's waters. the crowd cheered madly, dinning farewells and firing continual _feu-de-joies_. they thrilled at the sight of the brawn going forth to build kamattawa to shut out the nor'westers from the valley. these looked able to do it; brown-armed white men; swarthy post indians; the hardy _mètis_; the dashing voyageurs. the watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for the indefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countless brigades on some stern mission for the company. for him they raised a stormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men of the fleet. but dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. the last glance he cast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the face of edwin glyndon. two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead, searching the island-dotted expanse of water. many miles of silver surface oxford lake unrolled before them; many long, peaceful, shining miles! an intense calm mirrored it. the fiery, autumn sun glazed the whole. the vivid shores floated double along its sides. the sky lay down in its depths with great fish swimming among the white clouds; while so still swooned the water that the very veining and shading of color in the reflected foliage could be definitely traced. as over silvered glass was the passing of the brigade. each blotch of canoe bottom, each bit of overhanging duffle, each quivering sinew straining on the paddle flashed up from below. lightening the labor of their stroke, the debonair voyageurs broke into their familiar boating song: "_en roulant ma boule roulante----_" and chanting more swiftly, they sang in voices which blended with the artistic charm nature alone can give: "_ah fils du roi, tu es mèchant, en roulant ma boule, toutes les plumes s'en vont au vent, rouli roulant, ma boule roulant._" by windy island they quickened their pace, chorusing loudly: "_en roulant ma boule roulante, en roulant ma boule; derrière chez-nous y-a-t-un' ètang; en roulant ma boule._" so the brigade went. and oxford house crouched low in the distance. chapter x the cause invincible off caribou point wahbiscaw, the bowsman of dunvegan's canoe, cried out sharply in his native tongue. the craft turned aside from a jagged reef of rock that poked like a pike's nose almost to the surface. then they sped on with increasing rapidity. the cree knew every channel, every fang, every shoal, every bar in the shallows of oxford lake. and of every other lake and river in his district there was a map in his mind. it is the unequalled gift of the true red man to remember country over which he has travelled but once. not only does he recall the trails or the waterways but the things which go to make those trails or waterways. he can place the smooth current, the broken, the rapid, the eddy, the rocks, the bends of shore. even the indian youth quickly acquires such power of recollection. the retentive faculty is developed to an enormous degree by those who roam in the wilderness. ahead of the brigade loomed wasita island, a cliff of crag and spruce sunk to its knees in some volcanic crater which had opened under it aeons ago. its headlands were scarred and seamed, old in time, marked with the brand of chaos that had once rocked the mighty northland as the tornado rocks the balsams. dunvegan, mechanically doing his work as steersman, scanned the shores for a glimpse of a canoe. at last he placed it on the island margin drawn up in a little cove called spirit bay. it was directly in the course of the brigade. his heart beats quickened. "faster," he commanded the paddlers, and steered closer to the island shore. "spirit bay?" questioned the stolid cree bowsman. "so!" answered his leader. he made a motion for the rest of the fleet to continue on its way. the chief trader's canoe slipped over a white sandbar and nosed in against the rock alongside the other empty craft which required no tying in the absence of any lake swell. "behold the canoe of _ayume-aookemou_, the praying man," spoke wahbiscaw, puzzled. but with a command for him to wait in silence dunvegan was climbing the rocks. up on the peak of the boulder-like island he found desirée and father brochet. "see," she laughed, her beauty increased tenfold by the splendor of sun and sky, "we have come this far to bid you farewell. are you not grateful? it is far to come to say a sentence or two!" she gave him her hands, smiling saucily into his eyes. no vision he had ever seen or dreamed of was so entrancing, so tempting, and yet so human! "grateful? ah--yes!" he breathed. "but pray god you may come this far to meet me on my return! would you?" he retained the hands that made him quiver. "who knows?" desirée pouted teasingly. "the snows will be lying deep. you may come in a blizzard! who knows?" like a red ring her lips allured. father brochet piously turned his back. if there was a passionate kiss, he did not see it. he heard only the heart strain in dunvegan's voice; saw only the great yearning in his eyes. "your vow?" he asked. "will you hold it till i come?" "yes--and after," she plagued. "till i come," dunvegan pleaded. "yes," desirée answered, softening. "i told you i would never marry a hudson's bay man." "keep it well, then," he adjured--"till i come!" it took effort to release her warm palms! dunvegan turned hastily to the priest. "good-bye, brochet." their hands welded. "_a dieu_," murmured his friend. there was a mist in dunvegan's eyes as he walked. father brochet noted that he stumbled a little in reaching the canoe. "wik! wik!" wahbiscaw called. the craft slanted through the channel and was gone. brochet, watching closely, saw a great void grow in desirée's eyes. "ah," he mused, "if this had been return!" september smiled between the scarlet curtains of the moose maples upon dunvegan's arrival in the katchawan valley. october glared through the bare lattice work of the branches at the upstanding walls of trading room, store and blockhouse. november swept wrathfully down the open forest lanes, blustering a frosty challenge to the hive of men toiling at the roofing over, the gabling in, the palisading. but the challenge rang too late. kamattawa's stockades grinned back undaunted. behind them crouched the broad-bulked buildings, weather-proof, grim, impregnable alike to destructive elements and predatory foes. there still remained the finer inside work; the flooring, the store shelving, the compartment shaping, the counter making for the trading room, the stairs of the same and the grill in the supply loft above. but all this could be accomplished with comparative luxury in the warmth of the fireplaces whose birch flames crackled defiance to the cold. the incidents of the hudson's bay men's journey to the valley and the log of events during the post's building stand in bold orthography upon the daybook of the fort. one hundred spacious pages the story covers. and because bruce dunvegan was not given to write of trifles, the sheets claim a sequence of bold facts which prompt the imagination with the allurement of boundless suggestion. for instance, there is a line telling that they encountered a squall on trout lake. but the yellow paper says nothing of how for hours they bucked the monstrous seas which broke over the canoe bows till each bailer's muscles cramped under the strain of clearing shipped water, or how the craft, sliding meteor-like down the passed surge crests, slapped and pounded in the wave troughs till the bottoms broke in rents and the daring crews won the shore race with death by a scant paddle's stroke. likewise a brief obituary states that gabriel fonderel was killed in a skirmish with some of running wolf's tribe at the channel du loup. yet there is no word of how the now hostile crees, strong in numbers and led by the fiery three feathers held back dunvegan's men for four days till finally the chief trader ran the rocky passage in the dark beneath a vicious fire that wounded a half-dozen voyageurs besides snuffing out fonderel's breath. two burnings of the unfinished palisades by stealthy enemies; three night attacks of combined bodies of nor'westers and running wolf's crees; the finding of a full powder bag standing among the flour sacks drying before the fire--all these were mildly noted! but between the brief lines of this daybook which reposed upon dunvegan's desk in the trading room of fort kamattawa could be read the whole round of a virile, courageous existence; could be felt the pulse of danger and hidden menace; could be witnessed the keen drama of the inimical wilderness conflict. crowded into these northmen's short span of months were years of endeavor. they took cognizance of no restraining limits to this and that undertaking. theirs were the herculean things, the endless creations, the hot ambitions. out of the vast resources of the northland they established a well-defined era, a cycle of supremacy, an epoch of undying history which would round their full conquest of the land. the powerful instruments of their healthy bodies were applied by the shrewdness of their concentrated minds, guarded always by the blessing of sane leadership. through his wise counsels bruce dunvegan conserved the powers of his retainers and turned them along the required channels, directing brain and sinew, blood and spirit, to the profit of the ancient and honorable company. over every part of the fort hung his rigid, progressive discipline. at daybreak all the post indians, the voyageurs, the h. b. c. servants were engaged upon their various tasks, fashioning, constructing, finishing! they labored with care, but with the merriest of dispositions. at seven they breakfasted. in an hour the hum of work rose again. leisure could wait for the deep winter snows! outside the trading room a great flagstaff was reared before the ground froze too solidly. up the pine stick ran the company's crimson ensign, marking another step of conquest, flinging defiance to the nor'westers, shutting out the stronghold of fort la roche from the katchawan valley. tumultuous cheering greeted the first flap of the banner. shouts more sincere than patriotic cries rang out loudly. the company's adherents but voiced their allegiance. "_vive la compagnie!_" exulted the impetuous baptiste verenne, a typical voyageur. "_grace à dieu!_" pealed his comrades, stridently--"_grace à dieu!_" like some wild orison to an invisible god--the company god it might be--their musical tongues chanted the phrase. could the nor'westers have seen these outland sons thus greet their flag, chests big with the emotional breath of love, cheeks bright with the inspiring blood that comes of proud prestige, eyes burning with the fire of eternal loyalty, they would have stopped to think. could black ferguson have witnessed the scene, he would have understood that he was combating not iron determination alone; not reckless strength, not unswerving pertinacity, but a stern faith in a power so vast as to be almost beyond comprehension; a belief in a precedence dominant and complete, a love of an ideal which even death could not conquer because it extended beyond through that exalted medium of heroism. and where the ideal is raised to the clear eye of faith rests the cause invincible. chapter xi tidings of war as an auspicious omen on kamattawa indian summer came down with its fragrant sigh and its transient flash of yellow radiance. then the winds fell strangely mute. some unseen magic permeated the calm. earth and air lay breathless with the prophecy of change. a little cold caress on his tanned cheek, a tang on his lips, a familiar tingle in his sinews foretold the prophecy's fulfillment to baptiste verenne when he sauntered in one night from his trail-blazing. he inspected the sullen sky a moment and shook his head as he strode through the gates to the blockhouse. "wintaire!" he announced briefly to dunvegan. "she be comin' _vite_ on de _nord_ wind, m'sieu'." the chief trader tilted his browned face skyward and clutched the air tentatively to get the feel of the weather. "not far off! not far off, baptiste," he calculated. "it may close in any night, and we'll see a white world when we wake of a morning." verenne's arm slanted, pointing over the palisades. "see dat?" he cried. a circling wind, the first of many days, eddied the leaves lying against the stockade, piled them in a wreath thirty feet high in the air with gentle motion peculiarly distinctive to a close observer, then ruthlessly disintegrated the whole. "an dat?" baptiste added. a whizzing phalanx of wild geese blurred the distant horizon, bored like a rocket from sky to sky, and pierced the invisible distance. "w'en dey fly dat way," averred baptiste, "de wintaire right on dere tails! she be come _toute suite_, m'sieu'." and it did! a greasy wrack of clouds masked the sunset. the north wind blew out of the arctic circle with a humming like vibrating wires. the wraith of desolation went eerily shrieking round and round. then out of inky space the snow came down, driving fiercely on a forty-mile gale to smother the gauntness of the rugged forest in a swirl of white. for thirty-six hours the frozen flakes pelted the stout stockades. the snow lay in foamy levels in the timber, ten feet deep in the hollows, and wind-packed to tremendous hardness on the ice-bound lakes and rivers. the days became less strenuous now in fort kamattawa. the nights grew long. the hudson's bay men attended to their winter needs and equipments, while the post indians fashioned snowshoes with native quickness and skill. there came a brief, cold, sleety rain which settled the drifts and the subsequent hard frosts formed a crust that made excellent tripping on the raquettes. the first tripper over the trail was basil dreaulond carrying company dispatches on his way to nelson house. he lurched in one night in the midst of a whistling storm with his dog team and a halfbreed assistant. the world outside the fort was a shrieking maelstrom of snow and cutting blasts. inside the men sat close together about the roaring fireplace. so blinding was the tempest that kamattawa's sentinel in the blockhouse tower could see nothing from his frosted windows and did not mark the courier's approach till basil and the breed were hammering upon the closed gates with their rifle-butts. eugene demorel slid back the shutter in the watchtower and leaned out, his gun trained on the entrance. "de password," he bellowed. "who comes dere?" "_diable_ tak' de password," roared basil who was half frozen. "i'm dreaulond. open dis gate queeck!" on the inferno of the elements his words puffed up like faint echoes, but eugene demorel knew the courier's tone. the stockade opened for a second, a raging snowgap in the draught. basil stumbled into the log store. "_holá, camarade_," they greeted joyously. "how do you like the weather?" "_mauvais_," groaned dreaulond, leaning toward the flames. "_saprie_, but she be cold!" dunvegan took the papers macleod had sent to him and read them. they concerned ordinary matters of fort routine and gave him no news of the home post. "how is everything at oxford house, basil?" he inquired with ill-concealed eagerness. "everyt'ing be quiet," returned the courier. "de nor'westaires don' move mooch." his eyes, however, held a hint of private information, and the chief trader did not miss the glance. "come to the trading room when you get warmed, dreaulond," he requested. "i'd like to see you." "_oui_," assented basil. "w'en i get dis cold out ma bones." dunvegan disappeared. the hudson's bay men volleyed their questions at dreaulond. they were ravenous for word of their kind from whom the busy months had cut them off. between questions he slowly revolved before the fireplace, warming his chest, scorching his back, sucking the heat into his chilled marrow. "any news of the factor's daughter?" connear asked him. "_non!_" basil frowned and added: "she's wit' black ferguson, i bet on dat. she got de spirit of her _père_. she'd go to la roche an' mak' heem geeve her sheltaire." "and running wolf gone over to him, too. we found that out. that whelp three feathers made it hot enough for us at du loup." connear spat copiously into the snarling birch logs and grinned at the remembrance of the fight. "how's the english clerk?" he asked after a minute. "drinkin' any?" "dey don' geeve heem any chance," replied dreaulond. "dat's de ordaire from hees parents. an' we don't want drunk mans on de post at dis taim of de great dangaire." in basil's tone they discovered an unwonted gravity, as if he had knowledge of new developments which he was keeping from them. "what's up?" asked pete, always interested in secrets. "if there's anything on foot, let us have it, for it's got to be bloomin' dull here. i miss my grog. i'd give a month's pay for a good glass now." "i don't know anyt'ing new," the courier returned. "eef you want to grog, go ovaire to de nor'westaire. dey drink her pretty free." "yes. black ferguson swears by it." "dis black ferguson wan devil," declared dreaulond, passing into the trading room. "now he be run after desirée lazard, but she not be look at heem!" from his desk dunvegan glanced steadily at the courier. "no letter, basil?" he bit his lip on the question. "_non_," replied his friend. "i'm sorry, me." "something's wrong," blurted the chief trader. "tell me what it is. has the nor'wester had speech with desirée?" dunvegan's voice was strained, his fingers clenched white on the wood of his desk. "not dat," basil explained awkwardly. "de dangaire is in anoder quartaire! desirée an' dis edwin glyndon dey togedder mooch--ver' mooch. all de autumn taim dey canoe, dey walk, dey spik alone. dat be not ma beezness! _vraiment_ dat none of ma affair. _mais_, i t'ink you want know, mebbe, an' i be tell you w'at i see. dey togedder all de taim!" dreaulond stepped to the door. his actions like his sentences were brief and full of significance. the chief trader's voice followed him, an odd, low tone the courier had never heard him use. "thank you, basil," was his only comment. "thank you, for that information." alone, he strode immediately into the darkness of his sleeping apartment where he walked the floor, brooding gloomily. dawn heard his footsteps still falling. three days after dreaulond's departure for nelson house maskwa, the swiftest fort runner in the service, dashed over the bluffs, springing madly on his long, webbed running shoes. he had out-distanced the trio of breeds following with three dog teams, and he pushed dispatches of importance into dunvegan's hands. "half our number leave to-morrow for oxford house," the chief trader announced to his retainers as he read. "men from two of the nor'west posts, brondel and dumarge, have sacked our fur trains from the shamattawa and the wokattiwagan. the factor will go to raze fort dumarge. we outfit at oxford house and move against fort brondel." a cheer hit the rafters. unprecedented activity followed. the breeds blew in with the exhausted giddés. recuperation came to these company dogs with the night's rest, and into the bitter dawn they were haled. the cold struck nippingly at bare fingers that loaded arms and travelling necessities on the sledges, lashed the moosehide covers over the provender, and tied the stubborn babiche knots. likewise the frost squeezed the hands that harnessed the dogs. the giddés themselves whined and stirred uneasily in the cold. they were eager for the rush that would make their blood run warm. those of the fort who were to stay behind helped in the work. long practice and consummate skill accomplished starting preparations in the shortest possible time. the dog teams sprang through the gateway at the release, and a shout of farewell thundered. "_bonheur, camarades!_" was the word. "_a dieu! a dieu!_" "_pour_ shamattawa! _pour_ wokattiwagan!" rang the responses from the loyal hudson's bay men. "_marche! marche!_" called the breeds to the _giddés_, and the cavalcade swung over the long trail. chapter xii "you may come in a blizzard!" "_voyez les_ kamattawa trains," shrieked maurice nicolet, the cache runner, speeding through the storm-thrashed gates of oxford house. "_mon dieu_, dat so?" exclaimed clement nemaire. "in dis blizzard? w'ere you be see dem, maurice?" "'cross de _lac_! w'en de snow she stop fallin' some, i see dose trains wan meenit come ovaire de trail." "run!" nemaire admonished. "tell de factor dat, queeck!" the cache runner bolted into the trading room. macleod was not there. donald muir, the assistant trader, held charge. "_les_ kamattawa trains," he howled. "m'sieu', dey be come ovaire de _lac_." bargaining ceased. trade slipped from the men's minds. donald muir jumped up and squinted through the open doorway, distinguishing nothing in the swishing cloud-rifts of snow. he turned back with a shiver and jammed the latch viciously. "maurice, ye fule," he ridiculed. "i've na doot ye'll be seein' ghosts next! ye dinna glint onything but a herd o' caribou driftin' before the storm." "_bâ, oui_," persisted nicolet, "w'en de storm she be sheeft wan leetl' bit an' de cloud break oop, i see dose trains 'cross de _lac_. _vraiment_, dat's so!" maurice nodded his head energetically and added a string of french superlatives. "fetch me the glass," ordered old donald muir. a man brought the glass, a long ship's telescope which pete connear had bestowed upon oxford house. in spite of having seen hard service, it was a good glass, and the same lens that had picked out many a foresail upon the high seas now searched the whirling smother which enveloped the frozen surface of oxford lake for signs of the men from kamattawa. donald muir wedged the rattling door with his knees and sighted through the open slit, the hissing snow-eddies spitting in his beard. "yon's a glint o' dogs!" he exclaimed. "noo the snaw's smoorin' in. i doot, i doot--ah! yes, i maun believe ye're richt, nicolet! aye, mon, ye're richt. i can tell the stride o' yon lang-legged fort runner maskwa an' the bulk o' dunvegan. spread yersels, ye fules--they're here!" boring through undeterred, breaking the trail for the teams, taking the brunt of the blizzard came the tireless ojibway fort runner. the body bent double against the wind, the lurch of hips, the spring from the heel, the toe-twist of the lifting shoe, all bespoke the experienced tripper. maskwa was old and wise on the trails! a string of gray dots, the dog teams and the kamattawa men crawled after. up the bank they plunged and scurried through the stockade, scattering the loose drifts like foam. "hu! hu! hu!" shrieked the indian dog drivers, directing the teams to the trading door with a tremendous cracking of their long lashes. there the _giddés_ halted, whimpering in the traces. the arms and equipments were thrown inside. the storm-harried travelers stumbled after. "maurice, ye fule," fumed donald muir, "fire up. dinna stan' there wi' yer mouth open! fire up, mon, fire up! can ye no see it's heat they want?" the fussy, kind hearted assistant trader seized dunvegan's arm and hustled his superior to his room where he had thoughtfully prepared a set of dry garments. "yon's wha' ye need," he declared. "ye'll feel warmer wi' a change." his attitude was full of solicitude hidden by a sort of proprietorship that dunvegan had long ago come to recognize. "you're like a mother to me, donald," he laughed. "but i'm really wet through with hard work. the change of clothing is well thought of." "the factor wants tae confer wi' ye as soon as ye feel fit," announced the scot. "i masel maun see tae the outfits." he bustled off, sending halfbreeds with the dog teams to the log building where the company's _giddés_ were kept, ordering food for men and animals, bestowing general comfort upon the kamattawa stalwarts crouched around the fireplace. sandy stewart, the lowland scot, had been left in charge of the newly-built fort. the rest of dunvegan's tired followers were here. the flames licked the bronzed, familiar faces of pete connear, terence burke, baptiste verenne, maskwa, wahbiscaw, the hardy halfbreeds, the trusted post indians, the faithful _mètis_. loyal to the company, they were here at the company's call. and they had come as desirée lazard had idly prophesied. "kip back," maurice nicolet ordered the oxford house loungers round the fire. "let dese men have more room. you be well fed, warm--full of _tabac_ smoke. kip back. better go ovaire to de store." the permanent group obeyed. the new arrivals moved closer. maurice stoked up, jamming huge birch logs into the cavernous stone pit till it roared and throbbed like a giant engine. every flicker of the warming fire draught sent the shivers over their frames, the reaction that comes of thorough chilling. "ba gosh," chattered baptiste verenne, "dis ees de wors' blizzard yet. _saprie_, leesten dat, _mes camarades_!" a tree crashed thunderously in the forest. gathering momentum over the level sweep of oxford lake, the blasts struck the stockade with a sound like the rumbling of a thousand ice jams. the buildings rocked to the storm's wrath. monstrous drifts threatened to bury them completely. the baffled frost, denied entrance, blew its angry, congealing breath inch-thick upon the blurred window panes. "sound lak de spreeng, eh?" grinned baptiste. "we'll run into a calm in the morning," pete connear prophesied knowingly. "she's been blowin' for fifty hours now. you'll see the wind drop about midnight." verenne made a gesture of unbelief. "mebbe," he grunted, "mebbe." "i know it," growled connear. "let me tell you, frenchy, that i've weathered more gales than you ever heard of. it'll be calm to-morrow and colder than a belle isle ice-berg." he lighted the pipe he had filled and lay back within the heat circle blowing clouds of contentment. dunvegan dressed hastily. he was anxious to get out and go through his interview with the factor in order that he might then have some time to pay a visit to a certain small cabin below the chapel. he had not seen edwin glyndon, the clerk when he came in. bruce wondered jealously if the young englishman was at the lazard home. the words of basil dreaulond, given as a friendly hint, had worked in him with the yeast of unrest, stirring up misgivings, forebodings, positive fears. when bruce crossed the trading room, he looked for glyndon again, but the latter was not to be seen. "where's the clerk?" he asked, addressing his retainers sprawling close to the ruddy logs in the fireplace. "don't know," connear answered. "i haven't seen him. guess he's with the other oxford house men. they're over at the store. old donald's gone across to start the packing." "better have your things dry and your gear all ready to-night," was the chief trader's parting advice. "unless there is a change of plans, we start at dawn for fort brondel." while he made his way to the factor's house, the terrific wind seemed lessening in velocity, and the snow was settling in straighter lines. yet the swaying forest held its dejected droop. the air had still that voice of wild desolation, symbolic of sorrow, of heart-break, of desecration. seated somberly at the table in his council room, malcolm macleod did not speak at dunvegan's entrance. the chief trader, quite accustomed to the factor's vagaries, waited unconcernedly on macleod's whim. buried in his dark ruminations, the factor sat immovable, his knitted eyebrows meeting, his piercing black eyes focused on the table center. suddenly he banged the top with his fist. "the girl flora," he bellowed. "any trace, any sight of her?" "none," dunvegan answered calmly. "i don't think we'll see her again till we stand inside the stockades of fort la roche." "which will be soon," grated macleod, with sinister emphasis. "i'll stand there, mind you, before spring runs out. i swear it by all the saints and devils of heaven and hell!" the oath was heartily backed by his malignant face and the suggestive gnash of strong teeth behind tightened lips. the chief trader drew some closely written sheets from his pocket. "here is my report," he ventured by way of getting macleod's mind lifted from his hateful brooding. "this is the record of my daybook in duplicate. it will tell you everything. while good fortune blessed us at kamattawa, things seem to have gone badly with you here." "gone badly," echoed the factor, sneeringly. "i call the loss of two fur trains, ten men, and a clerk hellish." "clerk? was glyndon with them? did he fall in the fight?" eager curiosity was mingled with dunvegan's great astonishment. "no," growled macleod, "he wasn't with the fur trains. how could he be? just a week ago to-day he married lazard's niece, and they fled together." chapter xiii a vow that held as a man who gets a knife blade in the ribs dunvegan settled back in his chair. in spite of his tremendous self control, the pallor crept up through his tan. his eyes widened and remained so, staring glazily. the factor could not help but notice the change. he gazed a moment above the pages he held. "what's the matter?" he demanded in genuine surprise. then recollection coming, he added: "yes, i remember now. let that be a lesson to you, dunvegan. don't trust a woman out of your sight! i speak from hard experience." the chief trader pulled his pithless limbs together with an effort. "there is a mistake somewhere," he began in a quiet, hollow voice. "what you say cannot have happened." "why?" "as you know, desirée's feeling leaned toward the nor'westers. she registered a vow that she would never marry a hudson's bay man." "neither did she!" "great god," breathed dunvegan, "don't fool with riddles! speak it out!" "she didn't marry a hudson's bay man," macleod asserted grimly. "that damned traitor of a glyndon turned nor'wester and fled. now do you understand?" amid a tumultuous rush of mingling feelings, condemnation, anger, jealousy, despair, dunvegan understood to the bitter full. for several silent minutes he sat there, fighting his conflicting emotions, getting a grip on himself. the factor read on at the duplicate sheets with stolid absorption. "who married them?" was the question that interrupted. dunvegan had forced his vocal chords into mechanical action. "father brochet," muttered macleod, not looking up. "and where are they, do you know?" "not i," snarled the factor, stopping his study of the report. "most likely they are now in the nor'west fort at la roche." "with black ferguson! oh my god!" bruce leaped to his feet and paced and re-paced the council room with long, savage strides. the factor watched him, smiling cynically, as if at the discovery of some new trait in the man. a dozen times the chief trader tramped the floor. then he whirled in the middle of a stride. "this thing was planned," he averred. "the clerk was approached from the outside." "i know that." macleod's eyes darkened and narrowed a little. "by whom?" "it is obvious." "the nor'westers--directly?" "undoubtedly." the factor laid down the report upon the council table. dunvegan resumed his frantic walk, again pausing uncertainly. "but the means--the means!" he exclaimed petulantly. macleod's teeth snapped shut and opened grudgingly for his speech. "ha!" he gritted. "god pity the means--if i discover it! we have had spies sneaking about oxford house. sometimes i think they must have been inside the stockades, although that is a wild thought. be this fact as it may, the truth remains that glyndon was approached directly by an agent of the nor'westers. under the powerful combination of the enemy's inducements and the girl's persuasions his desertion must have been a comparatively easy matter." "curse his soft eyes!" cried the chief trader. "we might have known better than trust him. good lord, and they sent him away from london temptations in order that the company might give him a certificate of manhood! how, in heaven's name, could a man be made from a bit of slime, a rotten shell, and a colored rag? betrayal must have been born in him! did you order no pursuit?" the factor shook his shaggy hair as he gathered up the papers. "they had twenty hours start and good dogs," he explained. "besides, they fled while it was snowing and left no trail." "where's brochet?" demanded dunvegan suddenly and irrelevantly. "somewhere down blazing pine river on a mission to sick indians," malcolm macleod replied. "he left shortly after it happened." at the end of this questioning, with the little dream-things he had fashioned scattered to the far compass points as the blizzard outside had scattered the snow flakes, dunvegan felt the sickening of supreme despair. no visible resource stretched before him. he relapsed into sullen inertia. "is this all?" the factor asked, placing his duplicate sheets in numbered sequence. "all but one other thing." "and that?" dunvegan hesitated. "when i brought flora macleod and running wolf here," he commenced awkwardly, "i met a strange canoe on lake lemeau. in that canoe with two indian paddlers were two united states marshals named granger and garfield. their passes were good. their papers i requested of them." the chief trader paused to note the effect of his words on macleod. but there was no effect except that the factor had squared his bulk in his council chair as if to face an emergency. "go on," he urged grimly. "it seemed they were searching for a man whom they suspected of living in this wilderness under an assumed name. they had his photograph!" malcolm macleod shifted forward in a startled fashion. "you saw that photograph?" "i did." "you knew it?" "no." the movement of the factor's body was swiftly reversed. he breathed deeply with something of relief, a relief that fled at the chief trader's next statement. "i did not know the original of the picture," dunvegan asserted, "but i was told who it was." "by whom?" the question shot like a bullet. "by flora macleod. privately, you understand! her information was given me after these two marshals had gone." "whose picture was it?" macleod asked doggedly, with the manner of putting an issue to the test. "your own," the chief trader answered, "at the age of thirty." expecting a dynamic outburst, dunvegan was completely surprised at the factor's stoic composure. the massive limbs never offered to spring from the chair; the face preserved its rigid, inscrutable lines. "you were satisfied with that information, were you?" macleod interrogated. "yes." "it satisfies you still?" "it does." "you did not mention the circumstance at the time," the factor went on. "why refer to it now?" dunvegan leaned his arms on the table directly opposite macleod, meeting unafraid the piercing glances of those electric eyes, the eyes which he could now recognize as belonging to the original of the photograph. "because it is now necessary," he answered. "if it were not, i would not have opened the subject. in the space of another day, or two, those deputies will make oxford house. at this moment they are laid up beyond kabeke bluffs, not caring to face the blizzard. we passed them there." macleod was half out of his chair, an unspoken question blazing from those magnetic eyes. dunvegan answered it with hauteur and a little scorn. "i'm no informer," he declared. "somehow they've got trace of you at the other forts. these men had official entry to both hudson's bay and nor'west posts, and they must have covered the territory pretty well." "why do you tell me this?" demanded macleod, with sudden asperity. "out of a sense of duty." "you think me a hunted criminal?" the factor's tone held resentment and bitterness which was probably impersonal. "i forbear to think," answered dunvegan. "your affairs are none of my business." "yet you serve me! why serve a man with a supposed stain upon him? why not follow, rather, our friend glyndon's move?" "i serve the company," was the chief trader's response. "the moral status of the company's officers cannot effect that fundamental duty--service." the factor looked long at dunvegan, marveling at his integrity, his lack of low curiosity, his allegiance. "bruce," he said--and it was not often he used the christian name--"you're one of the true, northern breed, the shut-mouthed men! let me tell you a little phase of american life. twenty years ago there lived over there in one of the big cities a family by the name of macfarlane. the family consisted of the husband and wife, a daughter, and a son. there was also an intruding element, and this intruder was named james funster. you see, funster had loved macfarlane's wife before she married, and even after the marriage he could not like an honorable man get over his passion. do you follow me?" dunvegan nodded. he had guessed this much from former hints macleod had given him. "well," continued the factor, "project your thoughts ahead. imagine the mad things that come into the brain of the infatuated. imagine also macfarlane's horror at what happened. one day he was away with his daughter. on his return he found his wife murdered and the son stolen. without a doubt it was funster's work. but notice how fate acted! suspicion fell upon the husband, suggesting the motive of jealousy. he fled, and the blot still rests on his name." "how old were the children?" asked dunvegan, excitedly. "they were very young," macleod answered evasively; "just a year between them. i think i have said enough to show you that i am no criminal. that was twenty years ago, but the false accusation follows me." "and you," ventured bruce--"you are macfarlane!" "i am alexander macfarlane." "and where is funster?" "ah!" grated macleod. "tell _me_ that." dunvegan rose up, his own sorrow overshadowed by the portentous resurrection of an old tragedy. "you are innocent," he cried, "and those men will be here to-morrow or the next day." "and to-morrow, or the next day i shall be at fort dumarge!" "but they can follow." "let them! or let them await me here! what good will it do? they came in on a long trail, but by heaven they may go out on a longer one." dunvegan stared at the dark, glowering visage and shivered involuntarily. "what one?" he asked under his breath, although he knew. "_la longue traverse_," the factor decreed. chapter xiv the iron trail pluff! pluff! the crunching of maskwa's snowshoes sounded back through the bitter starlight of the dawn. taking advantage with his skilful heel-spring of the resilience of the taut shoe webbing and the elasticity of the curved frames, maskwa ran easily in a long, lurching stride. the shifting of his whole weight from one foot to the other sank his raquettes in the snow with uniform pressure. the ankle's side-swing came with unfailing precision. the ojibway traveled like a machine, perfectly poised and full of potential strength. thus he could run if need be from sun to sun. behind him in the broken trail galloped the first of the six dog teams that carried the outfits. five halfbreed track beaters packed the snow in front of the other sledges. six indians drove. at intervals the positions were shifted, each team taking its turn at the lead where lay the heaviest toil. "mush! mush!" cried the indian dog drivers. crack! crack! snapped the whips in weird staccato. these sounds with the noises of travel were the only ones to echo through the white stillness. for the rest the hudson's bay men went in silence because the cold was that awful cold that strangles the northern world before sunrise. its frigid hands seemed to catch their chests and clamp their lungs tight. a gauntlet removed to allow the fastening of a moccasin lace, the adjustment of the parka hood, or the clearing of iced eyelashes left the bare fingers numbed by the cruel frost which bit through the flesh and lacerated the tense nerves beneath. through many a dawn-hour had these northmen fought this freezing horror. on countless trails had they come face to face with this death masked ice spirit. well they knew their capabilities. closely they guarded their energies. with all his relentless power and subtlety the frost fiend might not take them unawares! steadily moved the long line of men across the wind-packed surface of oxford lake, their bodies leaning forward at identical angles, their limbs swinging with machine-like regularity. shoulders heaving at their collars, the dog teams ran in their own peculiar fashion, heads down, tongues lolling between steaming jaws. so exactly alike the outfits seemed that the hindmost ones might have been the oft-repeated shadow of the foremost brushing back across the snows, indistinct, vague beneath the waning starlight. quitting oxford lake at kowasin inlet, the trains ascended kabeke ridge that they might make the descent on the other side to the smooth ice of blazing pine river which would afford them easy progress for many miles. among the trees of the crest the cavalcade lost definition. the men were merely shadows on the snow, flicking ghost-like between the silhouetted tree trunks. the dogs were wolfish things sneaking low to the ground. the utter silence of the morning was ethereal in its intangibility. sharp detonations of frost-split trees brought contrasts that ripped the screen of silence with weird, unearthly noises. a phosphorescent glimmer smeared the crust. little shadowy shapes began to dance before the men's snow-stung eyes. a suggestion of mirages drifted here and there, mocking, oppressive, supernatural, phantasmagoric. where the course of march led from the elevated ridge to the low river surface the incline fell so sharply that extreme care was necessary to make the descent in safety. the indian dog drivers whipped up their teams to force them in a direct line, while some clung to the sledges that they might not break away wildly and over-run the rushing _giddés_. the plunge beat up a cloud of foaming snow particles. sled after sled shot down. the men half coasted, half ran with amazing speed on the feathery slope. an immense groove in the white covering of the mountain side showed after them. they turned down blazing pine, on the banks of which was the indian encampment that father brochet had gone to visit in his mission of administering to the sick. maskwa, the tireless, still broke the trail. dunvegan sent forward black fox, a sinewy salteaux indian, to relieve him for a space, but the ojibway smiled a little and refused. "strong father," protested black fox, dropping back, "this maskwa the swift one will not listen. nor will he give me the task. his legs are of iron, and his lungs are spirit's lungs--they breathe forever! strong father, there is none like him from wenipak to the big waters." "that's true, black fox," commented the leader of the expedition, "but he should take some rest." dunvegan sped forward till he was running side by side with the ojibway. "maskwa, my brother," he urged, "take the easy place for an hour. it is not well to punish yourself!" the fort runner smiled again. he had ideal features for an indian, and the stamp of noble lineage was set upon the bold curve of brow, nose, and chin. "strong father," he replied, "it is not hard for me. i will keep on, for i would have my own eyes search the trail ahead. there are spies about. let strong father mark how the fur trains were sought out and set upon! mark how the french hearts took council to surprise oxford house! we have need to keep the clear eye. we must go swiftly but craftily. therefore, strong father, let maskwa have the lead. his sight will not fail you." the ojibway's dark face glowed earnestly in the golden haze of light which heralded the near appearance of the sun. he was running as easily and breathing as quietly as he had done in the first mile they traversed. "as you will," conceded dunvegan. "you have my trust!" the chief trader dropped back in turn with the main body. maskwa spurted far ahead, performing the duty of scout as well as that of track beater. before the nor'westers could compass another surprise they would have to reckon with the cunning ojibway. steadily on went the file of dog trains. the men were feeling the cold less. by this time extreme exertion had infused a warm glow in each man's frame. every part of the human anatomy responded to the strong blood coursing in the veins. an excess of virile strength permeated the muscles. an effervescence of buoyancy toned up the nerves. eyes gleaming brighter for the fringe of filmed ice above, lips blowing cloud-breaths, clothes frost rimmed from over-activity, these hudson's bay giants held on their way. soon they came to the branching of the blazing pine river and continued down the tributary which curved by the indian village lying three hours' journey below the junction point. at last the belated sun rose over the spruce trees, glaring with a sort of amazed, fiery wrath upon these travelers who had taken advantage of his slumber to win so many miles of their hard march. but the wrath subsided, lost in the rosy day dreams that wrapped earth and sky in a brilliant winter mist. radiating beams created the impression of cheerful heat. the whole range of imaginable colors, multiplied by tinting and blending, wove and shifted in a vast web of living fire across the opal clouds. a stupendous panorama lay the wilderness world, exhaling color, displaying jewels, wrapping itself in beauteous necromancy! in the late forenoon maskwa sighted the indian village in the middle distance. dunvegan decided to make mid-day camp there. he gave the order to his men, an order that was received with great alacrity. "_chac! chac! chac!_" yelled the drivers to the _giddés_, enforcing the order with splitting reports from the long lashes of their dog whips. gleefully and dutifully the sledge animals turned toward the cree tepees pitched permanently in the warm shelter of a pine forest to the left of the river. at the thought of rest, a good meal, and a smoke the hudson's bay men dashed forward jauntily, eager to make the bivouac. but an indian, running out of the winter wigwams, stopped maskwa from entering the village by a peculiar motion of his crossed hands. the others saw the fort runner halt in his tracks and draw away, while a momentary conference in the native dialect took place. the ojibway beckoned to dunvegan who ran up hastily. "strong father," spoke maskwa quickly, "an indian has come to this village and he has fever. we cannot enter. else will the fever spirit destroy our own men." "where's father brochet?" bruce demanded, speaking in cree. "where's the priest--the praying man. bid him come forth!" on the summons father brochet appeared. his greetings were none the less cheerful for the distance that intervened between the friends. "it wouldn't be wise to come in," the priest called, "and risk exposure to infection. this case isn't so bad, but you know the dangers. the indian came from the tribe on loon lake, and some of his fellows up there are sick with the same thing. when i get him in shape so that the indian women can bring him through, i am going up to see after the others." "loon lake!" exclaimed dunvegan. "that's up beyond fort brondel. you'd better be careful when you are in the nor'west haunts." "the nor'westers don't trouble the men of god," returned brochet simply. "i have no fear of them! we are indispensable to both hudson's bay servants and nor'westers!" he smiled grimly at the significance of his plain words. "but lately men on our side have died unshriven," the chief trader observed bitterly. "there is a chance that the same may happen to the enemy." "you are heading for brondel?" "with all haste! the sack of the wokattiwagan train will be speedily and thoroughly avenged." "and the factor has set out to raze dumarge as he planned?" "yes. we both have hoped to surprise the nor'west forts for, failing that, we must sit down to a long siege." brochet shivered a little even in the sheltered place where he stood. "it is ill weather for a siege," he commented, "and the nor'westers are as cunning as wolves. you know, i suppose, about--about glyndon?" dunvegan's face was hard as a mask. by this time he had curbed his emotion tightly. "i know--that is, i heard," he answered slowly. "tell me all about that marriage, brochet!" the priest raised his hand in a deprecating fashion and shook his head out of sad pity for his friend's disappointment. "there is nothing to tell," was his low response. "it was a swift, eager wooing--a sort of autumn dream! the golden woods and the white moons were theirs for an uninterrupted, rapturous space. the fascination was intense. its durability i cannot judge. the climax compelled their marriage. my hope is that glyndon may prove worthy!" "amen," dunvegan breathed. he seemed desirous of hearing no more, and signaled for the trains to move on. "if on your return from loon lake the company's banner flaps over fort brondel, give me a call," was his parting word to father brochet. "indeed, yes," the kindly priest promised. "and watch carefully, my son! guard your person against the enemy, and guard your passions as well. remember that he who conquers himself is greater than the lord of all the hudson's bay districts." three miles farther the cavalcade wound with the frozen river. dunvegan, brooding within himself as had been his custom of late, took little note of its progress. the leadership had devolved for the moment upon maskwa. presently the tall ojibway answered the call of his stomach. he stopped beneath a jutting headland and looked once at the sun. then with his native stoicism and abruptness he twisted his heels from the loops of his snowshoes. "camp here!" he decided. chapter xv maskwa's find a fork of fire leaped up under the quick hands of the indians. the dead spruce boughs crackled merrily. baptiste verenne lay back on a pile of green branches before the flames and hummed to the kettles that they might the more quickly melt their contents of snow into steam and boil the tea. his high tenor voice chanted the air of _l'exilé_, a song of far-off france. very softly and dreamily he sang: "_combien j'ai douce souvenance du joli lieu de ma naissance! ma coeur, qu'ils étaient beaux, les jours de france! o mon pays! sois mes amours, o mon pays! sois mes amours. toujours!_" over the spruce fire the kettles began to drone to his music as he went on more tenderly: "_te souvient-il que notre mère, au foyer de notre chaumière, nous pressait sur son coeur joyeux ma chère? et nous baisions ses blancs cheveux. tous deux._" almost while baptiste sang, the meal was ready. the hudson's bay men thawed their strips of jerked caribou over the coals and washed the meat down with small pails of hot tea. they snatched a few whiffs from their pipes before the command to march was given. the afternoon sun shed abundance of light but afforded no warmth. the traveling was through a cheerless cold that intensified by degrees. the toil of marching had begun to tell on the men; they moved with less elasticity, their limbs began to lag as from some indefinable hindering pressure. this pressure seemed to come from without like unfriendly hands holding them back, but they knew it was really the weakening fibers protesting from within. only three of the travelers were untouched by this peculiar lethargy. maskwa ran as ever with his unchanging, lurching stride. dunvegan, knowing not the hint of weariness, traveled mechanically, his mind dwelling on personal things. and baptiste verenne still hummed of his sunny france, asking: "_te souvient-il du lac tranquille que' effleurait l'hirondelle agile, du vent qui courbait le roseau mobile, et du soleil couchant sur l'eau. si beau? ma coeur, te souv_----" "g'wan, baptiste, ye frinch rogue," cried terence burke, "ye've no sister here to ask that. an' phwat the divil's the use o' askin'? shure it's not france but greenland we're in. an' it's on a howly treadmill o' snow we're walkin'." pete connear kicked the irishman's calves from behind with the toes of his snowshoes. "walk faster, man," he urged. "it makes it twice as easy and the frost doesn't touch you then." but terence shivered in the trail. the sweat of the morning's travel had chilled on him at the noonday halt, and he felt the lowering temperature keenly. "it's so beastly cowld," he groaned dismally, "that me thoughts freeze 'fore oi can express thim." the sailor kicked him again to cheer him on. "bucko! bucko!" he growled. and baptiste verenne, smiling, flashed white teeth over his shoulder and remarked: "mebbe you don' lak remembaire somet'ing lak dat in your own countree! eh, dat so, m'sieu burke?" terence frowned. baptiste's smile grew more mischievous as he continued: "_te souvient-il de cette amie, douce compagne de ma vie? dans les bois, en cueillant la fleur jolie, hélène appuyait sur mon coeur. son coeur._ _oh, qui rendra mon hélène, et la montagne, et le grand chêne? leur souvenir fait tous les jours ma peine. mon pays sera mes amours. toujours!_" the latter half of the day wore to a desolate grayness. the hudson's bay force was now in nor'west country, and a strict lookout had to be maintained. night approached quickly as the sun dipped. maskwa, keeping closer to the main body, signaled that he had found something. dunvegan ran up to him hastily. the indian stood pointing to the tracks made by a single person on snowshoes. the marks lay diagonally across their line of progress. "strong father, see," maskwa requested. "some trapper," commented the chief trader. "the shoes are ojibway pattern." "yes," assented maskwa, quietly. "i made the shoes." dunvegan scanned him sharply in the gathering dark. "you?" he cried, astonished. "how do you know that?" "by the knots," maskwa answered, stooping to point out little dents in the snow pattern. "see how they lie in a curve? no one but maskwa makes them that way!" "whose feet?" demanded dunvegan, with swift suspicion. "whose feet are in those shoes?" the fort runner felt the pressed flakes gently before speaking. he arose immediately from the stooping posture. "the little fool's," was his response. "and he has just passed here!" "gaspard follet's tracks!" exclaimed the chief trader incredulously. "maskwa, are you sure you are not mistaken?" "i am not mistaken, strong father," the ojibway declared gravely. "in the summer moons i made the shoes for the little fool. give me leave to follow. i will bring him to you. he is no farther away than the ridge of balsam." "go," ordered dunvegan curtly. the fort runner launched himself into the gloom of the stunted shrubbery. bunching where their leader was halted, the hudson's bay men waited silently. presently there sounded the double crunch of two pairs of raquettes on the brittle crust. the branches of the dwarfed evergreens swayed. maskwa strode out, dragging a diminutive figure by one arm. "here, strong father, is the little fool," he announced without emotion. at the sight of the oxford house men gaspard follet began to utter a series of joyous squeals. "blessed be the virgin," he cried. "here is safety. oh! name of the dead saints, i was lost, lost--lost!" he sprang to dunvegan, ingratiating himself, praising, fawning, beseeching. the ojibway fort runner looked grimly at the antics of his prize. "the little fool is glad to meet with the company's servants," he observed in ironic fashion. "it gives him great joy." dunvegan looked into maskwa's face, quite surprised at the tone. "why not?" he questioned. "that did not dwell in his mind until i caught him," the indian declared. "neither was the little fool lost." "what do you mean, maskwa?" dunvegan asked. "my brother, you speak in riddles. gaspard has evidently wandered from oxford house and lost his way." to the idiot, he added: "do you know where you are at all?" "no, no," moaned gaspard piteously. "i was lost, i tell you. i do not know this country." the ojibway fort runner grunted in derision. "strong father," he said, "the little fool was not lost as you believe. he has been following the caribou ridge all day. and strong father will remember that the trail on the caribou ridges, though it cannot be traveled with dog teams, shortens by half the distance to the fort of the french hearts where we journey. that is how the little fool thought to reach it first!" the indian stopped his speech abruptly and took a stride onward as if this circumstance was no concern of his. dunvegan halted him, crying out: "hold there, maskwa! do you pretend to suspect gaspard?" maskwa made a gesture of complete unconcern. "i have spoken," he returned placidly. "why," fumed dunvegan, "such a thing in my estimation is incredible--preposterous! the idea of that dwarf, that idiot----no! it's too ridiculous!" "i have spoken," repeated maskwa, in the same even key. when the chief trader attempted to question him by way of discovering his exact meaning, the ojibway maintained a stubborn silence which he broke only with a suggestion about the night camp. "turn to the ridge of balsam, strong father," he advised. "we shall find it good to rest there." dunvegan accepted his trusted runner's hint. he knew that the indian eye read wilderness signs which no white man living could ever interpret. he understood that the indian brain gleaned an intelligence from inanimate things which the greatest mind of civilization could never comprehend. therefore he was content to follow the native wisdom and follow it unseeingly, for at maskwa's word he had walked blindly to his own ultimate advantage some hundreds of times. so the oxford house men diverged from their course on the first track that gaspard follet had tramped in the snowy ridge where it crossed blazing pine river. the ojibway went ahead, and, when lost to the view of his fellows among the timber, he paralleled gaspard's trail at some distance first on one side and then on the other. soon he found what he sought and tramped on to the balsams, grunting with great satisfaction. when dunvegan and his retainers reached the balsam ridge, maskwa stood there awaiting them. he called the chief trader aside. "strong father," he began in a low voice, "does a lost man throw away his rifle and his food?" "no! great heavens, no!" exclaimed dunvegan. "why?" maskwa put his hand into a green tree and held out two objects. "because here is the rifle and the pack-sack of the little fool." the chief trader wheeled with hot accusations for gaspard follet, but maskwa checked them. "softly, strong father," was his caution. "i have something else to show you first." "but he is the spy," murmured dunvegan, trying to keep his voice down in spite of his anger. "i see it all now--curse his blithering impudence! what dolts we have been at oxford house! and he fooled malcolm macleod. good lord, what infants, what imbeciles! a fool, a dwarf, an idiot to get the best of us! maskwa, i think we need some guidance such as yours." "the little one is a dwarf," conceded maskwa, "but he is not an idiot. neither is he a fool, though the name comes easily to my tongue. strong father, he has the wisdom of the beaver, and the heart of the fox. but at last he is trapped!" "i'll bind him," declared dunvegan, full of vexation and self-contempt. "i'll tie the rat fast lest he outwit the elephants." "wait," begged the ojibway fort runner. "come to the top of the ridge of balsam first. then we can bind the little fool." maskwa pushed through the trees with a slouching movement. he set his shoes without the slightest noise in the soft, deep undersnows of the evergreens. dunvegan did likewise, taking care to snap no twig. on the crest which commanded the open valley the ojibway pushed aside the thick branches hanging screen-like over the edge. "strong father, look!" he directed. chapter xvi the first blow mechanically dunvegan counted the dog teams that crossed the valley before his gaze. five great sleds he made out, sleds piled high with huge bales of furs. two men accompanied each sledge, a driver and an armed guard. evidently the train was going into camp under the shoulders of the caribou ridges. "strong father did not think that any of the french hearts were so near?" ventured maskwa quietly. "no," the chief trader muttered, "i did not. ah! they are halting. it is well that they did not get sight of us, maskwa, for i fancy we could never catch them if those big teams once started galloping." the ojibway nodded gravely as he peered, animal-like, between two large tree trunks. "that is why i bade strong father keep with the ridge," he replied. "on the river of the blazing pine the french hearts would have seen us easily where the valleys meet." "you knew it was coming?" dunvegan cried in amazement. "this niskitowaney train?" "even so, strong father." "how?" "by the actions of the little fool." "what was gaspard doing?" the fort runner pointed to a ledge of rock that jutted out on the highest point of the hill. "the little fool stood there, waiting," he observed. "he had seen the fur train of the french hearts coming and thought to travel with them to their fort. but soon his thoughts were changed. he saw me and disappeared in the trees. when i caught him, he had no food or rifle. yet i brought them to you, strong father. "he is a little devil as well as a little fool," maskwa summed up. "he deserves no pity. mark you, strong father, he has been the right hand of that wicked french heart, the black ferguson. does strong father remember the ambush on caribou point when we thought to take the leader? who brought the news? who led us there? who had planned the surprise with the french hearts? none but the little fool! who gave them notice of the movements of our fur trains? the little fool! who warned the crees to fall upon you as you journeyed to kamattawa? why, strong father, it is always the little fool. and his weak brain seems stronger than the wisdom of the stern father and his servants. he has laughed at us all." "yes," grumbled dunvegan, "he has fooled us for a time. but that time is gone." "while the wolf lives, his teeth may still rend," maskwa philosophized. "let the little fool die! else will he work strong father greater harm." the calm suggestion brought an expression of repugnance to the chief trader's face. "i can't do that!" he objected. "it is well," remarked the ojibway. "i have counseled." "as a prisoner he cannot do us any harm," dunvegan persisted. "i have counseled," maskwa repeated. "when strong father wishes it had been done he will remember my counsel." he dismissed the subject with habitual unconcern and devoted a few minutes to spying upon the camping preparations of the nor'west fur train. with the movements of skilled woodsmen they set about it. first of all, they stepped out of their snowshoe loops and diligently used the raquettes as shovels, clearing the snow away and banking it up till a long rectangle of ground lay bare. while some thickly carpeted the cleared space with balsam brush taken from the foot of the ridge others chopped dead pines into firewood and built a long stringer of flame the entire length of the camp ground. then the dogs were unharnessed and the sledges drawn up by thongs into handy trees out of reach of these huskies, who otherwise would destroy the furs while the men slept. after that the nor'west drivers and guards threw themselves down by the fires to prepare their supper of dried meat and tea, having already stuck the dogs' portion of frozen whitefish upon twigs to thaw by the fierce blaze. from the height dunvegan and maskwa watched it all. "they know how to make camp, all right," the chief trader observed. the ojibway nodded briefly. "they have also traveled many trails," he supplemented judicially. "and since it is a good camp we will not need to change it," continued dunvegan significantly. "it is well," grunted maskwa. he shook the screening boughs back in place and turned about, adding: "when the dark falls thickly, we will come this way again." the oxford house men were growing impatient in the increasing cold, but they received the news of the nor'west fur train's proximity with jubilation. the frost was becoming so intense that to do without a fire even for a few hours proved impossible; so the whole force backtrailed a mile as a precaution and huddled over a hastily built pyramid of lighted spruce branches. the caribou ridges, looming up, shut off the flames from the nor'westers' view. also, dunvegan posted an indian lookout on the height above the other bivouac to carry warning of any untoward move. the dogs' jaws were tied with strips of buckskin that they might not growl or bark, for sounds carried far in the frosty air. attention was now paid to gaspard follet, and he was placed in the custody of two hudson's bay men, who had orders to shoot him on his first attempt at escape. he still kept up his pretense of foolish wits, but a sinister threat from dunvegan silenced his idiotic whining. the chief trader did not condescend to parley with follet nor tell him of what he was suspected. he simply ordered the dwarf into strict charge. it was the business of malcolm macleod, the factor, to judge him. the hour of waiting while the gray twilight thickened to black dark became oppressive. the oxford house men chafed under the restraint and the silence. other than murmurings and flame noises no sounds came from around the fire. terence burke had soaked himself through and through with the radiating heat. complacently he pawed his limbs. now these limbs, reinvigorated, cried out for active work as loudly as his hungry stomach cried for hearty food. he whispered to connear: "'tis a bloomin' wake we're at. phwat's the use o' dallyin' loike this? why don't we take these nor'west divils by the scruffs o' their necks an' shake them? they're outnumbered four to wan!" "mind your own business," growled connear. "you keep mixin' yourself up with every plan that's being made. you're too fresh! keep your own place, you irish lubber, and don't try runnin' the whole show!" baptiste verenne flashed his customary grin, with the attribute of ivory teeth. "_oui_," he commented, "kip de place an' go ver' cautious. dat's de way in dis countree. you see, we mus' spring on dose mans _vite_ w'en dey not t'ink! geeve dem no taim harness de fas' dogs. dat's onlee way we get dem." "it's a slow sphring," terence complained. "if the recoil's as slow as the sphring, bewitch me if divil a thing comes av it." "shut up," commanded connear tersely. "your mouth's as big as the irish sea." "yes," snapped burke, "an' it's swallowed better sailors than yerself." baptiste made an angry gesture for quiet and motioned furtively to where dunvegan stood silently warming himself on the other side of the fire. "_saprie!_ you be stubborn mans!" he snarled contemptuously. but now the order came to move. several indians were left with the sledges and the newly-made prisoner. the rest of the men filed off in the direction of the balsam ridge. its crest was reached silently and in perfect order. there the men paused at a point directly over the camp they purposed to rush. maskwa, with dunvegan, surveyed the slope, contemplating the moment of descent. far below they could see the line of crackling fire with the banked snow at the sides glowing pink beneath the blaze. etched out dully against each fitful flame, the squatting figures crouched low. at times a hand was cleanly outlined in the white upper light as it raised food to mouth. a tea pail passing down the line of men flashed intermittently. "now while they eat is the time, strong father," the ojibway fort runner murmured. "they think only of their stomachs, and their arms are not handy. if we are swift and sure on our feet not a shot need be fired." "very well," assented dunvegan. "you lead. i will stay on your heels." "let the men make no sound," warned maskwa. "we go without noise as close as possible. as soon as their dogs scent us we must spring like the hungry panther." the chief trader passed a whispered caution to his retainers. "keep close to us," he adjured, "and rush when we rush! grasp the fellows and prevent them from shooting! there is no need for bloodshed, and we cannot afford to lose any of our number. every man we have will be needed at fort brondel!" there was a faint, dissatisfied murmur at this command. fresh in the minds of the hudson's bay men were the accounts given by survivors of the bloody sacking of the wokattiwagan and shamattawa fur trains. they would have liked a sanguinary reprisal, but they knew better than to disobey any order of dunvegan's. so they relinquished their vengeful anticipations and followed watchfully. down the snowy hillside they dropped, noiseless as shadows. no figure at the fire stirred from its eating; no dog voiced alarm. the balsams were left behind and the men entered scrubby spruces, where they found better cover. the camp was no more than a little dome of light walled in by impenetrable darkness. the night crowded to its red ramparts, full of mystery, unreadable, sinister, fear-compelling. and, crowding like the night, came the oxford house force, with all the advantage of position that the inky darkness gave. slowly, their nerves growing more tense at every step, they worked through the spruces. each yard they advanced increased the strain. a little drumming noise began to vibrate in the men's throats. an almost inaudible sound it was, but to their own strained hearing it rose in a roar. closer and closer they stole till, seeing their enemies so plainly, the idea that they themselves must be seen impressed itself with ever-increasing power. maskwa treaded the evergreen aisles like a swift wraith. holding the ends of each other's sashes, the rest walked in single file after him. so great was the curb on their feelings, so suffocating the silence, that some would have gained immense relief by uttering tremendous shouts. but they dared not! the first outcry must come from the camp. the alarm would ring out unexpectedly, and the invaders waited for that moment and wrestled with their tingling senses. forty paces!--the impaled whitefish before the fires looked ludicrously large, like young sharks. thirty paces!--the ruddy blaze limned the dark, lean-featured countenances of the nor'westers, resting in natural unconsciousness of impending disaster. twenty-five!--the nervous tension snapped with a sudden mental jerk that set every sinew in the men's bodies tingling! the suspicious huskies blew loudly and growled. instinctively the nor'west guards reached quickly for their guns, only to be seized by the shoulders and hurled back into the snow. the camp turned instantly to a mass of rolling, grappling bodies. red coals kicked into the banks sent forth hissing steam clouds. feet stamped and plunged and twisted here and there, throwing up white spurts of snow, knocking burning branches through the air, tripping opponents with savage force. the struggle took place practically in silence except for the uneasy snarling of the dogs and the heavy breathing and occasional oaths of the men. often a knife blade gleamed redly as it poised for a blow. the thud of steel on flesh and the groan of pain followed. then, bringing the climax of brute savagery, the growling huskies charged, indifferent whether their chisel-like fangs sliced master or master's foe. but they had waited too long! the moment when their assault might have seriously hindered the hudson's bay men--in the initial minute of the fight--was past. a half dozen of dunvegan's followers sprang out of the mêlée, and, catching up dog whips, flayed neutrality through their tough hides. the cowing of the nor'westers' huskies was coincident with the overpowering of the nor'westers themselves. held in the grip of two, and often three, antagonists each of the guards and the indian drivers was subdued, bound, and laid beside the raked-up fire. in a sullen line they lay, beaten but full of stubborn enmity. to that line dunvegan added gaspard follet when the company's sledges came on. the capture of the niskitowaney fur train was complete. chapter xvii the heart of the savage immediately the oxford house men re-established the camp to suit their own requirements. then they devoted themselves to a long-delayed supper till their ravenous appetites were fully appeased. the dogs of the nor'westers had been fed to keep them quiet. the turn of the newly arrived teams came when the masters were satisfied. baptiste verenne and the drivers arose, taking the allotted portion of thawed whitefish. they took their dog whips also. "_ici, giddés_," baptiste called. the animals leaped forward on the instant, growling and slavering for the whitefish. one meal in twenty-four hours was not in any wise sufficient for their savage stomachs, and now it was three hours past the end of that customary space of fasting. a sound kicking met their energetic advance, and they were scattered out that they might be more easily fed. then the nor'westers' dogs jumped in, making a tangle of furry backs, bushy tails, and snapping jaws. on these intruders the heavy whips smote viciously. they retreated, thoroughly cowed, and with sharp commands, kicks, and blows the food was at length distributed. the more cunning beasts bolted their two whitefish in a flash and fought with slower comrades for their remaining portion. slowly the tumult died down and the dogs crept up close to the lower end of the fire, where brush beds had been thrown for them. having indulged in a brief after-supper smoke, the hudson's bay men began to prepare for immediate slumber. they removed their outer parkas with the capotes and hung them on sticks to dry before the fire, together with gauntlets, leggings, and traveling shoepacks. they put on great, fur-lined sleeping moccasins and rolled themselves in thick fur robes designed for preserving the body warmth during slumber. against the abnormal frost it was imperative to cover their heads with the upper folds of these sleeping garments, as any part of the face left exposed would be frozen in a solid mask by morning. weary with the long day's trail, the men lay motionless beside the banked-up fires. only two, dunvegan and maskwa, remained sitting upright, talking together in low tones over their plans, the crucial point of which was not far away. "at three in the morning we break camp," the chief trader announced. "by nightfall we must be within sight of brondel. i think with a few hours' rest that we might take them by surprise in the very early dawn." the ojibway fort runner smoked slowly, pondering. he offered no word. squatting squarely on his haunches, he stared at the fire with a sort of somnolent vacancy on his countenance. yet the indian brain was active! beneath their glassy surface lights his eyes studied future events. when he saw things as clearly as his shrewd discernment demanded he would speak, and not before! "you understand, my brother," continued dunvegan, "that it is necessary for me to succeed in my enterprise. the seizure of this fort of the french hearts is so necessary to the factor's whole plan that we cannot think of failure. if i accomplish the capture he will join me after he has taken fort dumarge. then, together, we purpose to besiege the third, last, and strongest of the nor'west posts in our district." maskwa grunted noncommittally and for an instant took the pipe from his lips. "fort la roche of the french hearts is powerful," he commented briefly. "so powerful," supplemented dunvegan, "that it will test even our combined forces to rush its stockades. otherwise it is impregnable. fort dumarge must go, maskwa; also fort brondel! the enemy's opposition must be wiped out as we proceed. having no harassing foes at our backs, we will at the last stand an equal chance against the defenders of fort la roche." "so," remarked the ojibway. "it is a good plan, strong father. and should we stand inside la roche we may see some old friends." "that may be." the unconquered bitterness surged up in dunvegan. "no doubt we shall see the wayward one, the daughter of stern father." "yes, doubtless." "also soft eyes, the traitor, who came from over the big waters." "aye, indeed," murmured dunvegan, "and the factor proposes to deal with him. it will be dark dealing, i fancy, for edwin glyndon." "we shall meet, too," maskwa went on oratorically, "the wise chief running wolf and his hasty son, three feathers." "in the fight we may meet them, for we know running wolf has added his tribe's strength to that of black ferguson in defense of fort la roche." "there at the last will we stalk the black ferguson in his lair," rejoiced the ojibway. "it will be a good stalk, strong father. the old wolf is worthy of a hard chase. and, strong father, there is one other we shall see!" "whom?" "the fair one! the niece of old pierre--her that soft eyes took to wife!" dunvegan winced, finding no words. maskwa voiced something that had evolved in his facile mind. "strong father is my brother," he declared, "and i have read my brother's thoughts. it was his wish to place the fair one at his own fireside. that is still his desire, although he does not fulfill it. if strong father were an indian, it would swiftly be done. yet the indian's ways are not the ways of the white man. he must not steal his brother's wife till that brother dies. is it not so, strong father?" "even so, maskwa," sighed dunvegan, burdened by his grim thoughts. "then strong father shall have the fair one to wife. i, maskwa, will see when it comes to the last that soft eyes falls in the attack." "no!" cried dunvegan vehemently, "a thousand times, no! not a prick of the skin will you give edwin glyndon. i warn you once. let that stay your hand!" the ojibway grumbled at the adjuration of restraint, for although he did not quite comprehend its moral motive he fully understood its decisiveness. "be it so," he observed. "what i say is wisdom. i have also other wisdom for strong father." "how?" "i would have him enter the gates of fort brondel by cunning." "explain, maskwa," commanded the chief trader quietly. "in the night of to-morrow let ten men drive this niskitowaney fur train inside the stockades, the rest of the company's servants lying in wait outside. when the gates are won, the rest is easy, strong father." the chief trader turned to maskwa with an exclamation of amazement. "by rupert's bones, but you are bold," he cried admiringly. "the move of the bold often wins," remarked maskwa. dunvegan revolved the project mentally, getting each separate point of view. "we'll do it," he rapped out, smashing a burnt stick-end into the coals with a force that sent fresh flames roaring up. "maskwa, we'll do it!" "good!" exclaimed the ojibway, without elation. "but first we need the password of the gates. if strong father allows, i will get it." he motioned to the prone, blanket-wrapped prisoners alongside the fire. "get it," ordered the chief trader. "but no torture, remember!" "so," promised maskwa coolly. "i will frighten it from one of them." he plucked the worcester pistol out of dunvegan's belt and went slowly up the line. presently he singled out the spokesman of the captives lying completely muffled up in the sleeping robes. at the touch of maskwa's toe the nor'wester sat erect, his black-bearded, swarthy face full of evil glints. he was one of the scum that the younger fur company had picked up to swell their none too formidable ranks. the ojibway squatted opposite this fellow, in whose charge the niskitowaney fur train had been traveling. "the password at your fort," he commanded with abruptness and vigor. a villainous oath was the response, an epithet that would have been a vicious blow had the nor'wester's arms been loose. "the password!" maskwa's voice kept even, but he stabbed the black man through with the needle points of his concentrated gaze. no response! the ojibway brought the pistol into view and leveled it with a precision more deadly than visual concentration. "the password!" he repeated stonily for the third time. "shoot and be damned to you!" cried the nor'wester, the swagger and braggadocio which in his breed is a substitute for courage breaking out. swift as light came maskwa's side-twist of the hand. bang! the pistol's scorch stung the nor'wester's right ear. bang! its red muzzle jet seared his left ear. bang! the round, fiendish mouth spat a white furrow through his black hair. the awakened camp, thinking of an attack, sat up and grasped weapons, then put them furtively back, half ashamed of their mistake, and gazed wonderingly at the strange tableau. "french heart, the next one goes through your head," warned the ojibway. "the password!" the nor'wester, staring into the deadly cylinder of steel, experienced a prickly, spreading sensation in the nerves of the forehead just between his eyes. he imagined the crashing impact of the leaden missile. he already felt the oozy bullet-hole. maskwa's eyes lanced him with bloody light which the coals infused. his spirit quivered under that knife. his nerves collapsed. he pitched forward on his face, reiterating the password in choking gasps. "marseillaise," he panted. "marseillaise!" the ojibway tossed the man's sleeping robes over his fear-shaken visage. abruptly he stalked back and dropped the pistol in dunvegan's lap. "you have heard, strong father?" he asked. "it is good! he spoke the truth, because he dared not lie. in the night of to-morrow we will enter the gates of the fort of the french hearts with that password. i have spoken!" like a snake maskwa slid into his fur blankets. dunvegan followed, and the whole camp was soon still. gradually the banked logs of the fire broke in little falling rifts of coals. uncombated, the frost advanced and screened the red glow with a gray hand. across the valley of the blazing pine came the howling of wolves. then of a sudden the winter aurora leaped out of the north, sweeping majestically from stars to earth-line. no rustling sound such as is heard within the arctic circle accompanied its movement. it came and vanished in mystic silence, only to reappear with twofold brilliance and multitudinous variations of hue. up in the zenith a corona of dazzling splendor formed, and the miracle, continuing, left pulsating, nebulous rays walking the far-off, frozen shores. the immensity of the wilderness reaches gave field for unlimited display. flooded with resplendent light, the primal wastes of snow reflected every colored bar, every glorious cloud, every celestial flash. as a monstrous mirror to augment the radiance and multiply the lambent gleams, the speckless crust stretched on and on. the very earth seemed to acquire motion and to roll its snows in red and white undulating waves. wrapped in the sleep of utter weariness, lost to the hard facts of life, the sleepers lay in a realm of mysticism, of phantasmagoria. thus all night across the world blazed this carnival of flame. chapter xviii a double surprise. "_arrêtez!_" the sentinel's challenge from the gates of fort brondel rang out sharply in the near-dawn. through the blinding smother of great, soft-falling snowflakes he had heard rather than seen the advance of a dog train toiling up the rising ground upon which the post was situated. it came, he thought, as a nor'west train would come, making no unnecessary clamor, but without any precautions for secrecy. the storm-laden air choked the first cry of the watchman, preventing it from reaching the clogged ears of the approaching party. again his hail was lifted up. "_holá! arrêtez!_" he commanded, the strident tone cutting the snow. instantly the leading team pulled up. the others lined behind it. brondel's sentinel could discern five bulky sledges, each accompanied by a driver and a guard with rifle on shoulder. their faces and garments plastered thickly by moist flakes, the men looked like tall, white stumps suddenly moved out of the forest and set before the stockades. identities were impossibly vague in the storm and in the gray dark which preceded the morning. "_qui vive?_" asked the keeper of the post gate doubtfully. "the niskitowaney fur train," answered the muffled voice of one of the halfbreeds who drove. "the password?" "marseillaise!" the gate bars rattled with release; a gap yawned in the stockade. "_entrez_," came the permission. walking with the leading sledge, maskwa whirled as he passed the sentinel and felled him with a quick blow of the rifle butt. quickly he removed the unconscious man's weapons and threw him on the sled. "strong father, the thing is easy, as i told you," the ojibway muttered to the first snow-coated giant guard, who was in reality bruce dunvegan. "too easy," was bruce's answer. "listen! there is no stir about the buildings, no sound. that puzzles me, maskwa." "men sleep soundest just before the light breaks," explained the fort runner in a tone of satisfaction. "perhaps." dunvegan's tone was doubtful. as they stood in the palisade entrance, listening keenly for any cry which would mean their discovery, the pulses of the hudson's bay men surged faster and faster. the cold chill of the storm-beaten atmosphere changed suddenly to an electric glow. the fever of waiting strain flushed their bodies. they began to breathe hard and shift weapons from left hands to armpits and back again. but no clamor beat out of the post structures; a ghostly blur they lay, walled round with gigantic drifts. the only vibration which communicated itself to the ear was the velvet brushing of falling snow against the high stockades. faces turned in the direction whence they had come, the ten figures with the dog teams remained poised in perfect silence, anxious, eager, expectant. then, quite near, the wilderness voice they awaited spoke out abruptly. "yir-r-r-ee-ee!" echoed the weird, panicky screech of a lynx. maskwa curved his hands about his mouth and replied with the horned owl's full-throated whoop. "kee-yoo-oo-oo-oo!" he quavered in a quick, ever-diminishing tremolo. at the pre-arranged signal the rest of the oxford house force moved swiftly up and passed through brondel's guardless gate. two indians had been left with the bound prisoners and the nor'west sledge teams in the fringe of the timber. "are you ready, men?" dunvegan asked. "aye, aye, sir," cried connear quaintly. "this is what we have all been waiting for." to the chief trader it was an incredible thing that they reached the buildings in the center of the yard without any alarm being raised. the _giddés_ whined. instantly a howling response arose from the quarters where the fort dogs were kept. gripping their arms tightly, the invaders waited for the uproar that should follow the huskies' wailing and for the man-to-man struggle which must succeed the awakening of the post. no uproar came! the expected onslaught failed to materialize! even maskwa became mystified. "strong father," he whispered, "this is beyond my wisdom." "and mine," admitted dunvegan, worried as well as puzzled by the utter lack of the expected developments. "can the post be deserted? have they had warning and fled?" "no! in case of warning the stockades would have been lined with fighters. there is something extraordinarily wrong about the place. a sentinel isn't set in a deserted fort, you know. and yet, why is there no sign of life? maskwa, it's uncanny!" although totally unfamiliar with the ground and the plan of fort brondel, dunvegan decided to investigate without delay. he pressed open the door of the dark building in front of him, the latch offering no resistance. "come," he ordered. "if any man is clumsy enough to make a noise let him stay outside!" within the silent room, dunvegan drew a candle-end and a match from his inner pocket and struck a light. the faint beams showed that he was in the store of the northwest fur company's post. shelves held neat arrays of goods; orderly piles of bales and boxes were ranged about the walls; but no person could be seen. as many men as the store was capable of accommodating crowded after dunvegan. in their shoepacks they walked soft-footed as panthers. "these french hearts must sleep as the dead," murmured maskwa. "yes, or else they hide somewhere to pistol the half of us at a stroke," the chief trader returned. he lighted a fresh candle taken from a shelf. its larger glimmer projected giant shadows of the men upon the farther end of the store. the huge silhouettes loomed up with a mysterious vagueness suggestive of the advent of the real human figures. dunvegan's followers passed their own surmises to each other in low, husky whispers, remarking on such a chance as their leader had recognized. "if they are hiding in order to get to close quarters," observed connear, "they'll be sorry in the end. for we can hit in a clinch as well as they can. eh, terence burke?" "yes, me enemy," muttered the vigorous-minded irishman, whom no strange situation could abash, "an' if it's thim same donnybrook fair tricks they're after, they'll find me rifle butt makes a mighty foine black-thorn." baptiste verenne spoke to black fox, the salteaux indian, in a soft aside. "black fox, you be son of beeg medicine-mans," he whispered. "mebbe you be tell us w'at dis mean. spik de wise word an' say w'y de nor'westaires don' joomp out for keel us queeck." but the salteaux shook his head. "the french hearts are fools and snakes," he replied. "their ways are dark as the ways of evil spirits. therefore they cannot be read." "dat mooch i be know, me," confided baptiste. numerous whispers were making a very audible rustle. bruce dunvegan held up his hand for silence. he began to examine what lay beyond the other two of the three doors in the store. throwing open the one on the right, his candle gleam flashed across a large, empty floor. according to the custom of new forts built purely for aggressive purposes, dunvegan judged that store, blockhouse, and trading-room adjoined or were connected by passages. this section, he presumed, was the blockhouse. a hasty survey proved his conclusion correct. the light played around the rough walls, revealing weapons, trophies of the chase and the various equipments used in wilderness life throughout the different seasons. but, like the store, the blockhouse was without occupants of any kind. dunvegan made a quick decision and gave a quicker order. "bring lights," was his command. "let half your number hold the blockhouse and half occupy the store. it will take an army of nor'westers to oust us now." immediately the chief trader's directions were carried out. the men assigned themselves promptly in equal bodies to both buildings. there remained the trading-room and the factor's quarters to search. dunvegan concluded that there was no separate house for the factor of the post, because a stairway led up through the store ceiling. he surmised that the residential apartments of the one in command of brondel lay above. gently he opened the door in the left-hand wall of the store and saw a long, gloomy passageway. "no light," bruce commented. "nothing there either, it seems!" he closed the door again and set foot on the stairs. "guard those entrances well," was his adjuration. "don't stir unless you get a signal from me. i'm going up to awaken the lord of fort brondel, whoever he may be, and let him know that he is a prisoner of the hudson's bay company." slowly dunvegan ascended the stairway and reached the upper floor. he still had the candle in his hand, its pale flame revealing a sort of living-room which held a table, a stove, chairs, shelves of books, a lounge covered with fur robes, a large wooden cupboard, a pair of leather-padded stools, a writing-desk in the corner. the furnishings were plain, though comfortable; they seemed such as any hard-working factor might possess. treading softly, the chief trader crossed to the door at the other end and pushed on it. it remained fast, bolted inside. he put his ear to the wood. no sound! dunvegan stepped back a stride. rising with a swift movement on the toes of the left foot, he planted his right sole flatly against the door with a straight, powerful body jolt. there came the crunching noise of metal tearing through hard wood, and the barrier swung back trembling on its hinges. instantly the wind of suction puffed out the candle. bruce growled and smothered a low imprecation. stepping cautiously to the side of the jamb beyond the range of any sudden missile which might be sent through the open doorway, he fumbled in his pockets for a match. he scratched it hurriedly against the wall, his eyes searching the gloom for a sign of the sleeper whom he must have awakened. he dabbed the match to the wick, and gazed more eagerly. but no figure launched from the blackness beyond the threshold; there arose not even a rustle to show that someone's slumber had been broken. to the listening dunvegan there was something weird in this circumstance. he wondered if he should find the sleeping chamber as he had found the store and the blockhouse--empty! his pondering, like his hesitation, occupied only a second. the air of uncertainty left a tinge of suspense which bruce hastened to dispel. feeling some subtle magnetism, some unaccountable sensation of a familiar presence, some tremendous unknown climax which his heart acknowledged blindly, he strode abruptly into the dark apartment, his one hand holding the light well to the side, the other clasping the weapon in his belt. "another step, you beast, and husband or no husband, i'll kill you!" bitter as acid was the woman's voice which hurled the threat. across the flickering candle rays dunvegan's startled glance met a leveled pistol and beyond that the beautiful, defiant eyes of desirée lazard. the unintelligible cry rising within the man choked in his dry throat. he gasped and trembled, causing the white light to play over bedstead, coverlet, and the loose-frocked figure crouching behind. his physical courage and indomitable will, sufficient to face the fierce nor'westers within the very walls of their stronghold, was displaced by a nerveless weakness that banished self-control. "one more step," she warned, marking his restless muscular twitching. "i mean it. as god hears me, i mean it!" dunvegan's mind was battling chaotically with amazement at desirée's presence, with wonder at her attitude, with a thousand conflicting emotions, each inspired by some swift-passing thought. joy, doubt, jealousy, malice, love, judgment, forgiveness--these all mingled, held momentary sway, separated one by one and disappeared. out of this chaos of human feeling bruce retained no reigning passion. wisely he let the hot mixture of mad ideas spend itself and give way to his usual cool reserve. therein rested his salvation. he still held the candle to one side, and his face was not clear. even his figure remained shadowy in the sputtering gleam. that, he knew, accounted for desirée's mistaking him for her husband. now deliberately and with a steady hand he moved his light to the front so that its glimmer yellowed his wind-tanned face. "bruce!" her voice was pitched in the unnatural, hysterical scream of a person struggling with a nightmare. the sense of the dramatic leaped through the blood of both. dunvegan glowed with the hectic pulse of old desire, but his cold reserve was maintained by a nerve-wrenching effort. "you do not dream," he ventured in a measured tone. "i am a strict reality, though an intruding one." at the sound of his voice desirée dropped her loaded pistol on the bed. her tense body shivered, as if at escape from menace or danger. she covered her face with her hands. the full bosom worked in a paroxysm of sobs. "my god! my god!" she moaned, her words coming like a prayer. dunvegan set the candle on a nearby stool and leaned back with folded arms against the door jamb. thus could he the better control himself, for desirée's weeping tore his fibres. irrelevantly he noted that she was not prepared for slumber, but wore a flowing, open-throated day dress. this fact added to bruce's mystification. presently desirée glanced up, an expression of fear succeeding the despair in her face. she rushed swiftly across the chamber to dunvegan, her hands extended appealingly. "go," she pleaded. "go before someone hears you! how you learned--how you got here is nothing. only go! do you know what danger you stand in?" "no," bruce answered grimly. "i am not aware of any." her beauty even in tears burned its image in his tortured soul. to clasp her tight would have given both physical and mental relief, but his fingers clenched hard on his flexed biceps; he did not unfold his arms. "are you mad?" she cried earnestly, tempestuously. "you enter a nor'west fort! you force in the door of the factor's apartment! and why? how did you find out i was here--and alone?" "i didn't find out. till two minutes ago i thought you were in fort la roche." "la roche!" she echoed with astonishment. "why there?" "according to black ferguson's plan as i read it." desirée looked searchingly at the chief trader for a half-minute. "what do you know?" was her suspicious question, barbed with a slight resentment of his curt words. "i know, first, that black ferguson was informed by gaspard follet of your favoring glyndon; second, that the clerk was approached through follet, and bribed to join the nor'west ranks with his wife; third, that the foregoing was but a design of black ferguson's to get you beyond the stockades of oxford house and in a place where he could lay hands on you." "but he can't," protested desirée. "i am--you see, i was married." "can't!" dunvegan exploded. the tone of the one word was eloquent conviction. he added darkly: "it is well that i have come in time." "ah! no," she cried, the fear for his safety, momentarily forgotten, returning. "you must leave instantly. i will lead you down in silence. come!" her hand was throbbing on his arm, her hot breath beating up against his cheeks. bruce freed himself, fighting to keep his feelings in check. "there is no need," he returned. "i shall not stir from here." she scanned his face. no madness was visible in it. bruce laughed. "i am quite sane," he answered her. "you are in fort brondel," desirée announced severely. "a nor'west fort----" "your pardon," dunvegan interrupted. "a hudson's bay fort!" "now you are surely mad." a slight timidity touched her. she drew back. "mad enough to have taken this post! i command forty-odd men in the rooms below." incredulity widened desirée's eyes, but the chief trader's manner was convincing. she murmured a little in astonishment. "we--of the post?" she stammered. "taken, too! the men become my prisoners--when i find them. you also are a captive!" "thank god!" desirée cried, flushing to the temples. "thank god!" it was bruce's turn for bewilderment. the ecstatic fervor of the woman's voice astounded him. "what talk!" he exclaimed. "prisoners don't generally rejoice. yet this post seems the place of riddles to-night. oddest of all to me is the fact that i have met with no opposition--except from yourself!" he smiled, bowing courteously. desirée smiled too, wanly and without the least approach to mirth. "come," she suggested. "i will show you why." taking the candle, she led the way across the living room, down the stairs, and through the great store which belonged to the northwest fur company. under the wondering gaze of the men they passed and entered the passage into which bruce dunvegan had glanced before. this passageway extended for many paces. a closed door stopped their progress at the farther end. desirée laid her finger tips against it. "the garrison of fort brondel is in there," she murmured. "the trading room?" "yes." "i had better call my fighters. and you? wouldn't it be well for you to go back? there may be violence, and----" "no necessity whatever," desirée interrupted cynically. "they will not strike a blow. i can vouch for that." an instant she paused, as if summoning her will power to do a hateful thing. then she swung the door sharply back and held her light inside. "look!" she commanded with bitter irony. dunvegan looked. the scene in the huge interior of the trading room struck him with disgust as well as surprise. around the long, rough table over a score of men and halfbreed women lay in drunken stupor. a liquor barrel crowned the board. at the table's end one man's debauched face lay on the breast of his halfbreed bacchante of the revel. bruce recognized the features of glyndon, enpurpled and drink-puffed. the rest of the revelers had fallen into every imaginable attitude expressive of uncontrolled muscle and befuddled mind. the stench of spirits was overpowering. dunvegan drew desirée back. "this is sickening," he cried. she gazed at bruce with an intensity that went to the heart of him. the look awakened glad, magnetic throbs, yet left uneasy forebodings for the future because her eyes prophesied things which could never be. "now you know," she replied, pointing at the table. "i have shown you why." and in her words dunvegan read the answer to more than one riddle. someone moved behind them ostentatiously in order to attract attention. bruce turned quickly. the tall ojibway fort runner stood there. "what is it, maskwa?" "two messengers clamoring at the gates, strong father. what is your will?" "i will go with you, my brother," the chief trader decided. "it is well to see who they are, myself." he walked with desirée back into the store. "bind the drunken nor'westers in the trading room," he ordered the men. "come, maskwa," he added to the ojibway. the fort runner stalked at his back through the snowy yard. desirée stood and watched them from the door, while away in the east the light of dawn grew little by little. chapter xix not in the bonds of god "who speaks!" called dunvegan from the watchtower to the noisy fellows who were shouting and beating upon the gates with the ostensible object of awakening the sleepy post. "messengers from fort la roche," they screeched. "la roche? ah! with what news?" "a message for brondel's factor." "well?" "ferguson, our leader, orders his transfer to fort la roche. he is to occupy the same position there." the chief trader roared outright with laughter. "it seems that i arrived none too soon," he commented ironically, half to himself and half to maskwa, standing silent by his shoulder. "sir?" the couriers interrogated. but bruce failing to answer, studied some sudden idea grimly and at length. "strong father," interrupted the ojibway softly, "bid me open the gates, let these french hearts enter, and thus make them prisoners." dunvegan shook his head. "no," he returned. "they shall go back to la roche. the shock ferguson receives will be well worth the warning." to the nor'west messengers he cried whimsically: "the password?" "marseillaise," they answered without hesitation. again the chief trader chuckled, drawing something of humor from the situation. "an hour ago that countersign would have let you in," he observed. "now it is of no use whatever for the post is in possession of the hudson's bay company." he paused, looking into the up-turned, surprised faces of the couriers quite visible in the strengthening daylight. "go back to black ferguson," dunvegan directed. "tell him that you delivered the message he sent to the lord of fort brondel, but explain that the lord of fort brondel is bruce dunvegan. explain also that the men of the fort lie in babiche bonds; that glyndon is a prisoner; that glyndon's wife is a captive. announce to your leader the leaguer of fort dumarge. by the time he hears the news, it, too, will have fallen. and advise him in conclusion that the hudson's bay forces from these two posts will shortly combine before la roche's stockades." the nor'west messengers fell away from the gates, astonishment mastering their speech. "never fear," dunvegan reassured them. "if i wished to take you prisoners it would have been done long ago. now go back as i bade you. and one more message for black ferguson! tell him he did a foolish thing in bribing a drunkard to join his ranks that he might steal the drunkard's wife. tell him that, and tell him bruce dunvegan said it." swiftly the couriers retraced the track they had furrowed in the deep-snowed slope. their movements were furtive, and in spite of bruce's assurance of safety, they cast many backward glances. as the chief trader and the ojibway quitted the watchtower, maskwa spoke in a voice of protestation. "was that a wise doing, strong father?" he asked. "how, my brother?" "to send your enemy warning?" dunvegan smiled. "i could not forbear the thrust," he declared. "i could not help but let him know that his well-made plans had miscarried; that the woman he thought to seize was again under the protection of the mighty company." maskwa ruminated. "then strong father has unknowingly accomplished what the french heart would have done," he mused aloud. "it is well. it is even better than having soft eyes, the husband, fall in the fight." "ah! you mistake my meaning, maskwa," observed the chief trader hastily. "the woman is in my protection, not in my possession." "so!" the fort runner exclaimed with a slight inflection of surprise. "the french heart may steal, but strong father steals not. how is that?" "we are different men," answered bruce, as they entered the store. desirée still waited beside the door. maskwa passed her by without a look, making his way toward the trading room. had she had the beauty of all the angels, her fairness would have commanded no homage from his cunning, leathery heart. but dunvegan, more susceptible, stopped at her word, his hungry eyes dwelling on her beauty, which even after the wearing night appeared faultless. "who were those messengers at the gates?" she inquired. "men of black ferguson's with a drafting order for brondel's factor." "ah!" she gasped, "to--to----" "to la roche," bruce supplied. "you see i was right. i came just in time." with an impulsive, winning gesture desirée put her hands in dunvegan's. "i ought to be thankful," she began, brokenly. "and i am! heaven knows i am! but i should also be frank. after greeting you as i did in my room i must explain." "not unless you wish, unless----" "it is my wish, my will," she interrupted. "i need relief; i must give someone my confidence. otherwise i shall go mad!" "there is another who should receive your confidence." "you think so?" she cried bitterly. "even if he could comprehend no single word of it? if he were sunk in debauchery from the very day of our marriage? from the moment of flight?" "what!" exclaimed the thunderstruck chief trader. "what's that you say?" desirée tottered. "let me sit down on this bench," she begged. "i'm weak somehow and--and faint." dunvegan leaned back against the store counter. "god," he breathed--"no wonder!" the woman looked up beneath the hand which soothed her hammering temples. "you love glyndon," bruce burst out unguardedly. her fist descended viciously on the bench where she sat. "no! my god, who could--now?" vehemence, abhorrence, disgust, filled her voice. "you did," he persisted, rather cruelly and with an ultra-selfish motive. "infatuation," desirée cried, "for the clean mask that he wore. but love?--ah! no, can one love a sot, a beast?" "tell me," dunvegan urged. she caught her breath a few times helplessly in the stress of emotion, her eyes roving round the big store which held none but themselves. her gaze stopped on bruce's face. her sentences came from her lips mechanically. "i think his beauty and his old-world manners dazzled me," was her frank, pride-dissolving confession. "for the time i--i forgot you, bruce. i imagined i cared more for the other. my indecision could not brook his mad wooing. for remember that change, absence, and pressure are the three things which convert any woman's will." desirée paused, a pleading for pity in her glance. "i took refuge behind my vow," she continued after a second. "but that gave me no stability. if i would marry him, he promised to leave oxford house immediately and join the nor'westers. you see ferguson had already approached him through gaspard follet." "that," dunvegan observed, "should have shown you his true character." "i was blind," she lamented. "i deemed it sacrifice. in a way it was, i suppose. how could i know that the plan arranged by ferguson through gaspard follet was the very thing that suited his evil intentions? he offered edwin command of brondel. i thought it safe enough to be the factor's wife in a post removed from fort la roche." bruce made a disdainful gesture. "those messengers showed you how safe it was," he remarked acridly. "father brochet married us," desirée went on stonily. "it was in the evening. at once we fled from oxford house, the sentry thinking we were only taking a turn on the lake with the dogs. but in the forest a nor'west guide from brondel met us with another sledge as agreed, and the flight began in earnest. the nor'wester had rum with him. i rode on one sledge. the thing i had married rode on the other, gulping down the rum. you can imagine what happened!" "ah!" breathed dunvegan pityingly. "when we made camp near dawn he was drunk! he rolled off the sled, while the nor'wester built a fire, in order to greet his bride----" bruce's smothered oath interrupted. "what?" desirée asked. "nothing," he murmured, the veins of his neck swelling and nearly choking him. "instead," desirée resumed, "he greeted my pistol muzzle. day and night since he has greeted it also." struck with the lightning significance of her speech, bruce dunvegan leaped across the intervening floor space. like some cherished possession of his own he snatched her palms. "desirée! desirée!" he panted. the danger note was in his voice, the danger fire in his look. recklessly she met the sweet menace. facing each other for a long minute, secret thoughts were read to the full. "yet you are married to him," breathed dunvegan. "not in the bonds of god!" she declared. chapter xx the long leaguer shackled with cold, iron fetters that chilled the earth to its marrow, the mighty northland lay desolate beneath the brief sunshine, fantastic under the auroras. past fort brondel the ghostly caribou hordes drifted rank on rank, coming from the foodless spaces, going where subsistence permitted. in phantom packs the wolves howled by, trailing the swift moose across the crusted barrens. four-legged creatures which never hibernate foraged farther south where the snows were thinner. the winged terrors of the air followed them, preying as opportunity afforded. survival was ordained for only the strong, the fierce-fanged, the predatory. indented in the white surface of the forest aisles were ptarmigans' tracks and over these the long, shallow furrows left by swooping owls' wings. a homely spot of life and warmth amid this vast desolation was the post of brondel. all the nor'west prisoners except gaspard follet, glyndon, and desirée had been transferred in care of a strong guard to oxford house where they were confined under very strict surveillance in the blockhouse. the men of the guard returning brought news of how malcolm macleod, failing to surprise fort dumarge and rush its stockades, was besieging the place, hoping to starve it into surrender. dunvegan had hastened a messenger to macleod, informing him of the capture of brondel. the factor dispatched a runner back with orders for bruce to be ready to move on la roche when macleod should send him word of his coming on the completion of his own project. realizing the danger in which he stood from the overwhelming power of his own desires, dunvegan prayed in his heart for the fall of fort dumarge and the advent of the factor. he thought he could find respite and ultimate safety in the call which would summon him to the attack of la roche away from the lure of desirée lazard. but monotonously the short days slipped into long nights, and still no word came from malcolm macleod. dumarge was proving stubborn. nor did the tiresome fort routine offer the chief trader any relief. the unspeakable desolation all about, the inactivity, the eternal waiting, waiting for a command which failed to come, wore down by degrees the control dunvegan had exercised over his emotions up to this stage. his pent-up passion was gradually gaining in volume. he knew that its torrent must soon sweep him away, beating to atoms the barrier of moral code which was now but an undermined protection. he was facing the certain issue, understanding the immensity of his struggle, seeing no chance of escape. true, he contemplated asking permission of the factor to send glyndon and desirée to oxford house. but over this he hesitated long, fearing that beyond his guard black ferguson's cunning might prevail and that desirée might fall into the nor'wester's grip. but finally, driven to desperation, bruce started a runner on the trail to the beleaguering camp outside the palisades of dumarge, requesting the transfer of the prisoners to the home post. fate seemed determined to torture, to tempt, to break dunvegan. macleod would not hear of such a proceeding. his answer was that neither edwin glyndon nor gaspard follet must pass from confinement or out of the chief trader's sight. the one-time clerk and the spy, possessing nor'west secrets and intimate knowledge of the enemy's affairs, were captives far too valuable in the factor's eyes to be given the remotest opportunity of obtaining freedom. when he should have extracted much-desired information from them, macleod planned to deal them the deserts their actions had merited. death he had decreed for gaspard, a hundred lashes from dried moosehide thongs, a lone journey to york factory, and a homeward working passage on a fur barque were promised the puerile drunkard. incidentally the runner whom bruce had sent out mentioned the presence of two strange men at oxford house. "what sort of men were they?" he asked the halfbreed courier. "w'ite mans, ver' strong," replied the shrewd breed. "look lak dey come from ovaire de beeg wenipak." and dunvegan knew that granger and garfield, the hardy deputies, also awaited the success of malcolm macleod. like shadows since the first had they moved across the northern reaches from obscurity to certainty, from vagueness to tangibility, omens of a coming law in the wilderness! also like a shadow desirée lazard flitted free before the chief trader in fort brondel. bitter through her utter disillusionment, swept by a fire as compelling as that against which bruce dunvegan battled, she cared not how high ran the tide of feeling. with a woman's instinctive pride in her powers she smiled on the re-awakening of the old love, thrilled to its magnifying intensity, responded with a half guilty ecstacy to its fierce, measureless strength. listening in the fort, desirée would hear bruce's rifle talking as he hunted through the lonely woods. it spoke to her of misery, pain, and yearning. secretly she rejoiced. then at night her eyes shone across to him through the birch logs' glow. her hair gleamed like the candlelight. her lips allured through the half-dusk surrounding the crooning fireplace. maskwa, the wise old ojibway, watching them thus evening after evening as the long winter months slipped away, nodded darkly. "nenaubosho is working in them," he observed to himself. "soft eyes will lose his wife unless stern father comes to move us." but fort dumarge, feeling the pinch of hunger, still held firm against malcolm macleod. as ever the evenings came round. desirée's spell grew stronger. the attitude of the two began to be marked by all in the fort as the curb loosened imperceptibly, but surely. out of hearing in the blockhouse or the trading room, the hudson's bay men commented on their leader's strange--to them--fight against his own inclination. a hard-bitten crowd, each followed impulse in the main. the only restriction they acknowledged was the company's discipline. they were north of fifty-three, and they scorned the fine points of ecclesiastics. two ruling powers they knew: red blood and a strong arm. because bruce dunvegan held the upper hand and wanted desirée lazard as he wanted nothing else on earth, they marveled that he did not get rid of the prisoner and marry her. behind the screen of hundreds of miles of forest they had seen the thing done many times before, and no one in the outside world was the wiser. "he goin' crazy eef somet'ing don' be happen," whispered baptiste verenne, one night when the winter had nearly run its course. "'tis always a woman as raises the divil," announced terence burke. "oi was engaged wanst meself, an' rosie o'shea niver gave me a minnit's peace till the day she bruk it." "hold on there," connear cried. "you mean _you_ never gave _her_ a minute's peace. 'twould be south sea hell to live with you, terence--even for a man!" "ye ear-ringed cannibal," returned terence belligerently. "divil a woman _would_ live wid ye, fer she'd be turned to rock salt by yer briny tongue." connear stuck out the offending member beneath his pipe stem. "no woman will ever have the chance to do it," he declared. "i've been in a few ports in my time. i've had my lesson." "now you spik," smiled baptiste. "you be t'ink of dat tale you told 'bout dat native girl w'en your boat she be stop at--w'at you call?--dose solomon isle!" "yes," the ex-sailor replied. "made love to me in the second watch and stabbed me in the back with one hand to leave the way clear for her tribe to murder the crew and loot the vessel." "oi didn't hear that, peter," burke prompted. "go on wid it." "nothing to go on with," snapped connear. "she pinked me too high up. knife-point struck the shoulder blade, and my pistol went off before she could give the signal yell." "an' then?" terence was interested. "nothin', i said. the crew rolled out. the night was so warm that they didn't care to sleep any more. oh, yes, and there was a village funeral in the mornin'!" "whose?" "the girl's, you blockhead. died of fever--a night attack!" "howly banshees!" stammered burke. baptiste verenne crossed himself. "so," nodded maskwa, unmoved. "soft eyes might die of fever, or cold, or the red death!" south winds full of strange magic ate away the snows. blinking evilly, the muskegs laughed in little gurglings and sucking sounds. the forest pools brimmed with black water. fresh, blue reservoirs the big lakes shimmered, while rivers swirled in brown, sinuous torrents. spring! the mallards shot overhead like emerald bullets. spring! the geese ran a compass line across the world. spring! the blood of every northerner, man or woman, rioted madly, leaping untamable as the blazing pine river roaring past fort brondel. through some swift necromancy the frozen wilderness turned to an arboreal paradise. bird songs fell sweet on ears tuned to brawling blizzards. music of rapid and waterfall seemed heavenly after the eternal hissing of the wind-freighted drifts. hotly shone the sun, pouring vitality into the earth. responsive the bloom came, wonderful, profligate, luxurious. gay as any of the mating birds baptiste verenne sang about the post. and when even the veins of squaw and husky thrilled with excess of vigor, the tremendous swelling and merging of the passion that absorbed desirée and dunvegan could be vaguely gauged. as surely as the glowing warmth of spring was increasing to febrile summer heat, the man was being drawn to the woman. the distance between them gradually lessened. dumarge had not fallen. then from the south in the dusk of an evening came the canoe express bearing the york factory packet in charge of basil dreaulond. since brondel now belonged to the hudson's bay company, that place had been added to the posts of call. baptiste verenne sighted basil and his bronzed paddlers far up the blazing pine before ever they reached the landing. instantly fort brondel was in an uproar, but in accordance with the rule in troublesome times no one passed beyond the stockade to greet arrivals. the dangers of surprise was not courted. yet baptiste had not been mistaken. dreaulond and his men hailed the post cheerily. "_holá!_" was the cry. "_voyez le pacquet de la compagnie._" "_oui, mes camarades_," shouted verenne as sentinel from the high stockades. "_entrez! entrez vite!_" joyfully brondel received them. "_lettres par le grand pays_," shrieked the volatile french-canadians. bruce dunvegan met dreaulond in the store where he had his office as factor of the fort. "what news?" he questioned, gripping basil's brown palm. "dumarge she be taken," replied the smiling courier. "when?" pain not joy filled dunvegan to his bewilderment. he began to think that he did not really understand himself or his feelings. "'fore i leave," dreaulond responded. "de factor send de word in de _pacquet_." a startled, feminine cry echoed behind the men. bruce swung on his heel. her eyes brooding with half-formed fear, desirée lazard was regarding them. the chief trader motioned her out. she did not obey. "he has won? the factor has won at last?" her manner was that of a person who faces a calamity long-feared, hard-hated. dully bruce nodded. "the papers!" she exclaimed. "open them! see when the force moves." he broke the thongs of the packet like thread, rummaged the bundle, and found the documents directed to him. "macleod will be here in two days," was his answer. "now will you go!" the intensity of dunvegan bordered on savagery. desirée slipped to the door. outwardly conquered, she disappeared, but victory still lurked in her glance. basil dreaulond wondered much at the chief trader's apparent mood, for he was always gentle in the extreme when dealing with women. the courier could not know that this was the bitterness of renunciation. he too went softly away and left dunvegan alone. an indian had taken baptiste verenne's position as sentinel, and baptiste, hurrying through the yard, met basil coming out of the fort. "got de fiddle ready, baptiste?" asked the tanned courier, grinning. it was the custom at the posts to hold a dance upon the arrival of the packet. these festivals marked, as it were, the periods of relief and relaxation from the toil and danger of the long, arduous packet route. "_oui_, for sure t'ing," verenne replied. "i be beeg mans dis night, _mon camarade_!" and a big man baptiste was as, perched high on a corner table, he drew the merry soul of him out across the strings of his instrument. as he played, he smiled jubilantly down upon the light-hearted maze that filled the great floor of the trading room. the huge hall was decorated by the quick hands of women for the occasion. varicolored ribbons ran round the walls after the manner of bunting and fell in festoons from the beamed ceiling. candles stood in rows upon mantels and shelves, shedding soft, silver light from under tinselled shades. evergreens were thrust in the fireplace and banked about with wild roses and the many flaming flowers of the wilderness. a sweet odor filled the air, an eden smell, the fragrance of the untainted forest. riotously, exuberantly the frolic began. blood pulsed hotly. feet were free. lips were ready. the nor'westers' wives, the french-canadian girls, the halfbreed women swung madly through the square and string dances with the brondel men of their choice. god of it all, baptiste smiled perpetually over the tumult, quickening his music to a faster time, quivering the violin's fibres with sonorous volume. mad hornpipes he shrilled out, sailors' tunes which pete connear stepped till the rafters shook with the clatter. snappy reels he unwound in which terence burke led, throwing antics of irish abandon that convulsed the throng. also, baptiste voiced the songs he loved, airs of his own race, dances he had whirled in old years with the belles of the chaudiere and the gatineau. out of sympathy for the prisoners, glyndon and follet, when all the amusement was going on above, bruce dunvegan had ordered them to be brought up. for the one evening they were allowed the freedom of the fort, but wherever they went two indian guards stalked always at their elbows. and glyndon went most frequently where the rum flowed freest. after the abstinence imposed by confinement since the week-long debauch his thirst was a parching one. half fuddled, he met desirée threading her way through the crowd. he put out both hands awkwardly to bar her progress. "what do you want?" she cried, drawing suddenly back as she would recoil from a snake. "you," glyndon answered thickly. "can a man not speak with his wife?" "wife!" desirée echoed. "go find one of your halfbreed wenches. speak with _her_!" disgust, contempt, revulsion were in desirée's voice and manner. she darted aside and avoided him in the crowd. yet again he found her seated at a table between dunvegan and basil dreaulond where she thought to be secure. he threw his arms about her neck, attempting a maudlin kiss, but instead of meeting her full, red lips his own insipid mouth met dreaulond's great paw, swiftly thrust out to close upon his blotched cheekbones and whirl him into a seat on the courier's other side. "ba gosh, ma fren', you ain' be fit for kiss no woman," basil observed sternly. "you got be mooch sobaire first. eh, _mon ami_? sit ver' still--dat's w'at i said." inwardly flaming, dunvegan remained immovable, as if the incident were none of his concern. but though apparently so calm he was the victim of raging emotions. the magnetic personality of the woman beside him was a poignant thing. her propinquity proved masterful beyond belief. he could hear her heart beating under restraint; interpret the heaving of her bosom; feel the hot pulsing of her blood; read her very thoughts as her mind evolved them. conscious of the spell which grew stronger with every minute, bruce sat there unable to tear himself away. presently, seeking to divert his mind from the cause of the unrest, the chief trader opened a few bottles of aged wine which he had found in the cellars of fort brondel that were stored with the nor'wester's liquor. this he had carefully kept to celebrate the first visit of the hudson's bay company's packet. the amount was not large, yet a little to each the time-mellowed vintage brought from across the seas by way of montreal went round. "to the york factory packet," dunvegan cried, proposing the toast. cheers thundered out, hearty, loyal, sincere. then reverently the toast was sipped. "and basil dreaulond," bruce added. a shout this time loud with great-hearted friendliness and comradeship! strong pride of the northland race burned in their eyes as they drank to the finest type of it, the virile courier. now in fullness of spirit each voiced the toast that appealed to him personally. "scotia!--scots wha hae!" shrilled two highlanders of dunvegan's band. "the emerald isle," terence burke roared aggressively. "the eagle," yelled pete connear. "drat your landsmen's eyes, drink with me. to the american eagle and the salt of the sea!" "_la france! la france!_" voyageurs shrieked like mad. "old england," stammered edwin glyndon, pounding the table. "old fren's," spoke basil dreaulond, with quiet modesty. "old lovers!" clear as a clarion desirée's toast rang through the din, thrilling dunvegan by its audacity, its fervor. as consuming flames her eyes drew him, withering stout resolves, melting his will. he bent his head lower, lower, glorying in the complete confession those two swift words had made. "ah, yes!" called glyndon, leering evilly, "you seem to know that toast--too well." she sprang from her seat in a fury. he sprang from his, ugly in his mood. "you dog!" her nostrils quivered. "you coward!" "and liar!" dunvegan's menacing face eager to avenge the insult rose behind her shoulder. uttering a wild, inarticulate cry, glyndon struck the scornful face of the woman. desirée gave a little moan and fell half stunned against the table. the brondel men roared in anger. as one man they sprang forward with the single purpose of rending edwin glyndon. but dunvegan was quicker than they. white to his lips, he had leaped at the former clerk. his first savage impulse was to strike, to maim, to kill! one blow with all his mighty strength and glyndon would never have spoken again. spoken! that was it. the quick realization pierced his brain even in the moment of obsessing anger. glyndon was a prisoner. he must be produced before malcolm macleod. macleod had questions to ask of him. dead men could not answer questions. thus did sanity temper dunvegan's rage. it was only his open palm that knocked the sot ten feet across the room. then fearfully he lifted desirée. she stirred at the touch. the light of a smile came into the wan face with the red weal upon it. her fortitude permitted not the slightest expression of pain, and dunvegan's soul went out to her at knowledge of her woman's bravery. what before had seemed to him as only his human weakness now became the strength of duty. as if she had been a child, he raised desirée in his arms and left the gaping crowd. a murmur ran among the men when he was gone. they scowled as glyndon staggered up. came an instant's silence and the piping of a thin voice. "now my toast!" everyone looked to see gaspard follet grinning like an ogre at the foot of the table. he thrust his owlish face over the board and shook the wine in his glass till in the light it sparkled like rubies. "to the devil!" he chuckled. the feasters started and sat back silent, grave, awed by the vital significance of that last toast. outside the challenge of the indian sentinel interrupted the quiet. they heard the clatter of the gates. someone had arrived. in the living room above the store where he had ascended on the first strange night of his coming into brondel, dunvegan laid desirée on the lounge covered with fur robes. he sat by her, tenderly bathing the red weal with some soothing herbal mixture that the squaws were accustomed to brew. it relieved the pain, and she smiled up at him, her lustrous eyes innocent with their depth of love. "by the god that makes and breaks hearts," dunvegan breathed, "you'll never look on him again. you belong to me by first and only right of worship." there sounded a step on the stairs. whoever had arrived was coming up. the door opened softly. father brochet stepped in. "my son, my son," he murmured reproachfully but compassionately. they had told him all below. he came across the room, clasping hands with bruce, greeting desirée parentally. "go to bed, child," he ordered kindly, assuming authority over the odd situation. "you look tired out. go to bed! bruce and i want to talk." wondering at her own obedience, desirée vanished into the adjoining chamber. marveling at his own sufferance, dunvegan watched her go. he turned to brochet. "everything unexpected seems to be happening to-night!" he exclaimed. "but i didn't think you were near. where have you come from, father?" "from loon lake." "you knew we had captured fort brondel, then?" "yes. the indians gave me the news. as i was on my return journey to oxford house, i thought i would pay you a call according to my promise. it seems, my son, that i have arrived very opportunely. you have ruled yourself for many months! are you, in one mad moment, going to lose your grip?" he linked an arm in the chief trader's and walked the floor with him, talking, talking, priming him with the wisdom of his saner years till desirée in the next room fell asleep to the sound of their voices and the regular shuffle of their feet. and by dawn father brochet felt the pulse of victory. something of soul-light replaced the fevered gleam in dunvegan's eyes. not yet had he lost his grip! "but she must go to her uncle, pierre lazard," he declared. "seeing her, i cannot keep this strength you have given me." "pierre is at york factory," the priest replied. "he could not bide the post long after his niece was gone. so macleod let him go to the factory. he passed through my indian camp at loon lake before the winter trails broke." "so much the better," sighed dunvegan, with relief. "there she will be safe from black ferguson. she can go in the canoe express with basil dreaulond and his packeteers." chapter xxi black ferguson's wile brochet arranged it. the chief trader could not trust himself to look upon desirée's departure with the york factory packet. the brondel people cheered its going, but dunvegan was not at the landing to see. he had shut himself up in the office. that day he brooded dismally. that night he woke from troubled sleep, thinking he saw a nightmare. but the anxious features of the priest at his bedside were real. real also the face of basil dreaulond! he had a bandage on his head, stained with dried blood! dunvegan sat up with a jerk. "what's wrong, basil?" he shouted. "my god, men, speak!" "wan party nor'westaires waylay de canoe express," stammered basil. "dey must been spyin' round de post! got de packet an' de girl. an' takin' her to ferguson at la roche! dey keel ma voyageurs, _mais_ i escape, me, in de woods." the chief trader threw on his clothes and rushed for the door. brochet blocked him. "what now?" the priest demanded. "follow and----" "no good dat," interrupted dreaulond. "dey got wan whole day start. no good!" "we have men," cried dunvegan wildly. "we must storm la roche." "be wise!" brochet urged, half angrily. "twice your force couldn't storm la roche--and you know it!" "we must try. great god, do you think i'll leave her in that brute's power? every brondel man marches at once!" "no," thundered the priest. "you won't dare! you have the factor's order. don't dare wreck his plan through selfish desire. in another day he will be here. but move these men now to waste them in futile assaults and you halve his strength--you lose the company's campaign!" dunvegan groaned. well he knew that. yet inactivity galled and tortured. "dey got dose prisonaires _aussi_," basil put in. "are you crazed with your wound?" dunvegan's eyes flashed. "no. but i be see dem. dis glyndon an' gaspard!" "they were guarded," began the chief trader vehemently; "are guarded now--" but he broke off to see and to make sure. underground they looked into a cellar-dungeon, empty of captives. stiff in death but without any marks of violence the indian guards lay on the floor. dreaulond sniffed their lips. "dat _diable_ gaspard geeve dem de dog-berry poison," he announced. "mus' be dropped in dere rum at de feast las' night." it had been the duty of the guards to apportion the prisoners their food as well as to watch them. thus their absence had not been marked through the day. it was evident that their escape had been effected some time after the supper and dance had ended when the indians had succumbed to the fatal drink. dunvegan turned to his friends, the light of unshakeable determination on his face. "my men are the company's!" he exclaimed. "my life is my own! i'm going to la roche. there may be a way. somewhere there must be a means. either i'll carry desirée lazard over the stockades or the nor'westers' guns will riddle me." they did not doubt him. they knew a million protests would not avail. "an' me," cried basil, thrilled by his courage. "i go for de _pacquet_. de company's trippers dey ain' nevaire lost wan yet. i ain' goin' be de first, me!" "you lovable fools," reprimanded brochet, tears in his eyes. "you have the stuff in you that makes the northmen great. but don't go alone on this mad mission! let me go with you. for mark this, bruce, where your strength or dreaulond's cunning cannot prevail, my cloth may render some aid." thus across the chain of lakes and rivers three men went against la roche. paddling indian fashion with both elbows held rigid and shoulders thrusting strongly forward at the end of each stroke, the travelers threaded for miles the island channels of the blazing pine. basil dreaulond had the bow, dunvegan the stern. father brochet sat amidships. they took advantage of the current and made rapid progress, their blades churning the water in long half-circular swirls. skilled canoeists they accepted the aid of every shore-eddy, every rushing chute, every navigable cascade. down the rapid du loup, a dangerous rock-split through which the river leaped rather than ran, their craft was snubbed with extreme care. the three shared the toil of portaging over to lac du longe where a baffling head-wind blew. "ba gosh, i no lak dat, me," protested basil, pointing to the great, white-crested combers which cannonaded the beach. "an' look at dose storm-clouds! _saprie!_ she goin' thundaire an' lightnin'!" but the chief trader would hear of no delay. into the brunt of the tempest the bow was forced. shooting the sheer wave-slopes, poising dizzily on crests where momentum raised them, rocking sickeningly in the trough of the swinging seas, the men rode in the teeth of the gale. half way across du longe the thunder and lightning dreaulond had prophesied burst with raucous bellowing, with vivid flame. the wind increased. the lake became a boiling cauldron. basil called upon his last ounce of reserve strength to meet the emergency. brochet muttered as if in prayer while the leaden-backed surges lipped across the gunwales and the spume slashed across the bow. but grim as the storm-wraiths themselves dunvegan held to his course, wet drops glistening on his cheeks, wind furies reflected from his eyes. by sunset they made the other shore, their craft ready to sink under water which could not be bailed out fast enough. tired to the bone, their sleeping camp was as the camp of the dead that night. an owl hooted on the tent boughs. a big moose splashed in the shallows. a gray timber wolf growled over its kill on the shore. but nothing quickened their dulled ears till dawn, red-eyed from his yesterday revelry, stared through the spruce tops. then like the revolving of a treadmill came hours of monotonous straight-water paddling, intervals of tracking and snubbing, occasional poling through cross-currents, swift, transient moments of hazardous rapid-running, and the hateful, staggering grind of slippery portages. across the nisgowan; across the wakibogan; across the koo-wai-chew! through wenokona, through burnt lake, through lake of stars! at little hayes rapid, a half-day's paddle from fort la roche, came their first mishap. to basil dreaulond as bowsman the passage which he had often run seemed unfamiliar. "i'm not be know dis, me," he cried as the canoe swung for a second in the head-swirls before taking the meteor-like plunge downwards. "you're joking," called the chief trader. his paddle urged. the craft shot forward. "_non_, ba gosh! dat rock she be split wit' de frost an' de ice----" and his voice went up in an alarmed yell. "_diable!_" he roared. "undaire de nose!" a desperate thrust of his blade, a tremendous straining did not avail to clear them. the canoe bow struck a fang of submerged rock with a horrible, ripping sound. on the instant they capsized. his lungs full of water and twin mill-races booming in his ears, father brochet hung limply under bruce dunvegan's arm as the latter struggled up the bouldered side of the shallow channel. it was the most realistic drowning sensation that he ever wished to experience. after them crawled the bedraggled courier, hauling the gashed canoe beyond the hammering eddies. blood flowed over his temple. the battering he had received had re-opened the wound in his head. a sound whacking between the shoulders relieved the priest. basil's hurt was promptly staunched with balsam gum. "_mon dieu_, dat be ver' close t'ing," he commented, shrugging his shoulders. "aye," agreed the chief trader, regretfully eyeing the torn canoe bow. "we might guard our lives a little better. there is someone in fort la roche who needs them." "_oui_," returned dreaulond, with deep significance, "an' eef i know anyt'ing, mebbe she be get dem _aussi_." "maybe," assented the chief trader, unmoved. the priest uttered a thankful sigh. "we are in the hands of god," he declared. "white-water or nor'westers, it is all the same!" bruce made a fatalistic gesture. "i believe you, father; i believe you," he returned. "nevertheless we must always aid ourselves. let us portage to the other end of the rapid and try to mend our canoe." but first he fished their sunken outfit from the clear water of the channel. brochet went down and found the paddles where they had been cast upon the sand below little hayes rapid. dreaulond pushed over a dead birch, heaping its dried husk and powdery center for a quick fire. then they stripped off their soaked garments and spread them upon the rocks under the perpendicular sun of high noon. there the steaming clothes dried more quickly than would have been possible before the flames. it was time to eat. the hot meal of fried fish newly caught, bannocks baked from the already wetted flour, and tea proved welcome. a pipe or two formed the dessert. after the meal the men set about the task of mending the canoe. a long rent grinned in the right side of the bow, a bad gash that would require patience in the gumming. basil measured it tentatively and went off into the forest to cut a strip of bark large enough to cover the opening generously. dunvegan melted the pitch over the fire, getting it ready to cement the patch. basil returned. skilfully the two accomplished the delicate work. the patch was gummed tight. over all they spread an extra coat of pitch for surety. then the canoe was set aside in the shade for a space that the gum might cool and harden sufficiently against the water's friction. the bark dreaulond cut had fitted neatly, the gum stuck well. the finish of the thing pleased basil. he gave vent to his satisfaction in a contented grunt as he lay back with lighted pipe among the greening shrubs and ferns. "_bien!_" he exclaimed. "she be carry us lak wan new _batteau_. lak _batteaux sur_ de old saguenay--dat's long way from here, ba gosh! i see heem some nights in ma dreams, me. an' dat's w'en de trails be ver' hard an' i'm ver' tired. onlee las' night, _mes amis_, i see dat _cher_ old saguenay an' lac saint jean." "was st. john anything like du longe?" asked dunvegan whimsically. basil shivered at the comparison. "_non_," he protested. "du longe wan _diable_. saint jean wan angel. _par dieu_, i be tell you, _mes camarades_, dose _lacs_ an' _rivières_ on ma home ain' lak dese in dis beeg _nord_. _non, m'sieu'_ brochet! back dere i be go out for some leetl' pleasure; nevaire be t'ink of dangaire--she so peaceful an' sweet. _mais_ oop here i always t'ink dis _nord_ lak wan sharp enemy watchin' for take you off de guard, for catch you in some feex. onlee de strong mans leeve in dis countree--you see dat. an' w'en i journey on dese _lacs_ an' _rivières_ an' dese beeg woods, i kip de open eye, de tight hand." "feeling that if you ever relax your vigilance, the north will hurl you down," suggested father brochet. "_oui_, dat's way i feel. _mais_ not dat way on ma home in de old days! las' night i be dream i dreeft lak i used to dreeft from lac saint jean down de saguenay. from isle d'almâ to de shipshaw--_oui_, an' all the way to chicoutimi! all in ma new _batteau_!" "and was there anyone in the bow?" ventured dunvegan softly. he was strangely moved, recalling an ancient confidence of dreaulond's. "_oui_," murmured basil tenderly, "de _petite_ therese, _ma fille_!" "man, man," cried brochet earnestly, "haven't you forgotten yet? it is years since you told us of that sorrow." "_non_, not w'ile i leeve," dreaulond replied, a suspicious moisture gathering on his lashes. "she be wit' me las' night, de leetl' therese, black-eyed, wit' de angel smile--therese from the quiet, green graveyard on de hill of st. gédéon." silently they marveled at him, this man of iron strength, but of exquisite feeling, with poetic heart and temperament, who on the edge of danger could float with the dream-conjured vision of his dead child down between the water-cooled, moss-wrapped rocks of the saguenay. but basil's attitude changed swiftly as he sensed one of those northern menaces which he had mentioned minutes before. he rolled on his side and stared downstream. "who's dis?" his tone, low and harsh, seemed that of another person. bruce dunvegan raised himself on one elbow, his face frowning in a cloud of smoke. "a nor'wester--curse it!" he muttered savagely. "coming from la roche! he cannot miss us here. for see he's on the portage. keep a still tongue till i speak and follow my lead. there is a chance that he may mistake us." the chief trader lay back again with an assumption of careless indifference. the other two imitated it. meanwhile the nor'wester was crossing the portage with a speed and ease which showed that he was not overburdened by traveling gear. the lines of the canoe on his head bespoke a fast, light craft. his dunnage was scant. ascending from the shore level to the hog-back of rock which ran along parallel with little hayes rapid till it dipped down to clear water at the other end, the nor'wester glimpsed beneath the broad band of the tump-line on his forehead the three strangers lolling beside their fire. immediately he dropped his load, paused, and glared uncertainly. dunvegan gave him a cheery call which reassured him. "knife me, but at first i was afraid you might be of the hudson's bay people," he laughed, coming on and depositing his canoe and luggage with their own. "yet that was a foolish idea, for one does not see company men so close to fort la roche. but your faces are strange to me!" he paused and puzzled them over. "to which of our parties do you belong? you're from the labrador, i'll wager!" dunvegan took safer ground. "no," he answered. "we've come over from the pontiac with a priest for your district. from complaints at headquarters at montreal it seems there has been a dearth of priests since father beauseul died. so the jesuits have sent you father marcin from the keepawa post." bruce nodded to brochet by way of introduction, a narrowing of the eye warning the priest to act the part. and the pseudo father marcin sat up and greeted the fellow gravely. it was lucky that dunvegan had some knowledge of nor'west affairs. but the sight of brochet's cloth on the nor'wester was startling. he stared a second, emitting a great pleased laugh. "by all the gods, a priest!" he shouted. "what good fortune! as you say, there is a dearth of priests." again he laughed that great, pleased laugh they could not understand. "a dearth of priests!" he thrust out a hand. "i will never be any gladder to see you, father marcin, than i am now. you have saved me a long paddle to watchaimene lake. there is one of your cloth there. i was going for him." brochet looked up sharply. "who is dying?" he questioned. "no one. it's ferguson, our leader. he can't get a priest to marry him quick enough!" silence fell, a hateful, awkward, dangerous silence! brochet looked at dunvegan. the latter's face was a mask. the pipe protruded rigidly from one corner of his mouth. he betrayed no emotion, but the priest's glance, falling to his bare arms, noted the quivering of the sinews. "why so much haste?" inquired father brochet, calmly assuming the task of preserving the former indifference of the atmosphere. the nor'wester chuckled significantly. "it is natural," he answered. "ferguson has already waited a year in order to lay hands on his bride. for you must know she was under the guard of the hudson's bay till she married an english clerk in their service who was bribed to come over to the nor'west ranks and put in charge of fort brondel, which has since been captured by the company!" "how came black ferguson to seize her, then?" the priest asked, drawing all possible information from the swart fellow. "there was a feast in brondel when the york factory packet arrived. after the dance the english clerk escaped with a spy who was also a prisoner. expecting that some of our men would be lurking about spying on the fort, they sought and found them and gave them news. the clerk's wife, the lady ferguson desired, was to go north with the canoe express to york factory. so our men waylaid it, capturing the packet and the woman. the clerk, poor fool, thought she was being taken for himself." "and was it not so?" cried brochet. "they were married, you say! does this lady lean toward bigamy?" "they _were_ married, yes," admitted the nor'wester, with a sinister meaning. "she is now a widow." all three men started, nearly betraying themselves. "a widow!" they echoed. "a widow indeed! the english clerk was shot by some of the packeteers." "dat wan dam lie!" shouted basil, unwarily. "why? what do you know?" the nor'wester looked askance at the voyageur's vehemence. "i see dat in your eye," dreaulond declared, quick to recover himself. "we all be _bon amis_. spik de truth, now!" he winked knowingly at the dark-faced man. "well," began the other, sheepishly, "it wasn't in the fight, that's true. it happened afterwards. i was not with the party, but they say the english clerk stumbled over his own gun." "where was he shot?" dunvegan hurled the query almost ferociously. "in the back, i heard!" bruce spat an oath. brochet gave a sympathetic murmur. the courier growled inarticulately. "_mon dieu_," he muttered under his breath, "dat's wan more count for m'sieu' ferguson, wan more hell fire. i t'ink he be need de pries' for shrive, not for marry heem. ba gosh, i do!" the nor'wester was obviously growing impatient. "i must be going back if you are ready to move, father marcin," he asserted, "for ferguson will question me as to where i found you, and if he thinks there has been any lagging, i shall pay the price." dunvegan's head moved the fraction of an inch in a nod perceptible only to father brochet. the latter quickly arose. "i am ready to make all haste," he averred. "if i delay, i am perhaps permitting sin." "as for you, my friends," spoke the nor'wester, turning to the others, "there is nothing to hinder your coming also. they will give you good cheer in la roche. you may rest there a while and return at your leisure." "it would please us," replied dunvegan, "but the pontiac is a long way from here. there is little use in adding extra miles to our labor. and keepawa post cannot spare us for long. we will go back." "your plans are your own," the nor'wester assented. "and i must paddle on. la roche should see me by sunset." they helped him launch his craft and load the duffle. dunvegan addressed a last remark to him. "you did not tell us," he observed carelessly, "how this lady takes your leader's haste. the story has interested me." "she pleaded for a little time against his eagerness," answered the nor'wester, "and she stalls him off thus. he has given her till the priest's arrival, which time she is lucky to get! also she is lucky to have father marcin!" the man's chuckle implied much. dunvegan's jaw tightened. his pipe broken at his lips clattered on the flinty rocks. "it was worn!" he exclaimed. brochet picked up the fallen portion. showing no sign of wear, the amber was fresh and thick. proof of the volcanic feeling rioting in him, dunvegan's strong teeth had bitten clear through the stem. as the nor'wester slipped his canoe into the water, bruce whispered to brochet. "do what you can," he begged. "we shall not be far behind you." with ostentation the priest bade the two good-bye. the nor'wester waved a paddle in farewell as his canoe shot round a bend. two or three miles start basil and dunvegan gave him before they launched their own craft. chapter xxii fawn and panther like a colossal casting in bronze fort la roche loomed against the bloody sunset. brochet glimpsed it for the first time with a prescience of impending evil. couchant on the serrated headland it lay some sixty feet above river level, commanding the waterway, grinning like a powerful monster, impregnable, austere, forbidding. strongest of all the nor'west posts, most cunningly built, most substantially fortified, the mere thought of bringing anyone over its stockades unresisted seemed maddest folly. the priest had in his day seen many weird-looking dens bristling with defence, smacking of wrong-doing, smelling of spilled blood. but this impressed him above all as likely to be the abode of extreme malevolence. even to enter it, he felt, would be like putting one's head into a wild beast's lair not knowing what minute it might be snapped off. brochet was glad at this crisis that he had never seen black ferguson. he rejoiced that the nor'west leader had had no opportunity to set eyes on him, for in such a contingency he could not hope to blind the man's innate cunning and preserve his incognito. recognition by two people he still had to fear. they were flora macleod and gaspard follet. against this he drew up the hood of his black cassock to shade his features, formulating in his mind an excuse which embraced asthma and the dark evening mist for the moment when he should be questioned as to the cause. under the lee of the headland the nor'wester's canoe drifted. backwatering with his rigidly held paddle, he lay to below the rivergate. a loud voice hailed them from the watchtower. "halloo! who comes?" "it is black ferguson himself," whispered the nor'west man to brochet, studying the tall figure poised on the high wall. "he finds it harder to wait than he thought." then, lifting up his shout, ferguson's messenger answered his leader. "cartienne!" he roared. "cartienne comes. and with a priest!" wide swung the watergate in the space of a breath. black ferguson seemed to have fallen from the watchtower so quickly did he accomplish the descent. his eager face peered at them from the dusky landing. "by all the saints, cartienne!" he laughed, mightily pleased. "what did you use? witchcraft?" the messenger explained. voluble with blessings on his good luck, ferguson dismissed cartienne and haled the priest off to the store, in a room above which desirée lazard was confined. "no supper, father," he joked, "till you have seen my bride-to-be. and knife me, she'll give you an appetite! i'll warrant that. after supper you shall marry us." "is she so fair, then?" ventured brochet. "fair? i'll take my oath you saw none like her in all the pontiac, father marcin. but you shall judge for yourself! here is the place. let me lead the way aloft." brochet looked round as he followed ferguson up the stairway and saw, coming into the building with some trappers to barter goods, the familiar, hideous figure of gaspard follet. he swiftly turned his back and pulled the hood tighter. the spy's bellowing laugh made him flinch with the sickening feeling of discovery, but immediately he was ashamed of the falsity of his alarm. gaspard's mirth held no hint of wicked triumph; nothing but harsh deviltry as he stared a second upon ferguson and the black cassocked one. "a priest, a marriage and afterwards--h--l!" brochet heard the dwarf cheerfully prophesy to the trappers. again his mawkish laugh vibrated among the hewn rafters. above the nor'west leader quickly crossed the room and indicated a door. "here, father! cover your eyes lest her beauty blind you!" the tone was exultant as well as bantering. he fumbled with the bolt, failed to shoot it, and stooped to examine, for the dark was gathering thickly so that small things could not be easily seen. "the devil!" he cried amazedly. "it's unlocked! now what cursed trickery is this?" kicked back without ceremony, the door banged and quivered. ferguson bounded inside, the breathless priest on his heels. a single candle, burning serenely, lighted an empty room. "legions of fiends and devils!" blasphemed the angry nor'wester, blundering round in sheer astonishment. "escaped? it can't be, father marcin! she could not have gone through the store. my men would have seen. and yonder door, the only other way out, leads into the upper part of the fur-house where the powder is stored. it is locked! what traitor----" the grating of a key interrupted him. ferguson whirled at the sound. the door he had mentioned had opened and closed softly. flora, paler than when brochet had last seen her and with the shadow of disappointment in her eyes, quietly broke the key in the lock. she failed to recognize the priest whose face was partly concealed by his hood. "you--you!" ferguson shrieked, choking with terrible wrath. "i," she answered unflinchingly. "i told you that you would never marry her. neither shall you! had i been able to spirit her out of la roche, it would have been done. failing that, i have placed her beyond your earthly reach. you cannot kiss her living lips!" "what! you she-fiend," shouted the nor'wester, thoughts of evil dealing leaping into his bewildered brain, "do you dare tell me----" but flora stopped him with an imperious gesture. "don't misunderstand me," she returned contemptuously. "go look for her in the powder-room." at that, enlightenment swept him. he leaped forward, madly incensed, with fists clenched to strike her. father brochet had just time to throw himself between. "softly," the priest cautioned, whispering low that the factor's daughter might not know his voice; "you must not offer a blow to a woman. i thought a prospective bridegroom had been more gentle with the sex." "your pardon, father," he begged. but he was barely containing himself. the judgment for the woman who was his wife leaped out. "i'll suffer you here no longer," he snarled. "leave la roche at dawn. that's my last word to you!" but the gleaming devil in his eye leered back at him in the steady contemptuous gaze of malcolm macleod's daughter. downstairs in wild, inconsiderate haste the nor'wester dragged the priest. dark had fallen on la roche, a deep darkness of velvety, impenetrable gloom peculiar to the north. a drifting pall of mist that beaded the stockades and dripped from the blockhouse eaves added to the intensity of the night. suggestive of tragedy, symbolic of disaster, prophetic of unknown calamity, the weird atmosphere chilled the men as with a breath of fatalism. both felt it, but neither stopped long enough to analyze the feeling. brochet attributed the odd sensation to his delicate position which in the event of discovery would become fatal. black ferguson thought the impression was simply attendant upon his abnormal excitement as he raced across the yard to the fur-house. there the priest sweated with a very natural fear when they met a group of indians who had been storing bales by torchlight. trooping back from their work, the red gleam licking across their coppery features, brochet saw running wolf, his hot-tempered son three feathers and others of the cree tribe from the katchawan. veering a little, the priest walked on ferguson's right side on the edge of the ring of light. thus he avoided encountering them fairly and escaped keen eyes that would have undoubtedly recognized him even under his muffling capote. "_bo' jou', bo' jou'_," the crees grunted, and stalked on. into the fur-house between rows of strong-odored pelts the nor'wester hurried through the dark with brochet. up the long ladder which was wide enough for both to climb abreast they hastened. ferguson threw back the ceiling trapdoor with a resounding clang. the tableau that met the two men's eyes as they pushed up their heads was one to be stamped indelibly on their memories. a candle gleaming beside her in a sconce on the wall, desirée lazard crouched behind a heap of powder kegs in the middle of the room. the top of the central keg had been broken in. the powder's black crystals shone with an awesome refraction of light. and, white-lipped, tense-fibered, desirée held the great pistol in her hand so that its muzzle was buried in the deadly stuff. her eyes lightened with recognition at sight of brochet's colorless face in the dark square of the trapdoor's space. but, being behind ferguson's shoulder, he placed a finger on his lips so that the girl understood and gave no sign. first the nor'wester cursed in helplessness and baffled anger. then his powers of entreaty were exhausted to no betterment. his handsome, diabolical countenance was set with a rigid glare almost maniacal in distortion. "are you mad, girl?" he screamed, his voice more animal-like than human. "no, but you are," desirée retorted scornfully, "if you think to approach me. remember! a crook of my finger and fort la roche goes!" to brochet it was splendid--the soft woman holding at certain bay the wily nor'wester whom none had ever baffled before. her courage sent a glow through his own frame, but instantly he shivered at the thought that this could not last any great length of time. the situation was impossible. yet such as it was, desirée was mistress of it! "the minute that you or your men show foot above those ladder rungs, i fire," she declared with an intense earnestness which the nor'wester did not for an instant doubt. "your priest there may come up. but no other!" devil that he was, black ferguson began to test her nerve, prancing on the rounds upward, ever upward, showing his waist, his hips, knees, even ankles, while father brochet trembled for the sake of the girl. he expected every instant to hear the thunderous reverberation that would carry destruction and death. once the nor'west leader rose on the last rung till his boot-tops levelled the floor, balanced thus, grinning to see how little he had to spare. the priest noted desirée's hand whitening on the pistol butt, noted the weapon's muzzle thrusting deeper into the powder. involuntarily his fingertips went to his ears. but the explosion did not come. laughing a grim, satisfied laugh, black ferguson dropped down a rung or so alongside brochet. "you should not do that," the latter reproved. "a slip of your foot or a nervous quiver of the girl's hand and we would all be in heaven!" "you and the girl might, father. i would be in a fitter place." ferguson's face was insolent. he had no fear, neither had he any reverence. "hard as you are," the priest went on, "i give you credit for your courage." "give desirée credit too! there is a woman of steel, father. a fit mate for a nor'wester!" "but most unwilling, it seems!" "her will must break." black ferguson turned again to glimpse her fully. he played again his trick of mounting the ladder rungs. brochet thought the nor'wester was baiting her out of sardonic recklessness. this was partially the truth, but had the priest followed black ferguson's eyes more closely, he would have seen that the cunning giant had an ulterior purpose in his baiting. once more he dropped back to brochet's side without betraying that purpose. "beautiful and brave!" he gloated. "brave and beautiful! did you ever see her like, father marcin? i'll wager not. not even in the pontiac! yet look what madness it is--this standing at bay. i don't want her destroyed. nor the fort. she knows that. but how long can she play this pretty game? soon she will need food, and with that she-fiend who planted her here gone, she will never get it. what then? what then, my worthy priest? you see it is no use. go up and reason with her, father. you have wisdom. she will listen. as for me i can wait a little longer!" he urged brochet through the opening and closed the trapdoor. his heavy boots clattered down the ladder. the outer door of the fur-house opened and shut. dropping her weapon, desirée swayed forward on unsteady feet and, sobbing with nerve-strain, collapsed on the priest's breast. "my child, my child," murmured father brochet. and when she lay a little quieter in his arms, he whispered in her ear a word about dunvegan and dreaulond. "they can't be far off," he explained. "a few miles behind cartienne's canoe! that would be all--just enough to keep well out of sight or sound. and i shouldn't wonder if they're about la roche now!" "but what can two men do?" cried desirée, utterly hopeless. "he--he will only sacrifice himself. and for me in the end it will be this." she motioned to the powder, and then drawing away from brochet with a return of strength went and seated herself upon the keg. "you had--you had the pistol," ventured the priest. "yes," she returned quietly, "but i could not use it even on a beast. you yourself would not have me use it so, father!" "no, daughter, not so! nor yet the other way--the powder! pray god he gives dunvegan strength to do something." brochet paced up and down in a distracted manner. there was little he could say. reason with her the nor'wester had ordered! the priest would rather see her press the trigger above the keg than reason her into the arms of the nor'wester lord. he began to question her as to the details of the attack upon the york factory packet. desirée explained how they had been waylaid, for since she was in the hands of the victors after the skirmish she could better learn how they had fulfilled their plans than could basil dreaulond who had escaped. she shuddered when she told of the accident to glyndon which happened afterwards as they made speed to fort la roche. for accident it was in desirée's eyes. how could she know that the men of the party had had their orders from black ferguson before they departed on their mission? father brochet did not enlighten her. she went on to tell of the arrival at the nor'west stronghold, of ferguson's greeting with his offer of marriage. her eyes flashed as she spoke of it. "did you ever see a panther stalk a fawn?" she cried. "that was it! but i defied him. i scorned him. i--i spurned him. yet defiance seemed only to increase his appetite. he laughed at my fear. he roared at my fury. he thrust me into a locked chamber to change my mind before the priest arrived. he said i was lucky to have a priest----" she paused, interrupted by a slight sound which seemed to come up from the river. the wall trembled never so slightly. "what is it?" she whispered. brochet had stepped swiftly to the other end of the powder room and laid ear to a loop-hole. suddenly his left hand beckoned. desirée tip-toed across. "what?" she panted. "who?" she breathed in little gasps. "i don't know, daughter," murmured the priest, his voice tremulous with excitement. "dunvegan--maybe. he swore he would carry you over these walls." "what madness!" desirée gasped. "think of the cliffs. the stockades are fifty feet above the water. it would require a miracle!" "you forget there is a god who still works miracles. and through earthly instruments! remember the fur-chute!" "but it is drawn up every night," the girl protested. "to-night it cannot be, for the noise is coming from it. the crees and voyageurs were unloading fur-bales. they have been careless and left it down. or perhaps they have not finished. pray heaven they may not come back too soon!" undoubtedly the noise, as of someone crawling, was coming from the fur-chute, the long box-pipe of pine that projected like a spout from the lower room of the fur-house and slanted down over the stockades to within a few feet of the river's surface. it was used for the loading and unloading of pelts carried in canoes, the huge bales being hoisted or lowered by a stout rope which ran through the center on a pulley. the height of fort la roche above the water made such a contrivance necessary. it effected a tremendous saving of time and portaging up the steep. the only drawback was that it afforded means of ingress to enemies, since an active man could pull himself up by the rope, and this the nor'westers had overcome by hinging the fur-house end on a great wooden pin. thus at will the spout could be raised like the arm of a derrick out of reach from anyone below. that the chute was not raised now could hardly have been an oversight. brochet knew that ferguson was far too careful for that. it must mean that there was still work to be done. the priest sweated at every distant echo of voice or footfall for fear it heralded the return of the nor'west voyageurs. the scraping, crawling noise continued. while they strained to hear, their ears tense as those of listening deer, they caught a faint metallic sound from the room downstairs. "bolts," muttered brochet, straightening up suddenly. "now what does that mean?" he was shown! the trapdoor behind them flew open and black ferguson's head and shoulders rose up. he had worked the ruse of coming back unheard. in his hand the priest could see a piece of binding cord drawn taut as if fastened to something under the powder-room's floor. "ho! ho!" his huge laugh reverberated among the rafters. "ho! ho!" desirée dashed toward the kegs, but the nor'wester swiftly jerked on the cord he held. a gap yawned in the floor before her feet. kegs and pistol tumbled down into the fur-room. "ho! ho!" roared ferguson. "it's an old trapdoor where the ladder used to be. i put a string to the bolt. what do you think of my reasoning, father? better than yours, what?" he had reached the floor and was rushing across to them. "the candle, father! the candle!" desirée shrieked. for keg on keg of powder, many of them open, was still up-piled around the room. she sprang for it. black ferguson sprang also and wrested the flaming taper from her fingers. still laughing, he shoved her aside with one great paw and replaced the light in the sconce on the wall. "there's a spitfire, father marcin," he exulted. "there's spirit for you. it's the spirit i want. by heaven you'll marry us now. i ask no better chancel." and he leaped after the retreating girl. "wait till i get her in these arms," he cried hoarsely, his cheeks aflame, his eyes shining with desire. "else will she not stand quiet for the vows!" fawn and panther!--the comparison desirée herself had made! as tawny, as cruel, as strong, and as fierce to feed as any beast of prey the nor'wester ran round the yawning floor-gap to seize her. as slim, as supple, as tender as any fawn desirée crouched and trembled an instant before him. then she leaped straight down through the opening. chapter xxiii conquest a prayer on his lips, brochet scrambled down the ladder. a curse on his, black ferguson tumbled after. in the impetus of his descent the nor'wester hit the trapdoor over the ladder. it slammed shut, and the place below was plunged in darkness except for the faint gleam which fell from above through the other square. the candlelight came down like a golden spray of phosphorescent liquid, bathing and making visible a meager space in the middle of the lower floor. it was only the square of light in the ceiling enlarged a few diameters, and the rest of the vast room where boxes, barrels, and bales were piled in rows on the floor and upon shelves on the walls remained black as pitch. but ferguson had no chance to go up and bring down the candle without which he had so thoughtlessly descended. his quarry was too close to escape. "do you find her, father?" he called to the priest whom he could dimly see searching where the weak light shone. "no! nor hear her!" brochet's voice was bitterly harsh. "if she struck these boxes, you have murdered her!" "aye; and if she struck the fur-bales, she is as lively as ever! since you don't see her there, she didn't strike the boxes. she's in this cursed dark somewhere. what's more, she'll be out of it in a minute. watch the door, father. i'll stand by the fur-chute. it's down; and it's devilishly handy for her to slide into the water!" quickly he crossed the space of light and groped for the mouth of the chute. he reached it. the cool, dank river air rising through it puffed in his heated face. "wait a moment, father. wait till i strike a match!" "in the name of heaven, don't!" cried brochet from the door where he was secretly trying to loose the bar. "the kegs broke when they fell. the powder's all over the floor." black ferguson chuckled like a fiend. "faint-hearted, father? take a lesson from the girl. powder or no powder, we must have light!" the sulphur match crackled on the wall. ferguson shielded the sputtering blue flame with his hands, but even while he shielded it, the match was struck from his fingers, and he was locked in a pair of powerful arms. "let go, priest!" he commanded laughingly. "where in the devil did you get such muscles?" he imagined brochet had gripped him. but his laugh and his voice died in the strain. he could only choke out a curse and bend to his sudden mad struggle for freedom. over by the door father brochet heard the sounds of conflict, the hard breathing, heavy trampling, smashing of boxes and barrels, crashing of overturned goods. he thought it was desirée striving against the nor'wester. he rushed to her aid, but the strong whirl of men's fighting bodies hurled him into a corner. almost under his feet desirée gave a frightened cry, and, stooping, the priest groped for her. he gathered her in his arms. "are you hurt, daughter? are you hurt?" "no, no," she assured him. "i landed on the fur-bales, and they were soft. but, god of heaven, what is happening?" "it must be dunvegan--and ferguson. and one will kill the other!" in the dark they crouched back from the stamping feet. not a thing was visible. they might have been in some medieval dungeon or charnel vault where monsters of old were writhing in death-grapples. desirée was trembling all over. she clung to brochet, her eyes straining for an unrewarded glimpse of the furious antagonists. if she could only see! that was what wracked her. the fear that invisible horror engenders shattered her supersensitive nerves. on the verge of hysteria she listened, praying for the end. then huge as giants in the spray of light she saw two men stagger into the central space of the floor. she saw one man's body bend as willow in the other's arms, heard it crack like a broken branch. sweeter than any sound she had ever heard, dunvegan's voice rang clearly. "a candle, brochet! for heaven's sake, a candle! it is either his neck or his back. pray god, his neck!" the priest's cassock flapped up the ladder and flapped down again. fearfully he walked with the taper and held it tight; for destruction was all around them, and the trampled powder lay on the floor like meal. "careful, brochet!" warned the chief trader. "this way--this way. ah! it's his back." horrible to view, with his spine doubled back like the broken blade of a jackknife, black ferguson was crumpled over a barrel. he looked as if he could never move or speak again, and, placing the candle carefully on a box, father brochet knelt hastily beside him. "help me, my son," he begged dunvegan. "raise him up. surely he will let me shrive him." shrive him! they reckoned without the nor'wester's steel spirit. he squirmed in their hands. as he saw dunvegan's face bent over him he snarled like a trapped wolf and uttered a demon-howl. "la roche!" he screamed loud enough to ring from ground to blockhouse tower. "la roche! to me, comrades! to me----" the chief trader's palm stopped his mouth, but the mischief was done. there arose a roar of trapper shouts and cree gutturals. the yard thundered with running feet. brochet rushed to bar the door. dunvegan grasped desirée's arm and sprang to the fur-chute. "quick!" he ordered. "put your feet over the rim. now sit down. basil has the canoe at the other end!" he looped the rope around the girl's waist and swiftly lowered her like a bale through the wooden spout. hands below suddenly eased his burden. the rope jerked twice, dreaulond's signal that the descent was made, and dunvegan pulled the hemp up again with feverish haste. the coils writhed and twisted on the floor behind him; the sweat of his climb and exertion ran rivulets on bare arms and forehead. "you next, brochet!" he panted. but there was sacrifice in the priest's eye. men with torches were all about the building. in a moment or two they would break in. "brochet! you next!" "no, no, my son. good-bye, and go. there is no time for both." "you next, i said," roared dunvegan. he leaped and seized the priest bodily. "leave me, son!" brochet tried to throw off the rope. "your place is with desirée. they will not harm me." dunvegan whipped the cable over the priest's head and took a turn under his armpits. "harm you! they would rend you bone from bone. black ferguson knows you now for an imposter. into the chute you go!" the building shook under the assault of the trappers and crees. the rafters rang with ferguson's shouts as he urged the men on. axe-blades bit through the barred door. the chief trader put forth his strength to steady brochet's descent. he was much heavier than desirée, and the brunt of the drag came just when he occupied the mouth of the chute before the rope could be eased over the pulley. as the priest's head was disappearing, he cast up his eyes and dunvegan saw spring into them an intense horror. "look!" he shrieked. "look!" and vanished down the pipe. the chief trader threw a backward glance across his shoulder as hand over hand he paid out the rope, and the sight he glimpsed turned icy cold the hot sweat on his limbs. black ferguson, cripple as he was, had possessed himself of the candle and was dragging his broken body along the floor toward a heap of the trampled powder. paralysis gripped the nor'wester's legs so that they trailed helplessly, but by means of his tremendous strength of shoulders and arms he was wriggling his way, clutching, pulling, heaving as one in death-throes. he had the candle in his mouth, and he seemed to dunvegan like some great, evil, fiery-tongued, crawling monster. outside the building all was pandemonium. inside dwelt awful suspense. it was a moment to drive dunvegan mad. the rope was not long enough to allow him to back up and kick the candle out of ferguson's mouth. if he let go he would undoubtedly drown brochet and capsize the two in the canoe. he hung on grimly, measuring the nor'wester's progress by glancing back repeatedly, striving to pay out the cable faster than the dragon-like thing could crawl. foot by foot he fed the rope. as it sagged loose, black ferguson had gained his goal. his hand snatched the candle from his teeth and reached out to lay wick to the granules. when he saw the nor'wester's arm go out, dunvegan dived headforemost down the chute. like an otter he slid, and cried a warning as he shot down. barely in time did basil catch it. a backward sweep of his paddle, and a whizzing body splashed at his bow. and simultaneous with the splash the cliffs rocked and thundered. like a volcano the hill vomited red fire through the pitchy night. in a blotch of flame la roche flew heavenward. a rain of wreckage fell upon the water all around the chief trader. "_mon dieu, camarade_, dive!" shouted dreaulond, backing water. he dove and came up again in the center of the river. there the courier whirled the stern of the canoe into his grasp, and, unhurt, dunvegan raised himself over it. the last barrier between them gone, desirée crouched in his dripping arms. yet only an instant might heart beat against heart! dunvegan thrust his legs under the stern thwart and caught up a paddle. "drive, basil," he urged. "drive hard! i don't think there's a living soul left, but we can't take any chances." in dashed the blades, but hardly had they dipped a dozen strokes when a string of lights starred the river round the first bend. dreaulond swore softly. "nor'westers, ba gosh! some been away!" "hug the shore," dunvegan whispered. "we may slip past them without their seeing us in this fog." paddling in silence, they worked their craft close against the rocky wall of the farther shore. prey to mingled hope and fear, the four crouched low in the gunwales. the lights were still coming in file, and in a moment the hiding ones could see a fleet of canoes with torches in the bows. swiftly the birch-barks skimmed the bloody streaks the torches cast on the black water. they changed their course slightly, and the leading one forged along within a few yards of dunvegan's craft. discovery seemed certain. the chief trader whispered to basil and felt for his weapons in the canoe bottom. voices of the oncoming men struck sharp and clear through the moist air. "it seemed like an earthquake!" someone was saying. instantly dunvegan knew the voice--the factor's! he dropped his weapons. "earthquake it sure was," a voice replied. "and the fort was on top of it. your men have saved you the trouble of a siege, macleod. they sure got to the powder!" the pulses of the four leaped gladly. now in the nebulous torch-glare they could make out the faces and figures in the foremost craft. there in the bow was wahbiscaw, and behind him malcolm macleod. amidships dunvegan saw granger, the sandy-haired deputy he had met on lake lemeau and again at kabeke bluffs. aft was his swarthy, black-bearded companion, garfield. in his place as steersman squatted wise old maskwa. the keen-visaged granger was casting piercing looks on all sides as they plunged on. he timed his paddle strokes with an oft-repeated phrase. "they got to the powder; they sure did!" and garfield's white teeth split his black beard. "yes, and where in thunder are they now?" "here," laughed dunvegan, and from the gloom drove alongside them. "here. keep down those guns!" granger, ever quick to defend, lowered his arms. "by the hinges of hell!" he exclaimed. "you sneaked? you got to it and sneaked? oh, what a jolt! oh, lord, what a jolt!" all around the other canoes glided up. the chief trader looked on the faces of the oxford house and brondel men. the haggard, strained look in their eyes told of paddling night and day from fort brondel. and they had nearly made it! dunvegan thanked god they hadn't. as for the hudson's bay forces, they stared at the four in the canoe as at people escaped from the pit. but the factor stirred them from immobility. "ashore!" he ordered. "ashore! search the hill!" "i'm afraid there's nothing to be found," observed dunvegan, "except perhaps a few wretches to be put out of their misery. i guess there were tons of powder." "how'd it happen?" macleod demanded, as side by side their two canoes nosed in to shore through the channel where the watergate was blown to atoms. "ask brochet. he was there from the first. he can tell you more than i." so between macleod and granger, as they climbed the twisting path cut through rock to the landing by the watergate, the priest walked, outlining what had taken place. behind them, with dunvegan and garfield, toiled desirée. she would not be left alone below. maskwa and wahbiscaw had gone ahead with the rest of the hudson's bay men. as they reached the top, brochet finished his brief account of the affair in the fur-house. the factor took it in silence. not so granger! "the game old devil!" he cried. "he sure kept his nerve to the last. but he has made himself thunderin' hard to identify. eh, macleod? i guess you can't swear to his identity now!" "you should have arrested him as soon as you placed him at la roche," the factor answered. "and found me afterwards." "don't talk nonsense! we'd look fine playing a single-handed game like that, wouldn't we? it had to be worked a different way. you both had assumed names. we didn't know which was which. so we had to nail our plan in the middle and let it swing at both ends. you see how it swung? if we had to take you, the northwest company would fight for us. if we had to take ferguson, the hudson's bay company sure was at our backs! good lord--what's here? a quarry?" a quarry indeed it looked, a huge, black cave amid the rocks, the heart of the granite headland blown out by a titanic blast. they stood on the edge of the slope, gazing at the torches of the hudson's bay men as they swarmed like gnomes in the bowels of the pit. they clustered and spread and crawled here and there, round the sides of the chasm, up over its lips, where ghostly as bale-fires little heaps of wreckage smoldered and flamed. then the reluctant lights came back one by one, and the tale of the bearers ran the same. "nothing!" "not a body!" "not a limb!" like a funeral bell brochet's voice broke the grim silence. "gone? all gone? and unshriven! god rest their souls." he knelt on the rocks. while he muttered a prayer, maskwa strode out of the dark. he had no torch, but he held something in his hands. startled, the others craned and peered. a dozen torches flashed over the ojibway, and in his arms the crimson light played upon a crumpled form. "he breathes, strong father!" dunvegan sprang to one side of the burden, granger to his other. as they placed the mangled figure on the ground the head came by chance upon the priest's knees. "ferguson!" brochet whispered, awed. for though limbs and body were crushed and torn, the face remained unmarred. "aye, and a job for you," murmured dunvegan. but granger had leaped at the name, dragging macleod by the arm. "look!" he urged. "look! will you swear to him?" the red glare bathed the white face. the factor's eyes focused on the features and grew full of terrible light and would not come away. "it's--it's--funster," he choked. dunvegan saw his right hand clench and clutch the air. he held an imaginary weapon. the old scar was ripped from his heart. he was the primeval man, red with rage, thirsting for revenge, and baited blind because vengeance had been torn from his grasp. and as if under the electric prick of his tense words the nor'wester stirred. he muttered once and opened his eyelids. straight up into macleod's awful face he stared, and his eyes suddenly gleamed with recognition. "my son--my boy?" demanded the factor hoarsely. the nor'wester's lips strove a little and parted. "gaspard!" he groaned with his last breath. the end * * * * * novels of frontier life by william macleod raine _mavericks._ a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. _a texas ranger._ how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquite, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. _wyoming._ in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. _ridgway of montana._ the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. _bucky o'connor._ every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. _crooked trails and straight._ a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. _brand blotters._ a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its pages. * * * * * stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter _laddie._ illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie, the older brother whom little sister adores, and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. there is a wedding midway in the book and a double wedding at the close. _the harvester._ illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," david langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of mother nature herself. if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," and the harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. _freckles._ decorations by e. stetson crawford. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. _a girl of the limberlost._ illustrated by wladyslaw t. brenda. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. _at the foot of the rainbow._ illustrations in colors by oliver kemp. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. * * * * * john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains _the trail of the lonesome pine._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." _the little shepherd of kingdom come._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad." the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. _a knight of the cumberland._ illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. * * * * * jack london's novels _john barleycorn._ illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical jack london book. _the valley of the moon._ frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. _burning daylight._ four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! _a son of the sun._ illustrated by a. o. fischer and c. w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. _the call of the wild._ illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. _the sea wolf._ illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. _white fang._ illustrated by charles livingston bull. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. this ebook was edited by charles aldarondo (www.aldarondo.net). the heart's secret: or, the fortunes of a soldier. by lieutenant murray. boston: . publisher's note.--the following novellette was originally published in the pictorial drawing-room companion, and is but a specimen of the many deeply entertaining tales, and gems of literary merit, which grace the columns of that elegant and highly popular journal. the companion embodies a corps of contributors of rare literary excellence, and is regarded as the ne plus ultra, by its scores of thousands of readers. preface. the locale of the following story is that gem of the american archipelago; the island of cuba, whose lone star, now merged in the sea, is destined yet to sparkle in liberty's hemisphere, and radiate the light of republicanism. poetry cannot outdo the fairy-like loveliness of this tropical clime, and only those who have partaken of the aromatic sweetness of its fields and shores can fully realize the delight that may be shared in these low latitudes. a brief residence upon the island afforded the author the subject-matter for the following pages, and he has been assiduous in his efforts to adhere strictly to geographical facts and the truthful belongings of the island. trusting that this may prove equally popular with the author's other numerous tales and novelettes, he has the pleasure of signing himself, very cordially, the public's humble servant. dedicated to the readers of gleason's pictorial drawing-room companion, for which journal these pages were originally written, by their very humble servant, lieutenant murray. the heart's secret. chapter i. the accident. the soft twilight of the tropics, that loves to linger over the low latitudes, after the departure of the long summer's day, was breathing in zephyrs of aromatic sweetness over the shores and plains of the beautiful queen of the antilles. the noise and bustle of the day had given place to the quiet and gentle influences of the hour; the slave had laid by his implements of labor, and now stood at ease, while the sunburnt overseers had put off the air of vigilance that they had worn all day, and sat or lounged lazily with their cigars. here and there strolled a montaro from the country, who, having disposed of his load of fruit, of produce and fowls, was now preparing to return once more inland, looking, with his long toledo blade and heavy spurs, more like a bandit than an honest husbandman. the evening gun had long since boomed over the waters of the land-locked harbor from the grim, walls of moro castle, the guard had been relieved at the governor's palace and the city walls, and now the steady martial tread to the tap of the drum rang along the streets of havana, as the guard once more sought their barracks in the plaza des armes. the pretty senoritas sat at their grated windows, nearly on a level with the street, and chatted through the bars, not unlike prisoners, to those gallants who paused to address them. and now a steady line of pedestrians turned their way to the garden that fronts the governor's palace, where they might listen to the music of the band, nightly poured forth here to rich and poor. at this peculiar hour there was a small party walking in the broad and very private walk that skirts the seaward side of the city, nearly opposite the moro, and known as the plato. it is the only hour in which a lady can appear outside the walls of her dwelling on foot in this queer and picturesque capital, and then only in the plaza, opposite to the palace, or in some secluded and private walk like the plato. such is creole and spanish etiquette. the party referred to consisted of a fine looking old spanish don, a lady who seemed to be his daughter, a little boy of some twelve or thirteen years, who might perhaps be the lady's brother, and a couple of gentlemen in undress military attire, yet bearing sufficient tokens of rank to show them to be high in command. the party was a gay though small one, and the lady seemed to be as lively and talkative as the two gentlemen could desire, while they, on their part, appeared most devoted to every syllable and gesture. there was a slight air of hauteur in the lady's bearing; she seemed to half disdain the homage that was so freely tendered to her, and though she laughed loud and clear, there was a careless, not to say heartless, accent in her tones, that betrayed her indifference to the devoted attentions of her companions. apparently too much accustomed to this treatment to be disheartened by it, the two gentlemen bore themselves most courteously, and continued as devoted as ever to the fair creature by their side. the boy of whom we have spoken was a noble child, frank and manly in his bearing, and evidently deeply interested in the maritime scene before him. now he paused to watch the throng of craft of every nation that lay at anchor in the harbor, or which were moored; after the fashion here, with their stems to the quay, and now his fine blue eye wandered off over the swift running waters of the gulf stream, watching for a moment the long, heavy swoop of some distant seafowl, or the white sail of some clipper craft bound up the gulf to new orleans, or down the narrow channel through the caribbean sea to some south american port. the old don seemed in the meantime to regard the boy with an earnest pride, and scarcely heeded at all the bright sallies of wit that his daughter was so freely and merrily bestowing upon her two assiduous admirers. "yonder brigantine must be a slaver," said the boy, pointing to a rakish craft that seemed to be struggling against the current to the southward. "most like, most like; but what does she on this side? the southern shore is her ground, and the isle of pines is a hundred leagues from here," said the old don. "she has lost her reckoning, probably," said the boy, "and made the first land to the north. lucky she didn't fall in with those florida wreckers, for though the americans don't carry on the african trade nowadays, they know what to do with a cargo if it gets once hard and fast on the reefs." "what know you of these matters?" asked the old don, turning a curious eye on the boy. "o, i hear them talk of these things, and you know i saw a cargo 'run' on the south side only last month," continued the boy. "there were three hundred or more filed off from that felucca, two by two, to the shore." "it is a slaver," said one of the officers, "a little out of her latitude, that's all." "a beautiful craft," said the lady, earnestly; "can it be a slaver, and so beautiful." "they are clipper-built, all of them," said the old don. "launched in baltimore, united states." senorita gonzales was the daughter of the proud old don of the same name, who was of the party on the plato at the time we describe. the father was one of the richest as well as noblest in rank of all the residents of the island, being of the old castilian stock, who had come from spain many years before, and after holding high office, both civil and military, under the crown, had at last retired with a princely fortune, and devoted himself to the education of his daughter and son, both of whom we have already introduced to the reader. the daughter, beautiful, intelligent, and witty to a most extraordinary degree, had absolutely broken the hearts of half the men of rank on the island; for though yet scarcely twenty years of age, senorita isabella was a confirmed coquette. it was her passion to command and enjoy a devotion, but as to ever having in the least degree cherished or known what it was to love, the lady was entirely void of the charge; she had never known the tenderness of reciprocal affection, nor did it seem to those who knew her best, that the man was born who could win her confidence. men's hearts had been isabella gonzales's toys and playthings ever since the hour that she first had realized her power over them. and yet she was far from being heartless in reality. she was most sensitive, and at times thoughtful and serious; but this was in her closet, and when alone. those who thought that the sunshine of that face was never clouded, were mistaken. she hardly received the respect that was due to her better understanding and naturally strong points of character, because she hid them mainly behind an exterior of captivating mirthfulness and never ceasing smiles. the cool refreshing sea breeze that swept in from the water was most delicious, after the scorching heat of a summer's day in the west indies, and the party paused as they breathed in of its freshness, leaning upon the parapet of the walk, over which they looked down upon the glancing waves of the bay far beneath them. the moon was stealing slowly but steadily up from behind the lofty tower of moro castle, casting a dash of silvery light athwart its dark batteries and grim walls, and silvering a long wake across the now silent harbor, making its rippling waters of golden and silver hues, and casting, where the moro tower was between it and the water, a long, deep shadow to seaward. even the gay and apparently thoughtless senorita isabella was struck with delight at the view now presented to her gaze, and for a moment she paused in silence to drink in of the spirit-stirring beauty of the scene. "how beautiful it is," whispered the boy, who was close by her side. "beautiful, very beautiful," echoed isabella, again becoming silent. no one who has not breathed the soft air of the south at an hour such as we have described, can well realize the tender influence that it exercises upon a susceptible disposition. the whole party gazed for some minutes in silence, apparently charmed by the scene. there was a hallowing and chastening influence in the very air, and the gay coquette was softened into the tender woman. a tear even glistened in ruez's, her brother's eyes; but he was a thoughtful and delicate-souled child, and would be affected thus much more quickly than his sister. the eldest of the two gentlemen who were in attendance upon don gonzales and his family, was count anguera, lieutenant-governor of the island; and his companion, a fine military figure, apparently some years the count's junior, was general harero of the royal infantry, quartered at the governor's palace. such was the party that promenaded on the parapet of the plato. as we have intimated, the two gentlemen were evidently striving to please isabella, and to win from her some encouraging smile or other token that might indicate a preference for their attentions. admiration even from the high source that now tendered it was no new thing to her, and with just sufficient archness to puzzle them, she waived and replied to their conversation with most provoking indifference, lavishing a vast deal more kindness and attention upon a noble wolf-hound that crouched close to her feet, his big clear eye bent ever upon his mistress's face with a degree of intelligence that would have formed a theme for a painter. it was a noble creature, and no wonder the lady evinced so much regard for the hound, who ever and anon walked close to her. "you love the hound?" suggested general harero, stooping to smooth its glossy coat. "yes." "he is to be envied, then, upon my soul, lady. how could he, with no powers of utterance, have done that for himself, which we poor gallants so fail in doing?" "and what may that be?" asked isabella, archly tossing her head. "win thy love," half whispered the officer, drawing closer to her side. the answer was lost, if indeed isabella intended one, by the father's calling the attention of the party to some object on the regla shore, opposite the city, looming up in the dim light. ruez had mounted the parapet, and with his feet carelessly dangling on the other side, sat gazing off upon the sea, now straining his eye to make out the rig of some dark hull in the distance, and now following back the moon's glittering wake until it met the shore. at this moment the hound, leaving his mistress's side, put his fore paws upon the top of the parapet and his nose into one of the boy's hands, causing him to turn round suddenly to see what it was that touched him; in doing which he lost his balance, and with a faint cry fell from the parapet far down to the water below. each of the gentlemen at once sprang upon the stone work and looked over where the boy had fallen, but it would have been madness for any one, however good a swimmer; and as they realized this and their helpless situation, they stood for a moment dumb with consternation. at that moment a plunge was heard in the water from the edge of the quay far below the parapet, and a dark form was traced making its way through the water with that strong bold stroke that shows the effort of a confident and powerful swimmer. "thank god some one has seen his fall from below, and they will rescue him," said don gonzales, springing swiftly down the plato steps, followed by isabella and the officers, and seeking the street that led to the quay below. "o hasten, father, hasten!" exclaimed isabella, impatiently. "nay, isabella, my old limbs totter with fear for dear ruez," was the hasty reply of the old don, as he hurried forward with his daughter. "dear, dear ruez," exclaimed isabella, hysterically. dashing by the guard stationed on the quay, who presented arms as his superiors passed, they reached its end in time to see, through the now dim twilight, the efforts of some one in the water supporting the half insensible boy with one arm, while with the other he was struggling with almost superhuman effort against the steady set of the tide to seaward. already were a couple of seamen lowering a quarter-boat from an american barque, near by, but the rope had fouled in the blocks, and they could not loose it. a couple of infantry soldiers had also come up to the spot, and having secured a rope were about to attempt some assistance to the swimmer. "heave the line," shouted one of the seamen. "give me the bight of it, and i'll swim out to him." "stand by for it," said the soldier, coiling it in his hand and then throwing it towards the barque. but the coil fell short of the mark, and another minute's delay occurred. in the meantime he who held the boy, though evidently a man of cool judgment, powerful frame, and steady purpose, yet now breathed so heavily in his earnest struggle with the swift tide, that his panting might be distinctly heard on the quay. he was evidently conscious of the efforts now making for his succor and that of the boy, but he uttered no words, still bending every nerve and faculty towards the stemming of the current tint sets into the harbor from the gulf stream. the hound had been running back and forth on the top of the parapet, half preparing every moment for a spring, and then deterred by the immense distance which presented itself between the animal and the water, it would run back and forth again with a most piteous howling cry; but at this moment it came bounding down the street to the quay, as though it at last realized the proper spot from which to make the attempt, and with a leap that seemed to carry it nearly a rod into the waters, it swam easily to the boy's side. an exclamation of joy escaped from both don gonzales and isabella, for they knew the hound to have saved a life before, and now prized his sagacity highly. as the hound swung round easily beside the struggling forms, the swimmer placed the boy's arm about the animal's neck, while the noble creature, with almost human reason, instead of struggling fiercely at being thus entirely buried in the water, save the mere point of his nose, worked as steadily and as calmly as though he was merely following his young master on shore. the momentary relief was of the utmost importance to the swimmer, who being thus partially relieved of ruez's weight, once more struck out boldly for the quay. but the boy had now lost all consciousness, and his arm slipped away from the hound's neck, and he rolled heavily over, carrying down the swimmer and himself for a moment, below the surface of the water. "holy mother! they are both drowned!" almost screamed isabella. "lost! lost!" groaned don gonzales, with uplifted hands and tottering form. "no! no!" exclaimed general harero, "not yet, not yet." he had jumped on board the barque, and had cut the davit ropes with his sword, and thus succeeded in launching the boat with himself and the two seamen in it. at this moment the swimmer rose once more slowly with his burthen to the surface; but his efforts were so faintly made now, that he barely floated, and yet with a nervous vigor he kept the boy still far above himself. and now it was that the noble instinct of the hound stood his young master in such importance, and led him to seize with his teeth the boy's clothes, while the swimmer once more fairly gained his self-possession, and the boat with general harero and the seamen came alongside. in a moment more the boy with his preserver and the dog were safe in the boat, which was rowed at once to the quay. a shout of satisfaction rang out from twenty voices that had witnessed the scene. isabella, the moment they were safely in the boat, fainted, while count anguera ran for a volante for conveyance home. the swimmer soon regained his strength, and when the boat reached the quay, he lifted the boy from it himself. it was a most striking picture that presented itself to the eye at that moment on the quay, in the dim twilight that was so struggling with the moon's brighter rays. the father, embracing the reviving boy, looked the gratitude he could not find words to express, while a calm, satisfied smile ornamented the handsome features of the soldier who had saved ruez's life at such imminent risk. the coat which he had hastily thrown upon the quay when he leaped into the water, showed him to bear the rank of lieutenant of infantry, and by the number, he belonged to general harero's own division. the child was placed with his sister and father in a volante, and borne away from the spot with all speed, that the necessary care and attention might be afforded to him which they could only expect in their own home. in the meantime a peculiar satisfaction mantled the brow and features of the young officer who had thus signally served don gonzales and his child. his fine military figure stood erect and commanding in style while he gazed after the volante that contained the party named, nor did he move for some moments, seeming to be exercised by some peculiar spell; still gazing in the direction in which the volante had disappeared, until general harero, his superior, having at length arranged his own attire, after the hasty efforts which he had made, came by, and touching him lightly on the arm, said: "lieutenant, you seem to be dreaming; has the bath affected your brain?" "not at all, general," replied the young officer, hastening to put on his coat once more; "i have indeed forgotten myself for a single moment." "know you the family whom you have thus served?" asked the general. "i do; that is, i know their name, general, but nothing further." "he's a clever man, and will remember your services," said the general, carelessly, as he walked up the quay and received the salute of the sentinel on duty. some strange feeling appeared to be working in the breast of the young officer who had just performed the gallant deed we have recorded, for he seemed even now to be quite lost to all outward realization, and was evidently engaged in most agreeable communion with himself mentally. he too now walked up the quay, also, receiving the salute of the sentinel, and not forgetting either, as did the superior officer, to touch his cap in acknowledgement, a sign that an observant man would have marked in the character of both; and one, too, which was not lost on the humble private, whose duty it was to stand at his post until the middle watch of the night. a long and weary duty is that of a sentinel on the quay at night. chapter ii. the belle and the soldier. whoever has been in havana, that strange and peculiar city, whose every association and belonging seem to bring to mind the period of centuries gone by, whose time-worn and moss-covered cathedrals appear to stand as grim records of the past, whose noble palaces and residences of the rich give token of the fact of its great wealth and extraordinary resources--whoever, we say, has been in this capital of cuba, has of course visited its well-known and far-famed tacon paseo. it is here, just outside the city walls, in a beautiful tract of land, laid out in tempting walks, ornamented with the fragrant flowers of the tropics, and with statues and fountains innumerable, that the beauty and fashion of the town resort each afternoon to drive in their volantes, and to meet and greet each other. it was on the afternoon subsequent to that of the accident recorded in the preceding chapter, that a young officer, off duty, might be seen partially reclining upon one of the broad seats that here and there line the foot-path of the circular drive in the paseo. he possessed a fine manly figure, and was perhaps of twenty-four or five years of age, and clothed in the plain undress uniform of the spanish army. his features were of that national and handsome cast that is peculiar to the full-blooded castilian, and the pure olive of his complexion contrasted finely with a moustache and imperial as black as the dark flowing hair that fell from beneath his foraging cap. at the moment when we introduce him he was playing with a small, light walking-stick, with which he thrashed his boots most immoderately; but his thoughts were busy enough in another quarter, as any one might conjecture even at a single glance. suddenly his whole manner changed; he rose quickly to his feet, and lifting his cap gracefully, he saluted and acknowledged the particular notice of a lady who bent partially forward from a richly mounted volante drawn by as richly it caparisoned horse, and driven by as richly dressed a calesaro. the manner of the young officer from that moment was the very antipodes of what it had been a few moments before. a change seemed to have come over the spirit of his dream. his fine military figure became erect and dignified, and a slight indication of satisfied pride was just visible in the fine lines of his expressive lips. as he passed on his way, after a momentary pause, he met general harero, who stiffly acknowledged his military salute, with anything but kindness expressed in the stern lines of his forbidding countenance. he even took some pains to scowl upon the young soldier as they passed each other. but what cared lieutenant bezan for his frowns? had not the belle of the city, the beautiful, the peerless, the famed senorita isabella gonzales just publicly saluted him?-that glorious being whose transcendent beauty had been the theme of every tongue, and whose loveliness had enslaved him from the first moment he had looked upon her-just two years previous, when he first came from spain. had not this high-born and proud lady publicly saluted him? him, a poor lieutenant of infantry, who had never dared to lift his eyes to meet her own before, however deep and ardently he might have worshipped her in secret. what cared the young officer that his commander had seen fit thus to frown upon him? true, he realized the power of military discipline, and particularly of the spanish army; but he forgot all else now, in the fact that isabella gonzales had publicly saluted him in the paths of the paseo. possessed of a highly chivalrous disposition, lieutenant bezan had few confidants among his regiment, who, notwithstanding this, loved him as well as brothers might love. he seemed decidedly to prefer solitude and his books to the social gatherings, or the clubs formed by his brother officers, or indeed to join them in any of their ordinary sports or pastimes. of a very good family at home, he had the misfortune to have been born a younger brother, and after being thoroughly educated at the best schools of madrid, he was frankly told by his father that he must seek his fortune, and for the future rely solely upon himself. there was but one field open to him, at least so it seemed to him, and that was the army. two years before the opening of our story he had enlisted as a third lieutenant of infantry, and had been at once ordered to the west indies with his entire regiment. here promotion for more than one gallant act closely followed him, until at the time we introduce him to the reader as first lieutenant. being of a naturally cheerful and exceedingly happy disposition, he took life like a philosopher, and knew little of care or sorrow until the time when he first saw senorita isabella gonzales-an occasion that planted a hopeless passion in his breast. from the moment of their first meeting, though entirely unnoticed by her, he felt that he loved her, deeply, tenderly loved her; and yet at the same time he fully realized how immeasurably she was beyond his sphere, and consequently hopes. he saw the first officials of the island at her very feet, watching for one glance of encouragement or kindness from those dark and lustrous eyes of jet; in short, he saw her ever the centre of an admiring circle of the rich and proud. it is perhaps strange, but nevertheless true, that with all these discouraging and disheartening circumstances, lieutenant bezan did not lose all hope. he loved her, lowly and obscure though he was, with all his heart, and used to whisper to himself that love like his need not despair, for he felt how truly and honestly his heart warmed and his pulses beat for her. nearly two entire years had his devoted heart lived on thus, if not once gratified by a glance from her eye, still hoping that devotion like his would one day be rewarded. what prophets of the future are youth and love! distant as the star of his destiny appeared from him, he yet still toiled on, hoped on, in his often weary round of duty, sustained by the one sentiment of tender love and devotedness to one who knew him not. at the time of the fearful accident when ruez gonzales came so near losing his life from the fall he suffered off the parapet of the plato, lieutenant bezan was officer of the night, his rounds having fortunately brought him to the quay at the most opportune moment. he knew not who it was that had fallen into the water, but guided by a native spirit of daring and humanity, he had thrown off his coat and cap and leaped in after him. the feelings of pleasure and secret joy experienced by the young officer, when after landing from the boat he learned by a single glance who it was he had so fortunately saved, may be better imagined than described, when his love for the boy's sister is remembered. and when, as we have related, the proud senorita isabella publicly saluted him before a hundred eyes in the paseo, he felt a joy of mind, a brightness of heart, that words could not express. his figure and face were such that once seen their manly beauty and noble outline could not be easily forgotten; and there were few ladies in the city, whose station and rank would permit them to associate with one bearing only a lieutenant's commission, who would not have been proud of his notice and homage. he could not be ignorant of his personal recommendations, and yet the young officer sought no female society-his heart it knew but one idol, and he could bow to but one throne of love. whether by accident or purposely, the lady herself only knew, but when the volante, in the circular drive of the paseo, again came opposite to the spot where lieutenant bezan was, the senorita isabella dropped her fan upon the carriage-road. as the young officer sprang to pick it up and return it, she bade the calesaro to halt. her father, don gonzales, was by her side, and the lieutenant presented the fan in the most respectful manner, being rewarded by a glance from the lady that thrilled to his very soul. don gonzales exclaimed: "by our lady, but this is the young officer, isabella, who yesternight so promptly and gallantly saved the life of our dear ruez." "it is indeed he, father," said the beauty, with much interest. "lieutenant bezan, the general told us, i believe," continued the father. "that was the name, father." "and is this lieutenant bezan?" asked don gonzales, addressing the officer. "at your service," replied he, bowing respectfully. "senor," continued the father, most earnestly, and extending at the same time his hand to the blushing soldier, "permit me and my daughter to thank you sincerely for the extraordinary service you rendered to us and our dear ruez last evening." "senor, the pleasure of having served you richly compensated for any personal inconvenience or risk i may have experienced," answered lieutenant bezan; saying which, he bowed low and looked once into the lovely eyes of the beautiful senorita isabella, when at a word to the calesaro, the volante again passed on in the circular drive. but the young officer had not been unwatched during the brief moments of conversation that had passed between him and the occupants of the vehicle. scarcely had he left the side of the volante, when he once more met general harero, who seemed this time to take some pains to confront him, as he remarked: "what business may lieutenant bezan have with don gonzales and his fair daughter, that he stops their volante in the public walks of the paseo?" "the lady dropped her fan, general, and i picked it up and returned it to her," was the gentlemanly and submissive reply of the young officer. "dropped her fan," repeated the general, sneeringly, as he gazed at the lieutenant. "yes, general, and i returned it." "indeed," said the commanding officers, with a decided emphasis. "could i have done less, general?" asked lieutenant bezan. "it matters not, though you seem to be ever on hand to do the lady and her father some service, sir. perhaps you would relish another cold bath," he continued, with most cutting sarcasm. "who introduced you, sir, to these people?" "no one, sir. it was chance that brought us together. you will remember the scene on the quay." "i do." "before that time i had never exchanged one word with them." "and on this you presume to establish an acquaintance?" "by no means, sir. the lady recognized me, and i was proud to return the polite salute with which she greeted me." "doubtless." "would you have me do otherwise, sir?" "i would have you avoid this family of gonzales altogether." "i trust, general, that i have not exceeded my duty either to the father or daughter, though by the tone of your remarks i seem to have incurred your disapprobation," replied lieutenant bezan, firmly but respectfully. "it would be more becoming in an officer of your rank," continued the superior, "to be nearer his quarters, than to spend his hours off duty in so conspicuous and public a place as the tacon paseo. i shall see that such orders are issued for the future as shall keep those attached to my division within the city walls." "whatever duty is prescribed by my superiors i shall most cheerfully and promptly respond to, general harero," replied the young officer, as he respectfully saluted his general, and turning, he sought the city gates on the way to his barracks. "stay, lieutenant bezan," said the general, somewhat nervously. "general," repeated the officer, with the prompt military salute, as he awaited orders. "you may go, sir," continued the superior, biting his lips with vexation. "another time will answer my purpose quite as well, perhaps better. you may retire, i say." "yes, general," answered the soldier, respectfully, and once more turned away. lieutenant bezan was too well aware of general harero's intimacy at the house of don gonzales, not to understand the meaning of the rebuke and exhibition of bitterness on the part of his superior towards him. the general, although he possessed a fine commanding figure, yet was endowed with no such personal advantages to recommend him to a lady's eye as did the young officer who had thus provoked him, and he could not relish the idea that one who had already rendered such signal services to the senorita isabella and her father, even though he was so very far below himself in rank, should become too intimate with the family. it would be unfair towards lieutenant bezan to suppose that he did not possess sufficient judgment of human nature and discernment to see all this. he could not but regret that he had incurred the ill will of his general, though it was unjustly entertained, for he knew only too well how rigorous was the service in which he was engaged, and that a superior officer possessed almost absolute power over those placed in his command, in the spanish army, even unto the sentence of death. he had too often been the unwilling spectator, and even at times the innocent agent of scenes that were revolting to his better feelings, which emanated solely from this arbitrary power vested in heartless and incompetent individuals by means of their military rank. musing thus upon the singular state of his affairs, and the events of the last two days, so important to his feelings, now recalling the bewitching glances of the peerless isabella gonzales, and now ruminating upon the ill will of general harero, he strolled into the city, and reaching la dominica's, he threw himself upon a lounge near the marble fountain, and calling for a glass of agrass, he sipped the cool and grateful beverage, and wiled away the hour until the evening parade. though don gonzales duly appreciated the great service that lieutenant bezan had done him, at such imminent personal hazard, too, yet he would no more have introduced him into his family on terms of a visiting acquaintance in consequence thereof, than he would have boldly broken down any other strict rule and principle of his aristocratic nature; and yet he was not ungrateful; far from it, as lieutenant bezan had reason to know, for he applied his great influence at once to the governor-general in the young officer's behalf. the favor he demanded of tacon, then governor and commander-in-chief, was the promotion to a captaincy of him who had so vitally served the interests of his house. tacon was one of the wisest and best governors that cuba ever had, as ready to reward merit as he was to signally punish trickery or crime of any sort, and when the case was fairly laid before him, by reference to the rolls of his military secretary, he discovered that lieutenant bezan had already been promoted twice for distinguished merit, and replied to don gonzales that, as this was the case, and the young soldier was found to be so deserving, he should cheerfully comply with his request as it regarded his early promotion in his company. thus it was, that scarcely ten days subsequent to the meeting in the paseo, which we have described, lieutenant bezan was regularly gazetted as captain of infantry, by honorable promotion and approval of the governor-general. the character of tacon was one of a curious description. he was prompt, candid, and business-like in all things, and the manner of his promoting lieutenant bezan was a striking witness of these very qualities. the young officer being summoned by an orderly to his presence, was thus questioned: "you are lieutenant lorenzo bezan?" "yes, your excellency." "of the sixth infantry?" "excellency, yes." "of company eight?" "of company eight, excellency." "your commander is general harero?" "excellency, yes." "you were on the quay night before last, were you not?" "excellency, i was." "and leaped into the water to save a boy's life who had fallen there?" "i did, excellency." "you were successful." "excellency, i was." "you were promoted eleven months since in compliment for duty." "yes, excellency." "captain bezan, here is a new commission for you." "excellency you are only too kind to an humble soldier." a calm, proud inclination of the head on the part of the governor-general, indicated that the audience was over, and the young officer returned, knowing well the character of the commander-in-chief. not a little elated, lorenzo bezan felt that he was richly repaid for the risk he had run by this promotion alone; but there was a source of gratification to him far beyond that of having changed his title to captain. he had served and been noticed by isabella gonzales, and it is doubtful if he could have met with any good fortune that would have equalled this, in his eye; it was the scheme of his life-the realization of his sleeping and waking dreams. this good fortune, as pleasant to him as it was unexpected, was attributed by the young officer to the right source, and was in reality enhanced and valued from that very fact. "a bumper," exclaimed his brother officers, that day at the mess-table, when all were met. "a bumper to captain lorenzo bezan. may he never draw his sword without cause; never sheathe it without honor!" "but what's the secret of bezan's good fortune?" asked one. "his luck, to be sure-born under a lucky star." "not exactly luck, alone, but his own intrepidity and manliness," replied a fellow-officer. "haven't you heard of his saving the life of young gonzales, who fell into the bay from the parapet of the plato?" "not in detail. if you know about the affair, recite it," said another. leaving the mess, as did captain bezan at this juncture, we will follow the thread of our story in another chapter, and relating to other scenes. chapter iii. a sudden introduction. it was again night in the capital; the narrow streets were brilliantly lighted from the store windows, but the crowd were no longer there. the heat of the long summer day had wearied the endurance of master and slave; and thousands had already sought that early repose which is so essential to the dwellers in the tropics. stillness reigned over the drowsy city, save that the soft music which the governor-general's hand discourses nightly in the plaza, stole sweetly over the scene, until every air seemed heavy with its tender influence and melody. now it swelled forth in the martial tones of a military band, and now its cadence was low and gentle as a fairy whisper, reverberating to the ear from the opposite shore of regla, and the frowning walls of the cabanas behind the moro, and now swelling away inland among the coffee fields and sugar plantations. the long twilight was gone; but still the deep streak of golden skirting in the western horizon lent a softened hue to the scene, not so bright to the eye, and yet more golden far than moonlight: "leaving on craggy hills and running streams a softness like the atmosphere of dreams." at this favorite hour the senorita isabella gonzales and her young brother, ruez, attended only by the wolf hound, who seemed to be almost their inseparable companion, were once again strolling in the cool and retired walk of the plato. the lady moved with all the peculiar grace so natural to the spanish women, and yet through all, a keen observer might have seen the lurking effects of pride and power, a consciousness of her own extraordinary beauty, and the control it gave her over the hearts of those of the other sex with whom she associated. alas! that such a trait should have become a second nature to one with so heavenly a form and face. perhaps it was owing to the want of the judicious management of a mother, of timely and kindly advice, that isabella had grown up thus; certainly it seemed hard, very hard, to attribute it to her heart, her natural promptings, for at times she evinced such traits of womanly delicacy and tenderness, that those who knew her best forgot her coquetry. her brother was a gentle and beautiful boy. a tender spirit of melancholy seemed ever uppermost in his heart and face, and it had been thus with him since he had known his first early grief-the loss of his mother-some four or five years before the present period of our story. isabella, though she was not wanting in natural tenderness and affection, had yet outgrown the loss of her parent; but the more sensitive spirit of the boy had not yet recovered from the shock it had thus received. the father even feared that he never would regain his happy buoyancy, as he looked upon his pale and almost transparent features, while the boy mused thoughtfully to himself sometimes for the hour together, if left alone and undisturbed. "ruez, dear, we've not been on the plato since that fearful night," said senorita isabella, as she rested her hand gently upon the boy's shoulder. "it was a fearful night, sister," said the boy recalling the associations with a shudder. "and yet how clear and beautiful it seemed just before that terrible accident." "i remember," said the boy. "and the slaver in the distance, with her soft white sails and treacherous business." "and the sparkling moon upon the bay." "it was very beautiful; and we have a night now almost its equal." "did you notice how stoutly that lieutenant bezan swam with me?" "yes, brother. you forget, though, that he is captain bezan now," she added. "father told me so," said the boy. "how fearfully the tide ran, and the current set against us! he held me way up above the water, while he was quite under it himself," continued ruez. "i was sure he would drown; didn't it seem so to you, sister?" "it did, it did; the deed was most gallantly done," said isabella, as she stooped down and kissed her brother; "and you will never be so careless again, ruez?" "no, sister. i shall be more. careful, but i should like to see that captain bezan again. i have never seen him since that night, and his barracks are within pistol shot from here." "hark! what was that?" asked isabella, starting at some unusual noise. "i heard nothing," said the boy. "there it is again," she continued, nervously, looking around. "down, carlo, down," said the boy, sharply to the hound, as it sprang at the same time from a crouching posture, and uttered a deep, angry growl, peculiar to its species. but the animal seemed too much aroused to be so easily pacified with words, and with heavy bounds sprang towards the seaward end of the plato, over the parapet of which, where it joined a lofty stone wall that made a portion of the stone barracks of the army, a man leaped to the ground. the hound suddenly crouched, the moment it fairly reached the figure of the new coiner, and instead of the hostile attitude, it had so lately he assumed, now placed its fore paws upon the breast of the person, and wagged its tail with evident tokens of pleasure at the meeting. "that is a very strange way to enter the plato," said isabella, to her brother, drawing nearer to his side as she spoke. "i wonder who it can be?" "some friend of carlo's, for he never behaves in that way to strangers," said the boy. "so it would seem; but here he comes, be he whom he may." "by our lady!" said the boy, earnestly, with a flash of spirit and color across his usually quiet and pale face. "sister, it is captain bezan!" "captain bezan, i believe," said isabella, courtesying coolly to his respectful bow. "the same, lady." "you have chosen a singular mode of introduction, sir," said the senorita isabella gonzales, somewhat severely, as she drew herself up with an air of cold reserve. "it is true, lady, i have done a seemingly rash action; but if you will please to pause for one moment, you will at once realize that it was the only mode of introduction of which a poor soldier like myself could have availed himself." "our hall doors are always open," replied isabella gonzales. "to the high born and proud, i grant you, lady, but not to such as i am." "then, sir," continued the lady, quickly, "if custom and propriety forbid you to meet me through the ordinary channels of society, do you not see the impropriety of such an attempt to see me as that which you have but just now made?" "lady, i can see nothing, hear nothing but my unconquerable love!" "love, sir!" repeated the lady, with a curl of her proud but beautiful lip. "ay, love, isabella gonzales. for years i have loved you in secret. too humble to become known to you, or to attract your eye, even, i have yet nursed that love, like the better angel of my nature; have dreamed of it nightly; have prayed for the object of it nightly; have watched the starry heavens, and begged for some noble inspiration that would make me more worthy of thy affection; i have read nothing that i did not couple in some tender way with thee; have nursed no hope of ambition or fame that was not the nearer to raise me to thee, and over the midnight lamp have bent in earnestness year after year, that i might gain those jewels of the mind that in intelligence, at least, would place me by thy side. at last fortune befriended me, and i was able by a mischance to him, thy brother, to serve thee. perhaps even then it might have ended, and my respect would still have curbed the promptings of my passion, had you not so kindly noticed me on the paseo. o, how wildly did my heart beat at that gentle, kind and thoughtful recognition of the poor soldier, and no less quickly beats that heart, when you listen thus to me, and hear me tell how deeply i love." "audacity!" said isabella gonzales, really not a little aroused at the plainness of his speech. "how dare you, sir, to address such language to me?" "love dares do anything but dishonor the being that it loves. a year, lady, a month ago, how hopeless was my love-how far off in the blue ether was the star i worshipped. little did i then think that i should now stand so near to you-should thus pour out of the fullness of my enslaved and devoted heart, ay, thus look into those glorious eyes." "sir, you are impertinent!" said isabella, shrinking from the ardor of his expression. "nay, lady," said the young officer, profoundly humble, "it is impossible for such love as mine to lead to impertinence to one whom i little less than worship." "leave me, sir!" "yes, isabella gonzales, if you will repeat those words calmly; if you will deliberately bid me, who have so often prayed for, so hoped for such a moment as this, to go, i will go." "but, sir, you will compromise me by this protracted conversation." "heaven forbid. but for you i would risk all things-life, reputation, all that is valuable to me in life; yet perhaps i am forgetful, perhaps a thoughtless." "what strange power and music there is in his voice," whispered isabella, to herself. completely puzzled by his deep respect, his gallant and noble bearing, the memory of his late noble conduct in saving ruez's life, isabella hardly knew what to say, and she stood thus half confused, trotting her pretty foot upon the path of the plato with a vexed air. at last, as if struggling to break the spell that seemed to be hanging over them, she said: "how could one like you, sir, ever dare to entertain such feelings towards me? the audaciousness of your language almost strikes me dumb." "lady," said the young soldier, respectfully, "the sincerity of my passion has been its only self-sustaining power. i felt that love like mine could not be in vain. i was sure that such affection was never planted in my breast to bloom and blossom simply for disappointment. i could not think that this was so." "i am out of all patience with his impertinence," said isabella gonzales, to herself, pettishly. "i don't know what to say to him." "sir, you must leave this place at once," she said, at last, after a brief pause. "i shall do so, lady, at your bidding; but only to pray and hope for the next meeting between us, when you may perhaps better know the poor soldier's heart." "farewell, sir," said isabella. "farewell, isabella gonzales." "are you going so soon?" asked ruez, now approaching them from a short distance in the rear, where he had been playing with the hound. "yes, ruez," said the soldier, kindly. "you are quite recovered, i trust, from the effects of that cold bath taken off the parapet yonder." "o yes, i am quite recovered now." "it was a high leap for one of your age." "it was indeed," said the boy, with a shudder at the remembrance. "and, o, sir, i have not thanked you for that gallant deed," said isabella gonzales, extending her hand incontinently to captain bezan, in the enthusiasm of the moment, influenced by the sincerity of her feelings, his noble and manly bearing, and the kind and touching words he had uttered to ruez. it would be difficult for us to describe her as she appeared at that moment in the soldier's eye. how lovely she seemed to him, when dropping all reserve for the moment, not only her tongue, but her eloquent eyes spoke from the tenderness of her woman's heart. a sacred vision would have impressed him no more than did the loveliness of her presence at that moment. bending instinctively at this demonstration of gentle courtesy on her part, he pressed her hand most respectfully to his lips, and, as if feeling that he had gone almost too far, with a gallant wave of the hand he suddenly disappeared from whence he had so lately come, over the seaward side of the parapet towards the army barracks. isabella gazed after him with a puzzled look for a while, then said half to herself and in a pettish and vexed tone of voice: "i did not mean that he should kiss my hand. i'm sure i did not; and why did i give it to him? how thoughtless. i declare i have never met so monstrously impudent a person in the entire course of my life. very strange. here's general harero, don romonez, and felix gavardo, have been paying me court this half year and more, and either of them would give half his fortune for a kiss of this hand, and yet neither has dared to even tell me that they love me, though i know it so well. but here is this young soldier, this new captain of infantry, why he sees me but half a minute before he declares himself, and so boldly, too! i protest it was a real insult. i'll tell don gonzales, and i'll have the fellow dishonored and his commission taken from him, i will. i'm half ready to cry with vexation. yes, i'll have captain bezan cashiered, and that directly, i will." "no you wont, sister," said ruez, looking up calmly into her face as he spoke. "yes i will, brother." "still i say no," continued the boy, gently, and caressing her hand the while. "and why not, ruez?" asked isabella, stooping and kissing his handsome forehead, as the boy looked up so lovingly in her face. "because he saved my life, sister," replied ruez, smiling. "true, he did save your life, ruez," murmured the beautiful girl, thoughtfully; an act that we can never repay; but it was most presuming for him to enter the plato thus, and to--to--" "kiss your hand, sister," suggested the boy, smiling in a knowing way. "yes, it was quite shocking for him to be so familiar, ruez." "but, sister, i can hardly ever help kissing you when you look kind to me, and i am sure you looked very kind at captain bezan." "did i!" half mused isabella, biting the handle of her creole fan. "yes; and how handsome this captain bezan is, sister," continued the boy, pretending to be engaged with the hound, whom he patted while he looked sideways at isabella. "do you think him so handsome?" still half mused isabella, in reply to her brother's remarks, while her eye rested upon the ground. "i know it," said the boy, with spirit. "don miguel, general harero, or the lieutenant-general, are none of them half so good looking," he continued, referring to some of her suitors. "well, he is handsome, brother, that's true enough, and brave i know, or he would never have leaped into the water to save your life. but i'll never forgive him, i'm sure of that, ruez," she said, in a most decided tone of voice. "yes you will, sister." "no, i will not, and you will vex me if you say so again," she added, pettishly. "come, carlo, come," said ruez, calling to the hound, as he followed close upon his sister's footsteps towards the entrance of don gonzales's house on the plato. the truth was, isabella gonzales, the proud beauty, was pleased; perhaps her vanity was partly enlisted also, while she remembered the frankness of the humble soldier who had poured out his devotions at her feet in such simple yet earnest strains as to carry conviction with every word to the lady's heart. image, even from the most lowly, is not without its charm to beauty, and the proud girl mused over the late scene thoughtfully, ay, far more thoughtfully than she had ever done before, on the offer of the richest and proudest cavalier. she had never loved; she knew not what the passion meant, as applied to the opposite sex. universal homage had been her share ever since she could remember; and if isabella gonzales was not a confirmed coquette, she was certainly very near being one. the light in which she regarded the advances of captain bezan, even puzzled herself; the phase of his case and the manner of his avowal were so far without precedent, that its novelty engaged her. she still felt vexed at the young soldier's assurance, but yet all unconsciously found herself endeavoring to invent any number of excuses for the conduct he had exhibited! "it is true, as he said," she remarked, half aloud to herself, "that it was the only way in which he could meet me on terms of sufficient equality for conversation. perhaps i should have done the same, if i were a high-spirited youth, and really loved!" as for lorenzo bezan, he quietly sought his quarters, as happy as a king. had he not been successful beyond any reasonable hope? had he not told his love? ay, had he not kissed the hand of her he loved, at last, almost by her own consent? had not the clouds in the horizon of his love greatly thinned in numbers? he was no moody lover. not one to die for love, but to live for it rather, and to pursue the object of his affection and regard with such untiring and devoted service as to deserve, if not to win, success. at least this was his resolve. now and then the great difference between their relative stations would lead him to pause and consider the subject; but then with some pleasant sally to himself he would walk on again, firmly resolved in his own mind to overcome all things for her whom he loved, or at least to strive to do so. this was all very well in thought, but in practice the young soldier will not perhaps find this so easy a matter. patience and perseverance are excellent qualities, but they are not certain criteria of success. lorenzo bezan had aimed his arrow high, but it was that little blind fellow, cupid, that shot the bow. he was not to blame for it-of course not. "ha! bezan, whence come you with so bright a face?" asked a brother officer, as he entered his quarters in the barracks of the plaza des armes. "from wooing a fair and most beautiful maid," said the soldier, most honestly; though perhaps he told the truth as being the thing least likely to be believed by the other. "fie, fie, bezan. you in love, man? a soldier to marry? by our lady, what folly! don't you remember the proverb? 'men dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.'" "may i wake in that state with her i love ere a twelvemonth," said lorenzo bezan, smiling at his comrade's sally and earnestness. "are you serious, captain?" asked the other, now trying to half believe him. "never more so in my life, i assure you," was the reply. "and who is the lady, pray? come, relieve your conscience, and confess." "ah, there i am silent; her name is not for vulgar ears," said the young soldier, smiling, and with really too much respect to refer lightly to isabella gonzales. chapter iv. cuban banditti. it was one of those beautiful but almost oppressively hot afternoons that so ripen the fruits, and so try the patience of the inhabitants of the tropics, that we would have the patient reader follow us on the main road between alquezar and guiness. it is as level as a parlor floor, and the tall foliage, mostly composed of the lofty palm, renders the route shaded and agreeable. every vegetable and plant are so peculiarly significant of the low latitudes, that we must pause for a moment to notice them. the tall, stately palm, the king of the tropical forest, with its tufted head, like a bunch of ostrich feathers, bending its majestic form here and there over the verdant and luxuriant undergrowth, the mahogany tree, the stout lignumvitâ��, the banana, the fragrant and beautiful orange and lemon, and the long, impregnable hedge of the dagger aloe, all go to show us that we are in the sunny clime of the tropics. the fragrance, too, of the atmosphere! how soft to the senses! this gentle zephyr that only ruffles the white blossoms of the lime hedges, is off yonder coffee plantation that lies now like a field of clear snow, in its fragrant milk-white blossoms; and what a bewitching mingling of heliotrope and wild honeysuckle is combined in the air! how the gaudy plumed parrot pauses on his perch beneath the branches of the plantain tree, to inhale the sweets of the hour; while the chirps of the pedoreva and indigo birds are mingled in vocal praise that fortune has cast their lot in so lovely a clime. o, believe us, you should see and feel the belongings of this beautiful isle, to appreciate how nearly it approaches to your early ideas of fairy land. but, alas! how often do man's coarser disposition and baser nature belie the soft and beautiful characteristics of nature about him; how often, how very often, is the still, heavenly influence that reigns in fragrant flowers and bubbling streams, marred and desecrated by the harshness and violence engendered by human passions! in the midst of such a scene as we have described, at the moment to which we refer, there was a fearful struggle being enacted between a small party of montaros, or inland robbers, and the occupants and outriders of a volante, which had just been attacked on the road. the traces that attached the horse to the vehicle had been cut, and the postilion lay senseless upon the ground from a sword wound in their head, while the four outriders were contending with thrice their number of robbers, who were armed with pistols and toledo blades. it was a sharp hand to hand fight, and their steel rang to the quick strokes. in the volante was the person of a lady, but so closely enshrouded by a voluminous rebosa, or spanish shawl, as hardly to leave any of her figure exposed, her face being hid from fright at the scene being enacted about her. at her side stood the figure of a tall, stately man, whose hat had been knocked over his head in the struggle, and whose white hairs gave token of his age. two of the robbers, who had received the contents of his two pistols, lay dead by the side of the volante, and having now only his sword left, he stood thus, as if determined to protect her by his side, even at the cost of his life. the robbers had at last quite overmatched the four outriders, and having bound the only one of them that had sufficient life left to make him dangerous to them, they turned their steps once more towards the volante. there were in all some thirteen of them, but three already lay dead in the road, and the other ten, who had some sharp wounds distributed among them, now standing together, seemed to be querying whether they should not revenge the death of their comrades by killing both the occupants of the volante, or whether they should pursue their first purpose of only robbing them of what valuables they possessed. fierce oaths were reiterated, and angry words exchanged between one and another of the robbers, as to the matter they were hastily discussing, while the old gentleman remained firm, grasping the hilt of his well-tempered sword, and showing to his enemies, by the stern, deep resolve they read in his eye, that they had not yet conquered him. fortunately their pistols had all been discharged, or they might have shot the brave old man without coming to closer quarters, but now they looked with some dread upon the glittering blade he held so firmly! that which has required some time and space for us to describe, was, however, the work of but a very few moments of time, and the robbers, having evidently made up their minds to take the lives of the two persons now in the vehicle, divided themselves into two parties and approached the volante at the same moment on opposite sides. "come on, ye fiends in human shape," said the old man, flourishing his sword with a skill and strength that showed he was no stranger to its use, and that there was danger in him. "come on, ye shall find that a good blade in an old man's hands is no plaything!" they listened for a moment: yes, that half-score of villains held back in dismay at the noble appearance of the old man, and the flashing fire of his eye. "ha! do you falter, ye villains? do you fear a good sword with right to back it?" but hark! what sound is that which startles the montaros in the midst of their villany, and makes them look into each other's faces with such consternation and fear? it is a very unfrequented spot-who can be near? scarcely had the sound fallen on their ears, before three horsemen in the undress uniform of the spanish infantry, dashed up to the spot at full speed, while one of them, who seemed to be the leader of the party, leaped from his horse, and before the others could follow his example, was engaged in a desperate hand to hand conflict with the robbers. twice he discharged his pistols with fatal effect, and now he was fighting sword and sword with a stout, burly montaro, who was approaching that side of the volante where the lady sat, still half concealed by the ample folds of her rebosa, though the approach of assistance had led her to venture so far as to partially uncover her face, and to observe the scene about her. the headlong attack, so opportunely made by the fresh horsemen, was too much for treble their number to withstand, more especially as the leader of them had met with such signal success at the outset-having shot two, and mortally wounded a third. in this critical state of affairs, the remaining banditti concluded that discretion was the better part of valor, and made the best of their time and remaining strength to beat a hasty retreat, leaving the old gentleman and his companion with their three deliverers, quite safe in the middle of the road. "by our lady, sir, 'twas a gallant act. there were ten of those rascals, and but three of you," said the old gentleman, stepping out of the volante and arranging his ruffled dress. "ten, senor? a soldier would make nothing of a score of such scapegraces as those," replied the officer (for such it was now apparent he was), as he wiped the gore from his reeking blade with a broad, green leaf from the roadside, and placed it in the scabbard. one of the soldiers who had accompanied the officer had now cut the thongs that bound the surviving outrider, who was one of the family attaches of the old gentleman, and who now busied himself about the vehicle, at one moment attending to the lady's wants, and now to harnessing the horse once more. removing his cap, and wiping the reeking perspiration from his brow, the young officer now approached the volante and said to the lady: "i trust, madame, that you have received no further injury by this unfortunate encounter than must needs occur to you from fright." as he spoke thus, the lady turned quickly from looking towards the old gentleman, who was now on the other side of the vehicle, and after a moment exclaimed: "is it possible, captain bezan, that we are indebted to you for this most opportune deliverance from what seemed to be certain destruction?" "isabella gonzales!" exclaimed the young officer, with unfeigned surprise. "you did not know us, then?" she asked, quickly, in reply. "not i, indeed, or else i should sooner have spoken to you." "you thus risked your life, then, for strangers?" she continued. "you were the weakest party, were attacked by robbers; it only required a glance to realize that, and to attack them and release you was the next most natural thing in the world," replied the soldier, still wiping the perspiration from his forehead and temples. "father!" exclaimed isabella, with undisguised pleasure, "this is captain bezan!" "captain bezan?" repeated the old don, as surprised as his daughter had been. "at your service," replied the soldier, bowing respectfully to don gonzales. "why, sir," said the old man, "what possible chance could have brought you so fortunately to our rescue here, a dozen leagues from the city?" "i was returning with these two companions of my company from a business trip to the south side of the island, where we had been sent with despatches from tacon to the governor of the department." "no, matter, what chance has brought you here, at all events we owe our lives to you, sir," said don gonzales, extending his hand cordially to the young officer. after some necessary delay, under the peculiar circumstances, the horses were finally arranged so as to permit of proceeding forward on the road. the bodies of the servants were disposed of, and all was ready for a start, when isabella gonzales turned to her father and pressing his arm said: "father, how pale he looks!" "who, my child!" "there, see how very pale!" said isabella, rising up from her seat. "who do you speak of, isabella?" "captain bezan, father; see, there he stands beside his horse." "he does look fatigued; he has worked hard with those villains," said the old man. "why don't he mount? the rest have done so, and we are ready," continued the old man, anxiously. at that moment one of the horsemen, better understanding the case than either isabella gonzales or her father, left his well-trained animal in the road, and hastened to his officer's side. it required but a glance for him to see that his captain was too weak to mount. directing the outrider, who had now mounted one of the horses attached to the volante, and acted as postilion, to drive towards him whom his companion was partially supporting, don gonzales asked most anxiously: "captain bezan, you are ill, i fear; are you much hurt?" "a mere trifle, don gonzales; drive on, sir, and i will follow you in a moment." "he is bleeding from his left arm and side, father," said isabella, anxiously. "you are wounded-i fear severely, captain bezan," said the father. "a mere scratch, sir, in the arm, from one of the unlucky thrusts of those montaros," he replied, assuming an indifference that his pale face belied. "ah! father, what can be done for him?" said isabella, quickly. "i am unharmed," said the grateful old man, "and can sit a horse all day long, if need be. here, captain, take my seat in the volante, and isabella, whom you have served at such heavy cost to yourself, shall act the nurse for you until we get to town again." perhaps nothing, save such a proposition as this, could possibly have aroused and sustained the wounded officer; but after gently refusing for a while to rob don gonzales of his seat in the volante, he was forced to accept it even by the earnest request of isabella herself, who seemed to tremble lest he was mortally wounded in their behalf. little did don gonzales know, at that time, what a flame he was feeding in the young officer's breast. he was too intently engaged in his own mind with the startling scenes through which he had just passed, and was exercised with too much gratitude towards captain bezan for his deliverance, to observe or realize any peculiarity of appearance in any other respect, or to question the propriety of placing him so intimately by the side of his lovely child. isabella had never told her father, or indeed any one, of the circumstance of her having met captain bezan on the plato. but the reader, who is aware of the scene referred to, can easily imagine with what feelings the soldier took his seat by her side, and secretly watched the anxious and assiduous glances that she gave his wounded arm and side, as well as the kind looks she bestowed upon his pallid face. "i fear i annoy you," said the soldier, realizing his proximity to her on the seat. "no, no, by no means. i pray you rest your arm here," said isabella gonzales, as she offered her rebosa supported in part by her own person! "you are too kind-far too kind to me," said the wounded officer, faintly; for he was now really very weak from loss of blood and the pain of his wounds. "speak not, i beseech of you, but strive to keep your courage up till we can gain the aid of some experienced surgeon," she said, supporting him tenderly. thus the party drove on towards the city, by easy stages, where they arrived in safety, and left captain bezan to pursue his way to his barracks, which he did, not, however, until he had, like a faithful courier, reported to the governor-general the safe result of his mission to the south of the island. the story of the gallant rescue was the theme of the hour for a period in havana, but attacks from robbers on the road, under tacon's governorship, were too common an occurrence to create any great wonder or curiosity among the inhabitants of the city. but captain bezan had got wounds that would make him remember the encounter for life, and now lay in a raging fever at his quarters in the infantry barracks of the plaza des armes. chapter v. the wounded soldier. the fervor and heat of the mid-day atmosphere had been intense, but a most delightfully refreshing sea breeze had sprung up at last, and after fanning its way across the gulf stream, was dallying now with the palms and orange trees that so gracefully surrounded the marble statue of ferdinand, in the midst of the plaza, and ruffling the marble basin of water that bubbles forth from the graceful basin at its base. light puffs of it, too, found their way into the invitingly open windows of the governor's palace, into an apartment which was improved by general harero. often pausing at the window to breathe in of the delightful atmosphere for a moment, he would again resume his irregular walk and seemingly absorbed in a dreamy frame of mind, quite unconscious of the outward world about him. at last he spoke, though only communing with himself, yet quite aloud: "strange, very strange, that this captain bezan should seem to stand so much in my way. curse his luck, the old don and his daughter feel under infinite obligations to him already, and well they may, as to the matter of that. if it was not for the girl's extraordinary stock of pride, we should have her falling in love with this young gallant directly, and there would be an end to all my hopes and fancies. he's low enough, now, however, so my valet just told me, and ten to one, if his physician knows his case, as he pretends, he'll make a die of it. he is a gallant fellow, that's a fact, and brave as he is gallant. i may as well own the fact that's what makes me hate him so! but he should not have crossed my path, and served to blight my hopes, there's the rub. i like the man well enough as a soldier, hang it. i'd like half the army to be just like him-they'd be invincible; but he has crossed my interest, ay, my love; and if he does get up again and crosses me with isabella gonzales, why then-well, no matter, there are ways enough to remove the obstacle from my path. "by the way," he continued, after crossing and re-crossing the room a few times, "what a riddle this isabella gonzales is; i wonder if she has got any heart at all. here am i, who have gone scathless through the courts of beauty these many years, actually caught-surprised at last; for i do love the girl; and yet how archly she teazes me! sometimes i think within myself that i am about to win the goal, when drop goes the curtain, and she's as far away as ever. how queenly she looks, nevertheless. i had much rather be refused by such a woman, to my own mortification, than to succeed with almost any other, if only for the pleasure of looking into those eyes, and reading in silent language her poetical and ethereal beauty-i might be happy but for this fellow, this captain bezan; he troubles me. though there's no danger of her loving him, yet he seems to stand in my way, and to divert her fancy. thank heaven, she's too proud to love one so humble." thus musing and talking aloud to himself, general harero walked back and forth, and back and forth again in his apartment, until his orderly brought him the evening report of his division. a far different scene was presented on the other side of the great square, in the centre of which stands the shrubbery and fountain of the plaza. let the reader follow us now inside the massive stone walls of the spanish barracks, to a dimly lighted room, where lay a wounded soldier upon his bed. the apartment gave token in its furniture of a very peculiar combination of literary and military taste. there were foils, long and short swords, pistols, hand pikes, flags, military boots and spurs; but there were also shakspeare, milton, the illustrated edition of cervantes's don quixote, and a voluminous history of spain, with various other prose and poetic volumes, in different languages. a guitar also lay carelessly in one corner, and a rich but faded bouquet of flowers filled a porcelain vase. at the foot of the bed where the wounded soldier lay, stood a boy with a quivering lip and swimming eye, as he heard the sick man moan in his uneasy sleep. close by the head of the bed sat an assistant-surgeon of the regiment, watching what evidently seemed to be the turning point as to the sufferer's chance for life or death. as the boy and the surgeon watched him thus, gradually the opiate just administered began to affect him, and he seemed at last to fall into the deep and quiet sleep that is generally indicated by a low, regular and uninterrupted respiration. the boy had not only watched the wounded man, but had seemed also to half read the surgeon's thoughts, from time to time, and now marked the gleam of satisfaction upon his face as the medicine produced the desired effect upon the system of his patient. "how do you think captain bezan is, to-day?" whispered the boy, anxiously, as the surgeon's followed him noiselessly from the sick-room to the corridor without. "very low, master ruez, very low indeed; it is the most critical period of his sickness; but he has gone finely into that last nap, thanks to the medicine, and if he will but continue under its influence thus for a few hours, we may look for an abatement of this burning thirst and fever, and then--" "what, sir?" said the boy, eagerly, "what then?" "why, he may get over those wounds, but it's a severe case, and would be little less than a miracle. i've seen sicker men live, and i've seen those who seemed less sick die." "alas! then there is no way yet of deciding upon his case," said the boy. "none, master ruez; but we'll hope for the best; that is all that can be done." ruez gonzales walked out of the barracks and by the guard with a sad countenance, and whistling for carlo, who had crouched by the parapet until his young master should come out, he turned his steps up the calla de mercaderes to his home. ruez sought his sister's apartment, and throwing himself upon a lounge, seemed moody and unhappy. as he reclined thus, isabella regarded him intently, as though she would read his thoughts without asking for them. there seemed to be some reason why she did not speak to him sooner, but at last she asked: "well, ruez, how is captain bezan, to-day? have you been to the barracks to inquire?" she said this in an assumed tone of indifference, but it was only assumed. "how is he?" repeated ruez, after turning a quick glance of his soft blue eyes upon his sister's face, as though he would read her very soul. isabella felt his keen glance, and almost blushed. "yes, brother, pray, how is captain bezan, to-day? do you not know?" "his life hangs by a mere thread," continued the boy, sadly, resuming again his former position. "the surgeon told me that his recovery was very doubtful." "did he tell you that, ruez?" "not those words, sister, but that which was equivalent to it, however." "he is worse, then, much worse?" she continued, in a hasty tone of voice. "not worse, sister," replied ruez. "i did not say that he was worse, but the fever rages still, and unless that abates within a few hours, death must follow." isabella gonzales sat herself down at an open balcony and looked off on the distant country in silence, so long, that ruez and the hound both fell asleep, and knew not that she at last left her seat. the warmth and enervating influence of the atmosphere almost requires one to indulge in a siesta daily, in these low latitudes and sunny regions of the earth. "he is dying, then," said isabella gonzales, to herself, after having sought the silence and solitude of her own chamber, "dying and alone, far from any kindred voice or hand, or even friend, save those among his brothers in arms. and yet how much do we owe to him! he has saved all our lives-ruez's first, and then both father's and mine; and in this last act of daring gallantry and bravery, he received his death wound. alas! how fearful it seems to me, this strange picture. would i could see and thank him once more-take from him any little commission that he might desire in his last moments to transmit to his distant home-for a sister, mother, or brother. would that i could smooth his pillow and bathe his fevered brow; i know he loves me, and these attentions would be so grateful to him-so delightful to me. but alas! it would be considered a disgrace for me to visit him." let the reader distinctly understand the feelings that actuated the heart of the lovely girl. the idea of loving the wounded soldier had never entered the proud but now humbled isabella's thoughts. could such a thought have been by any means suggested to her, she would have spurned it at once; but it was the woman's sympathy that she felt for one who would have doubtless sacrificed his life for her and hers; it was a simple act of justice she would have performed; and the pearly tear that now wet her cheek, was that of sympathy, and of sympathy alone. beautiful trait, how glorious thou art in all; but how doubly glorious in woman; because in her nature thou art most natural, and there thou findest the congenial associations necessary for thy full conception. general harero had judged isabella gonzales well when he said that there was no danger of her loving lorenzo bezan-she had too much pride! but let us look once more into the sick room we so lately left, where the wounded soldier lies suffering from his wounds. a volante has just stopped at the barracks' doors, and a girl, whose dress betokens her to be a servant, steps out, and telling her errand to the corporal of the guard, is permitted to pass the sentinel, and is conducted to the sick man's room. she brings some cooling draughts for his parched lips, and fragrant waters with which to battle his fevered temples and burning forehead. "who sends these welcome gifts to captain bezan?" asked the assistant-surgeon. "my lady, sir." "and who is your lady, my good girl, if you please?" he asked. "the senorita isabella gonzales, sir," was the modest reply of the maid. "ah, yes; her brother has been here this afternoon, i remember," said the surgeon; "the sick man fell asleep then, and has not since awakened." "heaven grant the sleep may refresh him and restore his strength," said the girl. "amen, say i to that," continued the surgeon, "and amen says every man in the regiment." "is he so popular as that?" asked the girl, innocently. "popular, why he's the pet of the entire division. he's the best swordsman, best scholar, best-in short we could better lose half the other officers than captain bezan." "do you think him any better than he was this morning?" "the sleep is favorable, highly favorable," replied the surgeon, approaching the bedside; "but in my judgment of the case, it must entirely depend upon the state in which he wakes." "is there fear of waking him, do you think?" asked the girl, in a whisper, as she drew nearer to the bed, and looked upon the high, pale forehead and remarkably handsome features of the young soldier. though the few days of confinement which he had suffered, and the acute pain he had endured by them, had hollowed his checks, yet he was handsome still. "no," replied the surgeon, to her question; "he will sleep quite long enough from the opiate, quite as long as i wish; and if he should wake even now, it would not be too soon." "how very slightly he breathes," continued the girl, observantly. "very; but it is a relief to see him breathe in that way," replied the surgeon. "stay, did he not murmur something, then?" asked the maid. "possibly," replied the surgeon. "he has talked constantly during his delirium. pray, my good girl, does he know your mistress very well?" "i think not," was the reply. "but why do you ask that?" "because he seems constantly to dream and talk about her night and day. indeed she is all he has spoken of since the height of his fever was upon him." "indeed!" said the girl, musing at the surgeon's words abstractedly. "have you not heard your mistress speak of him at all?" "yes, that is, he once did the family some important service. do you say that he talked of senorita isabella in the hours of his delirium?" "yes, and in looking into his dressing-case, a few days since, to find some lint for his wounds, i discovered this," said tire surgeon, showing the girl a miniature, painted on ivory with great skill and beauty. "i think it must be a likeness of the senorita isabella," continued the surgeon, "though i have never seen her to know her but once." "it is indeed meant for her," said the girl, eagerly scanning the soft and delicate picture, which represented the senorita isabella gonzales as sitting at an open window and gazing forth on the soft, dreamy atmosphere of a tropical sunset. "you think it is like her?" "o, very." "well, i was sure that it was meant for the lady when i first saw it." "may i bathe his temples with this florida water?" asked the girl, as she observed the sick man to move slightly and to moan. "yes, it will have a tendency to rouse him gently, and it is now time for him to wake." the girl smoothed back the dark locks from the soldier's brow, and with her hands bathed his marble-like forehead and temples as gently as she might have done had he been an infant. the stimulating influence of the delicate spirits she was using was most delightful to the senses of the sick man, and a soft smile for a moment breathed his lips, as half awake and half dreaming, he returned thanks for the kindness, mingled with isabella's name. the girl bent over his couch to hear the words, and the surgeon saw a tear drop upon the sick man's hand from the girl's eyes as she stood there! in a moment more the soldier seemed to arouse, and uttered a long deep sigh, as though relieved from some heavy weight that had long been oppressing him, both mentally and physically. he soon opened his eyes, and looked languidly about him, as if striving to recall his situation, and what had prostrated him thus. the girl stepped immediately back from the bedside, as she observed these tokens, and droping the rebosa that had been heretofore confined, veil-like to the crown of her head, and partially screened her features, but she showed most unmistakable signs of delight, as she read in the soldier's eyes that reason had once more returned to her throne, and that lorenzo bezan was once more rational. "how beautiful!" uttered the surgeon, half aloud, as he stood gazing at the girl. "if the mistress be as lovely as the maid, no wonder captain bezan has talked of her in his delirium!" "step hither, step hither, he is awake!" whispered the girl to the surgeon. "and his reason too has returned," said the professional man, as soon as his eyes rested on the wounded soldier's face. "there is hope now!" "thank heaven for its infinite mercy!" said the girl, with an earnest though tremulous voice, as she gathered her rebosa about her face and prepared to depart. "he will recover now?" she asked, once more, as she turned towards the surgeon. "with care and good nursing we may hope so," was the reply of the attendant, who still looked earnestly into the face of the inquirer as he spoke. "my lady knew not the pecuniary condition of captain bezan at this time, and desired that this purse might be devoted to his convenience and comfort; but she also desires that this may not be known to him. may i trust to you, sir, in this little matter?" "it will give me great pleasure to keep the secret, and to improve the purse solely for the sick man's individual benefit," was the reply. "thank you, sir; i see you are indeed his friend," she answered, as she bowed low and withdrew. scarcely had the door closed after the visitor, before the surgeon, turning hastily once more to the miniature he had shown, examined it in various lights, now carefully within a part shaded by the hand, and now as a whole, and now near to, and then at a distance. "i more than suspected it," he exclaimed, with emphasis; "and now i know it; that lady was senorita isabella gonzales, the belle of havana!" and so indeed it was. unable longer to restrain her desire to see him who had so infinitely served the interests of herself and her father's house, the proud girl had smothered every adverse prompting in her bosom, and donning her dressing-maid's attire, had thus dressed in humble costume, stepped into a volante, and ordering the calesaro to drive to the infantry barracks, where she knew the sick man was, had entered as we have seen, under pretext of bringing necessities from her pretended mistress to the wounded soldier. her scheme had succeeded infinitely well, nor would she have betrayed herself to even the surgeon's observant eye, had it not been for that single tear! "what angel was that?" whispered the sick man, to his attendant, who now approached his bedside to administer some cooling draught to his parched lips. "you have been dreaming, my dear fellow," said the discreet surgeon, cautiously, "and are already much better; keep as quiet as possible, and we will soon have you out again. here, captain, drink of this fruit water, it will refresh you." too weak to argue or even to talk at all, the sick man drank as he was desired, and half closed his eyes again, as if he thought by thus doing he might once more bring back the sweet vision which had just gladdened his feeble senses. like a true-hearted fellow as he was, the surgeon resolved not to reveal the lady's secret to any one-not even to his patient; for he saw that this was her earnest desire, and she had confided in part to him her errand there. but those who saw the surgeon in the after part of that day, marked that he bore a depressed and thoughtful countenance. isabella gonzales had filled his vision, and very nearly his heart, also, by her exquisite loveliness and beauty! chapter vi. the challenge. the tacon theatre is one of the largest in the world, and is situated in the paseo, just outside the city walls. you enter the parquet and first row of boxes from the level of the street, and above this are four ranges of boxes, besides seats in the parquet for six hundred persons. the gildings are elaborate and beautiful, and the frescoes are done by the first italian artists; the whole being brilliantly lighted by an immense chandelier in the centre, and lesser ones pendant from the half moon of boxes, and supplied with gas. it is a superb establishment, and when it is filled with the beauty and fashion of the city, it is a brilliant sight indeed. it is nearly a month subsequent to the scene that closed the last chapter of our story, that we would carry the reader with us within the brilliantly lighted walls of the tacon theatre. how lively and gay is the prospect that presents itself to the eye-the glittering jewelry and diamonds of the fair senor's and senoritas, casting back the brilliant light, and rivalled in lustre by the sparkle of a thousand eyes of jet. the gilded and jewelled fans rustle audibly (what would a spanish or creole lady do without a fan?)-the orchestra dashes off in a gay and thrilling overture, intermingled by the voices, here and there, of merry groups of the audience, while the stately figures of the soldiers on duty are seen, with their many-colored dresses and caps, amid the throng and at the rear of the boxes. in a centre box of the first tier sits senorita isabella gonzales, with her father, brother, general harero, and a party of friends. all eyes are turned towards the peerless beauty-those of the ladies with envy at her extraordinary charms of person, and those of the young cavaliers and gentlemen with undisguised admiration at the picture of loveliness which met their eyes. isabella herself sat with an easy and graceful air of unconsciousness, bowing low to the meaningless compliments and remarks of general harero, and now smiling at some pleasantry of ruez who was close to her side, and now again regarding for a moment the tall, manly figure of an officer near the proscenium box, who was on duty there, and evidently the officer of the evening. this may sound odd to a republican, but no assembly, no matter how unimportant, is permitted, except under the immediate eye and supervision of the military. "there is captain bezan," said ruez, with undisguised pleasure, pointing towards the proscenium box where the young officer stood. "yes, i see him, ruez," replied isabella, "and it is the first time he has been out on duty, i think, since his dangerous and protracted illness." "i know it is the first time," said the boy, "and i don't think he's hardly able to be out now. how very pale he is looking, isabella." "do you think he's very pale, ruez?" she asked, turning towards the soldier, whose arm and sword were now outstretched, indicating some movement to a file of soldiers on the other side. "he's too ill, i should think, to be out in the night air." "one would certainly think so," answered isabella. "his company was ordered out to-night," said ruez, "and though the surgeon told him to remain in, he said he must be with his command." "you seem to know his business almost as well as himself, master ruez," said general harero, who had overheard the remarks relating to captain bezan. "the captain and i are great friends, famous friends," replied ruez, instantly. "he's a noble fellow, and just my idea of what a soldier should be. don't you think him a fine soldier, general harero?" asked the boy, most frankly. "humph!" ejaculated the general, "why, yes, he's good enough for aught i know, professionally. not quite rough and tough enough for a thorough bred one, i think," was the reply of his superior, who was plainly watching isabella gonzales's eyes while he spoke to the boy, and who was anything but pleased to see how often she glanced at captain bezan. "i don't know what you may mean by rough and tough, general," said ruez, with evident feeling evinced in his voice; "but i know, very well, that captain bezan is as brave as a lion, and i don't believe there is a man in your service who can swim with such weight as he can do." "may be not," replied the general, with assumed indifference. "then why say that he's not rough and tough? that means something," continued the boy, with not a little pertinacity in defence of his new friend. "there's some difference, let me tell you, master ruez, between facing an enemy with blazing gunpowder before your eyes, and merely swimming a while in cold water." "the very wounds that came so near proving fatal to captain bezan, prove that he can fight, general, as well as swim," said ruez, rather smartly, in reply, while isabella gonzales glanced at her brother with evident tokens of satisfaction in her face. "you are enthusiastic in your friend's behalf," said general harero, coldly. "and well i may be, since i not only owe him my own life, but that of my dear sister and father," continued ruez, quite equal to the general's remark in any instance. "certainly, you are right, master ruez," said general harero, biting his lips, as he saw that isabella was regarding him with more than ordinary attention. in the meantime lorenzo bezan remained, as in duty bound, at his post, while many an admiring eye was resting upon his fine figure and martial bearing. he was quite unconscious of being the subject of such particular remark and criticism within the bearing of her he so nearly worshipped-the beautiful isabella gonzales. though his heart was with her every moment, and his thoughts were never off the box, even where she sat, yet it was only now and then that he permitted himself to turn his eyes, as though by accident, towards don gonzales and his daughter. he seemed to feel that general harero was particularly regarding him, and he strove to be less thoughtful of isabella, and if possible, more observant of his regular duty. it is the duty of the officer of the night for the occasion, to fill the post during the performance, where the young officer now stood, as it commanded a view of the entire house, and was the point, where, by an order from him, he could at once summon a much larger force under arms than that which under ordinary circumstances was required. each division of the guard was set from this point, therefore captain bezan, as was his custom, remained here during the performance. "it must be very tedious to stay thus standing just there," remarked ruez, pointing to captain bezan, and speaking to isabella. "i should think so," was the reply of his sister, who had often turned that way, to the no small annoyance of the observant general harero. "a soldier's duty," replied the general, "should content him with his post." it was nearly the middle of the evening's entertainment, when turning his eyes towards the box occupied by don gonzales and his party, captain bezan caught the eye of isabella gonzales, and at the same time observed distinctly the peculiar wave of the fan, with which a spanish lady invites in a friendly manner the approach of a friend of the opposite sex. he could not be mistaken, and yet was it possible that the belle of all that proud assemblage deigned openly to notice and compliment him thus in public? impelled by the ardor of his love, and the hope that he had rightly construed the signal, he approached the box from the rear, and stepping to its back, gave some indication to one of his orderlies sufficiently loud in tone to cause isabella and her father to turn their heads, as they at once recognized the voice of the young officer. "ah! captain bezan," said don gonzales, heartily, as he caught the young officer's eye, "glad to see you once more with epaulets on-upon my soul i am." "thank you, sir," said the soldier, first saluting in due form his superior, and then bowing low and gracefully to isabella gonzales, who honored him with a gracious smile. "you are looking comparatively well, captain," said don gonzales, kindly. "o yes, sir, i am as well as ever, now," replied the officer, cheerfully. ruez gonzales loved lorenzo bezan like a brother; first, because he had so materially served him at imminent peril of his own life, and secondly, because he saw in him just such traits of character as attracted his young heart, and aroused it to a spirit of emulation. with the privilege of boyhood, therefore, he sprang over the seats, half upsetting general harero to get at the young officer's side, which, having accomplished, he seized his hand familiarly. general harero frowned at this familiarity, and his face grew doubly dark and frowning, as he saw now how closely isabella was observing the young officer all the while. "i trust you find yourself quite recovered, captain, from your severe illness," said isabella, reaching by her father, as she addressed lorenzo bezan kindly. "i am quite recovered, lady; better, if possible, than before," he replied, respectfully. "master ruez has been a constant nurse to me, thoughtful and kind," he continued, as he looked down upon the boy's handsome features with real affection lighting up his own pale face. ruez only drew the closer to his side at these words, while his father, don gonzales, watched both the soldier and his boy with much interest for a moment, then turning to general harero, he made some earnest and complimentary remark, evidently referring to captain bezan, though uttered in a low tone of voice, which seemed to increase the cloud on the general's brow. but the young soldier was too much interested in gazing upon the lovely features of isabella, to notice this; he seemed almost entranced by the tender vision of beauty that was before him. at the same moment some slight disturbance occurred in a distant part of the extensive building, which afforded a chance for general harero to turn quickly to the young soldier, and in a sharp tone say: "your duty calls you hence, sir!" for it moment the blood mantled to the officer's face at the tone of this remark, but suppressing his feelings, whatever they might be, with a respectful acknowledgement of the order, lorenzo bezan hastened to the quarter from whence the noise had come, and by at simple direction obviated their trouble immediately. but he remembered the bitter and insulting air of his superior, and it cut him to the quick, the more keenly too as having been given in the presence of isabella gonzales. as he returned from this trifling duty, he necessarily again passed the box where were don gonzales, amid his party, and seeing ruez standing there awaiting his return, he again paused for a moment to exchange at word with the boy, and once more received a pleasant greeting from isabella and her father. at this but reasonable conduct, general harero seemed nettled and angry beyond all control, and turning once more towards lorenzo bezan, with a face black with suppressed rage, said: "it strikes me, sir, that captain bezan would consult his own interest, and be best performing his ordinary duty by maintaining his post at the proscenium!" "i proposed to return there immediately, general harero, and stopped here but for one moment," said the young officer, with a burning cheek, at the intended insult. "shall i put my words in the form of an order?" continued general harero, seeing that bezan paused to assist ruez once more over the seats to his position in the box. "it is not necessary, general," replied the officer, biting his lips with vexation. "i declare, general," said isabella, unable longer to remain quiet at his repeated insults to the young officer, "you soldiers are so very peremptory, that you half disconcert me." "it is sometimes necessary," was the quick and stern reply, "to be prompt with young and headstrong officers who do not well understand their duty, or rather, i may say, who knowing their duty, fail to perform it," emphasizing the last part of the sentence. this was intended not only for the lady's ear, but also for that of lorenzo bezan, who barely succeeded in commanding his feelings for the moment, so far as to turn silently away to return to his post of observation. the effect of the scene was not lost upon the high-spirited beauty. isabella had marked well the words and tone of voice with which general harero spoke, and she saw, too, the effect of his words upon the free, manly spirit of the young soldier, and from that moment, either intentionally, or by accident, she paid no further attention during the whole evening to general harero, neither turning towards him, nor even speaking to him at all. the general, of course, observed this particularly, desiring as he did to stand in the best possible light as it regarded isabella's favor, and imputing her conduct to the presence of captain bezan, and the conversation that had taken place relative to his duty between captain bezan and himself; he hated the young officer more than ever, as being in some degree the cause of preventing the consummation of his hopes as it regarded the favor of the lady. he had long cherished a regard for the beautiful daughter of don gonzales, for her personal charms, as well as the rich coffers which her father could boast. as the reader has already surmised, he had been a constant and ardent, though unsuccessful suitor, for no inconsiderable period. it will not, therefore, be wondered at, that he should have felt very sensitive upon this point. as he passed lorenzo bezan, therefore, at the close of the performance, in going out of the theatre that night, while still in the most immediate proximity to isabella gonzales, her father, and the party with them, he took occasion to speak very loud, and in the most peremptory manner to him, saying: "i find you exceedingly lax, captain bezan, as it regards the exercise of your duty and command. you will report yourself to me, after morning parade, for such orders as shall be deemed proper for you under the circumstances, as a public reproof for dereliction from duty." "yes, general," replied the young officer, with the usual salute to his superior. still curbing his feelings, the young officer contented himself with a kind glance from isabella gonzales, who had overheard the last act of petty tyranny on the general's part, and for that very reason redoubled her passing notice and smiles upon captain bezan. the officer marched his company to their barracks, and then sought the silence and quiet of his own room, to think over the events of the past evening. his temples burned still with the angry flush that the insult of his superior officer had produced there, and throwing himself into a chair, he recalled the whole scene at the theatre, from his answering isabella's friendly signal, until the time when general harero passed him at the entrance, and for the last time reproved him. he weighed the cause of these repeated attacks upon him by his superior, and could at once divine the cause of them. that was obvious to his mind at the first glance. he could not but perceive the strong preference that general harero evinced for isabella gonzales, nor could he disguise the fact to his own heart that she cared not a farthing for him. it required but a very simple capacity to understand this; any party, not interested in the general's favor, could easily discern it. but the general counted upon his high rank, and also upon the fact that his family was a good one, though his purse was not very long. lorenzo bezan remembered not alone the annoyance of that evening. he had not yet forgotten the insult from the general in the paseo, and coupling that with other events, he saw very well that his commanding officer was decidedly jealous of him. he saw, too, that there was not any chance of matters growing any better, but that on the contrary they must continue to grow worse and worse, since be had determined, come what might, he should pursue his love with the fair lady isabella. could he bear to be insulted thus at every turn by such a man as general harero? no! he felt himself, in courage, intellectual endowments, birth, ay, everything but the rank of a soldier, to be more than his equal. his heart beat quickly when he recollected that the latter taunt and threat had been given in the presence of don gonzales and his daughter. the malignity, the unfairness of this attack upon him at this time, was shameful, and deserved to be punished. brooding upon these things alone and at a late hour of the night, he at last wrought himself up to such a point, perhaps in some degree aggravated by his late wounds, which were hardly yet healed, that he determined he would challenge general harero to martial and mortal conflict. true this was preposterous in one of his rank, as contending against another so vastly his superior in position and influence; but his feelings had begun to assume an uncontrollable character; he could not bear to think that he had been thus insulted before isabella gonzales. it seemed to him that she would think less of him if he did not resent and punish such an insult. in the heat of his resentment, therefore, he sat down and wrote to his superior as follows: "general harero: sir-having received, at different periods and under peculiar circumstances, insults from you that neither become me as a gentleman tamely to submit to, nor you as a soldier to give, i do hereby demand satisfaction. it would be worse than folly in me to pretend that i do not understand the incentive that governs you-the actuating motive that has led to these attacks upon me. in my duty as an officer i have never failed in the least; this you know very well, and have even allowed before now, to my very face. your attacks upon me are, therefore, plainly traceable to a spirit of jealousy as to my better success with the senorita gonzales than yourself. unless i greatly mistake, the lady herself has discovered this spirit within your breast. "now, sir, the object of this note is to demand of you to lay aside the station you hold, and to forget our relative ranks as officers in the spanish army, and to meet me on the platform of our individual characters as gentlemen, and render me that satisfaction for the insult which you have placed upon me, which i have a right to demand. a line from you and a friend can easily settle this business. lorenzo bezan." this note was carefully sealed and addressed, and so despatched as to reach its destination early on the following morning. it was a most unfortunate epistle for captain bezan, and could the young officer have calmly considered the subject, he would never have been so imprudent as to send it to his superior. so long as he bore the petty annoyances of general harero without murmuring he was strong, that the step he had now taken greatly weakened his cause and position. perhaps he partly realized this as he sent the note away on the subsequent morning; but he felt too much pride to relent, and so only braced himself to meet the result. the note gave general harero what he wanted, and placed captain bezan completely at his mercy. it gave him the opportunity to do that which he most desired, viz., to arrest and imprison the young officer. consulting with the governor general, merely by way of strengthening himself, he took his opinion upon the subject before he made any open movement in the premises. this was a wary step, and served in some degree to rob the case of any appearance of personality that it might otherwise have worn to tacon's eye. as it was, the wary old soldier felt some degree of suspicion in the matter, as was evident by his remarks to the general, who brought the charge. it did not seem very natural that one who had just experienced such favor and promotion should so early be guilty of at breach of discipline. he was accustomed to judge of men and matters with care, and judiciously, and for this reason he now rested his head upon his hand for a moment, upon the table by his side, and after a pause of some minutes thus passed in silence, during which he had considered the verbal charge brought against lorenzo bezan by his commanding officer, he once more cast a searching glance upon general harero. he had never detected him in any small or unfair business, but he had suspected him of being capable of such things. "is this not the young man whom i have lately promoted for gallantry?" asked the governor-general. "excellency, yes." "it is strange that he should be guilty of such insubordination." "very strange, excellency." "you know not the reason that has induced this conduct?" "no--that is--" continued general harero, as he saw tacon's piercing eye bent upon him, "i can easily presume." "have you the letter of challenge that captain bezan sent?" "excellency, yes." "i will see it." "excellency, at your pleasure," said the general, hoping not to have been obliged to show this document. "now, if you please, general." "at once, excellency." general harero produced the letter, and handed it with something very like a blush tinging his sunburnt check, to his commander-in-chief. tacon read it slowly, pausing now and then to re-read a line, and then, remarked, as he slowly folded it up once more: "a love affair." "why, your excellency will easily understand that the young officer has dared to lift his eyes to one above his rank, and she cares nothing for him. his causes for complaint are all imaginary." "well, be this as it may, in that i shall not interfere. he has been guilty of a serious breach of discipline and must suffer for it. you may take the necessary steps at once in the matter, general." "excellency, yes," said general harero, hastening away with secret delight, and at once taking such measures as should carry out his own wishes and purposes. the result of the matter was, that before ten o'clock that morning the note conveying the challenge was answered by an aid-de-camp and a file of soldiers, who arrested captain bezan for insubordination, and quietly conducted him to the damp underground cells of the military prison, where he was left to consider the new position in which he found himself, solitary and alone, with a straw bed, and no convenience or comfort about him. and it is not surprising that such a situation should have been particularly suggestive to a mind so active as that of lorenzo bezan. chapter vii. the prisoner. to know and fully realize the bitter severity exercised in the spanish prisons, both at madrid and in havana, one must have witnessed it. cold, dark and dreary cells, fit only to act as supports to the upper and better lighted portions of the dismal structure, are filled by those persons who have incurred in any way the displeasure of the military board of commission. here, in one of the dampest and most dreary cells, immured with lizards, tarantulas, and other vile and unwholesome reptiles, captain bezan, but so very recently-risen from a sick bed, and yet smarting under his wounds, found himself. he could now easily see the great mistake he had made in thus addressing general harero as he had done, and also, as he knew very well the rigor of the service to which he was attached when he considered for a moment, he had not the least possible doubt that his sentence would be death. as a soldier he feared not death; his profession and experience, which had already made him familiar with the fell destroyer in every possible form and shape, had taught him a fearlessness in this matter; but to leave the air that isabella gonzales breathed, to be thus torn away from the bright hopes that she had given rise to in his breast, was indeed agony of soul to him now. in the horizon of his love, for the first time since his heart had known the passion, the sun had risen, and the genial rays of hope, like young spring, had commended to warm and vivify his soul. until within a very short time she whom he loved was to him as some distant star, that might be worshipped in silence, but not approached; but now, by a series of circumstances that looked like providential interference in his behalf, immense barriers had been removed. thinking over these matters, he doubly realized the misstep he had taken, and the heart of the lone prisoner was sad in the depths of his dreary dungeon. many days passed on, and lorenzo bezan counted each hour as one less that he should have to live upon the earth. at first all intercourse was strictly denied him with any person outside the prison walls, but one afternoon he was delighted as the door of his cell was thrown open, and in the next moment ruez sprang into his arms. "my dear, dear friend!" said the boy, with big tears starting from his eyes, and his voice trembling with mingled emotions of pleasure and of grief. "why, ruez," said the prisoner, no less delighted than was the boy, "how was it possible for you to gain admittance to me? you are the first person i have seen, except the turnkey, in my prison." "everybody refused me; general harero refused father, who desired that i might come and see if he could not in some way serve you. at last i went to tacon himself. o, i do love that man! well, i told him general harero would not admit me, and when i told him all--" "all of what, ruez?" "why, about you and me, and sister and father. he said, 'boy, you are worthy of confidence and love; here, take this, it will pass you to the prison, and to captain bezan's cell;' and he wrote me this on a card, and said i could come and see you by presenting it to the guard, when i pleased." "tacon is just, always just," said lorenzo bezan, "and you, ruez, are a dear and true friend." as the soldier said this, he turned to dash away a tear-confinement and late sickness had rendered him still weak. "captain?" "master ruez." "i hate general harero." "why so?" "because sister says it is by his influence that you are here." "did isabella say that?" "yes." "well, tell me of your father and sister, ruez. you know i am a hermit here." lorenzo bezan had already been in prison for more than ten days, when ruez thus visited him, and the boy had much to tell him: how general harero had called repeatedly at the house, and isabella had totally refused to see him; and how his father had tried to reason with general harero about captain bezan, and how the general had declared that nothing but blood could wash out the stain of insubordination. with the pass that the governor-general had given him, ruez gonzales came often to visit the imprisoned soldier, but as the day appointed for the trial drew near, ruez grew more and more sad and thoughtful at each visit, for, boy though he was, he felt certain of lorenzo bezan's fate. he was not himself unfamiliar with military examinations, for he was born and brought up within earshot of the spot where these scenes were so often enacted by order of the military commission, and he trembled for his dearly loved friend. at length the trial came; trial! we might with more propriety call it a farce, such being the actual character of an examination before the military commission of havana, where but one side is heard, and condemnation is sure to follow, as was the case so lately with one of our own countrymen (mr. thrasher), and before him the murder by this same tribunal of fifty americans in cold blood! trial, indeed! spanish courts do not try people; they condemn them to suffer--that is their business. but let us confine ourselves to our own case; and suffice it to say, that captain bezan was found guilty, and at once condemned to die. his offence was rank insubordination, or mutiny, as it was designated in the charge; but in consideration of former services, and his undoubted gallantry and bravery, the sentence read to the effect, as a matter of extraordinary leniency to him, that it should be permitted for him to choose the mode of his own death-that is, between the garote and being shot by his comrades. "let me die like a soldier," replied the young officer, as the question was thus put to him, before the open court, as to the mode of death which he chose. "you are condemned, then, lorenzo bezan," said the advocate of the court, "to be shot by the first file of your own company, upon the execution field." this sentence was received with a murmur of disapprobation from the few spectators in the court, for the condemned was one of the most beloved men in the service. but the young officer bowed his head calmly to the sentence, though at close observer might have seen a slight quiver of his handsome lips, as he struggled for an instant with a single inward thought. what that thought was, the reader can easily guess,--it was the last link that bound him to happiness. lorenzo bezan had no fear of death, and perhaps estimated his life quite as lightly as any other person who made a soldier's calling his profession; but since his heart had known the tender promptings of love, life had discovered new charms for him; he lived and breathed in a new atmosphere. before he had received the kind considerations of the peerless daughter of don gonzales, he could have parted the thread of his existence with little regret. but now, alas! it was very different; life was most sweet to him, because it was so fully imbued with love and hope in the future. wild as the idea might have seemed to any one else, the young officer had promised his own heart, that with ordinary success, and provided no extraordinary difficulty should present itself in his path, to win the heart and love of the proud and beautiful isabella gonzales. he had made her character and disposition his constant study, was more familiar, perhaps, with her strong and her weak points than was she herself, and believed that he knew how best to approach her before whom so many, vastly higher than himself, had knelt in vain, and truth to say, fortune seemed to have seconded his hopes. it was the death of all these hopes, the dashing to earth of the fairy future he had dreamed of, that caused his proud lip to tremble for a moment. it was no fear of bodily ill. general harero had accomplished his object, and had triumphed over the young officer, whose impetuosity had placed him within his power. the sentence of death cancelled his animosity to lorenzo bezan, and he now thought that a prominent cause of disagreement and want of success between the senorita isabella gonzales and himself was removed. thus reasoning upon the subject, and thus influenced, he called at the house of don gonzales on the evening following that of captain bezan's sentence, expecting to be greeted with the usual courtesy that had been extended to him. ruez was the first one whom he met of the household, on being ushered to the drawing-room by a slave. "ah! master ruez, how do you do?" said the general, pleasantly. "not well at all!" replied the boy, sharply, and with undisguised dislike. "i'm sorry to learn that. i trust nothing serious has affected you." "but there has, though," said the boy, with spirit; "it is the rascality of human nature;" at the same moment he turned his back coldly on the general and left the room. "well, that's most extraordinary," mused the general, to himself; "the boy meant to hit me, beyond a doubt." "ah, don gonzales," he said to the father, who entered the room a moment after, "glad to see you; have had some unpleasant business on my hands that has kept me away, you see." "yes, very unpleasant," said the old gentleman, briefly and coldly. "well, it's all settled now, don gonzales, and i trust we shall be as good friends as ever." receiving no reply whatever to this remark, and being left to himself, general harero looked after don gonzales, who had retired to a balcony in another part of the room, for a moment, and then summoning a slave, sent his card to senorita isabella, and received as an answer that she was engaged. repulsed in every quarter, he found himself most awkwardly situated, and thought it about time to beat a retreat. as general harero rose and took his leave in the most formal manner, he saw that his pathway towards the senorita isabella's graces was by no means one of sunshine alone, but at that moment it presented to his view a most cloudy horizon. the unfortunate connection of himself with the sentence of captain bezan, now assumed its true bearing in his eye. before, he had only thought of revenge, and the object also of getting rid of his rival. now he fully realized that it had placed him in a most unpleasant situation, as it regarded the lady herself. indeed he felt that had not the matter gone so far, he would gladly have compromised the affair by a public reprimand to the young officer, such as should sufficiently disgrace him publicly to satisfy the general's pride. but it was too late to regret now, too late for him to turn back-the young soldier must die! in the meantime lorenzo bezan was remanded to his dismal prison and cell, and was told to prepare for the death that would soon await him. one week only was allowed him to arrange such matters as he desired, and then he was informed that he would be shot by his comrades in the execution field, at the rear of the city barracks. it was a sad and melancholy fate for so young and brave an officer; but the law was imperative, and there was no reprieve for him. the cold and distant reception that general harero had received at don gonzales's house since the sentence had been publicly pronounced against captain lorenzo bezan, had afforded unmistakable evidence to him that if his victim perished on account of the charge he had brought against him, his welcome with isabella and her father was at an end. but what was to be done? as we have said, he had gone too far to retrace his steps in the matter. now if it were but possible to get out of the affair in some way, he said to himself, he would give half his fortune. puzzling over this matter, the disappointed general paced back and forth in his room until past midnight, and at last having tired himself completely, both mentally and physically, he carelessly threw off his clothes, and summoning his orderly, gave some unimportant order, and prepared to retire for the night. but scarcely had he locked his door and drawn the curtains of his windows, when a gentle knock at the door caused him once more to open it, when an orderly led in a person who was closely wrapped up in a cloak, and after saluting respectfully left the new comer alone with his superior. "well, sir, did you obtain me those keys?" asked general harero. "i did, and have them here, general," was the reply. "you say there is no need of my entering at the main postern." "none. this first key opens the concealed gate in the rear of the guard house, and this the door that leads to the under range of the prison. you will require no guide after what i have already shown you. but you have promised me the fifty ounces." "i have." "and will hold me harmless?" "at all hazards." "then here are the keys." "stay; it would be as well for you to be about at the time specified, to avert any suspicions or immediate trouble." "i will be on the alert, general. you may rely upon me in this business, since you pay for my services so liberally." "good night, sir." "good night, general." and gathering his cloak about him, the stranger vanished stealthily through the door, which general harero closed and locked after him. having consummated the preliminaries to some piece of rascality or secret business that he did not care to make public. more than half of the time allotted to the prisoner for preparation in closing up his connection with life, had already transpired since his sentence had been pronounced, and he had now but three days left him to live. ruez gonzales, improving the governor-general's pass, had visited the young officer daily, bringing with him such luxuries and necessities to the condemned as were not prohibited by the rules of the prison, and which were most grateful to him. more so, because, though this was never intimated to him, or, indeed, appeared absolutely obvious, he thought that oftentimes isabella had selected these gifts, if indeed she had not prepared them with her own hands. a certain delicacy of feeling prevented him from saying as much to her brother, or of even questioning him upon any point, however trivial, as to any matter of a peculiar nature concerning isabella. sometimes he longed to ask the boy about the subject, but he could not bring himself to do so; he felt that it would be indelicate and unpleasant to isabella, and therefore he limited himself to careful inquiries concerning her health and such simple matters as he might touch upon, without risk of her displeasure. lorenzo bezan took the announcement of his fate calmly. he felt it his duty to pray for strength, and he did so, and sought in the holy silence and confidence of prayer for that abiding and inward assurance that may carry us through the darkness and the valley of death. ruez, poor boy, was almost distracted at the realization of the young soldier's fate. boy though he was, he had yet the feelings, in many respects, of manhood, and though before lorenzo bezan he said nothing of his coming fate, and indeed struggled to appear cheerful, and to impart a pleasant influence to the prisoner, yet when once out of his presence, he would cry for the hour together, and isabella even feared for the child's reason, unless some change should take place ere long. when his mother was taken from him, and their home made desolate by the hand of death, ruez, in the gentleness and tenderness of his heart, had been brought so low by grief, that it was almost miraculous that he had survived. the influence of that sorrow, as we have before observed, had never left him. his father's assiduous care and kindness, and isabella's gentle and sisterly love for him, had in part healed the wound, when now his young and susceptible heart was caused thus to bleed anew. he loved lorenzo bezan with a strange intensity of feeling. there was an affinity in their natures that seemed to draw them together, and it was strange that strength of consolation and happiness that weak and gentle boy imparted to the stern soldier! in his association of late with ruez, the condemned officer felt purified and carried back to childhood and his mother's knee; the long vista of eventful years was blotted out from his heart, the stern battles he had fought in, the blood he had seen flow like water, his own deep scars and many wounds, the pride and ambition of his military career, all were forgotten, and by ruez's side he was perhaps more of a child at heart than the boy himself. how strange are our natures; how susceptible to outward influence; how attunable to harshness or to plaintive notes! we are but as the â��olian harp, and the winds of heaven play upon us what times they will! it was midnight in the prison of havana; nought could be heard by the listening ear save the steady pace of the sentinels stationed at the various angles of the walls and entrances of the courtyard that surrounded the gloomy structure. it was a calm, tropical light, and the moon shone so brightly as to light up the grim walls and heavy arches of the building, almost as bright as if it were day. now and then a sentinel would pause, and resting upon his musket, look off upon the silvery sea, and perhaps dream of his distant castilian home, then starting again, he would rouse himself, shoulder the weapon, and pace his round with measured stride. lorenzo bezan, the condemned, had knelt down and offered up a prayer, silent but sincere, for heaven's protection in the fearful emergency that beset him; he prayed that he might die like a brave man, yet with a right feeling and reconciled conscience with all mankind. then throwing himself upon his coarse straw bed, that barely served to separate him from the damp earthen floor, he had fallen asleep-a calm, deep, quiet sleep, so silent and childlike as almost to resemble death itself. he had not slept there for many minutes, before there was heard a most curious noise under the floor of his prison. at first it did not awaken him, but partially doing so, caused him to move slightly, and in at half conscious, half dreamy state, to suggest some cause for the unusual phenomenon. it evidently worked upon his brain and nervous system, and he dreamed that the executioner had come for him, that his time for life had already expired, and the noise he heard was that of the officers and men, come to execute the sentence that had been pronounced upon him by the military commission. by degrees the noise gradually increased, and heavy bolts and bars seemed to be removed, and a gleam of light to stream across the cell, while the tall form of a man, wrapped in a military cloak, came up through the floor where a stone slab gave way to the pressure applied to it from below. having gained a footing, the new comer now turned the light of a dark lantern in the direction of the corner where the prisoner was sleeping. the figure approached the sleeping soldier, and bending over him, muttered to himself, half aloud: "sleeping, by heaven! he sleeps as quietly as though he was in his camp-bedstead, and not even under arrest." as the officer thus spoke-for his cloak now falling from one shoulder, partially exposed his person and discovered his rank-the strong light of the lantern fell full upon the sleeper's face, and caused him suddenly to awake, and partially rising from the floor, he said: "so soon! has my time already come? i thought that it was not yet. well, i am ready, and trust to die like a soldier!" "awake, captain bezan, awake!" said the new comer. "i have news for you!" "news!" "yes." "what possible news can there be that i can feel interested in?" "rise, and i will tell you," replied the other, while he shaded the lantern with his hand. "speak on, i am listening," replied lorenzo bezan, rising to his feet. "i would speak of your liberty." "my liberty? i am condemned to die, and do you come to mock me?" "be patient; the way is open, and you may yet escape from death." "and what should interest you, general harero, in my fate? your purpose is gained; i am removed from your path; why do you visit me thus at this still hour of the night, and in so extraordinary a manner by a secret entrance to my cell?" "all this matters nothing. i came not here to answer questions. on one condition you are free. i have the means of your escape at hand." "name the condition," said the prisoner, though without exhibiting the least interest. "there is a vessel which will sail for america with the morning tide; swear if i liberate you that you will take passage in her, and never return to this island." "never!" said the soldier, firmly. "i will never leave those i love so dearly." "you refuse these terms?" continued the general, in a hoarse tone of voice. "i do, most unhesitatingly. life would be nothing to me if robbed of its brightest hope." "you will not consider this for a moment? it is your only chance." "i am resolved," said lorenzo bezan; "for more than one reason i am determined." "then die for your obstinacy," said general harero, hoarse with rage and disappointment. thus saying, general harero descended into the secret passage from whence he had just emerged, and replacing the stone above his head, the prisoner heard the grating of the rusty bolts and bars as they were closed after him. they grated, too, most harshly upon his heart, as well as upon their own hinges, for they seemed to say, "thus perishes your last hope of reprieve-your last possibility of escape from the fate that awaits you." "no matter," said he, to himself, at last, "life would be of little value to me now if deprived of the presence of isabella, and that dear boy, ruez, and therefore i decided none too quickly as i did. besides, in honor, i could hardly accept my life at his hands on any terms-he whom i have to thank for all my misfortunes. no, no; let them do their worst, i know my fate is sealed; but i fear it not. i will show them that i can die as i have lived, like a soldier; they shall not triumph in my weakness so long as the blood flows through my veins." with this reflection and similar thoughts upon his mind, he once more threw himself upon the hard damp floor, and after thinking long and tenderly of isabella gonzales and her brother, he once more dropped to sleep, but not until the morning gun had relieved the sentinels, and the drum had beat the reveille. chapter viii. the farewell. the apartment in don gonzales's house appropriated as ruez's sleeping room, led out of the main reception hall, and adjoined that of his sister isabella. both rooms looked out upon the plato, and over the gulf stream and outer portions of the harbor, where the grim moro tower and its cannon frown over the narrow entrance of the inner bay. one vessel could hardly work its way in ship shape through the channel, but a thousand might lay safely at anchor inside this remarkably land-locked harbor. at the moment when we would introduce the reader to the house of the rich old don gonzales, isabella had thrown herself carelessly upon a couch in her room, and half sighing, half dreaming while awake, was gazing out upon the waters that make up from the caribbean sea, at the southward, and now and then following with her eyes the trading crafts that skimmed the sparkling waters to the north. as she gazed thus, she suddenly raised herself to a sitting position, as she heard the suppressed and most grievous sobs of some one near the room where she was, and rising, she approached the window to discover the cause of this singular sound. the noise that had excited her curiosity came from the next chamber, evidently, and that was her brother's. stealing softly round to the entrance of his chamber, she went quietly in and surprised ruez as lay grieving upon a couch with eyes filled with tears. "why, ruez, what does this mean? art sick, brother, that you are so depressed?" asked the beautiful girl, seating herself down by his side. "ay, sister, sick at heart," said the boy, with a deep drawn sigh. "and why, ruez?" she continued, gently parting the hair from his forehead. "how can you ask such a question, sister? do you not know already?" he asked, turning his deep blue eyes full upon her. "perhaps not, brother," replied isabella, struggling to suppress a sigh, while she turned her face away from her brother's searching glance. "do you not know, sister, that to-morrow captain bezan is sentenced to die?" "true," said isabella gonzales, with an involuntary shudder, "i do know it, ruez." "and further, sister," continued the boy, sagely, "do you not know that we have been the indirect cause of this fearful sacrifice?" "i do not see that, brother," said isabella, quickly, as she turned her beautiful face fully upon her brother, inquiringly. ruez gonzales looked like one actuated by some extraordinary inspiration; his eyes were wonderfully bright, his expression that of years beyond his actual age, and his beautiful sister, while she gazed thus upon him at that moment, felt the keen and searching glance that he bestowed upon her. she felt like one in the presence of a superior mind; she could not realize her own sensations. the boy seemed to read her very soul, as she stood thus before him. it was more than a minute before he spoke, and seemed to break the spell; but at last-and it seemed an age to isabella gonzales-he did so, and said: "sister?" "well, ruez?" "captain bezan loves you." "perhaps so." "i say he does love you." "it is possible." "i say he loves you," continued the boy, almost sternly. "well, brother, what of that?" she asked, with assumed indifference. "it is that, sister, which has led general harero to persecute him as he has done, and it is that which has led him like a noble spirit to turn to bay." a moment's pause ensued. "is it not so, sister?" he asked, still looking keenly at her. "have you not yourself intimated that captain bezan was to suffer owing to his interest and services for us?" "you do indeed speak truly, brother," said the lovely girl, breathing more quickly, and half amazed at ruez's penetration and prophetic manner of speech. "alas!" said the boy, once more relapsing into his former mood, "that he might be saved!" "has our father seen the governor-general, ruez?" asked his sister, earnestly. "yes." "and to no effect?" "none. tacon, you know, is most strict in his administration of justice, and he says that if he were to pardon one such breach of military discipline as captain bezan as been guilty of, the whole army would at once be impregnated with insubordination." "would that i could see captain bezan, if only for one single moment," murmured isabella gonzales, half aloud, yet only to herself. "do you mean so, sister?" asked ruez, catching quickly at his sister's words, and with an undisguised expression of delight written upon his handsome countenance. "yes, no, brother, that is to say, if i could see him with propriety, you know, ruez; that is what i meant to say." "nothing easier, than for you to do so, if you desire it," said the boy. "do you think so, ruez?" said his sister, somewhat eagerly. "certainly, isabella, my pass will serve for you with a trifling disguise." "but our difference in size; besides, you know that my voice--" "will not be noticed by those stiff sentries, or the turnkey," interrupted the boy. "they do not know me at all, and would not suspect you." "ah! but i can see many impediments in the way of one of my sex," added isabella gonzales, with a deep sigh. captain lorenzo bezan awoke on the day previous to that appointed for his execution, with cheerful spirit. he found no guilt in his heart, he felt that he had committed no crime, that his soul was free and untrammelled. his coarse breakfast of rude cassava root and water was brought to him at a late hour, and having partaken of sufficient of this miserable food to prevent the gnawings of hunger, he now sat musing over his past life, and thinking seriously of that morrow which was to end his career upon earth forever. a strange reverie for a man to be engaged in a most critical period-the winding up of his earthly career. "i wonder," said he to himself, somewhat curiously, "why ruez does not come to-day? it is his hour-ay, must be even past the time, and the boy loves me too well to neglect me now, when i am so near my end. hark! is that his step? no; and yet it must be; it is too light for the guard or turnkey. o yes, that is my door, certainly, and here he is, sure enough. i knew he would come." as the prisoner said this, the door slowly opened on its rusty and creaking hinges, and the turnkey immediately closed it after the new comer, who was somewhat closely wrapped in the profuse folds of a long spanish cloak. well, ruez," said captain bezan, quite leisurely, and without turning his head towards the door, "i had begun to fear that you would not come to-day. you know you are the only being i see, except the turnkey, and i'm quite sensitive about your visits, my dear boy. however, you are here, at last; sit down." "captain bezan, it appears to me that you do not welcome me very cordially," said isabella gonzales, in reply, and a little archly. "lady!" said the prisoner, springing to his feet as though he had been struck by an electric shock, "senorita isabella gonzales, is it possible that you have remembered me at such a time-me, who am so soon to die?" isabella gonzales had now thrown back the ample folds of the cloak she wore, and lifting her brother's cap from her head, her beautiful hair fell into its accustomed place, and with a slight blush tinging either cheek, she stood before the young soldier in his cell, an object of ineffable interest and beauty. "heaven bless you, lady," said the prisoner, kneeling at her feet. "nay. i pray you, sir, captain bezan, do not kneel at such a time." "ah! lady, how can i thank you in feeble words for this sweet ray of sunshine that you have cast athwart my dark and dreary path? i no longer remember that i am to die-that my former comrades are to pierce my heart with bullets. i cannot remember my fate, lady, since you have rendered me so happy. you have shown me that i did not mistake the throne at which i have secretly worshipped-that, all good and pure as you are, you would not forget lorenzo bezan, the poor, the lonely soldier who had dared to tell you how dearly he loved you." as he spoke, isabella gonzales seemed for one moment to forget herself in the realizations of the scene. she listened to his thrice eloquent words with eyes bent upon the ground at first, and then gazing tenderly upon him, and now that he had ceased to speak, they sought once more the floor of the room in silence. he could not but construe these delicate demonstrations in his favor, and drawing close to her side, he pressed her hand tenderly to his lips. the touch seemed to act like magic, and aroused her to present consciousness, while she started as if in amazement. all the pride of her disposition was instantly aroused; she felt that for a single moment she had forgotten herself, and to retrieve the apparent acquiescence that she had seemed to show to the condemned soldier's words and tale of love, she now appeared to think that she must assume all the hauteur of character that usually governed her in her intercourse with his sex and the world generally. it was but a simple struggle, and all her self-possession was rallied again to her service and absolute control. "captain bezan," she said, with assumed dignity, and drawing herself up in all her beauty of to person to its full height, "i came not hither to hear such talk as this from you, nor to submit to such familiarity, and i trust, sir, that you will henceforth remember your station, and respect mine." the breast of the prisoner heaved with inward emotion, in the struggle to suppress its outward show, and he bit his lips until the blood nearly flowed. his face instantly became the picture of despair; for her words had planted that grief and sorrow in his heart which the fear of death could not arouse there. even isabella gonzales seemed for a moment struck with the effect of her repulse; but her own proud heart would not permit her to recall one word she had uttered. "i would not leave you, captain bezan," said she, at length, as she gathered the ample folds of the cloak about her, "without once more tendering to you my most earnest thanks for your great services to our family. you know to what i refer. i need not tell you," she continued, with a quivering lip, "that my father has done all in his power to have your sentence remitted, but, alas! to no effect. tacon seems to be resolved, and unchangeable." as she spoke thus, spite of all her assumed pride and self-control, a tear trembled in her eye, and her respiration came quickly-almost in sobs! the young soldier looked at her silently for a moment; at first he seemed puzzled; he was weighing in his own mind the meaning of all this as contrasted with the repulse he had just received, and with the estimate he had before formed of her; at last, seeming to read the spirit that had possessed her, he said: "ah, lady, i bless you a thousand times for that tear!" "nay, sir, i do not understand you," she said, quickly. "not your own heart either, lady, else you disguise its truth. ah! why should all this be so? why should hearts be thus masked?" "sir, this is positive impertinence," said isabella gonzales, struggling once more to summon her pride to sustain her. "impertinence, lady?" repeated the prisoner, sadly. "that was my word, sir," answered the proud girl, with assumed harshness. "no, it would be impossible for me, on the very brink of the grave, to say aught but the truth; and i love you too deeply, too fervently, to be impertinent. you do not know me, lady. in my heart i have reared an altar to worship at, and that shrine for three years has been thy dearly loved form. how dearly and passionately i have loved-what a chastening influence it has produced upon my life, my comrades, who know not yet the cause, could tell you. to-morrow i must die. while i hoped one day to win your love, life was most dear to me, and i was happy. i could then have clung to life with as much tenacity as any one. but, lady, i find that i have been mistaken; my whole dream of fancy, of love, is gone, and life is no better to me than a burden. i speak not in haste, nor in passion. you must bear me witness that i am calm and collected; and i assure you that the bullets which end my existence will be but swift-winged messengers of peace to my already broken heart!" "captain bezan," said isabella, hesitating, and hardly speaking distinctly. "well, lady?" "how could you have so deceived yourself? how could you possibly suppose that one in your sphere of life could hope to be united to one in mine?" asked isabella gonzales, with a half averted face and a trembling voice, as she spoke. "it was foolhardy, sir; it was more than that; it was preposterous!" "lady, you are severe." "i speak but truth, captain bezan, and your own good sense will sustain it." "i forgot your birth and rank, your wealth-everything. i acknowledge this, in the love i bore you; and, lady, i still feel, that had not my career been thus summarily checked, i might yet have won your love. nay, lady, do not frown; true love never despairs-never is disheartened--never relinquishes the object that it loves, while there is one ray of light yet left to guide it on. it did seem to me now, when we are parting so surely forever, that it might have been, on your part, more kindly, and that you would, by a smile, or even a tear-drop, for my sake, have thus blessed me, and lightened my heavy steps to the field of execution and of trial." isabella gonzales, as she listened to his words, could no longer suppress her feelings, but covering her face with her hands, she wept for a moment like a child. pride was of no avail; the heart had asserted its supremacy, and would not be controlled. "you take advantage of my woman's heart, sir," she said, at last. "i cannot bear the idea that any one should suffer, and more particularly one who has endeared himself to me and mine by such important service as you have done. do not think that tears argue aught for the wild tale you have uttered, sir. i would not have you deceive yourself so much; but i am a woman, and cannot view violence or grief unmoved!" "say, rather, lady," added the soldier, most earnestly, "that you are pure, beautiful, and good at heart, but that pride, that only alloy of thy most lovely character, chokes its growth in your bosom." "sir!" "well, senorita isabella." "enough of this," she said, hastily and much excited. "i must leave you now, captain. it is neither fitting that i should hear, nor that you should utter such words as these to isabella gonzales. farewell!" "lady, farewell," replied the prisoner, more by instinct than by any comprehension that she was actually about to leave him. "i pray you, captain bezan, do not think that i cherish any unkind thoughts towards you," she said, turning when at the door; "on the contrary, i am by no means unmindful of my indebtedness to you; but far be it from me to sanction a construction of my feelings or actions which my heart will not second." "lady, your word is law to me," replied the submissive prisoner. when she had gone, and the rough grating of the turnkey's instruments had done sounding in his ear, captain bezan remained a moment looking upon the slot where she had stood, with apparent amazement. he could not realize that she had been there at all; and hardest of all, that she had left him so abruptly. but her "farewell" still rang in his ears, and throwing himself upon his rude seat, with his face buried in his hands, he exclaimed: "welcome, welcome death! i would that thou wert here already!" after a few moments thus passed, as it were, in the very depths of despair, he rose and walked his dreary cell in a sad and silent reverie, a reviewal of all these matters. "how i have mistaken that beautiful creature, how idolized, how loved her! i knew that there was much, ay, very much, of pride in her heart. i knew the barriers that rose between her and me; but, alas, i thought them not so very at high, so very impregnable. i would not, could not, have believed that she would have left me thus. it was our last farewell. she might have been more kind; might, without much risk of loss of pride have permitted me such a parting as should have rendered my last hours happy! alas! alas! what toys of fortune we are; what straws for every breeze to shake-for every wind to shatter! "we set our hearts upon an object, and blinded by our warm desires, believe, like children, that which we hope for. i have never paused to think in this matter of my love, i have been led ont too precipitately by the brilliancy of the star that i followed; its light blinded me to all other influences; and, too truly, i feel it, blinded me to reason also. isabella gonzales, the belle of this brilliant city, the courted, beloved, rich, proud isabella gonzales; what else might i have expected, had one moment been permitted to me for reason, for cool reflection. i was mad in my fond and passionate love; i was blind in my folly, to ever dream of success. but the end will soon be here, and i shall be relieved from this agonizing fever at my heart, this woeful pain of disappointed love, of broken-heartedness." he folded his arms, and permitting his head to sink upon his breast, sat down, the very picture of despair. chapter ix. the execution scene. the morning was bright and beautiful that ushered in the day which was appointed for the execution of captain lorenzo bezan, in accordance with the sentence passed upon him. the birds carolled gaily in the little grove that is formed about the fountain which fronts the governor-general's palace and the main barracks of the army, while the fresh, soft air from inland came loaded with delicious flavors and sweet aroma. nature could hardly have assumed a more captivating mood than she wore at that time. the soldiers, who sauntered about the plaza, and hung around the doors of the guard house, wore an air quite different from that which the bright and beautiful tropical morning might be supposed to induce. they knew only too well of the tragedy that was that day to enacted; such occasions-the spilling of the tide of life, in cold blood-suited not their chivalrous notions at any time, much less so now, for they loved the officer who was to lose his life-a victim to harero-whom, again, few men respected, either as a soldier or a man-his character was repulsive to nearly all. "so the captain is to be shot to-day," remarked one of captain bezan's own company, to a comrade whom he had just met in the plaza. "yes, i had rather it had been--" "hush, alonzo," said his companion, observing general harero walking across the street. "that is he, and he is the only man i ever saw," continued the officer, "that i would like to see shot in cold blood. poor bezan, he's sacrificed to the general!" "i wonder what gave the trouble between them." "don't know; some say there's a lady in the case." "i hadn't heard of that." "yes, you know he challenged the general?" "yes," "well, that was about a lady, in some way; i heard one of the officers say so." "the first file do the business." "yes, and thankful am i, alonzo, that you and i are in the fourth section." the hour appointed for the execution of the sentence had nearly arrived, and the steady roll of the drum beat the regiment to which captain bezan's company belonged, to the line. his own immediate company was formed on the side of the plaza at right angles with the rest of the line, in all some thousand rank and file. this company "stood at ease," and the men hung their heads, as if ashamed of the business they were about to perform. in the rest of the line the men exchanged a few words with each other, now and then, quietly, but the company referred to, spoke not a word. to each other. their officers stood in a little knot by themselves, and evidently felt sad at heart when they remembered the business before them, for their comrade condemned to die had been a universal favorite with them. but a few moments transpired, after the forming of the line, before an aid-de-camp approached and transmitted an order to the first-lieutenant, now commanding the company, and the first file of twelve men were marched away to the rear of the barracks, while the rest of the company were sent to the prison to do guard duty in escorting the prisoner to the ground. it seemed to them as though this additional insult might have been spared to the prisoner-that of being guarded by his late command, in place of any other portion of the regiment being detailed for this service. but this was general harero's management, who seemed to gloat in his own diabolical purposes. in the meantime the prisoner had risen that morning from his damp, rude couch, and had completed his simple toilet with more than usual neatness. after offering up a sincere prayer, and listening to the words of the priest who had been sent to prepare him for the last hour, he declared calmly that he was ready to die. he had looked for ruez gonzales, and wondered not a little that the boy had not come to bid him farewell that morning-a last, long farewell. "perhaps his young heart was too full for him to do so," said the doomed soldier; "and yet i should have felt happier to see him again. it is strange how much his purity and gentleness of character have caused me to love him. next to isabella gonzales, surely that boy is nearest to my heart. poor ruez will miss me, for the boy loves me much." as he mused thus to himself, the steady and regular tread of armed men was heard approaching his prison door, and the young soldier knew full well for what purpose they came. in a few moments after, he who had formerly been his second in command entered the cell and saluted the prisoner respectfully. "captain bezan," said the lieutenant, "i need not explain in detail to you the very unpleasant business upon which i have been at this time sent, nor add," continued the officer, in a lower tone of voice, "how much i regret the fate that awaits you." "nay, ferdinand," answered captain bezan, calmly, "say nothing of the matter, but give me your hand, my friend, and do your duty." "would to god i could in any way avoid it, lorenzo," said his brother officer, who had long been associated with him, and who had loved him well. "regrets are useless, ferdinand. you know we all have our allotted time, and mine has come. you shall see that i will die like a soldier." "ay, lorenzo; but in such a way; so heartlessly, so needlessly, so in cold blood; alas! why were you so imprudent? i am no woman, comrade. you have fought in the same field, and slept in the same tent with me oftentimes, and you know that i have laid the sod upon my companion's breast without a murmur, without a complaint; but this business is too much for me!" "fie, fie, man," said the prisoner, with assumed indifference; "look upon it as a simple duty; you but fulfil an order, and there's the end of it." "i can't, for the life of me, i can't!" "why, my good fellow, come to think of it, you should not complain, of all others, since it gives you promotion and the command of our brave boys." a look of deep reproach was the only answer he received to this remark. "forgive me, ferdinand, forgive me, i did but jest," he continued, quickly, as he again grasped the hand of his comrade between his own. "say no more, lorenzo. is there aught i can do for you before we march?" "nothing." "no little boon-no service you would like to trust to a friend and comrade?" "my papers are all arranged and addressed to you, with directions how i should like to have them disposed of. there is nothing else, ferdinand." "it will be my melancholy pleasure to follow your wishes implicitly," was the reply. "thank you, ferdinand." "is that all?" "all." "then we must at once away." "one moment-stay, ferdinand; tell my poor boys who act the executioners, those of the first file, to fire low-at my heart, ferdinand! you will remember?" "alas! yes," said his comrade, turning suddenly away from the prisoner. "and tell them, ferdinand, that i most heartily and sincerely forgive them for the part they are called upon to play in this day's drama." "i will-i will." "that is all. i have no other request, and am prepared now to follow you," he added, with a calm and resigned expression of countenance. the drum beat-the file opened-the prisoner took his position, and the detachment of men whom he had so often commanded amid the carnage of battle and the roar of cannon, now guarded him towards the place of his execution. lorenzo bezan had but a little way to march; but still a blush suffused his face as he passed, thus humiliated, through the public plaza, where he had so often paraded his company before. all eyes were low bent upon him, from the humblest to the highest, for he was well known, and his fate had created much remark among all. he was marched quietly to the rear of the barracks, and as the company filed by the guard house, to the long open space on the city side, just opposite moro castle, he distinctly heard a voice from one of the windows say: "god bless and help you, captain bezan!" he turned partially round to see the speaker, but no one was visible. he was sure it was ruez's voice, and wondering why he did not come forward to meet his eye, he marched on to the plain where the entire division of general harero's command was drawn up to witness the scene. it is difficult to conceive, and much more so to describe, such an impressive sight as presented itself at this moment to the spectator. there was so much mockery in the brilliant uniforms, flaunting plumes and gilded accoutrements of the soldiery, when contrasted with the purpose of the scene, that one could hardly contemplate the sight even for a moment with ordinary composure. the prisoner, attended by a private and two officers, was led to his position, where, divested of his coat, he stood simply in his linen and nether garments, and quietly submitted to have his hands bound behind him, while he exchanged a few pleasant words with those who were about him. at a signal from the provost marshal, one of the officers essayed to bind a handkerchief before his eyes, but at an earnest request to the contrary by the prisoner, he desisted, and in a moment after he stood alone beside the open grave that had been dug to receive his remains! behind him rolled the ocean, mingling with the waters of the gulf stream; on either side were ranged the long line of infantry that formed his division, while in front was ranged his own company, and some ten yards in front of them stood the file of thirteen men who were to be his executioners. they had just been supplied with their muskets by an officer, and were told that one was without ball, that each one might hope his was not the hand to slay his former comrade in arms. another signal from the provost, and the lieutenant commanding captain bezan's company advanced from the rear to the side of the first file to his regular position, at the same time saying in a low voice: "fire low, my men, as you love our former comrade-aim at his heart!" a glance, and a sad one of intelligence, was all he could receive from the men. two or three successive orders brought the file to the proper position for firing. at that moment lorenzo bezan, with a slight exertion of the great physical strength which he possessed, easily broke the cords asunder that bound his wrists behind him, and dashing the dark hair from his high and manly forehead, he calmly folded his arms upon his breast, and awaited the fire that was to end his existence. the fearful word was given by the officer, and so still was every one, so breathless the whole scene, that the order was distinctly heard through the entire length of the lines. the morning sun shone like living fire along the polished barrels of the guns, as the muzzles all ranged in point towards the heart of the condemned. in spite of the effort not to do so, the officer paused between the order to aim, and that to fire. the word appeared to stick in his throat, and he opened his mouth twice before he could utter the order; but at last he did so, distinctly, though with a powerful effort. the, sharp, quick report of the muskets that followed this order, seemed to jar upon every heart among that military throng, except, indeed, of him who sat upon a large dapple gray horse, at the right of the line, and whose insignia bespoke him to be the commanding officer, general harero. he sat upon his horse like a statue, with a calm but determined expression upon his features, while a stern smile might be observed to wreathe his lips for an instant at the report of the guns fired by the executing file. but see, as the smoke steadily sweeps to seaward, for a moment it completely covers the spot where the victim stood, and now it sweeps swiftly off over the water. but what means that singular murmur so audible along the line-that movement of surprise and astonishment observed in all directions? behold, there stood erect the unharmed form of lorenzo bezan! not a hair of his head was injured; not a line of his noble countenance was in the least distorted. as calm as though nought had happened, he stood there unmoved. he had so braced himself to the effort, that nothing human could have unnerved him. hastily directing an aid-de-camp to the spot with some new order, general harero issued another to his officers for the lines to be kept firm, and preparations were instantly set about for another and more certain attempt upon the life of the condemned, who seemed to the spectators to have escaped by some divine interposition, little less than a miracle. at that instant there dashed into the area a mounted aid-de-camp, bearing the uniform of the governor-general's suite, and riding directly up to general harero, he handed him a paper. it was done before the whole line of military and the spectators, all of whom seemed to know as well its purport, as did the general after reading it. "a reprieve! a reprieve!" ran from mouth to mouth along the whole length of the line, until at last it broke out in one wild huzza, defying all discipline. those nearest to general harero heard him utter a curse, deep but suppressed, for the surmise of the multitude was correct. captain bezan had been reprieved; and, probably, in fear of this very thing, the general of the division had taken upon himself to set the time of execution one hour earlier than had been announced to tacon-a piece of villany that had nearly cut off the young soldier from the clemency that the governor had resolved to extend to him at the very last moment, when the impressiveness of the scene should have had its effect. issuing one or two hasty orders, general harero put spurs to his horse and dashed off the grounds with chagrin but too plainly written in his face not to betray itself. he could even detect a hiss now and then from the crowd, as he passed; and one or two, bolder than the rest, cast epithets at him in vile language, but he paused not to listen. he was no favorite with citizens or soldiers, and hastily dismounting at the door of the palace, he sought his own room with deep feelings of suppressed rage and bitterness. but what was the meaning of those twelve musketeers all missing their aim? so vexed was general harero at this, that his first order was for their united arrest; but that had been countermanded now, since the governor had reprieved the prisoner; for the general saw that he stood in a false position, in having changed the hour for execution, and did not care to provoke a controversy that might lead to his exposure before the stern justice of tacon, and he did well to avoid it. it was very plain to officers and men that there had been foul play somewhere, and so excited had the division become by this time, that the officers began to look seriously at each other, fearing an immediate outbreak and disregard of discipline. it was a time to try the troops, if one had ever occurred. they would have stood firm and have received an enemy's fire without wavering; but there seemed some cold-blooded rascality here, in the arriving of the reprieve after the twelve men had fired, even though they did so ineffectually. quick, stern orders were quickly passed from line to line, the division was wheeled into column, the drums beat a quick march, and the whole column passed up the calle del iganasio towards the front of the main barracks, where, lest the symptoms, already referred to, should ripen into something more serious still, orders were issued to keep the division still under arms. in the meantime, captain lorenzo bezan, still as calm as though nought had occurred, was marched back to his cell in the prison, to hear the conditions upon which the reprieve, as dictated by tacon, was granted. as he passed the guard house again, on his return, he heard his name called as he had heard it when he marched with the guard: "god bless you, captain bezan!" "strange," thought the prisoner-he knew it for ruez gonzales's voice at once; "where can that boy be secreted?" he mused for a second of time. this was the portion of the guard room where the officer on duty had loaded the guns for his execution, and from here they had been taken and passed into the hands of the men. it did not require much penetration on the part of the reprieved soldier to understand now the reason why these twelve men had missed their aim! had they exercised the skill of kentucky sharp-shooters they could have done no harm; blank cartridges don't kill. but how unexpected, how miraculous it appeared, how strange the sensations of the young officer, after that loud sounding discharge, to find himself standing thus unharmed,--no wound, no bullet whistling by his ears, the dead, sluggish smoke alone enveloping his person for a moment, and then, as it swept away seaward, the shout of the astonished division rang upon his senses. he felt that all eyes were upon him, and adamant itself could not have remained firmer than did he. few men would have possessed sufficient self-control to bear themselves thus; but he was a soldier, and had often dared the bullet of the enemy. he was familiar with the whistling of bullets, and other sounds that carry on their wings the swift-borne messengers of death. besides this, there was an indifference as to life, existing in his bosom at that moment, that led him to experience a degree of apathy that it would be difficult for us to describe, or for the reader to realize. he felt as he did when he exclaimed, in his lonely cell in prison, as he was left for the last time by her he so loved--"welcome, welcome, death! i would that thou wert here already!" how it was accomplished, of course he knew not; nor could he hardly surmise in his own mind, so very strictly is the care of such matters attended to under all like circumstances; but one thing he felt perfectly sure of, and indeed he was right in his conjecture--ruez had drawn the bullets from the guns! chapter x. the banishment. lorenzo bezan had hardly reached his place of confinement, once more, before he was waited upon by the secretary of the governor-general, who explained to him the terms on which his reprieve was granted, viz., that he should leave the territory and soil of cuba by the next homeward bound packet to spain, to remain there, unless otherwise ordered by special direction of the government. his rank as captain of infantry was secured to him, and the usual exhortation in such cases was detailed, as to the hope that the present example might not be lost upon him, as to the matter of a more strict adherence to the subject of military discipline. repugnant as was the proposition to leave the island while life was his, lorenzo bezan had no alternative but to do so; and, moreover, when he considered the attraction that held him on the spot, how the senorita isabella gonzales had treated him, when she had every reason to believe that it was his last meeting with her, and nearly the last hour of his life, he saw that if she would treat him thus at such a moment, then, when he had not the excuse of remarkable exigency and the prospect of certain death before him, she would be no kinder. it was while exercised by such thoughts as these that he answered the secretary: "bear my thanks, with much respect, to the governor-general, and tell him that i accept from him his noble clemency and justice, the boon of my life, on his own terms." the secretary bowed low and departed. we might tell the reader how lorenzo bezan threw himself upon his bed of straw, and wept like a child-how he shed there the first tears he had shed since his arrest, freely and without a check. his heart seemed to bleed more at the idea of leaving the spot where isabella lived, and yet to live on himself, elsewhere, than his spirit had faltered at the idea of certain death. her last cruel words, and the proud spirit she exhibited towards him, were constantly before his eyes. "o," said he, half aloud, "how i have worshipped, how adored that fairest of god's creatures!" at moments he had thought that he saw through isabella's character-at moments had truly believed that he might by assiduity, perhaps, if favored by fortune, win her love, and, may be, her hand in marriage. at any rate, with his light and buoyant heart, there was sunshine and hope enough in the future to irradiate his soul with joy, until the last scene in his drama of life, added to that of her last cold farewell! he was soon informed that the vessel which was to take him to spain would sail on the following morning, and that no further time would be permitted to him on the island. he resolved to write one last letter of farewell to isabella gonzales, and then to depart; and calling upon the turnkey for writing materials, which were now supplied to him, he wrote as follows" "dear lady: strange circumstances, with which you are doubtless well acquainted by this time, have changed my punishment from death to banishment. under ordinary circumstances it would hardly be called banishment for any person to be sent from a foreign clime to the place of his nativity; nor would it appear to be such to me, were it not that i leave behind me the only being i have ever really loved-the idol angel of my heart-she who has been to me life, soul, everything, until now, when i am wretched beyond description; because without hope, all things would be as darkness to the human heart. "i need not review our brief acquaintanceship, or reiterate to you the feelings i have already expressed. if you can judge between true love and gallantry, you know whether i am sincere or otherwise. i could not offer you wealth, isabella gonzales. i could not offer you rank. i have no fame to share with you; but o, if it be the will of heaven that another should call you wife, i pray that he may love you as i have done. i am not so selfish but that i can utter this prayer with all my heart, and in the utmost sincerity. "the object of this hasty scrawl is once more to say to you farewell; for it is sweet to me even to address you. may god bless your dear brother, who has done much to sustain me, bowed down as i have been with misfortune, and broken in spirit; and may the especial blessing of heaven rest ever on and around you. "this will ever be the nightly prayer of lorenzo bezan." when isabella gonzales received this note on the following day, its author was nearly a dozen leagues at sea, bound for the port of cadiz, spain! she hastily perused its contents again and again. looked off upon the open sea, as though she might be able to recall him, threw herself upon her couch, and wept bitter, scalding tears, until weary nature caused her to sleep. at last ruez stole into her room quietly, and finding her asleep, and a tear-drop glistening still upon her cheek, he kissed away the pearly dew and awoke her once more to consciousness. he, too, had learned of captain bezan's sudden departure; and by the open letter in his sister's hand, to which he saw appended his dearly loved friend's name, he judged that her weeping had been caused by the knowledge that he had left them-probably forever. lorenzo bezan should have seen her then, in her almost transcendent beauty, too proud, far too proud, to own even to herself that she loved the poor soldier; yet her heart would thus unbidden and spontaneously betray itself, in spite of all her proud calmness, and strong efforts at self-control. the boy looked at her earnestly; twice he essayed to speak, and then, as if some after thought had changed his purpose, he kissed her again, and was silent. "well, brother, it seems that captain bezan has been liberated and pardoned, after all," said isabella, with a voice of assumed indifference. "yes, sister, but at a sad cost; for he has been banished to spain." "how strange he was not shot, when so many fired at him." "sister?" "well." "can you keep a secret?" "i think so, ruez," said isabella, half smiling at the question of her brother. "well, it's not so very wonderful, since i drew the bullets from the guns!" and ruez explained to her that he had secreted himself in the house, with the hope that something might turn up to save his friend even yet, and there he had found a chance to draw the bullets from the twelve muskets. after he had told her, she threw her arms about his neck, and said: "you are a dear, good brother." "and for what, sister?" "for saving captain bezan's life; for otherwise he had been shot." "but why do you care so much about it, sister?" asked the boy, seriously. "o, nothing, only-that is, you know, ruez, we owe captain bezan so much ourselves for having hazarded his life for us all." ruez turned away from his sister with an expression in his face that made her start; for he began to read his sister's heart, young as he was, better than she knew it herself. he loved lorenzo bezan so dearly himself-had learned to think so constantly of him, and to regard him with such friendly consideration, that no influence of pride could in the least affect him; and though he had sufficient penetration to pierce through the subject so far as to realize that his dearly loved friend regarded his sister with a most ardent and absorbing love, he could not exactly understand the proud heart of isabella, which, save for its pride, would so freely return the condemned soldier's affection. well, time passed on in its ever-varying round. lorenzo bezan was on his way to spain, and isabella and her brother filling nearly the same round of occupation, either of amusement or self-imposed duty. occasionally general harero called; but this was put a stop to, at last, by ruez's pertinently asking him one evening how he came to order the execution of lorenzo bezan to take place a full hour before the period announced in the regular sentence signed by the governor-general! ruez was not the first person who had put this question to him, and he felt sore about it, for even tacon himself had reprimanded him for the deed. thus realizing that his true character was known to don gonzales and his family, he gave up the hope of winning isabella gonzales, or rather the hope of sharing her father's rich coffers, and quietly withdrew himself from a field of action where he had gained nothing, but had lost much, both as it regarded this family, and, owing to his persecution of captain bezan, that of the army. isabella gonzales became thoughtful and melancholy without exactly knowing why. she avoided company, and often incurred her father's decided displeasure by absenting herself from the drawing-room when there were visitors of importance. she seemed to be constantly in a dreamy and moody state, and avoided all her former haunts and companions. a skilful observer might have told her the cause of all this, and yet, strange to say, so blind did her pride render her, that she could not see, or at least never acknowledged even to herself, that the absent soldier had aught to do with it. had not isabella gonzales treated lorenzo bezan as she did at their last meeting, he would never have accepted the governor-general's pardon on the terms offered, nor life itself, if it separated him from her he loved. but as it was, he seemed to feel that life had lost its charm, ambition its incentive for him, and he cast himself forth upon the troubled waters without compass or rudder. and it was precisely in this spirit that he found himself upon the deck of the vessel, whose white wings were wafting him now across the ocean. he, too, was misanthropic and unhappy; he tried to reason with himself that isabella gonzales was not worthy to render him thus miserable; that she was a coquette-an unfeeling, though beautiful girl; that even had he succeeded, and fortune favored him in his love, she would not have loved him its his heart craved to be loved. but all this sophistry was overthrown in a moment by the memory of one dear glance, when isabella, off her guard, and her usual hauteur of manner for the instant, had looked through her eyes the whole truthfulness of her soul; in short, when her heart, not her head, had spoken! alas! how few of us feel as we do; how few do as we feel! perhaps there is no better spot than on shipboard for a dreamer to be; he has then plenty of time, plenty of space, plenty of theme, and every surrounding, to turn his thoughts inward upon himself. lorenzo bezan found this so. at times he looked down into the still depths of the blue water, and longed for the repose that seemed to look up to him from below the waves. he had thought, perhaps, too long upon this subject one soft, calm evening, and had indeed forgotten himself, as it were, and another moment would have seen the working of what seemed a sort of irresistible charm to him, and he would have cast himself into that deep, inviting oblivion! then a voice seemed to whisper isabella's name in his ear! he started, looked about him, and awoke from the fearful charm that held him. it was his good angel that breathed that name to him then, and saved him from the curse of the suicide! from that hour a strange feeling seemed to possess the young soldier. like him in shakspeare's "seven ages," he passed from love to ambition. a new charm seemed to awake to him in the future, not to the desertion of his love, nor yet exactly to its promotion. an indefinite idea seemed to move him that he must win fame, glory and renown; and yet he hardly paused to think what the end of these would be; whether they would ultimately bring him nearer to the proud girl of his hopes and his love. fame rang in his ears; the word seemed to fire his veins; he was humble-he must be honored; he was poor-he must be rich; he was unknown-he must be renowned! with such thoughts as these, his pulses beat quicker, his eye flashed, and his check became flushed, and then one tender thought of isabella would change every current, and almost moisten those bloodshot eyes with tears. would to god that lorenzo bezan could now but shed a tear-what gentle yet substantial relief it would have afforded him. thus was the exiled soldier influenced; while isabella gonzales was, as we have seen, still living on under the veil of her pride; unable, apparently, for one single moment to draw the curtain, and look with naked eye upon the real picture of her feelings, actions, and honest affections. she felt, plain enough, that she was miserable; indeed the flood of tears she daily shed betrayed this to her. but her proud castilian blood was the phase through which alone she saw, or could see. it was impossible for her to banish lorenzo bezan from her mind; but yet she stoutly refused to admit, even to herself, that she regarded him with affection-he, a lowly soldier, a child of the camp, a myrmidon of fortune-he a fit object for the love of isabella gonzales, the belle of havana, to whom princes had bowed? preposterous! her brother, whose society she seemed to crave more than ever, said nothing; he did not even mention the name of the absent one, but he secretly moaned for him, until the pale color that had slightly tinged his check began to fade, and don gonzales trembled for the boy's life. it was his second bereavement. his mother's loss, scarcely yet outgrown, had tried his gentle heart to its utmost tension; this new bereavement to his sensitive mind, seemed really too much for him. a strange sympathy existed between isabella and the boy, who, though lorenzo bezan's name was never mentioned, yet seemed to know what each other was thinking of. but in the meantime, while these feelings were actuating isabella and her brother at havana, lorenzo bezan had reached cadiz, and was on his way to the capital of spain, madrid. chapter xi. the promotion. we have already given the reader a sufficient idea of lorenzo bezan, for him to understand that he was a person possessed of more than ordinary manliness and personal beauty. a distinguished and chivalric bearing was one of his main characteristics, and you could hardly have passed him in a crowd, without noting his fine manly physical appearance, and strikingly intelligent features. fired with the new ambition which we have referred to in the closing of the last chapter, lorenzo bezan arrived in the capital of his native land, ready and eager to engage in any enterprise that called for bravery and daring, and which in return promised honor and preferment. tacon, governor-general of cuba, had marked his qualities well, and therefore wrote by the same conveyance that took the young soldier to spain, to the head of the war department, and told them of what stuff he was composed, and hinted at the possibility of at once placing him in the line of his rank, and of giving him, if possible, active service to perform. tacon's opinion and wishes were highly respected at madrid, and lorenzo bezan found himself at once placed in the very position he would have desired-the command of as fine a company, of the regular service as the army could boast, and his rank and position thoroughly restored. there was just at that period a revolt of the southern and western provinces of spain, which, owing to inactivity on the part of government, had actually ripened into a regularly organized rebellion against the throne. news at last reached the queen that regular bodies of troops had been raised and enlisted, under well known leaders, and that unless instant efforts were made to suppress the rising, the whole country would be shortly involved in civil war. in this emergency the troops, such its could be spared, were at once detached from the capital and sent to various points in the disaffected region to quell the outbreak. among the rest was the company of lorenzo bezan and two others of the same regiment, and being the senior officer, young as he was, he was placed in command of the battalion, and the post to which he was to march at once, into the very heart of the disaffected district. having arrived in the neighborhood of the spot to which his orders had directed him, he threw his whole force, some less than three hundred men, into one of the old moorish fortifications, still extant, and with the provisions and ammunition he had brought with him, entrenched himself, and prepared to scour and examine the surrounding country. his spies soon brought him intelligence of the defeat of two similar commands to his own, sent out at the same time to meet the insurgents; and, also, that their partial success had very naturally elated them in the highest degree. that they were regularly organized into regiments, with their stands of colors, and proper officers, and that one regiment had been sent to take the fort where he was, and would shortly be in the neighborhood. lorenzo bezan was a thorough soldier; he looked to the details of all the plans and orders he issued, so that when the enemy appeared in sight, they found him ready to receive them. they were fully thrice his number, but they had a bad cause and poor leaders, and he feared not for the result. on they came, in the fullness of confidence, after having already participated in two victories over the regular troops; but they had, though a younger, yet a far better and more courageous officer to deal with in captain bezan. the fight was long and bloody, but ere night came on the insurgents were compelled to retire, after having lost nearly one third of their number in the contest. the camp of the insurgents was pitched some half mile from the old fort occupied by captain bezan and his followers, just beneath the brow of a sheltering undulation of ground. night overshadowed the field, and it was still as death over the battle field, when captain bezan, summoning his followers, told them that the enemy lay yonder in sleep; they could not anticipate a sally, and from a confidential spy he had ascertained that they had not even set a sentinel. "i shall lead you out this night to attack them; take only your weapons. if we are defeated, we shall want nothing more; if victorious, we shall return to our post and our munitions." he had lost scarcely two score of his men in the fight, protected as they were by the walls of the fortress, while the besiegers were entirely exposed to the fire of musketry, and the two small cannon they had brought with them, and so they entered into the daring plan of their commander with the utmost zeal. they were instructed as to the plan more fully, and at midnight, as the last rays of the moon sank below the horizon, they quietly filed forth from the fortress and turned towards the insurgents' camp. slowly and silently they stole across the plain, without note of drum or fife, and headed by their young commander, until they reached the brow of the little elevation, beyond which the enemy lay sleeping, some in tents, some on the open field, and all unguarded. the signal was given, and the small band of disciplined men fell upon the camp. lorenzo bezan with some fifty picked followers sought the head quarters of the camp, and having fought their way thither, possessed themselves of the standards, and made prisoner of the leader of the body of insurgents, and ere the morning sun had risen, the camp was deserted, the enemy, totally defeated, had fled, or been taken prisoners and bound, and the victorious little band of the queen's troops were again housed within the walls of the fortress. but their fighting was not to end here; a second body of the enemy, incensed as much by the loss of their comrades as elated by various victories over other detachments of the army, fell upon them; but they were met with such determined spirit and bravery, and so completely did lorenzo bezan infuse his own manly and resolved spirit into the hearts of his followers, that the second comers were routed, their banners taken, and themselves dispersed. these two victories, however, had cost him dear; half his little gallant band had lost their lives, and there were treble their number of prisoners securely confined within the fortress. fresh troops were despatched, in reply to his courier, to escort these to the capital, and an order for himself and the rest of his command to return to madrid, forthwith. this summons was of course complied with, and marching the remnant of his command to the capital, captain bezan reported himself again at head quarters. here he found his services had been, if possible, overrated, and himself quite lionized. a major's commission awaited him, and the thanks of the queen were expressed to him by the head of the department. "a major,--one step is gained," said the young soldier, to himself; "one round in the ladder of fame has been surmounted; my eyes are now bent upward!" and how he dreamed that night of cuba, of rank and wealth, and the power and position they conferred-and still his eyes were bent upward! with a brief period permitted for him to rest and recover from slight wounds received in his late battles, lorenzo, now major bezan, was again ordered to the scene of trouble in the southern district, where the insurgents, more successful with older officers sent against them, had been again victorious, and were evidently gaining ground, both in strength of purpose and numbers. this time he took with him a full command of four companies, little less than four hundred men, and departed under far better auspices than he had done before, resolved, as at the outset, to lead his men where work was to be done, and to lead them, too, on to victory or utter destruction! it was a fearful resolve; but in his present state of feelings it accorded with the spirit that seemed to actuate his soul. but success does not always crown the most daring bravery, and twice were lorenzo bezan and his followers worsted, though in no way discouraged. but at last, after many weeks of toil and hardship, he was again victorious, again routed twice his own number, again captured a stand of colors, and again despatched his trophies to the feet of his queen. the civil war then became general, and for nearly a year lorenzo bezan and his followers were in the battle field. victory seemed to have marked him for a favorite, and his sword seemed invincible; wherever he led, he infused his own daring and impetuous spirit into the hearts of his followers, and where his plume waved in the fight, there the enemy faltered. a second and third victory crowned him within another promotion, and a colonel's commission was sent to the adventurous soldier after the hard fought battles he had won for the queen. once more he paused, and whispered to himself: "another round in the ladder is gained! have patience, lorenzo bezan; fame may yet be thine; she is thy only bride now; alas, alas, that it should be so! that there cannot be one-one dearer than all the world beside-to share with thee this renown and honor, this fame won by the sword on the field of battle; one whose gentleness and love should be the pillow on which to rest thy head and heart after the turmoil and whirlwind of war has subsided!" scarcely a year had transpired since the condemned soldier had been banished from cuba, and now from a captaincy he had risen to wear the star of a colonel. no wonder, then, that he thus soliloquized to himself upon the theme of which he dreamed. the life he led, the fierce contests he engaged in, had no effect in hardening the heart of the young soldier: one thought, one single word, when he permitted himself to pause and look back upon the past, would change his whole spirit, and almost render him effeminate. at times his thoughts, spite of himself, wandered far away over the blue waters to that sunny isle of the tropics, where isabella gonzales dwelt, and then his manly heart would heave more quickly, and his pulses beat swifter; and sometimes a tear had wet his check as he recalled the memory of ruez, whom he had really loved nearly as well as he had done his proud and beautiful sister. the boy's nature, so gentle, affectionate and truthful, and yet in emergency so manly and venturesome, as evinced in his drawing the bullets from the guns that would else have taken the life of lorenzo bezan, was a theme of oft recalled admiration and regard to the young soldier. though he felt in his heart that isabella gonzales could never love him, judging from the cold farewell that had at last separated them, still fame seemed dear to him on her account, because it seemed to bring him nearer to her, if not to raise a hope in his heart that she might one day be his. at times, in the lonely hours of the night, alone in his tent, he would apostrophize her angelic features, and sigh that heaven, which had sent so sweet a mould in human form, should have imbued it with a spirit so haughty, a soul so proud as to mar the exquisite creation. "i have thought," he amused to himself, "i that i knew her-that the bright loveliness of her soul would dazzle and outshine the pride that chance had sown there-that if boldly and truly wooed, she would in turn boldly and truly love. it seemed to me, that it was the first barrier only that must he carried by assault, and after that i felt sure that love like mine would soon possess the citadel of her heart. but i was foolish, self-confident, and perhaps have deserved defeat. it may be so, but isabella gonzales shall see that the humble captain of infantry, who would hardly be tolerated, so lowly and humble was he, will command, ere long, at least, some degree of respect by the position that his sword shall win for him. ay, and general harero, too, may find me composed of better metal than he supposed. there is one truthful, gentle and loving spirit that will sympathize with me. i know and feel that; ruez, my boy, may heaven bless thee!" "count basterio, what sort of a person is this colonel bezan, whose sword has been invincible among the rebels, and who has sent us two stand of colors, taken by himself?" asked the queen, of one of her principal courtiers, one day. "your majesty, i have, never seen him," answered the count, "but i'm told he's a grim old war-horse, covered with scars gained in your majesty's service." "just as i had thought he must be," continued the queen, "but some one intimated to us yesterday that he was young, quite young, and of noble family, count basterio." "he has displayed too much knowledge of warfare to be very young, your majesty," said the count, "and has performed prodigies during this revolt, with only a handful of men." "that is partly what has so much interested me. i sent to the war office yesterday to know about him, and it was only recorded that he had been sent from cuba. none of the heads of the department remembered to have seen him at all." "i saw by the gazette that he would return to madrid with his regiment to-day," said the count, "when, if your majesty desires it, i will seek out this colonel bezan, and bring him to you." "do so; for we would know all our subjects who are gallant and deserving, and i am sure this officer must be both, from what i have already been able to learn." "your wish shall be obeyed, your majesty," said the obsequious courtier, bowing low, and turning to a lady of the court, hard by, began to chat about how this old "son of a gun," this specimen of the battle-field would be astonished at the presence of his queen. "he's all covered with scars, you say?" asked one of the ladies. "ay, senorita, from his forehead to his very feet," was the reply. "it will be immensely curious to see him; but he must look terrifically." "that's true," added the count; "he's grizzly and rough, but very honest." "can't you have him muzzled," suggested a gay little senorita, smiling. "never fear for his teeth, i wear a rapier," added the count, pompously. "but seriously, where's he from?" "of some good family in the middle province, i understand." "o, he's a gentleman, then, and not a professional cut-throat?" asked another. "i believe so," said the courtier. "that's some consolation," was the rejoinder to the count's reply. while the merits of lorenzo bezan were thus being discussed, he was marching his regiment towards the capital, after a year's campaign of hard fighting; and the gazette was right in its announcement, for he entered the capital on the evening designated, and occupied the regularly assigned barracks for his men. chapter xii. the queen and the soldier. it was a noble and brilliant presence into which lorenzo bezan was summoned on the day following his arrival from the seat of war. dons and senoras of proud titles and rich estates, the high officials of the court, the prime ministers the maids of honor, the gayly dressed pages and men-at-arms, all combined to render the scene one of most striking effect. the young soldier was fresh from the field; hard service and exposure had deepened the olive tint of his clear complexion to a deep nut brown, and his beard was unshaven, and gave a fine classical effect to his handsome but melancholy features. the bright clearness of his intelligent eye seemed to those who looked upon him there, to reflect the battles, sieges and victories that the gallant soldier had so lately participated in. though neat and clean in appearance, the somewhat sudden summons he had received, led him to appear before the court in his battle dress, and the same sword hung by his side that had so often reeked with the enemy's blood, and flashed in the van of battle. there was no hauteur in his bearing; his form was erect and military; there was no self-sufficiency or pride in his expression; but a calm, steady purpose of soul alone was revealed by the countenance that a hundred curious eyes now gazed upon. more than one heart beat quicker among the lovely throng of ladies, as they gazed upon the young hero. more than one kindly glance was bestowed upon him; but he was impervious to the shafts of cupid; he could never suffer again; he could love but one, and she was far away from here. lorenzo bezan had never been at court. true that his father, and indeed his elder brother, and other branches of the house had the entree at court; but his early connection with the army, and a naturally retiring disposition, had prevented his ever having been presented, and he now stood there for the first time. the queen was not present when he first entered, but she now appeared and took her seat of state. untaught in court etiquette, yet it came perfectly natural for lorenzo bezan to kneel before her majesty, which he did immediately, and was graciously bidden to rise. "count basterio," said the queen, "where is this colonel bezan, whom you were to bring to us to-day? have you forgotten your commission, sir?" "your majesty, he stands before you," replied the complaisant courtier. "where, count?" "your majesty, here," said the courtier, pointing more directly to our hero. "this youth, this colonel bezan! i had thought to sec an older person," said the queen, gazing curiously upon the fine and noble features of the young soldier. "i trust that my age may be of no detriment to me as it regards your majesty's good feelings towards me," said lorenzo bezan, respectfully. "by no means, sir; you have served us gallantly in the field, and your bravery and good judgment in battle have highly commended themselves to our notice." "i am little used, your majesty, to courtly presence, and find that even now i have come hither accoutred as i would have ridden on to the field of battle; but if a heart devoted to the service of your majesty, and a willing hand to wield this trusty weapon, are any excuses in your sight, i trust for lenient judgment at your royal hands." "a brave soldier needs no excuse in our presence, colonel bezan," replied the queen, warmly. "when we have heard of your prowess in the field, and have seen the stands of colors you have taken from the enemy, far outnumbering your own force, we have thought you were some older follower of the bugle and the drum-some hardy and gray old soldier, whose life had been spent in his country's service, and therefore when we find an soldier like yourself, so young, and yet so wise, we were surprised." "your majesty has made too much of my poor deserts. already have i been twice noticed by honorable and high promotion in rank, and wear this emblem to-day by your majesty's gracious favor." as he spoke, he touched his colonel's star. "for your bravery and important services, captain bezan, wear this next that star for the present," said the queen, presenting the young soldier with the medal and order of st. sebastian, a dignity that few attained to of less distinction than her privy councillors and the immediate officers of the government. surprised by this unexpected and marked honor, the young soldier could only kneel and thank her majesty in feeble words, which he did, and pressing the token to his lips, he placed it about his neck by the golden chain that had supported it but a moment before upon the lovely person of his queen. the presence was broken up, and lorenzo bezan returned to his barracks, reflecting upon his singular good fortune. his modest demeanor, his brilliant military services, his handsome face and figure, and in short his many noble points of manliness; and perhaps even the slight tinge of melancholy that seemed ever struggling with all the emotions that shone forth from his expressive face, had more deeply interested the young queen in his behalf than the soldier himself knew of. he knew nothing of the envy realized by many of the courtiers when they saw the queen present him with the medal taken from her own neck, and that, too, of an order so distinguished as st. sebastian. "what sort of spirit has befriended you, colonel bezan?" said one of his early friends; "luck seems to lavish her efforts upon you." "i have been lucky," replied the soldier. "lucky! the whole court rings with your praise, and the queen delights to honor you." "the queen has doubly repaid my poor services," continued the young officer. "where will you stop, colonel?" "stop?" "yes; when will you have done with promotion?-at a general's commission?" "no fear of that honor being very quickly tendered to me," was the reply; while at the same moment he secretly felt how much he should delight in every stop that raised him in rank, and thus entitled him to positions and honor. such conversations were not unfrequent; for those who did not particularly envy him, were still much surprised at his rapid growth in favor with the throne, his almost magic success in battle, and delighted at the prompt reward which he met in payment for the exercise of those qualities which they could not themselves but honor. scarcely had he got off his fighting harness, so to speak, before he found himself the object of marked attention by the nobility and members of the court. invitations from all sources were showered upon him, and proud and influential houses, with rich heiresses to represent them, were among those who sought to interest the attention if not the heart of the young but rising soldier-he whom the queen had so markedly befriended. her majesty, too, seemed never tired of interesting herself in his behalf, and already had several delicate commissions been entrusted to his charge, and performed with the success that seemed sure to crown his simplest efforts. so far as courtesy required, colonel bezan responded to every invitations and every extension of hospitality; but though beset by such beauty as the veiled prophet of khorassan tempted young azim with, still he passed unscathed through the trial of star-lit eyes and female loveliness, always bending, but never breaking; for his heart would still wander over the sea to the vision of her, who, to him, was far more beautiful than aught his fancy had pictured, or his eyes had seen. all seemed to feel that some tender secret possessed him, and all were most anxious as to what it was. even the queen, herself, had observed it; but it was a delicate subject, and not to be spoken of lightly to him. lorenzo bezan had most mysteriously found the passage to the queen's good graces, and she delighted to honor him by important commissions; so two years had not yet passed away, when the epaulets of a general were presented to the young and ambitious soldier! simply outranked now by general harero, who had so persecuted him, in point of the date of his commission, he far outstretched that selfish officer in point of the honors that had been conferred upon him by the throne; and being now economical with the handsome professional income he enjoyed, he was fast amassing a pecuniary fortune that of itself was a matter of no small importance, not only to himself, but also in the eyes of the world. among the courtiers he had already many enemies, simply because of his rise and preferment, and he was known as the favorite of the queen. some even hinted darkly that she entertained for him feelings of a more tender nature than the court knew of, and that his promotion would not stop at a general's commission, and perhaps not short of commander-in-chief of the armies of spain. but such persons knew nothing to warrant these surmises; they arose from the court gossip, day by day, and only gained importance from being often repeated. "she delights to honor him," said one lady to another, in the queen's ante-chamber. "count basterio says that he will be made prime minister within a twelvemonth." "the count is always extravagant," replied the other, "and i think that general bezan richly merits the honors he receives. he is so modest, yet brave and unassuming. "that is true, and i'm sure i don't blame the queen for repaying his important services. but he doesn't seen to have any heart himself." "why not? he treats all with more than ordinary courtesy, and has a voice and manner to win almost any heart he wills. but some dark hints are thrown out about him." "in what respect, as having already been in love?" asked the other lady. "yes, and the tender melancholy that every one notices, is owing to disappointed affection." "it is strange that he should meet with disappointment, for general bezan could marry the proudest lady of the court of madrid." "o, you forget when he came home to spain he was only an humble captain of infantry, who had seen little service. now he is a general, and already distinguished." they were nearer right in their surmises than even themselves were aware of. it was very true that captain bezan, the unknown soldier, and general bezan, the queen's favorite, honored by orders, and entrusted with important commissions, successful in desperate battles, and the hero of the civil war, were two very different individuals. no one realized this more acutely than did lorenzo bezan himself. no step towards preferment and honor did he make without comparing his situation with the humble lieutenant's birth that he filled when he first knew isabella gonzales, and when his hopes had run so high, as it regarded winning her love. of all the beauty and rank of the castilian court, at the period of which we write, the countess moranza was universality pronounced the queen of beauty. a lineal descendant of the throne, her position near the queen was of such a nature as to give her great influence, and to cause her favor to be sought with an earnestness only second to the service rendered to the queen herself. her sway over the hearts of men had been unlimited; courted and sought after by the nobles of the land, her heart had never yet been touched, or her favors granted beyond the proud civility that her birth, rank and position at court entitled her to dispense. she differed from isabella gonzales but little in character, save in the tenderness and womanliness, so to speak, of her heart-that she could not control; otherwise she possessed all the pride and self-conceit that her parentage and present position were calculated to engender and foster. on lorenzo's bezan's first appearance at court she had been attracted by his youth, his fame, the absence of pride in his bearing, and the very subdued and tender, if not melancholy, cast of his countenance. she was formally introduced to him by the queen, and was as much delighted by the simple sincerity of his conversation as she had been by his bearing and the fame that preceded his arrival at the court. she had long been accustomed to the flirting and attention of the court gallants, and had regarded them with little feeling; but there was one who spoke from the heart, and she found that he spoke to the heart, also, for she was warmly interested in him at once. on his part, naturally polite and gallant, he was assiduous in every little attention, more so from the feeling of gratitude for the friendship she showed to him who was so broken-hearted. intercourse of days and hours grew into the intimacy of weeks and months, and they became friends, warm friends, who seemed to love to confide in each other the whole wealth of the soul. unaccustomed to female society, and with only one model ever before his eyes, lorenzo bezan afforded, in his truthfulness, a refreshing picture to the court-wooed and fashionable belle of the capital, who had so long lived in the artificial atmosphere of the queen's palace, and the surroundings of the spanish capital. the absence of all intrigue, management and deceit, the frank, open-hearted manliness of his conversation, the delicacy of his feelings, and the constant consideration for her own ease and pleasure, could not but challenge the admiration of the beautiful countess moranza, and on her own part she spared no means to return his politeness. chapter xiii. unrequited love. pleased, and perhaps flattered, by the constant and unvarying kindness and friendliness evinced towards him by the countess moranza, the young general seemed to be very happy in her company, and to pass a large portion of his leisure hours by her side. the court gossips, ever ready to improve any opportunity that may offer, invented all manner of scandal and prejudicial stories concerning the peerless and chaste countess moranza; but she was above the power of their shafts, and entertained lorenzo bezan with prodigal hospitality. to the young soldier this was of immense advantage, as she who was thus a firm friend to him, was a woman of brilliant mind and cultivation, and lorenzo bezan improved vastly by the intellectual peers of the countess. the idea of loving her beyond the feelings a warm friendship might induce, had never crossed his mind, and had it done so, would not have been entertained even for one moment. of loving he had but one idea, one thought, one standard, and that heart embodiment, that queen of his affections, was isabella gonzales. they rode together, read to each other, and, in short, were quite inseparable, save when the queen, by some invitation, which was law of course to the young general, solicited his attendance upon herself. her friendship, too, was in want, and her interest great for lorenzo bezan, and he delighted to shower upon him every honor, and publicly to acknowledge his service in to the throne. "the queen seems very kind to you, general," said the countess, to him. "she is more than kind-she lavish rewards upon me." "she loves bravery." "she repays good fortune in round sums," replied the officer. "but why do you ever wear that sober, sombre, and sad look upon that manly and intellectual face?" "do i look thus?" asked the soldier, with a voice of surprise. "often." "i knew it not," replied lorenzo bezan, somewhat earnestly. "it seems a mystery to me that general bezan, honored by the queen, with a purse well filled with gold, and promoted beyond all precedent in his profession, should not rather smile than frown; but perhaps there is some reason for grief in your heart, and possibly i am careless, and probing to the quick a wound that may yet be fresh." the soldier breathed an involuntary sigh, but said nothing. "yes. i see now that i have annoyed you, and should apologize," she said. "nay, not so; you have been more than a friend to me; you have been an instructress in gentle refinement and all that is lovely in your sex, and i should but poorly repay such consideration and kindness, were i not to confide in you all my thoughts." the countess could not imagine what was coming. she turned pale, and then a blush stole over her beautiful features, betraying how deeply interested she was. "i hope, general," she said, "that if there is aught in which a person like myself might offer consolation or advice to you, it may be spoken without reserve." "ah, countess, how can i ever repay such a debt as you put me under by this very touching kindness, this most sisterly consideration towards me?" there was a moment's pause in which the eyes of both rested upon the floor. "you say that i am sad at times. i had thought your brilliant conversation and gentleness of character had so far made me forget that i no longer looked sad. but it is not so. you, so rich in wealth and position, have never known a want, have never received a slight, have never been insulted at heart for pride's sake. lady, i have loved a being, so much like yourself, that i have often dreamed of you together. a being all pure and beautiful, with but one sad alley in her sweet character-pride. i saw her while yet most humble in rank. i served herself and father and brother, even to saving their lives; i was promoted, and held high honor with my command; but she was rich, and her father high in lordly honors and associations. i was but a poor soldier; what else might i expect but scorn if i dared to love her? but, countess, you are ill," said the soldier, observing her pallid features and quick coming and going breath. "only a temporary illness; it is already gone," she said. "pray go on." "and yet i believe she loved me also though the pride of her heart choked the growth of the tendrils of affection. maddened by the insults of a rival, who was far above me in rank, i challenged him, and for this was banished from the island where she lives. do you wonder that i am sometimes sad at these recollections? that my full heart will sometimes speak in my face?" "nay, it is but natural," answered the countess, with a deep sigh. general bezan was thinking of his own anguish of heart, of the peculiarities of his own situation, of her who was far away, yet now present in his heart, else he would have noticed more particularly the appearance of her whom he addressed. the reader would have seen at once that she received his declaration of love for another like a death blow, that she sat there and heard him go on as one would sit under torture; yet by the strong force of her character subduing almost entirely all outward emotions. there was no disguising it to a careful observer, she, the countess moranza, loved him! from the first meeting she had been struck by his noble figure, his melancholy yet handsome and intellectual face, and knowing the gallantry of his services to the queen, was struck by the modest bearing of a soldier so renowned in battle. after refusing half of the gallants of the court, and deeming herself impregnable to the shafts of cupid, she had at last lost her heart to this man. but that was not the point that made her suffer so now, it was that he loved another; that he could never sustain the tender relation to her which her heart suggested. all these thoughts now passed through her mind. we say had general bezan not been so intent in his thoughts far away, he might have discovered this secret, at least to some extent. he knew not the favor of woman's love; he knew only of his too unhappy disappointment, and, on this his mind was sadly and earnestly engaged. days passed on, and the young general saw little of the countess, for her unhappy condition of mind caused her to seclude herself almost entirely from society, even denying herself to him whom she loved so well. she struggled to forget her love, or rather to bring philosophy to her aid in conquering it. she succeeded in a large degree; but at the same time resolved to make it her business to reconcile lorenzo bezan to her he loved, if such a thing were possible; and thus to enjoy the consciousness of having performed at least one disinterested act for him whom she too had loved, as we have seen, most sincerely and most tenderly. thus actuated, the countess resolved to make a confidant, or, at least, partially to do so, of the queen, and to interest her to return lorenzo bezan once more to the west indian station, with honor and all the due credit. it scarcely needed her eloquence in pleading to consummate this object, for the queen already prepossessed in the young soldier's favor, only desired to know how she might serve him best, in order to do so at once. in her shrewdness she could not but discover the state of the countess's heart; but too delicate to allude to this matter, she made up her mind at once as to what should be done. she wondered not at the countess's love for lorenzo bezan; she could sympathize with her; for had he been born in the station to have shared the throne with her, she would have looked herself upon him with a different eye; as it was, she had delighted to honor him from the first moment they had met. "your wish shall be granted, countess," said the queen; "he shall return to cuba, and with honor and distinction." "thanks, a thousand thanks," was the reply of the fair friend. "you have never told me before the particulars of his returning home." "it was but lately that i learned them, by his own lips," she answered. "his life is full of romance," mused the queen, thoughtfully. "true, and his bravery, has he opportunity, will make him a hero." "the lady's name-did he tell you that?" asked the queen. "he did." "and whom was it?" "isabella gonzales." "isabella gonzales?" "yes, my liege lady." "a noble house; we remember the name." "he said they were noble," sighed the countess, thoughtfully. "well, well," continued the queen, "go you and recruit your spirits once more; as to lorenzo bezan, he is my protege, and i will at once attend to his interests." scarcely had the countess moranza left her presence, before the queen, summoning an attendant, despatched a message to general bezan to come at once to the palace. the queen was a noble and beautiful woman, who had studied human nature in all its phases; she understood at once the situation of her young favorite's heart, and by degrees she drew him out, as far as delicacy would permit, and then asked him if he still loved isabella gonzales as he had done when he was a poor lieutenant of infantry, in the tropical service. "love her, my liege?" said the young general, in tones almost reproachful, to think any one could doubt it, "i have never for one moment, even amid the roar of battle and the groans of dying men, forgotten isabella gonzales!" "love like thine should be its own reward; she was proud, too proud to return thy love; was it not so, general?" "my liege, you have spoken for me." "but you were a poor lieutenant of infantry then." "true." "and that had its influence." "i cannot but suppose so." "well," said the queen, "we have a purpose for you." "i am entirely at your majesty's disposal," replied the young soldier. "we will see what commission it best fits so faithful a servant of our crown to bear, and an appointment may be found that will carry thee back to this distant isle of the tropics, where you have left your heart." "to cuba, my liege?" "ay." "but my banishment from the island reads forever," said the soldier. "we have power to make it read as best suits us," was the reply. "you are really too good to me," replied the soldier. "now to your duty, general, and to-morrow we shall have further business with you." lorenzo bezan bowed low, and turned his steps from the palace towards his own lodgings, near the barracks. it was exceedingly puzzling to him, first, that he could not understand what had led the queen to this subject; second, how she could so well discern the truth; and lastly, that such consideration was shown for him. he could not mistake the import of the queen's words; it was perfectly plain to him what she had said, and what she had meant; and in a strange state of mind, bordering upon extreme of suspicion and strong hope, and yet almost as powerful fears, he mused over the singular condition in which he found himself and his affairs. it seemed to him that fortune was playing at shuttlecock with him, and that just for the present, at any rate, his star was in the ascendant. "how long shall i go on in my good fortune?" he asked himself; "how long will it be before i shall again meet with a fierce rebuff in some quarter? had i planned my own future for the period of time since i landed at cadiz, i could not have bettered it-indeed i could not have dared to be as extravagant as i find the reality. no wonder that i meet those envious glances at court. who ever shared a larger portion of the honorable favor of the queen than i do? it is strange, all very strange. and this beautiful countess moranza-what a good angel she has been to me; indeed, what have i not enjoyed that i could wish, since i arrived in spain? yet how void of happiness and of peace of heart am i! alas, as the humble lieutenant in the plaza des armes in havana, as the lowly soldier whom isabella gonzales publicly noticed in the paseo, as the fortunate deliverer of herself and father, and as resting my wounded body upon her own support, how infinitely happier was i. how bright was hope then in my breast, and brilliant the charms of the fairy future! could i but recall those happy moments at a cost of all the renown my sword may have won me, how gladly would i do so this moment. this constant suspense is worse than downright defeat or certain misfortune. is there no power can give us an insight into the hidden destiny of ourselves? is there no means by which we can see the future? not long could i sustain this ordeal of suspense. ah, isabella, what have i not suffered for thy love? what is there i would not endure!" chapter xiv. the surprise. it had already been announced among the knowing ones at havana that there was to be a new lieutenant governor general arrive ere long for the island, and those interested in these matters feel of course such an interest as an event of this character would naturally inspire. those in authority surmised as to what sort of a person they were to be associated with, and the better classes of society in the island wished to know what degree of addition to their society the new comer would be-whether he was married or single, etc. isabella gonzales realized no such interest in the matter; the announcement that there was to be a new lieutenant-governor created no interest in her breast; she remained as she had done these nearly four years, secluded, with only ruez as her companion, and only the plato as the spot for promenade. she had not faded during the interim of time since the reader left her with lorenzo bezan's letter in her hand; but a soft, tender, yet settled melancholy had possessed the beautiful lineaments and expressive lines of her features. she was not happy. she had no confidant, and no one knew her secret save herself; but an observant person would easily have detected the deep shadow that lay upon her soul. we say she had not faded-nor had she; there was the same soft and beautiful expression in her face, even more tender than before; for it had lost the tinge of alloy that pride was wont to impart to it; where pride had existed before, there now dwelt tender melancholy, speaking from the heart, and rendering the lovely girl far, far more interesting and beautiful. she had wept bitter, scalding tears over that last farewell between herself and lorenzo bezan in the prison; she blamed herself bitterly now that she had let him depart thus; but there was no reprieve, no recalling the consequences; he was gone, and forever! communication with the home government was seldom and slowly consummated, and an arrival at that period from old spain was an event. partly for this reason, and partly because there was no one to write to her, isabella, nor indeed her father, had heard anything of lorenzo bezan since his departure. general harero had learned of his promotion for gallant service; but having no object in communicating such intelligence, it had remained wholly undivulged, either to the gonzales family or the city generally. it was twilight, and the soft light that tints the tropics in such a delicate hue at this hour was playing with the beauty of isabella gonzales's face, now in profile, now in front, as she lounged on a couch near the window, which overlooked the sea and harbor. she held in her hand an open letter; she had been shedding tears; those, however, were now dried up, and a puzzled and astonished feeling seemed to be expressed in her beautiful countenance, as she gazed now and then at the letter, and then once more off upon the sparkling waters of the gulf stream. "strange," she murmured to herself, and again hastily read over the letter, and examined the seal which had enclosed it in a ribbon envelope and parchment. "how is it possible for the queen to know my secret? and yet here she reveals all; it is her own seal, and i think even her own hand, that has penned these lines. let me read again: "senorita isabella gonzales: deeply interested as we are for the welfare of all our loyal subjects, we have taken occasion to send you some words of information relative to yourself. beyond a doubt you have loved and been beloved devotedly; but pride, ill asserted arrogance of soul, has rendered you miserable. we speak not knowingly, but from supposition grounded upon what we do know. he who loved you was humble-humble in station, but noble in personal qualities, such as a woman may well worship in man, bravery, manliness and stern and noble beauty of person. we say he loved you, and we doubt not you must have loved him; for how could it be otherwise? pride caused you to repulse him. now, senorita, know that he whom you thus repulsed was more than worthy of you; that, although he might have espoused one infinitely your superior in rank and wealth in madrid, since his arrival here, he had no heart to give, and still remained true to you! know that by his daring bravery, his manliness, his modest bearing, and above all, his clear-sighted and brilliant mental capacity he has challenged our own high admiration; but you, alas! must turn in scorn your proud lip upon him! think not we have these facts from him, or that he has reflected in the least upon you; he is far too delicate for such conduct. no, it is an instinctive sense of the position of circumstances that has led to this letter and this plain language. (signed) your queen. "the senorita isabella gonzales." one might have thought that this would have aroused the pride and anger of isabella gonzales, but it did not; it surprised her; and after the first sensation of this feeling was over, it struck her as so truthful, what the queen had said, that she wept bitterly. "alas! she has most justly censured me, but points out no way for me to retrieve the bitter steps i have taken," sobbed the unhappy girl, aloud. "might have espoused one my superior in rank and fortune, at madrid, but he had no heart to give! fool that i am, i see it all; and the queen is indeed but too correct. but what use is all this information to me, save to render me the more miserable? show a wretch the life he might have lived, and then condemn him to death; that is my position-that my hard, unhappy fate! "alas! does he love me still? he whom i have so heartlessly treated-ay, whom i have crushed, as it were, for well knew how dearly he loved me! he has challenged even the admiration of the queen, and has been, perhaps, promoted; but still has been true to me, who in soul have been as true to him." thus murmured the proud girl to herself-thus frankly realized the truth. "ah, my child," said don gonzales, meeting his daughter, "put on thy best looks, for we are to have the new lieutenant-governor installed to-morrow, and all of us must be present. he's a soldier of much renown, so report says." "doubtless, father; but i'm not very well to-day, and shall be hardly able to go to-morrow--at least i fear i shall not." "fie, fie, my daughter; thou, the prettiest bird in all the island, to absent thyself from the presence on such an occasion? it will never do." "here, ruez, leave that hound alone, and come hither," he continued, to the boy. "you, too, must be ready at an early hour to-morrow to go with isabella and myself to the palace, where we shall be introduced to the new lieutenant-governor, just arrived from madrid." "i don't want to go, father," said the boy, still fondling the dog. "why not, ruez?" "because isabella does not," was the childish reply. "now if this be not rank mutiny, and i shall have to call in a corporal's guard to arrest the belligerents," said don gonzales, half playfully. "but go you must; and i have a secret, but i shall not tell it to you-no, not for the world-a surprise for you both; but that's no matter now. go you must, and go you will; so prepare you in good season to-morrow to attend me." both sister and brother saw that he was in earnest, and made arrangements accordingly. the occasion of instating the lieutenant-governor in his high and responsible station, was one of no little note in havana, and was celebrated by all the pomp and military display that could possibly add importance to the event, and impress the citizens with the sacred character of the office. the day was therefore ushered in by the booming of cannon and the music of military bands, and the universal stir at the barracks told the observer that all grades were to be on duty that day, and in full numbers. the palace of the governor-general was decorated with flags and streamers, and even the fountain in the plaza des armes seemed to bubble forth with additional life and spirit on the occasion. it was an event in havana; it was something to vary the monotony of this beautiful island-city, and the inhabitants seized upon it as a gala day. business was suspended; the throng put on their holiday suit, the various regiments appeared in full regalia and uniform, for the new lieutenant-commander-in-chief was to review them in the after part of the day. the ceremony of installation was performed in the state hall of the palace, where all the military, wealth, beauty and fashion of the island assembled, and among these the venerable and much respected don gonzales, and his peerless daughter, isabella, and his noble boy, ruez. the reception hall was in a blaze of beauty and fashion, till patiently awaiting the introduction of the new and high official the queen had sent from spain to sit as second to the brave tacon. an hour of silence had passed, when at a signal the band struck up a national march, and then advanced into the reception room tacon, and by his side a young soldier, on whose noble brow sat dignity and youth, interwoven in near embrace. his eyes rested on the floor, and he drew near to the seat of honor with modest mien, his spurred heel and martial bearing alone betokening that in time of need his sword was ready, and his time and life at the call of duty. few, if any, had seen him before, and now among the ladies there ran a low murmur of admiration at the noble and manly beauty of the young soldier. the priest read the usual services, the customary hymn and chant were listened to, when the priest, delegated for this purpose, advanced and said: "we, by the holy power vested in us, do anoint thee, lorenzo bezan--" at these words, isabella gonzales, who had, during all the while, been an absent spectator, never once really turning her eyes toward the spot where the new officer stood, dropped her fan, and sprang to her feet. she gazed for one single moment, and then uttering one long and piteous scream, fell lifeless into her father's arms. this cry startled every one, but perhaps less the cause of it than any one else. he he had schooled so critical a moment ceremony went on quietly and was duly installed. "alas, alas, for me, what made thee ill?" said the, as he bent over her couch, after. but isabella answered him not; she was in a half-dreamy, half-conscious state, and knew not what was said to her. ruez stood on the other side of her couch, and kissed her white forehead, but said nothing. yet he seemed to know more than his father as to what had made isabella sick, and at last he proved this. "why could you not tell isabella and me, father, that our old friend captain bezan was to be there, and that it was he who was to be lieutenant-governor? then sister would not have been so startled." "startled at what, ruez?" "why, at unexpectedly seeing captain bezan," said the boy, honestly. "general bezan, he is now. but why should she be startled so?" "o, she is not very well, you know, father," said the boy, evasively. "true, she is not well, and i managed it as a surprise, and it was too much of one, i see." and father and brother tended by the sick girl's bedside as they would have done that of an infant. poor isabella, what a medley of contradictions is thy heart! the ceremonies of the day passed off as usual; the review took place in the after part of the day, and as general bezan, now outranking general harero, rode by his division, he raised his hat to his old comrades in arms, and bowed coldly to their commander. his rise and new position filled the army with wonder; but none envied him; they loved their old favorite too well to envy his good fortune to him; even his brother officers echoed the cheers for the new lieutenant-general. but when the noise, the pomp, and bustle of the day was over, and when alone in his apartment by himself, it was then that lorenzo bezan's heart and feelings found sway. he knew full well who it was that uttered that scream, and better, too, the cause of it; he feared that he could neither sleep nor eat until he should see her and speak to her once more; but then again he feared to attempt this. true, his position gave him the entree to all classes now, and her father's house would have been welcome to him; but he would far rather have seen her as the humble captain bezan, of yore, than with a host of stars upon his breast. isabella revived at last, but she scarcely escaped a fever from the shock her system, mental and physical, had received. and how busy, too, wore her thoughts, how never tiring in picturing him with his new honors, and in surprise how he could have won such distinction and honor at the queen's hands, she read again and again the queen's letter. he had no heart to give. that she looked upon-those few words-until her eyes became blind at the effort. and still she read on, and thought of him whom she knew had loved her so dearly, so tenderly, and yet without hope. isabella gonzales's pride had received a severe shock. will she still bow low to the impulsive and arbitrary promptings of her proud spirit, or will she rise above them, and conquer and win a harvest of peace and happiness? the story must disclose the answer; it is not for us to say here. chapter xv. the serenape. general harero, as we have already intimated, had not, for a considerable period, enjoyed any degree of intimacy with isabella gonzales or her father, but actuated by a singular pertinacity of character, he seemed not yet to have entirely given up his hopes in relation to an alliance with her. the arrival of lorenzo bezan again upon the island, he felt, would, in any instance, endanger, if not totally defeat any lingering plans he might still conceive in his mind to bring into operation for the furtherance of his hopes; but when his arrival had actually occurred, and under such brilliant auspices for the young soldier, general harero was enraged beyond control. he sought his quarters, after the review, in a desperate mood, and walked the narrow precincts of his room with bitter thoughts rankling in his bosom, and a burning desire for revenge goading him to action. a thousand ways, all of which were more or less mingled with violence, suggested themselves to his mind as proper to adopt. now he would gladly have fought his rival, have gone into the field and risked his own life for the sake of taking his; but this must be done too publicly, and he felt that the public feeling was with the new official; besides that, general bezan could now arrest him, as he had done the young officer when he challenged his superior, as the reader will remember. dark thoughts ran through his brain-some bearing directly upon isabella gonzales, some upon lorenzo bezan; even assassination suggested itself; and his hands clenched, and his cheeks burned, as the revengeful spirit possessed him and worked in his veins. while lorenzo bezan was absent he was content to bide his time, reasoning that eventually isabella gonzales would marry him, after a few more years of youthful pride and vanity had passed; but now he was spurred on to fresh efforts by the new phase that matters had taken, and but one course he felt was left for him to pursue, which one word might express, and that was action! having no definite idea as to what lorenzo bezan would do, under the new aspect of affairs, general harero could not devise in what way to meet him. that isabella had been prevented from absolutely loving him only by her pride, when he was before upon the island, he knew full well, and he realized as fully that all those obstacles that pride had engendered were now removed by the rank and position of his rival. he wondered in his own mind whether it was possible that lorenzo bezan might not have forgotten her, or found some more attractive shrine whereat to worship. as he realized isabella's unmatched loveliness, he felt that, however, could hardly be; and thus unsettled as to the state of affairs between the two, he was puzzled as to what course to pursue. in the meantime, while general harero was thus engaged with himself, lorenzo bezan was thinking upon the same subject. it was nearly midnight; but still he walked back and forth in his room with thoughtful brow. there was none of the nervous irritation in his manner that was evinced by his rival; but there was deep and anxious solicitude written in every line of his handsome features. he was thinking of isabella. was thinking of her, did we say? he had never forgotten her for one hour since the last farewell meeting in the prison walls. he knew not how she felt towards him now-whether a new pride might not take the place of that which had before actuated her, and a fear lest she should, by acknowledging, as it were, the former error, be led still to observe towards him the same austere manner and distance. "have i won renown, promotion, and extended fame to no purpose, at last?" he asked himself; "what care i for these unless shared in by her; unless her beautiful eyes approve, and her sweet lips acknowledge? alas, how poor a thing am i, whom my fellow-mortals count so fortunate and happy!" thus he mused to himself, until at last stepping to the open balcony window, he looked out upon the soft and delicious light of it tropical moon. all was still-all was beautiful; the steady pace of the sentinel on duty at the entrance of the palace, alone, sounding upon the ear. suddenly a thought seemed to suggest itself to his mind. seizing his guitar, from a corner of his room, he threw a thin military cloak about his form, and putting on a foraging cap, passed the sentinel, and strolled towards the plato! how well he remembered the associations of the place, as he paused now for a moment in the shadow of the broad walls of the barracks. he stood there but for a moment, then drawing nearer to the house of don gonzales, he touched the strings of his guitar with a master hand, and sung with a clear, musical voice one of those exquisite little serenades with which the spanish language abounds. the song did not awake isabella, though just beneath her window. she heard it, nevertheless, and in the half-waking, half-dreaming state in which she was, perhaps enjoyed it even with keener sense than she would have done if quite aroused. she dreamed of love, and of lorenzo bezan; she thought all was forgotten-all forgiven, and that he was her accepted lover. but this was in her sleep-awake, she would not have felt prepared to say yet, even to herself, whether she really loved him, or would listen to his address; awake, there was still a lingering pride in her bosom, too strong for easy removal. but sweet was the pure and beautiful girl's sleep-sweet was the smile that played about her delicate mouth-and lovely beyond the painter's power, the whole expression of soft delight that dwelt in her incomparably handsome features. the song ceased, but the sleeper dreamed on in delightful quietude. not so without; there was a scene enacting there that would chill the heart of woman, and call into action all the sterner powers of the other sex. some strange chance had drawn general harero from his quarters, also, at this hour, and the sound of the guitar had attracted him to the plato just as lorenzo bezan had completed his song. hearing approaching footsteps, and not caring to be discovered, the serenader slung his guitar by its silken cord behind his back, and wrapping his cloak about him, prepared to leave the spot; but hardly had he reached the top of the broad stairs that lead towards the calle de mercaderes (street of the merchants), when he stood face to face with his bitter enemy, general harero! "general harero!" "lorenzo bezan!" said each, calling the other's name, in the first moment of surprise. "so you still propose to continue your persecutions towards this lady?" said general harero, sarcastically. "persecutions?" "that was my word; what other term can express unwelcome visits?" "it were better, general harero, that you should remember the change which has taken place in our relative positions, of late, and not provoke me too far." "i spit upon and defy your authority." "then, sir, it shall be exercised on the morrow for your especial benefit." "not by you, though," said the enraged rival, drawing his sword suddenly, and thrusting its point towards the heart of lorenzo bezan. but the young soldier had been too often engaged in hand to hand conflicts to lose his presence of mind, and with his uplifted arm shrouded in his cloak, he parried the blow, with only a slight flesh wound upon his left wrist. but general harero had drawn blood, and that was enough; the next moment their swords were crossed, and a few passes were only necessary to enable lorenzo bezan to revenge himself by a severe wound in his rival's left breast. maddened by the pain of his wound, and reckless by his anger, general harero pressed hard upon the young officer; but his coolness was more than a match for his antagonist's impetuosity; and after inflicting a severe blow upon his cheek with the flat of his sword, lorenzo bezan easily disarmed him, and breaking his sword in twain, threw it upon the steps of the plato, and quietly walked away leaving general harero to settle matters between his own rage, his wounds and the surgeon, as best he might, while he sought his own quarters within the palace walls. general harero was more seriously wounded than he had at first deemed himself to be, and gathering up the fragments of his sword, he sought the assistance of his surgeon, in a state of anger and excitement that bid fair, in connection with his wounds, to lead him into a raging fever. inventing some plausible story of being attacked by some unknown ruffian, and desiring the surgeon to observe his wishes as to secrecy, for certain reasons, the wounded man submitted to have his wounds dressed, and taking some cooling medicine by way of precaution, lay himself down to sleep just as the gray of morning tinged the western horizon. that morning isabella gonzales awoke with pleasant memories of her dream, little knowing that the sweet music she had attributed to the creations of her own fancy, was real, and that voice and instrument actually sounded beneath her own chamber window. "ah, sister," said ruez, "how well you are looking this morning." "am i, brother?" "yes, better than i have seen you this many a long day." "i rested well last night, and had pleasant dreams, ruez." "last night," said the boy, "that reminds me of some music i heard." "music?" "yes, a serenade; a manly voice and guitar, i should judge." "it is strange; i dreamed that i heard it, too, but on waking i thought it was but a dream. it might have been real," mused isabella, thoughtfully. "i am sure of it, and though i, too, was but half awake, i thought that i recognized the voice, and cannot say why i did not rise to see if my surmise was correct, but i dropped quickly to sleep again." "and who did, you think it was, brother?" asked isabella gonzales. "general bezan, our new lieutenant-governor," said the boy, regarding his sister closely. "it must have been so, then," mused isabella, to herself; "we could not both have been thus mistaken. lorenzo bezan must have been on the plato last night; would that i could have seen him, if but for one moment." "i should like to speak to general bezan," said ruez; "but he's so high an officer now that i suppose he would not feel so much interest in me as he did when i used to visit him in the government prison." isabella made no reply to this remark, but still mused to herself. ruez gazed thoughtfully upon his sister; there seemed to be much going on in his own mind relative to the subject of which they had spoken. at one moment you might read a tinge of anxious solicitude in the boy's handsome face, as he gazed thus, and anon a look of pride, too, at the surpassing beauty and dignity of his sister. she was very beautiful. her morning costume was light and graceful, and her whole toilet showed just enough of neglige to add interest to the simplicity of her personal attire. her dark, jetty hair contrasted strongly with the pure white of her dress, and there was not an ornament upon her person, save those that nature had lavished there in prodigal abundance. she had never looked more lovely than at that hour; the years that had passed since the reader met her in familiar conversation with our hero, had only served still more to perfect and ripen her personal charms. though there had stolen over her features a subdued air of thoughtfulness, a gentle tinge of melancholy, yet it became her far better than the one of constant levity and jest that had almost universally possessed her heretofore. her eyes now rested upon the floor, and the long silken lashes seemed almost artificial in their effect upon the soft olive complexion beneath their shadow. no wonder ruez loved his sister so dearly; no wonder he felt proud of her while he gazed at her there; nor was it strange that he strove to read her heart as he did, though he kept his own counsel upon the subject. he was a most observant boy, as we have seen before in these pages, but not one to manifest all of his observations or thoughts. he seemed to, and doubtless did, actually understand isabella's heart better than she did herself, and a close observer would have noted well the various emotions that his expressive countenance exhibited, while he gazed thus intently at his dearly loved sister. ruez was a strange boy; he had few friends; but those few he loved with all his heart. his father, sister, and lorenzo bezan, shared his entire affection. his inclinations led him to associate but little with those of his own age; he was thoughtful, and even at that age, a day dreamer. he loved to be alone; oftentimes for hours he was thus-at times gazing off upon the sea, and at others, gazing upon vacancy, while his thoughts would seem to have run away with him, mentally and physically. these peculiarities probably arose from his uncommonly sensitive disposition, and formed a sort of chrysalis state, from which he was yet to emerge into manliness. kissing her cheek, and rousing her from the waking dream that possessed her now, ruez turned away and left her to herself and the thoughts his words had aroused. we, too, will leave isabella gonzales, for a brief period, while we turn to another point of our story, whither the patient reader will please to follow. chapter xvi. a discovery. "she never loved me," said lorenzo bezan, in the privacy of his own room, on the morning subsequent to that of the serenade. "it was only my own insufferable egotism and self-conceit that gave me such confidence. now i review the past, what single token or evidence has she given to me of particular regard? what has she done that any lady might not do for a gentleman friend? i can recall nothing. true, she has smiled kindly-o how dearly i have cherished these smiles! but what are they? coquettes smile on every one! alas, how miserable am i, after all the glory and fame i have won!" lorenzo bezan was truly affected, as his words have shown him to be. he doubted whether isabella gonzales had ever loved him; her scream and fainting might have been caused by surprise, or even the heat. he had been too ready to attribute it to that which his own heart had first suggested. o, if he only dared to address her now-to see her, and once more to tell how dearly and ardently he loved her still-how he had cherished her by the camp fires, in the battle- field, and the deprivations of war and the sufferings of a soldier's wounds. if he could, if he dared to tell her this, he would be happier. but, how did he know that a proud repulse did not await him! ah, that was the fear that controlled him; he could not bear to part again from her as he had last done. while he was thus engaged in reverie alone, a servant, whom he had despatched on an errand, returned to say that general harero was very ill and confined to his bed; that some wounds he had accidentally received in quelling some street affray had brought on a burning and dangerous fever. on the receipt of this information lorenzo bezan wrote a hasty note and despatched the servant once more for a surgeon to come to his quarters; a demand that was answered by the person sent for in a very few minutes. it was the same surgeon who a few years before had so successfully attended bezan. the recognition between them was cordial and honest, while the new lieutenant-general told him of general harero's severe illness, and expressed a wish for him to immediately attend the sick man. "but, general bezan," said the surgeon, "you have little cause for love to general harero." "that is true; but still i desire his recovery; and if you compass it by good nursing and the power of your art, remember fifty doubloons is your fee." "my professional pride would lead me to do my best," replied the surgeon, "though neither i nor any other man in the service loves general harero any too much." "i have reasons for my interest that it is not necessary to explain," said general bezan, "and shall trust that you will do your best for him, as you did for me." "by the way, general, i have been half a mind, more than once, ever since your return to the island, to tell you of a little affair concerning your sickness at that time, but i feared you might deem it in some measure impertinent." "by no means. speak truly and openly to me. i owe you too much to attribute any improper motives to you in any instance. what do you refer to?" "well, general, i suppose on that occasion i discovered a secret which i have never revealed to any one, and upon which subject my lips have been ever sealed." "what was it?" "your love for isabella gonzales." "and how, pray, came you to surmise that?" asked lorenzo bezan, in surprise. "first by your half incoherent talk in moments of delirium, and afterwards by finding her portrait, painted probably by yourself, among your effects." "true. i have it still," said lorenzo bezan, musingly. "but more than that i discovered from the lady herself?" said the surgeon. "from the lady? what do you mean?" asked general bezan, most earnestly. "why she visited you during your illness, and though she came in disguise, i discovered her." "in disguise?" "yes." "how did you discover her? i pray you tell me all, if you are my friend." "by a tear!" "a tear!" "yes, because i knew no servant or lady's maid sent to execute her mistress's bidding would have been so affected, and that led me to watch for further discovery." "did she weep?" "one tear fell from her eyes upon your hands as she bent over you, and it told me a story that i have since sometimes thought you should know." "a tear!" mused general bezan, to himself, rising and walking up and down his room in haste; "that must have come from the heart. smiles are evanescent; kind words, even, cost nothing; but tears, they are honest, and come unbidden by aught save the heart itself. tears, did you say?" he continued, pausing before the surgeon. "as i have said, general." "and she bathed my forehead, you say?" "she did, and further, left with me a purse to be devoted to supplying your wants." "this you never told me of before." "i have had no opportunity, and to speak honestly, it was very well timed and needed." "money!" mused lorenzo bezan. "money, that is full of dross; but a tear,--i would to heaven i had earlier known of that." "i hope i have caused you no uneasiness, general." "enough. go on your mission to general harero; save him, if you can; you have already saved me! nay, do not stare, but go, and see me again at your leisure." the surgeon bowed respectfully, and hastened away as he was directed. that tear had removed mountains from lorenzo bezan's heart; he hardly knew what further to do under the circumstances. the earliest impulse of his heart was to seek isabella, and throwing himself at her feet, beg her to forgive him for having for one moment doubted the affection and gentleness of her woman heart. this was the turning point with him if she had a heart, tender and susceptible, and not coroded by coquetry; he had no fear but that he could win it; his love was too true, too devoted, too much a part of his soul and existence to admit of doubt. joy once more reigned in his heart. he was almost childish in his impatience to see her; he could hardly wait even for an hour. at last, seating himself at a table, he seized upon pen and paper and wrote as follows: "isabella gonzales: i know not how to address you, in what tone to write, or even as to the propriety of writing to you at all; but the suspense i now suffer is my excuse. i need not reiterate to you how dearly i love you; you know this, dear one, as fully as any assertion of my own could possibly express it. it is trite that my love for you has partaken in no small degree of a character of presumption, daring, as an humble lieutenant of infantry, to lift my eyes to one as peerless and beautiful as yourself, and of a class of society so far above what my own humble position would authorize me to mingle with. but the past is past, and now my rank and fortune both entitle me to the entree, to your father's house. i mention not these because i would have them weigh in my favor with you. far from it. i had rather you would remember me, and love me as i was when we first met. "need i say how true i have been to the love i have cherished for you? how by my side in battle, in my dreams by the camp fire, and filling my waking thoughts, you have ever been with me in spirit? say, isabella gonzales, is this homage, so sincere, thus tried and true, unwelcome to you? or do you, in return, love the devoted soldier, who has so long cherished you in his heart as a fit shrine to worship at? i shall see you, may i not, and you will not repulse me, nor speak to me with coldness. o, say when i may come to you, when look once more into those radiant eyes, when tell you with my lips how dearly, how ardently i love you-have ever loved you, and must still love you to the last? i know you will forgive the impetuosity, and, perhaps, incoherent character of this note. lorenzo bezan." we have only to look into the chamber of isabella gonzales, a few hours subsequent to the writing of this letter, to learn its effect upon her. she was alone; the letter she had read over and over again, and now sat with it pressed to her bosom by both hands, as though she might thus succeed in suppressing the convulsive sobs that shook her whole frame. tears, the luxury of both joy and sorrow, where the heart is too full of either, tears streamed down her fair cheeks; tears of joy and sorrow both; joy that he was indeed still true to her, and sorrow that such hours, days, nay, years of unhappiness, had been thus needlessly passed, while they were separated from each other, though joined in soul. o, how bitterly she recalled her pride, and remembered the control it had held over her, how blamed herself at the recollection of that last farewell in the prison with the noble but dejected spirit that in spite of herself even then she loved! she kissed the letter again and again; she wept like a child! "the queen was right-he had no heart to give. a countess? she might have brought him higher title, a prouder name, richer coffers; but he is not one to weigh my love against gold, or lineage, or proud estates, or even royal favor; such, such is the man to whom i owe my very life, my father's life, ruez's life, nay, what do i not owe to him? since all happiness and peace hang upon these; and yet i repulsed, nay, scorned him, when he knelt a suppliant at my feet. o, how could a lifetime of devoted love and gentleness repay him all, and make me even able to forgive myself for the untrue, unnatural part i have played?" she covered her face with her hands, as if to efface the memory of the conduct which she had just recalled so earnestly, and then rising, walked back and forth in her apartment with all the impetuosity of her creole blood evinced in the deepened color of her cheek, and the brightness of her beauteous eyes. then once more seating herself, she sat and trotted her foot impatiently upon the floor. "o, why, why cannot i recall the past; alas, i see my error too late. pride, pride, how bitterly and surely dost thou bring thine own reward!" she strove to answer the letter that now lay open before her upon the table, but could scarcely hold the pen, so deep and long drawn were the sighs that struggled in her bosom. sheet after sheet was commenced and destroyed. tears drowned out the efforts of her pen, and she knew not what to do. she bit her fair lips in vexation; what should she write? once more she read his note, and full of the feelings it induced, tried to answer it. but in vain; her sheet was bathed in tears before she had written one line. "it is but the truth," she said, to herself, "and i do not care if he knows it." as she thus spoke, she once more seized the pen and wrote: "in vain have i essayed to write to you. let these tears be your answer! isabella gonzales." if the beautiful girl had studied for months to have answered the letter of him who loved her so well, it would have been impossible for her to have penned a more touching, more truthful, or more eloquent reply than this. striking a tiny silver bell by her side, a slave approached, and was despatched with this note at once to the palace of the governor-general. "why, sister!" said ruez, entering the room and speaking at the same time, "you look as if you had been weeping. pray, are you ill?" "nay, brother, i am not ill. it was but a slight affair; it is all over now. where's carlo, ruez?" the attempt to turn the course of conversation to the dog, was not unobserved by the intelligent boy. he saw at once that there was some matter in his sister's heart that was better to remain her own property, and so, with a kiss, he said no more, but sat down at the window and looked off upon the brilliant afternoon effect of the sun and the light land breeze upon the water. neither spoke for many minutes, until at last ruez, still looking off upon the waters of the outer harbor, or gulf stream, said: "i wonder where general bezan keeps himself when off duty?" "why, brother?" "because i have called there twice, and have not seen him yet." "twice!" "yes." "you know it is but a very few days since he arrived here, brother ruez, and he must be very busy." "probably," answered ruez, stealing a glance towards his sister. "his present duty must engage a large portion of his time, i suppose." "o, yes," said the boy, laughing, "just about one quarter as much of his time as was demanded of him when he was a lieutenant in general harero's division." "by-the-by, ruez, they say the general is very ill of some chance wounds." "the general deserves all he got, beyond a doubt, and there is little fear but that he will recover fast enough. he's not one of the sort that die easily. fortune spares such as he is to try people's temper, and annoy humanity." "but is he decidedly better?" asked isabella, with some interest. "yes, the surgeon reports him out of danger. yesterday he was in a fever from his wounds. i can't conceive how he got them, and no one seems to know much about it." "there's carlo and father, on the plato; good-by, sister i'm going to join them." chapter xvii. the assassin. the apartment where general harero was confined to his bed by the severe wounds he had received, presented much such an aspect as lorenzo bezan's had done, when in the early part of this story the reader beheld him in the critical state that the wounds he received from the montaros on the road had placed him. it was dark and gloomy then. the same surgeon who had been so faithful a nurse to our hero, was now with the wounded officer. notwithstanding the excitement of his patient's mind, he had succeeded in quieting him down by proper remedies, so as to admit of treating him properly for his wounds, and to relieve his brain, at least in part, from the excitement of feeling that a spirit of revenge had created there. a knock was heard at the door just at the moment when we would have the reader look with us into the apartment, and the surgeon admitted a tall, dark person, partly enveloped in a cloak. it was evening; the barracks were still, and the gloom of the sick room was, if possible, rendered greater by the darkness that was seen from the uncurtained window. at a sign from his patient the surgeon left him alone with the new comer, who threw himself upon a camp-stool, and folding his arms, awaited the general's pleasure. in the meantime, if the reader will look closely upon the hard lineaments of his face, the heavy eyebrow, the profusion of beard, and the cold-blooded and heartless expression of features, he will recognize the game man whom he has once before met with general harero, and who gave him the keys by which he succeeded in making a secret entrance to lorenzo bezan's cell in the prison before the time appointed for his execution. it was the jailor of the military prison. "lieutenant," said the general, "i have sent for you to perform a somewhat delicate job for me." "what is it, general?" "i will tell you presently; be not in such haste," said the sick man. "i am at your service." "have i not always paid you well when employed by me, lieutenant?" "nobly, general, only too liberally." "would you like to serve me again in a still more profitable job?" "nothing could be more agreeable." "but it is a matter that requires courage, skill, care and secrecy. it is no boy's play." "all the better for that, general." "perhaps you will not say so when i have explained it to you more fully." "you have tried me before now!" answered the jailor, emphatically. "true, and i will therefore trust you at once. there is a life to be taken!" "what! another?" said the man, with surprise depicted on his face. "yes, and one who may cost you some trouble to manage-a quick man and a swordsman." "who is it?" "lorenzo bezan!" "the new lieutenant-general?" "the same." "why, now i think of it, that is the very officer whom you visited long ago by the secret passage in the prison." "very true." "and now you would kill him?" "yes." "and for what?" "that matters not. you will be paid for your business, and must ask no questions." "o, very well; business is business." "you see this purse?" "yes." "it contains fifty doubloons. kill him before the set of to-morrow's sun, and it is yours." "fifty doubloons?" "is it not enough?" "the risk is large; if he were but a private citizen, now-but the lieutenant-governor!" "i will make it seventy-five." "say one hundred, and it is a bargain," urged the jailor, coolly. "on your own terms, then," was the general's reply, as he groaned with pain. "it is dangerous business, but it shall be done," said the other, drawing a dagger from his bosom and feeling its point carefully. "but i must have another day, as to-night it may be too late before i can arrange to meet him, and that will allow but one more night to pass. i can do nothing in the daytime." "very well." "where shall i be most likely to meet him, think you?" "possibly after twilight, on the plato, near the house of don gonzales." "i will be on the watch for him, and my trusty steel shall not fail me." thus saying, and after a few other words of little importance, the jailor departed. maddened by the short confinement and suffering he had experienced, general harero resolved to rid himself at once of the stumbling block in his path that general bezan proved himself to be. a reckless character, almost born, and ever bred a soldier, he stopped at no measures to bring about any desired end. nor was lorenzo bezan's life the first one he had attempted, through the agency of others; the foul stains of murder already rested upon his soul. it was some temporary relief, apparently, to his feelings now, to think that he had taken the primary steps to be revenged upon one whom he so bitterly hated. he could think of nothing else, now, as he lay there, suffering from those wounds, and at times the expression of his face became almost demoniac, as he ground his teeth and bit his lips, in the intense excitement of his passions, the struggle of his feelings being so bitter and revengeful. but we must leave the sick man with himself for a while, and go elsewhere. lorenzo bezan had been pressed with the business incident to his new position, and this, too, so urgently, that he had not yet answered the note he had received from her he had loved so dearly. he had placed it next his heart, however, and would seize upon the first moment to answer it, not by the pen, but in person. it was for this purpose, that, on the same evening we have referred to, he had taken his guitar, and was strolling at a late hour towards the plato. it was the first moment that he could leave the palace without serious trouble, and thinking isabella might have retired for the night, he resolved at least to serenade her once more, as he had so lately done. it would be impossible to justly describe the feelings that actuated the spirit of the lieutenant-governor. his soul was once more buoyant with hope; he loved deeply, ay, more dearly than ever before, and he believed that he was now indeed loved in return. how light was his heart, how brilliant the expression of his face, as he turned his steps towards the spot where his heart had so often returned when the expanse of ocean rolled between him and the spot so dear to him from association. he hurried forward to the steps that ascended from near the end of the calle de mercaderes, on to the plato, but before he had reached it, there came bounding towards him a large dog, which he instantly recognized to be the hound that had so materially aided him in saving the life of ruez gonzales, long before. at the same moment a hand was laid roughly upon his shoulder, but was instantly removed and on turning to see what was the meaning of this rude salutation, the young general discovered a large, dark figure struggling with the hound, who, upon his calling to him, seemed to relinquish the hold he had of the man's throat, and sprang to his side, while the person whom the dog had thus attacked, disappeared suddenly round an angle of the cathedral, and left lorenzo bezan vastly puzzled to understand the meaning of all this. the man must evidently have raised his arm to strike him, else the dog would not have thus interposed, and then, had the stranger been an honest man, he would have paused to explain, instead of disappearing thus. "i must be on my guard; there are assassins hereabouts," he said to himself, and after a moment's fondling of the hound, who had instantly recognized him, he once more drew nearer to the plato, when suddenly the palace bell sounded the alarm of fire. his duty called him instantly to return, which he was forced to do. it was past midnight before the fire was quenched, and lorenzo bezan dismissed the guard and extra watch that had been ordered out at the first alarm, and himself, greatly fatigued by his exertions and care in subduing the fire, which in havana is done under the direction and assistance of the military, always, he threw himself on his couch, and fell fast asleep. early the subsequent morning, he despatched a line to isabella gonzales, saying that on the evening of that day he would answer in person her dear communication; and that though pressing duty had kept him from her side, she was never for one moment absent from his heart. he begged that ruez might come to him in the meantime, and he did so at once. the meeting between them was such as the reader might anticipate. the officer told the boy many of his adventures, asked a thousand questions of his home, about his kind old father, isabella, the hound, and all. while ruez could find no words to express the delight he felt that the same friend existed in general bezan, that he had loved and cherished as the captain of infantry. "how strange the fortune that has brought you back again, and so high, too, in office. i'm sure we are all delighted. father says you richly deserve all the honor you enjoy, and he does not very often compliment any one," said the boy. the twilight had scarcely faded into the deeper shades of night, on the following evening, when lorenzo bezan once more hastened towards the plato, to greet her whom he loved so tenderly and so truly-she who had been the star of his destiny for years, who had been his sole incentive to duty, his sole prompter in the desire for fame and fortune. in the meantime there was a scene enacting on the plato that should be known to the reader. near the door of the house of don gonzales, stood isabella and ruez, and before them a young person, whose dress and appearance betokened the occupation of a page, though his garments were soiled and somewhat torn in places. isabella was addressing the youth kindly, and urged him to come in and rest himself, for he showed evident tokens of fatigue. "will you not come in and refresh yourself? you look weary and ill." "nay, lady, not now. you say this is the house of don gonzales?" "yes." "and are you the daughter of that house?" continued the page. "i am." "i might have known that without asking," said the page, apparently to himself. "indeed, do you know us, then?" asked isabella, with some curiosity. "by reputation, only," was the reply. "the fine of beauty travels far, lady." "you would flatter me, sir page." "by our lady, no!" "where last thou heard of me, then?" "far distant from here, lady." "you speak and look like one who has travelled a long way," said isabella. "i have." "do you live far from here, then?" asked ruez, much interested in the stranger. "yes," was the reply. "lady, i may call on you again," continued the page, "but for the present, adieu." turning suddenly away, the stranger walked leisurely towards the head of the broad stairs that led from the plato to the street below, and descended them. at the same moment, lorenzo bezan, on his way to isabella gonzales, had just reached the foot of the stairs, when hearing quick steps behind him, he turned his head just in time to see the form of the page thrown quickly between the uplifted arm of the same dark figure which he had before met here, and himself-and the point of a gleaming dagger, that must else have entered his own body, found a sheath in that of the young stranger, who had thus probably saved his life. more on the alert than he had been before for danger, lorenzo bezan's sword was in his hand in an instant, and its keen blade pierced to the very heart of the assassin, who fell to rise no more. such, alas, seemed to be the fate of the page who had so gallantly risked, and probably lost, his own life, to protect that of the lieutenant-governor. "alas, poor youth," said lorenzo bezan, "why didst thou peril thy life to save me from that wound? canst thou speak, and tell me who thou art, and what i shall do for thee?" "yes, in a few moments; bear me to don gonzales's house, quickly, for i bleed very fast!" lorenzo bezan's first thought, on observing the state of the case, was to obtain surgical aid at once, and preferring to do this himself to trusting to the strange rabble about him, he turned his steps towards the main barracks, where he expected to find his friendly surgeon whom he had despatched to serve general harero. he found his trusty professional man, and hastily despatched him to the house of don gonzales, bidding him exercise his best skill for one who had just received a wound intended for his own body. we, too, will follow the surgeon to the bedside of the wounded page, where a surprise awaited all assembled there, and which will be described in another chapter. chapter xviii. the disguise. with the assistance of some passers-by, the wounded page was borne, as he had desired, to don gonzales's house, while, in accordance with an order from lorenzo bezan, the now lifeless body of the jailor, for he it was who had attempted the life of the lieutenant-governor, was borne away to the barrack yard. at the door of don gonzales's house the page was met by ruez and isabella; and those who held the wounded boy, hastily telling of his hurt, and the manner in which it was received, carried him, as directed by isabella, to her brother's room, and a surgeon was at once sent for. "sister," whispered ruez, "did you hear what those people said?" "what, brother?" "why, that the page saved the life of the lieutenant-governor, lorenzo bezan?" "yes." "he must have been hard by, for the page had only just left us." "true." "yet he was not with the rest who entered the house," continued ruez. "no," answered isabella, "some one said he hastened away for a surgeon." "hark!" "who called you, just now, sister?" asked the brother. "it was only the groan of that poor boy. i wish they would bring the surgeon." "but he calls your name; go to him, dear isabella." "o, they have found the surgeon, and here he comes," said his sister. and thus indeed it was. entering the apartment, the surgeon prepared to examine the wound, but in a moment he called to isabella, saying: "lady, this individual is one of thine own sex! and, i am very sorry to say, is mortally wounded." "a woman!" "yes, lady; see, she would speak to you; she beckons you near." "lady, i need not ask what that professional man says. i know too well by my own feelings that i must die, indeed that i am dying!" "o, say not so; perhaps there may yet be hopes," said isabella, tenderly. "nay, there is none; indeed it is better, far better as it is." "why, do you wish to die?" asked isabella, almost shrinking from her. "yes. there is nought left for me to live for, and it is sweet to die, too, for him, for him i have so dearly, so truly loved!" "of whom do you speak?" "general bezan!" "you love him?" "ay, lady, i believe far better than you can ever do." "me!" "yes, for i know your own heart, and his true love for you!" "who are you?" "that matters not. but where is he? i thought he followed me here." "he went for the surgeon, and i have not seen him," was the reply. isabella trembled, for at that moment general bezan, hastening back from the surgeon's, and despatching some matter that occurred by the way, now entered the house, and was greeted most cordially by don gonzales and ruez. and from them he learned the extent of the injury, and, moreover, that the supposed page was a woman, disguised in a page's costume. "ah, general!" said don gonzales, "i fear, this is some little affair of gallantry on your part that will result rather seriously." "be assured, sir," said the soldier, "that i cannot in any way explain the matter, and that i think there is some decided mistake here." "let us go to her apartment and see what can be done for her injury," said general bezan, after a moment's pause, "be she whom she may." just as they entered the apartment, the surgeon had loosened the dress of the sufferer at the throat, and there fell out into sight the insignia of the golden fleece and cross of st. sebastian, in a scroll of diamonds that heralded the royal arms of spain, and which none but those in whose veins coursed royal blood could wear! the surgeon started back in amazement, while don gonzales uncovered out of respect to the emblem. springing to the side of the couch, general bezan turned the half averted face towards him, while he seized the hand of the sufferer, and then exclaimed: "is this a miracle-is this a dream-or is this really the countess moranza?" "it is the countess moranza," replied the suffering creature, while her eyes were bent on lorenzo bezan with an expression of most ineffable tenderness. all this while isabella stood aghast, quite in the rear of them all; but that look was not lost upon her; she shuddered, and a cold perspiration stood upon her brow. had she lived to see such a sight-lived to see another preferred to herself? alas, what knew she of the scene before her? was it not a shameless one? had lorenzo bezan deceived this high-born and noble lady, and leaving her to follow him, came hither, once more to strive for her love? her brain was in a whirlwind of excitement, the room grew dark, she reeled, and would have fallen but for the assistance of ruez, who helped her to her room, and left her there, himself as much amazed at what he had seen as his sister could possibly be. "has she gone?" asked the sufferer. "who, lady?" said the soldier, tenderly. "isabella gonzales." "yes," replied the father. "do you desire to see her?" "o yes, i must see her, and quickly; tell her i must see her." the father retired; while lorenzo bezan said, as he bent over the person of the countess: "alas, i cannot ask thee now what all this means; you are too ill to talk; what may i, what can i do for thee?" "nothing, lorenzo bezan. draw nearer-i have loved thee dearly, passionately loved thee, loved thee as a woman can love; it was not designed that i should win thy heart-it was already another's; but it was designed, the virgin be thanked, that though i might not wed thee, i might die for thee!" "o, countess, countess, your words are like daggers to my heart. i have been a thoughtless, guilty wretch, but, heaven bear me witness, i did not sin knowingly!" "nay, speak not one word. i am dying even now; leave me for a while. i would be alone with this lady; see, she comes, trembling and bathed in tears!" lorenzo bezan, almost crazed with the contending emotions that beset him, knew not what to say-what to do; he obeyed her wish, and left the room, as did also the rest, leaving isabella and the countess moranza alone together. general bezan walked the adjoining room like one who had lost all self-control-now pressing his forehead with both hands, as if to keep back the press of thoughts, and now, almost groaning aloud at the struggling of his feelings within his throbbing breast. the light broke in upon him; while he had been so happy, so inconsiderate at madrid, in the society of the beautiful and intelligent woman; while he had respected and loved her like a brother, he had unwittingly been planting thorns in her bosom! he saw it all now. he even recalled the hour when he told her of his love for isabella gonzales-and remembered, too, the sudden illness that she evinced. "alas! how blind i have been, how thoughtless of all else but myself, and my own disappointments and heart-secrets. next to isabella, i could have loved that pure and gentle being. i did feel drawn to her side by unspeakable tenderness and gratitude for the consolation she seemed ever so delicately to impart; but for this right hand i would not have deceived her, the virgin bear me witness." the moments seemed hours to him, while he waited thus in such a state of suspense as his frame of mind might be supposed to indicate. the surgeon entered to take his leave. "how is she, sir?" asked lorenzo bezan, hastily. "i have not seen her since we left her with don gonzales's daughter. she desired to be left alone with her, you remember, and it is best to do as she wishes. my skill can do her no good. she cannot live but a very few hours, and i may as well retire." "there is, then, no hope for her, no possibility of recovery?" "none!" throwing himself into a chair, lorenzo bezan seemed perfectly overcome with grief. he did not weep, no tears came to his relief; but it was the fearful struggle of the soul, that sometimes racks the stout frame and manly heart. the soldier who had passed so many hours on the battle-field-who had breathed the breath of scores of dying men, of wounded comrades, and bleeding foes, was a child now. he clasped his hands and remained in silence, like one wrapped in prayer. he had not remained thus but a short time, when a slave summoned him to the bedside of the dying countess. he found her once more alone. isabella had retired to her own apartment. "general," said the sufferer, holding out her hand, which he pressed tenderly to his lips! "forgive me, countess moranza, pray forgive me?" "i have nothing to forgive, and for my sake charge yourself with no blame for me. it is my dying request, for i can stay but a little longer. i have one other to make. you will grant it?" "anything that mortal can do i will do for thee." "take, then, this package. it contains papers and letters relative to myself, my estates, and to you. strictly obey the injunctions therein contained." "i will," said the soldier, kneeling. "this promise is sacred, and will make me die the happier," she said, drawing a long sigh. "i have explained to her you love the cause of my singular appearance here, and have exculpated you from all blame on my account." "ah! but countess, it is terrible that you should have sacrificed your life to save mine." "say not so; it is the only joy of this moment, for it has saved me from the curse of the suicide!" she almost whispered, drawing him closer to her side as she spoke. "i could not live, save in the light of your eyes. i knew you were poor, comparatively so-that fortune would place your alliance with her you have loved beyond question as to policy. i resolved to follow you-do all in my power to make you happy--ask of you sometimes to remember me--and then--" "o, what then?" said lorenzo bezan, almost trembling. "die by my own hands, in a way that none should know! but how much happier has heaven ordered it. i could have wished, have prayed for such a result; but not for one moment could i have hoped for it. as it is i am happy." "and i am wretched," said the soldier; "had the choice been offered me of thy death or mine, how quickly would i have fallen for thee, who hast been more than a sister, a dear, kind sister to me." the sufferer covered her face with her hands; his tender words, and his gentle accents of voice, and the truthful expression of his face, for one moment reached her hear; through its most sensitive channel! but the struggle was only for a moment; the cold hand of death was upon her; she felt even the chill upon her system. a slight shudder ran through her frame. she crossed her hands upon her bosom, and closing her eyes, breathed a silent prayer, and pressed the glittering cross that hung about her neck fervently to her lips. then turning to the soldier she said: "you may well love her, general, for she is very beautiful, and worthy of you," referring to isabella gonzales, who had just returned to her apartment. "she is as lovely in person as in mind. but, alas! must i stand here powerless, and see you, but an hour ago so perfectly well, so full of life and beauty, die without one effort to save you?" "it is useless," said the sufferer. "i feel that the surgeon is correct, and i must die very shortly." "o, that i might save you, countess, even by mine own life!" "you would do so, i know you would; it is so like your nature," she said, turning her still beautiful eyes upon him. "i would, indeed i would," answered general bezan. a sweet smile of satisfaction stole over her pale features as she once more languidly closed her eyes, and once more that ominous shudder stole through her frame. "it is very cold, is it not?" she asked, realizing the chill that her paralyzed circulation caused. "alas, countess, i fear it is the chill of death you feel!" "so soon? well, i am prepared," she said, once more kissing the cross. "heaven bless and receive your pure and lovely spirit," he said, devoutly, as she once more replaced her hand within his own. "farewell, lorenzo bezan. sometimes think kindly of the countess m-o-r-a-n-z-a!" she breathed no more. that faithful and beautiful spirit had fled to heaven! chapter xix. the avowal. there had seemed to be a constantly recurring thread of circumstances, which operated to separate lorenzo bezan and isabella gonzales. isabella had received a fearful shock in the remarkable occurrences of the last few days. the devoted love of the countess, her self-sacrificing spirit, her risk and loss of her life to save him she loved, all had made a most indelible impression upon her. there was a moment, as the reader has seen, when she doubted the truth and honor of lorenzo bezan; but it was but for a moment, for had not his own truthfulness vindicated itself to her mind and heart, the words of the countess moranza had done so. that faithful and lovely woman told her also of the noble spirit of devoted love that the soldier bore her, and how honestly he had cherished that love he bore for her when surrounded by the dazzling beauty and flattery of the whole court, and bearing the name of the queen's favorite. all this led her of course to regard him with redoubled affection, and to increase the weight of indebtedness of her heart towards one whom she had treated so coldly, and who for her sake had borne so much of misery. "but ah!" she said to herself, "if he could but read this heart, and knew how much it has suffered in its self-imposed misery, he would indeed pity and not blame me. i see it all now; from the very first i have loved him-from the hour of our second meeting in the paseo-poor, humble and unknown, i loved him then; but my spirit was too proud to own it; and i have loved him ever since, though the cold words of repulse have been upon my tongue, and i have tried to impress both him and myself to the contrary. how bitter are the penalties of pride-how heavy the tax that it demands from frail humanity! no more shall it have sway over this bosom!" as she spoke, the beautiful girl threw back the dark clustering hair from her temples, and raised her eyes to heaven, as if to call for witness upon her declaration. the proper steps were taken for sending the body of the countess home to madrid, where it would receive the highest honors, and those marks of distinction which its connection with the royal blood of spain demanded. lorenzo bezan mourned sincerely the loss of one who had been so dear and kind a friend to him. an instinctive feeling seemed to separate isabella and the lieutenant-governor for a brief period. it was not a period of anxiety, nor of doubt, concerning each other. strange to say, not one word had yet been exchanged between them since that bitter farewell was uttered in the prison walls of the military keep. no words could have made them understand each other better than they now did; each respected the peculiar feelings of the other. but weeks soon pass, and the time was very brief that transpired before they met in the drawing-room of don gonzales's house. ruez welcomed lorenzo bezan as he entered, led him to the apartment, and calling his sister, declared that they must excuse him, for he was going with his father for a drive in the paseo. lorenzo bezan sat for some moments alone, when he heard a light footstep upon the marble floor of the main hall, and his heart throbbed with redoubled quickness. in a moment more isabella gonzales stood before him; her eyes bent upon the floor, seemed immovably there; she could not raise them; but she held forth her hand towards him! he seized it, pressed it to his lips again and again, then drawing her closely to his bosom, pressed his lips to her forehead, and asked: "isabella, isabella, do you, can you really love me?" "love you, lorenzo bezan?" "yes, dear one, love me as i have for years loved you." she raised her eyes now; they were streaming with tears; but through them all she said: "i have looked into my heart, and i find that i have ever loved you!" "sweet words! o, happy assurance," said the soldier, rapturously. "one word will explain all to thee. i was spoiled when in childhood. i was told that i was beautiful, and as i grew older a spirit of haughtiness and pride was implanted in my bosom by the universal homage that was offered to me on all hands. i had no wish ungratified, was unchecked, humored, in short spoiled thy affectionate indulgence, and but for one good influence-that exercised by the lovely character of my dear brother, ruez-i fear me, i should have been undeniably lost to the world and myself in some strange denouement of my life. a startling and fearful event introduced you to me under circumstances calculated to fix your form and features forever in my memory. it did so. i could not but be sensible of your noble and manly qualities, though seen through what was to my mind a dark haze of humble associations. "this was my first impression of you. you boldly wooed me, told me you loved me above all else. your very audacity attracted me; it was so novel, so strange to be thus approached. i, who was the acknowledged belle of havana, before whom the best blood and highest titles of the island knelt, and who was accustomed to be approached with such deference and respect, was half won before i knew it, by the lieutenant lorenzo bezan, on the plato. singular circumstances again threw us together, where again your personal bravery and firmness served us so signally. i knew not my own heart even then, though some secret whisperings partly aroused me, and when you were sent to prison, i found my pride rising above all else. and yet by some uncontrollable impulse i visited you, disguised, in prison; and there again i can see how nearly i had acknowledged my true feelings; but once more the secret whisper sounded in my ear, and i left you coldly, nay, almost insultingly. but bitterly have i wept for that hour. "in vain have i struggled on, in vain strove to forget; it was impossible; and yet, never until you sent me that note, have i frankly acknowledged, even to my own heart, the feeling which i have so long been conscious of. ah, it has been a bitter experience that i have endured, and now i can see it all in its true light, and own to thee freely, that i have loved even from the first." while she had spoken thus, lorenzo bezan had gently conducted her to a couch, and seated by her side he had held her hand while he listened and looked tenderly into the depths of her lustrous and beautiful eyes. he felt how cheaply he had earned the bliss of that moment, how richly he was repaid for the hardships and grief he had endured for isabella's sake. "ah, dearest, let us forget the past, and live only for each other and the future." "can you so easily forget and forgive?" she asked him, in softest accents. "i can do anything, everything," he said, "if thou wilt but look ever upon me thus," and he placed his arms about that taper waist, and drew her willing form still nearer to his side, until her head fell upon his shoulder. "there will be no more a dark side to our picture of life, dear isabella." "i trust not." "and you will ever love me?" "ever!" repeated the beautiful girl, drawing instinctively nearer to his breast. at that moment, ruez, returning from the plato to procure some article which he had left behind, burst hastily into the room, and, blushing like a young girl at the scene that met his eye, he was about to retire hastily, when lorenzo bezan spoke to him, not the least disconcerted; he felt too secure in his position to realize any such feeling: "come hither, ruez, we have just been speaking of you." "of me?" said the boy, rather doubtfully, as though he suspected they had been talking of matters quite foreign to him. "yes, of you, ruez," continued his sister, striving to hide a tell-tale blush, as her eyes met her brother's. "i have been telling general bezan what a dear, good brother you have been to me--how you have ever remembered all his kindnesses to me; while i have thought little of them, and have been far from grateful." "not at heart, sister," said the boy, quickly; "not always in your sleep, since you will sometimes talk in your day dreams!" "ah, ruez, you turned traitor, and betray me? well, there can be little harm, perhaps, to have all known now." "now?" repeated ruez. "why do you use that word so decidedly?" "why, you must know, my dear ruez," said the general, "that a treaty has been partially agreed upon between us, which will necessarily put all hostilities at an end; and, therefore, any secret information can be of no possible use whatever." "is it so, isabella?" asked ruez, inquiringly, of his sister. "yes, brother, we are to 'bury the hatchet,' as the american orators say." "are you in earnest? but no matter; i am going-let me see, where was i going?" "you came into the room as though you had been shot out of one of the port-holes of moro castle," said the general, playfully. "no wonder you forget!" the boy looked too full for utterance. he shook the general's hand, heartily kissed isabella, and telling them he believed they had turned conspirators, and were about to perpetrate some fearful business against the government, and sagely hinting that unless he was also made a confidant of, he should forthwith denounce them to tacon, he shook his hand with a most serious mock air and departed. it would be in bad taste for us, also, not to leave isabella and lorenzo bezan alone. they had so much to say, so much to explain, so many pictures to paint on the glowing canvass of the future, with the pencils of hope and love, that it would be unfair not to permit them to do so undisturbed. so we will follow ruez to the volante, and dash away with him and don gonzales to the paseo, for a circular drive. "i left general bezan and isabella together in the drawing-room," began ruez to his father, just as they passed outside of the city walls. "yes. i knew he was there," said the father, indifferently. "that was a very singular affair that occurred between him and the countess moranza." "queer enough." "yet sister says that the general was not to blame, in any respect." "yes, i took good care to be satisfied of that," said the father, who had indeed made it the subject of inquiry. "had he been guilty of deceiving that beautiful and high-born lady, he should never have entered my doors again. i should have despised him." "he seems very fond of isabella," continued the boy, after a brief silence. "fond of her!" "yes, and she of him," said ruez. "lorenzo bezan fond of my daughter, and she of him?" "why, yes, father; i don't see anything so very strange, do you?" "do i? lorenzo bezan is but a nameless adventurer--a--a--" "stop, father--a lieutenant-governor, and the queen's favorite." "that is true," said don gonzales, thoughtfully. "yes, but he's poor." "how do you know, father?" "why, it is but reasonable to think so; and my daughter shall not marry any one with less position or fortune than herself." "as to position, father," continued the boy, "general bezan wears orders that you would give half your fortune to possess!" "i forgot that." "and has already carved a name for himself in spanish history," said ruez. "true." "then i see not how you can complain of him on the score of position." "no; but he's poor, and i have sworn that no man, unless he brings as large a fortune as isabella will have in her own right, shall marry her. how do i know but it may be the money, not isabella, that he wants?" "father!" "well, ruez." "you are unjust towards the noble nature of that man; there are few men like him in the queen's service, and it has not required long for her to discern it." as the boy spoke, he did so in a tone and a manner that almost awed his father. at times he could assume this mode, and when he did so, it was because he felt what he uttered, and then it never failed of its influence upon the listener. "still," said don gonzales, somewhat subduedly, "he who would wed my peerless child must bring something besides title and honor. a fortune as large as her own-nothing else. this i know lorenzo bezan has not, and there's an end of his intimacy with your sister, and i must tell her so this very evening." "as you will, father. you are her parent, and can command her obedience; but i do not believe you can control isabella's heart," said ruez, earnestly. "boy, i do not like thee to talk to me thus. remember thy youth, and thy years. thou art ever putting me to my metal." "father, do i not love thee and sister isabella above all else on earth?" "yes, yes, boy, i know it; thou dost love us well; say no more." ruez had broken the ice. he found that it was time, however, to be silent now, and leaning back thoughtfully in the volante, he neither spoke again, nor seemed to observe anything external about him until he once more entered the plato and his father's noble mansion. chapter xx. happy finale. when don gonzales returned from his drive with ruez, and while he was still thinking upon the subject which the boy had introduced, relative to lorenzo bezan and isabella, he found the general awaiting his return and desiring an interview with him. this was of course granted, and the two retired to the library of isabella's father, where the soldier resolved to make at once, and in plain terms, an offer of his hand to this daughter of the old house of gonzales, and to beg her parents permission for their union. being in part prepared for this proposal, as we have already seen, the father was not taken at all aback, but very politely and considerately listened to his guest. at last, however, when it came his turn to speak, he was decided. "i will tell you honestly, general, that, while i fully realize the great service you have done me and mine; while i cannot but admire the tact, talent, and noble characteristics that have so quickly elevated you to a niche in the temple of fame, still i am a very practical man, and look well to worldly matters and immediate interests. this has been my policy through life, and i have ever found that it was a good and sound one, and carried me on well." "as a general rule, perhaps, it is a very good one," added lorenzo bezan, to fill up a pause where he seemed expected to say something. "now as to the matter which you propose, aside from the matter as to whether isabella herself would consent, or--" "i beg pardon, sir, for interrupting you, but on that score i have her assurance already." "you are very prompt, sir. perhaps it would have been it little more in accordance with propriety to have first spoken to me." "you have a right to question the point, and perhaps are correct, but to this there is little consequence attached," said general bezan, very decidedly. "well, sir, it is proper to come at once to the point, and i will do so. i have registered an oath; let me tell you, then, that my daughter shall never espouse any man unless his fortune is fully equal to her own, and this oath i shall most religiously keep!" "you have made a strange resolve, sir, and one which will affect your daughter's happiness, no less than it will do mine." "the oath is registered, general bezan, and if necessary i am prepared to strengthen it by another; for it has been my resolve for years." "you are so decided, sir, that of course no argument on my part would in the least influence you. but i trust you will consider of this matter seriously, at least, and i may again speak to you upon the subject." "i shall always be happy and proud to meet general bezan as a particular friend in my own house, or elsewhere," continued don gonzales, "but there, we must understand each other, our intimacy ceases, or as to the proposal of becoming my son-in-law, you will see that it is totally out of the question, when you remember my religiously registered oath upon the subject." "for the present, then, i must bid you good-day, sir," said the soldier, turning from the apartment, and seeking the governor's palace. when he had left, isabella's father summoned her to his own room, and telling her at once the conversation he had just passed with general bezan, reiterated to her that nothing would move him from the resolve, and she must learn to forget the young soldier, and place her affections upon some wealthy planter of the island, who coupled with good looks and a pleasing address, the accompaniments of a full purse and broad estates. isabella made no reply to her father; she was confounded at the cupidity of his spirit; he had never spoken thus to her before. she loved him dearly, and grieved that he was susceptible of being influenced by such a grovelling consideration, and with a new cloud hovering over her brow, and its shadow shutting out the gleam of hope that had so lately been radiating it, she left him. the reader may well imagine the state of mind in which lorenzo bezan sought the privacy of his own apartment in the palace. to fall again from such high hopes was almost more than he could bear, and he walked his room with hurried and anxious steps. once he sat down to address a letter to isabella, for he had not seen her since he left don gonzales, and he did not know whether her father would inform her of their conversation or not. but after one or two ineffectual efforts, he cast the paper from him, in despair, and rising, walked his room again. to an orderly who entered on business relating to his regular duty, he spoke so brief and abruptly as to startle the man, who understood him only in his better and calmer moods. again was his cup of bliss, dashed to the earth! "i had some undefined fear of it," he said to himself. "i almost felt there would be some fearful gulf intervene between isabella and myself, when i had again left her side. o, prophetic soul, though our eyes cannot fathom the future, there is an instinctive power in thee that foretells evil. my life is but a sickly existence. i am the jest and jeer of fortune, who seems delighted to thwart me, by permitting the nearest approach to the goal of happiness, and yet stepping in just in time to prevent the consummation of my long cherished hopes." as he spoke thus, he sat down by the side of his table, and casting his eyes vacantly thereon, suddenly started at seeing the address of his own name, and in the hand of the countess moranza. it was the package she had handed to him at her dying moment. in the excitement of the scene, and the circumstances that followed, he had not opened it, and there it had since laid forgotten. he broke the seal, and reading several directions of letters, notes, and small parcels, among the rest one addressed to the queen, he came to one endorsed as important, and bearing his own name, lorenzo bezan. he broke the seal and read, "the enclosed paper is my last will and testament, whereby i do give and bequeath to my friend, general lorenzo bezan, my entire estates in the moranza district of seville, as his sole property, to have and to hold, and for his heirs after him, forever. this gift is a memento of our friendship, and a keepsake from one who cherished him for his true nobility of soul!" could he be dreaming? was he in his senses? her entire estates of moranza, in seville-a princely fortune given to him thus? he could not believe his senses, and moved about his room with the open letter in his hand, not knowing what he did. it was long before he could calm his excitement. what cared he for fortune, except so far as it brought him near to her he loved. it was this that so sensibly affected him; the bright sun of hope once more burst through the clouds. "her father says that the suitor of isabella gonzales must bring as large a fortune to her as she herself possesses. as large? here i am endowed with the possession of an entire spanish district-almost a small principality. fortune? it would outnumber him in doubloons a thousand times over. i happen to know that district-rich in castles, convents, churches, cattle, retainers. ah, countess moranza, but it sadly reminds me of thy fate. thou didst love me, ay, truly-and i so blind that i knew it not. but regrets are useless; thy memory shall ever be most tenderly cherished by him whom thou hast so signally befriended, so opportunely endowed." the reader may well suppose that lorenzo bezan spared no time in communicating the necessary facts to don gonzales, which he did in the following brief notice: "finding, after inquiry, as to your pecuniary affairs, and also after a slight examination of my own that, in relation to the matter of property, i am possessed of a fortune that would be valued many times beyond your own, i am happy to inform you that the only objection you mentioned to my proposal relative to your daughter, is now entirely removed. concerning the details of this business i shall do myself the honor to make an early call upon you, when i will adduce the evidence of the statement i have made herein. sincerely yours, lorenzo bezan, lt. gov. and gen'l commanding. given at the palace, havana." don gonzales was no less surprised on the reception of this note, than lorenzo bezan had been when he first discovered the princely gift that the generous countess had endowed him with. to do him justice, it was the only objection he had to lorenzo bezan, and he secretly rejoiced that the circumstances stated would enable him to give a free consent to the union of two souls which seemed so completely designed for each other. he called to ruez, who had already heard the state of affairs from his father, and told him at once; and it was, of course, not long after that isabella dried her tears, and stilled her throbbing heart by a knowledge that the last objection to the happy union was obviated. don gonzales, when he received the letter, and had carefully examined it, even went personally to the palace to tender his congratulations to the young lieutenant-governor, and to tell him that he had no longer any objections to raise as to the proposal which he had so lately taken occasion to make, relative to isabella. "we, then, have your free consent as to our early union, don gonzales?" "with all my heart, general bezan, and may the virgin add her blessing." "i see, sir, you look anxious as to how i came in possession of this princely fortune." "i am indeed filled with amazement; but the evidence you offer is satisfactory." "at another time i will explain all to you," replied lorenzo bezan, smiling. "it is well; and now, sir, this matter of so much importance to my peace of mind is settled." thus saying, don gonzales shook the soldier's hand warmly, and departed, really delighted at the result of the matter, for had not general bezan brought the requisite fortune, the old spaniard would have religiously kept his oath; and, if not influenced by honor and consciousness in the matter of fulfilling his sacred promise, he would have been led to do so through fear, he being in such matters most superstitious. lorenzo bezan resolved that little time should intervene before he availed himself of the promise of isabella's father. "once mine, i shall fear no more casualties, and shall have the right not only to love, but to protect her. we know each other now, better, perhaps, than we could have done save through tho agency of misfortune, and ere to-morrow's sun shall set, i hope to call her mine." as the moon swept up from out the sea that night, and tinged the battlements of moro castle, and silvered the sparkling bay with its soft light, two forms sat at one of the broad balcony windows of don gonzales's house. it was lorenzo bezan and isabella. they were drinking in of the loveliness of the hour, and talking to each other upon the thousand suggestions that their minds busily produced as connected with the new aspect of their own personal affairs. the arm of the gallant soldier was about her, and the soft curls of her dark hair lay lovingly about his neck as she rested her head upon his shoulder. we might depict here the splendors of the church of santa clara, where isabella and lorenzo bezan were united; we might elaborate upon their perfect happiness; state in detail the satisfaction of don gonzales, and show how happy was the gentle, thoughtful, kind-hearted and brave ruez; and we might even say that the hound seemed to realize that general bezan was now "one of the family," wagging his tail with increased unction, and fawning upon him with more evident affection. but when we say that all were happy, and that the great aim of lorenzo bezan's heart was accomplished, the reader will find ample space and time to fill up the open space in the picture. general harero, fearing the disclosure in some way of his villany in attempting, through his agent, the now dead jailor, the life of lorenzo bezan, immediately resigned his post, and sought an early opportunity to return to spain. here he fell in a duel with one whom he had personally injured, and his memory was soon lost to friends and foes. "sister," said ruez, to isabella, a few days after her marriage with the lieutenant-governor, "are you going to have lorenzo bezan cashiered? are you going to complain of him, as you promised me you should do?" "you love to torment me, ruez," said the blooming bride, with affected petulence. "that is not answering my question," continued her brother. "if you don't have a care, i'll complain of you, ruez, for that piece of business in the guardhouse!" "i've no fear about that now, since it has resulted so well." "that's true; but it is really perplexing to have you always right. i do declare, ruez, i wish you would do something that will really vex me so that i can have a good quarrel with you." "no you don't, sister." "yes, i do." "tut! tut!" said lorenzo bezan, entering at that moment; "i thought i heard a pistol discharge." "only a kiss, general," said ruez, pleasantly. and this was a sample of the joy and domestic peace of don gonzales's family. in isabella's ignorance of the tender and truthful promptings of her own bosom, we have shown you the heart's secret, and in the vicissitudes that attended the career of lorenzo bezan, the fortunes of a soldier. the end.